harry escombe a tale of adventure in peru by harry collingwood ________________________________________________________________________ harry escombe is a young apprentice in a civil engineer's office. the firm has received a contract to survey and built a railway line in peru. harry is chosen to go, and is informed that if he does well in the work the future for him is pretty bright. but there is a fly in the ointment. the man in charge of the project is about as nasty as anyone can be: his character is beautifully depicted throughout the book. he makes harry do a piece of surveying in an unnecessarily dangerous manner, as a result of which he falls down a precipice from which he cannot be rescued, and is therefore written off as dead. but he was indeed rescued. he was taken to a house where he remained in a coma for some time. then he is thought to be a re-incarnation of the inca, and taken by indians to their own city, where he is worshipped as a god. this could be quite embarrassing if you found yourself in this situation, as you'd be unable to perform miracles, and do the things a deity might be expected to do. however, harry managed rather well. but eventually he manages to escape from the situation, and to return to his home in england. ________________________________________________________________________ harry escombe a tale of adventure in peru by harry collingwood chapter one. how the adventure originated. the hour was noon, the month chill october; and the occupants--a round dozen in number--of sir philip swinburne's drawing office were more or less busily pursuing their vocation of preparing drawings and tracings, taking out quantities, preparing estimates, and, in short, executing the several duties of a civil engineers' draughtsman as well as they could in a temperature of ° fahrenheit, and in an atmosphere surcharged with smoke from a flue that refused to draw--when the door communicating with the chief draughtsman's room opened and the head of mr richards, the occupant of that apartment, protruded through the aperture. at the sound of the opening door the draughtsmen, who were acquainted with mr richards's ways, glanced up with one accord from their work, and the eye of one of them was promptly caught by mr richards, who, raising a beckoning finger, remarked: "escombe, i want you," and immediately retired. thereupon escombe, the individual addressed, carefully wiped his drawing pen upon a duster, methodically laid the instrument in its proper place in the instrument case, closed the latter, and, descending from his high stool, made his way into the chief draughtsman's room, closing the door behind him. he did this with some little trepidation; for these private interviews with his chief were more often than not of a distinctly unpleasant character, having reference to some stupid blunder in a calculation, some oversight in the preparation of a drawing, or something of a similar nature calling for sharp rebuke; and as the lad-- he was but seventeen--accomplished the short journey from one room to the other he rapidly reviewed his most recent work, and endeavoured to decide in which job he was most likely to have made a mistake. but before he could arrive at a decision on this point he was in the presence of mr richards, and a single glance at the chief draughtsman's face--now that it could be seen clearly and unveiled by a pall of smoke--sufficed to assure harry escombe that in this case at least he had nothing in the nature of censure to fear. for mr richards's face was beaming with satisfaction, and a large atlas lay open upon the desk at which he stood. "sit down, escombe," remarked the dreaded potentate as he pointed to a chair. escombe seated himself; and then ensued a silence of a full minute's duration. the potentate seemed to be meditating how to begin. at length-- "how long have you been with us, escombe?" he enquired, hoisting himself onto a stool as he put the question. "a little over two years," answered escombe. "i signed my articles with sir philip on the first of september the year before last, and came on duty the next day." "two years!" ejaculated mr richards. "i did not think it had been so long as that. but time flies when one is busy, and we have done a lot of work during the last two years. then you have only another year of pupilage to serve, eh, escombe?" "only one year more, mr richards," answered the lad. "ah!" commented mr richards, and paused again, characteristically. "look here, escombe," he resumed; "you have done very well since you came here; sir philip is very pleased with you, and so am i. i have had my eye on you, and have seen that you have been studying hard and doing your best to perfect yourself in all the details of your profession. so far as theory goes you are pretty well advanced. what you need now is practical, out-of-door work, and," laying his hand upon the open atlas, "i have got a job here that i think will just suit you. it is in peru. do you happen to know anything of peru?" escombe confessed that his knowledge of peru was strictly confined to what he had learned about that interesting country at school. "it is the same with me," admitted mr richards. "all i know about peru is that it is a very mountainous country, which is the reason, i suppose, why there is considerably less than a thousand miles of railway throughout the length and breadth of it. and what there is is made up principally of short bits scattered about here and there. but there is some talk of altering all that now, and matters have gone so far that sir philip has been commissioned to prepare a scheme for constructing a railway from a place called palpa--which is already connected with lima and callao--to salinas, which is connected with huacho, and from huacho to cochamarca and thence to a place called cerro de pasco, which in its turn is connected with nanucaca; and from nanucaca along the shore of lake chinchaycocha to ayacucho, cuzco, and santa rosa, which last is connected by rail with mollendo, on the coast. there is also another scheme afoot which will involve the taking of a complete set of soundings over the length and breadth of lake titicaca. now, all this means a lot of very important and careful survey work which i reckon will take the best part of two years to accomplish. sir philip has decided to entrust the work to mr butler, who has already done a great deal of survey work for him, as of course you know; but mr butler will need an assistant, and sir philip, after consultation with me, has decided to offer that post to you. it will be a splendid opportunity for you to acquire experience in a branch of your profession that you know very little of, as yet; and if the scheme should be carried out, you, in consequence of the familiarity with the country which you will have acquired, will stand an excellent chance of obtaining a good post on the job. now, what do you say, escombe; are you willing to go? your pay during the survey will be a guinea a day--seven days a week-- beginning on the day you sail from england and ending on the day of your return; first-class passage out and home; all expenses paid; twenty-five pounds allowed for a special outfit; and everything in the shape of surveying instruments and other necessaries, found. after your return you will of course be retained in the office to work out the scheme, at a salary to be agreed upon, which will to a great extent depend upon the way in which you work upon the survey; while, in the event of the scheme being carried out, you will, as i say, doubtless get a good post on the engineering staff, at a salary that will certainly not be less than your pay during the survey, and may possibly be a good deal more." young escombe's heart leapt within him, for here was indeed a rosy prospect suddenly opening out before him, a prospect which promised to put an abrupt and permanent end to certain sordid embarrassments that of late had been causing his poor widowed mother a vast amount of anxiety and trouble, and sowing her beloved head with many premature white hairs. for harry's father had died about four months before this story opens, leaving his affairs in a condition of such hopeless disorder that the family lawyer had only just succeeded in disentangling them, with the result that the widow had found herself left almost penniless, with no apparent resource but to allow her daughter lucy to go out into a cold, unsympathetic world to earn her own living and face the many perils that lurk in the path of a young, lovely, innocent, and unprotected girl. but here was a way out of all their difficulties; for, as harry rapidly bethought himself, if all his expenses were to be paid while engaged upon the survey, he could arrange for at least three hundred pounds of his yearly salary to be paid to his mother at home, which, with economy and what little she had already, would suffice to enable her and lucy to live in their present modest home, free from actual want. there was but one fly in his ointment, one disturbing item in the alluring programme which mr richards had sketched out, and that was mr butler, the man who was to be escombe's superior during the execution of the survey. this man was well known to the occupants of sir philip swinburne's drawing office as a most tyrannical, overbearing man, with an arrogance of speech and offensiveness of manner and a faculty for finding fault that rendered it absolutely impossible to work amicably with him, and at the same time retain one's self respect. moreover, it was asserted that if there were two equally efficient methods of accomplishing a certain task, he would invariably insist upon the adoption of that method which involved the greatest amount of difficulty, discomfort, and danger, and then calmly sit down in safety and comfort to see it done. mr richards had said that escombe would, upon his return to england, be retained in the office to work out the scheme, at a salary the amount of which would "to a great extent depend upon the way in which he worked on the survey"; and it seemed to harry that sir philip's estimate of the way in which he worked on the survey would be almost entirely based upon mr butler's report. now it was known that, in addition to possessing the unenviable attributes already mentioned, butler was a most vindictive man, cherishing an undying enmity against all who had ever presumed to thwart or offend him, and he seemed to be one of those unfortunately constituted individuals whom it was impossible to avoid offending. it is therefore not to be wondered at if escombe hesitated a moment before accepting mr richards's offer. "well, escombe, what do you say?" enquired the chief draughtsman, after a somewhat lengthy pause. "you do not seem to be very keen upon availing yourself of the opportunity that i am offering you. is it the climate that you are afraid of? i am told that peru is a perfectly healthy country." "no, mr richards," answered escombe. "i am not thinking of the climate; it is mr butler that is troubling me. you must be fully aware of the reputation which he holds in the office as a man with whom it is absolutely impossible to work amicably. there is munro, who helped him in that scottish survey, declares that nothing would induce him to again put himself in mr butler's power; and you will remember what a shocking report mr butler gave of munro's behaviour during the survey. yet the rest of us have found munro to be invariably most good natured and obliging in every way. then there was fielding--and pierson--and marshall--" "yes, i know," interrupted mr richards rather impatiently. "i have never been able to rightly understand those affairs, or to make up my mind which was in the wrong. it may be that there were faults on both sides. but, be that as it may, mr butler is a first-rate surveyor; we have always found his work to be absolutely accurate and reliable; and sir philip has given him this survey to do; so it is too late for us to draw back now, even if sir philip would, which i do not think in the least likely. so, if you do not feel inclined to take on the job--" "no; please do not mistake my hesitation," interrupted escombe. "i will take the post, most gratefully, and do my best in it; only, if mr butler should give in an unfavourable report of me when all is over, i should like you to remember that he has done the same with everybody else who has gone out under him; and please do not take it for granted, without enquiry, that his report is perfectly just and unbiased." this was a rather bold thing for a youngster of escombe's years to say in relation to a man old enough to be his father; but mr richards passed it over--possibly he knew rather more about those past episodes than he cared to admit--merely saying: "very well, then; i dare say that will be all right. now you had better go to mitford and draw the money for your special outfit; also get from him a list of what you will require; and to-morrow you can take the necessary time to give your orders before coming to the office. but you must be careful to make sure that everything is supplied in good time, for you sail for callao this day three weeks." the enthusiasm which caused escombe's eyes to shine and his cheek to glow as he strode up the short garden path to the door of the trim little villa in west hill, sydenham, that night, was rather damped by the reception accorded by his mother and sister to the glorious news which he began to communicate before even he had stepped off the doormat. where the lad saw only an immediate increase of pay that would suffice to solve the problem of the family's domestic embarrassments, two years of assured employment, with a brilliant prospect beyond, a long spell of outdoor life in a perfect climate and in a most interesting and romantic country, during which he would be perfecting himself in a very important branch of his profession, and, lastly, the possibility of much exciting adventure, mrs escombe and lucy discerned a long sea voyage, with its countless possibilities of disaster, two years of separation from the being who was dearer to them than all else, the threat of strange and terrible attacks of sickness, and perils innumerable from wild beasts, venomous reptiles and insects, trackless forests, precipitous mountain paths, fathomless abysses, swift-rushing torrents, fierce tropical storms, earthquakes, and, worse than all else, ferocious and bloodthirsty savages! what was money and the freedom from care and anxiety which its possession ensured, compared with all the awful dangers which their darling must brave in order to win it? these two gently nurtured women felt that they would infinitely rather beg their bread in the streets than suffer their beloved harry to go forth, carrying his life in his hands, in order that they might be comfortably housed and clothed and sufficiently fed! and indeed the picture which they drew was sufficiently alarming to have daunted a lad of nervous and timid temperament, and perhaps have turned him from his purpose. but harry escombe was a youth of very different mould, and was built of much sterner stuff. there was nothing of the milksop about him, and the dangers of which his mother and sister spoke so eloquently had no terrors for him, but, on the contrary, constituted a positive and very powerful attraction; besides, as he pointed out to his companions, he would not always be clinging to the face of a precipice, or endeavouring to cross an impassable mountain torrent. storms did not rage incessantly in peru, any more than they did elsewhere; mr richards had assured him that the climate was healthy; ferocious animals and deadly reptiles did not usually attack a man unless they were interfered with; and reference to an encyclopaedia disclosed the fact that peru, so far from swarming with untamed savages, was a country enjoying a very fair measure of civilisation. talking thus, making light of such dangers as he would actually have to face, and dwelling very strongly upon the splendid opening which the offer afforded him, the lad gradually brought his mother and sister into a more reasonable frame of mind, until at length, by the time that the bedroom candles made their appearance, the two women, knowing how completely harry had set his heart upon going, and recognising also the strength of his contention as to the advantageous character of the opening afforded him by mr richards's proposal, had become so far reconciled to the prospect of the separation that they were able to speak of it calmly and to conceal the heartache from which both were suffering. so on the following morning mrs escombe and lucy were enabled to sally forth with cheerful countenance and more or less sprightly conversation as they accompanied the lad to town to assist him in the purchase of his special outfit, the larger portion of which was delivered at the limes that same evening, and at once unpacked for the purpose of being legibly marked and having all buttons securely sewn on by two pairs of loving hands. the following three weeks sped like a dream, so far as the individual chiefly interested was concerned; during the day he was kept continually busy by mr butler in the preparation of lists of the several instruments, articles, and things--from theodolites, levels, measuring chains, steel tapes, ranging rods, wire lines, sounding chains, drawing and tracing paper, cases of instruments, colour boxes, t-squares, steel straight-edges, and drawing pins, to tents, camp furniture, and saddlery--and procuring the same. the evenings were spent in packing and re-packing his kit as the several articles comprising it came to hand, diversified by little farewell parties given in his honour by the large circle of friends with whom the escombes had become acquainted since their arrival and settlement in sydenham. at length the preparations were all complete; the official impedimenta--so to speak-- had all been collected at sir philip swinburne's offices in victoria street, carefully packed in zinc-lined cases, and dispatched for shipment in the steamer which was to take the surveyors to south america. escombe had sent on all his baggage to the ship in advance, and the morning came when he must say good-bye to the two who were dearest to him in all the world. they would fain have accompanied him to the docks and remained on board with him until the moment arrived for the steamer to haul out into the river and proceed upon her voyage; but young escombe had once witnessed the departure of a liner from southampton and had then beheld the long-drawn-out agony of the protracted leave taking, the twitching features, the sudden turnings aside to hide and wipe away the unbidden tear, the heroic but futile attempts at cheerful, light-hearted conversation, the false alarms when timid people rushed ashore, under the unfounded apprehension that they were about to be carried off across the seas, and the return to the ship to say goodbye yet once again when they found that their fears were groundless. he had seen all this, and was quite determined that his dear ones should not undergo such torture of waiting, he therefore so contrived that his good-bye was almost as brief and matter of fact as though he had been merely going up to westminster for the day, instead of to peru for two years. taking the train for london bridge, he made his way thence to fenchurch street and so to blackwall, arriving on board the s.s. _rimac_ with a good hour to spare. but, early as he was, he found that not only had mr butler arrived on board before him, but also that that impatient individual had already worked himself into a perfect frenzy of irritation lest he--harry-- should allow the steamer to leave without him. "look here, escombe," he fumed, "this sort of thing won't do at all, you know. i most distinctly ordered you to be on board in good time this morning. i have been searching for you all over the ship; and now, at a quarter to eleven o'clock, you come sauntering on board with as much deliberation as though you had days to spare. what do you mean by being so late, eh?" "really, mr butler," answered harry, "i am awfully sorry if i have put you out at all, but i thought that so long as i was on board in time to start with the ship it would be sufficient. as it is i am more than an hour to the good; for, as you are aware, the ship does not haul out of dock until midday. have you been wanting me for anything in particular?" "no, i have not," snapped butler. "but i was naturally anxious when i arrived on board and found that you were not here. if you had happened to miss the ship i should have been in a pretty pickle; for this peruvian survey is far too big a job for me to tackle singlehanded." "of course," agreed escombe. "but you might have been quite certain that i would not have been so very foolish as to allow the ship to leave without me. i am far too anxious to avail myself of the opportunity which this survey will afford me, to risk the loss of it by being late. is there anything that you want me to do, mr butler? because, if not, i will go below and arrange matters in my cabin." "very well," assented butler ungraciously. "but, now that you are on board, don't you dare to leave the ship and go on shore again--upon any pretence whatever. do you hear?" "you really need not feel the slightest apprehension, mr butler," replied harry. "i have no intention or desire to go on shore again." and therewith he made his way to the saloon companion, and thence below to his sleeping cabin, his cheeks tingling with shame and anger at having been so hectored in public; for several passengers had been within earshot and had turned to look curiously at the pair upon hearing the sounds of butler's high-pitched voice raised in anger. "my word," thought the lad, "our friend butler is beginning early! if he is going to talk to me in that strain on the day of our departure, what will he be like when we are ready to return home? however, i am not going to allow him to exasperate me into forgetting myself, and so answering him as to give him an excuse for reporting me to sir philip for insolence or insubordination; there is too much depending upon this expedition for me to risk anything by losing my temper with him. i will be perfectly civil to him, and will do my duty to the very best of my ability, then nothing very serious can possibly happen." upon entering his cabin escombe was greatly gratified to learn from the steward that he was to be its sole occupant. he at once annexed the top berth, and proceeded to unpack the trunk containing the clothing and other matters that he would need during the voyage, arranged his books in the rack above the bunk, and then returned to the deck just in time to witness the operation of hauling out of dock. he found butler pacing the deck in a state of extreme agitation. "where have you been all this while?" demanded the man, halting abruptly, square in escombe's path. "what do you mean by keeping out of my sight so long? are you aware, sir, that i have spent nearly an hour at the gangway watching to see that you did not slink off ashore?" "have you, really?" retorted harry. "there was not the slightest need for you to do so, you know, mr butler, for i distinctly told you that i did not intend to go ashore again. didn't i?" "yes, you did," answered butler. "but how was i to know that you would keep your word?" "i always keep my word, sir; as you will learn when we become better acquainted," answered the lad. "i hope so, for your sake," returned butler. "but my experience of youngsters like yourself is that they are not to be trusted." then, glancing round him and perceiving that several passengers in his immediate neighbourhood were regarding him with unconcealed amusement, he hastily retreated below. as he did so, a man who had been lounging over the rail close at hand, smoking a cigar as he watched the traffic upon the river, turned, and regarding escombe with a good-natured smile, remarked: "your friend seems to be a rather cantankerous chap, isn't he? he will have to take care of himself, and keep his temper under rather better control, or he will go crazy when we get into the hot weather. is he often taken like that?" "i really don't know," answered harry. "the fact is that i only made his acquaintance about three weeks ago; but i fear that he suffers a great deal from nervous irritability. it must be a very great affliction." "it is, both to himself and to others," remarked the stranger dryly. "i have met his sort before, and i find that the only way to deal with such people is to leave them very severely alone. he seems to be a bit of a bully, so far as i can make out, but he will have to mind his p's and q's while he is on board this ship, or he will be getting himself into hot water and finding things generally made very unpleasant for him. you are in his service, i suppose?" "yes, in a way i am," answered escombe with circumspection; "that is to say, we are both in the same service, but he is my superior." "i see," answered the stranger. "how far are you going in the ship?" "we are going to callao," answered harry. "to peru, eh?" returned the stranger. "so am i. i know the country pretty well. i have lived in lima for the last nine years, and i can tell you that when your friend gets among the peruvians he will have to pull in his horns a good bit. they are rather a peppery lot, are the peruvians, and if he attempts to talk to them as he has talked to you to-day, he will stand a very good chance of waking up some fine morning with a long knife between his ribs." "oh, i hope it will not come to that!" exclaimed escombe. "but--to leave the subject of my friend and his temper for the present--since you have lived in peru so long, perhaps you can tell me something about the country, what it is like, what is the character of its climate, and so on. it is possible that i may have to spend a year or so in it. i should therefore be glad to learn something about it, and to get such tips as to the manner of living, and so on, as you can give me before we land." "certainly," answered the stranger; "i shall be very pleased indeed to give you all the information that i possibly can, and i fancy there are very few people on board this ship who know more about peru than i do." and therewith escombe's new acquaintance proceeded to hold forth upon the good and the bad points of the country to which they were both bound, describing in very graphic language the extraordinary varieties of climate to be met with on a journey inland from the coast, the grandeur of its mountain scenery, the astonishing variety of its products, its interesting historical remains; the character of the aboriginal indians, the beliefs they cherish, and the legends which have been preserved and handed down by them from father to son through many generations; the character and abundance of its mineral wealth, and a variety of other interesting information; so that by the time that harry went down below to luncheon, he had already become possessed of the feeling that to him peru was no longer a strange and unknown land. chapter two. the chief officer's yarn. upon entering the saloon and searching for his place, harry found that, much to his satisfaction, he had been stationed at the second table, presided over by the chief officer of the ship--a very genial individual named o'toole, hailing from the emerald isle--and between that important personage and his recently-made peruvian acquaintance, whose name he now discovered to be john firmin; while mr butler, it appeared, had contrived to get himself placed at the captain's table, which was understood to be occupied by the elite of the passengers. with the serving of the soup escombe was given a small printed form, which he examined rather curiously, not quite understanding for the moment what it meant. mr firmin volunteered enlightenment. "that," he explained, "is an order form, upon which you write the particular kind of liquid refreshment--apart from pure water--with which you wish to be served. you fill it in and hand it to your own particular table steward, who brings you what you have ordered, and at the end of each week he presents you with the orders which you have issued, and you are expected to settle up in spot cash. very simple, isn't it?" "perfectly," agreed harry. "but supposing that one does not wish to order anything, what then?" "you leave the order blank, that is all," answered firmin. then noticing that the lad pushed the form away, he asked: "are you a teetotaler?" "by no means," answered harry; "i sometimes take a glass of wine or beer, and very occasionally, when i happen to get wet through or am very cold, i take a little spirits; but plain or aerated water usually suffices for me." "i see," remarked firmin. he remained silent for a few seconds, then turning again to harry, he said: "i wonder if you would consider me very impertinent if, upon the strength of our extremely brief acquaintance, i were to offer you a piece of advice?" "certainly not," answered harry. "you are much older and more experienced than i, mr firmin, and have seen a great deal more of the world than i have; any advice, therefore, that you may be pleased to give me i shall be most grateful for, and will endeavour to profit by." "very well, then," said firmin, "i will risk it, for i have taken rather a fancy to you, and would willingly do you a good turn. the advice that i wish to give you is this. make a point of eschewing everything in the nature of alcohol. have absolutely nothing to do with it. you are young, strong, and evidently in the best of health; your system has therefore no need of anything having the character of a stimulant. nay, i will go farther than that, and say that you will be very much better, morally and physically, without it; and even upon the occasions which you mention of getting wet or cold, a cup of scalding hot coffee, swallowed as hot as you can take it, will do you far more good than spirits. i am moved to say this to you, my young friend, because i have seen so many lads like you insensibly led into the habit of taking alcohol, and when once that habit is contracted it is more difficult than you would believe to break it off. i have known many promising young fellows who have made shipwreck of their lives simply because they have not possessed the courage and strength of mind to say `no' when they have been invited to take wine or spirits." "by the powers, misther firmin, ye niver spoke a thruer word in your life than that same," cut in the chief officer, who had been listening to what was said. "whin i was a youngster of about misther escombe's age i nearly lost my life through the dhrink. i was an apprentice at the time aboard a fine, full-rigged iron clipper ship called the _joan of arc_. we were outward bound, from london to sydney, full up with general cargo, and carried twenty-six passengers in the cuddy, and nearly forty emigrants in the 'tween decks. we had just picked up the north-east trades, blowing fresh, and the `old man', who was a rare hand at carrying on, and was eager to break the record, was driving her along to the south'ard under every rag that we could show to it, including such fancy fakements as skysails, ringtails, water-sails, and all the rest of it. it was a fine, clear, starlit night, with just the trade- clouds driving along overhead, but there was no moon, and consequently, when an exceptionally big patch of cloud came sweeping up, it fell a bit dark. still, there was no danger--or ought to have been none--for we were well out of the regular track of the homeward-bounders, and in any case, with a proper look-out, it would have been possible to see another craft plenty early enough to give her a good wide berth. but after jack has got as far south as we then were he is apt to get a bit careless in the matter of keeping a look-out--trusts rather too much to the officer of the watch aft, you know, and is not above snatching a cat-nap in the most comfortable corner he can find, instead of posting himself on the heel of the bowsprit, with his eyes skinned and searching the sea ahead of him. "now, it happened--although none of us knew it until it was too late-- that our chief mate had rather too strong a liking for rum; not that he was exactly what you might call a drunkard, you know, but he kept a bottle in his cabin, and was in the habit of taking a nip just whenever he felt like it, especially at night time; and on this particular night that i'm talking about he must have taken a nip too many, for when he came on deck at midnight to keep the middle watch he hadn't been up above an hour before he coiled himself down in one of the passenger's deck-chairs and--went to sleep. of course, under such circumstances as those of which i am speaking--the weather being fine and the wind steady, with no necessity to touch tack or sheet--the watch on deck don't make any pretence of keeping awake; they're on deck and at hand all ready for a call if they're needed, and that's as much as is expected of 'em at night time, since there's no work to be done; and the consequence was that all hands of us were sound asleep long before the mate; and there is no doubt that the look-out--who lost his life, poor chap! through his carelessness--fell asleep too. as to the man at the wheel, well he is not expected to steer the ship and keep a look-out at the same time, and, if he was, he couldn't do it, for his eyes soon grow so dazzled by the light of the binnacle lamps that he can see little or nothing except the illuminated compass card. "that, gentlemen, was the state of affairs aboard the _joan of arc_ on the night about which i'm telling ye; the skipper, the passengers, the second mate, and the watch below all in their bunks; and the rest of us, those who were on deck and ought to have been broad awake, almost if not quite as sound asleep as those who were below. i was down on the main deck, sitting on the planks, with my back propping up the front of the poop, my arms crossed, and my chin on my chest, dhreaming that i was back at school in dear old dublin, when i was startled broad awake by a shock that sent me sprawling as far for'ard as the coaming of the after- hatch, to the accompaniment of the most awful crunching, ripping, and crashing sounds, as the _joan_ sawed her way steadily into the vitals of the craft that we had struck. then, amid the yelling of the awakened watch, accompanied by muffled shrieks and shouts from below, there arose a loud twang-twanging as the backstays and shrouds parted under the terrific strain suddenly thrown upon them, then an ear-splitting crash as the three masts went over the bows, and i found myself struggling and fighting to free myself from the raffle of the wrecked mizenmast. i felt very dazed and queer, and a bit sick, for i was dimly conscious of the fact that i had been struck on the head by something when the masts fell, and upon putting up my hand i found that my hair was wet with something warm that was soaking it and trickling down into my eyes and ears. then i heard the voice of the `old man' yelling for the mate and the carpenter; and as i fought myself clear of the raffle i became aware of many voices frantically demanding to know what had happened, husbands calling for their wives, mothers screaming for their children, the sound of axes being desperately used to clear away the wreck, a sudden awful wail from somewhere ahead, and a rushing and hissing of water as the craft that we had struck foundered under our forefoot, and the skipper's voice again, cracked and hoarse, ordering the boats to be cleared away." o'toole paused for a moment and gasped as if for breath; his soup lay neglected before him, his elbows were on the table, and his two hands locked together in a grip so tense that the knuckles shone white in the light that came streaming in through the scuttles in the ship's side, his eyes were glassy and staring into vacancy with an intensity of gaze which plainly showed that the whole dreadful scene was again unfolding itself before his mental vision, and the perspiration was streaming down his forehead and cheeks. then the table steward came up, and, removing his soup, asked him whether he would take cold beef, ham-and-tongue, or roast chicken. the sound of the man's voice seemed to bring the dazed chief officer to himself again; he sighed heavily, and as though relieved to find himself where he was, considered for a moment, and, deciding in favour of cold beef, resumed his narrative. "the next thing that i can remember, gentlemen," he continued, "was that i was on the poop with the skipper, second and third mates, the carpenter, and a few others, lighting for our lives as we strove to keep back the frantic passengers and prevent them from interfering with the hands who were cutting the gripes and working furiously to sling the boats outboard. we carried four boats at the davits, two on each quarter, and those were all that were available, for the others were buried under the raffle and wreckage of the fallen masts, and it would have taken hours to clear them, with the probability that, when got at, they would have been found smashed to smithereens, while a blind man could have told by the feel of the ship that she was settling fast, and might sink under us at any moment. at last one of the boats was cleared and ready for lowering, and as many of the women and children as she would carry were bundled into her, the third mate, two able seamen, and myself being sent along with them by the skipper to take care of them. i would willingly have stayed behind, for there were other women and children--to say nothing of men passengers--to be saved, but i knew that a certain number of us jacks must of necessity go in each boat to handle and navigate her, and there was no time to waste in arguing the matter; so in i tumbled, just as i was, and the next moment we were rising and falling in the water alongside, the tackle blocks were cleverly unhooked, and we out oars and shoved off, pulling to a safe distance and then lying on our oars to wait for the rest. "i shall never, to my dying day, forget the look of that ship as we pulled away from her. the _joan_ had been as handsome a craft as ever left the stocks when we hauled out of dock at london some three weeks earlier; but now--her bows were crumpled in until she was as flat for'ard as the end of a sea-chest; her decks were lumbered high with the wreckage of her masts and spars; the standing and running rigging was hanging down over her sides in bights; and she had settled so low in the water that her channels were already buried; while her poop was crowded with madly struggling figures, from which arose a confused babel of sound--shouting, screaming, and cursing--than which i have never heard anything more awful in all my life. "when we had pulled off about fifty fathoms the third mate, who was in charge of the boat, ordered us to lie upon our oars; and presently we saw that the second quarter-boat was being lowered. she reached the water all right, and then we heard the voice of the second mate yelling to the hands on deck to let run the after tackle. the next moment, as the sinking ship rolled heavily to starboard, we saw the stern of the lowered boat lifted high out of the water, the bow dipped under, and in a second, as it seemed, she had swamped, and the whole load of people, some twenty in number, were struggling and drowning alongside as they strove ineffectually to scramble back into the swamped boat, which had now by some chance become released from the tackle that had held her. "for a moment we, in the boat that had got safely away, sat staring, dumb and paralysed with horror at the dreadful scene that was enacting before our eyes. but the next moment those of us who were at the oars started madly backing and pulling to swing the boat round and pull in to the help of the poor wretches who were perishing only a few fathoms away from us. we had hardly got the boat round, however, when mr gibson, the third mate, gave the order for us to hold water. "`we mustn't do it,' he said. `the boat is already loaded as deep as she will swim, and the weight of even one more person would suffice to swamp her! as it is, it will take us all our time, and tax our seamanship to the utmost, to keep her afloat; you can see for yourselves that it would be impossible for us to squeeze more than one additional person in among us, and, even if we had the room, we could not get that one in over the gunnel without swamping the craft. to attempt such a thing would therefore only be to throw away uselessly the lives of all of us; we must therefore stay where we are, and endure the awful sight as best we can--ah, there you have a hint of what will happen if we are not careful!'--as the boat, lying broadside-on to the sea, rolled heavily and shipped three or four bucketfuls of water--`pull, starboard, and get her round stem-on to the sea; and you, o'toole, get hold of the baler and dish that water out of her.' "it was true, every word of it, as a child might have had sense to see. we could do absolutely nothing to help the poor wretches who were drowning there before our very eyes; and in a few minutes all was over, so far as they were concerned. two or three men, i believe, managed to get back aboard the sinking ship by climbing up the davit tackles; but the rest quickly drowned--as likely as not because they clung to each other and pulled each other down. "but the plight of those aboard the _joan_ was rapidly becoming desperate; and we could see that they knew it by observing the frantic efforts which they were making to get the other two boats into the water. we could distinctly hear the voice of the skipper rising from time to time above the clamour, urging the people to greater efforts, encouraging one, cautioning another, entreating the maddened passengers to keep back and give the crew room to work. then, in the very midst of it all there came a dull boom as the decks blew up. we heard the loud hissing of the compressed air as it rushed out between the gaping deck planks; there arose just one awful wail--the sound of which will haunt me to my dying day--and with a long, sliding plunge the _joan_ lurched forward and dived, bows first, to the bottom. "as for us, we could do nothing but just keep our boat head-on to the sea and let her drift, humouring and coaxing her as best we could when an extra heavy sea appeared bearing down upon us, and baling for dear life continuously to keep her free of the water that, in spite of us, persisted in slapping into her over the bows. the canaries were the nearest bits of dry land to us, but mr jellicoe, the third mate, reckoned that they were a good hundred and fifty miles away, and dead to wind'ard; so it was useless for us to think of reaching them in a boat with her gunnels awash, and not a scrap of food or a drop of fresh water in her. the only thing that we could do was to exert our utmost endeavours to keep the craft afloat, and trust that providence would send something along soon to pick us up. but--would you believe it?-- although we were right in the track of the outward-bound ships, and although we sighted nine sailing craft and three steamers, nothing came near enough to see us, lying low in the water as we were, until the ninth day, when we were picked up by a barque bound for cape town. but by that time, gentlemen, mr jellicoe, one seaman, and i were all that remained alive of the boatload that shoved off from the stricken _joan of arc_ on that fatal night. don't ask me by what means we contrived to keep the life in us for so long a time, for i won't tell you. thus you see that, of the complete complement of ninety-two persons who left london in the _joan of arc_, eighty-nine were drowned--to say nothing of those aboard the craft that we had run down--because the mate couldn't-- or wouldn't--control his love of drink. since that day, gentlemen, coffee is the strongest beverage that has ever passed my lips." "i am delighted to hear it," remarked firmin, "for observation has led me to the conviction that at least half the tragedies of human life have originated in the craving for intoxicants; and therefore,"--turning to escombe--"i say again, my young friend, have absolutely nothing to do with them. i have no doubt that, ere you have been long in peru, you will have made the discovery that it is a thirsty country; but, apart of course from pure water, there is nothing better for quenching one's thirst than fresh, sound, perfectly ripe fruit, failing which, tea, hot or cold--the latter for preference--without milk, and with but a small quantity of sugar, will be found hard to beat. now, if you are anxious for hints, there is one of absolutely priceless value for you; but i present it you free, gratis, and for nothing." "thanks very much!" returned harry. "i will bear it in mind and act upon it. no more intoxicants for me, thank you. mr o'toole, accept my thanks for telling us that terrible story of your shipwreck. it has brought home to me, as nothing else has ever done, the awful danger of tampering with so insidious an enemy as alcohol, which i now solemnly abjure for ever." meanwhile, at the captain's table, mr butler was expressing his opinion upon various subjects in loud, strident tones, and with a disputatiousness of manner that caused most of those about him mentally to dub him a blatant cad, and to resolve that they would have as little as possible to do with him. one afternoon, when the _rimac_ had reached the other side of the atlantic, butler called harry into the cabin of the former and said: "i understand that we shall be at montevideo the day after to-morrow. now i want you to understand that i shall expect you not to go on shore either at montevideo or either of the other places that the _rimac_ will be stopping at. she will only remain at anchor at any of these places for a few hours; and if you were to go on shore it would be the easiest thing in the world for you to get lost and to miss your passage; therefore in order to obviate any such possibility i have decided not to allow you to leave the ship. do you understand?" "yes," answered escombe, "i understand perfectly, mr butler, what you mean. but i certainly do not understand by what authority you attempt to interfere with my personal liberty to the extent of forbidding me to go on shore for a few hours when the opportunity presents itself. i agreed with sir philip swinburne to accompany you to peru as your assistant upon the survey which he has engaged you to make; and from the moment when that survey commences i will render you all the obedience and deference due to you as my superior, and will serve you to the best of my ability. but it was no part of my contract that i should surrender my liberty to you during the outward and homeward voyage; and when it comes to your forbidding me to leave the ship until our arrival at callao, you must permit me to say that i feel under no obligation to defer to your wishes. and, quite apart from that, i may as well tell you that i have already accepted an invitation to accompany mr and mrs westwood and a party ashore at montevideo, and i see no reason why i should withdraw my acceptance." "w-h-a-t!" screamed butler; "do i understand that you are daring to disobey and defy me?" "certainly not, sir," answered harry, "because, as i understand it, disobedience and defiance are impossible where no authority exists; and i beg to remind you that your authority over me begins only upon our arrival at callao. yet, purely as a matter of courtesy, i am of course not only prepared but perfectly willing to show all due deference to such reasonable wishes as you may choose to express. but i reserve to myself the right of determining where the line shall be drawn." "very well, sir," stuttered butler, "i am glad to learn thus early what sort of behaviour i may expect from you. i shall write home at once to sir philip, reporting to him what has passed between us, and requesting him to send me out someone to take your place--someone who can be depended upon to render me implicit obedience at all times." and therewith he whirled about and marched off to his own cabin, where, with the heat of his anger still upon him, he sat down and penned to sir philip swinburne a very strong letter of complaint of what he was pleased to term young escombe's "insolently insubordinate language and behaviour". as for harry, butler's threat to report him to sir philip furnished him with a very valuable hint as to the wisest thing to do under the circumstances, and he too lost no time in addressing an epistle to sir philip, giving his own version of the affair. thenceforward butler pointedly ignored young escombe's existence for the remainder of the voyage; but by doing so he only made matters still more unpleasant for himself, for his altercation with harry had been overheard by certain of the passengers, and by them repeated to the rest, with the final result that butler was promptly consigned to coventry, and left there by the whole of the saloon passengers. harry duly went ashore with his friends at montevideo and--having first posted his letter to sir philip and another to his mother and sister-- went out with them by train to bellavista, where they all enjoyed vastly the little change from the monotony of life at sea, returning in the nick of time to witness a violent altercation between butler and the boatman who brought him off from the shore. also harry went ashore for an hour or two at punta arenas, in the straits of magellan; and again at valparaiso and arica; finally arriving at callao something over a month from the day upon which he sailed from london. chapter three. butler the tyrant. at this point escombe acknowledged himself to be legitimately under butler's rule and dominion, to obey unquestioningly all the latter's orders, to go where bidden and to do whatever he might be told, even as did the soldiers of the roman centurion; and butler soon made him understand and feel that there was a heavy score to be wiped off--a big wound in the elder man's self esteem to be healed. there were a thousand ways now in which butler was able to make his power and authority over harry felt; he was careful not to miss a single opportunity, and he spared the lad in nothing. he would not even permit harry to land until the latter had personally supervised the disembarkation of every item of their somewhat extensive baggage; and when this was at length done he insisted that escombe should in like manner oversee the loading of them into a railway wagon for lima, make the journey thither in the same truck with them--ostensibly to ensure that nothing was stolen on the way--and finally, upon their arrival in lima, he compelled harry to remain by the truck and mount guard over it until it was coupled to the train for palpa, and then to proceed to that town in the same truck without seeing anything more of the capital city than could be seen from the station yard. then, again, at palpa he insisted that harry should remain by the truck and supervise the unloading of the baggage and its transference to a lock-up store, giving the lad to understand that he would be held responsible for any loss or damage that might occur during the operation; so that by the time that all this was done poor escombe was more dead than alive, so utterly exhausted was he from long exposure to the enervating heat, and lack of proper food. but harry breathed no word of expostulation or complaint. he regarded everything that he now did as in the way of duty and merely as somewhat unpleasant incidents in the execution of the great task that lay before him, and he was content, if not quite as happy and comfortable as he might have been under a more congenial and considerate leader. besides, he was learning something every minute of the day, learning how to do things and also how not to do them, for he very quickly recognised that although butler might possibly be an excellent surveyor, he was but a very poor hand at organisation. then, too, butler had characteristically neglected the acquisition of any foreign language, consequently they had no sooner arrived at palpa than he found himself absolutely dependent upon harry's knowledge of spanish; and this advantage on escombe's part served in a great measure to place the two upon a somewhat more equal footing, and gradually to suppress those acts of petty tyranny which butler had at first evinced a disposition to indulge in. palpa was the place at which their labours were to begin, and here it became necessary for them to engage a complete staff of assistants, comprising tent bearers, grooms, bush cutters, porters, cooks, and all the other attendants needed for their comfort and convenience during a long spell of camp life in a tropical climate, and in a country where civilisation is still elementary except in the more important centres. luckily for them, the first section of their work comprised only a stretch of a little more than thirty miles of tolerably flat country, where no serious natural difficulties presented themselves, and that part of their work was soon accomplished. yet escombe found even this trifling bit of the great task before him sufficiently arduous; for butler not only demanded that he should be up and at work in the open at daybreak, and that he should continue at work so long as daylight lasted, but that, when survey work was no longer possible because of the darkness, the lad should "plot" his day's work on paper before retiring to rest. thus it was generally close upon midnight before escombe was at liberty to retire to his camp bed and seek his hard-earned and much- needed rest. but it was when they got upon the second section of their work--between huacho, cochamarca, and cerro de pasco--that their real troubles and difficulties began, for here they had to find a practicable route up the face of the western cordillera in the first instance, and, having found it, to measure with the nicest accuracy not only the horizontal distances but the height of every rise and the depth of every declivity in the face of a country made up to a great extent of lofty precipices and fathomless ravines, the whole overgrown with dense vegetation through which survey lines had to be cut at enormous expense of time and labour. and here it was that butler's almost fiendish malice and ingenuity in the art of making things unpleasant for other people shone forth conspicuously. it was his habit to ride forth every morning accompanied by a strong band of attendants armed with axes and machetes, and well provided with ropes to assist in the scaling of precipitous slopes, for the purpose of selecting and marking out the day's route, a task which could usually be accomplished in a couple of hours; and then to return and supervise the work of his subordinate, which he made as difficult and arduous as possible by insisting upon the securing of a vast amount of superfluous and wholly unnecessary information, in the obtaining of which harry was obliged to risk his life at least a dozen times a day. yet the lad never complained; indeed he could not have done so even had he been so disposed, for it was for butler to determine what amount of information and of what nature was necessary for the proper execution of the survey; but escombe began to understand now the means by which his superior had acquired the reputation of an accomplished surveyor. it is easy for a man in authority to stand or sit in safety and command another to perform a difficult task at the peril of his life! and if butler was tyrannically exacting in his treatment of harry, he was still more so toward the unfortunate peons in his service, and especially those whom he detailed to accompany him daily to assist in the task of selecting and marking out the route of the survey line. these people knew no language but their own, and since harry was always engaged elsewhere with theodolite, level, and chain, and was, therefore, not available to play the part of interpreter, it became necessary for butler to secure the services of a man who understood enough english to translate his orders into the vernacular; and because this unfortunate fellow was necessarily always at butler's elbow, he became the scapegoat upon whose unhappy head the sins and shortcomings of the others were visited in the form of perpetual virulent abuse, until the man's life positively became a burden to him, to such an extent, indeed, that he would undoubtedly have deserted but for the fact that butler, suspecting his inclination perhaps, positively refused to pay him a farthing of wages until the conclusion of his engagement. it can easily be understood, therefore, that, under the circumstances described, an element of tragedy was steadily developing in the survey camp. but although the overbearing and exacting behaviour of the chief of the expedition was thus making matters particularly unpleasant for everybody concerned, nothing of a really serious character occurred until the second section of the survey had been in progress for a little over two months, by which time the party had penetrated well into the mountain fastnesses, and were beginning to encounter some of the more formidable difficulties of their task. butler was still limiting his share of the work to the mere marking out of the route, leaving harry to perform the whole of the actual labour of the survey under his watchful eye, and stirring neither hand nor foot to assist the young fellow, although the occasions were frequent when, had he chosen to give a few minutes' assistance at the theodolite or level, such help would have saved young escombe some hours of arduous labour, and thus expedited the survey. now, it happened that a certain day's work terminated at the edge of a _quebrada_, and butler informed harry that the first task of the latter, upon the following morning, would be to take a complete set of accurate measurements of this _quebrada_, before pushing on with the survey of the route. a _quebrada_, it may be explained, is a sort of rent or chasm in the mountain, usually with vertical, or at least precipitous sides, and very frequently of terrific depth, the impression suggested by its appearance being that at some period of the earth's history the solid rock of the mountain had been riven asunder by some titanic force. sometimes a _quebrada_ is several hundreds of feet in width, and of a depth so appalling as to unnerve the most hardy mountaineer. the _quebrada_ in question, however, was of comparatively insignificant dimensions, being only about forty feet wide at the point where the survey line crossed it, and some four hundred feet deep. now, although harry was only an articled pupil, he knew quite enough about railway engineering to be perfectly well aware that the elaborate measurements which butler had instructed him to take were absolutely unnecessary, the accurate determination of the width at the top--where a bridge would eventually have to be thrown across--being all that was really required. yet he made no demur, for he had already seen that it would be possible to take as many measurements as might be required, with absolute accuracy and ease, by the execution of about a quarter of an hour's preliminary surveying. but when, on the following morning, he commenced this bit of preliminary work, butler rushed out of his tent and interrupted him. "what are you doing?" he harshly demanded. "have you forgotten that i ordered you to measure very carefully the _quebrada_ this morning, before doing anything else?" "no, sir," answered harry, "i have not forgotten. i am doing it now, or, rather, doing the necessary preliminary work." "doing the necessary preliminary work?" echoed butler. "what do you mean? i don't understand you." "then permit me to explain," said harry suavely. "i have ascertained that, by placing the theodolite over that peg yonder,"--pointing to a newly driven peg some four hundred feet away to the left--"i shall be able to get an uninterrupted view of the _quebrada_ from top to bottom, and, by taking a series of vertical and horizontal angles from the top edge, can measure the contour of the two sides, at the point crossed by the survey line, with the nicest accuracy." "how do you mean?" demanded butler. harry proceeded to elaborate his explanation, patiently describing each step of the intended operation, and making it perfectly clear that the elaborate series of unnecessary measurements demanded could be secured with the most beautiful precision. "but," objected butler, "when you have taken all those angles you will have done only part of the work; you will still have to calculate the length of the vertical and horizontal lines subtended by them--" "a matter of about half an hour's work!" interjected harry. "possibly," agreed butler. "but," he continued, "i do not like your plan at all; i do not approve of it; it is amateurish and theoretical, and i won't have it. a much simpler and more practical way will be for you to go down the _quebrada_ at the end of a rope, measuring as you go." "that is one way certainly," assented harry; "but, with all submission, mr butler, i venture to think that it will not be nearly so accurate as mine. besides, consider the danger. if the rope should happen to be cut in its passage over the sharp edge of that rock--" "look here," interrupted butler, "if you are afraid, you had better say so, and i will do the work myself. but i should like you to understand that timid people are of no use to me." the taunt was unjust, for harry was not afraid; but he was convinced that his own plan was far and away the more expeditious and the more accurate, also it involved absolutely no danger at all; while it was patent to even the dullest comprehension that there was a distinct element of danger attaching to the other, inasmuch as that if anything should happen to the rope, the person suspended by it must inevitably be precipitated to the bottom, where a mountain stream roared as it leaped and boiled and foamed over a bed of enormous boulders. had escombe been ten years older than he actually was he would probably not have hesitated--while disclaiming anything in the nature of cowardice--to express very strongly the opinion that where there were two methods of executing a certain task, one of them perfectly safe, and the other seriously imperilling a human life, it was the imperative duty of the person with whom the decision rested to select the safer method of the two, particularly when that method offered equally satisfactory results with the other. but, being merely a lad, and as yet scarcely certain of himself, remembering also that his future prospects were absolutely at butler's mercy, to make or mar as he pleased, harry contented himself with a disclaimer of any such feeling as fear, and expressed his readiness to perform the task in any manner which butler might choose to approve. at the same time he confessed his inability to understand precisely how the required measurements were to be taken, and requested instructions. "why," explained butler impatiently, "the thing is surely simple enough for a baby to understand. you will be lowered over the cliff edge and let down the cliff face exactly five feet at a time. as it happens to be absolutely calm, the rope by which you are to be lowered will hang accurately plumb; all that you will have to do, therefore, will be to measure the distance from your rope to the face of the rock, at every five feet of drop, and you will then have the particulars necessary to plot a contour of the cliff face, from top to bottom. you will do this on both sides of the _quebrada_, and then measure the width across at the top, which will enable us to produce a perfectly correct section of the gorge." "but how am i to measure the distance from the rope to the cliff face?" demanded harry. "for, as you will have observed, sir, the rock overhangs at the top, and the gorge widens considerably as it descends." "you can do your measuring with a ranging-rod," answered butler tersely; "and if one is not long enough, tie two together." "even so," persisted harry, "i fear i shall not be able to manage--" "will you, or will you not, do as you are told?" snapped butler. "if you cannot manage with two rods, i will devise some other plan." "very well, sir," said harry. "if you are quite determined to send me over the cliff, i am ready to go. what rope is it your pleasure that i shall use?" "take the tent ropes," ordered butler. "you will have an ample quantity if you join them all together. make a seat for yourself in the end, and then mark off the rest of the rope into five-foot lengths, so that we may know exactly how much to pay out between the measurements. then lash two ranging-rods together, and you will find that you will manage splendidly." harry had his doubts, for to his own mind the tent ropes seemed none too strong for such a purpose. moreover, the clips upon them would render the paying out over the cliff edge exceedingly awkward; still, since it seemed that the choice lay between risking his life and ruining his professional prospects, he chose the former, and set about making his preparations for what he could not help regarding as a distinctly hazardous experiment. these did not occupy him very long, and in about twenty minutes he was standing at the cliff edge, with a padded bight of the rope about his body, and the two joined ranging-rods in his hand, quite ready to be lowered down the face. then two peons whom he had specially selected for the task, drew in the slack of the rope, passed a complete turn of it round an iron bar driven deep into a rock crevice, and waited for the command of a third who now laid himself prone on the ground, with his head projecting over the edge of the cliff, to watch and regulate the descent. then harry, fully realising, perhaps for the first time, the perilous nature of the enterprise, laid himself down and carefully lowered himself over the rocky edge. "lower gently, brothers!" ordered the man who was supervising the operation, and the rope was carefully eased away until the first five- foot mark reached the cliff edge, while butler, who now also began at last to recognise and appreciate the ghastly peril to which his obstinacy had consigned a fellow creature, moved off to a point about a hundred yards distant, from which he could watch the entire descent. and he no sooner reached it than he perceived that harry's objections to the plan were well grounded, and that, even with the two joined rods, it would be impossible for the lad to take the required measurements over more than the first quarter of the depth. this being the case, it was obviously his duty at once to put a stop to so dangerous an attempt, especially as he knew perfectly well that it was as unnecessary as it was dangerous; but to do this would have been tantamount to confessing that he had made a mistake, and this his nature was too mean and petty to permit, so he simply sat down and watched in an ever-growing fever of anxiety lest anything untoward should happen for which he could be blamed. meanwhile, at the very first stoppage, harry began to experience some of the difficulties that beset him in the task which he had undertaken. despite the utmost care in lowering, the rope would persist in oscillating, very gently, it is true, but still sufficient to render it necessary to pause until the oscillation had ceased before attempting to take the measurement; also the torsion of the rope set up a slow revolving movement, so that, even when at length the oscillation ceased, it was only with difficulty that the correct measurement was taken and recorded in the book. this difficulty recurred as every additional five-foot length of rope was paid out, so that each measurement cost fully five minutes of precious time. moreover, despite the padding of the rope, harry soon began to find it cutting into his flesh so unpleasantly that he had grave doubts whether he would be able to endure it and hold out until the bottom, far below, should be reached. at length, when about forty feet of rope had been very cautiously paid out, and some eight measurements taken, the peon who was superintending the operation of lowering was suddenly seen to stiffen his body, as though something out of the common had attracted his attention; he raised one hand as a sign to the other two to cease lowering, and gazed intently downward for several seconds. then he signed for the lowering to be continued, and, to the astonishment of the others, wriggled himself back from the edge of the cliff until he had room to stand upright, when, scrambling hastily to his feet, he sprang to the two men who were lowering, and hissed between his set teeth: "lower! lower away as quickly and as steadily as you can, my brothers; the life of the young _senor_ depends upon your speed and steadiness. the rope has stranded--cut by the edge of the rock, most probably--and unless you can lower the _muchacho_ to the bottom ere it parts altogether, he will be dashed to pieces!" meanwhile harry, hanging there swinging and revolving in the bight of the rope, was not a little astonished when he found himself being lowered without pause, save such momentary jerks as were occasioned by the passage of the clips round the bar and over the cliff edge, and he instinctively glanced upward to see if he could discover what was wrong--for that something had gone amiss he felt tolerably certain. for a few seconds his eye sought vainly for an explanation, then his gaze was arrested by the sight of two severed ends of one strand of the rope standing out at a distance of about thirty feet above his head, and he knew!--knew that the strength of the slender rope had been decreased by one third, and that his life now depended upon the holding together of the two remaining strands! harry could see that those two remaining strands were stretched by his hanging weight to the utmost limit of their resistance, and he watched them with dull anxiety, as one in a dream, every moment expecting to see the yarns of which they were composed part one by one under the strain. and the worst of it was that that strain was not a steady one, otherwise there might be some hope that the strands would withstand it long enough to permit him to reach the bottom of the _quebrada_; but at frequent intervals there occurred a couple of jerks--one as a clip passed round the bar, and another as it slid over the cliff edge--and, of course, at every recurrence of the jerk the strain was momentarily increased to an enormous extent. and presently that which he feared happened, a more than usually severe jerk occurred, and one of the yarns in the remaining strands parted. escombe dully wondered how far he still was from the bottom--a fearful distance, he believed--for he seemed to be cruelly close to the overhanging edge of the cliff, although he had been hanging suspended for a length of time that seemed to him more like hours than minutes. he did not dare to look down, for he had the feeling that if he removed his gaze from those straining and quivering strands for a single instant they would snap, and he would go plunging downward to destruction. then, as he watched, another yarn parted, and another. a catastrophe was now inevitable, and the lad began to speculate curiously, and from a singularly impersonal point of view, what the sensation would be like when the last yarn had snapped. he had read somewhere that the sensation of falling from a great height was distinctly pleasurable; but what about the other, upon reaching the bottom? a quaint story came into his mind about an irishman who was said to have fallen off the roof of a house, and who, upon being picked up, was asked whether he had been hurt by his fall, to which the man replied: "no, the fall didn't hurt me a bit, it was stoppin' so quick that did all the mischief!" the humour of the story was not very brilliant, yet somehow it seemed to escombe at that moment to be ineffably amusing, and he laughed aloud at the quaintness of the conceit. and, as he did so, the remaining yarns of the second strand parted with a little jerk that thrilled him through and through, and he hung there suspended by a single strand, but still being lowered rapidly from above. his eyes were now fixed intently upon the unbroken strand, and he distinctly saw it stretching and straightening out under his weight, but, as it seemed to him, with inconceivable slowness. then--to such a preternatural state of acuteness had his senses been wrought by the imminence and certainty of ghastly disaster--he saw the last strand slowly parting, not yarn by yarn but fibre by fibre, until, after what seemed to be a veritable eternity of suspense, the last fibre snapped, he heard a loud twang, and found himself floating--as it seemed to him-- very gently downward, so gently, indeed, that, as he was swung round, facing the rocky wall, he was able to note clearly and distinctly every inequality, every projection, every crack, every indentation in the face of the rock; nay, he even felt that, were it worth while to do so, he would have had time enough to make sketches of every one of them as they drifted slowly upward. the next thing of which he was conscious was a loud swishing sound which rose even above the deafening brawl of water among rocks, that he now remembered with surprise had been thundering in his ears for--how many months--or years, was it? then he became aware that he was somehow among leaves and branches; and again memory reproduced the scene upon which he had looked when, standing upon the cliff edge at a point from which he could command a view of the whole depth of the gorge, he had idly noted that, at the very bottom of it, a few inconsiderable shrubs or small trees, nourished by eternal showers of spray, grew here and there from interstices of the rock, and he realised that he had fallen into the heart of one of them. he contrived to grasp a fairly stout branch with each hand, and was much astonished when they bent and snapped like twigs as his body ploughed through the thick growth; but he knew that the force of his fall had been broken, and, for the first time since he had made the discovery of the severed strand, the hope came that, after all, he might emerge from this adventure with his life. then he alighted--on his feet--on a great, moss-grown boulder, felt his legs double up and collapse under him, sank into a huddled heap upon the wet, slippery moss, shot off into the leaping, foaming water, and knew no more. chapter four. mama cachama. when young escombe regained his senses it was night, or so he supposed, for all was darkness about him, save for such imperfect illumination as came from a small wood fire which flickered and crackled cheerfully in one corner of the apartment in which he found himself. the apartment! nay, it was far too large, much too spacious in every dimension, to be a room in an ordinary house, and those walls--or as much as could be seen of them in the faint, ruddy glow of the firelight--were altogether too rough and rugged to have been fashioned by human hands, while the roof was so high that the flickering light of the flames was not strong enough to reach it. it was a cavern, without doubt, and harry began to wonder vaguely by what means he had come there. for, upon awakening, his mind had been in a state of the most utter confusion, and it was not until he had lain patiently waiting for his ideas to arrange themselves, and had thereby come to the consciousness that he was aching in every bone and fibre of his body, while the latter was almost entirely swathed in bandages, that the recollection of his adventure returned to him. even then the memory of it was but a dreamy one, and indeed he did not feel at all certain that the entire incident was not a dream from beginning to end, and that he should not presently awake to find himself on the cot in his tent, with the cold, clear dawn peering in past the unfolded flap, and another day's arduous work before him. but he finally concluded that the fire upon which his eyes rested was too real, and, more especially, that his pain was too acute and insistent for him to be dreaming. then he fell to wondering afresh how in the name of fortune he had found his unconscious way into that cave and upon the pallet which supported him. the fire was the only thing in the cavern that was distinctly visible; certain objects there were here and there, a vague suggestion of which came and went with the rise and fall of the flame, but what they were harry could not determine. there was, among other matters, an object on the far side of the fire, that looked not unlike a bundle of rags; but when escombe, in attempting to turn himself over into a more comfortable position, uttered an involuntary groan as a sharp twinge of pain shot through his anatomy, the bundle stirred, and instantly resolved itself into the quaintest figure of a little, old, bowed indian woman that it is possible to picture. but, notwithstanding her extreme age and apparent decrepitude, the extraordinary old creature displayed marvellous activity. in an instant she was on her feet and beside the pallet, peering eagerly and anxiously into harry's wide-open eyes. the result of her inspection appeared to be satisfactory, for presently she turned away and, muttering to herself in a tongue which was quite incomprehensible to her patient, disappeared in the all-enveloping darkness, only to reappear a moment later with a small cup in her hand containing a draught of very dark brown, almost black, liquid of an exceedingly pungent but rather agreeable bitter taste, which she placed to his lips, and which the lad at once swallowed without demur. the effect of the draught was instantaneous, as it was marvellously stimulating and exhilarating; and it must also have possessed very remarkable tonic properties, for scarcely had escombe swallowed it when a sensation of absolutely ravenous hunger assailed him. "ah!" he sighed, "that was good; i feel ever so much better now. mother," he continued in spanish, "i feel hungry: can you find me something to eat?" "aha! you feel hungry, do you?" responded the old woman in the same language. "good! i am prepared for that. wait but a moment, _caro mio_, until i can heat the broth, and your hunger shall soon be satisfied." and with the birdlike briskness which characterised all her actions she moved away into the shadows, presently returning with three iron rods in her hand, which she dexterously arranged in the form of a tripod over the fire, and from which she suspended a small iron pot. then, taking a few dry sticks from a bundle heaped up near the fire, she broke them into short lengths, which she carefully introduced, one by one, here and there, into the flame, coaxing it into a brisk blaze which soon caused a most savoury and appetising steam to rise from the pot. next, from some hidden receptacle she produced a bowl and spoon, emptied the smoking contents of the pot into the former, and then, carefully propping her patient into a sitting position, proceeded to feed him. the stew was delicious, to such an extent, indeed, that harry felt constrained to compliment his hostess upon its composition and to ask of what it was made. he was much astonished--and also, it must be confessed, a little disgusted--when the old lady simply answered, _lagarto_ (lizard). there was no doubt, however, that he had greatly enjoyed his meal, and felt distinctly the better for it; he therefore put his squeamishness on one side, and asked his companion to enlighten him as to the manner in which he came to be where he was. "it is very simple," answered the old woman. "while my son yupanqui was fishing in the river, two days ago, he caught sight of something unusual lying at the edge of a sandbank, and upon paddling his _balsa_ to the spot, he found your insensible body lying stranded there, bruised and bleeding; so, like a sensible boy, he took you up and brought you hither as quickly as possible, in order that i might exercise my skill in the attempt to restore you to life. we managed to do so at last, between us; but you were _caduco_ (crazy), and could tell us nothing of yourself, for you spoke persistently in a language that we did not understand; so, as soon as it was seen that you would live, i busied myself in dressing your wounds and bruises, after which i prepared for you a certain medicine which, as i expected, threw you into a deep sleep, from which you have at length awakened in your right mind. and now you have but to lie still and allow your wounds to heal. which reminds me that now is a very favourable time to dress them afresh." "two days ago--stranded on a sandbank!" repeated escombe in bewilderment. "i do not understand you, mother. surely i have not been lying insensible for two whole days! and how could i possibly have become stranded on a sandbank? i fell into the river in the _quebrada_, and i am prepared to avouch that there were no sandbanks there!" "in the _quebrada_! is it possible?" echoed the old woman. "why, the end of the _quebrada_ is more than a mile away from where yupanqui found you! but i think i begin to understand a little. you are not a spaniard--i can tell that by your accent--therefore you must be an ingles, one of the _ingenieros_ who are making the new railway among the mountains. is it not so?" "you have guessed it, mother," answered escombe. "yes, i was taking some measurements in the _quebrada_ when the rope by which i was hanging broke, and i fell into a tree, and thence on to the rocks beneath, after which i lost consciousness." "ah!" exclaimed the old woman, as she proceeded to remove deftly the bandages and re-dress harry's hurts; "yes, it is wonderful--very wonderful; for if you had not chanced to fall into the tree before striking the rocks, you must certainly have been killed. that i can quite understand. but i cannot understand how, after having fallen into the river, you escaped being dashed to pieces upon the many rocks among which it flows, nor how, having escaped that death, you afterwards escaped drowning in the deep water, for you must have been swept along quite a mile after issuing from the _quebrada_. it is true that when yupanqui found you, you were lying upon your back; so that, i suppose, is the reason why the river did not suffocate you. your hurts are doing famously, _senor ingles_, thanks to my knowledge of simples. there is only one--this in your head--which is likely to give trouble; but we will soon mend that, if you can prevail upon yourself to lie still and not disturb the bandage." "oh!" answered harry; "i will do that all right, now that my senses have come back to me, don't you fear; for i must get well quickly, and return to my work as soon as possible. meanwhile, mother, where is your son? i should like to send him with a message to the engineer's camp, if he will go, to let them know that i am alive." "assuredly, assuredly," assented the queer old creature, as she assiduously bathed the wound in harry's head with a hot fomentation which she had specially prepared. "he is out hunting, now, but the evening is drawing in and i expect him back ere long. when he returns we will hear what he has to say about it. doubtless he will willingly go; but if your camp is near the spot where i think you must have fallen, it will take him quite half a day to reach it." "half a day!" echoed harry, aghast. "how is that? i should have thought that half an hour would have been nearer the mark." "nay, my son," answered the old woman, "he will have to travel fast to do it in half a day. you do not know how difficult it is to travel from place to place among these mountains, even when one knows the way. he will have to go a long way round to reach the spot of which i am thinking, for there are many impassable precipices in his course, to say nothing of bogs in which, if one be not very careful, one can disappear, leaving no trace behind." harry could understand this, now that it had been explained to him, for he had already had experience of the impassable precipices and bottomless morasses spoken of by his companion. but it was disconcerting, to say the least of it, that it would occupy so long to send a message to camp; for, taking into consideration the fact that he had already been two days absent, and that it would require another half-day to send a message, the chances were that, when yupanqui reached the spot, he would find the survey party gone, and would be obliged to follow them up until he should overtake them. also he began to wonder how long it would be before his injuries would be sufficiently healed to allow him to travel over a road of so difficult a character as that hinted at in his companion's remarks. he had only to attempt to move on his pallet, and to feel the intolerable aching in every limb that resulted from the effort, to understand that some days--probably at least a week--must elapse ere he would be fit to attempt the journey; and meanwhile where would the survey party be, and how would they be faring without him? what would butler do? would he take harry's death for granted, and proceed singlehanded with the survey; or would he send out a search party to seek for traces of his lost assistant? he must of necessity do one or the other, and the comforting reflection came to harry that, even if the first course were adopted, the party could not get very far away without being overtaken. "how long do you think it will be, mother, before i shall be able to rise and move about again?" he enquired. "nay, my son, who can tell save the good god who holds our lives in his hands?" answered the old woman. "it may be two weeks, or it may be two months, according to whether or not the fever returns. much must depend upon yourself. if you keep quite quiet, and do not become impatient, you may be able to rise and go into the open for a short time in two weeks, possibly even in less. but you must do in all things exactly as i say, if you wish to get well quickly; and you may trust in me, for i have seen many years and have always been skilled in the art of healing." "i will trust you, of course," answered harry, reaching out at the cost of some pain and squeezing the old creature's clawlike hand. "get me well as quickly as you can, mother, and you will not find me ungrateful. i have the means of rewarding you liberally for all your trouble as soon as i can return to camp." "reward!" ejaculated the old woman, angrily snatching away her hand; "who spoke of reward? i require no reward, if by that you mean money payment. i have no need of money. this cave has provided me with dry and comfortable housing for many years, while the garden outside and my son's hunting and fishing furnish us with ample food. what need have we of money?" "pardon, mother," exclaimed harry penitently, "i did not mean to offend you. but if you do not need money, there are perhaps other things that you or your son may be glad to have, and you must let me show my gratitude to you in some way, for i cannot forget that to you and your son i owe my life." "ay, ay; ay, ay; that's as may be," muttered the old creature, as though speaking to herself. "there," she added, as, having completed the dressing of escombe's injuries, she secured the last bandage, "that is done. now, more medicine, and then more sleep." and therewith she bustled away into the shadows, returning, a few minutes later, with a generous draught that foamed and sparkled in the goblet like champagne, but left a taste of sickly sweetness upon the palate. as the invalid swallowed the dose a sensation of great ease and comfort permeated his entire system, and the next moment he was asleep. when harry next awoke, feeling very much better, he saw that his hostess, and a fine, stalwart, copper-coloured young indian whom he took to be her son, were seated at a roughly framed table, at some little distance from his cot, taking a meal by the light of an earthenware lamp, and conversing together in low tones in a language with which he was unfamiliar. from the manner in which the pair glanced in his direction from time to time he rather suspected that he was the subject of their conversation, which was being conducted with much earnestness, especially by the old woman. that she was maintaining a very keen watch upon her patient was perfectly evident, for at harry's first movement she sprang to her feet and, snatching up the lamp, rapidly approached his bedside, peering down into his eyes with the same intense eagerness that she had before exhibited, muttering and mumbling to herself excitedly the while. "ah, ah!" she exclaimed, in tones of much satisfaction, "so you are awake again at last! you have slept well and long, my friend--slept all through the night without a movement. and your skin is cool, too," she continued, laying her skinny hand on harry's forehead; "cool and moist; no fever. but what of the pain? is it still severe as ever?" "the pain!" exclaimed hal, moving himself slightly. "why, no, it seems almost gone. what magic is this?" "no magic at all," chuckled the quaint old creature, "but merely a poor old indian woman's skill in simples. you are doing excellently well, _senor ingles_--better, even, than i dared hope. and now you are hungry, is it not so? good! your breakfast is ready and shall be brought to you instantly; and when you have finished, there is my son yupanqui, who is ready to take any message that you may desire to send to your camp." an excellently roasted bird--which the patient subsequently learned was a parrot,--bread made of indian corn flour, and a cup of delicious chocolate were speedily dispatched. then harry having asked for his notebook, which had been found in his pocket and carefully dried, he pencilled a note to butler, briefly informing that individual of his escape, and of his hope that he would be sufficiently recovered from his injuries to rejoin the camp in about a fortnight's time, and dispatched yupanqui with it, describing to the indian the probable situation of the camp, as nearly as he could, and instructing the man to give it only into the hands of the englishman, and to ask for a reply, which he was to bring back with him. the next few days passed uneventfully, save that the invalid's progress toward recovery was so rapid and satisfactory that about midday of the third day harry--who began to find bed becoming very wearisome--was allowed by his nurse to rise and, clad in trousers and the remains of his shirt, go as far as the entrance of the cave and sit there for an hour or two, enjoying the magnificent prospect which greeted his astonished eyes. he found that the cave which had afforded him such perfect shelter during his helplessness formed a chamber, or rather a series of chambers, in an enormous mass of rock that rose sheer out of a little circular, basin-like valley through which flowed the stream from the _quebrada_, the water here spreading out in the form of a lake measuring about a mile across and evidently rather shallow, for here and there he could see small sandbanks showing clear of the water. it was upon one of these that he had been found stranded by yupanqui. the _quebrada_ died out in the valley about a mile from the mouth of the cave, as could be seen when the spot was indicated by the old indian woman, and escombe wondered more than ever by what chance his senseless body had been carried so far by the rushing water without destroying such life as remained in it. the ground sloped rather steeply from the cave down to the water's edge, and some eight or ten acres of it had been dug up at intervals and planted with maize, vegetables of various kinds, and fruit trees, among which harry recognised the peach, the orange, the mulberry, and the cacao. it was no wonder, he told himself, that his queer but kind-hearted old hostess indignantly disclaimed any need of money. for, with the produce of the garden, and what yupanqui could bring in from the forest and the river, it seemed to him that their every want, except perhaps in the matter of clothes, must be abundantly supplied. and, so far as clothes were concerned, doubtless the cultivated ground yielded a superabundance ample enough to afford them the means of bartering it for such simple clothing as they needed. the valley was of basin-like form, the sides of it growing ever steeper as they receded from the middle, until they eventually merged into the mountain slopes which hemmed in the valley on every side and went rolling away, ridge beyond ridge, in interminable perspective, until, in the extreme distance, they terminated in the snow-clad peaks of the andes. harry's hostess--who now mentioned that she bore the name of cachama-- appeared to be in a singularly communicative mood that day, for she beguiled the time by not only pointing out and naming the principal peaks in sight, but she also related several very interesting legends connected with certain of them and with the country generally, going back to the time before the conquest, and painting in dazzling colours the glories of the inca dynasty, and the incredible wealth of the ancient rulers of peru. she appeared to be pretty intimately acquainted with the history of the conquest of the country by pizarro, and had many bitter things to say of the strange pusillanimity of the inca, atahuallpa, on that fatal th of november, , when he went, open- eyed, into the trap prepared for him at caxamalca, and suffered himself to be seized, in the presence of his entire army, by a mere handful of spaniards. she gave a most emphatic denial to the suggestion that the country had benefited by the civilised conditions that had followed the conquest. "no, no," said she, "we are infinitely worse off in every way, to-day, than we were under the rule of the incas. poverty, misery, oppression, and suffering of every kind are to be met with on all hands and wherever one goes, while four hundred years ago we had a far higher state of civilisation than now exists, in which poverty and oppression, with their countless attendant evils, were unknown. but it will not last for ever, i tell you; brighter and happier days are in store for us of the ancient race, and perhaps even i, old as i am, may live to see it. yes, i, poor though i am, and compelled to lodge my worn-out body in a cave, have royal blood in my veins, as had my husband, yupanqui; we are both descended from huayna capac, and, but for atahuallpa's incredible folly, i might have been enjoying comfort and affluence to-day; ay, and possibly my husband might also have been living." escombe had read prescott's _conquest of peru_ during his schooldays, and the romantic story had implanted within his mind a keen interest in everything pertaining to the history of the country, which had never waned, and which had received a fresh stimulus when he learned that he was not only to visit and spend some time in peru but also to explore certain parts of it. and now, to find himself actually conversing with someone who claimed descent from those proud incas, who appeared to have lived in a regal splendour only to be equalled by that of the potentates of the _arabian nights_, seemed to him to be a rare slice of good luck; he was therefore careful to say nothing calculated to divert the conversation from the channel in which it was so satisfactorily flowing, but, on the contrary, did everything he could to keep it there. he was, however, very much surprised to find his hostess looking forward so confidently to brighter and happier times for the despised indian race; for if any one thing seemed absolutely certain, it was that the time was not very far distant when the few scattered survivors must perish, and the race vanish from the face of the earth. it was therefore in somewhat incredulous tones that he turned to cachama and said: "what grounds have you for the hope--or should i call it the certainty-- that better days are in store for your race? to me it seems that there are very few of you left." "ay," she answered, "it may so seem to you, for you have as yet seen but little of the country save the _terra caliente_, and very few of us are now to be found near the coast. but when you get farther up among the mountains, and especially when you get into the neighbourhood of lake titicaca, you will find that we have not all perished. furthermore, it is said--with what truth i know not--that when atahuallpa fell into the hands of the _conquistadors_, and was strangled by torchlight in the great _plaza_ of caxamalca, many of the nobles who had been with him fled with their families into the heart of the mountains, and, establishing themselves in a certain secret place, set to work, at the bidding of one titucocha, a priest of the sun, to build a new city of the sun--beside the glories of which those of cuzco were to be as nothing--against the time when our lord the sun should again send manco capac, the founder of the inca dynasty, back to earth to restore the dynasty in all its ancient splendour." "and do you really believe that such a restoration is possible?" asked escombe with a smile at the old woman's credulity. "ay," answered cachama with conviction, "i more than believe, i know! for i have the gift of foreknowledge, to a certain extent, and from my earliest childhood i have felt convinced that the prophecy is true--i cannot explain how, or why; i only know that it is so. and with the passage of the years i have ever felt that the time for its fulfilment was drawing nearer, until now i know that it is so close at hand that even i, old though i am, may live to see it. i would that i could feel as sure of the continuance of the dynasty as i am of its restoration; but i cannot; i can only see--dimly--up to a certain point, beyond which everything is misty and uncertain, with a vague suggestion of disaster which fills, me with foreboding." chapter five. what has become of butler? on the second day after the dispatch of yupanqui to the surveyors' camp, he had duly returned with a curt officially worded note from butler acknowledging the receipt of escombe's "report" of his accident and its result, and requesting the latter to rejoin the survey party with the least possible delay, "as his absence was the cause of much inconvenience and delay in the progress of the survey". not a word of regret at the occurrence of the accident, much less anything that could be construed into an admission that the writer's own unreasonable demands and orders were the cause of the mishap; and not even a word of congratulation at escombe's narrow escape from a terrible death; simply a formal request that he would rejoin, "with the least possible delay", for a certain good and sufficient reason. poor harry shrugged his shoulders with something very like contempt for the hidebound creature who was, to a great extent, the master of his fate, and who seemed to be absolutely destitute of the very smallest shred of good feeling. he felt that it would be quite hopeless to look for any praise or appreciation from such a man; he foresaw that the fellow would appropriate to himself whatever credit might result from the expedition, and lay upon his (harry's) shoulders the onus of any shortcomings of complete success. and he came to the conclusion that since such a chief was not worth putting oneself out for, he would remain where he was until it was quite certain that he could travel with perfect safety, and resume duty immediately upon his return to camp. but he was young, and possessed a thoroughly sound constitution; moreover, he had miraculously escaped with unbroken bones, his recovery therefore was rapid, and on the nineteenth day after the accident he rejoined the camp and formally reported himself as prepared to resume duty. it had been butler's custom, from the commencement of the survey, to flag out a certain length of route daily, and to insist--without very much regard to the difficulties of the task--that that amount of work should be done by nightfall. this length of route usually amounted to from two to three miles, and escombe had once or twice protested--when the natural difficulties of the work were excessive--that he could not undertake to guarantee the accuracy of his work if so much were demanded of him; to which butler had retorted that, in his opinion, the amount of work demanded was exceedingly moderate, that he should expect it to be done, and that he should hold escombe responsible for all inaccuracies. yet, upon escombe's return to camp he found that, during the nineteen days of his absence, butler had advanced the survey by a distance of less than four miles! the explanation which the elder man condescended to make being that, during the four days immediately following the accident, no survey work at all had been done, the whole body of peons having been scattered in various directions, seeking some clue to harry's fate. for a week or two after escombe's return to camp matters went very much more smoothly. whether it was that harry's accident had given butler a wholesome fright, or that the conviction had been forced upon the latter that he had been outrageously exacting, there was nothing to show, but certain it was that, for a while, escombe was allowed to take his own time over his work and do it his own way, with the result that while this state of affairs lasted the lad actually took pleasure in, nay, thoroughly enjoyed, his work. but on the third week after his return harry began to detect signs that these agreeable conditions were drawing to an end. thenceforth butler allowed himself to gradually drift back into his former exacting and autocratic ways, until at length life in the camp again became a veritable purgatory for everybody concerned, butler himself included, the natural result of his tyrannical conduct being that everybody--harry excepted--did everything in his power to thwart him, while even the lad himself ceased to attempt the apparently impossible task of pleasing his chief. in this unpleasant and unsatisfactory manner the railway survey proceeded for the two months following escombe's return to duty; by which time butler's behaviour had become so unendurable that nearly three-fourths of the peons originally engaged had deserted, notwithstanding the fact that their desertion involved them in the loss of a sum in wages that, to these humble toilers, represented quite a little fortune, and their places had been filled by others of a much less desirable type in every way. and this was all the more to be regretted since the surveyors were now in the very heart of the mountains, where the natural difficulties to be contended with were at their worst, while the newcomers, being of course utterly strange to such work, had to be taught their duties, down to the simplest detail, under the most adverse conditions possible. it can be readily understood that the attempt to instruct a set of ignorant, stupid, sullen, and lawless half-castes under such conditions was a task of surpassing difficulty, resulting in constant acute friction, and demanding the nicest judgment and the utmost diplomacy upon the part of the teachers. harry met this difficulty by bringing to his assistance an almost sublime patience, that in the course of time--and not a very long time either--completely wore down the opposition of his unwilling pupils and brought a change in their mental attitude which was as surprising as it was satisfactory. butler, however, knew not the meaning of the word "patience", nor did his character contain the smallest particle of that valuable quality; his method was what he termed "the rough-and-ready", and consisted in emphasising every order, and item of construction, with a kick! it was not surprising, therefore, that the relations between him and the peons daily grew more strained. it was when the tension between butler on the one hand and the peons on the other had developed to such an extent that the labourers had been goaded into a state of almost open mutiny, that the former set out as usual, on horseback, one morning, accompanied by a half-dozen of the new hands, to seek for and stake out a few miles farther of practicable route. such a duty as this he usually contrived to complete in time to return to the camp for lunch, after which he was wont to saunter out along the line until he encountered harry, when he would spend the remainder of the day in making the poor lad's life a burden to him by finding fault with everything he did, frequently insisting upon having some particularly awkward and difficult piece of work done over again. consequently the progress of the survey was abnormally and exasperatingly slow; and when, upon the day in question, butler failed to put in an appearance on the scene of operations, young escombe's first feeling was one of gratification, for he was just then engaged upon an exceptionally difficult task which he was most anxious to complete without being interfered with. so absorbed was the lad in his work that he had not much thought to spare for speculation as to the reason for so unusual a piece of good luck, although it is true that, as the afternoon wore on, he did once or twice permit himself to wonder whether "perchance" he had to thank a slight touch of indisposition, or possibly a sprained ankle, for this unexpected and most welcome freedom from interruption. but when at length, upon his arrival in camp at the conclusion of his day's survey work, he learned, to his astonishment, that neither butler nor his party of peons had returned, the impression forced itself upon him that something serious had happened, and mustering afresh his own gang of tired and hungry assistants, and providing them with lanterns, ropes, and other aids to a search, he led them forth along the survey line in quest of the absent ones. for a distance of nearly two miles from the camp the route of the missing party was easily followed, being marked by stakes at frequent intervals, indicating the line chosen by butler as that to be surveyed by escombe. it ended at the foot of a precipitous slope of bare rock towering aloft some seven or eight hundred feet, with further heights beyond it. here the searchers were brought to an abrupt halt, for harry was fully aware that no sane engineer would for a single moment dream of carrying an ordinary railway up that rocky acclivity, while it was well understood that the rack system of construction was to be avoided, if possible, upon the score of expense. the probability was that butler, upon reaching this point, and finding himself confronted by the necessity to make a wide detour, or, alternatively, to consider the question of a tunnel, had struck off, either to the right or to the left, on a tour of investigation; and there was the chance that, becoming involved in the maze-like intricacies of his surroundings, he had decided to camp out for the night rather than risk an accident by attempting to return in darkness over difficult ground. but this was a question which harry felt ought to be settled forthwith, and he accordingly issued instructions to his peons to search for the spoor of the party and follow it up. to find the spoor was a very easy matter, for the last stake had been driven in comparatively soft ground, and despite the fact that it was by this time almost pitch dark, a short search, aided by the light of the lanterns, disclosed the hoof prints of butlers horse, which led off to the left, and which were followed until the searchers found themselves on the borders of an extensive pine wood growing on hard, steeply rising ground over which it was impossible to trace further the trail in the darkness. this impossibility once realised, the search was abandoned for the night, and harry very reluctantly gave the word for a return to camp, which was reached about nine o'clock. at daybreak the next morning the camp was roused, breakfast prepared and eaten, and, taking with them rations to last until nightfall, the search party again set out upon their quest, making their way direct to the spot where the trail had been lost on the previous night, where it was again picked up without much trouble. it led in straight toward the heart of the wood, and was followed, with ever-increasing difficulty, for a distance of about three-quarters of a mile until it was lost on hard, shaley ground, nor were the utmost efforts of the party equal to finding it again. after carefully considering the situation, therefore, escombe detailed one man, an indian, to accompany him, and, placing the remainder of the peons in charge of a man whom he believed he could trust, with instructions to search the wood thoroughly, returned to the outskirts of the timber, and, beginning at the spot where the trail entered it, proceeded, with the assistance of the indian, to encircle the wood, carefully examining every foot of the ground as they went, in the hope that, if butler and his party had passed through the timber and emerged on its other side, the indian would succeed in picking up the spoor. but the hope was vain, for the wood was completely encircled-- the task occupying the entire day--without the discovery of the faintest trace or sign of the passage of the missing party, which was not at all surprising, for when the far side of the wood was reached the soil proved to be of so stony a character, thickly interspersed with great outcrops of rock, that even the most skilled and keen-eyed of trackers might have been excused for failing in the search for footprints on so unyielding a surface. it was a little puzzling to harry that not even the horse had left any trace behind him; but this was accounted for when, upon rejoining the party who had been detailed to search the interior of the wood, it was discovered that the animal had been found by them, still saddled and bridled, wandering aimlessly about in search of such scanty herbage as the soil there afforded. upon the horse being brought to him, the young englishman--mindful of the scarcely concealed hatred which butler had, almost wantonly, as it seemed, aroused in the breasts of the peons--immediately subjected the animal and his trappings to a most rigorous examination in search of any sign of possible violence, but nothing of the kind could be found, and the only result of the examination was the conclusion, to which everything pointed, that butler had, for some reason, voluntarily dismounted and at least temporarily abandoned the animal. butler and his party had now been missing for full twenty-four hours, and harry speedily arrived at two conclusions which inexorably led him to a third. the first conclusion at which he arrived was that the peons who had accompanied his chief, accustomed as they had been from their earliest childhood to make their way about the country, were so little likely to have lost their way that that theory might be unhesitatingly abandoned; the second was that butler would certainly not have absented himself purposely from the camp for a whole night and a day, and that therefore--this was the third conclusion--something had gone very seriously wrong. the next problem that presented itself for solution was: what was it that had gone wrong? had the entire party met with an accident? it was most unlikely. there were seven of them altogether, and in the event of an accident, surely at least one of the seven would have escaped and returned to the camp for help. had they been seized and carried off by brigands? when harry put this question to the peons who remained with him he was laughed at good-naturedly and assured that, in the first place, there were no brigands in peru, so far as they were aware; and, in the second place, that if perchance there were they would probably not have contented themselves with simply carrying off seven men, six of whom would be only an encumbrance to them, but would almost certainly have attacked and sacked the camp some time during the hours of daylight, when it was left comparatively unprotected. there was but one other probable alternative of which harry could think, and that was that butler's peons, exasperated at length beyond endurance by some fresh piece of petty tyranny on the white man's part, had deserted, carrying off their employer with them, either with the purpose of being revenged upon him, or in the hope that by holding him as a hostage they might be able to secure payment of the amount of wages due to them. but when escombe submitted this alternative to his peons for their consideration and opinion, they shook their heads and emphatically declared that they did not believe that any such thing had happened. and when further asked for their opinion as to what had happened, they simply answered that they did not know what to think. but to harry it seemed that there was a certain lack of spontaneity in this reply, which caused him to doubt whether the speakers were quite sincere in so saying. with a very heavy load of responsibility thus unexpectedly thrown upon his shoulders, the young englishman spent several anxious hours in camp that night pondering upon what was the proper course for him now to pursue, and he finally came to the conclusion that, having ascertained beyond much possibility of doubt that his chief had been abducted, the next thing to be done was to discover whither and under what circumstances he had been carried off, and then to take the necessary steps to effect his rescue. on the following morning, therefore, he mustered the peons who still remained with him, and briefly explaining to them his theory of an abduction, dispatched six of them in as many different directions to seek for traces of the missing party, offering a substantial reward to the one who should bring him such information as should lead to the recovery of the missing white man; and then, taking a couple of sure-footed mules, set off in company with an indian tracker to scour the entire neighbourhood, in the hope of obtaining some clue to the whereabouts of the missing party from some of the people by whom that particular part of the country was sparsely inhabited. and in order to avoid the loss of time which would be entailed by returning to camp at night, he took with him three days' provisions for himself and his guide, intending to carry out as exhaustive a search as possible in that space of time. thus far the search had been prosecuted entirely in a forward direction; but at the last moment, before setting out upon his three days' quest, it suddenly occurred to escombe that the missing ones might possibly have doubled back and be making their way toward the sea coast, so in order to test the value of this theory he determined to return a few miles along the line of the survey and see whether he could discover any traces of them in that direction. at this time the surveyors were in the heart of an exceptionally difficult tract of country, where the obstacles to rapid work were such that, since harry's return to duty after his adventures in the _quebrada_, they had not advanced very much more than twenty miles from that spot; thus it was still early in the afternoon of the first day when he found himself gazing down into the abyss, wherein he had so narrowly escaped a terrible death. by a natural association of ideas he no sooner beheld the scene so indelibly engraven upon his memory than his thoughts reverted to cachama, his kind-hearted old indian nurse, and her son yupanqui, and he vaguely wondered whether perhaps either of these might be able to afford him any information or suggestion that would assist him in his quest. the more he thought of it the more did the idea grow upon his mind, and at length he came to the decision that he might as well prosecute his search in the direction of their cave as in any other, and he forthwith communicated his decision to his guide, who, somewhat to escombe's surprise, at once admitted that he was well acquainted with cachama and her son, and offered to conduct the young englishman to the cave in which the two resided, by a short route, if harry would consent to be blindfolded during their passage of certain portions of the way. to this the lad readily agreed--for he was by this time becoming exceedingly anxious on butler's account--and thereupon the indian, having hobbled the mules, demanded harry's pocket--handkerchief and immediately proceeded to blindfold the owner therewith, after which, with joined hands, the pair resumed their way, travelling for two full hours or more over exceedingly broken and difficult ground. then the pocket-handkerchief was removed, and harry found himself standing in the midst of a number of enormous fallen boulders at the foot of a stupendous cliff, and facing an opening in the latter which had all the appearance of being the mouth of a cavern. but by what route he had arrived at the spot he could not tell, for he was so completely hemmed in on every side by the boulders in the midst of which he stood that the surrounding landscape was completely shut out, nothing being visible save the boulders and the face of the cliff with the opening in it. that he was correct in his surmise that this opening was a cavern was now demonstrated by his indian guide, who said: "be pleased to take my hand again, senor, and follow me without fear. this is one of several entrances to the cavern in which cachama dwells. you will find the ground smooth and even for almost the entire distance, and presently we shall find torches by which to light our way." and so, as a matter of fact, they did; for after traversing some ten or fifteen yards the indian halted and, releasing escombe's hand, was heard groping about in the darkness, and a moment later the rattling of dry branches reached the lad's ears. "now, senor," came the voice of the indian out of the darkness, "if you will graciously condescend to produce fire by means of those small sticks which you call `matches' we shall soon have light to guide our steps." so said, so done; and as the torch kindled and blazed up the pair found themselves standing in a rugged rock passage some five feet wide and about eight feet high, with a perfectly smooth floor which, in the flickering, uncertain light of the torch, presented the appearance of having been brought into this condition by human agency. it was not only smooth, but also level at the point where they stood. but even as they started to resume their journey--the indian bearing the torch and leading the way--harry saw that it almost immediately began to dip, and ere they had advanced many paces the dip became so pronounced that the smooth floor gave place to a long flight of roughly hewn steps, at first broad and shallow, but rapidly steepening, until they became so narrow and deep as to necessitate a considerable amount of care in the negotiation of them. to harry this flight seemed interminable; there must have been hundreds of steps, for--although the lad did not time himself--the descent appeared to have occupied considerably more than half an hour; but at length they once more reached level ground and, leaving the steps behind them, proceeded to traverse a narrow and winding passage, the air in which smelt stale and musty, while here and there they were obliged to squeeze their painful way between long, spiky stalactites and stalagmites until they came to more steps--this time leading upward. harry counted these; there were only one hundred and twenty-three of them, and they were not nearly so steep as the others; and then they ceased, and the pair came to a gently rising floor, along which they passed for about half a mile, finally entering a spacious chamber or cavern, where, very much to the young englishman's surprise, they found cachama awaiting them with a torch in her hand. it was perfectly evident that the old lady was intensely angry, for upon the appearance of her visitors she darted toward them and, shaking her fist furiously in the face of the indian--whom, by the way, she addressed as arima--she poured out upon him a torrent of strange words, the virulence of which could be pretty accurately estimated by the effect which they produced upon their recipient, for poor arima writhed under them as though they had been the lash of a whip. for fully ten minutes the old woman stormed relentlessly before she was reduced to silence through want of breath, and then the indian got his chance to reply, and apparently vindicate himself, for, as he proceeded with what appeared to escombe to be his explanation, cachama's wrath gradually subsided until she became sufficiently mistress of herself to greet the young white man, which she did with more cordiality than her previous outburst had led him to expect. "welcome back to my poor home, senor!" she exclaimed. "i knew that you were coming, and am glad to see you; but that dolt arima enraged me, for he brought you by the secret way, although he knew that it is forbidden to reveal that way, or even the fact of its existence, to strangers. he tells me, however, that the matter is urgent, and that he adopted the precaution of blindfolding you so that you might not learn the secret of the approach, therefore i will let the matter pass, especially as i feel certain that i have but to express the wish and you will forget that such a way exists." "certainly i will, mama cachama," answered harry cheerfully. "you saved my life not long ago, and i should be an ingrate indeed if i refused to conform to your wishes in so simple a matter as that. but i understood you to say that you knew i was coming to you! how on earth could you possibly know that? i didn't know it myself until a few hours ago!" "did not i tell you that i possess the gift of foreknowledge?" remarked cachama somewhat impatiently. "you had no sooner conceived the idea of coming to me than i became aware of it; nay, i even knew the way by which you were coming, and it was that knowledge which angered me, for i knew that you could not visit the cave by the secret approach except with the help of one of us! but let that pass. follow me to my living room, where i have provided a meal for you; and while you are partaking of it you may tell me in what manner you think i can assist you." ten minutes later escombe once more found himself in the cavern which he knew so well, partaking of a most excellent stew, and detailing to his hostess between mouthfuls all the particulars relating to the disappearance of butler and his party of peons. he brought his recital to a close by enquiring whether cachama or yupanqui had chanced to see any of the missing ones. "no," said cachama. "they have not passed near here, or yupanqui would certainly have seen something of them and mentioned the fact to me. but you have done well to come to me, for it will be strange indeed if i cannot help you. you wish to know what has become of the senor whom you call butler; is not that so? very well. seat yourself there before me, hold my two hands in yours, and recall to your mind as vividly as possible all the circumstances, be they ever so trivial, that you can remember relating to the doings of the day upon which the senor disappeared, beginning with the moment of your awakening. now begin, for i am ready." while the old creature spoke she was arranging matters in such a way that she and escombe could sit facing each other, knee to knee and with their hands clasped, she leaning slightly back in a reclining posture, with her eyes upturned toward the invisible roof of the cavern. as she finished speaking the young englishman directed his thoughts backward to the morning of two days ago, mentally reproducing every incident of the day, beginning with the moment when he arose from his camp bed, and intending to continue, if need were, to that other moment when, after the long fruitless search in the pine wood, he cast himself on that same bed at the end of the day and, completely exhausted, sank to sleep. but when he had reached this latter point of retrospection mama cachama's eyes were closed and, to harry's chagrin, she appeared to have fallen into a deep sleep. before, however, his disappointment had found time to express itself in words the old indian woman began to speak in a low tone, as though soliloquising. "yes," she murmured, "i see it all quite distinctly, the white tents gleaming in the brilliant sunshine of early morning, with their ropes strained tight by the dew that has fallen heavily during the night; the peons moving hither and thither, shivering in the keen air as they make their preparations for the day's work; the horses and mules feeding eagerly; the fires blazing cheerily and the blue smoke streaming straight up in the still air. yes, and i see the two englishmen, the old and the young one, sitting at breakfast in their tents. the elder man is tall and thin, with black hair touched here and there with grey, and a close-clipped moustache. he is dressed in dark-grey woollen clothing, and wears brown boots reaching to the knee. he is glancing through a little book as he eats, writing in it from time to time. now he rises and, taking a whip in his hand, puts on a soft cloth cap and goes to the tent door. he calls to one named jose to bring him his horse, and then gives the young _ingles_ certain instructions, speaking sharply as though in anger. "now the horse is brought, and the elder _ingles_ mounts him somewhat awkwardly, as though he were not accustomed to life in the saddle, and rides off, accompanied by six peons who carry long poles with small flags on them, also heavy hammers, axes, machetes, ropes, and bundles of wooden stakes. the young _ingles_ also prepares to leave the camp, and busies himself in examining certain strange instruments that are packed in boxes of polished wood. but it is the elder _ingles_ that i must follow. he leads the way over rising ground, riding toward a snow-clad peak that gleams like silver in the far distance, pausing occasionally while his peons drive a stake into the ground where directed by him. they proceed thus until they find themselves facing a bare rocky slope so steep that scarcely might a llama climb it; and here they pause for a time while the _ingles_ looks about him. then they move off to the left, skirting the precipice until they come to a great wood growing on a steep spur of the mountain. they enter this wood and penetrate it for a considerable distance, the ground ever rising more steeply and becoming looser and more difficult as they go. here the horse finds it so hard to keep his feet, and is in such constant danger of falling, that at length the rider dismounts and, leaving the horse standing, presses forward as though anxious to get to the other side of the wood, his peons following and whispering eagerly together. they are encumbered with the various articles which they carry, and consequently cannot travel over that steep, loose ground so rapidly as the englishman, who carries nothing but his riding whip and one of the poles with a flag on it, which he uses to help him over the rough ground, and he turns upon them from time to time with angry words, urging them to greater exertion. at first they answer nothing; but at length the strictures of the _ingles_ goad them to retort, humbly in the beginning, but soon with such heat that he lifts his whip and strikes one of them savagely with it across the face. and at that, as though the blow were a signal, every peon flings from him his burden, and the whole of them hurl themselves upon the white man and bear him to the ground, the one who was struck raising his machete as though to split the skull of his enemy." chapter six. found! at this point mama cachama became greatly agitated, and struggled violently in an endeavour to wrench her hands out of escombe's grasp, crying that they were going to murder the englishman, and that she would not remain to see it. but the vision which she had thus far described was of so extraordinary a character, and impressed the young man so strongly with a sense of its reality and truth, that he was determined to follow up the clue as far as possible; he therefore resolutely retained his grip upon the old woman's hands, under the impression that, if he released them, the vision would pass, possibly beyond recall. but suddenly cachama's struggles ceased, and she sighed as though relieved of some great fear. "ah!" she exclaimed, "they will not kill him after all; one of the peons intervenes, pointing out that if the englishman is killed, none of them may dare to again show their faces in the towns, for information of the murder will be given, and the peruvian corporation--who have employed the englishman to do this work for them--will never rest until every one of the murderers is brought to justice. the others understand this at once, and agree that there shall be no murder; but they are binding the englishman's hands and feet, so that he cannot escape; and now they are asking each other what will be best to do with him. there is much talk--some urge one thing, some another--now jose, the man who prevented the murder, speaks--he proposes that the prisoner shall be carried to a certain place and there detained until the whole of their wages be paid them, after which they are to release their prisoner, and each man will go his way, working no more for the englishman. now they are pondering on the proposal--yes, they have all agreed to it; and now they are releasing the englishman's feet, in order that he may walk with them, but his hands remain tied behind him, and one of the peons holds the end of the rope, to make sure that their prisoner shall not escape. two others grasp him, one by either arm, to help him, for the ground is rough and steep, and the going bad. they move forward again, following an easterly direction--their progress is slow, for the englishman stumbles at almost every step, his hands being tied. he declares that walking, under such circumstances, is impossible, and angrily demands to be released--but they laugh and jeer at him. he struggles on, falling frequently despite the assistance of the two men who are holding him, and at length the party emerge from the wood on its far side and find themselves on the spur of the mountain, on barren, rocky, open ground. now they reach the crest of the spur, and, passing over it, still travelling in an easterly direction, descend into the valley beyond until they reach the margin of a small stream flowing northward. here they pause in the shadow of an enormous granite rock of very remarkable appearance, for it bears a most extraordinary resemblance to the head and neck of an indian--i know it well; and among us it is called `the inca's head'. they sit down beneath this rock and proceed to eat and drink--for it is now two hours past midday--binding the englishman's feet and releasing his hands to enable him to feed himself. now the meal is over, and the party resume their march, going northward along the western bank of the stream and plunging ever deeper into the valley. the soil here is once more rich and fertile, being overgrown with long, rank grass--through which they leave a trail easy to follow--and dense masses of mimosa and other bush. now it is evening, the valley grows dark, and the party prepare to camp for the night; they have found a suitable spot, quite close to the river bank, and are lighting a large fire. they eat and drink again. now they have finished, and are disposing themselves to rest, one man of the party undertaking to remain awake for a certain time to watch the prisoner, until relieved by another who will perform the same service. "the night passes; the light of dawn sweeps down the steep mountain slopes into the valley, and the peon who is watching the prisoner awakes his fellows. again they eat and drink. now they have finished their meal and resume their march, still following the western bank of the stream. i go with them as they plod on, hour after hour, until they reach a point where the stream turns westward, and here they take advantage of a shallow spot which enables them to cross to the other side. they are now marching eastward up the slope of the valley, and at length they emerge upon a great plateau, thickly dotted with extensive clumps of bush, interspersed here and there with wide belts of timber through which they pass. for many miles they plod onward, winding hither and thither among the clumps of bush and through the belts of forest trees, but all the while holding steadily toward the east. night comes again; a fire is lighted, as on the preceding night, they eat and drink, and once more dispose themselves to sleep, one man again undertaking to watch the prisoner. for a time--how long i know not, but it appears to be about an hour--this man remains faithful to his duty; but, as the moments pass and the prisoner appears to be sleeping heavily, the watcher's vigilance relaxes, he grows drowsy, his eyelids close, he dozes, awakes, dozes again, once more awakes, and finally succumbs to sleep. "meanwhile the prisoner, who has to all appearance been sleeping heavily, has remained very wide awake, and, observing that his guard is not over watchful, proceeds to strain stealthily upon his bonds, which, he has noticed, are not drawn quite so tight as usual. gradually he succeeds in loosening them to such an extent that eventually he is able to free one hand. to free the other at once becomes easy, and, this done, the prisoner very cautiously raises himself sufficiently to assure himself that his captors are all soundly sleeping. satisfied of this, he rolls himself gently over and over, a few inches at a time, until he is outside the circle of his captors, when he rises to his feet and with infinite caution withdraws into the darkness, making for the nearest clump of bush, which, upon reaching, he places between himself and the faint glow of the dying camp fire. hidden thus from his late captors, should any of them chance to awake and miss him, he now walks rapidly forward, constantly glancing over his shoulder in fear lest he should be pursued; and in this manner he soon places a couple of miles between himself and the sleeping peons. he believes that he is now returning toward the camp over the ground which he has already traversed, and he hastens onward as fast as the uneven nature of the ground will permit. but the night is dark, the stars are obscured by heavy masses of threatening rain-cloud; there is therefore no beacon by which he can guide his footsteps, and, unsuspected by himself, he has gradually swung round until he is heading south-east. and now the gathering storm breaks, the rain falls heavily, and in a few minutes the unhappy fugitive is drenched to the skin, and chilled to the marrow by the fierce and bitter wind which comes swooping down from the snowfields and glaciers of the higher andes; yet he dares not take shelter from the storm, even in the recesses of a clump of scrub, for he fears that by dawn at the latest, his enemies will be on his track, and--forgetful or ignorant of the fact that the storm will obliterate his trail from all but dogs or experienced trackers--of which the peons have none--the fugitive is madly anxious to put as many miles as possible between himself and his pursuers. on he staggers, blindly and breathlessly, whipped by the pelting rain, buffeted by the furious wind, half-fainting already from exhaustion, yet spurred on by unreasoning terror--i think that unless he is quickly rescued the englishman will die." escombe shuddered and went white to the lips. this man, whose every wandering footstep had been faithfully traced through mama cachama's marvellous clairvoyant gift, was a remorseless tyrant in his petty way, so curiously constituted that his one idea of pleasure appeared to be the making miserable the lives of all about him, even to going out of his way to do so, to such extent, indeed, that men had been heard to say bitterly that, as in the case of some noxious animal or reptile, the world would be the better for his death. the young englishman could recall without effort many an occasion when he had been so harassed and worried, and his existence so embittered by the impish spite of this same butler that even he, gentle and kindly as was his disposition in general, believed he could have contemplated the demise of the other with a feeling not far removed from equanimity. yet, now that the man was in actual peril, all that was forgotten, every generous instinct in the lad sprang at once to the surface, his one idea was to hurry to the rescue, and he cried eagerly: "tell me exactly where to find him and i will go at once and bring him in." "wait, _muchacho_, wait!" exclaimed cachama impatiently. "let me follow him first as far as i may, lest i lose him, for now his way is growing erratic, his mind and body are becoming numb with the misery of his plight, and he no longer has any clear knowledge of anything, the one conviction which haunts him being that he must press onward anywhere--no matter where--otherwise his pursuers will overtake him and put him to a terrible death. ah! now the dawn breaks, and the storm is subsiding; but the englishman takes no note of this. he seems quite incapable of noticing anything now, but runs on aimlessly, panting and gasping, his breath bursting from his labouring lungs in great sobs, his eyes staring unseeingly before him, his limbs quivering and staggering beneath him, his thin clothing clinging in saturated tatters to his body, which is streaked here and there with blood where the thorns have torn him, as he burst through them in his headlong flight. aha! the end must surely now be drawing near, for see, the foam upon his lips is tinged with blood, and rapidly grows a deeper crimson; he reels and stumbles as he runs--he is down--no--yes--he is up again--and staggers onwards for a few yards-- now he is down again, falling with a crash--and, rolling over on his back with outstretched arms, lies motionless, his eyes closed, and the blood trickling out of the corners of his mouth." "is he dead, mama cachama? is he dead?" gasped escombe, his grievances all forgotten now, and his sense of pity stirred to its uttermost depths by the shocking plight of his chief, so graphically painted by the words of the old indian woman. "nay," answered cachama, "he still lives, for his chest heaves and he now and then gasps for breath; but his flight is ended, for the present at least, and if you would find him with the life still in his body you must surely hasten." "but how shall i find him?" demanded harry. "you must direct me how to go straight to where he lies; for should it be necessary for us to pick up his trail and follow that, he would be dead long ere we could reach him." "where is arima?" demanded cachama. "let him come to me." "i am here," answered the indian, drawing near to the old woman. "then listen attentively, arima, and mark well what i say," commanded the mama. she spoke to him for a full minute or more in the indian tongue, of which escombe comprehended enough to understand that she was describing what might be termed the bearings of the spot where butler lay exhausted and senseless, arima nodding his head understanding and murmuring here and there a word of comprehension as she went on. her description ended, she paused for a few seconds, then murmured: "it is enough. now let me awake, for i am old. i have wandered afar, and the journey has wearied me." whereupon, after an interval of a minute or two, she slowly opened her eyes, stared about her vacantly for a little, and finally said: "ah, yes, i remember! i was to tell you something, senor. have you learned what you desired to know?" "yes, thanks," answered harry, "always provided, of course, that-- that,"--he was about to say--"that your information is reliable"; but substituted for those somewhat ungracious words--"that arima can find the spot which you have described to him." "think you that you can find it, arima?" demanded the old woman. "yes, mama cachama," answered arima, "i shall find it without doubt; for i have listened attentively to all that you have said, and already know the direction generally, in which to seek it, while the particulars which you have given me are so explicit that i can scarcely miss the exact spot." "that is well," approved cachama. then, turning to escombe, she said: "and now, senor, if you will remain with me for the rest of the day and the coming night it will give me pleasure, and i will do my best for your comfort; the afternoon is wellnigh spent, and if, as i understood you to say, you started from your camp shortly after daybreak this morning, you can scarcely return to it ere nightfall, and the way is a rough and dangerous one to travel in the darkness." "nevertheless, with many thanks for your hospitable offer, i must go," answered harry, "for the matter is urgent, as you must know, for your last words to me were that if i would find my--friend with the life still in him i must hasten." "nay, _amigo_, i know nothing of what i told you while in my state of trance," answered the old woman; "but, whatever it may have been, you may depend that it was true; therefore if i bade you hasten, it is certain that hasten you must, and in that case it would be no kindness in me to urge you to stay. yet you will not go until you have again eaten and drank." "thanks again, mama," answered harry, "but i fear we must. as you have said, the afternoon is far advanced, and there is therefore all the more reason why we should make the best possible use of every remaining moment of daylight. if you will excuse us, therefore, we will bid you adios and go forthwith. you have rendered me an inestimable service, mama, for which mere words of thanks seem a very inadequate recompense, yet i will not offend you by offering any other reward. still, if there is a way--" "there is none--at present--_amigo mio_" interrupted the old woman; "nor do i wish any recompense beyond your thanks. if, as you say, i have been able to help you i am glad, and shall be glad to help you again whenever and as often as you may need my assistance. nevertheless,"-- looking with sudden intentness into the young englishman's eyes--"i think--nay, i am certain--that a time is coming when, if you care to remember them, mama cachama and yupanqui will be glad that they befriended you." "rest assured, then, mama, that when that time arrives, you will not be forgotten," answered harry. "and now, _adios_, until we meet again. remember me to yupanqui, and say that i am sorry i could not stay to see him. are you ready, arima? then march!" it was close upon midnight when escombe and his indian guide rode into camp, after a fatiguing and somewhat adventurous journey; for as mama cachama had said, the way was rough and by no means devoid of danger even in the daytime, while at night those dangers were multiplied a hundredfold. enquiry revealed that none of the six peons whom harry had that morning despatched to seek for traces of the missing party had returned, and the young man therefore gave arima instructions to make all necessary preparations to start with him at daybreak, in search of the spot at which cachama had described butler as falling exhausted after his terrible flight through the night and storm. of course harry scarcely expected to find butler there, and still less did he hope it, for in that event it would only too probably mean that the missing man was dead, whereas harry hoped that, after lying exhausted for perhaps some hours, his chief would recover strength enough to make a further effort to return to camp; but he knew that in any case the search must necessarily start from the spot indicated by cachama, and for that spot, therefore, he must make in the first instance. it was broad daylight, but the sun had not yet risen above the snow- capped andes when escombe, accompanied by arima, each of them mounted upon a sturdy mule, and the indian leading butler's saddled and bridled horse, rode out of camp the next morning on their quest for the missing man, taking with them a week's rations for each, and a similar quantity for butler's use--should they be fortunate enough to find him--as well as a small supply of medical comforts, the whole contained in a pack securely strapped upon the saddle of the led horse. for the first hour the route followed by arima was identical with that described by mama cachama while in her clairvoyant state; but when they reached the wood wherein butler's horse had been found straying, the indian bore away to the right, and, skirting the belt of timber for some distance, cut through it near its southern extremity, emerging upon the mountain spur some three miles from, and much higher than, the spot where the first search party had come out. the crest of the spur now lay about half a mile in front of them, and upon reaching it the travellers beheld a magnificent prospect before them. the mountain spur sloped away steeply from their feet, plunging down until it was lost in a wide, densely wooded ravine about a mile in width, beyond which the ground again rose somewhat irregularly in a wide sweep of upland, gradually merging into foothills which, viewed from that distance, appeared to be the advance guard of the towering andes. the atmosphere was exquisitely clear, revealing every object in the landscape with photographic sharpness, and arima paused for a few minutes, with the double object of breathing the animals and taking a good, long, comprehensive view of the scene before him. for some minutes he gazed intently at the many landmarks, that stretched away before him and on either hand, and at length turned to escombe and said, pointing: "you see those twin peaks yonder, senor?" "assuredly," assented harry. "and you also see that hill between them and us--the one, i mean, with the cloud shadow resting upon it which causes it to tell up dark against the sunlit mountain slopes beyond?" "certainly," again assented harry. "it is a few miles on the other side of that hill that we shall find the spot of which mama cachama spoke," explained arima. "then you recognise the various marks which she described for your guidance, do you, and believe that she actually saw them in her trance?" "without doubt, senor," answered the indian in a tone of surprise, as though he wondered at the slight hint of incredulity suggested by the question. "and do you think that, when we arrive, we shall find the chief there?" asked harry. "nay, senor, that i cannot say," answered arima. "but this i know, that if he is still there when we reach the spot he will be dead." "yes," assented escombe, "i fear you are right. and how long will it take us to reach the spot?" "we shall do well if we get there before the sun sinks half-way down the heavens to-morrow," was the answer. "to-morrow!" ejaculated harry incredulously. "how far, then, is it from where we now stand?" "if we could ride straight to it we might reach it to-day some two hours before sunset," answered arima. "but that is impossible, senor; our road lies off yonder to the right, along the slope of the mountain, to the nearest point at which it will be possible for us to cross the ravine; and when we have accomplished that, there will still be a toilsome ride of some three hours before us, ere we can hope to emerge from the ravine on the other side. we shall be fortunate if we accomplish so much before we are overtaken by the darkness." "is that so?" questioned harry. "then in that case we had better press forward without further delay." and, digging his heels into the ribs of his mule, the young englishman resumed his march. it was shortly after three o'clock on the following afternoon when arima, who for the previous half-hour had been riding slowly and studying the ground intently, suddenly reined up his mule, and, leaping lightly to the ground, knelt down and carefully examined the long, coarse grass that thickly carpeted the soil. for a full minute he remained thus, delicately fingering the blades and gently pushing them aside, then he rose to his feet, and, with a sigh of satisfaction, pointed with his finger, saying: "here is the trail of the chief, senor; he came from yonder and went in that direction." "are you sure, arima?" demanded harry. "i can see no sign of the passage of a man through this grass." "very possibly not, senor," answered arima dryly, "because, you see, you are not accustomed to tracking; moreover, this trail is some days old, and was made while the grass was wet and beaten down by the rain. but it is there, nevertheless, for practised eyes to read, and, being found, can now be easily followed. when the chief passed here he was in a terribly exhausted state, and staggered as he ran, exactly as mama cachama described, for just here he stumbled--if your honour will take the trouble to dismount you can see the mark where the toe of his boot dug into the soil--and i think the spot where he fell finally cannot be very far from here." "in that case," said harry, "let us press on as quickly as possible, for even minutes may be of inestimable value now. as to dismounting and examining the marks for myself, we have no time for that at present, arima, and i am quite content to take your word for it that matters are as you say. can you follow the trail mounted, or must you proceed on foot?" "i can follow it mounted, senor, seeing that i was mounted when i found it," answered arima. "but it will be well that you should ride a few yards behind me, lest the trail should swerve suddenly to right or left and be crossed by your mule." so saying, the indian sprang into his saddle and, turning the head of his animal, rode forward at a foot pace, his eyes intently searching the sea of waving grass before him. for a quarter of an hour he rode on thus, with harry, leading butler's horse, following a yard or two in his rear; then he suddenly reined his mule aside and, pointing to a barely perceptible depression in the grass, said: "see, senor, there is where the chief first fell, as described by mama cachama--yes--and,"--as his keen eyes roved hither and thither--"yonder is the spot where he fell and lay." a few paces brought them to the spot indicated, and here the signs were clear enough for even escombe's untrained eyes to read, the grass being still depressed sufficiently to show that a human form had lain there motionless and stretched at length for several hours; moreover, at that part of the depression where the man's head had rested, the grass blades were still flecked here and there with dried, ruddy froth, beneath which lay a little patch of coagulated blood, from which a swarm of flies arose as arima bent over it and pointed it out to harry. but the fugitive had disappeared, and the indian gave it as his opinion that the chief had revived after lying insensible for about six hours, and had immediately resumed his interrupted flight. as to the direction in which he had gone, there was no difficulty in determining that, for, leading away toward the eastward there were two wavering lines, close together, traced through the long grass by the feet of the wanderer, and still distinct enough to be followed by even so inexperienced a tracker as the young englishman. "now, arima," exclaimed harry, "is there anything worth knowing to be gained by a prolonged examination of this `form'? because, if not, we will press on at once, since time is precious. the chief went in that direction, of course--even i can see that--and the trail is so clear that we ought to be able to follow it at a canter." "yes, quite easily, senor," acquiesced arima. "there is nothing to be learned here beyond the fact that the senor butler fell at this spot, and lay absolutely motionless for so long a time that he must have been in a swoon. then he revived, sat up, rose to his knees--see, there are the impressions of his two knees, and of the toes of his boots behind them--then he stood for several minutes, as though uncertain whither he would go, and finally struck off to the eastward. but see how the trail wavers this way and that way, even in the short length of it that we can trace from here. he moved quite aimlessly, not knowing whither he would go; and i think that, if he is still alive when we find him, senor, he will be quite crazy." "so much the greater reason for finding him as quickly as possible. mount and ride, arima," exclaimed harry, pressing his heels into his mule's sides, and urging the animal into a canter along the plainly marked trail until he was taught better by the indian. "never ride immediately over a trail which you are following, senor, but close beside it, on one side or the other of it, so that the trail itself is left quite undisturbed. one never can tell when it may be necessary to study the trail carefully in search of some bit of information which might easily be obliterated if it were ridden or walked over." harry at once pulled his mule to one side of the trail, arima following it on the opposite side, and the pair pushed on, winding hither and thither as the track of the fugitive swerved this way and that, until they had travelled a further distance of some nine or ten miles, when they came upon another "form", where butler had laid himself down to rest for--as arima estimated--a space of about two hours. there was nothing of importance to be learned here; they therefore pushed forward again with all possible speed, for the sun was now rapidly declining toward the western horizon, and escombe was anxious to find the wanderer before nightfall, if possible, since another night's exposure in the keen air of that elevated plain might very well prove fatal to a man in butler's terribly exhausted condition. for the last hour of the pursuit the track had led over rising ground, and it soon became pretty evident that the fugitive had been making his uncertain way toward a gorge between two mountains, which had gradually been opening out ahead of the pursuers. meanwhile the spoor had been growing fresher with every stride of the cantering mules, showing that the trackers were rapidly gaining upon the chase, and that the latter was now in the very last stage of exhaustion, for the "forms" where he had paused to rest were ever becoming more frequent and closer together. the indian, therefore, after attentively studying the last form which was encountered, gave it as his opinion that the hunted man could not now be more than a mile or two ahead, and suggested that harry should push straight on for the entrance of the gorge, in the hope of sighting the fugitive and running him down, while he (arima), with the led horse, should continue to follow the trail, for if butler should gain the gorge before being overtaken, his pursuit over the rocky ground might be slow and difficult. accordingly, harry turned his mule slightly aside from the trail, and made straight for a landmark indicated by the indian, pressing his beast forward at its best pace. he had ridden thus about a quarter of an hour, and was rapidly approaching the entrance of the gorge, when he suddenly caught sight of a moving object ahead, winding its way among a number of masses of granite outcrop; and urging his exhausted mule to a final effort, escombe presently had the satisfaction of identifying the moving object as a man--a white man--attired in a few tattered remnants of what had once been civilised clothing. that the man was butler there could be no shadow of doubt, and a few strides farther enabled harry to recognise him. as he did so, the stumbling, staggering figure paused for a moment, glanced behind him, and saw that he was pursued; whereupon he flung his arms above his head, emitted a most horrible, eldritch scream, started to run forward again, staggered a few paces, and fell forward prone upon the ground, where he lay motionless. chapter seven. the jewel. reining up his mule, escombe at once glanced behind him to ascertain whether arima happened to be within sight. yes, there he was, about a mile distant, pushing along at a trot and winding hither and thither, as he persistently followed the erratic twistings and turnings of the pursued man's spoor. harry therefore drew his revolver from his belt, and, pointing the muzzle of the weapon upward, discharged two shots in rapid succession to attract the indian's attention, and then waved his white pocket handkerchief in the air as a sign that the lost man had been found, and that the pursuit was at an end. the indian immediately uttered a peculiar shrill whoop by way of reply, and turned his beast's head directly toward the spot where the young englishman could be seen sitting motionless in his saddle; whereupon harry at once sprang to the ground and, throwing his mule's bridle upon the grass--a sign which the animal had been trained to obey by standing perfectly still--rushed toward the prostrate figure, and, turning it gently over, raised it to a sitting posture, passing his arm round the neck as a support to the drooping head. yes, the man was butler, there could be no doubt about that; but oh! what a dreadful change had been wrought by those few days of flight and exposure! butler had always been a man of somewhat spare build, but now he was emaciated to an extent almost past belief--his cheeks were so hollow that it seemed as though an incautiously rough touch would cause the protruding cheek-bones to burst through the skin; his closed eyes were sunk so deep in their sockets that the eyeballs appeared to have dwindled to the size of small marbles; while the lips had contracted to such an extent as to leave the tightly clenched teeth clearly visible, the general effect being that of a grinning, fleshless skull with a covering of shrivelled skin drawn tightly over it. the once immaculate suit of white clothing was now deeply soiled and stained by contact with the earth and grass, and was a mere wrapping of scarcely recognisable rags, the coat being missing altogether, while great rents in the remaining garments revealed the protruding ribs and the shrunken limbs, the colour of the yellowish-brown skin being almost completely obscured by the latticing of long and deep blood-smeared scratches that mutely told how desperately the man had fought his way through all obstacles in his headlong, panic-stricken flight; his finger nails were broken and ragged; his boots were cut and torn to pieces to such an extent that they afforded scarcely any protection to his feet; and his once iron- grey hair and moustache, as well as his short growth of stubbly beard, were almost perfectly white. with a quick slash of his knife escombe severed the filthy wisp of silk that had once been a smart necktie, as it had somehow become tightly knotted round the unconscious man's throat, and then impatiently awaited the coming of arima, who was leading the horse on the saddle of which were strapped the small supply of medical comforts which had been brought along to meet just such a contingency as this; and a few minutes later the indian cantered up and, flinging himself from the back of his mule, came forward to render assistance. bidding the man kneel down and support the unconscious butler's head, harry sprang to the saddle bags and drew forth a flask of brandy, which he held to the sick man's lips, allowing a few drops of the liquid to find their way between the clenched teeth. for fully ten minutes he strove to coax a small quantity of the spirit down his chiefs throat, and at length had the satisfaction of seeing that some at least had been swallowed. the almost immediate result of this was a groan and a slight, spasmodic movement of the emaciated limbs; and presently, after a few minutes of further persistent effort, butler opened his eyes. "ah, that's better!" ejaculated the amateur physician with a sigh of extreme satisfaction. "you will soon be all right now, sir. let me give you just another spoonful and you will feel like a new man. no, no, please don't keep your teeth clenched like that; open your mouth, mr butler, and let me pour a little more down your throat. do please,"--in a most insinuating tone of voice--"it will do you no end of good. arima, take hold of his chin and see if you can force his lower jaw open, but be as gentle as you can. there, that's right! now then!" with a deft touch and no apparent violence the indian succeeded in getting the locked jaws apart, and escombe promptly availed himself of the opportunity to pour about a tablespoonful of spirits into the partially open mouth. for a moment there was no result, then a cough and a splutter on the part of the sick man showed that the potent elixir was making its way down his throat, and, with another groan, the patient made a feeble effort to struggle to his feet. but the attempt was a failure, the last particle of strength had already been spent, and, sighing heavily, butler subsided back upon the supporting arm of the indian, and lay staring vacantly at the rich sapphire sky that arched above him. then harry took him by the hand, and, calling him by name, endeavoured to win some sign of recognition from him, but all in vain. the utmost that he could accomplish was to extract from his patient a few meaningless, incoherent mumblings, which conveyed nothing save the fact that the speaker's mind was, at least for the moment, a perfect blank. at length, convinced that he could do no more until he had got his patient settled in camp, he called upon arima to help him, and between the two they soon had the unfortunate man comfortably stretched upon a blanket under the lee of an enormous granite rock, which would at least partially shield him from the keen wind of the fast approaching night. then, with the help of a few stout saplings cut from a clump of bush close at hand, they contrived to rig a small, makeshift kind of tent over the upper half of his body, as a further protection from the cold, and lighted their camp fire close to his feet. then, while the indian, with gentle touch, cut away the soiled rags of clothing from the wasted body and limbs, and swathed them in a waterproof rug, escombe unsaddled and hobbled the horse and mules, and turned them loose to graze. next he unpacked the saddle bags and camp equipage, and proceeded to prepare a small quantity of hot, nourishing soup, which, with infinite difficulty, he at length induced his patient to swallow, a few drops at a time; and finally, with a makeshift pillow beneath his head, the invalid was gently laid down in a comfortable posture, when he soon sank into a refreshing sleep. the weary pair seized the opportunity thus afforded them to attend to their own most pressing needs; but neither of them closed their eyes in sleep that night, for they had scarcely finished their supper when butler awoke and again demanded their most unremitting care and attention, as he evinced great uneasiness and perturbation of mind which speedily developed into a state of such violent delirium, that it was only with the utmost difficulty the combined efforts of the pair were able to restrain him from doing either himself or them some serious injury. for more than forty hours did that dreadful delirium continue, the patient being extraordinarily violent during almost the entire period; then his unnatural strength suddenly collapsed, leaving him weak as an infant and in an almost continuous state of lethargy, so profound that it was with great difficulty that his two nurses were able to arouse him sufficiently to administer small quantities of liquid nourishment. it was by this time evident, even to harry's inexperienced eye, that butler's condition was desperate, even if not altogether hopeless, and he consulted arima as to the possibility of procuring the services of a qualified physician; but the indian had no encouragement to offer. cerro de pasco, the nearest town in which one might hope to find a doctor, was some fifty miles distant, as the crow flies, but the difficulties of the way were such that, using the utmost expedition, it would take a messenger at least four days to reach the place, and as many to return--assuming that the messenger were fortunate enough to find a doctor who could be persuaded to set out forthwith--by which time, harry knew instinctively, the patient would be long past all human aid. besides, there was no messenger to send, save arima; and, in view of the possible recurrence of delirium, the lad felt that he would not be justified in sending the indian away. while the two were still engaged in debating the question of what was best to be done under the distressing circumstances, butler ended the difficulty by quietly breathing his last, crossing the borderland between life and death without a struggle, and without recovering consciousness. indeed so perfectly quiet and peaceful was the end that it was some time before young escombe could convince himself that his chief was really dead; but when at length there could no longer be any question as to the fact, the body was at once wrapped in the waterproof sheet which had formed a makeshift tent for the shelter of the sick man, and packed, with as much reverence as the circumstances would allow, upon the deceased man's horse, for conveyance back to camp for interment, the pair having with them no implements wherewith to dig a grave. moreover, harry considered that, taking the somewhat peculiar circumstances of the case into consideration, it was very desirable that the body should be seen and identified by the other members of the survey party before burial took place. this event occurred on the evening of the third day after death, escombe himself reading the burial service; and he afterwards fashioned with his own hands, and placed at the head of the grave, a wooden cross, upon which he roughly but deeply cut with his pocket knife the name of the dead man and the date of his death. he also, as a matter of precaution, took a very careful set of astronomical observations for the determination of the exact position of the grave, recording the result in his diary at the end of the long entry detailing all the circumstances connected with the sad event. escombe now suddenly found his young shoulders burdened with a heavy load of responsibility, for not only did butler's death leave the lad in sole charge of the survey party, with the task of carrying on unaided the exceedingly important work upon which that party was engaged, until assistance could be sent out to him from england; but it also became his immediate duty to report all the circumstances of the death of his leader to the british consul at lima--who would doubtless put in motion the necessary machinery for the capture and punishment of the men who were responsible for the events which had brought about butler's death-- and also to sir philip swinburne, who would, of course, in turn, communicate the sad intelligence to the deceased man's family. and there were also all butler's private effects to be packed up and sent home forthwith. yet, taking everything into consideration, the death of his chief was a relief rather than otherwise to the lad, unfeeling though the statement may appear at the first blush. butler was a man for whom it was quite impossible for anyone to acquire a friendly feeling; harry therefore felt that when he had committed his chief's body to the earth with as much respectful observance as the circumstances permitted, had carefully and scrupulously collected together and dispatched to england all the dead man's personal belongings, and had taken such steps as were possible for the capture and punishment of the men who were primarily responsible for butler's death, he had done everything that a strict sense of duty claimed from him, and was not called upon to feign and outwardly manifest a sorrow which had no place in his heart. besides, he was now the responsible head of the survey party; upon him depended-- for at least the next three months--the conduct of an important and highly scientific operation; and upon the manner in which he conducted it depended very serious issues involving the expenditure of exceedingly large sums of money. this was his opportunity to demonstrate to all concerned the stuff of which he was made; it was an opportunity so splendid that many a young fellow of his age would cheerfully give half a dozen years of his life to obtain such another; for harry fully realised that if he could carry his task to a successful conclusion his fortune, from the professional point of view, was made. and he felt that he could--ay, and would--do this. the experience which he had already gained since his arrival in peru had been of inestimable value to him, and he had made the very utmost of it; he therefore felt confident of his ability to carry through his task to the satisfaction of his employers and with credit to himself, and he entered upon it with avidity and keen enjoyment. moreover, he was tactful, and possessed the happy knack of managing those under him in such a way that he was able to extract the very last ounce of work from them without offending their susceptibilities, or causing them to feel that he was making undue demands upon them. under these circumstances, and with the perpetual galling irritation of butler's presence and influence removed, the survey made rapid and very satisfactory progress, the party arriving at cerro de pasco in a trifle under six weeks from the date of butler's death, thus completing the second section of the survey. the third section was very much longer and more difficult in every respect than either of the two completed, since it extended from nanucaca--already connected by rail with cerro de pasco--along the shore of lake chinchaycocha to ayacucho and cuzco, and thence on to santa rosa, the distance being some four hundred and seventy miles as the crow flies, while the difficulties of the route might possibly increase that distance by nearly one-third. but escombe was by no means dismayed by the formidable character of the obstacles that lay before him; he had come to realise that, to the man who would achieve success, obstacles exist only that they may be overcome, and he was gaining experience daily in the overcoming of obstacles. he therefore attacked this third and very formidable section, not only without any anxiety or fear, but with a keen zest that instantly communicated itself to his little band of followers, welding them together into a perfectly harmonious, smooth-working whole. it must not be thought, however, that escombe allowed himself to become so completely absorbed in his work that he could think of nothing else. on the contrary, he understood perfectly the meaning of the word "recreation" and the value of the thing itself. he knew that no man can work for ever without wearing himself out, and he looked upon recreation as--what its name implied--a re-creation or rebuilding of those forces, mental and physical, which labour wears away, and valued it accordingly, taking it whenever he felt that he really needed it, even as he took food or medicine. now it chanced that fishing was one of escombe's favourite recreations; and no sooner had he started the third section of the survey--which began by skirting the eastern shore of lake chinchaycocha--than he made a practice of indulging in an hour or two's fishing whenever the opportunity offered. it was this practice that led to an occurrence which was destined to culminate in an adventure so startling and extraordinary as to be scarcely credible in these prosaic twentieth- century days. it happened on a saturday afternoon. on the day in question, the survey party being then encamped on the shore of lake chinchaycocha, as soon as he had squared up his week's work, and snatched a hasty luncheon, the young englishman brought forth his fishing tackle, and, getting aboard a balsa, or light raft, which arima had constructed for him, proceeded to paddle some distance out from the shore to a spot which he had already ascertained afforded him a fair prospect of sport. arrived there he dropped his keeleg--a large stone serving the purpose of an anchor--overboard and settled down comfortably to enjoy his favourite pastime, and also provide an exceedingly welcome addition to the somewhat monotonous fare of camp life. the sport that afternoon was not so good as harry had expected, and it was drawing well on toward evening before the fish began to bite at all freely--he was trying especially for a certain particularly delicious kind of fish, something between a trout and a mullet, which was only to be captured by allowing the hook to rest at the very bottom of the lake. suddenly he felt a smart tug at his line and at once began to haul it in, but he had scarcely got it fairly taut when the tremulous jerk which denoted the presence of a fish at the other end was exchanged for a steady strain, and it soon became perfectly evident that the hook had become entangled in something at the bottom. now escombe's stock of fishing tackle was of exceedingly modest proportions, so much so, indeed, that the loss of even a solitary hook was a matter not to be contemplated with indifference, therefore he brought all his skill to bear upon the delicate task of releasing the hook from its entanglement. but at the end of half an hour he was no nearer to success than at the beginning of his endeavours, while the sun was within a hand's breadth of the horizon, and he had no fancy for being caught by the darkness while on the lake, therefore he adopted other tactics, and strove to bring the object, whatever it might be, to the surface by means of a steady yet not dangerously powerful strain. ah, that was better! at the very first tug escombe felt the resistance yield by the merest hairs-breadth, and presently a faint jerk told him that he had gained another fraction of an inch, which success was repeated every few seconds until he was able to lift and drop the line a clear foot. then the sun's lower limb touched and rested for an instant upon the ridge of the western cordilleras before it began to sink behind them, and harry realised that the moment for energetic measures had arrived; for he was a good two miles from the shore, and it would take him the best part of an hour to paddle his clumsy craft that distance. therefore he steadily increased the strain upon his line, determined to release himself one way or another, even though at the cost of a hook. but it proved unnecessary for him to make so great a sacrifice, it was the unknown object that yielded, with little momentary jerks and an ever decreasing resistance until it finally let go its hold of the bottom altogether and came to the surface securely entangled with the hook. upon its emergence from the water harry gazed at his catch in astonishment; he had expected to see the water-logged branch of a tree, a bunch of weed, or something of that sort, but as it dangled, dripping with sandy ooze in the last rays of the setting sun, certain ruddy-yellow gleams that flashed from it told its finder that he had fished up something metallic from the bottom of the lake. the next moment escombe was busily engaged in disentangling his find from the fish hook, but long ere he had succeeded in doing so the young man had made the interesting discovery that he had been fortunate enough to retrieve a most remarkable jewel, in the form of a gold and emerald collar, from the depths of the lake. methodical even in the midst of his excitement at having made so valuable a find, the young englishman carefully disentangled his hook and line from the jewel, neatly wound up the former, and then proceeded patiently to wash away from the latter the ooze with which it was thickly coated, having done which he found himself in possession of an ornament so massive in material and so elaborate and unique in workmanship that he felt certain it must be worth quite a little fortune to any curio collector. it was, or appeared to be, a collar or necklace, a trifle over two feet in length, the ends united by a massive ring supporting a medallion. the links, so to speak, of the necklace consisted of twelve magnificent emeralds, each engraved upon one side with certain cabalistic characters, the meaning of which escombe could not guess at, and upon the other with a symbol which was easily identifiable as that of the sun; these emeralds were massively set-- framed would be almost the more appropriate word--in most elaborately sculptured gold, and joined together by heavy gold links also very elaborately cut. the pendant was likewise composed of a superb emerald of fully three inches diameter set in a gold frame, chiselled to represent the rays of the sun, the emerald itself being engraved with the representation of a human face, which, oddly enough, harry recognised, even at the first glance, to be extraordinarily, astoundingly like his own. this was a find worth having, the young man told himself, and might prove worth several hundreds of pounds if judiciously advertised and offered for sale at christie's upon his return home; for safety's sake, therefore, he put it round his neck, tucking it inside his shirt, snugly out of sight, and, heaving up his keeleg, proceeded to paddle thoughtfully back to the shore. it was some three months after this occurrence--and in the interim young escombe had pushed forward the survey so rapidly, despite all difficulties, that he had covered more than half the distance between nanucaca and ayacucho--when, as he returned to camp at the end of his day's work, he observed two strange mules tethered near his tent; and presently a stranger emerged from the tent and advanced toward him. the stranger, although deeply tanned by the sun, was unmistakably an englishman, some twenty-eight years of age, rather above middle height, and with a pleasant though resolute expression stamped upon his good-- looking features. approaching harry, he held out his hand and smilingly remarked: "mr escombe, i presume. my name is bannister--john bannister--and i come from sir philip swinburne to act as your colleague in the completion of the survey upon which you are engaged. these,"--producing a packet of papers--"are my credentials. grand country this,"--casting an admiring glance at the magnificent scenery amid which the camp was pitched--"but, my word, you must have had some tough bits of work, even before reaching this spot." "you are right, we have," answered harry as he cordially returned bannister's grasp. "i am right glad to see you, and to bid you welcome to our camp, for i have been pretty badly in want of intelligent help lately. these fellows,"--indicating the native helpers who were now scattered about the camp busily preparing for the evening meal--"are all well enough in their way, and since poor butler's death i have managed to drill them into something like decent, useful shape; but i have often been badly hampered for the want of another surveyor who could work with me in surmounting some of the especially bad places. now that you have come we shall be able to get ahead nearly twice as fast. i suppose you came out by the last mail, eh? and how are things going in the dear old country?" harry led the new arrival into his tent, and proceeded forthwith to discard his working clothes and divest himself of the stains of his day's toil as he chatted animatedly, asking questions for the most part, as is the wont of the old hand--and escombe had by this time grown to quite regard himself as such--when he foregathers with somebody fresh from "home". bannister, having arrived at the camp pretty early in the afternoon, had already bathed and changed; he therefore had nothing to do but to sit still and answer harry's questions, jerking in one or two himself occasionally, until the younger man's toilet was completed, when they sat down to dinner together. by the time that the meal was over each felt perfectly satisfied that he would be able to get on well with the other, and was looking forward to a quite pleasant time up there among the stupendous mountains. upon first seeing bannister, and learning that he had come out from sir philip, harry naturally thought that the new arrival had been dispatched to fill the position of chief of the survey party, rendered vacant by the death of the unfortunate butler; but upon opening the credentials which bannister had presented, he found that it was actually as the bearer had stated, that he and harry were to act as colleagues, not as chief and subordinate, in the completion of the survey, thus making the pair jointly responsible for the work, while they would share equally the credit upon its completion. they spent an exceedingly pleasant evening together, chatting mostly over the work that still lay before them, harry producing his plans and explaining what had already been done, while bannister sat listening gravely to the recital of sundry hairbreadth escapes from death in the execution of duty, and of the manner in which a few of the more than ordinarily difficult bits of work had been accomplished; and when the pair again sat chatting together, twenty-four hours later, at the end of their first day together, each felt absolutely satisfied with the comrade with which fortune had brought him into touch. under these agreeable circumstances the survey progressed with greater rapidity than ever, the two englishmen conquering obstacle after obstacle, and meeting with plenty of thrilling adventures in the process, until in the fullness of time they reached first ayacucho and then cuzco, when the worst of their troubles were over. for there was a road--of sorts--between the ancient capital and santa rosa, and the two englishmen, after riding over it in company, agreed that, for a considerable part of the way at least, the best route for a railway would be found contiguous to the highroad, by following which the surveyors would derive many substantial advantages, in addition to finding a comparatively easy route to survey. chapter eight. the abduction. the survey party had traversed about half the distance between cuzco and santa rosa when the two englishmen, following their invariable custom of indulging in a swim as often as opportunity afforded, made their way, at the end of a hard day's work, to a most romantic spot which they had encountered. here a small stream, flowing through a rocky gorge, fell over a granite ledge on to a large flat slab of rock some nine feet below, from which in turn it poured into a noble basin almost perfectly circular in shape, about twenty feet deep, and nearly or quite a hundred feet in diameter, ere it continued its course down the ravine. to stand on the slab of rock beneath the fall was to enjoy an ideal shower bath; and to dive from that same slab into the deep, pellucid pool and thereafter swim across the pool and back three or four times was a luxury worth riding several miles to enjoy; small wonder, therefore, was it that the two englishmen resolved to make the most of their opportunity, and continue to use this perfect natural swimming bath so long as their work kept them within reach of it. the camp was situated some two miles back from the pool, the bathers therefore, fatigued with a long day's work, decided to ride to and from the spot, instead of walking, and arima, the indian--who had by this time constituted himself escombe's especial henchman--was directed to accompany them to look after the horses while the riders were enjoying their dip. arrived at the pool, the two friends dismounted and proceeded to undress on a small space of rich, lush grass in close proximity to the basin, the indian meanwhile squatting upon his heels and holding the horses' bridles while the animals eagerly grazed. now, arima's devotion to harry, originating at the time when the two had made their memorable journey together to mama cachama's cave, and very greatly strengthened during the adventurous hunt for the missing butler, had steadily developed until it had become almost if not quite as strong as that of a parent for an idolised child. the indian could not bear his young master to be out of his sight for a moment, and was always most unhappy whenever the exigencies of work necessitated a separation of the two. he had been known to resort to the most extraordinary devices to prevent such an occurrence, and when the two were together arima never allowed his gaze to wander for a moment from his master's form if he could help it. yet, singularly enough, it was not until this particular evening that the indian had become aware of escombe's possession of the jewel so strangely fished up from the depths of lake chinchaycocha, or had ever caught sight of it. but he saw it now, as escombe undressed at a few yards' distance, the light falling strongly upon the dull red gold and the emeralds, as the lad carefully removed it from his neck and laid it upon the top of his clothes ere he rushed, with a joyous shout, and placed himself immediately beneath the foaming water of the fall. the sight appeared to arouse a feeling of very powerful curiosity in the breast of the indian, for it was only with the utmost difficulty that he contrived to retain his attitude of passivity until the more deliberately moving bannister had joined his friend upon the slab beneath the fall; but no sooner had this happened than, abandoning the horses to their own devices, arima crept cautiously forward until he reached escombe's heap of clothing, and, availing himself of the preoccupation of the bathers, took the jewel in his hand and examined it with the most rapt attention and care. for a space of nearly five minutes he continued his examination, after which he slowly and thoughtfully made his way back to the horses, which were too busily feeding upon the luscious grass to stray far. for the remainder of the evening the indian seemed to be plunged in a state of meditation so profound as to be quite oblivious of all outward things save his young master, his conduct toward whom was marked by a new and yet subtle attitude of almost worshipping reverence. but when the hands were mustered for work on the following morning, arima was nowhere to be found; he had vanished some time during the night, saying nothing to anyone, and leaving no trace behind. harry was very much upset at this sudden and inexplicable disappearance of the servant who, in a thousand little unobtrusive ways, had ministered so effectually to his comfort that his loss was at once felt as a serious misfortune, and he devoted two whole days to a search for the missing man, fearing that the fellow had strayed away from the camp and that something untoward had befallen him. but the search was quite unavailing, and on the third day it was abandoned, the only conclusion at which escombe could arrive being that the indian had deserted under the influence of pique at some unintentional affront and gone back to his own people. it was some two months later--by which time the party was drawing near to santa rosa, and the great railway survey was approaching completion-- that in the dead of a dark and starless night three indians stealthily approached the surveyors' camp and, having first reconnoitred the ground as carefully as the pitch darkness would permit, made their way, noiseless as shadows, to the tent occupied by young escombe. the leading indian was arima, the two who followed were very old men, their scanty locks, white as snow, hanging to their shoulders, their ascetic, clean-cut features sharp and shrunken, yet they carried themselves as upright as though they had been in the heyday of youth, and their sunken eyes glowed and sparkled with undiminished fire. they wore sleeveless shirts of pure white, finely woven of vicuna wool, reaching to the knee, the opening at the throat and arms, and also the hem of the garment, being richly ornamented with embroidery in heavy gold thread. this garment was confined at the waist by a massive belt of solid gold composed of square placques hinged together, and each elaborately sculptured with conventional representations of the sun. over this was worn a long cloak, dyed blue, also woven of vicuna wool, but without ornament of any description. their heads were bare, and the lobe of each ear was pierced and distended to receive a gold medallion nearly four inches in diameter, also heavily sculptured with a representation of the sun. their legs were bare, but each wore sandals bound to the feet and ankles by thongs of leather. to judge from the travel-stained appearance of their garments they must have come a considerable distance, and have been exposed to many vicissitudes of weather. entering escombe's tent, which was dimly lighted by a hanging lamp turned low, arima noiselessly moved aside and silently, with outstretched hand, indicated to his two companions the form of the sleeping lad, who lay stretched at length upon his camp bed, breathing the long, deep breath of profound slumber. nodding silently, one of the two withdrew from a pouch which hung suspended from his belt a soft cloth and a small phial. extracting the stopper from the latter, he emptied the contents of the phial upon the cloth, which he then very gradually approached to the nostrils of the sleeper until it was within an inch of them. he held the cloth thus for about five minutes, allowing the fumes of the liquid to enter the sleeper's nostrils, while his companion very gently laid his fingers upon the pulse of escombe's right hand, which happened to be lying outside the coverlet. at length the second indian--he who held harry's wrist--nodded to the first, saying, in a low voice, in the ancient quichua language: "it is enough; nothing will now awaken him,"--whereupon the holder of the cloth returned it and the phial to his pouch and stepped back from the side of the bed. then, turning to arima, he said, in the same language: "say you, arima, that this youth always wears the collar upon his person, night and day?" "even so, lord," answered arima. "at least," he modified his statement, "so i surmise; for i have never seen the jewel save the once whereof i told you, and again on that same night when i stole into his tent while he slept, and found that he was wearing it then. whereupon i hastened to you with my momentous news." "you have done well, friend," answered the first speaker. "should all prove to be as you say, you shall be richly rewarded. and now,"--he caught his breath with sudden excitement--"to settle the question." then, turning to his companion, he said: "approach, brother, and look with me. it is meet that we should both gaze upon the sacred emblem--if so it should prove--at the self-same moment." he signed to arima, who turned up the flame of the lamp, whereupon the two inca priests--for such the strangers actually were-- bent over escombe's sleeping figure, one on each side of the bed, and while one drew down the coverlet the other unbuttoned the lad's sleeping jacket, exposing to view the jewel which he had fished up from lake chinchaycocha, and which, for safety, he always wore round his neck. eagerly the two priests bent down and scrutinised the magnificent ornament as it lay upon the gently heaving breast of the sleeper; and as their eyes hungrily took in the several peculiarities of the jewel a thrill of excitement visibly swept over them. finally, he who appeared to be the elder of the two said to the other: "there can scarcely be a doubt that arima's surmise is correct; nevertheless, brother, pass your hand beneath the young man's shoulder and raise him slightly that i may remove the collar and examine it." the priest addressed at once obeyed the request of the other, who thereupon gently passed the ornament over the sleeper's head and, taking it immediately beneath the lamp, proceeded to examine every part of it with the closest scrutiny, his companion allowing escombe's limp body to subside back on the pillow before he, too, joined in the inspection. every link, almost every mark of the chisel, was subjected to the most careful examination, and apparently certain of the engraved marks were recognised as bearing a definite meaning; for on more than one occasion the elder of the two priests pointed to such a mark, saying, "behold, motahuana, here is, unmistakably, the secret sign," while the other would nod his head solemnly and respond, "even so, tiahuana; i see it." finally he who had been addressed by the other as tiahuana turned the jewel over in his hand and examined the back of it. his gaze instantly fell upon the cabalistic characters engraved upon the backs of the emeralds, which had puzzled escombe, and, laying the jewel gently down upon the bed, he prostrated himself before it, motahuana immediately following his example, as also did arima. for a space of some three or four minutes the trio appeared to be absorbed in some act of silent devotion, then tiahuana rose to his feet and fixed his gaze on the jewel which lay upon the coverlet of escombe's bed. meditatively his eyes rested upon the great emerald pendant with its engraved representation of a human face, and from thence they wandered to the calm features of the sleeping lad. suddenly he started, and his gaze became alert, almost startled. he bent down and scrutinised the engraved features intently, then quickly diverted his gaze to those on the pillow. was it some trick of light, he asked himself, or were the two sets of features identical? "look, motahuana, look!" he whispered in tense accents; "see you the resemblance? i have but observed it this instant. nay, man, you can scarcely see it from where you stand, for that side of his face is in shadow. come to this side of the couch--or, stay, i will move the lamp." he did so, holding the lamp so that its light fell full upon the sleeper's face, while with the other hand he rearranged the collar so that the pendant lay upright upon escombe's breast. in this position, and in the stronger light, the likeness was even more startlingly striking than before, and for two long minutes the aged pair bent intently over the object of their scrutiny with an ever-growing expression of wonder and awe upon their attenuated features. "well, brother," at length demanded tiahuana, somewhat sharply, "see you what i mean, or is it merely my fancy--a figment of my over-heated imagination?" "nay, lord," answered motahuana in an awestruck whisper, "it is no figment, no fancy; the likeness is wonderful, marvellous, perfect; the features are identical, curve for curve and line for line, save that those engraved on the emerald bear the impress of a few more years of life. that, however, is immaterial, and in no wise affects the fact that in this sleeping youth we behold the reincarnation of him who first wore the sacred jewel, the lord and father of our people, manco capac!" "even so; you say truly, motahuana," agreed tiahuana in tones of exultation. "the revelation is complete and indisputable past all doubt; the mighty manco capac has returned to earth from his home among the stars, and soon now shall peru resume its former glorious position as the greatest and most powerful nation in the world. it is true that the great manco returns to us in the guise of a young englishman, for which circumstance i was scarcely prepared; but what of that? it is better so; for england is to-day the wisest and most mighty nation on the face of the earth, and doubtless the inca brings with with him a rich store of the knowledge of england. come, there is no occasion for further delay; let us be going, for we must be far hence and beyond the reach of pursuit ere our father the sun awakens his children and discloses the fact of our lord's disappearance. go thou, arima, and summon hither the litter bearers and the others." in a perfect ecstasy of pride and delight that it should have fallen to his lot to become the humble instrument whereby had been made known to his people the glorious fact of the great inca's reincarnation in the person of escombe--as he never for a moment doubted was the case--arima hurried out to where the remainder of the party lay patiently in ambush, briefly announced to them that all was well, and bade them follow him in perfect silence to the tent in which harry still lay plunged in a deathlike yet quite harmless sleep. the litter--a light but strong structure, framed of bamboos and covered with vicuna cloth, so arranged that it could be completely closed--was carried right into the tent, the covering thrown back, and escombe was lifted, on his mattress and still covered with the bedclothes, off the little iron camp bedstead and carefully placed in the litter, the jewel was replaced about his neck, the pillow under his head was comfortably arranged by arima, the litter was closed, and then a little procession, consisting of the litter and its four bearers, with the eight other men who acted as reliefs, headed by the two priests, filed silently out into the darkness, leaving arima, with six men, armed to the teeth with bows and arrows--the latter tipped with copper--lances of hardwood sharpened by fire, and short swords, the copper blades of which were hardened and tempered almost to the consistency of steel by a process known only to the peruvians themselves. the duty of these men was to collect together and pack, under arima's supervision, the whole of escombe's private and personal belongings; and this they did with such expedition that, in less than half an hour from the involuntary departure of its owner, the tent was almost entirely stripped of its contents and left deserted. under the anaesthetic influence of the vapour which he had unconsciously inhaled, escombe continued to sleep soundly until close upon midday, by which time the effect had almost entirely passed off, and he began to awake very gradually to the consciousness that something very much out of the ordinary course of things was happening. the first thing to impress itself upon his slowly awakening senses was the fact that the bed upon which he was lying was in motion, a gentle, easy, rhythmic, swaying motion, unlike any movement that he had ever before experienced. yet the bed seemed to be the same as that upon which he had retired to rest upon the preceding night, so far as he could judge; the mattress had the old familiar feel, and--yes, certainly, he was still under the shelter of the bedclothes, and his head still rested upon the familiar pillow--he could feel the lumps in it where the flock filling had become matted together. but why the mysterious motion? could it be that he was experiencing for the first time the effects of a peruvian earthquake? slowly and reluctantly he opened his eyes, and saw that his bed was indeed the same, yet with a certain difference, the precise nature of which he was at first unable to define. but presently he saw that the bed or couch upon which he was lying was closely encompassed by a soft blanket-like cloth, tightly strained over a light bamboo framework, forming a sort of canopy. and the motion? he was by this time sufficiently awake to understand that it was real; nor was it due to earthquake, as he had at first been inclined to think it might be; no, it was the regular, rhythmic movement of men marching and keeping step; he was being carried! with a rush his senses came fully back to him, and he started up into a sitting posture. it was high time for him to get to the bottom of this mystery, he told himself. he saw that midway in their length the side curtains which enclosed him were divided and overlapped, and, stretching out his hand, he wrenched them apart, at the same time, in his forgetfulness, calling loudly for arima. in an instant the indian was by the side of the litter and peering in through the opening between the parted curtains, to his masters intense astonishment. "you called, senor--my lord, i mean?" exclaimed the man submissively. "i did!" answered escombe incisively. "what has happened, arima? where have you been? where am i? why am i being carried off in this outrageous manner? answer me quickly." "my lord," answered the indian deprecatingly, "i implore you not to be disturbed or alarmed in the least. we are all your slaves, and are prepared to lay down our lives in your service. no harm is intended you; but it is necessary that you accompany us to the place whither we are going. here is my lord tiahuana. he will perhaps explain further." meanwhile, during this brief colloquy, the cortege had come to a halt, and now the elder of the two priests presented himself as arima retired, and, with a profound obeisance, said: "let my lord pardon his servants, and let not his anger be kindled against them. what we have done has been done of necessity and because there seemed to be no other way. but my lord need have no fear that evil is meditated against him; on the contrary, a position of great power and glory will be his at the end of his journey; and meanwhile every possible provision has been made for the comfort and wellbeing of my lord during his passage through the mountains." "but--but--i don't understand," stammered harry. "who are you, why do you address me as lord, and what do you mean by talking about a passage through the mountains? there is a ridiculous mistake." "nay, lord, be assured that there is no mistake," answered tiahuana impressively. "the matter has been most carefully investigated, and the fact has been conclusively established that my lord is he whom we want. the jewel which my lord even now wears about his neck proves it. further than that--" "the jewel that i am wearing about my neck--this thing?" exclaimed harry, drawing it forth. "why, man, i fished this up from the bottom of lake chinchaycocha, and am simply wearing it because it appeared valuable and i did not wish to lose it." "even so, lord," answered tiahuana soothingly, and with even increased reverence, if that were possible. "the circumstance that my lord drew the collar of the great manco capac from the depths of chinchaycocha is but an added proof--if such were needed--that my lord is he whom we have believed him to be, and that no mistake has been made." "but, my good man, i tell you that a mistake _has_ been made--a very stupid mistake--which i must insist that you rectify at once," exclaimed escombe, who was beginning to grow a trifle exasperated at what he inwardly termed the fellow's stupid persistence. "look here," he continued, "i don't in the least know whom you suppose me to be, but i will tell you who i am. my name is escombe--henry escombe. i am an englishman, and i only came to peru--" "my lord," interposed tiahuana with deep humility, yet with a certain inflection of firmness in his voice, "all that you would say is perfectly well known to us your servants; it has been told to us by the man arima. but nothing can alter the fact that my lord is the man referred to in the prophecy pronounced by the great high priest titucocha on the awful night when the inca atahuallpa was strangled by the spaniards in the great square of caxamalca. from that moment the ancient peruvian people have looked for the coming of my lord to free them from the yoke of the foreign oppressor, to give them back their country, and to restore them to the proud position which they occupied ere the coming of the cruel spaniard; and now that my lord has deigned to appear we should be foolish indeed to permit anything--anything, lord--to stand in the way of the realisation of our long-deferred hopes." harry began to realise that the misunderstanding was more serious than he had at first thought. it must be put right without any further delay. but he could not sit there in that ridiculous palankeen affair and argue with a man who stood with his head thrust between the curtains; he must get up and dress. moreover, he was ravenously hungry, and felt certain that the breakfast hour must have long gone past. so, instead of replying to tiahuana's last remarks, he simply said: "send arima to me." the old priest instantly withdrew, and in his place appeared arima again, who had been standing within earshot, quite expecting a summons at any moment. "behold, i am here, lord," remarked the indian with a deep obeisance. "what is my lord's will with the least of his servants?" "my will," answered harry, "is to dress and have breakfast at once. when you and your friends kidnapped me last night, did you by any chance have the sense to bring my clothes along?" "we have brought everything with us, lord," answered arima. "nothing that i know to be my lord's property has been left behind." "um!" thought harry, "the beggar has been altogether too faithful for my liking. he has brought everything of mine, has he? that means that if i cannot persuade these idiots to take me back to the camp, and it becomes necessary for me to make my escape, i shall have to go off with just what i stand up in, leaving the rest of my belongings in their hands!" aloud he said: "very well, then please bring me the clothes that i wore while at work yesterday." with breathless haste the clothes required were brought forth from a bundle into which they had been hastily thrust, and presented to their owner; the litter was gently deposited upon the ground, and harry, lightly clad in his pyjama suit, scrambled out, to find himself in the midst of an extensive pine wood, with his escort, consisting of twenty- one persons all told, prostrate on their faces around him! evidently, he told himself, he was a personage of such dignity and consequence that he must not be looked at by profane eyes while dressing. smiling to himself at the absurdity of the whole adventure, he quickly proceeded with his toilet, obsequiously assisted by the faithful arima; and when at length he was dressed, a word from arima caused the escort to rise to their feet. then, while some of them proceeded to gather branches and light a fire, others set to work to open certain bundles from which they rapidly extracted bread, chocolate, sugar, and, in short, all the ingredients required to furnish forth an appetising and satisfying breakfast. finally, about half an hour later, the young englishman, in a frame of mind about equally divided between annoyance at his abduction and amazement at the unaccountable behaviour of his abductors, found himself partaking of the said breakfast, presented to him in a service of solid gold of curious but most elaborate design and workmanship, and waited upon by his entire suite with as much ceremony and obsequiousness as though he were a king. chapter nine. tiahuana tells a strange story. escombe's appetite was good, the food delicious, the cooking perfection, the service irreproachable, if somewhat elaborate. it is not to be wondered at, therefore, that the young man made an excellent meal, and that at its conclusion he should feel himself in admirable form for tackling his captors upon the subject of their outrageous abduction of him. therefore, after performing his post-prandial ablutions in a basin of solid gold, held before him by a kneeling man, and drying himself upon an immaculate towel woven of cotton which was a perfect miracle of absorbent softness, tendered to him by another kneeling man, he resolutely seated himself upon a moss-grown rock which happened to conveniently protrude itself from the soil close at hand, and proceeded to deal with the matter. he had no difficulty in recognising that tiahuana and motahuana were the two wielders of authority in his escort--which, by the way, he noticed had a persistent trick of arranging itself about him in a tolerably close circle of which he was the centre--he therefore opened the proceedings by remarking: "now, before i go another step i insist upon having a full and explicit explanation of your unwarrantable behaviour in entering my camp last night and abducting me, to the serious detriment of the exceedingly important work upon which i am engaged. you have assured me that i have nothing to fear at your hands, and you appear to be quite satisfied that in abducting me you have got the man you want; but i am as far as ever from understanding what your motive can be. which of you two men is responsible for the outrage?" "i am the responsible one, lord," answered tiahuana. "i, the high priest of the remnant of the ancient peruvian race, now and for many long years established in the city of the sun which, unknown to any but ourselves, lies hidden far away among the mountains. you demand an explanation of what you have termed my unwarrantable action in taking possession of your august person. it is a just and reasonable demand, lord; moreover, it is necessary that you should have it. therefore, let my lord deign to listen to what to him may seem a wild and incredible story, but which is strictly true in every particular. "when in the dim and remote past our lord and father the sun took compassion upon us his people, he sent two of his children--manco capac and mama oello huaco--to earth in order that they might form us into a united and consolidated nation. these two established themselves in a certain spot, the locality of which had been divinely revealed to them by a certain sign--even as your identity, lord, has been revealed to us; and our forefathers gathering about them, the ancient and royal city of cuzco was built, wherein manco capac took up his abode as our first inca. now, manco capac, being of divine origin, was endowed with marvellous wisdom and knowledge, even to the foreseeing of future events; and among the events which he foretold was that of the conquest of our country by the spaniard. he also formulated many wise and righteous laws for the government of the people, which laws were further added to by his successors. "now, with the building of the city of cuzco and his establishment therein as inca, manco assumed royal dignity, and inaugurated a code of stately ceremonial for all those who formed his court and might have occasion to come to it. he also arrayed himself in regal garments and adorned his person with certain regal ornaments, of which the collar now worn by you, lord, was the most important next to the imperial borla, or tasselled fringe of scarlet, adorned with coraquenque feathers, which was the distinguishing insignia of royalty. "when in the fullness of time manco was called home to the mansions of his father the sun, he gave minute instructions, before his departure, as to the disposal of everything belonging to him, including his royal jewels. some of these he ordained were to be deposited with his body in the great temple of the sun at cuzco. but the jewel which you are now wearing, lord, he decreed was to be handed down from inca to inca, even unto the last of the race; and it was so. atahuallpa wore it as he entered the city of caxamalca at the head of his vassals and retinue on the afternoon of that fatal day when he fell into the hands of the treacherous spaniards and, helpless to prevent it, beheld thousands of his unarmed followers slaughtered like sheep in the great square. but he did not wear it on the night when, at the command of the false and treacherous pizarro, he was haled forth himself to die in the great square where so many of his followers had previously perished. nor did it fall into the hands of his captors, thus much was ascertained beyond all possibility of doubt. what became of it nobody could--or would-- say; but on the night of atahuallpa's murder the high priest titucocha suddenly emerged from the great temple of the sun in cuzco and, standing before the entrance, summoned the inhabitants of the city to assemble before him. then he told them that atahuallpa was dead, that the inca dynasty was at an end, and that the great peruvian nation was doomed to pass under the rule of the _conquistadors_, and be swallowed up by them and their descendants. `but not for all time, my children,' he cried. `we have sinned in that we have permitted the spaniards to overrun our country without opposition, instead of utterly destroying them as we might have done; and this is our punishment for not defending the land which our father the sun gave us for our sustenance and enjoyment. but be not dismayed; a remnant of you shall survive, and under my leadership shall retire to a certain place the locality of which has been revealed to me, and there will we build a new city of the sun, the glory of which shall exceed that of cuzco, even as the glory of our lord and father the sun exceeds that of his consort the moon. and in the fullness of time it shall come to pass that manco capac, the founder of our nation, shall be reincarnated and shall appear among us, and he will become our inca, to reign over us as aforetime, and restore the peruvian nation to its pristine power and glory by virtue of his own wisdom and the power of the wealth which we will accumulate for his use. and when he appears ye shall know him from the fact that he will wear about his neck the great emerald collar worn first by himself and afterward by all the incas.' "and behold, lord, as titucocha spake, so hath it all happened. a remnant of the ancient peruvian race survives to this day, untainted by any admixture with the blood of aliens; and while many of them are scattered abroad over the face of the country watching ever for the reappearance of manco capac, the lesser part are gathered together in the city of the sun, founded by titucocha, and now in the very zenith of its magnificence, awaiting the coming of my lord." "so that is the yarn, is it?" exclaimed harry, as tiahuana came to a halt in his narrative. "and a very extraordinary story it is; never heard anything like it in all my life! and i suppose, friend tiahuana, that because i happen to have fished up this collar out of lake chinchaycocha, and am wearing it round my neck because i do not wish to lose it, you identify me as the reincarnated manco capac, eh?" "assuredly, lord," answered tiahuana. "he would indeed be a sceptic who should venture to entertain the shadow of a doubt in the face of proof so complete in all respects as that which has been vouchsafed to us." "ah!" ejaculated harry, bracing himself to demolish this absurd fable, and secure his release at a stroke. "now, i don't understand very much about the doctrine of reincarnation, but i suppose, if i were really manco capac come to earth again, i should have some recollection of my former state of existence, shouldn't i? well, will it surprise you to learn that i have nothing of the sort--not the feeblest glimmer?" "nay, lord," answered tiahuana, "that is not in the least surprising. it often happens that the reincarnated one has no recollection of his former existence until he finds himself amid surroundings similar to those with which he was familiar in his past state; and even then remembrance often comes but slowly. your lack of recollection does not in the least alter facts; and of those facts we have all the proof that can possibly be required. and now, lord, will it please you that we resume our journey? there are many difficulties to be surmounted before we reach the spot at which we must encamp to-night, and it is high time that our march should be resumed." "no," answered harry, "it does not please me that we resume our journey. on the contrary, i refuse to accompany you another step unless you will undertake to convey me back to the camp whence you brought me. if you will do this i am willing to overlook the outrage which you have perpetrated in abducting me, and promise that you shall hear nothing more about it. but if you persist in keeping me a prisoner, i warn you that the british consul will be speedily made acquainted with the facts, and he will never rest until i have been released and every one of you severely punished; and that punishment, let me tell you, will be no joke; for he will take care that it is adequate to the offence. you will be made to understand that even a solitary young englishman like myself cannot be kidnapped with impunity!" "pardon, lord," answered tiahuana with a deprecatory gesture. "i am overwhelmed with distress at having incurred my lord's displeasure; but i must not permit even that to interfere with the discharge of my duty. it is imperative that my lord should accompany us. were we to fail to convey him to the hidden city of the sun we should all be justly put to death; my lord will therefore see that we have no choice in the matter. the only one who has a choice is my lord himself, who can choose whether he will accompany us willingly, or whether we must resort to something in the nature of coercion." as tiahuana spoke the last words he made a sign with his hand, upon which the little band of attendants contracted themselves into a circle of considerably smaller diameter than before, yet still preserving an attitude of the most profound respect. escombe saw at once that the moment was by no means favourable for an attempt to escape; he therefore quickly decided to make the best of things and to submit _pro tem_, with a good grace to what was unavoidable. he accordingly said: "very well; since you are absolutely determined to carry me off, i prefer to accompany you voluntarily. but i warn you that you will all suffer severely for this outrage." it is most regrettable to be obliged to record it, but escombe's threatened invocation of britain's might and majesty seemed to discompose those obstinate indians not at all; to use his own expression when talking of it afterwards, his threats glanced off them as harmlessly as water off a duck's back, and all that they seemed in the least concerned about was his welfare and comfort during the journey. with much solicitude tiahuana enquired whether it would please him to walk or to be carried in the litter. "we would have brought your horse with us for your use, lord," the high priest explained apologetically, "but much of the road before us is impassable for horses or mules--nay, even a llama might scarcely pass it." "oh, that's all right!" answered harry cheerily; "i dare say i can walk as fast and as far as you people can." nevertheless he deeply regretted that they had not thought fit to bring his horse, for he felt that, mounted, he would have had a much better chance of escape than on foot; and this conviction was greatly strengthened when, as the day wore on toward evening and the stiff ascents which they were frequently obliged to negotiate began to tell upon him, he observed how the indians, with their short, quick step, covered mile after mile of the uneven, rocky road, without the slightest apparent effort or any visible sign of distress. then it began to dawn upon him gradually that, even should he find a suitable opportunity to give his custodians the slip, they could easily run him down and recapture him. besides, he was by no means certain that he could now find his way back to the camp. he had not the remotest notion of the direction in which the camp lay, for during many hours of his journey he had been asleep, and the indians were not only continually changing the direction of their travel, but were apparently taking a constant succession of short cuts across country, now winding their way for a mile or two along the face of some dizzy precipice by means of a ledge only a foot or two in width, anon clambering some hundreds of feet up or down an almost vertical rock face, where a slip or a false step meant instant death; now crossing some ghastly chasm by means of a frail and dilapidated suspension bridge constructed of cables of maguey fibres and floored with rotten planking, which swung to the tread until the oscillation threatened to precipitate the entire party into the terrible abyss that yawned beneath them, and perhaps half an hour later forcing their way, slowly and with infinite labour and difficulty, up the boulder-strewn bed of some half-dry mountain stream that was liable at any moment--if there happened to be rain higher up among the hills--to become swollen into a raging, foaming, irresistible torrent, against the impetuous fury of which no man could stand for an instant. to do the indians no more than the barest justice, they were to the last degree solicitous to spare their prisoner the least fatigue, and repeatedly assured him that there was not the slightest necessity for him to walk a single step of the way, while whenever there was the barest possibility of danger there was always a sufficient number of them within arm's reach to render him every required assistance, and to ensure that no harm should possibly befall him. but although continuous travelling hour after hour over such very difficult ground became at last most horribly fatiguing. harry set his teeth and plodded grimly on. he was not going to let "those copper-coloured chaps" suppose that they could tire an englishman out, not he! besides, he wished to become accustomed to the work against the time when the opportunity should come for him to break away successfully and effect his escape. for that he would escape he was resolutely determined. the prospect of being an inca--an absolute monarch whose lightest word was law--had, at that precise moment, no attraction for him. he had not a particle of ambition to become the regenerator of a nation; or, if a scarce-heard whisper reached his mental ear that to become such would be an exceedingly grand thing, he promptly replied that his genius did not lie in that direction, and that any attempt on his part to regenerate anybody must inevitably result in dismal and utter failure. no, he had been sent out to peru by sir philip swinburne to execute certain work, and he would carry out his contract with sir philip in spite of all the indians in the south american continent. as to that story about his being the reincarnated inca, manco capac, harry escombe was one of those estimable persons whose most valued asset is their sound, sterling common sense. he flattered himself that he had not an ounce of romance in his entire composition; and it did not take him a moment to make up his mind that the yarn, from end to end, was the veriest nonsense imaginable. he laughed aloud--a laugh of mingled scorn and pity for the stupendous ignorance of these poor savages, isolated from all the rest of the world, and evidently priding themselves, as such isolated communities are apt to do, upon their immeasurable superiority to everybody else. then he happened to think of the exquisitely wrought service of gold plate off which he had fed that day, and the wonderfully fine quality of the material of the priests' clothing; and he began to modify his opinion somewhat. a people with the taste and skill needed to produce such superb goldsmith's work and such beautiful cloth--soft and smooth as silk, yet as warm as and very much finer than any woollen material that he had ever seen--could scarcely be classed as mere savages; they must certainly possess some at least of the elements of civilisation. and then those "second thoughts", which are proverbially best, or more just, gradually usurped in young escombe's mind his first crude ideas relative to the ignorance and benighted condition generally of the inhabitants of the unknown city of the sun. and as they did so, a feeling of curiosity to see for himself that wonderful city gradually took root, and began to spring up and strengthen within him. why should he not? he asked himself. the only obstacle which stood in the way was his duty to sir philip swinburne to complete the work which he had been sent out to do. but after all, when he came to consider the matter dispassionately, his absence--his enforced absence--was not likely to prejudice appreciably sir philip's interests; for the railway survey was very nearly completed, and what remained to be done was simple in the extreme compared with what had already been accomplished, and there was bannister--a thoroughly capable man--to do it. and as to the soundings on lake titicaca, they were simply child's play--anybody could take them! no, it was only his own conceit that had caused him to think that his absence, especially at the existing state of the survey, would be in the least inimical to sir philip's interests; it would be nothing of the kind. bannister could finish the work as satisfactorily as he-- escombe--could, probably much more so! it will be seen, from these arguments--which were in the main perfectly sound--that mr henry escombe, having conceived the idea that he would like to have a peep at the mysterious city of the sun, was now endeavouring to reconcile himself as thoroughly as might be to what was rapidly assuming to him the appearance of the inevitable; for with every step that the party took, it was being borne with increasing clearness upon his inner consciousness that to escape was already impossible. for, first of all, their route had been over such trackless wastes that, despite the keenness with which he had noted the appearance of every conspicuous object passed, they were all so very much alike that he had the gravest doubts as to his ability to find his way back to the camp without a guide. and if he were to attempt it and should lose his way, there could be very little doubt that he would perish miserably of exposure and starvation in that wilderness, where not even so much as a solitary hut had been sighted throughout the day. but, apart from this, and granting for the moment that his memory might be trusted to guided him aright, there were places to be passed and obstacles to be overcome which he admitted to himself he would not care to attempt unaided unless he were in actual peril of his life, and the assurances of tiahuana had completely set his mind at rest on that score. the thought of invoking arima's assistance came to him for a moment, only to be dismissed the next, however; for, faithful and devoted as the indian had proved himself in the past, harry remembered that it was through his instrumentality and direct intervention that all the pother had arisen. arima seemed to be as completely convinced as any of the others that harry was the person foreordained to restore the ancient peruvian nation to its former power and splendour, and escombe knew enough of the fellow's character to feel certain that he would not permit personal feeling to interfere with so glorious a consummation. it seemed, then, as though fate, or destiny, or whatever one pleased to call it, willed that he--harry escombe--should see the mysterious city; and he finally concluded that, taking everything into consideration, perhaps the wisest thing would be to go quietly and with as much semblance of goodwill as possible, since it appeared that no other course was open to him. this thought naturally suggested others, each more wild and extravagant than the last, until by the time that the party at length reached the camping ground that had been their objective all through the day, the young englishman discovered, to his unqualified amazement, that not only did there exist within him a strong vein of hitherto entirely unsuspected romance--awakened and brought to light by the extraordinary nature of the adventure of which he was the hero--but also that, quite unconsciously to himself, his views relative to the exigency and binding character of his engagement to sir philip swinburne had become so far modified that it no longer appeared imperatively necessary for him to jeopardise his life in a practically hopeless endeavour to escape. the journey had been an up-and-down one all day, that is to say, the party had been either climbing or descending almost the whole of the time; the general tendency, however, had been distinctly upward, and when at length a bare, rocky plateau was reached about sunset, affording ample space upon which to camp, the greatly increased keenness of the atmosphere indicated a net rise of probably some two or three thousand feet. the scene was one of almost indescribable but dreary grandeur, titanic peaks crowned with snow and ice towering high on every hand, divided by gorges of immeasurable depth, their sides for the most part shaggy with pine forests, and never a sign of human habitation to be seen, nor indeed any sign of life in any form, save where, here and there, a small moving blotch on the distant landscape indicated the presence of a flock of huanacos or vicunas; but even these were but few, for the travellers had not yet reached the lofty frozen wastes where alone the ychu grass is found, which is therefore the favoured habitat of those animals. escombe now had fresh evidence of the foresight exercised by his escort in providing for his comfort and welfare; for no sooner had the precise spot been selected upon which to camp than from among the baggage borne by the attendants a small tent made of cloth woven from vicuna wool was produced and erected upon jointed bamboo poles; and in a few minutes, with his litter placed inside it to serve as a bed, and a lighted talc lantern suspended from the ridge pole, the young man was able to enter and make himself quite at home. nor was he at all sorry; for although he had now been accustomed for several months to be on his feet all day long, day after day, and up to that moment had regarded himself as in the very pink of condition as to toughness and wiriness, the past day's journey had been a revelation to him in the matter of endurance. he had never before in his life experienced anything like the intense fatigue which now racked every joint in his body; and, ravenously hungry as he was, he felt that it would scarcely be possible for him to remain awake long enough to get a meal. but those wonderful indians appeared to have foreseen everything. loaded as most of them were with heavy burdens in addition, to their weapons, they had each gradually accumulated a very respectable bundle of firewood during the progress of their march; and while one party had been erecting the tent and arranging its interior for harry's occupation, a second had been busily engaged in lighting a roaring fire, while a third had been still more busily occupied in preparing the wherewithal to furnish forth a most appetising and acceptable evening meal, which, when placed before the prospective inca, was found to consist of broiled vicuna chops, delicious bread, mountain honey, fruit, and chocolate. by the time that the meal was ready night had completely fallen, a bitterly keen and piercing wind from the eastward had arisen and came swooping down from the frozen wastes above in savage gusts that momentarily threatened to whirl the frail tent and its occupant into space, and hurl them into one of the many unfathomable abysses that yawned around the party, while, to add to the general discomfort, the wind brought with it a dank, chilling fog, thick as a blanket, that penetrated everywhere and left on everything great beads of icy moisture like copious dew. but escombe was too unutterably weary to let any of these things trouble him. sleep was what every fibre of his body was crying aloud for; and he had no sooner finished his meal than, leaving all responsibility for the safety and welfare of the party in the hands of the two priests, he hurriedly divested himself of his clothing, and snuggling into his warm and comfortable bed-litter, instantly sank into absolute unconsciousness, his last coherent thought being a vague wonder how he would fare in such a place and on such a night if, instead of being under the care and protection of the indians, he had chanced to be a lonely and houseless fugitive from them. chapter ten. the valley of mystery. when young escombe next morning awoke from the soundest sleep that he had ever enjoyed in his life he at once became aware, from the motion of the litter, that his indian friends were already on the move; and when, in obedience to his command, they halted to enable him to dress and partake of breakfast, a single glance, as he stepped forth from the litter into the keen air, sufficed to assure him that they must have been in motion for at least three or four hours, for the sun had already topped the peaks of the andes, and the aspect of the landscape surrounding him was entirely unfamiliar. not a trace of the spot where they had camped during the preceding night was to be seen, and there was no indication of the direction in which it lay; which fact tended still further to drive home to the young man a conviction of the folly of attempting to find his way back to the survey party alone and unaided. the journey that day was in all essential respects a counterpart of that of the day before. tiahuana, who was evidently the leader of the expedition in a double sense, chose his own route, making use of the regular roads only at very infrequent intervals, and then for comparatively short distances, soon abandoning them again for long stretches across country where no semblance of a path of any description was to be found. as on the preceding day, he skirted, climbed, or descended precipices without hesitation, crossing ravines, ascending gorges, and, in fact, he took the country pretty much as it came, guiding the party apparently by means of landmarks known only to himself, but, on the whole, steadily ascending and steadily forcing his way ever deeper into the heart of the stupendous mountain labyrinth that lay to the eastward. and ever as they went the air grew keener and more biting, the aspect of the country wilder and more desolate, the _quebradas_ more appalling in their fathomless depth. the precipices became more lofty and difficult to scale, the mountain torrents more impetuous and dangerous to cross, the primitive suspension bridges more dilapidated and precarious, the patches of timber and vegetation more tenuous, the flocks of huanaco and vicuna larger and more frequent, the way more savage and forbidding, the storms more frequent and terrible, until at length it began to appear to escombe as though the party had become entangled in a wilderness from which escape in any direction was impossible, and wherein they must all quickly perish in consequence of the unendurable rigours of the climate. yet tiahuana still pushed indomitably forward, overcoming obstacle after obstacle that, to anyone less experienced than himself in the peculiarities of the country and the mode of travel in it, must have seemed unconquerable. for ten more days--which to the indians must have seemed endless by reason of the awful toil, the frightful suffering, and the intense misery that were concentrated in them, although, thanks to the sublime self sacrifice of his escort, escombe was permitted to feel very little of them--the priest led the way over vast glaciers, across unfathomable crevasses, and up apparently unscalable heights, battling all the time with whirling snow storms that darkened the air, blinded the eyes, and obliterated every landmark, and buffeted by furious winds that came roaring and shrieking along the mountain side and momentarily threatened to snatch the party from their precarious hold and hurl them to destruction on the great gaunt rocks far below, while the cold was at times so terrible that to continue to live in it seemed impossible. about the middle of the afternoon of the twelfth day after leaving the survey camp, the party topped a ridge and saw before them a long, steep, smooth slope of snow, frozen hard by a night of almost deadly frost; and a sigh of intense relief and thankfulness broke from the breasts of the utterly exhausted indians. without wasting a moment, they proceeded to open and unpack a certain bale which formed part of the baggage which they had brought with them, and drew from it a number of llama skins. these they spread out flat on the crest of the snow slope, with the hair side upward, and then the entire party carefully seated themselves upon them--two men to each skin, one behind the other--when, with a little assistance from the hands of the occupants, the skins started to glide smoothly over the surface of the snow, slowly at first, but with swiftly increasing velocity, until the descent of the party became a sweeping, breathless, exhilarating flight, speedy as that of a falcon swooping upon its prey. the riders sat cross-legged upon the skins, and to escombe--who was piloted by tiahuana--it seemed that the slightest inclination, right or left as the case might be, throwing a trifle more weight on one knee than the other, and thus causing one part of the skin to press more hardly than another upon the snow, was all that was needed for steering purposes; for the toboggan-like skins swept downward straight as the flight of an arrow, save when some black fang of rock protruded through the snow fair in the track, when a slight slope of the body sufficed to cause a swerve that carried the adventurous riders safely clear of the obstacle. to escombe this headlong, breathless swoop down the slope seemed to last but a few seconds, yet during those few seconds the party had travelled nearly three miles and descended some three thousand feet. the slide terminated at last upon the very edge of the snow-line, where it met a mile-wide meadow thickly clothed with lush grass and bountifully spangled with lovely flowers, many of which were quite new to the young englishman. for some minutes the entire party, as with one consent, remained sitting motionless just where their impromptu toboggans had come to a halt; for they felt that they needed a certain amount of time in which to become accustomed to the glorious change that had been wrought by that three- mile glissade. above and behind them were furious tempest, deadly cold, and never-ceasing danger; while here was perfect safety, cloudless sunshine, grateful warmth, and surroundings of surpassing beauty. the meadow upon which they rested sloped gently away before them for about a mile, where it appeared to plunge abruptly down into a thickly wooded ravine, beyond which shot up a long, rocky ridge, the slopes of which appeared to be absolutely inaccessible; for, search as escombe might with the aid of his telescope, nowhere could he detect so much as a single speck of snow to indicate the presence of even the smallest ledge or inequality in the face of the rock. this ridge, or range, stretched away to right and left of the spot where the party had come to a halt, retiring to the eastward, as it went, in a tolerably regular curve, until the cusps, if such there were, swept out of sight behind the nearer ridge. at length escombe rose from his llama skin and, with an ejaculation of inexpressible relief, began to slap his still benumbed hands together, and vigorously rub his stiffened limbs, in order to restore feeling and warmth to them; whereupon tiahuana also rose and gave the order to re- pack the skins prior to resuming the journey. a few minutes later the entire party were once more on the march, moving rapidly athwart the meadow toward the ravine, and within a quarter of an hour they were in the ravine itself, clambering down the steep slope of its hither side toward where the sound of rushing water began to make itself heard with increasing distinctness. another ten minutes, after a wild and breathless downward scramble among the trunks of thick-growing pine trees, brought them to the margin of a wide and turbulent mountain torrent that in the course of ages had scored a deep channel for itself right down the centre of the ravine. the bed of the stream was thickly strewed with enormous boulders, moss-grown upon their upper surfaces where drenched with the everlasting spray, and between these the turbid waters from the melting snow on the heights above leapt and foamed with a clamour and fury that rendered conversation impossible, and threatened instant death to the foolhardy adventurer who should attempt to cross them. yet those indomitable indians somehow contrived to win a passage across; and half an hour later the entire party stood safely on the opposite side. then followed a long and toilsome scramble up the other side of the ravine, the top of which was not reached until the sun had set and darkness had fallen upon the scene. but, at the top of the ravine and clear of the trees, they found themselves on a grassy slope very similar in character to that which they had encountered on the other side of the stream, and there, fatigued to the point of exhaustion by their long and arduous day's travel, they went into camp, prepared and partook of their evening meal, and at once resigned themselves to a long night of repose under conditions of infinitely greater comfort than they had enjoyed for many days past. escombe's sleep that night was unusually sound, even after making every allowance for the excessive fatigue of the past day; in fact he had not slept so soundly and so long since the night of his abduction from the survey camp. when at length he awoke he found himself labouring under the same feeling of puzzlement that had oppressed him on that eventful morning; for when consciousness again returned to him and, opening his eyes, he looked about him, he at once became aware that his surroundings were very different from what he had expected. it is true that he still occupied the litter in which he had retired to rest on the previous evening, but a single glance was sufficient to show him that the litter was no longer in the little tent which had then sheltered it; the tent was gone, and the litter, or couch, upon which he lay comfortably stretched now stood in a room lighted by a single window in the wall, facing the foot of the couch. the window was unglazed, and apparently had no window frame; it seemed in fact to be no more than a mere rectangular aperture in a thick stone wall through which the sun, already some hours high in the sky, was pouring his genial rays into the room. the couch stood so low on the floor that from it nothing could be seen of the landscape outside save a glimpse of a range of serrated peaks, touched here and there with snow that gleamed dazzlingly white in the brilliant sunshine. urged therefore by surprise at the mysterious change that had been wrought in his surroundings while he slept, and curious to ascertain where he now was, harry sprang from his couch and went to the open window, out of which he gazed in an ecstasy of astonishment and admiration. for his eyes rested upon the most glorious landscape that he had ever beheld. he discovered that the building in which he so strangely found himself stood at one extremity of an enormous, basin-like valley, roughly oval in shape, some thirty miles long by twenty miles in width, completely hemmed in on every side by a range of lofty hills averaging, according to his estimate, from three to four thousand feet in height. the centre of the valley was occupied by a most lovely lake about fifteen miles long by perhaps ten miles wide, dotted here and there with fairy-like islets, some of which were crowned by little clumps of trees, while others appeared to be covered with handsome buildings. but that was only a part of the wonder! at the far end of the lake he could distinctly see--so exquisitely clear and transparent was that crystalline atmosphere--the general outline and formation of a large and doubtless populous town built on the margin of the lake, his attention being at once attracted to it by the strong flash and gleam of the sun upon several of the roofs of the buildings, which had all the appearance of being covered with sheets of gold! from this city broad white roads shaded by handsome trees ran right round the margin of the lake, and for a mile or two on either side of the city, glimpses could be had of detached buildings embosomed in spacious gardens, forming a kind of suburb of the city; while the entire remainder of the valley, and the sides of the hills for a distance of about one-third of their height, were entirely laid out as orchards, pasture, and cultivated land, the appearance of the whole strongly suggesting that the utmost had been made of every inch of available space. as escombe stood gazing, enraptured at the surpassing beauty of the panorama thus spread out before him, the sound of approaching footsteps reached his ear, and, turning round, he beheld arima entering the room. the indian made the profound obeisance usual with him upon entering harry's presence, and enquired: "is it the will of my lord that he now bathe, dress, and partake of breakfast?" "yes, by all means," answered harry, "for i have somehow managed to oversleep myself again, and am ravenously hungry. but, arima, what means this? how do i come to be here? and what town is that which i see yonder at the far end of the lake?" "as my lord has truly said, he slept long this morning, being doubtless greatly fatigued with the toilsome journey of yesterday," answered arima smoothly, with another profound bow. "therefore, when the hour arrived to break camp and resume our march it was tiahuana's order that my lord should not be disturbed, but should be allowed to sleep on and take a full measure of rest; and therefore was my lord brought hither to this house, there to sojourn and recruit himself after the fatigues and hardships of his long journey, while tiahuana went forward to the city of the sun--which my lord sees yonder at the head of the valley--to acquaint the council with the success of our expedition, and to make the necessary arrangements for my lord's reception by the inhabitants of the city. if it be my lord's will, i will now conduct him to the bath, which i have made ready for him." "so that is the city of the sun, is it?" remarked harry, still gazing admiringly at the enchanting view from the window. "i guessed as much; and it appears to be fully worthy of its name. all right, arima," he continued, tearing himself reluctantly away; "yes, i will have my bath now. where is it?" "if my lord will be pleased to follow i will show it him," answered the indian, with the inevitable bow, as he led the way out of the room. they passed into a long stone corridor, lighted at each end by an unglazed window, and, traversing the length of it, entered another room, much larger than the first, stone paved, and having a large plunge-bath full of crystal-clear water, sunk into the floor at one end. the room was unfurnished, save for a plain wooden bench, or seat, a soft woollen mat for the bather to stand on when emerging from the bath, and a few pegs along the wall, from which harry's own clothes and three or four very large bath towels depended. this room also was illuminated by a large, unglazed window through which the sun-rays streamed, warming the atmosphere of the apartment to a most delightful temperature. harry therefore made no delay, but forthwith discarded his pyjama suit and at once plunged headlong into the cool, refreshing water. to dress and take breakfast were the next things in order; and half an hour later escombe rose from the table like a giant refreshed, amid the obsequious bows of his attendants. then motahuana stepped forward and, prefacing his speech with another bow, said: "lord, i have been commanded by tiahuana to say that, knowing well how anxious the inhabitants of the city of the sun will be to learn the issue of this expedition, he has presumed to hasten forward to apprise them that all is well, without waiting until my lord awoke to mention his intention and crave my lord's permission to absent himself; for the way is long, and my lord slept late this morning. the high priest also bade me say that he will probably be absent at least four days, for there are many preparations to be made in connection with my lord's triumphal entrance into his city, and his reception by his rejoicing people. my lord will therefore have time to rest and recover his strength after the fatigue of his arduous journey; and it is the prayer of tiahuana that he will do so, since there will be much to fatigue my lord in the various ceremonies attendant upon his ascent of the throne of the ancient incas." "thanks, motahuana," answered harry; "but i am not in the least fatigued by what i have gone through during the last twelve days. if anyone were suffering from fatigue it should be yourself and tiahuana, for you are both well advanced in years, while i am young and strong, and, so far from being fatigued, i feel quite fresh after my long and refreshing night's sleep; so much so, indeed, that i was just thinking how much i should enjoy a walk down into that lovely valley. i suppose there is no objection to my doing so?" "my lord is monarch of the valley and all within it," answered motahuana with another bow and an expressive throwing apart of the hands. "all is his; his will is absolute in all things; he has but to express a wish, and we his slaves will gladly do our best to gratify it. if my lord desires to go forth into the open, either on foot or in his litter, he has but to say so, and we his slaves will make the path smooth for him or bear him upon our shoulders, as may seem best to him. but it will be well that my lord should not venture too far into the valley, for he is a stranger; and it is undesirable, on many accounts, that he should be seen by the inhabitants of the valley until all preparations have been made for his public reception." "oh, very well!" returned escombe. "i have no desire to go very far; a walk of a mile or two from the house, and back, with arima as my only attendant, to show me the way and answer questions, will satisfy me." whereupon motahuana, with another bow, turned away and addressed a few quick words to arima in a tongue which was strange to escombe, after which the indian fetched the young englishman's hat and signified his readiness to attend the latter whithersoever he might be pleased to go. harry's first act, upon getting outside the house, was to walk away from it some fifty feet, and then turn round and stare at the building to which he had been so mysteriously conveyed while asleep. he saw before him simply a solid, rectangular, stone--built structure, plain almost to the point of ugliness, for it had not a single projection of any kind to mitigate the severity of its simplicity, not even so much as a window sill; and it was thatched!--not with the trim neatness characteristic of some of our charmingly picturesque country cottages in england, but in a slovenly, happy-go-lucky style, that seemed to convey the idea that, so long as a roof was weather-proof, it did not in the least matter what it looked like. the windows were simply rectangular holes in the thick stone walls, unglazed, and without even a frame; but now that escombe was outside he was able to see that each window was provided with a shutter, something like the jalousies fitted to the houses in most tropical and sub-tropical countries, to keep out the rain. the only thing remarkable about the house, apart from its extreme plainness, was the fact that it appeared to be cut out of a single enormous block of stone; and it was not until he went close up to it, and examined it minutely, that he discovered it to be built of blocks of stone dressed to fit each other with such marvellous precision that the joints were practically invisible. having satisfied his curiosity thus far, escombe looked about him at his surroundings generally. he found that the house to which he had been brought stood at the extreme end of the extraordinary basin-like valley, immediately opposite to the city of the sun, which occupied the other end, and he naturally concluded that the entrance to the valley must be somewhere not very far distant from the spot on which he stood. but, look as he would, he could see nothing in the remotest degree resembling a pass through those encircling sierras, the upper portion of the sides of which appeared to be everywhere practically vertical, without even as much projection or ledge anywhere as would afford foothold to a goat. nor was there the least semblance of a road or path of any description leading to the house, save a narrow and scarcely perceptible footpath leading down to the great road which encompassed the lake. harry turned to the indian. "those hills appear to be everywhere quite impassable, arima," he said. "where is the road by which we came over them?" "it is not permitted to me to say, lord," answered arima with a deprecatory bow. "there is but one known way of passing to and from the outside world, and that way is a jealously guarded secret, communicated to but few, who are solemnly sworn to secrecy. it is regarded by the council as of the first importance that the secret should be preserved intact, as it is known that rumours of the existence of the city of the sun have reached the outer world, and more than one attempt has been made to find it. but we are all pure-blooded peruvians of the ancient race here, and it is a tradition with us to keep ourselves uncontaminated by any admixture of alien blood, therefore every possible precaution is taken to maintain the most absolute secrecy as to the way by which the valley of the sun is entered and left." "but if that is so, why has tiahuana brought me here?" demanded harry. "i am an alien, you know; yet, as i understand it, i have been brought here to rule over you all!" "yes, it is even so, lord," answered arima. "but my lord is an alien only by an accident of birth, which must not be allowed to interfere with the fact that my lord is in very truth the reincarnation of manco capac, our first inca and the founder of the peruvian nation." "in that case," said harry, "it is but meet and right that i should know the secret way into the outer world. surely what is known to several of my subjects should also be known to me?" "undoubtedly, lord," answered the indian; "and the information will certainly be imparted to my lord in due time, when he has been accepted and proclaimed inca by the council of seven. but i have no authority to impart that information, and i implore my lord that he will not urge me to do so and thus break the solemn oath of secrecy which i have sworn." "very well, arima, let it be so," answered harry. "doubtless, as you say, i shall be informed in due time; and meanwhile you are perfectly right to remain true to the oath which you have sworn. now, let us get down into the valley. after scrambling up and down mountain sides for so many days, i have a longing to walk on a smooth and level road once more." the footpath from the house to the main road sloped obliquely along the face of the hill, descending by a tolerably easy gradient for a distance of about a mile before it joined the road at a depth of some three hundred feet below the level of the house. upon reaching the road, which, be it remembered, completely encircled the lake, escombe had yet another opportunity to note the thoroughness with which the peruvians did their work, and the inexhaustible patience which they brought to bear upon it. for this road, approximating to one hundred miles in length, was constructed of a uniform width of about one hundred feet, apparently also of uniform gradient--for in some parts it was raised on a low embankment, while in others it passed through more or less shallow cuttings--and with just the right amount of camber to quickly throw off the rainwater into the broad gutters or watercourses that were built on either side of it. the most remarkable feature of the road, however, was that it was paved throughout with broad flags of stone, which, like the blocks of which the house was built, were so accurately fitted together that the joints could only be found with difficulty. the young englishman spent some three hours sauntering along that magnificent road, enjoying the pure air, the genial temperature, and the sight of the superb panorama that hemmed him in on every side, pausing often to note the clever system of irrigation adopted by the inhabitants, whereby every square inch of cultivable soil could at any moment receive precisely the right quantity of water to satisfy its requirements; admiring, with the eye of an engineer, the workmanship displayed in the construction of the ample culverts whereby all excess of water was promptly discharged into the lake; and marvelling at the varied nature of the agricultural products of the valley; for it seemed to him that, in the comparatively circumscribed space between the margin of the lake and the highest point on the mountain slope to which the barest handful of soil could be induced to cling, there were to be found examples of every vegetable product known to the sub-tropical and temperate zones, while it was a never-ceasing source of astonishment to him that such enormous numbers of cattle and sheep were apparently able to find ample sustenance on the proportionately small quantity of land allotted to pasture. what seemed to him somewhat remarkable was that, while cattle, sheep, and even horses were apparently plentiful in the valley, he saw no llamas; but it was afterwards explained to him that the climate there was altogether too mild for them, and that the enormous herds owned by the inhabitants were kept in the highlands on the other side of the encircling mountains. chapter eleven. the city of the sun. on the afternoon of the fourth day following tiahuana's departure, about an hour before sunset, as escombe was about to enter the house after a somewhat longer walk than usual in the valley, he paused for a moment at the head of the footpath to take a last, long look at the lovely landscape, with the leading features of which he was now becoming tolerably familiar, when his wandering gaze was arrested by the glint of the sunlight upon what had the appearance of a number of rapidly moving objects indistinctly seen about a mile distant among the low spreading branches of the trees which lined the great road leading from the city of the sun. "hillo, arima," he said to the indian who was his sole attendant, "who comes here? are they soldiers? do you see that flash and glitter yonder among the trees? to me it has the appearance of sun-glint upon spear points and military accoutrements." arima looked for a moment, and then replied: "without question it is so, lord. doubtless it is tiahuana returning with the bodyguard which is to escort my lord the inca on the occasion of his triumphal entry into the city of the sun." "but those fellows are surely mounted, arima!" said escombe. "the movement is that of cavalry; and--listen!--unless i am greatly mistaken, i can hear the clatter of hoofs on the stone pavement of the road." "it is even so, lord," answered the indian. "the bodyguard of my lord the inca consists of a thousand picked men, mounted on the finest horses that it is possible to breed in the valley." "but i have always understood," said harry, "that you peruvians did not believe in mounted men, and that it was, in fact, as much due to your terror of the mounted spaniards as anything else that you were vanquished in the old days. but i am forgetting; you knew nothing of horses then, did you?" "my lord says truth," answered arima. "we had no horses in peru until the spaniards brought them. but since then we have learned the value of horses, and i understand that the inhabitants of the valley have devoted especial attention to the breeding of them, even from the date of the foundation of the city." "and with a marvellous success, i should say, if one may judge from the appearance of the animals yonder," remarked harry enthusiastically, as he watched the approaching horsemen. the cavalcade had by this time reached the junction of the footpath with the road, and, debouching on to the former, or rather on to the hillside which it traversed, breasted the slope at a gallop, presenting as it did so a superb and inspiriting picture of eager, prancing, satin-skinned, gaily caparisoned, foam-flecked horses, bestridden by lithe, sinewy forms gorgeous in their blue and gold uniforms, and a-glitter with their burnished copper shields, swords, maces, and lance-heads. at their head rode tiahuana in his long, white, gold-embroidered robe and mitre-like head--dress as chief priest, gallantly holding his own with the magnificently attired commander of the regiment; and in the centre of the cortege there appeared an open litter--somewhat similar to a sedan chair with the top part removed--entirely covered with burnished plates of gold and silver, hammered into a bold but very intricate pattern, while the interior was lined with richly coloured feathers also arranged in a very elaborate design. this structure was supported before and behind by a pair of long, springy poles or shafts, to which were harnessed six white horses, three abreast, the harness and trappings of the animals being blue, elaborately embroidered with gold, while the headstall of each horse was decorated with a plume of half a dozen long blue feathers. the middle horse of each trio--that which ran between the shafts--was ridden by a postilion, who guided and controlled all three of the horses under his charge. while the gorgeous cavalcade was still some distance away, motahuana came running out of the house, babbling the most earnest and urgent entreaties that harry would be graciously pleased to enter the house forthwith, as it was not meet that the members of the inca's bodyguard should set eyes upon their sovereign lord until the latter should be attired in the robes of his regal rank; and harry, already painfully aware of the dilapidated condition of the jacket and knickers in which he had accomplished the march from the survey camp, fully agreeing with him, hastily retreated to the interior of the building and, standing well back from the window, where he was concealed in the deep shadow, interestedly watched the movements of his regiment as it went into camp on a little plateau at the rear of the house. but the troopers had scarcely begun to unsaddle before tiahuana, still hot and dusty from his long ride, entered the house, followed by a servant bearing a large bundle. and a few minutes later the old fellow entered the room where harry was standing and, having first made his obeisances, respectfully invited the young englishman to retire to his sleeping room, there to don certain garments more suitable to his rank and state than those which he was wearing, in order that he might be ready to receive the lord umu, commander of the royal bodyguard, who was represented to be dying of impatience to do homage to his sovereign lord. with another glance at his ragged and disreputable garments, harry smilingly admitted the desirability of the change, and followed tiahuana into the chamber where arima, now formally confirmed in his rank and position of chief valet and body servant of the new inca, awaited his master. ten minutes later, attired in white skin-tight pantaloons which were also stockings; a shirt of white wool, of so marvellously fine a texture that it was thin, soft, and light as silk; a fine white wool sleeveless tunic, the material of which was stiff and almost completely hidden by an elaborately embroidered pattern in heavy gold thread, and which was confined to the waist by a broad white leather belt, also heavily embroidered in gold and fastened by a massive and exquisitely chased gold clasp; with soft, white, gold-embroidered boots on his feet, reaching halfway up to the knee; with the royal borla, or tasselled fringe of scarlet adorned with two feathers from the coraquenque bound round his temples, and the emerald collar of manco capac--which he had fished up from the mud of lake chinchaycocha--round his neck and hanging down over the breast of his tunic, young escombe was led by tiahuana into the largest room in the house. here, seated upon an extemporised throne, and with his feet resting upon a footstool of solid gold, massively chiselled in an elaborate and particularly graceful scroll-work pattern, hastily brought in from the imperial litter, he presently received not only umu, the captain of the royal bodyguard, but also some half-dozen other nobles who had come from the city of the sun to pay their homage to their re-incarnated lord and sovereign, manco capac. these individuals were introduced, one by one, by tiahuana, who, as each person presented himself in the doorway, loudly proclaimed the rank and titles of the visitor, who then, barefooted, and carrying a light burden upon his shoulders as an act of humility in the presence of his sovereign, slowly advanced, with head and body humbly bent, until he reached the footstool, when he knelt down on the bare stone floor and kissed, first the hands and then the feet of the young inca; after which, still kneeling, he murmured a few words expressive of joy, gratitude, and devotion at the condescension of the great manco in deigning to return to earth for the purpose of regenerating the ancient peruvian nation. then he rose to his feet and, with more bows, retired to make way for the next. the whole ceremony was exceedingly brief, not occupying much more than a quarter of an hour altogether; but, brief as it was, it constituted in itself an education for harry, who, as he witnessed the almost slavish humility of the demeanour of these proud and haughty nobles toward him, now began to realise, for the first time, the tremendous power to which he had been raised by a most unique and extravagant freak of fortune. and it did him good; for it set him to think seriously of the enormous responsibility which he had almost unwittingly incurred when he so light-heartedly allowed himself to become enmeshed in the toils of the adventure, and caused him to make many very excellent resolutions as to the manner in which he would discharge that responsibility. with the coming of dawn on the following morning the camp of the royal bodyguard suddenly awoke to strenuous life and activity. the troopers, attired only in thin shirts, riding their barebacked horses down to the lake, where the animals were watered and bathed in preparation for the return journey to the city of the sun. then, having returned to the camp, the horses were carefully groomed and fed, after which the troopers spent a busy hour in examining and burnishing their arms and accoutrements. for this was the great day upon which the re-incarnated inca was to make his triumphal entry into his capital, the new holy and royal city which, during a period of over three hundred and fifty years, his people had been patiently building and extending and decorating and enriching in order that it might be worthy the reception of the monarch when it should please him to return to earth. it was to be the day of days, the first day in the history of a great, glorious, regenerated nation, in which much was to be done, and that in a manner which would becomingly adorn the first page of that history. then everybody, including harry--who, meanwhile had bathed and dressed--partook of breakfast; after which the final preparations for the journey were completed. then tiahuana and umu, having first craved audience of their lord, presented themselves before harry to intimate respectfully that there were two alternative methods of travel open to him, namely by horse litter or on horseback, and to crave humbly that he would be pleased to indicate which of the two he would choose. to which harry, who was by this time beginning to enter thoroughly into the spirit of the adventure, replied that, since the task had been laid upon him of restoring the ancient peruvian race to its former power and splendour, and that, before this could be accomplished it would be necessary for him to lead his troops many times to battle, it was his will to make his first appearance among his subjects on horseback, as a warrior, at the head of his own bodyguard; a reply which created a perfect furore of enthusiasm among the other nobles, and the troopers of the royal bodyguard, when it was communicated to them by tiahuana and umu. that the possibility of such a choice on the part of their new inca had not been altogether unanticipated was soon apparent; for umu presently returned to the house, bearing on a cushion of azure blue--which it appeared was the royal colour--trimmed with a heavy cord of bullion and with a bullion tassel at each corner, a sword of hardened and burnished copper, with a hilt of solid gold elaborately chased, and encased in a scabbard of solid gold, also most magnificently chased. this he presented on bended knees to tiahuana, who, in his capacity of high priest, then knelt before harry and girded the weapon to his side, after which arima came forward with a long roll of extraordinarily fine silk- like cloth woven in bands of many different colours in which, however, scarlet and azure predominated. this was the llautu, or turban, which the indian at once proceeded with deft fingers to bind about his royal master's head in such a manner as to afford complete protection from the ardent rays of the sun while leaving the borla, or tasselled fringe of scarlet, which was really the royal diadem, fully exposed to view. a woollen mantle of almost silken texture, azure blue in colour, with a very broad border of gold embroidery, and with more gold embroidery on the shoulders and halfway down the back, was next laid upon his shoulders and secured at the throat by a pair of massive gold clasps and chain, and escombe was fully equipped for the road. and a very handsome and gallant figure he looked as, tall, lithe, and slim, and clad in all his barbaric finery, he stepped out of the house into the dazzling sunshine, to be greeted with a deafening shout of welcome from the officers and troopers of his bodyguard, who were already mounted and drawn up in a double line for his inspection. so obviously was this expected of him that harry needed no hint to that effect, but, vaulting lightly into the saddle of the magnificent white stallion that, gorgeously caparisoned, chafed and fretted under the restraint of his bridle, held by two of the nobles, while two more held the heavy gold stirrups for the royal rider's feet, wheeled his steed and cantered gaily off to where umu, sitting bolt upright in his saddle with drawn sword, waited in the centre, and some few paces in front of the regiment, to receive him. that the military usages of the more civilised nations had not been permitted to pass altogether unnoticed now became apparent; for as harry approached umu uttered a loud shout of command, and at the word every sword flashed up in salute in the most approved fashion, while a band of mounted musicians blared forth certain weird strains which, the young inca subsequently learned, was the national anthem of the ancient peruvians. accompanied by umu, harry now rode to the right flank of the regiment, from whence he proceeded slowly along the front rank and finally the rear, noting critically the appearance and bearing of the men, and gauging the breed and quality of the horses as he went. the horses were, without exception, splendid animals, while the men were, for the most part, fine, stalwart fellows, well set up; but, accustomed as escombe had been to the sight of the life guards and other crack cavalry regiments in london, he could not avoid seeing that there was plenty of room for improvement in the appearance and discipline generally of his own bodyguard. yet it was glaringly apparent to him that umu, their captain, was inordinately proud of his regiment; and the new inca was by no means untactful. wherefore, having completed his inspection, harry spoke a few well-considered words of praise that rang sufficiently true to make umu his devoted slave henceforward, while the faint suggestion conveyed that the praise was not quite unqualified impressed the indian noble with a sense of the high standard of perfection that must exist in the young monarch's mind, and caused him there and then to register a silent vow that the regiment should be brought up to that standard, even though he should be obliged to kill every man of it in the process. by the time that the inspection was completed the priests and nobles had climbed into their saddles, and everything was ready for the commencement of the march. harry therefore gave the word to umu, who in turn uttered a few sharp orders to the men, whereupon the ranks closed up. the horses pranced and tossed their heads as they wheeled into line, and the cavalcade proceeded, the band leading the way, followed by a solitary horseman in gorgeous array who bore proudly aloft the inca's banner--a blue silk flag embroidered in gold and coloured thread with an image of the rainbow, which was the symbol sacred to the inca, and trimmed with heavy gold fringe round the three free edges. harry rode immediately behind, surrounded by a little group consisting of the two priests and the nobles who had come out to meet him, and followed by umu, who led his glittering and imposing regiment. it was rather a trying ride in some respects for the young inca, at least at the outset, for escombe's knowledge of the quichua, or ancient peruvian, language was extremely restricted, while the nobles, with the exception of tiahuana and umu, were apparently ignorant of spanish. anything in the nature of conversation was therefore extremely difficult, quite apart from the fact that everybody excepting tiahuana seemed altogether too shy to address the inca, unless first spoken to by him. harry very quickly realised that his ignorance of the quichua was likely to handicap him most seriously, and he there and then ordered tiahuana to make the necessary arrangements to have himself taught without delay. but although for the first few miles of the journey the young inca suffered from a certain feeling of constraint, he did not allow it to trouble him long, for if conversation lagged there was plenty apart from it to interest and delight him. there was his horse, for instance. harry had alway been particularly fond of horses, and was an excellent rider; as a boy, indeed, he had often followed the staghounds over dartmoor. he therefore had a very fair idea of what a horse ought to be; but he had not been in the saddle more than five minutes, on this particular morning, before he realised that at length he had come into possession of that rarest of all good things, a perfect horse; perfect in temper, shape, and action, full of fire and courage, yet with a mouth so sensitive that it would be quite possible to control him with a thread for a bridle, while one had but to glance at the great; hard muscles sliding so smoothly beneath the satin skin to be assured of his indomitable endurance and insensibility to fatigue. then there was plenty to interest and occupy his attention as they swept along the great, smooth road at a hand gallop. first of all, there was the road itself, which was, in its way, a masterpiece of engineering; but, apart from that, harry could not but marvel at the perfect cleanliness of it, until he learned that it had been traversed throughout the entire length of the route by a whole army of sweepers during the early hours of the morning, since when no living thing had been allowed upon it. then there was the noble and endless avenue of shade trees which bordered the road on either hand, dividing it from the wide footpaths, which in their turn were shaded by less lofty trees, fruit-bearing for the most part, the fruit being intended for the refreshment of the wayfarer. then there were neat, orderly, and perfectly cultivated fields of sugar cane, maize, tobacco, indigo, cotton, rice, coca trees, cacao, and other tropical products on the flats immediately adjoining the road, while farther back, toward the hills, were grain of all sorts, interspersed with vast orchards and, at intervals, a stretch of pasture land, with low, squat farmhouses and outbuildings dotted about in the midst. the farmers and their helpers were all busily engaged upon various kinds of labour in their fields, but those who were near enough to the roads to do so no sooner heard the distant hoof-beats of the approaching cavalcade, and beheld the royal banner flaunting its blue and gold in the wind, than they flung down their implements and rushed helter- skelter to the roadside to watch the inca go by, and acclaim him as he passed. but with every mile of that exhilarating ride towards the city of the sun the aspect of the landscape became subtly modified; the farms became more extensive, the farmhouses larger and more elaborate in their style of architecture, ornamental and decorative features became increasingly conspicuous in every building encountered, until finally the aspect became distinctly suburban, the farmhouses gave place to country residences, the farms gradually merged into pleasure gardens, gay with flowers and rich in carefully-cultivated fruit trees; the houses drew closer together, and little groups of people in gala attire were encountered, gradually increasing in numbers until the footpaths on either hand were lined with joyous crowds of cheering people. then the white buildings of the city itself swung into view, gleaming like alabaster between the boles of the bordering trees, with here and there a flash of sunlight from the golden roofs of the principal buildings; and finally a great archway, pierced through the lofty and massive wall that enclosed the city, came into view, spanning the road, and at the same moment a great blare of horns stifled the sound of trampling hoof-beats, the jingle of accoutrements, and the frantic shouts of the cheering multitude. then umu flung his flashing sword- blade aloft and shouted a word of command, whereupon the panting, sweating horses were pulled into a walking pace, the riders straightened themselves in their saddles, the band of musicians which led the way struck up a weird, barbaric air, the great bronze gates, which had been closed, were flung open, and the cavalcade passed through into the principal street of the city of the sun. if escombe had been questioned ten minutes earlier he would, in reply, have expressed the confident opinion that every man, woman, and child had left the city in order to line the road outside the gates by which it was known that he must pass; but he had no sooner traversed the echoing archway in the immensely thick city wall than he saw how greatly mistaken such an opinion would have been. for, starting from the very wall itself, the pavement on either hand, all along the line of route, was simply packed with people--the children in front, the women next, and the men in the rear-- frantic with enthusiasm, and shouting themselves hoarse in their eagerness to afford an adequate welcome to the inca whose coming had been looked forward to by them and their ancestors for more than three hundred years. but they did not confine their demonstrations of welcome to mere acclamations. at frequent intervals triumphal arches of an elaborate character and of great beauty, decorated with banners and flags, and profusely wreathed with flowers, were thrown across the roadway, each being connected with the next by a line of poles, painted blue, surmounted by a banner or flag, twined with flowers, and supporting a heavy festoon of flowers which formed an unbroken floral chain from one triumphal arch to the next. the houses on either hand were also decorated with flowers, banners, and long streamers of many- tinted cloths hung from the eaves and windows, the whole scene strongly reminding the young englishman of the aspect of london's streets on the occasion of our own gracious king's coronation. but what impressed escombe more than anything else was the fact that all along the line of route children and young girls, provided with large baskets of flowers, were stationed, and, as the procession approached, these young people stepped forward and strewed the road with the contents of their baskets, thus carpeting the hard pavement with freshly gathered flowers, which exhaled a delightful fragrance as they were trampled under foot by the horses. the young monarch, bowing right and left in response to the enthusiastic greetings of his subjects, now had an opportunity to observe a few of the more striking characteristics of the people among whom he had been thrown in so extraordinary a fashion, and he was considerably surprised to see how widely the different types varied. the lower orders--or what he deemed to be such, from the fact that they were compelled to take as their viewpoint the pavement of the open street--were, as a rule, of merely medium stature, sturdily built, and not particularly intellectual in expression, while the colour of their skin was something very nearly approaching to ruddy copper, very few even of their womenkind having any pretentions to comeliness, to say nothing of beauty. the occupants of the buildings, however, who viewed the procession from their windows or the flat roofs of their houses, and who might be taken to represent a somewhat better class, were not only lighter in colour and more intelligent in expression, but some of them were distinctly good- looking. and, as a general rule, the larger and more important the building--and presumably, therefore, the higher the rank of the owner-- the more strongly marked was the difference, which at length, in the case of the nobles, became so accentuated that they might very easily have been taken to be members of a distinct race, the men being much fairer of complexion, of greater stature, and more finely proportioned, as well as much more intellectual in appearance than their humbler brethren; while the women of the higher classes and nobility were in many cases as fair and as lovely as, say, spanish or italian women. winding its way slowly through some two miles of wide and handsome streets, the buildings in which became ever more imposing as it advanced, the cavalcade at length arrived before a very large building of two stories in height--as against the single story which appeared to be the vogue in the city of the sun--planned to form three sides of a square, and standing in the midst of a magnificent garden of some thirty acres in extent, which escombe rightly judged to be the royal palace. it was not a particularly handsome structure--indeed, the builders of the city seemed to be singularly devoid of architectural taste as it is understood elsewhere--but it was imposing on account of its size and solidity, and the bold and massive character of such ornamentation as it displayed. contrary to the usual custom, which appeared to favour white marble as a building material, the palace was built throughout of massive blocks of greyish-green granite, so accurately joined together that the joints were almost indistinguishable. it stood upon a solid base of much darker granite, some six feet high, and access to its interior was gained by means of a very wide flight of eighteen steps, each about four inches high and some eighteen inches wide from back to front. the door and window openings were surrounded by broad bands or frames of granite projecting some six inches beyond the general face of the walls, and in these bands were set several large, elaborately sculptured medallions, which had all the appearance of--and, as a matter of fact, actually were--solid gold. and all round the building, between the upper and lower tier of windows, ran a flat band, or string course, of solid gold, about two feet in depth, upon which a graceful pattern of scroll-work was boldly chased. finally, above the upper row of windows, in the place usually occupied by a cornice in european buildings, there was a massive bull-nose moulding, quite three feet deep, also of solid gold, surmounted by the parapet which guarded the flat roof of the building. the facade of the building was the middle of the three sides, and faced toward the road, while the two wings ran from it at right angles back toward the lake. so much escombe was able to note with regard to his new home, as the cavalcade swung in through the magnificent gates of wrought copper which gave access to the grounds, and made its way up a wide path or drive to the main entrance, before which it halted. in an instant the two nobles who had held his horse for him while he mounted some hours earlier were again at the animal's head, and harry swung himself somewhat stiffly out of the saddle; for the ride had been a long and hot one, and it was now a full fortnight since he had last been on horseback. as his foot touched the ground the band of his bodyguard again struck up the national anthem, and every officer and man raised his sword in salute, after which, as harry ascended the steps and passed through the wide doorway of the palace, umu shouted a command, the swords flashed in the glaring afternoon sunshine as they were returned to their scabbards, and the weary horses and their riders trotted soberly off to the cavalry stables. the nobles who had accompanied harry on his ride, and also tiahuana, entered the palace with the young inca, doing the honours of the building, and indicating the character of the various apartments which they passed as they conducted him to a superb bathroom, where they assisted him to disrobe, and where he enjoyed a most welcome "tub" in tepid water, made additionally refreshing by the mingling with it of a certain liquid which imparted to it a most exquisite fragrance. then, attired in a fresh costume, they conducted him to a small but very handsome room, the chairs and tables in which were made of solid silver, where, waited on by a small army of servants in the royal livery, he partook of a light meal. tiahuana, who, at harry's special invitation, joined him at the repast, explaining that there was still much to be done that day, since in little more than an hour a solemn service of thanksgiving was to be held in the great temple of the sun to commemorate the return of the great manco to his long-expectant people, and to inaugurate suitably the commencement of a new and glorious era in that people's history. chapter twelve. huanacocha is unconvinced. the meal over, it became necessary for escombe to effect another change of attire, the simple garb that he had assumed upon emerging from the bath being discarded in favour of certain gorgeous garments that had been especially prepared for the solemn service in the great temple of the sun. there was only one item in this costume which harry had worn before, and that was the borla or tasselled fringe of scarlet round the temples, which proclaimed his royal rank. on this occasion also, the ceremony in which he was about to take part being a strictly religious one, he wore no weapons. the great temple of the sun being the most important building in the city, not even excepting the royal palace, was built on the crest of a hill which dominated the entire city, and was situated about a mile from the palace; the journey thither, therefore, afforded opportunity for another royal procession, in which harry was to figure in a sort of litter borne aloft on the shoulders of eight men. this litter consisted of a platform covered with a magnificent carpet woven in a pattern composed of many rich colours, and supported by two pairs of shafts made of some tough, springy wood, the end of each shaft being attached to a kind of yoke which rested upon the shoulders of two of the bearers. upon the platform, which was carried shoulder-high, was mounted a throne, the woodwork of which was entirely enclosed in gold plates, richly wrought and thickly studded with emeralds; and, seated on this throne and surrounded by an escort of some five hundred foot soldiers gorgeously attired and armed with bows, spears, and maces with heavy spiked heads, the young inca presently found himself being borne at a rapid trot through another wide and handsome street, which, judging from the character of the buildings bordering it, evidently formed the aristocratic quarter of the town. this street, like those which he had already passed through, was lined on both sides by gaily attired people of both sexes and all ages, who rent the air with their enthusiastic acclamations as the cortege swept past them, the only difference being that the majority at least of these folk were, like himself, hurrying in the direction of the temple. it was with a somewhat abstracted air that harry acknowledged the salutations of these people, for, truth to tell, his mind and his conscience were being rather severely exercised upon the subject of the function in which he was about to take part. the one great outstanding fact in relation to it was that it was a pagan rite; and he felt that, regarded from an abstract point of view, it was distinctly wrong for him, a professed christian, to countenance or abet idolatry in any form. yet he had not been all those months in peru without having acquired a certain elementary knowledge of the early history of the country, much of which, by the way, had been gained through his conversations with arima long before that individual had so much as dreamed of the brilliant destiny that awaited his pleasant-mannered young english master. thus, for instance, he knew that the peruvian indians recognised the existence of a supreme being, the creator and ruler of the universe, whom they sometimes named pachacamac, and at others viracocha; and he also knew that the attributes of this being were believed to be of so superlatively divine a character that the simple indians had never dared to rear more than one temple in his honour, which had long since been destroyed. he was aware also that the inca was not only an absolute monarch, an autocrat invested with greater powers than any other earthly monarch, but that he was implicitly believed to be of divine origin, and that some of the attributes of divinity still clung to him; he was therefore not only a monarch who wielded absolute power, and whose will was law, but he was also the head of the priesthood. taking these two facts in conjunction, escombe, with the extreme assurance of youth, and perhaps not attaching quite enough importance to the fact that the sun was the deity whose worship had been especially inculcated and carefully handed down from generation to generation, thought, as he considered the matter, that he could see his way first to divert the adoration of his subjects from the sun to pachacamac, and afterwards to explain that pachacamac and the god of the christians were one and the same, thus insensibly leading them from the paths of paganism into those of christianity. and he resolved to do it. it was a grand ambition, and it spoke well for him that this should be the first definite resolution that he had taken in connection with the tremendous powers with which he had become so strangely invested; for, singularly enough, it had never occurred to him until within the last hour that he would be called upon to take any part in the functions and ceremonies of pagan worship. moreover, it swept away every one of the scruples that had been worrying him as to whether or not he was justified in being present at the impending function; for he felt that, having come to the above resolution, he was justified in being present, otherwise how could he offer any suggestions as to a change in the ceremonial? by the time that he had thought the matter out thus far, and had arrived at the conclusion that he believed he could see his way pretty clearly before him, he had reached the great open space, in the centre of which stood the temple, and he had time only to run his eye hastily over the enormous building and gather in a general idea of its aspect before his litter was deposited at the foot of the magnificent flight of forty-five broad, shallow steps which ran all round the building, and which gave access to the spacious platform upon which the edifice was raised. as harry leisurely dismounted from the litter his escort ran nimbly up the steps and arranged itself--four deep on each step, and the remainder on the platform above--into a wide avenue of spearmen to keep back the crowds that thronged the steps, and thus afford the young inca a clear space in which to accomplish the ascent to the great main doorway of the building. at the same moment tiahuana, gorgeously attired in a long flowing robe of white that was stiff with the heavy gold embroidery which almost covered it, with a mitre-like headdress, similarly embroidered, on his head, and a gold wand surmounted by a golden image of the sun in his right hand, emerged from the doorway, followed by apparently the entire staff of the priesthood, and stood at the head of the long flight of steps to receive the inca. contrary to his expectation, instead of being conducted directly into the main body of the building, escombe, surrounded by fully a hundred priests, was led by tiahuana into an anteroom, where he found assembled the council of seven, under the leadership of one huanacocha--who, tiahuana whisperingly mentioned, was the chief and most powerful noble of the entire nation--and some five hundred other nobles, to whom he was now to be presented, and who were thus to be afforded an opportunity of thoroughly satisfying themselves before matters were allowed to proceed any further, that the young man was indeed the re-incarnated manco, for whose return to earth the nation had been looking forward for over three hundred years. upon entering this anteroom escombe found himself upon a dais occupying one end of, and reaching across the entire width of the apartment. in the centre of the dais, but close up to the front of it, was a throne of solid silver, with a footstool before it, and upon this throne harry was directed by tiahuana to seat himself, the body of priests immediately arranging themselves behind and on either side of it. before him, and on the main floor of the room, which was some eighteen inches below the level of the dais, were arranged several rows of benches upon which the nobles were seated, the council of seven, which had governed in the absence of an inca, with huanacocha occupying the middle place, being seated on the front bench, or that nearest the dais. the little stir which had been occasioned by the entrance of harry and the priests having subsided, arima--to escombe's amazement--was mysteriously produced by tiahuana and led forward to the front of the dais, from which standpoint he was ordered to relate the circumstances under which he first came into contact with the young englishman; how his suspicions as to the identity of his employer with the expected inca were first aroused; what steps he took to verify those suspicions, and how he proceeded after those suspicions were confirmed; all of which he told in the quichua language, not only with a total absence of embarrassment, but with a certain undertone of pride and exultation running through his narrative; for he felt that, as the first discoverer of the returned manco, he was a person of very great consequence. then harry was requested to state where and in what manner he came into possession of the long-lost emerald collar of manco capac, which he did in spanish, tiahuana afterwards interpreting his brief statement into quichua. then came tiahuana's own turn. he began by reminding his hearers of the terrible happenings of that dreadful day when atahuallpa, deceived by the treacherous spaniards, unsuspectingly entered the city of caxamalca, only to see his followers ruthlessly slaughtered, and to find himself a captive in the hands of the _conquistadors_. then he drew a graphic word picture of that still more awful night when atahuallpa, chained hand and foot, was led out into the great square of the city and ignominiously strangled by his unscrupulous and bloodthirsty betrayers. warming to his subject, he next very briefly sketched the untoward fate of the inca manco, son of huayna capac, whom the spaniards had installed, as their tool and puppet, on the throne vacated by the murder of atahuallpa; and he concluded this portion of his address by briefly reminding his hearers of the sudden and dramatic appearance of the prophet-priest titucocha on the night of atahuallpa's murder, and of the prophecy then uttered by him, which tiahuana repeated word for word. then, gathering fresh energy and fire as he proceeded, the high priest told how, after waiting impatiently all his life long for the reappearance of the great manco, foretold by titucocha, until he had begun to despair of living to see that happy day, he had been suddenly startled into new life and hope by the arrival of arima in the city with the glad news that the divine manco had actually returned to earth and was even then among the mountains of his beloved peru. he reminded them of how he, tiahuana, had conducted arima into the presence of the council of seven and caused him to relate his story to them; of the scepticism with which that story had been received, of the difficulty which he had encountered in persuading the council that it was their duty to permit him, as high priest, to sift the story and ascertain how far it was true; and how, having at length secured their somewhat reluctant consent, he had triumphantly accomplished his mission and now had the duty and pleasure to present them to the divine manco, promised of heaven as the deliverer and restorer of the peruvian nation. "but how are we to be assured beyond all possibility of doubt that this young man is in very deed the reincarnated manco, whose return was foretold by the prophet titucocha, and for whom the nation has looked these three hundred years and more?" demanded huanacocha, the head of the council of seven. "he is a white man to begin with; and for my part it has always been in my mind that when the divine manco should deign to return to us, he would come in the form of a full-blooded peruvian indian, even as we are." a low murmur of concurrence and approval filled the room at these bold words of huanacocha, and every eye was at once turned upon tiahuana to see what reply he would give to this apparently unanswerable objection. "why should you suppose any such thing?" demanded tiahuana in a cold, level voice. "there is no word in titucocha's prophecy, as handed down to us in our records, to justify any such belief. i am prepared to admit, if you like, that such an expectation was natural, but further than that i cannot go. nay, rather let me say that, taking into consideration the careful minuteness with which titucocha particularised the several means of identification--every one of which has been literally fulfilled in him whom you now see before you--i am convinced that if our lord the sun had intended that his child should return to us as an indian, born of us and among us, titucocha would have specifically said so. but, as i have already reminded you, he did not. what he said was that the re-incarnated manco was to be the deliverer and restorer of the ancient peruvian nation; and who so fit to undertake and successfully carry through this stupendous task as one born, and who has lived all his life in england, that great nation of which we have all heard, whose empire extends north and south, east and west, to the uttermost parts of the earth, so that it has been said of her that she is the empire upon which the sun never sets. my lords, i, who am full of years and of the wisdom that comes with many years, tell you that if ever we are to free ourselves from the yoke of the oppressor, and to restore peru to its ancient position of power and glory, we must be helped and guided in that great, that almost impossible task, by one who unites within himself superlative wisdom and superlative courage; and the crowning proof, to my mind, that heaven has now at last fulfilled its glorious promise is to be found in the fact that it has ordained our new inca to be born an englishman, possessed of all that courage, that wisdom, and that knowledge for which englishmen are famed throughout the world. i have spoken! and now, i pray you, come forward every one of you, from the first unto the last, and see with your own eyes the final proof that the great manco has indeed returned to us. thus far you have merely been called upon to believe the testimony of arima and myself; but now it is for you to look with your own eyes upon the collar which this young man wears, and to say whether in very truth it is or is not the emerald collar of the divine manco, of which we have so perfect and complete a description, and by the wearing of which he was to be recognised in his re-incarnated form." as tiahuana ceased speaking, another low murmur ran round the assembly, but whether of approval or of dissent it was not easy to judge. then huanacocha, as chief of the council of seven, arose, and, stepping forward to the dais, took in his hand the emerald collar that tiahuana handed to him--having removed it from harry's neck for the purposes of inspection--and examined it with the most scrupulous care. he was about to return it to tiahuana when the latter said: "has my lord huanacocha compared the features delineated on the pendant with those of him whom i am offering to the nation as its long-looked- for deliverer?" huanacocha had not, it seemed, for, taking the pendant in his hand, he studied it intently, and then gazed long and steadily at harry's features. "i admit that there certainly is some resemblance," he said coldly, as he handed back the jewel. then, one after the other, the remaining members of the assembly came forward one by one, scrutinised the jewel with more or less deliberation, and returned to their seats, until every one in the room had obeyed tiahuana's summons. then the high priest stepped forward to the edge of the dais, and said: "nobles of the ancient peruvian blood-royal, i have now submitted to you the last piece of evidence upon which i base my contention that the young man whom i have brought into your midst--and of whose existence we became aware through a sequence of events that can only be described as miraculous--is in very truth he for whose appearance we and our forefathers have been anxiously looking during a period of more than three hundred years. you are all perfectly acquainted with the words of the prophecy which foretold his appearance; for so important, so vital to the interests of the nation, were those words regarded that it has been our rule throughout the ages to teach them to every child until that child can repeat them by heart. you are therefore perfectly cognisant of all the signs and tokens of identification by which the re- incarnated manco was to be recognised when in the fulness of time he should again come to us, to execute his great mission of our regeneration. it now rests with you to decide whether those signs and tokens have been fulfilled in the case of this young man so clearly and unmistakably as to justify our acceptance of him as the being whom i claim him to be. although it is perhaps hardly necessary for me to do so, it is my duty to remind you that never in the history of our nation have the peruvian nobility been called upon to decide a more momentous question. i now ask you to rise in your places, one by one, beginning with my lord huanacocha, and say whether or not you are satisfied that this young man is in very truth the divine manco returned to earth." a very perceptible pause followed this appeal, and then huanacocha rose to his feet. "before replying to your question, my lord tiahuana," said he, "i should like the young man to tell us what he can remember of his former existence. the history of manco capac, our first inca and the founder of our nation, is well known to all of us, and if your claim be indeed justified there must be many incidents in his career, well known to us but quite unknown to the outer world, which the claimant can recall. let him mention a few of those incidents, and the most doubting among us will be satisfied." this speech was delivered in the quichua language, and it was necessary for tiahuana to translate to harry, who at once replied: "i have already told you, i believe, that i have no recollection whatever of any former state of existence." "my lords," said tiahuana, "the young man asserts, with perfect candour, that he has no recollection whatever of any former state of existence; therefore he is unable to furnish those further proofs demanded by the lord huanacocha. but what of that? does this absence of recollection invalidate all the other proofs that have been given? how many of us remember any of our former states of existence distinctly enough to recall any of their happenings? i confess that i do not. does my lord huanacocha, or do any of you?" a long and profound silence followed this pointed question. so prolonged, indeed, was it that it at length became evident that no one in that assembly had a reply to it; whereupon tiahuana, his eyes gleaming with triumph, once more stepped forward and said: "my lords, your silence is a complete and sufficient answer to my question, and proves that the objection raised by my lord huanacocha was an unreasonable one. i must therefore again call upon him to say whether he is or is not satisfied with the other proofs advanced." there was no pause or hesitation this time; huanacocha at once rose and said: "i have no fault to find with the other proofs; but i contend that they do not go far enough. i am still strongly of opinion that when the divine manco returns to us he will come in the guise of one of ourselves, an indian of the blood-royal; and therefore i must refuse to accept the dictum of my lord tiahuana that the young white man is the re-incarnation of the first manco, the founder of our nation." and he resumed his seat. this bold and defiant speech created, as might be expected, a most tremendous sensation among the other occupants of the hall; but tiahuana, with a slight gesture of impatience, at once threw up his hand to demand silence, and said: "you have all heard the objections raised by my lord huanacocha, and are as well able as i am to weigh and judge their value. let now the other lords arise, each in his turn, and express his opinion." the man on huanacocha's right at once arose, and said: "i am quite satisfied with the proofs adduced by the high priest. to me they are complete and perfectly convincing." the man on the left of huanacocha then sprang to his feet and said: "i find it quite impossible to come to a definite decision, one way or the other. on the one hand, i regard the proofs adduced by my lord tiahuana as perfectly satisfactory; but on the other i think there is reason in the objection raised by my lord huanacocha that the aspirant is a white man. notwithstanding what has been said by the high priest, my conviction is that the true manco, when he appears, will be born among us and be one of ourselves. i am unconvinced." thus the expression of opinion went on until all had given one, when it appeared that huanacocha had four adherents to his views, the remainder of the nobles being quite unanimous in their conviction that harry was in very deed the re-incarnation of the first manco. he was therefore accepted by an overwhelming majority, as tiahuana had confidently anticipated; and the discomfited huanacocha and his friends were compelled to waive their objections, which, after recording them, they did with a somewhat better grace than might have been expected. then came the ceremony of swearing allegiance to the new sovereign, which was done by every individual present, beginning with tiahuana, who was followed by motahuana and the entire body of the priests, who, in their turn, were succeeded by the nobles, beginning with huanacocha. by the time that this ceremony was concluded the afternoon was well advanced and it was time to repair to the main body of the temple, where the service of thanksgiving was to be held; and in consideration of the fact that harry was a stranger, and of course completely ignorant of the religious ritual followed by the worshippers of the sun, motahuana was told off to accompany and prompt him. accordingly, led by the deputy high priest, the young monarch, followed by the nobles, passed down a long corridor and, wheeling to the left, passed through an enormous archway veiled by great gold-embroidered curtains which, upon being drawn aside at their approach, revealed the whole of the vast interior of the temple proper in which the ceremony was to be held. when, an hour or two earlier, the young inca--whose official name was now manco capac--had approached the enormous building in which he now found himself, he had promptly come to the conclusion that the edifice owed little or nothing of its imposing character to the skill of the architect; for, so far as architectural beauty was concerned, it was almost as plain and unpretentious as his own palace: it was imposing merely because of its immense dimensions. it consisted of a huge rectangular block of pure white marble, the walls of which were from eight to ten feet thick, without columns, or pediment, or even so much as a few pilasters to break up the monotonous smoothness and regularity of its exterior surface, the only aids in this direction being the great east doorway, or main entrance, which was some thirty feet wide by about sixty feet high, with an immense window opening on either side of it, through which and the doorway entered all the light which illuminated the interior. true, the doorway and window openings were each surrounded by heavy marble borders, or frames, encrusted with great plates of gold elaborately ornamented with a boldly sculptured design. there was also a heavy gold string course and bull-nose moulding similar to that on the palace; but, apart from that and the gold-tiled roof, there was no attempt at exterior decorative effect. whatever might have been deemed lacking in this direction, however, was more than compensated for by the barbaric splendour and profusion of the interior decorations. the entire west wall of the building was covered with a solid plate of burnished gold emblazoned with a gigantic face from which emanated rays innumerable, representing the sun, the great eyes being reproduced in a perfect blaze of gems; precious stones of all kinds being thickly powdered also all over the plate, which was primarily intended to receive the rays of the rising sun through the great east door in the early morning--at which hour the most impressive ceremony of the day was celebrated--and reflect the light back upon the people. the two side walls were also decorated with great gold plates, about two feet square, richly engraved, and arranged in a chequer pattern, a square of gold alternating with a square of the white marble wall of the building from top to bottom and from end to end, each of the white marble squares having in its centre a gold ornament about the size of one's hand which formed a mount for a precious stone, rubies and emeralds being the most numerous, although diamonds of considerable size gleamed here and there. had the stones been cut and polished, instead of being set in the rough, the effect would have been gorgeous beyond description. perhaps the most wonderful part of the whole building, however, was the ceiling. this was composed entirely of white marble slabs supported and divided into panels by great beams of solid marble made up of enormous blocks of the stone the ends of which were so cunningly "scarphed", or fitted together, that the joints were invisible and gripped each other so tightly that neither cement nor bolts were needed to complete the union. and in the centre of each panel of the ceiling, and at each crossing of the beams, was a great golden ornament bearing some resemblance to a full-blown rose. the western wall of the building was decorated like the two side walls, save that in place of the bare marble a silver square alternated with a gold one. and, finally, the great doors in the western wall were of solid silver wrought to represent timber, the grain and knots of the wood being imitated with marvellous fidelity, while the nails were represented in gold. chapter thirteen. the daughter of umu. piloted by motahuana, harry presently found himself installed in a marble throne raised on a dais at the western extremity of the building, behind the altars--of which there were three--and facing them and the vast assembly. immediately on the other side of the altars, and facing them, were the nobles, also occupying marble seats; and a brave show they made in their gala attire, umu, the captain of the royal bodyguard, in his gorgeous uniform, being a very conspicuous figure among them. and behind the nobles, seated on wooden benches, was the people ranged row after row, until, so vast was the building, the features of those seated near the eastern wall were quite indistinguishable to the young inca. the slight stir in that immense assemblage caused by the entrance of the monarch and his train of nobles had scarcely subsided when the strains of distant music were heard, rapidly increasing in power and volume as the musicians drew near; and presently, through an archway immediately opposite that by which escombe had entered, there filed a small army of priests led by tiahuana, still in his robes and bearing his wand. some sixty of these were performing on a variety of wind and string instruments more or less remotely suggestive of those known to civilised nations, while the remainder chanted to their accompaniment a quaint but by no means unpleasing melody, the air of which was quite distinctly suggestive of rejoicing. the words of the song--or hymn, rather--were quichua, and escombe was therefore unable to gather the sense of them. in the midst of the priests walked a band of some twenty youths attired in richly embroidered white tunics of soft woollen material, girt about the waist with a gold-embroidered belt; and each youth bore in his arms a mass of beautiful flowers, the delicate perfume of which quickly diffused itself throughout the building. priests and youths were alike barefooted; and a more careful scrutiny soon revealed to harry the fact that he was the only individual in the building--so far as he could see--who remained shod. led by the instrumentalists, the procession wheeled to the right and passed slowly down the first aisle of the building to its eastern extremity, then right across it, past the great eastern door, up the fourth aisle, down the third, and up the second, which brought them finally to the altar which stood on the right of the main or high altar, as looked at from escombe's point of view. then, while the priests continued their chanting, the flower-laden youths piled their fragrant burdens upon the right-hand altar and twined them about it until it was completely hidden from view by the vari-coloured blooms and their delicate foliage. this done, the youths retired, and the high priest-- or villac vmu, as he was called--standing before the flower-draped altar, with his back to the people, uttered what appeared to be a short invocation or prayer, during which the worshippers all knelt upon the beautifully tessellated marble pavement. this prayer lasted three or four minutes, and upon its conclusion the people rose and resumed their seats; while tiahuana, turning and facing them, delivered an address of some twenty minutes' length, after which another hymn was sung by both priests and people, the former slowly filing out of the building during the singing, and so timing their movements that as the last note was sung the last priest disappeared through the arch, and the curtain fell behind him. harry not unnaturally concluded that this ended the ceremonial; but he was quickly undeceived by motahuana, who informed him that one, if not two, burnt sacrifices yet remained to be offered. and indeed, scarcely had this piece of information been conveyed when the music and singing again made themselves heard, and the priests filed into the building once more. but, instead of the band of flower-bearing youths, there appeared a llama, decked with garlands and wreaths of flowers, and led by two young priests. this time the order of procedure was reversed, the procession crossing over to the fourth aisle, passing down it and up the first, down the second, and up the third, which finally brought them opposite the second subsidiary altar, to a golden ring in which the llama was now tethered, the processional hymn lasting long enough to allow this operation to be completed. then followed another prayer, succeeded by another address, during which the unfortunate llama was bound and trussed up so ingeniously that the unhappy creature was rendered incapable of making the least struggle. then a number of priests seized the helpless animal and laid it upon the top of the altar, upon which meanwhile a great pile of cedar boughs and other scented wood had been carefully piled. this done, two priests strode forward, one bearing a very formidable-looking copper knife, while the other carried a large and most beautifully wrought basin of solid gold. seizing the llama by the ears and dragging its head back, the first of these two priests raised his knife on high. there was a yellow flash as the keen and heavy blade descended upon the animal's throat, and the next instant the llama's lifeblood was pouring and smoking into the basin which the second priest held to receive it. and so dexterously was the whole thing done that not a single drop of blood stained the white garment of either priest; had it been otherwise, it would have been regarded as an unfavourable omen. the moment that the blood ceased to flow, the thongs which confined the poor beast's limbs to its body were released, the carcass was turned upon its back, the belly was ripped open, and the villac vmu stepped forward and carefully examined the entrails, during which the people appeared to be held in a state of the most painfully breathless suspense. this, however, was happily not prolonged, for it lasted only a few seconds when tiahuana, stepping forward and facing the assembly, threw up his hands and shouted: "blessed be our father the sun, the omens are all exceptionally, marvellously, favourable, and our sovereign lord the inca is assured of a long and prosperous reign, during which he will be permitted to accomplish all that was prophesied concerning him." instantly the priests burst into a loud paean of praise, which was promptly taken up by the entire people, standing, during the singing of which a priest appeared, bearing a torch kindled at the sacred fire, which was kept alight throughout the year. this torch he presented to harry, who, at motahuana's prompting, and with several qualms of conscience, rose to his feet and thrust it in among the pile of wood on the top of the altar, beneath the body of the llama. the crackling of the dry twigs that formed the substructure of the cunningly arranged pile, and the curling wreaths of fragrant smoke, soon showed that the wood was fairly alight; and as the little tongues of yellow flame leapt from twig to twig and gathered power, and the smoke shot upward from the altar in a thin perfectly straight column to the ceiling, the great building fairly resounded with the shouts of jubilation of the enormous congregation, for this was the last and most important omen of all. if the smoke column had bent or wavered in the least it would have foretold trouble--ay, or even disaster, had the wavering been sufficiently pronounced. but, on the contrary, every omen, from first to last, had been of so exceptionally favourable a character that the special sacrifice of thank-offering that was always tentatively arranged for upon such occasions as the present became a foregone conclusion, and the assembly, instead of dispersing, as they would have done had the omens been less eminently favourable, settled again into their seats with a great sigh and shudder of tense expectancy; for this would be the first time that many of them had ever been present at a ceremony of the kind that was now pending. escombe, who was by this time beginning to feel very tired, as well as distinctly dissatisfied with himself for taking part in all this mummery, noticed vaguely that something out of the common was evidently toward, but he was too thoroughly distrait to even seek an explanation from motahuana, and he watched, as in a dream, the long procession of priests file out of the building to the accompaniment of an unmistakable song of triumph. presently, with more singing and music, they came filing back again; but in the comparatively brief interval of their absence they had contrived to effect a complete change in their appearance, for, instead of the white garments which they had previously worn, they were now robed in crimson, heavily bordered with gold embroidery, while tiahuana's robe was so completely covered with gold embroidery, encrusted with gems, that it was as stiff as a board, the crimson colour of the material scarcely showing through it. he still bore his wand in his hands, and the mitre which he now wore blazed with gold and precious stones. on this occasion, instead of leading the procession, he was preceded by a priest, scarcely less gorgeously robed than himself, who held aloft a beautiful banner of crimson cloth emblazoned with the figure of the sun. other banners, equally rich and beautiful, about twenty in all, were borne by the main body of the priests. but no sooner was the procession--singing a peculiarly sweet and plaintive air--fairly inside the body of the temple than escombe aroused himself with a violent start, for walking in the midst of the priests, attired in a simple white robe, from the hem of which her little bare feet peeped as she walked with downcast eyes, and wreathed and garlanded about with a long chain of magnificent crimson roses, and with her hands bound behind her, there walked the most lovely maiden that the young man had ever seen. although there was little doubt that she was of pure indian blood, she was as fair as a spaniard, but without a vestige of colour--as might well be expected under the circumstances. her long, dark hair, unbound, clustered in wavy ringlets upon her shoulders and far enough below her waist to completely veil her tied hands. every eye in the building was instantly turned upon this fair vision as the congregation rose _en masse_, and a loud gasp of what sounded very much like dismay drew escombe's attention to umu, who distinctly staggered as he rose to his feet, while his face went a sickly, yellowish-white, and the perspiration poured from his forehead like rain. the poor fellow stared at the girl as though he could scarcely believe his eyes; yet that he did believe them was perfectly evident, while the anguished expression of his countenance made it equally evident that he was very deeply interested in the young lady and her fate. as to what that fate was to be there could be no shadow of doubt, even in the mind of one so ignorant of the details of the religious ceremonial of the peruvians as was its new monarch. the girl's awful pallor, her very presence in the procession, and the fact of her being garlanded with flowers, each had its own significance, and pointed indubitably to the fact that she was the destined victim in a human sacrifice! turning to motahuana, harry demanded, in a fierce whisper: "who is that girl, and why is she taking part in the procession?" to which motahuana replied: "she is maia, the daughter of umu, captain of my lord's bodyguard; and, as the most beautiful maiden in the city, she has been chosen by the villac vmu as worthy the great honour of being offered in sacrifice upon the altar of thanksgiving on this most memorable and auspicious occasion. it is a great surprise to umu, of course, to see his only daughter occupying her present proud position, for by the order of tiahuana she was taken from her father's house within an hour of his departure to meet my lord and escort him to the city; and his duties have probably not permitted him to visit his home since his return, hence the sight of his daughter in the procession is the first intimation which he has received of the honour conferred upon her--and him." the utter indifference to the anguish of those chiefly concerned which motahuana betrayed in this speech made escombe fairly writhe with disgust and abhorrence, which feelings were increased a hundredfold by the knowledge that this young maiden was to be forced to lay down her life, and her parent's home was to be made desolate, in order that his-- harry escombe's--accession to the throne of the incas might be fitly celebrated! he ground his teeth in impotent fury, and unrestrainedly execrated the stupendous folly which had induced him to enter so light- heartedly into an adventure fraught with elements of such unimaginable horror. true, he had done so with the very best intentions; yes, but how often, even in his comparatively brief experience of life, had he known of actions instigated by "the very best intentions" that had culminated in grim disaster! and now he was adding yet another to the long list! but stay; was this thing inevitable? he suddenly remembered that many of the good intentions that had determined him to acquiesce passively in the events that had placed him where he now was were based upon the fact that, as inca, he would be the possessor of absolute power, and would be able to mould events to his will; that, as inca, he would be superior to everybody, even the priesthood, for the inca was not only the head of the priesthood but was actually credited with the possession of a certain measure of divinity in his own person. if all this were really true, now was the time to assert his authority and test his power. he would forbid the sacrifice, and see what came of it. as he arrived at this determination he glanced up, to find umu's gaze fixed fully upon him, and there was such intensity of unmistakable anguish and entreaty in the gaze that harry unhesitatingly answered it with a nod and an encouraging smile, which evoked a gasp of almost incredulous joy and relief from its recipient. the procession had by this time passed down the first aisle and was coming up the second, the paean of triumph and thanksgiving pealing louder and more thrillingly on the ear with every step of its progress. at length it reached the head of the aisle and wheeled to the right with the evident intention of turning into the third aisle, which would have caused it to brush close past the row of benches by which umu was standing. but a moment before the banner bearer who was leading the procession arrived at the wheeling point, harry rose from his throne and, standing on his footstool, so that every person in that vast building might see and hear him, flung up his right hand and imperiously called a halt in the proceedings, in response to which the procession came to an abrupt standstill, and the singers and musicians almost as abruptly became silent. then harry beckoned tiahuana to his side, and said: "interpret for me; i have a message for the people." then, as tiahuana gazed aghast and speechless at the young man who had resorted to so unheard of a proceeding as to interrupt a ceremony of thanksgiving at its most intensely interesting and dramatic moment, harry proceeded: "children of the ancient peruvian nation, hearken unto me; for pachacamac, the supreme, the creator and ruler of the universe, who made all things, yea even unto the sun, moon, and stars which you adore, each in their several seasons, has this moment put a message into my mouth and bid me deliver it unto you. "thus saith pachacamac, the great and only one. `in the days of old, when the peruvians were but a few scattered tribes plunged in the depths of ignorance and barbarism, i took pity upon them and sent to them manco capac and mama oello huaco, two of my children, to gather together those scattered tribes and form them into communities, to instruct them in the mysteries of my worship, and to teach them the arts whereby they might become a great and civilised nation. and for a time all things went well with the peruvians, for they listened to the voice of my messengers, and obeyed it, worshipping me and acting in accordance with my commands. therefore i blessed and prospered them exceedingly, and made of them a glorious and powerful nation, wise in the art of government, and invincible in the field of battle, so that as the years rolled on they conquered all the surrounding tribes and nations and absorbed them into themselves. "`but with the progress of time my people fell into error. they ceased to worship and honour me, and transferred their adoration to the sun, which i had made and given unto them as the beneficent source of all their material benefits, from which they derived light and warmth, which caused their streams to flow and their soil to bring forth abundant crops for the sustenance of man and beast, which caused their flocks to increase and multiply greatly, and which is the source of all life, health, and beauty. they gave their gratitude and devotion to that which i had created, and forgot me, the creator of all things; they built hundreds of temples in honour of the sun--and one only did they dedicate to me! therefore was i displeased with them and withdrew from them the light of my countenance. i permitted the _conquistadors_ to land upon their shores and gave them power to triumph over the peruvians in battle, to destroy atahuallpa, and to wrest their land from them until, behold, all that is left of that once great nation is this valley and the city that ye have built in it. "`but my anger burns not for ever, nor will i hide my face from you for all time. behold, i have given you another inca, who shall guide your straying feet back into the right path, who shall point out to you the mistakes which you have made and teach you how to correct them. and if ye will obey him it may be that in process of time i will again make you a great and powerful nation, even as you were in the old days ere i hid my face from you and permitted calamity to overtake you. "`and now, listen, my people, unto this. i have no pleasure in sorrow or suffering; the shedding of blood in sacrifice is an abomination unto me. therefore do i forbid now and henceforth the sacrifice in burnt offering of any creature that doth breathe the breath of life; for death is a curse that i have sent upon the earth, and not a blessing, as ye shall be taught in due time. ye may deck my altars with flowers, and make beautiful the houses in which ye worship me, if ye will; but obedience to my laws and precepts is more precious to me than any other thing, and if ye render that unto me ye shall do well.'" as harry uttered the last words, and sank back into his seat, it is safe to say that no individual in that great building was more astonished at his behaviour than himself; for he had sprung to his feet without the ghost of a notion of what he meant to say, animated only by the one great and overmastering impulse to save the life of umu's daughter and rescue a household from a great and terrible grief. but the words had leapt to his lips, and he had spoken as one under the influence of inspiration, without thought, or pause, or hesitation. in the very building devoted to the worship of that object which, ever since peru became a nation, had been the especial veneration of its inhabitants, he had stood up and boldly denounced the worship of the sun as idolatry; had told them that their religious beliefs were all wrong, and had unceremoniously broken in upon and put a stop to the most impressive ceremony in their ritual, and had forbidden certain practices hallowed by ages of religious teaching! and now, what was to be the result? would the priests and the congregation rise up as one man and tear the audacious young innovator limb from limb, or offer him up as a sacrifice on the altar from which he had essayed to snatch its destined victim, to propitiate their outraged deity? the sensation produced on all sides as tiahuana had translated escombe's denunciation, sentence by sentence, was tremendous, and grew in intensity as the denunciation proceeded. but whether the emotion excited was that of anger, or of blank astonishment, the young man could not determine; nor, to speak the truth, did he very greatly care, for he felt that he was doing his duty regardless of the possibility of the most ghastly peril to himself. indeed there are few possibilities more dreadful than those attendant upon the bearding of a multitude of fanatical idolators and the denouncing of the objects of their idolatry. everything, or almost everything, would depend entirely upon the view which tiahuana and the priests took of harry's conduct. if, after that uncompromisingly outspoken attack upon the worship of the sun--the fundamental principle of their religion--tiahuana's belief in the theory that escombe was indeed the re-incarnation of the first manco, foretold by the prophet titucocha, remained unshaken, all might yet be well; but if not--! for some minutes excitement and consternation reigned supreme over that vast assembly, yet there was nothing approaching tumult or disorder in the behaviour of the people; the points raised by the young inca's message were evidently of such tremendous import that they felt themselves quite unable to deal with them. they recognised, almost from the first moment, that these were matters which must be left in the hands of the priests, and presently the excitement began to die down, and everybody waited to see what would next happen. as for tiahuana, the denunciation had fallen upon him with such paralysing effect that he had simply translated escombe's message as nearly word for word as the quichua language would permit, with the air and aspect of a man speaking under the influence of some fantastically horrible dream. but by the time that the excitement had subsided, and silence again reigned in the great building, he had pulled himself together and, turning to harry, said: "is my lord quite certain, beyond all possibility of doubt, that the message which he has just delivered has been put into his mouth by pachacamac, and not by some evil and malignant spirit?" "yes," answered escombe with conviction; "i am. what evil spirit would instruct the peruvians to worship and adore the great pachacamac himself instead of one of the works of his hands? the very import of the message ought to be convincing testimony of the source from which it comes." "it may be; it may be; i cannot tell," answered tiahuana wearily. "if the message comes in very truth from pachacamac, then have we indeed strayed far from the right path, and much that has troubled and puzzled the wisest heads among us can be accounted for. it would also explain why our forefathers were so blind as to permit the _conquistadors_ to enter their country, and so weak as to be conquered by them! yes, methinks there are matters of vast moment contained in that message; but they cannot be discussed here and now. is it my lord's will that the people be dismissed?" "yes," answered harry, almost breathless with astonishment at the complete success of his intervention. "tell the people that my appearance among them is the signal for many great and momentous changes decreed by pachacamac for their advantage, one of the most important of which will be that, henceforth, pachacamac himself--the supreme, the creator of the heavens and earth, and all that are therein, and only he, is to be worshipped in this building. ye have wandered far astray; but be of good comfort, i--and, later on, others whom pachacamac will send to you--will point the way of return, and all shall be well with you." "and the maiden, lord, who was to have been offered as a thank- offering--what is to be done with her?" demanded tiahuana. "let her be returned with all honour to her home and parent," answered harry. "henceforth there are to be no burnt sacrifices, whether human or otherwise." then tiahuana, standing before the central altar, where he could be seen by all, and heard by perhaps about half of the congregation, raising his hand to command the attention of his audience, interpreted escombe's second message to them, adding the words "go in peace!" and raising both hands in a gesture of blessing, which he maintained until the last person had passed out through the great eastern door. meanwhile maia, the daughter of umu and the destined victim of the thank-offering, having not only heard but also understood everything that had transpired, had fainted from excess of emotion produced by the revulsion of feeling from that of lofty exaltation to relief and joy at her reprieve from death--even though that death had come, through long usage, to be regarded as more honourable and glorious than anything that this life had to offer--and had been delivered to her father, who had lost not a moment in conveying her back to the shelter of his roof. "and now, lord," said tiahuana, "tell me, i pray you, what is to be done in the matter of conducting the ceremonies in the temple, henceforth; for pachacamac's message seems to strike at the very root of our religion, and until i am more fully instructed i know not what to do, or how to proceed." "nay," said harry reassuringly, for he saw that the old man was intensely worried and distressed, "the matter is surely very simple. all that you have to do is to transfer your adoration from the sun to pachacamac, offering to him your prayers and praises instead of addressing them to the sun. surely it is wiser and more reasonable to worship him who made all things, than it is to worship one of the things that he has made? do this, and ye shall do well. and if any doubts should arise in your minds, come to me and i will resolve them. also i will instruct you from time to time in the truth concerning pachacamac, until his messengers shall arrive. and now, go in peace; for ye have but to be obedient, and to instruct the people in the truth, even as you yourselves shall be instructed, and all will be well." then harry rose, and, escorted by the nobles, made his way out of the building to the place where his litter and his guard awaited him, whence, mounting into his seat, he was rapidly borne back to the palace amid the enthusiastic acclamations of the populace which lined the streets. but as the bearers trotted smoothly and evenly along the road escombe detected--or thought that he did--a new note in those acclamations; a note which he could not for the life of him interpret. it was not that the acclamations were less hearty than before. on the contrary, they seemed to be more enthusiastic than ever; yet, mingled with their enthusiasm and joy there seemed to be a certain subtle undertone that thrilled him curiously and caused him to vaguely wonder whether that "message" of his, delivered without forethought on the spur of the moment, would prove to have been a master-stroke of genius--or an irreparable mistake. anyhow, he had delivered it, and that was the main thing. he had quite determined that he would deliver it at the first fitting and convenient opportunity; he had, therefore, no regrets on that score, and the only thing that worried him was the question whether it had been delivered prematurely; whether, in fact, it would have been more powerful and effective if he had deferred its deliverance until he had taken time to prepare the minds of the people for its reception. but, be the issue what it might, he had accomplished at least one good deed; he had saved a life and given joy to one household in the city, and that was certainly a matter upon which he might unreservedly congratulate himself. meditating thus, harry found himself, he scarcely knew how, back at the palace, where his chamberlain informed him, first, that a grand banquet had been arranged for that same evening, to be given by him to the nobles to celebrate his accession to the throne; and, secondly, that the lord umu was in waiting, and craved an audience. whereupon the young man requested to be conducted to some room in which he could suitably receive the captain of his bodyguard, and directed that functionary to be brought to him. flinging himself wearily into the only chair in the room to which he had been conducted, escombe awaited the arrival of umu, who was presently ushered into the apartment barefooted, and carrying upon his shoulders a small burden as a badge of his immeasurable inferiority--great and powerful noble though he was--to the inca. so intense was his emotion upon finding himself in his lord's presence that, for the moment, he seemed quite incapable of speech; and, to help him out of his difficulty, whatever it might be, harry extended his hand to him and said: "well, umu, my friend, what is it? are you in trouble, and can i help you?" whereupon umu, the great and powerful noble, and captain of a thousand picked warriors, flung himself upon his knees before the young inca, and, clasping the outstretched hand in both of his, pressed it convulsively to his lips, while the tears streamed like rain from his eyes. but he quickly pulled himself together, and, gazing up into harry's face, answered: "gracious lord, pardon this unseemly emotion, i pray you, and attribute it to the awful ordeal through which i have this day passed. i have presumed to hasten hither, lord, to express, as well as may be, the heartfelt gratitude of myself and my daughter for your gracious intervention to-day in the temple, but for which my maia would now be dead and my home desolate. lord, you are as yet strange among us, and may therefore not know that for a maiden to be chosen to be offered as a thank-offering on the altar of the temple upon such an occasion as that of to-day is regarded by the peruvian indians as the highest honour that can be conferred upon her and all who are connected with her; and doubtless it would be so regarded by many. but, lord, natural affection is not always to be so easily stifled. i am a widower, and maia my daughter is my only child; the love that exists between us is therefore perhaps unusually strong, and the honour of having given my daughter as a thank-offering would never have compensated me for, or reconciled me to, her loss. the shock which i experienced to-day when i recognised her, bound and decked with flowers for the sacrifice, in the midst of the priests, i shall never forget, for i had not then been to my house, and knew not that she had been chosen. and though, having been chosen, she had wrought herself up to the point of passive submission, she had no wish to die, for she is young, and the best part of her life is still before her; moreover she loves me, and knows that without her my heart and my house would be empty and desolate. therefore, lord, i pray you to accept our heartfelt thanks for her deliverance, and to believe my assurance that henceforth, let what will betide, we two are your faithful and devoted slaves unto our lives' end." "thanks, umu, for your assurance of devotion, which, i am convinced, comes from your heart," said harry, raising the soldier to his feet. "but, umu, i wish to regard you henceforth not as my `slave', but as a faithful and devoted friend. servants who will unhesitatingly do my will i shall doubtless be able to command in plenty; but sincere friends are less easily won, especially by a monarch, and a wise, faithful, devoted friend who will help and advise me in the difficult task that lies before me will be of greater value than many slaves. i shall always remember with especial pleasure that my first official act was to save an innocent life, and that the life of your daughter, whom heaven long spare to be a joy and comfort to you. go in peace, umu, and serve me faithfully." "i will, lord; i swear it by the great pachacamac himself!" answered umu, raising his right hand as though to register his oath. then, turning, he went forth from the palace the proudest, and probably the happiest, man in the valley of the sun that day. chapter fourteen. the inca's treasure chambers. the fatigue and excitement of the momentous day were by this time beginning to tell upon escombe. if he could have followed his own inclination he would certainly have called for a light meal, and, having partaken of it, retired forthwith to rest; but he was already beginning to learn the lesson that even an absolute monarch has sometimes to put aside his own inclinations and do that which is politic rather than that which is most pleasing in his own eyes. here was this banquet, for instance. he would much rather not have been present at it; but it was an official affair, and to absent himself from it would simply be to inflict a gratuitous slight upon every guest present, and sow a seed of unpopularity that might quite possibly, like the fabled dragon's teeth, spring up into a harvest of armed men to hurl him from his throne. with a sigh of resignation, therefore, he summoned arima, and, resigning himself into that functionary's hands, submitted to be conducted to the bath, and afterwards attired in the festal garments prepared for the occasion. the bath of warm, delicately perfumed water he found to be so wonderfully refreshing that upon emerging from it all sensation of fatigue had vanished; and by the time that he was completely arrayed for the banquet he felt perfectly prepared to do both himself and the occasion full justice. he was only just ready in the nick of time, for as arima was completing the adjustment of the imperial borla upon the young monarch's temples, the lord high chamberlain appeared with the intimation that the guests were all assembled, and that nothing now was needed, save the inca's presence, to enable the banquet to be begun. whereupon harry arose, and, preceded by the chamberlain and his satellites, made his way to the banqueting hall, which was an enormous chamber on the upstairs floor of the palace, occupying the entire length and width of that part of the building in which was situated the main entrance. one row of windows overlooked that part of the garden which gave upon the main road, while the windows on the opposite side of the apartment commanded a view of the piece of garden which lay between the two wings and extended down to the shore of the lake. the decorations of this room, if they could not be accurately described as "artistic", from a european's point of view, were at least impressive on account of the wanton lavishness with which gems and the precious metals were used; for, look where one would, the eye encountered nothing but gold, silver, and precious stones; indeed the impression conveyed was that the architect had exhausted his ingenuity in devices for the employment of the greatest possible quantity of these costly minerals. the huge beams which supported the ceiling were encased in thick plates of gold, the ceiling itself, or at least those portions of it which showed between the beams, consisted of plates of silver, thickly studded with precious stones arranged--as tiahuana explained--to represent the stars in the night sky over the city. the walls, of enormous thickness, with deep niches or recesses alternating with the windows, were covered with thick gold plates heavily chased into a variety of curious patterns; and each niche contained either a life-size image of an animal--the llama figuring most frequently--in solid gold, wrought with the most marvellous patience and skill, or was a miniature garden in which various native trees and plants, wrought with the same lifelike skill, and of the same precious materials, seemed to flourish luxuriantly. the floor was the only portion of the apartment that had escaped this barbarously magnificent system of treatment, but even that was composed of thick planks of costly, richly tinted native timber of beautiful grain, polished to the brilliancy of a mirror; and, as though this were not sufficient to meet the insatiable craving for extravagance everywhere displayed, the beauties of the highly polished wood were almost completely concealed by thick, richly coloured, woollen rugs of marvellously fine texture, made of the wool of the vicuna. nor was the furniture of the apartment permitted to fall short of its surroundings in point of extravagance. for the tables and chairs occupied by the guests were of solid silver, while that occupied by the inca and such of his guests as he chose to especially honour by an invitation to sit with him were of solid gold; and all the table utensils throughout the room were of the same precious metal, most exquisitely and elaborately wrought. as for the guests, as might be expected, they had taken especial care that their personal appearance should be in keeping with the general scheme of wantonly lavish display that characterised the adornment of the banqueting room. every one of them, men and women alike, were apparelled in the richest and most brilliantly coloured stuffs procurable, stiffened with great masses of embroidery in heavy gold thread, while they were literally loaded with ornaments of massive gold, encrusted with gems, upon the hair, neck, and arms. and now, for the first time, harry had leisure to note--and to strongly disapprove of-- the characteristic ornament which was adopted to distinguish the peruvian noble from his plebeian brother. this consisted of a massive circular disc of gold, wrought into the semblance of a wheel, and measuring in some cases three or four inches in diameter, which was inserted into the cartilage of each ear, which, of course, had previously been pierced and gradually distended to receive it. to harry's unsophisticated eye these so-called ornaments constituted a hideous disfigurement, and he was glad to see that they were worn by men only, the ears of the women being for the most part innocent of artificial adornment, although a few of the ladies wore ear-rings of somewhat similar character to those of their more civilised sisters. the inca's table was placed at one end of the room, and raised upon a dais some three feet high, from which elevation he could of course be seen of all, and also command a view of the entire apartment, easily distinguishing the whereabouts of any particular guest whom he desired to honour especially with a summons to his own table; and to this he was conducted by the chamberlain and ushers, the guests rising upon his entrance and remaining standing until he had seated himself. there was at this moment but one guest at the royal table, and that was tiahuana, whom harry had commanded to sit beside him to act as a sort of "coach", and generally explain things. and the first communication which the villac vmu made to his young monarch was not precisely of a reassuring character. it was to the effect that huanacocha, and the four friends who had sided with him that afternoon in the expression of a doubt as to the genuine character of harry's claims to be accepted as inca, had absented themselves from the feast. "yes," said tiahuana, again casting his eyes carefully over the room, "they are all five absent, lord; and i like it not. they are men of great power and influence, and they can easily stir up very serious trouble in the city if they choose to do so. we must keep a wary eye upon them; and upon the first sign of a disposition to be troublesome they must be summarily dealt with." "yes," said harry; "i have been raised to the position of inca by a very remarkable combination of circumstances, in the bringing about of which i have had no part; but, being where i am, i intend to govern firmly and justly, to the best of my ability; and i will certainly not tolerate the presence in the city of turbulent spirits bent upon the stirring up of discord and strife. i have already seen, elsewhere, too much of the evil results of mistaken leniency to permit anything of the kind here. but this is not the moment to discuss politics: you hinted, a short time ago, tiahuana, that at functions of this kind it is usual for the inca to show honour to certain individuals by inviting them to his table. now, of course i know none of those present--except umu, the captain of my bodyguard, whom i see yonder--so i must look to you for guidance in the matter of making a judicious choice. there is room for ten at this table, beside ourselves; therefore, if it be the proper thing for me to do, choose ten persons, and i will summon them to come to us." whereupon tiahuana, who to the sanctity of the villac vmu added the shrewdness and sagacity of a prime minister, named those members of the late council of seven who had accepted escombe as inca, and certain other powerful nobles, completing the list by naming umu, whom, he rather satirically suggested, was perhaps entitled to some especial consideration in recompense for the distinction which he had that day missed in consequence of the rescue of his daughter from the sacrificial altar. "and, remember, lord," concluded tiahuana, "that it is not necessary to keep any of those people at your table during the entire progress of the banquet; let them stay here long enough to taste a single dish, or to drink with you out of your cup, and then dispatch them with instructions to send up someone else in their stead." upon this principle, accordingly, harry acted, arranging matters so judiciously that, under tiahuana's able guidance, he was able, during the course of the evening, to compliment every guest whom that astute old diplomatist considered it desirable especially to honour, and thus avoid all occasion for jealousy. it is not necessary to describe the banquet in detail; let it suffice to say that for fully three hours there was placed before the inca and his guests a constant succession of dishes representing all that was esteemed most choice and dainty in peruvian culinary art, washed down by copious libations of the wine of the country, prepared from the fermented juice of the maguey, for which, it is deplorable to add, the peruvians exhibited an inordinate fondness. by the exercise of extreme circumspection, taking merely a taste here and there of such food as especially appealed to him, and merely suffering the wine to moisten his lips when pledging his nobles, the young inca contrived to emerge from the ordeal of the banquet not a penny the worse. the next morning escombe spent in the company of a sort of committee of the chief _amautas_ or "wise men", who represented the concentrated essence--so to speak--of all peruvian wisdom and learning, and who had been embodied for the express purpose of instructing the young inca in the intricacies--such as they were--of the code of tavantinsuyu--or "four quarters of the world"--as it then stood. this code was simple, but exceedingly severe, the laws, properly so called, relating almost exclusively to criminal matters and their punishment. the regulations governing the daily life of the peruvian indian--where he should live, what should be the character of his work, what should be the distinctive character of his clothing, when and whom he should marry, how much land he should hold and cultivate, and so on, were the result of ages of tentative experiment, and were so numerous and intricate that probably none but the _amautas_ themselves thoroughly understood them. the committee, however, which had for nearly a month been preparing itself for the task of initiating the young inca into the secrets of good government, had arranged a procedure of such a character that even in the course of that one morning's instruction they contrived to give escombe a sufficiently clear general insight of the subject to enable him to see that, taken altogether, the system of government was admirably designed to secure the prosperity of the nation. then, in the afternoon, at the instigation of the council of seven, who had now become a sort of cabinet, to control the machinery of government, under the supervision of the inca, harry was conducted, by an official who performed the functions of chief of the treasury, through the enormous vaults beneath the palace, in order that he might view the treasure, industriously accumulated during more than three hundred years, to form the sinews of war for the regeneration of the race which was escombe's great predestined task. if, before visiting these vaults, harry had been invited to express an opinion upon the subject, he would have confidently asserted the conviction that such treasure as the inhabitants of the valley of the sun had been able to accumulate must all, or very nearly all, have been expended in the adornment of the great temple and the royal palace. but that such a conviction would have been absolutely erroneous was speedily demonstrated when the great bronze doors guarding the entrance of the vaults were thrown open. for the first room into which he was conducted--an apartment measuring some twenty feet wide by thirty feet long, and about fourteen feet high--was full of great stacks of silver bars, each bar being about twenty pounds in weight; the stacks, of varying height, being arranged in tiers of three running lengthwise along the room, with two narrow longitudinal passages between them. escombe, after staring in dumb amazement at this enormous accumulation of dull white metal, drew from his pocket a small memorandum book and pencil which he had found in one of the pockets of his old clothes, and, with the instinct of the engineer rising for a moment to the surface, made a rapid calculation by which he arrived at the astounding result that there must be very nearly eight hundred tons of bar silver in the stacks before him! from this room he was conducted into another of about the same size, and similarly arranged; but in this case the metal in the stacks was virgin gold, instead of silver, while the bulk of the stacks was, if anything, rather greater than those in the outer rooms. but, for the purposes of a rough estimate, escombe assumed them to be of only equal bulk, upon the strength of which assumption his figures informed him that the gold in this vault amounted to the not altogether insignificant weight of close upon fourteen hundred tons. the sight of such incredible quantities of the precious metals had so paralysing an effect upon the young englishman that he could scarcely stammer an enquiry as to where it all came from. the custodian of this fabulous wealth replied, with a smile, that the mountains which hemmed the valley about were enormously rich in both gold and silver, and that some hundreds of men had been kept industriously employed in working the mines almost from the moment when the city had been first founded. "but, lord," he continued, flinging open a third door, "what you have already seen is by no means all our wealth; the most valuable part of it is to be found in this small room." passing through the doorway, which, like the other two, was fitted with massive doors of solid bronze secured by an enormously strong lock of the same metal, the young inca--who, as one of the results of his having been placed upon the throne, had become the absolute owner of all this wealth, with power to use it in such manner as might seem to him good-- found himself in a much smaller room, its dimensions being about ten feet long by the same width, and some twelve feet high. to the sides of the room were fitted large chests of very heavy wood, three chests on each side occupying the entire length of the room, with a passage way about six feet wide between the two rows of chests. each chest was fitted with a massive wooden cover secured to it by strong bronze hinges, and fastened by a ponderous bronze lock. the custodian unlocked these chests one at a time, and, raising the heavy cover with difficulty, held the lamp which he carried over the yawning interior, disclosing its contents. the first chest opened was nearly full of what to escombe appeared to be dull black stones, most of them with at least one smooth surface, ranging in size from that of a walnut to lumps as large as a man's two fists. one of these lumps harry's conductor took out and handed to the young man for his inspection. "well, what do you call this?" demanded harry, turning the stone about in his hands, and inspecting it curiously. "that, lord, is an amethyst," answered the other; "and, as you see, the chest is nearly full of them. but, unless we should happen to discover a new mine, i am afraid we shall get no more of them, for the mine from which those were extracted appears to be exhausted; and it was never very productive even at its best. we did not know what the stones were when they were first discovered, but, as it was suspected that they might possess a certain value, steps were taken to determine the question, with the result that we were told they are amethysts. they are not especially valuable, i believe, but we make a point of never wasting anything, so it was decided to store these until wanted. now here,"--opening the next chest--"we have another mineral about which we were a bit puzzled at first; but we were in less doubt in this case than we were with regard to the amethysts, as the appearance of the stone seemed to indicate that it possessed a value. we dealt with this as we did with the amethysts, and found that we had chanced upon a particularly rich opal deposit." the chest of opals was, like the one previously opened, almost full, and harry took admiringly into his hand the great piece of rock representing the half of a mass of stone that had been accidentally broken in two, and found to contain a considerable quantity of iridescent, many-hued crystal. the next chest contained some very fine specimens of sapphire; but it was little more than half-full, the mine having only been discovered within the last decade, and even then not very industriously worked; but there were in the chest a few specimens that escombe shrewdly suspected to be practically priceless. having completed the inspection of the contents of the coffers on one side of the room, the custodian crossed over to the other side, and threw up the lid of a chest, the interior of which at once began to glow as though each of the stones--looking very much like lumps of ordinary washing soda--contained within it a morsel of phosphorus. "aha!" exclaimed escombe, plunging his hand delightedly into the chest and fishing up two or three of the stones; "no need to ask what these are; there's no possibility of mistaking them. yes, there's the genuine soapy feel about them all right," as he ran his fingers over the smooth surface of the crystals. "but i didn't know that you had diamonds in peru." "there is at all events one mine in the country, lord, namely that from which these stones came," answered the indian. "but the existence and locality are known only to the few who work it and who guard the approach to it; for we believe it to be the richest mine in the whole world, and we are naturally anxious to retain possession of it for ourselves exclusively. it is not in this valley; it lies a long three- days' journey from here, in a particularly wild and desolate part of the country which is practically inaccessible, save to the boldest and hardiest mountaineers among us. it has only been known for about twenty years, and the contents of this coffer represent the labour of only six men during that time. but the mine is enormously rich, and, as you may see, the size and quality of the stones improve as the miners penetrate deeper, the largest and finest stones, which are those most recently extracted, being at the top of the others in the chest." harry stooped over and picked up a particularly fine specimen, larger than one of his clenched fists, which glowed and scintillated in the light of the lamp as though it were on fire. "why," he said, gazing admiringly at the stone as he turned it about in his hand, "the contents of this chest must be of absolutely incalculable value! this stone alone would constitute a very handsome fortune to its lucky possessor, if i am any judge of diamonds." "true, lord," answered his companion. "but there are several finer stones than that--this one, and this, for example," as he fished up a couple of superb specimens. "there are probably no diamonds in the world equal to these two in size and purity of colour. and all belong to my lord." "ay," said harry; "with such enormous and inexhaustible wealth as this at one's command it should not be very difficult to provide the means of reconquering the country and restoring it to its former state of power and glory. what have you in the other two chests?" "my lord shall see," answered the indian, as he unlocked and threw back the lid of the next chest, which proved to be three parts full of rubies, every one of which constituted a little fortune in itself, while many were of such exceptional size and superb colour that the young englishman could only gasp in speechless amazement and admiration. "why, huatama," he exclaimed at length, "i am at a loss to express my astonishment. aladdin's cave was nothing to this, nothing at all!" "aladdin, did my lord say?" murmured the indian, looking enquiringly at harry. "i do not seem to remember him. surely he was not a peruvian? the name does not--" "no," answered harry with a laugh. "aladdin knew nothing of peru; he was an eastern--a chinese fellow, or something like that, if i remember rightly." "ah, yes!" remarked huatama reflectively; "i have seen a few chinese, down at lima and callao, when i had occasion to go there a year ago on business for the council of seven. i do not like them; and i hope that when my lord has subjugated the country he will drive them all out of it." "well, we shall see," rejoined escombe with a laugh. "but it is early days as yet to talk of driving out the chinese; there is a great deal to be done before we shall find ourselves face to face with that question. and now, what does your last chest contain?" it contained emeralds, and was more than half-full of stones of surpassing size and purity of colour, every one of them being a picked stone especially selected for its exceptional quality. but escombe's powers of admiration were by this time completely exhausted, and after having rather perfunctorily examined and expressed his approval of a few of the finest specimens, and commended the treasure as a whole to the unflagging care of huatama, he returned to his apartments in the palace and flung himself into a chair to endeavour to convince himself that what he had seen in those rock-hewn chambers below was all prosaically real and not the fantasy of a disordered imagination. as he pictured to himself the great chambers with their heaped-up stacks of silver and gold bars, and the smaller room with its six coffers of uncut gems, his thoughts insensibly floated away across the ocean to the modest little sydenham home, and he tried to imagine the raptures of his mother and sister, could they but behold the incredible accumulation of priceless gems that his eyes had rested upon that day. then he remembered that in consequence of this extraordinary adventure of his a mail boat had been permitted to leave for england with no letter on board from him to his mother, and he began to wonder anxiously what would happen at the limes when its occupants fully realised that the peruvian mail had arrived, and that there was no letter for them. it was the first time that such a thing had ever been permitted to occur; and, although he had been quite helpless to prevent the accident, escombe somehow felt that it ought not to have been allowed to happen; that he ought to have remembered in time, and taken steps to ensure that a letter had been despatched by some means or other. what was the use of being an inca if he could not manage a simple little thing like that? to summon arima and enquire of that trusty henchman whether, in the hurry of departure from the survey camp, he had remembered to pack up and bring away his master's writing desk was naturally the next thing in order. upon learning that the desk had not been forgotten, escombe at once had it brought to him, and sat down and wrote a long letter, addressed jointly to his mother and sister. this letter contained a full account of his abduction and all that had followed thereupon, together with an assurance that not only would he contrive henceforward to communicate with them regularly, but also that if, after the lapse of a certain length of time to allow the process of "settling down" to become complete, it should appear that his scheme of government was likely to prove a success, he would send for them to come out to him. he added that, meanwhile, the enormous wealth represented by the accumulations of more than three hundred years was at his absolute disposal, and that he felt quite justified in awarding himself a salary of one gold bar per calendar month for his services to the state; also, that since under present circumstances he had no use for a private purse, he should dispatch to them the monthly bar of gold for their own personal use and enjoyment, and that he should expect them to employ it for the purpose named. this somewhat lengthy epistle concluded by giving instructions for the conversion of the gold bar into coin of the realm. harry also wrote to sir philip swinburne, stating that he had fallen into the hands of the indians, but was being well-treated by them, and believed he was in no immediate danger, also that at the moment he saw no prospect of being permitted to return to civilisation; he was therefore writing for the purpose of allaying any apprehension that might be experienced on his account. finally, he wrote to bannister in somewhat similar terms. then he sent for huatama, and gave that functionary instructions to withdraw one gold bar from the treasury vaults and have it securely packed in a suitable box for transmission to europe. chapter fifteen. the monsters that haunted the lake. these matters attended to, escombe summoned the council of seven to the palace, and held what might be considered his first official conference. he began by laying before them his views as to the steps necessary to be taken in order to carry out successfully the desire of the people to become a regenerated nation, instructing them to cause several different kinds of information to be obtained for him, and finally pointing out to them the necessity for free communication with the outside world, and the consequent establishment of something in the nature of a regular postal and transport service between the valley and two or three points on the railway system. long before he had finished all that he had to say it was perfectly evident to the young inca that the members of the council--or at least some of them--were entirely out of sympathy with many of his views and ideas, and that he would have to contend with a vast amount of ignorance and prejudice. to indicate a few out of many points where this lack of sympathy most strongly manifested itself, harry had commented upon the necessity for establishing an army and providing it with the most modern and efficient weapons and equipment. to this huanacocha and his supporters strongly objected, arguing that the state already possessed an army in the shape of the inca's bodyguard, horse and foot, which, in their opinion, ought to be amply sufficient to reconquer the country in view of the fact that pizarro's army numbered less than two hundred men when he captured atahuallpa and thus achieved the conquest of peru. and, as to the importation of modern weapons, they were altogether opposed to the proposal for many reasons, the chief of which were the difficulty and delay attendant upon the procuring of them and of their introduction into the country, and the further delay involved in training the troops to use them. moreover, the weapons with which the existing troops were armed were such as they had always been accustomed to, and in the use of which they were already thoroughly skilled. such a radical change as was proposed must of necessity involve an enormous delay, and for their part they were unable to see any advantage in the proposal. they looked with equal disfavour upon the proposal to establish a postal and transport service, arguing that there was no need for anything of the kind, the fundamental idea governing the settlement of their forefathers in the valley and the founding of the city of the sun being that its inhabitants and the resources of the valley itself would be amply sufficient to achieve the reconquest of the country. it was not until harry had very nearly lost his temper in arguing with these men that he learned that not one of them had ever been outside the valley, and that their very meagre knowledge of the outside world had been derived from the few individuals who at rare intervals had been obliged to make short and hasty journeys outside the confines of the encircling mountains upon state business. as soon as harry had thoroughly grasped this fact he gave them to understand, as politely as possible, that none of them knew in the least what they were talking about, and for that reason he would feel himself compelled to dispense with their advice for the future, forming his own plans in accordance with the knowledge which he had acquired during a residence of several years in the biggest, busiest, and best-informed city in the world; and that henceforth he would ask of them nothing more than loyal wholehearted obedience to his commands. he finally dismissed them with instructions to establish immediately a service of postal runners between the valley and the town of juliaca on the santa rosa, puno, arequipa, and mollendo railway; with further instructions to arrange for the establishment of a thoroughly trustworthy agent at juliaca, whose sole business it should be to see that all letters for europe and other parts of the world were duly stamped and posted upon receipt by him; and to the care of whom all letters for the valley might be addressed. this done, escombe summoned arima to his presence and, handing him all the coin that he happened to have in his possession, delivered to him the letters which he had written, together with the gold bar--by this time securely packed and ready for posting--and directed him to proceed with all possible speed to islay--using the railway as far as possible in order to save time--and there post the letters and the box containing the bar. then he suddenly bethought himself and, before dismissing arima upon his journey, sat down and wrote a long letter to mr john firmin, of lima, he who had been a fellow-passenger from england with harry on board the _rimac_, in this letter he told firmin as much of his story as he thought it necessary for him to know, and made certain arrangements whereby firmin was to undertake certain business transactions from time to time, and to supply immediately certain necessaries, for the due delivery of which harry gave his friend the most minute instructions. this completed what the inca was pleased to regard as a very excellent and satisfactory day's work. and now the young englishman began to find his time very fully occupied, so much so, indeed, that the days seemed not nearly long enough to enable him to accomplish the half of what he wished to do. there was, for instance, the learning of the quichua language. harry had not been domiciled in his palace twenty-four hours before it had become patent to him that this was the first task which he must undertake; for very few of the nobles had any knowledge whatever of spanish, and the inconvenience and loss of time involved in conversing through an interpreter were far too great to be passively endured. and, since he could do very little else as satisfactorily as he would wish until he had mastered this rich and expressive language, he devoted four hours of every day--two in the morning and two in the evening--to its study. then he soon learned that, exclusive of the inhabitants of the valley of the sun, there were some three hundred and fifty thousand indians scattered up and down the country, at least one in every ten of whom might be counted as a fighting man. these people had to be brought into the valley, housed, fed, disciplined, in preparation for the time when arms should be put into their hands; also--what was more difficult still--matters had to be so arranged that the families of these men, and all dependent upon them, should suffer neither loss nor inconvenience from the drafting of the able-bodied into the valley. then the arrangements and preparations for the importation of arms and ammunition into the country--everything connected with which had, of course, to be done entirely without the knowledge of the authorities--involved a tremendous amount of hard and intricate work. it is therefore not to be wondered at that during the first six months of his reign the young inca was unable to spare a single hour for amusement. but the moment was at hand when harry was to enjoy some sport of a quite unique character; and the way in which it came about was thus. as he stood one morning in the palace garden, gazing out over the lake, with his faithful henchman arima close at hand, an idea suddenly occurred to him, and, turning, he remarked: "the lake looks particularly enticing this morning, arima. are there any balsas near at hand? because, if so, you shall fetch me one, and we will go out together to deep water and indulge in a glorious swim." "a swim, lord, in the deep water of the lake?" ejaculated arima in horror-stricken accents. "nay, that is impossible." "impossible!" repeated harry. "and why, pray?" "because of the monsters, lord," answered arima. "were we to venture to plunge into the lake we should almost certainly be devoured." "indeed!" answered harry. "so there are monsters in the lake, are there? i was not aware of that. and what are those `monsters'? are they alligators, or voracious fish, or what are they? i should hardly have supposed that the water of the lake was warm enough for alligators to flourish in it." "nay, lord," answered arima, "they are not alligators. i have seen alligators in some of the northern rivers, and know them well enough to be able to distinguish between them and the monsters which haunt our lake. nor are they fish; or if they be, they are quite unlike any other fish that these eyes of mine have ever beheld. we call them `monsters' because our forefathers did so, and because we have no other name for them; also because of their exceeding size and malevolence." "ah!" commented harry. "well, what are these creatures--these monsters--like, and how big are they? have you ever seen them?" "yes, lord," was the answer. "i have seen them no less than three times at close quarters, and always with the same disastrous results. the first time was when, during my passage of the lake on a balsa, one of my companions had the misfortune to fall into the water. ere the balsa could be stopped and paddled back to where the man was struggling, two of the monsters appeared and tore him limb from limb. the resemblance to an alligator lies chiefly in the shape of the head, which, however, is longer in proportion and more pointed than that of the alligator. also, our monsters have smooth skins, nearly black in colour, and instead of feet and legs they have fins. the tail also is differently shaped from that of an alligator, being wide and flat at the end." "by jove!" exclaimed harry in astonishment, "they must be queer and formidable-looking creatures indeed; and fins in place of legs and feet! i'll be shot if i can place them at all. are there many of them?" "we do not generally see more than two, or three at most, although it is on record that on one occasion, many years ago, four were seen, two of them being obviously young ones," answered arima. "upon my word, this all sounds exceedingly interesting," commented harry. "i should dearly like to see the creatures myself. do they often show themselves?" "very rarely, lord, save in the case of such accidents as those of which i have told you," answered arima. "yet," he continued, "if my lord desires to see the monsters it could doubtless be managed. if the carcass of an animal were deposited upon yonder rock,"--the indian pointed to a rock showing slightly above the water's surface about a mile from the shore--"and another were cast into the water quite near it, the monsters would doubtless be attracted to the place; and if my lord were close at hand at the time, upon a large and safe balsa, he would see them when they crawl up on the rock to reach the carcass exposed there." "ah!" ejaculated harry; "you think so? then let the matter be arranged for to-morrow, arima. i confess that your description of the creatures has powerfully excited my curiosity, and made me very anxious to see them." and on the morrow the young inca's curiosity was fully gratified, and with something to spare. oh, those monsters! harry believed he possessed a passably fair general knowledge of natural history, but these creatures--monsters truly--were entirely new to him. in no natural history had he ever seen a representation of anything like them. and yet, when he came to think of it again, singular and terrifying as was their appearance, it was not altogether unfamiliar. he believed he had seen them portrayed somewhere, although he could not for the moment remember where. fully forty feet long from the snout to the tip of the tail, with a head shaped midway between that of a pike and a crocodile, with enormous protruding eyes, with a smooth somewhat fish-shaped body almost black above and shading off to a dirty whitish-grey beneath, with a long tail broad and flat at its extremity, and with four seal-like flippers instead of legs and feet, the monsters looked more like nightmare creatures, evolved by reading a book on antediluvian animals after a--. of course, that was it, escombe decided, as his thoughts took some such turn as above. he now distinctly remembered having read some years ago a most interesting illustrated magazine article upon extinct animals, and one of the pictures portrayed these identical monsters, labelling them "plesiosaurus"! yes, the more harry thought about it the less room did he find for doubt that these so-called monsters haunting the lake in the valley of the sun were actually survivors--most probably the only ones--of the antediluvian plesiosaurus. how they got there was a most interesting problem, yet it seemed by no means a difficult one to solve. the conclusion at which escombe speedily arrived--rightly or wrongly-- was that upon the subsidence of the waters of the deluge a pair of plesiosauri had found themselves imprisoned in the great basin of the valley, where, the conditions presumably being exceptionally favourable, they had not only survived but had actually contrived to perpetuate their species to a very limited extent. and the reason why the lake was not swarming with them, instead of containing probably only three or four specimens at the utmost, was doubtless that the waters were too circumscribed in extent, and too unproductive in the matter of fish, to support more than that number. the problem of how they came to be where they were was, however, not one of very great importance; the thing that really mattered was, in escombe's opinion, that their presence in the lake constituted a horrible danger to those who were obliged to traffic upon its waters, and they must be destroyed. they must not be permitted to exist another day longer than was absolutely necessary. why, when one came to think of it, how many hundreds of lives might not already have fallen victims to the savage voracity of those creatures? what hope for his life would a man have if he chanced to fall off his balsa at a moment when one of those monsters happened to be close at hand? positively none. escombe shuddered as he reflected that, ignorant as he had hitherto been of the presence of the plesiosauri in the lake, it had only been by a series of fortuitous circumstances--or was it the intervention of a merciful providence?--that he had been from time to time prevented from bathing in the lake, ay, and actually swimming out to the distant rock, as he had several times been strongly tempted to do. yes, those implacably ferocious monsters must be destroyed forthwith; and the only point remaining to be settled was, how was the work of destruction to be accomplished? the plan which first suggested itself to the young inca was the very obvious one of fishing for them with a baited hook and line, even as sharks were fished for. true, it would need a very big hook and a very strong line to capture a creature of the size and strength of a plesiosaurus; but to manufacture them was surely not beyond the resources of the inhabitants of the valley. yes; but there was another matter to be considered. what about a craft from which to do the fishing? the largest balsa that harry had ever seen upon the lake was not nearly big enough for the purpose; a hooked plesiosaurus would drag it under water without an effort, and then what would become of its occupants? the probabilities were too awful for contemplation, and the idea was not to be entertained for a moment. besides, a balsa was not at all the kind of craft on which to engage in so dangerous a form of sport, even though it were possible to build one big enough; what was needed was a good stanch sturdy boat of, say, twenty tons or so. and, having arrived at this point in his meditations, escombe was naturally reminded that he had often wished that he possessed a small yacht wherein to disport himself on the lake. why should he not have one? his will was law; he had but to speak the word and the best and most skilled workers in the valley would be at his disposal for the construction of the vessel. and as to her design, why, he had always been an enthusiastic yacht sailor, and knew, as well as most amateurs, what the shape of such a craft should be, and was quite capable of putting that shape on paper in a form that could be worked from. escombe's mind was made up: he would destroy those plesiosauri, and to destroy them a suitable boat was necessary. that boat might be so designed and built as to also afford him a great deal of pleasure, and he would have her. and thereupon he set to work and devoted every minute he could spare to the preparation of her design, which, a week later, was in the hands of a small army of carpenters, eager to show what they could do in a line of work that was entirely new to them. chapter sixteen. the slaying of the monsters. "many hands make light work"; and in just two months from the day of starting work upon the cutter she was complete, rigged, and ready for launching. she was of the most up-to-date type with which escombe was acquainted; that is to say, beamy, rather shallow of body, with spoon bow, and a fin keel, and her designer felt particularly proud of her as he walked round her and critically surveyed her lines and general shape the last thing before giving the word to put her into the water. needless to say she was also the object of great and ever-increasing curiosity to the inhabitants of the valley generally, not more than perhaps a dozen of whom had ever seen anything more handy and shipshape than the unwieldy balsa, or raft constructed of reeds, a not very manageable craft at the best of times, and of course quite incapable of being navigated under sail except before the wind. the cutter was got into the water without accident, and after some slight readjustment of her inside ballast, to bring her accurately to her correct water line, her young owner got on board and, a nice sailing breeze happening to be blowing right down the lake, took her for a trial spin from one end of the lake to the other, running down and beating back. the result was eminently satisfactory in every respect, the little vessel developing a fine turn of speed, not only before the wind but also close-hauled, while she was of course, like all craft of similar form, remarkably weatherly; indeed the smartness with which she worked back against the wind, from the lower end of the lake, was regarded by the unsophisticated inhabitants of the valley as nothing short of miraculous. meanwhile, escombe having given instructions for the manufacture of a hardened copper hook, with two fathoms of chain attached, and a stout rope of plaited raw hide, at the same time that he had put the yacht in hand, these articles were now ready. therefore, after exercising his crew for a week, to get them thoroughly accustomed to the working of the new craft, he made arrangements for a grand plesiosaurus hunt, to which he invited his stanch friend umu, and three or four other nobles who had manifested a capacity for development into kindred spirits. on a certain glorious morning this novel fishing party embarked on board the yacht, taking with them, of course, their fishing line and the carcasses of two llamas, cut in half, for bait, together with a formidable battery of bows and arrows, spears, heavy maces, and other weapons for the killing of their quarry when captured; to which armament escombe added his magazine rifle and two packets of cartridges, which the faithful arima had been careful to bring away from the survey camp, together with everything else belonging to his young master, on the memorable occasion of that individual's abduction. starting under easy sail, and heading for the bottom of the lake, the great fishing line-- made fast by its inner end to the windlass bitts, and the remainder of it led aft outside and clear of all rigging--was baited and paid out astern as soon as the cutter had run into deep water. it was not very long before the party, intently on the watch for the approach of the plesiosauri, detected a strong, swirling ripple mingling with that of the yacht's wake, which indicated that at least one of the monsters was at hand, and presently the ripple broke, revealing some six feet of smooth, black, glistening back keeping pace with the little vessel, while occasionally, when the light favoured, an indistinct and momentary glimpse might be caught, through the swirling water, of two enormous, glaring eyes. but the beast, in its eagerness to reach its supposed prey, had apparently passed the baited hook as unworthy of its notice, for the bait was a long way astern of the creature, which seemed intent only on overtaking the yacht, for it now made frequent rushes forward until it was within a few fathoms of the little vessel's counter, and then sank out of sight and dropped astern again, as though it knew not what to make of the moving object ahead of it. but, provokingly enough, from the sportsmen's point of view, it never dropped far enough astern to bring it level with the bait, while, on the other hand, when it approached the yacht it was careful to keep far enough below the surface to render anything like an accurate aim impossible; indeed it behaved as though it instinctively knew that danger threatened it. although escombe's companions were eager enough to waste their arrows in obviously futile attempts to hit it, the young leader of the expedition rigorously forbade everything of the nature of chance shooting, lest the creature should happen to receive a more or less slight wound, and thus be driven to flight. and, for the same reason, escombe himself declined to attempt a shot with his rifle. but while they were all intently watching the movements of the creature, and standing with weapons in hand, ready to discharge an effective shot at the first favourable opportunity, a sudden, startled yell from arima, who was tending the fishing line, caused the whole party to wheel round to see what was the matter, and harry had only bare time to drop his rifle and grip his faithful henchman by the belt, to thus prevent him from being dragged overboard, as the line suddenly tautened out like a bar, flinging up a great shower of spray as it did so, while a terrific plunge in the water far astern revealed the fact that a second monster, whose presence had hitherto been undetected, had taken the bait and become hooked. "let go the line, you idiot, let go!" hissed escombe through his clenched teeth, as he braced his feet against a stanchion and flung himself back, clinging with both hands to arima's belt, while that individual vainly strove to hold the now frantically struggling reptile--"let go, man, if you don't want to be dragged overboard and eaten alive! haul down the foresail, there, for'ard!" the stout raw-hide line twanged like a harp-string as the terrified arima relaxed his convulsive grip on it and was hauled back inboard to safety by his master, and the yacht's forward progress was checked with an abruptness that threatened to drag the bitts out of her as the strain of the line, with the plunging, struggling monster at the end of it, was suddenly thrown upon them, while the shock sent every individual, fore and aft, sprawling upon the deck, to the uproarious and most undignified amusement of the young inca, and the mortal terror of his faithful subjects. then, as all hands scrambled to their feet again and instinctively regained possession of their weapons, the hooked saurian started to "run", in the vain hope, possibly, of breaking away from the restraining influence which had so suddenly and unaccountably seized upon it. the yacht was whirled violently round--almost capsizing in the process--and dragged, with her bows nearly buried in the hissing and curling water, back toward the head of the lake, at a steadily increasing pace, as the now thoroughly terrified plesiosaurus surged forward at headlong speed in its frenzied endeavour to escape, with its companion keeping pace by its side. the yacht had only travelled a distance of some three miles down the lake when the monster had taken the bait, and on the backward journey this distance was covered in about a quarter of an hour--a fact which bore eloquent testimony to the tremendous strength of the creature. harry was beginning to feel exceedingly uneasy lest his vessel should be towed into such shallow water that he would be compelled to cut the line in order to save her from being dragged ashore, when the quarry, which probably also objected to shallow water, wheeled suddenly right round and, rushing close past the cutter, in a perfect maelstrom of foam and spray, headed back for the lower end of the lake, with its companion still bearing it company. to thrust the helm hard over, and to shout to everybody to lie down and hang on for their lives, was, with harry, the work of but a moment; yet the yacht, handy as she was on her helm, had scarcely swept halfway round when the stout line again jerked itself taut, the terrific strain again came upon the bitts, causing them to ominously creak and groan, and once more the little vessel heeled gunwale under as she was whirled violently round, until she righted again and ploughed up a glassy sheet of foam-laced water on either bow as she tore along in the wake of the monster reptiles. "this cannot possibly last very much longer," remarked escombe reassuringly to his companions, who had by this time turned a sickly, greenish-yellow with terror at so unaccustomed an adventure--and that, too, on an element to which they were practically strangers--"the brute will soon become exhausted at this rate, and when he does we will haul him alongside and finish him off with our spears and arrows. i don't care how far he runs, so long as he heads as he is now going; it is those sudden twists and turns that are dangerous. if he were to break away we should probably never have a chance to hook him again." nevertheless, despite harry's confident prognostication, they had traversed quite half the length of the lake ere there was the slightest perceptible sign of the creature weakening; and they accomplished another quarter of the distance ere the reptile slackened speed sufficiently to admit of their attempting to haul the yacht up alongside it. then, when they at length proceeded to make the attempt, the additional strain thrown on the rope, as it was hauled in and coiled down, seemed to exhaust the last remnant of the brute's strength, and, stopping suddenly, it rose to the surface and, throwing its head out of the water, shook it savagely from side to side in a futile endeavour to shake itself free of the hook, emitting a curious grunting kind of roar as it did so. yet, even now, the creature was not conquered; for when it found itself being hauled alongside the yacht it suddenly sank, and nearly the whole of the length of rope that had been hauled in was allowed to run out again ere harry, by taking a quick turn round the bitts, was able to stay its downward progress. and then it became a matter of sheer, downright drag by all hands ere the huge bulk could be brought near enough to the surface to permit of the use of their weapons on it, when it was found that its companion still clung faithfully to its side. at length, after some fifteen minutes of exhausting labour on the one hand, opposed to stolid dogged resistance on the other, the monster reptile was dragged so close to the surface that the point of its snout was actually raised above the level or the water, and the whole of the gigantic body, right down to the extremity of the broad-ended tail, could be clearly seen hanging suspended vertically in the pellucid depths beneath the yacht, while swimming agitatedly round and round the suspended body could occasionally be seen the creature's mate, now plunging deep, as though, thoroughly terrified, it had at length determined to abandon so dangerous a neighbourhood, and anon returning with a swift rush to the surface, and furious dartings to and fro, as though meditating an attempt at the rescue of its companion. and now, for the first time, the hunters were able to obtain a thoroughly clear and satisfactory view, at close quarters, of the gruesome-looking brutes, and a truly hideous and nightmare-inspiring sight it was; a sight which, as escombe gazed at the ponderous, powerful, thick-skinned bodies, the enormous, protruding, balefully glaring eyes, and the long, cavernous, gaping jaws, armed with great serrated teeth--those of the upper jaw fitting in between those of the lower--caused him to feel, more strongly than ever, the conviction that in destroying the creatures he was a public benefactor. the captured brute now hung so nearly motionless, with the point of the great barbed hook protruding through its upper jaw, that it was evident its strength must be practically exhausted; and escombe, standing by to open fire with his magazine rifle in case of an emergency, gave the word to his companions to deal the death stroke, advising some to endeavour to reach the creature's brain by means of a spear-thrust through the eye, while others were to attempt to pierce the heart. but, with the arrival of the crucial moment, the nerves of the natives seemed to suddenly fail them; they became flurried and frightened in the very act of raising their weapons to strike, and every man of them missed his mark, inflicting many serious and doubtless painful wounds, but not one that seemed in the least degree likely to prove mortal. the result was the immediate resumption of a struggle so violent that for a breathless minute or two it really seemed as though the cutter, stout little craft as she was, would be dragged under water and sunk. and in the very height of the confusion one of the hunters must needs fall overboard into the midst of the boiling flurry of bloodstained foam raised by the struggles of the frantic brute, and was only dragged aboard again by harry in the very nick of time to save him from the terrific rush of the second plesiosaurus. then the young leader of the party, seeing that his companions were too completely unnerved to be of any use, and that the violent struggles of the wounded brute threatened to seriously injure, if they did not actually destroy, the cutter, stepped forward, and, raising his rifle, seized the opportunity afforded by a pause of a fraction of a second in the violent movements of the creature, and sent a bullet crashing through its right eye into its brain. that settled the matter. the struggles ceased for a moment or two with startling suddenness; a convulsive, writhing movement followed; then came a terrible shudder, and with a final gasping groan the monster yielded up its life and hung motionless, its body supported, still in an upright position, by the great hook through its jaw. with the crack of escombe's rifle the second monster had suddenly vanished. the question now was, what was to be done with the carcass of the dead plesiosaurus. as harry stood there, contemplatively regarding it, it was perfectly obvious to him that if the great fish hook were cut out of the creature's jaw with an axe, the body would at once sink to the bottom of the lake, and there would be an end of it, so far as he was concerned, and the party would at once be free to resume their fishing, although he had his doubts as to whether, after what had already happened, another of the monsters could be tempted to take the baited hook. but it suddenly occurred to him that, the plesiosaurus being to all intents and purposes an extinct and antediluvian animal, the only remains of it in existence must necessarily consist of such fossilised fragments as had been accidentally discovered in the course of excavation, and that the complete skeleton of such a gigantic specimen as that before him would be regarded as a priceless acquisition by the curator of the natural history museum at south kensington; so he at once resolved to take the necessary steps for its preservation. he gave orders for the line to which the hook was bent to be led aft, for convenience of towage, and then commanded his crew to set the cutter's sails, his purpose being to tow the carcass to a lonely part of the shore, and there have the body hauled up out of water, the flesh carefully removed from the bones, and the skeleton as carefully disarticulated, prior to packing it for dispatch to england. but the cutter was scarcely under way, and heading for the spot that had been selected as suitable for the above operations, when a disturbance of the water near at hand indicated the presence of some bulky moving body, most probably the companion of the dead creature, which had been terrified into temporary flight by the report of harry's rifle. the animal, however, or whatever it might be, remained invisible, the little swirling eddies and ripples on the surface of the water alone betraying its whereabouts. but while harry and his friends were discussing this appearance, and wondering what it might portend, one of them happened to glance around him in another direction, and his startled exclamation caused the rest of the party to look in the direction toward which he pointed. and there, somewhat to their consternation, the party saw, not half a dozen yards away, on the cutter's weather beam, the indications that two more of the monsters were present, keeping way with the cutter, and, as was presently pretty evident, edging in toward her; indeed, so close were they to her that an occasional momentary flicker of the black back of the nearer of the two could already be caught through the gleaming water. two or three of the nobles who had by this time succeeded in pulling themselves together and getting a grip upon their courage, proposed an instant attack upon the monsters; but escombe felt that, for the moment, he had as much upon his hands as he could manage. for with that huge dead bulk in tow the cutter was scarcely under command, and he had no desire to scare the creatures away by commencing an attack upon them which he could not follow up. the choice, however, was not left to him for long; for within five minutes of the discovery of the last arrivals all three of the plesiosauri, as with one consent and at a signal, closed in upon the carcass of their comrade, and, flinging themselves upon it with the utmost fury, gave themselves up to the task of tearing it to pieces, the work being accomplished in the midst of a foaming, splashing turmoil of water that was absolutely terrifying to witness, which caused the little cutter to pitch and roll to such an extent that it was almost impossible to retain a footing upon her heaving deck. whether the creatures made any attempt to devour the great lumps of flesh that they tore from the violently swaying carcass it was quite impossible to determine, but in any case the process of disintegration was a speedy one, for in less than ten minutes from the moment of attack all that was left attached to the hook was the head of the defunct saurian. justly vexed at this malicious interference with his plans, and determined to save at least this last relic as a trophy of his prowess, the young inca gave orders for the head to be hauled inboard; but upon the first attempt to do this, one of the monsters made a savage rush and seized the head in its great jaws, worrying it as a dog worries a rat, giving utterance as it did so to a succession of horrid grunting kind of growls that caused most of the hearers to break into a cold perspiration. so tenaciously did the brute retain its grip that for a few minutes the onlookers were almost persuaded that it was hooked; but ultimately it released the mangled fragment--which its powerful jaws had by this time crushed and splintered almost out of recognition--and, retreating some thirty yards, suddenly wheeled and came foaming back to the yacht, at which it made a furious dash, with the apparent determination to climb on board and sweep her deck clear of its human freight. so resolute, indeed, was it in driving home its attack that it actually succeeded in getting its two fore flippers in on the boat's deck, scattering its occupants right and left, and almost driving two or three over the side, while so heavily was the boat listed by the weight of the monster, that harry, sliding upon the steeply inclined deck, had the narrowest possible escape of being precipitated headlong into the creature's gaping jaws, and indeed only saved himself by stretching out his hand and thrusting the snout violently aside, the violence of the thrust luckily enabling him to recover his equilibrium. then umu--who appeared to be the only native of the party blessed with any real courage or presence of mind--seeing his beloved master in imminent danger, as he believed, of being seized and devoured before their eyes, raised his bow, and hastily fitting an arrow to the string, drew the shaft to its very head and let it fly into the reptile's throat, where it stuck fast, inflicting so much pain that the beast at once flung itself back into the water, roaring and choking, coughing up blood, and throwing itself into the most indescribable contortions. then a very extraordinary thing happened. no sooner did the wounded plesiosaurus begin to vomit blood than the other two, which had meanwhile been swimming excitedly to and fro, hurled themselves upon it in what seemed to be a perfect frenzy of fury, and a most ferocious and sanguinary battle ensued, the swirling, flying, foam-flecked water being almost instantly deeply dyed with blood, while the air fairly vibrated with the terrifying sounds emitted by the combatants. the cutter, meanwhile, relieved of the heavy drag upon her of the carcass of the dead plesiosaurus, began to slide rapidly away from the vicinity of the fighting monsters, and would soon have left them far behind. but this did not at all suit harry, who, having undertaken to destroy the ferocious reptiles, was by no means inclined to leave his task less than half done. he therefore put the cutter about and, to the mingled astonishment and dismay of his companions, headed her back toward the scene of the combat, steering in such a manner as to pass just to leeward of the spot where the violent commotion in the water showed that the battle was still raging with unabated fury. then, as the boat ranged up alongside, with her foresheet hauled to windward, the great bodies of the monsters could be seen rushing and plunging and leaping hither and thither, whereupon the whole party of sportsmen opened a vigorous and well-directed fire of arrows and javelins upon them, harry chiming in with his deadly rifle whenever a good chance for a shot offered itself. the result of this determined attack was that the young leader was lucky enough to get in a splendid shot close behind the left shoulder of one of the struggling brutes, which must have reached its heart, for upon receiving the bullet the great reptile flung itself more than half out of the water, uttering a dreadful cry as it did so, and then, falling back, turned slowly over, and with one last writhing, convulsive shudder, sank slowly to the bottom of the lake. meanwhile the remaining two, both severely wounded, flung themselves upon each other with such a maniacal intensity of fury as was truly awful to see. finally, one of the monsters succeeded in getting a firm grip upon the throat of the other, and hung on, despite the frantic struggles of the other to get clear. for perhaps two full minutes the commotion in the water was positively terrific; then it rapidly decreased until, probably quite exhausted by the intensity of their prolonged efforts, they lay practically still upon the surface of the water, their only signs of life being an occasional slight twist of the body on the part of one or the other of them. such an opportunity was much too good to be missed, and, raising his rifle, escombe was lucky enough to shoot both the monsters dead by a couple of rapid, well-directed shots through the head. the two carcasses immediately began to sink; but before they vanished completely out of sight, one of the cutter's crew, by means of a lucky cast, succeeded in hooking one of the defunct saurians with the great fish hook; and by this means the monster was eventually landed, with some difficulty, at the spot originally chosen for the purpose. thus terminated the great plesiosaurus hunt, after nearly three hours of the most exciting work that escombe had ever enjoyed. chapter seventeen. huanacocha the plotter. about a fortnight after escombe's destruction of the plesiosauri, it pleased huanacocha, the late chief of the council of seven, to entertain a small but select party of his especial friends at a banquet, which he gave in his house, situate on the borders of the lake, the grounds of which adjoined those of the virgins of the sun, which, in turn, were contiguous to those of the royal palace. huanacocha was probably the most wealthy man in the city of the sun, next to the inca himself; for he had held the position of chief of the council of seven for nearly a quarter of a century, and previous to the appearance of escombe upon the scene the portion of the national revenue that would otherwise have gone into the coffers of the sovereign had always been awarded to the council of seven; while, huanacocha being not only an astute but also an utterly unscrupulous man, of exceptionally strong and overbearing character, the larger portion of this award had regularly found its way, by various devious channels, into his own private treasure chest. he was consequently well able to offer his guests an entertainment of almost regal magnificence. it is not to be wondered at, therefore, that when the lord huanacocha issued invitations to a banquet--which was not very often--the full number of the invited generally made a point of accepting, and being present at the function. upon the occasion in question the guests consisted of our old friends tiahuana, the villac vmu, and motahuana, together with the lords licuchima and chalihuama, late of the council of seven, and the lords chinchacocheta and lehuava--six in all. it is not necessary to describe the banquet in detail; let it suffice to say that, for reasons of his own, the host had given special instructions that neither trouble nor expense was to be spared to make the function a complete success; and that therefore, so well had his instructions been carried out, the entertainment as a whole fell not very far short of that which had marked the occasion of escombe's accession to the throne of the incas. there is no need to record in detail the conversation that followed upon the dismissal of the servants. it is sufficient to say that huanacocha had arranged this banquet with the express object of eliciting the views of his guests upon a certain project that had been gradually taking shape in his mind, which he believed was now ripe for execution. but, to his astonishment and consternation, he now discovered that he had to a very important extent entirely misapprehended the situation; and after a long and somewhat heated discussion the meeting had broken up without result, save that the guests had departed from his house in a mutually distrustful and uneasy frame of mind. when huanacocha at length retired to rest that night not only did he feel somewhat uneasy, but he was also distinctly angry with himself; for although he had achieved the purpose with which the banquet had been given--which was to elicit a frank expression of opinion from certain individuals relative to the inca and his schemes of reformation--he felt that he had blundered badly. he had used neither tact nor discretion in his manner of conducting the conversation; he had been reckless even to the point of suggesting opposition to the decrees of the sovereign; and when it was too late, when he had fatally committed himself, he had seen, to his discomfiture, that two of his companions--and those two the most powerful persons in the community, next to the inca himself, namely the villac vmu and his deputy, motahuana--were distinctly out of sympathy with him. true, the villac vmu had expressed himself as puzzled, disturbed, anxious at the attitude of the inca towards the religious question; but it was perfectly clear that the frame of mind of the high priest was not nearly acute enough to induce him to regard with favour, or even with patience, any suggestion at all savouring of sedition. and he, huanacocha, in his heat and impatience, had been foolish enough to throw out such a suggestion. the question that now disturbed him was: what would be tiahuana's attitude toward him henceforward in view of what he had said; nay more, what would be the attitude of the high priest toward his friends in view of what they had said? would the villac vmu and his deputy accept a suggestion which he had thrown out, that this momentous and imprudent conversation should be regarded as private and confidential, and treat it as such, or would they consider it their duty to report the affair to the inca? if they did, then huanacocha knew that he and his friends would have good cause to regret their imprudence; for, despite all his cavilling, the late chief of the council of seven had already seen enough of escombe's methods to feel certain that the young monarch would stand no nonsense, particularly of the seditious kind, and that, at the first hint of anything of that sort, if the culprits did not lose their heads, they would at least find themselves bestowed where their seditious views could work no mischief. as these reflections passed through the mind of huanacocha, that somewhat impulsive and overbearing individual grew increasingly uneasy, and he now began to fear that he had been altogether too outspoken. for, be it known, this man huanacocha had conceived nothing less than the audacious idea of overthrowing the inca, and securing his own election in his stead. in his capacity of chief of the council of seven he had for a long term of years enjoyed a measure of power scarcely less than that invested in the inca himself; for, being by nature of an unusually arrogant and domineering disposition, while the other members of the council had been exceedingly pliant and easy-going, he had never experienced any difficulty in browbeating them into tolerably quick compliance with his wishes, however extravagant they might happen to have been. as for the people, they had rendered the same implicit, unquestioning obedience to the council that they would have rendered to the inca, had there been one on the throne. having enjoyed this power, together with all the privileges and emoluments attaching thereto, for so long a time, huanacocha had found it particularly hard and unpleasant to be called upon to resign them all, practically at a moment's notice, when young escombe made his appearance upon the scene. possibly, had harry chanced to conform to this man's preconceived opinion of what the inca would be like whenever it should please him to revisit the earth, he might have accepted the situation with a reasonably good grace; but to be ousted by "a mere boy"--for as such he always thought of the young inca--was altogether too much to be submitted to tamely. at the first his mental revolt had been vague, indefinite, and formless; perhaps he had thought that in course of time it would pass away and he would grow reconciled to the new order of things, particularly if the young inca should show himself properly willing to submit to the guiding hand of the council of seven, as represented by its late chief. but escombe lost no time in making it perfectly clear to everybody that he had his own ideas upon the subject of government, and meant to act upon them. upon more than one occasion--upon several, in fact--the young inca had turned a deaf ear to the counsels of huanacocha, and had carried out his own ideas because he had honestly believed them to be better and more advantageous to the community. he had put his foot down heavily upon many abuses of power on the part of certain of the highest nobles, and in this way huanacocha had suffered perhaps more severely than anyone else. for this reason his condition of mental revolt, instead of passing away, gathered new force and gradually began to assume a definite form which ultimately resolved itself into the determination to cause harry's "removal" by some means--he did not particularly care what they were--and procure his own election to the vacant throne, if that might be; or, if not that, at least the re- instatement of the council of seven, with himself, of course, as its chief. with this object in view he had commenced operations by proceeding to manufacture sedulously a number of imaginary grievances from which he asserted that the people were suffering, and these he industriously spread abroad among his own friends, hoping that in course of time they would filter through to the people themselves, and be eagerly adopted by them; which delectable plan certainly met with some measure of success. but as he lay tossing sleeplessly upon his bed he realised that he had that evening been both foolish and precipitate: he had seriously mistaken the nature of the views held by the two priests, and had betrayed himself and his friends in their presence. how would the villac vmu and his deputy act, or would they act at all, was the question which he now repeatedly asked himself? could he by any means ascertain their intentions? he must, by fair means or foul: it would never do for him to remain in ignorance upon such a vital point after the reckless manner in which he and his friends had spoken. ay, and more than that, he must make quite sure that they maintained silence upon the subject of that most imprudent conversation, otherwise--! he flung himself over restlessly upon his bed: the longer he thought upon the matter the more glaring did his folly appear. he must guard himself and his friends from the consequences of that folly at all costs. but how? who was there to advise him? suddenly he bethought himself of xaxaguana, the priest who ranked next below motahuana. of course, he was the very man of all others; for, first of all, he was huanacocha's very particular friend, and a man, moreover, who was deeply indebted to him for many past favours of a somewhat exceptional kind; also he was young, comparatively speaking, very ambitious, and not over scrupulous. yes, xaxaguana was undoubtedly the man for his purpose, and huanacocha told himself, with a smile of relief, that he had been a fool for not thinking of the priest before. but although huanacocha believed that he saw in xaxaguana the "friend in need" for whom he had been so anxiously casting about, he was still much too uneasy to sleep, and he was up and about with the appearance of the first faint suggestion of dawn, too anxious to remain inactive any longer, yet fully conscious of the fact that the hour was altogether too early for him to seek his friend without running a very grave risk of attracting unwelcome attention by so unusual a proceeding. he therefore decided to take a long walk, and think the whole affair over again while his brain and his pulses were being steadied by the cool, fresh air of the morning. was it fate or was it mere chance that caused him to select a route which led him past that part of the temple which constituted the quarters of the priests? huanacocha told himself that it was his lucky star that was in the ascendant; for as he was passing the building the door gently opened and the very man that he was so anxious to see stepped into the roadway and quietly closed the door behind him. then he looked round and beheld huanacocha, and a little ejaculation of astonishment escaped him. "this is a fortunate meeting indeed," he exclaimed as he stepped forward to greet his friend; "most fortunate; for perhaps you will be astonished to hear that i am thus early astir with the express object of seeking you." "ah!" thought huanacocha; "unless i am greatly mistaken that means that i must prepare for the worst." but, having by this time shaken off his panic to a considerable extent, and once more pulled himself together, he decided to allow his friend to speak first, as by so doing he would probably be better able to judge what he should himself say. he therefore responded to xaxaguana's greeting by remarking: "then it is lucky that i chose this direction for my morning ramble, otherwise we should have missed each other. you look somewhat astonished at seeing me astir so early; but the fact is, my friend, that i was sleepless; i have therefore left my bed early, to take a walk in the early morning air. but i understood you to say that you wished to see me. which way shall we go?" "let us go up the road toward the hills," answered xaxaguana. "there will be the less chance of our being seen; and it may be well for me to mention, at the outset, that there may be several good reasons why you and i should not be seen together at this juncture, my lord huanacocha." "ah! and wherefore so, my good friend?" demanded huanacocha. "because," answered xaxaguana, "last night you betrayed yourself into the committal of a serious imprudence, namely that of presuming to criticise unfavourably certain acts of our lord the inca, which, as you are surely aware, is a crime punishable with death. do you ask how i happen to know this? i will tell you. it chanced that i was kept late from my bed last night by certain business connected with the approaching feast of raymi, and i was therefore astir when the villac vmu and motahuana returned from your banquet. you may possibly be aware that it is a rule among us that nothing which transpires within the precincts of the temple is ever to be referred to, or even so much as hinted at, outside the temple walls. it is therefore our habit, when within those walls, to speak before each other with the most perfect freedom; and, friend huanacocha, i am breaking one of our most stringent vows in telling you even this much. i hope, therefore, that should the time ever arrive when you can do me a service, you will remember this fact, and allow it to weigh in my favour." "rest assured that i will do so, my good friend," answered huanacocha; "although methinks that there are one or two services rendered to you for which i have as yet received no adequate return. but let that pass; i am interrupting you; pray proceed with your story." "i will," returned xaxaguana. "as i have already mentioned, i was astir when tiahuana and motahuana returned from your house last night. they entered the common room, in which i was at work--possibly because it was the only room in which any lights were burning--and, flinging themselves upon a couch quite near to me, began to talk. it was easy to see that they were much agitated and excited; but, being busy, i paid little heed to their conversation at the outset, and only pricked up my ears when i heard your name mentioned. then i confess that i listened, and soon heard sufficient to convince me that you, huanacocha, and your friends lehuava, chinchacocheta, licuchima, and chilihuama were, last night, guilty of such imprudence as may well cost you all your lives, unless you have the wit and readiness of action to prevent it!" "but," ejaculated huanacocha, all his former alarms returning to him with tenfold force, "how mean you, friend? surely, neither the villac vmu nor motahuana will dream of reporting what was said within the privacy of my house, will they?" "what was said in the privacy of your house, last night, amounted to blasphemy," remarked xaxaguana dryly; "and it is the bounden duty of every loyal subject of the inca to report blasphemy, wherever it may be spoken. from what was said last night i gathered the impression that neither of the persons mentioned are likely to shrink from the performance of their duty, however unpleasant it may be; so for this reason i set out to warn you this morning. and it was for reasons connected with this that i ventured to indicate the exceeding undesirability of our being seen together just now." "but--but--" stammered huanacocha, completely thrown off his balance by what he had just learned--"if i understand you aright, my good xaxaguana, all this means that the lives of my friends and myself have been put into the utmost jeopardy by my crass folly of last night, i knew--yes, i knew, when it was too late, that i had been a fool," he concluded bitterly. "to be absolutely candid with you, friend huanacocha, i think you were," rejoined xaxaguana somewhat cynically. "why did you do it?" huanacocha stopped short in the middle of the road and looked his friend square in the eye. "xaxaguana," said he, "when i was chief of the council of seven it was in my power to do you several good turns--and i did them. under certain conceivable circumstances it might be in my power to do you several others; and if you can indicate to me a way by which i can extricate myself from my present peril, rest assured that i will not prove ungrateful. i believe you are my friend; and i believe also that you are astute enough to recognise that i can serve you better living than dead. i will therefore be perfectly frank with you and will tell you all that has been in my mind of late. but see, there is the sun, and the good folk of the town will soon be astir, and we may be seen together; let us go over yonder and sit in the shadow of that pile of rocks; we can talk freely there without risk of being seen, or interrupted." without another word xaxaguana turned and led the way across the upland meadow to a somewhat remarkable pile of rocks that cropped out of the soil about a hundred yards from the road, and, passing round to the shady side, which was also the side hidden from the road, seated himself on a bed of soft moss, signing to his companion to do the same. for nearly an hour the pair conversed most earnestly together; then xaxaguana rose to his feet and, reconnoitring the road carefully to see that there was no likelihood of his being observed, stepped forth from his place of concealment. then he hurried across the intervening stretch of grass, and on reaching the road, once more glanced keenly about him, and briskly turned his steps homeward. half an hour later huanacocha did pretty much the same thing; and it was noticeable--or would have been, had there been anyone there to see--that his countenance had lost much of the expression of anxiety that it had worn when he set out for his walk early that morning. he had scarcely bathed and finished his morning meal after his unwonted exertions when his favourite servant rushed into his presence and in agitated accents informed him that one of the underlings of the temple, on his passage into the town, had given forth the startling intelligence that the villac vmu and motahuana, both of whom had been his lord's honoured guests at the banquet of the previous night, had just been found dead upon their beds! chapter eighteen. trapped! the emotion of huanacocha at this surprising piece of news was almost painful to see. as he listened to the hurriedly told story, poured forth by his man, his features took on a sickly yellow tinge, his eyes seemed to be on the point of starting out of his head, and his breath came in labouring gasps from his wide-open mouth; finally, when at length he seemed to have fully grasped the purport of the story, he hid his face in his hands, rested his elbows upon his knees, and sat there quivering like an aspen leaf. in the course of a few minutes, however, he regained his self-control, and with a sigh of such depth that anyone unaware of its melancholy cause might have almost mistaken it for one of relief, he rose to his feet and, muttering to himself something about the difficulty of believing so incredible a story, and the necessity for personally ascertaining the truth, he gave orders for his litter to be brought to the door, and presently sallied forth on his way to the temple, with this intention. the distance to be covered was not great, and by the time that huanacocha reached the temple he had almost completely recovered his composure. alighting from his litter, and bidding his bearers to wait, he climbed the long flight of steps leading up to the building and, accosting the first person he met, demanded, in an authoritative tone of voice to see xaxaguana. it was perfectly evident, even to one less experienced than huanacocha in matters pertaining to the temple routine and its discipline, that some very unusual occurrence had happened, for everybody about the place seemed excited, agitated, distraught; but huanacocha was, of course, well known to every inhabitant of the city of the sun, and presently someone was found possessing enough authority to deal with the great man's request, or command, rather, and in the course of a few minutes he was conducted along a passage and shown into an empty room, there to await the arrival of the man he sought. apparently xaxaguana was busy at the moment, for it was nearly a quarter of an hour ere he appeared, and when he did so his countenance was heavy with concern. "pardon me for having kept you so long waiting, my lord," he said in a loud voice, "but this terrible occurrence, of which i presume you have heard, has thrown us all into a shocking state of confusion, and when your message reached me i was, in my capacity of senior priest, with the physicians whom we summoned, and who have been endeavouring to discover the cause of the death of our lamented friends the villac vmu and motahuana." and, as he spoke, he closed the door carefully behind him. "and have they succeeded?" demanded huanacocha. "oh yes!" answered xaxaguana. "they are in complete agreement that the cause of death in each case was senile decay. they were both very old men, you know." "senile decay!" exclaimed huanacocha, in astonishment. "surely you are not serious, xaxaguana. why, they were at my house last night, as you know, and nobody who then saw them will ever believe that they died of old age. they were almost as active and vigorous as the youngest of us, and neither of them exhibited the slightest symptoms of senile decay." "possibly not," assented xaxaguana; "nevertheless that is the verdict of the physicians. and, after all, you know, these exceedingly old men often pass away with the suddenness of a burnt-out lamp; a single flicker and they are gone. i must confess that, personally, i am not altogether surprised; for when they returned from your house last night it occurred to me that they seemed to have suddenly grown very old and feeble; indeed i said as much when the news of their death was brought to me." "you did, did you?" retorted huanacocha. "by our lord the sun, you are a wonder, xaxaguana; nothing less! how did you manage it, man, and so promptly too? why it must all have happened within half an hour of your return home this morning." "it did," said xaxaguana. "i was still in my bath--for you must know that, being somewhat fatigued with my protracted labours of yesterday, i overslept myself this morning--when the intelligence was brought to me that our two friends had been discovered lying dead in their beds. and they could only have died very recently, for they were neither stiff nor cold." "and--i suppose there were no signs--no marks of violence on the bodies; nothing to suggest the possibility of--of--foul play?" stammered huanacocha. "no," answered xaxaguana; "the physicians found nothing whatever of that kind. how should they? it is certain that both men died in their beds, within the precincts of the temple. and who is there within these precincts who would dare to commit an act of sacrilege, to say nothing of the fact that, so far as is known, there is no one who would be in the slightest degree benefited by their death, or could possibly desire it." huanacocha looked at his friend admiringly. "as i said just now, you are a wonder, xaxaguana," he remarked. "but you have not yet told me how you managed it, and i am anxious to know. so set aside all further pretence, my friend; be frank with me, and satisfy my curiosity." "no," said xaxaguana firmly. "the man who has a secret and fails to keep it to himself is a fool, friend huanacocha, and i am not a fool; therefore if i happen to have a secret i prefer to retain it within my own breast. but the matter stands thus. you told me certain things this morning, and among them was this. you said that if perchance anything were to happen to tiahuana and motahuana, that they died before it was possible for them to take certain action which you had reason to fear, you would use your powerful influence with our lord the inca to see that i obtained promotion to the position of villac vmu, as is, indeed, my right, together with certain other advantages. is not that so? very well. singularly enough, that which you desired has happened--most fortunately for you; and now it seems to me that all that remains is for you to fulfil your promise. do not you agree with me?" "yes," answered huanacocha frankly, "i do; and i will proceed hence to the palace and officially inform the inca of the sudden and lamented death of the villac vmu and his deputy, and will urge the immediate appointment of yourself to the vacant post of high priest. there is no doubt that you will get the appointment, for in the first place you are entitled to it as senior priest; in the next, you will get the full advantage of my recommendation; and, in the third, the inca has no personal friend to whom he would wish to give the appointment in preference to yourself. that matter may therefore be regarded as settled. "but there is another, and an equally important, matter which i now wish to discuss with you, xaxaguana, and in which i desire your advice and help. tiahuana and motahuana being dead, there is nobody, so far as i know, who has any particular interest in retaining the present inca upon the throne. to that remark you may of course object that he is the re- incarnated manco whose coming, as the regenerator of the ancient peruvian nation, was prophesied by titucocha, and that, in the event of anything happening to him, the regenerating process would be deferred indefinitely. but, i ask you, my dear friend, what if it were? in what way should we suffer? it is true that we have accustomed ourselves to look forward to our regeneration as the one thing to be desired above and before all others; but is it? we are perfectly happy here in this valley as we are. do we in very truth desire to exchange our present happy and peaceful existence for an indefinite and doubtless long period of toil, and warfare, and suffering? and in what respects should we be the better at the end, even if we should be successful--of which, permit me to say, i have my doubts? and do we really desire that change in the character of our religion, and the so-called amendment of our morals upon which this young man insists? i doubt it, my friend, not only as regards you and myself, but also as regards the people generally. now, i have spoken to you quite frankly; be equally frank with me, and give your view of the matter." "i will, my friend, and in a very few words," answered xaxaguana. "my view of the matter is identical with your own. and it is possibly identical also with that of many others. but how is that going to help us? also, with all your frankness you have not yet given utterance to the idea that i see you have in your mind. you are far too cautious, friend huanacocha, ever to become a successful conspirator." "one must needs be cautious in broaching such a conspiracy as i have in my mind," answered huanacocha. "nevertheless," he continued, "boldness and caution are sometimes the same thing, therefore will i be bold with you, xaxaguana, since i think it will not be difficult for me to prove to you that not only our views, but also our interests, are identical. in a word, then, i believe that it would be advantageous to you and to me--and possibly also to the rest of the inhabitants of this valley--if the present inca were deposed, and i were made inca in his place. the question is, how is the matter to be accomplished? if he were to die now, even as the villac--" "it would be the most unfortunate thing that could possibly happen," cut in xaxaguana. "the villac vmu and motahuana were both old men, and therefore that they should die is not at all remarkable. but that they should both die at the same moment is, to say the least of it, somewhat singular, and, despite all our precautions, is not unlikely to arouse more or less suspicion in many minds. now, if the inca also were to die, that suspicion would undoubtedly be converted into certainty and an investigation would assuredly be set on foot which could not fail to end disastrously for those found responsible for the three deaths, and especially for that of the inca; for, as of course you are fully aware, practically the whole of the inhabitants of the valley are still old- fashioned enough to cling to the superstition that to murder the inca is the blackest of black sacrilege. "but on the day when the inca was presented to us in the temple, you spoke certain words which, if they were now repeated, might find an echo in the mind of many an inhabitant of this city. you boldly expressed your doubts as to the identity of the youth with him whose appearance was foretold by the prophet titucocha, and whom we of the ancient peruvian nation have been expecting for the last three hundred years and more. now, we know that many of the inca's ordinances are regarded with disfavour by the people generally; and i believe that, as a consequence of this, it would not be very difficult to implant in the minds of the discontented a suggestion that the late villac vmu made a very serious mistake--if, indeed, he did not commit an unpardonable crime--in introducing this young man to us as the re-incarnated manco capac. that suspicion once instilled into them, it should be a comparatively easy matter to incite them to demand that the inca shall establish his identity by submitting to the ordeal by fire, after which your election to the vacant throne should be a foregone conclusion; for, of course, neither you nor i believe for a moment that the young englishman can possibly survive the fire ordeal." huanacocha gazed at his companion for several moments in silent admiration; then he exclaimed enthusiastically: "i have already told you twice this morning that you are a wonder, and i now say it for the third time--you are a wonder, xaxaguana, the possessor of the most astute and clever brain in the valley; and i foresee that, working together, you and i may achieve such dazzling results as we have scarcely yet dared to dream of. but how do you propose to bring about the result of which you have just spoken? it will be a slow and tedious process at best, and while it is being achieved many things may happen." "nay," answered xaxaguana, "it will not be nearly so lengthy a process as you seem to think. this is my plan." and, placing his mouth to his companion's ear, xaxaguana proceeded to whisper a few sentences which appeared to fill huanacocha with wonder and admiration. "do you think it will succeed?" xaxaguana demanded, as he concluded his communication. "it cannot possibly fail, if carried out with promptitude and discretion," answered huanacocha in tones of conviction. "and its perfect simplicity is its greatest recommendation. when do you propose to commence operations?" "at once," answered xaxaguana, "now, this very day. nothing will be talked of during the next few days save the sudden death of the villac vmu and motahuana, and such a topic of conversation will afford me the precise opportunity which i require. and now, friend huanacocha, you and i have been together quite as long as is either prudent or desirable. go, therefore, hence to the palace, acquaint the inca with the sad news of which you are the official bearer; inform him, if you will, that in the zealous discharge of your duty you have visited me for the purpose of obtaining the fullest information relative to the deplored event, and direct his attention to the extreme desirability of creating me villac vmu at once." "fear not, friend," answered huanacocha, as he rose to take his leave, "you shall receive the notification of your appointment in the course of the day." and, followed by xaxaguana, who accompanied him as far as the outer door, he left the apartment and proceeded on his way to the palace. huanacocha was as good as his word; for he not only secured from harry the appointment of xaxaguana to the dignity of villac vmu, but actually took the trouble to hurry back from the palace to the temple with the information of his success, and the royal warrant duly signed. as xaxaguana had anticipated, almost the sole topic of conversation during the ensuing fortnight was the death of the late villac vmu, and that of his deputy, at practically the same instant of time, as was determined by the physicians. for the first few days this circumstance was spoken of simply as a somewhat remarkable coincidence, but not very long after the obsequies--which were celebrated with unprecedented pomp in the temple--were over, it began to be noticed that, when the subject happened to be referred to, people were acquiring a trick of putting their heads together and whispering mysteriously to each other. the trick rapidly developed into something nearly approaching a habit; and as it did so, the whispers as rapidly changed into plain, open speech, and the words which were interchanged lost their original air of confidential mysteriousness, until, finally, people told each other without very much circumlocution that there was, in their opinion, more in the strange deaths of tiahuana and motahuana than met the eye. and if they were asked to express themselves more plainly they reminded each other that the two priests, who had died under such really remarkable circumstances, were the men who were responsible for the finding of the white inca, and the introduction of him into the community, and this reminder was quite frequently followed by a somewhat pointed question as to whether, after all, they--the priests--could by any chance have made a mistake in their method of identifying the inca, some people even going to the length of expressing the opinion that it was no question of mistake, but rather a case of deliberate deception of the people, with some mysterious purpose which would probably now be never brought to light, inasmuch as that our lord the sun, angry at the change in the form of the national religion, has cut off the offenders in the midst of their sins, as a sign of his displeasure. the transition from such talk as this to openly expressed doubts concerning the genuineness of the inca's claim to be the re-incarnation of the divine manco capac was an easy one, made all the more easy by the unpopular character of many--one might indeed almost say all--of escombe's decrees. yet so consummate was the cunning and subtlety with which the campaign was conducted that scarcely a whisper of it was allowed to reach the ears of those who were suspected of being favourably inclined toward the inca, and not the faintest inkling of it ever penetrated to escombe himself. such extreme care indeed was exercised by those who were pulling the strings that no sign whatever of the inca's fast-waning popularity was for a moment permitted to manifest itself. the process of corrupting the palace officials and staff generally was found to be exceptionally tedious and difficult, for escombe's genial disposition and straightforward character enabled him to endear himself without effort to everybody with whom he was brought into intimate contact. but it was accomplished at length by the exercise of almost superhuman ingenuity, with a solitary exception in the case of arima, who, it was at once recognised, was so faithfully and devotedly attached to his royal master that it would be worse than folly to attempt to corrupt him; he was therefore left severely alone; the most stringent precautions being taken to keep the whole thing secret from him. matters had reached the stage above indicated when escombe, having grappled with an exceptionally arduous day's work, retired to rest close upon midnight, and soon afterward sank into a heavy sleep, only to be, as it seemed, almost instantly awakened by the light of torches flashing upon his closed eyelids, and the scuffle of sandalled feet about his couch. springing up into a sitting posture in his bed, he opened his eyes, still heavy with sleep, to find his chamber full of men--many of whom were armed--conspicuous among whom were huanacocha and xaxaguana, the new villac vmu. "why, my lord huanacocha," he exclaimed, rubbing his eyes to assure himself that he was awake, "what does this mean? how did you get in here? and what is the matter?" "the matter, lord," answered huanacocha, "is one of the utmost gravity and importance, as the villac vmu, here, will inform you. it is nothing less than a revolt among the priests generally, most of whom have declared against the modifications in the form of the worship and service in the temple, instituted by my lord, and have risen against the villac vmu and those others who have pronounced themselves in favour of my lord's modifications. some of those who were in favour of the modifications have been slain; but the larger number, amounting to between twenty and thirty, are even now being subjected to the fire ordeal, as would have been the villac vmu, had he not happily escaped and made his way to my house for shelter and help. that, in brief, is how the matter stands; is it not, villac vmu?" "'tis even so, lord," answered xaxaguana. "and when i had stated the facts to my lord huanacocha, he regarded them as of import serious enough to justify us even to the extent of disturbing the rest of my lord the inca, and--" "by jove, yes, i should think so," exclaimed harry, interrupting the high priest unceremoniously, and springing from his couch to the floor. "where is arima? pass the word for arima, somebody, please--or, stay, hand me my clothes; i'll get into them myself without waiting for arima. how many of these revolting priests are there, do you say?" "they number about a thousand, lord," answered xaxaguana. "we have already taken it upon ourselves to send to umu, asking him to come to our assistance; but it will be some time ere our messenger can reach him, and he in turn can reach and order out the guard. we therefore thought it well to come to my lord and ask him to hasten with us to the temple, there to use his authority to save the lives of those who must otherwise undergo the fire ordeal." "of course," assented harry, as he scrambled into his clothes. "but what will happen if those mutinous beggars refuse to obey me, eh?" "refuse to obey you, lord?" repeated the villac vmu in shocked tones. "nay, they will certainly not do that. they have revolted now merely because they cannot be brought to believe that the innovations against which they rebel are in accordance with the orders of our lord the inca. you have but to personally assure them that such is the case, and they will instantly return to their allegiance." "very well," answered harry, as he threw a heavy cloak over his shoulders to protect himself from the keen night air. "now i am ready. lead the way, somebody, and let us be going." emerging from the palace, and hurrying along the almost pitch--dark garden paths, the party swept through the palace gates into the main road, and made a dash for the temple by the nearest possible route, which happened to be through several dark, narrow, deserted side streets, in which not a soul was stirring; the little crowd of hurrying figures consequently passed on its way and soon reached the temple without having been observed by so much as a single person. somewhat to escombe's surprise the temple proved to be in absolute darkness, when the party arrived before the walls; but xaxaguana explained this by informing the young monarch that the revolted priests were all assembled in the opposite wing of the building, and that he had deemed it a wise precaution not to attempt to enter on that side, lest they should meet with resistance before the inca could find an opportunity to make his presence known. as they drew in under the temple walls xaxaguana called a halt, expressing some anxiety as to the possibility of the door being closed by means of which he proposed to effect an entrance, and he sent forward a scout to reconnoitre. his anxiety, however, proved to be unfounded, for the scout presently returned with the information that the door was unfastened and everything quiet on that side of the building. the party therefore moved forward once more, and presently escombe found himself being conducted along a corridor, unlighted save by the smoky flare of the torches carried by his escort. contrary to the young ruler's expectations, the building, even now that he was inside it, remained dark and silent as the grave; but this was explained by the statement of xaxaguana that the revolting priests were all gathered together in the rock-hewn basement of the building, where they were at that moment engaged in putting their more faithful brethren to the dreadful "ordeal by fire". accordingly, when xaxaguana unlocked a massive bronze gate let into a wall, and invited harry to descend with him to the chamber where the horrid rite was in progress, the young man followed unhesitatingly, as he also did through a door which the priest unlocked when they had reached the foot of the flight of stone steps and traversed some yards of corridor apparently hewn out of the living rock. the room was comfortably enough furnished, and looked almost as though it might have been prepared for his reception, for it was lighted by a handsome lamp suspended from the roof. "if my lord will condescend to wait here a moment and rest, i, his servant, will go and see exactly what is happening, and return to report," remarked xaxaguana as he stood aside to allow harry to pass him. "but why wait?" demanded harry, facing round to the high priest. "surely we have not a moment of time to waste. would it not be--" but, even as he was speaking, the villac vmu slid rapidly back into the passage, closing the door behind him with a slam, through the thunderous reverberation of which in the hollow vault harry thought he caught the sound of a sharp click. with a muttered ejaculation, expressive of annoyance, he sprang to the door and endeavoured to open it; but it was fast, and, as he listened, he heard the sounds of hastily retreating footsteps in the passage outside. and in that same moment the truth flashed upon him that, for some inscrutable reason, he was trapped and a prisoner! chapter nineteen. umu takes a hand in the game. the first rays of the next morning's sun had scarcely flashed over the ridge of the sierra which hemmed in the eastern side of the valley, when arima, awaking with a most atrocious headache, and the feeling generally of a man who has just passed through an unusually prolonged bout of dissipation--or, alternatively, has been drugged--arose from his bed and, staggering across the room, plunged his throbbing and buzzing head into a large basin of cold water, preparatory to dressing. once, twice, thrice did he plunge head, neck, and hands into the cooling liquid, with but little satisfactory result, for the relief which he sought, and confidently expected to derive, from the process, refused to come; and he groaned as he sank upon a seat and tightly gripped his throbbing temples in his hands. never before in his life had he felt so ill, so utterly cheap and used-up, as he did at that moment. in addition to the violent headache from which he was suffering, his blood felt like fire in his veins, his skin was dry and rough; he was so giddy that he could scarcely stand. the truth was that he had been drugged with such brutal severity on the preceding night, by xaxaguana's emissaries, to make sure of his being out of the way at the moment of his master's seizure, that it had been due more to chance than anything else that he had ever again awakened. after a few minutes' rest he felt so much better that he was able to dress, and afterwards make his way to his master's room. for, ever since the slaying of the monsters in the lake, it had been escombe's habit to rise early in the morning, and, making his way to the bottom of the garden, embark on a balsa, from which, after arima had paddled it a few hundred yards from the shore, master and man had been wont to bathe together. and now, according to custom, the faithful indian hurried away to awaken his master, as usual, for indulgence in the regular morning dip. but upon entering the sleeping chamber he of course found it untenanted, and for a moment the thought occurred to him that possibly he was late, and that his master, having awakened at his usual hour, had risen and gone down into the garden alone. a single glance out of the window, however, at the length of the shadows cast by the various objects lighted by the sun outside, sufficed to satisfy him that habit had triumphed over even the influence of the narcotic which had been administered to him, and that he was certainly not more than a few minutes late. then, with the instinct of the semi-savage, he flung his glances quickly about the room, and instantly detected signs that it had been invaded during the night by a number of people, and that his master had arisen and dressed in haste. quick to take the alarm where escombe was concerned, he at once hurried out, and, without waiting to find any of the palace officials to whom to report his discovery, proceeded forthwith to question as many of the servants as he met. but here again he only found matter for further alarm and apprehension; for not only did the whole service of the building appear to be in a state of complete disorganisation, but it at once became evident to him that every man he met was confused, agitated, and more or less anxious of manner; and, although each and all professed themselves unable to throw any light upon the mystery of the inca's inexplicable disappearance, he felt instinctively that they were all lying to him. realising at length that no information was to be obtained from these people, arima passed from the palace into the grounds, making his way, in the first instance, down to the shore of the lake, for the purpose of satisfying himself beyond all possibility of question whether or not there was any foundation for his first surmise, that escombe had risen early and left the palace without waiting for him. but no; there was no sign of his young master in that direction; moreover, the balsa was lying moored in its proper place; also the cutter was at her usual moorings. there was therefore no possibility that the inca had taken it into his head to go for a solitary early morning sail. satisfied upon this point, the indian next made his way round to the front of the palace, and here at once the evidences of a visit of a large party of people to the palace, some time during the preceding night, once more presented themselves, the latest--that is to say the topmost--set of footprints showing that quite a crowd of people had hurried from the main entrance of the building down the broad path leading to the entrance gates of the garden and thence into the main road. moreover, the "spoor" remained undisturbed in the road for a distance sufficient to indicate the general direction in which the party had gone, although it was lost in the ordinary signs of traffic within a few yards of the gates. having ascertained thus much, arima returned to the spot where the footprints first showed outside the palace doors, and, going down upon his hands and knees, patiently set himself to the task of endeavouring to discover his young master's among them. but before he had had time to achieve any result in this direction one of the palace officials appeared and, angrily demanding to know what he was doing there, ordered him back into the palace to attend to his duty; explaining, by way of reply to arima's agitated representations, that the inca had left the palace during the early hours of the morning, with a party of companions, to hunt the vicuna. the indian at once knew this to be a falsehood, for the hunting grounds lay many miles down the valley, and hunting parties never dreamed of proceeding thither otherwise than on horseback, and arima was prepared to swear that none of the party had been mounted. moreover he was convinced that his master would never have dreamed of leaving his favourite servant behind had he been bound upon a hunting expedition. the official, however, was curt and peremptory in his manner, and arima soon understood that he must obey his orders or suffer arrest. he therefore returned to the inca's rooms and proceeded to put them in order, as was his duty. but the very curtness and peremptoriness of the official's manner to him, as well as the improbable story which he had told, only had the effect of strengthening and confirming the suspicions in the faithful fellow's mind; for the attachment of the young inca to this man was well known, and even the highest officials of the palace had thus far not disdained to be extremely civil to him. but the question in arima's mind now was: what precisely was it that had happened to his young master, and whither and why had he gone? for even thus far no glimmering of the hideous truth had reached the indian's mind. his suspicions and apprehensions were all as yet chaotic and formless, and he was very far from fearing that escombe's life was in danger. but as he proceeded with his business, seeking from time to time to get some relief from his splitting headache and the other extremely disagreeable symptoms from which he was still suffering acutely, it gradually began to dawn upon him, as his mental faculties slowly shook off their stupor, that every one of those symptoms were synonymous with those following upon the administration of an overdose of a decoction made from a certain poisonous plant growing here and there in the valley, and which was sometimes used as an anaesthetic by the local physicians. he was fully aware of the tremendous potency of the extracted juices of this plant, as also of its tastelessness, and the consequent ease with which it could be administered, and he recognised clearly that if anyone had wished to administer such a draught to him on the previous night it could easily have been done. the question which next arose in his mind naturally was: why should anyone desire to administer such a draught to him? but his mental powers had by this time sufficiently recovered from the effects of the drug to enable him quickly to trace a connection--however obscure as yet--between this act and the extraordinary fact of his master being missing. when once the faithful fellow had reached the length of connecting the two circumstances together he was not long in realising the terrible possibilities that lurked in such a sinister combination of circumstances. and with this realisation he suddenly took fright, for at the same moment the significance of certain apparently trivial remarks and occurrences that had lately come to his knowledge suddenly dawned upon him. could it be that these matters, scarcely noticed at the moment, really bore the significance which he now attached to them, or was it all the result of some bodily disorder reacting upon his mental processes and causing him to take a distorted and unnatural view of things that were actually of no moment whatever? he could not tell; his brain was still in too muddled a condition for him to feel that he could trust it. but there was one sensible thing that he could do, he told himself. he could go to umu and lay the whole matter before him. umu was a shrewd sensible man, who would soon say whether or not there was anything in those mad fantasies that were now beginning to chase each other through his bewildered brain. besides, umu was the inca's most devoted friend--next to himself, perhaps. so, slipping out of the palace by the garden entrance--lest perchance he should be seen and stopped if he attempted to pass out by way of the other--he plunged at once into the most unfrequented paths, and so betook himself, by a circuitous route, to the lake shore, where he at once got aboard the balsa, and, paddling the primitive craft some half a mile beyond the royal demesne, beached her in a secluded spot, and thence made the best of his way to umu's house. the morning was by this time so well advanced that the hour for the first meal of the day was past, and it became a moot point with arima whether to seek umu at his house or at the barracks of the inca's bodyguard. he decided, however, upon trying the house first, and it was well that he did; for, although umu was not at home, neither, it seemed, was he at the barracks. but maia, his daughter, had an impression that she knew where he might be found, and arima had not poured into the girl's ear half a dozen sentences of his somewhat disjointed tale before she cut him short by explaining that she was about to seek her father, and that he (arima) must on no account whatever attempt to stir from the house until her return, unless, of course, her father should make his appearance in the interim. having bestowed that injunction, maia, wild- eyed and white-lipped, rushed into the street and hurried on her way; for she, too, had heard words said, to which at the moment she had given scant heed, but which in the light of what was hinted at by arima now bore to the quick-witted girl an awful significance. as it happened, she had not to go very far, for she had not left the house more than five minutes at the utmost when she caught sight of her father, mounted, on his way to the barracks, a good mile distant. fortunately for her he reined up to exchange a few passing words with an acquaintance, and that afforded her the opportunity to overtake and stop him. she did not dare, however, to mention the errand which had brought her out in search of her father until the two friends had parted, when she briefly explained that arima was seeking him, and urged him to hasten back to the house without delay, at the same time telling him sufficient of what had passed between herself and the inca's henchman to cause umu to realise something of the gravity of the situation; for he dug his heels into his charger's ribs and dashed off at a gallop. when maia arrived back at the house, she found arima in the midst of the relation of his story to her father, and, quite as a matter of course, sat down to listen. the indian had, in the interim between her departure and umu's arrival, found time to pull himself together and properly arrange his thoughts, and he related his narrative with due regard to sequence of events, beginning with such apparently casual words and trivial occurrences as had come under his notice, and had only assumed a significance in the light of more recent happenings. then going on to describe his sensations upon awaking that morning, he completed his story by relating in detail everything he had done, and the thoughts and suspicions that had occurred to him subsequent to his discovery of his master's absence. "yes," agreed umu, when arima had brought his story to a conclusion, "the whole thing seems reasonably clear, up to a certain point. i have not a shadow of doubt that certain disaffected persons have adopted the extreme, and altogether unprecedented, step of seizing the person of our lord the inca; and they caused you, my friend, to be drugged in order that you might not interfere with their plans. the question which we now have to decide is: who are those persons, and what is their object in seizing the inca? they must be individuals of very great power and influence, otherwise they would never dare--" at this point maia, who had been betraying rapidly increasing signs of anxiety and impatience, cut in with: "my father, to me it seems of the utmost importance that not a moment should be lost in discovering what has become of the inca, whose life may at this moment be in the utmost jeopardy; for those who were desperate enough to carry him off would probably not hesitate to kill him, if need were: indeed that may be their purpose. your task, therefore, must be to rescue him without an instant's unnecessary delay, which you should be easily able to do with the aid of your troops. probably if the officials of the palace were carefully questioned they could be persuaded to tell you what has become of the inca, for doubtless they know, since he could not have been carried off without their knowledge and acquiescence." "yes, you are right, maia. i see exactly what you mean, and i have no doubt that i can devise a method of making the palace people tell what they know," answered umu. "i will ride to the barracks at once, and order the guard to turn out in readiness to proceed wherever required; after which i will proceed to the palace with a squadron, and it will be strange if i do not find means to make somebody tell me what i require to know. you, arima, had better go to the barracks and await my return there from the palace, when you can ride with us. and now i will go; for, as maia has said, even moments may now be of importance." some twenty minutes later a troop of the inca's mounted bodyguard, led by umu, dashed at a gallop in through the gates of the palace gardens, and, at a word from their commander, surrounded the building, a party of a dozen of them following their leader into the palace, to the consternation of all who encountered them. this dozen constituted a search party, which, with drawn swords, systematically swept the building from basement to roof-tree, gathering together every official and individual of the palace staff that could be found, until the whole, with the exception of some dozen or so underlings, had been captured. then all were marched out into the vast palace garden and surrounded by the now dismounted troopers, who meanwhile had made prisoners of four of the chief officials as they were endeavouring to slink out of the palace and make good their escape. marching the whole of the captives off to a secluded part of the gardens, where nothing which might happen could be seen save by those immediately concerned, umu ordered the chamberlain and his three immediate subordinates to be brought to him, and said to them: "now, sirs, my business here is to ascertain from you what has become of our lord the inca. i have not the slightest doubt that you can tell me; but whether you will tell me the truth or not is quite another matter. i intend to arrive at the truth, however, either by persuasion or force, and i will try the former first: let me very earnestly advise you not to compel me to resort to the latter. and to make as certain as i can that the information with which you are about to furnish me is true, you will each withdraw from your comrades to a distance at which it will be impossible for you to communicate with each other, and where you will each inform the officer--who, with a file of men, will accompany you--of everything that you know concerning the mysterious disappearance of the inca--where he has been taken, by whom, and for what purpose. if your stories, when compared with each other, are found to agree at all points, i shall consider that i am justified in believing them to be true; if they do not--" he turned to the other captives and said: "go to work at once, collect timber, and build a large fire in this open space." then, turning to the officers who had been deputed to examine the four prisoners, umu concluded: "take them away; hear their story; and then bring them back to me, that each man's tale may be compared with those of the others." umu knew his fellow countrymen well. he was fully aware that while the south american indian, like his brother of the northern continent, will endure the most frightfully excruciating tortures with stoical fortitude if the occasion happens to demand it, he will not willingly subject himself to even a very minor degree of suffering for the sake of shielding those whom he has no particular object in serving. he felt pretty well convinced that these craven wretches who had allowed themselves to be corrupted into betraying their monarch would have very little hesitation in also betraying their corrupters, especially as they might feel assured that, umu having taken the matter in hand, those corrupters would henceforth have scant power or opportunity either to reward or to punish. the hint conveyed by the building of a large fire therefore proved quite sufficiently persuasive. in little more than ten minutes the commander of the bodyguard found himself in possession of all the information which the palace officials had it in their power to communicate. this information, in brief, was to the effect that they had, one and all, from the highest to the lowest, been heavily bribed by the emissaries of huanacocha and xaxaguana to allow those two powerful nobles, with a strong party of followers, to enter the palace in the dead of night and abduct the person of the inca, and to hold their peace upon the matter until either huanacocha or xaxaguana should personally give them leave to speak and tell them what to say. as the stories of all four of the officials happened to agree, even down to the smallest detail, umu decided that he might venture to accept them as true; whereupon the whole of the prisoners were hustled back into the palace by way of the back entrance, driven down into one of the basement chambers, and there securely locked up, with a corporal's guard in the passage outside. the palace then being locked up, the troop mounted and departed at a gallop for the house of huanacocha. this house, or palace as it might be more appropriately termed, was, like most of the residences of the great peruvian lords, a large and sumptuous edifice, standing in its own spacious grounds. umu's tactics upon approaching it were similar to those which he had employed upon approaching the palace; that is to say, upon entering the grounds he caused his men to dismount and surround the building, which he then entered, accompanied by a sergeant in charge of a squad of troopers. as he unceremoniously made his way into the great entrance hall he found himself confronted by the chief steward of the establishment, who, followed by the entire staff of terrified servants, was hurrying to the garden, anxious to ascertain the meaning of this unwonted invasion of his master's privacy. "where is your lord, sirrah?" thundered umu, as a file of soldiers promptly arrested the quaking functionary. "i know not, lord umu," answered the unfortunate man, as well as his chattering teeth would allow; "indeed i was about to send out the servants to seek news of him, for i am beginning to fear that evil has befallen him. he left the house alone last night, less than an hour before midnight, saying that he knew not when he should return; and he has not since been seen." "then, if he told you that he knew not when he would return, why do you fear that evil has befallen him?" demanded umu. "because, lord--nay, i know not, except that--that--well, it is a most unusual--for my lord huanacocha to absent himself for so many hours without saying whither he intended to go," stammered the steward. "say you so?" sneered umu. "that seems to me strange indeed; for it is not the usual custom of a noble to acquaint his steward with his business. nay, friend, i cannot believe your story: you must have some better reason than the one which you have given me for your anxiety as to your lord's safety, and it will be to your great advantage to acquaint me with it forthwith." "lord, i have told you the truth; indeed i have," protested the unfortunate man, making as though he would throw himself upon his knees before umu. "so much the worse for you," growled umu savagely, for the delay was beginning to tell upon his patience. "is there any man here," he continued, "who can tell me where my lord huanacocha is to be found?" he glared round upon the assembled servants, the whole of whom had by this time been quietly herded together by the soldiers. there was no answer. "very well," continued umu, addressing his men. "take these people down to the cellars below; lock them in securely; and then set fire to the house and burn it over their heads! i can waste no more time here." as the troopers, in obedience to this order, closed round the prisoners, and with coarse jests began to hustle them unceremoniously toward the head of the flight of steps leading down to the basement of the building, the steward, suddenly realising the desperate nature of his own and his fellow servants' predicament, turned to umu and cried: "stay, lord, i pray you, and visit not upon us the misdeeds of our lord. when i said just now that i knew not the whereabouts of my lord huanacocha, i spoke only the truth, for indeed i cannot tell for certain where he is--nay, lord, have patience, and hear what i have to say ere you condemn me to a frightful death for a fault which is not mine. it is indeed true that i know not where my lord huanacocha is to be found, for he did not deign to tell me his business when he went out last night; but i believe i can form a very good guess as to where he now is." "you can?" ejaculated umu. "then say on, and that right quickly. for within the next five minutes this house will be ablaze, and you within it, if you have not by then told me what i want to know." then, turning to a sergeant, he said: "take with you a dozen men; bring everything in the house that will burn, pile it in this hall, and pour on it all the oil you can find. now, sirrah, proceed with your tale." "then, lord, in brief, it is this," answered the wretched steward, speaking as well as his chattering teeth would allow. "from words which i have overheard from time to time of late passing between my lord huanacocha and others, especially the new villac vmu, i believe that when my master left this house last night he did so with the purpose of accompanying the high priest and an armed party to the palace in order to seize the person of our lord the inca and convey him to the temple, that he might be subjected to the fire ordeal, to prove whether or no--" "the fire ordeal, say you?" roared umu in a paroxysm of fury, as the full horror of the situation at last dawned upon him. "even so, lord," answered the quaking steward. "i heard my--" "you had reason to believe that your master had conspired with the villac vmu to seize the inca and subject him to the fire ordeal, yet you never took the trouble to come and report the matter to me?" roared umu. "i--i--lord, i knew not that--it was no part of my duty to--" stammered the wretched steward, as too late he began to realise the terrible nature of the predicament in which he had placed himself by his too great fidelity to his master. "it is enough," interrupted umu. "bind him hand and foot; lay him upon that pile yonder; and set fire to it. sergeant huarima, you will remain here with six men to ensure the utter destruction of this house, after which you will follow the rest of the corps to the temple. as for you," he continued, turning to the staff of servants, who were huddling together, paralysed with terror at the tragic turn which affairs were taking, "you would only be receiving your just deserts if i were to order you to be consumed, with your chief, upon that pile. i am merciful, however; you are therefore at liberty to go. but let the fate of the steward be a lesson to you all henceforth, that fidelity to the inca comes before fidelity to your master. and now, men, pass out and mount. our next place of call is the temple." chapter twenty. in the nick of time! "well," soliloquised harry, as he glanced about him upon realising that he was indeed a prisoner, "what does this mean? is it mutiny, or treason, or what is it? and as to there being a revolt of the priests, i don't believe a word of it. had there been any such thing it would not have been possible for me to have entered this building without encountering some sign--either sight or sound--of it. no; that was just a yarn, a ruse to get me to come here willingly. now, i wonder what the dickens they want with me, and what they intend to do with me now that they have me. nothing very serious, i expect; for i am the inca, and they would never dare to lay violent hands upon the inca; that amounts to sacrilege of the very worst kind. yes; no doubt. and yet i am by no means certain that that fact would exercise any very powerful restraining influence upon our friends huanacocha and xaxaguana. they are both ambitious men, and i am very much inclined to question whether the religious convictions of either man are powerful enough to hold him back from sacrilege, if his ambition urged him in that direction. ah, well! time will show, i have no doubt; meanwhile i have not had half my night's rest, so i will do what i can to recover arrears." and, thus thinking, he quietly stretched himself upon a couch which stood against one wall of the room, and composed himself to sleep. with the light-hearted carelessness of extreme youth he actually did sleep--slept so soundly that he was not even disturbed when, some hours later, the door was quietly opened and two attendants entered bearing food and drink, which, seeing that the prisoner still slumbered, they placed upon the table and departed, securing the door again as they passed out. it was past ten o'clock in the forenoon when the young man, having completely rested, opened his eyes and looked about him in wonderment at finding himself in strange quarters. the next moment, however, memory returned to him: he recalled the proceedings of the past night, and once more began to speculate upon the purpose which could have been powerful enough to induce huanacocha and xaxaguana to resort to so extreme a measure as that of his abduction from the palace. and now, with the more sober reflections following upon a sound night's rest, he began to take a somewhat more serious view of the situation. he began to realise that what these two powerful nobles had done was no hasty, ill-considered act, undertaken upon the spur of the moment, without thought of the probable consequences, but was doubtless the result of long and anxious premeditation; and, if so, they would surely have taken every possible precaution to guard themselves against evil consequences. and--a slight shudder thrilled through him as the thought obtruded itself upon his mind--for aught that he could tell to the contrary one of those precautions might take the form of providing that he should never return to the light of day, and that no one should ever know what had become of him! but here again the optimism of youth came to support him, and he dismissed the grim reflection with a smile; the matter, of course, could not be anything like so serious as that, he told himself, and without doubt in an hour or two hence he would be back in the palace, heartily laughing at the whole adventure. he drew forth his watch and looked at it. to his astonishment he found that it was a quarter after ten o'clock--for, his place of confinement being below the ground level, and hewn out of the heart of the rock, there were no windows to it, and the only source of light was the lamp suspended from the roof, which still burned brightly. for an instant he was under the impression that his watch had stopped overnight at the hour indicated, but upon putting it to his ear he found that it was still running. then his eye felt upon the viands on the table, and he suddenly discovered that he was hungry. without further ado, therefore, he seated himself at the table, and, dismissing for the moment all further considerations of the future, fell to and made a most excellent breakfast. escombe had finished his meal a full hour and more, and had found time once more to become distinctly apprehensive as to the intentions of huanacocha and xaxaguana toward him, when the sound of footsteps approaching along the passage outside his door warned him that the crisis was at hand, and the next moment the door was flung open and a priest entered. "my lord," he said, "it is the command of the villac vmu that you accompany me into his presence." "the command, did you say?" retorted harry. "surely the villac vmu strangely forgets himself and his position when he presumes to send commands to the inca. however," seeing that the passage outside was full of armed men who were evidently quite prepared to enforce obedience to the orders of the high priest, he continued, "i will not stand upon ceremony, or carp at a mere form of words, but will obey the summons of the villac vmu. yet, let him and all who hear me remember that i am the inca, and that my power to reward obedience is as great as it is to punish presumption. now, lead on." the priest led the way into the passage, harry following, and the moment that the latter emerged from the room in which he had been confined an armed guard of a dozen men closed in around him, rendering escape on his part impossible. in this order the procession passed along the passage, up the steps which harry had descended upon his arrival, and thence along a corridor into a room crowded with priests and civilians, where, raised upon a dais, sat the villac vmu enthroned. still surrounded by the guard, harry was halted in front of this dais, and directed to seat himself in a handsome chair that had been placed there for his reception. this done, the proceedings at once commenced, and harry immediately perceived that he was about to be subjected to some sort of a trial, for no sooner was he seated than the villac vmu cried: "let my lord huanacocha stand forth." there was a moment's bustle and confusion, and then from the midst of the assembled crowd huanacocha shouldered his way through, and placed himself near harry, but outside the encircling guards. "my lord huanacocha," said the villac vmu, "at your instigation, and because of certain representations made by you, i have taken the unprecedented course of causing our lord the inca to be brought hither, that he may answer, before those here assembled, to the charges which i understand you desire to bring against him. state, therefore, those charges; but before doing so ye shall swear by the light of our lord the sun that your motive in instigating these proceedings is free from all bias or personal ill will; that you are animated therein solely by anxiety for the public welfare, and that you will say no word save what you, personally, know to be the truth." "all this i swear!" answered huanacocha, raising his right hand aloft. "it is well," commented the high priest. "proceed now with your charges." "my lord," answered huanacocha, "my first and most serious charge against the young man who sits there, and whom we have for these many months past honoured and served as the re-incarnated manco capac, the father and founder of our nation, is that he is an impostor, with no right or title whatsoever to the service and reverence which we have given him. "my second charge," continued huanacocha, "which, however, should be preferred by you rather than by me, o villac vmu, is that this youth has blasphemously forbidden us any longer to worship our lord the sun, our father and benefactor, and the giver of all good gifts, and has commanded that we shall worship instead pachacamac, whom he calls god, of whom we know little or nothing, and whom we have never until now been bidden to worship. i am strongly opposed to this change of religion-- for it amounts to nothing less--as is everybody else with whom i have spoken on the subject. we all fear that such change will certainly bring disaster and ruin upon the nation. there are other charges which could be preferred against the prisoner," concluded huanacocha; "but i am content that the case against him shall rest upon those which i have already enumerated." "it is well," commented xaxaguana. "my lord huanacocha, the gratitude of the community is due to you for the public spirit which has prompted you to come forward and perform what we all recognise to be an exceedingly disagreeable task, and doubtless the public generally will be careful to see that your disinterestedness is suitably rewarded. is there anyone present who desires to support the charges preferred against the prisoner by my lord?" there was. the ball of high treason once set rolling, everybody seemed anxious to add to its momentum, and man after man came forward, either to support the charges made by huanacocha, or to ventilate some petty grievance, real or imaginary, of his own, until at length so much time had been consumed that xaxaguana, growing impatient, refused to listen to any further evidence. he then turned to escombe and said: "prisoner, you have heard the charges that have been brought against you. what answer have you to them?" "i might well answer," said escombe, "that i am the inca, and that no one has the right to question my actions, and no one--not even the villac vmu--has the right to bring me to trial, as you have dared to do; for i am supreme and infinitely above and beyond you all. but i have no desire to take refuge behind my dignity. if anyone considers that he has a grievance against me, as appears to be the case, i prefer to answer it. "and first as to the charge which huanacocha brings against me of being an impostor. let me remind you who were present of what took place in the temple upon the memorable occasion when i was first brought here by tiahuana and motahuana. tiahuana was the man responsible for my presence in this valley, and my elevation to the position of inca. it was he who, having heard certain particulars concerning me, sought me out, satisfied himself and his colleague that i fulfilled in my person all the conditions referred to in a certain prophecy, and brought me hither without even going through the preliminary formality of asking my consent. it was he who, when he presented me before you all here in the temple, convinced you all, with two or three exceptions, of whom huanacocha was one, that i was the re-incarnated manco capac, the inca destined to restore the ancient peruvian nation to its former power and grandeur; and it was you who, convinced by his arguments, placed me on the throne. i had nothing whatever to do with that; i made no claims or pretensions of any kind; i was simply passive throughout. but when, convinced by tiahuana's arguments and proofs, you had placed me on the throne, and i learned what was expected of me, i devoted all my energies to the performance of the task which i felt had been laid upon me; and you know how far i have succeeded. you know that those of pure peruvian blood are being daily gathered into this valley from every part of the kingdom; you know that they are being trained to play their part as fighting men; and you know also--at least huanacocha does--that i am even now engaged in making plans and arrangements for the secret introduction into the country of an adequate supply of the most modern weapons, in order that, when the proper moment comes, you may be able to fight upon equal terms with your enemies. "as to my having decreed an alteration in your religion, i did so because when i came among you i found you to be idolaters, worshippers of the sun, which is but one of the many beneficent gifts which pachacamac--whom i call god--has given to his children. the sun can only give you his light and heat according to god's will and pleasure; and therefore it is god, and not the sun, whom you should worship. and i tell you that until you transfer your adoration from the sun to him who made it, you will never be a prosperous and happy people; nor will i consent to rule over you, or help to restore you as a nation to your ancient power and glory. choose, therefore, now, whether you will worship god, or continue in idolatry; whether you will achieve the great destiny which titucocha, your prophet, foretold for you, or whether you will remain the mere remnant of a once powerful and splendid nation, lurking here in obscurity in this valley from which you dare not venture forth lest those who now hold the land that once was yours fall upon and destroy you. if you choose the latter fate, as you seem inclined to do, then must i go forth from this valley, and leave you to your own devices; for, as i have said, i will not rule a nation of idolaters. but if you choose to obey me, and submit unquestioningly to such ordinances as i shall promulgate from time to time for your advantage, then will i undertake to make you all that titucocha foretold you should become." it was evident that harry's address had produced an exceedingly powerful impression upon the bulk of his audience, for the moment that he ceased to speak there arose a great hubbub among those who composed it, the assembly almost instantly breaking up into little knots and groups, the members of which at once proceeded to discuss eagerly the several points of the speech. it was a result as unwelcome as unlooked for by the prime movers of the conspiracy, and the glance which huanacocha shot at the villac vmu was full of dismay and apprehension. the latter, however, who had noted something of the effect which harry was producing, saw also how to avail himself of that effect and at the same time achieve his own and his friend's purpose. he therefore allowed the commotion to continue unchecked for full ten minutes, before he rose and held up his hand for silence. then, when the disturbance had subsided sufficiently to allow his voice to be heard, he said: "my friends, i perceive that, like myself, you are in a difficulty, and know not what to believe. you feel, as i do, that if this youth is in very truth the re-incarnated manco whose return to earth was promised by the prophet titucocha, it would not only be rankest folly but absolute sacrilege to reject him. but how are we to know; how is this most important, this vital point to be determined? there is but one way--a way which i have already provided for: we must subject him to the ordeal by fire! if he survives that ordeal, well and good; we shall then know for certain who he is, and we will serve and obey him in all things. but, if not--" he got no further; for at the mention of the ordeal by fire harry saw at once, as in a lightning flash, the villainous trap into which he had been betrayed, and the hideous fate to which it was intended to consign him. leaping to his feet, he snatched the drawn sword from the hand of one of the astonished guards who surrounded him and, before any of them could interpose to prevent him, had leapt upon the dais and seized the terrified xaxaguana by the throat with one hand, while with the sword which he held in the other he threatened to run the quaking wretch through the heart. "oh no, you don't," he cried, as he tightened his grip upon the struggling priest's throat; "no fire ordeal for me, thank you! sit still and give over struggling, you villain, or i'll pin you to the back of the chair you sit in. do you hear me? ah, that's better; put your hands down by your sides and keep them there. and you other fellows stand still where you are, and don't attempt to lift so much as a hand against me, unless you wish to see me slay this man before your eyes! now, villac vmu, grasp the seat of your chair with both hands--just to keep them out of mischief, you know--and do as i tell you. first order those men of yours to lay down their arms and march out of the building--see, i release your throat that you may draw breath to give the order--ah! would you, you treacherous scoundrel? then take that!" for as harry released his grip upon the priest's throat the latter sprang to his feet and endeavoured to clasp the young englishman round the arms and body, at the same time shouting to the others to come to his help. but harry was too quick for his would-be captor; he sprang back a single pace, thus just eluding the grip of the priest, and at the same time lunged at him with the copper sword which he held, driving it straight through the man's scheming, treacherous heart. then, as a great roar of dismay and execration arose from the assemblage, he quickly withdrew his reeking weapon from the quivering body and, hastily wrapping his cloak about his left arm, leaped to the wall, placed his back to it, and prepared to sell his life as dearly as might be. he gave himself about half a minute more to live; for what could he single-handed do against the swordsmen, to say nothing of the rest of that howling, bloodthirsty crowd who now came surging toward him. they could overwhelm him in a moment, by sheer force of numbers! but as the swordsmen sprang upon the dais, with gleaming eyes and threatening points, the voice of huanacocha rang through the chamber as he shouted: "take the young fool alive, and harm him not, as you value your lives! he has slain the villac vmu; and for that reason, if for no other, he must pass through the fire. hem him in, take his weapon from him, and then bind him hand and foot!" it was, however, very much easier to give that order than to obey it; for escombe had always been passionately fond of sword-play--to such an extent, indeed, that he had placed himself in the hands of a certain well-known _maitre d'armes_ in westminster, and had been pronounced by that gentleman to be his most promising pupil--so now, with a tolerably good weapon in his hand, and his back to a solid, substantial wall, he felt quite in the mood and form to put up an excellent fight. the swordsmen closed in round him and, as by tacit consent, flung themselves upon him in a huddled mob, with the evident intention of bearing him to the ground by sheer preponderance of numbers. but the next instant three of them recoiled, shrieking, with their faces slashed open, as harry met their charge with a sweeping circular cut from left to right. then a fourth man staggered and fell with a ghastly wound in his throat, while the rest drew back in dismay and wonder at a feat of swordsmanship that to their comparatively untrained minds seemed to savour strongly of either magic or the supernatural. as to escombe, he took a long breath, and told himself that perhaps, with luck, he might be able to hold out for as much as five minutes; for that first encounter, brief though it was, showed him that these men had not the remotest idea of how to handle a sword, while as for himself, he had no sooner gripped the hilt of his weapon than he felt all the keen delight of the practised fencer thrill through him at the prospect of an encounter. oh yes! he would put up a good fight, such a fight as these people should remember to their dying day; though of course one of them would get him, sooner or later, when his weapon happened to be plunged in the body of an enemy. these thoughts flashed through the young englishman's mind in the drawing of a breath. then he braced himself afresh against the wall to meet a second and much more wary attack--his enemies had learned caution already, for instead of flinging themselves upon him pell-mell, as at the first rush, they attacked him three at a time, one in front, and one on either hand, thus allowing plenty of room for the play of their blades. also they strove, by every stratagem they could think of, to entice him away from the wall, so that they might be able to slip round and take him in the rear; but to keep one's back to the wall was one of the fundamental rules of self defence that had been dinned into him until it had become impossible to forget it, and harry was not to be tempted. close to the wall he kept, allowing himself only just sufficient room for the free play of his blade; and when at length the attacking trio, losing patience, attempted to rush in upon him, his point seemed to threaten all three at once, and the next moment two of the three were _hors de combat_, one with his sword hand half severed at the wrist, and the other with his right arm laid open from wrist to elbow. the ineffectiveness of the attack proved too much for huanacocha, who had thus far been looking on at the fray with a sardonic grin upon his countenance. now, as he saw the swordsmen hanging back, obviously afraid to approach that charmed semicircle, the whole of which escombe's blade seemed to cover at the same moment, he lost patience, and, with an angry roar, dashed forward, snatched a weapon from one of the disabled fighters, and called upon all present to help him to capture the audacious young foreigner who seemed determined to make fools of them all. then, as the others sprang at his call, an idea suddenly seized him. tearing the cloak off his shoulders, he flung the heavy garment straight at harry, whose blade became entangled in the folds for just the fraction of a second. but it was enough; the others, seeing in an instant what had happened, tossed away their weapons and, flinging themselves upon escombe before he could clear his sword, tore his weapon from his grasp and bore him, still fighting savagely with his fists, to the ground. in another minute it was all over; with men grasping each of his limbs, and two or three more piled upon his prostrate body, poor harry was soon overcome and reduced to a condition of comparative quiescence, after which it was not a very difficult matter to enwrap his body with so many turns of a thin, tough, raw-hide rope that further movement became an impossibility. immediately the whole place rang with howls and shouts of fiendish rejoicing at the brilliance of the feat which had culminated in the capture of this pestilent young foreigner, whose gallant resistance, so far from exciting admiration in the breasts of his captors, seemed to have filled them with the ferocity of wild beasts. as he was raised to his feet preparatory to bearing him away to the place where a fiery death even now awaited him, first one and then another fought and struggled through the yelling crowd to glare into his face with ferocious glee, and to hiss into his ear bloodcurdling hints of the doom prepared for him. the uproar was at its height when escombe's preternaturally sharpened ear detected a new note in it, a note of astonishment, consternation, and terror that quickly overbore and drowned the tones of savage exultation. the next instant the air was vibrant with shrieks and cries for mercy as the crowd, scattering right and left, made way before the levelled spears and whirling blades of the inca's bodyguard; while the voice of umu, harsh and tense with concentrated fury, was heard high above the din, exhorting his followers to let not one of those present escape. within a moment umu himself, whirling a heavy battle mace about him with savage freedom, had forced his way to harry's side, and had either beaten down or driven off those who had constituted themselves his custodians. "are you hurt, lord; have these sacrilegious beasts dared to harm a hair of your head?" he panted, as he flung a supporting arm about escombe's bound and helpless body. "no," answered harry, smiling rather wanly upon him; "i am as sound as ever i was, thank god! but you have only arrived in the very nick of time, umu. in another five minutes you would have been too late, my good and trusty friend. how did you know where i was, and what was happening?" "the tale is too long to tell just now, lord," answered umu, as he busied himself in freeing harry from his bonds; "it shall be told later, when i have disposed of these vile wretches. it was arima who brought me the first hint of what was afoot. pachacamac be praised that i was able to get here in time! what were they about to do with you, lord?" "they talked of putting me to the fire ordeal," answered harry; "but i had a word to say against that, as you may see. xaxaguana, one of the chief conspirators, has already paid the penalty of his perfidy, and lies there dead." "truly, lord, you fought well," exclaimed umu admiringly, as he glanced about him at the dead and wounded. "and huanacocha--is he among this rabble?" "he is--unless he has escaped," answered harry. "if he has, every tenth man of your bodyguard shall lose his hands and feet," snarled umu savagely. and then his brow cleared as, glancing at the mob of prisoners which the troopers were now forming up, he detected huanacocha alive, and apparently unhurt, among them. "ah, no! he is there, i see," he continued. "very well; this plot was of his hatching. he shall undergo the fire ordeal himself." "nay, not that, good umu; not that," protested harry. "such a fate is too horrible to be thought of. punish him by all means, if you will, for indeed he deserves punishment; but not in that way." "very well, lord," answered umu; "it shall be as you wish. meanwhile, i pray you to return to the palace, escorted by your bodyguard; while i, with a few men, attend to the safe disposal of these fellows." five minutes later, escombe found himself, he scarcely knew how, mounted on a trooper's horse, wending his way back to the palace, surrounded by his devoted bodyguard, while the populace, quick to detect how matters were going, rent the air with their acclamations. an hour later umu bowed himself into escombe's presence to report progress. "the prisoners, lord," he said, "are, with the exception of huanacocha, safely confined, and now await such punishment as you may be pleased to inflict upon them. in the presence of a great multitude i have caused the head of huanacocha to be struck from his body in the grounds of his own palace, and have thrown head and body together upon the smoking ruins of the place. i have likewise posted a notice upon the entrance gates forbidding anyone to interfere with the body or give it burial. it is to be left where it lies, for the dogs of the city to devour, as a warning and example to others of the fate of those who conspire sacrilegiously against the authority or person of the sovereign. and i have left two armed troopers to mount sentry at the gates, to ensure that my orders are obeyed." "two only," ejaculated harry in horrified tones. "my dear umu, if i may judge of the temper of the people at large by those with whom i had to deal in the temple to-day, those two unfortunate men have been torn to pieces before now. you must send supports at once to them. i want no more bloodshed over this unfortunate business." "there will be no more, lord," answered umu grimly. "the sentries are as safe as if they were in barracks. the people know me. they know that at the first sign of disorder i would sack the city from end to end, and put every one of its inhabitants to the sword; and there will be no more crime of any sort for many a day to come, after what has befallen huanacocha, who was the most powerful noble in all the land." "i am sure i hope not," answered harry. "and if you should prove to be right in your estimate of the salutary influence exercised by the example which you have made of that turbulent fellow, his death will not have been in vain. and now, umu, what about the palace servants? i see that an entirely new staff has been installed here, by your orders, arima tells me; and he also tells me that the others are safely lodged in prison. surely they had nothing to do with the conspiracy?" whereupon umu, by way of reply, proceeded to recount to his royal master the whole history of the affair, so far as he had learned it. and that included pretty nearly everything that was worth repeating; for in the course of his investigations during that eventful morning the soldier had come upon thread after thread, until, taking into account what he then learned, and adding to it such stray hints as had previously reached him, and to which he had, up to that morning, attached no significance, there was very little left to be learned relative to the conspiracy. the result of it all was that, after thinking the matter over very carefully, escombe was driven to the conclusion that this curious people, into whose midst he had been so strangely brought, were not ripe for those reforms which he, as their ruler, would have felt it his duty to introduce; that they did not want them, and would never willingly accept them; and that, consequently, he must either govern them as they desired to be governed, at the expense of his own conscience, or else abandon the idea of ruling them at all: having come to this conclusion, he summoned all the nobles to a conference, at which he put the case frankly before them, inviting them as frankly to express their opinion upon it, with the result that he was fully confirmed in the opinion which he had formed. the day after the close of the conference he definitely announced to umu his intention to abdicate and quit the valley; at the same time asking that officer's advice as to the best and most desirable mode of procedure in so exceedingly delicate a business. "the affair can be arranged quite easily, lord," answered umu. "there is not the slightest need for you to abandon us. after what has happened to the villac vmu and huanacocha, who were the two chief conspirators, and the example which i shall make of all those who were foolish enough to listen to them, you will be troubled by no more conspiracies; and i will see that whatever laws you may choose to make are obeyed, whether they happen to be to the taste of the people or not. there are a few, who, like myself, are able to recognise that such laws as you have thus far made are for our advantage, and you will always be able to reckon upon their support; while, for the others, who have not sense enough to understand what is good for them, they must be compelled to bow to the decrees of those who are wiser than themselves. "but if, as you have intimated, you are quite resolved not to enforce your wishes upon the people against their will, i will issue a proclamation declaring that, since the inhabitants of the valley have rejected the enormous benefits and advantages which you had desired to bestow upon them, you have decided to leave the valley and abandon them to their fate, and that i have assumed the reins of government and will henceforth rule them in your stead. it is for you, lord, to say which of these two alternatives shall be adopted." "very well, umu," said escombe, "i have already quite made up my mind. i will not remain here to force upon the people laws and ordinances which are unacceptable to them; therefore issue your proclamation as soon as you please, and i will make arrangements to leave forthwith. i presume i may depend upon you to furnish me with guides and an escort as far as santa rosa, from which i will take the train to islay. also, as i shall require money to defray my expenses back to england, i shall take the liberty of withdrawing one bar of gold from the palace treasure chamber for that purpose." "assuredly, lord," answered umu. "you shall be furnished with a reliable guide--you can have none better than arima--and also such an escort as will enable you to perform your journey in perfect safety and comfort. as to the gold, it must of course be for you to determine how much you will need to defray your expenses back to your own country; but what of the remainder of the treasure? you will scarcely be able to take the whole of it with you; for to transport it across the mountains would need the services of every man in the valley, and so large a following as that would be apt to attract undue and unwelcome attention." "ay, that it would," laughed harry. "but i have no intention of robbing you of all your treasure, umu; very far from it. a single bar of gold will suffice for all my needs, thanks!" "but the whole of the treasure is yours, lord, to do what you will with it," answered umu. "it was given to you on the day when you were proclaimed inca; and--" "oh, yes, i know!" interrupted harry; "it was given me for a certain purpose, to wit, the reconquest of the country and its restoration to its former owners. but since the people are too indolent and too self- indulgent to allow me to do this for them, of course i have no claim upon the treasure, and could not possibly dream of appropriating it to my own uses." "so let it be then, lord," answered umu. "take what you require; and, for the rest, i will deal with the matter." a week later witnessed escombe's departure from the valley of the sun, with arima as his guide, and a troop of the inca's bodyguard as his escort. as umu had promised, every possible arrangement had been made for his safety and comfort on the journey; and that portion of it which lay between the valley and santa rosa was accomplished far more agreeably than was that which lay between santa rosa and the sea. the bodyguard escorted him to within twenty miles of santa rosa, which was as close to the city as it was prudent for them to approach, and then left him to complete the journey in the company of arima and the porters who bore his baggage for him. there was not very much of the latter now remaining; nevertheless his following amounted to some twenty-five men; for in addition to escombe's personal belongings, tent, etcetera, there were three stout wooden cases measuring about eighteen inches each way, containing, as umu, at parting, informed harry, the smallest possible share of the treasure which he could be permitted to leave with. when these were ultimately opened, they proved to contain gems--diamonds, rubies, and emeralds--of such enormous value as to constitute their owner a multi-millionaire. it is not to be supposed that escombe succeeded in conveying all this treasure down to the coast and getting it safely embarked upon the mail boat for england without tremendous difficulty and trouble. but by the exercise of immense ingenuity and tact, and the expenditure of a very considerable amount of time, he ultimately managed it. harry is now safe at home, and settled down very comfortably, with his mother and sister, in the most lovely part of devonshire, where he divides his time pretty evenly between enjoying himself, converting his store of gems into coin of the realm, and seeking opportunities to employ his enormous wealth for the benefit and advantage of his less- fortunate fellow men. let it not be thought, however, that harry's adventures in the city of the sun had banished from his mind the fact that he still owed a very important duty to sir philip swinburne. on the contrary, it was the subject which became the most important one in his thoughts after he had finally completed his arrangements for the safe transport of his treasure to england. indeed it claimed his attention immediately upon his arrival at the coast, and one of his first acts was to write to sir philip, acquainting that gentleman with the fact of his escape from the indians--for so he put it--and his impending departure for england, adding that he would afford himself the pleasure of calling at the office in westminster at the earliest possible moment after his arrival home. he had already ascertained that the survey party had completed its operations, and that bannister had left for england some two months prior to the date of his own arrival upon the coast. he knew that there were many points in connection with that portion of the survey which had been executed prior to bannister's arrival upon the scene which nobody but himself could make clear, and accordingly he had no sooner started upon the long homeward voyage than he betook himself to the task of preparing voluminous explanatory notes on those points, so far as his memory served him, in order that he might have all his information cut and dried for submission upon his arrival home. in conformity with his promise, he duly presented himself in westminster within twenty-four hours of his return to english soil, receiving an enthusiastic welcome from his former confreres, and especially from bannister, whom he found busily engaged in plotting the result of the soundings taken at lake titicaca. he was also effusively welcomed by mr richards, who had already wrought himself into a state of distraction in his futile endeavours to clear up those very obscurities which formed the subject of harry's notes. but with the return of escombe to the office the troubles of the chief draughtsman on that account ceased, and he found himself once more able to sleep at night; for harry promptly made it clear that he held himself absolutely at sir philip's disposal until the whole of the plans relating to the survey should be completed. he presented himself at the office punctually at ten o'clock every morning, and worked diligently throughout the day for the succeeding two months until the entire work had been brought to a satisfactory conclusion, and sir philip had written his report and dispatched it with his proposals to the chairman of the peruvian corporation. whether those proposals will be carried into effect the future only can tell, for they involve the expenditure of a formidable number of millions. but it is safe to say that, if they are, harry will take no part in the work, his view being that, since he has no need to earn his living, it would be wrong of him to accept a post and thus shut out someone who has that need. still, he has the satisfaction of knowing that, although his future is independent of the goodwill of any man, he so conducted himself during the trying time of his service under butler, and afterwards, while working singlehanded, as to win the warmest approval and esteem of sir philip swinburne and the worthy richards, the latter of whom is now wont to quote harry escombe as the pattern and model of all engineering pupils. it is also due to harry to mention that he made an early opportunity to call upon butler's widow for the purpose of personally acquainting her with the details of the surveyor's unhappy end. but in doing this he contrived so to modify the particulars of the story that, by judicious omissions here and there, without any sacrifice of truth, he succeeded in conveying an impression that was very comforting and consoling to the unfortunate lady in the midst of her grief. as he found that the poor soul had been left in very straitened circumstances, he made it his business promptly to arrange with his lawyers that she should be paid anonymously a sufficient sum quarterly to place her beyond the reach of want. true to his colours the life that wears best by reverend theodore p wilson ________________________________________________________________________ i cannot truthfully say that i enjoyed transcribing this book. that might be to say that reverend wilson would not approve of me, for i enjoy a beer or a glass of wine occasionally, but never to excess. but wilson was, as ever, fulminating against the demon drink, that is to say, against the demon that can take over people's lives, and bring misery to their wives and children, for this does happen, even to this day. there is a story behind all this, but the long sermons pervade, and do really make the book difficult to read. perhaps you should read the book during some fasting and penitential period of the year, such as advent or lent, but then again it might bring on some other kind of sin, such as sloth. nh ________________________________________________________________________ true to his colours the life that wears best by reverend theodore p wilson chapter one. a sceptic's home. look back some forty years--there was not a quieter place then than the little village of crossbourne. it was a snug spot, situated among hills, and looked as though it were hiding away out of the sight and notice of the bustling, roaring traffic that was going ceaselessly on all around it. a little fussy stream or brook flowed on restlessly day and night through the centre of the village, and seemed to be the only thing there that was ever in a hurry. carts and carriages, but seldom many of the latter, had to drive through the stream when they wished to cross it; for there was no bridge except a very rude one for foot-passengers just before you came to the old mill, where the villagers had had their corn ground for generations. then to the north of the stream the houses straggled up on either side of a long winding street, sometimes two or three together under one long thatched roof, and in other places singly, with a small bit of meagre garden round them; a wooden latch lifted by a string which dangled outside being the prevailing fastening to the outer doors. right up at the top of the street, and a little to the left, was the old saxon church, which had retained a considerable share of its original massive beauty, spite of the combined attacks of plaster, mildew, and a succession of destructive restorations which had lowered the roof, bricked up more than one fine old window, and thrust out a great iron chimney, which looked not unlike the mailed hand of some giant shaking its clenched fist at the solid tower which it was unable to destroy. just under the shadow of the old church, and separated from it by the low wall of the churchyard, was the vicarage, a grey-looking structure in the midst of a small but well-stocked garden; while beyond it were fields in long succession, with a ponderous-looking farm-house crouching down here and there amongst them. of course there was an inn in the village. it was marked out to travellers by a sign-board dependent from a beam projecting over the footpath. something had once been painted on the board, but it had become so blurred and indistinct under the corroding action of sun and rain, that it would be quite impossible now to decide whether the features delineated on it were those of a landscape, a lion, or a human countenance. such was crossbourne some forty years back. but now, what a marvellous change! coal has been found close by, and the little village has leapt, as if by magic, into a thriving town. huge factories and foundries rise from the banks of the stream; the ford is spanned by a substantial bridge; the corn-mill has disappeared, and so have the rheumatic-looking old mossy cottages. a street of prim, substantial houses, uniform, and duly numbered, with brass handles, latches, and knockers to the doors, now leads up to the church. and that venerable building has certainly gained by the change; for the plaster and the iron chimney have vanished, full daylight pours in through all the windows, while two new aisles have been added in harmony with the original design of the unknown architect. the vicarage, too, has expanded, and been smartened up to suit more modern tastes and requirements. and then all around the principal street are swarms of workmen's dwellings,--and, alas! public- houses and beer-shops at every corner ready to entrap the wretched victims of intemperance. besides all these there are a town hall and a mechanics' institute; and the streets and shops and dwelling-houses are lighted with gas. crossbourne has, in fact, become a very hive of industry; but, unhappily, too many of the cells of the hive are fuller of gall than of honey, for money is made fast and squandered faster: and what wonder, seeing that king alcohol holds his court amongst the people day and night! and, to make all complete, crossbourne now boasts of a railway running through it, and of a station of its own, from which issues many a train of _goods_; and near the station a distillery, from which there issues continually a long and lengthening train of _evils_. turning out of the principal street to the right, just opposite to where the old dingy sign-board used to swing, a passer-by could not fail to notice a detached house more lofty and imposing in its appearance than the plain working-men's cottages on either side of it. at the time our story opens this house was occupied by william foster, a skilled ironworker, who was earning his fifty shillings a week, when he chose to do so; which was by no means his regular habit, as frequent sprees and drinking-bouts with congenial companions made his services little to be depended on. however, he was a first-rate hand, and his employers, who could not do without him, were fain to put up with his irregularities. foster was now in the prime of life, and had a young wife and one little baby. he was professedly a sceptic, and gloried in his creed--if _he_ can be said to have any creed who believes in nothing but himself. of course the bible to him was simply a whetstone on which to "sharpen his tongue like a serpent, that he might shoot out his arrows, even bitter words." as for conscience, he ridiculed the very idea of such an old- fashioned guide and monitor. "no," he would say, "as a true musician abhors discordant sounds, and as a skilled mechanic abhors bad work, and therefore cannot turn it out without doing violence to his finer and more cultivated sensibilities, so the best guide in morals to an enlightened man is his own sense of moral fitness and propriety." nevertheless, he was by no means over-scrupulous as to the perfection of his own handiwork when he could slur over a job without fear of detection; while the standard of morality which he set up for himself, certainly, to judge by his own daily life, did not speak much for the acuteness of his moral perceptions. but he was shrewd and ready, and had a memory well stored with such parts of scripture as were useful pegs on which to hang clever objections and profane sneers. not that he had read the bible itself, for all his knowledge of it was got second-hand from the works of sceptics, and in detached fragments. however, he had learned and retained a smattering of a good many scientific and other works, and so could astonish and confound timid and ill-informed opponents. no wonder, therefore, that he was the admired chairman of the "crossbourne free-thought club," which met two or three times a week in one of the public-houses, and consumed, for the benefit of the house, but certainly not of the members themselves or their homes, a large quantity of beer and spirits, while it was setting the misguided world right on science, politics, and religion. the marvel, indeed, to foster and his friends was how ignorance, bigotry, priestcraft, and tyranny could venture to hold up their heads in crossbourne after his club had continued its meeting regularly for the last two years. perhaps they might have been a little less surprised could one of them have taken down an old volume of dr south's sermons from the vicar's library shelves, and have read these words to his fellows: "men are infidels, not because they have sharper wits, but because they have corrupter wills; not because they reason better, but because they live worse." assuredly this was true of the infidelity in crossbourne. and what sort of a home was william foster's? the house itself looked well enough as you approached it. those houses of a humbler stamp on either side of it had doors which opened at once from the street into the parlour or living-room; but to foster's dwelling there was a small entrance-hall, terminating in an archway, beyond which were a large parlour, a kitchen, and a staircase leading to the upper rooms. there was an air of ambition about everything, as though the premises, like their occupiers, were aiming to be something above their station, while at the same time a manifest absence of cleanliness and neatness only presented a sort of satirical contrast to the surrounding grandeur. on either side of the entrance-hall, and just under the archway, was a plaster-of-paris figure, nearly as large as life--that on the right-hand being a representation of bacchus, and that on the left of a nymph dancing. but the female image had long since lost its head, and also one of its arms--the latter being still in existence, but being hung for convenience' sake through the raised arm of bacchus, making him look like one of those hindu idols which are preposterously figured with a number of superfluous limbs. if the effect of this transference of the nymph's arm to its companion statue was rather burlesque than ornamental, the disconnected limb itself was certainly not without its use, small fragments of it being broken off from time to time for the purpose of whitening the door-steps and the hall-flags when the hearthstone could not readily be found. within the archway, over the parlour door, was a plaster bust of socrates; but this had met with no better treatment than the statues, having accidentally got its face turned to the wall as though in disgrace, or as if in despair of any really practical wisdom being allowed to have sway in the sceptic's household. things were no better in the sitting-room: there was plenty of finery, but no real comfort--scarcely a single article of furniture was entire; while a huge chimney-glass, surmounted by a gilded eagle, being too tall for its position, had been made to fit into its place by the sacrifice of the eagle's head and body, the legs and claws alone being visible against the ceiling. the glass itself was starred at one corner, and the frame covered with scars where the gilding had fallen off. there were coloured prints on the walls, and a large photograph of the members of the "free-thought club;" the different individuals of the group being taken in various attitudes, all indicative of a more than average amount of self-esteem. there were book-shelves also, containing volumes amusing, scientific, and sceptical, but no place was found for the book of books; it was not admitted into that cheerless household. it was a december evening; a dull fire burned within the dingy bars of william foster's parlour grate. william himself was at his club, but his wife and baby were at home: that poor mother, who knew nothing of a heavenly father to whose loving wisdom she could intrust her child; the baby, a poor little sinful yet immortal being, to be brought up without one whisper from a mother's tongue of a saviour's love. kate evans (such was mrs foster's maiden name) had had the best bringing up the neighbourhood could afford; at least, such was the view of her relatives and friends. her parents were plain working-people, who had been obliged to scramble up into manhood and womanhood with the scantiest amount possible of book-learning. when married they could neither of them write their name in the register; and a verse or two of the new testament laboriously spelt out was their farthest accomplishment in the way of reading. kate was their only child, and they wisely determined that things should be different with her. the girl was intelligent, and soon snapped up what many other children of her own age were a long time in acquiring. she was bright and attractive-looking, with keen eyes and dark flowing hair, and won the affection of her teachers and companions by her open- heartedness and generosity of disposition. naturally enough, the master and mistress of the large school which she attended were proud of her as being one of their best scholars, and were determined to make the most of her abilities for their own sake as much as hers. and kate herself and her parents were nothing loath. so books were her constant companions and occupation in all her waking hours. the needle was very seldom in her fingers at the school, and the house- broom and the scrubbing-brush still less often at home. the poor mother sighed a weary sigh sometimes when, worn out with toiling, she looked towards her child, who was deep in some scientific book by the fireside; and now and then she just hinted to her husband that she could not quite see the use of so much book-learning for a girl in their daughter's position; but she was soon silenced by the remark that "our kate had a head-piece such as didn't fall to the lot of many, and it were a sin and a shame not to give her all the knowledge possible while she were young and able to get it." so the head was cultivated, and the hands that should have been busy were neglected; and thus it was that, at the age of sixteen, kate evans could not sweep a room decently, nor darn a stocking, nor mend her own clothes, nor make nor bake a loaf of bread creditably. but then, was she not the very rejoicing of her master and mistress's hearts, and the head girl of the school? and did not the government inspector always give her a specially pleasant smile and word or two of approbation at the annual examination? poor kate! it was a marvel that she was not more spoiled by all this; but she was naturally modest and unpresuming, and would have made a fine and valuable character had she been brought up to _shine_, and not merely to _glitter_. as it was, she had learned to read and write well, and to calculate sums which were of little practical use to her. indeed, her head was not unlike the lumber-room of some good lady who has indulged a mania for accumulating purchases simply because of their cheapness, without consideration of their usefulness, whether present or future; so that while she could give you the names and positions and approximate distances of all the principal stars without mistake or hesitation, she would have been utterly at a loss if set to make a little arrow-root or beef--tea for a sick relation or friend. she wound up her education at school by covering her teachers and herself with honour by her answers, first to the elementary, and then to the advanced questions in the papers sent down from the london science and art department. and when she left school, at the age of seventeen, to take the place at home of her mother, who was now laid by through an attack of paralysis, she received the public congratulations of the school managers, and was afterwards habitually quoted as an example of what might be acquired in the humbler ranks of life by diligence, patience, and perseverance. as for her religious education, it was what might have been expected under the circumstances. her parents, ignorant of the truth themselves, though well-disposed, as it is called, to religion, had sent her when quite a little one to the sunday-school, where she picked up a score or two of texts and as many hymns. she also had gone to church regularly once every sunday, but certainly had acquired little other knowledge in the house of god than an acquaintance with the most ingenious methods of studying picture-books and story-books on the sly, and of trying the patience of the teachers whose misfortune it was for the time to be in command of the children's benches during divine service. as she grew up, however, sunday-school and church were both forsaken. tired with constant study and the few household duties which she could not avoid performing, she was glad to lie in bed till the sunday-school bell summoned earlier risers; and with the school, the attendance at church also was soon abandoned. in summer-time, dressed in clothes which were gay rather than neat or becoming, she would stroll out across the hills during afternoon service with some like-minded female companion, and return by tea-time listless and out of spirits, conscious of a great want, but unconscious of the only way to satisfy it. for kate evans had a mind and heart which kept her from descending into the paths of open sin. many young women there were around her, neglecters, like herself, of god, his house, and his day, who had plunged into the depths of open profligacy; but with such she had neither intercourse nor sympathy, for she shrunk instinctively from everything that was low and coarse. yet she walked in darkness; an abiding shadow rested on her spirit. she had gained admiration and won esteem, but she wanted peace. her heart was hungry, and must needs remain so till it should find its only true satisfying food in "jesus, the bread of life." such was kate evans when she had reached the age of twenty--restless, unsatisfied, fretting under the restraints and privations of a poor working-man's home, shrinking from earning her bread by the labour of her hands, yet unable--for her heart would not allow her--to apply for any school work which might remove her from the home where her services were greatly needed by her now bed-ridden mother. it was, then, with no small gratification, though not without some misgivings, that she found herself the object of special attentions on the part of william foster. she was well aware that he was no friend to religion, but then he was supposed to be highly moral; and she felt not a little flattered by the devoted service of a man who was the oracle of the working-classes on all matters of science and higher literature; while he on his part was equally pleased with the prospect of having for his wife one who, both in personal attractions and education, was universally allowed to be in her rank the flower of crossbourne. kate's parents, however, were very unwilling that the intimacy between foster and their child should lead to a regular engagement. they had the good sense to see that he who "feared not god" was not very likely to "regard man," nor woman either; and they were also well aware that the public-house and the club would be pretty sure to retain a large share of foster's affections after marriage. but remonstrance and advice were in vain; love was to take the place of religion, and was to gather into the new home all the cords which would have a tendency to draw the young man in a different direction. and neighbours and friends said, "young people would be young people;" that kate would turn any man into a good husband; and that she would be near at hand to look in upon her old father and mother. so the attachment duly ripened without further check; and before she was one and twenty, kate evans was married to william foster at the registrar's office. and now, on this december evening, rather more than a year had gone by since the wedding-day. and what of the _love_ which was to have effected such great things? alas! the gilding had got sadly rubbed off. not many weeks after the marriage a cloud began to gather on the face of both husband and wife. coming home some day at dinner-time he would find no table laid out, the meat half raw, and the potatoes the same; while an open book of poetry or science, turned face downwards on the sloppy dresser, showed how his wife had been spending the time which ought to have been occupied in preparing her husband's meal. then, again, when work was over, he would find, on his return home, his wife, with uncombed hair and flushed cheeks, on her knees, puffing away at a few sparks in the cheerless grate, while the kettle rested sulkily on a cliff of black coal, and looked as if boiling was on its part a very remote possibility indeed. not that kate was a gadder about or a gossip, but she was sleeveless, dawdling, and dreamy, and always behindhand. everything was out of its place. thus foster would take up a spill-case, expecting to find material wherewith to light his evening pipe; but instead of spills, it was full of greasy hair-pins. and when, annoyed and disgusted, he tore a fly-leaf out of one of his wife's school prizes, declaring that, if she did not provide him with spills, he would take them where he could get them, a storm of passionate reproaches was followed by a volley of curses on his part, and a hasty and indignant retreat to the public- house parlour. and then, again, his late hours at the club, or the unwelcome presence of his sceptical companions, whom he would sometimes bring home to discuss their opinions over pipes and spirits, would be the ground of strong and angry remonstrance. and the breach began soon to widen. washing-day would come round with all its discomforts, which she had not learned the art of mitigating or removing. coming in, in better spirits perhaps than usual, intending to have a cheerful tea and a cozy chat after it, he would find everything in a state of disturbance, especially his young wife's temper, with plenty of steam everywhere except from the spout of the tea-pot. indeed, poor kate was one of those domestic paradoxes in her own person and house which are specially trying to one who cares for home comfort: and who is there who does not care for it? she would be always cleaning, yet never clean; always smartening things up, and yet never keeping them tidy. and so when william, on coming home, would find pale, ghost-like linen garments hanging reeking from the embossed arm of the gas chandelier a large piece of dissolving soap on the centre of the table-cover, a great wooden tub in the place where his arm-chair should be, a lump of sodden rags in one of his slippers, and his wife toiling and fuming in the midst of all, with her hair in papers and her elbows in suds, with scarce the faintest hope for him of getting his evening meal served for more than an hour to come,--what wonder if harsh words escaped him, repaid with words equally harsh from his excited partner, and followed by his flinging himself in a rage out of such a home, and returning near midnight with a plunging, stumbling step on the stairs, which sent all the blood chilly back to the heart of the unhappy woman, and quenched in sobs and tears the bitter words that were ready to burst forth! but at last there came the little babe, and with it a rush of returning fondness and tenderness into the heart of both the parents; yet only for a time. the tide of home misery had set in full again; and now on this winter evening, a little more than a twelve-month after her marriage, poor, unhappy kate foster knelt by the side of the little cradle, her tears falling fast and thick on the small white arm of her sick baby; for very sick it was, and she feared that death (ay, not death, but god--her heart, her conscience said, "god,") was about to snatch from her the object she loved best on earth, even with a passionate love. though it was winter and cold, yet the casement was ajar, for the chimney of the room had smoked for weeks; but nothing had been done towards remedying the trouble, except grumbling at it, and letting in draughts of keen air through half-open doors and windows, to the manifest detriment of the health of both mother and child. and what was she to do, poor thing, in her hour of special trial and need? looking earnestly at her baby through her tears, she leaned eagerly and breathlessly forward into the cradle. was it gone? was it really taken from her? no; she could hear its disturbed breathing still. and then as she knelt on, with clasped hands and throbbing heart, something brought to her lips words of prayer: "o lord! o lord, have pity on me! oh, baby, baby!--don't take baby from me!" even that poor prayer gave her some relief, followed as it was by an agony of weeping. never had she uttered a word of prayer before since the day she was married, and her own words startled her. yet again and again she felt constrained to make her simple supplication, pleading earnestly for her baby's life with the god the reality of whose being and power she now _felt_, spite of herself. but what was that sound that made her spring up from her knees, and listen with colourless cheeks and panting breath? she thought she heard footsteps pass under the half-open window. there was no regular road at the back of the house, but the premises could be approached in that direction by a narrow path along the side of the hill which shut in the buildings in the rear. between the hill and the house was a back-yard into which the parlour looked, and through this yard william would sometimes come from his work; but ordinary visitors came to the front, and trades-people to a side door on the left. could the footsteps have been those of her husband? and had he paused to listen to her words of earnest and passionate prayer? if so, she well knew what a torrent of ridicule and sarcastic reproach she must prepare herself for. and yet the step did not sound like his. alas! she had learned to know it now too well! she dreaded it. there was no music in it now for her. perhaps she was mistaken. she listened eagerly; all was still, and once more her eyes and heart turned towards the little cradle, as the restless babe woke up with a start and a cry. so again she knelt beside it, and, rocking it, gave free vent to her tears, and to words of prayer, though uttered now more softly. but there--there was that footstep again! there could be no mistake about it now; and as certainly it was not her husband's tread. annoyed now that some intruder should be lurking about and listening to her words, she was just going to ask angrily who was there, when the casement was pushed cautiously a little more open, and a hand holding a small book was thrust into the room. amazed, terrified, kate stood up erect, and stared with parted lips at the strange intrusion. what could it mean? the hand was that of a woman, and there were rings on the fingers. it was but a moment that she had time to mark these things; for before she could recover from her surprise, the mysterious hand had dropped the book into the room, and with it one of its rings, which rolled towards the hearth, sparkling as it went. then there was a rapid retreat of quiet footsteps outside, and all was still again. taking up the ring, which had a red stone in the centre like a ruby, and was seemingly of considerable value, after examining it for a moment, she put it into her pocket, and then picked up the little book, which lay on the floor where it had fallen, just underneath the window. she knew what it was in a moment,--a small bible. it was very old, and very much worn, and had clearly done good service to its owner, or owners, for many a long year. sitting by the cradle, and rocking it with one hand, she held the little volume in the other, and closely examined it. the paper of which it was made was coarse, and the printing old- fashioned. on the inside of the stiff cover was written in faded ink:-- _steal not this book for fear of shame_, _for here you see the owner's name_. _june , _. _mary williams_. kate's perplexities only increased. but now her attention was drawn to the words themselves of the book. as she turned over page after page, she noticed that all the most striking texts were underlined with red- ink, especially those which spoke of help in trouble, and of the mercy and love of god. her attention was now thoroughly aroused. verse after verse was read by her, with tearful eyes and a heart opening itself to the sunshine of divine love; while every fresh text, as she turned from leaf to leaf, seemed more and more appropriate to her own troubles and sorrows. could this be the same bible which she used to read in the sunday- school, and hear read at church? she could scarcely believe it. it seemed now as if this were altogether another book, just written and printed expressly for her, to meet her case. all the once familiar passages and verses had new life and light in them now. the baby stirred; she hushed it back to sleep. the fire burned low, but she read on,--she was living out of herself. at last she laid down the little volume, and resting her forehead on her hand, thought long and deeply, her lips moving in silent prayer. then she started up hastily, stirred and brightened up the fire, and put the room and herself into the best order that she could. then she took up the bible again, and gazing at it earnestly, said slowly and half-out loud to herself, "wherever can this have come from?" and then a voice seemed to speak within her; and lifting up her eyes reverently to that heaven which she had never dared to think about for years past, she exclaimed softly and fervently, as she clasped her hands together: "o my god, thou didst send it! it came to me from heaven!" but her thoughts were soon recalled to earth again. her husband's step was heard now. it was past ten o'clock, and he was returning from his club. it was often now that she had to watch and wait in weariness to as late an hour. "he mustn't see this," she cried shudderingly to herself, as she heard his hand upon the latch; "not yet, not yet!" so, snatching up the little bible, she placed it deep down under the clothes of the baby's cradle. chapter two. the railway bridge. the crossbourne station was not in the town itself, but on the outskirts, about a quarter of a mile distant from the town hall. nevertheless, the town was creeping up to it in the form of a suburb, which would ere long reach the station gates. crossbourne, the present flourishing manufacturing town, occupied the hills on either side of the little stream, the greater part of it being to the north, in the direction of the parish church. the station itself was on high ground, and looked across over open country, the line in the london direction passing from it through the centre of the town over a noble viaduct of some twenty arches. in the opposite direction the line made a gradual descent from the station, and at a mile's distance passed through a cutting, towards the farther end of which it inclined northwards in a sharp curve. just about the middle of this curve, and where the cutting was pretty deep, a massive wooden foot-bridge was thrown across the line. this was at a place not much frequented, as the bridge formed only part of a short cut into a by-road which led to one or two farms on the hill- sides. along the rails round this ascending curve the ordinary trains laboured with bated breath; and even the dashing express was compelled to slacken here a little in its speed. it was on the rd of december, the same night in which kate foster received so mysteriously the little bible which was dropped with the ring into her parlour, that four men were plodding along in the darkness over a field-way which led to the wooden bridge just mentioned. they were dressed in their ordinary mill or foundry working-clothes, and seemed, from their stealthy walk and crouching manner, to be out on no good or honest errand. three of them slouched along with their hands deep in their pockets; the fourth carried a bag of some kind, which apparently was no burden to him, for it swung lightly backwards and forwards on two of his fingers. the men's faces were all muffled in scarves, and their caps pulled down over their eyes. as they walked along the field-path in single file they preserved a profound silence. at last they reached a stile which brought them out close to the end of the bridge which was nearest to the up-line, along which the trains to london passed. it was now nearly half-past ten. everything around was profoundly still, except the faint wailing of the wind among the telegraph wires. a drizzling rain had been falling at intervals, for the season was remarkably mild for the time of year, though the little air that blew was raw and chilly. it was very dark, nevertheless the great wooden parapet of the bridge could be distinctly seen on either side, as the four men stood on the roadway of the bridge itself midway over the line. "ned," said one of the men in a hoarse whisper, "just cross right over, and see if there's any one about." the man addressed crept cautiously over to the farther side of the line, and along the road either way for a hundred yards or more, and then returned to his companions. "it's all right," he whispered; "there's not a soul stirring, as i can hear or see." "well, wait a bit," said the man whom he addressed; "just let's listen." all was perfectly quiet. "now, then," said the first speaker again, "the express won't be long afore it's here; who'll do it?" "why, joe wright, to be sure; he's got the most spirit in him. i know he'll do it," said another voice. "he's got most beer in him, at any rate," said the first speaker. there was a gruff chuckle all round. "well, i'm your man," said wright; "i've carried the bag, and i may as well finish the job." "look alive, then," cried ned, "or the train'll pass afore you're ready." "you just shut up," growled joe; "i knows what i'm about." so saying, he began to climb over the parapet of the bridge, grasping in his left hand the bag, which was apparently an ordinary travelling or carpet-bag, rather below the average size. having clambered over the top rail, he let himself down among the huge beams which sprung out from the great upright posts, and served to strengthen and consolidate the whole structure. "mind how you get down, joe; take care you don't slip," said more than one voice anxiously from above. "all right," was the reply; "i'm just ready." "stick fast, and mind where you drop it; she's coming!" cried ned half- out loud, in a voice of intense excitement. joe wright was now half standing, half hanging over the up-rails, a few feet only above where the roofs of the carriages would pass. the low, labouring sound of the coming train had been heard for some moments past; then it swelled into a dull roar as the light wind carried it forward, then became fainter again as the wind lulled; and then burst into a rushing, panting whirlwind as the engine turned the bend of the curve. forward dashed the train, as though it were coming with a will to batter down the bridge at a blow; light flashing from its lamps, fiery smoke throbbing out from the funnel in giant puffs, and a red-hot glare glowing from beneath the furnace. "now then!" shouted the men from above. "all right!" joe shouted back in answer. "shra-a-a-auk!" roared the train, as with diminished speed it passed beneath them. at that moment wright, leaning down, dropped the bag. it fell plump on a hollow place into a tarpaulin which covered some luggage on the roof of one of the first-class carriages, and was whisked far away in another second, not to be disturbed from its snug retreat till it reached the great metropolis. "i've done it," cried wright from below. "now then," cried ned in return, "get back as fast as you can, and be careful." no reply. joe was making his way back as best he could; but it was no easy task, for his hands had become very cold, and the great oaken supports of the bridge were slippery with the moisture which had gathered thickly on them. "well done," said one of his companions, stooping over to watch his progress; "a little more to the left, joe." the climber struggled upward. and now his right-hand was nearly on a level with the floor of the bridge, and he was stretching out his left hand to grasp one of the rails, when his foot suddenly slipping on a sloping rafter, he lost his hold altogether, and, to the horror of his companions, fell with a heavy thud on to the rails beneath him! "joe, joe--speak, man! are you hurt?" cried ned. no answer. "lord help us," he continued, "the drunken train'll be up directly. get up, man, get up; you'll be killed if you lie there." not a word from the unfortunate man. they all leant over the parapet, straining their eyes to see if joe really lay there or had crawled away. they could just make out a dark heap lying apparently right across the rails: it did not stir; not a moment was to be lost. "here, ned," cried the man who had seemed to act as a sort of leader of the party, "just get down the bank somehow, and drag him off the rails. i'll see if i can drop down from the bridge." alas! this was easier said than done. the whistle of the last stopping train--sarcastically but too appropriately known among the men as "the drunken train," from the ordinary condition of a considerable number of its occupants--was already being sounded; but conveyed no warning to the poor stunned wretch who lay helpless in the engine's path. frantically had ned rushed down the bank of the cutting, while his companion, at the risk of his own life, sliding, slipping, tumbling among the rafters of the bridge, had dropped close to the prostrate body, and then sprung to his feet. it was too late; the instrument of death was upon them. a moment more, and the train had passed over their miserable companion. in a few minutes the horror-stricken group were gathered round the poor, bleeding, mangled mass of humanity. the sight was too terrible to describe. one thing there could be no doubt about--their unhappy comrade was entirely past their help; the work of destruction had been complete; and what was _now_ to be done? silently all crept back again to the little stile. a hasty consultation was held. "mates," said the chief speaker, "it's a bad job, but it's plain enough _we_ can't do him no good; it's past that. it's no fault of ours. poor joe!" "shall we go down and drag him off the rails on to the bank?" asked ned. "where's the use, man?" replied the other; "we shall only be getting ourselves into trouble: it'll seem then as if some one else had been having a hand in it, and we shall be getting his blood on our clothes. it's all over with him--that's certain; and now we must take care of ourselves: what's done can't be undone. pity we ever meddled with that bag. but that's all past now. not a word about this to living soul, mates. i'm sure we all see as that's our line; and a blessed thing it'll be if we manage to keep clear of another scrape. this one's been bad enough, i'm sure." so all slunk quietly back to their own homes. and next day all crossbourne was horrified to hear that joe wright had been found on the line cut to pieces by some train that had run over him. an inquest, of course, was held; but as it was well-known that poor joe was sadly addicted to drink, and was often away from his home for nights together on drunken sprees, it was thought, in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, that he had wandered on to the line in a state of intoxication, and had been overtaken and killed by the express or stopping train. a verdict of "accidental death" was given accordingly. but poor wright's sad end made no difference in the drunkenness of crossbourne; indeed, ned and his two companions in that awful night's adventure dared not leave their old haunts and ways, even had they wished to do so, lest any change in their habits should arouse suspicion against them. so alcohol still maintained his sway over a vast body of loyal subjects in the busy town, and gathered in the spoils of desolate homes, broken hearts, and shattered constitutions. chapter three. doctor john prosser. the express train which passed through crossbourne station between ten and eleven o'clock on the night when joe wright met with his sad end, arrived in london about three a.m. the following morning. it was heavily laden, for it conveyed a large number of persons from the north, who were coming up to the metropolis to spend christmas with their friends. from a first-class carriage about the middle of the train there emerged a heap of coats and wraps, surmounted by a fur cap, the whole enclosing a gentleman of middle age and middle height, with black beard and moustache, and gold-rimmed spectacles. "cab, sir?" asked the porter who opened the door. "if you please." "any luggage, sir?" "yes; it was put on the roof of my carriage." "all right, sir; i'll see to it if you'll get into the cab." so the gentleman, who was john prosser, phd, got into the cab which was waiting for him; and having seen that his luggage was all brought to the conveyance, threw himself into a corner and closed his eyes, having given his direction to the driver as he was stepping into the vehicle. "stop a moment, jim," said the porter to the cabman, as the latter was just jerking his reins for a start. "here, catch hold of this bag; it was on the top of this gent's carriage: no one else owns to it, so it must be his'n. the gent's forgotten it, i dessay." so saying, he threw a light, shabby-looking carpet-bag up to the driver, who deposited it by his side, and drove off. after sleeping for a few hours at a hotel where he was well-known, and having urgent business in the city next morning, the doctor deposited his luggage, which he had left with sundry rugs and shawls in charge of the hotel night porter, at his own door on his way to keep his business appointment, leaving word that he should be at home in the afternoon. with the other luggage there was handed in the shabby-looking carpet-bag which had come with it. "what's this?" asked the boy-in-buttons, in a tone of disgust, of the housemaid, as he touched the bag with his outstretched foot. "i don't know, i'm sure," was the reply. "it ain't anything as master took with him, and i'm quite sure it don't belong to mistress." "i'll tell you what it is," said the boy abruptly, and in a solemn voice, "it's something as has to do with science. there's something soft inside it, i can feel. p'raps there's something alive in it--i shouldn't wonder. oh! p'raps there's gun-cotton in it. i'd take care how i carried it if i was you, mary, or p'raps it'll go off and blow you to bits!" "oh goodness!" exclaimed the housemaid, "i won't touch it. just you take it yourself and put it into master's study; it'll be safest there." so the boy, with a grin of extreme satisfaction at the success of his assault on the housemaid's nerves, helped her to carry the rest of the luggage upstairs, and then deposited the mysterious bag in a corner of the doctor's own special sanctum. now this study was a room worth describing, and yet not very easy to describe. the doctor's house itself was one of those not very attractive-looking dwellings which are to be found by streetfuls running from square to square in the west end of london. it had stood patiently there for many a long year, as was evident from the antiquated moulding over the doorway, and from a great iron extinguisher, in which the link-bearers of old used to quench their torches, which formed part of the sombre- coloured ironwork that skirted the area. the gloomy monotony of the street was slightly relieved by a baker's shop at one corner and a chemist's at the other. but for these, the general aspect would have been one of unbroken dinginess. nor did the interior of the doctor's house present a much livelier appearance. the entrance-hall, which was dark and narrow, had rather a sepulchral smell about it, which was not otherwise than in keeping with some shelves of books at the farther end--the overflow apparently of the doctor's library; the tall, dark volumes therein looking like so many tombs of the _dead_ languages. to the left, as you entered the hall, was a dining-room massively furnished, adorned with a few family portraits, and as many vigorous engravings. but there lacked that indescribable air of comfort which often characterises those rooms devoted to the innocent and social refreshment of the body at meal-times. the chairs, though in themselves all that dining-room chairs ought to be, did not look as if on a habitual good understanding with one another; some were against the wall, and others stood near the table, and at irregular distances, as though they never enjoyed that cozy fraternity so desirable in well- conditioned seats. books, too, lay about in little zigzag heaps; while a bunch of keys, a pair of lady's gloves, and a skein of coloured wool lay huddled together on the centre of the sideboard. the whole arrangement, or rather disarrangement, of the room bespoke, on the part of the presiding female management, an indifference to those minor details of order and comfort a due attention to which makes home (a genuine english home) the happiest spot in the world. opposite to this room, on the other side of the hall, was another of similar size, used apparently as a sort of reception-room. huge book- shelves occupied two of the walls, an orrery stood against a third, while dusty curiosities filled up the corners. there was something peculiarly depressing about the general appearance and tone of this apartment,--nothing bright, nothing to suggest cheerful and happy thoughts,--plenty of food for the mind, but presented in such an indigestible form as was calculated to inflict on the consumer intellectual nightmare. this room was known as the library. but we pass on to the doctor's own special room--the study. this was beyond and behind the dining-room. book-shelves towered on all sides, filled with volumes of all sizes, and in nearly all languages, some in exquisitely neat white vellum binding, with tome one, tome two, etcetera, in shining gold on their backs--the products of an age when a conscientiousness could be traced in the perfect finish of all the details of a work external or internal; some in the form of stately folios, suggestive at once both of the solidity and depth of learning possessed by the writers and expected in the readers; while a multitude of lesser volumes were crowded together, some erect, others lying flat, or leaning against one another for support. greek and latin classic authors, and in all languages poets, historians, and specially writers on science were largely represented--even french and german octavoes standing at ease in long regiments side by side, suggestive of no franco-prussian war, but only of an intellectual contest, arising out of amicable differences of opinion. on one side of the principal bookcase was an electrical machine, and on the other an air-pump; while a rusty sword and a pair of ancient gauntlets served as links to connect the warlike past with the pacific present. in the centre of the room was a large leather-covered writing-table, on which lay a perfect chaos of printed matter and manuscript; while bottles of ink, red, black, and blue, might be seen emerging from the confusion like diminutive forts set there to guard the papers from unlearned and intrusive fingers. order was clearly not the doctor's "first law;" and certainly it must have required no common powers of memory to enable him, when seated in front of the confusion he himself had made, to lay his hand upon any particular book or manuscript which might claim his immediate attention. on either side of a small fire-place at the rear of the table, and above it, hung charts, historical, geological, and meteorological; while a very dim portrait of some friend of the doctor, or perhaps of some literary celebrity, looked down from over the doorway through a haze of venerable dust on the scientific labours which it could neither share nor lighten. in the corner of the room farthest from the door was a little closet, seldom opened, secured by a patent lock, whose contents no one was acquainted with save the doctor himself. the housemaid, whose duties in this room were confined to an occasional wary sweeping and dusting, and fire-lighting in the winter season, would keep at a respectful distance from this closet, or pass it with a creeping dread; for the boy-in- buttons had thrown out dark suggestions that it probably contained the skulls of murderers, or, at the least, snakes and scorpions preserved in spirits, or even possibly alive, and ready to attack any daring intruder on their privacy. such were dr john prosser's home and study. it was just four o'clock in the afternoon of the th of december when the doctor returned to his house from the city. "is your mistress at home?" he asked of the boy. "no, sir; she told me to tell you that she was gone to a meeting of the school board." the doctor's countenance fell. he was evidently disappointed; and no wonder, for he had been away from his home for the last ten days, and felt keenly the absence of his wife, and of a loving greeting on his return. "any letters for me, william?" he asked. "yes, sir, they're on your table; and, please, sir, i've put the little carpet-bag into your study." "carpet-bag! what carpet-bag?" asked his master. "why, sir, the little bag as came with your luggage. we didn't take it upstairs, because it's nothing as you took with you when you left home, and mary says it don't belong to mistress; so i thought it would be better to put it into your study till you came home, as it might be something particular. it's in the corner by the fire-place, sir." "well, well, never mind," was the reply; "let me know when your mistress comes in," and the doctor retired to his sanctum. drawing up his chair to the table, he was soon deep in his letters; but turning round to poke the fire, his eye fell on the little bag. "how can i have come by this, i wonder? and what can it be?" he said to himself, as he took it up and turned it round and round. it was fastened by an ordinary padlock, which easily opened on the application of one of the doctor's keys. "nothing but waste paper," he said, as he turned out a portion of the contents, which appeared to consist merely of pieces of newspaper and brown paper crumpled up. "pshaw! some foolish hoax or practical joke intended for me, or somebody else, perhaps!" he exclaimed. "well, it seems scarcely worth making any trouble about; but if it has come here by mistake, and is of sufficient value, there will be inquiries or an advertisement about it." so saying, he replaced the crumpled papers, locked the bag again, and opening his closet, placed it on one of the upper shelves, where it must rest for a while and gather dust. when dr prosser had finished reading his letters, and had answered such as needed an immediate reply, he betook himself to the drawing-room. this was a large apartment, occupying upstairs the same area as the library, hall, and dining-room. it was handsomely furnished, bearing marks in every direction of a highly cultivated taste and of woman's handiwork. yet there was wanting that peculiar air of comfort which gives a heart--cheering glow alike to the humblest cottage parlour and the elegant saloon of the man of wealth and refinement. indeed, it might truly be said that the room abounded in everything that could be devised, _but_ comfort. like a picture full of brilliant colouring, the various hues of which need blending and toning down, so the articles of luxury and beauty lavishly scattered about dr prosser's drawing-room, though tastefully selected, seemed calculated rather to call forth the passing admiration of friends and strangers than to give abiding pleasure to their possessors. at present there was certainly something very discouraging about the whole appearance of things in the eyes of the doctor, as he entered the costly furnished apartment. a fire, it is true, twinkled between the bars of the grate; but its few feeble sparks, in contrast with the prevailing surroundings of black coal and cinders, were suggestive to the feelings rather of the chilliness they were meant to counteract than of the warmth which they were designed to impart. near the fire was a dwarf, round, three-legged table, on which lay a manuscript in a female hand. the doctor took it up, and laid it down with a sigh. it was a portion of a long-since-begun and never-likely-to-be-finished essay on comparative anatomy. a heap of unanswered letters lay on a taller table close by, having displaced a work-basket, whose appearance of superlative neatness showed how seldom the fingers of its gentle owner explored or made use of its homely stores. a grand piano stood near the richly curtained windows. it was open. a vocal duet occupied the music-rest, and various other pieces for voice and instrument were strewed along the highly polished top. near the piano was a harp, while a manuscript book of german and italian songs was placed upon an elegant stand near it, and other pieces filled a gaping portfolio at the foot. on a beautifully inlaid table in the centre of the room was an unfinished water-colour drawing, propped up by a pile of richly gilded and ornamented books. the drawing, with its support, had been pushed back towards the middle of the table, to make way for a sheet or two of note-paper containing portions of a projected poem. and the presiding and inspiring genius of all this beautiful confusion was agnes prosser. and did she make her husband happy? well, it was taken for granted by friends and acquaintance that she did--or, at any rate, that it must be _his_ fault if she did not; and so the poor doctor thought himself. he was proud of his wife, and considered that he ought to be thoroughly happy with her; but somehow or other, he was not so. she was, in the common acceptation of the words, highly accomplished, of an amiable and loving disposition, graceful and winning in person and manner, able to take the head of his table to the entire satisfaction of himself and his friends, and capable of conversing well on every subject with all who were invited to her house, or whom she met in society elsewhere. what could her husband want more? he _did_ want something more--his heart asked and yearned for something more. what was it? he could hardly distinctly tell. nevertheless he felt himself on this afternoon--he had been gradually approaching the feeling for some time past--a disappointed man. perhaps it was his own fault, he thought; yet so it was. he was now just forty years of age, and had been married three years. his wife was some ten years younger than himself. he had looked well round him before making choice of one with whom he was to share the joys and sorrows of a domestic life. he was a man who thoroughly respected religion, and could well discriminate between the genuine servant of christ and the mere sounding professor, while at the same time scientific studies had rather tended to make him undervalue clear dogmatic teaching as set forth in the revealed word of god. yet he was too profound a thinker to adopt that popular scepticism which is either the refuge of those who, consciously or unconsciously, use it as a screen, though it proves but a semi-transparent one at the best, to shut out the light of a coming judgment, or the halting-place of thinkers who stop short of the only source of true and infallible wisdom--the revealed mind of god. his wife, too, had been taught religiously, and cordially assented to the truths of the gospel, though the constraining love of christ was yet wanting; and both she and her husband were intimate friends of one whose path had ever been since they had known it, "the path of the just, like the shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day:" and that one was ernest maltby, now vicar of crossbourne. so dr prosser had chosen his wife well. and yet he was disappointed in her; and why? just because he had made the mistake--and how common a mistake it is in these days--of supposing that accomplishments acquired and a highly cultivated mind make the model woman, wife, and mother. surely the mistake is a sad and fatal one--fatal to woman's highest happiness and truest usefulness; fatal to her due fulfilment of the part which her loving creator designed her to fulfil in this world! there are two concentric circles in which we all move, an inner or domestic circle, an outer or social circle. we are too often educating our women merely for the outer circle. we crowd the mind and memory with knowledge of all sorts, that they may shine in society: we forget to teach them first and foremost how to make home happy. it was so with mrs prosser. she had overstrained her mind with the burden of a multitude of acquirements and accomplishments, which had not, after all, made her truly accomplished. one or two things for which she had real taste and ability thoroughly mastered would have been a far greater source of delight to her husband, and of satisfaction to herself, than the mere handful of unripe fruit which she had gathered from a dozen different branches of the tree of knowledge, and in the collecting of which she had, in a measure, impaired the elasticity of her mind and her bodily strength, and found no time for making herself mistress of a thousand little undemonstrative acquirements which tend to keep a steady light of joy and peace burning daily and hourly in the home. what wonder, then, that, when a little one came to gladden the hearts of those who were already fondly attached to each other, the poor mother was unable to do justice to her child. partly nourished by a stranger, and partly brought up by hand, and missing those numberless little attentions which either ignorance or a mind otherwise occupied prevented mrs prosser from giving to the frail being who had brought into the world with it a delicacy of constitution due, in a considerable degree, to its mother's overstrain of mind and body, the baby pined and drooped, and, spite of medicine, prayers, and tears, soon closed its weary eyes on a world which had used it but roughly, to wing its way into a land unclouded by sin or sorrow. how keenly he felt the loss of his child the doctor dared not say, especially to his wife, entertaining as he did a painful misgiving that she had hardly done her duty by it; while on the mother's heart there rested an abiding burden, made doubly heavy by a dreadful consciousness of neglect on her part--a burden which no lapse of time could ever wholly remove. thus a stationary shadow brooded over that home where all might have been unclouded sunshine. dr prosser was disappointed; for he had hoped to find in his wife, not merely or chiefly an intellectual and highly educated companion, but one in whose society he could entirely unbend--one who would make his home bright by causing him to forget for a while science and the busy whirl of the world in the beautiful womanly tendernesses which rejoice a husband's heart, and smooth out the wrinkles from his brow. it was, then, as a disappointed man that dr prosser sat with his feet on the drawing-room polished fender with his chair tilted back. moodily gazing at the cheerless fire, he had become sunk deep in absorbing meditation, when a rushing step on the stairs roused him from his reverie, and scattered for the time all painful thoughts. "my dear, dear john, how delighted i am to see you back; i hardly expected you so soon!" exclaimed agnes prosser, after exchanging a most loving salutation with her husband. "why, i thought," was the answer, with somewhat of reproach in its tone, "that you knew i should be here this afternoon." "oh yes; but hardly so soon. well, i am so sorry; it was too bad not to be at home to welcome you. and, i declare, they've nearly let the fire out. what can that stupid boy have been about? and the room in such confusion too! well, dearest, you shan't find it so again. just ring the bell, please, and we'll make ourselves comfortable.--william," to the boy who answered the summons, "bring up a cup of tea, and a glass of sherry, and the biscuit box.--you'll like a cup of tea, john.--and, by- the-by, william, tell mrs lloyd i should like dinner half an hour earlier.--you won't mind dinner at half-past five to-day, dearest?" "no, my dear agnes, not if it is more convenient to yourself." "why, the fact is, i've promised to meet a select committee of ladies this evening at seven o'clock, at lady strong's." "what!--this evening!" exclaimed her husband. "why, it's christmas-eve! whatever can these good ladies want with one another to-night away from their own firesides?" "ah now, john, that's a little hit at your poor wife. but a man with your high sense of duty ought not to say so. you know it must be `duty first, and pleasure afterwards.'" "true, agnes, where the duty is one plainly laid upon us, but not where it is of one's own imposing. i can't help thinking that a wife's first and chief duties lie at home." "oh, now, you mustn't look grave like that, and scold me. i ordered a fly to call for me at a quarter to seven, and i shan't be gone much more than an hour, i daresay. and you can have a good long snooze by the dining-room fire while i'm away. i know how you enjoy a snooze." william now appearing with the tray, she passed the tea to her husband, and took the glass of sherry herself. a cloud settled for a moment on the doctor's brow. he wished that the constant drain on his wife's energies, physical and mental, could be restored by something less perilous than these stimulants, resorted to, he could see, with increasing frequency. but she always assured him that nothing so reinvigorated her as just one glass of sherry. "and what are these good ladies going to meet about?" he asked, when the tray had been removed. "oh, you'll laugh, i daresay, when i tell you," she replied; "but i assure you that they are all good and earnest workers. we are going to discuss the best way of improving the homes of the working-classes." "well," said the doctor, laughing, but with a touch of mingled sarcasm and bitterness in his voice, "i think your committee can't do better than advise the working-women of england generally to make their homes more attractive to their husbands, and to lead the way yourselves." "my dearest john," exclaimed his wife, a little taken aback, "you are cruelly hard upon us poor ladies. i declare you're getting positively spiteful. i think we'd better change the subject.--how did you leave our dear friends the johnsons? and what are they doing in the north about the `strikes' and `trades-unions'?" "really," he replied wearily, "i must leave the `strikes' and such things to take care of themselves just now. the johnsons send their love. they were all well, and most kind and hospitable. but, my dearest wife, i feel concerned about yourself; you look fagged and pale. come, sit down for a few minutes, and tell me all about it. there, the fire's burning up a bit; and now that i have got you for a while, i must not let you slip through my fingers. just lay your bonnet down; you'll have plenty of time to dress for dinner. i don't like these evening meetings. i am sure they are good for neither mind nor body. you'll wear yourself out." "oh, nonsense, dear john; i never was better than i am now--only a little tired now and then. but surely we are put into this world to do good; and it is better to wear out than to rust out." "not a doubt of it, my dearest agnes; but it is quite possible to keep the rust away without wearing yourself out at all; and, still more, without wearing yourself out prematurely. at the rate you are going on now, you will finish up your usefulness in a few years at the farthest, instead of extending it, please god, over a long and peaceful life." mrs prosser was silent for a few moments, and then she said: "are you not a little unreasonable, dear john? what would you have me give up? if all were of your mind, what would become of society?" "why, in that case, i believe that society would find itself on a much safer foundation, and surrounded by a much healthier atmosphere. but come, now, tell me, what are your engagements for next week?" "why, not so many. to-morrow is christmas-day, you know, and the next day is sunday, so that i shall have quite a holiday, and a fine time for recruiting." "good! and what on monday, tuesday, wednesday, etcetera?" "let me see, john. on monday and thursday mornings clara thompson and her sister come here, and we read french, german, and italian together; and on monday evening we meet at clara's mother's to practise for the amateur concert. on tuesday morning i have promised to help poor miss danvers." "miss danvers! why, what help can she need from you?" "come, dearest john, don't be unfeeling; she is over head and ears in debt, and--" "and do you mean that you are going to take her liabilities upon yourself?" "nonsense, john; you are laughing at me; it isn't kind. i had not finished my sentence. she is overwhelmed with letter-debts, poor thing; and i promised to go and help her with her correspondence. you know we are told in the bible to `bear one another's burdens.'" "true, my dearest wife; but the same high authority, if i remember rightly, bids us do our own business first. but what has entailed such an enormous amount of correspondence on miss danvers?" "only her anxiety to do good. she is secretary to some half-dozen ladies' societies for meeting all sorts of wants and troubles.--ah! i see that cruel smile again on your face; but positively you must not laugh at me nor her. i am sure she is one of the noblest women i know." "i won't question it for a moment, but i wish she could contrive to keep her benevolence within such reasonable limits as would allow her to transact her own business without taxing her friends. anything more on tuesday?" "nothing more, dearest, on tuesday, away from home; but of course you know that i have to work hard at my essay, my music, my drawing, and my little poem. i see you shrug your shoulders, but you must not be hard upon me. why was i taught all these things if i am to make no use of them?" "why, indeed?" were the words which rose to the doctor's lips, but he did not utter them. he only smiled sadly, and asked, "what of wednesday?" "there, john, perhaps you had better look for yourself," she said, rather piqued at his manner, and taking a little card from her pocket- book, she handed it to him. pressing her left hand lovingly in his own, he took the card from her, and read:-- "`engagements. wednesday, a.m. meet the professor at mrs maskelyne's.'--mrs maskelyne! that's your strong-minded friend who goes in for muscular christianity and vivisection! i'm very glad we don't keep a pet terrier or spaniel!"--"ah, john, you may laugh, but she's a wonderful woman!"--"`wonderful!' perhaps so, dear agnes,--an `awful' woman, _i_ should say; that's only a term expressive of a different kind of admiration.--`concert in the evening.' "now for thursday. `at o'clock, visit the hospital. jews' meeting in the evening.' "`friday, a.m. club. afternoon, district visiting.' "`saturday, p.m. mothers' meeting.'--why, this mothers' meeting is something quite new. i thought the vicar's wife took that."--"so she does, john; but, poor thing, she is so overworked, that i could not refuse when she asked me to take it for her during the next three months." "and is this sort of thing to go on perpetually?" asked the doctor in a despairing voice. "why should it not, dearest husband? you would not have your wife a drone in these days, when the world all round us is full of workers?" "certainly not; but i very much question if we have not gone mad on this subject of work--at any rate as regards female workers." "and would you, then, john, shut up people's hearts and hands? i thought none knew better than yourself what a vast field there is open for noble effort and service of every kind. surely you ought to be the last person to discourage us." "nay, my beloved wife, you are not doing me justice," said the doctor warmly. "what i am convinced of is this--and the conviction gains strength with me every day--that good and loving women like yourself are in grievous peril of marring and curtailing their real usefulness by attempting too much. if agencies for good are to be multiplied, let those who set new ones on foot seek for their workers amongst those who are not already overburdened or fully occupied. i cannot help thinking that there is often much selfishness, or, to use a less harsh word, want of consideration, in those who apply to ladies whose time is already fully and properly occupied, to join them as workers in their pet schemes; for it is easier to try and enlist those who are known to be zealous workers already, than to be at the pains of hunting out new ones. i am sure no one rejoices more than i do in the wonderful and complicated machinery for doing good which exists on all sides in our land and day--i think it one of the most cheering signs and evidences of real progress amongst us; but, for all that, if a person wants to launch a new ship, he should have reasonable grounds for trusting that he shall be able to find hands to man her without borrowing those from a neighbouring vessel, who have kept their watch through stormy winds and waves, and ought, instead of doing extra duty, to be now resting in their hammocks." mrs prosser was again silent for a while, and sat looking thoughtfully into the fire. then, in rather a sorrowful voice, she said, "and what, then, dear john, do you think to be my duty? i can't help feeling that there is a great deal in what you say. i have not been really satisfied with my own way of going on for some time past. but what would you have me do? what must i give up?" "i think," was his reply, "that the thing will settle itself, if you will only begin at the right end." "and which is that, dearest?" "the home end. let your first and best energies be spent on the home; it will surely be happier for us both. and let the care of your own health, in the way of taking proper exercise, be reckoned as a most important part of home duties. life is given us to use, and not to shorten. therefore, don't undertake anything which will unfit you for the due performance of these home duties. you have no just call to any such undertaking. do that which is the manifest work lying at your hand, and i feel sure you will be guided aright as to what other work you can find time and strength for." "well, john, i will think it well over; i am glad we have had this conversation." "so am i, my precious wife; i am sure good will come of it. and you know we have an invitation to visit the maltbys in the spring: we shall be sure to get some words of valuable counsel there. i don't want to hinder you from doing good out of your own home; i don't want selfishly to claim all your energies for home work, and my own convenience and comfort: but i do feel strongly, and more and more strongly every day, that there is a tendency at the present day to make an idol of woman's work; to keep, too, the bow perpetually on the stretch; to drag wives, mothers, and daughters from their home duties into public, and to give them no rest, but bid them strain every nerve, and gallop, gallop till they die." "perhaps so, john; but it is time for me to go up and dress for dinner." chapter four. tommy tracks. no one was more universally respected or more vigorously abused in crossbourne than "tommy tracks," as he was sneeringly called. his real name was thomas bradly. he was not a native of crossbourne, but had resided in that town for some five years past at the time when our story opens. as he was a capital workman, and had two sons growing up into young men who were also very skilful hands, it was thought quite natural that he should have come to settle down in crossbourne, where skilled labour was well remunerated. as to where he came from, some said one thing, some another. he was very reserved on the matter himself, and so people soon ceased to ask him about it. thomas was undoubtedly an oddity, but his eccentricities were of a kind which did no one any harm, and only served to add force to his words and example. he was an earnest christian, and as earnest an abstainer from all intoxicating drinks; and his family walked with him on the narrow gospel way, and in their adherence to temperance principles and practice. he was also superintendent of the church sunday-school, and the very life of the temperance society and band of hope, of both which associations the vicar, who was himself an abstainer, was the president. indeed, he was the clergyman's right-hand in the carrying out of every good work in the place. he was something of a reader of such sterling and profitable works as came in his way, but his bible was his chief study. his special characteristics were a clear head, a large stock of shrewd common sense, and an invincible love of truth and straightforwardness, so that he could hold his ground against any man in the place, william foster the styptic not excepted. not that bradly was at all fond of an argument; he avoided one when he could do so consistently, preferring to do good by just sowing seeds of truth in his own humble way, leaving it to god to deal with the tares and weeds. one of his favourite modes of sowing was to carry along with him at all times a little bundle of religious and temperance tracts, and to offer these whenever he had an opportunity, commonly accompanying the offer with some quaint remark which would often overcome the reluctance to accept them, even in those who were opposed to his principles and practice. from this habit of his he was generally known among the working-classes of crossbourne by the nickname of "tommy tracts," or "tracks," as it was usually pronounced--an epithet first given in scorn, but afterwards generally used without any unkindly feeling. indeed, he was rather proud of it than otherwise; nor could the taunts and gibes which not unfrequently accompanied it ever ruffle in the least his good- humoured self-possession. his family, which consisted of himself, his wife, their two sons, and a daughter, all grown up, and an invalid sister of his own, lived in a comfortable house on the outskirts of the town. this house he had built for himself out of the profits of his own industry. like its owner, it was rather of an eccentric character, having been constructed on an original plan of his own, and, in consequence, differed from any other dwelling-house in the town. of course, he was not left without abundance of comments on his architectural taste, many of them being anything but complimentary, and all of them outspoken. this moved him nothing. "well, if the house pleases me," he said to his critics, "i suppose it don't matter much what fashion it's of, so long as the chimney-pots is outside, and the fire-places in." not that there was anything grand or ambitious in its outward appearance, nor sufficiently peculiar to draw any special attention to it. it was rather wider in front than the ordinary working-men's cottages, and had a stone parapet above the upper windows, running the whole length of the building, on which were painted, in large black letters, the words, "bradly's temperance hospital." as might have been expected, this inscription brought on him a storm of ridicule and reproach, which he took very quietly; but if any one asked him in a civil way what he meant by the words, his reply used to be, "any confirmed drunkard's welcome to come to my house for advice gratis, and i'll warrant to make a perfect cure of him, if he'll only follow my prescription." and when further asked what that prescription might be, he would reply, "just this: let the patient sign the pledge, and keep it." and many a poor drunkard, whom he had lured up to his house, and then pleaded and prayed with earnestly, had already proved the efficacy of this remedy. when blamed by foes or friends for misleading people by putting such words on his house, he would say--"where's the harm? haven't i as much right to call my house `temperance hospital' as ben roberts has to call his public `the staff of life'? what has _his_ `staff of life' done? why, to my certain knowledge, it has just proved a broken staff, and let down scores of working-men into the gutter. but my `temperance hospital' has helped back many a poor fellow _out_ of the gutter, and set him on his feet again. it's a free hospital, too, and we're never full; we takes all patients as comes." the inside of the house was as suggestive of thomas's principles and eccentricities of character as the outside. the front door opened into a long and narrow hall, lighted by a fan- light. as you entered, your eyes would naturally fall on the words, "picture gallery," facing you, on the farther wall, just over the entrance to the kitchen. this "picture gallery" was simply the hall itself, which had something of the appearance of a photographer's studio, the walls being partly covered with portraits large and small, interspersed with texts of scripture, pledge-cards bearing the names of himself and family, and large engravings from the _british workman_, coloured by one of his sons to give them greater effect. the photographs were chiefly likenesses of those who had been his own converts to total abstinence, with here and there the portrait of some well-known temperance advocate. to the left of the hall was the parlour or company sitting-room, which was adorned with portraits, or what were designed to be such, of the queen and other members of the royal family. over the fire-place was a handsome mirror, on either side of which were photographs of the vicar and his wife; and on the opposite side of the room stood a bookcase with glass doors, containing a small but judicious selection of volumes, religious, historical, biographical, and scientific: for thomas bradly was a reader in a humble way, and had a memory tenacious of anything that struck him. but the pride of this choice apartment was an enormous illustrated bible, sumptuously bound, which lay on the middle of a round table that occupied the centre of the room. the kitchen, however, was the real daily living-place of the family. it had been built of unusually large dimensions, in order to accommodate a goodly number of temperance friends, or of the members of the band of hope, who occasionally met there. over the doors and windows were large texts in blue, and over the ample fire-place, in specially large letters of the same colour, the words, "do the next thing." many who called on thomas bradly, and saw this maxim for the first time, were rather puzzled to know what it meant. "what _is_ `the next thing'?" they would ask. "why, it's just this," he would reply: "the next thing is the thing nearest to your hand. just do the thing as comes nearest to hand, and be content to do _that_ afore you concern yourself about anything else. these words has saved me a vast of trouble and worry. i've read somewhere as `worry' is one of the specially prominent troubles of our day. i think that's true enough. well, now, i've found my motto there--`do the next thing'--a capital remedy for worry. sometimes i've come down of a morning knowing as i'd a whole lot of things to get done, and i've been strongly tempted to make a bundle of them, and do them all at once, or try, at any rate, to do three or four of 'em at the same time. but then i've just cast my eyes on them words, and i've said to myself, `all right, thomas bradly; you just go and do the next thing;' and i've gone and done it, and after that i've done the next thing, and so on till i've got through the whole bundle." opposite the broad kitchen-range was a plate-rack well filled with serviceable chinaware, and which formed the upper part of a dresser or plain deal sideboard. above the rack, and near the ceiling, were the words, "one step at a time." this and the maxim over the fire-place he used to call his "two walking- sticks." thus, meeting a fellow-workman one day who had lately come to crossbourne, about whose character for steadiness he had strong suspicions, and who seemed always in a hurry, and yet as if he could never fairly overtake his work-- "james," he said to him, "you should borrow my two walking-sticks." "walking-sticks!--what for?" asked the other. "why, you'll be falling one of these days if you hurry so; and my two walking-sticks would be a great help to you." the other stared at him, quite unable to make out his meaning. "walking-sticks, tommy tracks! you don't seem to stand in need of them. i never see you with a stick in your hand." "for all that i make use of them every day, james; and if you'll step into my house any night i'll show them to you: for i can't spare them out of the kitchen, though i never go to my work without them." "some foolery or other!" exclaimed the man he addressed, roughly. nevertheless his curiosity was excited, and he stopped bradly at his door one evening, saying "he was come to see his two walking-sticks." "good--very good," said the other. "come in. there, sit you down by the table--and, missus, give us each a cup of tea. now, you just look over the chimney-piece. there's one of my walking-sticks: `do the next thing.' and, now, look over the dresser. there's the other walking- stick: `one step at a time'. and i'll just tell you how to use them. it don't require any practice. when you've half-a-dozen things as wants doing, and can't all be done at once, just you consider which of 'em all ought to be done first. that's `the next thing.' go straight ahead at that, and don't trouble a bit about the rest till that's done. that's one stick as'll help you to walk through a deal of work with very little bustle and worry. and, james, just be content in all you do to be guided by the great master as owns us all, the lord jesus christ, who bought us for himself with his own blood. just be willing to follow him, and let him lead you `one step at a time,' and don't want to see the place for the next step till you've put your foot where he tells you. you'll find that a rare stout walking-stick. you may lean your whole weight on it, and it won't give way; and it'll help you in peace through the trials of this life, and on the road to a better." such was thomas bradly's kitchen. many a happy gathering was held there, and many a useful lesson learned in it. but, besides the rooms already mentioned, there was one adjoining the kitchen which was specially thomas bradly's own. it was of considerable size, and was entered from the inside by a little door out of the kitchen. this door was commonly locked, and the key kept by bradly himself. the more usual approach to it was from the outside. its external appearance did not exactly contribute to the symmetry of the whole premises; but that was a matter of very small moment to its proprietor, who had added it on for a special purpose. the house itself was on the hill-side, on the outskirts of the town, as has been said. there was a little bit of garden in front and on either side, so that it could not be built close up to. at present it had no very near neighbours. a little gate in the low wall which skirted the garden, on the left hand as you faced the house, allowed any visitor to have access to the outer door of bradly's special room without going through the garden up the front way. on this outer door was painted in white letters, "surgery." "do you mend broken bones, tommy tracks?" asked a working-man of not very temperate or moral habits soon after this word had been painted on the door. "if you do, i think we may perhaps give you a job before long, as it'll be crossbourne wakes next sunday week." "no," was bradly's reply; "i mend broken hearts, and put drunkards' homes into their proper places when they've got out of joint." "indeed! you'll be clever to do that, tommy." "ah! you don't know, bill. p'raps you'll come and try my skill yourself afore long." the other turned away with a scornful laugh and a gibe; but the arrow had hit its mark. but, indeed, what thomas bradly said was true. broken hearts and dislocated families had been set to rights in that room. there would appointments be kept by wretched used-up sots, who would never have been persuaded to ask for bradly at the ordinary door of entrance; and there on his knees, with the poor conscience-stricken penitent bowed beside him, would thomas pour out his simple but fervent supplications to him who never "broke a bruised reed, nor quenched the smoking flax." and mothers, too, the slaves of the drink-fiend, had found in that room liberty from their chains. here, too, would the vicar preside over meetings of the temperance and band of hope committees. the room was snugly fitted up with a long deal table, as clean as constant scrubbing could make it, and boasted of a dozen windsor-chairs and two long benches. there were two cupboards also, one on each side of a small but brightly burnished grate. in one of these, pledge-books, cards for members, and temperance tracts and books were kept; in the other was a stock of bibles, new testaments, prayer-books, hymn-books, and general tracts. a few well-chosen coloured scripture prints and illuminated texts adorned the walls; and everything in bradly's house was in the most perfect order. you would not find a chair awry, nor books lying loose about, nor so much as a crumpled bit of paper thrown on the floor of his "surgery," nor indeed anywhere about the premises. when a neighbour once said to him, "i see, tommy tracks, you hold with the saying, `cleanliness is next to godliness,'"--"nay, i don't," was his reply. "i read it another way: `cleanliness is a part of godliness.' i can't understand a dirty or disorderly christian-- leastways, it's very dishonouring to the master; for dirt and untidiness and confusion are types and pictures of sin. a true christian ought to be clean and tidy outside as well as in. christ's servants should look always cleaner and neater than any one else; for aren't we told to adorn the doctrine of god our saviour in _all_ things? and don't dirtiness and untidiness in christians bring a reproach on religion? and then, if things are out of their place--all sixes and sevens--why, it's just setting a trap for your feet. you'll stumble, and lose your temper and your time, and fuss the life out of other people too, if things aren't in their proper places, and you can't lay hold of a thing just when you want it. it's waste of precious time and precious peace, and them's what christians can't afford to lose. why, jenny bates, poor soul, used to lose her temper, and she'd scarce find it afore she lost it again, and just because she never had anything in decent order. and yet she were a godly woman; but her light kept dancing about, instead of shining steadily, as it ought to have done, just because she never knew where to put her hand on anything she wanted, and everything was in her way and in her husband's way, except what they was looking for at the time. it's a fine thing when you can stick by the rule, `a place for everything, and everything in its place.'" but now it is not to be supposed for a moment that a man like thomas bradly could escape without a great deal of persecution in such a place as crossbourne. all sorts of hard names were heaped upon him by those who were most rebuked by a life so manifestly in contrast to their own. many gnashed upon him with their teeth, and would have laid violent hands on him had they dared. sundry little spiteful tricks also were played off upon him. thus, one morning he found that the word "surgery" had been obliterated from his private door, and the word "tomfoolery" painted under it. he let this pass for a while unnoticed and unremedied, and then restored the original word; and as his friends and the police were on the watch, the outrage was not repeated. all open scoffs and insults he took very quietly, sometimes just remarking, when any one called him "canting hypocrite," or the like, that "he was very thankful to say that it wasn't true." but besides this, he had an excellent way of his own in dealing with annoyances and persecutions, which turned them to the best account. at the back of a shelf, in one of the cupboards in his "surgery," he kept a small box, on the lid of which he had written the word "pills." when some word or act of special unkindness or bitterness had been his lot, he would scrupulously avoid all mention of it to his wife or children on his return home, but would retire into his "surgery," write on a small piece of paper the particulars of the act or insult, with the name of the doer or utterer, and put it into the box. then, at the end of each month, he would lock himself into his room, take out the box, read over the papers, which were occasionally pretty numerous, and spread them out in prayer, like hezekiah, before the lord, asking him that these hard words and deeds might prove as medicine to his soul to keep him humble and watchful, and begging, at the same time, for the conversion and happiness of his persecutors. after this he would throw the papers into the fire, and come out to his family all smiles and cheerfulness, as though something specially pleasant and gratifying had just been happening to him--as indeed it had; for having cast his care on his saviour, he had been getting a full measure of "the peace of god, which passeth understanding, to keep his heart and mind through christ jesus." nor would his nearest and dearest have ever known of this original way of dealing with his troubles, had not his wife accidentally come upon the "pill-box" one day, when he had sent her to replace a book in the cupboard for him. well acquainted as she was with most of his oddities, she was utterly at a loss to comprehend the box and its contents. on opening the lid, she thought at first that the box contained veritable medicine; but seeing, on closer inspection, that there was nothing inside but little pieces of paper neatly rolled up, her curiosity was, not unnaturally, excited, and she unfolded half-a-dozen of them. what could they mean? there was writing on each strip, and it was in her husband's hand. she read as follows: "sneaking scoundrel. john thompson"--"jim taylor set his dog at me"--"hypocritical humbug; you take your glass on the sly. george walters!"--and so on. she returned the papers to the box, and in the evening asked her husband, when they were alone, what it all meant. "oh! so you've found me out, mary," he said, laughing. "well, it means just this: i never bring any of these troubles indoors to you and the children; you've got quite enough of your own. so i keep them for the lord to deal with; and when i've got a month's stock, i just read them over. it's as good as a medicine to see what people say of me. and then i throw 'em all into the fire, and they're gone from me for ever; and when i've added a word of prayer for them as has done me the wrong, i come away with my heart as light as a feather." it need hardly be said that mrs bradly was more than satisfied with this solution of the puzzle. chapter five. a discussion. if there was one man more than another whom william foster the sceptic both disliked and feared, it was "tommy tracks." not that he would have owned to such a fear for a moment. he tried to persuade himself that he despised him; but there was that about bradly's life and character which he was forced to respect, and before which his spirit within him bowed and quailed spite of himself. thomas bradly, though possessed of but a very moderate share of book- learning, was pretty well aware that it required no very deep line to reach the bottom of foster's acquirements; and so, while he preferred, as a rule, to avoid any open controversy with william, or any of his party, he never shrunk from a fair stand-up contest when he believed that his master's honour and the truth required it. one evening, a few days after the mysterious appearance of the little bible in his own house, foster, as he was coming home from his work, encountered bradly at the open door of the blacksmith's forge with a bundle of tracts in his hand. "still trying to do us poor sinners good, i see," sneered foster. "yes, if you'll let me," said the other, offering a tract. "none of your nonsensical rubbish for me," was the angry reply, as the speaker turned away. "i never carries either nonsense or rubbish," rejoined thomas. "my tracts are all of 'em good solid sense; they are taken out of god's holy word, or are agreeable to the same." "what! the bible? what sensible man now believes in that bible of yours? it's a failure; it has been demonstrated to be a failure. all enlightened men, even many among your own christians, are giving it up as a failure now,"--saying which in a tone of triumph, as he looked round on a little knot of working-men who were gathering about the smithy door, he seated himself on an upturned cart which was waiting to be repaired, and looked at his opponent for a reply. thomas bradly, nothing daunted, sat him down very deliberately on a large smooth stone on the opposite side of the doorway, and remarked quietly, "as to the bible's being a failure, i suppose that depends very much on experience. i've got an eight-day clock in our house. i bought it for a very good one, and gave a very good price for it, just before i set up housekeeping. a young fellow calls the other day, when i happened to be in, and he wants me to buy a new-fashioned sort of clock of him. `well, if i do,' says i, `what'll you allow me for my old clock, then, as part payment?' so he goes over and looks at it, and turns up his nose at it, and says, `'tain't worth the trouble of taking away: you shall have one of the right sort cheap; that clumsy, old- fashioned thing'll never do you no good.'--`well,' says i, `that's just as people find. that old clock has served me well, and kept the best of time these five and twenty years, and it don't show any signs of being worse for wear yet. so i'll stick to the old clock still, if you please, and take my time by it as i've been used to do.' and the old- fashioned bible's just like my old clock. you tell me as it's proved to be a failure. i tell _you_ it isn't a failure, for i've tried it, and proved it for more years than i've tried my clock, and it never yet failed _me_." "perhaps not, tommy," said foster; "that's what you call your experience; but for all that, it has proved a failure generally." "how do you make out that, william? i can find you a score of families in crossbourne as the bible hasn't failed, and their neighbours know it too." "ah! very likely; but what i mean is this: it has proved a failure when its power and truth have come to be tested in other parts of the world-- that's the general and almost universal experience, in fact." "well, now, that's strange," replied bradly, "to hear a man talk in that way in our days, when there's scarce a language in the known world that the bible hasn't been turned into, so that all the wide world own it has been bringing light and peace into thousands of hearts and homes-- there's no contradicting that; and that's a strange sort of failure-- summat like old john wrigley's failure that folks were talking about; he failed by dying worth just half a million." "well, but when we men of science and observation say that the bible is a failure, we mean that it hasn't accomplished what it should have done supposing it to be a revelation from the supreme being." "ah, you are right there, william! i quite agree with you." "do you hear him, mates?" cried foster triumphantly. "he owns he's beaten." "not a bit of it," cried bradly. "what i grant you is this, and no more: the bible hasn't done all it should have done, and would have done. but why? just because men wouldn't let it: as our saviour said when he was upon earth, `ye will not come unto me that ye might have life.' that's man's fault, not the bible's." "ah, but if the bible had really been a revelation from heaven, it ought to have converted all the world by this time, tommy tracks." "what! whether men would or no? nay; that's making men mere machines, without any will of their own. if men hear the bible, and still choose to walk in wicked ways, who's to blame? certainly not the bible." "that won't do, tommy. what i mean is this: men of real science and knowledge declare that your bible has proved to be a failure just because christianity has not accomplished what the bible professed that it would accomplish." "indeed!" said the other quietly; "how so? i think, william, you're shifting your ground a bit. but what has the bible claimed for the christian religion which christianity has not accomplished?" "why, just look here, tommy. there's what you call the angels' song, `glory to god in the highest! and on earth peace, good-will towards men.' that's how it goes, i think. now, professor tyndall, one of the greatest scientific men of the day, says that you've only to look at the wars that still go on between civilised nations to see that the angels' song has not been fulfilled--that the gospel has failed to bring about universal peace. and so you see the christian bible has not accomplished what it professed to accomplish." "stop a bit--softly!" said the other; "let's take one thing at a time. professor tyndall may understand a great deal about science, but it don't follow that he knows much about the bible. but now i'll make bold to take the very wars that have been going on in your time and mine, and call them up to give evidence just the other way. mind you, i'm not saying a word in favour of wars. i only wish people would be content to fight with my weapons, and no others; and that's just simply with the bible itself--`the sword of the spirit,' as the scripture calls it. but now, you just listen to this letter from a newspaper correspondent in the war between the prussians and the french. i cut it out, and here it is:-- "`this afternoon i witnessed a very touching scene. a french soldier of the thirty-third line regiment, belonging to the corps of general frossard, had been made prisoner at the outposts. he is a native of jouy-aux-arches, where his wife and children now reside. on his way to corny, where the head-quarters of the prince are now situated, he asked permission to be allowed to see his wife and children. need i say that the request was immediately granted? the poor woman, half delirious with joy, asked to be allowed to accompany her husband at least to corny. this was also acceded to. but then came the difficulty about the bairns. the woman was weak, and could not carry her baby, and at home there was no one to mind it. as for the little chap of five, he could toddle along by his father's side. the difficulty was, however, overcome by a great big pomeranian soldier, who volunteered to act as nurse. this man had been quartered close to the poor woman's house; and the little ones knew him, for he had often played with them. when therefore, bidding the poor wife be of good cheer, he held out his big strong arms to the little infant, it came to him immediately, and nestling its tiny head upon his shoulders, seemed perfectly content. so did the prussian soldier carry the frenchman's child. when i first saw the group, the wife was clasped in her husband's embrace; the little boy clung to his father's hand; while the prussian soldier, with the baby in his arms, stalked along by their sides. then the frenchwoman told her husband how, when she had been ill and in want of food, the prussian soldiers had shared their rations with her, had fetched wood and water, had lit the fire, and helped her in their own rough, kindly way; until at last those two men, who belonged to countries now arrayed against each other in bitterest hate--who perhaps a few days since fought the one against the other--embraced like brothers, while i, like a great big fool, stood by and cried like a baby. but i was not alone in my folly, if folly it be: several prussian officers and soldiers followed my example, for we all had wives and children in far-off homes.' "now, i ask you all, friends, to give me an honest answer: could such a thing have happened if those countries, france and prussia, hadn't both of 'em been enjoying the light that comes from the bible--as christian nations by profession, at any rate--for long years past? you've only to look at wars between nations that know nothing of the bible to get an answer to that." "you had him there, tommy," cried one of the auditory, considerably delighted at foster's evident discomfiture. but the latter returned to the charge, saying, "all very fine, tommy tracks; but you haven't fully answered my objection." "i know it," was bradly's reply. "i understand that you deny that the bible is a revelation from god because it has failed, (so you say) to do what it professes to do." "just so." "well, what does it profess to do?" "doesn't it profess to convert all the world?" "how soon?" "before the second advent, as you call it." "show me, william, where it says so." so saying, bradly handed a little bible to his opponent, who took it very reluctantly; while those around, being much interested, and at the same time amused, exclaimed,-- "ay, to be sure! show it him, william; show it him!" "not i," said foster, endeavouring to hide his annoyance and confusion by an assumption of scorn; "it's not in my line to hunt for texts." "true," said thomas quietly; "if it had been, you wouldn't have made such a blunder.--he can't find it, friends, for it ain't written so in the bible. before the lord comes again he'll gather out his own people from all nations. but that's not at all the same as converting all the world; that's not to be till _after_ his coming again, according to the bible. and this is just what's happening now in different countries all over the world; exactly according to the teaching of the bible, neither more nor less. so he hasn't proved his point, friends; has he?" "no, no!" was the universal cry. but william foster, though sorely angry, and conscious that his arrows had utterly failed of hitting their mark, was determined not to be driven ingloriously out of the field; his pride could not endure that. so, smothering his wrath, he turned again to bradly and said,-- "here, give us one of your precious tracts, man." the other immediately handed him one. "now see, mates," continued foster, "what i've got here--`the power of prayer.' see how it begins `prayer moves the arm that moves the world.' and you believe that, tommy tracks?" "yes," was the reply; "i believe it; and more than that, i _know_ it--i know that it's true." "and how do you know it?" "first and foremost, because the bible says so; not those very words, indeed, but what means just the same: as, for instance, `the lord's hand is not shortened, that it cannot save; neither his ear heavy, that it cannot hear.' and, better still, i have it in our saviour's own words: `if ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him?'" "well, now, let me tell you, friend bradly, that it's all a delusion." "you're at liberty, william, to tell me what you like; but i can tell you that it's no such thing as a delusion, for i've proved it myself to be a blessed truth." "what! you mean to say that your own prayers have been answered?" "i do mean to say so, william. there's nothing like experience. i can tell you what i know myself. i've put the lord to the proof over and over again, and he has never failed me. i've always had what i needed." "hear him!" cried foster, derisively. "why, it isn't a week ago that i heard him myself tell john rowe that he'd like to build another cottage on the bit of land he bought last year, only he couldn't afford it just at present. and now he says he has only to pray for a thing, and he can get whatever he likes.--why didn't you pray for the money to build the new cottage, tommy?" "not so fast, william; a reasoning and scientific man like yourself ought to stick close to the truth. now, i never said as i could get whatever i liked--though i might have said that too without being wrong; for when i've found out clearly what's the lord's will, i can say with the old shepherd, `i can have what i please, because what pleases god pleases me.' what i said was this: that i always got what i _needed_ when i prayed for a thing." "well, and where's the difference?" "a vast deal of difference, william. i never pray for any of this world's good things without putting in, `if god sees it best for me to have it.' and then i know that, if it is really good for me, i shall get it, and that'll be what i need; and if he sees as i'm better without it, he'll give me contentment and peace, and often something much better than what i asked for, and which i never expected, and that'll be giving me in answer to prayer what i need." "then it seems to me," said the other, sneeringly, "that you may just as well let the prayer alone altogether, for you don't really get what you would like, and you can't be sure what it is you really want." "nay, not so, william foster; my bible says, `be careful for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto god.' i just go and do this, and over and over again i've got the thing i naturally liked; and it's only been now and then, when god knew i should be better without the thing i fancied, that he kept it back. but then i always got something better for me instead, and the peace of god with it." "and you call that getting answers to prayer from a heavenly father?" said foster derisively. "i do," was bradly's reply. "my heavenly father deals with me in the same way as i used to deal with my children when they was little, and for the same reason--because he loves me, and knows better than i do what's good for me. when our dick were a little thing, only just able to walk, he comes one evening close up to the table while i was shaving, and makes a snatch at my razor. i caught his little hand afore he could get hold; and says i, `no, dick, you mustn't have that; you'll hurt yourself with it.' not that there was any harm in the razor itself, but it would have been harm to him, though he didn't know it then. well, dick was just ready to cry; but he looks at me, and sees a smile on my face, and toddles off into the garden; and an hour after i went and took him a great blunt knife as he couldn't hurt himself with, and he was soon as happy as a king, rooting about in the cabbage-bed with it. i did it because i loved him; and he came to understand that, after a bit. and that's the way our heavenly father deals with all his loving and obedient children." there was a little murmur of approval when bradly ceased, which was very distasteful to foster, who began to move off, growling out that, "it was no use arguing with a man who was quite behind the age, and couldn't appreciate nor understand the difficulties and conclusions of deeper thinkers." "just one word more, friends, on this subject," said bradly, not noticing his opponent's last disparaging remarks. "william said, a little while ago, as it's all fancy on my part when i gave him my own experience about answers to prayer. well, if it's fancy, it's a very pleasant fancy, and a very profitable fancy too; and i should like him to tell me what his learned scientific authors, that he brags so much about, has to give me instead of it, if i take their word for it as it's all fancy, and give over praying. now, suppose i'm told as there's a man living over at sunnyside as is able and willing to give me everything i want, if i only ask him. i go to his door, and knock; but he don't let me see him. i say through the keyhole, `i want a loaf of bread.' he opens the door just so far as to make room for his hand, and there's a loaf of bread in it for me. i go to him again, and tell him through the door as i wants some medicine to cure one of my children as is sick. the hand is put out with medicine in it, and the medicine makes a cure. i go again, and say i want a letter of recommendation for my son to get a place as porter on the railway. there's no hand put out this time; but i hear a voice say, `come every day for a week.' so i go every day, and knock; and the last day the hand's put out, and it gives me a letter to a gentleman, who puts my son into a situation twice as good as the one i asked for him. now, suppose i'd gone on in this way for years, always getting what i asked for, or something better instead, do you think any one would ever persuade me as it were only fancy after all; that the friend i called on so often wasn't my friend at all, that he'd never heard or listened to a word i said, and had never given me anything in all my life? now, that's just how the matter stands. it's no use talking to a man as knows what effectual prayer is, about the constancy of the laws of nature, and such like. he knows better; he has put the lord of nature and all its laws to the proof, and so may you too. i'll just leave with you one text out of the scripture as'll weigh down a warehouseful of your sceptical and philosophical books; and it's this: `ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.'" not a word more was spoken on either side, and the party broke up. chapter six. the vicar of crossbourne. of all the true friends of "tommy tracks" none valued and loved him more than the reverend ernest maltby, vicar of crossbourne. there is a peculiar attraction in such men to one another, which cements their friendship all the more strongly from the very dissimilarity of their social positions. for each feels dependent on the other, and that the other possesses gifts or powers of which he himself is destitute. the refined christian scholar, while in perfect spiritual accord with the man of rougher mould and scanty learning, feels that his humbler brother is able to _get at_ his fellow-workmen for good, as being on the same level with them, in a way denied to himself. while, on the other hand, the man of inferior education and position is conscious that all real increase in knowledge is increase in power, and that his brother of higher-station and more extensive reading can grasp and deal effectually with topics of interest and importance, which could not be done justice to by his own less skilful and less intelligent handling. and thus, as each leans in a measure on the other, being in entire sympathy as they are on highest things, the force of their united action on the hearts and lives of others is powerful indeed. such was the case in crossbourne. the combined work of the vicar and thomas bradly, both for the salvation of souls and the rescue and reformation of the intemperate, was being felt by the enemies of the truth to be a work of power: they were therefore on the watch to hinder and mar that work by every means within their reach; for satan will not lose any of his captives without setting his own agents on a most determined and vigorous resistance. the vicar himself was just the fitting man for his position. gently yet not luxuriously nurtured, and early trained in habits of self-denial and consideration for the feelings of others, he had entered the ministry, not only with a due sense of the solemnity of his responsibilities, and under a conviction that he was truly called to his profession by the inward voice of the holy spirit, but also with a loving self- forgetfulness, while he sought earnestly the truest welfare of all committed to his charge. and when he passed, after some years' experience in the ministerial work, to the important post of vicar of crossbourne, he had come to take a peculiar interest in the study of individual character, and to delight in gathering around him workers of various temperaments and habits of thought. rugged enough were some of these in their general bearing and their way of expressing themselves; but he knew well, when he had broken through the outer surface, what a firm-grained material he had to work upon in the hearts of such, and how he would be sure to win from them, in due time, by force and consistency of character, respect and affection as abiding as they were sincere. it was his happiness also to be united to a wife like-minded with himself in views and work. on one point alone they had differed, and that was as to the mental training of their only child, a daughter. clara maltby was now eighteen. she had been brought up by the united teaching and example of both parents "in the nurture and admonition of the lord." naturally thoughtful and retiring, and fond of learning, she had mastered the lessons taught her in her earliest years with an ease which awoke in her mother's heart an ambition that her child, when she grew old enough, should gain some intellectual distinction. and as clara herself was never happier than when she had a book in her hand, all that her parents had to do was to choose for her such branches of study as she was best calculated to shine in. nor did she disappoint her teachers, but threw herself into her lessons with an energy and interest which made it certain that she would rise to eminence among competitors for the prizes of learning proposed to her own sex. and thus it was that what might have been a rational thirst after knowledge, and have led to the acquirement of stores of information which would have made their possessor an ornament to her home and to the society in which she moved, grew into an absorbing passion. she came at length to live in and for her studies. all her other pursuits and occupations were made to be subordinate to these, and were by degrees completely swallowed up by them. not that she was unaware that there were duties which she ought to fulfil in her home and in her father's parish, which could not be done justice to without shortening her hours of study. she saw this plainly enough, and deplored her neglect; but she had come to persuade herself that success in her intellectual pursuits was the special end at which she was to aim for the present; and she believed that her mother, at any rate, held the same view. and yet her conscience was not at ease on the matter. home and parish work which used to fall to her was either left undone or transferred to others. "mother," she would say, "i am so sorry not to be of more use; i ought to help you, and to take my share of work in the parish; but then you know how it is--you see that i have no time." once her class in the sunday-school had been her delight, and the object of many an anxious thought and earnest prayer, while each individual scholar had a place in her heart and her supplications. but by degrees the preparation for the sunday lessons became irksome and too much for her already overworked brain. she must make the sabbath a day of absolute rest from all mental exertion, except such as was involved in a due attendance on the services in the house of god, which her conscience would not allow her to absent from. as for week-day work in the parish, such as taking her turn in visiting the girls' day-school, undertaking a district as visitor, looking up and tending the sick and the sorrowful in conjunction with her father and mother, the excuse of "no time" was pleaded here also; so that she who was once welcomed in every home in the parish, and carried peace by her loving words and looks to many a troubled and weary heart, was now becoming daily more and more a stranger to those who used to love and value her. indeed, she seldom now stirred from home, except when snatching for health's sake a hasty walk, in which she would hurry from the vicarage and back again along roads where she was least likely to meet with interruption from the greetings of friends or neighbours. light, purer light, the light of god's truth, had indeed shone into her heart, but that light was suffering a gradual and deepening eclipse through the shadow cast by the idol of intellectual ambition, which had usurped for a while the place where once her saviour reigned supreme. and the poor body was suffering, for the overstrained mind was sapping the vigour of all its powers. and then there came a resort to that remedy, the stimulant which spurs up the flagging energies to extraordinary and spasmodic exertion, only to leave the poor deluded victim more prostrate and exhausted than ever. the vicar had never been satisfied with his daughter's course. life, in his view, was too short and eternity too near to justify any one in pursuing even the most innocent and laudable object in such a manner as to unfit the soul for keeping steadily in view its highest interests, and to engross the mind and life so entirely as to shut all the doors of loving and christian usefulness. while acknowledging the value of storing, cultivating, and enlarging the mind, he became daily more and more convinced that such mental improvement was becoming a special snare to the young and enthusiastic; beguiling them into the neglect of manifest duty, and into a refined and subtle self-worship, which, in the case of those who had set out on the narrow way, was changing the substance for a shadow, and destroying that peace which none can truly feel who rob their saviour of the consecration of all that they have and are to his glory. but deeply as he deplored the change in his daughter's habits, and her withdrawal from first one good work and then another, he had not fully realised how it had come about, and the mischief it was doing to the body, mind, and soul of the child he loved so dearly. it was only gradually that she had relinquished first one useful occupation, and then another; and circumstances seemed at the time to make such withdrawal necessary. then, too, his wife's reluctance to see that, after all, she had mistaken the path on which she should have encouraged her daughter to travel, had led her to make as light as possible of the evil effects, which were only too plain to others not so nearly interested in her child's well-being. she could not bear to think that, after all, clara's pursuit of intellectual distinction was physically, morally, and spiritually a huge mistake, and that she was purchasing success at the cost of health and peace. "there was nothing seriously amiss with her," she would tell her husband, when he expressed his misgivings and fears; "she only wanted a little change; that would set her up: there was no real cause for anxiety. it would never do for clara to be behind the rest of the girls of her age in intellectual attainments: it would be doing her injustice, for she was so manifestly calculated to shine; and if god had given her the abilities and the tastes, surely they ought to be cultivated. she could return by-and-by to her work in the sunday- school and the parish. and then, how much better it was that she should be acquiring really solid and useful knowledge, which would be always valuable to her, than be spending her energies on any of the worldly or frivolous pursuits which were entangling and spoiling so many well- disposed girls in our day." alas! the poor mother, whose own heart and conscience were not really satisfied with these reasonings, had forgotten, or failed to see, that the same devotion to study which kept her daughter out of the ensnaring ways of worldliness and frivolity, equally kept her from treading that path of shining usefulness along which all must walk who would fulfil the great purpose for which god has put us into this land of probation and preparation for our eternal home. thomas bradly saw plainly how matters were, and when the vicar hinted at his difficulties connected with his daughter's pursuits, as they were talking together over sunday-school and parochial work, spoke out his mind plainly and faithfully. "well, thomas," said mr maltby, "you see a little how i am situated. my dear child is, i trust and believe, a true christian; but i am free to confess that i am sadly disappointed at the turn which things have taken about her studies." "i can well believe it, sir," was bradly's reply, "and i feel for you with all my heart. and i'm disappointed myself about miss clara, and so's scores more in the parish. the sunday-school ain't the same as it was--no, nor the parish neither, now that she don't come among us as she used to do. but there's a twist somewheres in people's views about the education of young ladies in our day. 'tain't so much in my way, sir, it's true, as it is in yours, to notice these things; but sometimes them as is standing a little way off gets a better view of how things really are than them as is quite close by." "quite so, thomas," said the other. "tell me, then, candidly what you think about this matter." "i'll do so, sir, as i know you'll not misunderstand me; and you know that i love you and yours with all my heart. well, sir, it seems to me as they're beginning at the wrong place altogether, in filling young ladies' heads, as they do, with all sorts and sizes of knowledge." "how do you mean, thomas?" "just this way, sir. i were in sheffield for a day or two last june, and as i were a-staring in at one of the cutlers' shops, i caught sight of a strange-looking article stuck upon a stand right in the middle of the window. it were all blades and points, like the porcupine as i used to read about at the national school when i were a boy. it was evidently meant for a knife; but who would ever think of buying such a thing as that, except merely as a curiosity? there must have been some fifty or sixty blades, and these were all sorts of shapes and sizes, just, i suppose, to show the skill of the workman as contrived to fasten such a lot of them together; but they would have been no earthly use to a man as wanted a real working article. now, as far as i can see and hear, the young ladies in these days is being got up something like one of 'em fancy knives. it seems to be the great wish of these young ladies' parents or friends to put into their heads a lot of learning of all sorts--so many languages, so many sciences, so many accomplishments, as they calls 'em, as thick as they can stand together. and what's the end of it all? why, folks wonder at 'em, no doubt, and say a great many fine things to 'em and about 'em; but they're not turned out a real serviceable article, either for their homes or for the great master's work as he'd have them to do it." "it is too true, dear friend," said the vicar with a sigh. "ay! and if i'm not too bold in speaking my mind," proceeded the other, "that ain't the worst of it. you'll excuse my homely way of talking, sir, but i can't help thinking of timothy pinches' donkey-cart when i reads or hears of these young ladies with their science classes, and their oxford and cambridge local examinations, and their colleges, and what not. timothy pinches were an old neighbour of mine when i didn't live in these parts--that were several years ago as i'm talking of. now timothy had a donkey, a quiet and serviceable animal enough, and he'd got a cart too, which would carry a tidy lot of things, yet at the same time it weren't none of the strongest. he used to cart my coals for me, and do an odd job for me here and there. well, one day i met timothy with a strange load in his cart; there was a lot of iron nails and bars for the blacksmith, two or three bags of potatoes, a sack of flour, a bottle or two of vinegar, a great jar of treacle, a bale of calico for one of the shops, a cask of porter, and a sight of odds and ends besides. and they was packed and jammed so tight together, i could see as they were like to burst the sides of the cart through. `timothy,' says i, `you'll never get on with that load; it's too much for the donkey, and it's too much for the cart.' `all right,' says he, `we'll manage.' `nay,' says i, `it's too much for the poor beast; make two journeys of it, and you'll do it comfortably.' `can't afford the time,' says he. but he _could_ afford the time to keep the poor donkey often standing before the door of the public for an hour and more together. but just then he'd had an extra glass, and he wasn't in a mood to be spoken with. so he gives the poor beast a fierce kick, and a pull at his jaw, by way of freshening him up, and the cart goes creaking on up a hill by a winding road. i could hear it as i went on by a footpath as took me a short cut into the road again. then the noise stopped all of a sudden; and when i'd got to the end of the path, there was timothy pinches looking anything but wise or pleasant, and cart and donkey had both come to grief. the side of the cart was burst right out; the donkey had fallen down and cut his knees badly; the potatoes was rolling down the hill; the flour had some of it come out of the sack in a great heap, and the vinegar and treacle was running slowly through it. when i looked at poor timothy's face, and then at the break-down, i couldn't help laughing at him; but i gave him a helping hand, and i hope he learnt a useful lesson. you see, sir, it don't do to overtask a willing beast, nor to load a cart with more goods than it's meant to carry, specially if it ain't over strong. but they're making this very mistake with many of the young ladies just now--i don't mean anything disrespectful to them in likening them to a donkey-cart, but it's true. these young ladies themselves are overtasking their constitutions which god gave them, and they're loading their brains with more than them brains was designed to carry. the lord hasn't given them, as a rule, heads fit to bear the strain as men's heads were made to stand. i'm sure of it; it's the opinion, too, of dr richardson, who has the best right of any man, perhaps, to speak on this subject, as he's studied it, i should think, as much or more than any man living. now, sir, just look at your own dear child, miss clara,--why, it makes my heart sore every time i look at her; she ain't got the right healthy look in her face; her mind has got more to bear than ever her maker meant it to have; and there's no reason, surely, why she shouldn't be as cheerful as a lark and as bright as the flowers in may." "most true! most true!" said the vicar sorrowfully. "i only wish mrs maltby and my daughter could see things in this light; but when i express my fears and misgivings on this subject, they tell me that i must not take a gloomy view of things, nor alarm myself needlessly. but perhaps, dear friend, you may be able to put in a word, i know your plain, homely good sense and observation will have weight with both mother and daughter." "i'll make bold to say a word or two to them on the subject," replied thomas bradly, "when next i get an opportunity." chapter seven. a shadow on the hearth. thomas bradly was pre-eminently a _bright_ christian. a quaint old author says that "a gloomy christian does not do credit to christ's housekeeping." there was no gloom about bradly's religion: it shone in his heart, in his life, on his face, and in his home; it attracted the troubled and sin-burdened; it was the concealed envy of many who scoffed at and reviled him. and yet there was not unclouded sunshine even in _his_ happy home: a shadow, and a dark one, rested on his hearth. it has been said that he had an unmarried sister who lived with him, and that she was an invalid. jane bradly was a year younger than her brother thomas, but sickness and sorrow made her look older than she really was. she was sweet and gentle-looking, with that peculiar air of refinement which suffering often stamps on the features of those who are being spiritualised by fiery trial and are ripening for glory. and there was something, too, that was very strange about her case. she was not confined to her bed, and was able to leave the house in order to attend the services at the church, which she did most regularly. yet she very rarely left the house on any other occasion, and never visited a neighbour; and if any of her brother's friends came in, she would leave her chair by the fire and retire into another room. when the family first came to crossbourne, a good deal of curiosity was felt and expressed about her, and many attempts were made to draw her out; but as neither bradly nor his wife nor children ever gave the smallest encouragement to questioners, and as jane herself quietly declined every invitation to take a meal or spend an hour away from home, curiosity was obliged to seek gratification elsewhere, and baffled inquirers to talk about her amongst themselves with ominous whispers and shrugging shoulders. clearly, jane's complaint was one which medicine could not reach, for no medical man ever called on her at her brother's house; though well- meaning persons used at first to urge on thomas the advisability of consulting the parish doctor for her. and when others recommended their own favourite patent remedies which had never been known to fail--at least, so said the printed wrapper--he would thank them, and say that "it wasn't physic as she wanted." "ah! then she must have met with a disappointment where she had placed her affections; was it not so?" to which thomas dryly replied that "he was not aware that it was so; but if it had been, he should have kept it to himself." this and similar broad hints at length closed the gossiping mouths of crossbourne--at any rate, in the presence of any members of the bradly family--and jane and her troubles ceased to occupy much attention out of her own home. still, the deep shadow lay across the hearth and heart of her brother. very touching it was to see the considerate tenderness with which he always dealt with her. never a loud or hasty word did she hear from him, nor indeed from any member of the family. when he came in from his work his first words were for her: some cheery little speech, yet uttered in rather an undertone, lest his natural abruptness unchecked should startle her. the best massive arm-chair, and the snuggest nook by the kitchen fire, were hers; and by the bible, which was her constant companion, and lay on a little table which stood beside her, a few bright flowers, as their season came round, were placed as tokens of a thoughtful and abiding love. yet she pined, and grew gradually weaker; but no murmur was heard to escape her lips. the sorrow which lay on her heart like a mountain of snow could not deprive her of god's peace, while it was chilling and crushing out her life. as far as they would allow her, and her strength would permit, she took her part in the household work; but she was principally occupied with her needle, and as she was an excellent workwoman, she was never without such orders as she was able to undertake. the vicar was deeply interested in her, and was a frequent visitor; but while she manifestly derived comfort from his instructions and prayers, any attempt on his part to draw her into confiding to him, (as a friend and spiritual adviser) her special sorrow at once reduced her to silence. and yet it seemed to him that there were times when she was on the very verge of breaking through her reserve. not that he desired this, except for her own sake. how gladly would he have shared her burden with her, "and so fulfilled the law of christ," would she but have in trusted him with it! it was so sad to see the deep shadow of an abiding care on that gentle face, the unnatural flush on the cheeks, and the eyes at one time filled with tears, and at another with a look of earnest beseeching, as though she longed to unburden her troubled heart, and yet dared not--as though she yearned for his advice and sympathy, and yet could not bring herself to open to him her grief. and thus it was that the poor afflicted one was drooping lower and lower; and the cloud which rested on her quiet, patient features was to be seen at times on her brother's also. it was a few days after the accident on the line by which the miserable joe wright was hurried into eternity, that the vicar, who was coming out of the cottage of poor joe's widow, met thomas bradly as he was on his way home from his work. both looked very grave; and mr maltby said,-- "i see, thomas, that you feel, as i do, what a shocking accident this has been. the drink, i don't doubt, must have been at the bottom of it, for we know too well what the poor man's habits were. what can i say to comfort his unhappy widow? of course, it is not for us to judge her husband; we do not know what passed in joe's heart during his last moments. but that is very poor consolation, after all, when we know that, `as a man sows, so shall he reap.' all i can do is to try and lead the poor woman herself to her saviour. we know that the door to pardon and peace is not yet closed to her." "that's too true, sir," replied bradly. "i fear we can't have any comfortable thoughts about joe; the least said about him the better. but, to tell you the truth, sir, i were just then turning my own trouble over in my mind, and that's what made me look so grave." "what--about your sister jane?" "yes, sir. i know as it's all right; and yet somehow i can't help feeling a bit anxious about her. she must either mend afore long, or break down altogether. i should very much like her to open her heart and her trouble to yourself, sir; for i'm sure it would do her good. i know it all myself, of course; but then i've promised her to be as close as wax, and never to talk about it to a soul without she gives me leave. and her saviour knows it all, too. she goes with it regular to him; but still she brings back some of it with her each time. she don't mean it; but it's more nor flesh and blood is equal to, to leave it entirely to him. now, i do believe, if she would just tell you all, or let me tell it you before her, it would help to lighten her heart and ease her mind. she knows, indeed--as of course every true christian knows from his bible--that no mortal man, be he who he may, can do for her what the blessed saviour only can do; but i am sure that it will make your words, your counsels, and your prayers more precious and profitable to her when she feels that her pastor knows her great sorrow, and can join with her in taking it to the throne of grace, and pleading for light and guidance, and a way out of it too, if the lord will." "i quite agree with you, thomas," said mr maltby. "at present i can give her only general words of advice and comfort, and can only pray for her about her sorrow in a general way; but if she sees it to be right, and can bear to confide the story of her trial to me, i shall then be able to assist her in grasping with an increasing faith those `exceeding great and precious promises' which will be specially applicable to her case, and may meet any peculiar circumstances connected with her affliction." "thank you, sir, most kindly," said the other. "i think i have nearly persuaded her to let me tell you all; and i believe it will be best done before herself, for then one telling will do for all, and she will be able to put in a word here and there to make all clear." "just so, thomas," said the vicar. "i can easily understand that when once she has broken through her reserve with me, or suffered you to break through it for her, she will be able better to bear the full disclosure, from having part of the weight already removed from her heart." "that's just my view," said bradly, "and i've told her so more than once. i'm sure she'll feel lighter in her heart when once she has fully made up her mind that you shall know all, even before you've heard a word of her story; and i'm sure she sees it so now herself. so, if it won't be troubling you too much to ask you to step over to our house to- morrow night about seven o'clock, unless i send you back word, we'll have the best parlour all to ourselves, and i believe the lord will make it a blessed night for poor jane and for us all." "it shall be so then, thomas," replied the vicar. "i will, if spared, be at your house at seven o'clock, unless i hear anything meanwhile to the contrary from yourself." it was with a feeling of deep interest, and a fervent prayer for a blessing, that ernest maltby knocked the next evening at the door of thomas bradly's quiet dwelling. thomas welcomed him with a smile. "it'll be all right, i know," he said; "i've told her you're coming, and she has made no objection; and now that the time's come, the lord has taken away the worst of the fear." the vicar entered, and found the invalid seated by a bright fire, with her little table and the bible on it by her side. her poor wan cheeks were flushed with a deeper colour than usual as she rose to greet the clergyman; but there was not so much a look of suffering now in her eyes, as of hopeful, humble, patient trust. her needlework lay near her bible, for her skilful fingers were never idle. her brother set a chair for their visitor near the fire, and seated himself by him. for a moment no one spoke; then jane handed the bible to mr maltby, who opened it and read the hundred and forty-second psalm, giving special emphasis to the words of the third verse, "when my spirit was overwhelmed within me, then thou knewest my path." he offered a short prayer after the reading, and then waited for either brother or sister to spread out the trouble before him. "you must know, sir," began thomas, with an emotion which checked his usual outspoken utterance for a while, "as me and mine don't belong to these parts; and i daresay you've heard some of the queer tales which them as pays more attention to their neighbour's business than their own has got up about us. however, that matters very little. our native place is about fifty miles from crossbourne. maybe you've heard of squire morville (sir lionel morville's his proper title). he lives in a great mansion called monksworthy hall, just on the top of the hill after you've gone through the village. there's a splendid park round it. most of the land about belongs to sir lionel; and he's lord of the manor. well, i were born, and my father and grandfather before me, in monksworthy, and so were jane; and all things went on pretty smooth with us till a few years back. we'd our troubles, of course; but then _we_ didn't expect to be without 'em--wasn't to be looked for that our road through life should be as level all the way as a bowling-green. sir lionel were very good to his tenants; but he were rather too fond of having lots of company at the hall--more, i'm sure, than his lady liked; for she was a truly godly woman, and i don't doubt is so to this day. "my father and mother had a very large family, so that there wasn't full work for us all as we growed up; and, as i was one of the younger ones, they was glad to get me bound apprentice, through the squire's help, to my present trade in the north. but i liked my own native village better than any other spot as i'd ever seen, so i came back after i'd served my time, and picked up work and a wife, as a good many of the young people had been emigrating to canada and australia, and sir lionel wanted hands just then. well, then, god sent us our children, and they soon grew up, and it weren't such easy work to feed them and clothe them as it is in a place like this. however, the lord took care of us, and we always had enough. "jane went to the hall to be housemaid soon after i married; and lady morville were so fond of her that, she would never hear of her leaving for any other place.--nay, jane dear, you mustn't fret; it'll all turn out well in the end. there's one as loves us both, better than sir lionel and his lady, and he'll make all straight sooner or later. "now, you must know, sir, as i'd come back from the north a teetotaler. i'd seen so much of the drunkenness and the drink-traps there that i'd made up my mind as total abstinence were the wisest, safest, and best course for both worlds; and jane, who had never cared for either beer or wine, took the pledge with me when i came home, for the sake of doing good to others. "lady morville didn't concern herself about this; but there was one at the hall who did, and that one were john hollands, the butler. it was more nor he could put up with, that any one of the servants should presume to go a different road from him, and refuse the ale when it went round at meals in the kitchen. so, as all his chaffing, and the chaffing of the other servants, couldn't shake jane, he was determined he'd make her smart for it. and there was something more than this too. i've said that sir lionel were a free sort of gentleman, fond of having lots of company; and of course the company wasn't short of ale, and wine, and spirits; and so long as there was a plentiful stock in the cellar, the squire didn't trouble himself to count bottles or barrels. he was not a man himself as drank to excess; he thought drunkenness a low, vulgar habit, and never encouraged it; but he spent his money freely, and those as lived in his family were never watched nor stinted. you may suppose, then, sir, as john hollands had a fine time of it. he were cock of the walk in the servants' hall, and no mistake. eh, to see him at church on sunday! what with his great red face, and his great red waistcoat, and his great watch-chain with a big bunch of seals at the end of it, i couldn't help thinking sometimes as he looked a picture of `the devil and all his works, the pomps and vanity of this wicked world, and all the sinful lusts of the flesh,' which the catechism tells us to renounce. "you may be sure such a man had a deal in his power; and so he had. and it wasn't only the wine, beer, and spirits as he used pretty much as he liked. eh! the waste that went on downstairs was perfectly frightful; and a pretty penny he and the cook made between 'em out of their master's property, which they sold on the sly. "jane saw something of this, and longed to put a stop to it; but, poor thing, what could she really do? she _did_ once take an opportunity of speaking her mind gently to the butler, when they happened to be alone, and tried to show him how wrong and wickedly he was acting. but all she got was, that he gave her back such a volley of oaths and curses as made her feel that it would be no use talking to him any more on the subject just then. and he weren't content with merely abusing her; he threatened her besides as he'd make her see afore long what sort of paying off `sneaking spies' usually got for their pains. and he kept his word. "lady morville had got a favourite lady's-maid, who came to her when jane had been some years at the hall. this maid were a stylish, dashing young woman, and had a tongue as would turn any way it was wanted. so she soon made herself so useful to her mistress that she was more like an equal than a servant. but she were a thoroughly unprincipled woman, and hated jane almost as soon as she had set eyes on her. now she were far too deep to do anything as would get herself into trouble. she might have robbed her ladyship in many ways; and so she did, but not by taking her jewels or anything of that sort. she would wheedle things out of her mistress in the slyest way. and then, too, lady morville would trust her to pay some of her bills for her; and then she'd manage to pop things into the account which my lady had never ordered, or she would alter the figures in such a way as to cheat her ladyship. and she hadn't been long at the hall, as you may suppose, before she and the butler became fast friends; and a pretty lot of robbery and mischief was carried on by them two. jane couldn't keep her eyes shut, so she saw many things she longed to expose to her mistress; but it would have been very difficult to bring the wrong-doings to light, even if lady morville had given her the opportunity of doing so--which she never did. "georgina--that were the name of the lady's-maid--was fully aware, however, that jane had her eyes upon her, and she was resolved to get her out of the way. but how was that to be done? for jane bore a high character in the house, and her ladyship would not listen to any gossiping tales against her. her mind was soon made up: a little talk with john hollands, and the train was laid. "now, she could have taken a bit of jewellery from her mistress, and hidden it in jane's box, or among her things; and this was john hollands' idea, as jane afterwards found out from another fellow- servant, who was sorry for her, and had overheard the two making up their plans together. but georgina said: `no; that were a stale trick, and her ladyship might believe jane's positive assertion of innocence. she would manage it better than that.' and so she did. "to jane's surprise, both the butler and the lady's-maid changed their manner towards her after a while, and became quite friendly: indeed, hollands even took an opportunity to thank jane for her good advice, and to say that he was beginning to see things in a different light; and georgina made her a present of a neat silver pencil-case. jane couldn't quite understand it; but having no guile in herself, she weren't up to suspecting guile in other folks, and she were only too thankful to see anything that looked like a change for the better. "things were in this fashion, when one morning, just before sir lionel's breakfast-time, as jane was sweeping and dusting the back drawing-room, john hollands looked in. there'd been a large dinner-party the night before, and the family was rather late. steps were heard overhead in her ladyship's bedroom, and then georgina comes in. `come in here, mr hollands,' she says, `and look here, both of you; see what i've found on the stairs!' the butler came in, and the lady's-maid holds out to him a beautiful bracelet all sparkling with jewels. he took it in his hand and turned it over, and says, `it must have been dropped by one of the ladies as dined here yesterday; you'd better give it to her ladyship.'--`of course i shall,' says the other; `only there's no harm looking at it.--ain't it a love of a bracelet, jane? just take it in your hand and look at it afore i take it up to mistress.' jane took the bracelet, and said that it was a beauty indeed, and was going to return it to georgina, but that wicked woman had turned her head away, pretending not to notice jane's hand stretched out to her. then steps were heard close to the door, and georgina cried out half aloud, `there's her ladyship coming; won't you catch it, jane! come along, mr hollands;' and they were gone out at another door in a moment, just as lady morville came in at the other end of the room. and there stood poor jane, her face all in a blaze, with her broom in one hand and the bracelet in the other. "scarcely knowing what she did, but not wishing; of course, to be found with the bracelet in her fingers, jane tried to slip it into her pocket; but it wouldn't do, her mistress had already seen it. so she says, quiet and calm-like, `jane, don't attempt to hide it from me; i believe that's one of the bracelets sir lionel gave me on my last birthday. i couldn't find either of them when i was dressing for dinner last night, nor georgina either. come, tell me, jane, how did it come into your possession?' "what could poor jane say or do? she bursts out a-crying, poor thing, and then turns her round, when she'd thrown up a little prayer to the lord from her heart, and she says, `please, my lady, i never saw the bracelet till a few minutes ago. georgina brought it in while i was sweeping, and showed it to mr hollands and me; and i was just going to give it back to georgina, for they said that some lady must have dropped it last night--and i never knew it was your ladyship's--and they ran out of the room and left it in my hand--and then your ladyship came in and found me with it.' "now you may be sure, sir, as jane had no easy work to get them words out, and, i suppose, lady morville thought as she was making up a lie; so she says very gravely, `i don't at all understand you, jane: how can georgina have brought the bracelet to you? she was searching for the pair last night herself, and knows that they were missing from my jewel- case. and how can she have said that some lady must have dropped this bracelet, when she must know it perfectly well to be my own? besides, it is only a few minutes ago that she told me she believed i should find it in this room somewhere, only she didn't like to say why.' "jane saw it all now--they had laid a cruel trap for her, and she was caught in it. at first she had no answer but tears, and then she declared that she had told the simple truth, and nothing but the truth. `it may be so, jane,' said her mistress; `of course what you say is possible, but, i fear, not very probable.' "she rung the bell, and georgina answered it with a smirk on her face. `just call hollands, and come in here with him,' said her ladyship. the butler soon came in; and jane says, if ever the devil looked through any man's eyes, she believes he did through his, as he glared at her with a look of triumph, his mistress's back being turned towards him. lady morville then asked them if jane's story was true, and if georgina had shown her the bracelet. john hollands lifts up his hands and eyes, and cries out, `was there ever such hypocrisy and deceit!' as for georgina, she pretends to get into a passion, and declares as it was all a make-up thing to rob her and the butler of their characters. and then she says, `why, my lady, i've missed things myself, and i've had my suspicions; but i've not liked to say anything. there's a silver pencil-case, which my dear mother gave me, and it's got my initials on it: it's gone from my room, and i can't hear anything about it.' jane at once pulls the pencil-case out of her pocket, and lays it on the table. `i see how it is,' she says; `you two are determined to ruin me; but the lord above, he knows i'm innocent.--your ladyship, georgina made me a present of that pencil-case a short time ago. i didn't want to take it; but she wouldn't be refused, and said i must keep it as a token of good-will from her.'--`well, did i ever hear such assurance!' cried georgina. `i wonder what she'll say next? but one thing's clear, my lady: i can't stay here, to be suspected of robbing your ladyship. i've not lost my character yet, if jane's lost hers. but, at any rate, she has got your ladyship's bracelet; you found her with it yourself. now, as she has got the one, she'll know, of course, where the other is. you may be sure, my lady, that the same person as took the one took the pair. it ain't likely there were two thieves in the case. if i might be so bold, i would, if i were in your ladyship's place, ask her to produce _both_ the bracelets, and restore them to you; and when she's done that, it will be for your ladyship to say whether you do or do not believe her to be innocent, and that she's told the truth about my pencil-case.' "nobody said anything for a minute, for it were plain as lady morville were very much grieved and perplexed. at last she turns to jane, and says, `you hear what georgina says, jane; it is not unreasonable. two bracelets have been taken, and one of the pair is found on you. i cannot say how you came by it, but it seems most likely that you must know where the other is. produce it, and the matter shall go no further. i've always had the highest opinion of you up to this moment; and if sudden temptation in this case has led you into a sin, the best and wisest thing for you to do is just to own it, and to give up the other bracelet, and then the matter shall drop there, and we will all agree that by-gones shall be by-gones, for the best among us may be overtaken in a fault.' but by this time poor jane had recovered herself a bit. she dried her tears, and, looking her mistress steadily in the face, said, `i have told your ladyship the simple truth, and nothing but the truth; and i appeal to your ladyship, have you ever found me out in any untruthfulness or deceit all these years as you've knowed me? i see plainly enough why mr hollands and georgina have been plotting this cruelty against me; but it would, i know, be of no use if i was to tell your ladyship what their carryings on has been--i should not be believed. but there's one whose eyes are in every place, beholding the evil and the good, and he will set it all right when he sees it to be best, and he'll clear my character.' "no more were said at that time; but in the afternoon lady morville sends for jane, and has her in her own room by herself, and she tells her as appearances are very much against her; but as she'd never knowed anything to her discredit before, and she had borne a very high character all the time as she'd been at the hall, this matter should be hushed up, but she felt it wouldn't be right for her to remain. and so my poor sister, as she couldn't say no otherwise than she did before, and as she couldn't bear to face the other servants any more, left the hall that very night by her own wish, and told me her story as i've told it you; for we've talked it over together scores of times, and i've got it quite by heart. and from that day to this she's never looked up; for, as it says in the psalm, `the iron has entered into her soul.' "i couldn't stop long after that in monksworthy, and so we all came over here; and the lord has prospered us--all but poor jane; and yet i know she'll tell you he has never left her nor forsaken her, and he's made his promises `yea and amen' to her, spite of her sorrow. but it's a very sore trial, and the burden of it lies heavy on her heart still. "there, sir, you've had the whole of it now, as well as i could give it you; and i'm sure you'll deal gently with the poor creature, like the good master who wouldn't break the bruised reed." for a little while no one spoke. mr maltby was deeply touched, and jane, whose face had been for some time past buried in her hands, could not for a while restrain her sobbing. at last she looked up and said: "yes, dear mr maltby, thomas has told you exactly how it all was, as he has often heard it from me. they tell me not to fret. ah! but it's good advice easier given than followed. i don't want to murmur; i know it's the lord's will; but the trouble's gnawing and gnawing my life away. disgraced, dismissed as a thief and a liar, without a character, a burden instead of a help to those who love me--oh, it _is_ hard, very hard to bear! but those blessed words of the psalm you read, oh, how they have comforted me! and in that word of god i know i shall find peace and strength. ah, that reminds me thomas has not mentioned to you another thing that added weight to my burden. i had, when i was living at the hall, a little bible of my dear mother's, which i used to read every day. only a very short time before the day when the bracelet was shown me, that bible was taken out of my box; and i've never seen it since. i asked all the other servants about it, but every one declared they had neither touched nor seen it. it could not have been taken for its value, for it was very old, and worn-looking, and shabby, and the paper and print were very poor; but i loved it because it was my dear mother's, and had been given to her as a reward when she was a very little girl. it had her maiden name and the year of our lord in it--`mary williams. june , .' oh! it was such a precious book to me, for i had drawn a line in red-ink under all my favourite texts, and i could find anything i wanted in it in a moment! i can't help fearing that john hollands or georgina took it away just to spite me." "poor jane!" said the vicar gently and lovingly "your story is a sad one indeed. truly the chastening must for the present be not joyous, but grievous; and yet it comes from the hand of a father who loves you, who will, i doubt not, cause it in due time to bring forth the peaceable fruit of righteousness." "and you do, then, dear sir," cried jane, with tearful earnestness, "believe, after what you have heard, that i am really innocent of the charge which has been made against me?" "believe it, jane!" exclaimed mr maltby; "yes, indeed! i could not doubt your innocence for a moment; and remember, the lord himself knows it, and will make it before long as clear as the noonday." "oh, thank you, dear sir, a thousand times for those cheering words! i am so glad now that all has been told you; i feel my heart lighter already. yes, i _will_ trust that light will come in _his_ time." "it will," replied the vicar, "and before long too. i feel firmly persuaded, i can hardly tell you why, that it will not be so very long before this dark cloud shall pass away." "may the lord grant it!" said thomas bradly; and added, "you understand now, sir, exactly how matters lie; and we shall both feel the happier that you know all, for we are sure that we shall always have your sympathy and prayers, and if anything should turn up we shall know where to go for advice; and in the meantime, we must wait and be patient. i can't help feeling with you that, somehow or other, poor jane's getting near the end of the wood, and will come out into the sunshine afore so very long." chapter eight. tantalising. a few days after the disclosure of jane bradly's trouble to the vicar, he met her brother thomas in the evening hurrying away from his house. "nothing amiss at home, i hope, thomas?" he inquired. "nothing amiss, thank you, sir, in my home, but a great deal amiss in somebody else's. there's nearly been an accident this afternoon to a goods train, and it's been owing to jim barnes having had too much drink; so they've just paid him off, and sent him about his business." "i'm afraid," said the vicar, "there has been too much cause for such a strong measure. poor james has been a sad drunken fellow, and it is a wonder they have kept him on so long." "so it is, indeed, sir; for it's risking other people's lives to have such as him about a station. i suppose they have not liked to turn him off before partly because he's got such a lot of little 'uns to feed, and partly because it ain't often as he's plainly the worse for liquor when he's at his work. but when a man's as fond of the drink as jim barnes is, it ain't possible for him to keep off it always just when it suits his interests. and then there's another thing which makes chaps like him unfit to be trusted with having to do with the trains--who's to be sure that he ain't so far the worse for drink as to be confused in his head, even when he shows no signs of being regularly tipsy?" "who, indeed, thomas? i am very sorry for poor james and his family; but i am sure he is not the man, while he keeps his present habits, to be trusted with work on the line, which requires a steady hand and a cool head." "well, sir, i hope he'll begin to see that himself. now's the time to get at him, and so i'm just going down to try what i can do with him. jim's never been one of my sort, but he's not been one of the worst of the other sort neither. he's a good-natured fellow, and has got a soft heart, and i've never had a spiteful word from him since i've knowed him." "yes, thomas, i believe that's true of him," said mr maltby; "he has been always very civil and obliging to me. but, as you know, i have tried more than once to draw him out of the slough of intemperance on to firm ground, but in vain. i trust, however, that god may bless your loving endeavours to bring him now over to the right side." "i trust so too, sir." the house where barnes lived was in one of the worst and dirtiest parts of crossbourne; and as some of the inhabitants, whose temperament inclined to the gloomy, declared crossbourne to be the dirtiest town in england, the situation of jim's dwelling was certainly not likely to be favourable to either health or comfort. there are streets in most towns of any considerable size which persons who are fortunate enough to live in more agreeable localities are quite content with just looking down, and then passing on, marvelling, it may be, to themselves how such processes as washing and cooking can ever be carried on with the slightest prospect of success in the midst of such grimy and unsavoury surroundings. it was in such a street that james barnes and his family existed, rather than lived; for life is too vigorous a term to be applied to the time dragged on by those who were unfortunate enough to breathe so polluted an atmosphere. there are some places which, in their very decay, remind you of better times now past and gone. it was not so with the houses in these streets; they looked rather as if originally built of poverty-stricken and dilapidated materials. and yet none of them were really old, but the blight of neglect was heavy upon them. nearly at the bottom of one of these streets was the house inhabited by the dismissed railway porter, and to this thomas bradly now made his way. outside the front door stood a knot of women with long pipes in their mouths, bemoaning jim's dismissal with his wife, and suggesting some of those original grounds of consolation which, to persons in a higher walk of life, would rather aggravate than lessen the trial. two of the youngest children of the family, divested of all superfluous clothing, were giving full play to their ill-fed limbs in the muddy gutter, dividing their time between personal assaults on each other, and splashings on the by-standers from the liquid soil in which they were revelling, being occasionally startled into a momentary silence by a violent cuff from their mother when they became more than ordinarily uproarious. the outer door stood half-open, and disclosed a miserable scene of domestic desolation. the absence of everything that could make home really home was the conspicuous feature. there was a table, it is true; but then it was comparatively useless in its disabled state--one of the leaves hanging down, and just held on by one unbroken hinge, reminding you of a man with his arm in a sling. there were chairs also, but none of them perfect; rather suggesting by their appearance the need of caution in the use of them than the prospect of rest to those who might confide their weight to them. a shelf of crockery ware was the least unattractive object; but then every article had suffered more or less in the wars. nothing was clean or bright, few things were whole, and fewer still in their proper places. the two or three dingy prints on the walls, originally misrepresentations in flaring colours of scriptural or other scenes, hung in various degrees of crookedness; while articles of clothing, old and new, dirtier and less dirty, were scattered about in all directions, or suspended, just where necessity or whim had tossed them. there was on the available portion of the table part of a loaf of bread, a lump of butter still half-wrapped in the dirty piece of newspaper which had left some of its letters impressed on its exposed side, a couple of herrings, a mug half-full of beer, and two or three onions. and in the midst of all this chaos, on one side of the grate, which was one-third full of expiring ashes, and two-thirds full of dust, sat james barnes in his railway porter's dress and cap, looking exceedingly crestfallen and unhappy. "good evening, jim," said thomas bradly, making his way to the fire- place, and taking a seat opposite to barnes; "i was sorry to hear bad news." "yes, bad indeed, thomas--you've heard it, i see. yes, they've given me the sack; and what's to be done now, i'm sure i don't know. some people's born to luck; 'tain't my case." "nay, jim," cried the other, "you're out there: there's no such thing as luck, and no one's born to good luck. but there's an old proverb which comes pretty near the truth, and it's this, `diligence is the mother of good luck.' i don't believe in luck or chance myself, but i believe in diligence, with god's blessing. it says in the bible, `the hand of the diligent maketh rich.'" "well, and i have been diligent," exclaimed jim: "i've never been away from my work a day scarcely. but see what a lot of children i've got, and most of them little 'uns; and now they've gone and turned me off at a moment's notice. what do you say to that? isn't that hard lines?" "it ain't pleasant, certainly, jim; but come, now, what's the use of fencing about in this way? jim barnes, just you listen to me. there's not a pleasanter chap in the town than yourself when you're sober-- everybody says so, from the vicar down to tommy tracks. now it's of no use to lay the blame on the wrong shoulders. you know perfectly well that if you'd have let the drink alone things would never have come to this, and you wouldn't have been living now in such a dirty hole. but i'm not come down here, jim, to twit you with what's done, and can't be undone now. if you've done wrong, well, there's time to turn over a new leaf and do better; and now's your time. you see what the drink's brought you to; and if you was to get another place to-morrow, you wouldn't keep it long. there's no business as ever i heard of where the masters advertise in the papers, `so many drunkards wanted for such a work.' no, no, jim; just you think the matter over, and pray to the lord to show you the right way. you know my `surgery' at the back of my house: you come up there to-night and have a talk with me; it's no use trying to have it here. i think i'll show you a door as'll lead to better ways, and better times; and you shan't want a good friend or two, jim, to give you a helping hand, if you'll only try, by god's help, to deserve them." poor jim's head had become bowed down on to his hands during this plain speech, and the tears began to make their way through his fingers. then he stretched out one hand towards his visitor without lifting up his head, and said, in a half-choked voice, "thank you, thomas; i'll come, that i will,--i'll come; and thank you kindly for coming to look after me." and he kept his word. just as it was getting dark a tap was heard at bradly's "surgery" door, and james barnes was admitted into a bright and cheery room--such a marvellous contrast, in its neatness, order, and cleanliness, to his own miserable dwelling. when the two men were seated, one on either side of the fire-place--which was as brilliant as brunswick black and polishing could make it--bradly began:-- "james barnes, this night may be the turning-point for good and for happiness, for you and yours, both for this world and the next. i want you to sign the pledge and keep it. you've tried for a good long time how you can do _with_ the drink--and a poor do it has been; now try how you can do _without_ it. never mind what old mates may say; never mind what such as will foster and his set may say; never mind what your wife may say,--she'll come round and join you if you're only firm,--just you sign, and then we'll ask god to bless you, and to enable you to keep your pledge." "thomas, i will," said james barnes, much moved; "all as you've said's perfectly true--i know it. the drink's been my curse and my ruin; it's done me and mine nothing but harm; and i can see what doing without it has been to you and yours. give me the pen; i'll sign." the signature was made, and then, while both men knelt, thomas bradly poured out his heart in prayer to god for a blessing on his poor friend, and that he might truly give his heart and life to the lord. "and now, james," said bradly, "i'll find you a job to go on with, and i'll speak to the vicar, and you and yours shan't starve till we can set you on your feet again." james barnes thanked his new friend most warmly, and was turning to the door, but still lingered. then he came back to the fire and sat down again, and said, "thomas, i've summat to tell you which i've been wanting to mention to you for more nor a week, and yet i ain't had the courage to come and say it like a man." "well, jim, now's the time." "thomas," said the other sorrowfully, "i've done you a wrong, but i didn't mean to do it; it's that drink as was at the bottom of it." "well, jim," replied bradly, smiling, "it can't have been much of a wrong, i doubt, as i've never found it out." "i don't know how that may be, thomas, but you shall hear. you remember the morning when poor joe was found cut to pieces on the line just below the foot-bridge?" "yes, jim, i remember it well; it was the day before christmas-day." "well, thomas, it were the day before that. i was on the platform in the evening, waiting for the half-past five o'clock train to come in from the north. it were ten minutes or more late, as most of the trains was that day. when it stopped at our station, a gent wrapped up in a lot of things, with a fur cap on his head, a pair of blue spectacles over his eyes, and a stout red scarf round his neck, jumps out of a third-class carriage like a shot, and lays hold of my arm, and takes me on one side, and says, `i want you to do a job for me,' and he puts a florin into my hand; then he says, `do you know thomas bradly?' `ay,' says i; `i know him well.' `then take this bag,' says he, `and this letter to his house as soon as you're off duty. be sure you don't fail. you knows the man i mean; he's got a sister jane as lives with him.' `all right,' says i. there weren't no more time, so he jumps back into the carriage, and nods to me, and i nods back to him, and the train were gone. it were turned six o'clock when i left the station yard, and the hands was all turning, out from the mills, so i takes the bag--it were a small carpet-bag, very shabby-looking--and the letter in my pocket. now, i ought, by rights, to have gone with it at once to your house, and i shouldn't have had any more trouble about it. but as i was passing the railway inn, i says to myself, `i'll just step in and have a pint;' but i wouldn't take the bag in with me, as perhaps some one or other might be axing me questions about it, and it weren't no business of theirs, so i just sets it down on the step outside, and goes in and changes my florin and gets my pint of ale. well, i got a-gossiping with the landlady, and had another pint, and when i came out the bag were gone. i couldn't believe my eyes at first, for i've often left things on benches and steps outside the publics, and never knowed 'em touched afore this; for they're as honest a people in crossbourne as you'll find anywhere. howsomever, the bag were gone; there were no mistake about that. i went round into the yard and axed the hostler, but he hadn't seed nobody about. i looked up and down, but never a soul could i see as had a bag in his hand, so what to do i couldn't tell. then i thought, `maybe some one's carried it back to the station by mistake.' so i went back, but it weren't there. i can tell you thomas, i were never more mad with myself in all my life; for though i haven't been one of your sort, i've always respected you, and i'd rather have lost almost any one else's things than yours. i only hope it ain't of much consequence, as it were a very shabby bag, and didn't seem to have much in it, for it were scarcely any weight at all." "well, james, don't fret about it," said the other; "you meant no harm. as to the value of the bag, i know nothing more than you've told me, for i haven't been expecting anything of the sort. i only trust it'll be a warning to you, and that you'll stick firm to your pledge, and keep on the outside of the beer-shops and publics for the future." "i will, thomas; i will. but you know i told you as that gent who put the bag in my keeping gave me a letter besides. well, i ain't lost the letter, but i've really been ashamed to bring it you, as i couldn't bring the bag too. and the devil said to me, `you'd better throw the letter behind the fire, and there'll be an end of all bother;' but i couldn't do that, though i've never had the courage yet to give it you. but here it is;" and he took from his pocket a discoloured envelope, and handed it to bradly. it was directed in a crabbed hand, with the writing sloping down to the corner--"miss jane bradly, crossbourne." "stop here a minute or two, jim," said his friend, "and i shall be able perhaps to set your mind at ease about the bag;" and he left the room. "jane," he said, addressing his sister, who was seated in her usual place by the kitchen fire, "i've a letter for you, and it has come in rather an odd way;" and he then repeated to her james barnes's story. much puzzled, but with no great amount of curiosity or interest, jane took the letter from her brother's hand. from whom could it have come? there was of course no postmark, as it had been sent by messenger; and she knew nothing of the handwriting. when she had opened it she found only one small leaf, and but very few words on that; but these words, few though they were, seemed to take her breath away, and to overwhelm her with overpowering emotion. she sat staring at the miserable scrawl as though the letters were potent with some mighty spell, and then, throwing the paper on the table by her, gave way to a passionate outburst of weeping. "jane, jane dear, what's amiss?" cried her brother in great distress. "the lord help us! what has happened?" she did not look up, but pushed the letter towards him, and he read as follows:-- "dear jane,--i am sorry now for all as i've done at you. pray forgive me. you will find a letter all about it in the bag; and i've put your little marked bible, and the other br---t with it, into the bag. so no more at present from yours--jh." slowly the facts of the case dawned on thomas bradly's mind. john hollands was trying to make amends for the cruel wrong he had done to poor jane, and had sent her a written statement which would wipe off the stain he had himself cast on her character; and with this he had sent jane's dearly-prized bible and the companion bracelet to the one seen by lady morville in jane's hand, and given up by her to her mistress on that unhappy morning. and what of john hollands himself? no doubt he was making the best of his way, under fear of detection and punishment, to some foreign country; and had left the bag through a feeling of remorse, that he might clear jane's character. both brother and sister saw this clearly; and that the means of relief for poor jane had been just within their grasp, but now, by the cruel carelessness of james barnes, had slipped away from them, and perhaps for ever. where was the bag which had in it what would set all things straight? who could tell? "i see it all," said bradly, sadly, to his sister. "it's very trying and very tantalising; but the lord knows best how to deal with his own." "o thomas," exclaimed his sister, "this seems almost more than i can bear!" "i know it, i know it, jane; and yet remember the promise, `he will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.' nay, cheer up, darling! `the lord does not afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men.' he'll never let his people be vexed a moment longer than's good for them. i feel certain now as the bag'll be found sooner or later. whether _we_ can find it or no, one thing's certain,--the lord knows where it is he's got his eye upon it; and it'll turn up just at the right time. now, my dearest sister, just take this for your comfort. the lord's sent you this letter just to show you that deliverance is on the road; it'll come, i'll be bound, afore so very long. just you help yourself along by the light of his promises, and by my two walking-sticks, `do the next thing'--`one step at a time.' the next thing for you now is to wait his time in faith and patience. remember those precious words of the psalm: `commit thy way unto the lord; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass. and he shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light, and thy judgment as the noonday. rest in the lord, and wait patiently for him!'" jane dried her tears, and held out her arms to her brother, who drew her tenderly to his heart, and again bade her take comfort. "and now," he said, "i must go to poor jim." "well, thomas," said barnes, on the return of his friend, "i hope there's nothing very bad come of my losing the bag?" "james," replied the other, gravely, "i can't say that; i wish i could. the loss of the bag is a serious business to us; but we must do our best to try and find it, and you must help us." james looked very sad and crestfallen. "thomas," he said, "i wish i'd only knowed as that bag were of so much consequence. but then that's nothing to do with it; i ought to have brought it to you at once--i know that. i'll do my very best, however, to find it; and, come what will, i've had a lesson as i shan't easily forget. the inside of the public has seen the last of me." "stick to that, jim," said the other, "and put a prayer to it to the lord to keep you; and that'll do more to make up for the loss of the bag than anything you can possibly do for us. good-night, jim. keep firm to your pledge, and you'll not want friends here and above." "good-night, thomas; and the lord bless you for your kindness!" and now, what was to be done? it was quite clear that the bag contained the means of a triumphant establishment of jane's innocence with lady morville, and consequent freedom from all stain or slur on her character. but was it possible to find the bag? the circumstances connected with the bag's loss were communicated to the vicar, who helped bradly to institute every possible inquiry after it in a quiet way, for they did not wish, especially on jane's account, to make the matter a nine days' wonder in crossbourne by advertising. but all was in vain; not the faintest clue could be got by which to trace it. of course, it might have been possible for jane to ascertain through her brother whether john hollands had really left monksworthy hall, and whether or no any of his evil practices had come to light since his departure. and, supposing such discoveries to have been made, she might have produced the letter signed "jh," and have shown its contents to lady morville. but then jane would naturally be expected to produce the bag alluded to in the letter, or, at any rate, the companion bracelet which was said to be in it; and the having to tell what would look like a roundabout story concerning its loss would not be likely to leave a thoroughly favourable impression on the mind of her late mistress. poor jane! she felt that without the bracelet she could not hope to claim a full and frank acknowledgment from her ladyship that her innocence was completely vindicated. she must therefore wait, trust, and be patient. "light has begun to dawn on your trouble, jane," said the vicar; "and be sure brighter light will follow. we must do our best, and leave it to the lord to carry out his own purposes in his own wise and gracious way. sure i am of this, that you will find the fuller light come in due time; and, more than that, that you will see that good has all the while been working out, through this trial, to others as well as to yourself." "i'm sure you're right, sir," said bradly; "she'll have cause in the end even to bless the lord for this affliction. and, after all, i don't see why we shouldn't try and find out hollands' whereabouts through some of his old companions, when he's been a little while in foreign parts; and if we write and tell him about the loss of the bag, i don't doubt, if he's truly sorry for what he's done to jane,--and it seems likely as he is,--he'll write her back such a letter as will clear up all with lady morville. but the next step is just to leave all in the lord's hands for the present." and so it was left. chapter nine. crossbourne annual temperance meeting. week after week rolled by, and james barnes continued firm to the pledge which he had signed in thomas bradly's "surgery." and now the usual time for holding the annual meeting of the "crossbourne temperance society" had come round, and a meeting was accordingly advertised to be held in the town hall. but mischief was apparently brewing; for all the bills announcing the meeting which were posted on the walls were either torn down or defaced the same night that they were put up,--a thing which had never happened before. so it would seem that the enemies of the temperance cause were prepared to offer more than ordinary opposition, and that very possibly they might try to spoil or interrupt the meeting itself. and the friends of the temperance movement in crossbourne had not to look far to find the cause. there had been mutterings of a coming storm for some time past. the lovers of strong drink, supported by those who made capital out of their unnatural and ruinous thirst, had been laying plans and concocting schemes for thwarting the steady advance which temperance was making in the town. and now the sudden and shocking death of poor joseph wright, so far from teaching any of his old associates the lesson which god, who can bring good even out of man's evil, would have had them learn from that frightful disaster, had only made them plunge more deeply into the slough of drunkenness; and so total abstainers and their principles got more abuse and hatred from them than ever. conscience _would_ be heard for a little while, roused into utterance as it was by the death of their miserable companion; but they hated that inward voice--it exasperated them. drink they would have, and cordially would they hate more and more all who would try, however gently and lovingly, to draw them away from the intoxicating cup. and now the desertion of james barnes, as they considered it, to the enemy, made the fire of their wrath and indignation burn with a tenfold intensity. "we're like to have hot work to-night, sir," said bradly to the vicar, as he sat in the vicarage study on the morning of the meeting talking over the arrangements for the evening. "i fear so," said mr maltby; "so we must take proper precautions. i hear that the friends of poor joseph wright intend to muster in full force and spoil the meeting if they can. however, i have spoken to the police sergeant, and he will be there with one or two of his men to prevent any serious disturbance. you must see that they don't turn off the gas, and get us into trouble that way." "all right, sir," replied bradly, "we'll take care about that; but i ain't much afraid. there's a deal of bluster among those chaps, but it don't take much to empty it out of 'em. somehow or other i think we're going to have a good meeting after all." nevertheless, it was not without some considerable feeling of anxiety that the vicar entered the committee room of the town hall about a quarter of an hour before the time of commencement. he was accompanied by a brother clergyman from a distant county, who had brought a plain working-man with him from his parish. these were to be the chief speakers of the evening. thomas bradly was to bring james barnes with him, and both were to take their places among the audience, but near the platform, so as not to attract more observation than necessary, at the first. the hall, which was a spacious and well-lighted building, began to fill as soon as the doors were opened. there was manifestly an unusual interest taken, not necessarily nor probably in the cause itself, but, at any rate, in the present meeting. the friends of joseph wright and their companions had made it publicly known, and a matter of open boasting, that they intended to be there; and this announcement was the inducement to a number of idle men and boys to attend the meeting in the hopes of having some diversion. but thomas bradly and his friends were quite equal to the occasion; they were fully alive to the intention of their adversaries, and acted accordingly. as the opponents of temperance entered the hall, members of the temperance society contrived to slip in with them, and so to distribute themselves over the seats that no large number of the other side could be gathered in a compact body together. by the time the minute-hand of the clock over the chairman's seat had reached twenty-five minutes past seven--the meeting being advertised to begin at half-past seven--the hall was densely packed from one end to the other, the only unoccupied places being one or two seats close under the platform. punctually at the half-hour the party from the committee room walked on to the platform, headed by the vicar; while at the same moment thomas bradly, followed by james barnes, emerged from a side door near the platform, and the two friends placed themselves on two of the vacant foremost chairs. the entrance of these two parties was greeted by a roar of mingled cheers, laughter, and a few groans and hisses. mr maltby advanced to the front of the platform, and there was instantly silence. "just one word, dear friends, before we commence our meeting," he said. "i have such confidence in your manly english honesty and common fairness, that i am persuaded that, whether you agree with us or no, you will give myself and my friends a quiet and uninterrupted hearing. we are come here to try and do some good. bear with us, then, and listen to us." this short speech had the desired effect. there was indeed a grand effort made to obstruct and disturb on the part of the drinking faction; but it became apparent at once that the great bulk of the working-men present--though most had come chiefly with a view to be amused--were not at all disposed to allow the vicar and his friends to be hissed or shouted down. the few straightforward words just spoken aroused their better feelings, and the intended rioters felt that they must wait a little before attempting any further demonstration. thankful for the success of his brief speech, mr maltby proceeded to open the meeting with scripture and prayer as usual. all were very still; but as he rose from his knees his eyes fell upon a man who sat at the extreme end of the front bench to his right. that man was william foster. never had the vicar seen him before at any meeting where he himself was present; and as he took his seat in the chair, he whispered to his clerical friend, "do you see that man at the extreme end of the front bench? i am afraid his being here to-night bodes us no good, for he is the leading infidel and mischief-maker in the place."--"indeed!" replied his friend; "well, let us hope the best. perhaps the lord will give us a word even for him to-night. at any rate, we have a noble and intelligent audience before us; and let us do our best for them, and leave the issue in higher hands."--"thank you," whispered the vicar; "i feel ashamed of my want of faith. doubtless all will be overruled for good." he then proceeded to give a short address, in which, avoiding all harshness and bitterness of expression, he strove to leave on his hearers' hearts the impression that love and nothing else constrained him and his fellow-workers in the efforts they were using to promote the spread of temperance in the parish and neighbourhood. the other speakers followed in the same strain; the working-man being able, in his rough-and-ready way, to carry with him the great majority of the meeting, so that a feeble attempt at disturbance from the opponents proved a decided failure. but now a strange stir and excitement rustled through the vast assembly as james barnes, at the invitation of the vicar, mounted the platform, and stood unabashed before his fellow-townsmen. but scarcely had he begun to open his lips when a torrent of yells and shouts burst from a score or two of drunken throats; others cheered, many laughed, some shouted; then followed a thunder of clapping and stamping, whistling and shrieking, and it seemed for a few moments as though the triumph were to be on the side of disorder and intemperance. but, as a second whirlwind of uproar was beginning, the vicar again stepped forward, and, raising his right-hand as begging silence, smiled pleasantly on the excited crowd, while he placed his left hand on the shoulder of james barnes, who stood his ground manfully. then followed shouts of "shame, shame!"--"sit down!"--"hold your noise!"--"hearken jim!" and the storm gradually subsided into a calm. "i'm one of yourselves," began jim bluntly, as soon as order was restored, and not in the slightest degree discomposed by this rough reception; "you shouldn't make such a din. how's a fellow to make himself heard? why, it's worse than half a dozen engines all whistling at once." there was a buzz of amused satisfaction at this professional illustration, and james barnes had got the ear of the meeting. "i'll tell you what it is, friends," he went on; "it's true i ain't much of a speaker, but i can tell you a thing or two about myself as may be useful. i've got my sunday coat on to-night, and it's my own, and it's never been to the popshop. i couldn't have said that a month ago, for i'd never a sunday coat then. another thing, i'm spending my own wages; that's more nor i've done for many years past, for the devil's been used to spend the best part of them for me and put 'em into the landlord's till. now i takes 'em to buy bread and clothes for the wife and children. another thing, and better still, i've got one or two good friends as pulled me out of the mire, and won't let me go. tommy tracks there, as you call him, he's one of them; and _your_ good friend the vicar,--for he _is_ your friend, think as you please,--he's another. and, best of all, i've got a clear head and a clear conscience, and a hope of a better home by-and-by, and a saviour above all to look to; and i shouldn't have had none of these if i'd been going on in my old ways. so _you_ may laugh if you please when you say, `jim barnes has turned teetotaler;' but i mean to sing when i says it, for it's true, and he means to stick to it, with god's help, all the days of his life." having delivered himself of this brief address, james barnes hurried down from the platform, followed by a roar of hearty applause, which completely drowned the efforts of a few dissentient voices. the vicar was now just rising to call on another speaker to address the meeting, when his attention, as well as that of the whole audience, was turned to william foster as he got up deliberately from his seat. mr maltby had watched him narrowly during the evening, and not without considerable anxiety and interest. up to the close of barnes's speech foster had apparently taken little or no interest in the proceedings; certainly he had not joined either in the applause or in the dissent. what was he now about to do? turning to the vicar, amidst a breathless silence throughout the hall, he said, in a firm and clear voice, "mr chairman, may i say a few words to this meeting?" the vicar hesitated. was this man going to spoil all? his eye at that moment caught thomas bradly's. thomas nodded to him, and then turned to foster and said, "get you on to the platform, william; the vicar and all the rest of us will give you a patient hearing, i'm sure." foster then mounted the platform, and stood for a moment facing the audience without speaking. he was very pale, and his voice trembled at first, but soon recovered its firmness as he spoke as follows:-- "mr chairman and fellow-townsmen, i have not come here to-night to oppose the temperance movement, but quite the contrary. i am quite sure that movement has been doing good in this town, and is doing good still. you have only to look at jim barnes to see that. everybody knows what he was, and everybody knows what he now is; there is no sham nor deceit in the matter. now, whatever our creeds may be, whether we think alike in other things or not, there can be no two opinions about this matter with honest and reasoning men. the temperance movement is doing good, and we have before us a plain proof of it. now, i am not here to-night merely to talk. i should not have come if that were all. i have come to act. i have professed to be a reasoning man, and to belong to a party that prides itself upon being governed by reason, and yet i have allowed myself to come more or less under the dominion of that strong drink which just turns a reasoning man into something far lower than an irrational brute. `well, then,' some of you might say, `can't you exert your own will and give it up without coming to a temperance meeting to talk about it?' yes, i could; but that would be just merely doing good to myself. now, i can't help being aware that your chairman, the vicar of this parish, and his right-hand man, thomas bradly, are not content with being total abstainers for their own benefit, but are doing their best, spite of ridicule, opposition, and persecution, to get others to become abstainers also. they can have nothing to gain by this except the happiness of making others happy. i see this plainly; and my reason (_they_ would call it conscience, i suppose) tells me that, if i am a really honest and unprejudiced man, i ought to follow their example. i am here to-night to do it. i have other reasons besides for taking this course, but i do not think it necessary to mention them on the present occasion. i know what it will cost me to take this step, but i have well weighed the consequences and am prepared to accept them. mr chairman, i will sign the pledge to-night in your book, and join your society, if you will allow me." having spoken thus, william foster quietly resumed his seat. the effect of this speech on the meeting was most overwhelming. every word had been heard all over the hall, for foster had a clear and powerful voice, and had spoken calmly and deliberately, as one who weighed every word and sentence carefully; and the silence while he addressed his audience had been almost oppressive. was it possible that foster could be in earnest? there was no mistake about it--every man was at once convinced of this from the vicar down to the most sottish of the anti-temperance gathering. such a man as foster would never have come forward in this way had he not had powerful and all-constraining motives to lead him to take such a step. when he sat down there was neither shouting nor laughter: the great body of working-men, including the obstructionists, seemed stupified; they looked at one another with open-eyed and open-mouthed wonder, and whispered their amazement and perplexity. then the vicar, struck dumb for the moment by sheer astonishment, after exchanging with his brother clergyman on the platform a glance of deep thankfulness, rose, and addressing william foster, said, "i cannot tell you, my friend, how truly glad i am to find that you have been guided to take such a step as you now contemplate; most cordially shall i receive your signature in our pledge-book, and welcome you to our society." then the crowd of hearers rose to their feet, and gave vent to their feelings in three hearty cheers; while the opponents of the cause made their way to the door as quickly as they could. the next minute thomas bradly stood by the vicar's side, and all sat hushed in attention as he addressed the meeting. tears were in his eyes, and half-choked was his voice as he began:-- "friends, i've been at many a temperance meeting in my day, but never at one that i shall remember like this. some of us abstainers came here to-night with doubting hearts; it seemed as if the evil one was a-going to put a big stone or two in the way of the temperance cause, but instead of that he's been and trod upon his own tail, as he often does. o bless the lord for his goodness! we've had a mighty large stone took out of the way, instead of any new 'uns laid in our path. ah! why should we ever be fainthearted? the cause is a good cause, and it _will_ prosper, depend upon it. and now, friends, there's many of you here to-night as came, i know, just for a bit of fun; you didn't mean no harm, but you wouldn't have minded a little bit of a laugh against us. but it's turned out just the other way: you've given us a help, and stopped the mouths of them as would have upset our meeting; so let them laugh as wins. and now, friends, i want to say a word to you about our friend william here. we're all thinking about him; he has come forward like an honest man to-night, and a right brave man too. i know he can't have done it without having to pay for it. i know, and you know too, as it'll not be all smooth work between him and his mates. now, whether you like or don't like what he has done to-night, you can't help respecting him for it; so just keep your tongues off him when you meet him, and do him a kind turn if you can. he and i ain't of one mind, you well know--at least we haven't been; but he knows this, that in anything that's good i'll back him up through thick and thin if he'll let me. and now, here's a grand opportunity; just some of you chaps as have been cheering him like anything come up to the table and sign the pledge with him, and keep it by god's help, and you'll bless this night every day of your lives, and so will the wives and children." there was a cheery response to this speech in many a hearty word of assent; and then the vicar closed the meeting, inviting any who were willing to come and sign. the crowded room was soon emptied of all but a very few, among whom were william foster and about a dozen more of the working-men, who expressed their intention to sign with him. foster himself signed his name with an unflinching hand, but said nothing. the vicar thought it wisest not to endeavour to draw him into conversation at this time, but with a kindly shake of the hand, and an expression of thankfulness at his joining the temperance society, bade him good-night. as the committee and the speakers were leaving the hall, the vicar kept thomas bradly back, and said to him: "this is wonderful indeed; it is the lord's doing, and is marvellous in our eyes. now you must keep your eye, thomas, on foster; i think you will get at him at first better than i should be likely to do. you will be able to see just how the land lies, and i shall be ready to come in at any time; only with such a man we must use discretion, knowing what his antecedents have been." "ay, surely," replied the other; "i'll not let him go, sir, now that we've got hold of him--you may depend upon it. oh! this is indeed what i never could have dreamt of. well, we've had a grand night; and it's a sign, i believe, as we're going to have some rare bright sunshine on our temperance work." "i trust and believe so, indeed," rejoined mr maltby, and they parted. that meeting was never forgotten in crossbourne, but was always spoken of as emphatically _the_ great crossbourne temperance meeting. chapter ten. light in the dark dwelling. the day that followed the great temperance meeting was one full of excitement to the operatives of crossbourne. every mill and workshop resounded with the eager hum of conversation and conjecture touching the marvellous occurrence of the previous evening--the speech and conduct of william foster. of course a variety of distorted versions of the matter flew abroad, and were caught and carried home into the country by some who lived at a distance from the town. among these versions was a strongly affirmed and as strongly believed account of the last night's occurrences, which set forth how william foster, with a picked party of his friends, had forced their way to the top of the hall, and were in the act of mounting the platform for the purpose of turning the vicar out of the chair, when a voice of unearthly loudness was heard to shout, "forbear!"--upon which the meeting broke up in wild confusion, leaving foster prostrated on the ground by some invisible and mysterious power, where he lay till brought back to consciousness by the joint efforts of mr maltby and thomas bradly; after which, at their earnest suggestion, he there and then signed the pledge. foster's own companions, however, had not been altogether taken by surprise. for some weeks past he had been absent from his club, and from the public-house, and when questioned on the subject had given short and evasive answers. a change had been coming over him--that was clear enough; but whence it originated even those who had been the most intimate with him were at a loss to conjecture. and now on the morning after the meeting, when he walked into the mill-yard, while some looked on him with the sort of wonder with which a crowd would gape at some strange animal, the like of which they had neither seen nor heard of before, others began to assail him with gibes and taunts and coarse would-be witticisms. but foster bore it all unmoved, never uttering a word in reply, but going on steadily with his work. as the men, however, were about to leave for their homes, after the mill had loosed, a sneering, sour-looking fellow, one enos wilkinson, who had gathered a little crowd about him, and was watching for foster, whose work detained him a little later than the ordinary hands, stepped across his path, and raising his voice, cried, "come now, saint foster, you'll be bringing out a nice little book about your conversion, to edify us poor sinners who are still in heathen darkness. when do you mean to favour us with the first edition?"--"the day after you become sober and sensible, enos," was foster's reply, and he walked on, leaving his persecutors unprepared with an answer. two hours later, and thomas bradly might be seen standing outside foster's house, with a happy smile on his face, and a short whispered conversation going on between two parts of himself. "now, then, thomas, you're in for it." "ay, to be sure; and in for a good thing too." "what'll will foster say? and what'll _you_ say, thomas?" "ah! well, all that's best left in the lord's hands." after this a loud, decided knock on thomas's part, and then the cautious tread of a woman inside. "all right, missus; it's only me, thomas bradly." no answer for a minute, and then the heavier tread of a man. foster himself opened the door, and holding out his hand, said,-- "come in, thomas. you're just the man i've been wanting to see." "and you're just the man i'm right glad to hear say so," was the other's reply. the two men walked into the inner room together. all was very neat, and the whole place wore an air of comfort far different from what had been its appearance in days past. but the greatest change was in foster's wife. bradly, who had met her often in the street or in the shops, could hardly believe her to be the same. "ha, ha!" said he inwardly to himself; "the lord's been at work here, i can see." yes! there was that marked change on the features which can come only from a changed heart. there was peace on that face--a peace whose tranquil light had never shone there before. there was not joy yet, but there was peace. not, indeed, peace unmixed, for there was a shade of earth's sadness there still; but god's peace was there, like a lunar rainbow, beautiful in its heavenly colouring cast upon the clouds of sorrow, but not intensely bright. as she held out her hand to bradly to give him a friendly welcome, he could see that her eyes were full of tears. "all right," he said to himself; "the work's begun." as he was seating himself on one side of the fire, his eye fell on a little, stout, shabbily-bound volume lying in a corner near some showily-ornamented books. could it really be a bible? "right again," thought thomas; "i ain't often mistaken about _that_ book. the secret's out; i see what has worked the change." "i'm truly glad, but almost ashamed, to see you, thomas," began foster, seating himself opposite his guest. "however, i'm glad now of this opportunity of expressing my regret for the many hard and undeserved things i've spoken against you, both to your face and behind your back." "never give it another thought, william," cried the other. "you've never done me the least harm; but quite the other way. it's as good as physic, and a deal better than some physic, to hear what other people think of us, even if it ain't all of it quite true to the life." "ah! but i did you injustice, thomas." "never mind if you did. you never said half as much evil of me as i knew of myself. but let by-gones be by-gones. you've made me happier than i can tell you; for i can see plainly enough as the lord has been laying his loving hands on you and your missus." "you are right, thomas; and i know it will give you real pleasure to hear how it has all come about.--so sit down, kate, and help me out with my story." ah, what a different scene was this from that sorrowful time when the poor, broken-hearted young mother leant hopelessly over the cradle of her little one thirsting for that which she knew not where to find! now the same wife and mother sat with a smile of sweet contentment, busily plying her knitting, while her husband told the simple story of how the god of the bible had "brought the blind by a way that they knew not." "you know what i have been, thomas," began foster. "well, i am not ashamed now to confess that i never was really happy, nor satisfied with my own creed. spite of my conviction of my own superior knowledge, i could not help acknowledging to my inward self that you were right and i was wrong; at least, i saw that your creed did for you what my creed could not do for me. it was very pleasant and flattering, of course, to be looked up to as an oracle by the other members of my club, and to get their applause when i said sharp things against religion and men whose views differed from our own. but all the while i despised those very companions of mine, and their praises; and, what's more, i despised myself. "and another thing--i had no real happiness at home, nor poor kate neither. i was disappointed in her--she won't mind my saying so now-- and she was disappointed in me. we had nothing to bind our hearts together but a love which wanted a stronger cement than mere similarity of tastes. besides which--for i may as well speak out plainly now while i'm about it--it was poor satisfaction to come home and find books lying about, and scarce a spark of fire in the grate; no tea getting ready, but, instead of it, twenty good reasons why things were not all straight and comfortable. and these reasons were but a poor substitute for the comforts that were not forthcoming, and only made matters worse. and if there was neglect on her part, there was plenty of fault-finding on mine. i was sharp and unreasonable; and then we both of us lost our temper, and i was glad to seek other company, and began to care less and less for my home, and more for the public-house and for the drink which gives the inspiration to the conversation you meet with in such places. "sometimes things would go on a little better, but not for long. and when we got to angry words with one another, we had no higher authority than ourselves to appeal to when we would set one another right. thomas, i see this more plainly every day now. freethinkers--would-be atheists, like my former self--are at an immense disadvantage compared with christians in this respect. a christian has a recognised, infallible authority to which he can appeal--the will of his god, as set forth in the word of his god. when he differs from a fellow-christian, both can go to that authority, and abide by its decision. christians will do this if they are honest men, and really love one another. we freethinkers have no such court of appeal. however, let that pass. "things went on as i've been telling you, and were getting worse. our two hearts were getting further apart every day, and colder and colder towards each other. this went on, and the breach kept widening, till a few weeks ago. you'll not have forgotten, i know, poor joe wright's sad end. well, it was a few days after the accident that i came home much the worse for liquor, i'm ashamed to say, and in a particularly bad temper. things had not been pleasant at the club. one of the members had been breaking the rules; and when i pointed this out, i was met with opposition, and the determined display of an intention on the part of several others to side with the offender. words ran high, and i spoke my mind pretty freely, and received in return such a shower of abuse as fairly staggered me. so i betook myself to the public-house, and drank glass after glass to drown my uncomfortable reflections, and then went home. "the drink, instead of driving away my mortification, only made me more irritable; and when i got into my own house, i was ready to find fault with everything, and to vent the bitterness of my spirit on my poor little wife. but, to my surprise, she did not answer me back, far less repay my disparaging remarks with usury, which she might very well have done, and would have done a few days before. i could not help seeing, too, that she had been taking pains to make the room look tidier than usual. my supper was ready for me, my slippers set by the fender, and the arm-chair drawn up near the fire. i did not choose to make any remark on this at the time; indeed, i got all the more cross, because i was annoyed by the sense of my own injustice in being angry with her. so poor kate had but a sad time of it that night. "however, i had made a note in my mind of what i had seen, and i was curious to mark if this change in domestic matters would continue. to my surprise, and, i am ashamed to say, not altogether to my gratification, i found that it did continue. i was suspicious as to the motive and reason for this change, and therefore not satisfied. so i took the improvement in my poor wife's temper and conduct very surlily; the real fact being, i now believe, that i was inwardly vexed by being forced to feel that she was showing by her behaviour to me her superiority to myself. but the change still continued, and i could detect no unworthy motive for it; so at last kate's loving ways and patient forbearance got the victory, and then i began to look around for the cause of this transformation. what could it have been that had made my wife so different, and my home so different? "while i now freely confessed to her my pleasure at the improvement, and endeavoured to repay her loving attentions by coming home regularly in good time and sober, i forbore to question her as to what had made such a difference in her, and she was evidently anxious to avoid the subject. but i was resolved to find out how this new state of things had come about, and an opportunity for doing so soon presented itself. one evening there was a break-down at the mill, and i returned home earlier than usual. i was getting near the house, when i heard my wife singing, and the tune was clearly a hymn tune. the secret was discovered now. i took off my boots, and crept slowly up to the door. the singing had stopped, and all was quiet. then i heard kate's voice gently reading out loud to herself, and the words she read, though i could not catch them distinctly, were manifestly not those of any book of science or amusement: i could tell that by the seriousness of the tone of her voice. the conviction then came strongly upon me that she was reading the bible, and that this book was the cause of the great change in her. a thousand thoughts stirred in my heart. i durst not venture to look in at the window, lest she should see me, for i had not at all made up my mind what to do. so i went back a little distance, put on my boots again, and came into the house as if nothing had happened. "i was unusually silent that night, and i saw kate looking aside at me now and then with a half-frightened glance, as if she was afraid that i was going to change back to my old unkind ways. i watched her very narrowly, and she saw it, and was uneasy. the fact was, i wanted to get at her bible, if she really had one, and i had not yet the courage to speak to her about it. she knew how i had talked to her against it, and made a mock at it, and i couldn't yet humble myself enough to ask for a sight of it. i noticed, however, that she looked a little anxiously at me when i turned down the baby's bed-clothes in the cradle to have a look at him; and as i could see no bible anywhere about the room, it darted into my mind that she had hidden it under the clothes. so when she was gone up into the bedroom, to set things to rights upstairs, i found the book i was looking for stowed snugly away, and began to read it as eagerly as if it had been a rich man's will leaving me all his property." "you weren't far wrong there, william," broke in thomas bradly; "for the gospel _is_ our heavenly father's will and testament, making us his heirs; and it's written with his own hand, and sealed with the blood of his dear son. but go on, william." "i don't doubt but you're right," resumed foster. "well, as i read the little bible, i was quite astonished, for i saw how utterly ignorant i had been of its contents and teaching. ah, yes; it's one thing to know a few texts, just enough to furnish matter for censure and ridicule, and quite a different thing to read the very same book with a sincere desire to learn and understand what it has to tell us. i found it so, i can assure you. so i learnt from that humble little bible of kate's what all my philosophy and all the philosophy in the world could never teach me. "it isn't to the point now, but i'll tell you another time how this bible came into kate's hands; for of course we had not one of our own in the house. a singular chance i should have called it a short time ago; but i'm coming more and more to your mind, thomas, that chance is only a wrong and misleading term for the guiding hand of one whom i now hope to trust in, love, and obey, however unworthily." "the lord be praised, his blessed name be praised!" cried thomas bradly, while the tears ran fast down his cheeks. "yes," said foster reverently, "he may well be praised, for i have indeed good reason to praise him.--so you see i had got to the bottom of the mystery at last, and that little book has become to me now worth a thousand times its own weight in gold. "day after day i went on reading it by stealth, and every day i wondered more and more at its marvellous suitableness to my own case. and then i began to do that which a few weeks back i should have looked upon as simply an evidence of insanity in a man of my views. i began to pray. i hardly dared make the attempt at first. it seemed to me that were i to venture to address the great being whose existence i had denied, and whose name i had constantly blasphemed, a flash of lightning or some other sudden exertion of his power would strike me dumb. but i did venture at last to offer up an earnest cry for mercy and pardon in the name of that saviour who invites us to offer our prayers in his name; and then it seemed as though a mountain were lifted from my heart, and blindness were removed from my eyes. "next day, after tea, i quietly asked kate for the bible. i shall never forget her look as long as i live. fear, hope, joy followed one another like sunshine breaking through the clouds. could i be in earnest? she did not hesitate long, for she saw that in my face which told her that she might trust me with her treasure. then she brought out the book from its hiding-place, put it on the table by me, and throwing her arms round my neck, wept away the sorrows of years. and it may be that at that time angels looked down upon us, and shed tears of joy to see two poor penitent sinners thus `sitting at the feet of their saviour, clothed, and in their right mind.'" for a while no one spoke, for all were too deeply moved. at last foster continued: "i knew i should have to come out on the right side openly sooner or later, but you may be sure it would be no easy matter. however, i had made up my mind: it would have to be done some time or other, so, as the annual temperance meeting was soon to come off--i knew that, for joe wright's party were boasting of what they meant to do--i determined to show my colours by joining your society, and you have seen the result." "yes, william," said bradly, cheerily, "i see it, and i bless the lord for it; and if he has made me in any way an unworthy instrument in helping to bring about this change, i can truly say that he has paid me back interest a thousandfold for any little i've ever done or suffered for him." "then, thomas," said the other earnestly, "you may be pleased to know that it was your hand that gave the first blows to the nail, though, it was my dear wife that was the means of driving it home. i often thought i could easily knock down your arguments, and, though i knew you had the best of it--for you had honesty and truth on your side--yet when i went home after one of our talks, i've vexed myself many a time by thinking, `well, now, if i'd only thought of this or that thing, i might have floored him.' but there was one thing that always floored _me_, and that was `the logic of the life;' i couldn't find an answer to _that_. and not only so, but, as i said a little while ago, i saw that the religion of jesus christ made you truly happy, and i knew that my free- thinking never did that for me nor for any of my like-minded companions; so that deep down in my heart a voice was constantly saying, `tommy tracks is right.' and now i'm _sure_ that he is so. thomas, i now ask your friendship and your help, as i have already asked your forgiveness." bradly wrung the other's hand with a hearty grip, and then said, "you shall have them, william. i know you'll be all the better for an earthly friend or two, for there'll want a deal of backing up just at first. but oh, i'm so truly thankful that you and your missus have got the best friend of all on your side, who will never leave you nor forsake you. yes, come what will, you can go to one now who will keep peace in your conscience, peace in your heart and peace and love in your home." by foster's request, before they parted, thomas bradly knelt with them and offered a prayer. ah, what a sight! glorious even for angels to look down upon! those three uniting in prayer--the old disciple; the blasphemer, persecutor, and injurious; and the till late christless wife--all now one in jesus, bowed at his footstool, while the humble servant of the lord poured out his heart in simple, fervent supplication and praise, as all bent head and knee in the felt presence of the unseen god. next sunday foster was at church in the morning, and was there with his wife in the evening, mrs bradly having undertaken to look after the baby. as for bradly himself, his face was a sight worth seeing on that sunday. it was always brighter than usual on the lord's-day; but on this particular sabbath every line of his features shone with a glow of gladness, as though, like moses, he had just come down from the mount. it need hardly be said that the vicar's heart also deeply rejoiced. as for the inhabitants of crossbourne generally, some were glad, with a spice of caution in their gladness; some shook their heads and smiled, meaning thereby to let all men know that, in case foster should not persevere in his new career, _they_, at any rate, had never been over- sanguine as to the genuineness of his reformation; some simply looked grave; while the profligate and the profane gnashed their teeth with envy hatred, and malice, and exchanged vehement asseverations of "how they'd pay off the sneaking humbug of a deserter, and no mistake." chapter eleven. a blighted life. spring had come, but the cloud still rested on poor jane bradly. true, her heart was lighter, for she now believed with her brother that there was deliverance at hand for her, and that the mists were beginning to melt away. she was firmly persuaded that her character would be entirely cleared. but when? how soon would the waiting-time come to an end? and what good could come out of such a trouble? here was the trial of her faith; but she bore it patiently, and the chastening was producing in her, even now, "the peaceable fruit of righteousness." she began to improve in health and strength, and had lost much of the look of abiding care; for the habitual peace of a mind stayed on god, and the consciousness of innocence as regarded the wrong-doing of which she had been suspected, kept her calm in the blessedness of a childlike trust. but there was one who lived not far from her, a sister in affliction, about whose sad heart the clouds were gathering thicker and thicker. spring, with its opening buds and rejoicing birds, brought no gladness to the spirit of clara maltby. she was gradually wasting away. change of air and scene had been recommended, but she would not hear of leaving home, and clung with a distressing tenacity to her round of daily studies, shortening her brief time of exercise, and seeming anxious to goad herself into the attainment of the utmost amount of knowledge which it was possible for her to acquire, grudging every minute as lost and wasted time that was not given to study. to shine had become with her the one absorbing object; to shine, not, alas! for christ, but for self, for the world, that she might gain the prize of human applause. so she was using the gifts with which god had endowed her, not to his glory, by laying them at the foot of the cross, and employing them as talents with which she was to occupy till the master came, but as means whereby she might win for herself distinction, and outstrip others in the race for earthly fame. but such a strain on mind and body could not last; the overtaxed faculties would assert their claim for the much-needed rest; and so, in the early spring-time, clara maltby was suddenly stricken down and lay for days in a state of half-unconsciousness. at last she rallied, in a measure; and when she was sufficiently recovered to bear conversation, she earnestly begged that she might be allowed to see thomas bradly, and have an opportunity of saying a few words to him in the presence of her parents, previously to her being taken from home by her mother to the seaside, to which she had been ordered by her medical man, as soon as she could bear the removal. so one evening, after his work, bradly, with a sorrowful heart, made his way up to the vicarage, and was introduced by mr maltby into the inner room, where his daughter had gathered together her own special library. the patient lay on a low couch near the fire, which burned cheerfully, and lighted up, though not with gladness, the care-smitten features of the vicar's daughter. close to her was a little table, on which lay a small bible, a pile of photographs, and a few printed papers. her writing materials occupied part of a larger table, and were flanked on either side by heaps of volumes--scientific, historical, and poetical; while beyond the books was a small but exquisitely-modelled group of wax flowers, most life-like in appearance, under a glass shade. over the fire-place was a large water-colour drawing of crossbourne church, with miniatures of her father and mother, one on each side of it. on the mantelpiece was an ivory statuette, beautifully carved, the gift of a travelled friend; and other articles of taste and refinement were scattered up and down the room. but now the gentle mistress of this quiet retreat lay languid and weary, incapable of enjoying these articles of grace and beauty which surrounded her. there was a flush indeed on her cheek, but no light in the heavy eyes. she looked like a gathered flower,--fair, but drooping, because it can strike no root and find no moisture. thomas bradly was shocked at the change a few days had made in the poor girl since he last saw her, and could hardly restrain his tears. at the head of the couch sat mrs maltby, with a face sadly worn and troubled; and between her and the fire was her husband, on whose features there rested a more chastened and peaceful sorrow. "come, sit down, thomas," said mr maltby; "my dear child cannot rest till she has seen you, and told you something that lies on her mind. i think she will be happier when she has had this little talk; and it may be that god will bless her visit to the sea, and send her back to us in improved health. i know we shall have your prayers, and the prayers of many others, that it may be so." "you shall, you do have our prayers," cried bradly, earnestly; "the lord'll order it all for the best. he's been doing wonderful things for us lately, and he means to give you and dear miss clara a share of his blessings." "well," replied the vicar, "we will hope and trust so, thomas. the clouds have not gathered without a cause; but still, i believe that, as the hymn says, they will yet `break with blessings on our head.'--clara, my child, it will not be wise to make this interview too long; so we will leave the talking now to yourself and thomas bradly." "dear, kind friend," began miss maltby, raising herself from her couch, and leaning herself on her mother, who came and sat by her, "i could not be satisfied to leave crossbourne without seeing you first, as i want you to do something for me in the parish which i cannot ask my dear father to do. and i want to make a confession also to you, as it may be the means of doing some little good in the place where i have left so much undone, and as perhaps it may not please god that i should come back again to my earthly home." she was unable to proceed for a few moments, and bradly dared not trust himself to speak, while the vicar and his wife found it hard to control their feelings. "thomas," she at length continued, her voice gaining strength and her mind clearness under the excitement of the subject which now filled her heart and thoughts, "i want you to say something for me to my class--at least to those girls who belonged to it when i used to teach it. say it to them in your own plain and simple way, and i trust that it may do them good. "i want you to tell them from me that i have tried what the world and its idols are, and i have found them `vanity of vanities.' not that i have been leading what is called a wicked life; not that i have loved gay company or worldly amusements; not that i have lost sight of christ and heaven altogether, though they have been getting further off from my sight every day; but i have been fashioning for myself an idol with my own hands, which has been shutting out heavenly things from me more and more. and now god has in mercy shattered my idol, and i trust that i can see jesus once more as i have not seen him, oh, for so long! "i am startled when i look back and see how far i have gone astray, and how i have let the devil cheat me with a thousand plausible falsehoods. oh, what a useless life i have been leading! what a selfish life i have been leading! and yet i have been persuading myself that i was only cultivating the powers which god gave me. but it has not been so; it is as though i had been set to draw a picture of our saviour, and had ability and the best of materials given me for making a beautiful likeness, and i had all the while gone on just drawing an image of myself, and had then fallen down and worshipped it. "tell my girls, then,--for i may never have the opportunity of telling them myself,--that there is no real happiness in such a life as mine has lately been. it is really purely for self is this struggle after distinction; god put us into this world for something far different. i know, of course, that my scholars are not any of them likely to be snared exactly in the same way that i have been. still, they might be tempted to think what a grand thing it would be to have the advantages for getting knowledge and distinction that i have had. ah, but what has been my life, after all? why, like that group of wax flowers under the glass shade. don't they look beautiful? but you see they are not real; they have no life and no sweetness in them, and they can never make the sick and the suffering happy as real flowers do. my life, with all its advantages, and what people call accomplishments, has been as unreal, as lifeless, as scentless as those wax flowers. it has not pleased god; it has not made others happy; there has been nothing to envy in it, but oh, quite the other way: it should rather be a warning. tell my girls so, for they have their temptations even in this direction; there is so much attention paid now to head knowledge in all ranks and classes, and such a danger of neglecting heart knowledge and christ knowledge. show them how it has been with me. tell them how i feel now on looking back. "what have i really gained by this eager pursuit after earthly fame? nothing. i have strained body and mind in seeking it--strained them, probably, past recovery. and what have i lost in the pursuit? i have lost peace; i have lost a thousand opportunities of doing good which can never be recalled; i have lost the happy sense of jesus' love and presence.--dear father, would you give me that open book?--these words just suit my life, thomas:-- "`nothing but leaves! the spirit grieves over a wasted life; o'er sins indulged while conscience slept, o'er vows and promises unkept; and reaps from years of strife-- nothing but leaves! nothing but leaves!'" she paused, and hiding her face in her mother's breast, wept long and bitterly. thomas bradly had listened with deep emotion to every word, but had not yet been able to command himself sufficiently to speak. but now he stretched his hand forward, and took up the little hymn-book from which clara maltby had been reading, and, as he turned over its pages, said--"i don't doubt, dear miss clara, but you've just said the plain truth about yourself; i've grieved over it all, and prayed about it. but that's all past and gone now, and the lord means to bring good out of the evil, i can see that, and you'll let me read you these lines out of your book, as i'm sure it ain't going to be `nothing but leaves' after all. listen, miss, to these blessed words, for they belong to you:-- "there were ninety and nine that safely lay in the shelter of the fold; but one was out on the hills away, far-off from the gates of gold,-- away on the mountains wild and bare, away from the tender shepherd's care. "`lord, thou hast here thy ninety and nine: are they not enough for thee?' but the shepherd made answer: `this of mine has wandered away from me; and although the road be rough and steep, i go to the desert to find my sheep.' "and all through the mountains, thunder-riven, and up from the rocky steep, there rose a cry to the gate of heaven, `rejoice! i have found my sheep!' and the angels echoed around the throne, `rejoice, for the lord brings back his own!'" "thank you, thomas, thank you most sincerely," cried the sick girl, raising herself again. "yes, i trust that these beautiful words _do_ apply to me. jesus has gone after me, a poor wandering and rebellious sheep, and brought me back again. do then, kind friend, tell my dear class for me that i have found all out of christ to be emptiness, and that there can be no true happiness here unless we are working for him. "of course, i might have pursued my studies innocently had i given to them leisure hours when other duties had been done, and then they would have been a delight to me, and a source of real improvement. but instead of that i made an idol of them, and they became a snare to me. i lived for them, and in them, and all else was as good as forgotten. yes, even my bible, that was once so precious,--it might as well have lain on the shelf, and indeed, latterly, it has seldom been anywhere else. i had no time for reading it; earthly studies absorbed every moment. but now it has become to me again truly my bible; it has shown me, and shows me more and more plainly every day, my sin and my neglect. ah! it is an awful thing when the struggle after this world's honours and prizes makes us thrust aside thoughts of god and of the crown of glory. it has been so with me. i have been chasing an illuminated shadow until it has suddenly vanished, and left me in a darkness that might be felt. "tell my girls, then, dear friend, to take warning from me. tell them how i mourn over my wasted life; but tell them also that i have a good hope that god, for christ's sake, has forgiven me, and ask them to pray for me. the great lesson i want you to impress upon them from my case is just this, that no knowledge can be worth having that interferes with our following our saviour; that no pursuit, though it may not be outwardly sinful or manifestly worldly, which unfits us in body or mind for doing our duty in that state of life to which it has pleased god to call us, can be innocent, for it robs jesus of that service which we all owe to him. "and now i am going to ask you to give these photographs, one a piece, to my girls: they will value them, i know, as the likeness of one who was once happy in being their teacher, and who hopes, should god spare her, to be their teacher again; a better instructed teacher far, i hope, because taught in the school of bitter but wholesome experience to know herself." these last few words, uttered with deep feeling, made it necessary for clara to pause once more. so thomas bradly, seeing that her strength was well-nigh exhausted, simply expressed his hearty readiness to comply with her requests, and was rising to take his leave, when she signed him to remain. "just one thing more, dear friend," she added, as soon as she was sufficiently recovered.--"nay, dearest mother, you must let me finish what i have to say. i shall be happier and calmer when i have told all.--o thomas! i have been on the very edge of a dreadful precipice; nay, i almost fear that i have scarcely avoided beginning the terrible fall. finding myself unequal to the full strain which my studies imposed upon me, i began to have recourse to intoxicating stimulants, first a little, and then a little more, till at last i got to crave them, oh, how terribly! and, alas! alas! worse still. as i was ashamed to bring such things openly into my father's house, i have employed a servant once or twice to fetch them for me, but simply as a medicine, and i have found myself scheming how i might do this to a still greater extent without detection. oh, to what a depth have i fallen! but i see it all now; the lord has opened my eyes. what i wanted was rest, not stimulants. and surely nothing could justify me in putting such a strain upon my mind as to make it needful to fly to such a restorative. "i don't ask you to mention this to my girls, nor to any one else, for it might not do good, and might be a hindrance, in a measure, to my dear father in his work; but i tell it you to ease my own heart, and that you may pray for me, and that you may hear me now, in the presence of my beloved father and mother, declare that from this time forward i renounce all such study, if god spare me, as shall unfit me for a loving service of jesus, in my home and out of it, and that i have done with all intoxicating stimulants, the lord helping me, now and for ever." "bless the lord!" said bradly to himself, as, after a silent pressure of clara maltby's hand, he stole out of the room. "all's working for good, i'm sure," he added, as he walked homewards. "we shall do grandly now. one great stone has just been struck out of our good vicar's path. satan's a queer, knowing customer, but he often outwits himself; and there's one wiser and stronger than him." chapter twelve. a mysterious discovery. a few days after thomas bradly's visit to the vicarage, mrs maltby and her daughter left home for the seaside. in the evening of the day of their departure, something different from the ordinary routine was evidently going on at thomas bradly's. as it drew near to half-past six o'clock, four young women, neatly dressed, might be seen making their way towards his house. these were shortly joined by three others; and then followed some more young women and elderly girls, till at length thirteen were gathered together in the road, whispering and laughing to one another, and evidently somewhat in a state of perplexity. "what's it all about, mary anne?" asked a bright-looking girl of fifteen of one of the oldest of the group. "i'm sure i don't know," was the reply; "all i know for certain is, that i've been invited to tea at thomas's, at half-past six this evening." "so have i"--"so have i," said the rest. "there's no mistake or hoax about it, i hope?" asked one of the younger girls anxiously. "nay," said the one addressed as mary anne, "thomas asked us himself, and he's not the man to hoax anybody." just at this moment the front door opened, and bradly himself, full of smiling welcome, called upon his guests to come in. a comfortable meal had been prepared for them in the spacious kitchen, and all were soon busily engaged in partaking of the tea and its accompaniments, and in brisk and cheerful conversation; but not a word was said to explain why they had been invited at this particular time. their host joined heartily in the various little discussions which were being carried on in a lively way by his guests, but never, during the tea, dropped a hint as to, why he had asked them. at last, when teapots and cups had disappeared, leaving a clear table, and the young women, after grace had been duly sung, sat opposite to one another with a look of amused expectation as to what might be coming next, thomas rose deliberately from his arm-chair, which he had drawn to the head of the table, and looking round on the young people with a half-serious, half-humorous expression, said: "well, i suppose, girls, it may be as well if i tell you what i've asked you here for this evening." no answer, but a murmur of amused assent being given, he proceeded:-- "now, my dear young friends, i'll just tell you all about it; and i'm sure you'll listen to me seriously, for it's a serious matter after all. you know that poor miss clara maltby is gone from home to-day very ill, so ill that it mayn't be the lord's will she should ever come back to us again. now she has asked me to give you all and each a message from her--perhaps it may be a dying message. she sends it to every one as belonged to her class when she taught it. i'm going to tell you what she said, not quite in her own words, but just what i took to be her meaning. "you know as she's not taken her class for a good long time. we was all very sorry when she gave over, but it seemed as it couldn't be helped, for she was getting weak and worn, and felt that coming to church twice on the lord's-day was as much as her poor mind and body would bear. but she wants me to tell you how she feels now she's been letting earthly learning get too much hold of her thoughts. not as there's any harm in getting any sort of good learning, so long as you don't get it in the wrong way. but it seems as this earthly learning had been getting too big a share of miss clara's heart. i daresay you all know as she's wonderful clever at her books. eh, what a sight of prizes she's got! well, but she'd come to be too fond of her studies; they was becoming a snare to her; she'd made a regular idol of them, and could scarce think of anything else. she'd given them all the time she could spare, and more. and so it kept creeping on. these studies of hers, they'd scarce let her eat or drink, or take any exercise, or read her bible and pray as she used to do. ah, how crafty the evil one is in leading us astray! he don't make us jump down into the dark valley at one or two big leaps, but it's just down an incline, like the path as leads from bill western's house to the smithy: when you've got to the bottom and look back, you can hardly believe at first as you've come down so low. "now, you're not to run away with the idea that miss clara has forsaken her saviour, and given up her bible and prayer. nothing of the sort! she's a dear child of god, and always has been since i've knowed her; only this learning and these studies have so blocked up her heart, that they've scarce left room for her gracious saviour. but yet he'd never let her go, and she hadn't altogether forsaken him; only she's been on a wrong course of late, and she sees it now. "friends have flattered her, and told her what grand things she might do with such a head-piece as hers, and she's been willing to listen to them for a bit. but now the lord has brought her to see different, and she wants me to tell you what a snare she has found this learning to be. she wants me to tell you from her that she's found it out in her own experience as there's no happiness out of christ; as head knowledge can never make us happy without heart knowledge of jesus. "it's all very well wishing to shine in the world and be thought clever, but that's just pleasing self, and can never give us real peace. she's tried it, and she says it's `vanity of vanities.' it's led her away from her duty, and made her neglect helping her dear father and mother in many ways where she might have been useful, just because her head and her heart were full of her books. "now, perhaps some of you may be thinking, while i've been talking, `well, this don't concern _us_ much; we ain't in danger of going astray after too much learning.' don't you be too sure of that. there's traps of the same kind being laid before you by the old enemy, though they mayn't be got up so fine as them by which he catches clever young ladies. ah, perhaps he'll be whispering to some of you as it'll be a grand thing to get up a peg or two higher by learning all sorts of things with queer and long names to 'em. won't you just make folks open their eyes when you can rattle off a lot about this science and that science? but what good will it do you? how much will you remember of it ten years hence? what'll be the use of it, when you've got homes of your own, if you've your heads cram full of hard names, but don't know how to mend your clothes or make a pudding? depend upon it, there's need to listen to miss clara's message when she bids me tell you from her as there's no real happiness to be got in making an idol of learning or anything else, and that there's no happiness out of christ; and that the chief thing is just to do one's duty, by grace, in `the state of life to which it has pleased god to call us;' and then, if he means us to do something out of the way, he'll chalk out a line for us so broad and plain that we shan't be able to mistake it. "so now i've given you the message; but there's something else for you besides.--here, missus, just hand me that little brown paper parcel."-- so saying, he opened the packet which his wife gave him, and taking out the photographs, handed one to each of the girls, saying, "it's a keepsake to each of you from miss clara." as the little gifts were received, tears and sobs burst from the whole company; and when time had been given for the first vehemence of their feelings to subside, thomas continued,-- "i've just one or two more things to say; and the first is this: will you all promise me to pray for our dear young lady, that she may be restored to us in health and strength again, and take her place once more as your teacher?" "ay, that we will with all our hearts," was the cry, which was uttered with tearful earnestness by all. "and will you pray, for yourselves, for grace to remember and profit by the lesson which she has sent you?" "we will, thomas, we will," was again the cry. "well, thank god for that," said bradly. "he's bringing good out of evil already, as he always does,--bless his holy name for it! and now, i've just to tell you, girls, why i've asked you to tea, and given you the messages and the photographs in this fashion--i daresay some of you can guess." "i think we can, thomas," said one of the elder ones. "well, it were just in this way," he continued: "i'm jealous about our dear vicar's character, and about dear miss clara's, and i'm sure we all ought to be. now, if i'd given you her message in the sunday-school, even if i'd had your class by yourselves, ten to one some of the other scholars would have got hold of things by the wrong end, and it would have been made out as miss clara had been doing something very wicked, and her mother had been taking her away in consequence. now, you see how it is: miss clara's done nothing to disgrace herself or her family; she's been following a lawful thing, only she's been following it too closely; but she's found it to be only like chasing a shadow after all. and now that the lord has humbled her, he'll raise her up again; she'll come out of the furnace pure gold; she'll be such a teacher when she comes back as she never was afore, if the lord spares her. so now that i've got you here in this quiet way, i want you all to promise me you'll not go talking about what miss clara sent me to tell you, but you'll keep it as snug as possible; it ain't meant for the public, it's meant only for yourselves. the world wouldn't understand it; they'd think as there was something behind. and the devil, he'd be only too glad to make a bad use of it. so promise me to keep our dear young lady's lesson to yourselves in your own hearts and memories. you can show the photographs to the other scholars, and tell them as they was miss clara's parting gifts to her class, and that's all as they need to know." the promise was cheerfully given by all; and then, before they left, all knelt, and in their hearts joined in the fervent prayer which thomas bradly offered for the vicar and his family, and specially for the invalid, that she might be spared to return to them in renewed health, and be kept meanwhile in perfect peace. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the evening after this little happy tea-party, thomas bradly called in at william foster's. he found the young man and his wife studying the bible together; but there was a look of trouble and anxiety on the husband's face which made him fear that there was something amiss. he was well aware that his former foe but now firm friend was but a weak and ignorant disciple; and he expected, therefore, that he would find it anything but smooth sailing at first in his christian course. still, what a marvellous change, to see one so lately a sceptic and a scoffer now humbly studying the word of life! "anything amiss?" asked bradly. "can i be of any service to you, william?" he added, as he took his seat. "well, thomas," replied the other, "i can only say this--i had no idea how little i knew of the bible till i began to study it in earnest. i see it does indeed need to be approached in a teachable spirit. but i have my difficulties and perplexities about it still. only there's this difference now,--i've seen in my own home, and i see daily more and more in my own heart, abundance to convince me that the bible is god's truth. so now, when i meet with a difficulty, i see that the obscurity is not in the bible but in myself; in fact, i want more light." "yes; and you'll get it now, william; for the bible itself says, `the entrance of thy word giveth light; it giveth understanding unto the simple.'" "i heartily believe it, thomas; still there is much that is very deep to me--out of my depth, in fact. but there is one thing just now which is a special trouble to me. they don't chaff me so often at the mill now, but this evening ben thompson came up to me, and said, `do you think it's any good _your_ turning christian?'--`yes, ben, i hope so,' i said.--`well,' he went on, `just you look in the bible, and you'll find that there's what they call the unpardonable sin--there's no forgiveness for those who've been guilty of it; and if there's truth in that bible, there's no forgiveness for you, for you've been the biggest blasphemer against the bible in crossbourne.' thomas, i hadn't a word to answer him with; his words cut me to the heart, and he saw it, and went off with a grin full of malice. and now, since i came home, kate and i have been looking through the gospels, and we've come to this passage, in our saviour's own words,--`verily, i say unto you, all sins shall be forgiven unto the sons of men, and blasphemies wherewith soever they shall blaspheme: but he that shall blaspheme against the holy ghost hath never forgiveness, but is in danger of eternal damnation: because they said, he hath an unclean spirit.' now, i'm afraid i've committed that sin many times; and what then? is it true that there is no forgiveness for me?" he gazed earnestly into bradly's face, as one would look on a man on whose decision hung life or death. but the other's reply brought relief at once to both foster and his wife. "ha! ha!" he exclaimed; "is that the old enemy's device? i'm not surprised--he's a crafty old fox; but the lord's wiser than him. i see what he's been up to: he couldn't keep the sword of the spirit out of your hand any longer, so he's been trying to make you turn the point away from him, and commit suicide with it. set your mind at rest, william, about these verses, and about the unpardonable sin; those who are guilty of it never seek forgiveness, and so they never get it. these words ain't meant for such a case as yours. this is the sort of text for you: `god so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' jesus said it, and he'll never go back from it. `whosoever' means you and me; he said, `whosoever,' and he'll never unsay it. if you'd committed the unpardonable sin, you wouldn't be caring now about the bible and about your soul. if you'd committed it, god would never have given you the light he has done, for it has come from him; it can't have come from nowhere else. he don't open to you the door with one hand, and then shut it in your face with the other; that ain't his way at all he has let you in at the gate, and you may be sure as he'll never turn you off the road with his own hand, now that you're on it." "thank god for that!" said foster, reverently. "what you say, thomas, carries conviction with it, for i am sure that my present views, and the change that has so far been made in me, must be the lord's own work; and, if so, it is certainly only consistent that, as he has taken in hand such a wretched blasphemer as i have been, he should not undo his own work by casting me off again." "hold fast to that, william," said bradly, "and you can't go wrong. just hand me your bible; i'll show you where to find another text or two as'll suit you well.--eh! what's this?" he cried, as having taken the little book into his hand, he noticed the red-ink lines which were drawn under many of the verses. then he turned hastily to the inside of the cover, and uttered an exclamation of astonishment, then turned very pale, and then very red, and gazed at the book as if fascinated by it. there were the words on the cover,-- _steal not this book for fear of shame_, _for here you see the owner's name_. _june , _. _mary williams_. "where did you get this book?" he asked at length, in a hoarse, broken voice. "it's my mother's bible; it's jane's long-lost bible." then he restrained himself, and turning quietly to foster and his wife, who were staring at him in bewilderment and distress, said, "dear friends, don't you trouble yourselves about me; there's nothing really amiss; it's all right, and more than right, only i was taken by surprise, as you'll easily understand when i explain matters to you. we are all friends now, so i know i may depend upon your keeping my secret when i've told you all about it." he then proceeded to lay the story of jane's troubles before his deeply interested and sympathising hearers. when he had brought his account to an end, he said, "now, you can understand why i was so taken aback at seeing my mother's name in this bible, and why i'm so anxious to know how you came by it. why, this is the very bible which was restored, or, at any rate, meant to be restored to jane by john hollands three or four months ago. but, then, how did it get here? and what's become of the bag and the bracelet?" "i'm sure you will believe me when i tell you," said foster, "that i am as much surprised about the bible as you are; and as for the bag and the bracelet, i have neither seen nor heard anything of either. kate, however, can tell you best how we came by the bible." mrs foster then related how the volume, now so precious to herself and her husband as having been the means of bringing light and peace into their hearts and home, had been dropped in at her window by a female hand. of the bag and bracelet she of course knew nothing. "there's something very strange and mysterious about it all," said thomas thoughtfully; "the bag and the bracelet are somewhere about, but who can tell where? if we could only find them, all could be set straight, and poor jane's character completely cleared; but then it ain't the lord's will, so far, that it should be so. one thing's clear, however; the tangle's being undone for us bit by bit, and what we've to do is just to be patient and to keep our eyes and ears open; but, please, not a word to anybody. and now, william, i must ask you to let me have this bible to take to poor jane; it was her mother's, and is full of her own marks under her favourite verses. you shall have another instead of it, with a better print." "of course," replied foster; "this book is your sister's and not ours, and i would not keep it back from her for a moment. still, i shall part with it with great regret, as if i were parting with an old friend. little did i think a few weeks ago that i should ever care so much about a bible; but i thank god that this little book has done kate and myself so much good already, and i shall be much pleased to have another copy as a gift from yourself." thomas bradly rose to go; but mrs foster said, "i ought to have told you that there was something else dropped into the room at the same time with the bible, but it wasn't the bracelet, i'm sorry to say." "stay, dear friend," cried bradly; "let me run home to my dear sister with her bible; i'll be back again in half an hour." so saying he hurried home, and seating himself by jane, who was knitting as usual in her snug retreat by the fireside, said, "jane dear, the lord's been bringing us just one little step nearer to the light--only one step, mind, only one little step, but it's a step in the right direction." "thomas, what is it?" she exclaimed anxiously. "your bible's turned up." "my bible, thomas!" "yes, jane." he then placed it in her hand. yes, she could see that it was indeed her own dearly-prized bible. "and the bracelet, thomas?" she asked eagerly.--he shook his head sadly. a shadow came over the face and tears into the eyes of his poor sister. "the lord's will be done," she said patiently; "but tell me, dear thomas, all about it."--he then related what he had heard from kate foster. "and you feel sure, thomas, that the fosters know nothing about the bag or bracelet?" "quite sure, jane. i'm certain that neither foster nor his wife would or could deceive me about this matter. but take heart, my poor sister. see, the lord's opening the way for you `one step at a time.' _we_ should like it to be a little faster, but _he_ says no. and see, too, how this blessed book of yours has been made of use to foster and his wife. oh, there's been a mighty work done there! but mark, jane, 'twouldn't have been so if this bible had come straight to you. there's wonderful good, you see, coming out of this trial already. so wait patiently on the lord, the bag and the bracelet will turn up too afore so long; they are on the road, only we don't see them yet; you may be sure of that." jane smiled at him through her tears, and pressed her recovered bible to her lips. then she opened it, and, as she turned over leaf after leaf, her eye fell on many a well-known underlined text, and the cloud had given place to sunshine on her gentle features as her brother left the house and returned to william foster's. chapter thirteen. who owns the ring? "you are satisfied that we know nothing about the bag or the bracelet, i hope?" asked foster anxiously on bradly's return. "perfectly," was the reply; "i haven't a doubt about it; but there's something behind as none of us has got at yet, but it'll come in the lord's own time. wherever the bag and bracelet are, they'll turn up some day, i'm certain of that; and it'll be just at the right moment. and so we must be patient and look about us.--but what was it, kate, you said was dropped along with the bible?" "it was this ring," replied mrs foster, at the same time placing a small gold ring with a ruby in the centre on the table. the three examined it by turns. there were no letters or marks engraved anywhere on it. "and this was dropped by the same hand which dropped the bible?" asked bradly. "yes; it rolled along the floor, and may have fallen either off the finger of the person who put her hand in at the window, or from between the leaves of the bible." "and have you mentioned about this ring to any one?" "no, not even to my husband. i'm sure william will forgive me. it was just this way: i put it into my pocket at the time, and afterwards into a secret drawer in my desk, fearing it might bring one or both of us into trouble. when this happy change came, and both william and i began to care about the bible, i told him how i came by the book, but thought i would wait before i said anything about the ring; perhaps something would come to clear up the mystery, and it would be time enough to produce the ring when some one came forward to claim it; but no one has done so yet." "and you have no suspicion at all who it belongs to, or who dropped it?" "no, none whatever." "well," continued bradly, "i don't think it fell out of the leaves of the bible, as not a word is said about it in john hollands' letter. i'm of opinion as it slipped off accidentally from the hand of the woman as she was dropping the bible; and since it's clear she didn't want it to be known who she was, if she knows where she lost her ring she won't want to come and claim it." "and do you think," asked foster, "that she is some one living in crossbourne or the neighbourhood?" "pretty certain," replied thomas. "there's been some roguery or trickery about it altogether. the bag was in crossbourne on the rd of last december, and your wife got the bible that same evening. i'm firmly persuaded there's been some hoax about it all, and i believe bag and bracelet and all's in the town, if we only knew how to find 'em without making the matter public. if we could only get at the owner of the ring without making a noise, we might find a clue as would lead us to where the bag is." "i'm much of your mind," said foster. "i fancy that some one of poor jim barnes's drunken mates has been playing a trick off on him by watching him into the railway inn, and running off with the bag just to vex him; and then, when he found what was in the bag, he would hide all away except the bible, for fear of getting into a scrape. but can anything be done about the ring?" "i'll tell you what we'll do if you'll let me have it for a while," said bradly, with a twinkle in his eye. "i'll get our betsy to wear it in the mill to-morrow. you'll see there'll something come out of it, as sure as my name's thomas bradly." accordingly, next morning betsy bradly appeared at the mill with the ring on her little finger--a circumstance which soon drew attention, which was expressed first in looks and then in whispers, much to the quiet amusement and satisfaction of the wearer. no questions, however, were asked till the dinner hour, and then a small knot of the hands, principally of the females, gathered round her. these were some of her personal friends and acquaintances; for her character stood too high in the place for any of the less respectable sort to venture to intrude themselves upon her. "well, betsy," cried one, "you've got a pretty keepsake there; let's have a look at it." the other's only reply was to take off the ring and offer it for inspection. as it was passed from hand to hand, various exclamations were uttered: "eh, it's a bonny stone!"--"i never seed the like in all my born days!"--"it's fit for the queen's crown!"--"where did you get it, betsy?"--"her young man gave it her, of course!"--"nay, you're wrong there," said another; "he's got more sense than to spend his brass on such things as that,--he's saving it up for a new clock and a dresser!"--"come, betsy, where did you get it?" "you'll never guess, so it's no use axing," said betsy, laughing. "it ain't mine; but it'll be mine till its proper owner comes and claims it." "oh, you picked it up as you was coming to the mill!" "ah yes!" cried another; "like enough it's been dropped by the vicar's lady, or by some one as has been staying at the vicarage!" "you're wrong there," replied betsy; "i didn't find it, and nobody's lost it exactly." "well, i never!" cried several, and then there was a general move towards their different homes. betsy continued wearing the ring for the next day or two, and always dexterously parried any attempt to find out how she came by it. odd stories began to fly about on the subject, and work-people from other mills came to have a look at the ring, betsy being always ready to gratify any respectable person with a sight of it. but still she persisted in refusing to tell how it had come into her possession. at last, one afternoon, just as the mills were loosing, one of the railway clerks came up to her, and said,-- "are you looking out for an owner to that ring you're wearing? i've been told something of the sort." "i ain't been exactly looking out," was the reply; "but i shall be quite ready to give it up when i'm sure it's the right owner as wants it." "well, i've a shrewd guess i know whose it is," said the young man. "indeed! and who may that be?" "oh, never mind just now; but, please, let me look at the ring." she took it from her finger and handed it to him. he examined it carefully, and then nodding his head, with a smile on his lips, said, "i'll be bound i've had this ring in my hands before." "it's yours, then?" "nay, it's not mine. but do you particularly want to know whose it is?" "yes, i do; or, rather, my father does, for the simple truth is, it's father as has got me to wear it; and if you can find out the proper owner, he'll be obliged to you." "just so. if you don't mind, then, lending me the ring, i'll soon find out if i'm right; and i'll bring it back to your father to-morrow night, and tell him all about it." to this betsy immediately assented, and the clerk went away with the ring in his charge. the following evening he and thomas bradly were closeted together in the "surgery." "so," said thomas, "you can tell me, i understand, who is the owner of this ring you've just returned to me." "i think i can," replied the other; "indeed, i feel pretty sure that i can, though, strangely enough, the owner won't own to it." "how's that?" "i can't say, i'm sure, but so it is." "well, be so good as to tell me what you know about it." "i will. you know the green dragon,--perhaps i ought to say, you know where it is. i wish i knew as little of the inside of it as you do; it would be better for me, though i'm no drunkard, as you are aware. but, however, i go now and then into the tap-room of the green dragon to get a glass of ale, as it's near my lodgings. mrs philips, she's the landlady, you know. well, she's a bit of a fine lady, and so is her daughter. her mother had her sent to a boarding-school, and she has got rather high notions in consequence. but she and i are very good friends, and she often tells me about her school-days. among other things, she has been very fond of talking about the way in which the other young ladies and herself used to be bosom friends; and one afternoon, when i was with her and her mother alone in the parlour, she took a ring off her finger, and asked me to look at it, and if i didn't admire it. and she said that one of her schoolfellows, whose parents were very wealthy, had given it to her as a birthday present a short time before she left school. the ring was the very image of the one your daughter betsy lent me."--so saying, he took it up from the table, on which thomas bradly had placed it, and held it up to the light.--"i could almost swear to the ring," he continued, "for i've had miss philips's ring in my hands many a time. she's very proud of her rings, and likes to talk about them; and i had noticed that she used to wear this ring with the ruby in it over one or two others, and that it slipped off and on very easily. and i used often to ask her to show it me, partly to please her, and partly for a bit of fun. well, now, it's curious enough, i've missed that ring off her finger for several weeks past. i couldn't help noticing that it was gone, for she always took care that i should see it when she had it on. i asked her some time back what had become of it; but she looked confused, and made some sort of excuse which seemed odd to me at the time. but when i asked her again, which was very soon after, she said she had put it by in her jewel-case, for it was rather loose, and she was afraid of its getting lost. but somehow or other i didn't quite believe what she said, so i asked her once more, and she snapped me up so sharply that i found it was best to ask no more questions about it. however, when i heard about your daughter wearing a ring with a red stone in it, and that it was looking out for an owner, it occurred to me at once that it might be lydia philips's ring--that she had dropped it by accident, and didn't like to own that she had lost it for some reason best known to herself, and that she'd be only too glad to get it back again. so when your daughter lent it me yesterday, i took it up in the evening; and getting her by herself in the parlour, i pulled it out, and said, `see, miss lyddy, what will you give me for finding _this_ for you?' i expected thanks at the least; but to my great surprise she turned first very pale, and then very red; and then, taking up the ring between her finger and thumb as cautiously as if she was afraid it would bite or burn her, she said--but i didn't believe her--`it ain't mine, and i don't want to have anything to do with it.' i tried to make her change her opinion, and told her i knew her ring as well as she knew it herself, that she must have lost it, and that i was certain this was the very ring she had showed me so often; but she only got angry, and flung the ring at me, and told me to mind my own business. so i picked up the ring off the floor, and slunk off like a dog with his tail between his legs, and i've brought you back the ring. but it's the most mysterious thing to me. i can't make it out a bit. i'm as sure now as i can be sure of anything that it's the same ring i've often handled, and that it belongs to her. her own ring is gone from her finger, and that and this are as like as two peas; but, for some reason or other, she won't have it to be hers, so i must just leave matters as i found them." "thank you for your trouble," said bradly, "and i'll keep the ring till the real owner turns up; and meanwhile, my friend, just take my advice, and keep as clear of the inside of the green dragon as you possibly can." when the railway clerk had left him, thomas bradly sat for some minutes in deep thought, and then sought his sister. "dear jane," he said, "there's just another step we're being guided; 'tain't a very broad one, but i believe it's in the right direction." he then gave her an account of what he had just heard from his visitor. "and what do you make of his story, thomas?" she asked. "do you think that the ring really belongs to lydia philips, and that she knows anything about the bag?" "yes, jane, i do; and i'll tell you why. i believe that she was the person who dropped the bible in at william foster's window. why she did so, of course i can't say. but i believe the ring slipped off while she was dropping the book, and now she's afraid to acknowledge the ring for her own. you know the bible and the bracelet were in the same bag; so, as she knew about the bible, it seems pretty certain she must have known about the bracelet too. if she owns to the ring, of course it's as good as owning as she was the person who dropped the bible. she knows quite well, you may be sure, that the ring fell into foster's room, and that it can only be foster or his wife that's produced the ring, and she's afraid of inquiries being set on foot which may trace the missing bag and bracelet to her. so she's content to lose her ring, and persists in saying it ain't hers; because if she owned to it, it would raise suspicions that she or some of her people was concerned with making away with or hiding away the bag and bracelet, and that might get the green dragon a bad name, and spoil their custom, or even get her and her family into worse trouble. that's just my opinion; there's foul play, somewhere, and she knows something about it. the bag's in the place, hid away somewhere, and she knows where, or she knows them as has had to do with getting hold of it, and keeping it for their own purposes. so we must watch and be patient. i feel convinced we're getting nearer and nearer to the light. so let us leave it now in the lord's hands, and be satisfied for him to guide us step by step, one at a time. i haven't a doubt we've traced the ring to its right owner, so we'll put it by for the present, and it can come out and give its evidence when it's wanted." chapter fourteen. wild work at crossbourne. it was now the beginning of april; a month had passed since the temperance meeting, and james barnes and william foster were keeping clear of the drink and of their old ungodly companions. but it was not to be supposed that the enemies were asleep, or willing to acquiesce patiently in such a desertion from their ranks. nevertheless, little stir was made, and open opposition seemed nearly to have died out. "how quietly and peaceably matters are going on," said the vicar to thomas bradly one morning; "i suppose the intemperate party feel they can do our cause no real harm, and so are constrained to let foster and barnes alone." "i'm not so sure about that, sir," was bradly's reply. "i'm rather looking out for a breeze, for things are too quiet to last; there's been a queerish sort of grin on the faces of foster's old mates when they've passed me lately, as makes me pretty sure there's something in the wind as mayn't turn out very pleasant. but i'm not afraid: we've got the lord and the right on our side, and we needn't fear what man can do unto us." "true, thomas, we must leave it there; and we may be sure that all will work together for the furtherance of the good cause in the end." "i've not a doubt of it, sir; but for all that, i mean to keep a bright look-out. i'm not afraid of their trying their games with me; it's barnes and foster as they mean to pay off if they can." that same evening james barnes knocked at bradly's surgery door, and closed it quickly after him. there was a scared look in his eyes; his dress was all disordered; and, worse still, he brought with him into the room an overpowering odour of spirits. poor thomas's heart died within him. alas! was it really so? had the enemy gained so speedy a triumph? "so, jim, you've broken, i see," exclaimed bradly sorrowfully. "the lord pardon and help you!" "nothing of the sort," cried the other; "i've never touched a drop, thomas, since i signed, though a good big drop has touched me." "what do you mean, jim?" asked bradly, greatly relieved at the tone of his voice. "are you sure it's all right? come, sit down, and tell me all about it." "that i will, thomas; it's what i've come for. you'll easily believe me when i tell you," he continued, after taking a seat, "that they've been at me every road to try and get me back, badgering, chaffing, threatening, and coaxing: it's strange what pains they'll take as is working for the devil. but it wouldn't act. well, three or four nights ago, when i got home from my work, i found two bottles on my table. they was uncorked; one had got rum, and the other gin in it. now, i won't say as my mouth didn't water a bit, and the evil one whispered `just take a glass;' but no, i wasn't to be done that way, so i lifts up a prayer for strength, and just takes the bottles at once out into the road, and empties them straight into the gutter. there was some looking on as would let the enemy know. so to-night, as smooth ways wouldn't act, they've been trying rough 'uns. four of my old mates, ned taylor among 'em, watches when my missus went off to the shop, and slips into the kitchen where i was sitting. they'd brought a bottle of rum with them, and began to talk friendly fashion, and tried might and main to get me to drink. but i gave the same answer--i'd have none of it. then one of them slipped behind my chair, and pinned me down into it, and ned taylor tried to force my mouth open, while another man held the bottle, ready to pour the rum down my throat. but just then our little bob, seeing how roughly they were handling me, bolted out into the street, screaming, `they're killing daddy! they're killing daddy!' so the cowardly chaps, seeing it was time to be off, took to their heels, all but ned taylor. he'd taken the bottle of rum from the man as held it, and he took and poured it all down my coat and waistcoat, and said, `if you won't have it inside, you shall have it out;' and then he burst out into a loud laugh, and went after the rest of them. if you examine my clothes, thomas, you can see as i'm telling the truth. however, they've just been and cut their own throats, for they've only made me more determined than ever to stick to my tee-totalism." "all right, jim," said the other cheerfully; "they've outwitted themselves. i've an old coat and waistcoat as i've nearly done with, but they've got a good bit of wear in them yet. they'll just about fit you, i reckon. you shall go back in them, and keep them and welcome, and we'll make these as they've spoilt a present to the dunghill. i only wish all other bad habits, and more particularly them as comes through rum, brandy, and such like, could be cast away on to the same place. you did quite right, jim, to come straight to me." "ay, thomas, i felt as it were best; for i were in a towering rage at first, and i think i should have half killed some of 'em, if i could only have got at them." "ah, well, jim, you just let all that alone. `vengeance is mine, i will repay, saith the lord.' we'll get our revenge in another way some day; we may heap coals of fire on some of their heads yet. but you leave matters now to me. i shall see ned taylor to-morrow myself, and give him a bit of my mind; and warn him and his mates that if they try anything of the kind on again, they'll get themselves into trouble." "thank you, thomas, with all my heart, for your kindness: `a friend in need's a friend indeed.' but there's just another thing as i wants to talk to you about afore i go. i meant to come up to-night about it anyhow, even if this do hadn't happened." "well, jim, let's hear it." "do you remember levi sharples, thomas?" "what! that tall, red-haired chap, with a cast in his left eye, and a mouth as wide and ugly as an ogre's?" "yes, that's the man. you'll remember, thomas, he was concerned in that housebreaking job four years ago, and the police have been after him ever since." "to be sure, jim, i remember him fast enough; he's not a man one's likely to forget. i suppose a more thorough scoundrel never set foot in crossbourne. it was a wonderful thing how he managed to escape and keep out of prison after that burglary business. but what about him?" "why, thomas, i seed him in this town the day before yesterday." "surely, jim, you must be mistaken. he durstn't show his face in crossbourne for the life of him." "no, i know that; but he's got himself made up to look like another man,--black hair, great black whiskers, and a thick black beard, and a foreign sort of cap on his head,--and he's lodging at the green dragon, and pretends as he's an agent for some foreign house to get orders for rings, and brooches, and watches, and things of that sort." "but are you certain, jim, you're not mistaken?" "mistaken! not i. i used to know him too well in my drinking days. he'll never disguise that look of that wicked eye of his from them as knows him well; and though he's got summat in his mouth to make him talk different, i could tell the twang of his ugly voice anywheres." "well, jim?" "ah, but it ain't well, thomas, i'm sorry to say: there's mischief, you may be sure, when the like of him's about. you know he used to be a great man with will foster's old set; and, would you believe it, i saw him yesterday evening, when it was getting dark, standing near foster's house talking with him. they didn't see me, for i was in the shadow; i'd just stooped down to fasten my boot-lace as they came up together. i'd had a message to take to william's wife, and was coming out the back way, when i heard footsteps, and i knew levi in a moment, as the gas lamp shone on him. i didn't want to play spy, but i _did_ want to know what that chap was up to. so, while their backs was towards me, i crawled behind the water-butt without making any noise, and i could catch a few words now and then, as they were not far-off from me." "well, jim, and what did you hear?" "why, levi said, `it won't do for me to be seen here, so let us have a meeting in some safe place.'--`very well,' says william, and then they spoke so low i could only catch the words, `cricketty hall;' but just as levi were moving off, he said in a loud whisper, `all right, then-- friday night;' and i think he mentioned the hour, but he spoke so low i couldn't clearly mate out any more. so i've come to tell you, thomas bradly, for there's mischief of some sort up, i'll be bound." bradly did not answer, but for a time a deep shade of anxiety settled on his features. but after a while the shadow passed away. "james," he said earnestly, "i can't believe as there's anything wrong in this matter in william foster. i can't believe the lord's led him so far, in the right way, and has now left him to stray into wrong paths. i've watched him narrowly, and i'm certain he's as true as steel. but i think with you as there's mischief brewing. though william has got a clever head, yet he's got a soft heart along with it, and he's not over wide-awake in some things; and i'll be bound he's no match for a villain like that levi. i tell you what it is, jim: it strikes me now, just as we're speaking, as levi's being set on by some of william's old mates to draw him out of the town to a place where they can play him some trick, or do him some harm, without being hindered or found out. i can't explain how, of course, but that's my thought. now, if you'll lend me a helping hand, i'm persuaded as we shall be able, if the lord will, to turn the tables on these fellows in such a way as'll effectually tie their hands and stop their tongues for many a long day to come." "all right, thomas," cried barnes, "i'm your man; i think you're on the right scent." "very good, jim; cricketty hall, and friday night, that's where and when the meeting's to be. it means next friday no doubt, for levi sharples won't stay in this neighbourhood a moment longer than he can help. you may depend upon it, when these two meet at the old ruin, levi'll have some of their old mates not far-off, and there'll be wild work with poor william when they've got the opportunity. but we'll give 'em more company than they'll reckon for. but now, jim, we must be cautious how we act. of course i could go and tell william privately what i think levi's up to, but i shall not do that; i want to catch that rascal in his own trap, and get him out of the country for good and all, and give the rest of them such a lesson as they'll not soon forget. so it won't do for you or me to be seen going out towards cricketty hall on friday evening, for they are sure to set spies about, and we should spoil all. i'll tell you how we'll manage. i've been wanting a day at foxleigh for some time, as i've some business of my own there. you get leave to meet me there, and i'll pay your fare. go by the eight a.m. train on friday morning, and i'll take the train that starts at dinner-time. no one'll ever suspect us of going to cricketty hall that way. i shall tell the police at foxleigh my business, and they'll be glad enough to send some men with us when they know that levi sharples will be there, the man they've been wanting to catch. we can get round to the woods above cricketty hall from foxleigh without being seen, when it begins to be dark, and can get down into the ruins without their noticing us, for they'll never think of any one coming by that road, such a roundabout way. and mind, jim, not a word to any one, not even to your missus. all you need tell her is, that i've wanted you to meet me about some business at foxleigh, and you won't be back till late." "all right, thomas," said barnes; "you may depend on it i shan't say nothing to nobody. i shall just tell my missus afore i'm setting off on the friday morning as i've got a job to do for you, and she mustn't expect me home till she sees me; and no one'll be surprised at my turning up at the station, as they all know as i used to be porter there." cricketty hall was one of those decayed family mansions which are to be met with in many parts of england. its original owners had been persons of importance many generations back, but their name and fame had passed away. the lands connected with the hall had become absorbed into other properties; and the building itself had gradually crumbled down, many a neighbouring farm-house owing some of its most solid and ornamental portions to the massive ruins from which they had been borrowed or taken. still, enough had been left to show that the place had once been a mansion of considerable pretensions. the old gateway, with its portcullis and drawbridge, was still standing, while the moat which surrounded the entire building indicated that it had been originally of very capacious dimensions. the roof and most of the walls had long since disappeared; trees grew in the centre, and spread out their branches over the space once occupied by the dormitories, while a profusion of ivy concealed many a curiously carved arch and window. from the gateway the ground sloped rapidly, affording a fine view of the neighbouring country. behind the house was high ground, once thickly wooded, and still partially covered with trees and underwood. the hall was about two miles distant from crossbourne, and was well-known to most of its inhabitants, though but seldom visited, except occasionally by picnic parties in summer-time. old tradition pronounced it to be haunted, but though such an idea was ridiculed now by everybody whenever the superstition was alluded to, yet very few persons would have liked to venture into the ruins alone after dark; and, indeed, the loneliness of the situation made it by no means a desirable place for solitary evening musings. the ordinary way to the hall was by a footpath leading to it out of the highroad across fields for a distance of nearly a quarter of a mile. it could also be approached by a much less frequented track, which passed along sequestered lanes out of the main road from the town of foxleigh, the nearest town to crossbourne by rail, and brought the traveller to it, after a walk of six miles from foxleigh, through the overhanging wooded ground which has been mentioned as rising up in the rear of the old ruins. the only exception to the dilapidated state of the premises was a large vaulted cellar or underground room. its existence, however, had been well-nigh forgotten, except by a few who occasionally visited it, and kept the secret of the entrance to it to themselves. the friday on which the appointment between foster and levi sharples was to be kept at cricketty hall, was one of those dismal april days which make you forget that there is any prospect of a coming summer in the chilly misery of the present. cold showers and raw breezes made the passers through the streets of crossbourne fold themselves together, and expose as little surface as was possible to the inclemency of the weather; so that when james barnes and thomas bradly left the station by the early and mid-day trains, there were but few idlers about to notice their departure. at length the mills loosed, and foster hurried home, and, after a hasty tea, told his wife that an engagement would take him from home for a few hours, and that she must not be alarmed if he was a little late. then, having put on a stout overcoat, he made his way through the higher part of the town, and past the vicarage, and was soon in the open country. it was past seven o'clock when he reached the place where the footpath leading to the old hall met the highroad. it was still raining, though not heavily; but thick, leaden-coloured clouds brooded over the whole scene, and served to deepen the approaching darkness. it was certainly an evening not calculated to raise any one's spirits; and the harsh wind, as it swept over the wide expanse of the treeless fields, with their stern-looking stone fences, added to the depressing influences of the hour. but foster was a man not easily daunted by such things, and he had stridden on manfully, fully occupied by his own thoughts, till he reached the stile where the footpath to the ruins began. here he paused, looked carefully in all directions, listened attentively without hearing sound of traveller or vehicle, and then whistled in a low tone twice. a tall figure immediately rose up from the other side of the hedge and joined him. "well, levi," said foster, "i have kept my appointment; and now what would you have with me?" "i'll tell you, william," replied his companion. "you know i'm a marked man. the police are looking out for me on account of that housebreaking job--more's the pity i ever had anything to do with it. however, i'm a changed man now, i hope: i think i've given you some proof of that already, william, so you may trust me. a man wouldn't come back and thrust his head into the lion's mouth as i've done, to show his sincerity and sorrow for the past, if he hadn't been in earnest. now, what i want you to do is this:--you know how many sunday afternoons you and i, and others of our old mates, have spent in card-playing in the cellar of that old hall--the lord forgive me for having wasted his holy day in such sin and folly! now, i've a long story to tell, and i should like to tell it in that same place where you and i joined in what was sinful in our days of ignorance and darkness. i can tell you there how i was brought to see what a fool's part i had been playing, and how i came to my right mind at last. you can give me some good advice; and i want to leave one or two little things with you to give or send to my poor old mother when i'm far away. and when we've had our talk out, we'll part at the old ruin, and i shall make the best of my way out of the country, and begin a new and better life, i trust, where i'm not known. i'm sorry to have given you the trouble to come out all this way, specially on such a night as this; but i really don't feel safe anywhere in or near crossbourne, as the police might pop on me at any moment, and i felt sure, from what i heard of the change that has taken place in you, that you wouldn't mind a little trouble to help an old companion out of the mire. you needn't be afraid to come with me; i can have no possible motive to lead you into danger." "i'm not afraid, levi," said foster quietly. "i'm ready to go with you." nothing more was said by either of them till they had followed out the footpath and stood before the gateway of the old hall. they were soon making their way cautiously amongst the fallen blocks of stone towards a turret which rose to a considerable height at the end of the ruins farthest from the gateway. "go forward, william," said sharples, "while i light my lantern." so saying, he paused to strike a match, while his companion threaded his way towards the turret. at this moment a figure, unobserved by foster, emerged from behind a low wall, and, having exchanged a few whispered words with levi, disappeared through an archway. the two companions, having now gained the turret, proceeded to descend a few broken steps concealed from ordinary observation by a mass of brushwood, and reached the entrance of a spacious vault. "stay a moment," said sharples; "i'll go first and show a light." so saying, he pushed past the other, and the next instant foster felt himself held fast by each arm, while a handkerchief was pressed over his mouth. he was at once painfully conscious that he had been completely entrapped, and that resistance was perfectly useless, for two strong men grasped him, one on either side. but his presence of mind did not desert him, and he now had learnt where to look, in secret prayer, for that "very present help in trouble" which never fails those who seek it aright. thus fortified, he attempted no resistance, but patiently awaited the event. in a few minutes the handkerchief was withdrawn from his eyes, and he found himself in the presence of about a dozen men, all of whose faces were blackened. on a large stone in the centre of the vault was placed the bull's-eye lantern which his companion had recently lighted, and which, by pouring its light fully on himself, prevented him from clearly seeing the movements of his captors. what was to come next? he was not long left in doubt. "saint foster," said levi sharples, who stood just behind the lantern, and spoke in a sneering, snuffling voice, "we don't wish you any harm; but we have brought your saintship before our right worshipful court, that you may answer to the charge brought against you, of having deserted your old principles and companions, and inflicted much inconvenience and discredit on the cause of free-thought and good fellowship in crossbourne. what say you to this charge, saint foster?" their poor victim had by this time thoroughly recovered his self- possession, and being now set at liberty--for his enemies knew that he could not escape them--answered quietly, and in a clear, unfaltering voice, "i must ask first by what authority this court is constituted; and by whose authority you are now questioning me?" "by the authority of `might,' which on the present occasion makes `right,' saint foster," was the reply. "be it so," said foster. "i can only reply that i have been following out my own honest convictions in the course i have lately taken. what right has any man to object to this?" "a good deal of right, saint foster, since your following out your present honest convictions is a great hindrance to those who used to agree with you in your former honest convictions." "i am not responsible for that," was foster's reply. "perhaps not," continued sharples; "nevertheless, we are met on the present agreeable occasion to see if we cannot induce you to give up those present honest convictions of yours, and join your old friends again." "that i neither can nor will," said the other in a firm voice. "that's a pity," said sharples; "because if you persist in your determination, the consequences to yourself may be unpleasant. however, the court wishes to deal very leniently with you, in consideration of past services, and therefore i am commissioned to offer you a choice between two things.--officer! bring forward the `peacemaker.'" upon this, a man stepped forward, uncorked a bottle of spirits, and placed it on the stone in front of the lantern. "saint foster," proceeded his pretended judge, "we earnestly exhort you to lift this bottle of spirits to your lips, and, having taken a hearty swig thereof, to say after me, `long life and prosperity to free-thought and good fellowship.' if you will do this we shall be fully satisfied, and shall all part good friends." "and if i refuse?" asked the other. "oh! there'll be no compulsion--we are not going to force you to drink. this is `liberty hall;' only, you must submit to the alternative." "and what may that be?" "oh! just to carry home with you a little of our ointment, as a token of our kind regards.--officer! bring forward the ointment." a general gruff titter ran round the vault as one of the men placed beside the bottle a jar with a brush in it and a bag. "my worthy friend," proceeded the former speaker, "that jar is full of ointment, vulgarly called tar, and that little bag contains feathers. now, if you positively refuse to drink the toast i have just named in spirits, we shall be constrained to anoint you all over from head to foot with our ointment, and then to sprinkle you with the feathers; in so doing, we shall be affording an amusing spectacle to the inhabitants of crossbourne, and shall be doing yourself a real kindness, by furnishing you with abundant means of `feathering your own nest.'" a roar of discordant laughter followed this speech. then there was a pause, and a deathlike silence, while all waited for foster's answer. for a few moments he attempted no reply; then he said, slowly and sadly: "i know it will be of no use for me to say what i think of the utter baseness of the man who has enticed me here, and now acts the part of my judge. you have me in your power, and must work your will on me, for i will never consent to drink the toast proposed to me. but i warn you that--" at this moment a shrill whistle was heard by every one in the vault, and then the sound of shouts outside, and the tramping of feet.--"the game's up!" cried one of the men with the blackened faces; "every one for himself!" and a rush was made for the steps. but it was too late: a strong guard of police fully armed had taken their stand at the top of the stair, and escape was impossible, for there was no other outlet from the vault. as each man emerged he was seized and handcuffed--all except foster, whose unblackened face told at once that he was not one of the guilty party, and who was grasped warmly by the hand by thomas bradly and james barnes, who now came forward. when the vault had been searched by the constables, and they had ascertained that no one was still secreted there, the whole of the prisoners were marched into the open court and placed in a row. the sergeant, who had come with his men, then passed his lantern from face to face. there was no mistake about sharples; his false hair and beard had become disarranged in the scuffle, and other marks of identification were immediately observed. "levi sharples," said the sergeant, "you're our prisoner--we've been looking out for you for a long time; you'll have to come with us.--as for the rest of you, well, i think you won't any of you forget this night; so you'd best get home as fast as you can and wash your faces.--constables, take the handcuffs off 'em." no sooner was this done than the whole body of the conspirators vanished in a moment, while the police proceeded to carry off their prisoner. but before the officers were clear of the ruins, a strange moaning sound startled all who remained behind. "eh! what's that? surely it ain't-- a--a--" exclaimed jim barnes, in great terror. the sergeant, who was just leaving with his men, turned back. all stood silent, and then there was distinctly heard again a deep groaning, as of one in pain. "lend a light here, thomas," cried the sergeant to one of his constables. all, except those who were guarding the prisoner, proceeded in the direction from which the unearthly sounds came. "have a care," cried bradly; "there's some ugly holes hereabouts." picking their way carefully, they came at last to the mouth of an old well: it had been long choked up to within a few feet of the top, but still it was an awkward place to fall into. there could now be no mistake; the groaning came from the old well, and it was a human cry of distress. "who's there?" cried the sergeant, throwing his light down upon a writhing figure. "it's me--it's ned taylor. lord help me! i've done for myself. oh, help me out for pity's sake!" with great difficulty, and with terrible suffering to the poor wretch himself, they contrived at last to draw him up, and to place him with his back against a heap of fallen masonry. "what's to be done now?" asked the sergeant. "leave him to us," replied bradly; "we'll get him home. i see how it is: he's one of these chaps as has been taking part in this sad business, and in his hurry to get off he has tumbled into this old well and injured himself. we'll look after him, poor fellow; he shall be properly cared for. good-night, sergeant, and thank you for your timely help." when the police had departed with their prisoner, bradly went to the wounded man and asked him if he thought he could walk home with help; but the only reply was a groan. "he's badly hurt, i can see," said thomas; "we must make a stretcher out of any suitable stuff we can find, and carry him home between us. the lord's been very gracious to us so far in this business, and i don't doubt but he'll bring good out of this evil." so they made a litter of boughs and stray pieces of plank, and set out across the fields for crossbourne. "stay a bit, jim," whispered bradly to james barnes; "lend me your lantern. go forward now, and i'll join you in a minute." he was soon back again, having brought the jar of tar from the vault, about which and its purpose he had heard from foster while the police were searching the place. "i must keep this," he said, "in my surgery; it'll do capitally to give an edge to a lesson." and it may be here said that the jar was in due time placed on a bracket in bradly's private room, and labelled in large red letters, "drunkards' ointment,"--giving thomas many an opportunity of speaking a forcible word against evil companionship to those who sought his help and counsel. but to return to the party at the old hall. long and weary seemed that walk home, specially to the wounded man. at last they reached the town, and carried the sufferer to his miserable dwelling, with cheery words to his poor wife, and a promise from bradly to send the doctor at once, and that he would call himself next day and see how he was going on. then the three friends hastened at once to foster's house, that they might be the first to acquaint his wife with her husband's peril and deliverance. never was thanksgiving prayer uttered or joined in with more fervour than that which was offered by thomas bradly after he had given to kate foster a full account of the evening's adventure. then all sat down to a simple supper, at which foster was asked by thomas bradly to tell him how he came to be taken in by such a man as levi sharples. "i don't wonder," began foster, "that you should think it weak and strange in me; but you shall judge. levi sharples and myself used to be great friends--or rather, perhaps, i ought to say frequent companions, for i don't think there was ever anything worth calling friendship between us. he used to profess a great respect for my opinion. he regularly attended the meetings of our club, and made smart speeches, and would come out with the vilest sentiments expressed in the vilest and foulest language, such as disgusted me even then, and makes me shudder now when i think of it. he had a ready way with him, and could trip a man up in an argument and get the laugh against him. not that he had really read or studied much; but he had gathered a smattering on many subjects, and knew how to make a little knowledge go a great way. most of the other members of the club were afraid of him, for he had no mercy when he chose to come down on a fellow; and if any one tried to make a stand against him for a bit, he would soon talk him down with his biting sarcasms and loud sneering voice. "i told you that he professed to have a high opinion of myself as a debater and free-thinker. he seldom crossed me in argument, and when he did he was sure to give in in the end. i was vain enough at the time to set this down to my own superior wit and knowledge; but i am now fully persuaded that he was only pretending to have this good opinion of me that he might make use of me for his own purposes. he knew that i was a skilful workman, and earned more than average wages, and so he would often borrow a few shillings from me, which he never remembered to pay back again. but he managed to get these loans very dexterously, always mixing up a little flattery when he came to borrow. "often and often, i'm ashamed to say, i have wandered out with him and other members of our club in the summer, on sunday afternoons, to cricketty hall; and there, down in the old vault, we have been playing cards and drinking till it was time to return. i could see plainly enough on these occasions that levi would have been only too glad to win largely from me; but i had sense enough to keep out of his clutches, as i had noticed him managing the cards unfairly when playing with others. "i can't say that i felt any particular regret when he had to take himself off out of the neighbourhood. there were no ties that could really bind us together; for, indeed, how can there be any real union where the closest bond is a common hatred of that gospel which is so truly, as i am thankful to say i have myself found it, the religion of love? i scarcely missed him, and seldom thought of him, and was rather startled when, a few days ago, he made himself known to me in the twilight. "we were alone, and i was going to pass on with a civil word; but he begged me to stop, and in such a tone of voice as rather touched me. he then reminded me that we had been companions in evil, and said that he had heard of the change that had taken place in me. he added that he was very unhappy, that he hated himself for his past wicked life, and that as i used to stand his friend formerly when he needed a helping hand, he hoped i would show that my change was a real one by my willingness to give an old mate a lift over the stile and into the same way of peace in which i professed to be walking myself. he had much to tell me and ask of me, he said; but he was afraid of being discovered by the police, spite of his disguise. would i meet him at cricketty hall, he should feel safe there. "i did not know what to say. i could not get rid of my suspicions, notwithstanding his changed tone and manner. he saw it, and said: `you doubt my sincerity. well, i suppose you'll agree that when a man's sincerity gets into his pocket it's pretty sure to be genuine. now, you've lent me money at different times, and i never paid any of it back. i've reckoned it up, and it comes altogether to three pounds ten shillings. here it is; and many thanks to you for lending it me. i'm only sorry that i was not an honest man before.' "i hardly knew what to say; however, i took the money, for i knew that it was due to me. `well, will you trust me now?' he asked. `meet me, levi, to-morrow night just after dark outside my house,' i said, `and i will tell you then.' he hesitated a little, and then said, `very well,' and left me. i was sorely puzzled, and could not tell what to think. and then at last it occurred to me that perhaps it was wrong in me to hang back. there _might_ be a real change beginning even in such a man as levi sharples. the lord had been merciful to me, and why not to him? there hadn't been much to choose between us in badness in bygone days; and should i be right in repelling the poor man if i could be in any way the means of bringing him into the narrow way? well, you know the rest. we met the next night; and, mercifully for me, jim barnes, as i find from him, overheard the appointment to meet at cricketty hall; and wonderfully and graciously has the lord kept me _in_ my trouble, and delivered me out of it." "but how do you suppose that sharples got hold of that money?" asked bradly. "oh," replied the other, "i can easily understand all about that. you may depend upon it the whole matter has gone on somewhat in this way:-- my old mates have been scheming how to be revenged on me ever since i left them, and showed my colours on the side of temperance and religion. they've known levi's whereabouts, and were aware how thick we used to be; so they've set him upon drawing me into the snare. i don't doubt that they subscribed that three pound ten between them, that levi might be able to throw dust in my eyes with it, and throw me off my guard." "just so, just so; i see it all!" cried bradly. "eh! haven't they been nicely outwitted? why, they've lost their money, they've lost the bird out of the cage, and they've clapped their own man in prison. mark my words, william, we shan't have much more trouble from them for many a long day; but if they attempt to give us any, i shall bring them out the little jar of ointment they left behind them, and bid them tell us what complaints it's good for. ah! well, there's just a few words out of the good old book as'll crown it all. here they are in the twenty- seventh psalm: `the lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall i fear? the lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall i be afraid? when the wicked, even mine enemies and my foes, came upon me to eat up my flesh, they stumbled and fell. though an host should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear: though war should rise against me, in this will i be confident.'" chapter fifteen. doctor prosser at crossbourne. dr and mrs prosser came to pay their spring visit to the maltbys about ten days after william foster's happy escape out of the hands of his enemies. the doctor was exceedingly glad of this opportunity of having a little quiet conversation with his old college friend the vicar on subjects which, though near his heart, were too commonly pushed out of his thoughts by the pressure of daily and hourly engagements. for his was the experience so common in these days of multiplied occupations and ceaseless coming and going: he could find no time for pause, no time for serious meditation on subjects other than those which demanded daily the full concentration of his thoughts. he was not unconscious that he was moving on all the while through higher and nobler things than those which he was pursuing, just as we are conscious of the beauties of some lovely scenery, glimpses of which flash upon us on either side, as we dash on by rail at express speed to our journey's end; but, at the same time, he was painfully aware that he was really living not merely amidst but _for_ the things which are seen and temporal, without any settled and steady aim at the things which are not seen and are eternal. so he hoped that his visit to ernest maltby might be helpful to him by bringing him into an intellectual and spiritual atmosphere entirely different in tone from that with which he was surrounded in his london home and society. he had seen the true beauty and felt the persuasive force of holiness, in his previous intercourse with the vicar of crossbourne; and he believed that it might do him good to see and feel them again, as exhibited in the character and conversation of his friend. he was also very anxious that his wife should learn some practical wisdom from the maltbys, which might guide her into the way of making her home happier both to herself and to him. it is true that things had considerably improved since the christmas-eve when the doctor found her absent from home. his words of loving remonstrance had sunk deeply into her heart, and she had profited by them. she had managed to curtail her engagements, and to be more at home, especially when she knew that her husband was counting upon her society. still, there were many self- imposed duties to which she devoted time and strength which could ill be spared, and in the performance of which she was wearing herself down; so the forced interruption of these by her visit to crossbourne was looked upon by her husband with secret but deep satisfaction. the only drawback to their visit was that neither mrs maltby nor her daughter would be at home; but mr maltby had begged them not to postpone their visit on this account, as his sister, miss maltby, would be staying with him, and would take the place of hostess to his guests. and, indeed, sorry as dr prosser was that he should miss seeing his old lady friends, he was satisfied that their place would be well supplied by the vicar's sister. miss maltby was considerably older than her brother, and had been almost in the position of a parent to him when he had, in his early life, lost his own mother. she was one of those invaluable single women, not uncommon in the middle rank of society in england, whose sterling excellences are more widely felt than openly appreciated. she was not one of those active ladies who carry little bells on the skirts of their good deeds, so as to make a loud tinkling in the ears of the world. hers was a quiet and unobtrusive work. her views of usefulness and duty were, in the eyes of some of her acquaintance, old-fashioned and behind the age. standing on one side, as it were, out of the whirl of _good_ excitement, she could mark the mistakes and shortcomings in the bringing up of the professedly christian families which came under her observation, and of the grownup workers of her own sex. but the wisdom she gathered from observation was stored up in a mind ever under the control of a pure and loving heart. sneer or sarcasm never passed her lips. when called on to reprove the wrong or suggest the right, she always did it with "meekness of wisdom," her object being, not to glorify self by making others painfully conscious of their inconsistencies or defects, but to guide the erring gently into the paths of righteousness, sober-mindedness, and persuasive godliness. practical good sense, the fruit of a plain scriptural creed thought out, prayed out, and lived out, in the midst of a thousand unrealities, and half-realities, and distortions of the truth in belief and practice, was the habitual utterance of her lips and guide of her daily life. she and thomas bradly were special friends, inasmuch as they were thoroughly kindred spirits, anything like sham or humbug being the abhorrence of both, while the word of god was to each the one only infallible court of appeal in every question of faith and practice. "you must see a good deal of the coarser-grained human material here in crossbourne," remarked dr prosser to the vicar, as they strolled together in the garden in the evening after their meeting. "when i last had the pleasure of visiting you, before you came to this living, your parishioners were of a more civilised stamp." "more `civil' would perhaps be a more correct term," said mr maltby, "at least so far as touchings of the hat and smooth speeches were concerned. but, in truth, with all the roughness of these people, there is that sterling courtesy and consideration in many of them which i rarely meet with in more cultivated districts." "well," said the other, "i suppose that is owing to the increased intelligence produced by habits of reading, attending lectures, and studying mechanism." "i think not," replied the vicar. "i have not, in my own experience, found true courtesy and consideration to be the fruit of increased intelligence. on the contrary, the keener the intellectual edge, as a rule, the keener the pursuit of selfish ends, and the more conspicuous the absence of a regard to the interests and a respect for the feelings of others." "then you don't credit education with this improvement in courtesy and consideration." "certainly not. i believe that with increased intelligence there is also an increased sensitiveness in all our faculties, and so an increased appreciation of what is beautiful and becoming; but it is the heart that must be touched if there is to be that real concern for the welfare and comfort of others which i have observed in many of my present parishioners. they are rough extremely, but there is an honest and warm heart beneath the surface; and when the love of christ gets down into these hearts, and the grace of christ dwells there, i do not know a nobler material to work with." dr prosser was silent for a minute, then he said, "i suppose we are all agreed that true religion has a very humanising and refining influence. i only feel a wish, at times, that religion herself were less hampered by creeds and dogmas, so that her full power might be felt, and to a far wider extent. i think that then religious and intellectual advancement would keep steady pace side by side." "do you, my dear friend?" said mr maltby sadly. "i must confess i am quite of a different opinion. people seem to me to have gone wild on this subject, and to have lost their senses in their over-anxiety to cultivate them. intellect-worship is to my mind the master snare of our day. cram the mind and starve the heart--this is the great popular idolatry. and so religion must be a misty, dreamy sort of thing; not well-defined truth, plainly and sharply taught in god's word, requiring faith in revealed doctrines which are to influence the life by taking up a stronghold in the heart, but rather a foggy mixture of light and darkness, of superstition and sentiment, which will leave men to follow pretty nearly their own devices, and allow them to pass through this world with quieted consciences, so long as they are sincere, let their creed be anything or nothing: and as to the future, why, this world is the great land of realities, and a coming judgment, a coming heaven or hell, these are but plausible dreams, or, at the most, interesting speculations. excuse me, my dear friend, for speaking warmly. i cannot but feel and speak strongly on this subject when i mark the growing tendency in our day to fall down and worship the cultivation of the intellect, to the neglect and disparagement of definite gospel truth, and of that education of the heart without which, i am more firmly persuaded every day, there cannot be either individual peace, home virtue and happiness, or public honour and morality." "perhaps you are right," said the doctor thoughtfully. "there may be a danger in the direction you point out. certainly we men of science have, many of us, while valuing and respecting the christian religion, been getting increasingly impatient of anything like religious dogmatism and exclusiveness." at this moment a servant came to say that thomas bradly wished to have a word with the vicar when he was disengaged. "oh, ask him to come to me here in the garden," said the vicar.--"you shall see one of my rough diamonds now," he added smilingly to his friend; "indeed, i may call him my `koh-i-noor,' only he hasn't been polished.--thomas," he continued to bradly as he entered, "here's an old friend of mine, dr prosser, a gentleman eminent in the scientific world, who has come down from london to see me, and to get a little experience of crossbourne ways and manners. i tell him that he'll find us rather a rough material." "i'm sure," replied thomas, "i'm heartily glad to see any friend of yours among us. he must take us as he finds us. like other folks, we aren't always right side out; but we generally mean what we say, and when we do say anything we commonly make it stand for summat." "well now, thomas," continued mr maltby, "you're a plain, practical man, and i think you could give us an opinion worth having on a subject we've been talking about." "i'm sure, sir, i don't know how that may be," was the reply; "but we working-people sometimes see things in a different light from what those above us does,--at least so far as our experience goes." "that's just it, thomas. it will interest dr prosser, i know, to hear how a theory about religion and truth, which is becoming very fashionable in our day, would suit yourself and the quick-witted and warm-hearted people you have daily to deal with." "let me hear it, sir, and i'll answer according to the best of my judgment." the vicar then repeated to bradly the substance of the conversation between himself and the doctor on religious dogmatism and breadth of views. "ah, well," cried thomas laughing, "you're almost too deep for me. but it comes into my mind what happened to me a good many years ago, when i were quite a young man. there were a nobleman in our parts,--i wasn't living at crossbourne then,--and his son came of age, and such a feast there was as i never saw afore or since, and i hope i never may again. well, my father's family had been in that country for many generations, and so they turned us into gentlefolks, me and my father, that day, and we sat down to dinner with the quality; and a grand dinner it was for certain. when it was all over, as i thought, and the parson had returned thanks, just as i were for getting up and going, they brings round some plates with great glass bowls in 'em, nearly full of water, something like what an old aunt of mine used to keep gold-fish in; and there was a knife and fork on each plate. then the servants brings all sorts of fruits,--apples and pears, and peaches and grapes,--and sets 'em on the table. i was asked what i'd have, and i chose a great rosy- cheeked apple. and then i were going to bite a great piece out of it, but a gent as sat next me whispers, `cut it, man; it's more civil to cut it.' so i takes up the knife, which had got a mother-o'-pearl handle to it, and tries to cut the apple, but i could only make a mark on it such as you see on a hot-cross-bun. then i looked at the blade of the knife, and it were just like silver, but were as blunt as a broomstick. however, i tried again, but it wouldn't cut; so i axes a tall chap in livery as stood behind my chair if they'd such a thing as a butcher's steel in the house, for i wanted to put an edge to my knife. eh, you should have seen that fellow grin! `no, sir,' he says, `we ain't got nothing of the sort.' `well, then,' says i, `take this knife away,-- there's a good man!--for it's too fine for me, and bring me a good steel knife with an edge as'll cut.'--now, if you'll excuse my long story, gentlemen, it seems to me that the sort of religion you say is getting popular among the swell people and men of science in our country is uncommon like that fruit-knife as couldn't suit me. it's a deal too fine for common purposes, and common people, and common homes, and common hearts; it hasn't got no edge--it won't cut. we want a religion with a good usable edge to it, as'll cut the cords of our sins and the knots of our troubles. now, that's just the religion of the bible. it tells us what we're to do for god and for our fellow-creatures; it tells us how we're to do it, by showing us how the lord jesus christ shed his blood to free us from the guilt and power of sin, and bought us grace by which we might walk in his steps; and it shows why we're to do it,--just from love to him, because he first loved us in giving jesus to die for us. i don't see what use religion or the bible would be to us if these things weren't laid down for us clear and sharp; if p'raps they was true, and p'raps not; or true for me, but not true for my neighbour; or half true, and half false; or true for to-day, and not true for to- morrow." "bravo!" said dr prosser, delighted, and clapping his hands. "i believe your rough workman's hammer has hit the right nail on the head, and hit it hard too." "i'm very glad, sir, if you think so," said bradly, "i've had chaps crying up to me now and then some such sort of views as the vicar and yourself have been talking about; but i've felt sure of this, however well they may look on paper, they'll never act. what's the use of a guide, if he's blind and don't know where he's taking you to? i remember i were once spending a night at a gent's house, and the next morning i had to walk to a town twenty miles off. it were quite a country-place where the gentleman lived, and when he were saying good- bye to me i axed him for directions, for i'd never been in that part of the country before. so he said, `you must go for about a mile and a half along this road, and then you'll come to a wood on your left hand. you must go through that wood, and then any one'll be able to direct you for the rest of the way.'--`and pray,' says i, `which path must i take through the wood? for i daresay there's more than one.'--`oh, you can't mistake,' says he; `you've only to follow your nose.' so i set off, supposing it was all right. i found the wood easily enough, but when i got to it i was quite at a nonplush. there was three roads into the wood, each one as distinct as the other. it was all very well to say, `follow your nose;' but if i looked down one road that would be following my nose, and so it would be when i looked down either of the other roads. i had to chance it; and a pretty mess i made of it, for i completely lost my way, and didn't get to my journey's end till after dark.--now, some of these scientific gents as has got too wise to believe in the old-fashioned bible and its plain meaning, what sort of directions would they give us through this world, so that we might do our duty in it, and get happily through it, and reach the better land? it would be much with poor sinners as it was with me. if we're to have a religion without doctrines and without a revelation, or if we're only to pick out just as much from the bible as suits our fancies and our prejudices, we shall be just following our nose. and where will that lead us? why, into all sorts of difficulties here, and the end will be nothing but darkness." "just so, thomas," said the vicar; "i feel sure that you speak the truth. we want the plain, distinct teaching of the doctrines of god's word, if we are to be holy here and happy hereafter. we want to know unmistakably what to believe, and how to act out our belief. what a blessing it is that, when we take up our bibles in a humble and teachable spirit, we can say, `thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.' but we are come upon strange times indeed, when professed teachers of the christian religion can propound to us `a gospel without an atonement, a bible without inspiration, and an ignorant christ.'--well, thomas, shall we come into my study? dr prosser will excuse me for a few minutes." an evening or two after this conversation, as the whole vicarage party lingered round the table after supper, dr prosser turned to his host and said, "judging from all i see and hear, maltby, a parish like yours must be a famous place for testing the working value of many modern theories of morality and religion." "yes," was the reply; "what you say, my dear friend, is true indeed. learned and amiable men sit in their libraries and college rooms, and weave out of their own intellects or consciousness wonderful theories of the goodness of human nature, the charms of a more genial christianity than is to be found by ordinary seekers in the scriptures, and the need of a wider entrance to a broader road to heaven than the strait gate and narrow way of the gospels. but let such men come to crossbourne, and have to deal with these people of shrewd and sharpened intellects, strong wills, strong passions, and strong temptations, and they will find that the old-fashioned gospel is, after all, the only thing that will meet all man's moral and spiritual needs. i have never been more struck with this than in the case of a reformed-infidel amongst us: the change in that man has been indeed wonderful, as even his bitterest enemies are constrained to acknowledge,--he has indeed found the gospel to be to him the `pearl of great price.' the change in that man's character, home, and even expression of countenance, is truly as from darkness to light." "i wish," observed miss maltby, "there was less of the theoretical and fanciful, and more of the practical and scriptural, in many of the modern schemes proposed for the acceptance of my own sex in the matter of education. i wish wise men would let us alone, and allow us to keep our proper place, and follow out our proper calling, as these may be plainly gathered from the great storehouse of all wisdom." "pray give us your thoughts a little more fully, miss maltby," said the doctor. "i think there may be one here at any rate who will benefit by them." "two, john, at least," said his wife, laughing: "for if i am the one who am to benefit, you will be the other; for whatever improves me will be sure to improve your home, so we shall share the profits." her husband held out his hand to her, and while they exchanged a loving pressure, miss maltby said: "woman seems now to be treated as an independent rational being, whose one great object ought to be in this life to outstrip, or at any rate keep on a level with, the other sex in all intellectual pursuits. did god put her into the world for this? did he give her as a rule faculties and capacities for this? i cannot believe it. this ambition to shine, this thirst for excessive education, this craving after female university distinctions, why all this is eating out that which is truly womanly in hundreds of our girls, and turning them into a sort of intellectual mermaids, only one half women, and the other half something monstrous and unnatural. and what is the result? let me read you the words of a high authority--dr richardson: `these precocious, coached-up children are never well,' he says. `their mental excitement keeps up a flush which, like the excitement caused by strong drink in older children, looks like health, but has no relation to it.' and if this overtasking the mind is so injurious to the body, what will our women of the next generation be if things go on with us as they are doing at present? i must just quote again from the same authority. dr richardson says, `if women succeed in their clamour for admission into the universities, and like moths follow their sterner mates into the midnight candle of learning, the case will be bad indeed for succeeding generations; and the geniuses and leaders of the nation will henceforth be derived from those simple pupils of the board schools who entered into the conflict of life with reading, writing, and arithmetic, free of brain to acquire learning of every kind in the full powers of developed manhood.'" "you make out a very gloomy case and prospect for us," said mrs prosser sadly and thoughtfully. "i do," replied the other; "and what makes all this far worse is, that this mental overwork cannot go on without depriving the sufferers--for they _are_ sufferers to an extent they little dream of--of that sweet privilege of being a true blessing to others which christian mothers, daughters, and sisters enjoy, whose work inside, and moderately outside the home, is done simply, unostentatiously, and in a womanly manner. verily, those women who sacrifice all to this mental forcing, to this race for intellectual distinction,--verily, they have their reward. but they can look for no other." "but stay, my dear friend," interposed dr prosser. "i have been going with you heart and soul, only i felt a little jolt just then, as if the wheels ran over a stone. was not that last expression a little uncharitable? will all women who covet and strive after intellectual honours be necessarily shut out of heaven?" "far be it from me to say so," exclaimed miss maltby earnestly; "i was speaking about reward. surely we make some sad mistakes on this subject; i mean about reward in a better world. we are naturally so afraid, some of us, of putting good works in the wrong place, that we have gone into the opposite extreme, and turned them out of their right place. it is surely one of the sweetest and most encouraging of thoughts that jesus will condescend to reward earnest work done for him, though after all only the fruit of his own grace. but if we women are to have our share in these heavenly rewards, our hearts cannot be engrossed in the pursuit of earthly intellectual prizes. oh! we cannot think and speak too earnestly on such a subject as this; can we, dear brother?" "no, indeed," said the vicar, "when we remember that the lord is coming again, and then shall he reward every one according to his works." no one spoke for a while, and then mrs prosser asked, "what do you think, dear miss maltby, of these female guilds, and societies, and clubs?" "i think very ill of them," was the reply; "for they substitute, or are in danger of substituting, self-imposed rules and motives for the simple rules and constraining motives set before us in god's word." "i don't quite understand you," said the other. "i mean thus," continued miss maltby. "let us take an example. i have some young lady friends who have joined an `early-rising club.' they are to get up and be downstairs by a certain hour every morning, or pay a forfeit, and are to keep a strict account of their regularities or irregularities, as the case may be." "and what harm do you see in this?" asked dr prosser. "just this," replied the other: "it seems to me that this banding together to accomplish an object, in itself no doubt desirable, gives a sort of semi-publicity to it, and thereby robs it of its simplicity, and in a measure deprives god of his glory in it, as though the constraining love of christ were not sufficient to induce us to acquire habits of self-denial and usefulness. how much better for one who desires to live in the daily habit of unostentatious self-discipline modestly to practise this regularity of early-rising as an act of christian self- denial, to be known and marked by him who will accept and graciously bless it, if done to please him and in his strength. in a word, dear friends, i cannot but think that our female character is likely to suffer by the adoption of these new and, in my view, unscriptural theories and systems, and that the less of excitement and publicity there is in woman's work, and the more of the quiet home work and home influence in her doings, the holier, the healthier, the happier, and the more truly useful will she be." "i quite agree with my sister in this matter," observed the vicar. "i believe that there is a subtle element of evil in this club system among young females which has escaped the notice of many christian people. i mean the independence of _home_ which it generates, as well as the new motives which it introduces. thus, a bright, intelligent young lady friend of mine had joined a society or club for secular reading. the members are bound to read works, selected by a responsible person connected with the society, for one hour every day, a certain fine having to be paid for every hour missed. and what was the consequence in my young friend's case? why, the society had usurped the place of the parents; it, not they, was to be the guide of her studies, and home duties must remain undone rather than this hour be infringed upon: for it was a point of honour to keep this hour sacred, as it were; and so the debt of honour had to be paid, even though the debt of conscience-- that is, what home duties required--should be left unpaid. just as it is on the turf and at the gaming-table,--the man's gaming debts are called debts of honour, and _must_ be paid, come what will, while debts to the tradesman, whose livelihood depends on his customers' honesty, may remain unpaid. such has been, or rather _had_ been the result with my young friend. but finding that this reading-club was detaching her thoughts from home, weakening the hold of home upon her, causing her to lean on the judgment of others rather than on that of her parents, and to neglect, or do with an ill grace, duties clearly assigned to her by god, and to substitute for them self-imposed tasks and studies, she had the good sense and good principle to give it up. surely a system which has a tendency to draw young people out of the circle of home duty, influence, and authority, and thus to make them independent of those whom god has given them to be their guides and counsellors, and to substitute the rules and penalties of a self-constituted society for the motives and discipline of the gospel, can neither be sound in itself, nor strengthening to the character, nor healthful either for mind or soul." "well," said the doctor thoughtfully, "there is a great deal, i am sure, in what you say, and i think my dear wife and myself are getting round to be pretty much of one mind with you now on these important matters." it was with much regret that dr prosser and his wife took their leave of the vicarage and its inmates on the first of may. it was a lovely morning, combining all the vigorous freshness of spring with the mature warmth of summer. as the doctor and the vicar strolled down to the station, leaving mrs prosser to ride down with the luggage, they encountered thomas bradly, who was also on his way to the line. "good morning, thomas," said mr maltby; "do you know how edward taylor is to-day?" "badly enough in body, sir," replied bradly; "but i believe the lord's blessing this trouble to his soul, and so he's bringing good out of evil.--and so i suppose we're to lose dr prosser. well, i'm sorry for it, for all the working-men i've talked with was greatly set up with the lecture he gave us in the town hall the other night, and we were hoping he'd give us another." "we must get him to run down and favour us again when the autumn comes round," said mr maltby. "that i shall be charmed to do," replied the doctor. "it was quite refreshing to speak td such an audience. they don't leave one in any doubt about their understanding and appreciating what is said to them." "that's true, sir," said bradly, "and that makes it all the more important they should listen to them as can show them as scripture and science come from the same god, and so can't possibly contradict one another; and that's what you did, and i was very thankful to hear you do it." "i am glad that i made that clear," said the doctor. "yes, you did, sir; and i'm so glad you did it without any `ifs' and `buts.' why, we had a chap here the other day--the vicar weren't at home at the time--and he puts out bills to say as he were going to give a popular lecture on the evidences of christianity, historical, geographical, and i don't know what besides. it were put about too as he were an able man, and a christian man, and so me and some of my friends went to hear him. but, bless you, he couldn't go straight at his subject, but he must be making all sorts of apologies, he was so precious fearful of speaking too strongly in favour of the word of god and the gospel, and lest he should be uncharitable to them as didn't see just as he did; and he were full of compliments to this sceptical writer and that sceptical writer, and told us all their chief objections, and was so anxious to be candid, and not put his own opinions too strongly, that most of us began to think as the lecture ought to have been called a lecture _against_ the evidences of christianity. i'm sure, for one who remembered what he said in favour of the bible there'd be a dozen as would just carry home the objections, and forget the little as was said on the other side. indeed, it reminded me of bobby hunt's flower- garden. but i ax your pardon, sir; i mustn't be taking up more of your time." "oh, go on by all means," said dr prosser, laughing; "i want to hear your illustration from bobby hunt's flower-garden." "well, sir, bobby hunt, as he were usually called, though he preferred to be spoken to as _mr_. hunt, had a cottage on the hills. he were a man as always talked very big. he'd once been a gentleman's butler, and had seen how the gentlefolks went on. so he liked to make things about him seem bigger than they really was. one day, in the back end of the year, he met me in the town, and asked me why i'd never been over to see his conservatory and flower-garden. i said i'd come over some day, and so i did.--`i'm come to see your flower-garden,' says i.--`come along,' says he; `only, you mustn't expect too much.'--`'tain't likely,' says i; but i weren't exactly prepared for what i did see, or rather didn't see. at the back of his cottage was a little bit of ground, with a few potatoes and stumps of cabbages in it, all very untidy; and he takes me to the end of this, and says, `there's my flower-garden.'--`where?' says i.--`there,' says he.--`i can see lots of weeds,' says i, `but scarce anything else.'--`oh,' he says, `it only wants the weeds clearing off, and you'll find more flowers than you think for.'--it were pretty much the same with the gent's lecture. he showed us plenty of infidel weeds; but as for the scripture flowers, they was so smothered by the sceptical objections, it'd take a sharp eye to notice 'em at all." "you don't think, then, my friend," asked the doctor, "that this apologetic style--this parade of candour in stating the views and objections of the sceptical--is of much use among the people of crossbourne?" "no use at all, sir, here or anywhere else, you may depend upon it. we don't want such candour as that. the sceptics and, their creeds and their objections can take care of themselves. we want just to have the simple truth set before us." "i quite agree with you," said the doctor: "timid defence is more damaging to the cause of truth than open attack." "i believe you, sir. suppose i were to ask you to employ one of my mates, and you was to ask me if i could give him a good character; what would you think of him if i were to say, `well, i've a good opinion of him myself, and he's honest and all right, for anything that i know to the contrary; but i should like you to know that john styles don't think him over honest, and anthony birks told me the other day as he wouldn't trust him further than he could see him; and though styles and birks aren't no friends of mine, still they're very respectable men, and highly thought of by some. but, for all that, i hope you'll employ my mate, for i've a very high opinion of him myself on the whole'? if i were to give you such a character of my mate, would it dispose you to engage him? i fancy not. but this is just how some of these gents recommends the scriptures in their lectures and their books. it's my honest conviction, doctor, they're not loyal believers in god's truth themselves, or they'd never defend it in this left-handed way." "i'm afraid what you say is too true," said dr prosser; "and i shall not forget our conversation on this subject.--what a lovely day!" he continued, turning to mr maltby. "what a contrast to the day on which i last passed through crossbourne." "when was that?" asked his friend; "i did not know that you had been in this neighbourhood before." "oh, i was only passing through by rail on my way to town. let me see; i was coming from the north, and passed your station late at night on the rd of last december." "ah, thomas!" said the vicar, "that is a night _we_ cannot forget.--poor joe wright! his was a terrible end indeed." "what! a man killed on the line that night near crossbourne?" said the doctor. "i remember having my attention drawn to it more particularly, because it must have happened a few minutes after i passed over the very same spot; so i gathered from the account of the accident in the _times_." "you must have been going up to london then by the express," said his friend. "yes. and i've special cause to remember the night--it was dismal, rainy, and chilly. the train was very full, and i was a little anxious about my luggage, as it contained some articles of considerable value. there was no room for it in the luggage vans, which were full when i joined the train, and i had to speak rather sharply to a porter who i suspect was not over sober. he jerked up my things very roughly on to the top of the first-class carriage into which i got, and was going to leave one of the most important articles on the platform, if i had not jumped out and seen it put up myself. and then i had to scold him again for not covering the luggage properly with the tarpaulin, without which protection it would, some of it at least, have been damaged, as a steady rain was falling. i don't know when i have been more put out, and really i felt ashamed of myself afterwards. however, all was right in the end; the luggage was all safe and uninjured, and i had a prosperous journey." "i'll wish you good morning, sir," said thomas bradly to the doctor, as they entered the station yard. "a pleasant journey to you, sir; and there'll be many of us working-men as'll be very proud to see and hear you again in crossbourne." "farewell, my good friend," said the other. "i shall look forward with much pleasure to the fulfilment of my promise." a few minutes more, and dr and mrs prosser were on their way back to the great city. chapter sixteen. confession and explanation. when edward taylor's accident and its cause were known in crossbourne, the consternation caused among the enemies of religion and of the temperance cause was indescribable. thomas bradly made no secret of what had happened, and of how foster's persecutors had been outwitted: not in any revengeful spirit, but partly because he thought it better that the plain truth should be known, and so the mouths of the marvel- mongers be stopped; and partly because he felt sure that the enemy would keep pretty still when they knew that their late proceedings were blazed abroad. so he just quietly told one or two of his fellow-workmen all the particulars, without note or comment, and left the account to do its own work. nor could there be any doubt as to the result. never had there been such "a heavy blow and great discouragement" to the infidel party as this. not only was there a storm of indignation poured out upon the heads of the conspirators by the more sober-minded working-men,--for it took no very shrewd guessing to find out who had been ned taylor's companions in the heartless and cruel outrage,--but even those who might have secretly applauded had the plot been successful, were eager to join in the general expressions of disgust and reprobation now that it had failed; for nothing meets with such universal and remorseless execration as unsuccessful villainy. there were also those who never lost an opportunity of chaffing the unfortunate delinquents; while, to complete their mortification and discomfiture, a rude copy of satirical verses, headed, "a simple lay in praise of tar, by one of the feathered tribe," was printed and widely circulated through the town and neighbourhood. nor was there much sympathy, under their ignominious defeat, between the members and friends of the free-thought club. after a few nights, spent chiefly in personalities and mutual recriminations, which well-nigh terminated in a general stand-up fight, the meetings of the club were adjourned _sine die_, and the institution itself fell to pieces in a few weeks, and its existence was speedily forgotten. the heaviest weight of trouble, however, had fallen upon poor ned taylor. he had suffered very serious injuries by his fall into the old well, and, having utterly ruined his constitution by intemperance, was unable to rally from the shock and the wounds and bruises he had received. so he lay a miserable, groaning wreck of humanity on his wretched bed, in the comfortless kitchen of his bare and desolate home. his old companions soon came to see him; not from any real care for himself or his sufferings, but partly to coax and partly to threaten him into silence, so that he might not reveal the names of his companions in the attempt on foster. but ned's wife soon gave them to understand that her husband had already had more than enough of their company; that they needn't trouble themselves to call again; and that she hoped, if he was spared, that he would have nothing more to say to any of them as long as he lived. so his old companions in evil, taking this "broad hint" as it was meant, left him in peace, and he had leisure to look a little into the past, and to ponder his sin and folly. he was a man, like many others of his class, not without kindly feelings and occasional good intentions; but these last had ever been as "the morning cloud and the early dew," and like all good resolutions repeatedly broken, had only added fresh rivets to the chains of his evil habits. and so he had plunged deeper and deeper into the mire of intemperance and ungodliness, till scarce the faintest trace of the divine image could be discerned in him. but now his conscience woke up, and he was not left without helpers. thomas bradly visited him on the day after his accident, and saw that he was properly cared for. william foster also called on him in a day or two, and assured him of his hearty forgiveness. the poor unhappy man was deeply touched at this, and, hiding his face in his hands, sobbed bitterly. he was indeed a pitiable object as he lay back on his ragged bed, partly propped up with pillows, his head bound round with a cloth, his left eye half closed, and one arm lying powerless by his side. "william," he said, when he could manage to get the words out, "i don't deserve this, kindness from you of all men in the world; it cuts me to the heart, it does, for sure. i think i heard the parson say once, when he were preaching in the open-air at the market-cross one summer's evening, summat about heaping coals of fire on a man's head as has wronged you, by returning him good for evil. i'm sure, william, you've been and heaped a whole scuttleful of big coals on my head, and they're red-hot every one on 'em." "well, well," said foster, much touched by this confession, "it will be all right, ned, as far as i'm concerned, and i hope you'll soon be better.--i've come to learn," he added in an undertone, and with strong emotion, "my own need of forgiveness for all i've done against my saviour in days gone by, and it would be strange and wrong indeed if i couldn't heartily forgive a fellow-sinner." "the lord bless you for that word," said the other; "and let me tell you, william, bad as i've been agen you and poor jim barnes, i've never liked this job; and as for that sharples, i knew as he was the meanest rascal to treat you as he did, and i only wish as i'd had the sense and courage to keep out of the business altogether." "well, you've learnt a lesson, ned; and if it should please god to bring you round, you must keep clear of the old set." "you may depend upon that, william," said the sick man; "i've had enough and to spare of them and their ways.--i'll tell you how it all began, william, and who it was as set the thing a-going." "nay, ned," interposed foster hastily, "i don't want to know; i'd rather not know. i can guess pretty well, though i saw none of their faces distinctly. they don't want any punishment from me if i wished to give it them, for they're getting it hot and strong from all sides already; and as for sharples, poor wretched man, he's got caught in his own trap as neatly as if he'd set it on purpose to catch himself." "just as you please, william; i'm sure it's very good of you to take it as you do." "no, ned, don't say so; there's no goodness anywhere in the matter, except in that merciful god who so wonderfully watched over and protected me. i'm sure it has been worth all i've gone through a thousand times over, to have learnt what he has taught me in this trouble,--a lesson of trust and love. but i will come and see you again, ned; you have had talking enough for one time." the vicar also called on the sufferer frequently, and was glad to find him humble, patient, and willing to receive instruction. but it was to thomas bradly that the poor man seemed specially drawn, and to him he felt that he could open all his heart. "i've summat on my mind, thomas, as i wants to talk to you about," he said to bradly one day when they were left quite alone; it was about a week after the return home of dr and mrs prosser. the sick man was able to sit up in a chair by the fire, though the doctor gave no hope of any real or lasting improvement. through the kindness of his friends his cottage had partly lost its comfortless appearance, and himself, his wife, and children had been provided with sufficient food and clothing. yet the stamp of death was on the poor patient's wasted features, and a racking cough tried him terribly at times. but his mind was quite clear, and he had begun to see his way to pardon and peace, though it was with but a trembling hand that his faith laid hold of the offered salvation. "what is it that you want to tell me?" asked bradly cheerfully. "i'll tell you, thomas: i know i'm a dying man, and it's all right it should be so; i've brought it upon myself, more's the sin, and more's the pity." "nay, ned, take heart, man; you'll come round yet, and be spared to set a good example." the sick man shook his head, and then broke out into a violent fit of coughing. "it's pulling me to pieces," he said, when he could recover himself; "but i shall be happier if i can just tell you, thomas, what's on my mind. it ain't about any of the wicked things as i've done, but i shall be better content when i've told you all about it. you remember the night as poor joe wright met his death on the line last december? well, i'd summat to do with that." "you, ned!" "nay, thomas, i don't mean as i'd any hand in killing him--it were his own doing; but i were mixed up with the matter in a way, and i thought i'd tell you all about it, as you're a prudent man as won't go talking about it; and i shall get it off my mind, for it's been a-troubling me for months past." "go on, ned." "well, then, it were that same evening, two days afore christmas-day, i were coming home from my work; and just as i were passing the railway inn i sees a bag lying on the step just outside the front door of the public." "a what?" exclaimed bradly, half rising from his seat. "but go on--all right," he added, noticing the sick man's surprise at his sudden question. "a bag," continued the other. "it were a shabby sort of bag, and i thought it most likely belonged to ebenezer potts, for i'd often seen him carrying a bag like it: you know ebenezer's a joiner, and he used to carry his tools with him in just such a bag. so i says to myself, `i'll have a bit of fun with ebenezer. i'll carry off his bag, and leave it by-and-by on his own door-step when it's dark; won't he just be in a fuss when he comes out of the public and misses it! i shall hear such a story about it next day.' for you know, thomas, eben's a fussy sort of chap, and he'd be roaring like a town-crier after his bag. it were a foolish thing to do, but i only meant to have a bit of a game. so i carries off the bag, and turns into the green dragon on my way home to have a pint of ale. "there was two or three of our set there, and one says to me, `what have you got there, ned?'--`it's eben potts's bag of tools,' says i; `i found it lying on the step of the railway inn while he went in to get a pint. i shall leave it at his own door in a bit; but won't he just make a fine to-do when he misses it!'--`it'll be grand,' said one of them, and they all set up a laugh.--`let me look at the bag,' said poor joe wright, who'd been staring at it. i hands it to him. `why,' says he, `'tain't eben's bag after all.'--`not his bag!' cries i, in a fright.--`nothing of the sort,' says he; `i knows his bag quite well. besides, just feel the weight of it; there's no tools in this bag.'--`well, it _did_ strike me,' says i, `as it were very light. what's to be done now? they'll be after me for stealing a bag. i wonder what's in it? not much, i'm sure; just a few shirts and pocket-handkerchers, or some other gents' things, i dessay.' "`well,' says another, `there'll be no harm looking, and it'll be easily done--it's only a common padlock. has any one got a key as'll unlock it?' no one of us had; so we says to the landlady's daughter, miss philips, who'd been peeping in, and had got her eyes and ears open, `have you got ever a bunch of keys, miss, as you could lend us?' she takes a bunch out of her pocket, and comes in to see what we should find. `there's a lump of summat in it, i can feel,' says i, as i was trying to open the padlock. well, one key wouldn't do, but another would, and we opens the bag. `nothing but bits of paper arter all,' says one.--`you stop a bit,' says i, and i turns the bag bottom up. two things fell out: one were a book, i think, and it must have tumbled under the table, i fancy, for none on us noticed it; we was all crowding to see what the other thing was, which were wrapped up in soft paper, and fell on the table with a hard thump. `just you open it, miss philips,' says joe wright; `it's better for your lovely soft hands to do it than our rough 'uns.'--`go along with your nonsense, joe,' says she; but she takes up the little parcel and opens it; and what do you think there were in it, thomas?" he paused; but bradly made no answer. "ah! you'd never guess. why, it were a beautiful gold thing full of precious stones, such as ladies wear round their wrists. "well, we all stared at it as if we was stuck. `what's to be done now?' says i; `this'll be getting us into trouble.'--`put it back, lock up the bag, and take it back to where you fetched it from.'--`nay,' says i, `that won't pay; they'll lock me up for a thief.'--`well, what do you say yourself? i wish we'd never meddled with it, any of us; it'll be getting us all into a scrape,' says another of my mates.--`shall we bury it?' says one.--`shall we drop it into a pond?' says another.--`nay, it's sure to turn up agen us if we do,' says i. so we sat and talked about it for some time, and had one pint after another, till we was all pretty fresh. then says i, all of a sudden, `i'll tell you what we'll do, if you'll help me, and i'll pay for another pint all round,' (there was just four of us altogether). `the express train from the north'll be passing under the wooden bridge in the cutting a little after ten; let's put the bracelet, as miss philips calls it, back into the bag, and lock it up safe, and then let's take the bag, and one of us clamber down among the timbers of the bridge, and drop the bag plump on the top of the train. it don't stop, don't that train, till it gets to london; so when they finds the bag at the other end, nobody'll know wherever it came from, 'cos it's got no direction to it, and we shall get fairly quit of it.' "it were a wild sort of scheme, and i should never have thought of such a thing if i hadn't had more ale than brains in me at the time. but they all cried out as they'd join me, so we had t'other pint; and then we put back the bracelet, and stuffed in a lot of papers with it, and locked up the bag as it was afore." "and the book?" asked bradly, eagerly. "oh, we never thought about the book; it's never crossed my mind from that day to this. i suppose we forgot all about it, we was so taken up with the other thing. i daresay the landlady's daughter found it under the table; and if she did, she'd be sure to keep it snug and not say anything about it, as it might have told tales." "perhaps so, ned. and what did you do next?" "why, we went our ways home; and joe wright took charge of the bag, as his house was nearest the road as leads to the cutting. we all met at poor joe's at half-past nine, and walked together to the wooden bridge. it were a rainy night, and the timbers of the bridge was very slippy. it was proposed for joe to drop the bag, and he were quite willing. i was in a bit of a fright about him all the time, for he'd drunk more than any of us, and his legs and hands wasn't over steady. howsomever, we'd no time to lose, so joe got over the side of the bridge, and down among the timbers, and the train came rushing on, and, as we stooped over the side, we could see as the bag fell plump on to the top of the carriage. we knowed afterwards as _that_ were all right; for if the bag had dropped on one side, or been shook off, the police would have been sure to have found it. and then poor joe--eh! it were awful; i can't bear to think of it. the lord forgive me for having had aught to do with it!--he tried to climb back, poor chap; but the great big beams was wide to grasp, and very slippy with the rain, and he weren't used to that sort of thing, and so he lost his hold, and down he fell on to the rails, quite stunned; and, afore any on us could get at him, the stopping train were on him, and he were a dead man." the sick man, having thus finished his story, sank back exhausted; but, recovering himself after a while, he said, "well, thomas, i've eased my mind: you know all. if it hadn't been for me, poor joe'd never have come to that shocking end. i hope the lord'll forgive me. but you may be sure neither me nor my mates meant any harm to poor joe." "that's quite clear, ned," replied bradly, gravely; "it was indeed a wild and foolish thing to do, but when the liquor's in the wit's out. no doubt you've much to repent of, but certainly you aren't answerable as if you'd killed poor joe. only, see how one thing leads to another. if you'd only loved the inside of your home as much as you loved the inside of the public, you'd have kept out of the way of temptation, and have escaped a deal of misery. well, ned, cast this burden on the lord. tell him all about it, as you've told me; and ask him to wash away all your sins in his precious blood, and he'll do it." "i will, i will, thomas," said the poor sufferer. when bradly left ned taylor's house, he walked home very slowly, revolving many thoughts in his mind, and, according to his fashion, giving them expression in a talk, half out loud, to himself, as follows:-- "well, now, we've got another step on the road to set poor jane straight; and yet it looks like a step, and a good long step too, back'ards. it's all explained now what's become of the bag and the bracelet, but we're further off from getting them than ever. i don't know; p'raps it's lying at the left-luggage office in london. i'll send up and see. but i mustn't say anything about it at present to jane. but, suppose it shouldn't be there--what then? why, we've lost all clue to it; we're quite in the dark. stop, stop, thomas bradly! what are you about? what are you stumbling on in that fashion for, without your two walking-sticks--`do the next thing,' `one step at a time'? ay, that's it, to be sure. and the next thing's to send to the left-luggage office in london; and the rest's to be left with the lord." so that evening bradly spoke to one of the guards, a fellow-abstainer, and a man with whom he was on intimate terms, telling him as much of the story of the losing of the bag as was necessary, without mentioning his sister's name, and asked him to make full inquiries in london. his friend accordingly did so without delay, but brought back the sorrowful tidings that nothing answering to the bag described was lying at the left-luggage office, or had been seen or heard of by any of the officials. poor thomas! he could not help feeling a little disheartened. he had hoped, as ned taylor proceeded with his confession, that something was coming that would lead to the discovery of the long-lost and earnestly- desired evidence of jane's innocence; and now that confession only showed that the bag had been carried hopelessly out of their reach. had it been hidden away somewhere in crossbourne, there would have been a good hope of hunting it out; but now that it had been conveyed away to the great metropolis, and had been carried off from the railway terminus, further search and inquiry seemed absolutely useless. of course, if an honest man had accidentally got hold of it, and found out his mistake, it was possible he might have found some clue to the rightful owner in hollands' letter, if he discovered that letter in the bag; but as nearly half a year had now gone by since the loss, there was no reason to suppose that the bag had fallen into the hands of any one willing, or, if willing, able to restore it. if, on the other hand, a dishonest person had got hold of it, of course the bracelet would have been broken up, or hopelessly sold away, and the bag destroyed. it was now the beginning of june, when one evening bradly was sitting in his arm-chair at home, with a shadow on his face, as he meditated on these things. jane, whose quick eye marked every change in her brother's countenance, was persuaded that there was something more than usually amiss, for the light on bradly's habitually cheerful face to be clouded, and gently asked the cause. "to tell you the truth, dear jane," he replied, "i am troubled, spite of myself, about your matter." "what, thomas! have you heard anything fresh?" "yes, i have; but i wasn't meaning to say anything about it at present to you, as i wouldn't trouble you to no purpose, and i thought i'd wait for more light." "oh, tell me, thomas, tell me! what is it?" "why, the simple truth is that the bag's been found; and yet it's lost, and worse lost than ever." "o thomas!" "well, jane dear, don't fret; i'll tell you all about it." he then proceeded to give her the full particulars of ned taylor's story, and of the endeavour he had made, but without success, to trace the bag in london. jane listened patiently, and did not speak when her brother had finished, but her lips moved in silent prayer. "thomas," she said, quietly and sadly, "it is a sore trial of faith, but let us still trust in the lord, and follow your favourite maxim, `do the next thing.'" "the lord bless you, dear jane, for your patience. you're right; only i don't clearly see what _is_ the next thing." "will it not be of any use to advertise?" she asked. "i'm afraid it's too late now," he said; "but, while we trust the lord, we must use all the means he puts within our reach. it is possible, of course, that an advertisement in the london papers may meet the eye of the person who has got the bag, supposing, that is to say, that an honest man took it by mistake and has kept it." so the following advertisement was inserted for a week in the principal london papers:-- five pounds reward.--a small, shabby-looking carpet-bag, was lost or stolen from the northern express on its arrival in london at the saint pancras station, at a.m. december th last year. whoever will bring this bag to the clerk at the left-luggage office, saint pancras station, with the contents as he found them, shall receive the above reward. not much to the surprise, though still somewhat to the disappointment, of brother and sister, no application was made for the reward by the middle of june, and bradly was obliged to confess to his sister that, every effort having now been made, without success, to recover the bag, he could do no more. to his great surprise and relief, jane heard him with a cheerful smile. "thomas," she said, "remember the good old saying, `man's extremity is god's opportunity.' you told me a while since you were convinced god was about to clear up this trouble for us, and that you could trace his guiding hand. now, somehow or other, my faith, instead of failing, is daily growing stronger. i'm persuaded, though i can't tell you why, that we shall have full daylight on this matter, and perhaps before long." "the lord be praised for this," exclaimed her brother. "o my dear jane, i've been wrong to doubt him. yes, when old jacob gave up all for lost, and said, `all these things are against me,' it were just the other way; the road was being made plain and straight for him--he was soon to see once more his long-lost joseph. and so it will be now. you believe it, and i'll believe it, and we'll be looking out in faith and trust." chapter seventeen. further confessions. ned taylor's misspent life came to an end a few weeks after his confession to thomas bradly of his connection with the awful death of joe wright. his internal injuries could not be healed; and, after many days and nights of terrible suffering, meekly and patiently borne, he passed away from a world on which he had left no other mark but the scar of a wasted life. alas that beings to whom god has given faculties, by the right use of which they might glorify him on the earth, should pass away from it, as thousands do, to be remembered only as a warning and a shame! not but that there was a little fringe of light on the skirts of the dark cloud of ned taylor's career. there was, indeed, no joy nor triumphant confidence at the last, but there was humble and penitent hope. bradly and foster were among those who followed him to the grave, and listened with awe to the sublime words of the burial service. as they turned to go home, bradly noticed a female among the by-standers, whose face he felt sure he knew, though it was nearly concealed from him by her handkerchief, and the pains she manifestly took to avoid observation as much as possible. she was one, if she was the person he supposed her to be, whom he would least have expected to meet on the present occasion; but he might, of course, be mistaken. that same evening, while he was sitting in his surgery about nine o'clock, he heard a timid knock at the outer door. he was used to all sorts of knocks, bold and timid, loud and gentle, so he at once said, "come in," and was not surprised to see a woman enter, with her face muffled up in a shawl. "take a seat, missus," he said in a kind voice, "and tell me what i can do for you."--his visitor sat down and uncovered her face without speaking a word. it was lydia philips, the publican's daughter. she was simply dressed; her face was very pale and sad, and she had evidently been weeping, for the tears were still on her cheeks. "mr bradly," she said, "will you give a word of advice and a helping hand to a poor heart-broken girl? you and i don't know much of each other, but at any rate you won't quite despise me, though you know who i am, when i tell you my trouble, if you'll be good enough to listen to it." "despise you, miss philips! no, indeed; i know too much of my own evil heart to be despising any poor fellow-sinner." "ah, that's just what i am and have been," she exclaimed vehemently; "a vile, miserable sinner.--you saw me to-day at poor ned taylor's funeral?" she added abruptly. "i did, miss; and i own it took me by surprise." "well, mr bradly, i want to tell you to-night what brought me there. i know that ned taylor told you all about the bag, and the bracelet, and poor joe wright's death, because once when i called upon him in his illness, and found him alone, he said that he had confessed it all to you to ease his conscience, and that i had nothing to fear, for you were a prudent man, and would keep the story to yourself. i told him i was not afraid about that; and then we had a very serious talk together, and he begged me with many tears to forgive him for all the wicked words he had said in our house, and the bad example he had shown there; and he finished by begging and praying me to get out of the public-house and the business, where there were so many snares, and to care for my soul and a better world. "o mr bradly, i can never forget his words. but they were not the first that touched me, and brought me to a sense of sin. that night when poor wright was killed, when ned turned that bag upside down which he told you about, a little book fell out of it under the table; but the men were so eager with their plan, and so frightened about the bracelet, that they never remembered or thought anything about the book; but i found it under the table when they were gone, for i had noticed that some of the papers out of the bag had not been put back, and i was curious to see if there was any writing on any of them, but there was not; they were only bits of silver paper and other waste paper. as i stooped to pick them up i noticed the little book, and took it up from under the table. it was an old-fashioned bible, very faded and worn. as i carelessly turned over a leaf or two, i noticed that a red-ink line was drawn under some of the words. not understanding why this was done, my curiosity was a little excited, and i read a few of the verses. there was one which seemed to have been very much read, for the bible opened of its own accord at the place; the words were these,--`thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee.' my heart sank within me as i read them. i felt that i knew nothing of this peace, nor, indeed, of any peace at all. i hastily turned to another part, and my eye caught the words, which were underlined with the red mark, `fear not, little flock; for it is your father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom.' i _did_ fear, and i knew i was not one of `the little flock.' "we used to read the bible every day at the boarding-school i went to, and the mistress explained it, and we used to get verses by heart, and a whole chapter or part of one on sundays; and we had to write out on sunday evenings what we could remember of one of the sermons. but this was only task-work; and i remember agreeing with my special friend at school what a happiness it would be when we were not forced to learn any more verses. but the words of the little book were quite a different thing to me--they seemed as if they came to me from another world. they made me miserable: for they showed me what i hadn't got, which was peace; and what i was not, which was one of christ's little flock. i had _heard_ all about it before, but i had never _felt_ about it till then. and it made me wretched as i read. so i threw down the book on the table in a pet; but somehow i couldn't let it be. so i carried it off to my bedroom, and kept reading one marked verse after another till mother called for me. but i was thinking about the little bible all the time; and yet i didn't want to think about it, for it made me more and more unhappy. "so i determined to get rid of it; for every time i looked at one of those red-ink lines, the words above it seemed as though they were put there to condemn me. and, besides, i was afraid that any one should see me with that bible, and want to know where i got it; for if the owner of the bag, who was of course the owner of the bible too, should make a noise about the loss in the town, and it were to come round to him that i'd got the bible, he'd be wanting me to tell him what had become of the bag and the bracelet. so i resolved to get rid of the little book; but something in my heart or conscience wouldn't let me burn it, or pull it to pieces and destroy it. then, all of a sudden, it came into my mind-- it may be that god put it there--that i would try to drop it somewhere about william foster's house, where he or his wife would find it. i used to know kate foster well before i went to the boarding-school, as we were schoolfellows when we were little girls. i thought that perhaps the marked verses might do one or other of them good: for i felt how much they both needed it, and if the little book made me unhappy, possibly it might make them happy; and, at any rate, i should feel that i had done better than destroy it, and foster's house would be the last place any one would be thinking of tracing a bible to. "so, late on in the evening, about ten o'clock, i crept round to the back of william foster's house, and intended to have lifted the latch of the outer door softly, and placed the bible on the window-sill inside. but just then i heard kate's voice. i could hardly believe my ears-- yes--she was praying and crying; pouring out her heart to god with tears. oh, i was cut to the very soul; and then it rushed into my mind, `drop the bible into the room,' for i had seen that the casement was a little open. i felt pretty sure that her husband could not be in; indeed i satisfied myself that he was not in that room by cautiously peeping in. kate's head was bowed down over the cradle, so that i was not observed. so i drew the casement open a little further, and let the bible fall inside. but in so doing, a ring for which i had a particular value slipped off my finger, and of course i could not recover it without making myself known." here thomas bradly took a little box out of one of his drawers, and handed it to his visitor without a word. "yes," she said, having opened the box, "this is the very ring; thank you very much for keeping it for me and now restoring it to me. i heard that it had got into your daughter's hands, though i didn't know how. i know i've done very wrong in telling stories about it and denying that it was mine; but i was afraid of getting myself and our house into trouble if i owned to it." "good," said bradly, when she had finished her story; "the next best thing to not doing wrong is an honest confession that you've done it, and then you're on the road to doing right. i see exactly how things has gone; and now, my poor friend, what can i do for you?" "why, mr bradly, two or three things. in the first place, you won't mention what i've been telling you to the neighbours, i'm sure." "yes, miss, you _may_ be sure; gossiping ain't in my line at all. but, after all, there's nothing to fear so far as you're concerned, for the bible and the ring have both got to their rightful owners." "the bible, mr bradly?" "yes; it's been a blessed worker, has that little book. it belongs to my sister jane. it were she as made them red-ink marks in it. only this is to be a secret at present, if you please. and i'm persuaded as bag, and bracelet, and all 'll turn up afore long, and then there'll be no blame to nobody.--but what's the next thing you want with me?" "why, i want to sign the pledge in your book; for, please god, i'll never touch strong drink again." "eh! the lord be praised for this!" exclaimed bradly; "you shall sign, with all the pleasure in life.--but do your parents give their consent?" "yes, mother does. i've had a long talk with her, and, though we keep a public-house, she has seen so much of the misery and ruin that have come from the drink, that she says she'll never stand in the way of her child being an abstainer." "bless her for that; she'll never regret it," said thomas. so the book was brought out, and the signature taken; and then both knelt, while bradly commended his young friend to that grace and protection which could alone secure her stability. "and what else can i do for you?" he asked, when they had risen from prayer. "please, mr bradly, i want you to help me get some situation at a distance from crossbourne, where i can earn my own living as a teacher. mother is quite agreeable to my doing so; indeed, she sees that our house is not a safe and proper place for me now, and she'll be very thankful if i can get a situation where i shall be out of the reach of so much evil as goes on more or less in a place like ours." "i'll do that too, with all my heart," said the other, "as far as in me lies. i'll speak to the vicar, and i know he'll do his best to get you suited. you've had a good education, so he'll be able to find you summat as'll fit, i've no doubt.--and now i'm going to ask you, miss, just to accept a little bible from me, instead of that one which you've helped to send back to its right owner; and i want you to make it your daily guide." so saying, he took from a shelf, where he kept a little store of scriptures, a new bible, and sitting down, wrote lydia philips's name within the cover, and his own beneath it as the giver; and then, below all, the two texts, "thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee;" and, "fear not, little flock; for it is your father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom." these he underlined with red-ink. "now," he said, "you'll keep this little book, i'm sure, to remind you of our meeting to-night. read it with prayer, and you'll soon find peace, if you haven't begun to find it already." the young woman received the little gift most gratefully, and said, "i will keep it, and read it daily, mr bradly; and i do think that i am beginning to see my way to peace. poor ned taylor's words have not been in vain; and what you have said to-night has helped me on the way. i know i am not worthy to be called god's child, but i think, nay, i feel sure, he will not cast me out. i have wandered far, very far, from the fold; but now i really feel and understand the love of jesus, and that he has come to seek and to save that which was lost." when his visitor was gone, bradly spent a few minutes alone in earnest prayer and thanksgiving, and then, with a bright face, entered his cozy kitchen, and drew his chair close to jane's. "another little link," he said, "or, perhaps, one of the old ones made a little stronger." she looked smilingly at him, but did not speak. then he told her of lydia philips's visit and conversation with himself. "you see," he continued, "lydia fully confirms poor ned taylor's story; but then she brings us no nearer the bag. however, the lord can find it for us, or show us as there's something better for us than finding it, if that be his will." "true, thomas," said his sister; "and now `the next thing' is for you to see the vicar about lydia philips and her situation." "just so, dear jane; i'll do so, if i'm spared to-morrow." chapter eighteen. all right. ernest maltby was deeply interested in the account which thomas bradly gave him of the work going on in the heart of lydia philips. "this is the lord's doing," he said, "and is marvellous in our eyes. i am so glad that she came to you, thomas; and equally so that you have come to me about her, for i think i know of a situation that may suit her nicely." "indeed, sir; i'm truly glad of that." "yes; i heard yesterday from our old friend dr prosser that he is wanting to find just such a young woman as lydia philips to fill a place which is now vacant, and the appointment to which is in his hands. i will write to him about her at once, if lydia is willing to go. perhaps you would be good enough to call at her house as you go by, and ask her to step up and speak to me.--by the way, thomas, have you heard anything more about the bag since poor taylor made his confession to you? i have been so busy lately that i have quite forgotten to ask you." "nothing, sir, but lydia's story; and that, as you see, merely confirms poor ned's account. we're fast now: the bag's been in london half a year now, or thereabouts, if it hasn't been destroyed long ago; and, if it's still in existence somewhere or other, we've nothing whatever to show us where. i've not liked to trouble you any more about it, but i've left no stone unturned. i got a friend of mine, the guard of one of the trains, to inquire at the left-luggage office at saint pancras; and i put an advertisement for a week together into the london papers, offering five pounds reward to any one as'd bring the bag just as it was when it was lost; but it were all of no use, and i didn't expect as it would be, as it were taken up to london so long ago. it would have turned up months since if it had got into honest hands, and they had found our address in the bag. but i thought it best to try everything i could think of. and now me and jane's satisfied to leave it to the lord to find it for us in his own way." "yes," replied the vicar, "that is your truly wise and happy course; and now you can patiently wait.--but stay; it just occurs to me, now i have been mentioning dr prosser, that he must have been travelling by the very train on to which the bag was dropped. it was the night of rd december last, was it not?" "yes, sir, that was the night." "and it was dropped on to the express train from the north to london?" "it was, sir; but what then?" "why, don't you remember what the doctor said as we were walking with him to the station the morning when he left us? don't you remember his saying that his luggage was put on the top of the carriage he was in, and that he was angry with the porter for his carelessness in not covering it properly?" "yes, sir; i think i remember it now, but other things have put it out of my head." "well, thomas, it seems to me not at all impossible that the bag was dropped on to this carriage; and you know that the train did not stop till it reached london." "well, sir?" "might not the bag have been reckoned by the porter at london as part of the doctor's luggage, if it was just on the top of it, and have been carried off by him?" "possible, sir, but i'm afraid not very likely." "no, perhaps not, but, as you admit, possible." "true, sir; but if dr prosser took it home, and found it had been a mistake, wouldn't he have sent it back to the luggage office; and if so, the guard would have found it there when he inquired by my wish." "i'm not so sure of that, thomas: the doctor's head would be full of thoughts about other things, science, and other matters; and when he got home he wouldn't trouble himself about his luggage if he'd seen it safe on the cab; he would leave it to the servants to see that it was all brought in; and if there was your bag with it as well, he would not have noticed it. and if he came upon it afterwards in the hall, he would probably think it was something that belonged to mrs prosser, or to one of the servants. and as for mrs prosser herself, she was in those days so full of meetings and schemes of all sorts away from home, that a bag like that might have stood in their hall for days and she would not have noticed it; and so, if it really got there, it might have been carried off by the servants to the lumber-room, and may be there still." thomas bradly smiled, and shook his head sorrowfully. "it's possible enough, no doubt, sir, but i'm afraid it's too good to be true. but is it sufficiently possible for me to do anything? supposing the doctor took it by mistake, and it went with him to his house, and is stowed away there in some lumber-room or cupboard, from what you say neither he nor his missus will remember anything about it." "that's true, thomas; and certainly it wouldn't be worth while your going up to london on such a mere chance or possibility; but it suggests itself to me that, if lydia philips would like the situation which the doctor has to offer, and he is willing to take her on my recommendation, it would be a great satisfaction to me if you would, at my expense, go with her and see her safe to london, and introduce her to dr prosser, and you could then take the opportunity of asking his servants about the bag. you may be quite sure that if it is in the house _they_ will be quite aware of the fact, and where it is to be found." "you've just hit the right nail on the head, sir," replied bradly thoughtfully. "i'll go with pleasure; and don't say a word about the expenses, for i shall feel it to be a privilege to give that little trouble and money if i can only lend a helping hand in settling poor lydia in a better place than her own home, poor thing." three days after the above conversation bradly called again at the vicarage, by mr maltby's request. "all is arranged, thomas," said the vicar. "lydia philips is to go to the situation; and as it has been vacant for some time, the doctor wants her to go up to london as soon as possible; so she is to start next tuesday, if you can make it convenient to accompany her on that day." "all right, sir; i can ask off a day or two at any time, and i'll be ready." "and, thomas, i can't help having a sort of hope, and almost expectation, that you will hear something satisfactory about the bag." "thank you, sir; it's very kind of you to say so, but i shan't say anything to jane about it. i don't want to raise hopes in her, as i can't see much like a foundation for 'em; so i shall only tell her about lydia's getting the situation, which she'll be very pleased to hear, and that it's your wish i should see her safe to london. but if i do find the bag, and all safe in it, you shall hear, sir, afore i get back." tuesday evening, p.m. a telegram for reverend ernest maltby from london. the vicar opened it; it was signed tb, and was as follows:--"all right--i have got it--hurrah!--tell jane." an hour later found the vicar in thomas bradly's comfortable kitchen, and seated by his sister. "jane," he began, "i have often brought you the best of all good news, the gospel's glad tidings; perhaps you won't be sorry to hear a little of this world's good news from me." "what is it?" she asked, turning rather pale. "jane, the lord has been very good--the bag is found; your brother has got it all right." poor jane! she thought that she had risen out of the reach of all strong emotion on this subject; but it was not so. "patience had indeed had her perfect work in her," yet the pressure and strain of her sorrow had never really wholly left her. and now the news brought by the vicar caused a rush of joy that for a few moments was almost intolerable. but her habitual self-control did not even then desert her, and she was enabled in a little while to listen with composure to the explanation of her clergyman, while her tears now flowed freely and calmly, bringing happy relief to her gentle spirit. and then, at her request, mr maltby knelt by her side, and uttered a fervent thanksgiving on her behalf to him who had at length scattered the dark clouds which had long hung over the heart of the meek and patient sufferer. and now, oh what a joy it was to feel that the heavy burden was gone; that she who had borne it would be able to show her late mistress, lady morville, that she was innocent of the charge laid against her, and had never swerved from the paths of uprightness in her earthly service. as she thought on these things, and bright smiles shone through her tears, the vicar was deeply touched to hear her, as she quietly bowed her head upon her hands, implore pardon of her heavenly father for her impatience and want of faith. he waited, however, till she again turned towards him her face full of sweet peace, and then he said,-- "`ye fearful saints, fresh courage take; the clouds ye do much dread are big with mercy, and shall break with blessings on your head.' "yes, jane, your trial has indeed been a sharp one; but the lord knew that you could stand that trial. and now he has brought you out of it as gold purified in the furnace." "i don't know, dear sir," was her reply; "i can see plenty of the dross in myself, but yet i do hope and trust that the chastening has not been altogether in vain." "i will leave you now, jane," said the vicar, rising, "and i shall be delighted to hear from your brother's own lips all about his finding the long-missing bag." chapter nineteen. full satisfaction. on the afternoon of the next day after his disclosure of the good news to jane bradly, the vicar received a note from herself, asking the favour, if quite convenient, of the company of himself and his sister, miss maltby, at a simple tea at thomas's house. gladly complying with this request, the invited guests entered their host's hospitable kitchen at half-past six o'clock, and found just himself and his family, ready to greet them. "i'm glad to see you safe back again, thomas," said mr maltby, as he took his seat by mrs bradly, jane being on his other hand. "and right glad i am to find myself safe back again," said the other. "london's no place for me. i got my head so full of horses and carriages, and ladies and gentlemen, and houses of all sorts and sizes, that i could scarce get a wink of sleep last night; and as for that underground railway, why it's like as if all the world was running away from all the rest of the world, without waiting to say `good-bye.'" "and so you've found the bag at last?" said miss maltby. "if you please, ma'am," said thomas, "i thought, with your leave, not meaning to be uncivil, and with the vicar's leave, we'd just let that matter be till tea's over, and then go right into it. none of us has looked inside the bag since i came back, not even jane; she's been quite content to wait and take my word for it as all's right. i thought as i'd just tell my story in my own way, and then you'd all of you be able to see how wonderfully all has been ordered." "nothing can be better than that, i'm sure; don't you think so, ernest?" said miss maltby. "yes," replied her brother; "it is a privilege to be thus invited to `rejoice with them that do rejoice,' as we have wept with you when you wept. so you shall tell us your story, thomas, at your own time, for that will be the best.--and now let me know how you found dr prosser and his wife, and if all was right about poor lydia philips." having replied to this question, and given due attention to the entertainment of his guests, thomas bradly, when tea was finished, helped his wife to remove the large table to one side, and then, having drawn forward a smaller one into the midst of the assembled company, placed on the very centre of it a bag, which he fetched out of his surgery. certainly the article itself was not one much calculated to draw attention or excite curiosity; indeed, there was something almost burlesque in its extreme shabbiness, as it stood there the centre of attraction, or at any rate observation, to so many eyes. "shall we have your story now, thomas?" said the vicar, when all were duly seated. "you shall, sir; and you must bear with me if i try your patience by my way of telling it. "we'd a very pleasant journey to london, and then took a cab to dr prosser's. the door were opened by a boy in green, with buttons all over him; he looked summat like a young volunteer, and summat like a great big doll. i'd seen the like of him in the windows of two or three of the big clothing shops as we drove along. i couldn't help thinking what a convenience them buttons must be; for if he didn't mind you, you could lay hold on him by one of 'em, and if that'd come off there'd be lots more to take to. `young man,' says i, `is your master at home?' he'd got his chin rather high in the air, and didn't seem best pleased with the way in which i spoke to him. `who do you mean by my master?' says he. `dr prosser,' says i; `i hope he's your master, for certainly you don't seem fit to be your own.' he stares very hard at me, and then he says, `all right.' so i gets out, and sees to miss philips and her boxes; and the doctor were very kind, and talked to me about crossbourne, and so did the missus. she seemed quite a changed woman, so homely-like, and they both looked very happy, and were as kind as could be to poor lydia, so she took heart at once. "when i were ready to go, i says to dr prosser, `doctor, may i have a word or two with your green boy?' `my what?' says the doctor, laughing. `your green boy,' says i; `him with the buttons.' `oh, by all means,' he says; `i hope there's nothing wrong?' `nothing at all, sir, thank you,' i says.--`here, william,' says he, `step into the dining-room with this gentleman; he wants to speak to you.' "`you don't know who i am,' i said to the boy when we was by ourselves. `no, nor don't want to,' says he.--`do you know what this is?' i asked, holding up half-a-crown. `yes, i know what that is well enough.'--`well, you've no need to be afraid of me; i'm not a policeman in plain clothes,' says i. `aren't you?' said he; `i thought you was.'--`there, put that half-crown in your pocket,' i said, `and answer me one or two civil questions.' `with all the pleasure in the world,' says he, as brisk as could be.--then i asked him if he remembered the doctor's coming home on christmas-eve last year. `yes, he remembered that very well.'--`did he bring anything with him besides his own luggage?' he looked rather hard at me.--`nobody's going to get you into trouble,' says i, rather sharp. `have you lost anything?' he asks again very cautiously.--i told him `yes, i had.' he wanted to know what it were like, but that wouldn't do for me. so i asked my other question over again. `yes, the doctor brought a bag with him as didn't seem to belong to him; at least he hadn't it with him when he left home.'--`what sort of a bag?' says i. `it was a small bag, and a very shabby one too.'--`and what did you do with it?' `i put it in the doctor's study.'--`and is it there now?' `i suppose so; nobody never meddles with any of the doctor's things.'--`and you haven't seen it, nor heard anything about it since?' `no, i haven't.'--`thank you, my boy; that's all i want to know from you.' "then i asks the doctor to let me have five minutes alone with him, which he granted me most cheerfully; and i just tells him as much as were necessary to let him know what i wanted, and why i wanted it.--`a bag,' he said; `ah, i do remember something about it now; but, if i don't mistake, there was nothing but paper in it. however, it's pretty sure to be in my closet, and if so it will be just as i put it there, for no one goes to that closet but myself.' so he unlocks the closet door, and comes back in a minute with a bag in his hand. `is this it?' he asks.--`i suppose it is,' says i, `for i never saw it; but we shall soon find out.' the doctor had a key on his bunch which soon opened the padlock, and then we turned out what was inside. paper, nothing but paper at first. i were getting in a bit of a fright; but after a bit we comes to summat hard wrapped up; and there, when we unfolded the paper, was the missing bracelet! and then we searched to the bottom, and found an envelope sealed up and directed, `miss jane bradly;' but what's inside i don't know, for of course i didn't open it. "we was both very glad, at least i was, you may be sure; and the doctor were very kind about it, and shook hands with me, and said he was sorry as we'd been kept out of the things so long: but i told him it were no fault of his, and it were all right, for the lord's hand were plainly in it; for if it had gone elsewhere we might never have seen it again. so i carried off the bag as carefully as if it had been made of solid gold, and it hasn't been out of my sight a moment till i got it safe home. "the doctor sent his best regards to you, sir, and the same to miss maltby, and so did his missus. and as i went out at the door, i just said to the green boy, `william, you keep a civil tongue in your head to _everybody_, my lad, and don't be too proud of them buttons.' "and now, dear friends, with your leave, i'll open the bag again, and see what it's got to tell us." having unlocked the padlock with an ordinary key, thomas bradly drew forth a quantity of paper, and then a small packet wrapped up in silver paper which he handed to his sister. poor jane's hands trembled as she unfolded the covering, and she had some difficulty in maintaining her self-command as she drew forth the bracelet, the innocent occasion of so much trial and sorrow. it was evidently a costly article, and, though a little tarnished, looked very beautiful. as jane held it up for inspection, tears of mingled sadness and thankfulness filled her eyes. "oh," she said, "how little did i think, when i took the fellow to this bracelet into my hand at lady morville's, and held it up to look at it, as i am doing now, that such a flood of sorrow would have come from such a simple act of mine! ah, but i can see already how wonderfully the lord has been bringing good to others out of what seemed so long to be full of nothing but evil for me." "you recognise the bracelet then, jane," asked the vicar, "as the match to the one which was found in your hand?" "o yes, sir: the image of that bracelet has been burnt into my memory; i could never forget it; it has often haunted me in my dreams." while these words were being spoken, thomas had emptied out the remaining contents of the bag on to the table, and thoroughly examined them. all that he found was the unopened envelope and a quantity of waste paper. "this belongs to you, dear jane," said bradly, giving her the letter. she shook her head. "i cannot, thomas," she said. "oh, do _you_ open it, and read it out," she added imploringly. "well, i don't know," replied her brother; "i feel just now more like a cry-baby than a grown man. shall we ask our kind friend the vicar to open it and read it out for us?" "o yes, yes," cried jane, "if he will be so good." "with pleasure, dear friends," said mr maltby, and he held out his hand for the dingy-looking letter.--little did the writer imagine, when he penned that wretched scrawl, what a value it would have in the eyes of so many interested and anxious hearers. it was as follows:-- "dear jane bradly, "i hardly know how to have the face to be a-writing to you, but i hope you'll forgive me for all i've done, for i've behaved shameful to you, and i don't mean to deny it. but i had better begin at the beginning. it were all of that lady's-maid. i wish i'd never set eyes on her, that i do. "well, you know as we couldn't either of us a-bear you, because you knew of our evil ways, and you was so bold as to tell us we was doing wrong. i knowed that you was right, and i wasn't at all easy; but georgina wouldn't let me rest till we had got you out of the house. and so she took one of her ladyship's bracelets and hid it away, and made her pretence to her ladyship as she couldn't find it; and then we got you to look at it that morning as her ladyship found you with it. "we was both very glad to get you away, and we had things all our own way for a little while, till her ladyship caught out georgina in telling her some lies, and running her up a big bill at the mercer's for things she'd never had. so, when georgina got herself into trouble, she wanted to lay the blame on me; but i wasn't going to stand that, so i complained to sir lionel, and miss georgina had to take herself off. that was about two years after you had left monksworthy. "when she were gone i began to get very uneasy. i didn't feel at all comfortable about the hand i'd had in your going, and i couldn't get what you had said to me about my bad ways out of my head day nor night. and there was another thing. just to spite you, i got georgina to get hold of your bible a day or two before the bracelet was supposed to be lost. she gave it to me, and i put it in a drawer in my pantry where i kept some corks; it were a drawer i didn't often go to, and there it were left, and i never seed it till a few weeks since, and then i was looking for something i couldn't find, and poked your little bible out from the back of the drawer. `what's this?' i thought; and i took it up and noticed the red-ink lines under so many of the verses. oh, i was struck all of a heap when i read some of them. they showed me what a wicked man i had been, for they just told me what i ought to be, and what i could plainly see you was trying to be when you was living at the hall. and they told me about the love of jesus christ, and that seemed to cut me to the heart most of all. "i didn't know what to do, i were quite miserable; and the other servants began to chaff me, so i tried to forget all about better things, and put the bible back in the drawer. but i couldn't let it rest there, so i kept reading it; but it didn't give me no peace. so i ventured to kneel me down in my pantry one day and ask god to guide me, and i felt a little happier after that. but i soon saw as it wouldn't do for me to remain any longer at the hall, if i meant to mend my ways. i were mixed with so many of the others, i couldn't see my way out of the bad road at all if i stayed. i know i ought to have gone straight to sir lionel, and told him how i had been a-cheating him; but then i should have brought my fellow-servants, and some of the tradesmen too, into the scrape, and i couldn't see the end of it. so i made up my mind to cut and run. i know it's wrong, but i haven't got the courage just to confess all and face it out. "and now, what i want to do before i leave the country, for i can't stay in england, is to see and make amends to you, jane, as far as i can. i have found out from one of your old friends here where you are living, and i mean to let you have this letter on my way. sir lionel has let me have a holiday to see my friends, and i haven't said anything about not coming back again. but he'll be glad enough that he's got shut of me when he comes to find out what i've been--more's the pity. i know better, and ought to be ashamed of myself; but, if i gets clear off into another country, i'll try and make amends to them as i've wronged in monksworthy. you'll find the bracelet and the bible along with this letter. georgina took both bracelets, and left the one as didn't turn up with me; for, she said, if there was any searching for it they'd never suspect _me_ of taking it, but they might search _her_ things. "so now i think i have explained all; and when you get the bible, and the bracelet, and this letter, the only favour i ask is that you will wait a month before you let her ladyship know anything about it, and that will give me time to get well out of the country. "so you must forgive me for all the wicked things i have done--and do ask the lord to forgive me too. i hope i shall be able to turn over a new leaf. i shan't forget you, nor your good advice, nor what i did at you, nor the verses marked under with red-ink. so no more from your humble and penitent fellow-servant, "jh." such was the letter, which was listened to by all with breathless interest. "and now what's `the next step'?" said thomas bradly. "i think your next step," said the vicar, "will be to go yourself to lady morville, and lay before her this conclusive evidence of your sister's innocence." "yes; i suppose that will be right," said bradly. "i can explain it better than jane could--indeed, i can see as jane thinks so herself; and it would be too much for her, any way, to go about it herself and, besides, it'll have a better look for me to go." chapter twenty. peace. "if you please, my lady, thomas bradly would be glad to speak with you for a few minutes, if you could oblige him." "thomas bradly?" asked lady morville of the footman who brought the message; "is he one of our own people?" "no, my lady; but he says you'll know who he is if i mention that jane bradly is his sister." "dear me! yes, to be sure. take him into the housekeeper's room, and tell him i will be with him in a few minutes." "well, thomas," said her ladyship, holding out her hand to him as she entered the room, "i'm very glad to see you. i needn't ask if you are well." "thank your ladyship, i'm very well; and i hope you're the same, and sir lionel too." "thank you. sir lionel is not so well just now; he has had a good deal to worry him lately. but how are all your family? we miss you still from church very much, and from the lord's table.--and poor jane?" "well, my lady, poor jane's been poor jane indeed for a long time, but she's rich jane now." "you don't mean to say, thomas--!" exclaimed the other in a distressed tone. "oh no!" interrupted bradly; "jane's not left yet for the better land, though she's walking steadily along the road to it. but the lord has been very gracious to her, in bringing her light in her darkness. she wants for nothing now, except a kind message from your ladyship, which i hope to carry back with me." "that you shall, with all my heart, thomas, though i don't quite see what your meaning is. but i can tell you this: i have never felt satisfied about poor jane's leaving me as she did, and yet i do not see that i could have acted otherwise than i did at the time; but i have wished her back again a thousand times, you may tell her, especially as i fear there were some base means used to get her away." "how does your ladyship mean?" "why, have you not heard, thomas, that john hollands the butler has absconded? he left us on a pretence of visiting some of his relations, with his master's leave, last december; and we find now that he has been robbing us for years, and cheating the trades-people, and even selling some of sir lionel's choice curiosities, and putting the money into his own pocket. it is this that has worried sir lionel till he is quite ill. we have had, too, to make an entire change of all our servants; for we found that all of them had been, more or less, sharing in hollands' wickedness and deceit." "and was your ladyship's own maid, georgina, one of these?" "o thomas! she was worse, if possible, even than hollands. before he left i detected her in lying, thieving, and intemperance, besides abominable hypocrisy, and was thankful to get her out of the house." "well, my lady, i'm truly sorry for all this; but perhaps it shows that poor jane's story may have been true after all." "indeed it does; but still i have never been able to understand jane's conduct when i found the bracelet in her hands. if she had only produced the other bracelet, and explained in a simple way how she came by them, or if the other bracelet had been found, that might have made a difference; but it has never been seen or heard of from that day to this." "i can now explain all to your ladyship's full satisfaction," said bradly. "indeed, thomas, i shall be only too thankful, for i now know both georgina and john hollands to have been utterly untruthful, and i could almost as soon have doubted my own senses as jane's truthfulness and honesty. but appearances did certainly seem very much against her." "your ladyship says nothing but the simple truth, but i can explain it all now from john hollands' own confession." "indeed!" "yes, my lady. on the rd of last december, hollands, who was on his way abroad, stopped at our station--crossbourne station--on the road, and left a bag and a letter for jane in the hands of a railway porter. in that bag was the missing bracelet, the fellow to the one your ladyship saw in jane's hands; and a letter was in the bag too, explaining how john had joined georgina in a plot to ruin jane, because she had reproved them for some of their evil doings." "dear me!" cried her ladyship, shocked and surprised; "is it possible? but why did you not acquaint me with this at once?" "well, my lady, here is the strangest part of my story. the porter, instead of bringing the bag on to us at once, left it outside a public- house, while he went in to get a drink, and when he came out again the bag was gone; and, though every inquiry and search was made after it, it only turned up a few days ago." "but the letter?" asked lady morville; "did the porter lose that too?" "no; he brought it to us in a day or two, for he were afraid to bring it at first, because he'd lost our bag." "still, thomas, if you or jane had brought that letter, it would, no doubt, have made all plain, and quite cleared her character." "ah! but, my lady, the letter the porter brought said very little. i have it here. it only says, `dear jane, i am sorry now for all as i've done at you. pray forgive me. you will find a letter all about it in the bag, and i've put your little marked bible and the other br---t [that means bracelet, of course] with it into the bag. so no more at present from yours--jh.'" "and why didn't you bring me this letter, thomas? i should have been quite satisfied with it." "ah! my lady, it would have looked a lame sort of tale if i'd brought this letter and said as the bag and bracelet had been lost. it would have looked very much like a roundabout make-up sort of story, letter and all." "i see what you mean, thomas; but now you say that the bag and its contents have been found after all. pray, tell me all about it." "well, it's a long story, my lady; but, if you'll have patience with me, i'll make it as short as i can." bradly then proceeded to give lady morville the history of the manner in which the way had been opened up little by little, and the bag found at last. he then drew from his pocket a neatly-folded packet, and handed it to her ladyship, who, having opened it, found the bracelet. "yes," she said, "there can be no doubt about it--this is my missing bracelet; and that heartless creature georgina has cruelly misled me, and, more cruelly still, ruined for a time the character of her fellow-- servant. but, poor, wretched, misguided creature, her triumphing was short indeed." before she could say more, bradly placed in her hands hollands' letter of explanation. she read it through slowly and carefully; and then, laying it down, leaned her head on her hand, while her tears fell fast. "o thomas," she said, after a while, "what a terrible trial your sister's must have been! how can i ever make her amends for the cruel injustice i have been guilty of to her?" "nay, my lady," cried thomas, touched by her deep emotion, "you've done jane no wrong; you did as you was bound to do under the circumstances. it's all right now, and the lord's been bringing a wonderful deal of blessing out of this trouble. jane's been sharply chastened, but she's stood the trial well, by god's grace, and she's come out of it purified like the fine gold. all she wants now is a kind message by me, assuring her as you are now thoroughly satisfied she was innocent of what was laid to her charge and led to her leaving your service." "she shall have it, thomas, and not only by word of mouth, but in my own handwriting." so saying, lady morville rang the bell, and having ordered some refreshment for thomas bradly, asked him to wait while she went to her own room and wrote jane a letter. in half an hour she returned, and, having given the letter into bradly's charge, said,-- "i have been talking to sir lionel, and he is as pleased as i am at the thorough establishment of jane's character; and we both wish to show our sense of her value, and our conviction that she deserves our fullest confidence, and some amends too for my mistaken judgment, by offering her the post of matron to a cottage hospital we have been building, if she feels equal to undertaking it. she will have furnished rooms, board, and firing, and thirty pounds a year, and the duties will not require much physical exertion. i shall thus have her near me, and it will be my constant endeavour to show my sense of her worth, and my sorrow for her sufferings, by doing everything in my power to make her comfortable and happy." "i'm sure sir lionel, and your ladyship more particularly, deserve our most grateful thanks for your goodness," said thomas bradly. "i don't doubt as jane'll be better content to be earning her own living again, though she's not been eating the bread of idleness, and i'm sure she couldn't start again in a happier way to herself, so i'll tell her your most kind offer; and may the lord reward sir lionel and yourself for it." no man in the united kingdom journeyed homeward that day in a happier frame of mind than thomas bradly. chapter twenty one. finale, at cricketty hall. the letter and offer of lady morville poured a flood of sunshine into jane's heart, and helped to hasten her restoration to perfect health. most thankfully did she accept the situation offered her by her former mistress, which restored her to an honourable position, and enabled her to earn her own living in a way suited to her abilities, experience, and strength. she wrote at once her earnest thanks, and her grateful acceptance of the proposed post, and it was arranged that she should leave her home for monksworthy in the beginning of august. but thomas bradly had set his heart on having a special temperance demonstration before her departure; so it was put before mr maltby, and a grand temperance tea-party and open-air meeting at cricketty hall was announced for the second saturday in july. it soon got whispered about that something more than usual was to be expected in the speeches after the tea; and as every one knew that "tommy tracks" could get up a capital meeting, there was a good deal of attention drawn to the subject among the operatives and people generally in the town and neighbourhood. bills of a large size had been duly posted, and small handbills left at every house; and a prayer-meeting had been held on the wednesday evening previous, to seek a special blessing on the coming gathering, so that its promoters looked hopefully for a fine day, and were not disappointed. tea was to begin at p.m., and the meeting as near half-past six as could be accomplished. crossbourne human nature, like the human nature in most english manufacturing districts, had a great leaning to tea- parties and _fetes_, the latter name being sometimes preferred by the younger men as being more imposing. on the present occasion there was an abundance of interested and willing helpers, so that early in the saturday afternoon the road to cricketty hall was all alive with comers and goers, more or less busy with band and tongue; while carts of many shapes and sizes were conveying the eatables and drinkables up to the old ruin. the tea-tickets had sold well, and there was evidently much expectation in the minds of the public generally. about half-past three o'clock the temperance and band of hope members came flocking into the market place, bradly being there to keep order, with foster and barnes as his helpers. the last of these had charge of a small basket, which he now and then glanced at with a grin of peculiar satisfaction. then the band mustered in full force--a genuine temperance band, which never mingled its strains of harmony with streams of alcohol. and oh, what a noble drum it boasted of!--could musical ambition mount higher than to be permitted the privilege of belabouring thundering sounds out of its parchment ends? such clearly was the view of two of the youngest members of the band of hope, who were gazing with fond and awed admiration at the big drum itself and its highly favoured bearer. shortly before four o'clock the vicar and his sister made their appearance; and then, in a little while, the procession, with appropriate banners flying, large and small, was on its way, mr and miss maltby marching at the head, and thomas bradly bringing up the rear. in front of the procession was the band, which struck up a lively air as all stepped forward, the drum being particularly emphatic at every turning. just at the outskirts of the town an open carriage joined the long line: there were in it mrs maltby and her daughter, who had returned from the seaside a few days before, and jane bradly, who was not yet equal to much exertion. on, on they marched, bright and happy, conscious that their cause was a good one, and that their enjoyment would not be marred by any excesses. the day was charming; there had been just enough rain during the preceding night to lay the dust and freshen up the vegetation, while the ardent rays of the sun were tempered from time to time by transient screens of semi-transparent clouds. as the procession neared cricketty hall, a cooling breeze from the west sprang up, just enough to ruffle out the banners, as they were carried proudly aloft, without distressing their bearers. then the band, which had been silent for a while, put on the full power of lungs and muscle in one prolonged outburst of boisterous harmony; and just at five minutes to five the whole body of the walkers, old and young, was drawn up in due order in front of the ruined gateway. it was just the right spot for such a summer's gathering. far away towards the south sloped the fields, disclosing on either hand many a snug farm-house amidst its ripening crops, and to the extreme east an undulating range of dim, blue, shadowy hills. facing a spectator, as he stood with his back to the ruined gateway, was the town of crossbourne, with its rougher features softened down by the two miles of distance; its tall chimneys giving forth lazy curls of smoke, as though pausing to rest after the ceaseless labours of a vigorous working week. the noble railway viaduct, spanning the wide valley, was rendered doubly picturesque by its nearest neighbours of houses being hidden on one side by a projecting hill; while the greater part of the old church was visible, seeming as though its weather-beaten tower were looking down half sternly, half kindly on the eager thousands, who were living, too many of them, wholly for a world whose glory and fashion were quickly passing away. and now, till a bandsman should give a trumpet-signal for tea, all the holiday-makers, both old and young, dispersed themselves among the ruins, and through the wood, and over the rising ground in the rear. strange contrast! those crumbling stones, that time-worn archway, those shattered windows, that rusty portcullis, all surely, though imperceptibly, corroding under the ceaseless waste of "calm decay," and sadly suggestive of wealth, and power, and beauty all buried in the dust of bygone days; and, on the other hand, the lusty present, full of vigour, energy, and bustling life, to be seen in the gaily-decked visitors swarming amidst the ruins in every direction, and to be heard in the loud shouts and ringing laughter of children, and of men and women too, who had sprung back into their childhood's reckless buoyancy for a brief hour or two. and now the shrill blast of the trumpet called the revellers to tea. this was set out in rough but picturesque form, in the centre of what had once been the great hall. new-planed planks, covered with unbleached calico, and supported on trestles, formed the tables; while the tea-making apparatus had been set up in what had originally been the kitchen, near to which there welled up a stream of the purest water. when as many were seated as could be accommodated at once, the vicar was just about to give out the opening grace, when a young man decorated with an exceedingly yellow waistcoat, and as intensely blue a temperance bow, came hastily up to him, and whispered mysteriously in his ear. the smile with which this communication was received showed that there was nothing amiss. having asked the assembled company to wait for a minute, mr maltby hastened out of the building, and quickly returned, leading in dr and mrs prosser. a shout of surprised and hearty welcome greeted the entrance of the new guests. "this is not to me," said the vicar, "an altogether unexpected pleasure; but i would not say anything about the doctor's coming, as, though i had invited him, he left it very doubtful whether his engagements would allow him to be here, and i had pretty well given him up. but i am sure we are all rejoiced to see him among us on this happy occasion."--there could be no doubt of that, and the doctor and his wife being accommodated with places, grace was sung, and the tea began in earnest. if you want thoroughly to appreciate a good tea, be in the habit of drinking nothing stronger, take a moderate walk on a bright, blowy summer's afternoon, have a scramble with a lot of little children till all your breath is gone for the time being, and then sit down, if you are privileged to have the opportunity, in the open-air, to such a meal as was spread before the temperance holiday-makers of crossbourne. dr prosser and his wife thought they had never enjoyed anything more in their lives, and looking round saw a sparkling happiness on every face, the result in part, at any rate, of partaking of that most gentle, innocent, and refreshing of stimulants--tea. but even the most importunate tea-cup must rest at last; and so, while the first division, having been fully satisfied, gave way to a second, the band struck up a torrent of music, and in due time sat down themselves with those whom they had helped to cheer with their enlivening strains. and now the last cup of tea had been emptied, and the most persevering of the band of hope boys had reluctantly retired, leaving an unfinished plate of muffins master of the field. the fragments were gathered up, the tables and trestles removed, and the trumpeter, invigorated by his inspiriting meal, poured forth a blast loud and long to recall the stragglers. it was close upon half-past six, and all began now to assemble, pouring in from all quarters into the central open space. a few chairs had been brought, and were appropriated to the ladies and speakers. two large cake-baskets turned on their ends, with two stout planks across them, served for a table, which was placed in front of a huge fragment of a buttress, beneath which irregular masses of fallen moss-covered stone made very fairly comfortable seats for some of the more special friends and supporters; while the audience generally were seated all up and down within hearing distance, forming a most picturesque congregation, as they sat, or stood, or lay down, as proved most convenient. by the time the vicar was ready to commence the proceedings, the space all round him was rapidly filling with men and women from the town, who had not been at the tea, but were drawn by interest or curiosity to be present at the after-meeting. all were very silent as the vicar, after the usual preliminary hymn and prayer, rose, and began as follows:-- "i make no apology, dear friends, for being about to occupy a portion of your time by addressing you this evening; but i shall not detain you long. still, what i have to say is of deep importance to you all, and, therefore, i must ask your earnest and patient attention. "without further preface, then, i do earnestly desire to impress upon you all this truth, that there can be no real peace, no solid happiness in this world, unless we are _consciously_ seeking to live to the glory of god. i look around me, and see with alarm, in these days of increased knowledge and intelligence, how entirely many thoughtful people are living without god in the world; i mean, without having any _conscious_ communion or connection with him. "this is so very dangerous a feature of our times, because there is at the same time a very widely spread respect for religion. coarse abuse and reviling of religion and religious people are frowned upon now by all persons of education and refinement as vulgar and illiberal. but yet, with this respect for religion and its followers, there seems to be growing up a conviction or impression that people can be good, and happy, and profitable in their day without any religion at all. if you are religious, well and good, no one should meddle with you; and if you are consistent, all should respect you, and it would be exceedingly bad taste to quarrel with you for your opinions. but then, if you are _not_ religious, well and good too, no one should meddle with you, and it would be very uncharitable, and in very bad taste, to quarrel with you about your creed or views. religion, in fact, is becoming with many a matter of pure indifference--a matter of taste; you may do well _with_ it, and you may do as well, or nearly as well, _without_ it. "hence it has come to pass that there are to be found men of science and learning who never trouble themselves about religion at all. they would certainly never care to abuse it; but then they plainly think that science, and the world, and society can get on perfectly well without it. "and what is worse still, even professedly religious people are being carried down this stream of opinion, without being fully or perhaps at all conscious whither it has been leading them. thus, even ladies professing godliness are being entangled by the intellectual snares of the day, and are so pursuing the shadows of this world--its honours, its prizes, its mind-worship--as to become by degrees almost wholly separated from god and thoughts of him. and thus, while they do not outwardly neglect the ordinances of religion, they have ceased to meet god in them; they hear in them a pleasing sound rather than a living voice, and find themselves offering to god, when they join in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, rather a mere musical accompaniment than the intelligent melody of a heart that believes and loves. "oh, don't be deceived, dear friends, any of you. you who go to the mills, or are engaged in any other manual labour, don't think, because you may be spending your evenings and leisure in mechanics' institutes, or in attending science classes, or in working up scientific subjects, that in these pursuits you can find real peace, without religion and without god; that religion is no matter of necessity, but only a comfortable and creditable superfluity; or that, at any rate, by using outward attendance on religious ordinances, as a sort of make-weight, you can be solidly happy while your hearts are far from god. it cannot be. you are not thus disgracing our common humanity like the drunkards and profligates, but, then, you are not fulfilling the true law of your being; you cannot be doing so while you are travelling all your lives in a circle which keeps you ever on the outside of the influence of the love and of the grace of that god who made you and that saviour who redeemed you. "don't mistake me, dear friends; i rejoice with all my heart to see progress of every kind amongst you, so long as it is real. some people say that we ministers of the gospel are foes to education and to intellectual progress. nay, it is not so. i will tell you what we are foes to, and unflinching foes; we are foes to all that is false and hollow, and we assert that nothing can be sound and true which puts the god who made us out of his place, and thrusts him down from his rightful throne in our hearts. study science by all means, cultivate your intellects, elevate your tastes, refine your pursuits. but then, remember that you are, after all, not your own in any of these things, for christ has purchased you for himself. begin with him, and he will give you peace, and an abiding blessing upon _all_ that you do; but never suppose that you can be really living as you ought to live,--that is, as god made you and meant you to live,--while you are feeding your intellects and starving your souls. "and now i will only add how happy i am to meet you all here. we are about soon to part with one who is well-known to many of you,--jane bradly. it is partly in connection with the lord's wonderful dealings with her, as you will hear shortly from her brother thomas, that we have set on foot this happy gathering. it is one cheering sign of real progress in crossbourne that our temperance society and band of hope are so nourishing. you know the rock on which we have founded them; i mean, on love to the lord jesus christ. may these societies long flourish! i trust we shall gain some members to-night; for thomas, i know, has got the pledge-book with him. and now i have much pleasure in calling on william foster to address you." when foster rose to speak there was a deep hush, a silence that might be felt. "if i had come to a gathering like this a year ago," began the speaker, "it would have been as a mocker or a spy. but how different are things with me to-day! i am now one of yourselves, a total abstainer upon principle, an unfeigned believer in the bible, and a loyal though very unworthy disciple of the lord jesus christ. i have good cause to remember these old ruins, as you all know; but you do not many of you know how i used to spend sabbath after sabbath here in gambling; and yet the good lord bore with me. and it is not long since that he gave me a wonderful deliverance, not far from the spot where i now stand. but i am not going to refer any more to that, except to say, let by-gones be by-gones. i bear no ill-will to those who have shown themselves my enemies. what i want to do now, for the few minutes that i shall stand here, is just to give you my experience about the bible. "when i was professedly an unbeliever, i thought i knew a great deal about the bible, and i used to lay down the law, and talk very big about this inconsistency and that inconsistency in the scriptures, and i just read those books which supplied me with weapons of attack. but i was in utter ignorance of what the bible really was; and had i read it from beginning to end a thousand times over,--which i never did, nor even once,--it would have been all the same, for i should not have read it in a candid spirit--i should not have wanted to know what it had to tell me. "it's just perfectly natural. i remember that two of our men went up to london some time ago, and they strolled together into the kensington museum. when they came back, we asked them what they had seen there, and what they liked best. one of them had seen a great number of rich and curiously inlaid cabinets, but he could call to mind nothing else, though he had spent hours in the place, and had been all over it upstairs and downstairs. as for the other man, he couldn't for the life of him remember anything, but he could tell you all about the dinner they had together at a chop-house afterwards,--what meat, what vegetables, what liquor they had, and how much it cost to a penny. you see it was what their mind was set on that really engrossed their attention. "and so it is in going through the bible: you'll not get a word of instruction from it, if you go in at genesis and come out at revelation, if you go in with an unteachable mind. god would have us ask him humbly, but not dictate to him. or you may notice in the bible just such things as you want to notice, and not see anything else, though it's as plain as daylight. so it was with me, and so it has been and will be with thousands of sceptics. i just looked into a bible now and then to find occasion for cavilling and scoffing, and i found what i wanted. but i missed all the love, and the mercy, and the promises, and the holy counsel, and never so much as knew they were there, though my eyes passed over them continually. "but now the bible is a new book to me altogether. i can truly say, in its own words, `the law of thy mouth is dearer unto me than thousands of gold and silver.' the more i read, the more i wonder: often and often, when i come to some marvellous passage, i am constrained to stop and bow my head in astonishment and adoration. there's nothing like studying the book itself--asking god, of course, to give one the guidance of his holy spirit. the more i read, the more i find verses that just as exactly fit into my own experience as if they had been penned especially in reference to the history, circumstances, character, and wants of william foster; and no doubt they were, for that's a most wonderful thing about the bible, and shows that it is god's book,--i mean that it as much suits each individual man's case as if it had been originally written for that man only. "i remember there was an american in our country some years ago, who said he would open any lock you could bring him; and so i believe he did, by making ingenious picks that would get into the most complicated locks. but that's nothing to the bible; for without any force or difficulty it comes as one universal key that will unlock every heart, and open up its most secret thoughts and feelings, and then throw light and peace into the darkest corners. this is what the bible has been and is to me; it shows me daily more of myself, and more of christ and his love, and more of a heaven begun on earth. "now i would just advise and urge you all to take up this blessed book in a humble and teachable spirit, and you'll find it to be to you what god in his mercy has made it to me. and i'll tell you how to deal with difficulties, and hard places, and so on. now, mind, i'm only just giving you a leaf out of my own experience. i'm not setting myself up as a teacher. i'm not saying a word to disparage god's ministers, for they are specially appointed by him to study, and unfold, and expound the word; and i can only say with sincere thankfulness that i come home with new light on the bible from every sermon which i hear from our earnest and deeply taught clergyman. but, as regards our own private reading, just let me say, if you come to a hard place, read it again; and if you don't understand it then, read it again; and if you don't understand it then, why, read somewhere else in the book, and you'll find that the more you study the word throughout, the more one passage will throw light upon another, the more your mind and heart will expand and embrace and understand truths which were wholly hidden or only imperfectly seen before. this, at any rate, is my own happy experience, and my dear wife's also. may god make it the experience of every one of you." he sat down again amidst the profoundest silence, and then all joined heartily in the hymn beginning,-- "holy bible, book divine, precious treasure, thou art mine." the vicar then called upon james barnes to speak. "well, i don't know," began jim, starting up, and plunging headlong into his address; "i don't feel at all fit to stand up in such a company as this, and yet i've got summat to say, and it's a good deal to the point too, i think. at our last public temperance meeting, the first i'd the pleasure of speaking at, we had a noisy set of fellows trying to put me down, and now we're all as quiet as lambs. "well, william foster's just been giving you his experience about the bible, and i can say amen to all he's been a-saying; i mean this, that the good book's been doing for him and me just what he says. it's been and made a changed man of him, there's no doubt about that. he's been a kind friend to me, and he's been a kind friend to many as has often had nothing but hard words for him. i like to see a man live up to what he professes. "perhaps you'll say, `jim, why don't you set us an example?' well, i'm trying, and i hopes to do better by-and-by. but there's no mistake about william. he aren't like a chap i heard talk of the other day. a friend of mine were very much taken up with him.--`eh! you should hear him talk,' he says. `you never heard a man talk like him; he'd talk a parrot dumb, he would.'--`very likely,' says i; `but does he practise what he preaches?'--`why, they reckon not,' says my friend. now that sort don't suit me; and it oughtn't to suit any of us, i'm sure. we temperance people aren't like that. "ah! it's a fine thing is this temperance, if you only get hold of it by the bible end. see what it's been and done for me and mine. look at my wife polly there, sitting on that big stone--(nay, polly, 'tain't no use your shaking your head and winking; i _must_ have it out)--just look at her: you wouldn't believe as she's the same woman if you'd only seen her at our old house a year ago. i can scarce believe myself as she's the same sometimes. i has to make her stand at the other end of the room now and then to get a long view of her, to be sure she's the same. she's like a new pin now, bright and clean, with the head fixed on in the right place. "ah! you may laugh, friends, but it's nothing but the plain truth. there's a deal of difference in pins. you just take up a new one, as shines all over like silver, and it'll stand hard work, and it's just as if it were all of a piece--that's like my wife now. but you get hold of an old yaller crooked pin, with point bent down to scratch you, and when you try to make use of it, the head's in the wrong place, it's got slipped down, and the thick end of the pin runs into your finger, and makes you holler out--that's like what my wife _was_. but she's not a bit like that now; she's like the new pin, bless her; and it's been tommy tracks--i begs his pardon--it's been mr thomas bradly, and the bible, and the temperance pledge as has been and gone and done it all. "and then there's the children. why, they used to have scarce a whole suit of clothes between 'em, and that were made of nearly as many odd pieces and patches as there's days in the year. and as for boots, why, when they'd got to go anywheres, one on 'em, on an errand, and wanted to look a bit respectable, he were forced to put on the only pair of boots as had got any soles to 'em, and that pair belonged to the middlemost, but they fitted the eldest middlin' well, as they let in plenty of air at the toes. and what's the case now? why, on a saturday night you can see a whole row of boots standing two and two by the cupboard door, and they shines so bright with blacking, the cat's fit to wear herself out by setting up her back and spitting at her own likeness in 'em. it's the gospel and temperance as has done this. "but that ain't all. i've knowed two of our lads fight over a dirty crust as they'd picked out of the gutter, for their mother hadn't got nothing for them to eat,--how could she, poor thing, when the money had all gone down my throat? it's very different now. we've good bread and butter too on our table every day, with an onion or two, or a red herring to give it a relish, and now and then a rasher of bacon, or a bit of fresh meat; and before so very long i've good hopes as we shall have a pig of our own. eh! won't that be jolly for the children? i told 'em i thought of getting one soon. says our little tom, `daddy, how do they make the pig into bacon?' `they rub it with salt,' says i. next day, at dinner-time, i watched him put by a little salt into a small bag, and next day too, and so on for a week. so at last i says, `what's that for, tommy?' `daddy,' says he, `i'm keeping it for the new pig. eh! won't i rub it into him, and make bacon of him, as soon as he comes?' "but i ax your pardon, friends, for telling you all this.--`go on,' do you say? well, i'll go on just for a bit. so you see what a blessing the giving up the drink has been to me and my family. and, what's better still, it's left room for the gospel to enter. it couldn't get in when the strong drink blocked up the road. i'm not going to boast; i should get a tumble, i know, if i did that. it ain't no goodness of mine, i'm well aware of that. it's the lord's doing, and his blessing on thomas bradly's kindness and care for a poor, wretched, ruined sinner like me. but here's the fact: we has the bible out now every night in our house, and i reads some of the blessed book out loud, and then we all kneels us down and has a prayer; and we goes to church on sundays, and it's like a little heaven below. rather different that from what it used to be on the sabbath-day, when i were singing and drinking with a lot of fellows, and it were all good fellowship one minute, and perhaps a kick into the street or a black eye the next. ay, and there's many of the old lot as knows the change, and what the lord's done for me, and they're very mad, some on 'em; but that don't matter, so long as they don't make a madman of me. "but just a word or two for you boys and girls of the band of hope afore i sit down.--now, i've brought with me, by mr bradly's leave, something to show you." so saying, he beckoned to a young man, who handed him a small basket. he opened it, and produced a small jar with a brush in it. a half-suppressed murmur of merriment ran through the crowd. "ah! you know what this is, i see," continued james barnes. "'tain't the first time as this has made its appearance in cricketty hall. now, i'm not going to say anything ill-natured about it. as william foster has said, `let by-gones be by-gones.' it's very good of him to say so, and i only mean to give you a word or two on the subject. this little jar has got tar in it, and tar's a very wholesome and useful thing in its proper place. now, a few months ago them as shall be nameless meant to daub william all over with this, and feather him afterwards, because he wouldn't break his pledge. a cowardly lot they was to deal so with one man against a dozen of 'em; but that's neither here nor there. i only want you, boys and girls, to take example by william, and stick to your pledge through thick and thin. see how the lord protected him, and how his worst enemy were caught in his own trap. he were just winding a cord round his own legs when he thought he'd got william's feet fast in the snare. now, boys and girls, when you're tempted to break the pledge, just think of this jar of tar, and offer up a prayer to be kept firm. 'twouldn't be a bad thing--specially if you're much in the way of temptation--just to get a jar like this of your own, and hang it up in the wash-house, and put some good fresh tar in it, and, just before you go to your work of a morning, take a good long sniff at the tar--it's a fine healthy smell is tar--and maybe it'll be a help to you the whole day. there, i've done." and he sat down as abruptly as he had risen, amid the hearty cheers and laughter of his hearers. the vicar then introduced dr prosser, remarking that he was sure that those who had heard him lecture last april would be delighted to listen to his voice again. the doctor, who was vociferously cheered, stood forward and said:-- "i have the greatest pleasure in being with you, dear friends, to-day. i have heard a great deal of what has been going on from your excellent vicar, and have now listened with the deepest interest to the characteristic speeches which have just been made. i shall be glad now to say a few words, and to add my testimony to the importance of certain truths which need enforcing in our day. thomas bradly is to follow me, and i feel sure that his homely eloquence and plain practical good sense will be a fit termination to this most truly interesting meeting. "what i would now urge upon you all is this,--the unspeakable importance in these days of grasping realities instead of hunting shadows. i have been, i fear, till lately, more or less of a shadow-hunter myself. i used to sympathise with the cry,-- "`for names and creeds let senseless bigots fight-- he can't be wrong whose life is in the right.' "but i don't think this now. we men of science are too apt to deal with abstractions, and to follow out favourite theories, till we are in danger of forgetting that we have hearts and souls as well as heads; that, as has been beautifully said, `the heart has its arguments as well as the understanding;' and that, as god's word tells us, `the things which are seen are temporal, but the things which are not seen are eternal.' i am more and more strongly persuaded of this every day. we are living in times of immense energy and surprising intellectual activity, but, at the same time, are surrounded with unrealities or half-realities. we want something to grasp that will never deceive us, never fly from us. anything--like mere vague generalities will never satisfy beings constituted as you and i are; and thus it is that we cannot do without something real in our religion, something definite. we want to come into real communion with a personal being, whom we can consciously, though spiritually, approach, love, and reverence. we want a real person such as ourselves, and yet infinitely above ourselves; and such an one we have in the lord jesus christ, our saviour--one who is like us as man, yet infinitely above us as god--one who can smile on us, because he is human, and can watch over us, guide us, and bear with us, because he is divine. "be sure of this, dear friends,--and i am speaking to you now as persons of intelligence, who can thoughtfully weigh what i say,--science can never be true science, knowledge can never be real knowledge which sets aside the god who is the fountain of all truth and every kind of truth. if we are to learn anything aright and thoroughly, we must learn it as believers in him in whom `we live, and move, and have our being,' who has given us all our faculties, and placed us in the midst of that universe all of whose laws are of his own imposing and maintaining. depend upon it, you cannot acquire any sound and useful knowledge aright, if you try and keep up an independence of that god who is the author and upholder of all things physical and spiritual. at the cross we must learn the only way of peace for our souls; and, in dependence on the grace and wisdom of him who is in every sense the light of the world, we must seek to make real advance in every field of knowledge, content to know and feel our own ignorance, and thankful to gain light in _all_ our investigations from him who can at the same time baffle the searchings of the wisest, and unfold to the humble yet patient and persevering inquirer treasures of knowledge and wisdom otherwise unattained and unattainable. in a word, as the whole universe belongs to the father of our lord jesus christ, and was made by him what it is, if we would pursue any branch of knowledge, any science whatever, with the truest and fullest prospect of success, we must do it as christians, as in dependence on him `in whom are hid all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge.' "this, i am well aware, is not the tendency of the age, which is rather to seek knowledge apart from god, and to treat science and religion as distant and cold acquaintances, instead of loving and inseparable friends.--but now i gladly give way to my old friend thomas bradly, who has, i know, something to tell us which will do us good, if we will only carry it away with us." "yes," said bradly, slowly and thoughtfully, as he took the speaker's place, by the vicar's invitation, "it is true, dear friends, that i have something of moment to say to you. this has truly been a happy day to me so far. i rejoice in the presence of so many dear friends; and it is indeed kind of dr prosser to be at the trouble to come among us, and give us those words of weighty counsel which we have just heard. i have listened to the other speeches also with very great satisfaction. i think we're got on the right foundation, and we only wants to stick there. "well now, dear friends, i've got something to show you here. look at this little book; it ain't got much outward show about it, but it's got the old-fashioned words of god's truth inside. it was my mother's bible afore she were married, and a blessed book it were to her, and to her children too. i think i can see her now, sitting of a summer's evening, after the day's work were done, under an old apple tree, on a seat as my father had made for her. she would get us children round her, and be so happy with her little bible, reading out its beautiful stories to us, and telling us of the love of jesus. she always read the bible to us with a smile, unless we'd any of us been doing anything wrong, and then she read to us what the bible tells us about sin, and she looked grave indeed then. "well, when she died, the little book were left to our jane--her mother wished it so--and jane prized it more than gold, and used to mark her favourite verses with a line of red-ink under 'em; it were her way, and helped to bring the passages she wished particularly to remember more quickly to her eye. but the lord was ordering and overruling this marking for his own special purposes. look at the book again; you can many of you see the red lines. "now, it's some years ago as me and mine was living a long way off from here. jane were in service at a great house, and the butler and lady's- maid, who hated the truth and poor jane, because she loved it and stood up for it, managed to take away her character in the eyes of her mistress; but the lord has graciously opened her mistress's eyes at last, and that cloud is passed away for ever. i only mention this just to bring in this little book. the butler, to vex poor jane, had taken away her bible from her before he took away her character; but what happened? why, when she had left the place, he goes to his drawer and takes out the bible when he were looking for summat else; for he'd quite forgot as he'd hid it there. he sees the red lines, and reads the verses over them, and they make him think, and he's brought to repentance. "the little book's beginning to do great things. he wants to restore the book, and make amends to jane, does the butler; but he's been such a rogue, he's obliged to take himself away into foreign parts somewhere. but i don't doubt but what he'll come right in the end; the word'll not let him alone till it's brought him to the foot of the cross. as he's on his way abroad, he leaves the bible at the station here to be taken to our house; but it manages to get lost on the way, and turns up at last in the tap-room of a public-house. now, just mark this. if the bible had come straight to our house, it would have helped to clear jane's character with her mistress, and no more; but there were other work for it to do. the publican's daughter gets hold of it, and sees the red lines. she sees the verses above 'em, and they pricks her conscience. she don't like this, and she resolves to get rid of the book. yes, yes; but the little book has taken good aim at her heart, and shot two or three arrows into it, and she can't get 'em out; it's been doing its work, or rather the lord's work. so she takes it with her in the dark, and drops it into william foster's house, of all places in crossbourne. "just fancy any one leaving a bible in that house ten months ago. but it came at the very nick of time. william's wife were in great trouble, and she'd tried a great many sticks to lean upon, but they'd all snapped like glass when she leaned her weight on 'em--she found nothing as'd ease the burden of an aching heart. it were just at the right time, then, as the little bible fell into her room. she took it up, noticed the red lines, and some precious promises they was scored under, and by degrees she found peace.--eh, but william must know nothing of this; how he would scoff if he found his wife reading the bible!--but what's this? william finds his missus quite a changed woman; she's twice the wife to him she was, and his home ain't like the same place. what's the secret of this change? he don't like to ask; but he watches, and he finds the worn old bible hidden in the baby's cradle. he reads it secretly; he prays over it; the scales fall from his eyes; he becomes a changed man; he comes out boldly and nobly for christ; he and his wife rejoice together in the lord. "but the little homely book hadn't quite done its work yet. foster one night asks me to help him in a little trouble which the words of the book had got him into. strange that, isn't it? no, 'tain't strange; 'cos there's deep things, wonderful things, and terrible things in that blessed book; but then there's light too to help you past these deep pits, if you'll only use the word as god's lamp. i takes up the bible to help william to a bright text or two, and i sees my mother's name in the cover. here was our long-lost bible; its work so far were done, and now it's got back to its rightful owner. but after we'd got it back we'd some time to wait; but waiting-times are blessed times for true christians. at last the full evidence, of which jane's bible were one little link, came up, and my dear sister's character were cleared of every spot and stain as had been cast upon it by her fellow-servants. "now, what i want you to notice, dear friends, is just this--how wonderfully the lord has worked in this matter. if my dear sister had not suffered in the first instance from the tongue of the slanderer, that blessed book'd never have done all this good, as far as we can see. the butler wouldn't have been convinced of sin; the publican's daughter wouldn't have been brought to repentance and praise; william and his wife wouldn't have been made happy and rejoicing believers. and indeed, though i can't explain all now, neither, as far as we can tell, would jim barnes have been what he now is, with his missus like a new pin, nor would poor ned taylor have died a humble penitent. all these precious fruits have growed and ripened out of the loss of my dear sister's bible. and she herself--well, it's been a sore trial, but it's yielded already the peaceable fruit of righteousness. she's lost nothing in the end but a little dross, and her sorrow has helped to bring joy to many. "now, i ask you all to cling to the grand old book; to use it as a sword and a lamp,--a sword against your spiritual enemies, and a lamp to guide you to heaven. we've heard a good deal just now of the special dangers of our own times, how people are getting wise above what's written. ah! but `the wisdom of this world is foolishness with god.' dr prosser's a man of science, and you've heard his experience. you see he finds he can't get on without the old-fashioned gospel. a religion without a regular creed's no use at all. he's found out as religion without a real human and divine saviour's only moonshine; nay, it's no shine at all; it's just darkness, and nothing else. there's a striking verse in the prophet jeremiah as just suits these days. it's this, and i'm reading it out of jane's bible. you'll find it in jeremiah, the eighth chapter and the ninth verse: `the wise men are ashamed, they are dismayed and taken: lo, they have rejected the word of the lord; and what wisdom is in them?' well, but do you cling to the old bible-- there's nothing like it. there's many a showy life just now as looks well enough outside; but if you want a life as'll wear well you must fashion it by god's word. "now, afore i sits down, i'm just a-going to tell you about dick trundle's house-warming.--dick were one of them chaps as are always for making a bit of a show, and making it cost as little as possible. he were a hard-working man, and didn't spend much in drink, so he managed to get a little money together, and he puts up half-a-dozen houses. the end one were bigger than the rest, and had a bow-window to it.--well, dick were a bachelor, and had an old housekeeper to do for him. when his new houses were built, and he were just ready to go into his own, he resolves to have a house-warming, and he invites me and three other chaps to tea and supper with him. we'd some of us noticed as he'd been sending a lot of things to the house for days past.--when the right day was come, we goes to the front door, 'cos it looked more civil, and we knocks. dick himself comes to the door, and says through the keyhole, `i must ask you to go round, for the door sticks, and i can't open it.' so we goes round.--there were a very handsome clock in the passage, in a grand mahogany case. `seven o'clock!' says i, looking at it; `surely we can't be so late.' `oh no,' says he, `the clock stands. i got it dirt cheap, but there's something amiss with the works. but it's a capital clock, they tell me, entirely on a new principle.'--we was to have tea in the best parlour. `dear me,' says one of my mates, `what a smell of gas!' `yes,' says dick; `ain't them beautiful gas-fittings? i got 'em second-hand for an old song, but i'm afraid they leak a bit.'--we should have been pretty comfortable at tea, only the window wouldn't shut properly, and there came in such a draught as set us all sneezing. `i'm sorry,' says dick, `as you're inconvenienced by that draught; it's the builder's fault. of course i took the lowest estimate for these houses, and the rascal's been and put me in green wood; but the carpenter shall set it all right to-morrow.'--but the worst of all was, the gas escaped so fast it had to be turned off at the meter. `ah!' says he, `that won't matter for to-night, for i've bought a famous lamp, a new patent. i got it very reasonable, because the man who wanted to part with it were giving up housekeeping and going abroad.' so we had the lamp in, and a splendid looking thing it were; but i thought i saw a crack in the middle, only i didn't like to say so. well, all of a sudden, just in the middle of the supper, the lamp falls right in two among the dishes, and the oil all pours out over my neighbour's clothes. such a scene there was! i tried to keep from laughing, but i couldn't stop, though i almost choked myself.--dick, you may be sure, weren't best pleased. it were a bad job altogether; so we bade good-night as soon as it were civil to do so. but i shall never forget dick trundle's house-warming, nor the lesson it taught me. "what we want, dear friends, is, not what's new, cheap, and showy, but what's solid, and substantial, and thoroughly well made. will it _wear_ well? that's the question after all. dick's fine things was just got up for show; they'd no wear in 'em--they was cheap and worthless. now there's a deal of religion going in our day as is like dick trundle's house and purchases; it's quite new, it makes a great show, it looks very fine, till you come to search a little closer into it. but it ain't according to the old bible make: it don't get beyond the head; it can't satisfy the heart. what we want is a religion that's real--just the religion of the gospel, as puts jesus christ and his work first and foremost. if you haven't got that, you've got nothing as you can depend on it'll fail you when you most want it. it may be called very wide, and very intelligent, and very enlightened, but it won't act in the day of trouble, and when the conscience gets uneasy. "well, now, we've got a happy company here to-night; we're many of us total abstainers on principle and most of us, i hope, bible christians on principle, after the old fashion; for, if we haven't christ and his word for our foundation, we haven't got that as'll stand the test. no, friends, take the word of tommy tracks--and you've got what'll confirm what i say all round you in this meeting to-night--the life as is begun, continued, and ended in the fear of god, and with the bible for its guide, and jesus for its example, is the life that's just what you and i were meant to live by the god who made us and redeemed us, and it's plainly and unmistakably the life that _wears_ best." [transcriber's note: obvious printer's errors have been corrected, all other inconsistencies are as in the original. author's spelling has been maintained.] the story of a dark plot; or, tyranny on the frontier. by a. l. o. c. boston: the warren press, warren street, . entered according to act of parliament, in the year one thousand eight hundred and ninety-eight, by w. w. smith in the office of the minister of agriculture and statistics at ottawa. [illustration: w. w. smith, sutton, p. q.] preface. for precept must be upon precept, precept upon precept; line upon line, line upon line; here a little and there a little.--(isa. xxviii. .) this is a divinely appointed rule to which we will do well if we take heed, as it will save from many disappointments and discouragements. the writer of "the story of a dark plot" has no hope by this work of revolutionizing society or even working any very marked reforms. books and essays on temperance topics are numerous, and this is but one among many. however, it is hoped that this may prove one of the lines and precepts that are of some service to the cause. there is always need for those who are on the right side of any important question to unfurl their banners and show their colors bravely, but just now, in connection with the temperance movement in our dominion, there is a very special call for action presented by the plebiscite. we sometimes read on the pages of fiction exciting and blood-curdling tales of deep laid plots for murder and other crimes, but just when our feelings are being aroused to the highest pitch, we pause and comfort ourselves with the thought that after all this is only imaginary. or perchance, we may read the truthful details of a more or less successful attempt to end the life of a fellow being, but if we are unacquainted with the persons concerned in the affair and the circumstances which led to it, and especially if it happened some distance from us, we feel but little interest in it. again we find in the records of the past that thousands have suffered and many died in a really good cause,--the victims of depraved and brutish persecutors who hated what was good. we cannot doubt the truth of the statements nor the innocence of the sufferers, but we may be tempted to complacently remark "the martyr age is past." but if we look about us with unprejudiced eyes, we must see that the sufferers for conscience sake are still not a few. the details of the dark plot as given in these pages are all matters of fact, and perhaps if all the particulars could be known, it might seem blacker even than now. moreover, it happened in an old and progressive county of eastern canada, just across the border from new england, and mr. smith had incurred the anger of his persecutors only by trying to enforce law and order and working for the protection and uplifting of his fellow-men. in view of such facts, let the voters of our dominion pause ere they give their sanction to a system which throws around the makers and venders of alcoholic liquors the protection of the strong arm of the law. that this volume, by showing the liquor party in its true light, and thus warning our countrymen of their position and danger, may be the means of arousing some who, though temperance people at heart, are sleeping on guard, and of adding a few to the ranks of active workers for the cause of right, is the earnest prayer of the author. introduction. the publication of this book has been with the approval of some of the best thinkers on the temperance question, and we doubt not that its _careful_ perusal by all who read it will prove a stimulus in connection with the cause of temperance, and if they are timid or hesitating will cause them to become decisive in the noble work for humanity. it is a well-known fact that the grand old county of brome is one of the banner counties in every thing which is helpful to the cause of morality, and we hereby offer a fraternal hand to all our co-workers in the dominion, and pray god's blessing may rest on every effort put forth that, whatever may be the private opinion they may entertain respecting the course pursued by the government, in order to ascertain the minds of the people on the prohibition question, they may not only pray right, but when the time presents itself may vote right. notwithstanding the fact that a majority of the inhabitants of our county are true to prohibition principles, yet a minority would not hesitate, if possible, to repeal the scott act, as was evidenced in the dark plot which was enacted in our midst, but which could not be carried out until a rough from another country was hired to commit the murderous assault, which was made on mr. w. w. smith, one of the most earnest temperance workers in the province of quebec, president of the brome county alliance for five terms in succession, and who is actively engaged in sustaining the scott act in our county, and saving from the sad consequences of the traffic the tempted and the fallen. j. h. f., sutton. the story of a dark plot; or, tyranny on the frontier. chapter i. previous events which led to the assault. there are few communities, however small, that have not been aroused and stirred into action, by some uncommon event, or where opposing parties have never rejoiced, and mourned over a triumph of one at the other's expense, and often have men and women, unappreciated by the many, bravely suffered for their fidelity to a good and beloved cause. thus the little county of brome has been stirred to the depths of its soul by the actions of contending parties, and especially by a deliberate attempt to hinder the work and destroy the life of a law-abiding citizen. mr. william w. smith, the hero of this dark plot, was a native of the county which had always been his home, and had been during about fifteen years the agent of the canadian pacific railway company at sutton junction. during those years, he had been a man of the world, fond of pleasure, and not objecting to a social glass, and it is not surprising that, amid all the temptations of railroad life, he had already felt the awful power of an appetite for strong drink. but he was led to see his danger and to flee from it, largely through the influence of his beloved companion, a faithful christian, who rests from her labor, and her works do follow her. breaking his bonds by the power of god, he became not only a temperance man, but a christian, and in his great joy and gratitude for his own salvation was filled with a desire to warn and rescue others, whose feet were treading the same slippery paths. he then began holding gospel temperance meetings, as he had opportunity in many places mostly within the county of brome. this county has long held an honored position as being one of the leading temperance counties in the dominion of canada, because during many years no license to sell intoxicating liquor as a beverage has been granted within its borders, and a temperance law known as the scott act had been in force for eight years previous to , when the second attempt was made by the liquor party to obtain its repeal. like the serpent in the garden of eden, the liquor sellers of the present day are remarkable for their subtility, and many are the innocent victims entangled in the meshes of the net woven by their deceptive tongues; therefore, it need not seem strange that they should display great power and influence, even in a so-called temperance community. in the spring of , the liquor party in brome, having decided that they had been troubled by an anti-license act quite long enough, sent out their agents to various parts of the county with innocent looking papers to which they wished to obtain signatures. they called upon all the known supporters of their party, and also upon that doubtful class of persons which sometimes proves to be among their best helpers, although counted as temperance people. to this doubtful class they carefully explained that the petition they bore did not ask for the repeal of the scott act, but only requested that an election be held for the purpose of bringing the matter before the people, and determining their minds upon the subject. therefore, they were told the signing of this petition was in no way equivalent to voting against the scott act, nor would they be bound to vote against that act if an election was brought about. many names were appended to the petition, the desired election took place, and very hard did the liquor men work to obtain a result that should favor their cause. however, not all the faithful work was on their side. a few temperance speakers came from distant places, and held many interesting meetings in different parts of the county, but perhaps the most efficient work was done by people living in the county, who in many cases seemed to possess greater influence than strangers could exert. mr. j. w. alexander, at that time principal of the sutton model school, added more recruits to the ranks of earnest workers by organizing a number of his pupils with a few other young people into a band which, under the name of the "young people's temperance crusaders," did good work during the ensuing weeks. older workers were admitted into the society as honorary members, and the officers were chosen from among these. one of the honorary members was mr. w. w. smith, who was also one of the committee appointed to accompany the younger members and aid them in their meetings, and no one worked harder to retain the scott act than he. he took an active part in nearly every crusade meeting, and on evenings, when the crusaders were not thus employed, held other temperance meetings, thus occupying nearly every night during three or four weeks in the heat of the campaign. not content with this, he worked and argued by day as well, and, associating his work with prayer, did not cease from his efforts until, on june th, , the polls were closed and the victory for god and the temperance cause was won. the hotel-keepers and their confederates had gained that for which their petition has asked, but plainly they were far from satisfied with the result of the contest, and many were the curses pronounced upon mr. smith as one of the most active opposers of their cherished plans. now the vote against them was greater than ever before, yet they were not content to abide by the voice of the people which they had seemed so anxious to obtain, but practiced the illegal sale of alcoholic drinks until nearly, if not quite, every hotel-keeper in the county of brome was known to be boldly and frequently breaking the law. a great cry of the liquor men while attempting to repeal this law had been "the scott act is all right if you would only enforce it; we don't want a law which is not carried out," and it was now the wish of those who had sustained the act to prevent any further complaints like this. therefore, on the evening of feb. th, , a public meeting was held in sutton to discuss the circumstances and form plans for work, and at the close a society was organized to secure the enforcement of the scott act in the township of sutton. mr. smith, who had been instrumental in bringing about this conference, was a member of the executive committee of the society. one of the leading temperance organizations of canada is that known as the dominion alliance, which is divided and sub-divided into provincial and county branches. when, on april , , the brome county branch of the alliance held its annual meeting for the election of officers, mr. smith was chosen its president for the ensuing year. here was field for increased usefulness, and he took up his work with a zeal that soon won the disapproval both of the liquor party and a certain class of so-called temperance people whose principal work for the cause usually lies in criticism of the work of others. soon a public meeting of the alliance was announced by the new president to be held at sutton, and a large number of people gathered in the hall on the evening appointed. many speakers addressed the audience, and told in no uncertain words that the law must be enforced and offenders must be punished. it had not been deemed best to prosecute the liquor sellers without first giving them a fair and public warning, and therefore this meeting had been called; but now that they were notified of the intentions of the temperance people, if detected in dealing out the liquid poison, they had only themselves to blame. true to these announcements, mr. smith and others proceeded at once to obtain satisfactory evidence of the traffic in strong drink which was known to be taking place in the various hotels. this was by no means a slight task, for though the liquor sellers were not willing to keep the law, they were entirely willing to preserve the appearance of so doing, and very loath to sell liquor in the presence of a stranger, while the testimony of their regular customers could not be relied on. however, the task was done, and the evidence gathered was sufficient to condemn nearly every hotel-keeper in the county to imprisonment or a fine. on june th, these cases were considered in the district court, at sweetsburg, quebec, and punishment was meted out to the offenders. in some instances where the offences merited imprisonment a fine was allowed instead, and this was accepted by the alliance president, who believed that justice should be tempered with mercy. this bit of leniency, however, was not taken into account by the liquor sellers in considering his treatment of them. they appeared to have altered their opinions as to the enforcement of the law, and their anger waxed hot, while many, often ranked with the temperance people, were in sympathy with them. divisions occurred in temperance societies, because some of the members had friends who were made to suffer by the imposing of fines on the lawbreakers, and members of secret brotherhoods, who felt it their duty to uphold their brethren in good or evil, complained of the injustice of thus depriving the hotel-keepers of the property they had earned; some even declaring such transactions to be on a par with the meanest theft. meanwhile the liquor sellers and their allies, who had already by the recent trials been shown to be a company of lawbreakers, seemed to be forming plans of their own. many dark whispers floated through the county to the effect that w. w. smith had better look out for his personal safety, and some declared with an air of wisdom that they would not like to be in his position, while a suspicious looking stranger, said to be a horse buyer, was noticed by some to be frequenting the hotels at sutton and abercorn, and attending the horse races in the vicinity. however, mr. smith had not the spirit of fear, and believing, as he said, that "the lord will take care of his own," he continued as usual to go from place to place on errands of temperance, or any other work which he felt claimed his attention. chapter ii. the midnight assault. thus matters went on until the night of july th, , when mr. smith drove out from his home and returned somewhat late. after caring for his team he went into the station. it was afterwards told that some young men had noticed a stranger at the depot that night, who had appeared to be waiting for a train but had not gone away on any. after the crowd at the station had dispersed, and the inmates of the building had retired, as there was little night work to be done, mr. smith went into his home in the station, where his brother's family were then living with him, and having obtained a pillow for his head went back to the waiting-room, where he lay down upon a settee and dropped asleep. an article published in the montreal _daily witness_ soon after this so well describes some of the circumstances which cluster round the events of that night at sutton junction that we give some parts of it here. it says: "the liquor selling ruffians will descend to any warfare however dastardly and mean when forced by law to a standstill. there is something in the sad business that degrades every one in it. this time it is liquor sellers in brome county that are indicted. mr. w. w. smith, president of the brome county branch of the dominion alliance, is also the station agent at sutton junction for the canadian pacific railway company. as president of the alliance he represents the temperance element of course, and that is the element determined to carry out the law against liquor selling. mr. smith represents them in this. in doing so he is certain to make enemies. he has been assiduous in his duty, and has been threatened several times. these threats did not keep him from actively participating in efforts to secure the conviction recently of several lawbreaking liquor sellers in brome, some of whom were convicted, and have had sentence suspended over them pending their good behavior. on saturday night, mr. smith took the night operator's place, arranging that the latter should take his place on sunday. after securing everything for the night, mr. smith lay down on the sofa, never dreaming that any evil was to come to him." instead of copying the account of the assault which follows the above, we will describe the facts as nearly as possible as they have been related by the victim himself. [illustration: station at sutton junction, place of the midnight assault.] it was between one and two o'clock on sunday morning, july th, when mr. smith was attacked by the cowardly miscreant who has thus made himself notorious. we say "cowardly," because when a large, strong man who carries arms and is a professional fighter, as he appears to have been, attacks a man who is weaponless and not more than two-thirds his size by giving him a stunning blow upon the head while he is asleep, there is clearly no evidence of heroism on the part of the man who makes the assault. yet this was what mr. smith's brave assailant did! after receiving the first blow, mr. smith felt a strange sensation as though he were taking a long, happy journey, and he thinks he was aroused by his assailant attempting to drag him from the settee. as a train was going by before daylight, it is the opinion of many that his intention may have been to leave his victim stunned upon the railway track, that the locomotive might complete the frightful work which he had begun. at least, he doubtless intended by some means to guard himself from suspicion and leave mr. smith entirely unable ever to identify him. when he saw that the object of his brutal attack was arousing he struck him a second time, but this blow not having the effect of the former one, mr. smith, who was now fully conscious, although he could not see clearly, grappled desperately with his foe. he saw a long weapon of some sort waving fiercely above his head, and now and then received a blow from it, while his assailant was constantly dragging him nearer the door, and he struggling to remain in the room fearing the villain might have associates outside. mr. smith was all the time shouting "murder," as loudly as possible, but, his mouth being filled with blood, he was unable to make himself clearly heard, and his calls brought no assistance. at length, being somewhat weakened by the blows he had received, he was dragged outside in spite of his efforts to remain within, but still no one came to the help of either himself or his antagonist. the two men, still struggling desperately, passed on from the upper to the lower platform without the station, and thence to the railway track below, and finally back to the lower platform. then mr. smith got possession of the weapon which his assailant had been wielding, and the last hope of his enemy seemed to vanish with the loss of that, for, freeing himself from the grasp of the man whom he had thought a few minutes before was entirely in his power, he disappeared in the darkness, and fled up the track in such haste that he did not even stop for his hat, which was found by some one upon the platform next morning. the weapon which he left in mr. smith's possession proved to be a large piece of lead pipe well battered and bruised, near one end of which was attached a short piece of rope, apparently intended to be slipped around the wrist of the user so that the weapon might be concealed up his sleeve. mr. smith, having seen his enemy retreat, hastened to the part of the house where his brother's family were sleeping, and thence to the other part where a mr. ames and family lived, and aroused the inmates of both apartments, who were very much surprised and alarmed at thought of the frightful scene which had been enacted so close to the apartments where they were calmly sleeping. however, there was one brave man, a train hand, who was sleeping above the scene of the assault, who declared that he had heard the blows when given, but did not go down to learn the cause as he "did not want to mix up in it," and was afraid he might get hurt. there are far too many people who display the same disposition when others within their reach are in danger or in need of assistance. when the people of the house were awakened it seemed already too late to capture the retreating criminal, but mr. smith's injuries were attended to, and a message sent at once by telephone to sutton for a physician. the bruises proved to be very severe, and it seems to be a modern miracle that life itself was spared. the article from the _witness_, part of which we quoted above, after describing the assault, says: "a good deal of indignation is felt by the law-abiding people not only of sutton flats, but of the county, and it is hoped that every effort will be made to discover the perpetrator. the woollen cap and slung-shot should give a clever detective a good clue to work upon. some time ago, at the public meeting called to discuss the liquor question, mr. dyer, m. p. for the county, said that the authorities had been twitted by the liquor men for not enforcing the scott act. that reproach might have been justified in a measure at least, as there was some doubt as to the opinion of the people in its favor. but in the liquor men had appealed--and perhaps it was well they did so--to the county, to decide whether that law should be enforced or not. the county had declared against the liquor men. now the time had come when this majority should stand at the back of the officials, and all should endeavor to enforce the law. mr. dyer's remarks at the time were taken to represent the desire of the law-abiding people of brome county. in carrying out this idea, mr. smith, they contend, was simply doing his duty, and it is expected that in doing it he had the majority of the people of the county with him." this brutal assault, made upon a law-abiding citizen by one whom he had never injured in any way is a fair sample of the fruits of intemperance wherever found. there are those who have seemed loath to believe that mr. smith's strong temperance convictions and his activity in carrying them out were the real causes which led to the bitter hatred that inspired this fiendish act. they seem to think it impossible that "respectable (?)" citizens of a temperance county should attempt in such a reckless, lawless way to prevent opposition to their traffic in strong drink. but what is there incredible in this? when we consider that traffic in strong drink means a trade in the souls of men, women and children, and in innocence, virtue and hope; when we remember that the bartender daily takes from his customers the price of food, clothes, health, respectability and all that he has of real value in the world, and gives him in return nothing but liquid ruin; when we know that the rumseller's business is a sort of wholesale murder continually, inasmuch as by it millions of lost souls are sent into eternity annually; in view of all these facts, why should we be surprised when the liquor sellers of a community plan together to rid themselves of one who has vigorously opposed their dangerous work? it is only another form of the same business. the disclosures following the assault upon mr. smith convinced many people of the evils of the liquor traffic, and some who had favored and pitied the hotel keepers when they had been fined for lawbreaking now turned against them, feeling that they could no longer uphold their deeds. meantime, some of the hotel keepers of the vicinity gave evidence of their guilt by disappearing from the locality very soon after the assault took place. the investigation of the affair was placed in the hands of s. h. carpenter, superintendent of the canadian secret service, and detectives were at once set at work upon the case. either mr. carpenter or one of the men under his direction was constantly in the vicinity, seeking to obtain clues by which to determine the guilty party. one man, who lived near the mountain pass between sutton and glen sutton, declared that, early on the morning of july th, he had seen two men pass his house driving very rapidly and going in the direction of the latter village, one of the men having no hat, but wearing a cloth around his head. of course this story had an air of significance inasmuch as the assailant of the previous night had left his hat at sutton junction, but it did not prove to be of much importance. it was soon settled in the minds of many that the stranger whom we have mentioned as having been frequenting the hotels at sutton and abercorn had been the wielder of the lead pipe on july th, but his name and whereabouts were not to be obtained, as he had been sailing under false colors during his stay in the country, and those who were initiated into the secrets of the case, of course, kept silence. at length, mr. smith received a letter from a woman in vermont, who had formerly been employed at one of the hotels in the vicinity of the assault, and soon after he met this same woman at sutton, and her evidence was a great aid towards locating the assailant. she knew nothing about the pretended boston horse-buyer, who had apparently forgotten the object of his northward journey and disappeared without having purchased any of the canadian steeds, but she remembered an american having once stopped for a time at the hotel where she was then working, and from the description given it seemed that he might be the same man. the one whom she described she said came from marlboro, mass., and thither a man was soon despatched in search. it proved that the man to whom she had directed mr. smith was not the one in question, but in searching for him the real perpetrator of the crime was found, as he chanced to be also a resident of marlboro, mass. having located his man, the gentleman in search returned home, leaving in marlboro a canadian detective who should keep watch of the man until mr. carpenter went there. however, when mr. carpenter, who was accompanied by mr. smith, reached the place, the man whom they sought had already been lost track of by the detective, but after a few days mr. smith saw him in company with several others, and at once identified him as being the man whom he had seen in the vicinity of sutton junction previous to the assault, and also as having the form and gait which he had noticed his assailant to have when he had watched him fleeing from the scene of his cowardly attack. soon this man was captured at hudson, mass., a place about five miles distant from marlboro. he was arrested by chief of police skully of hudson and policeman hater of worcester, and taken to fitchburg. the name of this young man who had apparently come very near being a murderer was walter w. kelly, and he had been a bartender in marlboro, which probably made him feel more sympathy for his canadian brethren when their liberty to sell intoxicants was interfered with. while at fitchburg, kelly was advised to yield himself up and go freely to canada with mr. carpenter and mr. smith, because, he was told, they were determined to have him at any cost, and, if he made them the trouble and expense of extraditing him, he would only be obliged to lie in jail a much longer time before his trial could take place, whereas the sentence of punishment would doubtless be just as severe in the one case as in the other. acting in the spirit of this advice he gave himself up into the hands of detective carpenter and went with him to montreal, where he acknowledged his guilt, and also told that he had been hired to do the deed by john howarth, a young man who lived with the hotel keeper at abercorn, and that james wilson, one of the hotel keepers at sutton, had driven the team which carried him to and from the junction on the night of the assault. mr. smith, who had also accompanied mr. carpenter to montreal, at once returned home, and, having notified a number of his friends and procured a constable from knowlton, que., went in company with several others from sutton to abercorn, on saturday night, august th, for the purpose of arresting howarth. on a saturday night also, just seven weeks previous, a smaller company of men had gone from sutton in the opposite direction, not to arrest a guilty man, but to assault an innocent man, not in the cause of right and justice, but of wrong and injustice. but now it seemed that the tide had turned! the little company of "friends of temperance" surrounded the abercorn hotel, and the constable, going to the door, called loudly to mr. jenne, the proprietor, who was doubtless in the land of dreams. mr. jenne, who appeared to be somewhat suspicious, was loath to open his house at that unseemly hour, and demanded his visitor's name; but the constable, giving a fictitious name, enquired for john howarth, and when that individual made his appearance, he was at once arrested in the name of the queen. seeing the people outside, neither he nor mr. jenne dared resist, and, being assured by the latter that he would soon have him free again, howarth accompanied the constable to the jail at sweetsburg, feeling, doubtless, much less pleased with his future prospects than he had felt when planning by violence and bloodshed to frighten the temperance people into submission or silence, and leave himself and his congenial associates free to drink and sell as much liquor as they chose. thus satan may sometimes appear to his servants as a very good master when they serve him faithfully, and accomplish his designs, but when they fail to carry out some of his cherished plans and find themselves in danger and trouble, as a result of their zeal in his service, then he proves a very poor sort of comforter. better far to serve a master who will not forsake his followers in time of need! a few days later an attempt was made to arrest james wilson, who had left the hotel at sutton, and was thought to be staying at glen sutton, his former home. this expedition is so fully described by an article in the montreal _daily star_ that we quote from it here. the two local guides mentioned in this report were w. w. smith and his brother, h. s. smith. the account, dated august st, is as follows: "a mysterious midnight expedition left richford station, vermont, a little after twelve this morning, and disappeared in the gloomy shadow of mount sutton. the party was composed of superintendent silas h. carpenter of the canadian secret service, a _star_ reporter and two local guides. the object of the expedition was a search for james wilson and m. l. jenne, hotel keepers of sutton and abercorn, for whose arrests carpenter held warrants. these men are accused of being the conspirators who organized, aided and abetted the arrangements for the attempted and nearly successful murder of w. w. smith, the president of the brome county temperance alliance, who for some time has been like a thorn in the side of the brome county hotel keepers, because, by insisting upon the enforcement of the law, to wit, the scott act, he spoiled their profitable liquor trade. the excellent means of communication in the counties of missisquoi and brome, by telephone and otherwise, necessitated the greatest care in keeping the purpose of the trip secret, especially because the entire county seems to be situated too dangerously near the american border line for officers of the law to take any chances, and, accordingly, the ground had to be reached from sweetsburg in a round-about way. it was with grave apprehension that the officers of the court and the citizens of that town let our small party depart on what to them appeared a most dangerous errand; it seemed perfect folly to them that detective carpenter alone, with only a _star_ reporter, should thus attempt to 'beard the lions in their dens'--and on a very dark night, too! "why, they said, when the constable from knowlton went to arrest howarth, another of the alleged conspirators who lives in the same vicinity, last week, he surrounded the house with a cordon of twenty men. they said, besides, the wilsons were known as a fighting family, who would never allow a member to be arrested easily. as to jenne, no two men would be able to prevent him from slipping out of the house and escaping. as it turned out, mr. carpenter had, in a measure, a greater success than even he anticipated. since the arrest of the man kelly, who was hired to do and perpetrated the act of assault, those who were interested in the plan of getting rid of mr. smith have evinced a really remarkable preference for the air across the line, and a score of residents of this vicinity more or less connected with brome liquor interests have emigrated to the neighboring towns of the united states, hoping that they may not be extradited. mr. carpenter's little excursion cost a good many people beside himself their night's rest. the first house where wilson was supposed to be was searched at about three this morning, and three other houses were subjected to a similar process within the next two hours. at the last place wilson's parents, wife and sick child were found; but they pleaded utter ignorance of the head of the family's whereabouts. there is little doubt but that he is in hiding in the states. jenne's hotel, at abercorn, was visited about six, and he, too, was in the states. but mr. carpenter gave jenne's son such convincing proofs that his father would be extradited anyhow, and that his staying away would only be considered an acknowledgment of guilt, that the old man was sent for and decided to come to canada without trouble. it is known that the confession of kelly, now under arrest, implicates, directly and indirectly, a dozen or so of well-known people around here. there is a promising prospect for penitentiary terms for several of them." [illustration: the general manager of the general manager--grip.] in the above account is given evidence of both the guilt and cowardice of these hotel keepers. when men concoct plans of evil which they dare not execute in person, and then hire a foreigner to carry them out, it is not strange if they prove too cowardly to face justice when their part in the crime has been made known. it is little wonder if they seek a foreign clime, but more strange that they do not hide for shame after their fear of punishment is lessened. is it because they find too many sympathizers at home? let those who doubt that this crime was undertaken because of the temperance principles of its victim search the records of other localities for parallel cases. many earnest men and women have suffered for the same cause. satan never yields a foot of ground anywhere without fighting vigorously to retain it, and no important reform was ever inaugurated but it met with strong opposition from the first. the more important a reform also, that is to say, the more it is opposed to the rule of the powers of darkness, the more bitter the persecution is likely to be which meets it at every step. witness the fierce opposition to the spread of christianity in the early centuries and the persecution which has almost always followed its introduction into a new, neglected region. the temperance reform has been no exception in this respect, and as a leading temperance worker has said: "the martyr-roll of temperance is just as sacred as that of any other reform that was ever inaugurated." this same worker, mr. j. c. nichols, gives a sketch in this connection which may be of interest to the readers of this narrative. it is of a young man in new orleans--a young man pure and earnest, such as the world everywhere has need of. he was a zealous temperance worker, and had met with considerable success in this work, which lay so near his heart. one dark night, alone and unarmed, he was crossing a bridge beyond which lay a clump of bushes. when he reached these bushes he was confronted by six men with weapons who lay in ambush waiting for him. they sprang out and shot him, and, not content with that, bruised and battered his features beyond recognition. and then his noble mother wrote to miss willard, president of the world's w. c. t. u., that she had yet two boys left, and she had rather they would die as he had, fighting for the right, than that either of them should turn aside to the right hand or the left. these six men, attacking one defenceless temperance man, displayed the same spirit of cowardice as their northern brethren show when they hire a stranger to do the work for them. they had greater success attending their efforts, but probably there was no more hatred or revenge in their hearts than was in the hearts of the brome county liquor sellers when they sent to massachusetts for a prize fighter to come north to injure and perhaps kill a christian temperance worker. through the providence of god, the plans of these men do not always succeed, and when they do the real victory is often for god and the right rather than for them, because no right-thinking man or woman can but oppose them and their business when they see such fruits of the traffic. north or south, the nature and effects of intemperance are ever the same. chapter iii. the autumn court. the autumn court of the district of bedford was opened at sweetsburg, que., on thursday, august th, , and at this session the sutton junction assault case was considered. the lawyers in charge of the case were h. t. duffy, on behalf of the alliance, and e. racicot, on behalf of the accused hotel keepers. the court room was thronged each day with eager listeners, and much interest was evinced both by the temperance and anti-temperance people. the following account of proceedings at court and other matters relating to the assault case is from _the templar_, a temperance paper, published in hamilton, ont., and a large part of this description was also published in the montreal _daily witness_: "the excitement in brome county, quebec, over the arrest of several prominent liquor sellers on the charge of conspiring to murder mr. w. w. smith, president of brome county temperance alliance, increases as the developments are becoming known to the public. according to the evidence, there remains no longer any question that mr. smith's devotion to prohibition, and particularly his determined stand for the honest enforcement of the scott act, which is in force in that county, made him a shining mark for the vengeance of the men whose trade and profits were so seriously affected thereby. the confession of walter kelly, the assailant, that he was employed to 'do up' mr. smith because he was a man who gave the hotel keepers much trouble, and had to be thrashed, as well as the payment of money by mr. jenne, proves the animus of the assault, while the general evidence indicates a wide-spread conspiracy, embracing others than the accused, to cause the diabolical crime. the publicans of brome, and, indeed, the liquor traffic as a whole, lie under the terrible suspicion of sympathy with this crime. it is not beyond the traffic. its record is traced in blood as well as tears. _the templar_ is quite ready to believe that there are men in the business who would shrink with horror from the very thought of engaging in such a deed of blood, but the assault upon mr. smith, of sutton, is the natural fruit of the damnable business, and those exceptions have not been wholly dominated by the genius of the traffic. what cares the liquor seller who suffers while he thrives? the excitement centres at sweetsburg, where the court is engaged in hearing the evidence against james wilson and m. l. jenne, hotel keepers at sutton and abercorn, who are charged with conspiring to murder mr. smith. the preliminary hearing began last friday morning. people had come from all parts of the surrounding country, and several newspaper people from across the line, male and female, were on hand. "the magistrates occupying the bench were messrs. c. h. boright and g. f. shufelt; mr. h. t. duffy was prosecuting attorney, with hon. mr. baker as counsel. sheriff cotton was also present. the prisoner, john howarth, was represented by mr. e. racicot, and was in court. "howarth is an american, and still a young man. he is closely shaven, and wears his hair cropped short. he came here about three years ago, with a stallion worth about $ , in which he owns a half interest. the man who owns the other half still lives in the states, and by means of tedious litigation has been trying to get his share. this man at present lives with the jennes, at their hotel at abercorn. he is one of the principal figures in the case, because he, it is said, was the man to whom the entire management of the attempted murder was entrusted. "mr. smith is a medium-sized man, with a heavy blonde mustache, and is a fluent talker, who evidently is very much in earnest in his temperance work. he seems to possess the lives of the proverbial cat; but many people here prophesy that they will not be of avail to him much longer--meaning thereby that the liquor men will yet be the death of him. this does not seem to worry him much, however. "kelly is a well built man, a little over medium height, with dark brown hair, restless, dark eyes, and a small mustache, turned to a needle point at each end. it cost a great deal of time and trouble to locate him; once nabbed, he turned queen's evidence. "mr. w. w. smith was the first witness. his testimony consisted in a description of the assault as our readers are already familiar with it. he narrated how he had warned the hotel keepers against breaking the scott act, on pain of prosecution, and how, by interposing on their behalf, he had saved many of them from prison. he concluded his evidence with a description of kelly's attempt to murder him. every eye in the court room was fixed upon walter kelly, the man who committed the murderous assault, as he entered the witness box. it was generally known that he had turned queen's evidence, and would tell a thrilling story. he took the situation very coolly, and after explaining that he had been a bartender in marlboro, mass., gave the following testimony: "'some time before the end of june last, i was shown a letter by a man named flynn, which requested him to come or send a man to do a job, and it was stated that there was good money in it. the letter was written by a man named howarth, who resides at abercorn, p. q., in the county of brome. neither flynn nor myself paid much attention to this letter, as we did not understand the meaning of it. about the end of june, the same man showed me a second letter, which he had received from howarth, also requesting him to send a man on the next morning to do a job connected with the liquor business, and he asked me to go, as there was good money in it--about two hundred dollars--and i agreed to go over. he then instructed me to go to a man named willard, whom howarth had instructed to give me the money to pay my way, or give me a ticket. i went to willard, and told him that i was going to canada to do a job for some parties there; that howarth had sent for me to call on him for the money to buy the ticket to go there, and that he would repay him. willard gave me ten dollars, and i bought my ticket, and came on to abercorn. i started towards the hotel there, when howarth drove up, recognized me, and asked me to get into his wagon. he drove me to jenne's hotel, and there introduced me to mr. jenne as a mr. stewart. while at the hotel, howarth told me he had sent for me to thrash a fellow named smith, who lived over at sutton junction. he said that he was a mean cuss who drank all his life, would drink whenever he got the chance, was all the time running after the women and, to cover up his deviltry, he goes round preaching temperance, and raising the devil with the hotel keepers. they wanted to chase him away and get him out of the business. howarth went on to say that smith, who is station master at sutton junction, was so mean that people cannot ship goods to that station without their being opened, looked over and their contents reported to the temperance people. they had, he added, reported smith to the company, and his discharge had been ordered. i asked howarth what about the money for doing this job, and he answered, "don't fear; everything is fixed, and you will be well taken care of." in the afternoon, howarth took me to sutton, and we called at curley's hotel, and went from there to lebeau's, where he introduced me to a man named lebeau, who owns a race course, as a mr. stewart, a horse buyer from boston. i then rode with mr. lebeau and drove his horse, staying round there until the evening, when i went back to curley's hotel, and had supper. i did not pay for it, and was not asked to pay. i went to sutton, purchased a ticket for richford, where i met howarth in the afternoon by agreement, received fifteen dollars from him and had a long conversation regarding the job i was to do, after which howarth went back to abercorn. i, however, remained over night at richford, and next morning took the train for sutton. i then went to mr. wilson's hotel, and remained there for two or three days. they asked me no questions in regard to my board bill, they did not seem to care whether my bills were paid or not, and they were never paid by me. i remained there until the horse race at knowlton, to which i went with mr. wilson, and where i expected to meet howarth with a team for me to use, but i did not find howarth at knowlton. i left knowlton the same night, and rode back to sutton, to wilson's hotel, with a man whom i met at the races. a day or two following, i was supplied with the team, which was fed and cared for free of charge at curley's and wilson's hotels. this team was supplied me for the purpose of driving to and from the junction in order to meet smith. the night i committed the assault on mr. smith my team was at curley's hotel until o'clock in the evening, when i ordered it to be harnessed. i then started for the junction, and on the way i met a man a short distance out of the village, whose name i do not remember, but i would probably recognize him if i saw him again. i was supplied with a disguise of clothing, which was put into my buggy when the team was sent to me. i do not know who put it there, but howarth gave me to understand that it would be there. "'some talk transpired between myself and the parties engaged in this matter as to what weapon i should used to beat mr. smith, when it was suggested, i think by howarth, that a piece of lead pipe would be a good thing, and when i opened the bundle, i found a lead pipe in it. i saw that it was a piece of new pipe, and i battered it to give it an old appearance. there was also a new hat in the bundle. when this man got into my buggy, i drove to sutton junction, where i waited for mr. smith. after our arrival there, and until i had committed the assault on mr. smith, the man who drove with me from sutton kept the team waiting for me about one hundred rods from the station. i saw mr. smith arrive at the depot about . p. m., and after putting the team up, he went into the station with four or five men. i watched mr. smith until all the men had left, the last two going north on an engine, after which i saw mr. smith lie down on a settee. after some time i entered the room, where he was lying, and struck him over the head with the pipe, which was in my possession. his head moved on the pillow, and when he started to rise, i struck him again. we then clinched, and had quite a severe struggle during which i lost my hat and the lead pipe. i then freed myself from mr. smith, and disappeared, running to where the team was waiting for me. we drove direct to sutton, where the fellow jumped off, and i kept on to richford, where i left my team at the american hotel, telling them that it would be called for. on the way to richford after having committed the assault, i called at jenne's hotel, howarth having told me that on my way back the money would be left with jenne to pay me. when i arrived there i called to him, and after a few minutes he came, and i asked him if there was some money there for me, and he said, "yes," and at the same time he went back and brought out fifty dollars, which he gave me. i asked him where the rest of the money was, and he said: "only a part of it had been collected; give me your address, and we will collect it and send you a money order." this money order i have never received. at richford i hired a team and drove to what i thought was about half way to st. albans, where i stayed all day sunday, and took the night express for boston. the bay horse and open buggy, with yellow running gear, were furnished me by howarth a few days previous to the assault. the team was engaged by jenne at the livery stable in the rear of the american house, richford, and the young man who drove the team on the night of the assault was young jim wilson. he left me at sutton, and i was instructed to leave the team at the richford livery stable above mentioned, which i did, and the same livery man whom i asked for another team to drive me to st. albans, or a part of the way, hitched up a team and sent a man with me whose name i do not know. when i drove up to his place that sunday morning, i awoke him and said that i had brought back his horse which i had been using for the last few days, and i also told him that this party would settle for it, and he replied, "all right."'" in this testimony of kelly's we see the evidence of a preconcerted plot in which many liquor men, both canadian and american, must have been initiated. it is an important fact also that the man entrusted with the execution of their lawless plans was himself a bartender. from the evil account of mr. smith's deeds, which kelly says was given to him on his arrival in canada, it appears that the enemies of temperance are not contented with taking the property of their fellow-men as they often do in different ways, they are not even satisfied with inflicting bodily injury and suffering upon those who oppose their ways, but they would blight their reputation, and this, too, is no small injury, for in the words of shakespeare: "who steals my purse, steals trash; 'tis something, nothing; 'twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands; but he that filches from me my good name, robs me of that which not enriches him, and makes me poor indeed." the announcement also that the liquor men had reported their enemy to the railway company, and that his discharge had been ordered, is significant in the light of later events. the complaint made by them to the company seems from the above to have been that mr. smith was examining goods shipped into the county by way of sutton junction, and this, we are assured, was a false report. however, it seems probable that, if the hotel keepers had not been receiving illegal goods in this way, they would not have been so suspicious. another account of kelly's testimony was published in the montreal _daily star_. omitting those parts which do not differ materially from the report in _the templar_, this report is as follows: "the reason that kelly did not get his hundred and fifty dollars for half murdering mr. w. w. smith, it appears, was 'that he did not half finish his job;' at least that was the reason given in another letter of howarth to his friend mr. flynn in the united states, who showed it to kelly. it is left to the imagination as to what the result would have been if he had finished the job. kelly's testimony occupied all the afternoon, and he stood the ordeal extremely well. mr. racicot tried to shake him, but in vain. he told his story in a straightforward manner, and it showed how easy it is even in our present civilized and advanced age to get rid of or punish people without running personal risk of bodily injury if you go the right way about it. the case is also a forcible reminder of the truism that the laborer is worthy of his hire, and that things done on the cheap are apt to turn out badly.... "that night he drove in the vicinity of a friend's home, where he was told that smith was not at home. he went with the intention of seeing mr. smith. if he had met him he would have licked him then and there. he always stayed at the wilson's, when he had nothing better to do, and they did not charge him anything. he was convinced that the wilsons, though they did not say so, knew perfectly well what he was doing. kelly met smith once at the sutton junction station while he was on the train. the night of the attempted murder he asked jim wilson to drive him. wilson must have know what kelly was going to do, for the latter undressed while they were driving together, and put on the disguise, and jim wilson must have seen him put the lead pipe in his pocket. wilson waited for him with the rig, while the drama in smith's station-house took place. kelly then rehearsed the act himself, varying but little in the story from the version given by mr. smith. the remainder of the story finished.... "when he was half way to st. albans he sent the richford team home and hired another on the road. he took the train at st. albans to boston, and from there returned home to marlboro. he met howarth at marlboro afterwards, and howarth said that he would see about the money. he then spoke to howarth's friend flynn and the latter wrote. in reply he got back a letter from howarth, in which the latter said: 'kelly did not half do his job, and all the others are kicking at me.' at any rate, kelly did not get his one hundred and fifty dollars. mr. racicot then took him in hand and tried very hard to tangle him up. he commenced by trying to break down the force of the evidence of the letters, which kelly claims howarth has written, and which kelly claims he had seen. of course he had to admit that he could not swear they were written by howarth. next, his efforts were directed to words trying to prove by kelly's testimony that the assault was not a murderous one. partly to protect himself, partly because he believed it the truth, kelly then was compelled to testify that he was not asked and had not undertaken to kill mr. smith. he never told any one that he had, and did not intend to kill him or do him serious injury. the murderous-looking gas pipe club on exhibition on the judge's bench gave this part of the testimony a rather sarcastic tinge. in continuing, he got kelly to say he did not think he had hurt smith seriously, but simply that he had fulfilled his contract. it came out that, while living in marlboro, kelly was a barkeeper, and was seen drinking with others in a hotel. there is apparently a good opportunity for missionary service of the sort mr. smith delights in in vermont. he was asked to go into lengthy details as to how he was arrested, brought from the states by mr. carpenter and treated while in his custody, and said that he expected to take his chances on being sent to jail or penitentiary. when his testimony was finished a wrangle took place between opposing counsel as to whether or not prisoners should be admitted to bail. mr. duffy opposed in so far as howarth was concerned, because he was an american, and because once at liberty he would approach the other conspirators and frustrate the ends of justice. finally howarth was remanded till wednesday. jenne was allowed out on nominal bail, and kelly remanded to the custody of mr. carpenter. some more arrests and some more verbal and very interesting documentary evidence is promised for wednesday." [illustration: walter k. kelly, marlboro, mass.] the statement of kelly that he did not intend to kill mr. smith, and was not asked to do so, has a decided look of absurdity when viewed in the light of the various circumstances surrounding the assault. if he simply intended to "lick" mr. smith, why did he attempt it in such an unfair and cowardly way? why did he, when the object of his assault was asleep, attack him with a weapon which might cause death? and why, having such an advantage over his victim, did he begin at once to pound his head? this is a very dangerous way to administer a whipping! moreover, if the hotel keepers of the vicinity only wished to have mr. smith pounded, it seems strange that not one of their number was willing to undertake the task himself. or, if not, why did they not hire some ruffian who could be induced to give almost any man a pounding for a smaller sum of money than that promised to walter kelly, and, besides, might have supplied his own necessary outfit, and save them the trouble and expense of providing board, team, weapon and disguise of clothing. again, the liquor men should have known that such a course would not be likely to help them very much, for any man who is sincerely in earnest and seeks the prosperity of a good cause, will not be likely to stop his work because of a slight pounding. there are many things in this world not easy to understand or explain, and this affair seems to be one of them, but, of course, it is a lawyer's business to work for the interests of his clients, and prisoners usually consider it their privilege, when in the witness box, to work for their own safety. the testimony of mr. smith, which had been begun on friday, and had given place to kelly's evidence when he arrived from montreal, was resumed on wednesday, sept. th, when the case was again considered in court. the following report of wednesday's proceedings was published in the montreal _daily witness_: "the preliminary enquiry into the sutton junction attempted murder case was resumed this morning before messrs. c. h. boright and g. f. shufelt, j. p.'s. the court room was crowded, and much interest was evinced in the progress of the case. mr. w. w. smith, continuing his evidence, described his struggle with kelly. the first blow rendered him partially unconscious, and apparently was not repeated for two or three minutes. a second and third blow was given with the lead pipe, but, owing to his having clinched with kelly, they did not have the effect of the first. during the struggle, both men got out on the station platform, and eventually rolled from the upper to the lower one, smith all the time calling out 'murder,' and kelly breaking loose ran away. he was positive that it was kelly's intention to kill him, not merely to give him a beating. "he recognized the lead pipe as the weapon kelly used, and also the hat was the one he left behind in the station. "he went to marlboro on august th, and identified kelly, whom he saw drinking with three other men at the bar of the central house. "he travelled from fitchburg to montreal with mr. carpenter, and was present in the former's office, when kelly acknowledged to having committed the assault. "two other witnesses testified to having seen howarth and kelly together at sutton, on may th, where it was given out that the latter was from the united states, and was buying horses. it was also in evidence that kelly was seen at curley's hotel, sutton, on the evening that the assault was committed." after these witnesses were heard, the case was put over until spring, to be considered and decided by the court of queen's bench, which was to be held at sweetsburg, in march, . kelly, howarth and jenne were committed for trial at that time. jenne was released on bail, and application was made for bail to be granted for howarth also. this was refused by the magistrates, and mr. racicot then applied to the judge, being opposed in his application by mr. duffy, the lawyer for the alliance. judge lynch carefully considered the matter in its social and legal aspects. he brought up several cases in the history of the country in which application for bail had been refused, recited the general principles which had governed the various judges in making these decisions, and concluded his remarks thus: "it only remains for me now to apply these general principles, which have received the sanction of our highest courts, to the present case, and cannot better do so than by asking myself the questions which were submitted by judge power, as being the basis of his conclusions in the maguire case. "what is the nature of the crime charged against howarth? is it grave or trifling? it certainly is not trifling, it is one of the most serious known to our law, being nothing less than an accusation of an attempt to commit murder. d. what is the nature of the evidence offered by the prosecution, and the probability of a conviction? i prefer not to discuss or consider now the strength of the evidence which was adduced before the magistrates, to which alone i can look. it apparently presents a strong case, and if it is believed by the jury, and not rebutted by other evidence, it would, in all human probability, lead to a conviction. d. is he liable to a severe punishment? yes--to imprisonment for life. in face, therefore, of the answers which i am obliged to give to the foregoing questions, i cannot hesitate as to my duty in this matter. it is important in the public interest that howarth should be present in court, and stand his trial on the charge preferred against him, and nothing can or should be allowed to interfere to prevent this from taking place. "it might possibly be otherwise were bail allowed, and i cannot take the responsibility of such an occurrence. the application is refused." from these words of judge lynch we see clearly how very serious a matter this assault case must have seemed to him at that time. after this decision kelly was again placed in custody of mr. carpenter, and returned to montreal, where he was kept in prison, while howarth passed the winter in sweetsburg jail. meantime, some of the members of the liquor party took advantage of the excitement which this assault had caused by trying to frighten other temperance people. one man, allen c. armstrong, living in the neighborhood of sutton junction, who had been an aid in the work of locating kelly, awoke one morning to find upon his doorsteps a miniature coffin, which bore an ominous inscription, giving his name and the record of his death (without date), and calling him a "sutton junction detective." also, anonymous letters were reported to have been received by two men in the same vicinity, viz.: n. p. emerson, vice-president of the alliance for the township of sutton, and j. c. draper, president of brome county agricultural society, who was also a member of the alliance, bidding them beware lest they also suffer in the same manner as mr. smith. it may have afforded a degree of satisfaction to a certain class of people to thus add fuel to the fire already kindled by the liquor men, but their cause will certainly never triumph through any such acts as these, for there will always be some in the ranks of the temperance party who will be willing to work the harder the fiercer roll the flames of opposition. chapter iv. pros and cons of public opinion. as may be supposed this assault case became the subject of a great deal of discussion and controversy, not only in the vicinity of its occurrence, but also in places far distant, and among people who had no personal knowledge of any of the parties especially concerned in it. if the assault upon mr. smith had been committed for almost any other reason than the one which really led to it, it would probably have caused less intense feeling than it did. but an assault of such a serious nature, made on account of a man's temperance principles and practices, appealed to the public sense of right, and seemed the signal for a war of pens and tongues between the opposing parties of temperance and inebriety. very few of the latter party proved brave enough to have their opinions submitted to the press (or else the press would not accept them), but doubtless those opinions were freely expressed in private. we purpose devoting this chapter to a few of the views of societies and individuals respecting this affair, as they were published in the columns of certain newspapers. the following from _the templar_ shows the feeling of the alliance in a border county to that in which the deed was committed, as expressed just before the opening of court: "the missisquoi county alliance, at a meeting held august th, passed the following resolution, which was unanimously adopted amid applause: '_resolved_, that this county alliance now assembled desires to record its deepest sympathy with mr. w. w. smith, president of the brome county alliance, in the recent outrage perpetrated upon him by the emissaries of the liquor traffic. we rejoice to know that there is a prospect of the speedy bringing to justice of the perpetrators of that assault. we also desire to record our high appreciation of the valued services to the cause of prohibition in this section by mr. smith, and trust that he may long be spared to continue his heroic efforts to free our country from the ravages of strong drink.'" the following resolution was adopted by the executive of the quebec provincial branch of the dominion alliance, at a meeting held in the parlors of the y. m. c. a., in montreal: "that this alliance records its profound sympathy with mr. w. w. smith, president of the brome county alliance, in the recent murderous assault made upon him, resulting from his earnest and successful efforts in the cause of law and order in the county of brome, and this alliance trusts that full justice will be meted out to the perpetrators of this atrocious crime." the letter given below appeared in _the knowlton news_ of oct. th, , under the heading "a few words on the other side:" "to the editor of _the news_: "sir,--in the discussion of a case which has and is now agitating this good county of brome, that spirit of british fair play which has attained to the dignity of a proverb has been lost sight of to a marked degree. i refer to the alleged assault on mr. w. w. smith, at sutton junction, in july last. the dominion temperance alliance and its friends are doing their best, by means of the press and otherwise, to poison the public mind in advance of the trial against the party who is charged with procuring the assault on mr. smith, and also against divers other persons in the county who are said to be his accessories, charging them with the commission of a grave crime without a scintilla of reputable evidence on which to base such a charge. this, i say, is not fair play, and those guilty of the unfairness need not find fault if lovers of justice refuse to follow them in their raid on men and characters, or by silence lend strength to the unwarranted assumption that each and every one of those so flippantly accused are guilty from the word 'go,' and must be pilloried in public and private, and subjected to the shame and embarrassment arising from these attacks on their character, as law-abiding citizens and legal subjects of her majesty. "there is a limit beyond which self-constituted conservers of public morals must not go; and good men should not be brutally attacked in public by agents of the alliance on the strength of the admissions of a fellow, who, if he tells the truth, is one of the meanest rascals that ever cumbered the earth. i refer to the fellow kelly, mr. smith's self-confessed assailant. "i offer nothing in defence of lawbreakers, nor would i, if i could, do aught to mitigate in the least degree the punishment that may be meted out to the person who wantonly assaults a peaceable citizen, but candor and strict impartiality force me to refuse to accept as truth all the rubbish of tergiversation with which this agitated smith case has been surrounded by the intemperate zeal of professed temperance men. i believe in temperance, and if those who knowingly violate the law against the sale of intoxicants are brought to judgment and punishment, they get but what they deserve, and all good men will applaud the vindication of the majesty of the law. but we are scripturally enjoined to be 'temperate in all things.' this applies as well to words as to the use of stimulants, and the grossly unfair attacks on men's characters by certain of the alliance emphasize the necessity for a strong curb on that unruly member, the tongue, which has brought many a good man and worthy cause into grave disrepute, and made them enemies where otherwise they might have had friends. "this whole smith business has a 'cheap john' flavor, which makes careful men view it askance. who witnessed the assault on smith? nobody. he tells of being struck three times on the head with a piece of lead pipe, weighing some four pounds, and has in evidence the terrible weapon. did his person bear evidence of the murderous assault? no. all who saw him in the early morning following the alleged assault were surprised that he bore no marks of the terrible struggle for life through which he claimed to have passed. why, one blow from such a weapon as he exhibits would have crushed his head as if it were an egg shell, yet he claims to have sustained three blows, and is alive to tell of it! shades of ananias and of munchausen! "but it were useless to pursue the subject further. "it is to that spirit of fair play so characteristically british, and to which we are proud heirs, that i would appeal. everything is being said and done to prejudice the public against those who are accused of instigating kelly to the assault on smith; but, singular as it may seem, kelly is patted on the back and called a good fellow. why? admitting the truth of kelly's story, is he less guilty because he had confederates? a strange feature of the case is that kelly willingly came back to canada, when extradition would have been about impossible. "he was taken to montreal instead of to sweetsburg, and was there royally entertained instead of being put in close jail. while in montreal he was interviewed,--and by whom?--the crown prosecutor? no; but by smith and his counsel, mr. duffy. meantime, several so-called 'detectives' were scouring the country for evidence. of what? they had smith's assailant, and he had told his story. those whom he charged as being instigators of his crime were attending to their business, and might have been apprehended within twenty-four hours after kelly's arrest in the states. then what were the detectives seeking?--what were they after? that $ reward was in sight, and this may have been the inducing cause of this prowling. "it would seem to 'a man up a tree' that there are certain revenges to be completed--sundry old grudges to be satisfied, and the crown is asked to assist in this questionable work. those familiar with the matter say that in our broad dominion there are no better conducted hotels than those to be found in the eastern townships. they are well kept, and the travelling public is most hospitably entertained, well fed and comfortably lodged. a well-conducted hotel adds to the strength and business character of a village, and a faithful landlord is expected to furnish guests certain necessities, one of which may be liquor. "and because he does this should he be reviled, and persecuted, and driven out of business? that liquor is a great evil, no one can honestly deny, and being such, and being beyond the power of man to destroy, let us do the next best thing--curb and control the evil in the best manner possible. "a dozen wrongs will never make a single right, and the wrongs that are being committed in this smith case have appealed to one who believes in "_brome, oct. th, ' ._ fair play." the following comments appeared in an editorial in the same paper: "it is impossible to shut one's eyes to the ill-feeling that is growing throughout the county of brome, and spreading itself over the district, as a result of what is known as the smith assault case. hitherto, only one side of the case has found an echo in the public press, but to-day we open our columns to a correspondent who expresses in moderate language the sentiments of those who think there is something to be said on the other side. we commend his letter to the attention of our readers without in any sense committing ourselves to the writer's conclusions. everybody must feel sorry for the misfortunes of mr. smith, and if, as it is alleged by some, he has allowed his zeal to get the better of his discretion, he is not the first man who has been carried away by a superabundance of enthusiasm, or who has suffered therefor. mr. smith's friends will try to make a martyr of him. we doubt that they will succeed." if, as the editor of _the news_ seems to consider, "the sentiments of those who think there is something to be said on the other side" are expressed in the above letter in "moderate language," how must those views sound when expressed in the most forcible terms of angry barroom parlance? let us thank god that we are not compelled to hear these opinions when thus declared, nor even to see them made known through the press. it is said in the above note that mr. smith's _friends_ would try to make a martyr of him, but it was doubtful if they would succeed. we think the editor of _the news_ is mistaken in this, it was mr. smith's _enemies_ who appeared desirous of making a martyr of him, and they very nearly succeeded; but, through the providence of god, he is still in the ranks of temperance workers. we are told that "one with god, is a majority," and more than one in brome county are true to the right, therefore, the liquor party with all their efforts are still in the minority there. in the next issue of _the news_, dated oct. th, appeared the following replies to the above epistle from "the other side:" "to the editor of _the knowlton news_: "sir,--in regard to the communication in your issue of october th, over the signature of fair play, your correspondent says: "'this whole smith business has a "cheap john" flavor, which makes careful men view it askance. who witnessed the assault on smith? nobody. did his person bear evidence of murderous assault? no. all who saw him in the early morning following the alleged assault were surprised that he bore no marks of the terrible struggle for life through which he claims to have passed. shades of ananias and munchausen!' "mr. editor, here we have the substance calling upon the shadows. as one who visited mr. smith on the morning following the assault, i assert that fair play makes a direct departure from the truth. i challenge fair play to give the name of a single reputable individual who now will corroborate his assertion. such a statement is in direct contradiction to the sworn testimony of our respected fellow-citizen, r. t. macdonald, m. d. mr. smith was visited on the following morning by scores of people, and they saw upon his person the evidence of a violent and brutal assault. many of the visitors expressed their determination to see fair play, and their willingness to subscribe, which they subsequently did, to a fund to bring the guilty party or parties to justice. fair play need not worry about the slandered characters of the hotel keepers of this county. their characters are in their own keeping, just as the characters of merchants, mechanics and ministers are in theirs. if the parties who are accused of complicity in this affair are innocent, they will have the opportunity of proving themselves so. "and why should not your correspondent exercise that spirit of fair play, the lack of which he so much deplores in others, and not make the useless attempt to impeach mr. smith's veracity in the case of this assault. such an attempt is both useless and senseless, for within an hour or two of the assault he was under the professional care of one of the most eminent and reputable physicians of the province, who surely would at once have exposed any imposture. "even fair play would be willing to see an assaulter punished, but seems to have made a discovery which, singular to say, in nearly three months of intervening time no one has yet thought of, namely, that no assault was committed. "the cheap john part of this affair is in fair play's letter, in which in one breath he professes to be a temperance man, and says a hotel keeper who violates the law and gets punished gets just what he deserves, and in the next breath tells us that liquor is a necessity, and asks why trouble the man who furnishes it. surely, we see the hem of the cloak of hypocrisy. fair play should also give the public his name, so that people may judge for themselves the value of his peculiar and disinterested view of fair play; farther, some folks are already conjecturing who the author was, and it is not fair to let any one be under the imputation of a thing he did not do, and surely no man need be afraid or ashamed to have his own views appear over his own name. he asks, who saw the assault? and answers, nobody. who saw hooper try to drown his wife? nobody. and yet one of these so-called detectives was instrumental in landing him in prison, and people seem to think that he did get fair play. "fair play says careful men view this askance. in this town, where naturally the keenest interest is taken in this affair, nearly or quite all of the representative men have condemned the assault in the most decisive manner. "now, mr. editor, let me say that among the great mass of the people of this vicinity, there is no desire to make out that mr. smith is either a hero or a martyr. it is a question of law and order on the one hand, and crime and violence on the other. the assault is admitted, and a conspiracy is alleged. no doubt there are landlords in this country who would not implicate themselves in any illegal proceedings against mr. smith nor sympathize with the same. such men are suffering nothing, but it is doubtful if there is a person of ordinary capacity in this vicinity who does not believe that the assault was the outcome of a conspiracy, and men are not slow in expressing the wish that if we have such people living among us that they may be exposed in their true character and punished, whether they profess to be saints or sinners, and the people of this town would extend the same sympathy and offer the same assistance to the accused parties, if they had been the victims of an assault and suspicion pointed to smith and the alliance as its instigators. "merit longeway. "_sutton, october th, ._" [illustration: lead pipe, rope and hat.] "to the editor of _the news_: "sir,--permit me to reply to some of the statements of 'fair play' in your paper of october th. first, i should like to ask what is meant by poisoning the public mind? "if fair play means enlisting the sympathies of the public on the side of the temperance party, all that is needed is a clear statement of the plain, unvarnished facts. there need be no 'unwarranted assumption,' or charges without evidence, for members of the liquor party before that assault at sutton junction, and more especially since that time, have themselves acted in a way that has estranged some who have been their warm supporters, as they have procured the discharge of mr. smith from the employ of the canadian pacific railway company, whom he had served faithfully for fifteen years, and have also threatened the lives of other peaceable citizens, because they chanced to frown upon violence and lawbreaking. "furthermore, fair play declares that the temperance alliance and its friends, of which he plainly is not one, are charging divers persons in this county with the commission of a grave crime of which they have no reputable evidence. thus does this very brave apostle of 'the other side' fearlessly assert, with no proof for his statement, that all the various persons who have given evidence in this case in mr. smith's favor are disreputable, and their testimony of no value. truly this is a bold statement, and it would seem that sometimes pens as well as tongues need 'curbing.' although fair play declares that he 'offers nothing in the defence of lawbreakers,' yet his entire epistle is plainly in defence of just that class of people, for it is written in behalf of the hotel keepers who have repeatedly broken the law, and were convicted of liquor selling in court, not long since. "again, this 'believer in fair play,' in speaking of mr. smith, says: "'did his person bear evidence of murderous assault? no, etc.' either the writer of these words has very little regard for truth, or else he knows very little of the subject he is talking about. what is he going to do with the evidence of the skillful physician who attended mr. smith, and who upon his first visit dared not promise that he would ever recover? what is the opinion of those people who were awakened at dead of night by cries of murder, and who found mr. smith with the marks of the combat freshly upon him? why is it that he has not yet fully recovered from the effects of this assault? and what reason has fair play for doubting the testimony of mr. smith himself, even if there were no other proof? he says, 'one blow from such a weapon as he exhibits would have crushed his head, as if it were an egg shell.' perhaps he has forgotten that circumstances alter cases, and the position of the victim, the courage of the assailant, and the direction of the blow might alter this case very much. it is little wonder that at this point he invokes the aid of the shades of ananias and of munchausen! he next states that while the public are being prejudiced against the liquor sellers of this county, 'kelly is patted on the back, and called a good fellow.' would fair play wish to be patted in the same way, being retained in a prison cell, knowing not what punishment may await him? "we would repeat the question asked, 'what were the detectives seeking?' but we do not conclude, like fair play, that it was the $ reward they were working for, as no such reward was ever offered. the objects for which these detectives were really seeking were those men whom kelly had accused, who, according to fair play, 'were attending to their business,' and perhaps they were, but if so, they must have had much business abroad. he next enlarges upon the merits of eastern township hotels, and among other things says 'a faithful landlord is expected to furnish guests certain necessities, one of which may be liquor. and because he does this, should he be reviled, and prosecuted, and driven out of his business?' how does this compare with his former statement that he 'offers nothing in defence of lawbreakers,' and that 'all good men will applaud the vindication of the majesty of the law?' "truth." in the following number of _the news_ appeared this note: "we are in receipt of another letter from 'fair play,' but as personalities are indulged in, and as we are averse to entering upon a prolonged and bitter controversy, we are constrained to decline the publication of this communication." in this we seem to see a hint of that spirit of harshness and unfairness which so often characterizes the actions of the liquor party, and which sometimes leads to just such deeds as this brutal assault, which "fair play" would persuade the public had never occurred. chapter v. the action of the canadian pacific railway co. it has already been stated that mr. w. w. smith had been for fifteen years the agent of the canadian pacific railway company at sutton junction. during two or three years previous to receiving this appointment, he had also held other positions in their service. he had long been a trusted and privileged employee of the company, to whom he had apparently given full satisfaction. it will be remembered that walter kelly, in his evidence at sweetsburg, testified that howarth had told him on his arrival in canada that the liquor men had "reported smith to the company, and his discharge had been ordered." mr. smith soon had reason to believe, also, that his temperance work was not pleasing to assistant superintendent brady, who had charge of that division of the canadian pacific railway in which sutton junction was situated. with this man mr. smith had at one time been quite a favorite, but, after he had united with the temperance workers, the friendship of mr. brady became less apparent, and after the time of the assault his coolness grew quite marked, and it soon became evident to mr. smith, although his friends were long loath to believe it, that the assistant superintendent was anxious to get rid of him. the rumor spread abroad, also, that the liquor men were trying to influence the canadian pacific railway company so as to obtain mr. smith's dismissal from their employ, and people of other places became anxious to learn the truth of the matter, as is shown by the following article from the montreal _daily witness_: "it being rumored that the liquor men who so cruelly assaulted mr. w. w. smith, president of the brome county branch of the dominion alliance, and station agent at sutton junction, were not content with their cowardly conduct, but were making strenuous efforts to get the canadian pacific railway company to remove mr. smith from his position as station agent, a _witness_ reporter, yesterday afternoon, interviewed mr. thomas tait, assistant general manager of the canadian pacific railway, on the subject. "'is it true, mr. tait, that the canadian pacific railway company have been asked by men interested in the liquor trade to remove mr. smith from sutton junction, as they disliked the active interest he takes in the temperance cause?' "'it has been stated to us that mr. smith at times, in order to get convictions against men who broke the liquor laws, used the information which his position as station agent gave him to secure convictions. of course, you understand none of our employees have the right to use for their private ends information they get as employees of the road. i mean that if mr. smith prosecuted liquor men in his private capacity he was perfectly justified in doing so, but if in order to get convictions he had to use information which he could alone get as station agent, he has laid himself open to censure. i have no proof that mr. smith has violated the confidence of the company. mr. brady, of farnham, has gone to sutton junction, and is investigating the outrage, and he will let me know whether or not there is any foundation in the charge against mr. smith. if mr. smith is in the right you may rest assured the company will take care of him.' "'are you trying to find the man who committed the assault?' "'yes, we have taken action in that direction, too.' "another official of the company said: 'i was in richford the day mr. smith was assaulted. it was rumored there that the liquor men were incensed against mr. smith, as they believed he found out by the way-bills when liquor was addressed to any one at the junction, and used that information to get convictions. i also heard that it was men from vermont who assaulted mr. smith, and that they had been sent to do the deed by liquor men in vermont, who are enraged at mr. smith.'" in this conversation the acknowledgment was plainly made by mr. tait that the liquor men had made complaints to the company concerning mr. smith, so that, whether their reports had any influence with the company or not, the fact remains without contradiction that these enemies of temperance did make an effort to rob him of the favor of his employers, and they doubtless intended by this means, to accomplish just what was finally, by some means, brought about. the only accusation which they could make to the canadian pacific railway seemed to be that mr. smith was using information which he had obtained through his position as agent in order to prosecute them, but as these hotel keepers were accused and convicted, not of buying liquor and shipping it into the county, but of selling it to others, and as mr. smith could not possibly have obtained evidence of this in the capacity of station agent, but only through the testimony of those who had purchased the liquor or witnessed its sale, it is very hard to see the reason of these complaints, which were made by the liquor men, and gravely investigated by the canadian pacific railway company. the only explanation which seems to suggest itself is that these hotel keepers felt very angry because their trade in the souls of men had been somewhat interfered with, and not content with the assault which had been committed, could devise no better way of seeking further revenge than by thus arousing the displeasure of the company by which mr. smith was employed. it was no doubt another outcome of the same spirit which had prompted that assault. it is stated in the above report of the interview with mr. tait that the canadian pacific railway had taken action towards discovering mr. smith's assailant, but it seems probable that had this statement not been made to the reporter the public would have had no means of knowing that they had made any such attempt, as the results were never seen. not only the _witness_, but the dominion alliance as well, became interested in these rumors concerning the canadian pacific railway and the liquor men of brome, and wished to learn for themselves the truth of the reports. the following is an extract from an account given in the _daily witness_ of an executive meeting of the quebec provincial branch of the alliance: "mr. s. j. carter referred to the outrage committed upon the president of the brome county alliance. he had known mr. smith all his life, and spoke very highly of the good work mr. smith had done for temperance in the eastern townships. he regretted that there had come rumors from brome which would indicate that the liquor men were not satisfied with the assault upon mr. smith, but were endeavoring to secure his dismissal from the position of the canadian pacific railway at sutton junction. he wanted to know, and every temperance man in canada wanted to know, if the canadian pacific railway were going to dismiss an officer of their company at the behest of illegal liquor sellers of a scott act county? he, therefore, moved: 'that we have heard with pleasure through the press, that mr. tait, assistant general manager of the canadian pacific railway, has stated to the press that the company was doing everything in its power to discover the guilty parties in the attempted murder of their agent at sutton junction, mr. w. w. smith. that recent reports have come from brome county to the effect that officials of the company are in league with the liquor men, and are assisting them to prevent, if possible, further annoyance by bringing pressure upon their agent, and that the company has made no practical effort to bring the guilty parties in the recent assault case to justice. that we hereby instruct our secretary, mr. carson, to ascertain from the officials of the company if such reports are true, and make a full report for the next meeting of this alliance.' the resolution was adopted." somewhat later the following remarks appeared in the editorial department of the _witness_: "the liquor men who tried to murder mr. smith, the president of the brome county alliance, by stunning him with a skull-cracker, and then leaving him on the track, failed in that cowardly and brutal attempt, but have escaped punishment at the hands of the authorities, who seem to be, as usual, perfectly helpless in the matter. these same liquor men, who in brome county are all outlaws, have the impudence to use all sorts of influence with the canadian pacific railway company to get them to dismiss mr. smith, who is their agent at sutton junction. this is a fine state of things, and the county, which is a prohibition county, is watching to see what the company will do. here is a chance for capital to tyrannize at the behest of organized iniquity and lawlessness." it often happens that people get very much aroused and alarmed when there is no real foundation for their fears, but not so in this case. the following from the _witness_ of october th shows that there was some cause for excitement in the minds of the temperance people: "the sequel to the lead pipe murderous assault upon mr. w. w. smith, president of the brome county alliance, occurred on saturday last. it has been well known that the liquor men, baffled in their attempt to murder mr. smith, had, however, not abandoned their plan to ruin him and discourage other temperance workers in the county. their scheme was known to the temperance people, but it was not thought possible that it would succeed. it was nothing more nor less than the securing of the dismissal of mr. smith from his position as agent of the canadian pacific railway. it has, however, succeeded. mr. smith was notified on saturday last of his dismissal from the company's employ. some astonishing revelations may be expected, as the temperance people are intensely indignant that the company should have yielded to the demands of the liquor party and removed from its service one who has been for years a trusted servant and a faithful officer." it was indeed a great surprise to most of the temperance community when the news of this dismissal went abroad. they had not been ready to believe that in these days of temperance agitation, in these last years of the nineteenth century, a great and powerful corporation like the canadian pacific railway company, knowing for a fact that nine-tenths of all the terrible accidents that occur on railroads causing loss of life and property are the outcome of intemperance, would become the instrument in the hands of illegal liquor sellers to carry out their will. the correspondence which had passed between mr. smith and assistant superintendent brady was preserved and placed in the hands of the alliance, who requested and obtained its publication in the _witness_. it was also afterwards published in _the templar_ and in several other papers. it describes many of the events which led to mr. smith's dismissal, and seems to show plainly the real cause of that dismissal in spite of all later contradictions. the first communication which the accused agent received from the assistant superintendent concerning his temperance work was as follows: "w. w. smith, agent, sutton junction. "dear sir,--i enclose you herewith two letters, one from b. l. wilson, of glen sutton, and one from nutter & french, of sherbrooke, both making complaints that you are taking advantage of your position as agent of this company in getting together testimony to convict hotel keepers and others of selling liquor. it does not seem possible to me that these statements can be true, but the charges are made not only by the parties, writing these letters, but by several other parties in brome county, and who claim that they are in a position to substantiate them. i desire to know from you whether you have used your position to get evidence as stated above, or whether you have used your evidence which you may have come possessed of through being an agent of this company for the purpose of convicting liquor sellers. your immediate reply with the return of the enclosed papers is requested. "yours truly, f. p. brady, asst. supt. "_farnham, june th, ._" below are the letters enclosed in this communication from mr. brady, and containing the complaints, or a part of them, which had been received by him concerning the sutton junction agent. the first was written by a wholesale liquor firm in sherbrooke, p. q., the second by a brother of james wilson who, kelly said, drove the team for him on the night of the assault at sutton junction. "f. p. brady, west farnham. "dear sir,--we are having goods shipped by us to sutton returned to us with the information that your agent at sutton junction watches all liquor shipments that go there, and then gives the information to temperance parties, who make complaints, and get the hotel men fined. we are in receipt of two letters to that effect this morning. we think you should take some action in the matter, as it will effectually stop all shipments to that county if it continues. "yours truly, nutter & french. "_sherbrooke, june th, ._" "nutter & french. "dear gentlemen,--i can't buy no more goods from you at sherbrooke, for the agent at sutton junction, name w. w. smith, is pawing over all goods and reporting, and he has been having men to inform of all the hotels in the county. unless he is out of that job you won't do more business in brome county. yours, b. l. wilson. "_glen sutton, june th, ._" to these accusations, mr. smith made the following reply: "f. p. brady, esq., asst. supt., farnham. "dear sir,--referring to enclosed, i deny charge made against me, fairly and squarely, and, further than that, i have looked back nearly two years and find no shipments of liquor for these parties in my transfer books. i have never used my position in any way as an agent for this company to convict liquor sellers, and no man can substantiate such a statement. "as a member of the brome county alliance, i have worked as a private citizen with other members of the alliance, and the complaints sent to mr. jewell, east farnham, as evidence against the hotel keepers in this county have come from the leading men. i shall use no evidence which i become in possession of as an agent of this company for the purpose of convicting liquor sellers. "yours truly, w. w. smith. "_sutton junction, june th, ._" this is certainly a very emphatic denial of the charges made against him, and, coming from a trusted employee of fifteen years, it would seem that it should have been quite satisfactory. however, mr. brady appeared to give more credence to the testimony of the liquor men than to that of mr. smith, and to allow himself to be influenced by later complaints which were made by them. some time after the above letters were written, mr. smith made application to the assistant superintendent at farnham for leave of absence to attend a national prohibition convention, to be held at montreal on july d and th. he received the following reply, which shows how unwilling mr. brady was to do anything which might tend to encourage mr. smith in his temperance work: "w. w. smith, esq., agent. "dear sir,--as per my wire of this date, i cannot arrange to let you off on july d and th; i have no spare man at liberty. the assistant at sutton should have all he can properly attend to during the night to necessitate his sleeping during the daytime. "yours, etc., "f. p. brady, asst. supt. "_farnham, july d, ._" the next letter from mr. brady, written the day after the assault, and while mr. smith was confined in bed on account of the bruises he had received, was as follows: "w. w. smith, esq., agent, sutton junction. "dear sir,--within the past four or five weeks the heads of different departments, as well as mr. leonard, the general superintendent, and myself, have received numerous complaints from shippers and the public generally with reference to your actions with the late prosecution of liquor sellers in brome county. the basis of these complaints is made that you have used your position as agent for this company to procure evidence with which to prosecute liquor sellers. i have replied to some of these people that so far as i can ascertain you have not used your position as agent to procure such evidence; but i must inform you that the same rule with reference to temperance agitation that governs employees of this company with reference to politics must be lived up to, i. e., you must devote your whole and entire time to the railway company if you desire to hold your position. you must do nothing whatever to antagonize the interests of the company, or to create feeling between the company and its patrons. you will understand by this that you must cease temperance lecturing or taking an active part in temperance gatherings or agitation. "i make this letter personal as i consider that the contents of it will remain strictly between ourselves. "yours truly, "f. p. brady. "_farnham, july th, ._" this letter is very emphatic, and if the spirit of it were carried out in every case as faithfully as mr. brady endeavored to carry it out in this case, the employees of the road would be a band of slaves, and the canadian pacific railway a sort of canadian siberia with all its positions shunned by every self-respecting laborer. it is well, indeed, for the canadian pacific railway that all its officers do not carry out these tyrannical rules with such precision as this, yet it is plainly inferred by mr. brady's words that such rules had been previously applied in the matter of politics. if so, the canadian public need to stop and realize what a moderate autocrat they are supporting in their midst in a land of responsible rule. mr. brady says: "you must do nothing whatever to antagonize the interests of the company, or to create feeling between the company and its patrons." this seems to be a very strange sentence in two respects. first, how can temperance work "antagonize the interests of the company?" a railroad is always supported by a community, and must depend entirely upon that community for its success, its wealth and its very existence. the more wealthy and prosperous a people become, the more will they patronize a railroad and contribute to its maintenance and growth. the community, moreover, is made up of individuals, and its prosperity must depend upon the health, enterprise, ability, success and moral character of the people who compose it. does not temperance tend to build up the virtues and prosperity of individuals, and thus to increase the general prosperity of the country and add to the success of all useful public institutions? second, how can temperance work "create feeling between the company and its patrons?" surely not all the patrons of the canadian pacific railway are wholesale and illicit liquor sellers? mr. brady seems to entirely ignore the great company of law-abiding temperance people who would respect the company far more if its employees were active temperance men, and with whom mr. brady himself, rather than mr. smith, created intense feeling. it was stated in a former chapter that mr. smith accompanied detective carpenter to marlboro, mass., when he went in search of kelly. mr. carpenter "on his own responsibility," went to mr. brady, to ask permission for him to do so, and the following leave of absence was sent to mr. smith: "w. w. smith, esq., sutton junction. "dear sir,--you may go on no. , conductor will have pass for you. "sinclair will be at sutton junction on no. to-night to take charge during your absence. o'regan must look after the business this p. m. "f. p. brady. "_farnham, aug. th, ._" as this leave of absence was indefinite as to time, and mr. smith was engaged with the assault case for several days after his return from marlboro, the court having opened on sept. st, he had not yet resumed work at sutton junction, when on the evening of september d he addressed a temperance meeting at richford, vermont. the next day mr. brady, who seemed to keep remarkably well informed as to the whereabouts of his agent when off duty, wrote mr. smith as follows, labelling this letter like the previous one, "personal:" "w. w. smith, esq., agent, sutton junction. "dear sir,--i wrote you on july th with reference to what you must do if you remained in the employ of this company. i am aware that last night you delivered a temperance lecture at richford; this leads me to think that you propose to ignore entirely the wishes of this company, and do as you see fit. if such is the case you will oblige me by sending me your resignation by the first train, and vacating the company's premises at sutton junction at the earliest possible moment so that they can be occupied by the new agent. "yours truly, "f. p. brady, asst. supt. _farnham, sept. th, ._" strange, indeed, that the assistant superintendent should have supposed that an affair like this could always remain personal, and never be subjected to the public gaze! did he not know there was a temperance community in canada who would, at least, enquire into the case of a persecuted brother? it is strange, also, that while other roads at the present time are finding it very much to their advantage to employ temperance men to the exclusion of others; while serious accidents are frequently taking place on the different roads in which scores of human beings perish through the recklessness of some employee whose intellect is clouded by the action of strong drink; and while some new roads in the beginning of their existence are adopting very strict temperance rules; when even the canadian pacific railway has been obliged to dismiss or suspend some of its men for excessive drinking; it is very strange in view of all these facts that an official of this great road should ask a station agent, because he delivers a temperance lecture off duty, to "vacate the company's premises, so that they can be occupied by the new agent." an example of what intemperance among railway employees often means may be found in the craigs' road disaster, which occurred on the grand trunk in july, . in this accident, thirteen persons were killed, and thirty-four others, some of whom died soon after, were wounded. at the inquest a victoriaville hotel keeper testified that the engineer of the wrecked train had purchased from him a quart of ale on the night before the fearful disaster, which hurried so many into eternity. there were some well-meaning people who are counted in the temperance ranks who advised mr. smith to submit to mr. brady, and take no more active part in temperance work rather than risk the loss of his agency. this advice was no doubt meant as a kindness, although it did not partake of the martyr's spirit, but mr. smith did not see fit to follow it, choosing rather to yield his position than his principles. however, he did not send a resignation, but a few days later wrote mr. brady the following letter: "f. p. brady, esq., asst. supt., farnham. "dear sir,--on account of circumstances which i could not in any way control, i have been obliged to delay answering your letter of the th of july last. i regret very much to notice that you have had occasion to refer again to complaints made against me, which you say are numerous, and not only from shippers, but from the public generally. in a former letter to you i denied any just cause for complaint. i have now been fifteen years or more in the service of the company, and during that time i have endeavored to render, i trust, a faithful service. i have also received another letter from you, dated september th, asking me to send you my resignation by the first train, and ordering me to vacate the company's premises at the earliest possible moment, so that they can be occupied by the new agent. i wish you would explain why you order me to resign, because i delivered a temperance lecture at richford, as i have a leave of absence from the company for the present, and supposed i had a right to lecture off duty on any occasion, time or place. you perhaps cannot realize how much i value my honor and reputation, as it is about the only thing that i have in the world to protect, and i must ask you to supply me with the names of those making complaints against me and the nature of their complaints, and as you also state the public generally have made complaints, i trust there should be no hesitancy on the part of the company to supply me with the information asked for, as you can readily see it is beyond the realm of privacy. please reply. "w. w. smith. "_sutton junction, sept. th, ._" this was mr. brady's reply: "w. w. smith, esq., sutton junction, que. "dear sir,--i have your letter of the th inst.; my letter of july th to you was perfectly plain. it told you that you must either quit temperance work or quit the company. it makes no difference whether you are on duty or off duty so far as this company is concerned. they demand the whole and entire time of their men, and they are going to have it. so far as the leave of absence you speak of is concerned, i am not aware that you had any. mr. carpenter came to me, he said, at your request, to get permission for you to be absent three or four days to go down into new england, and i gave such permission, since which time i have heard nothing from you, except that you are disobeying my orders and the wishes of the company. i was in hopes you would relieve the strain by gracefully tendering your resignation. unless you see fit to do that i shall have to take other steps. "yours truly, f. p. brady, asst. supt. "_farnham, sept. th, ._" dictated. it appears from this letter that mr. brady wished his agent to resume work immediately on his return with mr. carpenter and kelly from "new england," and did not expect him to help in the search for other guilty parties in the assault case, or even to appear as a witness in court. how does this compare with the statement which had been made by mr. tait that the company had taken steps towards discovering the man who committed the assault? after reading these letters from the assistant superintendent, it is very difficult for some of the temperance people to believe that mr. smith was dismissed for any reason other than that so plainly indicated in mr. brady's own words. mr. smith's next letter to mr. brady was as follows: "f. p. brady, esq. "dear sir,--your letter of the th inst. to hand in reply to mine of that date, which does not cover the information asked for. now, i would like to know upon what grounds you demand my resignation, viz.: because i addressed an audience in the united states or because complaints have been made against me as you say in your letters of june th and july th, as i wish to be in a position to answer to any charges made against me. i am very sorry you take the stand against me you do in regard to my temperance principles. i understand perfectly well that i am no longer pleasant to your taste; but i expect fair treatment from the company, and ask for nothing more. as far as my leave of absence is concerned, i have a telegram from you that i can be absent and mr. sinclair will take my place until i resume work again. no time is specified. since i returned home, i have been busy looking up evidence against the parties who were instrumental in my assault on july th last. i intend to resume work again as soon as possible, i think about a week from monday next, september th, unless advised by you that my services are no longer required. "yours truly, w. w. smith, agent. "_sutton junction, sept. th, ._" as no reply came mr. smith wrote again: "f. p. brady, esq., asst. supt., farnham. "dear sir,--will you please reply to my letter of the th inst. in regard to resuming work monday next, september th. i am waiting anxiously to hear from you. "yours truly, w. w. smith. "_sutton junction, sept. th, ._" still there was no answer, and on monday morning mr. smith telegraphed as follows: "f. p. brady, esq., farnham. "i am ready to resume work this morning. please reply. w. w. smith. "_sutton junction, sept. th, ._" to this came the following reply: "w. w. smith, sutton junction. "nothing for you to do this morning. will advise you when your services are required. "f. p. brady. "_farnham, sept. th, ._" this was followed on october th by an official announcement from mr. brady telling mr. smith that his services were no longer required by the company. and in all this correspondence there is not a hint of unfaithfulness on the part of mr. smith to any order of his employers save the one to "quit temperance work." when the above correspondence appeared in the montreal _daily witness_ it was accompanied by the following remarks in the editorial department: "we are requested by the brome county alliance to publish the correspondence which preceded the dismissal of the president, mr. w. w. smith, from his position as station agent of the canadian pacific railway at sutton junction. we have already pointed out the extraordinary assumption of wage slavery, which is implied in this dismissal as accounted for by the official who did it. the claim made by mr. smith's employing officer, and practically indorsed by the company in concurring in this dismissal, is that the company owns its employees, soul and body, and that they can only fulfill their rights of citizenship at its pleasure. it is not to be supposed that this power asserted over the lives of its employees is going to be insisted on by the company as against every thing they do, and that every man who takes part in a baseball match or a mock parliament will be dismissed. it is not to be supposed that the man who busies himself even in politics will be dismissed if he takes care that he does not do so on a side distasteful to the company. the particular thing which is a capital offence with the company, according to this correspondence, is to busy one's self with the enforcement of the laws of the land or advocate temperance in public. if temperance advocacy is going to be boycotted by the canadian pacific railway in the interests of the illegal and murderous liquor business, there are ten thousand good customers of the road who will want to know the reason why. this should indeed be asked for in parliament." chapter vi. more bits of public opinion. the action of the canadian pacific railway, in thus dismissing their agent at sutton junction, apparently for no other cause than the vigorous opposition which he offered to the work of the liquor party in his own vicinity, like the assault case previously, elicited much criticism from the public. we purpose in this chapter reproducing some of the many opinions regarding the dismissal which appeared in the columns of the public press. it has been said that "the greatest power under heaven is public opinion," and it may be profitable for us sometimes to study such an important power, and especially to consider the opinions of people who uphold peace, temperance and religion. the following is the view of _the templar_ of hamilton, as quoted in the montreal _daily witness_: "the announcement that the canadian pacific railway has rallied to the aid of the lawless and murderous liquor gang in brome county, quebec, is sufficiently suggestive and startling to demand attention. its dismissal of mr. w. w. smith, c. p. r. agent at sutton junction, and president of the brome county branch of the dominion alliance, because of his activity in the discharge of his duties in the latter office, is one of the most foolish and anti-canadian acts of that great corporation. "mr. smith, it will be remembered, incurred the hostility of the illegal liquor venders in his locality, and, as the recent legal investigation shows, a conspiracy was formed, and a bartender hired to 'remove' him. one night, while in the performance of his duties at the sutton junction station, he was murderously assailed, and barely escaped with his life. detectives were employed, the assassin was arrested, and has confessed that he was paid by local men, interested in the liquor traffic, for his work. he and two others, including a hotel keeper, are now in jail awaiting trial, bail having been refused. "since the committal of the prisoners, mr. smith was dismissed by the c. p. r. upon september th, he received a letter from the assistant superintendent in which occurred these words: 'you must either quit temperance work or quit the company. it makes no difference whether you are on duty or off duty, so far as this company is concerned. they demand the whole and entire time of their men, and they are going to have it.' .............. this subject is broader than mr. smith or any individual. it is the question of the right of the citizen to enjoy and exercise the rights of a citizen while employed by such a corporation as the canadian pacific railway. it is the old problem of slave or freeman. the railway is undoubtedly entitled to the best service of its employees, while on duty; but, after hours, the citizens should be free to engage in those pleasures and pursuits which do not conflict with the welfare of society and the state, mr. smith should be free to participate in the agitation to drive the criminal liquor traffic out of the country without being called upon to suffer the loss of income. the man who braved the liquor party, and nearly sealed his devotion to the temperance reform with his life blood, was not the man to abandon his convictions at the command of a railway manager. "the course of the c. p. r., in dismissing mr. smith, has been warmly endorsed by the cowardly and murderous liquor gang in brome, and is so open to the suspicion of being an attempt to coerce the conscience and abridge the liberties of the citizens to serve the liquor interests as to make it imperative that some member of the commons, which has so largely subsidized that road, demand in the approaching session a public investigation. a whole army of men are in the service of the canadian pacific railway company, scattered from the atlantic to the pacific, and the nation cannot afford to allow the despotic authority claimed by the company over these men. if it can demand the entire time of their men on or off duty, may it not next demand the service of the men at the ballot box? an issue has been raised by this incident which demands the vigorous protest of the press of the country." the opinion of the _witness_ itself may be learned from the following article in the _daily witness_ of november th, : "we have received a number of letters from persons who have determined to give the preference of their railway patronage against the canadian pacific railway, as a testimony against the attitude of that company towards the temperance reform, as manifested in the dismissal of mr. w. w. smith from his position as station agent at sutton junction, for his active advocacy of temperance and enforcement of prohibitory law. is it right for us to publish these letters, which are evidently only the beginning of what is yet to come, for the feeling throughout the country is very bitter in many quarters where this challenge to the advocates of law and order has become known? the question amounts to this: is it right for persons who condemn the course of the company to punish it in this way, and is it right for them to make a public question of it by publishing their action? the reason given for the dismissal of mr. smith, as shown by the correspondence which was recently made public in these columns, was that he was making things uncomfortable for certain customers of the company who were importing liquor into brome county. as brome is a prohibition county, those who import liquor for sale within its bounds are outlaws. in mr. smith's painful experience they are also assassins. as a matter of fact, according to mr. smith's statement, no shipments of liquor passed through his station, and he did not use his position as agent of the company to bring the lawbreakers to justice. why both the company and its agents should not be ranged on the side of the law of the land, and why the company should so protect its share in an unlawful business against any promoter of law and order, are questions not raised. commercial corporations do not pretend to have souls or conscience. nobody expects them to have any, and consequently no one is angry when they show that they have not. quite apart from all questions of morals, the money interests of the company are those of the country, and the liquor business does not promote the business of the country. moreover, it is in the interest of the railway, and eminently so of its customers, to have railway servants protected from drink, and the enforcement of the laws against liquor is the most direct way to protect them from drink. this is all by the way, however; companies are not abstract reasoners. "but there is that in this action of the canadian pacific railway company which the public are inclined to resent even at the hands of a company. in the first place the company declares that it so values the custom of the liquor men of brome, that it can afford for their sake to boycott the advocates of temperance and the enforcers of law. a station agent, or even a superior officer, might be long and notoriously a victim of these same liquor men, and still remain an officer of the company, but if he becomes their active enemy, and the active friend of mankind, he is dismissed. this is and it is evidently accepted as being a challenge to all friends of law and order, who are in a position to make the company suffer in its sensitive pockets, to show whether the custom of the friends of law cannot be made as powerful an engine for the defence of right as that of the enemies of law and order is for the defence of crime. this is what temperance men throughout the country seem to be turning over in their minds just now, and are likely to go on doing so, so long as the position taken by mr. brady towards mr. smith remains the approved action of the company, and so long as one holding the intolerable views of mr. brady remains its approved agent. "there is another aspect of the company's action through mr. brady which is rankling in the minds of the wage-earning population. mr. brady told mr. smith that the company wanted all his time, and was going to have it, and that whether on duty or off it would not allow him to give temperance lectures. it is not sufficient to answer that this is not the position of the company; that its employees, as a rule, are allowed to go to what church they think best, to take part in christian endeavor, or football, or whatever they may prefer as the occupation of their leisure. the fact remains that the company has, through mr. brady, announced its right to check a man, if it chooses, in the exercise of his ordinary rights and duties as a citizen and as a christian, and has, by sanctioning mr. smith's dismissal for temperance lecturing, formally approved mr. brady's attitude. the company may summon to its defence any other reasons for mr. smith's dismissal that it chooses. it cannot alter the fact that the reason given in mr. brady's letters is the one which was given to him, and which was the real cause of his act. this claim of a soulless company to own its employees, body and soul, is one of the most daring and intolerable enunciations of what is in the language of our day termed wage slavery that we have seen, and one for which the great public will probably call it to account. the canadian pacific railway is a national institution, constructed at the public expense, and a ruling influence in the land, and its attitude towards the liquor question and the rights of employees is a matter of national interest, open to free discussion in the newspapers and in the parliament, and if there are citizens who, for the purpose of making it feel in its only sensitive spot how it has outraged public sentiment and done a public wrong, are willing to sink their private advantage and convenience in the public good, by going out of their way to patronize another road, we think it is nothing but right that the railway should be plainly seized of all the facts." the comments of another canadian paper, the toronto star, are thus quoted in _the templar_: "it is a most regrettable condition of affairs when a corporation like the canadian pacific will dismiss an employee because he is active in the cause of prohibition, yet that is the case of a mr. smith, who lost his position as agent at sutton junction, quebec, because the liquor dealers whom he opposed had sufficient influence to secure his dismissal. "no charge of neglect of duty could be made against mr. smith, and the only justification the company offered was the plea that the agent should give his whole time to the company, and do nothing to antagonize the interests of the company. there is in this no claim that mr. smith had ever neglected his duty, and the whole thing narrows down to the fact that he had incurred the enmity of the liquor dealers, who induced the company to dismiss him. this action of the company may please the men who hired a thug to assault mr. smith, and nearly batter his life out, but it is a poor way to make friends of peaceful citizens. it speaks poorly for personal liberty when a man is dismissed from a railway because he opposes the liquor traffic,--a traffic which the company itself acknowledges to be wrong when it requires its employees not to touch liquor while on duty." in _the templar_ of november d appeared these remarks with reference to one paper which upheld the c. p. r.: "the dismissal of mr. w. w. smith from the services of the c. p. r., because he was obnoxious to illicit whiskey sellers in brome county, has evoked strong expression of disapproval from not a few of the papers of the dominion. "others have preserved a silence, or feebly and unfairly stated the case, not daring to rebuke the c. p. r. so far as we know, the hamilton _spectator_ alone has had the courage to defend the gross injustice done a fellow-citizen, and its defence is peculiar. "would _the spectator_ permit us to clear the issue? _the templar_, in giving the c. p. r.-smith correspondence to the public, pointed out the danger to the country involved in suffering the c. p. r. contention to prevail. if that corporation can justly dismiss a man because he employs a portion of his time off duty to demand respect for the law of the land, on the ground that he is antagonizing the interests of the company, may it not logically demand, under pain of dismissal, that he shall vote as the company judges to be in its interests? what right has the citizen that the canadian pacific railway may not require him to give up to serve its ends? is _the spectator_ prepared to defend such tyranny, and, yes, we will say it--treason to the state?" not only the journals of the canadian interior, but those of the maritime provinces as well, showed their interest in this affair, which had so aroused the temperance people of quebec and ontario. the following, published in _the templar_, is taken from _the intelligencer_, fredericton, new brunswick: "we have set out the facts of the case at some length, because it involves much more than the position and prospects of the dismissed official. his case is certainly a hard one. it is not denied that for fifteen years he served the railway company faithfully. no charge of neglect of duty is made against him. even the charge of the rumsellers, that he used information obtained as the company's officer to aid in their prosecution, is not proven. he denies it, and the assistant superintendent admits that he has failed to find proof of it. "but in spite of this, the company, yielding to the clamorings of the rum gang, dismiss an officer against whom it has not been possible to make any charge of neglect, and not even to substantiate the complaints of those who were bent upon his dismissal. mr. smith's offense was that he was too good a citizen to suit the views of the outlaws who are engaged in the illicit rum-traffic. they sought to take his life, hiring one of their own brutal gang to commit the murder. the attempt was made, but failing to kill him, they renewed their efforts to have him dismissed. and in this they were more successful. it is scarcely possible that the outlawed rumsellers of brome county had sufficient influence alone, to accomplish mr. smith's discharge. they were probably backed by the traffic in montreal and elsewhere. and this goes to show that the traffic is one; that distillers, brewers, wholesalers and saloon and hotel keepers are united; that licensed and illicit sellers make common cause, and that they use their awful power not only to defy all laws and regulations which hamper them, but are ready to rob of their means of livelihood, and their good name, and even to murder such men as they think stand in their way. these are things which might be expected of the traffic. but it is quite amazing that a great corporation like the c. p. r. should become its ally. most employers would stand by an employee who had suffered at the hands of murderous ruffians, because of his sympathy with law enforcement, and the promotion of the moral welfare of his community. but the assistant superintendent of the c. p. r., under whom mr. smith worked, was not moved by such consideration, a mere sentimental consideration he would probably call it. he preferred to coöperate with the rum traffic--to become its tool. "we find it difficult to believe that the general manager or the directors can approve the dismissal of an employee for the reason stated in this case. if they do, then men interested in temperance reform can no longer have a place in the employ of the company. and further, the company declares its willingness to be known not only as the ally of the legalized rum traffic, but as the friend and helper of the outlaws and would-be murderers of the traffic. "this case should not be allowed to fade out of the memory of the people. it asserts the right of an employer, not only to the time of the employee, but to his conscience, his sense of the duties of good citizenship, and his self-respect. if permitted, unrebuked and uncorrected, it helps to establish the right of capital to do any unjust and tyrannical thing, either of its own will or at the dictation of the conscienceless rum traffic, or of other organized evil. "there ought, certainly, be some way of getting redress for what on the face of it appears to be an act of cruel injustice, done at the behest of the rum traffic, legal and illicit. "not those alone who are interested in temperance, but every man who believes that men are other than serfs, and who would have established beyond question the right of a man to have his own conscience in matters which relate to himself and the community, should be concerned to make impossible such tyrannical exercise of power." not only the canadian, but some of the american papers also, took up the cry of tyranny, as is shown by the following, which was published in the _presbyterian observer_, philadelphia, and repeated in the montreal _witness_: "a canadian railway company has been guilty of a piece of mean persecution against one of its agents on account of his temperance activity. the station master at sutton junction, of the canadian pacific railway, in the province of quebec, was recently notified that he 'must quit temperance work, or quit the company.' the letter further states the ground upon which this action is based. 'it makes no difference whether you are on duty or off duty, so far as this company is concerned. they demand the whole and entire time of their men, and they are going to have it.' short, sharp, peremptory this, but is also a high-handed proceeding--an infringement upon personal rights. it does not appear that this man had been derelict in duty to his employers, or that he took the time that belonged to them in promoting the cause of temperance. his only offence was that, while conscientious in daily work, he thought of others, and labored for their welfare in his spare moments. for that he incurred official reprobation, and was given the choice of quitting temperance work or the company. "the railway magnates claimed entire control over all his time, whether on duty or off duty, demanding in their tautological language, 'the whole and entire time' of their men, and bluffly adding that 'they are going to have it.' they would leave no room for doubt, parley or protest. accordingly, nothing was left a man of conscience but to retire and seek employment where he could exercise a little personal liberty. it is no new thing for men to give up railway positions on conscientious grounds, when compelled to work on the sabbath, but this is the first instance we have known where a railway company has forced a person out of its employ because of his temperance principles. in our country, other things being equal, total abstainers are preferred by railway men. this canadian company is away behind the age." an affair like this must indeed be very widely discussed, and awaken considerable interest, when the general opinion in any place with regard to it is published in the local news from that vicinity, yet the following paragraph appeared among other items in the _witness_ of november th, as danville news: "railways have a right to all the time of employees in hours of duty, but many are grieved at the action of the canadian pacific railway in demanding of mr. w. w. smith, whom they dismissed for activity in the temperance cause, that he must not give any of his time to it when off duty, as such demand is un-british and strongly in the direction of serfdom. many spirited people are going to resent the injustice." various associations discussed this dismissal in their meetings, and passed resolutions concerning it. the following is an extract from a report, which appeared in the _witness_ of november th, of a meeting of the quebec evangelical alliance, held in the city of quebec just previous: "it was also voted that the following resolution be placed on record, and a copy furnished to the press for publication: "'that this alliance voice its sympathy through the press with the different moral and religious organizations of the province, which have taken action condemnatory of the arbitrary procedure of the management of the canadian pacific railway in the dismissal of mr. smith, their station agent at sutton junction, for no other offence than that of being deeply interested in the moral and religious welfare of the people of his own district. "'and further, that this alliance regrets that the canadian pacific railway, as a company subsidized by the government of canada, should see fit to interfere with the civil and religious rights of its employees, and ally itself with those who are evading established law, and doing their utmost to destroy social order in this country. "'and this alliance is of the opinion that if the canadian pacific railway management seriously desires to retain the sympathy and support of the best element in the community in building up their business as public carriers, they will, at the earliest possible moment, do full justice to their late agent, mr. smith.'" the following, also published in the _witness_, is from a report of the meeting of a temperance society in one of the sister provinces: "prescott, ont., dec. th.--the forty-fifth session of the grand division of the sons of temperance was held here to-day. the question of the discharge of mr. w. w. smith, of sutton junction, by the canadian pacific railway, for his loyalty to the temperance cause, was brought up, the following report of a special committee on the subject being unanimously adopted: whereas, mr. w. w. smith of sutton junction, president of the brome county alliance, in the province of quebec, whose attempted assassination for his fidelity to law and order is a public fact, has been summarily dismissed from his position as agent of the canadian pacific railway, for the express reason of his advocacy of the cause of temperance, this grand division desires to express the view that this action of the railway company is a distinct violation of the rights of citizenship, and deserves strong condemnation as being tyrannical and unjust in the extreme, and is calculated, if not redressed, to destroy public spirit and inflict deep injury to the civil rights of the people." we will now look at some of the opinions of individuals, as expressed in letters sent by them to the temperance papers. the following communication was sent to the _witness_ before the publication of mr. brady's letters. doubtless, the writer of this article may, after reading those letters, have entertained some doubts as to the infallibility of the opinions here expressed, but they show, at least, how impossible it seemed to some citizens that such a corporation as the canadian pacific railway could oppose temperance activity on the part of its employees. the letter, addressed to the editor of the _witness_, is as follows: "sir,--in your issue of october th, a statement occurs which suggests the necessity of a word of caution. the following is the sentence: 'some astonishing revelations may be expected, as the temperance people are intensely indignant that the company should have yielded to the demands of the liquor party, and removed from its service one who has been for years a trusted servant and faithful officer.' from a personal acquaintance with several gentlemen who control the appointment of officials of this and similar grades of office in connection with the canadian pacific railway, i wait an explanation of this act of executive power which will present it in an altogether different light from that in which it now appears. i cannot believe that officers of any company, transacting business with, and dependent upon, the public, as the canadian pacific railway is, would descend to an act as described in the case in hand. what the explanation will be, i will not conjecture, but i can easily conceive it is susceptible of an explanation which will remove all cause of censure from the company. in more than one instance, i have known the officials of this company to firmly support an employee in the maintenance of moral principle, even at a financial loss to the company. but, apart from all loyalty to right principle, on the part of the officiary of the company, it is to me simply inconceivable that shrewd business men as these officials are known to be would be guilty of an act which from a purely business point of view would be a stupidly suicidal one. it taxes one's credulity to too great a degree to ask one to believe that, in view of the recent plebiscite taken in several provinces, that any officer, possessed of mental qualifications sufficient to secure a position of power in the company, would ally himself with a coterie of lawbreakers in a secluded village, and perpetrate an act which would be resented by thousands of business men and tens of thousands of the travelling public in our dominion, and attach a stain to the name of the company which would challenge contempt for years future. the facilities afforded by other competing lines at so many points in our dominion for such as would resent an act of this character are too great to permit a company that is hungering for freight and passenger traffic to yield to such inconsiderable and immoral influences as the liquor men of sutton junction and their sympathizers could command. the company knows well how slight a matter often creates a prejudice for or against a railway which affects its dividends for years, and they know well also that when an act of this kind is actually done and unearthed, that it appeals to principles held as sacred by the public of our dominion. they also know that, however the temperance ballot holders may be divided in their political allegiances, in a matter of this kind, when no political ties bind them, they would be practically a unit in resenting an act not only tyrannical, but under the circumstances cowardly and immoral. one cannot believe that this shrewd company of high-minded and acute business gentlemen would be guilty of the folly attributed to them. their effort is in every way honorable to attract their own line, and it is past belief that they should play into the hands of the grand trunk and other competing lines in any such manner as the accusation, if proved, would mean. give them time and opportunity for an explanation before any expression of indignation manifests itself, and especially before any hasty and inconsiderate act of discrimination against the company is made." spectator. the publication of the correspondence between messrs. brady and smith brought a flood of letters from the public to the editor's offices. it would be scarcely possible in this place to give all the letters which appeared in the various papers, but we quote a few. the following is from the _witness_ of november d: "sir,--i read with much pleasure the letter from 'a total abstainer' in your issue of november th, and his purpose not to travel by the c. p. r. in future, when he has the privilege of another route. i would like to assure him that he does not stand alone, that there are many others who feel just as strongly. it was only to-day that i learned of two persons who, at some inconvenience to themselves, took passage by the grand trunk railway in preference to the canadian pacific railway, on account of the way in which the company has played so miserably into the hands of the liquor dealers; and i know of other travellers who are resolved to use the c. p. r. only when it cannot be avoided. i am informed that some of the temperance organizations to which he refers are not going to let the matter rest where it now is, but will manifest their indignation in their own way and time. "it is almost beyond belief that a company like this should treat a servant with such inhumanity. "after being almost murdered when on duty by an employed agent of the liquor party, and when about recovered from his wounds, he is dismissed from the service for taking part in temperance work in his own time. these are the facts as stated in the published correspondence, and they need only to be stated to call forth the indignation and condemnation of all honorable men. "another total abstainer." another letter, published in the _witness_ of december th, and signed "disinterested," is given below. the allusion to the queries of the alliance and the replies of the assistant general manager will be more fully explained in the next chapter. "to the editor of the _witness_: "sir,--i am usually of moderate temperament and seldom take extreme views or measures on any subject, but if i understand rightly the present state of the controversy between the dominion alliance and the canadian pacific railway, unless the latter has a secret compact with the brewers, distillers and liquor venders of this county, to warrant their taking the present stand, they are adopting the most extraordinary course of any corporation seeking public patronage i have ever known. the following is, as i understand it, the present position of the affair: " . there are lawbreakers in the county of brome. " . an employee of the c. p. r. aids in detecting them, and bringing them to justice. " . the lawbreakers hire a man to murder him, who fails to quite accomplish his task. " . the employee, in his hours off duty, denounces the practices of the lawbreakers, and the traffic that creates such lawbreakers and murderers. " . a district superintendent of the c. p. r. informs him that for so doing he is dismissed. " . the dominion alliance asks why this should be so? is it not interfering with the liberty of the british subject? is not slavery revived in another form for an employer to say to an employee, 'you must not express an opinion on any subject of social reform or otherwise on pain of being dismissed from my employ.' " . the assistant general manager comes out in a two-column letter explaining the attitude and act of the c. p. r. the purport of that letter is that the man who antagonizes a considerable portion of the community is therefore ... less useful than he otherwise would be in any position (such, for instance, as a station agent) in the employ of a railway company, whose main object must be to increase the business, from every possible source, and who must be careful not to antagonize any portion of the community upon whose patronage, as a part of the general public, the success of the company depends. in all this letter there is no distinction between the law-abiding and lawbreaking sections of the community. the logical inference of the whole letter is, the agent at sutton antagonized the lawbreakers of brome, and those who abetted their doings, and, therefore, the superintendent of the road was justified in dismissing him. but by that act the superintendent 'antagonizes' a very large section of the community, stretching from halifax to vancouver, but he is sustained by the company in his act. 'consistency, thou art a jewel!' as a canadian i have felt just pride in the c. p. r., i have advocated its claims against all other transcontinental routes, especially have i compared it with the grand trunk railway, and advised my friends to patronize the former. now, however, as a free and law-abiding citizen i must, on principle, change my method unless mr. tait, or some one else, can explain the act of the company. if both employees interested in the sutton matter had been dismissed, i could see that there was an honest effort on the part of the company to do justly, but as it is i can only see underneath all this the intention of the company to favor the lawbreakers of brome and liquor interests generally at the expense of the temperance and christian community. if my views are wrong, and anyone will do me the kindness to correct them, i shall owe him a debt of gratitude; for i am exceedingly loath to believe such things of the management of our noble canadian pacific railway. until then, however, i must say that i shall not travel on one mile of the c. p. r. when i can take another line. i am constantly on the road between quebec and toronto, with headquarters in montreal. i take this stand not by choice nor caprice, but on the principles of a free citizen." the following is an extract from a letter discussing the same subject, published in _the templar_ of jan. th, , and signed j. w. shaw: "without giving names, let me state what i have learned directly affecting the moneyed interests of the c. p. r. thinking of visiting a certain station on one of their lines i asked a friend who had just returned from it: 'what is the fare to that place?' he replied, 'i don't know; i never buy a ticket; i can't say.' when remonstrated with, he just said: 'i pay whatever is handy, sometimes more and sometimes less!' another individual, in the habit of travelling in the same way, and boasting of his smartness, casually remarked: 'my trip this time was a failure, for conductor ---- was on the train, and you know i could not work him.' it did me good to hear that, for the conductor in question is a well-known gospel and temperance worker, who labors as he has opportunity for the uplifting of fallen humanity. on this low plane then it would pay these companies to employ such conductors, and give them all the scope required outside their own business. such employees save more to them than they will ever lose through the fidelity to principle of any mr. smith. sterling honesty of principle that such men manifest, instead of proving an objection, should merit the recognition if not the approval of the wisest directorate, and should denote their qualification rather than the reverse." part of another letter, which was signed w. j. clark, and appeared in the same issue of _the templar_, is as follows: "now, suppose the 'section' which mr. smith had antagonized had been the temperance people instead of the liquor element, what would gentlemen brady and tait have said then if the matter had been brought to their notice? would they have dismissed mr. smith? i trow not. they would in all likelihood have attributed the complaint to what they would mentally designate as a handful of cranks, and paid no attention to it. but when the liquor element complains, what then? their complaint is attended to at once. why? because they are the most law-abiding and influential section of the community? no, but because they are just at the present time the most powerful section of the community. do not misunderstand me. i do not mean that the temperance people of our land have not the balance of power in their own hands. they certainly have, but they do not make use of it, while the liquor element use what power they have for all it is worth. the c. p. r., and all other such like corporations know full well this state of affairs, and as mr. tait says: 'their objects do not extend beyond the promotion of their business,' and consequently they are ready at all times to cater to the commands of those who are making their power felt in the land, and to ignore almost entirely the wishes of those who have the power, but fear to use it. mr. editor, what are the temperance people doing? are we sleeping on guard? it seems to me that we are. how many of us, after reading the two last issues of _the templar_, will not deliberately step on board of a c. p. r. train, and pay our money to that corporation when in many cases we could just as conveniently transfer our patronage to some other road. what is our plain duty in the case? is it not to show the canadian pacific railway that we are a power in the land, and that we intend to plainly show that corporation that the rights of good citizenship are not to be trampled upon with impunity? the action of the c. p. r. in the smith case should call vividly to our minds the action of the grand trunk a few years ago, when they discharged their agent at richmond, que., because he openly opposed the temperance people." in concluding this chapter, we will give the opinion of an eminent clergyman, rev. j. b. silcox, as expressed by him from the pulpit of emanuel church, montreal. nor is this by any means the only voice which sounded from canadian pulpits on the same subject. the _witness_ of december st, , has the following: "referring to the c. p. r., mr. silcox denounced it vigorously for its action in dismissing an employee because he saw fit to fight the drink traffic. there was nothing in the world so heartless as a great corporation. the c. p. r. had shown itself more heartless than a despotic king. it had come to a sorry pass when an employee was robbed of the right of exercising his own free will. by its action the company had thrown all its weight on the side of the liquor party to which it catered. he had lived in the northwest several years, and had seen other instances of how this great company had ground others under its iron heel. 'in discharging the man i refer to, the canadian pacific railway has shown that it lays claim to both the body and soul of its employees. in the history of this country did you ever hear of anything more shameful? it makes one's blood boil. and the men who commit these acts can boast of knighthood. alas!'" chapter vii. the dominion alliance protest. we have been considering some of the opinions of the temperance and law-abiding public regarding the dismissal of mr. w. w. smith. however, the temperance people were not all content with simply discussing the matter, and blaming the c. p. r. for the action they had taken, nor even with transferring their patronage to another road. the alliance took steps to obtain an explanation of mr. brady's conduct and the policy which he had attributed to the c. p. r., and if possible to gain some reparation for an act which seemed to them unreasonable and unjust. it was stated in a former chapter that the secretary of the quebec provincial branch had been instructed to enquire into the rumored attempt of the liquor men to secure mr. smith's dismissal, and report the facts in the case at the next meeting of the alliance. his conclusions after this enquiry are embodied in the following letter, dated october th, and addressed to "thomas tait, esq., assistant general manager, canadian pacific railway": "dear sir,--i herewith return the correspondence concerning mr. smith which you allowed me to have, and which our committee very carefully considered. the action taken by your company in dismissing mr. smith from his position as your agent at sutton junction, notice of which he received on saturday last, october th, renders futile any further conference between the company and this alliance on behalf of mr. smith. i am, however, instructed to say that after a very careful consideration of all the correspondence referred to us, after a thorough investigation of the whole matter, we have come to the conclusion that the paramount reason for mr. smith's dismissal is his activity as a temperance man. your assistant superintendent in his letter to mr. smith, dated september th, makes this as clear as possible. he says: 'you must either quit temperance work or quit the company. it makes no difference whether you are on duty or oft duty, so far as this company is concerned. they demand the whole and entire time of their men, and they are going to have it.' these are as plain words as the english language can produce, and their meaning cannot be misunderstood. the complaints made subsequent to my interview with you on the th of september have, in our opinion, the appearance of an effort to find a reason to explain the one given by your assistant superintendent; a reason which we think your company will find exceedingly difficult to sustain at the bar of public opinion to which it must now go. as regards these recent complaints, mr. smith has never seen them. he has never been given an opportunity to deny them, or offer any explanation. if these or other charges of a similar character are the essential ones, then he has been condemned without a hearing, either before your superintendent or any other officer of the company. mr. smith informs us that he is quite prepared to defend himself against any charge of neglect of duty or unfaithful service to the company. his record of fifteen years' service is an indication that as a railroad man he has done his duty. as regards the principal charge, the charge upon which his resignation was asked for by your assistant superintendent in the letter referred to above in the following words: 'i was in hopes you would relieve the strain by gracefully tendering your resignation,' the specific complaint made being that he had on the evening of september d, delivered a temperance lecture. to this charge he pleads guilty, and now suffers the consequences, viz., dismissal and pecuniary loss. "this alliance, as representing the temperance people of this province, protests in the most emphatic manner against this act of obvious injustice to one of our number; an act which we have every reason to believe to be the result of a concerted plan to use your company to injure and if possible render nugatory the temperance work of the people of brome county, who, for very many years, have been endeavoring to uphold and enforce the law of the land, which declares that no intoxicating liquor shall be sold within the bounds of that county. "in this effort, they did not expect to have the powerful influence of your company turned against them, and, therefore, feel keenly and with intense regret this action in regard to mr. smith, the president of the brome county alliance! you will readily understand that we cannot allow this matter to drop, and, therefore, have taken steps to bring the whole matter before another tribunal. "i am, dear sir, respectfully yours, "j. h. carson, sec'y." on october th, a meeting of the executive of the quebec provincial alliance was held in montreal, for the purpose of considering affairs relating to this dismissal. mr. carson reported the correspondence which he had had with mr. tait, and the executive, having unanimously approved mr. carson's letters, adopted the following resolution: "whereas, mr. w. w. smith, the president of the brome county alliance, has been dismissed from his position as agent of the canadian pacific railway, and whereas we have reason to believe that his dismissal has been brought about because of his temperance activity, and not because of dereliction of duty: _resolved_, that this alliance will stand by brome county alliance in any action it may take under the advice of our solicitors to vindicate the reputation of mr. smith." at this meeting also, a committee was appointed to whom the correspondence in the hands of the secretary should be referred for whatever action they might deem best. on october th, a meeting of the brome county alliance was held at which the dismissal was also considered. some members of the provincial alliance from montreal were present at this meeting. on december d, the following appeared among the _witness_ editorials: "the dismissal of mr. w. w. smith, the canadian pacific station agent at sutton junction, for law and order work in a prohibition county, and specifically for delivering a temperance lecture, is still a live subject. the dominion alliance, as whose officer mr. smith committed the offences for which he suffers, naturally protested to the company, and appealed to the public against this assault on the liberties of their workers. the company, we understand, thinks it only fair that its reply to the alliance's protest should be published as widely as that protest was, and this we think entirely reasonable, whatever may be said of the merits of that reply, which does not seem to us to make the matter any better. after being duly presented to a meeting of the alliance committee, and then referred to mr. smith, against whom it raises new charges, it is now with the consent of all parties published, and it will be forwarded to all the temperance organizations for their information. it occupies a good deal of room, but will be read with extreme interest as showing just how a money corporation looks on the liberties of its servants." the reply referred to in this article as being that made by the c. p. r. to the letter of mr. carson, which we quoted above, is as follows: "j. h. carson, esq., "secretary dominion alliance, montreal. "dear sir,--your letter of november th reached me in due course. i have been somewhat disinclined for several reasons to take part in any further correspondence on the subject, but upon further reflection i have decided to point out to you in writing, as i have already, on two or three occasions, done verbally, that the termination of mr. smith's engagement with this company did not take place by the reasons assigned by you in that letter. you say, 'we have come to the conclusion that the paramount reason for mr. smith's dismissal is his activity as a temperance man.' whether intentionally or unintentionally, this language is framed so as to convey the meaning that the company objected to the principles (namely, temperance principles) which were advocated by mr. smith. nothing could be further from the truth. if mr. smith had been as much occupied in abusing temperance principles as he was in advocating them, the objection would have been not only as great, but greater. it must be manifest to every business man in the community that every railway company, and, indeed, every other business organization employing large numbers of workmen, is most emphatically in favor of temperance; so much so that in the case of our company i feel convinced that its influence in favor of temperance and the prevention of the improper use of intoxicating liquors is ten thousand times more than that of mr. smith or any other individual, in fact, it is probably one of the most powerful factors in that direction in canada. "our company has for many years past done what is not often done by property owners. we have declined to sell our lands at different stations along our line, except under conditions which prevents the sale of intoxicating liquors on the premises, and which have the effect of depriving the buyer of his title to the property in case that stipulation is broken. in addition, we have had for many years past, amongst the rules and regulations governing all our employees, the following rule: "_'use of liquor._--the continued or excessive periodical use of malt or alcoholic liquors should be abstained from by every one engaged in operating the road, not only on account of the great risks to life and property incurred by entrusting them to the oversight of those whose intellects may be dulled at times when most care is needed, but also, and especially, because habitual drinking has a very bad effect upon the constitution, which is a serious matter to men so liable to injury as railway employees always are. it so lessens the recuperative powers of the body that simple wounds are followed by the most serious and dangerous complications. fractures unite slowly, if at all, and wounds of a grave nature, such as those requiring the loss of a limb, are almost sure to end fatally. no employee can afford to take such risks, and the railway company cannot assume such responsibilities.' this rule has, in fact, been revised within the last few months, and couched in more prohibitory language, and will shortly be issued to the employees in that form. along our line there are thousands of its officials who are every day insisting on the practice of temperance. they deal with the engagement of subordinates and the conduct and efficiency of persons in our employment in such a way as to show that temperance is indispensable to the efficiency of our employees, to the conduct of the company's business, and to the success and promotion of the workmen themselves, but this is done in respect of matters which are entirely within their jurisdiction as officers of the company. "there are, unfortunately, many questions upon which the public hold different opinions so strongly that they are virtually divided into opposing classes, and it is impossible for any one prominently and publicly to advocate either side of any of these questions, without immediately raising a strong feeling of opposition in a considerable portion of the community, who take the opposite side. these questions are of different kinds, religious, political, social, racial, etc.; and it must be apparent that no matter how well founded any person's views may be on any of these questions, if he devotes himself energetically to the promulgation and advocacy of his views at public meetings, lectures, etc., he will without fail antagonize a considerable section of the community. it is, therefore, apparent to every business man that any person who adopts this course at once renders himself less useful than he would otherwise be in any position (such, for instance, as a station agent) in the employment of a railway company, whose main object must be to increase its business from every possible source, and who must be careful not to antagonize any portion of the community upon whose patronage, as part of the general public, the success of the company depends. illogically, and perhaps unfortunately, there are many persons in every community who hold the employer answerable for the public advocacy of the views of the persons in his employment, even when disconnected with the business of the employer. this ought not to be the case, but as undeniably it is the case, it follows that the usefulness of an employee is with certainty diminished, and perhaps destroyed, when he gives much of his attention and some of his time to advocating his personal views at public meetings, lectures, etc., upon either side of any question upon which the public is divided in the way i have before mentioned, and this, although he do so only during the hours of the day when he is not supposed to be in the active service of his employer. as far as i am able to judge, no official of our company, of whose duties one is to solicit and secure traffic for the company, could take sides on any of these questions at public meetings and lectures without impairing his usefulness to the company. taken by themselves, and without regard to the circumstances, some of the expressions in mr. brady's letters to mr. smith are capable of misinterpretation, and, as i have stated to you on several occasions, do not meet with the company's approval, as they do not express correctly its policy on the subject. there is no doubt, however, in our mind, as i have already assured you, that throughout this unfortunate affair mr. brady was only intent on protecting the company's interests by preventing unnecessary hostility, and at the outset on saving mr. smith himself from trouble. "i have already shown you correspondence from different persons containing statements concerning mr. smith, which, if true, indicate the impossibility of any person being able to give thorough and efficient service to any railway company, whilst he publicly advocates views on either side of any question such as i have referred to, upon which the public is divided. but the matters referred to in that correspondence are insignificant compared with the taking in public an active part on either side of such moot questions as i have referred to. the conclusion that mr. smith's usefulness was gone, does not depend on the truth or untruth of them; it was therefore not necessary or proper to discuss them further with mr. smith upon the theory that they were material to the question whether he should continue or not in the company's service. as, however, in your letter you refer to the complaints covered by that correspondence as having the 'appearance of an effort to find a reason to explain the one given for mr. smith's dismissal,' and as you have returned this correspondence to me, it may not be out of place for me to refresh your memory as to some of the points covered by it. mr. stewart, the superintendent of the dominion express company, wrote mr. brady, from montreal, on september th as follows: "'route agent bowen informs me that when visiting sutton junction this week, he found f. g. sinclair in charge of the station, and doing the work in mr. smith's name. mr. smith had gone away without giving us notice. he did not give the new agent the combination of the safe, and carried away our revolver for his protection, instead of leaving it at the station to protect our property. mr. bowen succeeded in finding smith, and getting the revolver, and also had the combination of the safe changed and given to the new agent. i may say that mr. smith had given the relieving agent the combination of the outside door of the safe only, which left us without any better protection than an ordinary fire-proof safe, and we sometimes have very large amounts of money to carry over night. this is just about in keeping with all mr. smith's work. unless we can be assured of better protection at sutton junction, we will have to make different arrangements in regard to handling our money for the northern division, by transferring the fire and burglar proof safe at sutton junction to fosters, and make the money transfer at that point instead of at sutton junction. "'of course, it will be absolutely necessary to transfer some money at the junction at all times, but bank packages, etc., will have to be sent by the other route for our protection. "'route agent bowen reports the present agent is attending carefully to our business. if the old agent will be re-appointed i would be glad of a few days' notice so we can make different arrangements in the interest of this company.' "you will remember from the correspondence that mr. o. c. selby wrote to mr. brady that he had the combination of the outside door of the safe, and that the combination of the inside door, which should also have been used, was not used from the time mr. selby started work (october, ) until june last; that mr. smith was often absent from the office during the day, frequently remaining there only half an hour. "you will remember also that mr. j. o'regan, the operator at sutton junction, stated in writing that he had at the request of mr. smith, who desired to absent himself from duty, worked in the latter's place on the afternoon and evening previous to the assault, and that on several occasions he had been left in charge of the station during mr. smith's absence. in this connection you will remember that i informed you that on the occasion first referred to, and that on some, if not all, of the previous occasions, mr. smith had absented himself from duty without permission. i believe that it was admitted by mr. smith himself, at the trial, that when he was assaulted he was asleep, although at that time he should have been on duty as operator. "you will also recollect that mr. smith, having applied through detective carpenter to mr. brady for leave of absence to go to new marlboro, mass., for the purpose of identifying one of his assailants, and having obtained such leave of absence, and a pass to newport and return, remained absent from duty for ten days after his return from new marlboro, without communicating with mr. brady, and that it was while he was so absent without leave that he delivered a temperance lecture at richford. "it is not customary with this company to discuss with persons not directly interested the reasons for discharging, punishing, rewarding or otherwise dealing with its men, but you will recollect that in this case an exception was made, and that i offered you every facility, including free transportation over our line, if you would, by visiting localities in which messrs. smith and brady were known, satisfy yourself as to the propriety of mr. smith's discharge, and it will also be within your memory that i offered to arrange a meeting between yourself and mr. brady, or, if it was desired, to meet your committee myself to discuss the matter. none of these offers was taken advantage of, and, so far as i know, none of the suggestions made were followed. "it is not, however, as i have said, necessary to go into these details in order to support the conclusion that mr. smith's usefulness as agent for the canadian pacific railway company is over. the company is carrying on the business of a railway company, and its objects do not extend beyond the promotion of that business. its success depends upon the favor and patronage of the community at large, and if one of its officers or employees so conducts himself as to antagonize a section of the community, or even in a manner which is likely to bring about that result, the company's interests are injuriously affected, and the company will naturally do, what every business man would do, namely, protect its interests by his removal. "yours truly, thos. tait, "assistant general manager. "_montreal, dec. th, ._" it will be noticed that in this letter mr. tait, referring to the acts of officials, "who are every day insisting on the practice of temperance," says: "but this is done in respect of matters which are entirely within their jurisdiction as officers of the company." the implication plainly is that, while officers of the canadian pacific railway have a right to insist upon sobriety among the employees of the company, they have not a right to engage in any other form of temperance work. that all mr. smith's work for the cause was within his jurisdiction as an officer of the alliance, and a free citizen is not taken into consideration, and it appears that no employee of the canadian pacific railway is supposed to have a right to accept any offices or perform any duties outside the company's services. mr. tait does not condemn the position taken by his assistant superintendent, on the contrary he very plainly takes the same position himself, and simply disapproves of some of mr. brady's expressions. this reminds us of what is told of some parents who are said to punish their children, not for evil doing but for getting found out. if mr. brady had concealed the motive for his act so as to prevent any complaints from the public, the company, according to mr. tait's letter, would have had no objection to the dismissal of an employee simply for temperance activity. to the above letter mr. carson made the following reply, which was published in the same issue of the _witness_: "december st, . "t. tait, esq., asst. general manager, c. p. r.: "dear sir,--your letter of december th has had the attention of the alliance committee, which takes great pleasure in hearing of the stand taken by your company in various ways in behalf of temperance, the wisdom of which will commend itself to all. when, however, you say mr. smith was not dismissed for the reason assigned in my letter to you, namely, his activity as a temperance man, you deny what seems to be admitted in the whole of the rest of your letter. this was, as the correspondence shows, the only reason conveyed to mr. smith as the cause of his dismissal. my letter did not allege, nor was it intended to convey the impression, that the company's action was due to its objection to the principles held by mr. smith, but that it was due to his activity in advocating those principles. "you have at considerable length set forth that what the company objects to is, that an employee of the company should actively take sides on a question on which the community is divided, even 'although he do so only during the hours of the day when he is not supposed to be in the active service of his employer,' and you add that 'no official of our company, one of whose duties is to solicit and secure traffic for the company, could take sides on any of these questions at public meetings and lectures without impairing his usefulness to the company.' this is precisely the position taken by mr. brady in his correspondence with mr. smith, and it is against this position, to which the company through you pleads guilty, that we, in the name of the temperance people of canada, protest, implying as it does a condition of servitude to the liquor interest on the part of a national institution dependent upon the public patronage for support, which insults all that is best in our public opinion, and insisting as it does on a condition of ignoble slavery on the part of the employees of the company. you refer to the matter in which mr. smith was regarded as over-active as a moot question. "whether men should be required to observe the law of the land, or be punished for violating it, is, we submit, not a moot question. on the contrary, we hold it the duty of every loyal citizen to uphold law, and render such assistance as lies in his power to secure its enforcement. "with regard to the later charges against mr. smith, parenthetically enumerated in your letter, you say they are insignificant, and that, therefore, 'it was not necessary or proper to discuss them further with mr. smith.' if so, we may also be excused from discussing them. we have given mr. smith communication of your letter, that he may reply to these if he sees best. "referring to your kind offer of free transportation over your line, to visit the localities in which messrs. smith and brady were known, and satisfy myself as to the propriety of mr. smith's discharge, i might say that i did visit those localities without accepting the offer of free transportation, which accounts for your not knowing of my visit to brome county. as the result of that visit i was still better informed as to the operation of the occult influence which had brought about mr. smith's dismissal. "your offer to meet our committee and discuss the question was rendered nugatory by the dismissal of mr. smith. "in the management of your company it is not our part to interfere, but when an employee of your company is dismissed, as alleged by the assistant superintendent, and now confirmed by yourself, for publicly advocating those principles which this alliance is organized to promote, and for promoting the observance of the laws of his country, it is right for us to express to you the protest of a very large portion of the people of canada, and their indignation at seeing one of their number thus suffer for conscience sake. it is, of course, for the company to judge how best to promote its own business, but when so large a portion of the public as those who support temperance laws and seeks their enforcement is openly snubbed in the interests, and it would seem at the instance, of illicit and murderous dealers in a contraband article, from the transport of which your company seeks profit, we may fairly ask the question whether the company is acting even the part of worldly wisdom. your declaration that if one of the company's officers or employees so conducts himself as to antagonize a section of the community, or even in a manner which is likely to bring about that result, the company's interests are injuriously affected, and the company will naturally do what every business man would do, namely, 'protect its interests by his removal,' is definite and distinct, and seems to apply to the definite attitude assumed towards the advocates of temperance by your assistant superintendent. his conduct is certain to be remembered with resentment all over canada, so long as his continuance in office and the endorsement of his act are the index of the policy of your company. "i remain, dear sir, "very respectfully yours, "j. h. carson, secretary." as stated by mr. carson, mr. tait's letter was forwarded to mr. smith, that he might reply to its accusations if he saw fit. accordingly, he wrote to the editor of the _witness_ as follows: "sir,--i desire, in replying to the complaints made against me in mr. tait's letter, addressed to the secretary of the dominion alliance, to say that, so far as these complaints are concerned, this is the first time i have seen them, and i have never been asked by the canadian pacific railway to offer any explanation, nor have i been given an opportunity to deny the correctness of the charges made against me. "with regard to the letter of mr. stewart, of the dominion express company, i have this to say: this complaint, in the first place, was only made three weeks after mr. brady had requested me to tender my resignation, for the specific reason given in his letter, so that it could not have had any connection with the real cause of my dismissal. "when i was assaulted on july th, i wired mr. stewart that i was unable to work, and asked him if i should give the combination of the inside door of the safe to the man in charge. i received no reply. mr. stewart knew perfectly well that i was sick in bed, and that it was his duty to send a man to change the combination, which he did not do, after being wired of my disability. now mr. stewart, after paying not the slightest attention to the notice of my illness, censures me for not notifying him when i went to the united states to identify the man who assaulted me. regarding my carrying off the revolver, this is true; but, as the company demanded the whole of my time off duty, as well as on, and as i was expected to resume work any day, i do not see why i should not be regarded as their property, and as much entitled to protection as any other until i was dismissed. "mr. selby's statements are also misleading. it was months after he entered my office before i allowed him to have the combination of the safe (outside door), and this was with the knowledge and consent of route agent bowen, or he would never have had even the combination of the outer door. mr. bowen checked up my office with mr. selby two or three times, and was satisfied. mr. selby's statement that the inner door of the safe was not used from october, , to june, , is not true, and cannot be substantiated, as he was away from my office for weeks during that time. "as to my changing work with mr. o'regan, i did, and such things are quite customary with agents and operators, as well as assistant superintendents; and this custom prevails at the present time all along the line. i may add that there was a distinct understanding between mr. brady and myself that i could drive out or walk out whenever i saw fit, without communicating with him. "some explanation ought to be made concerning the manner in which these complaints from mr. selby and mr. o'regan were secured by mr. brady, when it was found necessary to produce before mr. tait other evidence against me. i have seen both mr. selby and mr. o'regan in company with a witness i took with me, and questioned them as to how they came to make such charges. i found that mr. brady had taken the fast express from farnham, which does not stop at sutton junction; it, however, slowed up enough to allow him to jump off. he walked to the station and remained nearly three hours endeavoring to obtain incriminating evidence against me. mr. selby informed me he did not think his letters would come to light, as mr. brady told him it would be personal, and he thought as i was dismissed from the company's service, the statements would not hurt me, and it might help him to a situation at some future time. he said the statements were first drawn from him by adroit questioning, and he was then asked to put them in writing. "when mr. brady arrived at sutton junction, the night operator, o'regan, was asleep, but he did not hesitate to call him up, and deprive him of two or three hours' rest, notwithstanding the fact that on the first of july, when he refused to allow the night operator, ireland, to work for me so as to permit of my going to montreal to attend the national prohibition convention, the reason he gave was that night operators required their days to rest to insure efficient service during the night. but in this case he breaks up the rest of a night operator in order to secure this statement from o'regan. "mr. tait says i was asleep when assaulted. this i do not deny, but he knows his operators all sleep more or less during the night, when they understand the position of their trains. every railway man knows this. but why are these matters brought before the public now? why was i not allowed a hearing by the officers of the company? if a collision occurs on the line, or other serious things occur, the parties concerned are given a chance to clear themselves. if men get drunk and damage the company's property, they are given a hearing, and in many cases they resume work. but all this was denied me. there must have been a reason for this; it must be because mr. tait really understood the whole matter thoroughly, as he says in his letter, 'this correspondence' (referring to these later charges) 'is insignificant,' and especially as he has said to a _witness_ reporter, and published in the _witness_ of july th: 'i have no proof that mr. smith has violated the confidence of the company.' no, my serious offence was, as mr. tait states, 'the taking in public an active part on either side of such moot questions as i have referred to.' "mr. tait also stated that this rule applies to questions of politics. now, if the same rule applied to temperance as applies to politics, i would still be in my position as agent of the canadian pacific railway at sutton junction, for during the last general elections the company would have allowed me to move heaven and earth, if possible, to elect their candidate, which we did through their wire pulling. i don't wonder people say the canadian pacific railway runs the government, but they cannot run the brome county alliance or any of the other temperance organizations. i would like to ask mr. brady in connection with these charges, why he should add insult to injury by asserting that the temperance people could all 'go to h----l,' and he 'does not care a g---- d----' for them all, and why was i approached in an obscure way, and inducements made to me to resign my position as president of the brome county alliance, and give up lecturing on temperance, and retain my position as agent of the canadian pacific railway? these are some facts that more clearly reveal the real cause for my dismissal, and the source from which opposition to me really came, namely, the liquor traffic, exerted through its emissaries. "it should be borne in mind that every scrap of evidence against me, such as it is, has been trumped up, since my dismissal. who before ever heard of a man being sentenced and executed and then the evidence of his guilt hunted up? "w. w. smith. "_sutton, december th, ._" the feelings which then animated the temperance public of canada concerning the conduct of the canadian pacific railway may be seen from the following article in the _witness_ of december th: "the meeting of representatives of the various provincial and dominion temperance bodies, held yesterday afternoon in the temple building, was for the purpose of receiving reports from the executives of these grand bodies concerning the action of the canadian pacific railway company, in dismissing mr. smith for his activity in temperance work. "the secretary presented a very large number of resolutions adopted by these various executives, expressing their condemnation of the company, and endorsing heartily the action of the alliance, in seeking to have the injustice removed. the resolutions were from british columbia, northwest territories, manitoba, ontario, quebec, as well as from maritime provinces--from far off victoria, b. c., to halifax, n. s. "the communications indicate that the whole temperance community is thoroughly aroused, and intensely interested in this matter. the meeting adopted a strong resolution, which was referred to a committee of five, who were empowered to take such further action as they deem best to carry out the spirit of the resolutions presented to the meeting yesterday. "the secretary was instructed to inform mr. tait, assistant general manager of the canadian pacific railway, that this committee would confer with him in regard to this matter, if we should so desire. the committee will await mr. tait's reply before publishing the resolutions received or those adopted at yesterday's meeting." chapter viii. results of the alliance protest. in our last chapter was given a letter written by mr. carson on december st, and addressed to mr. tait. the reply to this was as follows: "j. h. carson, esq., secretary quebec provincial branch of the dominion alliance, st. james street, montreal: "dear sir,--i have acknowledged the receipt of your two communications of the st and th ult. as your letter of the st states that the alliance does not allege that the reason for mr. smith's discharge by the company was the nature of the principles held and advocated by him, and states that the sole objection of the alliance to the action of the company in this matter is the discharge of an employee from its service 'for his activity in advocating those principles,' i now desire to state briefly, and in such a way as i trust will prevent any possibility of being any longer misinterpreted, the views of the company on that point. "the company does not object to its employees holding, practising and promoting temperance principles in such a manner as not to injuriously affect the company's interests, but it does object seriously to any employee actively engaging in the advocacy and agitation of these or any other principles or views, no matter how respectable and proper in themselves, about which there is a well understood difference of opinion in the community, in such a manner as either to injuriously affect the company's interests or to impair his usefulness as an employee, or to interfere with the proper performance of his duties to his employer, as to all of which it cannot be expected that any other than the company should be the judge. "there is a large portion of the population of this country who, rightly or wrongly, differ from and oppose the views which are promulgated and promoted by the alliance, and which have been so vigorously and persistently advocated by mr. smith, the result being, as it was sure to be, that his usefulness as our agent was seriously impaired, owing to the company having to bear to some extent the antagonism which logically perhaps ought to have been confined to him, though there was some ground for the public considering that the company was taking a part in his advocacy, since in advertising public meetings to be addressed by himself, mr. smith described himself as 'w. w. smith, of the canadian pacific railway, temperance lecturer.' "in this connection i beg to draw your attention to the fact that mr. smith did not confine his work of agitation, public lecturing, etc., to the county of brome, or that section of the country in which the majority of the population had voted in favor of the prohibition of liquor, but that his operations extended beyond these limits. after the fullest investigation, and consideration of this whole matter, i feel constrained to say that the company's course was, under the circumstances, not only justified, but, having regard to its business interests, unavoidable. "in yours of the st ult., you refer again to the correspondence between mr. brady and mr. smith. inasmuch as the company has stated that the expressions complained of do not meet with its approval or express correctly its policy, i submit that it is now clearly improper and unfair to endeavor to make them appear as a reason for the continuation of the complaint against the company. "i note from your letter of the th ult., that a meeting is suggested between the officials of the company and a committee representing the alliance. i shall be glad, as i a long time ago offered to meet this committee, and as you have kindly left the appointment of the time and place of meeting with me, i suggest, if it is convenient to the committee, my office on monday next, at eleven a. m. "the delay in replying to your letters was due to the uncertainty of my movements and consequent difficulty in naming a time for the proposed meeting. "yours truly, "(signed), thos. tait, "assistant general manager." according to the spirit of this letter, no man having an interest in any reform, or a desire to aid in any work for the good of his fellow-men, can conscientiously hold a position in the employ of this great company, which is so influential in our beloved country. must every self-supporting man be a slave? mr. tait says, "after the fullest investigation, and consideration of this whole matter, i feel constrained to say that the company's course was, under the circumstances, not only justifiable, but, having regard to its business interests, unavoidable." mr. tait does not say "mr. brady's course," but "the company's course," thus showing that mr. brady had not acted independently of his superior officers in dismissing mr. smith. mr. tait also expresses the company's disapproval of mr. brady's "expressions," while he, himself, makes statements which seem quite as objectionable as those of mr. brady. moreover, as mr. tait sanctions the dismissal of an employee for active temperance work, and mentions in this letter no other cause as having led to mr. smith's discharge, we do not see why he should object to an assistant superintendent naming the same reason to an under official, whom he is dismissing from the company's service. the conference arranged between mr. tait and the representatives of the alliance was held in the office of the former on january th, . the meeting began at half-past eleven, and continued until nearly two o'clock, when, as no definite decision was reached, it was decided to adjourn until the following morning. the resolutions adopted by the various temperance bodies in montreal, and elsewhere, were presented to mr. tait. the following circular, issued by the quebec provincial branch of the dominion alliance, shows the result of the conference on january th. "dominion alliance, "quebec provincial branch, "montreal, jan. th, . "dear sir,--on november th last, by circular letter, we called the attention of the executives of the various grand bodies of the temperance organizations of the dominion to the action of the canadian pacific railway company, in dismissing from their employ the president of one of our county alliances, mr. w. w. smith. enclosed in this circular was a copy of the correspondence which led up to the dismissal. in response to this circular, resolutions were received from every province of the dominion, as well as from the executives of dominion organizations. "these resolutions were very emphatic in their condemnation of the position taken by assistant superintendent brady, in the published correspondence, to wit, that an employee 'must quit temperance work or quit the company.' "these resolutions were carefully considered at the conference of temperance representatives, held in this city on december th, and it was decided to ask the canadian pacific railway to repudiate the position taken by assistant superintendent brady, and that it take such action in regard to mr. brady, whose course has given so much offence to the temperance people, as will convince its employees and the public that its policy is not that represented by his act. it was also decided that before any further action be taken, the canadian pacific railway should be notified that if it so desired, a deputation from this meeting would be prepared to meet the representatives of the company in conference. "the company concurred in the suggestion, and as a result of two lengthy conferences, the following agreement was arrived at: "'the canadian pacific railway distinctly repudiate, as they have done from the commencement of the discussion, the expressions used by assistant superintendent brady, when demanding mr. smith's resignation, which expressions have been taken exception to by the temperance people. "'the canadian pacific railway admit the right of employees to identify themselves with the temperance movement, and work for the same, provided such work is done outside official hours, always with due consideration to the interests of the company. the committee accept such declaration as satisfactory. "'the committee claims that the hasty and ill-advised language used in assistant superintendent brady's correspondence, and otherwise, has caused grave dissatisfaction on the part of the temperance people of canada. the committee disclaim any attempt to coerce or dictate to the canadian pacific in the management of the company's affairs, but under the circumstances look to the canadian pacific railway to place on record some substantial mark of their disapproval of the expressions of one of their staff, same having been the means of causing offence to a large portion of the community. "'the canadian pacific railway claims that, if for no other reason, mr. smith's discharge was justifiable on the ground of neglect of duty.' "this was signed by mr. thomas tait, assistant general manager, on the part of the canadian pacific railway, and by the following delegation as representing the temperance people of canada: major e. l. bond, mr. e. a. dyer, m. p., rev. a. m. phillips, mr. a. m. featherston, mr. s. j. carter, and mr. j. h. carson. "this agreement and the delegation's report was received and approved as satisfactory, by the executive of this provincial alliance, and a committee appointed to communicate the result to the temperance bodies. "it will thus be seen that the company has entirely repudiated the offensive language used by mr. brady, and declares that it does not express the attitude of the company towards the temperance cause. "the company also admits the right of its employees to engage in temperance work; and as regards mr. brady, it acknowledges that cause for dissatisfaction has existed, and promises that action will be taken to remove this cause. "in placing these facts before you, we have to congratulate our friends throughout the dominion upon the satisfactory conclusion of this matter, which has given us all so much anxious concern. "another cause for congratulation is the intense interest manifested in this case in every part of the dominion. from vancouver to prince edward island have come expressions of hearty coöperation, which have been exceedingly gratifying, clearly demonstrating the fact that there is a temperance force throughout the country which, if only concentrated, and directed unitedly against the legalized liquor traffic of our land, would be positively irresistible. in the present instance a vital principle of temperance reform was attacked and almost immediately the whole dominion resounds with the protests of the temperance people, and forthwith the injustice is removed. "with regard to mr. smith, we have this to add, that having since accepted the position of organizer and lecturer for the independent order of good templars of this province, he had no desire to return to the company's employ, preferring to devote himself entirely to the temperance work. "on behalf of the executive, "e. l. bond, } "s. j. carter, } "a. m. featherston, } _committee_." "a. m. phillips, } "j. h. carson, } it will be noticed that in this letter the committee congratulate their friends upon "the satisfactory conclusion of this matter." also at a meeting of the executive of the alliance before the above circular was issued the following resolution was adopted: "that this executive having heard the agreement and the report of the committee thereon, is satisfied with the same, and congratulate the temperance people of canada on the result." it is often well for us to look at the bright side, and this was what the alliance committee determined on doing, and there surely were some encouraging features connected with this case. nevertheless, as there are generally two sides which may be seen in such an affair, there were many of "the temperance people of canada" who did not consider this conclusion satisfactory, and exchanged no congratulations, and it may do us no harm now to look briefly at some of the disappointing features in this settlement. first, it is said, "that the company has entirely repudiated the offensive language used by mr. brady, and declares that it does not express the attitude of the company towards the temperance cause." now, mr. tait had taken precisely this same position in his letters to the alliance secretary, previous to the meeting with the committee, and even in the minutes of the meeting, as above given, it is said, "the canadian pacific railway distinctly repudiate--_as they have done from the commencement of the discussion_--the expressions used by assistant superintendent brady." in view of this it would seem that not much was gained by the meeting on this point. secondly, we are told that "the company also admits the right of its employees to engage in temperance work." it certainly was encouraging that this great company should try to appear pleasing to the alliance, and seemed to show that the canadian pacific railway considered the temperance party a powerful factor in the land, but when we come to consider the manner in which the admission mentioned above was made, we can but see that it has a very doubtful side. the sentence in which the company makes this announcement is as follows: "the canadian pacific railway admit the right of employees to identify themselves with the temperance movement, and work for the same, provided such work is done outside official hours, _always with due consideration to the interests of the company_." as we are not told that mr. tait, at the meeting, repudiated any of his own former statements, we will look at the above in the light of the following, from his letter of december th, to mr. carson: "as far as i am able to judge, no official of our company, of whose duties one is to solicit and secure traffic for the company, could take sides on any of these questions," referring to matters about which the public disagree, "at public meetings and lectures without impairing its usefulness to the company.... ..... the company is carrying on the business of a railway company, and its objects do not extend beyond the promotion of that business. its success depends upon the favor and patronage of the community at large, and if one of its officers or employees so conducts himself as to antagonize a section of the community, or even in a manner which is likely to bring about that result, the company's interests are injuriously affected." the admission made to the alliance seems to be robbed of most of its virtue by the above statements, and it would seem that even yet the employees of the company may have but little liberty of conscience. it is also said in the aforementioned circular that, "as regards mr. brady, the company acknowledges that cause for dissatisfaction has existed, and promises that action will be taken to remove this cause." this acknowledgment was certainly a good one, but we have no knowledge of the promise having been fulfilled. mr. brady has been moved from one division to another of the canadian pacific railway, but as this change did not take place until long after this meeting was held, and then only in connection with many others among the officials and employees of the canadian pacific railway, and as mr. brady still holds an honorable position in the company's employ, we see no reason for supposing that this had any connection with the promise made to the committee. some of the temperance people feeling dissatisfied with the results of the canadian pacific railway-alliance conference sent communications regarding it to the papers, but the press, from some cause, seemed very loath to publish these protests. however, the following, addressed to the editor of the _witness_, did find its way to the public, and may have expressed the opinions of many besides the writer: "sir,--that the temperance people of canada were moved, as never before, by the dismissal of its sutton junction agent, mr. w. w. smith, by the canadian pacific railway company, because he had rendered himself obnoxious to the lawbreakers of the county of brome, who had tried but failed to kill him, there is no doubt, as may be clearly seen from your columns, to say nothing of the thousand hearts, which, like mine, said nothing, but felt no less all the while that by its action the canadian pacific railway had placed a premium upon lawlessness and immorality at the expense of those whom i had been taught to regard as the 'salt of the earth.' "the immediate consequence of this was that that line of railway was being shunned, and its services neglected by many of its old patrons, and by this loss its magnates were being taught a lesson, and put on the 'repentent stool,' and it seemed almost certain that never more would the bradys, taits, and van hornes of this canadian made and pampered corporation forget that temperance people of canada had both the will and the power to retaliate upon their persecutors. and that if another such dismissal was ever again attempted, they would 'more darkly sin,' and hide the 'cloven foot,' which was so openly shown by brady and tait. "at this juncture of its affairs, and at the moment when a persistence in the agitation would probably have resulted in reparation of the wrong done to mr. smith, and an open repudiation of its immoral attitude, mr. tait managed to get a hold of some gentlemen, who like the seven tooley street tailors, who called themselves 'we, the people of england,' arrogated to themselves the right to speak for the temperance people of canada, and he played them off on the 'come into my parlor, said the spider to a fly,' and the upshot of the matter is the most disappointing and sickening, i think, i have ever seen. "i do not know the names of any one of these men, so i cannot be accused of malice in holding up their conduct to the commiseration not to say contempt of the public. though an intense prohibitionist i have never been able to appreciate the wisdom and nerve of some of our temperance people; yet, never before have i noticed anything that looked so like treachery to our cause. "in your issue of the th inst. we have a large heading, 'brady repudiated,' and in the body of the article we see this temperance committee, if not openly repudiating mr. smith, allowing the canadian pacific railway to defame his character, and to their very teeth justify his dismissal, and giving their consent to both. "how artfully mr. tait changed the whole ground of complaint; and how simply the committee were hoodwinked and befooled will be seen, when i say that that which roused the temperance people was the truckling of the canadian pacific railway to the liquor traffic, and its marked contempt for temperance men, its moral tyranny over its employees, and its wrongful dismissal of mr. smith, simply because his attitude on a moral question had exasperated the other side. but in the report which you give of the interview between this committee and mr. tait, all this is lost sight of, and the whole ground of complaint is made to rest on poor brady, the 'scapegoat's' phraseology. 'the committee claimed that the ill-advised language used in assistant superintendent brady's correspondence has caused great dissatisfaction on the part of the temperance people of canada.' "the committee would seem to have insisted on the punishment of brady, while concurring with tait in everything. the report says: "'the canadian-pacific railway acknowledges that cause for dissatisfaction has existed, claim the responsibility of dealing with, and will deal with the matter in such manner as they consider deserving in the premises.' if this is offered as a salve to the small, cowardly feelings which would like to see a subordinate punished for doing what he was told to do, i trust the canadian pacific railway will disappoint the committee, and let their scapegoat go free. it would be both cruel and unfair that the blow should fall on brady, the mean tool, and the bigger tyrants go free. this is so evidently seen in the fact that tait practically insists on the same right to muzzle canadian pacific railway employees that brady did. "james findlay. "_beachburg, p. q._" commenting on the above letter the _witness_ says: "the question might be raised whether the committee appointed by the temperance conference had instructions to come to any agreement with the canadian pacific railway. they certainly were instructed to give the company an opportunity to right the wrong it had done before proceeding to publish the finding of the conference. it was, therefore, natural for the company's representative to ask the committee what would satisfy them, and it would seem to the committee unreasonable not to answer such a question. mr. findlay labors under a misconception if he thinks the committee were not independent, and determined to maintain the rights of temperance men. they were selected so as best to represent the interests of mr. smith as well as those of the principles at stake. the assurances they received were certainly about as complete as could well be looked for from a company that was not prepared to acknowledge itself dictated to as to the management of its internal affairs. the company was not asked to reinstate mr. smith, which would have been unpleasant for him. what it promised was that temperance men should be under no disability in its service, and though it reserved to itself the right to manage its own affairs, it acknowledged that cause for dissatisfaction existed, and undertook to deal with the matter. this, we submit, if followed up in accordance with the company's policy, as stated in mr. tait's letters, is a very satisfactory position." the reason of this latter statement is seen when we remember that "the company's policy as stated in mr. tait's letters" was that when any officer or employee antagonized a part of the community on a question on which the public were divided, the company would "protect its interests by his removal;" and mr. brady had certainly opposed and displeased a very large portion of the community. how this assistant superintendent was really dealt with, is shown by the following from a report of an executive meeting of the provincial alliance, on april th: "the first business considered was the communication, from the canadian pacific railway, forwarded to the executive from the general committee for action. this letter was in reply to the secretary's request to know in what manner the company had dealt with mr. brady, the assistant superintendent, whose action in connection with mr. smith's dismissal had been so offensive to the temperance people. the letter is addressed to mr. carson, the secretary, and is as follows: "'dear sir,--i have to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of the st inst. "'the company has reproved and dealt with mr. brady as, under the circumstances, was considered deserving, and in such a manner as, it is trusted, will prevent any reasonable cause for further complaint. "'mr. brady, while stating that he never intended the slightest disrespect towards the dominion alliance or disapproval of temperance principles, has acknowledged that he gave cause for dissatisfaction, and expressed regret for the same, and a determination to avoid a recurrence. yours truly, "'thos. tait, "'assistant general manager.'" a few days previous to this executive meeting the above letter was presented at a meeting of the general committee of the provincial alliance, and "was not considered at all satisfactory." however, the executive committee, without approving the letter, decided to publish it "for the information of the temperance public," probably accepting it as the best which could be hoped for under the circumstances. but, although all was not satisfactory, there were, as we have said, some causes for gratitude in connection with this affair. the canadian pacific railway and canadian liquor men had a chance to learn that among their opponents there was some zeal and spirit, and a desire to help one another, and this knowledge may make them more careful in the future as to how they oppose and arouse temperance sentiment. such an agitation and interest as resulted from this dismissal, doubtless might decide some unsettled minds in favor of the temperance party. also the action of the canadian pacific railway in thus reproving mr. brady, and eliciting from him a promise to exercise greater caution in the future was probably as much as could be expected from a powerful corporation which is not willing to acknowledge itself in the wrong, and whose "objects do not extend beyond the promotion of its business," so long as the laws of our land permit liquor sellers to be licensed, and prohibition is a thing talked of, but not experienced. not until national prohibition finds a place among canadian laws, and is upheld by the canadian government, will such bodies allow themselves to be dictated to by the temperance people. the scott act is very good so far as it goes, but if the county of brome, instead of having this act, and standing, in this respect, almost alone in the province, had possessed its share in a prohibition law which held sway from the atlantic to the pacific, the outlawed liquor venders of the county would probably not have had such power with a great corporation as they displayed in this case. if the temperance people of canada wish to have a powerful voice in such matters as this, or if they would have great institutions like the canadian pacific railway conducted on principles of temperance and true freedom, let them work for prohibition, and send representatives to parliament who will do the same. and just now, when they hold in their hands a key which may be the means of unlocking to us the gate of prohibition for our country, let them use it to the best advantage, by giving a powerful majority for good when the plebiscite vote is taken. chapter ix. the march court. as was stated in chapter iii. of this book, the prisoners, kelly and howarth, remained in jail, the former at montreal, the latter at sweetsburg, during the winter of - , awaiting trial at the court of queen's bench. this court opened at sweetsburg on friday, march st, , but the assault case did not receive special consideration until the following week. monday, march th, the grand jury reported a true bill against m. l. jenne, jas. wilson and john howarth for conspiracy, and against walter kelly for attempted murder. on tuesday morning the court room was crowded so that it was impossible to obtain even standing-room for all the eager listeners, and many were obliged to content themselves with the little that they could hear outside the doors. thus was shown the great interest which the public felt in the result of this trial. when the names of the accused were called, mr. racicot, counsel for the defence, asked in an eloquent speech that the prisoners be allowed to sit with their counsel instead of being made to stand for hours in the dock. mr. baker, crown prosecutor, opposed this request, and hon. judge lynch ordered that the prisoners be put into the box. the next thing in order was the empaneling of a petit jury. it appeared that many of the proposed jurymen were known supporters of the liquor party, and these were, of course, objected to by the lawyer for the crown. in the words of _the templar_, "it seemed as if mr. baker challenged all who were known to 'take a glass,' while mr. racicot challenged all known temperance people." the afternoon session opened at one o'clock. the crown prosecutor made an eloquent speech to the jury, reviewing the evidence given at the preliminary trial. the following account of his address was given in the _witness_: "he said: 'it will be an evil day for canada when men, becoming indignant that the machinery of the law is put in force against them, send to marlboro or any other place for an assassin to "do up" those against whom their indignation is aroused.' speaking of the combination of circumstances that led to the identification of kelly, he said: 'there is a providence in these things. there is an overruling power that is directed in the cause of right.' he said regarding the character of kelly: 'the learned counsel for the defence will try to make you believe that kelly's evidence should not be accepted. the witness, kelly, is not one of my choosing; he is not chosen by any member of this court. he is of the prisoners' own choosing. they could not have procured the pastor of the first church of marlboro, nor one of the deacons, to do their work, but they were compelled to take a man from behind the bar of a saloon, in a low street; one who would take a shilling for his work, and do the job as directed by them." the first witness examined was mr. w. w. smith, whose evidence was similar to that previously given by him. he identified kelly as the man who had committed the assault on july th. the following is a part of the cross-examination as reported in the _witness_: "'do you know peter mcgettrick, of richford?' "'i do.' "'do you know frank brady?' "i do.' "'did you tell them on the sunday that they came to see you that you would take your oath that the man who assaulted you was orin wilson, a brother of jas. wilson?' "'i did not.' "'did you tell jane fay, at church, that you did not know who assaulted you?' "i did not.'" from some of the above questions it would seem that mr. brady, not content with having dismissed mr. smith from the service of the canadian pacific railway, was trying to aid his assailants to escape justice. the next evidence given was that of dr. mcdonald, of sutton, the physician who attended mr. smith after the assault. his testimony was given in the _witness_, as follows: "i know mr. w. w. smith. i was called to him professionally on july th. i found him in a dazed condition, with a bruise on the top of his head, four or five inches in length, swollen and contused. there was also evidence of another blow, not so long, more in the centre of the top of his head, and another blow still shorter and more to the right of the head, another on the side of the neck and shoulders, and one on the hip. all these bruises i considered serious. the appearance later was that of the discoloration consequent upon such bruises. the bruises were such as might have been inflicted by the weapon now in court. they could not have been inflicted by the fist. i saw mr. smith that morning, and on the night of the same day, on the following monday morning, and again on tuesday night. i then considered him sufficiently recovered to not require medical assistance further. i saw him afterward, but not professionally. death has often resulted from less blows than these." daniel smith, of sutton, then gave evidence that he had seen kelly at sutton on various occasions, the last time being on the evening previous to the assault. charles c. dyer, of the same place, also testified as to kelly's identity. he said that he had seen him on the race track, at sutton, in july, had heard him called a horse-buyer from boston, and had received the impression that he had come there to look at a trotting horse which belonged to mr. lebeau, the owner of the track. he had not considered it anything strange that howarth should be carrying him around the country to look at horses. the next witness was silas h. carpenter, of montreal, chief of the canadian secret service. he said that he had been employed to investigate the assault case. he had been informed of a stranger who, after staying in the vicinity of sutton for some time, had disappeared immediately after the assault, and decided that he was probably the guilty party. had learned that a man answering to the description of this stranger was in marlboro, mass., and to this place was sent a neighbor of mr. smith's, who identified kelly as a man whom he had seen in the neighborhood of sutton junction previous to the assault. the witness and mr. smith, after going before a justice of the peace, and obtaining papers for the arrest of their man, proceeded to marlboro. at fitchburg, mass., a warrant was made out from the papers which they carried, and kelly was arrested. he consented to go to montreal without extradition, and there, in mr. carpenter's office, related voluntarily the story which he told at the preliminary investigation, and on this evidence the other prisoners were arrested. mr. carpenter's testimony was the last on tuesday. court opened again at ten o'clock on wednesday morning. this was expected to be the last day of the trial, and a large crowd was present. mr. j. f. leonard, clerk of the court, was first sworn, and testified to the bad character of m. l. jenne, who had been indicted on sept. th, , for assaulting an officer in the discharge of his duty. the jury had found him guilty of common assault. mr. leonard identified the prisoner jenne as being the same man. george n. galer, a constable, confirmed this testimony, and said that he remembered having arrested mr. jenne at the time referred to. the next witness was walter kelly. he described how the liquor men had obtained his services, and told the story of his arrival and stay in canada, and the assault at sutton junction much the same as in his previous testimony. he stated that once while he was stopping at sutton it had been feared that his presence was exciting suspicion, and he had been sent to cowansville for a day. he also said that after the assault he had seen howarth at marlboro, and told him that he had done his work, but only received a part of the pay, and howarth had promised to see that the remainder was sent him. a while after this kelly had heard that detectives were in marlboro looking for him, and flynn, the barkeeper to whom howarth had written at first, had advised him to go away for a few days while he (flynn) should write to howarth, and learn the facts of the case. he went away, and on his return saw a letter from howarth which stated that kelly had not hurt smith at all, and they had been obliged to pay $ for the use of the team which he had while in sutton, and now the others were "kicking" and unwilling to pay any more. kelly said he supposed from this letter that he had done nothing for which he could be arrested, and, therefore, after reading it, did not try to hide again. after being arrested he was taken to fitchburg, where, instead of wasting a month in jail while waiting for extradition, he waived his claim, and went with mr. carpenter, and had since remained in his office in the care of a constable. he had told his whole story voluntarily; mr. carpenter had offered him no inducements whatever. kelly also stated that he had not been instructed to kill mr. smith, only to scare him, and give him a good "licking." wallace b. locklin was next sworn. he said his residence was at richford, vt., where he was a notary public and attorney. he had been appointed to take evidence in richford on this assault case. he knew ford, who kept the livery stable at richford, and had asked him to come to his office and give his evidence. ford refused to come, and said, if subpoenaed, he would pay his fine. the next witness was j. p. willey, of abercorn, formerly of st. lawrence co., n. y. he was exceedingly unwilling to tell what he knew of the case, and it was only by dint of very close questioning that his evidence was obtained. he knew jenne, the hotel keeper at abercorn. had held a conversation with him in the barroom of his hotel, when he asked jenne how much he had been fined for selling liquor without a license. he replied that he had had to pay over $ , and witness remarked that it was no outsider's business if he sold liquor. jenne said they could not do much with that man smith; they could not carry their goods over the road. the remark had been made that smith ought to be whipped or killed, or sent out of the country. witness believed that he had first suggested this, and then jenne had agreed with him, and asked him if he knew any one in his part of the country who could do such a job. he would not say that jenne had asked for a man who would "kill" mr. smith. witness remembered having mentioned this conversation to three men, and might have spoken of it to others. arthur holmes, of abercorn, sworn, said that he had heard of the assault on mr. smith. had understood that jenne was away when these prosecutions began. said they had all supposed that smith was the prosecutor in the liquor cases. albert e. kimball, a hotel keeper of knowlton, said he knew there were prosecutions for liquor selling. he was fined, so was jenne, also wilson of sutton. he was asked: "do you know of any scheme to get even with mr. smith?" mr. racicot objected to this question. mr. kimball said it had been remarked in the barroom that smith was a "mean cuss," and should be whipped. it was barroom talk. this is a strong testimony, coming from a hotel keeper, as to the nature of barroom adjectives and compliments, especially when applied to temperance people. edward martin, of sutton, was the next witness. he was occasionally employed by wilson, and looked after his business in his absence. was sent for one day in august, and asked to look after the house, as wilson was going away for a few days. he could not say how long he was gone. next mrs. james wilson, of sutton, testified for the defence. her maiden name was etta miltemore, and she had been married to james wilson eight years previous to the trial. she said she had heard of the affair at sutton junction through mr. smith's brother, who drove up about six or seven o'clock on sunday morning, and told that his brother had been assaulted the night before. on the saturday previous she had been with her husband at glen sutton, and about noon he had complained of feeling bad. they drove to sutton in the afternoon, and he was sick when they reached home. her aunt, mrs. vance, was there, and also henry wilson and wife. they put jim to bed, and doctored him, and he did not leave his room during the evening or night. as he seemed worse about half-past one, she called henry wilson and wife, who got up and remained up the rest of the night, but they did not call a doctor. mrs. vance was the next witness. she said her maiden name was annie fay, and she was the wife of beeman vance. she was acquainted with james wilson, and was aunt to his wife. she had gone on july th to call on mrs. wilson, and found that she and her husband were away, and henry wilson and wife were there. james wilson came home sick. witness remained at his house until nearly nine o'clock, and when she left he was a little better, but still very sick. she had known mr. smith for years. after the assault, she had one day met him at church, and congratulated him on his recovery, when he told her that he had no idea who committed the act. she said she had frequently seen james wilson ill, and had practised as nurse. henry wilson, following, said that he lived at glen sutton, and was brother to james wilson. he remembered the day of the assault, and knew it was in the summer, but could not tell the month. he had gone to his father's on saturday morning, and remained there until the afternoon of the next day. james and his wife were away when he reached their home, but returned saturday afternoon. james was very sick. about eleven o'clock witness helped undress him and put him to bed, and about half-past one he was called up by mrs. james wilson. next morning the news came that smith had got a licking. mrs. henry wilson's testimony was a confirmation of her husband's, and was the last given on wednesday. more evidence was promised for the next day, and the court adjourned till the following morning at ten o'clock. the first witness on thursday was peter mcgettrick, canadian pacific railway agent at richford, vt. he said he had been the richford agent in july, when mr. smith, also, was agent at sutton junction. witness knew frank brady and w. w. smith. when he heard of the assault he informed mr. brady, and they went together to visit mr. smith, whom they found in bed suffering from the effects of his injuries. in conversation with them mr. smith told them that he did not know who had committed the deed, but from the appearance of the man thought it might have been james wilson, one of the prisoners. william sears, of sutton, a brother-in-law of mr. smith, testified that he had been sent for by the latter on sunday morning after the assault, and went to him at once. mr. smith told him that he did not know who was his assailant, but it was a heavy man who walked with a peculiar gait. witness was with mr. smith while mr. brady and mr. mcgettrick were there, but heard no conversation such as was related by the previous witness. james e. ireland, telegraph operator at sutton, who was the next witness, said that he had been night operator on july th, and had received a telegram for dr. mcdonald, asking him to come to sutton junction immediately, as mr. smith had been assaulted. another message had been sent to james h. smith, telling of the affair, and requesting him to be on the watch. he could not produce the record of the dispatches, but told them as he remembered them. james h. smith, also of sutton, a brother of w. w. smith, was then sworn. he said he had been notified of the assault by telegram about two o'clock on the morning of july th. the message which he had received was as follows: "w. w. smith is badly hurt. get homer and others to watch the roads." he went for the man mentioned, and then learned that mr. ireland had received a message asking that wilson's hotel be watched. no light was seen in the house there, but l. l. jenne was appointed to watch the place. witness had seen kelly four or five days before the assault driving a team which he supposed to be wilson's. he had thought it strange, but could not say that he had felt any suspicion. he had supposed the team to be wilson's because he had noticed the latter driving it at different times during the summer. he had seen james wilson the night before the assault, walking on the street towards the post office, and wilson had spoken to him. he had also seen kelly at that time with a team. lewis l. jenne, a clerk for the canadian pacific railway at sutton, testified that he knew the prisoners, and was distantly connected with one of them, m. l. jenne, of abercorn. he had been in the employ of the canadian pacific railway for seven years. on the morning of july th, at about two o'clock, he was awakened by james h. smith and another man, who told him what had happened. witness had taken it as his work to watch wilson's hotel, but saw no light or stir about the house. if any light had been there he must have seen it, as he had on many nights before and since. during cross-examination he said that he had watched the hotel on the night in question, from a little after two o'clock until morning. a swift horse could go from sutton junction to sutton in ten or fifteen minutes. witness had not tried to enter wilson's house, but had watched outside. he had heard that the wilsons threatened smith, and was quite sure he had heard it said that they were mixed up with this affair. walter kelly, being then recalled, said that he had seen wilson on saturday night, july th, between seven and eight o'clock, near curley's hotel, going towards the post office. he also stated that once he had driven wilson's team on the road where james smith claimed to have met him with it. this completed the evidence in the case. mr. racicot, counsel for defence, then addressed the jury, quoting all the points of law which might seem to have a bearing in favor of the prisoners, and making an eloquent plea which lasted one hour and twenty minutes. hon. g. b. baker, q. c, quoted the law on the other side, proving quite clearly that the prisoners were deserving of punishment. he laid great importance on the facts that kelly's evidence had not been contradicted, and that, while henry wilson had told of getting up at half-past one, and lighting a lamp which he said had been left burning in the kitchen until morning, the witness jenne had stated that he watched the house without seeing any light, as he must surely have done had there been one to see. judge lynch followed with a very earnest address which lasted about forty-five minutes. he summed up the evidence in the case, and quoted the laws bearing on it, reminding the jurors of their great responsibility, and endeavoring to impress upon their minds the importance of a righteous judgment. his speech was not at all in favor of the accused. the jury then retired, and forty-five minutes later, when the judge demanded their verdict, the sheriff reported that they did not agree, and there was no possibility of their doing so that night. this was announced to the waiting crowd, who had thronged the court room to hear the decision. court then adjourned, and the jury were locked up for another night. on friday morning, march th, the jury were again summoned, and stated that they were still unable to agree upon a verdict. the judge appeared both surprised and disgusted. in dismissing them he said: "gentlemen of the jury, while you have exercised the discretion which the law allows you, i must pronounce your decision most extraordinary. the public are indignant that in a case where evidence is so clear, there should be doubt or hesitation in the mind of any intelligent man who should be summoned on a jury." mr. baker, q. c., moved that a new jury be empanelled at once to proceed with another trial. mr. racicot seemed willing, but justice lynch postponed such proceedings until monday, march th. in the meantime, on sunday, friends of the accused and of the liquor party in general were seen driving in the direction of sweetsburg, and it was thought by some that a plan might be forming to secure easy terms for the prisoners. on monday morning many anxious people were awaiting the issue, and previous to the opening of court it was noticed that the crown prosecutor was absent, and soon the counsel for defence also disappeared. on their return, it is said, the latter wore a look of satisfaction, while the former's courage of last week seemed to have in some degree deserted him. when the judge had taken his seat, mr. racicot stated that his clients were now willing to withdraw their former pleas of "not guilty," and acknowledge themselves "guilty of common assault." then the lawyer for the crown, who had on friday been so eager to proceed with a new trial at once, but who now seemed to fear that another jury would mean only a second disagreement, assented to this proposal; while the judge, who had given such a strong charge to the jury and appeared so much surprised at their failure to declare the prisoners guilty, now agreed, on behalf of the court, to withdraw the indictments for "attempt to murder," and accept the pleas, "guilty of common assault." john howarth, marcus l. jenne and james wilson then pleaded "guilty of common assault," while walter kelly was indicted on a charge of "committing assault with intent to murder." however, he also pleaded "guilty of common assault," and the plea was accepted. then mr. racicot, not content with what had already been gained, asked for the leniency of the court towards the prisoners in giving sentence for the charges to which they had pleaded guilty, and the judge appointed to each of the four prisoners the light sentence of one month's imprisonment in common jail with hard labor, accompanying this sentence, however, by some very severe remarks as to the seriousness of their crime, and the disgrace it had brought upon themselves. thus ended this assault case, so far as its hearing at sweetsburg was concerned, and the prisoners and their friends departed from the court room well pleased with its termination. chapter x. the decisions of another tribunal. the court of public opinion is an important tribunal before which all such affairs as this we have been considering must come for decision, and its judgments are not always identical with those of the judges and juries in the courts of law. therefore, it must not be supposed that the temperance public were at all satisfied with the termination of the assault case related in our last chapter. on the contrary, they were quite disappointed and indignant, although their opponents seemed very well pleased with the turn affairs had taken. some of the criticisms from temperance papers and people are here given. the following comment by the montreal _witness_ was quoted in _the templar_ of march d: "the sentence of one month in jail for each of the tavern keepers, who pleaded guilty to having procured an american idler to commit an atrocious assault upon mr. smith, the president of the brome county alliance, is probably as severe as can be looked for in a county where a jury dare not find men guilty. that the purpose was to commit murder, the fatal weapon provided proves. the plea of guilty on the part of the prisoners is a plain condemnation of the jury in failing to bring in a verdict. "the liquor men, for the sake of whose illicit trade the canadian pacific railway company dismissed mr. smith from its services, are self-convicted at least of the most dangerous and brutal ruffianism. mr. brady, who took the part of those customers of the company against his own subordinate, mr. smith, remains the accredited authority of the company in that section of the country. this is a fact which should be generally known." below is the view expressed by _the templar_, itself, and also repeated by the _witness_. "the result of the trial of the conspirators to 'do up' w. w. smith, president of the brome county branch of the dominion alliance, for his zeal in bringing to justice the men who would persist in maintaining an illicit liquor traffic contrary to the fully expressed judgment of the people, has been a confession of 'guilty' by the accused, and the imposition a sentence of one month in jail at hard labor. "the confession and the facts brought out in evidence reveal the liquor traffic in a most unenviable light. "the plot was hatched in a barroom, a liquor seller hired a marlboro, mass., bartender to do the 'job,' and he was the guest of hotel keepers while he was spying out the land preparatory to his murderous assault. never was a more cool, calculating and infamous deed wrought in this country. the wretch, chatelle, acted under a sudden impulse to gratify an abnormal passion, but these wretches planned weeks ahead to 'do up' smith, yet such cowards were they, they dared not strike the blow, but hired the marlboro tool to do it for them. jenne, howarth and wilson, you are arrant cowards, and your weakness is only exceeded by the devilishness of your malice! "these are the men who say we cannot enforce prohibition, and undertake to make the law a dead letter. men who will murder--no, they lack that courage, but will hire the slugger--if they are not permitted to carry out their work of death. shall we make our laws to please, or to restrain and punish such men? "not the least ignominious feature of the trial was the failure of the jury to convict upon the clearest evidence. their disagreement was rebuked by judge lynch, and later by the prisoners themselves pleading guilty. the murderous assault and the terrorizing of the jury furnish all the evidence that is requisite to justify the demand for prohibition." the _witness_ of march th contained the following, giving the opinions of certain local papers respecting the decisions of the court in this trial: "the huntingdon _gleaner_, referring to the sentence of a month's imprisonment passed on the defendants in the smith assault case, says: 'this is a most inadequate punishment. had kelly put more force into the first blow he struck with his piece of lead pipe, smith would assuredly have been killed. the liquor men, who were the authors of the foul deed, should have been sent to the penitentiary.' "referring to the disgraceful conduct of the jurors in disagreeing, despite kelly's confession, the waterloo _advertiser_ says: 'the jury might, at least, have brought in the verdict of a western jury that tried a man for assault with intent to kill. after being out two minutes the jury filed into court, and the foreman said: "may it please the court, we, the jury, find that the prisoner is not guilty of hitting with intent to kill, but simply to paralyze, and he done it." the trial has been an expensive one to the crown, and its inglorious ending will hardly satisfy the public that the ends of justice have been served and the law vindicated.'" the following appeared as an editorial in the _witness_ of march th: "we have received many very strong expressions with regard to the failure of justice in the matter of the cold-blooded and cowardly attempt on the life of mr. w. w. smith, the president of the brome county alliance. a leading citizen of the district proposes a public demonstration to denounce the jury and judge for this failure. as for the judge, as we said at the time, we cannot see that he can be blamed much for the lightness of the sentence upon a verdict for only common assault. so far as can be gathered from the conduct of their representatives on the jury the people of the district have concluded to live in a condition of timid subjection to a band of assassins settled among them. and not only they, but the great national railway, which passes through their district, felt called upon, on behalf of the same lawless crew, to heap abuse and obloquy upon, and finally to dismiss one of its own officers for busying himself with the enforcement of law against them. we should be greatly cheered to think that this jury which betrayed the public safety committed to it by law, was exceptional, and that the district could yet be roused to vindicate law and order." in all these articles it is assumed that the reason of the jurymen not agreeing on a verdict of guilty was their personal fear of the liquor men. there is another possible aspect of the case which is not touched upon by these papers, viz., that the jurors may have been friends of the liquor party, and their disagreement may have been intended not to secure their own safety, but to shield the hotel keepers from such punishment as must follow a decision of guilty on the part of the jury. we quote here some of the communications mentioned above, which were sent to the editor of the _witness_ regarding the settlement of the assault case. the letter given below, signed "justice," was written from sweetsburg under date of march th, : "sir,--the smith assault case is concluded, but the people are not done talking about it, by any means; and for some time to come the privilege of free speech will be exercised on that case. the judge in his charge to the jury on thursday said: 'no intelligent and right-minded jury can fail to bring in a verdict in accordance with the testimony.' the evidence for the prosecution proved unmistakably the guilt of the prisoners, while the testimony for the defence was evidently manufactured for the occasion. "the prisoners on monday pleaded guilty to common assault. if howarth, jenne, wilson and kelly were guilty of anything, they were guilty of more than common assault, if ever there was a deliberate and well-planned scheme for 'doing up' any person, that plan was made in this instance, and the nail was clinched when howarth, at richford, paid to kelly the fifteen dollars earnest money, which was to be followed later by the hundred and fifty when the 'job' was done. that 'job!' such a 'job' as that! an assassin hired for the purpose, by villains blacker-hearted than himself, to go in the middle of the night, armed with a murderous weapon, to attack a defenceless and sleeping man, to 'do him up.' what does that mean? who is initiated into the mysteries of the language? does it mean to disable him? or does it mean to kill him? who is safe in the discharge of his duty and in the performance of the god-given work to which every christian man is called? "if the law protects a rumseller who has a license in his business of selling the liquid poison, should not that same law protect a man who, residing in a town where the scott act is in force, prosecutes liquor sellers who are dealing contrary to the laws? let us have fair play! if the law is like a game of checkers, in which, not the best man, not the righteous cause wins, but the party wins who makes the most dexterous move, then the least we can ask is fair play. "what have we seen in the courts during the past week? one man arrested for stealing a dollar's worth of goods or so, and that man jailed for fifteen months. in contrast to this case, we see these men with their murderous schemes, deliberately planned, attempted and partially executed, we see these men condemned to one month's imprisonment with hard labor! what a farce is the law! is it any wonder that indignation is aroused in the hearts of the conscientious and god-fearing members of the community, and that men as they meet ask each other the question, 'why is this? did the jury fear that they, too, might be exposed to a sudden attack of lead pipe?' "if it is cowardly to shirk an issue on a point between right and wrong, then we certainly have moral cowards here, in the district of bedford. however, there is this to comfort the heart of the right-minded citizen; punishment does not altogether consist in the number of days spent in jail, but the disgrace to which these men have been subjected can never be wiped out nor removed. "the investigation of the case was thorough, and the crime proven unmistakably against those four men. it will undoubtedly prove a warning to others, and, we may say, to themselves also, in the future." another letter, written by a "law-abiding canadian," and published in the _witness_ of march th, is as follows: "sir,--many have been surprised and disappointed at the silence that has prevailed in our newspapers since the verdict of the jury in the w. w. smith attempt to murder or 'do up' case. instead of a resolute onslaught of protests from the people through the press and by public bodies, all is comparatively quiet. "what is the reason of this? is it that they are paralyzed with surprise and horror for the time being? it surely must be so. if not, it is time we were asking where we are and what we are coming to. sir, our ears are made to tingle, and our hearts are thrilled with horror, when we read of the wild lynchings by shooting, rope or burning, that have taken place in the united states. these dreadful things are reported from new states or in old ones, where race feeling runs high, and where justice, often handicapped by all the lawlessness and savage cruelty and ignorance of both a home and foreign element, fails for the time being, and we complacently say: 'it is just like the united states. what an awful country it must be to live in!' are we going back to such a state of things? has it come to such a pass that law and justice are becoming a mockery? god forbid that it should ever come to this, but something must be done that not only our persons and property may be protected, but that our belief that we have and hold in this canada of ours that british justice and fair play that is world-wide in its administration, and ever the same. "there is no doubt that the brand of public opinion on these individuals for their self-confessed and clearly proven guilt, if they have any conscience left, will be terrible, and make them bury themselves away forever from the community and public that their acts have horrified. but the matter must not end here. a great wrong to an individual and society has been done, and the public may well ask who will it be next; and whose person or property is safe if such lawlessness is allowed to go unpunished. let the lawkeepers be heard from in a way that will make our lawmakers enquire into our jury system, and devise some way to prevent the miscarriage of justice and consequent grievous wrong done to individuals and the people." the following from "one of the w. c. t. u.," appeared in the home department of the _witness_ of march d: "dear editor home department,--though i enjoy reading the home department, i have never before written anything for it, as writing is not my forte, but i feel almost compelled to send this to express my indignation at the light sentence passed on those three men in the smith assault case. i think it perfectly outrageous that they should get off so easily. such a crime, perpetrated in cold blood; even a man hired and brought from a distance to do the diabolical work! ten years in the penitentiary for each of them would have been quite light enough. but to give them one month at hard labor, they might about as well have let them go free. if mr. smith had been killed i wonder if they would have got two months? it seems to me this is the way to encourage crime. how is it that for so much lighter crimes, so much heavier sentence is often pronounced? is it because the people are afraid of the liquor men? it seems like it. "i am heartily thankful that the _witness_ stands up so nobly for truth and right. i know i will see a scathing article from the editor on this very subject. i hope it will do all the good he intends it to do. "we may be sure of one thing, and that is the liquor men never did the cause of prohibition so much good before. their brutality in this case will likely win many to our cause who would otherwise not have joined us." the following protest, signed "a lover of right," was published in the _witness_ of april th: "sir,--would it not be feasible to have a public meeting in the matter of the gross miscarriage of justice in the case of the would-be murderer of mr. w. w. smith, of sutton. "shameful as of late years the decisions of some juries and judges have been, never has a more shameful acquittal been known in this canada of ours. one man gets six months for stealing an ash barrel, probably really ignorant that it was not anybody's who chose to take it; another man 'one month with hard labor,' that man by his own confession a would-be murderer. but that such sentence should be allowed without public protest! surely the soul of righteousness is dead in a people if it be so." now that the assault case was settled, in spite of its unsatisfactory termination, the temperance people found the expenses connected with it, which amounted altogether to more than $ , , remaining for them to settle. it was decided to ask the government at quebec to assume these costs, or a share of them, and accordingly mr. carson, secretary of the provincial alliance, wrote to the government requesting its help; but, no reply being received, arrangements were made for a delegation to wait upon the premier. this was done on april th, the alliance representatives being mr. r. c. smith, mr. s. j. carter, rev. j. mckillican and mr. j. h. carson. the case was clearly stated, and the provincial government, of which all the members were present, was asked to bear a portion of the expenses. the delegation acknowledged that the proper course would have been to leave the matter in the hands of the attorney-general at first, yet, although this had not been done, as the temperance people, considering this affair of much more than individual interest, felt themselves morally bound to see that these expenses were paid, and not to leave all the burden upon the shoulders of mr. smith; and as, at a recent provincial alliance convention, it had been decided that this was a matter which concerned the temperance people of the whole province, the delegation asked in the name of the temperance people of quebec that the government assume the expenses connected with the vindication of justice in this case. mr. carter stated that, although he had no authority to say so, he thought if the government paid mr. carpenter's bill, which amounted to about $ , the temperance people would consent to raise the remainder. the attorney-general, hon. mr. casgrain, said he thought this might be done, and without any further assurances the alliance representatives withdrew. later the government consented to pay $ of the costs only, and the balance remained to be cancelled by the temperance public. the assault case is now ended, and lies some time in the past, and in these hurrying times an event of a few seasons ago is usually soon gone out of thought and interest. probably no such affair has ever happened in the dominion, or at least in the eastern townships, which has stirred the depths of so many hearts, and continued in interest for so long a time as this assault and the circumstances connected with it. and now shall we relegate these matters to a position among the dim memories of the almost forgotten past, and let them gradually slip away from our thoughts? even in these times of changing and forgetting, there are events which, by a few, are not soon forgotten, and which leave a lasting influence for good or evil upon some hearts and lives. shall it not be so in this case? will not we long remember the dark plotting of brome county's lawless liquor sellers, the desperate attempts to carry out their evil plans and the partial success which attended their efforts, and shall not the memory bring fresh zeal and energy to every son and daughter of temperance in the land? we find in this assault case a very marked example of some of the fruits of intemperance. we see here the evil thoughts, the loss of conscience, and the desperation that makes men shrink not from the darkest deed within their reach if by this they may further their own interests or gain revenge upon one who has opposed them. all these are the attendants and followers of strong drink in every clime. from the history of these deeds of darkness in brome county we may learn, also, the power possessed by the liquor party,--the dread influence that can prevail upon a great corporation to dismiss an employee who has previously been satisfactory, and that can frustrate the ends of justice, and obtain its will in a court of law. from these facts let us take warning, and, with an increased knowledge of the terrible work of strong drink and the powerful influence of the party that supports it, a stronger sense of the great need of willing, earnest workers who will "battle for the right in the strength of the lord," and a new realization of our own personal responsibility, let us work so faithfully for god and humanity against the powers of evil, that the grand result of these dark plots that were formed by outlawed liquor sellers in an illegal barroom shall be the adding of many fresh recruits to the ranks of those whom they wished to destroy. and whenever we have an opportunity of defeating these enemies of good and taking from them some of their ill-used power, let us strive, lest the victory be theirs, to give a strong majority on the side of right. in this way may the plans of satan prove instruments in the hands of the lord that shall work for his glory and the good of his creatures. * * * * * it may be well to add here a few words by way of explanation, as mention is several times made in this book of the future taking of a dominion plebiscite. at time of writing it was supposed that this book would be in print long before the vote was taken, but for various reasons its publication has been delayed. on september th, , the question of the liquor traffic was submitted to the people of canada, and a considerable majority was given for prohibition. quebec, alone, of all the provinces, failed to declare against the traffic, but even here there are some bright spots, prominent among which is the county where this dark plot was enacted, which gave a majority for prohibition of . as this is considerably more than that formerly given for the scott act, it is evident that the liquor men of brome are not gaining ground by dark plots or any other means. by this plebiscite, the prohibitionists of canada have been given a privilege never enjoyed by any other nation, and they have used it well, but now the work is just begun. let them not rest content until the end for which they have voted is realized, and then the coöperation of temperance people will be needed if the law is to be well enforced. there is still much we all must do if we would see our country freed from the curse of strong drink, and let prohibitionists take courage from the victory already achieved, and with renewed zeal press the battle to the gates. [illustration: "i say, pollie, how many have yer sold?" page .] ----------------------------------------------------------------------- little pollie or a bunch of violets by gertrude p. dyer author of "armour clad," "how hettie caught the sunbeams," etc. new edition john f. shaw & co., ltd., publishers, , pilgrim street, london, e.c. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- contents. page i. pollie starts in business ii. who had the violets? iii. how pollie spent her money iv. mrs. flanagan v. the kingdom of heaven vi. on waterloo bridge vii. the lost one found viii. sally's first sunday at church ix. crippled jimmy x. nora xi. christmas eve xii. in the spring-time ----------------------------------------------------------------------- little pollie. chapter i. pollie starts in business. "a penny a bunch; only a penny, sweet violets," cried a soft little voice, just outside the bank of england, one morning in early spring; "only a penny a bunch!" but the throng of busy clerks hurrying on to their various places of business heard not that childish voice amidst the confused din of omnibus and cabs, and so she stood, timidly uttering her cry--"sweet violets!"--unheeded by the passers-by. she was a fragile little creature of about ten years old, small for her age, with shy yet trustful eyes, and soft, brown, curly hair; and as she stood there, clad in a black frock and a straw hat, well worn, it is true, but free from tatters, with a piece of crape neatly fastened around it, had any one amidst that busy multitude paused to look at the little flower-seller, they would have wondered why so young a child was trusted alone in that noisy, bustling place. "i say, pollie, how many have yer sold, eh?" exclaimed another girl, coming up to her--quite a different type of girlhood, a regular london arab, one who from her very cradle (if ever she possessed such a luxury) had battled through life heedless of all rubs and bruises, ready to hold her own against the entire world, and yet with much of hidden goodness beneath the rugged surface. "only two bunches," replied little pollie, somewhat sadly. "only two!" repeated the other. "my eye! yer won't make a fortin, that's sartin!" "the people don't seem to see me, not even hear me," said the child. "'cos why, you don't shout loud enuff," explained the bigger girl. "if yer wants to get on in the world, yer must make a noise somehow. make the folks hear; never minds if yer deafens 'em, they'll pay 'tention to yer then. see how i does it." at that moment four smart youths came strolling leisurely along arm-in-arm, trying to appear as though merely out on pleasure, though they knew full well they must be in their office and at their desks before the clock struck ten. these were just the customers for sally grimes, and away she rushed full upon them, her thin ragged shawl flying in the wind, and her rough hair, from which the net had fallen, following the example of the shawl; and as she reached the somewhat startled youths, who almost stumbled over her, she held her only remaining posy right in their faces, screaming out in a harsh grating voice, rendered harsh by her street training-- "now, then, gents, this last bunch--only a penny!" polly looked on in utter amazement. it is true she did not understand sally's logic, but she saw plainly that the sweet violets were sold, for presently back came the girl, crying out-- "that's the way to do it. i've sold all mine; now let's see what you've got left. why, ten more bunches! come, give us two or three, i'll get rid of 'em for yer; i'll bring yer back the money. look sharp, i see some folks a-comin'." and without further parley she snatched up several of the dainty little bunches tied up so neatly by pollie's mother, and rushed off in pursuit of purchasers. she was certainly very fortunate, for in spite of a stern-looking policeman who was watching her movements, she sold them, speedily returning with the money to little pollie, who by this time was getting almost bewildered with the noise around. "there, my gal," said the kind girl, "there's the money for yer; look, six pennies. my! ain't yer rich. now i'm off to covent garding to the old 'ooman--mother, i means, yer know. there st. poll's a-strikin' ten; good-bye." so saying, the friendly sally grimes darted off amidst the crowd, leaving the child to manage for herself, and very lonely she felt after her good-natured ally was gone. it was pollie turner's first attempt at selling flowers, and this her first day. no wonder the poor child felt shy and sad, for she could remember the time when "father" used to come home at eventide to the small but cosy cottage in that green lane, far, far away in the pleasant country; and she used to stand at the gate to watch for his coming, sometimes running half-way up the lane to meet him, and he would perch her on his shoulder, where she felt, oh! so safe, and bring her home to mother. or she would climb his knee as he sat by the fire, and watch dear mother get the nice supper; but father was dead now. she had seen the pretty daisies growing above his grassy grave in that distant churchyard; and the mother, who had come up to london hoping to do better, was so ill and weak, scarcely able to do the needlework with which to gain food for them both. and mrs. flanagan had proposed the plan of pollie starting in business. so this is how it had all come about. pollie stood silently thinking over these events of the happy times gone by, when some one touched her arm softly, and then she looked up into the sweet face of a lady, whose kind eyes were bent half-sadly, half-pityingly upon her. "are you selling these violets, my child?" she asked; and her voice was so sweet. "yes, ma'am." "then will you let me have three bunches?" pollie with a smile put them into her hand, and the lady, after thanking her, placed the money for them in the child's basket, and went towards a carriage that was drawn up near the royal exchange. the child, lost in admiration at such a nice lady, followed her with her eyes, never thinking to look at the money she had given for the flowers, until glancing into the basket to see how many bunches were still left, she beheld a shilling shining amidst the dingy coppers. eager to return the money to its rightful owner, little pollie darted amongst the people who thronged the pavement, ran across the road at the risk of being run over, and reached the lady just as she was stepping into her carriage. "please, ma'am, please," she faltered quite out of breath, and at the same time pulling her violently by the dress. "let go, you little vagabond!" exclaimed the indignant footman, taking pollie by the arm to pull her away. fortunately the lady turned on hearing her servant speak thus, and saw the child struggling in his grip. "what is the matter?" she asked. "please, ma'am, this," cried pollie, holding up the shilling. "that is for the violets you sold to me." "oh no, ma'am, it is all wrong," exclaimed the child excitedly; "those flowers are but three-pence--a penny a bunch; that's all. here is your money, ma'am!" the lady gazed earnestly into the little girl's flushed face, as she asked-- "why did you not keep that shilling?" "because it was not mine," was the answer. "i should not have known but that the money was correct. you did not say the price of your flowers, my child." "god knew the price," said pollie reverentially, "and he would have been angry with me for cheating you, ma'am." "who taught you of god?" asked the lady softly, as she bent down to the little one. "mother!" was the reply. "and is your mother dead?" she questioned, perceiving for the first time the child's poor mourning. "no, ma'am, but father is, and mother is so ill and weak," and the shy brown eyes filled with tears. "poor child, poor little child," murmured the lady compassionately. "what is your name?" she asked after a pause, "and where do you live?" pollie gave the desired information. "well then, pollie," said her new friend kindly, "here is the money for the violets; and take this shilling: it will buy something for your mother, perhaps. i shall come and see you one day." so saying she patted pollie's thin cheeks with a soft loving touch; then stepping into the carriage was driven away, leaving pollie in a state of wonderful happiness at so much kindness from so nice a lady. "oh dear!" she thought, "i am rich now. i must make haste home to mother, and i've two bunches of violets still left. mother shall have one and mrs. flanagan the other." chapter ii. who had the violets! pollie tied up the money securely in the corner of her clean pocket-handkerchief, and with a light heart proceeded towards "home," which was situated in the neighbourhood of drury lane. it was a long way for so young a child to traverse alone; but the children of the poor early learn to be self-reliant. therefore she heeded not the dangers of the london streets, but threaded her way along; and if at times she felt afraid of a crossing, or some hurried foot-passenger hustled her roughly, a sweet text, taught by her dearly-loved mother, came to her mind, bringing a feeling of safety along with it. this was little pollie's comfort--"fear thou not, for i am with thee; be not dismayed, for i am thy god: i will strengthen thee; yea, i will help thee; yea, i will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness." and so she pursued her onward way, in her child's faith, trusting in him to safely guide. as she was turning up drury court she met lizzie stevens, a young woman who lived opposite to them, and who earned a scanty living by working for cheap tailors. often had the child looked from the window, and across the court watched the poor girl bending her pale face over her work, never pausing to rest, but for ever stitch, stitch. however, the young seamstress had seen her little neighbour watching her, and once or twice had nodded to her, and so a sort of acquaintance had sprung up between them; indeed, on several occasions they had met, and the child's prattle had cheered the lonely work-girl. "where have you been, pollie?" she asked as they went up drury court together, the poor girl staggering under the weight of a huge bundle--the child kindly keeping pace with her, though longing to run home with her budget of good news to mother. "i've been selling violets. mrs. flanagan got them for me, and i've sold them all but two bunches--see!" and she lifted up a cloth which she had placed over the sweet flowers to prevent them fading too quickly. "oh, how sweet they are!" exclaimed lizzie stevens, and she stopped, and putting her heavy bundle down on a door-step, bent her pale face over the flowers to inhale their perfume. when she raised her face it was whiter than before, and on the violets something was glistening. pollie at first thought it was a dew-drop, but when she looked up into her neighbour's eyes she saw they were full of tears--_one_ was resting on the flowers! "why are you crying?" asked the child softly; "are you ill?" "oh no, pollie," she sobbed forth; "but those sweet flowers recall the time when i was a little girl like you, and gathered them in the lanes near my happy home--before mother died." "is your mother dead, then? oh dear, i am so sorry," said the child with earnest pity. "yes, i am all alone in the world; no one to love or care for me," she exclaimed passionately. "ah, i wish i was dead too." "don't say so," said pollie soothingly; "god cares for you, and loves you dearly." "i sometimes think even he forgets me," moaned the poor girl, "when i see rich folks having all things they desire, and such as me almost starving, working night and day for a mere crust." "i once said so to mother," remarked the child, "but she opened our bible, and bade me read a verse she pointed out. shall i tell you what it was?" "yes," was the reply. pollie folded her hands, and repeated-- "give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me, lest i be full and deny thee, and say, who is the lord? or lest i be poor and steal, and take the name of my god in vain." and then she turned to another to comfort me, and this is it-- "be careful for nothing; but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto god. and the peace of god, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through christ jesus." when the child ceased speaking, she looked up into the face of her listener, whose head was bent in reverence to god. "o pollie!" she said at last, as again taking up her heavy load she proceeded slowly onwards, "i wish i had a good mother." "come over to us sometimes," said the child, eagerly. "will your mother let me?" was the question. "yes, i am sure she will; she is so good," was the reply. and then the two friends went on up drury lane, not speaking much; but as they were parting lizzie stooped down, and kissing the child lovingly, said softly-- "good-bye, and thank you, little pollie." "would you like a bunch of violets?" she asked. "i can divide the other between mother and mrs flanagan." the poor seamstress was unable to speak from emotion, but held out her hand with trembling eagerness for the flowers. how glad was the child in being able to give a pleasure to her lonely neighbour. she felt more joy in seeing lizzie stevens' glad smile than even in the magnificent sum of money wrapped in her handkerchief; for she experienced "it is more blessed to give than to receive;" and after seeing her friend disappear through the dingy doorway which led to the garret called her "home," she turned with a light heart into the entry which led to her own place, eager to see mother and tell her all; but in doing so almost fell over a little cripple boy who sat crouched on the door-steps. "o jimmy! did i hurt you?" she asked in alarm. "no. everybody knocks me about; i'se used to it," was his answer. "poor jimmy!" said the little girl. "where's your mother?" "down there, drunk again," he replied, pointing his thin finger in the direction of what in other houses would be the kitchen, but which was his "home," if it could be dignified by so sacred a name. pollie looked sorrowfully on the poor boy, whose thin, wizened face, with large, hungry eyes, was placed on a shrunk and distorted body. his mother was the pest of the court, always drunk, and in her drunken fury beating her wretched offspring. half-starved and half-clothed, he passed his time on the door-step, gazing vacantly at the passers-by, uncared for, unloved amidst the many. "poor jimmy!" repeated the little girl. "would you like some of my sweet violets?" the boy, unused to even a breath of kindness, gazed some few seconds at her with his eager eyes. "you be pollie turner, bain't yer, what lives upstairs with yer mother?" he asked at last. "yes," she replied, and repeated her question, as she took some of the flowers from her last bunch. "would you like these?" he held out his claw-like hand--so dirty that pollie almost shrank from touching it as she gave him the violets. he took them without a word of thanks, but as she was moving away he called out-- "i say, did yer make these?" "no, jimmy," she replied, as she came back to him; "god made them." "god!" he repeated, "who's he; him's mighty clever to fix up these little bits of things, bain't he?" the little girl was for a moment shocked, then she felt a tender pity for the poor boy. "o jimmy, don't you know who god is?" she gently asked. he shook his head; so she went on-- "god is our father in heaven," and she pointed upwards. "he made these sweet flowers, and us also, and he sent his dear son to die for us, so that all our sins should be taken away. and when jesus (that is the name of god's dear son) was here on earth, he gave sight to the blind, healed the sick, and was for ever doing good; but now he is in heaven, and still he loves us, oh, so dearly, and wishes us all to come to him." "does he want me?" asked the outcast doubtfully; "he don't know me." "oh yes, he knows you, jimmy, and loves you too; once jesus blessed little children like you and me, and said, 'suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.'" "the kingdom of heaven!" repeated poor benighted jimmy musingly--it was the first time he had ever heard those blessed words--"where be that, polly?" "it is where god lives, and where we shall go when we die if we believe in the saviour and love and pray to god." "how do you pray?" he asked, fixing his keen eyes upon her, as though hungering for the bread of life. but before she could reply, a loud, harsh voice was heard uttering frightful oaths, and a lumbering tread came stumbling up the cellar stairs. the poor boy knew full well who was coming, and with a terrified look started up and hobbled off, supported by his clumsy crutches, round the corner of the house, whilst pollie, who went in terror of the drunken woman, ran hastily up the dirty staircase, which served for all the inmates of the crowded house. chapter iii. how polly spent her money. the first two or three flights of stairs were thickly strewn with mud and dust from the feet of the different lodgers; but when pollie reached the last landing she felt it was home indeed. the stairs were as clean and white as hands could scrub them--no dirt was to be seen here,--and outside her mother's door was a little mat on which to rub the shoes before entering. it was quite a relief to reach this part of the house. there were only two rooms at the top part of the tenement--one inhabited by good mrs flanagan, the other by pollie and her mother; and though the apartments were small, and the narrow windows overlooked the chimney-pots and tiles, yet they felt it such an advantage to be up here, removed, as it were, from the noisy people who lived in the same dwelling; each room, in fact, was let out to separate families, some of them very rough and boisterous. pollie tapped at her mother's door, and then peeped merrily in. there sat that good and gentle woman, busily working close by the narrow window, so as to get as much light as possible for her delicate needlework. the tea-things were already on the table, which was spread with a clean white cloth, and the kettle sang a cheery welcome to little pollie; for though it was only three o'clock, it was tea-time for them, since dinner was an almost unknown luxury to this poor mother and child. "here i am, mother dear!" she cried, putting in her bright face, which was as sunshine to the lonely widow's heart. "o pollie, i am so glad you have come home; i was getting so anxious and afraid, and the time seemed so long without you, my child." then the little girl ran in and threw her arms around her mother's neck. "only look here!" she cried delightedly, when after a loving kiss she proceeded to display her riches; "see, mother," she said, arranging the money all in a row on the table, the bright shilling flanked on either side by five brown pennies; "are we not rich now? sixpence must be paid to kind mrs. flanagan for the sweet violets she got for me, and then we shall have one shilling and fourpence left, and i shall buy lots of things for you, mother darling," she concluded, clapping her hands in glee. the widow smiled cheerfully as she folded up her work, and prepared to get their simple meal of tea and bread, listening the while as the child related the events of the morning. "and now, mother," she pursued, "i must divide these dear sweet violets between you and mrs. flanagan." "then here are two little cups which will be just the thing for them," said the happy mother, whose pale face grew brighter as she gazed on the delighted child. with the greatest care pollie divided the flowers equally, and when putting theirs in the window, so that they might still see some of the blue sky, as she expressed it, she looked across the court towards lizzie stevens' home. yes, there she was, pollie could see, busy plying her needle, and there were the violets also, in a broken jam jar close by her as she sat at work; and raising her pale face towards them, as though they were old friends returned to her, she caught sight of little pollie arranging _her_ bouquet in the window; so with a bright smile (unwonted visitor to those wan lips) kissed her hand in token of recognition, and then pointed to the flowers. pollie quite understood this little pantomime, and nodded her curly head a great many times to her opposite neighbour in proof of her so doing. "come to tea, my child," said the mother, who had cut some slices of bread for the frugal repast, but which she had no appetite to eat. "wait a bit, mammie dear, i must do some shopping first," exclaimed pollie; "i shall not be long." and away she ran, gaily laughing at her mother's look of surprise. down the stairs she went, then out into the court; and just round the corner in drury lane was a greengrocer's shop, in the window of which hung a label "new-laid eggs." i fear that label told a fiction, but pollie believed in it, and thought the eggs were laid by the identical hens she saw earning a scanty living by pecking in the gutters and among the cabs and carts; so with a feeling of being very womanly, and tightly grasping the precious shilling in her hand, she took courage to approach the shopkeeper, who stood with arms akimbo in the doorway, flanked on one side by potatoes in bins, and on the other by cabbages and turnips in huge baskets. "please, ma'am," said pollie, "will you let me have a new-laid egg for mother?" the woman took an egg from a basket and gave it to her. "if you please, is it quite fresh? because mother is so poorly, and i want it to do her good." the shopkeeper looked at the earnest little face, and somehow felt she could not tell an untruth to the child, the brown eyes were raised so trustingly. "well, my little gal, i can't say as it be quite fresh, but it's as good as any you'll get about here." "then i'd better not have it," said the child, giving it back to the woman again; "only i did so want to get her something nice for her tea,--she can't eat much." and the lips quivered with suppressed sorrow at the disappointment. "why don't you get her a bit of meat instead?" asked the woman; "that'll do her good, i warrant!" "will this buy some?" questioned the child with brightened eyes, and opening her hand she showed the shilling. "to be sure it will. here, give it to me; i'll go and get you one pound of nice pieces at my brother's next door, if you'll just mind the shop till i come back; you can be trusted, i see," replied the mistress of the place, whose woman's heart was touched by the little girl's distress. pollie stood where she was left, guarding the baskets with watchful eyes. fortunately no mischievous people were about, so the vegetables were safe, though it was with no small relief she saw their owner return with such nice pieces of meat wrapped up in clean paper. "there," said the greengrocer's wife (whose name was mrs. smith, by the way), "these are good and fresh; my brother let me choose them, and have them cheap too, only fourpence a pound!" "oh, thank you, thank you, ma'am!" cried pollie, holding up her face to kiss the kind woman, who, totally unused to such affectionate gratitude in the poor little waifs about drury lane, bent down and returned the caress with a feeling of unwonted tenderness tugging at her heart. "and now, please, i should like a bunch of water-cresses for mrs. flanagan," said the child. "i know she is very fond of them with her tea." "what are you going to buy for yourself?" asked the shopkeeper, as, after handing pollie the freshest bunch in the basket, she stood watching her tiny customer. the little girl hesitated; at length she said-- "well, if i don't get something, mother will want me to eat this meat, and i mean her to have it all; so i'll buy two little pies in russell court,--one for me, and one for poor little crippled jimmy." "you're a good gal," exclaimed the woman. "here, put these taters in your basket; maybe your mother would like 'em with the meat, they boil nice and mealy." pollie was so grateful to mrs. smith for the kind thought, and held out her money to pay for this luxury; but to her surprise she told her to put it back into her pocket--the "taters" were a gift for her mother, and patting her cheek, bade her run home quickly, and always "be a good gal." chapter iv. mrs flanagan. as pollie reached her mother's door at last, after all this amount of shopping had been accomplished, she heard a well-known voice inside, and knew that mrs. flanagan had returned from work, and was now having her usual little chat with mrs. turner. good mrs. flanagan, who had been so kind to the widow and her child from the first moment they came to lodge in the room opposite to hers--good old woman, with a heart as noble and true as the finest lady's in the land--a gentlewoman in every sense, though not of the form or manner in which we are accustomed to associate that word. years ago she had been a servant in a farmhouse, where she was valued and esteemed by all as a sincere though humble friend; but mike flanagan won her heart, and she joined her fate to his, leaving the sweet, fresh country in which she had always lived, and cheerfully giving up all the old familiar ties of home and kindred for his dear sake. mike had constant work in london, with good wages too, as a carpenter, so though at first london and london ways sadly puzzled her, yet she soon became used to the change, and they were so happy--he in his clean, tidy wife, she in her honest, sober husband. but one day, through the carelessness of a drunken fellow-workman, some heavy timber fell upon poor mike, crushing him beneath its weight, and when next martha flanagan looked on her husband's face, she know he was past all suffering, and that she was destitute, and her sweet baby nora fatherless. but time soothed her anguish; she must be up and doing, and for many years she struggled on, working to keep a home for herself and child; and proud she was of her darling, her beautiful nora, who grew up a sweet flower of loveliness from a rugged parent stem, with all the beauty of her father's nation and something of the sweetness of english grace. well might the poor mother be proud of her only treasure. what delight it was to see this rare beauty brightening the lowly home! but the mother's idol was of clay; in worshipping the creature with such fond idolatry, she almost forgot the merciful creator. one sad night, on returning home from covent garden, where she was constantly employed by a fruiterer and florist, she found the place empty, no one to greet her now. nora was gone, lost in that turbid stream which flows through our city. oftentimes, as the lonely mother wended her way at night through the streets on her return from work, would she look with a shudder into the faces of those poor wretches who flaunted by fearing yet hoping to see her lost child. but the name of nora never passed her lips. no one who knew mrs. flanagan imagined of this canker at her heart; that page of her life was folded down, and closed to prying eyes; it was only when alone with god that on bended knees she prayed him to bring the poor wanderer home. "ah, my bird!" she cried, as pollie came joyfully dancing into the room. "here you are, then; i thought from what your mother said that such a lot of money had turned you a bit crazed." pollie did not reply, but pursed up her lips with a look of supreme importance as she placed her basket on the table, and proceeded to take out its contents. "there, mother dearie," she exclaimed with delight as she displayed the meat; "that's for you. you must eat every tiny bit of it, so let us try some directly. see, dear mrs flanagan, i bought these water-cresses for you. shall i fetch your tea-pot? for let us all have tea together to-day, like on sundays; this is such a happy day." and she ran across the landing without waiting for a reply, to bring the little brown tea-pot, which on the sabbath always found a place on mrs. turner's table; for that day was hailed as a peaceful festival by these two lonely widows, who kept god's day in sincerity and truth. when the busy child came back, she set to work to carefully wash the cresses, arranging them afterwards in a pretty plate of her own, and then, placing them and the violets she had saved in front of the kind old woman, lifted up her bright face for a kiss. but mrs flanagan was unable even to say "thank you, my bird." her face was buried in her blue checked apron. she muttered something about her eyes being weak, and when after a little while she looked up, and lovingly kissed the child, pollie feared they must be very bad indeed, they were so red, just as though she had been crying. "ah, my little one," she said in a husky voice "may god ever keep you pure and simple in heart; yea, even as a little child!" by this time the meat was fried, the tea made, and everything in readiness for this wonderful banquet--at least so pollie deemed it. how happy they were! mrs flanagan had recovered her usual spirits, and indulged in many a hearty laugh at the child's plans of what she should now do for mother, and the widow looked on with her quiet smile, happy in her child's happiness, glad because she was listening to her merry prattle; and though the meal was but scanty, no dainty dishes to tempt the appetite, yet the wisest man has said,-- "better a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith." chapter v. the kingdom of heaven. well, the days passed on, and little pollie pursued her work of selling violets; for those sweet flowers are a long time in season, bearing bravely the march winds and april showers, as though desirous of gladdening the earth as long as possible. all honour, then, to these hardy little blossoms. so day after day found pollie in the same spot where we first saw her, until at last the little brown-eyed girl became well known to the passers-by. kind old gentlemen, fathers, or it may be grandfathers some of them, thought of their own more fortunate children, whose lives were so much easier, and so thinking, stopped and bought of the shy little maiden, speaking kindly to her the while; girls on their way to the city workrooms gladly spent a hard-earned penny for violets, and worked more cheerfully afterwards, gladdened by the mere remembrance of pollie's grateful thanks. a sturdy policeman, too, whose beat was at that place, and where he seemed to hold stern sway over all the omnibus and cab drivers, took her, as it were, under his lordly care (perhaps he had a little girl of his own), and would shield her many times from the jostling crowd, or take her safely over the crossings. indeed, he was so kind, that one day, when she was going home, she summoned up courage enough to overcome her shyness, and offer him some of the violets she had not sold. to her great delight he accepted them, saying kindly,-- "thank you, my little woman." and all through that day he kept them in his pocket, sometimes, however, taking them out to smell their fragrance, and then, somehow, the remembrance of pollie's wee face as she looked when timidly offering the flowers, carried him back to the days of "auld lang syne," those happy days when he and his little sister (long since dead) had rambled through the green lanes of his native village, searching for sweet violets, and this memory cheered the poor tired policeman, made him forget the ceaseless din around and the never-ending wilderness of bricks. even the london sparrows looked less dingy, and the sunbeams falling across the dusty pavement recalled to his mind how fresh the green was where he used to play when a boy, and how the shadows seemed to chase the sunshine over the uplands on such an april day as this. yes, pollie's violets were not useless, they were speaking with their mute voices----speaking of the past with its brightest memories to this poor man. not that sally grimes had deserted her little friend, far from that, for somehow she "took to her," as she herself expressed it, and was always hovering about the child in case she needed protection. but sally's movements were inclined to be erratic; she dashed in and out among all sorts of vehicles in search of customers so recklessly, any one less experienced would have trembled for her safety; but she knew no fear, and dared the dangers of the streets most bravely. sometimes lizzie stevens would walk with pollie as far as the bank, then leaving the child to sell her flowers, would proceed to the east end with her own work; but on her return, the little girl was always ready to join her, and they would all three go home together. a great friendship existed between the hitherto lonely seamstress and pollie's mother, whose kind heart was touched by the account the child gave of their friendless young neighbour; so she sought her out, and finding how good she was, and how bravely she struggled to earn her daily bread honestjly, gradually won her confidence; so that now lizzie felt she was not _quite_ alone in this wide wide world. there _was_ a kind motherly love in which she could rest, and life was made brighter for her; even the days were less dreary than before, for as mrs. turner's room was nicer than hers, she invited her to bring her work over, and they stitched hour after hour at their ceaseless work, yet still they did not feel their loneliness so much, and were a comfort and help to one another. all this was a happiness to pollie, as she felt her mother would not be sad during her absence (as she very often was), for the child's "business" had become more extensive, her ally, sally, having persuaded her to sell flowers in the evening also; and as her mother and mrs. flanagan had offered no objection to this plan, pollie was only too glad to earn more; indeed the little girl's gains, small though they were, helped to get many simple comforts for the humble home. one evening about six o'clock she came home, swinging her empty basket in her hand and singing softly a merry song from sheer gladness thinking also of the dear face upstairs that would brighten up to welcome her, as it ever did, when, as she entered the doorway, she stumbled over poor little jimmy, crouching as usual just inside the entrance. "there ain't nobody at home, pollie," he said; "yer mother has gone to help lizzie stevens carry to the shop a real heap of work." "i daresay mrs. flanagan is in her room," said the child. "no, she ain't neither," replied jimmy, "for i see'd her go out to the market; i know, 'cos she took her great basket with her." "oh then!" exclaimed pollie, laughing, "i must just let myself in, and wait for mother; i know where she puts our key. good-night, jimmy dear." and she was going up the stairs when she felt the little cripple boy gently pull her frock to detain her. "i say, pollie," he said hesitatingly, "i be so lonesome here, will yer mind biding with me and telling me about the kingdom of heaven, and that good man what took such as you and me in his arms--like you told me t'other day?" "oh yes, jimmy, that i will," cried the little girl; "here, let us sit on this lowest stair; i don't think many people will be passing up now, and then i shall see mother when she comes in." the poor ragged outcast crept near to his tiny friend as she requested, and then sat looking up into her bright face, whilst in simple words such as a child would use she told him that sweet story of old--of our saviour, a babe in the manger of bethlehem--his loving tenderness to us--of his death upon the cross for our redemption--of his glorious resurrection and ascension to heaven, whither he has gone to prepare a place for those who love and believe him. "and does he want me in that beautiful land?" asked the awe-struck boy, almost in a whisper. "yes, jimmy, even you," was the reply. "but i be so dirty and ugly," he said. "god made you, dear, and he makes nothing ugly," replied the little girl soothingly. "and you say we shall never hunger or thirst in heaven, and never feel pain any more. o pollie, i wish i was there; nobody wants me here." his little friend took his claw-like hand tenderly in hers and stroked it gently. she knew what a wretched life was his, and could not wonder at what he said--"nobody wants me here"--but her heart was full of sympathy for his loneliness. "shall i teach you a prayer to say to jesus, jimmy?" she asked after a pause of some length, during which her companion had been silently gazing up at the only piece of sky that was visible in that narrow court, as though trying to imagine where heaven really was, the child having pointed upwards whilst speaking of the home beyond the grave. "what is prayer?" he asked. pollie could not explain it correctly, but she did her best to make it easy to his benighted mind. she gave him _her_ idea of what prayer is. "it is speaking to god," she said with reverence. "and will he listen to the likes of me?" was the question. "oh yes, if you pray to him with your whole heart," was her reply. the boy paused awhile, as though musing upon what she had said. "pollie," he presently entreated in hushed tones, "please teach me to pray." and then at the foot of the stairs knelt those two children--children of the same heavenly father, lambs of the dear saviour's fold--alike and yet so unlike; and the poor outcast cripple, following the actions of the little girl, meekly folded his hands as she clasped hers, and with eyes raised heavenward to where a few stars were now softly shining, he repeated after her-- "consider and hear me, o lord my god! lighten mine eyes, lest i sleep the sleep of death; for jesus' sake!" he murmured the blessed words over two or three times after she had ceased to speak; then in silence they sat down upon the stair again, to wait for mother. the daylight faded quite away, only the stars were shining. the court at this time of the evening was always very quiet, and the peace of god was resting on those little ones. by degrees a calm had fallen upon the poor boy's soul. never, never so happy before, he laid his weary head upon the little girl's lap with a feeling of perfect rest, murmuring to himself-- "for jesus' sake." and so pollie's mother found them fast asleep, with the star-light shining on their upturned faces. "of such is the kingdom of heaven." chapter vi. on waterloo bridge. "i say, why don't yer come with me on saturdays, pollie?" asked sally grimes one thursday evening as they wended their way homewards. it was opera night, and the sale of their flowers had been very good, so that sally, who had "cleared out," as she termed it, was elated with success. even pollie had only a small bunch left. truth to tell, she always liked to keep a few buds to take home with her--just a few to brighten up their room, or those of their two dear friends. she was tying up her blossoms, which had become unfastened, so that for the moment she did not reply to her companion's question, who asked again-- "why don't yer come on saturdays, eh? i allers does a good trade then." "mother likes to get ready for the sabbath on that day. so we clean our room right out, so as to make it nice and tidy. then i learn my hymns and texts for the sunday-school, and then mother hears me say them over, so as to be sure i know them well; and oh, it's so happy!" "sunday-school!" repeated sally; "is that where yer goes on sundays? i see yer sometimes with books, eh? lord do yer go there?" "yes; would you like to go with me?" pollie suddenly asked, looking up at her friend with delight at the mere idea. but sally rubbed her nose thoughtfully with a corner of her apron, uncertain what to say on the subject. "don't they whop yer at school?" she asked, after deliberating. to her astonishment, quiet little pollie burst into such a merry laugh. "no, indeed!" she exclaimed, when her mirth had subsided. "the teachers are far too kind for that. oh, i know you would like it, so do come." "well, i'll see about it," was the rejoinder. "my gown ain't special, but i've got such a hat! i bought it in clare market, with red, blue, and yaller flowers in it--so smart!" "oh, never mind your clothes," said pollie, somewhat doubtful as to the effect such a hat would have on the teachers and pupils; "come as you are, only clean and tidy--that is all they want." for some time they walked on in silence, but their thoughts must have been on the same subject, for suddenly sally asked-- "what do you do at sunday-school?" "we read the bible, repeat our texts and hymns. shall i say the one i am learning for next sunday to you?" "well, i should like to hear it," was the reply. "suppose we go and sit on waterloo bridge--it's nice and quiet there--i'll pay the toll." pollie, however, would not consent to her friend's extravagance on her behalf, so the two children paid each their halfpenny and passed on to the bridge. it was a lovely evening, and though april, yet it was not too cold, so they seated themselves in one of the recesses, and for a time were amused by watching the boats on the river, chatting merrily, as only children can. "now, then, tell me yer pretty hymn," said sally, when at last they had exhausted their stock of fun, and putting her arm around her little friend's neck, they cuddled up lovingly together--the gentle little pollie, and sturdy, rugged sally. then the child repeated to her listening companion-- "abide with me! fast falls the eventide; the darkness deepens; lord, with me abide," &c. she went on unto the end, the bigger girl listening the while with almost breathless eagerness, and when it was finished they both remained silent. evidently those beautiful verses had struck a chord hitherto mute in the heart of the poor untaught london waif. "oh, but that's fine!" she murmured at last in hushed tones. "tell me something else, pollie." however, just at that moment the attention of the children was arrested by a young woman who came and sat down in the recess opposite them. they had both noticed her pass and repass several times, but as they were almost hidden by the stone coping of the bridge, she had not observed them. with wild gestures she threw herself upon the stone seat, and imagining she was alone, burst into piteous moans, alternately clasping her hands tightly together, as though in pain, then hiding her pale but lovely face, which showed traces of agony; swaying backwards and forwards, but with ever the same ceaseless moaning cry. "oh, poor lady!" whispered pollie to her friend. "she ain't no lady, though she be so smart in a silk gown and rings on her fingers," replied her companion in the same low tone. "what is she then?" asked the child. poor sally grimes! her education had hitherto been confined to the london streets, and that training had made her but too well acquainted with life in its worst phases; so she replied-- "she's only some poor creature---- i say!" was her exclamation, as suddenly she started up, "what be yer going to do?" the latter part of this sentence was addressed to the stranger, who had sprung upon the stone parapet, and was about to throw herself into the deep waters beneath. "let me die! let me die!" she cried, wildly struggling to free herself from sturdy sally's strong grasp. "no, i won't!" was the reply. "here, pollie, you hold hard too." "oh, in mercy, in pity, let me die!" sobbed the unhappy creature in her agony. "oh, if you only knew how i want to be at rest for ever!" and again she struggled franticly to escape from the saving hands that held her. "now, if yer don't get down and sit quiet on this seat, i'll call that there peeler, and then he'll take yer to bow street," exclaimed the undaunted sally. "ain't yer 'shamed to talk like that? now, come, i'll call him if yer don't do what i say." frightened by this threat, or perhaps seeing how fruitless were her feeble struggles against the strong grasp of her preserver, the unhappy girl--she was but a girl--shrank down submissively on to the seat, still trembling and moaning, whilst brave-hearted sally stood over her to prevent any further attempt at self-destruction. pollie looked on in bewildered surprise at this sad scene, not knowing what to make of it; but she still kept her hold on the woman's dress, as if her small strength could be of any service; but sally had told her to "hold on," and so she obeyed. the woman was now sobbing bitterly. it was more than the child could bear to see any one in tears, so laying her little hand tenderly upon the sorrow-bowed head, she said very gently-- "please don't cry, ma'am; it makes sally and me so sad." at that soft touch and soothing voice the woman looked up, and then the two children saw that she was very beautiful even now,--mere wreck as she seemed to be of all that is pure and lovely. "child!" she cried, "do you know what you touch?--a wretch not fit to crawl the earth much less be touched by innocent hands like yours." pollie shrank back in terror at these words, and the tone in which they were uttered, but sally was equal to any emergency. "come, come," she exclaimed, "don't yer talk like that, frightening this little gal in that way; you just quiet yourself, and then we'll see yer safe home." "home!" was the response. "i have none, only the streets or the river." "stuff and nonsense!" cried practical sally. "no home!" repeated little pollie; "how sad!" "now what's to be done?" debated the elder girl, somewhat puzzled as to the course to be pursued; "here's night coming on, and we can't leave you here, yer know." "let us take her home to my mother," exclaimed the child; "mother will know what to do." but sally hesitated. "perhaps she might not like it," she observed. "oh, i am sure mother won't mind, she is so good and so kind." all the time the children were discussing what was to be done, the unhappy creature sat there, never heeding what was said, but still sobbing and moaning, and apparently utterly exhausted. "well, then, there's nothing else to be done that i see, so come along, young woman;" and so saying, sally grimes grasped her firmly by the arm, thus forcing her to rise. "where are you taking me?" she asked, gazing wildly around. "to pollie's mother," was the reply. but the woman hung back and strove to free herself. "i will not go!" she cried; "let me stay here, leave me to myself." however, there is much to be said in favour of strength of will. sally grimes, young as she was, possessed it in a wonderful degree; therefore, without wasting another word, she compelled the forlorn creature to go with her, little pollie still keeping hold of the poor thing's dress. chapter vii. the lost one found. mrs. turner sat alone, busily sewing, but she heard her darling's well-known step come pattering up the stairs; so she put on the tea-kettle directly, for she knew the little one would be tired and hungry; and forthwith it began to sing cheerily, filling the room with its homely melody, as though it would say "pollie is coming," "pollie is coming;" and somehow the mother felt cheered. it may be the kettle's fancied greeting was but the echo of her own loving heart. time was too precious to be wasted, so the widow continued her work, and the light from the one candle being centred to the spot where she sat, the entry was consequently dark; but on looking up with a smile of greeting, expecting only to see pollie, she was surprised to see her hesitate on the threshold, apparently clutching some one tightly by the dress: but directly she saw her mother, she seemed to feel she might let go her hold, her charge was safe; so running in, she threw her arms around her neck and whispered-- "o mother, darling, this poor lady has no home; let her stay here to-night." the widow rose from her seat in some surprise, but before she could say a word, trusty sally grimes led in the woman, and then in a moment mrs. turner comprehended it all. she saw a poor lost girl, and she thought of her own innocent little one; then came into her heart those merciful words-- "neither do i condemn thee; go, and sin no more." with womanly tenderness she took the poor shivering creature by the hand, seated her close to the fire, saying gently-- "god help you, my poor child, you are welcome here." then the flood-gates of the unhappy girl's heart were opened, and leaning her head on the widow's shoulder she sobbed aloud. meanwhile pollie, assisted by her faithful friend, was busy getting the tea ready, thinking it would refresh their strange visitor; and whilst sally cut some bread-and-butter the child arranged her violets in a cup, to make, as she said, "the table look pretty." but the stranger was unable to partake of the simple meal; she seemed utterly worn and weary, for, leaning her head upon the arm of the chair, she lapsed into an apathetic sleep, as though completely exhausted. whilst she thus slept, sally grimes (who had been invited to remain) told mrs. turner in a whisper all that had taken place that evening. "may god bless you, my dear," said the widow fervently; "you are indeed a good girl." "but pollie helped me," exclaimed the warm-hearted girl. the mother looked at her delicate little child, and smiled to think of those tiny hands doing their part in saving this woman. then she turned for counsel to sally. "i have but this one bed," she said hesitatingly, "and--and--i should not like her to sleep with pollie; what shall i do?" "let us make her a nice bed on the floor," suggested the child. "that's the thing!" assented sally, and the widow agreeing to the plan, they soon had a comfortable bed ready for the stranger. the poor creature suffered them to remove her hat and dress, then they laid her down, and she rested, thankful for the shelter so cheerfully given, humble though it was. she was still very beautiful. her golden brown hair, released from its massive braids, fell in rippling waves around her; the long black lashes, now that the eyes were closed, lay like a silken fringe upon the pale and wasted cheeks. yes, she was very beautiful; and as the good samaritans stood looking at her (the children with wondering pity), the widow thought of the time when this lost girl was tenderly loved by parents, who perhaps were even now sorrowing for their erring child. it was getting late, and as it was pollie's bedtime the mother and child prepared to read their evening chapter. sally, too, sat down by the fire to listen, wondering in her own mind what they were about. it was all so strange to this poor london waif, this cleanly, peaceful home, this simple worship. the appointed chapter for this evening was the parable of the good shepherd, and the girl's attention was riveted by those words of divine love and mercy. "and other sheep i have, which are not of this fold: them also i must bring, and they shall hear my voice; and there shall be one fold, and one shepherd." would _she_ be gathered into that fold also? could there be room for _her_? yes; the seed was sown on that hitherto rugged soil; it would take root and bring forth fruit for the lord of the harvest. * * * * * just as sally had put on her time-worn shawl, and was bidding her kind friends "good-night" before going home, heavy steps were heard ascending the stairs, and soon the portly form of mrs. flanagan entered the room. "well, here i am again," she exclaimed, "and right-down tired, i can tell you; why don't cooks know what they want, and order things in the morning? dear, dear! what a walk i've had, to be sure--all the way to grosvenor square, and with such a load too!" "hush, please," whispered mrs. turner, pointing to the sleeper. "who have you got there?" she asked in surprise. in a few words, spoken in a subdued voice, the widow told the sad tale, and also of the two children's brave conduct. "what be she like?" was the natural question; "is it right to have her here, think ye?" she added. then, as if to satisfy herself on the first point, she stole softly to where the poor wanderer lay sleeping. the light on the table was but dim, not sufficient to enable her to see distinctly, so that she was compelled to kneel down to scan the face of the sleeping girl. at that moment a bright flame shot up from the flickering fire, and lighted the corner where the bed had been made for the stranger. there was a quick convulsive gasp. "my god! oh, can it be?" the old woman cried in a hushed voice. "no, no, i've been deceived too often. quick! quick! a light!" mrs. turner hurried with it to her side. she almost snatched it from her in her eagerness; she gazed long and earnestly upon those wasted features, her breath coming thick and fast, almost as though her very heart was bursting. in silence she gave the light back into the hands of her wondering friend, then laying her head down on the pillow beside the fallen girl, and folding her arms around her, she sobbed out-- "my darling, my nora! you've come back at last to your poor old mother! nothing but death shall part us now!" chapter viii. sally's first sunday at church. a feeling of sabbath peace stole over little pollie as she issued forth from her humble home on her way to sunday-school. all was still, so quiet; the very court, usually noisy, seemed hushed. none of its uproarious inhabitants were about, only poor crippled jimmy was sitting on the door-step warming himself in the feeble sunlight that flickered down from among the crowded chimneys. the little girl paused to speak a few kind words to him. "i wish you could come with me," she said; "it is so nice." "what! be school nice?" repeated the boy, who seemed to have the same horror of learning as the more enlightened sally grimes. "yes," she replied; "indeed it is. they are all so kind to us there, and teach us such beautiful verses and texts about god and our saviour." "be that him you told me on?" he asked. "i ain't forgot what you told me afore--'consider, and hear me, o lord my god! lighten mine eyes, lest i sleep the sleep of death.'" "oh, you are a good boy!" exclaimed the child encouragingly. "now i will tell you my text for to-day, and when i come back you shall hear what my teacher says about 'the lord is my shepherd, i shall not want.'" "'the lord is my shepherd, i shall not want,'" repeated the crippled boy with reverence. "i'll not forget it, pollie," he added, as the little girl prepared to start again, fearing to be late for school. as she turned into drury lane, to her great surprise there stood sally grimes, looking strangely shy, but tidily and, above all, neatly dressed. the well-worn cotton gown was perfectly clean; indeed, for the last two days sally had been wearing a jacket over a petticoat whilst the dress was being washed and dried. her hair, usually rough, was now smoothly brushed behind her ears, and her face and hands were as clean as soap-and-water could make them. evidently she had given up the idea of the gaudy hat, for a neat bonnet covered her head. altogether she looked quite neat and respectable. "good morning," cried pollie, joyously glad to see her kind friend. "where are you going?" sally hesitated "may i come with you?" she stammered bashfully. for the moment little pollie could not reply; she felt too happy to speak. "oh, i'm so glad!" she said at last, and taking her friend's hand in hers, she proceeded onwards, the happiest little girl in the world. what a contrast they were!--the sturdy, self-reliant london arab, willing, ay, and able, to battle through the world unaided; the timid, fragile pollie, strong only in her efforts after good, firm only in her love of truth. you may imagine with what delight and pride she introduced sally to her kind teacher; what happiness it was to have her sitting by her side, to see her rapt attention as the text was explained in simple words suitable to the comprehension of the listening children; and when was read the parable of the good shepherd, which had been the lesson on that memorable evening when sally first felt the eager longing to be gathered into the saviour's fold, pollie instinctively grasped her friend's hand, as once again the blessed message was repeated. happy indeed are they who gather his children in, shielding his little ones from future harm, feeding his lambs with the bread of life. for sally grimes this was all so new: the quiet sabbath school, those happy children; a light was dawming upon her hitherto clouded mind as she heard of jesus, who came on earth as a little child, endured a life of poverty and sorrow, then died a cruel death to save us from eternal misery. never before had she heard the glad tidings of great joy, and her heart was filled with unexpressed thankfulness and peace. when class was over, the little scholars went their way to church, happy pollie with her friend's hand still clasped in hers; and the bells rang out their peaceful chime, "it is the sabbath! it is the sabbath!" even the usual noisy bustle of the strand was hushed in deference to god's holy day. the busy world was calmed to celebrate the day of rest; the peace of god seemed resting upon the earth. how beautiful the church appeared to sally, who had never until this day entered a house of prayer (dear old st. clement's danes, hallowed to us by many memories), and when the organ pealed forth, and the voices sang "i will arise," she thought, "this must be god's house, and those the angels singing." there was some one else in the church that sabbath-day who also thought it must be heaven of which little pollie had-spoken, and that was poor crippled jimmy. mrs. turner on coming downstairs to go to church had found the neglected boy as usual lonely and desolate. his drunken mother had gone in a pleasure-van with a party of friends like herself to hampton court, leaving her child to amuse himself as he could; and kindly mrs. turner had carried him up to her own room, washed and dressed him in one of pollie's clean frocks, given him some wholesome bread-and-butter, then brought him with her to church. he sat so still and quiet by the widow's side, his eyes intently fixed upon the clergyman, listening eagerly to every word that was spoken, every hymn that was sung, realising in his untutored mind a foretaste of that heaven of which his earliest friend had told, where hunger was unknown, and where sorrow and sighing should flee away. once only, when the rector gave forth his text, "consider the lilies of the field," the boy grasped the widow's hand, and whispered-- "be they the flowers pollie give me?" heaven and pollie's violets filled his heart. * * * * * many were the happy children who issued forth from st. clement's on that sabbath noon; some hand-in-hand with loving parents, wending their way to homes of plenty, where kindly faces would be waiting to greet them; but of the many, none were or could be happier than those three little ones who gathered round mrs. turner when service was over, and, walking side by side, went home to squalid drury lane. no well-filled table awaited _their_ coming, only the plain and scanty fare the poor widow could offer to her child's young friends; but one hath said-- "whosoever giveth a cup of water to one of these little ones in my name, verily i say unto you, he shall in no wise lose his reward." and this was sally's first sunday at church. chapter ix. crippled jimmy. many days and weeks had passed away, much as life does with us all. we heed not its passing, and forget in the turmoil of worldly cares to scatter seed for the great husbandman, to reap when he cometh. and little pollie? she had been busy as usual selling her flowers, and as usual scattering, in her simple way, the golden grain. gently had she led sally grimes to seek for higher things, and every sabbath they were now to be seen sitting side by side, learning of the life that is to come. and at home? affairs there had become much brighter, for mrs. turner's work had greatly increased, her quiet, unpretending manner having won for her many kind friends, who kept her fully employed--indeed so much that lizzie stevens had given up her hard labour of working for the slopshops, and now helped the widow in her lighter and more remunerative toil. it is true they had to work early and late to keep the house (such as it was) above them--the wolf from the door; but they were not so lonely as heretofore. the widow found comfort in the companionship of the hitherto friendless girl, and it was such a happiness for lizzie to have one so motherly in whom to confide, and of whom she could ask counsel and advice. then when pollie came in from her daily toil, cheering them both like a very sunbeam, how they would pause in their work to watch her as she merrily counted over her money, and brushed out her empty basket in readiness for the morrow, chatting gaily the while. and then to see that active little figure so noiselessly busy getting the tea-dinner, which she always insisted on doing to save "mother" the trouble; indeed, i think the tea would have lost its flavour for that dear mother had pollie's hands not prepared it. sometimes, during the hot july days, the child would persuade them to take a rest; and when it became too dark to see their work without the help of a candle, they would walk out of drury lane for a while, and go down one of the streets leading to the thames, where the air felt purer and fresher, and sitting down would watch the boats on the river. sally usually joined them, and these little rests from toil constituted their simple pleasures. how deliciously cool the breezes felt, so different to the heated atmosphere of their own neighbourhood! both mrs. turner and lizzie used to feel revived by the change. no wonder then that the two children should decide on living near the river when they grew rich, for with the hopefulness of youth they planned great things for the future. so the summer passed by, and autumn came, and now, instead of roses or pinks, pollie's basket was filled with chrysanthemums and dahlias. she often wondered what she should do when winter came and there were no sweet flowers to sell. it grieved her to think she should not then be able to help her dear mother, and as usual she opened her heart to that loving parent. "ah, my pollie!" said the mother, as she smoothed back the curls from the anxious little face, "have you forgotten? 'the lord will provide.'" then the child was comforted, for she remembered that "there is no want to them that fear him." one october evening she turned up russell court, tired and anxious to get home, for it had been a dull, dark day in the city, and she had not succeeded in disposing of her flowers there. the old bankers and merchants seemed not disposed for purchasing bouquets that day. even sally's basket still remained filled, and she was always a more successful seller than timid little pollie; so the elder girl had proposed trying westward for better luck. better luck they certainly had, for their baskets became empty at last, but they walked many a mile during the day, and pollie's tiny feet were very, very weary, as bidding her friend a loving "good-night" she turned her steps towards home, eagerly longing for its rest and shelter. the gas was flaring in drury lane, so that russell court looked dark by comparison; but as she approached the house in which they lived, she was surprised to see a dense crowd gathered around the door. men were there speaking in hoarse whispers, women talking with bated breath as though afraid to speak aloud, and the bewildered child could hardly fancy it was the same place, there was such a hushed commotion as it were; the crowd swaying to and fro, to give place to others who came to swell the excited throng. little pollie stood amidst the people who were hustling each other to get as near the door as possible. what was to be done? how was she to get into the house? and oh, how anxious her mother would be at her long absence! the poor child became frightened, almost to tears, totally unable to force her way through the mob, which was increasing every moment, when looking round for some friendly aid, she saw to her delight mrs. smith, the greengrocer's wife, standing close by, with a shawl thrown over her head, talking to a policeman, and pointing excitedly towards the house. pollie went up to her and ventured timidly to touch her arm. "please, mrs. smith," she began. "lor' bless me, child, what are you doing out so late, and in this crowd too?" was her exclamation. "i can't get in," pollie sobbed; "oh, what is the matter?" "what! don't you know? lor', it's awful," she replied; "here, policeman, do get this poor child through that there mob; i guess her mother is in a way about her." "all right, mrs. s----," said the man, and to pollie's astonishment he took her up in his arms, to carry her through the crowd, who made way for him to pass with his light burden. tallow candles were flaring in the narrow passage, people with pallid, haggard faces looked out from open room doors; yet with all this unwonted stir, there seemed to be a strange hushed awe upon them, as though they were calmed by the mysterious presence of a great calamity. when the man put pollie down she glanced from one to another in trembling alarm, still clinging to her protector's hand. "here she is at last," cried a voice; and turning to the speaker she recognised a woman who lived in the house, and whom she had often met on the stairs. "is it my mother?" asked the child, with undefined dread at her poor little heart. "no, no, come with me; he keeps calling for you." then, still holding the policeman's hand closely clasped in hers, she followed the woman down the dirty dark stairs which led to the cellar where jimmy lived. the door of the squalid room stood wide open; two tallow candles stuck in empty bottles flared on the broken mantel-shelf above the rusty fireless grate; a battered old chair and a rickety table constituted the entire furniture of the room (if such it could be called), for on a heap of dirty rags lay little jimmy. by his side, holding him in her arms, knelt mrs. turner, whilst a gentleman, evidently the parish doctor, was bathing his head, from which the blood was flowing. lizzie stevens was there, steeping linen in a basin for the doctor, and another policeman, no one else. i forgot. crouching in the farthest corner, and glaring in drunken stupor around her, was the poor dying child's wretched mother. a broken bottle tightly grasped in her hands, fragments of which lay about the dirt-encrusted floor, told the tale, alas! too plainly. in her drunken fury she had slain her child! pollie felt safe directly she saw her own loved mother. "o mother, what is it?" she whispered. the dying boy heard her, softly as she had spoken. "little pollie," he feebly murmured, and turned his dim eyes up to her. "dear jimmy," she said, kneeling down beside him. he smiled as though at peace, and yet the life-blood was ebbing slowly away. "pollie," he said, "shall i go to the kingdom of heaven? will jesus put his hands on me, and bless me also?" the little girl could not speak for sobbing, but she laid her soft cheek upon his clay-cold hand. "you've been very good to me," he rambled on, "you told me of the good shepherd"---- there was silence, broken only by the choking sobs of the listeners; even the policemen, used as they were to similar scenes, were deeply moved at the dying boy's love for his little friend. his eyes were closed, but his disengaged hand wandered feebly over the horse-rug that covered him, until at last he laid it on pollie's bowed head. there it rested; his eyes unclosed, and he gazed wildly round, saying excitedly-- "pollie, pollie, it's so dark. is it night coming on? don't go, little pollie. let me say the prayer you taught me." he tried to fold his hands as _she_ had always done. in vain--they fell upon the coverlet, weak and nerveless. "lighten mine eyes, lest i sleep the sleep of death," he murmured falteringly. the voice ceased! crippled jimmy had passed away safely into the fold of the good shepherd! ah! who would wish him back again? misery exchanged for perfect bliss--sorrow and sighing for eternal joy. they all gazed upon the sharp pinched features, now gradually settling into the calm repose of death. what in life was almost painful to look upon, with the touch of immortality became lovely; for the dead child's face bore the impress of an angel's smile, as though he had caught a glimpse of heaven's happiness whilst passing through the dark valley of the shadow of death. little pollie clung to her mother, sobbing convulsively and hiding her face in her dress. "hush, my darling," soothed the widow; "poor jimmy is now with god, free from all sorrow or pain. think what his joy must be!" they were startled by a harsh voice screeching out-- "that ain't my jimmy! let me get at him! i say, what be you folks doing here?" it was the drunken creature, who, unnoticed by any of them, had approached the spot where the dead child lay. she darted forward, crying out, whilst she brandished the bottle-- "i'll wake him, never fear; like i've done many a time before, i warrant ye!" fortunately the policeman saw her in time to prevent her doing further mischief, or even touching the boy, for, laying his firm grasp upon her arm, he exclaimed authoritatively-- "come, none of this, my good woman. i must take you to bow street, to answer the charge of killing that poor little chap." then ensued a scene too terrible to describe. the wretched woman was taken away from the place, shrieking and swearing, leaving her dead child to be tended by strangers, kinder far than she had ever been. chapter x. nora. a drizzling rain kept falling the day on which little jimmy was to be laid in his narrow home. they had found beneath his ragged jacket a little packet, carefully tied with a piece of thread, and on opening it, something dried and shrivelled fell to the ground. it was the bunch of violets, now withered, pollie's first gift to him--the only gift he had ever received, and which came fraught with such peace to him. with tender pity mrs. turner refolded the tiny packet, and placed the faded flowers again where they had been so carefully treasured. his unhappy mother was in prison, which place she only quitted to be confined for life in a criminal lunatic asylum, driven mad by that fearful curse of england--drink! drink! so that there would have been no one to follow him to his last resting-place had not good mrs. turner offered to go. she could not bear to think of the poor child being laid to rest so friendlessly, and little pollie pleaded to be taken. then lizzie stevens begged to be allowed to accompany the widow in her pious task, and just as the humble parish funeral was leaving the house, which had been but a miserable home for the dead child, sally grimes came up, and, taking lizzie's hand silently, joined the three mourners. a large black cloak covered her patched but clean frock, and she wore an old black bonnet of her mother's, which had outlived many fashions. it was the only outward semblance of mourning she could get, but her heart sorrowed sincerely for the crippled boy whom she had seen for many years, desolate and uncared for, crouching in the dingy doorway--desolate until little pollie found him there, and shed some brightness around his hitherto lonely life; and another thing, he was a sort of link between her and pollie. the london streets looked dismal and dirty on this autumn afternoon with the pitiless rain and murky sky; but when the little party reached the quiet suburban cemetery, the clouds had somewhat dispersed, though the late flowers which yet remained to gladden the earth drooped with the heavy moisture; and when the last words were spoken, and all that remained of crippled jimmy had been laid in his narrow bed, the four kindly mourners turned tearfully from the spot, leaving him alone in his poor humble grave. at that moment a robin perched himself on a bush close by, and warbled forth such a hymn, so full of gladness, it seemed as though the bird sang the echo of those joyful words-- "i am the resurrection and the life." * * * * * and so they left little jimmy. nothing could harm him now. twas but his frail mortality they mourned; his blest spirit, freed from earthly stains, was now with his saviour and god. * * * * * on their return home they found that mrs. flanagan had prepared a comfortable tea for them all in mrs. turner's room; and it looked so cosy and home-like, humble though it was, with mrs. flanagan's kindly face to greet them. poor mrs. flanagan--she was greatly changed; no longer the same cheerful person, but calm and subdued, as if she dwelt beneath some dark shadow that clouded her existence. she did not now, when her day's work was ended, come into mrs. turner's room to have a friendly chat, or interest herself in pollie's fortune-making, as she used to do. it is true, she still brought the flowers for the child, but her whole mind seemed too absorbed to dwell on these trivial matters which formerly possessed such an interest for her. her entire thoughts were centred on nora. no one, save good mrs. turner, had seen the poor girl since the evening pollie had brought the lost one home. the poor mother hid, as it were, her recovered treasure, fearful that even the mere passing glance of scorn should for a moment rest on her blighted child. so up in that little room, away from prying eyes, lived the mother and daughter. nora was not idle. not for worlds would she have rested dependent on that dear forgiving mother's hard earnings for her daily food; therefore, whilst mrs. flanagan toiled in covent garden market, her daughter's slender fingers diligently laboured at bookbinding, the trade she had pursued years ago, in the time when her heart was innocent and happy. on the evening of which we write, when sally grimes and lizzie stevens had gone to their own homes after the peaceful hours spent with mrs. turner, the old woman sat for some time silent and sad, with elbows resting on the table, and her face buried in her hands. at length she looked up. "my nora's very sadly," she observed. the widow paused in her needlework, and gazed at the troubled countenance of her old friend. "she is not ill, is she?" was the question: "i saw her this morning, and then she seemed pretty much the same." "no, not ill in body, at least not much," replied the poor mother; "but oh! mrs. turner, my nora is not like my nora of days gone by." and the grey head bent low upon the table, and the worn wrinkled face was hidden, to hide the bitter tears which fell. her sympathising listener put down her work, and rising softly, laid her hand gently upon her neighbour's sorrow-bent head. "take heart, mrs. flanagan," she soothed; "it will all come right at last, in god's own time. just think how once you feared you should never see your daughter again, and then"---- "oh, but she's not the same; no longer gay, or even cheerful, as she used to be," was sobbed forth; "sits for hours looking far-away like, as if she saw me not; yet once i was all to her. ah, woe is me that i should be sorry she was not laid to rest years ago, when a sinless child, like little jimmy was to-day!" whilst the unhappy mother was thus pouring out her heart sorrow, pollie had crept up, and in loving pity had slidden her small hand into her aged friend's in token of sympathy with her grief. for some time mrs. flanagan was too absorbed with her great woe to heed that gentle caress, but when alluding to the dead boy she raised her head, and saw the little girl's tearful eyes lifted to hers. "please, don't cry, dear mrs. flanagan," she said timidly. "nora will soon be like she once was; won't she, mother?" "bless you, my precious," cried the poor old woman, laying her hand lovingly on the child's curly head, "you're a real comfort to me." "o mother," murmured a soft voice, "have patience with me, dearest; i am still your own nora; only--oh, so worn and sin-stained!" they started in surprise. unseen she had entered the room, and had overheard her poor mother mourning for her child. meekly she knelt at her parent's feet, with tearless eyes upraised, but clasping the hard rough hand that had so toiled for her in the years gone by, and was willing still to toil, could it but bring back some few gleams of former brightness to her child. "i am not changed in heart to you, dear mother," she continued, "but when i sit and think, my sad thoughts fly back over the dreary desert of the past; and i know what i am, and what i might have been." all trembling with emotion, the poor old woman held out her arms to clasp her penitent child; then laying her head upon her bosom, she smoothed the beautiful hair caressingly, as in the days when as an infant she nestled there. "yes, yes, dear mother," pursued the poor girl; "let me lay my weary head where i can hear the beating of your heart, whose every throb, i know, is full of love for me. i will pray to forget the sad, sad past, and be to you once more your nora of the long ago. we were so happy then!" "yes, we were happy in those days," murmured the mother, to herself as it were; "though often hungry, and often cold; but the wide world was our garden, and we had to pluck what flowers we could from it. you, my poor child, passed by the blossoms, and gathered only weeds; but take heart, my darling, there are yet some bonnie buds to cull, and life after all will not be quite a barren wilderness to you and your poor old mother." then mrs. flanagan fairly broke down. but the icy barrier which had divided the mother and daughter was fallen, and they now knew what they were--all in all--to each other once again. chapter xi. christmas eve. christmas eve! what memories revive at those two almost hallowed words! we think upon the _first_ christmas eve,--of the manger at bethlehem, the redeemer's humble cradle-bed; the star, guiding his first worshippers to his poor abode,--and we recall in imagination that glorious anthem sung by the heavenly host to those simple awe-struck shepherds whilst guarding their flocks by night! yes; those words, "christmas eve," carry our thoughts, for a time at least, far from the cares of this transient world; and strangely cold must be the heart that does not echo the glad tidings, "on earth, peace, goodwill toward men." but on the christmas eve of which we speak the holy stars were shining above a far different scene than those peaceful plains of bethlehem--on london, that wilderness to the poor and sad, that golden city for the rich and gay, and in a district of which (drury lane) little star-light could be discerned through the murky air of its crowded streets. drury lane was now at the height of its business: flaring gas-jets flamed at the open shop-fronts, whilst tradesmen and costermongers seemed to vie with each other as to which could shout the loudest to attract customers. there were butchers urging passers-by to purchase joints of animals hanging up in the shops, decked with rosettes and bows of coloured ribbon in honour of christmas; greengrocers, gay with holly and mistletoe, interspersed with mottoes wishing every one the "compliments of the season." bakers, too, were doing a thriving trade in cakes of all sizes; whilst down the centre of the street, lining each side of the roadway, were vendors of all sorts of things, whose stalls were brightened either by oil-lamps or else the more humble candle stuck in a paper lantern. i care not to speak of gin-palaces, filled by poor wretches buying poison for soul and body. would to god our loved country could be free from its curse of drunkenness! and yet the poor denizens of this pent-up neighbourhood appeared more cheerful and better-tempered than they usually seem to be. jokes were bandied freely between tradesmen and customers, and kindly greetings exchanged in honour of christmas. occasionally, it is true, a shivering creature would be seen shuffling along through the busy crowd, glancing with furtive hungry eyes at the food exposed for sale, but unable to buy even a loaf of bread. the generality, however, had anticipated the coming festive season, and had saved the wherewith to keep christmas. it was a relief to turn from the noisy din of drury lane up russell court, and thence to the quiet of mrs. turner's room. yes; there they were all to be seen, a happy family party, preparing, too, to keep christmas. at the one end of the table, close to the candle (they could only afford one), sat mrs. turner and lizzie, busily stitching away, anxious to do as much work as they possibly could, as it was intended to celebrate the next day as an entire rest and holiday. on the floor was sally grimes stoning some raisins into a basin for the plum-pudding, and by her side, at nora's feet, sat pollie, helping her trusty friend in her important work. mrs. flanagan was standing at the other end of the table, busily mixing the various ingredients requisite for this crowning dish of the unwonted feast, and there also was mrs. grimes (sally's mother) chopping up the seasoning for a goose, which mrs. flanagan's employers had given her as a christmas gift, and on which they were all to dine. mrs. smith had also contributed something to this festival in the shape of oranges and nuts, and had also given pollie a few sprigs of holly with which to deck their room. seated on a low chair, her lap filled with holly leaves and bright berries, sat nora, and her slender fingers were busy twining them into little garlands to brighten up their poor abode. very pale and fragile looked the girl, almost too fragile to struggle with the world, but her sweet face was happier than when last we saw her kneeling at her mother's feet. it was as though the storm of life had buffeted her until almost crushed, and having vented its utmost fury, had passed away, leaving her at rest at last, but oh! so worn and weary with the strife. poor old mrs. flanagan! every thought of her heart turned to nora. when her daughter was sometimes gay with a touch of the light-heartedness of other days, the gaiety would find an echo with her, and she would strive to be merry for that dear one's sake. and if, as was more frequently the case, the girl was sad, the shadow rested on the mother also. she seemed now but to live in the reflection of her daughter's life. even now, whilst busy with the morrow's good cheer, she would ever and anon pause to glance at her child; and if the girl chanced to look up, and met the mother's eyes with a smile, what intense joy spread over that mother's careworn face, lighting it up with the sunshine of love. ah me! we can never fathom the depth of a mother's tenderness. who in the whole world cares for us as she does? pitiful to our faults, sorrowing with our griefs, rejoicing in our joys. who so unselfish? who so true? happy the child who can _truthfully_ say, "never has sin of mine furrowed thy brow, or silvered thy hair, my darling." but to return to our story. pollie, seated as before mentioned at nora's feet, was intently watching her (making very little progress, i fear, with stoning the raisins) as she daintily threaded some berries to form a word, and many a merry laugh was caused by the two children trying to guess what the word was to be. p was the letter first fixed on to the slip of cardboard, and which she held up to them, smiling brightly. "i know what it's to be!" cried sally, who was becoming quite a scholar now; "it's plum-pudding." but nora shook her head, saying-- "no, that is not the word i am going to make. can you guess, pollie?" "i don't think i can," was the reply. "is it"---- "p stands for pollie," cried out impetuous sally, in her eagerness almost upsetting her basin of raisins upon the floor. "perhaps it's that." there was much merriment over sally's guessing, and much amazement too on the part of mrs grimes, who was utterly astonished at her "gal's larning;" but still nora shook her head. no, that was not the word intended. many were the conjectures hazarded, till at last pollie resolved to try no more, but wait until the entire word or phrase was finished, both children promising not to look until at a given signal from nora they should know it was completed. then they resumed their employment, waiting very patiently for the time. at last it came. "now," said nora, and she held it up so that all could see, then she gave it into pollie's hand. the puzzle was solved. "peace on earth," read the child aloud. there was a silence, each one occupied with thoughts those words suggested. tears filled the eyes of the two widows, for they clearly understood what was in the girl's heart when tracing those letters. _her_ head was bowed; they could not see her face, but her hands were very trembling as she clasped them together as if in silent prayer. pollie broke the silence. "nora, dearie," she half whispered, "i wish we could get in the other beautiful words, 'glory to god in the highest,' because it is he who gives us this sweet peace, and i should so like to thank him." chapter xii. in the spring-time. christmas had come and gone, even the new year was becoming old; for three months had slipped by, and march winds were preparing to usher in april showers. the london shopkeepers were exhibiting their spring goods, hoping that the few gleams of sun which had contrived to make themselves seen were indeed heralds of the coming "season," which "season" was supposed to bring an increase of business with it, and, of course, as the homely adage says, "more grist to the mill." but as yet the streets were wet and sloppy, the bleak winds whistled round the corners, and london looked very dull and cheerless, even at the west end, where it is always brighter than in the busy city. far away in the country, it is true, the birds were twittering, joyfully busy in making their nests, flying hither and thither in search of materials to form their tiny homes. there were sheep, too, in the meadows, cropping the fresh young grass, whilst the lambs skipped merrily about their staid mothers, as though rejoicing in the warmer weather; for the winter had been very severe, and many a night had they huddled together beside a hedge to keep themselves warm when the snow was falling thickly around. the buds on the trees, especially the elms, were filling, so that after a few showers they would throw off their brown sheaths and put forth their delicate green leaves to court the breeze; and as to the hedges, they were already verdant. yes, all creation was awaking, eager to proclaim his praise who hath said "while the earth remaineth, seed-time and harvest, cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease." in the deep sheltered copse or hedgerows, primroses and violets were to be found nestling amidst green leaves and soft moss, filling the air with perfume. it always seems a pity to gather them where they bloom so sweetly and linger so long, yet gathered they were and sent up to london; some, indeed, were to be found in sally grimes' basket as she stood outside the bank, as she was standing on the day we first saw her. she has certainly improved since then--no longer ragged or untidy, but her hair is neatly plaited beneath a decent bonnet, and her shawl is securely fastened, instead of flying in the wind as it used to do. she is still very successful in "business," although she does not now rush across the roads at peril of life or limb, nor does she thrust her flowers into the faces of the passers-by, frightening timid people by her roughness. no; all that is changed, and she has become a quiet, steady girl. truth to tell, she is beginning to dislike the life she leads--not the flowers; she loves them more than ever! and often looks after neat little servants she sometimes sees, wishing to become like one of them. patience, sally! who knows what may be by and by? but where is little pollie, that she is not with her trusty friend? poor little pollie lies sick and ill at home, so pale and thin one would scarcely recognise in that wan little face the pollie of last spring-time! a severe cold, followed by slow fever, has laid her low, and though all danger is over, she still continues so weak, too feeble to move; therefore her dear mother or lizzie stevens lifts her from her bed and lays her in an easy-chair which mrs. flanagan had borrowed, in which she reclines all the day long, very patient and uncomplaining though the poor little heart is often very sad as she watches her mother's busy fingers, and feels that she cannot help to lift the burden as she used to do; then like an angel's whisper comes the remembrance of that which cheered her the first day she started in business, "fear thou not, for i am with thee; be not dismayed, for i am thy god; i will strengthen thee; yea, i will help thee; yea, i will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness;" and so the brown eyes close, shutting up the fast-gathering tears, and she trusts in her heavenly father with all the fervour of her pure childish heart, sure that the "lord will provide." then during the evening nora comes in, and takes the little sufferer upon her lap, and sings to her so beautifully that the child gazes up into the girl's lovely eyes, now so calm and hopeful, with the dreamy fancy that the angels must look like her. there is one song, an especial favourite with them both, called "beautiful blue violets;" and very often, whilst listening to the sweet voice, pollie falls asleep, soothed by the melody. indeed, there is no lack of kind friends who love the little girl. mrs. smith brings up all sorts of nice things to tempt the child's appetite--sweet oranges and baked apples--even her brother, the butcher at whose shop pollie's first purchase of meat was made, sent a piece of mutton, "with his respects to mrs. turner, and it was just the right bit to make some broth for the little gal." the good doctor (the same who was present when crippled jimmy died), though far from being a rich man, would accept no fee for attending her, so that if kindness and love could have called back her lost health, pollie would soon have been well; but she is very, very ill, and day by day grows weaker and weaker. her poor mother watches each change in the little face so precious to her, and when she lifts her in her arms feels how light the burden is becoming; she dreads to think that god will take her only treasure from her; her lips tremble as she says, "thy will be done." but the poor have no time for repining; every idle moment is money lost, and money must be earned to buy food for the dear ones who look to them for bread; so mrs. turner was compelled to work on, though her heart was sick with sadness, and many a time gladly would she have laid it aside to take her suffering child in her arms, and soothe the languid pain as none but a mother can. the little girl seemed to guess the thought those anxious eyes revealed, and when she saw her dear mother looking wistfully upon her, she would say, striving to be gay, and hide from those loving eyes all trace of suffering-- "i'm so cosy in this nice chair, mother darling, and nora is coming in soon, you know!" and of the many who love little pollie, who so true as sally grimes? every morning before setting off for the city she comes, anxiously asking, "how's pollie?" and on her return, her first care is to inquire for her little sick friend, bringing with her a few flowers, if she has any left in the basket, or some other trifle, precious, though, to the grateful recipient, whose white lips smile gratefully at the kind sally for thus thinking of her. "ay, but i'm lonesome without you, pollie," says the girl, as she kisses the pale cheeks of the child; "and glad i'll be when you gets about again, the place don't seem the same without you; why, even that big peeler with the whiskers, who is a'most allers near the bank, he says to-day 'how's the little gal?' that he did." one evening sally came, rushing in quite breathless with excitement, startling mrs. turner and waking up pollie, who was dozing in nora's arms. "good news, good news," she cried out; "luck's come at last, hurray! there's such a lovely lady coming to see you, pollie." "to see pollie?" asked the widow in surprise; "who is she?" "i don't know," was the reply, "but she's coming; she told me so, and soon too." "who can it be?" they all questioned of each other, pausing in their work to look at the excited girl. "i'll tell you all about it," exclaimed sally, who felt herself to be of some importance as the bearer of such wonderful news; "only just let me get my breath a bit." "well," she continued, when sufficiently recovered to proceed with her story, but which, like all narrators of startling intelligence, she seemed to wish to spin out, so as to excite the curiosity of her hearers to the utmost; "well, i was standing at the top of threadneedle street, with my back to the mansion house, looking to see if any customers were coming from moorgate street way, when some one touched me on my shoulder. i turned sharp round, as i thought maybe it was a gent wanting a bunch of flowers for his coat. but instead of a gent it was, oh, such a pretty lady! not a young lady; p'raps as old as you, mrs. turner, p'raps older. she was dressed all in black, with, oh my! such crape, and jet beads; and though she smiled when she spoke, yet she seemed sad-like." "are you the little girl i saw here about a year ago?" says she. "may be i am, marm," says i; "cos i'm pretty well allers here, leastway in the mornings." she looked at me a bit, and then she says-- "'i should not have thought to find you such a big girl in so short a time. do you remember me? i bought some violets, and you told me your name, and where you lived; indeed i should have come to see you long ago as i promised, but was obliged to go abroad suddenly with my own little girl.' "and then i thought she was going to cry, she looked so sad," added sally, "and she said"---- "'but god took her home.'" "poor dear lady!" was the exclamation of sally's attentive listeners. "even the rich have troubles also," said mrs. turner with a pitying sigh. "wait a bit, i 'aint told you all yet," cried the girl; "well, i just then thought of what pollie told us about the lady who gave her a shilling the very first day she went with me selling violets. so i says-- "it warn't me, marm, you saw that day; it was little pollie!" "'yes, that was the name,' says she; 'and where is little pollie?' "with that i up and told her as how pollie wasn't well, and so she says, 'i will come to see her directly i have finished my business in the city.' oh, lor'!" cried sally, suddenly pausing in her story, "here she be, i'm sure, for there's some one coming up the stairs with mrs. flanagan, some one who don't wear big heavy boots too; can't you hear?" sally was right; for the kindly face of their neighbour appeared in the doorway, ushering in "the beautiful lady." "and so this is little pollie," the sweet voice said, as, after speaking cheerfully to the widow and the others who were in the room, she stood beside the sick child. "well, pollie, i have come to see you at last, and in return for the beautiful violets you gave me a year ago, i will, with our merciful father's blessing us, put some roses on your white cheeks." * * * * * my story is told! in a pretty lodge close to the gates of a magnificent park live pollie and her dear long-suffering mother, but now as happy as it is possible for mortals to be. the widow continues her needlework, not as formerly, "to keep the wolf from the door," but merely for their beloved lady, or what is required for the house. pollie, whose cheeks are now truly rosy, goes every day to school, and when at home helps her mother, so that in time she will become quite a useful girl to their kind and generous benefactress. but who are those two neat young girls who are coming down the path towards the lodge, looking so bright and cheerful? surely one is lizzie stevens, and the other sally grimes? yes, indeed, and the housekeeper says she "never had two better servants, so willing and steady," than our two young friends. so sally's ambition is realised; she is a servant, and a good one too, for trusty sally never did anything by halves. and mrs. flanagan? if you will walk across the meadow by that narrow raised path, you will see a cosy cottage adjoining the dairy. there is mrs. flanagan, with sleeves tucked up above her elbows, busily making butter; it reminds her of the years long ago, when she used to do the dairy-work at the farm, and had never known a care. but she is happy even now, for outside the window is nora, cheerful and contented, feeding the poultry, who gather round her, clucking noisily, while some white pigeons have flown down from the dove-cot, and one has alighted on her shoulder, and nora's merry laugh is as music to the mother's ear. there is some one scouring milk-pans in the yard, but whose features are almost hidden by a large black bonnet; who is it? the face turns towards us, and we see sally grimes' mother! so we leave all our old friends, peaceful and happy, doing their duty faithfully to the noble lady, who, though surrounded by all the world holds dear--riches--yet had sympathy for the poor ones of the earth, and pity for their sorrows. she had resided many years abroad, but on returning to england and re-forming her establishment, had chosen these honest hard-working friends of ours to serve her. she learned from others how they had striven to live, and how they had each endeavoured to do their heavenly master's work as he had appointed; patient under privations, and tender to others, doing as they would be done by. and thus sunshine had come to brighten the hitherto dreary paths of their struggling lives, though even in their darkest hours our humble friends had never forgotten that "behind a frowning providence he hides a smiling face." and how gratefully did they now lift up their hearts to him who "careth for us!" and when mrs. flanagan and mrs. grimes met at mrs. turner's, as they very often did when their work was done, they would contrast their present happy lot with those sad days of the past. "and yet," as mrs. turner once said, "had it not been for our troubles we should never have known each other, for it was those very sorrows that knit us together." "ay, ay," interrupted mrs. grimes, "for your pollie somehow made my gal hate the streets, else she might a run there till now, and never a been the rale good scholar she be." "ah, pollie be a comfort to you," observed the other old friend; "and how she do grow, to be sure! well, well, bless her heart, she won't have to rough it, my dear--leastways i hope not,--nor be led to go wrong like my poor nora; still she'll have her sorrows, like the rest on us." yes, that was true; she would have her share of the trials that fall to the lot of all, and so would trusty sally; but happily they knew where to take their cares, and he who had led them to this peaceful home would be with them still. and thus we leave them--living their lives in peaceful content, grateful for the memories given, and trusting in him always. * * * * * and all this happiness had been brought about by--a simple bunch of violets! three people by pansy author of "lost on the trail," "tip lewis and his lamp," "ester ried," "four girls at chautauqua," "chautauqua girls at home," etc. [illustration] boston lothrop, lee & shepard co. [illustration] pansy [illustration] trade-mark registered in u. s. patent office. entered according to the act of congress, by western tract and book society, in the office of the congressional librarian, district of columbia, . copyright, , by isabella m. alden. * * * * * three people. [illustration: "are you a total abstainer?"--_page ._] contents. chapter i. some babies ii. john birge's opportunity iii. wolfie iv. brain work v. tode's ambition vi. new ideas vii. two t's viii. which shall prosper, this or that? ix. take it away x. habakkuk xi. business and bottles xii. the stepping stone xiii. tode's real estate xiv. signs and wonders xv. exit tode mall xvi. pledges and partnerships xvii. translations xviii. wine is a mocker xix. the three people meet again xx. mrs. jenkins' tommy xxi. midnight work xxii. poor pliny xxiii. judgments xxiv. a double crisis xxv. steps upward xxvi. theodore's inspiration xxvii. dawn and darkness xxviii. death and life xxix. some more babies three people chapter i. some babies. "tie the sash a very little looser, nurse, and give the loops a more graceful fall; there--_so_. now he's a beauty! every inch of him." and mrs. hastings moved backward a few steps in order to get the full effect. a beauty he was, certainly; others beside his mother would have admitted that. what baby fresh from a bath, and robed in the daintiest and most perfect of baby toilets, with tightly curling rings of brown hair covering the handsome head; with great sparkling, dancing blue eyes, and laughing rosebud mouth; with hands and feet and body strung on invisible wires, and quivering with life and glee, was ever other than a beauty? the whole house was in commotion in honor of the fact that master pliny l. hastings, only son and heir of the great pliny hastings, senior, of hastings' hall, had "laughed and cried, and nodded and winked," through the entire space of three hundred and sixty-five days and nights, and actually reached the first anniversary of his birthday. a remarkable boy was pliny hastings. he didn't know yet that his father was a millionaire, but he must have surmised it, for, as far back as he could remember, his bits of sleeves had been looped with real pearls; rosewood and lace and silk and down had united to make his tiny bed; he had bitten his first tooth through on a sphere of solid gold--and all the wonderful and improbable contrivances for royal babyhood that could be bought or imagined, met together in that grand house on the avenue for this treasured bit of humanity. on this particular day baby was out in all his glory; he had made the circuit of the great parlors, stopping on his way to be tossed toward the ceiling, in the arms of first one uncle and then another. he had been kissed and cuddled by all the aunties and cousins, until his cheeks were rosy with triumph; and, finally, he had been carried, shouting with glee, high up on his father's shoulder, down to the dining-room, and occupied the seat of honor at the long table, where he crowed, and laughed, and clapped his hands over every plum that found its way into his dainty mouth. this conduct was interspersed, however, by sundry dives and screams after the coffee urn and the ice pitcher, and various unattainable things--for there were unattainable things, even for pliny hastings. oh, the times and times in his young life that he had cried for the beautiful round moon, and got it not! and even gaslight and firelight had hitherto eluded his eager grasp; but he had learned no lessons from his failures, and still pitched and dived after impossibilities in the most insane fashion. to-day he looked with indifference on the gold-lined silver cup bearing his name and age, and wanted the great carving fork instead. he cared not a whit that the sparkling wine was poured, and glasses were touched, and toasts drank on his account; but a touch of wisdom must have come over his baby brain, for he made a sudden dash at his father's glass, sending the red wine right and left, and shivering the frail glass to fragments; he did more than that, he promptly seized on one of the sharpest bits, and thereby cut a long crooked gash in the sweet chubby finger, and was finally borne, shrieking and struggling, from the room, his little heart filled with mingled feelings of terror and rage. so much for baby hastings and his birthday. * * * * * in a neat white house, no more than a mile away from this great mansion, there was another baby. it was just when pliny hastings was hurried away to the nursery that this baby's mother folded away papers, and otherwise tidied up her bit of a nursery, then pushed a little sewing chair in front of her work table, and paused ere she sat down to give another careful tuck to the blanketed bundle, which was cuddled in the great rocking chair, fast asleep. then she gathered the doubled up fist into her hand, and caressed it softly, while she murmured: "bless his precious little heart! he takes a splendid nap for his birthday, so he does." "ben," this to the gentleman who was lounging in another rocker, reading the paper, "does it seem possible that bennie is a year old to-day? i declare, ben, we ought to have got him a present for his birthday." the father looked up from his paper with a good-natured laugh. "seems to me he's rather youthful to begin on that tack, isn't he?" "oh, ben, no! i want every one of his birthdays to be so nice and pleasant. do, papa, come here and see how nice he looks, with his hair all in a curl." thus appealed to, mr. phillips came over to the arm-chair, and together they stood looking down on the treasured bit of flesh and blood. "our eldest born," the mother said, softly. "and youngest, too, for the matter of that," answered mr. phillips, gaily. his wife laughed. "ben, there isn't the least bit of sentiment in you, is there? now they are having a wonderful time to-day in the grand corner house on the avenue, the hastings' house, you know, and it's all because their baby is a year old to-day, and he isn't a bit nicer than ours." "their baby's father is worth a million." "i don't care if he is worth a billion, that don't make their baby any sweeter. say, ben, i just wish, for the fun of it, we had some little cunning thing for his birthday present." mr. phillips seemed to be very much amused. "well," he said, still laughing, "which shall it be, a razor or a jack-knife?" his wife actually shuddered. "ben!" she said, with a reproachful face, "how _can_ you say such dreadful things? what if he should grow up and commit suicide?" "what if i had a boy, and he should grow to be a man, and another man should tread on his toes, and he should knock the other man down, and the other man should die, and they should hang my boy," rattled off mr. phillips in anything but a grave tone. "little woman, that's what i should call looking into the future, isn't it?" a knock at the door interrupted them, and roxie, the tidy little maid of all work, who had been out for an afternoon, appeared to them, talking rapidly. "if you please, ma'am, i'm a quarter late, and could you please to excuse me; the clock around the corner doesn't go, and kate she didn't know the time; and mrs. meeker said would you please accept her love and these grapes in a basket. she says they're the finest of the lot, and you needn't mind sending of it home, 'cause she'll let little susie step around after it." this mixture set mr. phillips off into another of his hearty laughs; but when they were alone again, he seized one of the great purple clusters, and flinging himself on the floor in front of the baby, exclaimed: "i'll tell you what we'll do, little wife: we'll present one of these to the boy, and then you and i will eat it in honor of his birthday, unless, indeed, there may be some bad omen in this, even. you know the juice of the grape may, under certain circumstances, become a dangerous article?" mrs. phillips laughed carelessly as she nestled in the little sewing chair, and prepared to enjoy the grapes. "no," she said, gaily; "grapes are very harmless omens to me. i'm not the least afraid that baby benny will ever be a drunkard." * * * * * there used to be in albany, not many years ago, a miniature "five points," and one didn't have to go very far up what is now rensselaer street to find it, either. there were tenement houses, which from attic to basement swarmed with filthy, ragged, repulsive human life. in one of the lowest and meanest of these many cellars, on the very day, and at the identical hour, in which master pliny hastings held high carnival at his father's table, and baby benny phillips nestled and dreamed among the soft pillows of his mother's easy chair, a little brother of theirs, clad in dirt and rags, crawled over the reeking floor, and occupied himself in devouring eagerly every bit of potato skin or apple paring that came in his way. was there ever a more forlorn looking specimen of a baby! it was its birthday, too--there are more babies in the world than we think for whose birthdays might be celebrated on the same day. but this one knew nothing about it--dear me! neither did his mother. i doubt if it had once occurred to her that this poor bit of scrawny, dirty, terrible baby had been through one whole year of life. and yet, perhaps, she loved her boy a little--her face looked sullen rather than wicked. on the whole, i think she did, for as she was about to ascend the stairs, with the sullen look deepening or changing into a sort of gloomy apprehension, she hesitated, glanced behind her, and finally, with a muttered "plague take the young one," turned back, and, catching him by the arm of his tattered dress, landed him on the topmost step, in a mud-puddle! but she did it because she remembered that he would be very likely to climb into the tub of soapsuds that stood at the foot of the bed, and so get drowned. mrs. ryan came up her cellar stairs at the same time, and looked over at her neighbor, then from her to her forlorn child, who, however, enjoyed the mud-puddle, and finally commenced a conversation. "how old is that young one of yours?" "pretty near a year--why, let me see--what day is it?--why, i'll be bound if he ain't _just_ a year old this very day." "birthday, eh? you ought to celebrate." "humph," said the mother, with a darkening face, "we shall likely; we do most generally. his loving father will get drunk, and if he don't pitch tode head over heels out here on the stones, in honor of his birthday, i'll be thankful. tode mall, you stop crawling out to that gutter, or i'll shake you within an inch of your life!" this last, in a louder and most threatening tone, to the ambitious baby. but poor tode didn't understand, or forgot, or something, for while his mother talked with her companion, out he traveled toward the inviting gutter again, and tumbled into it, from whence he was carried, dripping and screaming, by his angry mother, who bestowed the promised shake, and added a vigorous slapping, whereat tode kicked and yelled in a manner that proved him to be without doubt a near relative of master pliny hastings himself. three brothers they were, messrs. pliny, bennie and tode, opening their wondrous eyes on the world on precisely the same day of time, though under such different circumstances, and amid such different surroundings, that i doubt if it looked equally round to them all. besides, they hadn't the least idea each of the existence of the other; but no matter for that, they were brothers, linked together in many a way. perhaps you wouldn't have had an idea that their fathers were each occupied in the same business; but such was the case. pliny l. hastings, the millionaire, owned and kept in motion two of the hotels in a western city where the bar-rooms were supplied with marble counters, and the customers were served from cut-glass goblets, resting on silver salvers. besides he was a wholesale liquor dealer, and kept great warehouses constantly supplied with the precious stuff. bennie phillips' good-natured father was a grocer, on a modest and unpretending scale; but he had a back room in his store where he kept a few barrels of liquor for medicinal purposes, and a clerk in attendance. tode mall's father kept an unmitigated grog-shop, or rum hole, or whatever name you are pleased to call it, without any cut glass or medicinal purposes about it, and sold vile whisky at so much a drink to whoever had sunk low enough to buy it. so now you know all about how these three baby brothers commenced their lives. chapter ii. john birge's opportunity. one day it rained--oh, terribly. albany is not a pleasant city when it rains, and rensselaer street is not a pleasant street. that was what john birge thought as he held his umbrella low to avoid the slanting drops, and hurried himself down the muddy road, hurried until he came to a cellar stairs, and then he stopped short in the midst of rain and wind, such a pitiable sight met his eye, the figure of a human being, fallen down on that lowest stair in all the abandonment of drunkenness. "this is awful!" muttered john birge to himself. "i wonder if the poor wretch lives here, and if i can't get him in." wondering which, he hurried down the stairs, made his way carefully past the "poor wretch" and knocked at the door. no answer. he knocked louder, and this time a low "come in" rewarded him, and he promptly obeyed it. a woman was bending over a pile of straw and rags, and an object lying on top of them; and a squalid child, curled in one corner, with a wild, frightened look in his eyes. the woman turned as the door opened, and john birge recognized her as his mother's washerwoman. "oh, mr. birge," she said, eagerly, "i'm too thankful for anything at seeing you. this woman is going so fast, she is; and what to do i don't know." mr. birge set down his umbrella and shook himself free of what drops he could before he approached the straw and rags; then he saw that a woman lay on them, and on her face the purple shadows of death were gathering. "what is it?" he asked, awe-struck. "what is the matter?" "clear case of murder, i call it. her man is a drunkard, and a fiend, too, leastways when he's drunk he is--and he's pitched her down them there stairs once too often, i reckon. i was goin' to my work early this morning, and i heard her groaning, so i come in, and i just staid on ever since. feelings is feelings, if a body does have to lose a day's work to pay for 'em. she lies like that for a spell, and then she rouses up and has an awful turn." "turn of what? is she in pain?" "no, i reckon not; it's her mind. she knows she's going, and it makes her wild, like. maybe you can talk to her some, and do her good--there, she sees you!" a pair of stony, rather than wild, eyes were suddenly fixed on mr. birge's face. he bent over her and spoke gently. "my poor woman, what can i do for you?" "nothing at all," she said, stolidly. "my heart's broke, and that's the end of it. it don't make no difference what comes next, i'm done with it." "but, my poor friend, are you ready for what is coming to you?" "you mean i'm dying, i s'pose. yes, i know that, and it makes no kind of difference. i've had enough of living, the land knows. things can't be worse with me than they are here." and now john spoke eagerly. "but don't you know that they can be better, that there is a home and rest and peace waiting for you, and that the lord jesus christ wants you?" "i don't know anything about them things. i might, i s'pose, if i'd been a mind to. it's too late now, and i don't care about that, either. things _can't_ be worse, i tell you." "it's _not_ too late; don't ruin yourself with that folly. the lord is all powerful. he can do _anything_. he doesn't need _time_ as men do. he can save you _now_ just as well as he could last year. all you have to do is to ask him; he will in no wise cast out; he 'is able to save to the _uttermost_.' believe on him, and the work is all done." it is impossible to tell the eager energy with which these words were poured forth by the man who saw that the purple shadows were creeping and the time was short; but the same stony look still settled on the listener's face, and she repeated with the indifference of despair-- "it's no use--my time is gone--it don't matter. my heart's broke, i tell you, and i don't care." "he _will_ save you if you will let him; he wants to. i can't tell you how much he has promised to hear the very faintest, latest call. say 'lord jesus forgive me' with all your heart, and the work is done." a sudden change swept over the sick stolid face, a gleam of interest in the dreary eyes, and she spoke with eagerness. "do you say he can do everything?" "_everything._ 'whatever ye ask in my name, _believing_, ye shall receive.' these are his own words." "does he believe in rum?" "no!" promptly replied the startled, but strongly temperate john birge. "then i'll pray," was the quick response. "i never prayed in my life, but i will now; like enough i can save him yet. you folks think he can hear everything that's said, don't you?" strangely moved as well as startled, her visitor answered her only by a bow. the shaking hands were clasped, and in a clear firm voice the sick woman spoke: "o lord, don't let tode ever drink a drop of rum!" then the little boy crouching in the corner, rose up and came quickly over to his mother. "keep away, tode," said the woman at the foot of the bed, speaking in an awe-stricken voice. "keep away, don't touch her; she ain't talking to you." not so much as a glance did the mother bestow upon her boy, but repeated over and over again the sentence, "o lord, don't let tode ever touch a drop of rum." "is that the way?" she asked, suddenly turning her sharp bright eyes full on mr. birge. "is that the way they pray? are them the right kind of words to use?" "my poor friend," began he, but she interrupted him impatiently. "just tell me if that's the name you call him by when you pray?" "yes," he said. "only won't you add to them, 'and forgive and save _me_ for jesus' sake.'" "never mind me," she answered, promptly. "'tain't of no consequence about me, never has been; and i haven't no time to waste on myself. i want to save him. 'o lord, don't let tode ever touch a drop of rum.'" "he doesn't need time," pleaded her visitor. "he can hear both prayers at once. he can save both you and tode in a second of time; and he loves you and is waiting." this was her answer: "o lord, don't let tode ever touch a drop of rum." all that woman's soul was swallowed up in the one great longing. unable longer to endure the scene in silence, john birge dropped on his knees and said: "lord jesus, hear this prayer for her boy, and save this poor woman who will not pray for herself." the words seemed to arrest her attention. "what do _you_ care?" she added, at length. "the lord jesus cares. he died to save you." then john birge repeated his prayer, adding a few simple words. the little silence that followed was broken by the repetition of the poor woman's one solemn sentence: "o lord, don't let tode ever touch a drop of rum." "and save me," added john birge. "and save me"--her lips took up the sentence--"for jesus' sake." "for jesus' sake." the next time she added these words of her own accord; and again and again was the solemn cry repeated, until there came a sudden changing of the purple shadows into solemn ashy gray, and with one half-murmured effort, "not a drop of rum" and "for jesus' sake," the voice was forever hushed. the neighbor watcher was the first to break the stillness. "well, i never in all my life!" she ejaculated, speaking solemnly. "for the land's sake! i wish every rum-seller in the world could a heard her. well, her troubles is over, mr. birge. now, what's to be done next?" "is she anything to you, mary, except an acquaintance?" "i'm thankful to say she ain't. if she had been i'd expect to die of shame for letting her die in this hole. she's a neighbor of mine, at least i live around the corner; but i don't know much about her, only that her man comes home drunk about every night, and tears around like a wild beast." which last recalled to john's remembrance the reason of his being in that room. "is that her husband lying out there?" he asked, nodding toward the door. "yes, it is. been there long enough to know something by this time, i should think, too." "it seems to me the first thing to be done is to get him in here; it isn't decent to leave him in this storm." "it's decenter than he deserves, in my opinion, enough sight," mary muttered. nevertheless they went toward the door, and with infinite pains and much fearful swearing from the partially roused man, they succeeded in pushing and pulling and dragging him inside the cellar on the floor, when he immediately sank back into heavy sleep. "isn't he a picture of a man, now?" said the sturdy mary, with a face and gesture of intense disgust. "i would rather be he than the man who sold him the rum," her companion answered, solemnly. "well, mary, have you time to stay here awhile, or must you go at once?" "i'll _take_ time, sir. feelings is feelings, if i be poor; and i can't leave the boy and all, like this." "very well. you shall not suffer for your kind act. i'll go at once to notify the coroner and the proper authorities, and meantime my mother will probably step around. shall i have this fellow taken to the station?" "no," said mary, with another disgusted look at the drunken man. "let the beast sleep it out; he's beyond hurting anybody, and _she_ wouldn't want him sent to the station." * * * * * "it was the most solemnly awful sight i ever saw," said john birge, telling it all over to his friend mcelroy. "i never shall forget that woman's prayer. it was the most tremendous temperance lecture i ever heard." "is the woman buried?" "yes, this afternoon. they hurry such matters abominably, mcelroy. mother saw, though, that things were decent, and did what she could. we mean to keep an eye on the boy. he has great wild eyes, and a head that suggests great possibilities of good or evil, as the case may be. we would like to get him into one of the children's homes, and look after him. i meant to go around there this very evening and see what i could do. what do you say to going with me now?" "easy enough thing to accomplish, i should think. i presume his father will be glad to get rid of him; but it's storming tremendously, is it not?" "pretty hard. it does four-fifths of the time in albany, you know. wouldn't you venture?" "why, it strikes me not, unless it were a case of life and death, or something of that sort. i should like to assist in rescuing the waif, but won't it do to-morrow?" "i presume so. we'll go to-morrow after class, then. well, take the rocking chair and an apple, and make yourself comfortable. i say, mcelroy, when i get into my profession i'll preach temperance, shall not you?" * * * * * rain and wind and storm were over by the next afternoon; the sun shone out brilliantly, trying to glorify even the upper end of rensselaer street through which the two young men were sauntering, in search of the waif on whom john birge meant to keep an eye. "i'm strangely interested in the boy," birge was saying. "that prayer was something so strange, so fearfully solemn, and the circumstances connected with my stumbling upon them at all were so sad. i was sorry after i left that i had not tried to impress upon the little fellow's mind the solemn meaning of his mother's last words. i half went back to have a little talk with him, but then i thought there would be sufficient opportunity for that in the future. here, this is the cellar. be careful how you tread, these steps are abominable. hallo! why, what on earth!" they descended the stairs; they knocked at the door, but they received no answer; they tried the door, it was locked; they looked in at the rickety window, the miserable stove, the rags, even the straw, were gone--no trace of human residence was to be seen. it does not take long to move away from rensselaer street. tode and his father were gone; and neither then nor afterward for many a day, though john birge and his companion made earnest search, were they to be found. the "sufficient opportunity" was gone, too, and young birge kept no eye on the boy; but there was an all-seeing eye looking down on poor tode all the while. chapter iii. wolfie. mr. hastings started on a journey. it was midwinter, so he muffled himself in overcoat and furs, and carried his great fur-lined traveling cloak, all nicely rolled and strapped, ready for extra occasions. he was not in the very best humor when the night express reached albany, and he had finally changed his quarters from the central to the hudson river railroad. his arrangements had not been made for spending the night on the train at all; his plan was to be fairly settled under the blankets in a new york hotel by this time, but there had been detention after detention all along his route. so the great man settled himself with what grace he could, and unstrapped the fur-lined cloak, and made other preparations for passing a night in the cars, his face, meanwhile, wearing an ominous frown. it was not so much the sitting-up all night that troubled him, for mr. hastings was in excellent health, and an excellent traveler, and really did not so much mind the fatigue; but he was a man accustomed to carrying out his plans and intentions to the very letter, and it jarred upon him to have even snow and ice audacious enough to interfere. there were other travelers that night who had no fur-lined cloaks. one in particular, who sat near the stove, and made such good use of the dampers that mr. hastings had no use for his cloak, even after unstrapping it, but flung it into a great furry heap on the nearest seat behind him, and knew not then, nor ever, that the insignificant little act was one of the tiny links in the chain of circumstances that were molding tode mall's life. tode mall started on a journey that very evening. he didn't pack his valise, nor take his overcoat, nor ride to the depot in a carriage. in fact, his father kicked him out of the cellar like a foot-ball, and bade him good-by in these words: "there! get out. and don't let me ever see a sight of your face again." tode rolled over once in the snow, then got up and shook himself, and made prompt answer: "all right! i'm agreed." he then stuffed his hands into the ragged pockets of his ragged jacket, and marched off up town, and because he happened to roll over and come up with his face turned in the direction of the depot, is the only known reason why he walked _up_ town instead of _down_. apparently he didn't take his father's late treatment very much to heart. "he's drunk," he said, philosophically. "that's what's the matter with him. in about two hours he'll be over this part of the carouse and be snoring, then i'll slip back all right, if i don't freeze beforehand. ain't it cold, though. i must travel faster than this." on he went aimlessly, reached the depot presently, and followed the crowd who crossed the river, for no better reason than that a great many people seemed to be going that way. following a portion of this same crowd brought him at last to a platform of the departing train, just as the steam-horse was giving a premonitory snort, and the official called out for the second time: "all aboard!" "no, we ain't exactly," said tode. "but it wouldn't take long to get aboard if that is what you want, particularly if you've got a fire in there." and he peered curiously in at the drowsy passengers. it was just at this point that mr. hastings threw his furry cloak away from him, and settled among his other wraps for a night's rest. the action caught tode's eye. "my! ain't that fellow comfortable?" chuckled he to himself. "got a wolf there that he don't appear to need. if he'd lend it to me i wouldn't mind keeping him company for a spell. s'pose i try it?" and suiting the action to the word he pushed open the door, and walked boldly forward among the sleepy people, halted at the stove, and while the delicious sense of warmth crept slowly over him he kept one eye on mr. hastings until he felt sure, just as the train got fairly into motion, that the gentleman had fairly commenced his nap, then he slid himself into the empty seat, and used his hands and his wits in so disposing of the "wolf" that it would cover his cuddled up body completely, and at the same time look like nothing but an innocent cloak thrown carelessly on the seat; and he chuckled as distinctly as he dared when he heard the conductor's voice calling "tickets" to the sleepy people, and presently the door opened, and shut with a slam, and the silence that followed showed that he considered his business with that car finished. "he didn't ask wolfie for his ticket," giggled tode. "i reckon he don't know he's alive, no more don't the man that thinks he owns him. i say now, what if he gets a cold streak, and wants to borrow wolfie for himself after a spell? poh!" he added after a minute, "it's easy enough to get out the way i came in; but it will be time enough to do it when i _have_ to. i ain't going to keep doing it all night. i vote for _one_ good warm nap, i do--so here goes." and tode went straightway to the land of dreams. the night wore on, the restless traveler near the stove dozed and wakened and attended to the dampers, thereby all unknowingly contributing his mite to tode's warm journey. the train halted now and again at a station, and a few sleepy people stumbled off, and a few wide-awake ones came on, but still seats were comparatively plenty and no one disturbed the fur cloak. in the course of time tode's sleep grew less sound; he twisted around as much as his limits would allow, and punched an imaginary bed-fellow with his elbow, muttering meanwhile: "keep still now. which of you is joggling?" the joggling continued, and at last the boy twisted and punched himself awake and into a sitting posture, and finally the look of unmixed astonishment with which he took in his surroundings, gave way to one of unmistakable fun. "here's a go!" he at last informed himself. "i've come a journey and no mistake; made a night of it sure as i live. lucky i waked up first of this crowd. if somebody had sat down on wolfie now by mistake, there might have been trouble. guess i'll look about me." he shook himself free from the cloak and sauntered out on the platform. the gray dawn was just glimmering over the frozen earth, the world looked snowy and icy and desolate. on swept the train, and not a familiar object met his eye. did tode feel dreary and homesick, lost in the whizzing strangeness, sorry he had come? did he want to shrink away from sight and sound? did he feel that he would give anything in the world to be landed at that moment somewhere near broadway in albany? not a bit of it! nothing of the sort entered his brain. _he_ feel homesick! why his home was anywhere and nowhere. since that day, years ago, when his mother died, he had had less of a home than even before. sometimes he slept on the cellar floor with his father, but oftener in the street, in a stable, or curled in a barrel when he had the good fortune to find one--_anywhere_; but never in all his life had he spent such a comfortable night as this last had been. but his father? oh dear, you don't know what fathers can become to their children, if you think he missed him. please remember his last act had been to kick his son out of a cellar into the snow; but tode bore him no ill-will for this or any other attention. oh no, nor good-will either. why, his father was simply less than nothing to him. so this morning, without an idea as to what he was going to do next, he stood and watched himself being whirled into new york, with no feeling save one of extreme satisfaction at the success of his last night's plan, and alert only to keep out of the reach of the conductor. the car door slammed behind him, and he turned quickly, as two gentlemen came out. one of them eyed him closely, and finally addressed him. "who are you with, my lad?" tode chuckled inwardly at this question, but added promptly enough, "a man in there," nodding his head toward the car which contained mr. hastings. "humph! the man must be crazy to let his servant travel in such a suit as that in this bitter weather." this remark was addressed to his companion as the two passed into the next car. tode chuckled outright this time; he had a new idea. "that's the talk," he informed himself. "i'm his servant; just it prezackly--much obliged. i hadn't thought of that arrangement before, but i like the plan first rate. maybe wolfie and i will get another night or so together by the means." so now he had two items of business on hand, dodging the conductor and keeping an eye on his traveling companion. the first he managed to accomplish by dint of always passing out at one end of the car just as that official was entering at the other, aided in his scheme by the fact that it was not yet light, and also that they were fairly in the city. but the last was an extremely difficult matter. a dozen times, as he breathlessly pushed and elbowed his way through the hurrying crowd, did he think that he had hopelessly lost sight of his guide, and as often did he catch another glimpse of him and push on. at last a car, not too full for mr. hastings to crowd himself into, rewarded his signal, and tode plunged after him as far as the platform. there he halted. there were many passengers and much fare to collect, so our young scamp had enjoyed quite a ride before his turn came. "fare," said the conductor at last, briefly and sharply, right at his elbow. "yes, sir," answered tode as promptly. "only it's pretty cold and windy." "pay your fare," shouted the conductor. "oh bless me--yes, to be sure." and tode fumbled in both pockets, drawing out bits of strings and balls of paper and ends of candles, everything but pennies; then looked up with an innocent face. "why, as true as you live, i haven't got a cent." "then what are you doing here?" "why riding, to be sure. it's enough sight nicer than walking this windy day. your driver stopped for everybody that held up his hand. i saw him, so when i was invited kind of, how did i know i'd have to pay?" the demure, innocent, childlike air with which tode rattled off this story can not be described. the conductor laughed. "you're either _very_ green or very old," he said at last. "and i'm not sure which. where do you want to go?" "oh i ain't a bit particular. you needn't go out of your way on my account. i'll ride right along with you, and look at the sights." which accommodating spirit seemed greatly to amuse the other platform riders; and as the car stopped at that moment for passengers, the conductor turned away with a laugh, and left tode to enjoy his ride in peace. on they went, and in spite of driving snow and sleet, tode managed to make the acquaintance of the driver, and get considerable amusement out of his trip, when he suddenly broke off in the midst of a sentence, and cleared the steps with a bound. mr. hastings had left the car and crossed the street. then commenced another chase, around the corner, down one block, up another, on and on, until tode, panting and breathless, brought up at last before a grand hotel, inside which mr. hastings vanished. tode pushed boldly forward, shied behind a fat gentleman who ran against them in the hall, and remained hidden long enough to overhear the following conversation: "why, mr. hastings! how do you do? when did you arrive?" "by the morning train, sir. all full here?" "well, comfortably so. make room for you without a doubt. stop here?" "yes, sir. always do." "remain long?" "no, return on friday. waiter, this way, sir." tode drew a long breath of relief, and dodged out. "well," said he, with a satisfied air, "i'm thankful to say i've got that man landed at last where he'll be likely to stay for some time. he's mr. hastings, is he? it's convenient to know who one belongs to. now i must trudge off and do a little business on my own account, seeing we 'return on friday.' first let's take a look at the name of this place where i've decided to leave him, and this street is--yes, i see. _now_ i'm all right--trust me for finding my way here again. don't you be one mite worried, brother hastings, i'll be around in time." and tode disappeared around a corner, whistling merrily. [illustration] chapter iv. brain-work. what tode _didn't_ do during those three days' tarry in new york could be told almost better than what he did. no country novice visiting the great city for the first time could have begun to crowd in the sights and scenes that revealed themselves to tode's eager, wide-open eyes, in the same space of time. the boy had the advantage of most such, in that he had not much to eat, and nowhere to eat it; also that he was in the habit of sleeping nowhere in particular, consequently these matters took up very little of his time. however he fared well, better than usual. he carried a package for an over-loaded man for a short distance, thereby earning ten cents, which he immediately expended in peanuts, and became peanut merchant for the time being. so by dint of changing his business ten or a dozen times, and being always on the alert, and understanding pretty thoroughly the art of economy, he managed his lodging and three meals a day, and was richer by twenty-five cents on the morning when he prepared to take his departure than he was when he arrived in the city, a fact of which few people who have been spending several days in new york can boast. tode's fancy for attaching himself to mr. hastings still continued in full force, and brought him bright and early on friday morning around to the hotel, where he had last seen him. not one minute too early, however, and but for mr. hastings' own tardiness too late. he had just missed a car, and no other was in sight. tode took in the situation at a glance, and hopped across the street. "carry your baggage, sir?" mr. hastings had a valise, a package, a cane, an umbrella, and the great fur-lined cloak. he appreciated tode's assistance. "yes," he said. "take this, and this." away they went down town to head off another car, which was presently signaled. "jump in, boy, and be ready to help me at the other end, if you're a mind to," said mr. hastings, graciously, noticing the wistful look on the boy's face, and thinking he wanted a ride. tode obeyed in great glee; he considered this a streak of luck. he sat beside mr. hastings and watched with great satisfaction while that gentleman counted out double fare. for the first time, tode thought they had assumed proper positions toward each other. of course mr. hastings ought to pay his fare since he belonged to him. arrived at the depot, and mr. hastings' baggage properly disposed of, himself paid, and supposed to be dismissed, tode was in a quandary. here was the train, and on it he meant to travel; but how to manage it was another question. it was broad daylight; sleep and wolfie couldn't serve him now. he stuffed his hands into his pocket, and studied ways and means; eyes bent on the ground, and the ground helped him, rather a bit of pasteboard did. he picked it up, and read, first in bewilderment then in delight: "new york to castleton." a ticket! all properly stamped, and paid for, undoubtedly. did tode hesitate, have great qualms of conscience, consider what he ought to do, how to set about to find the owner? he never once thought of any thing. poor tode hardly knew so much as that there were such articles as consciences, much less that he had anything to do with them. somebody had lost his ticket, and _he_ had found it, and it was precisely what he wanted. once at castleton, it would be an easy matter to get to albany. he thrust the precious card into his pocket, swung himself on the train, and selected his seat at leisure. tode had never been to sabbath-school, had never in his life knelt at the family altar and been prayed for. there are boys, i fear me, who having been shielded by both these things, placed in like position would have followed his example. the seat he selected was as far as possible removed from the one which mr. hastings occupied. it was no part of tode's plan to be discovered by that gentleman just at present. on the whole, this part of his journey was voted "tame." he had to sit up in his seat, and show his ticket like any one else; and it required no skill at all to forget to jump off at castleton, and so of necessity be carried on. he sauntered over in mr. hastings' vicinity once, and heard an important conversation. "can you tell me, sir," inquired that gentleman of his next neighbor, "whether by taking the midnight train at albany i shall reach buffalo in time to connect with a train on the lake shore road?" "you will, sir; but it is a slow train. by keeping right on now you can connect with the lake shore express." "i know; but i have business that will detain me in albany." "so have i," muttered tode, well pleased with the arrangement, and went back to his seat. * * * * * "halloo, tode! where you been?" called out a sixteen-year old comrade from a cellar grocery window, as tode turned out of broadway that same evening. "been traveling for my health. say, jerry, seen anything of father lately?" "he's gone off on a frolic. went night before last--bag and baggage." "where did he go?" jerry shook his head. "more than i know. doubt if he knew himself about the time he started; but he'll bring up all right after a spell, likely." landed in albany, the only home he knew, tode had his first touch of loneliness and depression. the cellar was closed, his father gone, no one knew where nor for how long an absence, nor even if he meant to return at all. tode was cold and dreary. up to this time he had followed out his whim of belonging to the owner of the fur cloak, merely _as_ a whim, with no definite purpose at all; but now, queerly enough, parted with the man with whom he had journeyed, and over whom he kept so close a watch during these four days, he had a feeling of loneliness as if he had lost something--he begun to wish he did belong to him in very truth. suppose he did, worked for him say, and earned a warm place to sleep in of nights--this was the hight of his present ambition. the warm place to sleep suggested to him the good night's rest under the cloak, and also the fact that there was another bitter night shutting down rapidly over the earth, and that he had no spot for shelter. "i'll push on," he said at last, in a decisive tone. "i'd as lief go to buffalo as anywhere else--the thing is to get there; but then i can get _on_ the cars, and get _off_ at buffalo if i can, and before if i _have_ to." this matter settled, his spirits began to rise at once; and by the time mr. hastings and he crowded their way through the midnight train, the cars contained no such gleeful spirit as tode mall's. more skill was needed than on the preceding journey, for the fur-lined cloak was thrown over the back of the seat fronting him this time, and mr. hastings sat erect and wide awake, and looked extremely cross. "i have the most extraordinary luck," he was telling a man, as tode entered. "nothing but delay and confusion since i left home. never had such an experience before." but the car was warm and the air was heavy, and mr. hastings' erect head began to nod in a suspicious manner. tode watched and waited, and was finally rewarded. the gentleman made deliberate preparations for a nap, and was soon taking it. now for the young scamp's trial of skill! he slipped into the vacant seat--he curled himself into a ball--he pulled and twitched softly and dextrously at the fur cloak, to make it come down and lie over him in such a manner that it would look like pure accident; and at last he was settled for the night. he felt the soft, delicious, furry warmth once more, and he hugged his friend and fairly shook with delight and triumph. "oh, ho! ha! hum!" he chuckled. "how _are_ you, wolfie? how've you been? you and me is friends, we is. we're travelers, we are. now, we'll have a tall sleep. ain't this just the jolliest thing, though?" then tode went to sleep. by and by he felt a jerking. he roused up, the car lamps were burning dim. mr. hastings was pulling at his cloak and eyed _him_ severely, but tode innocently and earnestly helped him to right it, and treated its tumble over on to _him_ as a very natural accident. the train was at a stand-still. tode thought best to find out his whereabouts. he went out to the platform. "what station is this?" he inquired of a boy who, like himself, was peering into the darkness. "oh, this is a way-station. we'll be in syracuse in about half an hour. we've got to change cars there." "we don't if we're going to buffalo," answered tode, in a business-like tone. he knew nothing whatever about the matter. "yes we do, too. got to wait an hour. i just asked the conductor." tode walked in and took his seat; he saw his way clear. presently came the conductor, and halted before him. tode's hand sought his pocket. "how much to syracuse?" he questioned; and being naturally told the rate of fare from their last stopping place to syracuse, he counted it out and sat back at his leisure. at syracuse mr. hastings went into the hotel to get his breakfast. tode walked the piazza and whistled for his; besides he had something to do. he didn't see his way clear, but the more difficult the way grew the more delightful it looked to tode, and the more determined was he to tread it. the hour sped on. mr. hastings' breakfast was concluded. he was in the depot now talking with an acquaintance. tode was just behind him thinking still. "all aboard!" shouted the official. "passengers for buffalo this way!" and mr. hastings caught up valise, bundle, umbrella, cane, and vanished--all those, but the fur-lined cloak lay innocently cuddled in a warm heap on the seat. tode seized upon it in an instant and hugged it close. "oh, wolfie, wolfie!" he chuckled, "you're the best friend i got in the world. you went and got left on my account, didn't you?" it was but the work of a moment to hustle himself and his prize into the train--_not_ into the car that mr. hastings had taken--and once more they were off. when they were fairly under way he presented himself before the astonished eyes of mr. hastings with this brief sentence: "here he is, sir, safe and sound." "here who is?" "wolfie, sir. you left him lying on a seat in syracuse, and i got him and jumped on." "why, is it possible i left my cloak? why, bless me! i never did such a careless thing before in my life; and so you jumped on, and have got carried off by the means. well, sir, you're an honest boy; and now what shall i give you to make it all right?" "i want to get to buffalo like sixty," answered tode, meekly. "and i haven't a cent to my name." "you do, eh? and you would like to have me pay your fare? well, that's not an unreasonable demand, seeing this is a very valuable cloak." and mr. hastings counted out the fare to buffalo and a few pennies over; and tode thankfully received it, and went out and sat down in a corner and whistled. imagine mr. hastings' astonishment when, soon after he had made his last change of cars and was speeding homeward on the lake shore road, tode appeared to him. "well!" was his exclamation, "what are you doing here? this isn't buffalo." "no, sir; but a fellow sometimes has to get to buffalo before he can get to cleveland, you know." "oh, you're bound for cleveland, are you? and who pays your way this time?" "well, sir," said tode, gravely, "i'm traveling with you." "what?" "i _am_. i've been from albany to new york with you, and i left you at the hotel, and i came after you on friday, and carried your valise and things to the cars, and came up to albany with you, and waited for you until the midnight train, and came on to syracuse with you, and waited while you got your breakfast--and here i am." unbounded amazement kept mr. hastings silent. presently he asked, incredulously: "who paid your fare all this time?" "wolfie, principally." "who?" "wolfie," pointing to the cloak. "i hid under him, and cuddled up, and he made it all right with the conductor." mr. hastings' face was a study--astonishment, indignation and fun each struggling for the mastery. at last his face broadened, and his eyes twinkled, and he leaned back in his seat and indulged in a long, loud, hearty laugh. tode's eyes twinkled, but he waited decorously for the laugh to subside. "this is the most ridiculous thing i ever heard of in my life," began the gentleman when he could speak. "so you're traveling with _me_, are you? and what do you propose to do when you get to cleveland?" "mean to work for you, sir." "upon my word! how do you know i shall need your help?" "you've needed it several times on this journey," said tode, significantly. whereupon mr. hastings laughed again. "you'll do," he said at length. "i don't see that you need any help from me. i should say that you are thoroughly capable of taking care of yourself." tode shrugged his shoulders. "i'm a stranger on this road," he answered, gravely. "just as you was on the central and them roads, i suppose." "and you think inasmuch as you took care of me during the time i spent on _your_ roads, i ought to return the favor now we are on _mine_." this with a strong emphasis on that word "_mine_." "well, sir, i don't know that i ever did so foolish a thing in my life, but then you must be considered as a remarkable specimen. conductor, could you do me the favor to pass this youngster through to cleveland?" mr. hastings spoke with easy assurance. tode didn't know how nearly he had touched the truth when he hinted at the great man's power on _that_ road. "certainly, sir," answered the obliging conductor, "if it will be a favor to you." "all right, sir. now, young man, help yourself to a seat, and i shall expect to be most thoroughly cared for during the rest of this journey." tode obeyed with great alacrity, and gave himself a great many little commendatory nods and pats for the successful way in which he had managed the whole of this delicate and difficult business. chapter v. tode's ambition. mr. hastings' elegant carriage was drawn up at a safe distance from the puffing iron animal who had just screeched his way into the depot. the coachman on the box managed with dextrous hand the two black horses who seemed disposed to resent the coming of their puffing rival, while with his hand resting on the knob of the carriage door, looking right and left for somebody, and finally springing forward to welcome his father, was master pliny hastings, older by fourteen years than when that dinner party was given in honor of his birthday. "tumble up there with the driver," was mr. hastings' direction to tode, who stood and looked with open-eyed delight on carriage, horses, driver, _everything_, while father and son exchanged greeting. pliny _did_ wait until the carriage door was closed before he burst forth with: "father, where on earth did you pick up that bundle of rags, and what did you bring him home for?" "he brought me, i believe," answered mr. hastings, laughing at the droll remembrance. "at least i think you'll find that's his version of the matter." "what are you going to do with him?" "more than i know. i'm entirely at his disposal." "father, how queer you are. what's his name?" "upon my word i don't know. i never thought to inquire. you may question him to your heart's content when you get home. there is a funny story connected with him, which i will tell you sometime. meantime let me rest and tell me the news." "he is a very smart specimen, augusta," explained mr. hastings to his wife that evening, when she looked aghast at the idea of harboring tode for the night. "a remarkable boy in some respects, and i fancy he may really become a prize in the way of a waiter at one of the hotels. these fellows who have brought themselves up on the street do sometimes develop a surprising aptitude for business, and i am greatly mistaken if this one is not of that stamp. i'll take him off your hands in the morning, augusta, and he can't demoralize pliny in one evening. besides," he added as a lofty afterthought, "if my son can be injured by coming in contact with evil in any shape, i am ashamed of him." in very much the same style was tode introduced at one of the grand hotels the next morning. "the boy is sharp enough for _anything_," explained mr. hastings to the landlord. "i don't believe you will find his match in the city. suppose you take him in, and see what you can do for him?" the landlord eyed the very ragged, and very roguish, and very doubtful looking personage thus introduced with a not particularly hopeful face; but mr. hastings was a person to be pleased first and foremost under all circumstances, so the answer was prompt. "well, sir, if you wish it we will give him a trial, of course; but what can we set him at in that plight?" "um," remarked mr. hastings, thoughtfully, "i hadn't thought of that. oh well, he means to earn some better clothes at once. isn't that so, my lad?" tode nodded. he hadn't thought of such a thing--his aim was still only a warm place to sleep in; but he immediately set down better clothes as another hight to be attained. "meantime, mr. roberts, hasn't tom some old clothes that he has outgrown? this fellow is shorter than tom, i should think. he'll work for his board and clothes, of course, for the present. can you make it go, mr. roberts?" mr. roberts thought he could, and as mr. hastings drew on his gloves he remarked to that gentleman aside: "i've taken a most unaccountable interest in the young scamp. he's a _scamp_, no mistake about that, and he'll have to be looked after very closely. but then he's sharp, sharp as steel; just the sort to develop into a business man with the right kind of training, such as he will receive here. the way in which he wheedled me into bringing him home with me was a most astonishing proceeding. i shall have to tell you all about it when we are more at leisure. good-morning, sir." and mr. hastings bowed himself out. by noon tode was fairly launched upon his new life, and made such good use of his eyes and ears that in some respects he knew more about the business than did the new errand boy who had been there for a week. for the first time in his life he was going to earn his living. mr. hastings was correct in his opinion. tode was sharp; yet he was after all, not unlike a piece of soft putty, ready to be molded into almost any shape, ready to take an impression from anything that he chanced to touch. if the people who dined at that great hotel on the avenue during those following weeks could have known how the chance words which they let drop, and in dropping forgot, were gathered up by that round-eyed boy, how startled they would have been! there was one memory which stood out sharply in tode's life--it was of his mother's death. the boy had never in his fifteen years of life heard but one prayer, that was his mother's, it was for him: "o lord, don't let tode ever drink a drop of rum." he had very vague ideas in regard to prayer, very bewildering notions concerning the being to whom this prayer was addressed; but he knew what rum was--he had excellent reason to know; and he knew that these words of his mother's had been terribly earnest ones--they had burned themselves into his brain. he remembered his mother as one who had given him what little care and kindness he had ever received. finally he had a sturdy, positive, emphatic will of his own, which is not a bad thing to have if one takes proper care of it. so without any sort of idea as to the right or wrong of the matter, with perfect indifference as to whether this thing came under either head, he had sturdily resolved that he would never, no never, so long as he lived, drink a drop of rum. in this resolution he had been strengthened by the constant jeers and gibes and offerings of his father not only but of his boon companions. there are natures which grow stronger by opposition. tode had one of these; so the very forces which would have met to ruin nine boys out of ten, came and rallied around him to strengthen his purpose. so tode, having been brought up, or rather having come up, thus far in one of the lowest of low grog-shops, had steadily and defiantly adhered to his determination. it was seven years since his mother's prayer had gone up to god; tode, only seven at that time, but older by almost a dozen years than are those boys of seven who have been tenderly and carefully reared in happy homes, had taken in the full force of that one oft-repeated sentence and had lived it ever since. behold him now, the caterpillar transformed into the butterfly. he had shuffled off the grog-shop, and fluttered into one of the brightest of cleveland hotels. the bright-winged moth singes itself in the brilliant gaslight sometimes where the caterpillar never comes. queer thoughts came into tode's head with that suit of new clothes with which he presently arrayed himself. not particularly new, either. tom roberts was in college, and they were his cast-off attire, worn before he, too, in his way became a butterfly; and he would not have been seen in them--no, nor have had it enter into the mind of one of his college mates that he ever _had_ been seen in them, for a considerable sum even of spending money. different eyes have such different ways of looking at the same thing. tode will never forget how that suit of clothes looked to _his_ eyes, nor how, when arrayed in them, he stood before his bit of glass, and took a calm, full, deliberate survey of himself. to be sure, tom being a chunk and tode being long limbed, notwithstanding mr. hastings' supposition to the contrary, pants and jacket sleeves were somewhat lacking in length; moreover there was a patch on each knee, and you have no idea how nice those patches looked to tode. why, bless you! he was used to seeing great jagged, unseemly holes where these same neat patches now were. also he had on a shirt! a real, honest white shirt; and so persistently does one improvement urge upon us the necessity of another in this world, that tode had already been obliged to doff his shirt once in order to bring his face and hair into something like propriety, that the contrast might not be too sharp. there was a stirring of new emotions in his heart. perhaps he then and there resolved to be a genius, to be the president, or at least the governor; perhaps he did, but he only gave his thoughts utterance after this fashion: "jemima jane! do you tell the truth, you young upstart in the glass there? be you tode mall, no mistake? well now, for the land's sake, a fellow _does_ look better in a shirt, that's as true as whistling. i mean to have a shirt of my own, i do now. s'pose these are mine after i earn 'em. oh, ho; _me_ earn a shirt for myself. ain't that rich now? what you s'pose jerry would think of that, hey, old fellow in the glass? well, why not? like enough i'll earn a pair of boots some day. i will now, true's you live; it's real jolly. i wonder a fellow never thought of it before. oh i'll be some; i'll have a yellow bow one of these days for a cravat, see if i don't!" and this was the hight and end and aim of tode's ambition. chapter vi. new ideas. "come," said pliny hastings, halting before the hotel, and addressing his companion, "father said if it snowed hard when school was out to come in here to dinner." "well, go ahead, then," answered his friend, gaily. "father didn't tell me so, and i suppose i must go home." "oh bother--come on and get some dinner with me; then when the pelting storm is over we'll go up together." so the two came into the great dining-room, and tode came briskly forward to help them. tode had been in his new sphere for more than three weeks, and already began to pride himself on being the briskest "fellow in the lot." pliny hastings ordered dinner for two with an ease and promptness that proved him to be quite accustomed to the proceeding; and tode dodged hither and thither, and finally hovered near, and looked on with admiring eyes as the two ate and drank, and talked and laughed. thus far in his life tode had been, without being aware of it, a believer in "blood descent," distinct spheres in life, and all that sort of nonsense. he was a boy to be sure, but it had never so much as occurred to him that he could be even remotely connected with such specimens of boyhood as were before him now. not that they were any better than he. oh no, tode never harbored such a thought for a moment; but then they were different, that he saw, and like many another unthinking mortal, he never gave a thought to the difference that home, and culture, and christianity must necessarily make. but what nonsense am i talking! tode didn't know there _were_ any such words, but then there _are_ people who _do_, and who reason no better than did he. while he looked and enjoyed, pliny was seized with a new want, and leaned back in his chair with the query: "where's tompkins? oh, mr. tompkins, here you are. can you make ben and me something warm and nice this cold day?" mr. tompkins paused in his rush through the room. "in a very few minutes, master hastings, i will be at your service. let me see--could you wait five minutes?" pliny nodded. "very well then. tode, you may come below in five minutes, and i shall be ready." tode went and came with alacrity, and stood waiting and enjoying while the two drained their glasses. there was a little wet sugar left in the bottom of pliny's glass, and he, catching a glance from tode's watchful eye, suddenly held it forth, and spoke in kindly tone: "want that, todie?" tode, a little taken aback, shook his head in silence. "you don't like leavings, eh? get enough of the real article, i presume. how do they make this? i dare say you know, now you are at headquarters?" tode shook his head again. "belongs to the trade," he answered, with an air of wisdom. "oh it does. well how much of it do you drink in a day?" "not a drop." "bah!" tode didn't resent this incredulous tone. he was used to being doubted; moreover he knew better than did any one else that there was no special reason for trusting him, so now he only laughed. "come, tell us, just for curiosity's sake, i'd like to know how much your queer brain will bear. i won't tell of you." "you won't believe me," answered tode coolly, "so what's the use of telling you." "i will, too, if you'll tell me just exactly. this time i'll believe every word." "well then, not a drop." "why not?" queried pliny, still incredulous. "don't you like it?" "can't say. never tasted it." "weren't you ever where there was any liquor before?" "slightly!" chuckled tode over the remembrance of his cellar life, and knowing by a sort of instinct that these two had never been inside of such a place in their lives. pliny continued his examination: "don't you like the smell of it?" "first-rate." "then why don't you take it?" "ain't a going to." "but _why_?" and then for the first time his companion spoke: "are you a total abstainer?" "what's them?" both boys stopped to laugh ere they made answer. "why people who think it wicked to 'touch, taste or handle,' you know. say, pliny, did you know there's quite an excitement on the subject up our way? old mousey is round trying to get all the folks to promise not to sell joe any more brandy." "stuff and nonsense!" oracularly pronounced pliny, quoting the unanswerable argument of his elders. "fact. and folks say joe has been drunk more times in a week since than he ever was before." "of course, that's the way it always works, trying to _make_ folks do what they won't do. joe ought to be hung, though. what does a fellow want to be a fool for and go and get drunk? but say, todie, why don't you drink a drop?" "i ain't a going to," was tode's only answer. the two friends looked at each other curiously. "you're green," said pliny, at last. "yes," said tode, promptly, "maybe; so's the moon." whereat the two laughed and strolled away. "isn't he a queer chap?" they said to each other as they went out into the snow. meantime tode looked after them for a moment before he began briskly to gather up the remains of the feast. tode had some new ideas. he had formerly lived a stratum below the temperance movement; it had scarce troubled his father's cellar; so he had to-day discovered that there were others besides his mother who prayed their sons not to drink a drop of rum. also that a young man who went and got drunk was considered a fool by elegant young men, such as he had just been serving. also, and sharpest, these two evidently thought him "green." if they had said a thief or scamp tode would have laughed, but "green!" that touched. "i'll show them a thing or to, maybe," he said, defiantly, as he seized a pile of plates and vanished. now our three babies, nurtured severally in the lace-canopied crib, in the plump-cushioned rocking-chair, in the reeking cellar corner, had come together from their several "spheres" and held their first conversation. other hungry people came for their dinner and tode served them, and was very attentive to their wants and their words. a busy life the boy led during these days--a brisk, bustling life, which kept him in a state of perpetual delight. there was something in his nature which answered to all this rush and systematic confusion of business, and rejoiced in it. he liked the air of method and system which even the simplest thing wore; he liked the stated hours for certain duties; the set programme of employment laid out for each; the set places for every thing that was to be handled; the very bells, as with their different tongues they called him hither and thither to different duties, were all so much music to him. he did not know why he chuckled so much over his work; why, at the sound of one of his bells, he gave that quick spring which was so rapidly earning him a reputation for remarkable promptness; but in truth there was that in the boy which met and responded to all these things. every bit of the clock-work machinery filled him with a kind of glee. there was another reason why tode enjoyed his hotel life. he had discovered himself to be an epicure, and an amazing quantity of the good things of this life fell to his share--no, hardly that--but disappeared mysteriously from shelf and jar and box, and only grave, innocent-looking tode could have told whither they went. mince-pies, and cranberry-pies, and lemon-pies, and the whole long catalogue of pies, were equal favorites of his, and huge pieces of them had a way of not being found. poor tode, his training-school had been a sad one; the very first principle of honesty was left out of his street education, and the only rule he recognized was one which would assist him in not being discovered. so he eluded sharp eyes and hoodwinked sharp people; he commended himself for being a cute, and, withal, a lucky fellow. on the whole, although tode was certainly clad in decent garments, and slept in a comfortable bed, and was to all outward appearances earning a respectable living, i can not say that i think he was really improving. there were ways and means of leading astray in that hotel, to which even his street life had not given him access; and if anybody's brain ever appeared ripe for mischief of any sort, it was certainly tode mall's. any earthly friend, if he had possessed one, would have watched his course just now with trembling terror, and made predictions of his certain downfall. but tode had no friend in all that great city; not one who ever gave him a second thought. christian men came there often, and were faithfully served by the boy whose soul was very precious in their master's eyes, but his servants never thought to speak a word to the soul for the master. why should they?--it was a hotel, and they had come in to get their dinner; that duty accomplished and they would go forth to attend the missionary meeting, or the bible meeting, or the tract meeting, or some other good meeting; but those and the hotel dinner were distinct and separate matters, and the little bibleless heathen, who served them to oysters and coffee, went on his way, and they went theirs. but god looked down upon them all. as the days passed, the three boys, whose lives had been cast in such different molds, met often. pliny hastings liked exceedingly to come to the hotel for his dinner, and, loitering around wherever best suited his fancy, await his father's carriage. this was very much pleasanter than the long walk alone; and he liked to bring ben phillips with him--first, because he was in some respects a generous-hearted boy, and liked to bestow upon ben the handsome dinners which he knew how to order; and secondly, because he was a pompous boy, and liked to show off his grandeur to his simple friend. was there another reason never owned even to each other, why these two boys loved to come to that place rather than to their pleasant homes? did it lie in the bottom of those bright glasses filled with "something nice and warm," which pliny never forgot to order? sometimes little mrs. phillips worried, and good-natured mr. phillips laughed and "poohed" at her fancies. sometimes mr. hastings sharply forbade his son's visits to his favorite hotel, and the next windy day sent him thither to dine. sometimes his fond mother thought his face singularly flushed, and wondered why he suffered so much from headache; but only tode who had come up in the atmosphere, and knew all about it, cool, indifferent tode, looked with wise eyes upon the two boys, and remarked philosophically to himself: "them two fellows will get drunk some day, fore they know what they're up to." [illustration] chapter vii. two t's. evil days had fallen upon tode. he stood before the window with an unmistakable frown on his face. the demon "ambition" had taken possession of him, and metamorphosed him so that he didn't know himself. the hastings' carriage passed in its elegant beauty, and as tode gazed his frown deepened. not that he wanted to be seated among the velvet cushions with mrs. hastings and miss dora. oh no, he still belonged to that other sphere; but he did long with a burning, absorbing passion to be seated on the box, not with the driver, but alone, himself _the_ driver, above all others. oh to be able to grasp those reins, to guide and direct those two proud-stepping horses, to wind in and out of the crowded street, to drive where no other dared to go, to extricate the wheels very skillfully from among the bewildering confusion, to be a prince among drivers! he could do it, he _knew_ he could, if only he had the chance; but how was that to be had? poked up here, carrying plates and cups, and cleaning knives, wouldn't help him to that longed-for place, tode said, and drummed crossly on the window pane. already he was changed in the short space of six weeks. the clothes clean, and whole, the clean warm bed, the plentiful supply of food, had become every-day affairs to him, and were now just nothing at all in comparison with those prancing horses, and his desire to get dominion over them. sad results had come of this new desire; all his list of duties had dropped suddenly into entire insignificance, and he had taken to leaving black stains on the knives, and rivers of water on the plates, and being just exactly as long as he chose to be in doing everything. mr. roberts was getting out of sorts with him, and things were looking very much as though he would soon be discharged, and permitted to gaze after the black horses with no troublesome interruptions such as came to him at this present moment. "bother the coffee and the old fellow who wants it. i hope it will be hot enough to scald him. i'll drink it half up on the way in, anyhow," muttered tode, as he turned slowly and reluctantly from the window, whence he could see jonas just getting into a delightful snarl among the wheels. jonas was mr. hastings' coachman. three gentlemen were waiting for coffee and oysters; two friends talking and laughing while they ate; one, sitting apart from the others, eating with haste and with a preoccupied air. tode having served them, fell into his accustomed habit of hovering near, ready for service, and making use of his ears. curious yet respectful glances were cast now and again at the preoccupied stranger; and when he paid his bill and departed in haste, the two broke into a conversation concerning him. "richest man in this city," remarked one of them, swallowing an immense oyster. "made it all in ten years, too. came here a youngster twenty-five years ago; had exactly twenty-five cents in the world." "how did he make his money?" queried his friend. whereat tode drew nearer and listened more sharply. he was immensely interested. he was certainly a youngster, and twenty-five cents was the exact amount of money he possessed. "i heard a man ask him just that question once, and he answered, book-fashion. he's a precise sort of a fellow, and it makes me think of ben franklin, or some of those fellows who ate and drank and slept by rule. "'well, sir,' he said, drawing himself up in a proud way that he has. 'well, sir, the method is very simple. i made it a point to live up to three maxims: do everything exactly in its time. do everything as well as possible. learn everything i possibly can about everything that can be learned.'" the two laughed immensely over these directions, then swallowed their last drops of coffee and departed, leaving tode in an ecstasy of glee. he had learned how to secure the management of those horses; they were not beyond his reach after all. if so great things were attainable merely from the following out of those simple rules, why then the position of coachman was attainable to him. "easy enough thing to do," he said, as he freshened the tables for new comers. "it's just going straight ahead, pitching into what you've got to do, and doing it first-rate, and finding out about everything under the sun as fast as you can. i can do all _that_." and having reduced the synopsis of all success to language that best suited his style, tode straightened the cloths and brought fresh napkins, and gave an extra touch to the glittering silver, and managed to throw so much practice from his newly acquired stock in trade into his movements, that mr. roberts, passing through the room, said within himself: "that queer scamp is improving again. i believe i'll hold on to him a while longer." so sunshine came back to tode. not that he gave up the horses--not he, it was not his way to give up; but he had bright visions in the dim distant future of himself seated grandly on a stylish coach box, and he whistled for joy and pushed ahead. the very next afternoon tode was sent on an errand to the hastings mansion. it wasn't often he got out in the daytime, so he made the most of his walk; and the voice was fresh and cheery which floated up to pliny hastings as he tossed wearily among the pillows in his mother's room. "is that tode? yes, it is, i hear his voice. dora, ring the bell, i want to have him come up here." "my son--" began mrs. hastings. "oh now, mother, do let a fellow breathe. i've staid poked up here until i'm ready to fly, and he's just as cute as he can be. ring the bell, dora." dora obeyed, and in a very few minutes thereafter tode was ushered into the elegance of mrs. hastings' sitting-room. "_you_ sick," he said, pausing in his work of gazing eagerly about him to bestow a pitying glance on pliny's pale face. "jolly! that's awful stupid work, ain't it? what's the matter?" "i should think it was," pliny answered, laughing a little though at tode's tone. "i've a confounded sick headache, that's what's the matter." "pliny!" mrs. hastings said, rebukingly. "oh bother, mother! excruciating headache then, if that suits you better. tode, have you seen ben to-day?" "not a sign of him. couldn't think what had become of you two. you're as thick as hops, ain't you?" pliny glanced uneasily at his mother, but a summons to the parlor relieved him, and the three were left alone. dora returned to her writing, and her small fingers glided swiftly over the page. tode watched her with wondering and admiring eyes. "be you writing?" he exclaimed at last. "why, yes," said dora. "don't you see i am?" "how old be you?" "i'm eleven years old. you never studied grammar, did you?" "and you know how to write?" "why, yes," said dora again, this time laughing merrily. "i've known how more than a year." tode's answer was grave and thoughtful: "i'm fifteen." "are you, though?" said pliny. "that's just my age." "and can't _you_ write?" questioned dora. "me?" said tode, growing gleeful over the thought. "i shouldn't think i could." "aren't you ever going to learn?" "never thought of it. is it fun? no, i don't suppose i'll ever learn. yes, i will, too. you learn me, will you?" "how could i? do you mean it? do you truly want to learn? dear me! i never could teach you; mamma wouldn't allow it." for an answer tode stepped boldly forward, deterred by no feeling of impropriety, and looked over the little lady's shoulder at the round fair letters. "what's that?" he asked, pointing to the first letter of a sentence. "that is t; capital t. why, that's the very first letter of your name." "i don't see anything capital about it; it twists around like a snake. what do you curl it all up like that for?" "why, that's the way to make it. mamma says i make a very pretty letter t, and it's a capital because--because--oh, pliny, why is it a capital?" "because it is," answered pliny, promptly. "oh yes," said tode, quickly. "course that's the reason. queer we didn't think of it." then to dora. "let's see you snarl that thing around." dora quickly and skillfully obeyed. "do it again, and don't go so like lightning. how can a fellow tell what you're about?" so more slowly, and again and again was the feat repeated until at last tode seized hold of the pen as he said: "let me have a dab at the fellow; see if i can draw him." "why, you do it real well. really and truly he does, pliny," said the delighted dora. "but do you know there are two t's?" she added, turning again to her pupil. "one has a cross to it, just so. you make a straight mark with a little crook to it; then you cross it, _so_." pliny from his sofa chuckled and exclaimed over this explanation: "a straight mark with a little crook to it. oh, ho!" but the others were absorbed, and bent eagerly over their paper, and thus the horrified mrs. hastings found them on her return from the parlor, the offshoot from a cellar rum hole bending his curly head close beside _her daughter's_! she exclaimed in indignant astonishment: "dora hastings!" and eager, innocent dora hastened to make answer: "mamma, he can make the two t's; the capital and the other, you know; and he has them both on this piece of paper. just see, mamma." "say, now," interrupted tode, "i've decided to do them all. you learn me, will you? i'm to come up here every night after this with the seven o'clock mail. just you make a letter on a paper for me, the big fellow, and the little one, you know, and i'll work at it off and on the next day, and have it ready for you at night. will you do it? come now." pliny raised himself on one elbow, his face full of interest: "take a figure, tode, with your letters; figures are a great deal sharper than letters. i'll make one a night for you." "all right," said tode. "i don't mind working in a figure now and then. a fellow might need to use 'em." "mamma," said dora, "may i? i should so love to; it would be real teaching, you know. he is fifteen years old, and he don't know how to write, and it won't take one little minute of my time. oh please yes, mamma." what _could_ the elegant mrs. hastings say? what was there to say to so simple, original, yet so absurd a request? still she was annoyed, and looked it, but she did not speak it, and tode was not sensitive to looks, or words either, for that matter, and moved with a brisker, more business-like step back to the hotel, and someway felt an inch taller, for was he not to have a new letter and a figure every evening, and did he not know how to make two t's? [illustration] chapter viii. which shall prosper, this or that? the rev. john birge stood before the window in his cosy little study, and drummed disconsolately and dismally on the pane. without there was a genuine carnival among the elements, a mingling of snow and rain, which became ice almost as it fell, and about which a regular northeast wind was blustering. the rev. john looked, and drummed, and knitted his brows, and finally turned abruptly to little mrs. john, who sat in the smallest rocking-chair, toasting her feet on the hearth. "now, emma, isn't it strange that of all the evenings in the week thursday should be the one so constantly stormy? this is the third one in succession that has been so unpleasant that very few could get out." this sentence was delivered in a half-impatient, half-desponding tone; and mrs. john took time to consider before she answered, soothingly: "well, you will have the satisfaction of feeling that those who come out this evening love the prayer-meeting enough to brave even such a storm as this, and of remembering that there are many others who would brave it if they dared." but the minister was not to be beguiled into comfort; he gave an impatient kick to an envelope that lay at his feet, and continued his story. "i haven't a _thing_ prepared suitable for such an evening as this. my intention was to have a short, practical, personal talk, addressed almost entirely to the unconverted; and i shall have deacon toles and deacon fanning, and a few other gray-haired saints, who don't need a word of it, to listen to me. i had in mind just the persons that i hoped to reach by this evening's service, and that makes it all the more discouraging to feel almost absolutely certain that not one of them will be out to-night. i certainly do not see why it is that the one evening of the week, which as christians we try to give to god, should be so often given up to storm." mrs. john could not see her husband's face this time, it had been turned again to the window pane; but there was that in the tone of his voice which made her change her tactics. "it _is_ a pity and a shame," she said, in demure gravity, "that thursday evening of all others should prove stormy. do you think it can be possible that our heavenly father knows that so many of his people have made it an evening of prayer? or if he does, can't he possibly send some poor little sinner to meeting, if it be his will to do so, as well as those saints you spoke of?" the minister did not reply for a little. presently he turned slowly from the window and met his wife's gaze; then he laughed, a low, half-amused, half-ashamed laugh. he could afford to do so, for be it known this was a new order of things in the minister's household. truth to tell, it was the little wife who became out of sorts with the weather, with the walking, with the people, and had to be reasoned, or coaxed, or petted into calm by the grave, earnest, faithful, patient minister; and his rebellious spirit had been slain to-night by the use of some of his own weapons, hurled at him indeed in a pretty, graceful, feminine way, but he recognized them at once, and could afford to laugh. afterward when he had buckled his overshoes and buttoned his overcoat, and prepared to brave the storm in answer to the tolling bell, he came over to the little rocking-chair. "my dear," he said, "we will kneel down and have a word of prayer, that our father will have this meeting in his care, and bring good out of seeming ill." and as they knelt together they had changed places again, and the minister's wife looked up with a kind of wistful reverence to the calm, earnest face of her husband. "it storms like the mischief," mr. roberts said on this same evening, as he closed the door with a bang, and a shrug of his shoulders. "very few people will venture out this evening. tode, if you want an hour or two for a frolic, now is your time to take it. after you have been up with the mail you can go where you like until the train is due." here was fun for tode. this would give him two full hours, and he had at least two dozen schemes for filling up the time; but it chanced that wind and sleet and cold were too much even for him. "jolly!" he said. "what a regular old stunner _that_ was," as a gust of wind nearly blew him away; and he clapped both hands to his head to see if his cap had withstood the shock. "this ain't just the charmingest kind of an evening that ever i was out. i'd tramp back to our hotel quicker, only a fellow don't like to spend his evening just exactly where he does all the others when it's a holiday. i wonder what's in here? they're singing like fun, whatever 'tis. i mean to peek in--might _go_ in; no harm done in taking a look. 'tain't anyways likely that it blows in there as it does out here. tode and me will just take a look, we will." and he pushed open the door and slipped into the nearest seat by the fire just as the singing was concluded, and the rev. john birge began to read; and the words he read were about that strange old story of the great company and the lack of food, and the lad with the five barley loaves and two small fishes, and the multitude that were fed, and the twelve baskets of fragments that remained--story familiar in all its details to every sabbath-school scholar in the land, but utterly new to tode, falling on his ear for the first time, bearing all the charm of a fairy tale to him. there was just one thing that struck this ignorant boy as very strange, that a company of men and women, some of them gray-headed, should spend their time in coming together that stormy evening, and reading over and talking about so utterly improbable a tale. he listened eagerly to see what might be the clew to this mystery. "we are wont to say," began mr. birge, "that the age of miracles is past; yet if we knew in just what mysterious, unknown paths god leads the children of this day to himself, i think some of their experiences would seem to us no less miraculous than is this story which we are considering to-night." no clew here to the mystery; only a number of words which tode did not understand, and something about god, which he could not see had anything to do with the fairy story. i wonder if we christian people ever fully realize how utterly ignorant the neglected poor are of bible truth. one more ignorant in the matter than was tode can hardly be imagined. he knew, to be sure, that there was a day called sunday, and that stores and shops as a general rule were closed on that day, just why he would have found very difficult to explain. he knew that there were such buildings as churches, and that these were opened on these same sundays, and that well-dressed people went into them, but they had nothing whatever to do with _him_. oh no, neither had sunday nor churches. he knew in a vague general way that there was a being called god, who created all things, and that the aforesaid well-dressed people were in some way connected with him; but it chanced, oh, bitter chance, that there had never come to him the slightest intimation that god in christ was busy looking up the homeless, the friendless, the forsaken ones of earth, and bidding them find home and friend and joy in him. the meeting continued with but one other interruption. midway in the services the door opened somewhat noisily, and with many a rustle and flutter mrs. hastings and miss dora made their way from out the storm and found shelter in the quiet chapel. this was just as deacon fanning asked a question. "mr. birge, don't you think this little story is to teach us, among other things, that god can take the very few, weak, almost worthless materials that we bring him, and do great things with them?" "i think we may learn that precious truth from the story," answered mr. birge. "and i never feel saddened and discouraged with the thought that i have nothing with which to feed the multitudes, that this story does not bring me comfort. god doesn't need even our five barley loaves, but stoops to use them that we may feel ourselves workers together with him." what queer talk it was! tode had never heard anything like it in his life. then deacon toles had something to say. "andrew, simon peter's brother, just expresses our feelings, i think, sometimes. 'there is a lad here which hath five barley loaves, and two small fishes; but what are they among so many?' andrew was gloomy and troubled even while talking face to face with jesus. not disposed to think that the master could do anything with so little food as that, it's just the way i feel every now and then. 'lord, here we are, a handful of people, and we have fragments of the bread of life in our hearts: but what are we among so many?'" "yet the lord fed the five thousand despite andrew's doubts," chimed in the pastor. "may we not hope and pray that he will deal thus graciously with us?" tode could make nothing of it all, and was half inclined to slip out and go on his way; but the same dear savior who had so long ago fed the five thousand had his all-seeing eye bent on this one poor boy, and had prepared a crumb for him. there arose from the seat near the door an old gray-haired man. his dress was very plain and poor, his manner was uncultured, his language was ungrammatical. there were those who were disposed to think that so illiterate a man as old mr. snyder ought not to take up the valuable time. however old mr. snyder prayed, and tode listened. "o, dear jesus," he said, "the same who was on the earth so many years ago, and fed the hungry people, feed us to-night. we are poor, we want to be rich; take us for thy children; help us to come to thee just as the people used to do when thou didst walk this very earth, and ask for what we want. we need a friend just like jesus for our own--a friend who will love us always, who will take care of us always, who will give us everything we need, and heaven by and by. we know none are too poor or too bad for thee to take and wash in thy blood, and feed with thy love which lasts forever. give us faith to trust thee always, to work for thee here, and to keep looking ahead to that home in heaven, which thou hast got all ready for us when we die. amen." there were those present who did not quite see the connection of this prayer with the topic of the evening. there were those who thought it very commonplace and rather childish in language. but how can we tell what strange, bewildering thoughts it raised in the heart of our poor tode? was there really such a somebody somewhere as that man talked about, who would make people rich, or anyhow give them all they needed; who would take care of them, no matter how poor or how bad; who would even take care of them in that awful time when they had to die, and all this just for the asking? if there were any truth in it why didn't folks ask, and have it all? but then if there wasn't, what did these folks all mean? "they don't look like fools; now that's a fact," said tode, meditatively, and was in great bewilderment. the meeting closed. mrs. hastings rustled up to the minister. "so sorry to have intruded upon you, mr. birge, but the gale was so unusually severe. dora and i were making our way to the carriage, which was but a very short distance away, and just as we reached your door there came a fearful gust of wind and we were obliged to desist." while mr. birge was explaining that to come to prayer-meeting was not considered an intrusion, dora turned to tode. now tode had in mind all day a burning desire to tell dora that he had made all the twenty-six letters of the alphabet, just twenty-six times on twenty-six old envelopes that he had gathered together from various waste-baskets, and could "make every one of 'em to a dot." but instead of all this he said: "say, do you believe all this queer talk?" "what do you mean, tode?" "why this about the youngster, and his fishes and bread, and such lots of folks eating 'em, and more left when they got done than there was when they begun. likely story, ain't it?" dora's eyes were large and grave. "why, tode, it's in the bible," she said, reverently. tode knew nothing about reverence, and next to nothing about the bible. "what of that?" he said, defiantly. "it's queer stuff all the same; and what did that old man mean about his friend, and taking care of folks, everybody, good or bad, and feeding 'em, and all that?" "it's about jesus, tode. don't you know; he died, you see, for us, and if we love him he'll take care of us, and take us to heaven. sometimes do you think that you'll belong to him, tode? i do once in a while." "i don't know anything what you're talking about," was tode's answer, more truthful than grammatical. "why, give your heart to him, you know, and love him, and pray, and all that. but, tode, won't you run around to martyn's and order the carriage for us? john was to wait there until we came, and i guess he'll think we are never coming." mrs. hastings repeated the direction, and tode vanished, brushing by in his exit the very man who had prayed at his dying mother's bedside years before, and who had intended to keep an eye on him. as he slid along the icy pavements the boy ruminated on what he had heard, and especially on that last explanation, "why, give your heart to him, you know, and love him, and pray, and all that." to whom, and how, and where, and when? what a perfectly bewildering confusion it all was to tode. "i'll be hanged if i can make head or tail to any of it," he said aloud. then he whistled, but after a moment his whistle broke off into a great heavy sigh. someway there was in tode's heart a dull ache, a longing aroused that night, and which nothing but the all-seeing, all-pitying love could ever soothe. "there were fourteen people in prayer-meeting," the rev. john informed his wife. "the two deacons of whom i spoke, and several other good men. i couldn't make use of my lecture at all, for there were none present but professing christians, save and except mrs. pliny hastings, who apologized for _intruding_!" and then the husband and wife laughed, a half-amused, half-sorrowful laugh. after a moment mr. birge added: "there _was_ a rather rough-looking boy there; strayed in from the storm, i presume. i meant to speak with him, but mrs. hastings annoyed me so much that it escaped my mind until he brushed past me and vanished." chapter ix. "take it away!" tode rang the bell at mr. hastings', and waited in some anxiety as to whether he should get a glimpse of miss dora. he had some momentous questions to ask her. fortune, or, in other words, providence, favored him. while he waited for orders, dora danced down the hall with a message. "tode, papa says you are to come in the dining-room and wait; he wants to send a note by you." "all right," said tode, following her into the brightly lighted room, and plunging at once into his subject. "look here, what did you mean the other night about hearts, and things?" "about what?" "why, don't you know? down there to the meeting." "oh! why i meant _that_; just what i said. that's the way they always talk at a prayer-meeting about jesus, and loving him, and all that." "was that a prayer-meeting where we was t'other night?" "why yes, of course. tode, have you got the letters and figures all made?" "do you go every time?" "what, to prayer-meeting? what a funny idea. no, of course not. it stormed, you know, and we had to go in somewhere. wasn't it an awful night?" "who is jesus, anyhow?" "why, he is god. tode, how queer you act. why don't you ask mr. birge, or somebody, if you want to know such things. mamma says he is awful." "awful!" "yes, awful good, you know. he's the minister down there at that chapel. wasn't it a funny looking church? ours don't look a bit like that. tode, where do you go to church?" "my!" said tode, with his old merry chuckle. "that's a queer one. _i_ don't go to church nowhere; never did." "you ought to," answered miss dora, with a sudden assumption of dignity. "it isn't nice not to go to church and to sunday-school. _i_ go. pliny doesn't, because he has the headache so much. shall i show you my card?" and she produced from her pocket a dainty bit of pasteboard, and held it up. "there, that's our verse. the whole school learn it for next sunday. then we shall have a speech about it." a sudden shiver ran through tode's frame as he read the words printed on that card: "the eyes of the lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the good." he knew very little about that all-seeing eye, but it came upon him like a great shock, the picture of the eye of god reaching everywhere, beholding the _evil_. he felt afraid, and alone, and desolate. he did not know what was the matter with him, he had felt so strangely troubled and unhappy since that evening of the meeting. almost the tears came into his eyes as he stood there beside dora, looking down at that terrible verse. "take it away," he said, suddenly, turning from the bit of pasteboard. "i don't want his eyes looking at me." "you can't help it," dora answered, with great emphasis. "there are more just such verses, 'thou god seest me;' and oh, plenty of them. and he certainly _does_ see you all the time, whether you want him to or not." "well stop!" said tode, with a sudden gruffness that dora had never seen in him before. "i don't want to hear another bit about it, nor your verse, nor anything--not a word. i wish you had let me alone. i don't believe it, anyhow, nor i won't, nor i ain't a going to--so." at that moment mr. hastings' note came, and miserable tode went on his way. _how_ miserable he was; the glimmering lamps along the gloomy streets seemed to him eyes of fire burning into his thoughts; the very walls of his darkened room, when he had reached that retreat, seemed to glow on every side with great terrible, all-seeing eyes. over and over again was that fearful sentence repeated: "the eyes of the lord are in every place, beholding the evil." just then he stopped. he had suddenly grown so vile in his own eyes that it seemed to him that there was nothing good left to behold; he tumbled and tossed on his narrow bed; he covered himself, eyes, head, all, in the bed-clothes; but it was of no use, that piercing eye saw into the darkness and through all the covering--and oh, tode was afraid! he was a brave, fearless boy; no darkness had ever before held any terrors for him. i am not sure that he would not have whistled contemptuously over a whole legion of supposed ghosts. he was entirely familiar with, and quite indifferent to, that most frightful of all human sights, a reeling, swearing drunkard; but this was quite another matter, this great solemn eye of god, which he felt to-night for the first time, looking steadily down upon him, never forgetting him for a moment, never by any chance turning away and giving him time to go to sleep. tode didn't know why he felt this terrible new feeling; he didn't know that the loving, pitying savior had his tender eyes bent on him, and was calling him, that god had used that powerful thrust from the spirit to wound his sinful heart; he knew nothing about it, save that he was afraid, and desolate and very miserable. suddenly he sprung up, a little of his ordinary determination coming back to him. "what's the use," he muttered, "of a fellow lying shivering here; if i can't sleep, i might as well give it up first as last i'll go down to the parlor, and whistle 'yankee doodle,' or something else until train time." but his hand trembled so in his attempt to strike a light, that he failed again and again. finally he was dressed, and went out into the hall. mr. roberts opened his own door at that moment, and seeing the boy gave him what he thought would be a happy message: "tode, you can sleep over to-night. jim is on hand, and you may be ready for the five o'clock train." no excuse now for going down stairs, and the wretched boy crept back to his room; _utterly_ wretched he felt, and he had no human friend to help him, no human heart to comfort him. he wrapped a quilt about him and sat down on the edge of his bed to calculate how long his bit of candle would probably burn, and what he _should_ do when he was left once more in that awful darkness. on his table lay a half-burnt lamp lighter. he mechanically untwisted it, and twisted it up again, busy still with that fearful sentence: "the eyes of the lord are in _every_ place." the lighter was made of a bit of printed paper, and tode could read. the letters caught his eye, and he bent forward to decipher them; and of all precious words that can be found in our language, came these home to that troubled youth: "look unto me and be ye saved, all--" just there the paper was burned. no matter, be ye _saved_, that was what he wanted. he felt in his inmost soul that he needed to be saved, from himself, and from some dreadful evil that seemed near at hand. now how to do it? the smoke-edged bit of paper said, "look unto me." who was that blessed _me_, and where was he, and how could tode look to him? quick as lightning the boy's memory went back to that evening in the chapel, and the wonderful story of one jesus, and the gray-haired man in the corner, who stood up and shut his eyes, and spoke to jesus just as if he had been in the room. perhaps, oh, _perhaps_, the all-seeing eye belonged to him? no, that could not be, for that card said, "the eyes of the lord," and tode knew that meant god, but you see he knew nothing about that blessed trinity, the three in one. then he remembered his question to dora: "who is jesus, anyhow?" and her answer: "why, he is god." what if it should in some strange way all mean god? couldn't he try? suppose he should stand up in the corner like that old man, and shut his eyes and speak to jesus? what harm could it do? a great resolution came over him to try it at once. he went over to the corner at the foot of his bed with the first touch of reverence in his face that perhaps it had ever felt. he closed his eyes and said aloud: "o jesus, save me." over and over again were the words repeated, solemnly and slowly, and in wonderful earnestness: "o jesus, save me." gradually something of the terror died out of his tones, and there came instead a yearning, longing sound to his voice, while again and yet again came the simple words: "o jesus, save me." after a little tode came quietly out of his corner, deliberately blew out his light and went to bed, not at all unmindful of the all-seeing eye; but someway it had ceased to burn. he felt very grave and solemn, but not exactly afraid, and a new strange feeling of some loving presence in his room possessed his heart, and the thought of that name jesus brought tears into his eyes, he didn't know why. he didn't know that there was such a thing as being a christian; he didn't know that he had anything to do with christ; he didn't know that he was in the least different from the tode who lay there but an hour before only. yes, that solemn eye did not make him afraid now; and with an earnest repeatal of his one prayer, which he did not know _was_ prayer, "o jesus, save me," tode went to sleep. but i think that the recording angel up in heaven opened his book that night and wrote a new name on its pages, and that the ever-listening savior said, "_i_ have called him by his name; he is mine." in the gray glimmering dawn of the early morning tode stood out on the steps, and waited for the rush of travelers from the train. they came rushing in, cold and cross, many of them unreasonable, too, as cold and hungry travelers so often are; but on each and all the boy waited, flying hither and thither, doing his utmost to help make them comfortable; being apparently not one whit different from the bustling important boy who flew about there every morning intent upon the same duties, and yet he had that very morning fallen heir to a glorious inheritance. true, he did not know it yet, but no matter for that, his title was sure. the days went round, and sunday morning came. now sunday was a very busy day at the hotel. aside from the dreadful sunday trains that came tearing into town desecrating the day, the whole country seemed to disgorge itself, and pleasure-seekers came in cliques of twos and fours for a ride and a warm dinner on this gala day. tode had wont to be busy and blithe on these days, but on this eventful sabbath morning it was different. gradually he was becoming aware that some strange new feelings possessed his heart. he had continued the repeatal of the one prayer, "o jesus, save me;" going always to the corner at the foot of his bed, and closing his eyes to repeat it. and now he was conscious of the fact that he had little thrills of delight all over him when he said these words, and a new, strange, sweet sense of protection and friendship stole over him from some unknown source. now a longing possessed him to know something more about jesus. he had heard of him at only one place, that chapel. naturally his thoughts turned toward it. he knew it would be open on that day, and "who knows," said ignorant tode to himself, "but they might happen to say something about him to-day." in short, tode, knowing nothing about "remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy," never having so much as heard that there _was_ a fourth commandment, wanted to go to church. and wanting this very much, knew at the same time that it was an extremely doubtful case, utterly unlikely that he should be allowed to go. he brushed his hair before his bit of glass, and buttoned on his clean collar, all the time in deep thought. a sudden resolution came to him, that old man had said jesus would give us everything we wanted or needed or something like that. "i'll try it," said tode, aloud and positively. "'tain't no harm if it don't do no good, and 'tain't nobody's business, anyhow." and with these strangely original thoughts on the subject of prayer, he went into his corner, but once there the reverent look with which he nowadays pronounced that sacred name spread over his face as he said, "o jesus, i want to go to that church, and i s'pose i can't." this was everything tode was conscious of wanting just at present, so this was all he said, only repeating it again and again. then when he went down stairs he marched directly to headquarters, and made known his desires. "mr. roberts, i want this forenoon to myself. can i have it?" "you do," answered mr. roberts, eyeing him thoughtfully. "well, as such requests are rare from you, and as jim's brother is here to help, i think i may say yes." "a queer, bright, capable boy," mr. roberts thought, looking after tode as he dashed off down town. "going to make just the man for our business. i must begin to promote him soon." as for tode he was in high glee. "what brought that jim's brother over to help to-day?" he asked himself. "i'd like to know _that_ now. i believe i do, as sure as i'm alive, that _he_ heard every word, and has been and fixed it all out. i most know he has, 'cause things didn't ever happen around like this for me before." the pronoun "he" did not refer to jim's brother, and was spoken with that touch of awe and reverence which had so lately come to tode. and i think that the words were recorded up in heaven, as having a meaning not unlike the acknowledgment of those less ignorant disciples, "lord, i believe." chapter x. habakkuk. the church toward which tode bent his eager steps was quite filled when he reached it, but the sexton made a way for him, and he settled into a seat with a queer, awkward sense of having slipped into a spot that was not intended for such as he; but the organ tones took up his attention, and then in a moment a burst of music from the congregation, among the words of which he could catch ever and anon that magic name jesus. so at least they were going to sing about him. yes, and talk to him also, for mr. birge's prayer, though couched in language quite beyond tode's reaching, yet closed with the to him wonderful sentence, "we ask in the name and for the sake of jesus our redeemer." when he opened the great book which tode knew was the bible, the boy was all attention; something more from the bible he was anxious to hear. he got out his bit of pencil and a crumpled twist of paper, and when mr. birge announced that he would read the fourth psalm, tode bent forward and carefully and laboriously made a figure four and the letters s a m in his very best style, and believed that he had it just right. then he listened to the reading as sometimes those do not who can glibly spell the words. yet you can hardly conceive how like a strange language it sounded to him, so utterly unfamiliar was he with the style, so utterly ignorant of its meaning. only over the last verse he had almost laughed. "i will both lay me down in peace and sleep; for thou, lord, only makest me dwell in safety." _didn't_ he know about that? the awful night, those dreadful eyes, and the peace in which he laid down and slept at last. "oh, ho," he said to himself, "some other fellow has had a time of it, too, i guess, and put it in the bible. i'm glad i've found out about it just as i did." tode didn't mean to be irreverent. you must continually bear in mind the fact that he didn't know the meaning of the word; that he knew nothing about the bible, nor dreamed that the words which so delighted him were those of inspiration, sounding down through the ages for the peace and comfort of such as he. presently mr. birge announced his text, reading it from that same great book, and tode's heart fluttered with delighted expectation as he heard the words, "jesus of nazareth passeth by." the _very_ name! and of all news this, that he passes by. oh, tode _wanted_ so to see him, to hear about him. he sat erect, and his dark cheek flushed with excitement as he listened eagerly to every word. and the spirit of the master had surely helped to indite that sermon, for it told in its opening sentences the simple story, entirely new to tode. "a little more than eighteen hundred years ago, very near a certain city, might have been seen a large concourse of people, differently circumstanced in life, many of them such as had been healed of the various diseases with which they had long been afflicted. this throng were following a person upon whose words they hung, and by whose power many of them had been healed. as they passed by the roadside sat a blind man begging. he, hearing the crowd, asks what it is. they answer, 'jesus of nazareth passeth by.'" thus, through the beautiful and touching story, he dwelt on each detail, giving it vivid coloring, bringing it almost before the very eyes of the eager boy, who drank in every word. the truth grew plain to his mind, that this jesus of nazareth once on earth had now gone back to heaven, and yet, oh beautiful mystery, still was here; and he heard for the first time that old, old story of the scoffed and spit upon, and bleeding and dying savior; heard of his prayer even in dying for the cruel ones who took his life. so simply and so tenderly was the story told, that when the minister exclaimed: "oh what a loving, sympathizing, forgiving savior is ours!" tode, with his eyes blinded by tears, repeated the words in his heart, and felt "amen." then came the explanation of his passing by us now, daily, hourly, calling us in a hundred ways, and then--a few sentences written, it would seem, expressly for tode's own need: "sometimes," said the minister, "he passes by, speaking to the soul with some passage from the word. did you never wonder that some portion, some little sentence from the bible, should so forcibly impress your mind, and so cling to you? perhaps you tried to drive it away so much did it trouble you, but still it hovered around, and seemed to keep repeating itself over and over to your heart. be not deceived. this was jesus of nazareth passing by, waiting for you to say, 'jesus, thou son of david, have mercy on me.'" was ever anything so wonderful! how could mr. birge have found out about it--that dreadful night--and the one verse saying itself over and over again! then to think that it was jesus himself calling and waiting. could it be possible--was he really calling _him_? and the tears which had been gathering in tode's eyes dropped one by one on his hand. presently, as he listened, the minister's tones grew very solemn. "there are none before me to-day who can say, 'he never came to me.' sinner, he is near you now, near enough to hear your voice, near enough to answer your call. will you call upon him? will you let him help you? will you take him for your savior? will you serve him while you live on earth that you may live in heaven to serve him forever?" from tode's inmost soul there came answers to these solemn questions: "i will, i will, i will." and there went out from the church that sabbath day one young heart who felt himself cured of his blindness by that same jesus of nazareth; who felt himself given up utterly to jesus, body and soul and life; and without a great insight as to what that solemn consecration meant, he yet took in enough of it to feel a great peace in his heart. "there goes a christian man, if ever there was one." this said a gentleman to his companion, speaking of another who had passed them. tode overheard it, and stood still on the street. "a christian," said he to himself, quoting from a sentence in mr. birge's sermon. "a christian is one who loves and serves the lord jesus christ with his whole heart." then aloud. "i wonder, i do wonder now, if i am a christian? oh, what if i was!" a moment of earnest thought, then tode held up his head and walked firmly on. "i _mean_ to be," he said, with a ring in his voice that meant decision. tode was dusting and putting in order a lately vacated room one morning. he was whistling, too; he whistled a great deal these days, and felt very bright and happy. he picked up three leaves which had evidently been torn from an old book; reading matter was rather scarce with him, and he stopped the dusting to discover what new treasure might be awaiting him here. he spelled out, slowly and carefully, the name at the top: "h-a-b-a-k-k-u-k." "queerest name for a book ever i heard of," he muttered. "words must have been scarce, i reckon. let's see what it reads about. school book, like enough; if 'tis i'll get it all by heart." and tode sat down upon the edge of a chair to investigate. the story, if story it were, commenced abruptly to him. "scorn unto them," being the first words on the page. he read on: "they shall deride every stronghold; for they shall heap dust and take it." "my! what curious talk," said tode. "what ever is it coming at? i can't make nothing out of it." nevertheless he read on; only a few lines more and then this sentence: "art thou not from everlasting, o lord my god, mine holy one?" a sudden look of intelligence and delight flushed over tode's face; and springing up he rushed into the hall and down the stairs, nearly tumbling over mr. ryan in his haste. mr. ryan was a good-natured boarder, and on very friendly terms with tode. "oh, mr. ryan!" burst forth tode. "what is this reading on these leaves?" "why, tode, what's up now; forgot how to read?" "oh bother, no; but i mean where did it come from. it's tore out of a book, don't you see?" "piece of a bible," answered mr. ryan, giving the leaves a careless and the boy a searching glance. "what is there so interesting about it?" "what's it got such a queer name for? what does h-a-b-a-k-k-u-k spell, and what does it mean?" "that's a man's name, i believe." "who was he, and what about him?" "more than i know, my boy. never heard of him before that i know of. what do you care?" it was tode's turn to bestow a searching glance. "got a bible of your own?" he asked at last. "oh yes, i own one, i believe." "and never read it! bah, what good does it do you to have books if you don't read 'em? now i'm going to find out about this 'h-a-b-a-k-k-u-k,' and then i shall know more than you do." mr. ryan laughed a little, but withal seemed somewhat embarrassed. tode left him and sped back to his dusting. "queer chap that," muttered mr. ryan. "i don't know what to make of him." and a little sense of what might be termed shamefacedness stole over him at the thought that this ignorant boy prized more highly his three leaves of a bible, picked out of the waste-basket, and possibly was going to know more about it than he, edgar ryan, had gleaned from his own handsomely bound copy, wherein his christian mother had written years ago his own loved name. mr. ryan, the cultivated young lawyer, took down his handsome bible from the shelf of unused books as soon as he had reached his office, dusted it carefully, and turned over the leaves to discover something about habakkuk. as for tode, he literally poured over his three leaves. very little of the language did he understand--the great and terrible figures were utterly beyond his knowledge; yet as he read them once, and again and again, something of the grandeur and sublimity stole into his heart, helped him without his knowledge, and now and then a word came home, and he caught a vague glimpse of its meaning. "thou art of purer eyes than to behold evil." that was plain; that must mean the great all-seeing eyes, for tode knew enough of human nature to have much doubt as to whether any human eyes were pure. but then those unsleeping eyes _did_ behold evil--saw. oh, tode could conceive better than many a sabbath-school scholar can just how much evil there was to behold. how was that? ah! tode's brain didn't know, couldn't tell; but into his heart had come the knowledge that between all the evil men and women in this evil world, and those pure eyes of an angry god, there stood the blood-red cross of christ. there were many guests to be waited on; the tables were filling rapidly. tode was springing about with eager steps, handling deftly coffee, oysters, wine, anything that was called for--bright, busy, brisk as usual. as he set a cup of steaming coffee beside mr. ryan's plate, that gentleman glanced up good-humoredly and addressed him. "well, tode, how is habakkuk?" "first-rate, sir, only there's some queer things in it." "i should think there was!" laughed mr. ryan, spilling his coffee in his mirth. "rather beyond you, isn't it?" "well, _some_ of it," said tode, hesitatingly. "but it all means _something_, likely, and i'm learning it, so i'll have it on hand to find out about one of these days, when i find a lawyer or somebody who can explain it, you know." this last with a twinkle of the eye, and a certain almost noiseless chuckle, that said it was intended to hit. "you're learning it!" exclaimed mr. ryan, undisguised astonishment mingling with his amusement. "yes, sir. learn a figure a day. it's all marked off into figures, you know, sir." "well, of all queer chaps, you're the queerest!" and mr. ryan went off into another laugh as tode sped away to a new corner. by the time he was ready for a second cup of coffee, mr. ryan was also ready with more questions. "well, sir, what's to-day's figure?" "for the earth shall be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the lord, as the waters cover the sea," repeated tode, promptly and glibly. "indeed! and what do you make out of that?" "it makes itself; and that's something that's going to be one of these days." "oh, and what does the 'glory of the lord' mean, tode?" "_i_ don't know; expect _he_ does, though," answered tode, simply and significantly. mr. ryan didn't seem inclined to continue that line of questioning. "well," he said, presently, "let's turn to an easier chapter. what's to-morrow's figure?" "don't know. i might look though, if you wanted to hear." and tode drew his precious three leaves from his vest pocket. "oh, you carry habakkuk about with you, do you? well, let's have the figure by all means, only pass me that bottle of wine first." but tode's face paled and his limbs actually shook. "i can't do it," he said at last. "you can't! why, what's up?" "just look for yourself, sir. it's the figure ." and he thrust the bit of leaf before the gay young lawyer, and pointed with his finger to the spot. of all words that could have come before his eyes just then, it seemed strange indeed that these should be the ones: "woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink!" "pshaw!" said mr. ryan at last, with a little nervous laugh. "don't be a goose, tode. take your paper away and pass me the wine." "i can't, sir," answered tode, earnestly. "i promised him to-day, i did, that i was going to do it all just as fast as i found it out." "promised who? what are you talking about?" "promised the lord jesus christ, sir. i told him this very day." "fiddlesticks. you don't understand. this refers to drunkards." "it don't say so," answered tode, simply. "yes, it does. don't it say, 'and makes him drunk?'" "it says and makes him drunk _also_," tode said, with a sharp, searching look. mr. ryan laughed that short nervous laugh again. "you ought to study law, tode," was all _he_ said. then after a moment. "i advise you to attend to business, and let habakkuk look after himself. jim, pass that wine bottle this way." this to another attendant who was near at hand, and tode moved away to attend to other wants, and to turn over in his mind this new and startling thought. [illustration] chapter xi. business and bottles. he was still thinking when the busy work of the day was done--thinking anxiously about the same thing. "it's _there_, plain as day," he said, in a perplexed tone, sitting down on the corner of the bed, and running his fingers distractedly through his hair. "'woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink, that puttest thy bottle to him.' that's it, word for word, and that's the bible, and i do it, why fifty times a day; and i've got to if i stay here. that's a fact, no getting around it. 'tain't my bottle, though, it's mr. roberts', and back of him it's mr. hastings'. i do declare!" and tode paused, overwhelmed with this new thought. "whatever do them two men mean now, i'd like to know?" he continued, after a moment. "don't make no kind of difference, though; that's _their_ lookout, i reckon. it's _me_ that puts the bottle to the neighbors' lips, time and time again. no gettin' around that. they ain't my neighbors, though. i ain't got no neighbors, them are folks that lives next door to you. well, even then, there's mr. ryan, he's next door to mine, and there's young holden and that peanut man, they're next door on t'other side, and there's mr. pierson, he's next door below. why, now, i've got neighbors thick as hops, nearer than most folks have, and i put the bottle to their lips every day of my life, every single one of 'em." silence for a little, and then another phase of the question. "well, now, where's the use? if _i_ didn't hand the bottle to 'em, why jim _would_; and they'd get it all the same, so where's the difference? that's none of my business," tode answered himself sharply, and with a touch of the feeling which means, "get thee behind me, satan." "it don't say 'woe to jim,' and i ain't got nothing to do with him; it don't say that if it's got to be done anyhow, i may as well do it as any other fellow. it just says '_woe_' right out, sharp and plain; and i know about it, and i do it, that's the point. stick to that point, tode mall, you blockhead, you. if you're arguing a thing, why don't you _argue_, and not slip and slide all over creation." ah, tode, if only wiser heads than yours would remember that important item. "well," said this young logician, rising at last from the edge of his bed, and heaving a bit of a sigh as he did so, "the long and short of it is, it can't be done--never, any more; and then there comes a thing that has got to be done right straight, and i've got to go and do it, and that's the worst of it, and i don't know what to do next, that's a fact; but that's neither here nor there." with this extremely lucid explanation of his decision and his intentions, tode put on his hat and went to the post-office. thus it happened that when mr. hastings mail had been delivered as usual, the boy hesitated, and finally asked with an unusual falter in his voice: "can i see mr. hastings a minute?" "well, sir," said that gentleman, whirling around from his table, and putting himself in a lounging attitude. "well, sir, what can i do for you this evening? anything in the line of business?" this he said with the serio-comic air which he seemed unable to avoid assuming whenever he talked with this traveling companion of his. tode plunged at once into the pith of the matter. "yes, sir, i've come to talk about business. i've got to leave your hotel, and i thought i'd better come and let you know." "indeed! have you decided to change your occupation? going to study law or medicine, tode?" "i haven't made up my mind," said tode. "i've just got to the leaving part." "bad policy, my boy. never leave one good foothold until you see just where to put your foot when you spring." "ho!" said tode, "i have stepped in a bog and sunk in; now i've got to spring, and trust to luck for getting on a stone." mr. hastings leaned back in his chair and laughed. "you'll do," he said at length. "but seriously, my boy, what has happened at the hotel? i heard good accounts of you, and i thought you were getting on finely. does jim leave all the boots for you to black, or what is the matter? you musn't quarrel with a good business for trifles." "it's not jim nor boots, sir, it's bottles." "bottles!" "yes, sir, bottles. i'm not going to put 'em to my neighbors any more; and i don't see what any of you mean by it. like enough, though, you never noticed that figure?" "are you sure you know what you are talking about, tode?" inquired mr. hastings, with a curious mixture of amusement and dignity. "because i certainly do not seem able to follow your train of thought." "why, that habakkuk; he's the one who says it, sir. but then you know it's in the bible, and i've made up my mind not to do it." "ah, i begin to understand. so you came up here to-night for the purpose of delivering a temperance lecture for my benefit. that was kind, certainly, and i am all ready to listen. proceed." never was sarcasm more entirely lost. tode was as bright and sharp as ever, and had never been taught to be respectful. "no, sir," he answered, promptly, "i didn't come for that at all. i came to tell you that i had got to quit your business; but if you want to hear a temperance lecture there's habakkuk; he can do it better than anybody _i_ know of." mr. hastings' dignity broke once more into laughter. "well, tode," he said at last, "i'm sorry you're such a simpleton. i had a higher opinion of your sharpness. i think mr. roberts meant to do well by you. who has been filling your head with these foolish ideas?" "habakkuk has, sir. only one who has said a word." there was no sort of use in talking to tode. mr. hastings seemed desirous of cutting the interview short. "very well," he said, "i don't see but you have taken matters entirely into your own hands. what do you want of me?" "nothing, sir, only i--" and here tode almost broke down; a mist came suddenly before his eyes, and his voice seemed to slip away from him. the poor boy felt himself swinging adrift from the only one to whom he had ever seemed to belong. a very soft, tender feeling had sprung up in his heart for this rich man. it had been pleasant to meet him on the street and think, "i belong to him." the feeling was new to the friendless, worse than orphan boy, and he had taken great pride and pleasure in it; so now he choked, and his face grew red as at last he stammered: "i--i like you, and--" then another pause. mr. hastings bowed. "that is very kind, certainly. what then?" "would you let me bring up the mail for you evenings just the same? i wouldn't want no pay, and i'd like to keep doing it for you." mr. hastings shook his head. "oh no, i wouldn't trouble a man of your position for the world. jim, or some other _boy_, will answer my purpose very well. since you choose to cut yourself aloof from me when i was willing to befriend you, why you must abide by your intentions, and not hang around after me in any way." tode's eyes flashed. "i don't _want_ to hang around you," he began as he turned to go. then he stopped again; he was leaving the house for the last time. this one friend of his was out of sorts with him, wouldn't let him come again; and the little dora, who had showed him about making all the letters and figures, he was to see no more. all the tender and gentle in his heart, and there was a good deal, swelled up again. there were tears in his eyes when he looked back at mr. hastings with his message. "would you please tell your little girl that i'm glad about the letters and figures, and i'll never forget 'em; and--and--if i can ever do some little thing for you i'll do it." someway mr. hastings was growing annoyed. he spoke in mock dignity. "i shall certainly remember your kindness," he said, bowing low. "and if ever i should be in need of your valuable assistance, i shall not hesitate to send for you." so tode went out from the hastings' mansion feeling sore-hearted, realizing thus early in his pilgrimage that there were hard places in the way. he walked down the street with a troubled, perplexed air. what to do next was the question. that is, having settled affairs with mr. roberts, and slept for the last time in his little narrow bed, whither should he turn his thoughts and his steps on the morrow? tode had been earning his living, and enjoying the comforts of a home long enough to have a sore, choked feeling over the thought of giving them up. a sense of desolation, such as he had not felt during all his homeless days, crept steadily over him; and as he walked along the busy street, with his hands thrust drearily into his pockets, he forgot to whistle as was his wont. mr. stephens was hastening home from his office with quick business tread. he was just in front, and instinctively the boy quickened his step to keep pace with the rapid one. tode knew him well, had waited on him at table when there came now and then a stormy day, and he sought the hotel at the dining hour instead of his own handsome home. he halted presently before a bookstore and went in. tode lounged in after him. already the old careless feeling that he might as well do that as any thing had begun to control him again. mr. stephens made his purchase, gave a bill in payment and waited for his change, and from his open pocket-book, all unknown to him, there fluttered a bit of paper, and lodged at tode's feet. tode glanced quickly about him, nobody else saw it. mr. stephens was already deep in conversation with an acquaintance, and might have dropped a dozen bits of paper without knowing it. the paper might be of value, and it might not. tode composedly put his foot over it, put his hands in his pockets, and stood still. mr. stephens departed. there was a bit of brown paper on the floor. tode stooped and carefully picked that and the other crumpled bit up, and busied himself apparently in wrapping something carefully up in the brown paper. then he waited again. presently a clerk came toward him. "well, sir, what will you have?" "shoe-strings," answered tode, gravely. "we don't keep them in a bookstore, my boy." "oh, you don't. then i may as well leave." and tode vanished. "who's the wiser for that, i'd like to know?" he asked himself aloud as soon as the door was closed. then he started for the hotel in high glee. he stopped under a street lamp to discover what his treasure might be, and behold, it was a ten dollar bill! now indeed tode was jubilant; a grand addition that would make to his little hoard, and visions of all sorts of wished for treasures danced through his brain. his spirits rose with every step; he sung and whistled and danced by turns. had this strange boy then forgotten the errand which had taken him out that evening? not by any means. he went directly to the office as soon as he reached the house and made known to mr. roberts his intention of leaving him. he stood perfectly firm under mr. roberts' questioning persuasions and rather tempting offers. he squarely and distinctly gave his reasons for leaving, and endured with a good-natured smile the laugh and the jeers that were raised at his expense. he endured as bravely as he could whatever there was to endure for conscience' sake that evening, and finally went up to his room triumphant--triumphant not only in that, but also over the fact that he had successfully stolen a ten dollar bill. oh, tode, tode! and yet there was the teaching of all his life in favor of that way of getting money, and he knew almost nothing against it. he had only three leaves of a bible; he had never heard the eighth commandment in his life. he knew in a vague general way that it was wrong, not perhaps to steal, but to be _found_ stealing. just why he could not have told, but he knew positively this much, that it generally fared ill with a person who was caught in a theft, but his ideas were very vague and misty; besides he did not by any means call himself a thief. he had not gone after the money, it had come to him. he was very much elated, and as he went about making ready for sleep he discussed his plans aloud. "i'll go into business, just as sure as you live, i will. i'll keep a hotel myself; i'll begin to-morrow; i'll have cakes and pies and crackers and wine. oh bless me, no, i can't have wine, but coffee. _jolly_, i can make tall coffee, i can, and that's what i'll have _prezactly_. this ten dollar patch will buy a whole stock of goodies, and i won't clerk it another day, _see_ if i do." by and by he quieted down, so that by the time his candle was blown out and he was settled for the night, graver thoughts began to come. "'tain't right to steal," he said aloud. "i know 'tain't right, 'cause a fellow always feels mean and sneaking after it, and 'cause he's so awful afraid of being found out. when i've done a nice decent thing, i don't care whether i'm found out or not; but then i didn't steal. i didn't go into his pocket-book, it blew down to me--no fault of mine; all i did was just to pick a piece of paper off the floor, no harm in that. how did _i_ know it was worth anything? what's the use of me thinking about it anyhow? he'll never miss it in the world; he's rich--my! as rich as the president." tode turned uneasily on his pillow, shut his eyes very tight, and pretended to himself that he was asleep. no use, they flew open again. he began to grow indignant. "i hope i'll never have another ten dollars as long as i live, if it's got to make all this fuss!" he said in a disgusted tone. "i wish i'd never picked up his old rag--i don't like the feeling of it. i didn't steal it, that's sure; but i've got it, and i wish i hadn't." "the eyes of the lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the good." that verse again, coming back to him with great force, beholding the evil and the good. which was this? was it good? tode's uneducated, undisciplined conscience had to say nay to this. well, then, was it evil? "i feel mean," he said, reflectively. "as mean as a thief, pretty near. i wouldn't like to have anybody know it. i wouldn't tell of it for anything. s'pose i go down there to that prayer-meeting and tell it. would i do _it_? no, _sir_--'cause why? i'm ashamed of it. but then i didn't _steal_ it; i didn't even know it was money. oh bah! tode mall, don't you try to pull wool over your own eyes that way. didn't you s'pose it was, and would you have took the trouble to get it if you hadn't s'posed so? come now. and then see here, i wouldn't have anybody know about it; and after all there's them eyes that are in every place, looking right at me. 'tain't right, that is sure and certain. i didn't steal it, but i've got it, and it ain't mine, and i oughtn't to have it. i could have handed it back easy enough if i'd wanted to. so i don't see but it looks about as mean as stealing, and feels about as mean, and maybe after all it's pretty much the same thing. now what be i going to do?" and now he tumbled and tossed harder than ever. that same miserable fear of those pure eyes began to creep over him again, accompanied by a dreary sense of having lost something, some loving presence and companionship on which he had leaned in the darkness. "i'll never do it again," he said at last, with solemn earnestness. "i _never will_, not if i starve and freeze and choke to death. i'll let old rags that blow to me alone after this, i will." then, after a moment's silence, he clasped his hands together and said with great earnestness: "o lord jesus, forgive me this once, and i'll never do it again--never." after that he thought he could go to sleep but the heavy weight rested still on his heart. he was not so much afraid of those solemn eyes as he was sorry. an only half understood feeling of having hurt that one friend of his came over him. "what be i going to do?" he said aloud and pitifully. "i _am_ sorry--i'm sorry i did it, and i'll never do it again." still the heavy weight did not lift. presently he flounced out of bed, and lighted his candle in haste. "i'll burn the mean old rag up, i will, so," he said with energy. "see if i'm going to lie awake all night and bother about it. i ain't going to use it, either. i don't believe i've got any right to, 'cause it ain't mine." by this time the ten dollar bill was very near the candle flame. then it was suddenly drawn back, while a look of great perplexity appeared on tode's face. "if it ain't mine what right have i got to burn it up, i'd like to know? i never did see such a fix in my life. i can't use it, and i can't burn it, and the land knows i don't want to keep it. whatever be i going to do? i wish he had it back again; that's where it ought to be. what if i should--well, now, there's no use talking; but s'pose i ought to, what then?" and there stood the poor befogged boy, holding the doomed bill between his thumb and finger, and staring gloomily at the flickering candle. at last the look of indecision vanished, and he began rapid preparations for a walk. [illustration] chapter xii. the stepping stone. thus it was that mr. stephens, sitting in his private room running over long rows of figures, was startled, somewhere near midnight, by a quick ring of the door-bell. his household were quiet for the night, so he went himself to answer the ring, and encountered tode, who thrust a bit of paper toward him, and spoke rapidly. "here, mr. stephens, is your ten dollars. i didn't steal it, but it blew to me, and i kept it till i found i couldn't, and then i brought it." "what is all this about?" asked bewildered mr. stephens. "come in, my boy, and tell me what is the matter." and presently tode was seated in one of the great arm-chairs in mr. stephens' private room. "now, what is it, my lad, that has brought you to me at this hour of the night?" questioned that gentleman. "why, there's your money," said tode, spreading out the ten dollar bill on the table before them. "you dropped it, you see, in the bookstore, and i picked it up. it blew to me, i didn't steal it, leastways i didn't think i did; but i don't know but it's just about as bad. at any rate i've brought it back, and there 'tis." "why!" said mr. stephens, "is it _possible_ that i dropped a bill?" and he drew forth his pocket-book for examination. "yes, that's a fact. really, i deserve to lose it for my carelessness. and so you decided to bring it back? well, i'm glad of that; but how came you to do it?" "oh," said tode, "i couldn't sleep. the eyes of the lord, you know, were looking at me, and i tumbled about, and thought maybe it wasn't right, and pretty soon i knew it wasn't, and then i asked the lord jesus to forgive me, and i didn't feel much better; and then i got up and thought i'd burn the mean thing up in the candle, and then i thought i musn't, 'cause it wasn't mine; and by that time i hated it, and didn't want it to be mine; and then after awhile i thought i ought to bring it to you, but i didn't want to, but i thought i ought to, and there 'tis." mr. stephens watched the glowing face of his visitor during this recital, and said nothing. after he finished said nothing--only suddenly at last: "where do you live, my boy?" "i live at one of the hotels--no, i don't, i don't live no where. i did till to-night, and to-night i sleep there, and after that i don't belong nowhere." "have you been employed in a hotel?" "yes, sir." "why do you leave?" "'cause i can't be putting bottles to my neighbors any longer. you know what habakkuk says about that, i suppose?" tode was ignorant, you see. he made the strange mistake of supposing that every educated man was familiar with the bible. again mr. stephens said nothing. presently, with a little tremble to his voice, he asked another question: "have you given yourself to the lord jesus, my boy?" "yes, sir," tode answered, simply. "that is good. do you know i think you have pleased him to-night? you have done what you could to right the wrong, and done it for his sake." and now tode's eye shone with pleasure. after a moment's silence he asked: "what are you going to do with me, sir?" "do with you? i am going to be much obliged to you for returning my property." "yes, but i didn't do it straight off, and at first i meant to keep it." "which was bad, decidedly, and i don't think you will do it again. can you write?" "yes, sir," tode answered him, proudly. "you may write your name on that card for me." tode obeyed with alacrity, and wrote in capitals, because he had a dim notion that capitals belonged especially to names: t o d e m a l l. "what are you going to do for a living after this?" further questioned mr. stephens, thoughtfully fingering the ten dollar bill. "going to keep a hotel of my own." "oh, you are? in what part of the town?" "don't know. down by the depot somewhere, i reckon." mr. stephens folded the ten dollar bill and put it in his pocket. tode rose to go. "now, my friend," said mr. stephens, "shall you and i kneel down and thank the lord jesus for the care which he has had over you to-night, and for the help which he has given you?" "yes, sir," answered tode, promptly, not having the remotest idea what kneeling down meant, but he followed mr. stephens' movement, and was commended to god in such a simple, earnest prayer that he had never heard before. he went out from the house in a sober though happy mood. he felt older and wiser than he did when he entered; he had heard a prayer offered for him, and he had been told that the lord jesus was pleased with his attempt to do right. instead of going home he went around by the depot, and bestowed searching glances on each building as he passed by. directly opposite the depot buildings there were two rum-shops and an oyster-saloon. "this spot would do," said tode, thoughtfully, halting in front of the illest looking of the rum-shops. "if i can set up right here now, why i'll do it." a very dismal, very forbidding spot it seemed to be, and why any person should deliberately select it as a place for commencing business was a mystery; but tode had his own ideas on the subject, and seemed satisfied. he looked about him. the night was dark save for street lamps, and there were none reflecting just where he stood. there was a revel going on down in the rum-cellar, but he was out of the range of their lights; elsewhere it was quiet enough. it was quite midnight now, and that end of the city was in comparative silence. what did tode mean to do next? and why was he peering about so stealthily to see if any human eye was on him? surely with so recent a lesson fresh in mind, he had not already forgotten the all-seeing eye? was he going to offend it again? he waited until quite certain that no one was observing him, then he went around to the side of an old barrel and kneeled down, and clasped his hands together as mr. stephens had done, and he said: "o lord jesus, if i come down here to live i'll try to do right all around here, every time." then he rose up and went home to his room and his bed. he had been down in the midnight and selected the spot for his next efforts, and consecrated it to the lord. another thing, he had found out how people did when they talked with god. after that tode always knelt down to pray. it was not yet eight o'clock when tode, his breakfast eaten, his bundle packed, himself ready to migrate, sat down once more on the edge of that bed, and began to calculate the state of his finances. he had been at work in the hotel for his board and clothing; but then there had been many errands on which he had run for those who had given him a dime, or, now and then, a quarter, and his expenditures had been small; so now as he counted the miscellaneous heap, he discovered himself to be the honest owner of six dollars and seventy-eight cents. "that ain't so bad to start on," he told himself, complacently. "a fellow who can't begin business on that capital, ain't much of a fellow. i wonder now if ever i'll take a peak at this little room of mine again; 'tain't a bad room; i'll have one of my own just like it one of these days. i'll have a square patch of carpet just that size, red and green and yellow, like that, and i'll have a patchwork quilt like this one; who'll make it for me though? ho, i'll find somebody. i wonder who'll sleep in this bed of mine after this? jim won't, 'cause jim sleeps with his brother. i reckon it's fun to have a brother. maybe there'll be some fellow here that i can come and see now and then. well, come tode, you and i must go, we must, there's business to be done." so the boy rose up, put away his money carefully, slung his bundle over his shoulder, took a last, long, loving look at the familiar surroundings, coughed once or twice, choked a little, rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, and went out from his only home. on the stairs he encountered jim. "jim," said he, "i'm going now; if you only _wouldn't_, you know." "wouldn't what?" "give your neighbor drink." "pooh!" said jim, "_you're_ a goose; better come back and be decent." "good-by," was tode's answer, as he vanished around the corner. he went directly to the spot opposite the depot, which he had selected the night before, and descended at once to the cellar. "want to rent that stone out down there, between your building and the alley?" he questioned of the ill-looking man, who seemed to be in attendance. "um, well, no, i reckon not; guess you'd have a time of getting it away." "don't want to get it away; it's just in the right spot for me." "what, for the land's sake, do you mean to do?" "i mean to set up business right out there on that stone." this idea caused a general laugh among the loungers in the cellar; but tode stood gravely awaiting a decision. "what wares might you be going to keep, youngster?" at last queried one of the red-nosed customers. "cakes and coffee." "oh, ho!" exclaimed the proprietor, eyeing him keenly. "and whisky, too, i wouldn't be afraid to bet." "not a bit of it; you keep enough of that stuff for you and me, too." "and where might you be going to make your coffee?" "i ain't going to make it until i get a place to put it," was tode's brief reply. "do you want to rent that stone, or not, that's the question? and the quicker you tell me, the quicker i'll know." "well, how much will you pay for it?" "just as little as i can get it for." this caused another laugh from the listeners. "you're a cute one," complimented the owner. "well, now, seeing it's you, you can have it on trial for two dollars a week, i reckon." "i reckon it will be after this when i do," said tode, turning on his heel. "hold up. what's the matter? don't the terms suit? why that's _very_ reasonable!" "all right. then rent it to the first chap who'll take it for two dollars; but _i_ ain't acquainted with him." "how much _will_ you give then?" "how much will you take?" "well, now, i like to help the young, so i'll take a dollar a week." "not from me," said tode, promptly. "do hear the fellow! as generous as i've been to him, too. well, come, now, its your turn to make an offer." "i'll give you fifty cents a week, and pay you every saturday night at seven o'clock." "it's a bargain," exclaimed the man, striking his hand down on the counter, till the dirty glasses jingled. there was a further attempt to discover the intention of the new firm, but tode made his escape the moment the bargain was concluded, and went off vigorously to work to get the old barrel out of his premises. then he departed, and presently made his appearance again with an old dry-goods box, which he brought on a wheelbarrow, and deposited squarely on the stone. off again, and back with boards, hammer and nails. and then ensued a vigorous pounding, which, when it was finished, was productive of three neat fitting shelves inside the dry-goods box. "jolly," he said, eyeing his work triumphantly and his fingers ruefully, "i'm glad i own a hotel instead of a carpenter's shop. i wonder now which i did pound the oftenest, them nails or my thumb? ain't my shelves some though? so much got along with; now for my next move. i wonder where the old lady lives what's going to lend her stove for my coffee? must be somewhere along here, because i couldn't go far away from my place of business after it, specially if all my waiters should happen to be out when the rush comes. i may as well start off and hunt her up." just next to the oyster-saloon was a little old yellow house. thither tode bent his steps, and knocked boldly at the door. no reply. "not at home," he said, shaking his head as he peeped in at the curtainless window. "no use of talking about you then. _you_ won't do, 'cause you see my old lady must be at home. i can't be having her run off just at the busiest time." there were two doors very near together, and our young adventurer tried the next one. it was quickly opened, and a very slatternly young woman appeared to him with a baby in her arms, and three almost babies hanging to various portions of her dress. "does mr. smith live here?" queried tode. the woman shook her head and slammed the door. "that's lucky now," soliloquized tode; "because he _does_ live most everywhere, and i don't want to see him just about now--fact is, it would never do to have them nine babies tumbling into my coffee and getting scalded." he trudged back to a little weather-worn, tumble-down building on the other side of his new enterprise, and knocked. such a dear little old fat woman in a bright calico dress, and with a wide white frill to her cap, answered his knock. he chuckled inwardly, and said at once: "i guess you're the woman what's going to let me boil my coffee on your stove, and warm a pie now and then, ain't you?" "whatever is the lad talking about?" asked the bewildered old lady. "why--" said tode, conscious that he had made a very unbusiness-like opening, and he begun at the beginning, and told her his story. "well now, i never!" said the woman, sinking into a chair. "no, i never did in all my life! and so you left that there place, because you wasn't going to give bottles to your neighbors no longer, and now you're going into business for yourself? well, well, the land knows i wish there wasn't no bottles to put to 'em--and then they wouldn't be put, you know; and if there's anything i _do_ pray for with all my might and main, next to prayin' that my two boys would let the bottles alone--which i'm afraid they don't, and more's the pity--it's that the bottles will all get clean smashed up one of these days, in his own good time you know." tode turned upon her an eager, questioning look. "who do you pray to?" he asked, abruptly. "why, bless the boy! i ain't a heathen, you know, to bow down to wood and stone, the work of men's hands, and them things as it were. i pray to the dear lord that made me, and died for me too, and, for the matter of that, lives for me all the time." a bright color glowed in tode's cheek, and a bright fire sparkled in his eye. "i know him," he said, briefly and earnestly. "now, do you, though?" said the little old lady, as eager and earnest as himself, "and do you pray to him?" tode gravely bowed his head. "then i'll let you have my stove and my coffee-pot, and my oven, and welcome, and i'll look after the coffee and the pies now and then myself. i'll give you a lift as sure as i have a coffee-pot to lend. like enough you're one of the lord's own, and have been sent right straight here for me to give a cup of cold water to, you know, or to look after your coffee for you, and it's all the same, you know, so you do it in the name of a disciple." will tode ever forget the feeling of solemn joy with which he finally turned away from the dear little old lady's door? he had really talked with one of those who knew the lord, and he was to see her every day, two or three times a day, and perhaps she knew things that he did not; about habakkuk--like enough. "she knew about that bottle business as well as i did," he said gleefully, as he flew back to his dry-goods box. such delightful arrangements as he made with her, too!--elegant cakes she was to make him, better than any that could be bought at the baker's he was sure, though he had called there on his way for the dry-goods box, and made what he considered a very fine bargain with him. altogether it was a very busy day; he had never flown around more industriously at the hotel than he did on this first day of business for himself. he dined on crackers and cheese, and missed, as little as he could help, the grand dinner which would have been sure to fall to his share at his old quarters, and which he hardly understood that he had given up for conscience' sake. "there now," he said, with a final chuckle of satisfaction, just as the twilight was beginning to fall, "i'm fixed all snug and fine--by to-morrow morning, bright and early, i'll be ready for business!" then suddenly he dived his hands into his pockets, and gave a low, long, perplexed whistle--then gave vent to his new idea in words: "where in the name of all that's funny and ridiculous, be i going to spend the time 'tween this and to-morrow morning? just as true as you're alive and hearty, tode mall, i never once thought of that idea till this blessed minute--did you? "whatever is to be did! i've slept, to be sure, in lots of places, on the steps, and in barrels, and i ain't no ways discomflusticated; but then, you see, after a fellow has slept on a bed for a spell, why, he has a kind of a hankering _after_ a bed to sleep on some more. hold on, though! why don't i board? that's the way men do when they go into business. tode, you're green, _very_ green, i'm afraid, not to think of that before. course i'll board! i'll go right straight down to the old lady, and order rooms." but the old lady shook her head, and looked troubled. "you see," said she, "i ain't got but one bed for spare, and i've got a boy. i've got two of 'em; but they don't sleep at home, only my youngest; he comes a visiting sometimes, and if he should come and find a stranger sleeping in his bed, why, he'd feel kind of homesick, i'm afraid, and i want jim to feel that this is the best home that ever was, i do." tode bestowed a very searching look on the earnest little old woman in answer to this, and then spoke rapidly: "i shouldn't wonder one bit if you was our jim's mother down at the euclid house--that's where i lived, and that's where he lives, only he don't sleep there--he sleeps with his brother rick, down at the livery stable. now, ain't they your two boys?" "they are so!" the old lady answered, speaking as eagerly as he had done. "and so you know them! well, now, _don't_ things work around queer?" then she shut the door and locked it, and came over to tode so close that her cap frills almost touched his curly head, before she whispered her next sentence: "now, i know you will tell me just the truth. do them two boys of mine touch the bottles for themselves?" how gently and pitifully tode answered the poor mother! "i guess they do, a little--all the fellows do, except just me--they don't think it's any harm." "i knew it, i knew it!" she said, pitifully. "their father would, and _they_ will." then, after a moment, she rallied. "but i don't give up hope for 'em, not a bit, and i ain't going to so long as i can pray for 'em. now i'll tell you what we'll do. the lord has sent you to help me, i do guess--i asked him if i couldn't have somebody just to give me a lift with them. you'll have jim's room, and when he comes you'll be just nice and comfortable together, seeing you know each other. rick, he never comes home for all night, 'cause he can't get away. and then you'll help me keep an eye on jim, and say a word to him now and then when you can, and pray for him every single day--will you now?" so when the night closed in, tode's bundle was unpacked, and his clothes hung on jim's nails, and once again he had a home. [illustration] chapter xiii. tode's real estate. by next evening business had fairly commenced. the first day's sales were encouraging in the extreme, the more so that tode had rescued two boys from the vortex on his left, and persuaded them into taking a cup of his excellent coffee instead of something stronger. among the accomplishments that he acquired at the euclid house was the art of making delicious coffee, an art which bid fair to do him good service now. he set a very inviting looking table. a very coarse, but delightfully clean white cloth, hid the roughness and imperfections of the dry-goods box; and his stock of crockery, consisting of three cups and saucers, three large plates, and three pie plates, purchased at the auction rooms, were disposed of with all the skill which his native tact and his apprenticeship at the euclid house had taught him. after mature deliberation he had bargained for and rolled back the barrel, made it stationary with the help of a nail or two, and mounting it was ready for customers. he had them, too--one especially, whose appearance filled him with great satisfaction. with the incoming of the four o'clock train mr. stephens appeared, stopped in surprise on seeing his new acquaintance, asked numerous questions, and finally remarked that he had been gone all day, and might as well take his lunch there and go directly to the store. so tode had the very great pleasure of seeing him drink two cups of his coffee, eat three of his cakes, and lay down fifty cents in payment thereof. never was there a more satisfied boy than he, when at dusk he packed his cakes into a basket procured for the purpose, covered them carefully with the table-cloth, tucked the coffee-pot in at one end, and marched whistling away toward home. he had been gone since quite early in the morning, had procured his own breakfast and dinner, according to previous arrangement, but was going home to tea. it is doubtful if there will ever anything look nicer to tode than did that little clean room, and that little square table, with its bit of a white patched table-cloth, and its three plates and three knives, and its loaf of bread, and its very little lump of butter; a little black teakettle puffed and steamed its welcome, and a very funny little old brown ware teapot stood waiting on the hearth. there was that in this poor homeless boy's nature that took this picture in, and he felt it to his very heart. it was better a hundred times than the glitter and grandeur of the euclid house, for didn't he know perfectly well that the little brown teapot on the hearth was waiting for _him_, and had anything ever waited for _him_ before? "now we are all ready," chirped the old lady, cheerily, as tode set down his basket and took off his cap. "come winny," and straightway there appeared from the little room of the kitchen a new character in this story of tode's life, one whom the boy had never heard of before, and at whom he stared as startled as if she had suddenly blown up to them, fairy-like, from out the wide mouth of the black teakettle. "this is my winny," explained she of the frill cap. "this is jim's and rick's sister. dear me! i don't believe i ever thought to tell you they had a sister. she was to school when you was bobbing back and forth yesterday and to-day, and she was to bed when you came home last night." "well she's here now," interrupted winny. "ready to be looked at, which she's likely to be, i should think. let's have tea." tode had been very uncertain as to whether he liked this new revelation of the family; but one word in the mother's sentence smoothed his face, and he sat down opposite the great gray eyes of the grave, self-possessed looking winny with a satisfied air. "now," said the mother, looking kindly on him, "i've always asked a blessing myself at my table, because jim and rick they don't neither of 'em lean that way, but if you would do it i think it would be all right and nice." tode looked bewildered a moment; then adopted the very wise and straightforward course of saying: "i don't know what 'asking a blessing' means." "don't you, now? why it's to say a little prayer to god before you eat--just to thank him, you know." a little gleam of satisfaction shone in tode's eyes. "do good people do that?" he asked. "why, yes--all the folks i ever lived with when i was a girl. deacon small's family, and esquire edward's family, and all, used to." "every time they eat?" "every single time." "that's _nice_," said tode, heartily. whereat the gray eyes opposite looked wonderingly at him. "i like that. now, what do they say?" "oh they just pray a little simple word--just to say thank you to the lord, you know." "and do you want me to do it?" "well, i think it would be nice and proper like, if you felt like it." reverently tode closed his eyes, and reverently and simply did he offer his thanksgiving. "o lord, we thank you for this bread and butter and tea." then he commenced at once on the subject of his thoughts. conversation addressed to winny. "do you go to school?" "yes." "what kind of a place is school?" "nice enough place if you want to learn, stupid if you don't." "do you want to learn?" "some." "well, what do you learn?" "reading, spelling, writing, geography, arithmetic, and grammar." "my! what are _all_ them things?" "don't you know what reading is?" "yes, i know them first three; but what's the long words?" "well, geography is about the earth." "earth? what do you mean, dirt?" "some--and some water, and some hills, and rivers, and cities, and mountains." "but you can see all them things." "well, it tells you more than you can see." "and what's t'other?" "arithmetic is about figures. what are you asking me so many questions for?--didn't you ever go to school?" "never did in all my life, not an hour. now go on about the figures." "well, all about them--how to add and multiply, and subtract and divide, and fractions." "never heard of one of 'em," said tode, with a little sigh. "what be they all for?" "why so you can buy things and sell them, and keep accounts, and everything." "then i ought to know 'em, 'cause that's what i'm doing. do you know 'em?" "i'm studying arithmetic, and i'm as far as fractions." "will you show 'em to me?" "mother," said winny, turning despairing eyes on the attentive old lady, "he's such a funny boy. i don't know what to make of him." "he wants to study and learn, deary, don't you see?" "i think that's just as nice as can be," she added, turning to tode. "winny, she's a great scholar, keeps to the head of her class all the time, most, and she studies evenings, and you could get out your book, and she would show you all about things, couldn't you, deary?" "i don't care," said winny, listlessly. "yes, i might if he wants to learn, and if he won't bother me too much." tode's cheeks were all aglow. he had awakened lately to the fact that there was a great deal in this world that he didn't understand, that he wanted to know about; and without a doubt but that this wise-eyed girl knew it all, and that he should learn it all, and that he should learn it from her in a little while. he went to work with alacrity. examination came first--that is, it came after the dishes were washed. then tode displayed his reading powers, which really _were_ remarkable when one considered that he could hardly tell himself how he happened to learn, but which sank into insignificance by the side of winny's clear-toned, correct, careful reading. tode listened in amazement and delight. "that sounds just like mine," he said at last, drawing in his breath as she finished. in return for which graceful compliment, which had the merit of being an unconscious one, winny condescended to compliment him on the manner in which his letters, large and small, were gotten up. "they ought to be nice," tode explained, "the way i worked at 'em! it took me a week off and on, to make that k crook in and out, and up and down, as it ought to. dora hastings, she told me about 'em, and made the patterns. you don't know dora hastings, do you?" "no, i never heard of her; but these are not patterns, they are copies; and there is no such word as ''em,' which you keep using so much. our teachers told us so to-day." "what's the reason there isn't?" "well, because there _isn't_; it's '_them_' and not ''em' at all. and you use a great many words that they wouldn't allow you to if you went to school." "well then," said tode, with unfailing good nature, "don't _you_ let me say 'em then--no, i mean '_them_.' you're the school misses, and i'm your school. go on about the other things." it was a busy evening. arithmetic, except so much as had been required to count his small income, proved to be a sealed book to tode; but the energy with which he began at the beginning, and tried to learn every word in it, was quite soothing to the heart of the young teacher. the little mother sat at the end of the table, and sewed industriously on the clothes that she had washed and ironed during the day; but when a queer little old clock in the corner struck nine, she bit off her thread and fastened her needle on the yellow cushion, and interrupted the students. "now, deary, let's put away our work. you've made a first-rate beginning, but it's time now to read your piece of a chapter, and then we'll have a word of prayer and get to our beds, so we can all be up bright and early in the morning." tode closed his book promptly, and looked on with eager satisfaction while winny produced an old worn, much-used bible--a whole bible! and composedly turned over its pages with the air of one who was quite accustomed to handle the wonderful book. "where shall i read to-night, mother?" she asked. "well, deary, suppose you read what john says about the many mansions that they're getting ready for us." "john didn't say it, mother," answered winny, gravely. "jesus said it himself." "yes, deary, but john heard him say it, and wrote it down for us." so tode listened, and heard for the first time in his life these blessed words: "let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in god, believe also in me. in my father's house are many mansions; if it were not so, i would have told. i go to prepare a place for you. and if i go and prepare a place for you, i will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where i am, there ye may be also." thus on, through the beautiful verses, until this: "and whatsoever ye shall ask in my name, that will i do." "there, deary," said winny's mother, "that will do. i want to stop there and think about it. whenever i get more than usual trouble in my heart about rick and jim, i want to hear this chapter down to there, '_whatsoever_ ye shall ask,' and it gives me a lift, like, and then i pray away." could you imagine how you should feel if you had learned to love the lord, and were as old as tode was, and then should hear those words for the first time? the tears were following each other down his cheeks, and dropping on his hand. "who does he mean?" he asked, eagerly. "whose mansions be they that he's getting ready?" "why, bless you, one of them is mine, and there'll be one ready for everybody who loves _him_." tode's voice sank to a husky whisper. "do you think there's one getting ready for me?" "there's no kind of doubt about it, not if you love the lord jesus. i suppose as soon as ever you made up your mind to love him the lord said, 'now i must get a place ready for tode, for he's decided that he wants to come up here with me.'" wiser brains than tode's would doubtless have smiled at the old lady's original and perhaps untheological way of interpreting the truth; but he drank it in, and drew nearer to the true meaning of it than perhaps he would had it been learnedly explained. "i never thought about it before in my life," he said, gravely. "and so that's heaven? and there ain't any trouble there i heard mr. birge say once in his preaching." "not a speck of trouble of any shape nor kind, nor nobody's wicked nor cross, and no bottles there, tode, not a bottle." "how do you know?" "'cause it says so right out, sharp and plain. 'no drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of heaven.' that's bible words, and you and i know that where there's bottles, and folks give them to their neighbors, why there'll be drunkards." tode nodded his head in solemn assent. yes, he knew that better perhaps than his teacher. then he asked: "and what more about heaven?" "oh deary me! there's verses and verses about streets of gold, and harps, and thrones, and singing. oh my! _such_ singing as you never dreamed about, and we to be the singers, you know; and i couldn't begin to tell you about it all; and _you_ never heard any of them verses? well now, i _am_ beat. well i always pick 'em all out and read 'em sunday. i like to make sunday a kind of a holiday, you know, so i read 'em and study 'em, and try to picture it all out; but then you see i can't, because the bible says that eyes haven't seen nor ears heard, and we can't _begin_ to guess at the fine things prepared for us." "well now," broke in tode, his lips hurrying to tell the thought that had been filling his mind for some minutes, "why don't everybody go there? i heard about that awful place where some folks go. mr. birge told about it in some of his preaching. now what's that for? why don't they all go to heaven?" the little old lady heaved a deep sigh. "sure enough, why don't they?" she said at last. "and the curious part of it is, that it's just because they _won't_. they don't have to pay for it; they don't have to go away off after it; they don't have to die for it, because they've got to die anyhow; and they know it's dreadful to die all alone; and they know that every single thing that the lord jesus wants of them is to love him, and give him a chance to help them--and the long and short of it is, they _won't do it_." "that's _awful_ silly," ejaculated tode. "silly! why, there ain't anything else in all this big world that anywhere near comes up to it for silliness. why, don't you think," and here her voice took a lower and more solemn tone, and the wide cap frill trembled with earnestness. "_don't_ you think, there's men and women who believe that every word in that bible over there is true, and they know there's such a verse as that we just heard, 'whatsoever ye shall ask in my name that _will_ i do;' and there's tired folks who know the bible says, 'come unto me all ye that are weary, and i _will_ give you rest;' and there's folks full of trouble who know it says, 'cast thy burden on the lord, and he _will_ sustain thee;' and there's folks chasing up and down the world after a good time who know it says, 'in thy presence is fullness of joy,' and 'at thy right hand there are pleasures for evermore;' and there's folks working night and day to be rich who know it says, 'i am the true riches,' and, 'the silver and the gold are his,' and just as true as you live they won't kneel down and _ask_ him for any of these things! now _ain't_ that curious?" "i should think he'd get kind of out of patience with them all," tode answered, earnestly, "and say, 'let 'em go, then, if they're determined to.'" the old lady shook her head emphatically. "no, he loves them you see. do you suppose if my winny and my boys should go wrong, and not mind a word i say, i could give 'em up and say, 'let them go then?' no indeed! i'd stick to 'em till the very last minute, and i'd coax 'em, and pray over 'em day and night--and _my love_, why it's _just_ nothing by the side of his. why he says himself that his love is greater than the love of a woman; so you see he sticks to 'em all, and wants every one of them." tode resolved this thought in his mind for a little, then gave vent to his new idea. "then i should think folks ought to be coaxing 'em, folks that love _him_, i mean. if he loves all the people and wants them, and is trying to get them, why then i should think all his folks ought to be trying, too." "that's it!" said the old lady, eagerly. "that's it exactly. he tells us so in the bible time and time again. 'let him that heareth say come.' now you and me have heard, and according to that it's our business to go right to work, and say 'come' the very first time we get a chance. but, deary me! i do believe in my heart that's half the trouble, folks won't do it; his own folks, too, that have heard, and have got one of the mansions waiting for 'em. he's given them all work to do helping to fill the others, and half the time they let it go, and tend to their own work, and leave him to do the coaxing all alone." "mother," interrupted winny, impatiently drumming on the corner of the bible, "i thought you said it was bedtime. i could have learned two grammar lessons in this time." the mother gave a gentle little sigh. "well, deary, so it is," she said. "we'll just have a word of prayer, and then we'll go." tode in his little room took his favorite position, a seat on the side of the bed, and lost himself in thought. great strides the boy had taken in knowledge since tea time. wonderful truths had been revealed to him. some faint idea of the wickedness of this world began to dawn upon him. all his life hitherto had been spent in the depths, and it would seem that if he were acquainted with anything it must be with wickedness, yet a new revelation of it had come to him. "ye _will_ not come unto me, that ye might have life." he did not know that there was such a verse in the bible; but now he knew the fact, and it gave this boy, who had come out of a cellar rum-hole, and had mingled during his entire life with just such people as swarm around cellar rum-holes, a more distinct idea of the total depravity of this world than he had ever dreamed of before. it gave him a solemn old feeling. he felt less like whistling and more like going very eagerly to work than he ever had before. "there's work to do," he said to himself. "he's got a mansion ready for me it seems. i won't ever want other folk's nice homes any more as long as i live, 'cause it seems i've got a grander one after all than they can even think of; but then there's other mansions, and he wants people to come and fill them, and he let's us help." then his voice took a more joyful ring, like that of a strong brave boy ready for work. "there's work to do, plenty of it, and i'll help--i'll help fill _some_ of them." "the poor homeless boy," said the warm-hearted little mother down stairs. "deary me, my heart does just go out to him. and to think that he owns one of them mansions, and never knew it! well, now, he shan't ever want for a home feeling on this earth if i can help it. i do believe he's one of the lord's own, and we must feel honored, winny dear, because we're called to help him. don't you think he's a good warm-hearted boy, deary?" "oh yes," winny said, indifferently. "but, mother, he does use such shocking grammar." [illustration] chapter xiv. signs and wonders. tode bustled into the house half an hour earlier than usual. before him he carried a great sheet of pasteboard. "where's winny?" he asked, sitting down on the nearest chair, out of breath with his haste. "i've got an idea, and she must help me put it on here." "winny's gone to the store, deary, for some tea. whatever brought you home so early? isn't business brisk to-day?" "it was until it came on to rain, and i had to put things under cover, and then i had my idea, and i thought i'd run right home and tend to it." the door opened and winny came in, tugging her big umbrella. instinct, it could not have been education, prompted tode to take the dripping thing from her and put it away. "what on earth is that?" winny said, pausing in the act of taking off her things to examine the pasteboard. "that's my sign--leastways it will be when your wits and my wits are put together to make it. i got some colored chalk round the corner at the painters, and he showed me how to use 'em." "tode, you said you would remember not to use ''em' and 'leastways' any more." "so i will one of these days. i keep remembering all the time. say, won't that make a elegant sign? i never thought of a sign in my life till pliny hastings he came along to-day. did you ever see pliny hastings?" "no. tode, i _do wish_ you would begin to study grammar this very evening. you're enough to kill any body the way you talk." "oh bother the grammar, i'm telling you about pliny hastings. he came along, and says he, 'halloo, tode, here you are as large as life in business for yourself. you ought to have a sign,' says he. 'what's your establishment called?' and you may think i felt cheap as long as i lived at the euclid house, to have no kind of a name for my place. i thought then i'd have a name and a sign before this time to-morrow. so when i went for my dinner i bought this pasteboard, and i been studying the thing out all this afternoon between the spells of arithmetic, and i've got it all fixed now, and i've got another idea come of that i never see how one thing starts another. there's going to come a piece of pasteboard off this end, 'cause you see it's too long, and i'm going to have a circle out of that." "a circle. what for?" "oh you'll see when we get to it. but now don't you want to know what my sign is?" "i suppose i'll have to know if i'm to help you, whether i want to or not." "well, i had to study on that for quite a spell. you see i want a name for my house, and then my own name right under it, 'cause i like to see a man stand by his business, name and all; and then i want every body to know i stand up for temperance. i thought of 'cold water house,' but then you see it _ain't_ a cold water house, cause coffee is my principal dish. then i thought of 'coffee house,' but there's a coffee house not more than two blocks away from my place, and they keep plenty of whisky there, and _that_ wouldn't do. and i thought and _thought_, and by and by it came to me. i wouldn't have no 'house' at all about it, 'cause after all is said and done it's just a _box_; and i concluded to have a out-and-out temperance sign. i'll print a great big no, so big you can see it across the street, and then we'll make two great big black bottles, like they keep rum in, standing by the 'no.' and then, says _i_, everybody will know where to find _me_ on _that_ question." even grave winny laughed over this queer idea. "i can't make bottles any more than i can fly away," she said at last "and neither can you." "i shan't say that till i've tried it about a month, _anyhow_," tode answered, positively. "i never _did_ like to give up a thing before i began it." the white cap frill nodded violently over this sentiment "that's the way to talk," said the little mother. "there's more giving up of good things before they're begun than there ever is afterward, i do believe." _such_ an evening as they had! winny, in spite of her discouraging words, entered into the work with considerable heartiness; and the slate first, and afterward pieces of brown paper covered over with grotesque images of black bottles, looking most of them, it must be confessed, like anything else in the world. finally the sympathetic mother came to the rescue. she mounted a high chair to reach the topmost shelf in her little den of a pantry, where were congregated the few bottles that had ensued from a quarter of a century of housekeeping. one after another was taken down and anxiously examined, until at last, oh joyful discovery! the label of one showed the picture of an unmistakable bottle, over which a picture of the inventor of the bitters which it was supposed to contain was fondly leaning, as if it were his staff of life. the young artists greeted it with delight, and with it for a model produced such delightful results that by half-past eight the sign shone out in blue and black and red chalks. "now for my circle," said tode, seizing upon the piece of pasteboard which had been cut off. a large plate from the pantry did duty in the absence of sufficient geometrical knowledge, and the circle was quickly produced. then did tode's skill at making figures shine forth. in the bright red chalks did he quickly produce a circle of the nine figures around his pasteboard circle. "now what is all that for, i _should_ like to know?" winny asked, looking on half interestedly, half contemptuously. "i'm just going to show you. you see, the lesson you gave me to-day is the addition table, and that addition table is a tough, ugly job, i can tell you. well, i pelted away at it till dinner time, and i guess by that time i knew almost as much as i did before i begun it; and i went to jones' after my dinner, and mr. jones he wanted me to take a note for him to a man at the bank, just around the corner from there, you know. well i went, and the man i took the note to was busy counting money. he wouldn't look at me, but just counted away like lightning. i never see anything like it in my life, the way he did fly off them bills. it wasn't a quarter of a minute when he said to a man who stood waiting, 'nine hundred and seventy-eight dollars, sir. all right.' now just think of counting such a pile of money as that in about the time it would take me to count seventy-eight cents? well, i come back, and i pitched into the addition table harder than ever, because, i thinks to myself, there's no telling but that i may have some money to count one of these days, and i guess i'll get ready to count it. but it was tough work. all at once, while i was looking at my pasteboard, and wondering what i should do with this end, it came to me. now i'll explain. you see them nine figures around there? well, thinks i, now there ain't but nine figures in this world, 'cause pliny hastings he told me that once, and i've noticed it lots of times since, that you may talk about just as many things as you're a mind to, and you'll just be using them same nine figures over and over again, with a nothing thrown in now and then, you know. now, then, s'pose i begin at this one, and i say, 'one and two is three, and three is six, and four is ten.'" "for pity's sake say 'are ten,'" interposed winny. "why?" "because it's right. go on." "well, now, i could remember just as quick again if you'd give a fellow a reason for it. well, and four are ten, and so all around to the nine. well, i say that, and say it, and _say it_, till it goes itself, and then i begin at two, and say two and three is--no, _are_ five, and on round to the nine, only this time i take in the one at the other end. understand? well, after i've learned that i begin with the three, and go around to the two, and so on with them all; and then i mix them up and say them every which way, and after i've put them a few different ways, let's see you give me a line of figures that i can't add!" "that is so," said winny, at last, speaking slowly and admiringly. "it is a very good way indeed. tode, i shouldn't wonder if you would know a great deal after awhile." "well now," answered tode, gleefully, "i call this a pretty good evening's work, painted a sign and made a new arithmetic, enough sight easier than the other, so far as it goes; and you've helped me, so now i'll help you, turn about is fair play. bring out your grammar, and let's see what it looks like, and to-morrow i'll go into the second-hand bookstore and hunt one up. then i'll pitch in and learn everything i come to." he was true to his word, and thereafter grammar was added to the numerous studies to which he gave all his leisure time. perhaps no motto could have been given tode that would have helped him so much in this matter of study as did the one which he had overheard and adopted for his own: "learn everything i possibly can about everything that can be learned." he was obeying its instructions to the very letter. sunday morning dawned brightly upon him. the first sunday in his new business. the air was balmy with the breath of spring. "oh, oh," said tode, drawing long breaths and inhaling the perfume of swelling buds and springing blades, "i just wish i could go to church to-day, i do. wouldn't it be nice now to put on my clean shirt, and make myself look nice and spry, and step around there to mr. birge's church and hear another preach? i'd like that first-rate; but now there's no use in talking. 'do everything exactly in its time,' that's one of my rules, and i'm bound to live up to them; and it's time now for me to go to my business. i'll go to church this evening, i will. i ought to be glad that folks don't want coffee and cakes much of evening, instead of grumbling about having to give 'em some this morning." now it so happened, in the multiplicity of things which the new acquaintances had to talk over, that sunday and church-going had not been discussed; and owing to the fact that tode did not breakfast with the family, no knowledge of his intentions came to them, and no knowledge of that old command, "remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy," came to him. true, he knew that stores and shops were closed quite generally on the sabbath, but hotels were not, the euclid house had never been, and tode, without reasoning about it at all, had imbibed the idea that it was because they kept things to eat and drink. now these were the very things which he kept, and people must eat and drink on sundays as well as on any other days, so of course it was his duty to supply them. so he put a clean white cloth on the dry-goods box in honor of this new bright day, arranged everything in the most tempting manner possible, and waited for customers. they came thick and fast. the sabbath proved fair to be as busy a day at the dry-goods box as it used to be at the euclid house. one disappointment tode had. when he trudged down to the little house to have his great empty coffee-pot replenished, it was closed and locked. "course," he said, nodding approvingly, "they've gone to church. i might a known they wouldn't wash and iron and go to school sunday. i ought to remembered and took away my coffee. well, never mind, i'll just run around to the coffee house and get my dish filled, and that will make it all right." so many customers came just at tea time that he found it impossible to go home to tea, but took a cup of his own coffee and a few of his cakes, and chuckled meantime over the fact that he was the only individual who could take his supper from that dry-goods box without paying for it. it was just as the bells were ringing for evening service that he joyfully packed his nearly emptied dishes into the basket, shook the crumbs from his little table-cloth, folded it carefully, and rejoiced over the thought that he had done an excellent day's work, and could afford to go to church. the brown house was closed again, so he left his basket under a woodpile in the alley-way, and made all possible speed for mr. birge's church. even then the opening services were nearly concluded, but he was in time for the bible text, and that text tode never forgot in his life. the words were, "remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy." i can not describe to you the poor boy's bewildered astonishment as he listened and thought, and gradually began to take in something of the true meaning of those earnest words. mr. birge was very decided in his opinions, very plain in his utterances. milk wagons, ice wagons, meat wagons, and the whole long catalogue of sabbath-breaking wagons, to say nothing of row-boats and steamboats, and trains of cars, were dwelt upon with unsparing tongue--nay, he went farther than that, and expressed his unmistakable opinion of sabbath-breaking ice-cream saloons and coffee saloons; then down to the little apple children, and candy children, and shoestring children, who haunt the sabbath streets. tode listened, and ran his fingers through his hair in perplexity. "it must come in _somewhere_," he said to himself in some bewilderment. "i don't quite keep a coffee house, and i don't--why, yes i do, sell apples every now and then; and as to that, i suppose i keep a coffee _box_. what if it ain't a house? i wonder now if it ain't right? i wonder if there's lots of things that look right before you think about them, that ain't right after you've turned 'em over a spell? and i wonder how a fellow is going to know?" then he gave his undivided attention to the sermon again; and went home after the service was concluded, with a very thoughtful face. jim was there making a visit, but tode only nodded to him, and went abruptly to the little shelf behind the stove in the corner, and took down the old bible. "grandma, where are the commandments put?" he asked eagerly, addressing the old lady by the title which he had bestowed on her very early in their acquaintance. "why they're in exodus, in the twentieth chapter." "and where's exodus?" "ho!" said jim. "you know a heap, tode, don't you?" tode turned on him a grave anxious face. "do you know about them? well, just you come and find them for me, that's a good fellow. i'm in a powerful hurry." thus appealed to, jim, nothing loth to display his wisdom, sauntered toward the table, and speedily found and patronizingly pointed out the commandments. tode read eagerly until he came to those words, "remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy." then he read slowly and carefully, "six days shalt thou labor, and do all thy work: but the seventh day is the sabbath of the lord thy god: in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy manservant, nor thy maidservant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates." three times did tode's astonished eyes go over this commandment in all its length and breadth; then he looked up and spoke with deliberate emphasis, "this beats all creation! and the strangest part of it is that you didn't tell me anything about it, grandma." "whatever is the boy talking about?" said grandma, wheeling her rocker around to get a full view of his excited face; and then tode gave a synopsis of the evening sermon, and the history of his amazement, culminating with this first reading of the fourth commandment. "and so you've been at your business all day!" exclaimed the astonished old lady. "why, for the land's sake, i thought you had gone off to some meeting away at the other end of the city." "i never once knew the first thing about this in the bible. how was i going to know it was a mean thing to do?" questioned tode, with increasing excitement. "and it was the best day i've had, too, and that makes it all the meaner." and his voice choked a little, and his head went suddenly down on his arm. "well, now, i wouldn't mind, deary," spoke the old lady in soothing tones, after a few moments of silence. "if you didn't know anything about it, of course you wasn't to blame. 'tisn't as if you had learned it in sunday-school, and all that, and i wouldn't mind about the business. like enough you'll have more days just as brisk as sunday." "it isn't that," tode answered, disconsolately, lifting his head. "it's all them sundays that i've been and wasted, when i might have gone to meeting. been righter to go than to stay away, it seems; and it's thinking about lots of other things that's wrong maybe, just like this, and a fellow not knowing it." and as he spoke he listlessly turned over the leaves of the old bible, until his eye was arrested by the words, "thou shalt guide me with thy counsel." "that's exactly it," he told himself. "i've got to have a bible. i'll get one little enough to go into my jacket pocket, and then, says i, we'll see if i can't find out about things. and after this i'm to shut up box and go to church, am i? well, that's one good thing, anyhow." presently he and jim climbed up to the little room over the kitchen. no sooner were they alone than tode commenced on a subject that had puzzled him. "i say, jim, how comes it that you knew all about those things and never told _me_? that's treating a fellow pretty mean, i think. i always shared the peanuts and things i got with you." "see here," answered jim, in open-eyed wonder; "what are you driving at?" "why, _things_ that you know and never told me. here your mother has got a bible, and you know verses in it, and know about heaven, and all, and you never told me a word." jim sat down on the foot of the bed and laughed, long and loud and merrily. "i don't know, tode, whether you're cracked, or what is the matter with you," he said at last, when he could speak, "but i never heard a fellow mixing up peanuts and heaven before." tode was someway not in a mood to be laughed at, so he gave vent somewhat loftily to a solemn truth. "oh well, if you're a mind to think that the peanuts is of the most consequence after all, why i don't know as i object." and then the boy deliberately knelt down and began his evening prayer. he was too ignorant to know that there were boys who thought it unmanly to pray. it never occurred to him to omit his kneeling. as for jim he felt himself in a very strange position. he kicked his heels against the bedpost for awhile, but presently he grew ashamed of that, and contented himself with very noisily making ready for bed. tode, when he rose, was in a softened mood, and as he blew out the light said: "i wish you knew how to pray, jim. i do, honestly, it's so nice." "praying and brandy bottles don't go together," answered his companion, shortly. "no more they don't," said tode, emphatically. "i had to quit that business myself." if some of our respectable brandy-drinking, brandy-selling deacons _could_ have heard those two ignorant boys talk! [illustration] chapter xv. exit tode mall. on went the brisk and busy days; the soft air of summer was upon them, and still the business at the dry-goods box flourished, and was taking on fresh importance with every passing day. the people were almost numberless who grew into the habit of stopping at the little box, to be waited on by the briskest and sharpest of boys to delicious coffee and cookies, or as the days grew warmer to a glass of iced lemonade, or a saucer of glowing strawberries. the matter was putting on the semblance of a partnership concern, for the old lady rivaled the bakery with her cookies, both as regarded taste and economy; and in due course of time winny caught the infection, studied half a leaf of an old receipt-book which came wrapped around an ounce of alum, and finally took to compounding a mixture, which being duly baked and carefully watched by the mother's practiced eye, developed into distracting little cream cakes, which met with most astonishing sales. meantime there were many spare half hours in the course of the long days, which were devoted to the puzzling grammar and arithmetic, and gradually light was beginning to dawn over not only the addition but the subtraction table; or, more properly speaking, the addition circle. tode nightly chuckled over his invention as he started from a new figure and raced glibly around to the climax, thereby calling forth the unqualified approbation of winny, not unmixed now and then with a certain curious air of admiration at his rapid strides around the mystic circle. in fact, things were progressing. tode began to pride himself on making change correctly and rapidly; began to wonder, supposing he had a one hundred dollar bill to change, could he do it as rapidly _almost_ as that man at the bank? began to grow very ambitious, and in looking through his arithmetic in search of nouns and verbs, chanced to alight on the word "interest;" read about it, plied winny with questions, some of which she could answer and some not, went for further information to the older brother who was at work at the livery stable. the result of all of which was that our rising young street vagrant opened an account at the savings bank, and had money at interest! by the way, his trip to the livery stable revived his slumbering ambition in regard to horses, and thenceforth he spent his regular "nooning" in that vicinity, or mounted on one of the coach boxes with the "brother," who chanced to be one of the finest drivers on the list. not a very commendable locality in which to spend his leisure, you think? that depends----. tode's happened, fortunately, to be much the stronger mind of the two; and besides, you remember the guide which mounted guard in his jacket pocket. he found it in accordance not only with one of the famous rules, viz: "learn everything that _is_ to be learned about everything that i possibly can," but also in accordance with his inclination to learn to drive; so learn he did, although his desire to become mr. hastings' coachman had merged itself into a desire to own a complete little coffee house like the one around the corner from him, with veritable shelves and drawers, and a till to lock his money in. you think it a wonder that tode never fell back into his old wretched street vagrant rum-cellar life. well, i don't know. what was there to fall back to? i can't think it so charming a thing to be kicked around like a football, to be half the time nearly frozen, and all the time nearly starved, that people should tumble lovingly back into the gutter from which they have once emerged, unless indeed one resigns his will to the keeping of that demon who peoples the most of our gutters, which thing, you remember, tode did not do. besides, be it also remembered that the loving lord had called this boy, and made ready a mansion in the eternal city for him, and is it so strange a thing that the lord can keep his _own_? it chanced one day that two coffee drinkers at his stand lingered and talked freely about a certain lecture that was to be delivered before the----. tode didn't catch what society, and didn't care; but he did learn the fact that mr. birge was to be the speaker. now there had come into this boy's heart a strong love for mr. birge; he had never spoken to him in his life, but for all that tode knew him well, nodded complacently to himself whenever he chanced to meet mr. birge on the street, and always pointed him out as his minister. very speedily was his resolution taken to attend this lecture. he didn't know the subject, and indeed that was a matter of very slight moment to him. whatever was the subject he felt sure of its being a fine one, since mr. birge had chosen it. well he went, and as the lecture was delivered before one of the benevolent societies of the city, the subject was the broad and strong one, "christian giving." tode came home with some new and startling ideas. he burst into the little kitchen where the mother sat placidly knitting her stockings, and the daughter sat knitting her brows over her arithmetic lesson, and pronounced his important query: "winny, what's tenths?" "what's what?" "tenths. in counting money, you know, or anything. how much is tenths?" "oh, you haven't got to that yet; it is away over in the arithmetic." "but, i tell you, i've _got_ to get at it right away--it's necessary. i don't want it in the arithmetic; i want to do it." which was and always _would_ be the marked difference between this boy's and girl's education. she learned a thing because it was in the book; he learned a thing in order to use it. "what do you want of tenths, anyhow? why can't you wait until you get there?" "'cause things that they ought to be helping to do can't wait till i've got there. i need to use one of them right away. come, tell me about them." "well," said winny, "where's your slate? here are six-tenths, made so-- / ." tode looked with eager yet bewildered eyes. what had that figure six on top of that figure ten, to do with mr. birge's earnest appeal to all who called themselves by the name of christian to make one-tenth of their money holy to the lord? "what's one-tenth then?" he said at last, hoping that this was something which would look less puzzling. "why, _this_ is one tenth." and winny made a very graceful one, and a neat ten, and drew a prim bewildering little line between them. "that is the way to write it. ten-tenths make a whole, and one-tenth is written just as i've shown you." "but, winny," said tode, in desperation, "never mind writing it. i don't care _how_ they write it; tell me how they _do_ it." "how to _do_ it! i don't know what you mean. ten-tenths make a whole, i tell you, and one-tenth is just one-tenth of it, and that's all there is about it." "the whole of what, winny?" "the whole of anything. it takes ten-tenths to make a whole one." poor puzzled tode! what strange language was this that winny talked? suppose he hadn't a whole one after all, since it took ten-tenths to make it, and he couldn't even find out what _one_ of them was. suppose he should never have a whole one in his life, ought he not then to give anything to help on all those grand doings which mr. birge told about? "i don't understand a bit about it," he said at last, in a despairing tone. "well, i knew you wouldn't," winny answered, touches of triumph and complaisance sounding in her voice. "you musn't expect to understand such hard things until you get to them." and now the dear old mother, who had never studied fractions out of a book in her life, came suddenly to the rescue. "have you been reading about the tenths in your bible, deary?" she asked, with winning sympathy. "no, i didn't know they were there till to-night, but i've been hearing about them, how the folks always used to give one-tenth, and mr. birge made it out that we ought to now, but i don't know what it is." the old lady dived down into her work-basket and produced a little blue bag full of buttons, of all shapes and sizes. "let's you and me see if we can't study it out," she said, encouragingly. "you just count out ten of the nicest looking of them white buttons, and lay them along in a row." tode swiftly and silently did as directed, and waited for light to dawn on this dark subject. the old lady bent with thoughtful face over the table, and looked fixedly at the innocent buttons before she commenced. "now suppose," she said, impressively, "that every single one of them buttons was a five dollar bill." "my!" said tode, chuckling, in spite of himself, at the magnitude of the conception, but growing deeply interested as his teacher proceeded. "and suppose the money was _all_ yours. well, now, it's in ten piles, _ain't_ it? well, suppose you take one of them piles away, and make up your mind to give it all to the lord. now, deary, i've studied over this a good deal to see what i ought to give, and it's my opinion that if you did that you'd be giving your tenth. now, winny, haven't we got at it--ain't that so?" "of course," said winny, leaving her book and coming around to attend to the buttons. "isn't that exactly what i said? one, two, three, four. you have got ten-tenths here to make the whole, and one of them is one-tenth." "humph!" said tode, "you might have said it, but it didn't sound like it one mite, and don't yet. i don't see as there's any ten-_tenths_ there at all; there's ten _buttons_, leastways five dollar bills." "that's because you are not far enough advanced to understand," answered winny, going loftily back to her seat. "but see here," said tode. "suppose i had a lot of money, say--well, a hundred dollars, all in ones and twos, you know--_then_ how could i manage?" "make ten piles of it, deary, don't you see? put just as much in one pile as another, and then you'd have it." tode gave the subject a moment's earnest thought; then he gave a quick clear whistle. "yes, i see--all i've got to do is to keep my money in exactly ten piles; no matter how much i get never make another, but pile it on to them ten, serve each one alike, and then just understand that one of 'em ain't mine at all, but belongs to the lord, and that's all." "that's all," said the little old lady, with trembling eagerness. "and don't it look reasonable, like?" "i should think it did," tode answered, in a tone which said he had settled a very puzzling question for all time. when he went to his room that evening he took out from the mass in his pocket a crumpled bit of paper, and looked at some writing on it. it read: "genesis xxviii. ." mr. birge had spoken of that verse, and tode had marked it down. now he carefully sought out the verse and carefully read it over several times; then he got down on his knees and prayed it aloud: "and of _all_ that thou shalt give me, i will surely give the tenth unto thee." it was later in the season, quite midsummer, when the rev. mr. birge, rushing eagerly down town past tode's place of business, suddenly came to a halt. the place was unique and inviting enough, graceful awning floating out over the box, covered with its white cloth, fresh fruits on tins of ice, fresh cakes covered with snowy napkins, dainty bouquets of flowers, gleaming here and there, iced lemonade waiting to be poured into sparkling glasses--everything faultlessly pure and clean; but it was none of these things that halted mr. birge, nor yet the "no bottles" which still spoke eloquently of the owner's principles, but the name--tode mall! the rev. mr. birge had heard that singular combination of names but once in his life, and then under circumstances he had never forgotten. he stood irresolute a moment, then turned back and came under the little awning. tode's face glowed with pleasure as he flung aside his grammar and came briskly forward to wait on his distinguished guest. "i'll take a glass of lemonade, if you please," began mr. birge, preparing to feel his way cautiously into the heart of this bright eyed boy, and find if he was indeed the one whose mother had prayed for him but once in her life, and that on her dying bed. "yes, sir," answered tode, promptly, giving the glasses little gleeful chinks as he singled out the clearest. "i see you keep a temperance establishment. i'm glad of that. i didn't expect to find a place in this quarter of the city where a temperance man could get any refreshment." "yes, sir, that's why i came down here to do business, 'cause there was nothing but rum all around here, and i thought it was time they had the other side of the story; and things _are_ improving some. the man that kept the saloon right next to me drank himself to death, and broke down, and the man that moved in is going to keep yankee notions instead of whisky." by a few skillfully put questions mr. birge satisfied himself that the brisk young person who talked about "doing business" and his small acquaintance of the albany cellar were one and the same; and by this time, drink as slowly as he could, the lemonade was exhausted. so, bound to be a valuable customer, he tried again. "what nice things do you keep hidden under that dainty napkin? cakes, eh? suppose i take one. do they go well with lemonade?" "first-rate, sir." and tode's face was radiant with pleasure as he saw not only one but three of winny's delicious cream cakes disappear. then mr. birge took out his pocket-book. it was no part of his intention just then and there to betray any previous knowledge of the boy's history; the little scene in that life drama which he had helped enact was too solemn and sacred, too fraught with what might be made into tender memories, to be given by a stranger into the hands of a rough and probably hardened boy; he could keep it to tell gently to this poor fellow in the quiet of some softly-lighted room, when he should have gained an influence over him for good, for he was a fisher of boys as well as men, this good man; and he told himself that the lord had thrown this self-same boy into his path again, to give him a chance to do the work which a few hours' delay had robbed him of years ago; and mr. birge knew very well that opportunities to do the work which had been let slip, nine years before, came rarely to any man. and he was glad, and he was going to be very wary and wise, therefore he drew forth his pocket-book. "now what am i to pay you for this excellent lunch?" "nothing, sir." and tode's cheeks fairly blazed with joy. "nothing!" answered the astonished customer. "yes, sir, _nothing_. i don't charge my minister anything for lunch. like to have you come every day, sir." "your minister!" "yes, sir. didn't you know you was my minister?" chuckled tode. "bless me, _i_ know it, i tell _you_--known it this long time." and then ensued a lively conversation, question and answer following each other in quick succession; and mr. birge went through a great many phases of feeling in a brief space of time. first came a great throb of joy. the boy is safe the mother's prayer is answered--good measure, pressed down, running over--not only a temperance boy to the very core, but a christian; then a quick little thrill of pain--oh, his work was done, but his duty had been left undone; the lord had gathered in this stray waif, but _he_ was not the servant. then, first great astonishment, and afterward humble, _very_ humble thanksgiving. so then he was the servant after all; the lord had called him in to help, and the work was begun on that stormy night, that night over which he had grumbled, and had doubting, questioning thoughts. oh, there were a great many lessons to learn during that long conversation, and the minister smiled presently to himself over the memory of how he took it for granted that because the little yellow-haired boy had run away from his intended care nine years before, he had therefore run away from god; smiled to remember how carefully he was going to approach this rough, hardened boy. "oh well," he said to himself, as he turned from the shade of the awning, compelled by the press of customers to defer further conversation, "i shall learn after a time that although the lord is gracious and forbearing, and kindly gives me the work to do here and there for him, he can when he chooses get along entirely without the help of john birge." nevertheless he did not yet make known the fact of his early acquaintance with tode--not so much now that he wanted to keep it to help in melting the boy's heart, as that he had come to realize that tode's mother was already his one tender memory, and that everything about that death-bed scene, if remembered at all, must be fraught with pain; so he still kept the story until some quiet time when they should be in a pleasant room alone. but this meeting was a great thing for tode. from that day forth mr. birge realized fully that he was the boy's minister. he began at once to work carefully for him. thursday evening tode learned to close business at an early hour, and betake himself to the young people's meeting. he was toled into the sabbath-school--more than that, he coaxed winny in, a feat which her mother had never succeeded in performing. it was some time in september that a new duty and a new privilege dawned upon him, that of publicly uniting himself with the people of god. tode never forgot the solemn joy which thrilled his soul at that time, when it was made known to him that this privilege was actually his. there came a wondrously beautiful october saturday, and tode stood by the window in mr. birge's study. it was just at the close of a long conversation. on the morrow the boy was to stand up in the church and take the solemn vows upon him, and his face was grave yet glad. "by the way," said mr. birge, "yours is a very singular name. fortunate that it is, or i never would have found you again; but it must be a contraction of something." "why yes," answered tode, hesitatingly. he didn't know what contraction meant. "my name was once, when i was a _very_ little youngster, _theodore_; but i never knew myself in that way." "theodore! a grand name--it belonged to a brother of mine once before he was called to receive 'the new name.' i like it; and theodore the name goes down on my record. how do you spell the other? are you sure that's all right?" "m-a--" began our friend, then stopped to laugh. "why no--i'll be bound that ain't my name, either. it's mallery, that's what it is; no mall about it." mr. birge turned and surveyed his caller leisurely, with a quiet smile on his face. "it seems to me, master theodore mallery, that you are sailing under false colors," he said at last. "what have you to do with tode mall?" tode laughed. "well they nicknamed me so, and i suppose it stuck, and it seems like me; but my name truly is theodore s. mallery." "then of course i shall write it so." and after he had written it mr. birge came over and took the boy's hand. "it is a pleasant idea," he said. "let us take the new name, a picture of the new life which begins to-morrow, when you say before the world, as for me i will serve the lord. be very careful of the new name, dear brother; don't stain it with any shadow of evil." tode walked home slowly and thoughtfully in the gathering twilight, strange new thoughts stirring in his heart. he felt older and graver and wiser. he went round by his business stand; he took his knife from his pocket and carefully pried out the tacks which held his pasteboard sign; then he held it up in the waning light, and looked earnestly at the letters, his face working with new thoughts. but the only outward expression which he gave to these thoughts was to say as he rolled up the pasteboard: "i must have a new sign. good-by, tode mall, i'm done with you forever. after this i'm theodore s. mallery." [illustration] chapter xvi. pledges and partnerships. there was a little bit of a white house, cunning and cozy, nestled in among the larger ones, on a quiet, pleasant street of the city. it was a warm june day, and the side door was open, which gave one a peep into a dainty little dining-room. there was a bright carpet on the floor, a green-covered table between the windows, with books and papers scattered about on it in the way which betokens use and familiarity instead of show. the round table was set for three, and ever and anon a dear little old woman bustled in from the bit of a kitchen and added another touch to the arrangements for dinner. a young miss of perhaps sixteen was curled in a corner of the lounge, working rapidly and a little nervously with slate, and pencil, and brain. the side gate clicked, and a young man came with quick decided tread up the flower-bordered walk. the student raised her eyes and found her voice: "oh, theodore! for pity's sake see what is the matter with this example? i've worked it over so many times that the figures all dance together, and don't seem to mean anything." "what is it? algebra?" and the young man laid his cap on the table, tossed the curls back from his forehead, and sat down beside her. "yes, it's algebra, and i'm thoroughly bewildered. do you believe i ever _will_ know much about it, theodore?" "why, certainly you will. you're a good scholar now, if you wouldn't get into such a flurry, and try to add and multiply and divide all at once. see here, you've used the wrong terms twice, and that is the sum and substance of your entire trouble." winny looked a little perplexed and a little annoyed, and then laughed. "have patience with your bundle of stupidity, theodore," she said, half deprecatingly. "i may do you credit yet some day, improbable as it looks." and then the dear old lady, who had been trotting back and forth at intervals, now ushered in a teapot and called them to dinner; and they three sat down, and heads were reverently bowed while the young man reverently said: "our father, we return thee thanks for these, and all the unnumbered blessings of this day. may we use the strength which thou dost give us to thine honor and thy praise." and the old lady softly said, "amen." i do not know that you have ever heard the dear old lady's name, but it was mcpherson--mrs. mcpherson. of course you remember winny, and the young man was the person who used to be familiarly known by the name of tode mall, but it was long since it had occurred even to him that he was ever other than theodore mallery, the enterprising young proprietor of that favorite refreshment-room down by the depot; for the dry-goods box had disappeared, so also had the cellar rum-hole. there was a neat building down there, the name, "temperance house," gleamed in large letters from the glass of both windows, and "theodore s. mallery" shone over the door. within all was as neat and complete as care and skill and grace could make it; and that it was a favorite resort could be seen by standing for a few moments to watch the comers and goers at almost any hour in the day. theodore came down the street with his peculiar rapid tread, glanced in to see if his brisk little assistant was in attendance, then went across the street and around the corner to a grocery near at hand. "mr. parks," he said, speaking as one in the habit of being full of business and in haste, "can you cash this note for me? good afternoon, mr. stephens," to that gentleman, who stood in a waiting attitude. "yes," said mr. parks, promptly, "if you will count this roll of bills for me. i'm one of those folks that i've read about who 'count for confusion,' i guess. anyhow, these come different every time." "with pleasure, sir," answered theodore, seizing upon the bills with alacrity, and fluttering them through his fingers with the rapidity of thought. "ninety-eight--seventy-three," he announced after a few seconds of flutter and rustle. "are you sure?" "quite." and again he ran over the notes, and announced the same result. "thank you," said mr. parks, with a relieved air. and as theodore gathered up his bills and vanished, the old gentleman looking after him said: "that's a smart chap, mr. stephens. i don't know his match anywhere around this city. true as steel every time, and just as sharp as steel any day." "yes," answered mr. stephens, quietly. "i have heard of the young man before, and know something of his character." two hours afterward theodore was reading a letter. it commenced: "private office, } "june , --.} "_my dear young friend_: "it is something over four years since you came to me one night with my ten-dollar bill, since which time my eyes have been on you. i did not present you with the bill then and there, as i was tempted to do. i am not one of the croakers who think it sinful to reward honesty. god rewards every day our efforts toward the right; but i think the reward can come too suddenly when man takes it into his own hands. i stayed my hand. i determined instead to keep you in view, and keep the helping hand stretched out, unseen by you; but ready to come to your aid in time of need. no such a time has come to you. the lord evidently took you for his own, and gave his angels charge concerning you. i have watched and waited. i know all about your character, young man, and more about your education than you think. "as i said, your time of need, for which i have been waiting, has not come, but mine has. i need just such a young man as you--one who will be prompt, active and efficient. you know my place of business, and that i make few changes. i do not like the business you have chosen. keeping an eating saloon is a respectable employment, always provided that the business is respectably conducted, which yours has been. i do not doubt that you have done much good. you have fought the giant enemy of this present time nobly and well. but the business is not suited to your capacity, by which i mean that your capacity overruns the business. your pet enemy needs fighting, not only with strong principles but with money, and a certain kind of business power, both of which i can put you in the way to gain more rapidly. "in short, if you choose to come to me as one of my confidential clerks, on a salary which i will name when i see you, and which shall rise as you rise, i shall be glad to talk with you this evening at eight o'clock. if you have no idea of making a change in business; if your present occupation suits you, i will not trouble you to make me any reply other than to return this communication to me through the post-office, and we will quietly let the matter drop. "yours truly, "john s. s. stephens." our young man caught his breath and held it in for a moment after reading this remarkable epistle. yes, he knew mr. stephens' place of business very well indeed; it was the largest and finest mercantile house in the city; and to be fairly launched forth in his employ, with a reasonable prospect of suiting him, was to be a possible millionaire. and to think that that fearful ten-dollar bill, which had made his cheeks burn so many, _many_ times, was the means that had brought him such a letter as this. "all things work together for good to them--" oh yes, he knew that verse, and believed it, too. but what a strange idea that mr. stephens should have been watching him, should have known so much about his affairs, and instinctively he ran over his life to see what things he could have done differently had he known that mr. stephens was watching. then his face flushed as he thought of the all-seeing eye that had been fixed on him night and day; then he held his head erect, and reminded himself that whatever mr. stephens might have seen to condemn, god knew his heart, knew that through many failures and constant blunders he had been honestly trying to follow his guide. but how strange that mr. stephens should suppose him fitted for a clerkship in his store. he tried to decide what would be expected of him, what he ought to know in order to be fitted for the position. prices and positions of goods? about these he knew nothing, nor did his want of knowledge in this respect particularly disturb him; he knew perfectly well that he had a quick eye and a quick memory, and a remarkably convenient determination to learn everything that could be learned in as short a space of time as possible. book-keeping? how fortunate it was that he should have happened into joe brower's father's store just as joe's father was giving his son a lesson in book-keeping, and that then and there had arisen _his_ determination to study book-keeping, and that he had commenced it; and at first with a little of joe's help, and then with a good deal of his father's, and finally with no help at all, he conquered it. then what an extraordinary thing it was that he should have gone home to tea a little earlier than usual that evening three years ago, and so surprised winny in the act of wiping away two tears, and found that they were shed because the dear mother couldn't possibly pay for the desire of winny's heart, namely: french lessons; and that after much discussion and ex-postulation he should have been allowed to consecrate one of the ten piles, in which he always kept his money, to french lessons, and that he had begun at first for pure fun, and ended by working hard over the lessons, winny, on her part, laboring earnestly to repeat in the evening just what she had learned during the day, until now after the lapse of three years he knew perfectly well that while he would undoubtedly make a frenchman wild with his attempts at pronunciation, yet the french letter would have to be very queerly written that he could not translate, and the message an exceedingly crooked one that he could not render into smoothly written french. but how did mr. stephens know all these things? well, never mind. only, he said with energy, there are some more things that i _will_ know if i have the good fortune to get near that german clerk of his, and winny shall have her chance at german yet. callers found their usually brisk host almost inattentive during the remainder of that afternoon. about five o'clock he dispatched a note, addressed "j. h. mcpherson, euclid house," and astonished and delighted his young waiter by an unusually early putting up of shutters, and of putting things generally to rights for the night. in fact, it was not more than seven o'clock when jim mcpherson arrived and found his old-time companion alone and in waiting. "halloo! what's up?" was his greeting. "you received my note?" "yes, and have been dying of curiosity ever since to know what the 'important business intimately connected with' myself, could be about i thought at one time though, that i wasn't going to get away. all creation appeared to want to take supper with us to-night. what are you all shut up so early for?" "business. jim, i have just the chance for you to get away from there." "how?" "well," and then his companion launched forth in an account of his afternoon letter, and the prospects which were opening before him, and also his idea of the prospects which were opening before jim. when he ceased, the said jim gazed at him in silence for a moment, and then said: "and you offer me an out-and-out partnership?" "out-and-out. you can come right in here and take the business just as it is, furniture and fixtures of all sorts, and from this time forth until we change our minds i'll pay half the expenses and share the profits. that is--well, there's only one proviso." "i thought there must be something somewhere. what is it?" "you know, jim, this is a temperance business." "of course. what's your proviso?" "you must sign the pledge." "stuff and nonsense." "very well, if that's your final answer we will drop the subject." "but, tode, that's perfectly silly. can't you trust a fellow unless he puts his name to a piece of paper like a baby? i don't drink, and i won't sell rum here. what more do you want?" "want you to say so on paper." "what for?" "to gratify me perhaps. it isn't a great deal to do. if you mean what you say you can have no serious objection to doing so." "yes, but i have. i don't approve of signing away my liberty in that style." "who has been saying that to you?" asked theodore, gravely. "perhaps i said it myself." "i think not. i believe _you_, personally, have more sense." whereat jim laughed and looked a little ashamed. "no matter," he said at last, "i ain't going to sign a pledge for anybody, but i'm willing to get out of that business. i don't like making drunkards any better than you do, and i should have quit before if i could have seen any chance just on mother's account, but i never expected an offer like this." to all of which theodore made answer only by setting himself comfortably back in his arm-chair, pushing a fruit-basket toward his companion, and saying: "have a pear, jim?" then the talk drifted on to pears and peaches, and divers other fruits, until jim said: "come, let's talk business." theodore opened his eyes large, and looked inquiring. "i thought we were done with business," he said, innocently. "do you really mean that you withdraw your offer unless i will sign the pledge?" "why certainly. i thought you understood that to be my proviso." "but, tode, don't you think that is forcing a fellow?" "not at all. you are perfectly free, of course, to do as you please. if you please to decline a good offer, merely because you won't promise not to drink what you say you don't drink, and not to sell what you say you don't want to sell, why that is your own matter, of course, and i can not help myself." jim mused a little. "well, you see," he said presently, "i do now and then take a drop of wine, not enough to amount to much, and i'm in no danger of doing it very often, for i honestly don't care much for it." "no. what then?" "why, i'd have to stop that, of course, if i signed your pledge." "of course. what then?" "why, then," and here jim broke down and laughed, and finally added: "tode, i wish you were not such an awful fanatic about this." "but since i am, what is to be done?" silence fell between the two for a time, until jim said with a little touch of disgust: "tode, you're as set in your way as a stone wall." "all right. what is the conclusion of the whole matter?" "oh fudge! bring on your pledge and give us a pen." instantly a drawer from a side table was drawn energetically out, and pen, ink, and a veritable pledge were placed before the young man. a few quick dashes of the pen, and "james h. mcpherson" stood out in plain relief under the strongly worded total abstinence pledge. his companion waited with flushing cheek and eager eyes until the last letter was written; then he sprang up with an energy that set the arm-chair upside down, and uttered a vehement: "good! jim, oh jim, i could shout for joy. i have fairly held my breath for fear you would not reach the point." jim laughed. "what a fanatic you are!" he said in a tone of assumed carelessness. "how do you know i won't break it to-morrow?" "i know perfectly well. if i had not i should not have been so anxious to have you sign to-night. you happen to be as set in _your_ way as an acre of stone fences." more talk ensued--eager, future plannings. those two young men, very unlike in many respects, yet assimilated on a few strong points. theodore had constantly kept a hold on his early friend--at first because of the dear old mother, and finally because his stronger nature drawing out and in a measure toning jim's, the two had grown less apart than seemed at first probable. it wanted but twenty minutes to eight when the young men left the room where important business not only for time, but, as it came to pass, for eternity, had been settled, and hurried, the one to the euclid house, and the other around the corner toward the great dry-goods house on the main business street. he stopped first though at the cozy little white house, moved with eager steps up the walk, flung open the side door, and spoke in tones full of suppressed excitement to the old lady, who was nodding over her large print testament, jim's birthday gift. "grandma, i have a present for you." and a crisp paper was produced and laid on the page of the open bible. a glance showed it to be a temperance pledge--another look, a start, a filling of the dim old eyes with tears as the beloved name, james h. mcpherson, swam before her vision, and true to her faith her loving voice gave utterance to her full heart: "'while they are yet speaking i will hear.' i was just speaking to him again, don't you think, about that very thing. oh the lord bless him and help him. now, deary, we won't be content with this, will we?" theodore shook his head emphatically. "he must come over _entirely_ to the lord's side," he said, smiling, "now that he has come half way." the city clock was giving the last stroke of eight as theodore was ushered into the private office of mr. stephens. that gentleman arose to greet him with a smile of satisfaction, and then ensued another business talk, and the drift of it can be drawn from these concluding sentences: "well, sir," from mr. stephens to theodore, as the latter arose to go, "how soon may i expect you? how long is it going to take you to get your business in shape to leave? we need help as soon as possible." "i will be on hand to-morrow morning, sir." "what! ready for work? how is it possible that you have dispatched matters so rapidly?" "why," said theodore, "from two o'clock until eight gives one six good hours in which to dispatch business." and mr. stephens, as they went down the great store together, smiled again and said to himself: "i don't believe i have mistaken my man." [illustration] chapter xvii. translations. there was an evening party at the house of the rev. john birge. not one of those grand crushes, where every body is cross and warm and uncomfortable generally, but a cozy little gathering of young ladies and gentlemen, people whom the minister desired to see come into more social contact with each other. among the number was miss dora hastings. dora still continued to come to sunday-school, although she had arrived at that mysterious age when young ladies are apt to be too old for anything reasonable; but dora, for some unaccountable reason, so at least her mother thought, clung to her little girl habits, and went to sunday-school; so she chanced to be numbered among the guests at mr. birge's party. pliny was also invited but had chosen not to come, so ben phillips had supplied his place as escort, and stood now chatting with her when a new arrival was announced. mrs. birge came to the end of the room where dora stood, and with her a young gentleman. "dora," she said, "permit me to introduce a young friend of mine--mr. mallery, miss hastings." now it so happened that although theodore had been for years a member of the same sabbath-school with this young lady, and had seen her sitting in the hastings' pew in church on every sabbath day, still this was the first time that he had met her face to face, near enough to speak to her, since that evening so long ago when they conversed together on a momentous subject. theodore's knowledge of the world and social distinctions had increased sufficiently to make him extremely doubtful concerning the young lady's reception, but dora was cordial and frank, and said, "good evening, mr. mallery," as she would have greeted any stranger, and set him at once at his ease. ben phillips good-naturedly held out his hand, and said, "how d'ye do, tode?" and made room for him to enter the circle. it was a curious evening to the young man, the first in that mysterious place called "society." probably the young ladies and gentlemen fluttering through the rooms had not the faintest idea how closely they were being watched and studied by one pair of earnest eyes. theodore's ambition for a yellow cravat had long since given place to more important things--given place so utterly that the subject of dress had been almost entirely passed over. before this evening waned he was thoroughly conscious of his position. he discovered that his clothes were oddly fitted and oddly made; that his boots were rough and coarse; that his hands were gloveless; that even his hair was as curiously arranged as possible. he discovered more than this--to many of the gay company he was evidently a laughing-stock; a few of the more reckless ones deliberately and openly made sport of him. ben phillips, who had been cordial enough at first, found himself on the unpopular side, and ignored the almost stranger for the remainder of the evening. in vain did mr. birge try quietly to bring him inside the circle. those of his guests who were too cultured to make merry at the expense of this foreign element which had come among them, yet seemed not to have sufficient courage to welcome him to their midst; those with whom he sat down frequently at the table of their common lord seemed neither to know nor to desire to know him here; and mr. birge's effort to assimilate the different elements of his congregation seemed likely to prove a disastrous failure. a merry company were gathered around dora hastings. she held a book in her hand, and was struggling with the translation of a sentiment written therein in french, and judging from the bursts of laughter echoing from the group the attempt was either a real or pretended failure. theodore stood at a little distance from them, perfectly able to hear what was said, yet as utterly alone as he would have been out in the silent street. "what terrible stuff she is reading," he said to himself. "i wonder if she really _can not_ read it, or if she has any idea of what it is." as if to answer his wondering, dora turned suddenly toward him. "we'll appeal for help," she said, gaily. "mr. mallery, do come to the rescue. my french is defective or the translation is incorrect, probably the latter." another burst of laughter followed this appeal; but theodore, taking a sudden resolution, stepped promptly forward. "i conclude," he said, glancing at the book, and then looking steadily around him, "that you really do not take in the meaning of this sentence, any of you?" "i am sure i do not," answered dora, gaily. "it is about 'everlasting eyes,' i think, or some such nonsense; but what little i once knew about french, and little enough it was, i assure you, has utterly gone from me, so have compassion on our ignorance if you can." without further comment theodore, with quiet dignity, read the sentence: "the eyes of the lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the good." as he finished his eye caught dora's; her face was flushed and eager. "you are right," she said, promptly. "we none of us understood the sentence, or we could never have indulged in foolish jesting over so solemn a truth." ben phillips gave vent to his astonishment in words: "tode, how on earth did you learn french?" dora laughed lightly. "he studied, i presume," she said, merrily. "and that you know is what _you_ never would do, ben. mr. mallery, suppose you come and decipher for me the motto underneath the french scene in the further parlor." and taking tode's offered arm the daughter of the millionaire moved down the long parlor by his side. mr. birge, coming at that moment from the dining-room, passed the two, then turning back sought his wife to say: "the experiment has succeeded. theodore is promenading with dora hastings." "the _splendid_ girl!" said mrs. birge, energetically. "i knew she would." meantime theodore had resolved on a bold stroke for the master. "do you remember anything connected with that verse, miss hastings?" he asked, as the two entered the almost deserted back parlor. "indeed i do," dora answered, eagerly. "i never forgot it, and your earnest questions about it, and i could tell you so little." "i found out a great deal about it, though, taking the information that you gave me for a starting point, and i have reason to thank god that you ever showed me your little card. but do you know anything more of the matter now, experimentally i mean?" dora's voice trembled a little as she answered: "i think--i--sometimes i hope i do. i am trying to learn a little, stumbling along slowly, with oh _so_ many drawbacks; and do you know i think my interest in these things dates back to that stormy evening in prayer-meeting, when you asked me such queer questions? at least i thought them queer then." no more standing aloof during that evening for theodore mallery. it mattered little how his clothes were cut or of what material they were made; so long as dora hastings walked through the rooms and chatted familiarly with him, not a girl present but stood ready to follow her example. later in the evening dora said to him, hesitatingly and almost timidly: "mr. mallery, i don't like you to think that i was making sport of that bible verse. i truly know almost nothing about french, and i didn't take, the sense of it in the least until you read it." there was another thing that the young man was very anxious to know, and that was whether her motive was mischief or kind intent when she called on him; and like the straightforward individual that he was, he asked her: "what possessed you to suppose i could read it?" "oh," said dora, innocently, "i knew you were a french scholar, because mr. birge told me so." someway it was an immense satisfaction to theodore to know that dora's intention had not been to make light of his supposed ignorance. as he went home in the moonlight he laughed a little, and indulged himself in his old habit of soliloquizing. "it's just the matter of fine boots and gloves, and a few things of that sort. i did decide once this evening to push the thing through, and make my way up in spite of gloves and boots and broadcloth, and i would now but for one thing. in fact i _have_; we braved it through together. that one girl is worth all the rest of them, and she came to the rescue fairly and squarely. if she had failed me i would have showed the whole of them a few things, but she didn't, and there's no occasion for making it such a martyrdom for any of them hereafter. on the whole, i believe i'll manage to get dear old grandma mcpherson other work besides tailoring after this. there is no earthly reason why i shouldn't dress as respectable as any body. i don't know but i owe it to mr. stephens to do so. yes, sir, i've changed my mind--boots and broadcloth shall be my servants hereafter." keeping in mind this new resolution, theodore secured the first leisure moment, and inquired of mr. stephens what route to take. "going to have a new suit of clothes?" questioned that gentleman in a tone of polite indifference, not at all as though he had watched and waited for the development of that very idea. "well, let me see. i think barnes & houghton will serve you quite as well as any. they are on--wait, i will give you their address." the hour which theodore had chosen was not a fashionable one at the great establishment of barnes & houghton, and he found some half dozen clerks lounging about, with no more important occupation than to coax some fun out of any material which chanced to fall in their way. "i want to look at some business suits," began theodore, addressing the foremost of them, with a slight touch of hesitancy and embarrassment. it was new business to him. "then i'd advise you to look at them by all means; always do as you want to when you can as well as not, my boy," was the answer which he received, spoken in a tone of good-humored insolence, and not a clerk moved. "would you like a white vest pattern, or perhaps you would prefer velvet?" queried a foppish little fellow. and theodore, who was sharper at that style of talk than any of them, and was rapidly losing his embarrassment, replied in a tone of great good humor: "i never pick out my goods until i see them; but then perhaps the vest you have on is for sale? are you the show-block?" this question, put with great apparent innocence, produced a peal of laughter, for the vest in question was rather too stylish to be in keeping with the wearer's surroundings and business. an older clerk now interposed. "show him something, charlie--that's a good fellow." "can't," said charlie, from his seat on the counter, "i'm too busy; besides i don't believe we could suit him. we haven't anything in the style his clothes are cut. there's a man right around the corner whose father made coats for noah's grandsons; hadn't you better go to him?" "i say," put in he of the stylish vest, "can't you call in some other time, when business isn't quite so pressing? you see we're just about driven to death this morning." just how far this style of treatment would have been carried, or just how long theodore would have borne it, can not be known, for with the conclusion of the last sentence every clerk came suddenly to a standing posture, and two of them advanced courteously to meet a new-comer, at the same moment that a gentleman with iron gray hair, and whom theodore took to be one of the proprietors, emerged from a private office, and came forward on the same errand, and the young man nearly laughed outright when he recognized in the new-comer mr. stephens. the two gentlemen were shaking hands. "glad to see you again, mr. stephens," said he of the iron gray hair. "how can we serve you this morning?" "nothing for me personally, thank you." and then mr. stephens turned to theodore. "do you find what you wish, mallery? mr. houghton, let me make you acquainted with this young friend of mine--mr. mallery, mr. houghton. this young man, mr. houghton, is one of my confidential clerks, a very highly valued one, and any kindness that you can show him will be esteemed as a personal favor to me." mr. houghton bowed his iron gray head very low. "very happy to have mr. mallery's patronage; trusted they could suit him. had he looked at goods? what should they have the pleasure of showing him this morning? cummings, show mr. mallery into the other room, and serve him to the best of your ability." and what shall be said of the half dozen clerks? amazement, confusion and consternation were each and all vividly depicted on their faces. mr. stephens' clerk! a highly valued clerk! mr. stephens, of all men in the city, the last to be offended! disgrace and dismissal stared them in the face. for a little minute theodore was tempted--half a dozen dignified words now, and he understood mr. stephens' position well enough to know that these same clerks would not be likely to offend in the same place again. one little moment, the next he turned on his heel and followed cummings, the aforesaid charlie, whose face was blazing, into the next room. a word, though, of private exhortation could not be amiss. "you blundered, you see, this time," he said to cummings, still good-naturedly. "wouldn't it be well not to judge a fellow _always_ by the cut of his coat?" "you're a brick!" burst forth the amazed cummings. "i expected to be blown higher than a kite, and get my walking ticket besides. you're the best-natured fellow i ever saw." "you're mistaken again, my friend. i lost my good nature almost entirely, and came within a word of telling the whole story; only one little thing hindered me." "what was it?" "why i was reading in a very old book, just before i came out this morning, and one sentence read: 'whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them,' and i thought to try it." "humph!" said cummings. but no descendant of the royal line could have been served more royally than was our friend mallery at that house, by that young man, then and thereafter. chapter xviii. "wine is a mocker." theodore, or "mallery," which was the name grown most familiar to him, was rushing down town belated and in haste. the business which had called him out had taken longer than the time which had been assigned to it, and in consequence the next appointment was likely to suffer. at the corner he paused and considered. "let me see--if i go down this block, and up the track to the next corner, i shall save--one, two, three, four blocks. yes, it will pay; i'll do it." on he went, struck the track presently, and moved rapidly along the iron walk. an unusual sight suddenly presented itself to his eyes, that of a carriage and two powerful horses coming around the curve, and making a carriage drive of the railway track. it took but a moment of time to discover three things, viz: that it was the hastings' carriage, that the coachman was beyond a doubt too much intoxicated to know what he was about, and that the buffalo express was due at the distant depot in just two minutes, and must pass over the very track on which that carriage was trundling along. the perspiration came and stood in beads on the young man's pale face; but there was time for no other show of emotion--he must think and work rapidly if at all. "could he possibly get those horses across to the other track in time?" no, for there was a perfect network of tracks just here, no place for a carriage at all, and a puffing engine directly ahead, liable to start at any instant, and ready to frighten the horses, who would probably rear, plunge, back, do _anything_ but what he wished of them. there was a wretched gully on this side and a fence, but the fence was low, and the gully wide enough to receive the carriage if it could be forced down the embankment. during this planning mallery was running with all speed toward the carriage, and then the depot bell began to ring, and the roar and puff of the coming train could be distinctly heard. the horses began to plunge, and make ready to break into a fierce run right into the jaws of the coming monster, when a firm hand grasped their bridles. jonas had just sense enough left to try to resist this proceeding, and mallery saw, with a throb of thankfulness, the whip drop from his unsteady hand, thus preventing the horses from being lashed into greater fury; then he applied all the strength of his arms and his knowledge of horses to the dangerous experiment of backing them down into the gully. they snorted and plunged, and were bent on going forward, and were steadily, and as it seemed with super-human strength, forced backward; and as the carriage crashed down the hill the very rearing of the horses drew theodore's feet from the outer rail, and the train came thundering by. and now the affrighted horses seemed more than ever bent on rushing forward to destruction, while the long train shot onward. mallery, while he battled with them, became conscious that from the raised window of the carriage a young face, deathly in pallor, was bent forward watching the conflict, and he renewed the determination to save that life thus resting, so far as human help was concerned, in his hands. jonas had dropped the reins, and sat aghast, and sobered with terror. now the long train had vanished, the puffing engine on the other track had gathered up its forces and followed after, and theodore, by a dint of coaxing, soothing and commanding the terror-stricken animals, had succeeded in subduing them in part, and guiding the carriage up the bank and quite across the network of tracks; then gathering the reins in his hand he came to the carriage window and spoke, using in his excitement the name familiar to him in the days when she had given him his first lessons in writing. "there is no cause for further alarm, dora. i will see that you reach home in safety." not one word to him did dora utter; but she clasped her trembling hands, and said with white lips: "thank god." and the young man added reverently and meaningly: "amen." then he sprang to the driver's seat, and uttered two short firm words to the cowed and sober driver. "get down!" never was a command more promptly obeyed. there were five minutes yet before the next train would be due, time enough to make his way carefully along the uncertain road built only for iron horses; but the peril had been too recent for the young man not to make eager haste, nor did he draw a long full breath of relief until the last hated rail had been crossed and the corner turned on the broad smooth avenue. it was a nervous sort of a drive even then, for the horses had a torrent of pent-up strength, and had not so entirely recovered from their terror but that they were listening to every sound, looking right and left for suspicious objects, and apparently on the _qui vive_ for an excuse for running away. how theodore blessed rick, and the livery stable, and the man who fifty years before had taken for his motto: "learn everything you possibly can about everything that can be learned," as with skillful hand he guided the fidgety span carefully and safely through the maze of cart and carriage and omnibus wheels that lined the streets. and even then and there he laughed a half-nervous, half-amused laugh, as he passed the euclid house, and saw one of the waiters looking out at him from a dining-room window; at the thought that that first burning ambition of his life was at last gratified, and he was actually occupying the coveted position of driver for the hastings' carriage. the contrasts which his life presented again struck him oddly, a few moments after, when mr. hall, waiting to cross the street, recognized and touched his hat to him, with a wondering, curious glance. mr. hall was an elder in their church and superintendent of their sabbath-school, and theodore had himself cashed a draft for him in mr. stephens' private office not two hours before. he laughed a little now at the thought of mr. hall's bewilderment over his sudden change of business; and then presently laughed again at the thought that there should be anything incongruous in his, tode mall that was, turning coachman. at last the carriage turned into the beautiful elm-lined carriage drive that led to the hastings' mansion, and drew up presently with a skillful flourish at the side door. the same john for whom theodore used occasionally to run of errands for two cents a trip came forward, and stared furiously as the young man threw him the reins and opened the carriage door. dora's composure had lost itself in a fit of trembling, and her teeth chattered so that she could not speak as he led her up the broad flight of steps. they were all in the hall--mr. hastings, hat in hand, just departing for the stables; mrs. hastings, in a state of transit from dining-room to drawing-room; and pliny lounging on a sofa, his head done up in wet bandages. he sprang to his feet, however, when theodore advanced still supporting his companion, and questioned eagerly: "what the dickens is to pay?" that gentleman chose to make things more comfortable before he answered. he unceremoniously appropriated sofa and cushions for the almost fainting girl, and said, peremptorily: "bring a glass of water. mr. hastings, that fan if you please. don't be alarmed, mrs. hastings, she will be all right in a few moments." then there was no resisting the storm of questions that followed, and he told the story as briefly as possible, only trying to impress one thought, that liquor was at the bottom of what had so nearly been a tragedy. dora revived sufficiently to impress the fact that but for _him_ she would not have been there to speak; and mr. hastings, in his excitement and exasperation against poor jonas, whose quarter paid for the liquor which had almost brought death into their home, and would help to swell mr. hastings' own cash account on this saturday evening, recognized in this deliverer of his child poor, ignorant, degraded tode mall, and forgot the lapse of time and possible changes of position, and seeking to do him honor, and do a safe thing for his family at the same time, spoke hurriedly: "where is that villain of a coachman? i'll discharge him this very hour. you must be a good driver, tode, or you never could have got here alive with _those_ horses after such a time. don't you want the position of coachman?" "papa," said dora, sitting erect, and with scarlet cheeks, "mr. mallery is mr. s. s. stephens' confidential clerk!" then the great man turned and looked on his ex-waiter at the euclid house--the erect, well-built, well-dressed young man, standing hat in hand, with a curious blending of dignity and amusement on his face, and actually stammered, and muttered something about "not noticing, not thinking, not meaning, and everlasting obligations," in the midst of which the ex-coachman glanced at his watch, noticed the lateness of the hour in some dismay, signaled from the window a passing car, and hurriedly made his escape. this lengthy and unexpected interruption made a grievous tangle in his day's work. arrived at the store he flew about in eager haste, and then rushed with more than usual speed to the bank. just five minutes too late; the last shutter was being closed as he reached the steps. "the first failure!" he said to himself in a disappointed tone. "but it can hardly be said to be my fault this time." his next engagement was an appointment to dine with mr. stephens at four o'clock, and with that, too, he was a little behind time. "well, sir," said mr. stephens, meeting him in the hall, "as sure as i'm alive you are five minutes behind time! i begin to be encouraged. it seems that you _are_ a compound of flesh and blood after all." theodore smiled faintly; his peril was too recent for him to have regained his usual demeanor. "here is your mail," he said, passing over a handful of letters and papers. "by being ten minutes late i was enabled to get the latest news, and i see there is a lyons letter among them." "ah," said mr. stephens, "that is fortunate for lyons. suppose we step into the library, mallery, and see what they say for themselves." so the two passed into the business room and ran over the contents of the letter in question, as well as several others, conversing together in a manner which showed that the younger man had a marked knowledge of the other's business affairs, and that his opinions were listened to as if they carried weight with them. "but the mail was not what detained me," said theodore, presently. "and mr. stephens, i was too late for the bank." "well, it will do to-morrow, will it not?" queried the elder gentleman, composedly. "oh yes, sir, it will _do_; but then you know it is not the way in which we do business." mr. stephens laughed. "i used to consider myself the most prompt and particular man living," he said, gaily; "but i believe you are going to make one several notches above me. i am really curious to know what has thrown you out of your orbit this afternoon." theodore's face flushed. "i have been permitted to prevent a murder this afternoon, even after a father had furnished the weapons for his daughter's destruction," he said, speaking sharply. he was very savage on that question of intemperance. "horrible!" said mr. stephens, looking aghast. "mallery, what _do_ you mean?" and then followed a recital of the afternoon's adventures. had theodore mallery been the hero of a first-class novel he would have remained modestly and obstinately silent about a matter in which he had taken so prominent a part, but being very like a flesh and blood young man, it did not occur to him to hesitate or stammer--in fact he thought he had succeeded in doing a good brave deed, and he was very glad and thankful. presently they left the library and went toward the parlor. "do you know i have another guest to-day?" asked mr. stephens, as they went down the hall together. "a mr. ryan, a lawyer. i think you are not acquainted with him." "ryan!" said theodore, looking puzzled and racking his memory. "the name sounds familiar, but--oh!" and then he laughed, "edgar ryan?" "the same. do you know him?" "why, yes, sir. i used to know him very well; served him every day at the euclid house." "did you indeed! well, i know very little about him, save that his father was a good friend to me once." when mr. stephens presented his confidential clerk to mr. ryan there was a start, a look of bewilderment and confused recollection, accompanied by a sudden roguish twinkle of recognition, and then the polished lawyer became oblivious to the existence of "tode mall," and "habakkuk," and "bottles," and greeted "mr. mallery" in a manner that became a guest of mr. stephens, toward mr. stephens' honored clerk. then they all went out to dinner. and the dinner progressed finely until the coffee and dessert were served, and mr. stephens had dismissed the waiters and prepared for a half-way business talk; then suddenly his clerk gave a quick nervous push from him of the plate on which quivered a tiny mound of jelly, its symmetry destroyed by just one mouthful, and the crimson blood rolled to his very forehead. his confusion was too apparent and continued to admit of being overlooked, and mr. stephens asked, with a mixture of curiosity and anxiety: "what is the trouble, mallery?" "mr. stephens," said theodore, earnestly with just a little tremble of pain in his voice, "you have made me disregard for the first time in my life the only prayer that my mother ever prayed for me." mr. stephens, who knew the story of his life, looked bewildered and troubled, and said gently; "i don't understand, theodore;" while mr. ryan's eyes had the roguish twinkle in them again, because he did understand. theodore silently inclined his head toward the rejected plate. "oh," said mr. stephens, looking relieved, "do you object to the wine jelly? why, my dear boy, isn't that almost straining a point? i don't understand the art of interfering with cookery." "this is an excellent opportunity for me," began mr. ryan. "i've been wishing enlightenment for a long time on an abstruse question connected with the temperance theory. mr. mallery, you are a stanch upholder of the cause, i believe. may i question you?" theodore had regained his composure, and was quietly sipping his coffee. "you may, sir, certainly," he said, playfully. "i believe nothing is easier than to ask questions. whether i can answer them or not is, of course, another matter." mr. ryan laughed. "but you used to be, or that is--well, something leads me to think that you are one of the bible temperance men. are you not?" theodore fixed a pair of full, earnest, unashamed eyes on the questioner's face before he said: "yes, sir, i entirely agree with habakkuk on that subject to-day as in the past." "well then," said mr. ryan, dashing into the subject, "i'm in need of enlightenment. isn't there a story in the bible about a certain wedding, at which our savior countenanced the use of wine not only by his presence, but by actually furnishing the wine itself by his own miraculous power?" "there _is_ such a story," said theodore, continuing to quietly sip his coffee. "well, how do you account for it?" "i suppose, sir, you know how great and good men account for it?" questioned theodore. "oh yes, i know the story by heart, about two kinds of wine--one intoxicating, the other _not_, and that this wine at the marriage feast was of the non-intoxicating sort; but that at best is only supposition, not argument. i have as good a right to suppose it _was_ intoxicating as you have to suppose it was not." "have you?" said theodore, with elevated eyebrows. "in that we should differ." "then that is the very point upon which i need enlightenment," answered mr. ryan, with a good-humored laugh. "won't you please proceed?" "i presume you grant, sir, that it is not superstition but _certainty_ that there _were_ two kinds of wine in those days," said theodore. "oh yes. i'll accept that as fact." "well, then, as i am not a greek nor hebrew scholar, and i understand that you are, i will simply remind you of the very satisfactory and generally accepted statements of learned men concerning the two words used in those languages to express two distinct kinds of liquid, which words were not, i am told, used interchangeably. then i should like to pass at once to simpler, and, for unlearned people like myself, more practical arguments. do you lawyers allow your authors to interpret themselves, sir?" "certainly." "which is precisely what we do with the bible. in a sense, the same jesus who made wine of water at the marriage feast, is the author of the bible, and if he is divine there must be no discrepancy in its pages. now i find that this same bible says, 'wine is a mocker,' 'look not upon the wine when it is red,' 'woe to him that giveth his neighbor drink,' and a long array of similar and more emphatic expressions. now how am i to avoid thinking either that jesus of nazareth was a mere man, and a very inconsistent one at that, or else that the wine at the marriage supper was _not_ the wine with which we are acquainted, and which we will not use at all until 'it giveth its color in the cup and moveth itself aright?'" mr. ryan laughed still good-humoredly, and said: "have you committed to memory the entire bible as well as habakkuk, mallery? but i can quote scripture, too. doesn't your bible read, 'give wine to those that be of heavy hearts?'" "yes, sir; and, according to our translation, the same article is used as a symbol of god's wrath: 'for thus saith the lord god of israel, take the wine cup of this fury at my hand.' does that look probable or reasonable? it talks, moreover, about 'wine that maketh glad the heart of man,' and i leave it to your judgment whether we know anything about any such wine as that?" "but, mallery," interposed mr. stephens, "i want to question you now myself. i am a genuine temperance man i have always supposed. i accord with everything that you have said on the subject, and still i don't believe i see the connection between wine drinking and using the article as a condiment, or in my cakes and jellies." "well, sir," said theodore, turning toward him brightly, "the same bible reads: 'if meat maketh my brother to offend, i will eat no more meat while the world stands;' and if we are to interpret the bible according to its spirit, why doesn't it read with equal plainness; 'if wine maketh my brother to offend--'" "but you surely do not think that an appetite for wine drinking can be cultivated from an innocent jelly?" theodore looked in grave surprise at his questioner as he said: "that remark proves, sir, that you were not brought up in the atmosphere which surrounded my younger days, and also that you were never one of the waiters at the euclid house; but that it takes much less than that to cultivate, or worse, to arouse an already cultivated appetite, i believe all trustworthy statements that have ever been made on the subject will bear me witness. mr. ryan, if you were a reformed drunkard, seated at this table, would you dare to eat that wine jelly?" mr. ryan spoke dryly, laconically, but distinctly: "no." theodore turned to mr. stephens again. "'and the second is like unto it,'" he said, speaking low and gently. "'thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.'" "but my neighbor isn't here," answered mr. stephens, playfully. "at least not the reformed drunkard of whom you speak; if he were i would be careful." "but if you meet him on the street to-night," answered theodore, in the same manner, "don't, i beg of you, say anything to him about his evil habits, because he may ask you if you neither touch, taste nor handle the accursed stuff; and while you are trying to stammer out some excuse for your condiments, he might suggest to you that you use the poison in your way and he uses it in his, and there is many a brain that can not see the difference between the two; in which case it seems to me to become the old story, 'if meat maketh my brother to offend.'" mr. stephens laughed. "he ought to have been a lawyer instead of a merchant. don't you think so, ryan?" he asked, glancing admiringly at the flushed young face. "i told him so several years ago," said mr. ryan. theodore was roused and excited; he could not let the subject drop. "i can conceive of another reason why a good man should not harbor such serpents in disguise," he said, in the pleasant, half-playful tone which the conversation had latterly assumed. "let us have it by all means," answered mr. stephens. "i am court-martialed, i perceive and may as well have all the shots at once." "why, sir, what possible right can you have to beguile an innocent youth like myself to your table, and tempt his unsuspecting ignorance with a quivering bit of jelly which, had he known its ingredients, such are his principles and his resolves, and i may add such is his horror of the fiend, that he would almost rather have had his tongue plucked out by the roots than to have touched it?" the sentence, began playfully, was finished in terrible earnestness, with trembling voice and quivering lip. there was no concealing the fact that this subject in all its details was a solemn one to him. mr. stephens watched for a moment the flushed earnest face. this man without wife or children, without home other than his wealth and his housekeeper furnished him, was fast taking his confidential clerk into his inner heart. he looked at him a moment, then glanced down at the table. mr. ryan's dish of jelly and his own still remained untouched. he spoke impulsively: "ryan, are you partial to that ill-fated dish beside you?" "not at all," answered that gentleman, laughingly. "i have conceived quite a horror for the quivering, suspicious-looking lump." then mr. stephens' hand was on the bell. "thompson," he said to the servant who answered his summons, "you may remove the jellies." and the brisk waiter looked startled and confused as he proceeded to obey the order. "they are all right," explained mr. stephens, kindly, "only we have decided to dispense with them." and as the door closed upon the retreating servant the host added, turning to theodore: "i will dispense with them as regards my table from this time forth. this is my concession to your beloved cause." such a bright glad look of thanks and admiration and love as his young clerk bestowed upon him in answer to this mr. stephens never forgot. chapter xix. the "three people" meet again. it is not to be supposed, because nothing has been said of intervening days, that the events recorded in the last two chapters followed each other in quick succession. in reality, when theodore mallery bought his first suit of ready-made clothing he had been but a very short time in his new place of business, but when the perilous railroad carriage drive was taken with the hastings' carriage he had been mr. stephens' confidential clerk for three years, and was as much trusted and as promptly obeyed as was mr. stephens himself. he allowed a reasonable length of time to elapse after that momentous drive, and then one evening availed himself of dora hastings' cordial invitation to call. this was an attempt which he had never made before. although he had gone somewhat into society since that memorable first evening at his pastor's house, yet the society in which he had grown most familiar, namely: that connected with his beloved church and sabbath-school, was not the society in which miss hastings more generally mingled. this and her frequent and prolonged absences from the city, combined, perhaps, with other and minor causes, were the reasons why they had not again met socially; and, beyond an occasional bow as they passed each other in the church aisle, they had been as strangers to each other; this until the dangerous ride taken together. then, as i said, after a little theodore rang at the hastings' mansion, had a peep of dora sitting at the window, a peep of mr. hastings composedly pacing the length of the room, and after waiting what seemed to him an unreasonably long time for answer to his card, was courteously informed that the family were "not at home!" this was the great man's gratitude for the preservation of his daughter's life! he _was_ grateful--was willing to make the young man his coachman, and to pay him in money; but he was not willing to receive him in his parlor on an equal social footing, for who knew better than he from what depths of poverty and degradation the young upstart had sprung! theodore did not look very grave; he even laughed as he turned and ran lightly down the granite steps; and he was pleased but not surprised when a few days thereafter he met dora on the square, and she stopped and frankly and distinctly disclaimed any complicity in her father's uncourteous act, or sympathy with his feelings. and there once more the matter dropped. on this evening, four weeks after the call, theodore was walking rather rapidly toward his home; he had been spending the evening with jim mcpherson; the old stand had been enlarged and beautified, until now it was a very marvel of taste and elegance. jim had evidently found his level or his hight. theodore still retained his interest in the business, and guided it skillfully by a word of advice now and then. this evening of which i speak had been an eventful one. after a running commentary on the business in general, and the business of that day in particular, the talk had turned into another channel, and went on after this fashion: "do you know you are a kind of a standing marvel to me?" theodore questioned. "no," answered jim, laughing. "hadn't an idea of such a thing. i knew that you had been a _walking_ marvel to me ever since i first laid eyes on you at the euclid house; but i thought _i_ was a commonplace kind of an individual who astonished nobody. enlighten me." "why," said theodore, "you're such a square out-and-out honorable business man; as particular to be honest in trifles as in greater sums; as careful to render just exactly every man his due as it is possible to be." "and that surprises you, does it? much obliged." and jim spoke in a laughing tone, but with a bright flush on his face. "no, the marvel doesn't come in there," his companion had returned with gravity; "but in the fact that one so particular with his fellow-man should ignore or forget the obligations under which he is bound to render account for every day's work in the sight of god." "how do you know that i do forget?" "because i know you to be _so_ honest and honorable, that if you gave this matter thought and weight, its reasonableness would so press itself upon you that you would not even _try_ to shake it off." "how do you know that i _do_ try?" "my dear friend," said theodore, tenderly, "how can i help knowing when i know so well the love of christ for you, his yearning over you, and the fact that your mother's prayers are constantly going up for you, and yet that you still slight such love?" "but how do you know that last to be a fact?" "my dear jim, if you were not you would be a praying man, a christian." "and i still ask, how do you know that i am not? is my life so at variance with the principles of the gospel that you can not doubt it?" theodore turned eager, searching eyes upon his friend's face, and questioned tremulously: "_are_ you a praying man, jim?" "i do hope and trust that i am." the reply came in firm, clear tones, with a sort of undertone of solemn triumph in them; and theodore rose suddenly, and going around to his side clasped hands with him in token of a new bond of fellowship, and his voice was husky as he said: "my dear brother, forgive me for taking for granted that your position on this subject was unchanged because you did not choose to tell me so; but why did you not? oh, if i _could_ tell you how i have longed and prayed for this." "i know it," said jim, holding the proffered hand in a hearty grasp. "i have been wrong in that respect; but i felt so weak, so doubtful at times, so afraid of making blunders, that i thought it best to keep quiet, and if my life could not speak for me then it would be because there was nothing to speak. but i was at prayer-meeting last evening; sat over in the seat by the door. i heard what you said, and i came to the conclusion that the lord had lighted my candle for me, and that i had hidden it away under a bushel as if i were ashamed of it; and i have been planning all day how to bring it out from the shadow and have it shine." you may imagine that the rest of that evening was blessed to those two young men. those of you who by experience know any thing about it will understand how theodore believed that he could never hear words more blessed than those which jim spoke to him as they shook hands for good-night. "least of all, my dear fellow, should i have hid the story from you, for from the first to the last you have been the means, under god, of my finding him; and, mallery, one of the longest strides i ever took toward the 'strait gate' was that evening when you almost _made_ me sign the pledge. oh, we have a new name to our roll. did i tell you? mr. ryan." "not the lawyer?" "yes, the lawyer. boards at the euclid house, you know; signed at our last meeting. _you_ had something to do with that, hadn't you? he said something to me in that queer way he has about meeting habakkuk not long ago, and finding that he had added the whole bible to his bottle argument." and so it was that theodore did not go yet after all, but sat down again to discuss this new delight. and thus it came to pass that he was walking rapidly down town at rather a late hour, and overtook two persons who were stumbling and muttering along the now nearly deserted street. "poor wretches," he said to himself; "poor miserable wretches! i wonder whether the rum-hole that sent them out in this condition was gilded and glittering, or was a veritable cellar stripped of its disguise? this is what i used to fear for jim, the splendid fellow! i never half did him justice. what a boy, though, not to tell his mother. i wonder who the dear old saint will take up for her 'most special subject' now? jim and rick both gathered in. it will be winny with twofold earnestness now, i presume. oh, the mansions are filling up, and i thank god that he is letting me help to fill them. but who will i take now?" "le me lone," interrupted one of the poor drunkards, giving his companion a vigorous push, "i can walk without your help, i guess; pity if i couldn't!" "suppose," continued theodore to his inner self; "suppose i should take that poor fellow who is leaning against the post? god's mercy is great enough for him. i want somebody to bring as a thank-offering for jim and rick--yes, and for mr. ryan, too. i believe i'll choose him. i'll find out who he is, and follow him up, with the lord's help, until he chooses one of the many mansions for himself. how shall i go to work to discover who he is and where he belongs? i really doubt his knowledge of either subject just at present." then the man embracing the post spoke for the first time. "what you s'pose ails this confounded lamp-post? won't stand still; whirls round like a wind-mill or a church-steeple, or suthin. b'lieve it's drunk, sure's you live." something in the manner, in the tones, thick and foolish and unnatural though they were, brought theodore to a full stop before the poor fellow, and caused him to look eagerly in the upturned face, while the blood surged violently through his veins. "drunk!" returned the less intoxicated companion, contemptuously. "you're drunk yourself, that's what's the matter. you better come on now and let that lamp-post stay where it is. i ain't going to drag you both home, i reckon." meantime theodore laid a firm steady hand on the arm of the drunken man, and spoke in a low quiet tone, "pliny," for he had too surely recognized the voice, and knew now beyond the shadow of a doubt that the "poor wretch" in question was pliny hastings, and that his drunken companion was the old friend of his boyhood, ben. phillips. so these three, whose lives had commenced on the same day of time, had crossed each other's paths once more. with very little effort he persuaded the poor bewildered fellow to desert his whirling post, and a carriage returning empty from the midnight train came at his call, and the three were promptly seated therein, and the order given by theodore, no.--euclid avenue. a strange ride it was for him. his companions sang and yelled and quarreled by turns, until at last the sleepy stage came upon them, and this but for one thing was a relief. it had been no part of his plan to be seen by any dweller in the hastings' mansion that night; but if this man was to be an utterly helpless log how could he help it? however, he comforted himself with the thought that a servant was probably in waiting, and that they could get him quickly and quietly to his room. so when the carriage rolled up the avenue and halted before the door, he sprang out, and once more rang the bell and awaited admittance to hastings' hall. he had not long to wait; he heard the night-latch click sharply, and a moment thereafter the door swung open, and he confronted not a servant but dora, looking nearly as white and quite as grave as she had on the day of the ride. "dora!" he said, in his surprise and alarm. "why, is it you? where is your father?" "papa is in his room. is it pliny, mr. mallery?" "yes," said theodore, gently. "don't be alarmed, miss hastings, he is not injured; he--it is--" dora interrupted him. "i understand but too well, mr. mallery. is he unconscious--asleep, or what?" "asleep," answered theodore, briefly, feeling that words were worse than useless. "then could you--could we _possibly_ get him to his room without the knowledge of any one? if we _only could_." "we will try," the brief reply breathing sympathy and pity in every tone. "have you a servant whom you can trust?" dora shook her head in distress. "there isn't a servant up but john, and papa rang for him not five minutes ago." "never mind then--i know the driver; he is trustworthy. be prepared to show us the way to his room, miss hastings." swift and quiet were their movements. the driver, one of the wisest of his set, seemed to comprehend the situation by instinct, and trod the halls and stairs as though his feet had been shod in velvet. he was a strong man, too, and between them they carried the slight effeminate form with ease and laid him upon the elegant bed in his elegant room, he still sleeping the heavy drunken sleep which dora had learned to know so well. she stood now in the hall with compressed lips and one hand pressing the throbbing veins in her forehead, waiting while theodore turned down and shaded the gas, and arranged the sleeper's head in a more comfortable position on the pillow. he had with a brief low-spoken sentence dismissed his helper the moment they had deposited their burden on the bed. presently he came out into the hall, and closing the door behind him followed dora lightly and swiftly down the stairs. not a word passed between them until he stood with his hand on the night-latch; then he said: "can i serve you in any way to-night, miss hastings?" the reply was irrelevant but very earnest: "mr. mallery, i do not know how to thank you for this night's kindness." "there is no need of thanks," he said, gently. "take heart of grace, miss hastings. god helping us we will save him yet. i had selected him for my subject of special pleading before i knew who he was." dora's white lips quivered a little. "then there are two to pray for him!" she said, eagerly. "yes, and 'if two of you shall agree'--you know. good-night." he had one more hard task to perform. the carriage was waiting, and the other drunken son must be conveyed to his father's house. a few moments of rapid driving brought them to the modest white house, with its green blinds, one of them with the slats turned so that the pale tearful watcher at the window could see the carriage, and before theodore had time to ring the door was unbolted, and this time it was a gray-haired father who received them. grim and silent was he, but ever and anon as they were passing up the stairs they heard a low heart-rending moan from the poor mother, who had left the window and buried her head among the cushions of the sofa. theodore knew nothing about the sweet sleeping baby who had nestled so cozily in the great rocking-chair twenty-three years before; but the mother did, and had lived to understand that had her precious baby benny slept the sleep that knows no waking when in his infancy, it would have been infinitely better than the stupor of body and brain that held him now. "young man," said mr. phillips, as they reached the outer door again, "i don't know who you are, but i am thankful that you have saved us from any further disgrace by bringing him home. god grant that this night's work may be a warning to you, and that you may never need such disgraceful help for yourself." he evidently mistook theodore for one of the boon companions of his son. the driver, overhearing the remark, chuckled softly, and remarked to himself: "that's a good one! he's mistook his chap this time, i could tell him;" but theodore bowed in respectful silence, and felt a consuming pity for that heavily stricken father. as he entered the carriage the driver volunteered some information. "that man sells rum himself, in his grocery over there across the street, and he fought against the 'no license' petition like a wild tiger last fall." "drive me home now, please," said theodore aloud, in answer to this; and to himself he said, as he sank wearily among the cushions: "then i pray god to have mercy on him, and not make his judgment heavier than he can bear." chapter xx. mrs. jenkins' tommy. there came a low tapping on the green baize door of mr. stephens' private office. "come," said mr. stephens from within, and a clerk entered. "is mr. mallery in, sir? there is a queer looking personage in the store who insists upon seeing him." "mallery," said mr. stephens, turning his head slightly, and addressing an individual farther back behind a high desk, "are you engaged?" "nine seventy-two--one moment, mr. stephens--nine eighty-one, nine ninety, one thousand. now, sir, what is it?" and in a moment thereafter mr. mallery emerged. the clerk repeated his statement. "very well," said theodore, "i'll be out in one moment." he still held the package of one thousand dollars which he had just counted in his hand. "there is your money, mr. stephens," he said, laying it down as the outer door closed on them. "all right, is it?" "all right." "what have you done with the rest?" "locked it up." "and the key?" "in my pocket. do you wish it, sir?" "no," said mr. stephens, smiling. "did you ever forget anything in your life, theodore? i did not think you had time to turn a key before you came out." "i turned it nevertheless," answered theodore, significantly. "you know i don't trust that young man, sir." "not yet?" "no, sir." "well, i hope and trust that time will prove you wrong and me right." "i hope so, certainly," answered theodore, dryly. "but you don't believe it." and mr. stephens laughed a little as he added: "now, mallery, if you _should_ happen to be mistaken this time!" theodore answered him only by a grave smile as he went out of the room. it was a busy spot outside--clerks and cash boys were flying hither and thither, and customers were many and impatient. making his way through the crowd, bowing here and there to familiar faces, theodore sought for the person who awaited him. "a queer looking personage," the clerk had said, and over by one of the windows stood a meek-faced old woman, attired in a faded dress and shawl, and a rather startling bonnet as regarded shape. she looked as if she might be waiting or watching for somebody--at least she was not looking around with the air of a purchaser, and she was being rudely jostled every moment by thoughtless people or hurried clerks. theodore resolved to discover for himself if this were the one in waiting, and advanced to her side. "can i do anything for you, madam?" he asked, with as respectful a tone as he would have used to miss hastings herself. the woman turned a pair of startled eyes upon him; then seeming to be reassured, asked suddenly: "be you mr. mallery?" "that is my name. what can i do for you?" the old lady dropped him a very low, very odd little courtesy ere she answered: "and i'm the widow jenkins, and i've come--well, could i possibly see you alone for a bit of a moment? my head is kind of confused like with all this noise and running about; them little boys act as if they was most crazy anyhow, hopping about all over. i didn't know they allowed no playing in these big stores; but then you see i'm from the country, and things is queer all around; but if i only could see you all alone i wouldn't take a mite hardly of your time." "you may come with me," answered theodore, not stopping to explain the mystery of the cash boys, and show how very little like play their hopping about was after all. he led the way to a room opening off the private office, and giving the old lady one of the leathern arm-chairs, stood before her, and again inquired kindly: "now what can i do for you?" "well," began mrs. jenkins, her voice trembling with eagerness, "it's about my tommy. he's the only boy i've got, and i'm a widow, and he lives at the euclid house--works there, you know, and sleeps there, and all; and he's a good-natured, coaxy boy; he kind of wants to do just as everybody says; and he's promised me time and again that he wouldn't drink a mite of their stuff that they live on there, and he doesn't mean to, but they offer it to him, and the other boys they laugh at him, and kind of lead him along--and the long and short of it is, the habit is coming on him, mr. mallery, coming on fast. i've coaxed tommy, and he means all right, only he don't do it; and i've been down there to mr. roberts, and talked to him, and he's just as smooth as glass, and the difference between him an' tommy is that he don't mean it at all, not a word of it, any of the time. i see it in his eyes, and i've tried to coax tommy away from there, but he thinks he can't find anything else to do, and they are good to him there, and he's kind of bent on staying, and i've done every blessed thing i could think of, and now i am at my wits' ends." and the voluble little woman paused long enough to wipe two glistening tears from her withered cheeks, while her listener, roused and sympathetic, asked in earnest tones: "and what is it you would like to have me do? tommy is in danger, that is evident. i do not wonder that you are alarmed, and i am ready to help you in any possible way. have you any plan in view in which you would like my assistance?" before mrs. jenkins answered she bestowed a look of undisguised admiration on the earnest face before her, as she said: "they told me you'd do it. jim said--says he, 'if that man can't help you no man can, and if he _can_ he will. he told my katie that last night, and i made up my mind to come right straight to you." and then she dashed eagerly into the important part of her subject. "i've laid awake nights, and i've thought and thought, and planned. now that mr. roberts, he's a slippery man, and when you talk to him he says he's under orders, and he does just as he is directed. now, according to my way of thinking, it ain't no ways likely that mr. hastings goes and orders him to feed them boys on rum. but then it flashed on me last night about that mr. hastings--why he must be a good kind of a man, he give five hundred dollars to the orphans' home only last week." "he ought to," interrupted mallery. "he helps to manufacture the orphans." "well, that's true, too; but then like enough he don't stop and think what he is about--that's the way with half the folks in this world, anyhow; he may be willing to kind of help to keep them boys from ruin, and save his rum at the same time, and i was just thinking if somebody would just go and have a good kind plain talk with him, like enough he would promise to send mr. roberts word not to let them boys have any more drink, and that would help along the other boys as well as mine." theodore could scarcely restrain a smile at the poor woman's simple faith in human nature; he almost dreaded to explain to her how utterly improbable he felt it to be that mr. hastings would listen to any such plea as the one proposed. "why don't you go to him?" he questioned suddenly, as the eager eyes were raised to his awaiting his answer. "oh _dear me_!" she answered in consternation, "i should be flustered all out of my head entirely. i never spoke to such a man in my life. i shouldn't know what to say at all, and it wouldn't do any good if i did. jim, he said if you couldn't do it nobody need try." "jim overestimates my powers in this direction as in all others," theodore said, smiling. "i have perhaps less influence with mr. hastings than with any other person, and i haven't the slightest hopes that--" and here he stopped and listened to his thoughts. "after all," they said to him, "perhaps you misjudge the man--perhaps he really does not think what an injury he is doing to those boys simply by his good-natured carelessness. suppose you should go to him and state the case plainly? you really have some curiosity to see how he will meet the question; besides, it will at least be giving him a chance to do what is right if the trouble arises from carelessness; and, moreover, how can you be justified in disappointing this poor old mother? at least it would do no harm to gratify her, if it did no good." "well," he said aloud, "i will make the attempt, although i am afraid it will be a failure; but we will try it. i will see mr. hastings at the earliest possible moment, and will do what i can; but, in the meantime, are you doing _all_ you can for your boy? do you take him to god in prayer every day?" the mother's eyes drooped, a little flush crept into the faded cheek, a little silence fell between them, until at last she said with low and faltering voice: "that's a thing i never learned to do. i don't know how to do it for myself." "then you must remember that there is one all-important thing which you have left undone. my mother's prayer saved me from a drunkard's life. i know of no more powerful aid than that." very grave and sorrowful looked the poor mother; evidently she knew nothing about the compassionate savior, who was ready and willing to help her bear her burden. well for her that the young man in whom she trusted leaned on an arm stronger than his own. the mother had one more request to make of him. "could you _possibly_ go to see my tommy?" she asked, with glistening eyes. "if you only could know him, and kind of coax him, he would take a notion to you like enough, and then he would go through fire and water to please you; he's always so when he takes notions, tommy is." theodore promised again, and finally walked with the old lady down the long bewildering store to the very door, and bowed her out, she meantime looking very happy and hopeful. being familiar of old with the habits of the euclid house, theodore chose next day the hour when he judged that tommy would be most at leisure, and sought him out. the landlord was a trifle grayer, decidedly more portly, but was in other respects the same smooth-tongued, affable host that he was when tode mall ran hither and thither to do his bidding. theodore attempted nothing with him further than to beg a few minutes' chat with tommy. he was directed to the identical little room with its patch of red and yellow carpet, upon which he found tommy seated, mending a hole in his jacket pocket. "so you're a tailor, are you?" asked theodore, cheerily, seating himself familiarly on one corner of the little bed, and having a queer feeling come over him that the room belonged to him, and that tommy was quite out of place sitting on his piece of carpet. the young tailor looked up and laughed good-humoredly. "queer tailor i'd make!" he said, gaily. "mother, she does them jobs for me generally, but this is a special occasion. i've lost ten cents and a jack-knife to-day, and i reckoned it was time for me to go to work." "i used to live here," said theodore, confidentially. "this was my room. i used to have the table in that corner though, and i've always intended to come back here and have a look at the old room, but i never have until this afternoon." tommy suspended his work, and took a good long look at his visitor before he asked his next question. "be you the chap who made the row about the bottles?" "the very chap, i suspect," answered theodore, laughing. tommy sewed away energetically before he exploded his next remark. "i wish you had _rowed_ them out of this house, i vum i do. mother, she don't give me no peace of my life with talkings and cryings, and one thing and another, and a fellow don't know what to do." the subject was fairly launched at last quite naturally, and what was better still, by tommy himself; and then ensued a long and earnest conversation--and in proof that the visit had been productive of one effect that the mother had hoped for and prophesied, tommy stood up and fixed earnest, admiring eyes on his visitor as he was about to leave, and said eagerly: "there isn't much a fellow couldn't do to please you if he should set out." "and how much to please the dear mother, whose only son he is?" answered theodore, quickly. tommy's eyes drooped, and his cheeks grew very red. "i do mean to," he said at last. "i mean to all over, every day; but the fellows giggle and--and--well i don't know, it all gets wrong before i think." on the whole theodore understood his subject very well--a good-natured, well-meaning, easily-tempted boy, not safe in a house where liquor was sold or used, _certainly_ not safe where it was freely offered and its refusal laughed at. he even hesitated about going to mr. hastings', so sure was he that even with the most favorable results from the call, tommy would be unsafe in the euclid house; but then there were other boys who might be reached in this way, and there was his promise to the old lady, and there was besides his eager desire to see what mr. hastings would do or say. on the whole he decided to go. "i _do_ manage to have the most extraordinary errands to this house," he soliloquized, while standing on the steps of hastings' hall awaiting the answer to his ring. "i wonder how circumstances will develop this evening?" he had not long to wait; he had taken the precaution to write on his card under his name, "special and important business," and mr. hastings stared at it and frowned, and finally ordered his caller to be admitted to his library. it was in all respects a singular interview. mr. hastings was at first stiffly, and afterward ironically polite; listened with a sort of sneering courtesy to all that the young man had to say concerning tommy and his companions, and when theodore paused for a reply delivered himself of the following smooth sentences: "this is really the most extraordinary of your many extraordinary ideas, mr. mall--i beg your pardon (referring to the card which he held in his hand), mallery, i believe your name is _now_. i did not suppose i was expected to turn spy, and call to account every drop of wine that chances to be used in my buildings; it would be such utterly new business to me that i feel certain of a failure, and _we business_ men, mr. mall, do not like to fail in our undertakings. you really will have to excuse me from taking part in such a peculiar proceeding. if we have such a poor weak-minded boy in our employ as you describe, i feel very sorry for him, and would recommend his mother to take him home and keep him in her kitchen." theodore arose immediately, and the only discourteous word that he permitted himself to utter to dora's father was to say with marked emphasis: "thank you, mr. hastings, i will suggest your advice to mrs. jenkins; and as she is a feeble old lady, i presume if her son becomes a drunkard and breaks her heart you will see that his sisters are comfortably provided for in the orphans' home. good-evening, sir." "don quixote!" mr. stephens called him, laughing immensely as his clerk related the story of his attempt and failure. "i only gave him a chance to carry out some of his benevolent ideas, and save a capable waiter at the same time," answered theodore, dryly. "but he is evidently too much engrossed with his orphans' home to be alive to his own interests." "so you contemplate a speedy removal of tommy from the euclid house, do you?" said mr. stephens, reflectively. "yes, sir. just as soon as i can secure him a position elsewhere." "can mcpherson take him?" "hardly. he has a case now not unlike tommy's in which he is deeply interested, and which occupies all his leisure time." "can you make him useful here?" said mr. stephens, thoughtfully, balancing his pen on his finger. "useful? no, sir, i fear not--at least not just at present." "can you keep him busy then?" "yes, sir, certainly." "then send for him," said mr. stephens, briefly, resuming his writing. theodore turned suddenly and bestowed a delightful look on his employer as he said eagerly: "if there were only a few more people actuated by your principles we should need fewer orphans' homes." "confound that fellow and his impudence!" said the irate mr. hastings, as he finished detailing an account of tommy's exit from the euclid house under the supervision and influence of mr. mallery. pliny glanced up from his dish of soup, and opened his eyes wide in pretended surprise. "one would suppose, sir, that you were not particularly grateful to the fellow for his rescue of your daughter from an untimely grave," he said, demurely. "untimely fiddlestick!" was mr. hastings' still more irritable reply. "he thinks he is a hero, and presumes upon it to intrude himself in a most insufferable manner. i have no doubt jonas would have got along without any of his interference." dora's face flushed and then paled, but the only remark she made was: "papa, you ought to have been there to see." [illustration] chapter xxi. midnight work. "ting-a-ling-ling," said mr. stephens' door-bell just before midnight. mr. stephens glanced up in surprise from the paper which he was studying and hesitated a moment. who could be ringing his bell at that late hour? presently he stepped out into the hall, slipped the bolt and admitted theodore mallery. the young man followed his employer into the brightly-lighted library; it was the same room, with the same furnishings that it had worn that evening when he, a forlorn, trembling boy, had made his first call, and at midnight, on mr. stephens. "what unearthly business brought you out at this hour?" said the wondering mr. stephens. "premonitions of evil," answered theodore, laughing. "do you believe in them?" and he glanced about the familiar room, and dropped himself into the great arm-chair, where he remembered to have seated himself once at least before. "what is the matter with this room?" he asked, as his eyes roved over the surrounding. "something looks different." "i have been having a general clearing out and turning around of furniture since you were in--moved the books and rubbish out of that corner closet for one thing, and prepared it for those closed ledgers. good place, don't you think?" "has it strong locks?" asked theodore, glancing around to the closet in question. "splendid ones, and is built fire-proof." theodore took in both the lock and the fact that the key was in it. "an excellent place for them," he answered. "is there anything in it now?" "no, empty. what brought you here, mallery? i hope you have no more work for me to do to-night. i was just thinking of my bed." "a very little, sir. i have those papers ready for your signature, and it occurred to me if you could add that to-night i could get them off by the early mail." "what an indefatigable plodder you are to get those papers ready so soon, and an unmerciful man besides to make me go over them to-night. what will ten or a dozen hours signify?" "i don't know," answered theodore, gravely. "great results have arisen from more trivial delays than ten or a dozen hours." then he looked straight before him, apparently at the mirror, but really at the closet door. it was closed when he looked before; it was very slightly ajar now. wind? no, there _was_ no wind within reach; it was a surly november night, and doors and windows were tightly closed. "then there is really no escape for me?" yawned mr. stephens, in an inquiring tone. "none whatever," answered theodore, playfully. "it won't take you half an hour, sir, and you know it is a very important matter, involving not only ourselves but others." "true," said mr. stephens, more gravely. "well, pass them along." and while theodore obeyed the order, and appeared engrossed in the papers, he was really watching that closet door. it certainly moved, very slightly and noiselessly, and it certainly was not the wind, for the wind had no eyes, and at least one very sharp eye was distinctly discernible in the mirror, peering out at them from that door! the owner of the eyes seemed to have forgotten the long mirror, and theodore's convenient position for seeing what passed behind him. whose eye was it? and why was the possessor of it shut up in that closet? theodore watched it stealthily and sharply. it grew bolder, and the door was pushed open a little more, a _very_ little, just enough to reveal the shape of the forehead and a few curls of black hair. then suspicion became certainty--they belonged to the young man whom he had disliked and distrusted since the day in which he had first entered the employ of mr. stephens, six months before. very strange and just a little unreasonable had seemed his distrust. mr. stephens had tried sober argument and good-humored raillery by turns to convince his confidential clerk that he was prejudiced. all to no purpose. theodore could give no tangible reasons for his unwavering opinion; but his early living by his wits, among all sorts of people, had so sharpened his ideas that he felt almost hopelessly certain that a villain was being harbored among them. now while he tried to answer coherently mr. stephens' questions, he was thinking hard and nervously what was to be done. what was the man's object in hiding at midnight in his employer's house? was mr. stephens' life in danger? was the man a murderer, or simply a thief? what did he know of their private affairs? what had mr. stephens in his house that proved a special temptation? how should he get all these questions answered? the hot blood surged to his very temples as he remembered mr. stephens' departure from the store that very afternoon with twenty thousand dollars for deposit. what if for some reason the deposit had not been made, and was still in mr. stephens' possession--in this very room perhaps! he remembered with a shiver that the young man in question was in the private office during the making up of the money package, and that mr. stephens talked freely before him, that they had gone out together, that mr. stephens had directed his clerk to walk down to the bank with him while he gave certain orders for the next day's business. should he risk a bold question and so discover the truth in regard to the deposit, and perhaps at the same time discover to the thief its present whereabouts? he saw no other way, and feeling that he had little time to lose plunged into the question. "by the way, mr. stephens, was the deposit all right?" mr. stephens glanced up quickly. "what possessed you to ask that troublesome question?" he said, laughingly. "natural curiosity, sir. were you in time?" "i am almost afraid to answer you," said mr. stephens, still laughing, "lest you will put me under lock and key at once as a person suspected of insanity. if i must confess, though, i stopped with winters ten minutes to introduce him to the new librarian at the reading-room, and thereby _just_ lost my chance at the bank." theodore promptly controlled the shiver that ran through his frame. winters, in the closet there, probably knew the facts, and all others connected with the money, as well as mr. stephens did. he spoke in his usual tone. "what did you do with the money, sir? it was not in the safe when i closed it for the night?" "that i suppose is the very wickedest of all my wicked deeds. i was too thoroughly tired, besides being too hurried, to tramp back to the store. i came near intrusting the bundle to winters to take back, but i had respect for your ugly prejudices, and concluded to make a safe of my own house for one night." for an instant theodore hesitated. should he risk the possibility of giving the inmate of the closet the information which he did not already possess by asking what had been done with the money? his precaution was in vain. mr. stephens continued his confession: "i've locked it up though, _double_ locked it indeed, over in that iron box, and put the key belonging to the box on the shelf in that closet and locked _them_ up. shall i bury that key in the cellar now?" now indeed theodore's face paled. _could_ anything be more fearfully arranged? he asked but one more question: "where _is_ the key now?" "_here_ in my pocket; and i declare i'll deliver it over to you for safe keeping. i shall feel ten degrees less wicked." theodore reached out his hand mechanically for the key, and turned it over in cold fingers. then a skeleton key had been used, for there was the key in the lock at this moment. winters must have been startled into his retreat by some sudden noise, and have forgotten to remove the evidence of his perfidy. rapidly were several schemes turned over in his mind. should he walk over that way and attempt to lock the closet? no, for then in view of all the conversation that had just occurred winters was sharp enough to know that he had been discovered, and desperate enough, theodore believed, to do anything. there was room enough in the closet for two, or indeed three men, and perhaps the villain had accomplices. could he propose to mr. stephens that they carry the strong box to his private room? no, for that would give the thief a chance to escape if he chose through the library window; the same thing might occur if he enticed mr. stephens from the room and told him the story. winters might suspect, was undoubtedly armed and ready for any desperate action. all these thoughts flashed through theodore's brain while mr. stephens was reading down one page, and ere the leaf was turned he had decided on his plan of action. "mr. stephens," he said, speaking in his usual tone, and rising as he spoke, "i have a little matter of business just around the corner from here, which i think i will attend to while you are reading those papers." mr. stephens glanced up and laughed. "i will recommend you for one of the night police," he said, gayly. "you have business at all hours of the night in all imaginable places." meantime theodore had been taking in the position of the strong box, and decided that he could get a nearer view of it without exciting the suspicion of winters in the closet. it was, as he feared, unlocked and empty! now at all hazards the thief must not be suffered to escape. "i will take your night-key, mr. stephens," said theodore, quietly, "and let myself in without ringing on my return." a moment more and he stood alone on the granite steps. the night was still and gloomy, the moon gave only a fitful glimmering now and then as it peeped from between heavy clouds, the air was sharp and piercing, but the young man on the steps felt in a white heat as he waited in breathless anxiety for the advent of a policeman. one thing he had determined upon, not to leave the steps where he stood guard over the gray-haired unsuspicious man inside. there was no telling how soon winters might weary of his cramped quarters, and attempt to escape by first shooting his employer. would the policeman never come? he heard steps and voices in the distance. "come out here, old moon, and give a fellow a little light on the subject. what you pouting about, i'd like to know? you haven't got to blunder along home in the dark. this is the most extraordinary street i ever saw anyhow; it keeps whirling round and turning somersaults, instead of walking straight ahead like a respectable street." the voice that uttered these disjointed sentences was only too well known to theodore. he stepped down one step and spoke in a low tone: "pliny, what does this mean? where are you going?" "going round like a top, first on my head and then on my heels. how are you?" poor theodore! the plot thickened. what should he do with this poor drunkard? could he endure to let him stagger to his home to that waiting sister in this condition? a shrill, sharp, merry whistle broke at this moment on his ear; that voice he knew too, and waited until its owner came up; then addressed him still in low tones: "tommy, where are you going?" "going home--been to a fire--whole block burned down by the square, mr. stuart's house and--" theodore checked his voluble information. "have you seen anything of mcpherson?" "yes, sir; he was at the fire too. just whisked around the corner below here to go to his rooms. we came up together." theodore's listening ear caught the sound of an approaching policeman, and he hastened his plans. pliny had sunk down on the steps and was muttering to himself in drunken, broken sentences. "tommy," said theodore, addressing that individual, "there are empty carriages coming around the corner; the train is in. will you take this young man in a carriage, drive to mcpherson's door, and tell him to drive to my rooms with you, and make this gentleman comfortable till i come? can i trust you, tommy?" "yes, _sir_, every time," tommy answered, proudly. the policeman came up. "what's all this?" he asked, gruffly. theodore turned to him and spoke a few words in a low rapid tone, and he moved hastily away. then theodore came back to pliny. "will you go and spend the night with me at my rooms, pliny?" he asked, gently. "well," said pliny, trying to rouse himself from his half stupor, "i _did_ promise doralinda mirinda that i'd come home, but seeing the street has taken such a confounded notion to go round and round, why i guess she will excuse me and i'll oblige you." "this boy will call a carriage for you and make you comfortable, and i will be with you as soon as possible. i have a little business first." he gave a little shiver of relief as he saw pliny stagger quietly away with tommy. all this time, and indeed it was but a _very_ little time, although it seemed hours to the young man whose every nerve was in a quiver, his ear had been strained ready for the slightest sound that might occur in the room over which he was keeping guard; but the utmost quiet reigned. winters evidently suspected nothing, and was biding his time. "the villain means to escape hanging if he can," muttered theodore, under his breath. and now the dim moonlight showed the tall forms of three policemen approaching. he advanced and held a brief whispered conversation with them, then the four ascended the steps. theodore applied his night-key, and with cat-like tread they moved across the hall, and the library door swung noiselessly open. they were fairly inside the room before mr. stephens, intent upon his papers, observed them. when he did he sprang to his feet, with a face on which surprise, bewilderment and consternation contended for the mastery. "theodore," he gasped, rather than said; and it was mr. stephens' sorrow ever after that for one little moment he believed that his almost son had proved false to him. the next the whole story stood revealed. from the moment that mr. stephens uttered his exclamation all attempt at quietness was laid aside. a policeman strode across the room, flung wide the closet door, and said to the cowed and shivering mortal hiding therein, "you are my prisoner, sir," and from his pocket produced the handcuffs and proceeded to adjust them, while another disarmed him. theodore went over and stood beside the gray-haired startled man. "don't be alarmed, sir," he said, gently and quietly; "the danger is quite over now. his pockets must be searched," this to the policeman. "he has twenty thousand dollars about him somewhere that belong to us." "my boy," said mr. stephens, tremulously, and with utmost tenderness in his tones, "what does all this mean? how did you learn of it?" "by a special providence, i believe, sir," answered theodore, reverently. meantime the packages of money were found and in order. "have you special directions, sir, in regard to the prisoner?" questioned the policeman. mr. stephens broke away from theodore's restraining arm and went toward winters. "my poor, poor boy," he said, compassionately, "how _could_ you do it?" winters' eyes expressed nothing but malignancy as he muttered between shut teeth: "because i _hate_ you, and that upstart who hoodwinks you." theodore came forward with quiet dignity. "mr. stephens," he said, laying a gently detaining hand on the gentleman's arm, "let me manage the rest of the business for you, you are excited and weary. secure the man in safe and comfortable quarters for the night," he added, turning to the policeman, "and you will hear from mr. stephens in the morning." five minutes more and theodore and mr. stephens were left alone in the library. "no explanations to-night," said theodore, with an attempt at playfulness, as the other turned toward him with eager questioning eyes. "i withdraw my prohibition, sir, as regards the papers, and will permit you to retire at once." "one word, theodore, about the point that troubles me the most what shall we do with the poor young man?" theodore's face darkened. "the very utmost that the law allows," he said, sternly. "he deserves it all. if you desire my advice on that point i should say--" mr. stephens interrupted him, laying a quiet hand on his arm and speaking gently: "my boy, suppose you and i kneel down here and pray for him?" all the heat and anger died out of theodore's face. he remembered the midnight interview which took place years before in that very room, when mr. stephens was the judge and he himself the culprit. he remembered that at that time mr. stephens had knelt down and prayed for _him_. reverently now he knelt beside the noble-hearted man, and heard him pour out his soul in prayer for the "poor boy" who had tried so hard to injure him. when they arose he turned quiet smiling eyes on his young friend as he said: "my dear boy, can you advise me now?" "you do not need advice, sir," said theodore, speaking somewhat huskily and with a reverent touch in his voice. "follow the dictates of your own noble soul in this as in everything, and you will be sure to do the best thing." it was two o'clock when theodore applied his own night-key and entered his front door. the gas was still lighted in the back parlor, and thither he went. it was not the back parlor that belonged to the little cottage house near the depot; not the same house at all, but one larger and finer, and on a handsomer street. the back parlor was nicely, even luxuriously, furnished with that dainty mixture of elegance and home comfort which betokens a refined and cultivated taste. winny had grown into a tall young lady with coils of smooth brown hair in place of the crisp locks of her childhood. her crimson dress set off her clear dark complexion to advantage. the round table was drawn directly under the gaslight, and she sat before it surrounded by many beautiful books and writing material. she glanced up at theodore's entrance, and he addressed her in grave business-like tones: "winny, do you know it is two o'clock? you should not study so late at night under any circumstances." "you should not perambulate the streets until morning, and then you would have no knowledge of my misdemeanors," answered winny in exactly the same tone, and added: "what poor drunken wretch have you and jim in train to-night?" "is jim here?" said theodore, eagerly. "yes, and has been for an hour. he stumbled up stairs with a poor victim who was unable to walk, and domiciled him in your room. remarkable company you seem to keep, mr. mallery. who is the creature?" "the heir of hastings' hall," said theodore, briefly and sadly. winny looked both startled and shocked "oh, theodore! not pliny hastings?" "yes, pliny hastings. the admiration of half the young ladies in the city, and they are industriously helping him to be what he is. good-night, winny. don't, for pity's sake, study any later," and theodore ran lightly up stairs and entered his own room on tiptoe. the room was utterly unlike tode mall's early dream. no square of red and green and yellow carpet adorned the spot in front of the bed--instead a soft thick carpet of mossy green covered the floor, and theodore had pleased himself in gathering many a dainty trifle with which to beautify this one room that he called home. to-night the drop-light was carefully shaded, and in the dimness theodore had to look twice before he distinguished mcpherson mounted on guard in the rocking-chair beside the bed, while on it lay, sunken in heavy sleep, pliny hastings. "well!" was theodore's brief greeting. "yes!" was jim's equally laconic reply. "what did you think had become of me that i could not attend to my own business?" asked theodore, dropping wearily into the nearest chair. "tommy said you were putting three policemen in jail, or something." "it was _something_, sure enough," answered theodore, smiling faintly; and then he gave a rapid and condensed account of the midnight scene, interrupted by many exclamations of horror and amaze from his listener. "had you much trouble in this quarter?" he asked presently, going to the bedside and looking long and earnestly at pliny. "very little. tommy had some difficulty before they reached me; but he is a plucky little chap, and was firmly resolved upon carrying out your instructions to the letter, so he gained the day. isn't it remarkable that he should have been the one to assist in the rescue of mr. hastings' son?" "isn't it?" said theodore, emphatically. "and mr. hastings would not lift one finger to assist in _his_ rescue." "what in the world are you going to do next?" said jim. "in this case i mean," nodding his head toward pliny. "going to keep on doing, and when i have done all that i can, give myself up to patient waiting and hopeful praying," was theodore's solemn answer. when he spoke again it was in a slightly hesitating tone, with a glance at his watch. "there is just one thing more which ought to be done to-night, jim." "all right," said jim, promptly. "there's no special use in going to bed to-night, or rather this morning. too late to pay, so bring on your business. what comes next?" "they ought to know at hastings' hall where this young man is." "ho!" said jim, with an astonished and incredulous air, "i don't imagine there will be many sleepless eyes in that house if they don't hear of his whereabouts until he appears again. i fancy they are too much accustomed to it." "there is one member of the family who will wait for him, nevertheless." "who?" "his sister. he remembered it himself, as bad as he was." jim looked searchingly at the half-averted face of his friend for a moment; then seeming to have come to some conclusion, arose and began to don his overcoat. "then if i understand you, mallery, you think that his sister ought to be apprised of his safety, and you judge it would be well, if possible, to do so without disturbing any other members of the family?" this he said after having waited a moment in vain for his friend to speak again. theodore turned toward him, and eagerly grasped his hand as he spoke: "you understand everything, my dear fellow, better than i can tell it. god bless you for your kindness and thoughtfulness." chapter xxii. poor pliny! the surliness of that november night broke into dazzling sunlight the next morning, and the sun was nearly two hours high when pliny hastings rolled himself heavily over in bed, uttered a deep groan, and awoke to the wretchedness of a new day of shame and misery and self-loathing. for he loathed himself, this poor young man born and reared in the very hotbed of temptation, struggling to break the chain that he had but recently discovered was bound around him, making resolutions many and strong, and gradually awakening to the knowledge that resolutions were flimsy as paper threads compared with the iron bands with which his tyrant held him. after the groan, he opened his eyes, and staring about him in a bewildered way, tried to take in his unfamiliar surroundings. "where in the name of wonders am i now?" he said at last and aloud. whereupon theodore came to the bedside and said, "good-morning, pliny." "what the mischief!" began pliny, then he stopped; and as memory came to his aid, added a short, sharp, "oh!" and relapsed into silence. "are you able to get up and go down to breakfast with me?" questioned theodore. and then pliny raised himself on his elbow, and burst forth: "i say, mallery, why didn't you just leave me to my confounded fate? i should have blundered home somehow, and if that long-suffering sister of mine had chanced to fail in her plans, why my precious father would have discovered my condition and kicked me out of doors, for good. he has threatened to do it--and that is the way they all do anyhow. isn't it, mallery? _make_ drunkards, and when their handiwork just begins to do them credit, kick them out." "i think it would be well for you to get up and dress for breakfast," was theodore's quiet answer. "why don't you give it up, mallery?" persisted pliny, making no effort to change his position. "don't you see it's no sort of use; no one was ever more possessed to be a fool than i am. what have all my everlasting promises amounted to but straws! i tell you, my father designed and planned me for a drunkard, and i'm living up to the light that has been given me." "i see it is quite time you were ready for breakfast, pliny. i am waiting, and _have_ been for two hours, and i really haven't time to waste, while you lie there and talk nonsense. whatever else you do, don't be foolish enough to cast all the blame of your misdeeds on your father." pliny turned fiercely. "who else is there to blame, i should like to know?" he asked, savagely. "didn't he give me the sugar to sip from the bottom of his brandy glass in my babyhood? haven't i drank my wine at his table, sitting by his side, three times a day for at least fifteen years? haven't i seen him frown on every effort at temperance reform throughout the country? haven't i seen him sneer at my weak, feeble efforts to break away from the demon with which he has constantly tempted me? if he didn't rear me up for a drunkard, what in the name of heaven _am_ i designed for after such a training?" "pliny," said theodore, speaking low and with great significance, "for what do you suppose _my_ father designed and reared _me_?" one evening, months before, theodore had, in much pain and shrinking, told the whole sad story of his early life to pliny, told it in the vague hope that it might some day be a help to him. now, as he referred to it, pliny answered only with a toss and a groan, and then was entirely silent. at last he spoke again in a quieter, but utterly despairing tone. "mallery, you don't know anything about it. i tell you i was _born_ with this appetite; i inherited it, if you will; it is my father's legacy to me, and the taste has been petted and fostered in every imaginable way; you need not talk of my manhood to me. i have precious little of that article left. no mortal knows it better than i do myself; i would sell what little i have for a glass of brandy this minute." theodore came over to him and laid a quiet hand on the flushed and throbbing temples. "i know all about it, my friend;" he said, gently. "i know more about this thing in some respects than you do; remember the atmosphere in which i spent my early boyhood; remember what _my_ father is. oh, i know how hard it is so well, that it seems to me almost impossible for one in his own strength to be freed; but, pliny, why _will_ you not accept a helper? one who is mighty to save? i do solemnly assure you that in him you would _certainly_ find the strength you need." pliny moved restlessly, and spoke gloomily, "you are talking a foreign language to me, mallery. i don't understand anything about that sort of thing, you know." "yes, i know. but, what has that to do with it? i am asking you why you _will_ not? how is it possible that you can desire to be released from this bondage; can feel your own insufficiency, and yet will not accept aid?" "and i am telling you that i don't understand anything about this matter." "but, my dear friend, is there any sense to that reply? if you wished to become a surveyor, and i should assure you that you would need to acquire a knowledge of a certain branch of mathematics in order to perfect yourself, would you coldly reply to me that you knew nothing about that matter, and consider the question settled? you certainly would not, if you had any confidence in me." pliny turned quickly toward him. "you are wrong in that last position, at least," he said, eagerly. "if i have confidence in any living being, i have in you, and certainly i have reason to trust you. the way in which you cling to me, patiently and persistently, through all manner of scrapes and discouragements, is perfectly marvelous! now, tell me why you do it?" theodore hesitated a moment before he answered, gravely: "if you want to know the first cause, pliny, it is because i pledged you to my redeemer, as a thank-offering for a gracious answer to my prayers, which he sent me, even when i was unbelieving; and the second is, because, dear friend, i love you, and _can not_ give you up." pliny lay motionless and silent, and something very like a tear forced itself from between his closed eyelids. "pliny, will you utterly disappoint me?" said theodore at last, breaking the silence. "won't you promise me to seek this helper of mine?" "how?" "pray for his aid; it will surely be given. you trust me, you say; well, i promise you of a certainty that he stands ready to receive you. will you begin to-day, pliny?" "you will despise me if i tell you why i can not," pliny said, hesitatingly, after a long, and, on theodore's part, an anxious silence. "no, i shall not;" he answered, quickly. "tell me." "well then, it is because, whatever else i may have been, i have never played the hypocrite, and i have sense enough left to know that the effort which you desire me to make, will not accord with an engagement which i have this very evening." "what is it?" "to accompany ben phillips to the dance at the hotel on the turnpike, nine miles from here. i'm as sure that i will drink wine and brandy to-night, as i am that i lie here, in spite of all the helps in creation, or out of it. so what's the use?" "will you give me one _great_ proof of your friendship, pliny?" was theodore's eager question. "i'll give you 'most anything quicker than i would any other mortal," answered pliny, wearily. "then will you promise me not to go with phillips this evening?" "ho!" said pliny, affecting astonishment. "i thought you were a tremendous man of your word?" "there are circumstances under which i am not; if i promise to commit suicide, i am justified in saner moments in changing my mind." "i didn't exactly promise either," said pliny, thoughtfully. "i had just brains enough left for that. well, mallery, i'll be hanged if i haven't a mind to promise you; i'm sure i've no desire to go, it's only that confounded way i have of blundering into engagements." "i'm waiting," said theodore, gravely. "well, i _won't_ go." "thank you;" this time he smiled, and added: "how about the other matter, pliny?" "that is different;" said pliny, restlessly. "not so easily decided on. i don't more than half understand you, and yet--yes, i know theoretically what you want of me. theodore, i'll think of it." a little quickly checked sigh escaped theodore; he must bide his time, but a great point had been gained. there came a tapping at the chamber door. theodore went forward and opened it, and pliny, listening, heard a clear, smoothly modulated voice ask: "will your friend take breakfast with you, theodore, and have you any directions?" "no special directions," answered theodore, smiling. "is that a hint that we are woefully late, winny? it is too bad; we will be down very soon now." "i'm a selfish dog, with all the rest," pliny said, sighing heavily, as he went around making a hurried toilet. "how is it that you have any time to waste on a wretch like myself? did you ever have your head whirl around like a spinning wheel, mallery?" "i sent a note to mr. stephens early this morning, saying i should not be at the store until late. try ice water for your head, pliny." this was theodore's reply to the last query. the dainty little breakfast room, all in a glow of sunlight, and bright with ivy and geranium, looked like a patch of paradise to pliny hastings' splendor-wearied eyes. winny presided at the table in a crimson dress--that young lady was very fond of crimson dresses--and fitted very nicely into the clear, crisp, fresh brightness of everything about her. pliny drank the strong coffee that she poured him with a relish, and though he shook his head with inward disgust at the sight or thought of food, gradually the spinning-wheel revolved more and more slowly, and ere the meal was concluded, he was talking with almost his accustomed vivacity to winny. he hadn't the least idea that she had stood in the doorway the evening before, and watched him go stumbling and grumbling up the stairs. theodore glanced from one bright handsome face to the other, and grew silent and thoughtful. "where is your mother?" he said at last, suddenly addressing winny. "she is lying down, nearly sick with a headache. i feel troubled about mother; she doesn't seem well. i wish you would call on your way down town, theodore, and send the doctor up." pliny noted the look of deep anxiety that instantly spread over theodore's face, and the many anxious questions that he asked, and grew puzzled and curious. what position did this young man occupy in this dainty little house? was he adopted brother, friend, or only boarder? why was he so deeply interested in the mother? oh he didn't know the dear little old lady and her story of the "many mansions," nor the many dear and tender and motherly deeds that she had done for this boarder of hers, and how, now that he was in a position to pay her with "good measure, pressed down and running over," he still gave to her respectful, loving, almost adoring reverence. pliny had not been a familiar friend of theodore's in the days when the latter had heated his coffee at the old lady's little kitchen stove, and the stylish winny had made distracting little cream cakes for his saloon. indeed the friendship that had sprung up between these two was something singular to them both, and had been the outgrowth of earnest efforts on theodore's part, and many falls and many repentings on pliny's. "what a delightful home you have," pliny said, eagerly, as the two young men lingered together in the hall; and then his face darkened as he added: "it is the first table i have sat down to in many a day without being tempted on every side by my faithful imp, starting up in some shape or other, to coax me to ruin. i tell you, mallery, you know nothing about it." "yes, i do," theodore answered, positively. "and i know you're in dire need of help. come home with me to dinner, will you?" pliny shook his head. "can't. some wretched nuisance and her daughter are to dine with us, and i promised mother i would be at home and on duty. i must go up directly, and there is a car coming. theodore, don't think me an ungrateful fool. i know what i think of myself and of you, and if ever i _am_ anything but a drunkard, why--never mind, only may the god in whom you trust bless you forever." and this warm-hearted, whole-souled, hot-brained, sorely-tempted young man wrung his friend's hand with an almost convulsive grasp, and was gone. theodore looked after him wistfully. winny came to the window while he still stood looking out; he turned to her suddenly. "winny, enter the lists with me, and help me fight rum and his allies, and save the young man." "how?" said winny, earnestly. "every way. help me to meet him at every time, to save him from himself, and, worst and hardest of all, to save him from his family. i would like to ask you to pray for him." "very well," answered winny, gravely, returning his searching look with one as calm. "why don't you then?" "because i have reason to fear that you do not pray for yourself." this time she colored violently, but still spoke steadily: "suppose i do not. can't i possibly pray for any one else?" "you _can_, certainly, if you will; but the question is, will you?" and receiving no sort of reply to this question, theodore turned away and prepared to go down town. the hastings' family had filed out to the dining-room after the orthodox fashion--mr. hastings leading out the fashionable boston stranger, mrs. de witt, and pliny following with her elegant daughter. all traces of last night's dissipation had been carefully petted and smoothed away from the young man's face and dress, and he looked the very impersonation of refined manhood. as for dora no amount of care and anxiety on her mother's part could transform her into a fashionable young lady--no amount of persuasion could induce her to follow fashion's freaks in the matter of dress, unless they chanced to accord with her own grave, rather mature, taste. so on this november day, while miss de witt was glowing and sparkling in garnet silk and rubies, dora was pale and fair in blue merino, and soft full laces; and in spite of plainness and simplicity, or perhaps by the help of them, was queenly and commanding still. the table was dazzling and gorgeous, with silver and cut glass and flowers. pliny established his lady and devoted himself to her wishes, eating little himself, and declining utterly at least half of the dishes that were offered. brandy peaches, wine jellies, custards flavored with wine, fruits with just a touch of brandy about them, how they flitted and danced about him like so many imps, all allies of that awful demon _rum_, and all seeming bent on his destruction. pliny's usually pale face was flushed, and his nerves were quivering. how much he wanted every one of these spiced and flavored dainties only his poor diseased appetite knew; how thoroughly dangerous every one of them was to him only his troubled, tempted conscience knew. he heartily loathed every article of simple unflavored food; he absolutely longed to seize upon that elegant dish of brandy peaches, and devour every drop of the liquid to quench his raging thirst. still he chatted and laughed, and swallowed cup after cup of coffee, and struggled with his tempter, and tried to call up and keep before him all his numerous promises to that one true friend who had stood faithfully beside him through many a disgraceful downfall. "what an abstemious young gentleman!" simpered miss de witt, as for the fourth time pliny briefly and rather savagely declined the officious waiter's offer of wine custard. "don't you eat any of these frivolous and demoralizing articles? mrs. hastings, is your son one of the new-lights? i have really been amused to see how persistently he declines all the tempting articles of peculiar flavor. _is_ it a question of temperance, mr. hastings? i'm personally interested in that subject. i heard your star speaker, mr. ryan, hold forth last evening. did you hear him, mr. hastings?" "i did not," answered pliny, laconically, remembering how far removed from a temperance lecture was the scene in which he had mingled the evening before. he was spared the trouble of further answer by his father's next remark. "it is a remarkable recent conversion if pliny has become interested in the temperance question," he said, eyeing him curiously. "i really don't know but total abstinence is a good idea for weak-minded young men who can not control themselves." pliny flushed to his very forehead, and answered in a sharp cutting tone of biting sarcasm: "elderly gentlemen who seem to be similarly weak ought to set the example then, sir." this bitter and pointed reference to his father's portly form, flushed face, and ever growing fondness for his brandies, was strangely unlike pliny's courteous manner, and how it might have ended had not miss de witt suddenly determined on a conquest, i can not say. "look, look!" she suddenly exclaimed, clapping her hands in childish glee. "the first snow-storm of the season. do see the great flakes! mr. hastings, let me pledge your health, and your prospect of a glorious sleigh ride," and she rested jeweled fingers on the sparkling glass before her. pliny's head was throbbing, and the blood seemed racing in torrents through his veins. he turned a stern, fierce look upon the lady by his side, muttered in low hoarse tones, "pledge me for a glorious fool as i am," drained his glass to the very bottom, and abruptly left the table and the room. and miss de witt was serenely and courteously surprised, while the embarrassed mother covered her son's retreat as best she might, and dora sat white and silent. on the table in pliny's room lay a carefully-worded note of apology and explanation from pliny to ben phillips. it was folded and ready for delivery. pliny dashed up to his room, seized upon the note and consigned it to the glowing coals in the grate, then rang his bell furiously and left this message in its stead: "tell phillips when he calls that i'm going, and he'll find me at harcourt's." [illustration] chapter xxiii. judgments. only a few of the clerks had assembled as yet at the great store. it was still early morning, and the business of the day had not commenced when young mcpherson rushed in, breathless, and in his haste nearly overturned a clerk near the door; then he stopped, panting as he questioned: "is mr. mallery in?" "yes, sir; he's always in. it's my opinion he sleeps in the safe," added his informant, in discontented under tone. theodore's promptness was sometimes a great inconvenience to the sleepy clerks. "i want him immediately. where is he?" "in the private office, sir. we have sent for him," said tommy, coming forward with the air of one who was at least a partner. two minutes more and theodore was beside him. "there's been an accident," explained jim, rapidly, "and you are very much needed." "where, and for what?" "at the euclid house. pliny hastings and ben phillips, they were thrown from their carriage. hastings asked for you at once." theodore glanced behind him and issued a few brief directions. "tommy, bring my hat. edwards, keep these keys in your safe until mr. stephens comes. holden, tell mr. jennings when he calls that the bill of sale is made out, and shall be ready for him at noon. tommy, you may take the letters that are on my desk to the post-office. now, mcpherson, i am ready. give me the particulars. is it serious?" "i fear so. what few particulars we know is that they tried to drive across the track with the express coming at full speed. the horses took fright, of course, backed into the gully, and both gentlemen were thrown some distance. why they were not killed, or how they escaped being dashed in pieces by the train, is a wonderful mystery." "what insane spirit prompted them to attempt crossing the track at such a time?" "the spirit of rum. they were both intoxicated." his listener uttered an exclamation fraught with more dismay than he had before expressed, and asked his next question in a low, troubled tone: "where were they going?" "going home. they had been out on that south road, nine miles from the city, to attend a dance; had danced and drank by turns all night, and were dashing home between five and six in the morning. so harcourt says, and he is good authority, for he was right behind them, returning from the same place, and in not much better condition than they until the accident sobered him." poor theodore! he had had particulars enough; his heart felt like lead. how _could_ he hope, or work, or pray, any more? they walked in absolute silence to the corner, signaled a car, and made as rapid progress as possible. only two questions more did theodore venture: "did you say pliny asked for me?" "yes--or, no, not exactly asked for you, but kept constantly talking about you in a wild sort of way, referring to some promise or pledge of his own, we judged, for he kept saying: 'i never deliberately broke my word to him before,' and then adding in a pitiful tone: 'he will have nothing to do with me now; he will never believe me again,' i think the doctor fears that his brain is injured." it was some moments before theodore could trust his voice to speak; and then he said, inquiringly: "his parents have been apprised of the accident, of course?" "why, no," answered jim, in a startled tone. "at least i doubt it. nobody seemed to think of it. the fact is, theodore, we were all frightened out of our wits, and needed your executive ability. i had been down at the depot to see if my freight had come, and arrived on the scene just after the accident occurred. i had just brains enough left to have both gentlemen taken to the hotel and come for you." arrived at the euclid house the two young men went up the steps and through the halls so familiar to both of them, and sought at once the room where pliny had been placed. two physicians were busy about him, but they drew back thoughtfully as pliny, catching a glimpse of the new-comer, uttered an eager exclamation. "it's no use," he said, wildly, as theodore bent over him. "no use, you see; the imps have made up their mind to have me, and they'll get me, body and soul. i'm bound--i can't stir. i promised you--oh yes, i can promise--i'm good at that--they don't mind that at all; but when it comes to performing then they chain me." "that is the way he has raved ever since the accident," said the elder physician, addressing theodore. "it is an indication of a disordered brain. are you the young man whom he has been calling? we were in hopes you could quiet him." "does the disorder arise from liquor," said theodore, sadly. "oh no, not at all; at least it is not the immediate cause. can you control him, do you think?" theodore bent over him; he was still repeating wildly, "they'll get me, body and soul," when a cool hand was laid on his burning forehead, and a quiet, firm voice spoke the words: "pliny, they _shall not_ get you. do you understand? they _shall not_." and at that forlorn and apparently hopeless hour the young man's faith arose. some voice from that inner world seemed to reach his ear, and repeat his own words with strong meaning: "no, they _shall_ not." the physicians, who had hoped a great deal from the coming of this young man, about whom the thoughts of their patient seemed to center, had not hoped in vain. he grew quieter and gradually sank into a sort of stupor, which, if it were not very encouraging, seemed less heart-rending than the wild restlessness of the other state. then theodore bethought himself again of the hastings' family. no, they had not been sent for, everybody had thought about it, but nobody had acted. mr. roberts was not at home, and the two doctors had been busy about more necessary business. "it must be attended to immediately," theodore said. "which of you gentlemen is mr. hastings' family physician?" "neither of us," answered the elder gentleman, laconically. "_i_ don't even know who his family physician is." "dr. armitage is," added the younger, from his position at the foot of the bed. "and he is out of town." "that's lucky," was the sententious comment of the old doctor. "why?" asked theodore, fixing earnest, searching eyes on his face. "because dr. armitage uses rum, _rum_, rum, everywhere and always: and ten drops of it would be as certain death to this young man, in his present state, as a dose of prussic acid would." "who is the elder of those two physicians?" questioned theodore of one of the waiters as they left the room together. "that's dr. arnold, just the greatest man in this city folks think, and the young fellow is dr. vincent, a student once, and now a partner of dr. arnold." theodore mentally hoped, as he recognized the familiar names, that dr. armitage's absence would be indefinitely prolonged. he glanced into the room where ben phillips lay. he was insensible, and had been from the first. two more physicians were in attendance there, but seemed to be doing nothing, and shook their heads very gravely in answer to theodore's inquiring look. mr. phillips had been seen down town, near the freight office, and thither jim had gone in search of him. there seemed to be nothing for theodore but to go to hastings' hall himself. he shrank from it very much--nothing but messages of evil, or scenes of danger, seemed to connect him with this house. "they will learn to look on me as the very impersonation of evil tidings," he said, nervously, as he awaited admittance. his peremptory ring was promptly answered by john. "was mr. hastings in?" no, he was not; he and mrs. hastings had accompanied mrs. and miss de witt to the house of a friend, nine miles distant, and were to be absent two days. in spite of himself theodore felt a sense of relief. "then tell miss hastings i would like to see her at once," was his direction. john stared. "it was very early. miss hastings had not yet left her room. if mr. mallery could--" theodore interrupted him. "tell her i must see her at once, or as soon as possible." and at this opportune moment dora came down the stairs. theodore advanced to meet her, and feeling almost certain of the character with which he had to deal, came to the point at once without hesitation or circumlocution. "i am not the bearer of good news this morning, miss hastings. there has been an accident, and pliny is injured, not seriously we hope. he is at the euclid house. would you wish to go to him at once?" dora's face had grown paler, but she neither exclaimed nor fainted, and answered him promptly and firmly. "i will go to him at once. mr. mallery, our carriage is away, will you signal a car for me? i will be ready in five minutes. but tell me this much. ought i to send for my father and mother?" "i fear you ought," said theodore, gently. she turned at once, and issued brief, rapid and explicit orders to the waiting john, and in less than five minutes they were in the car. on the way down theodore gave her what meager knowledge he possessed concerning the accident, withholding the bitter cause of it all, which, however, he saw she too readily guessed. as they passed dr. armitage's house he said: "dr. armitage is not at home." and she answered emphatically: "i am glad of it." then he wondered if she were glad for the same reason he was. at noon mr. and mrs. hastings arrived, and before the day was done the other anxious watchers had reason heartily to wish that their coming had been longer delayed. evidently dora had not inherited her self-control from her mother, or if she had mrs. hastings had not a tithe of it remaining, and her nervousness added not a little to the wildness of the suffering patient. mr. hastings on his part seemed anxious and angry, both in one. he said to dora savagely that he hoped it would teach the reckless fellow a lesson that he would never forget, and resented with haughty silence dr. arnold's sententious reply, that "it was likely to do just that." then he openly and unhesitatingly regretted dr. armitage's absence, sent twice to his home to learn concerning his whereabouts, and was not improved in temper by learning that he was lying ill at buffalo; and, finally, with much hesitancy and visible annoyance, that would have provoked to withdrawal a younger and less eminent man, committed the case into dr. arnold's hands. the doctor skillfully evaded the questions that were trembling on mrs. hastings' lips and hungering in dora's eyes concerning the nature and extent of pliny's injuries, which fact led theodore to be very much alarmed, and yet he was totally unprepared for the abrupt answer which he received when he first found a chance to ask the question in private. "he hasn't a chance in a hundred; brain is injured; is morally certain to have a course of fever, and he has burned his system so thoroughly with poison that he has no rallying power." it was late in the afternoon before the doctor, after issuing very strict and careful orders, left his patient for a few hours. mr. hastings turned at once to theodore, and spoke in the haughty, half-sarcastic tone which he always assumed toward him. "now, young man, i don't know how you became mixed up with this sad accident; some people have a marvelous faculty for getting mixed up with troubles. neither do i know to what extent you have attempted to serve me; but if you have put yourself out in any way for me or mine, i am duly grateful, and stand ready, as you very well know, to liquidate your claims with a check whenever you are prepared to receive it." in justice to mr. hastings, be it said that he had drank a glass of brandy just before this insulting speech, and its fumes were already busy with his brain. theodore made no sort of reply; his heart was too heavy with a sickening dread of what was to come to be careful about maintaining his own dignity--and, indeed, mr. hastings gave him very little time, for he immediately added: "and now, as the doctor has ordered absolute quiet, it is advisable for all who are not useful, to absent themselves from the sick-room. therefore, it would perhaps be well for you to retire at once." theodore bowed gravely, and immediately left the room. dora immediately followed him--her cheeks were glowing, and her eyes were unusually bright. "mr. mallery," she began--speaking in a quick, excited tone--"i beg you will not consider yourself grossly insulted. papa does not mean--does not know----" and she stopped in pitiful confusion. theodore spoke gently--"i am not offended, miss dora--your father is excited, and withal does not understand me. but do not think that i have deserted pliny, or can desert him. and we will give ourselves continually to prayer concerning him. shall we not?" the first tears that dora had shed that day rolled down her cheeks; but she only answered: "i thank you _very_ much," and vanished. deprived thus suddenly of the privilege of doing for and watching over his friend, theodore bethought himself of the other sufferer, and sought the room where he had been carried. he tapped lightly at the door, but received no answer, and afraid to make further demonstrations, lest he might disturb the sick one, he turned away. but a waiter just at that moment flung open the door, and to his amazement, theodore saw that the room was empty! "where is mr. phillips?" he inquired, in surprise. "they have taken him home, sir. didn't you know it?" "no, i did not," answered theodore, shortly, and turned quickly away. in spite of himself, a bitter feeling of almost rebellion possessed him. "he is able to be carried home," he muttered, "while his partner in trouble must toss in delirium--and _he_ was much the most to blame this time, i have no doubt!" no sooner had these sullen thoughts been uttered than he was startled at them, and ashamed of himself. he struggled to regain a right feeling toward the more fortunate man, and punished himself by determining to go at once to mr. phillips' residence, and inquire in person for his son, instead of returning to the store and sending a message, as he had at first intended. a flushed-faced, swollen-eyed servant answered his ring, and to his inquiry as to how mr. phillips was, answered: "well, sir, he's doing the best he can." "can i see him?" asked theodore, wondering at the strangeness of the answer. "i guess so--or i'll see. come in!" and she flung open the parlor door and left him. in a few minutes the elder mr. phillips entered. he recognized theodore at once, though the two had met but once in their lives. the look of unreconciled pain on his face settled into a sterner form as he encountered theodore, and he spoke with a marked sternness--"young man! were you with my son last night? are you one of those who helped lead him astray?" "i thank god i am not!" answered theodore, fervently, yet in gentle tone. even though he believed that the young man's father had been one of the most potent influences in the ruin of his son, yet the present was no time to have it appear. "i called to see if i could in any way serve you, and to know if i might see your son." "thank you--there is nothing more to do--but you can see him!" the voice that uttered those hopeless words was husky with suppressed tears, and yet, as he opened a door at his right, motioned theodore forward, and abruptly left the room, the sad and solemn truth had not so much as glimmered on the young man's mind. not until he had fairly entered and nearly crossed the back parlor, were his feet arrested by the presence of death. even then he could not believe it possible that god had called for the soul, and it had gone. he stood still and looked on the straight motionless figure, covered with its drapery of white. he advanced and looked reverently upon the face that only yesterday he had seen bubbling with life and fun. the icy seal was surely there, the features had felt that solemn, mysterious touch, and grown sharper and more clearly defined under it. nothing in his life had ever come to theodore with such sudden and fearful surprise. pliny, then, was the one still hovering this side, and the other gone. what an awful death! "murdered," he said, with set lips and rigid face. "just murdered! that is the proper term. why could they not be hung like other murderers? was it because their crime was committed by degrees, instead of at one fatal blow?" he could not trust himself to stand looking on that still face, and pursue these thoughts further. he turned quickly away, and mechanically opened the family bible, in hope of something to steady his fierce, almost frightful, thoughts. he opened to the family record--saw the familiar name benjamin phillips--born nov. th, --. the date was familiar too--the date of his own birthday--year, month, even day. how strange the coincidence! pliny's birthday too--he had long known that; now here were the trio. three young men launched upon life in the same day of time! how _very_ different must have been the circumstances of each! he glanced about the pleasant room; he could imagine with what lavish love and tender care this young man's early years had been surrounded--he knew something of the high hopes which had centered in him. he knew all about the elegance and grandeur of pliny's home--he had vivid memories of the horrors of his own. now here they were, pliny struggling wildly with his disordered brain--this one--where? who had made them to differ? was this the repeatal of the old, old sentence: "the iniquities of the fathers shall be visited upon the children?" but then what a father had _his_ been to him, and yet how full of signal blessing and wonderful success had his life been! then sounding sweetly through his brain came the sentence: "when my father and my mother forsake me, then the lord will take me up." had the gracious lord, then, come to him, and thrice filled what a father's place should have been? and was he but showing these fathers, who had dared to take the responsibility upon themselves, and while they fed and petted and loved the poor bodies, starved and seared the souls, what _their_ love, when put in defiance to _his_, could do? being utterly deserted of human love, had it been better for him than this misguided, unsanctified, distorted love had been to these two young men? aye; for they had kept the parents' place--assumed the responsibilities, and yet ignored the most solemn of them all. moved by a powerful, all-controlling emotion, theodore sank on his knees beside the silent form, and cried out in an agony of prayer--"oh, _my_ father, thou hast taken this soul away beyond the reach of prayer or entreaty--bind up the broken hearts that this thy judgment has caused. thou doest all things well. but oh, i pray thee, spare that other--save _his_ life yet a little--give him time. oh, be _thou_ his father, and lead him even as thou hast led me. hear this cry, i beseech thee, for the sake of thy son!" then he went softly and reverently from the room and the house of mourning. there stood two others beside that still head when it was pillowed in the coffin--the stricken father and mother. they stood and dropped tears of utter agony on the face of their first-born and only son. did a vision come to them of the time when they had leaned lovingly over the sleeping baby in the great rocking-chair, standing empty there in the corner? did they remember how merrily they had laughed, as they assured each other that they had no fear of "baby ben" becoming a drunkard? oh, if they _had_ feared, and prayed, "lead him not into temptation," and made earnest effort to answer their own prayers, would the end have been as it was? [illustration] chapter xxiv. a double crisis. theodore was at his post in the private office deep in business when his next hasty summons came. pliny was raving and repeating his name incessantly, and dr. arnold had said that he must come immediately or the consequences would be fatal. "i shall remain all night if i am permitted to do so," theodore explained to mr. stephens while he was putting bills and notes under lock and key. "and in the morning--" "in the morning get rest if you can," interrupted mr. stephens. "at all events, do not worry about the store. remain with the poor boy just as much as you can while he lives. i will see that all goes right here. mcpherson is coming in to help me; he has his new clerk under splendid training." theodore looked the thanks that his heart was too heavy to speak. mr. hastings glanced up grimly as he entered pliny's room, twenty minutes afterward, but did not choose to speak. nobody noticed the omission--for eyes and thoughts were too entirely engrossed with the sufferer. and then commenced a hand-to-hand encounter with death. day by day he relentlessly pursued his victim, and yet was mercifully kept at bay. the fever burned fiercely, and the faithful, watchful doctors worked constantly and eagerly. theodore was constantly with his friend. when the delirium ran high this was absolutely necessary, for while pliny did not seem to recognize him, yet he was calmer in his presence. mr. hastings had ceased to demur or grumble--indeed, sharp and persistent anxiety and fear had taken the place of all other feelings. pliny had disappointed him, had angered him, had disgraced him at times, yet he reigned an idol in his father's heart. during all these anxious days and nights dr. arnold's face had been grave and impassive, and his voice had failed to utter a single encouraging word. but one night he said, peremptorily: "there are too many people, and there is too much moving around in this room every night. i want every single one of you to go to bed and to sleep, except this young man. you can stay, can you not?" this with a glance toward theodore, who bowed in answer. "well, then, you are the only watcher he needs, and the sooner the rest of you retire the better it will be for the patient." mr. hastings rebelled utterly. "there was no occasion for depending upon strangers," he said, haughtily. "any or all of the family were ready to sit up; and besides, there were scores of intimate friends who had offered their aid." and the doctor, quite as accustomed to having his own way as mr. hastings could possibly be, answered, testily: "but the family and the 'scores of intimate friends' are just the beings that i don't want to-night, and this 'stranger' has proved himself a very faithful and efficient nurse during the last few weeks, and _he_ is the one _i'm_ going to leave in charge." he carried his point, of course. dr. arnold always did. when the door was closed on the last departure he came with very quiet tread to theodore's side, and spoke in subdued tones. "this night is a matter of life and death with us; he needs the most close and careful watching; above all, he needs absolute quiet and the absence of all nervousness. there will be a change before morning--a very startling one perhaps. it is for this reason i have banished the family. i trust _you_, you see." "i don't trust myself," answered theodore, huskily, yet making a great effort to control his voice. "it is more to the point that _i do_ just at present; the next eight hours will be likely to determine whether it has all been in vain. i will give you very careful directions, and i will be in twice during the night, although i am absolutely powerless now; can do no more than you will be able to do yourself. meantime that friend of yours, mcpherson i think his name is, will be on guard in the room next to this, ready to answer your lightest call. indeed, you may open the door between the two rooms, but on no account speak or move unless absolutely necessary. this heavy sleep will grow lighter _perhaps_. now, i want your fixed attention." then followed very close and careful directions--what to do, and, above all, what _not_ to do. "doctor, tell me one word more," said theodore, quivering with suppressed emotion. "how do _you_ think it will end?" "i have hardly the faintest atom of hope," answered this honest, earnest man. "if, as i said, after midnight this sleep grows heavier, and you fail to catch the regular breathing, you may call the family. i think no human sound will disturb him after that; but if, on the contrary, the breathing grows steadier, and occasionally he moves a little, then i want you fairly to hold your breath, and then we may begin to hope, provided nothing shall occur to startle him; but i will be in by twelve or a little after." the doctor went away with lightest tread, and theodore opened the door of communication with the next room, met the kind, sympathetic eyes of jim resting on him, returned his grave, silent bow, and felt sustained by his presence, then went back to his silent, solemn work. close by the bedside, and thus, his head resting on one hand, his eyes fixed on the sleepless face, his heart going up to god in such wordless agony of entreaty as he had never felt before, passed the long, long hours. "the eyes of the lord are in every place." how this watcher blessed god for that promise now! his, then, were not the only watcher's eyes bent on that white face; but he who knew the end from the beginning--aye, who held both beginning and end in the hollow of his hand, was watching too. more than that, the loving redeemer, who had shed his blood for this poor man's soul, who loved it to-night with a love passing all human knowledge, was the other watcher. so theodore waited and prayed, and the burden of his prayer was, "lord, save him." ten, eleven, twelve o'clock, still that solemn silence, still that wordless prayer. no doctor yet "i would not leave you if it were not absolute necessity," he had said. "life or death in another family, with more for human knowledge to do than there is here, takes me away; but i will be back as soon after twelve as possible." would he _never_ come? it was ten minutes after twelve now, still no change--or, was there? could he catch the breathing as distinctly now? was the sleep heavier? ought he to call the family? oh, compassionate savior! must they give him up? had not his been the prayer of faith? and yet the breathing was certainly distinct, the pulse was steady--a half hour more, one or two little sighs had escaped the sleeper; other than that death-like stillness reigned. _was_ he better or worse? oh for the doctor's coming! suddenly pliny gave a quick restless movement, then lay quiet; and then for the first time in long, long days, spoke in natural yet astonished tones: "theodore!" then with a sudden nervous tremor and a startled tone: "what is it? what is it?" theodore knew that great beads of perspiration stood on his forehead, but his voice sounded natural and controlled as he stood with cup and spoon beside the bed. "hush, pliny, you have had the headache, it is night. swallow that and go to sleep." like a weary, submissive child pliny obeyed; and theodore, trembling in every limb so that he dropped rather than sat down in his chair, again watched and waited. a shadow fell between him and the light and his raised eyes met the doctor's. he had come in through the room where jim was waiting. he came with noiseless tread to the bedside, and the instant his practiced eyes fell on the sleeping face they lighted up with a quick, glad look. moving silently back to the door again he signaled theodore to come to him, while as silently jim slipped by and took his place. rapidly the story of the night was rehearsed. "well," said the doctor, with smiling eyes, "i believe we have now to 'thank god and take courage.' can you follow the rest of my instructions as implicitly as you have these? i would remove this strain on your nerves if i dared, but it is a fearfully important night, and you see i can trust you." "i can do it," said theodore, with a curious ring of joy in his softly voice. "i can do _anything now_." and the rest of that night was given not only to faithful watching and nursing, but to thankful prayer, and to solemn promises that his spared life should be more than ever his special charge, his constant care, until one of those "many mansions" should be set apart as his. it was four weeks after this eventful night. pliny was bolstered back among the pillows in the rocking-chair, resting after a walk half way across his room. it was a clear, sharp winter morning, but there was freshness and sunshine in pliny's room. both theodore and dr. vincent were his companions. theodore was making his morning call, and the young doctor was waiting to see what effect the morning walk would have upon the invalid, who was so slowly and feebly rallying back to life. mrs. hastings and dora had gone to hastings' hall, where they were now able to spend a small part of each day. the conversation between the two gentlemen, faintly helped along by pliny, was interrupted by the entrance of mr. hastings, and with him a stranger to theodore, but he was greeted by pliny as dr. armitage, whereupon theodore made him an object of close scrutiny, and discovered that his face not only bore traces of the frequent use of liquor, but stood near enough to learn from his breath that he had so early in the morning indulged in a glass of brandy. he came forward with an easy, half-swaggering air, bestowed an indifferent glance on theodore, and a supercilious one on dr. vincent, and addressed pliny. "well, young gentleman, you've had a hard pull, they tell me, as well as myself. fortunately i could consult with _myself_ or i should have died. how is it with you?" "i had better advisers than myself," answered pliny, smiling. "wants building up," said the doctor, turning abruptly from the son to the father. "never'll gain strength in this way--ought to have begun tonics three weeks ago. well, we'll do what we can to repair the mischief. port wine is as good as anything to begin on. you may order a bottle brought up, if you please." as mr. hastings rang the bell and gave the order, pliny stole a glance of mingled entreaty and dismay at theodore and dr. vincent. the latter immediately advanced, and respectfully addressed the old doctor. "i beg your pardon, sir; but if you will study the patient's pulse a moment you will observe that his nerves are not in a condition to bear liquors of any sort." dr. armitage answered him first by a prolonged stare before he said: "i studied pulse and nerves, and things of that sort, before you were born, young man." "that may be," answered dr. vincent, firmly, "but dr. arnold and myself have been studying this gentleman's for the past six weeks, and in a fearful state they have been, i assure you. you must remember that you have hardly seen him as yet, and have not examined the case." by this time the wine had arrived, and dr. armitage, while he busied himself in pouring out a glassful, assumed an air of jocoseness and said: "perhaps you would not object to opening a private class instruction in _nerves_ and the like, by which means i might gain some information, and you prove a benefactor to your race." then to pliny: "now, sir, drink that, and it will put new life into you." and the tempting glass was held exasperatingly near poor pliny's weak and fearfully-tempted hand. theodore, standing close beside him, saw the great beads of perspiration gathering on his white forehead, and fairly _felt_ the quiver of excitement that shook his frame. to save pliny from taking the glass, and entirely uncertain as to what he should do next, he mechanically reached out his hand for it. dr. armitage evidently regarded him as an ally, and at once resigned it, saying, with his eyes still fixed on pliny: "drink it slowly and enjoy it. i'm sure i don't wonder that you are wasted to a skeleton." pliny's pleading eyes sought theodore's, and he spoke in a low, husky whisper: "finish this business quick in some way, or i shall drink it--i know i shall." dr. vincent had drawn near and caught the import of the whisper. with a very quiet manner, but also with exceeding quickness, he took the glass and deliberately poured it into the marble basin near which he stood, and the fragrant old wine instantly gurgled down innumerable pipes, and was harmless forever. dr. armitage's red face took a purplish tint, and he turned fiercely to the man who dared to meddle with his orders. "do you know what you are about?" he shouted rather than said. "are you aware that i am the family physician at hastings' hall?" "i am aware of it," was dr. vincent's quiet and composed reply. "and it makes no sort of difference to me, so long as i remember that dr. arnold has had this particular case in charge from the first, and his orders are distinct and explicit, and i am here to see that they are obeyed, which thing i shall do even if i have to send the entire contents of that bottle in the same direction that part of it has traveled. at the same time i am sorry to be _compelled_ to lay aside the courtesy due from one physician to another." at this most opportune moment the door opened quietly and dr. arnold entered. he went at once to pliny's side, and placed his finger on the throbbing wrist, as he said with an inquiring glance about the room: "it strikes me you are all forgetting the need of quiet and freedom from excitement. this pulse is racing." then for the first time noticing dr. armitage, he addressed him courteously. "good morning, doctor, you are on your feet again, are you? i congratulate you. meantime dr. vincent and myself have been doing your work here for you to the best of our abilities." in answer to which dr. armitage drew himself up with an air of extreme hauteur, and said, addressing mr. hastings: "the time has come, sir, for you to choose between this gentleman and myself. if you desire any further service of him then i will consider your name withdrawn from my list." dr. arnold elevated his eyebrows, evidently astonished that even dr. armitage should be guilty of so gross a violation of propriety, while dr. vincent drew near and in rapid undertone related the cause of the disturbance. dr. arnold at first frowned, and then as the story progressed nodded approvingly. "quite right, quite right; he should not have touched the stimulus under any circumstances whatever. dr. armitage, i am persuaded that even you would have frowned on the idea had you watched this case through in all its details." dr. armitage did not so much as vouchsafe him a glance, but kept his angry eyes still fixed on mr. hastings as he said: "i repeat my statement. this matter must be decided at once. you have but to choose between us." now this really placed mr. hastings in an extremely awkward dilemma. dr. armitage was not only his family physician, but the two had had all sorts of business dealings together of which only they two knew the nature; but then, on the other hand, mr. hastings believed that dr. arnold had saved the life of his son. he knew that life was in a very feeble, dangerous state even now, and he actually feared that dr. armitage occasionally drank brandy enough to bewilder his brain, and at such times perhaps was hardly to be trusted, and yet he could not dismiss him. "really," he stammered, "i--we--this is a very disagreeable matter. i regret exceedingly--" and just here relief came to him from an unexpected quarter. pliny roused himself to speak with something of his old spirit. "you two gentlemen seem to ignore my existence or overlook it somewhat. i believe i am the unfortunate individual who requires the service of a physician. dr. armitage, i have no doubt that my father will continue to look upon you as his guardian angel, physically speaking; but as for me, i'm inclined to continue at present under charge of the pilot who has steered me safely thus far." "that being the case," said dr. arnold, briskly, "i will resume command at once, and order every single one of you from the room, except you, dr. vincent, if you have time to remain and administer an anodyne, and you, young man, must go directly back to bed." mr. hastings promptly opened a side door and invited dr. armitage to a few moments' private conversation, and theodore departed, jubilant over the turn affairs had taken, and fully determined that dr. vincent should be _his_ family physician. chapter xxv. steps upward. "can you take another boarder, grandma?" this was the question with which theodore startled the dear old lady, while she and winny still lingered with him at the breakfast table. jim had eaten in haste, and hurried away to his daily-increasing business. but theodore had seemed lost in thought, and for some little time had occupied himself with trying to balance his spoon on the edge of his cup, instead of eating his breakfast. at last he let the spoon pitch into the cup with a decisive click, and asked the aforesaid question. grandma mcpherson, looking a little older, it is true, than on the blessed day in which "tode mall" first sought her out, but still having the look of a wonderfully well preserved old lady, in an immaculate cap frill, a trifle finer than in the days of yore, and a neat black dress, presided still at the head of her table. she dropped her knife, at theodore's question, and gave vent to her old-time exclamation: "deary me, what notion has the dear boy got now?" "he has an inebriate asylum in view, mother, and wants to engage you for physician, and your daughter for matron." this was winny's grave explanation. theodore did not even smile. she had unwittingly touched too near the subject of his thoughts. "don't tease the boy, winny dear," said the little gentle mother; then she turned her kind, interested eyes on him, and waited for his explanation. "the fact is, i want to get pliny away from home," he said, anxiously. "you have no idea of the temptations that constantly beset him there. i don't think it is possible for him to sit down to his father's table at any time without being beset by what the poor fellow calls his imps." "what a world it is, to be sure," sighed grandma mcpherson, "when a boy's worst enemy is his own father. well, deary, i'm ready to help you fight the old serpent to the very last, and so i am sure is winny. what is your plan?" "he thinks of coming into the store--he can have poor winter's place for the present. at least, mr. stephens has made him that offer. he seems to feel the necessity of doing something, if for no other purpose than to use up his time." winny glanced up quickly. "is that all his splendid collegiate education is going to amount to?" she asked, wonderingly, and possibly with a little touch of scorn in her voice. "a clerk in mr. stephens' store! i thought he was going to study law?" "he has used up his brain-power too thoroughly to have any hope of carrying out these plans--at least at present," answered theodore, sadly. "but, after all, i think we may consider his life not _quite_ a failure, if he should become such a man as mr. stephens. well, grandma, my plan is, that he could room with me, and so make you no extra work in that direction, and, if you _could_ manage the other part, i believe it would be a blessed thing for pliny." "oh, we can manage that all nicely! can't we, winny dear? you are willing to try it, i know!" "oh, _certainly_, mother--anything to be on the popular side--only i think we might hang out a sign, and have the advantage of a little notoriety in the matter." there was this alleviating circumstance connected with winny: she didn't mean a single one of the sharp and rather unsympathetic things that she said--and those that met her daily had come to understand this and interpret her accordingly. so theodore arose from the table, greatly relieved in mind, and not a little gratified, that daughter, as well as mother, was willing to co-operate with him. thus it was that pliny found himself domiciled that very evening in theodore's gem of a room--his favorite books piled with theodore's on the table, his dressing-case standing beside theodore's on the toilet-table opposite. "this is jolly!" he said, eagerly, surveying with satisfied eye all the neat appointments of the room, when at last everything had been arranged in accordance with his fastidious taste. "i declare i feel as if i had been made over new, or was somebody else altogether--ready to begin life in decent, respectable earnest!" and then he suddenly dropped into the arm-chair at his side, and buried his face in his hands. "well now!" said theodore, cheerily. "that's rather an april change, when one considers that it is only january. my dear fellow, what spell has come over you?" "i was reminded of ben--i don't know how or why just then--except that thoughts of him are constantly coming to haunt, and sometimes almost madden me. oh, mallery! that is a past that can never, _never_ be undone!" he spoke in a hollow, dreary tone, and his slight form, enfeebled by disease, was quivering with emotion; yet what could his friend say? how try to administer comfort for such a grief as that? he remained entirely silent for a few moments, then offered the only consolation that he could bear. "the past is not yours, pliny, but in a sense the present and future are. let us have it such a future that it can be looked back upon with joy, when you and i have become gray-haired men. now, pliny, it is late. will you join me in my bible reading--since you and i are a family, can not we have family worship?" pliny arose quickly. "i will not disturb your meditations," he said, a little nervously. "but you know my taste don't run in that line." then he began a slow, monotonous walk up and down the room. theodore opened his bible without further entreaty or comment; but as pliny watched the grave face, he could not fail to notice the disappointed droop of his friend's features, and the line of sadness that gathered about his sensitive mouth. suddenly pliny came to a stand-still, and finally went abruptly to theodore's side. "dear old fellow!" he said, impulsively--laying his hand with a familiar, almost caressing, movement on the arm of the other--"would it afford you an unparalleled satisfaction if i should settle quietly down there, and read in that big book with you?" theodore looked up with a faint smile, and returned steadily the look from those handsome blue eyes as he said-- "more than i can tell you." "then hang me if i don't do it! mind, i don't see in what the satisfaction consists, but that is not necessary, i suppose, in order to make my act meritorious. now, here goes!" down he dropped into a chair, and resolutely took hold of one side of the large handsome bible. theodore reveled in bibles; he had them of numerous sizes and of great beauty; he had not forgotten the time when he had none at all, and after that how precious two leaves of the sacred book became to him. after the reading, he linked his arm in pliny's, and said in so winning and withal so natural and matter-of-course a tone, "it will be very pleasant to have a companion to kneel with me--i have always felt a desire for one," that pliny did not choose to decline. so the young man, reared in a christian city, surrounded by hundreds of christian men and women, felt himself personally prayed for, for the first time in his life. the rest of that winter was a busy one--full of many and bewildering cares. besides his pressing duties at the store--and they daily grew more pressing, as the responsibilities of the business were thrown more and more upon him--theodore had undertaken to be a constant shield and guard to the constantly tempted young man. no one who has not tried it knows or _can_ know how heavy is such a weight. daily the sense of it grew upon theodore; not for an hour did he dare relax his vigilance; he was perfectly overwhelmed with the countless snares that lay in wait _everywhere_ to tempt to ruin. not a journey to or from the store, not a trip to any part of the city or any errand whatever, but was fraught with danger, and evening parties and receptions and concerts were absolute terrors to theodore; nor was it a light task to arrange his affairs in such a manner as to be always ready for any whim that chanced to possess pliny's brain--and when that was arranged, it was sometimes equally difficult to discover a pretext for his constant attendance, in order that pliny's sensitive blood might not arise in opposition to this surveillance. however, the plans, most carefully and prayerfully formed, were not to be lightly resigned, and with one new excuse after another, and with mr. stephens always for his aid, theodore managed to get successfully through the winter--or, if not successfully, at least with but few drawbacks. and of these--oh, strange and bitter thought!--the hastings family were the worst. on his visits to his father's house, pliny had to go alone. mr. hastings had been sore opposed to the new arrangements, both as regarded business and boarding, from the very first, and, though he could not conquer pliny's determination, had managed to make it very uncomfortable for him; had chosen also to lay the principal blame of the entire arrangement--where, indeed, it belonged--on theodore, and glowered on him accordingly. so theodore staid away from the great house altogether, and struggled between his desire to keep pliny away from that direst of all temptations, and his desire not to interfere with the filial duties which pliny ought to have had, even though no such ideas possessed him. twice during the winter pliny took from his father's hand the glass of sparkling wine, and thereby roused afresh the demon who was only slumbering within him--he came out from the grand mansion disgusted, frightened at his broken resolves, and yet, towering above every other feeling, was the awful desire to have more of the poison; and what would have been the closing scene of that visit home, but for one thing, pliny in his sane moments next day shuddered to think. the one thing was, that theodore, first worried, and then alarmed at his friend's long stay, finally started in search of him, and took care that their ride down town should be in the same car, and by coaxings and beguilings, and also by force of a stronger will, enticed him home, and petted him tenderly through the fiery headache which the one glass and the tremendous excitement had induced. the second visit was the more dangerous, and fraught with direr consequences. theodore was unexpectedly detained by pressing business, and pliny seized upon that unfortunate evening in which to go home; and he reeled back to his room at midnight, just sense enough left to find his way home, with the aid of a policeman. theodore sat up during the rest of that long, weary night, and bathed the throbbing temples, and soothed as best he could the crazed brain, and groaned in spirit, and prayed in almost hopeless agony; yet, while he prayed, his faith arose once more, and once more the assurance seemed to come to him that christ had not died for this soul in vain. there was one important matter that occurred during the winter. over the doors of mr. stephens' dry-goods establishment had hung for a dozen years the sign: "stephens & co.," the "co." standing for a branch house in chicago. it was a glowing april morning in which theodore and pliny, both a little belated by a business entanglement of bills and figures that had taken half the night to set straight, were rushing along with rapid strides. they had left the street-car at the corner, and the hight of their present ambition was to reach the store before the city clock struck again, which thing it seemed on the point of doing, when suddenly both came to a halt and stared first at the store opposite, and then at each other in speechless amazement. the familiar sign was gone, and in its place there glittered and sparkled in the crisp air and early sunshine a new one-- "stephens, mallery & co." theodore rubbed his eyes, and stared in speechless wonder, while pliny gave vent to his emotions in lucid ejaculatory sentences: "well! upon my word and honor!--as sure as i'm alive!--if that don't beat me!" meantime theodore dashed abruptly across the road and entered the store, pliny following more leisurely, still staring at the magic sign. the clerks all bowed and smiled most broadly as the junior partner passed down the store; but that gentleman was too excited to notice them closely, and hurried into the private office. mr. stephens came forward on his entrance, his face all aglow with smiles, and cordially held out his hand. "mr. stephens!" gasped theodore, "how--what?" and then, utterly overcome, sank into one of the office-chairs, and covered his face with his hands. "my dear boy," said mr. stephens, with an outward calmness and an inward chuckle, "what is the matter with you this morning?" "what does it mean, sir? how came you to? how could you?" "lucid questions, my boy! i stand for one pronoun, but who is _it_?" "_you_ know, mr. stephens. the sign! the name!" "as for the sign, my dear fellow, it announces the name of the firm, as heretofore. i hope my partner will pardon me for keeping my name first. the new name means a great deal to me. it has meant a great deal in past days, and i mean it shall mean a great deal more in many ways. are you answered, my friend?" then followed a long, long talk--eager and excited on theodore's part; earnest and serious on mr. stephens'--the substance of which was that the young clerk had been entered as full partner in the extensive and ever-increasing business, or at least was to be so entered as soon as what mr. stephens called the trivialities of the law had been attended to. "you told me a few days ago that you had fully decided to make the mercantile business yours for life, and as i thought i could offer you as good advantages as you could find elsewhere, i couldn't resist the temptation to give you a bit of a surprise," explained mr. stephens, as theodore still looked bewildered. "i hope you are not offended at my rudeness?" this he added gravely, but with a little roguish twinkle in his eyes. "but, mr. stephens, how can it be? why i i haven't a cent of money in the world to put in the firm. it is utterly unjust to yourself," explained theodore, in distressed tones. "i am not so sure of that first statement, my boy;" and now both eyes and face expressed a business-like gravity. "i remember, if you do not, that i am twenty thousand dollars better off to-day than i should have been but for your courage and unparalleled presence of mind. moreover, you have more funds than you seem to be aware of. do you remember a certain ten-dollar bill which you brought to me one midnight? well, i held that bill in my hand, intending to present it to you to assist you in setting up business for yourself; but on learning that your intentions were to open a hotel, i concluded to await the development of affairs and invest otherwise. after i became conversant with your peculiar ideas concerning hotels, i discovered that you needed no assistance from me. but that ten dollars i invested sacredly for you, and a more remarkable ten dollars never came into my hands. everything that i have touched through it has turned to gold. your bank-book is in the left hand private drawer of my secretary. so, young man, you can investigate the state of your funds whenever you choose, and bestow whatever portion of them upon the new firm that your wisdom suggests." theodore still remained with his elbow leaning on the table, and his face shaded with his hand. after a little silence mr. stephens came around to him and placed two hands trembling with earnestness on his slightly bowed head, and spoke in gentler tones than he had used heretofore. "above and beyond all these things, my dear boy, you are the only son i ever had, and you have well and faithfully filled a son's place to me. may i not do what i will for my own?" chapter xxvi. theodore's inspiration. "new york postmark--that's from ingolds & ferry, i suppose. chicago, that must be from southy, and this is ned's scrawling hand; now for the fourth--albany. who the mischief writes me from albany?" this was mr. stephens' running commentary on his letters. he broke the seal of the albany one, and glanced at its contents. "um," he said, meditatively, leaning his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand. "now to whom shall i send this appeal? i don't know of any one. mallery?" "yes, sir," answered theodore from behind the screen. "do you know of any one who could go to albany in december and give--stop, i know myself. yes, that's an idea." "you certainly know more than i do then," answered theodore, laughing. "what do you happen to be talking about, sir?" "how soon can you give me ten minutes of your valuable time?" "at once, if you so desire," and the young man emerged into the main office, and came forward to the desk. "read that, then," answered mr. stephens, tossing him the albany letter. "a temperance lecture, eh, before the association; that's good," said theodore, running his eye rapidly over the few lines of writing. "mr. ryan would be a capital man to send them. don't you think so, sir? but then it's in december. ryan will not have returned from chicago by that time, i fear; but then there's mr. williams, he is a fine speaker and--" "i tell you i've found a man," interrupted mr. stephens; "the very man. theodore, you must deliver that temperance lecture yourself." "what a preposterous idea!" and before theodore proceeded further he gave himself up to a burst of merriment; then he added: "i thought you a wiser man than that, sir. why, i have never peeped in public." "don't you take part in the wednesday meetings every evening, and lead three out of four of the saturday evening ones, and speak in the young men's association meetings every month?" "yes, sir, certainly; but those are religious meetings, entirely different matters, and i--why, mr. stephens, i never thought of such a thing!" "i have often. i tell you, theodore, you have talents in that direction. you think and feel deeply on this matter of intemperance. if you don't understand it thoroughly in all its bearings, i'm sure i don't know who does, and you speak fluently and logically on any subject. of course there must be a first time, and albany is as good a place as any. this old friend of mine who has written for a speaker, will treat you like a prince, and there is plenty of time for preparation; the meeting is not until the d of december, and this is only october. my heart is very much set on this, my boy." but theodore could not do much besides laugh; he burst into another merry peal as he said: "my dear sir, i _can't_ jump into the person of a full-fledged orator in a month, not even to please _you_." "i'll send in your name and acceptance," was mr. stephens' positive answer. "there is no reason why you should grow into the character of a quiet, rusty merchant like myself. i mean to send you adrift now and then. besides, you owe it to the cause, i tell you; you could do incalculable good in that way." but theodore was not to be persuaded. the most that mr. stephens could win from him was permission to delay answering the letter a few days, and the promise that meantime he would make the matter a subject of prayerful consideration. "meantime there is another matter on hand," said mr. stephens, turning promptly, as was his custom, from one item of business to another. "information derived from hoyt demands either your or my immediate presence in their establishment. you understand the state of their affairs, do you not?" "perfectly. am i to attend to that business?" "well, it would be a great relief to me if you could. i hate the cars." "very well, sir; i can go of course. what time shall i start?" "what time _can_ you start?" theodore glanced at his watch. "the express goes up in forty minutes. shall i take that train?" mr. stephens smiled, and made what sounded like an irrelevant reply: "your executive ability is perfectly refreshing, theodore, to a man of my gray hairs and crushing weight of business." theodore seemed to consider the reply sufficiently explicit, and in forty minutes afterward, valise in hand, swung himself on the express train just as it was leaving the depot. mr. stephens' last remark to him had been, "remember, my boy, to think of that matter carefully, and be prepared to give me a favorable answer; my heart is set on it." and theodore had laughed and responded, "if i have an inspiration during my absence i may conclude to gratify you." * * * * * this all happened on an october day. the rest of the winter that was in progress during that last chapter, and the long, bright summer, had rolled away, and now another winter was almost ready to begin its work. the summer had been a quiet one aside from business cares and excitements. pliny still retained his boarding place in the quiet asylum that had opened to him when his own home had proved so dangerous a place. dora hastings had spent the most of the summer with her parents, traveling east and north, but pliny had remained bravely at his post struggling still with his enemy, but still persisting in carrying on the warfare alone. this one matter was a sharp trial to theodore's faith; indeed he felt himself growing almost impatient. "why _must_ it be that _he_ should halt and hesitate so long!" he exclaimed in a nervous and almost a petulant tone, as he paced up and down the back parlor one evening, after having had a talk with the little mother. "i am sure if ever i had faith for any one in the world i had for him." "have you got it now?" she asked him, gently. "it appears to me as if you were pretty impatient--kind as if you thought you had prayed prayers enough, and it was high time they were answered." theodore looked surprised and disturbed, and continued his walk up and down the room for a few moments in silence; then he came over to the arm-chair where she sat, and resting his hand on her arm, spoke low and gently: "you probe to the very depth, dear friend. thank you for your faithfulness. i see i must commence anew, and pray, 'lord, i believe; help thou mine unbelief.'" * * * * * well, the express train whizzed past half a dozen minor stations, and halted at last at the place of theodore's destination. circumstances favored him, and the business that brought him thither was promptly dispatched. then a consultation with his time-table and watch showed him a full hour of unoccupied time. he cast about him for some way of occupying it agreeably. just across the street was a pleasant building, and a pleasant sign, "general news depot and reading room." thither he went. the collection of books was unusually large and choice, theodore selected a book of reference that he had long been desiring to see and took a seat. several gentlemen were present, engaged in reading. presently the quiet was interrupted by the entrance of a middle-aged gentleman, to whom the courteous librarian immediately addressed himself. "good-afternoon, mr. cranmer. can i serve you to a book?" "no, sir," responded the new-comer, promptly. "i don't patronize this institution, you know, sir." theodore glanced up to see what sort of a personage this could be who was so indifferent to his privileges. he looked the gentleman in every sense, refined, cultivated and intellectual. at the same moment one of the other readers addressed him. "why the mischief don't you, cranmer? have you read every book there is in the world, and feel no need of further information?" "not by any manner of means; but i'm a temperance man myself." "what on earth has that to do with it?" and theodore found himself wondering and listening intently for the answer. "a great deal in this establishment. the truth is, if we had no drunkards we'd have no books." "what's the meaning of your riddle, cranmer?" queried an older and graver gentleman, who had been intently poring over a ponderous volume. "don't you know how the thing is done?" said cranmer, turning briskly around toward the new speaker. "they use the license money of this honorable and respectable old town to replenish the library!" "i don't see what that has to do with temperance," promptly retorted the young man who had begun the conversation. "using the money for a good purpose doesn't make drunkards. to what wicked use would _you_ have the funds put?" "i would keep the potter's field in decent order, and defray the funeral expenses of murderers and paupers. that would be putting liquor money to a legitimate use, making it defray its own expenses," returned mr. cranmer, composedly. "well but, cranmer," interposed the old gentleman, "explain your position. it isn't the money belonging to the poor drunken wretches that we use for the library, it's only what we make the scamps pay for the privilege of doing business." "for the privilege of making drunkards," retorted mr. cranmer. "here, i'll explain my position by illustrating. as i was coming up just now i met old connor's boy; he was coming up here, too. the poor fellow is hungering and thirsting after books. he has been at work over hours to my certain knowledge, for six weeks, to earn his dollar with which to join this library association. he just accomplished the feat last night, and was rushing over here, dollar in hand, and joy in his face. just as he reached the door old connor stumbled and staggered along with his jug in his hand, of course. 'here you,' he said to the boy, 'what you hiding under your arm? and what you about, anyhow? mischief, i'll be bound. here give it to me whatever 'tis.' now, gentlemen, i stood there, more shame to me, and saw that poor wretch of a father deliberately take that hard-earned dollar away from his boy. i saw the boy go crying off, and the father stagger to that rum hole across the street, get his jug filled, and pay that dollar! now when that respectable rum-seller comes to pay his license money, he is as likely to bring that stolen dollar as any other--and they are all stolen in the first place from wives and children; and when this _splendid_ library association, which is an honor to the town, buys its next books, it buys them with money stolen from the jimmy connors of the world. that's my opinion in plain english, and i don't propose to pay my dollar in supporting any such anti-temperance institution." theodore had listened attentively to this conversation, and his blood was roused and boiling. he turned quickly away from the long line of splendid books, and addressed mr. cranmer. "i entirely agree with your position, sir," he said, earnestly. "and i do not see how it is possible for any strictly temperance man to feel otherwise." "good for you, young man," responded mr. cranmer, warmly. "i like especially to see a _young_ man sound and square on this subject." "well, now, i call that straining at a gnat and swallowing a camel," remarked a gentleman who had heretofore taken no part in the conversation. "i'm a temperance man myself, always have been, but i consider that carrying the thing to a ridiculous extreme." at this point theodore, much to his regret, heard the train whistle, and was obliged to leave the question unsettled; but the first remark he made to mr. stephens on his return, after business was disposed of, was: "well, sir, i found my inspiration." "ah, ha!" said mr. stephens. "glad of that. what is your text?" "the amazing consistency of the so-called temperance world," answered theodore, dryly. it was this combination of circumstances that led him to take his seat one wintry morning in a buffalo train, himself ticketed through to albany. there was still five minutes before the train would start; and while he chatted with jim who had come to see him off, the opening door revealed the portly form of mr. hastings, muffled to the throat in furs, and with the identical "wolfie" thrown over his arm--newly lined indeed in brilliant red, but recognized in an instant by its soft peculiar fur, and familiar to theodore as the face of an old friend. instantly his memory traveled back to the scenes connected with that long-ago and well-remembered journey when "wolfie" proved such a faithful friend to him. his face flushed at the thought of it, and yet the corners of his mouth quivered with laughter. he flushed at the memory of the wretched little vagrant that he was at that time, and he laughed at the recollection of "wolfie's" protecting folds and the new and delicious sense of warmth that they imparted to him. what a curious world it was. there sat mr. hastings in front of him now, as he had sat then, a trifle older, more portly, but in all essential respects the same haughty, handsome gentleman. but what mortal could recognize in himself the little wretched vagabond known familiarly as "tode mall!" he tried to travel backward and imagine himself that young scamp who stole his passage from albany to buffalo, at which thought the blood rolled again into his face, and he felt an instinctive desire to go at once and seek out the proper authorities and pay for that surreptitious ride. moreover, he resolved that being an honest man now it was his duty so to do, and that it should be the first item of business to which he would attend after leaving the cars. then he glanced about him to see if he could establish his identity with the little ragged boy. a gentleman with gray hair and gold spectacles bowed and addressed him. "good-morning, mr. mallery. going east far?" this was the merchant whose store joined their own. he knew nothing about "tode mall," but he held intimate business relations with the junior partner of the great firm. even mr. hastings bowed stiffly. mr. stephens' partner and the small boy who traveled in his company years before were two different persons even to him. at one of the branch stations that gentleman left the train, much to theodore's regret, as he had a curious desire to follow him once more in his journeyings and note the contrasts time had made. arrived in albany, he looked with curious eyes on the familiar and yet unfamiliar streets. every five minutes he met men whom he had known well in his boyhood. he recognized them instantly now. they did not look greatly changed to him, yet not a living soul knew him. he went into establishments from which he had been unceremoniously ordered, not to say kicked, years before, and presented their business card, "stephens, mallery & co.," and was treated by those same business men with the utmost courtesy and cordiality. he went down some of the old familiar haunts, and could not feel that they had much improved. he met a bloated, disfigured, wretched looking man, and something in the peculiar slouching gate seemed familiar to him. he made inquiries, and found him to be the person whom he had half surmised, the old-time friend of his boyhood, jerry, the only one who had had a word of half comfort to bestow on him when he landed in albany that eventful night after his trip with mr. hastings, homeless and desolate. jerry stared at him now, a drunken, sleepy stare, and then instinctively stood aside to let the gentleman pass, never dreaming that they had rolled in the same gutter many a time. does it seem strange to you that during all these years theodore had not long ere this returned to this old home of his and sought out that wretched father? sometimes it seemed very strange to him. don't imagine that he had not given it long and serious thought, but he had shrunken from it with unutterable terror and dismay; he had no loving, tender memories of his father--nothing but cruelty and drunkenness and sin by which to remember him. still oftentimes during these later years he had told himself that he ought to seek out his father; he ought to make some effort to reclaim him. he had prayed for him constantly, fervently, had poured out his whole soul in that one great desire; still he knew and remembered that "faith without works is dead." he had made some effort, had written earnest appeals hot from his heart, to which he had received no sort of a reply. he had written to one and another in albany, prominent names that he remembered, clergymen of the city as he learned their addresses, begging for some assistance in the search after his father. each and all of these attempts had proved failures. to some of his letters he had received answers, courteous, christian answers, and the gentlemen had lent him their time and aid, but to no purpose. apparently the name and place of the poor, low rum-seller had faded from the memory of the albanians. he had disappeared one night after a more tremendous drunken row than usual, and had never been seen or heard of since. this was all. and theodore, baffled and discouraged, had yet constantly meant to come to the search in person, and as constantly had shrunken from setting out, and delayed and excused himself until the present time. now, however, he intended to set about it with vigor. "no matter what he is, nor how low he has sunken, he is _my father_, and as such i owe him a duty; and i must constantly remember that it is not he of whom i have bitter memories, but rum, rum! rum!!" this he told himself with firmly set lips, and a white, determined face. chapter xxvii. dawn and darkness. tweddle hall was reasonably full. the citizens of albany had turned out well to do their townsman honor, howbeit they did not know that he had tumbled about in their gutters and straggled about their streets up almost to the verge of young manhood. theodore had felt many misgivings since that day when he suddenly and almost unexpectedly to himself pledged his word to address an albany audience on this evening; but he had three things to assist him. first, he was thoroughly and terribly in earnest; secondly, he was entirely posted on all the arguments for and against this mammoth subject of temperance--he had studied it carefully and diligently; and, finally, he always grew so tremendously indignant and sarcastic over the monstrous wrong, and the ridiculous and inconsistent opinions held by the masses, that in ten minutes after he commenced talking about it he would have forgotten his audience in his massive subject, even though the president and his cabinet had been among them. so on this particular evening, his blood roused to the boiling point through brooding over the wrongs that had come to him by the help of this fiend, he spoke as he had no idea that he _could_ speak. had mr. stephens been one of his auditors his face might have glowed with pride over his protege. had mr. birge been present to listen to the eloquent appeal his heart might have thanked god that the little yellow-haired boy who stood in solemn awe and took in the meaning of his mother's only prayer, had lived to answer it so fully and grandly in the city of his birth. after the address there was a pledge circulated. theodore was the first to write his name in bold, firm letters, and he remarked to the chairman as he wrote: "this is the fifteenth pledge that i have signed. i am prouder every time i write my name in one." there were many signers that evening, among them several whose tottering steps had to be steadied as they came forward. then presently there came a pretty girl, leading with gentle hand the trembling form of an old man; both faces looked somewhat familiar to theodore, yet he could not locate them. "who are those two?" he said, as the little girlish white hand steadied the feeble fingers of the old man. "that is an interesting case. the girl has been the salvation of the old man; he is her grandfather. they belonged to a miserable set, the lowest of the low, but there seemed to be something more than human about the child. her father was killed in a drunken broil, and her mother lay drunk at the time, and died soon after; but she clung to this old man, followed him everywhere, even to rum holes. she got mixed in with a mission sabbath-school about that time, started down in that vile region where she lived; that was a great thing, too; it was sustained principally by an earnest young man by the name of birge--and, by the way, i have heard that he has since become a minister and is preaching in cleveland." "he is my pastor," answered theodore, while his eyes sparkled. "is it possible! well, now, if that isn't a remarkable coincidence!" theodore knew of some more coincidences quite as remarkable, but he only said: "and what further about this child?" "why, i really think she became a christian, then and there, young as she was--not more than five or six. after that she followed up her grandfather more closely than ever. people have seen her kneel right down in the street, and ask god to 'make grandpa come home with her right away.' the old man gave up his rum after a time, though no one ever thought he would. he has since been converted, and they two are the most active temperance reformers that we have in the city. they are at every meeting, and are constantly signing pledges and leading up others to do so." "what are their names?" "he is grandfather potter--used to be known as 'old toper potter;' and she is known throughout the city as 'little kitty mckay.'" "why! she lived--" exclaimed theodore; then he stopped. what possible use could there be in telling the chairman of this great meeting that "little kitty mckay" lived in the attic of a certain house on rensselaer street at the same time that he lived in the basement; that her father was killed on the same night in which his mother died, and that in consequence of the fight and the murder, both of which took place in his father's rum cellar, he and his father had hurriedly decamped in the night, and wandered aimlessly for two years, thereby missing mr. birge's little mission school? "what did you say, sir?" said the chairman, bending deferentially toward the distinguished orator of the evening. "she lived in albany during this time, did you say?" "oh yes, sir; she has never been out of this city." and then, leaving the chairman to wonder what that could possibly have to do with the subject, theodore bent eagerly forward. two men were taking slow steps down the central aisle, trying to urge on the irresolute steps of the third--and the third one was jerry! they were trying to get him forward to the pledge table. would they succeed? it looked extremely doubtful. jerry was shaking his head in answer to their low entreaties, and trying to turn back. theodore arose suddenly, ran lightly down the steps, and advanced to his side. "jerry," he said, in distinct, low tones, "come; you used to be a good friend of mine, and i want you to do a good turn for me now, and sign this pledge." jerry turned bleared, rum-weakened eyes on him, and said in a thick, wondering voice: "who the dickens be you?" "i'm an old friend of yours. don't you know me? i used to be tode mall. don't you remember? come, take my arm; you and i have walked arm in arm down broadway many a time; let us walk together now down this aisle and sign the pledge together." for all answer jerry turned astounded eyes upon the speaker, and muttered in an under tone: "you be hanged! 'tain't no such--yes, 'tis--no 'tain't--'tis, too--them's his eyes and his nose! i'll be shot if it ain't tode mall himself!" "yes," said theodore, "i'm myself positively, and i want you to come with me and sign that pledge. i signed it years ago, and with god's help it has made a man of me. it will help you, jerry. come." great was the rustle of excitement in the hall as the notorious jerry presently moved down the aisle leaning on the arm of the orator, and it began to be whispered through the crowd that he was once a resident of albany, and actually a friend of that "dreadful jerry collins!" many and wild were the surmises concerning him; but theodore, all unconscious and indifferent, glowed with thankful pride as he steadied the pen in the trembling hand, and saw poor jerry's name fairly written under the solemn pledge. on the morrow the eager search for the missing father was continued, aided by jerry and by several others as it gradually began to dawn upon their minds who the father was, and who and what the son had become. utterly in vain! had the earth on some dark night opened suddenly and silently and swallowed him, he could not, it would seem, have passed more utterly from mortal knowledge than he had. as the search grew more fruitless theodore's anxiety deepened. he prayed and mourned over that lost father, and it was with an unutterably sad heart that he finally dropped as a worthless straw the last seeming clew and gave him up. there was one other sacred duty to perform. when the orphan son left albany one winter morning there stood in one of the marble shops of the city, ready to be set up with the first breath of spring, a plain and simple tombstone bearing for record only these two words, "dear mother," and underneath this seemingly inappropriate inscription, understood only by himself, "before they call i will answer, and while they are yet speaking i will hear." the day was unusually cold in which theodore, on his homeward journey, was delayed at a quiet little town. the express train, due at three o'clock, had been telegraphed three hours behind time, and he took his way somewhat disconsolately to a dingy little hotel to pass the intervening hours as best he might. "strange!" he muttered drearily, "that i should have been delayed just here, only forty miles from home, with not a single earthly object of interest to help pass the hours away." he went forward to the forlorn little parlor, where a few sticks of wet wood were sizzling and smoking, and vainly trying to burn in a little monster of a stove over in one corner. theodore flung himself into a seat in front of this attempt at a fire, kept his overcoat on for the sake of warmth, and looked about him for some entertainment. he found it promptly. thrown over the back of a chair in the opposite corner was a great fur overcoat, with a brilliant red lining, and an unmistakable something about it that distinguished it from all other overcoats in the world. theodore knew at a glance that it belonged to mr. hastings. he started up and went toward it, smiling and saying within himself: "is this furry creature my good or evil genius, this time, i wonder?" then he went out to the horrible bar-room to make inquiries. the clerk knew nothing about mr. hastings; had never heard his name as he knew of. there was a man there, a stranger--had been for two days; he was sick, and they had put him to bed, and they were doing what they could for him. he had seemed unable to give his name or his residence. paralysis, or something of that sort, he believed the doctor called it. it had begun with a kind of a fit. yes, that fur overcoat belonged to him. theodore requested to be shown immediately to the stranger's room. alone, helpless, speechless, in the dingiest and most comfortless of rooms, he found mr. hastings! he went forward with eager, pitying haste, and spoke to the poor man--no answer, only a pitiful contortion of the face, and a hopeless attempt to raise the useless hand. clearly there was work enough for the next three hours! with the promptness, not only natural in him, but added to by long habit, theodore went to work. under his orders the room assumed very speedily a different aspect; the attending physician was sent for and consulted with; he was a dull little man, but appeared to know enough to say that he didn't know what to do for the sick man. "it was a curious case; he had never seen its like before." "then why haven't you telegraphed for his own physician and friends?" questioned theodore, indignantly. "why, bless your heart, sir!" exclaimed the proprietor of the hotel, "where would you have us telegraph, and to whom? he came here and fell down in a fit, and hasn't spoken since; and he had no baggage nor papers about him, so far as i can find, for it was precious little he would let me look. i assure you we have done our best," he added, in an injured tone. theodore apologised for his suspicious words; and failing to get even a nod from the sick man, to show that he understood his eager questions, acted on his own responsibility, and made all haste to the telegraph office. there he dispatched separate messages to mrs. hastings and pliny, adding to pliny's the words, "bring a doctor." to mr. stephens he said, "unavoidably detained." then one, utterly on his own private responsibility, to dr. arnold, "will you come to c---- by first train? a case of life and death." after that there was nothing to do but wait. another sick-bed! theodore sat down beside it in solemn wonderment over the incidents, many and varied, that were constantly bringing him in contact with this man and his family. the great troubled eyes of the sick man followed his every movement, and he could not resist the impression that at last they seemed to recognize him and take in some thought of hope. it seemed terrible, this living death, this unutterable silence, and yet those staring eyes, he did not know whether it was a hopeful indication or otherwise, but at last they closed and the sufferer seemed to sleep heavily. wearily passed the hours; he chose not to leave his charge to meet the two o'clock train, but sent a carriage and waited in nervous torture for the whistle of the train. at last there was a sound of arrival, and eager voices of inquiry below. he left in charge the stupid little doctor, who was doing his utmost to keep awake, and went down stairs. they were all there, frightened and inquiring--mrs. hastings, dora, pliny, and, oh joy! dr. arnold himself! theodore threw open the door of the dingy parlor. "come in, please all of you," he said, in a tone of gentle authority; "and be as quiet as possible." nevertheless they all talked at once. "is it a fever?" mrs. hastings asked, shivering and cowering in a frightened way over the wretch of a stove. "what is it, mallery?" pliny asked in the same breath; while even the taciturn doctor questioned, "what is the meaning of my imperative summons?" for them all theodore had prompt answers. "no, madam"--to mrs. hastings--"not a fever, i think. pliny, i hardly know what it is--the doctor in attendance seems equally ignorant. dr. arnold, if you will come with me, and these friends will wait a few moments, perhaps i can bring them an encouraging report." in this commotion only dora kept white, silent lips, nerved herself as best she could for whatever this night was to bring forth, and waited. theodore could not resist going over to her for an instant. she turned quickly to him, and laid a small quivering hand on his arm-- "mr. mallery, i know _you_ will tell me _the truth_!" "the _entire_ truth, miss dora, just as soon as i know it. i do not know how much the danger is; yet, meantime, flee to the strong for strength. will you come, dr. arnold?" pliny followed, and the three moved silently up to the quiet chamber. dr. arnold stood quietly before the sleeper--felt his pulse, bent his head and listened to the beating heart, touched with practiced fingers the swollen veins in his temples, then stood up and turned toward the waiting gentlemen. "well, doctor?" said theodore, with nervous impatience, while pliny fairly held his breath to hear the answer; it came distinct and firm from the doctor's lips--not harshly, but with terrible truthfulness: "he is entirely beyond human aid, mr. mallery!" then the room seemed to pliny suddenly to reel and pitch forward, and both doctors were busy, not with the father, but the son. what a fearful night it was! pliny's shattered nervous system was not strong enough to endure the shock. mrs. hastings went from one fainting fit to another, with wild shrieks of anguish between--but all sound that escaped dora, when theodore gently and tenderly told her "_the_ truth," was, "oh, god, have mercy!" and the rest of that night she spent at her father's bedside, on her knees. it was high noon before his heavy slumber changed to that unending sleep, but the change came--without word or sound or the quiver of a muscle--suddenly, touched by its maker's hand, the busy heart _stopped_. "can you get through the rest of this fearful scene without me?" dr. arnold asked in the afternoon when all was over. "i must go home. i have had three telegrams this morning. dr. armitage is ill again, and his wife has sent for me. i will try to make all arrangements for you in the city, if you think you can get along." "yes," said theodore, "i can manage. pliny is up again, you know. but, doctor, tell me what this sickness was. what was the cause of the sudden death?" "rum!" said the doctor, in short, stern tones. "that is, an over-dose of brandy was the immediate cause of the fit, and the continued use of stimulants through many years the cause of the paralysis. it is just another instance of a rum murder--that's hard language, but it's true--and the son is fearfully predisposed to follow in his father's footsteps. i fear for him." "pliny has overcome that predisposition at last, i hope and trust. i think he is safe now." "they are never safe, i think sometimes, until they are in their graves," answered the doctor, moodily. "or in the 'everlasting arms,'" returned theodore, reverently. but while this conversation was in progress, there was a more dangerous one going on up-stairs. mrs. hastings had recovered from her swoons, but was lying in a state of semi-exhaustion in her room. she raised her head languidly as she heard pliny's step, and gave her orders for the night. "pliny, you will have to take the room that opens into this, for the night. i am too nervous to be left alone. dora is going to have the room on the other side of the hall. she doesn't mind it in the least, she says. i wish i had her nerves; and, pliny, i feel that distressing faintness every few minutes. you may order a bottle of wine brought up, then pour out a glass and set it on that light stand by my bedside; then do try to have the house quiet--the utter inconsiderateness of some people is surprising!" had theodore been less occupied, or been at that moment within hearing, he would have contrived to have these orders countermanded, or at least carried out by some one besides pliny; but he was making final arrangements with the doctor in regard to meeting him on the next morning's train, so he knew nothing about that fatal bottle of wine. "there is barely time for us to reach the cars," said theodore, hurriedly, the next morning, not turning his head from his valise to look at the new-comer, but knowing by the step that it was pliny. "i am sorry that we shall have to hurry your mother and sister so. how are you feeling? did you get any rest last night, my poor fellow?" "feeling like a spinning-wheel going round backward and tipping over every now and then," pliny answered, in a thick, unnatural voice, and then theodore let valise and bundle and keys drop to the floor together, and turned a face blanched with horror and dismay upon his friend. there was no disguising the fearful fact--pliny had been drinking, and even then did not know in the least what he was about, or what was expected from him. removed by just a flight of stairs from his father's corpse, having the charge of his mother on one side, and his young sister on the other, he yet had forgotten it all, and lost himself in rum. poor, wretched pliny! poor theodore as well! which way should he turn? what do or say next? how could he help yielding to utter despair? there were circumstances about it that he did not know of; he knew nothing yet about that bottle of wine, nor how pliny had trembled before it; how he had walked his floor and struggled with the evil spirit; how he had even dropped upon his knees and tried to pray for strength; how he had even lain down at last, considering the tempter vanquished; how it was not until he was called toward morning to minister to his mother's needs, and she had said, as she set down the wine-glass: "how deathly pale you look, pliny! take a swallow of wine; it will strengthen you, and we all need to keep up our strength for this fearful day. just try it, dear--i know it will help you!" then, indeed, had pliny's courage failed him; he took the glass from his mother's offering hand, and drained its contents. after that you might as soon have tried to chain a tiger with a silken thread as to save pliny when once that awful appetite had been again aroused. wine was as nothing to him, but he was in a regularly licensed hotel, and there was plenty of liquid fire displayed in a respectable and proper manner in the bar-room. thither he went, and speedily put himself in such a state that he whistled and yelled and sang while his father's coffin was being carried down stairs. now, what was theodore to do? he flung himself into a chair opposite his bed, where pliny had just sense enough left to throw himself, and tried to think. dora first--this knowledge, or if that were not possible, at least this sight, must be spared her. but there was no time to spare--he resolutely put down the heavy bitter feelings at his heart, and thought hard and fast. then he hastened down stairs. "i want two carriages instead of one," he said to the landlord, who long ere this had felt a dawning of the importance and wealth of this company that he was entertaining, and was all attention. the second carriage was obtained, and pliny, with the aid of the little doctor, who had proved himself kind-hearted and discreet, was gotten into it. "where is pliny?" queried mrs. hastings, as, after much trouble and delay, she stood ready for theodore's offered arm. "he has gone ahead with the baggage," was theodore's brief explanation. then he hurried them so that there was no time for further questioning, though mrs. hastings found chance to say that, "it was a very singular arrangement--that she should suppose his mother and sister were of more importance than the baggage." the train was in when they reached the depot; but the faithful little doctor had obeyed theodore's instructions to the very letter--seating pliny in the rear car, and checking baggage and purchasing tickets for the entire party. when they were seated and moving, theodore left the ladies and sought out pliny. he occupied a full seat, and was asleep. with a relieved sigh, theodore returned to the mother and daughter--evaded the questions of the former as best he could, speaking of headache and faintness, both of which troubles pliny undoubtedly had--but the great truthful eyes of dora sought for, and found the truth in his. "_don't_ despair," he said to her, gently, even while his own heart was heavy with something very like that feeling. "the lord knows all about it. he _will not_ forsake us." it was not to be supposed that a car ride of scarcely two hours would steady poor pliny's brain. theodore had thought of that, and prepared for saving him any unnecessary disgrace. mcpherson, sitting in the little office back of his "temperance house" that morning, saw a boy approaching with a telegram for him. it read: "meet the . express with a _close_ carriage. "theodore mallery." so, when the train steamed into the depot, the first person whom theodore saw was the faithful jim. a few hurried words between them explained matters, and pliny was quietly helped by jim and mr. stephens into the close carriage and whirled away before theodore had possessed himself of all of mrs. hastings' extra shawls and wraps. [illustration] chapter xxviii. death and life. there had been a grand and solemn funeral. a long line of splendid coaches had followed the millionaire to his last resting-place. rosewood and silver and velvet and crape had united to do him honor. many stores in the city were closed because mr. hastings had extensive business connections with them. the hotels were closed because mr. hastings owned three of the largest; the euclid house was shuttered and bolted, and long lines of heavy crape floated from the numerous doors. many hats had been uplifted, many gray heads bared, while the closing words of the solemn burial service were once more repeated, and then the mourners had returned to their places, and the long line of carriages had swept back, and the city had taken down its shutters and opened its doors again, and the world had rushed onward as before. only in that one home--there the desolation tarried. through all the trouble and the pain theodore had been with them constantly. that first day he had accompanied them home of necessity, their rightful protector being still in his drunken sleep. arrived there, they needed help and comfort even more than they had before. there were friends by the hundreds, but theodore could not fail to see that while mrs. hastings appeared incapable of directing, and indeed very indifferent as to what was done, dora turned steadily and constantly to him for advice and assistance. pliny was prevailed upon to go at once to his room, and was very soon asleep. when the wretched stupor of sleep had worn itself out upon him, and left the fearful headache to throb in his temples, theodore was at his side, grave and sad and silent, but patient still, and gentle as a woman. only a few words passed between them, pliny speaking first in a cold, hard tone. "go away, mallery, and let me alone--everything is over. all i ask of you is to send me a bottle of brandy, and never let me see your face again." theodore's only answer was to dip his hand again into cool water, and pass it gently over the burning temples; then he said: "i think it would be well to lie still, pliny. they do not need you below at present, and your head is very hot." pliny pushed feebly with his hand. "go away, mallery, i can not endure the sight of you. it is all over, i say. i will never try again." very quietly and steadily went the firm, cool hand across his forehead, and the voice that answered him was quiet and firm. "no, i shall _not_ leave you, dear friend, and all is _not_ over. you are going to try harder than ever before, and i am _never_ going to give you up--never!" silence for a little, then pliny said: "then don't leave me, theodore, not for an _instant_, _day or night_--promise." and theodore, ignoring all the strangeness of his position, promised, and remained in the house, the watcher-guard and helper of more than pliny. not for an instant did he lose sight of his friend; through all the trying ordeal of the following days he was constantly present. even in pliny's private interviews with his mother, theodore hovered near, and his was the first face that pliny met when he came to the door to issue any orders. it was theodore's hand that held open the carriage door when the son came to follow his father to his final resting-place, and it was theodore's arm that was linked in his when he walked down the hall on his return. these were sad things to theodore in another way. despite all mr. hastings' coldness to him, he had never been able to lose sight of the memory of those days, now long gone by, in which the rich man had in a sense been his protector and friend. he could not forget that it was through _him_ that his first step upward had been taken. aside from his mother, mr. hastings was perhaps the first person for whom he felt a touch of love. he could not forget him--could not cease to mourn for him. there was, only a week after this, another funeral. there was no long line of coaches, and no display of magnificence this time--only a quiet, slow-moving procession following the unplumed hearse. only one store in the city was closed, and not a hundred people knew for whom the bell tolled that day; but did ever truer mourners or more bleeding hearts follow a coffin to its final resting-place than were those who gathered around that open grave, and saw the body of grandma mcpherson laid to rest for awhile, awaiting the call of the great maker, when he should bid it come up to meet its glorified spirit, and dwell in that wonderful _forever_! the messenger came suddenly to her, in the quiet of a moonlight night, when all the household were asleep; and none who saw her in the morning, with that blessed look upon her face, that told of earth receding and heaven coming in, could doubt but that when in the silent night she heard the master whisper, "come up higher," she made answer, "even so, lord jesus." so they laid her in the silent city on the hill, very near the spot where, by and by, there towered and blazed mr. hastings' monument; but when they set up _her_ white headstone they marked on it the blessed words: "so he giveth his beloved sleep." but oh, that home left without a mother--the dear, loving, toiling, patient, self-sacrificing mother! "dear old lady," were the words in which theodore had most often thought of her, and i find on thinking back that i have constantly spoken of her thus, but in reality she was not old at all; her early life of toil and privation and sorrow had whitened her hair and marked heavy lines as of age on her face. her quaint dress gave added strength to this impression, and theodore when he first met her was at that age when all women in caps and spectacles are old, so "grandma" she had always been to him, but they only wrote "sixty-three" on her coffin. they were sitting together, theodore and pliny, the first evening they had spent alone since the changes had come to them. they were in their pleasant room which must soon be vacated, for the guiding presence that had made of them a family was wanting now. they had not been talking, only the quietest common-places--neither of them seemed to have words that they chose to utter. they were sitting in listless attitudes, each occupying a great arm-chair, which they called "study-chairs." theodore with his hands clasped at the back of his head, and pliny with his face half hidden in his hands. the latter was the first to break the silence. "mallery, you are _such_ a wonderment to me! what is there about me that makes you cling so? i thought it was all over during that awful time. i don't know how you can help despising me, but you don't know how it was. oh, theodore, i tried, i struggled, i _meant_ to keep my promise, and even at such a time as that the sight of my enemy conquered me. now, _what_ am i to do? there is no hope for me at all. i have no trust, no confidence in myself." "that at least would be hopeful if it were strictly true," theodore answered, earnestly. "but, pliny, it is not _quite_ true. if you utterly distrusted yourself, _so_ utterly that you would stop trying to save yourself alone, and accept the all-powerful helper's aid, i should be at rest about you forever." contrary to his usual custom, pliny had no answer ready, seemed not in the least inclined to argue, and so theodore only dropped a little sigh and waited. it was not despair with him during these days--his faith had reached high ground. "ask, and ye _shall_ receive," had come home to him with wonderful force just lately, while he waited on his knees; he felt that he should never let go again for a moment. still there seemed nothing now for him to do, nothing but that constant watching and constant praying; and he had only lately come to realize how much these two things meant. presently, sitting there in the silence, he bethought himself of winny in her desolation. "pliny," he said, suddenly, "shall not you and i go down and try to help poor winny endure her loneliness? do you know she is utterly alone? rick's wife is in her room with the child, and rick and jim just went down the walk together." pliny seemed nothing loth, and the two descended to the dear little parlor where so many happy hours had been passed. winny had turned down the gas to its lowest ebb, and was curled into a corner of the sofa, giving up to the form of grief in which she most indulged--utter, white silence. she sat erect as the two young men entered, and theodore turned on the gas; pliny took the other corner of the sofa, and theodore the chair opposite them. he looked from one to the other of the white worn faces. what utter misery was expressed on both! a great longing came over him to comfort them. but what comfort could he offer for such troubles as theirs, save the one thing that both rejected? he gave voice to his thoughts almost without intending it, with no other feeling than that his great pity and desire for them were beyond his control. "how much, _how very much_, you two people need the same help! what utter nothingness any other aid is. i have not the heart to offer either of you the mockery of human sympathy," he spoke in gentle, sad tones, and straight way was startled with himself for speaking at all. winny turned her great gray solemn eyes on her companion in the other corner. "do _you_ feel the need of help?" she asked, gravely. "heaven knows i _do_ feel the need of something i don't possess. i am utterly shipwrecked. i don't know which way to turn. i do, if i only would turn that way. mother had help all her life long--help that you and i know nothing about. do you doubt that?" "no, i _don't_," answered pliny, solemnly. "then why can't we have it if we both need it, and can get it for the asking? mother prayed for you as well as for me. the very last night of her life i heard her. i know what she prayed for is so. i'm tired of struggling. i've been at it, theodore knows, for a great many years. if mother were here to-night i would say to her: 'mother, i'm not going to struggle any more; i'm going to give myself up,' and that would make her happy--oh, too happy for earth. well, i'm going to, anyway. i'm sick of myself; i want to get away from myself; i need help. you've struggled, too; i know by myself. suppose we both give up. suppose we both kneel down here this minute, and say that we are tired of ourselves, and ashamed of ourselves and we want christ. theodore will say it for us. will you do it, mr. hastings?" she had spoken rapidly and with the same energy that characterized all her words, but with solemn earnestness. pliny bowed his head on his two hands, while utter silence reigned; and theodore, wonder-struck over the turn that the conversation had taken, yet had breath enough left to say "lord jesus, help them, help them. oh, remember calvary and the 'many mansions,' and help them both. let the decision be now." this prayer he repeated and re-repeated. then suddenly pliny arose. "if ever any one on earth needed help and strength it is i," he said, hoarsely. "yes, i _want_ to give up if i can," and he dropped upon his knees. in an instant winny was kneeling, and theodore's whole soul was being poured out in prayer for those two. a moment and then pliny, in low, hoarse voice said: "lord, help me; i am sinking in deep waters." and winny added: "savior of my mother, i am sick of sin; take me out of myself and into thee." when they arose theodore stole quietly from the room and left them alone. he went up to his own closet and prayed such prayer of thanksgiving as was recorded in heaven that night, and the angels around the throne had great joy. * * * * * not yet were the shocks and changes coming to these households over. not two weeks had the millionaire been sleeping his last sleep, when there burst like a bombshell on the business world the startling news that his millions had vanished into vapor, or perhaps it would be speaking more properly to say into poison. strange, wild speculations, that the acute, far-sighted business man would never have touched for a moment had he been himself, had been entered into while his brain was struggling with the fumes of brandy. notes had been signed, sales had been made and debts contracted upon an enormous scale; in short, the whole business was in a bewildering entanglement. "there won't be five thousand dollars left out of the whole immense property," said edgar ryan, one of the lawyers in charge, at the close of a confidential conversation with theodore, and theodore, like the rest of the world, stood for a little stunned and aghast over this new calamity. "i never saw such a tangle in all my days," continued ryan, earnestly. "the amount of property shipwrecked is almost incredible. the man was never intoxicated in his life, and yet it may be truthfully said of him that he has let rum swallow all his millions. i tell you, mallery, you and habakkuk were undoubtedly correct." theodore turned and walked soberly and wearily away. he had not the heart just then to smile over the memory of anything. there followed weary, anxious, harassing days--days in which pliny remained doggedly behind the counter, and theodore almost entirely ignored the store, and gave himself up to following the footsteps of appraisers and auctioneers and policemen, and in trying to shield mrs. hastings and dora, for the red flag floated out from the grand mansion proudly known for years as hastings' hall. oh change! can anything in all time be compared in swiftness and sharpness and terror to that monster who swoops down upon our hearts and homes, and almost in the twinkling of an eye leaves them desolate? oh heaven! with all its glories and its joys, can anything in all the bright description equal in peace and rest and comfort that one precious sentence which admits of no thought of change: "and they shall reign forever and ever?" there were plans innumerable to be made and acted upon. rick and his wife had gone back ere this to their western home. winny had steadily refused their urgent petitions to accompany them, and worked faithfully on in her honored position in one of the great graded schools. she and jim had taken board together in a quiet house as far removed from the dear old home as possible. mrs. hastings had promptly accepted the invitation of her husband's brother in chicago. the invitation had also been extended to dora, and she had as promptly declined it. her strong, independent nature asserted itself here. she would not go to live a dependent in her uncle's home. she would not teach music, for which she pronounced herself unfitted by nature and education; but she would take the boys' room next to winny's in the aforesaid graded school, and share the quiet little room in the boarding house, whither winny had carried many of her household treasures. * * * * * it was all settled at last, and when mrs. hastings was ticketed and checked for chicago under the escort of one of the firm who was going thither, and the young ladies were quietly domiciled in their new and pleasant room, pliny and theodore came to the first breathing place they had found for many a day, and felt absolutely forlorn and disconsolate. they were together in the store, the last clerk had departed, and their loneliness only served to add to their sense of gloom. "well," said pliny, closing the ledger with a heavy sigh, "if we had a local habitation we'd go to it now, wouldn't we?" "probably," answered theodore, drumming on the counter with his fingers. "where _are_ we going to live, pliny, anyway?" "more than i know," was pliny's gloomy answer. "in the street for all i seem to care just at present." and then the office door clicked behind them, and mr. stephens appeared. "i thought you were gone, sir," said pliny, rising in surprise. "no, i was waiting your movements. come, young gentlemen, i want you both to come home with me. there is no use in remonstrating, my boy," he added, laying his hand on theodore's shoulder, as the latter would have spoken. "i have had your and pliny's rooms ready for you this week past, and have only waited until you were at leisure to take possession. i keep bachelor's hall, you know, and if ever a man needed something new and fresh about him i do. so do as i want you to for once, just to see how it will seem." there was much talk about the matter, argument and counter argument; but in the end mr. stephens prevailed, as in reality he generally did, when he set his heart upon a thing, despite his statements that theodore kept him under complete control. before another week closed the two young men were cozily settled in their new quarters, and really feeling as much at home as though half their lives had been spent there. there was one other matter which came to theodore as a source of great satisfaction. "mallery," mr. stephens had said to him one morning when they were quite alone in the private office, "have you any special interest in the hastings' place?" theodore hesitated a little, and then answered frankly enough: "yes, sir, i certainly have. there are many associations connected with that house that will always endear it to me." "then you may be interested to know that i have become the purchaser of it; and if at any time, for any reason, you should wish to make special disposition of it, it shall always be in a state to await your orders. real estate is valuable property, and as good a way as any in which to dispose of surplus funds." theodore came out from behind the screen to try to offer some word of thanks, but mr. stephens had pushed open the green baize door and vanished. chapter xxix. some more babies. mrs. jenkins' tommy stood on the sidewalk in front of the store, in a nicely fitting new suit, white vest and kid gloves. it was not yet the middle of the afternoon, but the great store was closed and shuttered and barred. a gentleman came briskly down the street and halted before the young man, with a surprised look on his face as he questioned: "how now, tommy, what's to pay? it isn't possible your firm has failed and foreclosed? what are you all bolted and barred at this time of day for?" tommy arched his eyebrows. "have you been out of town, sir?" he asked, in a tone which plainly said, "it isn't possible that you've been _in_ town and not heard the cause of this closed store?" "just so," answered the good-natured gentleman. "i've been west, and i want to see messrs. stephens and mallery in a twinkling." "can't do it," said tommy, promptly, and with the air of a policeman. "they are otherwise engaged, both of them--all three of them, i may say. mr. hastings is in it, too. there's been a double wedding. haven't you heard of it, sir?" "not a word," answered his listener, with commendable gravity. "they've been as whist as mice. tell us all about it." "well, sir, it was to-day at twelve o'clock, in the first church--dr. birge's, you know. he married 'em. splendid ceremony, too! and they looked--well, they all looked just grand, i tell you!" "don't doubt it in the least, tommy, but who the mischief were they?" "why, mr. mallery and miss hastings, and mr. hastings and miss winny mcpherson, and they're both of our firm, you know; at least mr. hastings he's our confidential clerk now, and we all say that he'll be partner one of these days, as sure as guns. we all went to the wedding, every one of us, cash boys and all; then we all went to mr. stephens', and had just the grandest kind of a dinner with the brides and grooms. and dr. birge and mr. ryan they toasted them." "wine or brandy?" interposed the gentleman, slily. "neither!" answered indignant tommy, with flashing eyes and glowing cheeks. "they had pure water, ice water. they don't have any wine or brandy in that house nor in our firm, i can tell you, sir." "good for you, tommy--stand up for your principles. well, what came next after you were all toasted and ice-watered? is mrs. hastings, senior, in town? dear me, how long is it since she went away?" "it's pretty near three years. no, she isn't in town. she's in feeble health, and they're going out there to chicago to see her, the whole tribe of them. they take the four o'clock express, and we're all going to the cars with them, about a dozen carriages. it's time they were on hand, too. i had to come down to the store after a package that was left here, and there they are this minute; and so you see, sir, you can't see either mr. stephens or mr. mallery in a twinkling. i ride in the eighth carriage." and at this point tommy's shining boots bounded away. * * * * * after the visit to chicago was concluded, interspersed by several pleasant side trips, the bridal party separated one bright june morning at the cleveland depot, pliny and his wife preparing to settle down in their new home, while mr. and mrs. mallery went on to new york. theodore had been there perhaps a dozen times since he took that first surreptitious trip with mr. hastings, but in these visits he had always been a hurried business man, with little leisure or taste for retrospect. now, however, it was different, and traversing the streets with his wife leaning on his arm, he had a fancy for going backward, and painting pictures from the past for her amusement. the hotel to which he had escorted mr. hastings on that day had advanced with the advancing tide, and was just now in the very zenith of its prosperity. thither he found his way, and led dora up the broad steps and down the splendid halls, and finally booked his name, "theodore s. mallery and wife," and tried in vain, while he issued his orders with the air of one long accustomed to the giving of orders, to conceive of himself and that ridiculous little wretch who squeezed in among the gentlemen on that long ago morning to discover, if perchance he could, what his traveling companion's name might be, as one and the same. "now, i am going to show you some of the wretchedness that abounds in this elegant city," he said to his wife one morning as he dismissed the carriage after an hour's exciting drive, and proposed a walk. "it is a remarkable city in that respect. i am never struck with the two extremes of humanity as i am when in new york." "i was thinking only this morning," dora answered, "how very few wretched people i had met in the streets." "wait a bit; see if in ten minutes from this time you are not almost led to conclude that there is nothing left in this world but wretchedness and filth and abomination." they turned suddenly around the corner of a pleasant street, and as if they were among the shifting scenes of a panorama, the entire foreground had changed. wretchedness! that word no more described the horrors of their surroundings than could any other that came to dora's mind. the scene beggared description. "swarms of horrors!" she called them in speaking of the people afterward. just now she clung silent and half frightened to her husband's arm. he, too, became silent, and appeared occupied solely in guarding his wife and shielding her from disagreeable collisions. suddenly he uttered an exclamation of delight: "look, dora! this is the building of which i have read but have never seen. i have not had time to come so far down before this. can you imagine a more delightful oasis in this desert of filth and pollution?" there it stood, the great, _clean_, splendid building! towering above its vile and rickety neighbors. and in bright, clear letters, that seemed to theodore to be written in diamonds, gleamed the name; far down the street it caught the eye, "home for little wanderers." dora looked and smiled and caught her breath, and then the tears dropped one by one on her husband's sleeve. it almost seemed like the voice of an angel speaking to the world from out of that moral darkness. "oh, if i had known that day when i was in new york of such a spot as this in all the world, what a different world it would have looked to me. the idea that there could be a home _anywhere_ in all the universe, or beyond it, for such as i had never occurred to me." theodore spoke in low, earnest tones, full of deep and solemn feeling. "but, theodore," said dora, gently, "if you _had_ known of this home, or any like it, and gone thither instead of to cleveland on that day, where would you have been now, and what would have become of me?" theodore smiled down on his fair young bride, and drew the hand that rested on his arm a little closer as he answered: "i am quite content, my darling. i am not complaining of the guiding hand that led me home. i have surely reason to be utterly and entirely satisfied with my lot in life; but there are not many boys such as i was who find little blue-eyed maidens to bring precious little bible cards to them, and so write lessons on their hearts that will tell for all time--yes, and for all eternity." "there are not many dr. birges and mr. stephenses," said dora, emphatically. and theodore's response was quite as emphatic: "very few indeed! if there were only _more_. but, dora, isn't it a grand enterprise? let us go in. i have always intended to go through the mission; but, you see, i waited for _you_." they went up the broad, pleasant flight of steps. the children, hundreds of them, were at dinner. such an array of clean, and, for the most part, pleasant faces! such a wonderful dinner as it must have been to them! dora's face glowed and her eyes sparkled as she watched them. then they all went together to the great, light, pleasant chapel, with its hanging baskets, and its white flower urns, and its creeping vines, and fragrant blossoms; its grand piano on the platform as perfect in finish and as sweet of tone as if it were designed to chime with the voices of more favored childhood. dora's bright eye took in the scene in all its details with great delight and satisfaction, but she did not feel the solemn undertone of thanksgiving that rang in theodore's heart. how could she? what did she know in detail of the contrast between the present and the past lives of these children? and who knew better than he the awful scenes from which they had been rescued! how they marched to the sound of the quickstepping music! how their voices rang out in songs such as the angels might have loved to join! it was a sort of jubilee day with them, and there were many visitors and many speeches, and much entertainment. as he looked and listened, theodore had constantly to brush away the starting tears. presently mr. foote came with brisk step and smiling face toward the spot where theodore and his wife were sitting. "you are interested in the children, i know, sir," he said, confidently. "come forward please, and give us a brief speech. the children will like to hear one who shows his love for them beaming in his face." theodore answered promptly: "no, sir, i will not detain them; they have had speeches enough. besides, my heart is quite too full for talking." at the same time he arose. "i would like to write my speech, though, if you please, sir. have you pen and ink convenient?" and he went forward with the leader to the desk. a few quick dashes of the pen over a blank from his check-book, and he stood pledged for five hundred dollars for "howard mission." "how much i have to thank dr. birge for preaching that glorious sermon on the 'tenths,' and dear grandma for teaching me with her white buttons the meaning of the same," he said to dora as they made their way out from that beautiful haven into the reeking street. "how every single impulse for good counts back to some influence touched long ago by an unconscious hand! i wonder if the christian world has an idea of what it is doing?" * * * * * they tarried but a few hours in albany, long enough to visit that quiet grave with its simple tribute, "dear mother." and there again came to theodore's heart sad memories of his father. oh, if his body _only_ lay there in quiet rest underneath those grasses; if he could have the privilege of setting up _his_ headstone, and marking it with a word of respectful memory; if he could have but the _faint hope_ of a meeting place for them all in that city beyond, what more could he ask in life? and yet who could tell? perhaps it was even so; perhaps there had come even to his father an eleventh hour? the "arm of the lord was not shortened" that it could not save where and when and how he would. and there had been prayers, constant and fervent, sent up for him; and perhaps the eleventh hour was yet to come; he might be still in this world of hope. theodore's heart swelled at the thought. "my darling," he said, turning toward the young face looking up to his, and full of tender sympathy, "he may be living yet--my poor father, you know. we will never cease to pray that if he is still on earth god will have mercy. we will pray together, will we not?" and then both remembered that other father, about whose grave june roses were blossoming to-day, for whom they could pray nevermore; and so though she laid her hand in his in token of sympathy, she made no answer on account of fast falling tears. * * * * * "for our _own_ room, dora, in lieu of many pictures let us have some of these exquisite illuminated texts. i like them _so_ much; and we can never tell how much good they may do a servant or a chance passer through. there are some in particular that i want to select." this theodore said to his wife as they stood together in a picture store. "there! i want that one above all others," and he held it up for her admiration. it _was_ a beauty; the letters were exquisitely formed, and the words were: "the eyes of the lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the good." then they chose, "peace be to this house"--this for the hall. and another favorite, "hitherto hath the lord helped us." "this is yours, dora," theodore said, presently, laying before her a delicately shaded sentence on tinted board, "the lord bless thee and keep thee." and she smilingly answered: "then this for you," "he shall keep thee in all thy ways." and so their homes were filled with lessons from the great guide-book, speaking silently on every hand. * * * * * it might have been something like three years after this date that the buffalo express was behind time one day. pliny hastings was at the depot in a state of impatient waiting. i do not know that it occurred to him that he had been in precisely that spot and condition one evening years ago. the whistle of the train rang out at last, and pliny stepped back near the restive horses, ready for emergencies. he swung open the carriage door as theodore mallery advanced from the train. "you're a pretty man to be late _to-day_ of all days in the world," was pliny's greeting, in a sort of good-humoredly impatient tone. "scold the engineer, not me," responded theodore, in the same manner. "i fretted inwardly all the way from c----. all well at home?" and then the two gentlemen entered the carriage, theodore waiting to give the order, "home, jacob." and he had not a thought of the ill-favored urchin who had once tumbled up on the driver's seat of a carriage similar to this one, and peered down curiously at the boy pliny inside. he even did not remember that he made a resolution to become the driver some day of a pair of horses like those behind which he was luxuriously riding, so utterly do we grow away from our intentions and ambitions. the carriage swept around the fine old curve and stopped at the side door of hastings' hall that was. the place had a familiar look, but the present inmates disliked the old aristocratic sounding name, and in view of the wide green lawn and the noble shade trees had named it simply "elm lawn." dinner was waiting for the master of the house, and it was a birthday dinner, too, in honor of the first anniversary of that great day to another heir of the grand old house. he was sleeping now, tucked into a great easy chair, while his lace-curtained crib was given up to a younger, tinier baby, who sucked his thumb and did _not_ sleep. both babies frowned and choked and sneezed over their respective father's kisses or whiskers, or both. both appeared in all their glory at the dinner table; and all the bright happy company were in blissful ignorance of a scene so nearly similar that had occurred when the supposed young heir of hastings' hall reached the close of his first year. yet this _was_ different, for mr. stephens asked a blessing on this bright glad scene, and dr. birge returned thanks for the joy and beauty of the day, and the health and hopes of these two babies were remembered in glasses of sparkling water. and the supposed heir of other days was the fond proud father of the precious crowing bundle now pulling at his beard. what cared he for hastings' hall? it was a fine old place enough, and he had enjoyed coming there every day of his life; but his own bright home was just around the corner, and contained more life and joy and beauty than did all cleveland. so he thought. "what have you named your babies?" questioned a chance caller. "this is master pliny hastings mallery at your service," responded theodore, tossing his boy aloft until he tried to reach the ceiling and yelled with glee. while winny, after glancing at her husband's face and noting his moved look, answered simply: "we call ours baby ben." after dr. and mrs. birge, and he who called himself grandfather stephens, had departed, they went, these two fathers, to the room above, where the babies cuddled and slept, and the loving mothers watched and talked. they all went over and stood by the crib and the easy chair. "let us have a special celebration of this day," said theodore. "let us consecrate these two boys anew to the beloved giver of all our blessedness." then they all knelt down, each husband encircling with one arm the form of his honored wife, and resting the other hand on the forehead of his darling, and theodore first, then pliny, laid their hearts' dearest treasures at the feet of their common lord. "we are very happy," dora said, when they had risen, still clinging to her husband's hand. "very happy," answered theodore, clasping tenderly the dear true hand. "and it is a happiness that will continue whatever comes, so we remain always at the feet of the master and keep our treasures there." pliny was looking at the babies, with a face full of humble tenderness. "we have quite given them up to _him_," he said, in an earnest, solemn tone. "now let us pray that he will consecrate them _peculiarly_ to the sacred cause of temperance." and theodore and the two mothers said: "amen." the pansy books by mrs. g. r. alden ("pansy") * * * * * mo cloth $ . per volume * * * * * as in a mirror aunt hannah, martha, and john the browns at mt. hermon by way of the wilderness chautauqua girls at home chrissy's endeavor christie's christmas david ransom's watch doris farrand's vocation eighty-seven an endless chain ester ried ester ried yet speaking ester ried's namesake four girls at chautauqua four mothers at chautauqua the hall in the grove her associate members household puzzles judge burnham's daughters julia ried king's daughter links in rebecca's life little fishers and their nets the long way home lost on the trail mag and margaret making fate man of the house mara mrs. solomon smith looking on a new graft on the family tree one commonplace day overruled pauline the pocket measure the prince of peace the randolphs ruth erskine's crosses ruth erskine's son a seven-fold trouble spun from fact stephen mitchell's journey those boys three people tip lewis and his lamp twenty minutes late unto the end wanted what they couldn't wise and otherwise yesterday framed in to-day for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers lothrop, lee & shepard co., boston the famous pepper books by margaret sidney i n o r d e r o f p u b l i c a t i o n cloth mo illustrated $ . each five little peppers and how they grew. this was an instantaneous success; it has become a genuine child classic. five little peppers midway. "a perfect cheeryble of a book."--_boston herald._ five little peppers grown up. this shows the five little peppers as "grown up," with all the struggles and successes of young manhood and womanhood. phronsie pepper. it is the story of phronsie, the youngest and dearest of all the peppers. the stories polly pepper told. wherever there exists a child or a "grown-up," there will be a welcome for these charming and delightful "stories polly pepper told." the adventures of joel pepper. as bright and just as certain to be a child's favorite as the others in the famous series. harum-scarum "joey" is lovable. five little peppers abroad. the "peppers abroad" adds another most delightful book to this famous series. five little peppers at school. of all the fascinating adventures and experiences of the "peppers", none will surpass those contained in this volume. five little peppers and their friends. the friends of the peppers are legion and the number will be further increased by this book. ben pepper. this story centres about ben, "the quiet, steady-as-a-rock boy," while the rest of the peppers help to make it as bright and pleasing as its predecessors. five little peppers in the little brown house. here they all are, ben, polly, joel, phronsie, and david, in the loved "little brown house," with such happenings crowding one upon the other as all children delightedly follow, and their elders find no less interesting. * * * * * lothrop, lee & shepard co., boston pansy books _at_ popular prices ¶ these ten favorite books have been furnished with new frontispieces by good artists, and are issued at a list price of $. each: ester ried four girls at chautauqua tip lewis and his lamp three people chautauqua girls at home julia ried ruth erskine's crosses the king's daughter judge burnham's daughters wise and otherwise lothrop, lee & shepard co. boston * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired. this text uses the archaic spelling of "height" as "hight." this was retained. page , "would'nt" changed to "wouldn't" (me i wouldn't) page , "agoing" changed to "a going" to conform to rest of text. (ain't a going to) page , "seeemed" changed to "seemed". (evil that seemed) page , "wan't" changed to "want" (want to get it) page , "sraight" changed to "straight" (straight down to) page , "tha" changed to "that" (did that little) page , "refreshement" changed to "refreshment" (get any refreshment) page , "wan't" changed to "want" (want you to say) page , "millioniare" changed to "millionaire" (the millionaire moved) page , "posibly" changed to "possibly" (could he possibly) page , "unceremoneously" changed to "unceremoniously" (he unceremoniously appropriated) the bobbin boy; or, how nat got his learning. an example for youth. by william m. thayer, author of "the poor boy and merchant prince," "the poor girl and true woman," "from poor-house to pulpit," "tales from the bible," etc., etc. boston: j. e. tilton and company. . entered according to act of congress; in the year , by j. e. tilton and company, in the clerk's office of the district court for the district of massachusetts. university press, cambridge: printed by welch, bigelow, and company. preface. the design of this volume is to show the young how "odd moments" and small opportunities may be used in the acquisition of knowledge. the hero of the tale--nat--is a living character, whose actual boyhood and youth are here delineated--an unusual example of energy, industry, perseverance, application, and enthusiasm in prosecuting a life purpose. the conclusion of the story will convince the reader, that the group of characters which surround nat are not creations of the fancy, and that each is the bearer of one or more important lessons to the young. while some of them forcibly illustrate the consequences of idleness, disobedience, tippling, and kindred vices, in youth, others are bright examples of the manly virtues, that always command respect, and achieve success. w. m. t. contents. chapter i. a good beginning. the patch of squashes--counting chickens before they are hatched--ifs--ducks, and the bright side--explanation--hopeful nat--nathaniel bowditch--sir humphrey davy--buxton--benefit of hopefulness--the squashes coming up--frank martin--"all play and no work"--ben drake--scene when nat was four years old--"thinking on his own hook"--men of mark think for themselves--"niggers' work"--great men not ashamed of useful work--the harvest-day--frank's surprise--nat as a peddler--his sister--his drawings--samuel budgett, dr. kitto, and the rich merchant peddling--"creep before you can walk"--the errand-boy and his success--what his culture of squashes shows - chapter ii. upward and onward. winter--in school--proposition to declaim--the dialogue, "alexander the great and a robber"--nat is the robber--his reason--sympathy for the poor and unfortunate--the dialogue learned and spoken--nat's eloquence--some boys who declaim poorly at first make orators at last--demosthenes--daniel webster--nat declaiming before visitors--the petition for shorter lessons--nat won't sign it--sam drake's predicament--the teacher hears of the movement--his remarks about dull scholars--newton, dr. barrows, adam clarke, chatterton, napoleon, etc.--necessity of application - chapter iii. saturday afternoon. the bright summer-time--sport at frank's--the dog "trip" playing hy-spy--the boys hiding--trip finding them--the result of the first game--the second game--the court scene--talk about it with sylvester jones--nat goes to court--the prisoners are two of his schoolmates--his sympathy for them--examination of witnesses--the remarks of the justice--nat proposes to plead their case--the sensation and result--what was said of it--another instance of nat's sympathy--what it foreshadowed--howard--wilberforce--buxton - chapter iv. the wild cherries. the excursion--john's proposition--decision to go--the cherry-tree--is it wild?--a discussion--filling their caps--surprised by the owner--their escape--nat's and frank's caps left behind--the owner carries them to the house--nat's resolve to go to his house--rapping at the door--his explanation and confession--the caps restored with a plenty of cherries--the end thereof - chapter v. athletic sports. bathing--a passion for it--a particular swim--nat the best swimmer--swimming under water--a trial--a game of ball--nat the best player--the result of the game--remarks of spectators--the fastest runner--a principle to be best--excelled in athletic sports through same elements of character that made him excel in school--the best shoe-black--reynolds made every picture best--buxton's sports in boyhood, and sir walter scott's--wellington's remark--nat's remark twenty-five years after--nat saving a boy from drowning--his picture of the scene--how he used his experience in athletic games - chapter vi. a mistake. winter school again--the skating proposition--the proposed grammar class--nat does not accede--discussion on the way to the pond--nat the best skater--the palm yielded to him--home to supper--teacher's remarks next day about grammar--advice to nat and charlie--his reference to benjamin franklin and patrick henry--nat and charlie join the class--conversation among the boys, and with nat in particular--sam put into the objective case, and his mischief-making propensity--tying a tin-pail to a dog's tail--the delight of sam--the sorrow of nat, and verdict of the boys--sam an _im_proper noun--the end of school - chapter vii. prospect hill. proposed visit to prospect hill--a hundred churches--situation and description of the hill--view from the top--trip accompanies them--meeting with sam and ben drake--sam's assault upon trip--frank's feelings--nat's love of nature--this characterizes youth generally who become renowned--sir francis chantrey--robert burns--hugh miller--more hope of boys who love the beautiful of nature and art--reaching the summit--a fire in the city--sam's anger--counting the churches--sam kicks trip down the precipice--frank and nat crying--sam's ridicule--sam and ben leave--nat tells a story--carrying dead trip home - chapter viii. the end of school-days. the agent of the factory wants nat--picker-boy in lowell a short time--his home-sickness--a good sign for boys to love home, and why--bad boys do not love home--the young man in prison--such lads sneer at home-sickness--interview of nat's father and mother on the subject--their conclusion to put him into the factory--end of school-days - chapter ix. opening the subject. nat coming home--telling the sad news to his mother--sifting sam drake's character--going to frank's to bury trip--asking permission of parents--how some take advantage--frank's arrangement for the burial--trip's coffin--buried in the garden--nat's funeral oration--going to supper--the difficult lesson in arithmetic--stunned by the announcement--his objection--his mother suggested that the operatives had a library--the result, and nat's last thoughts at night - chapter x. the new call. monday morning--prompt boys--not a lazy bone in nat--how the bell called him--his first appearance at the factory--remark of the overseer--meeting with charlie stone there--charlie's character--making use of knowledge acquired and difference in boys--talk with the agent about the library--his advice about spare moments--william cobbett's account of his own privations in early life--nat's first noon-time--his work as bobbin boy--takes the life of dr. franklin out of the library--meets with david sears--punctuality a cardinal virtue--how the factory bell cultivates punctuality--here the beginning of his student life--read through life of franklin before saturday night - chapter xi. the lofty study. nat's proposition for systematic study--charlie goes to his house--his study in the attic--dr. kitto's study not so good--nor st. pierre's--they read and discuss franklin and patrick henry--copy of franklin's rules--patrick henry's faculty of observation--nat like him--studying men and things--the case of shakspeare--nat the best penman in the mill--choice between study and the party--obliged to deny himself for the sake of study--some disarrangements--thinks he can never know much--the poor not so good a chance as the rich--wealth of character - chapter xii. the dedication. a hall to be dedicated--nat's conversation with frank about it, and removal of the library--going to the dedication--the address on count rumford--a sketch of the address to show why nat was so deeply interested--count rumford's origin, boyhood, rise, learning, benevolence, and fame--conversation with his mother about it--conversation with charlie at the factory--a life-long impression made on his mind by it - chapter xiii. a school scene. a difficulty with sam drake in school--nat hears of it--a true account--sam writes a letter about the teacher--the teacher discovers it--many words spelled incorrectly--a copy of the letter--sam called into the floor--made to spell the words he has spelled wrong--spells alpheus, coombs, knife, bargain, spectacles--merriment it occasioned in school--sam refuses to spell more--he is punished and conquered--spells again--then he is ferruled--sent to his seat--advice to the school--a good teacher--his case before the committee--expelled--what the incident teaches - chapter xiv. taking sides. the federalist--jefferson and the democrat--the four votes--studied with all his soul--jefferson wrote the declaration of independence--reading it--difference between jefferson and adams --jefferson's views of slavery--extract from his writings--another extract--why nat adopted these principles--his early sympathies--the life of jefferson made lasting impression on his mind--case of guido--cotton mather's "essays to do good"--dr. franklin--jeremy bentham and greatest good to greatest number--alfieri and "plutarch's lives"--loyola and "lives of the saints"--a picture made--dr. guthrie - chapter xv. three important events. frank in the factory--bad to be poor--worse to be mean--great men generally poor--dispute with dr. franklin--intimate friendship with frank--the poor sympathize with each other--so with the rich--influence of kindred occupation--the new comer--his poverty--who marcus was--the kind letter that brought trial--proposition to leave home--talk with his mother--reminded of marcus--decision to leave home--departure and new field--gone three years--his return - chapter xvi. finding a lost opportunity. odd moments at grammar--making up for a lost opportunity--confession of an error--inquiry after sam drake--his bad character--ben drake--mastering grammar alone--nothing dry in which we are interested--nat's literary pocket--roger sherman's pocket--napoleon's pocket--hugh miller's pocket--elihu burritt's pocket--many boys carry only a jack-knife in their pocket--value of one hour a day--ten years of study in half a century--lost opportunities not found--the proposed debating club--marcus again - chapter xvii. the purchase. a spare day--visit to boston bookstores--shoe-leather cheap and the proposed walk--conversation with charlie and frank--the walk to boston--what would attract some boys there--the book-stores drew nat--conversation with a bookseller--purchase of "locke's essay on the understanding"--his examination of books--bits of knowledge--dr. kitto and the book-stall--homeward bound--monday morning with charlie--influence of locke's essay on him--its influence was such on robert burns, samuel drew, and mendelssohn--it aids the speaker to understand the laws of human nature--more visits to boston - chapter xviii. the debating society. plans carried out--its object--how it must be conducted--the organization--rule to make it respectable--his desire to make all things respectable--the fire company reformed--the first discussion--the question--an evening without a question--how they got over it--nat's speech--curiosity to hear--tremendous compliments--nat wards them off--contends that a man may become what he wants to be--this the view of buxton and others--influence of the debating society on nat--a similar society influenced curran, the irish orator--and a living american statesman--canning, the english statesman--and henry clay--interesting account of a similar society in boston - chapter xix. coming and going. ben drake's visit--the welcome of frank--mrs. martin's questions--surprise at learning that ben is a christian--going to the prayer-meeting--frank surprised to hear ben speak--goes to tell nat the next morning--their conversation--ben calls around--announcement that webster would speak in boston--nat's resolve to hear him--the walk to boston--the speech--nat's observation and remarks--power of the human voice--hearing edward everett--walks to hear other speakers--learned much of the use of language and oratory by observation--so with robert bloomfield--the charm of the voice - chapter xx. gossip. talk which nat created--scene in the sewing circle--use of spare moments--boys who read their leisure moments not get into mischief--old mrs. lane on education--her ideas about his going to hear webster and everett and the book in his pocket--how much time he saves a day for reading--wants more boys like nat--his going to the party--sympathy for the slighted--explanation of the scene--waiting upon the slighted girls--the effect of it--nat's decision, independence, and kind-hearted nature enabled him to do it--like robert burns in this respect - chapter xxi. going to the theatre. nat's desire to witness a tragedy played--resolve to go and hear booth--talk with his companions--what would be said--the evening of his visit--the play--after conversation with his companions--the bar--why vices connected with theatres--can they be severed from it--nat wants to hear more--at home at one o'clock--outside remarks afterwards--his course criticized--went a number of times thereafter--his object in going good--yet it was not safe---the roman youth at the amphitheatre--so with theatre-goers--theatres always been schools of vice--acts of congress against--vain attempt to make theatres respectable in boston--the legend of tertullian--the actor macready exposed the vice of theatres--judge bulstrode's charge--sir matthew hale's experience in boyhood--opinion of the infidel rousseau - chapter xxii. the dramatic society. the proposition--how it was met--they undertake it--how the theatre creates love of such amusement--the nephew who became an actor by hearing--playing macbeth--make their own scenery--nat wrote constitution--evening of the organization--evening of the first play--a success--remarks of mr graves adverse to such performances--talk in the village--remarks of old mrs. lane--why nat does it--conversation with charlie--nat opposed to being an actor--desire to be a statesman - chapter xxiii. the surprise. the news--discussion in the town lyceum--occasioned by the dramatic society--the question "are dramatical exhibitions beneficial to society?"--the evening of the debate--nat goes--mr. bryant's remarks on the low origin of theatres--remarks of another on the immorality of actors--of another on the profane and vulgar parts of plays--seven thousand indecent sentences in english plays--king james the first--addison's view--the class of persons who patronize theatres--nat's excitement--frank's question--nat's attention--rises to speak--the surprise of the audience--his argument and eloquence astonished all--remark of dr. holt--reminds us of patrick henry--description of his first plea--his triumph--charlie's view--nat's argument changed no one's view--his eloquence they admired--invited to join town lyceum--the dramatic society dead - chapter xxiv. another step. making a new study--conversation with charlie--nat's new plans--study furniture--manual labor--charlie's opinion--excessive reading bad--using what is learned--coleridge's description of readers--difference between nat and charlie--burke's essay on the sublime and beautiful--a bit of humor--using the library of harvard college--his walks thither--power of concentrating thoughts--hugh miller fighting imaginary battles with shells--cary made a missionary by reading voyages of captain cook--nat's invincible purpose - chapter xxv. eulogy by john quincy adams. working on the mill-dam--news of the eulogy on madison--how much he would sacrifice to hear him--general regard for personal appearance--goes in his workshop dress--a view of him in the crowd--talk in the machine-shop--nat back again--his views of the eulogy--conversation--his leading traits of character seen here - chapter xxvi. the temperance society. beginning of the total abstinence movement--nat espouses the cause--talk with his companions about forming a society--james cole opposes--making a beast of one's self--the gutter theory--customary for youth to drink then--drinking usages--the decision to organize a society--preparations--evening of the organization--nat's speech and presentation of constitution--the choice of officers--frank martin president, and charlie stone secretary--important event for that time--sensation in the village--scene in a grog-shop--signing away liberty--nat invited to give a lecture before the society--the decision and firmness required then to advocate total abstinence - chapter xxvii. the temperance lecture. news of the lecture flies--scene in miles's grog-shop--the rumseller resolves to go--a crowd to hear the lecture--"the fifteen gallon law" was his subject--portrayed the evils of intemperance--showed that the proposed law would remove the evil among the poor--showed that it introduced no new principle of legislation--discussed other topics--the lecture gained him much applause--the rumseller miles was reached and resolved to quit selling liquor--johnson his customer attacking him next morning--their battle of words--the result--delivered the lecture in neighboring towns--delivered others at home - chapter xxviii. speech-making. nat's position--worked for it--bobbin boy father of the orator--so with other men--sir james mackintosh--audubon--benjamin west--eli whitney, and what his sister said--poem of longfellow--interest in politics--urged to address political bodies--conversation with charlie--decides to speak--does so at home and abroad--the adventure of a political committee, and a good joke--nat's speech and their arrangement - chapter xxix. the early victim. news that james cole is frozen--frank's version of the affair--made drunk at a grog-shop--lay senseless in the street all night--his previous character--his good abilities--all sorts of rumors abroad--he revives, but is still very sick--what the physician says--nearly three months pass--a funeral described--the last of james cole--the sexton's view--the youthful drunkard's grave - chapter xxx. the end. a quarter of a century passed--what and where is nat and his associates--the drunkard--sam and ben drake in prison--power of early vicious habits--frank martin at the head of a public institution--charlie stone agent of one of the wealthiest and best known manufacturing companies of new england--marcus treat a highly distinguished lawyer in his adopted state--nat governor of the best state in the union--the change--appeal to youth - chapter i. a good beginning. a little patch of ground enclosed by a fence, a few adjacent trees, nat with his hoe in hand, his father giving directions, on one of the brightest may mornings that was ever greeted by the carol of birds, are the scenes that open to our view. "there, nat, if you plant and hoe your squashes with care, you will raise a nice parcel of them on this piece of ground. it is good soil for squashes." "how many seeds shall i put into a hill?" inquired nat. "seven or eight. it is well to put in enough, as some of them may not come up, and when they get to growing well, pull up all but four in a hill. you must not have your hills too near together,--they should be five feet apart, and then the vines will cover the ground all over. i should think there would be room for fifty hills on this patch of ground." "how many squashes do you think i shall raise, father?" "well," said his father, smiling, "that is hard telling. we won't count the chickens before they are hatched. but if you are industrious, and take very good care indeed of your vines, stir the ground often and keep out all the weeds, and kill the bugs, i have little doubt that you will get well paid for your labor." "if i have fifty hills," said nat, "and four vines in each hill, i shall have two hundred vines in all; and if there is one squash on each vine, there will be two hundred squashes." "yes; but there are so many _ifs_ about it that you may be disappointed after all. perhaps the bugs will destroy half your vines." "i can kill the bugs," said nat. "perhaps dry weather will wither them all up." "i can water them every day if they need it." "that is certainly having good courage, nat," added his father, "but if you conquer the bugs, and get around the dry weather, it may be too wet and blast your vines, or there may be such a hail storm as i have known several times in my life, and cut them to pieces." "i don't think there will be such a hail storm this year; there never was one like it since i can remember." "i hope there won't be," replied his father. "it is well to look on the bright side, and hope for the best for it keeps the courage up. it is also well to look out for disappointment. i know a gentleman who thought he would raise some ducks. so he obtained a dozen eggs, and put them under a hen, and then he hired a man, to make a small artificial pond in his garden, which he could fill from his well, for the young ducks to swim in. the time came for the ducks to appear, but not one of the eggs hatched, and it caused much merriment among the neighbors, and the man has never heard the last of _counting ducks before they are hatched_. i have heard people in the streets and stores say, when some one was undertaking a doubtful enterprise, 'he is counting ducks.' now, possibly, your squashes may turn out like the gentleman's ducks, though i do not really think it will be so. i speak of it that you may think of these things." a sly sort of smile played over nat's expressive countenance at this mention of the ducks, but it did not shake his confidence in the art of raising squashes. he had become a thorough believer in squashes,--they were now a part of his creed. he could see them on the vines before the seeds were planted. some of them were very large,--as big as a water-pail, and his glowing imagination set him to work already, rolling them into a wheelbarrow. he cared little for the bugs, though they should come in a great army, he could conquer them, infantry, artillery, and all. this scene was enacted about thirty-five years ago, not a thousand miles from boston, when nat was about ten years old, a bright, active, energetic, efficient, hopeful little fellow. his father gave him the use of a piece of ground for raising squashes, and the boy was to have the proceeds of the crop with which to line his new purse. nat was wont to look on the bright side of things, and it was generally fair weather with him. for this reason, he expected a good crop of squashes, notwithstanding his father's adverse hints. it was fortunate for him that he was so hopeful, for it inspired him with zeal and earnestness, and made him more successful than he otherwise would have been. all hopeful persons are not successful, but nearly all the successful ones, in the various callings of life, were hopeful from the beginning. this was true of nathaniel bowditch, the great mathematician, who was a poor boy when he commenced his studies. he said that whenever he undertook any thing "it never occurred to him for a moment that he could fail." this quality thus encouraged him to press on from one success to another. hence, in later life, his counsel to youth was, "never undertake any thing but with the feeling that you can and will do it. with that feeling success is certain, and without it failure is unavoidable." he once said that it had been an invariable rule with him, "to do one thing at a time, and to _finish_ whatever he began." the same was true of sir humphrey davy. his biographer says that he never made any provision for failures, "that he undertook every experiment as if success were certain." this put life and soul into his acts; for when a man believes that he shall certainly succeed in a given work, his success is half secured. grave doubts about it diminish energy, and relax the force of the will. buxton, the distinguished english philanthropist, is another example of this quality. he was just as confident that his efforts in behalf of the oppressed would succeed, as he was of his own existence. he knew that god and truth were on his side, and therefore he expected to triumph,--and he did. we shall see that nat was often helped by his hopefulness. it was a happy day to nat when he saw his squashes coming forth to seek the genial light. frank martin was with him when the discovery was made, and it brightened nat's hope considerably, if it be possible to make a bright thing brighter. "here, frank, they are coming. there is one--two--three--" "sure enough," answered frank, "they will all show themselves soon. you will raise a lot of squashes on this patch of ground. you will have to drive a team to boston market to carry them, likely as not." "i hardly think father expects to see any squashes of _my_ raising," said nat. "why not?" inquired frank. "oh, he is expecting the bugs will eat them up, or that it will be too wet or too dry, or that a hail storm will cut them to pieces, or something else will destroy them; i hardly know what." "you will fare as well as other folks, i guess," added frank. "if anybody has squashes this year, you will have them; i am certain of that. but it will take most of your time out of school to hoe them, and keep the weeds out." "i don't care for that, though i think i can take care of them mornings by getting up early, and then i can play after school." "then you mean to play some yet?" "of course i do. i shouldn't be a boy if i didn't play, though father says i shouldn't believe in all play and no work." "you don't. if you work in the morning and play at night, that is believing in both, and i think it is about fair." "ben drake was along here when i was planting my squashes," said nat, "and he told me that i was a fool to worry myself over a lot of squash vines, and have no time to play. he said he wouldn't do it for a cart-load of squashes." "and what did you tell him?" asked frank. "i told him that father thought it was better for boys to work some, and form the habit of being industrious, and learn how to do things; for then they would be more successful when they became men." "what did ben say to that?" "'just like an old man!' he said. 'it is time enough to work when we get to be men. i should like to see myself taking care of a garden when the other boys are playing.' by this time," continued nat, "i thought i would put in a word, so i told him that it would be good for _him_ to work part of the time, and i had heard a number of people say so. he was quite angry at this, and said, 'it was nobody's business, he should work when he pleased.' 'so shall i,' i replied, 'and i please to work on these squashes part of my time, whether ben drake thinks well of it or not.'" we shall see hereafter what kind of a boy this ben was (everybody called him ben instead of benjamin), and what kind of a man he made. nat expressed his opinion rather bluntly, although he was not a forward, unmannerly boy. but he usually had an opinion of his own, and was rather distinguished for "thinking (as a person said of him since) on his own hook." when he was only four years old, and was learning to read little words of two letters, he came across one about which he had quite a dispute with his teacher. it was inn. "what is that?" asked his teacher. "i-double n," he answered. "what does i-double n spell?" "tavern," was his quick reply. the teacher smiled, and said, "no; it spells inn. now read it again." "i-double n--tavern," said he. "i told you that it did not spell tavern, it spells inn. now pronounce it correctly." "it _do_ spell tavern," said he. the teacher was finally obliged to give it up, and let him enjoy his own opinion. she probably called him obstinate, although there was nothing of the kind about him, as we shall see. his mother took up the matter at home, but failed to convince him that i-double n did not spell tavern. it was not until some time after, that he changed his opinion on this important subject. that this incident was no evidence of obstinacy in nat, but only of a disposition to think "on his own hook," is evident from the following circumstances. there was a picture of a public-house in his book against the word inn, with the old-fashioned sign-post in front, on which a sign was swinging. near his father's, also, stood a public-house, which everybody called a _tavern_, with a tall post and sign in front of it, exactly like that in his book; and nat said within himself, if mr. morse's house (the landlord) is a tavern, then this is a tavern in my book. he cared little how it was spelled; if it did not spell tavern, "_it ought to_," he thought. children believe what they _see_, more than what they hear. what they lack in reason and judgment, they make up in eyes. so nat had seen the _tavern_ near his father's house, again and again, and he had stopped to look at the sign in front of it a great many times, and his eyes told him it was just like that in the book; therefore it was his deliberate opinion that i-double n spelt tavern, and he was not to be beaten out of an opinion that was based on such clear evidence. it was a good sign in nat. it is a characteristic of nearly every person who lives to make a mark upon the world. it was true of the three men, to whom we have just referred, bowditch, davy, and buxton. from their childhood they thought for themselves, so that when they became men, they defended their opinions against imposing opposition. true, a youth must not be too forward in advancing his ideas, especially if they do not harmonize with those of older persons. self-esteem and self-confidence should be guarded against. still, in avoiding these evils, he is not obliged to believe any thing just because he is told so. it is better for him to understand the reason of things, and believe them on that account. but to return to ben drake. to nat's last remark he replied, endeavoring to ridicule him for undertaking an enterprise on so small a scale, "if i was going to work at all, i wouldn't putter over a few hills of squashes, i can tell you. it is too small business. i'd do something or nothing." "what great thing _would_ you do? asked nat. "i would go into a store, and sell goods to ladies and gentlemen, and wear nice clothes." "and be nothing but a waiter to everybody for awhile. fred jarvis is only an errand-boy in boston." "i know that, but _i_ wouldn't be a waiter for anybody, and do the sweeping, making fires and carrying bundles; i don't believe in 'nigger's' work, though i think that is better than raising squashes." "i don't think it is small business at all to do what fred jarvis is doing, or to raise squashes," replied nat. "i didn't speak of fred because i thought he was doing something beneath him. i think that 'niggers' work is better than laziness;" and the last sentence was uttered in a way that seemed rather personal to ben. "well," said ben, as he cut short the conversation and hurried away, "if you wish to be a bug-killer this summer, you may for all me, i shan't." ben belonged to a class of boys who think it is beneath their dignity to do some necessary and useful work. to carry bundles, work in a factory, be nothing but a farmer's boy, or draw a hand-cart, is a compromise of dignity, they think. nat belonged to another class, who despise all such ridiculous notions. he was willing to do any thing that was necessary, though some people might think it was degrading. he did not feel above useful employment, on the farm, or in the workshop and factory. and this quality was a great help to him. for it is cousin to that hopefulness which he possessed, and brother to his self-reliance and independence. no man ever accomplished much who was afraid of doing work beneath his dignity. dr. franklin was nothing but a soap-boiler when he commenced; roger sherman was only a cobbler, and kept a book by his side on the bench; ben jonson was a mason and worked at his trade, with a trowel in one hand and a book in the other; john hunter, the celebrated physiologist, was once a carpenter, working at day labor; john foster was a weaver in his early life, and so was dr. livingstone, the missionary traveller; an american president was a hewer of wood in his youth, and hence he replied to a person who asked him what was his coat of arms, "a pair of shirt sleeves;" washington was a farmer's boy, not ashamed to dirty his hands in cultivating the soil; john opie, the renowned english portrait painter, sawed wood for a living before he became professor of painting in the royal academy; and hundreds of other distinguished men commenced their career in business no more respectable; but not one of them felt that dignity was compromised by their humble vocation. they believed that honor crowned all the various branches of industry, however discreditable they might appear to some, and that disgrace would eventually attach to any one who did not act well his part in the most popular pursuit. like them, nat was never troubled with mortification on account of his poverty, or the humble work he was called upon to do. his sympathies were rather inclined in the other direction, and, other things being equal, the sons of the poor and humble were full as likely to share his attentions. we are obliged to pass over much that belongs to the patch of squashes--the many hours of hard toil that it cost nat to bring the plants to maturity,--the two-weeks' battle with the bugs when he showed himself a thorough napoleon to conquer the enemy,--the spicy compliments he received for his industry and success in gardening,--the patient waiting for the rain-drops to fall in dry weather, and for the sun to shine forth in his glory when it was too wet,--the intimate acquaintance he cultivated with every squash, knowing just their number and size,--and many other things that show the boy. the harvest day arrived,--the squashes were ripe,--and a fine parcel of them there was. nat was satisfied with the fruit of his labor, as he gathered them for the market. "what a pile of them!" exclaimed frank, as he came over to see the squashes after school. "you are a capital gardener, nat; i don't believe there is a finer lot of squashes in town." "father says the bugs and dry weather couldn't hold out against my perseverance," added nat, laughing. "but the next thing is to sell them." "are you going to carry them to boston?" asked frank. "no; i shall sell them in the village. next saturday afternoon i shall try my luck." "you will turn peddler then?" "yes; but i don't think i shall like it so well as raising the squashes. there is real satisfaction in seeing them grow." "if you can peddle as well as you can garden it, you will make a real good hand at it; and such handsome squashes as those ought to go off like hot cakes." saturday afternoon came, and nat started with his little cart full of squashes. he was obliged to be his own horse, driver, and salesman, in which threefold capacity he served with considerable ability. "can i sell you some squashes to-day?" said nat to the first neighbor on whom he called. "squashes! where did you find such fine squashes as those?" asked the neighbor, coming up to the cart, and viewing the contents. "i raised them," said nat; "and i have a good many more at home." "what! did you plant and hoe them, and take the whole care of them?" "yes, sir; no one else struck a hoe into them, and i am to have all the money they bring." "you deserve it, nat, every cent of it. i declare, you beat me completely; for the bugs eat mine all up, so that i did not raise a decent squash. how did you keep the bugs off?" "i killed thousands of them," said nat. "in the morning before i went to school i looked over the vines; when i came home at noon i spent a few moments in killing them, and again at night i did the same. they troubled me only about two weeks." "well, they troubled _me_ only two weeks," replied the neighbor, "and by that time there was nothing left for them to trouble. but very few boys like to work well enough to do what you have done, and very few have the patience to do it either. with most of the boys it is all play and no work. but what do you ask for your squashes?" nat proceeded to answer: "that one is worth six cents; such a one as that eight; that is ten; and a big one like that (holding up the largest) is fifteen." the neighbor expressed his approval of the prices, and bought a number of them, for which he paid him the money. nat went on with his peddling tour, calling at every house in his way; and he met with very good success. just as he turned the corner of a street on the north side of the common, ben drake discovered him, and shouted, "hurrah for the squash-peddler! that is tall business, nat; don't you feel grand? what will you take for your horse?" [illustration] nat made no reply, but hastened on to the next house where he disposed of all the squashes that he carried but two. he soon sold them, and returned home to tell the story of his first peddling trip. once or twice afterwards he went on the same errand, and succeeded very well. but he became weary of the business, for some reason, before he sold all the squashes, and he hit upon this expedient to finish the work. "sis," said he to a sister younger than himself, "i will give you one of my pictures for every squash you will sell. you can carry three or four at a time easy enough." sis accepted the proposition with a good deal of pleasure; for she was fond of drawings, and nat had some very pretty ones. he possessed a natural taste for drawing, and he had quite a collection of birds, beasts, houses, trees, and other objects, drawn and laid away carefully in a box. for a boy of his age, he was really quite an artist. his squashes were not better than his drawings. his patience, perseverance, industry, and self-reliance, made him successful both as a gardener and artist. in a few days, "sis" had sold the last squash, and received her pay, according to the agreement. the sequel will show that peddling squashes was the only enterprise which nat undertook and failed to carry through. his failure there is quite unaccountable, when you connect it with every other part of his life. we are reminded that many men of mark commenced their career by peddling. the great english merchant, samuel budgett, when he was about ten years old, went out into the streets to sell a bird, in order that he might get some funds to aid his poor mother. the first money that dr. kitto obtained was the proceeds of the sale of _labels_, which he made and peddled from shop to shop. one of the wealthiest men we know, a christian man distinguished for his large benevolence, commenced his mercantile career by peddling goods that he carried in a band-box from one milliner's shop to another. "you must creep before you can walk," is an old maxim, and the lives of all distinguished men verify the proverb. he who creeps well, will walk so much the better by and by; but he who is ashamed to creep, must never expect to walk. we know a successful merchant who commenced the work of an errand-boy in a large mercantile house, when he was about twelve years old. he was not mortified to be caught with a bundle in hand in the street, nor to be seen sweeping the store. not feeling above his business, he discharged his duties as well as he could. when he swept he swept,--every nook and corner was thoroughly cleaned out. when he carried a bundle, he carried it,--nimbly, manfully, promptly, and politely he went and delivered it. he performed these little things so well that he was soon promoted to a more important post. here, too, he was equally faithful and thorough, and his employers saw that he possessed just the qualities to insure success. they promoted him again; and before he was twenty years old he was the head clerk of the establishment. he was not much past his majority when he was admitted as a partner to the firm; and now he stands at the head of the well-known house, a man of affluence, intelligence, and distinction. had he been ashamed to carry a bundle or sweep a store when he was a boy, by this time his friends would have had abundant reason to be ashamed of him. this chapter of nat's early experience in squash culture, was quite unimportant at the time. it is still only a memorial of _boyish_ days; but it was a good beginning. it shows as clearly as the most distinguished service he afterwards rendered to his fellow men, that hopefulness, industry, perseverance, economy of time, self-reliance, and other valuable traits, were elements of his character. chapter ii. upward and onward. it was winter,--about three months after the sale of the squashes. the district school was in progress, and a male teacher presided over it. "scholars," said the teacher one day, "it is both pleasant and profitable to have an occasional declamation and dialogue spoken in school. it will add interest, also, to our spelling-school exercises in the evening. now who would like to participate in these exercises?" nat was on his feet in a moment; for he was always ready to declaim, or perform his part of a dialogue. the teacher smiled to see such a little fellow respond so readily, and he said to nat, "did you ever speak a piece?" "yes, sir, a good many times." "do you like to declaim?" "yes, sir, and speak dialogues too." "what piece did you ever speak?" "'my voice is still for war,'" replied nat. "a great many boys have spoken that," added the teacher, amused at nat's hearty approval of the plan. "will you select a piece to-night, and show it to me to-morrow morning?" he asked. "yes, sir; and learn it too," answered nat. only four or five scholars responded to the teacher's proposition, and frank martin was one, nat's "right hand man" in all studies and games. the teacher arranged with each one for a piece, and the school was dismissed. as soon as school was out. "frank," said nat, "will you speak 'alexander the great and a robber' with me?" "yes, if the teacher is willing. which part will you take?" "the 'robber,' if you are willing to be great alexander." frank agreed to the proposition, and as the dialogue was in pierpont's first class book, which was used in school, they turned to it, and showed it to the teacher before he left the school-house. it was arranged that they should speak it on the next day, provided they could commit it in so short a time. "going to speak a dialogue to-morrow," said nat to his mother, as he went into the house. "what are you going to speak?" "alexander the great and a robber," replied nat. "and i shall be the robber, and frank will be alexander." "why do you choose to be the robber?" inquired his mother. "i hope you have no inclination that way." "i like that part," replied nat, "because the robber shows that the king is as much of a robber as himself. the king looks down upon him with scorn, and calls him a robber; and then the robber tells the king that he has made war upon people, and robbed them of their property, homes, and wives and children, so that he is a worse robber than himself. the king hardly knows what to say, and the last thing the robber says to him is, 'i believe neither you nor i shall ever atone to the world for half the mischief we have done it.' then the king orders his chains to be taken off, and says, 'are we then so much alike? alexander like a robber?'" "that is a very good reason, i think, for liking that part," said his mother. "many people do not stop to think that the great can be guilty of crimes. they honor a king or president whether he has any principle or not." "that is what i like to see exposed in the dialogue," said nat. "it is just as bad for a king to rob a person of all he has, in war, as it is for a robber to do it at midnight." nat always felt strongly upon this point. he very early learned that rich men, and those occupying posts of honor, were thought more of by many people, whether they were deserving or not, and it seemed to him wrong. he thought that one good boy ought to stand just as high as another, though his parents were poor and humble, and that every man should bear the guilt of his own deeds whether he be king or servant. out of this feeling grew his interest in the aforesaid dialogue, and he was willing to take the place of the robber for the sake of the pleasure of "showing up" the king. it was this kind of feeling that caused him to sympathize, even when a boy, with objects of distress and suffering,--to look with pity upon those who experienced misfortune, or suffered reproach unjustly. it was not strange that he became a professed democrat in his youth, as we shall see; for how could such a democratic little fellow be other than a true jeffersonian democrat? nat's part of the dialogue was committed on that evening before eight o'clock. he could commit a piece very quick, for he learned any thing easily. he could repeat many of the lessons of his reading book, word for word. his class had read them over a number of times, so that he could repeat them readily. at the appointed time, on the next afternoon, both nat and frank were ready to perform. "i have the pleasure this afternoon," said the teacher, "to announce a dialogue by two of the boys who volunteered yesterday. now if they shall say it without being prompted, you will all concede that they have done nobly to commit it so quickly let us have it perfectly still. the title of the dialogue is 'alexander the great and a robber.' now boys, we are ready." frank commenced in a loud, pompous, defiant tone, that was really alexander-like. it was evident from the time he uttered the first sentence that, if he could not be "alexander the great," he could be alexander the little. nat responded, and performed his part with an earnestness of soul, a power of imitation, and a degree of eloquence that surprised the teacher. the scholars were not so much surprised because they had heard him before, but it was the first time the teacher had seen him perform. "very well done," said the teacher, as they took their seats. "there could not be much improvement upon that. you may repeat the dialogue at the spelling-school on friday evening; and i hope both of you will have declamations next week." "_i_ will, sir," said nat. the teacher found a reluctance among the boys to speak, and one of them said to him, "if i could speak as well as nat, i would do it." this remark caused him to think that nat's superiority in these rhetorical exercises might dishearten some of his pupils; and the next time he introduced the subject to the school, he took occasion to remark, "some of our best orators were very poor speakers when they began to declaim in boyhood. it is not certain that a lad who does not acquit himself very well in this exercise at first, will not make a good orator at last. demosthenes, who was the most gifted orator of antiquity, had an impediment in his speech in early life. but he determined to overcome it, and be an orator in spite of it. he tried various expedients, and finally went to a cave daily, on the sea-shore, where, with pebble-stones in his mouth, he declaimed, until the impediment was removed. by patience and perseverance he became a renowned orator. it was somewhat so, too, with daniel webster, whom you all know as the greatest orator of our land and times. the first time he went upon the stage to speak, he was so frightened that he could not recall the first line of his piece. the second time he did not do much better; and it was not until he had made several attempts, that he was able to get through a piece tolerably well. but a strong determination and persevering endeavors, finally gave him success." in the course of the winter nat spoke a number of pieces, among which were "marco bozzaris," "speech of catiline before the roman senate on hearing his sentence of banishment," and "dialogue from macbeth," in all of which he gained himself honor. his taste seemed to prefer those pieces in which strength and power unite. at ten and twelve years of age, he selected such declamations and dialogues as boys generally do at the age of sixteen or eighteen years. it was not unusual for the teacher to say, when visitors were in school, "come, master ---- [nat], can you give us a declamation?" and nat was never known to refuse. he always had one at his tongue's end, which would roll off, at his bidding, as easily as thread unwinds from a spool. about this time there was some complaint among the scholars in nat's arithmetic class, and samuel drake persuaded one of the older boys to write a petition to the teacher for shorter lessons. this samuel drake was a brother of ben, a bad boy, as we shall see hereafter, known in the community as sam. when the petition was written, sam signed it, and one or two other boys did the same; but when he presented it to nat, the latter said, "what should i sign that for? the lessons are not so long as i should like to have them. do you study them any in the evening?" "study in the evening!" exclaimed sam. "i am not so big a fool as that. it is bad enough to study in school." "i study evenings," added nat, "and you are as able to study as i am. the lessons would be too long for me if i didn't study any." "and so you don't mean to sign this petition?" inquired sam. "of course i don't," replied nat. "if the lessons are not too long, there is no reason why i should petition to have them shorter." "you can sign it for our sakes," pleaded sam. "not if i think you had better study them as they are." "go to grass then," said sam, becoming angry, "we can get along without a squash peddler, i'd have you know. you think you are of mighty consequence, and after you have killed a few more bugs perhaps you will be." "i won't sign your petition," said frank, touched to the quick by this abuse of nat. "nor i," exclaimed charlie stone, another intimate associate of nat's, and a good scholar too. nat was sensitive to ridicule when it proceeded from certain persons, but he did not care much for it when its author was sam drake, a boy whom every teacher found dull and troublesome. he replied, however, in a pleasant though sarcastic manner, addressing his remark to frank and charlie, "sam is so brilliant that he expects to get along without study. he will be governor yet." sam did not relish this thrust very much, but before he had a chance to reply, frank added, "i suppose you will make a speech, sam, when you present your petition." all laughed heartily at this point, and turned away, leaving sam to bite his lips and cogitate. sam was certainly in a predicament. he had several signers to his petition, but they were all the lazy, backward scholars, and he knew it. to send a petition to the teacher with these signatures alone, he knew would be little less than an insult. if nat, frank, and charlie, would have signed it, he would not have hesitated. as it was, he did not dare to present it, so the petition movement died because it couldn't live. the teacher, however, heard of the movement, and some days thereafter, thinking that his dull scholars might need a word of encouragement, he embraced a favorable opportunity to make the following remarks:-- "it is not always the case that the brightest scholars in boyhood make the most useful or learned men. there are many examples of distinguished men, who were very backward scholars in youth. the great philosopher newton was one of the dullest scholars in school when he was twelve years old. doctor isaac barrow was such a dull, pugnacious, stupid fellow, that his father was heard to say, if it pleased god to remove any one of his children by death, he hoped it would be isaac. the father of doctor adam clarke, the commentator, called his boy 'a grievous dunce.' cortina, a renowned painter, was nicknamed, by his associates, 'ass' head,' on account of his stupidity, when a boy. when the mother of sheridan once went with him to the school-room, she told the teacher that he was 'an incorrigible dunce,' and the latter was soon compelled to believe her. one teacher sent chatterton home to his mother as 'a fool of whom nothing could be made.' napoleon and wellington were both backward scholars. and sir walter scott was named the 'the great blockhead' at school. but some of these men, at a certain period of youth, changed their course of living, and began to apply themselves with great earnestness and assiduity to the acquisition of knowledge, while others, though naturally dull, improved their opportunities from the beginning, and all became renowned. no one of them advanced without close application. it was by their own persevering efforts that they finally triumphed over all difficulties. so it must be with yourselves. the dullest scholar in this room may distinguish himself by application and dint of perseverance, while the brightest may fail of success, by wasting his time and trusting to his genius. the motto of every youth should be 'upward and onward.'" chapter iii. saturday afternoon. the bright summer-time had come again, when the sweet-scented blossoms beautified the gardens, and the forming fruits gave promise of a rich golden harvest. the school-bell sent out its merry call to the laughing children, and scores of them daily went up to the temple of knowledge for improvement. saturday afternoon was a season of recreation, when the pupils, released from school, engaged in various sports, or performed some light labor for their parents. on a certain saturday afternoon, nat, charlie, frank, and one or two other boys, arranged for a "good time" at the house of one of the number. they were all there promptly at the appointed time, together with frank's little dog trip--a genuine favorite with all the boys who had any regard for dog-brightness and amiability. "look here, frank, has trip forgot how to play hy-spy?" asked charlie. "no; he will play it about as well as _you_ can. let us try it." "you can't learn him to touch the goal, can you?" inquired another boy. "no," replied frank; "but i expect he will before he takes his degree. he is nothing but a freshman now." "did he ever petition you for shorter lessons?" asked nat. charlie and frank laughed; for they thought of sam drake's petition at the winter school. "never," answered frank; "but he has asked me for longer ones a great many times. he never gets enough at any sport. he will play 'hide and seek' or 'ball' as long as you will want to have him, and then wag his tail for more." trip sat by looking wistfully up into his little master's face as if he perfectly understood the praise that was lavished upon him, and was patiently waiting to give an exhibition of his skill in athletic games. "let us try his skill," said charlie. "come, frank, give him his post." "here, trip," said frank, "come here; nice fellow,--does want to play 'hide and seek;' so he shall;" and he patted him on his head, for which kindness trip voted him thanks as well as he could. "now, boys, we'll all run and hide, and trip will find us in short metre." off they started, some round the barn and house, and some over the wall, while trip stood wagging his tail, in the spot assigned him. at length a loud shrill "whoop," "whoop," "whoop," one after another, saluted trip's ears, and off he ran to find them. bounding over the wall, he came right upon charlie, who laughed heartily at the result, while trip extended his researches round the barn, where he discovered nat under a pile of boards, and one or two of the other boys. when they all returned to the goal, trip perceived that his master was not found, and off he bounded a second time. "sure enough," exclaimed charlie, "he knows that frank is not here, and he has gone to find him. isn't he a knowing dog?" "i don't believe he will find him," said nat, "for he is up on a beam in the shed." nat had scarcely uttered these words, before a shout from frank and a bark from trip announced that the former was discovered. "there," said frank, as he came up to the goal with trip skipping and jumping at his side, "wasn't that well done? i told you he would find you, and none of us could do it quicker." "let us try it again," said one of the boys, "i guess i'll puzzle him this time." again they all sought hiding-places, while trip waited at the goal for the well-known signal--"whoop;" "whoop;" "whoop." none of the boys knew the meaning of this better than he, although he was only a dog. soon the signal was given, and away went trip in high glee. over the wall--around the barn--into the shed--back of the house--behind the woodpile--under the boards--here and there--he ran until every boy was found. again and again the experiment was tried, and trip won fresh laurels every time. "you've torn your pants, nat," said frank. "i know it. i did it getting over the fence. i haven't done such a thing before, i don't know when." while exhausting "hy-spy" of its fun, sylvester jones came along with a bit of news. "going to court, nat?" he inquired. "going where?" replied nat, not understanding him. "_to court_! they have taken up harry gould and tom ryder, and the court is coming off at the hall." "what have they taken harry and tom for?" asked nat, becoming deeply interested in the event. "i don't know exactly; but it is something about disturbing the exhibition." the facts in the case were these. there was an exhibition in the hall owned by the manufacturing company, and these two boys climbed up on the piazza and looked into the window, thereby disturbing the exercises. an action was brought against them, and they were to be tried before a justice of the town. "it is too bad," replied nat, "to take up such little boys for _that_--they didn't know any better. what will be done with them, do you expect?" "perhaps they will send them to jail. father says it is a serious matter to disturb a meeting of any kind." "yes," replied nat, "it is a mean act in anybody, but i don't believe that harry and tom understood it. it will be too bad to send them to prison for that. perhaps they would never do such a thing again." "come," added sylvester, "let us go to the trial and see. they have begun before this time." nat's sympathies were intensely wrought upon by these tidings; for harry and tom were among his school-fellows. the idea of trying such little boys in a court of justice excited him very much. he forgot all about the games projected and the rent in his pantaloons, and seizing his cap, he said to frank, "will _you_ go?" "yes, i've played about enough," answered frank. "i would like to go to a court." the boys hurried away to the hall; and they found that the court had opened, and that the room was well filled with people. nat edged his way along through the crowd until he found himself directly in front of the table where the justice sat. sure enough, there the two young prisoners were, harry and tom, looking as if they were half frightened out of their wits. how nat pitied them! it seemed strange to him that men could deal thus with boys so small. he listened to the examination, of witnesses with great emotion, and watched harry and tom so closely that he could read their very thoughts. he knew just how badly they felt, and that if they could get clear this time, they never would be caught in such wrong-doing again. "were you present at the exhibition?" inquired the justice of one of the witnesses. "i was," he answered. "did the prisoners disturb the exercise?" "they did." "how do you know that harry and tom were the boys?" "because i went out to send them away, and found them on the piazza." "did you speak to them, and call them by name, so that you could not be mistaken?" "i did, and they responded to their names." "then you can swear that these two boys, the prisoners, disturbed the meeting?" "yes, i am positive of it." two or three other witnesses were examined, when the justice said, "it appears to be a clear case, boys, that you are guilty of the charges alleged against you. you are very young to begin to disturb the public peace. even if it was nothing but thoughtlessness, boys are getting to be so rude, that it is high time some check was put upon their mischief. now, boys, have you any thing to say for yourselves?" harry and tom were more frightened than ever, and nat could see them struggle to keep from crying outright. "have you any one to speak for you?" asked the justice. nat could withstand it no longer, and he stepped forward, with his cap in his hand, his bright eyes beaming with sympathy for the prisoners, and said, "please, sir, i will speak for them, if you are willing," and without waiting for the justice to reply, he proceeded: "harry and tom would never do the like again. they knew it was wrong for them to disturb the exhibition, but they didn't think. they _will_ think next time. i know they feel sorry now for what they have done, and will try to be good boys hereafter. can you not try them, if they will promise? this is the first time they have done so, and they will promise, i know they will (turning to the boys), won't you, tom?" [illustration] the boys both nodded assent, and the justice looked pleased, astonished, and not a little puzzled. it was really a scene for the artist, nat standing before the court with cap in hand, and his pantaloons torn in the play of the afternoon, his heart so moved with pity for the juvenile offenders that he almost forgot where he was, making a touching plea for the boys, as if their destiny depended upon his own exertions. the hall was so still that the fall of a pin might be heard while nat was pleading the case. everybody was taken by surprise. they could hardly believe their senses. "their brother," answered one man, in reply to the inquiry, "who is that lad?" he did not know himself, but he thought that possibly a brother might plead thus for them. the justice was not long in deciding the case, after such a plea. he simply reprimanded the two boys, gave them some wholesome counsel, and discharged them, much to the gratification of nat, and many others. "that was the youngest lawyer i ever heard plead a case," said mr. payson, after the court adjourned. "the most impudent one, _i_ think," replied mr. sayles, to whom the remark was addressed. "if i had been in the place of the justice, i would have kicked him out of the hall. little upstart! to come in there, and presume to speak in behalf of two reckless boys!" "you misjudge the boy entirely, mr. sayles. there is nothing of the 'upstart' about nat. he is a good boy, a good scholar, and very amiable indeed. the neighbors will all tell you so. it was his sincere pity for the boys that led him to plead for them. he did not mean to conceal their guilt, but he thought, as _i_ do, that such small boys better be reproved and tried again, before they suffer the penalty of the law." "i hope it is so," replied mr. s. "i _know_ it is so," continued mr. p. "nat is very kind and sympathizing, and he cannot endure to see a dog abused. it might seem bold and unmannerly for him to address the court as he did, but nat is not such a boy. he is very mannerly for one of his age, and nothing but his deep pity for harry and tom induced him to speak. the act has elevated him considerably in my estimation, though i thought well of him before." mr. payson took the right view of the matter. in addition to his sympathy for his school-fellows, nat felt that it was hardly right to take those little boys before a court for the offence charged, since they were not vagrants, and were not known as bad boys. if ben and sam drake had been there instead of harry and tom, he would not have volunteered a plea to save them from the clutches of the law. but he felt that it was dealing too severely with them, and this emboldened him, so that when he witnessed the distress of the boys, and saw them try to conceal their emotions, his heart overflowed with pity for them, and forced him to speak. if we knew nothing more of nat, this single act would lead us to anticipate that, in later life, he would espouse the cause of the oppressed in every land, and lift his voice and use his pen in defence of human rights. at the age of ten or twelve years, john howard, the philanthropist, was not distinguished above the mass of boys around him, except for the kindness of his heart, and boyish deeds of benevolence. it was so with wilberforce, whose efforts in the cause of british emancipation gave him a world-wide fame. every form of suffering, misfortune, or injustice, touched his young heart, and called forth some expression of tender interest. carefully he would lay off his shoes at the door of a sick chamber, and often divide a small coin, received as a present, between his own wants and some poor child or man he chanced to meet. and buxton, whose self-sacrificing spirit in behalf of suffering humanity is everywhere known, was early observed by his mother to sympathize with the down-trodden and unfortunate, and she sought to nurture and develop this feeling as a hopeful element of character. when his fame was at its zenith, he wrote to his mother, "i constantly feel, especially in action and exertion for others, the effects of principles early implanted by you in my mind." chapter iv. the wild cherries nat, charlie, and frank planned a pleasure excursion one saturday afternoon, when cherries were in their prime. they did not even think of the cherries, however, when they planned the trip. they thought more of the fields and forests through which they proposed to go. but just at this point one of their associates came up, and said, "let us go over beyond capt. pratt's and get some cherries. there is a large tree there, and it hangs full." "yes; and have the owner in your hair," answered charlie. "no, no," replied john, the name of the boy who made the proposition. "they are _wild_ cherries, a half a mile from any house, and of course the owner considers them common property. i have got cherries there a number of times." "that is no evidence you didn't steal them," said nat, half laughing. "if you do no worse stealing than that," answered john, "you will not be sent to jail this week." it was therefore agreed, that the cherry-tree should be visited, even if they allowed the cherries to remain unmolested. without further discussion they proceeded to execute their purpose, and lost no time in finding the famous tree. john's glowing description of the crop had caused their mouths to water long before they came in sight of them. "john is hoaxing us," said nat, smiling, before they were half way there. "i don't believe as good cherries as he tells about ever grow wild." "wait and see," responded john. "if you won't believe _me_, i guess you will your eyes. wild or not wild, i hardly think you will keep your hands off, when you have a peak at them." "i tell you what it is, nat," said frank, "if it should turn out that the cherries are tame, you might not get off so easy as harry and tom did for disturbing the exhibition." "i shouldn't deserve to," answered nat. the conversation kept up briskly as the boys crossed the fields and scaled the walls and fences. at length they came in sight of the tree, standing apart from any garden, nursery, or orchard, a full half mile from the nearest house. "there it is," said john, pointing to it. "if that is not a wild cherry-tree, then _no_ tree is wild." "i should think it would be as wild as the beasts, so far from any house," added frank. they were surprised, on approaching the tree, to find it loaded with cherries of so nice a quality. they were much larger than the common wild cherries, a sort of "mazards," similar to the kind that is cultivated in gardens. "that is not a wild-cherry tree, i know," said charlie. "it may have come up here, but the owner of this land would never fail to gather such cherries as these. they would sell for ninepence a quart in the village as quick as any cherries." "i think so too," said nat; "and if we strip the tree, the first thing we shall know, the constable will have us up for stealing." "pshaw!" exclaimed john. "you are more scared than hurt. i don't mean that these cherries are not like some that grow in gardens; but the tree came up here of itself--nobody ever set it out--and so it is wild; and why are not the cherries common property as much as that smaller kind which people get over there by the river?" this last argument of john was more convincing. all the boys knew that anybody gathered the common wild cherries from trees that grew much nearer dwelling-houses than this, so that there was some force in john's last suggestion. "if john _is_ right," added nat, "it is best to be on the safe side, and ask leave of the owner. if he does not mean to pick the cherries, he will be willing that we should have them; and if he does want them, he will put us into the lock-up for stealing them." "who is going half a mile to find the owner?" said john, "and then perhaps he will be away from home. i shall not run my legs off upon any such tom fool's errand. if you are a mind to do it, i have no objections, and i will pick the cherries while you are gone." the matter was discussed a little longer, and finally all concluded to try the cherries. it required a pretty forcible argument to stand against the appeal of the luscious fruit to their eyes. into the tree they went, and, in due time filled their caps with the tempting fruit. having loaded their caps, they descended and set them on the ground under the tree, and then returned to fill their stomachs. "hark!" said frank hurriedly, "do i not hear some one calling?" "yes," answered john, from the top of the tree, where he was regaling himself with the dessert, "true as i am alive, there is the owner coming full speed, and yelling like a good one. let us clear." they all dropped upon the ground instantly, and bounded over the nearest wall like frightened sheep, and soon were seen scampering a hundred rods off. "there, now, if that isn't smart," exclaimed nat; "we've left our caps under the tree, frank." john set to laughing to see the two capless boys; and he was more inclined to laugh because charlie and himself had presence of mind enough to take theirs. "if it was you, john, i shouldn't care a snap," said frank. "you led the way, and made us believe that they were wild cherries, and i wish your cap was there." john could only laugh, in reply, at his bareheaded companions. "i don't see why we should run at all," said nat, just apprehending the folly of their course. "we are not thieves,--we didn't mean to steal. we shouldn't have taken the cherries if we had known, the owner wanted them." "what can we do without our hats?" asked frank. "i shall go and get mine," answered nat, "and tell the man just as it was, and, if he is reasonable he will overlook it." "i am beat now," exclaimed john; "the old fellow is certainly carrying off your caps." the boys looked, and to their amazement, the man was returning to his house with the caps. nat and frank were more perplexed than ever. "never mind," said john; "you are both big enough to go bareheaded. what will you take for your caps?" and again he laughed at their predicament. "what shall we do?" inquired frank. "go to his house and get the caps, of course," said nat. "the caps won't come to us that is certain." "what will you tell the man?" "tell him the truth," replied nat, "and it ought to get our caps, and shield us from punishment." "perhaps he is a crabbed fellow who will show us no favors; and he will say that our running away is evidence of our guilt." "we were fools to run," said nat; "and if i had stopped to think one moment i should have stayed there, and explained it to him." finally, it was decided that nat and frank should go after their caps, on which errand they started at once, while john and charlie proceeded homeward. in the mean time the owner of the tree had reached his house very much amused at the flight of the capless boys. he was somewhat angry when he first saw the boys in his tree, but the possession of the two caps well filled with cherries modified his wrath considerably. it would take him two hours to pick that quantity of fruit. "surely," he thought, "the boys have beaten the bush and i have caught the birds." "you must go to the door and explain it," said frank to nat. "i am going to, and convince him that we did did not mean to steal." nat gave a gentle rap at the door, to which a lady at once responded. "can we see the man who has our caps?" inquired nat. "i will see," she replied very kindly, and stepped back into the house to call her husband. he made his appearance promptly; and looked so much more pleasant than nat expected, that he was very much emboldened. "what is wanted, boys?" he asked. "we have come," replied nat, "to tell how it happened that we got your cherries, and to get our caps." "i suppose it happened very much as it does every year with those cherries," said the man,--"the boys steal them." "no, sir; i think i can convince you that we did not mean to steal. we thought they were wild cherries. john came along and told us about them, and we did not believe they were wild. finally we consented to go and see, and when we got to the tree, we told him that the owner of such nice cherries would want them, and i told him that the best way would be to come and ask you, for if you did not want them, you would certainly give us permission to pick them. but he laughed at us, and said the tree was much further from any house than the wild cherries that any person gets down by the river, and therefore the cherries must be common property. we thought he was right, when he told us this, and so we went up into the tree." "but why did you run when you saw me coming, if you did not mean to steal them?" he asked. "i run, sir, because i did not stop to think. i told frank, as soon as we stopped running, that we were very foolish, because we did not mean to steal, and i was sorry that we did run. but we were so surprised when we saw you coming that we ran before we thought. i don't think we did right, sir, though we did not mean to steal. it would have been better for us to have come and asked you for the cherries as i told john. now we would like our caps, but we want you to be convinced first that we are not thieves." "i _am_ convinced," replied the man. "i guess you mean to be honest boys, and you shall have your caps." the fact was, the man was much impressed with the sincerity and honesty of nat before he got half through his explanation. he admired his frankness, and his manly, straight-forward way of telling his story. he went into the house and brought out the caps, just as he took them from the ground, full of cherries, and gave them caps, cherries, and all. "you don't mean we shall have the cherries, do you?" inquired nat. "certainly, you have worked hard enough for them," he replied. "and i like to see boys willing to own up when they do wrong. i don't think _you_ meant to do wrong; but i am glad to see you make a clean breast of it, and not be so mean as to equivocate, and lie, to get out of a scrape. boys always fare the best when they are truthful, and try to do right." "we are much obliged to you," said nat. "you will never catch us on your cherry-tree again without permission." having pocketed the cherries, they put on their caps, and hastened home, quite thoroughly convinced that all cherries which grow a half mile from any house are not wild. chapter v. athletic sports. "a swim to-night," shouted john to frank, on his way home from school. "all hands be there." "will you come, nat?" inquired frank. "yes; and swim three rods under water," was nat's reply. at this period of nat's boyhood, there was almost a passion among the boys for athletic sports, such as swimming, jumping, running, ball-playing, and kindred amusements. for some time they had received special attention, and no one of the boys enjoyed them more than nat. it was one of the principles on which he lived, to do with all his heart whatever he undertook. in the school-room, he studied with a keen relish for knowledge, and on the play-ground he played with equal gusto. if he had work to do it was attended to at once, and thoroughly finished in the shortest possible time. in this way he engaged in athletic sports. an hour before sunset, a dozen or more boys were at "the bathing place." "now, nat, for your three rods under water," said frank. "if i was half as long-winded as you are, i should keep company with the fishes pretty often." "he swam more than three rods under water the other day," said charlie. "i shouldn't want to risk myself so long out of sight. suppose the cramp should seize you, nat, i guess you'd like to see the dry land." "you must remember," suggested john, who was usually ready to turn things over, and look at the funny side, "that doctors won't wade into the water after their patients." one after another the boys plunged into the water, as if it were their native element. most of them had practised swimming, diving, and other feats, until they were adepts in these water-arts. some of them could swim a surprising distance, and feared not to venture a long way from the shore. frank was very skilful in performing these water feats, but even he could not equal nat. "now for a swim under water," exclaimed nat, as he disappeared from the view of his companions. all stopped their sports to watch nat, and see where he would make his appearance. not a word was spoken as they gazed with breathless interest, and waited to see him rise. "he's drowned," cried one of the boys. "no, no," responded frank. "we shall see him in a moment," and yet frank began to fear. "i tell you he _is_ drowned," shouted john, much excited. by this time there was a good deal of consternation among the boys, and some of them were running out of the water. a man who was watching on the shore, was actually stripping his coat off to make a plunge for nat, when up he came. "he is safe," shouted half a dozen voices, and the welkin rang with cheer after cheer. "there, young man, better not try that again," said the gentleman on the shore, as nat swum around in that direction. "that was more than three rods," said frank. "and more than four," added charlie. "you beat yourself this time, nat. you never swam so far under water before. we thought you were drowned." "there is no use in trying to beat _you_," continued frank. "if you had gills you would be a regular fish." everybody in the village heard of nat's swimming feats under water, as well as on the water, and it was not unusual for spectators to assemble on the shore, when they knew that he was going to bathe. not far from this time, a little later in the year perhaps, there was to be a special game of ball on saturday afternoon. ball-playing was one of the favorite games with the boys, and some of them were remarkable players. when the time arrived it was decided that john and charlie should choose sides, and it fell to the latter to make the first choice. "i choose nat," said he. "i'll take frank," said john. it was usually the case that nat and frank were pitted against each other in this amusement. nat was considered the best player, so that he was usually the first choice. frank stood next, so that he was the second choice. in this way they generally found themselves playing against each other. it was so on this occasion. the game commenced, and john's side had the "ins." "you must catch," said charlie to nat. it was usually nat's part to catch. "and you must throw," responded nat. "i can catch your balls best." the very first ball that was thrown, john missed, though he struck with a well-aimed blow, as he thought, and nat caught it. "that is too bad," was the exclamation heard on one side, and "good," "capital," on the other. charlie took the bat, and was fortunate in hitting the ball the first time he struck. now it was nat's turn, and, with bat in hand, he took his place. "be sure and hit," said charlie. "i should like to see a ball go by _him_ without getting a rap," answered frank, who was now the catcher. "the ball always seems to think it is no use to try to pass him." "there, take that," said nat, as he sent the ball, at his first bat, over the heads of all, so far that he had time to run round the whole circle of goals, turning a somerset as he came in. "a good beginning, nat; let us see you do that again," said frank. "when the time comes i'll give you a chance," replied nat. we will not follow the game further, but simply say that, before it was half through, quite a number of men, old and young, were attracted to the place by the sport. "what a fine player for so young a boy," said one bystander to another, as nat added one after another to the tallies. "yes; no one can excel him; he never plays second fiddle to anybody. he will run faster, catch better, and hit the ball more times in ten, than any other boy. i saw him jump the other day, and he surpassed any thing i have seen of his age." "if that is not all he is good for, it is well enough," replied the other. "he is just as good at studying or working, as he is at playing ball; it seems to be a principle with him _to be the best_ in whatever he undertakes. i was amused at his reply to one of the neighbors, who asked him how he managed to swim better than any one else. 'it is just as easy to swim well as poorly,' said he, and there is a good deal of truth in the remark. at another time he said, 'one might as well run fast as slow.'" "does he appear to glory in his feats?" "not at all. he does not seem to think there is much credit in being the best at these games. one of the boys said to him one day, 'nat, you always get all the glory in our games.' he replied, 'i don't think there is much glory in playing ball well. if that is all a person is good for, he is not good for much.' he has very good ideas about such things." this was really a correct view of nat's case. he enjoyed athletic sports as much as any of the boys, and yet he actually felt that it was no particular credit to him to be a good swimmer, jumper, runner, or ball-player. he did not study to excel therein because he thought it was honorable to beat every other boy in these things. but what he did, he did with all his soul, and this is necessary to success. he had confidence in his ability to succeed in what he undertook. when he first went into the water, he knew he could learn to swim. when he took his stand to catch the ball, he knew he could catch it. others did these things, and he could see no reason why he could not. he seemed to feel as one of the rothschilds did, who said, "i can do what another man can." the same elements of character caused him to excel on the play-ground, that enabled him to bear off the palm in the school-room. it is generally the case that a boy who does one thing well will do another well also. employers understand this, and choose those lads who exhibit a disposition to be thorough. said samuel budgett, "in whatever calling a man is found, he ought to be the best in his calling; if only a shoe-black, he ought to be the best shoe-black in the neighborhood." he acted upon this principle himself from his boyhood; and so did nat, whether he was fully conscious of it or not. sir joshua reynolds, the great painter, said that his success resulted mainly from one principle upon which he had acted, namely, "_to make every picture the best_." buxton, of whom we have spoken already, had as much force of character in his youth as almost any boy who ever lived. his determination was invincible, and his energy and perseverance were equal to his resolution. the consequence was that he became famous for boating, shooting, riding, and all sorts of fieldsports, though he cared little for any thing else. but when, at last, his attention was turned to self-improvement and philanthropy, by the influence of the gurney family, he carried the same qualities with him there, and through them won a world-wide fame. it was thus with sir walter scott, who was second to no one in his youth for his dexterity and proficiency in athletic, games, and the various forms of recreation. he could "spear a salmon with the best fisher on the tweed, and ride a wild horse with any hunter in yarrow." the same energy and unconquerable will helped him achieve that herculean labor afterwards, of paying off a debt of six hundred thousand dollars, with his pen. the duke of wellington acknowledged the same principle, when he said, as he stood watching the sports of boys on the play-ground of eton, where he spent his juvenile years, "it was there that the battle of waterloo was won." twenty-five years after nat bore off the palm in athletic games, an early associate asked him to what he owed his success, and he answered, in a vein of pleasantry, "to swimming under water." whatever may have been his meaning, it is not at all difficult to discover the same elements of character in squash-raising, declamation, and arithmetic, that appear in the games he played. his skill in the water served him a good purpose one day, or rather, it served another boy well. nat and two or three of his companions were at play near the factory, when some one cried out, "a boy in the water!" in an instant nat sprung, followed by his companions, and made for the water, when lo! a little boy was seen struggling to keep from sinking. he had carelessly ventured too near and fallen in, and must have perished but for the timely aid thus rendered him. nat plunged in after him, and his play-fellows did the same, or brought rails, by which he was saved. he proved to be charlie's younger brother. this event made a deep impression upon nat's mind, and he reflected upon his act with far more satisfaction than he did upon his superiority in swimming or playing ball. he had saved, or helped save, a lad from a watery grave, and that was an act worth performing. he went home, and after relating the incident with the greatest enthusiasm, he sat down and drew a picture representing the scene. there was the water and buildings near, a little boy struggling for life, and nat and associates plunging in after him. it was really a good representation of the terrific scene; and nat considered it quite an accession to his collection of drawings. thus he used this bit of experience to advance himself in one branch of education. with his traits of character, he could not excel in innocent games, without receiving an impulse therefrom to excel in more important acquisitions. chapter vi. a mistake. stern winter locked the streams again. a snowy mantle covered the hills and valleys, and the bleak winds moaned through the naked trees. the merry sleigh-bells jingled in the streets, and merrier lads and lasses filled the village school-house. the skating grounds never presented more attractions to nat and his circle of schoolmates. "the ice is smooth as glass," said john. "i never saw better skating in my life. will you try it right after school?" these words were addressed to a group of school-boys at the afternoon recess, to which all but two responded in the affirmative. it was a snapping cold day, but youthful skaters mind nothing for that. "george and i have promised to see the teacher after school about studying grammar," said neander, "so that we can't go." "he wants to form a new class in grammar for beginners, and our parents have told him that we must study it," said george. "i will sell you what _i_ know about it cheap, if you will go with us," said john, who had studied grammar a short time. "i don't think he will be troubled to find use for as much as that," said charlie, jocosely. "you will find it dry as a chip," added john. "it fairly makes me thirsty to study it." the bell rung, and the boys hurried to their seats. at the close of the school, the teacher took occasion to say, "that some scholars were desirous of beginning the study of grammar. i think there might be quite a large class formed of those who are old enough to begin. it is a very important science. it will teach you how to read and write the english language correctly. you cannot write a good letter even without some knowledge of this study. those of you who are eleven or twelve years of age ought to commence it at once. now, those of you who would like to join such a class may stop after the school is dismissed, and we will make the arrangements." three or four only remained--others passed out, nat and charlie among them. they had never studied grammar, and the teacher really expected they would remain. their scholarship was so good that he inferred they would desire to unite with such a class, but he was mistaken. "shall you join the grammar class, nat?" inquired charlie, on their way to the pond. "no; i think that other studies will be of more use to me. grammar is a good branch for rich men's sons, who can go to school as long as they want to; but i am not a rich man's son, and i never expect to do any thing that will require a knowledge of grammar." "that is my idea exactly," continued charlie. "if i knew i should ever go into a store, or be a town officer, i should want to study it." "according to the teacher's ideas, you will need it if you are nothing more than a wood-sawyer's clerk," said john. "i didn't quite believe all the teacher said about writing letters," added nat. "i have heard father say that grammar was not studied at all when _he_ went to school, and that it has been introduced into school quite recently. now i would like to know if people did not understand how to write letters in those days. couldn't washington and jefferson, and other great men, write letters correctly?" "i never thought of that," said charlie. "i would ask the teacher, if i were in your place, to-morrow." "for one," said john, "i should be willing to run my risk, if i could get rid of studying it. i can't make much out of it." "i have no doubt," added nat, "that it is a good study for those who will want to use it; but _i_(?) shall never want to use it, and it is better for me to study something else. arithmetic is useful to everybody, if they never buy any thing but meat out of a butcher's cart." by this time they had reached the pond, so that the subject of grammar was dropped, and skating taken up. "i suppose you will bear off the palm as usual, nat," said frank, while he was putting on his skates. "i don't know about that," replied nat; "if a fellow can't skate some on this glare ice, he better give his skates to somebody who can." frank's remark was drawn out by the fact that nat was already considered the best skater in the village. he could skate more rapidly, and perform more feats on his skates than any one else. his ability had been fully tested again and again; and by this time there seemed to be a sort of expectation among the boys that he would be "first best" in whatever he undertook. for this reason they hardly attempted to compete with him, but yielded the first place to him as a matter of course. away went nat up the pond, and charlie exclaimed, "see him go! what a fellow nat is! any thing he undertakes has to go. see him skate now on one foot, and now he is skating backwards!" "and he does it just as easy as a boy knows his father," said john. for nearly an hour skating was enjoyed, when all concluded that their suppers would be waiting, and so they separated for home. on the following day, soon after school began in the morning, the teacher brought up the subject of a grammar class, evidently dissatisfied that certain boys did not remain after school, on the previous afternoon, to join it. he remarked "that there were several boys in school, who might study grammar as well as not," and he went on to call the names of some, and turning to nat and charlie, who sat together, he said, "both of you need to begin this study at once. it would have been better if you had undertaken it before; but it is not too late now. you will never regret it hereafter. i want both of you to join the class," and he uttered the last sentence as if he meant it. neither nat nor charlie made any reply at the time; but at recess they went to the teacher and made known their feelings. "we never expect to do any thing that will require a knowledge of grammar," said nat. "it will do well enough for rich men's sons." "perhaps both of you will be lawyers, ministers, legislators, or governors yet," replied the teacher, smiling. "poorer boys than you have risen to occupy as important places, and the like may happen again." "none of the scholars like grammar," said charlie; "they say it is dry and uninteresting, and hard to understand." "if it is so," answered the teacher, "that is no reason why it should not be studied. we have to do some very unpleasant things in this world. if you live to become men, you will find that you cannot have every thing to your taste. you will be obliged to do some things, from the doing of which you would rather be excused. and as to your not expecting to occupy stations in future life, where you will find a knowledge of grammar useful, there is more prospect of it than there was that benjamin franklin would become distinguished. he had not half so good advantages as you have. his father was poor, and had a large family to support. he was compelled to take benjamin out of school, when ten years old, and set him to making soap, which was not very popular business. but the boy did as well as he could, and made improvement though deprived of school advantages. then he became a printer boy, and used all his spare moments to read and study, so that he advanced more rapidly than many of his companions did who continued in school. he always had to work, and had much more reason than you have, when he was of your age, to say that he should never occupy a position of influence. yet he became, as you know, one of the most learned men of his age, a philosopher and statesman whose fame will never perish. and it was somewhat so with patrick henry. though he had better advantages than benjamin franklin, and had a father who was able to assist him, yet no one thought he would ever become distinguished. it was rather thought by the people who knew him, that he would never accomplish much. yet, when he came to improve the small opportunities he had, after his father had ceased to aid him, he rapidly advanced to fame. he became the most noted orator of his day, and a very popular statesman. when he was twelve years old, he had no idea of occupying such a place in manhood. he would have laughed at the suggestion. there are many such examples; and they show us that boys may rise to stations they never expect to hold, so that your plea for not studying grammar is a poor one. at any rate, both of you will have occasion to write letters, and perhaps you will be a town clerk or justice. i shall insist upon your studying grammar." nat and charlie exchanged glances, as the teacher rung the bell for the boys to come in. they saw that it was no use to hold out against his wishes, for his last remark had settled the matter. therefore they reluctantly yielded to his request. this was the first instance in which nat had exhibited any unwillingness to take up a new study. but he had made up his mind that it would not be of any use to him, so that he had little heart for the science. he commenced it, and recited his lessons, though rather mechanically, without clearly understanding them, at the same time excelling in arithmetic, declamation, and other exercises that engaged his attention. as his school days ended a few months after, his knowledge of grammar was very limited indeed. the sequel will disclose whether he was not finally convinced that the teacher was right, while he himself was wrong, and whether the failure to improve even one small opportunity does not become the occasion of future regret. "well, nat, how do you like grammar?" inquired john, some weeks afterwards. "as well as i can," replied nat. "so do i, and that isn't saying much. but i thought you was determined not to study it." "i thought so too," replied nat, "and you see what thought did." "i suppose you concluded that you would want to write letters to your sweet-heart some time, and it would be a pity not to use the english language with propriety in such a case." "i didn't think much about it; but when a boy can't do as he likes, there is no way left but to do as he must, and that is my case." "i thought the teacher bore rather hard upon us," said charlie, who had been listening to the conversation. "perhaps you will thank him for it when you get to be dr. franklin, jr.," answered nat, in a jesting manner. "it can't be denied," interrupted john, "that the teacher is a great grammarian. didn't he put sam into the objective case yesterday, when he tumbled him head over heels out of his seat? if his action didn't pass over to an object then, i won't guess again." "sam looked as if he was convinced that the teacher was an active verb," said nat. "he found out that he was neither neuter nor passive." the subject of grammar became a frequent theme of remark during the remainder of the term among the boys. none of them liked it very well, so that poor grammar was slandered, and many a joke was cracked over it. it was during this term that sam drake allowed his mischief-making propensity to exhibit itself in a cruel act, for which he was condemned by nearly all beholders. the boys were returning from school one night, when a well-known dog, belonging to a neighbor, came out to salute his young master, one of the scholars. he was somewhat larger than trip, and a playful fellow, ready to frolic with the boys. "come here, spot," said sam to the dog, "good fellow, can you run after a stick to-night?" and he patted him upon his head, till the dog (who was usually shy of sam) seemed to think that he was a good friend. "there, go and bring that to me," at the same time throwing a little stick one or two rods. spot obeyed at once, and brought back the stick, apparently conscious of having performed his duty well. "what do you suppose he would do if i should tie my dinner pail to his tail?" inquired sam. "you shan't do it," cried two or three boys, none more loudly, however, than nat. "i _shall_ do it, if i am a mind to," replied sam; and he proceeded to take a string out of his pocket for this purpose. "you are too bad to do that," said john, trying to dissuade him from doing it. "it seems to me that you all have a heap of pity just now," said sam. "i wish _you_ had," responded nat. "_you_ would get precious little of it, mr. squash-peddler, if i had," answered sam. "the dog is none of your relations, and you needn't trouble yourself about him." ben drake, ere this, had turned to aid sam in executing his purpose, and the pail was actually tied to spot's tail before this conversation closed. "take off the cover," said ben, and no quicker said than done; whereupon spot ran yelping down the street, the tin pail rattling behind him so as to frighten him beyond measure. the faster he ran, the more the pail rattled, and the more terrified the dog was. men stopped in the street to see the cruel sport, and express their disapproval. "it is one of sam drake's tricks," said charlie to an inquiry put by a gentleman. sam and ben laughed till they could scarcely stand upon their feet to see the dog run. it was just such sport as they loved. "hurrah for spot!" shouted sam, swinging his hat. "he'll spill his dinner if he don't carry the pail more carefully." "if it was _my_ dog," said frank, "you would find my father after you." "you ought to be ashamed of yourself," added nat. "it would not have been more cruel in you to kill him outright. you are always up to something of the kind." not one of the boys approved of sam's and ben's cruelty. all expressed decided sympathy for spot, and were glad to see the pail drop from his tail by the time he had run thirty or forty rods. "what kind of a noun is sam?" inquired john, with one of his roguish glances of the eye. "a proper noun, of course," replied charlie. "not by any means," said nat; "it takes a decent fellow to be a _proper_ noun. sam is an _im_-proper noun. i don't believe he has behaved _proper_ one whole day in five years." this remark got a hearty laugh upon sam, and he felt it. he mumbled over something, and shook his fist a little, but nat could hear no part of his remark but the oath that closed it. sam was very profane, and his brother was too. it was not unusual for both of them to utter the most wicked oaths. they seemed to delight in using the worst words of the english language. this barbarous act of sam was frequently spoken of thereafter, and he stood lower than ever in the estimation of nat. the latter possessed tender feelings towards all sorts of animals, and he was much disposed to pet them. it might be almost said of him as parry did of sir john franklin, "he never turned his back upon a danger, yet he was so tender that he would not brush away a mosquito." the winter session of the school closed, and vacation brought its work and pleasures. we should be glad to follow nat through these few weeks of vacation, but we must hasten to a scene that was enacted when the following summer was far spent. chapter vii. prospect hill. "nat," said frank, as they were going home from school one friday night of the following summer, "let us go up on prospect hill to-morrow afternoon; it will be a capital time for a view, if it is a clear day." "agreed," responded nat. "i told harry the other day that i could count a hundred churches from that hill, and he laughed at me, and i mean to see if i was far from the truth." "well, i guess you set it a little too high," said frank, "but it is a grand sight that we have there." "yes! i heard mr. sawtelle (nat's pastor) say, that he never enjoyed such a fine prospect anywhere else, because so many different objects can be seen. i wish i could look through a spy-glass from that hill, wouldn't it be fine?" just then the two boys reached a corner where they must separate to go to their respective homes, and the engagement was renewed by nat's saying, "now remember, frank, and be along in good season." a word about prospect hill. we are not sure that this was the veritable name given to this lofty eminence at that time; but we call it thus now because we have heard nat designate it thus since he became a man. it is certainly a very appropriate appellation with which to christen a hill that towers up so abruptly toward heaven. this hill was situated just back of nat's native village, perhaps a half mile or more from the common on which he was wont to play. the top of it was crowned with a mammoth rock, which an enthusiastic geologist might call its crown jewel. indeed, we are inclined to believe that nearly the whole hill is composed of granite, from base to top, and were the rocky eminence near some "giants' causeway," we should regard it the work of these fabled characters, perhaps begun as the first rough stepping stone to the stars. the boys were right when they spoke so earnestly of the grand view presented from the brow of this hill. there was nothing like it in all the "region round about;" and it is grander still at the present day, because the cunning hand of art has beautified almost every foot of land in view, and reared structures of varied form and costliness on every hand. in the magnificent panorama appear a score of little villages nestling among the distant trees, while as many larger ones stand forth in more imposing grandeur, and several cities spread out their wealth of stores and palaces, and lift their church spires and domes of public edifices high to the blazing sun. dame nature lends enchantment to the view by the freshness and beauty of her inimitable landscape. green and mossy meadow, rich, cultivated upland, luxurious gardens, sweet shady grottos and cozy dells, orchards, forests, farms, with almost every variety of natural scenery, enliven the prospect beyond description; and last, though not least of all, a beautiful river pursues its serpentine course through dusky everglades and grass-grown valleys, as if an unearthed mine, fused by subterranean fires, were pouring forth its vast treasures in a stream of molten silver. the scene is so truly grand that neither tongue nor pen can do justice to the reality. saturday afternoon came as usual, with its freedom from school-hour quiet and study. frank was on time, accompanied by his knowing little dog, "trip," and nat was as much on time as he. "halloo! frank," exclaimed nat; "going to take trip along with us?" "yes! he'll enjoy it as well as we," replied frank. "and _i_ shall enjoy it a good deal better to have him with us," continued nat. "come here trip, you nice little fellow, and see the best friend you have." and trip bounded upon him, giving him as hearty a "good afternoon" as a dog can, while nat returned the compliment by patting him upon his neck, and telling him, as he glanced a curious eye at frank, "that he knew almost as much as his master." "i wish that dog was mine," said nat. "_i_ don't," responded frank; "but i wish you had one just like him." "i suppose you don't know where i can buy his brother or sister, do you?" frank smiled, and before he had time to reply, they were hailed by sam and ben drake. "where now, boys?" inquired sam. "bound for prospect hill: it is a good clear day for a fine view, and i am going to count the churches," answered nat. "count your grandmothers!" sneeringly exclaimed sam. "i would give more to roll a big stone down the steep side than i would for the best view you can get from the top." "but don't you think the prospect from the hill is fine, sam?" "fine enough, i s'pose, though i don't know much about it, as i never thought it was best to injure my eyes looking." "well, i must say that you----" "there, take that, you little whelp," just then shouted sam to trip, as he gave the little dog a kick that sent him half across the road. it seems that trip happened to come in sam's way, so that he stumbled against him, and this aroused his ire at once, and then followed the cruel assault. the dog certainly did not mean to come in his way, for he was not a boy that even the dogs liked. they usually kept a respectable distance from both sam and ben, and saved their good-will for such kind boys as nat and frank. dogs learn very readily who their friends are, and they wag their tails and skip around those only who are. frank looked at nat when he saw his favorite dog thus abused, and the glance which they exchanged told what each of them thought of the barbarous treatment. nothing was said, however, and they passed on. it was evident, by this time, that sam and his brother intended to accompany them, without an invitation, to prospect hill. while they are on the way, we will improve the time to say a word about nat's love of nature. sam could see no beauty in a landscape. why any person should want to stand upon a hill-top for a whole half hour to view green lawns, gardens, meadows, and villages and cities, with their church spires and domes, he could not understand, especially after they had seen them once. if he could have been put into eden, it would have been no sport for him, unless he could have had the privilege of clubbing the cats and stoning the dogs. it was different with nat. he never tired of the view from prospect hill, and this love of nature and art contributed to elevate his character. this is always the case. scarcely any person has become renowned for learning, in whom this love was not early developed. sir francis chantrey was one of the most distinguished artists of his day, possessing a nice discrimination and a most delicate taste, to aid him in his remarkable imitations of nature. he was reared upon a farm, where he enjoyed the innocent pleasure of ranging the forests, climbing hills, bathing in ponds and streams, and rambling through vale and meadow for fowl and fish, all of which he did with a "relish keen." perhaps he owed more to the inspiration of the wild scenes of derby hills, than to all the books that occupied his attention in his boyhood's days. the same was true of the gifted poet burns, whose sweet and lofty verse has made the name of scotland, his native land, immortal. he took his first lessons from the green fields, and gushing bird-songs, on his father's farm. silently, and unconsciously to himself, dame nature waked his poetic genius into life, when he followed the plough, angled in his favorite stream, or played "echo" with the neighboring woods. the late hugh miller, also, the world-renowned geologist, might have been unknown to fame but for the unconscious tuition that he derived from the rocky sides of cromarty hill, and his boyish exploration of doocot caves. he loved nature more than he loved art. there was nothing that suited him better than to be scaling the rugged sides of hills, exploring deep, dark caverns, and hunting shells and stones on the sea-shore. he was naturally rough, headstrong, and heedless--qualities that tend to drag a youth down to ruin. but his love of nature opened a path of innocent thought and amusement before him, and saved him from a wretched life. thus the facts of history show that there is more hope of a boy who loves the beautiful in nature and art, than of him who, like sam drake, cared for neither. perhaps we shall learn that it would have been better for sam if he had thought more favorably of nature, and less of rude and cruel sports. the boys reached the top of the hill before two o'clock. sam drake was the first to set his foot upon its solid apex, and he signalized the event by swinging his hat, and shouting, "three cheers for the meeting-houses!" this was done, of course, as a sort of reflection upon nat, who made no reply. sam was about three years older than nat, and yet nat was the most of a man. "a fire in boston," exclaimed frank, as soon as he reached the summit, and cast his eyes towards the city. all looked, and, to their surprise, there was a dense volume of smoke issuing from the north part of the city, indicating that a terrific fire was raging. had it been in the night-time, the whole heavens would have been lighted up with the blaze, and the scene would have been grand beyond description. but in the sunlight, nothing but smoke could be seen. "what do you suppose it is burning?" inquired frank. "it must be some large building, i should think by the smoke it makes. perhaps it is a whole block on fire." "i guess it is one of nat's churches," said sam, casting a glance at the person hit by the remark. "he had better count it before it is gone." "well," replied nat, who was tempted by the last fling to answer, "i know of one fellow----" and there he stopped short, for his caution prevailed, and he concluded that "the least said the better." he had a pretty cutting remark on the tip of his tongue, when he remembered that sam was older than himself, and was base enough to return a blow for a word. besides, he had a special dislike for sam, since his cruel treatment of spot, which would naturally lead him to say as little to him as possible. "what is that you know about a fellow?" said sam, growing angry. "it is a lucky thing for you that you didn't say it. give me any of your sarce, and i'll let you know who is the oldest. boys that count churches better look two ways for sunday." frank saw how things were going, so he sought to quell the storm in sam's breast by calling the attention of all to the peculiar symmetry and beauty of an elm tree that stood in the distance. but sam, not caring to view such objects, turned away to hurl stones, with which he had taken care to fill his pockets, at some object near the base of the hill. frank's device, however, accomplished the object intended. "how many miles do you think we can see from the top of this hill?" inquired nat, addressing himself to frank. "well, i hardly know," answered frank. "we can see boston very plainly, and that is ten miles distant. we can see further still in the other direction, perhaps twice as far." "how fine this is!" continued nat. "but i must begin to count the churches, or i shall not get through this afternoon. one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten--yes, here are ten right here within a few miles. and now let us count them----" he was stopped here in the middle of a sentence, by the yelp of the dog trip, and both turned to see what was the matter with him, when sam shouted: "look here, frank, dogs are falling. trip has taken the shortest cut down hill this time." "good!" added ben. "i wish all the dogs were kicked after him." and both sam and ben seemed to glory in the calamity that had befallen trip. frank and nat stood appalled when they saw what the trouble was. sam had kicked trip down the precipitous side of the hill, where there was a fearful plunge of thirty or forty feet; and there he lay motionless upon his side. although they stood so far above the dog, it was very evident that he was dead. frank burst into tears as the unwelcome truth flashed upon his mind that trip was no more. it was a full, overflowing gush of grief from the bottom of his heart. nat felt badly to see the dog killed, and also at seeing the grief into which frank was plunged, and _he_ began to weep also; and there the two boys cried as sincerely over the lifeless dog, as ever friend shed tears over the corpse of friend. "well done, now, if i ain't beat!" exclaimed sam. "crying over a dead dog! better save your tears for his funeral, frank. i'll preach his funeral sermon if you'll name a text. and you come in second mourner, do you, nat?" "second mourner or not," answered nat, wiping his eyes, and roused by the scene into a magnanimous self-defence, "if i was in frank's place, your father should know of this." "well, 'spose he does know it, what do you think i care?" responded sam. "i'd like to see the old man calling me to an account for killing a dog." "so should i like to see him do it," quickly added nat, "if he would give you what you deserve." ben evidently relented by this time for his harsh saying about the matter, and addressing his brother, he said, "after all, sam, i think it was rather too bad to kill trip, for he was the cleverest dog in town. i don't think you'll gain many friends by the act." "i didn't mean to kill him," said sam. "but you might have known that it _would_ kill him to kick him down such a place as that," said nat. "that is not so clear, my boy," replied sam; "it takes a boy bright enough to count meeting-houses to do that. you see i am green--it is the bright feller, who can speak pieces, and look at the fields and trees from prospect hill, to foresee such events." "come, sam, you are a little too bad," said ben. "i don't think you'd like it very well if frank should kill your gray squirrel the first chance he has." sam found it difficult to argue the case with his brother ben against him, who had really been converted over to the other side by the tears of frank and nat. ben was always a better boy than sam, but he often yielded to his wicked counsels because sam was the eldest. ben was made worse by his brother's influence. this was the general impression in the neighborhood. sam also, owed a spite to good boys in general, who ranked higher than himself in school, and were thought more highly of in the community. he knew that nat was a favorite, in school and out, with all who knew him, and so he was envious and vindictive. he twitted him about thinking more of himself than he ought, although he did not really think so. the fact was, nat was far in advance of sam in reading, writing, arithmetic, and every branch of study, although the latter was three years older. this circumstance probably excited the ill-will of sam, as he had an evil disposition, made more evil every day by his vicious course. what he said and did on that day was the result of his jealousy and envy, in connection with his bad temper and reckless spirit. probably he did not think of killing trip, when he gave him a kick, for he was utterly reckless, and scarcely ever stopped to consider consequences. but this was no excuse. it is evidence rather of a more dangerous temper of mind. sam gave ben a wink, and both hurried away together, leaving nat and frank alone, as they were glad to be. "how cruel sam is!" said frank, breaking the silence that prevailed after they were left alone. "worse than that," added nat. "i begin to think that what mr. bond said the other day about him will prove true." "what _did_ he say?" "he said that sam would become a very bad man, unless he turned his course soon, and that he should not be surprised if he came to the gallows. i thought at once of a story which i read the other day about a boy." "do you mean a boy like sam?" "yes; very much like him. he lived in england, and he was neighbor to a minister there. the minister had two or three sons whom he warned not to associate with this bad boy. he told them that he would come to some bad end because he did not obey his parents, and was so wicked in other respects. and it proved true; for, in a few years he was shut up in prison for his crimes." "sam ought to be put there for what he has done already," said frank. "but come, let us go round and get poor trip's body. he shall have a decent burial at any rate." both started up, and hastened down the hill to a spot from which they might turn and pass round to where trip lay. they were soon at his side. frank took up his lifeless body, and the tears started afresh as he said, "stone dead." "oh, how sorry i am that we let trip come with us!" said nat. "so am i, but it can't be helped now; his neck is broke, and neither of us can mend it." "let us carry him home as a witness against sam. your folks will want to see him once more, too, and i know that my father and mother would be glad to." thus nat expressed himself as they turned their steps homeward. silently they walked on, frank carrying the dog-corpse in his arms, as solemn as ever pall-bearer bore the remains of human being to the grave. we will leave them to get home in their own time, while we look in upon nat's father and mother. chapter viii. the end of school-days. in the course of the afternoon nat's father met the agent of the factory, and the following conversation ensued:-- "what do you say about letting your boy come into the factory to work?" said the agent. "we are greatly in need of a boy to carry bobbins, and we will give him two dollars a week." "i'll see what his mother says about it. i suppose he will have to do something for a living soon. i shall not be able to do much more for him." "but nat has worked some already in a factory, has he not?" "well, not exactly to make it a business. he was at his uncle's, in lowell, about six months, and he was a 'picker boy' a short time." "that is enough to initiate him. it is only a step from 'picker boy' to 'bobbin boy.'" the facts about his going to lowell were these: he had an uncle there who was a clergyman, and nat was one of his favorites, as he was generally with all those who knew him intimately. this uncle proposed that nat should come and stay with him a few months in the new "city of spindles" (for the city was then only about four years old), a sort of baby-city. the lad was only eleven years old, at that time, though he was more forward and manly than most boys are at fifteen. he was somewhat pleased with the idea of going to his uncle's, and engaged in preparing for the event with a light heart. as the time drew near for his departure, he found he loved home more than he thought he did, and he almost wished that he had not decided to go. but being a boy of much decision, as we have seen, he was rather ashamed to relinquish what he had undertaken to do. he said little or nothing therefore about his feelings, but went at the appointed time. soon after he became a member of his uncle's family, where he was a very welcome visitor, a "picker boy" was wanted in the factory, and arrangements were made for nat to fill the place. he entered upon the work, well pleased to be able to earn something for his parents, and he fully satisfied his employers, by his close attention to his work, his respectful manners, and his amiable, intelligent, and gentlemanly bearing. but nat loved home too well to be contented to remain long away. he had seasons of being homesick, when he thought he would give more to see his father and mother again than for any thing beside. his uncle saw that the boy was really growing thin under the intense longing of his heart for home, so he wrote to his parents, and arrangements were made immediately for his return. it was a happy day for nat when he reached home, and took his parents once more by the hand. home never seemed more precious than it did then. if he had been a singer, i have no doubt that he would have made the old homestead resound with the familiar song of payne, "'mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." it is a good sign for boys to love home. good boys always do love home. it is the place where their parents dwell, whom they love and respect. no ties are so dear as those which bind them to this sacred spot. no love is purer than that which unites them to parents, brothers, and sisters. it may be a home of poverty, where few of the comforts, and none of the luxuries of life are found, but this does not destroy its charm. sickness and misfortune may be there, and still it is home, loved and sought. others may have more splendid homes, where affluence gathers much to please the eye and fascinate the heart, but they would not be received in exchange for this. such boys as sam and ben drake seldom love home. disobedient and headstrong children do not love their parents much, and, for this reason, home has few charms except as a place to eat and sleep. the history of nearly all base men will show that in early life they broke away from the restraints of home, and ceased to love the place where parents would guide them in the path of virtue. some years ago a distinguished philanthropist visited a young man about twenty-eight years of age, who was confined in prison for passing counterfeit money. his sentence was imprisonment for life. he had become very sad and penitent in consequence of his imprisonment, and the fact that consumption was rapidly carrying him to the grave. the philanthropist inquired into his history. when he spoke to the prisoner of his mother, he observed that his chin quivered, and that tears came unbidden to his eyes. "was not your mother a christian?" inquired the visitor. "oh yes, sir!" he answered; "many and many a time has she warned me of this." "then you had good christian parents and wholesome instruction at home, did you not?" "certainly; but it all avails me nothing now." "then why are you here?" raising himself up in bed to reply to this last inquiry, the young man said, "i can answer you that question in a word. i did not obey my parents nor care for home." and he uttered these last words with a look and tone of despair that sent a chill through the interrogator's heart. this is but one illustration of the truth, that boys who do not love home usually make shipwreck of their characters. probably sam drake would have laughed at nat, or any other boy, for being homesick, and said, "i should like to see _myself_ tied to mother's apron strings. it will do for babies to cry to see their mothers, but it will not do for men. suppose it _is_ home, there are other places in creation besides home. i'd have folks know that there's one feller who can go away from home, and stay too." a great many men who are now in prison, or dishonored graves, talked exactly so when they were young. they thought it was manly to have their own way, and show that they cared little for home. nat's love of home, then, was a good omen. it was not a discredit to him to long to get back again to his father and mother. it was the evidence of an obedient, affectionate, amiable son. after the conversation between the agent and nat's father, the latter went home to consult his wife upon the subject. he related to her the substance of his conversation with the agent, and waited her reply. "i hardly know what to say," said she. "nat is only twelve years old, and needs all the schooling he can get. his teachers have said so much to me about his talents, and their wish that he might be educated, that i have hoped, and almost expected, some unforeseen way might be opened for his love of study to be gratified." "that is entirely out of the question, i think," replied her husband. "the time has come, too, when he must earn something for his support. i see not how we can get along and keep him at school. he loves his books i know, and i should be very glad to see him enjoy them, but poor folks must do as they can and not as they want to." "very true; but it is so hard to think that his schooling must end here, when he is only a little boy. i don't know but it would break his heart to be told that he could go to school no more." "he need not be told _that_," added her husband. "he may not know but that he will go to school again at some future day." "it will be difficult to satisfy him on that point, if we keep honesty on our side. you are not with him so much as i am, so that you do not know how inquisitive he is, nor how much he talks about his books, and getting learning. the first thing he will think of will be, whether he will go to school any more. he knows that factory boys are deprived of this privilege, and as he is to become a factory boy, his inference will be that there is no more schooling for him." "well, it must come to that, and he may as well know it first as last. but i do not apprehend that he will lay it seriously to heart, for he is always ready to do what his parents think is best. i think he is remarkable for that." "i think so too; and i shall rely more upon his disposition in this respect to be reconciled to the privation of school, than upon any thing else. i think if the subject is brought before him at the right time, and in the right way, i can convince him it is for the best, and i am sure he will be ready to do what will be best for all of us." the conclusion of the matter was that nat should enter the factory on monday, and that his mother should open the subject to him as soon as he came home. chapter ix. opening the subject. the door suddenly opened, and in rushed nat, under great excitement, with his eyes "as large as saucers," to use a hyperbole, which means only that his eyes looked very large indeed. "sam drake has killed little trip," said he to his mother. "killed trip!" reiterated his mother, with great surprise. "yes; he kicked him down the steep side of prospect hill, and he is stone dead." "what did he do that for? had he any trouble with frank?" "no, mother; he did it because he is an ugly boy, and for nothing else. he is always doing some wrong thing. the teacher told him the other day that he had more difficulty with the scholars than all the other boys put together. frank and i didn't want he should go with us; but he and ben came along and went without being asked to go." "they are very bad boys," added his mother, "and i am afraid they will make bad men. it is well known that they are disobedient at home, and cause their parents a great deal of trouble, sam especially." "and such swearers i never heard in my life," continued nat. "every third word sam speaks is profane. and he is vulgar too. i wish you knew how bad he is." "i hope you will avoid his company as much as possible. treat him properly, but have as little to say to him as you can. i have been told that he spends much of his time at the stable and tavern, where he hears much profane and vulgar talk. boys ought not to visit such places. by and by he will be smoking and drinking as bad as any of them." "he smokes now," said nat; "and he told charlie one day that a boy could never be a man till he could smoke a 'long nine'." "i hope you will never be a man, then," said his mother. "when a boy gets to going to the tavern to smoke and swear, he is almost sure to drink, and become a ruined man." "i never do smoke, mother. i never go to the stable nor tavern, i don't associate with sam and ben drake, nor with james cole, nor with oliver fowle, more than i can help. for i know they are bad boys. i see that the worst scholars at school are those who are said to disobey their parents, and every one of them are poor scholars, and they use profane language." "that is very true, nat," said his mother. "i am glad you take notice of these things. bad boys make bad men; always remember that. be very careful about the company you keep, for the bible says, 'evil communications corrupt good manners.' you know how to behave well, and if you do as well as you can, you will be respected by all who know you." "but, mother," asked nat, "may i go over to frank's house, and help him bury trip? i won't be gone long." "yes, you may go, but it will be tea-time in an hour, and you must be back then." out ran nat in a hurry, for he had stayed longer to converse with his mother than he meant to have done, and he was afraid frank would get tired of waiting. he left frank at the corner of the street, to wait until he ran home to ask his mother's permission to go with him to bury the dog. now, many boys would have gone without taking this trouble. they would have taken the permission to go to prospect hill, to cover going to frank's house also. but nat would not do this. it would be taking advantage of his mother's kindness. he was never in the habit of going away even to the nearest neighbor's without permission. such boys as sam drake are all over the neighborhood, and sometimes go even further, without consulting their parents. very often their parents do not know where they are. if one of their associates should run home for permission to do a given thing, as nat did, such a fellow as sam drake would be likely to say, "i should like to see myself asking the old woman (his mother) to go there. if i wanted to go, i should go. what does a woman know about boys? i wouldn't be a baby all my days. if a fellow can't have his own way, i wouldn't give a snap to live. permission or no permission, i would have the old folks know that i shall be my own man sometimes." this is not manly independence, but youthful disobedience and recklessness, that lead to ruin. all good people look with manifest displeasure upon such an ungovernable spirit, and expect such boys will find an early home in a prison. when nat reached the corner of the street, he found that frank had gone, so he hastened on, and was soon at mr. martin's (frank's father). "i waited a few minutes," said frank, as he met nat at the door, "and then i thought i would run on and get all things ready." "i was afraid that i had kept you waiting so long that you got out of patience," added nat. "but i stopped to tell mother about it, and she had considerable to say." frank had related the circumstances of trip's death to his mother before nat's arrival, and received her consent to bury the dog at the foot of the garden. "come, now, let us run into the wood-shed for a box," said frank; "i have one there full of blocks that is just about right to put trip into." "then you mean he shall have a coffin? i thought you would tumble him into his grave as they do dead soldiers on battle-fields." "not i. i have more respect for a _good_ dead dog than that. look here, is not that a capital box for it?" so saying he took up a small box full of blocks, that had once served him for play-things, and having taken the blocks out, he proceeded to lay trip therein. his body just filled the box, as if it were made on purpose; and having nailed on the lid, they proceeded with it to the foot of the garden. they were not long in digging a grave, and soon the remains of trip were decently interred. as the last shovel-full of dirt was thrown on, nat gave utterance to a part of a declamation which he had spoken in school two weeks before. the portion he repeated was as follows: "not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, as his corse to the ramparts we hurried; not a soldier discharged his farewell shot, o'er the grave where our hero we buried. "slowly and sadly we laid him down, from the field of his fame fresh and gory, we carved not a line, we raised not a stone, but left him alone with his glory." frank smiled for the first time since trip was kicked down the precipice, and said, "nat, you are always getting off your oratory; and i really think the occasion deserves a burst of eloquence. poor trip will never play hy-spy again; our good times with him are over." "there, now i must hurry home to supper," said nat, "mother will be waiting; so good-night till monday." away he bounded homeward, and was just in season for his supper. after a thorough washing of face and hands, he sat down to the table with as keen an appetite as he ever had, his afternoon excursion having given him a good relish for food. the conversation naturally turned upon the fate of trip, and the whole account of the tragedy was gone over again, with such comments thereon as each one was disposed to make. "i have a very difficult lesson in arithmetic to dig out to-night for monday," said nat, as he rose from the table. "perhaps you will not be called upon to recite the lesson," replied his mother. "any scholar who gets rid of reciting a lesson which this teacher gives him must be one of the favorites," said nat, not being the least suspicious that his mother was going to communicate any thing unpleasant. "for one, i want to recite it, after i have mastered it, and i know that i _can_ master it. at any rate, i shall not give up beat until i have tried." "then you mean to belong to the 'try company' a while longer?" interrupted his mother. "yes, mother; the teacher read us some capital verses the other day on 'i'll try,' and she told a number of stories to illustrate what had been accomplished by trying." "your purpose is very good indeed, nat, and i am sorry that we are not able to give you better advantages. but did you know that your services are in great demand? the agent of the factory has been after you this afternoon." "for what?" asked nat, with great surprise. "to work in the factory to be sure. he wants a 'bobbin boy' very much, and thinks that you will make a good one; what do you say to it?" "you didn't tell him that i would go, did you?" "well, your father and i have talked the matter over, and concluded that it will be necessary for you to do something for a living. we are poor, and your father does not see how he can support the family and keep you in school. the agent will give you two dollars a week, and this will be a great help to us." "you can't mean, mother, that i am not to go to school any more?" inquired nat. "we do not know what may yet transpire in your favor, but for the present, at least, your schooling must cease." nat was almost overcome at this announcement, and his lips fairly quivered. his mother felt as badly as he did, though she exerted herself to conceal her emotion. at length she went on to say, "i do not expect you will accede to this plan without a struggle with your love of study, but if it is best for us all that you should leave school and work in a factory, you can do it cheerfully, can you not?" "i can do it," answered nat, "but not cheerfully." "i did not mean exactly that, when i spoke; for i expect you will do it only because our necessities make that change best." "when does the agent want i should begin?" inquired nat. "on monday. it is very short notice, but you may as well begin then as any time. there is one thing to be thought of for your advantage. you love to read, and the manufacturing company have a good library for the operatives. you can take out books, and read evenings." "there will be scarcely any time for me to read after coming out of the factory at seven o'clock; and besides, after working from five o'clock in the morning until seven at night, i think i shall like the bed better than books." "you will find as much time to acquire knowledge as ever dr. franklin did, and many other men who have been distinguished; and that is some encouragement." "last winter our teacher told frank and i about patrick henry and dr. franklin, and he said that boys now have far better advantages. do you suppose that the life of dr. franklin or the life of patrick henry will be in the library at the factory?" "i have no doubt that both of them are there, and you can take the first opportunity to draw one of them out." this last suggestion was a very important one to nat. the prospect of having access to a good library made nat almost willing to go into the factory. at any rate, after thinking the matter over, and becoming convinced that it was best for the family, as his mother said, that he should become a bobbin boy, and weighing the advantage of having a library to visit, he was quite reconciled to the arrangement. he was the eldest of the children, a large family, and it seemed reasonable that he should be required to do something for a livelihood, if necessity demanded. he knew very well that his parents would not have made such an arrangement, unless their low circumstances had forced them to it. both of them highly valued a good school, and were interested in the education of their children, but their desires could not be gratified. saturday evening wore away, and the family dispersed for nightly repose. the last thoughts of nat, ere he resigned himself to the arms of morpheus, were of school and bobbins. chapter x. the new call. monday morning came to nat, seemingly, before sunday had time to get by. thirty-six hours scarcely ever passed away so rapidly to him before. but it found him ready. he was one of the few boys who are always on hand, whether it was for school, or any thing else. teachers never complained of him for being tardy, for they never had occasion to do it; and he was as prompt to recite his lessons as he was to be in school at nine o'clock. he was punctual to a second. if his mother told him to be at home at a given time from an afternoon visit or ramble, he was sure to be on the mark. he performed errands on the same principle, and never had to be called twice in the morning. the fact is, there was not a lazy bone in his whole body; each finger, toe, joint, and muscle, seemed to understand that it was made for action, and that it must hold itself in readiness to obey orders. his will, too, was king of his faculties, and not one of them would have presumed to disobey its ruler. the first little finger that would have dared to say "_no_" to his mandates, would have fared severely for its presumption. now, such a boy would not find it so difficult to rise early in the morning, at a precise time, to work in a factory, as a lazy one would. a lazy boy, who had been accustomed to get up when he pleased, and consequently was seldom ready to breakfast with the rest of the family, would have a hard time in breaking into such a factory life. the bodies of these indolent fellows seldom wake up all at once. after their eyes are fairly awake by much rubbing, opening, and shutting, their limbs have to be coaxed and persuaded to start. now they think they will start up in just one minute, but the lazy body refuses, and one minute passes, and then another, until, sometimes, a whole hour is lost in the futile attempts of a weak will to make the limbs mind and get up. but nat's will was law to his members. he had been accustomed to hear the factory bell of his native village call others, but it never called him before. for this reason, he had never thought much about its tones, nor hardly stopped to consider that its call was very early. but now its very sound was different. it seemed to understand that nat was to be called, and it did not require a very flighty imagination in him to perceive that it said nat, as plainly as any bell could. he was on his feet in a moment. he did not wait for the bell to call twice, any more than he did for his parents to call twice. every part of him waked up at once, from his head to his feet. his feet were as wide awake as his eyes, as any person would have inferred who had seen them start from the bed. if the bell had no harder case to arouse, it might have done its work with half the noise, and thus saved a great quantity of sound for special occasions, such as the fourth of july. he was about the first to reach the factory on monday morning. "hurrah! the bobbin boy is on hand," said the overseer as he entered. "yes, sir!" was nat's short and modest reply. "you'd rather go to school, i suppose," continued the overseer, "than to carry bobbins?" "i had," answered nat, "though i can do what is for the best." "that's right. if everybody would do that, we should have a different world to live in." the overseer said what he did to nat, because he knew, as everybody else did in the village, that the boy loved his books. his brightness, and inclination to study, were themes of frequent remark among the people. in the school-room, his manner of acquitting himself attracted the attention of visitors. the teachers regarded him as a very promising boy, and often spoke of his talents. in this way, he was known generally in the community for his "intellectual turn." this explains the remark of the overseer about his loving school better than the factory. one great surprise awaited nat on that day. he found that charlie stone also became a factory operative on that morning. he did not know that charlie expected to engage in this new business, nor did charlie know that nat did. indeed, it was unexpected to both of them, since the agent made the arrangement with their fathers late on saturday afternoon. the meeting of the two boys, therefore, in their new sphere of toil, was the occasion of mutual astonishment. charlie stone was just the age of nat--twelve years old--and was as good a boy as the neighborhood afforded. his father was poor, very poor indeed, and could not support his family by his own labor, so that charlie was compelled to lend a helping hand, which he was willing to do. he was a very amiable boy, retiring and modest, a good scholar and associate. he was on intimate terms with nat, so that their mothers used to say they were "great cronies." we have seen that they were in the same classes in school, and charlie was really as good a scholar as nat, though he had not the faculty of using his knowledge to so good advantage. he was a great reader, and he probably read much more than nat in the course of a year. there is a great difference in boys, as well as men, about the ability to use the information acquired. one boy may thoroughly master his lessons, and fully understand the books he reads, and improve every moment of his time, and yet not be able to make his acquisitions tell so much as another of smaller attainments. his memory may not be retentive, and he may be kept back by a distrust of his own ability to do,--too bashful and timid to press forward. this was the case with charlie. nat, on the other hand, possessed a remarkable memory; together with a peculiar faculty to use his attainments to the best advantage. when he made an acquisition he knew how to use it. every attainment seemed to run into wisdom and character, as the juices of the tree run into buds and fruit. very small advantages appeared thereby to produce great results in his favor. every one who knew him would agree, that what richter said of himself was equally true of nat, "i have made as much out of myself as could be made of the stuff, and no man should require more." it was fortunate, on the whole, that these two boys entered the factory together, for both of them became more reconciled to their condition than they otherwise would have been. they were company for each other, and, if possible, became more strongly attached to each other in consequence. they had no opportunity, during the forenoon, to converse with each other concerning the manner of their having entered the factory. but as soon as the rattling machinery silenced its clatter for the dinner hour, the subject was talked over until both fairly understood it. "come," said nat, as they passed out of the factory, "let us step into the office and see when we can take out books." "perhaps dr. holt (the agent) has gone to his dinner?" "we'll see," added nat. so saying they both walked into the office. "what is wanted, boys?" inquired the doctor, who was there, and he smiled upon them so benignantly that they could not but feel at home. "we stepped in, sir, to inquire when we could take books out of the library," answered nat. "to-night, my lads, as soon as the factory stops. so it seems you are going to improve your spare moments reading?" "yes, sir," replied both of them together. "that is right. it is not the worst berth in the world to be a factory boy, especially if there is a good library to use. two hours a day in reading will do a great deal for a boy. most of the young people waste time enough to acquire an education, if it were only well improved. you will have more time for self-improvement than william cobbett had in his youth--that distinguished member of the british parliament, of whom so much has been said in the papers of late." the doctor was an intelligent, well-read man, affable and kind, and deeply interested in the welfare of those over whom he had an oversight. the boys particularly shared his tender sympathies, especially such bright ones as the two who stood before him. his words were uttered in such a way as to go straight to the heart of an enterprising lad. they were words of cheer and hope, such as give spirit and pluck to a poor fellow whose experience is shadowy, to say the least. more than one boy has had occasion to remember the doctor with gratitude. his allusion to william cobbett, really contained more information than he imparted, as the following account which cobbett published of himself will show:-- "i learned grammar," said he, "when i was a private soldier on the pay of sixpence a day. the edge of my berth, or that of my guard-bed, was my seat to study in; my knapsack was my book-case; a bit of board lying on my lap was my writing table; and the task did not demand any thing like a year of my life. i had no money to purchase candle or oil; in winter time it was rarely that i could get any evening light but that of the fire, and only my turn of even that. and if i, under such circumstances, and without parent or friend to advise or encourage me, accomplished this undertaking, what excuse can there be for any youth, however poor, however pressed with business, or however circumstanced as to room or other conveniences? to buy a pen or a sheet of paper i was compelled to forego some portion of food, though in a state of half starvation; i had no moment of time that i could call my own; and i had to read and write amidst the talking, laughing, singing, whistling, and brawling of at least half a score of the most thoughtless of men, and that, too, in the hours of their freedom from all control. think not lightly of the farthing that i had to give, now and then, for ink, pen, or paper! that farthing was, alas! a great sum to me! i was as tall as i am now; i had great health and great exercise. the whole of the money, not expended for us at market, was two-pence a week for each man. i remember, and well i may, that on one occasion i, after all necessary expenses, had, on friday, made shifts to have a halfpenny in reserve, which i had destined for the purchase of a red herring in the morning; but when i pulled off my clothes at night, so hungry then as to be hardly able to endure life, i found that i had lost my halfpenny! i buried my head under the miserable sheet and rug, and cried like a child! and again i say, if i, under circumstances like these, could encounter and overcome this task, is there, can there be, in the whole world, a youth to find an excuse for the non-performance?" nat had no time to converse with his parents at noon concerning his new business--his time was occupied, after dinner, until the factory bell rung, in giving a history of his surprise at meeting charlie there. his parents were surprised too, as they had not heard that he intended to work in the mill. "i am glad for you," said his mother, "that charlie is to work with you, though i am sorry that his parents are so poor as to make it necessary. charlie is a noble boy, and i know you have a good companion when you have him." "we can take books from the library to-night," said nat. "and what one are you going to take out?" inquired his mother. "the life of patrick henry," was his quick reply. "what is there about patrick henry that interests you in his life?" "he was a great orator and statesman, and made himself so by improving his time, so the teacher told us last winter." nat was obliged to hasten back to the factory at the call of the bell, so that a period was put to the conversation very suddenly. his work in the factory was to carry bobbins around to the operatives as fast as they wanted them, and hence he was called "the bobbin boy." it was rather light work though he was often obliged to step around quite lively, which he could do without much trouble, since he was none of your half-way boys. his movements were quick, and what he did he did with all his heart, with only occasional exceptions. a smart, wide-awake, active boy could carry bobbins to better advantage than a clumsy man in meridian life. nat carried them as if he were made on purpose for the business. it was difficult to tell which he did best, carry bobbins or speak pieces. he did both, as a looker-on said, "in apple-pie order," which means, i suppose, about as well as they could be done by one of his age. at the close of the day, when the boys came to take out books, nat found that the life of patrick henry was out, so he took the life of dr. franklin, without feeling much disappointed. he was so anxious to read both of these volumes that he cared but little which he read first. "that you, nat?" exclaimed david sears, with whom nat met on his way home from the factory. "what's got you to-day? we missed you and charlie at school." "done going to school," answered nat. "we are going to finish our education in the factory." "you have graduated in a hurry, it seems to me. but you don't mean that you are not going to school any more, do you?" "why, yes; i think that will really be the case, though i hope for the best," replied nat. "perhaps i may go again after a while." "it is really too bad," continued david. "i wish the factory was a thousand miles off. it is a pretty hard case to be tied up to a factory bell every day, and work from five o'clock in the morning till seven at night." "i don't care much about the bell," replied nat. "i can get up as early as the man who rings it, i know. and then it is capital to make one punctual. there is no chance for delays when the bell calls--a fellow must be on the mark." nat struck upon a very important thought here. punctuality is a cardinal virtue, and the earlier a person learns to be punctual the better it is for him. being obliged to obey the summons of a bell at just such a minute aids in establishing the habit of punctuality. hence, the modern rules of the school-room, requiring pupils to be there at a precise hour, and to recite their lessons at such a minute, are very valuable to the young. pupils who form the habit of getting to school any time in the morning, though usually late, are generally behind time all the way through life. they make the men and women who are late at meeting, late to meet their business engagements, late everywhere--a tardy, dilatory, inefficient class of persons, wherever they are found. it is good to be obliged to plan and do by car-time. the man who is obliged to keep his watch by railroad time, and then make all things bend to the same, is more likely to form the habit of being punctual, than he who has not a fixed moment for going and coming. and so it is with the factory. the boy who must be up at the first bell-call, and get to his place of toil at five o'clock in the morning, is more likely to be prompt in every place and work. nat was right. it is another instance of his ability to perceive the real tendencies of things. david smiled at nat's view of the matter, and asked, "what book have you there?" "the life of dr. franklin. you know they have a library for the operatives in the factory, and i mean to make the most of it." "but you won't get much time to read, if you work in the factory all day, from monday morning till saturday night." "i can get two or three hours in a day, if i sit up till ten o'clock, and that is early enough for anybody to go to bed. i shall read this volume through by saturday night." "well, _you'll_ make the most of it if anybody can," said david, laughing, and hurrying on homewards. nat commenced reading dr. franklin's life that evening. it was his first step in a somewhat systematic course of reading, for which he was indebted to the manufacturing company. but for his factory life he might not have been introduced to those authors that gratified his desire for knowledge, and nurtured in his soul that energy and perseverance which he was already known to possess. his parents did not converse much with him about his new business, as they thought it might not be wise; but they interested themselves in his reading. his mother found he was deeply absorbed in franklin's life, though he said but little of the book, except in reply to her inquiries. but he seemed hardly willing to lay it aside at bed-time, and eagerly took it up to read during the few spare moments he had when he came to his meals. the book was read through before the next sabbath. chapter xi. the lofty study. some time after nat donned the bobbin boy's suit, he proposed to charlie to come over and spend his evenings with him for mutual improvement. "i have a nice place to read and study all by myself," said he, "and i want to talk over some subjects we read about with you. besides, what do you say to studying mathematics together a portion of the time? i think we can get along about as well in this branch as we could to have a teacher." "_i_ should like it first rate," answered charlie. "mathematics is your hobby, and i think i can make good improvement under your tuition." "i don't propose to teach, sir," added nat, "but to learn. i will get what i can out of you, and you may get what you can out of me. that is fair, i am sure. you will get what you can out of me just as cheap as i get what i can out of you. it will not be a very expensive school as you see." "agreed," said charlie. "i will be at your house this evening by the time you are ready for me." charlie was true to his engagement, and by the time nat was ready to ascend to his study, a rap announced his arrival. with lamp in hand, nat led the way up two flights of stairs, and introduced charlie into the attic, saying, "this is my study. i have permission to use this for a sanctum as long as i please." "it is a lofty one, surely," responded charlie. "you can't get up much higher in the world if you try." "when we get into astronomy, all we shall have to do will be to bore a hole through the roof to make our observations. could any thing be more convenient?" the reader need not smile at nat's study. it was better than the first one that the renowned dr. john kitto had. like nat's, kitto's first study was in his father's attic, which was only seven feet long and four feet wide. here a two-legged table, made by his grandfather forty years before, an old chest in which he kept his clothes and stationery, and a chair that was a very good match for the table, together with what would be called a bed by a person who had nothing better, constituted the furniture. also, the time-honored st. pierre was worse off even when he wrote his celebrated "studies of nature." his study was a garret, less capacious than that which nat occupied, and there he spent four years of his life in the most laborious study. night after night nat and charlie met in the aforesaid attic, to read, study mathematics, and discuss the subjects of the volumes which they read. they made very commendable progress in mathematics, and probably kept in advance of their companions who were in school. among the characters who were discussed by them, none received more attention than dr. franklin and patrick henry. "which of these characters do you like best?" inquired charlie one evening. "i suppose that dr. franklin would be considered the best model; but such eloquence as that of patrick henry must have been grand. dr. franklin was not much of a speaker, though what he said was sound and good." "and patrick henry was a lazy fellow when he was young," added charlie. "you remember that his father set him up in business two or three times, and he failed because he was too shiftless to attend to it." "very true; and he suffered all through life on account of not having formed habits of industry, economy and application. it shows what a splendid man he might have made, if he had reduced franklin's rules to practice." "let us read over those rules of franklin again," said charlie. "you copied them, i believe." nat took up a paper, on which the rules were penned in a handsome hand, and proceeded to the following: . "temperance.--eat not to dulness; drink not to elevation. . silence.--speak not but what may benefit others or yourself; avoid trifling conversation. . order.--let all your things have their places; let each part of your business have its time. . resolution.--- resolve to perform what you ought; perform without fail what you resolve. . frugality.--make no expense but to do good to others or yourself; that is, waste nothing. . industry.--lose no time; be always employed in something useful; cut off all unnecessary actions. . sincerity.--use no hurtful deceit; think innocently and justly; and, if you speak, speak accordingly. . justice.--wrong none by doing injuries, or omitting the benefits that are your duty. . moderation.--avoid extremes; forbear resenting injuries as much as you think they deserve. . cleanliness.--tolerate no uncleanliness in body, clothes, or habitation. . tranquillity.--be not disturbed at trifles, or at accidents common or unavoidable. . humility.--imitate jesus and socrates." "there is scarcely one of those rules that patrick henry observed in his youth," said charlie. "after he got to be a man grown, and his friends were all out of patience with him, and he was absolutely compelled to do something, or starve, then he began to apply himself." "yes; and what a commotion he made!" responded nat. "that first plea of his against the clergy of virginia on the tobacco act, when he won the case against fearful odds, and the spectators were so excited by his oratory that they carried him out of the court room on their shoulders, is the best thing that i ever read of any orator. it was not his learning nor his argument, but his eloquence that gave this power over his hearers." "and it was just the reverse with dr. franklin," said charlie. "it was his wisdom, solid common sense, and worth of character, that enabled him to carry his points, and that i think is far more valuable." "i learned one thing," said nat, "from the life of patrick henry, which i never knew before, that he owed his final success more to his close observation of men and things than to the study of books. he learned something from every thing he saw and heard. eye-gate and ear-gate were always open. he observed his companions closely when he was young, and told stories to witness the different feelings they would awaken in the hearts of different associates. in fact, he did not learn near so much from books as he did from men. and afterwards, when he had law students to instruct, one of his lessons was, 'study men and not books.'" "well, nat, you are something like him," said charlie, smiling. "you are always seeing some thing to learn, where i should never think of looking." "precious little like him," responded nat, "but i intend to profit in future by what i learned from patrick henry's life." "i mean just as i say, nat, truly, you are like him now, a little. last summer you was determined to know why the water was warmer in windy weather than it was in a calm; and i believe you found out before we went in a swimming the next time. and as for studying men, you are always up to that. i don't believe there is an operative in the factory whose qualities you have not settled in your own mind. you learned more of that fellow they turned away, by looking at him, than others found out by talking with him." it was true that nat was thus accustomed to observe and inquire into the _whys_ and _wherefores_ of things. for this reason he was never satisfied with a lesson until he understood it, unless we except the study of grammar. he formed his opinions of all his associates, and knew one to be selfish, another to be ill-tempered, another generous, and so on. he was probably attracted by patrick henry's study of men, on account of this disposition in himself, although he was not altogether conscious of it. but this quality enabled him to learn much that otherwise he would not have known. for when he was not reading a book, men, women, and children were around him, and many events were transpiring, all of which he could study. thus he found teachers everywhere, and books everywhere, not indeed such books as are used in schools or fill the shelves of libraries, but such as are furnished in the shape of incidents, and such as are bound up in flesh and bones. he could read the latter while he was carrying bobbins in the factory, and walking the streets, or going to meeting. in this way he would be learning, learning, learning, when other boys were making no progress at all. shakspeare, the world's great dramatist, must have been indebted to this faculty of observation, far more than to books and human teachers, for his inimitable power of delineating human nature. he was the son of a poor man, who could not read nor write, according to reports, and he went to london to live, where he held horses for gentlemen who visited the theatre, receiving small remuneration for his labor. from holding horses outside, he came to be a waiter upon the actors within, where he must have been a very close observer of what was said and done; for his brilliant career began from that hour, and he went on from step to step until he produced the most masterly dramatic works, such as the world will not let die. there is no doubt that he was a born poet, but it was his faculty to read men and things that at last waked the dormant powers of the poet into life. he saw, investigated, understood, mastered, and finally applied every particle of information acquired to the work that won him immortal fame. "nat, you are the best penman in the mill," said dr. holt to him one day, as his attention was called to a specimen of his handwriting. "where did you learn to write so well?" "at school, sir," was his laconic reply. "but how is it that you learn to write so much better at school than the other boys?" "i don't know, sir!" and he never said a more truthful thing than he did in this reply. for really he did not know how it was. he did not try very hard to be a good penman. he did many other things well, which did not cost him very much effort. it was easy for him to get the "knack" of holding his pen and cutting letters. he would do it with an ease and grace that we can only describe by saying it was nat-like. it is another instance, also, of the advantage of that principle or habit, which he early cultivated, of _doing things well_. as one of his companions said, "he can turn his hand to any thing." one evening in october, when the harvest moon was emphatically "the empress of the night," and lads and lasses thought it was just the season for mirth and frolic, the boys received an invitation to a party on the following evening. "shall you go?" inquired charlie, when they were in the attic study. "i should like to go, but i hardly think i shall. i want to finish this book, and i can read half of it in the time i should spend at the party." "as little time as we get to study," added charlie, "is worth all we can make of it; and dr. franklin says in those rules, 'lose no time.' i shall not go." "i don't think that all time spent in such a social way can be called 'lost,' for it is good for a person to go to such places sometimes. but i think i shall decide with you _not to go_. i suppose that some of the fellows will turn up their noses, and call us 'literary gentlemen,' as oliver did the other day." "yes; and sam said to me yesterday as i met him when i was going home to dinner, 'fore i'd work in the factory, charlie, and never know any thing. you look as if you come out of a cotton-bale. i'll bet if your father should plant you, you'd come up cotton,' and a whole mess of lingo besides." "and what did you say to him?" asked nat. "not much of any thing. i just said, 'if i don't look quite as well as you do, i think i know how to behave as well,' and passed on." that nat met with a good many discouraging circumstances, must not be denied. it was trying to him occasionally to see other boys situated much more favorably, having enough and to spare; and now and then a fling, such as the foregoing, harrowed up his feelings somewhat. he was obliged to forego the pleasure of many social gatherings, also, in order to get time to study. sometimes he went, and usually enjoyed himself well, but often, as in the case just cited, he denied himself an evening's pleasure for the sake of reading. about this time, when he felt tried by his circumstances, he said to his mother, "i don't know much, and i never shall." "you haven't had an opportunity to know much yet," answered his mother. "if you continue to improve your time as you have done, i think you will be on a par with most of the boys." "but poor boys have not so good a chance to stand well, even if they have the same advantages, as the sons of the rich." "i am not so sure of that," replied his mother. "i know that money is thought too much of in these days, and that it sometimes gives a person high position when he does not deserve it. but, as a general thing, i think that character will be respected; and the poorest boy can have a good character. was not that true of all the good men you have been reading about?" nat was obliged to confess that it was, and the conversation with his mother encouraged him, so that he went to his reading that evening, with as much pluck as ever. the more he learned, the more he wanted to know; and the faster he advanced, the higher he resolved to ascend. chapter xii. the dedication. soon after nat entered the factory, a hall was erected in the village, and dedicated to literary purposes. nat was all the more interested in the event because it was built under the auspices of the manufacturing company for whom he worked, and their library was to be somehow connected with the institute that would meet there. "no reading to-morrow night," said he to charlie, as they closed their studies on the evening before the dedication. "we must go to the dedication of the hall without fail. i want to know what is to be done there." "they say the library is going up there," answered charlie. "have you heard so?" "yes; but we shall have just the same privileges that we do now, and i expect the library will be increased more rapidly, because they are going to make provisions for others to take out books by paying, and the money goes to enlarge the library." "but the more persons there are to take out books, the more difficult it will be to get such books as we want," said charlie. "do you not see it? "yes; but then 'beggars must not be choosers,' i suppose," nat answered with a quizzical look. "_your_ chance will be poorer than mine in that respect, for you read more books than i do, and of course you will want more." nat was in season at the dedication, and secured a seat near the platform, where he could see and hear the speaker to the best advantage. he was not there, as doubtless some boys were, just to see what was going on; but he was there to _hear_. an address was to be delivered by a gentleman whose reputation would naturally create the expectation of an intellectual treat, and that address was what nat wanted to hear. it was singular that the lecture should be upon the life and character of a self-made man, of the stamp of dr. franklin and others, whose biographies our young hearer had read with the deepest interest. but so it was. the subject of the address was count rumford; and you might know that nat swallowed every word, from the leading points of it, which were in substance as follows:-- the real name of count rumford was benjamin thompson. he was born in woburn, mass., in the year . his father was a farmer in humble circumstances, and he died when benjamin was an infant. his mother was only able, when he attained a suitable age, to send him to the common school. he was a bright boy, though he was not so much inclined to study books. he preferred mechanical tools, with which he exhibited considerable ingenuity in constructing various articles, particularly rough drafts of machinery. among other things he sought to produce a model of perpetual motion. he was sure he could do it, and he set to work with a resolution worthy of a nobler enterprise. when one attempt failed, he tried again, and yet again, until his friends and neighbors called him a "simpleton," and openly rebuked him for his folly. his mother began to think he never would learn any craft by which he could gain a livelihood, and she was really discouraged. he was not vicious nor indolent. he had energy and perseverance, intelligence and tact; and still he was not inclined to choose any of "the thrifty occupations of human industry." at thirteen years of age he was apprenticed mr. appleton, a merchant of salem, where he distinguished himself only by neatly cutting his name, "benjamin thompson," on the frame of a shop slate. he cared less for his new business than he did for the tools of the workshop and musical instruments, for which he had a decided taste. he soon returned to woburn. when he was about seventeen years of age, he began to think more seriously of studying, though most youth in poverty would have said, it is useless to try. but he had great self-reliance, and now he began to think that he could do what had been done by others. it would cost him nothing to attend the lectures on natural philosophy at cambridge college, so he resolved to walk over there, a distance of nine miles, a step which laid the foundation of his future fame. in all weathers he persevered in attending the lectures, and was always punctual to a minute. soon after, he commenced teaching school in bradford, mass., and subsequently in concord, n. h. in the latter place he became acquainted with the rich widow of col. rolfe, and, though only nineteen years of age, married her. but this calamity he survived, and acted a conspicuous part in the american revolution. soon after the battle of bunker hill, having lost his wife, he embarked for england, bearing despatches to the english government. there he soon became distinguished as a learned man and philosopher, and was elected a member of the royal society. he was knighted in . the king of bavaria became acquainted with him, and, attracted by his marked abilities, appointed him to a high office of trust and responsibility in his court. there he reformed the army and established a system of common schools. he was strictly economical, and saved thousands of dollars to the bavarian government, by "appropriating the paper used to teach writing in the military schools, to the manufacturing of cartridges by the soldiery." he was a man of great kindness and benevolence, by which he was prompted to establish a reformatory institution for the mendicants of bavaria, and so great was its success that it became renowned all over europe. the sovereign conferred one honor after another upon him, and finally "created him a count by the name of rumford, in honor of concord, new hampshire, whose original name was rumford." his writings upon philosophical subjects were valued highly, and widely circulated. he was a leader in founding the royal society of great britain. he gave five thousand dollars to the academy of arts and sciences of massachusetts to establish a premium to encourage improvement and discoveries, and a like sum to the royal society of great britain. he died in , at the age of sixty-two, and by his will "bequeathed $ , annually and the reversion of his estate, to found the rumford professorship of cambridge college, mass.," to which university he felt much indebted for his early instruction in natural philosophy. his life illustrates not only what a poor boy may become, but also what simple things a great man can do to promote the welfare of his fellow men. the military classes of bavaria, and indeed all the poor of europe, suffered for the want of food, and count rumford brought to their notice two articles of food to which they were strangers, healthful, nutritious, and cheap. the first was the use of the potato, which was raised only to a limited extent; but, through his exertions it came to be generally cultivated, much to the improvement of the condition of the poor. he received the gratitude of thousands for his efforts. the other blessing was the use of indian corn in making _hasty-pudding_, which is a live yankee invention. his instructions on this point shall be given in his own words, as they appeared in his essay written for european readers. "in regard to the most advantageous mode of using indian corn, as food, i would strongly recommend a dish made of it, that is in the highest estimation throughout america, and which is really very good and nourishing. this is called _hasty-pudding_, and is made in the following manner: a quantity of water, proportioned to the quantity of pudding to be made, is put over the fire, in an open iron pot or kettle, and a proper quantity of salt, for seasoning; the salt being previously dissolved in the water, indian meal is stirred into it, little by little, with a wooden spoon with a long handle, while the water goes on to be heated and made to boil, great care being taken to put in the meal in very small quantities, and by sifting it slowly through the fingers of the left hand, and stirring the water about briskly at the same time with the spoon in the right hand, to mix the meal with the water in such a manner as to prevent lumps being formed. the meal should be added so slowly that when the water is brought to boil, the mass should not be thicker than water-gruel, and half an hour more at least, should be employed to add the additional quantity of meal necessary for bringing the pudding to be of the proper consistency, during which time it should be stirred about continually, and kept constantly boiling. the method of determining when the pudding has acquired a proper consistency, is this: the wooden spoon used for stirring it being placed upright in the kettle, if it falls down, more meal must be added; but if the pudding is sufficiently thick and adhesive to support the spoon in a vertical position, it is declared to be _proof_, and no more meal is added." then he goes on to teach them how to eat it. "the manner in which hasty-pudding is eaten, with butter and sugar or molasses, in america, is as follows: the hasty-pudding being spread out equally on a plate, while hot, an excavation is made in the middle with a spoon, into which excavation a piece of butter as large as a nutmeg is put, and upon it a spoonful of brown sugar, or, more commonly, molasses. the butter being soon melted by the heat of the pudding, mixes with the sugar or molasses, and forms a sauce, which being confined in the excavation made for it, occupies the middle of the plate. the pudding is then eaten with a spoon; each spoonful of it being dipped into the sauce before it is conveyed to the mouth; care being taken in eating it to begin on the outside, or near the brim of the plate, and to approach the centre by regular advances, in order not to demolish too soon the excavation which forms the reservoir for the sauce." a great man must be very benevolent and humble to condescend to instruct the poor classes in raising potatoes and making hasty-pudding. the fact magnifies the worth of the man. "well, nat, how did you like the address?" inquired his mother, after they reached home. "very much indeed," answered nat. "i had no idea that the address was to be about count rumford. he makes me think of dr. franklin." "you see that it is not necessary for a boy to have a rich father to buy him an education," continued his mother. "where there is a will there is a way." "i couldn't help laughing," said nat, "to think of that great man teaching the people how to make hasty-pudding. i declare, i mean to draw a picture of him stirring a kettle of pudding." his mother was quite amused at this remark and responded, "i think the lecturer was right, when he said that such a condescending act by one so high in honor as count rumford, was a proof of his greatness. you remember that he said, 'a truly great man will do any thing necessary to promote the interests of his fellow-men.'" much more was said about the address, which we have not time to rehearse, and on the following morning, as nat met charlie at the factory, the latter remarked, "what a fine lecture that was last night!" "yes," nat replied; "it was just what i wanted to hear. my case is not quite hopeless after all. i think i could make a good professor of hasty-pudding." charlie laughed outright, and added, "i think i could learn to navigate that ocean of butter and molasses that he got up on the plate. a man ought to understand geometry and navigation to make and eat hasty-pudding according to his rule." "i suppose," said nat, after he had shaken his sides sufficiently over charlie's last remark, "that he was applying dr. franklin's rule on 'frugality'--'make no expense but to do good to others or yourself.' that is it, i believe." the mill started, and the conversation broke like a pipe-stem; but the lecture upon count rumford made a life-long impression upon nat. it was exactly to his taste, and greatly encouraged him in his early efforts to acquire knowledge. it was much in his thoughts, and perhaps it had somewhat to do with his plans, some years after, when he himself walked to cambridge to consult books in the library of the college, and to boston to visit the athenæum for the same object. chapter xiii. a school scene. "they had quite a time at school yesterday," said nat to charlie, one morning during the winter following their entrance into the factory. "what was it? i have heard nothing." "the teacher had a real tussle with sam drake, and for a little while it was doubtful who would be master. they both fell flat on the floor, tipped over the chair, and frightened the girls badly." "what did the teacher attempt to punish him for?" "he wrote a letter to one of the boys about the teacher, and said some hard things, and the teacher got hold of the letter and read it. then he called him up and made him spell before the school some of the words he had spelled wrong in the letter, at which they all laughed till sam refused to spell any more. then he doubled up his fist at the teacher, and defied him to whip him." "he ought to have been flogged," said charlie; "i hope he got his deserts." "if reports are true, he did. though it was a hard battle, the teacher made him beg at last, and they say the committee will turn him out of school to-day." as the facts in the case were not quite as reports would have them, we shall give a correct history of the affair. nat had heard an exaggerated report, and communicated it just as he received it. but the teacher did not have a hard time at all in conquering the rebellious boy, and neither of them fell on the floor. neither did sam shake his fist at him, and defy him to strike. the case was this: the teacher observed a little commotion among the scholars, and inferred that some sort of game was being secretly played. on this account he tried to be argus-eyed, and soon discovered a paper, as he thought, passed along from one scholar to another, that created considerable sensation. when it reached john clyde, the teacher inquired: "john! what have you there?" after some hesitation, john answered "a paper," at the same time making an effort to conceal it. "be careful, sir," said the teacher; "_i_ will take that document," and so saying, he stepped quickly to john's seat, and took the paper from his hand. it proved to be a letter from samuel drake to alpheus coombs, and read as follows: alfeus kooms,--if you will trade nives with me as we talked yisterday it will be a bargin for you, mine is jist as i telled you, or the world is flat as a pancake. rite back and mind nothin about old speticles i don't care a red cent for his regilations about riting letters in school i shall do it when i please, and if he don't like it, he may lump it, he is a reglar old betty anyhow, and i kinder thinks his mother don't know he is out if he should happen along your way with his cugel, you may give him my complerments and tell him that i live out here in the corner and hopes he'll keep a respecterble distance, now rite back at once and show old speticles that the mail will go in this school-house anyhow. your old frend samuel drake. we have given the letter just as it was written, with its lack of punctuation, bad spelling and all. samuel was accustomed to call the teacher "old speticles," because he wore glasses. the letter is a key to the character and attainments of a class of bad boys in every community, when they are about fifteen years of age. the teacher took the letter to his desk, and carefully read it over, and then called out to its author, in a loud voice, "samuel! come into the floor." samuel knew that his letter was discovered then, and he hesitated. "samuel! come into the floor i say," exclaimed the teacher again, in a tone that was truly emphatic. samuel started, and took his place in the floor. "now turn round," said the teacher, "and face the school." samuel did as he was commanded, not knowing what was coming. "now spell alpheus," said the teacher. some of the scholars who had read the letter began to laugh, as they now saw the design of the teacher. samuel had his eyes open by this time, and saw what was coming. he hesitated and hung down his head. "be quick, sir. you shall have a chance now to exhibit your spelling acquisitions." samuel dared not refuse longer, so he began, "a-l-al-f-e-fe-u-s-us." "pronounce it, sir." "alfeus." the scholars laughed heartily, and the teacher joined them, and for three minutes the school-room fairly rung with shouts. "now spell coombs," said the teacher. "k-double o-m-s, kooms." again there was a roar of laughter in the room, which the teacher did not wish to suppress. "spell knife now; you are so brilliant that the scholars would like to hear more." "n-i-f-e." the scholars laughed again in good earnest, and the teacher added, "that is not the way to spell a very sharp knife." "spell bargain." "b-a-r-bar-g-i-n-gin, bargin." "such a kind of a bargain, i suppose, as a poor scholar makes, when he wastes time enough in one winter to make him a good speller," continued the teacher. when the laughter had ceased, he put out another word. "spell spectacles." "s-p-e-t-spet-i-speti-c-l-e-s-cles, speticles." some of the scholars really shouted at this new style of orthography. "i suppose that is the kind of glasses that 'old speticles' wears," said the teacher. "you do not appear to entertain a very good opinion of him. you may spell respectable." "i shan't spell any more," answered samuel in an insolent manner. "shan't spell any more! i command you to spell respectable." "i shan't spell it," replied samuel more defiantly. in another instant the teacher seized him by the collar, and with one desperate effort sent him half across the school-room. he hit the chair in his progress and knocked it over, and the teacher hit his own foot against the corner of the platform on which the desk was raised, and stumbled, though he did not fall. from this, the report went abroad that there was a sort of mélee in school, and the teacher was flung upon the floor in the scuffle. by the time samuel found himself on his back, the teacher stood over him with what the young rebel called a cugel (cudgel) in his letter, saying, "get upon your feet and spell respectable loud enough for every scholar to hear." the boy saw it was no use to contend with such strength and determination, and he instantly obeyed, under great mortification. "r-e-re-s-p-e-c-spec-respec-t-e-r-ter-respecter-b-l-e-ble, respecterble." the matter had assumed so serious an aspect by this time that the scholars were quite sober, otherwise they would have laughed at this original way of spelling respectable. "hold out your hand now," said the teacher, and at once the hand was held out, and was severely ferruled. "now you can take your seat, and await the decision of the committee. i shall hand them your letter to-night, and they will decide whether to expel you from school or not." samuel went to his seat pretty thoroughly humbled, and the teacher embraced the opportunity to give the scholars some good advice. he was a good teacher, amiable, affectionate, and laborious, but firm and resolute. he was too strict to please such indolent boys as samuel, who often tried him by his idleness and stupidity. his object in making him spell as he did was to mortify him by an exposure of his ignorance. his father had given him good opportunities to learn, but he had not improved them, so that he could spell scarcely better than scholars eight years old. had he been a backward boy, who could make little progress, even with hard study, the teacher would not have subjected him to such mortification; but he was indolent, and his ignorance was solely the fruit of idleness. on the whole, it was about as good a lesson as he ever had, and was likely to be remembered a good while. the district generally sustained the teacher in his prompt efforts to subdue the vicious boy. the committee considered the case on that evening, and decided that samuel should be expelled from school. they were influenced to decide thus, in part, by his many instances of previous misconduct. he was habitually a troublesome scholar, and they concluded that the time had come to make an example of him. their decision was communicated to him by the teacher on the following day, and he was accordingly expelled. when he went out, with his books under his arm, he turned round and made a very low bow, which, though he intended it as an indignity, really savored more of good manners than he was wont to show. in the sequel, the reader will understand why this incident is narrated here, and, by the contrast with nat's habits and course of life, will learn that the "boy is father of the man" that "idleness is the mother of vice," and that "industry is fortune's right hand, frugality her left." chapter xiv. taking sides. "i have been reading the federalist," said charlie one evening, as he entered nat's study, "and i am a pretty good federalist." he looked very pleasant as he spoke, and nat replied in a similar tone and spirit, without the least hesitation, "i have been reading the life and writings of jefferson, and i am a thorough democrat." "a democrat!" exclaimed charlie, with a hearty laugh at the same time. "do you know what a democrat is?" "perhaps i don't; but if anybody is not satisfied with such principles as jefferson advocated, he is not easily suited." "but jefferson was not a democrat. the federalist calls him a republican." "i know that," replied nat. "the jefferson party were called republicans in their day; but they are called democrats now. i don't like the name so well, but still the name is nothing in reality,--the principles are what we should look at." "you don't like company very well, i should judge," said charlie; "i should want to belong to a party that could say _we_." "what do you mean by that?" inquired nat. "father said there wasn't but four democratic votes cast in town at the last election; that is what i mean. i should think you would be lonesome in such a party." "if _i_ had been old enough," continued nat, "there would have been _five_ votes cast. i don't care whether the party is great or small, if it is only right." "i glory in your independence," replied charlie, "but i am sorry you have so poor a cause to advocate." "i guess you don't know what the cause is, after all. have you read the life of jefferson?" "about as much as _you_ have read the federalist," replied charlie. "we are probably about even on that score." this interview occurred some time after nat and charlie entered the factory, perhaps a year and a half or two years. charlie really thought he was in advance of his fellow-student on this subject. he did not know that nat had been reading at all upon political topics. being himself the greatest reader of the two, he knew that he read upon some subjects to which nat had given no attention. he was very much surprised to hear him announce himself a democrat, and particularly for the reason named. it was about thirty years ago, when the followers of jefferson were first called democrats. many of them were unwilling to be called thus, and for this reason they were slow to adopt the title. it was a fact that only four persons cast votes in nat's native town, at the aforesaid election as avowed _democrats_. but the incident shows that the hero of our tale was an independent thinker, voluntarily investigating some subjects really beyond his years, with sufficient discrimination to weigh important principles. in other words, he was a student, though a bobbin boy, loving knowledge more than play, and determined to make the most of his very limited opportunities. it is an additional proof of what we have said before, that he studied just as he skated or swam under water,--with all his soul,--the only way to be eminently successful in the smallest or greatest work. "let us see," said nat, taking up the life of jefferson, "perhaps _you_ will be a democrat too, when you know what jefferson taught. _he_ wrote the declaration of independence." "he did!" exclaimed charlie, with some surprise. "that is good writing certainly. it was read at the last fourth of july celebration." "and we will read some of it again," said nat, opening the volume, "and then you may bring your objections." "'we hold these truths to be self-evident,--that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. that to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed; that whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or abolish it, and to institute a new government, laying its foundation on such principles, and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness.'" "have you any objections to that?" inquired nat, after it was read. "no," answered charlie, "and i have never heard of any one who has. it is pretty good doctrine for such poor fellows as we are certainly." "you are a democrat so far, then," said nat; "you want to have as good a chance as anybody, and so do i. i am for equal rights, and jefferson would have the poor man have the same rights as a governor or president." "so would the federalists," replied charlie. "john adams wanted this as much as jefferson." "you mean that he said he did," answered nat. "jefferson thought that mr. adams's principles would lead to a limited monarchy, instead of a republic, where each man would enjoy his rights." "i should like to know how that could be?" inquired charlie. "what i have read in the federalist shows that he was as much in favor of the declaration of independence as any one." "but he wanted the president and his cabinet to have very great power, somewhat like monarchs, and jefferson wanted the _people_ to have the power. that was the reason that jefferson's party called themselves republicans." "yes; but do the democrats now carry out the declaration of independence? don't they uphold slavery at the present day?" "jefferson did not uphold it in the least, and a good many of his friends did not. if his life and writings tell the truth, some of the federalists _did_ uphold it, and some of them had slaves. so you can't make much out of that." "all i want to make out of it," replied charlie, "is just this--that the democrats now _do_ sustain slavery, and how is this believing the declaration of independence, that '_all_ men are created equal?'" "i don't care for the democrats now," responded nat. "i know what jefferson believed, and i want to believe as he did. i am such a democrat as he was, and if he was a republican, then i am." "i suppose, then," added charlie, with a sly look, "that you would like the declaration of independence a little better if it read, 'all men are created equal,' _except niggers_?" "no, no; jefferson believed it just as it was, and so do i. whether men are white or black, rich or poor, high or low, they are equal; and that is what i like. he never defended slavery, i would have you know." "i thought he did," added charlie. "i can show you that he did not," said nat, taking up a volume from the table. "now hear this;" and he proceeded to read the following, in which jefferson is speaking of holding slaves: "'what an incomprehensible machine is man! who can endure toil, famine, stripes, imprisonment, and death itself, in vindication of his own liberty, and the next moment be deaf to all those motives whose power supported him through the trial, and inflict on his fellow men a bondage, one hour of which is fraught with more misery than ages of that which he rose in rebellion to oppose. but we must wait with patience the workings of an overruling providence, and hope that that is preparing the deliverance of these our suffering brethren. when the measure of their tears shall be full--when their tears shall have involved heaven itself in darkness--doubtless a god of justice will awaken to their distress, and by diffusing a light and liberality among their oppressors, or, at length by his exterminating thunder, manifest his attention to things of this world, and that they are not left to the guidance of blind fatality.'" "that is strong against slavery, i declare," said charlie. "i had always supposed that jefferson was a defender of slavery." "how plainly he says that there is more misery in 'one hour' of slavery, than there is in 'ages' of that which our fathers opposed in the revolution," added nat. "and then he calls the slaves '_our suffering brethren_,' and not '_niggers_,'" said charlie, with a genuine look of fun in his eye. "i want to read you another passage still, you are beginning to be so good a democrat," said nat. "don't call _me_ a democrat," answered charlie, "for i don't believe the democrats generally carry out the principles of jefferson." "republican, then," answered nat quickly, "just what jefferson called himself. you won't object to that, will you?" "read on," said charlie, without answering the last inquiry. nat read as follows: "'with what execration should the statesman be loaded, who, permitting one half the citizens thus to trample on the rights of the other, transforms those into despots, and these into enemies, destroys the morals of the one part, and the _amor patriæ_ of the other. for if a slave can have a country in this world, it must be any other in preference to that in which he is born to live and labor for another, in which he must lock up the faculties of his nature, contribute as far as depends on his individual endeavors to the banishment of the human race, or entail his own miserable condition on the endless generations proceeding from him. with the morals of a people their industry also is destroyed. for in a warm climate no man will labor for himself who can make another labor for him. this is so true, that of the proprietors of slaves, a very small proportion indeed are ever seen to labor. and can the liberties of a nation be thought secure when we have removed their only firm basis, a conviction in the minds of the people that these liberties are the gift of god? that they are not to be violated but with his wrath? indeed, _i tremble for my country when i remember that god is just_; that his justice cannot sleep forever; that considering numbers, nature, and natural means only, a revolution of the wheel of fortune, an exchange of situation is among possible events; that it may become probable by supernatural interference. the almighty has no attribute that can take side with us in such a contest. but it is impossible to be temperate and pursue this subject.'" "that is stronger yet!" exclaimed charlie. "i tell you, nat, there are no such democrats now." "yes, there are; you see one sitting in this chair," replied nat, "and i believe there are many such. a person must believe so if he believes the declaration of independence. come, charlie, you are as good a democrat as i am, only you won't own it." "i certainly think well of jefferson's principles, so far as you have read them to me, but i am not quite ready to call myself a democrat." we can readily see that nat's sympathies would lead him at once to embrace the views of jefferson on reading his life and writings. we have seen enough of him in earlier scenes to know in what direction they would run. his pity for the poor and needy, the unfortunate and injured, even extending to abused dumb animals; his views and feelings respecting the different orders of society; and his naturally kind and generous heart, would prepare the way for his thus early taking sides in politics. the traits of character discoverable in the court scene, when he plead the case of the accused boys; his grief with frank when he wept over dead trip; his condemnation of sam drake in defence of spot, and one or two other incidents, are also traceable in his interest in the character and principles of jefferson. there seemed to him more _equality_ in those doctrines, more regard for the rights of the people, more justice and humanity, than in any thing he had read. indeed, he had read nothing strictly political before, except what came under his eye in the papers, and he was fully prepared to welcome such views. jefferson's life and writings certainly made a lasting impression upon nat's mind. it was one of the works that contributed to his success. like the lives of patrick henry and of dr. franklin, and the address upon the character of count rumford, it contained much that appealed directly to his early aspirations. it is said that when guido stood gazing upon the inimitable works of michael angelo, he was first roused to behold the field of effort for which he was evidently made, and he exclaimed, "i, too, am a painter." so, it would seem, that direction was given to the natural powers of nat, and his thirst for knowledge developed into invincible resolution and high purpose by this and kindred volumes. it is often the case, that the reading of a single volume determines the character for life, and starts off the young aspirant upon a career of undying fame. thus franklin tells us that when he was a boy, a volume fell into his hands, to which he was greatly indebted for his position in manhood. it was "cotton mather's essays to do good," an old copy that was much worn and torn. some of the leaves were gone, "but the remainder," he said, "gave me such a turn of thinking as to have an influence on my conduct through life; for i have always set a greater value on the character of a doer of good than any other kind of reputation; and if i have been a useful citizen, the public owes all the advantage of it to the little book." jeremy bentham said that the current of his thoughts and studies was decided for life by a single sentence that he read near the close of a pamphlet in which he was interested. the sentence was, "the greatest good of the greatest number." there was a great charm in it to one of his "turn of mind," and it decided his life-purpose. the passion of alfieri for knowledge was begotten by the reading of "plutarch's lives." loyola, the founder of the sect of jesuits, was wounded in the battle of pampeluna, and while he was laid up with the wound, he read the "lives of the saints," which impressed him so deeply that he determined from that moment to found a new sect. there is no end to such examples from the page of history. it may seem an unimportant matter for a boy to read the life of jefferson, or franklin, or any other person; but these facts show us that it may be no trivial thing, though its importance will be determined by the decision, discrimination, and purpose with which the book is read. very small causes are sometimes followed by the greatest results. less than a book often settles a person's destiny. a picture created that life of purity and usefulness which we find in dr. guthrie, the renowned english champion of the ragged school enterprise. his case is so interesting, that we close this chapter by letting him speak for himself. he says, "the interest i have been led to take in this cause is an example of how, in providence, a man's destiny,--his course of life, like that of a river, may be determined and affected by very trivial circumstances. it is rather curious,--at least it is interesting to me to remember,--that it was by a _picture_ i was first led to take an interest in ragged schools,--by a picture in an old, obscure, decaying burgh that stands on the shores of the firth of forth, the birth-place of thomas chalmers. i went to see this place many years ago, and, going into an inn for refreshment, i found the room covered with pictures of shepherdesses with their crooks, and sailors in holiday attire, not particularly interesting. but above the chimney-piece there stood a large print, more respectable than its neighbors, which represented a cobbler's room. the cobbler was there himself, spectacles on nose, an old shoe between his knees,--the massive forehead and firm mouth, indicating great determination of character, and, beneath his bushy eyebrows, benevolence gleamed out on a number of poor ragged boys and girls, who stood at their lessons round the busy cobbler. my curiosity was awakened; and in the inscription i read how this man, john pounds, a cobbler in portsmouth, taking pity on the multitude of poor ragged children left by ministers and magistrates, and ladies and gentlemen, to go to ruin on the streets,--how, like a good shepherd, he gathered in these wretched outcasts,--how he had trained them to god and to the world,--and how, while earning his daily bread by the sweat of his brow, he had rescued from misery and saved to society not less than five hundred of these children. i felt ashamed of myself. i felt reproved for the little i had done. my feelings were touched. i was astonished at this man's achievement; and i well remember, in the enthusiasm of the moment, saying to my companion (and i have seen in my cooler and calmer moments no reason for unsaying the saying),--'that man is an honor to humanity, and deserves the tallest monument ever raised within the shores of britain.' i took up that man's history, and i found it animated by the spirit of him who had 'compassion on the multitude.' john pounds was a clever man besides; and, like paul, if he could not win a poor boy any other way, he won him by art. he would be seen chasing a ragged boy along the quays, and compelling him to come to school, not by the power of a policeman, but by the power of a hot potato. he knew the love an irishman had for a potato; and john pounds might be seen running holding under the boy's nose a potato, like an irishman, very hot, and with a coat as ragged as himself. when the day comes when honor will be done to whom honor is due, i can fancy the crowd of those whose fame poets have sung, and to whose memory monuments have been raised, dividing like the wave, and passing the great, and the noble, and the mighty of the land, this poor, obscure old man stepping forward and receiving the especial notice of him who said, 'inasmuch as ye did it to one of the least of these, ye did it also to me.'" chapter xv. three important events. "frank is coming into the factory to work," said nat one day to charlie. "he is?" answered charlie with some surprise, as he had not heard of it; "when is he coming?" "next week i expect, if the place is ready for him. i am glad he is coming, for he will be company for us." "are his parents so poor that he is obliged to work here for a living?" "yes; they are not able to keep him at school any longer, and they think he is old enough now to do something to support himself." "it is a dreadful thing to be poor, isn't it, nat?" "it is bad enough, but not the worst thing in the world," answered nat. "dr. franklin said it was worse to be _mean_." "i shan't dispute with him on that point," replied charlie, "for there is only one side to that question. but i was thinking how poor boys are obliged to work instead of going to school, and of the many hard things they are obliged to meet." "i think of it often," added nat, "but then i remember that almost all the men whose lives i have read, were poor boys, and this shows that poverty is not so bad as some other things. but i don't quite believe dr. franklin's remark about the ease of becoming rich." "what was his remark?" inquired charlie. "'the way to wealth is as plain as the way to market,'" answered nat; "and if that isn't plain enough, i should like to know how it could be made plainer." "well, i don't believe _that_," said charlie. "if men could become rich as easily as they can go to market, there would be precious few poor people in the world. but is that really what he means?" "certainly; only _industry_ and _frugality_, he says, must be practised in order to get it." "that alters the case," answered charlie, "but even then i can't quite believe it. are all industrious and frugal people wealthy?" "no," replied nat; "and that is the reason i doubt the truth of dr. franklin's remark. some of the most industrious and frugal people in the world are poor." the conversation was broken off here, and we will take this opportunity to remark, that frank martin entered the factory, as had been arranged, and was most cordially welcomed by the boys. he had been less with nat, since the latter became a bobbin boy, than before, but their friendship was not abated. we have seen that they were on very intimate terms before, and were much in each other's society. frank's entrance into the factory was suited to strengthen that friendship. the fact that each of the boys was poor and obliged to work for a living, and that each, also, was a factory boy, was enough to cause their sympathies to run together. it is natural for the rich to seek the society of the rich, and for the poor to seek the society of the poor, because their sympathies blend together. hence, we generally find in communities that the rich and poor are usually separated, in some measure, by social barriers. this is not as it should be by any means; and this distinction between the rich and poor often becomes obnoxious to every kind and generous sentiment of humanity. still, to some extent, the very experience of the rich begets a fellow-feeling with the rich, and so of the poor. the same is true, also, of trials. the mother who has lost her babe can sympathize with another bereaved mother, as no other person can. the sorrowing widow enters into the bitter experience of another wife bereft of her husband, as no other weeper can. and so it is of other forms of human experience. then, the occupations of individuals comes in to influence the sympathies. a farmer meets a stranger, and finds, after cultivating his acquaintance, that he is a farmer, and this fact alone increases his interest in the individual. a sailor falls into company with an old man of four-score years, and finds that he was once a sailor, and this item of news draws him towards the aged man at once. a lawyer or clergyman is introduced to a gentleman in a foreign land, and he learns that the stranger is a lawyer or clergyman, as the case may be, and this knowledge itself makes him glad to see him. now this principle had a place in the hearts of these three factory boys, and bound them together by very strong ties of friendship. no three boys in the village thought so much of each other, nor were so much in each other's society, as they. there is no doubt that their intimate acquaintance and intercourse had much to do in forming the character of each. it certainly opened the way for some experiences that helped make nat what he became. * * * * * "how did you like marcus treat?" inquired charlie, the evening after he introduced this new comer into nat's study. "very much indeed," answered nat. "he seems to be a capital fellow, and he is a good scholar i know from his appearance." "he _is_ a good scholar, for one of the boys told me so. he has been in school only two or three weeks, but that is long enough to tell whether a fellow is a dunce or not." "where did he come from?" asked nat. "from----, i understand; and he lives with his uncle here. his parents are poor, and his uncle has offered to take him into his family." "he will have a good home. his uncle will do as well by him as he would by a son." "that is true; but he is not able to do much for either, i should think. is he not a poor man?" "perhaps so; he has to work for a living, but many men who are obliged to do this, can do much for their sons. i pity him to have to leave his home and go among strangers." "he will not be a stranger long with us," said charlie. "he seemed much pleased to get acquainted with us, and to know about our plan of study." "i suppose the poor fellow is glad to get acquainted with anybody," said nat, "here among strangers as he is. it is a dreadful thing to be poor, you said, the other day, and i guess he begins to find it so. we must try to make him feel at home." "that won't be difficult; for i think, from all i hear, that he fares much better here than he did at home, because his father was so very poor." "they say 'home is home if it is ever so homely,' and i believe it, and probably marcus does. but if he likes to study, he will be glad to join us, and we shall be glad to have him." "i will speak to him about it to-morrow, if i see him," added charlie. "he told me that he read evenings." this marcus treat had just come to town for the reasons given by charlie. he was about the age of nat, and was a very bright, smart, active boy, disposed to do about as well as he knew how. he entered the public school immediately on coming into town, where his uncle designed to keep him, at least for a while. we shall find, hereafter, that he became a bosom companion of nat's, and shared in his aspirations for knowledge, and did his part in reading, debating, declaiming, and other things pertaining to self-improvement. * * * * * a kind letter came that brought trial to nat. it was designed for his good, but it dashed many of his hopes. an uncle, residing in a distant city, proposed to receive him into his family, and give him an opportunity to labor with himself in the factory. he was overseer of one of the rooms, and there nat could work under his eye, in a new branch of the business. "would you like to go?" inquired his mother. "on some accounts i should," answered nat; "and on others i rather not go." "it is a good thing for boys to go away from home to stay, if they can have a good place," said she; "and you would certainly enjoy being in your uncle's family." "i should like that well enough; but it is going among strangers, after all; and then here i have a good chance to read and study, and charlie and i have laid our plans for the future. we have but just commenced to do much in this respect. i should much rather stay here." "but you can have books there, and as much time out of the factory as you have here. your uncle will favor you all he can, and will be glad to see you try to improve your mind." "i shan't have charlie nor frank there, nor that new acquaintance, marcus, who was here the other evening; he was going to study with us. i don't believe there will be a library there either." "i think there will be a library in the place," said his mother, "to which you can have access. at any rate, i am confident your uncle will provide a way for you to have all the books you want." "how soon does he want i should come?" "as soon as you can get ready. it will take me, some little time to repair your clothes, and make the new ones you must have. you could not be ready in less than two or three weeks." "perhaps i shall not like the new kind of work there, nor succeed so well in doing it. it will be more difficult." "and you are able now to perform more difficult work than you did when you first went into the factory. you ought to keep advancing from one step to another. besides, it may turn out better than you expect if you go there. you know that when you entered the factory two years ago, you thought you should never learn any thing more, but you have been pretty well satisfied with your opportunities to read. perhaps you will be as happily disappointed if you go to live with your uncle." "there is very little prospect of it," replied nat. "but i shall do as you think best." nat could not help thinking about the new comer, marcus treat. he had been pitying him because he was obliged to leave his home, to live with his uncle among strangers; and now he himself was to have just such an experience. he little thought, when he was conversing with charlie about this unpleasant feature of marcus' life, that he would be obliged to try it himself so soon. but it was so. marcus came to reside with his uncle in a community of strangers, and now nat is going to reside with _his_ uncle, where faces are no more familiar. it was a singular circumstance, and nat could but view it in that light. we have no space to devote to this part of nat's life. we can only say, that it was decided to send him to his uncle's, and that he went at the earliest opportunity. it would be interesting to trace his interviews with his bosom companions before his departure--the sad disappointment that was felt by each party at the separation--the regrets of charlie over frustrated plans in consequence of this step--the preparations for the journey--his leave of his native village--the long ride, by private conveyance, with his parents, to his new residence--and his introduction to a new sphere of labor. he was absent three years, in which time he added several inches to his stature, and not a little to his stock of information. we will only say of this period, however, that his leisure hours were spent in self-improvement, and he was supplied with books, and had some other sources of information, such as public lectures, opened to him in the place. on the whole, these three years were important ones to him, so that there was a gain to set over against the loss he sustained in bidding adieu to well-laid plans for improvement in his birth-place. chapter xvi. finding a lost opportunity. it was a few weeks after nat's return to his native place, where he was most cordially welcomed by his old companions, charlie and frank in particular. he was now an apprentice in the machine-shop, a stirring, healthy youth of about seventeen years. "what have you there?" said charlie to him, as he saw nat take a book from his pocket to spend a leisure moment over it. "my grammar," answered nat, smiling. "have you discovered that you can't write a letter with propriety without it?" inquired charlie, referring rather jocosely to a scene we have sketched. "i am pretty thoroughly convinced of that," responded nat. "at any rate, i shall find that lost opportunity if i can. better now than never." "you think better of that grammar class than you did five years ago, do you?" "i have thought better of it for a good while, and should like to join it now if i had the opportunity. we were both very foolish then, as i have found out to my sorrow." "i have often thought of that time," said charlie; "i think we were rather too set in our opinions." "yes; and if the teacher had just given us what we deserved, perhaps i should not now be obliged to study grammar," added nat. "i am glad to see you so willing to own up, only it is a little too late to profit much by it. this 'after wit' is not the best kind." "it is better than no wit at all," said nat, rather amused at charlie's way of "probing an old sore." "the fact is, we were too young and green then to appreciate the teacher's reasons for wanting us to study grammar. he was right, and we were wrong, and now i am obliged to learn what i might have acquired then more readily." "but we studied it, did we not?" inquired charlie. "only to _recite_. we did not study it to _understand_. i knew little more about grammar when i left off going to school than i do about greek or hebrew. it is one thing to commit a lesson, and another to comprehend it. i am determined to understand it now." "how long have you been studying it?" "a few weeks ago i commenced it in earnest. i looked at it occasionally before." [illustration] "have you advanced so far as to know whether sam drake is a proper or improper noun?" asked charlie, in a jesting manner. "possibly," answered nat, dryly. "by the way, i hear that sam has removed from town, and all the family." "yes, they have gone, and i have cried none yet, and hope i shall not. sam is a worse fellow now than he was when you left town." "he is! he was bad enough then, and if he is much worse now, i pity the people who are obliged to have him about." "they told some hard stories about him last summer; if half of them are true, he is a candidate for the state prison." "what were the stories?" asked nat, not having heard any thing in particular about him since his return. "some people thought he robbed mr. parton's orchard, and stole mrs. graves' pears and plums. he went off several times on sunday and came back intoxicated. in fact, almost every evil thing that has been done in the night-time, for months past, has been laid to him. perhaps he was not guilty, but people seem to think there is nothing too bad for him to do." "and they think about right, too," added nat. "i never saw a fellow who seemed to enjoy doing mischief like him. but how is it with ben? i used to think he would do better if sam would let him alone." "people generally are of the same opinion. ben is no worse than he was when he went to school, though he has frequently been in miserable scrapes with sam. i guess they will end about alike. but i want to talk more about your grammar. do you really expect to master grammar without a teacher?" "of course i do, or i should not undertake it. we conquered worse difficulties in mathematics than i have yet found in grammar." "but how can you have patience to pursue such a dry study alone?" "it is not dry now. it was dry to us that winter because we did not want to know any thing about it. any book will be dry when we don't care to read it. i have found that no study is dry which i really want to know about. i like grammar first-rate now." "then you think that _we_ were dry, and not the grammar?" inquired charlie. "certainly; and you will find it so, if you will try it. when a person really wants to comprehend any subject, he will be interested in it, and he will quite readily master it." "i shall not dispute your position," said charlie. "but when you have a good grammar lesson you may recite it to me. i think you will make a good grammarian after all--you certainly will if a good resolution will accomplish it." "i do not expect to distinguish myself in this branch of knowledge," replied nat. "but i am determined to know something about it. a person need not learn every thing there is to be known about a study to make it profitable to him." nat was accustomed, at this period of his life, to carry some book with him for use every spare moment he found. he had a literary pocket into which volume after volume found its way, to remain until its contents were digested. the grammar had its turn in this convenient pocket, and every day was compelled to disclose some of its hidden knowledge. pockets have been of great service to self-made men. a more useful invention was never known, and hundreds are now living who will have occasion to speak well of pockets till they die, because they were so handy to carry a book. roger sherman had one when he was a hard-working shoemaker in stoughton, mass. into it he stuffed geography, history, biography, logic, mathematics, and theology, in turn, so that he actually carried more science than change. napoleon had one, in which he carried the iliad when he wrote to his mother, "with my sword by my side, and homer in my pocket, i hope to carve my way through the world." hugh miller had one from which he often drew a profitable work as he was sitting on a stone for a few moments' rest from his hard toils. elihu burritt had one from the time he began to read in the old blacksmith shop until he acquired a literary fame, and on "a grand scale set to working out his destiny at the flaming forge of life." in writing to a friend, he said, "those who have been acquainted with my character from my youth up, will give me credit for sincerity when i say, that it never entered into my head to blazon forth any acquisition of my own. all that i have accomplished, or expect, or hope to accomplish, has been, and will be, by that plodding, patient, persevering process of accretion which builds the ant-heap,--particle by particle, thought by thought, fact by fact. and if ever i was actuated by ambition, its highest and warmest aspiration reached no further than the hope to set before the young men of my country an example in employing those invaluable fragments of time, called 'odd moments.'" he was once an agent for a manufacturing company in connecticut, and his pocket served him a noble purpose, for it furnished him with a valuable work often, in unfrequented spots, where he would let his horse rest, and spend a few moments in studying by the road-side. the horse soon learned to appreciate the wants of his driver, and would voluntarily stop in certain lonely retreats for him to pursue his studies. thus pockets that have carried the leanest purses, have often proved the greatest blessing to mankind. but how many youth there are, having much leisure time every day, who carry nothing better than a knife, purse, and sometimes a piece of filthy tobacco, in their pockets! it would be infinitely better for them to put a good book there, to occupy their attention whenever a spare moment is offered. if only a single hour in a day could be saved from absolute waste by such reliance on the pocket, this would be sufficient to secure a large amount of information in a series of years. the working-days of the week would yield, in this way, six precious hours, equal to one day's schooling in a week, and fifty-two days, or ten weeks of schooling in a year. is not this worth saving? multiply it by ten years, and there you have one hundred weeks,--nearly two years of mental culture. multiply it by twenty, and you have about four years of this intellectual discipline. multiply it once more by fifty years (and he who lives to three score years and ten, beginning thus in boyhood, will have even more time than that for improvement), and you have nearly ten years of mental discipline. if we could gather up all the wasted moments of the young, who prefer a jack-knife to a book, what a series of years we could save for literary purposes! nat's pocket was worth a cart-load of those who never hold any thing more valuable than money. if some kind friend had proposed to give him one well filled with gold in exchange for his, he would have made a poor bargain had he accepted the offer. in regard to finding lost opportunities, few persons are ever so fortunate. here and there one with the decision, and patient persevering spirit of nat makes up for these early losses, in a measure, but they have to pay for it at a costly rate. nat thought so when he struggled to master grammar without a teacher. deeply he regretted that he let slip a golden opportunity of his early boyhood, when he might have acquired considerable knowledge of this science. but his perseverance in finally pursuing the study furnishes a good illustration of what may be done. "what do you say to starting a debating society, charlie?" inquired nat, on the same day they discussed their grammar experience. "i would like it well; and i think we could get quite a number to join it. where could we meet?" "we could probably get the use of the school-house, especially if a number of the scholars should join us. for such a purpose, i think there would be no objection to our having it." "let us attend to it at once," said charlie. "marcus and frank will favor the movement, and i dare say we can get fifteen or twenty in a short time. some will join it who do not think of debating, for the sake of having it go." this reference to marcus renders it necessary to say, that he had left the district school, and was learning the hatter's trade. during nat's three years' absence, he was intimate with frank and charlie, and was disposed to improve his leisure time in reading. he was such a youth as would readily favor the organization of a debating society, and become an active member. "come over to our house early to-night," said nat, "and we will see what we can do. if we form the society at all, we can do it within a week." chapter xvii. the purchase. on the same week, while the plans for a debating society were maturing, it was announced that the machine-shop would be closed on saturday. "i shall go to boston then," said nat. "what for?" inquired charlie. "i want to look around among the bookstores; i think a few hours spent in this way will be of service to me." "going to purchase a library, i suppose?" added charlie, with a peculiar twinkle proceeding from the corner of his eye. "not a very large one, i think; but it is well enough to see what there is in the world to make a library of." "i should think it would be nothing but an aggravation to examine a bookstore and not be able to buy what you want. it is like seeing a good dinner without being permitted to eat." "i can tell you better about that after i try it. after walking ten miles to enjoy the sight, and then returning by the same conveyance, i can speak from experience." "walk!" exclaimed charlie; "do you intend to walk?" "certainly; won't _you_ go with me? i should like some company, though it is not a very lonely way." "i prefer to be excused," answered charlie, "until i know your experience. but why do you not take the stage and save your shoe-leather?" "because shoe-leather is cheaper than stage-fare," replied nat. "what little money i have to spare, i prefer to lay out in books. if the way to wealth was as plain as it is to boston market,--as dr. franklin thought,--i should not only ride in the stage to the city, but also bring back a bookstore." there was no railroad to the city at that time; but once or twice a day there was public conveyance by stage. "well, a pleasant walk to you," said charlie; "i hope you will remember that you are nothing but a country boy when you meet our city cousins. i shall want to go some time, so you must behave well." "much obliged for your advice; i dare say it will be the means of saving me from everlasting disgrace. what do you charge for such fatherly counsel?" "halloo! here is frank," exclaimed charlie, as frank made his appearance. "what do you think nat is going to do on saturday?" "what he does every saturday, i suppose,--work," answered frank. "no; there is no work to do on saturday, and he is going to walk to boston to visit the bookstores." "nobody can walk there quicker than nat," replied frank; "and if he scents a book, i shouldn't want to try to keep him company." "i should think boston was forty miles off by your talk," said nat; "what is a walk of ten miles for any one of us, hale and hearty fellows. if i live, i expect to walk there more than once." saturday came. it was a bright, pleasant day, and nat was up betimes, clothed and fed for a start. with a light heart and nimble feet, he made rapid progress on his way, and the forenoon was not far gone when he reached cornhill. he was not long in finding the bookstores, caring, apparently, for little else. most boys of his age, in going to the city, would be attracted by other sights and scenes. the museum, with its fine collection of curiosities from every part of the world, would attract one; the state house, with its splendid view from the cupola, would draw another; the ships in the harbor, with their forest of masts, would fill the eyes of a third; while the toy-shops, music-stores, and confectioners, would command the particular attention of others. but none of these things attracted nat. he went to examine the bookstores, and to them he repaired. books filled the show-windows, and some were outside to attract attention. he examined those outside before he stepped in. he read the title of each volume upon the back, and some he took up and examined. having looked to his heart's content outside, he stepped in. a cordial bow welcomed him to every place. "what would you like, sir?" inquired one bookseller. "i came in," replied nat, "to look at your books, with your permission." "look as long as you please," replied the bookseller, with a countenance beaming with good-will, to make nat feel at home. for an hour or more he went from shelf to shelf, examining title-pages and the contents of volumes, reading a paragraph here and there, marking the names of authors, and all the while wishing that he possessed this, that, and the other work. there were two or three volumes he thought he might purchase if the price was within his limited means, among which was "locke's essay on the understanding." but he did not discover either of the works in his examination. at length he inquired, "have you a copy of 'locke's essay on the understanding?'" "yes," replied the bookseller, "i have a second-hand copy that i will sell you cheap," taking down from a shelf an english pocket edition of the work. "there, i will sell you that for twenty-five cents." "is it a perfect copy?" inquired nat, thinking that possibly some leaves might be gone, which would render it worthless to him. "yes, not a page is gone, and it is well bound, as you see." "i will take it," said nat, well pleased to possess the coveted volume so cheap, and especially that it was just the thing for his literary pocket. he was now more than paid for his walk to boston. he had no idea of obtaining the work in a form so convenient for his use, and it was a very agreeable surprise. in the course of the day, he made one or two other purchases, of which we shall not speak, and acquired many new ideas of books. some valuable bits of knowledge he gleaned from the pages over which his eyes glanced, so that, on the whole, it was a day well spent for his intellectual progress. it is related of dr. john kitto, that in his boyhood, when he first began to gratify his thirst for knowledge, he was wont to visit a bookseller's stall, where he was privileged to examine the volumes, and he there treasured up many a valuable thought, that contributed to his future progress and renown. he always regarded this small opportunity of improvement as one of the moulding events of his life. nat was on his way home at a seasonable hour, and had a very sociable time with his new pocket companion, which he could not help reading some on the road. it is doubtful if he ever spent a happier day than that, though he knew little more about boston than he did in the morning, except about the extent and attractions of its bookstores, with a half dozen of which, on cornhill and washington street, he became familiar. "good morning, nat," said charlie, on monday morning, as they met at the shop. "what discoveries did you make in boston?" the only reply that nat made was to take from his pocket, and hold up "locke's essay on the understanding." "what is that?" inquired charlie, taking the volume from nat's hand, and turning to the title-page. "i have been wanting that some time," said nat, "but i had no idea of finding a pocket edition nor getting it so cheap. i bought that for twenty-five cents." "it is a second-hand copy, i see." "yes; but just as good for my use as a copy fresh from the press." "a good fit for your pocket," said charlie; "i should think it was made on purpose for you. has the grammar vacated it?" "to be sure; it moved out the other day, and locke has moved in," replied nat, taking up charlie's witticism. "did you have a good time in the city?" "capital: so good that i shall go again the first opportunity i have. but, i confess, it was rather aggravating to see so many books, and not be able to possess them." charlie smiled at this confession, remembering their conversation a few days before, and both proceeded to their work. this new volume was a great acquisition to nat, and as much as any other, perhaps, had an influence in developing and strengthening his mental powers. it was not read and cast aside. it was read and re-read, and studied for months, in connection with other volumes. it was one of the standard books that moulded his youth, and decided his career. it is a singular fact that "locke's essay on the understanding" has exerted a controlling influence upon the early lives of so many self-taught men. it was one of the few volumes that constituted the early literary treasure of robert burns, to which he ascribed much of his success, though he says, at the same time, "a collection of english songs was my _vade mecum_." the famed metaphysician, samuel drew, owed his triumphs mainly to this work. true, he became a great reader of other works, for he said, "the more i read, the more i felt my ignorance; and the more i felt my ignorance, the more invincible became my energy to surmount it. every leisure moment was now employed in reading one thing or another. having to support myself by manual labor, my time for reading was but little, and to overcome this disadvantage, my usual method was to place a book before me while at meat, and at every repast i read five or six pages." yet, he attached the most importance to "locke's essay," for he acknowledged that it turned his attention to metaphysics, and, he said, "it awakened me from my stupor, and induced me to form a resolution to abandon the grovelling views which i had been accustomed to entertain." the german scholar, mendelsohn, owed not a little of his distinction in certain departments of study to the influence of a latin copy of "locke's essay." he was an extensive reader, and found that a knowledge of greek and latin was necessary for the successful prosecution of his literary pursuits. consequently he purchased a copy of "locke's essay" in latin, and with an old dictionary, which he bought for a trifle, and the assistance of a friend, who understood latin, fifteen minutes each day, he translated the work. but the knowledge it gave him of latin was far less valuable than the teachings it communicated, and which he incorporated into the very web of his future life. we can readily perceive how a work like this is suited to arouse the dormant energies of the mind, and start it off upon a career of thought and influence. that knowledge of human nature which it imparts, and particularly the philosophy of the mind which it unfolds, are suited to aid the orator and statesman. he who understands these laws of human nature can more surely touch the springs of emotion in the soul, by the flow of his fervid eloquence. this was not the last visit of nat to the boston bookstores. subsequently, as he had opportunity, he walked to the city on a similar errand, and always returned with more knowledge than he possessed in the morning. chapter xviii. the debating society. the plans of nat for a debating society were successful, and arrangements were made accordingly. permission was obtained to use the school-house for the purpose, and tuesday evening was appointed as the time to organize. "much will depend upon beginning well," said nat to marcus. "we must make it a good thing if we expect any favors in the village." "shall we admit spectators?" inquired marcus. "after we have fairly commenced," answered nat. "there won't be much room, however, if all the members attend, and other young people who want to come in." "i should think it would be well to have some declamations and dialogues occasionally," added marcus; "it will give more variety. i imagine that our debates will want something else to back them up. and then some will be willing to declaim who will not attempt to debate." "that is true," replied nat; "but we form the society for debating, and therefore this ought to be the principal object. it may be well enough to have some declamations and dialogues occasionally--i think it would. but it will do us more good to debate. we shall be more interested in reading upon the subjects of debate, and then our debates will be better in consequence of our reading." tuesday evening arrived. nat and his intimate associates had prepared a constitution, so that an organization could be effected without delay. a good number of young people assembled, of both sexes, and a society was formed in a most harmonious manner. the unanimity of feeling and action was a lesson to most legislative bodies, and to the congress of the united states in particular. it was decided to hold weekly meetings for debate, and a question was voted for the meeting of the following week. nat was appointed to open the discussion, and three others to follow on their respective sides of the question. a small fee of membership was required of the male members to defray necessary expenses. "a good beginning last night," said charlie to nat, on the next morning. "much better than i anticipated," was nat's reply. "the thing has taken better than i supposed it would; but many a good beginning has a bad ending. we must do our best to keep up the interest, and make it respectable." "i was glad to hear you suggest that by-rule about good order," said charlie. "i think some voted for it last evening who would not have done so if it had been deferred until disorder commenced." "i knew what i was about," answered nat. "there are some fellows in the village who would think they could have a good time in spite of the officers, because they are of the same age, and i thought it would be well to get them to vote for good order in the first place. we shall never accomplish any thing in such a society unless we have as much decorum as there is in the meetings of adults, and without it we shall have a bad reputation." here nat exhibited one trait of his youth--a strong desire to make every thing in which he engaged respectable. a few years later he manifested a feeling in the same direction, when he was made captain of the fire company. he introduced rules to guard against those vices that are so likely to find their way into such associations; and his arguments were generally so good, and his appeals so forcible, that he always carried his propositions. the result was a model fire company that won the confidence and respect of the citizens. in his boyhood the same trait of character caused him to care for his appearance, so that in his poverty he was usually more neat and tidy in his dress than many sons of the rich with far costlier apparel. and it was this that had somewhat to do with the general manly character for which he was known when young. "i suppose," continued charlie, "that some men think we only mean to have a good time, and that there will be more play than profit in our society." "and we must show them that it is otherwise by conducting it in the best way possible," added nat. "for one, i want it for my own improvement. i had better stay at home and read than to go there and spend an evening to no advantage. fellows who are not able to go to school, but must work from morning till night for a livelihood, are obliged to improve their odd moments if they would ever know any thing. you remember that rule of dr. franklin, 'lose no time,' i suppose?" "i can never forget dr. franklin where you are," answered charlie. "you think he is law and gospel in every thing but the way to wealth." the new-formed debating society filled the thoughts of nat much of the time, and the first question for discussion was pretty thoroughly investigated before the time of the meeting. we do not know precisely what the question was, only that it was a common one, such as "which is the greater curse to mankind, war or intemperance?" suffice to say, that it was discussed on the evening appointed, in a manner that was creditable to all who participated, though the palm was readily conceded to nat. the success of the first debate created a strong appetite for more, and from week to week the interest increased. it happened one evening, for some reason, that no question was assigned for discussion. the members came, and a good number of spectators, but there was no provision made for a debate. "what shall we do?" inquired charlie, before the hour for opening the meeting arrived. "decide upon a question now, and, as soon as the meeting is opened, vote to discuss it," replied nat, promptly. "what! do you mean to discuss it to-night?" asked john. "to be sure i do. it would be a pretty joke to come together, and go home without doing any thing." "i will agree to it," said marcus. "and i, too," said frank. "and i, too," added other voices. so it was decided to have a discussion, and a question was agreed upon by the time the hour for commencing arrived. the meeting was opened, and the minutes of the last meeting read, when it appeared that there was no question for debate. immediately nat arose, and said, "mr. president,--by some misunderstanding it appears that we have no question for discussion assigned for this evening. i think it would not be for our credit to go home without a debate, since those who have come here are expecting a discussion. i therefore move that we debate the following question this evening (at the same time reading the question), and that the president appoint the disputants as usual." frank seconded the motion, and it was carried. next, the president appointed nat to open the debate, and marcus, charlie, and frank for the other three disputants. there was some curiosity on the part of spectators to see how the boys would get along, and they were all eager to have nat begin. all looked very pleasant, however, and well they might, for who could view this young parliament scene without a smiling face. still, it was possible to trace an anxious feeling upon the countenances of the debaters, unless we except nat. all other preliminary business being disposed of, nat commenced, proceeded, and ended, in a speech of twenty minutes, that was not inferior to any of his previous performances. his speech had a beginning, middle, and end, and he stopped when he got through, which is not always the case even with some noted public speakers. the others followed, speaking about as well as usual, and gaining much applause to themselves. it was the general opinion, at the close of the evening, that there had not been a more interesting and profitable discussion in all their previous meetings. "nat, you was made for a debater," said frank to him, at the close of the evening. "that is a fact," added charlie, who heard the remark. "you have superior abilities to examine and discuss a subject, and you command language as if you had studied the dictionary all your life. i suspect that pocket of yours holds the secret." "no wonder that he takes such a stand," said marcus, "he is always digging away for knowledge. i doubt if he has wasted a moment for five years. i am fully of the opinion, however, that uncommon abilities is the real cause of his success." these tremendous compliments were flung directly into nat's face, and he found it more difficult to reply than he did to speak on the unstudied question. at length he answered, "you do not know me, boys. you overrate me. if i have any success in speaking, it is not because i have any greater abilities than you have. i have a taste for such discussions; i love to speak on the questions; and i desire to do it just as well as i can, and to improve upon it every week, and that is half the battle. i enter into it with all my soul, and don't stop to say i can't: that is all the difference." "pshaw, nat! you will never make me believe that," said charlie. "you don't believe it yourself. you are making the way to learning and eloquence as easy as dr. franklin's way to wealth, and i know what you think of that," and the roguish look that he cast upon him seemed to say, "i have you now." "i say just what i believe," answered nat. "the most eminent writers think that a person may be about what he determines to make himself, and i think it is true. if a man starts with the determination to be the best kind of a machinist or carpenter, he will ordinarily become so. and so if he is really determined to excel in any branch of knowledge, he will usually accomplish his object. tell me of a great scholar or statesman who has not worked his way up by perseverance and incessant labor." "all that may be very true," replied marcus, "but it has nothing at all to do with the point in question. we do not say that the most gifted man will distinguish himself without improving his time by close application. we only say that one man is more highly endowed by nature than another." "i admit that to a certain extent," answered nat, "and still there is not so much truth in it as many people suppose. i really believe that if all the boys would set about improving every moment, as i have done for some years, you would not observe half so much difference in them as you do now." the boys were rather unceremonious in piling such a load of compliments upon nat. there were more than he could dispose of handily. yet, the views which he advanced, and which he has always maintained from that time to this, are substantiated by the best authors we have. his views were essentially like those of buxton, who said that he placed his confidence of success in "ordinary powers, and extraordinary application." buxton's language, on one occasion, was very strong indeed upon the certain success of a firm purpose. "the longer i live," said he, "the more i am certain that the great difference between men, between the feeble and the powerful, is energy--invincible determination--a purpose once fixed, and then death or victory. that quality will do any thing that can be done in this world; and no talents, no circumstances, no opportunities will make a two-legged creature a man, without it." here is a view of success exactly like that advanced by nat to his companions; and other men, in the different callings of life, have expressed a similar opinion. each youth must depend upon his own personal exertions, and not upon superior endowments, or wealthy or honored ancestry, for eminence. if his name is ever carved upon the temple of fame, he must carve it himself. the debating society had a happy influence upon nat. it called forth into exercise the latent powers of his mind that otherwise might have slept and slumbered. such an organization has proved a valuable means of improvement to many persons in their early studies. the irish orator, curran, was indebted to such a "club" for much of the renown that attached to his after life. he was modest and retiring even to bashfulness, and had a very marked defect in his articulation, so that his schoolmates called him "stuttering jack curran." he joined a "debating club," determined to improve if possible, but there one of the first flings he received was to be called "orator mum," in consequence of his being so frightened when he arose to speak that he was not able to say a word. but he persevered until he became the champion of the "club," and laid the foundation of his future eminence as an orator. a living american statesman, who has already made his mark upon the land of his birth, considers the influence of a debating society to which he belonged in his youth, among the first stimulating causes of the course he has pursued. the highly distinguished english statesman, canning, organized a house of commons among his play-fellows at school, where a speaker was regularly elected, and ministerial and opposition parties were formed, and debates carried on, in imitation of parliament. canning became the star of this juvenile organization, and there began to develop those powers by which, a few years after, as another has said, "he ruled the house as a man rules the high-bred steed, as alexander ruled bucephalus, of whom it was said the horse and the rider were equally proud." henry clay, the american orator, said to some young men, "i owe my success in life chiefly to one circumstance,--that i commenced and continued for years the process of daily reading and speaking upon the contents of some historical or scientific book. these off-hand efforts were made, sometimes in a cornfield, at others in the forest, and not unfrequently in some distant barn, with the horse and ox for my auditors. it is to this early practice of the art of all arts that i am indebted for the primary and leading impulses that stimulated me onward, and have shaped and moulded my subsequent destiny." what speaking to the forest trees and beasts of the stall was to clay, that was the debating society to nat. it was a place where he could use the knowledge he acquired by reading, while, at the same time, his mind was stimulated to action, so that he began to utter "thoughts that breathe and words that burn." some twelve or fourteen years ago, the author was passing tremont temple in boston, when he observed an illuminated sign over the door of one of its basement rooms, "boston young men's total abstinence society," and in connection with it was a most cordial "walk in." we accepted the silent invitation, and entered. there we found a few young men engaged in a debate, and some five or six spectators, among whom was deacon grant, listening. after the close of the exercises, the young men came forward in a most cordial and genial way to converse, and i learned that they had a small library, and were accustomed to debate questions of a social and literary character at their meetings. only a few belonged to the society; for it has always been true that total abstinence societies have not been well supported in boston, and the fact is a stain upon its social character, and the piety of its churches; but those few were anxious to make the society a means of mental improvement, at the same time it contributed to prosper the cause of temperance. for some years the organization was conducted in this way; and what was the result? we are not able to point to all the members as they now meet the stern duties of meridian life, but we know the whereabouts and position of a few. one of them, who was a mason by trade, at the time referred to above, is the popular editor of a daily paper in a new england city, and his charming eloquence has more than once delighted a boston audience. another has worked his way along through a course of education, and now occupies an honorable position as a preacher of the gospel. yet another applied himself to self-improvement with industry and perseverance, and the world know him now as the talented author, oliver optics. and still another, a merchant's clerk, now stands at the head of the large mercantile house in which he then served, possessing wealth and position that many an older man would be proud to call his own. his beautiful city mansion contains a study, where leisure hours are profitably employed, showing that the stimulus of those early debates is still felt. his voice is often heard in public assemblies, and he now takes his turn, with a corps of divines and lawyers, in editing a religious magazine. not one of these young men had wealth, or titled ancestry, or superior advantages, to aid them; and all will say that the debates of their society exerted a powerful influence over them, and contributed largely to their success. chapter xix. coming and going. frank was much surprised one day to receive a visit from ben drake. "is it you, ben?" he exclaimed, as he met him at the door. "i believe it is," said ben, "though i hope i am a different ben from what i was five years ago," evidently retaining some recollection of trip's death. "i should not have known you," said frank, "if i had passed you in the street. how you have grown!" frank had really no better opinion of ben now than he had when trip was tumbled down prospect hill, and he was sorry to see him coming up to his father's door. still, he was so much improved in his appearance, and he met frank so much more gentlemanly than he ever did before, that the latter could not but give him a cordial welcome. "you have changed as much as i have, i think," added ben, "though, in one respect, there was not so much room for a change in your case as there was in mine." but this allusion frank did not comprehend. "come in, come in," said frank, and he ushered him into the house, where he met the family, who were rather surprised to see him. mrs. martin made inquiries after the family, to which ben responded in a manner that evidenced great improvement. "where do you live?" she asked. "i am now at school in andover." "ah! you have better advantages than the rest of the boys." "and i hope i improve them better than i used to," said ben. "i was a pretty wild boy when i lived here, and it has caused me many regrets." "how long are you going to school?" inquired mrs. martin. "i expect to prepare for college there." "you do? then you are going to have a liberal education? what are you going to be,--a lawyer?" "no; i hope to do more good than i could to be a lawyer. i expect to be a minister." frank and his mother were both surprised at this announcement, and the latter asked, "then you are a christian?" "i trust i am. nothing but becoming a christian could have saved me from my wicked ways." "how long since you became a christian?" "it is eight or ten months." other inquiries elicited the fact, that his brother sam was no better than when he left town, and that much of the time his parents knew nothing of his whereabouts. as the evening drew on (frank had invited ben to stay with him), ben inquired if there was a prayer-meeting on that evening, to which he received an affirmative answer. "will you go?" he asked, addressing himself to frank. "yes; if you wish to have me. it will soon be time to go." they went to the prayer-meeting, and entered the room just as the exercises commenced. a good number were present, some of whose faces ben recognized, though scarcely any one at first knew him. in the course of the evening he arose and spoke in a feeling way of his own experience, referred to his former recklessness in that village, and disclosed his purpose to become a minister of christ. before he sat down, most of those present recognized the once bad boy, and they were both surprised and delighted. frank could hardly believe what he saw and heard. he never expected that ben drake would take such a stand as this; and he thought much, but said little. early the next morning, frank ran over to inform nat of the arrival of ben, and the fact that he was going to make a minister. "going to be a minister!" exclaimed nat. "i should like to know what can be found in him to make a minister of." "well, he is certainly in the school at andover, preparing for college,--if he tells the truth,--and you have no idea how much improved he is." "he is deceiving you, frank. i have no confidence in the fellow. he always was bad, and he always will be." "no; he is pious now. i went to the prayer-meeting with him last night, and he spoke. he spoke well, too, and alluded to his evil ways when he lived here, and expressed much regret at his course." "i can scarcely believe it," replied nat, "though i used to think that ben would not be so bad if sam was out of the way. what has become of sam? there is not much danger of his becoming pious, i take it." "ben is not inclined to talk very freely about him, but from what we have learned, the family don't know where he is much of the time." "how long is it since ben reformed?" "only eight or ten months. mother says he appears well now, but she would rather wait to see how he holds out. she is afraid that his early vicious habits will be too strong for his present good purpose." "where is he now?" inquired nat, becoming intensely interested in the case. "is he not coming around to see us?" "yes; he will go about some to-day, and go home to-morrow." ben called upon many of his old acquaintances that day, so that they had an opportunity of seeing him, and all were as much surprised as frank at the change in his appearance. his visit created quite a sensation in a circle of families, where he was particularly known in his early boyhood, and he was the occasion of many remarks after his departure. hereafter we shall see what kind of a man he made. before the young people had fairly recovered from the surprise occasioned by ben's visit, news came that daniel webster was to speak in faneuil hall, boston, on a certain evening. "i shall go to hear him," said nat, as soon as he heard of it. "will you go, charlie?" "how will you go?" asked charlie. "with my own team, of course," answered nat, jestingly. "and walk home after the address?" "certainly; there is no other way for we poor fellows to do. i never heard daniel webster speak, and i shall hear him if it is a possible thing. will you go?" "yes, i will," answered charlie. "you are not to have all the glory of walking to boston. i will try it for once." "_i_ expect to try it a good many times," said nat. "i want to hear some of the orators of whom so much is said. there is much to be learned in watching a speaker, and listening to him. his manners teach as well as his thoughts. i intend to hear edward everett the first time he speaks within ten or fifteen miles of here." "i see what you are after," said charlie. "you mean to discover the secret of their power, if possible, and i hope you will." on the evening of webster's speech, nat and charlie were on their way to boston in good season, and arrived at faneuil hall before the hour for the meeting. they hurried in to find eligible seats before the hall was crowded. many were already there, and many more were constantly coming in. nat found that he could see the speaker better to stand directly in front of the platform, where many were already awaiting the arrival of the great orator. so there he took his place, with charlie by his side, forgetting that his limbs were weary with the ten miles' walk, and a day's hard toil in the machine-shop. hearty cheers announced the arrival of the orator, whom nat had not seen before, and still another round of applause went up when he arose to speak. it was a great treat for nat to listen to the man whose fame made his name familiar to every school-boy. he drank in every word of his speech, closely observed every gesture and modulation of voice, and would have sat entranced till morning, "taking no note of time," if the gifted orator had continued to pour forth his eloquence. "could any thing be grander than that?" said nat, as they were leaving the house. "i would walk twice as far to hear another speech like it." "it was very fine indeed," answered charlie. "it far exceeded my expectations, high as my hopes were raised." "what power there is in the human voice to control men!" said nat. "how still it was in the hall! you could almost hear a pin drop, they were so chained by his eloquence. what else could hold them so long in such silence!" "nothing," replied charlie. "it has given me a new idea of eloquence altogether. his voice alone, without a thought, is enough to command attention." "i could but notice his choice of language," added nat; "every word seemed to be the most expressive one he could find, and some of his gestures appeared to make his words mean much more than they really do." nat had always been a close observer of public speakers from his boyhood, and lost no opportunity to hear lecturers who came to his native village. at the time he heard webster, his desire to listen to the leading orators of the day had developed almost into a passion. the debating society had probably sharpened his taste for such intellectual treats, and he was fully resolved to hear all the speakers he could. he seldom left his book in the evening, except to hear some public speaker at home and abroad, or to debate a question in the club. many times he walked into boston to listen to some distinguished orator, returning, often alone, after the treat was enjoyed. this was the pains he took to hear edward everett several times, who became his favorite. he admired him for the elegance of his diction, and the beauty with which all of his addresses were invested. he saw more power in webster, and more elegance in everett. he frequently walked into neighboring towns to hear lectures and political speeches. a good speaker announced anywhere in the vicinity was sure to call him out, whether the speech was upon education or politics. one great object with him seemed to be, to learn the art of oratory by actual observation. it is probably true, that he acquired more knowledge of the english language by listening to gifted speakers than he ever did from books, and more of the true art of using it himself to sway an audience. it is said that robert bloomfield, when a poor boy, having only a newspaper and an old english dictionary with which to gratify his thirst for information, acquired a very good knowledge of pronunciation by listening to the clerical orator, mr. fawcet. drawn by the speaker's popularity, he went to hear him one sabbath evening, and he was so impressed with his choice and enunciation of words, that he continued to attend his preaching in order to perfect himself in the proper use of language--not a very high object for which to hear preaching, but illustrative of what may be learned by close observation. in this way nat, like bloomfield and patrick henry, studied "men and things," in connection with books, during the eventful years of his apprenticeship. nat's admiration of the power of the human voice was not all a youthful hallucination. what is there like it? from the nursery to the senate it controls and sways the heart of man. from the mother's voice at the fireside, to the eloquence of a webster in the "cradle of liberty," it soothes, arouses, elevates, or depresses, at its pleasure. listen to the gifted orator, as the flowing periods come burning from his soul on fire, riveting the attention of his hearers in breathless silence for an hour, almost causing them to feel what he feels, and to believe what he believes, and bearing them upward by the witchery of his lofty eloquence until they scarcely know whether they are in the flesh or not, and say if there is aught of earth to compare with the power of the human voice. chapter xx. gossip. one such youth as nat in a country village is the occasion of a good deal of gossip. many opinions are expressed in regard to his motives and prospects, though in this case there were few conflicting sentiments. in the sewing circle, a good old lady, who could not appreciate education because she had none herself, said, "nat is a smart feller, but i'm feared he'll never be nothin' he thinks so much of book larning. i 'spose he thinks he can get a living by his wits." the old lady had a half dozen champions of the tongue down upon her at once. "no, no, mrs. lane," said one, "you judge nat too severely. there is no one who attends to his work more closely than he does. you never heard one of his employers complain that he was indifferent to his business." "he only employs his leisure moments in study," said another; "and i think that is much to his credit. if more boys in the village were like him, it would be vastly to our credit, and theirs, too." "yes," added a third; "and you may be sure that when a boy is reading during his evenings, and at other spare moments, he is out of mischief, and that is something in these days. there are parents in this town who never know that their sons are spending their leisure time well, because they are so often getting into bad scrapes. i guess if we could look into the tavern some evenings, we should find some of them there smoking and drinking." "wall," replied the old lady, "that may all be true enough, but too many edicated men are worse than none at all." "not if they earn their living, as nat does, and get an education into the bargain," said one of the former speakers. "there is no danger that our sons and daughters will know too much. most of them are satisfied with knowing too little." "wall, edication is good enough in its place," added mrs. lane, "but what does nat 'spect to do with it in the machine-shop? you won't make me b'lieve that larning is good for anybody who will have no use for it. 'spose a farmer studies the lor, what good will it do him if he only farms it? it will do him more hurt than good, because he will be nuther one thing nor 'tother. if we have farmers, let's have farmers, and if we have machinists, let's have machinists." "perhaps nat will not always work at his trade," suggested one of the company. "there are many self-made men who are now serving society much better than they would be if they had continued to work at manual labor." "yis, that's it," exclaimed the old lady, with some earnestness; "that is jist what it will come to. these boys who take so to book larning will stop working soon as they b'lieve they can get their bread and butter by their wits. that's jist what i meant in the fust place. i hear 'um tell that nat goes to boston nights to hear some great speakers, and comes home afterwards, and i thinks it is ventersome. i'd never let a son of mine do it, in this world." "why? why?" inquired two or three voices at once. "why? a good reason why. you never know'd a boy who can be trusted in boston nights. you don't know where they'll go to, and if ye do, there are sharpers on the lookout to lead them into evil. and who knows but robbers might seize him on his way back? i should think the boy was crazy." "it is only an illustration of his energy and perseverance, mrs. lane," said one of the ladies. "he is determined to know something, though he has no time to learn except in his leisure hours; and it is really surprising how much a person may acquire by industry in these fragments of time." "there's a nuther thing, too," continued mrs. lane. "i hear 'um tell that nat carts a book about in his pocket all the time he works. pretty business, i think, for a youngster like him to try to be a scholar and worker at once! it's all proof to me that taking to books so will spile him for any thing." "one thing is certain, mrs. lane, that he does not mean to waste any time; for the book in his pocket is to take out when he has a minute to spare. if he gets only ten minutes in a day to read, that will be one hour in the six working days, which is worth saving. that single hour a day, in a lifetime, would give a man considerable knowledge." "wall, it's no use arguing about it. times are so diff'rent now from what they was when i was young, and peoples thinks so diff'rent, that it 'pears to me sometimes that the world is going to rack and ruin. we got along well 'nough fifty or sixty years ago without so much edication. but folks are got to be so stylish now, and boys know so much more than their grandpas, that i railly don't know what'll come on us." "after all, mrs. lane, i think you would rather have more boys like nat, than like some others i could name," said a former speaker. "lor, yis," she replied; "i guess i should. i allers liked nat. he's a rale clever feller as ever lived, and he ain't stuck-up by his smartness, and he likes to see everybody well used. i larfed myself most to death when i heard about his waitin' on hanner mann to the party. it's jist like nat, he can't bear to see anybody slighted." "i like to see that," answered one of the number; "it is a good sign. he thought hannah and her sister were slighted because their father was poor and intemperate, and they were not able to dress quite so well as some others, and this excited his sympathies, so that he was determined they should go to the party." "i know'd all about that," replied mrs. lane, "and that's what pleased me so, to see a youngster like him so inderpendent, and stand up for good folks if they are poor." the reference here to an incident of nat's youthful experience needs explanation, as the fact illustrates an element of his character from childhood, and furnishes additional reason for the course in which his sympathies and better feelings ran thereafter. nat and charlie had received invitations to a social gathering, in connection with their companions, and the following conversation and decision occurred with reference to attending. "there is hannah mann, and her sister," said nat, "they never go. nobody thinks they are good enough to associate with them, because they are poor and unable to dress as well as some others." "i have observed it," answered charlie. "some of the girls are always making sport of them, and i doubt if any of the fellows ever waited upon them. yet they are as good as the best of them, for aught i know." "that is true," added nat; "they appear well, and are good scholars, and know twice as much as some of the girls who slight them. a splendid silk dress would not improve their characters at all, though it might their personal appearance. i will tell you what i will do, charlie; if you will wait upon one of them, i will upon the other. what do you say to it?" "i say amen to it," answered charlie. "they are as good as i am any day, and i ought not to endanger the characters of those who are better by going with them." "i am in earnest. i mean just what i say," continued nat. "so am i in earnest," said charlie, smiling. "did you think i am joking?" "i thought you looked rather unbelieving, as if you imagined _i_ was jesting." "no such thing; your proposition rather pleased me than otherwise." "well, then," said nat, "it is settled that we go to the party, and wait upon these girls, is it?" "certainly, if you say so." this decision was carried out. the two sisters were escorted to the party by nat and charlie, to the surprise of some of the better apparelled girls, who were secretly hoping to be the fortunate ones themselves. the incident created quite a sensation among the young people. at first, they did not quite understand it; but they were not long in discovering that nat intended to rebuke their ungenerous treatment of these girls. some were inclined to exhibit a little resentment; but they soon perceived that it would only make a bad matter worse. nat "laughed behind his ears" to see how the thing worked, and many a knowing glance was exchanged with charlie in the course of the evening. before sun-down, on the following day, the facts in the case were known by many of the villagers. the aristocratic ones sneered at the act, while others commended it as the fruit of a generous spirit. on the whole, it did much good in the community, because it caused many persons to see the unkindness and even cruelty of slighting the worthy, on account of their humble origin and circumstances. that decision and independence, which aided nat so much in his studies, enabled him to perform this act. an irresolute, dull, stupid, inefficient youth, would not have braved the current of feeling that had set against the girls. in this way it is, that the leading elements of character hitherto discussed assist a youth in all circumstances. he is more of a man in doing both little and great things. they dignify common politeness as really as they do achievements in art and science. they make the gentleman as truly as the scholar. robert burns was once walking in the streets of edinburgh, in company with an aristocratic associate, when the latter rebuked him for stopping to speak to a rough but worthy farmer who had come to market, and burns' reply evinced just the spirit which nat admired. "why, you fantastic gomeral," said he, "it was not the great coat, the scone bonnet, and the saunders boots hose that i spoke to, but _the man_ that was in them; and the man, sir, for true worth, would weigh down you and me, and ten more such, any day." chapter xxi. going to the theatre. nat had become an admirer of shakspeare's dramatic works, and hour after hour he read them with increasing interest. the more he studied them, the more he saw to admire. he had never seen one of them acted on the stage, and, in connection with the displays of eloquence to which he had been a witness of late, he became desirous of witnessing a theatrical performance. to heighten his interest, he saw it announced that the elder booth would perform in boston on a given night. he resolved to go. "marcus," said he, "did you know that booth is to perform at the theatre in boston on monday night?" "no," answered marcus, "is it so?" "it is so announced in the papers, and i think i shall go." "and walk?" inquired marcus. "yes; i can walk there as well as to walk to faneuil hall to hear webster and everett." "you won't get home till morning." "i can get home by one o'clock, and possibly before. i wish _you_ would go, and frank and charlie." "i will go if they will," answered marcus. "i should like to see a tragedy acted for once." "it is said that booth is one of the best readers and speakers of shakspeare," continued nat, "and i want to hear him. he is a great imitator, and personates the different characters exactly. i don't feel that i know how to read shakspeare very well; perhaps i can learn something about it from him." it was decided to consult frank and charlie, and secure their company if possible. both of them yielded to the proposition, though charlie suggested, "that many people would think they were hurrying to ruin if they should hear of their going." "perhaps they will," said nat, "and i have no doubt that many persons have been ruined by going; but they did not go for the same object that we go. i am not going just for the pleasure of witnessing the play, by any means; i want to see how the actors personate the different characters. to read shakspeare well, it must be read just as it is spoken." "no one will stop to consider your motive in going, nor mine," said charlie. "they think that the theatre is a bad place, and see not why it will ruin one and not another." "well, i shall do as i think it is best for myself," answered nat, in that spirit of independence and self-reliance for which he was known; "i shall go once to see, and if i think i can learn any thing to my advantage, i shall go again, and stop when i have obtained what i want." "that's cool enough," said frank; "you would make a good refrigerator in dog-days. perhaps you intend to be an actor?" "no, i don't fancy the business. i shall be satisfied to _see_ one." some of their friends propounded objections to this project, but they were overruled by a full and clear statement of their object in going. then, too, the general good character which they bore, and their usual prudence in avoiding bad company, combined to remove more easily all the objections propounded. the evening of the entertainment was pleasant, and it was indeed a new step for them, as we see them standing at the entrance of the theatre. to how many it has been the turning point of life! "entrance to the pit," they read in capitals, with a hand pointing thither,--and to how many it has been emphatically _the entrance to the pit_, in a most appalling sense! it was a hazardous experiment for nat and his companions,--even more dangerous than the attempt to swim four rods under water. but they entered with the multitude who were pouring in, drawn thither by the popularity of the actor announced. the play commenced, and scene after scene passed before the eyes of nat, every word of which he had read over and over again; but now, for the first time, he beheld the characters in living persons. to him it was putting the breath of life into what was before beautiful but dead. the play that was classic and charming to read, was now human-like and wonderful to act. there was more force, meaning, and power in the text than he had ever attached to it,--much as he had loved to read it. closely he observed the distinguished actor, noticing the utterance of every word, and the significance of every gesture and motion, with sharp discrimination, until he almost felt that he could do the like himself. it was a memorable evening to nat, and language could scarcely express all he thought and felt. "nat, you will like shakspeare better than ever now, will you not?" said charlie. "more than that," replied nat. "it seems to me i never understood that play before. i was reading it the other day, but it is so much more grand when spoken and acted, that i should hardly know it." "did you observe the bar when you was coming out?" inquired frank, addressing himself to marcus. "yes, and i thought by the appearance they did quite a business in the line of drinking." "they always have bars in theatres," said nat, "and that is one reason why they lead persons to ruin. no doubt many are drawn there as much by the bar as they are by the play." "what is the reason they can't have a theatre without having such vices connected with it?" inquired charlie. "because they don't try," answered nat. "i suppose that theatres are generally managed by men who are in favor of drinking, and they would not shut out such things of course. i think that men of principle might establish one that would be unobjectionable; for they would allow no such evils to be harbored there." "perhaps you can get parson fiske and deacon white to get one up," said marcus, laughing at nat's suggestion, "and then you won't have to walk ten miles and back to witness a play." "ten miles or not," said nat, "i have been well paid to-night. there is a great deal to be learned in witnessing one such performance. i can read shakspeare now with more interest and profit than ever. i want to hear 'the tempest' played now, and 'king lear,' and 'hamlet,' and 'romeo and juliet,' and i mean to the first chance i have." "ah, nat," said charlie, "i see that it is a foregone conclusion with you,--you are half ruined now--the more you have, the more you want. we shall be obliged to look after him more closely," addressing the last sentence to marcus and frank. "yes," added marcus, "by the time he has heard all these plays, he will be patronizing that bar, and we shall see him reported in the police court in the morning." by the time the clock struck one, nat was at home. his visit to the theatre was not kept secret. it was soon quite generally known that he had been to the theatre, and many remarks were elicited by the fact. good people did not respect theatres more at that time than they do now, so that they regarded this step of nat as taken in the wrong direction. "i am afraid that all the hopes nat has raised among his friends will be dashed now," said one. "when a youth gets to going to the theatre, there is little hope of his doing well. i hardly thought this of him." "i thought nat always wanted things respectable," said a gentleman. "does he consider the theatre a respectable place?" "what has he done with his books?" inquired another. "i supposed that he thought of little but an education,--does he find the theatre a good school in which to be educated?" "it is a good school in which to be educated for evil," replied the individual to whom the remark was addressed. one person, however, was heard to say, "it will not hurt nat at all. you may be sure that he did not go there just for the pleasure of the thing. i have no doubt that he went for the same reason that he went to hear webster, everett, and others speak,--to learn something. he was drawn thither, not by his love of amusement, but by his desire to learn. nat learns more by seeing, than half the scholars do by hard study." "what in the world could he learn there that is good?" inquired a person who heard the last remark. "he could learn how to speak better, if nothing else," was the reply. "and _that_ he said, in the beginning, was his object in going. when he has acquired what he thinks he can get there to aid him, you will see that he will stop." "and by that time he may be ruined," was the reply. nat carried out his resolution, and went to the theatre a number of times, to hear certain plays, walking to boston and back each time. one result of his visits was to increase his interest in shakspeare, so that he began to practise reading his plays aloud, and personating the different characters. he made decided progress in this art, and subsequently gave public readings of shakspeare, by which he gained much applause. the result satisfied nearly every one, that he went to the theatre simply to observe the manner of speaking, as he went to hear distinguished orators. that the object for which a youth visits the theatre will decide, in a great measure, its influence upon him, no one can deny, and it is so with all forms of amusement. if he is drawn thither by the fascination of the play alone, yielding himself up to the witchery of it, without any regard to the intellectual or moral character of the scenic representations, he is in a dangerous path. a large majority of those who visit the theatre with this motive, as mere thoughtless pleasure-lovers, are probably ruined. the youthful reader should not infer that it is altogether safe to visit the theatre, even for the reason that nat did. it was a hazardous step for him on account of the attractions that are thrown around it to dazzle and bewilder. a high aim, in the path of knowledge, and great energy and decision of character to execute his purpose, were his protection. perhaps not ten of a hundred youth could do the same thing, and be saved from ruin. augustine tells of a christian young man who was prevailed upon to visit the amphitheatre to witness the gladiatorial games. he was unfriendly to such sports, and consented to go solely to please his companion. for his own protection he resolved to close his eyes that he might not be influenced by the scene. for some time he kept his eyes closed; but, at length, a tremendous shout caused him to open them, and look out upon the arena. in an instant, he was fired with the spirit of those around him,--he cheered the gladiators on,--he shouted with all his might,--and ever after he became a constant patron of the games. so it is often with the youth, in our day, who goes to the theatre _for once_ only. he merely wants to see what the theatre is, resolved, perhaps, that he will never be known as a theatre-goer. but he cannot withstand the fascination. once going has created an irresistible desire to go again, and again, and again, until his character is ruined. where one derives the impulse and knowledge that nat did, a hundred are destroyed. it is not wise, then, to try the experiment. it is acquiring knowledge at too great a risk. who would cross a rough and stormy river where he knew that only one in a hundred had reached the other shore? theatres have always been schools of vice. there never was a time when their influence was good. at the time our country was struggling for independence, congress passed an act recommending the different states to suppress theatrical performances by law; and soon after they passed another act declaring that no person who visited the theatre should hold an office under the government. it seems impossible to make them otherwise than disreputable. attempts have been made to establish _respectable_ theatres, but they have always failed. such an attempt was made to reform one of the royal theatres of london, some years ago, and the committee to whom the subject was submitted reported that the institution could not be supported after such reform. the experiment was actually tried with the late tremont theatre, in boston. intoxicating drinks were not allowed to be sold, and no females were admitted unaccompanied by gentlemen, as the better class of people would not attend if profligate persons were admitted. but the theatre could not be supported on these principles, and the plan was abandoned. a report was published, in which it was stated, that if the rent of the building was free, it could not be sustained by the reform system. intemperance and licentiousness appear to be indispensable to support the theatre. there is good reason, then, for the legend recorded by tertullian, running as follows: a christian woman went to the theatre, and came home possessed of a demon. her confessor, seeking to cast out the evil one, demanded of him how he dared to take possession of a believer, who, by holy baptism, had been redeemed out of his kingdom. "i have done nothing but what is proper," said the devil, "for i found her on my own territory." he might have made a captive of nat for the same reason. some pronounce this hostility to theatres a prejudice of christian ministers and their sympathizers, but this is not true. the popular actor, macready, who won a world-wide fame in the business, by his long connection with the stage, expressed a similar opinion of theatres after he left the play. he settled in sherbourne, england, where he had a pleasant, promising family, and one rule to which his children were subjected was, "none of my children shall ever, with my consent or on any pretence, enter a theatre, or have any visiting connection with actors and actresses." the honored judge bulstrode at one time expressed the feelings of the english bench, when, in his charge to the grand jury of middlesex, he said, "one play-house ruins more souls than fifty churches are able to save." sir matthew hale relates that when he was at oxford, he was making rapid advancement in his studies when the stage-players came thither, and he went to the performance, and became so corrupted that he almost entirely forsook his studies. he was saved only by resolving never to attend another play. even the infidel, rousseau, condemned theatres. he said, "i observe that the situation of an actor is a state of licentiousness and bad morals; that the men are abandoned to disorder; that the women lead a scandalous life; that the one and the other, at once avaricious and profane, ever overwhelmed with debt, and ever prodigal, are as unrestrained in their dissipation as they are void of scruple in respect to the means of providing for it. in all countries their profession is dishonorable; those who exercise it are everywhere contemned." chapter xxii. the dramatic society. "let us form a dramatic society," said nat to his companions, one day. "perhaps we can put an extra touch on 'henry the eighth' or 'the merchant of venice.'" "i should laugh," answered charlie, "to see us undertaking the drama. i guess it would be straining at a _gnat_ (nat) and swallowing a camel," attempting to perpetrate a pun, over which he, at whose expense it was said, laughed as heartily as any of them. "let charlie laugh as much as he pleases," said marcus, "i think we could do well in such an enterprise. we might not eclipse booth, but we could get along without a bar and some other things as bad." "you will find," continued charlie, "that a play of shakspeare will not go off very well without scenery." "of course it would not," replied nat. "but we must have scenery of some kind." "where will you get it?" "make it," quickly responded nat. "it will be an easy matter to paint such representations as will answer our purpose." "so you will turn actor and artist all at once," said charlie. "what will you try to do next, nat?" "as to that," answered nat, "i will let you know when i have done this. 'one thing at a time,' was dr. franklin's rule. but say, now, will you all enlist for a dramatic society?" frank and marcus replied promptly in the affirmative, and charlie brought up the rear, by saying, "well, i suppose i must be on the popular side, and go with the majority--yea." here was one of the fruits of going to the theatre. what had been witnessed there created the desire to undertake the same, although nat's object was to improve himself in rhetorical exercises. but the enterprise grew out of his visits to the theatre, and was well suited to excite critical remarks. it is probable that most actors and actresses are made so by first witnessing theatrical performances. we are acquainted with a person, whose nephew is an actor, with no purer character than actors usually possess. he was a lover of books in his youth; and his desire to become an actor was begotten in the theatre. he was so delighted with what he saw on the stage, that he finally resolved to make stage-playing his profession; and he now belongs to that unhonored fraternity. it is not strange that some people were surprised that nat should originate such a society. "what shall we play?" inquired frank, on the evening the dramatic society was organized. "'macbeth,'" replied nat, who had witnessed this at the theatre. "it may be more difficult than some others, but it is one of the best plays." "_you_ must get up the scenery," said frank. "with the assistance of the rest of you," replied nat. "it will be no great affair to paint what we want for this play." "how long will it take?" inquired marcus. "we can do it in two evenings," answered nat. "we ought not to be longer than that, if we intend to commit the play so as to act it next week." "no one but members of the society will be admitted, i suppose," said charlie, "until we have thoroughly practised the play." "no; we must speak it over and over, so that it will be perfectly familiar, before we attempt it before visitors." on that evening the society was organized by the choice of officers and the adoption of a constitution and by-laws. nat had the chief agency in preparing the constitution and by-laws, as he did in the debating society, and he found that a knowledge of grammar was indeed a decided assistance. he was often reminded of the remarks of his teacher, when he (nat) was opposed to studying the science. [illustration] it was decided to act "macbeth," and the parts were assigned, and the time of the first meeting appointed. many of the young people joined the society, and were much interested in its object. such an organization was suited to awaken more enthusiasm among the young, than a debating society. it was a pleasant evening on which the play was to be performed for the first time, and every member of the society was there, curious to behold the result. it went off with considerable eclat, although there were some blunders and mistakes, as might have been expected. even charlie, who was incredulous about their success, confessed that it passed off very well. the scenery, which had been prepared by the boys, under nat's direction, was quite decent, and it showed that nat's early practice of drawing was very useful to him now. it would not bear very close inspection, it is true; but a short distance off, and by lamp-light, it looked very well. thus evening after evening they met, with closed doors, to practise the piece. at length, concluding that they could entertain an audience, they decided upon a public performance. the plan was adopted with much spirit, and all were resolved to do their best. the entertainment was given at the appointed time, and a good audience assembled. each one performed his part well, but nat, as usual, was thought to excel. "i had no idea the boys would do so well," said mr. graves. "i am surprised that nat should perform so handsomely; he would make a complete actor with practice." "marcus did very well indeed," replied the gentleman to whom he addressed the remark; "in fact, all of them exceeded my expectations. but nat plays as if he were perfectly at home." "i don't know about the influence of such things," added mr. graves. "i have my fears that such a society will foster a love for theatrical exhibitions of a far more exceptionable character." "i feel exactly so, too. i think it may lead some of the young people here to attend the theatre, when otherwise they would not. there is no doubt that nat originated this society in consequence of attending the theatre himself. if nothing worse than such an exhibition as we have had to-night would grow out of it, it would be well enough. i would say amen to it. but i fear that it will lead to something else." "there is the danger," replied mr. g. "young people are easily led astray by such appeals to their senses, and the more easily because they do not see any evil in them. it is just as it is with using intoxicating drinks. a young man sees no wrong in sipping a little wine at a party; but that first wine-glass may create an appetite that will make him a drunkard. so the sight of such a theatrical performance as this may lead some of the boys to want to witness a play on a grander scale at the theatre." the exhibition of the dramatic society occasioned many remarks like the above in the village. some people had expressed their opinions unfavorably before the exhibition, but this settled the matter in their view. the very skill which the boys displayed in the performance served to awaken still greater fears; for the greater the witchery of the play, the more danger to the young. "thar," said old mrs. lane, who entertained us on a former occasion, "i knowd that it would turn out so. it is jist what i telled ye, when i heard nat went to boston nights arter great speakers. you'll have to b'lieve me byme bye whether or no." "ah!" said the lady addressed, "it would all have been well enough if nat had confined his attention to that. perhaps it will be well enough now, though i fear that theatrical performances will have a bad influence." "pesky bad," replied the old lady. "when boys are runnin arter such things allers, there is no tellin whar they'll stop. and thar's the danger of too much edication. if nat had stuck to his bobbin, and never knowd any thing else, i guess it would turn out better for him in the eend. i don't b'lieve in so many new-fangled notions as they have in these ere times." "i have no fears for nat," responded the lady; "for i think he participates in these things for self-improvement; but others may do it for the sake of the amusement. i am afraid that others may imbibe a taste for the drama, and become theatre-goers in consequence." "you seem to think that nat can't be spiled; but i take it that his good motives can't make the theatre good. it is a corruptious place, anyhow, and if it don't spile him, it won't be because it ain't bad enough." "time will show us the result," continued the lady. "but they say nat exhibited marked talents for the drama at the exhibition. several persons have told me that they were surprised at his ability, but i am not; for he always excels in whatever he undertakes. he enters into every thing with all his heart, and does it with all his might." "lor, yes, we all know that," replied mrs. lane; "and so i reckon that if the theatre should spile him, he would be wicked with all his might. he'd make a rale prodergal son, only more so." on the point of nat's excellence in performing the drama, the following conversation took place after this public entertainment. "you ought to be an actor," said charlie to him. "you are exactly cut out for it, and every one who heard you the other night would tell you so." "so far as that is concerned," answered nat, "the profession of an actor is the last one i should choose." "why?" inquired charlie. "i thought you was in love with the business." "by no means. i have told you over and over my object in going to the theatre, and in forming the dramatic society, but you always appear to doubt me. i would not be an actor even if i could be as famous as booth." "you would not? and yet many seem to think you have a taste in that direction, and _i_ have thought so too. but tell me why not." "because i have little respect for the business as a profession. it affords a brief pleasure to an audience for a short time, and that is all it amounts to. i think it is a good discipline for us in the dramatic society, and i know that i learned some valuable lessons at the theatre, and i am still of the opinion that a theatre might be so conducted as to prove a source of innocent amusement, and not a curse." "you couldn't make many of the people in this community believe that," said charlie. "they think it is a gone case with you since you have favored theatricals." "i know that," replied nat, "and they would not believe me if i should tell them what i have you, so that i see no way to convince them but to wait, and time will do it. i would carry bobbin all my life before i would be an actor." "well, what would you be, nat, if you could have your own way?" inquired charlie. "i would be an orator and statesman like edward everett," quickly answered nat. "i always had great respect for such men. it is easy to respect them; but no man can cherish high respect for an actor." here the conversation was interrupted. chapter xxiii. the surprise. "heard the news, nat?" inquired frank one morning. "no, what is it?" "the men are going to annihilate our dramatic society in the lyceum next week. they are going to debate a question about dramatic exhibitions, i understand." "oh, i had heard of that," replied nat. "we seem to be of much consequence just now. i hardly thought we were able to create such a commotion." "it seems we are," said frank, "so you may expect to be finished within a week. better write your will, and prepare to be made mince-meat of." "the rest of you will come in for a share," said nat, "so i shall have a plenty of company, and 'misery loves company' they say." "but you are the chief sinner," said frank, smilingly. "you started the thing, and carried off all the glory of performing, so you will have to shoulder the consequences." "not a very heavy burden, i am thinking," responded nat. "i see no need of making such a fuss about a trifle, just as if we boys would spoil the whole town! if shakspeare were alive he might write another comedy on it like 'much ado about nothing.' if the town is so dependent on us, i think they ought to make us the fathers of it." the truth was, that the dramatic society had created quite a commotion, as we saw, in part, in a previous chapter. the good people of the village were afraid of the consequences, as well they might be, and the matter was discussed in many family circles, in social gatherings, in the street and other places, until so much interest was awakened on both sides, that the subject was introduced into the town lyceum. in the hall that was dedicated when nat was twelve years old, and where he heard the address upon the life and character of count rumford by which he was so much impressed, there was a lyceum sustained by the citizens. it was here that the subject of dramatical exhibitions was introduced by a proposition to discuss the following question, "are dramatical exhibitions beneficial to society?" no question had elicited so much interest as this, pro and con, so that a large attendance was confidently expected. "are you going to hear the dramatic society used up to-night?" inquired marcus of nat, on the day of the proposed discussion. "certainly; i am curious to see how the thing will be done. i wouldn't fail of it for any thing. let us all go, and save the pieces if we can." "i expect they are preparing for a warm debate, from all i hear; and there will be a crowd there," said marcus. nat and his boon companions were at the hall in good season, to secure seats near the debaters. the hall was filled by the time the hour for opening had arrived, and a spicy time was expected. the president called the meeting to order, the records of the last meeting were read, and other preliminaries disposed of, when the question for discussion was announced. mr. bryant, an intelligent and influential man, opened the debate, and remarked, in substance, as follows: "it is enough to know the origin of theatrical exhibitions. according to the best authorities, when theatrical exhibitions were first given, an old cart was the stage, the chief actor was a coarse mimic or clown, the music was discoursed by itinerant singers, and the poem itself was a motley combination of serious and ludicrous ideas. these performances were first given in honor of the god of wine, bacchus, which accounts, i suppose, for the fact that a theatre cannot live without a bar. on certain festive days, they acted these plays often in the most indecent manner, with drunkenness and debauchery abounding--scenes which are re-enacted in theatres at the present day. now, they have a more splendid stage, within a costly, spacious building, but there is little or no improvement in the purity of the play and its incidentals. it is just as demoralizing now as it was then, and has been so in every age of the world. for that reason, such exhibitions have been suppressed, at times, in some countries, and this was the case, at one period, in our own land." mr. bryant was followed by a gentleman on the other side of the subject, but, for a reason that will be obvious to the reader before he gets through the chapter, we shall not report the arguments in the negative. another speaker said "that the characters of the actors were loose, exceedingly so; and if the audience could learn something of human nature there, it was only the debasing side of it. it is generally true that actors lend their influence to intemperance, licentiousness, and irreligion. they do not patronize sabbath schools, churches, and other christian institutions, but they patronize bars, gambling saloons, and houses of ill-fame. many of those men even who go to the theatre, would be quite unwilling to introduce actors to the society of their sons and daughters. they are so well convinced that this class are corrupt and unprincipled, that they would exclude them from the fireside." another speaker, in the affirmative, said: "as a general thing, dramatic literature is immoral and debasing. i admit that the tragedies of shakspeare are a pattern of classic elegance and dignity, yet there are passages even in his works that never should be read or spoken in the hearing of others. in them vice is often stripped of its deformity, while virtue is made to appear to disadvantage. the youth who witnesses a play where vice is made to appear as an indiscretion rather than a sin, is likely to think less of virtue, and more favorably of vice. an english scholar has taken pains to read all the plays of the stage of england, and mark all the profane or indecent passages unfit to be read or spoken in a public assembly, and he has found _seven thousand_. during the reign of king james the first, an act was passed 'for the preventing and avoiding the great abuse of the holy name of god in stage-plays.' addison condemned the theatre 'for ridiculing religion, and for representing the rake and debauchee as the true gentleman.' it is vain to attempt to defend the moral character of dramatic writings." the first speaker rising to address the audience the second time, said, "that the class of persons who generally patronize the theatre are the most frivolous and useless part of the community. moral and religious citizens do not lend it their influence, but those who are indifferent or hostile to christian institutions. fathers and mothers who are careless of the example they set their children; vain followers of the fashions, who think more of a golden trinket than they do of virtue; idle and dissipated hangers-on of society; fast young men in the road to ruin; vicious young women; dissolute men, whose vices would horrify every sensitive heart were they uncovered; with a sprinkling, perhaps, of better people who forget, for the time being, what company they are in;--these constitute the principal patrons of the stage. now, then, this single fact is enough to brand the character of theatres as corrupt and pernicious. there is not a person in this hall who would think well of the principles of a man of whom you might be told, 'he is an habitual theatre-goer.' you would infer that his principles were loose, and, in nine cases out of ten, your inference would be correct." thus the usual arguments against theatres were quite thoroughly pressed, and were met by the usual ones on the opposite side, though it was evident that the negative realized they had a difficult subject to defend. nat listened to the discussion with constantly increasing interest and excitement. his face became flushed, and a nervous tremor passed over his body. at length his frame fairly shook with the excitement under which he was laboring, and frank, who was sitting by his side, observed it. "what is the matter with you, nat?" whispered frank. nat made no reply, but continued to catch every word that was uttered. he was evidently dissatisfied with the defence of the theatre by the negative side, and thought that a better plea for it might be made. "i say, nat, what's the matter?" whispered frank again; "got the fever and ague?" nat kept his eyes fixed, and did not even bestow a nod of the head upon frank's inquiry, and the moment the question was given to the audience for general debate,--according to the custom,--nat started to his feet. "mr. president," said he, and every head was up, and every eye fixed, at the sound of his voice. all were astonished that he should presume to speak on that floor; they would scarcely have been more surprised if a strange debater had dropped down through the plastering into the audience. but nat went on to say, in substance, "i have listened to the discussion of the question before us with mingled feelings of interest and surprise. much that has been said i can most cordially respond to, while some of the arguments upon the affirmative do not appear to me legitimate or just. every subject should be treated fairly, and especially one like this, which is so apt to encounter superstition and prejudice. it is no objection, in my mind, to an enterprise, that it had a lowly origin, any more than it is for an honest and noble man to have descended from ignoble parents. if a man will work his way up from poverty and obscurity by his indomitable energy and perseverance, until he carves his name with scholars and statesmen on the temple of fame, it is the climax of meanness in any one to twit him of his humble origin, and hold him up to ridicule because his parents are poor and unhonored. and so when the gentleman tells us that the theatre was born in a cart, and was originated by those who had neither learning nor character, it is no argument against it, in my view, when i see the rank to which it has attained. the cart has given place to the marble edifice, decorated in the highest style of art, and the place of the untutored street-singer and clown is filled by the queen of song and the prince of orators. the play is no longer devoid of literary character, but is invested with a classic elegance which only the gifted intellect of shakspeare could impart. what is it that has elevated dramatic entertainments from the cart to the costly temple? human meanness could not do it, nor human policy alone. it has been accomplished by the intrinsic value to be found in such dramas as those composed by shakspeare, and that justly entitles them to something nobler than a contemptuous sneer. "i do not presume to defend theatres as they are, with all the vices that attach to the present manner of conducting them. i admit that the actors are no better than they should be, and that intemperance and licentiousness may be countenanced by them. but when it is intimated that all this is necessarily and inevitably so, i repel the insinuation. do not gentlemen know that the names of certain actors are associated with all that is pure in character and noble in purpose? were garrick and siddons men of corrupt lives, unworthy to hold an honorable place in society? who can point to the first line or word ever penned to stigmatize these men? so long as we can refer to them as pure and upright actors, it will be true that corruption does not necessarily belong to the stage. "i would have intoxicating drinks forever excluded from the theatre, and every possible measure adopted to prevent moral corruption of every kind. i would take the play out of the hands of the base and profligate, and give it to those who are virtuous and true. i would expunge every profane and vulgar word and thought from both tragedy and comedy, leaving nothing that is unfit to be said in the ear of the purest men and women, and then i see not why the stage might not become a medium of innocent pleasure, and intellectual culture. it is bad now, because it is in the hands of bad men. when the virtuous control it, we may expect that its character will be changed. "when it is said, as it has been on this floor to-night, that nothing good can be learned at a theatre, even as it is at the present time, i must beg to dissent from the opinion. i can testify from actual experience, that much can be learned there of human nature, and much that belongs to the art of speaking. i do not say that many people go to the theatre to learn these things, but i do say they might learn them if they would. even admitting that the baser side of human nature alone is seen on the stage, a man may learn something from that if he will. as in the low groggery, a pure man may behold to what awful degradation the use of strong drink may reduce its victims, and derive therefrom an argument for temperance that is irresistible, so the exhibitions of the stage may show a pure-minded man how revolting he may become by yielding to the power of his lowest appetites and passions. if he visits such a drinking place to minister to a depraved appetite, and carouse with others, he will go to ruin himself; but if he goes there to acquire the knowledge to which i have referred, he will make a valuable accession to his information and principles. in like manner, if a person goes to the theatre simply to be amused, or for a more dishonorable purpose, he may be corrupted by what he sees and hears; but if he goes for the higher object i have named, he will probably escape contamination." in this strain nat proceeded for twenty minutes or more, filling the audience with surprise and wonder. he waxed warmer and warmer, as he advanced, and spoke in a flow of eloquence and choice selection of words, that was unusual for one of his age. no one in the hall had ever listened to such a display of oratorical ability on the part of a youth like him. the most strenuous opposers of the theatre almost overlooked the weakness of nat's argument in their admiration of his eloquence. it was so unexpected that the surprise alone was almost sufficient to bewilder, them. his mother was in the audience, and her heart leaped into her mouth, as she was first startled by the sound of his voice. she was almost indignant that her boy should attempt to speak in that hall, before such an audience. she expected every moment that he would break down, to his own disgrace and others. but he spoke on, never hesitating for choice words, and put an earnestness and power into every sentence that amazed her. she could scarcely believe what she saw and heard. she was well satisfied with her son when he concluded his speech. "nat will make a second daniel webster," said the agent of the factory to a friend, as he was going out of the hall. "i am surprised at his eloquence," replied the friend addressed. "i never heard the like in my life by one of his age." "we must get him to join the lyceum at once, and bring him out before the public," said the agent. "that would be an excellent idea, i think; and there will be a great desire to hear him again. i am sure i would like to hear him discuss another question." "nat has always been a close student," continued the agent. "when he has not been learning from books, he has studied men and things; and i have expected he would make his mark." this speech set everybody in the village to talking. nothing had occurred for a long time that caused so much remark and excitement. the surprise and interest it created remind us of patrick henry's first plea, of which nat himself spoke to charlie, as we saw in a former chapter. the description which mr. wirt gives of it is so applicable to the case before us, that we shall quote it. "his attitude, by degrees, became erect and lofty. the spirit of his genius awakened all his features. his countenance shone with a nobleness and grandeur which it had never before exhibited. there was a lightning in his eye that seemed to rive the spectator. his action became graceful, bold and commanding; and in the tones of his voice, but more especially in his emphasis, there was a peculiar charm, a magic, of which any one who ever heard him will speak as soon as he is named.... "in less than twenty minutes they might be seen in every part of the house, on every bench, in every window, stooping forward from their stands, in death-like silence, their features fixed in amazement; all their senses listening and riveted upon the speaker, as if to catch the last strain of some heavenly visitant.... "the jury seem to have been so completely bewildered, that they lost sight, not only of the act of seventeen hundred and forty-eight, but that of seventeen hundred and fifty-eight also; for thoughtless even of the admitted right of the plaintiff, they had scarcely left the bar, when they returned with a verdict of _one penny damages_. a motion was made for a new trial; but the court, too, had now lost the equipoise of their judgment, and overruled the motion by a unanimous vote. the verdict and judgment overruling the motion, were followed by redoubled acclamations, from within and without the house. "the people, who had with difficulty kept their hands off their champion, from the moment of closing his harangue, no sooner saw the fate of the cause finally sealed, than they seized him at the bar, and in spite of his own exertions, and the continual cry of order from the sheriff and the court, they bore him out of the court house, and raising him on their shoulders, carried him about the yard in triumph." nat was not carried out of the hall like patrick, but if his companions and some others, could have acted their own pleasure, a similar scene would have taken place. the reader can scarcely fail to trace some connection between his early familiarity with the life of patrick henry, and this brilliant chapter of his experience before the large audience in the town hall. it looks very much as if the reading of that book made a permanent impression upon his mind. it shows, also, that he had not studied the manners of public speakers in vain. "you couldn't do that again if you should try," said charlie to nat, at the close of the meeting. "you was inspired to-night." "inspired with respect for our dramatic society," answered nat, with a laugh. "i thought i would not let it die without one struggle." "well," said frank, "we can afford to let it give up the ghost now, after such a glorious funeral oration over it. but i thought you was having the shaking palsy before you got up to speak." "it was only the debaters shaking a little interest into me," replied nat. "they made the spirit move, that's all." the reader must not infer that opposers of the theatre changed their views in consequence of nat's argument. for no argument can be framed that will defend the stage from the charge of being a great public evil. in another place we have said enough to show that the ground of his defence was fallacious, though he uttered sentiments which he then sincerely believed. it is certainly no strong defence of the drama that it has risen from the cart to the marble palace, for sin, in some of its grossest forms, thus ascends from a revolting to a gilded degradation. nor does it avail much to point to here and there a virtuous garrick among stage-players, when we know that there are a hundred worthless, corrupt actors to one garrick. and in respect to the possibility of making the theatre respectable, we have seen that it has been repeatedly tried, and failed. but the audience fell in love with nat's eloquence. they were charmed by its gracefulness and power. it was that which won their hearts. the result was, that nearly every one became satisfied with his good intention in going to the theatre, and originating dramatic entertainments in the village. it was apparent that it was done for his own personal improvement. he was invited to connect himself with the citizens' lyceum, where he surprised and pleased his friends many times thereafter, by the ability and eloquence with which he discussed different subjects. the dramatic society was relinquished, and the general interest manifested in it was transferred to the town lyceum. a wider and more important field of effort was now open to test nat's endowments and acquisitions; and he rapidly advanced by making the most of every opportunity. chapter xxiv. another step. "what are you doing here, nat?" inquired charlie, one day, as he entered the carpenter's shop where he was at work with his father. "i am going to run a partition through here to make a new study for me. father has given me liberty to use this part of the shop." "it will make a cozy room," said charlie, "though it is a little lower down in the world than your other study. it seems you are really going to be a student and nothing else. you must look out that mother lane's prophecies are not fulfilled," the last sentence being intended for a sly appeal to nat's good nature. "i expect to do a good deal of work yet," replied nat; "at least, i shall be obliged to work until i find the way to wealth as plain as the way to market. i shall study part of the time, and work the remainder." at this time nat had resolved to devote a larger portion of his time to study, and labor only enough to pay his own way along, and provide himself with books--a plan in which his parents cheerfully acquiesced. he went on and finished off his study in his father's shop, and furnished it as well as his limited means would allow. a table, two or three chairs, his scanty library, and a couch on which he slept nights, constituted the furniture of this new apartment. it was more convenient for him to lodge in his study, since he could sit up as late as he pleased, and rise as early, without disturbing any one. now he ceased to labor constantly in the machine shop, and worked at his trade only a few months at a time, enough to support himself while pursuing his studies. occasionally he labored with his father, and played the part of a carpenter. charlie was anxious to see the new study when it was completed, and he availed himself of the earliest opportunity to look in upon nat. "here you are, in a brown study. this is capital--i had no idea you would have so good a room as this, nat. did you do all this yourself?" "certainly; have you any criticisms to offer? you look as if you hardly credited my word." "i guess your father was round about home," said charlie, pleasantly. "but he did not drive a nail, nor plane a board." "a carpenter, then, with all the rest," added charlie. "i suppose now the library will be read up pretty fast." "not so fast as you imagine. i could never begin with you in reading books. you have read two to my one, i should think." "not so bad as that; and it is a poor compliment if it were true, for too much reading is as bad as too little, i expect. the difference between you and me is very plain; _you_ read and study to have something to use; and _i_ read for the pleasure of it." "it is true," answered nat, "that i try to make use of what i learn, though i enjoy the mere pleasure of study as well as you do. but when a person learns something, and then makes use of it, he will never forget it. i might study surveying a whole year in school, but if i did not go out into the fields to apply what i learned to actual practice, it would do me little good; and it is so with every thing." "there is a good deal of truth in that," replied charlie; "but there is a difference in the ability of persons to use what they acquire. some persons have a very poor way of showing what they know." it was true that nat did not gorge his mind by excessive reading. some readers can scarcely wait to finish one book, because they hanker so for another. they read for the mere pleasure of reading, without the least idea of laying up a store of information for future use. their minds are crammed all the time with a quantity of undigested knowledge. they read as some people bolt down a meal of victuals, and the consequences are similar. the mind is not nourished and strengthened thereby, but is rather impaired finally by mental indigestion. coleridge divides readers into four classes. "the first," he says, "may be compared to an hour-glass, their reading being as the sand; it runs in, and it runs out, and leaves not a vestige behind. a second class resembles a sponge, which imbibes every thing, and returns it nearly in the same state, only a little dirtier. a third class is like a jelly-bag, which allows all that is pure to pass away, and retains only the refuse and the dregs. the fourth class may be compared to the slave in the diamond mines of golconda, who, casting aside all that is worthless, preserves only the pure gem." nat was a reader of the latter class, and, at the same time, saved every gem for _use_. he had no disposition to _hoard_ knowledge, as the miser does his gold. he thought it was designed for use as really as a coat or hat--an idea that does not seem to have entered the heads of many youth, of whom it may be said, "their apparel is the best part of them." it is as necessary to have a fixed, noble purpose behind a disposition to _read_, as behind physical strength in secular pursuits, otherwise what is read will be of comparatively little service. the purpose with which a thing is done determines the degree of success therein, and the principle applies equally to reading. nat's purpose converted every particle of knowledge acquired into a means of influence and usefulness, so that he made a given amount of knowledge go further towards making a mark on society than charlie. the latter usually mastered what he read, and he made good use of it, as the end will show, only it was done in another channel, and in a more private way. he could not have made so deep and lasting an impression on those around him as nat, with even more knowledge, if he had tried. "what work are you reading now, nat?" "burke's essay on the sublime and beautiful," replied nat, taking up the volume from the table. "it is a splendid work." "i never read it," added charlie; "the title is so magnificent that i never thought i should like it. _my_ head is not long enough for such a work." "you don't know what it is. it is one of the most practical and useful volumes there is. it is not so taking a book for rapid reading as many others; but it is a work to be _studied_." "what is the particular use of it?" "its use to me is, the information it gives concerning those objects and illustrations that have the most power over the hearts of men in speaking and writing. i should think it must aid a person very much in the ability to illustrate and enforce a subject." "i suppose you are right," said charlie, "but it is all gammon to me. that is what helped you to illustrate and enforce the claims of our dramatic society in the lyceum, was it?" meaning no more than a joke by this suggestion. "no; i never read it much until recently," answered nat. "well, i thought you had some of the _sublime_ in that speech, if you had none of the _beautiful_," continued charlie in a vein of humor. "i concluded that burke might have helped you some, as i thought it hardly probable that nat did it alone." "what do you think you should do, charlie, if you had not me to make fun of?" asked nat. "you would have the dyspepsia right away. it is altogether probable that i was made to promote your digestion." "very likely," replied charlie, assuming a grave appearance. "i believe they administer rather powerful medicine for that disease. but they say you go to college now," and here his seeming gravity was displaced by a smile. "when are you going to graduate?" "about the time you know enough to enter," answered nat, paying back in the same coin. charlie was much amused at this turn, for his allusion to college was in a jesting way, occasioned by the fact that nat had obtained permission to use the library of cambridge college, to which place he frequently walked to consult volumes. it was a great advantage to him, to enjoy the opportunity to examine works which he could not possess on account of his poverty, and such works, too, as the library of his native village did not contain. it was quite a walk to harvard college, but necessity made it comparatively short and pleasant to nat. many times he performed the trip to settle some point of inquiry, or compass some difficult subject; and the journeys proved to him what similar walks did to count rumford many years before. he, also, was accustomed to visit the athenæum in boston, at this period of his life, where he spent some pleasant and profitable hours. to many youth it would seem too great an outlay of labor to make for an education; but to nat it was a cheap way of obtaining knowledge. he was willing to make any sacrifice, and to perform almost any labor, if he could add thereby to his mental stature. often a volume would completely absorb his thoughts upon a given subject, and he could not let it alone until he had thoroughly canvassed it; and this was one of the elements of his success--a power of application, in which all the thoughts were concentrated on the subject before him. it was thus with hugh miller from his boyhood. as an instance, his biographer relates, that, on one occasion he read a work on military tactics--a subject that one would think could scarcely command his attention--and he was so thoroughly controlled by the desire to understand the military movements described, that he repaired to the sea-shore, where he got up an imposing battle between the english and french, with a peck or half bushel of shells, one color representing one nation, and another color the other nation. time after time he fought an imaginary battle with shells, until he definitely understood the military tactics described in the volume which he read. sometimes the perusal of a volume starts off the reader upon a career that is really different from that which the book describes. by its hints or suggestions, it awakens the powers to some incidental subject, upon which they seize with an earnestness and devotion that cannot fail of success. thus, when william carey read the "voyages of captain cook," he first conceived the idea of going upon a mission to the heathen world. there was information imparted in that volume, which, in connection with the marvellous adventures and success of the great voyager, fired his soul with the determination to carry the gospel to the perishing. nat had such a mind, and difficulties rising mountain high could not hinder him from examining a subject that absorbed his thoughts. a walk of ten miles to see a book, the sacrifice of an evening's entertainment at a party of pleasure, or the loss of a night's sleep, never stood between him and the information he earnestly desired. his unwavering purpose surmounted all such obstacles in the attainment of his object. chapter xxv. eulogy by john quincy adams. one of the brief periods in which nat worked at his trade, after he commenced to study more systematically, was spent on the mill dam in boston. at a machine-shop there, he pursued his business a short time, for the purpose of earning the means to defray his expenses while studying. "john quincy adams is to deliver a eulogy on madison at the old federal street theatre to-morrow," said one of the hands. "at what time?" inquired nat. "ten o'clock is the time announced for the procession to form. it will probably be twelve o'clock before they get ready for the eulogy." "i would go," said nat, "if i had my best clothes here. i could go without losing much time at that hour." "did you ever hear john quincy adams?" "no; and that is one reason why i wish to hear him. i have heard many of the distinguished men, but i have never had the opportunity to hear him. i think i shall go as i am." "and have a representation of the machine-shop there," said his companion. "the nabobs will think you are crazy to come there without your broadcloth." "perhaps they would think my broadcloth was too coarse if i should wear it. but if they go to see my suit instead of hearing the eulogy, they are welcome to the sight." "you will have to lose more time than you expect to; for there will be such a crowd that you cannot get in unless you go early; and you will have to go without your dinner too." "dinner is nothing," replied nat. "it will not be the first time i have gone without my dinner, and supper too. i can leave here at half past eleven o'clock and be in season for the eulogy, and find a place to hear into the bargain. a very small place will hold me at such a time." "but i prefer a chance to breathe when i can have it as well as not. it is no pleasure to me to go into such a crowd to hear the best speaker in the world. but every one to his taste." "yes," responded nat; "and my taste is right the reverse. i would suffer a pretty good squeezing, and go dinnerless besides, to hear john quincy adams speak. i shall try it anyhow." nat was usually quite particular in regard to his personal appearance on public occasions. if his best suit had been at hand, he could not have been persuaded to go to hear the eulogy in his working apparel. but he was at work here only a short time, and was at home on the sabbath, so that he provided himself with only his laboring suit. and now we see how strong was his desire to hear the distinguished statesman; for it overcame his regard for his personal appearance so far that he was willing to appear in that assembly wearing his machine-shop apparel, rather than forego the pleasure of an intellectual pastime. at the appointed time, on the day of the eulogy, nat dropped his tools, and proceeded to wash himself, and make ready to go. "then you are determined to go?" said his companion. "yes; i never shall have a better chance to hear the sage of quincy. i would like to show him a little more respect by donning my best suit if i could, but as it is, he must take the will for the deed." "you'll cut a dash there among the gentry, i reckon, and perhaps receive more attention than the orator himself. they'll think you are some fellow who has got into the wrong pew." "you had better conclude to go with me," said nat, "and enjoy the sight. you will never know how much of a sensation i do create unless you are there to see." "i'd rather be excused," replied his companion. "i can imagine enough here; besides i like a good dinner too well to go." nat hastened to federal street, and found the people crowding in very rapidly, and the exercises about commencing. he joined the throng, and was soon borne along with the current into the spacious building. if he had actually wanted to have skulked into some corner, it would have been impossible; for the assembly was so dense that he had no alternative but to remain stationary, or to be carried along by the mass. it so happened that he joined the multitude just in season to be borne well along into the area of the building, in front of the rostrum; and there he was in his working apparel, in full view of hundreds of eyes. yet he scarcely thought of his clothing in his eagerness to hear the eulogy. it was upon the character of one with whose political life he was quite familiar, and this circumstance increased his interest. his old suit did not at all impair his sense of hearing, nor obscure the language of the orator. he never heard better in his life, and, in but few instances, never felt himself better paid for his effort to hear an oration. it was known in the shop, before work began in the afternoon, that nat had gone just as he was to hear the eulogy, and it created some merriment. "he is a real book-worm," said one; "he always carries a book in his pocket to read when he is not at work." "well, i can hardly make out what he is, for he never says much," said another. "he seems to be thinking about something all the time, and yet he attends to his work. he is a queer genius, i guess." "he is no ignoramus, you may depend on that," said a third. "a chap with such an eye as his knows his p's and q's. he says little, and thinks the more." "and then," added the first speaker, "a fellow who will go without his dinner to hear a speech must have a pretty good appetite for knowledge, unless he is obliged to diet." "he'll have a good appetite for supper, i'm thinking," said another, rather dryly. nat heard the eulogy, and was back again to his work within three hours. there were some smiling faces as he entered the shop, and he could very readily read the thoughts behind them. "was you in time?" inquired the fellow-workman with whom he had the conversation about going. "i could not have hit better," nat replied, "if i had known the precise minute the eulogy would commence. it was good, too; and a greater crowd i never saw." "there would not have been room for me if i had gone, then?" "no; _i_ just made out the complement. i took the last place there was, and it was a close fit for me." "how did you like mr. adams?" "better than i expected. i had not formed a very exalted idea of his eloquence, perhaps because i have heard webster and everett, but he was really eloquent, and spoke evidently without any political or partisan prejudices. he appears older than i expected." "he is getting to be an old man, and he has been through enough to make him gray long ago." "i am glad to have heard him," added nat. "perhaps i might never have had another opportunity." this incident is another illustration of the sacrifices nat would make to hear public speakers, and to acquire knowledge, whenever he could. a commendable enthusiasm is apparent here as elsewhere, in seeking the object desired. all those leading traits of his character, that we have seen were so serviceable to him in other places, appear in this brief experience, while an unquenchable thirst for knowledge lay behind them to goad them on to victory. chapter xxvi. the temperance society. in nat's boyhood the principle of total abstinence was not advocated by the friends of temperance. he was considered temperate who drank intoxicating liquor sparingly, and there were few persons who did not use it at all. but a few years later, at the period of his life to which we have now arrived, the total abstinence theory began to command the public attention. the movement commenced with the new york state temperance society, and spread rapidly over the country. it reached nat's native village, and considerable interest was awakened. "i have been thinking," said nat to his companions, when they were together one evening, "that we better form a young people's total abstinence society. that is evidently the only right principle of conducting the temperance reform." "_i_ am ready for it," replied charlie. "something ought to be done to stop the evils of intemperance. i understand the adults are going to organize a society, and there will be more interest awakened if we young people have one among ourselves." "i suppose we can belong to the town society if we choose," said frank, "though i think there would be more interest, as you say, if we have one among ourselves. i am ready to do either." "what do _you_ say, marcus?" inquired nat. "i say 'amen' to it, with real methodist unction," answered marcus, with his usual good humor. "any way that will smash the decanters and get rid of the rum." "_you_ like it as well as anybody," said james cole, somewhat pettishly, as he was touched by this last remark of marcus. "i wouldn't trust you out of sight with a decanter, whether you join the society or not." "what! are you opposed to it, james?" asked nat. "yes, i am; it is all nonsense to talk about never tasting of liquor again. the whole of you would drink wine at the first party where it is passed around. not one of you would dare refuse." "you will have a chance to see," said frank. "the time is not far off when no one will provide wine for a party, if the total abstinence cause advances, as i believe it will." "well, i shall not sign away my liberty," continued james, "by putting my name to a pledge. i shall drink when i please, and stop when i please." "i have no more intention of signing away my liberty," said nat, "than you have. but i am not anxious for the liberty of getting drunk and lying in the gutter. i prefer to be free, and know what i am about; for then i can walk the streets without reeling when i please." "a man has no need to make a beast of himself if he does not join a total abstinence society," said james. "i don't believe in drunkenness any more than you do, and there is no need of drinking to excess." "that is what every toper said once," answered nat. "not one of them expected to become a drunkard, and probably they all thought there was no need of it. when a person begins to drink, it is not certain that he will have the ability to stop." "fudge," exclaimed james. "you would make out that a man has no self-respect, and no will to govern his appetite." "that is exactly what i mean to make out," added nat. "the habit of using intoxicating drinks nurtures an irresistible appetite, so that there is not one hard drinker in ten who could now stop drinking if he should try." "are you green enough to believe that?" asked james, in a tone of derision. "he is just _ripe_ enough to believe it," interrupted marcus. "a green-horn has a good deal to learn before he can believe the truth;" and this sly hit james felt. "i suppose that you all expect that _i_ shall be picked out of the gutter one day, because i can't control my appetite," said james. "i should think so by your talk." "for one, i should not be at all surprised," replied nat, "unless you change your views. you certainly maintain the gutter theory." "gutter or no gutter," added james, "i shall not sacrifice my liberty by joining a total abstinence society. i will have people know that there is one child who can drink when he pleases, or let it alone." it was usual at that time, for youth to drink, as well as adults, on certain occasions. if a company of them were out upon an excursion, or attending a party, they did not hesitate to take a glass of wine, and even something stronger. it was according to the custom of the times. it was fashionable to treat callers to something of the kind, and to furnish it as a necessary part of the entertainment at social gatherings. nat and his companions were accustomed to accept the glass on such occasions. but they were discriminating enough to perceive that there was danger. they did not dare to trust themselves to sustain the drinking usages of the the day. they had heard public lectures upon the subject, in which the perils of the times, both to the young and old, in this respect, were delineated, and they were wise enough to acknowledge the truth of what they heard. nat espoused the cause from the beginning, with his usual enthusiasm and invincible purpose. it was decided to organize a total abstinence society, and arrangements were made to effect the object on the following week. notice was given accordingly, and many of the young people were spoken with upon the subject. the friends of temperance generally encouraged the movement, as a very hopeful one for the young. nat, assisted by his companions, drafted a constitution before the evening of organization arrived, in order to facilitate the business. the proposition met with many hearty responses. on the evening appointed to form the society, as many were present as could be expected, and most of them came resolved to join the society. a few were drawn thither by curiosity, having little sympathy with the movement. the meeting was called to order by one of the number, and a temporary chairman elected. "mr. chairman," said nat, rising from his seat, "we have met here to-night to organize a total abstinence society, and most of us have come with the intention of joining. in order, therefore, to effect a speedy organization, i will present to the meeting the following constitution, which some of us have prepared, for their adoption or rejection. if the constitution is adopted, it will then be proper to circulate it for signatures, and afterwards proceed to the choice of officers." nat read the constitution and by-laws, and they were unanimously adopted, and then circulated for signatures. the pledge was incorporated into the constitution, so that signing that was also signing the pledge. "i move you now," said charlie, "that we proceed to the choice of officers." the motion was carried. "how shall the officers be chosen?" inquired the chairman. "i move they be chosen by ballot," said frank. this motion was also carried. "please prepare and bring in your votes for president," announced the chairman. two or three boys' caps made convenient ballot-boxes, so that this order was soon obeyed. "votes all in?" inquired the chairman. "if so, i declare the ballot closed." after counting the ballots, the president announced the result. "you have made choice of frank martin for your president," said he. frank took the chair, and the temporary chairman retired. "please prepare and bring in your votes for secretary," said frank. the order was speedily executed, and the president declared the ballot. "you have made choice of charles stone for your secretary," and charles took his place at the table. the remaining officers were duly elected, and other business performed, and thus the first total abstinence society, in nat's native place, was started by himself and associates. when we consider how long ago it was, and the perils that surrounded the young at that time, on account of the drinking usages, we must concede that it was a very important event to all who put their names to that constitution and pledge. it probably exerted a moulding influence upon their characters through life. possibly it saved some of them from a drunkard's grave. the formation of such a society was calculated to create considerable of a sensation in the village, and to provoke many remarks for and against. the principle of total abstinence was so novel to many, that they thought its advocates must be almost insane. even some temperance men and women, who had defended the cause on the old ground, concluded that there was more zeal than knowledge in taking such a step. in the grog-shops the subject was discussed with much _spirit_. "you'll have to shut up shop 'fore long," said one customer to miles, a rumseller, "if the temperance folks can have their own way." "i guess they won't have their way," replied miles. "very few people will sell their liberty out so cheap. i don't apprehend that it will make much difference with my business, whether they have a temperance society or not." "you haven't heard how swimmingly the young folks went on the other night, i reckon." "yes i have; and that was one of nat's movements. he's dead set against drinking, they say, but he is welcome to all he can make out of this." "he better be minding his own business, and not meddle with other people's affairs. they say he studies more than he works now; but if he had been compelled to work on at his trade, it would turn out better for him and all concerned." "nat is a smart feller," said the rumseller; "but he'll have to be a good deal smarter before he can get many people to say they'll never drink." "that's certain," responded the customer. "there is no use in trying to do what can't be done. but boys are getting to know more than their fathers in these ere times. i 'spose there are some folks who would like to tell us what we shall eat and wear, and what we shan't." "i wonder if jim cole joined the society?" inquired the rumseller. "jim! no! you wouldn't ketch him to make such a dunce of himself. he believes in using a little when he wants it, and that's my doctrine." "jim is steady as a deacon natrally," continued the vender, "and i didn't know but he might be influenced by nat to join." "he didn't; for he told _me_ that he shouldn't sign away his liberty for anybody, and he said that he told nat, and the other fellers, that they would drink wine at the first party they went to." "he was wrong there, i'm thinking," answered the rumseller; "for nat is independent, and he don't back out of any thing he undertakes. he'll be the last one to give it up." "doesn't jim patronize you sometimes?" "yes; he occasionally drops in, and takes a little; but jim doesn't favor hard drinking. he thinks that many men drink too much." if all the remarks and discussions that were consequent upon the organization of the total abstinence society, could be collected, the result would be a volume. but we must be satisfied with this single illustration, and pass on. the members of the society studied to know how to make it interesting and prosperous. various plans were suggested, and many opinions were advanced. "let us invite nat to deliver a lecture," said frank to charlie. "he will prepare a good one, and it will interest the people in our movement." "i had not thought of that," answered charlie. "perhaps it would be a good plan. but do you suppose he would do it?" "i think we could urge him to it," replied frank. "he likes to speak as well as he does to eat, and a little better; and i know that he can give a capital lecture if he will." "i think it might be the means of inducing more of the young people to join the society," continued charlie. "the more popular we make it, the more readily some of them will join us." "i will go and see nat at once about it if _you_ will," said frank. "if he does it, the sooner he knows about it the better." they went to see nat, and found him in his study. the subject was duly opened, and, after some urging, he consented to deliver a public lecture. at the meeting of the society on that week, a formal invitation was voted to nat, and the time of the lecture appointed. at that time, it required much more decision, perseverance, and moral principle, to espouse the temperance cause than it does to-day. it was a new thing, and many looked with suspicion upon it. of course, it was a better test of nat's principles and purpose, than such a movement would be now. that it was a good stand for him to take, and one suited to tell upon his future character, we need scarcely say. it is an important event when a youth of this day resolves that he will never tamper with intoxicating drinks--and that he will pledge his word and honor to this end. it was a far more important event _then_. and when we look upon that group of youth, conferring together upon the claims of the total abstinence principle, and their resolve to adopt it in the face of opposition, we can but record it as one of the most hopeful and sublime events of nat's early life. chapter xxvii. the temperance lecture. the news that nat would give a lecture on the subject of temperance soon spread through the town, and both the friends and the foes of the cause discussed the anticipated event. "so it seems that nat is going to preach temperance to us," said a customer of miles, the rumseller. "i should think the little upstart thought he was going to reform the town." "nat is no upstart i assure you; but he is going a little too fast now," replied miles. "he is young, however, and he will learn some things in a few years that he don't know now." "i 'spose every dog must have his day," continued the customer, "and so it must be with timp'rance. it will have its run, and then die a nat'ral death. but it makes me mad to see folks meddle with what is none of their business. just as if a man hadn't a right to drink when he is a mind to!" "it's a free country yet," answered miles, "and all these reformers will find it out before long. but shall you go to hear nat lecture?" "i go!" exclaimed the customer. "you won't ketch this child there, i can tell you. do you 'spose i would go to hear what i don't believe? it's all nonsense, the whole of it, and it shan't have my support." "i can't agree with you on that point," replied miles. "_i_ sometimes go to hear what i don't believe, and i guess _you_ do. i think i shall go to hear nat if i can leave. i want to see how he makes out!" "you may go for all i care," added the customer, "and find yourself insulted and abused as rumsellers usually are in such lectures." on the evening of the lecture, miles actually went to hear it, and there was a good number of his customers present. curiosity to hear nat overcame their opposition to the cause, for the time being, so that they were drawn thither. a lecture by any one else would not have called them out, but the attraction now was too great to be resisted. the hall was crowded with the old and young, and there was not a vacant place for another. the subject of nat's lecture was "the fifteen gallon law," which was then agitating the public mind. it was a new movement by the advocates of temperance, and its friends and foes were arrayed against each other for a hard contest. nat rejoiced in the movement, and therefore prepared himself to defend the law. we will give, in substance, his argument. after portraying the evils of intemperance in language and eloquence that riveted the attention of the audience, and confirming his statements by unanswerable statistics, he proceeded to say:-- "that something must be done to stay this tide of evil, or we shall become literally a nation of drunkards. it is vain to enact laws to punish the drunkard, and still allow the vender of strong drink to dole out his poison by the glass. for the poor, who need every farthing they earn to purchase bread for their hungry families, will spend their wages at the dram-shop, and leave their children to starve in poverty and degradation. the 'fifteen gallon law' is admirably adapted to save this class. they are never able to purchase intoxicating drinks in larger quantities than by the quart or gallon, so that this law will cut off their supplies. it is true, another class, who possess the means, will not be deterred from purchases by this law, but it is better to save the poor than to save none at all. this appears to be the best thing that can be done at the present time; perhaps sagacious minds will yet discover a universal remedy for this mammoth evil. at any rate, we are urged by the wants of suffering humanity to advocate this law, which may redeem thousands of the poor from their cups and their misery." the enemies of the law contended that it was introducing "a new principle of legislation," and that while former laws had only "_regulated_" the sale of strong drink, this fifteen gallon law was "_prohibitory_." to this nat replied, "that the legislature has power to restrain all trades which are detrimental to the public welfare, and to regulate or prohibit them according as the public good requires. legislatures have always acted upon this principle, not only in regard to other trades, but also in respect to the traffic in alcoholic drinks. as long ago as , when the public attention was first directed to the evils of intemperance, a law was enacted _prohibiting_ the sale of a less quantity than 'a quarter cask,' by unlicensed persons. it also _prohibited_ all sales after nine o'clock in the evening, and sales at any time to known drunkards. by this law landlords were obliged to suppress excessive drinking on their premises, and not to allow persons to sit in their bar-rooms drinking and tippling. in , intemperance prevailed to such a degree among sailors, that a law was passed forbidding the sale of liquors to this class, except on a written permit from the master or ship-owner. in , a statute was framed prohibiting all sales to 'any apprentice, servant or negro,' without a special order from the master. in another law was enacted prohibiting sales _on credit_ beyond the amount of ten shillings; and the reason assigned for it was, 'for that many persons are so extravagant in their expenses, at taverns and other houses of common entertainment, that it greatly hurts their families, and makes them less able to pay and discharge their honest, just debts.' in this rule was rëenacted, and subsequently _all_ sales _on credit_ were _prohibited_. seven years after the adoption of the constitution, a statute was passed limiting the sale to twenty-eight gallons by unlicensed persons. the statute of prohibited the sale of liquors 'to common drunkards, tipplers, and gamesters; and to persons who so misspend, waste or lessen their estates, as to expose themselves or their families to want, or the town to the burden of their support, by the use of strong drink--or whose health is thus, in the opinion of the selectmen, endangered or injured.' here is prohibition with a vengeance, going much beyond the provisions of the fifteen gallon law, and forbidding the sale to certain persons, and at certain times. a man was even prohibited from asking for credit at the bar, and the landlord could not grant it if he did, without violating a statute of the commonwealth. how, then, can the enemies of this measure be bare-faced enough to assert that it is disregarding their inalienable rights? how can they assert, with a shadow of truth on their side, that it is introducing 'a new principle of legislation?' there is no other principle involved in this law than that which is found in our statutes controlling the shooting of certain birds, the sale of tainted meat, the location of slaughter-houses, the existence of lotteries, and many other things that might be named--all showing that the legislature has authority to prohibit whatever the public good requires. that the public good demands the suppression of intemperance, who can deny? it is the greatest scourge of our land, and the world. it sends thirty thousand annually, in our country, to a drunkard's grave. it tenants our almshouses and prisons with its wretched victims, and causes three fourths of all the crimes that fill the calendars of our courts. it swells your taxes more than all other evils combined, and is the nursery of blasted hopes and miseries that language cannot describe. if then, the public good requires the suppression of any vice in our land, it is this." thus he disposed of this plea of the rumsellers, to the happy surprise and satisfaction of the friends of temperance. he discussed other topics connected with the law, and which we have not space to consider. for an hour or more he held his audience in breathless interest, by the strain of argument and oratory that he poured forth from his fruitful mind and earnest heart. a more delighted audience never listened before to a temperance lecture. its depth, power, and compass were more than they expected. a round of hearty applause told plainly how it was received, as nat uttered the last word, and took his seat. "there, nat," said marcus to him on the following evening, "you did more good last night than all the temperance lecturers who have come to town." "how so?" inquired nat, not understanding his meaning. "they say you fairly convinced miles, and he is going to stop selling liquor." "how do you know?" asked nat, with a very incredulous look. "i shall want pretty good evidence of that before i believe it." "he has told a half dozen people so to-day, and one of his best customers among the number." "who is that?" "it was johnson, who pays him as much money in a year as any other man. johnson got excited, and denounced him and all the friends of temperance in strong language. he called you a 'fool,' and miles cracked you up in return, and so they had it for a while rather hot, much to the amusement of mr. fairbanks, who happened to hear it." this was gratifying news to nat, and to all who sympathized with him in the temperance cause; and it needs some further notice. this johnson was the customer with whom we became acquainted in another place, a bitter opponent of the "fifteen gallon law." curiosity, as well as appetite, led him into miles's shop on the morning after the lecture, for he wanted to hear about it. he had learned in some way that miles went, as he intimated to him, and therefore it was a good place to go for information. "so you went to hear nat last night?" he said to miles, as he entered the shop. "did he make a temperance man of you?" meaning this inquiry for a jest. "nat spoke real well," answered miles, "and his arguments were so good that i can't answer them. he's a mighty smart chap." "what did he harp on last night?" inquired johnson. "the fifteen gallon law; and he showed how it would remove the evils of intemperance, which he described so correctly and eloquently that i was astonished. i don't see where he has ever learnt so much." "larnt it!" exclaimed johnson; "he larnt it where he did his impudence. i see that he has pulled the wool over your eyes, and you are more than half timperance now." [illustration] "all of that," replied miles, coolly; "i am going to quit rum-selling at once. if i can't get my living in an honest way, then i will go to the poor-house." "i hope you _will_ go there," answered johnson, starting up from his chair under great excitement. "a man who has no mind of his own ought to go there. i----" "i thought you was going to say," interrupted miles, "that i ought to go there to keep company with the paupers i have made. i am pretty sure i should have you for a companion before long, if you don't alter your hand." "i never thought you was overstocked with brains," continued johnson; "but if you will be hoodwinked by that fool of a nat, you have less than i thought you had. it is great business for a man of your age to give up beat to a boy, and that is all nat is, though he thinks he's a man." "boy or not," answered miles, "he spoke better last night than any man i ever heard. he is a first-rate orator, and his defence of the 'fifteen gallon law' was unanswerable." "a feller ought to speak well who has studied as much as he has," said johnson. "he hain't earnt his salt for two or three years, 'cause he's too lazy to do any thing but look at a book." "i don't care how much he has studied," answered miles. "if i had a son who could speak as well as he does, i should be proud of him, though he had done nothing but study for ten years. your talk is very unreasonable, and you know it; and for that reason, it will not change my opinion of nat." "run arter him, then, to your heart's content," said johnson, turning to go out, "and be a timperance man if you will,--it'll take more than this to make you decent;" and with these words he left the premises in a rage. mr. miles carried out his determination to cease the traffic in strong drink, and engage in some more honorable business. his unexpected espousal of the total abstinence principle, and the closing of his dram-shop, offended many of the rum fraternity. it was a signal achievement for the temperance cause, however, and for the welfare of the village. the lecture of nat won for him an enviable reputation, not only at home, but abroad, and he was soon invited to deliver it in the neighboring towns. wherever he consented to give it, it was received with decided favor, and the anticipations of hearers were more than realized. subsequently he delivered other lectures on the subject of temperance in his native village, and the people soon learned that no lecturer called out so large audiences as he. there was always a desire to hear him; and his sonorous voice, bewitching eloquence, and sensible thoughts, never failed to entertain his auditors. chapter xxviii. speech-making. at this time nat occupied a position of honor and influence which few persons of his age ever attain. but let not the reader suppose it was the result of chance, or the consequence of superior talents alone. he was more indebted for it to the studious habits which he formed from twelve to fifteen years of age, than to any thing else. if he had wasted his spare moments then in idleness,--as many boys do,--he never would have surprised the lyceum with a speech of such eloquence, nor been able to entertain an audience on the subject of temperance. the habits of life are usually fixed by the time a lad is fifteen years of age. the habits which nat had established at this period of life, made him what he was five years later. those early years of industry and application could not be thrown away without demolishing the fabric that was reared upon them. they were the underpinning of the beautiful structure that so many delighted to view when the busy architect was a little older. for, if it could ever be truthfully said of any one, "he is the artificer of his own fortune," it could be said of nat. the bobbin boy was father of the young and popular orator. it is generally true, as we have intimated before, that the influence of habits at ten or fifteen years of age, is distinctly traceable through the whole career of eminent men. sir james mackintosh was thirteen years of age when mr. fox and lord north were arrayed against each other on the subject of the american war. he became deeply interested in the matter through their speeches, and from that time concentrated his thoughts upon those topics that contributed to make him the distinguished orator and historian that he became. he always considered that the direction given to his mind, at that early period of his life, settled his destiny. the great naturalist audubon, was just as fond of birds and other animals, when ten years old, as he was in manhood. he studied natural objects with perfect admiration, and took the portraits of such birds as he particularly fancied. when he was sent to paris to be educated, away from the beauty and freshness of rural objects, he became tired of his lessons, and exclaimed, "what have i to do with monstrous torsos and the heads of heathen gods, when my business lies among birds?" the foundation of his success as a naturalist was laid in his sparkling boyhood. benjamin west was made a painter, as he said, by his mother's kiss of approbation, when she saw a picture he sketched, at seven or eight years of age. he became just what he promised to be in his boyhood, when he robbed the old cat of the tip of her tail out of which to manufacture a brush, to prosecute his delicate art. thus it was with eli whitney, who proved himself such a benefactor to mankind by his inventive genius. his sister gives the following account of his boyhood: "our father had a workshop, and sometimes made wheels of different kinds, and chairs. he had a variety of tools, and a lathe for turning chair-posts. this gave my brother an opportunity of learning the use of tools when very young. he lost no time; but, as soon as he could handle tools, he was always making something in the shop, and seemed not to like working on the farm. on a time, after the death of our mother, when our father had been absent from home two or three days, on his return he inquired of the house-keeper what the boys had been doing? she told him what b. and j. had been about. 'but what has eli been doing?' said he. she replied that he had been making a fiddle. 'ah!' added he despondingly, 'i fear eli will have to take his portion in fiddles.' he was at this time about twelve years old. this fiddle was finished throughout, like a common violin, and made tolerably good music. it was examined by many persons, and all pronounced it to be a remarkable piece of work for such a boy to perform. from this time he was employed to repair violins, and had many nice jobs, which were always executed to the entire satisfaction, and often to the astonishment of his customers. his father's watch being the greatest piece of machinery that had yet presented itself to his observation, he was extremely desirous of examining its interior construction, but was not permitted to do so. one sunday morning, observing that his father was going to meeting, and would leave at home the wonderful little machine, he immediately feigned illness as an apology for not going to church. as soon as the family were out of sight, he flew to the room where the watch hung, and, taking it down, he was so much delighted with its motions, that he took it all in pieces before he thought of the consequences of his rash deed; for his father was a stern parent, and punishment would have been the reward of his idle curiosity, had the mischief been detected. he, however, put the work all so neatly together, that his father never discovered his audacity until he himself told him many years afterwards."[a] such was the boyhood of one who invented the _cotton-gin_, made improvements in the manufacture of fire-arms, by which the national government saved, as mr. calhoun said "twenty-five thousand dollars per annum," and contributed largely to advance other mechanical arts. how distinctly we can trace, in all these examples, the moulding influence of boyhood upon manhood! and how marked the correspondence between the early life of all these men and that of nat! thus it is that the beautiful poem of longfellow, "the village blacksmith," is abundantly illustrated in the biography of both the living and the dead! a few of the verses are:-- "under a spreading chestnut-tree the village smithy stands; the smith, a mighty man is he, with large and sinewy hands; and the muscles of his brawny arms are strong as iron bands. "his hair is crisp, and black, and long, his face is like the tan; his brow is wet with honest sweat, he earns what e'er he can, and looks the whole world in the face, for he owes not any man. "week in, week out, from morn till night, you can hear his bellows blow; you can hear him swing his heavy sledge, with measured beat and slow, like a sexton ringing the village bell, when the evening sun was low. * * * * * "toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing, onward through life he goes; each morning sees some task begin, each evening sees it close; something attempted, something done, has earned a night's repose. "thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, for the lesson thou hast taught! thus at the flaming forge of life our fortunes must be wrought; thus on its sounding anvil shaped each burning deed and thought!" but to return. for some time nat's attention had been directed to political subjects, and he had been hither and thither to listen to various speakers. at length he became so enthusiastic in support of his own political tenets, that he was urged to undertake political speech-making. there was ample opportunity for the display of his abilities in this way, since the political excitement was strong. "what do you think," said he to charlie, "about my engaging in politics? i have been urged to speak at political meetings." "you better do it," replied charlie. "you are well qualified for it; and you always have taken an interest in politics ever since you read the life of jefferson. where do they want you should speak?" "here, and in other places, too; and i scarcely know what to do about it. in some respects i should like it, and in others i should not." "do it, by all means," added charlie. "it will not interfere much with your studies, as you will speak only in the evening." "but that will interfere very much with my present plans. it will be on my mind all the time, so that my interest will be divided at least. no one can have too many irons in the fire, and attend to them all. one thing at a time is about as much as any person can do well." "that may be very true, but why not make that one thing politics? we must have men to manage state affairs, as certainly as to be lawyers, physicians, and ministers. besides, if i can read you, nat, you are actually cut out for this sphere of action." "you don't read me correctly if that is your opinion. there must be a great many unpleasant things in such a life. if the speaking were all, i should like that well enough, but that is a small part of political experience." "try it, try it," added charlie, "and see how you make it go. you need not continue in it longer than you please. i want to see you take the stump once. perhaps you will make a democrat of _me_." nat met the last remark with a laugh, and said "that is too much to expect. you are a hopeless case,--too incorrigible to be won over to the right side. i relinquished all hope of you a long time ago." "now, seriously," said charlie, "i advise you to speak at political meetings, and i hope you will speak here first. it will be the best thing you can do. if i possessed your abilities for public speaking, i would do it in a minute." "perhaps i shall conclude to do so," was nat's reply, as they separated. the result was, that nat decided to address a political gathering in his native town; and soon after he visited some neighboring places on the same errand. he soon acquired a reputation, as the "young orator," and committees waited upon him from towns near and remote. the adventure of one of these committees rehearsed, will show what expectations were awakened by his spreading fame. a committee, in the town of ----, were instructed to wait upon him, and secure his services at a great political gathering there. accordingly the committee put on their "sunday suit," harnessed the horse into the best carriage, and started for nat's residence. meeting a man, as they entered the village. "where is esquire ---- (meaning nat)'s office?" the person addressed did not understand who was meant at first, and asked for the repetition of the inquiry, which was readily granted. "oh," answered he, "it is down yonder," at the same time pointing to a street a quarter of a mile distant or more, and scarcely able to control his risibles as he thought of the joke he was about to perpetrate. "very much obliged to you," responded the inquirer, at the same time whipping up his horse. "this is nothing but a carpenter's shop," said one of them, as they reached the place. "we must have misunderstood him." "it is very evident," said the other, "that we shall have to look further yet. but let us go in and inquire." so they alighted, and went in. "we are looking for esquire ----'s office. a gentleman directed us a short distance back, but we find that we did not understand him." "whose office did you say?" inquired nat's father, who happened to be the person addressed. "esquire ----'s office, the young orator we have heard so much about." nat's father was very much amused at this turn of matters; but he kept on a sober face, and replied, pointing to nat, who was planing a board, "that is the young man you want to see, i suppose." the committee looked at each other, and then at the black-haired board-planer, with perfect amazement. their countenances told just what they thought; and if we should write their thoughts out in plain english, they would run thus: "what! that young fellow the stump orator of which we have been told so much. we better have staid at home, than to risk our party in his hands. why! he is nothing but a boy. there must be some mistake about the matter." while astonishment was evaporating from the tops of their heads, and oozing out of the ends of their fingers, nat had turned away from the bench to welcome the official strangers. there he stood hatless, and coatless, with his shirt-sleeves stripped up to his elbows, and his noble brow wet with perspiration, looking little like one who could sway an audience by the power of his eloquence. "we are a committee from the town of----instructed to wait on you, and engage you to address a political convention," said one of them, breaking the silence. "when is the convention?" inquired nat. "two weeks from this time, the th day of october." "i will be there," answered nat, "and do the best i can for you." the matter was adjusted, and the committee left, evidently thinking that an orator whose office was a carpenter's shop could not be a remarkable defender of democratic principles. on their way home, they spoke freely to each other of their mistake in engaging one so inexperienced to address the convention. they concluded that it would teach them a good lesson, and that in future they would not risk the reputation of their party in unskilful hands. it is sufficient to say, that nat filled the appointment to the satisfaction of the crowd, and the surprise of the committee. before he had spoken fifteen minutes, the committee discovered that they had misjudged the orator, and that he was, indeed, the youthful champion of their party. his speech fully convinced them that he could address a political assembly a little better than he could plane a board. [footnote a: a good sketch of eli whitney's life, and the lives of some other self-made men, spoken of in this volume, may be found in "_biography of self-taught men_," by professor b. b. edwards. every youth in the land ought to read this work, not only for the information it imparts, but for the incentives to "noble, godlike action," which it presents on almost every page.] chapter xxix. the early victim "i have just heard," said nat one morning to a neighbor, "that james cole was frozen to death last night while intoxicated. is it true?" "i had not heard of it," replied the neighbor. "some people at the head of the street were conversing about something that had occurred as i passed, but i did not understand what it was. perhaps it was that. he has conducted badly for a year past, and i suppose he is a confirmed drunkard, although he is so young." just then frank came along, and, before nat had time to inquire, proceeded to say, "james cole came very near freezing to death last night, and the physician thinks it is doubtful whether he will recover." "how did it happen?" asked nat. "he spent last evening at one of the grog-shops, i don't know which, and staid drinking until it was very late; and he was badly intoxicated when he started for home, so that he did not get far before he fell down in the road, and was unable to get up. it was so late that no one came along until this morning, and there he laid senseless all the while, and was completely chilled through when mr. bates found him this morning." "then mr. bates found him?" said nat. "yes; and he could scarcely tell whether he was dead or alive at first. he carried him to his father's immediately, and sent for the doctor as quickly as possible." "do you know what time it was when he left the grog-shop?" "no; but i heard it was very late." "well," added nat, "a man who will sell james cole liquor until he makes him drunk, and then send him home alone, on such a night as last night was, has no more feeling than a brute. if he should die, that rumseller would be the actual cause of his death." "certainly," answered frank; "it would not have been half so bad to have robbed him of his money, and turned him away without any drink. but i wonder if jim thinks now of the conversation we had with him about forming the total abstinence society?" "he has probably found out by this time," replied nat, "that he can't stop drinking when he pleases, after an appetite for it is acquired. he was very sure that he should never be a drunkard; and that was but little more than two years ago." "i never expected he would be much, but i had no idea he would come to this so soon," added frank. "i scarcely ever heard of a person going to ruin so quick." "james was a very smart fellow, naturally," said nat. "i once thought he was the most talented fellow of his age in town, and it would have turned out so if he had tried to make anything of himself." "i think so, too," said frank. "but he never wanted to be respectable. he always seemed to glory in drinking. he was earning five dollars a day in the machine-shop when they turned him away, and was considered by far the best workman there. he lost his place on account of his intemperate habits; but it never seemed to trouble him. it is my opinion now, that he had a strong appetite for intoxicating drinks at the time we organized the total abstinence society, and for that reason he opposed it." "his case will be a good defence of the temperance cause," continued nat, "and i hope the rumsellers will never hear the last of it. i can scarcely see what a person can say in favor of the use and traffic in strong drink, with such an illustration of the evil before them." the news of james's condition spread through the village, and many received it in a very exaggerated form. some heard that he was dead, and others that he was near dying, the latter rumor not being far from the truth. before night, however, it was announced that he was better, and there was hope of his recovery. all sorts of stories were put in circulation about the place of his drinking, and the circumstances attending it. the rumseller very justly came in for his share of condemnation, while he and his allies were disposed to say very little, for the simple reason that there was not much for them to say. such an instance of degradation in the very dawn of manhood, when the dew of his youth was still upon the victim, was an unanswerable argument for the cause of temperance. he who could close his senses against such an appeal in behalf of sobriety, would take the side of error in spite of the plainest evidence to the contrary. it was not strange, then, that much was said at the fireside, in the streets and shops, and everywhere, concerning the event, nor that the foes of temperance were inclined to be unusually silent. "doctor! how is james cole now?" inquired a gentleman who met him some three or four weeks after the fatal night of drunkenness. "his case is hopeless," answered the doctor. "he has a hard cough, and to all appearance is in a quick consumption." "do you consider it the consequence of his exposure on that night?" "certainly, it can be nothing else. if it had been a very cold night he would have been frozen to death in the morning. i did not know that he had become so much of a drunkard until this happened." "i did," replied the gentleman. "i have seen a good deal of him, and have known something of his habits. i was satisfied, when he was but sixteen or eighteen years of age, that he had an appetite for liquor, and i am not surprised at the result." "the poor fellow will soon know the worst," added the doctor. "he can't live many weeks at the longest." "i hope it will prove a warning to the young here," said the gentleman. "the fact is, i wonder sometimes that we do not have more of such cases when the temptations to drink are so common. but _one_ ought to be sufficient to move the whole town on the subject." * * * * * not quite twelve weeks have elapsed since the foregoing incident occurred. the bell tolls out its solemn death-knell, and the sable hearse is moving slowly on to the grave-yard. sad, tearful mourners follow, to lay all that remains of james cole--the son, and brother--in the silent "narrow house." for the demon-vice has done its worst, and loosed the silver chord, and his youthful spirit has gone before the drunkard's offended god. alas! what painful memories throng the minds of beholders at the sight of the long, mournful procession on its way to the tomb! never did a hearse convey more blasted hopes or wasted powers, more abused and withered ties, or dishonored members, to the house of the dead. within that coffin is the bright promise of youth, the strength of early manhood, parental expectations and love--all blighted by the breath of the destroyer, and laid in as sad a winding-sheet as ever wrapped a tenant of the grave. oh! how great the woes of intemperance appear, when these appalling realities dash earthly hopes, and send the wretched victim away to that world "from whose bourne no traveller returns!" so thought many as the lifeless form of james cole was consigned to its kindred dust. "another drunkard's grave," said the sexton, as the stones rattled upon the coffin which he proceeded to cover, when the procession had retired; and his remark was addressed to a neighbor who stood by his side. "not exactly a drunkard's grave," was the reply. "james was intemperate, but he died of consumption." "and was not that consumption the consequence of his drunkenness?" inquired the sexton. "i suppose it was; still i thought we could hardly call this a drunkard's grave, though it is true enough." "it is too painfully true," added the sexton. "would that it might be called otherwise; but it cannot be. when you and i are numbered with the dead, this spot will be known by all who have seen james cole buried to-day, as the drunkard's grave. there are many of them in this yard, but _i_ never dug a sadder one than this." "and i hope you never will another," said the man. so the sexton buried the sleeper, and turned away to his home. for more than twenty years his dust has been mingling with its native earth, without a stone to mark the spot, nor a flower to tell of hope. but his early companions, whose wiser choice and better resolves allied them to the cause of virtue, know where the early victim was laid, and call it the youthful drunkard's grave. chapter xxx the end. let almost a quarter of a century pass, and inquire, where and what are nat and his associates now? we have advocated the sentiment throughout these pages, that the character and position of manhood are determined by boyhood and youth. how is it with the group of boys who have figured in the foregoing pages? does the history of each one verify the truth we have taught? or is even one of the number an exception to the general principle stated? we have already seen one of this number laid in a drunkard's grave,--the boy who thought he could take the social glass, according to the custom of the times, and still be safe,--the youth who had more confidence in his own strength to resist temptation, than he had in the wholesome counsels of superiors. how speedily the thoughts, habits, and corrupt principles of his youth, wrought his ruin! some distance back in the story, we lost sight of samuel and benjamin drake,--the two disobedient, idle, reckless, unmanageable boys, at fifteen years of age. what has been their history? alas! it is written in letters of shame! the following description of these boys, when they became young men, taken from the records of a state prison, will show that both of them have been there. "samuel drake: years old--blue eyes--sandy hair--light complexion. ---- mass." "benjamin drake: years old--blue eyes--light hair--light complexion--scar on right instep. ----, me." we give the true record, except that we use the fictitious names employed in this volume, and withhold the names of the towns from whence they were conveyed to prison. five years later to the records of the same prison was added the following: "samuel drake: years old--blue eyes--sandy hair--light complexion--second comer. ----, mass." by this it appears that samuel was twice in the state prison by the time he was thirty-three years of age. what has been his course since that period is not exactly known, though report said, a few years ago, that he ended his life on board a pirate-ship. but the reader is surprised, perhaps, that benjamin should become the inmate of a prison; for the last we saw of him was when he was preparing for the ministry--a converted youth, as he thought, of seventeen years. we cannot furnish every link that connects his boyhood and manhood; but the painful story is told, in substance, when it is said that his religion proved like the morning dew, and his early vicious habits returned with redoubled power, so that five years after he attended the prayer-meeting with frank martin, he was incarcerated for theft. it is a startling illustration of the force of boyhood's evil habits, often lording it over a man to his shame and ruin, even when he has resolved to lead a better life. the remainder of this group of boys have proved an honor to their sex, as the principles and habits of their early lives fairly promised. frank martin stands at the head of a public institution, where great responsibilities are devolved upon him, as a servant of the commonwealth. strange as it may seem, the institution over which he presides is the one in which his old associates, samuel and benjamin drake, were incarcerated; and frank himself opened the prison records for the writer to make the foregoing extracts. charlie stone has been connected with manufactures from the beginning, advancing from one post of responsibility to another, employing his leisure time to improve his mental faculties; and he is now the honored agent of one of the wealthiest and most celebrated manufacturing companies of new england, commanding a salary of three thousand and five hundred dollars. marcus treat, perhaps influenced by the example of nat, devoted his spare moments to self-culture, and made commendable progress before he resolved to quit his trade, and educate himself for the legal profession. without means of his own, or wealthy friends to aid, he succeeded in his laudable efforts, and, without being able to command a collegiate education, was admitted to the bar. he now occupies a post of honor and influence in a thriving state of our union, where he is known as one of the most popular members of the bar. and nat--what and where is he? he is now known to fame as his excellency, the governor of ----, the best state in the union, which is only one remove from the presidency of the best country in the world. by his own diligence, industry, perseverance, and self-reliance, he has fully earned the confidence of his constituents. no "lucky stars," no chance-game or accident, can make a governor out of a bobbin boy; but the noble qualities named can, as if by the power of magic, achieve the wonderful transformation. it is true of him, as the poet has said of all distinguished men,-- "the heights by great men reached and kept were not attained by sudden flight; but they, while their companions slept, were toiling upward in the night." and now, ere the youthful reader closes this volume, let him stop and resolve to imitate the bright example of him whom we never more shall dare to call nat. his business now is so different from that of carrying bobbins, and his position and character so far removed from that of student-boy in his father's attic, that we can only call him his excellency, as we reverently tip our hat. but the leading characteristics of his youth are worthy of your imitation, whether you desire to pursue the path of knowledge or any other honorable vocation. are you poor? so was he; poorer than hundreds of the boys who think that poverty stands in the way of their success. are your advantages to acquire an education small? so were his; smaller than the opportunities of many youth who become disheartened because they are early deprived of school. are you obliged to labor for a livelihood, so that your "odd moments" are few and far between? so was he; and if ever a lad could be excused from effort on this plea, it was he who toiled fourteen hours per day in a factory, to earn his bread. there is no excuse for non-exertion that will stand before the bobbin boy's example--not one. imitate it, then, by cultivating those traits of character which proved the elements of his success. file was produced from scans of public domain works at the university of michigan's making of america collection.) transcriber's note: every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible; please see detailed list of printing issues at the end of the text. the original page numbering of each tract has been maintained; for ease of reference, the preparer of the e-text has assigned each tract a letter, and appended the identifying letters to the original page numbers. * * * * * select temperance tracts. [illustration: scene in a bar-room] published by the american tract society, nassau-street, new york. * * * * * contents. pages effects of ardent spirits. by dr. rush [a] traffic in ardent spirits. by rev. dr. edwards [b] rewards of drunkenness [c] the well-conducted farm [d] kittredge's address on effects of ardent spirits [e] dickinson's appeal to youth [f] alarm to distillers and their allies [g] putnam and the wolf [h] hitchcock on the manufacture of ardent spirits [i] m'ilvaine's address to young men [j] who slew all these? [k] sewall on intemperance [l] bible argument for temperance [m] four reasons against the use of alcoholic liquors [n] debates of conscience on ardent spirits [o] barnes on traffic in ardent spirits [p] the fools' pence [q] the poor man's house repaired [r] jamie; or a word from ireland for temperance [s] the wonderful escape [t] the eventful twelve hours [u] the lost mechanic restored [v] reformation of drunkards [w] tom starboard and jack halyard [x] the ox sermon [y] * * * * * the effects of ardent spirits upon the human body and mind. by benjamin rush, m. d. by ardent spirits, i mean those liquors only which are obtained by distillation from fermented substances of any kind. to their effects upon the bodies and minds of men, the following inquiry shall be exclusively confined. the effects of ardent spirits divide themselves into such as are of a prompt, and such as are of a chronic nature. the former discover themselves in drunkenness; and the latter in a numerous train of diseases and vices of the body and mind. i. i shall begin by briefly describing their prompt or immediate effects in a fit of drunkenness. this odious disease--for by that name it should be called--appears with more or less of the following symptoms, and most commonly in the order in which i shall enumerate them. . unusual garrulity. . unusual silence. . captiousness, and a disposition to quarrel. . uncommon good-humor, and an insipid simpering, or laugh. . profane swearing and cursing. . a disclosure of their own or other people's secrets. . a rude disposition to tell those persons in company whom they know, their faults. . certain immodest actions. i am sorry to say this sign of the first stage of drunkenness sometimes appears in women, who, when sober, are uniformly remarkable for chaste and decent manners. . a clipping of words. . fighting; a black eye, or a swelled nose, often mark this grade of drunkenness. . certain extravagant acts which indicate a temporary fit of madness. those are singing, hallooing, roaring, imitating the noises of brute animals, jumping, tearing off clothes, dancing naked, breaking glasses and china, and dashing other articles of household furniture upon the ground or floor. after a while the paroxysm of drunkenness is completely formed. the face now becomes flushed, the eyes project, and are somewhat watery, winking is less frequent than is natural; the under lip is protruded--the head inclines a little to one shoulder--the jaw falls--belchings and hiccough take place--the limbs totter--the whole body staggers. the unfortunate subject of this history next falls on his seat--he looks around him with a vacant countenance, and mutters inarticulate sounds to himself--he attempts to rise and walk: in this attempt he falls upon his side, from which he gradually turns upon his back: he now closes his eyes and falls into a profound sleep, frequently attended with snoring, and profuse sweats, and sometimes with such a relaxation of the muscles which confine the bladder and the lower bowels, as to produce a symptom which delicacy forbids me to mention. in this condition he often lies from ten, twelve, and twenty-four hours, to two, three, four, and five days, an object of pity and disgust to his family and friends. his recovery from this fit of intoxication is marked with several peculiar appearances. he opens his eyes and closes them again--he gapes and stretches his limbs--he then coughs and pukes--his voice is hoarse--he rises with difficulty, and staggers to a chair--his eyes resemble balls of fire--his hands tremble--he loathes the sight of food--he calls for a glass of spirits to compose his stomach--now and then he emits a deep-fetched sigh, or groan, from a transient twinge of conscience; but he more frequently scolds, and curses every thing around him. in this stage of languor and stupidity he remains for two or three days, before he is able to resume his former habits of business and conversation. pythagoras, we are told, maintained that the souls of men after death expiated the crimes committed by them in this world, by animating certain brute animals; and that the souls of those animals, in their turns, entered into men, and carried with them all their peculiar qualities and vices. this doctrine of one of the wisest and best of the greek philosophers, was probably intended only to convey a lively idea of the changes which are induced in the body and mind of man by a fit of drunkenness. in folly, it causes him to resemble a calf--in stupidity, an ass--in roaring, a mad bull--in quarrelling and fighting, a dog--in cruelty, a tiger--in fetor, a skunk--in filthiness, a hog--and in obscenity, a he-goat. it belongs to the history of drunkenness to remark, that its paroxysms occur, like the paroxysms of many diseases, at certain periods, and after longer or shorter intervals. they often begin with annual, and gradually increase in their frequency, until they appear in quarterly, monthly, weekly, and quotidian or daily periods. finally, they afford scarcely any marks of remission, either during the day or the night. there was a citizen of philadelphia, many years ago, in whom drunkenness appeared in this protracted form. in speaking of him to one of his neighbors, i said, "does he not _sometimes_ get drunk?" "you mean," said his neighbor, "is he not _sometimes_ sober?" it is further remarkable, that drunkenness resembles certain hereditary, family, and contagious diseases. i have once known it to descend from a father to four out of five of his children. i have seen three, and once four brothers, who were born of sober ancestors, affected by it; and i have heard of its spreading through a whole family composed of members not originally related to each other. these facts are important, and should not be overlooked by parents, in deciding upon the matrimonial connections of their children. ii. let us next attend to the chronic effects of ardent spirits upon the body and mind. in the body they dispose to every form of acute disease; they moreover _excite_ fevers in persons predisposed to them from other causes. this has been remarked in all the yellow-fevers which have visited the cities of the united states. hard-drinkers seldom escape, and rarely recover from them. the following diseases are the usual consequences of the habitual use of ardent spirits: . a decay of appetite, sickness at stomach, and a puking of bile, or a discharge of a frothy and viscid phlegm, by hawking, in the morning. . obstructions of the liver. the fable of prometheus, on whose liver a vulture was said to prey constantly, as a punishment for his stealing fire from heaven, was intended to illustrate the painful effects of ardent spirits upon that organ of the body. . jaundice, and dropsy of the belly and limbs, and finally of every cavity in the body. a swelling in the feet and legs is so characteristic a mark of habits of intemperance, that the merchants in charleston, i have been told, cease to trust the planters of south carolina as soon as they perceive it. they very naturally conclude industry and virtue to be extinct in that man, in whom that symptom of disease has been produced by the intemperate use of distilled spirits. . hoarseness, and a husky cough, which often terminate in consumption, and sometimes in an acute and fatal disease of the lungs. . diabetes, that is, a frequent and weakening discharge of pale or sweetish urine. . redness, and eruptions on different parts of the body. they generally begin on the nose, and after gradually extending all over the face, sometimes descend to the limbs in the form of leprosy. they have been called "rum-buds," when they appear in the face. in persons who have occasionally survived these effects of ardent spirits on the skin, the face after a while becomes bloated, and its redness is succeeded by a death-like paleness. thus, the same fire which produces a red color in iron, when urged to a more intense degree, produces what has been called a white-heat. . a fetid breath, composed of every thing that is offensive in putrid animal matter. . frequent and disgusting belchings. dr. haller relates the case of a notorious drunkard having been suddenly destroyed, in consequence of the vapor discharged from his stomach by belching, accidentally taking fire by coming in contact with the flame of a candle. . epilepsy. . gout, in all its various forms of swelled limbs, colic, palsy, and apoplexy. . lastly, madness. the late dr. waters, while he acted as house-pupil and apothecary of the pennsylvania hospital, assured me, that in one-third of the patients confined by this terrible disease, it had been induced by ardent spirits. most of the diseases which have been enumerated are of a mortal nature. they are more certainly induced, and terminate more speedily in death, when spirits are taken in such quantities, and at such times, as to produce frequent intoxication; but it may serve to remove an error with which some intemperate people console themselves, to remark, that ardent spirits often bring on fatal diseases without producing drunkenness. i have known many persons destroyed by them who were never completely intoxicated during the whole course of their lives. the solitary instances of longevity which are now and then met with in hard-drinkers, no more disprove the deadly effects of ardent spirits, than the solitary instances of recoveries from apparent death by drowning, prove that there is no danger to life from a human body lying an hour or two under water. the body, after its death from the use of distilled spirits, exhibits, by dissection, certain appearances which are of a peculiar nature. the fibres of the stomach and bowels are contracted--abscesses, gangrene, and schirri are found in the viscera. the bronchial vessels are contracted--the bloodvessels and tendons in many parts of the body are more or less ossified, and even the hair of the head possesses a crispness which renders it less valuable to wig-makers than the hair of sober people. not less destructive are the effects of ardent spirits upon the human mind. they impair the memory, debilitate the understanding, and pervert the moral faculties. it was probably from observing these effects of intemperance in drinking upon the mind, that a law was formerly passed in spain which excluded drunkards from being witnesses in a court of justice. but the demoralizing effects of distilled spirits do not stop here. they produce not only falsehood, but fraud, theft, uncleanliness, and murder. like the demoniac mentioned in the new testament, their name is "legion," for they convey into the soul a host of vices and crimes. a more affecting spectacle cannot be exhibited than a person into whom this infernal spirit, generated by habits of intemperance, has entered: it is more or less affecting, according to the station the person fills in a family, or in society, who is possessed by it. is he a husband? how deep the anguish which rends the bosom of his wife! is she a wife? who can measure the shame and aversion which she excites in her husband? is he the father, or is she the mother of a family of children? see their averted looks from their parent, and their blushing looks at each other. is he a magistrate? or has he been chosen to fill a high and respectable station in the councils of his country? what humiliating fears of corruption in the administration of the laws, and of the subversion of public order and happiness, appear in the countenances of all who see him. is he a minister of the gospel? here language fails me. if angels weep, it is at such a sight. in pointing out the evils produced by ardent spirits, let us not pass by their effects upon the estates of the persons who are addicted to them. are they inhabitants of cities? behold their houses stripped gradually of their furniture, and pawned, or sold by a constable, to pay tavern debts. see their names upon record in the dockets of every court, and whole pages of newspapers filled with advertisements of their estates for public sale. are they inhabitants of country places? behold their houses with shattered windows--their barns with leaky roofs--their gardens overrun with weeds--their fields with broken fences--their hogs without yokes--their sheep without wool--their cattle and horses without fat--and their children, filthy and half-clad, without manners, principles, and morals. this picture of agricultural wretchedness is seldom of long duration. the farms and property thus neglected and depreciated, are seized and sold for the benefit of a group of creditors. the children that were born with the prospect of inheriting them, are bound out to service in the neighborhood; while their parents, the unworthy authors of their misfortunes, ramble into new and distant settlements, alternately fed on their way by the hand of charity, or a little casual labor. thus we see poverty and misery, crimes and infamy, diseases and death, are all the natural and usual consequences of the intemperate use of ardent spirits. i have classed death among the consequences of hard drinking. but it is not death from the immediate hand of the deity, nor from any of the instruments of it which were created by him: it is death from _suicide_. yes, thou poor degraded creature who art daily lifting the poisoned bowl to thy lips, cease to avoid the unhallowed ground in which the self-murderer is interred, and wonder no longer that the sun should shine, and the rain fall, and the grass look green upon his grave. _thou_ art perpetrating gradually, by the use of ardent spirits, what he has effected suddenly by opium or a halter. considering how many circumstances from surprise, or derangement, may palliate his guilt, or that, unlike yours, it was not preceded and accompanied by any other crime, it is probable his condemnation will be less than yours at the day of judgment. i shall now take notice of the occasions and circumstances which are supposed to render the use of ardent spirits necessary, and endeavor to show that the arguments in favor of their use in such cases are founded in error, and that in each of them ardent spirits, instead of affording strength to the body, increase the evils they are intended to relieve. . they are said to be necessary in very cold weather. this is far from being true, for the temporary warmth they produce is always succeeded by a greater disposition in the body to be affected by cold. warm dresses, a plentiful meal just before exposure to the cold, and eating occasionally a little gingerbread, or any other cordial food, is a much more durable method of preserving the heat of the body in cold weather. . they are said to be necessary in very warm weather. experience proves that they increase, instead of lessening the effects of heat upon the body, and thereby dispose to diseases of all kinds. even in the warm climate of the west indies, dr. bell asserts this to be true. "rum," says this author, "whether used habitually, moderately, or in excessive quantities, in the west indies, always diminishes the strength of the body, and renders men more susceptible of disease, and unfit for any service in which vigor or activity is required."[a] as well might we throw oil into a house, the roof of which was on fire, in order to prevent the flames from extending to its inside, as pour ardent spirits into the stomach to lessen the effects of a hot sun upon the skin. . nor do ardent spirits lessen the effects of hard labor upon the body. look at the horse, with every muscle of his body swelled from morning till night in the plough, or a team; does he make signs for a draught of toddy, or a glass of spirits, to enable him to cleave the ground, or to climb a hill? no; he requires nothing but cool water and substantial food. there is no nourishment in ardent spirits. the strength they produce in labor is of a transient nature, and is always followed by a sense of weakness and fatigue. danger from ardent spirits. every man is in danger of becoming a drunkard who is in the habit of drinking ardent spirits-- . when he is warm. . when he is cold. . when he is wet. . when he is dry. . when he is dull. . when he is lively. . when he travels. . when he is at home. . when he is in company. . when he is alone. . when he is at work. . when he is idle. . before meals. . after meals. . when he gets up. . when he goes to bed. . on holidays. . on public occasions. . on any day; or, . on any occasion. [footnote a: see his "inquiry into the causes which produce, and the means of preventing diseases among british officers, soldiers, and others, in the west indies."] on the traffic in ardent spirit. ardent spirit is composed of alcohol and water, in nearly equal proportions. alcohol is composed of hydrogen, carbon, and oxygen, in the proportion of about fourteen, fifty-two, and thirty-four parts to the hundred. it is, in its nature, as manifested by its effects, a _poison_. when taken in any quantity it disturbs healthy action in the human system, and in large doses suddenly destroys life. it resembles opium in its nature, and arsenic in its effects. and though when mixed with water, as in ardent spirit, its evils are somewhat modified, they are by no means prevented. ardent spirit is an enemy to the human constitution, and cannot be used as a drink without injury. its ultimate tendency invariably is, to produce weakness, not strength; sickness, not health; death, not life. consequently, to use it is an immorality. it is a violation of the will of god, and a sin in magnitude equal to all the evils, temporal and eternal, which flow from it. nor can the furnishing of ardent spirit for the use of others be accounted a less sin, inasmuch as this tends to produce evils greater than for an individual merely to drink it. and if a man knows, or has the opportunity of knowing, the nature and effects of the traffic in this article, and yet continues to be engaged in it, he may justly be regarded as an immoral man; and for the following reasons, viz. ardent spirit, as a drink, is _not needful_. all men lived without it, and all the business of the world was conducted without it, for thousands of years. it is not three hundred years since it began to be generally used as a drink in great britain, nor one hundred years since it became common in america. of course it is not needful. it is _not useful_. those who do not use it are, other things being equal, in all respects better than those who do. nor does the fact that persons have used it with more or less frequency, in a greater or smaller quantity, for a longer or shorter time, render it either needful, or useful, or harmless, or right for them to continue to use it. more than a million of persons in this country, and multitudes in other countries, who once did use it, and thought it needful, have, within five years, ceased to use it, and they have found that they are in all respects better without it. and this number is so great, of all ages, and conditions, and employments, as to render it certain, should the experiment be fairly made, that this would be the case with all. of course, ardent spirit, as a drink, is not useful. it is _hurtful_. its whole influence is injurious to the body and the mind for this world and the world to come. . it forms an _unnecessary, artificial, and very dangerous appetite_; which, by gratification, like the desire for sinning, in the man who sins, tends continually to increase. no man can form this appetite without increasing his danger of dying a drunkard, and exerting an influence which tends to perpetuate drunkenness, and all its abominations, to the end of the world. its very formation, therefore, is a violation of the will of god. it is, in its nature, an immorality, and springs from an inordinate desire of a kind or degree of bodily enjoyment--animal gratification, which god has shown to be inconsistent with his glory, and the highest good of man. it shows that the person who forms it is not satisfied with the proper gratification of those appetites and passions which god has given him, or with that kind and degree of bodily enjoyment which infinite wisdom and goodness have prescribed as the utmost that can be possessed consistently with a person's highest happiness and usefulness, the glory of his maker, and the good of the universe. that person covets more animal enjoyment; to obtain it he forms a new appetite, and in doing this he rebels against god. that desire for increased animal enjoyment from which rebellion springs is sin, and all the evils which follow in its train are only so many voices by which jehovah declares "the way of transgressors is hard." the person who has formed an appetite for ardent spirit, and feels uneasy if he does not gratify it, has violated the divine arrangement, disregarded the divine will, and if he understands the nature of what he has done, and approves of it, and continues in it, it will ruin him. he will show that there is one thing in which he will not have god to reign over him. and should he keep the whole law, and yet continue knowingly, habitually, wilfully, and perseveringly to offend in that one point, he will perish. then, and then only, according to the bible, can any man be saved, when he has respect to all the known will of god, and is disposed to be governed by it. he must carry out into practice, with regard to the body and the soul, "not my will, but thine be done." his grand object must be, to know the will of god, and when he knows it, to be governed by it, and with regard to all things. this, the man who is not contented with that portion of animal enjoyment which the proper gratification of the appetites and passions which god has given him will afford, but forms an appetite for ardent spirit, or continues to gratify it after it is formed, does not do. in this respect, if he understands the nature and effects of his actions, he prefers his own will to the known will of god, and is ripening to hear, from the lips of his judge, "those mine enemies, that would not that i should _reign_ over them, bring them hither and slay them before me." and the men who traffic in this article, or furnish it as a drink for others, are tempting them to sin, and thus uniting their influence with that of the devil for ever to ruin them. this is an aggravated immorality, and the men who continue to do it are immoral men. . the use of ardent spirit, to which the traffic is accessory, causes a great and wicked _waste of property_. all that the users pay for this article is to them lost, and worse than lost. should the whole which they use sink into the earth, or mingle with the ocean, it would be better for them, and better for the community, than for them to drink it. all which it takes to support the paupers, and prosecute the crimes which ardent spirit occasions, is, to those who pay the money, utterly lost. all the diminution of profitable labor which it occasions, through improvidence, idleness, dissipation, intemperance, sickness, insanity, and premature deaths, is to the community so much utterly lost. and these items, as has often been shown, amount in the united states to more than $ , , a year. to this enormous and wicked waste of property, those who traffic in the article are knowingly accessory. a portion of what is thus lost by others, they obtain themselves; but without rendering to others any valuable equivalent. this renders their business palpably unjust; as really so as if they should obtain that money by gambling; and it is as really immoral. it is also unjust in another respect: it burdens the community with taxes both for the support of pauperism, and for the prosecution of crimes, and without rendering to that community any adequate compensation. these taxes, as shown by facts, are four times as great as they would be if there were no sellers of ardent spirit. all the profits, with the exception perhaps of a mere pittance which he pays for license, the seller puts into his own pocket, while the burdens are thrown upon the community. this is palpably unjust, and utterly immoral. of , paupers in different almshouses in the united states, , , according to the testimony of the overseers of the poor, were made such by spirituous liquor. and of , criminals in different prisons, more than , were either intemperate men, or were under the power of intoxicating liquor when the crimes for which they were imprisoned were committed. and of murders, according to the testimony of those who prosecuted or conducted the defence of the murderers, or witnessed their trials, were committed by intemperate men, or upon intemperate men, or those who at the time of the murder were under the power of strong drink. the hon. felix grundy, united states senator from tennessee, after thirty years' extensive practice as a lawyer, gives it as his opinion that four-fifths of all the crimes committed in the united states can be traced to intemperance. a similar proportion is stated, from the highest authority, to result from the same cause in great britain. and when it is considered that more than murders are committed, and more than , crimes are prosecuted in the united states in a year, and that such a vast proportion of them are occasioned by ardent spirit, can a doubt remain on the mind of any sober man, that the men who know these facts, and yet continue to traffic in this article, are among the chief causes of crime, and ought to be viewed and treated as immoral men? it is as really immoral for a man, by doing wrong, to excite others to commit crimes, as to commit them himself; and as really unjust wrongfully to take another's property with his consent, as without it. and though it might not be desirable to have such a law, yet no law in the statute-book is more righteous than one which should require that those who make paupers should support them, and those who excite others to commit crimes, should pay the cost of their prosecution, and should, with those who commit them, bear all the evils. and so long as this is not the case they will be guilty, according to the divine law, of defrauding, as well as tempting and corrupting their fellow-men. and though such crimes cannot be prosecuted, and justice be awarded in human courts, their perpetrators will be held to answer, and will meet with full and awful retribution at the divine tribunal. and when judgment is laid to the line, and righteousness to the plummet, they will appear as they really are, criminals, and will be viewed and treated as such for ever. there is another view in which the traffic in ardent spirit is manifestly highly immoral. it exposes the children of those who use it, in an eminent degree, to dissipation and crime. of children prosecuted and imprisoned for crimes, more than were from intemperate families. thus the venders of this liquor exert an influence which tends strongly to ruin not only those who use it, but their children; to render them far more liable to idleness, profligacy, and ruin, than the children of those who do not use it; and through them to extend these evils to others, and to perpetuate them to future generations. this is a sin of which all who traffic in ardent spirit are guilty. often the deepest pang which a dying parent feels for his children, is lest, through the instrumentality of such men, they should be ruined. and is it not horrible wickedness for them, by exposing for sale one of the chief causes of this ruin, to tempt them in the way to death? if he who takes money from others without an equivalent, or wickedly destroys property, is an immoral man, what is he who destroys character, who corrupts children and youth, and exerts an influence to extend and perpetuate immorality and crime through future generations? this every vender of ardent spirit does; and if he continues in this business with a knowledge of the subject, it marks him as an habitual and persevering violater of the will of god. . ardent spirit _impairs_, and often _destroys reason_. of maniacs in different insane hospitals, , according to the testimony of their own friends, were rendered maniacs by strong drink. and the physicians who had the care of them gave it as their opinion, that this was the case with many of the others. those who have had extensive experience, and the best opportunities for observation with regard to this malady, have stated, that probably from one-half to three-fourths of the cases of insanity, in many places, are occasioned in the same way. ardent spirit is a poison so diffusive and subtile that it is found, by actual experiment, to penetrate even the brain. dr. kirk, of scotland, dissected a man a few hours after death who died in a fit of intoxication; and from the lateral ventricles of the brain he took a fluid distinctly visible to the smell as whiskey; and when he applied a candle to it in a spoon, it took fire and burnt blue; "the lambent blue flame," he says, "characteristic of the poison, playing on the surface of the spoon for some seconds." it produces also, in the children of those who use it freely, a predisposition to intemperance, insanity, and various diseases of both body and mind, which, if the cause is continued, becomes hereditary, and is transmitted from generation to generation; occasioning a diminution of size, strength, and energy, a feebleness of vision, a feebleness and imbecility of purpose, an obtuseness of intellect, a depravation of moral taste, a premature old age, and a general deterioration of the whole character. this is the case in every country, and in every age. instances are known where the first children of a family, who were born when their parents were temperate, have been healthy, intelligent, and active; while the last children, who were born after the parents had become intemperate, were dwarfish and idiotic. a medical gentleman writes, "i have no doubt that a disposition to nervous diseases of a peculiar character is transmitted by drunken parents." another gentleman states that, in two families within his knowledge, the different stages of intemperance in the parents seemed to be marked by a corresponding deterioration in the bodies and minds of the children. in one case, the eldest of the family is respectable, industrious, and accumulates property; the next is inferior, disposed to be industrious, but spends all he can earn in strong drink. the third is dwarfish in body and mind, and, to use his own language, "a poor, miserable remnant of a man." in another family of daughters, the first is a smart, active girl, with an intelligent, well-balanced mind; the others are afflicted with different degrees of mental weakness and imbecility, and the youngest is an idiot. another medical gentleman states, that the first child of a family, who was born when the habits of the mother were good, was healthy and promising; while the four last children, who were born after the mother had become addicted to the habit of using opium, appeared to be stupid; and all, at about the same age, sickened and died of a disease apparently occasioned by the habits of the mother. another gentleman mentions a case more common, and more appalling still. a respectable and influential man early in life adopted the habit of using a little ardent spirit daily, because, as he thought, it did him good. he and his six children, three sons and three daughters, are now in the drunkard's grave, and the only surviving child is rapidly following in the same way, to the same dismal end. the best authorities attribute one-half the madness, three-fourths of the pauperism, end four-fifths of the crimes and wretchedness in great britain to the use of strong drink. . ardent spirit increases the number, frequency, and violence of _diseases_, and tends to bring those who use it to a premature grave. in portsmouth, new hampshire, of about , people, twenty-one persons were killed by it in a year. in salem, massachusetts, of deaths, twenty were occasioned in the same way. of ninety-one adults who died in new haven, connecticut, in one year, thirty-two, according to the testimony of the medical association, were occasioned, directly or indirectly, by strong drink, and a similar proportion had been occasioned by it in previous years. in new brunswick, new jersey, of sixty-seven adult deaths in one year, more than one-third were caused by intoxicating liquor. in philadelphia, of , deaths, were, in the opinion of the college of physicians and surgeons, caused in the same way. the physicians of annapolis, maryland, state that, of thirty-two persons, male and female, who died in , above eighteen years of age, ten, or nearly one-third, died of diseases occasioned by intemperance; that eighteen were males, and that of these, nine, or one-half, died of intemperance. they also say, "when we recollect that even the temperate use, as it is called, of ardent spirits, lays the foundation of a numerous train of incurable maladies, we feel justified in expressing the belief, that were the use of distilled liquors entirely discontinued, the number of deaths among the male adults would be diminished at least one-half." says an eminent physician, "since our people generally have given up the use of spirit, they have not had more than half as much sickness as they had before; and i have no doubt, should all the people of the united states cease to use it, that nearly half the sickness of the country would cease." says another, after forty years' extensive practice, "half the men every year who die of fevers might recover, had they not been in the habit of using ardent spirit. many a man, down for weeks with a fever, had he not used ardent spirit, would not have been confined to his house a day. he might have felt a slight headache, but a little fasting would have removed the difficulty, and the man been well. and many a man who was never intoxicated, when visited with a fever, might be raised up as well as not, were it not for that state of the system which daily moderate drinking occasions, who now, in spite of all that can be done, sinks down and dies." nor are we to admit for a moment the popular reasoning, as applicable here, "that the abuse of a thing is no argument against its use;" for, in the language of the late secretary of the college of physicians and surgeons of philadelphia, samuel emlen, m. d., "all use of ardent spirits," _i. e._ as a drink, "is an abuse. they are mischievous under all circumstances." their tendency, says dr. frank, when used even moderately, is to induce disease, premature old age, and death. and dr. trotter states, that no cause of disease has so wide a range, or so large a share, as the use of spirituous liquors. dr. harris states, that the _moderate_ use of spirituous liquors has destroyed many who were never drunk; and dr. kirk gives it as his opinion, that men who were never considered intemperate, by daily drinking have often shortened life more than twenty years; and that the respectable use of this poison kills more men than even drunkenness. dr. wilson gives it as his opinion, that the use of spirit in large cities causes more diseases than confined air, unwholesome exhalations, and the combined influence of all other evils. dr. cheyne, of dublin, ireland, after thirty years' practice and observation, gives it as his opinion, that should ten young men begin at twenty-one years of age to use but one glass of two ounces a day, and never increase the quantity, nine out of ten would shorten life more than ten years. but should moderate drinkers shorten life only five years, and drunkards only ten, and should there be but four moderate drinkers to one drunkard, it would in thirty years cut off in the united states , , years of human life. an aged physician in maryland states, that when the fever breaks out there, the men who do not use ardent spirit are not half as likely as other men to have it; and that if they do have it, they are ten times as likely to recover. in the island of key west, on the coast of florida, after a great mortality, it was found that every person who had died had been in the habit of using ardent spirit. the quantity used was afterwards diminished more than nine-tenths, and the inhabitants became remarkably healthy. a gentleman of great respectability from the south, states, that those who fall victims to southern climes, are almost invariably addicted to the free use of ardent spirit. dr. mosely, after a long residence in the west indies, declares, "that persons who drink nothing but cold water, or make it their principal drink, are but little affected by tropical climates; that they undergo the greatest fatigue without inconvenience, and are not so subject as others to dangerous diseases;" and dr. bell, "that rum, when used even moderately, always diminishes the strength, and renders men more susceptible of disease; and that we might as well throw oil into a house, the roof of which is on fire, in order to prevent the flames from extending to the inside, as to pour ardent spirits into the stomach to prevent the effect of a hot sun upon the skin." of seventy-seven persons found dead in different regions of country, sixty-seven, according to the coroners' inquests, were occasioned by strong drink. nine-tenths of those who die suddenly after the drinking of cold water, have been habitually addicted to the free use of ardent spirit; and that draught of cold water, that effort, or fatigue, or exposure to the sun, or disease, which a man who uses no ardent spirit will bear without inconvenience or danger, will often kill those who use it. their liability to sickness and to death is often increased tenfold. and to all these evils, those who continue to traffic in it, after all the light which god in his providence has thrown upon the subject, are knowingly accessory. whether they deal in it by whole sale or retail, by the cargo or the glass, they are, in their influence, drunkard-makers. so are also those who furnish the materials; those who advertise the liquors, and thus promote their circulation; those who lease their tenements to be employed as dram-shops, or stores for the sale of ardent spirit; and those also who purchase their groceries of spirit dealers rather than of others, for the purpose of saving to the amount which the sale of ardent spirit enables such men, without loss, to undersell their neighbors. these are all accessory to the making of drunkards, and as such will be held to answer at the divine tribunal. so are those men who employ their shipping in transporting the liquors, or are in any way knowingly aiding and abetting in perpetuating their use as a drink in the community. it is estimated that four-fifths of those who were swept away by the late direful visitation of cholera, were such as had been addicted to the use of intoxicating drink. dr. bronson, of albany, who spent some time in canada, and whose professional character and standing give great weight to his opinions, says, "intemperance of any species, but particularly intemperance in the use of _distilled liquors_, has been a more productive cause of cholera than any other, and indeed than all others." and can men, for the sake of money, make it a business knowingly and perseveringly to furnish the most productive cause of cholera, and not be guilty of _blood_--not manifest a recklessness of character which will brand the mark of vice and infamy on their foreheads? "drunkards and tipplers," he adds, "have been searched out with such unerring certainty as to show that the arrows of death have not been dealt out with indiscrimination. an indescribable terror has spread through the ranks of this class of beings. they see the bolts of destruction aimed at their heads, and every one calls himself a victim. there seems to be a natural affinity between cholera and ardent spirit." what, then, in days of exposure to this malady, is so great a nuisance as the places which furnish this poison? says dr. rhinelander, who, with dr. de kay, was deputed from new york to visit canada, "we may be asked who are the victims of this disease? i answer, the intemperate it invariably cuts off." in montreal, after , had been attacked, a montreal paper states, that "not a drunkard who has been attacked has recovered of the disease, and almost all the victims have been at least _moderate_ drinkers." in paris, the , victims were, with few exceptions, those who freely used intoxicating liquors. nine-tenths of those who died of the cholera in poland were of the same class. in st. petersburgh and moscow, the average number of deaths in the bills of mortality, during the prevalence of the cholera, when the people ceased to drink brandy, was no greater than when they used it during the usual months of health--showing that brandy, and attendant dissipation, killed as many people in the same time as even the cholera itself, that pestilence which has spread sackcloth over the nations. and shall the men who know this, and yet continue to furnish it for all who can be induced to buy, escape the execration of being the destroyers of their race? of more than , deaths in montreal, it is stated that only two were members of temperance societies. it was also stated, that as far as was known no members of temperance societies in ireland, scotland, or england, had yet fallen victims to that dreadful disease. from montreal, dr. bronson writes, "cholera has stood up here, as it has done everywhere, the advocate of temperance. it has pleaded most eloquently, and with tremendous effect. the disease has searched out the haunt of the drunkard, and has seldom left it without bearing away its victim. even _moderate_ drinkers have been but little better off. ardent spirits, in any shape, and in all quantities, have been _highly_ detrimental. some temperate men resorted to them during the prevalence of the malady as a preventive, or to remove the feeling of uneasiness about the stomach, or for the purpose of drowning their apprehensions, but they did it at their peril." says the london morning herald, after stating that the cholera fastens its deadly grasp upon this class of men, "the same preference for the intemperate and uncleanly has characterized the cholera _everywhere_. intemperance is a qualification which it never overlooks. often has it passed harmless over a wide population of temperate country people, and poured down, as an overflowing scourge, upon the drunkards of some distant town." says another english publication, "all experience, both in great britain and elsewhere, has proved that those who have been addicted to drinking spirituous liquors, and indulging in irregular habits, have been the greatest sufferers from cholera. in some towns the drunkards are all dead." rammohun fingee, the famous indian doctor, says, with regard to india, that people who do not take opium, or spirits, do not take this disorder even when they are with those who have it. monsieur huber, who saw , persons perish in twenty-five days in one town in russia, says, "it is a most remarkable circumstance, that persons given to drinking have been swept away like flies. in tiflis, containing , inhabitants, every drunkard has fallen--all are dead, not one remains." dr. sewall, of washington city, in a letter from new york, states, that of cases of cholera in the park hospital, there were only six temperate persons, and that those had recovered; while of the others, when he wrote, had died; and that the facts were similar in all the other hospitals. in albany, a careful examination was made by respectable gentlemen into the cases of those who died of the cholera in that city in , over sixteen years of age. the result was examined in detail by nine physicians, members of the medical staff attached to the board of health in that city--all who belong to it, except two, who were at that time absent--and published at their request under the signature of the chancellor of the state, and the five distinguished gentlemen who compose the executive committee of the new york state temperance society, and is as follows: number of deaths, ; viz. intemperate, ; free drinkers, ; moderate drinkers, mostly habitual, ; strictly temperate, who drank no ardent spirits, ; members of temperance societies, ; and when it is recollected that of more than , members of temperance societies in the city of albany, only two, not one in , , fell by this disease, while it cut off more than one in fifty of the inhabitants of that city, we cannot but feel that men who furnish ardent spirit as a drink for their fellow-men, are manifestly inviting the ravages, and preparing the victims of this fatal malady, and of numerous other mortal diseases; and when inquisition is made for blood, and the effects of their employment are examined for the purpose of rendering to them according to their work, they will be found, should they continue, to be guilty of knowingly destroying their fellow-men. what right have men, by selling ardent spirit, to increase the danger, extend the ravages, and augment and perpetuate the malignancy of the cholera, and multiply upon the community numerous other mortal diseases? who cannot see that it is a foul, deep, and fatal injury inflicted on society? that it is in a high degree cruel and unjust? that it scatters the population of our cities, renders our business stagnant, and exposes our sons and our daughters to premature and sudden death? so manifestly is this the case, that the board of health of the city of washington, on the approach of the cholera, declared the vending of ardent spirit, _in any quantity_, to be a _nuisance_; and, as such, ordered that it be discontinued for the space of ninety days. this was done in self-defence, to save the community from the sickness and death which the vending of spirit is adapted to occasion. nor is this tendency to occasion disease and death confined to the time when the cholera is raging. by the statement of the physicians in annapolis, maryland, it appears that the average number of deaths by intemperance for several years, has been one to every inhabitants; which would make in the united states , in a year. and it is the opinion of physicians, that as many more die of diseases which are induced, or aggravated, and rendered mortal by the use of ardent spirit. and to those results, all who make it, sell it, or use it, are accessory. it is a principle in law, that the perpetrator of crime, and the accessory to it, are both guilty, and deserving of punishment. men have been brought to the gallows on this principle. it applies to the law of god. and as the drunkard cannot go to heaven, can drunkard-makers? are they not, when tried by the principles of the bible, in view of the developments of providence, manifestly immoral men? men who, for the sake of money, will knowingly be instrumental in corrupting the character, increasing the diseases, and destroying the lives of their fellow-men? "but," says one, "i never sell to drunkards; i sell only to sober men." and is that any better? is it a less evil to the community to make drunkards of sober men than it is to kill drunkards? ask that widowed mother who did her the greatest evil: the man who only killed her drunken husband, or the man who made a drunkard of her only son? ask those orphan children who did them the greatest injury: the man who made their once sober, kind, and affectionate father a drunkard, and thus blasted all their hopes, and turned their home, sweet home, into the emblem of hell; or the man who, after they had suffered for years the anguish, the indescribable anguish of the drunkard's children, and seen their heart-broken mother in danger of an untimely grave, only killed their drunken father, and thus caused in their habitation a great calm? which of these two men brought upon them the greatest evil? can you doubt? you, then, do nothing but make drunkards of sober men, or expose them to become such. suppose that all the evils which you may be instrumental in bringing upon other children, were to come upon your own, and that _you_ were to bear all the anguish which you may occasion; would you have any doubt that the man who would knowingly continue to be accessory to the bringing of these evils upon you, must be a notoriously wicked man? . ardent spirit destroys the _soul_. facts in great numbers are now before the public, which show conclusively that the use of ardent spirit tends strongly to hinder the moral and spiritual illumination and purification of men; and thus to prevent their salvation, and bring upon them the horrors of the second death. a disease more dreadful than the cholera, or any other that kills the body merely, is raging, and is universal, threatening the endless death of the soul. a remedy is provided all-sufficient, and infinitely efficacious; but the use of ardent spirit aggravates the disease, and with millions and millions prevents the application of the remedy and its effect. it appears from the fifth report of the american temperance society, that more than four times as many, in proportion to the number, over wide regions of country, during the preceding year, have apparently embraced the gospel, and experienced its saving power, from among those who had renounced the use of ardent spirit, as from those who continued to use it. the committee of the new york state temperance society, in view of the peculiar and unprecedented attention to religion which followed the adoption of the plan of abstinence from the use of strong drink, remark, that when this course is taken, the greatest enemy to the work of the holy spirit on the minds and hearts of men, appears to be more than half conquered. in three hundred towns, six-tenths of those who two years ago belonged to temperance societies, but were not hopefully pious, have since become so; and eight-tenths of those who have within that time become hopefully pious, who did not belong to temperance societies, have since joined them. in numerous places, where only a minority of the people abstained from the use of ardent spirit, nine-tenths of those who have of late professed the religion of christ, have been from that minority. this is occasioned in various ways. the use of ardent spirit keeps many away from the house of god, and thus prevents them from coming under the sound of the gospel. and many who do come, it causes to continue stupid, worldly-minded, and unholy. a single glass a day is enough to keep multitudes of men, under the full blaze of the gospel, from ever experiencing its illuminating and purifying power. even if they come to the light, and it shines upon them, it shines upon darkness, and the darkness does not comprehend it; while multitudes who thus do evil will not come to the light, lest their deeds should be reproved. there is a total contrariety between the effect produced by the holy spirit, and the effect of spirituous liquor upon the minds and hearts of men. the latter tends directly and powerfully to counteract the former. it tends to make men feel in a manner which jesus christ hates, rich spiritually, increased in goods, and in need of nothing; while it tends for ever to prevent them from feeling, as sinners must feel, to buy of him gold tried in the fire, that they may be rich. those who use it, therefore, are taking the direct course to destroy their own souls; and those who furnish it, are taking the course to destroy the souls of their fellow-men. in one town, more than twenty times as many, in proportion to the number, professed the religion of christ during the past year, of those who did not use ardent spirit, as of those who did; and in another town more than thirty times as many. in other towns, in which from one-third to two-thirds of the people did not use it, and from twenty to forty made a profession of religion, they were all from the same class. what, then, are those men doing who furnish it, but taking the course which is adapted to keep men stupid in sin till they sink into the agonies of the second death? and is not this an immorality of a high and aggravated description? and one which ought to mark every man who understands its nature and effects, and yet continues to live in it, as a notoriously immoral man? what though he does not live in other immoralities--is not this enough? suppose he should manufacture poisonous miasma, and cause the cholera in our dwellings; sell, knowingly, the cause of disease, and increase more than one-fifth over wide regions of country the number of adult deaths, would he not be a murderer? "i know," says the learned judge crunch, "that the cup" which contains ardent spirit "is poisoned; i know that it may cause death, that it may cause more than death, that it may lead to crime, to sin, to the tortures of everlasting remorse. am i not, then, a murderer? worse than a murderer? as much worse as the soul is better than the body? if ardent spirits were nothing worse than a deadly poison--if they did not excite and inflame all the evil passions--if they did not dim that heavenly light which the almighty has implanted in our bosoms to guide us through the obscure passages of our pilgrimage--if they did not quench the holy spirit in our hearts, they would be comparatively harmless. it is their moral effect--it is the ruin of the _soul_ which they produce, that renders them so dreadful. the difference between death by simple poison, and death by habitual intoxication, may extend to the whole difference between everlasting happiness and eternal death." and, say the new york state society, at the head of which is the chancellor of the state, "disguise that business as they will, it is still, in its true character, the business of destroying the bodies and souls of men. the vender and the maker of spirits, in the whole range of them, from the pettiest grocer to the most extensive distiller, are fairly chargeable, not only with _supplying_ the appetite for spirits, but with _creating_ that unnatural appetite; not only with supplying the drunkard with the fuel of his vices, but with _making_ the drunkard. "in reference to the taxes with which the making and vending of spirits loads the community, how unfair towards others is the occupation of the maker and vender of them! a town, for instance, contains one hundred drunkards. the profit of making these drunkards is enjoyed by some half a dozen persons; but the burden of these drunkards rests upon the whole town. we do not suggest that there should be such a law, but we ask whether there would be one law in the whole statute-book more _righteous_ than that which should require those who have the profit of making our drunkards to be burdened with the support of them." multitudes who once cherished the fond anticipation of happiness in this life and that to come, there is reason to believe, are now wailing beyond the reach of hope, through the influence of ardent spirit; and multitudes more, if men continue to furnish it as a drink, especially sober men, will go down to weep and wail with them to endless ages. * * * * * "but," says one, "the traffic in ardent spirit is a lawful business; it is approbated by law, and is therefore right." but the keeping of gambling houses is, in some cases, approbated by human law. is that therefore right? the keeping of brothels is, in some cases, approbated by law. is that therefore right? is it human law that is the standard of morality and religion? may not a man be a notoriously wicked man, and yet not violate human law? the question is, is it right? does it accord with the divine law? does it tend in its effects to bring glory to god in the highest, and to promote the best good of mankind? if not, the word of god forbids it; and if a man who has the means of understanding its nature and effects continues to follow it, he does it at the peril of his soul. "but," says another, "if i should not sell it, i could not sell so many other things." if you could not, then you are forbidden by the word of god to sell so many other things. and if you continue to make money by that which tends to destroy your fellow-men, you incur the displeasure of jehovah. "but if i should not sell it, i must change my business." then you are required by the lord to change your business. a voice from the throne of his excellent glory cries, "turn ye, turn ye from this evil way; for why will ye die?" "if i should turn from it, i could not support my family." this is not true; at least, no one has a right to say that it is true till he has tried it, and done his whole duty by ceasing to do evil and learning to do well, trusting in god, and has found that his family is not supported. jehovah declares, that such as seek the lord, and are governed by his will, shall not want any good thing. and till men have made the experiment of obeying him in all things, and found that they cannot support their families, they have no right to say that it is necessary for them to sell ardent spirit. and if they do say this, it is a libel on the divine character and government. there is no truth in it. he who feeds the sparrow and clothes the lily, will, if they do right, provide for them and their families; and there is no shadow of necessity, in order to obtain support, for them to carry on a business which destroys their fellow-men. "but others will do it, if i do not." others will send out their vessels, steal the black man, and sell him and his children into perpetual bondage, if you do not. others will steal, rob, and commit murder, if you do not; and why may not you do it, and have a portion of the profit, as well as they? because, if you do, you will be a thief, a robber, and a murderer, like them. you will here be partaker of their guilt, and hereafter of their plagues. every friend, therefore, to you, to your maker, or the eternal interests of men, will, if acquainted with this subject, say to you, as you value the favor of god, and would escape his righteous and eternal indignation, renounce this work of death; for he that soweth death, shall also reap death. "but our fathers imported, manufactured, and sold ardent spirit, and were they not good men? have not they gone to heaven?" men who professed to be good once had a multiplicity of wives, and have not some of them too gone to heaven? men who professed to be good once were engaged in the slave-trade, and have not some of them gone to heaven? but can men who understand the will of god with regard to these subjects, continue to do such things now, and yet go to heaven? the principle which applies in this case, and which makes the difference between those who did such things once, and those who continue to do them now, is that to which jesus christ referred when he said, "if i had not come and spoken to them, they had not had sin; but now they have no cloak for their sin." the days of that darkness and ignorance which god may have winked at have gone by, and he now commandeth all men to whom his will is made known to repent. your fathers, when they were engaged in selling ardent spirit, did not know that all men, under all circumstances, would be better without it. they did not know that it caused three-quarters of the pauperism and crime in the land--that it deprived many of reason--greatly increased the number and severity of diseases, and brought down such multitudes to an untimely grave. the facts had not then been collected and published. they did not know that it tended so fatally to obstruct the progress of the gospel, and ruin, for eternity, the souls of men. you do know it, or have the means of knowing it. you cannot sin with as little guilt as did your fathers. the facts, which are the voice of god in his providence, and manifest his will, are now before the world. by them he has come and spoken to you. and if you continue, under these circumstances, to violate his will, you will have no cloak, no covering, no excuse for your sin. and though sentence against this evil work is not executed at once, judgment, if you continue, will not linger, nor will damnation slumber. the accessory and the principal, in the commission of crime, are both guilty. both by human laws are condemned. the principle applies to the law of god; and not only drunkards, but drunkard-makers--not only murderers, but those who excite others to commit murder, and furnish them with the known cause of their evil deeds, will, if they understand what they do, and continue thus to rebel against god, be shut out of heaven. among the jews, if a man had a beast that went out and killed a man, the beast, said jehovah, shall be slain, and his flesh shall not be eaten. the owner must lose the whole of him as a testimony to the sacredness of human life, and a warning to all not to do any thing, or connive at any thing that tended to destroy it. but the owner, if he did not know that the beast was dangerous, and liable to kill, was not otherwise to be punished. but if he did know, if it had been testified to the owner that the beast was dangerous, and liable to kill, and he did not keep him in, but let him go out, and he killed a man, then, by the direction of jehovah, the beast and the owner were both to be put to death. the owner, under these circumstances, was held responsible, and justly too, for the injury which his beast might do. though men are not required or permitted now to execute this law, as they were when god was the magistrate, yet the reason of the law remains. it is founded in justice, and is eternal. to the pauperism, crime, sickness, insanity, and death temporal and eternal, which ardent spirit occasions, those who knowingly furnish the materials, those who manufacture, and those who sell it, are all accessory, and as such will be held responsible at the divine tribunal. there was a time when the owners did not know the dangerous and destructive qualities of this article--when the facts had not been developed and published, nor the minds of men turned to the subject; when they did not know that it caused such a vast portion of the vice and wretchedness of the community, and such wide-spreading desolation to the temporal and eternal interests of men; and although it then destroyed thousands, for both worlds, the guilt of the men who sold it was comparatively small. but now they sin against light, pouring down upon them with unutterable brightness; and if they know what they do, and in full view of its consequences continue that work of death--not only let the poison go out, but furnish it, and send it out to all who are disposed to purchase--it had been better for them, and better for many others, if they had never been born. for, briefly to sum up what we have said, . it is the selling of that, without the use of which nearly all the business of this world was conducted, till within less than three hundred years, and which of course is not _needful_. . it is the selling of that which was not generally used by the people of this country for more than a hundred years after the country was settled, and which by hundreds of thousands, and some in all kinds of lawful business, is not used now. once they did use it, and thought it needful or useful. but by experiment, the best evidence in the world, they have found that they were mistaken, and that they are in all respects better without it. and the cases are so numerous as to make it _certain_, that should the experiment be fairly made, this would be the case with all. of course it is not _useful_. . it is the selling of that which is a real, a subtile and very destructive _poison_--a poison which, by men in health, cannot be taken without deranging healthy action, and inducing more or less disease, both of body and mind; which is, when taken in any quantity, positively _hurtful_; and which is of course forbidden by the word of god. . it is the selling of that which tends to form an unnatural, and a very dangerous and destructive appetite; which, by gratification, like the desire of sinning in the man who sins, tends continually to increase, and which thus exposes all who form it to come to a _premature grave_. . it is the selling of that which causes a great portion of all the pauperism in our land; and thus, for the benefit of a few--those who sell--brings an enormous tax on the whole community. is this fair? is it just? is it not exposing our children and youth to become drunkards? and is it not inflicting great evils on society? . it is the selling of that which excites to a great portion of all the crimes that are committed, and which is thus shown to be in its effects hostile to the moral government of god, and to the social, civil, and religious interests of men; at war with their highest good, both for this life and the life to come. . it is the selling of that, the sale and use of which, if continued, will form intemperate appetites, which, if formed, will be gratified, and thus will perpetuate intemperance and all its abominations to the end of the world. . it is the selling of that which makes wives widows, and children orphans; which leads husbands often to murder their wives, and wives to murder their husbands; parents to murder their children, and children to murder their parents; and which prepares multitudes for the prison, for the gallows, and for hell. . it is the selling of that which greatly increases the amount and severity of sickness; which in many cases destroys reason; which causes a great portion of all the sudden deaths, and brings down multitudes who were never intoxicated, and never condemned to suffer the penalty of the civil law, to an untimely grave. . it is the selling of that which tends to lessen the health, the reason, and the usefulness, to diminish the comfort, and shorten the lives of all who habitually use it. . it is the selling of that which darkens the understanding, sears the conscience, pollutes the affections, and debases all the powers of man. . it is the selling of that which weakens the power of motives to do right, and increases the power of motives to do wrong, and is thus shown to be in its effects hostile to the moral government of god, as well as to the temporal and eternal interests of men; which excites men to rebel against him, and to injure and destroy one another. and no man can sell it without exerting an influence which tends to hinder the reign of the lord jesus christ over the minds and hearts of men, and to lead them to persevere in iniquity, till, notwithstanding all the kindness of jehovah, their case shall become hopeless. * * * * * suppose a man, when about to commence the traffic in ardent spirit, should write in great capitals on his sign-board, to be seen and read of all men, what he will do, viz., that so many of the inhabitants of this town or city, he will, for the sake of getting their money, make paupers, and send them to the almshouse, and thus oblige the whole community to support them and their families; that so many others he will excite to the commission of crimes, and thus increase the expenses, and endanger the peace and welfare of the community; that so many he will send to the jail, and so many more to the state prison, and so many to the gallows; that so many he will visit with sore and distressing diseases; and in so many cases diseases which would have been comparatively harmless, he will by his poison render fatal; that in so many cases he will deprive persons of reason, and in so many cases will cause sudden death; that so many wives he will make widows, and so many children he will make orphans, and that in so many cases he will cause the children to grow up in ignorance, vice, and crime, and after being nuisances on earth, will bring them to a premature grave; that in so many cases he will prevent the efficacy of the gospel, grieve away the holy ghost, and ruin for eternity the souls of men. and suppose he could, and should give some faint conception of what it is to lose the soul, and of the overwhelming guilt and coming wretchedness of him who is knowingly instrumental in producing this ruin; and suppose he should put at the bottom of the sign this question, viz., what, you may ask, can be my object in acting so much like a devil incarnate, and bringing such accumulated wretchedness upon a comparatively happy people? and under it should put the true answer, money; and go on to say, i have a family to support; i want money, and must have it; this is my business, i was brought up to it; and if i should not follow it i must change my business, or i could not support my family. and as all faces begin to gather blackness at the approaching ruin, and all hearts to boil with indignation at its author, suppose he should add for their consolation, "if i do not bring this destruction upon you, somebody else will." what would they think of him? what would all the world think of him? what _ought_ they to think of him? and is it any worse for a man to tell the people beforehand honestly what he will do, if they buy and use his poison, than it is to go on and do it? and what if they are not aware of the mischief which he is doing them, and he can accomplish it through their own perverted and voluntary agency? is it not equally abominable, if _he knows_ it, and does not cease from producing it? and if there are churches whose members are doing such things, and those churches are not blessed with the presence and favor of the holy ghost, they need not be at any loss for the reason. and if they should _never_ again, while they continue in this state, be blessed with the reviving influence of god's spirit, they need not be at any loss for the reason. their own members are exerting a strong and fatal influence against it; and that too after divine providence has shown them what they are doing. and in many such cases there is awful guilt with regard to this thing resting upon the whole church. though they have known for years what these men were doing; have seen the misery, heard the oaths, witnessed the crimes, and known the wretchedness and deaths which they have occasioned, and perhaps have spoken of it, and deplored it among one another; many of them have never spoken on this subject to the persons themselves. they have seen them scattering firebrands, arrows, and death temporal and eternal, and yet have never so much as warned them on the subject, and never besought them to give up their work of death. an individual lately conversed with one of his professed christian brethren who was engaged in this traffic, and told him not only that he was ruining for both worlds many of his fellow-men, but that his christian brethren viewed his business as inconsistent with his profession, and tending to counteract all efforts for the salvation of men; and the man, after frankly acknowledging that it was wrong, said that this was the first time that any of them had conversed with him on the subject. this may be the case with other churches; and while it is, the whole church is conniving at the evil, and the whole church is guilty. every brother, in such a case, is bound, on his own account, to converse with him who is thus aiding the powers of darkness, and opposing the kingdom of jesus christ, and try to persuade him to cease from this destructive business. the whole church is bound to make efforts, and use all proper means to accomplish this result. and before half the individual members have done their duty on this subject, they may expect, if the offending brother has, and manifests the spirit of christ, that he will cease to be an offence to his brethren, and a stumbling-block to the world, over which such multitudes fall to the pit of woe. and till the church, the whole church, do their duty on this subject, they cannot be freed from the guilt of conniving at the evil. and no wonder if the lord leaves them to be as the mountains of gilboa, on which there was neither rain or dew. and should the church receive from the world those who make it a business to carry on this notoriously immoral traffic, they will greatly increase their guilt, and ripen for the awful displeasure of god. and unless members of the church shall cease to teach, by their business, the fatal error that it is right for men to buy and use ardent spirit as a drink, the evil will never be eradicated, intemperance will never cease, and the day of millennial glory never come. each individual who names the name of christ is called upon, by the providence of god, to act on this subject openly and decidedly for him, and in such a manner as is adapted to banish intemperance and all its abominations from the earth, and to cause temperance and all its attendant benefits universally to prevail. and if ministers of the gospel and members of christian churches do not connive at the sin of furnishing this poison as a drink for their fellow-men; and men who, in opposition to truth and duty, continue to be engaged in this destructive employment, are viewed and treated as wicked men; the work which the lord hath commenced and carried forward with a rapidity, and to an extent hitherto unexampled in the history of the world, will continue to move onward till not a name, nor a trace, nor a shadow of a drunkard, or a drunkard-maker, shall be found on the globe. professed christian--in the manufacture or sale of ardent spirit as a drink, you do not, and you cannot honor god; but you do, and, so long as you continue it, you will greatly dishonor him. you exert an influence which tends directly and strongly to ruin, for both worlds, your fellow-men. should you take a quantity of that poisonous liquid into your closet, present it before the lord, confess to him its nature and effects, spread out before him what it has done and what it will do, and attempt to ask him to bless you in extending its influence; it would, unless your conscience is already seared as with a hot iron, appear to you like blasphemy. you could no more do it than you could take the instruments of gambling and attempt to ask god to bless you in extending them through the community. and why not, if it is a lawful business? why not ask god to increase it, and make you an instrument in extending it over the country, and perpetuating it to all future generations? even the worldly and profane man, when he hears about professing christians offering prayer to god that he would bless them in the manufacture or sale of ardent spirit, involuntarily shrinks back and says, "that is too bad." he can see that it is an abomination. and if it is too bad for a professed christian to pray about it, is it not too bad for him to practise it? if you continue, under all the light which god in his providence has furnished with regard to its hurtful nature and destructive effects, to furnish ardent spirit as a drink for your fellow-men, you will run the fearful hazard of losing your soul, and you will exert an influence which powerfully tends to destroy the souls of your fellow-men. every time you furnish it you are rendering it less likely that they will be illuminated, sanctified, and saved, and more likely that they will continue in sin and go down to the chambers of death. it is always worse for a church-member to do an immoral act, and teach an immoral sentiment, than for an immoral man, because it does greater mischief. and this is understood, and often adverted to by the immoral themselves. even drunkards are now stating it to their fellow-drunkards, that church-members are not better than they. and to prove it, are quoting the fact, that although they are not drunkards, and perhaps do not get drunk, they, for the sake of money, carry on the business of making drunkards. and are not the men and their business of the same character? "the deacon," says a drunkard, "will not use ardent spirit himself: he says, 'it is poison!' but for six cents he will sell it to me. and though he will not furnish it to his own children, for he says, 'it will ruin them!' yet he will furnish it to mine. and there is my neighbor, who was once as sober as the deacon himself, but he had a pretty farm, which the deacon wanted, and for the sake of getting it he has made him a drunkard. and his wife, as good a woman as ever lived, has died of a broken heart, because her children would follow their father." no, you cannot convince even a drunkard, that the man who is selling him that which he knows is killing him, is any better than the drunkard himself. nor can you convince a sober man, that he who, for the sake of money, will, with his eyes open, make drunkards of sober men, is any less guilty than the drunkards he makes. is this writing upon their employment "holiness unto the lord," without which no one, from the bible, can expect to be prepared for the holy joys of heaven? as ardent spirit is a poison which, when used even moderately, tends to harden the heart, to sear the conscience, to blind the understanding, to pollute the affections, to weaken and derange and debase the whole man, and to lessen the prospect of his eternal life, it is the indispensable duty of each person to renounce it. and he cannot refuse to do this without becoming, if acquainted with this subject, knowingly accessory to the temporal and eternal ruin of his fellow-men. and what will it profit him to gain even the whole world by that which ruins the soul? my friend, you are soon to die, and in eternity to witness the influence, the whole influence, which you exert while on earth, and you are to witness its consequence in joy or sorrow to endless being. imagine yourself now, where you soon will be, _on your death-bed_. and imagine that you have a full view of the property which you have caused to be wasted, or which you have gained without furnishing any valuable equivalent; of the health which you have destroyed, and the characters which you have demoralized; of the wives that you have made widows, and the children that you have made orphans; of all the lives that you have shortened, and all the souls that you have destroyed. o! imagine that these are the only "rod and staff" which you have to comfort you as you go down the valley of the shadow of death, and that they will all meet you in full array at the judgment and testify against you. what will it profit you, though you have gained more money than you otherwise would, when you have left it all far behind in that world which is destined to fire, and the day of perdition of ungodly men? what will it profit, when you are enveloped in the influence which you have exerted, and are experiencing its consequences to endless ages; finding for ever that as a man soweth so must he reap, and that if he has sowed death he must reap _death_? do not any longer assist in destroying men, nor expose yourself and your children to be destroyed. do good, and good only, to all as you have opportunity, and good shall come unto you. the rewards of drunkenness. [illustration: drunk, with remonstrating wife, and small child] if you wish to be always thirsty, be a drunkard; for the oftener and more you drink, the oftener and more thirsty you will be. if you seek to prevent your friends raising you in the world, be a drunkard; for that will defeat all their efforts. if you would effectually counteract your own attempts to do well, be a drunkard; and you will not be disappointed. if you wish to repel the endeavors of the whole human race to raise you to character, credit, and prosperity, be a drunkard; and you will most assuredly triumph. if you are determined to be poor, be a drunkard; and you will soon be ragged and pennyless. if you would wish to starve your family, be a drunkard; for that will consume the means of their support. if you would be imposed on by knaves, be a drunkard; for that will make their task easy. if you would wish to be robbed, be a drunkard; which will enable the thief to do it with more safety. if you would wish to blunt your senses, be a drunkard; and you will soon be more stupid than an ass. if you would become a fool, be a drunkard; and you will soon lose your understanding. if you wish to unfit yourself for rational intercourse, be a drunkard; for that will accomplish your purpose. if you are resolved to kill yourself, be a drunkard; that being a sure mode of destruction. if you would expose both your folly and secrets, be a drunkard; and they will soon be made known. if you think you are too strong, be a drunkard; and you will soon be subdued by so powerful an enemy. if you would get rid of your money without knowing how, be a drunkard; and it will vanish insensibly. if you would have no resource when past labor but a workhouse, be a drunkard; and you will be unable to provide any. if you are determined to expel all comfort from your house, be a drunkard; and you will soon do it effectually. if you would be always under strong suspicion, be a drunkard; for little as you think it, all agree that those who steal from themselves and families will rob others. if you would be reduced to the necessity of shunning your creditors, be a drunkard; and you will soon have reason to prefer the by-paths to the public streets. if you would be a dead weight on the community, and "cumber the ground," be a drunkard; for that will render you useless, helpless, burdensome, and expensive. if you would be a nuisance, be a drunkard; for the approach of a drunkard is like that of a dunghill. if you would be hated by your family and friends, be a drunkard; and you will soon be more than disagreeable. if you would be a pest to society, be a drunkard; and you will be avoided as infectious. if you do not wish to have your faults reformed, continue to be a drunkard, and you will not care for good advice. if you would smash windows, break the peace, get your bones broken, tumble under carts and horses, and be locked up in watch-houses, be a drunkard; and it will be strange if you do not succeed. if you wish all your prospects in life to be clouded, be a drunkard; and they will soon be dark enough. if you would destroy your body, be a drunkard; as drunkenness is the mother of disease. if you mean to ruin your soul, be a drunkard; that you may be excluded from heaven. finally, if you are determined to be utterly destroyed, in estate, body, and soul, be a drunkard; and you will soon know that it is impossible to adopt a more effectual means to accomplish your--end. "all the crimes on earth," says lord bacon, "do not destroy so many of the _human race_, nor alienate so much _property_, as _drunkenness_." _drunkenness_ expels reason--drowns the memory--defaces beauty--diminishes strength--inflames the blood--causes internal, external, and incurable wounds--is a witch to the senses, a devil to the soul, a thief to the purse--the beggar's companion, the wife's woe, and children's sorrow--makes a strong man weak, and a wise man a fool. he is worse than a beast, and is a self-murderer, who drinks to others' good health, and robs himself of his own. he is worse than a beast, for no animal will designedly intoxicate itself; but a drunkard swallows his liquor, well knowing the condition to which it will reduce him, and that these draughts will deprive him of the use of his reason, and render him worse than a beast. by the effects of liquor his evil passions and tempers are freed from restraint; and, while in a state of intoxication, he commits actions, which, when sober, he would have shuddered to have thought of. many an evil deed has been done, many a murder has been committed, when those who did these things were intoxicated. tremble, then, if ever you taste the intoxicating draught. reflect, before you put the cup to your lips. remember that you are forming a habit which will lead on to the commission of every crime to which the propensities of your nature, rendered violent by indulgence, can urge you. before you are aware, you may find yourself awaking from a fit of intoxication, guilty of offences against the laws of your country which will draw down just vengeance upon your head; abhorring yourself, and an abhorrence in the sight of heaven. _drunkenness_, persisted in, will assuredly _destroy your soul_, and consign you to everlasting misery. hear what the _word_ of _god_ declares. "awake, ye drunkards, and weep." joel : . "who hath woe? who hath sorrow? who hath contention? who hath wounds without cause? they that tarry long at the wine, they that go to seek mixed wine. look not thou upon the wine; at the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder." prov. : - . "woe unto them that rise up in the morning, that they may follow strong drink; that continue until night, till wine inflame them." isa. : . "woe unto them that are mighty to drink wine, and men of strength to mingle strong drink." isa. : . "the works of the flesh are manifest, which are these: uncleanness, murders, drunkenness, revellings, and such like; of the which i tell you, that they which do such things shall not inherit the kingdom of god." gal. : , . these are awful declarations, and they will certainly be fulfilled upon him who continues to delight in drunkenness; he cannot enjoy the love of god, he will not be received into heaven. separate yourself, then, utterly front this ensnaring sin. "touch not; taste not; handle not." in entire abstinence is your only safety. this persevered in, you shall never fall. wherever and however the temptation is presented, "avoid it--turn from it, and pass away." turn also from every sin. "commit your way unto the lord," and he will "direct your paths." a glorious provision is made for your salvation, through the atoning blood of christ. "god so loved the world, that he gave his only-begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." john : . commit your soul and your all to him. he will guide you through life, enable you to vanquish every foe, and crown you with victory in heaven. published by the american tract society. the well-conducted farm. [illustration: farmer dismissing drunk workman] mr. b----, a respectable farmer in massachusetts, came, a number of years ago, into the possession of a farm of about six hundred acres. on this farm he employed eight or ten men. these men were in the habit, and had been for years, of taking each a portion of ardent spirit, when they labored, every day. they had grown up in the practice of taking it, and the idea was fixed in their minds that they _could_ not do without. it was the common opinion in the place, that, for laboring men, who had to work hard, some ardent spirit was _necessary_. mr. b---- for a time followed the common practice, and furnished his men with a portion of spirit _daily_. but after much attentive observation and mature reflection, he became deeply impressed with the conviction that the practice was not only useless, but hurtful. he became convinced that it tends to lead men to intemperance; to undermine their constitutions; and to sow the seeds of death, temporal and eternal. and he felt that he could not be justified in continuing to cultivate his farm by means of a practice which was ruining the bodies and souls of his fellow-men. he therefore called his men together, and told them, in a kind and faithful manner, what were his convictions. he told them that he was perfectly satisfied that the practice of taking ardent spirits was not only needless, but hurtful--that it tended to weaken and destroy both the body and mind; and that he could not, consistently with his duty, be instrumental in continuing a practice which he had no doubt tended to destroy them both for this world and the world to come. he therefore, from that time, should furnish them with no ardent spirits. one of them said that he could not work without it; and if he did not furnish them with it, he would not stay with him. "very well," said mr. b----; "hand me your bill, and be off." the man replied, that he presumed all the others would leave him. "very well," said mr. b----; "tell them, any of them who choose to leave--all of them, if they choose to go--to hand in their bills, and they shall have their money to-night. if they stay, however, they shall have nourishing food and drink, at any time, and in any abundance which they wish; and at the close of the year each one shall have twelve dollars, that is, one dollar a month, in addition to his wages. but i shall furnish no spirits of any kind, neither shall i have it taken by men in my employment. i had rather my farm would grow up to weeds, than be cultivated by means of so pernicious a practice as that of taking ardent spirits." however, none of the men left, except that one. and when he saw that all the others concluded to stay, he came back, and said, that as the others had concluded to stay, and do without rum, he believed that he could, and he should be glad to stay, too, if mr. b---- had no objection. but he told him, no, he did not wish him to stay; he would make of him an example, and he must go. so he departed. the rest went to work, and he furnished them with no spirits from that time through the season. yet his work, he said, was done "with less trouble, in a better manner, and in better season, than ever before." some of his men, however, he found, when they went abroad, did take ardent spirits. they sometimes procured it at the tavern, or a store; and in some instances took it secretly, while on his farm. the evil, therefore, although greatly lessened, was not entirely done away. when he came to hire men again, he let it be known that he did not wish to hire any man who was not willing to abstain entirely, and at all times, from the use of ardent spirits. his neighbors told him that he could not hire men on those conditions; that men could not be found who would do without rum, especially in haying and harvesting. well, he said, then he would not hire them at all. his farm should grow up to weeds. as to cultivating it by the help of rum, he would not. by allowing men in his employment, and for whose conduct he was in a measure responsible, to take ardent spirits, he should be lending his influence to continue a practice, or he should at least be conniving at a practice, which was destroying more lives, making more mothers widows, and children orphans, than famine, pestilence, and sword: a practice which was destroying by thousands, and tens of thousands, not only the bodies, but the _souls_ of men, rendering them, and their children after them, wretched for this world, and the world to come. "no," said he, "i will clear my hands of this enormous guilt. i will not by practice encourage, or by silence, or having men in my employment who take ardent spirits, connive at this deadly evil." however, he found no difficulty in hiring men, and of the best kind. and when his neighbors saw, that by giving one dollar a month more than others, he could hire as many men as he pleased, they gave up that objection. but they said, it was bad policy; for the men would not do so much work, and he would, in the end, be a loser. but he told them that, although they might not at first do quite so much, he presumed that they would in the end do more. but if they should not, only let them do, said he, what they easily can, and i shall be satisfied. my maker does not require of me any more than i can do without rum, (for he used no ardent spirits himself) and i shall require no more of them. his men went to work. and his business prospered exceedingly. his men were remarkably uniform in their temper and deportment; still, and peaceable. he found them every day alike, and he could always safely trust them. what he expected to have done, he found _was_ done, in good season, and in the best manner. his men never made so few mistakes, had so few disputes among themselves; they never injured and destroyed so few tools, found so little fault with their manner of living, or were, on the whole, so pleasant to one another, and to their employer. the men appeared, more than ever before, like brethren of the same family, satisfied with their business, contented, and happy. at the close of the year, one of them came to mr. b----, and, with tears in his eyes, said, "sir, i thought that you were very hard, in keeping us from drinking rum. i had always been accustomed to it, and i thought that i could not do without it. and for the first three months," said he, "it was hard, very hard. i had such a _caving in_ here"--putting his hands up to his side--"i had such a _desperate caving in_ here, that i thought i should die. but, as you gave us good wages, and good pay, and the rest resolved to stand it without rum, i thought i would. "and now," said he, "i am well and happy. i work with ease, sleep sweetly, and when i get up in the morning, instead of having, as i used to, my mouth and throat"--to use his own words--"so _full of cobwebs_, as to be _spitting cotton wool_ all the time, my mouth and throat are clear as a whistle. i feel active, have a good appetite, and can eat any thing. "formerly, when i worked hard, i was at night tired, and could not sleep. when i got up in the morning i was so sore and stiff, so filled up in my throat, and my appetite was so gone, that i could do nothing till i had taken a glass of rum and molasses. i then stood it till breakfast. but my breakfast did not relish, and what i took did not seem to nourish me. soon after i got to work i was _so hollow and so tired_, that i felt _desperate ugly_ till o'clock. then i took a _new vamper_. and by the strength of that i got on till dinner. then i must have a little more to give me an appetite. at three o'clock in the afternoon i must have recourse"--these were his words--"_to the hair of the same dog_, to keep up my sinking spirits. and thus i got along till night. then i must have a little to sharpen appetite for supper. and after supper i could not sleep, till i had taken _another nightcap_. "thus i continued," said he, "year after year, undermining a constitution which was naturally very robust; and growing worse and worse, until i came under your wise and excellent regulations. and now," said he, "i am cured. i _am cured_. i can now do more labor than when i took spirits, without _half_ the fatigue, and take nothing stronger than pure cold water. if a man would give me the same wages that you do, and a dollar a day in addition, to return to the practice of drinking rum, i would laugh at him." all this was the free, spontaneous effusion of his own mind, in view of the great change wrought in his feelings by leaving off _entirely_ the use of ardent spirits. another of the workmen came to mr. b---- and said, that he had found it very hard to do without rum at first; but he could now freely say, that he never enjoyed so good health, or felt so well, as he did then. he said that in cold weather in the winter, and after chopping all day in the woods, especially if exposed to rains, or if his feet were wet, he had for a long time been accustomed to a very bad rheumatism, and at night to a dreadful headache. he took spirits temperately, and he supposed it was necessary to guard him against these evils. still he suffered them; and he found nothing that would prevent them. but since he had left off entirely the use of spirits, he had had no rheumatism, and been entirely free from the headache. another of the workmen said he thought at first that he could do very well without spirits three quarters of the year; but that, in haying and harvesting, he should want a little. but he had found that a dish of bread and milk, or some other nourishing food, at o'clock, answered his purpose at all times just as well as grog, and he thought a little better. and as he was now entirely free from the habit of taking spirits, he would not on any account be placed in a situation where he should be tempted to renew it. * * * * * such were the feelings of men who had always been accustomed to the practice of taking spirits, till they came into mr. b----'s employment, and who afterwards had not taken a drop. they had tried both sides, and had found, by experience, that the practice of taking ardent spirits is utterly useless; nay, that it is positively hurtful. it was their united testimony, that they enjoyed better health, were more happy, could do more work, and with less fatigue, than when they took spirits. they said, to be sure, that they found it hard to do without it at first. and so would a man who had been in the habit of taking laudanum, or any poison, that was not fatal, but was stimulating and pleasant to the taste, however destructive it might be in the end to his constitution. but after they had freed themselves from the habit of taking spirits, they found no inconvenience; but were in all respects better than they were before. and they acknowledged that they were exceedingly indebted to him, who, by his wise regulations, had been the means of improving their condition. the following were some of the advantages to _them_. . they had a better appetite, partook of their food with a keener relish, and it was more nourishing to them than before. . they possessed much greater vigor and activity, both of body and mind. . they performed the same labor with much greater ease; and were in a great measure free from that lassitude and fatigue to which they were before accustomed. . they had greater wages, and they laid up a much greater portion of what they had. before, numbers used to spend a great portion of their wages in scenes of amusement and dissipation. now, they have no inclination to frequent such scenes. the consequence is, they lay up more money. they are, also, more serious in their deportment, spend more of their leisure time in useful reading, much oftener peruse the scriptures, and attend public worship; and they are more attentive to all the means of grace. in a word, they are more likely to become useful and happy in this life, and to be prepared for lasting blessedness in the life to come. . their example will be more likely to be useful to those around them; and that for both worlds. * * * * * the following are some of the advantages to _their employer_. . the men, he says, in the course of the year, do more work, in a better manner, and at a much less expense of tools. . he can now with much greater ease have a place for every thing, and every thing in its place. . when a stone has fallen from the wall it is now laid up, as the men are passing by, without his mentioning it. the gates are locked, and the bars put up; so that the cattle do not, as before, get in and destroy the crops. . his summer work is done in such season, that earth, loam, etc., is carted into the yard in the fall, instead of being carted in in the spring, as before. the consequence is, when carried out it is richer, and renders the farm more productive. . his barns, in winter, are kept clean, and less fodder is wasted. the cattle and horses are daily curried, and appear in better order. . when his men go into the forests, instead, as before, of cutting down the nearest, thriftiest, and largest trees, they cut those that are decayed, crooked, and not likely to grow any better; pick up those that are blown down, and thus leave the forests in a better state. . the men are more uniform, still, and peaceable; are less trouble in the house, and more contented with their manner of living. . at morning and evening prayer, they are more ready than before to attend, and in season; appearing to esteem it not only a duty, but a privilege and a pleasure to be present, and unite with the family in the daily worship of god. . on the sabbath, instead of wishing, as before, to stay at home, or to spend the day in roving about the fields, rivers, and forests, they choose statedly and punctually to attend public worship. in a word, their whole deportment, both at home and abroad, is improved, and to a greater extent than any, without witnessing it, can well imagine. all these and many more advantages resulted from their abstaining _entirely, and at all times_, from the use of ardent spirits. * * * * * nor were the benefits confined to them and their employer. some of his _neighbors_, witnessing the complete success of his system, have themselves adopted it. when mr. b---- went into that part of the country, many of the farmers in his neighborhood were in debt. their farms were mortgaged, some for $ , some for $ , and some for $ , or more. they complained much of _hard times_, especially for farmers. mr. b---- told them that so long as they continued to drink rum, they must expect hard times; for it was no profit, but a great expense, and in more ways than they imagined. they came to him to borrow money to save their farms from attachment. but he told them, no. it will do men who continue to drink rum no good to have money. nay, it will be to them an evil. the sooner their property is gone, and they have nothing with which to buy rum, the better. for then they will do less mischief than if they have money, and continue to drink rum. but, said he, if you will leave off the use of spirits, and not take a drop for three months, i will lend you money, and you may keep it, by paying the interest, as long as you continue to take no ardent spirits. but when i learn that you begin to take it, i shall call for the money. some went away in disgust. others said, as mr. b---- can do without rum, why cannot we? and if we can, it will be a great saving of expense. they made the experiment, and found that they could, without the least inconvenience, do without it. after a few months, they made known to mr. b---- the result; and he helped them to as much money as they needed. they continued to do without spirits, and they had none used by men in their employment. their business began to prosper, and their prospects to brighten. their debts are now paid, and their farms free from all incumbrance. the times with them have altered, and they are now thriving, respectable, and useful members of the community. others, who a few years ago were in no worse a condition than they, but who continued the practice of drinking spirits, have lost their farms; lost their reputation; lost their health, and eventually their lives; and there is reason to fear, their souls. by the temperate but habitual use of spirits, they formed an _intemperate appetite_. this at first was occasionally, and then habitually indulged; and they were ruined for both worlds. the evil may extend to their children, and children's children. but those who have entirely relinquished the use of spirits, until the desire for it is removed, have experienced a wonderful transformation in their feelings, their conduct, and their prospects. and the change is visible not only in them, but their families, and all their concerns. their windows are not broken out as before; nor their gates and garden-fences falling down. the kitchen does not smoke as it used to do, because they keep it more _clean_, have drier and better wood, and lay it on the fire in a better manner. the wife does not scold as she once did, because she is well provided for, is treated kindly, and has encouragement to labor. the children are not now in rags, but are comfortably and decently clad; they are obedient, respectful, and mannerly; and appear to be growing up in the nurture and admonition of the lord. in short, they appear almost like a new race of beings. and if they should never again adopt the practice of taking ardent spirits, there is vastly more reason than before, to hope that they will be led by the word and spirit of god to such a course of conduct as will greatly increase their happiness and usefulness on earth, and be the means of preparing them, through grace, for the everlasting joys of heaven. should each individual in our country adopt the same course, the following are some of the advantages which would result from it. . they would enjoy better health, be able to perform more labor, and would live to a greater age. . the evils of intemperance would soon be done away: for all who are now intemperate, and continue so, will soon be dead, and no others will be found to succeed them. . there will be a saving every year of more than _thirty millions of dollars_, which are now expended for ardent spirits. there will be a saving of more than two-thirds of all the expense of supporting the poor, which, in massachusetts alone, would amount to more than $ , annually. and there would be a saving of all that idleness and dissipation which intemperance occasions, and of the expense of more than two-thirds of all the criminal prosecutions in the land. in one of our large cities, in which there were one thousand prosecutions for crimes, more than eight hundred of them were found to have sprung from the use of ardent spirits. . there would be a saving of a vast portion of sickness; and of the lives probably of thirty thousand persons every year. let these four considerations be added together, and traced in their various bearings and consequences upon the temporal and eternal welfare of men; and then let each individual say, whether, in view of all the evils connected with the practice of taking ardent spirits, he can, in the sight of god, be justified in continuing the practice. that it is _not necessary_, has been fully proved. no one thinks it to be necessary, except those who use it. and _they_ would not think so, if they were not in the habit of using it. let any man _leave off entirely_ the use of ardent spirits for only one year, and he will find by his own experience that it is not necessary or useful. the fathers of new england did not use it, nor did their children. they were never, as a body, in the practice of taking it. and yet they enjoyed better health, attained to a larger stature, and, with fewer comforts of life, performed more labor, endured more fatigue, and lived, upon an average, to a greater age than any generation of their descendants who have been in the practice of taking spirits. as it was not necessary for the fathers of new england, it is certain that it is not necessary for their descendants, or for any portion of our inhabitants. hundreds of healthy, active, respectable, and useful men, who _now_ do not use it, can testify that it is not necessary. and this will be the testimony of every one who will only relinquish entirely the use of it. it is by the temperate and habitual use of ardent spirits, that _intemperate appetites_ are formed. and the temperate use of it cannot be continued, without, in many cases, forming intemperate appetites; and after they are formed, multitudes will be destroyed by their gratification. _natural appetites_, such as are implanted in our constitution by the author of nature, _do not by their gratification increase in their demands_. what satisfied them years ago, will satisfy them now. but _artificial appetites_, which are formed by the wicked practices of men, are _constantly increasing in their demands_. what satisfied them once, will _not_ satisfy them now. and what satisfies them now, will not satisfy them in future. they are constantly crying, "_give, give._" and there is not a man, who is in the habitual use of ardent spirits, who is not in danger of dying a drunkard. before he is aware, an intemperate appetite may be formed, the gratification of which may prove his temporal and eternal ruin. and if the practice should not come to this result with regard to himself, it may with regard to his children, and children's children. it may with regard to his neighbors, and their children. it may extend its baleful influences far and wide; and transmit them, with all their innumerable evils, from generation to generation. can, then, _temperate, sober men be clear from guilt_, in continuing a practice which is costing annually more than $ , , ; increasing more than threefold the poor-rates, and the crimes of the country; undermining the health and constitution of its inhabitants; and cutting of annually thirty thousand lives! there is tremendous guilt somewhere. and it is a truth which ought to press with overwhelming force upon the mind of every sober man, that a portion of this guilt rests upon _every one_ who, with a knowledge of facts, continues the _totally unnecessary and awfully pernicious practice of taking ardent spirits_. each individual ought, without delay, in view of eternity, to clear himself, and neither by precept nor example, ever again encourage or even connive at this deadly evil. address on the effects of ardent spirits. by jonathan kittredge, esq. [illustration: drunk man arriving home to impoverished family] fellow-citizens--that intemperance, in our country, is a great and growing evil, all are ready to admit. when we look abroad, and examine into the state of society, we find the number of those who are in the constant and habitual practice of an excessive use of ardent spirits to be alarming. we see the effects that they produce among our friends and our neighbors, but the evil is so common, and it is so fashionable to drink, and i had almost said, to drink to excess, that the sight of it has lost half its terror, and we look upon an intemperate man without those feelings of disgust and abhorrence which his real situation and character are calculated to produce. this is the natural result of things. the mind becomes familiar with the contemplation, the eye accustomed to the sight; we pay but little attention to the object--he passes on--we laugh at the exhibition, and grow callous and indifferent to the guilt. our pity is not excited, our hearts do not ache at the scenes of intoxication that are almost daily exhibited around us. but if for a moment we seriously reflect upon the real situation of the habitually intemperate; if we call to mind what they have been--what they now are; if we cast our eye to the future, and realize what, in a few years, they will be; if we go further, and examine into the state of their families, of their wives and their children, we shall discover a scene of misery and wretchedness that will not long suffer us to remain cold, and indifferent, and unfeeling. this examination we can all make for ourselves. we can all call to mind the case of some individual, whom we have known for years, perhaps from his infancy, who is now a poor, miserable drunkard. in early life his hopes and prospects were as fair as ours. his family was respectable, and he received all those advantages which are necessary, and which were calculated to make him a useful and respectable member of society. perhaps he was our school-fellow, and our boyhood may have been passed in his company. we witnessed the first buddings of his mental powers, and know that he possessed an active, enterprising mind. he grew up into life with every prospect of usefulness. he entered into business, and, for a while, did well. his parents looked to him for support in old age, and he was capable of affording it. he accumulated property, and, in a few years, with ordinary prudence and industry, would have been independent. he married, and became the head of a family, and the father of children, and all was prosperous and happy around him. had he continued as he began, he would now have been a comfort to his friends, and an honor to the community. but the scene quickly changed. he grew fond of ardent spirits. he was seen at the store and the tavern. by degrees he became intemperate. he neglected his business, and his affairs went to gradual decay. he is now a drunkard, his property is wasted, his parents have died of broken hearts, his wife is pale and emaciated, his children ragged, and squalid, and ignorant. he is the tenant of some little cabin that poverty has erected to house him from the storm and the tempest. he is useless, and worse than useless: he is a pest to all around him. all the feelings of his nature are blunted; he has lost all shame; he procures his accustomed supply of the poison that consumes him; he staggers through mud and through filth to his hut; he meets a weeping wife and starving children; he abuses them, he tumbles into his straw, and he rolls and foams like a mad brute, till he is able to go again. he calls for more rum--he repeats the scene from time to time, and from day to day, till soon his nature faints, and he becomes sober in death. let us reflect, that this guilty, wretched creature had an immortal mind--he was like us, of the same flesh and blood--he was our brother, destined to the same eternity, created by, and accountable to, the same god; and will, at last, stand at the same judgment-bar; and who, amid such reflections, will not weep at his fate--whose eye can remain dry, and whose heart unmoved? this is no picture of the imagination. it is a common and sober reality. it is what we see almost every day of our lives; and we live in the midst of such scenes and such events. with the addition or subtraction of a few circumstances, it is the case of every one of the common drunkards around us. they have not completed the drama--they are alive--but they are going to death with rapid strides, as their predecessors have already gone. another company of immortal minds are coming on to fill their places, as they have filled others. the number is kept good, and increasing. shops, as nurseries, are established in every town and neighborhood, and drunkards are raised up by the score. they are made--they are formed--for no man was ever born a drunkard--and, i may say, no man was ever born with a taste for ardent spirits. they are not the food which nature has provided. the infant may cry for its mother's milk, and for nourishing food, but none was ever heard to cry for ardent spirits. the taste is created, and in some instances may be created so young, that, perhaps, many cannot remember the time when they were not fond of them. and here permit me to make a few remarks upon the _formation, or creation of this taste_. i will begin with the infant, and i may say that he is born into rum. at his birth, according to custom, a quantity of ardent spirits is provided; they are thought to be as necessary as any thing else. they are considered as indispensable as if the child could not be born without them. the father treats his friends and his household, and the mother partakes with the rest. the infant is fed with them, as if he could not know the good things he is heir to without a taste of ardent spirits. they are kept on hand, and often given to him as medicine, especially where the parents are fond of them themselves. by this practice, even in the cradle, his disrelish for ardent spirits is done away. he grows up, and during the first months or years of his existence, his taste and his appetite are formed. as he runs about, and begins to take notice of passing events, he sees his father and friends drink; he partakes, and grows fond of them. in most families, ardent spirits are introduced and used on every extraordinary occasion. without mentioning many, that the knowledge and experience of every man can supply, i will instance only the case of visitors. a gentleman's friends and acquaintance call on him. he is glad to see them, and fashion and custom make it necessary for him to invite them to the sideboard. this is all done in his best style, in his most easy and affable manner. the best set of drinking-vessels are brought forward, and make quite a display. the children of the family notice this; they are delighted with the sight and the exhibition; they are pleased with the manners, and gratified with the conversation of the visitors on the occasion. as soon as they go abroad, they associate the idea of drinking with all that is manly and genteel. they fall into the custom, and imitate the example that is set them. circumstances and situations expose one to more temptations than the rest. perhaps his resolution, or his moral principle, is not so strong; and in this way, one out of twenty-five of those who live to thirty years of age becomes intemperate. he becomes so, perhaps not from any uncommon predisposition to the vice, but is at first led on by fashion, and custom, and favorable circumstances, till at last he plunges headlong into the vortex of dissipation and ruin. our natural disrelish for ardent spirits is first done away--a relish for them is then created. they next become occasional, next habitual drinks. the habit gains strength, till, at last, the daily drinker is swept away by the first adverse gale. it is on this principle, and let the fact operate as a caution to those who need it, that many men of fair unblemished characters, who have made a temperate, but habitual use of ardent spirits in days of prosperity, have, on a change of fortune, become notorious drunkards; while those who have refrained in prosperity, have encountered all the storms of adversity unhurt. we frequently hear a man's intemperance attributed to a particular cause, as loss of friends, loss of property, disappointed love, or ambition; when, if the truth were known, it would be seen that such men had previously been addicted to the use of ardent spirits, perhaps not immoderately, and fly to them on such events as their solace and support. intemperance requires an apprenticeship, as much as law or physic; and a man can no more become intemperate in a month, than he can become a lawyer or a physician in a month. many wonder that certain intemperate men, of fine talents, noble hearts, and manly feelings, do not reform; but it is a greater wonder that any ever do. the evil genius of intemperance gradually preys upon the strength of both body and mind, till the victim, when he is caught, finds, that although he was a giant once, he is now a child. its influence is seductive and insinuating, and men are often irretrievably lost before they are aware of it. let them beware how they take the first step. it is by degrees that men become intemperate. no man ever became so all at once--it is an impossibility in the nature of things. it requires time to harden the heart, to do away shame, to blunt the moral principle, to deaden the intellectual faculties, and temper the body. the intemperance of the day is the natural and legitimate consequence of the customs of society--of genteel and respectable society. it is the common and ordinary use of ardent spirits, as practised in our towns and villages, that has already peopled them with drunkards, and which, unless checked, will fill them with drunkards. the degree of intemperance that prevails, and the quantity of ardent spirits used, in our most respectable towns, is almost incredible. perhaps some facts on this subject will be interesting. as it regards _the degree of intemperance that prevails_, it may be safely said, that one out of a hundred of the inhabitants of this part of the country is a common drunkard. by a common drunkard is meant one who is habitually intemperate, who is often intoxicated, and who is restrained from intoxication neither by principle nor shame. of such there are from ten to twenty, and upward, in every inhabited township. there is another class who are intemperate, and many of them are occasional drunkards. this class is more numerous than the former, and one out of about forty of the inhabitants belongs to one or the other class. is not this a horrid state of society? but any one can satisfy himself of the truth of the statement, by making the examination himself. the quantity of ardent spirits yearly consumed in our towns, varies from six to ten thousand gallons. it will answer the argument i intend to draw from it, to state the annual quantity in this town to be six thousand gallons, although short of the truth. this would be three gallons to every inhabitant, or twenty-one gallons to every legal voter. the cost of this liquid, at the low price of fifty cents per gallon, will be three thousand dollars, which will pay all your town, county, and state taxes three years, and is as much as it costs you to support and maintain all your privileges, civil, religious, and literary. in one hundred years you would drink up all the town in ardent spirits; or it would cost just such a town as this, with all your farms, stock, and personal property, to furnish the inhabitants with ardent spirits, at the present rate of drinking, only one hundred years. but should the town continue to drink as they now do for fifty years, and in the mean time suffer the cost of the spirits to accumulate by simple interest only, the whole town, at the end of the term, could not pay their rum bills. it can be no consolation that all other towns would be alike insolvent. but this is not all. add to this sum the loss of time and the waste of property occasioned by it, independent of its cost, and it swells the amount to a monstrous size. here you have an account of the cost of ardent spirits, calculated within bounds. at present there is a great complaint about the pressure of the times, and the complaint is doubtless well-founded. "hard times" is in every body's mouth; but if you had for the last year only abstained from the use of ardent spirits, you would now have been independent and easy in your circumstances. three thousand dollars, which you have paid for them, divided among you, would pay all the debts you are called upon to pay. i do not mean that no one wants more than his proportion of this sum, but there are some who want none of it, and who would circulate it, by loan or otherwise, among those who do want it, and it would relieve the whole town from the distress they are now in. if this town had an income that would pay all its taxes, you would consider it a matter of great joy and congratulation. but if it had an income that would discharge all its taxes, and each man, instead of paying, should receive the amount he now pays, you would consider your situation highly prosperous and enviable. discontinue the use of ardent spirits, and you have it. use none, and your situation, as a town, will be as good, yea, far better than if you had an income of three thousand dollars yearly, to be divided among its inhabitants. if we carry this calculation farther, we shall find, on the principle adopted, that there are in the state of new hampshire , common drunkards, and , intemperate, or occasional drunkards--in the whole, , ; and that the state consumes , gallons of ardent spirits annually, which cost, at cents a gallon, $ , . in the united states, there would be , common, and , common and occasional drunkards; and the country would consume annually , , gallons of ardent spirits, which cost, at cents per gallon, $ , , --as much as it costs to support the whole system of our national government, with all that is laid out in improvements, roads, canals, pensions, etc., etc., and is more than one-half of the whole revenue of the union for the last year. it must be remembered that this calculation embraces only the quantity and cost of the spirits, and is on the supposition that this town consumes only , gallons, at cents per gallon, and is a fair criterion for the state and nation. as it regards this state, it would be safe nearly to double the quantity, and to treble the cost of the spirits; and as it regards the nation, it would be safe to double all my calculations. in the united states, the quantity of ardent spirits yearly consumed, may be fairly estimated at , , gallons, the cost at $ , , , and the number of drunkards, of both kinds, at , . but we all know, and it is common to remark, that the cost of the article is comparatively nothing; that it hardly makes an item in the calculation of pernicious consequences resulting from the consumption of ardent spirits. were we to embrace the usual concomitants, and estimate the value of time lost, the amount of property wasted, of disease produced, and of crime committed, where ardent spirits are the only cause, it would transcend our conceptions, and the imagination would be lost in the contemplation. the number of drunkards in the united states would make an army as large as that with which bonaparte marched into russia; and would be sufficient to defend the united states from the combined force of all europe. convert our drunkards into good soldiers, and one-tenth of them would redeem greece from the turks. convert them into apostles, and they would christianize the world. and what are they now? strike them from existence, and who would feel the loss? yes, strike them from existence, and the united states would be benefited by the blow. but this is not half. i cannot tell you half the effects of ardent spirits. and yet ardent spirits are said to be useful and necessary. it is false! it is nothing but the apology that love of them renders for their use. there are only two cases in which, dr. rush says, they can be administered without injury, and those are cases of persons like to perish, and where substitutes may be applied of equal effect. what rational man would use them, for the sake of these two possible cases? as well might he introduce rattlesnakes among his children, because their oil is good in diseases with which they may possibly be afflicted. the number of persons in the united states who are mentally deranged, i do not know; probably there are several thousands; and it is ascertained, that one-third of those confined in the insane hospitals of philadelphia and new york, are rendered insane by the use of ardent spirits. yes, one-third of the poor, miserable maniacs of our land, are made such by the use of that which, in the opinion of some, is a very useful and necessary article, and which they cannot do without. this article has deprived one-third of the crazy wretches of our land of their reason--of that which makes them men--of the very image of their god. out of the number of the intemperate in the united states, ten thousand die annually from the effects of ardent spirits. and what a death! to live a drunkard is enough; but to die so, and to be ushered into the presence of your angry judge, only to hear the sentence, "depart, thou drunkard!" ah! language fails, and i leave it to your imagination to fill up the horrid picture. this death happens in various ways. some are killed instantly; some die a lingering, gradual death; some commit suicide in fits of intoxication; and some are actually burnt up. i read of an intemperate man, a few years since, whose breath caught fire by coming in contact with a lighted candle, and he was consumed. at the time, i disbelieved the story, but my reading has since furnished me with well authenticated cases of a combustion of the human body from the use of ardent spirits. trotter mentions ten such cases, and relates them at length. they are attended with all the proof we require to believe any event. they are attested by living witnesses, examined by learned men, and published in the journals of the day without contradiction. it would be unnecessary to relate the whole, but i will state one of them, and from this an idea can be formed of the rest. it is the case "of a woman eighty years of age, exceedingly meagre, who had drunk nothing but ardent spirits for several years. she was sitting in her elbow-chair, while her waiting-maid went out of the room for a few moments. on her return, seeing her mistress on fire, she immediately gave an alarm; and some people coming to her assistance, one of them endeavored to extinguish the flames with his hands, _but they adhered to them as if they had been dipped in brandy or oil on fire_. water was brought and thrown on the body in abundance, _yet the fire appeared more violent, and was not extinguished till the whole body had been consumed_. the lady was in the same place in which she sat every day, there was no extraordinary fire, and she had not fallen."[b] [footnote b: trotter on drunkenness, pp. , .] this, with nine other cases, related by the same author, was a consumption of the body produced by the use of ardent spirits. the horror of a drunkard's death beggars description. need i point to yonder grave, just closed over the remains of one who went from the cup of excess to almost instant death? you all know it. but this is not all. one half the poor you support by taxes and individual charity, are made poor by the use of ardent spirits. this has been demonstrated by actual inquiry and examination. in the city of new york, where there are more poor, and where more is done for them than in any other city of the united states, a committee appointed for the purpose, ascertained by facts, that more than one half of the city poor were reduced to poverty by intemperance. this is also the case throughout the union. and here permit me to state a case, with which i am acquainted. i do it with a double object. i do it to show that the use of ardent spirits produces poverty and distress, and the disuse of them restores to wealth and comfort. a gentleman in the city of new york, who carried on ship-building on an extensive scale, and employed a great number of hands daily, and paid them all in the same manner, and nearly to the same amount, was struck with the difference in their situations. a few, and only a few, were able, from their wages, to support their families; but these were out of debt, and independent in their circumstances. they always had money on hand, and frequently suffered their wages to lie in the hands of their employer. the rest were poor and harassed, the former easy and comfortable in their circumstances, and he resolved, if possible, to ascertain the cause of the difference. on inquiry and examination, he found that those of them who were above-board used no ardent spirits, while the others were in the constant and daily use of them. he satisfied himself that this use of ardent spirits was the only cause of the difference in their condition. he determined, if he could, to prevail upon them all to abstain altogether from their use. on a thorough and parental representation of the case to them, he succeeded, and they all agreed to make use of none for a year. at the end of the year they were all, to a man, out of debt, had supported their families in better condition, had done more work, destroyed fewer tools, and were hearty and robust, and enjoyed better health. this fact speaks volumes, and needs no comment. adopt the same practice in this town, and the result will be the same. "what, drink none?" yes, i say, drink none--one gallon for this town is just four quarts too much. in addition to the miseries of debt and poverty which they entail upon a community, they are the parent of one half the diseases that prevail, and one half the crimes that are committed. it is ardent spirits that fill our poor-houses and our jails; it is ardent spirits that fill our penitentiaries, our mad-houses, and our state prisons; and it is ardent spirits that furnish victims for the gallows. they are the greatest curse that god ever inflicted on the world, and may well be called the seven vials of his wrath. they are more destructive in their consequences than war, plague, pestilence, or famine; yea, than all combined. they are slow in their march, but sure in their grasp. they seize not only the natural, but the moral man. they consign the body to the tomb, and the soul to hell. while on earth, the victim of intemperance is as stupid as an ass, as ferocious as a tiger, as savage as a bear, as poisonous as the asp, as filthy as the swine, as fetid as a goat, and as malignant as a fiend. no matter what may be the original materials of the man; his figure may possess every grace of the sculptor; his mind may be imbued with every art and science; he may be fit to command at the head of armies, to sway a roman senate, to wield the destinies of nations; his heart may be the seat of every virtue; but ardent spirits will strip him of the whole, and convert him into a demon. need i tell how? need i point out the change that ebriety produces in the moral and social affections? need i present the sword red with a brother's blood? it was in a drunken revel that the infuriate alexander slew his best friend and most beloved companion clytus. and it was in a drunken revel that he proclaimed himself a god, and died. "but have not ardent spirits one good quality, one redeeming virtue?" none. i say, none. there is nothing, not even the shadow of a virtue, to rescue them from universal and everlasting execration. "but they are good as a medicine." no, not as a medicine. there is no physician, that does not love them, that needs them in his practice. there is no disease that they cure or relieve, that cannot be cured or relieved without them. they add to no man's health; they save no man's life.[c] [footnote c: the writer is aware that spirits or alcohol are necessary in some preparations of the chemist and apothecary. but it is the use of them as drinks which he is combating, and which, he is assured by respectable physicians, are not only unnecessary, but hurtful, in sickness and in health. were they to exist only in the apothecary's shop in the state of alcohol, it would be all that the world needs of them. some physicians, nevertheless, may think them useful in two or three cases or conditions of the body; but it is apprehended, that if they should discontinue the use of them altogether, except in certain tinctures, etc., they would be as successful as they now are. they are often used where they would not be, if they were not the most common thing that could be found.] it is impossible to name a single good thing that they do. give them to the divine; do they add to his piety, to his zeal, to his faithfulness, to his love of god or man? no; they destroy them all. give them to the physician; do they increase his skill, his power to discriminate amid the symptoms of disease, his judgment to apply the appropriate remedies, his kind and affectionate solicitude? nay, verily, they destroy them all. give them to the legal advocate; do they increase his knowledge, his perception to discover the points of his case, his readiness to apply the evidence, his ability to persuade a court and jury? no; they destroy them all. give them to the mechanic; do they assist his ingenuity, his judgment, or his taste? no; they destroy them all. give them to the laborer; do they add to his strength? do they enable him to bear fatigue, to endure heat and cold? can he do more work, or do it better? no; they are the ruin of the whole. they reduce his strength, weaken his frame, make him more susceptible to heat and cold, disorganize his whole system, and unfit him for labor. "but there are some men," say you, "who use ardent spirits, and who get along very well." admitted. they endure it. so there are some men who get along very well with poor health and feeble constitutions. are poor health and feeble constitutions, therefore, no evils? is the prosperity of such to be attributed to them? as much as is that of the former to the use of ardent spirits. was ever a man made rich by the use of ardent spirits? never; but millions have been made beggars by it. yet some say, they _feel better_ by drinking ardent spirits. let us examine this excuse. it is nothing but an excuse, and he who loves rum and is ashamed to own it, says he feels better to drink it. let us inquire how. are they conducive to health? on this subject let the physician decide. one, as great as this country has produced, dr. rush, says that the habitual use of ardent spirits usually produces the following diseases: a loss of appetite, sickness at the stomach, obstruction of the liver, jaundice and dropsy, hoarseness and a husky cough, which often ends in consumption, diabetes, redness and eruptions of the skin, a fetid breath, frequent and disgusting belchings, epilepsy, gout, and madness. this is the train of diseases produced by the use of ardent spirits, and the usual, natural, and legitimate consequences of their use. and now, i ask, can that which, of its own nature, produces these diseases, make a man feel better? reason might answer; and were she on her throne, uninfluenced and unbiassed by the love of ardent spirits, she would unequivocally answer, no. and we find that those who say they feel better to drink ardent spirits, are those who are in health, but love rum, and it gratifies their appetite, and this is what they mean by feeling better. i will examine for a moment the effect, the immediate effect of ardent spirits upon the man. i will take a man in health, and give him a glass of ardent spirits. the effect is, to produce mental derangement and false notions and conceptions. but one glass will not have much effect. i will give him another, and, if he loves rum, he feels better; another, and he feels better; another, better yet. by this time he has got to feel pretty well; quite happy. he has no fear or shame. he can curse, and swear, and break things. "he is fit for treason, stratagems, and spoils." he fears no consequences, and can accomplish impossibilities. if he is a cripple, he fancies he can dance like a satyr; if he is slow and unwieldy, he can run like a hart; if he is weak and feeble in strength, he can lift like samson, and fight like hercules; if he is poor and pennyless, he is rich as croesus on his throne, and has money to lend. this is all a correct representation. it is what happens universally with the drunkard. i know one man who is intemperate, who is poor, and never known to have five dollars at a time, who, when he is intoxicated, has often, and does usually, offer to lend me a thousand dollars. poor, miserable, and deluded man! but he feels well; he is one of those who feel better to drink. he is mentally deranged; his imagination is disordered. he fancies bliss, and felicity, and plenty, and abundance, which do not exist; and he awakes to misery, and poverty, and shame, and contempt. yet this is the exact feeling of all those who feel better to drink spirits. he who drinks but a glass, has not the same degree, but precisely the same kind of feeling with the one i have described. and this is all--this is all that rum does to make a man feel better. if his wife and children are starving, he feels it not. he feels better. if his affairs are going to ruin, or are already plunged into ruin, he is not sensible to his condition. if his house is on fire, he sings the maniac's song, and regards it not. he feels better. let him who likes this better feeling enjoy it. enjoy it, did i say? no. reclaim him, if possible. convince him that he labors under a delusion. restore him to truth, and to reason; banish the cup from his mouth, and change the brute into the man. and now, need any more be said to persuade mankind to abandon the use of ardent spirits? the appalling facts, in relation to them, are known to all. experience and observation teach us that they are the source of ruin, and misery, and squalid wretchedness, in a thousand shapes. they are the three-headed monster; they are the gorgons with their thousand snakes; their name is legion. and shall i yet find advocates for their use? will this enlightened community yet say, they are useful and necessary? all those who have used them, and discontinued the use of them, say they are totally unnecessary and useless. we see that those who live without them enjoy more happiness and better health than those who use them--that they live longer lives. but oh, the folly, the stupidity, and the delusion of rum-drinkers! but perhaps it may be said, that the effects and consequences that i have mentioned, result from the abuse, and not from the proper and moderate use of ardent spirits; and that on many occasions, in small quantities, they are useful. let us examine the circumstances and occasions when they are said to be necessary; and perhaps i cannot do it better than in the words of another. "they are said to be necessary in very _cold weather_. this is far from being true; for the temporary heat they produce is always succeeded by a greater disposition in the body to be affected by cold. warm dresses, a plentiful meal just before exposure to the cold, and eating occasionally a cracker or any other food, is a much more durable method of preserving the heat of the body in cold weather." in confirmation of this, the case of the vessel wrecked off the harbor of newburyport, a few years since, may be adduced. on an intensely cold night, when all the men of that vessel were in danger of freezing to death, the master advised them to drink no ardent spirits. he told them, if they did, they must surely freeze. some took his advice, while others, notwithstanding his most earnest entreaties, disregarded it. the result was, that of those who used the spirits, some lost their hands, some their feet, and some perished; while the rest survived unhurt. "they are said to be necessary in very _warm weather_. experience proves that they increase, instead of lessening the effects of heat upon the body, and thereby expose it to diseases of all kinds. even in the warm climate of the west indies, dr. bell asserts this to be true. rum, says this author, whether used habitually, moderately, or in excessive quantities, always diminishes the strength of the body, and renders man more susceptible to disease, and unfit for any service in which vigor or activity is required. as well might we throw oil into a house, the roof of which was on fire, in order to prevent the flames from extending to its inside, as pour ardent spirits into the stomach, to lessen the effects of a hot sun upon the skin." and here permit me to add, that they are said to be necessary in cold weather to warm, and in warm weather to cool. the bare statement of the argument on these two points confounds itself. "nor do ardent spirits lessen the effects of _hard labor_ upon the body. look at the horse, with every muscle of his body swelled from morning till night, in a plough or a team. does he make signs for a glass of spirits, to enable him to cleave the ground or climb a hill? no; he requires nothing but cold water and substantial food. there is no nourishment in ardent spirits. the strength they produce in labor is of a transient nature, and is always followed by a sense of weakness and fatigue."[d] [footnote d: dr. rush.] some people, nevertheless, pretend that ardent spirits add to their strength, and increase their muscular powers; but this is all a delusion. they think they are strong when they are weak. rum makes them boast, and that is all. the truth is, it weakens them in body, but strengthens them in imagination. was not one reason why samson was forbidden by the angel of god to drink either wine or strong drink, that he might thus increase and preserve his strength? when you hear a man telling how strong rum makes him, you may be sure he is weak, both in body and mind. there is one other occasion for using ardent spirits, which it will be proper to examine. they are said to be necessary to keep off the _contagion_ of disease, and are recommended to attendants upon the sick. but the united testimony of all physicians proves, that the intemperate are first attacked by epidemic disorders. this is almost universally the case in the southern states, and in the west indies. experience also proves that those attendants upon the sick, who refrain from the use of ardent spirits, escape, while those who use them are swept away. if facts could convince, the use of ardent spirits would be abolished. but the love of rum is stronger on the human mind than the truth of heaven. if, then, ardent spirits are not necessary in sickness; if they do not prevent the effects of heat and cold; if they do not add to our strengths, and enable us to perform more labor; when are they necessary? why, people in health say, they want to drink them now and then--they do them good. what good? if they are well, why do they need them? for nothing but to gratify the taste, and to produce a feeling of intoxication and derangement, slight in its degree when moderately used, as they are by such people, but the character of the feeling is no less certain. it is the same feeling that induces the drunkard to drink. one man takes a glass to do him good, to make him feel better; another wants two; another three; another six; and by this time he is intoxicated, and he never feels well till he is so. he has the same feeling with the man who drinks a single glass, but more of it; and that man who, in health, drinks one glass to make him feel better, is just so much of a drunkard; one-sixth, if it takes six glasses to intoxicate him. he has one-sixth of the materials of a drunkard in his constitution. but it is this _moderate use_ of ardent spirits that produces all the excess. it is this which paves the way to downright and brutal intoxication. abolish the ordinary and temperate use of ardent spirits, and there would not be a drunkard in the country. he who advises men not to drink to excess, may lop off the branches; he who advises them to drink only on certain occasions, may fell the trunk; but he who tells them not to drink at all, strikes and digs deep for the root of the hideous vice of intemperance; and this is the only course to pursue. it is this temperate use of ardent spirits that must be discontinued. they must be no longer necessary when friends call, when we go to the store to trade, to the tavern to transact business, when we travel the road on public days--in fact, they must cease to be fashionable and customary drinks. do away the fashion and custom that attend their use, and change the tone of public feeling, so that it will be thought disgraceful to use them as they are now used by the most temperate and respectable men, and an end is for ever put to the prevalence of the beastly disease of intoxication. let those who cannot be reclaimed from intemperance go to ruin, and the quicker the better, if you regard only the public good; but save the rest of our population; save yourselves; save your children! raise not up an army of drunkards to supply their places. purify your houses. they contain the plague of death; the poison that, in a few years, will render some of your little ones what the miserable wretches that you see staggering the streets are now. and who, i ask, would not do it? what father, who knew that one of his sons that he loves was, in a few years, to be what hundreds you can name are now, would hesitate, that he might save him, to banish intoxicating drinks from his premises for ever? but if all will do it, he is saved; and he who contributes but a mite in this work of god, deserves the everlasting gratitude of the republic. if the names of a brainerd, of a swartz, of a buchanan, have been rendered immortal by their efforts to convert the heathen to christianity, the names of those men who shall succeed in converting christians to temperance and sobriety, should be written in letters of ever-during gold, and appended by angels in the temple of the living god. the sum of their benevolence would be exceeded only by his, who came down from heaven for man's redemption. then banish it; this is the only way to save your children. as long as you keep ardent spirits in your houses, as long as you drink it yourselves, as long as it is polite and genteel to sip the intoxicating bowl, so long society will remain just what it is now, and so long drunkards will spring from your loins, and so long drunkards will wear your names to future generations. and there is no other way given under heaven, whereby man can be saved from the vice of intemperance, but that of _total abstinence_. and, if ardent spirits are the parent of all the poverty, and disease, and crime, and madness, that i have named, and if they produce no good, what rational man will use them? if he loves himself, he will not; if he loves his children, he will not; and as hamilcar brought hannibal to the altar, at eight years of age, and made him swear eternal hatred to the romans, so every parent should bring his children to the altar, and make them swear, if i may so speak, eternal hatred to ardent spirits. he should teach them by precept and example. he should instil into his children a hatred of ardent spirits, as much as he does of falsehood and of theft. he should no more suffer his children to drink a little, than he does to lie a little, and to steal a little. and what other security have you for your children, or for yourselves? yes, for yourselves. i knew a man who, a few years ago, was as temperate as any of you; was as respectable as any of you, as learned as any of you, and as useful in life as any of you; i have heard him from the sacred desk again and again; but by the same use of ardent spirits that most men justify and advocate, under the mistaken notion that they were beneficial to him, he has at last fallen the victim of intemperance. and this is not a solitary example. i had almost said, it is a common example. i could easily add to the number. and now, what security have you for yourselves? you have none but in the course i have recommended. if it is necessary for the intemperate man to write on every vessel containing ardent spirits, "taste not, touch not, handle not," and to brand them as full of the very wrath of god, it is also necessary for the temperate man to do so, to save himself from intemperance. but the difficulty on this subject is to convince men of their individual danger; that intemperance stands at their own doors, and is knocking for an entrance into their own houses; that they and their children are the victims that he seeks. but if the places of the present generation of drunkards are to be supplied, whence will the victims come but from your own children? and who knows but that the infant the mother is now dandling upon her knee, and pressing to her bosom, however lovely he may appear, however respectable and elevated she is, will be selected to be one of that degraded, and squalid, and filthy class that, in her old age, will walk the streets as houseless, hopeless, and abandoned drunkards? you have no security, no assurance. but we are apt to think that the wretches whom we see and have described were always so; that they were out of miserable and degraded families; and that they are walking in the road in which they were born. but this is not so. among the number may be found a large proportion who were as lovely in their infancy, as promising in their youth, and as useful in early life, as your own children, and have become drunkards--i repeat it, and never let it be forgotten--_have become drunkards by the temperate, moderate, and habitual use of ardent spirits, just as you use them now_. were it not for this use of ardent spirits, we should not now hear of drunken senators and drunken magistrates; of drunken lawyers and drunken doctors; churches would not now be mourning over drunken ministers and drunken members; parents would not be weeping over drunken children, wives over drunken husbands, husbands over drunken wives, and angels over a drunken world. then cease. no longer use that which is the source of infinite mischief, without one redeeming benefit; which has entailed upon you, upon your children, and upon society, woes unnumbered and unutterable. banish it from your houses: it can be done. you have only to will, and it is effected. use it not at home. let it never be found to pollute your dwellings. give it not to your friends or to your workmen. touch it not yourselves, and suffer not your children to touch it; and let it be a part of your morning and evening prayer, that you and your children may be saved from intemperance, as much as from famine, from sickness, and from death. * * * * * reader, have you perused this pamphlet; and are you still willing to drink, use, or sell this soul-destroying poison? if so--if you are willing to risk your own soul, disgrace your friends, and ruin your children by this fell destroyer, then go on; but remember, that to the drunkard is allotted the "blackness of darkness and despair for ever." but if not--if you feel the magnitude of the evil; if you are willing to do something to correct it, sit not down in hopeless silence, but arouse to action; "resist the devil, and he will flee from you;" not only banish it from your houses, but from your stores, your shops, your farms; give it not to your workmen; refuse to employ those who use it; invite, entreat, conjure your friends and neighbors to refrain wholly from the use of it; never forgetting that the day of final account is at hand; that what we do for christ, and for the good of our fellow-men, must be done soon; and that those who sacrifice interest for the sake of conscience, and who are instrumental in turning men from their errors, shall not lose their reward. * * * * * this address was originally delivered before a large public meeting in lyme, new hampshire, jan. , . appeal to youth. a tract for the times. by rev. austin dickinson. to arrest a great moral evil, and elevate the general standard of character in a community, the influence of the young is all-important. _they_ can, if they please, put an end to the most demoralizing scourge that has ever invaded our country, and introduce a state of society far more pure and elevated than the world has yet seen. consider then, beloved youth, some of the numerous motives for abstaining from intoxicating liquor and other hurtful indulgences, and employing your time and faculties with a view to the highest improvement and usefulness. the use of such liquor, as a beverage, _will do you no good_. it will not increase your property or credit: no merchant would deem a relish for it any recommendation for a clerk or partner in business. it will not invigorate your body or mind; for chemistry shows, that alcohol contains no more nutriment than fire or lightning. it will not increase the number of your respectable friends: no one, in his right mind, would esteem a brother or neighbor the more, or think his prospects the better, on account of his occasional use of intoxicating liquor. nor will it in the least purify or elevate your affections, or help to fit you for the endearments of domestic life, or social intercourse; but on the contrary, scripture and observation alike testify, that wine and its kindred indulgences "_take away the heart_." why, then, should a rational being, capable of the purest happiness, and capable of blessing others by an example of temperance, indulge in a beverage in no respect useful to those in health, but the occasion of countless miseries! but strict temperance has a direct influence on _the health and vigor of both mind and body_. the most eminent physicians bear uniform testimony to its propitious effect. and the spirit of inspiration has recorded, _he that striveth for the mastery, is temperate in all things_. many striking examples might be adduced. the mother of samson, that prodigy of human strength, was instructed by an angel of god to preserve him from the slightest touch of "wine, or strong drink, or any unclean thing." and luther, who burst the chains of half europe, was as remarkable for temperance, as for great bodily and intellectual vigor. sir isaac newton, also, while composing his treatise on light, a work requiring the greatest clearness of intellect, it is said, very scrupulously abstained from all stimulants. the immortal edwards, too, repeatedly records his conviction and experience of the happy effect of strict temperance, both on mind and body. and recent reformations from moderate drinking have revealed numerous examples of renovated health and spirits in consequence of the change. but not to multiply instances, let any youth, oppressed with heaviness of brain or dulness of intellect, judiciously try the experiment of _temperance in all things_, united with habitual activity, and he will be surprised at the happy effect. consider, again, that _in the purest state of morals, and the most elevated and refined circles, the use of intoxicating drink is now discountenanced, and regarded as unseemly_. inspiration has declared, "it is not for kings to drink wine, nor for princes strong drink." and who would not regard any of the truly noble, as lowering themselves by disparaging this sentiment? what clerical association, or what convention of philanthropists, would now be found "mingling strong drink?" what select band of students, hoping soon to officiate honorably at the altar of god, before the bench of justice, or in the chamber of affliction, would now call for brandy or wine? what circle of refined females would not feel themselves about as much degraded by familiarity with such indulgences, as by smoking, or profane language? or what parent, inquiring for an eligible boarding-school, would think of asking, whether his son or daughter might there have the aid of such stimulus, or the example of its use? if, then, intoxicating liquor is thus disparaged in the most moral and intelligent circles, why should it not be universally abjured by individuals? why should not the young, especially, of both sexes, keep themselves unspotted, and worthy of the most elevated society? consider, moreover, that if the habit of drinking be indulged, _it may be difficult, if not impossible, should you live, to break off in more advanced life_. thus, even in this day of reform, there are individuals, calling themselves respectable, so accustomed to drink, or traffic in the poison, that all the remonstrances of philanthropists and friends, the wailings of the lost, the authority of heaven, and the anathema of public sentiment combined, cannot now restrain them. let the youth, then, who turns with shame from such examples of inconsistency, beware of a habit so hardening to the conscience, so deadening to the soul. but, to increase your contempt for the habit of drinking, think how it especially prevails _among the most degraded portions of the community_. inquire through the city, or village, for those who are so polluted as to be shut out from all decent society--so inured to vice that they cannot be looked upon but with utter disgust; learn their history, and you invariably find that the insidious glass has been their companion, their solace, and their counsellor. and should not dark suspicion and decided reprobation be stamped upon that which is thus associated with the lowest debasement and crime? such drink, in its very nature, has a perverting and debasing tendency--leading to foul speeches, foolish contracts, and every sensual indulgence. those under its influence will say and do, what, in other circumstances, they would abhor: they will slander, reveal secrets, throw away property, offend modesty, profane sacred things, indulge the vilest passions, and cover themselves and friends with infamy. hence the solemn caution, "look not thou on the wine, when it giveth its color in the cup: at the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder: thine eyes shall behold strange women, and thy heart utter perverse things." those who, by gaming or intrigue, rob others of their property, and those who allure "the simple" to ruin, it is said, fully understand its perverting influence. "is it not a little one?" say they; and so the unwise are "caused to fall, by little and little." "she urged him still to _fill another cup_; * * * and in the dark, still night, when god's unsleeping eye alone can see, he went to her adulterous bed. at morn i looked, and saw him not among the youths; i heard his father mourn, his mother weep; for none returned that went with her. the dead were in her house; her guests in depths of hell: she wove the winding-sheet of souls, and laid them in the urn of everlasting death." such is ever the tendency of the insidious cup. for the unerring word declares, "wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging; and whosoever is deceived thereby _is not wise_." "they are out of the way through strong drink; they err in vision, they stumble in judgment." indeed, _the whole spirit of the bible_, as well as uncorrupted taste, is in direct hostility to this indulgence. its language in regard to all such stimulants to evil is, _touch not, taste not, handle not_. and to such as glory in being above danger, it says, with emphasis, "we, then, that are strong, ought to bear the infirmities of the weak, and _not to please ourselves_." he who hath declared, _drunkards shall not inherit the kingdom of god_, cannot, surely, be expected to adopt, as heirs of his glory, any who, under all the light that has been shed on this subject, perseveringly resolve to sip the exhilarating glass for mere selfish pleasure, when they know that their example may probably lead others to endless ruin. common sense, as well as humanity, revolts at the thought. on the other hand, strict temperance is pleasing to the most high. hence, it is said of him who was honored to announce the saviour's advent, "he shall be great in the sight of the lord, and shall drink neither wine nor strong drink." moreover, the habit of strict temperance, being allied to other virtues, will secure for you the _respect and confidence of the best portions of the community_, as well as the approbation of god, and thus lead to your more extensive usefulness. the youth who promptly comes up to the pledge and practice of total abstinence, and persuades others to do so, gives evidence of decision and moral courage--gives evidence of an intellect predominating over selfish indulgence, and superior to the laugh of fools; and such is the man whom an intelligent community will delight to honor. but you are to live, not merely for self-advancement, or happiness: consider, then, that _true patriotism and philanthropy rightfully demand_ your cordial support of the temperance cause. a thick, fiery vapor, coming up from the pit, has been overspreading our whole land and blighting half its glory. thousands, through the noxious influence of this vapor, have yearly sunk to that pit, to weep and lament for ever. thousands more are groping their miserable way thither, who, but for this pestilence, might be among our happiest citizens. still greater numbers, of near connections, are in consequence, covered with shame. ah, who can say, he has had no relative infected by this plague? but providence, in great mercy, has revealed the only effectual course for exterminating the plague--_total abstinence from all that can intoxicate_. and the adoption of this course, instead of involving any real sacrifice, might be an annual saving to the nation of _many millions of dollars_. what youth, then, who loves his country, will not cheerfully coöperate with the most respected of every profession in encouraging this course? who does not see its certain efficacy, and the grandeur of the result? were a foreign despot, with his armies, now invading our country, every youthful bosom would swell with indignation. and will you not combine to arrest the more cruel despot, intemperance, whose vessels are daily entering our ports, whose magazines of death are planted at the corners of our streets, and whose manufactories are like "the worm that dieth not, and the fire that is not quenched?" were all who have, in the compass of a year, been found drunk in the land, assembled in one place, they would make a greater army than ever bonaparte commanded. and yet, unless patriot hearts and hands interpose, myriads more, from generation to generation, coming on in the same track, will go down like these to the drunkard's grave. were all the thousands that annually descend to the drunkard's grave, cast out at once into an open field, their loathsome carcases would cover many acres of ground. and yet the _source_ of all this pollution and death is moderate drinking. were the thousands of distilleries and breweries, still at work day and night in the land, placed in one city or county, they would blacken all the surrounding heavens with their smoke. and could all the oaths, obscenities, and blasphemies they occasion every hour, be uttered in one voice, it would be more terrific than "seven thunders." and are those armies of drunkards, that liquid fire, those carcases of the slain, those ever-burning manufactories, and those blasphemies in the ear of heaven, less appalling, less stirring to patriotism, because scattered throughout the land? shall there be no burst of indignation against this monster of despotism and wickedness, because he has _insidiously_ entered the country, instead of coming in by bold invasion? shall he still deceive the nation, and pursue his ravages? or shall he not, at once, be arrested, when it can be done without cost, and with infinite gain? it must not be forgotten, that, in this country, every drunkard has equal power in the elective franchise with the most virtuous citizen. nor must it be forgotten, that should the reform now cease, and intemperance again increase for the fifty years to come, in only the same ratio that it did for twenty years previous to the commencement of general reform in , about one-third of our voters would be drunkards. what, then, would be the character of our beloved republic? but should intemperance increase in that ratio for _eighty_ years, a _majority_ of our voters would be drunkards, and our population amount to several hundred millions. who then could turn back the burning tide; or who could govern the maddening multitudes? it is not a vain thing, then, that patriots have waked up to this subject. their trumpet should now thrill through the land, and urge all the young to enlist, at once, on the side of virtue. these can, if they will, cause the river of abominations to be dried up. but the subject of temperance has still another aspect, far more serious. it must be a solemn consideration to such as realize, in any measure, the worth of the soul and the necessity of its regeneration, that indulgence in the use of intoxicating drink, in this day of light, _may grieve the holy spirit_, whose presence alone can insure salvation. indeed, to say nothing of the deadening influence of such liquor on the conscience, unless heaven and hell can mingle together, we cannot, surely, expect god to send _his_ spirit to coöperate _with that_ which is peculiarly offensive to the most devoted and self-denying of his friends, and which satan employs, more than any other agent, in fitting men for his service. for, "what communion hath light with darkness?"--"what concord hath christ with belial?" beware, then, of the arch-deceiver, in this matter. "it is not a vain thing for you, because it is your life." it is obvious that if such stimulants were wholly done away, _the gospel would have far mightier sway_, and human nature generally assume a higher character. pure moral stimulus would take the place of what is low, sensual, and selfish. better health, better temper, higher intellect, and more generous benevolence would everywhere appear. it is obvious, likewise, that providence has great designs to be accomplished by the younger portions of this generation. unto us are committed those oracles which declare, "instead of thy fathers shall be thy children, whom thou mayest make princes in all the earth." and already do i see, in the silent kindling of unnumbered minds, in our sabbath-schools and other institutions, the presage of unexampled good to the nations. who, then, of the rising race, is so dead to generous feeling, so deaf to the voice of providence, so blind to the beauty of moral excellence, that he will not now aspire to some course of worthy action? let this motto, then, stand out like the sun in the firmament: he that striveth for the mastery, is temperate in all things. one word in reference to making and observing a _pledge_ for abstinence. as it respects yourself, it will show a resolute, independent mind, and be deciding the question once for all, and thus supersede the necessity of deciding it a thousand times, when the temptation is offered. it will, moreover, supersede the inconvenience of perpetual warfare with appetite and temptation. and as it respects others, of feebler minds, or stronger appetites, your _example_ may be immeasurably important. multitudes may thus be secured to a life of sobriety, who, but for this pledge, would never have had the requisite firmness. your influence may thus extend on the right hand and on the left, and down to future ages; and by such united pledges and efforts, countless multitudes may be saved from a life of wretchedness, a death of infamy, and an eternity of woe. but does any one still say, "i will unite in no pledge, because in no danger?" suppose _you are safe_; have you then no _benevolence_? are you utterly _selfish_? think of the bosom now wrung with agony and shame, over a drunken husband, or father, or brother. and have you no _pity_? think of the millions of hopes, for both worlds, suspended on the success of the temperance cause. and will you do nothing to speed its triumph? do you say, your influence is of no account? it was one "poor man" that saved a "little city," when a "great king besieged it." another saved a "great city," when the anger of jehovah was provoked against it. small as your influence may be, you are accountable to god and your country; and your finger may touch some string that shall vibrate through the nation. but are you conscious of possessing talent? then rally the circle of your acquaintance, and enlist them in the sacred cause. and do you save a little by abstinence? then _give_ a little to extend the benign influence. what youth cannot, at least, circulate a few tracts, and perhaps enlist as many individuals? and who can estimate the endless influence of those individuals, or their capacity for rising with you in celestial splendor? but have you wealth, or power with the pen? then speak by ten thousand tongues: send winged messengers through the city, the country, the town, the village, the harbor; and thus may you enjoy _now_ the highest of all luxuries--the luxury of _doing good_. and, at the same time, trusting in him who came from the abodes of light, "to seek and save the lost," you may secure _durable riches_ in that world, where, saith the scripture, neither _covetous_, nor _drunkards_, nor extortioners, nor revilers, nor the _slothful_, nor mere _lovers of pleasure_, nor _any thing that defileth_, shall ever enter; but where they that be wise shall shine forth as the brightness of the firmament for ever and ever. when these opposite characters and their changeless destinies are _seriously_ weighed, none, surely, can hesitate which to prefer. but, "what thou doest, do quickly." * * * * * note.--a premium of fifty dollars, offered by a friend, was awarded to the author of this tract. * * * * * published by the american tract society. alarm to distillers. by rev. baxter dickinson, d. d. the art of turning the products of the earth into a fiery spirit was discovered by an _arab_, about nine hundred years ago. the effects of this abuse of nature's gifts were soon viewed with alarm. efforts were made, even by a heathen people, to arrest the evil; and it shows the mighty agency and cunning of satan, that christian nations should ever have been induced to adopt and encourage this deadliest of man's inventions. in the guilt of encouraging the destructive art, our own free country has largely participated. in the year , as appears from well-authenticated statistics, our number of distilleries had risen to nearly _forty thousand_; and, until within a few years past, the progress of intemperance threatened all that was fair and glorious in our prospects. the reformation recently commenced is one of the grandest movements of our world; and to secure its speedy triumph, the concurrence of distillers is obviously indispensable. they must cease to provide the destroying element. this they are urged to do by the following considerations: . the business of distilling _confers no benefits on your fellow-men_. ardent spirit is not needed as an article of living. in the first ages of the world, when human life was protracted to hundreds of years, it was unknown. by the first settlers of this country it was not used. it was scarcely used for a whole century. and those temperate generations were remarkably robust, cheerful, and enterprising. to this we may add, that several hundred thousand persons, accustomed to use it, have given it up entirely within a few years past; and their united testimony is, that they have made no sacrifice either of health, or strength, or any real comfort. indeed few, if any, except such as have the intemperate appetite, will now seriously contend that distilled liquor is necessary or useful. the little that may perhaps be desirable as medicine, might be made by the apothecary, or the physician. the talents god has given you _might_ be applied to advance the welfare of your fellow-men. it is your duty--your highest _honor_--thus to apply them. and on the bed of death, in near prospect of the judgment, it will surely be a melancholy reflection that, as regards the happiness of mankind, your life has been an utter _blank_. . the business of distilling is not only useless, but _is the occasion of many and great evils_. recent examination has developed a number of appalling facts, which few, if any, pretend to question. it is admitted that the use of ardent spirit has been a tax on the population of our country, of from _fifty to a hundred millions of dollars_ annually. it is admitted that three-fourths of all the _crimes_ of the land result from the use of intoxicating liquor. it is admitted that at least three-fourths of all the sufferings of _poverty_ arise from the same source. it is admitted that upwards of _thirty thousand_ of our citizens have annually descended to the _drunkard's grave_. it is admitted, by those who believe the bible, that _drunkards shall not inherit eternal life_, but must _have their part in the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone_. in a word, it is admitted that health, fortune, social happiness, intellect, conscience, heaven, are all swept away by the tide of intemperance. and now, what you are specially bound to ponder is, that this burning tide, with all its desolations, flows from those very fountains _you_ have opened--the boiling flood can be perpetuated only by those fires which _your_ hands kindle, and which it is your daily task to tend. the position you occupy, then, is one of most fearful responsibility. you are directly and peculiarly accessary to a degree of guilt and misery which none but the infinite mind can comprehend. i hear for you a loud remonstrance from every court of justice, from every prison of collected crime, from every chamber of debasement, and from every graveyard, as well as from the dark world of despair. i hear the cries of unnumbered mothers, and widows, and orphans, all with one voice imploring you to extinguish those fires, to dry up those fountains, and to abandon an occupation pregnant with infamy, and death, and perdition. . the business of distilling _destroys, to a great extent, the bounties of providence_. many of the substances converted into ardent spirit are indispensable to the comfort of man--some of them the very staff of life. but the work of distillation not only destroys them as articles of food, but actually converts them to poison. an incalculable amount of grain, and tens of thousands of hogsheads of sugar and molasses, besides enormous quantities of other useful articles, are every year thus wickedly perverted in this christian land. who does not know the odious fact that, in many places, the _distillery_ has regulated the price of bread? who does not know that this engine of iniquity has at times so consumed the products of industry as to make it difficult for the poorer classes to get a supply? "the poor we have always with us;" and cries of the suffering are often heard from other lands. such facts, it would seem, might reach the conscience of all who are wantonly destroying heaven's gifts. can you, for a little selfish gain, persist in converting the bread of multitudes into pestilential fire? how utterly unlike the example of him who, while feeding thousands by miracle, could still say, "gather up the fragments which remain, that nothing be lost." . by continuing this destructive business, _you greatly offend the virtuous and respectable part of the community_. the temperance reformation has been commenced and prosecuted by enlightened men. it is not the enterprise of any political party or religious sect. it has the general support of ministers and christians of different denominations, of statesmen, judges, lawyers, physicians, and hundreds of thousands in the walks of private life. they regard the enterprise as one, on the success of which hang the liberties of our republic and the happiness of future millions. you cannot be surprised, then, that they look with pain on operations directly adapted to defeat their plans, and perpetuate the dread evil they deplore. you cannot suppose that their eye will light on the _fountains_ of this mighty evil but with inexpressible grief, disgust, and indignation. and if you have the common magnanimity of our nature, you will surely cease to outrage the feelings of the virtuous throughout the nation. . you pursue a pernicious calling, _in opposition to great light_. the time was when good men extensively engaged in the distilling business, and when few seemed to be aware of its fearfully mischievous tendency. the matter had not been a subject of solemn and extensive discussion. the sin was one of comparative ignorance. but circumstances have changed. inquiry has thrown upon the community a flood of light. the evil of intemperance has been exhibited in its complicated horrors. ardent spirit has been found to be not only useless, but fearfully destructive; so that the guilt of manufacturing it is now enormously aggravated. good men were once engaged in importing slaves. they suspected not the iniquity of the business; and an apology can be offered for them, on the ground of ignorance. but their trade has now come to be regarded by the civilized world in the same odious light as piracy and murder. the man who engages in it is stamped with everlasting infamy. and the reason is, that, like the distiller, he now sins amid that fulness of light which an age of philanthropy has poured around him. . perseverance in the business of distilling _must necessarily be at the expense of your own reputation and that of your posterity_. you are creating and sending out the materials of discord, crime, poverty, disease, and intellectual and moral degradation. you are contributing to perpetuate one of the sorest scourges of our world. and the scourge can never be removed till those deadly fires you have kindled are all put out. that public sentiment which is worthy of respect calls upon you to extinguish them. and the note of remonstrance will wax louder and louder till every smoking distillery in the land is demolished. a free and enlightened people cannot quietly look on while an enemy is working his engines and forging the instruments of national bondage and death. without a prophet's vision, i foresee the day when the manufacture of intoxicating liquor, for common distribution, will be classed with the arts of counterfeiting and forgery, and the maintenance of houses for midnight revelry and corruption. like these, the business will become a work only of darkness, and be prosecuted only by the outlaw. weigh well, then, the bearing of your destructive employment on personal and family _character_. the employment may secure for you a little gain, and perhaps wealth. but, in a day of increasing light and purity, you can never rid treasures, thus acquired, of a _stigma_, which will render him miserably poor who holds them. upon the dwelling you occupy, upon the fields you enclose, upon the spot that entombs your ashes, there will be fixed an indescribable gloom and odiousness, to offend the eye and sicken the heart of a virtuous community, till your memory shall perish. quit, then, this vile business, and spare your name, spare your family, spare your children's children such insupportable shame and reproach. . by prosecuting this business _in a day of light and reform, you peculiarly offend god, and jeopard your immortal interests_. in "times of ignorance," god, in a sense, "winked at" error. but let the error be persisted in under a full blaze of light, and it must be the occasion of a dread retribution from his throne. the circumstances of the distiller are now entirely changed. his sin was once a sin of ignorance, but is such no longer. he _knows_ he is taking bread from the hungry, and perverting the bounties of providence. he _knows_ he is undermining the very pillars of our republic. he _knows_ that, by distilling, he confers no benefits upon mankind. he _knows_ he is directly accessory to the temporal wretchedness and the endless wailing of multitudes. and knowing these things, and keeping on his way, he accumulates guilt which the holy one cannot overlook. if endless exclusion from heaven be the drunkard's doom, can _he_ be held guiltless who deliberately prepared for him, and perhaps placed in his hand, the cup of death and damnation? this is not the decision either of scripture or of common sense. wilfully persevering to furnish the sure means of death, you carry to the judgment the murderer's character as clearly as the midnight assassin. and now, what is the apology for prosecuting a business so manifestly offensive to god, and ruinous to yourself, as well as others? do you say, _it is necessary as a means of support_? but whence have you derived authority to procure a living at the sacrifice of conscience, character, and the dearest interests of others? and is the maintenance of a _public nuisance_ really necessary to your support? in a country like this, the plea of necessity for crime is glaringly impious. many and varied departments of honest and honorable industry are before you, all promising a generous reward; and, neglecting them for a wicked and mischievous occupation, you must bear the odium of a most sordid avarice, or implacable malignity. you virtually, too, impeach the character of god. you proclaim that he has made your comfort, and even subsistence, to depend upon the practice of iniquity. it is an imputation he must repel with abhorrence and wrath. nor is it sustained by the conscience, reason, or experience of any man. but possibly you urge, in self-justification, _others will manufacture spirit, if i do not_. but remember, the guilt of one is no excuse for another. "every one of us shall give account of _himself_ to god." if others pursue a business at the sacrifice of character and of heaven, it becomes you to avoid their crime, that you may escape their doom. it is not certain, however, that others will prosecute the destructive business, if you abandon it. men of fore-thought will not now embark their silver and gold on a pestilential stream, soon to be dried up under that blaze of light and heat which a merciful god has enkindled. they will not deem it either wise or safe to kindle unholy and deadly fires where the pure river of the water of life is so soon to overflow. in the eye of thousands, the distillery on your premises adds nothing to their value. indeed, should they purchase those premises, the filthy establishment would be demolished as the first effort of improvement. and every month and hour is detracting from its value, and blackening the curse that rests upon it. let the thousands now concerned in distilling at once put out their fires, and the act would cause one general burst of joy through the nation; and any effort to rekindle them would excite an equally general burst of indignation and abhorrence. none but a monster of depravity would ever make the attempt. but again, perhaps you say, _no one is obliged to use the spirit that is made_. but remember, that you make it only to be used. you make it with the desire, with the hope, with the expectation that it will be used. you know it has been used by thousands--by millions--and has strewed the land with desolation, and peopled hell with its victims; and you cannot but acknowledge that you would at once cease to make the liquor, did you not _hope it would continue to be used_. indeed, you must see that _just in proportion to your success_ will be the amount of mischief done to your fellow-men. it seems hardly needful to say that the foregoing considerations are all strictly applicable to such as furnish the materials for the distiller. were these withheld, his degrading occupation would of course cease. by suffering, then, the fruits of your industry to pass into his hands, you perpetuate his work of death. you share all his guilt, and shame, and curse. and remember, too, that the bushel of grain, the barrel of cider, the hogshead of molasses, for which you thus gain a pittance, may be returned from the fiery process only to hasten the infamy and endless ruin of a beloved son, or brother, or friend. nor is the crime of the retailer of ardent spirit essentially different. he takes the poison from the distiller, and insidiously deals it out to his fellow-men. it is truly stirring to one's indignation to notice his variety of artifice for rendering it enticing. his occupation is one which the civil authorities have, in some places, with a noble consistency, ceased to tolerate; and one which must soon be put down by the loud voice of public sentiment. indeed, the _retailer_, the _distiller_, and he who _furnishes the materials_, must be looked upon as forming a triple league, dangerous alike to private and social happiness, and to the very liberties of the nation. and an awakened people cannot rest till the deadly compact is sundered. why not, then, anticipate a little the verdict and the vengeance of a rising tone of public sentiment, and at once proclaim the _unholy alliance_ dissolved? why not anticipate the verdict of an infinitely higher tribunal--why not believe god's threatening, and escape the eternal tempest that lowers for _him who putteth the cup to his neighbor's lips_? why not coöperate promptly in a public reform that is regarded with intense interest in heaven, on earth, and in hell? o review, as men of reason, and conscience, and immortality, this whole business. and if you have no ambition to _benefit your fellow-men_--if you can consent _to ruin many for both worlds_--if you can persist in _wasting and perverting the bounties of a kind providence_--if you can outrage the feelings of the most _enlightened and virtuous_--if you can pursue a work of darkness _amid noonday light_--if you can sacrifice a _good name_, and entail _odium on all you leave_--and if you can deliberately _offend god_, and jeopard _your immortal interests_ for paltry gain, then go on--go on a little longer; but, "o my soul, come not thou into their secret; unto their assembly, mine honor, be not thou united." * * * * * note.--a premium, offered by a friend of temperance, was awarded to the author of this tract. published by the american tract society. putnam and the wolf; or, the monster destroyed. an address originally delivered at pomfret, conn., by rev. john marsh. [illustration: weeping drunk with wife and child] i remember, when a boy, reading a story which chilled my blood in my veins; but which taught me never to sit down and try to bear an evil which might, by bold and persevering effort, be remedied. the story was this. a certain district of country was infested by a wild beast. the nuisance was intolerable. the inhabitants rallied, and hunted it day and night, until they drove it into a deep den. there, with dogs, guns, straw, fire, and sulpher, they attacked the common enemy; but all in vain. the hounds came back badly wounded, and refused to return. the smoke of blazing straw had no effect; nor had the fumes of burnt brimstone. the ferocious animal would not quit its retirement. and now the shadows of evening gathered around them. the clock struck nine, and ten. and should they lose their prey? they must, unless some one should be so daring as to descend into this den of monsters and destroy the enemy. one man offered to go; but his neighbors remonstrated against the perilous enterprise. perilous indeed it was; but live so they could not, and stripping off his coat and waistcoat and having a long rope fastened round his legs, by which he might be pulled back, he entered with a flaming torch in his hand, head foremost. the most terrifying darkness appeared in front of the dim circle afforded by his light. it was still as the house of death. but proceeding onwards with unparalleled courage, he discovered the glaring eyeballs of the ferocious beast, who was sitting at the extremity of the cavern. for a moment he retreated; but again descended with his musket. the beast howled, rolled its eyes, snapped its teeth, and threatened him with instant death, when he levelled, fired, and brought it forth dead, to the view of his trembling and exulting neighbors. little did i then think that i should one day see the country rallied on the same spot, to hunt a more terrible monster, whose destruction will require putnam courage. the old enemy, gentlemen, which your fathers hunted about these hills and dales, was visible to the eye, and could be reached with powder and ball; but the enemy whom you assault is, like the foe of human bliss which entered the garden of eden, invisible, and therefore not to be described, and not to be destroyed by force of arms. that enemy did, indeed, to effect his purpose, assume the form of a serpent; and ours has been said, as belonging to the same family, to have occasionally the same aspect. a gentleman in missouri has recently described a dreadful worm which, he says, infests that country. "it is of a dead lead color, and generally lives near a spring, and bites the unfortunate people who are in the habit of going there to drink. the symptoms of its bite are terrible. the eyes of the patient become red and fiery; the tongue swells to an immoderate size and obstructs utterance, and delirium of the most horrid character ensues. the name of this reptile is, 'the worm of the still.'" i suspect it is one of the same family which is infesting the peaceful villages of new england, and whose ravages have alarmed the country, and caused you this day to leave your homes and seek its destruction. i would not here inquire minutely into its history. it is said to have originated in arabia, the country of the false prophet. the aborigines of our forests never knew it. they could proudly tread on the rattlesnake and copperhead, but never fell before the worm of the still. o woful day when it found its way to our coasts; when here it first generated its offspring. yet there are men who think we belie it; who say that we are needlessly alarmed; that we are hunting a friend; that we are driving one from our country without whose aid we can never check the ravages of disease, or perform our labor, or have any hilarity. it is not, say they, a poisonous foe. it is a pleasant cordial; a cheerful restorative; the first friend of the infant; the support of the enfeebled mother; a sweet luxury, given by the parent to the child; the universal token of kindness, friendship, and hospitality. it adorns the sideboards and tables of the rich, and enlivens the social circles of the poor; goes with the laborer as his most cheering companion; accompanies the mariner in his long and dreary voyage; enlivens the carpenter, the mason, the blacksmith, the joiner, as they ply their trade; follows the merchant to his counter, the physician to his infected rooms, the lawyer to his office, and the divine to his study, cheering all and comforting all. it is the life of our trainings, and town-meetings, and elections, and bees, and raisings, and harvests, and sleighing-parties. it is the best domestic medicine, good for a cold and a cough, for pain in the stomach, and weakness in the limbs, loss of appetite and rheumatism, and is a great support in old age. it makes a market for our rye and apples; sustains , families who are distilling and vending, and pours annually millions of dollars into our national treasury. had the wolf possessed the cunning of the fox, she would have told putnam as smooth a story as this. but it would have made no difference. the old man's cornfields were fattened by the blood of his sheep, and he would give no quarter. and the blood of our countrymen has been poured out at the shrine of the demon intemperance, and we must give none. talk we of alcohol as a friend! as well may a mother praise the crocodile which has devoured her offspring. look, my countrymen, at the ravages of intemperance. fix your eye on its waste of property. at the lowest calculation, it has annually despoiled us of a hundred millions of dollars--of thirty millions for an article which is nothing worth, and seventy or eighty millions more to compensate for the mischiefs that article has done--money enough to accomplish all that the warmest patriot could wish for his country, and to fill, in a short period, the world with bibles and a preached gospel. what farmer would not be roused, should a wild beast come once a year into his borders and destroy the best cow in his farmyard? but - / cents a day for ardent spirit wastes $ cents a year, and in years nearly $ , , which is a thousand times as much as scores of drunkards are worth at their burial. see the pauperism it has produced. we have sung of our goodly heritage, and foreign nations have disgorged their exuberant population that they might freely subsist in this land of plenty. but in this granary of the world are everywhere seen houses without windows, fields without tillage, barns without roofs, children without clothing, and penitentiaries and almshouses filled to overflowing; and a traveller might write--beggars made here. we are groaning under our pauperism, and talking of taxes, and hard times, and no trade; but intemperance has stalked through our land and devoured our substance. it has entered the houses of our unsuspecting inhabitants as a friend, and taken the food from their tables, and the clothing from their beds, and the fuel from their fire, and turned their lands over to others, and drove them from their dwellings to subsist on beggary and crime, or drag out a miserable existence in penitentiaries and almshouses. two-thirds, or , of the wretched tenants of these abodes of poverty in the united states, were reduced by intemperance. so themselves confess. it was rum, brandy, and whiskey, that did it. and the prison discipline report tells of , cases of imprisonment for debt annually in the united states, in consequence of the use of ardent spirits. o, its sweeps of property can never be known. look at the crime it has occasioned. it is said that there is a spring in china which makes every man that drinks it a villain. eastern tales are founded on some plain matter of fact. this spring may be some distillery or dram-shop; for this is the natural effect of alcohol. it breaks down the conscience, quickens the circulation, increases the courage, makes man flout at law and right, and hurries him to the perpetration of every abomination and crime. excite a man by this fluid, and he is bad enough for any thing. he can lie, and steal, and fight, and swear, and plunge the dagger into the bosom of his nearest friend. no vice is too filthy, no crime too tragical for the drunkard. the records of our courts tell of acts committed under the influence of rum, which curdle the blood in our veins. husbands butcher their wives; children slaughter their parents. far the greater part of the atrocities committed in our land, proceed from its maddening power. "i declare in this public manner, and with the most solemn regard to truth," said judge rush, some years ago in a charge to a grand jury, "that i do not recollect an instance since my being concerned in the administration of justice, of a single person being put on his trial for manslaughter which did not originate in drunkenness; and but few instances of trial for murder where the crime did not spring from the same unhappy cause." of complaints presented to the police court in boston in one year, were under the statute against common drunkards. of , cases of criminal prosecution in a court in north carolina, more than proceeded from intemperance. five thousand complaints are made yearly in new york to the city police of outrages committed by intoxicated persons; and the late city attorney reports, that of twenty-two cases of murder which it had been his duty to examine, every one of them had been committed in consequence of intemperate drinking. "nine-tenths of all the prisoners under my care," says captain pillsbury, warden of our own state prison, "are decidedly intemperate men, and were brought to their present condition, directly or indirectly, through intoxicating liquor. many have confessed to me with tears, that they never felt tempted to the commission of crime, thus punishable, but when under the influence of strong drink." and the prison discipline report states, "that of , criminals committed to our prisons in a single year, , were excited to their commission of crime by spirituous liquors." look at its destruction of intellect. it reduces man to a beast, to a fool, to a devil. the excessive drinker first becomes stupid, then idiotic, then a maniac. men of the finest geniuses, most acute minds, and profound learning, have dwindled under the touch of this withering demon to the merest insignificance, and been hooted by boys for their silly speeches and silly actions, or chained in a madhouse as unsafe in society. of eighty-seven admitted into the new york hospital in one year, the insanity of twenty-seven was occasioned by ardent spirit; and the physicians of the pennsylvania hospital report, that one-third of the insane of that institution were ruined by intemperance. what if one-sixth of our maniacs were deprived of their reason by the bite of the dogs, the friendly inmates of our houses, or by some vegetable common on our table; who would harbor the dangerous animal, or taste the poisonous vegetable? but, one-third of our maniacs are deranged by alcohol. indeed, every drunkard is in a temporary delirium; and no man who takes even a little into his system, possesses that sound judgment, or is capable of that patient investigation or intellectual effort, which would be his without it. just in proportion as man comes under its influence, he approximates to idiotism or madness. look at its waste of health and life. the worm of the still, says the missouri gentleman, never touches the brute creation, but as if the most venomous of all beings, it seizes the noblest prey. it bites man. and where it once leaves its subtle poison, farewell to health--farewell to long life. the door is open, and in rush dyspepsia, jaundice, dropsy, gout, obstructions of the liver, epilepsy--the deadliest plagues let loose on fallen man--all terminating in delirium tremens or mania a potu, a prelude to the eternal buffetings of foul spirits in the world of despair. one out of every forty, or three hundred thousand of our population, have taken up their abode in the lazar-house of drunkenness, and thirty thousand die annually the death of the drunkard. these sweeps of death mock all the ravages of war, famine, pestilence, and shipwreck. the yellow-fever in philadelphia, in , felt to be one of the greatest curses of heaven, destroyed but four thousand. in our last war the sword devoured but five hundred a year: intemperance destroys two hundred a week. shipwrecks destroy suddenly, and the country groans when forty or fifty human beings are suddenly engulfed in the ocean; but more than half of all the sudden deaths occur in fits of intoxication. it needed not a fable to award the prize of greatest ingenuity in malice and murder to the demon who invented brandy, over the demon who invented war. look at its murder of souls. not satisfied with filling jails, and hospitals, and graveyards, it must people hell. every moral and religious principle is dissipated before it. the heart becomes, under its influence, harder than the nether mill-stone. it has gone into the pulpit and made a judas of the minister of christ. it has insinuated itself into the church, and bred putrefaction and death among the holy. it has entered the anxious room in seasons of revival, and quenched conviction in the breast of the distressed sinner, or sent him, exhilarated with a false hope, to profess religion, and be a curse to the church. it has accompanied men, sabbath after sabbath, to the house of god, and made them insensible as blocks of marble to all the thunders of sinai and sweet strains of zion. it has led to lying, profane swearing, sabbath-breaking, tale-bearing, contention; and raised up an army, i may almost say, in every village, who wish for no sabbath, and no bible, and no saviour, and who cry out with stammering tongues, "away with him, crucify him." it has, without doubt, been the most potent of all the emissaries of satan, to obliterate the fear of the lord, turn men away from the sabbath and the sanctuary, steel them against the word, the providence, and grace of god, stupefy the conscience, bring into action every dark and vile passion, and fill up with immortal souls the dark caverns of eternal night. let a man, day by day, hover around a dram-shop, and sip and sip at his bottle, and the devil is sure of him. no ministers, no sabbaths, no prayers, no tears from broken-hearted and bleeding relatives, can avail to save him. he holds that man by a chain which nothing but omnipotence can break. and look, too, at its waste of human happiness. yes, look--look for yourselves. the woes of drunkenness mock all description. some tell of the happiness of drinking. o, if there is a wretched being on earth, it is the drunkard. his property wasted, his character gone, his body loathsome, his passions wild, his appetite craving the poison that kills him, his hopes of immortality blasted for ever; it is all "me miserable, which way i fly is hell, myself am hell." and his family. i can never look at it but with feelings of deepest anguish. "domestic happiness, thou only bliss of paradise that hast escaped the fall," thou art shipwrecked here. sorrow, woe, wounds, poverty, babblings, and contention, have entered in and dwell here. yet we have , such families in the land; and if each family consists of four individuals, more than a million persons are here made wretched by this curse of curses. and his death. o, to die in our houses, amid our friends, and with the consolations of religion, strips not death of its character as the king of terrors. but to die as the drunkard dies, an outcast from society, in some hovel or almshouse, on a bed of straw, or in some ditch, or pond, or frozen in a storm; to die of the _brain-fever_, conscience upbraiding, hell opening, and foul spirits passing quick before his vision to seize him before his time--this, this is woe; this is the triumph of sin and satan. yet, in the last ten years, , have died in our land the death of the drunkard; rushing, where?--"drunkards shall not inherit the kingdom of god"--rushing into hell, where their worm dieth not, and their fire can never be quenched. and if the demon is suffered to continue his ravages, , more of our existing population will, in the same way, rush into eternal burnings. and his funeral. have you ever been at a drunkard's funeral? i do not ask, did you look at his corpse? it was cadaverous before he died. but did you look at his father as he bent over the grave and exclaimed in agony, "o, my son, my son, would to god i had died for thee, my son." did you look at his widow, pale with grief, and at his ragged, hunger-bitten children at her side, and see them turn away to share the world's cold pity, or, perhaps, rejected and forlorn, follow the same path to death and hell? such are the ravages of the demon we hunt. its footsteps are marked with blood. we glory in our liberties, and every fourth of july our bells ring a merry peal, as if we were the happiest people on earth. but o, our country, our country! she has a worm at her vitals, making fast a wreck of her physical energies, her intellect, and her moral principle; augmenting her pauperism and her crime; nullifying her elections--for a drunkard is not fit for an elector--and preparing her for subjection to the most merciless tyranny that ever scourged any nation under heaven. we talk of our religion, and weep over the delusions of the false prophet and the horrors of juggernaut; but a more deceitful prophet is in our churches than mahomet, and a more bloody idol than juggernaut rolls through our land, crushing beneath its wheels our sons and our daughters. woe, woe, woe to zion. satan is in eden. and if no check is put to the ravages of the demon, our benevolent institutions must die, our sanctuaries be forsaken, our beautiful fields be wastes, and the church will read the history of her offspring in the third of romans: _their throat is an open sepulchre; their mouth is full of cursing and bitterness; their feet are swift to shed blood_--all, blasting our bright hope of the speedy approach of millennial glory. there is cause, then, for the general alarm that has been excited in our country; reason for this extensive and powerful combination to hunt and destroy the monster. much, by divine help, has been done. he has been routed and brought to the light of day; the mischief he has done has been exposed; his apologists have been confronted; he is driven into his den, and now how can he be destroyed? that he must be destroyed there can be no question. the man who does not wish for the suppression of intemperance must have the heart of a fiend; especially, if he wishes to grow rich on the miseries of his fellow-men. and he must be destroyed now. it is now or never. men may say enough has been done, and talk about his being held where he is. he cannot be held there. he has the cunning of a serpent, and he will escape through some fissure in the rock. he is now in our power. the temperance movement, which has on it the impress of the finger of god, has brought him within our grasp; and if we let him escape, the curse of curses will be entailed upon our children. how then can he be destroyed? i answer, and thousands answer, by starvation. no weapon can reach him so long as you feed him. but who has a heart so traitorous to humanity as to feed this monster? every man who now, in the face of the light that is shed upon this subject, distils, or vends, or uses intoxicating liquor; every distillery, and every dram-shop in the land, nourishes this foe to human peace; every man who takes the alcoholic poison into his system, or imparts it to others, except as he takes and imparts other poisons to check disease, gives life to the beast. i need not stop to prove it. it is manifest to the child. let every distillery in the land cease, and every dram-shop be closed, and total abstinence become the principle of every individual, and the demon will be dead; yes, take away from him his wine, his brandy, and his whiskey, and he will perish for ever. but here is the very brunt of the battle. we have hunted the monster through the land, and driven him into his den; and now we must stand at the very mouth of the cavern, and contend with our fellow-men and fellow-sufferers--yes, and fellow-christians too--who are either afraid to attack the monster, or are determined he shall live. and first, we are met by a body of men who tell us that alcohol is useful. and what if it is? what if every benefit that the moderate and immoderate drinker can think of, flows from it? what will this do to compensate for its giant evils which are desolating our land? is man so bent on self-gratification that he will have every sweet, though it be mingled with poison? will he exercise no reason; make no discrimination between unmixed good and good followed by desolating woes? tea was good. but, said our fathers, if with it we must have all the horrors of british tyranny, away with it from our dwellings. my countrymen, "the voice of your fathers' blood cries to you from the ground, 'my sons, scorn to be slaves!'" away with the shameful plea that you cannot do without an article which subjects you to an evil ten thousand times worse than all the horrors of british tyranny. you kindle the fires of liberty by pointing to the woes of the prison-ship, and the bones of your countrymen whitening on the shores of new jersey. o, crouch not to a tyrant who binds a million in his chains, and demands thirty thousand annually for his victims. i blush for the imbecility of the man who must have an article on his farm which eats up his substance and his vitals, and may turn his son into an idiot and a brute. better have no farm. better go at once, with his family, into the poor-house, and be supported by public charity. next comes canting hypocrisy, with his bible in his hand, telling us that "every creature of god is good, and nothing to be refused, if it be received with thanksgiving." what does he mean; that ardent spirit is the gift of god? pray, in what stream of his bounty, from what mountain and hill does it flow down to man? o, it is in the rye, and the apple, and the sugar, and the mussulman has taught us christians how to distil it. and so the poet tells us satan taught his legions how to make gunpowder. "there are," said he, "deep under ground, materials dark and crude, of spirituous and fiery spume. these, in their dark nativity, the deep shall yield us, pregnant with internal flame; which, into hollow engines, long and round, thick ramm'd, at th' other bore with touch of fire dilated and infuriate, shall send forth from far, with thundering noise, among our foes such implements of mischief as shall dash to pieces and o'erwhelm whatever stands adverse. th' invention all admired; up they turn'd wide the celestial soil; sulphurous and nitrous foam they found, they mingled; and, with subtle art concocted and adjusted, they reduced to blackest grain." and now, to carry out the argument, gunpowder, and guns, and swords, are the gift of god, and men must needs use them, and kill one another as fast as possible. but nothing, it is plead, was made in vain. spirit is good for something, and to banish it from use, and promise that we will "touch not, taste not, handle not," is contempt of the works of god. i should like to have seen what the pomfret hero would have done with a man who should have stood before him, and said, don't you destroy that wolf; god made it, and it may be good for something. next, we are checked in our principle of starvation by a set of thoughtless youth and presumptuous men, who say there is no danger from the demon if we keep him low. all his ravages have been occasioned by his being full fed. let him sip but little, feed him _prudently_, and he will do no harm. "good," says the demon, growling in his den; "that is all i want. the doctrine of prudent use is the basis of my kingdom. temperate drinking has made all the drunkards in the land, and keep it up in all your towns and villages, and i shall be satisfied." o the delusion! prudent use! what is the testimony of every chemist and physician in the land? alcohol is a _poison_. "not a bloodvessel," says dr. mussey, "however minute, not a thread of nerve in the whole animal machine escapes its influence. it disturbs the functions of life; it increases for a time the action of the living organs, but lessens the power of that action; hence the deep depression and collapse which follow preternatural excitement. by habitual use it renders the living fibre less and less susceptible to the healthy operation of unstimulating food and drink, its exciting influences soon become incorporated with all the living actions of the body, and the diurnal sensations of hunger, thirst, and exhaustion, are strongly associated with the recollection of its exhilarating effects, and thus bring along with them the resistless desire for its repetition." more than fifty per cent. of common spirits are alcohol, this deadly substance, holding rank with henbane, hemlock, prussic acid, foxglove, poison sumach. nausea, vertigo, vomiting, exhilaration of spirits for a time, and subsequent stupor, and even total insensibility and death, are their accompaniments. broussais remarks, "a single portion of ardent spirit taken into the stomach produces a temporary phlogosis." now, i submit it to every considerate man, whether there can be any prudent use of a poison, a single portion of which produces the same disease of which the drunkard dies, and a disease which brings along with it a resistless desire for a repetition of the draught. thoughtless, self-sufficient men say, they can control this desire, can govern their appetite, can enjoy the exhilaration of strong drink, and yet be temperate. let them look at the poor inebriate wallowing in his pollution. he once stood just where they stand; boasted just as they boast; had as fair character, and as kind friends, and as precious a soul and bright hopes of heaven as they have. let them tell why he does not control his appetite. perhaps they say, he is a fool. ah, what made him a fool? or, his reason is gone. and what took away his reason? or, he has lost his character. and what took away his character? or, his sense of shame is departed. and what took away his sense of shame? ah, here is the dreadful secret, which it may be well for all, boasting of their power of self-control, to know. at the very moment when the man thinks he stands firm, and reason can control appetite, his moral sense departs, his shame is gone, and he turns, through the power of his morning bitters and oft-repeated drams, into the brute and the maniac. with the moral sensibilities laid waste, reason here has only the power of the helmsman before the whirlwind. "twenty years ago," says nott, "a respectable householder came in the morning with a glass of bitters in his hand, and offered it to his guest, saying, 'take it; it will do you good. i have taken it for some years, and i think it does me good; and i never want any more.' time passed on, and presently the bottle of bitters in the closet was exchanged for the barrel of whiskey in the cellar; and the poor man was often at the tap for just as much as would do him good, and he never wanted any more. time passed on, and a hogshead was needful; and its contents were exhausted with the same intent, and the same self-deceivings. at length the home of his family was relinquished to his creditors; his polluted body was lodged in a jail, from which he presently issued a drunken vagabond, and wandered a wretched being, until he found a drunkard's grave." it is but the history of thousands. no laws of nature act with more uniformity than the laws of intemperance. no inoculation sends with more certainty disease into the system than drinking strong drink. hundreds have made an agonizing struggle to escape from perdition. they have seen their sin and danger; they have walked the streets in agony; they have gone to their homes and looked at their wives and children, and into the pit of despair. but their feverish stomach has cried, give, give! and they have drank often and often, with the solemn promise that it should be the last time; until they have exclaimed, with a once interesting youth, "i know i am a ruined man, but i cannot stop." some, indeed, through much care and strength of constitution, may escape; but the plague, if it appear not in their skin and their bone, may break out in their children. "i will drink some," said an aged deacon of a church of christ; "for it does me good." god was merciful, though he tempted heaven, and it is said that he died with his character untarnished; but six loathsome sons drank up his substance, with the leprosy in their foreheads. what a meeting must there be between that deacon and his sons on the judgment-day! the doctrine of prudent use must be abandoned. it can have no standard. every man thinks he drinks prudently, whether he takes one glass a day or five, and is just as much excited and just as liable to drunkenness as all drunkards were when they stood where he now stands. he only that entirely abstains can properly be called a temperate man. and he only is clear from the guilt of spreading intemperance through the land. moderate drinkers are the life of this bloody system which is wringing with agony the hearts of thousands. did all at once drink to excess, alcohol would be viewed with dread, as is laudanum and arsenic. better that all who tasted it were at once made drunkards; then, drunkards would be as scarce as suicides. but men now sip moderately and are reputable; they think themselves safe, but one in every forty sinks to drunkenness; and thus, among twelve millions of people, drinking moderately, the demon has perpetually , victims. and for these, while all are thus paying homage to the bottle, what is the hope? the lost wretch may wake from his brutality and crime, and resolve that he will reform, and his broken-hearted wife may hope that the storms of life are over, and his babes may smile at his strange kindness and care; but the universal presence of the intoxicating fluid, and the example of the wise and the good around him, will thwart all his resolutions, and he will go back, like the dog to his vomit. all the drunkenness, then, that shall pollute our land, must be traced to moderate drinkers. they feed the monster. they keep in countenance the distillery and the dram-shop, and every drunkard that reels in the streets. moderate use is to this kingdom of blood what the thousand rivulets and streams are to the mighty river. o how have we been deceived. we long searched for the poison that was destroying our life. the drop said, it is not in me--i am but a drop, and can do no harm. the little stream said, it is not me. am i not a little one, and can do no harm? and the demon intemperance, as she prowled around us, said, let my drops and my rivulets alone; they can do no harm. go stop, if you can, the mighty river. we believed her. but the river baffled our efforts. its torrents rolled on, and we contented ourselves with snatching here and there a youth from destruction. but we now see that the poison is in the drops and the rivulets; and that without these, that river of death, which is sweeping the young and the old into the ocean of despair, would cease for ever. and we call upon these self-styled prudent, temperate drinkers, to pause and look at the tremendous responsibility and guilt of entailing drunkenness upon their country for ever. but we are met with more serious opposers to the plan of starvation. they are, they say, the bone and muscle of the country. they come from the farms, the shipyards, and workshops, and say, if you starve out this monster, _we_ shall be starved out, for we cannot do our work and get a living without rum or whiskey; though, according to their own confession, they have found it hard living with. their rum and their whiskey have cost them double and treble their other taxes--their sons have become vile, their workmen turbulent, their tools have been broken, and many of themselves are already sinking under its enfeebling influence. with such it is hard to reason. they have tried but one side, and are incapable of judging the case. we can only tell them there is no danger. not a particle of nourishment does spirit afford them. the hard drinker totters as he walks. the poor inebriate can neither stand nor go. we can point them to hundreds and thousands of their own profession, honest men, who solemnly testify that they are healthier and stronger, can perform more labor, and endure the frosts of winter and heat of summer better without it than with it. we can ask them whether they fully believe that the god of heaven, a god of love, has put them under the dire necessity of using daily an article which, with such awful certainty, makes drunkards; and whether, when he has said, woe to him that giveth his neighbor drink, he has said, too, you must all drink it; it is necessary for you. but such never can be taught and convinced but by experience; and to such we would say, try it for yourselves. our next opposition, gentlemen, is from a band clothed in white--professors of our holy religion--enlisted soldiers of christ, engaged to every work of benevolence: they come--o tell it not in gath!--to intercede for the monster, and oppose our enterprise. is not this, you ask, a libel? alas, too often, reports of temperance societies tell of opposition from professors of religion. what can be the meaning of this? has not intemperance been the greatest curse to the church? has it not caused her to bleed at every pore? and have not her members cried to heaven that the destroyer might perish? and now, when god has put into their hands a weapon by which it may at once be exterminated, will they hesitate? will they hang back? will they say, we cannot make the sacrifice? o where lies this astonishing witchery? what has put the church to sleep? what has made her angry at the call to come out from the embrace of her deadliest foe? o what has he, who drinks the cup of the lord, to do with the cup of devils? does he need it to make him serious or prayerful, or to enable him better to understand the word of god, or bear reproach for christ, or discharge his christian duties, or open his heart in charity? does it not palsy the heart, quench the spirit of prayer, seal up every holy and benevolent feeling, and turn many from christ, that they walk no more with him? what can a professor mean who refuses to enlist under the temperance banner? does he really want the monster to live? does he pray that he may? will he stand aloof from this conflict? is he determined to deny himself in nothing? to care not if others perish? to risk shipwreck of character and conscience, and to keep in countenance every drunkard and dram-shop around him? is it nothing to him that intemperance shall spread like a _malaria_, to every city, and village, and neighborhood, until the land shall send up nothing but the vapors of a moral putrefaction, and none shall here pray, or preach, or seek god; but ignorance, and crime, and suffering, withering comfort and hope, shall go hand in hand, until we can be purified only by a rain of fire and brimstone from heaven? o for shame, for shame! let the christian, pleading for a little intoxicating liquor, be alarmed; let him escape as for his life from the kingdom of darkness. "come out of her, my people, that ye be not partakers of her sins, and that ye receive not of her plagues." next to diseased appetite, the love of money is the most potent principle in the breast of depraved man. thirty-six thousand distillers, and eighty-five thousand venders of ardent spirits in our land, form a tremendous host in opposition to our enterprise. they live everywhere. "pass where we may, through city or through town, village or hamlet, of this merry land, * * * * every twentieth pace conducts the unguarded nose to such a whiff of stale debauch, forth issuing from the sties that law has licensed, as makes temperance reel." they live wherever the demon has his haunts. or rather, he lives where they live; for they feed him. and while he fattens on the article they make and vend, they receive in return the silver and gold of his deluded victims. now, how can this formidable host, who cry out, our craft is in danger, by this demon we have our wealth--how can they be met? can they be met at all? yes, they can--for they are men; generally reputable men; in cases not a few, pious men; and all have consciences, and may be made to feel their accountableness to god. now let them be told that they keep this monster alive; that to their distilleries and shops may be traced all the poverty, and contention, and tears, and blood, which drunkenness produces; that their occupation is to poison the young and the old; and by dealing out gallons, and quarts, and pints, and gills, they fill up, with drunkards, the highway to hell; that they do all this to get the money of the wretched victims; that the tears of broken-hearted widows and orphan children are entering into the ears of the lord of sabaoth, and that neither god nor their consciences will hold them guiltless in this thing, and sure i am that they will be filled with horror at their own doings, and quit their business. if there are some so hardened and dead to all the best interests of men as to persist, against the light of the age, in the business of making drunkards, let public indignation burn against them till they can no longer stand before its fires. let a distillery be viewed as a man would view the inquisition, where the racks, the tortures, and the fires, consume the innocent. let the dram-shop be ranked, as judge dagget says it should be, with the haunts of counterfeiters, the depositories of stolen goods, and the retreats of thieves; and over its door let it be written, "the way to hell, leading down to the chambers of death." the time has been when a vender could deal out, day by day, the liquid poison to the tottering drunkard, attend his funeral, help lay him in the grave; then go home, post up his books, turn the widow and her babes into the streets to perish with hunger or be supported by charity, and yet sustain a good reputation. but in future, whenever the community shall stand around the grave of a drunkard, let the eyes of all be fixed on the inhuman vender; let him be called to take one solemn look into the grave of the slain and the pit of the damned; and if he will return to the ruin of his fellow-men, let the voice of his brother's blood cry to him from the ground, and his punishment be greater than he can bear. perhaps some reputable vender is offended at the freedom of these remarks. i would ask him if he has never been offended at the smell of that filthy drunkard who has hung around him? i would ask him if his conscience has never stung him as ragged children have come to him in bleak november to have him fill their father's bottle? i would ask him if his soul has never shook within him as he passed, in the darkness of night, the graveyard where three, four, or five of his neighbors lie without even a tombstone, who found their death at his counter? his traffic may be profitable, but let him beware lest while he feeds the monster it turns and devours him and his offspring. at least, let him solemnly inquire, before god, whether he can be a virtuous man and knowingly promote vice; or an honest man, and rob his neighbor by selling an article which promotes sorrow, disease, and death. i congratulate you, gentlemen, on the stand which you have taken against the monster intemperance, and on the success with which your efforts have been crowned. you are doing a work for this country for which future generations will call you blessed. let your watchword be onward, extermination, death; and victory will be yours. our weapons are simple, but mighty. o what a discovery is this principle of entire abstinence! let the name of its author be embalmed with that of luther, and howard, and raikes, and wilberforce. what has it not already done for our suffering country! what a change meets the eye as it wanders from georgia to maine--from the atlantic to our western borders. here we see farms tilled; there buildings raised; here churches built; there vessels reared, launched, and navigated too; manufactories conducted; fisheries carried on; prisons governed; commercial business transacted; journeys performed; physicians visiting their patients; legislators enacting laws; lawyers pleading for justice; judges deciding the fate of men, and ministers preaching the everlasting gospel--without intoxicating liquor. here we see importers unwilling to risk the importation of spirituous liquor into the land; there distillers abandoning their distilleries as curses to themselves and the community; and merchants, not a few, expelling the poison from their stores, and some pouring it upon the ground, choosing that the earth should swallow it rather than man. and all this in the short space of three years. what has done it? entire abstinence. what then will not be done, when, instead of , who now avow it, , shall give their pledge that they will abandon a kingdom founded in blood. and can they not be found in this land of humane men, and patriots, and christians? yes, they can. onward then, gentlemen. listen not to those who say you are carrying matters too far. so said the wolf. she loved life, and she loved blood. but did she ever regard the cry of the sheep? the monster intemperance has been glutted with blood; and never spared, and had no pity. he still howls for blood; and many plead that he may have some. but depend upon it, their pleas are only those of debased appetite and avarice. rally the community against them. enlighten the public mind. collect facts. let your towns and villages be searched with candles. go into the dens. bring the monster and his suffering victims to light, and the public indignation will no longer slumber. of one thing i will remind you. the demon will daunt the timid. it is noisy and fiery. attack it, and it will roll its eyes, and snap its teeth, and threaten vengeance. attempt to starve it, and it will rave like the famished tiger. thousands have fed it against their consciences, rather than meet its fury. but fear not. the use of ardent spirit meets no support in the bible or the conscience, and the traffic meets none. be firm. be decided. be courageous. connect your cause with heaven. it is the cause of god; the cause for which immanuel died. o, as men and patriots, banish intemperance, with all its sources, from your country and the land. as ministers and christians, banish it for ever from the churches of the living god. let the demon no longer hide in the sanctuary. let entire abstinence be written in capitals over the door of every church. expel for ever the accursed enemy, that the spirit of the lord may descend and bless us with life and peace. to those not connected with the temperance association, i would say, look at this enterprise. it injures no man, wrongs no man, defrauds no man, has no sectarian or political object in view; it would only relieve our infant nation of a burden and a curse which is fast placing it side by side with buried sodom. as wise men, judge ye of its importance and merits. as men hastening to judgment, act in relation to it. a solemn responsibility rests upon you. shall the land now be rid of intemperance? you reply, yes--and talk of wholesome laws, and high licenses, and prudent use. three green withes on samson! _entire abstinence_ is the only weapon which will destroy the monster. "but we can practise that without giving our pledge." true. but until you give it, he will count you his friend and haunt your dwelling. in this cause there is no neutrality. have you supported this cruel kingdom of darkness and death? will you do it longer? shall conscience be riven by the act? shall the land that bears you be cursed; the young around you be sporting with hell; the awakened sinner be drowning conviction at his bottle; the once fair communicant be disgraced; the once happy congregation be rent; its ministry be driven from the altar, and its sanctuary crumble to ruin? shall our benevolent institutions fail, and our liberties be sacrificed? shall god be grieved? shall wailings from the bottomless pit hereafter reproach and agonize you as the cause of the ruin, perhaps of your children and children's children? methinks one common pulsation beats in your hearts, and you answer, no--no. methinks i see you rising in the majesty of freemen and christians, in behalf of an injured country and church, and destroying at once the demon among you. argument against the manufacture of ardent spirits: addressed to the distiller and the furnisher of the materials. by rev. edward hitchcock, d. d. a sense of duty impels me to address this portion of my fellow-citizens, in the hope that i may persuade them to abandon the employment by which they furnish ardent spirits to the community. i am not about to charge them as the intentional authors of all the evils our country suffers from intemperance, nor wholly to clear myself from the guilt; for some of these men are my neighbors and personal friends, and i know them to be convinced that the excessive use of ardent spirits is a frightful evil among us, and that they would cheerfully join in some measures for its suppression, though not yet satisfied that those now in train are judicious or necessary. not long ago, i was in essentially the same state of mind, and encouraged these men in the manufacture of spirits, by the purchase and use of them. now i would fain believe that the minds of all these individuals are open to conviction, and that the same arguments which satisfied me that i was wrong, will satisfy them. in the first place, therefore, i would reason with these men _as a chemical philosopher_. the distiller is a practical chemist; and although he may never have studied chemistry in the schools, he cannot but have often thought of the theory of his operations. and the farmer who receives at the distillery, in return for his rye, cider, or molasses, a liquid powerful substance, obtained from them, will very naturally inquire by what strange transformation these articles have been made to yield something apparently so very different from their nature. probably, some of them may have concluded that the spirits exist naturally in the grain, and apples, and sugar-cane, just as flour, and cider, and molasses do. and hence they have inferred, first, that god intended the spirits for the use of man, as much as the flour, the apples, or the molasses; and that it is just as proper to separate the spirits by distillation, as it is to obtain the flour by grinding and bolting. secondly, that there can be nothing injurious or poisonous in the spirits, any more than in the apples, the grain, or the molasses; the only injury, in either case, resulting from using too much. thirdly, that spirits must be nourishing to the body, constituting, as they seem to do, the very essence of the fruit, grain, and molasses, which are confessedly nutritious. now, these inferences are all rendered null and void by the fact that ardent spirits, or alcohol, which is their essence, do not exist naturally in apples, grain, or sugar-cane. no one ever perceived the odor or the taste of alcohol in apples, or the cider obtained from them, while it was new and sweet; but after it had fermented for a time, by a due degree of warmth, the sweetness in a measure disappeared, and alcohol was found to be present. and just so in obtaining spirits from rye, or any other substance; a sweet liquor is at first obtained, which, by fermentation, is found to be partly converted into alcohol. this sweetness results from the sugar which the substances naturally contain, or which is formed by the process. this sugar is next destroyed, or decomposed, by the fermentation, and its parts go to make up a new substance, then first brought into existence, called alcohol. if the fermentation be carried on still farther, another new substance is produced, viz., vinegar. carried still farther, putrid, unhealthy exhalations are the result, such as we find rising from swamps and other places where vegetable matter is decaying. if, then, we may conclude, because alcohol is obtained from grain and other nutritious substances, that therefore god intended it for the use of man, the same reason will show that he intended man should breathe these poisonous exhalations. if alcohol cannot be poisonous or injurious, because derived from harmless and salutary substances, neither can these exhalations be so; nor, indeed, those more putrid and deadly ones arising from the putrefaction of sweet animal food. and if alcohol must be nutritious, because apples, grain, and molasses are so, it follows that these exhalations are nutritious. having thus explained the chemistry of this subject, i would, secondly, address these men as a _physician_. i mean merely, that i wish to present before them the views of the most distinguished and impartial physicians concerning ardent spirits. it is important, then, to remark, that physicians have decided that alcohol is a powerful _poison_. and how do they prove this? simply by comparing its effects with those of other poisons--particularly the poisons derived, as alcohol is, from vegetables--such as henbane, poison hemlock, prussic acid, thorn-apples, deadly nightshade, foxglove, poison sumach, oil of tobacco, and the essence of opium. these poisons, taken in different quantities, according to their strength, produce nausea, dizziness, exhilaration of spirits with subsequent debility, and even total insensibility; in other cases, delirium and death; and alcohol does the same. these poisons weaken the stomach, impair the memory and all the powers of the mind, and sometimes bring on palsy, apoplexy, and other violent disorders; and so does alcohol. do you say that ardent spirits, as they are commonly drank, do not produce these effects except in a very slight degree? neither do these substances, when much weakened by mixture with other things. even rum and brandy, of the first proof, contain only about fifty parts of alcohol in the hundred; and even the _high wines_, as they are called, are by no means pure alcohol; yet less than an ounce of proof spirits, given to a rabbit, killed it in less than an hour. three quarters of an ounce of alcohol, introduced into the stomach of a large and robust dog, killed him in three and a half hours. in larger quantities, as almost every one knows, this same substance has proved immediately fatal to men. do you say that many drink spirits for years, and are not destroyed; and do you hence inquire how they can be poisonous? so i reply, not a few take small quantities of other poisons every day for years, and continue alive. a horse, indeed, may take the eighth part of an ounce of arsenic every day, and yet be thriving. but how many are there, do you suppose, who habitually drink ardent spirits, and yet suffer no bad effects from it? have they no stomach complaints, no nervous maladies, no headaches? do they live to a great age? not one out of a hundred of those who daily drink ardent spirits, escapes uninjured; though their sickness and premature decay, resulting from this cause, are generally imputed to other causes; and as many as this would escape if arsenic were used, in moderate quantities, instead of spirits. farmers and distillers, whom i address, pause, i beseech you, and meditate upon this fact. it is poison into which you convert your rye and apples; it is poison which, under the name of whiskey and cider-brandy, you put into your cellars; it is poison which you draw out from the brandy and whiskey casks for drink, and which you offer your children and friends for drink; it is poison which you sell to your neighbors; it is producing the same effects as other poisons upon you and upon them; that is, it is undermining your constitutions, and shortening your lives and happiness. you would not dare thus to manufacture and distribute among the community calomel or arsenic, if these were in use, leaving it to every man to determine how large doses he should take. yet it would not be half as dangerous for men of all descriptions to deal out and administer these substances to themselves and others, for there would be none of that bewitching temptation to excess, in the case of calomel and arsenic, which attends ardent spirits. but if by carelessly distributing calomel or arsenic in society, you had destroyed only one life, your conscience would be exceedingly burdened with the guilt. and who is to bear the guilt of destroying the thirty or forty thousand who are cut off annually in this country by intemperance? suppose the distilleries were all to stop, how many would then die from hard drinking? but if alcohol is poisonous in a degree, yet it is often necessary, you say. physicians say not, except in a very few cases as a medicine; and even in these cases it is doubtful whether they have not other remedies as good, or better. spirits are necessary, you say, to enable a man to endure great extremes of heat, cold, fatigue, and in exposure to wet, and attendance upon the sick. if this be correct, farmers will sometimes need them. but many of the most hard-working and thorough farmers in the land have, within a few years past, tried the experiment of laboring without spirits; and their unanimous testimony is, that they are stronger, healthier, and better able to bear all extremes and severe fatigue without them. have you ever tried the same experiment? be persuaded to make the trial, at least for one year, before you reject so much substantial testimony. if spirits are necessary for any class, we should suppose it would be the west indian slave. but "on three contiguous estates," says dr. abbot, "of more than four hundred slaves, has been made, with fine success, the experiment of a strict exclusion of ardent spirits at all seasons of the year. the success has very far exceeded the proprietor's most sanguine hopes. peace, and quietness, and contentment, reign among the negroes; creoles are reared in much greater numbers than formerly; the estates are in the neatest and highest state of cultivation; and order and discipline are maintained with very little correction, and the mildest means." sailors are another class who must sometimes need spirits, if they are needed in case of great exposure to cold and wet. but several crews have attempted to winter in high northern latitudes, and those furnished with spirits have nearly all perished, while those not furnished with them have nearly all survived. when exposed to cold and wet, and partially immersed in the sea for hours, those who have not used spirits have commonly outlived those who drank them. soldiers are exposed to even more and severer extremes and vicissitudes than sailors. but dr. jackson, a most distinguished physician in the british army, asserts that spirits are decidedly injurious to soldiers on duty, rendering them less able to endure labor and hardship. and a general officer in the same army thus testifies: "but, above all, let every one who values his health, avoid drinking spirits when heated; that is adding fuel to the fire, and is apt to produce the most dangerous inflammatory complaints." "not a more dangerous error exists, than the notion that the habitual use of spirituous liquors prevents the effects of cold. on the contrary, the truth is, that those who drink most frequently of them are soonest affected by severe weather. the daily use of these liquors tends greatly to emaciate and waste the strength of the body," etc. the roman soldiers marched with a weight of armor upon them which a modern soldier can hardly stand under; and they conquered the world. yet they drank nothing stronger than vinegar and water. "i have worn out two armies in two wars," says the dr. jackson mentioned above, "by the aids of temperance and hard work, and probably could wear out another before my period of old age arrives. i eat no animal food, drink no wine or malt liquor, or spirits of any kind; i wear no flannel, and neither regard wind nor rain, heat nor cold, when business is in the way." those men in europe who are trained for boxing-matches would require spirits if they were necessary for giving bodily strength and health, since the object of this training is to produce the most perfect health, and the greatest possible strength. but ardent spirits are not used by them at all; and even wine is scarcely allowed. in protracted watching by the bed of sickness, food and intervals of rest are the only real securities against disease and weakness. spirits peculiarly expose a man to receive the disease, if it be contagious, and if not, they wear out the strength sooner than it would otherwise fail. the most exposed and trying situations in life, then, need not the aid of ardent spirits; nay, they are in such cases decidedly injurious. they are not, therefore, necessary, but injurious for men in all other situations. the distiller must, therefore, give up the necessity of using them in the community as a reason for continuing their manufacture. but spirits, it may be said, do certainly inspire a man with much additional strength. yes; and physicians tell us how. it is by exciting the nervous system, and thus calling into more vigorous action the strength that god has given the constitution to enable it to resist heat, cold, and disease. if this strength do not previously exist in the system, spirits can never bestow it; for they do not afford the least nourishment, as food does. they merely call into action the stock of strength which food has already implanted is the body. hence the debility and weakness which always succeed their use when the excitement has passed by. hence, too, it follows, that spirits can never give any additional permanent strength to the body. but this is not all; for physicians infer from this statement, that the use of spirits, even in moderate quantities, tends prematurely to exhaust and wear out the system. it urges on the powers of life faster than health requires, and thus wears them out sooner, by a useless waste of strength and spirits. true, a moderate drinker may not notice any striking bad effects upon his health, from this cause, for many years; nay, the excitement it produces may remove, for the time being, many uncomfortable feelings which he experiences, and which are the early warnings that nature gives him that she is oppressed, for the secret poison is at work within; and if such a man is attacked by a fever, or other acute disease, physicians know that he is by no means as likely to recover as the water-drinker, because the spirits have partially exhausted the secret strength of his constitution, all of which is now wanted to resist the disease. let every man who indulges in the use of spirits ponder well the declaration of a committee of one of the most _enlightened medical societies_ in our land: "beyond comparison greater is the risk of life, undergone in nearly all diseases, of whatever description, when they occur in those unfortunate men who have been previously disordered by these poisons." such men, too, it may be added, are much more liable to the attacks of disease than those who totally abstain from alcohol. in both these ways, therefore, the use of spirits, even in the greatest moderation, tends to shorten life. distillers of ardent spirits, i entreat you, think seriously of these things, as you tend the fires under your boilers. farmers, as you drive your load of cider or rye to the distillery, meditate upon them, i beseech you. you have here the opinions and advice of the most able and impartial physicians in this country and in europe. true, you may find here and there one, of little or no reputation and learning, who, either because he thinks it for his interest, or is attached to ardent spirits himself, will oppose such views of the subject. but no physician of distinction and good moral character would dare, at this day, to come out publicly in opposition to the principles above advanced, sanctioned as they are by the united testimony of science and experience. o, shut not your ears against this powerful voice. in the third place, i would expostulate with these men _as a friend to my country_. can it be that they are acquainted with the extent of the mischiefs which our country already suffers from intemperance? do they know that fifty-six millions of gallons of ardent spirits are annually consumed in the united states, or more than four and an half gallons to each inhabitant; and that about forty-four millions of this quantity are prepared in the distilleries of our own country; that ten millions of gallons are distilled from molasses, and more than nine million bushels of rye are used for this purpose? do they know that these forty-four millions of gallons, as retailed, must cost the community not less than $ , , ; that they render from two hundred to three hundred thousand of our citizens intemperate; that in consequence of this intemperance the country sustains an annual loss, in the productive labor of these drunkards, of not far from $ , , ; and a loss of more than twenty-five thousand lives, from her middle-aged citizens, who are thus cut off prematurely? that two-thirds of the pauperism in the country, costing from $ , , to $ , , , and two-thirds of the crime among us, perpetrated by an army of eighty or ninety thousand wretches, result from the same cause; and that from forty to fifty thousand of the cases of imprisonment for debt, annually, are imputed to the same cause? that the pecuniary losses proceeding from the carelessness and rashness of intemperate sailors, servants, and agents, are immense; and that the degradation of mind, the bodily and mental sufferings of drunkards and their families, and the corruption of morals and manners, are altogether beyond the reach of calculation to estimate, and of words to express?[e] [footnote e: in order to obtain the result in this paragraph, the well-established estimates that have often been made, concerning the cost and evils of ardent spirits in our country, have been reduced about one fourth or fifth part, to make allowance for the amount imported from abroad.] can it be that these men have ever soberly looked forward to see what must be the ultimate effects, upon our free and beloved country, of this hydra-headed evil, unless it be arrested? can they be aware that, judging by the past proportion of deaths from intemperance in the most regular and moral parts of the land, one third of the six million adults now living will die from the same cause? do they know how the intemperate entail hereditary diseases and a thirst for ardent spirits upon their descendants, and how rapidly, therefore, the bodily vigor of our citizens is giving way before their deadly influence? and can they doubt that vigor of mind will decay in the same proportion? corruption of manners and morals too, how rapidly it will spread under the operation of this poison! nor can religious principle stand long before the overwhelming inundation; and just in the degree in which alcoholic liquors are used, will the sabbath, and the institutions of religion, and the bible be neglected and trodden under foot. and when the morality, and religion, and the conscience of the majority of our nation are gone, what but a miracle can save our liberties from ruin? corrupt the majority, and what security is there in popular elections? corrupt the majority, and you have collected together the explosive materials that need only the touch of some demagogue's torch to scatter the fair temple of our independence upon the winds of heaven. but admitting that this picture is not overdrawn, yet the distiller and the furnisher of materials may perhaps say, that all this does not particularly concern them. they are not intemperate, they force no man to drink, or even to buy their spirits: nay, they generally refuse to sell to the intemperate. the intemperate are the persons to whom these expostulations should be addressed. as for the distiller and the farmer, who manufacture the poison, they are following a lawful calling, and have a right to the honest proceeds of their business. the principle, then, which i understand you to advocate, is this: that provided your employment be not contrary to the laws of the state, you are under no obligation to inquire particularly as to its influence upon the public happiness after the products of your labor get out of your own hands. if this be a correct principle for your guidance, it is certainly a correct one for others. let us apply it to the intemperate man. i expostulate with him on the destructive influence of his habits upon his country. "but have i not a right," says he, "to use my own property in such a way as i choose, provided i do not violate the laws of the land? if i may not employ a portion of my money in purchasing spirits, neither have you a right to lay out yours for a carriage, or for painting your house, or for any thing else which some of your neighbors may regard as unnecessary. i buy no more spirits than my health and comfort require; and i have as good a right to judge of the quantity, as you have in respect to the needless articles of dress and furniture which you procure." i urge the man who keeps a licensed gambling-house to abandon a pursuit that is ruining his country. "but i am not violating the laws," he replies, "nor compelling any man to gamble and drink to excess in my house. the whole responsibility, therefore, rests upon those who do it. expostulate with them. i have a right to my earnings." you see where this principle leads. is it one that a true patriot ought to adopt? no: he alone is a true patriot who is ready to abandon every pursuit that is injuring his country, however profitable it may be to himself, and however tolerated by the civil law. nor i would not attempt to extenuate the guilt of the intemperate man, nor of the merchant who sells him spirits; but i do say, that if those who distil, and those who furnish the materials, were to abandon the business altogether, it would almost put an end to intemperance in the land. for only a small proportion of the spirits used is imported; and its price must always continue so high that but few could afford to be drunkards were the domestic manufacture to cease. you have it in your power, then, to put a stop to this most dreadful national evil, and thus to save our liberties and all that is dear to us from ruin. your fathers poured out their blood like water to purchase our independence, and to build up a bulwark around our rights. but the ten thousand distilleries which you ply are so many fiery batteries, pouring forth their forty-four million discharges every year, to level that bulwark in the dust. all europe combined against us in war could not do us half as much injury as your distilleries are doing every year. oh, abandon them--tear them down--melt your boilers in the furnace--give your grain and molasses to the poor, or to the fowls of heaven--make fuel of your fruit-trees, rather than destroy your country. some may say, that if they cease to manufacture spirits, others will take up the business and carry it on as extensively as they do. and since, therefore, the country will gain nothing by their discontinuance of distillation, they may as well have the profit of it as others. but what course of wickedness will not such reasoning justify? a highwayman robs you, or an assassin invades your dwelling at midnight and slaughters your wife and children. now, would you think them justified, should they plead that they knew of others about to commit the same outrages, and therefore they thought their commission of these deeds was not wrong, since they needed the avails of the robbery and murder as much as any body? a man could pursue the slave-trade year after year on this principle, with no upbraidings of conscience, if he only suspected that the business would be carried on were he to stop. and a traitor might sell his country for gold, could he only ascertain that some one else was about to do it, and yet be exonerated from blame, if this principle be proper to act upon. oh, how can any decent man plead a moment for a principle that leads to such monstrous results! some will say, however, that they sell the spirits which they manufacture only to those whom they know to be temperate, and therefore they are not accessory to the intemperance in the land; for they are not accountable for the sins of those who sell spirits to improper persons. you supply them only to the temperate! the greater the blame and the guilt; for you are thus training up a new set of drunkards to take the place of those whom death will soon remove out of the way. were you to sell only to the intemperate, you would do comparatively little injury to the community. for you would only hasten those out of the way who are a nuisance, and prevent the education of others to fill their places. but let not any man think that no blame attaches to himself because the poison goes into other hands before it is administered. _a man is to blame for any evil to his fellow-men which he could prevent._ now, by stopping all the distilleries in the land, you could prevent men from becoming drunkards. the very head and front of the offending, therefore, lies with you. it is as idle for you to attempt to cast all the guilt upon others, in this way, as it was for pilate, when he endeavored to fix the blood of christ upon the people by washing his hands before them and declaring himself innocent, and then going back to his judgment-seat and passing sentence of death upon him. good man! he did not touch a hair of the saviour's head. it was the cruel soldiers who executed his orders, that, according to this plea, were alone guilty! some distillers will probably say that they cannot support themselves and families if they abandon this business; and some farmers will say, if we cannot sell our cider and rye to the distillers, the products of our orchards must all be lost, and rye is the only article which we can raise upon our farms with any profit. and if i were not to purchase these articles, says the distiller, their price must be so low that no farmer could afford to raise them. thus to reduce a large class of the yeomanry of our country--its very sinews--to poverty, would be a greater evil than even the intemperance that is so common. is it indeed true, that in this free and happy country an industrious, temperate, and economical man, cannot find any employment by which he can support himself and family in a comfortable manner without manufacturing poison and selling it to his countrymen? in other words, cannot he live without destroying them? is land so scarce, or so eaten up with tithes and taxes, that he cannot thence derive subsistence unless he converts its products into money at the expense of others' comfort, reputation, and life? is every honest calling so crowded, or so unproductive, that every avenue is closed? have the men who make this plea tried, even for a single year, to live without the manufacture of spirits? it may be, indeed, that for a time they will find other pursuits less productive than this. and is not this, after all, the true reason why they shrink from the sacrifice? but if superior profits be a sufficient reason for continuing distillation, it is a reason that will justify the robber, the thief, and every other depredator upon the rights of others. but how does it appear that the stoppage of all the distilleries in the land will reduce the price of cider and rye? their operation has produced a great demand for these articles, and that demand has thrown into the market an immense supply: the consequence is, that the prices are reduced as low as the articles can be afforded, at a very moderate profit, and the great complaint now among farmers is, that they are so low. let the distilleries cease to exist, and the special demand for these articles will cease; and consequently the market will not be glutted with them, because no extra efforts will be made to raise them: the result will probably be, that in a very short time their price will be very nearly or quite as high as it now is. but even if we suppose the worst, that the distiller and some farmers should be reduced to absolute beggary by the cessation of this manufacture; no reasonable, or patriotic, or christian man can for a moment regard this as a reason why he should continue in any business that is productive of immense mischief to his country. is it not better that he and his family should come to want, than that hundreds of thousands should be ruined, soul and body, for time and eternity? if he has a right to derive his subsistence from the ruin of others, then others, as the thief, the swindler, and the robber, have a right to obtain their subsistence from his ruin. in the fourth place, i appeal to these men _as a neighbor and a parent, and in behalf of the drunkard's wife and children_. when providence cast our lot in the same neighborhood, i considered, and doubtless you thought the same, that a regard to our mutual welfare bound us to do every thing in our power to make the community in which we lived intelligent, virtuous, and happy; and to avoid every thing that would mar its peace, degrade its character, or stain its purity. my complaint is, that by the manufacture of ardent spirits you have violated these obligations. the facilities for obtaining spirits, and the temptations to their use and abuse, have been thus so multiplied, and brought so near, that very many who were once kind neighbors and valuable members of society are ruined, or in different stages of the path to ruin. one has got as far as an occasional visit to the grog-shop and the bar-room: another is rarely seen there; but the wretched condition of his house, barn, and farm, his impatience of confinement at home, and his many foolish bargains, tell me, in language not to be mistaken, that the worm which is preying upon the root of his prosperity is the worm of the still. the frequent visits of the sheriff to the house of another neighbor, whose family is healthy and industrious; his bitter complaints of the hardness of the times; his constant efforts to borrow money to prevent executions from being levied; the mortgaging of his farm to the bank; his pimpled face, and bloated body, and dry hacking cough, are painful testimonies of his familiarity with the products of the distillery. it is distressing to look around upon our once happy neighborhood--did you ever do it?--and to see what havoc your manufactory of spirits has made upon the peace, property, reputation, intelligence, morality, and good order of the community. no wasting sickness, no foreign or domestic war, no premature frost; no drought, blasting, or mildew; nor any other visitation of god; no, not all of them combined have been the tenth part as fatal to our prosperity and happiness, as this one self-inflicted curse. and this curse we should never have felt, had not some of you put into operation your distilleries, and others fed them with the products of your farms: i mean, such would have been the happy effect, had the manufacture of spirits ceased in our land before these evils had followed: and i am now supposing that some one in every town and neighborhood throughout the land, where there is a distillery, is addressing the same language to those who conduct it as i am addressing to you. we make a united and earnest appeal to you, in view of the ruin that rises around us, that you would stop the work of destruction and strengthen the things that remain, which are ready to die. you stand at the fountain-head of that fiery stream which is spreading volcanic desolation over the land. oh, shut up the sluices before every verdant spot is buried beneath the inundation. but to come again into our own neighborhood: i have a family of beloved children growing up in the vicinity of your distillery; and when i recollect that every fortieth individual among us is a drunkard, and that about every third person above the age of twenty dies prematurely through intemperance, i cannot but feel a deep anxiety lest my boys should be found at length among the number. true, one of the earliest lessons i teach them is total abstinence, and i try to excite in their minds a disgust towards every species of alcoholic mixture. but they go to one of my neighbors and hear him telling of the whiskey and cider-brandy that have been produced upon his farm, and they see him mixing and circulating the bowl among his laborers, his visitors, and even his own children; and it is offered also to mine, accompanied with some jeer against cold water societies. they see the huge accumulations of cider and rye at the distillery, and mark the glee of the men who conduct its operations, and of those who come to fill their barrel or keg with spirits. they go also to the store in the vicinity, and see one after another filling their jugs with the same article. now, these neighbors who thus distil, and vend, and drink whiskey and brandy, my children are taught to respect; and how is it possible that they should not feel that their father is too rigid in his requirements, and hence be tempted to taste; and tasting, to love; and loving, to be destroyed by the poison? oh, is there no guilt in thus spreading a snare for my children? should they fall, will none of their blood be upon your heads? shall not the entreaties of a parent be felt by those who are themselves parents, and whose days may yet be rendered intolerable by the cruelty of drunken children? i would invite the manufacturer of spirits, and the farmer who supplies the materials, to go around with me among the people in the vicinity of the distillery, that they may have some nearer views of the miseries produced by their employment. let us stop for a moment at this tavern. myself. you seem, landlord, to be quite full of business to-day. what is the occasion? landlord. neighbors x and y have their case tried here, to-day, before esquire z, and you know that these matters cannot go on well with dry throats. myself. what is the point in dispute between your neighbors? landlord. something about swapping a horse, i believe; but it is my opinion that both of them hardly knew what they were about, when they made the exchange. it was last town-meeting day, and i recollect that both of them called quite frequently at my bar that day. they are none of your cold water folks, i assure you. myself. are these court days generally profitable to you, landlord? landlord. better, even, than a town meeting; for those who come on such occasions have no qualms of conscience about drinking, if they have occasion, i assure you. but on town-meeting days, some of the pale-faced temperance men are always about, to frighten away honest people. myself. do not these court occasions often lay the foundation for other courts? landlord. oh, very frequently: but so much the better, you know, for my business; and so i must not complain. let us next call at mr. a's, who has so fine a farm and orchard, and every means, one would think, of independence and happiness. but hark; there is a family dialogue going on between farmer a, his wife, and son. son. what; boozy so early, mother? and father too, and quarrelling, as usual, i perceive. o, i wish our orchard were all burnt down, and the distillery too, rather than live in such a bedlam. mother. but do you not like a little yourself, son, when eleven o'clock comes? father. aye, and at four, and some bitters in the morning. we are old, you must remember, son, and require more to warm us and support nature than you do. son. if you would drink only moderately, as i do, i would not complain. for i am not one of your cold water scarecrows, i assure you. but to have you drink half the time, is what vexes me. what a fine picture is here, my neighbors, for the men to look at who expect to reform the world by _moderate drinking_, without adopting the principle of _total abstinence_. but look at the sheriff yonder, pointing about neighbor b's house, from which he seems to be excluded. sheriff. you are too late, gentlemen; all the property is attached for twice its value. rum, bad bargains, and negligence, have done the business with poor b. but i pity his wife and children most, for they have struggled hard to prevent it. distiller. is every thing gone? the fellow owed me two hundred dollars. myself. for whiskey, i suppose. distiller. he was formerly a partner in my still, you recollect. yonder comes from the store the mechanic, neighbor d. well, neighbor d, how do the times go with you now? d. was there ever such a scarcity of money? when the rich are failing all around, how can a poor mechanic stand it? myself. what have you, friend d, bound up so carefully in your handkerchief? d. aye, you belong to the cold water society, i believe. but i do know that a _little_ now and then does me good. myself. i should suppose that, shut up as you are in your shop most of the time, you could not be much exposed to heat or cold, or great fatigue, and therefore would hardly need spirits. d. well, but i have a weak and cold stomach, and often feel so faint and sick that i must either take an emetic or a glass of spirits. but the latter cures all my bad feelings. myself. ah, friend d, i fear the times will prove too hard for you. but why do you try to conceal your jug when you go to the store for whiskey? d. why--why--it is more convenient to carry it tied up in this way. let us stop next at this skeleton of a house, which you know used to look so tidy before its owner became intemperate. oh, was misery ever more perfectly personified than in his wife and children, whom you see through the doors and window-frames! and there lies the wretch himself, dead-drunk. myself. pray, madam, do these children attend school? wife. ah, sir, i am ashamed to say it, they have not decent clothes. but it was not always as you see it to-day. when we were first married our prospects were good; and by industry and economy our little farm supported us, and we made some headway. but (turning towards the farmer) yet i would not hurt any one's feelings. farmer. tell your story, madam. wife. well, sir, you recollect that five years ago your orchard produced abundantly, and you proposed to my husband to assist you in making the cider, and getting it to the distillery, and to take his pay in brandy. he did so, and soon a barrel of the poison, which he could not sell, was deposited in our cellar. oh, what a winter followed! i have known no peace or comfort since, nor shall i, till i find them in the grave. were it not for these poor naked children, i could wish to rest there soon. but o, what will become of them? oh, sir, can you think it strange if all these things should come into my mind every time you and i sit down together at the same communion-table? we must not return home without calling at the next miserable hovel, where the widow of a drunkard, with half a dozen ragged, squalid children, is dragging out a miserable existence. hark, she is reading the bible. did you hear that stifled groan, as she read in that holy book, _be not deceived: neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor drunkards, shall inherit the kingdom of god_. myself. i believe i have not seen you, madam, since the death of your husband. i hope you find support. widow. oh, sir, resignation is easy if we feel a confidence, or even a feeble hope, that our friends who are taken away will escape the agonies of a second death. but how can we hope against the express declarations of the word of god? distiller. and yet, madam, your husband had many excellent qualities. widow. and he would still have lived to bless me and the world by their exhibition, had it not been for your distillery. distiller. i have no idea of sitting in judgment upon our departed friends, and sending them to hell because they had a few failings. widow. ah, sir, if my husband has gone there, it was your distillery that sent him. before that was built no man was more kind, temperate, and happy. but you persuaded him to labor there, and paid him in whiskey, and it ruined him, and ruined us all. look at me--look at these children, without food, without raiment, without fire, without friends, except their friend in heaven. i do not ask you to bestow upon us any articles for the supply of our temporal necessities; but look at us, and be entreated to tear down your distillery, so that you may not multiply upon you the execrations of the widow and the orphan, wrung from them by the extremity of their sufferings. gentlemen, let me exhort you to take such a tour of observation as this once a month. oh, i entreat every one in the land, who has any concern in the manufacture of ardent spirits, to do the same; and ere long, i am persuaded, you would either abandon every claim to humanity, or abandon for ever your pernicious employment. in the fifth place, i advise and forewarn these men _as their personal friend_. if you distil ardent spirits, or furnish the materials, you must use them yourselves and allow of their use in your families; otherwise your inconsistency, not to say dishonesty, would subject you to universal contempt. now, to have your children familiar with the sling, the toddy, and the flip, as they grow up! is here no danger that the temptation will prove too strong for them? _can a man take fire in his bosom, and his clothes not be burned? can one go upon hot coals, and his feet not be burned?_ and what compensation for the intemperance of a wife, or a child, would be the highest profits of an orchard, a field of rye, or a distillery? oh, to be a drunkard is to destroy the soul as well as the body: and _what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?_ and are you yourselves in no danger of intemperance, plied as you are by so many allurements? look around you and see how many strong men, how many of the wise, the moral, the amiable, and the apparently pious, have fallen before the fascinations of this prince of serpents. and are you safe who stand even within the reach of his forky tongue, and lay the bait for his victims, and lure them into his jaws by tasting of it yourselves? oh, the history of distillers and temperate drinkers, in their last days, furnishes an awful warning for you. but there is another danger before you, of which, as a faithful friend, i wish to forewarn you. i see a dark storm gathering over your heads. you cannot be ignorant of the mighty movement that is making in our land on the subject of temperance. you must have felt the heavy concussion, and heard the rolling thunder. the religious, the moral, the patriotic, the learned, and the wise, as intemperance has been developing its huge and hateful features more and more, have been aroused to effort; they have closed together in a firm phalanx; and as they move on with the standard of _total abstinence_ waving before them, the great, and the good, and the valiant of every name, are swelling their ranks. the cry is waxing louder and louder, "where are the strong holds of the monster; point out to us the fountains that supply his insatiable thirst, and who it is that feeds them; and who it is that opens the enormous floodgates? and thither we will march, and against such men will we point our heaviest artillery." and to this cry there is an answer more and more distinctly breaking out: "to the distilleries--to the distilleries." my friends, wait not till this storm of public indignation bursts upon you, nor fancy that you can face it. oh, no; it will be a steady, fiery blast, that will bear you down; and you will find that none but the dregs of the community will be left with you to sustain you. you will be left with the drunkards, to be distinguished from them only as their abettors and supporters; and from you will every virtuous and patriotic man turn away in disgust, as enemies to himself, his children, and his country. think not that all this is imagination: look up, and you will see the cloud blackening, and the lightning beginning to play, and hear the thunder roaring. but it is not yet too late to escape from the fury of the storm. finally, i would entreat these men _as a christian_. some of them profess a personal and experimental knowledge of vital christianity, and are members of the visible church. what, can it be that a real christian should, at this day, be concerned in the manufacture of ardent spirits for general use? when i think of the light that now illuminates every man's path on this subject so clearly, and think how the horrors of intemperance must flash in his face at every step, i confess i feel disposed indignantly to reply, no; this man cannot be a christian. but then i recollect david, the adulterer; peter, the denier of his master, profanely cursing and swearing; and john newton, a genuine convert to christianity, yet for a long time violating every dictate of conscience and of right; and i check my hasty judgment, and leave the secret character of the manufacturer of ardent spirits to a higher and more impartial tribunal. but if such a man be really a christian, that is, if he do really love god supremely and his neighbor as himself, in what a state of awful alienation and stupidity must he be living! remaining in such a state, that is, while persevering in so unchristian an employment, can he have any evidence himself, or afford any evidence to others, of possessing a christian character? i would not apply these remarks in their unqualified severity to every professor of religion who supplies the distillery with materials, or who vends or uses wine or ardent spirits; for we shall find some of this description who really suppose that, instead of being condemned for such conduct in the bible, they are rather supported by some parts of it: they not only find christ converting water into wine at a marriage, and paul directing timothy to use a little wine for his health, but that, in one case, the jews had liberty to convert a certain tithe into money, and bring it to jerusalem and bestow it for what their _soul lusted after, for oxen, or for sheep, or for wine, or strong drink_, and _they were to eat there before the lord their god, and rejoice, they and their household_. deut. : . but before any one settles down into a conclusion that this passage warrants the use of wine and ardent spirits, in our age and country, let him consider that there may have been, as there doubtless were, peculiar reasons, under the levitical dispensation, for permitting the jews to partake of what their soul desired _before the lord_, which would not apply to mankind generally; as was the case in respect to several other things. but not to urge this point, i would say, further, that the fact that _judea was a wine country_, that is, a country where the grape for the manufacture of wine was easily and abundantly raised, puts a different aspect upon this permission. in our country, the apple takes the place of the grape, and our cider is nearer equivalent to the wine of judea; because there the apple does not flourish, and here, the grape cannot be extensively cultivated. _to use wine in wine countries, therefore, is essentially the same thing as to use cider in cider countries_; and it does not appear that the one, in such cases, is much more productive of intemperance than the other. the fact is, the wines used in countries where they are manufactured, contain but little more then half as much alcohol as most of the wine sold in this country, where, as a very respectable authority states, "for every gallon of pure wine which is sold, there is perhaps a pipe, or fifty times the quantity of that, which is adulterated, and in various manners sophisticated--the whole, without exception, the source of a thousand disorders, and in many instances an active poison, imperfectly disguised." but after all, i am not obliged, in this place, to prove that god has forbidden the use of wine, though led into this digression from the desire to correct a general misapprehension of the scriptures on this subject; for the inquiry now relates to ardent spirits. and what shall we say concerning the permission, above pointed out, for the jews to use _strong drink_? i say, it was merely a permission to use wine; for the strong drink several times mentioned in the bible was, in fact, _nothing more than a particular kind of wine_, made of dates and various sorts of seeds and roots, and called strong drink, merely to distinguish it from the wine made from grapes. nor is there any evidence that it was in fact any stronger, in its intoxicating qualities, than common wine. the truth is, _ardent spirits were not known until many centuries after christ_: not until the art of distillation was discovered, which was not certainly earlier than the dark ages. _not a word, therefore, is said in the bible concerning distilled spirits._ all its powerful descriptions of drunkenness, and awful denunciations against it, were founded upon the abuse men made of wine. how much louder its notes of remonstrance and terror would have risen, had distillation thus early taught men how to concentrate the poison, may be imagined by the reader. after these statements, i trust none of those whom i address will any longer resort to the bible for proofs of a divine permission to manufacture or use ardent spirits. but do the principles of the bible _condemn_ such use and manufacture? what do you think of the golden rule of _doing unto others as we would they should do unto us_? should you suppose your neighbors were conducting towards you according to this rule, were they unnecessarily to pursue such a business, or to set such an example as would inevitably lead any of your children or friends into confirmed drunkenness? if not, then how can you, consistently with this rule, distil, use, or furnish materials for the manufacture of ardent spirits, when you thereby, directly or indirectly, render intemperate from two hundred thousand to three hundred thousand of your fellow-citizens, and every year also raise up new recruits enough to supply the dreadful ravages which death makes in this army? this you are certainly doing; for were your distilleries to stop, and you to stop drinking, few would become drunkards, from want of the means. how would you like to have your neighbors one after another break down your fences, and turn their cattle into your corn-fields, cut down your fruit and ornamental trees, set your house or barn on fire, and threaten you with poverty and slavery? if you would not have your neighbor do thus to you, provided he had the power, then how can you, by preparing the food for intemperance, subject the property, the peace, the morality, the religion, and the liberties of your country to those dangers and fearful depredations which you are now inflicting upon her? how would you like to have your neighbors, directly or indirectly, but unnecessarily, cause the premature death of every fortieth of your children and friends, and of one in three of those above the age of twenty? i know you would not that they should do thus to you, and yet your manufacture of spirits causes the premature death of five hundred of your fellow-citizens every week; in other words, about that number die every week through the intemperance produced by your distilleries. again, i ask the men whom i am addressing, how they reconcile their manufacture and sale of spirits with another command of the bible? _woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink, that puttest thy bottle to him, and makest him drunken also, that thou mayest look on their nakedness._ true, this applies most emphatically to the retailer of spirits: but what could the retailer do if there were no distillery; and what could the distiller do if the farmer withheld the materials? all these men are engaged, directly or indirectly, in giving their neighbors drink; and though it may pass through many hands before it reaches all their mouths, yet where must the burden of the guilt rest, if not upon those who stand at the head of the series, and first convert the articles which god has given to nourish and sustain life into active poison for its destruction; and then, for the sake of a paltry pecuniary profit, send it round amongst their neighbors, accompanied with all the plagues that issued from the fabled pandora's box? finally, let me ask these men how the business of preparing ardent spirits for the community appears to them when they think most seriously of another world? in the hours of sober reflection, on the sabbath, during seasons of devotion, when sickness overtakes you, and death seems near, or you stand by the dying-bed of some one of your family or neighbors; at such seasons can you look back upon this pursuit with pleasure? if conscience then tells you that this business ought to be given up, oh remember, that conscience is an honest and faithful friend at such times, and that, as this pursuit then appears to you, so will it appear when you come actually to die. test this business, i beseech you, by bringing it in imagination to the scrutiny of your dying hour. whether it be lawful or unlawful, certain it is that it sends five hundred drunkards into eternity every week; and you have the express testimony of the bible, that no drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of god. as the bible is true, then, are not the manufacturers of ardent spirits in our land the means of sending five hundred souls to hell every week? tell me, my friends, how will this awful truth appear to you on the bed of death? and how does it appear when you look forward to the final judgment, and realize that you must meet there fifty or an hundred, or five hundred times five hundred drunkards, made such through your instrumentality, for one, or two, or ten years, and must there justify yourselves for this instrumentality, or go away with them into perdition, covered with their blood and followed by their execrations? oh, my friends, these are realities; and they are near. do you begin to doubt whether you are in the path of duty? listen, i beseech you, to the first whispers of the faithful monitor in your bosom. by the reasonings of philosophy, by the testimony of physicians, by the expostulations of your bleeding country, by the tears, the rags, and the wretchedness of three hundred thousand drunkards, with their wives and children; by the warnings of personal friendship, and by the sanctions of the divine law, the solemnities of death and the judgment, and the groans of ten thousand drunkards, rising from the pit, i entreat you, abandon at once and for ever this most unrighteous employment, and save yourselves from the eternal agonies of conscience, the execrations of millions, and the wrath of omnipotence. address to the young men of the united states, on temperance. by rt. rev. c. p. m'ilvaine, d. d. in addressing the young men of the united states in regard to the great enterprise of promoting the universal prevalence of temperance, we are not aware that any time need be occupied in apology. our motives cannot be mistaken. the magnitude of the cause, and the importance of that coöperation in its behalf which this address is designed to promote, will vindicate the propriety of its respectful call upon the attention of those by whom it shall ever be received. it is presumed that every reader is already aware of the extensive and energetic movements at present advancing in our country in behalf of temperance. that an unprecedented interest in this work has been recently excited, and is still rapidly strengthening in thousands of districts; that talent, wisdom, experience, learning, and influence are now enlisted in its service, with a measure of zeal and harmony far surpassing what was ever witnessed before in such a cause; that great things have already been accomplished; that much greater are near at hand; and that the whole victory will be eventually won, if the temperate portion of society are not wanting to their solemn duty, must have been seen already by those living along the main channels of public thought and feeling. elevated, as we now are, upon a high tide of general interest and zeal--a tide which may either go on increasing its flood till it has washed clean the very mountain tops, and drowned intemperance in its last den; or else subside, and leave the land infected with a plague, the more malignant and incurable from the dead remains of a partial inundation--it has become a question of universal application, which those who are now at the outset of their influence in society should especially consider: "what can _we_ do, and what _ought_ we to do in this cause?" for the settlement of this question we invite you to a brief view of the whole ground on which temperance measures are now proceeding. it cannot be denied that our country is most horribly scourged by intemperance. in the strong language of scripture, _it groaneth and travaileth in pain, to be delivered from the bondage of this corruption_. our country is free; _with a great price obtained we this freedom_. we feel as if all the force of europe could not get it from our embrace. our shores would shake into the depth of the sea the invader who should presume to seek it. one solitary citizen led away into captivity, scourged, chained by a foreign enemy, would rouse the oldest nerve in the land to indignant complaint, and league the whole nation in loud demand for redress. and yet it cannot be denied that our country is enslaved. yes, we are groaning under a most desolating bondage. the land is trodden down under its polluting foot. our families are continually dishonored, ravaged, and bereaved; thousands annually slain, and hundreds of thousands carried away into a loathsome slavery, to be ground to powder under its burdens, or broken upon the wheel of its tortures. what are the statistics of this traffic? ask the records of madhouses, and they will answer, that one-third of all their wretched inmates were sent there by intemperance. ask the keepers of our prisons, and they will testify that, with scarcely an exception, their horrible population is from the schools of intemperance. ask the history of the , paupers now burdening the hands of public charity, and you will find that two-thirds of them have been the victims, directly or indirectly, of intemperance. inquire at the gates of death, and you will learn that no less than , souls are annually passed for the judgment-bar of god, driven there by intemperance. how many slaves are at present among us? we ask not of slaves to man, but to intemperance, in comparison with whose bondage the yoke of the tyrant is freedom. they are estimated at , ! and what does the nation pay for the honor and happiness of this whole system of ruin? _five times as much, every year, as for the annual support of its whole system of government._ these are truths, so often published, so widely sanctioned, so generally received, and so little doubted, that we need not detail the particulars by which they are made out. what, then, is the whole amount of guilt and of woe which they exhibit? ask him "unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid." ask _eternity_! the biographer of napoleon, speaking of the loss sustained by england on the field of waterloo, says, "fifteen thousand men killed and wounded, threw half britain into mourning. it required all the glory and all the solid advantages of that day to reconcile the mind to the high price at which it was purchased." but what mourning would fill _all_ britain, if every year should behold another waterloo? but what does every year repeat in our peaceful land? ours is a carnage not exhibited only once in a single field, but going on continually, in every town and hamlet. every eye sees its woes, every ear catches its groans. the wounded are too numerous to count. who is not wounded by the intemperance of this nation? but of the dead we count, year by year, more than double the number that filled half britain with mourning. ah, could we behold the many thousands whom our destroyer annually delivers over unto death, collected together upon one field of slaughter, for one funeral, and one deep and wide burial-place; could we behold a full assemblage of all the parents, widows, children, friends, whose hearts have been torn by their death, surrounding that awful grave, and loading the winds with tales of woe, the whole land would cry out at the spectacle. it would require something more than "_all the glory_," and "_all the solid advantages_" of intemperance, "_to reconcile the mind to the high price at which they were purchased_." but enough is known of the intemperance of this country to render it undeniable by the most ignorant inhabitant, that a horrible scourge is indeed upon us. another assertion is equally unquestionable. _the time has come when a great effort must be made to exterminate this unequalled destroyer._ it was high time this was done when the first drunkard entered eternity to receive the award of him who has declared that no drunkard shall enter the kingdom of god. the demand for this effort has been growing in the peremptory tone of its call, as "the overflowing scourge" has passed with constantly extending sweep through the land. but a strange apathy has prevailed among us. as if the whole nation had been drinking the cup of delusion, we saw the enemy coming in like a flood, and we lifted up scarcely a straw against him. as if the magicians of egypt had prevailed over us by their enchantments, we beheld our waters of refreshment turned into blood, and a destroying sword passing through till "there was a great cry" in the land, for there was scarcely "a house where there was not one dead;" and still our hearts were hardened, and we would not let go the great sin for which these plagues were brought upon us. it seems as if some foul demon had taken his seat upon the breast of the nation, and was holding us down with the dead weight of a horrid nightmare, while he laughed at our calamity and mocked at our fear--when our fear came as desolation, and our destruction as a whirlwind. shall this state continue? is not the desolation advancing? have not facilities of intemperance, temptations to intemperance, examples to sanction intemperance, been fast increasing ever since this plague began? without some effectual effort, is it not certain they will continue to increase, till intemperate men and their abettors will form the public opinion and consequently the public conscience and the public law of this land--till intemperance shall become, like leviathan of old, "king over all the children of pride," whose breath kindleth coals, and a "flame goeth out of his mouth?" then what will effort of man avail? "canst thou draw out leviathan with a hook? his heart is as firm as a stone; yea, as hard as a piece of the nether millstone. he drinketh up a river, and hasteth not. when he raiseth up himself, the mighty are afraid." it is too late to put off any longer the effort for deliverance. it is granted by the common sense, and urged by the common interest; every feeling of humanity and every consideration of religion enforces the belief that the time has come when a great onset is imperiously demanded to drive out intemperance from the land. this, to be great, _must be universal_. the whole country is enslaved; and the whole country must rise up at once, like an armed man, and determine to be free. of what lasting avail would it be for one section of territory, here and there, to clear itself, while the surrounding regions should remain under the curse? the temperance reformation has no quarantine to fence out the infected. geographical boundaries are no barriers against contagion. rivers and mountains are easily crossed by corrupting example. ardent spirits, like all other fluids, perpetually seek their level. in vain does the farmer eradicate from his fields the last vestige of the noisome thistle, while the neighboring grounds are given up to its dominion, and every wind scatters the seed where it listeth. the effort against intemperance, to be effective, _must be universal_. here, then, are three important points which we may safely assume as entirely unquestionable: that _our country is horribly scourged by intemperance_; that _the time has come when a great effort is demanded for the expulsion of this evil_; and that _no effort can be effectual without being universal_. hence is deduced, undeniably, the conclusion that it is the duty, and the solemn duty of the people, in every part of this country, to rise up at once, and act vigorously and unitedly in the furtherance of whatever measures are best calculated to promote reformation. * * * * * here the question occurs, _what can be done? how can this woe be arrested?_ the answer is plain. nothing can be done, but in one of the three following ways. you must either suffer people to drink _immoderately_; or you must endeavor to promote _moderation_ in drinking; or you must try to persuade them to drink _none at all_. one of these plans must be adopted. which shall we choose? the first is condemned already. what say we to the second, the _moderate use_ of intoxicating drinks? it has unquestionably the sanction of high and ancient ancestry. it is precisely the plan on which intemperance has been wrestled with ever since it was first discovered that "wine is a mocker," and that "strong drink is raging." but hence comes its condemnation. its long use is its death-witness. were it new, we might hope something from its adoption. but it is old enough to have been tried to the uttermost. the wisdom, the energy, the benevolence of centuries have made the best of it. the attempt to keep down intemperance by endeavoring to persuade people to indulge only moderately in strong drink, has been the world's favorite for ages; while every age has wondered that the vice increased so rapidly. at last we have been awakened to a fair estimate of the success of the plan. and what is it? so far from its having shown the least tendency to exterminate the evil, it is the mother of all its abominations. all who have attained the stature of full-grown intemperance, were once children in this nursery, sucking at the breasts of this parent. all the "men of strength to mingle strong drink," who are now full graduates in the vice, and "masters in the arts" of drunkenness, began their education and served their apprenticeship under the discipline of moderate drinking. all that have learned to lie down in the streets, and carry terror into their families, and whom intemperance has conducted to the penitentiary and the madhouse, may look back to this as the beginning of their course--the author of their destiny. no man ever set out to use strong drink with the expectation of becoming eventually a drunkard. no man ever became a drunkard without having at first assured himself that he could keep a safe rein upon every disposition that might endanger his strict sobriety. "_i am in no danger while i only take a little_," is the first principle in the doctrine of intemperance. it is high time it were discarded. it has deluged the land with vice, and sunk the population into debasement. the same results will ensue again, just in proportion as the moderate use of ardent spirits continues to be encouraged. let the multitude continue to drink a little, and still our hundreds of thousands will annually drink to death. it is settled, therefore, that to encourage moderate drinking is not the plan on which the temperance reformation can be successfully prosecuted. the faithful experiment of generation after generation, decides that it must be abandoned. a cloud of witnesses, illustrating its consequences in all the tender mercies of a drunkard's portion, demand that it should be abandoned. its full time is come. long enough have we refused to open our eyes to the evident deceitfulness of its pretensions. at last the country is awaking, and begins to realize the emptiness of this dream. let it go as a dream, and only be remembered that we may wonder how it deceived, and lament how it injured us. but, if this be discarded, what plan of reformation remains? if nothing is to be expected from endeavoring to promote a _moderate_ use of ardent spirits, and still less from an _immoderate_ use, what can be done? there is but one possible answer. _persuade people to use none at all._ _total abstinence_ is the only plan on which reformation can be hoped for. we are shut up to this. we have tried the consequences of encouraging people to venture but moderately into the atmosphere of infection; and we are now convinced that it was the very plan to feed its strength and extend its ravages. we are forced to the conclusion, that, to arrest the pestilence, we must starve it. all the healthy must abstain from its neighborhood. all those who are now temperate must give up the use of the means of intemperance. the deliverance of this land from its present degradation, and from the increasing woes attendant on this vice, depends altogether upon the extent to which the principle of total abstinence shall be adopted by our citizens. but suppose this principle universally adopted, would it clear the country of intemperance? evidently it is the only, but is it the effectual remedy? most certainly, if all temperate persons would disuse ardent spirits, they could not cease to be temperate. many a drunkard, under the powerful check of their omnipresent reproof, would be sobered. his companions would totter, one after another, to their graves. a few years would see them buried, and the land relinquished to the temperate. then what would be the security against a new inroad of the exterminated vice? why, public opinion would stand guard at every avenue by which it could come in. consider the operation of this influence. why is it now so easy to entice a young man into the haunts of drunkenness? because public opinion favors the use of the very means of his ruin. he may drink habitually, and fasten upon himself the appetite of drink, till he becomes enchained and feels himself a slave; but if he has never fallen into manifest intoxication, he has forfeited no character in public opinion. all this is a direct result of the fact, that those considered as temperate people set the example, and patronize the snare of moderate drinking. but suppose them to take the ground proposed, and bear down with the whole force of their example and influence on the side of entire abstinence, would they not create an immense force of public opinion against the least use of ardent spirits? how then could a temperate man ever become a drunkard? he has not yet contracted the desire for ardent spirits; and how will he contract it? will he risk his character; fly in the face of public feeling and opinion; despise all the warnings in the history of intemperance, to get at the use, and put himself under the torture of that for which, as yet, he has no disposition? only post a wakeful public sentiment at the little opening of moderate drinking, and the whole highway to the drunkard's ruin will be closed up. all its present travellers will soon pass away, while none will be entering to keep up the character of the road. most assuredly, then, the reformation of the land is in the power of public opinion. it is equally certain, that public opinion will accomplish nothing but by setting its influence directly in opposition to _any_ indulgence in strong drink. and it is just as plain, that in order to accomplish this, the temperate part of the population must create a power of example by setting out upon the firm and open ground of total abstinence. in proportion, then, as the temperate throughout the country shall come up to this ground, will the redemption of our enslaved republic be accomplished. * * * * * thus have we arrived at the last refuge of this cause. abstain entirely, is the grand principle of life, to be written upon the sacred standard of all temperance movements, and under which the contending host may be as sure of victory as if, like constantine, they saw inscribed with a sunbeam upon the cloud, _in hoc signo vinces_.[f] but such being the eminent importance of total abstinence, it deserves to be presented in detail. we begin, therefore, with the position, that _entire abstinence from ardent spirits is essential to personal security._ such is the insidious operation of strong drink upon all the barriers we may set up against excess; so secretly does it steal upon the taste, excite the appetite, disorganize the nervous system, and undermine the deepest resolutions of him who imagines himself in perfect security; so numerous and awful have been its victories over every barrier, and every species of mental and bodily constitution, that we may lay it down as an assertion, which none who know the annals of intemperance will dispute, that no individual who permits himself to use ardent spirits moderately, has any valid security that he will not become a victim to its power. [footnote f: under this standard you shall conquer.] we know the remarks which instantly mount to the lips of many at the sight of such an assertion: "surely the little we take can never hurt us. look around and see how many have done the same, and continued the habit to the end of life, without having ever been betrayed into drunkenness." we do look around, and are constrained to remark, how many have seemed to live temperately to the end, who, if the reality were known, would be quoted as warnings against the insidiousness of the poison, instead of examples of the security with which it may be used in moderation. they were never delirious; but were they never fevered? fever is often fatal, without delirium. ah, did every disease with which human beings are fevered, and swollen, and slain, receive a candid name; were every gravestone inscribed with a true memorial, as well of the life, as the death of him at whose head it stands; could every consumption, and dropsy, and liver-complaint, disclose its secret history; did every shaking nerve, and palsied stomach, and aching temple, and burning brain, and ruptured blood-vessel, relate how it began, and grew, and triumphed, we should hear, indeed, of many who died in consumption, or dropsy, and other diseases, without any impulse towards the grave from the use of strong drink; but of how many, never regarded as intemperate, should we learn that the real, though slow and silent cause of their death was _drink_. they lingered long, and their malady was called a disease of the lungs; or they fell suddenly, and it was a case of apoplexy; or they were greatly swollen, and it was considered dropsy; they lost their powers of digestion, and were said to be troubled with dyspepsia; every vital function refused its natural action, and the poor victim was treated for a liver-complaint. but why? what produced the disease? alcohol! they were poisoned. they died of the intemperate use of ardent spirits, however moderately they may have had the credit of indulging in them. but again, we look at the world, and while we cannot acknowledge that they have habitually indulged in even a moderate use of ardent spirits without receiving some injury--for alcohol must hurt a healthy man in some way or other--we do acknowledge that many have thus indulged with no very perceptible injury. they have continued sober. but so it must be acknowledged, that many have breathed the air and mingled with the victims of a pestilence, without being infected; or stood amidst the carnage of battle, without receiving a wound. but were they in no danger? because they came off unhurt, shall _we_ be willing to rush into the streets of an infected city, or join the conflict of charging battalions? but again, we look at the world, and see how many have been slain, while many have lived; how many who, if exalted station, eminent talents, great attainments, excellent feelings, and heavy responsibilities, are any security, might, with more than usual reason, have flattered themselves with the assurance of safety: men of all professions, of strong nerves, and numerous resolutions and precautions, at last reduced to a level with the brutes; and this spectacle forces the conviction that entire abstinence is the only security against final ruin. had you a tree in your gardens, the fruit of which should be discovered to have inflicted disease as often as the prudent use of ardent spirits has resulted in the sorrows of intemperance, that tree would be rooted up. its fruit would be entitled _poison_. the neighborhood would be afraid of it. children would be taught to beware of so much as venturing to try how it tastes. again: _the total disuse of ardent spirits, on the part of parents, is the only plan of safety in bringing up their children._ how many are the parents whose lives are cursed with children who, were it not that "no drunkard hath any inheritance in the kingdom of god," they would be relieved to hear were dead! but how were those children ruined? "_ah, by those corrupting companions; by that vile dram-shop_," the parents would answer. but what first inclined their way to that house of seduction? by what avenue did evil associates first effect a lodgment in those children's hearts? how many parents must turn and look at home for an answer! they have not been intemperate; but while the tastes and habits of their children were forming, they used to drink moderately of ardent spirits. the decanter containing it had an honorable place on the sideboard and on the table. it was treated respectfully, as a fountain of strength to the feeble, of refreshment to the weary; and as perfectly safe when used in moderation. to offer it to a friend was a debt of hospitality. thus the whole weight of parental example was employed in impressing those children with a favorable idea of the pleasure, the benefit, and the security, not to speak of the necessity, of the use of ardent spirits. thus the parents presented the decanter of strong drink to their children, with a recommendation as forcible as if every day they had encircled it with a chaplet of roses, and pronounced an oration in its praise. and what consequences were to be expected? children who revere their parents will honor what their parents delight to honor. it was not to be supposed that those children would do else than imitate the high example before them. most naturally would they try the taste, and emulate to acquire a fondness for strong drink. they would think it sheer folly to be afraid of what their parents used. in a little while the flavor would become grateful. they would learn to think of it, ask for it, contrive ways of obtaining it, and be very accessible to the snares of those who used it to excess. thus easily would they slide into the pit. and thus the history of the decline, and fall, and death of multitudes must commence, not at the dram-shop, but at the tables of parents; not with describing the influence of seductive companions, but with a lamentation over the examples of inconsiderate parents, who furnished those companions with their strongest argument, and wreathed their cup of death with a garland of honor. such consequences must be looked for wherever parental example is expected to be held in reverence among children. a father may venture to the brink of a precipice, and stand without giddiness upon the margin of the torrent that rushes by and plunges into a deep abyss; but will he trust his child to occupy the same position? but if the child see him there, is there no danger that when the parent's eye is away, he too will venture, and go and play upon the frightful verge, and be amused with the bubbles as they dance along the side of the cataract, and at last become giddy, and be drawn in with the rush of the tide? entire abstinence from the drink of drunkards is the parents' only plan in training up their children. again: _the total disuse of ardent spirits is essential to the beneficial influence of the example of the temperate upon society at large._ however novel the assertion to some, it can be easily shown that the example of all who use ardent spirits, except as they use prescribed medicine, _is in the scale of intemperance_. as far as its influence extends, it helps directly to fill up the ranks of the intemperate, and annually to launch a multitude of impenitent souls into a hopeless eternity. can this be true? suppose all the rising generation, in imitation of their elders, should commence the moderate use of strong drink. they are thus attracted into the current of the stream which is setting silently, smoothly, powerfully, towards the roaring whirlpool. but now they are urged by those whose example they have thus far followed, to go no farther. "beware," they cry, "the tide is strong; do like us; drop the anchor, ply the oar." ah, but now their influence fails. it was strong enough to persuade the thoughtless into danger; but now it is perfectly impotent to keep them from ruin. they have none of the strength or prudence by which others have been enabled to keep their place. they have no anchor to drop, nor skill at the oar. they yield, and go down, and perish. but where must we look for the prime cause of this destruction? to those whose example enticed them into the way--_the example of prudent drinkers_. such, unquestionably, was the influence by which a great portion of those now intemperate were first drawn into the snares of death. it is not, as many suppose, the odious example of those already under the dominion of intemperate habits, by which others are seduced; the operation of such disgusting precedents is rather on the side of entire abstinence from the means of their debasement. but it is to the honor given the degrading cup, by those who can drink without what is considered excess, that we must ascribe, in a great degree, the first seduction of all who receive the ultimate wages of intemperance. again: entire abstinence from strong drink should be the rule of all; because, _to one in health, it never does good, but, on the contrary, it always, of its very nature, does harm_. we know the general idea, that hard labor, and cold weather, and a hot sun demand its use; that a little to stimulate the appetite, and a little to help digestion, and a little to compose us to sleep, and a little to refresh us when fatigued, and a little to enliven us when depressed, is very useful, if not necessary. and we know how soon so many little matters make a great amount. we have often been called to "behold how great a matter a little fire kindleth." a more unfounded idea never was adopted, than that a man in health can need such medicine. is there any nourishment in drinking alcohol? about as much as in eating fire. but why should not the opinions of physicians suffice on this point? if we take their advice as to what will cure us when sick, why not also as to what will injure us when well? the first medical men throughout the land do not more perfectly agree, that to breathe a foul atmosphere is pernicious, than that the use of strong drink, in any quantity, is hurtful. _abstain entirely_, is their loud and reiterated advice. many of them will even maintain that it can easily and profitably be dispensed with in medicine. but how speaks experience on this head? who works the longest under the sun of august, or stands the firmest against the winter, or abides the safest amidst abounding disease, or arrives last at the infirmities of old age? the experiment of total abstinence has been fairly tried in thousands of cases, by those who once imagined they must drink a little every day; and invariably have they borne a grateful testimony to its happy effects upon the health of their bodies and the peace of their minds. farms are tilled, harvests gathered, ships built, companies of militia parade, associations of firemen labor, fishermen stand their exposure, the student trims his lamp, the hungry eat their bread, and the weary take their rest, with no debt of thanks to the aid of the distillery. we say no more upon the plan of entire abstinence. but we will mention four reasons which should embolden any friend of temperance in urging it upon others. . it is extremely _simple_. all can comprehend, all can execute it. it requires no labor; costs no study; consumes no time. . it contains no _coercion_. its whole force is that of reason. the influence of laws and of magistrates it does not embrace. no man can complain of a trespass upon his liberty, when we would persuade him to escape the drunkard's slavery by not tasting the drunkard's cup. . _in this cure there is no pain._ it is recommended to whom? _the temperate_--to those who, having formed no strong attachment to ardent spirit, can feel no great self-denial in renouncing its use. . in this remedy _there is no expense_. to those who complain of other works of usefulness because of their cost, this is without blame. to drink no spirits, will cost no money. but what will it save? it will save the majority of the poorer class of the population, in most of our towns, one half their annual rent. it will empty all our almshouses and hospitals of two thirds their inhabitants, and support the remainder. yes, such is the tax which the consumption of ardent spirits annually levies upon this nation, that the simple disuse of strong drink, throughout the land, would save in one year the value of at least five times the whole national revenue. it is too late to say that a general adoption of the great principle of total abstinence is too much to be hoped for. a few years ago, who would not have been considered almost deranged had he predicted what has already been accomplished in this cause? great things, wonderful things, have already been effected. the enemies of this reformation, whose pecuniary interests set them in opposition, are unable to deny this fact. it is felt from the distillery to the dram-shop. it is seen from maine to the utmost south and west. every traveller perceives it. every vender knows it. the whole country wonders at the progress of this cause. it is rapidly and powerfully advancing. _one thing_, and only one, can prevent its entire success. the frenzy of drunkenness cannot arrest its goings. the hundreds of thousands in the armies of intemperance cannot resist its march. but the _temperate_ can. if backward to come up to the vital principle of this work, _they will_ prevent its accomplishment. but the banner of triumph will wave in peace over all the land, hailed by thousands of grateful captives from the gripe of death, in spite of all the warring of the "mighty to drink wine," if those who abhor intemperance, and think they would be willing to make a great sacrifice to save their children or friends from its blasting curse, will only come up to the little effort of entire abstinence. this is the surest and shortest way to drain off the river of fire now flowing through the land. it is the moderate use of the temperate that keeps open the smoking fountains from which that tide is poured. * * * * * to young men who have not yet been brought under the dominion of intemperate habits, we address the urgent exhortation of this cause. consider the immense responsibility that devolves upon you. it is not too much to say that the question, whether this nation is to be delivered front the yoke of death--whether the present march of reformation shall go on till the last hiding-place of this vice shall be subdued, or else be arrested and turned back, with the sorrow of beholding the vaunting triumph, and the emboldened increase of all the ministers of woe which attend in the train of intemperance, rests ultimately with you. you compose the muscle and sinew of this nation. you are to set the example by which the next generation is to be influenced. by your influence its character will be formed. by your stand its position will, in a great measure, be determined. you are soon to supplant those who have passed the state of life which you now are occupying. soon the generation that is to grow up under the influence of your example and instruction, will have reached your place. thus are you the heart of the nation. corruption and debasement here must be felt to the extremities of the national body. temperance here will eventually expel, by its strong pulsations, the last remnant of the burning blood of drunkenness from the system, and carry soberness and health to every member of our political constitution. are these things so? suppose them exaggerations. grant that the importance of your vigorous and unanimous coöperation in this work of reformation is unreasonably magnified; still, how much can you do. were our coasts invaded by a powerful enemy, come to ravage our cities, chain our liberties, poison our fountains, burn our harvests, and carry off our youth into perpetual slavery, what could young men do? to whom would the trump of battle be sounded so effectually? who else would feel upon themselves the chief responsibility for their country's rescue? what excuse could they find for supineness and sloth? such indeed is the enemy by which the country is already desolated. and now it is to the warm hearts, and the strong hands, and the active energies, and the powerful example of young men, that the dearest interests of the nation look for deliverance. young men, shall we not enlist heartily and unitedly in promoting the extermination of intemperance? what question have we to decide? is it a question whether the country is cursed with this plague to a most horrible and alarming extent? no. is it a question whether the present power and the progressive character of intemperance among us demand an _immediate_ rising up of all the moral force of the nation to subdue it? no. is it a question whether the most important part of the strength and success of such an effort depends upon the part in it which the young men in the united states shall take? no. then what does the spirit of patriotism say to us? if we love our country; if we would rise in arms to shake off the hosts of an invader from our shores; if every heart among us would swell with indignation at the attempt of an internal power to break in pieces our free constitution, and substitute a government of chains and bayonets; what does the love of country bid us do, when by universal acknowledgment an enemy is now among us whose breath is pestilence and whose progress desolation--an enemy that has already done and is daily doing a more dreadful work against the happiness of the people than all the wars and plagues we have ever suffered? what does the voice of common humanity say to us? can we feel for human woe, and not be moved at the spectacle of wretchedness and despair which the intemperance of this country presents? let us imagine the condition of the hundreds of thousands who are now burning with the hidden flame, and hastening to utter destruction by this most pitiless of all vices; let us embrace in one view the countless woes inflicted by the cruel tempers, the deep disgrace, the hopeless poverty, and the corrupting examples of all these victims, upon wives, children, parents, friends, and the morals of society; let us stand at the graves of the thirty thousand that annually perish by intemperance, and there be still, and listen to what the _voice of humanity_ speaks. what does the exhortation of religion say to us? what undermines more insidiously every moral principle of the heart; what palsies so entirely every moral faculty of the soul; what so soon and so awfully makes man _dead while he liveth_; what spreads through the whole frame-work of society such rottenness, or so effectually opens the door to all those powers of darkness by which the pillars of public order are crumbled and the restraints of religion are mocked; what so universally excludes from the death-bed of a sinner the consolations of the gospel, or writes upon his grave such a sentence of despair, as _intemperance_? behold the immense crowd of its victims! where are they not seen? read in the book of god that declaration, "nor thieves, nor _drunkards_, shall inherit the kingdom of god;" then listen to what the exhortation of christian benevolence speaks to us. is it asked, _what can young men do?_ we can do this one thing at least. _we can continue temperate._ what if every one of us, now free from the appetite of strong drink, should hold on to our liberty; how would the ranks of intemperance, which death is continually wasting, be filled up? but how shall we continue temperate? not by using the means of destruction. not by a moderate indulgence in the cup of seduction. not by beginning where all those began who have since ended in ruin. but by _entire abstinence from strong drink_. let us renounce entirely what cannot profit us, what forms no important item in our comforts, what may bring us, as it has brought such multitudes as strong as we, to the mire and dirt of drunkenness. but we can do something more. we can contribute the influence of our example to help bring into disrepute the use of ardent spirits for any purposes but those of medicine. if any of us are confident that we could go on in the moderate, without ever coming to the immoderate use of strong drink, we know that the deliverance of the country from its present curse is utterly hopeless while ardent spirit is in the hands of the people. it must be banished. public opinion must set it aside. young men must contribute to form that opinion. it cannot be formed without the total abstinence of the temperate. let us not dare to stand in its way. but we can do something more. we have an influence which, in a variety of ways, we may use in the community to diminish the temptations which, wherever we look, are presented to the unwary to entice them to intemperance. we can employ the influence of example, of opinion, and of persuasion, to drive out of fashion and into disrepute, the common but ensnaring practice of evincing hospitality by the display of strong drink, and of testifying friendship and good-will over the glass. we can contribute much powerful coöperation in the effort to make the use of ardent spirits for the ordinary purposes of drink so unbecoming the character of temperate people, that he who wishes to have his reputation for temperance unsuspected, will either renounce the dangerous cup, or wait till no eye but that of god can see him taste it. we can do much, in union with those of more age and more established influence, to create a public feeling against the licensing of those innumerable houses of corruption where seduction into the miseries of drunkenness is the trade of their keepers, and the means of destruction are vended so low, and offered so attractively, that the poorest may purchase his death, and the strongest may be persuaded to do so. these horrible abodes of iniquity not only facilitate the daily inebriation of the veteran drunkard, but they encourage, and kindle, and nourish, and confirm the incipient appetite of the novice, and put forth the first influence in that system of persuasion by which the sober are ultimately subdued and levelled to the degradation of wretches, from whose loathsomeness they once turned away in disgust. why are these instruments of cruelty permitted? not because the authorities will not refuse to license them. public opinion is the conscience of those authorities. let the opinions and feelings of that portion of the community where the strength and patronage of society reside, be once enlisted in opposition to such houses, and the evil will be remedied; the morals of society will not be insulted, nor the happiness of families endangered at every step by the agents and means and attractions of intemperance. young men have much to do, and are capable of doing a great work in creating such a public opinion. in order to exert ourselves with the best effect in the promotion of the several objects in this great cause to which young men should apply themselves, let us associate ourselves into _temperance societies_. we know the importance of associated exertions. we have often seen how a few instruments, severally weak, have become mighty when united. every work, whether for evil or benevolent purposes, has felt the life, and spur, and power of coöperation. the whole progress of the temperance reformation, thus far, is owing to the influence of _societies_; to the coming together of the temperate, and the union of their resolutions, examples, and exertions, under the articles of temperance societies. thus examples have been brought out, set upon a hill, and made secure. thus the weak have been strengthened, the wavering confirmed, the irresolute emboldened. thus public attention has been awakened, public feeling interested, and public sentiment turned and brought to bear. thus works have been performed, information distributed, agencies employed, and a thousand instruments set in motion which no industry of individual unassociated action could have reached. let temperance societies be multiplied. every new association is a new battery against the stronghold of the enemy, and gives a new impulse to the hearts of those who have already joined the conflict. let us arise, and be diligent, and be united; and may the god of mercy bless our work. the drunkard in his family. his example is seen daily in the house, and in the parent. it is seen by children so soon as they can see any thing, and long before their minds are capable of distinguishing its nature, or its tendency. the parent visibly regards spirituous liquors as a peculiarly interesting enjoyment of sense, at a time when they know no enjoyments but those of sense: of course they cannot but think it eminently valuable. the means of intoxication are also provided to their hand; and their own home, so far as a dangerous and malignant influence is concerned, is changed into a dram-shop. the mother, in the meantime, not unfrequently contracts the same evil habit from the father; and thus both parents unite in the unnatural and monstrous employment of corrupting their children. what a prospect is here presented to our view! a husband and wife, to whom god has given children to be trained up by them for heaven, united together in taking them by the hand, and leading them coolly to perdition. what heart, not made of stone, can look at such a family without feeling exquisite distress, and the most terrible forebodings? contemplate, for a moment, the innocent, helpless beings, perfectly unconscious of their danger, and incapable of learning it, thus led as victims to the altar of a modern _moloch_, less sanguinary, indeed, but not less cruel than the heathen god before whom the israelitish parents burnt their own offspring, and say, whether you most pity the children, or detest the parents. dr. dwight. no. . who slew all these? an authentic narrative. about twenty years ago, mr. and mrs. ----, decent and respectable people, removed with a family of children from the country to a neighboring town, where they purchased a small house and lot, and lived very comfortably. their family, however, increasing to five boys, they removed to the shore--the town being situated on a river--and in addition to their former means of obtaining a living, erected a sign, and provided "entertainment" for such as chose to call on them. they were temperate people, accounted honest, and sent their children to the most respectable school in the place. in a short time it was perceived that they too frequently partook of the "entertainment," as it is called, which they provided for their customers. the habit of daily measuring the poison to others, induced them to taste for themselves; their house was not as respectable as formerly; restraints were removed; and although they were not drunkards, they gave evidence that they used too freely the deadly drug which they fearlessly handled. if the temperance reformation had been at that time commenced, they might have been warned of their danger, and saved from ruin; but nothing arrested their progress in the path of the destroyer. their children, who used to be clad with garments which denoted a mother's industry, soon began to bear marks of neglect, and were by degrees withdrawn from the school--their parents, because of _hard times_, not being able to support them there. they consequently lounged about, became acquainted with the customers at the bar, and learned their evil habits, especially that of drinking. the parents had commenced the sale of intoxicating drinks to become rich; but at the end of a few years it had reduced them to poverty. they had lost their respectability, their honesty, and their property, which was mortgaged for rum; their children had become vagabonds, and their house a receptacle of vice. of all their five sons, not one escaped the infection; they and their miserable parents wallowed in the mire together. in consequence of the dreadful excess to which she had abandoned herself, the imagination of mrs. ---- became disordered, and conjured up horrible visions. in her fits of the _delirium tremens_, she fancied herself bound with a belt of brass, to which was attached a chain held by the great enemy of souls, who had indeed enchained her with the most dire and effectual of all his spells. she would cross the room with the rapidity of lightning, screaming that he was winding up the chain, and she _must go_--she _could not_ stop. she was afraid to pass her own threshold, and fancied she heard unearthly voices, and saw spirits black and hideous all around her. "there they sit," she would say, "j----, m----," mentioning the names of all her children; "there they sit, grinning at me, and telling me i sent them to hell: they are on the beams and in the corners, and wherever i go." the writer of this has often witnessed her desperate struggles; has seen her, when a gleam of reason came over her mind, weep in bitterness over her ruin and misery; has heard her confessions of deeds of villany committed under her roof; and has heard also her solemn vows to refrain from that which wrought all this misery and sin; but after all this, has seen her "seek it yet again." all the arguments which religion can offer were set before her, and she often appeared to feel their force, and resolved to repent; but the deadly wave seemed to have retired to gather new force, and again swept over her and prostrated her lower than "the beasts that perish." there can be no more effectual barrier against the voice of conscience, the powerful influence of natural affection, and the strivings of the blessed spirit of god, than the use of intoxicating drinks. her husband had made himself literally a beast: his appearance was scarcely human; bloated, discolored, tottering, uttering curses, and sometimes threatening her life. her constitution after a while gave away, and she sunk in death, snoring out the few last days of her existence in a state of stupor, covered with rags and filth. her husband had so benumbed every feeling of humanity by his excess, that he seemed very little affected by her death; and to one who reminded him of their former respectability, and spoke of the wretched state to which they were reduced, urging him powerfully, over the dead body of the self-murdered wife _now_ to desist, he replied stupidly, that there is an _eleventh hour_. four or five years have elapsed, and he is still in the same state of beastly degradation--his property entirely gone, and he occasionally earning a few cents, with which to purchase the poison which is consuming his vitals, and rendering him stupid and dead to every motive that can be urged for reformation. two of the sons of this unhappy man have gone down to death in an awful manner. another, in an affray occasioned by intoxication, received such an injury in the head that his intellect has suffered, and he is subject to fits of partial derangement. the other two are very intemperate; one of them apparently lost to all sense of shame. the circumstances attending the death of one of these young men were extraordinary. he had become subject to fits in consequence of his intemperate life; and his wife following the same course, they were obliged to give up keeping a public-house, and he maintained himself by fishing. he frequently stopped colored people and others who were advertised as runaways, and obtained a reward for returning them to their masters. he was brutally cruel in his treatment of those who thus fell into his hands, and on one occasion, having apprehended a young colored man on suspicion of his being a runaway, he confined him; and taking him in a boat to his master--who had sent him from home on business--as he was returning, he fell from the boat, probably in a fit, and sunk like lead into the mighty waters. on the following day search was made for his body, which was found swollen and disfigured, and laid in the grave. his brother, the youngest of the five, had not reached his twentieth year, but had given himself up to the influence of the vice which has proved the destruction of his family, until he also was subject to fits. not many months ago he was seized with one, being then intoxicated; he was recovered by the by-standers, and crawled to a small sloop lying partly on the shore for repairs: he laid himself down there, and was found, ten minutes afterwards, _dead_, with his head partly under water. it was supposed that another fit had seized him, and that in his struggle he had fallen and suffocated. this is a melancholy history, but a true one. many circumstances rendering it more striking are suppressed, as some of the parties are living. the old man, but a short time ago, was warned again, and the question put to him, "what are the benefits of this practice?" "it _fattens graveyards_!" he replied, with a distorted countenance and a horrid laugh. yes, such are the dire results of intemperance; and of intemperance not born with one, but brought on by a temperate use of ardent spirit. these facts are well known. they are published with the hope of their proving a restraint to some one who, trusting in the strength of principle, may occasionally taste this destructive poison. "look not upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth his color in the cup, when it moveth itself aright: at the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder." go to god for strength to resist temptation; practise entire abstinence from all that can intoxicate; repent of sin, and trust in the mercy of christ; and you shall be safe for the present life, and that which is to come. published by the american tract society. the effects of intemperance on the moral, intellectual, and physical powers. by thomas sewall, m. d., professor of anatomy and physiology in the columbian college, washington city. i address you, fellow-citizens, to enlist your sympathies and efforts in behalf of an institution which, in accordance with the spirit of the times, has been established through our land by the almost united voice of the nation, and this for the suppression of one of the most alarming evils that ever infested human society; a vice, too, so odious in its nature, so injurious in its consequences, and attended with so many circumstances of suffering, mortification, and disgrace, that it seems difficult to understand how it should ever have become a prevalent evil among mankind; and more especially how it should have come down to us from the early periods of society, gaining strength, and power, and influence, in its descent. that such is the fact, requires no proof. its devastating effects are but too obvious. in these latter times, more especially, it has swept over our land with the rapidity and power of a tempest, bearing down every thing in its course. not content with rioting in the haunts of ignorance and vice, it has passed through our consecrated groves, has entered our most sacred enclosures: and o, how many men of genius and of letters have fallen before it; how many lofty intellects have been shattered and laid in ruins by its power; how many a warm and philanthropic heart has been chilled by its icy touch! it has left no retreat unvisited; it has alike invaded our public and private assemblies, our political and social circles, our courts of justice and halls of legislation. it has stalked within the very walls of our capitol, and there left the stain of its polluting touch on our national glory. it has leaped over the pale of the church, and even reached up its sacrilegious arm to the pulpit and dragged down some of its richest ornaments. it has revelled equally on the spoils of the palace and the cottage, and has seized its victims, with an unsparing grasp, from every class of society; the private citizen and public functionary, the high and the low, the rich and the poor, the enlightened and the ignorant: and where is there a family among us so happy as not to have wept over some of its members, who have fallen by the hand of this ruthless destroyer? as a nation, intemperance has corrupted our morals, impaired our intellect, and enfeebled our physical strength. indeed, in whatever light we view it, whether as an individual, a social, or national evil, as affecting our personal independence and happiness, our national wealth and industry; as reducing our power of naval and military defence, as enfeebling the intellectual energies of the nation, and undermining the health of our fellow-citizens; as sinking the patriotism and valor of the nation, as increasing paupers, poverty, and taxation, as sapping the foundation of our moral and religious institutions, or as introducing disorder, distress, and ruin into families and society; it calls to us, in a voice of thunder, to awake from our slumbers, to seize every weapon, and wield every power which god and nature have placed within our reach, to protect ourselves and our fellow-citizens from its ravages. but the occasion will not permit me to dwell on the general effects of intemperance, nor to trace the history of its causes. i shall, therefore, confine myself more particularly to a consideration of its influence on the individual; its effects on the moral, intellectual, and physical constitution of man--not the primary effect of ardent spirit as displayed in a fit of intoxication; it is the more insidious, permanent, and fatal effects of intemperance, as exemplified in the case of the habitual dram-drinker, to which i wish to call your attention. i. the effects of ardent spirit on the moral powers. it is perhaps difficult to determine in what way intemperance first manifests its influence on the moral powers, so variously does it affect different individuals. were i to speak from my own observation, i should say that it first appears in an alienation of those kind and tender sympathies which bind a man to his family and friends; those lively sensibilities which enable him to participate in the joys and sorrows of those around him. "the social affections lose their fulness and tenderness, the conscience its power, the heart its sensibility, till all that was once lovely, and rendered him the joy and the idol of his friends, retires," and leaves him to the dominion of the appetites and passions of the brute. "religious enjoyment, if he ever possessed any, declines as the emotions excited by ardent spirit arise." he loses, by degrees, his regard to truth and to the fulfilment of his engagements--he forgets the sabbath and the house of worship, and lounges upon his bed, or lingers at the tavern. he lays aside his bible--his family devotion is not heard, and his closet no longer listens to the silent whispers of prayer. he at length becomes irritable, peevish, and profane; and is finally lost to every thing that respects decorum in appearance, or virtue in principle; and it is lamentable to mark the steps of that process by which the virtuous and elevated man sinks to ruin. ii. its effects on the intellectual powers. here the influence of intemperance is marked and decisive. the inebriate first loses his vivacity and natural acuteness of perception. his judgment becomes clouded and impaired in its strength, the memory also enfeebled and sometimes quite obliterated. the mind is wandering and vacant, and incapable of intense or steady application to any one subject. this state is usually accompanied by an unmeaning stare or fixedness of countenance quite peculiar to the drunkard. the imagination and the will, if not enfeebled, acquire a morbid sensibility, from which they are thrown into a state of violent excitement from the slightest causes: hence, the inebriate sheds floods of tears over the pictures of his own fancy. i have often seen him, and especially on his recovery from a fit of intoxication, weep and laugh alternately over the same scene. the will, too, acquires an omnipotent ascendency over him, and is the only monitor to which he yields obedience. the appeals of conscience, the claims of domestic happiness, of wives and children, of patriotism and of virtue, are not heard. the different powers of the mind having thus lost their natural relation to each other, the healthy balance being destroyed, the intellect is no longer fit for intense application, or successful effort; and although the inebriate may, and sometimes does, astonish, by the wildness of his fancy and the poignancy of his wit, yet in nine cases out of ten he fails, and there is never any confidence to be reposed in him. there have been a few who, from peculiarity of constitution, or some other cause, have continued to perform intellectual labor for many years, while slaves to ardent spirits; but in no instance has the vigor of the intellect or its ability to labor been increased by indulgence; and where there is one who has been able to struggle on under the habits of intemperance, there are thousands who have perished in the experiment, and some among the most powerful minds that the world ever produced. on the other hand, we shall find, by looking over the biography of the great men of every age, that those who have possessed the clearest and most powerful minds, neither drank spirits nor indulged in the pleasures of the table. sir isaac newton, john locke, dr. franklin, john wesley, sir william jones, john fletcher, and president edwards, furnish a striking illustration of this truth. one of the secrets by which these men produced such astonishing results, were enabled to perform so much intellectual labor, and of so high a grade, and to arrive at old age in the enjoyment of health, was a rigid course of abstinence. but i hasten to consider more particularly, iii. its effects on the physical powers. in view of this part of the subject, the attention of the critical observer is arrested by a series of circumstances, alike disgusting and melancholy. . the _odor of the breath_ of the drunkard furnishes the earliest indication by which the habitual use of ardent spirit becomes known. this is occasioned by the exhalation of the alcoholic principle from the bronchial vessels and air-cells of the lungs--not of pure spirit, as taken into the stomach, but of spirit which has been absorbed, has mingled with the blood, and has been subjected to the action of the different organs of the body; and not containing any principle which contributes to the nourishment or renovation of the system, is cast out with the other excretions, as poisonous and hurtful. this peculiar odor does not arise from the accidental or occasional use of spirit; it marks only the habitual dram-drinker--the one who indulges daily in his potation; and although its density varies in some degree with the kind of spirit consumed, the habits and constitution of the individual, yet it bears generally a close relation to the degree of intemperance. these observations are confirmed by some experiments made on living animals by the celebrated french physiologist, magendie. he ascertained that diluted alcohol, a solution of camphor, and some other odorous substances, when subjected to the absorbing power of the veins, are taken up by them, and after mingling with the blood, pass off by the pulmonary exhalants. even phosphorus injected into the crural vein of a dog, he found to pass off in a few moments from the nostrils of the animal in a dense white vapor, which he ascertained to be phosphoric acid. cases have occurred, in which the breath of the drunkard has become so highly charged with alcohol as to render it actually inflammable by the touch of a taper. one individual in particular is mentioned, who often amused his comrades by passing his breath through a small tube, and setting it on fire as it issued from it. it appears, also, that this has been the source of that combustion of the body of the drunkard which has been denominated spontaneous, many well-authenticated cases of which are on record. . the perspirable matter which passes off from the skin becomes charged with the odor of alcohol in the drunkard, and is so far changed, in some cases, as to furnish evidence of the kind of spirit drank. "i have met with two instances," says dr. mcnish, "the one in a claret, and the other in a port drinker; in which the moisture that exhaled from their bodies had a ruddy complexion, similar to the wine on which they had committed their debauch." . the _whole system_ soon bears marks of debility and decay. the voluntary muscles lose their power, and cease to act under the control of the will; and hence, all the movements become awkward, exhibiting the appearance of stiffness in the joints. the positions of the body, also, are tottering and infirm, and the step loses its elasticity and vigor. the muscles, and especially those of the face and lips, are often affected with a convulsive twitching, which produces the involuntary winking of the eye, and quivering of the lip, so characteristic of the intemperate. indeed, all the motions seem unnatural and forced, as if restrained by some power within. the extremities are at length seized with a tremor, which is more strongly marked after recovery from a fit of intoxication. the lips lose their significant expression, and become sensual; the complexion assumes a sickly, leaden hue, or is changed to an unhealthy, fiery redness, and is covered with red streaks and blotches. the eye becomes watery, tender, and inflamed, and loses its intelligence and its fire. these symptoms, together with a certain oedematous appearance about the eye, bloating of the whole body, with a dry, feverish skin, seldom fail to mark the habitual dram-drinker; and they go on increasing and increasing, till the intelligence and dignity of the man is lost in the tameness and sensuality of the brute. but these effects, which are external and obvious, are only the "signals which nature holds out, and waves in token of internal distress;" for all the time the inebriate has been pouring down his daily draught and making merry over the cup, morbid changes have been going on within; and though these are unseen, and, it may be, unsuspected, they are fatal, irretrievable. a few of the most important of these changes i shall now describe. . the _stomach_ and its functions. this is the great organ of digestion. it is the chief instrument by which food is prepared to nourish, sustain, and renovate the different tissues of the body, to carry on the various functions, and to supply the waste which continually takes place in the system. it is not strange, therefore, that the habitual application to the organ of any agent, calculated to derange its functions, or change its organization, should be followed by symptoms so various and extensive, and by consequences so fatal. the use of ardent spirit produces both these effects; it deranges the functions of the stomach, and if persisted in, seldom fails to change its organic structure. the inebriate first loses his appetite, and becomes thirsty and feverish; he vomits in the morning, and is affected with spasmodic pains in the region of the stomach. he is often seized with permanent dyspepsia, and either wastes away by degrees, or dies suddenly of a fit of cramp in the stomach. on examining the stomach after death, it is generally found irritated, and approaching a state of inflammation, with its vessels enlarged, and filled with black blood; and particularly those of the mucous coat, which gives to the internal surface of the stomach the appearance of purple or reddish streaks, resembling the livid patches seen on the face of the drunkard. the coats of the stomach become greatly thickened and corrugated, and so firmly united as to form one inseparable mass. in this state, the walls of the organ are sometimes increased in thickness to the extent of ten or twelve lines, and are sometimes found also in a scirrhous or cancerous condition. the following case occurred in my practice several years since. a middle-aged gentleman, of wealth and standing, had long been accustomed to mingle in the convivial circle, and though by no means a drunkard, had indulged at times in the use of his old cogniac, with an unsparing hand. he was at length seized with pain in the region of the stomach, and a vomiting of his food an hour or two after eating. in about eighteen months he died in a state of extreme emaciation. on opening the body after death, the walls of the whole of the right extremity of the stomach were found in a scirrhous and cancerous condition, and thickened to the extent of about two inches. the cavity of the organ was so far obliterated as scarcely to admit the passage of a probe from the left to the right extremity, and the opening which remained was so unequal and irregular as to render it evident that but little of the nourishment he had received could have passed the lower orifice of the stomach for many months. i have never dissected the stomach of a drunkard, in which the organ did not manifest some remarkable deviation from its healthy condition. but the derangement of the stomach is not limited to the function of nutrition merely. this organ is closely united to every other organ, and to each individual tissue of the body, by its sympathetic relations. when the stomach, therefore, becomes diseased, other parts suffer with it. the functions of the brain, the heart, the lungs, and the liver, become disordered; the secretions are altered, and all the operations of the animal economy are more or less affected. . the _liver_ and its functions. alcohol, in every form and proportion, has long been known to exert a strong and speedy influence on this organ, when used internally. aware of this fact, the poultry-dealers of england are in the habit of mixing a quantity of spirit with the food of their fowls, in order to increase the size of the liver; so that they may be enabled to supply to the epicure a greater abundance of that part of the animal, which he regards as the most delicious. the influence of spirit on the liver is exerted in two ways: first, the impression made upon the mucous coat of the stomach is extended to the liver by sympathy; the second mode of action is through the medium of the circulation, and by the immediate action of the alcoholic principle on the liver itself, as it passes through the organ, mingling with the blood. in whichsoever of these ways it operates, its first effect is to increase the action of the liver, and sometimes to such a degree as to produce inflammation. its secretion becomes changed from a bright yellow to a green or black, and from a thin fluid to a substance resembling tar in its consistence. there soon follows also an enlargement of the liver, and a change in its organic structure. i have met with several cases in which the liver has become enlarged from intemperance, so as to occupy a greater part of the cavity of the abdomen, and weighing from eight to twelve pounds, when it should have weighed not more than four or five. the liver sometimes, however, even when it manifests great morbid change in its organic structure, is rather diminished than increased in its volume. this was the case in the person of the celebrated stage-actor, george frederick cook, who died a few years since in the city of new york. this extraordinary man was long distinguished for the profligacy of his life, as well as for the native vigor of his mind and body. at the time of his death, the body was opened by dr. hosack, who found that the liver did not exceed its usual dimensions, but was astonishingly hard, of a lighter color than natural, and that its texture was so dense as to make considerable resistance to the knife. the blood-vessels, which, in a healthy condition, are extremely numerous and large, were in this case nearly obliterated, evincing that the regular circulation through the liver had long since ceased; and tubercles were found throughout the whole substance of the organ. i have met with several cases in the course of my dissections, in which the liver was found smaller than natural, shrivelled, indurated, its blood-vessels diminished in size and number, with the whole of its internal structure more or less changed. in consequence of these morbid changes in the liver, other organs become affected, as the spleen, the pancreas, etc., either by sympathy or in consequence of their dependence on the healthy functions of the liver for the due performance of their own. . of _the brain_ and its functions. inflammation and engorgement of this organ are frequent consequences of intemperance, and may take place during a debauch--or may arise some time after, during the stage of debility, from a loss of the healthy balance of action between the different parts of the system. this inflammation is sometimes acute, is marked by furious delirium, and terminates fatally in the course of a few days, and sometimes a few hours. at other times it assumes a chronic form, continues much longer, and then frequently results in an effusion of serum, or an extravasation of blood, and the patient dies in a state of insensibility, with all the symptoms of compressed brain. sometimes the system becomes so saturated with ardent spirit, that there is good reason to believe the effusions, which take place in the cavities of the brain, and elsewhere, are composed, in part at least, of the alcoholic principle. the following case occurred, not long since, in england, and is attested by unquestionable authority. a man was taken up dead in the streets of london, soon after having drank a quart of gin, on a wager. he was carried to the westminster hospital, and there dissected. "in the ventricles of the brain was found a considerable quantity of limpid fluid, distinctly impregnated with gin, both to the sense of smell and taste, and even to the test of inflammability. the liquid appeared to the senses of the examining students, as strong as one-third gin, and two-thirds water." dr. armstrong, who has enjoyed very ample opportunity of investigating this subject, speaks of the chronic inflammation of the brain and its membranes, as frequently proceeding from the free use of strong liquors. it is a fact familiar to every anatomist, that alcohol, even when greatly diluted, has, by its action on the brain after death, the effect of hardening it, as well as most of the tissues of the body which contain albumen; and it is common to immerse the brain in ardent spirit for a few days, in order to render it the firmer for dissection. on examining the brain after death of such as have long been accustomed to the free use of ardent spirit, it is said the organ is generally found harder than in temperate persons. it has no longer that delicate and elastic texture. its arteries become diminished in size, and lose their transparency, while the veins and sinuses are greatly distended and irregularly enlarged. this statement is confirmed by my own dissections, and they seem also to be in full accordance with all the intellectual and physical phenomena displayed in the drunkard, while living. . the _heart_ and its functions. it has generally been supposed, that the heart is less frequently affected by intemperance, than most of the other great vital organs; but, from the history of the cases which have come under my own observation, i am convinced that it seldom escapes disease under the habitual use of ardent spirit. and why should it, since it is thrown almost perpetually into a state of unnatural exertion, the very effect produced by the violent agitation of the passions, the influence of which upon this organ is found so injurious? the following case came under my notice, a few winters since. a large athletic man, long accustomed to the use of ardent spirit, on drinking a glass of raw whiskey, dropped instantly dead. on carefully dissecting the body, no adequate cause of the sudden cessation of life could be found in any part, except the heart. this organ was free from blood, was hard and firmly contracted, as if affected by spasms. i am convinced that many of those cases of sudden death which take place with intemperate persons, are the result of a spasmodic action of the heart, from sympathy with the stomach, or some other part of the system. the use of ardent spirit, no doubt, promotes also the ossification of the valves of the heart, as well as the development of other organic affections. . _the lungs_ and their functions. respiration in the inebriate is generally oppressed and laborious, and especially after eating or violent exercise; and he is teased with a cough, attended with copious expectoration, and especially after his recovery from a fit of intoxication; and these symptoms go on increasing, and unless arrested in their progress, terminate in consumption. this affection of the lungs is produced in two ways: first, by the immediate action of the alcoholic principle upon the highly sensible membrane which lines the trachea, bronchial vessels, and air-cells of the lungs, as poured out by the exhalants; and second, by the sympathy which is called into action between the lungs and other organs already in a state of disease, and more especially that of the stomach and liver. i have met with many cases in the course of my practice, of cough and difficult breathing, which could be relieved only by regulating the functions of the stomach, and which soon yielded, on the patient ceasing to irritate this organ with ardent spirit. i have found the liver still more frequently the source of this affection; and on restoring the organ to its healthy condition, by laying aside the use of ardent spirit, all the pulmonary symptoms have subsided. on examining the lungs of the drunkard after death, they are frequently found adhering to the walls of the chest; hepatized, or affected with tubercles. but time would fail me, were i to attempt an account of half the pathology of drunkenness. _dyspepsia_, _jaundice_, _emaciation_, _corpulence_, _dropsy_, _ulcers_, _rheumatism_, _gout_, _tremors_, _palpitation_, _hysteria_, _epilepsy_, _palsy_, _lethargy_, _apoplexy_, _melancholy_, _madness_, _delirium-tremens_, _and premature old age_, compose but a small part of the catalogue of diseases produced by ardent spirit. indeed, there is scarcely a morbid affection to which the human body is liable, that has not, in one way or another, been produced by it; there is not a disease but it has aggravated, nor a predisposition to disease, which it has not called into action; and although its effects are in some degree modified by age and temperament, by habit and occupation, by climate and season of the year, and even by the intoxicating agent itself; yet, the general and ultimate consequences are the same. but i pass on to notice one state of the system, produced by ardent spirit, too important and interesting to leave unexamined. it is that _predisposition to disease and death_ which so strongly characterizes the drunkard in every situation of life. it is unquestionably true, that many of the surrounding objects in nature are constantly tending to man's destruction. the excess of heat and cold, humidity and dryness, noxious exhalations from the earth, the floating atoms in the atmosphere, the poisonous vapors from decomposed animal and vegetable matter, with many other invisible agents, are exerting their deadly influence; and were it not that every part of his system is endowed with a self-preserving power, a principle of excitability, or, in other words, a vital principle, the operations of the economy would cease, and a dissolution of his organic structure take place. but this principle being implanted in the system, reaction takes place, and thereby a vigorous contest is maintained with the warring elements without, as well as with the principle of decay within. it is thus that man is enabled to endure, from year to year, the toils and fatigues of life, the variations of heat and cold, and the vicissitudes of the seasons--that he is enabled to traverse every region of the globe, and to live with almost equal ease under the equator and in the frozen regions of the north. it is by this power that all his functions are performed, from the commencement to the close of life. the principle of excitability exists in the highest degree in the infant, and diminishes at every succeeding period of life; and if man is not cut down by disease or violence, he struggles on, and finally dies a natural death--a death occasioned by the exhaustion of the principle of excitability. in order to prevent the too rapid exhaustion of this principle, nature has especially provided for its restoration by establishing a period of sleep. after being awake for sixteen or eighteen hours, a sensation of fatigue ensues, and all the functions are performed with diminished precision and energy. locomotion becomes feeble and tottering, the voice harsh, the intellect obtuse and powerless, and all the senses blunted. in this state the individual anxiously retires from the light, and from the noise and bustle of business, seeks that position which requires the least effort to sustain it, and abandons himself to rest. the will ceases to act, and he loses in succession all the senses; the muscles unbend themselves, and permit the limbs to fall into the most easy and natural position; digestion, respiration, circulation, secretion, and the other functions, go on with diminished power and activity; and consequently the wasted excitability is gradually restored. after a repose of six of eight hours, this principle becomes accumulated to its full measure, and the individual awakes and finds his system invigorated and refreshed. his muscular power is augmented, his senses are acute and discriminating, his intellect active and eager for labor, and all his functions move on with renewed energy. but if the stomach be oppressed by food, or the system excited by stimulating drinks, the sleep, though it may be profound, is never tranquil and refreshing. the system being raised to a state of feverish excitement, and its healthy balance disturbed, its exhausted excitability is not restored. the individual awakes, but finds himself fatigued rather than invigorated. his muscles are relaxed, his senses obtuse, his intellect impaired, and his whole system disordered; and it is not till he is again under the influence of food and stimulus that he is fit for the occupations of life. and thus he loses the benefits of this wise provision of repose, designed for his own preservation. nothing, probably, tends more powerfully to produce premature old age, than disturbed and unrefreshing sleep. it is also true, that artificial stimulus, in whatever way applied, tends constantly to exhaust the principle of excitability of the system, and this in proportion to its intensity, and the freedom with which it is applied. but there is still another principle on which the use of ardent spirit predisposes the drunkard to disease and death. it acts on the blood, impairs its vitality, deprives it of its red color, and thereby renders it unfit to stimulate the heart and other organs through which it circulates; unfit, also, to supply the materials for the different secretions, and to renovate the different tissues of the body, as well as to sustain the energy of the brain--offices which it can perform only while it retains the vermilion color, and other arterial properties. the blood of the drunkard is several shades darker in its color than that of temperate persons, and also coagulates less readily and firmly, and is loaded with serum; appearances which indicate that it has exchanged its arterial properties for those of the venous blood. this is the cause of the livid complexion of the inebriate, which so strongly marks him in the advanced stage of intemperance. hence, too, all the functions of his body are sluggish, irregular, and the whole system loses its tone and its energy. if ardent spirit, when taken into the system, exhausts the vital principle of the solids, it destroys the vital principle of the blood also; and if taken in large quantities, produces sudden death; in which case the blood, as in death produced by lightning, by opium, or by violent and long continued exertion, does not coagulate. the principles laid down are plain, and of easy application to the case before us. the inebriate having, by the habitual use of ardent spirit, exhausted to a greater or lesser extent the principle of excitability in the solids--the power of reaction--and the blood having become incapable of performing its offices also, he is alike predisposed to every disease, and rendered liable to the inroads of every invading foe. so far, therefore, from protecting the system against disease, intemperance ever constitutes one of its strongest predisposing causes. superadded to this, whenever disease does lay its grasp upon the drunkard, the powers of life being already enfeebled by the stimulus of ardent spirit, he unexpectedly sinks in the contest, and but too frequently to the mortification of his physician, and the surprise and grief of his friends. indeed, inebriation so enfeebles the powers of life, so modifies the character of disease, and so changes the operation of medical agents, that unless the young physician has studied thoroughly the constitution of the drunkard, he has but partially learned his profession, and is not fit for a practitioner of the present age. these are the true reasons why the drunkard dies so easily, and from such slight causes. a sudden cold, a pleurisy, a fever, a fractured limb, or a slight wound of the skin, is often more than his shattered powers can endure. even a little excess of exertion, an exposure to heat or cold, a hearty repast, or a glass of cold water, not unfrequently extinguishes the small remains of the vital principle. in the season that has just closed upon us, we have had a melancholy exhibition of the effects of intemperance in the tragical death of some dozens of our fellow-citizens; and had the extreme heat which prevailed for several days continued for as many weeks, we should hardly have had a confirmed drunkard left among us. many of those deaths which came under my notice seemed almost spontaneous, and some of them took place in less than one hour from the first symptoms of indisposition. some died apparently from a slight excess of fatigue, some from a few hours' exposure to the sun, and some from a small draught of cold water; causes quite inadequate to the production of such effects in temperate persons. * * * * * thus, fellow-citizens, i have endeavored to delineate the effects of ardent spirit upon man, and more especially to portray its influence on his moral, intellectual, and physical powers. and now let me mention a few things which must be done in order that the evil may be eradicated. . let us keep in view the objects of the temperance society, and the obligation imposed on us, _to use all proper measures to discourage the use of ardent spirit in the social circle, at public meetings, on the farm, in the mechanic shop, and in all other places_. it is not a mere matter of formality that we have put our names to this society's constitution; we have pledged ourselves to be bold, active, and persevering in the cause; to proclaim the dangers of intemperance to our fellow-citizens, and to do what we can to arrest its progress. in view of these objects and of this pledge, then, let us, if indeed we have not already done it, banish ardent spirit from our houses at once, and for ever; and then we can act with decision and energy, and speak in a tone of authority, and our voice will be heard, if precept be sanctioned by example. . let us use our utmost endeavors to lessen the number, and, if possible, utterly exterminate from among us those establishments which are the chief agents in propagating the evils of intemperance. i refer to those shops which are licensed for _retailing ardent spirit_. here is the source of the evil. these are the agents that are sowing among us the seeds of vice, and poverty, and wretchedness. how preposterous, that an enlightened community, professing the highest regard for morality and religion, making laws for the suppression and punishment of vice, and the promotion of virtue and good order, instituting societies to encourage industry, enlighten the ignorant, reclaim the vicious, bring back the wanderer, protect the orphan, feed the hungry, clothe the naked, bind up the broken-hearted, and restore domestic peace, should, at the same time, create and foster those very means that carry idleness, and ignorance, and vice, and nakedness, and starvation, and discord into all ranks of society; that make widows and orphans, that sow the seeds of disease and death among us; that strike, indeed, at the foundation of all that is good and great. you create paupers, and lodge them in your alms house--orphans, and give them a residence in your asylum--convicts, and send them to the penitentiary. you seduce men to crime, and then arraign them at the bar of justice--immure them in prison. with one hand you thrust the dagger to the heart--with the other attempt to assuage the pain it causes. we all remember to have heard, from the lips of our parents, the narration of the fact, that in the early history of our country, the tomahawk and scalping-knife were put into the hands of our savage neighbors, by our enemies at war, and that a bounty was awarded for the depredations they committed on the lives of our defenceless fellow-citizens. our feelings were shocked at the recital, and a prejudice was created, as well to these poor wandering savages, as to the nation that prompted them to the work, which neither time nor education has eradicated. yet, as merciless and savage as this practice may appear to us, it was christian, it was humane, compared with ours: theirs sought only the life-blood, and that of their enemies; ours seeks the blood of souls, and that of our own citizens, and friends, and neighbors. their avarice was satiated with a few inches of the scalp, and the death inflicted was often a sudden and easy one; ours produces a death that lingers: and not content with the lives of our fellow-citizens, it rifles their pockets. it revels in rapine and robbery; it sacks whole towns and villages; it lays waste fields and vineyards; it riots on domestic peace, and virtue, and happiness; it sets at variance the husband and the wife; it causes the parent to forsake the child, and the child to curse the parent; it tears asunder the strongest bonds of society; it severs the tenderest ties of nature. and who is the author of all this; and where lies the responsibility? i appeal to my fellow-citizens. are not we the authors? does not the responsibility rest upon us? is it not so? the power emanates from us; we delegate it to the constituted authorities, and we say to them, "go on; cast firebrands, arrows, and death; and let the blood of those that perish be on us and on our children." we put the tomahawk and scalping-knife into the hands of our neighbors, and award to them a bounty. we do more; we share the plunder. let us arouse, my fellow-citizens, from our insensibility, and redeem our character for consistency, humanity, and benevolence. . let us not confine our views or limit our operations to the narrow boundaries of our own city or district. intemperance is a common enemy. it exists everywhere, and everywhere is pursuing its victims to destruction: while, therefore, we are actively engaged upon the subject in our own city, let us endeavor to do something elsewhere; and much may be done by spreading through our country correct information on the subject of intemperance. to this end, every newspaper and every press should be put in requisition. circulate through the various avenues suitable tracts, essays, and other documents, setting forth the causes of intemperance, its evils, and its remedy, together with an account of the cheering progress now making to eradicate it. do this, and you will find thousands starting up in different parts of the country, to lend their influence, and give their money in support of your cause; individuals who have hitherto been unconscious of the extent and magnitude of the evil of intemperance. you will find some who have been slumbering upon the very precipice of ruin, rallying round your standard. indeed, we have all been insensible, till the voice of alarm was sounded, and the facts were set in array before us. . appeal to _the medical profession_ of the country, and ask them to correct the false idea which so extensively, i may say, almost universally prevails, viz., that ardent spirit is sometimes necessary in the treatment of disease. this opinion has slain its thousands and its tens of thousands, and multitudes of dram-drinkers daily shelter themselves under its delusive mask. one takes a little to raise his desponding spirits, or to drown his sorrow; another, to sharpen his appetite, or relieve his dyspepsia: one, to ease his gouty pains; another, to supple his stiffened limbs, or calm his quivering muscles. one drinks to overcome the heat; another, to ward off the cold; and all this as a medicine. appeal, then, to the medical profession, and they will tell you--every independent, honest, sober, intelligent member of it will tell you--that there is no case in which ardent spirit is indispensable, and for which there is not an adequate substitute. and it is time the profession should have an opportunity to exonerate itself from the charge under which it has long rested, _of making drunkards_. but i entreat my professional brethren not to be content with giving a mere assent to this truth. you hold a station in society which gives you a commanding influence on this subject; and if you will but raise your voice and speak out boldly, you may exert an agency in this matter which will bring down the blessings of unborn millions upon your memory. . much may be done by guarding the _rising generation_ from the contagion of intemperance. it is especially with the children and youth of our land, that we may expect our efforts to be permanently useful. let us, then, guard with peculiar vigilance the youthful mind, and with all suitable measures, impress it with such sentiments of disgust and horror of the vice of intemperance, as to cause it to shrink from its very approach. carry the subject into our infant and sunday schools, and call on the managers and teachers of those institutions to aid you, by the circulation of suitable tracts, and by such other instructions as may be deemed proper. let the rising generation be protected but for a few years, and the present race of drunkards will have disappeared from among us, and there will be no new recruits to take their place. . let intelligent and efficient agents be sent out into every portion of our country, to spread abroad information upon the subject of intemperance, to rouse up the people to a sense of their danger, and to form temperance societies; and let there be such a system of correspondence and coöperation established among these associations as will convey information to each, and impart energy and efficiency to the whole. "no great melioration of the human condition was ever achieved without the concurrent effort of numbers; and no extended and well-directed association of moral influence was ever made in vain." . let all who regard the virtue, the honor, and the patriotism of their country, withhold their suffrages from those candidates for office who offer ardent spirit as a bribe to secure their elevation to power. it is derogatory to the liberties of our country, that office can be obtained by such corruption--be held by such a tenure. . let the ministers of the gospel, wherever called to labor, exert their influence, by precept and example, in promoting the cause of temperance. many of them have already stepped forth, and with a noble boldness have proclaimed the alarm, and have led on the work of reformation; but many timid spirits still linger, and others seem not deeply impressed with the importance of the subject, and with the responsibility of their station. ye venerated men, you are not only called to stand forth as our moral beacons, and be unto us burning and shining lights, but you are placed as watchmen upon our walls, to announce to us the approach of danger. it is mainly through your example and your labors that religion and virtue are so extensively disseminated through our country--that this land is not now a moral waste. you have ever exerted an important influence in society, and have held a high place in the confidence and affections of the people. you are widely spread over the country, and the scene of your personal labors will furnish you with frequent opportunities to diffuse information upon the subject of temperance, and to advance its progress. let me then ask you, one and all, to grant us your active and hearty coöperation. . appeal to the _female sex_ of our country, and ask them to come to your assistance; and if they will consent to steel their hearts against the inebriate, to shut out from their society the man who visits the tippling shop, their influence will be omnipotent. and by what power, ye mothers, and wives, and daughters, shall i invoke your aid? shall i carry you to the house of the drunkard, and point you to his weeping and broken-hearted wife, his suffering and degraded children, robed in rags, and poverty, and vice? shall i go with you to the almshouse, the orphan asylum, and to the retreat for the insane, that your sensibility may be roused? shall i ask you to accompany me to the penitentiary and the prison, that you may there behold the end of intemperance? nay, shall i draw back the curtain and disclose to you the scene of the drunkard's death-bed? no--i will not demand of you a task so painful: rather let me remind you that you are to become the mothers of our future heroes and statesmen, philosophers and divines, lawyers and physicians; and shall they be enfeebled in body, debauched in morals, disordered in intellect, or healthy, pure, and full of mental energy? it is for you to decide this question. you have the future destiny of our beloved country in your hands. let me entreat you, then, for your children's sake, and for your country's sake, not to ally yourselves to the drunkard, nor to put the cup to the mouth of your offspring, and thereby implant in them a craving for ardent spirit, which, once produced, is seldom eradicated. . call upon all public and private associations, religious, literary, and scientific, to banish ardent spirit from their circle; call upon the agricultural, manufacturing, and commercial establishments, to withhold it from those engaged in their employment; call upon the legislatures of the different states to coöperate by the enactment of such laws as will discourage the vending of ardent spirit, and render licenses to sell it unattainable; call upon the proper officers to banish from the army and navy that article which, of all others, is most calculated to enfeeble the physical energies, corrupt the morals, destroy the patriotism, and damp the courage of our soldiers and sailors; call upon our national legislature to impose such duties on the distillation and importation of ardent spirit as will ultimately exclude it from the list of articles of commerce, and eradicate it from our land. finally, call upon every sober man, woman, and child, to raise their voices, their hearts, and their hands in this sacred cause, and never hold their peace, never cease their prayers, never stay their exertions, till intemperance shall be banished from our land and from the world. bible argument for temperance. by rev. austin dickinson. the bible requires us to "present our bodies a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable unto god;" to "purify ourselves, even as he is pure;" to "give no occasion of stumbling to any brother;" to "give no offence to the church of god;" to "love our neighbor as ourselves;" to "do good to all as we have opportunity;" to "abstain from all appearance of evil;" to "use the world as not abusing it;" and, "whether we eat or drink, or whatsoever we do, to do all to the glory of god." a being of infinite benevolence could not prescribe rules of action less holy, and they are "the same that shall judge us in the last day." any indulgence, therefore, not consistent with these rules, is rebellion against the great lawgiver, and must disqualify us for "standing in the judgment." as honest men, then, let us try by these rules the common practice of drinking or selling intoxicating liquor. the use of such liquor, instead of enabling us to "present our bodies a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable," _actually degrades, and prematurely destroys both body and mind_. dr. rush, after enumerating various loathsome diseases, adds, that these are "the usual, natural, and legitimate consequences of its use." another eminent physician says, "the observation of twenty years has convinced me, that were ten young men, on their twenty-first birthday, to begin to drink one glass of ardent spirit, and were they to drink this supposed moderate quantity daily, the lives of eight out of the ten would be abridged by ten or fifteen years." when taken freely, its corrupting influences are strikingly manifest. and even when taken moderately, very few now pretend to doubt that it shortens life. but nothing can be clearer, than that he who thus wilfully cuts short his probation five, ten, or twenty years, is as truly a suicide, as if he slew himself violently. or if he knowingly encourage his neighbor to do this, he is equally guilty. he is, by the law of god, "a murderer." but besides prematurely destroying the body, alcoholic drink injures the immortal mind. to illustrate the blinding and perverting influence of even a small quantity of such liquor, let a strictly temperate man spend an evening with a dozen others indulging themselves "moderately:" they will be sure to say things which to him will appear foolish, if not wicked; and which will appear so to _themselves_ on reflection; though at the time they may not be conscious of any impropriety. and if this "moderate indulgence" be habitual, there must, of course, be an increased mental perversion; till conscience is "seared as with a hot iron," and the mind is lost to the power of being affected by truth, as well as to the capacity for usefulness. and is this destruction of the talents god has given, consistent with the injunction to "glorify god in body and spirit?" again, the habit of drinking _is incompatible with that eminent holiness to which you are commanded to aspire_. the great founder of christianity enjoins, "be ye perfect, even as your father in heaven is perfect." this will be the true christian's desire. and a soul aspiring to the image and full enjoyment of god, will have no relish for any counteracting influence. is it said, that for eminently holy men to "mingle strong drink" may be inconsistent; but not so for those less spiritual? this is making the want of spirituality an excuse for sensuality; thus adding sin to sin, and only provoking the most high. his mandate is universal: "be ye holy, for i am holy." to this end you are charged to "abstain from fleshly lusts, which war against the soul;" to "mortify your members, which are earthly;" to "exercise yourselves rather unto godliness;" to "be kindly affectioned towards all men." but who does not know that "strong drink," not only "eats out the brain," but "taketh away the heart," diminishes "natural affection," and deadens the moral sensibilities, while it cherishes those very passions which the holy spirit condemns? and how can one aspiring to the divine image, drink that which thus tends to destroy all that is pure, spiritual, and lovely, while it kindles the very elements of hell? the use of such liquor _is utterly inconsistent with any thing like high spiritual enjoyment, clear spiritual views, or true devotion_. a sense of shame must inevitably torment the professor who in such a day cannot resist those "fleshly lusts which war against the soul;" his brethren will turn from him in pity or disgust; and, what is infinitely more affecting, the holy spirit will not abide with him. thus, without an approving conscience, without cordial christian intercourse, without the smiles of the comforter, how can he enjoy religion? abstinence from highly stimulating liquor or food has ever been regarded indispensable to that serenity of soul and clearness of views so infinitely desirable in matters of religion. hence, the ministers of religion especially, were commanded not to touch any thing like strong drink when about to enter the sanctuary. lev. : . and _this_, it is added, _shall be a statute for ever throughout your generations; that ye may put difference between holy and unholy_; clearly showing god's judgment of the effect of temperance on spiritual discernment. on the principle of abstinence we may account, in part, for that holy ecstasy, that amazing clearness of spiritual vision, sometimes enjoyed on the deathbed. "administer nothing," said the eloquent dying summerfield, "that will create a stupor, not even so much as a little porter and water--_that i may have an unclouded view_." for the same reason, dr. rush, who so well knew the effect of strong drink, peremptorily ordered it not to be given him in his last hours. and it is recorded, that the dying saviour, "who knew all things," when offered "wine mingled with myrrh," "_received it not_." the truly wise will not barter visions of glory for mere animal excitement and mental stupefaction. equally illustrative of our principle is the confession of an aged deacon, accustomed to drink moderately: "i always, in prayer, felt a coldness and heaviness at heart--_never suspecting it was the whiskey_! but since that is given up, i have _heavenly communion_!" o, what an increase of pure light and joy might there be, would all understand this, and be _temperate in all things_. the use of such liquor _is inconsistent with the sacred order and discipline of the church_. a venerable minister, of great experience, gives it as the result of his observation, that _nine-tenths_ of all the cases calling for church discipline have in former years been occasioned by this liquor. this is a tremendous fact. but a little examination will convince any one that the estimate is not too high. and can it be right to continue an indulgence that brings tenfold, or even fourfold more trouble and disgrace on the church than all other causes united? do not these foul "spots in your feasts of charity" clearly say, "touch not the unclean thing?" can we countenance that which is certain to bring deep reproach on the church of christ? "it must needs be that offences come, but woe to that man by whom the offence cometh." the use of alcoholic liquor by the religious community _is inconsistent with the hope of reforming and saving the intemperate_; and thus shows a _want of love to souls_. the christian knows, that _drunkards cannot inherit eternal life_. he knows also, that hundreds of thousands now sustain or are contracting this odious character; and that if the evil be not arrested, millions more will come on in the same track, and go down to the burning gulf. but the man who drinks just so much as to make himself "feel well," cannot reprove the drunkard who only does the same thing. the drunkard may say to him, "my appetite is stronger than yours; more, therefore, is necessary, in order to make me '_feel well_;' and if you cannot deny yourself, how can i control a more raging appetite?" this rebuke would be unanswerable. all agree that total abstinence is the only hope of the drunkard. but is it not preposterous to expect him to abstain, if he sees the minister, the elder, the deacon, and other respectable men indulging their cups? with mind enfeebled and character lost, can he summon resolution to be singular, and live more temperately than his acknowledged superiors?--thus telling to all that _he has been a drunkard_! this cannot be expected of poor sunken human nature. no; let moderate drinking be generally allowed, and in less than thirty years, according to the past ratio of their deaths, armies of drunkards greater than all the american churches, will go from this land of light and freedom to "everlasting chains of darkness." if, then, the drunkard is worth saving, if he has a soul capable of shining with seraphim, and if you have "any bowels of mercies," then give him the benefit of your example. professing to "do good to _all_ as you have opportunity," be consistent in this matter. by a little self-denial you may save multitudes from ruin. but if you cannot yield _a little_, to save fellow-sinners from eternal pain, have you the spirit of him who, for his enemies, exchanged a throne for a cross? could all the wailings of the thousand thousands slain by this poison come up in one loud thunder of remonstrance on your ear, you might then think it wrong to sanction its use. but "let god be true," and those wailings are as real as if heard in ceaseless thunders. again, the use of intoxicating drink _is inconsistent with true christian patriotism_. all former efforts to arrest the national sin of intemperance have failed. a glorious effort is now making to remove it with pure water. thousands are rejoicing in the remedy. not a sober man in the nation really doubts its efficacy and importance. who, then, that regards our national character, can hesitate to adopt it? especially, who that is a christian, can cling to that which has darkened the pathway of heaven, threatened our liberties, desolated families and neighborhoods, and stigmatized us as a "nation of drunkards?" is it said, that the influence of a small temperance society, or church, is unimportant? not so; its light may save the surrounding region; its example may influence a thousand churches. and let the thousand thousand professing christians in this land, with such others as they can enlist, resolve on total abstinence--let this great example be held up to view--and it would be such a testimony as the world has not yet seen. let such a multitude show, that these drinks are unnecessary, and reformation easy, and the demonstration would be complete. few of the moral would continue the poison; thousands of the immoral abandon it at once; and the nation be reformed. the use of this liquor is _inconsistent with the proper influence of christian example_. the saviour says, "let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your father who is in heaven." but will men esteem christians the more for _drinking_, and thus be led to glorify god on their behalf? or will the saviour praise them for this, "when he shall come to be glorified in his saints, and to be admired in all them that believe?" rather, will not their drinking lead some to excess, and thus sully the creator's work? nay, is it not certain, that if the religious community indulge, the example will lead _millions_ to drunkenness and perdition? and, on the other hand, is it not morally certain, that if they abstain, their combined influence will save millions from infamy and ruin? how, then, in view of that day when all the bearings of your conduct shall be judged, can you hesitate on which side to give your influence? it is not a little matter; for who can conceive the results of even _one_ impulse, among beings connected with others by ten thousand strings! the use of this liquor _is inconsistent with, that harmony and brotherly love which christ requires in his professed followers_. he requires them to "love one another with a pure heart, fervently;" to "be all of one mind;" to be "of one heart and one soul." but who does not see the utter impossibility of this, if some continue an indulgence which others regard with abhorrence? since public attention has been turned to the subject, thousands have come to the full conviction, that to use intoxicating liquor is a sinful as well as foolish practice. the most distinguished lights of the church, and such as peculiarly adorn human nature, embrace this sentiment. and how can you associate with these, and yet continue a habit viewed by them with disgust? ah, the man, however decent, who "will have his glass, _not caring_ whom he offends," _must have it_; but he must also "_have his reward_." "whoso shall _offend one of these little ones which believe in me_, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck." the use of intoxicating drink, in this day of light, _is incompatible with the hope of receiving any general effusion of the holy spirit_. christians are allowed to hope for the spirit to be poured out only in answer to prayer--true, spiritual, believing prayer. "if they regard iniquity in their heart, the lord will not hear them." if they wilfully cherish sin, they cannot have faith. indeed, how odious the spectacle of a company looking towards heaven, but in the posture of devotion breathing forth the foul, fiery element--literally "offering strange fire before the lord!" we are not, then, to expect divine influence to come down "like showers that water the earth," till we put away that which we know tends only to wither and consume all the "fruits of the spirit." the _waste of property_ in the use of alcoholic drink _is inconsistent with faithful stewardship for christ_. religious "contributions" are among the appointed means for saving the world. but allow each of the tens of thousands of professing christians in this land only three cents worth of such liquor daily, and the annual cost is some millions of dollars; which would be sufficient to support thousands of missionaries. let "stewards" of the lord's bounty, then, who would consume their portion of this "_little_" on appetite, ponder and blush for such inconsistency; and let them hasten to clear off the heavy charge, "_ye have robbed me, even this whole nation_." again, to indulge in intoxicating liquor _is inconsistent with attempts to recommend the gospel to the heathen_. nothing has done more, in former years, to prejudice our indian neighbors, and hinder among them the influence of the gospel, than those liquors we have encouraged them to use. several tribes have set the noble example of excluding them by the strong arm of law; and it is only by convincing such that really consistent christians do not encourage these evils, that our missionaries have been able to gain their confidence. the same feeling prevails in some distant heathen nations. they cannot but distrust those who use and sell a polluting drink, which _they_, to a great extent, regard with abhorrence. suppose our missionaries should meet the heathen with the bible in one hand, and the intoxicating cup in the other; what impression would they make? nature herself would revolt at the alliance. and nothing but custom and fashion have reconciled any to similar inconsistencies at home. but not only must our missionaries be unspotted, they must be able to testify, that _no real christians_ encourage this or any unclean thing. with _such_ testimony they might secure the conviction, that our religion is indeed elevating, and that our god is _the true god_. for saith jehovah, "then shall the _heathen_ know that i am the lord, when i shall be sanctified in you before their eyes." indulgence in this drink, especially by the church, _is inconsistent with any reasonable hope that the flood of intemperance would not return upon the land, even should it for a season be dried up_. the same causes which have produced it would produce it again, unless there be some _permanent_ counteracting influence. temperance associations are unspeakably important as means of reformation. but they are not permanent bodies; their organization may cease when intemperance is once done away; and unless the principle of total abstinence be generally acknowledged and regarded as a christian duty, by some great association that _is to be perpetual_, it may in time be forgotten or despised; and then drunkenness will again abound. such an association is found only in "the church of the living god." this will continue while the world stands. let the principle of entire abstinence, then, be recognized by all members of the church, and such others as they can influence; and you have a great multitude to sustain the temperance cause, "till time shall be no longer." and can the real christian, or patriot, think it hard thus to enlist for the safety of all future generations? if parents love their offspring, if christians love the millions coming upon the stage, will they not gladly secure them all from the destroyer? has he a shadow of consistency who will rather do that, which, if done by the church generally, would lead millions to hopeless ruin? the use of intoxicating drink, as an article of luxury or living, _is inconsistent with the plain spirit and precepts of god's word_. the proper use to be made of it, is so distinctly pointed out in scripture, that men need not mistake. it is to be used as a _medicine_ in _extreme cases_. "give strong drink unto him that is _ready to perish_." its common use is condemned as foolish and pernicious. "strong drink is raging; and whosoever is deceived thereby, is _not wise_." "they are out of the way through strong drink; they err in vision; they stumble in judgment." such passages show clearly the mind of god with respect to the nature and use of this article. moreover, it is said, "woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink." but does not every man who sells or uses this liquor, as a beverage, encourage his neighbor to drink, and thus contemn god's authority? does he not aggravate his guilt by sinning against great light? and would he not aggravate it still further, should he charge the blame on the sacred word? o, what a blot on the bible, should one sentence be added, _encouraging the common use of intoxicating liquor_! "if any man thus add, god shall add unto him the plagues that are written in this book." to encourage the manufacture of such liquors _is to abuse the bounties of providence_. when god had formed man, he kindly said, "behold, i have given you every herb bearing seed, which is upon the face of all the earth, and every tree, in the which is the fruit of a tree yielding seed; _to you it shall be for meat_." god, then, it seems, intended men should use the fruits of the earth for _food_. but "they have sought out many inventions." and one of these is, to convert these "gifts of god" into a poison, most insidious in its nature, and destructive both to soul and body. the distiller, the vender, and the consumer, encourage one another in this perversion of god's gifts. and is this "receiving his gifts with thanksgiving?" better, infinitely better, to cast them at once into the fire, and say unto the almighty, "we have no need of these." but the ingratitude does not stop here. when men, in abuse of the divine bounty, have made this poison, to give it currency, they call it one of the "_creatures of god_." with as much propriety might they call gambling establishments and murderous weapons his "creatures." but how awful the _impiety_ of thus ascribing the worst of man's inventions to the benevolent god! for a man to _persevere in making, selling, or using intoxicating liquor, as an article of luxury or living_, while fully knowing its effects, _and possessing_ the light providence has poured on this subject, _is utterly inconsistent with any satisfactory evidence of piety_. "by their fruits ye shall know them." and what are _his_ fruits. why, as we have seen, he wilfully cuts short his own life, or the life of his neighbor; he wilfully impairs memory, judgment, imagination, all the immortal faculties, merely for sensual indulgence or paltry gain; he stupefies conscience, and cherishes all the evil passions; he prefers sordid appetite to pure spiritual enjoyment; he is the occasion of stumbling to those for whom christ died, and of dark reproach on the church; he neglects the only means providence has pointed out for saving millions from drunkenness and perdition; he wilfully encourages their downward course; he refuses the aid he might give to a great national reform; he lends his whole weight against this reformation; he is the occasion of offence, grief, and discord among brethren; he grieves the holy spirit; he robs the lord's treasury; he makes christianity infamous in the eyes of the heathen; he disregards the plain spirit of the bible; and, in fine, he perverts even the common bounties of providence. such are his fruits. and the man, surely, who can do all this in meridian light, while god is looking on, and widows and orphans are remonstrating, _does not give satisfactory evidence of piety_. he shows neither respect for god nor love to man. let conscience now solemnly review this whole argument by the infinitely holy law. is it indeed right and scriptural to impair body and mind, to defile the flesh, cloud the soul, stupefy conscience, and cherish the worst passions? is it right to bring occasions of stumbling into the church? is it right to encourage drunkards; right to treat with contempt a great national reform? is it right to offend such as christ calls "brethren;" right to grieve the holy spirit, and hinder his blessed influence? is it right to "consume on lust" what would fill the lord's treasury; and right to make religion odious to the heathen? is it right to leave the land exposed to new floods of intemperance; to disregard the manifest lessons of god's word and providence; and to convert food to poison? is it indeed scriptural and right to sanction habits fraught only with wounds, death, and perdition? can _real christians_, by example, propagate such heresy? let it not be suggested that our argument bears chiefly against the _excessive_ use of these liquors; for common observation and candor will testify that the _moderate_ use of the poison is the real occasion of all its woes and abominations. who was ever induced to taste, by the disgusting sight of a drunkard? or wise ever became a drunkard, except by moderate indulgence in the beginning? indeed, this habit of moderate drinking is, perhaps, tenfold _worse_ in its general influence on society than occasional instances of drunkenness; for these excite abhorrence and alarm, while moderate indulgence sanctions the general use, and betrays millions to destruction. o never, since the first temptation, did satan gain such a victory, as when he induced christians to sanction everywhere the use of intoxicating liquor. and never, since the triumph of calvary, has he experienced such a defeat as they are now summoned to accomplish. let them unitedly pledge themselves against strong drink, and by _diffusing light on this subject_, do as much to expose as they have done to encourage this grand device of satan, and mighty rivers of death will soon be dried up. in this work of light and love, then, be _generous_, "be sober, be self-denying, be vigilant, be of one mind;" for the great adversary, "as a roaring lion, walketh about." and possibly through apathy, or discord, or treason among professed friends of temperance, "satan may yet get an advantage," and turn our fair morning into a heavier night of darkness, and tempest, and war. but woe to that man who, in this day of light, shall wilfully encourage the _exciting cause_ of such evils. and heaviest woe to him who shall avail himself of a standing in the church for this purpose. i hear for such a loud remonstrance from countless millions yet unborn, and a louder still from the throne of eternal justice. but "though we thus speak," we hope better things, especially from the decided followers of the lamb, of every name; "things which make for peace, things wherewith one may edify another, and things which accompany salvation" to a dying world. four reasons against the use of alcoholic liquors. by john gridley, m. d. in presenting this subject, it shall be my aim to state and illustrate such facts and principles as shall induce every man, woman, and child, capable of contemplating truth and appreciating motive, to exert the whole weight of their influence in favor of the "temperance reform." there are _four reasons_ which claim special attention. the first reason we would urge, why the use of alcoholic liquors should be altogether dispensed with, is their _immense cost_ to the consumers. it is estimated from data as unerring as custom-house books, and the declarations of the manufacturers of domestic distilled spirit, that previous to , , , gallons of ardent spirit were annually consumed in these united states; the average cost of which is moderately stated at fifty cents per gallon, and in the aggregate _thirty millions_ of dollars. _thirty millions of dollars annually!_ a sum which, if spread out in one dollar bank-notes, end to end, would reach _across the atlantic_. or, if in silver dollars piled one upon the other, would form a column nearly _thirty miles_ high; and which it would occupy a man twelve hours in each day, for almost two years, to enumerate, allowing him to count one every second. or to suppose a useful application of this fund, it would support annually from _two to three hundred thousand young men_ in preparing for the gospel ministry. in three years it is a sum more than equal to the supply of a _bible to every family on the habitable globe_. one-half the amount would defray all the ordinary expenses incident to the carrying on of our nation's governmental operations every year. thus i might multiply object upon object, which this vast sum is adequate to accomplish, and carry the mind from comparison to comparison in estimating its immense amount; still the cost, thus considered as involving the _pecuniary_ resources of the country, is a mere _item_ of the aggregate, when the loss of time, waste of providential bounty, neglect of business, etc., incident to the consumption of this one article, are thrown into the account. a second reason why its use should be condemned is, the _entire inadequacy of any property it possesses to impart the least benefit_, either nutrient, or in any other way substantially to the consumer, to say nothing just now of its never-failing injurious effects. _alcohol_ consists chemically in a state of purity of carbon, oxygen, and hydrogen; in the proportions of carbon about parts, oxygen , and hydrogen to the . the addition of water forms the various proof spirits. it can be generated in no way but by _fermentation_: no skill of art has yet been able to combine the above elements in such proportions, or relations, as to produce alcohol, except by heat and moisture inciting fermentation in vegetable substances. but it should be understood, that vegetables may undergo a certain degree of fermentation without producing alcohol; or, if suffered to produce it, another stage of fermentation will radically destroy it, and produce an acid. thus, any of the vegetable substances, as corn or rye, subjected to a certain degree of heat and moisture, will soon suffer a decomposition, and a development of sugar, to a greater or less degree, will take place. if removed now from circumstances favorable to its farther fermentation, as is the case with dough for bread, etc., no appreciable quantity of alcohol is created. a _further_ degree of fermentation, however, is generative of alcohol, and if arrested here, the alcohol maintains its decided character; while still another stage presents the acetous state, and the alcoholic property is lost in vinegar. as in our opinion, success to the temperance cause depends much upon a right understanding of _what alcohol is_, and the manner of its production, a more simple illustration may not be inappropriate here. a farmer takes a quantity of apples to the mill in order to convert them into cider. he grinds, then lays them up into a cheese, when pressure is applied, and the juice runs into a vat placed to receive it. here, at this stage of the business, there is no alcohol in the juice. it is now put into casks, and the sweet or sugar stage of fermentation, which is already begun, soon passes into the vinous or _alcoholic_ stage, as it is called, and _alcohol_ is formed. the prudent farmer, at this point, when the juice is done _working_, or fermenting, immediately bungs his casks, and does such other things as his skill and experience may suggest, to prevent his cider becoming sour, which it will do if the third stage of fermentation is permitted to succeed. here, then, he has _perfect alcohol_, though in small proportions; as perfect as it is in brandy, gin, rum, and whiskey. the same results ensue from subjecting corn, rye, barley, etc., to such processes as is customary to prepare them for distillation, namely, to such a degree of fermentation as that alcohol is formed. and when the alcohol is formed by fermentation, then it is drawn off, by distilling, from its union with the other materials in the fermented mass. alcohol, then, is strictly _the product of fermentation_. it is not, and cannot be produced in any other way. to distil, therefore, is only to lead it off from its union with the vegetable mass, and show it naked with all its virulence. having considered the manner in which alcohol is formed, let us examine some of its _properties_. it contains nothing that can afford any nourishment to the body, and consequently it can impart no strength. when taken in certain quantities, diluted with water, as it must be for common use, its effect is, to arouse the energies of the system, and for a while the individual _feels_ stronger; but this excitement is always followed by depression and loss of animal and mental vigor. thus it is a mere provocative to momentary personal effort, without affording any resources to direct or execute. hence the fallacy of that doctrine held by some, that to accomplish deeds of daring, feats of muscular strength, etc., with success, demands the drinking of spirituous liquors. were i about to storm an enemy's battery, with no alternative before me but victory or death, i might, principle aside, infuriate my men with the maddening influence of ardent spirit, and let them loose upon the charge, as i would a wounded elephant, or an enraged tiger. but in attaining an object to which the combined energies of mind and body were requisite, i should never think of the appropriateness of spirituous liquor to aid the effort. but an objector says, "i certainly _feel stronger_ upon drinking a glass of spirit and water, and can do more work than i can without it. i can swing a scythe with more nerve, or pitch a load of hay in less time; and feel a general invigoration of my body during the heat of a summer's day, after having drank a quantity of grog. how is this?" we reply, doubtless you _feel_ for the moment all that you describe; but your _feeling strength_ thus suddenly excited, is far from being proof that you are _really_ any stronger. the opposite is the fact; which we infer from the inadequacy of any substance, be it ever so nutritious, to impart strength so suddenly, as it would _seem_ ardent spirit did when drank; for there has not been sufficient time for digestion, through which process only can any substantial nourishment be derived to the body. the _apparent_ strength which an individual feels upon drinking ardent spirit, is the same in kind, though not in degree, with that which a man feels who has lain sick with a fever fifteen or twenty days, during which time he has taken little food, and been subjected to the weakening influence of medicines; but who on a sudden manifests great strength, striving to rise from his bed, etc., and in his delirious efforts must be restrained perhaps by force. now no man in his senses will call this any _real_ increase of strength in the sick man, who has been starving thus long; but only a rallying of the powers of life under the stimulus of disease, which is always followed by extreme languor and debility, if not by death. so it is with the individual under the influence of ardent spirit: he _feels_ the powers of his body excited from the stimulus of the spirit; yet, as we think must be clear to the apprehension of any one, without any addition of _actual_ strength. again, alcohol is not only innutritious, but is _poisonous_. taken into the stomach in an undiluted and _concentrated_ state, in quantities of two or three teaspoonfulls, it destroys life, as clearly shown in accum's experiments. combined with different proportions of water, sugar, etc., it is modified in its effects. most of the vegetable and mineral poisons may be so diluted and modified as to be capable of application to the bodies of men internally, without producing immediate fatal consequences; which, nevertheless, cannot be used any length of time, even thus disarmed, without producing pernicious effects. so it is with alcohol: like other poisons, it cannot be used any length of time, even diluted and modified, without proving pernicious to health, and if persevered in, in considerable quantities, inevitably destructive to life. this last sentiment, however, we will consider more particularly under the third reason for the disuse of alcohol: it _destroys both body and soul_. it is estimated that _thirty or forty thousand_ died annually in the united states from the intemperate use of ardent spirit before the temperance reformation began. thirty or forty thousand! a sacrifice seldom matched by war or pestilence. the blood which flowed from the veins of our martyred countrymen, in the cause of freedom, never reached this annual sacrifice. and the pestilential _cholera_, ruthless as it is, which has marked its desolating track through many of our towns and cities, numbers not an amount of victims like this plague, much as its virulence has been enhanced by ardent spirit. the destructive influence of immoderate drinking upon the bodily powers of men, is painfully apparent, sometimes long before the fatal catastrophe. the face, the speech, the eyes, the walk, the sleep, the breath, all proclaim the drying up of the springs of life. and although abused nature will often struggle, and struggle, and struggle, to maintain the balance of her powers, and restore her wasted energies, she is compelled to yield at length to suicidal violence. the effect of the habitual use of ardent spirit upon the health, is much greater than is generally supposed. an individual who is in the habit of drinking spirits daily, although he may not fall under the character of a drunkard, is undermining his constitution gradually, but certainly; as a noble building, standing by the side of a small, unnoticed rivulet, whose current steals along under its foundation, and carries away from its support sand after sand, has its security certainly though imperceptibly impaired, and finally falls into utter ruin. a large proportion of the inmates of our madhouses are the victims of ardent spirit. our hospitals and poor-houses speak volumes of the ruin that awaits the bodily powers of those who indulge in even moderate tippling. it exposes the system to much greater ravages when disease attacks it. the powers of nature are weakened, and less able to resist disease; and medicines will never act so promptly and kindly upon those who are accustomed to strong drink as upon those who are not. but where is the _soul_, the disembodied spirit of a deceased drunkard? "no drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of god," is the plain declaration of sacred writ; and were there no such scriptural denunciation of the wretched inebriate, the very nature of his case would render his prospect dark and dismal. in the intervals of his cups, when his animal powers are not goaded by artificial excitement, his distressed spirit partakes of the horrible collapse of its polluted tenement, and can contemplate no motive, however weighty, nor entertain any other thought, be it ever so interesting, than how to relieve its present wretchedness. when, then, can the unhappy man find peace with god amid this tumult of his unbalanced faculties, this perturbation of his unholy passions? how utterly unfitted to perform those duties which are requisite to secure a blessed immortality? our fourth reason for the disuse of alcoholic liquors is, that _any thing short of entire abstinence exposes to all the dread consequences just named_. here is the grand hope of our cause. total abstinence defies all danger and mocks at consequences. with it, we are safe; without it, in peril. no man was ever _born_ a drunkard; nor are we born with a natural taste or thirst for alcoholic drinks, any more than we are born with an appetite for aloes, assafoetida, or any other drug or medicine. and the child when first taught to take it, is induced to do so only by sweetening it, and thus rendering it palatable, as is the case with other medicines. neither is it, at any time, the taste or flavor of alcohol, exclusively, that presents such charms for the use of it; but in the effect upon the _stomach and nerves_ lie all the magic and witchery of this destructive agent. in proof of this, watch the trembling victim of strong drink while he pours down his morning or mid-day dram, and see him retch and strangle like a sickened child at a nauseous medicine. ask him, too, and he will confess it is not the taste for which he drinks. intemperate drinking is ever the result of what has been misnamed _temperate drinking_. "taking a little" when we are too cold, or too hot, or wet, or fatigued, or low-spirited, or have a pain in the stomach, or to keep off fevers, or from politeness to a friend, or not to appear singular in company, etc., etc., or as is sometimes churlishly said, "when we have a mind to." and here i shall step aside a little from the main argument, and attempt to _explain_ the _effects_ which _temperate drinking_ has upon the animal system; and how it leads to ruinous drunkenness, by a law of our natures, certain and invariable. the nervous system, as i have said, is that department of our bodies which suffers most from stimulants and narcotics. although the circulation of the blood is increased, and all the animal spirits roused by alcoholic drink; still, the nerves are the organs that must finally bear the brunt and evil of this undue excitement. thus we see in the man who has been overexcited by these stimulants, a trembling hand, an infirm step, and impaired mental vigor. the _excitability_ of our system--and by this term we mean that property of our natures which distinguishes all living from dead matter--is acted upon by stimuli, either external or internal; and it is by various stimuli, applied properly, and in due proportion, that the various functions of life are kept up. thus a proper portion of food, and drink, and heat, and exercise, serves to maintain that balance of action among all the organs, which secures health to the individual. but if an agent is applied to the system, exerting stimulant powers exceeding those that are necessary for carrying on the vital functions steadily, an excitement ensues which is always followed by a corresponding collapse. this principle is clearly illustrated by the stimulus of alcohol. if a person unaccustomed to its use receives into his stomach a given quantity of distilled spirits, it will soon produce symptoms of universal excitement. the pulse increases in frequency; the action of all the animal functions is quickened; and even the soul, partaking of the impulse of its fleshly tabernacle, is unduly aroused. but this is of short duration, and a sinking, or collapse, proportioned to the excitement, soon takes place, with a derangement, more or less, of all the organs of the body. the stimulus repeated, the same effect ensues. we must, however, notice that the same quantity of any unnatural stimulus, such as opium, spirit, etc., frequently repeated, fails to produce its specific effect. hence, in order to secure the same effect, it is necessary to increase its quantity. thus, to a person indulging in the frequent or stated practice of drinking, before he is aware, the repetition becomes pleasant. as the accustomed hour returns for his dram, he regularly remembers it; again and again he drinks; the desire increases; he makes himself believe it is necessary from the very fact that he desires it; the principle, or law, of which we have been speaking, developes itself; an increased quantity becomes necessary to insure a feeling of gratification; more, and still more becomes necessary, and oftener repeated, until without it he is miserable; his overexcited system is wretched, soul and body, without _the constant strain_ which the stimulus affords. here is a solution of the fact that has astonished thousands; how the unhappy drunkard, with all the certain consequences of his course staring him in the face, and amid the entreaties and arguments of distressed friends, and the solemn denunciations of holy writ sounding in his ears, and the sure prospect of an untimely grave, will still press on, and hold the destroyer still firmer to his lips. it is because nature shrieks at every pore, if i may be allowed the expression. every nerve, every vein, every fibre pines, and groans, and aches for its accustomed stimulus. no substitute will do; no ransom can purchase relief; insatiate as the grave, every fibre cries, give, give! the dictates of reason are drowned in the clamor of the senses. thus the _temperate drinker, by persisting in the practice_, throws himself within the influence of _a law of his system_, of which he can no more control the development, nor resist the urgency, than he can that law which circulates the blood through his heart, or any other law peculiar to animal life. that law is the law of stimulation, which is never unduly aroused, except by sinful indulgences; but when aroused, is dreadfully urgent. we will state a case strikingly exemplifying the influence of this law. a gentleman, an acquaintance and friend of the writer, contracted the habit of drinking during his college course. he settled in the practice of the law in one of the villages of his native state. he soon became invested with offices of honor and profit, and although young, gave promise of shining brilliantly in the profession he had chosen. he was the pride of a large and respectable family, who witnessed his growing prospects with that satisfaction and delight which the prosperity of a beloved son and brother cannot fail to impart. in the midst of these circumstances the physician was one day called in haste to see him. he had fallen into a fit. his manly form lay stretched upon the carpet, while his features were distorted and purpled from the agony of the convulsions. after some days, however, he recovered, without having sustained any permanent injury. being in company with his physician alone, soon after, he said to him, "i suspect, sir, you do not know the cause of my fit; and as i may have a return of it, when you will probably be called, i think it proper that you should be made acquainted with my habits of life." he then informed his physician, that for a number of years previous he had been in the daily use of ardent spirit, that the practice had grown upon him ever since he left college, and that he was conscious it injured him. however, it was not known even to his own family what quantity he used. his physician did not hesitate to inform him of the extreme danger to his life in persisting in the use of intoxicating drinks. he acknowledged his perfect conviction of the truth of all that was said, and resolved to abandon his wicked course. not many weeks after, he was seized with another fit; but owing to the absence of the family physician, he did not see him until some time after he had come out of it. the physician, however, who attended, informed him it was violent. after repeated assurances of his increasing danger, and the remonstrances of friends, who had now begun to learn the real cause of his fits, he renewed his promises and determination to reform, and entered upon a course of total abstinence, which he maintained for several months, and inspired many of his friends with pleasing hopes of his entire reform and the reëstablishment of his health. but, alas, in an unguarded moment, he dared to taste again the forbidden cup, and with this fled all his resolutions and restraints. from that time he drank more openly and freely. his fits returned with painful violence; friends remonstrated, entreated, pleaded, but all in vain. he thus continued his course of intemperance, with intervals of fits and sickness, about eight or ten months, and at length died _drunk_ in his bed, where he had lain for two or three weeks in a continual state of intoxication. the writer has stated this case in detail, to show the influence of _the law of stimulation_, or what in popular language is termed, "the appetite for spirituous liquors," when once it is awakened. here we have the instance of an individual, of a fine and cultivated intellect, with every thing on earth to render him happy, that could be comprised in wealth, friends, honor, and bright prospects. ay, indeed, too, he professed an interest in the blood of the saviour, and had communed with christians at his table; surrounded by those whom he tenderly loved, the wife of his bosom, and the dear pledges of her devotion. yet, in spite of all these considerations, and the most sensible conviction of his fatal career, he continued to drink, and thus pressed downward to the gate of death and hell. now what was this? what giant's arm dragged this fair victim to an untimely grave? was it for the want of motives and obligations to pursue an opposite course? no. was it for the want of intellect and talents to appreciate those obligations? no. was it trouble, arising from disappointed hopes and blasted prospects? certainly, by those who knew him best, he was accounted a man who might have been happy. what was it, then, that urged this individual, with his eyes open upon the consequences, and in the face of every thing most dear, thus to sacrifice his _all_ upon the altar of intemperance? it _was that law_ of which we have spoken, enkindled into action by his tippling, and which once developed, he could no more control, _while persisting in his pernicious practice of drinking_, than he could have hurled the andes from their base, or have plucked the moon from her orbit. we say, then, that all persons who drink ardent spirit habitually, bring themselves inevitably under the influence of a law _peculiar to their natures_, which leads on to ruin. instances may indeed have occurred, in which individuals have used ardent spirit daily for a long course of years, and yet died without becoming drunkards; but it only proves that these have been constitutions that could _resist_ the _speedy development_ of the law in question. where one individual is found with a constitution vigorous enough to resist the development of this law through a life of habitual drinking, thousands go down to a drunkard's grave, and a drunkard's retribution, from only a few years' indulgence. we have thus briefly shown the _immense cost_ of the use of alcoholic liquors. we have shown that they contain _no property that can impart substantial strength or nourishment_ to the body; and that they are actually a poison. we have shown that they _destroy_ both _body_ and _soul_; clouding the view of truth, and resisting the influences of the holy spirit. "no drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of god." we have shown that the _temperate use_ of these liquors tends inevitably to the _intemperate use_; since those who drink them habitually, throw themselves within the influence of a _law of their natures_, which leads on directly to ruin. in view of such considerations and such facts, who is so degraded, so enslaved to appetite, or the love of gain, that he will not lend his aid to the temperance reform? who will indulge in what he calls the temperate use, flattering himself that he can control his appetite, when thousands, who have boasted of _self-control_, have found themselves, ere they were aware, within the coil of a serpent whose touch is poison, and whose sting is death? o, who that regards his neighbor, his family, his own reputation, or his own soul, will in this day of light be found dallying with that which affords at best only _sensual_ pleasure, and which _at the last biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder_? debates of conscience with a distiller, a wholesale dealer, and a retailer. by heman humphrey, d. d. president of amherst college. dialogue i. at the distillery.--first interview. distiller. good morning, mr. conscience; though i know you to be one of the earliest risers, especially of late, i hardly expected to meet you here at day-dawn. conscience. i am none too early, it seems, to find you at your vocation. but how are you going to dispose of this great black building? distiller. why, i do not understand you. conscience. what are you doing with these boiling craters, and that hideous worm there? distiller. pray explain yourself. conscience. whose grain is that? and what is bread called in the bible? distiller. more enigmatical still. conscience. to what market do you mean to send that long row of casks? and how many of them will it take, upon an average, to dig a drunkard's grave? distiller. ah, i understand you now. i was hoping that i had quieted you on that score. but i perceive you have come upon the old errand. you intend to read me another lecture upon the sixth commandment. but what would you have me do? conscience. put out these fires. distiller. nay, but hear me. i entered into this business with your approbation. the neighbors all encouraged me. my brethren in the church said it would open a fine market for their rye, and corn, and cider; and even my minister, happening to come along when we were raising, took a little with us under the shade, and said he loved to see his people industrious and enterprising. conscience. "the times of this ignorance god winked at--but now commandeth all men everywhere to repent." in one part of your defence, at least, you are incorrect. it was not my _voice_, but my _silence_, if any thing, which gave consent; and i have always suspected there was some foul play in the matter, and that i was kept quiet for the time by certain deleterious opiates. indeed, i distinctly recollect the morning bitters and evening toddy, which you were accustomed to give me; and though i thought but little of it then, i now see that it deadened all my sensibilities. this, i am aware, is no excuse. i ought to have resisted--i ought to have refused, and to have paralyzed the hand which put the cup to my lips. and when you struck the first stroke on this ground, i ought to have warned you off with the voice of seven thunders. that i did not then speak out, and do my duty, will cause me extreme regret and self-reproach to the latest hour of my life. distiller. but what, my dear conscience, has made you all at once so much wiser, not only than your former self, but than hundreds of enlightened men in every community, whose piety was never doubted? i myself know, and have heard of not a few good christians, including even deacons and elders, who still continue to manufacture ardent spirit, and think, or seem to think it right. conscience. and think it right! ask their consciences. i should like to witness some of those interviews which take place in the night, and which make christian distillers--(what a solecism!)--so much more irritable than they used to be. i know one of the brotherhood, at least, whose conscience has been goading him these five years, and yet he perseveres. distiller. but if i stop, what will the people do? half the farmers in town depend upon their rye and cider to pay their taxes, and even to support the gospel. conscience. so, then, you are pouring out these streams of liquid death over the land, and burning up your own neighbors, to enable them to pay their taxes and support religion! why don't you set up a coffin factory, to create a brisker demand for lumber, and so help the farmers to pay their taxes; and then spread the smallpox among the people, that they may die the faster, and thus increase your business, and give you a fair profit? it will not do. i tell you, that i can give you no peace till you put out these fires and destroy that worm. distiller. how can i? here is all my living, especially since, as you know, my eldest son fell into bad habits, in spite of all the good advice i daily gave him, and squandered what might have afforded me a comfortable independence. conscience. suppose you were now in brazil, and the owner of a large establishment to fit out slave-traders with handcuffs for the coast of africa, and could not change your business without considerable pecuniary sacrifice; would you make the sacrifice, or would you keep your fires and hammers still going? distiller. why do you ask such puzzling questions? you know i don't like them at all, especially when my mind is occupied with other subjects. leave me, at least till i can compose myself, i beseech you. conscience. nay, but hear me through. is it right for you to go on manufacturing fevers, dropsy, consumption, delirium tremens, and a host of other frightful diseases, because your property happens to be vested in a distillery? is it consistent with the great law of love by which you profess to be governed? will it bear examination in a dying hour? shall i bid you look back upon it from the brink of eternity, that you may from such recollections gather holy courage for your pending conflict with the king of terrors? will you bequeath this magazine of wrath and perdition to your only son not already ruined, and go out of the world rejoicing that you can leave the whole concern in the hands of one who is so trustworthy and so dear? [here the distiller leaves abruptly, without answering a word.] second interview. distiller. (seeing conscience approach, and beginning to tremble.) what, so soon and so early at your post again? i did hope for a short respite. conscience. o, i am distressed--i cannot hold my peace. i am pained at my very heart. distiller. do be composed, i beseech you, and hear what i have to say. since our last interview i have resolved to sell out, and i expect the purchaser on in a very few days. conscience. what will _he_ do with the establishment when he gets it? distiller. you must ask him, and not me. but whatever he may do with it, _i_ shall be clear. conscience. i wish i could be sure of that; but let us see. though you will not make poison by the hundred barrels any longer yourself, you will sell this laboratory of death to another man, for the same horrid purpose. you will not, with your own hands, go on forging daggers for maniacs to use upon themselves and their friends, provided you can get some one to take your business at a fair price. you will no longer drag the car of juggernaut over the bodies of prostrate devotees, if you can _sell out the privilege to good advantage_! distiller. was ever any man's conscience so captious before? you seem determined not to be satisfied with any thing. but beware; by pushing matters in this way you will produce a violent "reaction." even professors of religion will not bear it. for myself, i wish to treat you with all possible respect; but forbearance itself must have its limits. conscience. possibly you may be able to hold me in check a little longer; but i am all the while gathering strength for an onset which you cannot withstand; and if you cannot bear these kind remonstrances now, how will you grapple with "the worm that never dies?" distiller. enough, enough. i will obey your voice. but why so pale and deathlike? conscience. o, i am sick, i am almost suffocated. these tartarean fumes, these dreadful forebodings, these heart-rending sights, and above all, my horrid dreams, i cannot endure them. there comes our nearest neighbor, stealing across the lots, with his jug and half bushel of rye. what is his errand, and where is his hungry, shivering family? and see there too, that tattered, half-starved boy, just entering the yard with a bottle--who sent him here at this early hour? all these barrels--where are the wretched beings who are to consume this liquid fire, and to be consumed by it? distiller. spare me, spare me, i beseech you. by going on at this rate a little longer you will make me as nervous as yourself. conscience. but i cannot close this interview till i have related one of the dreams to which i just alluded. it was only last night that i suffered in this way, more than tongue can tell. the whole terrific vision is written in letters of fire upon the tablet of my memory; and i feel it all the while burning deeper and deeper. i thought i stood by a great river of melted lava, and while i was wondering from what mountain or vast abyss it came, suddenly the field of my vision was extended to the distance of several hundred miles, and i perceived that, instead of springing from a single source, this rolling torrent of fire was fed by numerous tributary streams, and these again by smaller rivulets. and what do you think i heard and beheld, as i stood petrified with astonishment and horror? there were hundreds of poor wretches struggling and just sinking in the merciless flood. as i contemplated the scene still more attentively, the confused noise of boisterous and profane merriment, mingled with loud shrieks of despair, saluted my ears. the hair of my head stood up--and looking this way and that way, i beheld crowds of men, women, and children, thronging down to the very margin of the river--some eagerly bowing down to slake their thirst with the consuming liquid, and others convulsively striving to hold them back. some i saw actually pushing their neighbors headlong from the treacherous bank, and others encouraging them to plunge in, by holding up the fiery temptation to their view. to insure a sufficient depth of the river, so that destruction might be made doubly sure, i saw a great number of men, and some whom i knew to be members of the church, laboriously turning their respective contributions of the glowing and hissing liquid into the main channel. this was more than i could bear. i was in perfect torture. but when i expostulated with those who were nearest to the place where i stood, they coolly answered, _this is the way in which we get our living!_ but what shocked me more than all the rest, and curdled every drop of blood in my veins, was the sight which i had of this very distillery pouring out its tributary stream of fire! and o, it distracts, it maddens me to think of it. there you yourself stood feeding the torrent which had already swallowed up some of your own family, and threatened every moment to sweep you away! this last circumstance brought me from the bed, by one convulsive bound, into the middle of the room; and i awoke in an agony which i verily believe i could not have sustained for another moment. distiller. i will feed the torrent no longer. the fires of my distillery shall be put out. from this day, from this hour, i renounce the manufacture of ardent spirit for ever. dialogue ii. wholesale dealer's counting-room. conscience. (looking over the ledger with a serious air.) what is that last invoice from the west indies? rum-dealer. only a few casks of fourth proof, for particular customers. conscience. and that domestic poison, via new orleans; and on the next page, that large consignment, via erie canal? dealer. o, nothing but two small lots of prime whiskey, such as we have been selling these twenty years. but why these chiding inquiries? they disquiet me exceedingly. and to tell you the plain truth, i am more than half offended at this morbid inquisitiveness. conscience. ah, i am afraid, as i have often told you, that this is a bad business; and the more i think of it, the more it troubles me. dealer. why so? you are always preaching up industry as a christian virtue, and my word for it, were i to neglect my business, and saunter about the hotels and steamboat wharves, as some do, you would fall into convulsions, as if i had committed the unpardonable sin. conscience. such pettish quibbling is utterly unworthy of your good sense and ordinary candor. you know, as well as i do, the great difference between industry in some safe and honest calling, and driving a business which carries poverty and ruin to thousands of families. dealer. _honest_ industry! this is more cruel still. you have known me too long to throw out such insinuations; and besides, it is notorious, that some of the first merchants in our city are engaged, far more extensively, in the same traffic. conscience. be it so. "to their own master they stand or fall." but if fair dealing consists in "doing as we would be done by," how can a man of your established mercantile and christian reputation sustain himself, if he continues to deal in an article which he knows to be more destructive than all the plagues of egypt? dealer. do you intend, then, to make me answerable for all the mischief that is done by ardent spirit, in the whole state and nation? what i sell is a mere drop of the bucket, compared with the consumption of a single county. where is the proof that the little which my respectable customers carry into the country, with their other groceries, ever does any harm? how do you know that it helps to make such a frightful host of drunkards and vagabonds? and if it did, whose fault would it be? i never gave nor sold a glass of whiskey to a tippler in my life. let those who will drink to excess, and make brutes of themselves, answer for it. conscience. yes, certainly _they_ must answer for it; but will that excuse those who furnish the poison? did you never hear of abettors and accessaries, as well as principals in crime? when judas, in all the agony of remorse and despair, threw down the thirty pieces of silver before the chief priests and elders, exclaiming, _i have sinned, in that i have betrayed the innocent blood_--they coolly answered, _what is that to us? see thou to that._ and was it therefore nothing to them? had they no hand in that cruel tragedy? was it nothing to pilate--nothing to herod--nothing to the multitude who were consenting to the crucifixion of the son of god--because they did not drive the nails and thrust the spear? o, when i think of what you are doing to destroy the bodies and souls of men, i cannot rest. it terrifies me at all hours of the night. often and often, when i am just losing myself in sleep, i am startled by the most frightful groans and unearthly imprecations, coming out of these hogsheads. and then, those long processions of rough-made coffins and beggared families, which i dream of, from nightfall till daybreak, they keep me all the while in a cold sweat, and i can no longer endure them. dealer. neither can i. something must be done. you have been out of your head more than half the time for this six months. i have tried all the ordinary remedies upon you without the least effect. indeed, every new remedy seems only to aggravate the disease. o, what would not i give for the discovery of some anodyne which would lay these horrible phantasms. the case would be infinitely less trying, if i could sometimes persuade you, for a night or two, to let me occupy a different apartment from yourself; for when your spasms come on, one might as well try to sleep with embers in his bosom, as where you are. conscience. would it mend the matter at all, if, instead of sometimes dreaming, i were to be always wide awake? dealer. ah, there's the grand difficulty. for i find that when you do wake up, you are more troublesome than ever. _then_ you are always harping upon my being a professor of religion, and bringing up some text of scripture, which might as well be let alone, and which you would not ring in my ears, if you had any regard to my peace, or even your own. more than fifty times, within a month, have you quoted, "_by their fruits ye shall know them._" in fact, so uncharitable have you grown of late, that from the drift of some of your admonitions, a stranger would think me but little, if any, better than a murderer. and all because some vagabond or other may possibly happen to shorten his days by drinking a little of the identical spirit which passes through my hands. conscience. you do me bare justice when you say that i have often reproved you, and more earnestly of late than i formerly did. but my remonstrances have always been between you and me alone. if i have charged you with the guilt of hurrying men to the grave and to hell, by this vile traffic, it has not been upon the house-top. i cannot, it is true, help knowing how it grieves your brethren, gratifies the enemies of religion, and excites the scorn of drunkards themselves, to see your wharf covered with the fiery element; but i speak only in your own ear. to yourself i have wished to prove a faithful monitor, though i have sad misgivings, at times, even with regard to that. you will bear me witness, however, that i have sometimes trembled exceedingly, for fear that i should be compelled, at last, to carry the matter up by indictment to the tribunal of eternal justice. to avoid this dreadful necessity, let me once more reason the case with you in few words. you know perfectly well, that ardent spirit kills its tens of thousands in the united states every year; and there is no more room to doubt that many of these lives are destroyed by the very liquor which you sell, than if you saw them staggering under it into the drunkard's grave. how then can you possibly throw off bloodguiltiness, with the light which you now enjoy? in faithfulness to your soul, and to him whose vicegerent i am, i cannot say less than this, especially if you persist any longer in the horrible traffic? dealer. pardon me, my dear conscience, if, under the excitement of the moment, i complained of your honest and continued importunity. be assured, there is no friend in the world, with whom i am so desirous of maintaining a good understanding as with yourself. and for your relief and satisfaction, i now give you my solemn pledge, that i will close up this branch of my business as soon as possible. indeed, i have commenced the process already. my last consignments are less, by more than one half, than were those of the preceding year; and i intend that, when another year comes about, my books shall speak still more decidedly in my favor. conscience. these resolutions would be perfectly satisfactory, if they were in the _present tense_. but if it was wrong to sell five hundred casks last year, how can it be right to sell two hundred this year, and one hundred next? if it is criminal to poison forty men at one time, how can it be innocent to poison twenty at another? if you may not throw a hundred firebrands into the city, how will you prove that you may throw one? dealer. very true, very true--but let us wave this point for the present. it affects me very strangely. conscience. how long, then, will it take to dry up this fountain of death? dealer. don't call it so, i beseech you; but i intend to be entirely out of the business in two or three years, at farthest. conscience. two or three years! can you, then, after all that has passed between us, persist two or three years longer in a contraband traffic? i verily thought, that when we had that long conference two or three months ago, you resolved to close the concern at once; and that, when we parted, i had as good as your promise, that you would. surely, you cannot so soon have forgotten it. dealer. no, i remember that interview but too well; for i was never so unhappy in my life. i did almost resolve, and more than half promise, as you say. but after i had time to get a little composed, i thought you had pushed matters rather too far; and that i could convince you of it, at a proper time. i see, however, that the attempt would be fruitless. but as i am anxious for a compromise, let me ask whether, if i give away all the profits of this branch of my business to the bible society, and other religious institutions, till i can close it up, you will not be satisfied? conscience. let me see. five hundred dollars, or one hundred dollars, earned to promote the cause of religion by selling poison! by killing husbands, and fathers, and brothers, and torturing poor women and children! it smells of blood--and can god possibly accept of such an offering? dealer. so then, it seems, i must stop the sale at once, or entirely forfeit what little charity you have left. conscience. you must. delay is death--death to the consumer at least; and how can you flatter yourself that it will not prove your own eternal death? my convictions are decisive, and be assured, i deal thus plainly because i love you, and cannot bear to become your everlasting tormentor. dialogue iii. at the retailer's stand. conscience. do you know that little half-starved, bare-footed child, that you just sent home with two quarts of rank poison? (retailer hums a tune to himself, and affects not to hear the question.) conscience. i see by the paper of this morning, that the furniture of mr. m---- is to be sold under the hammer to-morrow. have i not often seen him in your taproom? retailer. i am extremely busy just now, in bringing up our ledger. conscience. have you heard how n---- abused his family, and turned them all into the street the other night, after being supplied by you with whiskey? retailer. he is a _brute_, and ought to be confined in a dungeon six months at least, upon bread and water. conscience. was not s----, who hung himself lately, one of your steady customers? and where do you think his soul is now fixed for eternity? you sold him rum that evening, not ten minutes before you went to the prayer-meeting, and had his money in your pocket--for you would not trust him--when you led in the exercises. i heard you ask him once, why he did not attend meeting, and send his children to the sabbath-school; and i shall never forget his answer. "come, you talk like a minister; but, after all, we are about of one mind--at least in some things. let me have my jug and be going." retailer. i know he was an impudent, hardened wretch; and though his death was extremely shocking, i am glad to be rid of him. conscience. are you ready to meet him at the bar of god, and to say to the judge, "he was my neighbor--i saw him going down the broad way, and i did every thing that a christian could do to save him?" retailer. (aside. o that i could stifle the upbraidings of this cruel monitor.) you keep me in constant torment. this everlasting cant about _rank poison, and liquid fire, and blood, and murder_, is too much for even a christian to put up with. why, if any body but conscience were to make such insinuations and charges, he would be indictable as a foul slanderer, before a court of justice. conscience. is it _slander_, or is it _because i tell you the truth_, that your temper is so deeply ruffled under my remonstrances? suppose i were to hold my peace, while your hands are becoming more and more deeply crimsoned with this bloody traffic. what would you say to me, when you come to meet that poor boy who just went out, and his drunken father, and broken-hearted mother, at the bar of god? would you thank your conscience for having let you alone while there was space left for repentance? retailer. ah, had honest trader ever _such_ a conscience to deal with before? always just so uncompromising--always talking about the "golden rule"--always insisting upon a moral standard which nobody can live up to--always scenting poverty, murder, and suicide, in every glass of whiskey, though it were a mile off. the truth is, you are not fit to live in this world at all. acting in conformity with your more than puritanical rules, would starve any man and his family to death. conscience. well, here comes another customer--see the carbuncles! will you fill his bottle with wrath, to be poured out without mixture, by and by, upon your own head? do you not know that his pious wife is extremely ill, and suffering for want of every comfort, in their miserable cabin? retailer. no, mr. e----, go home and take care of your family. i am determined to harbor no more drunkards here. conscience. you mean to make a distinction then, do you, between harboring those who are already ruined, and helping to destroy such as are now respectable members of society. you will not hereafter tolerate a single _drunkard_ on your premises; but-- retailer. ah, i see what you are aiming at; and really, it is too much for any honest man, and still more for any christian to bear. you know it is a long time since i have pretended to answer half your captious questions. there's no use in it. it only leads on to others still more impertinent and puzzling. if i am the hundredth part of that factor of satan which you would make me, i ought to be dealt with, and cast out of the church at once; and why don't my good brethren see to it? conscience. that's a hard question, which they, perhaps, better know how to answer than i do. retailer. but have you forgotten, my good conscience, that in retailing spirit, i am under the immediate eye and sanction of the laws. mine is no contraband traffic, as you very well know. i hold a license from the rulers and fathers of the state, and have paid my money for it into the public treasury. why do they continue to grant and sell licenses, if it is wrong for me to sell rum? conscience. another hard question, which i leave them to answer as best they can. it is said, however, that public bodies have no soul, and if they have no soul, it is difficult to see how they can have any conscience; and if not, what should hinder them from selling licenses? but suppose the civil authorities should offer to sell you a license to keep a gambling-house, or a brothel, would you purchase such a license, and present it as a salvo to your conscience? retailer. i tell you once more, there is no use in trying to answer your questions; for say what i will, you have the art of turning every thing against me. it was not always so, as you must very distinctly remember. formerly i could retail hogshead after hogshead of all kinds of spirits, and you slept as quietly as a child. but since you began to read these reports and tracts about drinking, and to attend temperance meetings, i have scarcely had an hour's peace of my life. i feared that something like this would be the effect upon your nervous temperament, when you began; and you may recollect that i strongly objected to your troubling yourself with these new speculations. it now grieves me to think that i ever yielded to your importunity; and beware that you do not push me to extremities in this matter, for i have about come to the resolution that i will have no more of these mischievous pamphlets, either about my store or tavern; and that your temperance agents may declaim to the winds and walls, if they please. conscience. i am amazed at your blindness and obstinacy. it is now from three to five years since i began to speak--though in a kind of indistinct undertone at first--against this bloody traffic. i have reasoned, i have remonstrated, and latterly i have threatened and implored with increasing earnestness. at times you have listened, and been convinced that the course which you are pursuing, in this day of light, is infamous, and utterly inconsistent with a christian profession; but before your convictions and resolutions have time to ripen into action, the love of _money_ regains its ascendency: and thus have you gone on _resolving, and relapsing, and re-resolving_--one hour at the preparatory lecture, and the next unloading whiskey at your door; one moment mourning over the prevalence of intemperance, and the next arranging your decanters to entice the simple; one day partaking of the cup of the lord at his table, and the next offering the cup of devils to your neighbors; one day singing, "all that i have, and all i am, i consecrate to thee," and the next, _for the sake of a little gain_, sacrificing your character, and polluting all you can induce to drink! o, how can i hold my peace? how can i let you alone? if you will persist, your blood, and the blood of those whom you thus entice and destroy, be upon your own head. whether you will hear, or whether you will forbear, i shall not cease to remonstrate; and when i can do no more to reclaim you, i will sit down at your gate, in the bitterness of despair, and cry, _murder!_ murder!! murder!!! retailer. (pale and trembling.) "go thy way for this time; when i have a convenient season, i will call for thee." barnes on the traffic in ardent spirits. there are some great principles in regard to _our_ country, which are settled, and which are never to be violated, so long as our liberties are safe. among them are these: that every thing may be subjected to candid and most free discussion; that public opinion, enlightened and correct, may be turned against any course of evil conduct; that that public opinion is, under god, the prime source of security to our laws and to our morals; and that men may be induced, by an ample and liberal discussion, and by the voice of conscience and of reason, to abandon any course that is erroneous. we are to presume that we may approach any class of american citizens with the conviction that if they are _convinced_ that they are wrong, and that their course of life leads to sap the foundation of morals and the liberties of their country, they will abandon it. our present proposition is, that the manufacturing and vending of ardent spirits is morally wrong, and ought to be forthwith abandoned. we _mean by the proposition_, that it is an employment which _violates the rules of morals that ought to regulate a man's business and conduct_. the doctrine proceeds on the supposition, that there is somewhere a correct standard of morals--a standard by which a man's whole conduct and course of life is to be tried; and that _this_ business cannot be vindicated by a reference to that standard. or, for example, we mean that it is man's duty to love god, and seek to honor him, and that this business cannot be vindicated by a reference to that standard. that it is man's duty to love his fellow-men, and seek to promote their welfare, and that this business cannot be vindicated by that standard. that it is man's duty to render a valuable compensation to his fellow-men in his transactions with them, and that this business cannot be vindicated by that standard. that every man is bound to pursue such a course of life as shall promote the welfare of the entire community in which he lives, as shall _not_ tend to promote crime, and pauperism, and misery, and to make widows and orphans, and that this business cannot be vindicated by that standard. in one word, that by any rules of life that have been set up to regulate the conduct of men, whether in the bible, in the necessary relations of the social compact, in the reason and conscience of christians, and of other men, this business is incapable of vindication, and is to be regarded as immoral. in this proposition, however, it is important to be understood. we mean to confine it simply to the business where it is sold as an article of _drink_. for to sell it as a medicine, with the same precaution as other poisons are sold, would be no more immoral than it is to sell arsenic. and to sell it for purposes of manufacture, where it is necessary for that purpose, is no more immoral than to sell any other article with that design. between selling it for _these_ purposes, and selling it as an article of drink, there is, as any one can see, the widest possible difference. when we speak of this business as _immoral_, it is also important to guard the use of the word _immoral_. that word, with us, has come to have a definite and well understood signification. when we speak of an immoral man, we are commonly understood to attack the foundations of his character; to designate some gross vice of which he is guilty, and to speak of him as profane, or licentious, or profligate, or dishonest, or as unworthy of our confidence and respect. now, we by no means intend to use the word in such a wide sense, when we say that this business is immoral. we do not mean to intimate that in no circumstances a man may be engaged in it and be worthy of our confidence, and be an honest man, or even a christian: for our belief is, that many such men have been, and are still, unhappily engaged in this traffic. the time has been, when it was thought to be as reputable as any other employment. men may not see the injurious tendency of their conduct. they may not be apprized of its consequences; or they may be ignorant of the proper rules by which human life is to be regulated. thus, the slave-trade was long pursued, and duelling was deemed right, and bigamy was practised. but for a man to maintain that all these would be right _now_, and to practise them, would be a very different thing. in this view of the subject, we do not of course speak of the dead, or offer any reflection on their conduct or character. many men are unwilling to regard this traffic as wrong, because, by so doing, they would seem to convey a reflection on their parents, or friends, who may have been engaged in the same business. but nothing of this kind is intended. the great laws of morals are indeed unchanged: but the degrees of light and knowledge which men possess may be very different. we should not deem it right to apply _our_ laws and knowledge, in judging of the laws of sparta, which authorized theft; nor our laws to judge of the conduct of the hindoo in exposing his father on the banks of the ganges; nor our present views to determine on the morality of our fathers an hundred years ago in the slave-trade; nor our views of the marriage relation to condemn the conduct of abraham, david, or jacob. man's conduct is to be estimated by the light which he has. they who sin without law, are to be judged without law; and they who sin in the law, are to be judged by the law. your father might have been engaged in the traffic in ardent spirits. whether he was innocent or not, is not now the question, and has been determined by a higher tribunal than any on earth. the question now is, whether _you_ can pursue it with a good conscience; or whether, with all that you know of the effects of the traffic, it be right or wrong for you to pursue it. * * * * * with these necessary explanations, i proceed to prove that, in the sense in which it has been explained, the traffic is morally wrong. in proving this proposition, i shall take for granted two or three points which are now conceded, and to establish which would lead me too far out of my way. the first is, that this is not an employment in which _the properties of the article are unknown_. the seller has as good an opportunity to be acquainted with the qualities of the article, and its effects, as the buyer. there is no concealment of its character and tendency; there can be no pretence that you were deceived in regard to those qualities, and that you were unintentionally engaged in the sale of an article which has turned out to be otherwise than you supposed it to be. for, alas, those properties are too well ascertained; and all who are engaged in this employment have ample opportunity to know what they are doing, and engage in it with their eyes open. the _effects_ of this traffic are well known. the public mind has been, with remarkable intensity, directed to this subject for ten years in this land, and the details have been laid before the american public. it is believed that no vice has ever been so faithfully gauged, and the details so well ascertained, as the vice of intemperance in this nation. it is far better understood than the extent of gambling, of piracy, or robbery, or the slave-trade. it is established now, beyond the possibility of debate, that ardent spirits is a poison, as certain, as deadly, and destructive, as any other poison. it may be more slow in its effects, but it is not the less certain. this is established by the testimony of all physicians and chemists who have expressed an opinion on the subject. it is not necessary for the welfare of man as an ordinary drink. this is proved by the like testimony, by the example of many thousands who abstain from it, and by the fact, that before its invention, the roman soldier, the scythian, and the greek, were as hardy and long-lived as men have been since. its direct tendency is to produce disease, poverty, crime, and death. its use tends to corrupt the morals, to enfeeble the intellect, to produce indolence, wretchedness, and woe in the family circle; to shorten life, and to hurry to a loathsome grave; to spread a pall of grief over families and nations. it is ascertained to be the source of nine-tenths of all the pauperism, and nine-tenths of all the crimes in the land. it fills our streets with drunkards, our almshouses with loathsome wretches, our jails with poor criminals, and supplies our gibbets with victims. it costs the land in which we live more than , , of dollars annually, and renders us no compensation but poverty, want, curses, loathsomeness, and tears. in any single year in this union, could the effects be gathered into one single grasp, they would present to the eye the following affecting details. an army of at least , drunkards--not made up of old men, of the feeble, but of those in early life; of our youth, of our men of talents and influence; an enlistment from the bar, the bench, the pulpit, the homes of the rich, and the firesides of piety; the abodes of the intelligent, as well as the places of obscurity, and the humble ranks--all reeling together to a drunkard's grave. with this army napoleon would have overran europe. in the same group would be no less than , criminals, made such by the use of ardent spirits; criminals of every grade and dye, supported at the expense of the sober, and lost to morality, and industry, and hope; the source of lawsuits, and the fountain of no small part of the expenses of courts of justice. in the same group would be no less than , paupers, in a land abounding in all the wealth that the richest soil can give, and under all the facilities which the most favored spot under the whole heaven can furnish for acquiring a decent and an honest subsistence. paupers, supported at the expense of the sober and the industrious, and creating no small part of our taxes, to pay for their indolence, and wretchedness, and crimes. and in the same group would be no less than insane persons, made such by intemperance, in all the horrid and revolting forms of delirium--the conscience destroyed, the mind obliterated, and hope and happiness fled for ever. and in the same group there would be no less than , of our countrymen, who die annually, as the direct effect of the use of ardent spirit. thirty thousand of our countrymen sinking to the most loathsome and dishonored of all graves, the grave of the drunkard. this is just a summary of the obvious and sure effects of this vice. the innumerable woes that it incidentally causes; the weeping and groans of the widow and the fatherless; the crimes and vices which it tends to introduce into abodes that would, but for this, be the abodes of peace, are not, and cannot be taken into the account. now, this state of things, if produced in any other way, would spread weeping and sackcloth over nations and continents. any sweeping pestilence that could do this, would hold a nation in alarm, and diffuse, from one end of it to the other, trembling and horror. the world has never known any thing else like it. the father of mischief has never been able to invent any thing that should diffuse more wide-spread and dreadful evils. it is agreed further, and well understood, that this is the _regular effect of the traffic, and manufacture, and use of this article_. it is not casual, incidental, irregular. it is uniform, certain, deadly, as the sirocco of the desert, or as the malaria of the pontine marshes. it is not a periodical influence, returning at distant intervals; but it is a pestilence, breathing always--diffusing the poison when men sleep and when they wake, by day and by night, in seed-time and harvest--attending the manufacture and sale of the article _always_. the destroyer seeks his victim alike in every hogshead, and in every glass. he exempts no man from danger that uses it; and is always secure of prostrating the most vigorous frame, of clouding the most splendid intellect, of benumbing the most delicate moral feelings, of palsying the most eloquent tongue, of teaching those on whose lips listening senates hung, to mutter and babble with the drunkard, and of entombing the most brilliant talents and hopes of youth, wherever man can be induced to drink. the establishment of every distillery, and every dram-shop, and every grocery where it is sold, secures the certainty that many a man will thereby become a drunkard, and be a curse to himself and to the world. the traffic is not only occasionally and incidentally injurious, but it is like the generation before the flood in its effects, evil, and only evil continually. now the question is, whether this is an employment in which a moral man and a christian man _ought_ to be engaged. is it such a business as his countrymen ought to approve? is it such as his conscience and sober judgment approve? is it such as his god and judge will approve? * * * * * in examining this, let it be remembered, that the _reason_ why this occupation is engaged in, and the sole reason, is, _to make money_. it is not because it is supposed that it will benefit mankind; nor is it because the man supposes that duty to his creator requires it; nor is it because it is presumed that it will promote public health, or morals, or happiness; but it is engaged in and pursued solely as a means of livelihood or of wealth. and the question then is reduced to a very narrow compass: is it _right_ for a man, for the sake of gain, to be engaged in the sale of a poison--a poison attended with destruction to the property, health, happiness, peace, and salvation of his neighbors; producing mania, and poverty, and curses, and death, and woes innumerable to the land, and to the church of god? a question this, one would think, that might be very soon answered. in answering it, i invite attention to a few very obvious, but undeniable positions. . it is an employment which tends to _counteract the very design of the organization of society_. society is organized on a benevolent principle. the structure of that organization is one of the best adapted instances of design, and of benevolence, anywhere to be found. it is on this principle that a lawful employment--an employment fitted to produce subsistence for a man and his family, will not interfere with the rights and happiness of others. it may be pursued without violating any of their rights, or infringing on their happiness in any way. nay, it may not only not interfere wits _their_ rights and happiness, but it will tend to promote directly their welfare, by promoting the happiness of the whole. or, for example, the employment of the farmer may be pursued, not only without interfering with the rights or privileges of the mechanic, the physician, or the merchant, but it will directly contribute to _their_ welfare, and is indispensable to it. the employment of the physician not only contributes to the support of himself and family, but to the welfare of the whole community. it not only does _not_ interfere with the rights and happiness of the farmer and the mechanic, but it tends directly to their advantage. the employment of the merchant in lawful traffic, not only contributes to his support, but is directly beneficial to the whole agricultural part of the community; for, as has been well said, "the merchant is the friend of mankind." he injures no man, at the same time that he benefits himself; and he contributes to the welfare of the community, by promoting a healthful and desirable exchange of commodities in different parts of the land, and of various natures. the same is true of the mechanic, the mariner, the legislator, the bookmaker, the day-laborer, the schoolmaster, the lawyer, the clergyman. now, we maintain that the traffic in ardent spirits, as a drink, is a violation of this wise arrangement. it tends to sap the foundation of the whole economy. it is solely to benefit the trafficker, and it tends to evil, evil only, evil continually. if every man should act on this principle, society could not exist. if every man should choose an employment that should _necessarily_ and _always_ interfere with the peace, and happiness, and morals of others, it would at once break up the organization. if every manufacturer should erect a manufactory, as numerous as our distilleries and dram-shops, that should necessarily blight every farm, and produce _sterility_ in its neighborhood, every farmer would regard it as an unlawful employment; and if pursued, the business of agriculture would end. if a physician could live only by diffusing disease and death, who would regard his as a moral employment? if a mariner could pursue his business from this port to calcutta or canton, only by importing the plague in every return voyage, who would deem it an honorable employment? if an apothecary could pursue his business only by killing nine persons out of ten of those with whom he had dealing, who would deem it a lawful business? if a man can get a living in his employment only by fitting out a privateer and preying upon the peaceful commerce of the world, who will deem it a lawful employment? if a man lives only to make a descent on the peaceful abodes of africa, and to tear away parents from their weeping children, and husbands from their wives and homes, where is the man that will deem this a _moral_ business? and why not? does he not act on the same principle as the man who deals in ardent spirits--a desire to make money, and that only? the truth is, that in all these cases there would be a violation of the great fundamental law on which men must agree to live together in society--a violation of that great, noble, and benevolent law of our organization, by which an honest employment interferes with no other, but may tend to diffuse blessings in the whole circle of human engagements. and the traffic in ardent spirits is just as much a violation of this law, as in any of the cases specified. . every man is bound to pursue such a business as to _render a valuable consideration_ for that which he receives from others. a man who receives in trade the avails of the industry of others, is under obligation to restore that which will be of real value. he receives the fruit of toil; he receives that which is of value to himself; and common equity requires that he return a valuable consideration. thus, the merchant renders to the farmer, in exchange for the growth of his farm, the productions of other climes; the manufacturer, that which is needful for the clothing or comfort of the agriculturist; the physician, the result of his professional skill. all these are valuable considerations, which are fair and honorable subjects of exchange. they are a mutual accommodation; they advance the interest of both parties. but it is not so with the dealer in ardent spirits. he obtains the property of his fellow-men, and what does he return? that which will tend to promote his real welfare? that which will make him a happier man? that which will benefit his family? that which diffuses learning and domestic comfort around his family circle? none of these things. he gives him that which will produce poverty, and want, and cursing, and tears, and death. he asked an egg, and he receives a scorpion. he gives him that which is established and well known as a source of no good, but as tending to produce beggary and wretchedness. now, if this were practised in any other business, it would be open fraud. if in any way you could palm upon a farmer that which is not only _worthless_, but mischievous--that which would certainly tend to ruin him and his family, _could there be_ any doubt about the nature of this employment? it makes no difference here, that the man _supposes_ that it is for his good; or that he applies for it. _you know_ that it is _not_ for his benefit, and you know--what is the only material point under this head--that it will tend to his ruin. whatever _he_ may think about it, or whatever _he_ may desire, you are well advised that it is an article that will tend to sap the foundation of his morals and happiness, and conduce to the ruin of his estate, and his body, and his soul; and you know, therefore, that you are _not_ rendering him any really valuable consideration for his property. the dealer may look on his gains in this matter--on his houses, or mortgages, or lands, obtained as the result of this business--with something like these reflections. "this property has been gained from other men. it was theirs, honestly acquired, and was necessary to promote their own happiness and the happiness of their families. it has become mine by a traffic which has not only taken it away from them, but which has ruined their peace, corrupted their morals, sent woe and discord into their families, and consigned them perhaps to an early and most loathsome grave. this property has come from the hard earnings of other men; has passed into my hands without any valuable compensation rendered; but has been obtained only while i have been diffusing want, and woe, and death, through their abodes." let the men engaged in this traffic look on their property thus gained; let them survey the woe which has attended it; and then ask, as honest men, whether it is a moral employment. . a man is bound to pursue such a business as shall tend to _promote the welfare of the whole community_. this traffic does not. we have seen that an honorable and lawful employment conduces to the welfare of the whole social organization. but the welfare of the whole cannot be promoted by this traffic. _somewhere_ it must produce poverty, and idleness, and crime. even granting, what cannot be established, that it may promote the happiness of a particular portion of the community, yet it must be at the expense of some other portion. you may export poison to georgia, and the immediate effect may be to introduce money into philadelphia, but the only important inquiry is, what will be the effect on the _whole body politic_? will it do more good than evil on the whole? will the money which you may receive here, be a compensation for all the evil which will be done there? money a compensation for intemperance, and idleness, and crime, and the loss of the health, the happiness, and the souls of men? now we may easily determine this matter. the article thus exported will do as much evil _there_ as it would if consumed _here_. it will spread just as much devastation somewhere, as it would if consumed in your own family, and among your own friends and neighbors. we have only to ask, what would be the effect if it were consumed in your own habitation, in your neighborhood, in your own city? let all this poison, which is thus exported to spread woes and death somewhere, be concentrated and consumed where you might see it, and is there any man who will pretend that the paltry sum which he receives is a compensation for what he knows would be the effect of the consumption? you keep your own atmosphere pure, it may be, but you export the pestilence, and curses, and lamentation elsewhere, and receive a compensation for it. you sell disease, and death, and poverty, and nakedness, and tears to other families, to clothe and feed your own. and as the result of this current of moral poison and pollution which you may cause to flow into hundreds of other families, you may point to a splendid palace, or to gay apparel of your sons and daughters, and proclaim that the evil is hidden from your eyes. families, and neighborhoods, and states, may groan and bleed somewhere, and thousands may die, but _your_ gain is to be a compensation for it all. is this an honorable traffic? suppose a man were to advertise consumptions, and fevers, and pleurisies, and leprosy, for gold, and could and would sell them; what would the community say to such a traffic? suppose, for gain, he could transport them to distant places, and now strike down by a secret power a family in maine, and now at st. mary's, and now at texas, and now at st. louis; what would the community think of wealth gained in such a traffic? suppose he could, with the same ease, diffuse profaneness, and insanity, and robberies, and murders, and suicides, and should advertise all these to be propagated through the land, and could prevail on men to buy the talismanic nostrum for gold--what would the community think of such a traffic as this? true, he might plead that it brought a vast influx of money--that it enriched the city, or the country--that the effects were not seen there; but what would be the public estimate of a man who would be willing to engage in such a traffic, and who would set up such a plea? or suppose it were understood that a farmer from the interior had arrived in philadelphia with a load of flour, nine-tenths of whose barrels contained a mixture, more or less, of arsenic, and should offer them for sale; what would be the feelings of this community at such a traffic? true, the man might plead that it would produce gain to his country; that they had taken care to remove it to another population; that his own family was secure. can any words express the indignation which would be felt? can any thing express the horror which all men would feel at such a transaction as this, and at the cold-blooded and inhuman guilt of the money-loving farmer? and yet we witness a thing like this every day, on our wharves, and in our ships, and our groceries, and our inns, and from our men of wealth, and our moral men, and our _professed christians_--and a horror comes through the souls of men, when we dare to intimate that this is an immoral business. . a man is bound to pursue such a course of life as _not necessarily to increase the burdens and the taxes_ of the community. the pauperism and crimes of this land grow out of this vice, as an overflowing fountain. three-fourths of the taxes for prisons, and houses of refuge, and almshouses, would be cut off, but for this traffic and the attendant vices. nine-tenths of the crimes of the country, and of the expenses of litigation for crime, would be prevented by arresting it. of who were in one year committed to the house of correction in boston, were drunkards. of , persons admitted to the workhouse in salem, mass., , were brought there directly or indirectly by intemperance. of male adults in the almshouse in new york, not , says the superintendent, can be called sober; and of women, not as many as . only three instances of murder in the space of fifteen years, in new york, occurred, that could not be traced to ardent spirit as the cause. in philadelphia, ten. this is the legitimate, regular effect of the business. it tends to poverty, crime, and woe, and greatly to increase the taxes and burdens of the community. what is done then in this traffic? you are filling our almshouses, and jails, and penitentiaries, with victims loathsome and burdensome to the community. you are engaged in a business which is compelling your fellow-citizens to pay taxes to support the victims of your employment. you are filling up these abodes of wretchedness and guilt, and then asking your fellow-citizens to pay enormous taxes indirectly to support this traffic. for, if every place where ardent spirits can be obtained, were closed in this city and its suburbs, how long might your splendid palaces for the poor be almost untenanted piles; how soon would your jails disgorge their inmates, and be no more filled; how soon would the habitations of guilt and infamy in every city become the abodes of contentment and peace; and how soon would reeling loathsomeness and want cease to assail your doors with importunate pleadings for charity. now we have only to ask our fellow-citizens, what right they have to pursue an employment tending thus to burden the community with taxes, and to endanger the dwellings of their fellow-men, and to send to my door, and to every other man's door, hordes of beggars loathsome to the sight; or to compel the virtuous to seek out their wives and children, amidst the squalidness of poverty, and the cold of winter, and the pinchings of hunger, to supply their wants? could impartial justice be done in the world, an end would soon be put to the traffic in ardent spirits. were every man bound to alleviate all the wretchedness which his business creates, to support all the poor which his traffic causes, an end would soon be made of this employment. but alas, you can diffuse this poison for gain, and then call on your industrious and virtuous countrymen to alleviate the wretchedness, to tax themselves to build granite prisons for the inmates which your business has made; and splendid palaces, at an enormous expense, to extend a shelter and a home for those whom your employment has turned from their own habitations. is this a moral employment? would it be well to obtain a living in this way in any other business? . the business is _inconsistent with the law of god_, which requires us to love our neighbor as ourselves. a sufficient proof of this would be a fact which no one could deny, that no man yet, probably, ever undertook the business, or pursued it from that motive. its defence is not, and cannot be put on that ground. no man in the community believes that a continuance in it is required by a regard to the welfare of his neighbor. every one knows that his welfare does not require it; and that it would be conferring an inestimable blessing on other men, if the traffic was abandoned. the single, sole object is gain; and the sole question is, whether the love of gain is a sufficient motive for continuing that which works no good, but constant ill to your neighbor. there is another law of god which has an important bearing on this subject. it is that golden rule of the new testament, which commends itself to the conscience of all men, to do to others as you would wish them to do to you. you may easily conceive of your having a son, who was in danger of becoming a drunkard. your hope might centre in him. he might be the stay of your age. he may be inclined to dissipation; and it may have required all your vigilance, and prayers, and tears, and authority, to keep him in the ways of soberness. the simple question now is, what would you wish a neighbor to do in such a case? would it be the desire of your heart, that he should open a fountain of poison at your next door; that he should, for gain, be willing to put a cup into the hands of your son, and entice him to the ways of intemperance? would you be pleased if he would listen to no remonstrance of yours, if he should even disregard your entreaties and your tears, and coolly see, for the love of gold, ruin coming into your family, and your prop taken from beneath you, and your gray hairs coming down with sorrow to the grave? and yet to many such a son may you sell the poison; to many a father whose children are clothed in rags; to many a man whose wife sits weeping amidst poverty and want, and dreading to hear the tread and the voice of the husband of her youth, once her protector, who now comes to convert his own habitation into a hell. and there are not a few men of fair standing in society who are engaged in this; and not a few--o tell it not in gath--who claim the honored name of christian, and who profess to bear the image of him who went about doing good. can such be a _moral_ business? . the traffic is _a violation of that law which requires a man to honor god_. whether ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of god. and yet is this a business which was ever engaged in, or ever pursued, with a desire to honor god? is it an employment over which a man will pray? can he ask the god of heaven to give him success? let him, then, in imagination, follow what he sells to its direct result; let him attend it to its final distribution of poverty, and woes, and crimes, and death, and then kneel before heaven's eternal king, and render thanksgiving for this success? alas, it cannot be. man pursues it not from a desire to honor god. and can the man who is engaged in a business on which he cannot implore the blessing of heaven; who is obliged to conceal all thoughts of it if he ever prays; who never engaged in it with a desire to glorify god, or to meet his approbation, can _he_ be engaged in a business which is lawful and right? i might dwell further on these points. but i am now prepared to ask, with emphasis, whether an employment that has been attended with so many ills to the bodies and souls of men; with so much woe and crime; whose results are evil, and only evil continually; an employment which cannot be pursued without tending to destroy the very purposes of the organization of society; without violating the rule which requires us to render a valuable consideration in business; without violating the rule which requires a man to promote the welfare of the whole of the community; which promotes pauperism and crime, and imposes heavy burdens on your fellow-citizens; which is opposed equally to the love of man and the law of god--_whether this is a moral, or an immoral employment?_ the question is submitted. if moral, it should be driven on with all the power of american energy; with all the aids of wealth, and all the might of steam, and all the facilities of railroads and canals; for our country and the church calls the man to the honorable employment. but if it be immoral and wrong, it should be abandoned on the spot. not another gallon should ever pass from your store, if it be evil, only evil, and that continually. * * * * * we are prepared now to examine a few of the objections to this doctrine. . the first is, that the traffic is not condemned in the bible. to this the answer is very obvious. the article was then unknown. nor was it known until years after the bible was completed. this mode of extending and perpetuating depravity in the world was not suggested by the father of evil, until it was too late to make a formal law against it in the bible, or to fortify the argument of human depravity from this source. it is neither in the bible, nor in any other code of laws, the custom to specify crimes which do not exist. how remarkable in a code of laws would have been such a declaration as the trafficker demands, "thou shalt not deal in ardent spirits," hundreds of years before the article was known. the world would have stood in amazement, and would have been perplexed and confounded by an unmeaning statute. but further, it is not the practice in the bible, or in any other book of laws, to specify each shade and degree of wrong. had it been, there could have been no end of legislation, and no end to books of law. i ask the dealer in ardent spirits, where is there a formal prohibition of piracy, or bigamy, or kidnapping, or suicide, or duelling, or the sale of obscene books and paintings? and yet does any man doubt that these are immoral? does he believe that the bible will countenance them? will he engage in them, because they are not specified formally, and with technical precision, in the scriptures? the truth is, that the bible has laid down great principles of conduct, which on all these subjects can be easily applied, which _are_ applied, and which, under the guidance of equal honesty, may be as easily applied to the traffic of which i am speaking. still further, the bible _has_ forbidden it in principle, and with all the precision which can be demanded. a man cannot pursue the business, as has been shown, without violating its great principles. he cannot do justly in it; he cannot show mercy by it; he cannot seek to alleviate human woes by it; he cannot do as he would wish to be done unto; he cannot pursue it to glorify god. the great principles of the bible, the spirit of the bible, and a thousand texts of the bible are pointed against it; and every step the trafficker takes, he infringes on the spirit and bearing of some declaration of god. and still further, it is _his_ business to make out the propriety of the employment, not ours to make out the case against him. here is the rule--for him to judge. by this he is to be tried; and unless he can find in the volume a rule that will justify him in a business for gain that scatters inevitable woes and death; that accomplishes more destruction than all the chariots of war and the desolations of gunpowder on the field of blood; that sends more human beings to the grave, than fire, and flood, and pestilence, and famine, altogether; that heaps on human society more burdens than all other causes combined; that sends armies on armies, in a form more appalling, and infinitely more loathsome than napoleon's "food for cannon," to the grave: unless he can find some prophecy, or some principle, or some declaration, that will justify these, the bible is against him, and he knows it. as well might he search for a principle to authorize him to plant a bohon upas on every man's farm, and in the heart of every city and hamlet. . a second plea is, "if i do not do it, others will; the traffic will go on." then, i answer, _let_ others do it, and on them, not on you, be the responsibility. but it is said, perhaps, if it is not in your hands--the hands of the respectable and the pious--it will be in the hands of the unprincipled and the profligate. i answer, there let it be. there, if anywhere, it should be. there, if these principles are correct, is its appropriate place. and if that were done, intemperance would soon cease to curse the land. _it is just because it is upheld by the rich, and the reputable, and by professed christians, that the reform drags so heavily._ the business has never found its proper level. and o that the dealers in it would kindly forego this plea of benevolence, and feel themselves released from this obligation. but is this a correct principle of conduct? is this the rule which heaven has given, or which conscience gives, to direct the doings of man? have i a right to do all which i know other men will do? other men will commit murder. have i a right to do it? other men will commit adultery. have i a right to do it? other men will curse, and swear, and steal. have you a right to do it? other men will prey on unoffending africa, and bear human sinews across the ocean to be sold. have you a right to do it? the traffic in human flesh will go on; ships will be fitted out from american ports; and american hands will bear a part of the price of the tears and groans of enslaved men. and why should not you participate with them, on the same principle? . a third excuse is, that the traffic is the source of gain to the country. now this is known to be not so. more than , , of dollars would be necessary to repair to this land the annual loss in this business. is it no loss that , men are drunkards, and are the slaves of indolence and want? is it no loss to the nation that , each year go to the grave? is there no loss in the expense of supporting , criminals, and nine-tenths of the paupers in the land? is it no loss that bad debts are made, and men are made unable and unwilling to pay their debts? whence are _your_ bad debts? whence, but directly or indirectly from this business? from the indolence, and want of principle, and want of attention, which intemperance produces? . the man who is engaged in this business says, perhaps, "i have inherited it, and it is the source of my gain; and what shall i do?" i answer, beg, dig--do any thing _but_ this. it would be a glorious martyrdom _to starve_, contrasted with obtaining a livelihood by such an employment. in this land, assuredly, men cannot plead that there are no honorable sources of livelihood open before them. besides, from whom do we hear this plea? as often as otherwise from the man that rolls in wealth; that lives in a palace; that clothes his family in the attire of princes and of courts; and that moves in the circles of fashion and splendor. o how cheering is _consistent_ pleading; how lovely the expressions of perfect honesty! this business may be abandoned without difficulty. the only question is, whether the love of man, and the dictates of conscience, and the fear of god, shall prevail over the love of that polluted gold which this traffic in the lives and souls of men shall introduce into your dwelling. during a warmly contested election in the city of new york, it is stated in the daily papers that numerous applications were made for _pistols_ to those who kept them for sale. it is added that the application was extensively denied, on the ground of the apprehension that they were intended for bloodshed in the excitement of the contest. this was a noble instance of principle. but on the plea of the dealer in ardent spirits, why should they have been withheld? the dealer in fire-arms might have plead as the trafficker in poison does: "this is my business. i obtain a livelihood by it. _i am not responsible for what will be done with the fire-arms._ true, the people are agitated. i have every reason to believe that application is made with a purpose to take life. true, blood may flow and useful lives may be lost. but _i_ am not responsible. if they take life, they are answerable. the excitement is a favorable opportunity to dispose of my stock on hand, and it is a part of my business to avail myself of all favorable circumstances in the community to make money." who would not have been struck with the cold-blooded and inhuman avarice of such a man? and yet there was not _half_ the moral certainty that those fire-arms would have been used for purposes of blood, that there is that ardent spirits will be employed to produce crime, and poverty, and death. i have no time to notice other objections. nor need i. i have stated the _principle_ of all. i just add here, that the excuses which are set up for this traffic will apply just as well to any other business as this, and will fully vindicate any other employment, if they are to be sustained. apply these excuses to the case of a bookseller. the question might be suggested, whether it was a moral or an immoral business to deal in infidel, profligate, and obscene pictures and books. true, it might be alleged that they did evil, and only evil continually. it might be said that neither the love of god or man would prompt to it. he might be pointed to the fact, that they _always_ tended to corrupt the morals of youth; to blight the hopes of parents; to fill up houses of infamy; to blot out the hopes of heaven; and to sink men to hell. but then he might with commendable coolness add, "this traffic is not condemned in the bible. if _i_ do not engage in it, others will. it contributes to my livelihood; to the support of the press; to the promotion of business; and i am not responsible for _their_ reading the books, nor for their desire for them. i am pursuing the way in which my fathers walked before me, and it is _my living, and i will do it_." wherein does this plea differ from that of the trafficker in ardent spirits? alas, we have learned how to estimate its force in regard to other sins; but we shrink from its application in regard to this wide-spread business, that employs so much of the time and the wealth of the people of this land. here i close. the path of duty and of safety is plain. these evils may be corrected. a virtuous and an independent people may rise in their majesty and correct them all. i call on all whom i now address, to exert their influence in this cause; to abandon all connection with the traffic; and to become the firm, and warm, and thorough-going advocates of the temperance reformation. your country calls you to it. every man who loves her welfare, should pursue no half-way measures; should tread no vacillating course in this great and glorious reformation. but more especially may i call on _young men_, and ask _their_ patronage in this cause. for they are in danger; and they are the source of our hopes, and they are our strength. i appeal to them by their hopes of happiness; by their prospects of long life; by their desire of property and health; by their wish for reputation; and by the fact that by abstinence, strict abstinence alone, are they safe from the crimes, and loathsomeness, and grave of the drunkard. young men, i beseech you to regard the liberties of your country; the purity of the churches; your own usefulness; and the honor of your family--the feelings of a father, a mother, and a sister. and i conjure you to take this stand by a reference to your own immortal welfare; by a regard to that heaven which a drunkard enters not--and by a fear of that hell which is his own appropriate, eternal home. again i appeal to my fellow professing christians; the ministers of religion, the officers and members of the pure church of god. the pulpit should speak, in tones deep, and solemn, and constant, and reverberating through the land. the watchmen should see eye to eye. of every officer and member of a church it should be known where he may be found. we want no vacillating counsels; no time-serving apologies; no coldness, no reluctance, no shrinking back in this cause. every church of christ, the world over, should be, in very deed, an organization of pure temperance under the headship and patronage of jesus christ, the friend and the model of purity. members of the church of god most pure, bear it in mind, that intemperance in our land, and the world over, stands in the way of the gospel. it opposes the progress of the reign of christ in every village and hamlet; in every city; and at every corner of the street. it stands in the way of revivals of religion, and of the glories of the millennial morn. every drunkard opposes the millennium; every dram-drinker stands in the way of it; every dram-seller stands in the way of it. let the sentiment be heard, and echoed, and reëchoed, all along the hills, and vales, and streams of the land, _that the conversion of a man who habitually uses ardent spirits is all but hopeless_. and let this sentiment be followed up with that other melancholy truth, that the money wasted in this business--now a curse to all nations--nay, the money wasted in one year in this land for it, would place a bible in every family on the earth, and establish a school in every village; and that the talent which intemperance consigns each year to infamy and eternal perdition, would be sufficient to bear the gospel over sea and land--to polar snows, and to the sands of a burning sun. the pulpit must speak out. and the press must speak. and you, fellow-christians, are summoned by the god of purity to take your stand, and cause your influence to be felt. the fools' pence. [illustration: gin-shop] have you ever seen a london gin-shop? there is perhaps no statelier shop in the magnificent chief city of england. no expense seems to be spared in the building and the furnishing of a gin-shop. not many years ago a gin-shop was a mean-looking, and by no means a spacious place, with a few small bottles, not bigger than a doctor's largest vials, in the dusty window. but now, however poor many of the working classes may be, it seems to be their pleasure to squander their little remaining money upon a number of these palaces, as if they were determined that the persons whom they employ to sell them poison should dwell in the midst of luxury and splendor. i do not mean to say, that we have a right to throw all the blame upon the master or the mistress of a gin-shop. for my part, i should not like to keep one, and be obliged to get rich upon the money of the poor infatuated creatures who will ruin both soul and body in gin-drinking; but the master of the gin-shop may be heard to say, "i don't force the people to drink; they will have gin, and if i do not sell to them somebody else will." the story of "the fools' pence," which follows, is worth attending to. a little mean-looking man sat talking to mrs. crowder, the mistress of the punch-bowl: "why, mrs. crowder," said he, "i should hardly know you again. really, i must say you have things in the first style. what an elegant paper; what noble chairs; what a pair of fire-screens; all so bright and so fresh; and yourself so well, and looking so well!" mrs. crowder had dropped languidly into an arm-chair, and sat sighing and smiling with affectation, not turning a deaf ear to her visitor, but taking in with her eyes a full view of what passed in the shop; having drawn aside the curtain of rose-colored silk, which sometimes covered the window in the wall between the shop and the parlor. "why, you see, mr. berriman," she replied, "our business is a thriving one, and we don't love to neglect it, for one must work hard for an honest livelihood; and then you see, my two girls, letitia and lucy, were about to leave their boarding-school; so mr. crowder and i wished to make the old place as genteel and fashionable as we could; and what with new stone copings to the windows, and new french window-frames to the first floor, and a little paint, and a little papering, mr. berriman, we begin to look tolerable. i must say too, mr. crowder has laid out a deal of money in fitting up the shop, and in filling his cellars." "well, ma'am," continued mr. berriman, "i don't know where you find the needful for all these improvements. for my part, i can only say, our trade seems quite at a stand-still. there's my wife always begging for money to pay for this or that little necessary article, but i part from every penny with a pang. dear mrs. crowder, how do you manage?" mrs. crowder simpered, and raising her eyes, and looking with a glance of smiling contempt towards the crowd of customers in the shop, "the fools' pence--'tis the fools' pence that does it for us," she said. perhaps it was owing to the door being just then opened and left ajar by miss lucy, who had been serving in the bar, that the words of mrs. crowder were heard by a man named george manly, who stood at the upper end of the counter. he turned his eyes upon the customers who were standing near him, and saw pale, sunken cheeks, inflamed eyes, and ragged garments. he turned them upon the stately apartment in which they were assembled; he saw that it had been fitted up at no trifling cost; he stared through the partly open doorway into the parlor, and saw looking-glasses, and pictures, and gilding, and fine furniture, and a rich carpet, and miss lucy, in a silk gown, sitting down to her piano-forte: and he thought within himself, how strange it is, by what a curious process it is, that all this wretchedness on my left hand is made to turn into all this rich finery on my right! "well, sir, and what's for you?" these words were spoken in the same shrill voice which had made the "fools' pence" ring in his ears. george manly was still in deep thought, and with the end of his rule--for he was a carpenter--he had been making a calculation, drawing the figures in the little puddles of gin upon the counter. he looked up and saw mrs. crowder herself as gay as her daughters, with a cap and colored ribbons flying off her head, and a pair of gold earrings almost touching her plump shoulders. "a glass of gin, ma'am, is what i was waiting for to-night, but i think i've paid the last '_fools' pence_' i shall put down on this counter for many a long day." * * * * * george manly hastened home. his wife and his two little girls were sitting at work. they were thin and pale, really for want of food. the room looked very cheerless, and their fire was so small that its warmth was scarcely felt; yet the commonest observer must have been struck by the neatness and cleanliness of the apartment and every thing about it. "this is indeed a treat, girls, to have dear father home so soon to-night," said susan manly, looking up at her husband as he stood before the table, turning his eyes first upon one and then upon another of the little party; then throwing himself into a chair, and smiling, he said, "well, children, a'n't you glad to see me? may not those busy little fingers stop a moment, just while you jump up and throw your arms about your father's neck, and kiss him?" "o yes, we have time for that," said one of the girls, as they both sprang up to kiss their father. "but we have no time to lose, dear father," said sally, pressing her cheek to his, and speaking in a kind of coaxing whisper close to his ear, "for these shirts are the last of the dozen we have been making for mr. farley, in the corn-market." "and as no work can be done to-morrow," added betsy gravely, who stood with her little hand in her father's, "we are all working as hard as we can; for mother has promised to take them home on monday afternoon." "either your eyes are very weak to-night, dear wife," said george, "or you have been crying. i'm afraid you work too hard by candlelight." susan smiled, and said, "_working_ does not hurt my eyes," and as she spoke, she turned her head and beckoned with her finger to her little boy. "why, john, what's this that i see?" said his father. "what, you in the corner! come out, and tell me what you have been doing." "nay, never mind it, dear husband; john will be very good, i hope, and we had better say no more about what is past." "yes, but i must know," said he, drawing john close to him. "come, tell me what has been the matter." john was a plain-spoken boy, and had a straight-forward way of speaking the truth. he came up to his father, and looked full in his face, and said, "the baker came for his money to-night, and would not leave the loaves without mother paid for them; and though he was cross and rough to mother, he said it was not her fault, and that he was sure you had been drinking away all the money; and when he was gone, mother cried over her work, but she did not say any thing. i did not know she was crying, till i saw her tears fall, drop, drop, on her hands; and then i said bad words, and mother sent me to stand in the corner." "and now, john, you may bring me some coal," said susan; "there's a fine lump in the coal-box." "but first tell me what your bad words were, john," said his father; "not swearing, i hope?" "no," said john, coloring, but speaking as bluntly as before, "i said that you were a bad man. i said, bad father." "and they were bad words, i am sure," said susan, very calmly; "but you are forgiven, and so you may get me the coal." george looked at the face of his wife, and as he met the tender gaze of her mild eyes now turned to him, he felt the tears rise in his own. he rose up, and as he put the money into his wife's hands, he said, "there are my week's wages. come, come, hold out both hands, for you have not got all yet. well, now you have every farthing. keep the whole, and lay it out to the best advantage, as you always do. i hope this will be a beginning of better doings on my part, and happier days on yours; and now put on your bonnet, and i'll walk with you to pay the baker, and buy a bushel or two of coal, or any thing else you may be in want of; and when we come back i'll read a chapter of the bible to you and the girls, while you get on with the needle-work." susan went up stairs to put on her bonnet and shawl, and she remained a little longer, to kneel down on the spot where she had often knelt almost heart-broken in prayer--prayer that her heavenly father would turn her husband's heart, first to his saviour, and then to his wife and children; and that, in the meantime, he would give her patience. she, knelt down this time to pour out her heart in thanksgiving and praise. the pleasant tones of her husband's voice called her from her knees. george manly told his wife that evening, after the children were gone to bed, that when he saw what the pence of the poor could do towards keeping up a fine house, and dressing out the landlord's wife and daughters; and when he thought of his own hard-working, uncomplaining susan, and his children in want, and almost in rags, while he was sitting drinking, and drinking, night after night, more like a beast than a man, destroying his own manly strength, and the fine health god had given him, he was so struck with sorrow and shame, that he seemed to come to himself at last. he made his determination, from that hour, never again to put the intoxicating glass to his lips, and he hoped he made it in dependence upon god for grace and strength to keep it. it was more than a year after mrs. crowder, of the punch-bowl, had first missed a regular customer from her house, and when she had forgotten to express her wonder as to what could have become of the good-looking carpenter that generally spent his earnings there, and drank and spent his money so freely-- "there, get on as fast as you can, dears; run, girls, and don't stop for me, your beautiful dresses will be quite spoilt; never mind me, for my levantine is a french silk, and won't spot." these words were screamed out as loud as her haste would permit, by mrs. crowder, who was accompanying her daughters, one sunday evening, to the tea-gardens. she was answered by miss lucy, "you know, ma, we can't run, for our shoes are so tight." "then turn into one of these houses, dears," said the mother, who was bustling forward as fast as she could. "no, indeed," replied the other daughter, who found time to curl her lip with disdain, notwithstanding her haste and her distress, "i'll not set a foot in such filthy hovels." "well, dears, here is a comfortable, tidy place," cried the mother at length, as they hastened forward; "here i'll enter, nor will i stir till the rain is over; come in, girls, come in. you might eat off these boards, they are so clean." the rain was now coming down in torrents, and the two young ladies gladly followed their mother's example, and entered the neat and cleanly dwelling. their long hair hung dangling about their ears, their crape bonnets had been screened in vain by their fringed parasols, and the skirts of their silk gowns were draggled with mud. they all three began to stamp upon the door of the room into which they had entered with very little ceremony; but the good-natured mistress of the house felt more for their disaster than for her floor, and came forward at once to console and assist them. she brought forth clean cloths from the dresser-drawer, and she and her two daughters set to work to wipe off, with quick and delicate care, the rain-drops and mud-splashes from the silken dresses of the three fine ladies. the crape hats and the parasols were carefully dried at a safe distance from the fire, and a comb was offered to arrange the uncurled hair, such a white and delicately clean comb as may seldom be seen upon a poor woman's toilet. when all had been done that could be done, and, as miss lucy said, "they began to look themselves again," mrs. crowder, who was lolling back at her ease in a large and comfortable arm-chair, and amusing herself by taking a good stare at every thing and every one in the room, suddenly started forward, and cried out, addressing herself to the master of the house, upon whose bible and at whose face she had been last fixing her gaze, "why, my good man, we are old friends: i know your face, i'm certain; still, there is some change in you, though i can't exactly say what it is." "i used to be in ragged clothes, and out of health," said george manly, smiling, as he looked up from his bible; "i am now, blessed be god for it, comfortably clad, and in excellent health." "but how is it," said mrs. crowder, "that we never catch a sight of you now?" "madam," said be, "i'm sure i wish well to you and all people; nay, i have reason to thank you, for words of yours were the first means of opening my eyes to my own foolish and sinful course. you seem to thrive--so do we. my wife and children were half-naked and half-starved only this time last year. look at them, if you please, now; for, so far as sweet, contented looks go, and decent raiment befitting their station, i'll match them with any man's wife and children. and now, madam, i tell you, as you told a friend of yours one day last year, that ''tis the fools' pence which have done all this for us.' the fools' pence! i ought to say, the pence earned by honest industry, and spent in such a manner that i can ask the blessing of god upon the pence." when mrs. crowder and her daughters were gone, george manly sat without speaking for some considerable time. he was deep in thought, and his gentle, pious wife felt that she knew on what subject he had been thinking so deeply; for when he woke up from his fit of thought, a deep sigh stole from his lips, and he brushed away the tears which had filled his eyes. "susan," he said, "what can i render to the lord for all his goodness to me? from what a fearful depth of ruin have i been snatched! once i met some of my old companions, who so set upon me to draw me to drink with them, that i thought satan must have urged them on. another time, i went walking on, and found myself at the door of the poison-shop, without knowing how i got there; but god gave me strength to turn instantly away, and not linger a moment to daily with temptation. "i could not help thinking, as i was reading this holy book, when that showy dame came in from whose hand i so often took the poisonous cup, how much i owed to god for saving me from ruin, and giving me that peace and satisfaction in religion which i now enjoy; and making me, i hope, a blessing to you all. o, what a love was the love of christ to poor sinners! he gave his own blood as our precious ransom; he came to save us from our sins, that we may serve him in newness of life." * * * * * the above history, which is taken from a tract of the religious tract society in london, has its counterpart in the case of multitudes in our own country. let him who would not shorten his days, and make his family wretched, and ruin his own soul, resolve with george manly, "_never again to put the intoxicating glass to his lips_;" and like him, let him go humbly and with childlike confidence to god for strength to keep his resolution, and for grace to pardon all his sins, through the blood and righteousness of christ. then shall he have peace of mind, and be a blessing in his day; and when this brief life is ended, he shall enter into eternal joy. published by the american tract society. the poor man's house repaired; or, the wretched made happy. a narrative of facts. [illustration: violent drunk with wife and child] for fifteen years of my married life i was as miserable as any woman could be. our house was the picture of wretchedness externally, and it looked still more wretched within. the windows were patched, the walls shattered, the furniture defaced and broken, and every thing was going to ruins. it had not always been so: once my home was happy, and i used to take much pleasure and some pride in hearing the neighbors say, "how neat and trim neighbor n----'s house always looks!" but they could not say so long. one thing after another changed. our table was no longer spread with comfortable food, nor surrounded with cheerful faces; but there were scanty meals, sour looks, and loud and angry words; while, do the best i could, i was not able to conceal the tatters of my own and my children's clothing. my husband is a mechanic; his employment is good, and he might have made his family as happy as any family in the place; but he was in the habit of taking ardent spirit every day. _he_ thought it did him good; _i_ knew it did not, for i found him every day more and more unkind. our comforts, one by one, were stripped away, till at last i saw myself the wife of a confirmed drunkard. i well remember, one evening, i was sitting by the fire, mending my poor boy's tattered jacket. my heart was very sad. i had been thinking of the happy evenings i had spent with my husband before our marriage; of the few pleasant years that succeeded; of the misery that then came; of the misery yet to come; and for me there seemed no ray of hope or comfort. my husband was a terror to his family, and a nuisance to the neighborhood; my children were idle, ragged, and disobedient; myself a heart-broken wife and wretched mother. while i thought of all this, i could no longer retain my composure, but, dropping my work, i leaned my head upon my hand and wept bitterly. my husband had been absent all day, and i was now expecting him home every minute. it was growing late, so i wiped away my tears as well as i could, and put the embers together, to make my fireside look as inviting as possible. but i dreaded my husband's return--his sharp voice and bitter words pained me to the heart, and rougher treatment than all this i often experienced from him who had once been to me all that i could wish. at length the door opened, and robert entered. i saw by his flushed countenance and angry expression that i had better remain silent; so, with a sinking heart, i placed a chair for him by the fire, and continued my work without speaking. robert broke silence, and in a sharp tone said, "what on earth do you sit there for, at work on that dirty rag? why don't you give me something to eat?" and snatching the work roughly from my hands, he threw it into the fire. i sprang forward to rescue my poor child's garment, and so quick were my movements, that i saved it from much injury. but while i was shaking the ashes from it, my husband again snatched it from my hands, and with a terrible oath, defying me to touch it, once more threw it into the fire. i was afraid to attempt to save it; so i turned away, with bitter feelings to see my labor all lost, and my destitute child made still more destitute by its father's hand. but, as patiently and kindly as i could, i set before robert the supper i had prepared for him. it did not look very inviting, to be sure; but i could offer nothing more. he swore he would not taste a particle. i now reproached him for not having provided any thing better for myself and children. but this was no time for reproach. robert's anger rose to the highest pitch. he dashed the cup and plate i had placed for him to the floor, and seizing me roughly by the arm, he opened the door, and forcing me from the dwelling, bid me enter again, if i dared. the night was cold and windy. i was thinly dressed, and even ill. but i forbore to take refuge under a neighbor's roof. my heart was too sad and desolate to admit of human consolation. at this sorrowful moment i remembered that "earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal;" so, falling almost unconsciously upon my knees, i prayed that god would comfort my stricken heart; that my sins might be pardoned; that i might be enabled to repose all my griefs in the bosom of that gracious one who has kindly promised to give the heavy-laden rest. i then prayed for my miserable husband, that god would have mercy upon him, and deliver him from his dreadful delusion before it was too late. i prayed, too, for my poor children, with all the fervor of a mother's soul. this was the first prayer i had offered for years; for i had been an impenitent woman. had i prayed sooner, i might have saved myself much sorrow and distress. but as it was, i arose from my knees with feelings far less hopeless and bitter. i then crept back to the house, and on looking in at the window, i found that robert had fallen asleep; so i opened the door quietly, without disturbing his heavy slumbers, and laid myself down to rest. the events of this evening were no uncommon events to me. each succeeding day brought but the same rough treatment, the same wretchedness and want. robert grew worse and worse. he not only destroyed all our peace, but brought noise and discord into the whole neighborhood, till at last, for the sake of quiet, he was taken to the house of correction. i never can forget that dreadful night when he was carried away. he came home shockingly intoxicated. the little children crept into the farthest corner of the house to shield themselves from his fury. he threatened every thing with destruction. i was in danger of my life, and ran for safety into the nearest house, where a poor widow lived. robert followed--we fastened the door--he swore he would set fire to the building, and burn it over our heads. but some one passing by heard the uproar, and went for the town officers. several of them came, just as my infatuated husband was pelting the window with stones. they took him away by force, while he was uttering the most shocking oaths. i sat down and wept with shame and vexation. my little jane put her arm round my neck, and said, "don't cry, ma--he has gone--wicked pa has gone, and i hope he will never come back--he is so cross, and beats us so." i hardly knew what to say in answer to my little girl, but i felt that it was a dreadful thing to have my children speak so of him whom i would gladly have taught them to love and honor. i determined, now my husband was away, to support my family by my own work; for wretched as my home was, i could not bear to leave it and come upon the town. i could not earn much, for my health was feeble, but i managed, by depriving myself of several meals, to save enough to mend my poor neighbor's window. but robert longed to regain his liberty. he resolved that he would do better, and upon promising orderly conduct, was permitted to return to his family. badly as he had treated me, i was glad to see him back again. he looked humble, and spoke to me kindly. he kissed the younger children, too, and for a while every thing went on smoothly. to me it seemed like the dawning of better days, and when robert one evening brought home some new shoes for our oldest boy, and a new gown for my little jane, i actually wept for joy, and jane said, her "wicked pa had come back very good." but these bright days were not to last. darker ones came, darker than i had ever known before, or perhaps they seemed darker, from the transient sunshine that had gleamed upon us. i again heard my children crying for food, when i had no food to give them. i was again often turned from my dwelling, or, if i offered any resistance, was forced to receive harsh words and cruel blows. but it is in vain to tell all i suffered. many have gone through the same fiery trial, and will feel that a recital of my woes is but a recital of what they too have borne. there was one privilege, the want of which i at this time felt deeply. the village church was within sight of our door. i used to hear the bell ring, and see the children of the neighborhood go by, neatly dressed, to the sabbath-school; but i had no gown, nor bonnet, nor shawl fit to wear, and my children were still more destitute than myself. so we were obliged to spend the sabbath in sadness at home, while robert, if the day was fine, would profane it by going on the water to fish, or would linger with his companions round the door of the grogshop--not to enter, it is true; for the dram-seller, with his wife and children, dressed very fine, and were accustomed to attend church; and but for that dreadful shop, i might have gone there too. our minister was one of those who thought it his duty to "reason on temperance," as well as "righteousness," and "judgment to come;" and through his exertions, and the exertions of other good men, a reform had commenced, which gave great encouragement to the friends of human happiness and virtue. temperance-meetings were held once a month in different parts of the town, and in spite of much opposition, and many prophecies to the contrary, the cause went on. i heard much said about these meetings, and resolved to attend the next; so, when the evening came, i borrowed a cloak and bonnet of one of the neighbors, and hastened to the church. the prayers i there heard did my wounded spirit good, and the plain, impressive language of the minister spoke to my very heart. i resolved to persuade my husband, if possible, to go with me when there should be another meeting. a circumstance occurred about this time that quite destroyed my remaining courage, and almost caused me to give robert up for lost. we lived in a small, shabby-looking house, a part of which he rented to a very poor family. they could not pay the rent immediately upon its being due. it was in the depth of winter, and the poor woman had a little infant, not more than two weeks old. but robert's heart was shut to all kind feelings. one very stormy day he drove the whole family out of doors, and they were obliged to seek some other dwelling. it was too much for the poor woman in her feeble state. she caught a severe cold, and died in a few days. after this heartless act, my faiths quite failed me, and i felt as if nothing could recall my husband to a sense of duty. but i little knew the workings of his mind. he seemed to return a little to his senses, when he saw that his cruelty had probably caused the death of the poor woman, and rendered a large family of helpless children motherless. his countenance became more dark and gloomy, and he scarcely raised his eyes to notice any one. things were in this state, when one day our minister called, as he was visiting the people of his parish. i was very glad to see him, and told him all my griefs freely. he gave me what consolation he could, and informed me that there was another temperance-meeting in the evening, which he hoped i would attend; "and," added he, "bring your husband along with you, if you can persuade him to come." when robert came home to supper, i was surprised and delighted to find him sober; so i told him of the minister's visit, and the meeting in the evening. he seemed pleased that the minister had called, and even asked me how things looked about the room, "for," said he, "we don't look quite so stylish here as we once did, mary." "no, robert," said i, with a sigh, as i surveyed the wretched apartment; "but if you would attend the temperance-meeting, and hear what the minister says about saving money, i think it would soon look much better here, and the boys might have better jackets, and i might have a better gown. oh, robert"-- i would have said more, but my eyes filled with tears, and i could not. robert hung down his head, and looked ashamed. he knew he had spent, for rum, money enough to feed and clothe his family well. i thought he had half a mind to tell me he would go with me. when i had cleared away the supper, and sent the children to bed, i put on my bonnet, and said, "i will just step into neighbor warren's, and borrow nancy's cloak." "have not you any cloak of your own?" said he. "no," i replied, "i have been without one a long time." robert said no more, but when i came back with the cloak, and said to him, "will you go with me?" he said, in a tone which seemed as if he were trying to suppress kinder feelings, "go along, mary, and don't be always fretting about me." i was grieved, but said nothing, and proceeded to the meeting alone, praying that robert might think better of it, and come. the services were even more interesting than they had been at the preceding meeting. the minister said every thing to convince, and i felt a distressing anxiety, that i could not control, to have my husband hear all that was said. judge, then, of my surprise and pleasure, when, a short time after i had returned home, robert entered, and said, "guess where i have been, mary." "not to meeting, robert." "yes, mary, to meeting. i took up my hat after you had gone, thinking that i would go down to the shop; for i felt uneasy, and wanted something to suppress my disagreeable thoughts. but as i passed by the meeting-house, it was so well lighted up, and the bell was ringing, and the people going in, i thought perhaps i had better go in too; and i am glad i did. wife, i do believe the minister is right. i know that hard drinking has been the ruin of myself and family, and while the minister was speaking, i thought i would try to break away from my bad habits." "o, robert, _will you try_?" i exclaimed, while my heart beat with pleasure to hear him thus speak. "'tis hard work, mary, harder than you think for." "i know it is hard, my dear husband; but only think of the happiness it would bring to us all--of the ruin from which it will save our little boys--the agony from which it will save your poor wife. o, robert, if you have one spark of love remaining in your bosom for any of us"-- i could not go on; but leaning my hands upon my husband's shoulder, i sobbed aloud. robert seemed affected, and said, in a doubtful tone, "perhaps i might leave it off by degrees." "o no, robert, no," i answered, "that will never do. don't you remember how particular the minister was to say, '_leave it off at once_?' you will never do it by degrees." robert looked steadily into the fire, and did not say one word more. when not under the influence of strong drink, he is a man of good sense, and i thought it better to leave him to his own reflections. i know not what passed through his mind. the kinder and better feelings of other days seemed to be awakened from their slumber, or rather, he from whom "all just thoughts and holy desires proceed," was influencing his determination. as for myself, i longed in secret to pour out my soul to god. so i went into the bedroom, where my poor children were fast asleep; and after seeing that they were well covered up, i kissed each one of them, and knelt down by their side to offer up my prayer. i prayed as i had never done before. i seemed, through my redeemer, to gain a nearer and bolder access to the throne of grace. my heart was filled with deep gratitude, penitence, humility, and joy; and from that hour i have dared to hope myself a child of god. o that blessed, blessed night. it caused joy among the angels in heaven, over the reconciliation of one soul to god--over the desire of another soul to return to the path of duty. it caused joy on earth, in our poor, humble dwelling--joy in the bosom of the long-afflicted wife--joy that her own soul was trusting in christ--joy that her husband was purposing to forsake his wretched way, and turn into a happier, better path. the next day, before robert went out, i encouraged him all i could to persevere. i brought to his remembrance as much of the lecture as i could, so that it might be fresh in his mind. he left me in good spirits, and promised to see me again at night a sober man. but o, what an anxious day was it for me! i dreaded, and yet longed for evening to come, and my heart beat as i heard his footstep at the door. but he had kept his word--he had not tasted a drop of spirit during the day. he had seen, too, the minister and several members of the temperance society. in consequence of the meeting on the last evening, many new names were added to the temperance list, and they had promised, in case of entire abstinence till the next meeting, to receive his. i could scarcely believe my senses when i heard my husband speak thus, and the prospect of his becoming a sober man seemed too delightful to be ever realized. for a time, i rejoiced with trembling; but when, day after day, i saw him return orderly and quiet, my courage revived, and i felt that he _would persevere_. at length the evening came round for the next meeting, and my husband and myself went, o so happy! and put our names to the pledge. what a different prospect did our home now present. i could not keep my countenance for joy, when the neighbors came in to congratulate me on the change. i could now dress my children neat and comfortable, and send them to the sabbath-school. i went myself with my husband constantly to church, and on making known my wish to our minister, publicly professed my faith in the saviour of sinners. thus happily did the winter and summer pass away. one day in autumn, as the minister was passing by, my husband was in the road in front of the house. the minister remarked, "i am glad, robert, to see your _house repaired_ and looking so well." "thank you, sir; why, it does look some better." as the minister was about to pass on, robert added, "mr. g., i have not drank a drop of rum for one year, come next monday. so you see the effect upon my house. i used to work hard before, and spent about all i earned for rum, to drink myself, or to give away. many a time i have been at my work on a sunday, and earned a dollar or more in the course of the day, and taken the money, and then laid out the whole in rum. now i can clothe my family well, and have something to lay out upon my house. last summer, my boy and i saved sixty dollars besides supporting the family." sixty dollars saved! but who can tell the value of the happy days and nights of this year; or the worth of a kind, sober, industrious husband and father, compared with a cross, cruel, and drunken one? ask the wife; what would she tell you? ask the children; what would be their answer? some of my husband's former wicked companions felt piqued and envious that robert was free from their degrading habit. they saw him thriving, respected, and happy. his life and prospects were a continued reflection upon theirs. they longed to see him fall, and determined, if possible, to effect his ruin. as he was quietly returning home one evening, he passed by the shop which he was once so much in the habit of frequenting. they accosted him: by taunts and jeers which he had not firmness enough to resist, they drew him into their company. once there, they thought him within their power. when they could not induce him to violate his pledge by taking rum, they called him a "cold-water man;" "a white-livered coward;" "priest-ridden;" "afraid of his minister," and many other titles of reproach. they then told him he had not promised to drink no wine; and, after much persuasion, they induced him to take a glass. but in this glass they had mingled the poison. once stimulated, he called for more and yet more, till these wretches had the pleasure of seeing him who had so long stood firm, reeling from the shop, to mar at once all that was pleasant and peaceful at home. when my husband did not return at supper-time, i felt rather anxious, but thought he might be delayed, as he sometimes is; so i put his supper to the fire and sat down to my knitting-work, while one of the boys read to me from his sabbath-school book. we were thus employed when my deluded husband entered. o the agony of that moment! had he been brought to me a corpse, i could not have been more shocked. had those wicked men that thus seduced my husband entered my house and done the same things that they caused him to do, they might have been indicted for the outrage. in the morning robert had come to himself; but he saw in the broken furniture, in the distrustful looks of the children, in the swollen eyes and distressed countenance of his wife, more than he cared to know. there was a mixture of remorse and obstinacy in his looks, and when he left me for the morning, instead of his usual "good-morning, mary," he shut the door roughly after him and hurried away. when evening came again, robert returned to the shop, and asked for a glass of rum. he wanted something to stifle the keen reproaches of conscience. the dram-seller knew my husband, knew of his reform, that from being a nuisance to the town, he had become an orderly and respectable citizen; and now that he had been seduced from the right way, instead of denying him the cause of all our former misery--instead of a little friendly advice--with his _usual courteous smile_, he put the fatal glass into his hand. for a time my poor robert continued in a very bad way. he mingled again with his profane and wicked associates; he was ashamed to see his minister, and took no notice of him when he passed; hung down his head when he met any of his temperance friends, and seemed to be fast returning to his former miserable habits. but he was not thus to become the dupe of wicked and designing men. his wife's prayers and tears were not thus to be of no avail. on a sudden he awoke from his delusion. he had lived a whole year without rum; and though exposed to all weathers, he knew his health had been better, his head clearer, his nerves firmer, his purse heavier, and his home happier. he called one evening to see the president of the temperance society; confessed his weakness in yielding to temptation; asked the forgiveness of the society; requested to have his name, which had been erased from the temperance list, renewed; and promised never again to violate the pledge. since that night my husband has continued a perfectly temperate man. no temptation has ever led him again to violate his pledge. i have been induced to give this history of his reform to the world, in order, if possible, to persuade others to follow his example, to show them _how_ quiet and plenty were restored to a wretched dwelling, virtue and respectability to a ruined family, and the _poor man's house repaired_. * * * * * a clergyman, worthy of all confidence, and acquainted with the writer of the above, and the circumstances detailed, testifies, that the case is "literally and faithfully described." jamie; or, a voice from ireland for temperance. a true narrative. by professor edgar, of belfast. in a populous and civilized district of ulster lived jamie, a day-laborer; a fellow of right good sense and practical talent, carpenter and mason, shoemaker and blacksmith, and aught else the case required. the variety of his powers had nearly ruined him. on all hands he was in requisition, and everywhere he was a favorite--kindness flowing to him in its common channel, spirituous liquor. wherever he went, he was _treated_. this was too much for flesh and blood, and jamie became, in the style of the world's false charity, "fond of the drop." his cash flew to the spirit-shop, and brought neither health nor happiness in return. the neighbors called him--alas, for such lullabies to conscience!--an honest, good-hearted fellow, who did nobody any harm but himself. while, however, they tempted, and flattered, and deceived, their victim was posting to ruin. but, while moderate drinkers were training him to drunkenness, god was raising up the temperance society as an ark of safety to him from the flood of their temptations. one of the publications of the ulster temperance society fell into his hands, and he read it, for he was of an inquiring spirit, and a blessing attended it. what, said he, in amazement, can this be true?--distilled spirits of no more use to any man in health than arsenic or opium? "distilled spirits are too tempting, and dangerous, and violently intoxicating, to be used as a common beverage at all!" o, thought he, that at least is true. "distilled spirits are in their very nature injurious to the human constitution; and every man who indulges even in their moderate use, injures himself in proportion to the quantity which he consumes." jamie was astonished, and well he might be; but jamie was conscientious, and though he had the manhood to confess, what few moderate drinkers will, that he liked a glass, yet, because he had still a conscience, notwithstanding the searing it had got from the fiery drink, he said to himself, "i must, at least, _try_ whether these wonderful statements respecting distilled spirits be true." james _tried_, and the effects were delightful. in a very short time he found, from happy experience, that his health was better from the change; that his purse was better; that soul and body, the whole man of him was far better, in all respects, since he renounced the maddening draught. his duty was now clear before him--to _abstain_ from the raging drink which, in time past, had been emptying his pocket, destroying his character, and bringing down his body to the grave, and his soul to hell. he did his duty in the right way for doing duty--_at once_, and _right on_. he saw, however, that something more was incumbent on him than merely doing his duty in this particular--he must, for the good of others, let it be known, without ostentation, that his duty was done. abstaining, he said to himself, has done me good; the banishment of spirituous liquors would do my country good; what is every man's duty is my duty; and therefore, in love to my brethren, i'll freely give the blessing which to me has been so freely given. union is strength, thought he: separate efforts are a rope of sand; united, they are the cable which holds the mighty ship. he resolved to establish a temperance society. for this purpose, he supplied himself _immediately_ with a number of tracts on temperance; for jamie knew that when self-interest or passion come in, second thoughts are not always best; and forthwith he commenced travelling around, reading them, at spare hours throughout the neighborhood, wherever he could find half-a-dozen people to listen to him. he was a good reader, and very soon found that his reading was not without effect; for in a short time he heard of a decent woman telling her neighbor to send for jamie to the wake which was to be held in her house, if she wished to save her whiskey, and have peace and quietness; for, said she, he came to the wake in my house, and read and talked about temperance, till both the whiskey and the people seemed either persuaded or frightened, for hardly one had the courage to put to his lips what jamie called, indeed too truly, "the accursed thing." jamie, however, soon found to his cost that he had commenced a very great and a very sore work. the spirit-sellers, four of whom were at a single cross-roads in his neighborhood, he expected to be against him, and drunkards he expected would be against him too; but he soon found that his chief opponents lay in quite another quarter. sensible people soon began to see that spirit-sellers are drones on the community, doing no good, but much harm: and, besides, one of them having first allowed a temperance meeting to be held in his barn, conscientiously shut up his spirit-shop, and joined the temperance society, being convinced that spirit-selling is poison-selling, and that each spirit-shop might justly have on its sign-board, "beggars made here." of the drunkards, some indeed did call him hard names, and impute to him base motives; but from among even these, lost as they seemed to be to all hope, he was, by god's grace, enabled to reclaim some, as brands snatched from the burning, while others of them said to him, in the bitterness of their reflecting moments, go on, jamie, your work is god's work. had you commenced but a little sooner, what a blessing might your society have been to us; but alas, it is all over with us now! what at first surprised jamie much was, that the fathers or husbands of these very drunkards were his most bitter opponents. he went to them with a glad heart, expecting that they would hear with delight of a plan by which drunkards, in great numbers, have been reclaimed, and by which the temperate can be effectually secured against temptation; but his heart sunk when he found, not that they received him coldly, for to such receptions he was accustomed, but that they, as well as others who boast much of being "temperate enough already," lost all temper at the very sound of temperance. some of these neighbors of jamie were regular in attendance on public worship, orthodox and strict, which gave them an influence in the neighborhood. jamie, therefore, was anxious to enlist them on the side of temperance. yet he could not but know, and very seriously consider, that whether, in market or fair, these same men either bought or sold, there could be no such thing as a _dry_ bargain; that at _churns_, and wakes, and funerals, and marriages, and such like, they always pushed round the bottle cheerily; that they held it churlish to refuse either to give or take a treat; that at their evening tea-parties it was not uncommon for six or eight gallons of spirituous liquor to be consumed by a few neighbors, men and women, in a single night; that in every house which their minister visited, the bottle was put to his mouth; and that as the natural consequence of all this and far more, not only was the crime of drunkenness, whether in minister or private layman, treated with much false charity, and called by many soft names, but drunkenness was spreading its ravages through many families, and bringing down many heads in sorrow to the grave. jamie was indeed charitable, but he was unable to persuade himself that, amid such universal drinking, all the objections to his temperance society arose merely from ignorance, or prejudice, or conscience; and therefore, when people were telling him, as they often did, that they cared not a rush about spirituous liquor, "they could either drink it or let it alone," he used sometimes to reply, "oh, i know well enough that you can drink it; what i want to know is, whether you can let it alone:" and at other times he would tell them dean swift's story of the three men who called for whiskey in a spirit-shop: i want a glass, said the first, for i'm very hot; i want a glass, said the second, for i'm very cold; let me have a glass, said the third, because i like it! as jamie's opponents were no match for him in argument, they tried the plans usually resorted to when the wisdom and the spirit by which truth speaks cannot be resisted. for a while they tried ridicule. that, however, neither satisfied their own consciences nor frightened jamie, for jamie could stand a laugh, what many a man can't do who has stood grape-shot. then they circulated reports about his having got drunk on different occasions, and having been caught drinking in secret; and some believed them, being of the same mind with the distiller, who asserted it to be mere humbug that any man could live without whiskey, and that wherever the croaking cold water society men did not drink in the daytime, they made up for it by drinking at night. these evil reports, however, fell dead after a little, and nobody was vile enough to take them up again; and though attempts were made to circulate the lie, that jamie had grown weak and sickly since he gave up drinking, yet every body who looked him in the face saw, that though he had neither a purple nose nor whiskey blossoms on his chin, yet he was stronger and healthier than ever; and that he could say, what every member of the temperance society, whether temperate or intemperate formerly, can say with truth, after abstaining for a single month from distilled spirits, that in every sense of the word he is better for the change. foiled thus in all their attempts, the opponents of jamie and of temperance rallied strong for one last charge; and as it was against jamie's weak side--who has not a weak side--they already chuckled in triumph. jamie had thrown away his glass for ever, but his pipe stuck firm between his teeth still. the time was, when he was strong and well without tobacco, and when the taste of tobacco was disgusting and sickening to him; but respectable people were smoking, and chewing, and snuffing around him, and when he went to the wake, the funeral, or the evening gathering, "why," thought he, "should i be singular, and not take a whiff like the rest?" he chose smoking, probably, because he considered it to be the most _genteel_ way of being dirty and disgusting; and, according to the general law of habits, being most inveterate where the article used was at first most nauseous, he soon became so confirmed a smoker that one-half of what he smoked would have kept him decently clothed. the lovers of strong drink, therefore, thought that they had jamie on the hip completely, when they told him that his only reason for giving up whiskey was, that he could not afford to buy both it and tobacco; and promised, though with no sincerity, that they would quit drinking if he would quit smoking. the reproach stuck like a burr to jamie's conscience. he asked himself again and again, is my use of tobacco a stumbling-block in the way of any? does it do injury to the great cause which has all my heart? he read, he thought, and read and thought again; and the more he read and thought, the more was he convinced that the habitual use of tobacco in any of its forms is useless; is wasteful of time and money; is dirty; is offensive to others, and a breach of christian charity; is a bad example to the simple and young; is a temptation to drunkenness, and injurious to health. he resolved to renounce it, and flung the old black pipe from him to lift it again no more. thus jamie was conqueror still; and his victory was one which alexander, the conqueror of the world, could not gain. jamie gained a victory over himself, and he that ruleth over his own spirit is better than he that taketh a city; but alexander, who wept because he had not other worlds besides his own to subdue, died as a fool dieth, and sleeps in a drunkard's grave. jamie learned an important lesson in his victory, which will be of use to him as long as he lives. whatever bad habit, he says, has got hold upon you, _break it of at once_. would you pull your child out of the fire cautiously and gradually; or would you out with him at once? so let it be with every thing wrong. don't prepare for ceasing from sin to-morrow, or next year, but cease from it now. do so yourself; go right up to your neighbor without fear, and in love tell him to do the same, having this assurance on your mind continually, _that what ought to be done, can be done_. jamie seemed from the commencement, to have taken for his motto, expect great things, work for them, and you shall have them. work as though all depended on self; pray as knowing all to depend upon god. he knew his place, and modestly kept it; yet when opportunity offered for dropping a word on behalf of temperance, in the ear either of clergyman or layman, whatever his rank, he did what conscience told him was right towards a neighbor and a brother. jamie's pockets and hat were filled with tracts, which, as the most suitable plan for his shallow purse, and perhaps, too, for securing a reading of them, he generally lent, and sometimes gave away, to all who promised to read. let it not be supposed that amidst such active benevolence he neglected his own business. no; jamie had not learned in vain the apostle's maxim, "let him labor, working with his hands the thing which is good, that he may have to give to him that needeth." it was nothing for him to start off half a dozen miles of an evening after his work was finished, to procure some new tracts, or attend a temperance-meeting, or read and talk kindly to some poor drunkard, whose wife had sent him a hint that her husband would be glad to see him; or else to procure the services of some clergyman to address the next meeting of his temperance society. jamie is one of those who imagine that the business of a minister of the gospel is not finished when he has preached a couple of discourses on the sabbath; he really presumes to say, that both minister and layman should be "instant in season and out of season," and like their great master, going about continually doing good. he does not set up for a preacher, nevertheless, but confines himself to his own proper sphere. he applied to ministers to address his meetings, and though some few of them refused, telling him significantly that they preach the gospel, even when jamie did ask in his simplicity, if paul forgot his resolution to know nothing but christ and him crucified, when he reasoned of righteousness, _temperance_, and judgment to come; yet to the honor of the ministry around him be it told, that whenever he got up a meeting, a minister was at jamie's service to address it. though, as a body, jamie's temperance society was most steady, yet a few, and only a few, fell. it would be harsh to say that some were glad at their fall; at least many temptations were thrown in their way; and when they fell, a shout of triumph was raised against the temperance society. such trials as these only urged jamie on with fresh vigor. suppose, he used to say, that every drunkard should return again to drunkenness and ruin; would not this be another proof that truth, and honor, and principle, are all as nothing before the drunken appetite? would not this be a louder and a stronger call to save the young, to stop young sons and daughters, now safe, from filling the place of drunken parents when they are gone? what ruins these poor wretches? he would ask. is it the mere _abuse_ of a good and wholesome thing? no. distilled spirits are tempting, deceitful, and too violently intoxicating to be at all habitually used with safety; and as four hundred of the ablest doctors now living have established, and unnumbered facts prove, they are unwholesome and injurious to body and soul. let every man, then, for his own sake abstain; and for the sake of others too, especially such as are near and dear to him, o let him abstain for ever. who, he would ask, give currency and influence to the absurd fooleries which are circulated respecting the marvellous excellences of spirituous liquors, while common-sense tells that they are of no more use to a man than to a cow or horse? not drunkards, surely; for, on such a subject at least, they would not be believed. who give support and respectability to spirit-shops, and the whole spirit-trade? drunkards surely could make nothing respectable, and no spirit-seller would put on his sign-board, "the drunkard's spirit-shop." again, he would put it to men's consciences to answer, who give respectability and permanence to all the _treatings_ and other customs by which each successive generation of drunkards is trained? there was no getting over the undeniable fact, that moderate spirit-drinkers must bear the responsibility of all this; and the more the matter was canvassed, the more clearly was it seen, that the only way in which drunkenness can be put down is the very way which jamie and the temperance society proposed--_the union of the temperate in refraining from intoxicating drinks, and promoting temperance_. to _parents_ jamie addressed himself with unwearied and anxious importunity. would you object, he would say to them, when other arguments had failed--would you object to your son becoming a member when going away from you to live, perhaps, amidst the temptations of a large town? would you be afraid, lest keeping him away from the temptations of the bottle would make him an easier prey to the solicitations of the strange woman, whose house is the way to death, and whose steps take hold on hell? he met with none, whether spirit-sellers or spirit-drinkers, who were able to resist this appeal; and from this, as well as other causes, the young formed a large and zealous portion of jamie's society. the young he was particularly anxious to enlist in his cause, not merely because youth is the time of truth, and of open, warm hearts, and in an especial manner god's time, but because he believed spirit-drinking parents to be the great agents in making their children drunkards. a case which happened in his own neighborhood, gave him a melancholy confirmation of this opinion. a respectable moderate drinker, who only now and then exceeded his single tumbler of punch, had seven daughters, whom he was in the habit of treating to a little glass of punch each day after dinner. he, of course, considered it good, and they were soon taught to consider it so too. they began first to like their one glass; then they began to like two glasses much better; one glass called for another, till, in the end, they found, according to the adage, that though one glass of spirits is too much for any one, two glasses are quite too little. right onward they went to drunkenness and crime; for, alas, it was too true in their case, as in all others, that any one may be ruined who can be persuaded to drink intoxicating liquors. with the help of whiskey, as the murderer said, a man can do any thing; so, at least, it was with these poor girls; they are living with broken character, virtue and all lost. there is, however, one exception, the youngest; and how did she escape? she was too young when her father died to be influenced by her father's example; and her father, with the character of a moderate, regular man, died sitting at table with his tumbler of punch before him. principally through the prudent and laborious exertions of jamie, a great moral reformation has been effected throughout an extensive district; three hundred names are enrolled on the list of his temperance society; wives and sisters are blessing him for husbands and brothers reformed; the standard of public sentiment in regard to temperance has been nobly raised; people don't talk now as formerly of a man's being _somewhat elevated_ or _tipsy_, or merely _overtaken_, when he is drunk, for they have learned to call things by their right names, and not practise imposture by slang phrases. public resolutions have been passed against giving spirituous liquor at wakes or funerals, churns, ploughing-matches, or evening parties; men and women can go to market and fair, buy and sell, and yet never think of _treating_ or being _treated_ with spirits; and what still more fully exhibits the extent of the reformation, it has reached, in some cases, even the most degraded victims of iniquity, some of whom at least are now consistent members of the temperance society. arguing on the subject of temperance has, in a good degree, ceased in the neighborhood; and though a number of the old or ill-disposed appear decidedly resolved to have their glass, whatever the consequences, in the spirit of the fellow who told his doctor that he loved his glass, and did not care a fig for his liver, yet the young and conscientious are becoming more hearty in the cause of jamie and temperance. nothing gladdened jamie's heart more than the success which crowned his efforts in the sabbath-school, of which he is superintendent. spirit-drinking he not only knew to be a barrier against the progress of the gospel, in preventing drunkards from hearing it, and grieving away the spirit of god from the moderate drinker, but he felt it to be peculiarly injurious to the young, in often swallowing up that money which should be spent in their education, and in withholding from many even the poor pittance which should cover their nakedness in the sabbath-school and the house of god. as, therefore, the children of the poor had wrung out so much of the bitter dregs of spirit-drinking, he was anxious that temperance societies, the sworn foes of spirit-drinking, should, with their earliest, warmest efforts, return blessings to them for years of sorrow, oppression, and wrong. sabbath-school teachers, too, he saw to be among god's choicest instruments in the work of reform. young, yet serious, active, and benevolent, possessed of the confidence of their scholars and their parents, and from their own character, and their connection with a noble system of christian enterprise, exercising a mighty moral influence, wide as the world, what could they not do for the regeneration of the public mind, especially of that mind which shall be all active, in good or ill, when the present generation are mouldering in the grave. he commenced, therefore, the work of reformation in his own sabbath-school, and he commenced in the right way, by communicating information, and bringing both teachers and scholars to think and apply the truth for themselves. he wished none, he said, to join his ranks against the great enemy, but volunteers; he wished for no influence over any one, but the influence of truth, and no bond upon any but the bond of an enlightened conscience. he introduced a proposal for each teacher in rotation to read an interesting extract to the scholars on some suitable subject, and temperance of course was not excluded. the mere hearing of the principles of temperance societies was sufficient to make converts of some of the teachers; for what can be more rational than abstaining from intoxicating drinks and promoting temperance? but it was not so with others. freethinkers may talk as they please about a man having no more control over his belief than over the hue of his skin or the height of his stature, still it is a simple fact of jamie's experience, that it is mighty hard to convince a man who does not wish to be convinced; and that, when anybody first resolves to continue to drink, he is then marvellously fertile in objections against the temperance society. one of the teachers especially, who had been at different times _overtaken_ by the bottle coming from the market or fair, was so opposed to temperance, that when his turn for reading on the subject came, he had still some excuse; and jamie, without in any way wounding his feelings, was prepared with an extract to read for him, till at length, finding him softening down under the influence of truth and love, he, on one morning of his turn for reading, put an extract into his hand, and said kindly, just go out for a little and read it over by yourself, and that will prepare you for reading it nicely to the children. he did so, and came in and read it as one who felt its power. jamie saw that his heart was full, he knew that _now_ is the time for doing good, and not to-morrow, and therefore rising up and proposing that a temperance society should be formed in the school, he put his own name to the usual declaration, _we resolve to refrain from intoxicating drinks, and promote temperance._ the next man who stepped forward was the self-same teacher who had so long opposed. "children," said he, "spirituous liquor is a bad thing; it has done me harm; it is doing harm to every thing good, and to show that i hate it and renounce it, i put down my name." the other teachers followed; the elder children followed the noble example of their teachers, and as a proof that they knew and felt what they did, when after school-hours on next candlemas-day, the master of a day-school which some of them attended, brought forth whiskey to treat the scholars according to custom, the noble little temperance heroes rose, as if by concert, and marched out of the room. while thus jamie urged on the good work of reforming others, his own soul knew the blessings of the promise, "he that watereth others, shall be watered also himself." after renouncing whiskey, he felt a sweetness and power in god's word which he had never known before. he almost doubted whether it could be the same old bible that he used to read. he had been abusing god's mercy by indulging in sin in time past, as if in expectation that sovereign grace would some moment descend in a miracle and drag him to holiness and heaven; but now he saw clearly that god is sincere in all his promises, and that the gracious invitations of the gospel mean just what they say. his first duty, he saw clearly, was to give his own self to the lord. to that god of love who asked his heart, he gave it. he heard god in his word saying, "believe on the lord jesus christ, and thou shalt be saved;" and he took god at his word, and obeyed his command. from what he knew to be sin, he ceased at once; and what god told him was duty, he did at once, as god enabled him, without stopping to calculate consequences, for he left them with his maker. he knew that no one goes to heaven or hell alone, the influence of the most humble being necessarily exerted either for good or ill; and as though travailing in birth for immortal souls, he was each day, by his conversation and example, saying to his neighbor, come with us, and we will do you good. the more heartily and fully he obeyed god, the better he liked god's service; and the more extensive acquaintance he obtained of the great salvation of the gospel, the more strongly did he feel himself drawn by a saviour's love to accept, to adorn, and propagate it. though beyond middle life, he had never celebrated his saviour's love at the lord's table. now, however, he saw it to be his duty and privilege; and those whose hearts are set on winning souls, can conceive with what holy joy a worthy young minister, whose church jamie had lately joined, saw him sitting down to commemorate with his fellow-christians the dying love of the great redeemer. "not unto us, o lord, not unto us, but unto thy name give glory, for thy mercy, and for thy truth's sake." * * * * * i knew a man by the name of d----, who was a very skilful, robust, and prosperous blacksmith, and a man of more than ordinary intelligence. he yielded to the temptation to which his trade exposed him, till he became habitually intemperate, and actually a nuisance to the neighborhood. the innkeeper, who was also a store-keeper, on whom he depended for his daily supplies of strong drink, amounting, it is believed, to little less than a barrel and a half annually, at length hired him to abstain for one year, by giving him his note of hand of ten dollars. he immediately became a calm and peaceable man. his health, and appetite, and business returned to him. and he would tell you that the innkeeper had done him the greatest kindness he had ever received. "i was undone," said he. "now i enjoy myself and my family, and the best farm in the town would not tempt me to return to the use of ardent spirits." the poor man kept his resolution till the end of the eleventh month, which it seems he had mistaken for the end of the year, and then ventured to indulge a little; and alas, when i saw him last, he was dragging his legs along, supported by two of his companions, who i feared were pursuing the same miserable course to destruction, and seemed to be lending him their sympathy; and he was one of the most loathsome and degraded human beings my eyes ever beheld. i should not be surprised to know that he is now with the dead. may my latter end not be like his. * * * * * a respectable merchant in p----, having long observed that a farmer, with whom he often traded, was in the habit of using ardent spirits to great excess, offered one day to give him fifty dollars, if he would drink no more for ten years; except so much as his physician should think necessary for his health. the farmer agreed to the proposition, and the bargain was confirmed in writing. it was not long before he felt unwell, applied to his physician, and bitters were prescribed. he had scarcely begun to use them, when he found that his appetite for ardent spirits was returning with almost irresistible violence. he foresaw the evil that would probably ensue, threw away his bitters, and dashed his bottle to pieces. he drunk no more ardent spirits till the ten years had expired, when he called on the merchant, and informed him that the conditions of the obligation had been, on his part, fulfilled. "of course, then," said the merchant, "you want your money." "no," he replied, "i cannot take it. i have saved far more than my fifty dollars in my bills at your store, and i have made ten times that sum by attention to my business." the merchant has long since gone to his rest. the farmer still lives, has a large estate, and a fine family around him, and is a respectable and worthy citizen; for, till this day, he drinks no ardent spirits. * * * * * declaration of thirty-eight physicians. "the undersigned, physicians of cincinnati, feel it their duty to express their decided opinion in opposition to the habitual, as well as occasional use of ardent spirits. they are convinced, from all their observation and experience, that ardent spirits are not only _unnecessary_, but absolutely _injurious_ in a healthy state of the system; that they produce many, and aggravate most of the diseases to which the human frame is liable; that they are unnecessary in relieving the effects of cold and fatigue, which are best relieved by rest and food; that their use in families, in the form of bitters, toddy, punch, etc., is decidedly pernicious, perverting the appetite, and undermining the constitution; that they are equally as poisonous as opium or arsenic, operating sometimes more slowly, but with equal certainty." the wonderful escape. in the town where i reside were twelve young men who were accustomed, early in life, to meet together for indulgence in drinking and all manner of excess. in the course of time, some of them engaged in business; but their habits of intemperance were so entwined with their very existence, that they became bankrupts or insolvents. eight of them died under the age of forty, without a hope beyond the grave, victims of intemperance. three others are still living in the most abject poverty. two of these had formerly moved in very respectable circles, but now they are in the most miserable state of poverty and disgrace. one more, the last of the twelve, the worst of all, remains to be accounted for. he was a sort of ringleader; and being in the wine and spirit trade, his business was to take the head of the table at convivial parties, and sit up whole nights drinking and inducing others to do the same, never going to bed sober. he was an infidel, a blasphemer, a disciple of tom paine, both in principle and practice, yet he was a good-natured man, and would do any body a kindness. at length he left the town, and went to reside at a distance, where, for a time, he refrained from drinking, was married, and every thing seemed prosperous around him; but instead of being thankful to god for his mercy, and watching against his besetting sin, he gave way to his old propensity, and brought misery on his family and friends. one dark night, being in the neighborhood of dudley, he had been drinking to excess, wandered out of the house, and staggered among the coalpits, exposed to fall into them, and be lost. he proceeded on till he fell, and rolled down the bank of the canal; but god, who is rich in mercy, had caused a stone to lie directly in his path, and the poor drunkard was stopped from rolling over into the water, where, by one turn more, he would have sunk into eternal ruin. his senses returned for a moment; he saw that if he attempted to stand, he would fall headlong into the canal, and crawled back again into the road. but this miraculous preservation had no effect upon him; he merely called it a lucky escape. once, after having indulged in many days of intemperance, being come a little to his senses, he began to reason with himself upon his folly--surrounded with blessings, yet abusing the whole--and in an angry, passionate manner, he muttered, "o, it's no use for me to repent; my sins are too great to be forgiven." he had no sooner uttered these words, than a voice seemed to say, with strong emphasis, "if thou wilt forsake thy sins, they shall be forgiven." the poor man started at what he believed to be real sound, and turned round, but saw no one, and said to himself, "i have been drinking till i am going mad." he stood paralyzed, not knowing what to think, till relieved by a flood of tears, and then exclaimed, "surely, this is the voice of mercy, once more calling me to repentance." he fell on his knees, and half suffocated by his feelings, cried out, "god be merciful to me a sinner." the poor wretch was broken-hearted; and now his besetting sin appeared more horrible than ever; but it must be conquered, or he must perish. then commenced a contest more terrible than that of conflicting armies; the soul was at stake; an impetuous torrent was to be turned into an opposite course. he now began to search the bible, which he had once despised. here he saw that crimson and scarlet sins could be blotted out, and made white as snow; that the grace of god was sufficient. he refrained from intemperance, commenced family prayer, and hope again revived; but his deadly foe still pursued him, and he was again overcome. now his disgrace and sinfulness appeared worse than ever, and with melancholy feeling he cried out, in anguish of spirit, that he was doomed to eternal misery, and it was useless to try to avert his fate. his cruel enemy took this opportunity to suggest to his mind that he had so disgraced himself, that it would be better to get rid of his life at once--frequently the end of drunkards. the razor was in his hand; but the spirit of the lord interposed, and the weapon fell to the ground. still his enemy pursued him, and seemed to have new power over his sin of intemperance. he would sometimes refrain for days and weeks, and then again he was as bad as ever. hope seemed now to be lost; especially one day, when, after having been brought into great weakness through intemperance, death appeared to be very near, and his awful state more terrific than ever. not a moment was to be lost; he cast himself once more at the footstool of his long-insulted creator, and with an intensity of agony cried out, "what profit is there in my blood when i go down to the pit? shall the dust praise thee? shall it declare thy truth? hear, o lord, and have mercy upon me; lord, be thou my helper." he sunk down exhausted; he could say no more. that prayer was heard; and a voice from heaven seemed to reply, "i will help thee; i have seen thy struggles, and i will now say to thine enemy, 'hitherto thou hast come--but no further.'" a physician was consulted as to the probability or possibility of medicine being rendered effectual to stop the disposition to intemperance. the poor man would have suffered the amputation of all his limbs, could so severe a method have freed him from his deadly habit, which, like a vulture, had fastened upon his very vitals. eagerly did he begin to take the simple medicine prescribed--a preparation of steel--with earnest prayer to god for help in this last struggle for life; but faith and prayer proved the best of remedies; he persevered, and conquered; and be it said to the honor and glory of the lord god almighty, who sent his angel to whisper in the poor man's ear, "i will help thee," that from the latter end of september, , to the present hour, nearly twenty years, _not so much as a spoonful of spirituous liquor, or wine of any description, has ever passed the surface of that man's tongue_. #/ the above account of his own experience, was given by mr. hall, a merchant of maidstone, kent, at the anniversary of the british and foreign temperance society, may, . mr. hall stated, in conclusion, that he had since been aiming to be useful to his fellow-men, and had written a tract, the object of which was to call drunkards, and all sinners to repentance, of which more than one hundred thousand copies had been circulated. see tract no. . has the reader a relative, friend, or neighbor, who drinks his daily drams, and is plunging into that awful gulf which yearly swallows up its thousands of victims? let the above history suggest a duty, and encourage to its performance. this is not a solitary instance of victory obtained over powerful and raging appetite. there is evidence that tens of thousands of persons in the united states, who were once intemperate, have become sober, useful citizens; and not a few of them ardent christians. and this has been effected, not by despising and reproaching them, but chiefly through the divine blessing on _the kind personal influence of friends_, excited by no other motive than christian benevolence and love of their fellow-men. the self-despair of the intemperate mind arises, in a great measure, from the conviction that he is an outcast from public respect and sympathy. he is moved by the language of kindness; and if suitably warned of his danger, and pointed to the way of escape, may be saved from ruin. persuade him to refrain till reason resumes her sway, and the burning desire for stimulus has subsided. a few months will generally effect this great change. in his sober hours he often weeps over his folly, his ear is open to the voice of friendship, and he will yield to kind remonstrance--perhaps consent to place himself under the care of a temperate physician. _go to him when alone_, with tenderness and love. offer him such aid as is needed by himself or family. give him the above history, in view of which none need despair. bring him, if possible, to the house of god. go to him again and again, till you obtain his pledge, to abstinence. follow him with kindness. support him in the struggle. induce him _utterly to abandon all that can intoxicate, as his only safety_; wholly to-refrain from the _place_ and the _company_ where intoxicating drinks are used; and in dependence on christ, humbly to offer the prayer, "hold thou me up, and i shall be safe." interest yourself in his welfare, and persevere till you gain the glorious triumph--the conquest of an _immortal mind_, that may diffuse blessings on every side in this life, and be a star in the redeemer's crown of glory for ever. published by the american tract society. the eventful twelve hours; or, the destitution and wretchedness of a drunkard. [illustration: drunk's ill wife fainting] "it is a sorrowful heart," said i to myself, as i raked over the dying embers upon the hearth, to throw a transient gleam of light over my dreary cottage--"it is a sorrowful heart that never rejoices; and though i am somewhat in debt at the _blue moon_, and the landlady of the _stag_ has over and over again said she'd never trust me, still she has not yet refused me, only at first. many's the shilling i have paid them both, to be sure," said i, rising involuntarily and going to the cupboard: "i had better take a mouthful before i go out, for it's no use to wait any longer for mary's return." just at this moment the eldest of my two children inquired in a piteous tone, "if that was mother." "your mother? no," said i; "and what if it was, what then?" "because, father," continued the child, "i thought perhaps she had brought a loaf of bread home, for i am so hungry." "hungry, child," said i; "then why did you not ask me before you went to bed?" "because, father, i knew there was no bread. when mother sent me to get a loaf this morning at the grocer's, mrs. mason said our last month's bill had not yet been settled, and she could not trust any more; and so we have only had a few potatoes. when mother went out to look for work, she promised to bring a loaf home very early." "why, jane," said i, "this is a new story--what, is there nothing at all in the house?" "no, father, nothing; and that is not all, father; mother cried this morning about it when she went out; and though she never uses bad words, said something about cursed drink: she said she should be back before dark, and it has now been dark a long time, and hark, how it rains." the fire flickered up a little, and at this moment the latch of the door clicked; i peeped up through the gloom, a pang of conscious shame stealing through my frame; but it was not my wife, as i of course supposed--it was mrs. mason. i was surprised and confused. "where is your wife, james?" said she, in a mild, firm tone. "is that mother?" said my child again, in a rather sleepy tone; "i am so glad you are come, i am so hungry." "that child," said i, "has gone to bed without her supper to-night," fumbling about at the same time upon the mantel-piece for a bit of candle, which i could not find. "yes," said mrs. mason, very gravely, "and without its dinner too, i fear; but where is your wife, james? for i am come to see whether she brought any thing home with her for herself and family; for i could not feel comfortable after i had refused your child a loaf this morning, just as i know the refusal was." i now stammered out something about "sorry," and "ashamed," and "bad times." "but where _is_ your wife, james?" "she is, perhaps, at neighbor wright's," said i, briskly, glad to catch an opportunity of a minute's retreat from my present awkward position; "i'll just step and see. jane, get up, child." "no, james," said mrs. mason, in a tone not to be misunderstood; "no, james, i wish she was sitting by their comfortable fireside; i called in there just now, as i came along, to pay a little bill, and they spoke very kindly of your wife, and hoped she might be enabled to rub through this winter--but i will call again in half an hour: mary will have come home, i hope, by that time." the door closed upon her, and i remained in a kind of half stupor; my month's unpaid bill, my public-house scores, my destitute home; these and a thousand things connected with my situation, kept me musing in no very comfortable frame of mind, when the latch again clicked, the door opened, and through the half gleam of one flickering flame, i just caught the glimpse of a form, that in the next instant, cold and wet, sunk lifeless in my arms. it was mary. as she sunk down upon me, she just said, with a shudder, "cold." shall i stop to tell you of the agony of my mind? shall i endeavor to relate a portion of the thoughts that chased each other with a comet's rapidity through my brain; the remembrance of our past comforts, and our happiness too? recovering after the lapse of an instant, i called, "jane, jane, get up, and make haste; your mother is come home, and is very ill and faint; get a light"--she was quickly at my side--"get a light," for the little unfriendly flame had ceased to burn. "but where are you, mother?" said jane. "jane, child," said i, angrily, "your mother is here; get a light directly." "we haven't a bit of candle, father." "then get some wood out of the back room--break up some little bits--o, do make haste." "we haven't a bit of wood, father." "child, child--" "yes, father, but we haven't any." my poor wife at this moment gave a kind of sob, and with a slight struggle, as if for breath, sunk heavier in my arms. i tried to hold her up in an easier posture, calling to her in a tender manner, "mary, my dear mary;" but my sensations and my conscience almost choked me. in this moment of anguish and perplexity, my wife, for aught i knew, dead in my arms--without light, without fuel, without food, without credit, mrs. mason returned. jane had managed to make the fire burn up, just so as to disclose our wretched situation. "your wife ill?" said mrs. mason, hastily stepping forward--"very ill, i fear, james, and wet and cold--run hastily, james," reaching herself a broken chair, "and call in mrs. wright, and place your wife on my lap." this i immediately did, and as i opened the door to go out, i heard mrs. mason ask jane to get a light--and shame made me secretly rejoice, that i had escaped the humiliation, for the present, of confessing that we had not even a bit of a candle in the house. mrs. wright was preparing for supper: they were regular and early folks, and my heart sunk within me when, in my hurry, i unceremoniously opened the door--i mean the contrast i saw between their cottage and my own; a clean cloth was laid, with spoons, and basins, and white, clean plates, and knives and forks, with every other necessary comfort. wright was sitting with his back towards the fire, with a candle in one hand and a book in the other, reading to his wife, who was leaning forward, and just in the act of taking a pot off the hanger, in which it would be easy to guess, was something warm for supper. the fire and candle gave a cheerful light, and every thing looked "comfortable." "my wife is taken very ill," said i, "and mrs. mason, who has just stepped in, begged me to call in your help." "mrs. mason at your house now?" said mrs. wright; "come, wright, reach me my cloak, and let us make haste and go." we were all at the door, when mrs. wright said, "what, come to fetch us without a lantern? and ours is at the glazier's. what are we to do?" "the distance is very short," i said. "yes," said wright, "but long enough for an accident; how i do like necessaries;" adding, in an undertone, as he pulled his wife along, something about "enough for _tavern debts_, but nothing to buy _necessaries_." on opening my cottage door, i called out--for no one was in the room--"mrs. mason, are you up stairs? how is mary? here is mrs. wright; shall i come up?" no one answered, and mrs. wright passed me, going softly up stairs, saying, in a low tone, as she ascended, "james, you had better make up a good fire, and get some water heated as fast as you can." again i was aghast. "get some water heated," said i; and the wretchedness of our bedless bed and furnitureless room crossed my mind at the same time. mrs. mason, at this moment, leaned over the banisters, and said, in a soft voice, "james, fetch the doctor, and lose no time; make haste, for life may depend on it." my wretchedness seemed now complete; the very fire of delirium and confusion seemed to seize upon my brain; and hastily calling out to jane to attend upon mr. wright, i snatched up my hat, and pushed by my neighbor without heeding some inquiries he had begun about the necessaries that were then so much required. it rained, and was very dark; the road to the doctor's was not the best, and he lived rather more than a mile off; it was impossible to proceed faster than a slow, cautious walk. i was now alone, and, in much bitterness of spirit, began to upbraid myself, and those companions of my folly who had led me on to habits that had first disgraced, and then brought me to severe ruin. with what vivid brightness did the first year of our marriage, its comforts and its hopes, again pass before me; and when my mind led me on through all its changing scenes, up to the moment when mrs. mason, in her low, subdued tone of voice, called to me to fetch the doctor, and to mind i lost no time; i could only realize my wife as dying, and myself the cruel tyrant who had, by neglect, ill usage, and partial starvation, brought her to an untimely end. when i entered the doctor's house, "is that you, james king?" said he, sharply; "do you want me?" "yes, sir," said i; "my wife is very ill, and mrs. mason, who called in just at the time she was taken, desired me to come and to request your attendance upon her. i am afraid, sir, it is no little affair." "mrs. mason, mrs. mason," said the doctor; "i am inclined to think mrs. mason has better drugs in her shop for your wife's complaint, than my shop affords, and i expect i shall have to tell her so." i hung down my head with shame; i understood what he meant. he then moved towards the door, putting on his greatcoat as he walked along. "but stop," said he, just as we got to the outer door, "how did you come--no lantern?" "i can carry your lantern before you, sir," said i. "yes," said he, "and _i_ may bring it back." "but i will return with you, sir; my wife will most likely want some medicine." "yes, james," said he, "and if she does, i shall want the money longer still." i had no word to reply, it was no time to begin being independent. the doctor's large glass lantern was brought, and our journey back was quickly performed. i should have thought a great deal of giving _s._ _d._ for such a lantern, if i had really required just such an one; yet i had paid as many pounds on my scores, and thought nothing at all about it. on getting home, i found that somehow it had been managed to make up a good fire, and the tea-kettle was boiling, and mrs. mason was just making a little tea. "how is mary?" said i, hardly daring to look mrs. mason in the face. "well, mrs. mason," said the doctor, "pray what is the matter?" and as the doctor spoke, mrs. mason took up the jug of tea she had made, conversed with the doctor in an undertone for half a minute, and both walked up stairs, leaving me again to reflection, in fact, taking no notice of me. i sunk down heavily upon the chair that was beside the fire, in a state of exhaustion, and while i was wondering where all this would end, was aroused by the cry of "james, james, the doctor says your wife must put her feet into warm water; so bring up some directly, james, in a large pan or bucket, or any thing that is handy; pray, make haste;" and before i could reply, for i doubted whether there was either, the door was shut, and again i was placed in a new difficulty. however, i found an old leaky pail and an old broken pan; so i set the pail into the pan to catch the leakage, and together, they did tolerably well; but i felt considerable shame as i handed this lumbering affair up stairs, well knowing it would call forth some remark. i had just again seated myself at the fire, when the doctor, in no very gentle tone, called out, "james, here, man, take this paper to my office; mr. armstrong will give you some physic for your wife, and then it will be twice given, for i suppose you will never pay for it." i stared at him, or rather paused and hesitated--who could tell why? was it the taunts i was thus obliged to endure; or was it bodily exhaustion? i had eaten all the food my poor mary had put into my basket for my breakfast; and, as it appeared, all she had in the world; yet i had managed to borrow sixpence at noon, intending to buy me a loaf and cheese, and half a pint of beer for my dinner; but venturing upon half a pint of beer first, i called for another; and, becoming thirsty, for a pint; and so my dinner and my afternoon's work were both lost together. it must now have been nearly ten o'clock, and i had tasted no food, as i said before, since breakfast. i felt faint, and well i might; however, with a heavy step and a heavier heart, taking up the doctor's lantern, and looking round upon the empty wretchedness before me, i again set out for the doctor's. and did i not also think over neighbor wright's comfortable, cheerful room, and his boiling pot; while i, who had that day spent a borrowed sixpence upon beer, had not even a crust of bread for myself or family? and did i forget the pence, and then the shillings, and then the pounds i had paid at public-houses; selling, and pawning my bed from under me, and my clothes from off my back, and all to gain misery and want, and lose my good name? mr. armstrong was a kind-hearted young man, and soon prepared the medicines, and by kind and cheerful hopes concerning my poor mary, and a little civil conversation, raised my spirits, and i walked back somewhat lighter of heart; but i was thoroughly wet, and the cold rain pierced my very marrow, for i was wearing summer clothing in the winter season--i had no other. cold and wet, exhausted and miserable, i once more lifted the latch of my own cottage door. the candle was dimly burning. my fears arose, and my heart sunk within me: "is mary worse?" said i. "she is no better," said mr. wright, who was sitting over the dying embers--"no better--heavy work, james." i placed the medicine upon the table, and sat down, exhausted and wretched. whose situation so low, could he have known all, that would not have pitied me? wright rose, and carried the medicines up stairs; and in another minute all was the stillness of death. i could have borne any thing but this--at least i so felt--but under this oppressive stillness, my feelings gave way in torrents of tears, and every moment brought a fresh accusation against myself for my past doings; and again i looked around me, as well as my tearful eyes and dimly-lighted room would allow, and contrasted all with john wright's. "so comfortable," said i, involuntarily. indistinct sounds and cautious steppings were now heard above; and while i was raising myself up to listen, in order to catch, if possible, something that would acquaint me with the state of my poor mary, the bedroom door opened, and down came wright and his wife, the latter carefully lighting the doctor, mrs. mason being close behind him. i tried to recover myself a little, and to assume something like the appearance of courage; and in a half-choked, coughing voice, said, "how is my poor wife, sir?" the doctor, with a severity of manner, and imitating my manner of speaking, replied, "you should have coughed sooner, james;" then turning to mrs. mason, said, "remember, _quiet_ is the best medicine _now_; indeed, it is food and medicine in her present state; don't teaze her about any thing; at half past, mind--and again at twelve, until the pain subsides, when sleep will follow." i shrunk back at the words "half past," which reminded me that i had not even a twenty-shilling clock in the house. "james," said the doctor, "have you no time in the house?" "no, i suppose not," he answered himself. "well, then, you must guess at it; oh dear, bad work indeed. come, james, put that bit of candle into the lantern; i hope it does not rain now." wright opened the door, and i walked out with the lantern, the doctor following, and, buttoning his coat closely round him, remarked upon the darkness of the night. i walked on with an unsteady step, feeling as if every yard of ground i strode over would be the last. but, urged on by my situation, i reached the doctor's house without any remark from him upon my wearied step, and pulled his bell in rather a hasty manner. "you are in a hurry, james," said he, "you forget the time of night; a gentle pull would have waked the attendant without disturbing my family. _my_ family are very regular, james, and i make it a rule never to disturb them when it can be avoided; perhaps you think such things of no consequence: regularity, james, and sobriety, are two very principal things in a family." by this time the attendant appeared, and, giving him the lantern and thanking the doctor for his kind attention, i left the door to return home. the door closed, and my situation was a very painful one; the sudden change from light to utter darkness obliged me to stand still a few minutes before i could venture to move, but a world of sensations ran through my mind, and distracted me more than ever; the weakness of my body prevented my checking its sensations; and, could i have weighed in the balance of reason, to say nothing of religion, at this moment, all foolish, sinful pleasures--falsely so called--of drinking, with the distress of mind and weariness of body i then endured, and had endured on this one single night, how light would they have seemed. yes, even if i had not included the loss of positive property and health. once again, then, i reached my home. all was still; but soon mrs. mason came down. before i could speak, she said, "mary is better, james; she has fallen into a nice sleep." she spoke kindly, and looked kindly. i tried to answer her, but my feelings choked me; and seeing my effort to suppress them, she continued, "god has dealt very mercifully, james, towards you, in so blessing the means that have been used; but you have had no supper; you will find some nice warm soup by the side of the fire there; mrs. wright sent it in for you, by her husband, when she returned home: come, james, eat it while it is warm, it will do you good; your little girl and boy have both had some, and they are now warm in bed and fast asleep." "mr. and mrs. wright are very kind," i added, "and you are kind; what should i have done but for you and them?" "done, james?" said she mildly; "done, james? see how god orders his dispensations; 'in the midst of wrath he remembers mercy,' and i trust he has purposes of mercy in this event towards you and your family; but beware, james, for the bible expressly says, 'my son, despise not the chastening of the lord;' and again, 'whom the lord loveth, he chasteneth.' but eat your supper; i will step up stairs and see if your wife is still sleeping, and if she is, i will come down and chat a little with you." as she went softly up stairs my eyes followed her, and i said to myself, this is one of your religious ones, is it, that i have so often joined in jeering at? surely i ate my supper with a thankful heart, and was much strengthened by it. mrs. mason soon returned, and stepping into the back room, where jane lay, and her little brother, brought out three or four billets of wood, and a cheerful fire was soon made; so that with my warm, nourishing supper, the cheerful fire, and mrs. mason's mild and cheerful countenance and manner, i regained my spirits, and a considerable portion of my strength. after a little pause, she said, "james, when mary recovers, if it should please god to order it so, great care will be required lest she should relapse. you would not wish to lose her, james; she has, i believe, been a kind and affectionate wife to you, and a tender mother to your children. when you were first married every thing went well with you, and it was a remark i often made of you as a neighbor, that you wanted nothing but the true fear of god in your heart, and faith in our blessed saviour, to make you a pattern to all around you. i used often to say a few words to mary, and she always received them meekly, but i seldom saw you, and your manner never gave me any encouragement to talk to you on religious subjects. james, experience has enabled me to make one remark, that _absence from divine worship_, as a regular or customary thing, is an almost unerring sign of the absence of religion from the heart; and it is indeed seldom that i have seen you in your place on the sabbath-day. the sabbath is a blessed day when it is spent aright." so leaving me, she again went up stairs, remarking that mr. wright had been home to her house, to explain the cause of her absence, (and as i tolerably well guessed, this partly explained the mystery of fire and candle, and tea and sugar, and bread,) adding, "mrs. wright will come in at daylight, and will stay with mary, and that will allow me to attend to my morning's business: you know, james, the bible says, 'diligent in business, fervent in spirit, serving the lord.'" i longed to go and see my poor mary, but i was not asked, and i supposed it right that it should be so. i now thought of my poor children; and going into their room, i felt distressed to find them so badly provided with bed-clothes. i kissed them, and secretly prayed, in a kind of way, that i might be spared to care more for them than i had lately done. i sat down, and began to reflect upon all the circumstances of the past day, and of this eventful night; but i soon fell into a sound sleep, which continued until mrs. mason awoke me, informing me that it was nearly daylight, and reminded me of her intentions to return home to her duties as soon as mrs. wright should arrive. "and why wait for mrs. wright, madam?" said i; "surely i can attend upon mary now, or at least until mrs. wright does come." "it is very natural," said mrs. mason, "that you should desire to attend upon your wife, and think yourself capable of doing so; but my most particular directions from the doctor were, not to allow you to see your wife, if i could prevent you, until he had seen her once more; and you may remember, james, in how grave a manner he directed she might not in any way be teazed, nor--but, james, to deal honestly with you, and rightly as i consider it, whatever may be your future conduct to your wife, your behavior to her for these last three years has not been quite kind; and as grief and depression have very much to do with her present illness, we are all of opinion that you had better refrain from going to see her until she is more composed. you have bruised, james; seek now to heal." i was touched with the reproof; i was, perhaps, more touched by the manner. mrs. mason was one who sought to win souls: she won my esteem and confidence, and i felt that if mrs. mason could talk to me thus, i had still something to lose. i went to call mrs. wright. on my return, mrs. mason was up stairs, but she had placed nearly a whole loaf and a piece of butter on the table, and some tea and sugar, and the kettle was singing by the fireside. these were times of deep thought to me. on mrs. wright's arrival, i thanked her for her great kindness, and hoped better times were in store. "yes," she replied, "better times may be in store for you; i hope they are; you have certainly bought your corn at a very dear market lately, but you _may_ find a better one to go to yet." mrs. mason now appeared, and ready to go home; the morning had just fully dawned. "come, james," said she, "you must go with me; i want to send back a few things to mary; and mind, you must not leave the house to-day after your return, and your little girl ought to be sent to account for your absence from work--that is, james, if--" "if, madam?" said i quickly; "if what?" "yes, james, if you think you can maintain a new character, and desire really to become again, what i well remember you once was, a respectable man; yes, james, a respectable man; for remember, that word is the just right of every man who acts as every man ought to do. the word seems to surprise you: it is a sad mistake that seems insensibly to have crept into common acceptance in these days, that respectability must mean something belonging rather to riches and rank, than honesty and uprightness of character; respectability is as much the birthright of yourself as of young 'squire mills; indeed, i may say that on this point, you both started in life exactly equal: his father was indeed respectable in every sense of the word; and your father was certainly nothing behind him; both faithfully discharged the duties of that station 'into which it pleased god to call them,' and this i consider, from the king to the cottager, is to be respectable; but, james, the young 'squire is as _respectable_ a man, i am happy to say, as his father was, and why should not you become as respectable as yours? i have lived to see many changes, but the change i most mourn over, is the change of principle in my neighbors. their respectability seems to be exchanged for finer clothes and fewer fireside, fewer home comforts; and i happen also to know, that if very much of the grain that has been made into poisonous beer and whiskey had been made into good wholesome bread, both you and i, james, should have been better off, i think, than we are now, for i have had my struggles as well as you; so have many others. i have worked early and late, taking care of _the pence_, to maintain my respectability; yet, let me again repeat it, your father and mother were respectable to the day of their death, and many in this village would gladly see their only child following their footsteps, and seeking the same inheritance they now possess 'in mansions in the skies.' but the road leads down hill to vice and folly, and i might add, the gulf of ruin lies at the bottom; you may be far down it; i fear you are, yet there is a hand that even now beckons to you, and says, 'turn, turn, i have no pleasure in the death of him that dieth; wherefore turn and live:' but, james, you are not ignorant of your bible." i tried to conceal my emotions, for it was a very long time since i had heard such words as these. my bible and the house of god had been long entirely neglected. mrs. mason perceived that i was affected, and moving towards the door, said, "yes, james, it is a slippery, down-hill path that leads to ruin, and many there be that walk therein. heaven may be said to lie upward, yet 'its ways are ways of pleasantness, and all its paths are peace.' but come, it is broad daylight, and i must hasten home." as we passed neighbor wright's cottage, i had not forgotten the comfort that was within, and i said secretly, "i'll see what's to be done." the arrival of mrs. mason at home seemed to give to all the liveliest pleasure and satisfaction; and their inquiries after my poor wife were made with a kindliness of manner that surprised me. "they respect her," said i to myself; they took little notice of me, yet treated me with more civility than i had a right to expect. mrs. mason soon put up a few little things and directed me to give them to mrs. wright, and weighing me a pound of bacon, and putting a large loaf and half a pound of cheese into the basket with it, with some soap and candles, said, "i shall charge _these_ to your bill, james. patty, go into the garden and cut james a couple of nice cabbages; i dare say he will know what to do with them." having had this unexpected provision made me for the day, and receiving parting words of encouragement from this kind friend, i returned home. i found my children up and washed, and breakfast ready. mrs. wright had kindly done this. jane looked cheerful, and my little harry came edging towards me, as if he did not know what to make of all this. "mother's so ill, jane says, father--is she; is she, father?" looking up in my face as i sat down, "is she?" "she is better now, my boy," i said. "better, father? who made her ill? _you_ didn't make her ill, did you, father--nice bread, father--did mother bring this nice bread home, father? speak, father, you don't speak." i could not trust myself to answer; so i rose, for i was much affected at the thought that mrs. mason had cared for these babes and their mother, but i had neglected them, and foolishly squandered away their comforts and even their necessary bread. mrs. wright went home; but returned soon after we had finished breakfast; and by the time i had put things a little to rights, the doctor called. his "well, james," filled me with no very pleasing sensations. "i hope we shall have a change, eh, james?" and passing on, went up stairs. ah, thought i, i hope so too, for i know what you mean. he soon came down; said my wife might get up if she liked, taking a little care, and, "after to-day, give her a pill every noon for dinner off a loin of mutton, eh, james? a few more broiled pills for _her_, and a pint less of liquor for _you_, and your old father and mother would soon come to life again. _your_ savings' bank is at the tavern, and the landlady of the stag keeps your accounts, i believe, eh, james? i shall charge you nothing for this." this was the doctor. i received his reproofs humbly, and certainly thought, you have been very kind, but i also thought, you are not mrs. mason. soon after this, my poor mary came down stairs, and i at once confessed my sorrow for my past conduct, and my determination to _drink no more_; and, to conclude, my wife slowly recovered, and, i may add, i recovered also; but i was very far down the hill, and consequently found it a long and hard tug to get up again; but mrs. mason encouraged me, mrs. wright helped me, the doctor cheered me, mr. armstrong praised me, our kind minister instructed me, my wife assisted me, and, as a crowning point of all, the blessing of god rested on me. i worked hard, i prayed in my family, i paid my debts, i clothed my children, i redeemed my bed, i mended my windows, i planted my garden and sold garden stuff, instead of buying; i bought me a wheel-barrow, i mended my chairs and table, i got me a clock; and now here i am, but never shall i forget john wright or his wife, how long soever i may remember my other kind friends, and most of all, mrs. mason. but there were no temperance societies in those days, or i think i should have been reclaimed sooner. the lost mechanic restored. [illustration: reformed drunk re-employed] near the close of , says mr. c----, of hartford, conn., i was requested by a pious and benevolent lady, to take into my employ a young man who had become intemperate. i objected that the influence of such a man would be injurious to my other workmen, and especially my apprentices. but the kind-hearted lady urged her request, saying that he was willing to come under an engagement not to drink at all, and to conform strictly to all the regulations of the establishment; that she received him into her family when a boy, and felt a deep interest in his welfare; that he had learned a trade, and was an excellent workman; had become hopefully pious, and united with one of our churches; had married a very worthy young woman, but his intemperance had blasted his fair prospects. he was now sensible of his danger; and she believed his salvation for this, if not for a future world, would turn on my decision. i consented to make the trial; and he came, binding himself, by a written contract, to receive no part of his wages into his own hands, and to forfeit whatever should be due to him, in case he became intoxicated. he succeeded remarkably in my business, was industrious and faithful, and strictly temperate and regular in all his habits. but in the summer of , he was by some means induced to taste again an intoxicating drink, and a fit of drunken insanity ensued, which continued about a fortnight. knowing that his wife had some money, he gave her no peace, day nor night, till he got possession of it. he then took the boat for new york, spent the money, and after bartering some of his clothes, returned, a most destitute and wretched object. after he had become sober and rational once more, i happened to meet him in the street, and asked him why he did not come to work as usual. with a voice trembling and suppressed, and with a look of grief, self-reproach, and despair that i shall never forget, he said, "i can never come into your shop again. i have not only violated my contract with you, but i have treated you with the basest ingratitude, proved myself unworthy of your confidence, and destroyed the last hope of my reformation." i assured him of my increased desire for his welfare; he returned to his employment, and his attention to business evinced the sincerity of his confessions. but not more than three months had elapsed before he was taken again in the toils of his old deceiver; and at this time he was so furious and unmanageable, that he was arrested and committed to the workhouse. he was soon released, and engaged once more in my business. he continued for about two months, when he fell again; and after a frenzy of a week, came to me and begged me to take him to the workhouse, as the only means by which he should get sober. he remained there a few days, and then returned to his work. such was his history: a few months sober, industrious, and obliging in my shop; kind, attentive, and affectionate in his family; then a week furiously drunk, absent from my shop, violent and abusive in his family; then at the workhouse; and then sober, and at home again. he had already been excommunicated from the church for his intemperance, had become a terror to his wife, who frequently sent for me to protect her from his violence, and seemed to be utterly abandoned. in the month of may, , he was again missing; and no one, not even his wife, knew what had become of him. but in the course of the summer she received a letter from him, in which he said he had got employment, and wished her, without informing me where he was, to come and live with him. she accordingly removed to his new residence, and i heard nothing from either of them. about two years and a half after this, he came into my shop one day; but how changed. instead of the bloated, wild, and despairing countenance that once marked him as a drunkard, he now wore an aspect of cheerfulness and health, of manliness and self-respect. i approached, took him by the hand, and said, "well, ----, how do you do?" "_i am well_," said he, shaking my hand most cordially. "yes," said i, "well in more respects than one." "_yes, i am_," was his emphatic reply. "_it is now more than two years since i have tasted a drop of any thing that can intoxicate._" he began by abstaining from ardent spirits only; "but," said he, "i soon found that what you had so often told me was true; that i could not reform but by abstaining from all that can intoxicate. i have done so, and you see the result." i then inquired after the health of his wife and child: his reply was, "they are well and happy." i asked him if "his wife made him any trouble" now. "trouble," said he, "no; and never did make any: it was i that made the trouble. you told me so, and i knew it at the time. _but what could i do?_ so long as i remained here, i could not turn a corner in your streets without passing a grog-shop. i could not go to my meals without coming in contact with some associate who would try to entice me to drink with him; and even the keepers of these shops would try every artifice to induce me to drink; for they knew that if they could get me to taste once, i should never know when to stop, and they would be sure to get a good bill against me. "i have now come," said he, "to tell you why i left you. it was because i knew that i should die if i did not leave off drinking, and i saw distinctly that i could never leave off while i remained in hartford. my only hope was, in going where liquor was not to be had." about two years and a half after this, he applied to me for further employment, as the business he was following had failed. i told him there was no man whom i should rather employ, but i could not think of having him encounter again the temptations which he had so miraculously escaped. he very pleasantly replied, "i am a man now, and do not believe i have any thing more to fear from the temptations of the city than you have." i told him that i had confidence in the firmness of his purpose, but feared to see it put to the test. yet, as he was out of business, i consented; and no man that i ever employed did better, or was more deserving of confidence and respect. he continued with me till spring, when he proposed to take his work into the country, so that he could be with his family: the arrangement was made, and i employ him still. on the fourth of july last, ( ,) the sunday-schools in the town where he resides made arrangements for a celebration, and i was invited to be present and address them. as i looked upon the audience, the first countenance that met my eye was that of this very man, _at the head of his sunday-school class_. the sight almost overwhelmed me. instead of a loathsome, drunken maniac--a terror to his family and a curse to society, whose very presence was odious, and his example pestilential--he was then, in the expressive language of scripture, "clothed, and in his right mind;" and was devoted to the heavenly work of guiding children to christ and salvation. he had made a public profession of religion, which he was daily honoring by a life of christian meekness and sobriety. o, who can comprehend the tide of domestic joy, of social happiness, and of christian consolation which flows through the heart of this man and his family, in consequence of this change in his habits? now, what was the cause of this surprising change? what wrought this wonderful transformation in this individual? the whole story is told in one short line. _he went where intoxicating liquor was not sold._ had he remained in this city, he would probably long since have been laid in the drunkard's grave. published by the american tract society. reformation of drunkards. truly we live in an age of wonders. under peculiar influences, hundreds and thousands of once hopeless drunkards are becoming sober men--yet the work of reform has but commenced. it is computed that there are in the land no less than five hundred thousand habitual inebriates. the condition of each individual calls for sympathy and aid, that he may become a sober man, and through the blessing of god, gain eternal life. for drunkenness there is and can be no apology; but the condition of the drunkard is often pitiable in the extreme. however gradual, or respectable, may have been his progress in the descent called _temperate drinking_, the appetite now _is formed_ within him--the drunkard's appetite. wretched man! he feels what not faintly resembles the gnawing of "the worm that never dies." he asks for help. there are times when he would give worlds to be reformed. every drunkard's life, could it be written, would tell this in letters of fire. he struggles to resist the temptation, causes himself to be shut up in prison, throws himself on board a temperance ship for a distant voyage, seeks new alliances and new employments, wrestles, agonizes, but all in vain. he rises to-day but to fall to-morrow; and amid disappointment and reproach, poverty and degradation, he says, "let me alone, i cannot live," and plunges headlong to destruction. who will come to his rescue? who will aid in the deliverance of thousands of thousands from this debasing thraldom of sin and satan? our aid they must have. their _number_ demands it. half a million, chiefly adults, often heads of families, having each a wife and children, making miserable a million and a half of relatives and friends. they pass, too, in rapid succession. ten years is the measure of a generation, and if nothing is done to save them, in the next forty years two millions may be swept into eternity. their personal degradation and suffering require it. what would we not do to pull a neighbor out of the water, or out of the fire, or to deliver him from algerine captivity, or wrest him from the hand of a pirate or midnight assassin? but what captivity, what pirate, what murderer so cruel as alcohol? their _families_ plead for it. the innocent and the helpless, the lambs, in the paw of the tiger, and that tiger a husband and father. amid hungering and thirsting, cold and nakedness, humiliation and shame, sufferings which no pen can describe, they ask for aid. _the good of the community_ demands it. while they live as they do, they are only a moth and a curse. the moment they are reformed, society is relieved of its greatest burden. the poor-house and the jail become almost tenantless. _the practicability of a sudden and complete reform of every drunkard in the land_ calls for it. this, science has denied. religion has only said, "with man it is impossible, but not with god; for with god all things are possible." but science yields to experiment, and religion marches on joyful in the footsteps of providence. thousands among us say, "how it has been done, we know not. one thing we know, that whereas once we were drunkards, now we are sober men." but above all, _the salvation of the soul_ makes it indispensable. temperance is not religion. outward reformation is not religion; but by this reform a great obstacle is removed, and thousands of these miserable men may be brought into the kingdom of god. the strong chain that has been thrown around them by the "prince of the power of the air," is broken. they may be approached as they never could be before. conviction of sin is fastened upon their conscience. gratitude inspires their bosoms. good men are, of choice, their companions. the dram-shop is exchanged for the house of god. a bible is purchased. their little ones they bring to the door of the sabbath-school. they flee affrighted from the pit; and, through grace, many lift up their hands imploringly to heaven, as the only refuge for the outcast, the home for the weary. this has been the operation of the reform in england. of thirty-five thousand reformed drunkards in that country, fifty-six hundred have become members of christian churches, having hope in god and joy in the holy ghost. so it has been in scotland; many there now sing of grace and glory. so it manifestly is in america, and so will it be more and more around the world, as ministers and christians meet them in kindness and lead them to the waters of salvation. but what can we do? how can we aid the poor unfortunate drunkard? this is the question. all can do a little. some can do much. every man can get out of the way of his reform; cease setting him an example which proves his ruin; cease selling him an article which is death to the soul; discountenance the drinking usages of society, and those licensed and unlicensed dram-shops which darken the land. every man can speak an encouraging word to the wretched inebriate; tell him of what is doing in the land, allure him and go with him to the temperance-meeting, and urge him to sign the pledge; and when he has signed, comfort and strengthen him, give him employment, give him clothing; and if he falls, raise him up, and if he falls seven times, raise him up and forgive him. try it, christian brother. i know your heart beats in gratitude to god for what he has done; that he has raised up a new instrumentality for rescuing thousands of our race from the lowest degradation. it is a token of good for our country and the world. enter into this field of labor. "you know the grace of our lord jesus christ; that though he was rich, yet for our sakes he became poor, that we through his poverty might become rich." go imitate his example; become poor, if need be, to save the lost. "go out into the highways and hedges, and compel them to come in." try it, christian philanthropist. "it is good neither to eat flesh, nor to drink wine, nor any thing whereby thy brother stumbleth, or is offended, or made weak." sacrifices make the world happy, and god glorious. try it, christian female. it is work for your sex. woman is the greatest sufferer from intemperance: driven by it from her home; made an outcast from all the comforts of domestic love, while her babes cry for bread, and she has no relief. lost men will listen to your words of kindness, be cheered by your benefactions, encouraged by your smiles. try it, young men. have you no companions early palsied, withered, and scathed by alcoholic fires, treading now on the verge of the drunkard's grave? go after them in their misery. go, thanking god that you are not as they are. go, believing that you may save them; that they will receive you thankfully; that they must have your help, or be lost. go, and be strong in this work. the movements of providence call you to effort for the unfortunate and wretched, that you may pull them out of the fire. what you do in the blessed work, do quickly. o, if it be in your power to save one young man, do it quickly. run and speak to that young man. he will thank you for it. his father will thank you. his mother will thank you. his sisters will thank you. his immortal soul, rescued and saved, will love you for ever. to the poor unfortunate drunkard. my friend and brother--you are poor and wretched. a horrid appetite hurries you on in the road to ruin. abroad you are despised. home is a desolation. a heart-broken wife weeps over you, yet does not forsake you. she hopes, she waits for your reform and for better days. conscience bids you stop. but appetite, companions, and custom say, _one glass more_. that is a fatal glass. you rise but to fall again, and you feel that you can never reform. but you can reform. thousands and thousands around you have reformed, and would not for worlds go back to drinking. they are happy at home; respected abroad; well dressed; well employed; have no thirst for the dreadful cup. they feel for you. they say, "come thou with us, and we will do thee good." come _sign the pledge_, the pledge of total abstinence. in this is your only hope. this is a certain cure. touch not, taste not, handle not rum, brandy, whiskey, wine, cider, beer, or any thing that intoxicates, and you will be a new man, a happy man. begin now. try it now in the strength of the lord. from this good hour resolve that none of these accursed drinks shall ever enter your lips. the struggle may be severe, but it will soon be over. say then, "come life, come death, by the help of god i will be free." published by the american tract society. tom starboard and jack halyard. a nautical temperance dialogue. [illustration: tom starboard and jack halyard] jack. halloo, shipmate; what cheer? mayhap, however, you don't choose to remember an old crony. tom. why, jack, is that you? well, i must say, that if you hadn't hailed me i should have sailed by without knowing you. how you're altered! who would have supposed that this weather-beaten hulk was my old messmate jack halyard, with whom i've soaked many a hard biscuit, and weathered many a tough gale on old ocean? and then you used to be as trim in your rigging as the alert herself; but now it's as full of ends as the old wilmington brig that we used to crack so many jokes about at barbadoes. give me another grip, my hearty, and tell me how you come on. jack. bad enough, tom--bad enough. i'm very glad, however, to overhaul you again, and to find you so merry, and looking so fat and hearty. the world must have gone well with you, tom. tom. you may well say that, jack, and no mistake. the world has gone well with me. my appetite is good, my sleep sound; and i always take care to have a shot in the locker, and let alone a snug little sum in the seamen's savings-bank, that i've stowed away for squally times, or when i get old, so as to be independent of hospitals and retreats, and all that sort of thing. and what's more to the purpose, jack, i try to have a clean conscience--the most comfortable of all; don't you think so? jack. why yes, tom, i do think that a clean conscience must be a very comfortable thing for a man to have. but i can't brag much of mine now-a-days; it gives me a deal of trouble sometimes. tom. ah, that's bad, jack--very bad. but come, let me hear something about you since we parted, some four years or so ago. where have you last been, in what craft, etc.? give me a long yarn: you used to be a famous hand at spinning long yarns, you know, jack. don't you remember how angry old copper-nosed grimes used to get when the larboard watch turned in, and, instead of sleeping, we made you go ahead with the story you were on, which made him wish us all at davy jones' locker? ha, ha, ha. jack. o yes, tom, i remember it all very well; but-- tom. and then, don't you recollect how we used to skylark in the lee scuppers with those jolly fellows, buntline and reeftackle, until the luff had to hail, and send a middy with his _compliments_ to the _gentlemen_ of the larboard watch, and to say, that if _quite agreeable to them_, less noise would be desirable? i say, jack, you seem to have forgotten all these funny times in the alert. cheer up, man; don't be downhearted. give me your flipper again; and if you are really in trouble, you may be sure, that as long as your old messmate tom starboard has a shot in the locker, or a drop of blood in his veins, he'll stand by jack halyard--aye, aye, to the last. jack. thank you, tom--thank you. you were always an honest fellow, and meant what you said; so let us steer for the sign of "the jolly tar," round the corner, and over a bowl of hot flip we'll talk over old times, and-- tom. avast there, jack--avast, my hearty. none of your hot flip, or cold flip, or any other kind of flip for me. "the burnt child dreads the fire," as the old proverb says; and i am the child that was once pretty well scorched: but now i give it a wide berth. if you will come with me to my quiet boarding-house, "the sailor's home," i will be very glad to crack a joke with you; but you won't catch me in any such place as "the jolly tar," i can tell you. i mind what the old philadelphia quaker said to his son, who, as he was once coming out of a house of ill-fame, spied old broadbrim heaving in sight, and immediately wore ship. the old chap, however, who always kept his weather-eye open, had had a squint of young graceless, and so up helm and hard after he cracked, and following him in, hailed him with, "ah, obadiah, obadiah, thee should never be ashamed of _coming out_--thee should always be ashamed of _going in_." no, no, jack, i side with friend broadbrim: i won't enter such places. jack. well, i don't know, tom, but that you are about half right. i think, myself, that "the jolly tar" is not what it's cracked up to be. i am sure that neither the landlord nor the landlady look half as kindly on me as they did when i first came in, with plenty of money in my pocket. indeed, they have been pretty rough within the last few days, and tell me that i must ship, as they want my advance towards the score run up, of the most of which i am sure i know nothing; but it's always the way. tom. yes, jack, it's always the way with such folks. the poor tar is welcomed and made much of as long as his pockets are well lined; but let them begin to lighten, and then the smiles begin to slacken off; and when the rhino is all gone, poor jack, who was held up as such a great man, is frowned upon, and at last kicked out of doors: or if, mayhap, they have let him run up a score, he is hastily shipped off, perhaps half naked, and the advance is grabbed by the hard-hearted landlord, who made poor jack worse than a brute with his maddening poison. oh, jack, how my heart has bled at witnessing the cruel impositions practised upon our poor brother sailors by these harpies. but come, i want to hear all about my old messmate. if i am not greatly out of my reckoning, grog is at the bottom of all your troubles, and long faces, and sighs, and groans. cheer up, jack, and unbosom yourself to your old friend and pitcher. jack. well, tom, as i know you to be a sincere fellow, i will unbosom myself. you were never nearer your right latitude than when you said that grog was at the bottom of my troubles. yes, grog has pretty nearly used up poor jack halyard. a few years ago i was a light-hearted, happy fellow, and only drank because others did--not that i liked the taste particularly in those days, but i did it for good-fellowship, as it was called; and moreover, i did not like to seem odd; and when i shipped on board the man-of-war, where it was served out to us twice a day, i soon became fond of it. and you know we both used to long for the sun to get above the fore-yard, and for the afternoon middle watch, that we might splice the main-brace. sure i am that it was _there_ i first took a liking to the stuff; and o, tom, don't you think the government will have much to answer for, in putting temptation in the way of us poor sailors? instead of being our protector, it is our seducer. our blood will stick in its skirts. tom. yes, jack, i think that uncle sam has a great deal to answer for on that tack; and i can say, too, that the love of rum that i acquired in the government service had pretty nearly fixed my flint, both for this world and the next. but still, jack, it wont do for seamen to drink grog because the government supplies it, and think to excuse themselves by blaming it. no, no; that is a poor excuse. men who brave the dangers of the mighty deep, as our class do, and face death in every form with unshrinking courage, ought to be able to resist such a temptation. it will be a poor reason to hand in to the almighty when the angel summons all hands before his dread tribunal, in palliation of our drunkenness and the sins committed by us when under the influence of liquor, that the government, instead of comforting us, and fortifying us against heat and cold, etc., with coffee, and tea, and other wholesome small stores, poisoned our bodies and souls with vile rum. no, indeed, jack, that will avail us naught in that awful day; and it will be poor consolation _in the drunkard's hell_, to blame the government. but go on. jack. well, when the alert's cruise was up, and we were paid off, about a dozen of us went to lodge with old peter hardheart, at the sign of the foul anchor; and as we had plenty of money, we thought we would have a regular blow-out. so peter got a fiddler and some other unmentionable requisites for a jig, and we had a set-to in firstrate style. why, our great frolic at santa martha, when paddy chips, the irish carpenter, danced away his watch, and jacket, and tarpaulin, and nearly all his toggery, you know, and next morning came scudding along the beach towards the alert, as she lay moored near shore, and crept on board on all-fours, like a half-drowned monkey, along the best bower, wouldn't have made a nose to it. well, next morning i had a pretty smart touch of the horrors, and felt rather muddy about the head; but old peter soon set us agoing again, and we kept it up for three days and three nights, carriage-riding, and dancing, and drinking, and theatre-going, etc.; and we thought the world was too little for us: when all at once old hardheart took a round turn on us with, "i'll tell you what it is, you drunken swabs, i'll not have such goings-on in my house--my house is a decent house--you must all ship; yes, ship's the word. i must have the advance--you're more than a month's wages apiece in my debt." tom, i was sober in an instant. my conscience smote me. in three days i had squandered the wages of a three years' cruise, and had not a dollar left to take to my poor old mother in the country, whom i had intended to go to see after the frolic was over, and give all my money to. o tom, what a poor, pitiful, sneaking wretch i felt that i was. the two letters that i had received from her during my absence--so kind, so affectionate, and so full of fervent prayers to god that her poor boy might be preserved from the temptations that beset the sailor, and be brought safely back to her widowed arms--rushed to my remembrance, and overwhelmed me with grief; and i--i, who ought to have denied myself even innocent gratification until i had ministered to her wants, had forgotten the best of mothers, and had spent all of my hard earnings with the vilest of the vile. tom. poor jack, my heart bleeds for you; but cheer up, and go on. jack. well, to shorten a long story, i was the next day bundled, when about three sheets in the wind, on board a merchantman, with an empty chest, although it was winter, old hardheart nabbing the whole of my advance; and for two or three days, tom, i suffered awfully from the horrors. i thought i was already in the hell to which the wicked who don't repent must go. awake, asleep, at the helm, on the yard, in the storm, in the calm, everywhere i was haunted with the remembrance of my ingratitude to my poor dear mother--to her who had watched over me in helpless infancy and childhood; who had prayed over and for me so much; who had pinched herself to give me a snug outfit when i first went to sea; and who i knew had strained her poor old eyes in watching for the loved form of her jack--for the papers must have apprised her of the arrival of the alert two days after we got in. but, dear old woman, she watched in vain; jack had forgotten his best friend; he had herded with beasts, and had became a beast himself. o tom, what a miserable wretch i was. i sometimes tried to read in the bible that she had given me, but it seemed as if every verse was a fiery scorpion stinging me for my crimes and ingratitude. as the ship in which i was, sailed under the temperance clause, i could get no liquor on board, and i determined to shun the accursed thing ever after; to turn over a new leaf in my log-book of life; to save my money; and to become a steady, sober lad, so that i might after a while be made a mate, and then a master, and have a shot in the locker for my dear old mother. these good resolutions lasted as long as i had no liquor; but you will see that they vanished like smoke when i came ashore, on the return of the vessel. as the wind was light in the bay in coming up, we were boarded by several boats from sailor boarding-houses, and among the rest by old hardheart. when i saw him i fairly gritted my teeth with rage, for i had not forgotten how he treated me before; but he came up to me in so kind a manner, and inquired so affectionately after my health, and seemed to feel such a real interest in me, that i swallowed all his blarney and coaxing, and at last agreed to stop with him again for the night that i would be in the city, intending, the moment that we should be paid off next day, to steer straight for my old mother, if, mayhap, my cruelty had not broken her heart; and moreover, determining not to drink a drop of liquor in his house. tom. dear jack, i trust that you were able to keep that resolution. jack. you shall hear, tom. when we got to old peter's, i found, as usual, a good many people in the house; and the old woman and the girls were rejoiced to see me again, as they made out. the old woman at once proposed that we should celebrate my safe return in the big punch-bowl; but peter said, "no, jack has turned cold-water man, and he can't drink; but we'll drink for him." i observed that peter sneered whilst he said this, and so did all the rest, and it galled me a good deal. while the punch was brewing, some of the men whispered, "_white-liver_"--"_poor sneak_"--"_no sailor_;" and after the punch had passed round amongst them once or twice, i thought i would just take _one swig_, to show them that i was not the poor sneak they took me for, and no more. but, tom, that one swig sealed my doom: the danger's always in the first glass. the men cheered, and said they knew i was a man, and a _real seaman_, by the cut of my jib, and that i was too good for the temperance society; and the girls cast sheep's-eyes at me, and said that i was just the chap to run away with a woman's heart, and that my eyes were not made for the good of my soul, and such-like foolish and wicked talk. my weak head could not stand the punch, nor my vain heart the flattery, and i was soon regularly used up. instead of having a dollar to take home to my poor old mother, i found myself, in a few days, the second time penniless; was forced to ship again; got back; the same scenes were acted over; and here i am, the miserable wretch that you see me--light in purse, sick in body, and tormented in mind; the past a curse, the future despair. tom. well, jack, i must say, that your case is hard enough. but don't despair, my boy. many a poor fellow who has hung to a plank in mid-ocean until he thought it was surely all over with him, has been picked up and saved. the same kind providence who has watched over us, and preserved us in so many dangers, will not desert us. what we have to do is, to turn from every evil way, and humbly trusting in the merits of christ our saviour, look up to him for mercy, repent of all sin, and resolve, in his strength, to fear and obey him in future. and i trust, jack, that all will yet be well with you; and i rejoice that i have wherewithal to give you a lift towards fitting you out, and heading you off towards your old mother. jack. a thousand thanks, tom--a thousand thanks. "a friend in need is a friend indeed." you have lightened my mind of a heavy cargo of care by your kind offer, made with the frankness of a sailor, and which i must gratefully accept. and now that i have finished my long and mournful yarn, it is your turn; and to tell the truth, tom, i am exceedingly anxious to hear all about you. so heave ahead. tom. well, jack, here goes. you know when we left the alert we had plenty of rhino in our pockets. so i intended to steer straight for my native village, in the state of pennsylvania, where i had left my old father and a sweet, dear little sister, three years before, to cheer their hearts with a sight of their sailor-boy, and to make them comfortable with the cash. unfortunately, as i passed through philadelphia, i went with some wild fellows to the theatre--to so many the gateway to hell--and having grog enough aboard to make me pretty crank and foolish, i soon found myself in the third tier among the painted fire-ships; and as the proverb says, "when the wine is in, the wit is out," so i was led as the simple one of scripture, "like an ox to the slaughter." truly, jack, "her house is the way to hell, going down to the chambers of death." the consequences you may readily imagine. i was made to drink until i was quite insensible; was robbed of all my money, and then turned out of doors into the cold street. when i came to myself it was nearly sunrise, and i could not imagine how i had got there. my head swam, my bones ached, and i felt as if it was "blue monday" with me. i staggered off not knowing where i was or whither i went, for half an hour or more, when i sat down on a flight of steps, and fell asleep. when i awoke, all the horrors of my situation rushed upon my mind; and o, jack, i felt the raging hell in my bosom that you did when hardheart first shipped you off. how sunk and degraded in my own eyes. i determined, however, upon going home, as the distance was short--only fifteen miles--and a bitter journey it was, jack. i thought on my madness and folly, and wondered, with the poor ignorant indian, why people would put an enemy into their mouths to steal away their brains. instead of going to meet my dear father and sweet little sister with a joyous face and a pocket full of money, with which to make their hearts sing for joy, i was returning, like the prodigal son, from feeding upon husks with swine--poor, and with a heavy heart and a gnawing conscience. o the hell, jack, of a bad conscience. it is the beginning of the existence of the worm that never dies, and of the fire that is never quenched. it is a foretaste of that eternal hell prepared for those who persist in violating god's holy laws. well, i reached home at last, and a sad home i found it. the sand of my dear father's glass was almost run out--the poor old man was about slipping his cable. but o, jack, how happy he looked; and so calm and resigned to the will of his heavenly father, as he said--ready to set sail on the great voyage of eternity, or to stay and weather more of the rough gales of adversity in this life, just as god pleased. he held out his thin, white hand to me, and welcomed his boy, and thanked the lord that he had given him a sight of me before his eyes were scaled in death. my poor sister hung weeping on my neck. but, jack, bad as i then felt, i felt a thousand times worse when my dear old father beckoned me to him, and laying his hand on my head, prayed that god--his god, the friend who had stood by him in every gale and tempest of life, and proved true to him till the last--would bless his dear boy thomas, and take him into his especial keeping, and lead him to the blessed jesus; and finally, when the voyage of life was over, that we all three might join the dear mother who had gone before us, at the right hand of the throne of god, to bless and praise his holy name for ever. he then put susan's hand into mine, and blessed us both again, and said, "thomas, i leave this dear, precious girl with you; watch over her, cherish and protect her, and be to her both father and brother. may the great god bless you, my dear children, and make you his. i have but little time to say more, for the icy hand of death is on me; my saviour beckons, and i must away. come, lord jesus." with these words the glorified spirit of my beloved father winged its flight to mansions in the skies--to that "rest prepared for the people of god;" and i was left with my weeping sister, almost stupefied with grief. three days after, the clods of the valley covered the mortal remains of my honored parent, and then poor sue and i felt that we were all in all to each other. i told her of all my troubles, and that i had robbed her by my vileness; but the dear girl kissed me, and said, "dear brother, do not mourn on my account; i am young and healthy, and can easily support myself by my needle; but mourn on your own account--mourn over your sins, and your ingratitude to the great being who has upheld you and preserved you in so many dangers, known and unknown, on the mighty deep. and promise me, dear brother, that you will never touch another drop of liquor again; it will be the first step towards reformation." jack. poor dear girl. of course, tom, you promised? tom. aye, aye, jack, i did promise; and what's more, i kept my promise. but you must know how i was able to do it. before i left the village a great temperance-meeting was held there, and several of the friends of the cause delivered addresses, in which they showed so clearly and conclusively the great evils resulting from the use of spirituous liquors, that nearly every body in the village signed the pledge of total abstinence--at least, all of the respectable part of the community, and even a good many sots who had been given up as incorrigible. o jack, if you had heard the awful accounts they gave of broken-hearted wives and beggared children; of the widows and orphans made by rum; of the misery and degradation attendant upon it; of the crimes committed under its influence--robbery, murder, suicide--leading to the penitentiary, the gallows, and death, it would have made your blood freeze in your veins. and these accounts were all true, jack, for many of the horrible scenes had taken place about the neighborhood. jack. i don't doubt it at all, tom. and moreover, i believe that not one half of the misery caused by rum--no, not the thousandth part, is ever known by the public. many an injured wife and suffering and ruined child have concealed the history of their woes from the eye and ear of the world, and buried their sorrows deep in their own bosoms. tom. true, jack, or breathed them only to their god, whose ear is always open to the cry of the afflicted, and whose hand is always ready to aid them. well, i signed the pledge, which i am sure has a great effect in restraining one when tempted to swerve; for what man of honorable feelings would wilfully violate his word and promise--and a few weeks after, having fixed my sister comfortably with a pious milliner, i went to philadelphia, and there shipped with a temperance captain for a south american port. o jack, what a blessed voyage that was to me. on the first day out, all hands were called aft to the break of the quarterdeck, when the captain, who was a pious man, told us in a few words, that it was his practice to have "family worship" every morning and evening in the cabin, and he hoped that all his men would cheerfully unite with him. the captain was so kind in his manner, and appeared to be so sincere, and as he seemed, moreover, to regard us as human beings with immortal souls, and not as brute beasts, out of whose muscles and sinews he cared only to get plenty of work, we all willingly consented. so at sundown all hands were mustered in the cabin, except the man at the helm, as the weather was mild and the ship under easy sail; and the captain prayed fervently that god would give us a safe and pleasant passage, and bring us all to think of our souls. he then read a portion of scripture, which he explained to us, and after singing a couple of hymns we were dismissed. jack. ah, tom, good captains make good crews, all the world over; and i'll warrant there was neither knocking down nor mutiny aboard of that vessel. tom. no, jack; there was nothing but peace, and quietness, and good order; every man knew his place and did his duty; and the captain was like a father to us. he had a spare quadrant, which each of us used in turn in taking the daily observation, under his own eye; and he taught us how to work our reckoning; so that in the course of the voyage some of us got to know a good deal about navigation. and, jack, i had good evidence of the value of religion also, particularly when we encountered the equinoctial gale in the southern tropic, and were near going down. then it was, jack, when we had lost our foretopmast, and our maintopsail and most of our other sails had been blown into ribbons; when the sea had carried away nearly all our bulwarks, and swept the decks clear of caboose, longboat, etc.; and the pumps were constantly going--at one time to the tune of more than a thousand strokes an hour--to keep the vessel free; and the axes were at hand, ready to cut away the masts when the worst should come--that our captain was calm and collected. he seemed to be as patient and submissive to the will of god, as if he had been _born_ a christian; and he gave many a kind word of encouragement to his men. what a difference there must have been between him and the vulgar, bullying man that sam bowsprit once sailed with, who was a wolf when there was no danger, and a sheep when there was; but it is always so with your bullies, whether in the cabin or the forecastle. to return to my story: in two or three days the gale spent its fury, and we reached our port in safety. one day while in port, in rummaging my chest, i discovered at the bottom a little package neatly tied up, which, upon opening, i found to contain two small books, called, "james' anxious inquirer after salvation," and "baxter's call to the unconverted;" with a few touching lines from my dear sister, earnestly beseeching me to look to my soul, and to read my bible and these little books, and never to forget my god. jack, this went to my heart like an arrow. it brought fresh to my mind the death-bed scene of my dear father, and i fell upon my knees, and, for the first time, _really_ prayed to god. yes, jack, i then prayed indeed. i felt my ingratitude to god to some extent, and i began to see what a sinner i had been. i at once commenced reading my bible and the little books, that i might learn more of my lost condition, and how to flee from the wrath to come. in the course of a day or two the captain observed that i was uneasy in my mind, and called me to him to ask if he could do any thing to aid me. i frankly told him all my trouble, and he at once pointed me to "the lamb of god, who takes away the sin of the world." he then gradually and clearly unfolded to me the great gospel plan of redemption; and kneeling down together, he prayed most fervently for me. after a few days of deep solicitude and constant prayer to almighty god, he, in his infinite mercy, shed light upon my soul, and i felt that christ had died for me--_even me_. o jack, then it was that i first tasted true joy--that joy which the world cannot give, and which the world cannot take away; that peace of mind which passeth understanding. and with god's aid, i have ever since tried to walk close in the way prescribed by him; and i trust that my dear father's dying prayer will indeed be answered, and that we shall all meet in heaven. jack. well, tom, i congratulate you, for although i make no pretensions to religion myself, i sincerely respect it in others--that is, where it is genuine, as i am sure it is in your case; but i can't stand playing soldier in religion, tom, as i have seen it done by some hypocrites. tom. so much the worse for them, jack. but, my dear fellow, i advise you, as a friend, not to put off seeking religion another day. _this day_ may be your last, jack. don't you remember the story of the rich man in scripture, who said, "soul, thou hast much goods laid up for many years; take thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry?" but god said unto him, "thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee." o jack, don't put off this most important of all works to a dying bed, for you may not have one; you may be called into eternity at a moment's warning. you surely have not forgotten the awful death of swearing joe swifter, who was shaken off the yard into the boiling sea in that terrible night off the canaries, when we were all aloft close reefing the alert's maintopsail? and, jack, can you ever forget his cry of agony as we shot ahead in the gale, forced to leave him to perish? i am sure it will haunt _me_ to my dying hour. poor joe, thou wert called with all thy sins upon thy head into the presence of an offended god. jack. poor joe. i remember it as if it had occurred but yesterday, tom. it was an awful warning; and i don't think there were three oaths sworn on board the alert for three days after. to tell the truth, tom, i have had some queer feelings about death and the judgment, lately; and although i tried hard to drown them in grog, they would come up in spite of me. but i'll tell you more about it when we reach your lodgings, where we will be quiet and uninterrupted. you got safely back, i hope? tom. yes, jack, thanks to a kind providence. i made two more voyages with the same captain; and i expect to go with him next trip as mate. i have been able to send my sister a snug little sum to keep her comfortable; and i have something handsome in the seamen's savings bank, as i told you before; together with a clear head and a happy heart; trusting in my god, and loving all who bear his image. now, jack, what do you think of temperance? jack. think of it? why, tom, i always _thought_ well of it, though i can't say that i have latterly _practised_ it much; but i like it now better than ever. i have ruminated a good deal upon its evils, both at sea and ashore. don't you think, tom, that rum is at the bottom of nine out of ten of the floggings that take place in the navy? tom. yes, indeed, jack, i am sure of it. and i think, moreover, that if it were discarded _entirely_ from the government and merchant service, insubordination and floggings would be of rare occurrence in the one, and trouble and mutiny in the other. and there would be fewer vessels and lives lost in the merchant-service, in the bargain. jack. i have often thought, tom, what a degrading thing that flogging is. it sinks a man below the level of a brute, both in his own and the eyes of others. it seems to me that if i had ever been triced up at the gratings, and had a stroke of the cat, it would have completely crushed my spirit, if it had not broken my heart outright. tom. i think it would have had the same effect on me too, jack. i am sure i could not have stood it. jack. and, tom, to show more of the bad effects of liquor, i remember that i was once in port-au-prince, in the island of st. domingo, during the sickly season, when a fearful mortality raged among the shipping, so that every vessel lost some of her men; most of them bringing on the yellow-fever by their intemperance. there were three ships that were left without a man; all were swept off from the captain to the cook. tom. awful, jack, awful. i have also seen many a stout and noble-hearted tar, in those yellow-fever countries, stowed away under a foot of earth for the landcrabs to feed upon, just from drinking rum, or the strong brandy of the country. i'll tell you what it is, jack, when the coppers are scalded by rum, physic can't get a hold--it is just like casting anchor on a rocky bottom--and so the grip of the grim monster death is sure. the only safe man there, as well as everywhere else, indeed, is the teetotaler. jack. what is a teetotaler, tom? i have often heard the term, without fully knowing what it meant. tom. a teetotaler, jack, is one who conscientiously abstains from every description of intoxicating drink: rum, whiskey, brandy, gin, cordials, wine, cider, ale, and even beer. jack. what, tom, you don't mean to say that you give such a wide berth to _beer_? tell that to the marines, for old sailors won't believe it. tom. i do say it, jack. i give even beer a wide berth. don't you know that it contains alcohol? and what is perhaps worse, there is but little beer and ale made for sale that does not contain many hurtful ingredients--poisonous drugs. no, no; nothing for me that can in the slightest degree affect my noble reason, that great gift of almighty god. pure cold water--adam's sparkling, life-invigorating ale--and coffee and tea, are my beverages. try them once, jack, and the word of an honest sailor for it, you will never go back to alcohol, or any of its accursed family. jack. well, tom, i think i will. the fact is, you seem to be so well in body and happy in mind, so comfortable and respectable in worldly matters, and speak so cheeringly of another world--to which i know that the rapid current of time is hurrying us both--that i'll follow in your wake, and try to make a little headway in these things myself. tom. well said, my hearty. give me another shake of your honest fist. now i begin to recognize my old true-hearted friend and messmate jack halyard in his early days, when we swore friendship to each other across the sea-chest, on board the alert. you are the man for me, jack; so come up with me at once to the sailor's home, and i'll rig you out a little more decently--make you look a little more shipshape--and to-night we will go to the great temperance-meeting at the seamen's bethel chapel, and you shall sign the pledge, which will be the wisest act of your life, jack, as i'll wager a barrel of pork against a mouldy biscuit: aye, i'll warrant me you will say so at some future day. there will be plenty of blue-jackets there that will lend a hand in so good a cause. jack. well, heave ahead, old messmate. i did think of _tapering off_--quitting by degrees--but perhaps the safest and easiest plan will be, _to break off at once_. tom. that is the way, jack, the only true way. tapering off is not what it is cracked up to be. it is very hazardous; for it keeps up excitement, and the taste of the liquor hangs about the palate. don't you remember ben hawser, one of the best maintopmen of the alert--he who saved the first luff from drowning at port mahon, when he fell overboard from the cutter? jack. surely i do, tom. do you suppose i could forget such a noble-hearted fellow as ben hawser--as fine a fellow as ever laid out upon a yard, or stood at the wheel; and such a firstrate marlinespike seaman in the bargain? no, indeed. tom. you are right, jack. he was a noble fellow, and a thorough seaman. there was nothing of the lubber about poor ben: always the first man at his duty, and ready to share his last copper with a fellow-mortal in distress, whether seaman or landsman. well, ben once got into a great frolic ashore, and kicked up such a bobbery that the watchman clapped him in limbo for the night; and the justice next morning gave him such a clapper-clawing with his tongue, and bore down upon him so hard with his _reprimands_, as i think the lawyers call it, and raked him so severely fore and aft with his good advice, to wind up with, that ben felt pretty sheepish; and, as he told us afterwards, didn't know whether he was on his head or his heels--on the truck, or on the keelson. he felt so sore about it, and so much ashamed of himself, that he did not touch a drop for six weeks. he then thought he would take it _moderately_ just enough to keep the steam up--or, as some folks say, he thought he would be a _temperate drinker_. o, jack, that _temperate drinking_ is a famous net of old satan's to catch fools in. your temperate drinker treads on slippery ground; for as i verily believe that alcohol is one of the most active imps for the destruction of both body and soul, the temperate drinker is too often gradually led on by the fiend, until the habit becomes fixed and inveterate; and he drags a galling chain, each day riveted more strongly, and the poor wretch hourly becomes more callous to shame, until he sinks into the grave--_the drunkard's grave_. jack. but, tom, you don't mean to say that poor ben's reel has been run off in that style, do you? tom. indeed, jack, it is true, and sorry am i that it is so. yes, i followed the worn-out hulk of ben hawser to the dark and silent grave a fortnight ago. he slipped his cable in the prime of life; and all along of _temperate drinking_ at first. ben, like many other men, thought he was strong-minded, and could stop at a certain point; but he found, to his cost, that king alcohol was stronger, and that when once he had forged his chains around his victim, he was sure of him, unless the grace of a merciful god intervened, and plucked him as a brand from the burning. so i advise every one to beware of _temperate drinking_. give it a wide berth, or it may wreck you for time and for eternity. one thing more, jack. i would like your temperate drinker to pause, and reflect upon the fact, that the quantity of brandy or rum that he took at a drink, when he commenced this downhill course, has been gradually increased; so that in the second year, what had been quite sufficient to please his palate and produce all the desired effects in the first, was then insipidly small; and more so in the third year, if, mayhap, he could with any decency lay claim to the title of _temperate drinker_ so long. jack, this is a fearful reflection for one of this class of the slaves of alcohol; but let him think upon it when quite free from excitement, say after two or three days' abstinence--if he can abstain that long just to cool off for reflection--and i'll warrant he will tremble at the prospect. besides, jack, the _influence_ of your temperate drinker is ten times worse than that of the confirmed and notorious drunkard; for it is not likely that any one in his senses would desire to copy the confirmed sot in his beastliness. no, indeed; he would shrink with horror from the intoxicating bowl, if he felt sure that such would be the result to him, if he indulged. but he should remember, that no one ever became a sot _at once_; the degradation was by degrees. and it may be that your temperate drinker is a respectable and thriving man in the eyes of the world--say a great merchant, or lawyer, or master of a ship--and small folks do not imagine they are in any danger when they see such men stand fast, as they think: but they had all better remember the advice in scripture, "let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall;" and so they follow in the wake, and perhaps nine out of ten go down to the grave _drunkards_; often, i am sure, in company with the very men whose example they thought so safe, but which led them to certain ruin. it is an awful thought, jack, that we have been the means of misleading others, either by example or precept; and one that will weigh like lead upon the conscience of many a man on his death-bed. no, no; my motto is, "touch not, taste not, handle not." the wise man of scripture knew what he was about when he said, "look not upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth his color in the cup; at the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder." the same wise man said also, that "the drunkard and the glutton shall come to poverty." but, jack, what are poverty and shame, bad as they are, in comparison with the loss of the soul? think of that--_the loss of the immortal soul_--for god says, that neither thieves, nor drunkards, nor any thing that defileth, shall enter heaven. and o, jack, to think of being cast into hell for ever, with the devil and his angels; how awful! _but such must be the fate of the unrepentant drunkard_. jack. awful, indeed, tom. i am now fully persuaded that you are right; and so i'll follow your good example, and sign the teetotal pledge. and what is more, i'll try to be a christian too, for i believe that religion is the best security against every kind of temptation. tom. i like that, jack; it is truth itself. so we will shape our course for the sailor's home, under the direction of that noble institution, "the american seamen's friend society;" there you will be out of the way of temptation, and there is a good deal in that--and to-night we will go to the bethel. by the way, jack, you can't think what excellent places these homes are for the poor tempest-tossed mariner; and how snug and comfortable we all are there. the rules of the houses are excellent; neither swearing nor drinking is allowed; and every night and morning we unite with the families in worship; and on the sabbath, and some of the evenings of the week, we are kindly invited to the bethel chapel, where we have excellent preaching on the word of god; and in the family prayers, the good of us poor sailors, for time and eternity, is not forgotten, i can tell you. it reminds me of the days of my boyhood, when my dear father called us together, morning and evening, to praise god; and also of the happy time i have spent with my present good captain. and then, jack, when any of us are sick they are so kind and attentive just like our own dear mothers and sisters. i saw how kindly poor martin gray was treated during his long illness, by the manager--a worthy old salt--and his excellent family; and how they smoothed his dying pillow, and did all they could to make his way easy towards the dark valley of the shadow of death. oh, jack, it is a great thing to fall in with real christians at such a time. it makes one think of the poor man in scripture who fell among thieves, and had his wounds dressed and care taken of him by the good samaritan. aye, aye, jack; and i know, moreover, that the good example and excellent advice in these houses have been the means, in the lord's hands, of saving both the body and soul of many a poor neglected, weather-beaten tar, who would otherwise have fallen into the jaws of the devouring sharks who are always on the watch, with open mouths, to prey upon the poor son of ocean, and to swallow him up without pity or remorse. jack. well, heave ahead, my hearty; i'm the lad that won't flinch. so, three cheers for the glorious temperance cause, for sailor's homes and bethels, and for the mothers, wives, sisters, and sweethearts of all true-hearted seamen. and let every jolly tar who loves his family and domestic peace, and wants to do his duty and be respected in this world, and lay an anchor to windward of another and better world, toe the plank, and sign the pledge right off the reel. huzza, huzza, huzza. the ox sermon. among the laws given by the divine lawgiver through moses to the jews, was the following: "if an ox gore a man or a woman that they die, then the ox shall be surely stoned; but the owner of the ox shall be quit. but if the ox _were wont to push_ with his horn in time past, and it hath been testified to his owner, and he hath not kept him in, but he hath killed a man or a woman, the ox shall be stoned, and his owner also shall be put to death." exod. : , . the principle of this law is a very plain one, and a very broad one--here applied in a specific case, but extending to ten thousand others. it is this. every man is responsible to god for the evils which result from his selfishness, or his indifference to the welfare of others. ages before this law was given, god says to noah, "your blood of your lives will i require: at the hand of every beast will i require it, and at the hand of man." a stigma shall be fixed upon man or beast that shall destroy him who is made after the similitude of god. but why, in the case first supposed, is the owner quit, or guiltless? simply because the death is not in any way the result of his carelessness or of his selfishness. from any thing within his knowledge, he had no reason to expect such a result. but if the ox hath been _wont to push_ with his horns, and he knew it, he shall be responsible for the consequences, whatever they may be; for he had every reason to expect that mischief would be done, and took no measures to prevent it. and if the ox kill a man or woman, the owner hath done the murder, and he shall be put to death. why? the death was the result of his selfishness, or his indifference to the lives of others. and according to the law of god, his life shall go for it. the principle of this law is a principle of common-sense. you see a fellow-creature struggling in the water. you know that he can never deliver himself. and you know that a very little assistance, such as you can render, will rescue him from a watery grave. you look on and pass by. true, you did not thrust him in. but he dies by your neglect. his blood will be upon your head. at the bar of god, and at the bar of conscience, you are his murderer. why? you did not kill him. neither did the owner of the ox lift a hand. _but he shall surely be put to death._ you had no malice, neither had he. you did not intend his death--at the very worst, you did not care. this is just his crime. he did not care. he turned loose a wild, fiery, ungovernable animal, knowing him to be such; and what mischief that animal might do, or what suffering he might cause, _he did not care_. but god held him responsible. every man is responsible for evils which result from his own selfishness or indifference to the lives of men. in other words, to make a man responsible for results, it is not necessary to prove that he has malice, or that he intended the results. the highwayman has no malice against him he robs and murders, nor does he desire his death, but his money; and if he can get the money, he does not care. and he robs and murders because he loves himself and does not care for others; acting in a different way, but on the same selfish principle with the owner of the ox; and on the very same principle is he held responsible. in the trial of the owner of the ox, the only questions to be asked were these two: was the ox _wont to push_ with his horn in time past? did the owner _know it_ when he let him loose? if both these questions were answered in the affirmative, the owner was responsible for all the consequences. this is a rule which god himself has established. * * * * * is intoxicating liquor wont to produce misery, and wretchedness, and death? has this been testified to those who make and deal in it as a beverage? if these two things can be established, the inference is inevitable--they are responsible on a principle perfectly intelligible, a principle recognized and proclaimed, and acted upon by god himself. turn then your attention to these two facts. . intoxicating liquor _is wont to produce misery_. . those who make or traffic in it, _know_ this. . upon the first point it will be sufficient to remind you of the hopes which intoxicating liquor has blasted, and the tears it has caused to flow. let any one of us count up the number of its victims which we have known--consider their character and standing in society--their once happy families and prospects, and what a fearful change has a few years' use of strong drink produced. very few but remember twenty, thirty, fifty, or one hundred families ruined in this way. some of them were once our intimate friends--and their story is soon told. they drank occasionally, for the sake of company, or merely for exhilaration. the relish for stimulants was thus acquired, and habits of dissipation formed. they became idle, and of course uneasy. and they continued to drink, partly to gratify taste and partly to quiet conscience. they saw the ruin that was coming upon them, and they made some earnest but ineffectual struggles against it. but the resistance became weaker and weaker--by and by the struggle is ended--they float with the current, and where are they? one has been found by the temperance reformation, a mere wreck in property, character, body, and mind, and reclaimed. another is dead: his constitution could not bear his continued dissipation. another died in a fit; another was found by the road-side one cold morning, a stiffened corpse. another was thrown from his horse, and is a cripple for life, but still can contrive means to pay a daily visit to the dram-shop. another is a mere vagabond, unprincipled and shameless--wandering from shop to shop, a fit companion for the lowest company, a nuisance to society and a curse to his kindred. another is in the penitentiary for a crime which he committed in a drunken frolic. go into the crowded court-house and you may see another; his countenance haggard and ghastly, and his eye wildly rolling in despair. what has he done? one night, after spending all his money for drink, and loitering about till all the shops were closed, he returned to his miserable habitation. he found a few coals on the hearth, and his wife and children sitting by them. he threw one child this way and another that, for he was cold. his wife remonstrated, and withal told him that what little fire there was was none of his providing. with many a horrid oath he declared he would not be scolded after that sort. he would let her know who should govern, and by way of supporting his authority, beat her brains out with the last remaining stick of wood. he did not mean to kill her. her dying struggles brought him to his senses, and he stood horror-struck. he would give almost any thing that the deed were not done. if that could restore her to life, he would be almost ready to give a pledge never to taste intoxicating liquor again. now look at the wretchedness of his family. for years he has made very little provision for them; they have lived as they could, half naked and half starved, and not educated at all--with a most wretched example before their eyes. what encouragement had the wife or the children to attempt any thing--to make any exertion? the children are abused and trampled on at home, and they grow up without self-respect, without shame, and without principle. can any thing good be expected of them? and if they do rise, it must be through a world of difficulty. how many thousand families have been ruined in some such way as this. the father was a drunkard, and the mother--what could she do? she endured, hoping against hope--and for the children's sake bore up against the current; and many a time disguised a sad despairing heart under a joyful countenance, till at length she died of a broken heart, or died by the hands of him who had sworn to protect her. these, and things like these, are the effects of intoxicating liquor--not casual, accidental, but common, natural edicts, seen everywhere, in every town, in every neighborhood, and in every connection. look which way we will, we see some of these effects. the greatest wretchedness which human nature in this world is called to endure, is connected with the use of inebriating drink. there is nothing else that degrades and debases man like it--nothing so mean that a drunkard will not stoop to it--nothing too base for him to do to obtain his favorite drink. nothing else so sinks the whole man--so completely destroys not only all moral principle, but all self-respect, all regard to character, all shame, all human feeling. the drunkard can break out from every kind of endearing connection, and break over every kind of restraint; so completely extinct is human feeling, that he can be drunk at the funeral of his dearest relative, and call for drink in the last accents of expiring nature. now look at a human being, whom god has made for noble purposes, and endowed with noble faculties, degraded, disgraced, polluted, unfit for heaven, and a nuisance on earth. he is the centre of a circle--count up his influence in his family and his neighborhood--the wretchedness he endures, and the wretchedness he causes--count up the tears of a wretched wife who curses the day of her espousals, and of wretched children who curse the day of their birth. to all this positive evil which intoxicating liquor has caused, add the happiness which but for it this family might have enjoyed and communicated. go through a neighborhood or a town in this way, count up all the misery which follows in the train of intoxicating liquor, and you will be ready to ask, can the regions of eternal death send forth any thing more deadly? wherever it goes, the same cry may be heard--lamentation, and mourning, and woe; and whatever things are pure, or lovely, or venerable, or of good report, fall before it. these are its effects. can any man deny that "the ox is wont to push with his horn?" . _has this been testified to the owner?_ are the makers and venders aware of its effects? the effects are manifest, and they have eyes, ears, and understandings, as well as others. they know that whatever profit they make is at the expense of human life or comfort; and that the tide which is swelled by their unhallowed merchandise sweeps ten thousand yearly to temporal and eternal ruin. but this is not all. the attention of the public has been strongly turned to this subject. the minds of men have been enlightened, and their responsibility pressed home upon them. the subject has been presented to them in a new light, and men cannot but see the absurdity of reprobating the tempted, while the tempter is honored--of blaming drunkards, and holding in reputation those whose business it is to make drunkards. but are the makers of intoxicating liquor aware of its effects? look at the neighborhood of a distillery--an influence goes forth from that spot which reaches miles around--a kind of constraining influence, that brings in the poor, and wretched, and thirsty, and vicious. those who have money bring it--those who have none, bring corn--those who have neither, bring household furniture--those who have nothing, bring themselves and pay in labor. now the maker knows all these men, and knows their temperament, and probably knows their families. he can calculate effects, and he sends them off, one to die by the way, another to abuse his family, and another just ready for any deed of wickedness. will he say that he is not responsible, and like cain ask, "am i my brother's keeper?" he knew what might be the result, and for a mere pittance of gain was willing to risk it. whether this man should abuse his family, or that man die by the way, so his purpose was answered, he did not care. the ox was wont to push with his horn, and he knew it; and for a little paltry gain he let him loose, and god will support his law by holding him responsible for the consequences. but a common excuse is, that "very little of our manufacture is used in the neighborhood; we send it off." and are its effects any less deadly? in this way you avoid _seeing_ the effects, and poison strangers instead of neighbors. what would you say to a man who traded in clothes infected with the smallpox, and who would say by way of apology, that he sent them off--he did not sell any in the neighborhood? good man! he is willing to send disease and death all abroad; but he is too kind-hearted to expose his neighbors. would you not say to him, you may send them off, but you cannot send off the responsibility? the eye of god goes with them, and all the misery which they cause will be charged to you. so we say to the man who sends off his intoxicating liquor. "but if i do not make it and traffic in it, somebody else will." what sin or crime cannot be excused in this way? i know of a plot to rob my neighbor; if i do not plunder him, somebody else will. is it a privilege to bear the responsibility of sending abroad pestilence and misery and death? "our cause is going down," thought judas, "and a price is set upon the head of our master, and if i do not betray him somebody else will. and why may not i as well pocket the money as another?" if you consider it a privilege to pocket the wages of unrighteousness, do so. but do not pretend to be the friend of god or man while you count it a privilege to insult the one and ruin the other? says another, "i wish it were banished from the earth. but then what can i do?" what can you do? you can keep one man clear; you can wash your own hands of this wretched business. and if you are not willing to do that, very little reliance can be placed on your good wishes. he that is unjust in the least, is unjust also in much. i can hardly conceive any thing more inconsistent with every generous feeling, every noble principle, than the traffic in intoxicating liquor at the present day. the days of ignorance on this subject have passed by; every man acts with his eyes open. look at the shop and company of the retailer. there he stands in the midst of dissipation, surrounded by the most degraded and filthy of human beings, in the last stages of earthly wretchedness. his business is to kindle strife, to encourage profanity, to excite every evil passion, to destroy all salutary fears, to remove every restraint, and to produce a recklessness that regards neither god nor man. and how often in the providence of god is he given over to drink his own poison, and to become the most wretched of this wretched company. who can behold an instance of this kind without feeling that god is just. "he sunk down into the pit which he made; in the net which he hid is his own foot taken." another will say, "i neither make nor traffic in it." but you drink it occasionally, and your example goes to support the use of it. you see its tremendous effects, and yet you receive it into your house and bid it god speed. as far as your influence supports it and gives it currency, so far are you a partaker of its evil deeds. if you lend your influence to make the path of ruin respectable, or will not help to affix disgrace to that path, god will not hold you guiltless. you cannot innocently stand aside and do nothing. a deadly poison is circulating over the land, carrying disease and desolation and death in its course. the alarm has been given. its deadly effects have been described, seen, and felt. its victims are of every class; and however wide the difference in fortune, education, intellect, it brings them to the same dead level. an effort has been made to stay the plague, and a success surpassing all expectation has crowned the effort. still, the plague rages to an immense extent. what will every good citizen do? will he not clear his house, his shop, his premises of it? will he not take every precaution to defend himself against it, and use his influence and his exertions to diminish its circulation and thus diminish human misery? if he fears god or regards man, can he stop short of this? can he, in his recklessness and selfishness say, "let others take care of themselves? i'll make no promises--i'll not be bound--i am in no danger?" if he can speak and act thus, and stands aloof, and continues to drink, is he not guilty, and with the distiller and vender accountable to god for the perpetuation of these mighty evils, which but for his coöperation and agency must soon cease to exist? "i speak as unto wise men; judge ye what i say." published by the american tract society. * * * * * the american tract society, =issue= the religious (or pastor's) library, of standard evangelical volumes mo, at $ . the evangelical family library, of volumes, with steel portraits, frontispieces, and other engravings, at $ . also twenty-one volumes to match the family library, at $ . the youth's library, of volumes, mo, comprising hannah more's cheap repository, in volumes, and highly finished engravings. the family testament and psalms, with brief notes and instructions, and maps. a concordance to the holy scriptures; cruden condensed. flavel's redemption, comprising the fountain of life, method of grace, and christ knocking at the door. d'aubign�'s history of the reformation, vols. a new translation revised by the author. standard practical works of baxter, flavel, bunyan, alleine, venn, edwards, backus, romaine, william jay, john angell james, and numerous works of kindred characters. bunyan's pilgrim's progress. atonement and justification. by rev. andrew fuller. memoir of rev. justin edwards, d. d. life of rev. jeremiah and moses hallock, laborers in the work of god about the year . chalmers' astronomical discourses. backus' scripture doctrine of regeneration. romaine's life of faith. jay's morning exercises. james' anxious inquirer, and christian progress. lady huntington and her friends, with steel portraits. by mrs. h. c. knight. dr. sprague's letters to a daughter. elegant narratives, with fine engravings. pictorial narratives, comprising narratives. gallaudet's scripture biography. the old testament complete in volumes, $ . songs for the little ones at home, with engravings, a gem for every family of children. illustrated tract primer, bible primer, and numerous kindred works, beautifully illustrated, and highly attractive to the young; including more than little books for children, in small libraries, or neatly enveloped packets. also a packet of attractive picture cards. pocket manuals. daily food, daily texts, heavenly manna, threefold cord, the lord's supper, dew-drops, etc.: with other issues of the society, comprising upwards of two hundred volumes, in fine paper, printing, and binding; many of those for the young being beautifully illustrated. no works in the english language are better adapted for circulation in families, or for district or sunday-school libraries, while the very low prices at which they are sold, place them within the means of all classes of the community. to be had at nassau-street, new york; cornhill, boston; and in other cities and towns. * * * * * transcriber's note: every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including obsolete and variant spellings. obvious typographical errors in punctuation (misplaced quotes and the like) have been fixed. the letter after the page number indicates the tract (see the table of contents). corrections [in brackets] in the text are noted below: page , a: typo corrected and i have heard of its speading[spreading] through a whole family composed of members page , a: typo corrected the strength they produce in labor is of a transient nature, and is always followed by a sense of weakness nd[and] fatigue. page , d: removed extraneous quote his influence to continue a practice, or he should at least be conniving at a practice, which was ["]destroying more lives, making more mothers widows, and children page , d: typo fixed attend public worship. in a word, their whole deportment, both at home and abread,[abroad] is improved, and to a greater extent than any, without witnessing it, can well imagine. page , p: typo fixed it is believed that no vice has ever been so faithfully guaged[gauged], and the details so well ascertained, as the vice the girls of st. olave's the girls of st. olave's by mabel mackintosh author of "_the doings of denys._" john f. shaw & co., ltd., , pilgrim street, london, e.c. [illustration: "in the centre of the group was a little figure in a short, black kilted frock."--_page ._] contents. chap. page i. as good as gone ii. love and money iii. a great big shame iv. a small world v. a wild-goose chase vi. a ticket for one vii. heights and depths viii. in fear ix. brothers-in-law x. a mean thing xi. with a purpose xii. master and man xiii. bearding the lion xiv. an unwelcome guest xv. the last hope xvi. links in a chain xvii. meeting and parting xviii. a base trick xix. a successful raid xx. reaping the whirlwind xxi. the hiding-place xxii. out of the north xxiii. the meeting of the ways xxiv. the sun shines out chapter i. as good as gone. "you won't be any more use to us after this," said gertrude positively. a quick flush coloured denys's cheek. "oh, gertrude! why not?" "engaged girls never are the least use to their families," reiterated gertrude. "all they think about is the postman and their bottom drawer. the family goes to the wall, its interests are no longer of interest, its sewing is no longer necessary, its duties----" but denys's good-tempered laugh rippled out and interrupted the flow of eloquence. "really, gertrude! you are too funny!" "i don't feel at all funny," grumbled gertrude, half laughing and half ashamed of herself, "only i'm quite busy enough, and i can't be piled up with any of your odds and ends! talking of bottom drawers," she added, more contented now she had said her say, "if i were you i would put away all your ornaments and vases, or pattie will break them all before you are married." denys's eyes wandered round the room, the dear old night nursery where she had slept with one after another of the babies. the walls were adorned with coloured prints, of which the stories had been told and re-told to tony and little jerry and baby maude, and the odds and ends of little ornaments and carved brackets had each its own history of a birthday or a holiday or a keepsake. there was nothing of value, except in the value of association, and denys smiled tenderly as she shook her head. on this evening, when she was just engaged to be married, every association in the room was tugging at her heart, and weaving its threads into the new fabric of joy that was spread out before her. gertrude's glance followed hers round the room. "it isn't a half bad room," she remarked, "only those rubbishy old pictures spoil it. when you are gone i shall have this room and you will see the difference i shall make. what a joke it will be to see you come poking round to see all our arrangements then!" with a gay little laugh, she rubbed her pretty round cheek against denys's in a sort of good-night salute and departed, shutting the door behind her. a moment later she opened it a crack. "don't lie awake thinking of him," she said, "you know conway wants breakfast early." left alone at last, denys gave a sigh of relief. it was just like gertrude to come up and make arrangements not to be overworked! how conway would rage if he knew! and this night of all nights in her life! and then denys forgot all about gertrude, and sitting on the rug in front of the fire gave herself up to thinking of her happy future. it was just like her mother to have lighted a fire for her to sit and dream by. mother always seemed to think of little bits of comfort to give people. and she was engaged to be married! she got up hurriedly, unlocked her desk and took out a little pearl ring which had been her mother's. in the firelight she slipped it on to the third finger of her left hand, and sat down again to contemplate it and all that a similar ring given her by charlie could mean! and she would have to call mrs. henchman mother, and audrey would be her sister! her eyes brimmed over with amusement. what would they all say! would they be pleased and surprised--her grandmother and mrs. henchman and audrey? had they ever guessed at what charlie had made up his mind to three years ago? mrs. henchman had seemed to like her then, but then she had been an ordinary chance visitor coming in for a cup of tea, the granddaughter of mrs. henchman's old friend mrs. marston. what would she think of her now as her only son's future wife? the fire was sinking down and denys rose and lit a candle and looked at herself critically in the glass, and then she laughed into her own face at the ridiculousness of the position. who would have believed that she, denys brougham, on the evening of her engagement day, would have been staring at her own reflection in the glass, trying to find out what her future mother-in-law would think of her! and charlie's words came back to her, a fresh and tender memory to be treasured for ever. "i want to say something to you which i have waited three years to say. i've loved you ever since i've known you." she slipped her mother's ring from her left hand and put it away. she unbound her bright brown hair with its curly waves, turned by the candle light into a halo of red gold, and laid a happy face upon her pillow. not a pretty, piquant face like gertrude's, quickly smiling or quickly clouded, but a cheerful, reliable face with a pretty, good-tempered smile and kind, gentle eyes; a face that little children smiled back at, and which invalids loved to see bending over them. but the looking-glass did not tell denys anything of all that. upstairs in the so-called spare-room where tony slept, charlie was standing at the tall dressing chest trying to describe denys to his mother. "i have got the berth i came for," he wrote, "i'll tell you all about it when i come, and i have got denys! i'm so happy, mother darling, i can't write about it, but she is the prettiest, dearest, sweetest girl, and i know you'll love her." he could not think of any more to say and he fastened his letter and opened his door a crack. seeing a light still in the hall, he crept downstairs to find conway just locking up. he held up his letter with a smile. "the midnight post?" asked conway, "not a love letter already!" "it's to mother," answered charlie simply. "i'll show you the way," said conway politely. "i have my latch-key and it's a lovely night." it was not far to the post office, and the two young men walked there and back again in silence. conway, always a silent boy, could think of nothing to say. he felt towards this stranger who, twenty-four hours ago, had been nothing but a name to him, as he might feel towards a burglar who had just stolen his greatest treasure, and who yet had to be treated with more than mere politeness because he now belonged to the family--a combination of feelings which did not tend towards speech. but charlie was too engrossed in his happiness to heed either silence or conversation. his mind was busily planning out trains and times for the next day's journey home. what would be the last possible minute that he could give himself at old keston? they reached the house and conway opened the door with his key and held out his hand. "good-night," he said. charlie's handshake was a hearty one. "good-night!" he said. "good-night! how long do you reckon it takes to walk to the station?" conway smiled to himself as he put up the bolts. "i wonder," thought he, "i wonder if my turn will ever come!" chapter ii. love and money. "i think," said charlie, looking across the luncheon table at mrs. brougham. "i think that in about five weeks i could get a friday to monday, and come down if you will let me----" "why, certainly," answered mrs. brougham, smiling back at the bright open face opposite her. she really liked him very much, but she shared something of conway's feeling about the burglar. the idea that denys belonged in any sense to anybody else, needed a good deal of getting used to. she had certainly wondered once or twice in the last three years whether young henchman, who wrote so regularly to denys, would ever become more than a friend. charlie's telegram three days ago saying he had passed his final, and was coming up from scotland to see about a post and would call at st. olave's _en route_, had rather taken away her breath. his call had been only a short one, but he had asked if he might return the following day and tell them whether he had obtained the post. he had duly returned--successful--with a good berth--with prospects--with life opening out before him, and she had been surprised at the gravity and anxiety that had shadowed his face even when he spoke so hopefully of the good things that had come to him. but the shadow and the gravity were all gone now. it was only his fear that denys would not see anything in him to love, that in the three years in which he had worked, and hoped, and loved her, she might have met someone else who was more worthy of her, and to whom she had given the love he so longed to gain. that very evening he had put his fate to the touch, over the nursery fire, while denys waited to fetch away tony's light, and now he was bubbling over with fun and laughter, and acting more like a big schoolboy than a sober young man who was contemplating the cares of matrimony. it seemed to mrs. brougham that the world had gone spinning round her in an unprecedented manner in the last twenty-four hours, and she was not sure whether she was on her head or her heels. suppose conway--or gertrude--why, reggie alston wrote to gertrude as regularly as the weeks went round!--or willie---- she gave herself a mental shake and scolded herself for letting her head be turned with all these happenings. why, conway was only nineteen and gertrude just eighteen, and what would schoolboy willie say if she put him into such a line of possibilities! she brought her thoughts back to the conversation round the table, and found that charlie was still in the full swing of plans. "easter will be four or five weeks after that," he was saying, "and i shall get mother to have you down then, denys--and gertrude too," he looked across at gertrude--"and it will be so jolly, because i shall get a whole week, i am sure, and we should have a lovely time. i'm ever so glad mother has moved to whitecliff; it won't be nearly such a journey for you as saltmarsh was." denys had opened her lips to reply, but before she could get out a word, gertrude had answered for her. "that will be very nice," she said eagerly, "i always count to get a holiday at easter and i always want to go to the sea, whatever time of year it is. it's very kind of you to ask me." charlie's eyes were on denys. it was his first invitation to her to his own home and she guessed that he felt a great happiness in it, but how could she tell him that while gertrude always took the easter holiday because of the school term, she herself always stayed at home then, so that her mother should be sure of having one daughter to help her--and gertrude had already accepted the invitation! before she could frame any answer, a small voice chimed in. "maudie wants to go too! maudie's got a spade and a pail." there was a laugh all round the table, and mrs. brougham said, "my dear child! mrs. henchman can't ask _all_ the girls of st. olave's!" her glance met denys's, and denys understood that it said, "accept, darling, i shall be all right!" denys looked up at charlie and accepted the invitation with her own sunny smile. "i feel dreadfully frightened, but i should love to come," she said. "oh, i do hope your mother will like me!" "like you!" echoed charlie, and then he went crimson to the roots of his hair. "_like you_," he repeated half under his breath. easter was a long way off, and denys thought very little more about the proposed visit to mrs. henchman, and the present was very full and very interesting. she decided to make some quiet opportunity to speak to her mother about it, but before this opportunity could occur, gertrude took time by the forelock, as she always did when she was set on a thing. the two sisters were making marmalade in the kitchen on the morning following charlie's departure, when gertrude brought her guns to the attack. "i say, denys," she began, "it was very civil of charlie to invite me to whitecliff. i saw you opening your mouth to say we could not both go, so i just whipped in and accepted." "i don't see how we can both go," said denys gravely. "no?" said gertrude, raising her pretty eyebrows. "i suppose not! but you had your chance, and went to grandma's for three months and picked up a good match. charlie is a very good match and he will be quite comfortably off, and he is pleasant and good-looking and all that! oh! you have done very well for yourself, denys, and you are not going to prevent my having my chance." denys's cheeks were scarlet. she literally did not know what to say! had she made a good match? had she done very well for herself? such a view of the case had never entered her head. she thought of what charlie's prospects had been when she first knew him on that long ago visit to her grandmother. who would have said then that charlie was likely to be comfortably off? how well she remembered gwyn bailey's picnic, when charlie had told her that the positions he had hoped for were closed to him, and that he had no money to enter a profession! she remembered the hopeless ring of his voice as he had said, "now there's nothing." no! she had not chosen charlie for any such reason as gertrude suggested. she was standing with her back to the scullery, and was quite unaware that behind the half closed door pattie was quietly peeling potatoes, but her answer could scarcely have been different if she had known it. "i wish you would not talk so, gertrude," she said. "very likely," said gertrude calmly, "people often do not care to hear what is nevertheless quite true. and i mean to be pretty well off when i get married, and not to have to scrape and think of every penny, and wonder whether you can afford a new dress just directly you want it. i think it's horrid, and i have always thought it horrid." "i don't," said denys, "it seems to me that we have been as happy at home here as any family i know, even though we have had, as you call it, to scrape and think of pennies, and manage our clothes and work hard. i've liked it always and if i loved anyone i would not mind being poor. mother did not marry anybody rich and _she_ is happy!" "ah!" said gertrude, "it is all very well for you to talk. you have love _and_ money. and that's what i mean to have! so i shall go to whitecliff and get to know fresh people and see what turns up!" "what about----" began denys, but she did not finish her sentence. she disliked putting names together, but her thoughts flew off to a scotch town, where a boy with a merry face and dark twinkling eyes, was working his hardest as a bank-clerk. reggie alston had been gertrude's chum since they were children, and he had never made any secret of the fact that gertrude was the one girl in the world in his eyes. but gertrude divined what denys had meant to say, and with a light laugh she went away to wash her sticky hands. she was not going to have reggie alston thrown at her. reggie was all very well and reggie might mean love, but reggie would not mean money. turning to see what had become of gertrude, denys caught sight of pattie's interested face. "i've got a young man, miss denys," she said importantly, "he's such a nice, steady young man, miss, your mr. henchman just reminds me of him, and he's just as fond of me as anything, but"--her face fell--"he's not very well off, miss, not at all, and--and--well! it's rather a pity, as miss gertrude's been saying, to marry poor." "oh, pattie!" said denys earnestly, "don't say that. if you love one another, you can be so happy even if you are poor. if he is steady and nice, that is much more important than being rich." but pattie's shake of the head was only the echo of gertrude's words. "love _and_ money. love _and_ money." "it's all very well for _you_ to talk." chapter iii. a great big shame. "it's a shame! that's what it is, a downright shame," cried a woman's voice angrily, "and it's just like you, jim adams, to put upon a poor woman so. as if i had not enough trouble with one child, and you want to bring your sister's brat here. i never heard of such a thing." jim adams stood with his broad back turned towards her, and he made no reply. "yes! much you care!" she scolded, "but i tell you, jim adams, i won't do it! you can write and tell your precious sister she can make other arrangements. you are married now and you can't do just as you like; you've got a wife, and i won't do it! there! you've waked the baby, shouting at me about your sister; but i won't have anybody else's child, so there!" the lusty crying from the adjoining room continuing, she went in, banging the door behind her, and jim was left alone, staring doggedly out at the tall houses opposite. should he write to his dying sister at whitecliff and tell her to make other arrangements? what other arrangements could she make? could she bring back her young sailor husband from his grave in the red sea? could she stay the progress of the cough, the outward sign of the fatal sickness which was bringing her to an early death? could she send the child, her treasured little boy, to any other relative? jim knew she could not. nellie and he had been alone in the world since they were children. if he did not take little harry, the boy must go into the workhouse. should he tell nellie that she must make that arrangement? he was an easy-going chap, this jim adams, too easy-going. he stood six feet one in his socks and was big and broad in proportion, a veritable giant in looks, but his strength was mere physical strength, and he knew it. he was not strong in himself. this was the very first time, since he had known and courted jane green, that he had resisted her will for twenty-four hours, and even now he was contemplating the possibility of giving way. jane could make herself very disagreeable indeed if she were thwarted. he had had nothing but storming since yesterday morning when nellie's letter had come, and he had had two half-cooked suppers and a miserable cold breakfast. he did like a good supper, and if this was what it was going to be if he had harry---- the sound of a gay voice singing on the pathway below, startled him. there were always noises in the street, but this song caught his attention. "_they had not been married a month or more when underneath her thumb went jim, it can't be right for the likes of her to put upon the likes of him. it's a great big shame, and if she belonged to me i'd let her know who's who; putting on a fellow six foot three and her only four foot two!_" jim smiled grimly to himself; it was so absolutely true. then his wrath rose. what business had jack turner to be singing that ditty under _his_ window? he supposed all the neighbours laughed behind his back at the way his small wife ruled him. if they only had a taste of her nagging tongue they would not, perhaps, laugh so much. he would let them see he was not under jane's thumb! he turned at the opening of the bedroom door, prepared to have his say, and there was jane with their big bouncing baby in her arms. "here!" she said crossly, "you just get this kid off to sleep, i'm going for the supper beer. i've minded him all day, and i'm tired of him. i believe he wakes up in the evening just to spite me!" jim took his baby and his eyes softened as he cuddled the little fellow in his arms. he thought of nellie's beseeching letter, and he thought of himself as dead and of jane as dead, and this baby left to face a cold, unloving world. would not nellie have taken him? would she not have been a mother to him? oh! he knew she would. nellie had been as a mother to himself ever since they were children together. not for what the neighbours would say, nor for triumphing over jane, but for love's sake, he would take nellie's child and be a father to him. that was settled finally, but jane had gone for the beer and there was no one to listen to his determination. as he sat there rocking his baby, there was one sentence in nellie's letter that came back to his mind and disturbed it. "dear jim, you'll teach my little harry about our saviour, won't you? i've done my best, but children forget so quickly! tell him that jesus christ is our best friend." our best friend! a stab of pain shot through jim's heart. nellie's best friend, perhaps, but not his, not _our_ best friend, little sister nellie! the baby dropped asleep, but jane had not returned. she was no doubt enjoying herself at the green dragon. he rose and with the lamp in his disengaged hand, went into the bedroom and laid the baby down, and covered him up warm. he would make a cup of tea for himself, as jane had not brought the beer. he wished jane would give up beer, she might be getting a bit too fond of it, and he would give it up himself if she would. he rather enjoyed making his tea and a couple of pieces of toast, and setting it out neatly. his supper had left him unsatisfied in every way. as he poured out his first cup of tea there was a tap at the door, and on his calling out, "come in," a young fellow, so like jane as to be instantly recognised as her brother, entered. "hullo!" said he. "hullo, tom! what's brought you over to-night? will you have a cup of tea?" "that i will!" said tom. "where's jane?" "gone for the beer," said jim shortly. "you'd be a deal better off and a deal happier, both of you, if you didn't take any of that stuff," said tom. "it makes jane quarrelsome, i'm certain of it." "i'd give it up if she would," said jim valiantly. then he added in a shamefaced sort of way, "you see, when i do give it up for a bit, she has it, and the smell and everything--well, i want it again!" tom nodded, gulped down his tea and set down his cup. "you asked what brought me over," he said. "pattie has given me up!" "what!" demanded jim incredulously, "given you up! why?" tom's face worked. he was a simple-hearted fellow, and he loved foolish little worldly-minded pattie very dearly. "i believe," he said unsteadily, "i believe it's money what's done it. she was always so fond of me, was pattie, and i thought she loved me with all her heart, as i did her. but one of her young ladies has got engaged to a gentleman as is pretty well off, and i s'pose--in fact, pattie allowed it was so--they got talking, as girls will, and it's turned pattie's head. 'she don't want to marry poor'--them's just her words--and so she's----" "chucked you," said jim grimly. tom sighed deeply. "i told her as my wage, though not big, was reg'lar, winter and summer, and that was better than a big wage in the summer and being out of work in the winter; and i don't drink--nor smoke--and them two things makes a hole in any fellow's wages; but there--talking ain't no good--argufying don't bring love. i suppose she don't care for me and that's all about it." he reached out his cup for more tea and gulped it down; it seemed to help him to gulp down his feelings. "i feel a bit done," he said after a minute's silence. "i'll be better to-morrow. i never thought as how my love-making would end like this." jim got up and gave him a hearty thump on his back. "don't you be downhearted," he said, "you keep on steady and wait a bit. you'll be seeing her looking downhearted soon, you mark my word, and then you can step up and say, 'is't me you want, my girl?' you're a right down good fellow, tom, and she don't know yet what she's giving up." tom looked a little more cheerful. "you can tell jane," he said, rising to go. "that's her on the stairs," answered jim. "i'm going off to bed, so you can stay and tell her yourself. she's out of sorts with me." so jane, with her jug of supper beer, found only her brother waiting for her. she greeted him effusively, and insisted on spreading the table afresh with meat and bread and cheese, talking incessantly and laughing loud and long as she did so, and tom, knowing what it meant, wished he had gone before her return. but being there and having come on purpose, in a moment's lull in her stream of talk, he told her about pattie. her anger against pattie was unbounded. she hugged tom and called him "poor dear," till he pushed her away, and then she said she would pay the girl out. she would make her repent having used an honest fellow like that! she was going into old keston on monday for a day's charring, and she knew well enough where pattie lived. the garden of the house where she worked ran down to pattie's garden, and she would give pattie a bit of her mind. "then i hope you won't see her," said tom. "i don't want any words. words won't make her care for me, and that's all i wanted." he turned to the door, but jane intercepted him with the jug of supper beer. "have a glass, tom, my lad! it'll comfort you and make you forget your troubles. there's a deal of comfort in a glass when you're low-spirited." but the jug was struck from her hand and lay in twenty pieces on the floor, and the beer ran hurriedly over the boards and sank away between the crevices as if anxious to hide itself. "you _dare_ to tempt me!" said tom hoarsely. chapter iv. a small world. "does you want a boat?" such a soft, clear little voice! denys turned quickly and looked up, but her eyes had to come down again to the yellow sand on which she sat. there was no one near enough to have spoken to her but a mite of a boy in petticoats, with bare feet and yellow hair and brilliant blue eyes. "hullo!" said the little voice again, "_does_ you want a boat?" "no, thank you," she answered with a tender smile; she had heard no voice like this voice, since little jerry died. it was as if jerry himself had come back to her. "why doesn't you want one?" insisted the child. "i have no one to row me," she said. he looked down at his little brown hands and then up in her face. "when i'm a man i'll row you! i'm going to be a sailor like my dad was!" "what is your name, dear?" "harry! harry lyon!" he stood with his little brown legs apart, gazing at her. "my dad's dead! that's his grave," he said, with a wave of his hand. "_where?_" said denys aghast. he pointed to the dancing waves. "what colour does you call that sea? does you know colours?" he asked gravely. "why, yes! i know them. the sea is blue." harry shook his head unbelievingly. "it's a red sea where my dad is?" he said. "where is your mother?" harry nodded inland, and a shadow fell over his sturdy little face. "she's always coughing--she don't come out with harry no more," he said, plaintively. then his tone brightened. "she's going away somewheres; she's going to get _quite_ well--it's along of jesus, our best friend--and i'm going with her," he added determinately. there was a pause. denys felt a great compassion for the little chap. she wondered what would happen to him when mother got quite well, and yet--with jesus for best friend--need she have wondered? the child's next words effectually startled her out of her thoughts. "give us a penny!" he said. "oh, harry! it's naughty to ask for pennies!" "give us a ha'penny then," he coaxed. but denys only shook her head and laughed at him, and at that moment gertrude and a young fellow sauntered up to her. "we have had a lovely row!" exclaimed gertrude gaily. "mr. greyburne made the boat fly. it's such a little light thing, just made for two! where is mrs. henchman?" "she was not feeling well enough to come out," answered denys, "and audrey's school has not broken up yet." "i'm afraid you have been dull," said cecil greyburne politely; "but you are going to cycle to brensted woods with us this afternoon?" "denys ought not to be dull," said gertrude easily. "she has letters to write and to read, and she counts the hours till charlie comes, and she has to do the pretty to her future mother-in-law. you see, _i_ have not all these occupations. denys! i am sure it is lunchtime!" denys rose and shook the sand from her dress. "mrs. henchman wanted us all to walk to the landslip this afternoon," she said. "she has ordered a donkey-chair and we shall have tea at the cottage. could not you join our party, mr. greyburne? we can hardly run away!" "oh, how horrid!" exclaimed gertrude, "you know how i hate walking. i shall get out of it somehow. mr. greyburne and i can cycle there and join you at tea. how will that do, mr. greyburne?" cecil glanced at denys, and his eyes passed on to gertrude's merry, sparkling face. she was really good fun to ride out with, and it was turning out to be a much jollier easter holiday than he had anticipated. he did not exactly see why he should sacrifice himself to walking beside a slow donkey-chair, when the prettiest girl he had ever known invited him to a cycle ride. if she could get out of the walk he was quite ready to second her. "i'll come up at any time you name, and be ready for anything that is wanted of me," he said gallantly. he felt he had handled a difficult decision very neatly. as the two girls tidied their hair for lunch, denys said very earnestly, "gertrude! we really can't run away from mrs. henchman this afternoon; it is not polite or--or--anything!" "you can't, but i can," retorted gertrude, "and i'm going to. you are not going to condemn me to a slow walk when i can have a nice spin with cecil. i'll arrange it with mrs. henchman, and she'll be quite satisfied if you don't interfere." she ran downstairs and went gaily into the dining-room. "so i hear you are going to take us all to the landslip, and have tea at the cottage, mrs. henchman," she said, sitting down beside her affectionately; "and denys has asked cecil greyburne to go too, and he and i are going to cycle instead of walk. denys said you would not like it, but i knew you would not mind." and mrs. henchman answered as gertrude had meant she should. "not at all, my dear! i want you to enjoy yourself while you are here." "oh, i am!" answered gertrude, very heartily and very truthfully. she cast a little triumphant look at denys. she was certainly enjoying herself immensely. they had been at whitecliff the larger half of a week already, and cecil greyburne, an old school friend of charlie's, had dropped in to call on mrs. henchman the first evening, and since then he had called in or met the girls constantly. mrs. henchman had not been very well since their arrival, and audrey was very engrossed with the end-of-term examinations, and gertrude found it convenient to assume that denys ought to be entertaining her future relatives or writing to charlie; she, therefore, monopolised cecil to such an extent, that every day it happened as it had happened that morning: denys sat alone on the beach or wandered about on the cliff, and gertrude, with a lightly uttered "oh, denys is busy somewhere," had gone cycling or rowing or primrose hunting with cecil. mrs. henchman had ordered her donkey-chair for three o'clock, and shortly before that hour gertrude came bustling in from the garden. she found denys in the hall collecting cushions and shawls, for though the april sun was unusually warm there was a sharp touch in the wind. "i say, denys!" she exclaimed. "i have borrowed your machine--i have bent my pedal somehow, and you won't want yours." chapter v. a wild-goose chase. donkeys are proverbially obstinate animals, and mrs. henchman's this afternoon proved no exception to the rule. he had evidently made up his mind that the road to the landslip was not a congenial one. in vain the boy who drove him cheered him onwards, in vain denys tugged at his bridle, in vain audrey walked in front holding out an inviting thistle. at length mrs. henchman got flurried and nervous. "boy!" she called, "what is your name?" the boy turned a smiling round face, "billy burr, ma'am!" "billy burr! if you can't make your donkey go, i shall get out." "if you please, ma'am," answered billy burr serenely, "it's not my donkey. that's why he won't go, ma'am! it's dickie lowe's donkey, but he's got a cold and he had to save up for to-night, ma'am, to sing in the stainer. whoa--there--get on, you! that's better!" the donkey broke into a trot, and denys and audrey and billy were forced to do the same, but in a minute that was over and the donkey appeared to have recovered his right mind and walked on stolidly. billy and denys walking at his bridle fell into a confidential chat. "i told dickie how it would be," billy said apologetically, "this one won't go for nobody else and the other one was lame." "are you going to sing in stainer's crucifixion to-night at all saints'?" asked denys with interest. "i am going to hear it. are you one of the boys of all saints'? one of miss dolly allan's boys?" billy nodded cheerily, "do you know her?" he inquired. "when is she coming down again?" but the donkey had come to a standstill, and the party were forced to do the same. "it is perfectly ridiculous going on like this," exclaimed audrey. "we are a laughing stock to the neighbourhood! billy burr, if that is your name, why don't you give the animal a good thrashing and _make_ him go?" "'twouldn't be no use," said billy vexedly. "i'm real sorry, ma'am. would you like to try another road? it's just the road he's taken offence at." "no, indeed! the only road i shall go is home again," cried mrs. henchman. "it's too bad, though, to spoil all my afternoon like this. turn him round, boy, and let us get back as fast as possible. it's a wasted afternoon." "he'll go all right _that_ way," said billy. "but what about gertrude and mr. greyburne?" said denys as the little cavalcade turned back. oh, how she wished gertrude had been more amenable and had not broken up the party. "i am sure i should not trouble about _them_," said audrey walking on, "i don't know why gertrude did not stay with her hostess!" "yes!" said mrs. henchman, too worried and annoyed to remember what she had said to make it easy for gertrude, "that is just what i thought. now, what is to be done? i am not going home by myself with this donkey for anybody." denys was ready to cry with vexation, and yet as gertrude and cecil had been told to wait at the cottage till they came, they could not be left there indefinitely. she ignored the remarks on gertrude with what grace she could, and tried to make the best of the situation. "we can all go back together," she said soothingly, "and then i must go and find gertrude and tell her how unfortunate we have been." "you could cycle," suggested audrey, relenting a little. denys shook her head, "gertrude has my bicycle," she said; "something has happened to hers. oh, i can easily walk." "mine has gone wrong too," said audrey. "look here, mother, surely i am capable of taking you home. i've looked after you all these years without help! if denys has got to walk she had far better go straight on." "whatever you like," said mrs. henchman wearily. "i shall be truly thankful to be safe back in my own bedroom. i shall have a heart attack, i know! go on, boy, at once!" denys stood and watched them out of sight, the donkey going quite amiably now, and then she turned to her own path. how tiresome it was! and oh, how disagreeable to have got into a bother with those she so much wished to please, through no fault of her own. but charlie was coming down that evening, and when he came everything would be all right! she trudged on cheerily after that, trying to plan out the time between now and half-past seven, when she was to meet charlie at the station, and they were to go together to hear stainer's crucifixion sung at all saints'. it was wonderfully pretty in the landslip, though the trees were only just showing a green tinge in the sunlight, but she hurried on as fast as she could, and reached the cottage at last. it was a pretty little ivy-clad cottage, with a bench outside and a table set invitingly for visitors, but the bench was unoccupied, and she looked about in vain for any sign of gertrude or cecil. upon inquiry she found that she was the first visitor that afternoon. people had hardly come down yet, the woman explained; they generally came into whitecliff this evening, thursday, and this was a favourite good friday walk. denys sat down to wait and had not been seated long, before the little voice that was so like jerry's, fell upon her ear. "hullo!" said little harry, peeping round the door at her. "how did you come here?" asked denys, but before she could get a reply, a sound of terrible coughing came from within, and a voice said, "harry! harry! you've left the door open!" harry darted back, but returned very quickly. he seemed to like talking to denys, but while she talked, denys was watching for gertrude and listening to that rending cough. harry seemed to listen to it too. "that's mother," he said, "aren't you coming to see her?" "oh, no!" said denys shrinkingly, "she would not like it." harry was off with his little petticoats flying, and was back again like a flash. "she wants you," he said triumphantly, "she's been a-listening to your voice!" he seized her hand, and led her into a little room behind the parlour, and on a low bed by the open window denys saw a young woman with a pretty face, so like harry's as to proclaim her his mother at once. she looked up at denys with a smile. "harry told me about you this morning," she said. "won't you sit down, miss? it is very kind of you to come in." denys sat down. the window commanded a view of the garden gate, so she was in no danger of missing gertrude. she wondered whatever had become of her. she found mrs. lyon very easy to talk to--and while denys and his mother chatted, harry climbed into the bed and fell fast asleep. mrs. lyon looked down at him tenderly. "it's hard to leave him," she said softly, "oh, so hard! my brother, jim, who lives at mixham junction, has promised to take him, but i don't know what his wife is like. jim don't never say much about her, and he'd be sure to if she was the right one for him, but jim will be good to him, i know, and the lord jesus is our best friend and he is the good shepherd. i often have to say that to myself to comfort myself." "yes!" said denys, sympathetically, her eyes on the almost baby face nestled on the pillow, her thoughts busy with wondering whether she could have left jerry so trustingly in god's care. and jerry had been her brother, not her child. she felt she could more willingly have had jerry die, than have died herself and left him to other people to care for. her thoughts came back to the present with a start. "mixham junction!" she said, "that is only five miles from my home in old keston!" the sick woman's face flushed and she laid her hand beseechingly on denys's. "oh, miss!" she said, "would you--would you sometimes--just sometimes go and see my harry, just to let them know there is somebody as takes an interest, that he isn't quite friendless, and you could remind him of jesus? i'm not sure about jim's doing that. would you, miss?" once more denys looked at the little face, and thought of jerry. "yes!" she said, "while i am in old keston or going there to see mother, and while harry is in mixham, i certainly will." nellie lyon's eyes filled with tears. "i thank you from the bottom of my heart," she said. denys rose. a glance at her watch had told her it was getting very late. what could have become of gertrude? she went out once more. no one at all like the missing couple had come. indeed she herself had been sitting in full view of the gate for more than an hour. already the sun was sinking and the air was growing chill, and a mist was gathering under the trees in the landslip. if she waited much longer she would have a dreary enough walk under those trees in the dusk. it was not a cheerful prospect, and what would charlie think if she were not at the station to meet him? that and the growing darkness decided her. hastily scribbling a note to be left with the woman in case gertrude and cecil turned up, she hurried away. it was not a pleasant walk. the sea sounded mournfully at the foot of the rocks below her, and the darkness under the trees was not reassuring, and seemed to fall deeper each moment. she wished she had taken the upper, though much longer road, or that she had started half an hour earlier and left gertrude and cecil to their own devices. even when the moon, the great round moon, came up out of the sea and shone through the trees upon her path, it only seemed to make the shadows blacker and more eerie, till she remembered that it was the easter moon, and thought of him who had knelt beneath the trees of gethsemane under that moon, on this night of his agony. after that, thinking of him, she did not feel afraid, and at last she rang at mrs. henchman's door. audrey ran out to open it. "well! i thought you were never coming! where are the others?" "i don't know," said denys, "i can't think." chapter vi. a ticket for one. as cecil very justly observed to gertrude, it was a perfect afternoon for a ride, and the two went gaily along the upper road to the landslip, till they came to a sign-post in a place where four roads met. gertrude jumped off her machine and stood gazing up at the directions indicated. "you see!" she observed, "we have lots of time before that slow donkey gets there. we might make a detour and get into the road again later on. we don't want to sit staring down the landslip till they arrive. besides, we've seen it all yesterday, haven't we?" cecil acquiesced. it amused him to see gertrude's cool way of arranging matters, and it was certainly less trouble to be entertained and directed hither and thither than to take the initiative and entertain. at any rate it was a change. but bicycles, like donkeys, are not always satisfactory means of locomotion. the pair had not gone much further when gertrude's tyre punctured, and a halt was called while cecil repaired it. cecil was not a good workman; he made a long job of it, and when at last they started again, time was getting on and they had but reached a small colony of houses when gertrude exclaimed that her tyre was down again. she glanced round at the little cluster of houses. "there's a cycle shop," she said, "and a tea shop next door. how convenient. we had better have the punctured tyre mended for us and we can have tea while we wait!" cecil obediently wheeled her cycle into one shop and followed her into the second. he found her seated at a little table, examining the watch on her wrist. "guess what the time is," she said laughing. "let us hope they won't wait tea for us at the landslip, for i am sure we shall never get there! the woman here says there is no way of getting there except by going back to the cross-road!" cecil looked rather blank. he had not at all counted on failing to keep the appointment at the cottage, or on running the risk of thereby offending mrs. henchman, and where would be his promise to himself of making it up to audrey at tea-time? however, the tea was already being placed on the table, a plate of cakes was at his elbow, and gertrude was asking if he took milk and sugar. he shrugged his shoulders mentally. "in for a penny, in for a pound," he said to himself, "here i am and i may as well enjoy myself." so while denys waited and watched for them in the landslip cottage, these two laughed and ate and chatted and at last mounted their bicycles and rode off back to whitecliff in a leisurely manner, arriving five minutes after audrey, dressed in her very best white frock, had departed to her breaking-up school concert, leaving denys to hastily change her dress, eat a much-needed tea and rush up to the station to meet charlie. gertrude came in with her usual easy manner. "well!" she said, "here we are! where is everybody? did you think we were lost?" "i am awfully sorry we missed," said cecil quickly. "the fact is we got into a road that did not go there at all, and then miss gertrude had a puncture, and then a second, and by the time we got back to the right road we knew it was too late to do anything." gertrude looked at the tea-table approvingly. "i will ask you to tea, cecil, as denys does not. where is mrs. henchman, denys? you don't seem very communicative to-night." "she is lying down till charlie comes," said denys. "we had a bother with the donkey and it upset her. audrey had to come back with her and i went on to the landslip to find you. i have only just got back. audrey has gone to her concert; she was able to get a ticket for you after all, and she said she was sorry she could not wait for you, as she was playing, but she would come and speak to you in the interval." gertrude glanced at the ticket and tossed it on to the table. "i shan't go all by myself," she said, "i shall go and hear the stainer. i shall like it much better; it is too utterly dull to sit by one's self." denys's heart sank. she had so counted on this treat alone with charlie, and had secretly been much pleased when audrey and gertrude had planned to go to the concert together, and now here she was saddled with gertrude's company. besides, what would audrey say? she poured out the tea and as she put milk into the third cup, she almost smiled. she had forgotten cecil! of course, though there was but one ticket for the concert, there were no tickets needed for the church! but she herself must start for the station almost immediately, and the service of song was not till eight o'clock. she must leave the couple behind her, and then if gertrude changed her mind again and stayed at home after all, what _would_ mrs. henchman think when she came downstairs and found them amusing themselves over the drawing-room fire? somehow since she came to whitecliff, denys had felt bewildered and out of touch with god, and had forgotten her usual habit of praying about the little everyday worries and perplexities; but now suddenly, fresh from the walk under the moonlit trees which had reminded her of gethsemane, as she stood with the teapot in her hand, she bethought her of the words, "god is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble," and with the remembrance of him, came the suggestion of what she had better do. she would run up and say good-bye to mrs. henchman and tell her what they were all planning for the evening, and then the responsibility would be no longer on her shoulders. and even as she decided this, cecil looked up from a perusal of audrey's concert ticket. "if neither of you want this ticket," he said, "i think i will take it. i would like to hear audrey play, and she will feel it dull if there is nobody there that she knows." denys looked up gratefully. "oh, i am so glad!" she said. "i was afraid she would be very disappointed to see no one. that is really kind." gertrude pouted openly. "look here, denys!" she said, "mind you and charlie look out for me!" that little touch of god's hand had made all the difference to denys. "all right," she said cheerfully, "we will do our best." she ran lightly upstairs and knocked softly at mrs. henchman's door. she found mrs. henchman lying on her sofa beside a bright little fire, and after telling her their plans, she bent down and kissed her affectionately. "shall you be lonely with us all out?" she asked solicitously. "i daresay i shall be all right, my dear," mrs. henchman replied, a little grudgingly. this weakness which had come upon her in the last few months was a sore trial--not an accepted trial--under which she chafed and fretted day by day. denys longed to be able to say, "i will gladly stay and keep you company," but then charlie had arranged this evening's engagement and she knew mrs. henchman would not allow it to be altered. instead, she said, "will mary come up, and see if you want anything?" "i really can't say, my dear. mary is a funny person. run along now or you will be late for charlie." denys left her, but as she passed down the stairs she saw the kitchen door ajar, and with a sudden impulse she tapped at it. "mary!" she said, "we are all going out. you will take care of mrs. henchman, won't you?" "well, miss!" mary's tone and face were indignant. "i always _do_ take care of mrs. henchman." denys retreated. "oh, dear!" she said to herself as she closed the front door behind her. "i am afraid i have made a mistake." chapter vii. heights and depths. it seemed to denys as if she had never felt so absolutely happy, so blissfully content, as she did when with charlie's arm tucked into hers, they left the station together and made their way down the steep hill to the church. all the worries of the day and the worries of the yesterdays had slipped from her, and not even the thought of gertrude, awaiting them in the church porch, had power to disturb her. charlie and she were together, and before them stretched the days, the hours, the minutes, the seconds of a whole week! a whole, long, lovely week, of which only five minutes had already gone! charlie's voice, his dear, familiar voice, though it only spoke of the trivialities of his journey, seemed like music to her. she did not know how her heart had hungered for him, till she felt how satisfied she was now in his presence. they reached the church before she thought it possible; gertrude was not in the porch, and denys paused a moment in the doorway and glanced about for her. yes! there she was, some distance down the aisle, comfortably ensconced between mrs. henchman's medical man, dr. wyatt, and his sister, and as denys descried her, she turned her pretty face to answer some remark of the doctor's and caught sight of denys and charlie, and her smile and shake of the head were easily translated. "she is not going to sit with us," said charlie, "so _that's_ all right." it was nearly eight o'clock, and denys, full of her happy thoughts, let her eyes wander round the church, noting its pillars, its high arched roof, its electric lights, and the ever-increasing crowd which moved softly up the aisle till every seat that she could see was occupied. and then came the choir. she watched their faces eagerly. would she recognise billy burr? and which was dickie lowe? ah! those two must be the golden-haired twins about whom mr. owen had told her and charlie three years ago, now no longer the foremost in the little procession, but as unknowable apart as ever, as they preceded the tenors. and there, behind all, was mr. owen's familiar face! denys knelt with all the congregation, waiting and longing to hear his deep, strong voice in the collects which began the service. but it was a curate who read the prayers, and the words passed unheeded over denys's head, for her heart was back in saltmarsh among the days when she had first known mr. owen and charlie. so the music began and a voice rose plaintively-- "and they came to a place called gethsemane." the words came into the midst of denys's wandering thoughts with a startling suddenness. she saw again the darkness gathering under the trees, the black shadows of the bushes and the easter moon above! "could ye not watch with me one brief hour?" how the voice rang down the church! what had she come there for? to think of charlie--of her happiness? she could have stayed at home to do that. was it for the music she had come? no, for mere music she would not have come out on this first evening of charlie's return. for what had she come then? "could ye not watch with me one brief hour?" the tender words stole down into the depths of her heart and stirred it to a tenderness that she had never felt for her saviour before. she seemed, as the organ sounded out the processional to calvary, to be one of the crowd gathering round the lonely figure in the via dolorosa, and to be passing out through the gates of the city with the triumphant song-- fling wide the gates! fling wide the gates! for the saviour waits to tread in his royal way! he has come from above in his power and love, to die on this passion day. the triumph of it, and the humiliation of it engrossed her. how sweet is the grace of his sacred face, and lovely beyond compare! so with her eyes on his face, her feet following his pathway of sorrow, forgetful of all else, she went on with him to the end. it was over! the congregation passed out again under the starlit, moonlit sky, and left the church with the words-- all for jesus, all for jesus! still echoing softly amid the arches of the roof. * * * * * it was a very bright and lively party that sat round mrs. henchman's supper-table that night. mrs. henchman, with charlie beside her, seemed brightest of all, and yet denys fancied--was it only fancy?--that when her hostess spoke to her or glanced at her, there was a coldness in her voice and glance that she had not seen before. audrey divided her attentions between her brother and cecil greyburne, with whose appearance at the concert she had been much gratified; but as the meal progressed, denys began to notice that audrey did not by any chance speak to her, and kept her eyes studiously in another direction. a shadow fell over denys's happiness, but she drove it away with her usual good-tempered large-mindedness. this was the first time that mrs. henchman and audrey had had to realise that charlie was no longer exclusively their own, and of course they felt that she was the cause! they would be all right to-morrow. but when mary came in to clear the supper, denys began to think that there might be something more than that the matter, for mary's indignant and lowering look at her suddenly reminded her of that unfortunate moment in the kitchen before she started out to meet charlie. she grew hot all over. surely mary could not have taken serious offence at what she had said! she had no opportunity to do more than think of the possibility, before she found herself politely but unceremoniously hustled off to bed, and as she and gertrude left the drawing-room, an unconscious backward glance showed her mrs. henchman cosily pulling forward a couple of armchairs to the fireside. well! it was natural, of course. up in her room she began laying away her hat and jacket and putting out the dress she would need in the morning, when, after a hasty knock, audrey entered, and carefully closed the door behind her. "look here, denys," she said, a little breathlessly, "i have come up to say that i do think it is too bad of you to go upsetting our servant. when i came home i found mother in an awful state--perfectly awful--and all through your interfering with mary, and telling her to take care of mother! of course, mary did not like it, and poor mother had to bear it all alone. it _is_ a shame." so mary had not taken care of mrs. henchman, but had gone up and complained of denys. that much was clear! it did not help denys that she could see gertrude, as she brushed out her long, dark hair, shaking with suppressed laughter, but before she could think of anything to say to defend herself, audrey had begun again. "i never thought we should have an interfering daughter-in-law," she said. "you are not mrs. henchman _yet_ to give orders to our servant! mother is awfully annoyed, and as to charlie----!" denys drew herself up a little. "i think, audrey," she said coldly, "that quite enough has been said about this. i had not the faintest thought of being interfering. i only spoke to mary as i should have thought any visitor in my home might speak to our maid, if mother were alone and ill. and i think that it would have been more suitable if your mother or charlie had spoken to me themselves about it. i will tell them to-morrow how very, very sorry i am your mother has been upset." "oh, i hope you will do nothing of the kind," cried audrey. "do let her forget it, if possible, poor thing! and as for charlie, _of course_, mother does not annoy him with worries the first five minutes he is in the house, and why should he be made angry? as he would be if he knew. pray let the whole matter drop." denys was silent, and audrey went away, shutting the door noisily. "well!" said gertrude, when her footsteps had died away, "now i may laugh in peace! i don't congratulate you on the tempers of your future relations, denys." but denys was too utterly overset to attempt defence or condemnation. great tears welled up into her eyes and rolled down her cheeks as fast as she wiped them away. she was glad that gertrude took her side, but she felt that gertrude's own vagaries had helped not a little, in the avalanche of blame which had fallen upon her head. she could not go to sleep. she lay in the darkness, her pillow wet with those great tears which she could not seem to stop, her mind going backwards and forwards over it all unceasingly, in a maze of useless regrets and annoyance, until suddenly a melody she had heard that evening seemed to float into her mind. oh, come unto me! oh, come unto me! oh, come unto me! ah, there was rest there! to the rhythm of the soft, soothing melody she fell asleep. chapter viii. in fear. denys rose the next morning pale and heavy-eyed. charlie and she had arranged overnight to be out at seven to take an early stroll on the sea front, and as she dressed, denys's thoughts were busy with how she should meet everybody, and how much or how little it was best to say about last night's cause of offence. she was somewhat startled to find gertrude's bright eyes fixed upon her. "my dear denys!" said she, "if you don't want to be the first to tell charlie of this ridiculous affair, don't go down with that face! look as happy as you did last night, or he will be asking questions." denys coloured faintly. "i don't know what to do about it," she sighed. "if you don't want a thing talked about, don't talk about it," answered gertrude sagely. "if ever i am engaged and my _fiancé's_ relations try sitting on me, i shall soon show them that it is a game two can play." she stopped to laugh at some secret remembrance, and denys's thoughts flew once again to that far-off scotch town and the dark-haired boy with merry, twinkling eyes. not a very auspicious remark for reggie, who had neither father nor mother, sister nor brother! "i'll tell you what i was laughing at," pursued gertrude, who was most wonderfully wide awake and talkative this morning. "do you remember reggie's getting me a ticket to see the king give the medals for the south african war, at the horse guards? reggie's cousin had a medal, you know. it was rather a crush, and of course reggie wanted us to be in a good place, and we certainly were. well, behind me there was a big stout woman, and oh! how she leant on me--just on my shoulders! i shall never forget the feel of it! at last i got perfectly tired of it and i thought of a plan. she was stout and soft and broad, and i just leant right back on her--on her chest. it was simply _restful_. after a bit, of course, i stood up properly, when i had got over the tiredness a little!" "my dear gertrude." denys's laugh rang out involuntarily. "she did not try that little dodge again," said gertrude, laughing too. "denys, don't put on that horrid red blouse." "but i've nothing else!" objected denys. "nothing else! why, there's that sweet white nun's veiling. i've wanted 'the fellow to it,' as grandma used to say when she did not wish to covet her neighbour's goods, ever since you made it. put that on and astonish the natives and be done with it!" denys lifted out the white blouse obediently. it certainly suited her, and her laugh at gertrude had brought a colour into her cheeks. she suddenly guessed that gertrude had waked herself up on purpose to amuse her and change her thoughts and she bent quickly over the pillow and gave gertrude's soft cheek a grateful sisterly kiss. "now shall i do?" she asked, straightening herself up. "ar," said gertrude emphatically. "now!" mimicking denys's own tone, "don't be late for breakfast, my dear." and denys ran downstairs smiling! gertrude _had_ got pretty, entertaining ways. it was no wonder people liked her. charlie was waiting for her in the hall. "you look as bright as the morning," he said; "isn't it delicious to be out so early?" they strolled up and down the empty parade, enjoying themselves immensely, though every now and then a sickening fear of what the approaching breakfast hour might bring, swept over denys. but she determined to stick to gertrude's advice and say nothing to anyone unless positively obliged. they turned homeward at last, and as they caught sight of the church tower, charlie said, "what did you think of doing this morning?" denys's eyes looked eager, but she thought of mrs. henchman and the two armchairs over the fire last night, and she hesitated to produce a plan that would monopolise charlie for herself. "what would you like?" she said. "well, i thought that you and i, at any rate, would go to church together this morning. the others, of course, must choose for themselves, but i should not feel happy to do anything else myself." denys's eyes lighted up. "i am so glad," she said, "that is just what i wished." "mother told me about the donkey," pursued charlie. "poor mother, it quite put her about! so i told her i should hire a nice little wicker bath chair and i should push her, and we would all go to the landslip this afternoon and have a nice walk together. only we'll start at two, while the sunshine lasts, and we can get cecil and one or two more to join us." "that will be lovely!" said denys, "and i will see that poor mrs. lyon and little harry. oh, i wish i had bought some grapes yesterday. i absolutely forgot that the shops would be shut." "oh! i'll get you some," said charlie. "i know the back door of a greengrocer's shop, and i'll go and thump till he opens it." they were in excellent time for breakfast, and so was gertrude; but denys found the meeting of her offended friends was to be an agony long drawn out, for mrs. henchman had sent down word that she should breakfast in bed, and that charlie might wait upon her. audrey was already seated behind the teapot with an aggressive little air which seemed to say, "behold the daughter of the house," but with charlie's eyes upon her she greeted denys at least civilly, and she and gertrude appeared to be on the best of terms. by-and-by cecil greyburne turned up, and denys left the three deep in discussion over the morning's plans, and went to get ready for church, calling in on mrs. henchman on her way upstairs. she found her dressed on her sofa, with charlie in an arm-chair on the opposite side of the fire; she stayed a minute or two with them and went on to her room, feeling glad that the first meeting with mrs. henchman was over and nothing had been said. oh, if she could only know that nothing more _would_ be said! then she could try and go on cheerfully and endeavour to forget that anything disagreeable had happened. she and charlie found all saints' far more crowded than they had anticipated, the result being, that as they waited with many others in the aisle, denys found herself put into a row where there was but one seat, and she could only look helplessly on while charlie was marched by the verger, who knew him but did not know denys, right up to the front. yet, after the first moment of chagrin, denys felt a vague relief in being alone. alone, in a crowd, with no eyes upon her that knew her, alone with herself and god. the prayers, the familiar sunday prayers seemed to have a new significance on this day, under the very shadow of the cross on which he hung, for whose name's sake she asked forgiveness and blessing. the psalms, the anguished cry of the crucified, sounded solemnly out, the very words of his lips, the awful loneliness of his heart, the unshaken faith in his god. the lessons, the hymns, all told the same story, that the father sent the son to be the saviour of the world, that now once in the end of the world, hath he appeared to put away sin by the sacrifice of himself. the text, again so familiar, so significant on this day, floated out through the church. this was the way--the truth--the life--indeed. "he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities, the chastisement of our peace was upon him, and with his stripes we are healed." it seemed as if the sermon, so gentle, so simple, so tender, held in it no human words and yet it was not a mere repetition of verse upon verse of scripture. as denys sat with her eyes rivetted on mr. owen's face, she felt as if she had never even guessed before at the depth of christ's salvation, that she had only touched the fringe of the knowledge of the love of christ which passeth knowledge. when i survey the wondrous cross on which the prince of glory died. she rose with the congregation and sang it with her whole heart, sang it through its verses till they came to the fourth verse, and she sang that, too, thinking not so much of its words as of the love she felt for that prince of glory-- were the whole realm of nature mine, that were an offering far too small, love so amazing, so divine, demands my soul, my life, my all. her soul--her life--how gladly she gave them once more to him for his service! and then--in one instant--she came back to the things of earth, and so to another thought--her all! a movement about her had brought charlie into her view. she saw him before her with a ray of sunlight resting across his fair head. her all! the whole realm of nature, in her eyes! she remembered again the blissful content, the undreamed of happiness, his presence had brought to her yesterday. she remembered with a shiver how that perfection of joy, which had seemed so unassailable, had been shattered in a moment by a word of her own, which had given offence where none was meant, by a care for others which had been resented. she knew in a flash that the cause of her unending tears, of her heart-sickness ever since, had been the fear of charlie's anger, the fear that, be the reason great or small, she should forfeit his affection and cease to be all the world to him. she did not stop to think how much she was wronging charlie's faithful love. she was oblivious for the moment of everything but this fear. she had been fighting fiercely since last night against the bare thought of the possibility of losing charlie's love; she had been holding on to that love as for her life, and now another love, a love higher, wider, deeper the love that passeth knowledge, had risen up before her and claimed--her all. were the whole realm of nature mine, that were an offering far too small. the thoughts passed through her mind with the swiftness of a dream, as, instinctively following the movements of those about her, she stood there with her eyes fixed upon charlie, while the slow procession of the choir filed out and the organ sounded plaintively among the high arches. she seemed only to see charlie--her all--the whole realm of nature which at that moment she _did_ possess--how the thought thrilled her--she saw him on one side and her crucified saviour waiting on the other. waiting--for what? her soul--her life? she had given them. ah! for something more--her all! the congregation around her were passing out. she sank slowly on to her knees and hid her face. the love which had given its all for her had conquered. with her all, she knelt at his feet, and kneeling there she broke her box of ointment of spikenard, very precious, and poured it out. the church was almost empty when she rose and passed out. charlie was waiting for her in the porch, and audrey, gertrude and cecil were on the steps. audrey slipped her arm into denys's. "wasn't it nice? didn't you like it?" she whispered. "very much, oh, very much!" denys answered. "i did not know you were all there." she gave her arm a little answering pressure. this was the audrey she had known at saltmarsh! "that was cecil," said audrey gravely. "he said that when there were so many who _didn't_ care, we, who do care, ought to show that we cared! so, of course, we went." when the afternoon came, it was a pleasant and united little party which set out for the walk to the landslip. as gertrude observed serenely-- "with neither donkeys nor bicycles we ought to do quite nicely!" and quite nicely they did, mrs. henchman arriving in such good condition and spirits that she proposed walking a short distance to see the view while tea was being got ready. denys held up the little basket of grapes charlie had given her. "i will take these in to mrs. lyon while you are gone," she said. she tapped softly at mrs. lyon's door, and before any answer came, the woman with whom she had left her note on the previous day, opened her kitchen door with a scared look in her face. "oh, miss!" she said. "oh, miss! don't tell any one, but she's gone! poor dear, she's gone!" "gone!" echoed denys. the woman burst into low, restrained weeping. "the visitors mustn't know," she sobbed. "they are afraid of death, but i've been longing and hoping for you all day, miss. poor dear, poor dear, she died last night." chapter ix. brothers-in-law. the news of his sister nellie's death came upon jim adams with the suddenness of a thunderclap. the weeks had gone by since she wrote to ask him to take harry, with no further news of her, and after watching every post for a few days in the expectation of a black-edged envelope, he had begun to think that it was only a scare, and that she was not going to die at all, and it was really a pity that he had had all that bother with jane! yet, in spite of this feeling, the incident had done him good in more ways than one. he had fought for duty instead of running away from it. he had been reminded of things which he had hardly wanted to remember. he had been strengthened for the right by the mere fact that somebody never dreamed but that he would do right. also he had taken tom's advice, and had had what jane deridingly called "a teetotal spell," the result of which was a respectable banking account which perfectly astonished him. he had no idea small sums could total up so. the idea of saving a little money had come to him from one of jane's harangues, in which she informed him that when "that brat" came, she did not intend to spend any of her housekeeping money upon him; jim would have to give her more. she was quite short enough as it was, especially with a great romping baby of her own, and she supposed that jim would be sorry to see _him_ getting thin and pale and perhaps dying altogether, because somebody else's child ate the food that ought to have been in his mouth. and then the funeral! funerals cost a lot! with this interesting climax jane went to get the supper beer--out of the housekeeping--and jim made his cocoa, and thought things over. not that he discussed harry's coming with her. he had never mentioned the subject since that first night. he disliked words, and he found jane tired of rating more quickly without an answer, though sometimes he could not resist giving one, but he always wished afterwards he had held his tongue. he determined, as he sipped his cocoa, that he would accept some over-time work, which he had happily not mentioned to jane, and save up what he earned and add it to his beer-money in the bank. who could tell when it might be wanted? so the telegram telling of nellie's death found him unprepared in one way--prepared in another. he proposed to go down and attend the funeral and bring harry back, but jane was furious. he had promised to take her and the baby down to her mother's for the easter, and she did not mean to go by herself, as if she had no husband, and if jim spent the money on train fares to whitecliff and board and lodging as well, where was the money for going home to come from? besides, what good would it do? nellie was dead, and the brat could come up with the guard. anyhow, jim had no black clothes! that last argument was unanswerable. so jim wrote to nellie's friends and said he could not come to the funeral, and asked them to arrange for harry to come up with the guard and to let him know the day and the train, and he would meet him. then with a rather heavy heart, he shouldered jane's parcel and his big baby, and took the easter excursion train into suffolk. it was very late on the saturday night when they reached their destination, for the train was two hours behind time, but the welcome they received in the tiny cottage had suffered nothing from its delay. old mr. and mrs. green's delight over their first grandchild was quite astonishing, and they admired him from the curl on the top of his round head to the sole of his little fat foot. and there, in the chimney corner, looking thin and worn, sat tom. jim grasped his hand warmly. "well! i _am_ glad you're here," said he, "it will be a bit of company." he glanced back at the group round the baby and tom nodded comprehendingly. "i had nothing to keep me," he said quietly. it was a long, long time since jim had been to church, but he found that on this easter sunday morning, mr. and mrs. green expected nothing else. jane elected to remain at home and mind the baby and cook the dinner, and the old couple, with their stalwart son-in-law on one side and tom on the other, found themselves places in the old village church. it was all very quiet and nice, jim thought. his heart was sore for his little sister nellie and he felt alone in the world, cut off from all his childhood, all that they two had shared together. it had never occurred to jane to offer him any sympathy in his loss. she had hardly realised the loss, only the coming of a burden. and in not going to the funeral, jim had an odd feeling of neglecting nellie, though his common sense told him it could make no difference to her. the easter hymns comforted him strangely. his mind seemed to pass from the earthly grave to the heavenly resurrection with a thrill of hope that matched with the sunshine, the bursting of green leaves, the twitter of the birds and the blue sky above. on that happy easter morning, all the graves their dead restore, father, sister, child, and mother meet once more. and so he came to another thought. was _he_ going to meet nellie? he glanced across at tom. the quiet patience of his face touched him. tom had lost something too. something more hopeless, more irremediable than even the death of a sister, and yet there was a strength in his look which seemed to jim not to be of earth, but from above. tom and nellie were on one side, and he, jim, was on another. the two young men went for a walk together in the afternoon, and it was like tom to be the first to touch on jim's sorrow. "you're wearing a black tie, jim," he said. so jim told him all about nellie, his pretty little gentle sister nellie, and then of her child and of how he had promised to take him, and look after him, but he did not mention jane. after all, jane was tom's sister. tom listened gravely. there was sympathy in the very way he listened, and jim felt it. he longed to ask tom if he approved of his taking harry, but some of the strength which had grown in him since his decision, kept him silent. he _had_ decided and what was the use of courting disapproval. but tom was not one to withhold commendation, of which there is so little in this world's intercourse, and he gave his verdict unasked. "i'm glad you did," he said heartily, "poor little chap, what else could you do? it's quite right. mind you, jim, any time if you are pushed with him, there's always a bed and meal with me. i've more than enough for myself." that was jim's opportunity, and he took it. "you're a good sort, tom," he said, "i'll not forget. how--how--" he hesitated. "have you seen pattie since?" "yes," said tom sadly, "i've seen her." there was a finality in his answer that jim did not like to break, and they walked on in silence till tom spoke again. "i saw her," he said, "when she didn't see me, and i thought she looked tired-like. she was with some girl, a loud-voiced, gay-looking sort of girl, who must have known me, though i don't know her; and when she saw me, she whispered to pattie and laughed, and pattie tossed her head and laughed out loud, as i never heard her laugh before, and she went red, but she never turned her head nor looked, not even when she got to the corner, for i stood and watched. i couldn't turn my back and leave her. i _had_ to look while she was in sight." "is there--is there any----?" jim stopped. "is there anybody else?" said tom in a strangled kind of voice. "they say so. the butcher's man, in that big shop by the station hotel. he looks smart and dresses like any gentleman on a sunday, but he's always popping in and out of the hotel, and if you could hear his language--" "i shouldn't be too sure of what 'they say'," said jim, "and as for her laughing and all that--p'r'aps it was just put on because you were looking. it made her feel awkward-like. if she hadn't cared a bit, she'd have gone on without turning a hair." tom sighed. "i'd wait a bit and take no heed of what folks say about her," went on jim, "and then if you find you keep on caring, just up and ask her again. you've as much right as any other man. when she gets to know this fellow better, she'll know what she's missed." tom smiled faintly and the shadow in his eyes lightened a little at jim's hopefulness. "if jane was to meet her and have words, i don't know what i should do," he said. "it would be best not to remind her of pattie at all." "not me!" answered jim emphatically. chapter x. a mean thing. there was no need to remind jane of the offending pattie in words. tom's face had done that already, and she was meditating vengeance. she and jim and the baby reached their own home at midnight on easter monday, and by nine o'clock on the tuesday morning she was at the weekly washtub which she superintended in old keston, her arms immersed in soap suds, her eyes on the garden fence which cut her off from pattie's premises. if she could only catch sight of pattie hanging out washing, and have a few words with her! pattie, however, was not at the wash-tub this week. in denys's and gertrude's absence all the washing had been sent out, to leave pattie more time to help mrs. brougham, and at that minute pattie was busily running round the house tidying up after the holiday, and looking forward to taking little maud out in the afternoon, a treat which she was beginning to appreciate very highly. as tom had said, she looked tired, even though it was so early in the day; but she would not have allowed for an instant that she had anything to trouble her. why should she have, when she had only to let sam willard, the butcher's assistant, know when she would be out for an hour in the evening, and there he would be at the corner waiting for her, with his fine air and his curled moustache and his hair in a curl on his forehead. and he had no end of money, he was always chinking a pocketful, and talking of what he should buy. only on saturday he had taken her round to look at the shops, and they had lingered a long time outside a jeweller's, and sam had pointed out the ring he meant to give his sweetheart some day. pattie had quite held her breath as she imagined her hand with that ring on it! now as she swept up the bedrooms she glanced at her hands and frowned. she was not very clever at keeping her hands nice, but she always excused herself with the plea that grates and wash-tubs and saucepans were to blame. the hands that wore that ring would not be used for brooms and black-lead brushes! she wondered what furniture would be bought to match that ring! and then, involuntarily, she thought of another saturday evening when tom had taken her to look at the shops, and they had lingered outside, not a jeweller's, but a furniture shop, and tom had pointed out a tall windsor arm-chair and said they would have two of those in their home, and she had pictured herself in one of those chairs by a bright fireside in a cosy kitchen with tom opposite to her, reading his paper, while she had a bit of dainty white needlework in her lap, such as she had seen her last mistress, who was newly married, busy with. she remembered how, as she pictured that happy little fireside, she had made up her mind to keep her hands better, not for the wearing of jewelled rings, but for the accomplishment of that same dainty needlework. as she thought of all this, tom's face came back to her memory. she wished, oh, how she wished that she had looked round at him when her friend had whispered that he was on the other side of the road! what had he looked like? why should her friend look upon his face and she not see it? "oh, tom! tom!" she whispered to herself and a sudden hate towards that jewelled ring sprang up in her. when the afternoon came and she wheeled little maud out in her mail cart, she turned towards the shops. she felt as if to see that windsor arm-chair again would be next best to seeing tom. but the windsor arm-chair was gone. gone, like the dream of the happy little home; gone, as tom had gone, out of her life. its place was filled by an inexpensive plush-covered parlour suite, suitable to the little villa where the wearer of that jewelled ring should take up her abode, but pattie turned from it petulantly. "cheap and nasty!" she said. now it so happened that on this afternoon, when jane adams came to hang out the last of her washing, she found herself short of pegs. at another time she would have managed with pins or hung the clothes in bunches, but all day the craving for beer had been growing upon her, and she determined to go out and buy pegs and have a drink. through force of circumstances she had not tasted a drop since saturday at dinner-time. three whole days without a glass of beer! there had been none at her father's home, of course. the old people had been abstainers since she and tom were babies, and she had not cared to acknowledge to them that she "took a drop now and again." it had been too late when she and jim reached home last night to fetch any, and she had hurried to her work this morning, and, indeed, had not thought of getting a glass on her way, so full was her mind of pattie. but now she meant to have a glass, and pegs she _must_ have! so having told her lady--about the pegs--she put on her bonnet and hurried out. she soon found a grocer's and bought her pegs, and then she turned in to the nearest public-house. not one glass, nor two, nor three, were sufficient to allay her longing, and the housekeeping money went without a thought; it was only the remembrance of the fleeting time which stayed her. she did not wish her lady to wonder where she was. when she pushed open the public-house door and emerged into the street again, she was not completely mistress of herself, but just in the state when she would be very affable or very quarrelsome, as circumstances should seem to point. and as she put her foot upon the threshold, pattie, wheeling little maud, and with her heart full of tom, came along the pavement. now pattie was a staunch little abstainer; all the more staunch because of her childhood's memories. memories of nights when, piteous and shivering, she had waited outside a public-house door, to lead home her poor sorrowful mother, bound indeed by satan these many years, by the chain of strong drink. memories of days when on bended knee she had pleaded with that mother to give up the drink, and had been answered by a shake of the head, and a murmured, "i can't, child, i can't! i would if i could." and pattie had known of no remedy, no saving power, till she knew tom, and tom had said, "pray for her, my girl. christ can save her!" so pattie had prayed, not understanding how help could come, but because tom believed in it, and, strange answer as it seemed, an illness had fallen upon her mother and she had been taken away to the workhouse infirmary. pattie remembered to this day the very saucepan she was washing when she realized that _this_ was the answer to her prayer, that her poor mother had been saved from herself, and taken to a place where she would be cared for, and kept from the terrible snare of drink. "and now," tom had said when she told him, "we must teach her about the love of jesus." so month after month since then, tom had gone regularly to the infirmary and read the gospel's message to pattie's mother, for she was still there and never likely to come out, and the poor woman had come to look for him and to love him as her own son. pattie wondered sometimes whether he still went, but on the one occasion that she had seen her mother since she gave tom up, she had been too proud to ask. pattie never saw a woman come out of a public-house without an involuntary shiver at her heart, and now here, before her very eyes, came tom's own sister, jim adams's wife! pattie recognised her in an instant, and she recognised pattie, and though pattie would only too willingly have passed on, jane stood in her path and barred the way. "well! pattie paul," said she insolently. "i want to know what you mean by it." "i don't know what _you_ mean," said pattie, trying to pass her, but jane dodged her. "oh don't you?" she cried. "what do you mean by using my brother like you have, letting him dangle after you, and pretending you was going to marry him, and getting presents out of him?" pattie's face flamed. "it's not true!" she said hotly. "i never got presents out of him, and i always meant to marry him----" jane sneered. "very likely!" she said, "he did well enough to play with, till a richer chap came along, and then you remembered tom was poor! you're a mean thing, pattie paul!" "let me pass!" cried pattie vehemently, "you've no right to say such things!" "no right!" flared jane, "and me seeing my own brother going thin and a-fretting for a worthless girl like you! no right!" but pattie stayed to hear no more. with a sudden turn of the mail-cart, she was past her enemy, and running swiftly down the pavement towards st. olave's, while little maud laughed and clapped her hands with delight; she thought the run was all to amuse her. and tom was going thin and fretting! in the midst of her pride, anger and humiliation, that thought came back to pattie over and over again. but the anger and the pride predominated, and swept away all tenderer feelings, and she met sam willard in the evening with a laugh and a toss of the head, and wished that jane were there to see. chapter xi. with a purpose. when gertrude made up her mind to seek out a marriage-portion for herself, whose chief ingredient should be money, with love as a secondary consideration, she set herself with her usual cool forethought to consider the matter of reggie alston. reggie was a friend, and a friend only he must remain, and to this end the regular correspondence which he and she had kept up since reggie left school, must become irregular and fitful. if only he would take his summer holiday in the school holidays, gertrude thought she could manage somehow to be away when he was at home, and that would break the continuity of other summer holidays when they two had spent much time together, cycling and playing tennis. it was a pity for the boy to set his heart on what could not be. reggie ought to look out for a girl with money, or at any rate for a girl who--who--liked being poor. the result of these cogitations was that many a time when reggie confidently looked for a letter, none came, and when the dulness of a week's work did happen to be enlivened by one of gertrude's epistles, somehow the letters were short and unsatisfactory and spoke only of the most casual on-the-top-of-things topics. reggie wondered over it in silence. he hated writing scolding letters, and like tom green, he felt that no amount of talking or writing could bring love, and at first he only felt the miss of the regular correspondence, without seeking for a reason other than the excuse that gertrude must be extra busy at school, or that she had fresh duties laid upon her since denys's engagement, of which he had heard a full account before gertrude had thought of reducing her correspondence. he little dreamed that gertrude herself missed the writing of those old confidential letters far more than she had expected. she had always saved up all the little experiences and jokes of school and home to tell reggie, and now it was very dull to be always pulling herself up to remember to make her letters short and few and casual. but when easter monday and his birthday arrived together, without bringing any birthday remembrance other than a letter from his old chum, charlie henchman, reggie's heart went down to a depth for which he had no idea there was room in his mechanism. he had come down to breakfast in his dull little parlour, confidently expecting to see gertrude's handwriting on his table, and it was not there. he sat down mechanically and looked round the dull little room, and the dulness of it, the dinginess, the unhomelikeness of it struck on his heart as it had never done before. the small horsehair sofa where he sometimes tried to find a resting-place and failed; the tiny chiffonnier, unenlightened by a looking-glass or any ornament save a vase, which had been one of gertrude's childish birthday presents to him, and which he always kept filled with flowers and called them gertrude's flowers; the uncomfortable horsehair arm-chair and the bare breakfast table with its coarse cloth and clumsy china, had all been bearable while he looked forward to a dainty and pretty, though tiny, home with gertrude. the half loaf of bread and the pat of butter which always tasted of the chiffonnier-cupboard, but had to be kept there because when a piece went out to the larder, none ever returned, filled him with loathing this morning. why was there no letter from gertrude? his landlady bustled in with his tea and a rasher of bacon and a slice of toast, the last item, as she remarked, being for a birthday treat, and he roused himself from his disappointment to thank her for the little attention, and when she was gone he slowly opened charlie's letter. it was just a newsy, chatty letter, telling of the pleasures of his holiday at whitecliff and especially of the pleasure of being with denys for a whole week, but when he came to one sentence, written only with the thought of giving pleasure to reggie, reggie stopped and frowned. "gertrude looks awfully well and seems enjoying herself tremendously," wrote charlie. "she and audrey are quite friends, which is convenient, and denys and i don't feel selfish if we walk behind and let gertrude, audrey, and cecil make the pace in front." so gertrude was at whitecliff, and she had never thought it worth while to tell him she was going to have such a nice change! she was enjoying herself tremendously! hitherto she had always made him a sharer in her pleasures by her vivacious descriptions of them. who was cecil? he looked across the narrow scotch street, on to the row of small houses opposite him. the morning sunshine was flooding them, while his room lay in shadow. that was like his life. he was in the shadow and other people were in the sunshine--especially this cecil. he ate up his breakfast at last and made a good meal of it too, for he was a healthy fellow, and even stale bread and tasty butter go down when you are hungry, and then he got out his cycle and polished it up, for there was a club run on and he was going to ride part of the way out with them, returning early to attend a wedding in the afternoon. he decided, as he rubbed away at his machine, that he would not be married on a bank holiday, when his turn came. he would not like his guests to feel bored at losing one of their precious few-and-far-between holidays. saturday was a much more sensible day for a wedding. bored or not bored, the wedding party was large and cheerful, and being mostly made up of the chief townsfolk and local gentry who banked at the one and only bank, reggie knew most of the guests, and was himself, partly owing to his merry, boyish ways, and partly owing to his modesty and readiness to serve anybody in the smallest things, quite a popular person. he enjoyed the first part of the proceedings very much. it was a lovely day, with brilliant sunshine and a warm air that seemed as if summer had come to surprise the spring, and directly the bride had cut the cake there was a general exodus to the garden, where camp chairs and rout seats stood invitingly on the lawn, and arbours and sheltered paths waited for visitors to rest or walk beneath their budding loveliness. and behind the groups of gay dresses, set off by black coats and light trousers, came white aproned waitresses with cakes and champagne. in vain reggie, who had missed getting a cup of tea indoors, watched for a tray of tea cups. champagne and ices, cakes and champagne, champagne and sandwiches. there appeared to be nothing else, and everybody seemed to be drinking champagne like so much water. everybody, that is, but reggie and the scotch minister and his wife. except for the desire for a beverage that was not champagne, reggie did not think a great deal about what he supposed was usual at weddings, till he caught a whisper between two girls whom he was piloting to see some ducklings on the pond at the bottom of the garden. "howard can't walk straight already," whispered one with a giggle. "isn't it horrid!" answered the other, "leslie johns took me round the garden just now, and he told me he had had far more champagne than howard had, but howard has a weak head. howard wanted me to go to the conservatories with him. i'm glad i didn't; i should have been positively ashamed to be seen with him. why can't such fellows let champagne alone?" "they might at least know when to stop," sneered the first speaker. reggie, leading the way a few paces in front, between close rows of gooseberry bushes, heard every word, and he set his teeth. the subtle distinction between the man who had taken a quantity of champagne and shewed no effects, and the man who had only had a little and showed it, did not appeal to him. he felt a vast pity for howard, though he had not the slightest idea who howard might be. he got rid of his charges sooner than he had hoped, for a hint that the bride would soon be down from changing her dress, reached the girls and made them hurry back to the house, and reggie, suddenly sick at heart with combined remembrances that he and everybody else must probably, in the general gathering of guests to one place, see poor howard's faltering footsteps, and the thought of gertrude enjoying herself so much that she could not write for his birthday, made his way slowly and by a circuitous route back to the main party. he was nearing the house when a turn in the path brought him face to face with a young and handsomely-dressed woman, his own bank manager's wife, mrs. gray. "oh, reggie!" she said with a sort of gasp, "oh, reggie, whatever shall i do? look!" chapter xii. master and man. reggie looked in the direction indicated. down a vista of pink and white apple blossom that seemed in its pure loveliness to emphasize the miserableness and shame of sin, came two men, stumbling and laughing and stumbling again and holding each other up. one was mr. gray, the bank manager, the other, as reggie guessed in a moment, was howard bushman, of whom he had just heard. one glance was enough for reggie, and his eyes came back to his companion. she was white and shivering. "oh reggie!" she said again, "help him, do help him, it will ruin him." just behind her was a small summer-house. it came to reggie all in a moment what to do. "go and sit down in there," he said gently, "and when mr. gray comes, keep him with you till i get back." then he went swiftly to meet that stumbling, laughing pair, and he spoke as gently as he had done to the poor wife. "mrs. gray is sitting down in that summer-house," he said, "i think she wants you. will you stay with her while i run to the house for something?" the bank manager laughed foolishly. "he! he! reggie! looking after the ladies, as usual! bring some champagne, my lad, and we'll have a nice little spree on the quiet." but reggie had not waited for directions. he walked swiftly towards the house, but he did not wish to appear hurried or to be on any secret errand, and as he went his thoughts flew hither and thither bewilderingly. for this man was his master. this man whom he had been asked to help, had much of the making or marring of reggie's prospects in his hand, and to interfere, especially in such a delicate matter, was almost certainly to incur more anger, more abiding, unredeemable displeasure, than for any other misdemeanour. and yet, for four months reggie had been praying for this very man! three years before, when charlie henchman had come to the engineering college in the town, he had sought out the loneliest fellow that he knew and for christ's sake had endeavoured to cheer and uplift and help him by just being companionable to him. and the loneliest fellow that charlie knew was reggie alston, and after they had been companions for quite a long time they found out that they both knew the brougham family, a link which drew them to be more than companions,--to be friends. now charlie was gone, and reggie had promised him to seek out some lonely fellow too, and try to help him and cheer him and lead him nearer to christ. he had prayed to be shown the right fellow, but among all his acquaintances there was no one lonely; one name, and one name only, seemed laid upon his heart, the name of mr. gray, his own manager and master! but as yet reggie had done nothing more than to pray for him earnestly and regularly, for there seemed nothing else possible. for how could a junior bank clerk seek out the companionship of his superior and invite him to supper or to cycle or to go with him to church? he had been asked to help him now, and if those ways in which he had wished to help some fellow had seemed impossible, in this case how much more impossible were these circumstances? for to help in this way could only bring the downfall of all reggie's hopes of promotion, and put off that day when he could tell gertrude that his home was ready for her. yet with all these thoughts surging through his brain, reggie felt that the call of duty had come to him, and to refuse would be to refuse to take up his cross and follow christ. as he took four cups of strong black coffee back to the summer-house, he realised that the cross is the place of suffering and of death. he had scarcely been five minutes on his errand and the little party in the summer-house had neither been added to nor diminished, and hope had brought a little colour back to mrs. gray's woe-begone face. a simple straightforwardness was one of reggie's characteristics. he put a cup of coffee into the manager's hand. "you'd better drink it, mr. gray," he said quietly, "it's--it's refreshing, and then if you'd just take mrs. gray home--i'm sure she would feel better at home, and the bride has gone, so we can all slip away together. people are beginning to go now." mrs. gray hated black coffee, but she drank her cup bravely, and looked all the better for it too. "that stuff is refreshing," said howard, suddenly, with a nod towards the empty cups, as the four left the summer-house, to make their farewells. "i felt rotten, but i feel as right as a trivet now." mr. gray said nothing. he knew perfectly well that he was being helped, and his pride fiercely resented it, but reggie's three years of quiet faithful work had had its influence, and the clinging touch of mrs. gray's hand on his arm softened him, and he said to himself that reggie had an unbounded cheek, but there was really nothing to wait for any longer, now that the bride had gone. but there's many a slip 'twixt cup and lip. the bride's mother, shaking hands and saying pleasant nothings to the first of her departing guests, looked at mr. gray reproachfully. "mr. gray! you are never going to desert us already! we want our brightest stars to help illumine our darkness. mrs. gray feeling ill? surely, my dear elaine, you do not need _three_ gentlemen to take you home!" the colour flamed into mrs. gray's cheeks. "my husband is taking me home," she said proudly, "mr. alston and mr. bushman happen to be leaving at the same time." "it _is_ rather early," admitted mr. gray. he had caught sight of a fresh tray of glasses going the round of a circle of his acquaintances, and he decided not to be managed any longer, but to do as he chose. "look here, elaine!" he said in a low tone, "you let reggie take you home. i won't be a few minutes, but i must speak to thornton. i've been looking for him all the afternoon, and it's really important." "i'm sure _you_ are not in a hurry, howard," said the hostess. so reggie and mrs. gray found themselves outside the gate alone. "i'll never go inside that gate again," cried mrs. gray, angrily. then she added piteously, "oh, reggie, i thought we had got him safe." "so did i," said reggie, ruefully. "what _can_ i do?" she moaned, "i've seen it coming on little by little, and now he's beginning not to care so much if--if people guess. i'm glad you know, reggie; it's a comfort to have somebody to speak to. i used to think i should be perfectly happy if i had plenty of money--we girls at home used to be poor till aunt died and left us her property, just before i was engaged, and now, often, i think i would so willingly have just john's income--and it's only a small income for so responsible a position--or work hard myself, if i could be sure of--of him. but there it is," she added sadly. "tell me what i can do, reggie." "you can pray for him," said reggie, earnestly, "god _does_ hear and answer prayer and he can save to the uttermost." he hesitated and then added in a lower tone, "mrs. gray, are you an abstainer yourself?" "well, not quite," said she, "but i hardly take anything." reggie nodded. "yes, but you take as much as you care to, and he takes as much as _he_ cares to. that is how mr. gray would look at it, and the way god looks at it is this, '_judge this rather that no man put a stumbling block or an occasion to fall in his brother's way. anything whereby thy brother stumbleth or is offended or is made weak._'" they had reached the bank and she held out her hand with a sigh. "thank you," she said, "well, i'll think about it." reggie walked on to the corner of his own road and stood looking down it distastefully. here he was in the middle of bank holiday afternoon, in his best clothes, with nowhere to go and no one to speak to, feeling as if his life and himself and everything else were an utter failure. if he had only had on his cycling suit, he might have contemplated a ride, but the thought of turning into his dull lodgings, even to change, was unbearable, and the writing of a letter to gertrude, with which he had beguiled many a lonely hour before, was not possible to-day. he turned at the sound of quick footsteps behind him, and heard his name called. "why! mr. alston!" said the cheerful voice of the scotch minister's little wife, "you look as if you belonged to nobody, and nowhere!" then, seeing instantly that her words had hit too near the mark, she added quickly, "i wish, if you aren't engaged, you would come home to supper with us. i always feel as if i wanted to be entertained after a wedding, as if it were very dull to go home to just an ordinary tea, and its being a bank holiday seems to emphasise the feeling. mr. mackenzie and i were just saying so, weren't we, will?" "that is so," assented mr. mackenzie, with his grave smile, "i hear, mr. alston, that you are musical and might have played our organ for the marriage had we but known it. i have the organ keys, if you would care to try the instrument. it was unfortunate that our organist was away. i like a little singing at a wedding." reggie's face beamed. "i'd like to come, awfully," he said, "what time shall i turn up?" "why, now!" said mrs. mackenzie, "we'll have tea at once and then the garden-boy shall blow for you, and we'll be audience, and then we can have supper and talk." "that's the chief item in the programme, isn't it?" said her husband, with a twinkle. reggie tried to smother a laugh but did not succeed. this unexpected treat had wonderfully cheered his drooping spirits, and he laughed and chatted merrily as they walked to the manse; but beneath the outward pleasure that the invitation gave him, there was running an undercurrent of deep happiness, for he knew that in the moment of the most intense loneliness, the most utter hopelessness that he had ever known, god had sent his angel and delivered him. and mrs. mackenzie talked on in her usual cheerful, lighthearted way and never dreamed that she had been god's angel to any one that afternoon. reggie was too shy to tell her, and she had not the key to the thoughts of the young organist who first woke the echoes of the church for her, with the strains of, but the lord is mindful of his own, he remembers his children. that was for to-day and for to-morrow too, in reggie's mind. as the evening wore on, the dread of the to-morrow morning, when at nine o'clock he must meet mr. gray, grew upon him. that his interference had been resented, even while it was accepted, reggie had seen quite plainly, and to-morrow was coming nearer with each tick of the clock. chapter xiii. bearding the lion. when reggie entered the bank just before nine o'clock on the following morning, his heart was going pit-a-pat, for he knew his chief well enough to be certain that it was impossible to count upon how he would look at yesterday's happenings. he might never think of the occurrence again, or he might refer to it with an easy laugh at reggie's stricter principles, or he might be riding the high horse and resent the interference to an extent which reggie knew would be long enduring, if it ever ceased at all. [illustration: "'i wish, if you aren't engaged, you would come home to supper with us.'"--_page ._] so much depended on how mrs. gray had dealt with the matter, and on how long her husband had remained with his convivial friends, and on these two points reggie had no knowledge. yet much of the success which attended his efforts for mr. gray this morning, had their beginning in the fact that mrs. gray had received her husband late the night before, with no word of reproach, but had treated him with unusual gentleness and affection, and he had come down to his work this morning softened by love, and not hardened by bitter words or arguments. reggie chided himself for thinking so much of the harm he might have done his own future, but with another morning's post in, and no birthday letter from gertrude, he felt more sore and more uneasy. if his prospects at the bank became gloomy, what would be his chances of securing gertrude? but when he went into mr. gray's private room, nothing was written so plainly on the manager's face as headache and dejection; and a great wave of pity and desire, swept away from reggie all thought of himself and of his own happiness. what could he do to help this man who was slipping down into the bondage of strong drink? what _had_ mrs. gray said and done, he wondered, as he listened to the dull, listless voice in which mr. gray bade him take the omnibus at once, and proceed to the house of a wealthy client who lived three miles out of the town, and who had been taken ill and wished to transact some business. there was no opportunity now to think of anything but the matters to be arranged with the wealthy client, which were important and urgent, and the minutes before the omnibus started were few, so the moment reggie was sure he understood his errand he took his hat, relocked his desk and stepped out from the bank, well pleased to be leaving the town for a country outing, on such a lovely april morning. but as he glanced down the long, sunny street, he saw something which suddenly arrested his footsteps. only a gentleman crossing the road and coming towards him, but a gentleman whose identity was unmistakable even at this distance, by reason of a very peculiar lameness. a gentleman who was one of the largest shareholders, and had much influence in the bank--a man who was so stern a teetotaller that he could forgive any sin sooner than intemperance. in one instant reggie was back in the bank, mr. gray's hat was in his hand, and he was standing beside the astonished manager. "quick!" he said breathlessly. "you go down to muirend house instead of me--here's your hat! don't ask any questions, and when you get outside, turn to the left and don't look behind you on any account. never mind the omnibus; it will do you good to walk! quick--or you'll be too late." "what?" demanded mr. gray, "are you going wrong in the head, reggie?" reggie repeated his request, still breathlessly, and there was something so insistent in his manner, so beseeching in his eyes, and his three years of patient faithful work, so rose up to help his influence, that the manager actually stood up, laid down his pen and took his hat. "i suppose you know what you are playing at," said he, a little coldly. "what is it i am to do? turn to the left and not look behind me!" "yes! that's it," said reggie eagerly; "oh, be quick, or it will be too late." "and i'm to walk, though it's three miles," said the manager. "well! take care of the bank; it appears to me that it has a new manager!" he passed out through the swing doors, and a couple of minutes went by and he did not return, and reggie began to breathe freely, till the fear struck him that after all, his efforts had been of no use if mr. bowles, the lame gentleman, had just caught mr. gray on the pavement outside, but even as the thought darted into his mind, the doors swung open again, and the lame gentleman entered and looked round. "mr. gray?" said he, interrogatively, as reggie came forward. "mr. gray has just gone down to muirend to see mr. collins, who is very ill." "it is very inconvenient of him," said mr. bowles irritably, "i wrote so that he should get the letter by the first post this morning." reggie glanced down at the pile of letters he had just brought from mr. gray's room to open. "it will be here, i expect," he said politely, "can i take your instructions?" mr. bowles grunted and scowled, but nevertheless he followed reggie into the manager's room and ran through what he had come to say, and watched reggie's careful noting down of the points. "so lily jarrold got married yesterday," he said abruptly, as reggie finished. "i suppose champagne ran like rivers, and half you fellows got drunk, and the girls did not know what they were laughing at, eh? were _you_ there?" "i was there," answered reggie, a trifle stiffly, "it was a very pretty wedding, and she looked awfully happy." "humph!" said the old gentleman, "but wasn't it as i said, afterwards?" "i did not stay late--and i am an abstainer," said reggie, wishing his visitor would depart. he glanced at the pile of unopened letters he had brought back with him, and mr. bowles intercepted the glance. "well! well!" said he, "that's a good hearing, my boy, and i see you are wishing i'd be off and let you get at your work. industry is of the utmost importance, my lad, and you'll rise to be manager, one day! tell mr. gray i need not see him till next week as he left such a capable second. good morning." that was over. reggie saw him out, opened the letters, and went through the usual routine of his morning work, and welcomed back his fellow clerk who had been away for the easter. the clock ticked peacefully on, till it was past noon, and then at last the swing doors opened once more to admit the manager. he passed straight through to his room, closing the door behind him. a moment later he opened it again. "mr. alston!" he said. "now for it," thought reggie. mr. gray was seated at his table and he motioned reggie to the seat usually assigned to clients, and there was a pause. reggie felt all his courage oozing out at the toes of his boots. all that he had thought it possible he _might_ say to mr. gray on this question, all his arguments, all his reasons, his pleas, seemed to melt away into thin air, and he wondered however he had dared to interfere in another man's life, and that man his master, even to the degree of wishing to help him and praying for him, much more in openly offering him coffee, and sending him out of the sight of condemning eyes! but with the remembrance of that four months of daily prayer for this man, came the remembrance of words spoken long ago to faint-hearted men. "the battle is not yours, but god's." that made all the difference. then mr. gray spoke, coldly, hardly. "and now, mr. alston, what is the meaning of all this?" reggie leant forward eagerly. "mr. gray, don't be angry, it was just mr. bowles coming along. i saw him as i got outside and--and--you know what he is, and--i thought--you could do the muirend business--and--oh, i _wish_ you would give up this strong drink, it is going to ruin you, body and soul!" it was out. the bitter truth had been put into words; the young clerk had told his manager that he knew his sin and degradation. the words had been spoken, and never again could things be as they had been before they were spoken, and reggie knew it, and he knew that the man who sat before him with his face shaded with his hand, was a proud, proud man. the clock ticked on loudly and evenly. there seemed nothing more for reggie to say, and mr. gray did not break the silence. he was filling in the details of reggie's broken words and he knew mr. bowles well enough to do it very accurately. he had reason to believe that mr. bowles had made a special visit on this special morning with intent. he knew, ah, far more truly than reggie did, that this temptation was ruining his worldly position. reggie had saved his reputation for this time and he could not but thank him, and yet--and yet--how hard it was to humble himself to say so; and there stretched before his weary eyes those times, coming oftener and oftener, when his reputation would not be saved, and he would sink lower in men's estimation, and that would come to be openly said, which was already a whisper, that the bank manager _drank_. his thoughts came back to reggie with a start. reggie had asked him to give up strong drink! "reggie!" he said hoarsely, passing by all else that had been said, "you don't know what you are asking!" "yes, i do!" said reggie firmly, "and you'll want outside help." "ah!" said the manager sadly, "i have thought sometimes, that if we'd had a child, elaine and i, it would have made it easier. i might have done it for the child's sake." "suppose that god did not dare to risk the child in your hands," said reggie solemnly, "suppose, if he sent a child, then you had not the strength to give up the drink?" and as the words fell from reggie's lips there came a sound from the outer office that made both the men start. "father!" said a little treble voice which rang through the bank. "father! father! let me do it." the manager raised himself so that he could see over the frosted glass in the door which gave on to the front premises, but reggie had no need to look. he recognised the clear child's voice. he seemed to see little cyril mackenzie's round, rosy face lifted confidingly to his father's as he had seen it only last night. and mr. gray saw the bright little lad, and he sat down again in his seat with a groan, and hid his face in his hands. "suppose--" he said, "suppose i haven't the strength to give it up _now_." "it was the help of jesus christ, our saviour, that i meant. he will give you the strength if you will let him, and i will help you all i can, if you will let me," answered reggie earnestly. chapter xiv. an unwelcome guest. denys had undertaken, at the earnest request of the woman at the landslip cottage, to take care of harry as far as to mixham junction, where his uncle would meet him. she was on her way to the landslip cottage to make sure that the arrangements for meeting harry at the station the following day were all complete, a duty which had obliged her to give up a two hours' drive with mrs. henchman, audrey and gertrude, who had all gone with a friend of mrs. henchman's. denys had, however, scarcely entered the landslip road when she encountered little harry and his kind friend, and being thus saved more than an hour's walk, she arrived back at mrs. henchman's house much sooner than she had expected. mary opened the door for her, and denys was struck by her woebegone, weary face. for a moment denys hesitated, thinking of that accusation of interference, thinking of mary's constant ungraciousness to her, but she pushed the remembrance aside and said kindly, "is anything the matter, mary? you look so sad." tears sprang into mary's eyes at the unexpected interest. "it's my head, miss," she said, "one of my bad headaches, and its so unfortunate to-day, because my brother is just coming home for this one evening, and mrs. henchman was going to let me go special, and by after tea i sha'n't be able to hold my head up, and i've not seen him for two years, and he's my favourite." "perhaps you can see him to-morrow," suggested denys. "no, miss; he's a gentleman's servant, he is, and he's always travelling about. it was just this one chance, and now i've missed it." "i've some headache pills--they are wonderful for nervous headaches. you would not like to try them, would you?" asked denys. "mother has these dreadful nervous headaches and nothing else has ever been any good to her." "i'd try them, miss, and be thankful." denys ran upstairs and came back to the kitchen, "could you not just lie down for half-an-hour's sleep?" she said, "you might wake up with it all gone." mary shook her head dolefully. "it's the milkman, miss, and i wouldn't hear the door bell in my room." denys laughed. "i have attended on the milkman before now, and i can open the front door if necessary," said she cheerfully. "now run away upstairs, and i'll call you in plenty of time to get the tea ready. i don't suppose i had better undertake that!" "you are real good, miss," said mary gratefully, "if i do see my brother to-night, i shall tell him it was all your doing." denys smiled to herself happily as she went back to the dining-room, and sat down to write to charlie and to listen for the door bell. she had hated to go away with the remembrance of mary's unpleasant looks, and the little bit of sympathy she had offered had turned mary into a friend. when denys and gertrude arrived at the station the next day, little harry was already there, smiling and radiant. he greeted denys as a very old friend, and did not appear to be the least homesick. the journey was of the most intense interest to him, till at last the rush and roar of the train made him drowsy, and he climbed contentedly into denys's arms and fell asleep. denys sat watching him for a long time, wondering what his new life was to be, and she was somewhat surprised to find gertrude's eyes also fixed upon the little face. "i hope the people that child is going to will be good to him," she said. "what do you know about them?" "nothing!" said denys. "his mother said her brother had promised to take him, but she had never seen the wife. perhaps we shall see her at mixham, but anyhow, we can't do anything except look him up now and then." "humph!" said gertrude, "i should pity anybody who was in charge of the woman who washes at the house at the bottom of our garden. _she_ comes from mixham; pattie used to be engaged to her brother. she looks a perfect vixen." "used to be engaged?" repeated denys, startled. "you don't mean to say it is broken off? poor pattie!" "not poor pattie at all," answered gertrude sharply. "_he_ was as poor as anything, and his isn't the sort of trade where they ever get much money. why, here's mixham! where's that child's hat? wake up, tommy, or harry, or whatever your name is!" jim adams, as he had promised, had come down to meet harry, and if he had been asked what sort of a child he was going to look for, he would have pointed to one of a dozen little urchins, playing up and down his own street, and said that boys were all alike. so, as he was looking for a nondescript boy in knickers and jacket and cap and heavy boots, it was little wonder that he looked in vain among the crowd of travellers who poured out of the big train on the junction platform, and he was proportionately surprised when a young lady with red-brown hair and a sweet face touched him on the arm. "do you happen to be mr. jim adams?" she asked in her soft, pretty voice. jim gasped as he looked down at her, and saw the child she was holding by the hand. a child in petticoats, almost a baby it seemed to him, with a little black kilted frock and sailor coat, and a big white hat with a black ribbon, and underneath it, golden curls and the sweetest little face he had ever seen since last he saw his sister nellie's face! he knew it in a moment, and his heart went out to the child with an intensity of love that astonished even himself, and an awful sort of choke came into his throat as he stooped and lifted nellie's child in his arms. "hullo! little chap! i'm uncle jim," he said. harry looked at him approvingly. "i'm going to live along with you!" he said. "mother's gone away," he added mournfully. the clasp of jim's arms tightened on the little fellow. "i'm going to look after you now," he whispered. then he remembered denys's presence and he turned to her. "thank you for bringing him up, miss. they say as you was very kind to my poor sister, and i thank you for that too. i'll do my best by the little chap." "there was one thing," said denys, hesitatingly. it did not seem so easy to say as she had thought. the handsome, tall young workman before her took away her breath somewhat, and she wished she had written what nellie lyon had particularly asked her to impress upon jim. "yes, miss," said jim wonderingly. "she wanted him to be brought up an abstainer," explained denys, "as she and you were brought up." jim's eyes dropped. "yes," he said after a moment, "yes, he shall, and so shall my own baby! i'll give 'em all the chance i can to start right. i've been trying to do without anything myself for this two months," he added, with a shy little laugh. "i'm glad of that--we were all brought up so," said denys, heartily, "now mr. adams, i may come and see harry if i am in mixham any time, mayn't i? he's such a dear, lovable little chap." "that you may, miss! any time," cried jim earnestly, "and i thank you once again, and i'll do my best--every way." he strode off with harry still in his arms, well pleased with his new possession, and turned his steps towards home. but as he drew nearer to his own door, his speed slackened. what sort of a welcome would jane give him--and the child? he had the sense to put him down and let him walk into his new home, and so, hand in hand, the big uncle and the little nephew presented themselves before jane. she looked at the pair for a moment in silence, and then burst into a loud, ironical laugh. "i always knew you were a cheat, jim adams! you talked enough about your sister's _boy_ and you've brought a baby in petticoats." "i'm not a baby--i'm going in four," said harry gravely, "that's a baby in there," pointing to the cradle. he crossed the room and looked curiously down at the baby, and the baby, pleased with the kind little face, laughed and threw out its arms. "can't i have him out to play with? he likes me," cried harry, "look, uncle jim, he's pulling my finger." jim lifted out his baby and sat down, and harry stood beside him, lost in admiration. "well, this _is_ a nice set-out," said jane crossly, as she looked at the happy little trio, "the first thing you do, jim adams, is to get that boy some breeches. _i'm_ not going to wash a lot of petticoats." she stooped and lifted harry's frock--the little black frock that nellie had prepared weeks ago, ready for this very time, knowing that there would be no one to buy mourning for her child. jane examined the petticoats, and her face relaxed a little. "humph!" she said, "they're not such bad petticoats! they'll do for baby finely. you can sell the frock, if you like, jim adams, _that's_ no good to me, and it will help towards the breeches." "indeed i won't," answered jim fiercely, "if i part with the frock, i'll _give_ it away. who made your pretty frock, harry, boy?" harry looked down at himself proudly. "my mother made that," he said, "that's my bestest frock. she made it ages ago, but she wouldn't never let me wear it." jim's eyes filled and he turned hastily to the window that jane might not perceive it. "don't you part with that frock, jane," he said. jane snorted. "tea's ready!" she said ungraciously. the meal was about half through when she started a new subject. "where's the brat's bed?" said she. "his bed?" repeated jim, helplessly. "his bed," she reiterated, "i suppose you thought he'd share the baby's cradle!" jim kept what he had thought to himself. "you must go and get one somewhere," decreed his wife. jim rose obediently and went downstairs. in about half an hour he returned with his arms full of irons, blankets and bedding. "here, harry, boy," he said, "uncle's got a jolly little bed for you!" "where did you get that?" demanded jane. chapter xv. the last hope. little harry lyon found the circumstances of his fresh life so entirely different from his old existence, that he seemed a greater stranger to himself than the most strange of those who peopled his new world. to begin with, he was, to use his aunt's own term, "breeched" the next day, and his petticoats became the big baby's property, while his precious best frock was poked unceremoniously into a box under his aunt's bed. he looked after it with longing eyes. he had waited so long to wear it and it seemed too bad to have it taken away when he had only worn it so few times, and it was made with a pocket, the first he had ever had. as he saw the box slammed down, he remembered with a pang that in the pocket was his little bestest white handkerchief with lace on it and in the corner of the handkerchief, tied in an easy knot, was a penny that denys had given him. he had never dared to ask her again for even a ha'penny, but one day she had given him a bright penny that shone like gold and he had treasured it with utmost joy, more because he had not asked for it, than for its value as a penny. the edge of the box which held his treasures stuck out from under the bed, and he watched it for a long time, resolving in his little mind that one day he would manage somehow to get his own again. the confinement of his new life irked him as much as his breeches, for he had been used to wandering about the landslip and the whitecliff beach at his own pleasure, and now there were but two rooms to wander in, or at best a short and narrow street, beyond whose limits he was forbidden to go, and it was filled with rough and noisy children who pushed him and pinched him and who roared vociferously whenever they saw him, after they discovered that his name was lyon. he had always made friends with all the sailors and visitors at whitecliff, but here the men and women hurried about their business and never even glanced at the golden-headed little chap, and there were no boats to be pulled up and pushed out, and no tide, and no sands, and no--no _anything_. harry stood at the top of the dull street looking forlornly about him, when he came to that conclusion, and when he realised it, he burst into a sudden fit of heart-broken crying. there were no loving arms now in which to sob out his woes, and he turned his little back upon the world and covering his face with his hands, leaned his head against a big brick wall and wept, and wept, and wept for his mother. "oh, mummy--mummy--mummy--" "why, harry!" said his uncle jim's voice, "whatever's the matter with you? you shouldn't be crying--you're a big boy now. have the boys been hitting you?" harry did not turn or heed him. "oh, mummy--mummy--mummy," he wailed. "harry!" said jim again, "here's a penny for you--let's go and buy some sweeties." but harry was past that. "oh, mummy--mummy--my mummy--i want my mummy." there was no mistaking the heart-broken cry this time, and jim looked helplessly at tom green who stood beside him. "it's the old story," said tom gently, "'they have taken away my lord and i know not where they have laid him.'" then he stooped down to the level of the little weeping child and drew him into his arms and turned the tear-stained little face to rest on his shoulder. "harry!" he said gently, "dear mummy has gone to live in a beautiful home with jesus and she's so happy and she doesn't cough any more or feel tired any more. oh, she's so happy. and she is with jesus. she used to tell you about him, didn't she?" the comfort of the kind arms and the kind voice, and above all, the words of hope that carried the childish thoughts straight to happiness and seemed to find his mother for him again, comforted the little heart at once, and harry's sobs came only with a long drawn breath as he listened. tom did not wait for an answer, he went on in the same low, soothing tone. "jesus has got such a lovely home ready for dear mummy and he is getting one ready for little harry too, and one day jesus will call harry and he will see jesus and dear mummy and the beautiful home and be so happy." "yes," murmured harry nestling closer. he was so tired of crying and being lonely, and these arms held him so nicely. he gave a deep, deep sigh which somehow spoke of restfulness and of the sorrow being past, and tom raised himself and looked in the tear-stained face a moment, then kissed it and wiped it with his handkerchief. "that's better!" he said cheerfully, "would you like a ride on uncle tom's shoulder? uncle tom is coming home to tea with harry, and uncle tom's awful hungry--he's going to eat a whole big loaf for tea." harry laughed gleefully as he found himself swung in an instant on to uncle tom's shoulder and was carried along high above all the other little rough children's heads, and was even on a level with uncle jim! by stretching out his hand he could pat the top of uncle jim's head; and he laughed again as he gave uncle jim a good hard pat. "you are a clever one, tom," said jim admiringly, "how did you pick it up?" tom might have said, "out of my own sorrow," but he only smiled, and told harry to mind his head as he stopped at jim's doorway and carried him upstairs to aunt jane and the baby. harry became tom's devoted slave thenceforth, and jim watched the two playing and whispering together almost jealously, and yet he liked tom too well to really grudge him the child's love, and tom looked so happy,--happier than jim had seen him since pattie gave him up. jim took notice too of the way tom amused the child, how he became a child for the time being, and all the materials he had were trifles from his pockets; a piece of paper and a pencil, a few odd buttons and keys, a bit of string and an empty match box! jim knew that _his_ ingenuity could never amuse harry with such things, but he determined to buy some toys that very evening, and to try his hand at winning the child's heart the next evening. jane took very little notice of any of them and after putting the baby to bed, announced that she had shopping to do, and as tom saw her slip an empty jug into her shopping basket, he knew what her final destination would be and that she would not return for some considerable time. "aren't you going to put the little 'un to bed before you go out, jane?" he said, "we've had a good spell of play and he's half asleep now." but jane deigned no answer, unless the slam of the door as she disappeared on to the stairs, was one. jim shrugged his broad shoulders. "harry and me, we do the bedding-down between us," he said rather sheepishly, "run and get your nightie, boy." then as harry trotted off, he added in a lower tone, "she won't do nothing for him, so i have to. it's no use arguing over everything and so----" tom nodded. "so you have to be father and mother both," he said. "he's more of a little 'un than i expected, but he's a dear little 'un. i've right down enjoyed myself this evening." the two men between them undressed harry and superintended his prayers, and tucked him into his bed, and then they sat by the open window and chatted in low tones till the sound of their voices had lulled harry to sleep, and then at last tom rose and said he must be going. he went over to the cot and stood looking down on the little sleeping face, with its regular features, its long lashes lying on the bright cheeks, and its crown of tumbled golden hair. "he's like the pictures of the angels," he said regretfully, "if pattie and i had had our little home, we'd have loved to let him stay with us a bit, but i'll come in on saturday and take him on the river, if you'll let me. it seems so long since i had anybody to go out with." "poor old tom," said jim affectionately, "it's cut you very hard, but i always believe it will come all right, you know!" "pooh!" said an unexpected voice behind them, "you would always believe anything silly, jim adams! come right, indeed! very likely! you just wait till i have seen miss pattie paul again." "have you seen her?" asked tom in a curiously quiet tone. he had gone very pale, but his face was in shadow and jane did not perceive it or anything peculiar in his voice. "ha!" she cried vaingloriously, "i have! i let her know what i thought of her--mean little cat." "jane!" said her husband warningly. "oh, you needn't stand up for her," she said airily. "i'm not going to stand by and see my brother treated so. but what's a talking-to with a brazen hussy like that? wait a bit, i haven't thought how to do it yet, but i'm going to pay her out. trust me!" and then jim did what he had never done in his life before,--he took his wife by the shoulders and forcibly marched her into the bedroom and shut the door upon her. "come, tom!" he said touching him gently on the shoulder, "we've had enough of this." they passed down the stairs together, but on the landing below tom stopped, and covering his face with his hands, leaned against the wall. "oh pattie, pattie," he moaned, "that's my last chance gone. and my own sister too." jim said nothing. he was not good at words, but he waited till tom had recovered himself, and then he went right to his home with him and made a cup of tea for him and sat and chatted till past midnight. "don't be downhearted, old fellow," he said when he parted from him. but as he went home again he muttered to himself and frowned. "i wonder what jane means to do? i wonder what she _could_ do?" chapter xvi. links in a chain. gertrude had never had such a summer of gaieties. she had not long returned from whitecliff when a young american, cousin to pauline stacey, with a long purse and unlimited ideas of enjoying himself, made his appearance in old keston. he had "done" england, and wished to stay with his aunt stacey "for a few days" before going on to switzerland, and with his cousin pauline's very ready help, he inaugurated a series of boating excursions, moonlight strolls, tennis matches and picnics, which lengthened his visit into weeks instead of days, and in which gertrude, to her great delight, found herself involved from the very first. pauline stacey had long ago found gertrude a far more congenial spirit than her first friend, denys, had ever been, so that though denys was occasionally invited to the american's festivities, it generally fell out that gertrude and willie or gertrude and conway, but always gertrude, helped to make up the large parties, without which the american could not be satisfied and which stirred up and drew together the social side of old keston in an unprecedented manner. the weather was glorious, and gertrude spent every halfpenny she could scrape together on white frocks, and though she professed to hate needlework, she suddenly became extremely industrious and worked early and late, turning out dainty blouses which far outshone denys's creations and astounded her family. on saturday mornings she gave up all her usual avocations, denied herself to the general public, and devoted her energies to the wash-tub and the ironing board, the result of which operations she proudly displayed in a pile of muslins which would have done credit to an experienced laundry-maid. "people think i can't do things," she said complacently to her mother, "denys is not the only one who can get up frocks and make blouses." "very likely not," muttered conway, who overheard the remark, "you only do them when it is for yourself. denys does them every day for everybody else." gertrude carefully laid by her freshly got up stock of elegancies, and stretched her tired back on the bed which they had occupied, hoping to get half an hour's sleep before she dressed for a picnic. "money would have sent all those horrid frills to the laundry and saved me a backache," she said to herself, "frills are bad enough to make, but they are infinitely worse to iron. of course i want money to do things with! i don't want to be poor all my life." then she smiled as she closed her eyes and composed herself to sleep. "i believe i really _am_ having my chance," she reflected. "i know pretty nearly everybody who is worth knowing here now." and then, as so often happened when gertrude contemplated her matrimonial prospects, a vision of reggie alston rose up before her, and disturbed her serenity. "reggie _was_ a nice boy--it is a pity he is poor," she thought regretfully, and then she suddenly sprang into a sitting posture, all thought of sleep completely banished from her mind. reggie's birthday! it had come and gone weeks ago and she had missed it--she had completely forgotten it! what must reggie have thought? she glanced at the clock; there was just time to scribble a note before she dressed for the picnic, and of course, though she had no wish to encourage reggie's friendship, yet a birthday was a special occasion, and had she remembered it she would certainly have written! why, it was on easter monday! no wonder she had forgotten it! mrs. henchman had sent all her young party and several other friends off for a lovely expedition to an old castle, and audrey had been hostess and had felt herself tied to the luncheon basket and the elder guests, while cecil greyburne and gertrude had wandered about together all day and she had never once thought of reggie. but she ought to have written on the friday or saturday. she remembered how they had all come in late from a long walk, and cecil had discovered that the country post had gone out, and he had not sent off a particular letter and an easter card. he had fumed and worried to such an extent that she had thought it really unnecessary, and wondered whoever could be of such importance to him. then charlie had recollected that there was a later country post in dennetford and cecil had sat down at charlie's desk and written furiously, and enclosed a lovely easter card--gertrude had seen enough of it to know that--and then, without waiting for even a cup of tea, he had ridden off to dennetford as if his very life depended on catching that post! if she had only thought of reggie's birthday, cecil would have posted the letter with his, as he posted one for charlie. she went hot all over as she suddenly realised that charlie's letter must have been a birthday letter for reggie. she distinctly remembered charlie's words, "it will reach scotland on monday morning." charlie might have reminded her! hastily now she gathered her writing materials and wrote reggie his long delayed birthday letter, and in her haste and regret she forgot all about her casual on-the-top-of-things style, and though the letter was very short it was just such a letter as she had written him before these new ideas came into her head. "i am rushing off to a picnic with the stacey people, so cannot write more," she ended up. "we are going to the roman hill. do you remember how we went there last year and what a jolly time we had?" simple words--and yet reggie treasured them like gold-dust. gertrude posted her letter on her way to the stacey's house and she felt vaguely relieved when it slipped from her fingers into the chasm of the red pillar box. she felt that now she could enjoy herself in peace. she was the most popular, the most sought-after girl at the picnic that afternoon; she was never short of a cavalier to wait on her lightest behest; she was her prettiest, her most charming self. the american whispered to her that a picnic without her would be a desolation and he had half a mind to stop another week at his aunt's--but gertrude was not enjoying herself. from behind the gorse bushes, from between the moss-grown boulders, from beneath the dark foliage of the scotch firs, there peeped at her a ghost. she saw it everywhere. it was the ghost of reggie alston. the next day was sunday; always a quiet home day in the st. olave's household, and in the little interval between tea-time and evening service the whole family were gathered in the cool shaded drawing-room, reading, or listening to gertrude's description of the yesterday's picnic. suddenly she broke in upon her own narrative with a question-- "mother, how did you and father happen to meet and like one another?" mrs. brougham smiled as she glanced over at mr. brougham. "my dear!" she said, "that's a very old story!" "mother won't tell it!" said willie in his slow, drawly way, "so i will; i know all about it. father made up his mind that there was nobody like mother in all the world, but prospects were bad in england and he did not see how he could buy the furniture, so he did not say a word to anybody except to his own mother, and he went to china and saved up, and in four years he came back because the firm shut up shop, and the first thing he heard when he got back, was that mother was going into a big hospital to train as a nurse, and he said to himself, 'one of those doctors will take a fancy to her, as sure as sure,' so he put on his best clothes and rushed off--and--and--" "proposed," ended up gertrude. "of course i know all that as well as you do. what i want to know is before all that." "now it is my turn," said mr. brougham looking up from his book, "before that, mother used to give music lessons to my little step-sister and brother--and two more rampageous little mortals i never came across--and they were always in hot water with their masters and mistresses. but whatever they did, she was so patient and gentle--though she made them mind her too--but she never spoke sharply or raised her voice. i used to stand on the stairs outside the drawing-room door, to be sure that they were not very naughty to her, and i made up my mind then. when true love comes to bless us, it is generally through some little everyday thing, some strength or tenderness of character, some simple good quality, some sympathetic tone, or some unselfish act." "oh, what fun it would have been if mother had come out and caught you," cried tony exultantly. "i wonder what charlie chose denys for," murmured gertrude. "really!" said denys, flushing and rising, "this conversation is getting altogether too personal. come, maudie, it is your bedtime." she carried the child off, and conway said a little pointedly-- "i wonder what anybody could choose gertrude for." gertrude coloured angrily and his mother said gently, "conway, dear!" "well!" said willie's drawly voice again, "i should like to know what a girl looks for in a fellow. what should you expect, for instance, gertrude?" one word rose involuntarily to gertrude's lips, but she choked it back. "my dear willie!" she said with her easy laugh. and that same word had risen to conway's lips, but with a tremendous effort he too choked it back. gertrude always aggravated him, and it was a daily fight with him to be civil to her. he rose abruptly and went into the garden, and in a few minutes the others drifted after him, and mr. and mrs. brougham were left alone. "it is nice to see them all together like this," said mrs. brougham fondly, as she watched the moving figures in the garden. there was a smile in mr. brougham's eyes as he quoted-- "and the ancient arrow maker turned again unto his labour, sat down by his sunny doorway, murmuring to himself, and saying, that it is our daughters leave us." "we shan't have to part with little maud--yet," answered mrs. brougham with a low laugh. there did not rise before her mental vision a picture of a vengeful woman cowering over a handful of red embers, her mind set on one object and one object only--some mode of vengeance. but even if she could have seen such a picture, how could she have formed a chain of association which should link that woman with the maid in her own kitchen, or with the golden-haired child upstairs, the patter of whose little feet sounded over her head? how the patter of those childish footsteps came back to her heart's memory on monday night! "no," repeated mr. brougham thoughtfully, "not yet!" chapter xvii. meeting and parting. monday morning brought a letter for gertrude in a distinctly masculine, but quite unfamiliar handwriting. its very unfamiliarity made her let it lie unopened beside her plate while she began her breakfast. if anyone showed curiosity about her correspondent she could truthfully say she did not know who the letter was from, and she liked to amuse herself with wondering about it. even the postmark was obliterated. she decided then that the rich american, who really was leaving for switzerland at last, had written to say farewell and to tell her when he was likely to return for the final wind-up picnic he had promised to old keston. she did not guess that the mysterious writing was well known to denys as that of one of charlie henchman's friends, and that she had said to herself as she carried it in from the post-box, "what is cecil greyburne writing to gertrude for?" at last curiosity overcame gertrude. all the family were busy with their breakfast and their own concerns. conway and her father were each buried in a daily paper, willie and tony had lesson books propped in front of them, little maud was engrossed in bread and milk, and mrs. brougham and denys at either end of the table were pouring out tea, and cutting bread, and dispensing porridge and bacon, and generally devoting themselves to the wants of the family. nobody was heeding gertrude, and she opened her letter and glanced first at the signature. cecil greyburne! she was distinctly conscious of a feeling of disappointment, but in a moment she pushed that aside. it was pleasant to find cecil had not forgotten her, though the note was but a short one, nothing to compare in length with the one that had accompanied the easter card which he had ridden fast and far to post. "my dear gertrude," the note ran, "you know i am always trotting about the country for my work, and on monday afternoon i find i pass through old keston station, waiting three minutes by the official time-table (probably that will mean five). i meant to call in and give you all a surprise visit, but find there is no suitable train to carry me on later. if some of you are near the station at . and can waste a few minutes on a chat, it would cheer a hot and tiring journey and make it seem worth while. i shall be in the front of the train; at least half of me will be, the other half will be outside the window watching for you. "yours truly, "cecil greyburne." monday afternoon at . ! gertrude's memory rapidly ran through her list of monday classes and pupils. one of the pupils was ill and, a most unusual thing, she would be free at four o'clock! she need not go to the station in her school dress, but have time to come home and put on something pretty. it was very jolly of cecil to have thought of writing. of course she would go if she possibly could. she frowned as she wondered whether she must mention cecil's request to her mother and denys. he had said "some of you," but he had written specially to her. she remembered that denys always went to help with a blanket club on monday afternoons and was seldom home before six o'clock, and she did not see exactly what interest it would be to denys to see cecil. at any rate she would leave that decision till she came home at dinner-time. at dinner-time she had a bright idea. she would take little maud. the care of maud on monday afternoons devolved on mrs. brougham, and gertrude knew that a proposal to take the child out would be very welcome, and it would fulfil cecil's "some of you." cecil would like to see the family pet. so denys went on unsuspectingly to the blanket club, and at four o'clock gertrude turned up at home, announced that for a wonder she had an hour off, that she was going up to the station and that she would take maud with her, if mrs. brougham liked. then she arrayed herself in her freshest muslin and most becoming hat, curled up maud's ringlets and dressed her in a clean and dainty frock, put her in her little wheel chair, and catching up a library book to change at the station, as a sort of excuse, started forth to see cecil. her mother came to the gate with them both and stood watching them down the road, thinking to herself what a pretty pair they made, and at the corner they turned and waved to her, and gertrude's heart suddenly misgave her. she wished now that she had made no secret of cecil's letter, she had even half a mind to run back and ask her mother to come with them and see cecil, or at any rate, to send a message of kind regards to him, but as she hesitated, thinking how astonished her mother would be that she had not mentioned it before, mrs. brougham, with a final smile and wave of the hand, turned back to the house, and the chiming of the church clock sounding out warned gertrude that it was far later than she had guessed it could be. five o'clock! how _could_ she have been so long getting ready? it was fifteen minutes' steady walk to the station, and the church clock was often slow, but then the train was sure to be late! comforting herself with this reflection gertrude hurried along, hating to look hot and flurried, and yet more and more determined not to be too late, even if she had to run for it. and run for it she did, for the signal was down when it came into view a hundred yards away from the station, and as she entered the booking office she saw the engine of cecil's train rounding the last bend of the line, and there were the steps and the subway between her and the down platform. if she waited to unfasten maud's strap, to lift her out, and carry her down the steps and up the steps, she would miss cecil. the thought came to her unbidden as the train thundered in, and hastily pushing the wheel chair into a corner by the booking office window, she bade the child look through and see all the lovely big trains, till gertrude came back in a minute. then she flew down the steps and through the subway and was rushing up the other side when an unexpected voice arrested her steps. "good afternoon, gertrude. i was just wishing to see you. what are you in such a flurry for? there is another three minutes before the train goes!" "i've to meet someone," explained gertrude hurriedly, "i'll come and see you, mrs. parsons. i can't stay now." she ran on, and mrs. parsons followed her leisurely. she liked to know everybody's business and she lived opposite the stacey's and had observed that gertrude had attended every festivity provided by the american cousin, while her own daughter had been invited only once. she had also heard that the american was leaving for switzerland to-day, and she immediately jumped to the conclusion that gertrude had come to see him off. so she strolled along the platform and made her observations. no, it was not the american, but it was a young fellow; a tall and pleasant-looking fellow too. he stood on the platform, one hand on the open door of the carriage, talking eagerly to gertrude, and mrs. parsons stationed herself at a moderate distance, partly screened by a pile of luggage, and waited. she wished the engine would cease blowing off steam, she could perhaps have caught snatches of that interesting conversation, for she had wonderful hearing, besides an imagination. "i was awfully disappointed i could not call and see you all," cecil was saying, "i seem to know you all through charlie and denys. i hoped denys would have come with you, but i suppose she was too busy. i saw charlie yesterday and i had heaps of messages for her." gertrude coloured, "i'm sorry!" she said, a little nettled that he should be unsatisfied with her company, "you didn't mention denys specially and she is always at the blanket club on mondays, so i didn't even tell her i was coming, but i did bring maudie, only we got late somehow and there wasn't time to bring her round, so i left her on the other side in the booking office." "here's twopence to get her out again," laughed cecil, "well! better luck next time. i suppose you got late by making yourself so fetching!" "perhaps!" answered gertrude with a tiny bit of starch in her tone, but the next moment she laughed, and asked him when he would be making the return journey. so the minutes slipped by till their chat was overpowered by the rush and roar of a train coming in on the up side and there was a sudden waving of flags and shouting by porters of "take your seats," along cecil's train. "hullo! we're off!" he exclaimed as he jumped on to the footboard, "we were waiting for that train to cross i suppose, but they gave us a jolly long three minutes; its been quite six, i should say. i knew they would. it's awfully good of you to come down and see me. give my love to everybody. good-bye!" "good-bye!" she echoed, "mind you write when you come through again, and see if i don't bring denys and maud and mother and anybody else i can lay hold of, to meet you!" "all right!" he said, "that's a promise!" the train moved and she stood back smiling and waving, watching him till the train passed round the bend. then she turned, and encountered mrs. parsons. "i thought i would wait for you, my dear. it is a pity to trouble you to call when you must have so _many_ engagements. it is only a matter of a couple of words." "then i must get you to come round to the booking office," said gertrude, trying to hide her annoyance, "for i have little maud waiting for me, and she will think i am never coming back." they passed down the steps and up the other side to the booking office, and gertrude, entering first, went quickly to the corner where she had left her little sister. "well, maudie!" she said cheerfully, "did you think i----" she stopped short, aghast. there was the wheel chair, just as she had left it, but it was empty. little maud was not there. "maud!" she said, looking round into every corner as if the child might be hiding. "maud! wherever are you?" there was no answer. the office was empty except for the wheel chair. gertrude glanced up and down the platform, then out at the door that stood open to the road. then she knocked at the office door. "have you seen anything of my little sister?" she asked, "i left her in that chair five minutes or so ago, and i can't think what has became of her." the clerk shook his head. "i didn't see her," he said, "i was giving out tickets for the up train. there was a terrific scrimmage between two dogs--no end of a row. perhaps your brother or your father came in by the up train and took the child home. it was enough to frighten anybody to hear the lady that the little dog belonged to! she was right down screaming for somebody to rescue her dog." "it might be that," assented gertrude. all her bright colour had departed, she looked pale and anxious, and such an upset of her nicely laid plans was extremely annoying. besides, she might be very much blamed for leaving maud alone. "well! i'm not going to wheel home that empty chair," said she, "you might keep it for me till to-morrow." then she turned to mrs. parsons. it was an aggravation of annoyance to have her as a witness of these _contretemps_. "really, mrs. parsons!" she said sharply, "i cannot attend to any business to-night. i must get home and see about maud. it's very thoughtless of conway to take her off without my knowing." mrs. parsons had quite intended to accompany gertrude to st. olave's and see the end of the story, and she was highly offended at gertrude's tone. so she turned homewards alone and she told the story in her own way. gertrude's footsteps grew quicker and quicker as she neared st. olave's. it seemed to her that a string was being tied round her neck so tightly that she could scarcely get her breath. if conway had taken maud home, why had he left the wheel chair? on the doorstep she paused to pull herself together. it was ridiculous to be so nervous. she went straight to the dining-room. her mother and denys were sitting peacefully at tea. "are father or conway home?" she asked abruptly. "no, they expect to be late," answered mrs. brougham serenely. "have you been up to the station, denys?" "no," said denys, glancing up wonderingly. "nor pattie?" "no! whatever is the matter, gertrude?" "somebody has taken maud!" chapter xviii. a base trick. jim adams could not make out what had changed his wife, but changed she was. it might have been a dream that she had threatened vengeance on pattie, for she now never mentioned her, and she treated tom with a politeness and a thoughtfulness that made jim believe she repented her interview with pattie, and wished tom to forget it. she might even have herself forgotten what she had said about paying pattie out. she had undoubtedly had a few glasses the night tom came in to see harry, and that was enough to account for uncontrolled words, and forgetfulness of them. jane had also ceased to grumble at harry's presence, and she cooked jim appetising suppers as of old and she even spoke pleasantly to harry. jim fondly imagined that she was becoming as devoted to the bright, engaging little fellow as he was himself, and he could not know that in his absence hard words and frequent blows became the child's portion whenever his aunt happened to be annoyed with him or anybody else. jim little guessed the real reasons that lurked beneath jane's changed and pleasant behaviour. the truth was that her thirst for vengeance and her desire for strong drink were growing together, and with them--for it was allied to both of them--cunning grew. on that evening when jim had summarily marched her into her bed-room, she had been enraged beyond words, and had the two men not taken their immediate departure, there is no saying what might have happened. but while she waited for jim's return she had time for reflection. aided by the inspiriting action of the supper beer, she had thought over the situation, and before the inspiriting effect had gone off, and the lowering, muddling effect had come on, she came to the conclusion that she would be making a great mistake if she allowed tom or jim to know her intentions against pattie. what was the use of all her plans and determination, if they interfered and spoilt it all? they must think it was only an empty threat, and by and by they would forget it. that settled the matter of the desire for vengeance, and she forthwith brooded over it in silence, till it became part of her very existence. the thirst for strong drink touched her relations towards harry. she was finding the extra money that jim gave her for the child most useful. she scarcely missed his food, for he ate but little, and his share was usually what would otherwise have been wasted. jane was not of a thrifty turn of mind, but the money was hard, solid cash, and gave her a free hand for spending on that in which her soul most delighted. it was therefore necessary to make the child at least apparently comfortable, or jim might take it into his head to board him out. any woman among her neighbours would have taken the boy for less than jane had demanded for his keep. with these reasons to help the most powerful influences of her life, jane kept an oiled tongue and an even temper, and like the calm before the storm, it made things pleasanter for those around her. little harry quickly discovered that it was safer to play in the street when aunt jane was alone, but that there was no need for fear if uncle jim or uncle tom were at home. he was a cheerful little soul too, and began to enjoy such pleasures as came into his new life and to forget the old. saturday, sunday and monday were his joy-days, for on saturday uncle tom always came and took him out for some excursion or treat, or if it were wet, to his own home. on sunday uncle jim sent him to a mission sunday school, morning and afternoon, and sometimes, greatest treat of all, in the evening uncle jim would take him to the mission service. that mission service had a home-like feeling to little harry, for it reminded him of the sailor's rest where he had so often gone with his mother at whitecliff, before her cough got worse. he loved the singing there, and at sunday school. he had a voice like a little bird, sweet and true and clear, and sometimes when aunt jane was out on sunday evening, uncle jim would let him sing to him, and even aunt jane would let him sing the baby to sleep of a night. there was one hymn that he learned at sunday school that he was never tired of singing. it had a chorus, and he always fancied that it was the baby's favourite, too-- i am so glad that jesus loves me, jesus loves me, jesus loves me; i am so glad that jesus loves me, jesus loves even me. on mondays harry went to the mixham nursery. harry thought it a charming place. there were no big rough boys or girls--only little people like himself, and the tables were little and the seats were little, and there were toys, and somebody besides himself to make a grand play and pretend to be soldiers, or engine-drivers or horses. there was a kind-faced woman there, who put pretty clean pinafores on all the children when they came in the morning, and there was always something nice for dinner. there was a room for the babies upstairs, which harry considered a most suitable arrangement, and he saw his baby cousin carried up there with great content. he wished aunt jane would go out washing every day till saturday! dinner-time was twelve o'clock, and harry, having learned to tell the time, and having taken a great fancy to the seat at the end of the long, low table, always took his place at least five minutes before twelve, to ensure its possession, and such is the force of example and the love of the best available seat, that on mondays there was no need for the matron to say, "come to dinner, children," for a row of little eager faces lined the table, and a row of little hands were folded reverently upon it, waiting for her to ask a blessing. and after dinner came the only drawback which harry found in the nursery life. he and all the other children had to take a good long nap. on one side of the room was a sort of pen, with mattresses and blankets, and into this the children were tucked, the room was darkened, talking was forbidden and in a very few minutes they were all asleep, and silence and peace reigned. "it keeps them good-tempered, and it rests the nurses," the smiling matron used to say. eight o'clock seemed to come much earlier on monday night than on any other, and with the hour came aunt jane for the baby, and harry's bliss was over till saturday should dawn again, but after all it was not long from monday night to saturday morning, only tuesday, wednesday, thursday and friday! these pleasant summer days were bringing to jim, too, a smooth and easy-going existence--just the existence that suited his easy-going temperament. and then, partly through the very smoothness of these days, partly on account of his great satisfaction in his own strength in keeping a resolve, there arose in jim's life a little cloud, no bigger than a man's hand. he had been a total abstainer such a long time now. he had so often resisted jane's repeated invitations to share the supper beer, that she had ceased to offer it. the old liking for strong drink did not assail him now. he even mentioned with a superior little laugh to his mates, that there had been a time when he had liked his glass a trifle overmuch, but now he had given it up for good and all. and the very next day they played a trick on him. he was extremely fond of cold coffee, and generally brought a can of it with him for his dinner, and one very hot morning he set it down on a great stone in a shady corner of the workshop to keep it cool. and when dinner-time came, being thirsty, the first thing he did was to take a long pull at his can. he had swallowed half its contents at one draught, before he realised what had happened. the mystified, horrified expression on his face as he set the can down, was almost ludicrous; to his mates who were all in the secret, it was irresistibly funny. there was a roar of delighted laughter, and jim's eyes blazed with anger as he glared at the can he still grasped in his hand. yes! it was his own can, and they had taken away his coffee and filled it with beer! he had been basely tricked. he stood there realising it, while the roars of laughter were sobering down into words. "ha! ha! old teetotaller! that's the best fun we ever had!" "jolly good coffee! isn't it, jim? if you could only have seen your own face!" "never mind, old chap! you can be a teetotaller again to-morrow." "i won't!" said jim angrily, "i did try. now i don't care what happens." he gathered up his dinner basket and the can of beer, and stalked away, and a silence fell upon the little group of workmen as they watched him. chapter xix. a successful raid. jim adams stuck to his threat. he ceased to be an abstainer, and life changed at once for himself and for all those with whom he came in contact. he was morose with his mates, and withdrew from their company as much as possible. he shared the supper beer with jane, but he constantly spoke sharply to her and especially resented the least inattention to harry's wants, so that it seemed as if the two had changed places, and now it was jim who found fault and jane who, aided by that secret object in her mind, took it quietly and made the best of things. to harry, jim was never cross, but the child felt a difference, and missed the companionship jim had given him, for now jim either called in at the public-house on his way home from work, or, returning early, went out immediately after supper, and he ceased to take an interest in the mission service or in harry's singing. jim was bitterly disappointed with himself. he had been trying to be good like his little sister nellie, to be good enough to meet her in heaven, and now he had been tricked into doing what he had no intention of doing, and the old liking had come back with the old taste. he had emptied the rest of that can of beer with real relish, for in his anger he had carried it away to finish it with his dinner, and in that finishing of it, he had gone under to the old temptation. he had fought and failed. if, in his anger at the base trickery of his mates, he had dashed the can of beer on the ground, he would not have despised himself, he could have forgiven himself; but he knew perfectly well that, even as the unexpected liquid poured down his throat, and he realised what it was, he had made up his mind to finish it, come what might. he said to himself moodily that men and the devil had combined against him, and what was the use of fighting any more? he only hoped that tom would not guess. he knew tom would be disappointed in him, and he avoided seeing him if he was able. besides, he knew all tom could say to him, but he did not mean to try to be a teetotaller again. and tom did guess. but he said nothing, for with his wise, kind eyes he saw that the time had not come, only, as he went to and from his work, many an earnest prayer went up from tom's heart that jim might try again, not this time in his own strength, but in the strength of that one who had died to redeem him from all iniquity; that he might one day say, "i will go forth in the strength of the lord god." so tom came and went to jim's home as regularly as ever on a saturday, and took harry out with him. though he seldom found jim in, and the very sight of jane and the sound of her voice, brought back the shiver to his heart that had come to it when he knew she had seen and spoken to pattie, yet he persevered in coming for the child. if things were not going too well with jim, little harry needed the more love and guardianship, for was not this a little life that must one day grow to good or to evil? he was thankful that jane never mentioned pattie, but he little guessed that her thoughts were ever hovering round the idea of vengeance for his wrongs, like a moth about a candle. one monday evening, jane returned from her work in old keston, full of wrath and dismay. she had received a week's notice from her lady, and no reason, adequate in jane's mind, had been given for the change. this made her furious, for though washing jobs were plentiful, one that suited her as well as this was rare, and she would also lose her vantage ground of keeping an eye on pattie and finding a chance of paying her out. only one monday remained to her, but rack her brains as she would, no way of working her will occurred to her. yet if she once lost sight of pattie, small chance of doing anything would remain. the last monday came, and all day jane kept a sharp look-out on pattie's premises; but pattie had eyes as well as jane adams, and she took very good care that mondays never took her down the garden within reach of jane's tongue. yet the very proximity of tom's sister on mondays brought him before pattie's mind and made her remember that phrase which had seemed like music to her, "going thin and a-fretting for a worthless thing like you." yes! she was but a worthless thing--only tom had not thought so. he had loved her. sam willard liked her, but if she had not gone out with him on sunday evening after church, he would have asked somebody else to go, and laughed and talked nonsense and enjoyed himself just the same, scarcely heeding the difference of his companion. sam was never free on saturday evening as tom used to be. she wondered what tom did with his saturdays now. she would like, unseen herself, to see tom for just a moment. she wondered if he ever thought of her now. it was almost worth risking meeting jane to know that! watch as she would, however, jane saw nothing of pattie till about four o'clock that monday afternoon, and then she saw her bustle out into the garden, and begin vigorously brushing and dusting a child's wheel chair. it was but a few minutes' work and pattie took the chair inside again, but a few moments later she reappeared at her bed-room window, and throwing the sash up she brought a hat and a brush to the sill and brushed the hat vigorously. clearly pattie and the child were going out for a walk! at any rate, if she could but meet them on her way to the station, jane thought she could annoy pattie pretty considerably. she had meant to have a few words with her lady about her dismissal, but her lady had taken the opportunity to go out calling and left the maid to pay mrs. adams, and jane scarcely regretted it, so anxious was she to be off before pattie's walk should be over. however, though she looked up and down every road she passed on her way to the station, she saw no sign of pattie, and the station bell warning her of her train, she hurried on she did not want to lose it and wait an hour. she found the booking office in an uproar. in the centre of the crowd of people gathered for this train, the greatest favourite in the day for mixham junction, a terrible dog-fight was going on between a big irish terrier and a small black terrier, and the small dog was getting the worst of it. in vain the lady who owned the small dog, begged and besought the onlookers to rescue her pet; nobody seemed to own the irish terrier, and the majority of the passengers, being working men, carried neither sticks nor umbrellas, and nobody appeared to be inclined to interfere otherwise with so formidable-looking an antagonist. into the midst of this hubbub came jane, and the first thing her eyes fell upon was a frightened child, in a little wheel chair in a corner under the window, who was sobbing loudly with absolute terror. pattie's little charge! jane recognised the child and the chair in an instant, and looked round for pattie. as she did so the mixham junction train thundered in, adding tenfold to the noise and confusion, the dog-fight lost its interest in a moment for the onlookers, and they streamed out on to the platform, mingling and struggling with the passengers who were alighting. one glance showed jane that pattie was not in sight. her opportunity of vengeance had come to her. she recognised it, triumphed in it, all in the flash of a moment, and bending over little terrified, crying maud, she unfastened her strap with a touch, lifted her out, and saying aloud, "never mind, dear, it's all over now," she stepped swiftly across the platform and entered a third class carriage. "right!" shouted a porter, banging the door behind her. there was a moment's pause--a moment for reflection--a moment to go back, but jane did not take it. she had paid pattie out at last. the carriage was full of people, and they looked at the sobbing child, some with curiosity, some with annoyance, but jane was equal to the occasion. she settled the child on her lap, wiped her wet eyes and set her hat straight, and then she faced a kind-looking lady who sat opposite. "there's been two dogs fighting in there and it's frightened her," she said. "never mind, my dear, it's all over now." "i don't want to go in the train, i want to go home," cried maud, struggling to get off this strange woman's knee, "i want to go home. i want my mother," she sobbed. "hush, hush, my dear!" said jane authoritatively, giving her an admonitory little shake. then she looked apologetically at the kind lady again. "she don't like leaving her mother--but there's a new baby sister at her home," she said glibly, "so she's coming home with me for a bit. but she's been spoilt and she don't like the idea of a new baby at all, and she ain't used to her auntie yet, and then there was the dogs on top of it all! hush, my dear, hush, you're disturbing the ladies and gentlemen." she was relieved when the whole carriage load turned out at the next station: she and maud were left alone, and she had time to collect her thoughts. her triumph was complete! she had paid pattie out thoroughly and she was satisfied. the opportunity for her vengeance had come to her and she had seized it without fear and without regret. how clever it was of her to have thought of that fiction about her sister and the new baby! it would do for jim too, admirably, and he would never find out. she doubted if he even knew where in the outskirts of old keston her sister lived. he might even not know her married name! he would accept the story as she gave it, especially now that he was beginning to drink again. well! he could drink as much as he liked, so long as he brought her her money and harry's money regularly! in a day or two she would take the child back to old keston, ostensibly to see its mother and the new baby, but in reality she would take it in the dark to its own gate, and leave it to make its own presence known. in the meantime pattie would be dismissed without a character, with a multitude of blame upon her head, if indeed she escaped so easily. they might think pattie had stolen the child, and clap her into prison till she was found! that would be vengeance indeed! chapter xx. reaping the whirlwind. "it is worse than death," sobbed mrs. brougham, and they all felt that it was so. they were gathered at home at last, in the small hours of the night, for there was nothing more that they could do till morning came to wake the world again--that wide desolate world of houses and roads, of byways and slums; that world in which, _somewhere_, was their little maud. pale, wide-eyed and silent, they all tried to eat the supper which pattie, pale and wide-eyed too, set before them, for they thought of the day that would soon dawn, when they would need their strength to begin the search again, and though it seemed horrible to be seeking rest in their comfortable beds while their little sister's fate was unsolved, yet for that same reason, slowly and lingeringly they all said good-night and crept upstairs. for in vain they had searched for little maud all the evening long. police, neighbours, friends, had all helped, but no trace, not even the faintest clue, had come to light. porters, booking-clerks, railway officials, cabmen, had all been questioned to no purpose. everybody talked about the dog-fight, nobody had even seen a child, though a porter averred that he had seen the empty chair long before the dogs came on the scene, and a workman that there had been no chair there at all when the up-train came in. he had stood on the very spot where the chair was supposed to be, watching through the window for a friend, with his bag of tools on the ground beside him. he had moved forward to speak to his friend, and returning a few moments later when the train had gone, to take up the tools, had then noticed the empty chair. what had become of the child was a complete mystery! every house of the broughams' acquaintance was visited, in the forlorn hope that someone had taken maud home with them, but the answer was always the same. telegrams were sent to all the stations on the line, both up and down, but the hour between five and six held the busiest trains of the day, and in the rush of passengers, augmented by gangs of working men returning to their homes, there was small chance of a ticket collector having leisure to observe the children who passed through his gate. no one at home said a word of blame to gertrude. there was no need. they had heard the whole story and they only pitied her, and her grief was far greater than their own, they thought, for there was no self-blame, no shadow of deception, no regret of wilfulness in their sorrow. even conway felt unutterably tender towards this least dear of his sisters, when he came in from a fruitless errand, and found the proud, dark head resting on little maud's high chair, while gertrude's whole frame shook with sobs. "don't cry so!" he said gently, and he found it hard to keep his own voice steady. "don't cry so, poor old girl. god knows where she is and he'll take care of her. i keep on saying that to myself, for i know he will." "if only i had told them all about cecil, it would not have been so bad," sobbed gertrude. and conway could not answer. he only patted her shoulder kindly and went upstairs to find his mother. the days dragged along their weary hours after that and no news came of maud. the broughams felt as if an earthquake had come into their lives, leaving them all uprooted; as if nothing could let them settle down to the old routine of life till maud came back, and without even putting it into words to each other, they all looked drearily forward into days and weeks and months and years, and pictured maud as never coming back, but growing up somewhere, somehow, with somebody. truly it was worse than death. gladly would they have pulled down their blinds and darkened the house and put on mourning. when jerry died, it had not been like this. they wept and sorrowed for him, but they laid him to rest in sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection. he was safe. it was the uncertainty of maud's fate, her surroundings, her associates, the awful uncertainty of everything concerning her, that made this trial so unbearable, that it seemed to every one of them that they could not bear it for another day. yet god knew. the only comfort they had, came to them in that thought. their friends were kindness itself; every sort of sympathy, except the sympathy of flowers, was offered them. special prayer was made in church for those who were "any ways afflicted or distressed," for the story was in every one's mouth, and mothers with little children guarded them jealously, and thought of what they would feel if one of them was taken from them as maud had been. but outside of her own home no sympathy was shown to gertrude. the place rang with her name. mrs. parsons had gone about with her story of the handsome young man in the down train, the meeting with whom gertrude had not even allowed her little sister to witness, and the stories grew and grew on that foundation, till every picnic or tennis party that gertrude had attended that summer, was transformed into a separate flirtation or supplied an anecdote to gertrude's disadvantage. she had rejoiced at knowing everybody in old keston who was worth knowing, but now she wished sadly that she was utterly unknown. she felt that she was pointed at and whispered about, as "the girl that lost her little sister." pauline stacey gathered up all the stories and recounted them to gertrude with an apologetic air that meant nothing, but covered her real enjoyment in the telling of the gossip, and gertrude had not the heart to stop her. after all, what did it matter? perhaps it was best to know the worst that was being said. no one could blame her more than she blamed herself; she _had_ lost little maud through meeting cecil greyburne and she had done it secretly. only she hoped that all these other false stories would not reach her home people's ears. and not one friend of hers had offered her any sympathy. she felt it keenly. even pauline only troubled to see her when she had some fresh tale to relate. cecil had written his sympathy to denys and had ignored gertrude, not even sending her a message, for gertrude had seen the letter. the rich american had not referred to it when he answered pauline's letter in which she told him all about maud, unless his remark that he should not be back in old keston after all, could be taken as a reference. nor had he written a line of condolence to gertrude, as she had half hoped he would. and reggie did not know anything about it. he had sent an immediate and cheerful response to her belated birthday letter, but not having written to him for so long in her sunny days of popularity, she was too proud to do so now, when she was in sorrow. yet she watched for a letter from him, hoping that charlie would write to him and tell him of their trouble, and if he once heard of it, gertrude knew that a letter would come by return of post. but none came. charlie did not write to reggie. how could he do so without attaching blame to gertrude? these were days of darkness, but in them pattie shone out like gold. she waited on them all with love and patience, she kept the meals regular and the rooms nicely dusted, and she attended to all the little duties that no one seemed to think of now-a-days. it was she who received maud's empty chair from the station-clerk, and hid it away that it might bring no fresh pang of sorrow to any heart. it was she who unostentatiously and without fuss, quietly laid by the child's toys and clothes, for she truly guessed that to denys or mrs. brougham, to do so would be like saying a long farewell to their darling, and yet to see them lying here and there, was a constant reminder of her loss. though the two things seemed to have no connection with one another, after the day that maud was lost, pattie gave up going out with sam willard. she said, when he remonstrated with her, that she had no heart now for palavering and he had better find someone who was free and happy. for herself, she could think of nothing but how to find little maud again. "then you'll be an old maid," said sam crossly, "whoever's taken the child has taken her a-purpose, and they won't run no risks in returning her. you'll be an old maid if you throw away all your chances like this." "very well!" answered pattie firmly, "then i'll _be_ an old maid and a good-tempered one too. i won't be like some cross-grained bachelors i know, so there!" chapter xxi. the hiding-place. jane did not feel the least shade of regret or fear when she took maud home. there was no one there, of course, for jim was at work still and harry and the baby were at the nursery. jane gave maud some bread and jam and a mug of milk and sat down to think over the situation. harry had made his appearance in the house and street without occasioning the least remark or surprise. they made no apologies for him, no explanations beyond the one that he was jim's nephew. this was her niece. that was all the difference. with no mystery and no explanations she felt perfectly secure. she would act exactly as she had done when harry came. there was only one thing necessary for protection. the colour of the child's hair should be brown and her white dress and sun hat should be pink! "what's your name, child?" she said abruptly. maud looked up startled. "i'm maudie," she said piteously, her blue eyes filling with tears, "i don't like being here. i want to go home to my mother." she struggled out of her chair, and prepared to depart, but jane lifted her back rather roughly and spoke sharply. "look here," she said, "you've got to be a good girl and do what aunt jane tells you, and if you are a good girl and don't cry, you shall go home to-morrow; but if you cry, you shan't!" she bustled over to a cupboard and began rummaging, bringing out presently a ball of pink dolly dye and a little bottle of deep-red crystals, while poor little maud choked back her tears as best she could. her short experience of life had brought prompt fulfilment of promises, and she watched jane quite interestedly, as she threw a few crystals into a basin, poured boiling water on them, and produced a lovely crimson liquid. jane then tied a towel round the child's neck. "i'm going to make you some lovely curls," she announced, unconsciously using one of denys's constant formulas, and in a moment maud's golden head was sopped all over with the crimson liquid, and after it was dried on the towel, she emerged with fluffy brown curls and streaks of brown upon her face. that defect was soon remedied, and the brown stain travelled all over her face and neck till the clear white skin had disappeared, and she looked like all the other little sun-browned children who ran about in the street below. jane surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction; then she rapidly undressed her new charge, put her into one of harry's nightdresses, tucked her up into harry's bed, and turned her attention to the frock and hat, and when they were hanging on the line, pink and damp, she cleared up the room and wished jim would make haste and come home. she wanted to get her explanations to him over before she fetched harry and the baby. but no jim came, and at last she went downstairs and knocked at a neighbour's door. "i say," she said, "i wish you'd fetch my baby and the brat from the nursery for me. my husband's not in yet, and i've brought my sister's child home along of me for a few days, and he don't know a word about it. if he was to come in while i was out, he might be putting the child outside in the street." "i'll go," said the woman carelessly. "my word, jane adams, but i thought you hated children!" "so i do!" answered jane fiercely, "but he _would_ have his sister's, now it's my turn for _my_ sister's!" as she turned up the stairs her own words came back to her with a sudden qualm. her sister's child! what about tom? he would know that this was not his sister's child--he might even know whose child it was, for he must probably have seen it with pattie! but even as the disquieting thought came, a reassuring one followed. tom was gone away for a month on a special job for his master, and long before that time had elapsed, pattie would be dismissed and the child could be returned. jim did not come home till very late, and when he did, he was more than half intoxicated, and he accepted jane's story without demur, indeed he scarcely listened to what she said; and as the little girl was still asleep when he went to work in the morning, he really had no idea that there was any addition to his family circle. harry was enchanted with a playmate so pretty, so gentle, so near his own age. he wanted to take her to walk in the street to show her off, but jane promptly boxed his ears and forbade any such thing, on pain of terrific wrath, so harry contented himself with offering her every toy he possessed, and maud accepted his attentions like a little queen, and was really quite happy, except when she thought of her mother or denys. but always there was the same answer to her pleadings to go home. "to-morrow--to-morrow--if you don't cry." so the days passed on. each day jim drank more and more heavily as he ceased to resist the temptation, and it took stronger hold upon him, and each day jane grew a little more restless and anxious as she waited for news of pattie's downfall. she had counted on going over to old keston, ostensibly to see her sister and the new baby, but really to pick up any gossip she could about pattie; but though night after night she made up her mind to go the next day, yet in the morning her heart failed her. the chance of recognition was possible, and to take maud through the streets to the nursery, in the glare of the morning sunshine, seemed to be courting discovery. nor did she dare to leave the child at home alone, because of the neighbours. she would have left harry alone with the utmost indifference, and locked him in, and he might have been frightened and screamed and cried all day, for all she would have cared, and the neighbours could have made any remarks they liked; but this was different. she was certainly beginning to be nervous, and she took more beer than she had ever taken before, because she felt so much more cheerful for a little while, and when the inevitable depression it caused, returned, why then she took some more! as her neighbour had remarked, she hated children, and she became so unutterably wearied of the care of these three all day and every day, that she began to wish she had never troubled about paying pattie out, or chosen some way which had not entailed the plague of three children upon herself. still, she had triumphed; she had had her vengeance. the thought was very sweet, and the bother to herself would soon be over now. indeed, it must be, or tom would be coming back. one saturday had already passed, since maud came, and on the second saturday three things happened. news of pattie came to her. wrapped round a haddock which she had purchased for dinner, was a crumpled piece of newspaper. the name upon it, "old keston gazette," caught her eye instantly. she turned it over and glanced down its columns, and her eyes rested on one, and a look and a smile of triumph flashed into her face. but as she read, her look changed, a deep and angry flush mounted to her forehead and spread to her neck. in a sudden transport of rage, she crumpled up the paper into a ball, cast it upon the floor and trampled on it, and then stooping, she picked it up and thrust it into the fire. she had failed--she had been deceived--tricked--foiled. all her efforts had been in vain! pattie had escaped from her toils scot-free. pattie had never gone to the station at all. she had stolen the child from one of its own sisters! she had risked so much for that! she could have shrieked in her impotent anger. turning, she met the wondering gaze of the two children, who had stopped in their play to watch her. she gave them both a smart box on the ears, and then, further enraged when they both began to cry, she seized them roughly and thrust them into the bedroom. she would gladly have smacked her own baby, only that he happened to be asleep. the second happening was a postcard in the afternoon, from the maid who lived where she used to wash in old keston. her mistress was away, she said; the new washerwoman had not put in an appearance and if mrs. adams was not engaged on monday, would she come and oblige? mrs. adams was not engaged. she thought things over and she decided to go. not by her usual trains, however. something must be devised about ridding herself of maud. she was sick of seeing after the child and she found herself listening to every heavy footstep on the stairs. she would go over late on monday morning, and returning by a later train, could observe the movements of the st. olave's household when the dusk fell. she must do something or tom would be back. the third happening came late at night. as might have been expected, jim came home at last with very little money in his pocket. he threw over to jane her usual housekeeping money and growled out that he had not got any extra for harry this week. she must make do without it. a child like that couldn't cost much, anyhow! that put the finishing touch to jane's day. she stormed and raved, she called her husband names, she threatened all sorts of things, but as jim observed, hard words would not draw blood out of a stone, and he sat there stolidly smoking and listening to the torrent of words, till suddenly his patience gave way all at once, and he declared that if he heard another word, he would take the money back and do the housekeeping himself. that would have suited jane very ill, and it sobered her somewhat, and when jim added that if they were all going short of food next week, she had better send that kid of her sister's home, she became quite silent. it occurred to her that it might be well not to push jim too hard till the child was safely gone. after that she would have a free hand. she maintained a sulky silence all sunday, but jim took no notice of her. he went out directly after breakfast, taking harry with him, and they did not return till late at night. on monday morning she announced that she was going to work, and demanded the money for the nursery for harry, which jim had always paid cheerfully, but now he only retorted that he had no more money, and went angrily out, apparently heedless of her reply that if he did not pay, harry could stop at home. for a full minute jim stood outside on the landing, his hand in his pocket, irresolute. he was quite unaware that the nursery charge was fivepence for one child, eightpence for two, and tenpence for three, and that jane had pocketed any benefit which arose from sending more than one. he had sixpence to last him through monday, but if he left fivepence of that for the nursery, he would have but one penny for beer! yesterday his heart had turned away from his temptation to the fair, innocent little chap that he meant to be a father to, and he had taken him out all day, and had never touched one drop of intoxicating beverage, contenting himself, and very happily too, with iced lemonade and soda water and coffee. but this morning was different. the cruel trick of his mates rose up in his mind and held him back from trying again. then he had no coffee ready for dinner, even if he meant to begin again, and it would not hurt the boy to be left at home alone. still he hesitated, conscious that he was weighing two loves--the child's welfare; his own desire. and his own desire conquered. he went quietly downstairs and out to his work, and jane dressed the baby and maud, and took them down to her obliging neighbour. "take these two down to the nursery for me," she said, "i've to go back to my old work to-day." poor little harry! he stood forlornly in the middle of the empty room, listening to the sound of the key turning in the lock, listening to the sound of his aunt's retreating footsteps. then he thought of the happy nursery where maud and baby had gone; he thought of his place at the head of the long dinner-table that somebody else would have this monday, and he sat down in a heap on the floor and cried. presently he got up and looked about for something to do. his dinner stood on the table, and he thought he might as well eat it now, and when that was disposed of, he strolled into the bedroom, and there he spied the corner of the box that held his best frock, sticking out from under the bed. now was his chance! he would have his own again, his bright penny and his bestest pocket-handkerchief with lace upon it. but the box stuck fast. nothing daunted, harry wrestled with it. he pushed and pulled, under the bed and behind the bed, this way and that, till suddenly, as he pulled, the obstruction which held it gave way, the box came out with a run, and harry toppled over backwards with a crash, and an awful sound of breaking china, and a rushing of cold water. for a moment harry lay there stunned, the broken toilet jug lying in shivers around him, the water soaking into him from head to foot; then, as he came to himself, his startled screams filled the room and he struggled up and sat looking round. he was more frightened than hurt, but the sight of that broken jug terrified him more than the fall and the wetting. wouldn't aunt jane whip him when she knew! there was great tenacity in harry's character. he gathered himself up at last, and opened the box and found his frock and its pocket and its precious contents. he looked at the frock a long time lovingly, then he replaced it, pushed back the box, set the bed straight and gave an involuntary shiver. he was soaked from head to foot, and though it was summer weather, he felt very, very cold. he sat down by the empty fireplace and shivered again, and by-and-by he fell fast asleep and dreamed strange dreams, but always he was very, very cold. chapter xxii. out of the north. in the stillness of a quiet summer evening, when the darkness had fallen and the stars looked down from a far sky, and the soft moonbeams shone silvery on dark trees and velvet lawns, john gray, bank manager, knelt at an open window, his arms resting on the sill, his face turned skywards. in the silence, in the stillness of that summer night, the great battle of his life was being fought out beneath the stars. backwards and forwards raged the battle. thoughts of what he must give up if he turned his back on this temptation and did not satisfy his desire for strong drink; the friends who would flaunt him; the friends who would pity him for his weakness in yielding to the influence of abstaining noodles; the friends who would smile and bid one another wait a bit, and john gray would be taking his glass with them again; the awful haunting fear that they were right, that he would only make himself ridiculous and never hold out; all these things seemed ranged on one side against him, and on the other side what was there? his wife elaine. she had promised to help him, for them to start together, to turn out of their home and their entertaining all intoxicating beverages, to stand side by side in their social circle and be abstainers. then there was reggie. he was helping already. not ostentatiously, not in a burdensome way. only just a cycle ride here and there, or a walk, or a concert, or an hour on the church organ, when reggie would blow and mr. gray, who was musical, would play as nobody in the town, not excepting the organist, could play. or a game of chess in mrs. gray's drawing-room, while elaine played or sang to them and served them with delicious coffee. there were other friends too--friends who had been shy of him and elaine lately, but who had once been pleasant, intellectual friends, and who would be friends again if things were different. all these were on the other side. but he knew, and his head dropped upon his folded arms with a groan--he knew that none of these things would keep him from satisfying his desire; that they could give him no strength to resist. they might indeed claim his attention for a little while, but surely, as those smiling friends predicted, he would drift back to the old temptation. there were real tears of shame and mortification in his eyes, as he lifted them to the sky once more. oh! if he could only begin again; if he had only been brought up as an abstainer, as children were brought up now-a-days; if he had only taken his stand that side, as a young man, like companions of his own youth had done; if only he had been born strong and not with this weakness. but all such regrets were unavailing. he knelt there in the moonlight what he was, what he had been made, what he had made himself, and there was something in him that told him that to-night was a deciding point in his life. and to drift needed no strength, no anything. only just to get up from his knees and to go upstairs to bed, and to wake again to the old life in the morning. but the very fact that he was kneeling came to his mind to remind him, and the quiet sky above him spoke to him of strength and peace, and suddenly he bowed his head upon the sill. "oh, god, what shall i do?" he moaned. and softly, a voice out of the past--his sweet old grandmother's voice--came to him with words he had never heard or heeded, since she taught them to him in his childhood. "while we were yet without strength, in due time christ died for the ungodly." without strength--the ungodly. that was himself, and for him christ died! the dawn was creeping up the eastern sky when john gray softly closed the window and went upstairs, and there was the dawn of hope in his heart too, for in his life the sun of righteousness had risen with healing in his wings. it was the next day after this that reggie alston received a letter with the old keston post-mark, but after the first glance he laid it down indifferently. it was not from gertrude. after her birthday letter he had expected another pretty soon, because it had been like her old letters and she had apologised for its brevity, but none had come. this was only from his aunt. she might, however, mention gertrude! he opened it and glanced at the opening words. when was she to expect him for his holidays? he sighed as he thought how long it was till the end of september, when he was to have his holiday. he had so hoped it would be arranged during the school vacation, but it had not been. he turned the page of his aunt's epistle and then his face changed from listlessness to keen interest. "i think," wrote his aunt, "that you cannot have heard that little maud brougham has been stolen. i thought gertrude would of course write you all about it, but you did not mention it in your last letter to me, and perhaps, as gertrude was to blame, she has not liked to write." and then his aunt proceeded to tell reggie all the story, and all the stories that had grown upon it. perhaps in her delight in having so interesting a tale to tell, she forgot what such a story might mean to reggie, for he had never made any secret of his whole-hearted devotion to gertrude, but certainly she did not spare gertrude, and to do reggie's aunt justice, she fully believed most of the stories of flirtation and coquetry. gertrude had been very little to see her of late, and in the light of these tales, she naturally put her own interpretation on the neglect. reggie slept very little that night, and it was with a very pale face that he knocked at mr. gray's private door in the morning. "are you ill?" asked the manager kindly. reggie shook his head with a faint smile. "mr. gray," he said, "you know my holiday is a fortnight in the end of september. could you possibly make an exception for me and let me have four days now, and give up september entirely?" "my dear boy! it would not be at all good for you. what's the matter? anybody at home ill?" "no! i've only an aunt." "is it the one and only girl in all the world?" reggie nodded, and a deep flush swept over his face. "she's in trouble. her little sister has been stolen," he said, feeling some explanation was due. "does she care for you?" "no, i don't think so," said reggie sadly, "but i should like to go. it's all i can do, and it doesn't matter about my part of it, any way." "you shall go!" said the manager quietly. "you shall go by to-night's mail. perhaps things will be better than you fear. you'll be in london this time to-morrow morning." chapter xxiii. the meeting of the ways. jim could not forget harry all day. the hours seemed to drag, and again and again he caught himself wondering if the time seemed as long to the little prisoner, shut within his four walls, with no one to speak to. he determined to go home immediately after his work and take the child for a tram-ride. even his dinner beer tasted bitter to him to-day, and when he left his work and turned his steps homewards he still had fourpence of his precious sixpence left, wherewith to pay the tram fare. he was annoyed to find that jane had not returned, and that there was no supper ready; but he ate what he could find and made a cup of tea. "i'm going to take you on a tram, harry," he said, laying his hand affectionately on the boy's shoulder. "why, child!" he added in astonishment, "your coat's wet! what have you been doing?" harry's face clouded. he had forgotten the broken jug for a few minutes in the joy of his uncle's return. "i broke aunt's jug," he said faintly, "and i all got wetted." jim got up and went to inspect the extent of the damage, and he whistled when he saw it. "aunt will whip me," said harry mournfully. "she'd better not!" said jim fiercely; "it's _my_ jug. i'll get another on saturday. come, let's get ready and be gone before she comes in." he rubbed his hand over harry again consideringly. his knickers had dried upon him, but his coat was still very damp. "you ought to put something else on," said jim. "what have you got?" "there's my frock," cried harry eagerly, "my little frock, what mother made. it's in that box." jim pulled out the box and helped harry strip off the wet coat. the child gave a little shiver, but jim scarcely noticed it then. he was in a hurry to be off, and in a minute harry was arrayed in the frock over the knickers, and the two went downstairs hand in hand, just as they had come at easter-time. it was a pleasant evening, but the wind was fresh, and all there was of it met them on the top of the tram; but no thought of danger crossed jim's mind. harry was very happy and quite ready to chatter after his long day of enforced silence, and though by and by he became very quiet, jim thought he was tired and took him on his knee, where he fell asleep. but all night long he tossed and moaned, and when the morning came, instead of being awake with the birds, he lay heavily asleep, with flushed cheeks and quick drawn breath. jim stood looking down on him with a frown. then he made himself some coffee for dinner and went over for another look at the child. "jane," he said sharply, "i believe that child has got a cold. don't you let him go out of the room to-day, and you stop in and mind him. d'you hear me?" he repeated, as jane made no reply. "you're to stop in and mind the child. no going out to work or to gossip." "i've arranged to go to old keston," said jane shortly. "he's all right, and he can go to the nursery." "he's not to leave the room; and work or no work, you're going to stop and see to him. look here, jane!" jim went on sternly, "i'm master here, though you seemed to forget it when you brought your sister's child, without asking me if it was welcome. you've had a good bit of your own way, but this time it's going to be _my_ way." jane had grown a little pale. "oh, all right," she said crossly. "what a fuss!" she had settled everything in her own mind for taking maud back that very evening, but after all, one day was as good as another, and if jim should once begin on the subject of maud, who could tell what he might ferret out? he might even insist on himself taking maud back to her supposed mother and baby sister, and then what would happen? and it would be of no use to keep back her sister's address from him, for there was always tom. she made harry get up, and he played listlessly with maud, or fell asleep on the floor in the midst of the toys; and by evening time even jane's careless eyes could see that the child was really ill. jim saw it too, and he went straight out again and left word at the nearest doctor's house, for the doctor to come at once. but the doctor was a busy man, and it was very late when at last he came and stood looking down on harry's flushed little face. he asked a good many questions, and then made his examination. jim watched him keenly, and somehow his heart sank down and down and down. "is he very bad?" he asked at last, huskily. the doctor turned away from the little bed and looked at the fine, tall young fellow before him. "i understand he isn't your child?" jim shook his head. "he's my dead sister's child, and his father's dead too. he belongs to me now, and i'd do anything for him. he's not very bad, is he, doctor?" "he's going to join them," said the doctor abruptly. "there's not the slightest hope--at least, i think not--but i'll do my best. he's got cold in every bit of him." jim groaned. oh! to have that last fateful monday back again--to live over again these last weeks of self-indulgence. and now it was too late--too late! but the doctor was pouring out medicines and directions, and this was no time for vain regrets. "you'll sit up with him," he said, and he looked directly at jim; "and," he glanced at jane this time, "i'll send the nurse. she'll set you going and look in the first thing in the morning." but there was no need. when, having seen the gravity of the case, the nurse knocked gently at jim's door, before six o'clock in the morning, the little life had fled, and jim was kneeling broken-hearted by the little bed, harry's sweet face still pillowed on his shoulder. a soft smile lingered on the little lips and he seemed asleep, but jim and the nurse knew better. he was dead. as tom had said, jesus had got the beautiful home ready, and he had sent for harry. * * * * * it was on this same morning that, by the first post, denys received a letter from mixham. she tore it open eagerly, for any letter nowadays might bring news of maud, but she laid it down again listlessly. "oh dear!" she said, "that is from old mrs. richardson. her daughter has got married and gone away, and she is so lonely, and she sits alone and cries all day, and she says that i have always cheered her up in all her sorrows and she wants me to go over to-day; and it is so bad for her eyes to cry because of her dressmaking, and when she has seen me she won't cry any more; but--oh dear! oh dear!" and denys herself burst out crying, for her nerves had been very much shaken, "i can't go and comfort anybody. it would be no use my going for that!" yet after breakfast she sought out mrs. brougham. "mother," she said, "i think i'll go to mrs. richardson this afternoon. i'm afraid i'm getting selfish in my sorrow, and i'll go, too, and see little harry lyon, as i'm over there. i did go once, you know, but everybody was out. the neighbour said his aunt went out washing on mondays, and harry was sent to the nursery. i think perhaps i ought to go." "do you?" said her mother with a sigh. "well, i won't keep you, dear, but oh, do take pattie with you, just for companionship. i shouldn't feel so anxious while you were gone." "oh, but the work," said denys. gertrude looked up from the table where she was correcting exercises. "i'll see to the work," she said. "i shall be at home all day. it's a pity for mother to feel anxious, and pattie deserves a change. she's been awfully good to us." denys acquiesced, though she felt that pattie's company was very unnecessary, and so, immediately after an early lunch, pattie and denys found themselves stepping out of the train at mixham junction. "i think we'll go to see harry first," said denys. "mrs. richardson will want to give us tea and we must not be late." pattie followed obediently. little harry was but a name to her, for he came to brighten tom's life after she had gone out of it, and she had never heard of harry's connection with jane adams. she knew the road into which denys turned, however, well enough, and when denys stopped at the very house where jane adams lived, she only thought it was a queer coincidence, and wondered vaguely what she should do if she met jane on the stairs. denys knocked at the first door in the entry, and asked if the adams's were likely to be in, and which their room was. she thought the woman looked at her curiously, as she gave her the number on the third floor. "they're in," she said, with another of those curious looks; "they're in, 'cept the little girl and the baby. i took 'em to the nursery to be out of the way." denys passed on and knocked softly at the door indicated, and pattie followed trembling, for this was no coincidence--this was reality. jim himself opened the door, and when he saw denys he drew back with a gasp. "is harry at home?" she asked. "you said i might come and see him." jim tried to answer, but no words would come. he drew back for denys to enter, however, and pattie followed her timidly, and jim closed the door softly behind them. once more he tried to speak--to explain--but denys did not notice him. in the centre of the room, where the afternoon light fell full upon it, stood a child's crib, and on the white pillow lay the beautiful, familiar little face that had so won its way into her heart. "harry," she said softly, crossing the room quickly and longing to hear again the tones that were so like jerry's, "harry!" was he asleep? she bent over the crib, and then turned bewildered to jim. there was no need for words. she stood a moment spellbound, looking down on the little peaceful face, with its lingering smile, and then she went round the crib and knelt down by the lowered side and softly kissed harry's forehead and soft golden hair. she had not seen jerry's dead face nor kissed him for good-bye, and she knelt beside harry and wept for them both. she had completely forgotten pattie, but after a while, as she wiped away her tears and listened to jim's story of the child's illness, she became conscious that there was another man in the room, and that pattie and he were conversing in low tones by the window. she glanced round for harry's aunt, but there was no one else there; only sundry sounds of stirring about in an adjoining room suggested that she was not far off, but was not inclined to see company. so with one more long look, one more kiss on the fair, still face, denys and pattie at last took their leave, and set out for mrs. richardson's. as they left the street, pattie looked up in denys's face with crimsoning cheeks. "miss denys," she said shyly, "that was my tom that was talking to me. he was there taking a photo of the little dead boy, for he loved him, miss, and--and--him and me, we've made it up, miss denys! we've always loved each other all along." * * * * * the visit to mrs. richardson was over, and denys and pattie were once more on their homeward way, hurrying along the crowded streets and threading their way in and out of the bustling crowds, with no thought in their minds but of an accomplished task and a great anxiety not to lose their train. they took little heed of the passers-by, but their eyes were both attracted at the same moment by a very tall, fine-looking young fellow who was coming towards them with a big, bouncing baby swung high upon his shoulder; even at a good distance they made a conspicuous couple as they came down the street. "there's jim adams," said denys and pattie in the same breath. jim was walking very slowly, occasionally glancing down at the ground, but the people about him were too many to reveal at what he looked. whether he caught sight of denys and pattie, and could not face speaking to them, or whether he never even saw them, denys could not tell, but as they neared him, he stopped suddenly and looked into a shop window, showing the baby something that made it shout and crow with delight; but in one instant denys forgot everything else in the world, but the strangeness of another sight that met her eyes. she stood stock still in the centre of the pavement, gazing at a figure that was coming towards her. the figure of a little, little girl, walking alone among the crowd, yet not of it. a little girl with brown, fluffy curls, turning to gold at the roots, crowned by a big white sailor hat with a black ribbon round it--a little girl dressed in a short black frock with a kilt and a sailor jacket; a little girl so like--ah! how many children had she seen lately so like little maud! then the child's blue eyes met hers, and, with a scream, denys had sprung forward, and maud--little lost maud--was in her arms. * * * * * when denys began once more to realise anything beyond the pressure of her arms round their lost treasure, she became conscious that a little crowd had gathered, and that pattie was hurriedly explaining what had happened, and there was pity and sympathy in the listening faces around, so that denys thought wonderingly how kind the world was. "a cab!" she said, and she lifted her head as if she were but just awakened from a long and horrible dream. oh! how glad she was to have pattie with her! with maud still clasped in her arms, she and pattie got into the cab, and as it rumbled off to the station, the little crowd that had gathered, thinned away and scattered, and jim adams and his baby went with it. jim had been to the nursery to fetch the two children. it was upon little maud, running beside him, that he had constantly glanced down. when he stopped to look into the shop window she had not observed it, but had trotted on among the crowd, and he, turning to see what had become of her, had seen the meeting between her and denys. thinking simply that the child knew denys and loved her, as harry did, he had drawn near to claim her, and had heard pattie's hurried explanation, and hearing it, he had drawn further and further to the edge of the crowd. but maud had been too far from him, for any of the passing crowd to suspect that she belonged to him. he saw that in a moment, and he waited calmly in the background till denys and pattie and the child had driven away. he understood it all, if no one else did. so that was jane's vengeance! that was what jane could do! the sooner he and jane and the baby were out of mixham the better! what was there to stay for? he hated the whole place. perhaps he might begin again somewhere else. he would try, and he would--yes, he would--ask god to help him this time. tom said that was the only way to keep straight, to ask for god's strength. and tom and pattie had made it up that very day, in jane's own kitchen! chapter xxiv. the sun shines out. as reggie opened the gate of st. olave's and glanced up at the familiar ivy-encircled windows, he felt as if a dream that he had often seen before, had come again to him, and that he should only wake to find himself back in the dull little sitting-room in scotland, trying to find an uneasy rest on the horsehair sofa. mrs. brougham was sitting in the bow-window; she always sat there nowadays, and there was reality enough in her pale, weary face. almost the first smile that had lightened it since maud had disappeared, came to it when she saw reggie. "oh, reggie!" she exclaimed. reggie came to the open window and leaned on the sill. "well, mother," he said, lifting up his face to kiss her. he had always called her mother and kissed her, since the days when he had worn knickers and been gertrude's chum. "well, mother, aren't you surprised to see me?" "very," she said, "is it your holidays?" reggie nodded. "i only heard yesterday about maud," he said gently. "there's nothing fresh--no news, i suppose?" "nothing," said mrs. brougham, hopelessly. she felt somehow comforted by reggie's coming. he was so like one of themselves, so old a friend that there was nothing to explain, no need for excusing words, no fear that his sympathy would make the sorrow wake again. reggie felt it too. he stood there quite silent for a minute, still holding her hand; then he said, "if you knew where gertrude would be this afternoon, i could go and meet her. she'll be so surprised to see me." "yes," answered mrs. brougham mechanically. she knew far, far more of those stories about gertrude, than gertrude ever guessed. even in those early summer days of the picnics and tennis parties that had filled all gertrude's mind, conway and willie had confided to their mother that they wished gertrude would not be quite so _pleasant_. she sighed a little as she looked into reggie's bright, open face. girls did not always know true gold when they saw it. then she remembered that reggie had asked her a question. "oh, yes," she said hastily, "i was forgetting. come in, reggie; she is at home this afternoon. denys had to go to mixham, and i persuaded her to take pattie with her--i am so nervous now," she added pathetically, "and gertrude has been busy in the kitchen all the afternoon, but she's done now, and i believe she went to the drawing-room to study." "i'll go round the garden way and disturb her," said reggie, with a laugh. he thought as he went round the garden that "gertrude busy in the kitchen all the afternoon," had an odd sound. gertrude had not begun to study. she sat in a deep armchair, her books unopened on her lap, looking out upon the sunny garden, and brooding drearily over the past, wondering sadly whether, if maud were never, never found, she could ever feel happy again! and if happiness did come to her, and maud had not come back, how terrible that would be, for it would mean that she had forgotten maud, forgotten her wrong-doing; that she had become again the self-loving, self-centred being that had lost maud! as reggie's figure crossed the grass she sprang up, and her books fell with a clatter to the ground. "oh, reggie!" she said, just as her mother had done. "yes," said reggie, "i've come! i only heard yesterday." a flood of colour swept over gertrude's face, but the room was shaded, and she hoped reggie would not see. what must he think of the story he had only heard yesterday! she had wished that he might know about it. now she felt as if he were the only one in the world, from whom she would gladly have hidden it. "sit down," she said; "all the others are out, except mother." "i've seen her," he said quietly. there was a pause. there seemed nothing to say, absolutely nothing! nothing that could be said, at least. at last reggie broke the silence. "what have you done to trace her?" he asked. perhaps it was the easiest question he could have asked. gertrude could answer that, and she told him all that had been done. "i wish there was something i could do," he said, when she paused. "is it your holidays?" she asked indifferently. "i'm afraid there's nothing much going on in old keston just now. you'll find it very dull." "that won't matter to me. i have to go back on monday." "oh! have you had a nice time the first part? i thought you were going to have a fortnight in september." as gertrude could think of nothing to say, reggie's holiday seemed a very safe subject. he laughed a little. "this is the first part; i came up by last night's mail, i haven't even been home yet. i came off directly i heard about maud and all your trouble. i was so awfully sorry, and letters are not the least bit of use for saying what you feel." "it's very good of you," said gertrude gratefully. "shall you come home again in september?" "oh! there won't be any september," said reggie cheerfully. there was another pause and then gertrude said in a very low voice, "reggie, have you heard _all_ the stories that they tell?" "i expect so," answered reggie soberly; "but, gertrude, i would have given up all my holiday, except one hour, if i could just say one word to comfort you." she looked up at him suddenly, startled. "reggie," she said, "do you mean that you gave up all your holiday just to get four days to come up and comfort me? me! after all you have heard!" "i don't even _think_ about those stories," said reggie, half scornfully, half indignantly. "don't you?" said gertrude wistfully. "oh, reggie, it is a comfort just to see you sitting there; it is indeed! except at home here--and they've been so good to me--you are the first that has said one kind word to me about it all. i knew you would when you heard. only i don't feel as if i ought to be looking for comfort or happiness for myself till she is found; you'll understand that, won't you?" "yes, i understand. but that's your side of it, gertrude. there's another side, and that's my side. i want you to listen to what i've come all the way from scotland to say. i've said it to myself for years. last night, when the train was rushing down through england, i was saying it to myself over and over again. now i'm going to say it to you. "gertrude, i love you, i shall always love you, i want you to belong to me for always. i only think of the happiness of my life as bound up in you. i think of your love as the best and happiest thing god can give me. "that's my side of this matter, and i want you to think of it often, and then, when little maud is found, and we can talk about our own happiness, then you must tell me what you think about your side of it." "gertrude! gertrude!" the voice rang through the house as no voice had rung through it since maud went away, and there was that in the sound of it, which made gertrude and reggie spring to their feet and rush to the door. in the hall was a confused group, and in the centre of the group was a little figure in a short black kilted frock with a sailor jacket, and a big white hat with a black ribbon that half hid the fluffy brown hair, that was turning golden at the roots. for a moment gertrude stood staring, as denys had done, then the familiar blue eyes met hers, and the silvery little voice said gleefully, "hullo, gertrude! i've come back." "maud! maud! oh, my darling, my darling!" * * * * * reggie returned to the north on monday, and when he went, a beautiful little half hoop of diamonds sparkled upon gertrude's left hand. it was reggie's greatest treasure, for it had been his mother's engagement ring; but the wearing of that ring was the only enlightenment which old keston received about gertrude's and reggie's affairs. as mrs. brougham observed, people could see what they liked, but they did not deserve to hear anything. * * * * * "and so," said mrs. gray, as reggie finished telling his tale in her drawing-room, "and so nobody knows who took the child or how she came to be found again." "nobody," repeated reggie with emphasis. but he was mistaken. there was one man who knew. a man who had gone forth at last "in the strength of the lord god," and who had conquered. a man, who was holding out loving, strengthening hands to his wife, and to many another tempted one; but he never told anybody what he knew, not even tom, for jane was tom's sister! * * * * * [illustration: the child's hand lingered on the large, heavy handle of the big door.] stories by emma marshall. a true gentlewoman. with coloured illustrations. large vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, /-; extra cloth, gilt, / . the end crowns all; a story of life. large cr. vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, /-; extra cloth, gilt, / . "a most exciting story of modern life, pervaded as mrs. marshall's tales always are by a thoroughly wholesome tone."--_record._ "lively and light: as nearly a novelette as need be."--_times._ "an excellently told tale of real life."--_civil service gazette._ bluebell: a story of child life now-a-days. illustrated. large cr. vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, / . "most touchingly written; children will be captivated by it."--_footsteps of truth._ "one of mrs. marshall's best stories."--_british weekly._ "charming in style and high in tone."--_guardian._ the children of dean's court; or, ladybird and her friends. with coloured illustrations. large cr. vo, cloth, extra gilt, /-. "will no doubt be a great favourite."--_guardian._ "a bright story of child-life."--_scotsman._ "ladybird is one of the most charming of mrs. marshall's child heroines."--_bookseller._ little queenie: a story of child life sixty years ago. with coloured illustrations. crown vo, cloth, extra gilt, /-. "'little queenie' is particularly pleasing."--_saturday review._ little miss joy. with coloured illustrations. crown vo, cloth, extra gilt, / . "a pretty picture of childish influence."--_brighton gazette._ curley's crystal; or, a light heart lives long. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth, gold back, /-. "the vehicle of good thought as to life and its duties."--_the christian._ robert's race; or, more haste less speed. with coloured frontispiece. crown vo, cloth, gold back, d. "a capital little book for boys."--_english churchman._ little curiosity. with coloured illustrations. crown vo, cloth, gold back, /-. new books and issues. the standard work on billiards. billiards expounded. by j. p. mannock. edited by s. a. mussbini, editor of "world of billiards." illustrated:-- volume i.--for beginners, etc. demy vo, cloth boards, /-_net_. volume ii.--for players, with all the latest strokes illustrated. demy vo, cloth boards, /-_net_. "we have no hesitation in declaring that it is the best text book on billiards placed at the service of the present generation of players."--_pall mall gazette._ "we commend this book to all about to take up the game, as well as to those anxious to improve their play."--_field._ "altogether mr. mannock may be congratulated on having produced a veritable classic of the game."--_graphic._ a useful series of cookery books, containing the latest and most successful recipes. by elizabeth douglas. cakes and biscuits. } sm. cr. vo cloth boards, pudding and pastry. } soup and sauce. } /-each _net_. "the recipes are distinguished by an accuracy as to minor details which is often lacking in many works of a similar nature."--_scotsman._ "we trust that the recipes will be the means of relieving the british dining-table of its terrible monotony."--_birmingham gazette._ "cringles, and golden corn cake, and puff balls, and madeleines--yea, and crullers. somehow my mouth waters for a cruller."--_t.p.'s weekly._ tales by favourite authors. brenda's popular story: the earl's granddaughter. gilt edges, /- "a more delightful book for girls than this one we have seldom read."--_saturday review._ the prince of zell. w. e. cule. /- "had h. g. wells written this narrative he could not have done it with greater realism."--_western mail._ the lost murillo. sheila e. braine. /- "there is something particularly engaging about this book.... the idea is an artistic one and is well worked out."--_morning post._ in quest of a wife. e. everett-green. /- "well written, and very readable."--_oxford times._ the emperor's trumpeter. albert lee. /- with coloured illustrations by a. t. symington. "the story is well told, and there is no lack of incident."--_liverpool daily post._ the king's esquires. g. manville fenn. /- with illustrations by gordon browne. the boys of waveney. robert leighton. /- with illustrations by gordon browne. "a splendid story which never lacks interest, and in which the play of human feeling is admirably depicted."--_the daily graphic._ the jungle trappers. a tale of adventure. / . author of "cavaliers and rogues," &c. w. murray graydon. "the story is well told, and holds the attention from beginning to end."--_leeds mercury._ treasure trove. e. everett-green. / author of "under two queens," &c. "'treasure trove' is quite up to the usual high standard of the authoress."--_publishers' circular._ with musketeer and redskin. w. murray graydon. / with illustrations by f. lynch. "a stirring story of adventure with indians, wild beasts, and the hero's malignant foes."--_english churchman._ on the winning side. sydney c. grier. / author of "his excellency's english," "the advance guard," &c., &c. crown vo, art cloth. with illustrations. "a brisk story of adventure by this well-known author."--_daily telegraph._ "a capital prize."--_record._ [illustration] new books and issues. a new series of books on etiquette. by mrs. humphry. ("madge" of _truth_.) etiquette for every day, } including courtship, marriage, } small cr. vo, cloth parties, etc. } boards, /-each _net_. } more manners for men. } points worth noting. } "mrs. humphry is a trustworthy guide, and her advice may be followed with confidence."--_literary world._ "the one and only 'madge' of _truth_, is always pleasant, always practical, always to be read with pleasure as well as profit."--_lady's pictorial._ our darlings annual. /-chromo boards. / cloth, bevel boards. /-cloth, gilt edges. "short stories, coloured pictures, and everything to make children happy."--_daily express._ keeping his secret. a stirring story of boys' school life. by rev. charles herbert. /-. oswald and phyllis. a story for girls. by catharine shaw. /-. science at home. full of diagrams of interesting experiments for boys and girls. by baron russell. /-. the girls of st. olave's. a fascinating story of girls' school life. by mabel mackintosh. /-. stories by e. everett-green. in quest of a wife. cr. vo, /-, cloth, extra gilt. "well written, and very readable."--_oxford times._ odeyne's marriage. illustrated. cr. vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, /-; cloth, extra gilt, / . "a very well-written tale."--_methodist times._ "the _motif_ of the story is excellent."--_record._ "a very pretty love story."--_lady's pictorial._ "the tone of the book is entirely healthy, and the character of the young wife odeyne is a sweet one."--_church times._ her husband's home. illustrated. cr. vo, cloth, extra gilt, /-; extra cloth, gilt, / . "the story is well and naturally written."--_standard._ "thoroughly wholesome reading."--_daily news._ "a bright and beautiful tale."--_lady's pictorial._ under two queens. illustrated. large cr. vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, leather corners, /-; cloth extra, gilt edges, /-; extra cloth, gilt, / . "the story is attractively told."--_english churchman._ in the days of queen bess. illustrated. cr. vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, /-; cloth extra, gilt, / . "a story with a great deal of interest, graphically written."--_british weekly._ master of fenhurst. illustrated. large cr. vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, leather corners, / ; cloth, extra gilt, /-. "one of the author's prettiest stories."--_lady's pictorial._ in cloister and court. illustrated. cr. vo, / . "of miss green's numerous popular works this will rank ... as the best."--_school guardian._ our winnie; or, when the swallows go. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth, gold back, /-. "the beautiful life of little winnie is one which all children will do well to take as an example."--_banner._ splendid books for boys. g. manville fenn. the king's esquires. illustrated by gordon browne. cr. vo, /-. alfred armitage. red rose and white. illustrated. demy vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, /-. another edition at / . loyal to napoleon. illustrated. large cr. vo, / . w. m. graydon. the perils of pekin. illustrated. large cr. vo, /-. "a well-told narrative of a perilous time."--_western morning news._ cavaliers and rogues. illustrated. demy vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, /-. plain edged edition at / . "a well-told story."--_captain._ the jungle trappers. a tale of adventure. cr. vo, cloth gilt, / . "the story is well told, and holds the attention from beginning to end."--_leeds mercury._ with musketeer and redskin. illustrated by f. lynch. cr. vo, cloth gilt, / . "a stirring story of adventure with indians, wild beasts, and the hero's malignant foes."--_english churchman._ guy boothby. uncle joe's legacy. illustrated. cr. vo, cloth gilt, / . stories by catharine shaw. the strange house. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth, extra gilt, /-. alick's hero. illustrated. large cr. vo, cloth, plain edges, /-. "mrs. shaw has added to our delight in noble boyhood, as well as to her own reputation, in this most charming of her works."--_the christian._ only a cousin. illustrated. cr. vo, cloth, plain edges, /-. "in our excavations among heaps of tales we have not come upon a brighter jewel than this."--rev. c. h. spurgeon, in _sword and trowel_. the gabled farm; or, young workers for the king. illustrated. large cr. vo, cloth, plain edges, /-. "a charming story, wherein the children are described naturally."--_evangelical magazine._ lilian's hope. coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth, extra gilt, /-. courtney's choice. illustrated. cr. vo, cloth, plain edges, /-. sequel to "mother meg." dickie's secret. illustrated. cr. vo, /-; with coloured illustrations, cloth, extra gilt, / . left to ourselves. illustrated. cr. vo, cloth, plain edges, / . the doctor's daughter. coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth, extra gilt, / . sequel to "at last." caught by the tide. illustrated. cr. vo, cloth, plain edges, / . jack forester's fate. illustrated. cr. vo, cloth, plain edges, / . "mother meg"; or, the story of dickie's attic. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth, extra gilt, / . "the prettiest story mrs. shaw has yet written."--_the standard._ "a naturally pathetic subject, treated with much skill as well as taste."--_the spectator._ nellie arundel. a tale of home life. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth, extra gilt, / . sequel to "the gabled farm." "we need scarcely say that mrs. shaw holds out the light of life to all her readers and we know of few better books than those which bear her name."--_record._ [illustration: "the king observed the goose girl comb out her hair and put it back before conrad's return."] stories by brenda. _author of "froggy's little brother," etc._ wonderful mates. with coloured illustrations. large cr. vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, /-; extra cloth, gilt, / . uncle steve's locker. with illustrations. large cr. vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, / ; cloth extra, gilt, /-. "brenda has never drawn two more charming pen and ink sketches."--_spectator._ "an attractive story of one of the bravest and sweetest of girl-heroines."--_saturday review._ the shepherd's darling. with coloured illustrations. large cr. vo, / , cloth, extra gilt, /-. "a pretty pastoral with an attractive heroine."--_saturday review._ the pilot's house; or, five little partridges. with coloured illustrations. crown vo, cloth, extra gilt, / . "one of those admirable sketches of child-life which can so well portray."--_bookseller._ froggy's little brother. a story of the east end. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth, extra gilt, / ; cloth, gold back, /-. "very pathetic and yet comical reading."--_guardian._ "a new edition of brenda's charming story, with clever illustrations."--_saturday review._ a saturday's bairn. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth, extra gilt, /-. "a pleasing story, skilfully written, and in an excellent spirit."--_record._ a little brown teapot. with coloured illustrations. cloth, extra gilt, / . "a charming story."--_daily express._ "a very pretty story."--_standard._ nothing to nobody. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth, extra gilt, / . "a very pretty story."--_athenæum._ "this work will take rank with favourite books for young people."--_christian._ [illustration: christian and faithful passing through vanity fair.] messrs. john f. shaw & co.'s special editions, _with illustrations in colour and black and white, of the famous book_-- the pilgrim's progress, by john bunyan. many editions of this wonderful book have been attempted, and we now introduce to your notice another, which for _artistic merit and general excellence_, we believe to be the best yet presented to the public at popular prices. the illustrations, both coloured and in black and white, are numerous, have been prepared with the greatest care by mr. ambrose dudley, and have been greatly admired, so that we have every confidence that this edition will be =universally popular=. great attention has been given to the type of each edition, to ensure the most readable print possible. editions at all prices from one shilling upwards have been prepared. "a splendid volume, with most artistic illustrations."--_british weekly._ "a handsome volume, in good type, with high-class illustrations."--_christian._ "a highly meritorious reproduction of the noble allegory."--_spectator._ "we have seen nothing better than ambrose dudley's coloured illustrations in this particular line."--_english churchman._ _the_ = /-= _crown quarto edition has been specially prepared with thirty-two full-page illustrations. of these, sixteen are in colour and sixteen in black and white on art paper._ _s._ _d._ gilt edges crown vo, with sixteen illustrations, in colour and black and white, cloth, gold letterings crown to, chromo boards, with twenty illustrations, in colour and black and white crown vo, with twenty-four illustrations, in colour and black and white, cloth, gold letterings large crown vo, ditto, ditto, gold back large crown vo, ditto, ditto, gold back and side, gilt edges crown to, chromo boards, cloth back, with thirty-two illustrations, in colour and black and white crown to, cloth, bevelled with inlay, gilt edges, ditto, ditto special shilling edition. _cloth, gold lettered, with sixteen illustrations, in colour and black and white._ works by anna chapman ray. half-a-dozen girls. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, / . cheaper edition, /-. "will delight and please juvenile readers."--_christian._ half-a-dozen boys. coloured illustrations. cr. vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, / . cheaper edition, /-. "written with bright, good humour throughout."--_gentlewoman._ by william le queux. the great white queen. cr. vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, / . by robert leighton. the boys of waveney. illustrated by gordon browne. large cr. vo, /-. "a splendid story, which never lacks interest, and in which the play of human feeling is admirably depicted."--_daily graphic._ by fred whishaw. mystery island. with coloured illustrations. large cr. vo or demy vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, /-. "told with a swing and a stir that should delight a lover of the sea."--_ladies' field._ by w. charles metcalfe. honours divided; or, rescued from rogues' island. a story of the china seas. gilt edges, /-. "a capital story, full of life and go."--_standard._ "there is no page in the book without its interest, and the whole will bear reading again and again."--_record._ "there is plenty of humour of the brine in this delightful book."--_spectator._ "there is plenty of adventure in this book; but there is also what is better than adventure--the picture of more than one thoroughly generous and manly character. the book is thoroughly manly and thoroughly christian without a goody-goody vein."--_guardian._ stories by l. t. meade. _author of "scamp and i," etc._ bel-marjory. a tale. with coloured illustrations. demy vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, /-. "most interesting; we give it our hearty commendation."--_english independent._ scamp and i. a story of city byeways. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth, extra gilt, / . "little flo', with her industry and skill in 'translating' old boots and shoes, her motherly instincts and efforts to keep her young brother dick, the crossing-sweeper, honest, because mother had made them promise to be so when she died; the good-natured, agreeable, clever young thief jenks, the tempter and beguiler of poor dick; and, above all, the dear dog scamp, with his knowing ways and soft brown eyes, are all as true to life and as touchingly set forth as any heart could desire, beguiling the reader into smiles and tears, and into sympathy with them all."--_athenæum._ the children's kingdom; or, the story of a great endeavour. with illustrations. cr. vo, half-bound cloth sides, / ; cloth, extra gilt, /-. "a really well-written story, with many touching passages. boys and girls will read it with eagerness and profit."--_churchman._ dorothy's story. illustrated. large cr. vo, half-bound cloth sides, / ; with coloured illustrations, cr. vo, cloth, extra gilt, /-. water gipsies. a tale. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth, extra gilt, / . "it is full of incident from beginning to end, and we do not know the person who will not be interested in it."--_christian world._ david's little lad. with illustrations. cr. vo, cloth, plain edges, / . "a finely-imagined story, bringing out in grand relief the contrast between quiet, steady self-sacrifice, and brilliant, flashy qualities."--_guardian._ dot and her treasures. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth, gold back, /-. "one of the tales of poor children in london, of which we have had many examples; but none finer, more pathetic, or more original than this."--_nonconformist._ outcast robin; or, your brother and mine. illustrated. cr. vo, cloth, plain edges, / . white lilies, and other tales. with coloured frontispiece. cr. vo, cloth, gold back, d. "stories of a singularly touching and beautiful character."--_rock._ those boys. a story for all little fellows. with coloured frontispiece. cr. vo, gold back, d. [illustration: "with all her fine clothes."] the best fairy tales. splendidly illustrated books. in strong bindings, handsomely designed. with coloured and black and white illustrations. the sun princess, and other fairy stories. illustrations by h. r. millar, herbert cole, a. garth jones, reginald savage, and arthur rackham. cloth bevelled, gilt edges, /-. to edition. grimm's fairy tales. illustrated. cloth bevelled, gilt edges, /-. to edition. fairy tales. by hans andersen. illustrated. cloth bevelled, gilt edges, /-. to edition. queen mab's fairy realm, and other fairy stories. profusely illustrated by h. r. millar, a. garth jones, and others. chromo boards, cloth backs, /-. to edition. the ugly duckling, and other stories. by hans andersen. with special illustrations. chromo boards, cloth backs, /-. to edition. grimm's fairy-tales. with coloured and black and white illustrations. chromo boards, cloth backs, /-. to edition. andersen's fairy tales. profusely illustrated edition, including many of the less known stories. chromo boards, cloth backs, /-. to edition. works by dr. gordon stables. hearts of oak. coloured illustrations. a story of nelson and the navy. large cr. vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, /-; half-bound leather, cloth sides, / ; extra cloth, gilt, / . "tom burn, the hero, will charm every boy that gets hold of it."--_literary world._ "a story of the navy and of mighty nelson, told with excellent spirit."--_saturday review._ two sailor lads: their stirring adventures on sea and land. large cr. vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, / ; extra cloth, gilt, / . "a sea story, big with wonders."--_saturday review._ "a capital story in dr. stables' best style."--_spectator._ for england, home, and beauty. a tale of battle and the breeze. large vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, /-; extra cloth, gilt, / . "dr. stables has almost surpassed himself in this book. certainly we have read nothing of his which has pleased us more--perhaps we might say as much."--_spectator._ facing fearful odds. a tale of flood and field. large cr. vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, /-; cloth extra, gilt edges, /-; extra cloth, gilt, / . "an exceptionally good book for boys."--_guardian._ "one of the author's most fascinating stories."--_leeds mercury._ war on the world's roof. with coloured illustrations. large cr. vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, /-; cloth extra, gilt edges, /-; extra cloth, gilt, / . works by m. s. comrie. in the tyrant's grip. with coloured illustrations. large cr. vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, /-. "the author has seldom produced a brighter, healthier, or more sympathetic story than this."--_bookseller._ sir josceline's hostage. with coloured illustrations. large cr. vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, /-; extra cloth, gilt, / ; cloth, extra gilt, /-. "a capital story."--_liverpool daily mercury._ the laird's daughter. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth, extra gilt, /-. the king's light bearer. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth, extra gilt, /-. works by r. m. ballantyne. the coral island. with coloured illustrations. large cr. vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, /-; half-bound leather, cloth sides, leather corners, / ; extra cloth, gilt, / ; cloth, extra gilt, /-; cloth, /-. the young fur traders. with coloured illustrations. large cr. vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, /-; half-bound, leather, cloth sides, leather corners, / ; extra cloth, gilt, / ; cloth, extra gilt, /-; cloth, /-. the dog crusoe. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth, extra gilt, /-; cloth extra, gilt, / ; cloth, /-. martin rattler. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth extra, gilt, / ; cloth, /-. something for sunday. _selected by catharine shaw._ price one shilling each. . outline texts for painting. texts in packet. . happy hours with the bible. devices for bible searching. . echoes from the bible. illustrated papers for bible study. . alphabet texts for pricking or painting. for the little ones. . messages from heaven. small outline texts for painting. (suitable for flower missions). . gleams of glory from the gospels. subjects for bible study. . a large thought in a large word. outline texts for painting. . scripture fear nots. texts for painting. . "all things are yours." outline texts for painting, with hints for bible searching. . texts for the children. for pricking or painting. new packet for the little ones. . consider the lilies. choice texts with beautiful floral designs for painting. . enter ye in. texts with flowers to paint. . rejoicing in hope. a nice selection on art cards. . who gave himself for us. texts with flowers; very effective. . zion heard and was glad. texts with pictures more advanced. . easy texts for pricking and painting. new packet for the little ones. . the assorted packet. giving a selection from the most popular numbers. "with such work there will be no dull sundays."--_presbyterian._ "a charming series."--_bookseller._ "a delightful gift for children."--_record._ "must be a welcome present."--_saturday review._ "an excellent idea well carried out."--_word and work._ for prizes, gifts, & rewards. robinson crusoe. by daniel defoe. with illustrations in colour. cr. vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, /-. also in half-bound leather, cloth sides, / ; bound in cloth, extra gilt, / . the swiss family robinson. copyright edition. by e. a. brayley hodgetts, with special illustrations by j. finnemore. demy to, cloth bevelled, gilt edges /-; chromo boards, cloth backs, /-. the wide, wide world. by e. wetherell. cr. vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, / ; cloth, extra gilt, /-. masterman ready. by captain marryat. with coloured illustrations. large vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, /-; extra cloth, gilt, / ; cloth, extra gilt, /-. cr. vo edition, cloth, extra gilt, / . by w. a. atkinson. glimpses of british manufactures. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth, extra gilt, / . lives of british seamen. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth, extra gilt, / . "if necessarily brief, all the 'lives' are thoroughly adequate, and may with confidence be recommended."--_bookseller._ by e. harvey brooks. saint jack. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth, extra gilt, / . [illustration: masie began to tie up the bunches of flowers with a few leaves and bits of grass.] books for boys. by m. l. ridley. sent to coventry; or, the boys of highbeech. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth extra, gilt, / . "a really good story of boys' school-life."--_pall mall gazette._ "eminently interesting from start to finish."--_pictorial world._ the king's scholars; or, work and play at easthaven. with coloured illustrations. large cr. vo, cloth extra, gilt, / . "full of all those stirring incidents which go to make up the approved life of schoolboys. both adventure and sentiment find a place in it."--_pall mall gazette._ "a schoolboy tale of very good tone and spirit."--_guardian._ our captain. the heroes of barton school. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth extra, gilt, / . "a first-class book for boys."--_daily review._ "a regular boy's book."--_christian world._ the three chums. a story of school life. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth extra, gilt, / . "a book after a boy's heart. how can we better commend it than by saying it is both manly and godly?"--rev. c. h. spurgeon in _sword and trowel_. "ingeniously worked out and spiritedly told."--_guardian._ hillside farm; or marjorie's magic. illustrated. cr. vo, cloth gilt, / . "a very well-written story which all girls will thoroughly enjoy."--_guardian._ by m. e. winchester. city snowdrops; or, the house of flowers. with coloured illustrations. large cr. vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, leather corners, /-; cloth, gilt edges, /-. "we have read very few stories of such pathos and interest."--_british weekly._ "a most touching story."--_english churchman._ splendid boys' books. by dr. gordon stables, r.n. the cruise of the "vengeful." with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth, extra gilt, /-. in ships of steel. cloth extra, gilt edges, /-; cloth, gilt, / . life on the ocean wave. cr. vo, cloth extra, /-. chris cunningham. large cr. vo, extra cloth, gilt, /-. alfred the great. with coloured illustrations. large cr. vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, / ; cloth, extra gilt, /-. cruise of the "arctic fox." with coloured illustrations. large vo, extra cloth, gilt edges, /-; cloth gilt, / . on to the rescue. large cr. vo, half-bound leather, cloth sides, /-; cloth extra, gilt edges, /-; extra cloth, gilt, / . shoulder to shoulder. large vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, /-. midshipmite curly. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth extra, gilt, / ; cloth, gold back, /-. stories by catharine shaw. _author of "dickie's attic."_ talks with aunt katie. illustrated. cr. vo, cloth, /-. twilight stories. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth, gold back, /-. out in storm. with coloured frontispiece. cr. vo, gold back, d. kitty's charge. with coloured frontispiece. cloth, d. lucia's trust. with coloured frontispiece. cloth, d. tales of english life in the olden time. by emily s. holt. 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"a very pleasing story of lighthouse life, with something of the desert island charm."--_the guardian._ marjory and muriel; or, two london homes. with coloured illustrations. cr. vo, cloth, extra gilt, / . "a capital story, very prettily got up."--_record._ his mother's book. illustrated. cr. vo, cloth, gilt, / . "little bill is so lovable, and meets with such interesting friends, that everybody may read about him with pleasure."--_spectator._ the doctor's sovereign. with coloured frontispiece. cr. vo, cloth, gold back, d. london: john f. shaw & co., ltd., , pilgrim street, e.c. produced from scans of public domain material produced by microsoft for their live search books site.) little wolf. a tale of the western frontier. by mrs. m. a. cornelius. cincinnati: journal and messenger, no. elm street. entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by mrs. m. a. cornelius, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington. contents: chapter i. a sad breakfast--the sherman family--the language of flowers--what a young man was sure of--the parting chapter ii. pendleton--the revelation at the saloon--euphonious names--the encounter--our heroine appears and highwaymen disappear chapter iii. a reign of confusion--bloody jim--little wolf's allies prepare for defence--family trouble chapter iv. more troubles--who was bloody jim--his attempt at kidnapping little wolf--the cause of his hatred and the terror he inspired chapter v. dr. goodrich leaves with daddy as guide--daddy's war-like preparations--his testimony to the curse of strong drink--what they discovered on their way to the village chapter vi. the saloon keeper--comforting reflections--the unwelcome call--diabolical plotting chapter vii. music--the warning--preparations for winter interrupted--the welcome boat chapter viii. the love-letter--discussion--a quick ride--too late--violence and death chapter ix. bloody jim's advantages--the fainting captive--the tragic quarrel--outwitted at last--the refuge chapter x. the kidnapper's surprise--on the wrong track--bloody jim's capture--the rotten plank chapter xi. harmless conspiracy--the ghost--the wife murderer--tippling and tattling--misrepresentations chapter xii. the cottage in the grove--the disguise--back to health--impatience--searching the box--antoinette la clair's story chapter xiii. twofold agony--dr. goodrich's promise--home again--lilly foot--the convalescent--the neighborhood wedding--news from chimney rock--the sherman family at the west chapter xiv. rough roads--the happy bridegroom--jacob mentor's experience--fairy knoll--a joyful meeting chapter xv. busy preparations and the climax--the lovers--tom tinknor's discovery--general rejoicings--the idol defaced chapter xvi. painful recollections--the last boat of the season--ruffled plumes--reconciliation chapter xvii. winter sports--the doctor's visits--preparations for new year's day--a discussion chapter xviii. the new year's ball--a check to festivity--the midnight ride--death in the old brown house chapter xix. neighborly sympathy--little wolf's bosom friend a disappointed lover chapter xx. a weight of sorrow--marrying a drunkard--suspense chapter xxi. daddy's diplomacy--a passage at arms--fannie green--a catastrophe chapter xxii. the rescue chapter xxiii. an indian messenger--frozen to death chapter xxiv. a crisis--pride and folly chapter xxv. the sleighing party--clara hastings--mother and son chapter xxvi. letter writing--daddy's nocturnal labors and early walk chapter xxvii. doing and getting good--wycoff's reform chapter xxviii. daddy's soliloqy--a beer-soaker--a knock-down argument--a present for little wolf chapter xxix. a chapter of accidents and deliverances chapter xxx. another saloon scene--the bridal trousseau--the lovely nurse chapter xxxi. threats--little wolf and black hawk--tragic death of hank glutter chapter xxxii. the may day weddings--miss orrecta lippincott's surprise--how old lovers behave chapter xxxiii. the old brown house deserted--the pearl and diamond ring--mr. and mrs. marsden's conjectures chapter xxxiv. a trip to california--jumping overboard--the grand supper and what came of it--the captain's little daughter chapter xxxv. a visit to mrs. sherman's room--daddy and his new spouse--ominous signs chapter xxxvi. more news from little wolf--tom tinknor's testimony chapter xxxvii. another death in the old brown house chapter xxxviii. daddy's temperance lecture chapter xxxix. death in mid ocean--love making and a double wedding little wolf. chapter i. a sad breakfast--the sherman family--the language of flowers--what a young man was sure of--the parting. early in the morning of a long ago midsummer's day, the inmates of a quiet new england home were making unusual preparations for the approaching repast. the mistress of the house was ostensibly overseeing the table; but there was an uncertainty in her movements, which indicated a contradictory mingling of interest and abstraction, such as agitates the mind, when trifles intrude on more weighty matters. not so the maid in attendance, who had served in her present capacity for more than twenty years, and was without dispute an adept in the culinary department, if not in affairs of the heart. she was not so obtuse, however, in the present instance, as not to perceive the uncomfortable state of her mistress, and, notwithstanding the pressure of business in hand, she magnanimously paused a moment to attempt a word of comfort. how to approach a subject which had been continually on the lips of the whole family for weeks, was now the poor girl's difficulty. every instant was precious. she was in a measure neglecting the smoking viands under her supervision, and her long established reputation as cook was in jeopardy. at this critical juncture she blundered out, "mrs. sherman, it's a pity; indeed, it is, that he, that edward, is bent on going." "why, recta," interrupted a musical voice reproachfully, "ma is already convinced that it is a pity edward is going. it remains for us to persuade her that he will speedily return." "bless my heart, is that miss louise?" said recta, turning to the person who had so unceremoniously interrupted her condolements. "well, now, i declare," she continued, "if i ain't beat. young girls have great arts of covering up their feelings. there's miss louise taking on, and walking her chamber all night, and now she's telling me what to say as unconcerned as if this wasn't the last meal she was going to enjoy with her only brother." "o fie, recta, haven't i told you that edward is coming home again soon," said louise, and, she added with a blush, "you must have heard kitty in your dreams, and magnified her step into mine. you know you have often said my tread was as light as tabby's." "but it wasn't, last night," persisted the other, "it was as heavy as lead." the blush deepened on the young lady's cheek; not so much on account of the audacity with which this privileged servant had assailed her veracity, as for other and more private reasons, herein unfolded. it was not indeed, the distress occasioned by her brother's departure, which, as intimated in the preceding conversation, was about to occur, that she desired to hide; but there was one to accompany him, on whom she had bestowed more than a sister's love, and furthermore, this friend, having arrived the day before, had progressed, perhaps farther in his suit than on any former occasion, such being the state of the case, it was natural, that, with her lover under the same roof, she should be jealous of exhibiting feelings, others than a sister's love would warrant. to cover her confusion, therefore, which recta secretly exulted in having occasioned, she retorted; "heavy footsteps! ridiculous! look at me," and she drew up her slight little figure; "for shame, recta; confess it was your heavy ears, and i'll forgive you." recta compressed her lips and louise immediately changed her tactics. "what a nice breakfast! recta knows what ned likes, don't she, ma? fie! ned wont stay long away from recta and broiled chickens, will he, ma?" recta's lips visibly expanded. "i reckon he won't stay long away from miss louise and flowers," said she, glancing at a beautiful bouquet, which louise held in her hand. "aren't they lovely, recta? i've just gathered them fresh for edward. now i'll arrange them on the table, while you put on the hot dishes.'" "gathered for edward, as much as they are for me," muttered the unconquered servant. "roses and forget-me-nots mean--well, george goodrich will know what they mean; that's enough." as dispatch was no mean part of the cook's accomplishments, it was not long before the parties mentioned in her private conjectures were seated at the breakfast table, in company with the family, the names of all of whom we know already. it will be observed that allusion has been made to but one parent. the memory of the other, still lived fresh in the affections of his wife and children, and deserves first notice among those whose plans and persons we shall endeavor in a few words, to introduce more minutely to the reader. judge sherman was a man, who, through a long and active life, was distinguished for inflexible integrity, and, by means of sterling talents, he rose to the first rank in his profession as a lawyer. he married at an early age, although his courtship approached closely to the term of years which jacob served for rachel. political differences of opinion were the obstacles which opposed his suit. in those days the federalists and democrats indulged in animosities as bitter as those which existed between the jews and samaritans. the latter party, being in its infancy, could ill afford to lose even a petticoat from its ranks. luckily for the young federalist, the lady of his choice was in her heart a rebel to her father's will and purposes. but after she became mrs. sherman, the united influences of both did not annihilate the opposite party, as its future history, clearly demonstrates. the ball, set rolling by jefferson, continued to roll on, and judge sherman, to the day of his death, never saw his favorite principles triumph. in his efforts of a pecuniary nature he was more successful. he had accumulated a handsome property, consisting mainly of many broad acres of well-cultivated massachusetts soil, which, for a long course of years, had been in charge of a faithful and efficient tenant, occupying a cottage a short distance from his own dwelling, a plain old-fashioned house, situated on an airy knoll near the centre of his domains. here, for nearly two years after her husband's death, mrs. sherman lived in seclusion, receiving only occasional visits from her children, edward and louise. the son being engaged in studying his father's profession, while the daughter was at school preparing herself, it would be safe to say, to follow her mother's business. indeed, it was a fixed fact in her own mind, that when george goodrich, her brother's warm friend and her ladyship's still warmer admirer, should become established in his profession as a physician, she would then trust herself to his care, without fear of poverty or disease. but the young m. d. having no patrimony, and becoming disgusted with the slow path in which he was treading to fortune, resolved to turn his course into a rougher road at the far west. about the same time, edward sherman, having been admitted to the bar, with no other reason except yankee restlessness and craving, turned his thoughts in a similar direction. on discovering to each other their mutual proclivities, the friends determined to set out together, as soon as edward could gain his mother's consent, for the territory of minnesota. with characteristic nobleness and fortitude, mrs. sherman sacrificed her her own to her son's wishes, and it was not until the morning of his departure, that her courage faltered. mother-like she sat at the head of the table, unable to swallow a mouthful herself, while urging every delicacy upon her darling son. "do, dear edward, have another cup of coffee," she pleaded, observing that his cup was empty, while his breakfast remained untasted. "well, just to accommodate," said edward smiling. "i really have not much appetite this morning." "i'm glad you can relish it, mr. edward," said recta, in a whining tone. "it's seasoned with old spot's cream, and i'm thinking it will be a long time before you'll taste any more tame milk, out there among them wild cattle." at this remark, the great square dining-room rang with the laughter of the younger occupants of the old-fashioned straight backed chairs,--this being the only room in the house, to which the progressive spirit had not yet extended, except, indeed, that which was manifested in the cut glass decanters, standing _empty_ on the handsome sideboard. a deep convulsive sob broke from mrs. sherman, and the merriment instantly ceased. the mother leaned forward and covering her face with her hands, gave vent to her long suppressed feelings. edward was by her side in an instant, and throwing his arms around her neck, exclaimed: "mother, i will not leave you!" "then i can't go alone," whispered george goodrich to louise. "ma," said louise, "dr. goodrich says he will stay, too." "no, not quite that," said the embarrassed lover. "o, you must both go," interrupted mrs. sherman, recovering with an effort her presence of mind; "and we are wasting precious time," she continued, pointing to the clock, with returning firmness. the old clock which occupied one corner in seven feet grandeur, would as soon have thought of stopping to indulge in sighs and tears, as would mrs. sherman, when her spirit was moved to the necessity for action. so, all the scruples of her son were peremptorily shut out of existence, and recta, frowned into silence, withheld the probe, which, having fallen into the common error, she had mistaken for the healing salve. in passing briefly over the season of parting, there is an item which should claim special attention for a moment, as it is intimately connected with the destination of our adventurers. as edward stood by the family carriage, which was to transport them to the public conveyance, while waiting for his friend, who had appropriated to himself a private moment with louise, mrs. sherman inquired rather anxiously, "edward, have you that letter?" "yes, mother," and, more to fill up an unpleasant gap of time than to prove his veracity, he produced from his pocket the missive. it was superscribed, "dr. dewolf, chimney rock, minnesota territory." prompted by the same motive which had actuated the other, mrs. sherman repeated some of her previous instructions. "now, edward, when you arrive at penddleton, by all means make an immediate effort to discover the whereabouts of dr. dewolf. i should much like to hear from your father's early friend. i think he states, in the only letter we have ever received from him, that he has fixed his home at chimney rock, in the vicinity of pendleton. however, he may have removed from there by this time, although he was not of a roving disposition. the persuasions of an affectionate wife, who saw with anxiety, her husband's growing love for the wine cup, induced him to emigrate to the far west. in breaking away from the associations which led him to form the habit, she hoped he might attain that rank in his profession, which his brilliant youth had promised. edward," and here mrs. sherman's voice sank to a whisper, "your father was saved about that time. it was by signing the washingtonian temperance pledge. be warned, my son, and flee the temptation which had well nigh stigmatized you as a drunkard's son. i have always intended to tell you this, but the subject was too harrowing. i could not do it." "you might have saved yourself the pain, now, mother," said edward proudly; "there is no danger of _me_." that positive declaration came from just such a son, as many a widowed mother and affectionate sister have doted on. generous, warm-hearted, and strikingly handsome, edward sherman, appeared a perfect type of manhood. were it not that the noblest forms have sometimes hid blemished souls the world had not so often been baptized in tears. the lovers were now at hand. time had flown with them on a "dove's wings," and its flutterings lightened their last adieu. chapter ii. pendleton--the revelation at the saloon--euphonious names--the encounter--our heroine appears and highwaymen disappear. a journey of a few days brought our travellers to the lively, bustling village, which for convenience we have named pendleton, situated on the upper mississippi. after several hours of rest and refreshment at their hotel, they sallied out to enjoy a pedestrian excursion in the cool of the day. not much of the place of their sojourn was visible. gaslight, had not wandered so far from its birthplace. the enterprising inhabitants, however, had manufactured an article by the same name, but it was never known to generate light. the wagging of the machinery was all that came of it. "lager beer," pronounced edward sherman, glancing at the gilt letters, that stood out in bold relief on the illumined window of a fashionable saloon, which they were at the moment passing. "yes, lager beer," repeated george goodrich, musingly. "ned, what a nation of beer drinkers we are becoming. not at the east only, but these western towns seem to have a beer saloon at every corner." "well, doctor, what is more harmless than beer? come, let us turn back and take a glass;" and suiting the action to the word, edward had passed behind the screen which shaded the entrance, before the expostulations of his companion, who followed mechanically, could reach his ear. while edward was leisurely sipping his lager, the loud and angry voices of a party of young men, who were in the act of leaving an adjoining apartment, used as a billiard saloon, attracted his attention. as a lady proved to be the cause of the altercation, we will do them the justice to state that they were decidedly under the influence of stimulants, one of their number, less insane than his companions, was endeavoring to quell the disturbance. "gentlemen," he said, "the name of a lady, whom we all respect should not be used too freely." "just so," chimed in another, "i say, let the matter rest." "the hatchet is buried. peace, peace, to dr. dewolf and his lovely daughter, forever," sang out the third. the name and place, introduced in the quarrel, quite satisfied edward that the daughter of his father's friend was the subject of the altercation. "i've had a revelation to-night, george," said edward, when they were again in the street. "then your eyes were opened, and you saw the handwriting on the wall, did you? pity, those poor fools we left behind, could not borrow your optics." "ah, doctor, you're on the wrong track. it has been revealed to me, that dr. dewolf has a lovely daughter, and--come, now, don't interrupt me with your old-fashioned, worn-out temperance hobby--as i was about to say, i have in my possession a letter of introtion to said dewolf. he was formerly a friend of father's, and, of course, it will be my duty to cultivate his acquaintance and that of his lovely daughter, as early as possible,--say to-morrow. what say you, friend sober-sides? you know, my particular weakness is a lovely lady." "why, it's no affair of mine, ned. flirting is out of my line. but, how do you know the lady is lovely?" "why, was it not revealed to me, through the imprudence of a whole bevy of her admirers." "o, but, ned, the ravings of a set of drunken rowdies is not conclusive evidence." "true," said edward more seriously, "but," smiling again, "it's a young lady, anyhow, and i hope she is handsome." nothing further was said on the subject that evening, but, on the day following, young sherman was informed by the landlord, of whom he inquired, that dr. dewolf resided at chimney rock, about five miles distant, and to the question, "has he a family?" replied, "but one daughter, a beauty of some celebrity." the informant observed the gratified twinkle in the eye of his guest and was not surprised when edward ordered a carriage to be in readiness for him directly after dinner. "the road is precipitous in some places, and horseback riding is considered safer," suggested the landlord. "well, two saddle horses, then," replied the other. accordingly, at the time above specified, our adventurers, each mounted on a dapple gray, set out for chimney rock. the scorching sun, and dusty streets, and poor little withered flowers by the wayside, prodigals from the adjoining valley, were soon exchanged for the "valley road," fringed with the loveliest specimens of the floral family, and cooled by the shade of the surrounding bluffs. like all other things in life, this part of their journey was of short duration. "half a mile on this road," said edward, reining in his steed, and repeating previous instructions, "brings us to the 'siamese twins' a double bluff singularly joined towards the top by the projection of an enormous rock. now, we are here, and no mistake, then turn to the right." "and keep the road as best we may," said dr. goodrich, raising his hat, and wiping the perspiration from his brow. "well, come on." they went on, on and on, over rocks and ledges and fallen trees; fording streams and climbing heights (for they had lost their way) until the lengthened twilight, attendant on the summer evenings of minnesota, began to darken into night. at this junction, when it may be readily imagined that edward sherman's ardor had somewhat cooled, and the emotions of his fellow traveller were not of the most agreeable nature, alternate snatches of song-singing and whistling were heard, not far distant. the bewildered parties rode hastily forward, and met the musician. "can you tell how far we are from chimney rock, my friend? we have lost our way," said edward frankly. "why no, you ain't lost your way neither," replied the stranger roughly. "you are there, now. just ride round the 'tother side of this bluff, and you'll see all there is of it." "well, can you inform me where dr. dewolf lives?" "i guess i can. keep right straight ahead, when you get the 'tother side of the pass, there. that road takes you down to hog run, and the run takes you to beer holler, and the brewery is right in the holler, and 'tother side of that, on the hill, is dr. dewolf's." "what a huddle of euphonious names," exclaimed the doctor, after having proffered a "thank you, sir," to the individual who had so opportunely appeared. "beer hollow will be just suited to your mind, ned. in that romantic spot, inhaling the perfume of your favorite beverage, love making will be doubly intoxicating." "hush, doctor, eavesdroppers ahead," said edward, pointing towards the pass. now, the pass was nothing more than a narrow strip of table land, serving as a passage way between the mississippi river, and a towering bluff. the view of the river was here intercepted by a thick grove of trees and shrubbery, which our horsemen had already entered. they did not, therefore, see the tiny green skiff, with its sprinkling of white letters on the bow, christening it "comet," shoot ahead, and dart into the little cove near by, one of the most romantic and cosy of those emerald-hung parlors opening from the grand reception hall, of the "father of waters." neither did they see the fair occupant rise on tip-toe, and peep mischieveously, through the festooned loopholes of the forest. but they saw the dark objects to which the last speaker had called attention, partially concealed by the trees. the beast on which edward was mounted stopped suddenly, shivering, apparently with fear. instantaneously, two dark figures darted from their lurking places, and, in low gutteral tones demanded money. unarmed, and completely in the power of the ruffians, who each, pistol in hand, held firmly by bit and bridle, the horse of his victim, the part of wisdom, seemed to be to surrender. at that instant, a slight figure glided from the thicket behind the waylayers, and cautiously drawing forth a revolver which projected from the belt of the nearest, placed the muzzle at his back and fired. he fell with a deep groan. another discharge followed quickly, and his companion reeled several yards, seizing convulsively trees and shrubbery, and finally, was heard sliding down the bank towards the river. "now, ride for your lives, there's more of them," said their deliverer, in a voice husky with excitement. "what will you do?" said edward. "take my skiff." "no, mount here, quick," and he drew her up, and set off at full speed. "now, turn here, now up that hill; now we are there," the lady faintly articulated, as they flew along, and drew up before her father's door. the house at which they had arrived, was the residence of dr. dewolf, and the heroine of the adventure, was no other than the doctor's only daughter, quaintly named, little wolf. she had been, as was her wont, on a short independent trip up the river. in the full enjoyment of the romantic scenery and twilight hour, night had stolen upon her unawares. warned of her imprudence by the distant clatter of horses, she immediately turned homeward. the swift current aided her efforts, and she neared the pass, just in time to overhear all that was said. not satisfied with the dim outline of objects, which a peep through the leaves disclosed, she sprang to the shore, and catching by the branch of an overhanging tree, drew herself up the steep bank. the part which she performed in the perilous encounter is already known to the reader, but the leading motives which prompted it, will be better understood hereafter. chapter iii. a reign of confusion--bloody jim--little wolf's allies prepare for defence--family trouble. a shout from the fugitives brought several faces to the window, and from the door hobbled an old man. he cautiously peered into the gloom, and finally at the sound of a familliar voice sidled up to edward and his charge. "'tween you and me, what's the matter?" said he. "it's me, help me down, daddy, do, i'm tired," said little wolf, in feeble tones. "o, lamb, o, honey, o, pet, is it you?" exclaimed the old dotard, trembling with apprehension. "'tween you and me, what has happened to the darling?" "o, nothing, daddy, only i saw bloody jim, and i'm afraid there's more of them." "o, my lord, did you? o, my lord, the men are down to the brewery. o, my, 'tween you and me, what _shall_ we do?" perceiving the old man's utter incapacity to the exigency, edward threw his rein to the doctor, and immediately bore the young lady into the house. the old man followed, grasping his arm, and shouting in his ear at every step, "'tween you and me, she saw bloody jim, did she--she saw him--did she--ha!" "in the ante-room, they were met by a little bustling elderly woman, in cap and spectacles. "o, daddy, what is it?" she exclaimed. "o, mammy," he cried, releasing edward, and laying hold on his wife,--a method by which he invaribly compelled attention, "'tween you and me, she's seen bloody jim she has; she says there's more of them, she does." "why, you, old fool, why don't you do something?" said the woman, shaking him off with a jerk. "lock the doors, shut the windows, call sorrel top; blow the horn. is the love hurt?" turning anxiously to little wolf, who was reclining on the sofa. mammy had hastily snatched up the small lamp, with which the apartment was dimly lighted, and, as she was scrutinizing her pet, edward obtained a full view of the young lady's features. he gave a sudden start, and the blood rushed to his face. was it the lady he had so frequently seen on broadway, a few months since? he asked himself. yes, the very same; that countenance was not easily forgotten. why, she was a new york belle, was his first reflection. our heroine's voice was still low and agitated as she replied, "o, no, mammy, not hurt, only frightened. you attend to the gentlemen and the house i can take care of myself. i feel better now." "well, then, rest here, love; you look pale. now don't move; don't get excited; nobody shall hurt the pet, i'll tell sorrel top to bring you a glass of water." amidst the slamming of doors and rattling of windows, mammy was heard calling at the top of her voice, "sorrel top, sorrel, take a glass of water to the parlor;" and to the parlor hastened sorrel top. but meeting daddy at the door, she was forcibly detained, and subjected to his deafening vociferations, rendered doubly aggravating, by his using the ear of his auditor as one would a speaking trumpet. the burden of his song, was still "bloody jim, bloody jim!" "who cares for bloody jim;" said sorrel top angrily; "i don't care for him, nor none of his tribe. let me go, you, torment." daddy held his ground, for he bore in mind firstly: that sorrel top was his fellow servant; secondly, she possessed no great strength of muscle or nerve, and, thirdly and lastly, that she was a helpless widow, whom it was no sin to call sorrel top, because of her enormous growth of reddish hair. edward stepped forward to relieve sorrel top of the glass of water, which she was holding at arm's length, and at the same time suggested that a little brandy might be beneficial to the lady. "brandy! brandy! did you say?" sounded in his ear like a knell, and he was caught in the old man's trap. "laws! young man, she'd as soon drink a rattle snake; she's down on brandy; she's down on the hull of that infarnel stuff. spirits of every kind is her abhorrence. the doctor was highly amused at his friend's predicament, and, giving him a sly wink, remarked, "beer will do as well, ned, and it is perfectly harmless, you know." the doctor's turn had come, in a still higher stage of excitment, daddy pounced upon him. "young man," he thundered, "beer harmless? 'tween you and me, lager beer is the devil's pison, slow but sure. don't you believe me?" "coax him away, sorrel top," said little wolf, rousing herself. "come, daddy, miss dewolf wants us to be off, she says so," said sorrel top, resolutely approaching him. "me go! o, no, 'tween you an' me, i must stay and protect the love." the doctor was instantly released. his assailant had embarked in a new enterprise. but sorrel top was firm. "what good are you doing, i should like to know," she said. "what good be you a doing, you, hussy?" reiterated daddy; don't you hear mammy blowing the horn; 'tween me an' you, she's short winded. i'll protect the pet." "never mind me, daddy," said the young mistress, now quite revived; "if you ain't afraid, you had better assist mammy." she had touched her would-be-protector in a sensitive spot, and he vehemently ejaculated "me afraid; not i. 'tween you and me, what should i be afraid of, i would like to know?" "why, of bloody jim." the old man glanced dubiously towards the door, and slid out. edward eagerly seized the propitious moment to formerly introduce himself and companion, to their fair preserver. mutual explanation followed, and little wolf cordially welcomed our friends to chimney rock. "father is at the brewery," she said, "he'll be in directly; the horn is our alarm bell." "is there any further danger to be apprehended?" said edward; "i think you killed them both." little wolf suddenly changed countenance. her beautiful, bewitching face had been half hidden by curls, and covered with blushes, from the moment her faintness had passed off, and, but for the twinkle of those mischief-loving brown eyes, and certain unmistakable movements of her slight figure, she might have passed for meekness itself. to those, therefore, who were unacquainted with her peculiarly nervous and impulsive temperament, the change in her apperance was rather surprising. with one sweep of her plump little hand, she tossed back the ringlets from her brow, and frowningly declared she wished she had killed them. "i didn't kill them, though," she said, "or, at all events, i killed but one; the other, bloody jim, he's called, i cannot kill. i've tried it before. he's my evil genius. he carried me off bodily, once, just before i went away to school." "indeed," said edward, deeply interested, "how did you escape?" "o, a gentleman rescued me." edward said "indeed" again, but his tone was _slightly_ changed. he did not feel _quite_ as comfortable, as he had a moment before; but in the unpleasant scene which immediately followed, his chagrin passed unnoticed. the sound of the horn, had brought to the house, all the loungers at the brewery who were in a condition to render aid, and some who were not. among the last named was dr. dewolf, who staggered to the parlor, and boisterously demanded, "what's all this fuss about?" he was in the first stage of drunkenness, and consequently more difficult to manage than he would have been an hour or two later, when he was usually brought home in a helpless condition. little wolf made a desperate struggle to appear composed. "o, nothing," she replied with the slightest possible quiver in her voice, "i saw bloody jim, that's all." "that's enough," murmured the parent, sinking into a chair. the very mention of that name seemed to have completely sobered him. for, bloated and inebriated though he was, paternal love still lived, a green spot in the waste, which alcoholic fires had not yet burned out. he sat for a moment in silence, pressing his hand to his brow, and then, without appearing to notice his guests, abruptly left the room. his daughter hastily excused herself, and followed him. once outside the door, she drew a long breath, but shill choking down her mortified feelings, she bounded across the adjoining room, and meeting mammy, paused to give a few necessary orders. "o, laws, honey," objected mammy, "i can't do nothing, and i can't get nobody else to do nothing. o, laws, honey, what if bloody jim should come? the men are half of 'em drunk; we'll all go to destruction together." "o, fudge, mammy, bloody jim is shot; there's no danger. come, now, you do as i tell you. i _must_ go to my room a minute." and she flew into the hall and up the long staircase, as if she had wings, leaving mammy muttering to herself. "poor motherless child; sich as this is enough to make the honey stiddy; dear me, there's no stiddying her--clean gone mad, i declare. chapter iv. more troubles--who was bloody jim--his attempt at kidnapping little wolf--the cause of his hatred and of the terror he inspired. quite like a little fury, little wolf burst into her own private apartment. locking the door, she stopped suddenly and stamped, in a paroxism of grief and vexation. "a drunkard's child!" she said scornfully "disgrace!--i hate everybody!--i wish i'd shot myself!--i wish i was dead!--i wish father--" she did not finish the sentence; a loud knock at the door interrupted her. "who's there?" she asked. "me," said sorrel top. "go away," said her young mistress, imperatively. "mammy sent me," said sorrel top, "the doctor is dying." "o, god!" exclaimed little wolf, in an agony, "i have got my wish." trembling violently, she descended to the parlor and found her father stretched out on the sofa in an apoplectic fit. wild and reckless as her words had been, little wolf would not for the world have seen her wishes fulfilled, and she was spared the remorse, which under the peculiar circumstances, her father's death would have occasioned. not having perceived how completely her information respecting bloody jim, had brought her father to his senses, she little dreamed that, while she was giving orders to mammy, he was in another part of the house inspecting the fastenings of the doors and shutters. finding all secure, he returned to the parlor, in order to learn the particulars of her meeting with the being, whose very name had created such terror and dismay throughout the household. observing young sherman and dr. goodrich, he attempted to address them, but suddenly lost the power of speech. it was many hours before dr. goodrich dared give any encouragement of his recovery to his almost distracted daughter. all night long, she watched, with the young physician and edward, by his bedside. daddy and others, kept a bright look out for the enemy; but he had been too badly wounded, to attempt any further violence that night. for reasons unknown to any except the parties concerned, dr. dewolf had, in the person of bloody jim, a revengeful and deadly enemy. he belonged to the red river half-breeds. several years before, while a company of his people were encamped in the vicinity of st. paul, on the upper mississippi, for the purpose of trafficking with the whites, dr. dewolf had paid them a chance visit. as some alleviation to the insupportable loneliness, which the recent death of his wife occasioned, he accepted the invitation, of his friend and financial adviser, squire tinknor, to spend a few weeks with him, in the place above mentioned. this friend, was unfortunately, for a man of the doctor's irregular habits, wealthy, wild and dissipated. together they sought out and visited every place of amusement. returning in company, from a horse race, one pleasant afternoon, they came in sight of the tented village, occupied by this demi-savage people. the novelty attracted the doctor's attention and he insisted on alighting. "i must see what they've got in there," he said, pointing towards a tent from which the sound of music was heard. peeping slyly through a crack in the canvas, he saw the music-maker, a young girl, carelessly drawing a bow across the strings of a dilapitated violin, while her own very sweet voice, dropped out a gay stanza, in broken english. she was alone; so the doctor boldly lifted the door and went in. five, ten and fifteen minutes, his companion impatiently awaited his appearance, and at length, seriously disturbed at his absence, he shouted his name. "yes, yes," said the doctor from within, "i'm coming." "what detained you so deuced long," said his friend, when they were again on their way. "o, playing the agreeable to a little fool, who was sawing away on a greasy fiddle," said the recent widower of forty-five, or more. he was careful not to mention that the "little fool," was beautifully formed, with ruddy checks, with dark, loving eyes and, being rather handsome himself, he had conceived the idea of captivating her silly heart. the story of the "spider and the fly," fitly illustrates the means by which his purpose was afterwards accomplished. his inamorata had innocently informed him that her protector, "brother jim," spent the most of his time in the city, and the doctor soon discovered that her savage looking relative frequently drank to excess. under such favorable circumstances it required but little management to elude his vigilance. but, after the mischief was done, it was not so easy to escape a brother's revenge; especially as that brother's naturally ferocious nature had already acquired him the title of "bloody jim." not many months after the doctor had returned home, his punishment began. he had just gone to the brewery to spend the evening, when his little daughter came running in. "o, papa," she exclaimed, panting for breath, "i met such a great tall man out here--he wasn't an injin--he talked a little like one, though. he had on a blue coat with bright buttons, and he had such _awful_ eyes; o, dear!" "what did he say, daughter?" said the doctor, catching up his child, and pressing her to his heart. "o, he said, 'what name?' i told him papa always called me daughter, mamma used to call me little wolf, and daddy and mammy called me honey, pet, dove, love, and _every thing_, i wish i had a regular name, papa--i mean to give orders to be called little wolf, for mamma knew best, and she called me so." "little wolf it shall be," said obedient papa. "but what next did the man say?" "o, he said 'papa's name.' i said dr. dewolf; than he made such a coarse noise in his throat, just like an injin; i thought he wanted to get me, so i ran in here, quick." dr. dewolf groaned in bitterness of spirit. he thought of bloody jim, and was tortured with vague fears of what might be. he did not spend that evening in drinking at the brewery. but it was the last night his child knew a father's care. after that, he did nothing but drink, drink. he had drank before, in spite of the pleadings of his wife, whom his conduct had brought to a premature grave, and, as trouble increased, he drank yet the more. from the moment bloody jim saw the doctor's beautiful child, he worked to gain possession of her and spared her father's life for a time. in pursuance of his plans he returned to the red river country and gathered about him a set of lawless wretches, whom he had before led on to deeds of violence, and brought them to chimney rock. the gang secreted themselves among the towering bluffs in the vicinity, and, while watching for their prey, robbed all who came in their way. the frequent outrages committed on travellers, spread alarm throughout the surrounding country, and officers of justice were dispatched in search of the perpetrators. in this state of affairs, bloody jim, resolved at once to make a bold attempt to capture the coveted prize, and quit the country. selecting for his purpose, the hour when the doctor was in the habit of leaving home for the brewery, he lurked in ambush, until little wolf, who usually accompanied her father the most of the way, should return home alone, and, when the opportunity came, seized suddenly upon her, and, in spite of her struggles, bore her away towards the river. leaping into a canoe, he threatened her with instant death, if she made the slightest resistance, and pushed out for the opposite shore. it was quite dusk when they landed on the other side. the poor frightened child, now for the first time broke the silence. she begged to be taken home again; but her captor only laughed horribly. "i bloody jim," said he; "how you like to be my wife?" "o, take me home, i'm only a little girl," pleaded little wolf with quivering lip. "you be big, by and by." as he said this, an unseen hand laid him senseless on the beach. the same individual who dealt the blow, returned the child safely to her home, and leaving her to tell her own story, disappeared. a chill of horror crept over the doctor, when mammy, the next morning, related to him, her pet's adventure. he wrote immediately to his friend, squire tinknor, for advice. "send the child away to boarding school," was the counsel given, and forthwith, the doctor acted upon it. four years at school, and a winter of fashionable life in new york, transformed the little miss into an accomplished young lady. when about to return home, she purchased a superb brace of pistols. at her request, mr. marston, the brother of the young lady whose hospitality she had shared, selected them for her. as he was one of those quiet, fatherly sort of young men, who naturally win the confidence, if not the love, of young ladies, she felt no hesitancy in opening her heart to him, on the subject of the pistols. she also related to him the story of her wonderful escape from bloody jim, and positively declared that if he ever came near her again, she intended to shoot him through the heart. "but how would you reward the person who rescued you," said mr. marston, eagerly. "o, i'd do anything in the world for him," she replied, "if i only knew who he was." "would you love him?" "yes, i'd love him." just then the peculiar expression of her sober friend's face startled her, and she added, with one of her merry laughs, "provided he was not a poky old bachelor." the bachelor perceiving that his time had not yet come, allowed the little would-be amazon to depart, without again making the slightest approach to the subject nearest his heart. her skill in the use of the silver-mounted weapons, excited great admiration in the breast of daddy, whom she usually allowed to assist in setting up a target, because she could not well get rid of him. his eulogies were, on the whole, rather gratifying to her vanity, for before his sight failed him, he had been no mean marksman. entirely unconscious of the dangerous resistance to be met, bloody jim made his second attempt on little wolf's freedom. she was returning from a long tedious walk, among the bluffs, at the close of a spring day; her revolvers hid away in the holders, beneath her mantle, when suddenly, her enemy appeared in her path. little wolf stood for a moment as if spell-bound. again she heard that horrid guttural laugh and saw those fiendish black eyes. "i got you now," was all he had time to say, before a ball from her pistol pierced him. she saw him fall, and fled. as nothing more was heard from him, or his men, it was generally supposed that little wolf had put an end to his life. like one risen from the dead, he appeared to her in his attack upon dr. goodrich and edward sherman, at the pass. she knew he must have gone there to watch for her, and in saving others, she had also saved herself. chapter v. dr. goodrich leaves with daddy as guide--daddy's war-like preparations--his testimony to the curse of strong drink--what they discovered on their way to the village. morning dawned fresh and beautiful. dr. dewolf's symptoms continued favorable. refreshed and re-invigorated, after an hour's repose, the watchers gathered around the breakfast table with cheerful faces. too young and mirthful to be very seriously affected, for any great length of time, by what had occured, little wolf joined with her guests in sipping coffee, and talking over the events of the preceeding evening with becoming composure. during the meal, she slipped out to peep into the invalid's apartment. as she flitted from the room, the doctor turned to edward, who was gazing after her with an expression of intense admiration. "ah, ned," said he "your time has come." "fact, doctor, i do feel queer. the little witch is too much for me." "what can i do for you?" said the doctor, with a professional nod. "o, leave me here to-day, doctor. positively, i can't go back with you." "what, ned, allow me to fight my way alone, through a band of desperadoes?" said the doctor, with feigned trepidation. "pshaw, doctor! there's no danger; their chief is dead, or wounded, and they've fled long before this time." their young hostess broke in upon the conference with a smiling face. "papa is resting very quietly," she said; "but i fear a return of his complaint. i shall feel anxious 'till you return, doctor, if indeed, you still think you must go back this morning. could not mr. sherman go for you? daddy might show him the way." edward cast an imploring look towards the doctor, who magnanimously sacrificed his own ease to the wishes of his friend. "it will be necessary, for me to go myself," he replied; "but give yourself no uneaseiness, miss dewolf. i do not think your father will have a second attack. i will accept your offer of a guide, and, with your permission will leave my friend, mr. sherman, as my proxy." there was a slight dash of malice in the doctor's last words, which edward was too grateful to notice. when the hour for setting out arrived, daddy appeared, armed and equipped, for what his fears had magnified into an exceedingly perilous journey. at sight him, of little wolf burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. his little, insignificant figure was girded by an old leathern belt, which was literally stuck full, of such weapons as he could hastily pick up, about the premises. "bless me! what do you expect to do with that outlandish outfit?" said his young mistress, when she was able to speak. "why 'fend myself, to be sure," replied the old man indignantly. "o, fie, daddy," said she coaxingly; take off that heavy old belt. why it makes you look so, and sweat so, too. come, now, if you will, i'll lend you one of my pistols." the old man's rising temper was quite mollified, at the proposal of little wolf; for to sport those pistols, had been an honor, to which he had hitherto aspired in vain. "well, now, i'll explain the case, honey," said he, attempting to approach her; "'tween you and me--" "o, no, no," said little wolf, putting her fingers to her ears, and slipping our of his way. "bless her heart," said daddy, turning to the doctor; "that's just the way she used to run away from me, when she was a little gal. 'tween you and me, though, i was only going to tell her, how it wasn't the heft of this ere belt, that made me sweat so. it was sharpening these ere, on the old grindstone," and he drew forth a couple of large butcher knives, which glistened brightly in the sunbeams. "o, those knives are just what mammy wants in the kitchen; i heard her say so," said little wolf appearing on the piazza with the pistols. it required a vast amount of coaxing to bring the old man to terms, but finally a compromise was effected, and stowing a knife away in his coat pocket, he set out with one of the pistols, the doctor being armed with the other. instead of the short cut of the night before, the doctor chose the more circuitous route through the village; if a cluster of dilapidated houses might be dignified by that name. dr. dewolf's old brown residence, situated on a high hill, with its piazza stretching across the front, was the most imposing edifice to be seen. the remaining comfortless dwellings, mostly log cabins, and board shanties, with their broken windows and ragged inmates, who flocked out to gaze at the strangers, presented an appearance desolate in the extreme. even the shadow cast by old chimney rock, after which the place was named, added a darker aspect to the scene. chinmey rock was an irregular old bluff, standing like a grim old castle by the riverside, its chimney-like summit, rocky and bare, the most conspicuous object in the landscape. "what a god-forsaken place," exclaimed the doctor, involuntarily. "'tis so, this ere is a broke-down, one-horse concern, and that ain't the wust on't, nuther," said his companion; who was almost bursting with communicativeness. "well, what is the worst of it?" inquired the doctor, as much to gratify the old man's weakness, as to satisfy his own curiosity. "why, doctor, 'tween you an' me, there's awful doin's here. ye see, sence that saloon was sot up in one end of the old brewery, all the men here have got to drinking, and 'tis astonishing how men will act, when they git soaked in liquor. i've heered temperance lecturers tell stories that would make your har stand on ind; that was when i was young, and there was a great excitement on the subject. i signed the pledge then, and i never broke my word on no account, or i expect i should be as bad as the rest of them here. i've had to stand out agin hard persuasions. they've tried to git me to take a glass of lager; sez they, 'lager won't hurt nobody;' sez i, 'it's hurt you.' you see, it don't require no argument, i can pint 'em to facts. now, there's prime hawley; when he come here to live, he was a fine, stiddy young man; his wife was as pretty as a rose, and as happy as a lark. somehow, prime got to going to that saloon. well, i gin him fair waning. sez i, 'prime, they'll get the halter on ye, if ye go there;' sez he 'i guess not, a glass of lager won't hurt nobody;' but now, sure as fate, he's the worst of 'em all. he's whipped and frightened his putty wife most to death, and she's got sickly now. some say he's even jined bloody jim's gang. 'tween--" "hark!" said the doctor, suddenly interrupting the narrator. deep, agonizing groans were distinctly heard in the direction of the pass, which they were nearing. "o, murder, what's that?" shouted daddy; and he wheeled his horse about and gallopped homeward. "stop, come back here," shouted the doctor, at the top of his voice. the old man reluctantly obeyed. approaching within a short distance of the doctor, he motioned that individual towards him. "o, doctor, 'twont do fur to go furder," said he; "'tween you and me, i've heern say, that's jist the way them robbers do, when they want to ketch anybody. there goes that yell agin. o, that ere _is_ awful; we'll get ketched; it won't do fur to stay here." exasperated beyond endurance at the cowardice of his guide, the doctor bade him remain where he was, while he went forward to reconnoitre. a short ride round the point of the bluff brought him directly upon the bleeding form of the desperado, who had attacked him the preceeding evening. hailing daddy, he alighted and approached the apparently dying man. "prime hawley, by gol!" exclaimed daddy, as he came up. "why, prime," said he, hopping briskly down from his saddle; "twixt you and me, how did you get in this ere fix?" "oh! oh!" groaned prime, "take me home; i'm dying." "i'll take him home if you say so, doctor," said daddy, "his heft is nothing, and it's near by." "very well, i'll follow with the horses." "i say, prime," said the old man, when they had nearly reached the home of the sufferer, "tween you and me, aint had nothin' to do with bloody jim, have you!" "yes, i have; curse him!" "he ain't nowhere 'bout here now, is he?" "i expect not, oh! oh! i wish he was suffering as i am." "o, miss hawley, 'tween you an' me, here's a sore trial fur you," said daddy to a pale-faced, delicate looking woman, who met him at the cabin door with looks of alarm. mrs. hawley trembled violently, and her pale face grew a shade paler, but she asked no questions, as she led the way to the bed. her silence, at first, impressed the doctor with the idea that she was accessory to her husband's guilt, and he watched her closely. no tear dimmed her eye, no sigh escaped her, yet she seemed painfully alive to the agony which her miserable husband endured, while the doctor was dressing his wound. "do you think he will live, doctor?" she enquired in a sort of hopeless, melancholy tone, as dr. goodrich was about to leave. "it is an exceedingly critical case," replied the doctor, "he may possibly recover." "'tween you and me," said daddy, coming between them, "i'd like to know how prime got that shot?" poor prime shook his head imploringly towards the doctor, who went to him, and quieted his apprehensions in a few whispered words. "i don't care," said prime, "only it would kill her to know it." as they were passing the old brewery, when they were again on their way, a man came out and accosted them. "hello, old roarer," said he, addressing daddy, "how is dr. dewolf, this morning" the old man straightened himself in his saddle, and preserved a dignified silence. with an oath, the man commanded him to speak, but daddy rode calmly on; his indignation got the better of his cautiousness. "i'll pound you to a jelly," shouted the man after him, "i'll risk it," said daddy addressing the doctor. now daddy was not really a natural coward. but it cannot be denied that old age and extreme cautionsness had greatly moderated the courage which he possessed in his youth. "'tween you and me," he continued, "that hank glutter is the meanest critter that ever trod shoe-leather. i've heern poor mrs. hawley plead with him not to sell prime liquor, and i've heern him order her out of the saloon, and i've follered her hum, to see how she took it. well, it was dreadful to see her goings on. she'd bounce on to the bed and groan there, then she'd bounce up and throw herself on the floor and groan there, and moan and holler right out; o, it seemed 'zif she never would get cool. she'd walk the floor, and wring her hands and take on awful. them was the times when she was young and was full of grit--i've been watching her lately, and she's acted rather different. ye see she was down to the brewery night afore last, i seen her coming hum and i knowed she was dreadful riled about something, so i kept my eyes on her; lord! if she didn't drop, right down on her knees afore her bed, and let off all her feelins in a wonderful strange way. seems 'zif she just talked to the lord. when she riz up, she looked kinder quiet and resigned like, just as she did to-day; sez i to myself, if there's a god in heaven, he's heern that woman. i expected he would send fire down and burn that old brewery that very night, but there it stands and that old cuss, that hollered after me, is alive yet. 'tween you and me, them things is kinder strange, now aint they, doctor?" "rather strange," replied the doctor dryly. after riding a few moments in silence, daddy ventured to make still another attempt to open a conversation. "'tween you and me, doctor, was you acquainted with miss sherman?" "what miss sherman?" said the doctor in surprise. "why, young edward's mother, down in the old bay state. i ain't heern nothin' from the folks down thar since i left. i seed young edward didn't know me, but i've dandled him on my knee many a time, when he was a leetle shaver. 'tween you and me there was a gal working at judge sherman's that i had a liking fur, so sundays, i used to go down thar sparking, i'd kinder like to know if that gal's spliced yet." "what was her name?" "her name was miss orrecta lippincott; they generally called her recta, in the judge's family." "recta is single yet, i saw her just before we left; but why did'nt you marry her?" "'tween you and me, doctor, i was a fool, i've allers felt a kinder hankering after her. i can't get over them fust feelings i had, to this ere day. is she handsome yit, doctor?" "not very." "well, i used to tell her if she got old and grey, it wouldn't make no difference in my feelins," said the old man, rubbing his great, coarse hand across his eyes. "'tain't natur," he began after a moment's pause, "to keep our feelings shet in allers. now, mammy is chuck full of spunk since she's married me, so i aint let on to nobody. ye see, if she got hold on't, she'd never give me a minute's peace." "well, why didn't you marry miss lippincott?" "'tween you and me, doctor, i got it into my head that she liked sam brown. ye see, there was a man told me that he seed him and her kiss, right afore judge sherman's gate. wall, this feller was allers puttin' me up to think that orrecta was flirty like, and i was jest fool enough to believe him, so i jest packed up my duds and cum out west, with dr. dewolf. he'd been teasing me to cum 'long with him fur some time. ye see, i'd allers been his gardener, ever since he was married. miss dewolf that's dead now, she sot heaps by me. 'now, philip,' says she--ye see my real name is philip roarer--'we can't get 'long without you, fur to milk the cow and make the garden'. i could see that her eyes was a leetle watery like, and i knew that she hated to cum off alone, with the doctor, 'cause sometimes when he got a leetle tight, he didn't treat her nun too well. but the doctor got 'long fust rate, when he fust got here; he didn't drink much and he made heaps of money, he and a crony of hisn, named squire tinknor. he lives in st. paul now, and does the doctor's business fur him yet. ye see, squire tinknor can drink a barrel of liquor and not feel it, but the doctor gets crazy enough, on nothing but lager. 'tween you an' me, that old brewery in the holler has played the devil with the doctor. i told hank glutter how it would be, when he fust sot up the saloon in't. sez i, 'mr. glutter, i'd rather you'd chop this ere right hand of mine right off, than to place that are temptation afore dr. dewolf.' sez he, 'what's the harm of a leetle beer?' sez i, 'ain't you goin' to sell nothin' else?' sez he, 'o, i may keep a few liquors jest for variety.' seems zif i should sink when he said that are, but i jest felt zif i couldn't gin up, so i let right into him. it didn't do no kinder good though. sez he, 'if i don't sell it somebody else will, and i might as will make money on it as anybody.' well, the long and short of it is, doctor, he has got rich on't and now, 'tween you and me, he's kinder hanging 'round the honey, but i guess he'll git his walkin' papers afore long; ye see, the honey she's alive, every inch on her." chapter vi. the saloon keeper--comforting reflections--the unwelcome call--diabolical plotting. swearing vengeance on daddy, who had treated him with such unqualified contempt, hank glutter entered his saloon. he was a young man of about thirty years of age, rather below medium height. his form was well developed, his complexion light, and his hair curled in luxuriant ringlets. he was exceedingly vain of his appearance, and, when in good humor, caressed his whiskers incessantly. he was of a respectable family and his education was liberal, and yet he was nothing more than a smooth-tongued, hard-hearted, revengeful villain. he had aspired to little wolf's hand, but, on making some unmistakable advances to that lady, he was promptly repelled. the supreme contempt with which she invariably treated him exasperated him to such a degree, that he conceived the diabolical project of placing her in the power of bloody jim, with whom he had already had some secret dealings. at his suggestion, bloody jim made overtures to prime hawley to assist in the undertaking. prime, being in exceedingly indigent circumstances, could not resist the tempting reward offered. the plan to capture little wolf, and convey her across the river, in her own skiff, to a point, where, having in mind his defeat on a former occasion, he had stationed a guard, was well laid, but miscarried, as we have already seen. bloody jim was but slightly wounded, and he soon recovered sufficiently to seek a place of safety, leaving prime hawley, as he supposed, dead. hank glutter could gather no satisfactory information from the intoxicated set, who that night returned from dr. dewolf's, and, as we have seen, daddy was disinclined to relieve his suspense; therefore, he resolved to go in person to the doctor's, and ascertain, if possible, the precise position of affairs. by way of smoothing his ruffled plumes, he hastily swallowed a stimulating draught, and very soon a more complacent expression settled upon his countenance. approaching a large mirror, he bestowed a momentary attention upon his dress, but lingered lovingly over his glossy ringlets. "miss dewolf was a fool to turn the cold shoulder to me," said he to himself, as he gave the finishing touch to his soft flaxen hair. "i wonder if bloody jim really got her. if he has, wouldn't she be glad to fly to my arms, though." these comforting reflections were entirely dispelled, when a few moments afterwards, he was ushered into the parlor at dr. dewolf's, and in utter astonishment, beheld little wolf on apparently intimate terms with the handsome stranger. she was holding an earnest conversation with edward concerning her father, and did not at first notice the presence of the intruder, who was, by this time, heartily wishing himself behind his bar again. but, contrary to his expectations, the young lady granted him a gracious reception, and introducing him to mr. sherman, almost immediately excused herself to attend upon the invalid. the young men left alone entered into conversation, and, so well did hank glutter conceal his true character, that edward was quite well pleased with his appearance, and at the close of the interview, accepted a polite invitation to accompany hank to his saloon, and when there, was easily persuaded to take a glass of lager beer. the day was hot and the lager of the finest quality, so before he left, he drank several glasses more, and while thus engaged, confided to his entertainer the whole story of his adventure with bloody jim. "but what became of the men who were shot," said hank, burning with impatience to learn the fate of his accomplices. "o, we left the dead to bury their dead, mr. glutter. miss dewolf is confident there is a gang of the ruffians. i intend to make it my business to look after them a little." "so do i," said hank, and as soon as mr. sherman was gone, he proceeded to put his dangerous threat into execution, by calling upon mrs. hawley. "good morning, mrs. hawley," said he in his blandest tone, as she slowly approached the open door, in answer to his gentle tap. "is prime at home?" he was about to enter, but mrs. hawley quietly motioned him back, and herself stepped outside, "mr. hawley is very ill," said she, "and unable to see company." "may i not be allowed to see him a moment?" "no, sir." "just for a moment," he persisted, "i am really anxious to see prime." "no, sir; his life might be the forfeit." "now, really, mrs. hawley--" "mr. glutter," said she, interrupting him, "have you forgotten your conduct to me the last time we met?" and a burning spot came to her cheeks, and scathing words dropped from her lips. "you know too well, sir, that my home is desolate, my heart is broken, and my husband is murdered, all through the influence of your cursed business. i thought i would treat you politely, mr. glutter, but i cannot. god forgive me. leave me; the very sight of you makes me desperate. leave me, i say, if you would not again have the curse of a drunkard's wife fall upon your blackened soul." "what a perfect she-devil you are," said hank, now throwing off all restraint. "i mean to see prime, spite of you." "try it, if you dare," said she, and her eyes flashed and sparkled with a desperate purpose, as she planted herself in the door. just then, dr. goodrich and daddy, on their return trip, were seen approaching. "you'll repent this," said her persecutor with an oath, and immediately withdrew. he went directly to the cove where little wolf's boat was usually moored. it was not there, and he took courage. "bloody jim could not be hurt much," he soliloquized in an undertone, "or he couldn't have taken the boat away. i shall manage that girl yet, and that sherman, too, if he don't take care of himself. they'll be lovers, i see that plainly enough. so much the better; moonlight walks will follow, as a matter of course. now we'll see who will beat in this game." chapter vii. music--the warning--preparations for winter interrupted--the welcome boat. three months had passed, and during that time, dr. dewolf had entirely recovered his health. prime hawley was up and doing, following with renewed vigor his former pursuits; threats and entreaties had wrung from him a half-hearted confession, but, out of pity for his wife, the affair was hushed up, and he was saved from merited punishment. bloody jim had not been seen or heard of, and he alone carried the secret of hank glutter's criminal designs. edward sherman had become an almost daily visitor at dr. dewolf's, and while his friend dr. goodrich was establishing himself in his profession at pendleton, he was gradually gaining a more certain hold, on the affections of little wolf. our heroine was still, to all appearance, the same little bundle of contradictions that she had always been. "there, i'm always sure to do the very thing i say i will not do," she said to herself half pettishly, as she opened her piano with a jerk, and ran her fingers carelessly, over the keys, one fine october day. very soon she was quite absorbed, in practicing a difficult piece of music, which her lover had, heretofore, recommended in vain. "o, miss dewolf, there's a squaw here that wants to see you," said sorrel top, bursting suddenly into the room. "o, she's begging, no doubt. give her what she wants, sorrel top, i'm engaged just now," and little wolf went on with her music. "there, i told you so. i knowed miss dewolf wouldn't have nothing to do with squaws, or injins, nor nothing else that's low," exclaimed sorrel top, loud enough to be heard by her young mistress, who always made it a point to do the very thing it was expected she would not do. the dumpy little copper-colored creature, enveloped in an indian blanket, before whom sorrel top had drawn herself up with a triumphant toss of the head, was just making a second plea, when little wolf made her appearance. "i want to hear music, do tell the lady i want to hear music," she said in very good english. "o, if that's what you want, come this way," said little wolf, leading on to the parlor. the indian followed, pattering along in her soft moccasins, leaving sorrel top quite crest fallen. "now here is where the music comes from," said little wolf, placing her hand upon the instrument, and following her piece of information with a lively air. "now, how do you like that?" "it is very pretty; may i try to make music?" "certainly," said little wolf, vacating her seat with infinite condescention. the maiden drew her blanket more closely around her, and made it fast. her exceedingly small and finely formed hands were now at liberty, and, instead of the discordant notes which her auditor fully expected, a flood of harmonious sounds burst upon her ear. "what does this mean?" exclaimed little wolf in utter astonishment, when the strains had ceased. the performer bent upon her a long searching look, and enquired, "are you miss de wolf?" "i am." the strange visitor immediately rose and approached the door. "there! stop; who are you?" demanded little wolf, vehemently. "hush! i was going to bolt the door," and she deliberately turned the key in the lock. "i'm your friend, young lady, and i'm come to warn you of impending danger." little wolf slightly paled, but she stood firm awaiting further developments. "too much time has been wasted already," she began, "bloody jim is here, at chimney rock, waiting for the first favorable moment to kidnap you, and murder your servants, and set fire to your home. he is now more daring and reckless than ever. three times you have thwarted him, and he still carries the scars he has received at your hands. this is the day, and, for ought i know, the very hour, that he designs to fall upon you. it was to be when your father was helplessly intoxicated, and yourself entirely off your guard. i think he has two or three accomplices living in this place. i love bloody jim, steeped in crime as he is, and i beg of you, if it shall be possible for you to save yourself without taking his life, you will do so. i have now done all i can for you; good bye." "there, you shall not go," exclaimed little wolf, springing towards her, "you must stay and assist me." "i can do nothing more for you, miss de wolf, indeed, i cannot. i have told you all i know. my journey has been exceedingly painful and perilous, and i am completely exhausted. if i am discovered, i must inevitably lose my life. i do not dread death, but if alive, and you should be captured, i might possibly render you some assistance. now you must not detain me." "well, but who are you," persisted little wolf, "that you are able to give me all this information, and yet cannot give me any aid?" "i can, in all probability, aid you more by going than by remaining," said the other hurriedly. "my skin is stained, my clothes are stuffed to give me this fleshy appearance, but you will recognize me if we meet again. my name is antoinette le claire. now i _must_ go. the good lord help you," and she waddled off, in precise imitation of a fat old squaw. "now i must be brave," thought little wolf, pressing her hand on her brow, while she tried to think what plan to pursue. her first thought was for her father's safety, who was, as usual, at the brewery, where he had gone soon after dinner, and as he had not been there long, she hoped he was not, as yet, intoxicated. stepping to the door, she hailed daddy, who was busy storing away some vegetables in the cellar, for winter use. "see here, daddy, i want you to go down to the brewery as quick as you can, and tell father--well, tell him i'm sick, and want to see him right away." "'tween you and me, honey,"-- "o, go, this minute, daddy," and she shut the door in his face, and proceeded to the kitchen, where she found mammy quietly smoking her pipe in the corner. "o, mammy, where is sorrel top?" said she. "sorrel top, why she's picking grapes for that are jelly you wanted made. i'm going to help her when i git rested, and slick up a leetle." "no, mammy, you must help me. bloody jim is around here somewhere, and he's going to try to kill us all and burn the house. i've just sent daddy for father, and you had better call sorrel top. i'll get my pistols, and we'll secure the house." "o, laws a mercy! how did you find it out, honey?" "wait 'till we are safe and i'll tell you." "o, honey, did you tell daddy?" "no." "o, i'm awful glad, he'd be so flustrated you know." "yes, i know; now don't you get flustrated, and let it out quite yet, you had better tell sorrel top, though." sorrel top was duly informed, and they all set to work, and had made what arrangements for their safety they could, when daddy returned. "'tween you and me, honey, the doctor can't come." little wolf knew, by the expression on the old servant's face, why her father could not come, and she went up close to him, and whispered, "is he very bad, daddy?" "o yes, pet, 'tween you and me, he's dead drunk." a shiver ran through the daughter at this intelligence, and she now felt strong suspicions that hank glutter was implicated in her enemy's plot, and the condition of her father indicated that the crisis was near at hand. "well, daddy, cannot you get him some way?" she enquired, after a moment's thought, "can't you get some of the men to help you?" "there ain't nobody there but hank glutter." "well, won't he assist you?" "bless your heart, honey, no--he ordered me off when i was there just now, and said things it wouldn't do for you to hear, no how." "if you should write him a little billet and ask him, may be he would," suggested mammy. the note was speedily dispatched, and ran thus:-- "will mr. glutter do miss dewolf the favor to assist the bearer, in bringing her father home." "now, honey, 'tween you and me," said daddy, who soon after returned in high displeasure, "that hank glutter can lie as fast as a hoss can trot. he turned red clar up to his har, when he read your billet, and sez he to me, 'go tell miss dewolf that i've sprained my right arm, and can't lift a pound.'" "the lord be praised, there's a steamer coming," exclaimed little wolf. all eyes were instantly turned in the direction of the river, and several miles away, the smoke bursting from the tall pipes of a steamboat, and curling towards the clouds, was distinctly visible. "now, daddy, you must take that boat and carry a letter to--to mr. sherman, and we'll see if we can't outwit mr. glutter." "o, but, honey, 'tween you and me, them 'taters and things must be got in. what if we should have a frost to-night, and spile 'em. hank will send the doctor home when it's time to lock up, and it don't make much difference whether he's here or there." "yes, it does, daddy, and i'm bound to have father home, now i've set out, so you run to the landing, and give the signal." "hurry him up, mammy," she whispered to her housekeeper, and immediately went to her writing desk. "laws, how can i leave them are taters, mammy?" he said, appealing to his better-half. "laws, you can git back in time to kiver 'em up; you'll better let 'em spile and keep on the right side of the pet. likely she's got something _particular_ she wants to say to mr. sherman; girls is up to sich things. there, now, you'd better leave, that are boat is heaving in sight." chimney rock was one of those insignificant points, on the upper mississippi, where steamers seldom had occasion to land, and it became necessary to hoist a signal, when any of the inhabitants wished to take passage on a boat from that place. daddy vigorously waved his red flag to and fro, and the result was, in ten minutes, he had embarked on board the steamer "golden era," with little wolf's communication stowed safely away in his pocket. chapter viii. the love-letter--discussion--a quick ride--too late--violence and death. dr. goodrich's cosey office, situated on the corner of second and centre streets, in the village of pendleton, was a convenient lounging place for edward sherman, and it so happened that on the very day that little wolf had dispatched her messenger, he had repaired thither to read his newspapers and letters, smoke cigars, and indulge in the comfort which a confidential chat with a friend, generally affords to a companionable mind. "see here, doctor," said he, depositing the bundle of mail matter on the office table, and seating himself in an arm-chair beside it. "anything for me?" said the doctor, who was busy arranging some papers. "a letter from _her_," said edward, with slow, droll emphasis. "really, ned, that is decidedly cool. how long do you propose to make me wait for it?" "help yourself, doctor. it's there among the papers," said edward, lighting a cigar. occasionally, edward glanced over the top of his newspaper to observe the animated countenance of his friend, as he perused the lines traced by the hand of love. having thus marked his progress to the end, he enquired, "now, doctor, what says my little sister?" "she says, ned, 'this is now the middle of autumn.'" "o, is that _all_?" "well, the next in order is,'and mother is expecting edward home soon.'" "that is just what i have been expecting to hear for a week past, doctor. you know i have made my success with miss de wolf the condition on which i should be induced to locate here. well, i'm pretty sure of her, and i have at length determined to hang out my shingle, and go to work. i can see no way but to persuade mother and louise to come out here and live with us." "then, you are really engaged to miss de wolf, ned?" "why, no, not exactly. i doubt whether we shall ever, really, be formally engaged. i wouldn't be surprised if she told me, an hour before our marriage, that she didn't intend to take me; but then, i know she will. poor old daddy has frequently volunteered the information that the pet will never marry a man, who has been guilty of drinking a glass of lager beer. he says she is bitterly opposed to anything that will _'toxicate_, but i suspect the experience she has had with her father has put those ultra notions into her head." "no wonder, ned; the fact that there are hundreds of such cases as dr. de wolf's has influenced my opinion on the subject to a greater extent, perhaps, than any other, and really, i'm glad miss de wolf favors total abstinence; i hope she will convert you." "never, my friend. i shall always adhere to the principle that a man is capable of controlling his appetite, within the bounds of reason. let a man but _will_ to drink moderately, and he can." "but, ned, a person seldom _wills_ to drink moderately, but ends by _willing_ to drink immoderately. now in such cases what becomes of your theory?" "the fact is, doctor, you and i have so often discussed the subject, that i believe there is nothing new left to be said, on either side. i wish hank glutter was here, and he would show you in five minutes, why we should not deprive ourselves of the gifts of providence, simply because others have abused them." "i pity a drunkard, ned," said the doctor, very quietly, "but i despise a drunkard-maker, and the less conversation i have with one of that class, the better." the color quickly mounted to edward's face, but a loud knock at the door suspended his reply. "come in," said the doctor, and in stalked daddy. "'tween you and me, mr. sherman," said he, approaching edward, "the honey has sent you a letter; here it is." edward received the letter with a mixture of surprise and pleasure, which he could not conceal. unfolding it with nervous haste, he ran his eye over the few brief lines. "good heavens!" he exclaimed, starting to his feet, "bloody jim is at chimney rock again." daddy sprang forward, with dilated eyes and open mouth, and fastened his grip upon edward, who comprehended in an instant why the old man had not been apprized of the nature of his errand, and he resolved on returning him to his former state of blissful ignorance. "let me see; have i made a mistake?" said he, again looking over the letter, "bloody jim is not at chimney-rock, after all." "'tween you and me, what made you think he was?" said daddy, whose panic began to subside. "o, i saw his name, and took it for granted he was there. i did not quite make out what was said." "the billet was writ in a hurry, mr. sherman; you must excuse it. the honey is the most distinctest writer i knows on. she got a wonderful edication down thar, in new york; 'tween-- "miss dewolf wants me to go to chimney rock immediately," said edward, arresting the words on the lips of his garrulous visitor. "sartain, i know'd it." "the doctor will go with us, and i want you to go to frink's stable and order the horses; we will be ready by the time you come round." "i'll dew it." "now in the name of wonder, what does all this mean?" exclaimed the doctor, as daddy slammed the door behind him. edward handed him little wolf's letter, which merely stated that bloody jim was at chimney rock, and she was momentarily expecting violence at his hands. no time was lost in vain conjectures; a constable was engaged, and the friends had already buckled on their armor, which consisted of pistols and bowie knives, when daddy returned with their horses. they were fleet-footed animals, and he was himself well mounted. not long were the horsemen in reaching the well-known "pass," and as they emerged from the trees, and approached the house, no indication of the threatened hostilities appeared. but still they dashed along over the fallen leaves and faded turf, and drew up in front of dr. de wolf's. all was quiet about the old brown house. they dismounted and approached the door, daddy leading the way, with the air of a conqueror. he saw in imagination his young mistress triumphing over the discomfited hank glutter, and he greatly gloried in the anticipated conquest. his companions were secretly uneasy at the unusual stillness which reigned around, and when he attempted to open the front door, and it resisted his efforts, edward anxiously stepped forward and knocked loudly and hurriedly. "never mind," said the old man complacently, "i guess them women folks have gone out. i'll just step around the back way, and let you in." the gentlemen followed him without ceremony into the kitchen, and the first object that met their horrified sight, was mammy, stretched lifeless on the floor. it would be impossible to describe the grief and terror which took possession of daddy, or the agony of doubt which sent edward like a madman through the house. as he flung open the door of a spacious sleeping apartment on the second floor, clouds of smoke and flame drove him back. a pile of light bedding and other inflammable articles had been set on fire near the centre of the room, but the fire had not, as yet, communicated itself to the building, and edward, finding water near by, soon succeeded in extinguishing the flames. while he was thus engaged, sorrel top emerged from an adjoining chamber, trembling so as to be scarcely able to stand. "where is miss de wolf?" exclaimed edward. "o, they've carried her off; oh! oh! oh!"--and a long shudder shook her frame. "sorrel top," said edward, assuming calmness in order to allay her fears, "there is no immediate danger, and i want you to tell me as distinctly as you can, all that has occurred." "o, mr. sherman, bloody jim has been here. i expect it was he, and we were watching for him, too, but we didn't any of us see him come. i was watching on the east side of the house, and mammy was watching in the kitchen, and i could see miss de wolf through the long hall, standing right by that window there, looking out, and bloody jim came up behind her sly, and catched her before she saw him at all. she screeched out, and tried to get away, but he held her tight, and hollered, 'come on, boys.' and two men run right in, and they tied her hands, and stopped her mouth, and just strapped a big blanket around her, and carried her off, and i ran and hid, for i thought they'd kill me if they saw me." "how long since they were here?" said edward, eagerly. "o, it's only a little while, and may be you can ketch 'em," said sorrel top, brightening up a little. sorrel top's reply infused a bright ray of hope into edward's highly wrought feelings, and, accompanied by his friends, he immediately started in pursuit. just outside the house they met mrs. hawley, who informed them, that sometime before she had seen three men going towards the brewery. to the brewery they quickly went. the wily proprietor denied having seen the fugitives, and feigned excessive emotion when informed of their inhuman deeds. "in what direction would you advise us to search, mr. glutter?" said edward. "o, you had better strike off among the bluffs. they could hardly take the river by daylight without being discovered. probably they will reach some point above here after dark, and cross to the other side under cover of night. i will dispatch a messenger to pendleton for aid. my men, unfortunately, are gone after grain, and i am uncertain when they will return. dr. dewolf, i am sorry to say, is perfectly helpless to-day. while i was out a few minutes he helped himself too freely." hank glutter faithfully performed his promises. the same evening officers of justice were sent out from pendleton, and a party of young men volunteered their services, and like edward and the doctor, travelled many miles. but all in vain, bloody jim had escaped with his prize. chapter ix. bloody jim's advantages--the fainting captive--the tragic quarrel--outwitted at last--the refuge. his intimate acquaintance with the wild region of country, over which he directed his course, gave bloody jim an immense advantage over his pursuers. while they were floundering in treacherous sloughs, or climbing unknown heights, he was riding safely and swiftly along in company with his prisoner and the two villians, whom sorrel top described as having assisted in kidnapping her mistress. little wolf was so narrowly watched by the trio that escape seemed impossible. as each hour bore her farther from civilization, and nearer to the red river country, her heart sank within her. she was compelled to pursue her journey a large portion of each night, and when her captors stopped for rest and refreshment, she was either lashed to a tree, or bound, so as to be unable to rest with the slightest ease or comfort. under such rigorous treatment her strength rapidly declined, and, at the close of the third day, entirely failed. they had reached the foot of a beautiful wooded bluff at a bend in the mississippi, where the town of st. cloud has since been located. here they were suddenly brought to a stand; the poor jaded captive had fainted. bloody jim saw her reeling in her saddle and instantly threw his brawny arm around her frail form. dismounting, and laying his unconscious burden on a bed of dry leaves, which the wind had gathered under a huge oak, he produced from his knapsack a bottle of brandy, and proceeded to wet her face, and force a few drops into her mouth. at the sight of the long-concealed bottle, his men chuckled with delight, and as soon as little wolf exhibited signs of returning life, they requested a "treat." bloody jim, now deeming himself beyond pursuit for one night at least, acceded to their wishes, and also himself indulged in his favorite beverage. little wolf gathered from their conversation and movements that they designed to camp for the night at their present station, and their occasional rude allusions to herself filled her with terror. she struggled to throw off the oppressive faintness which she felt a second time stealing upon her, but, when she saw bloody jim approaching her, the horrors of her situation completely overcame her, and she again swooned. "ugh!" grunted the disappointed savage, giving her inanimate form a rude kick. "she wake before morning," suggested one of his comrades encouragingly, as he passed him the precious bottle. bloody jim took it, put it to his lips, drained it dry, and handed it back. this was too much for his already half drunk consoler; he angrily flung the empty bottle into bloody jim's face, and in retaliation received in a twinkling his death stab. half breed no. observed the transaction with evident satisfaction. he applauded the murderer and cajoled him into furnishing from, the bowels of his knapsack a fresh supply of the poisonous liquor. after gratifying their rum appetite to the full, the athletic men gradually became as helpless as infants, and, sinking on the ground as the darkness gathered around them, they fell into heavy sleep. in about an hour little wolf partially recovered, but, supposing herself to be closely guarded, and still suffering from extreme lassitude, she closed her eyes, and gradually fell into profound slumber. the hours glided on. the waning moon looked sadly in through the branches of the old oaks upon the sleepers. there lay the murdered man with his upturned, ghastly face; scattered near him were the fragments of the broken bottle. yet a little further on were the prostrate forms of his guilty fellows, and still beyond reclined the innocent one. there was a rustling among the leaves and light footsteps drew near, and antoinette le clare gazed upon the scene. she was still habited in her indian costume. softly approaching little wolf she as softly awoke her. little wolf looked up wildly into the dark face that bent over her and recognized it in a moment. antoinette silently assisted her to rise, undid her fetters, and taking her hand, noiselessly led her from the spot. the staggering gait of her companion disclosed to antoinette her extreme weakness hoping to revive her drooping energies she whispered "courage a little longer, miss de wolf, and you are safe." "i've courage enough to put an end to them," said little wolf, with a momentary flash of her wonted spirit, "but i'm so dizzy." "well, rest here while i bring my pony." "no, i'll go with you," and by an act of the will little wolf forced herself along until they reached the shaggy little indian pony on the glade. this they both mounted, little wolf still struggling bravely with her increasing illness. but it was all in vain; a violent fever was seizing upon her. she was alternately distressed with hot flashes and cold chills, and worse still, her mind began to wander. antoinette was in deep distress. her plan to fly for protection to the nearest settlement was completely frustrated. it was too far; she could not hope to reach it in safety. but, thinking she might possibly discover a place of refuge in some other direction, she turned her horse and dashed off she knew not whither. having rode on for several miles over prairie and oak openings, determining to put all possible distance between herself and bloody jim, a most welcome sight met her view. it was a log cabin standing on an eminence, comfortable in appearance and snugly embosomed in a grove of trees. as there was no enclosure around it, she rode close to the door, and, without dismounting; knocked loudly with her riding whip. an echo was her only reply. the same results followed repeated attempts to obtain a hearing, and she came to the conclusion that the house was either unoccupied, or the inmates were insensible to noise. the former proved to be the case, and what was more unpleasant, the door was firmly fastened. letting the invalid--whom she had supported partly by her arm and partly by fastening her blanket around both--slide softly to the ground, antoinette dismounted and effected an entrance through a small window. there was but one room in the dwelling, and this was scantily furnished. a bed, a cook-stove, a flour barrel and a chest occupied each a corner. on a couple of hooks that were fastened to a beam overhead rested a rifle, and from a peg at the side was suspended a violin. a hat, an old pair of boots, pushed partly under the bed, and several other articles of men's wearing apparel lying about the room, proclaimed the abode of a single man. the door was secured within by a wooden bar, which antoinette speedily removed, and, by extraordinary exertions on the part of her friend, little wolf was removed to a comfortable couch in the cabin. chapter x. the kidnapper's surprise--on the wrong track--bloody jim's capture--the power of habit--dispair--the rotten plank. it was late on the following morning when bloody jim awoke. he rubbed his eyes and scratched his head with a vacant stare, for he did not at first remember where he was. when the objects by which he was surrounded had sufficiently refreshed his memory he began to look about for his prisoner and, behold, she was nowhere to be seen. he ground his teeth with rage. "ketchum," he said, giving his still snoring companion a tremendous shake, "wake up, that d----d gal is gone." "gone!" exclaimed ketchum, starting up and beating around among the bushes, "she aint gone far i reckon." "she has too," said bloody jim, following his exclamation with an oath. "how do you know, jim?" "that horse she's taken, ketchum, will travel like lightning." now it so happened that the animal alluded to had broken loose during the night, and, as bloody jim had appropriated his services without consulting his master, who was an honest farmer living in the vicinity of st. paul, the sagacious beast deliberately set out to return to his former comfortable quarters. the natural conclusion of the villains was that little wolf had fled on their missing horse, and so when they had succeeded in finding his track they followed it. mile after mile of their former route was retraced. hour after hour they plodded on, scarcely stopping to give their beasts necessary rest until the night overtook them, and then were only delayed for a short time. they rose with the moon, and, in a few hours actually came in sight of the deserter. he was drinking at the river's brink within sound of the roar of st. anthony's falls. perceiving his pursuers approaching, the noble beast threw up his head, gave a loud snort and darted off. bloody jim gave an impatient grunt, but ketchum clapped his hands with delight. "golly: the gal must be near here," said he. "no, me think she got to the tavern on yonder hill. we must find a hiding place, ketchum, and me have the gal yet, or the constable have me." bloody jim little thought when he made his boast that he would be in the power of the constable before night, but so it was. the riderless horse having been seen at st. anthony's, suspicions were aroused, a search was instituted, and the result was the capture of the imprudent and high-handed outlaw. to all questions put to him concerning little wolf, he had but one answer, "me not know." threats and bribes elicited nothing more and it was generally supposed that he had murdered her. but as the whole affair was shrouded in mystery, there was some few inclined to the opinion, that she was secreted in some place, from which the protracted absence of bloody jim would give her an opportunity to escape. among the last named was dr. goodrich and edward sherman. the doctor was not at the examination of the prisoner, and edward hastened to inform him of the result. he was at his old haunt, and, as usual, under the influence of stimulus when edward entered. "no satisfactory information could be obtained from the old scoundrel," said he, throwing himself upon a lounge. the events of the past few days had worn upon him, and his anxious look did not escape hank glutter, who turned away to conceal his exultation. "poor fellow, he too mourns for her," thought edward, mistaking his movement for one of grief. after a moment's silence, hank poured out something from the bar. "drink this, sherman," said he, passing it to edward, "i see you are tired; it will strengthen you." since edward's entrance, dr. dewolf had sat gazing at him fixedly. the bleared, dull light of his eyes gave place to a keen, wild expression as edward accepted the proffered glass. "mr. sherman," said he, in an unusually strong voice, "do you see what is in that cup?" "why, yes, doctor; it is wine." "yes, surely it is wine," replied the other "and your inexperienced eye sees nothing more than a harmless beverage; neither did this bleared and bloated old man see more than that in his wine years ago. ah! could he have seen in his youth the vision in his cup which he now sees in that which you now hold to your lips, he might have been saved from a life of disgrace and ruin. the chain which once bound me was as light as that which now binds you." "no chain binds _me_," said edward proudly. "i need not drink this unless i choose." "it seems but yesterday, edward sherman since i addressed similar language to your father, and well do i remember his arguments to induce me to abandon every beverage that could intoxicate. i recollect how i loathed the drunkard, as you do me, and how my proud heart rebelled at the humiliating thought that habit would ever become too strong to be controlled by my will; but boastings were vain; the time will shortly come when i shall sink into a drunkard's hell--and you, poor hank, will be there too," he continued, turning to hank glutter, "you will be sent down to wait upon your customers. you must stand behind your flaming bar and pour out the liquid fire and brimstone for such as i; but, never mind, the traffic will enrich you with showers of molten gold. no drop from god's pure fountain to cool your parched tongue. one long eternal blaze shall light up your saloon. drunken devils reeling to and fro--oh! i see them now"--and the doctor gave, a fearful shriek and fell upon the floor. he raved frightfully for hours, but in an interval of calmness was removed to his desolate home. the loss of his wife had entirely unfitted daddy for active service, and sorrel top, on account of her youth and inexperience, was an inefficient nurse: consequently mrs. hawley's services were engaged. edward also bestowed every attention in his power, but the delirium tremens had fixed upon his aged friend and his horrid imaginings continued for days. it was impossible for edward, who was the soul of humanity, to witness unmoved the doctor's terrible agony, and, at such seasons, he would invariably resolve that he would put forth an effort to reclaim him. "i will reason with him and show him the folly of his course," said he to himself. when the invalid was able to bear conversation, edward approached him on the subject as delicately as possible. "dr.," said he, "i am young to advise one like you, but if you would permit me, i think i could prescribe a remedy for your disease, and one that would ensure you a hale, hearty old age." "i know what you would say, edward," replied the dr., rising upon his elbow, "but i cannot do it. i cannot let drink alone. i must drink if it kills me. times without number i have forsworn it, and i will never add another broken vow to my perjured soul. if you would be useful in the cause of temperance, edward, if you would save such as i, and, what is more important, if you would save the young, then use all your influence to stop the liquor traffic." "oh, i'm not at all ultra," said edward, somewhat embarrassed, "i have never given the subject which you mention much thought." "then it is high time you should," said the dr., warming up with a look of lofty enthusiasm, "i am sober now, edward, and i may never be in my right mind again. i _must_ drink to-day, i know i can get it, and i will have it; i suppose you would say, 'if he will go to the devil, let him go;' but i say, if there was no drink to be had, if it were not sold here, if it were not sold elsewhere, i could not get it, and i should be saved. a law prohibiting the sale of intoxicating drinks is what is most needed. i know these sentiments coming from one like me sound strangely, but, edward, such a law enforced in my native state would have saved me, and i know it. such a law now enforced in all our states would restore many a besotted husband to a broken-hearted wife; many a lost son to a widowed mother, many a darling brother to a distressed and mortified sister. it would bring light and gladness to thousands of sorrowful hearts and homes; it would feed the hungry, clothe the naked. less blood would cry aloud to heaven for vengeance, and less crime of every description would be committed. this lovely territory will soon become a state; here you will rise to eminence in your profession. i know it will be so. you possess your father's talents, and you also possess his high social qualities, which, at one time, brought him to the verge of ruin. judge sherman did not at first love drink, but he often drank to please his friends. his associates tarried at the wine, and he would be one with them. the secret, edward, of the fall of nine-tenths of our young men is social drinking; now, moral suasion has saved many, and no doubt will save many more. but would you give the serpent his death wound, then bring the arm of the law down upon him and it is done." "the prohibitory liquor law of maine has been said to have worked wonders," said edward rather faintly, "but it is thought to be unconstitutional, by many of our best lawyers." "undoubtedly it has been so declared," said the dr., "but i would be sorry to believe the opinion correct; would not you, edward?" the dr. fixed his piercing eyes upon edward, for he began to suspect that his young friend's views did not coincide with those which he had expressed. edward moved uneasily in his chair, bit his lips, and finally stammered out, "well, i don't know dr., really, it seems like depriving a man of his liberty to legislate upon what he shall, or shall not sell." "even if he sells that which he knows will craze his neighbor's brain, and cause him to commit the most atrocious crimes? when an individual directly, or indirectly aids and abets crime, ought he to escape punishment?" edward saw that he stood upon a plank of the rotten old platform, upon which so many have broken through, though they still hold to the decaying posts, and he ingeniously evaded the question. "i'm afraid, dr., you are over-exerting yourself," said he, "i will leave you to rest while i walk out and breathe the fresh air." chapter xi. harmless conspiracy--the ghost--the wife murderer--tippling and tattling--misrepresentations. "mr. glutter, dr. dewolf wants you to fill this flask with brandy," said sorrel top entering the saloon of the former, about an hour after edward had left the latter to repose. "certainly," said hank, with a bland smile. "allow me to speak with you a moment, mr. glutter," said edward sherman, hastily leaving his seat near a billiard table, where he was watching the progress of a game, and taking hank aside. they whispered earnestly together for a few moments. "very well," said hank in conclusion, "i am willing to try that experiment if you wish it, but the dr. is very stubborn, i have often tried to check him." then turning to sorrel top, "tell the dr. i have no brandy." "has no brandy?" exclaimed the dr. as sorrel top delivered her message; "it's a lie. o, i see how it is; mr. sherman was there, was he not?" "yes, sir." here the subject dropped, and the dr. was unusually quiet and patient during the remainder of the day. but when edward kindly offered to sit by him during the night, he would not listen to him. "no, no," said he "i am quite well; the parade of watchers would only disturb my rest," so edward contented himself to retire about midnight. the dr. lay perfectly quiet for an hour or two after edward left him; he then crept softly out of bed, partially dressed himself, noiselessly out of bed, partially dressed himself, and then wrapping a sheet around him, crept out of the house, by a window which opened from the room to the piazza. gliding down the steps and along the well-worn path he soon reached the brewery, and, as he was familiar with every part of the establishment, found no difficulty in gaining access to the saloon. the proprietor was lying fast asleep in a room from which he could see and be seen by any one behind the bar. at the first click of the bottles he partially aroused and opened his eyes upon his ghost-like visitor. enveloped in white, and seen in the obscure light, the dr.'s. most familiar friends could not possibly have recognized him, and to hank's half awakened vision, he presented a really supernatural appearance. hank was not naturally superstitious, and, obeying his first impulse, he shouted out, "who in the d----l are you?" the dr. made a warning gesture with his hand, as if to compel silence, and the audacious questioner instinctively recoiled further back in his bed. his courage began to fail him, and a mixture of fear and astonishment kept him silent while his visitor remained, which was only long enough to secure the prize he was seeking among the contents of the shelves. not suspecting the full extent of the paralyzing effect his presence had had upon hank, and fearing he might attempt to follow, the dr. took a circuitous route home, and in his haste stumbled over something which he discovered to be a shivering, half naked child, crouched upon the ground. "what are you doing out here this time of night, my little fellow?" said he. "i'm afraid of papa," sobbed the child, "he said he'd skin me alive if i didn't get out of his sight." "what is your name? where do you live? what bad thing have you been doing?" said the dr., all in a breath. "i live in a shanty out there, i am fanny green. i ain't done anything bad but cry, and i couldn't help it, for papa was striking mamma so." "well, come with me, fanny, i'll take you to your home, and i won't let your papa hurt you." "are you an angel?" said fanny, feeling of the hand that held hers. "no, i'm a man, my little girl." "i thought you were one of those angels dressed in white that mamma told me about; they take folks to heaven, and i want to go there, i don't want to go home." they had now reached the wretched hovel that the child called her home, and she began to weep afresh. "o, no, no! i dare not go in," she said, clinging convulsively to her protector, "i'm afraid he will kill me." while she was speaking, the door was roughly flung open, and her unnatural parent rushed out, brandishing a heavy club; but, at sight of the figure clad in white, he dropped his bludgeon and ran off, howling like a wild beast deprived of its prey. with a glad cry the child bounded into the shanty, and he heard her childish voice saying "mamma, don't be afraid any more, papa has gone way off." on reaching his room, the dr. was relieved to find that his absence had remained undiscovered, and he drank himself off to sleep. he was, however, suddenly awakened quite early in the morning by loud exclamations coming from daddy, and, in the intervals, he distinguished the sound of the same childlike voice which was associated with his night's adventure. immediately calling his old servant, he inquired the meaning of the commotion. "'tween you and me," said daddy indignantly, "there's more distruction; little fanny green's mother is dead; that brute of a husband has fairly killed her; knocked her skull in with a club." "when did it happen?" "o, in the night; fanny had run out door for to get out of his reach, and 'tween you and me, she says a man with a white dress on led her back, and she found her mother dead on the floor. o! we're havin' on't dreadful now days; spirits walking the airth, never no good comes of sich things." the murder and the reputed ghost, whom several of the inhabitants testified to having seen at the midnight hour, was the absorbing topic of conversation in the immediate neighborhood where the tragedy was enacted. for several days succeeding the affair hank glutter's saloon was the general rendezvous of the wonder-loving country people round about. all appeared to enjoy the tippling vastly more than hank himself. it was not the thought of the needy wife sighing for the hard earned shilling, with which to provide for the many little forms that must go half clad, and the little feet uncovered during the approaching winter, for want of those bits of metal ringing out so sadly as they fell into his drawer, that clouded his unusually complacent smile; neither was it the remembrance of the cruel part he had acted in little wolf's abduction that shook his sin-stained soul. he affected to discredit the appearance of the much-talked-of apparition, and yet he was continually tormented with a vague dread of a second visit from his ghost-ship, which he would have pursuaded himself was entirely a creature of the imagination, had not his missing fourth proof brandy bottle proved the contrary. he had resolved not to mention the occurrence that had so strangely disturbed him, but, being one day alone with edward, who had called particularly to make one of a company who were going out the day following to renew the search for little wolf, he ventured to communicate his secret to him. "why, mr. glutter, why didn't you tell me before?" said edward smiling in spite of the sad errand that had brought him there, "all this time you have needlessly tormented yourself." "how so, mr. sherman?" "why, dr. dewolf swallows a portion of that fourth proof every day. i have no doubt it was he who paid you the visit. i am certain that he knows something about the murder of mrs. green, and he must have been the man in white that little fanny talks about. i see it all clearly now; dr. dewolf is the ghost, and he has kept his bed to prevent suspicion." "i was confident," said hank with a look of infinite relief, "that the dr. would have his dram, spite of our machinations. i have known several such cases of apparently insatiable thirst, and it was impossible to keep liquor away from them. sorrel top's husband, harry herrick, was the worst case of the kind that ever came under my observation. he drank quite moderately at first, but suddenly appeared to have lost all control over his appetite. i reasoned with him in vain, and finally, out of pity to his family i refused him admission here altogether. well, the result was he stole from my cellar what he could not beg; for the miserable creature was penniless, and before i was aware of it, he actually drank himself to death. it happened while miss dewolf was away at school, and on her return my conduct was basely misrepresented to her, and she espoused the widow's cause and took her into her family, and ever after has treated me with contempt. however, i harbor no ill will towards miss dewolf. i would gladly make one of your party, were it not entirely impossible for me to leave here; but believe me, i wish you success, mr. sherman." chapter xii. the cottage in the grove--the disguise--back to health--impatience--searching the box--antoinette la clair's story. very sad and dreary seemed the hours to antoinette la clair, as she watched by little wolf's bed side. while her loving hand bathed the burning brow, and her soft musical voice soothed the wild ravings of the invalid, she thought much upon the strange loneliness of their situation. day after day passed by, and no living soul approached the cottage. she often wondered why it's owner came not, and it was a mystery to her, why bloody jim had not discovered their retreat. from the first, she had taken the precaution whenever she appeared outside to disguise herself in the various articles of clothing, which she found strewn about the house, and, as she went to procure water from the spring, which was at some distance from the house, she would assume the air and gait of a logy country boy. her sun-burnt straw hat with its crown piece flapping about in the wind; great coarse boots slipping hither and thither on her little feet and her other generally loose fitting attire would, but for her absorbing anxiety, have excited rather more than a smile on her usually melancholly countenance. it was well that the fact of having remained unmolested for nearly three weeks did not lesson her vigilance on one eventful occasion. it was about sun rise; as she was toiling up the eminence with a heavy bucket of water, which an occasional mis-step would send splashing over her great awkward boots, she saw a man approaching the spring. it was ketchum; and, as she recognized him, her breath came quicker and she hurried onward and upward. she had nearly reached the top of the hill when she heard him calling out, "hello there, boy!" she turned round, sat down her bucket and stood in a listening attitude. "i say boy, who lives yonder?" "i du," she replied in exact imitation of backwoodsman twang, and, taking a step or two downward, she stooped forward and appeared to be attentively eyeing her new acquaintance. "be you the man they're looking fur?" she at length drawled out. "who's looking fur?" said he with a start. "them men at our house." "no, you fool of a boy." the last she saw of ketchum he was hurrying off with all his might. antoinette fairly ran into the house and closing and barring the door she fell upon her knees, and, from her full heart went up to heaven a song of thankfulness. blessings multiply when gratitude reigns in the soul; so while antoinette still knelt a change came over little wolf and consciousness returned. "where am i?" she faintly articulated, as her watchful and tender nurse arose and approached the bed. "you are safe, thank god," said antoinette bursting into tears. antoinette now felt new courage, and, when little wolf was able to bear it, she related to her that part of their flight of which the illness of the other prevented her having any recollection; but carefully avoided any allusion to her own personal history. little wolf longed to penetrate the mystery that hung over her benefactress, and she would often say to herself, as she sat propped up with pillows watching antoinette's quiet movements about the house, "how i wish i knew more about her; what a romance!" but as her strength increased, other desires shared her thoughts more largely. "how are we to get out of this place?" she frequently exclaimed, and, as often, antoinette would meekly reply, "the lord will provide a way." "well why don't the lord provide a way to get us away from here?" she said one day rather impatiently as she sat by the window looking out into the sunshine, "i'm sure i'm well enough to travel now, and winter is coming on and, when once the snow falls, we shall freeze and starve shut up here." "we shall hardly freeze with that big wood pile at the door, or starve with a cellar full of vegetables," said antoinette pleasantly. "o antoinette, i'm sure your faith hangs on the cellar and woodpile; but, dear me, i've seen neither; i must peep into the cellar right away." "let me lift the door for you miss dewolf." a light trap door led to the vegetable kingdom underneath. one glance at the potatoes, cabbages and onions, which were only a part of the products of the garden, piled up in this ten by twelve hole in the ground was enough, as little wolf declared, to strengthen the weakest faith. "now, if we only had wings, we might mount to that nice dried venison in the garret," she said, glancing upward through a square opening cut in the rough boards overhead. "i wonder how they managed to hang it so high; i do believe the place has been inhabited by a giant. now where shall we hide when we see him coming? o, i'll get into that huge chest, we little folks might both hide there. i wonder i hadn't thought of it before. why i'm just beginning to feel like myself; i see how it is, i've been petted and babied too long. please help me lift this heavy lid. o, its locked--o here's the key sticking just in this niche, o--what a sight!" here indeed our heroine had penetrated into the mysteries of a heterogeneous mass. cooking utensils, carpenters' tools, crockery, salt, pepper, and various other condiments used in the culinary department were huddled together in one end, while the remainder of the space was appropriated to books and clothing, and a bachelor's work box, which, for all the order it boasted, might have belonged to the indulgent mother of ten children. antoinette watched her friend with an amused expression of countenance, as she flew from one article to another really delighted to find some amusement, however simple, to while away the tedious hours. "o, john hanford is our landlord's name. here it is on the fly leaf of this book, and here is a book purporting to be the property of antoinette la clare. why antoinette, i thought the honor of discovering the contents of this box belonged to me; but really i see you have been here before me." "no, miss dewolf, i never saw the inside of the box before, i thought there was no key." "is it possible? why what does it mean? here is surely an old bible with your name written in it in full, 'antoinette la clare,' now here it is, you can see for yourself. antoinette eagerly took the book, and, having examined the name, proceeded to look it carefully through. it was a pocket bible of the english version in old fashioned binding, and bore marks of long and frequent use. little wolf watched antoinette's varying countenance as she turned over the leaves. a ray of pleasure, at first, lighted up her sad, wistful face, but slowly faded leaving her apparently more wan and sad than ever, as she returned the volume in silence. a vague suspicion of evil crept into little wolf's mind. how came antoinette's name in the book and why was she so silent, and why had she appeared so satisfied to remain where they were, if she knew no more about their present abode than she had professed, were a few of the many questions, which awakened distrust, suggested to her busy brain. the chest had lost its interest and down came the cover with a bang, sadly startling poor antoinette, who had walked to the window to hide her fast falling tears. little wolf saw the tears and antoinette felt that she had seen them, and the way was made easy for her to say, "o, miss dewolf, i'm a child of sorrow. i am sometimes almost overwhelmed with sorrow. come, let us sit down together, and i will try to tell you why it is. it seems but a few days since i gaily roamed about my childhood's home, hand in hand with brother jim, or bloody jim, as he is called." "bloody jim your brother! it cannot be so!" interrupted little wolf in amazement, "i thought he was a half breed." "so he is a half breed; and he is also my half brother; my father was of french descent and, when a young man, he went to the red river country and engaged in trapping, and trading with the indians. for several years he made his home principally among the chippewas, and, like many others of his class, married an indian women; brother jim was the fruit of this marriage. his mother was accidentally drowned when he was quite an infant; soon afterwards my father returned to canada, leaving his little son in charge of his indian grandmother. while there he became acquainted with my mother, whom he made his wife with the understanding that she should accompany him to his wild home and be a mother to his motherless child. perhaps it may be a mystery to you, miss dewolf, that a young and cultivated woman could have been so readily induced to expose herself to the hardships and dangers of frontier life." "o, no!" broke in little wolf, enthusiastically, "not if she did it for love." "what do you know about love, miss dewolf?" a conscious blush overspread the pale young face, for antoinette accompanied the question with a wistful enquiring look, that seemed to reach to her very heart. "o nothing, my very good, penetrating friend; please go on with your story. was your mother happy?" she asked with a kind of nervous haste, as if to compel an immediate compliance with her request. "i can not say," said antoinette very obligingly relieving the embarrassment she had occasioned, "i should think she must have been happy, though, for i believe her short life was a very useful one. she died at my birth having been a wife but one year. during that time, she had by many acts of kindness greatly endeared herself to the savages, and the young indian woman, who had assisted her in nursing brother jim, for the love she bore my mother, reared her little daughter with unusually tender care. my father survived her loss but a few weeks, and then brother jim and myself were thrown entirely upon the care of our kind nurse. my mother had taught her to read and she in turn imparted such instruction to us as she had received, or rather i should say her pains were mostly bestowed upon me, for i was her pet. brother jim grew up like the savages around him, only, if possible, more vindictive and revengeful in his nature. i was the only being for whom he seemed to entertain the least affection, and he certainly lavished upon me wonderful tenderness and love. in his early youth he gathered for me the rarest flowers, and, as he grew older, he brought me game and the choicest fruits, and seemed never so happy as when promoting my comfort. for my amusement he brought me a violin from the distant settlement of pembinaw, and at length, gratified my curiosity by taking me with him in one of his frequent visits thither. while there my fair skin attracted the attention of a missionary's family, and as brother jim was rather proud of my parentage, they readily elicited a correct account of my birth from him, and by appealing to his pride, at length wrung from him a reluctant consent to place me for a time under their tutorage, where, beside making rapid progress, i cultivated my naturally correct taste for music. under their hospitable roof, amid the refinements and courtisies of civilized life i spent many happy months." "at length the last painful illness of my faithful nurse, who had never ceased to mourn my absence, recalled me to her. after her death i was exceedingly sad and lonely, and, to add to my sorrows, brother jim had acquired a love for strong drink, and frequently came to our lodge in a state of intoxication. i grieved over his infatuation and reasoned with him in his sober hours, but all in vain; he grew worse and worse, and often treated me harshly, in despair i went to the trader who i knew supplied him with whiskey and entreated him with tears not to sell him any more. i received from him only insults." "of course, you might have known what to expect from one of that class," said little wolf with flashing eyes, "i discovered long ago, that there was no mercy in the heart of the liquor dealer. they know it's a mean business and any one who engages in it must first harden his heart enough to turn away from tears of blood." "i don't think _all_ who engage in the traffic realize the consequences accruing from it," antoinette mildly replied. "i am sure no humane person would continue in it, if they once took into consideration the vast amount of misery occasioned by it. i am sure brother jim was bad enough before he began to drink; but after that he became as unmanageable as a wild beast. still, alone in the world, i clung to him with all the warm affection of my nature. "a few months after the death of my nurse, he was pursuaded to join a party from pembinaw, who were going on their annual visit to st. paul for the purpose of trading with the whites. at my earnest request he permitted me to accompany him. i was then in my fifteenth year, and mere child as i was, he left me the first day of our arrival entirely alone in our encampment at st. paul, while he went with the rest of the company to the city. "by chance a gentleman passing, heard the sound of the violin, with which i was beguiling the tedious hours, and came into my tent. at first i was quite alarmed at sight of a stranger, but his words and manner immediately won my confidence, and put my fears to rest, and, i confess, i was lonelier when he left me and glad when he came again. he knew my unprotected situation, and always made it a point to come when brother jim was absent. it would be quite impossible for me to describe to you the subtile influence which this person gained over me. i learned to love him with all the ardor of which my passionate and imaginative nature was capable. it was the first unbounded devotion of a warm and innocent heart that he betrayed. i have no words with which to convey an adequate idea of the anguish which i suffered at parting with him. he promised to follow me and make me his wife, but he never came, and at a time when i was least able to bear it, i was subject to brother jim's fury. his cruelty brought me near to death, and my sufferings only aggravated his bitterness and wrath. with awful curses he swore vengeance on the man for whom i would even then have laid down my life. "as soon as my strength would permit, i fled to my friends at pembinaw. i told them all, even of my shame, which a little grave had forever hid from the world. like true christians they soothed my sorrows, and gave me the place in their family which their only daughter, who had married and left them during my absence, had occupied. several years had passed away, and the good missionary died. his wife soon followed him, and i was again left alone. i had never seen brother jim since i left him, but had frequently heard of his wicked deeds. i thought now that i would go with my life in my hand and seek him out and try once more by affectionate pursuasion, to induce him to give up his reckless life. accordingly, i mounted my pony and set out for my former wild home. reaching the lodge after nightfall, to my surprise i heard voices within. i did not go in, but stood listening at the entrance. i heard brother jim and his companions propose a plan to capture you. they were to start that very night; so i hid myself among the trees and waited until they were gone. then i went in for the night, and the next morning set out to do what i could towards rescuing you. "now i have told you all, miss dewolf, and our heavenly father alone knows our future. as for my name in that bible, you know as much about it as i do. i never saw the book before." chapter xiii. twofold agony--dr. goodrich's promise--home again--lilly foot--the convalescent--the neighborhood wedding--news from chimney rock--the sherman family at the west. edward sherman was still where we left him, listening graciously to the pretended good wishes of hank glutter, when dr. goodrich, who happened to pass that way, saw him through the window and beckoned him out side. "i expected to have met you at dr. dewolf's," said he, "and i brought a letter for you." edward took the letter and read it carefully through, turning very pale as he did so. it was from his sister louise, and contained a brief account of the dangerous illness of his mother, with a request for his immediate presence at home. his extreme paleness and the trembling hand, with which he in silence offered the open sheet for the doctor's persual were all the outward sign of his soul's agony; agony for a beloved and dying mother; agony for the beloved, lost one, for whom, in company with a few friends, he was about to go in quest. while the doctor was running over the communication, edward tried to calm the surging tempest within, sufficiently to decide him how to act. "doctor," said he, "i must go to mother, can you, i know it will be difficult, but _can_ you take my place in the company to-morrow?" "i will go, and, by the love i bear your sister, i promise to do what i can." "let me hear from you by mail," said edward, wringing his hand. edward had now barely time to return to pendleton, and hastily get his trunk in readiness for the forthcoming steamer. at the sound of the bell he was ready to embark and a few days rapid travelling brought him worn and weary to the old homestead. it was evening when he arrived, and, as he approached the house, he saw a light in his mother's room. his apprehensions were so great that he had not the courage to enter, and, listening near the window, he distinguished his mother's voice in conversation with louise. "i would not be surprised to see him this very evening," he heard his sister say. "miss louise," called out recta's familiar voice. "miss louise, won't you please come here quick. old spot has got into the front yard; there she is nibbling at that rose bush under the window. i can't see nothing but the white spot in her face; but i know it must be her, she's such an unruly critter; won't you just hold the light while i hist her out?" "o where's lilly foot," said louise, "she'll drive her out while you open the gate. here, lilly foot." lilly foot came growling along from the vicinity of the barn, where, after the fatigue of bringing the cows from the distant meadow, she had gone to rest and recruit for night watching. having forgotten at the beginning of our story to introduce lilly foot under the family head we will pause for a moment and give her the notice to which her position and worth entitle her. she was a very respectable looking animal of the canine species originally coal black with the exception of one white foot, from which she derived her name, but now grown grey in the service of the family. from puppyhood to old age, this faithful creature had made it her daily business to keep the cows, sheep, pigs, and poultry each in their proper places, and, having been raised on a quiet, orderly new england farm, had never in the course of her whole life, had occasion to perform more onerous nightly duties than to sleep with one eye open; consequently, she had come to consider regular rest as her lawful right, and was in no mood to bear the present encroachment. "i believe the dog is getting old and cross," said recta in a voice very like that which had occasioned her censure. "here lilly foot, there's old spot; take her." the words had scarcely left recta's lips before lilly foot saw and flew violently at the object indicated, "lilly foot." they all heard--edward's voice that came from the rose bush, and it would be difficult to say from which of the three, louise, recta, or lilly foot, he received the warmest greeting. mrs. sherman had passed the crisis, of her disease, and edward, assured of her convalesence, sought her bedside with a buoyant step. "my dear son, to have you here is all the medicine i need now," she said, as she held him to her bosom. the first greetings over, edward's unnatural strength produced by anxiety and excitement gave way, and he lay down to rest that night prostrated in body and mind. confused images of his mother, little wolf, and bloody jim crowded his unquiet dreams, and he awoke in the morning comparatively unrefreshed, and the old load in his bosom but little lightened. soon after breakfast he signified his intention of riding over to the post office, two miles distant. "o no," said his sister playfully, "mother will be disappointed; she expects to have you all to herself this morning. i made it a point to go for the mail every day until she was taken sick. let me go this time, i really need a horseback ride. if i get a letter for you, you shall have it in just fifteen minutes." "from now?" "no; from the time i get it." "i am overruled," laughed edward, and he went to his mother's room. scarcely had he seated himself when mrs. sherman enquired, "has dr. dewolf's daughter been found yet, edward?" "no, mother." "how dreadful! dr. goodrich said in his last letter he had but little hope of seeing her alive. i was gratified to hear that you were in pursuit, and that you were situated so you could do your father's old friend a favor. i wish you would tell me the particulars of the sad affair." mrs. sherman wondered at edward's prolonged silence, as he sat there utterly unable to say a word. she was beginning to have a vague conception of the truth, when he turned to her and said in a voice which the effort to control rendered scarcely audible. "mother, i expected to have made miss de wolf my wife. i can not talk about it now." but mrs. sherman led him gently on by means which true mothers know so well how to use, to unburden his heart, and ere long her sympathy ran so high as to propose that he should return to minnesota, and if need he should return to minnesota, and if need be spend the winter there. "if i could take you and louise with me," said he. just then louise came, in high spirits. "o mother," said she, "you must hurry and get well in time to attend maria dole's wedding. i met her going to shop. she wants me to be one of her bridesmaids. now guess who she is going to marry; but of course you'd never guess for you are not acquainted with the gentleman; so i may as well toll you at once; john hanford, from the wilds of minnesota. maria says she is afraid of being carried off by the bears, but still too willing to venture a home in the woods for her dear johnny's sake. i did not tell her about dr. dewolf's daughter, i was afraid it would stop the wedding, maria is such a timid creature. brother, do tell me about that horrible affair." "tell her mother," said edward and immediately left the room. while mrs. sherman was explaining the matter, edward was walking up and down the lawn in front of the house, vainly considering the probabilities of a favorable termination of his troubles. "what can we do for poor edward?" said louise, after a long silence, "i think he ought to go back." "he was saying when you came in if he could only take you and me." "well why not?" said louise eagerly, "i am sure if you keep on getting well as rapidly as you have for a few days you'll be about the house in a week." "when we hear from dr. goodrich, my dear, we shall be better able to decide what is best for us to do." "then all we can do is to wait in patience." wait they did for over a week before the looked-for intelligence arrived, and the following is the contents of dr. goodrich's letter. "dear sherman. all our efforts have proved unavailing. we could not find the least clue to aid us in our search. i am now inclined to think that miss dewolf has voluntarily secreted herself until such times as she hopes to return unmolested by bloody jim, whom, if my conjectures are correct, she no doubt thinks still at large. as for bloody jim his lips are forever closed. in attempting to escape from prison last evening he was shot dead. i learn with pleasure from your letter which i have just received, that your mother's health is rapidly improving. take courage ned, the same hand that restored one loved one can also restore the other. you say you must return. why not bring your mother and sister with you? a change of climate would no doubt benefit both. i think there will be time for you to come before navigation closes. the weather continues splendid. i am now at dr. dewolf's. he is worse again; i think he cannot last long. he is literally drinking himself to death. mrs. hawley still attends on him. sorrel top and daddy do not get along very well together, but between them the doctor's house is well cared for. if it will be any comfort to you i will say that i have sanguine expectations of again seeing miss dewolf safe at home, yours with more sympathy than i can express. g. goodrich." louise received a letter from the same hand, but it being an entirely private affair we can only speculate upon its contents. doubtless among other things there were unanswerable arguments in favor of a western trip, for when the reading was over, she was the first one to say. "i think we had all better get ready as soon as we can and start for minnesota." edward being of the same mind, and mrs. sherman willing to gratify her children, it was not many days before the arrangments were all made for the journey. recta and lilly foot were to be left in sole charge of the house; the tenant having promised the assistance of one of his sons when required. the wedding ceremony of john hanford and maria dole having been performed the evening previous to their departure, they traveled in company with the bridal pair. maria dole was the only daughter of a neighboring farmer, and the two girls had from childhood been on intimate terms, and louise had hoped some day to call her sister; but she loved the gentle girl none the less for the step she had taken, and edward's regard for her seemed to have suddenly increased. the conduct of her husband who was a bashful soul, exceedingly shy, and sparing of his husbandly attentions, gave edward frequent opportunities during their trip of cultivating a more familiar acquaintance with her than he had ever imagined possible. "some women appear to better advantage after marriage and maria dole is one of them," he said in a very decided manner to his sister after having been engaged in a long conversation with the newly-made wife. "she can converse now and she never could before." "yon mean, brother, you were afraid of each other before. it was my fault; you both knew what my wishes were, and it spoiled all. to have carried out the romance of the thing, you ought to have discovered her perfections before it was too late." louise quite forgot for the moment her brother's affliction, but on second thought said no more. "i am sorry mr. hanford is going to take her so far from any settlement," said edward, not appearing to notice what had been said, "he tells me his nearest neighbor is ten miles distant." "how lonely maria will be, i'm glad we are all to visit her in the spring," said louise, alluding to a promise made to that effect. "mr. hanford rather insists upon my going out with them now, but i could not promise until i had seen the doctor. if i decide to go i can overtake him by the next steamer, as he will stop for a day or two at st. paul." the next day after the above conversation, the party having arrived at pendleton, separated; mr. and mrs. hanford continuing up the river to the head of navigation, while the sherman family were introduced to comfortable quarters provided by the forethought of dr. goodrich. by the advice of his friends, who plainly saw, that under the circumstances, he could not content himself to remain where he was, edward decided to join mr. hanford at st. paul, and the following chapter will chronicle the result. chapter xiv. rough roads--the happy bridegroom--jacob mentor's experience--fairy knoll--a joyful meeting. the prospect of a change from steamboat navigation, always so delightful on the upper mississippi, to jolting and jarring over a rough extent of country in a heavy, lumbering wagon, suited to the unimproved state of the roads, was anything but agreeable to mr. and mrs. hanford, as they surveyed the uncomely vehicle drawn up before their hotel. edward had overtaken them, and with mr. and mrs. hanford, stood waiting on the porch, while mr. hanford made every arrangement for their comfort, of which the state of the case would admit. the cushions and buffalos at length fixed to his satisfaction he assisted in his wife, and after a small strife, in which each contended for the seat which neither wanted, edward prevailed, and planted himself beside the driver, while mr. hanford, looking remarkably happy for a vanquished man, took his place beside his wife. the sober driver, jacob mentor by name, looked over his shoulder and carefully surveyed his load before starting. the trunks were firmly strapped on behind, and a half a dozen chairs were also disposed of in the same way. a small sized dining table, bed downward, rested behind the seats, so hugged up by boxes and bundles, that it appeared impossible for any number of bumps or thumps to disturb its quiet. the two beaming faces, just in the van of all this array, did not escape the eyes of honest jacob. "i guess yer pretty comfortable to start on," said he. "all right," said mr. hanford, "drive on." it would be a matter of surprise how it had entered into the head of a plain, common-sense, matter-of-fact young man like john hanford, to bestow the name of "fairy knoll" on the little hillock in the wilderness, where stood his solitary cabin, did we not remember that at the time he was completely under love's influence. the name given under such circumstances was music to him as it fell frequently from the lips of his young bride on their toilsome journey thither. "i hope the fairies at fairy knoll will have a nice fire to welcome us, she said, as the day was drawing to a close, and they were nearing her future home. "are you very cold?" said her husband, drawing her more closely to his side. the day had been unusually chilly, and towards night the autumn winds got up a boisterous frolic, and swept past, dashing from their wings light flurries of snow directly in the faces of our travelers, and the delicate bride, unused to such rough play, had at last hid her face behind her veil and wished for the warm fireside. before she had had time to reply to mr. hanford's question, edward produced a neat little flask encased in silver, and unfastening from the stopper a tiny cup of the same make, he filled it with the sparkling fluid, at the same time giving orders for the wagon to stop. "now here is something almost equal to a warm fire," he said offering mrs. hanford the cup. "what is it?" said she, hesitatingly. "pure domestic wine, some of col. wilson's best, ho presented it to me just before i left home, and gave me his word it was unadulterated," said edward, with great assurance. "col. wilson's wines are justly popular," said mrs. hanford, sipping the beverage; but it is whispered that the colonel uses alcohol in their preparation." "o, very likely," said edward carelessly. "i have no doubt of it, but this he assured me was unadulterated. have some, mr. hanford?" "i don't care if i do. it is really very fine," he said, returning the cup, "quite stimulating, but i prefer a little brandy to any other stimulant; it takes right hold." "you surely don't drink brandy!" exclamed the young wife, anxiously. "only a little, occasionally, when i need it to keep the cold out. o never fear, my dear," he continued observing the look of concern upon his wife's countenance. "i'm a good temperance man, but not a teetotaler; that is drawing the reins rather too tight." meantime, edward had offered the driver a drink, but the man shook his head; "no, thank you," said he, "i'd rather not take any." "not take any!" said edward, "why, sir, it will do you good." "i'm not sick," said the other. "but you are cold," said edward, mistaking his modest demeanor for bashfulness. but the earnest and decided shake of the head by which he refused the second invitation, signified more than words that he was an adherent of the total abstinence principles. "what a simpleton," said edward to himself, as the individual by his side shiveringly gathered up the reins and drove on. but the individual's ruminations were of quite a different character, and something after this wise: "shiver away, old man, it is better to shiver than to drink." be it known that for many years this grey headed man had without measure, poured down the alcoholic fire. when at length overcome by it, a good samaritan had discovered him lying sick by the wayside, and had humanely assisted him to rise, and had set him upon the beast commonly known as "total abstinence," upon which he had ridden with great comfort and safety up to the time of our story. moreover being satisfied that the animal was of good parts and _sure-footed_, he was not at all inclined to exchange the faithful old creature for any of the best bloods belonging to the domestic wine family. he had not forgotten that apparently harmless little hobby-horse whose _cognomen_ was lager beer, which he had sported in his youth, but which at last got unruly; whether from having been stabled with vicious beasts, or from a bad quality which it inherently possessed, he was not in a condition to inquire the first time it played off its pranks upon him. but one thing was certain, after several months of docile behavior, one fine morning his pet landed him very unceremoniously in the gutter, after which, on various occasions, he mounted nearly all the beasts in the stable, whiskey, rum, brandy, etc., but they, one and all, proved vastly more refractory than the first named, and, as we have seen, he was at length left battered and bruised by the way side. it is needless to state that jacob mentor's experience had not, nor was it likely to benefit any so much as himself; for who, among the thousands tampering with stimulating drinks, could be made to believe that a glass of beer, or an occasional sip of wine would result in their final overthow? such, at all events, was not the opinion of our young friends journeying in the direction of "fairy knoll; for more than once the wine went round as the night winds whistled colder. but the tedious road had at length an end, and about dark, the heavy wagon lumbered up under the shadows of fairy knoll. "it won't do to drive up that hill with this heavy load, the horses are too much jaded," said jacob. "then we'll walk up," said mr. hanford, jumping out. "come now, mrs. hanford," proudly stretching out his arms, "i will carry you up. mr. sherman follow me; the path is a little slippery, and we shall have to step carefully." by reason of his burden and the icy path, mr. hanford was sometime in reaching his cabin, but he made short work of getting inside; for, having bestowed several impatient thumps upon the window which he declared frozen down, he suddenly threw himself against the door, and crack went the wooden fastening, and open flew the door, and a most unexpected scene burst upon his astonished vision. surely here were the fairies, and here the warm fire for which his shivering little wife had been wishing. surprise held him upon the threshold; but edward, who instantly recognized in one of the so-called fairies, the person of little wolf, sprang forward with a shout of joy. "the honey, sure as i'm alive," cried jacob mentor, pressing eagerly after him. "laws," said he, precipitately dropping his bundles in the middle of the floor, and rushing up to edward, "how came the little creature here?" edward silently held the little creature in his arms as if he would keep back the dear life that appeared leaving her, and when jacob's eye fell upon the white, upturned face, he drew back with a look of alarm. when this and that restorative had been resorted to with happy effect, and little wolf no longer required undivided attention, at her suggestion antoinette la clare briefly related the story of their escape from bloody jim. mutual explanations followed, discovering to antoinette the fact, that she had taken refuge in the house of her cousin, for such john hanford proved to be, his mother's sister having married antoinette's father. amid the general rejoicings and congratulations, edward naturally alluded to the death of bloody jim, and the means by which it was accomplished. "we are fairly rid of him now," he said, turning to little wolf, who had quietly slipped from his embrace and perched herself upon the big chest, "the ball made sure work." the color had come to her cheek, and there was great joy in her eye, but edward's unlucky words made her pale again, and she looked quickly and apprehensively towards antoinette. the poor girl shiveringly hid her face in her hands and sobbed audibly. chapter xv. busy preparations and the climax--the lovers--tom tinknor's discovery--general rejoicings--the idol defaced. the next morning the cottage on the knoll presented a scene of busy preparation, the climax of which brought forth little wolf rosy, and roguish, wrapped in blankets and shawls, sufficient, we doubt not, to have covered over more land than the nether garments of the famous ten breeches. she was now in readiness for her homeward journey. the long-wished-for time had come, and with it, ten thousand joyous emotions, which, amid all the changes of after life, she never forgot. her heart had put forth its life flower, and who ever forgot a like season of bloom. edward was here, there, and everywhere, arranging for her comfort, and he looked very proud indeed when he handed, or rather lifted the lady in blankets into the big wagon, and took his seat beside her. they were to go alone, antoinette having accepted a pressing invitation to remain with her newly-found cousins. the driver of the day before did not, as on a previous occasion, wait for orders. before the adieus were fairly spoken he cracked his whip and drove off at a rate, which, in his cooler moments, he would have pronounced absolutely ruinous to his carefully preserved establishment. the fact that said establishment comprised all the earthly possessions of honest jacob, was of itself a sufficient guarantee for the safe transportation of his employers. but when added to this was a natural cautiousness and benevolence of disposition, which could not but be observed on the most casual acquaintance, few could have lost their assurance, even on the verge of a precipice, when he held the reins. his extreme caution made him a favorite teamster, not only overland, but especially on the mississippi; when at certain seasons there was danger in travelling on the ice. at such times, squire tinknor and dr. dewolf had taken some pains to secure his services, when exchanging family visits, and he had frequently been entrusted with the sole charge of little wolf, when she was but a child, and delighted with the long icy trip. in those days, the little lady had completely won the heart of her protector, and he had never before had occasion to be jealous of attentions which she was pleased to receive from any of her friends, except, indeed, when daddy would sometimes infringe upon his rights, by officiously lifting her in and out of his sleigh. nor could he be said to be jealous now. it was only the same disagreeable sensation which affectionate sisters sometimes experience on the occasion of the marriage of a favorite brother. had jacob been questioned on the subject, he would have stoutly declared that he was glad of it; for that was just what he tried to say to himself, when he saw edward put his dearly beloved pet into the wagon. but even his fine horses, which he hurried off with such unseemly haste, ought to have known it was not so. "why, what has got into the man? he has almost taken your breath away," said edward tenderly. "a little more careful, sir," he said, as jacob turned his head at his loud exclamation. "yes, yes; i beg pardon, i was careless." the speaker was evidently ashamed of his freak. a second look at the happy couple, and a kind word from his pet, "dear jacob, i believe old grey and bill remember how i used to want to go fast when we went so much together," soothed his turbulent feelings and he went on quite slowly, picking up some crumbs of comfort in default of the whole loaf. the loaf, be it remembered, had fallen into the hands of the voracious couple just behind him, and if greedily devouring it during the entire day would have made a finish of it, the deed would have been done. but the more they fed on it, the larger and sweeter it grew, and, by the time they had arrived at squire tinknor's, their loaf had grown to be almost as much as they could carry. squire tinknor, it will be remembered, was an old acquaintance of dr. dewolf, and, as we have elsewhere stated, the two gentlemen were on intimate terms. having at one time been his partner in some extensive land speculations, the squire had, since that period, acted as the doctor's financial agent and advisor. he was generally shrewd and reliable in his business transactions, although his appetite for drink occasionally got the better of his judgment. this known discrepancy of character was tolerated in society rather as an amiable weakness, than a vile habit, for none had the hardihood to frown openly upon a man of squire tinknor's wealth and position. his family consisted of a wife and one son. the latter, a handsome, dashing young man, he had secretly desired to see attracted towards the daughter of his friend, and in this had not been disappointed. thomas tinknor had, from a boy, bestowed his choicest attentions upon the young lady, and when she was carried off, he had sworn to bring her back, or "die in the attempt." to this end he had faithfully mounted his horse each day since her disappearance, and had ridden several miles into the woods, always going out in high spirits, and returning somewhat dejected. it was in this condition that he might have been seen approaching his father's house just as jacob mentor drew up before the gate. his heart beat quickly, for he instantly recognized the toss of that little head, enveloped as it was in hood and veil. he was not slow in extending to little wolf a warm welcome. so warm indeed, was it, and of such vapory stuff is comfort made, that edward's ponderous loaf evaporated, leaving only a small fragment such as could be drawn from a stolen glance of the eye, while she was being carried into the house, and transported from the arms of mr. tinknor the younger, to the arms of mr. tinknor the elder, and lastly, affectionately folded in the embrace of mrs. tinknor. "you see everything i have on is borrowed," said little wolf, as mrs. tinknor was assisting her in undoing her wrappings, "but i hope to be at home in a day or two." "home in a day or two!" interrupted tom, "not in a month or two, if i can prevent it." "i intend to be at home to-morrow, provided the steamers are still running," said the young lady decidedly. "o, now, you are too bad to treat us so shabbily," said tom, coaxingly, "do stay until the river freezes, and i'll take you down on the ice." "thank you, mr. tinknor, i must go to-morrow." tom tinknor, knew from past experience that to attempt further persuasion was entirely useless, and he said no more, silently indulging the hope that the ice would blockade the river before morning. his desires were in part gratified. the next day it was ascertained that no steamers would venture forth among the floating ice cakes, and tom was exultant. in this mood he determined to give little wolf a surprise party, and thus alleviate, in some degree her disappointment. his parents heartily co-operated in his project, and the trio immediately set about making preparations for the entertainment of a large circle of friends. it was decided that edward should be initiated into the secret, and the task of hoodwinking their prying and discontented young guest, was assigned to him. by ways and means known only to a masterly hand, edward contrived on that eventful day to perform the feat, in which, no doubt, the whole tinknor family combined would have failed. for when evening came on, and the company were assembled, little wolf most unexpectedly found herself in the midst, an object of universal interest. a more beautiful object could scarce have been found. at all events, so thought edward sherman, as he mingled in the throng, great billows of gladness surging in his soul. his cup of joy was large and full. he was holding it with a firm hand, and he said in his heart, "i shall never be moved." the evening was drawing to a close, but the feasting and toasting was still kept up. the wine went round, and the adventures of our heroine continued to be commemorated in appropriate sentiments. while the guests still lingered, a shade of anxiety might occasionally be traced on many a fair face, as husband or brother, or "that other," exhibited unmistakable signs of an overheated brain. little wolfs cheek grew pale, as from time to time she observed the rising flush on edward's brow. he was exceedingly susceptible to the use of stimulants, and was rapidly thrown into a highly exhilarated condition, making him for a time brilliant, but finally entangling his talk in a labyrinth of meaningless and silly words. when in the latter condition which was not observable until just before the party broke up, he conceived the unlucky idea of urging upon little wolf a glass of his favorite drink. "permit me," said he, stepping, or rather swaggering up to where the lady stood, "to--to--," and suddenly appearing to notice the extreme pallor that overspread her countenance, he stammered, "to bring the blushes to those cheeks." it was enough. the heart at once threw its crimson mantle upon her face, but alas! it was dyed in shame. poor little wolf had no words at command. there, before her, stood the man in whom, a few hours before she had felt so much pride and confidence. her heart's best feelings had gone out to him, and here was her idol horribly defaced, and he knew it not. he even held invitingly towards her the instrument that had done the mischief, and, while the cup still shook in his trembling hand, he began to wonder at her silence. she once or twice moved her lips, as if to speak, but the words died away. she was not faint or weak, but was for the moment paralyzed. when the quick reaction came, on fire with indignation she acted with characteristic energy and decision, and all heard the crash of the goblet, as with one rapid sweep of her little hand she dashed it to the floor, and fled from the room. did she forgive him? she said in her heart she would not. chapter xvi. painful recollections--the last boat of the season--ruffled plumes--reconciliation. when little wolf awoke the next morning, her mind instantly reverted to the painful subject, that had banished sleep from her eyes the greater part of the night, and, as the shameful scene came up again vividly before her, she buried her face in her pillow and groaned aloud. while thus indulging afresh her grief and mortification, she was aroused by a sound which turned her thoughts in another direction. she started up eagerly and threw open the window which commanded an extended view of the river, and, in the distance, she could just discern through the fast falling snow, a brave little steamer, as if by magic ploughing its way up through snow and ice. little wolf hung out of the window half in fear lest the welcome vision should vanish; but it kept steadily onward, drawing nearer and nearer to its destination, and soon she had the satisfaction of seeing it safely moored, and, by the active discharge of freight, it was evident that it would attempt a downward trip. the thought of home banished every other from her mind, and she hastily drew inside and shook the white flakes from her glossy hair, and began to arrange them in curls. but the unruly locks had blown about so long in the wind, and got so cold and tangled and required so much coaxing and brushing, that little wolf began to despair of ever getting them in order. just then she observed on the dresser a bottle of what she supposed to be pomatum, but in reality, a mixture for the lungs, made of honey and other ingredients, which by exposure to the cold had partially congealed. she caught it up and literally saturated her hair in the contents and then with great spirit proceeded to her task. at the first onset the brush stuck fast; "dear me what ails it?" she ejaculated throwing down the brush and making desperate dives with a coarse tooth comb. by this time her pretty tangled ringlets had stiffened into a striking resemblance to cork screws interspersed with porcupine quills. by a succession of impatient jerks she endeavored to bring the wayward mass to submission; but the more she attempted to separate and arrange, the closer the loving locks embraced each other, and she was beginning to despair of conquering the difficulty, when she heard a light knock and mrs. tinknor's kind voice said "may i come in?" "o dear, yes," said little wolf, springing to the door, "do come in, my dear mrs. tinknor, and tell me what this horrid pomade is made of." "why, dear child, what have you been doing to yourself? your hair looks as if ten thousand furies had been tearing it." "o mrs. tinknor, it is this horrid pomade." mrs. tinknor's eye fell upon the offending preparation. "why, bless your heart my child," she exclaimed in dismay, "you have been using aunt betsy's cough medicine." little wolf threw herself on the bed convulsed with laughter, and mrs. tinknor heartily joined in the merry peals. "i came to tell you," said mrs. tinknor, when somewhat composed, "that a steamer has just arrived, and mr. tinknor and tom have gone out to ascertain when she will return, if at all. "o, i know she's going back right away," said little wolf springing up. "i saw them hurrying off the freight; o dear, what shall i do with my hair?" she was beginning to feel too anxious to laugh now. "come to my room, dear, it is warmer there and i can soon wash it out for you. now put this shawl around you; never mind dressing, we have the house all to ourselves you know." "suppose i were to get caught in this ridiculous plight," said little wolf, pushing her feet into her slippers, "i wouldn't have tom see me for the world." "then run along quickly and make sure," said mrs. tinknor, laughingly, "i think we needn't feel concerned about the gentlemen coming back for half an hour," she added, as little wolf ran on before. now the gentlemen had already returned, bringing edward with them. the latter, having forstalled them at the boat, met them as he was hurrying to little wolf with the necessary information. on coming in they unluckily took possession of the very room through which the ladies would pass in order to reach mrs. tinknor's apartment. reassured by her hostess, little wolf pushed confidently forward, making bold and decisive charges at the obstructing doors, and in this manner, made her way directly into the presence of the two young gentlemen, mr. tinknor having gone in search of his wife. here she was brought to a sudden stand, but it was only for an instant, for little wolf, like a true womanly general, was skilled in retreat when caught in rumpled uniform. she turned and darted through the door which stood accommodatingly open, and although edward's suppressed smile, and tom's uproarious laugh, goaded her on, she stopped long enough to lock them in, thus cutting off pursuit which tom evidently meditated; he having, in consideration of their long and intimate acquaintance, felt himself warranted in chasing after her, and was at her heels, when he suddenly found himself a prisoner. "o wolf, wolf, he shouted, pounding upon the door, "the boat, the boat, she'll leave"-- "when will she leave?" said little wolf, stopping short. "let me out and i'll tell you, come, be quick, there's no time to be lost. if you want to go here's mr. sherman to take charge of you." "i can take care of myself," muttered little wolf, but, while she paused she had additional cause for mortification; for squire tinknor had found his way to his wife, and her only refuge was behind mrs. tinknor's flowing skirts. here she partially screened herself, while he informed them that the boat would attempt a downward trip in the course of an hour. "ha, ha, ha," concluded the squire, "if sis is bent on going, she must make haste out of that plight." by the united efforts of her friends, little wolf took passage for chimney rock, and edward, looking very handsome and self-possessed, acted as her escort. without explanation, without apology, without so much as a look of contrition from her travelling companion, at the first interview little wolf forgave all the pain and mortification he had made her feel. she had forgiven him without knowing it. she thought herself still angry because her heart ached. edward was surprised. he had expected to meet indignant looks, and perhaps reproachful words; he had feared even worse, for he well knew the decision that marked little wolf's forming character, and he had armed himself to meet the treatment which he felt he justly merited. but his chosen weapon of defense was pride and so was useless when opposed to little wolf's unusual gentleness. he was subdued, and when man's proud spirit is once subdued by the forbearance of the woman he loves, that woman henceforth becomes to him an object of adoration. edward had the day before called little wolf, darling, now he called her angel, and before he parted from her he had said "my angel," and she had smiled upon him when he said it. chapter xvii. winter sports--the doctor's visits--preparations for new year's day--a discussion. winter had fairly set in. the december winds had for several weeks, blown upon the "father of waters," and he slept like a huge giant, all unmindful of the western breezes which came to fetter and play their pranks upon him. many wild revelries did those winged sprites hold upon his grim visage, and many a day did the pleasure loving inhabitants of the lively village of pendleton go forth and join the grand revel. on such occasions the newly made playground resounded with merry shouts and tinkling bells, for there skating and sleigh-riding and other winter sports were brought to perfection. our young friends of the "bay state" were quite at home amid such scenes, and nearly every day, might be seen dashing up before their hotel, a fanciful little sleigh drawn by a fine spirited grey, who chafed and stamped, and shook his necklace of silver bells, as if to signal the fair lady, whose coming he so impatiently waited. his temper, however, was seldom severely tested, for it was dr. goodrich who sported this elegant little establishment, and louise sherman well knew at what hour of the day to be in readiness for a ride. occasionally the duties of his profession detained the doctor beyond his usual time, and then came louise's turn to feel the least bit in the world uneasy and anxious. but one day there was a delay of the kind which passed apparently unheeded by her. she had as usual brought out her little fur cap with its red ribbon ties and deposited it with her gloves upon the table, and having arranged her mantle near the fire, and put her overshoes in a warm place upon the hearth, she seated herself by the window, just opposite her mother who has taking her afternoon nap in an easy chair. here she sat for some time anxiously watching the sleeper, and evidently waiting for her to awaken. at length mrs. sherman opened her eyes, and, as she caught louise's eager glance gave a little start. "hasn't the doctor come yet?" she asked. "no mother, but i'm all ready, and i'm glad you are awake, for i wanted to tell you before i left, that edward had ordered wine for new year's, and he said if it came while he was out, he wished it put in his private room." "wine for new year's! exclaimed mrs. sherman in unfeigned astonishment. "why yes, mother, edward says our friends will expect it of us." "i cannot consent to it," said mrs. sherman decidedly, "we shall have a plentiful supply of refreshments, and, louise, i'm surprised that you should, in the remotest manner, give your sanction to your brother's foolish proposal." "but, mother, said louise, eagerly, "edward says that it is pure domestic wine, and i don't see what harm that can do." "it was pure domestic wine that made noah drunk, my dear." "o dear," said louise rather impatiently, "i wish old noah had never got drunk, if"-- just then she happened to glance out of the window, and saw the doctor drive up, and consequently her frowns and noah's sins were burried in oblivion, and a smile and a blush bloomed upon their tomb. louise had just done tying on her cap when the doctor appeared at the door, and, while he was exchanging civilities with her mother, she slipped out and ran to her brother whom she saw coming in the passage. "we can't have it ned," she whispered, "mother has set her foot down." "yes?" "yes ned, she has." edward frowned slightly, but said nothing, for by that time, the doctor was hastening his sister away and his mother was gently calling him. "edward." "yes mother," and, entering her room, he threw himself carelessly into the seat which louise had vacated. for a few moments both were silent, and as the son looked into the mother's face, he plainly saw that she was filled with grief and anxiety; and his heart smote him for he really loved and revered his mother; but he resolved to appear as if he had observed nothing amiss, and, taking his hat to leave, he said quite cheerfully, "well mother what are your commands?" "edward i have a request to make of you," replied mrs. sherman with some feeling in her tone. "speak, mother dear," said he, falling pleasantly into his seat. "it is my request, edward, that you do not provide wine, or any other stimulant for our new year's entertainment." "what, not coffee, mother?" said edward laughingly. "you know very well what i mean," said mrs. sherman with a faint smile. "of course it shall be as you wish," said he more seriously, "but really, mother, i think you are too strict. i am afraid our friends will have a mean opinion of our hospitality." "they will, of course, understand that we are principled against the use of intoxicating drinks. "as a beverage," chimed in edward with a touch of irony in his tone. mrs. sherman looked hurt, and edward repented again. "mother," said he, "forgive me, i did not intend to wound you. let us drop a subject upon which we cannot agree. "but, edward, i cannot bear that we should differ. i have always endeavored to instil correct principles into the minds of my children, and now, just as they are on the threshold of what might be a useful life, i find the tares which an enemy had sown beginning to spring up. "but mother, you know i do not approve of indulging to excess any more than you do. it is only the total abstinence principles to which i object, and even louise says she can see no harm in an occasional social glass." "does miss dewolf say the same," said mrs. sherman fixing her eyes on edward. "i do not know, i am sure," replied edward nervously twirling his hat, "i have never had any conversation with her on the subject." "miss dewolf is orthodox, i am prepared to testify," exclaimed louise, tripping into the room, and, before any question could be put as to the cause of her sudden return, she gratuitously gave the information. "a man had a fit or something," she said, "and i must forsooth, lose my ride, for the doctor's motto is business before pleasure; a very good motto when i am not concerned, but if the man could only have been taken an hour or two later, it would have been a great accommodation. however," and she glanced archly at her brother, "i should then have lost the opportunity of eavesdropping, and consequently of giving in my testimony in favor of my future sister-in-law." "thank you, i suppose you obtained your information of my future brother-in-law." "no matter how i got it, but i'm fully prepared to prove that the young lady's principles are severely 'touch not, taste not, handle not.' we have a great work before us, ned, for they will not easily be persuaded to our opinions i can assure you." "i do not wish to influence my friends to think just as i do," said edward, proudly. "well, somehow you have managed to make me think as you do, for you know i was once as strict as mother." "i hope you have not changed your views on my account, louise." "no, not exactly, ned, yet, i must confess, your arguments have had great weight with me." "i would advise you to reconsider, and think independently," said edward rather sharply. louise was silent, and mrs. sherman now seized the opportunity to change the topic to one more intimately connected with their future plans and prospects. in this the attention of the trio was absorbed until towards evening, when they were interrupted by the doctor's well known knock. the doctor looked pale and worn, and, as he seated himself, edward remarked, "you look tired doctor." "yes, i _am_ tired," replied the doctor, "i am tired of the world, or rather i am tired of the way we are living in it. i have had an aggravated case of delirium tremens on my hands this afternoon, and i wish every liquor seller in pendleton could have looked in upon that distressed family. a young and interesting wife, and several small children were compelled to witness a scene of suffering, the horrors of which were truly appalling." "it is strange," said edward, "that men will make such beasts of themselves." "it is strange," said the doctor, "that if men have no hearts of pity, that we can not have laws to prevent the sale of the poison." "but, doctor, men are not compelled to buy it." "but, sherman, men _will_ buy it, and will drink it, the proof of which is before us every day we live. these temperance societies are no doubt most of them useful to society, but they do not deal the death-blow to the monster. nothing but the law can do that. i know your opinion, sherman, but in the name of humanity, what are we to do?" "why, doctor, we shall have to let men kill themselves if they will be so foolish. we cannot forbid the sale of pistols, because men often use them for purposes of committing suicide; and, even to suppose that a man is quite certain when he sells a deadly weapon to another, that he will use it for the purpose of self distruction, i hold that he has the legal right to sell it; that he has no moral right i readily admit." "i do not understand law, sherman; _perhaps_ our constitution is so framed that the people have not the power to say whether or not, our nation shall become a nation of drunkards; perhaps the thousands of intelligent men, who, heart-sick as i am this day in view of the dreadful consequences accruing from the sale of intoxicating drinks, have ignorantly petitioned their state legislature for a prohibitory law, which they had no power to enact; perhaps those judges are correct who have said their state can not have a law that would restore peace and happiness to thousands of families, whose sorrow it is too harrowing to think upon. i say, _perhaps_, for, i cannot but hope that judges who are equally intelligent and who have told us differently may not be mistaken. one thing is certain, the hand of the liquor dealer must be stayed, or in every house there will be one dead." "public opinion might do much towards accomplishing the desired object," suggested mrs. sherman." "true enough, mrs. sherman, said the doctor, "but public opinion must have its naps, and at best it is seldom half awake and it requires an immoderate amount of force to bring the sleepy thing to the right standpoint." "well, doctor, i am willing to use my little strength in the cause, although i regret to say that my efforts as far as my family are concerned have proved entirely fruitless." the doctor turned a surprised look towards louise, whose face was instantly suffused with blushes. chapter xviii. the new year's ball--a check to festivity--the midnight ride--death in the old brown house. holiday festivities and dancing parties were words synonymous in the early settlement of minnesota, and, although mrs. sherman would have been shocked at the bare idea of her daughter attending a public ball in her native village, the influences of a new country so wrought upon her prejudices, that her scruples gradually yielded; and, when louise rather doubtfully asked permission to attend a party of the kind to be given on new year's eve, she gained a reluctant consent. "i could not consent on any account, louise," said her mother with a view to excuse this apparant departure from her principles, "if i had not sometime ago had some conversation with the doctor on the subject. i have great confidence in his judgment, and, i am sure he would not desire it, if it were not a proper place for you. however, i have my misgivings, for i never was allowed to go to such a place when i was young," and she sighed, "but as the doctor says, there is no other amusement for the young in this new country," and she sighed again. "is miss dewolf going, louise?" "yes, mother, ned says he had hard work to persuade her to go. she don't like to leave her father. what a pity he is such a sot. i believe i should detest such a father. i don't see how she can be so good to him." "she is a dutiful daughter, louise, and a noble girl, and i hope nothing will ever happen to prevent her becoming edward's wife." "what can prevent it mother? i'm sure ned is handsome, and talented and rich enough for anybody." "i don't know what could prevent it, louise, but i shall be glad when they are really married. i think a wife of the right stamp would have a great influence on edward." "why, mother, i'm sure ned's principles are good, and he is steady enough for a young man; i don't see what particular advantage a wife would be to him." mrs. sherman only sighed. louise looked a little disconcerted. "why, mother," said she, "you act as if you thought something terrible was going to happen to ned and me, and our only escape was matrimony." "louise," said mrs. sherman after a pause, "could not miss dewolf be prevailed upon to spend the day of the party with us; she would only be a few hours longer away from her father." "why yes, i think so," said louise thoughtfully. "ned could go for her in the morning. o yes," she concluded decidedly, "ned can manage that i know." little wolf spent the day above mentioned in mrs. sherman's family. she was happy; happier than she had been since her return home. the memory of the dreadful night which she passed at squire tinknor's had ever since haunted her. it was only when in edward's presence that she forgot it, and it would even sometimes cloud a moment of such companionship, as comes only to those whose very life is bound up in another's. she often said to herself, it was his first mistake, it would never be repeated; he would not dare to indulge again, now that he was convinced how a stimulant would effect him. but, spite of all her attempts at self-control, whenever the well remembered scene came up before her, she was ready to cry out with anguish. the society of edward's mother, comforted, and reassured her. the son of such a mother was exalted, if that were possible, in her opinion, and she instinctively gathered renewed confidence in her own future happiness. during the day, mrs. sherman's penetrating eye was frequently fixed upon little wolf, as if she would read her very soul, and the glimpses which she caught, shining out in her words and actions were on the whole satisfactory. louise, who was naturally rather yielding and dependent, involuntarily deferred to her young companion, whose opinions were always independent and often expressed with marked decision. in fact, before the day was ended, little wolf's force of character was felt and silently acknowledged; and little, and rosy, and curly though she was, she had become a power in the sherman family. but what beauty, what sweetness, what love is potent when opposed to a depraved appetite? but why anticipate? as edward was busy in his office the greater part of the day, and the doctor in his professional duties, they saw but little of the ladies, and mrs. sherman, anticipating their wishes, advised little wolf and louise to dress at an early hour of the evening, in order to enjoy a quiet social hour all together before the party. the mysteries of the toilet occupied more time than they had calculated upon, and, just as they were in the midst of an important discussion, as to whether pink or white flowers became louise best, they heard the gentlemen come in. "there they come," said louise, "i hear them in the parlor; do, mother, tell them we are most ready!" "now miss dewolf," said she, turning to little wolf, as her mother left the room, "how do you think i look?" "why you look like a prim puritan. the roses in your hair look as if they had been taught to grow very properly all their lives and they were not going to depart from early habits, even if they were going to a 'hop.'" "now, do you think they look stiff?" said louise anxiously. "just a little, miss louise." "please arrange them for me," said louise, stepping up to little wolf. little wolf gave the offending flowers several slight twiches, this way, and that. "there, how do you think they look now," said she. "o they do look lovely," said louise, glancing at herself, admiringly in the mirror, why could not i fix them so?" little wolf gave her head a slight toss of triumph, thereby creating a breezy excitement, quite becoming among her ringlets, and the moss rose buds with which they were ornamented. her dress was white and gauzy, and her every movement floated it gracefully about her slender figure. louise was also dressed in white, but there was an air of precision about her, with which although it accorded well with her conservative character, she was evidently dissatisfied, when comparing her appearance with little wolf's. "i wish my hair would curl like yours," she said, glancing from the reflection of her own smoothly braided locks, to little wolf's dancing ringlets. "why i'm sure you look very beautiful indeed, beautiful as a bride, miss louise; now, go ask the doctor if you don't. don't wait for me, the doctor is waiting for you; i'll come directly when i get this lace fixed." "well, remember _somebody_ is waiting for you," said louise, as she left the room. a shower of compliments fell upon louise as she presented herself to her brother and lover. "now don't waste any more admiration on me, either of you," said she, "save it for miss dewolf, she is the most beautiful thing i ever saw. she is grace itself. she touches a ribbon and it knots itself into an exquisite shape, she lays her hand upon lace and it fastens and floats, she gently pats a flower, and it instantly assumes its most graceful attitude. o ned, how happy you will be." the words were still upon louise's lips when little wolf joined the circle, and somehow, she instantly caught the expression of edward's face, and read in it those emotions, with which our pen intermedleth not. it was very pleasant to look into that quiet parlor, presided over by mrs. sherman, who sat regarding her happy children with so much tenderness and pride. but we must not linger, for there are other scenes to be presented. it was near the midnight hour when pleasure ran highest in the brilliantly lighted ballroom that edward might be seen leading little wolf to a seat. she had appeared on the floor many times, and had at length acknowledged herself weary. "what a handsome couple," whispered louise to the doctor, nodding significantly towards them, and her whisper was echoed by many others. there was a deep red spot in edward's cheek, and a flash in his eye, which some might have attributed to the excitement of the occasion, but the doctor and those who knew him well, interpreted it differently. he had several times during the evening left the room with one or two of his friends, who were in the habit of indulging in a social glass, and edward's principles were not such, as to shield him from their influence. little wolf's quick eye followed him when he went and when he came; not indeed with a suspicion of the truth, for it did not occur to her that he was being led into temptation, but the fact was about to burst upon her. "excuse me for a few moments, love," whispered edward as he seated her, "i will be back in time to dance the old year out and the new year in with you; the next is to be our wedding year, is it not?" little wolf smiled and fluttered her fan to conceal her confusion. two gentlemen were engaged in conversation near little wolf, and, as edward left her one of them remarked, "what a pity so many of our promising young men are falling into the habit of drinking. there is young sherman, if i am not mistaken, under the influence of stimulant." although not intended for her ear, little wolf caught the words, and her bright smile faded, and her busy little fan dropped in her lap. the wound so lately healed was reopened, and in it had fallen a corrosive poison. she felt the aching pain, and the eating smart, she begged dr. goodrich to take her from the room. she had arisen and was leaning on his arm when edward returned. "i see my bird is on the wing," said he claiming little wolf's hand for the forming cotillion. little wolf caught his breath as he leaned towards her, and grew paler, "i cannot dance," said she drawing back. edward looked surprised, but the doctor knew what all meant and he turned with her towards the door, when who should they see, but daddy, making his way towards them. he had evidently come in haste, for his great rough over-coat was only partly buttoned, his leggins were put on awry, his over shoes were untied and the strings dangled under his feet somewhat retarding his shuffling locomotion. with fur cap drawn low so as to protect his face as much as possible from the biting winds, beard white with frost, and clusters of snow flakes resting upon his broad shoulders, daddy pushed forward into the throng. little wolf no sooner saw than she ran up to him, "what's the matter daddy?" said she. "twixt you and me, honey," said he clutching her by the arm, "the doctor is pretty nigh done fur." little wolf waited for no futher explanation. she gave her little dimpled arm a jerk and was out of the room in a twinkling. "bless me, twixt you an'me, it will go hard with the honey," said daddy addressing dr. goodrich, "your services is needed. miss hawley said fetch you right along with the honey, and, doctor hev' her wrap up right smart, its awful cold and blowy--howsoever, i clapped in two big buffaloes, for i know'd putty well how gals is dressed at sich places. laws, i expect them are buffaloes would keep her warm if she hadn't nothing on but that are outside fish net." for once daddy made no useless delays. he saw that little wolf was well wrapped in as they sped along the frozen river. the horses were put to their utmost speed, but in vain. little wolf arrived a few minutes too late to attend her dying father. with a despairing wail she threw herself beside his dead body. she did not weep, but moaned so pitifully that it was distressing to listen to her. mrs. hawley at length went to her and gently raised her up and removed her hood and cloak. in her haste, little wolf had made no change in her dress, and she was too much absorbed in grief to once think of her appearance. the rose buds fell from her hair on the still face of the corpse and her white robes floated over it, while mrs. hawley tried to soothe and speak words of comfort to her. but suddenly her eye fell upon a form at the opposite side of the bed. it was hank glutter. she was pale before, but at sight of him she became absolutely ghastly. slowly she arose to her feet and went around to where he stood. "mr. glutter," said she solemly, raising her hand, as if to pronounce upon him some dreadful anathema. "miss dewolf," said hank, eagerly interrupting her, "do not curse me." "vengeance is mine, and i will repay, saith the lord," burst from little wolfs white lips. is there not a curse which the liquor seller cannot escape?" chapter xix. neighborly sympathy--little wolf's bosom friend--a disappointed lover. the news of the sudden and unexpected death of dr. dewolf, quickly spread among the few poor families living in the vicinity, casting a gloom over the little community, where he had been so long well known, and, before strong drink got the mastery of him, greatly respected and beloved. many a sorrowful face looked out from doors and windows towards the old brown house on new year's morning, and one after another, the sympathising neighbors offered their assistance at the door of the bereaved, whose sunny face had often cheered their own quiet homes. but poor little wolf at the time knew nothing of their kind intentions. after the first burst of grief, leaving all arrangements which the occasion required to dr. goodrich, she shut herself in her own room, and none dared intrude upon her night of sorrow, except indeed daddy, who was indefatigable in his attentions. the kind hearted old man wrapped himself in blankets, and lay down near her door, and, at intervals, during the hours of that cold january morning, he crept in softly and replenished the fire, and, after lingering a moment in the vain hope that she would notice and speak to him, he would go away muttering pitifully to himself, "poor pet, poor honey." about daylight, worn out with anxiety and fatigue, he fell asleep, and a few hours afterwas awakened by a hard thump on the head and starting up, he saw sorrel top, just gathering herself up from a fall. who told you to lie down there like a dog, for folks to stumble over?" said she angrily, i thought you were going to take care of little wolf, and here i find you snoring away and she may be frozen to death, for all you know." "tween you an'me," said daddy looking rather mortified, "i'm afeared that are fire has gin' out." "of course it has--there ain't a good fire in the hull house. it takes mrs. hawley all the time to tend the door and tell the folks we don't want their help, and when the funeral will be;--i tell ye, we ain't hardly had a mite of rest since the doctor was brought home." "tell miss hawley i'll be down there in five minutes," said daddy decidedly. "it don't make much difference whether he's here or not," said mrs. hawley, when sorrel top had delivered his message. "o he'll be handy to talk," replied sorrel top with a grim smile. "tween you an' me, it ain't no time fur to be jokin," said daddy, who had come in time to catch a few words, and had a suspicion of what was passing between the women, "i guess," he continued "if you could see how broke down the honey is, you'd begin to think it was a serious matter." "we do already think it a very serious matter, daddy," said mrs. hawley with great feeling, and i wish miss dewolf would let me do something for her." "taint no use saying a word to her, i don't open my head when i go into the room, but i'd lay down my life fur to ease her," said daddy the tears coming to his eyes. "tween you and me, it ain't no common trouble workin' on the pet," he said, coming close to the two and speaking low, "i've knowed her sence she was a baby, i've seen all of her putty ways, and none of her bad ways, fur she never had none; she hes growd up perfect and she allers treated the doctor dutiful, and she's got nothin' to reproach herself fur. i'm afered," and he sank his voice to a whisper, "the honey has got a separate trouble." "what that trouble was daddy did not define for he was interrupted by a knock at the door, which he opened and ushered in the sherman family. "tween you and me, the honey ain't spoke nor slept, nor eat," said daddy, in answer to mrs. sherman's enquiry after little wolf, "but maybe it will ease her a leetle to know that you are here," he said, looking sideways at edward. daddy fidgeted around little wolf for several moments, before he could muster courage to break the silence, and tell her who were waiting below, and he almost regretted having done so, when he saw the look of agony, which the information brought to her face. "daddy," said she in a choking voice, "ask mrs. sherman to my room, the others will excuse me to-day." it was some alleviation to edward's disappointment, as he rode home with louise, to know that his mother was to be little wolf's companion and consoler until the arrival of her old friends, the tinknors, who had been sent for, to be present at the funeral. during the few days they were together, mrs. sherman strove by every means she could devise to give her young friend some relief from the distress of mind, under which it was evident she was laboring. but she was at length obliged to return home, leaving to mrs. tinknor's skill the trying case, which had baffled her own benevolent efforts. it was the day on which her father's remains had been consigned to their last resting place in a secluded part of his grounds, beside the grave of her mother, that little wolf sat alone by her upper window looking sadly out towards the burial spot, which she had left only a few hours previously. the squire and mrs. tinknor were in the parlor below, engaged in conversation concerning the events of the past few days, and tom tinknor, to whom the solemnities of the occasion had been extremely irksome, was wandering aimlessly about the house with hands in his pockets, occasionally checking himself in the very act of whistling away the oppressive silence. the sudden opening of a door gave him quite a start, and turning quickly, he saw daddy, who said good naturedly, "i guess ye're skeered ain't ye? 'tween you an' me i've felt ruther shaky myself lately in this ere great big house, where there is so much spare room, fur ghosts and sperits of pussens is apt fur to hang around the house where they die." "o, that's all nonsense, daddy," said tom, "i thought you knew too much to believe in such things." "wall, i don't really believe in 'em, but i did feel kinder queer like, last night when i went through that are long hall to the honey's room, but i never hev really seen a sperit yet, but i've seen shaders that looked mighty like 'em, and i ain't no doubt, if there is any, i shell see 'em, fur the honey says i'm uncommon sharp that are way. laws, she ain't afeared of nothin: why, she went inter the doctor's room, the next day after he was laid out, and stayed thar ever so long all alone, and wouldn't even come out fur to see mr. sherman, 'tween you an' me, i guess the honey is throwin off on that are sherman, fur ye see i hed to go right inter the ball-room fur her, the night the doctor died, and i see her, with my own eyes, draw away from him as if he had hurt her, and i kinder hed a inklin that may be he'd been drinking a leetle too much, fur, to my sartin knowledge, she ain't 'lowed him fur to come nigh her sence. but i guess its affectin' her serious, fur she does 'pear to feel the wust she ever did, and i used to say, sometimes, when the doctor was brung hum dead drunk, she couldn't feel no wuss if he was really dead; but them times was nothin' to the way she broke down the night he died. 'tween you an' me," said daddy, as if suddenly recollecting himself, "it wouldn't be best fur to say nothin' about this to nobody, fur the honey likes to keep her own affairs strict." "certainly not," said tom, and he walked straight to the parlor, and repeated to his parents every word he had heard. "she certainly grieves more than is natural considering the circumstances," said the squire, "and if the old man's conjectures are correct, you are here just in the nick of time, tom." "i don't know about that," said tom, rather dubiously, "she will have to change wonderfully if she gives a fellow a chance to see or speak to her while we stay." "i shall try to prevail upon the poor child to come down awhile this evening," said mrs. tinknor very gently. "a handsome fortune is not to be obtained by marriage every day," said the squire. "a noble-hearted, whole-souled woman like little wolf is not to be obtained every day," said mrs. tinknor, "but, i never thought," said she affectionately regarding her son, "that little wolf cherished other than a sister's love for tom." tom was silent, and, after a short pause, mrs. tinknor said, "when you came in tom, i was telling your father of a conversation i had with little wolf last evening, concerning her going home with us, but she thinks it best, on account of her dependent family, not to break up house-keeping before spring." "displaying thereby very little financial ability," said tom, rather contemptously. "tut, tut," said the squire, "little wolf is posted. she knows just as much about her father's affairs as i do, she would give me no rest months ago, until i spread out the whole thing before her, and i believe her to be as capable of managing the property, as a woman can be. "i reminded her of the extra expense attending house-keeping," said mrs. tinknor, "but she said she felt it her duty to provide for those poor creatures in her employment. there's daddy, you know, cannot, more than earn his board, and mrs. hawley besides being feeble, has no other home, and nobody would do as well by an inefficient girl like sorrel top, as she does, and then she has decided to take fanny green into her family for the winter." "now, who is fanny green?" broke in tom. "why, she is the little girl whose father killed his wife in a fit of intoxication, and then ran off leaving the child to the charity of strangers, and i think little wolf said, she was cruelly treated in the family where she is now living, and the family do not wish to be burdened with her. "well, _well_" said tom, drawing a long breath, "i'm convinced little wolf will be a moping old maid, dressed in black, managing well her property, devising philanthropic plans for the benefit of paupers, she is getting too good for any man that lives." "the best of it is, she does not even know she is doing a good thing," said mrs. tinknor smilingly. tom got up and walked impatiently to the window. having accompanied his parents, with a view, to himself wipe away the few natural tears, that he imagined bedewed the rosy cheeks of little wolf, and pour into her willing ear a volume of cheering words, as he should ride by her side on their return trip, and, finally, to prevail upon her to reward his unequalled constancy, by becoming his wife, he was quite unprepared to meet the pale anguished face beneath the long black veil of which, for the first time, he caught a glimpse on the funeral day. having witnessed the quiver that shook her delicate frame, as the grave received its dead, he lost all confidence in his pre-arranged means of consolation, and the words of his mother, not having been calculated to reassure him he was now thoroughly annoyed at the course things had taken. but as mrs. tinknor well knew that tom's feelings were evanescent, and seldom went beyond the surface, she immediately arose to go to little wolf, comforting herself with the reflection, that the storm she was leaving would be of short duration. chapter xx. a weight of sorrow--marrying a drunkard--suspense. meantime little wolf had not stirred from her place by the window, neither had she withdrawn her gaze from the desolate scene without. all nature was shrouded in snow. on the ground, on every tree and shrub, and in the air; snow was everywhere. but little wolf was too much absorbed in her own reflections to bestow a thought upon the raging storm. from the graves of her parents, dimly seen through the whirling flakes, her mind had wandered to an equally painful subject, upon which the timely appearance of her beloved friend, mrs. tinknor, gave her the longed for opportunity to converse. she had always confided in that lady, as in a mother, and in the present instance, nothing was witheld pertaining to her feelings past and present towards edward sherman, and the relation in which he stood to her. mrs. tinknor's previous interview with tom had in a measure prepared her for little wolf's communication, but the tearless eye, so full of anguish, the white cheek and compressed lips, all so unlike her brilliant little friend, struck her painfully; and indignation towards the author of so much wretchedness was the uppermost feeling as, in conclusion, little wolf pleadingly asked, "what can i do, my dear mrs. tinknor?" now mrs. tinknor was a mild, undemonstrative woman, not prone to giving advice, but the memory of all the wrongs which she had endured through the intemperance of her husband, wrongs which had sunk deep within her bleeding heart, nerved her to raise a warning voice, to save, if possible, one whom she really loved from a life, to which it made her shudder to look forward, and she freely and earnestly answered. "think no more of one, who, if you were to become his wife, would make your life, beyond all expression, miserable." little wolf laid her hand quickly on that of her friend and looking straight into her eyes said vehemently, "i cannot, no, i cannot do that, could you?" "could i, rather, did i," said mrs. tinknor, drawing a long breath, "i had not the decision that marks your character, darling, and consequently am a drunkard's wife." mrs. tinknor's voice fell very low, as she repeated the last words, and little wolf involuntarily clasped more closely the hand on which she had laid her own. "you are not, really, what you called yourself, mrs. tinknor," she whispered, "nobody calls squire tinknor that, oh, do not talk so." "i do not like to say it my dear, and i never said it before, but for your sake i lay open the hidden part of my life, and after you have heard me through i shall never give another word of advice as to your future course." "i was just of your age, darling, and about to be married when an intimate friend said to me," "i'm afraid mr. tinknor is fond of drink, i saw him go into one of those drinking saloons." i answered carelessly; for i did not wish her to know that she had made me anxious; but that evening i repeated her words to my lover. he made light of it, and said a friend invited him to drink and he did not like to refuse; that he might be a man among men, that there was no danger, he could stop when he pleased, he only drank socially, never for the love of it. "but my fears were aroused and i begged him with tears, to give up social drinking all together, and he finally appeared hurt, and finally asked me if i could not trust him, and i said yes; for he was so noble, so full of warm affection, that i was sure i could win him from those habits, which threatened to darken our sky. i ventured forth on a dangerous sea, and clouds and storms have been my portion. "spite of all you love him, and he loves you," little wolf ventured to say, "and while there is love there is hope, and some little comfort; life is not entirely aimless and barren." mrs. tinknor so pitied little wolf, who had so bravely risen above all the misfortunes to which her young life had been subjected, only to sacrifice herself to a most unfortunate attachment, that, for the moment, she was silent not knowing what to say. "o do not look so hopeless, dear mrs. tinknor," said little wolf eagerly, "tell me there is something to live for." "we may, to be good, and do good," said mrs. tinknor slowly, as if to make quite sure of answering wisely. little wolf caught at the words, "that is just what you are doing," she said, "and why may not i? i know you think i could not do as you have done; but you do not know how my heart is in this thing. i did not know myself until the trial came, why, mrs. tinknor, i could sacrifice my soul for his sake." "o darling, darling, i cannot bear to hear you say so. i cannot bear to have you sacrifice yourself to one who would not even control a vitiated appetite for your sake. believe me you will regret it, if you become the wife of an inebriate." "o he is not that, he is not that." "he may not have come to that yet, dear child, but you have seen and heard enough to convince you that he is on the road from which few turn back. he has already felt the debasing effects of intoxicating drink and still he keeps on, and shall that noble soul of yours be for a whole life time bound to one with whom eventually there can be no sympathy? god forbid. you may remember, although you were very young, what your dear mother's sufferings were; could she speak to you now, what think you would be her advice?" "o my dear, patient, loving, broken hearted mother," and little wolf burst into a paroxysm of tears. mrs. tinknor leaned very tenderly over her young friend and kissed her cheek, and, after this little act of love and sympathy, she went down stairs, without so much as having hinted at the object for which she came. however to the surprise of all, little wolf spent the evening in the parlor with her guests, and at her earnest solicitation, they consented to delay their intended departure for a few days. it was a sore disappointment to edward sherman to be obliged to meet little wolf day after day under the watchful eye of tom tinknor. but, to little wolf it was an infinite relief, for mrs. tinknor's words "think no more of one who if you were to become his wife, would make your life beyond all expression, miserable," rang continually in her ears: and, while her heart prompted her to a different course, her intellect in a measure approved the advice. consequently she naturally shrank from a private interview, before her mind was fully prepared to meet the exigency. the subject was not again broached between mrs. tinknor and herself until the morning that the first named started for her home, and it was only at the moment of their last fond leave taking, that little wolf leaned over the side of the sleigh and whispered in her ear, "i shall never be able to write to you about it, but if _he_ refuses to accept the condition which i feel i _ought_ to make, i will just send you a lock of my hair and you will know it is all over with us." her lip quivered as she turned away and as the squire drove off, tom who had observed her agitation said to his mother, "she is tender hearted, that savage little wolf after all." chapter xxi. daddy's diplomacy--a passage at arms--fannie green--a catastrophe. a sudden sense of responsibility seemed to fall upon daddy, as with little wolf, he watched the squire's swift gliding sleigh, and its occupants, until they had dwindled together, a mere speck on the silent river. 'tween you and me, honey, it won't du for you to be shiverin, here in the snow. mr. tom said i was fur to take care of you when he was gone; 'tween you and me mr. tom is oncommon nice young man, oncommon, considerin his father, very oncommon." "how so daddy?" "'tween you and me he's a teetotaler, out and out, and the squire ain't. i ketched him sneakin off down to the brewery several times. i kinder think tom takes after his mother, and its a good sign fur boys to take after their mother. now there's mr. sherman, he takes after his father. his every motion is like the judge. to be sure, the judge was a wonderful smart man, but then when i lived in them parts he was in the habit of drinkin, pretty heavy. afore i left he signed the pledge, but there ain't no tellin how he would have turned out if he had lived." it was plainly to be seen in whose interest daddy was enlisted. his diplomatic efforts were listened to with great composure and he could only speculate on the result as he went into the house with little wolf. the parlor was in a state of confusion, mrs. hawley and sorrel tom having combined forces to raise the greatest possible amount of dust and disorder out of the material at hand; such as the ashes from the squire's segar inadvertantly dropped, the dirt from tom's boots which he never remembered to clean, and daddy's careless litter in making the fire. the light litter was easily disposed of, but the inevitable stain left by the melted snow upon the carpet occasioned an angry outburst from sorrel top, who did not see her young mistress just behind. "tom tinknor is a filthy fellow," said she, and i'm glad he's gone; he kept me cleaning up after him all the time, and now here's two more great spots to be scrubbed." "'tween you and me tom didn't make them are," said daddy indignantly. "he did, too." "he didn't nuther, i see mr. sherman set in that are very spot yesterday." at the commencement of the dispute, little wolf slipped away and sought refuge in her own room, and daddy embraced the opportunity to lecture sorrel top soundly. "'tween you and me, you've disgusted the honey," said he, "speakin so unrespectful of her friends." "she don't know nothing about it," said sorrel top. "'tween you and me she stood right behind you and heered the hull," said daddy triumphantly. "i don't believe it," said sorrel top, getting very red in the face. "i'll leave it to miss hawley," said daddy. mrs. hawley corrobarated the statement and daddy continued his lecture. "'tain't never best to speak disrespectful of nobody," said he, "i never du, except of them are liquor sellers, and sich low critters. 'tween you an' me, mr. tinknor is a very respectable young man; he told me he'd never drunk a drop of liquor in his hull life, except once when he had the colic, and it ain't likely he'll ever tech the infarnel stuff agin, for he ain't subject to colic, and if he should be tackled with it, i've told him how to doctor with hot plates and yarb tea. i advised him not to send fur no doctor, fur ten chances tu one, they would prescribe brandy. them doctors, as a general thing, don't know no better than to prescribe things fur young men that gits 'em in the habit of drinkin. i wouldn't hev the honey heard you run down mr. tom, as you did, fur no money. i hope this will be a warnin fur you to be oncommon keerful of that are tongue of yourn in futur." "i guess miss dewolf can tend to her own affairs without anybody's help," said sorrel top, not in the least dismayed by daddy's expostulations. "i wonder what has sot you agin mr. sherman, he is much more agreeable than tom tinknor, and i had rather clean up his dirt a thousand times, than so much as set a chair for that silly tom." "you never had no penetration, no how," said daddy contemptously, "if you ever marry you'll get a drunken loafer to wait on, no doubt." with this unkind prophesy on his lips, daddy got himself out of the sound of sorrel top's retort as quickly as possible, and, as he could whenever it suited him, make an errand to little wolf's room, he very soon made it convenient to start with an armful of wood in that direction. the fire was burning very briskly and little wolf sat before it in an attitude of deep thought, so daddy very gently put down the wood, and was going out, when his young mistress called after him. "daddy." "yes, honey." "daddy, i've been thinking of going for fanny green to-day." "'tween you and me, its a oncommon fair day, likely you wouldn't take no cold. "well, daddy, we will drive over for her, early this afternoon." the honor of riding with little wolf and the errand on which, they were going combined to form an occasion of deep interest with daddy who hastened down, eager to impart the information he had obtained. but, as only sorrel top was visible, and she in a fit of sulks, in the bringing on of which he had been instrumental, he delayed his important communication for a more appreciative audience, and contented himself with the performance of what he considered a solemn duty. "'tween you and me, its never best to pout," said he, "i've seen many a handsome face spiled by it." having administered this inflammatory admonition, daddy betook himself to the wood pile, where he pecked away with uncommon assiduity until he was called to dinner. putting away his ax with alacrity, he hurried into the house, with an air of a man of business, and soon, under the influence of a very palatable dinner, his tongue loosed more agreeably. "'tween you and me, the honey and me have been talkin the matter over," said he, "and we are going fur to fetch fanny this afternoon." "you ain't told us no news," said sorrel top, "has he miss hawley?" "i didn't go fur to tell no news, a man never expects to tell _women_ any news." daddy told this little fib good naturedly, although it was evident that he was the least bit annoyed. sorrel top delighted in view of daddy's discomfiture, and her temper restored, condescended to disclose the part she was to act in the matter. "i've just been fixing a bed for her in the little room inside of miss dewolf's," said she "and as it ain't at all likely she'll be very tidy, brought up as she has been in that old shanty, i expect to have to teach her to keep it in order." "'tween you and me, it's time i was gittin ready fur to fetch her," said daddy glad of an excuse to terminate the interview. little wolf was on the veranda when daddy drove up, for she was aware that her spirited little saddle horse, fleet foot, was as a general thing rather restive in harness. however, on the present occasion, his behavior was unexceptionable, and, in a few minutes, he was trotting off, the perfection of docility. it was about a half an hour's drive to mr. wycoff's the farmer in whose family fanny green was living, and it was not to be expected that daddy could by any means remain silent for that length of time, and as the subject most likely to interest his young mistress, he fixed upon fleet foot. "'tween you and me, fleet foot is oncommon stiddy to-day." "yes," said little wolf, absently. "'tween you and me hosses is like pussens, they ken be coaxed better than driv, fur generally speakin, coaxing brings 'em round when driving won't. it always makes my blood brile tu see a hoss abused, and the men that du it ain't much better than them are liquor sellers, and i have always said that they were the meanest of god's creation. 'tween you and me, if common folks had had the care of fleet foot, you couldn't do nothin with him. he's naturally as full of fire as an egg is of meat, and he's a very knowin hoss tu; the minute you're in the saddle he pricks up his ears, and dances off like a young colt, fur he knows you like fur to have him prance and show off; but when i back him, he knows just as well he's got a stiddy old man aboard. when i fust took him out this afternoon, he went a caperin and carcerin round, and one spell i cum mighty nigh not gitting harness on him, but laws if anybody ken manage a hoss i ken," and daddy unconsciously gave the reins a triumphant jerk, which instantly increased fleet foot's speed to what the careful old man considered an alarming degree, and by the time they had reached their destination, he was nearly out of breath, and had become quite nervous in his efforts to check the spirited animal. "'tween you and me, it wont du to keep fleet foot standing long in the cold," suggested daddy anxiously as little wolf was alighting. sharing daddy's anxiety little wolf stated to mrs. wycoff as concisely as possible, the object of her visit, and that individual brought the affair to a crisis in the following summary manner. "here's the girl, take her. fanny put on your hood, and that old cloak that was your mother's. mr. wycoff has given you to this lady, and she's in a hurry. now be quick." fanny's little white tear stained face fairly shone with delight, as she followed her new found friend to the sleigh. no alteration had been made in the mantle which was once her mother's, and daddy wrapped her carefully in its ample folds and stowed her away at his feet, and she looked her last upon a house where she had suffered, as ill treated, motherless children sometimes do suffer. from the day of her mother's death, she had excited daddy's earnest sympathy. he had seen her carried home by mr. wycoff, whom he knew to be a hard man, and fond of strong drink. mrs. wycoff had the reputation of being no better than her husband, and fanny's fate was generally commiserated when it was known that she was to be nurse and chore girl in that family. she had been there but a few months, however, when the infant under her charge suddenly sickened and died, and as she was too small and delicate to be put to hard labor, the family had no futher use for her. these facts coming to little wolf's knowledge through daddy, she had successfully employed him to gain mr. wycoff's consent to give the child up to her." there was a world of gratitude in fanny's sweet blue eyes, when occasionally she would modestly turn them up to little wolf as they rode in silence. daddy was to much absorbed in holding the reins to think of anything else, and as they neared the last long hill he drew a sigh of relief, "'tween you an' me, we're all right so fur," he said. the words were scarcely out of his mouth before they were half way up the hill. just on the brow they saw a two horse team, which as the road was narrow and the sides precipitous and rocky could only be passed with safety where it then was. imagine then the dismay of the little party as they saw the heavy sled descending, and the driver madly urging on his horses. daddy shouted at the top of his voice, little wolf sprang upon her feet and waved her handkerchief with all her might, and little fanny said dispairingly, "oh its mr. wycoff, he is drunk, oh he _will_ run over us." down, down, with fearful rapidity came the heavy team, the driver flourishing his whip and shouting dreadful oaths; while like lightning leaped fleet foot onward to his destiny. an instant more and little wolf had thrown fanny from the sleigh and leaped after her down the side hill. there was a crash, a prolonged neigh; fleet foot's death yell, as, for an instant, he hung suspended from the sleigh, which had caught on a projecting rock, and all was silent save the distant clatter of horses' hoofs and the faint hallos of the drunken maniac. at the moment of the collision, daddy had risen to his feet and was in some unaccountable way thrown uninjured into the road. although stunned and bewildered by the fall, his faculties gradually brightened and he was soon in a condition to survey the scene. on a ledge of rocks overhanging the precipice was the forlorn wreck of the once fanciful little sleigh. in the depths below lay fleet foot, stretched motionless upon the rocky bottom. the deep ravine into which he had been plunged ran angling, and formed the point, where by her presense of mind little wolf had saved herself, and fanny from almost certain death. at this point the hill was less steep, and the snow had fallen to a great depth, forming a bed as soft as down, and cushioning the very rocks. upon this capacious couch of unsullied whiteness, lay little wolf and fanny. powerless himself to render any assistance, daddy opened his mouth and there went forth a wail such as caused little wolf to start and shudder as she thought of what it might portend. but her worst fears were in a moment dispelled, as she saw daddy's anxious face bending imploringly over the bank. "honey" said he most dolefully. "yes, daddy." "'tween you an' me, you ain't hurt nun, be you?" "not very much, daddy, but when i try to rise i only sink deeper in the snow. hark! i hear the sound of bells." "well, now, if there ain't mr. sherman coming down the hill," said daddy delightfully. "'tween you and me, honey, that are mr. sherman will hev fur to help you git out. his legs is a heap longer than these old stumps of mine." chapter xxii. the rescue. the circumstances which had brought edward sherman so opportunely to the scene of disaster were simply these: on his way to call upon little wolf he had ridden round to hank glutter's saloon in order to leave a package of eastern papers, as an act of courtesy in return for previous favors from hank. as he pulled up before the door, mr. wycoff, urged by the proprietor, came reeling out with blood-shot eyes, and swearing that he would never leave the place without another drink. hank had some trouble in coaxing him on to his sled, and getting him started for home. having rid himself of his troublesome customer, he turned his attention to edward. "come in, mr. sherman," said he, "i am at liberty now. that man wycoff has been quite an annoyance to me of late. he has no control over his appetite, and consequently ought never to drink; but i can't refuse him, and it wouldn't mend the matter if i did, for he can easily get it elsewhere, and, perhaps, where no discrimination would be used, and he would become too much intoxicated to get home at all; but drunken loafers are not allowed to hang around here." "i have brought some papers which i thought you might like to look at," said edward taking no notice of what the other had said. "thank you, mr. sherman, you had better come in a while. i have just received some sherry said to be very fine. i would like your judgment upon the quality of the article." "another time, mr. glutter; i am in something of a hurry to-day." "well, just wait a minute," said hank, and he darted in and brought out a bottle and slipped it in the corner of the sleigh under the buffalo. "there," said he, "try it at your leisure, mr. sherman." "thank you, mr. glutter,--good day," and edward hastened to the home of little wolf. when informed by sorrel top that little wolf had gone to mr. wycoff's for fanny, his pride was at the moment piqued; for he well knew that she had reason to suppose that he would visit her that afternoon. since the memorable new year's eve, when leaning upon dr. goodrich's arm, she had so resolutely turned away from him, he felt that all was not right between them; and he had looked forward with longing impatience for the hour, when, once more alone with her, he could ask an explanation. although he was confident that she was then absent purposely to avoid him, alarm for her safety overcame every other feeling, and with a foreboding heart, he turned in the direction she had taken. from the top of the hill he saw enough to hasten him down to daddy, and from thence through snow and rocks to little wolf. "are you hurt, darling?" he said, eagerly grasping her hand. little wolf uttered an exclamation of pain and fainted. edward turned pale. "daddy," he shouted, throw down that bottle in the corner of the sleigh." "what is it you want fur to give her," said daddy, doubtfully. "it's wine; throw it down here quickly." "she won't tech the infarnel stuff." "she has fainted, you simpleton; give me the wine." "'tween you and me, there ain't no bottle here," said daddy, doggedly. "sprinkle a little snow in her face, and she'll come too." "daddy," thundered edward, completely exasperated, "throw down that wine, or i'll know the reason why." "the reason why, is," said daddy, deliberately, "there ain't no bottle in this ere sleigh--'tween you and me, this ere hoss of yourn is gettin mighty oneasy, i'm obleeged fur tu stand at his head every minute." "hitch him somewhere, daddy, and throw the buffalo over him--the bottle is under the buffalo, you'll find it and bring it." "no i won't bring it nuther," muttered daddy to himself." "i guess there's something the matter with miss dewolf's arm, she couldn't use it when she tried to get up," said a voice close behind edward. he turned and saw that the suggestion had come from fanny green, who lay a short distance off, cosily wrapped in the form of a little black bundle. "are you hurt, fanny?" he said. "o no, i'm not hurt a bit," she answered brightly. "i prayed that i might be saved, and i was saved." "i wish you would pray we might get safely up this steep place into the road," said edward. "miss dewolf is very little, replied fanny hopefully, "i guess you can carry her up. if my cloak was off, i think i could walk by myself." edward undid her cloak and stood her upon her feet. he then raised little wolf in his arms, and staggered a few feet in the snow, and laid her down again, almost discouraged. but as he could devise no other plan to rescue her from her unpleasant situation, he redoubled his efforts. he occasionally stumbled against rocks, and fell into drifts, but always so as to shield his burden from harm. daddy was stubborn in witholding the bottle, and little wolf at length awoke to consciousness without it. awoke to feel herself pressed close to edward's throbbing breast, to listen to endearing words, that warmed into new life and vigor the hope in which she had indulged. the hope, that possibly, through her influence, he might be persuaded to give up the only habit which marred his otherwise unblemished, character. "darling, darling, you are safe now with me," he whispered, as she unclosed her eyes; "were you hurt by the fall?" "only my arm, edward; it is very painful. i'm afraid it is broken--oh, put me down, the pain makes me faint." "i love so to hold you to my heart," he said as he let her slip softly on the snow, and examined the wounded member. "it _is_ really broken, just above the wrist," he said in surprise, how careless i have been!" edward was not skilful in surgery, but he did the best he could with pocket handkerchief bandages. little wolf nerved herself to bear the pain which every movement aggravated, and edward again lifted her up. "now, darling, we shall soon get to the top." "where is fanny?" said little wolf, suddenly remembering her protege. "o, she is somewhere, working her way along in my track," said edward. both looked back, and not far behind saw fanny kneeling with closed eyes beside a snow capped rock. her tiny hand, rough and red with cold and toil, clasped devoutly upon her breast, and her lips moved as if in prayer. the little black quilted hood she wore had fallen back, revealing soft golden hair, radiant in the slant rays of the declining sun, and upon her cheek a tear glistened like a dew-drop on a flower. "the tears came to little wolf's eyes. "poor little thing! she feels forsaken," she whispered, "let us wait and encourage her." while they were waiting a neighboring farmer happened along; a strong, stalwart man, who joined right heartily in helping them out of their difficulty. the first thing that edward did when he reached the sleigh was to search for the bottle of sherry. "strange," said he to little wolf, "mr. glutter certainly put a bottle of sherry here as i came along, and now it is nowhere to be found. i wish i had it for your sake." daddy glanced furtively at little wolf, who, suspecting the truth, murmured something about feeling better. "he ain't a goin fur to git none of that infarnel stuff down the honey," said daddy to himself, as the sleigh with edward, little wolf, and fanny disappeared down the other side of the hill. a consultation was next held between daddy and the farmer as to the probable condition of fleet foot, which was speedily ascertained by the latter who chanced to have a rope with him suitable for letting himself down to where he could test the case. scaleing the rocks with his temporary ladder, he returned the verdict "died of a broken neck." "i was pretty nigh sartin he was stun dead," said daddy, gravely. "i'm much, obleeged to ye, neighbor; i guess i'll go hum, bein i can't du nothin fur the poor critter.--i tell ye, neighbor, these are things takes right hold on me. fleet foot was a buster, and i sot heaps by him, and so did the honey. 'tween you and me, that cussed, infarnel liquor drinkin is at the bottom of a awful heap of trouble. if i could make the laws, the hull infarnel stuff would be handled like pison and pistols, ruther keerful." "wycoff is pretty well off, i guess he can be made to pay pretty heavy damages," said the farmer. "'tween you an' me, that ere is poor consolation. supposen the honey's neck had been broken, and the chances was agin her, what money du ye think could pay for her life? i tell ye what, the thing is all wrong, liquor makin and liquor sellin does mischief that no money can't pay fur." chapter xxiii. an indian messenger--frozen to death. the evening hour drew on. little wolf lay upon her bed feverish with pain. her arm was in bandages, and dr. goodrich stood by soothing and encouraging her. louise sherman having arrived, kindly relieved mrs. hawley, who embraced the opportunity to slip out and regale herself with a cup of tea. as she approached the kitchen, the sound of daddy's voice reached her ear, and the few words that she caught hastened her footsteps thither. "it was as much as ever i could du fur to hold fleet foot," he was saying as she opened the door. "go on, daddy," said mrs. hawley as he paused at her entrance, "i want to hear all about it." "wall, as i was a tellin sorrel top," he continued, "i was pretty nigh done out a holdin fleet foot, when we got tu that are long hill, fur i was a leetle afeared he might git the better on me, but the honey want, she ain't never afeared of nothin nor never was, but she was oncommon quiet, she hadn't spoke for a long time--when, all at once, jest as we was agoin up the hill, what should we see but wycoff's big team a tearin down like jehu. he was a swearin and a cussin and there want no dodging of him. i riz right up and hollered, and the honey riz up and hollered and shook her handkerchief, but it want no use. down, down it cum like lightning, sled and all. fleet foot got skeered with the hollerin and he jest _went it_. wall, the honey ketched up fanny in a jiff, and tossed her out, and was out herself afore i knowed it, and i was jest a goin fur to git out when the teams cum together kersmash, and i was pitched head fust clean over wycoff's sled inter the road, and would no doubt hev been killed but my time hadn't come. 'tween you and me, it is _foreordinated_ that we won't die till our time comes. fur you may pitch a man about, and break him all tu bits and he lives and gits well. but when his time comes, the prick of a pin will kill him and nothin on airth ken save him. wall, the fust thing i did when i found myself alive, was to look for the honey, and afore i hed a chance fur to help her, that are sherman happened along, and left me in charge of his hoss, while he went fur to fetch her. the fust thing i hearn was a great hollerin fur a bottle of wine that he had in his sleigh. wall, i took the infarnel stuff and slung it as fur as i could see and told him there want nun there." "miss dewolf would give you fits if she knew what you'd done," said sorrel top, "the wine want yourn." "wall, it was the devil's, and i slung it tu him," retorted daddy triumphantly, "that are sherman was riled, and i let him sweat, fur i want a goin fur to hev him pour pisen down the honey. no doubt, if he had gin it tu her, her blood would hev got heated and fever hev sot in. some folks don't seem to know nothin about them things," said the speaker darting a contemptous glance at sorrel top. "well, daddy, what happened next?" said mrs. hawley, soothingly. "i ain't a goin fur to tell nothin more tonight," said daddy decidedly. "if folks can't listen without interruptin me, they may wait till they ken," and he shot another meaning glance at the offending sorrel top. "i guess," said sorrel top with some asperity "you're not the only one that can tell me about it, is he fanny?" she said turning to fanny green, whom she discovered to have fallen fast asleep in her chair. "'tween you an me," said daddy rather dryly, "i guess you won't hear no more of that are story to-night." sorrel top's temper was slightly ruffled and she began to shake fanny rather roughly. "wake up, fanny," said she "wake up." "oh! mrs. wycoff, don't whip me," mourned fanny piteously, as she opened her eyes, "i didn't mean to go to sleep, but i was so tired." "don't you know no better than to treat a little motherless thing in that are way?" said daddy coming indignantly forward. "come here, fanny," and he took the child tenderly in his arms; "if anybody speaks a cross word to you in this are house, they'll git reported." by degrees fanny awoke, and was borne off to bed by mrs. hawley. scarcely had they gone when a new object of interest attracted daddy's attention. there was a slight rustling at the outside door, and in stalked a sturdy indian in blanket and leggins and soft moccasins, causing his firm tread to fall noiselessly, and giving daddy a superstitious start, as if he had seen an apparition. the red man stated in broken english that he had brought a letter a long way from the "lodge of the pale face, to the wolf squaw." daddy hastened to put the letter in little wolf's hand. it proved to be a rather lengthy communication from antoinette la claire, and as all were interested, at little wolf's request, louise proceeded to read it aloud. "fairy knoll, jan. th, --. my dear miss dewolf: a faithful indian, known for a long time to cousin john, has called here on his route to chimney rock and i embrace the opportunity to write to you, as it will probably be the last i shall have before spring opens. cousin john has fitted up a cosy little room for me in the loft. it is hung around with skins and blankets, and is made comfortably warm by the fire below. there is one little window from which i obtain a fine view of the "city of trees," which you used so much to admire. they are now shorn of their foliage, and snow and ice cover the branches, and, forsaken by their summer inhabitants, they stand and sadly moan day and night. but these mournful sounds pass unheeded, by the happy couple in this peaceful cottage. not a cloud has yet darkened their "honeymoon." all their hours are pleasant hours, and all their dreams are pleasant dreams. on these wintry mornings we rise rather late; after the sun has peeped in at the window a long time. cousin john goes out in the warmest part of the day to split rails, but, even then, he finds it convenient to take his brandy bottle with him. he is a firm believer in the efficacy of brandy to keep out the cold. but when, with the experience i have had, i see him in perfect strength and health, go out day after day with that little flask in his side pocket, i pray that it may never become a snare to him. yesterday morning, as he was about starting, i ventured to remonstrate with him. "cousin john" i said, "i would not take the brandy to-day, i do not think you will miss it." he laughed good naturedly, and turning to cousin maria, he said, 'maria dear, antoinette is concerned about my morals. shall i tell her of a certain lady who drained mr. sherman's wine bottle on her way to fairy knoll?" cousin maria blushed and said, "i am sorry john that i ever touched it. let us now mutually pledge ourselves never again to drink anything that will intoxicate." but cousin john only laughed, and kissed his young wife tenderly and went away to the wood, taking the brandy bottle with him. when he came home at night, and the supper was over, and he had, as usual, seated himself by maria and taken her hand in his, (at which signal i invariably become suddenly sleepy and am obliged to retire,) i stole away from the scene, and sitting down by my little window, looked out into the faint moonlight, and thought much and long upon the joys and sorrows of earth, but most upon its sorrows, for the "whole creation groaneth," and my own heart is always sorrowful. i do not know why, but it may have been, and probably was, because all the anguish and sorrow that has ever come under my personal observation, has been occasioned by that drink that "biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder," that the scene of the morning mingled with the thought of my cousins below eagerly quaffing their cup of bliss; the sweetest that earth offers to youthful lips. 'can bitter drops ever mingle there?' thought i. 'can the honey become wormword and gall, and every joy be forgotten? can the little speck that i thought i saw this morning on the horizon become a great cloud and overshadow us all?' in imagination i saw lovely cousin maria pale and faded, and careworn, and cousin john's noble and manly countenance bloated and brutish, as i have seen men become by the use of stimulating drinks, and involuntarily i threw up my hands and cried, 'is there none to help?' it may have been a morbid condition of the mind that wrought these sad fancies, and i am sure those who have never realized the danger of the cup would treat them lightly, but you dear friend, know that from just such beginnings the most harrowing sorrows have sprung. i know cousin john would smile if he knew what a serious matter i have made of a thing that he considers so trifling, and he is so good and kind to me, and his whole soul so free from vice, that i almost regret having put these thoughts on paper. but out of the fulness of my anxious heart i have written as perhaps i ought not. god grant that all my fears may prove groundless, and that the serpent's sting may never, never more through another's infatuation reach our hearts, or yours. i was at length aroused from my reverie by our indian visitor. i caught a glimpse of him just as he emerged from the woods, and before i could go down to announce his coming, he was within, and by his noiseless footfall had taken my cousins greatly by surprise. maria was smoothing her rumpled hair and looking rather annoyed at the unceremonious intrusion, while cousin john and his visitor were deep in the mysteries of "jargon," which being interpreted by my humble self was truly startling and shocking. he stated that two "pale faces," were lying a short distance off, frozen to death. his supposition was that they had indulged too freely in "fire water." cousin john immediately accompanied him to the spot, and found indeed two men cold and stiff in death, and the empty bottle found upon their persons gave evidence of the cause. the indian recognized one, having seen him with my dead brother, and said he was "no good pale face," and his name was prime hawley. they found in the pocket of the other an old letter addressed to "hiram green, chimney rock." you may possibly know something about the latter. "fanny green's father, and mrs. hawley's husband," ejaculated little wolf. "hark, louise," she added in a whisper, "they have heard it all." sounds of distress were heard in the adjoining room where mrs. hawley was engaged in putting her little charge to rest. both she and fanny had heard every word of the letter and the news of the unhappy death of the husband of the one, and the father of the other, burst suddenly upon them, and deep and tearless groans of mrs. hawley and fanny's heart breaking sobs mingled together. "put the letter away louise, _do_," said little wolf, turning her face away with a heart truly sick. chapter xxiv. a crisis--pride and folly. for weeks antoinette's letter lay in the drawer where louise had hastily thrust it, and no one had read it to the end. mrs. hawley's health, which had been feeble for a long time, rapidly declined after the news of her husband's death, and in a few days she took to her bed, and shortly after died. the sickness and death of a member of her family, combined with her own sufferings so absorbed the mind of little wolf, that at the time she thought of but little else. but when it was all over, and her arm had partially healed, she began to realize acutely the anomalous position in which the purpose she had formed placed her to edward. it is true he came every day, and always with words upon his lips that sent the hot blood to her cheek, and each time she strove in vain for courage to approach the subject upon which hung her destiny. it was no wonder that she thus halted; that her heart stood still at the bare possibility of losing its idol; for, orphaned and alone, beyond it she saw no light in her path; only fearful darkness like the shadows of death. there had been no word of explanation, and edward seemed to have forgotten that he had ever desired any, and he had settled into his former assurance. his mother had, of late, spoken to her confidentially of the time when, as edward's wife it would be her pleasure to relieve her of all troublesome cares; and little wolf listened in silence and in agony. she longed to unbosom her feelings but restrained herself with the resolve that she would, without delay, make them known to edward. in this state of mind she one day opened the drawer where lay antoinette's letter and taking it out sat down to read it. she found nothing of interest in the contents, except that which she had previously heard, until her eye caught the postscript at the bottom which read thus: "one day later. the indian stayed yesterday to assist in burying the dead. he has just breakfasted and will start in a few moments, and i hasten to tell you the good news. rejoice with me, all my fears are put to flight. last night my conscience told me that i ought to invite cousin john to read this letter. he looked so serious when he had done so, that i was afraid i had offended him. but this morning to my utter astonishment he handed me a total abstinence pledge, drawn up in due form, with his own name and maria's signed to it, and playfully bade me write my name with theirs. "for," said he, "antoinette, i intend in future to look well to the morals of my household, and see that they touch not, taste not, handle not, any beverage that will intoxicate." i burst into tears, and he said, "o well, if you feel so badly about it, you need not sign it," but he well knew they were tears of joy, and there would be no trouble about signing it. would that the head of every family in the land, might do as cousin john has done. then indeed, there would be rejoicing around many a fireside, where now sits sorrow and despair. in love and haste, "antoinette," little wolf sat pondering over what she had read, never dreaming that her lover was peeping in upon her through the half open door. but edward was to full of what he had come that day especially to say, to delay long, and he tapped lightly to attract her attention. little wolf welcomed him to her side, with the determination that she would then and there speak frankly upon the subject, which had so long pressed upon her mind. but edward had scarcely seated himself before he began in high spirits to speak of family arrangements. "louise and the doctor," said he, "have finally fixed upon their wedding, and darling," he said, lowering his voice, and speaking earnestly, "it remains for you to say whether or not, ours shall be at the same time. little wolf's pulse quickened almost to suffocation, but she controlled herself bravely, and placing her finger on the last passage in antoinette's letter, she said, "read that, edward." edward did as she desired, and again turned upon her a questioning look. "now, edward," said little wolf, smiling although her lip slightly quivered, "i am ready to set up house-keeping with you any time, provided you will put your name with mine to a pledge like that of which you have just read." although she had spoken playfully, edward saw she was deeply in earnest, and his pride kindled, as the truth flashed upon him. "darling," said he, reproachfully, "i may have given you reason once, in an unguarded moment, to fear for me, but i had hoped that that scene had long since been forgotten." "it will never more be remembered, nothing of the kind will _ever_ be remembered," little wolf hastened to say, "if i but have your promise." "well, then," said edward clasping her in his arms, "i promise." in due time little wolf disengaged herself and opening her writing desk, she drew him towards it, saying, "now, edward, you draw up the document, and we will both sign it. "what document do you wish me to draw up? is not my pledged word to love, cherish and protect you not enough, you little infidel?" said edward gayly." "it is my request that you draw up a pledge promising to abstain from all intoxicating drinks, and sign your name to it, and i will put mine to the same," said little wolf, in the same gay humor. "why, darling," said edward, in surprise, "my promise was all you asked." "o yes, your promise to sign a total abstinence pledge was all i did ask," said little wolf cheerily, "and now, all i ask is that you do as you agreed." "i did not understand it so," said edward, "but never mind, darling; now listen to me. would you, provided it were in your power, prevent my taking a harmless glass of beer in a warm summer day?" "well, edward, of course i would not wish to prevent your indulging in any _harmless_ enjoyment, but don't people sometimes get intoxicated on beer?" "only slightly elevated," said edward laughingly. "o, edward!" broke forth little wolf in agony, "i wish you could see this thing as i do but you cannot." there was silence for a few moments, which edward broke by saying, sympathizingly, "i know why you feel as you do, darling, and i do not wonder at it, but warned by my own, as well as the experience of others, i shall keep a strict watch over myself for your dear sake, and i assure you there is no danger of me." "then," said little wolf, despairingly, "i cannot persuade you to pledge yourself to total abstinence?" "no," said edward decidedly, his pride deeply wounded by her implied doubts of his inability to control his appetite, "if you feel that you cannot trust yourself with me after all i have said, i can say no more." had edward fallen dead at her feet, little wolf could not have looked at him more hopelessly. but edward was blind to her mute anguish, and mortified and impatient at her silence, and little dreaming of what her answer would be, he at length asked rather coolly, "do you really feel that you cannot trust your happiness with me?" little wolf struggled a moment for composure, and then bowed her head in the affirmative. edward's flushed face suddenly paled. "very well," said he proudly, and without another word abruptly withdrew. his quick, impetuous footsteps echoed through the hall; the front door opened and closed, and soon the distant tinkling of bells announced that he had really gone. as the lovely violet closes its leaves when the shadows of night gather round, so closed the flower, which, in the sunshine of love, had bloomed in the heart of little wolf. she neither wept nor made any other demonstration of sorrow, but as she sat silent and alone her lips grew firm, and her eyes brightened and the pupils expanded, and her whole being seemed rising up in supernatural strength to bear the blow. chapter xxv. the sleighing party--clara hastings--mother and son. on his way home, edward sherman found himself suddenly assailed by a chorus of eager voices, as he unexpectedly encountered a sleighing party of gay young friends. they were bound for a settlement near by, where rural festivities were in anticipation. as he reluctantly drew up alongside of the capacious establishment, where nearly a dozen ladies, (including his own sister), and about the same number of gentlemen were cozily stowed away, he was beset with urgent solicitations to join their company. the affair, they stated, had been gotten up on a short notice during his brief absence from the city, and his sister had been inveigled into it, with the expectation of meeting her brother, and particular friend dr. goodrich. but the doctor had given them the slip, and they could not, on any account dispense with his society. louise joined her entreaties with the others. "i will ride with you, brother," she said, if you will only go." "no, no;" objected the gentleman who sat next her, "i will propose a more fitting expedient. let mr. sherman close his eyes and throw a soft snow ball into the crowd, and upon whomsoever the ball shall rest, let her be transferred to his sleigh." the proposition at first occasioned quite a tumult, but finally all laughingly agreed to it. into their midst quickly flew the lump of glittering snow and rested upon the belle of the party, miss clara hastings, and edward in triumph bore off the crested prize. miss hastings, we have said, was the belle of the party, nor was this all; she was one of the most popular young ladies in the city of pendleton. her father, judge hastings, a man of talent, and high standing, had bestowed every advantage upon his only child, and she, petted and caressed in society as well as in the family circle, handsome and dashing in appearance, with spirits unbroken, gave life and interest to every amusement in which she was engaged. the turn the affair had taken was therefore as much regretted by her friends, as it was gratifying to edward, to have obtained so agreeable a companion. the lady herself did not appear in the least disturbed by the change. on the contrary, as they started off in advance of the rest, her smiling face indicated the satisfaction which she felt at the result; for from the first of her acquaintance with edward, she had conceived a decided partiality for him. "it will be nice to get there and rest and warm before the others arrive," she said, as they rapidly outdistanced the other sleigh. "yes, and have a little time all to ourselves," edward replied, in pretty much the same style in which he would have addressed little wolf, had she been by his side. miss hastings looked surprised and tossed her head proudly, freeing the plumes in her jaunty little cap of their snowy remains, and, as the soft particles showered upon edward, and pelting his cheek, he turned and looking her full in the face said, "those little ice bolts, miss hastings, serve to remind me of what a lucky individual i have been this afternoon." "have you always been lucky, mr. sherman?" said miss hastings waiving the intended compliment. a look of pain crossed edward's face, but he answered quickly, almost defiantly, "not always," and giving his horse a smart cut, he created such a jingling among the bells, that farther conversation was rendered impracticable, "the destination was soon reached, and, being joined by the remainder of the party, the evening hours charged with pleasure flew rapidly, to most of the assembled guests. but neither edward, nor miss hastings were in their happiest mood, and the latter complaining of a headache edward signified his willingness to conduct her home before the party broke up. again in the open air, her indisposition was relieved, and she chatted cheerily, and made herself so agreeable, that her companion really became quite interested, and, loth to part with her, as they drove up before her father's house, he proposed to prolong their ride. "it is early yet," he said, "and your head is so much better in the open air, would you not like to drive out of the city again for half an hour?" "o no, i thank you, mr. sherman," she said with a gratified smile," "the family are up waiting for me, and i would be happy to have you go in and see papa. he will treat you to a glass of superior domestic wine." edward went in and drank the wine, and spent a pleasant half hour. shortly after leaving he fell in with some friends, who invited him into another place where choice wines were kept, and he drank again and yet again, and finally went home quite exhilerated under the influence of stimulant. he found that his sister had arrived some time previously, and she and his mother, and the doctor were quietly seated around the center-table, and had been wondering at his non-arrival. "give an account of yourself, loiterer," said louise, playfully, as he joined the circle. "we had a fine time lou, did we not?" said he patting her cheek. "o, if by _we_ you mean yourself and miss hastings i suppose you did have a good time, but i did not enjoy myself a bit." "not a bit, are you quite sure? i thought i saw you smile very benignly on a certain young getleman, who objected to your riding with me." "an optical dulusion, brother, entirely so, i would have much preferred to have gone with you." "now i'll kiss you for that," said edward, suiting the action to the word. "o ned, what have you been drinking? your breath smells of _something_." "o, i went in and took a glass of domestic wine with judge hastings," said edward carelessly. mrs. sherman instantly took the alarm. "i am afraid," she said, that these domestic wines create an appetite for more hurtful drinks. don't you think so, edward?" "why no, mother. if every family kept a supply of pure domestic wine in the cellar, and were at liberty to drink when they pleased, there would, in my opinion, be much less drunkenness than there is at present. plenty of pure wine would soon do away with the adulterated liquors so common in public places and social drinking would become much more harmless than it is at present. i would advise you, mother, to keep up a vigorous correspondence with recta on the subject, about currant time next summer, for it is getting quite fashionable to manufacture your own wines." "mark my words, edward, the fashion will prove an injury to society; frequent indulgences in any drink that will intoxicate, it is well known, has always proved more or less fatal to the peace and prosperity of communities, as well as individuals. i can well remember the time when social drinking was practised in almost every family, and at all fashionable entertainments, and i well remember the consequences. the ruin it wrought cannot be told. it was wine in the cellar, and on the side board, edward, as well as stronger drinks that did the mischief. good men and brave, felt its effects and gave the alarm, and great efforts were made to put a stop to the evil, and thousands were reclaimed from drunkenness, but, of late years, the agitation has in a measure subsided, and the evil is again on the increase, insinuating itself into families in the form of domestic wines, which are generally supposed to be so harmless, but which are, in reality, the foundation of intemperance." "you cannot make people believe that mother." "the time will come when they will be forced to believe it, my son; for the free use of domestic wines in families, is not going to keep husbands, brothers and friends from the lager beer saloons where the feet of the unwary become so easily entangled. on the contrary, past experience proves that the taste for stimulating drinks acquired at home rather has a tendency to lead men to frequent such places." "but, mother, remember it is not the use of these things, but the abuse, that does the harm." "true, my son, but the use in nine cases out of ten, leads to the abuse, and it is strange that mothers and sisters will imperil their happiness for fashion's sake. i would rather that judge hastings had offered you an adder in the cup, than the drink which he did; for had you seen the poisonous reptile, you would have turned from it, but, hidden in the enticing wine, the serpent's sting fastens itself upon the vitals and its victim knows it not." o, mother, you are perfectly beside yourself on the subject. judge hastings is a man who, i make no doubt, has drank moderately all his life; and who among us is more vigorous in mind and body? it is all nonsense, the idea that a man must necessarily become a drunkard, because he occasionally indulges in stimulants." "ma, ma," broke in louise, who saw that her mother felt hurt, "you might as well hand edward over to the persuasion of miss dewolf. if anybody can convert him she can. the doctor says she becomes more beautiful and interesting every day. what do you think, ned? the doctor was there this afternoon while we were out sleigh riding; he confesses it himself. "i must bid you good night," said edward abruptly, and, quite to the surprise of the trio he withdrew without another word. his mother suspecting something wrong, followed him to his room, and with true motherly solicitude sought out the cause. "edward," said she, "when you were a boy, you used to confide all your annoyances to your mother. can it be that anything has been said this evening to wound your feelings?" "there are none that love like a mother," said edward, putting his arm tenderly around her neck, "and there is none in whom i can so safely confide as in you, mother, but manhood's griefs are not so easily soothed as boyhood's. it is not now a broken kite to mend, or a bruised finger to bind up, would it were; would that i had not lived to see this day." "why, edward, what do you mean?" "i mean, mother, that miss dewolf has refused to become my wife, and all because i would not consent to pledge myself to total abstinence from all liquors. i would not deceive her and bind myself to pursue a different course from that which i intend. my habits, i believe, are generally considered good, and if a woman cannot take me as i am, i would not ask her to take me at all." "o edward, edward," said mrs. sherman beseechingly, "do not let wounded pride, and self-will, come between you and the woman you really love, for i do assure you, young ladies like miss dewolf are very rare." "were she a thousand times more lovely and interesting, beloved more she could not be, but, mother, i shall never yield the point, and admit that i am incapable of controlling my appetite. when it suits me to take a social glass with a friend, i shall do it; and when i choose to decline it shall be of my own free will." "you are a free agent, certainly, edward, you may pursue the course you have marked out for yourself, and go through life a moderate drinker, and young men may point to you as you have to judge hastings, and make your escape an excuse for venturing in the same dangerous path, and thus go down to a drunkard's grave; or you may yourself venture to near the precipice, and before you are aware take the fatal plunge; for drunkenness, like death, generally takes the victim unawares. in either case your influence must inevitably act upon those with whom you associate, and you cannot escape the fearful responsibility. then judgment day alone will open the records of those who have been forever ruined through the influence of moderate drinkers, as well as the confirmed drunkard. the preponderating influence, however, lies with the moderate drinker; with such men as judge hastings; who, perhaps, have given the subject but little thought, and who having through a long course of years tampered without apparent injury, with the intoxicating cup, deem that others may do as he has done. "yes, and so they may, mother, if they choose. every man must answer for his own crimes and not for the crimes of others." "true edward, and if your neighbor become a drunkard, see to it that the sin lies not at your door." edward made a gesture of impatience. "mother" he said bitterly, "i am not in a mood to hear much more to-night. i am sorry that we do not think alike, but, as we never shall, perhaps the less said about it the better." mrs. sherman silently kissed her son, and, with a foreboding heart, withdrew to her own room. chapter xxvi. letter writing--daddy's nocturnal labors and early walk. there were two letters written by lamp light in the old brown house, the day edward left so unceremoniously. one was by little wolf to her confidential friend, mrs. tinknor. a few hasty hopeless lines traced upon the dainty sheet; a long glossy curl folded within and her task was done. the other, daddy addressed to the sweetheart of his youth, miss orrecta lippincott. he had for some time meditated opening a correspondence with the object of his early affections on the subject of matrimony, but the magnitude of the undertaking had hitherto deterred him; and, at last, he was only brought to the point by the encouragement of his young mistress. he had resorted to his regularly organized plan of loitering in her room under pretext of mending the fire, while he marked with admiration the easy movements of her pen. "'tween you and me, honey," said he, when she had finished, "i wish i could write like that. i've been wanting fur to write a letter fur sometime. little wolf, without the remotest idea of what the subject of the letter in contemplation was to be, said kindly, "well, daddy, you may sit right down here if you like, and use my pen and ink." daddy shuffled along hesitatingly towards the vacant seat. "tween you and me i'm afeared i shall make a very sorry job on it," said he, "i ain't writ none to speak on this forty year." "shall i write it for you daddy?" "o no, honey. i'll try myself, fust anyhow." "o well, i'll go down to the parlor and you shall have the room all to yourself." "i couldn't stand it no-how fur ter hev the honey laugh at the old man's foolishness," muttered daddy to himself, as little wolf slipped away, glad to be relieved of all responsibility in the matter, and feeling less perhaps like laughing at the old man's eccentricities than ever before in her life; and, indeed, it was a long time afterwards before she felt like laughing at all. in the hall leading to the parlor, she met sorrel top, who blushingly begged a private interview, which little wolf was too obliging to deny, although she panted to indulge her thoughts alone. the interview, however, did not detain her long. sorrel top had under consideration an offer of marriage and wished to ask advice which little wolf gave without a smile, or change of countenance. "well, sorrel top, if he is as you say a man of good habits, and loves you and you love him, i see no objection to your getting married as soon as you like." while sorrel top's affair was being thus satisfactorily disposed of, daddy was anxiously bending over the sheet, upon which he could not get courage to make the first mark. there he sat silent and anxious, looking vacantly first at the ceiling, then at the pen which stood exactly perpendicular between his clumsy fingers. at length in dispair he arose and began to walk the floor, and then for the first time he observed fanny green quietly playing with her pet kitten. "fanny," said he, "do you know how to write?" "o yes, daddy, a little; mamma taught me to make all the letters." "well, fanny," said he coaxingly, "come here and make a d for me; won't you? "'tween you and me i've forgot which side the plaguey quirl goes. here take this ere piece of paper, you might spile the sheet, and i'm mighty particular about hevin it in prime order." as she took the pen fanny suddenly began to distrust her memory. "maybe i've forgot myself, daddy;" rolling up her blue eyes to the anxious face bending over her. but she succeeded admirably in performing her task, which daddy duly approved, by declaring that the quirl was almost equal to the honey's quirls. his effort to copy it was also a success. "see here, fanny," said he pausing again, "you spell dear, d-e-r-e, don't you?" "o no, daddy, i spell it d-e-e-r. it's spelled so right under the picture of one in my book." "'tween you an' me, i don't mean that ere kind of a dear, fanny, i guess it's d-e-r-e, i mean. howsoever, i'll spell it so and risk it. now, fanny," said he, again dipping his pen in the ink, "you stand right here, fur there may be more letters that i've forgot how tu make, and if you'll show me, and help me fur to spell a letter, i'll mend your sled for you to-morrow." thus encouraged, the child, with visions of coasting in her pretty little head, combined wisdom with daddy's, who also had his visions, while he wrote as follows: dere orrecta. "mi hart has allers ben yourn, it is old now, but it ain't dride up nun. will yu marry me now iv got tu be a poor old man. if yu wil i wil cum fur yu on the fust bote. iv got a leetle muny lade up fur a wet day. i hev allers ben stidy, and never drunk anything in my hull life. if yu wil hev me let me no as quick as lightnin figerative speekin. your old flame, philip roarer chimney rock. minnesota territory." "'tween you an' me i reckon that ere is tu the pint, anyhow," said daddy, proudly folding the letter, upon which he had spent two hours of hard mental labor. "i wonder what keeps the honey away so long; it must be monstrous cold in the parlor. tom tinknor wont thank me fur lettin the honey git cold; bless her heart. that ere sled will git fixed to-morrow, you may depend on't, fanny, fur i shall feel fust rate;" and daddy capered out of the room as jolly as a half grown boy, with a plum pudding in anticipation. but, we will do him the justice to say, that there was a depth and earnestness of feeling in this life-long devotion, to which the ebullitions of youth can bear no comparison. how to break the matter to little wolf was daddy's next anxiety. he stood in mortal dread of the ridicule of his young mistress, but still felt that he ought to confide in her. after taking several fidgety turns before the parlor door, he finally resolved to make the _denouement_, and boldly face the consequences. but the condition in which he found little wolf changed the course which he had marked out. she had lain down upon the sofa where fearfully pale and cold and still, she rested, utterly prostrated by the events of the day. daddy had never seen such a ghastly look upon her face before, and the vague fear that life had fled horrified him, as he stood gazing at her in mute astonishment. at a movement of the slight little figure daddy was reassured, and he bent over her in tender solicitude, "o honey, o pet, be you sick? you look awful pale?" a groan escaped little wolf, and, with a long drawn sigh, she rose up languidly. "i don't feel quite well to-night, daddy," she said. "o, honey, you ought fur to have somebody to nuss you; old daddy don't know nothin about gals, and sorrel top don't know nothin about nussin neither. now here's the letter i've jest writ, if you feel able fur to read it, honey, you will see that i am tryin fur to git somebody here fur to take care of you suitable." daddy watched closely the effect upon little wolf, while she purused the letter, and as he discovered no symptoms of ridicule, he fairly worshipped her for her forbearance. "honey," said he, "what du you think on it?" "i don't know," replied little wolf absently, "i think on the whole it will do very well." daddy's face fairly shone. "i know'd you would agree tu it," said he, "you allers had uncommon penetration." little wolf sat shivering and silent, while daddy pronounced his eulogy, and the old man began again to be alarmed. "o honey," he broke forth, "what makes you so sick? the doctor said you was doin fust rate this afternoon. i guess i'd better go fur to fetch him right off." "o no, daddy, i'm only chilled; you may light me to my room." "sartin i will, honey, and i'll keep a fire fur you all night, fur i shouldn't sleep a wink nohow." true to his word, daddy diligently tended the fire, creating in little wolf's apartment a general disturbance by his nocturnal labors. had she been so inclined, sleep would have been impossible, while daddy's enthusiasm raged, for a series of disasters attended his most careful efforts. the bedroom door creaked, the stove door grated on its hinges, the shovel and tongs would rattle, and there was sure to be an occasional downfall of wood, which echoed through the lonely house like the voice of seven thunders. it was therefore quite a relief to little wolf when the grey morning hours began to dawn and daddy consented to seek a little repose, with the promise that he should not be allowed to over-sleep, "fur," said he, "i must start airly fur to post them are letters, and you won't mind a calling of me, honey, bein you had such a oncommon night's rest, fur i took particular pains not to disturb you." little wolf did not think it worth while to mention that she had lain awake the entire night, for there was then no counting upon the effect such a communication might have upon daddy's already over-wrought sensibilities. as it was, he left her, flattering himself that he had greatly contributed to her health and comfort, and, with an approving conscience, laid him down and slept. at the appointed time he was awakened by fanny, and rubbing open his eyes, he asked, "is the honey up yet?" "o yes, daddy and we've all had breakfast, and i've got my sled all ready for you to mend," said fanny cheerfully. "why yes, fanny, i know i promised fur tu mend it; but, 'tween you and me, i've got fur to go to pendleton first." howsoever, i'll fix it afore night." fanny looked rather grave. "'tween you an' me, i'm sorry fur tu disappoint you, fanny, but the honey would be wuss disappointed if i did not post her letter." "yours too, daddy, you musn't forget it," said fanny thoughtfully. notwithstanding fanny's exhortation daddy actually forgot both letters, having neglected to take them from his pocket when he changed his coat, imagine then his consternation, when, having arrived at the post-office and rummaged his pockets in vain he discovered his mistake. at this critical juncture young sherman and dr. goodrich, arm in arm, happened to drop in at the office, and daddy, for reasons of his own, pounced upon the latter and held him fast. "doctor," said he, "'tween you an' me, was you a going fur tu see the honey to-day? she was took very poorly last night. i was afeared she was clean gone one spell." "did miss dewolf send for me, daddy?" said the doctor uneasily regarding the grip that the old man had fastened upon his coat sleeve. "why no, doctor; she sent me fur to mail some important letters, and i actually left 'em at home in my tother coat. one of 'em was fur to go tu miss tinknor; 'tween you an me the honey is mighty fond of miss tinknor. i'm kinder calculatin the old lady will be the honey's mother-in-law some day." the start which edward gave at this announcement was perceptible to both daddy and the doctor. the former, not relishing such a demonstration of interest from so questionable a source, inwardly resolved to put to flight the false hopes by which he imagined the young man was agitated. casting a side long glance at his intended victim he added, "mr. tom is a very uncommon fine young man; he is stidy; he never drinks nothin. the honey has know'd him allers; they played together when they was children and has allers been uncommon attached. tom particularly requested me fur tu take good care of her while he was gone, and i ain't no doubt if the good lord was fur tu take her away it would nigh about break his heart." the doctor, conscious that edward did not relish the subject, and anxious himself to terminate the interview, waved the matter, simply saying, "i shall be going that way by-and-by, daddy, and will call upon miss dewolf if i have time." on this assurance daddy's grasp readily relaxed, and his prisoner, taking advantage of this favorable symptom, made his escape. chapter xxvii. doing and getting good--wycoff's reform. the day was mild and spring-like, and daddy had not been long gone, when the snow began to yield to the soft touches of the sun's bright rays. fanny stood by the window and sighed, and wished audibly that the sun would "put on a veil." the wish and manner so entirely foreign to the child's naturally cheerful and contented disposition attracted little wolf's attention. "why fanny, do you complain of this lovely day?" she said, in surprise. "o no, miss dewolf, but i was afraid the snow would all melt away before my sled was mended, and i love so much to be out of doors coasting." "how would you like to take a walk with me?" said little wolf, willing to amuse the child, for whom she had already conceived a warm affection. "o i would like it ever so much," said fanny, joyfully. "now where shall we go, fanny?" said little wolf, as they started out. "why, i don't know," said fanny hesitatingly; "when mamma used to take me out, she said we must go somewhere where we could do good. sometimes we went over to old mrs. peters'; she is sick all the time, and has no one to help her except her grandson, charley. mamma used to make her bed, and read the bible and pray with her, and comfort her all she could. poor mamma often wished she could carry her something nice to eat, but we hadn't hardly anything to eat ourselves. may be you wouldn't like to go there, though?" said fanny, doubtfully. little wolf hesitated. "she used to know your mamma," said fanny, "and she said that mrs. dewolf was one of the kindest friends she ever had." "we will go there, fanny," said little wolf decidedly their way lay over the very hill where occurred their disastrous collision with mr. wycoff; about half a mile from the foot of which, on a cross road, lived mrs. peters. fanny ran joyously on before, occasionally turning back to call little wolf's attention to a squirrel, or a bird, never dreaming that her companion was less interested than herself. in this way they reached the top of the hill, and began the descent, when suddenly fanny began to look grave and loiter beside little wolf. at length she spoke in a subdued whisper, "there lies poor fleet foot, miss dewolf; he will never breathe again." little wolf sank upon a rock by the wayside, and hid her face in her hands. she thought and said aloud, "o, why was i spared to be so wretched?" fanny burst into a flood of tears. "what would have become of me if you had been killed?" she sobbed. surprised at this demonstration of affection, little wolf looked up and drew fanny towards her. the child's words, she knew not why, had consoled and strengthened her. "fanny," said she, "everybody must have something to live for, and i have you" "o yes, mamma used to say we must all live to do good," said fanny, brightening. little wolf rose and struggled bravely to choke down her rising feelings, for just then she was comparing the bright voyage of life, which she had so lately pictured for herself, with the dark and stormy reality. at that moment, when she would have scorned to indulge in pusillanimous grief, her noble spirit recognized and bowed in willing obedience to the sublime principle involved in fanny's life-inspiring words. "well, fanny," she replied, "if i do live, i hope it will not be in vain. i'm afraid i've been very wicked and selfish all my life." "o, miss dewolf i'm sure you are the _bestest_, _preciousest_ woman next to my mother, that i ever saw in all my life." fanny made this declaration with the air and assurance of one whose years had embraced a century; but at that moment, an object met her eye, which reminded her that she was but a helpless child. "o, there is mr. wycoff!" she exclaimed suddenly, as the rough farmer was seen coming up the hill. fanny trembled violently, for she feared this man. but little wolf, constitutionally brave, in her present state of mind feared nothing, composedly seated herself again upon the rock. the farmer advanced slowly, and recognized little wolf with a bow, and reassured fanny with a cordial "how are you, fanny?" then, as he observed traces of tears on fanny's cheek, and little wolf's sad look and mourning dress, he stopped short. "now miss dewolf," said he, bluntly, "i may as well say it first as last, i did not mean to run over you that day, but i had been drinking, and did not know what i was about. whatever you say is right, i will pay you, for i have felt mean about it ever since; 'specially as you haven't made any fuss about it." little wolf appeared noble indeed, as she feelingly replied, "mr. wycoff, i would cheerfully make the same sacrifice again, if by that means i could persuade you never to taste another drop of intoxicating drink." "o, i cannot agree to that," said wycoff, "but i shall do the fair thing by you, for you have acted like a lady." then little wolf, with a sudden impulse, arose and stepped forward, and began to plead earnestly and eloquently with the man to give up the use of the intoxicating cup. nor did she plead in vain. the strong man at length yielded to her persuasions; persuasions around which hung the fragrance of the bruised heart, from which they emanated; touching, irresistible. inspirational hours are often the fruit of anguish unutterable. the suffering soul begins unconsciously to feel upward, and, at the propitious moment, heaven appoints its work. thus little wolf received her mission, which, with characteristic energy she delayed not to fulfil. his word having been pledged to total abstinence, wycoff turned back towards home. "i was only going to the brewery to meet a few friends," he said, "and if i don't drink with them i may as well keep away." he walked along with little wolf and fanny as far as the cross road, and when they parted, again renewed his vow right heartily. "never fear, miss dewolf," he said, "i shall never taste another drop of liquor, so help me almighty god." "there, now we are _certain_, ain't we, miss dewolf? for he asked god to help him. o, i'm so glad, i'm so glad you have lived to do good," said fanny, as the farmer passed on. fanny was exuberant. her little heart overflowed, and, at intervals during the remainder of their walk, "i'm so glad, i'm so glad," rang out on the still air in sweet, childish accents, mingling with the songs of spring birds, and echoing through the lonely woods. arrived at the cottage, they met a warm welcome from mrs. peters. for many years, widowed and bed ridden, she had lingered in pain and poverty. her grandson charley, a bright, active youth, orphaned at an early age, had, since the death of his mother, been her constant companion and faithful nurse. he was her pride and her delight, and she in turn shared his warmest affections. it was beautiful indeed to see the noble-hearted boy yielding all his young strength in providing for her wants. his small earnings at wood cutting, combined with the charity of a few kind hearted neighbors, had during the winter, kept them from absolute want. no wonder, then, that the ambitious youth, anxious to escape the pinches of poverty, was eager to accept a situation in hank glutter's saloon, that morning liberally offered by the proprietor in person. no wonder that, grieved and disheartened by the opposition of his grandmother, he met little wolf and fanny, (who had interrupted their discussion of the matter), with a downcast countenance. conscious that his manner had been observed, the old lady hastened to apologize, "my charley is feeling quite badly just now," she said. "mr. glutter called here this morning on the way to one of our neighbors, and offered him a clerkship. he will call soon for his answer, and i was just telling charley that i was unwilling to have him go where he would be exposed to so many temptations." "grandmother needs the money," said charley, "and it is for her sake i want to go. she needn't be afraid of my getting bad habits." "well, charley, we will talk about it again bye and bye," said the old lady, soothingly. "but there's mr. glutter, now, grandma," said the boy springing to the door, "do let me tell him that i will go, _do_ grandma," he begged with painful earnestness. "do as your grandma think's best, and you will not be sorry," said little wolf in an undertone as hank approached the door. "well, my man," said hank with great assurance. "i must do as grandma says," and charley threw the door wide open. at sight of mrs. peters' visitors, hank gave a start of surprise, but quickly recovering himself, he bestowed upon each a gentlemanly greeting, and without futher ceremony, plunged into the business upon which he had come. "well, mrs. peters, have you decided to accept my offer?" "you are very kind and generous, mr. glutter, and i thank you," said the old lady, anxious to soften her refusal; but too honest to give any except the true reason, she continued, "the truth is, i do not like to have charley go where the influence will be so unfavorable to his becoming a good, sober man." had she studied to make it so, mrs. peters' guileless reply could not have been more inflammatory to hank's temper, for, like others of his class, he was peculiarly sensitive to any reflection cast upon his business. his eyes flashed, and his lip curled scornfully, but having in mind little wolf's presence, he responded smoothly enough, "very well, mrs. peters. good morning; good morning, ladies," and bowed himself out of the room. mrs. peters drew a sigh of relief, but poor charley, after struggling a moment for composure, left the apartment with quivering lip, and little wolf soon caught a view of him through the window, wiping his eyes with his coat sleeve. "poor dear charley," said his grandmother, "it comes hard on him now, but, god willing, i hope he will live to thank me for it." little wolf rose hastily. "i must go out and have a little talk with charley," she said. "she is just like her father," said mrs. peters, as little wolf flitted from the room, "when he first came to chimney rock he was a princely looking man. "o, she is the beautifulest lady i ever saw," was fanny's enthusiastic rejoinder. "i have understood that she is very gay and fashionable since she came from boarding school." fanny was at first rather doubtful as to what construction to put upon the reports which had reached the ears of the old lady, and she hesitated to endorse anything of the nature of which she was not quite clear; but she finally compromised the matter by saying, "if it is very good to be gay and fashionable, then she is, for she is nothing else but good." "well, if she is only a humble, devoted christian like her mother, i shall be satisfied," sighed mrs. peters. fanny had by this time come to the conclusion that gay and fashionable was only another name for superior goodness, and she answered accordingly. "why, mrs. peters, she is really a very gay, humble, fashionable, devoted christion. she is gooder than her mother, for she never took me away from bad people as she did." not deeming it worth while to enter into any troublesome explanations, mrs. peters determined to suit her language to the child's comprehension, said simply, "well, i hope she loves god, and will teach you to love him too." "o, she does love god, mrs. peters. i heard her speak to him ever so many times last night, and i was teached to love him before she had me," said fanny very seriously. at this instant the object of their conversation made her appearance followed by charley, whose countenance exhibited quite a different aspect from that which it had worn a short time previously. little wolf had successfully held the cup of consolation to him in the form of a present and a promise, and she was now about to take her leave, but mrs. peters detained her. never came one into her presence that she allowed to depart without first satisfying herself as to whether, as she expressed it, they had "got religion." now, it was her belief that pure and undefiled religion before god is this: "to visit the widow and fatherless in their affliction, and to keep ourselves unspotted from the world." an intimate acquaintance with the book in which these sentiments are to be found, had quickened her perceptions as to their true meaning, and, as by that standard she gave judgment, it was not easy to deceive her. highly as little wolf had risen in her esteem, and highly as fanny had eulogized the piety of her young benefactress, there yet remained a doubt in the old lady's mind as to the entire soundness of her religious principles. a straightforward question while she still held little wolf's hand in her parting grasp, "dear child, i know you visit the widow and fatherless in their affliction, but do you keep yourself unspotted from the world?" the innocent rejoinder, "i do not quite know what that means, 'to keep yourself unspotted from the world,'" resolved her doubts. "well, dear child, read your bible carefully and you will find out all about it," exhorted mrs. peters, "i might give you my opinion, but it is better to get your ideas fresh from the fountain head. you will find that those spotless robes hang very high, but not beyond the reach of the arms of faith." our heroine went away deeply pondering the words of her newly found friend. chapter xxviii. daddy's soliloquy--a beer-soaker--a knock down argument--a present for little wolf. "i guess that ere sherman won't be a hanging round the honey no great deal after this; if he does i'll put another flea in his ear fur i ain't a going fur tu see her throwd away on no beer-soaker." thus soliloquized daddy, as he watched with evident satisfaction, the hurried departure of the young gentleman, whom, when we last left him he had just released from his inevitable trap. a horrible oath sounded in daddy's ear, and he lay sprawling on the pavement. "call me a beer-soaker again will you," and out rolled another oath, but daddy did not hear it. the fall had stunned him, and he was taken up insensible. absorbed in the subject which was agitating his mind at the time he received the blow daddy had raised his voice to a high pitch, and, "beer-soaker," rang out loud and clear, reaching the ear of a passer-by, who, being pretty well soaked in the beverage mentioned, or in something stronger, resented the imagined insult after the manner described. proud of his achievement, which he had just sense enough to see was not generally approved by the crowd that had gathered round, daddy's assailant proceeded defiantly to defend his cruel deed. "he'd better never say beer-soaker to me again, the cursed scoundrel, nor look it either, curse him. let any man in this crowd say that he didn't deserve what he got, and i'll---- "you'll come right along with me, my friend," and the foolish boaster was marched off by the city authorities, whom from past experience, he well knew it was useless to resist. this same man, now led away amid the exertions of daddy's friends, had gone out from his humble home that beautiful sunny morning with the solemn promise on his lips to keep sober for that one day at least. his hopeful long-suffering wife had watched lovingly his receding footsteps, as in days, when a fond husband and father, he always returned sober. all day long she went trustingly about her work with kind glad words to her little children, whose pleased surprise to receive, as of old, their father's fond caress, she delighted to imagine. but alas! it was the old story. the man's will was too weak to withstand the pursuasions of drinking companions, and the tempttations of the liquor seller. he yielded, and, when once he had got the taste, wife and children and all were forgotten. at a late hour that night the little ones were put sadly away to bed; the supper table, spread in joy, was cleared away in sorrow, and the wife and mother was again doomed to wait, and watch, and weep. but let us return to daddy. stretched on a couch of suffering he lies; impatient, vociferous and generally unmanageable. "hurry up that ere doctor afore i die," he exclaims; "hurry him up i say. lord, that ere pain in my shoulder; now its in my long ribs; now its in my short ribs; i ken feel it clare down to my heel cord and toe cord. take away that ere infernal brandy," he cried, raising his voice to its highest pitch, "ye don't spose i want fur to drink pison, do ye, when i'm most dead already?" "but it will strengthen you, daddy," said the attendant soothingly. "it won't nuther. it will set me all on fire and i'll mortify afore the doctor gits here." when dr. goodrich at length made his appearance, there was then enacted a scene, if possible, still more uproarious. poor daddy winced and groaned at every touch, and oftimes, commanded his physician to desist in his examinations of the injured parts. "don't! hold on there doctor, you'll yank me all to bits. there; stop that yanking; for the lord's sake, doctor, hold on there." "i am holding on, daddy," said the doctor very firmly, as he mended the dislocated shoulder. the necessary surgical operation performed, and an opiate administrated, with the assurance that no serious results were to be apprehended, and daddy's mind and body were soon at rest. meantime, in happy ignorance of daddy's accident, little wolf and fanny plodded homeward; the former deeply absorbed in thought, the latter blithe and airy, singing with the birds, and tripping and slipping in the dissolving snow. the exuberance of fanny's delight, however, began perceptibly to wane as they were about repassing the spot, where, a few hours before, they had paused to mourn and lament. again she loitered by her companion's side, again she sighed, "poor fleet foot;" but not again did little wolf yield to her feelings. her tearless eyes looked straight forward, and she hurried by the frightful gorge, where lay the remains of her high-mettled and much loved pet. on the brow of the hill she paused in surprise, for again she saw wycoff with his face turned towards the brewery. on the present occasion he was mounted upon his favorite horse black hawk, and, having overtaken hank glutter, the two men were engaged in a conversation which we will here transcribe. "how are you, wycoff? bound for the brewery this fine day?" "why no, mr. glutter, i have about made up my mind that you have got your share of my hard earnings this year, i guess i'll pay up my debts and keep clear of the brewery, and see how i'll come out about this time next spring." "why, i thought you were doing well enough, wycoff," said hank, uneasily. "i'm sure your bill at the brewery is not large, considering." "o, i don't complain of the charges, mr. glutter. as miss dewolf says, money is not the only thing you part with at a drinking saloon." "o, you're being nosed about by miss dewolf, are you," said hank contemptuously. "i had as leif be nosed by a fine lady, as by a saloon keeper," said wycoff, drawing himself up in his saddle. "d----m the fine lady," said hank between his closed teeth, "i'll attend to her case." "shame on the man that will threaten a lady," said wycoff hotly. "when women stoop to interfere with men's business, they must take the consequences, wycoff. shall i tell you what was done to a woman who went whining around trying to raise a prejudice against a respectable liquor dealer in the place where i once lived? one dark night her house was pretty well pelted with stones and brickbats. the windows and doors were broken in, and i do not know what the enraged crowd would have done had she not made good her escape." "a low cowardly set, to attack a defenceless woman," said wycoff, "but i've drank enough myself to know that under the influence of liquor, men will do almighty mean things. every time i've passed the place where fleet foot lays, i have tried to make up my mind to give up drinking, and pay miss de wolf for the horse, like a man; and to-day i've come to the sticking point; i have promised to give up liquor, and in a few minutes i shall present black hawk to miss dewolf." "well, she had better mind her own business after this," said hank with a sneer. "she has cheated me out of getting a first-rate clerk this morning. i will not brook her interference in my affairs. let her beware, or i'll make this place too hot for her." wycoff's eyes flashed, and he extended his clenched fist towards hank. "you will, will you?" said he defiantly; "now listen, you glutter. if ever you attempt to harm that lady, i swear to you that this fist of mine shall batter your brains, and on black hawk she shall ride over your lifeless body." black hawk pawed and snorted and turned his firey black eyes very wickedly upon hank, as if to enforce his master's threat. he was a most magnificent animal; coal black, his silken coat, now curried with special care, shone resplendent in the noon-day sun. as wycoff rode off, hank muttered to himself, "she shall never ride that horse." half an hour later, hank had the mortification of beholding little wolf flying past his door seated, like a little queen, upon black hawk's back. "she shall never ride that horse again," said the enraged saloon keeper, with an oath. wycoff had great difficulty in pursuading little wolf to except his present. indeed she only consented when she became convinced that he would be seriously displeased by her refusal. further to gratify the giver, she took her first ride under his immediate supervision; and, at his request, she had followed the road by the brewery, making a circle of about a quarter of a mile. "now that's what i call neatly done," said wycoff, as little wolf drew up, and leaped from the saddle. "you are the first lady that ever backed black hawk," he said, patting the animal's neck. "the fact is, i had my doubts about your being able to ride him at all. i was afraid i would have to sell him and get a gentler beast, and i hated to do that, for i have raised him from a colt. as a general thing, he won't allow a stranger to come nigh him. i had to ride him myself at the races last september, for everybody was afraid of him. i won five hundred dollars on him though. i guess i had better stable him now; hadn't i? i'll be up here early to-morrow morning to see how daddy gets along with him. i reckon the old man won't dare to go nigh him till he gets used to him." chapter xxix. a chapter of accidents and deliverances. little wolf was glad to see black hawk led away, for she was now thoroughly weary. the events of the last twenty-four hours had worn upon her; and the cozy fire and warm dinner, which awaited her within, were duly appreciated. an hour later, nestled upon the parlor sofa she was burried in profound slumber. fanny moved softly about the room, tiptoeing occasionally to the window to watch for daddy. towards night he was brought home on a stretcher, comfortably arranged in a large sleigh, dr. goodrich accompanying him. the first intimation that little wolf had of their arrival was a loud ring at the door, which suddenly roused her from dreams, in which she was living over again the happiest moments of her life. it was some little time before she could collect her scattered thoughts; but daddy's roarings and vociferations at length brought her to a realizing sense of her responsibilities. although assured by his physician that his hurts would in a few weeks at furthest all be healed, the old man was not content. he had a lurking infidelity in regard to the opinions of the medical profession generally, and, as soon as dr. goodrich had departed, he confided to little wolf his fears. "'tween you and me, honey," said he, "them ere doctors hev been knowd to tell a pussen that he was a goin fur tu git well, and just as that pussen had made all his calculations fur tu live, (and may be git married), the fust thing he knew, he would be a dead man. now 'tween you and me, its my opinion, i shan't live twenty-four hours, fur i feel awful gone like." "o, its the opiate that makes you feel so, daddy. i shall nurse you up and you'll get well and marry, what's her name?" "recta," said daddy brightening. "recta, miss orrecta lippincott. may be, honey, with good nussing i shall make out fur tu stand it. 'tween you and me, there's nuthin like good nussin, after the bones is all set proper." his wise young nurse did not think it worth while to remind the invalid that not one of his bones had been broken, but she assiduously set herself to work to meet his accumulating wants. with liniments and bandages, and cooling drinks, and consoling words, she stood patiently over him, until near the midnight hour, he fell asleep. shading the lamp, so that scarcely a ray of light was visible, little wolf curled in behind the window curtain, where she could peep through the crevices of the blinds out on the distant stars and ever shifting clouds, which in the solitude of the night, speak so eloquently to the human heart. calm and cold was the still hour. the warm, thawing winds had ceased to blow, the eaves had ceased their droppings and were beautifully fringed with icicles. the snow had become crusted over, but so slightly, indeed, that the lightest footfall would crush the treacherous coating, and the cracking of the icy fragments betray the presence of prowlers. by such sounds as we have described, little wolf's meditations were at length disturbed. indistinctly at first, but soon with unmistakable clearness, she recognized approaching footsteps. daddy's room overlooked the stable, and in that quarter, a human figure was just visible. slowly and stealthily it drew near; and now with dilated eyes and quickly beating heart, the watcher peered eagerly into the darkness. nearer, and still nearer the form approached, until close against the house, just where she could conveniently note every motion, it paused. a moment of suspense, and a small flame shot up revealing hank glutter in the act of firing the house. quick as thought little wolf sprang for her pistol, which to gratify daddy she had stored in his room; and hiding it in the folds of her dress she flew to meet the incendiary. during the few seconds consumed in reaching the spot, hank had disappeared, and having strong suspicions that he meditated mischief to black hawk, little wolf scattered the pile of slowly burning faggots, (the fire not having yet communicated itself to the building), and made a dash for the stable. hank was there just in the act of lighting a match. he had completely surrounded black hawk with hay and straw, and, in an instant more, the helpless animal would have been enveloped in flames. "mr. glutter, the brewery is on fire!" shouted little wolf breathlessly. the match fell from hank's nerveless hand, for he saw through the wide open door that the announcement was but too true. to spring past little wolf and rush to secure his property, was his first thought. but he was too late. neither he, nor all the crowd that quickly gathered there, could stay the consuming element. the old brewery burned to the ground, and, for miles around the country was illuminated by what to many a poor broken-hearted woman, was a grand and festive bonfire. among the first who discovered the conflagration was wycoff, and he was much relieved, on ascertaining the precise location of the fire; for he had started out filled with apprehensions for little wolf. to his great satisfaction, the old brown house stood out in full relief, unharmed. a critical survey of the premises, however, discovered to him the stable door standing open, and, by the brilliant blaze, he could distinctly see black hawk, pawing and floundering in the midst of the hay which hank had arranged for his funeral pile. quite as distinctly from the upper window could little wolf see the former, and she hastened to make him acquainted with her narrow escape and claim his protection. while he listened, the man's worst passions were aroused. there was murder in his heart, and, but for the entreaties of little wolf, another day would never have dawned upon hank glutter. as for hank; having the bitter consciousness that he had brought the calamity upon himself, he raved and swore like a mad man. to all questions as to the cause of the fire he had but one answer, "i suppose i must have left the confounded lamp too near the bed." this admission was invariably followed by oaths and curses, as he passed up and down before the burning building. how different were daddy's emotions! it was amusing to behold him bolstered up in bed, exultant to the highest degree. his old wrinkled face fairly shone with delight, and he frequently ejaculated as he watched the progress of the flames, "thank the lord god almighty, for that dispensation!" as the light began to die away, he turned to little wolf and whispered confidentially. "'tween you and me, honey, if i should happen fur tu hev any children, recta wont feel any consarn about the boys gittin to drinking, now that ere old brewery is out of the way. some folks say if a man is tu be a drunkard, he'll be one any how; but if there's no liquor, i'd like fur to know how he is going fur tu git it? i guess nobody ever got burnt that never see a fire." chapter xxx. another saloon scene--the bridal trousseau--the lovely nurse. as hank glutter's was unfortunately not the only saloon in the world, we will now open the scene on another place of the same sort, not many miles away from the smoking ruins; a place, where, for various reasons, men did congregate; some to gratify a vitiated appetite, others simply to indulge in a social glass, and still others because they had no where else to go; some because they were glad, and some because they were sad; each and all forgetting the words of the wise man, "look not upon the wine." the door had just opened to admit a small party of young men. among the number is edward sherman. there he stands, a little apart from the rest, just under the chandelier. directly opposite, the shelves glitter in bohemian and cut glass, and all the attractive features of the bar. mark his proud and lofty bearing, as he steps forward and lifts the goblet to his lips. again, and yet again, the cup goes round, until no longer he stands firmly among his companions. see him now, reeling, tottering, staggering, as he is borne away for the first time in his life, helplessly intoxicated, borne to his loving mother, whose grey hairs blanched whiter in that night of sorrow. in a desperate mood young sherman had permitted himself to be thus overcome, and, when the effects of the stimulant had worn off, he strove by the most affectionate attentions to make amends for the pain he had occasioned his mother. he even went so far as to bend his proud spirit to offer something like an apology. "mother," said he, as he placed his morning kiss upon her care worn face, before going to his office, "do not worry; i shall not again forget myself. it was foolish, i know, but i cared not at the time what became of me. now don't worry. there is no danger of me." mrs. sherman sighed as the door closed on her darling. "so like his father," she murmured. could she have seen him an hour later, the resemblance to his father might have struck her still more forcibly, for the social glass was again at his lips. fortunately for the dear old lady, there were other claims upon her attention, and, from a sense of duty, she strove very hard to bury her anxiety for her son in the folds of silk and laces which were to constitute the wedding paraphernalia of her daughter. lacking independence of thought, that young lady relied almost entirely upon the opinion of others, and the consequence was that not a ribbon, or a flower met her approval until she had first consulted half a dozen young friends, who, being apt to differ, kept her mind in a perpetual tumult. the mooted question on the morning before mentioned, was the exact length required for the bridal veil, her confidents all differed in opinion, and, in despair, she appealed to her mother. "mamma, isabel thinks the veil is two inches too long, and clara says it is only half an inch, and caroline says it is just right. now what do you think?" "why, it seems to be entirely a matter of taste, my dear; perhaps you had better put it on and ask the doctor's advice." "o, mamma, the doctor knows nothing at all about the fashions, and if he did, he would not follow them i know," said she rather petishly. "he won't do anything anybody else does." "why, louise!" said her mother in surprise. "i can't help it, mamma; ned and i had set our hearts upon having wine at the wedding, for it is quite fashionable now, and we were very sure that we could coax you to let us, and when i confided in the doctor, and asked him to use his influence in our favor, he declared flatly that he would never give his consent, if it was ever so fashionable. i declare, it made me almost wish i was going to marry charley horton. you know he and isabel merton are engaged, and the other day when we were all together, isabel told me that she had never asked but one favor of charley which he was not willing to grant, and that was, that he would promise not to use wine in his family nor offer it to his friends. she said she felt uncomfortable whenever she thought of the matter, but she hoped to be able to influence him to give it up after they were married. caroline wyndam was there, and she said she would not _dare_ to say a word to her lover on the subject, although she would give the world to have him leave off social drinking. but clara hastings and the other girls said they did not think a little wine or beer would hurt anybody, and they would not give a fig for a man that could not control his appetite. clara hastings said if she ever got married, she would have wine at the wedding. when i told ned about it he said clara was the girl for him. i wonder what miss dewolf would say to that. mrs. sherman tried to choke down her feelings, but the bitter, burning tears would come and one by one they coursed down her withered cheek. there was silence for a few minutes, and louise would have left the room, but her mother gently detained her. "edward wished me to say to you that his intimacy with miss dewolf was broken off, and he further requested that you would never mention the subject to him." great consternation was depicted on louise's countenance. oh! it is too bad," she exclaimed; "and just as she had promised to show me how that beautiful trimming was made which miss marsdon sent her from new york. i wonder what it means. do you know, mamma?" "why yes, my dear; it means that miss dewolf is possessed of a sensible, well-balanced mind, and that your brother has acted very foolishly." just at that moment the conversation was interrupted by the appearance of one of louise's friends and advisers, and the two girls were soon absorbed in discussing the merits of some article of dress belonging to the trousseau. thus the hours slipped away, until about one o'clock, edward came for dinner. he knew as soon as his eye rested upon his demonstrative sister that she had been made acquainted with his disappointment, and, as he naturally shrank from receiving sympathy, either by word or look, he exerted himself to appear much more cheerful than he really felt. louise inwardly resolved that she would be very watchful, and not cloud her brother's spirits by any allusion whatever to chimney rock, and the next moment she suddenly remembered having seen at the midnight hour a very bright light from her chamber window in that direction. without second thought, she related the circumstance, and caught herself making the inquiry, "did you see it, ned?" edward's face flushed scarlet, as he answered evasively, "o, that was the brewery on fire. i met mr. glutter in the city this morning. he came to make arrangements to open another saloon here. i never saw a man of more indomitable will and perseverance. although he lost an immense amount he is not in the least disheartened." "brave fellow," said louise, cordially embracing her brother's estimate of the man's character. "i wonder what occasioned the fire." "why, he placed the lamp too near his bed, while he went out to learn if there was any trouble at miss dewolf's. it seems that he had always had a friendly care for her, and, hearing noises in that direction, he was so kind as to run over. finding it all quiet about the house, he followed the sounds to the stable, and discovered that it was only a horse, which mr. wycoff had, a few hours before presented to miss dewolf, that had occasioned the disturbance. the horse had broken loose, and just as mr. glutter was fastening him in the stall, he saw the flames bursting from the saloon; and so his benevolent trip cost him his brewery." while louise was listening with interest to the recital, mrs. sherman and dr. goodrich entered the room. the latter was evidently disgusted with the expression, "poor fellow," that fell once or twice from the lips of the young lady, and his annoyance reached the climax when, a moment's pause, she ventured to assert with one eye on her brother, that "the poor fellow" would never get any thanks, "for," said she, "miss dewolf detests him, i know she does." there was a short, awkward silence, which mrs. sherman broke, by saying, deprecatingly she was sure she could not blame miss dewolf for feeling bitterly towards the saloon keeper. "blame her!" exclaimed dr. goodrich, who could no longer keep silence. "blame miss dewolf! i would as soon think of blaming an angel in heaven. what has she to thank hank glutter for, i should like to know? he whose hands are red in the blood of her father. he who has made orphans and widows at her very door. he who has more than once endangered her very life by selling those cursed drinks which so infuriate men. he who would, i doubt not, take her life this day, if by so doing he could escape punishment, and add another penny to his cursed store." "with your sentiments you are hardly prepared to do the man justice," said edward forestalling a reply upon his sister's pouting lips. "had a man by his nefarious business, blasted every hope in my louise's life save one, and were i that one, think you i could speak favorably of the wretch? no." said the doctor, impetuously. louise, partially restored to good humor, had managed to slip behind her brother, where she stood making all sorts of admonitory gestures to her lover, who had not as yet, been let into the secret of the change in his friends's relation to little wolf. but the doctor could not; or would not take louise's hints, and he went on hotly. "curse the business! i say. curse the man, who, with his eyes open to the consequences, engages in it. the law could, and should, make him responsible. hank glutter is the man who ought to have been compelled to indemnify miss dewolf for the losses she sustained on that dreadful day when wycoff came so near dashing her over the precipice. it was he who tempted the man to drink, until he became drunk, and did the mischief, to repair which he sacrificed his favorite horse. thank god it was by hank's own confession, the animal's noise that brought about the burning of the brewery. it is some comfort that god now and then legislates on the traffic, when men will not." the doctor paused, and, as no one seemed inclined to make any comments, he began to speak more calmly, and on a subject which he flattered himself would be more agreeable. "i have just been down to bind up daddy's bruises," he said, "but his lovely nurse had done all that was necessary. then turning to edward with a meaning smile, "ned, she is a right regal nurse. i almost wished myself in daddy's place this morning. it must be very consoling in hours of pain to have a little angel smoothing your pillow, and hovering over you with sweet words and gentle touches." the doctor suddenly stopped short. there was an expression of sharp agony on edward's face that could not be mistaken. louise had never looked on him so before. added to her sympathy for her brother, was an indefinable pang occasioned by her lover's warm praises of another. mrs. sherman, the picture of distress, looked helplessly from one to the other. the dinner bell was at that moment a welcome sound. chapter xxxi. threats--little wolf and black hawk--tragic death of hank glutter. his business arrangements satisfactorily completed, towards night, hank glutter was seen setting out for chimney rock. to say the truth, he appeared secretly uneasy, glancing furtively behind at every sound as he hurried forward like one pursued. by, and by, out on the solitary highway he walked on with more confidence, and finally, after assuring himself that he was quite alone, began to let fall some very energetic expressions in which were mingled the names of miss dewolf, of black hawk and of wycoff. "she shall never ride black hawk again," he muttered, "miss dewolf can't circumvent me. if she has dared to betray me, she will never tell the story again. i guess my word is as good as hers--i defy wycoff." then followed such expletives as the speaker deemed suitable to the occasion: but which were suddenly interrupted by the appearance of mr. wycoff mounted upon black hawk and apparently in good humor with himself and all the world. he evidently did not wish to remember the unpleasant scene of the previous day, for he partly halted as he came up to hank, and said pleasantly, "what luck to-day, mr. glutter?" hank seeing in him a future victim to his wiles, spread his net right warily: "well, wycoff," he replied," "i have had the good luck to secure the most desirable corner in the city for my business, and i intend to keep on hand first class liquors, just such as you like best; and i consider you a judge of the article." "how unfortunate that i have given up drinking," said wycoff with great gravity. the corners of hank's mouth drew down a little, but he replied in the most persuasive manner, "o well, its never best to drink to excess, but i hope to have the pleasure, mr. wycoff, of treating you to many a harmless glass." "i must be going back," said wycoff, abruptly wheeling round, "i just rode out a little way to get some of the spirit out of the horse before miss dewolf takes her evening ride." hank shook his fist after him, "i'll take the spirit out of the horse, and out of the girl too," he threatened. "lucky she hasn't told wycoff, i can tell my own story all the better." hank had just entered the "pass" when he again caught a view of black hawk in the distance; but this time little wolf was the rider. he drew his breath hard, and in an instant his hand was upon his dirk. "now is my time," came from between his closed teeth and he threw himself behind the trunk of a tree, and in the twilight not a shadow of him was visible. on came little wolf, sitting her splendid steed right regally. her proud, fearless little face was slightly shaded by the waving plumes in her velvet cap, and her long black robes floated on the evening breeze. by constant petting from the hour that he became hers, black hawk had been won, and the intractable, fiery creature, who had hitherto spurned all control but wycoff's, readily yielded to little wolf's guiding hand. the sagacious creature had exhibited no little pride in bearing off his precious burden under the eye of his old master. his new mistress glorying in her power over him bade him forward and without a suspicion of danger, entered the fatal pass. in a moment they were opposite hank's hiding place, who concentrating all his energies, made a cat-like spring and caught at black hawk's bridle. to sheer off, rear high in the air, and plant his fore foot right into the would-be-murderer's brain, was a feat performed without a sign from little wolf, who sat like one paralyzed, while black hawk in a fury trampled their assailant under his feet. she saw hank's ghastly face and flaxen ringlets go down, and she saw his life blood spurting far over the pure white snow, and the next instant she was borne swiftly away from the terrible scene. for some little time black hawk had it all his own way, and they were far out on the main traveled road to pendleton before little wolf made an effort to check his speed. but suddenly she drew the rein with no gentle hand. they had overtaken a lady and gentleman, who were riding leisurely, evidently quite absorbed in each other's society. one quick, searching glance revealed the parties to little wolf; and she curled her lip in scorn, as she saw those attentions which edward had so lately lavished upon herself, now given to clara hastings. well might edward start and strain his eyes after the retreating figure to which the loud clatter of hoofs had called his attention, for fleeing fast away was one in whose true heart, he had planted still another arrow, which would there rankle long, spite of the vow of eternal forgetfulness even then upon her proud lips. in order to avoid "the pass," and its horrors, little wolf took a circuitous route home. she emerged from the wild, unbroken path through the forest just as wycoff was begining to feel seriously uneasy at her prolonged absence. he eagerly caught at the bridle, "i was afraid black hawk had been playing pranks," he said, patting the animal's neck: "why, here's blood upon the beast; i guess he's got rubbed agin a tree. it wan't exactly safe to come that way, anyhow, but girls will be girls, there's a natural tendancy in 'em to go into crooked ways," and wycoff laughed, as he thought that he had perpetrated a good joke, and looked at little wolf as if he expected her too appreciate it. "it is mr. glutter's blood," gasped little wolf, "he attempted to stop us in the pass, and black hawk trampled upon him." "oh! that's it, eh?" said wycoff. "a knowing critter, that. he's got the instincts of a woman, and i ain't sure but he knows as much as a man. well, i hope hank is dead, anyhow." "oh, don't say so, mr. wycoff," said little wolf, every particle of color forsaking her face. "well, now if i ain't beat," said the rough man, "i thought you would be tickled to dance on hank's grave." little wolf turned silently away and went into the house. "well, well," and wycoff bent a look of inquiry upon sorrel top, who had been out sharing his solicitude for her mistress. "i guess she feels kinder horrible like, about seeing him mashed," was sorrel top's explanatory reply. "well, i'll jest go round and see what his condition is, anyhow." while wycoff was on his mission and little wolf shut up in her room, sorrel top hastened to communicate the news to daddy. "'tween you and me i'm glad on't," said daddy, exultingly. i hope he's dead." "well, now, that's heathenish, daddy, to wish a feller critter dead." "he wan't no feller critter," said daddy, indignantly, "he was nothin' but a liquor-seller: the wust kind tu, fur he knowed just what mischief he wus a doing to the human race. yes, and to the brute race tu, fur i've seen men whallop their hosses nigh about tu death when they was in liquor." "i've seen 'em wallop 'em when they want in liquor," said sorrel top, determined as usual to combat daddy at all hazards. "'tween you and me, sich men ain't feller critters, nuther, i reckon they'll live next door to liquor sellers, by and by," said daddy, with self righteous-assurance. "i'd like to know where you expect to go when you die?" said sorrel top, with a toss of the head." "why, i'll go tu that ere place where folks go that du the best they know." "well, you're lucky if you can say you have always done the best you could," said the other in a tone which clearly indicated a doubt of daddy's entire veracity. "'tween you and me, i've been thinking that i might hev been more active in the temperance cause. i guess afore long i'll git up a temperance lectur and go round deliverin' of it." "o, pshaw, you wouldn't git no _ordiance_. would he fanny?" said sorrel top, appealing to fanny green, who had been a silent but not uninterested listener to the conversation. "i guess he would," said fanny, hopefully, "i would attend." "of course you would," said daddy, excitedly, "and the honey would too." "well, you couldn't tell me nothing more than i know on that pint," said sorrel top, flinging herself out of the room with an air of unqualified contempt. left alone with daddy, fanny ventured to say softly, "daddy have you ever prayed about it?" "about what, fanny?" "why, about people's drinking and selling liquor and those things that you talk about?" "pray about it? why no. what should i pray about it fur? i never pray about nothing." fanny looked shocked. "don't you know the bible tells us to pray, daddy?" "well, i spose it does," daddy admitted, "but somehow i hev never said my prayers, since i was a little shaver; i reckon it don't do no good fur tu pray, no how. my religion is tu do the best i ken." "but, daddy, if god tells you to ask for what you want, and you don't do it, is that doing the best you can?" "i ruther guess you've got the best of old daddy, this ere time," said the old man, stroking the child's sunny locks. "'tween you and me, fanny, i don't know nothin' at all about the bible. my father and mother died afore i was old enough fur tu read, and i was bound tu a man that didn't gin me a big edication, i never seen a bible in his house," "then you don't know about jesus christ?" said fanny, quite pitifully "laws yes, i've heern ministers preach a leetle about him once in a while when i went to church fur tu go hum with recta; but, somehow, i want much took up with him." "o, but daddy, you would have been if you had understood that he was the best friend you ever had. my mamma used to tell me how he came to die for us, and how we could not get to heaven without him. i will tell you all about it, daddy, shall i? i told miss dewolf, yesterday, and she looked real glad." "laws, fanny, the honey is high edicated and knows a heap more than we do." "o, yes, of course, daddy, but then she had never heard it just as mamma used to tell it; for you know mamma talked just as if she had lived in the same house with him, and he had told her himself all about the beautiful place for all those that he can take there." "well, he may take me," said daddy. "o, but you will have to ask him to take you, daddy," said his little instructress, opening wide her eyes. "'tween you and me, there's the stick, fanny, i really don't know how fur tu ask him." "why, daddy, how would you ask him for bread if you were starving?" "i calculate i'd beg mighty hard if i was in sich a tight place." fanny's eyes filled, and daddy feeling rather uncomfortable, patted her cheek tenderly. "you're a fust rate leetle gal, fanny," he said, "and i'm kinder thinking i'll look into this ere matter by and by, when i get my lectur writ." "may be, if you should ask him, god would make you think what is the best thing to say in your lecture," persisted the child. "laws, fanny, i ken think of them ere things myself. all the help i want is a leetle mite from you about the spellin. "wycoff now appeared looking very grave and reported hank, "stone dead." chapter xxxii. the may day weddings--miss orrecta lippincott's surprise--how old lovers behave. spring opened slowly. it is true, at the first fierce glance of the sun, the sensitive snow dissolved in tears; but he was forced to call to his aid the strong winds to blow long upon the ice-bound river, ere it yielded and permitted the beautiful steamers again to ride upon its throbbing bosom. there were those who eagerly counted the weeks that brought about these changes, for each hour drew them nearer to their bridal morning, and one fair may day, when the earth was decked in her garments of green, louise sherman, arrayed in her bridal robes, was led by dr. goodrich to the marriage altar. edward sherman also was there, to celebrate the same rite, for, in a few short weeks he had wooed and won miss clara hastings. it was with no small degree of pride, that he looked upon that tall, elegant woman and called her wife. clara was equally proud of her husband. talented, handsome, and, as she supposed, on the road to wealth, she asked no more. thus they set out in life together. the ceremony over, the wedding parties, including mrs. sherman, started on a tour to the old homestead, where it was their intention to pass a few weeks, and finally to change it for a permanent home in minnesota. they had given recta timely notice of their coming, and, had she had no interruption, the housekeeper's preparations would indeed have been elaborate. she had received and answered daddy's letter favorably, and was in daily expectation of a second communication from the same source. the plan which she had arranged in her own mind was to remain until after the arrival of the family, and then to spend a few weeks with a married sister, whose assistance she would require in the preperation of her bridal outfit. as a general thing recta's head was pretty clear, but in this case, she did not count upon the proverbial impetuosity of a widower, and, consequently, signally failed. one bright morning, when all the bed and table linen, and every bleachable thing to be found in the house, were spread upon the grass; when feather beds and blankets, and carpets, were hung out to air; when soap-suds and white-wash stood side by side; when the china closet had disgorged its treasures, and the silver was spread out for extra polishing; when all the ingredients for a mammoth fruit cake were marshalled on the kitchen table; when chairs and other furniture were gathered in clusters, as if discussing the general uproar; when poor old lilly foot had been driven forth with a sharp reproof and a cold breakfast, and forlorn kitty, hid away in a dark corner, where only her green eyes were visible, mewed disconsolate, a loud knock was heard at the door. "i do wonder who is going to hinder me now?" fretted recta, as lifting her dripping hands from her scrubbing suds, and drying them upon her apron she obeyed the summons. at the first glance at the intruder she recognized daddy, and turning pale and then red by turns, she sank speedily into a chair. how changed were both since they last met. she was then a blooming, brown haired, rather coquettishly dressed country girl, and he black haired, dapper and gay. now he beheld her in faded calico, sallow, wrinkled and grey; and she looked upon a white haired, shrivelled up, little old man. both were for the moment, silent and disappointed, but daddy was the first to recover his presence of mind. "'tween you and me, don't you know me, recta?" "well, i reckon i do, philip," said recta instinctively covered her face with her apron. a smile of delight broke over daddy's features, and his first disappointment was forgotten. "that's jest as you used to sarve me, recta; now i'm agoin fur tu sarve you one of my old tricks," and, by an adroit movement to which he encountered a very slight resistance, recta's features were again visible. there was a deep red spot on either cheek, and she looked rather foolish, but it was not long before the old lovers were living over again their youthful hours. oblivious of the flight of time, the mid-day sun shone in upon them, still absorbed in each other. it would be impossible to say how long this state of things might have continued had not daddy inadvertantly called recta's attention to her household duties. "'tween you and me, i want fur tu git married afore night," he was saying, when recta suddenly sprang to her feet in dire dismay. "why philip," she exclaimed, "how can i get married and all this work on hand?" "i'm kinder thinkin we ken hev the job did, and then i ken help you fur to do the work." recta, demurred, but overwhelmed with persuasions, she finally consented to confer with her sister, living near by, and the result was, they were married before night, which fully accorded with daddy's desires. the next morning the atmosphere of the house had materially changed: but the aspect not. lilly foot luxuriated on a warm breakfast, and strutted about the house complacently wagging his tail, and green-eyed pussy purred contentedly behind the kitchen stove. but still confronting recta was the untouched white-wash, unwashed china, unpolished silver, unmade cake, and the undone condition of things generally. "'tween you and me, i wouldn't go fur tu du no work to-day," advised daddy, as recta made a movement towards setting the house in order. "i reckon, philip, miss sherman will be here in a few days, and i wouldn't get ketched in this plight for nothing. "you ain't a mite like mammy was," said daddy, holding affectionately on to recta's dress. "laws, she would jerk herself away from me, and afore i knowd it be a flying around the house like a whirl-wind, orderin me round 'till i didn' know what fur tu du fust." "o, well, you must let me go now, philip," said recta, good-naturedly, "or i won't git nothing done to-day. now don't tech me again until i git them dishes washed and sot up." "laws, recta, don't ask me fur tu wait that long; i'd like fur tu help you, so you'd get through quicker. now set me tu work, du," "well, philip, them things on the line ought to be brought in. i forgot 'em last night." "'tween you an' me, what made ye forgit 'em?" said daddy, mischievously. "i reckon when anybody is tagged to me every minute, i can't remember nothing, philip." at this mild rebuke daddy laughed immoderately, but he was none the less at her heels. turn whichever way she would, he was always there, and consequently her work progressed slowly; so slowly, indeed, that the bridal party arrived, and found her illy prepared to meet them. but when the circumstances became known, she was at once absolved from all blame, and loaded with congratulations and presents made wondrously happy. as their services were indispensable, it was decided that the useful old couple should remain through the breaking up and moving season. while the younger portion of the household gave themselves up to a succession of pleasure parties given in their honor, daddy and recta spent their evenings in social chat by the kitchen fire. at such times daddy was the chief speaker, and recta never wearied of listening to his wonderful stories. especially was she interested in little wolf's career. her wonderful escape from bloody jim, her triumphal ride over hank glutter, her astonishing beauty, talents, and virtues were subjects upon which he descanted with great fluency. "'tween you an' me, recta," said he, being in an uncommonly confidential frame on one of these occasions, "i used fur tu think that are edward sherman was a hanging around the honey, and i sot myself tu put a stop to it, and that are day i was knocked down, and had my shoulder put out of jint, i jest gin him a hint that a nice young man was a goin fur tu git her." "why, philip, i thought edward was about the nicest young man in the world," recta ventured to assert. daddy elevated his eyebrows, and hitching up very close to his companion, whispered, "'tween you an' me, didn't you know he drunk nothin?" "you don't say so, philip!" exclaimed recta, in tones in which were blended surprise and grief. "i've seed him," declared daddy, decidedly. "dear me, how i wish he had always staid to home. dear me, i can't bear to have it so; he was such a sweet little feller, when i nussed and tended on him. he don't drink hard, does he, philip?" "i guess about middlin. i never seed him dead drunk, but i've ketched him a few times about as full as he could hold. he cum hum pretty tight from the party last night." "you don't say! i guess that's what's made his mother so low-spirited all day." "i kinder think that are wife of hisen don't feel nun tu nice over it nuther, fur she 'pears ruther down in the mouth. i happened fur tu hear her a tellin him this morning, that fur tu drink moderate was genteel, but tu over drink was vulgar. it's my opinion he ain't got a fur-seein woman, or she wouldn't hev preached no sech doctrine as that are. you wouldn't have ketched the honey a doin of it; she thinks it's all vulgar and wicked tu." "i think it's a sin to pass it around at them parties, philip." "sartin, recta; young fellers will get a liking for it, and get ruined in that are way." "i don't see what makes folks do it when they know it's such dangerous practice." "'tween you and me, it's the devil," said daddy bluntly. "he has allers tempted good folks as well as bad with his pison. he manages somehow fur tu make 'em believe there ain't no harm in it. i should think nobody could help a knowin of it. i heered some women talkin on the steamer, and one of 'em said she knowed a lady what was in the habit of treating gentlemen friends to all sorts of fancy drinks, and she was a real nice lady, tu, and got lots of 'em to attend her church jest by them means. they said it was so popular to drink wine now-a-days, that the best of folks didn't think there was no harm in it." "that was the common way of thinking when i was young. i remember very clear when the minister used to come here with the judge, and the judge was very apt to go off and have a spree after it. miss sherman mourned herself most to death, but when the minister came out strong on the side of temperance and preached and practised, and the judge had signed the pledge, we had different times, i tell you. them decanters have stood empty on the side board ever since." "i wish, they were smashed," said daddy, emphatically. "so do i," echoed recta. "i'd like to sarve 'em as the heathen do their idols when they git converted to christianity." "be you a christian, recta." recta looked down confusedly, twirled her thumbs, and finally answered in a constrained tone, "i belong to the church." "du ye? well, may be i'll jine it tu. i promised fanny fur tu tend tu that are matter when i got my lectur done, but i hed fur to tend tu gittin married fust." "your what done, philip?" "my lectur, i writ one on temperance when i was sick. i calculate fur tu go round deliverin of it next winter when we git settled. 'tween you and me, i may clare a little money on it. lecturers are apt tu, i've heern say." "you had better lectur on cabbages if you want tu make money on it," was the wise response. chapter xxxiii. the old brown house deserted--the pearl and diamond ring--mr. and mrs. marsden's conjectures. the old brown house was desolate; the doors bolted, the shutters closed, and not a sound to be heard within its walls. the stable too, was deserted, for now black hawk freely roamed in the pastures of his former master. but in more ways than one had he done our heroine good service. day after day, during that unhappy spring she had, while striving to banish thought, ridden him through the wildest of wild forest paths, reckless alike of her own safety and his. the noble animal forded swollen streams, floundered through treacherous sloughs, leaped over fallen trees and climbed rocky precipices, and had not heaven ordained it otherwise, both horse and rider must have fallen a prey to the dangers of the way. although indulging in this abandonment of feeling, little wolf neglected none of her duties. indeed, she seemed determined never to let a moment escape unoccupied. while daddy was confined to his room, and mrs. peters lived, she faithfully supplied their wants, but after the former became convalescent, and started for his wife, and the latter went to her last rest, blessing her benefactress with her latest breath, she had no one but fanny on whom to bestow her care, except, indeed, mrs. peters' grandson charley, for whom she soon obtained a desirable situation. about this time, she received repeated and pressing invitations from her much loved school friend, miss marsden, to accompany herself and brother on a tour to california, upon which they expected to set out sometime in june. the marriage of sorrel top, with whom she had made arrangements for fanny green to remain, until such times as daddy and his wife should return and take possession of the old homestead, and the charge of the child was most opportune: for she was now at liberty to avail herself of the change so affectionately urged upon her. in addition to the allusions before made to alfred and annie marsden, we will here simply state, that the brother and sister were orphans, and heirs of considerable property, a part of which consisted in an elegant city residence. here they had lived since the death of their parents, which occured a short time previous to the period when little wolf and their daughter left school together. the son, a bachelor of about thirty, had, a number of years before, visited minnesota in quest of health. his proclivity for hunting and fishing led him to the vicinity of chimney rock, and he it was, who, when she was a small child, rescued little wolf from the hands of bloody jim. but this was his own secret most carefully guarded from our heroine, who, during her former visit had learned to regard him in the light of an elder brother; but, as will be seen hereafter his feelings towards her were of a warmer character. having, therefore, paid a flying visit to st. paul, and wept her adieus upon the bosom of her sympathizing friend, mrs. tinknor, having pouted at tom, and made her financial arrangements with the squire, we now behold little wolf in the embrace of one, who had so long stretched forth her arms to receive her. the first raptures over, we hear miss marsden saying, "we will never part with our little wolf again, will we, brother?" the response is, "not if i can help it." we know not why, it may have been that these words of affection, brought suddenly to her mind all that she had loved and lost, or she might have intuitively divined young marsden's sentiments towards her, we only know that her lip quivered, and she trembled and grew pale and sank helpless upon the sofa. her extreme agitation created in her friends no little alarm, but it soon passed off, and as they could not but observe that any futher allusion to the matter was annoying to her, the brother and sister exchanged expressive glances which, being interpreted, signified, "resolved that the subject be indefinitely postponed." but it was again mooted on the first occasion of the absence of their guest; miss marsden being the first to bring it under consideration. "o, it was only fatigue," said her brother, in reply to her various surmises. "no, it was not fatigue," she insisted with an arch smile. "it is my opinion she was laboring under some powerful emotion. i once saw her almost as much agitated in one of our school exhibitions, in which she was to act a prominent part; but she went through it splendidly, the determined little thing." "o well, it might have been excess of joy at meeting you." "at meeting _me_, do you say, sir? now brother, don't try to crawl out of it, for i have determined to extort the truth from you. was she not overjoyed at meeting _you_?" "well, then, my dear sister, the truth is, i think not. you must have noticed she takes special pains to address me as brother, and always to treat me as such, and you young ladies rarely faint at the sight of a brother." "o, but you are only an adopted brother,"--slyly. "that's all," sighed the young man. "i think her father's death has changed her a little. she appears more thoughtful and womanly: don't she brother?" "i wouldn't be surprised if she were in love," suggested the other. "o fie, brother, she's not in love, unless it be with you; or she would have confided it to me. moreover," she continued, seeing an incredulous smile playing upon her brother's lips, "you must yourself admit that it would be a very strange freak for a young lady in love to voluntarily put the ocean between herself and the object of her affections. i verily believe our little wolf is more anxious if possible, to start on the tour than we are." "yes, so do i," admitted her brother, "and i can't account for it." "o, it is simply to run away from mr. alfred marsden," was the ironic reply. "i do assure you, sister, that you greatly mistake our mutual sentiments." "not yours, certainly, brother, and i think not hers; but i'll find out." "for heaven's sake, don't broach the matter to her, sister," said young marsden in alarm, "it would spoil all the pleasure of our trip. indeed, i know she would not go at all." "nonsense, brother, do you think me a goose? i would not be so indelicate; no indeed. there are more ways than you have dreamed of, for ferreting out a love secret." "o yes, i know such secrets develope themselves in a thousand forms, and if there is anything of that nature in her breast it will transpire in due time." "it was not long before the young man's prediction came near proving true, and thus it happened. "the two young ladies, annie and little wolf were out shopping, and becoming wearied, they stepped into a fashionable place of resort for rest and refreshment. while waiting, a small party, two ladies and a gentleman, came in and were seated at a table not far removed from their own. little wolf's back was to the party, but annie, being opposite her friend, faced them. at the first sound of their voices, little wolf turned partly round, and behold there was edward sherman with his wife and sister. her movement not having been observed, she was unrecognized by the trio. but so violently did she tremble and so deathly was her countenance, that annie would have betrayed her by an exclamation of alarm, had not a warning gesture from little wolf stayed the word upon her lips. in a moment little wolf recovered herself sufficiently to write upon her tablets, "do not speak to me, annie, i do not wish to be known by the party opposite." "annie read the request, and returned the answer, "you will faint, let me order wine." "no, i shall not faint," wrote little wolf's trembling fingers, and her erect little figure involuntarily drew itself up. "poor things, they are mutes;" said louise, compassionately regarding the means of communication between the silent young ladies. mrs. sherman assented, and the lively young bride's acting on this supposition, imposed no restraint upon their conversation. they talked about the past, and unveiled their future plans; sipped their fancy drinks and ate cake while little wolf and miss marsden vigorously plied their pencils. edward alone remained unoccupied except indeed, the use he was making of his eyes, and they were riveted upon little wolf. he was watching those busy little hands, and there came over him a strange feeling of heart sickness, as he saw on one dimpled finger a well remembered ring, a golden hoop with diamonds uniquely set in pearls. it was a relic of the past, having been presented to little wolf's mother on her wedding day. he knew well it's history, for the present owner had told it to him, and blushed when he said to her, "my little wolf will wear another on her wedding day." then, in the thought there was bliss, now, naught but anguish. the longer he gazed, the more he became convinced that it was none other than little wolf whom he saw, and anxious to conceal the fact from his wife and sister, he made a hasty movement to leave. "why, edward, what possesses you?" exclaimed his wife, "going already, and your wine untasted. i believe you are crazy. sit still a moment, i'm not ready. the stimulant hasn't got into my feet, but i feel it going down. come, do drink a little, you look as pale as a ghost." "do, brother," chimed in louise, "i feel a great deal brighter; but don't tell the doctor i have been taking anything strong." "strong," repeated clara, "i hope you don't call a little light claret, strong." "o no, i don't, but the doctor does, and i may as well keep his mind easy," replied louise. edward had risen to his feet, and waited silently but evidently impatiently. "can't i persuade you to take a little before we go? do; you look so pale this morning," persisted mrs. sherman, herself lifting the goblet towards her husband. determined not to have any more words, edward hastily drank the proffered beverage, and immediately left the place. when they had fairly disappeared, little wolf sank back in her chair, and breathed hard as if awaking from a terrible night mare. "o, i was so afraid they would discover me," she gasped. "they were once good friends of mine," she continued with an effort at composure, "but you won't care will you, dear good annie, if i don't tell you how it came to be otherwise?" annie looked a little disappointed, but she magnanimously put little wolf at her ease by saying, "no indeed, for i'm sure it was no fault of yours." in absence of evidence, annie of course, put her own construction on what had occured, and mentally voted edward a villain, and his wife and sister his accomplices. this opinion she expressed to her brother, when in an hour of confidence, she glowingly pictured the scene. "i think the young man must be at the bottom of the mischief," she said, "for he was even more agitated than little wolf. he had recognized her from the first, although i cannot devine how, for she sat with her back to them." "i would have known her among a thousand," cried young marsden, enthusiastically. "o, then, i suppose he must have been an old lover," said his sister mischievously. chapter xxxiv. a trip to california--jumping overboard---the grand supper and what came of it--the captain's little daughter. as the most agreeable method of conveying to the reader a correct account of little wolf's adventures, and personal feelings during her journeying, we will quote largely from letters addressed from time to time to her friend, mrs. tinknor. "from the first we take the following: "while i write, the captain's little daughter sits beside me. we have met several times on the hurricane deck--flora and i--and are on quite intimate terms, considering the shortness of our acquaintance. the first twenty four hours she was seasick, 'wery, wery sick,' she informed me, and her pale face bore traces of the ordeal through which she had passed; and, indeed, the countenances of most of the passengers are suggestive of tompsonian doctors. to such, our three days at sea must have been uncommonly disagreeable, the weather having been rough the entire period. yesterday, we were favored with a storm. the commencement was most sublime, but all having been unwillingly ordered below i was borne resisting into the cabin and the splendid exhibition of nature shut from my view, of course i could not keep on my feet, but i managed to climb upon a stand, and holding on with all my might, i could see the waves through the port hole run mountains high, and what silly thing do you think i did? i actually cried with vexation, shut up in that miserable place. "it was as if black hawk had been bearing me exultant on a wild gallop in the face of winds that shook the very foundations of the earth, and, the loftiest enthusiasm having been enkindled, i was suddenly plunged into a sickening, stifling, dismal cavern, and shut out from light and liberty. "i made frantic assaults upon the porthole, and the remonstrances of the ship carpenter, who chanced to spy me, would have availed him nothing had he not forcibly lifted me down, and seated me upon the floor of my state-room. "the miserable creature imagined me frightened out of my senses. 'no immediate danger miss,' said he, 'compose yourself; the ship will right up directly--throwing all the light trash overboard--chicken coops just gone over.' "'man,' moaned a woman on whose face was blended an expression of benevolence and nausea, 'did you open those coops, and let out those fowls, that they may not drift about and starve?' "'the sea, madam,' said the builder of ships, grandly, 'the sea has swallowed them coops and all.' "miss flora has just asked me if my letter is not most finished, 'for,' said the cunning little elf 'you might put in that papa called you a stubborn little wretch yesterday, when you wouldn't go down to the cabin.' "i wonder if he dared to say it, i suppose i looked incredulous, for the little mischief continues to reiterate the assertion, but she consolingly adds, 'he was wery, wery angry then, and he knew you wouldn't hear him. you don't care, do you?' "i have almost told a fib, and said, 'no indeed.' two days later. "i have had my revenge on the captain by jumping overboard. "yesterday flora and myself were lounging upon the stationary seat, attached to the railing of the hurricane deck. both of us had been silent for some time. i had been gazing dreamily down into the deep, blue waters thinking of, i hardly know what, but, i remember that a strange impulse occasionally seized me to plunge beneath those snow-capped waves and rest my poor head upon the ocean's bed, for it is not as easy to hold it up now as it once was, when mammy lived, and took me in her arms and bade the 'honey hold up her blessed little head, and never let that droop whatever might come.' precious old creature, she too bore a life long sorrow, and bravely bore it. daddy never suspected, that his bustling, little grey wife had a tender secret burried beneath the tumult of activity, which continually bubbled up within her generous breast. "but i am digressing from the subject of my sea bath, of which miss flora was the immediate occasion. she had incautiously leaned too far over the railing, and, losing her balance, fell. i was startled from my reverie by a slight scream, and in an instant more, she was beneath the waves. i knew that i could swim, and had i not, i would have plunged after her all the same. "i discovered, however, that the waves in a quiet cove of the mississippi, were but ripples compared with the surging waters of the ocean, and my childhood paddle in the former but a poor preparation for battle. i sank deep and rose breathless, and almost helpless, but fortunately, flora was dashed within my reach, and i clutched her dress, and we were both saved. "the captain had witnessed the accident from the deck and was the first to come to our rescue. spars were thrown out, and several hardy sailors leaped in and helped to bear us up until the life boat was lowered, and we were all once more transported on board of our staunch ship. "i have been flattered and feted ever since. a grand supper was given in my honor last evening, and, as i was in such high favor, i made bold to accept my invitation on condition that the table should be innocent of wine. the captain cordially complied with the condition, although flora had previously volunteered the information, that 'papa was wery fond of wine, but mamma did not like him to drink it.' "the dear child has much to say about her mama, who, 'died, a wery, wery long time ago.' one little year has she been motherless, and what sweet graphic pictures does she draw of the lost one. 'mama had wery soft curls, papa called 'em golden; mama had wery blue eyes, papa called 'em wiolet, and she had wery pink cheeks, and papa called 'em sea shells, and he called her wery little mouth, a rose bud and her wery soft hands, welvet, and what do you think he named her wery, wery, cunning little feets?--mices.--he read all about 'em in a book one evening, how they stoled in and out like little mices,--now wasn't that wery, wery nice?' "she is more devoted to me than ever, since her narrow escape from the sea, and she is sure that i will not be sent into the cabin when the next storm comes on. indeed i exacted a promise from the captain, while at the feast to that effect. he said i might be lashed to the rigging and blown to pieces if i wished, and i do wish--o how i long for another storm," three days later. "the sky is clear, the sea smooth, and the passengers are mostly upon deck, enjoying the fine weather. "mr. and miss marsden have appeared for the first time, and we have had a general rejoicing. the captain is an old friend of theirs and we were invited into his room and treated to wine on the occasion. all drank socially except myself and flora, who, when she saw that i had taken none, set her glass down untasted. 'the influence of good example,' said the captain smiling approvingly on flora. "do you really think the example good?" i asked eagerly. "'most certainly, my dear miss dewolf, my wife would have acted precisely the same. she did not approve social drinking, but one in my position acquires the habit almost from necessity. my associations are mostly with a class that expect it of me. i do not care for it myself, but i do not like to appear unsocial.' "'nor do i,' chimed in miss marsden, sipping her glass. "'we tempt and are tempted on every hand,' said mr. marsden thoughtfully. 'society demands the social glass and we yield to its demands, and why? because we have not the moral courage to do otherwise.' "we have! i exclaimed, we have! you have, your sister has, the captain has. you have never tried. you have never fully realized whither it tended--i have. shall i tell you? "at any ordinary time i would not have drawn the heart rending picture of the consequences of social drinking which i was then inspired to do. it was as if a frightful panorama of ruined fortunes, and ruined families was passing before me and i described all i saw and when the view became too painful, too revolting for words, i bowed my head and wept. "'for heavens sake, say no more,' cried out the captain. "flora flung her arms around my neck, and mingled her tears with mine. 'what shall we do?' she asked plaintively. "'we might draw up a total abstinence pledge and all put our names to it,' said sir. marsden quite cheerfully. "after some pleasent discussion, his suggestion obtained favor, and was carried out without delay, and in half an hour's time we were all pledged to total abstinence from intoxicating drinks. the matter was duly explained to flora, and she added her mark with an air of consequence quite amusing. "nor was that all; the enthusiastic little missionary stated that she knew of several wery nice sailors who would like to put their names on the paper, for she had seen them drink something out of bottles. she was accordingly permitted to present this pledge to her particular friends, who, it transpired, included the whole crew. "i was much affected by a little scene which i witnessed in connection with her labors. a weather-beaten old sailor, whose only fault was his uncontrollable appetite for rum, read the pledge carefully, and, shaking his head quite hopelessly, handed it back. 'i can't agree to that, little pet,' said he, 'i can't abstain, i'd give the world if i could, but i can't. i lay in bed the morning we set sail and thought it all over. i thought of my little boy and gal sleeping in their trundle bed. i thought of the pleadings of my patient wife, and i resolved to let liquor alone, but i can't do it--i was the worse for it yesterday. no, i can't abstain,' and his voice quivered. "'may be, if you'd try again, wery, wery hard,' persisted flora, who did not comprehend how uncontrollable the appetite becomes. "'no, my little pet--no--none but god almighty can save me now--i'm in the breakers.' "his look of despair moved me to step forward and interpose. would not flora have perished in the deep water, had there been no effort made to save her? i questioned. "'you're a brave gal,' said he. 'i saw you go after her; you would have saved her if you could, and you would save me but you can't.' "that's true, i replied, but god can. jesus christ will bring you safely out of the breakers, if you will cling to him. you are in great peril but it is not too late. never give up the ship. "thus i talked until hope began to reanimate him, and he said 'when i get back to new york i'll try again to give up my dram and be a christian.' "now--now, there's no time like now, i persisted, and finally he yielded, and said, 'now it shall be. i'll put my name to the paper, and may god almighty help me.' "his name, john hopkins, stands in full upon the pledge; the large crooked letters bearing traces of the struggle by which he was shaken. "i am so glad that i ever read the bible to dear old mrs. peters, for it was there that i learned the lesson, which i so lately taught the despairing seamen, and nothing can now wrest the sweet knowledge of a saviour's love from me. my heart has found refuge in it. "do you remember the day that tom dressed in your blue apron, with a bunch of keys at his belt and pretended to personate me at the head of an orphan asylum, how we all laughed? well, i secretly wished myself capable of doing good in that way, and you may tell tom that if i should ever attempt anything of the kind, i will give him a lucrative situation as general overseer of the establishment." two days later. "last evening we arrived at aspinwall having made the trip from new york in ten days. this morning we bade adieu to our kind friends of the steamship, 'northern star' and crossed the isthmus of panama, a distance of about twenty miles, by railroad. a fine large steamer lay upon the waters of the pacific awaiting our arrival. "having embarked, i found a little vacant nook, under the awning, where i am now writing, while the scenes of to-day are still fresh in my mind. "i was enchanted as we passed swiftly over the narrow neck of land dividing the two oceans. the dense, vine-clad forests, alive with birds of every brilliant hue, and bordered with gorgeous flowers; the low thatched huts of the natives, and the natives themselves in holiday dress of thin white, all conspired to awaken the most pleasing emotions. "the villages at both ends of the route were swarming with natives, the women with baskets of cake and fruit and beautiful birds for sale, the men eager to carry our luggage for 'two bits.' "a small proportion of the women were bright and pretty; one really beautiful, with liquid eyes and smooth jet braids, upon which were fantastically perched a pair of green, trained birds, was very popular with the passengers, and soon emptied her basket. "i purchased her pet paroquets and sent them to console flora, whom i left sobbing quite piteously in the captain's arms. we promised her papa to make our arrangements to return on his steamer and his promise to lash me to the rigging in the event of a storm still holds good." chapter xxxv. a visit to mrs. sherman's room--daddy and his new spouse--ominous signs. before opening another letter, let us pay a flying visit to the sherman family, and also to daddy and his spouse. the former are to be found in their old quarters at pendleton, the latter installed in the brown house at chimney rock. it is near midnight, rather an unseasonable hour to intrude upon our friends, but no matter; at the house we shall first enter; regular habits do not prevail. we will now imagine ourselves in the broad hall, on the second floor of the finest hotel in pendleton. open softly the door at your right. there the eldest mrs. sherman lies sleeping. her grey hair is parted smoothly under her white frilled cap, her hands are folded resignedly upon her breast, and the angel of her dreams has imprinted upon her features the chastened smile so often seen upon the face of age. we would fain prolong her slumbers, for, alas, we cannot stay the swiftly drifting cloud, that is coming to darken her waking hours: the silver lining of which she will not see, until, a spirit winged for glory, she soars above it. a confusion of sounds from below reaches us. footsteps are upon the stairs, uncertain, shuffling, as if grouping in darkness. low, persuasive voices are heard, a sharp retort follows. "no, clara is fiendish when i have been drinking, i will not meet her." a woman has just brushed past us. she stands at the head of the stairs, pale and determined. "bring him not here," she hisses between her closed teeth, to the men who are assisting her husband to mount. "take him to your own homes--listen to his ravings. bear his insults; blows if need be. perform the most disagreeable services for him. yes, even imperil your lives in his service, you who are his disinterested friends. you, who have enjoyed your bacchanalian revels with him, take the consequences. bring him not to me. i despise, i hate the man who cannot control his appetite--i tell you away with him!" she shrieked, as his friends continued to urge him upward. "clara." a hand is laid gently on her arm. her mother-in-law stands trembling beside her; the noise has awakened her, and she has come out in her night dress. "i will take edward to my room and quiet him; he shall not disturb you, my daughter." "i am not your daughter. i will no longer be his wife. i will leave the house this moment never to return. he has disgraced me long enough. i will not bear it. i will not be the wife of a drunkard. i have told him so times without number. you may soothe him if you like--pet him--give him peppermint--i will not live with a man who cannot control his appetite." tears and entreaties, are of no avail; the determination of the high-spirited wife remains unaltered, and she has gone forth to her father's house, leaving her mother-in-law not quite alone with the invalid, for louise and the doctor have been summoned. meanwhile, how thrives daddy? we shall see by the morning sun. it has just risen, and so has daddy. he peeps out and the sun peeps in, blinding his old eyes and cheering his old heart. he and recta are happy now. hear him whistle like a boy as he dresses. recta helps him put his rheumatic arm into his coat sleeve, and he kisses recta. both leave the room, and as they pass a door standing ajar, push it open; here is little fanny green standing with bare feet before the open window, brushing out her flaxen hair. "o, daddy," she exclaims, "a bird flew in here awhile ago, a real live bird flew right in at the window, and throbbed his wings so hard against the glass that he woke me. why, before i could catch him, he flew out. do you think it would have been wicked to have caught him, daddy?" "laws, no, fanny. 'tween you and me, the honey would have ketched him in a second. she was uncommon spry when she was a leetle gal." "o, daddy, may--" "you musn't hinder me now; i must go fur tu milk the cows." "o, well, you won't feed the chickens 'till i come, will you, daddy? i'll dress, o, ever so quick, and say a very little prayer, and come right out. i want to feed the speckled hen and the little yellow chicks; please daddy don't forget me, will you?" recta looks very much disturbed as they pass on together. "that bird," she mutters very mysteriously, "it's a very bad sign." "what's a bad sign, recta?" "why, don't you know, phillip, when a bird comes into the house it's a sure sign of death in the family? i have never known it to fail. there was squire billings died in less than a year after a bird flew in at the winder. sally told me they was a watching for some one to die and it turned out to be the squire." "'tween you and me, recta, that was singular; now i think on't i've noticed lately that fanny has looked ruther pimpin. we must not cross her in nuthin. i shan't tech the chicken feed 'til she comes; 'tween you and me, hadn't we better write to the honey?" "may be she don't believe in signs, some don't," said recta, reflectively. "'tween you and me, we might tell her about squire billings." "that wouldn't make any difference, phillip, you can't convince some people. we may as well not write until fanny is really taken sick. i wonder if she had ever had the measles: neighbor wycoff is awful sick with them." "'tween you and me, i guess we had better write," persists daddy, struck with a new terror. there is a sudden hush, and fanny trips in bright as a may morning. chapter xxxvi. more news from little wolf--tom tinknor's testimony. here again is news from little wolf. the postmark is san francisco; a few hurried lines running thus: "we arrived here last evening. mr. marsden has the panama fever. his sister and myself watch over him day and night. his physician is hopeful, but says the disease is exceedingly tedious. we shall probably be detained here for a long time. please write as soon as you receive this. i am anxious to hear from daddy and fanny. your affectionate little wolf." from mrs. tinknor's answer we extract the following: "as we had not heard from daddy for some time, i persuaded tom to go down and see how they were getting along. he has just returned and stands ready to relieve your anxiety. i will leave him to give an account of affairs in his own language." "i am requested to give my testimony which is this: the house was in apple-pie order. not a fly had the temerity to approach the parlor. miss fanny had learned to knit, and had constructed a pair of stockings. mrs. recta says if she _lives_ she will make a good housekeeper. i shall marry her when she is old enough. the old folks are sure she will die 'afore the year is out, 'cause a bird flew in at her winder.' i told them the bird was after daddy, and the superstitious old man was instantly seized with a violent pain in his big toe. i am afraid he will feel it is his duty to die. he and recta bill and coo like two old fools. i am ready to swear to the above testimony. t. t. p. s. daddy saw six ghosts last evening in the pasture where half a dozen sheep were grazing. tom." "i am afraid, my dear, that tom's nonsense has illy prepared your mind for the sad news i have to communicate concerning your friends the shermans. the elder and the younger mrs. sherman are both dead. the elder died last week; it is said of a broken heart. the other accidently put an end to her own life several weeks ago. she had parted from her husband, he having returned home several times intoxicated. being in a very unhappy frame of mind in her father's house, she resorted to morphine to induce sleep, and, unaccustomed to its effects, swallowed an over dose. the mistake was discovered when too late to save her. it is said that edward's remorse is fearful, and he has solemly sworn never to taste another drop of intoxicating drink. his home is now with dr. goodrich and his sister, who have commenced house-keeping in a nice little cottage." extract from little wolf's reply. "many thanks to tom for his share of the letter. i hope he will frequently repeat his visits to chimney rock, and acquaint me with the results. it will discipline him for the work i shall assign him in my orphan asylum, and moreover i feel concerned about the pain in daddy's big toe. "all jesting aside, so many unforseen events have crowded into the months of my absense that i feel prepared for almost any change. it is well that i know that you will be a mother to fanny in the event of any change in daddy's family. according to tom's account, he is to be her husband. i will draw a picture of their courtship for him. "a slender, fair haired girl and a gallant youth seated--let me think--_three feet apart_ in the grape arbor at the old brown house. their eyes meet and speak a language quite familiar to gallant youths and fair haired girls in general, and to those two in particular. how prettily the white throat of the beautiful blonde swells, and how the frill of lace around it trembles, as if fanned by the passing breeze. "they do not see the white haired old man who is silently gathering grapes without the arbor, occasionally peering cautiously through the vines and lattice work at them. "he is a loquacious old fellow, (that daddy) and he will doubtless complete the picture for us by and by. "mr. marsden's fever has left him broken in health and spirits. his lungs have never been strong, having been subject to occasional hemorrhages. he complains of constant pain in his chest, and i fear it will be a long time before he recovers. his physician thinks it will not be safe for him to return home this fall, and we shall probably spend the winter in this mild climate. "we have formed quite a pleasant circle of acquaintances, and our evenings are musical, conversational or _gamical_, as best suits the invalid, who lies upon the sofa and dictates the programme. last evening we did nothing but talk. an editor of one of our city journals was present, having just returned from an extensive tour through the wine growing districts of the state. he says that wine making is fraught with dire evils to the producer and to the country. that it has become almost as cheap as milk, and as freely drank, till many once sober men are now habitually intoxicated. he was told that in one neighborhood, young girls seventeen years of age, reeled in the streets under the intoxication of pure california wine. men whom he once knew to be of worth he found lost to society, and becoming a fear and disgrace to their families. one leading man whom he met, enumerated five of his acquaintances, who, once noble men, are now to be called drunkards through wine. he thinks that the production of the article, now fearfully on the increase, must become a curse to the whole land if persevered in. "in going through the wine growing regions he found it expected, as an act of politeness, that wine must everywhere be presented and drank, and if he consented at all to drink, he would be compelled to drink many times a day, and would become a wine toper with others. he declared that touch not, taste not, handle not the accursed thing, was the only rule of safety. "he said if each grape grower would grow only the raisin grape for sale, there would be no end to the profitable disposal of all which he could ever produce without sin or danger to any one. "i remarked that european travellers told us that very few drank to intoxication in those places where wine was made from the pure juice of the grape, and it was generally supposed that the manufacture of pure domestic wine in this country would do away almost entirety with intemperance. "in answer, he read us a letter which he had just received from his friend, a well known resident of this city now in france. it contained a flat contradiction of the statements to which i had alluded, and drew a dark picture of the intemperance in the wine producing districts of france and germany. in fact, it was a radical plea--as daddy would say--'agin the hull infarnel stuff.'" chapter xxxvii. another death in the old brown house. it was late in the month of december when little wolf received from mrs. tinknor the following sad account of the death angel's visit to the old brown house: "my dear child: what i am about to write will give you great pain, for i know how dearly you loved poor old daddy, and how it will grieve you to hear that you will never see him again in this world. he died on the morning of the fifteenth, after a short illness of ten days. "tom had been down on a visit and returned saying that daddy was complaining of rheumatic pains, and he was much worse the day he left, and his wife was much concerned about him. as tom urged it, i went down hoping to cheer up the old couple. "when i arrived i found daddy confined to his bed, and groaning with pain, while his wife and fanny and several of the neighbors, were flying about, applying hot fomentations, and a variety of liniments. (it is astonishing how many busy feet one sick man can keep in motion.) "i immediately sent for dr. goodrich, although daddy's wife mentioned to me in confidence, that a 'parcel of old women were worth a dozen doctors who killed more than they cured; and daddy himself managed to gasp out, ''tween you an' me, miss tinknor a leetle good nussin is the most i need. doctors can't cure rheumatiz.' "however, he looked forward very anxiously to the doctor's arrival. when he did come and prescribed the free use of brandy, all of daddy's prejudices were at once aroused, and no persuasions could induce him to use 'the devil's pison outside or in.' "i believe had he been stretched upon the rack he would have died rather than yield the point; for to the last, he adhered firmly to his total abstinence principles, and at the eleventh hour he entered his master's vineyard. "it was beautiful indeed to witness the ministrations of little fanny. from the first of his illness she wept over and prayed for him, and taught him, who had gone all his life long a hungry prodigal, the way to his father's house. i never shall forget those lessons, which so sweetly fell from her childish lips and the joy that beamed in her speaking face, when daddy at length appeared to have a clear understanding of her teachings. "''tween you and me, fanny, you've pinted straight this time,' said he one day, after having listened a while to her conversation. 'it's all plain now--i see my father, i see my elder brother, the lord jusus interceding for me--i see the table spread, and i ain't had no hand in the spreadin of it. he'll hev to reach down and take me jest as i am, and he'll du it--i'm sartin of it, cause fanny, you know it is said _whosoever_. that are _whosoever_ is the _comprehendest_ word in the hull bible. miss peters pinted it out to the honey, and the honey told me about it jest afore i started fur recta, and some how it went into one ear and out 'tother. howsoever, i could see the honey was a heap changed by it, though it don't take away nun of her pretty.--she was more tenderer like, and when she spoke tu me about it, the tears cum into her bright eyes, jest like the pearls sot around the diamonds in her ring. i'm kinder thinkin we shall talk that are matter over when she comes back.' "up to the last day he was hopeful of getting well, and none of us felt specially concerned about him. the doctor came and went with words of cheer, and i was making preparations to go home, when the unexpected summons came. his pain seemed suddenly to change to the region of his heart, and i heard him say to fanny, ''tween you an me, fanny, the pain is in my heart. i believe i'm called fur, and i ain't done no good in the world yet. my temperance lectur didn't amount to nothin. i'm glad i never delivered it, fur it ain't got none of jesus's love in it, and men du need the almighty's lovin hand in that are thing. fur it's the devil's pison and mighty hard to fight agin. wouldn't the honey be glad though, if she knew what a fine man that are sherman is since he give up drinkin. tell her that poor old daddy blessed her with his dyin breath. call recta, fanny.' "i sprang to his bedside, and in a moment recta was there also. the dying man took my hand and thanked me for all my attentions to him, and then his eyes rested tenderly upon his wife. he tried to speak, but a spasm of pain checked him, and recta bent low to catch the words. he pointed upwards, threw his arms around her neck, and was gone. "we buried him at the left of your parents beside mammy, and when i left a mantle of soft, white snow was flung over all. "i brought fanny home with me, and recta is living with dr. goodrich's family. having previously been so many years their servant, she is much attached to the doctor's wife and edward sherman. "edward sherman was very attentive to daddy during his illness, frequently riding down with the doctor and remaining until his next morning's visit. there is certainly a striking change in his appearance. i honor him for the straight-forward, high-minded course he has of late taken. having learned his weakness before it was too late, it has become to him an element of strength, and his influence over his associates speaks well for his future usefulness. "we all long to see you again, fanny in particular wishes for your return every day, although she seems quite content with us, and is a great favorite with tom, who amuses himself by plying her with difficult questions, which she patiently puzzles her ingenious little brain to answer. p.s. i obtained permission of recta to send you daddy's temperance lecture, with the request that you carefully preserve and return it to her." chapter xxxviii. daddy's temperance lecture. having slightly modified the spelling in daddy's lecture, in order to make it the more easily read, and at the same time to render it in his own diction, we now place it, with the preliminary arrangments, "fur tu be read silent," before the reader. "fust, haul out my specks. second, haul out my yeller silk hankercher. third, wipe them air specks. fourth, put them air specks on my nose. fifth, put that air yeller silk handkercher in my pocket. sixth, clar my throat. seventh, go at it loud. i don't expect fur to say nothin new on the subject of temperance, but it wont du fur tu say nothin cause you can't get up no new ideas. now supposen a neat housekeeper shouldn't hev nothin fur to say, tu a parcel of careless heedless boys and gals, cause she must say the same old thing over every day. hezekiah clean yer feet. matilda, hang up yer shawl. susan maria put away yer gloves, what kind of a house du ye think that air would be, all topsy turvey and kivered with dirt? if them air children don't mind at fust, she keeps up that air kind of talk from one year's end tu 'tother, and ginerally speaking they grow up tu be orderly men and women. just so we've got to hammer and ding away at the temperance cause from generation to generation, if we want our children tu be nice temperate men. never mind gitten up no new ideas: tech not, taste not, handle not, is good enough for any age. then agin, ken ye expect yer boys fur tu be tidy when yer own feet are dirty and yer things out of place over the hull house? them are little shavers think it's big tu du what daddy does and they are pretty nigh sartin fur to drink that air nasty lager beer if daddy does. hev a mat at yer door and keep yer own feet clean, and hev hezekiah and matilda and susan maria put theirn there, tu. that's the way fur tu du. some say, a little wine won't hurt a pussen; some say, lager beer won't hurt a pussen; some say, cider won't hurt nobody: but i say, the infarnel stuff which makes men drunk, no matter what name it goes by, is the stuff fur to let alone. it's the infarnel stuff, that makes holes in yer wallets and holes in yer breeches, and holes in yer winders, and holes in yer wife's heart, and kivers yer children all over with holes; and last of all opens a big hole in the ground fur ye tu slide through inter the infarnel regions. i hev had it thrown inter my face that jesus christ hisself, made wine out of water, fur weddins, and the govenor of the feast said it was the best they hed hed. i ain't no doubt of it nuther, jest fur two reasons, fust, it was made of water, second, jesus christ hisself made it, and ye may bet all yer new clothes, _he_ wouldn't hev done nothin to hurt nobody, i wouldn't have been afeared myself, fur tu drink wine made of water, by jesus christ. i reckon we don't get no such now days. like enough, one reason for his makin it was fur tu hender 'em from gittin any more of the miserable intoxicating stuff. one thing is sartin, if he was god, he wouldn't dispute hisself, and the bible expressly says, 'look not upon the wine--fur in the end it biteth like a sarpent and stingeth like an adder.' i don't profess fur tu know much about scriptur, but a nice leetle gal pinted that air varse out to me, and she pinted out another which said, 'no drunkard ken enter the kingdom of heaven.' howsoever, i ain't no preacher, and like enough tham air black coats hev got up some big idee that clars up the hull subject. my religion is tu do the best we kin, and we needn't be shaky about the futur. i've been a advocating that air doctrine this sixty years and folks ginerally sarve me as two leetle boys did not long ago. they was a making a puny leetle dog draw a heavy loaded sled, and i said to them are leetle shavers, 'you'd better turn in and push the sled and help that air tired weakly dog of yourn;' and when i looked back a few minutes after, them air leetle rascals was both riding on top of the load, and had their fingers at their noses a pintin at me. what people want is fur to have their hearts teched deep, and i don't know how fur tu du it. i could tell stories about what liquor has done, that orter set every one of ye a snivellin powerful, but i reckon you'd ruther hear something funny. temperance lecturers is generally expected fur tu tell funny stories jest as a farmer is expected fur tu feed out his husks tu them air animals that loves fur tu chaw husks. the grain goes futher when he fodders in that air way. but i don't know nothin funny connected with the subject of drinking. it is all kivered over with groans and sighs and tears and blood, and ye'd shudder fur tu hear about it, and yer feelins may be would get tu tossin and bilin like mad, but yer wouldn't _du_ nothin. my be in a few minutes you'd treat me as them air boys did, and take a glass of beer with yer neighbors, cause all that biling and tossin is on the surface. it don't go deep enough fur tu make ye act. t'other night a neighbor of mine was a walkin hum with me and we went past the house of an old scothman, who gits drunk every time he ken git trusted, or treated or ken git change enough fur tu buy the whiskey, and his wife ain't no better than he is. they hev two nice leetle children, a boy and a gal, and them air unfeeling wretches, hed, in a fit of drunken madness, actually shet their leetle boy and gal out of doors that cold freezing night. the poor babies was half naked, and they had curled powerful close together on the door step, where the winds blowed around and gnawed away at their half froze bodies, until the stout hearted boy cried with pain as he tuck off his scotch bonnet and put his sister's poor, little, red, frostbit feet inter it. his own feet was bare, and their heads was bare, and in a little while they might hev froze to death, hed we not passed that air way. wall, we stopped and tried fur tu make them air critters inside open the door, but they hed locked up, and settled down inter a drunken sleep, and the children begged us not fur tu disturb 'em for them are children was afeared of being mauled tu death. they'd ruther freeze than ventur in. so one of 'em i tuck and my neighbor tuck t'other hum. he was a swearing away all the time at them air folks making such beasts of themselves. now, what du yer think he did hisself the next day? he got so tight he couldn't walk straight. i met him a going hum smellin like a whiskey barrel and raising his feet powerful high. says i, 'neighbor g., i wouldn't hev thought you would ever hev teched another mite of liquor after what we see last night.' says he, 'mr. roarer, i ken control my appetite. i know jest when fur tu stop. i shall go hum and kiss my wife and children and not drive 'em out of doors as scotch billy did.' says i, 'thats just the way scotch billy talked five years ago.' 'wall, wall,' says he, 'i ain't one of yer scotch billys; i know when fur tu stop.' but ye won't du it; ye'll cave under by and by. them air kind that brag that they know jest when fur tu stop is generally the very ones that go under afore they know it, i thinked tu myself as he staggered off. if there is an old toper present, or a young toper, let 'em take the warning of an old man who has been awatching the gradual down fall of moderate drinkers for threescore years. i've seen 'em live, and i've seen 'em die. _die_ ain't no name fur the last struggle i've seen 'em go through with. jest picture tu yourself a grapery, stretchin miles away, and in that air grapery is walkin men of every age and condition, and all are a pluckin them are big purple grapes. some eat many, some, few; some grow red and portly, some grow pale and thin, (them air pale ones take the longest strides and get to the end fust.) they hev all been warned that that air fruit hes been pisened, and some of them git a leetle frightened at seein the strange way it effects companions, and they turn back, but the most on 'em go on, plucking and eating, heedless of the cries of them without. o, they know jest how many fur tu eat and not die. their friends needn't worry: they ken take care of theirselves. 'mother,' says a youth, lookin through the lattices, with a glow upon his cheek, 'i'm all right, don't bother about me. see mr. moderate drinker ahead there,--see how hale he looks--he'll live longer than any of ye outside.' but afore long that air smart youth goes reeling past mr. moderate drinker, toward the end.--it is too late now--let his mother cry to heaven and wring her hands and lie in the ashes upon the hearth. it is all in vain.--'my boy, oh, my boy!' rings unheeded in his ear. a mother's voice, a mother's tears, a mother's anguish, what are they compared with the fruit, which he has lost the power to resist, and which his companions are constantly urging upon him? but look! he suddenly starts back pale and fearful. he has seen the precipice and the black gulfs with open jaws jest afore him? no, ah no, the heavy clusters and the interlaced vines hide that. but he heard the despairing shriek of a feller traveller as he plunged in; and for a moment he tremblingly questions, what is there? ah, there is no clusters, no leaves, no vines, between that spot and his devoted mother's eye. she has long looked fearfully towards it, and, just upon the verge, she sees him falter. a faint hope springs up within her, and, with the courage of desperation, she cries out in a voice that might pierce the skies, 'turn, oh, my boy, turn, flee fur yer life--one step forward and ye are lost!' her last words are drowned in the jeers of his companions, and his senses are deadened by the odors of the purple cluster just ahead, and to reach it he takes the fatal step. fur a moment he hangs suspended over the abyss, clutchin the vines whose roots take hold on hell, and as with bloodshot eyes and fearful shrieks, he tugs and strains to regain his footin, a foul sarpent winds its way among the leaves, and stealthily strikes his fangs inter the branch to which he clings, and gnaws his last refuge. that air is the way they die. now, can't nothin be done fur to keep folks out of that air grapery? if the law would only put a door tu it, and shet it tight, i recken there wouldn't be many that would git in thar. some old topers that hev got a strong hankerin after that pisen fruit, might crawl through the lattices to get it. when the place is wide open and everything looks temptin, and they see a crowd a going that air way, it is easy fur tu foller, but when it's all shet up they turn away tu somethin better, fur almost any thin is better than sech a place as i hev described. i know that a passel of big lawyers and judges say that we can't make a effectual door cause there ain't no timber in the constitution fur tu make it of and so some is fur putting up a rickety kind of a barricade fur tu keep folks on sundays and lection days, and some is fur hevin a gate that them air sarpents inside will hev fur tu pay a big pile of money fur tu get the privilege of openin. but i don't see why on airth, if they ken git timber fur them air half way consarns, they can't git it fur a hull door. if they can't, they hed better graft, some law agin liquor sellin branches inter that air constitutional tree, and hev them air infarnel roads to the infarnel regions blocked up entirely. howsoever, while its open a single crack we must du the best we ken fur tu keep the people out of the wrong track. them air temperance societies, and temperance pledges is mighty good, but there ain't enough of 'em and they ain't active enough. now, a nice, smart, rosy-cheeked gal instead of passin round wine tu her little party of friends, might pass a temperance pledge, and coax them air beaux of hern inter puttin their names tu it, and give 'em a nice cup of coffee fur tu top off with. there might be lots of them air kind of things did, if folks only set themselves to work in earnest. instead of telling yer friends that it won't hurt'em, as i've heerd of some infatuated pussons doin, tell 'em total abstinence won't hurt 'em, and i'll ventur fur tu say they'll thank ye fur it, instead of cussin of ye tu all eternity fur puttin the glass to their lips. that air reminds me of another scriptur that that air little gal pinted out to me, 'woe tu him that putteth the glass to his neighbor's lips.' that air is all the scriptur i ken quote correct 'tween genesis and revelation. i larned it fur tu throw in the face of one of them black coats, that hes invited me fur tu tend his church. sez i tu him, 'if ye'll preach from that air text i'll go.' sez he, 'i preach the gospel. i can't be givin my valooble time to politics and temperance lecturs, but i'll read that air chapter to my congregation if ye'll come.' sez i, 'no-siree! i don't believe in no half way business.' ye see i had an inkling that he was afeered of that air rich hullsale liquor dealer that tended his church. them that retail the stuff is generally looked down upon, but them air that is rich enough to shovel it out by the hullsale is looked up tu on the principle, turn yer back tu a poor devil, take off yer hat to a rich devil. i never could think of anythin bad enough fur tu say about the mischief them air liquor dealers du, and rather guess on that account i'll hev fur tu leave 'em to the cuss which god almighty hisself has passed upon 'em. i hev no doubt but that air cuss has been echoed and rechoed by millions upon millions of their victims. i would hate to have all the cusses of the widows and orphans, and the wus than widows and orphans that them air ginerations of vipers hev made, and bit. but there is another pint which consarns every one of us. hev we a right to stand by silent and see these things did? that air is a big question that some folks would like fur to dodge, cause maybe if they took a active part agin drunkard makin, it might interfere with their dollars, or with their friends or with their interests in other ways. but ye can't dodge the question; its afore ye, and there it shall stand until gabriel blows his big horn, and you'll hev fur tu answer it, tu the almighty, hisself. don't the bible say that every tub shall stand on its own bottom? i've heerd it did, and i'm a thinkin that all of them air useless tubs that stand out a sunning theirselves, will fall down and not hev any bottom fur tu stand on when they are fur, and will only be fit fur firewood. fur my part i don't blame god almighty fur pitchin folks inter the infarnel regions when they won't du nothin fur tu keep things right in this ere world, and some actually hender others from doing anything. now, supposen there was a big hole in the end of our street and a passel of citizens should du all they could to keep that air hole open fur people to fall inter, and you'd hear 'em hollerin out tu folks that was a tryin to stop it up; 'let that air hole alone, everybody knows its there, if they don't want fur tu git inter it let em go another way; there is plenty of streets;' wouldn't yer think them air rascals ought to be singed to all etarnity? well, what's the mighty difference 'tween them air, and a passel of citizens that'll set by and see their feller citizens go straight inter that air hole and say nothin? i believe in men's minding their own business, and i hold its a man's business to save a drownding feller critter if he ken. i hev now come to my last pint. it is this. shall we hev laws that will save our nation from becoming a nation of drunkards, or shall we not? just picture to yourself a drunken president. we hev hed him. then picture a passel of drunken senators. we hev hed them, tu. seems zif the more big men ken circulate the devil's pisen, the better they like it, and that air in my opinion is one reason why we can't get laws tu shet down the making and selling of the infarnel stuff. why, keep that air kind of men in office, and figuratively speakin, the fust we know, a pair of the president's breeches will be stuffed inter a broken winder of that air white house. fur if we keep a sendin men tu washington, that is friendly tu that air sarpent with many heads, it will git so big that it will sartin bust every thing to flinters. it's leetle young ones are a crawlin everywhere now. they lay coiled on the hearth of the rich man and the poor man, and woe to the infatuated pussen who gits inter their slimy folds. o, what wretched slaves they do make of their victims. what tears, what anguish, what poverty, what degradation du they bring them tu! shall we, the free born sons of america, consent fur tu be made slaves, and lay among the pots? shall we walk in rags and stagger in fetters with the blood of the innercent on our hands? i say, shall this big proud nation be made fur tu totter and tu reel like a helpless baby a learnin fur tu walk? shall that air many headed sarpent rule us, or shall we rule it? haul out yer temperance pledges! float the banner of total abstinence! wave high the flag of freedom; and fight long and fight well fur freedom; from the intoxicatin cup!" chapter xxxix. death in mid ocean--love making and a double wedding. "the birds are mating, and the spring will soon open, and when the little songsters come to you, i am coming with them," wrote little wolf to mrs. tinknor in the month of february. so now, dear reader, let us skip the intervening months, and go half way to meet her. her friends having planned to carry out their promise to captain green, whose acquaintance and that of his little daughter flora, it will be remembered, she formed on her outward trip; all we have to do is to take passage on the steamship "northern star," captain green, commander, and we will soon have the pleasure of greeting our heroine. little flora, who has once more been permitted to accompany her papa, is all impatience, and almost every hour of the day she may be heard singing, "o dear, i am so wery, wery, anxious to see dear miss dewolf," and "papa, ain't you wery, wery, anxious to see miss dewolf?" the captain assures his daughter that he is "wery anxious," and, indeed, when he says so, his dark eyes kindle, and his fine, sunburnt countenance glows and warms expressively under his broad brimmed hat. the day has come at last, and little wolf's party are aboard, but oh, how changed are they all! consumption has fastened itself upon poor alfred marsden. his days are numbered, and for earth he seems to have but one desire, to see again his childhood home, and die there. his faithful nurses, annie and little wolf, have grown pale and thin, his sister's eyes are tear stained, and little wolf's also grief shaded, for together they have watched over and tended him, striving to drive away that unseen something, which makes his cheeks and lips so white, and takes fast hold upon his vitals, determined to wrench him away from those he loves. it will not even grant his last wish; for here, in mid ocean, he grapples with death. all day long those fair young faces have bent over him, and his friend, the captain, has been there with them, and little flora has hovered near with trembling lips, whispering softly, "i am so wery, wery, sorry." as the evening draws on, the sick man revives a little, and in a low, rapid tone, says something to his sister, which we do not hear, but with a few hurried words to little wolf, she moves away with the captain and flora, and little wolf is left alone with the dying. all that he is breathing into her ear we shall never know; but her cheek changes, and her lip quivers, and she bends over and kisses him tenderly. that hungry look in his eyes is gone. he is satisfied, and now, surrounded by those he loves, he dies with a smile upon his lips. his body will not rest in the place prepared for him in greenwood, beside his parents, but will sink into the ocean's greenwood, where the sea shall ever kiss his lips, where flowers bloom, and things of beauty are perpetual, and coral monuments are raised, out-rivalling those of the cemeteries of art. the fair moon shines out upon the waves and the winding sheet, and the burial is over. three days more, and we shall be on shore again," says little wolf, half regretfully. the captain is by her side, and he bends over and says something which we do not hear. little wolf shakes her head, and her ingenuous little face says no, as plainly as words could. a shade of disappointment manifests itself in the captain's manner, and again he speaks. his companion still replies in the negative. "then he was but a deer friend, and i may be the same," says the captain, now loud enough to be heard. now little wolf says distinctly, "yes, you may be the same, captain green. you rescued me in perils by sea, and he in perils by land. he told me with his latest breath how he had saved me from certain destruction when i was a little child, and--" "and how he loved you in after years, and how he longed to kiss you," said the captain, seeing her hesitate. "yes, captain," said little wolf solemnly, he told me that, and more which you must not hear." "i know how he felt," says the captain, folding his arms across his breast, "for i would be willing to die, if you would but kiss me." "captain," little wolf's cheek grows scarlet, and she pauses to choke down a strong emotion, "there is a man _living_ whom i have kissed, and i shall never kiss another." the captain's voice sinks very low in reply, but little wolf warmly takes his proffered hand, and it is easily to be seen that more than a common friendship has sprung up between them. now the captain, little wolf, miss marsden, and little flora, have become almost inseparable. a permanent parting is not once spoken of between them. their last day at sea is spent in planning to be together for the summer. it has transpired that little wolf's protege, fanny green, is a niece of the captain's. his elder brother, fanny's father, having formed bad habits, ran away from home, and it was supposed, went to sea, and had not been heard of by his family up to the time of the captain's acquaintance with little wolf. in the course of a few weeks, the captain and flora, are to accompany little wolf and miss marsden to minnesota, where they expect to greet their newly discovered little relative. a few weeks later, and everything was in company order at squire tinknor's, and fanny green's demure little face looked out of the window, almost the entire day that little wolf and her friends were to arrive, and when, just at twilight, a carriage brought them to the gate, she shrank away in the folds of the curtain, and little wolf found her there sobbing for joy. her cousin flora greeted her with the remark, "why, dear me, how wery, wery large you are, cousin fanny; i thought you would be smaller than me." little wolf found letters awaiting her from the hanfords, and antoinette le clare, urging her to come with her friends and spend a few weeks at fairy knoll. it was decided that they should accept the invitation, and accordingly, on a warm summer morning, a requisition was made on squire tinknor's horses and carriage, and tom was installed as driver. fanny and flora were to be left with mrs. tinknor, and, as tom tenderly kissed the former, his charge to her was, "take care of yourself, fanny dear, for you know you have promised to be my little wife," and flora said that was "wery, wery nice." the captain occupied a seat beside miss marsden, and little wolf sat by tom, whom, having ceased to be a lover, she found to be quite entertaining, and they amused themselves by building air castles and earth castles, such as baloons and orphan asylums; and indeed, by the time fairy knoll loomed up before them in the moonlight, they had become warmer friends than they had ever been. as they neared the cottage, little wolf could not repress a sigh, for too well did she remember her emotions on that wintry morning, when she and edward sherman left that spot together, so light of heart, so full of hope and joy. out sprang the watchers from within, to welcome their guests, and into the arms of edward sherman sprang little wolf. she had instantly recognized him, and a glad cry escaped her, as he caught her to his breast. the captain saw all at a glance, and he then knew whom little wolf had kissed, and who was kissing her. light also seemed to have suddenly dawned on tom's benighted vision. without ceremony or apology, edward bore our heroine away to a retired spot in the grove surrounding the cottage. their interview was not interrupted, until tom, in the course of half an hour had the temerity to venture out, and suggest the propriety of little wolf's partaking of a cup of tea. "did we not manage it nicely?" said antoinette le clare to little wolf when they were alone. "mr. sherman came out for a little recreation, and did not think of seeing you. we made him think that it was his sister we were expecting, and when he rushed to meet her and saw who it was you ought to have seen his face." on the subject of lovemaking, which was witnessed by the trees in the grove at fairy knoll, we will be silent. but the double wedding which followed was public and grand, and took place at st. paul, under mrs. tinknor's supervision. miss marsden returned to new york as mrs. captain green, and little flora declared herself "wery, wery fond of her new mama." mr. and mrs. sherman accompanied them as far as the city of pendleton, where edward proposes to make his future home. at parting tom wickedly mentioned to little wolf that he was concerned for the prosperity of that much talked of orphan asylum. whereupon the dignified mrs. sherman assured him that having proved himself so capable of preparing an asylum for the orphan in which they were mutually interested, she thought him better adapted to carry out her benevolent projects than she was, and consequently would leave the matter in his hands for the present. not long after their marriage edward sherman discovered in his wife's secretary a total abstinence pledge, to which was appended a long list of names. it was the same which mr. marsden had drawn up on shipboard, and "alfred marsden," headed the list. edward took it from its place, and he was in the act of signing his own name at the bottom, when a bright curly head came between him and the paper, and rosy lips whispered, "thank you, edward love, for this free will offering." the end. transcriber's note: spelling and punctuation left as found in the original text. _the old game_ _a retrospect after three and a half years on the water-wagon_ _by samuel g. blythe_ _author of "the price of place," "cutting it out," etc. etc._ _new york george h. doran company_ copyright, by george h. doran company _the old game_ _contents_ page i. introductory ii. a backward glance from a hillock of abstinence iii. getting the alcohol out of one's system iv. those who have suffered in vain v. a thirsty nation's need vi. the jeers of the smart alecs vii. more time for other things viii. leisure put to good uses ix. alcohol and the toll it takes _i: introductory_ in a few minutes it will be three years and a half since i have taken a drink. in six years, six months, and a few minutes it will be ten years. then i shall begin to feel i have some standing among the chaps who have quit. three years and a half seems quite a period of abstinence to me, but i am constantly running across men who have been on the wagon for five and ten and twelve and twenty years; and i know, when it comes to merely not taking any, i am a piker as yet. however, i have well-grounded hopes. the fact is, a drink could not be put into me except with the aid of an anesthetic and a funnel; but, for all that, i am no bigot. i look at this non-drinking determination of mine as a purely individual proposition. let me get the stage set properly at the beginning of my remarks. i have no advice to offer and no counsel to give. most of my best friends drink and i never have said and never shall say them nay. it is up to them--not up to me. i have no prejudices in the matter. if my friends want to drink i am for that--for them. these things are mentioned to establish my status in the premises. i have no sermon to preach--no warning to convey. i have no desire to impress my convictions on the subject of drinking liquor on any person whatever. that is not my mission. so far as i am concerned, all persons are hereby given full and free permission to eat, drink and be merry to such extent as they may prescribe for themselves. i set no limit, suggest no reforms, urge no cutting down or cutting out. go to it--and peace be with you! and for an absolute teetotaler i reckon i buy as many drinks for others as any one in my class. pardon me for inserting these puny details in what i have to say. triflingly personal as they are they seem necessary in order to establish my viewpoint. so far as drinking is concerned i look at it with a mind that is open and tolerant--except in one instance. that one instance concerns myself personally and individually. my mind is closed and intolerant in my own case. i have quit--and quit forever; but that does not make me go round urging others to quit, or preaching at them, or trying to reform them. they can reform or not, as they dad-blamed please. to be sure i have my own interior ideas on what some of them should do; but i never have and never shall do anything with those ideas but keep them closely to myself. therefore, to resume: in a few minutes it will be three years and a half since i have taken a drink. there is no more alcohol in my system than there is in a glass of spring water. the thought of putting alcohol into my system is as absent from my mind as is the thought of putting benzine into it, or gasoline, or taking a swig of shoe-polish. it never occurs to me. the whole thing is out of my psychology. my palate has forgotten how it tastes. my stomach has forgotten how it feels. my head has forgotten how it exhilarates. the next-morning fur has forsaken my tongue. it is all over! _ii: a backward glance from a hillock of abstinence_ looking back at the old game from this hillock of abstinence--it is not an eminence like those occupied by the twelve and fifteen year boys--looking back at the old game from this slight elevation, it is perhaps excusable for a man who put in twenty years at the old game to set the old game off against the new game and make up a debit and credit account just for the fun of it. just for the fun of it! my kind of drinking was always for the fun of it--for the fun that came with it and out of it and was in it--and for no other reason. i was no sot and no souse. all the drinks i took were for convivial purposes solely, except on occasional mornings when a too convivial evening demanded a next morning conniver in the way of a cocktail or a frappé, or a brandy-and-soda, for purposes of encouragement and to help get the sand out of the wheels. wherefore, what have i personally gained by quitting and what have i personally lost? how does the account stand? is it worth while or not? is there anything in convivial drinking that is too precious and too pleasant to be sacrificed for whatever pleasures or rewards there are in abstinence? what are the big equations? these are questions that naturally occur in a consideration of the subject; and these are the questions i shall try to answer, answering them entirely from my own experience and judging them from my own viewpoint, leaving the application of my conclusions to those who care to apply them to their own individual cases. it takes two years for a man who has been a convivial drinker to get any sort of proper perspective on both sides of the proposition. three years is better, and five years, i should say, about right. still, after three years and a half i think i can draw some conclusions that may have a certain general application--though, as i have said, i make no pretense of applying them generally. so far as i am able to judge, a man who has been a more or less sincere drinker for twenty years does not arrive at a point before two years of abstinence where he can take an impartial and non-alcoholic survey. at first he is imbued with the spirit of the new convert, fired with zeal and considerable of a pharisee. also, he is inhabited by the lingering thoughts of what he has renounced--the fun and the frolic of it; and he has set himself aside, in a good measure, from the friends he has made in the twenty years of joyousness. _iii: getting the alcohol out of one's system_ a scientist who has made a study of the subject told me, early in my water-wagoning, that it takes eighteen months for a man to get the alcohol entirely out of his system--provided, of course, he has been a reasonably consistent consumer of it for a period of years. i think that is correct. of course he did not mean--nor do i--that the alcohol actually remains in one's system, but that the sub-acute effects remain--that the system is not entirely reorganized on the new basis before that time; that the renovation is not complete. i do not know exactly how to phrase it; but, as nearly as i can express it, the condition amounts to this: after a man has been a reasonably steady drinker for a period of years, and quits drinking, there remain within him mental and some physical alcoholic tendencies. these are acute for the earlier stages, and gradually come to be almost subconscious--that is, though there is no physical alcoholization of his body, the mental alcoholization has not departed. i do not mean that his mind or mental powers are in any way affected to their detriment. what i do mean is that there remains in every man a remembrance, the ghost of a desire, the haunting thoughts of how good a certain kind of a drink would taste, and a regret for joys of companionship with one's fellows in the old way and in the old game, which takes time--and a good deal of time--to eradicate. it becomes a sort of state of mind. the body does not crave liquor. all that is past. there is no actual desire for it. indeed, the thought of again taking a drink may be physically repugnant; but there is a sort of phantom of renounced good times that hangs round and worries and obtrudes in blue hours and lonesome hours and letdown hours--a persistent, insistent sort of ghost-thought that flits across the mind from time to time and stimulates the what's-the-use portion of a man's thinking apparatus into active, personal inquiry, based on the _dum vivimus_, _vivamus_ proposition. i know this will be disputed by many men who have quit drinking and who beat themselves on the chests and boast: "i never think of it! never, i assure you! i quit; and after a few days the thought of drinking never entered my mind." i have only one reply for these persons; and, phrasing it as politely as i can, i say to them that they are all liars. moreover, they are the worst sort of liars, for they not only lie to others but commit the useless folly of lying to themselves. they may think they do not lie; but they do. there is not one of them--not one--who is not visited by the ghost of good times, the wraith of former fun, now and then; or one who does not wonder whether it is worth the struggle and speculate on what the harm would be if he took a few for old time's sake. the mental yearn comes back occasionally long after the physical yearn has vanished. my compliments to you strong-minded and iron-willed citizens who quit and forget--but you don't! you may quit, but it is months and months before you forget. the ghost appears and reappears; but gradually, as time goes on, the visits are less frequent--and finally they cease. the ghost has given you up for a bad job. if any man has quit and has stuck it out for two years he can be reasonably sure he will not be haunted much after he enters his third year. mental impressions and desires last far longer than physical ones, and by that time the mind has been reorganized along the new lines. then comes the sure knowledge that it is all right; and after that time any man who has fought his fight and falls can be classed only as an idiot. what, in the name of bacchus, is there to compensate a man in drinking again--after he has won his fight--for all the troubles and rigors of the battle from which he has emerged victorious? if he had nerve enough to go through his novitiate and get his degree, why should he deliberately return to the position he voluntarily abandoned? what has he been fighting for? why did he begin? _iv: those who have suffered in vain_ owing to a worldwide acquaintance among men who drink my personal determination to quit still excites the patronizing inquiry, "still on the wagon?" when i meet old friends. that used to make me angry, but it does not any more. i say, "yes!" take my mineral water and pass on to other things. but the position of those who quit and go back to it, and seek to excuse the return by saying, "oh, i only stopped to see whether i could. i found it was easy; so i began again!"--now is that not the sublimation of piffle? the fact that any man who salves himself with this sort of statement--and hundreds do--did go back does not prove that he could quit, but that he could not! i can understand why a man, having tried both sides of the game, should conclude that the rigors and restraints of not drinking overbalance the compensations and take up the practice again; but i cannot understand why a man should be so great a hypocrite with himself as to assign a reason like that for his renewal of the habit. no man quits just to see whether he can quit. every man quits because he personally thinks he ought to quit--for whatever his personal reason may be. and he begins again because he concludes the game is not worth playing, which means that he is not able to play it--not that it lacks merit. when you come to sum it all up general reasons for drinking are as absurd as general reasons for not drinking. it is entirely an individual proposition. i concluded it was a bad thing for me to drink. i know now i was right. but--and here is the point--it may be a good thing for my neighbor to drink. he must judge of that himself. personally i cannot see that it is a good thing for any man to drink; but i am no judge. i am influenced in my conclusions, not by a broad view of the situation as it applies to my fellows but by an intensely narrow view as it applies to myself. hence what i have concluded in the matter may be uncharitable--may smack of puritanism and may not be supported by general facts; but i am writing about my own experiences, not those of any other person whatever. my occupation takes me to all parts of the world and has for twenty-five years. it has caused me to make friends with all sorts of people in all sorts of places and in all sorts of circumstances. i early discovered that, as i was a gregarious person and intent on doing the best for myself that i possibly could, it was necessary for me to cultivate the friendship of men of affairs; and it became apparent to me that many men of affairs take an occasional drink. naturally i took an occasional drink with them, having no prejudices in the matter and being of open mind. i am big and husky, and mix well; and the result was i acquired as extensive a line of convivial acquaintances, across this country and across europe, as any person of your acquaintance. to some extent my friendship with these men was predicated on having a few drinks with them. i fell in with their ways or they fell in with mine; and as my association in almost every city, among the men with whom i worked and the men i met, is based largely on entertainment of one kind or another--generally with some alcohol in it--my life was ordered that way for two decades. and i had a heap of fun. there was no sottishness about it, no solitary drinking, no drinking for drink's sake, no drunkenness. it was all jollity and really innocent enough--a case of good fellows having a good time together. however, there was a good deal of rum consumed one way and another. then three and a half years ago, after a long caucus with myself, i quit. i decided i had played that game long enough and would begin to play another. it may be i did not know or figure out as concretely as i have figured out since just what i was doing when i quit. it may be! still, that has nothing to do with the case. i quit and i have stayed quit--and i have quit forever. so all that is coming to me in the premises is based on my own determination, as all has been that has come, and i have no complaints to make; and if i made any i should expect to get a punch in the eye for making them--and deserve one. passing over the physical and mental sides of the fight--which, i may assure you, were annoying enough to suit the most exacting advocate of the old policy of mortifying the flesh and disciplining the mind--there came eventually the necessity of learning how to keep in the game on a water basis--or, rather, of learning how to keep in such portions of the game as seemed worth while on a soft-drink schedule. i was too old to form many new ties. i had accumulated a farflung line of drinking men as friends. they were mostly the men with whom association was a pleasure--as in politics the villains are always the good fellows--and i did not want to lose them, however willing they were to lose me. there came, however, with my mineral-water view, a discriminatory sense that was not enjoyed in the highball period--that is to say, i found, observed with the cold and mayhap critical eye of abstinence, that a number of those with whom i was wont to associate needed the softening glow radiated by the liquor in me to make them as good as i had previously thought they were. there were some i found i did not miss, and more came to the same conclusion about me. they were all right--fine!--when seen or heard through ears and eyes that had been affected by the genial charitableness of a couple or three cocktails; but when seen or heard with no adventitious appliances on my part save ginger ale they were rather depressing--and i am quite sure they held the same views about me. _v: a thirsty nation's need_ so i sloughed off a good many and a good many sloughed off me; and a working basis was secured. at first i tried to keep along with all the old crowd, but that was impossible in two ways. i never realized until after i was on the water-wagon what extremes in piffle i used to think was witty conversation, and they discovered speedily that my non-alcoholic communications fitted in neither with the spirit nor the spirits of the occasion. the crying need of the society of this country is a non-alcoholic beverage that can be drunk in quantities similar to the quantities in which highballs can be drunk. a man who is a good, handy drinker can lap up half a dozen highballs in the course of an evening--and many lap up considerably more than that number and hold them comfortably; but the man does not exist who can drink half of that bulk of water or ginger ale, or of any of the first-aids-to-the-non-drinkers, and not be both flooded and foundered. the human stomach will easily accommodate numerous seidels of beer, poured in at regular or irregular intervals; but the human stomach cannot and will not take care of a similar number of seidels of water, or of any other liquid that comes in the guise of stuff that neither cheers nor inebriates. i have never looked up the scientific reason for this. i state it as a fact, proved by my own attempts to accomplish with water what i used easily to do with highballs, pilsner and other naughty substances. the reformer boys will tell you there is no special need for such a drink; that water is all-sufficient. of course everybody knows the reformer boys think the world is going to hell in a hanging basket unless each person in it comports himself and herself as the reformer boy dictates! but it is not so. and it is so that the social intercourse, the interchange of ideas between man and man, both in this country and in every other country, is often predicated on drinking as a concomitant. we may bewail this, but we cannot dodge it. hence any man who has been used to the normal society of his fellows along the lines by which i became used to that society, and along the lines by which ninety per cent of the men in this country become used to that society, must make a bluff at drinking something now and then. if he is not a partaker of alcohol he has his troubles in finding a medium for his imbibing, unless he goes the entire limit and cuts out the society of all friends who drink, which leaves him in a rather sequestrated and senseless position--not, of course, that there are not plenty of interesting men who do not drink, but that so many interesting men do. so the problem of a non-drinker resolves itself to this: how can he continue in the companionship of the men he likes, and who possibly like him, and not drink? how can he remain a social animal, with the fellowship of his kind, and stay on the water-wagon? well, it is a difficult problem, especially for persons situated as i was, who had spent twenty years accumulating a large assortment of acquaintances who used the stuff in moderation, but with added social zest to their goings and comings. when a man first stops drinking he is likely to become censorious. that starts him badly. also he is likely to become serious. that marks him down fifteen points out of a possible thirty. he flocks by himself, thinking high thoughts about his purity of purpose, his vast wisdom, his acute realization of the dangers that formerly beset his path and now beset the path of all those who are not walking side by side and in close communion with him. he pins medals all over himself, pats himself on the chest, and is much better than his kind. then he wakes up--unless he is a chump and a pharisee. if he is one or both of those he never wakes up, but soon passes beyond the pale. when he wakes up--assuming he has intelligence enough to do that--he gets an acute realization that if he holds off in that manner much longer even the elevator boys will not speak to him; and he comes to a point where he finds out that the wisest of the wise saws is that a man who is in rome should do as the romans do, with such modifications as his personal circumstances may demand. personally i found the most advantageous course to pursue was to drop the highfalutin air of extreme virtue that oppressed me and depressed my friends for the first few months and consider the whole thing as a joke. _vi: the jeers of the smart alecs_ i refused to take it seriously. it was in reality the most serious thing in the world; but that was inside. outside it was a thing to josh, to laugh over, to stand chaffing about--i listened to interminable comments, all couched in the same form--but, nevertheless, a thing to be held to grimly and firmly. so i went along whenever i had a chance. after the ghosts ceased haunting and the desire had gone i found i could cheer up on skillfully absorbed mineral water. i am free to say that a good deal of the conversation i heard bored me a heap; but i did not let on. and the result has been that i am no longer forced to flock by myself, but can break into almost any company of good fellows and be as good a fellow as any of them, via the ginger-ale or mineral-water process of conviviality. all the asses are not solidungulate quadrupeds--a good many of them belong to the genus homo. these are found in every center of population and are the boys who never cease wondering how it is that any man can or does do anything they themselves do not do, and continually comment thereon. ordinarily when a man of my type quits drinking the fact is accepted after the probationary period has passed, and no further comment is made on it. not so with the asinine contingent. they have the same patter to prattle unceasingly about it. they have the same comment, the same bromides to get off, the same sneers to sneer and the same jeers to jeer. if there was no other reason--and there are a hundred--why i shall not do any more drinking, i shall never taste another drop just to show these fools what fools they are when they run up against a real determination. it took time to get into this water-cheerful stage--a good deal of time, a good deal of determination, a good deal of maneuvering; and it meant the overlooking of many things that did not appeal to me, as well as considerable charity on the part of the folks with whom i desired to remain friendly--more on their part than on mine, i am sure. however, it has worked out reasonably well; and as i have tried it in new york, in washington, in san francisco and boston, and in most cities between, in london and paris and berlin, and in other portions of the globe where i formerly performed under the other schedule, i think i am safe in saying that it can be done if one sets his mind to it--that is, a non-drinker need not necessarily be a hermit. of course he can find plenty of non-drinkers with whom to associate if he makes the search; but, and it saddens me to say it, many of the non-drinking classes are not so interesting as they might be. however, that is only one phase of it--an important phase, but not the only one. doubtless it will seem erroneous to many persons, who have not been accustomed to the sort of relaxation that full-lived men take, to say this is important; and i freely admit that the highbrow basis is somewhat different from the highball basis. i grant that seekers after conversation about dull and academic subjects may not find that conversation at a social gathering sought for relaxation after the day's work is over; but not all conversation of the kind most red-blooded and live men who do things crave consists of joining in barber-shop chords of: "how dry i am! how dry i am! nobudee knows how dry i am!" _vii: more time for other things_ and there is this great advantage: your resources for the entertainment of yourself are vastly developed when you do not drink. when you do drink, about all you do is drink--that is, the usual formula, day by day, is to get through work and then go somewhere where there are fellows of your kind and have a few. now when you do not drink you find there are other things that occur to you as worth while. it is not necessary to hurry to the club or elsewhere to meet the crowd and listen to the newest story, or hear the comment on the day's doings, punctuated by the regular tapping of the bell for the waiter and the pleasing: "what'll it be, boys?" you do that now and then, but you do not do it every day. after mature consideration of the subject i have concluded that the greatest, the most satisfactory, the finest attribute of a non-alcoholic life is the time it gives you to do non-alcoholic things. time! that is the largest benefit--time to read, to think, to get out-of-doors, to see pictures, to go to plays, to meet and mingle with new people, to do your own work in. a man who has the convivial-drinking habit is put to it on occasions to find time for anything but conviviality aside from his regular occupation. it seems imperative to him that he shall get where the crowd is, and stay there. he might miss something--a drink maybe, or two, or a laugh, or a yarn, or the pleasures of association with folks he likes. these are important when visualized alcoholically. they make up the most of that kind of a life. do not understand that i am deprecating these pleasures. i am not. i have already explained how strenuously i worked out a program that enables me to enjoy them now and then; but the fact that i have quit drinking makes them incidental to the general scheme instead of the whole scheme. it gives me an opportunity to pick and choose a bit. it relieves me of the necessity of being at the same places at the same time every afternoon or evening. whereas i used to be the boss and john barleycorn the foreman, i have now discharged john and am both boss and foreman; and i run the game to suit myself and have time for other things. let me impress that on you--the glory and gladness of time! it requires rather persistent application to be a good fellow. one cannot do much else. however, when a man has arrived at that stage where he can retain at least a portion of his good fellowship and also can be two or three of the other kinds of a worth-while fellow--to himself, at least--he has gained on the old gang by about a hundred per cent. as it is now, no chums come shouting in to urge me to go and have one; nobody drops round at five o'clock in the afternoon to hurry me along to the favorite table at the club; nobody suggests about seven o'clock that we all 'phone home and stay down and have dinner together; the old plan of having a luncheon that lasts an hour and a half or two hours in the best part of the day is rarely broached. there are few telephone calls after dinner urging an immediate descent on a gathering where there is something coming off--all these things are left to my choice and are not taken as a matter of usual procedure, predicated on the circumstances of the plan of living. a non-drinking man is the master of his own time. if he wants sociability he can go and get it, up to such limits as he personally can attain for himself in his water-consuming capacity. a drinking man is not master of his time. he may think he is, but he is not. he is the creature of a habit that may be harmless, but which surely is insistent; and the habit dictates what he shall do with his leisure. time! why, such new vistas of what can be done with time that was wasted in former years have opened before me that time seems to me the greatest luxury in the world--time that was formerly wasted and now is used! i hope that does not sound priggish. i have tried to show that i value highly the privilege of associating with my fellows, and that i like their ways and their talk and their company. what i mean by this pæan to time is that i can have company in a modified measure, if i choose; and that i can and do have other things that no man who has a daily drinking habit can or does have. _viii: leisure put to good uses_ take books--though books may not be a fair test of time employed in my case, for i always have read books in great numbers--but take books: in the past three years and a half i have read as many books--real books--as i read in the ten years preceding. i have read books i was always intending to read, but never got round to. i have kept up with the new good ones and have helped myself to several items of interesting discovery and knowledge that in the old days would have been known about only through newspaper reports. i have developed a good many half-facts that were in my mind. i have classified and arranged a lot of scattering information that had seeped into me notwithstanding my engagements with the boys. i have had time to go to see some pictures. i have had time to hear some music. i have had time to visit a lot of interesting places, such as great industrial concerns and factories, which i always intended to see but never quite reached. i have had time to make a few investigations on my own account. i have met and talked to a large number of people who were formerly outside my range of vision. and i have done better work in my own line--i have more time for it. if i have lost any friends they were friends whose loss does not bother me. i find that all the true-blue chaps, the worth-while ones, though they look--in most instances--on my non-drinking idiosyncrasy with amused tolerance, have not lost any respect or affection for me, and are just as true blue as they formerly were. most of them drink, but i fancy some of them wish they did not; and none of them holds my strange behavior up against me. to be sure, they often have their little gatherings without me; but that is not because they do not like me any the less, and is because i do not happen, in my new rôle, to fit in. there are times, you know, when even the most enthusiastic ginger-ale specialist is not _persona grata_. we have reached a common basis of understanding. the real man is tolerant. intolerance is the vice of the narrow man. now, then, we come to the real question, which is: with our society organized as it is, with men such men as they are, with conditions that surround life as it is organized, with things as they stand to-day--is it worth while to drink moderately, or is it not? the answer, based solely on my own experience, is that it is not. looking at the matter from all its angles i am convinced that the best thing i ever did for myself was to quit drinking. i will go further than that and say it is my unalterable conviction that alcohol, in any form, as a beverage never did anything for any man that he would not have been better without. i can now sit back and contrast the old game with the new. the comparisons fall under two general heads--physical and mental. the physical gain is so obvious that even those who have not experienced it admit it, and those who have experienced it comment on it as some miracle of health that has been attained. any man--i do not care who he is--who was the sort of a drinker i was, who will stop drinking long enough to get cooled out will feel so much better in every way that he will be hard put to it to give a reason for ever beginning again. take my own case: i was fat, wheezy, uric-acidy, gouty, rheumatic--not organically bad, but symptomatically inferior. i was never quite normal--no man is normal who has a few drinks each day, though most men boast they never were under the influence of liquor in their lives, and all that sort of tommyrot--and never quite up to the mark. now i weigh one hundred eighty-five pounds, which is my normal weight, for that is what i weighed when i was twenty-one; and i have not varied five pounds in more than two years. i used to weigh two hundred and fifty, which was the result of our friend pilsner beer and his accomplices. all the gouty, rheumatic, wheezy symptoms are gone. if there is anything the matter with me the best doctors in these united states cannot discover what it is. my eye is clear, instead of somewhat bleary. i have dropped off every physical burden and infirmity i had, and i am in the pink of condition. i have no fear of heart, kidneys, or of any other organ. i have no pains, no aches, and no head in the morning. i sleep as a well man should sleep and i eat as a well man should eat. i am forty-five years old and i feel as if i were twenty--and i am, to all intents and purposes, physically. so much for that side of it. mentally i have a clearer, saner, wider view of life. i am afflicted by none of the desultoriness superinduced by alcohol. i do not need a bracer to get me going or a hooker to keep me under way. i find, now that i know the other side of it, that the chief mental effect of alcohol, taken as i took it, is to induce a certain scattering and casualness of mind. also, it induces a lack of definiteness of view and a notable failure of intensive effort. a man evades and scatters and exaggerates and makes loose statements when he drinks. _ix: alcohol and the toll it takes_ and let me say another thing: one of the reasons i quit was because i noticed i was going to funerals oftener than usual--funerals of friends who had been living the same sort of lives for theirs as i had been living for mine. they began dropping off with bright's disease and other affections superinduced by alcohol; and i took stock of that feature of it rather earnestly. the funerals have not stopped. they have been more frequent in the past three years than in the three years preceding--all good fellows, happy, convivial souls; but now dead. some of them thought that i was foolish to quit too! and there are a few cases of hardening arteries i know about, and a considerable amount of gout and rheumatism, and some other ills, among the gay boys who japed at me for quitting. gruesome, is it not? and god forbid that i should cast up! but if you quit it in time there will be no production of albumin and sugar, no high blood pressure, no swollen big toes and stiffened joints. if health is a desideratum, one way to attain a lot of it is to cut out the booze. the old game makes for fun, but it takes toll--and never fails! i have tried it both ways. i can see how a man who never took any liquor cannot understand much of what i have written, and i can see how a man who has the same sort of habits i had can think me absurd in my conclusions; but a man who has played both ends of it certainly has some qualifications as a judge. and, as i stated, i have set down here only my own personal ideas on the subject. as i look at it there is no argument. the man who does not drink has all the better of the game. frank oldfield, or lost and found by the reverend t.p. wilson, m.a., rector of smethcote published by t. nelson and sons, london, edinburgh and new york, . also by w. tweedie, strand, london, and at the office of the united kingdom band of hope union, red lion square, london. ________________________________________________________________ preface the committee of the united kingdom band of hope union having offered prizes of one hundred pounds, and fifty pounds respectively, for the two best tales illustrative of temperance in its relation to the young, the present tale, "frank oldfield," was selected from eighty-four tales as the one entitled to the first prize. the second tale, "tim maloney," was written by miss m.a. paull, of plymouth, and will shortly be published. appended is the report of the adjudicators:-- we the adjudicators appointed by the committee of the united kingdom band of hope union, to decide upon the prize tales for which premiums of one hundred pounds, and fifty pounds, were offered by advertisement, hereby declare that we have selected the tale with the motto "nothing extenuate, or set down aught in malice," as that entitled to the first prize of one hundred pounds; and the tale with the motto "hope on, hope ever," as that entitled to the second prize of fifty pounds. as witness our hands, thomas cash, t. geo. rooke, b.a., john clifford, m.a., ll.b., &c. united kingdom band of hope union office, red lion square, london. august , . this book was well-written, and generally exciting throughout, although one of the early chapters was a bit lacking in action (people seated round the dinner-table). the action was credible and well described. the whole thing rang very true, and for that reason might be read by someone wishing to gain more knowledge of life two-thirds of the way through the nineteenth century. the reverend wilson writes well, and it would be pleasant to seek out and read other books from his pen. n.h. (transcriber) ________________________________________________________________ frank oldfield, by the reverend t.p. young chapter one. lost. "have you seen anything of our sammul?" these words were addressed in a very excited voice to a tall rough-looking collier, who, with davy-lamp in hand, was dressed ready for the night-shift in the bank pit of the langhurst colliery. langhurst was a populous village in the south of lancashire. the speaker was a woman, the regularity of whose features showed that she had once been good-looking, but from whose face every trace of beauty had been scorched out by intemperance. her hair uncombed, and prematurely grey, straggled out into the wind. her dress, all patches, scarcely served for decent covering; while her poor half- naked feet seemed rather galled than protected by the miserable slippers in which she clattered along the pavement, and which just revealed some filthy fragments of stockings. "no, alice," was the man's reply; "i haven't seen anything of your sammul." he was turning away towards the pit, when he looked back and added, "i've heard that you and thomas are for making him break his teetottal; have a care, alice, have a care--you'll lose him for good and all if you don't mind." she made him no answer, but turning to another collier, who had lately come from his work, and was sauntering across the road, she repeated her question,-- "jim, have _you_ seen anything of our sammul?" "no, i know nothing about him; but what's amiss, alice? you're not afraid that he's slipped off to the `george'?" "the `george!' no, jim, but i can't make it out; there must be summut wrong, he came home about an hour since, and stripped and washed him, then he goes right up into the chamber, and after a bit comes down into the house with his best shoes and cap on. `where art going, sammul?' says i. he says nothing, but crouches him down by the hearth-stone, and stares into the fire as if he seed summat strange there. then he looks all about him, just as if he were reckoning up the odd bits of things; still he says nothing. `sammul,' said i, `won't you take your tea, lad?' for it were all ready for him on the table. still he doesn't speak, but just gets up and goes to the door, and then to the hearth- stone, and then he claps his head on his hands as though he were fretting o'er summat. `aren't you well, sammul?' says i. `quite well, mother,' says he, very short like. so i just turns me round to go out, when he jumps up and says, `mother:' and i could see by the tears in his eyes that he were very full. `mother,' says he again, and then he crouches him down again. you wouldn't believe, how strange i felt--you might have knocked me down with a feather; so i just goes across to old jenny's to ax her to come and look at him, for i thought he mightn't be right in his head. i wasn't gone many minutes, but when i got back our sammul were not there, but close by where he were sitting i seed summat lapped up in a piece of papper, lying on the table. i opened it, and there were a five-shilling piece and a bit of his hair, and he'd writ on the papper, `from sammul, for dear mother.' oh, what _must_ i do--what _must_ i do? i shall ne'er see our sammul any more," and the poor woman sobbed as if her heart would break. before jim had time to answer, a coarse-looking man of middle height, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, a pipe in his mouth, and his whole appearance bespeaking one who, in his best moments, was never thoroughly sober, strode up to the unhappy mother, and shouted out,-- "what's up now? what's all this about?" "your sammul's run away--that's what it's about," said jim. "run away!" cried the other; "i'll teach him to run away--i'll break every bone in his body when i get him home again." "ay, but you must catch him _first_," said jim, drily. "alice, what's all this?" said johnson, for that was the father's name, turning fiercely on his wife. she repeated her story. johnson was staggered. samuel was a quiet lad of fourteen, who had borne with moderate patience many a hard word and harder blow from both parents. he had worked steadily for them, even beyond his strength, and had seen the wages which ought to have found him sufficiency of food and clothing squandered in drink by both father and mother. johnson was staggered, because he knew that samuel _could_ have a will of his own; he had felt a force in his son's character which he could not thoroughly understand; he had seen at times a decision which showed that, boy as he was, he could break sooner than bend. samuel, moreover, was an only son, and his father loved him as dearly as a drunkard's selfishness would let him love anything. his very heart sickened at his wife's story, and not without cause. they had but two children, samuel and betty. samuel worked in the pits; his sister, who was a year younger, was employed at the factory. poor children! their lot had been a sad one indeed. as a neighbour said, "yon lad and wench of johnson's haven't been _brought_ up, they've been _dragged_ up." it was too true; half fed and worse clothed, a good constitution struggled up against neglect and bad usage; no prayer was ever taught them by a mother's lips; they never knew the wholesome stimulant of a sober father's smile; their scanty stock of learning had been picked up chiefly at a night-school; in the sunday school they had learned to read their bibles, though but imperfectly, and were never more happy than when singing with their companions the hymns which they had practised together. they were specially dear to one another; and in one thing had ever been in the strictest agreement, they would never taste that drink which had made their own home so miserable and desolate. about a fortnight before our story opens, langhurst had been placarded with bills announcing that an able and well-known total abstinence advocate would give an address in the parish schoolroom. many went to hear, and among them samuel and betty johnson. young and old were urged to sign the pledge. the speaker pictured powerfully a drunkard's home-- he showed how the drink enticed its victims to their ruin like a cheating fiend plucking the sword of resistance from their grasp while it smiled upon them. he urged the young to begin at once, to put the barrier of the pledge between themselves and the peculiar and subtle array of tempters and temptations which hedged them in on all sides. in the pledge they had something to point to which could serve as an answer to those who could not or would not hear reason. he showed the _joy_ of a home into which the drink had never found an entrance--total abstinence was safety--"never to taste" was "never to crave." he painted the vigour of a mind unclouded from earliest years by alcoholic stimulants; he pointed to the blessing under god of a child's steady practical protest, as a christian abstainer, against the fearful sin which deluged our land with misery and crime, and swept away every spark of joy and peace from the hearthstones of thousands of english homes. every word went deep into the hearts of samuel and his sister: the drunkard's home was their own, the drink was ever before their eyes, the daily sin and misery that it caused they knew by sharp experience--time after time had they been urged to take the drink by those very parents whose substance, whose strength, whose peace had all withered down to the very ground under its fatal poison. how hard had been the struggle to resist! but now, if they became pledged abstainers, they would have something more to say which could give additional strength to their refusal. the speaker stood pen in hand when he had closed his address. "come--which of you young people will sign?" samuel made his way to the table. "i don't mind if _i_ do," he said; and then turning to betty, when he had written his name, "come, betty," he cried, "you'll sign too--come, stick to the pen." "well, i might do worse, i reckon," said betty, and she also signed. a few more followed, and shortly afterwards the meeting broke up. but a storm was now brewing, which the brother and sister had not calculated for. johnson and three or four kindred spirits were sitting round a neighbour's fire smoking and drinking while the meeting was going on. a short time after it had closed, a man thrust open the door of the house where johnson was sitting, and peeping round, said with a grin,-- "i say, tommy jacky," (the nickname by which johnson was familiarly known), "your sammul and betty have just been signing teetottal pledge." "eh! what do you say?" exclaimed johnson in a furious tone, and springing to his feet; "signed the pledge! i'll see about that;" and hurrying out of the house, he half ran half staggered to his own miserable dwelling. he was tolerably sobered when he got there. samuel was sitting by the fire near his mother, who was frying some bacon for supper. betty had just thrown aside on to the couch the handkerchief which she had used instead of a bonnet, and was preparing to help her mother. johnson sat down in the old rickety rocking-chair at the opposite side of the fire to samuel, and stooping down, unbuckled his clogs, which he kicked off savagely; then he looked up at his son, and said in a voice of suppressed passion,-- "so, my lad, you've been and signed teetottal." "yes, i have," was the reply. "and _you've_ signed too," he cried in a louder voice, turning fiercely upon betty. "ay, fayther, i have," said betty, quietly. "well, now," said johnson, clenching his teeth, "you just mind _me_, i'll have nothing of the sort in _my_ house. i hate your nasty, mean, sneaking teetottallers--we'll have none of that sort here. d'ye hear?" he shouted. neither samuel nor betty spoke. "hush, hush, tom," broke in his wife; "you mustn't scold the childer so. i'm no fonder nor you of the teetottallers, but childer will not be driven. come, sammul--come, betty, you mustn't be obstinate; you know fayther means what he says." "ay that i do," said her husband. "and now, you listen: i'd sooner see you both in your graves, nor have you sticking up your pledge cards about the house, and turning up the whites of your eyes at your own fayther and mother, as if we were not good enough for the likes of you. me and mine have ever loved our pipe and our pot, the whole brood of us, and we ne'er said `no' to a chap when he asked for a drop of drink--it shall never be said of me or mine, `they give 'em nothing in yon house but tea and cold water!'" "ay, ay; you're light, thomas," said his wife; "i'm not for seeing our bairns beginning of such newfangled ways. come, childer, just clap the foolish bits of papper behind the fire, and sit ye down to your supper." "mother," said betty, in a sad but decided voice, "we have seen enough in _this_ house to make us rue that ever a drop of the drink crossed our door-step. we've toiled hard early and late for you and fayther, but the drink has taken it all. you may scold us if you will, but sammul and i _must_ keep our pledge, and keep it gradely too." "and _i_ say," cried her father, striking his hand violently on the table, "i'll make you both break afore ye're a day older; ye've pleased yourselves long enough, but ye shall please _me_ now. i never said nothing afore, though mother nor me didn't like to see ye scowling at the drink as if it were poison; a drop now and then would have done ye no harm, but ye were like to please yourselves--but it's different now. we'll have none of your pledges here, ye may make yourselves sure of that." "you can't help yourself fayther," said samuel doggedly: "pledged we are, and pledged we're bound to be, but--" before he could say more, johnson had snatched up one of his heavy clogs and had hurled it at the head of his son, fortunately without striking him; then catching up both clogs, and hastily buckling them, he strode to the door, and pausing for a moment, gasped out, "i've said it, and i'll stick to it; ye shall both break your teetottal afore this time to- morrow, as i'm a living man." he was gone, and was seen no more at home that night. this scene occurred the evening before that on which our story commences. we have seen that johnson, miserable and abandoned drunkard as he was, was utterly staggered at the flight of his son when coupled with his parting gift to his mother. was he really gone, and gone for ever? had his own father driven him, by his cruel threats, to desperation, perhaps to self-destruction? unhappy man! he stood the very picture of dismay. at last he said,-- "perhaps he mayn't have got very far. i'll just step over, alice, to your brother john's; maybe he'll have looked in there for a bit." "ay, do, thomas," cried his wife; "and you must just tell him that he mustn't heed what you said to him and betty last night; it were only a bit of a breeze. oh, what'll our betty say when she finds our sammul gone; she _will_ fret, poor thing. she just stepped out at the edge-o'- dark, [see note ] and she'll be back again just now. make haste, thomas, and tell the poor lad he may please himself about the teetottal." "ay, ay, alice," said poor johnson dejectedly; "that cursed drink'll be the ruin of us both--body and soul," and he went on his sorrowful way. oh, what a crowd of thoughts came crushing into the heart of the wretched man, as he hurried along the path which he supposed his son to have taken. he thought of the day when he was married, and what a bright creature his alice was then; but even over _that_ day there hung a cloud, for it was begun in intemperance and ended in riot. he thought of the hour when he first looked on his boy, and had felt as proud as if no other man had ever had a bonny bairn but he. he thought with shuddering self-reproach of long years of base neglect and wrong towards the children whose strength and peace his own words and deeds had smitten down as with blows of iron. he thought of the days and years of utter selfishness which had drained away every drop of comfort from the cup which might have overflowed with domestic happiness. he thought how he had ever been his own children's tempters beckoning them on towards hell in every hour's example; and then he thought upon the life beyond the grave, but recoiled with horror from that dark and lurid future, and shuddered back to earth again. oh, was there in all the world a more miserable wretch than he! but on he went; anything was better than rest. his road lay down a steep brow after he had passed along one field which separated the village from a wooded gorge. here all had once been green and beautiful in spring and summertime; but now, for many years past, thick clouds of smoke from coal-pit engines and iron furnaces had given to trees and shrubs a sickly hue. nature had striven in vain against the hot black breath of reeking chimneys. right down among the stunted trees of this ravine went the foot-track which johnson followed. darkness had now gathered all around, yet here and there were wild lights struggling with the gloom. just on the right, where the path came out on to the dusty road, and a little way down a bank, a row of blazing coke-ovens threw a ghastly glare over the scene, casting fantastic shadows as their waves of fiery vapour flickered in the breeze. a little farther on he passed a busy forge, from whose blinding light and wild uproarious mirth, mingling with the banging of the hammers, he was glad to escape into the darkness beyond--what would he not have given could he have as easily escaped from the stingings of his own keen remorse. on he went, but nothing could he see of his son. a mile more of rapid walking, and he reached his brother-in-law's cottage. "eh, thomas, is it you?" cried john's wife. "don't stand on the door- step, man, but come in." "have you seen our sammul?" asked johnson, in an agitated voice. "your sammul? no, he hasn't been here. but what ails you, thomas?" the other could not speak, but sinking down into a chair, buried his face in his hands. "summat ails you, i'm sure," said the kind woman. "oh, jenny," replied the unhappy father, "our sammul's gone off--gone off for good and all. i black-guarded him last night about yon teetottal chap as come a-lecturing and got our sammul and betty to sign the pledge, so just about an hour since he slips out in his sunday hat and shoes, when alice were down the yard, and when she comes back she finds a bit of papper on the table with a five-shilling piece and a bit of his hair lapped up in it, and there was writ on it, `from sammul, for dear mother.' oh, jenny, i'm afraid for my life he's gone off to americay; or, worse still, he may have drowned or hanged himself." "nay, nay; don't say so, thomas," said jenny; "he'll think better of it; you'll see him back again in the morning. don't fret, man; he's a good lad, and he'll turn up again all right, take my word for it. he'd ne'er have taken his sunday shoes if he'd meant to drown or hang himself; he could have done it just as well in his clogs." but johnson could not be comforted. "i must be going," he said. "i guess there'll be rare crying at our house if sammul's gone off for good; it'll drive alice and our betty clean crazy." with a sorrowful "good night" he stepped out again into the darkness, and set his face homewards. he had not gone many paces when a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he turned out of the road by which he had come, and crossing by a little foot-bridge a stream which ran at the bottom of a high bank on his right hand, climbed up some steep ground on the other side, and emerged into a field, from which a footpath led along the border of several meadows into the upper part of langhurst. here he paused and looked around him--the darkness had begun to yield to the pale beams of the moon. his whole frame shook with emotion as he stood gazing on the trees and shrubs around him; and no wonder, for memory was now busy again, and brought up before him a life-like picture of his strolls in springtime with his boy, when samuel was but a tiny lad. 'twas in this very field, among these very trees, that he had gathered bluebells for him, and had filled his little hands with their lovely flowers. oh, there was something more human in him then! drunkard he was, but not the wretched degraded creature into which intemperance had kneaded and moulded him, till it left him now stiffened into a walking vessel of clay, just living day by day to absorb strong drink. yet was he not even _now_ utterly hardened, for his tears fell like rain upon that moonlit grass--thoughts of the past made his whole being tremble. he thought of what his boy had been to him; he thought of what he had been to his boy. he seemed to see his past life acted out before him in a moving picture, and in all he saw himself a curse and not a blessing--time, money, health, peace, character, soul, all squandered. and still the picture moved on, and passed into the future: he saw his utterly desolate home--no boy was there; he saw two empty chairs--his betty was gone, dead of want and a broken heart. the picture still moved on: now he was quite alone, the whole hearth-stone was his; he sat there very old and very grey, cold and hunger-bitten; a little while, and a pauper's funeral passed from that hearth into the street--it was his own--and what of his soul? he started as if bitten by a serpent, and hurried on. the village was soon reached; whither should he go? conscience said, "home;" but home was desolate. he was soon at the public-house door; he could meet with a rude sympathy there--he could tell his tale, he could cheer him with the blaze and the gas, he could stupify down his remorse with the drink. conscience again whispered, "home," but so feebly, that his own footstep forward quenched its voice. he entered, and sat down among the drinkers. and what of his poor wife and daughter? johnson had not left his home many minutes when betty came in. "where's sammul?" she asked, not noticing her mother's agitation; "and where's fayther? we're like to have weary work in our house just now, i reckon." "betty!"--was all that her mother could say, but in such a voice that her daughter started round and cried,-- "eh, mother, what is't? what ails you?" "see there," replied the poor woman, pointing to the little packet still lying on the table; "that's what ails me." betty took it up; she saw the money and the lock of hair; she read the words--it was all plain to her in a moment. she stood open-mouthed, with her eyes staring on the paper as one spell-bound, then she burst out into a bitter cry,-- "oh, mother, mother! it cannot be, it cannot be! he wouldn't leave us so! oh, sammul, sammul, what must we do? it's the drink has done it-- fayther's drink has done it! i shall never see you, sammul, any more! mother," she suddenly added, dropping the apron which she had lifted to her streaming eyes, "where's fayther? does _he_ know?" "yes; he knows well enough; he's off to your uncle john's. oh, what _shall_ we do if he doesn't bring our sammul back? but where are you going, child?" for betty had thrown her shawl over her head, and was moving towards the door. "it's no use your going too; tarry by the hearth-stone till your fayther comes back, and then, if he hasn't heard anything of sammul, we'll see what must be done." "i cannot tarry here, mother; i cannot," was betty's reply. "fayther'll do no good; if sammul sees him coming, he'll just step out of the road, or crouch him down behind summat till he's gone by. i must go myself; he'll not be afraid of me. oh, sure he'll ne'er go right away without one `good-bye' to his own sister! maybe he'll wait about till he sees me; and, please the lord, if i can only light on him, i may bring him back again. but oh, mother, mother, you and fayther mustn't do by him as you _have_ done! you'll snap the spring if you strain it too hard; you must draw our sammul, you mustn't drive him, or maybe you'll drive him right away from home, if you haven't driven him now." so saying, she closed the door with a heavy heart, and took the same road that her father had gone before her. slowly she walked, peering into the darkness on all sides, and fancying every sound to be her brother's step. she lingered near the coke-ovens and the forge, thinking that he might be lurking somewhere about, and might see and recognise her as the fiery glow fell upon her figure. but she lingered in vain. by the time she reached her uncle's, the moon had fairly risen; again she lingered before entering the cottage, looking round with a sickening hope that he might see her from some hiding-place and come and speak to her, if it were but to say a last farewell. but he came not. utterly downcast, she entered the cottage, and heard that her father had but lately left it, and that nothing had been seen of her brother. to her aunt's earnest and repeated invitation to "tarry a while," she replied,-- "no, aunt jenny; i mustn't tarry now. i'm wanted at home; i shall be wanted more nor ever now. i'm gradely [see note ] sick at heart. i know it's no use fretting, but oh, i must fret! it were bad enough to be without meat, without shoes, without clothes, without almost everything; but it's worse nor all put together to be without our sammul." she turned away, and, with a heavy sigh, took her way home again. the moon was now shedding her calm light full on the path the poor girl was treading, leaving in dark shadow a high wooded bank on her left hand. just a few feet up this bank, half-way between her uncle's house and her own home, was the mouth of an old disused coal-pit-shaft. it had been long abandoned, and was fenced off, though not very securely, by a few decaying palings. on the bank above it grew a tangled mass of shrubs, and one or two fine holly bushes. betty was just in the act of passing this spot when her eye fell on something that flashed in the moonbeams. she stooped to see what it was; then with a cry of mingled surprise and terror she snatched it from the ground. it was an open pocket-knife; on the buck-horn handle were rudely scratched the letters sj. it was her brother's knife; there could not be a moment's question of it, for she had often both seen and used it. but what was it that sent a chill like the chill of death through every limb, and made her totter faintly against the bank? there was something trickling down the blade as she held it up, and, even in the moonlight, she could see that it was blood. a world of misery swept with a hurricane force into her heart. had her brother, driven to desperation by his father's cruelty, really destroyed himself? perhaps he had first partially done the dreadful deed with his knife, and then thrown himself down that old shaft, so as to complete the fearful work and leave no trace behind. poor miserable betty! she groaned out a prayer for help, and then she became more calm. creeping up close to the edge of the old shaft, she looked into it as far as she dared; the moonlight was now full upon it; the ferns and brambles that interlaced across it showed no signs of recent displacement; she listened in an agony of earnest attention for any sound, but none came up from those dark and solemn depths. then she began to think more collectedly. hope dawned again upon her heart. if her brother meant to destroy himself he would scarcely have first used the knife and then thrown himself down the shaft, leaving the knife behind him as a guide to discovery. besides, it seemed exceedingly improbable that he would have put on his best hat and shoes if bent on so speedy self- destruction. she therefore abandoned this terrible thought; and yet how could the presence of the knife on that spot, and the blood on the blade, be accounted for? she looked carefully about her--then she could trace evident marks of some sort of scuffle. the bank itself near the old shaft was torn, and indented with footmarks. could it have been that her father had encountered samuel here as he was returning, that they had had words, that words had led to blows, and that one or both had shed blood in the struggle? the thought was madness. carefully concealing the knife in her clothes, she hurried home at the top of her speed; but before she quite reached the door, the thought suddenly smote full and forcibly on her heart, "if fayther _has_ killed poor sammul, what will _he_ be? a murderer!" she grew at once desperately calm, and walked quietly into the house. "i haven't heard anything of our sammul," she said sadly, and with forced composure. "where's fayther?" "i've been looking for him long since," replied her mother; "but i suppose he's turned into the `george.'" "the `george!'" exclaimed betty; "what _now_! surely he cannot--" before she could say more, johnson himself entered. for once in his life he could find no ease or content among his pot companions. they pitied, it is true, the trouble which he poured into their ears, but their own enjoyment was uppermost in their thoughts, and they soon wearied of his story. he drank, but there was bitterness in every draught; it did not lull, much less drown the keenness of his self- upbraidings; so, hastily snatching up his hat, he left the mirth and din of the drinkers and made his way home--ay, home--but what a home! dark at the best of times through his own sin, but now darker than ever. "well?" exclaimed both betty and her mother when he entered--they could say nothing more. he understood too plainly what they meant. "our sammul's not been at your brother john's," he said to his wife; "what must we do now? the lord help me; i'm a miserable wretch." "fayther," said betty, greatly relieved, spite of her sorrow, for johnson's words and manner assured her at once that he and her brother had not met. "fayther, we must hope the best. there's a god above all, who knows where our sammul is; he can take care of him, and maybe he'll bring him back to us again." no more was said that night. betty had a double portion of care and sorrow, but she had resolved to say nothing to any one about the knife, at any rate for the present. she was satisfied that her brother had not laid violent hands on himself; and she trusted that, in a few days, a letter from himself from liverpool or some other seaport, would clear up the mystery, and give them at least the sad satisfaction of knowing whither their samuel was bound. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . "edge-o'-dark" means "evening twilight." note "gradely," as an adjective means "sincere," "proper," or "true;" as an adverb, "rightly," "truly," or "properly." chapter two. samuel's home. and what sort of a home was that which samuel had so abruptly forsaken? "there's no place like home;" "home is home, be it never so homely." things are said to be true to a proverb; but even proverbs have their exceptions, and certainly no amount of allowance could justify the application of the above proverbs to johnson's dwelling. but what sort of a home was it? it would be far easier to say what it was not than what it was. let us follow the owner himself as he comes in from his work, jaded and heart-sore, the night after samuel's departure. the house is the worst in the row, for it is the cheapest--the tyrant "drink" will not let his slave afford a better. the front door opens opposite the high dead wall of another block of houses, so that very little daylight comes in at the sunniest of times--no loss, perhaps, as the sunshine would only make misery, dirt, and want more apparent. a rush-bottomed chair--or rather the mutilated framework of one, the seat being half rotted through, and the two uppermost bars broken off with a jagged fracture--lies sufficiently across the entrance to throw down any unwary visitor. a rickety chest of drawers--most of the knobs being gone and their places supplied by strings, which look like the tails of rats which had perished in effecting an entrance--stands tipped on one side against the wall, one of its legs having disappeared. a little further on is a blank corner, where a clock used to be, as may be traced by the clusters of cobwebs in two straight lines, one up either wall, which have never been swept away since the clock was sold for drink. a couch-chair extends under the window the whole length, but one of its arms is gone, and the stump which supported it thrusts up its ragged top to wound any hand that may incautiously rest there; the couch itself is but a tumbled mass of rags and straw. a table, nearly as dilapidated, and foul with countless beer-stains, stands before the fire, which is the only cheerful thing in the house, and blazes away as if it means to do its best to make up for the very discouraging state of things by which it finds itself surrounded. the walls of the room have been coloured, or rather discoloured, a dirty brown, all except the square portion over the fire-place, which was once adorned with a gay paper, but whose brilliancy has long been defaced by smoke and grease. a broken pipe or two, a couple of irons, and a brass candlestick whose shaft leans considerably out of the perpendicular, occupy the mantelpiece. an old rocking-chair and two or three common ones extremely infirm on their legs, complete the furniture. the walls are nearly bare of ornament; the exceptions being a highly-coloured print of a horse-race, and a sampler worked by betty, rendered almost invisible by dust. the door into the wash-house stands ajar, and through it may be seen on the slop-stone a broken yellow mug; and near it a tub full of clothes, from which there dribbles a soapy little puddle on to the uneven flags, just deep enough to float an unsavoury-looking mixture of cheese-rinds and potato-parings. altogether, the appearance of the house is gaunt, filthy, and utterly comfortless. such is the drunkard's home. into this miserable abode stepped johnson the night after his son's disappearance, and divesting himself of his pit-clothes, threw them down in an untidy mass before the fire. having then washed himself and changed his dress, he sat him down for a minute or two, while his wife prepared the comfortless tea. but he could not rest. he started up again, and with a deep sigh turned to the door. "where are you going?" cried his wife; "you mustn't go without your tea; yon chaps at the `george' don't want you." "i'm not going to the `george,'" replied thomas; "i just want a word with ned brierley." "ned brierley!" exclaimed alice; "why, he's the bigoted'st teetottaller in the whole village. you're not going to sign the pledge?" "no, i'm not; but 'twould have been the making on us all if i _had_ signed years ago;--no, i only just want a bit of talk with ned about our sammul;" and he walked out. ned brierley was just what alice johnson, and scores more too, called him, a bigoted teetotaller, or, as he preferred to call himself total abstainer. he was bigoted; in other words, he had not taken up total abstinence by halves. he neither tasted the drink himself, nor gave it to his friends, nor allowed it an entrance into his house. of course, therefore, he was bigoted in the eyes of those who could not or would not understand his principles. but the charge of bigotry weighed very lightly on him; he could afford to bear it; he had a living antidote to the taunt daily before his eyes in a home without a cloud, an ever- cheerful wife, healthy, hearty, striving, loving sons and daughters. and, best of all, ned was a christian, not of the talk-much-and-do- little stamp, nor of the pot-political-mend-the-world stamp. he loved god, and always spoke of him with a reverential smile, because his very name made him happy. he had a wife, too, who loved the same gracious saviour, and joined with her husband in training up their children in holy ways. they knew well that they could not give their children grace, but they _could_ give them prayer and example, and could leave the rest to god in happy, loving trust. people who talked about total abstinence as a sour and mopish thing, should have spent an evening at ned brierley's when the whole family was at home; why, there was more genuine, refreshing, innocent fun and mirth there in half an hour than could have been gathered in a full evening's sitting out of all the pot- houses in the neighbourhood put together. ay, there were some who knew this, and could say, "if you want gradely fun that leaves no afterthought, you must go to ned's for it." of course ned had won the respect even of those who abused him most, and of none more truly than thomas johnson. spite of all his swaggering and blustering speeches no man knew better than he the sterling worth of brierley's character; no man was more truly convinced, down in the depths of his heart, that ned's principles and practice were right. and so now, restless and wretched, he was coming, he hardly knew exactly why, to ask counsel of this very man whom he had openly abused and ridiculed at the very time when he both envied and respected him. could there possibly be a greater contrast than between the house he had just left and the one which he now entered? ned brierley's dwelling was the end house of a row, which had been recently built out of the united savings of himself and children. it was rather larger than the rest, and had one or two out-buildings attached, and also a considerable piece of garden ground belonging to it. in this garden ned and his sons worked at odd times, and everything about it had a well-to-do air. the neat rows of celery, the flower-beds shaped into various mathematical figures by shining white pebbles, the carefully-pruned apple trees, and the well-levelled cindered paths, all betokened that diligent hands were often busy there. johnson opened the little white gate, walked up the path, and hesitatingly raised the latch of the house door. what a sight met his eyes! it was a perfect picture. if the three sisters, cleanliness, neatness, and order, had been looking out for a home, they certainly might have found one there. in some of the neighbours' houses, go when you would, you would find the inmates always cleaning, but never clean; it was just the reverse at ned's, you always found them clean, and scarcely ever caught them cleaning. then, what an air of comfort there was about the whole place. the arms and back of the couch-chair shone like mahogany, the couch itself was plump and smooth, like a living thing in good condition. the walls were a bright, lively blue, but there was not very much to be seen of them, so covered were they with all sorts of family-belongings and treasures. against one wail stood a rather ambitious-looking article, half chest of drawers, half sideboard, the knobs of the drawers being of glass, which flashed in the bright fire-light as if smiling their approbation of the happy condition of their owners. over the sideboard was a large and elaborate piece of needlework, a perfect maze of doors and windows in green and red worsted, with a gigantic bird on either side preparing to alight. this was the work of the eldest daughter, and purported, in words at the bottom, to be an accurate delineation of solomon's temple. close by stood a clock, tall and stately in its case, the hands of the brightest brass, over which appeared the moving face of a good-tempered looking moon. then, on the next wall hung two large cases, one of butterflies, which were arranged in patterns to represent griffins, dragons, and other impossible animals; the other, of well-stuffed birds, with shining legs and highly-coloured beaks. other parts of the walls were adorned with scripture prints, more remarkable for brilliancy of colouring than correctness of costume; and in a conspicuous place, evidently the pride of the whole collection, was a full-length portrait of the queen, smiling benignantly down on her subjects. below the cases of butterflies and birds was a piano--yes, actually, a piano--and by no means a bad one too. then, near the fire-place, was a snug little book- case, well furnished with books; and over the mantelpiece, in the centre of a warm-looking paper, was the text, in large characters, "the love of christ constraineth us." the mantelpiece itself glittered with a variety of brass utensils, all brightly polished. over the middle of the room, suspended by cords from the ceiling, was a framework of wood crossed all over by strings, on which lay, ready for consumption, a good store of crisp-looking oat-cakes; while, to give still further life to the whole, a bird-cage hung near, in which there dwelt a small colony of canaries. such was the room into which johnson timidly entered. by the fire, in his solid arm-chair, sat ned brierley, looking supremely content, as well he might, considering the prospect before and around him. on a large table, which was as white as scrubbing could make it, the tea apparatus was duly arranged. the fire was burning its best, and sent out a ruddy glow, which made every bright thing it fell upon look brighter still. muffins stood in a shining pile upon the fender, and a corpulent teapot on the top of the oven. around the table sat two young men of about the ages of nineteen and twenty, and three daughters who might range from eighteen to fifteen. their mother was by the fire preparing the tea for her husband and children, who had all lately come in from their work. "why, johnson, is that you?" exclaimed ned brierley; "come in, man, and sit ye down.--reach him a chair, esther," he said to his youngest daughter. "well, ned," said johnson, sitting down, and drawing back his chair as near the door as he could, "i thought, maybe, you could give me a bit of advice about our sammul. i suppose you've heard how he went off yesternight." "ay, thomas, we've heard all about it. i'm gradely sorry too; but you mustn't lose heart, man: the lord'll bring him back again; he's a good lad." "he _is_ a good lad," said johnson; "and i've been and driven him away from his home. that cursed drink has swept him away, as it's swept almost everything good out of our house. it'll do for us all afore we've done with it; and the sooner it's the death of me the better." "nay, nay, thomas, you mustn't say so," cried the other; "it's not right. god has spared you for summat better; turn over a new leaf, man, at once. he'll give you strength for it if you'll ask him. come now, draw your chair to the table, and have a cup of tea and a bit of muffin; it'll do you good." "ned," said thomas, sadly, "i can't take meat nor drink in your house. i've abused you behind your back scores of times, and i can't for shame take it." "nay, nay, man; never heed what you've said against me. you see you've done me no harm. i'm none the worse for all that folks can say against me; so draw up your chair, you're gradely welcome to your tea." "ay, do," chimed in his wife; "doesn't scripture say, `if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink:' and i'm sure you must be both hungry and thirsty if you haven't tasted since you came from the pit." poor johnson could not speak. when he was sober he was a feeling man, and a sensible one too. alas! his sober times were few, but he _was_ sober now. the tears overflowed his eyes, and he brushed them hastily away as he drew his chair near to the bright little circle of happy healthy faces. he ate and drank for a while in silence, and then said with a faltering voice,-- "ned, you're a true christian. i'll never say a word against you behind your back any more." brierley held out his hand to him, and the other grasped it warmly. "i'll tell you what," said ned, in a cheery voice, "i'd give a good deal, thomas, to see you a total abstainer; it'd be the making of you." johnson shook his head sorrowfully. "i mustn't; alice wouldn't let me. i can't; the drink's more to me nor meat, and clothes, and everything. i durstn't, for my old pals at the `george' would chaff me to death with their jeers and their jokes. i couldn't face them for shame." "oh, thomas," cried ned, "what a slave the drink's made of you:-- mustn't! can't! durstn't!--what! ain't you a man? haven't you got a will of your own?" "no, ned, that's just it; i haven't a will of my own: the old lad's got it off me long since." "ay, but, thomas, you must get it back again," exclaimed brierley's wife; "you must go to jesus, and he'll help you." johnson fidgeted uneasily in his chair; at last he said,-- "i can't do without my beer; i haven't strength to work without it." "you've taken plenty of it, i reckon," remarked ned, "and you don't seem to thrive much on't." "i've taken too much," said the other, "but i can't do without a little." "you can't do _with_ a little, i fear. it's first only a pint, and then it's only a quart, and then it's only a gallon, till at last it's only a fuddled head and an empty pocket. come, join us, thomas; take the first step boldly like a man, and then just pray for grace, and you'll not fear what other folks can do to you." "but i shall never get through my work without a drop of beer to wash dust out of my throat and spirit me up," persisted johnson. "i feel like another sort of man when i've had my pint." "yes, just for a bit," replied ned. "now it seems to me just the same as what we might do with our fire. i bid our esther look to the fire, so she goes and sticks to the poker, and each now and then she pokes away at the fire, and the fire blazes up and blazes up, but very soon there's nothing left to blaze with. the fire'll be out directly, so i says to our mary, _you_ look after the fire, so our mary goes to the heap and fetches a shovel of coal, and claps it on the top of the hot cinders, and she won't let our esther poke it no more, so it burns steady and bright, and throws out a good heat, and lasts a long time. now, when you take your drop of beer, you're just poking the fire, you're not putting any coal on; you can work like a lion for a bit, but you're only using up the old stock of strength faster and faster, you're not putting on any new. i've helped you to put a little gradely coal on to-night, and i hope it won't be the last time by many." "father," broke in esther, laughing, and highly entertained at the part she bore in her father's illustration, "when you tell your tale again, you must make our mary stick to the poker, and me clap the coal on." "ay, ay, child," said her father, "you shall each take it in turn." "well, you may be right," sighed johnson; "but jack barnes says as he's knowed scores of teetottallers that's wasted away to skin and bone for want of the drink; he says beer strengthens the bone, and makes the muscles tight and firm." "jack barnes may say what he likes, but i'll just ask you, thomas, to think and judge for yourself. you see me and mine; you see seven total abstainers here to-night. not one of these childer knows the taste of the drink; they work hard, you know, some in the pit, some in the mill: do _they_ look nothing but skin and bone? where'll you find healthier childer? i'm not boasting, for it's the good lord that's given 'em health, yes, and strength too, without the drink." "ay, and just look at jack barnes's own lads, and the company they keep," said john, the eldest son; "you may see them all at the four lane ends, [note ], any sunday morn, with their pigeons, looking more like scarecrows than christians; and afore night they'll be so weary that they'll scarce know how to bide anywhere. they'll be lounging about, looking as limp as a strap out of gear, till they've got the ale in them, and then they're all for swearing and shouting up and down the lanes." "i can't deny," said johnson, "that you teetottallers have the best of it in many ways. it's a bad bringing-up for childer to see such goings- on as is in barnes's house." "and, thomas," said brierley's wife, "you know how it is with joe taylor's lads and wenches. there's a big family on 'em. they're not short of brass in that house, or shouldn't be. there's drink enough and to spare goes down their throats, and yet there's not one of the whole lot but's as lean as an empty bobbin, and as white as a heap of cotton. they're nearly starved to death afore reckoning-day comes; and with all their good wage they cannot make things reach and tie." "well, i must wish you good night now," said johnson, rising to go. "i suppose i can do nothing about our sammul but have patience." "yes, pray for patience, thomas; and pray to be shown the right way: and give up the drink, man--ay, give it up at once, for betty's sake, for alice's sake, and for your own soul's sake." "i'll try, i'll try; good night." "good night." johnson walked homewards sorrowful but calm. should he take the pledge? should he boldly break his chains, and brave the scorn of his ungodly companions? he felt that he ought. he murmured a half prayer that he might have strength to do it. he reached his own home; he entered--what did, he see? round the fire, slatternly and dirty, with hair uncombed, dress disordered, shoes down at heel, lolling, lounging, stooping in various attitudes, were some half-dozen women, alice being nearest the fire on one side. most of them had pipes in their mouths. on the table were cups and saucers, a loaf and some butter, and also a jug, which certainly did not hold milk; its contents, however, were very popular, as it was seldom allowed to rest on the table, while the strong odour of rum which filled the room showed pretty plainly that it had been filled at the public-house and not at the farm. every eye was flashing, and every tongue in full exercise, when johnson entered. "well, thomas," said his wife, "i thought you were down at the `george.' our betty's not so well, so she's gone up into the chamber to lay her down a bit; and i've just been axing a neighbour or two to come in and have a bit of a talk over our sammul. come, sit you down, and take a cup of tea, and here's summat to put in it as'll cheer you up." "i've just had my tea at ned brierley's," replied her husband; "i don't want no more." "ah, but you must just take one cup. reach me the jug, molly. you look as down as if you'd seen a boggart; [see note ], you must drink a drop and keep your spirits up." he made no reply, but threw himself back on the couch, and drew his cap over his eyes. seeing that he was not likely to go out again, the women dropped off one by one, and left him alone with his wife, who sat looking into the fire, comforting herself partly with her pipe and partly with frequent applications to the jug. after a while thomas rose from the couch, and took his seat by the fire opposite to her. there was a long pause; at last he broke it by saying,-- "alice." "well, thomas." "alice, you know i have been up at ned's. ned's a quiet, civil man, and a gradely christian too. i wish our house had been like his; we shouldn't have lost our sammul then." "well, my word! what's come over you, thomas? why, sure you're not a- going to be talked over by yon brierley folk!" exclaimed his wife. "why, they're so proud, they can't look down upon their own shoes: and as for brierley's wenches, if a fellow offers to speak to 'em, they'll snap his head off. and martha herself's so fine that the likes of me's afraid to walk on the same side of the road for fear of treading on her shadow." "well, alice, i've oft abused 'em all myself; but i were wrong all the time. and you're wrong, alice, too. they've never done us no harm, and we've nothing gradely to say against 'em; and you know it too. they've toiled hard for their brass, and they haven't made it away as _we_ have done; and if they're well off, it's no more nor they deserve." "not made away their brass! no, indeed!" said his wife, contemptuously, "no danger of that; they'll fist it close enough. they like it too well to part with it. they'll never spend a ha'penny to give a poor chap a drop of beer, though he's dying of thirst." "no, 'cos they've seen what a curse the drink has been to scores and hundreds on us. ah, alice, if you had but seen the happy faces gathered round ned's hearth-stone; if you had but heard ned's hearty welcome-- though he can't but know that i've ever been the first to give him and his a bad word--you couldn't say as you're saying now." "come, thomas," said his wife, "don't be a fool. if ned brierley likes his teetottal ways, and brings up his lads and wenches same fashion, let him please himself; but he mustn't make teetottallers of you nor me." "and why shouldn't he make a teetottaller of me?" cried thomas, his anger rising at his wife's opposition. "what has the drink done for us, i'd like to know? what's it done with my wage, with our betty's wage, with our poor sammul's wage? why, it's just swallowed all up, and paid us back in dirt and rags. where's there such a beggarly house as this in all the village? why haven't we clothes to our backs and shoes to our feet? it's because the drink has took all." "it's not the drink," screamed alice, her eyes flashing with rage. "you've nothing to blame the drink for; the drink's right enough. it's yourself; it's your own fault. you haven't any conduct in your drink like other folk. you must sit sotting at the `george' till you can't tell your hand from your foot; and then you must come home and blackguard me and the childer, and turn the house out of the windows. you've driven our sammul out of the country; and you'll be the death of our betty, and of me too, afore you've done." "death of you!" shouted her husband, in a voice as loud as her own. "and what odds then? no conduct in _my_ drink! and what have _you_ had in yourn? what's there to make a man tarry by the hearth-stone in such a house as this, where there's nothing to look at but waste and want? i wish every drop of the drink were in the flames with this." so saying, he seized the jug, threw the little that was left of the spirits in it into the fire, and, without stopping to listen to the torrent of abuse which poured from the lips of his wife, hurried out of the house. and whither did he go? where strong habit led him, almost without his being conscious of it--he was soon within the doors of the "george." by this time his anger had cooled down, and he sat back from the rest of the company on an empty bench. the landlord's eye soon spied him. "what are you for to-night, thomas?" he asked. "i don't know," said johnson, moodily; "i'm better with nothing, i think." "no, no," said the other; "you're none of that sort. you look very down; a pint of ale'll be just the very thing to set you right." johnson took the ale. "didn't i see you coming out of ned brierley's?" asked one of the drinkers. "well, and what then?" asked johnson, fiercely. "oh, nothing; only i thought, maybe, that you were for coming out in the teetottal line. ay, wouldn't that be a rare game?" a roar of laughter followed this speech. but johnson's blood was up. "and why shouldn't i join the teetottallers if i've a mind?" he cried. "i don't see what good the drink's done to me nor mine. and as for ned brierley, he's a gradely christian. i've given him nothing afore but foul words; but i'll give him no more." a fresh burst of merriment followed these words. "eh, see," cried one, "here's the parson come among us." "he'll be getting his blue coat with brass buttons out of the pop-shop just now," cried another; "and he'll hold his head so high that he won't look at us wicked sinners." a third came up to him with a mock serious air, and eyeing him with his head on one side, said,-- "they call you thomas, i reckon. ah, well, now you're going to be one of ned's childer, we must take you to the parson and get him to christen you jonadab." poor johnson! he started up, for one moment he meditated a fierce rush at his persecutors, the next, he turned round, darted from the public- house, and hurried away he knew not whither. and what will he do? poor man--wretched, degraded drunkard as he had been--he was by natural character a man of remarkable energy and decision; what he had fairly and fully determined upon, his resolution grasped like a vice. brought up in constant contact with drunkenness from his earliest years, and having imbibed a taste for strong drink from his childhood, that taste had grown with his growth, and he had never cared to summon resolution or seek strength to break through his miserable and debasing habit. married to a woman who rather rejoiced to see her husband moderately intoxicated, because it made him good- natured, he had found nothing in his home, except its growing misery, to induce him to tread a better path. true, he could not but be aware of the wretchedness which his sin and that of his wife had brought upon him and his; yet, hitherto, he had never seen _himself_ to be the chief cause of all this unhappiness. he blamed his work, he blamed his thirst, he blamed his wife, he blamed his children, he blamed his dreary comfortless home--every one, everything but himself. but now light had begun to dawn upon him, though as yet it had struggled in only through a few chinks. god had made a partial entrance for it through his remorse at the loss of his son; that entrance had been widened by his visit to ned brierley, yet he was still in much darkness; his light showed him evil and sin in great mis-shapen terrible masses, but was not so far sufficiently bright to let him see anything in clear sharp outline. a great resolve was growing, but it needed more hammering into form, it wanted more prayer to bring it up to the measure of a christian duty. and here we must leave him for the present, and pass to other and very different scenes and characters essential to the development of our story. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . "four lane ends," a place where four roads meet. note . "hoggart", a ghost. chapter three. the rectory. the reverend bernard oliphant, rector of waterland, was a man of good family and moderate fortune. at the time when this tale opens he had held the living eighteen years. he had three sons and one daughter. the eldest son, hubert, was just three-and-twenty, and, having finished his course at oxford with credit, was spending a year or two at home previously to joining an uncle in south australia, abraham oliphant, his father's brother, who was living in great prosperity as a merchant at adelaide. hubert had not felt himself called on to enter the ministry, though his parents would have greatly rejoiced had he seen his way clear to engage in that sacred calling. but the young man abhorred the thought of undertaking such an office unless he could feel decidedly that the highest and holiest motives were guiding him to it, and neither father nor mother dared urge their son to take on himself, from any desire to please them, so awful a responsibility. yet none the less for this did hubert love his saviour, nor did he wish to decline his service, or shrink from bearing that cross which is laid on all who make a bold and manly profession of faith in christ jesus. but he felt that there were some who might serve their heavenly master better as laymen than as ministers of the gospel, and he believed himself to be such a one. his two younger brothers, not feeling the same difficulties, were both preparing for the ministry. hubert had a passionate desire to travel; his parents saw this, and wisely judged that it would be better to guide his passion than to combat it; so, when his uncle proposed to hubert to join him in australia, they gave their full consent. they knew that a strong expression of dissuasion on their part would have led him to abandon the scheme at once; but they would not let any such expression escape them, because they felt that they were bound to consult _his_ tastes and wishes, and not merely their own. they knew that his faith was on the rock of ages; they could trust his life and fortunes to their god. for bernard oliphant and his wife had but one great object set before them, and that was to work for god. the rector was warm and impulsive, the fire would flash out upon the surface, yet was it under the control of grace; it blazed, it warmed, but never scorched, unless when it crossed the path of high-handed and determined sin. _she_ was all calmness and quiet decision; yet in _her_ character there ran a fire beneath the surface, sending up a glow into every loving word and deed. she had never been beautiful, yet always beautified by the radiance of true holiness. in her, seriousness had no gloom, because it was the seriousness of a holy love. she made even worldly people happy to be with her, because they felt the reality and singleness of her religion--it was woven up with every hour's work, with every duty, with every joy. she lived for heaven not by neglecting earth, but by making earth the road to heaven. her religion was pre- eminently practical, while it was deeply spiritual; in fact, it was the religion of sanctified common sense. the true grace of her character gained the admiration which she never sought. as some simple unadorned column rising in the midst of richly-carved sculptures arrests attention by its mere dignity of height and grace of perfect proportion, so in the unassuming wife of bernard oliphant there was a loftiness and symmetry of character which made people feel that in her was the true beauty of holiness. and the children trod in the steps of their parents. mary oliphant was the youngest; she was now just eighteen--slight in make, and graceful in every movement. her perfect absence of self-consciousness gave a peculiar charm to all that she said and did; she never aimed at effect, and therefore always produced it. you could not look into her face without feeling that to her indifference and half-heartedness were impossible things; and the abiding peace which a true faith in christ alone can give, was on those lovely features in their stillness. such was the family of the reverend bernard oliphant. waterland was a rural parish in one of the midland counties. the rectory stood near one end of the village, which was like a great many other country villages. there were farm-houses, with their stack-yards and clusters of out-buildings, with their yew-trees and apple-orchards. cottages, with low bulging white-washed walls and thatched roofs, were interspersed among others of a more spruce and modern build, with slated roofs, and neat little gardens. then there were two or three shops which sold all things likely to be wanted in everyday village life, eatables and wearables nestling together in strange companionship; and, besides these, were houses which would not have been known to be shops, but for a faded array of peppermints and gingerbread, which shone, or rather twinkled, before the eyes of village children through panes of greenish glass. of course there was a forge and a wheel-wright's shop; and, equally of course, a public-house--there had been two, there was now but one, which could readily be known by a huge swinging sign-board, on which was the decaying likeness of a "dun cow," supposed to be feeding in a green meadow; but the verdure had long since melted away, and all except the animal herself was a chaos of muddy tints. the "dun cow," (a sad misnomer for a place where milk was the last beverage the visitors would ever think of calling for), was to many the centre both of attraction and detraction, for here quarrels were hatched and characters picked to pieces. the landlord had long since been dead, of the usual publican's malady--drink fever. the landlady carried on the business which had carried her husband off, and seemed to thrive upon it, for there was never lack of custom at the "dun cow." just a stone's-throw from this public-house, on the crest of the hill along which wound the village street, was the church, a simple structure, with a substantial square tower and wide porch. it had been restored with considerable care and taste by the present rector, the internal appearance being sufficiently in accordance with the proprieties of ecclesiastical architecture to satisfy all but the over-fastidious, and yet not so ornamental as to lead the mind to dwell rather on the earthly and sensuous than on the heavenly and spiritual. behind the church was the rectory, a quaint old building, with pointed gables, deep bay- windows, and black beams of oak exposed to view. it had been added to, here and there, as modern wants and improvements had made expansion necessary. the garden was lovely, for every one at the rectory loved flowers: they loved them for their own intrinsic beauty; they loved them as god's books, full of lessons of his skill and tender care; they loved them as resting-places for the eye when wearied with sights of disorder and sin; they loved them as ministering comfort to the sick, the aged, and the sorrowful to whom they carried them. such was the village of waterland. the parish extended two miles north and south of the church, a few farms and labourers' cottages at wide intervals containing nearly all the rest of the population that was not resident in the village. it has been said that there were once two public-houses in waterland, but that now there was but one. this was not owing to any want of success in the case of the one which had become extinct; on the contrary, the "oldfield arms" had been the more flourishing establishment of the two, and was situated in the centre of the village. its sign, however, had long since disappeared; and it was now in the hands of the rector, its principal apartment having been transformed into a reading-room, and place for holding meetings. and how was this brought about? simply thus. when bernard oliphant first came to waterland, he found the "oldfield arms" doing a most excellent business; so far as _that_ can be an excellent business which builds the prosperity of one upon the ruin of hundreds. people grumbled at the lowness of wages; wives were unable to procure money from their husbands for decent dress; children were half-starved and two-thirds naked; disease and dirt found a home almost everywhere; boys and girls grew up in ignorance, for their parents could not afford to send them to school; the men had no tidy clothes in which to appear at church. yet, somehow or other, the "oldfield arms" was never short of customers; and customers, too, who paid, and paid well, sooner or later, for what they consumed. so the rector went among the people, and told them plainly of the sin of drunkenness, and pointed out the misery it brought, as their own eyes could see. they confessed the truth--such as he could manage to get hold of--and drank on as before. he was getting heart-sick and miserable. preach as he might--and he did preach the truth with all faithfulness and love--the notices of ale, porter, and spirits, set up in flaming colours in the windows and on the walls of the "oldfield arms," preached far more persuasively in the cause of intemperance. one day he came upon a knot of men standing just at the entrance of the yard that led to the tap-room. they were none of them exactly drunk; and certainly none were exactly sober. there were some among them whom he never saw at church, and never found at home. he was grieved to see these men in high discussion and dispute, when they ought to have been busily engaged in some lawful calling. he stopped, and taking one of them aside whose home was specially miserable, he said,-- "james, i'm grieved to see you here, when i know how sadly your poor wife and children are in need of food and clothing." the man looked half angry, half ashamed, but hung down his head, and made no reply. the rest were moving off. "nay, my friends," said the rector, kindly, "don't go. i just want a word with you all. i want to say a few words of love and warning to you, as your clergyman. god has sent me here to teach and guide you; and oh, do listen to me now." they all stood still, and looked at him respectfully. he went on:-- "don't you see that drinking habits are bringing misery into the homes of the people in our parish--ay, into your own homes? you must see it. you must see how drunkenness stores up misery for you here and hereafter. what will become of you when you die, if you go on as you are doing now? what will become of your families? what will--" at this moment there was a loud shout of "hoy! hoy!" from the lips of a carter who was coming with a brewer's dray out of the inn-yard. the man had just been depositing several full casks, and was now returning with the empty ones. he did not see the rector at first; but when the group made way for him, and his eyes fell on mr oliphant, he touched his hat as he was passing, and said,-- "i beg pardon, sir; i did not know as you was there." then suddenly pulling up his horse, he added-- "oh, if you please, sir, master bid me say he's very sorry he hasn't any of the ale you've been drinking ready just now, but he hopes you'll let me leave this barrel of stout, it's in prime order, he says." "very well," replied mr oliphant; "you may leave it." then he turned again to the men: they were moving off. he would have taken up his earnest appeal where he left it; but somehow or other he felt a difficulty in speaking, and the deep attention was evidently gone from his hearers. he hesitated. they were already dispersing: should he call them back? he felt as if he could not. he turned sadly towards home, deeply vexed and chafed in his spirit. he blamed the ill-timed interruption of the carter; and yet he felt that there was something else lurking in the background with which he felt dissatisfied-- something which wanted dragging out into the light. "and yet it's so foolish!" he said to himself, as he walked slowly up the street. "my drinking in moderation has nothing in common with their drinking immoderately. why should my use of intoxicating liquors fetter me in dissuading these poor creatures from their abuse? they ought to see the difference." then a voice, deeper in the heart, whispered-- "they ought; but they do not, and their souls are perishing. they are your people: you must deal with them as they are, not as they ought to be." that night the rector's sleep was very troubled. it was about a week later that he was again near the "oldfield arms," when a spruce-looking man--his wine-merchant's agent--came out of the inn door, and walked up the street. two men were standing with their backs to the rector just outside the yard. he was about to pass on; when he heard one say,-- "what a sight of wine some of them parsons drink! yon fine gent couldn't afford all them gold chains and pins if it warn't for the parsons." "ay," said the other, "it's the parsons as knows good wine from bad. i heerd yon chap say only this morning: `our very best customers is the clergy.'" "well," rejoined the other, "i shouldn't mind if they'd only leave us poor fellows alone, and let us get drunk when we've a mind. but it do seem a little hard that _they_ may get drunk on their wine, but we mustn't get drunk on our beer." "oh, but you know, bill," said the other, "this here's the difference. when they get drunk, it's genteel drunk, and there's no sin in that; but when we poor fellows get drunk, it's wulgar drunk, and that's awful wicked." bernard oliphant was deeply pained; he shrank within himself. "it's a cruel libel and a coarse slander," he muttered, and hastened on his way. "am _i_ answerable," he asked himself, "for the abuse which others may make of what i take moderately and innocently? absurd! and yet it's a pity, a grievous pity, that it should be possible for such poor ignorant creatures to speak thus of any of our holy calling, and so to justify themselves in sin." yes, he felt it to be so, and it preyed upon his mind more and more. he mentioned what he had heard to his wife. "dear bernard," she replied, "i have thought a great deal lately on this subject, especially since you told me about your speaking to those men when you were interrupted by the drayman. i have prayed that you and i might be directed aright; and we _shall_ be. but do not let us be hasty. it does seem as though we were being called on to give up, for the sake of others, what does us personally no harm. but perhaps we may be wrong in this view. a great many excellent christians, and ministers too, are moderate drinkers, and never exceed; and we must not be carried away by a mistaken enthusiasm to brand their use of fermented drinks as sinful because such frightful evils are daily resulting from immoderate drinking. we must think and pray, and our path will be made plain; and we must be prepared to walk in it, cost what it may." "yes," said her husband; "i am getting more and more convinced that there is something exceptional in this matter--that we cannot deal with this sin of drunkenness as we deal with other sins. but we will wait a little longer for guidance; yet not too long, for souls are perishing, and ruin is thickening all round us." they had not to wait long; their path was soon made clear. it was on a bitter and cheerless november evening that mr oliphant was returning to the rectory from a distant part of his parish. he was warmly clad; but the keen wind, which drove a prickly deluge of fine hail into his face, seemed to make its way through every covering into his very bones. he was hurrying on, thankful that home was so near, when he suddenly stumbled upon something in the path which he had not noticed, being half blinded by the frozen sleet. with difficulty he saved himself from falling over this obstacle, which looked in the feeble moonlight like a bundle of ragged clothes. then he stooped down to examine it more closely, and was horrified at hearing a low moan, which showed that it was a living creature that lay on the path. it was plainly, in fact, some poor, half-frozen fellow-man, who lay coiled together there, perishing of cold in that bitter night. the rector tried to raise the poor wretch from the ground, but the body hung like a dead weight upon him. "come," he said, "my poor fellow; come, try and rouse yourself and get up. you'll die if you lie here." the miserable bundle of humanity partly uncoiled itself, and made an effort to rise, but sunk back again. mr oliphant shouted for help. the shout seemed partly to revive the prostrate creature, and he half raised himself. "come," said the rector again,-- "come, lean on my arm, and try and get up. you'll die of cold if you stay here." "die!" said a thick, unearthly voice from out of that half-frozen mass of flesh and blood. "in adam all die." "who and what are you?" cried the rector, in extreme astonishment and distress. "what am i? ah, what am i?" was the bewildered, scarce audible reply. by this time help had arrived. two men came up, and assisted mr oliphant to raise the poor man, and support him to the "oldfield arms," where he was immediately put to bed; one of the men being sent off by the rector to fetch the nearest medical man, while he himself gave orders that everything should be done to restore the unhappy sufferer to warmth and consciousness. "please, mrs barnes," said he to the landlady, "be so good as to send up to the rectory, and let me know, when the doctor comes, if he says that there is any danger. if his report is favourable, i will leave a night's rest to do its work, and will look in again early to-morrow. and pray let the poor man have everything that he needs, and send up to the rectory if you are short of anything." "thank you, sir," said mrs barnes. "i will see that he is properly looked to." the rector then went home, and in another hour received a message from the inn that the doctor had been, and that there was no danger of any immediately fatal result; that he would call again on his patient the following morning, and should be glad to meet the rector at the inn. accordingly, the following day at the appointed hour bernard and the doctor went up together into the sick man's room. as they opened the door they were astonished to hear the patient declaiming in a loud voice,-- "if we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us." bernard's heart grew sick. could it be? could this miserable creature be one of his own profession? were these words the ramblings of one who had been used to officiate as a church minister? and, if so, what could have brought him to such a state of utter destitution? the doctor seemed to read his thoughts, and shook his head sadly. then, putting his mouth to his ear, he said,-- "it's the drink; the smell of spirits is still strong on him." "poor wretched creature!" said mr oliphant. "can it be that the love of drink has brought a man of position and education to such a state as this? what can be done for him?" "not much at present," was the reply, "beyond keeping him quiet, and nursing him well till the fever has run its course. and one thing is clear--we must keep all intoxicants from him. they are downright poison to a man of his constitution; and should he get hold of any spirits before his health is thoroughly established again, i would not answer for his life." the rector called mrs barnes, and told her what the doctor had said, adding,-- "you must find a trustworthy nurse for him--one who will strictly attend to the doctor's orders." the landlady promised she would do so; and the rector left the sick- chamber with a sorrowful look and troubled heart. in ten days' time the patient was well enough to sit up in bed and converse with mr oliphant. "my poor friend," said the rector, "i grieve to see you in your present state, especially as i cannot but perceive that you have seen better days, and moved among people of education. however, there is great cause to thank god that he has so far spared your life." a deep flush overspread the sick man's face as he replied,-- "yes, indeed, i owe you, my dear sir, a debt of gratitude i can never repay. you say the truth--i _have_ seen better days. i was sought after in good society once, little as you might think it." "i can believe it," said the rector, quietly. "but do not distress yourself by referring to the past, if it gives you pain." "as to that," replied the other, "it matters to me little now what i once was; but it may interest you to know, and may serve as a warning. i was a popular preacher once. i was an ordained minister of the church of england. crowds flocked to my church. i threw all my energies into my preaching. i was a free man then; at least i believed myself so. while i proclaimed the love of god to sinners, i also preached vehemently against sin. i never felt myself more at home than when i was painting the miserable bondage of those whom satan held in his chains. i could speak with withering scorn of such as made a profession while they were living in any known wickedness. i was specially severe upon the drunkard's sin. but preaching such as mine, and in a large church, was very exhausting. i found that i wanted support; so i began with an egg beaten up with brandy, and took it just before going into the pulpit. this made me doubly fervent; some of my hearers thought me almost inspired. but the exhaustion was terrible at the end; so i added another glass of egg and spirits after the sermon. then i found that, somehow or other, i could not preach in the evening after taking much solid food; so i substituted liquids for solids, and lived on sundays almost entirely on malt liquors and spirits. when these failed to keep me up to the mark, i had to increase the quantity. at last i saw that my churchwarden began to look a little strangely and suspiciously at me; ugly sayings reached my ears; the congregation began to thin. at last i received a letter from a christian man of my flock, telling me that himself and many others were pained with the fear that i was beginning to exceed the bounds of strict temperance: he urged total abstinence at once; he was a total abstainer himself. i was startled--prostrated-- humbled to the very dust. i reflected on the quantity of intoxicants i was now taking _daily_, and i shuddered. i thanked my friendly adviser with tears, and promised to return to strict moderation. total abstinence i would not hear of; it was quite out of the question. i could no more do without alcoholic stimulants then than i can do now." he paused, and fixed a peculiar look on mr oliphant; who, however, did not, or would not, understand it. so he went on:-- "i tried moderation; but it would not do. i prayed for strength to be moderate; but i know _now_ that i never really desired what i prayed for. it was too late to be moderate; my lust had got the bit between its teeth, and i might as well have pulled at the wind. i went from bad to worse. desertion, disgrace, ruin, all followed. everything has gone--church, home, money, books, clothes--the drink has had them all, and would have them again if they were mine at this moment. for some years past i have been a roaming beggar, such as you found me when you picked me up in the road." he said all this with very little emotion; and then lay back, wearied with his exertions in speaking. "and have you any--" the rector did not know how to finish the sentence which he had begun after a long pause. "have i any family? you would ask," said the other. "i had once. i had a wife and little child; my only child--a little girl. well, i suppose she's better off. she pined and pined when there was next to nothing to eat in the house; and they tell me--for i was not at home when she died--that she said at the last, `i'm going to jesus; they are not hungry where he is.' poor thing!" "and your wife?" exclaimed bernard, his blood running cold at the tone of indifference in which this account was given. "oh, my wife? ah, we did not see much of one another after our child's death! i was often from home; and once, when i returned, i found that she was gone: they had buried her in my absence. she died--so they said--of a broken heart. poor thing! it is not unlikely." mr oliphant hid his head in his hands, and groaned aloud. he had never before conceived it possible--what he now found to be too true--that long habits of drunkenness can so utterly unhumanise a man as to reduce him to a mere callous self, looking upon all things outside self as dreamy and devoid of interest, with but one passion left--the passion for the poison which has ruined him. at last the rector raised his head, and said slowly and solemnly,-- "and if god spares you, will you not strive to lead a new life? will you not pray for grace to conquer your besetting sin?" the wretched man did not answer for a while. then he said,-- "i have only one thing to live for, and that is the drink. i cannot live without it. oh, i implore you to let me have some spirits! you do not, you cannot, know how i crave them, or in pity you would not withhold them from me." mr oliphant rose. "compose yourself, my poor friend," he said. "i dare not grant your request; it might be your death. farewell for the present. may god, with whom all things are possible, help you through your present trouble, and enable you in the end to conquer." the wretched man called imploringly after him; but he closed the door, and summoning mrs barnes, begged her to look well after him, and to see that the nurse did all in her power to keep him calm, and to soothe him to rest. two days after this he called again. "how is your patient to-day, mrs barnes?" he said to the landlady, whom he met on the landing. "i cannot quite tell you, sir, for i have not been in to see him this morning. he was so much better yesterday that the doctor said mrs harper might go home. i went to look at him after he had taken his tea, and i found old jane hicks with him. she had called to speak with mrs harper, and the poor gentleman got her to go and borrow him a newspaper which he wanted to see. i think i heard her come back twice since mrs harper left; but perhaps he wanted something else. he said i had better not wake him very early, as he thought he should sleep well; so i haven't disturbed him yet." a strange misgiving crept over the rector. "let us go in at once," he said. they knocked at the bed-room door--there was no answer; they opened it softly and went in. the sick man lay on his back, apparently asleep, but when they came closer they saw that he was dead. a stain on the sheet attracted mr oliphant's notice; he hastily turned it down, uncovering the hands; in the right was a bottle--it had held spirits; there was nothing in it now. so died the miserable victim of drink; so died the once flourishing professor; so died the once acceptable preacher. mr oliphant knelt by the bed-side and poured out his heart to god in prayer, entreating to be directed aright, and to be kept from ever in any degree disgracing his profession as this unhappy man had done. he was reminded that he was not alone by the sobs of the landlady, who had fallen on her knees near him. "mrs barnes," he said, on rising, "i have resolved, god helping me, to be a total abstainer from this day forward. i have nothing to do with the consciences of others, but for myself i feel that i shall be a happier and a wiser man if i wholly abstain from those stimulants which have power to make such a shipwreck as this." she did not answer except by tears and a deep sigh; and he made his way sadly and thoughtfully home. from that day forward the drink was wholly banished from the rectory; there was no difference of opinion between bernard and his wife--they would bring up their children without the ensnaring stimulant. mr oliphant showed his colours at once; and he preached as well as practised total abstinence, not in the place of the gospel, but as a handmaid to the gospel. and mrs barnes was the first who joined him. "i've long hated selling beer and spirits," she said. "i've seen the misery that the drink has brought even into our little village. but i didn't see my way nor my duty plain before, but i see them now. you've set me the example, sir; and, please god, i'll follow. you know my poor master left me the farm for my life, and i shall be happier there with a little than i could be if i were to stop here and be making ever so much." she kept to her resolution. so the "oldfield arms" was closed, to the astonishment of all the neighbours. what was the foolish woman about? had she lost her senses? why, the inn was doing a capital business. sir thomas oldfield himself came down on purpose from greymoor park, when he heard what she was going to do, and tried to talk and laugh her out of it. but she was firm. the house was her own freehold, and she would neither use it herself as an inn, nor let any one else rent it for the same purpose. of course, she was a fool in the eyes of the world, but she did not care for that; and any one who saw her bright face as she walked about her farm, would have perceived that, whether fool or no, she had the enjoyment of peace in her heart. but the "oldfield arms" was not long without a tenant. the rector took it, as we have before said, and used it partly as shops, and the large public room as a reading-room. and thus it was that the "dun cow" remained without a rival as the dispenser of strong drink to the inhabitants of waterland. chapter four. the park. it was a great vexation to sir thomas oldfield that mrs barnes would neither keep the "oldfield arms" open herself, nor let it as a public- house to any one else. the "dun cow" was quite an inferior place altogether, and nothing but rebuilding it could turn it into anything like a respectable house; but it did very well for the villagers to sot in. there was a good fire, and plenty of room in its parlour, so the "dun cow" kept its name, and reigned alone. sir thomas, indeed, had no wish to see the public-houses multiplied, for he highly disapproved of drunkenness, so there was no encouragement to set up another house in a fresh place. and, indeed, though there was always custom in abundance for one such establishment, a second would, at the time of the opening of our story, have driven but a poor trade; for the example and appeals of the rector for some seventeen years as a christian total abstainer, together with the knowledge that all the rectory household were consistent water-drinkers, had been greatly blessed in waterland. many had left their drunkenness; a happy change had taken place in several homes; and a flourishing total abstinence society, which included many members from other parishes and villages, held its monthly meetings in the large temperance room under the presidency of bernard oliphant. sir thomas oldfield hated drunkenness, and was very severe upon drunkards, under ordinary circumstances, when brought before him as a magistrate. but, on the other hand, he hated total abstinence very cordially also. he was fond of making sweeping assertions, and knocking timid opponents down with strong asseverations, which passed for excellent arguments at assize dinners, and at parties at greymoor park; for it is wonderful what exceedingly loose logic will satisfy even highly-educated people when employed on the side of their appetites or prejudices. once, indeed, the squire was very considerably staggered, but he never liked a reference to be made afterwards to the occasion. he was presiding at a harvest-home given to his own tenants, and had passed from a warm eulogium on temperance and moderation to a vehement harangue against total abstinence and total abstainers. he was, however, cut short in the midst of his eloquence by a sturdy-looking labourer, who struggled forward, beer-jug in hand, and, tottering at every step, spluttered out,-- "hooray, hooray, sir thomas! here's long life to the squire--here's long life to moderation. hooray lads, hooray! here's three cheers for the squire and moderation. stand fast to your principles, like me; as for them total abstainers, they haven't got a leg to stand on." with that he tumbled forward, and, unable to recover his balance, fell flat on the ground before sir thomas, and lay there utterly unable to rise. as was the squire, so had he brought up his family. greymoor park was a noble property, which had come down to him through a long line of ancestors. the house stood on a rocky height, and was surrounded, but not encumbered, by noble groups of trees, from the midst of which it looked out over sloping terraced gardens, glowing with flower-beds, which enamelled the smoothest of turf, across the park from which the estate took its name. the original house was old, but while the fine bay-windows, massive porch, stately gables, and wide staircases, with their carved oak balustrades and pendants, had been preserved untouched, all such modern improvements had been added as would soften off the inconveniences of a less luxurious age. the park itself was remarkable for the size and grouping of its timber, and was well-stocked with deer. a fine sheet of water also spread itself out over an open space between the trees, so as to form a delightful variety to the view from the great bay-windows. indeed, if the things of the present life could have made a man happy, sir thomas had abundant grounds for happiness in this world. yes, _in_ this world, but not beyond it. for sir thomas was just simply and thoroughly a man of the world, and a most respectable man of the world too. no man could place his finger on a blot in his character or conduct. he lived for the world, and the world applauded him. he lived to please self, and to a considerable extent he succeeded. lady oldfield wished to be something higher. she knew the emptiness of the world, at least in theory. she wished to be a christian, but was not. the glow of a pure gospel faith, caught by intercourse with true christians, might be often found in her words, but it went no farther; as the pavement on which the rich hues of a stained glass window fall, is but a cold colourless pavement after all, so was her heart cold, worldly, colourless for god. she was careful to have her children taught religiously--the bible lesson, the catechism, were learnt both regularly and perfectly. no child might omit its prayers night or morning, nor be absent from the daily family worship. no household was more strict in its attendance at church; and nothing brought down more speedily and severely her ladyship's displeasure than negligence to go to god's house, or irreverence or inattention during the service. thomas, the eldest son, and heir to the baronetcy, was at present abroad with his regiment; the second son, frank, was just one-and-twenty; the rest of the children were daughters. ever since the coming of bernard oliphant to waterland, there had been free intercourse between the two families at the hall and the rectory; for mr oliphant was a distant relation of the oldfields, and it was through sir thomas that he had been presented to the living. so the young people grew up together, though there was, strictly speaking, more intimacy than friendship between them, especially as the total abstinence principles of the rectory were a bar to any great cordiality on the part of the squire and his lady. on this point the baronet and his wife were entirely agreed. she was less openly severe, yet quite as determined and bitter in her opposition as he. so the two families met, and were civil, and exchanged calls, and the oliphants dined at the hall occasionally, and the children of both houses had little gatherings and feastings together from time to time. thus had things gone on for some years after mr oliphant had first shown his colours as a total abstainer; lady oldfield jealously watching her children, lest any of them should be corrupted by the absurd notions, as she counted them, of the rector and his wife on this subject of total abstinence. she had, however, nothing to fear on this score, as regarded her eldest son. he had never taken much to the oliphants as a boy, and his absence from home at school and the university had kept him out of the reach of their influence till he left england with his regiment. it was otherwise with the second son, frank, who was specially his mother's idol, and indeed almost every one else's too. from his earliest boyhood he took people's hearts by storm, and kept them. no one could see him and not love that open, generous, handsome face, with its laughing blue eyes, and setting of rich brown curling hair. no one could hear his joyous, confiding voice, and the expressions of unaffected and earnest interest with which he threw himself into every subject which fairly engaged his attention or affections, without feeling drawn with all the cords of the heart to the noble boy. there was such a thorough openness and freedom in all that he did and said, yet without recklessness and without indifference to the feelings of others. and when, through thoughtlessness or forgetfulness, as was not unfrequently the case, he happened to find himself in some awkward scrape or perplexity, he would toss back his waving hair with a half-vexed half-comical expression, which would disarm at once his mother's anger, spite of herself, and turn her severe rebuke into a mild remonstrance. alas, that sin should ever mar such a lovely work of god! frank loved the look of nature that lay open all around him, but not his own books. he abhorred study, and only submitted to it from a sense of duty. his father, at lady oldfield's urgent request, kept him at home, and engaged a private tutor for him, whose office would have been a sinecure but for the concern it gave him to find his pupil so hard to drag along the most level paths of learning. dog's-ears disfigured frank's books, the result simply of restless fingers; and dog's heads; executed in a masterly style, were the subjects of his pen. he loved roaming about, and there was not an old ruin within many miles round of which he did not know every crevice, nor any birds of song or prey with whose haunts and habits he was not intimately acquainted. in fishing, riding, swimming, he was an early adept, and every outdoor sport was his delight. all the dogs in the neighbourhood rejoiced in him, and every cottager's wife blessed him when he flung his bright smiles around him as he passed along. at no place was he more welcome than at the rectory, nor was there any house in which he felt so happy, not even excepting his own home. with all his wildness he felt the most sincere love and respect for mr and mrs oliphant, and rejoiced in a day spent with their children. and there was one of these towards whom he was drawn with feelings of peculiar tenderness. he was not conscious of it, and would have laughed at the idea had it been suggested to him; yet it was true that when he was but just sixteen mary oliphant had begun to wind herself around his heart with those numberless invisible cords which would by degrees enchain him in bonds which no power on earth could break. mary, of course, mere child as she then was, and brought up by her parents as a child should be, obedient, gentle, unobtrusive, delighted in the companionship of the lively, open-hearted boy, without a thought beyond, and heartily enjoyed many a happy ramble with him and her brothers among the woods and meadows. frank oldfield could not but be struck by the love and harmony which reigned in the oliphant family. he saw the power of a religion which made itself felt without thrusting itself forward into notice. he could not but reflect sometimes, and then even _his_ sunny brow was clouded, that he wanted a something which the children at the rectory possessed; that he wanted a great reality, without which he could not be fully happy. he saw also the bright side of total abstinence when he spent a day with the rector's family. at home there was always abundance of beer and wine upon the table, and he drank it, like others; and not only drank it, but thirsted for it, and felt as if he could not do without it. it was not so when he dined at the rectory, at their simple one o'clock meal, for he enjoyed his food, and seemed scarcely to miss the stimulant. one day, when he was sitting at the rectory table, he said to mr oliphant, looking up with one of his bright smiles,-- "i wish i was a total abstainer." "well," said mr oliphant in reply, with a smile, "i wish you were; but why do _you_ wish it just now, my dear boy?" "oh, i've been thinking a good deal about it lately. i see you smile, hubert, but i really have been thinking--yes, thinking--i've been thinking that i should like to do as you all do; you're just as happy without beer and wine, and just as well too." "and is that your only reason, dear frank?" asked mrs oliphant. "oh no! that's not all; the plain truth is this, i can't help thinking that if i keep getting fonder and fonder of beer and wine, as i'm doing now, i shall get too fond of it by-and-by." mr oliphant sighed, and poor mary exclaimed,-- "oh, frank, don't say that." "ay, but it's true; don't you think, mr oliphant, that i should be better and safer without it?" "i do, most sincerely, my dear boy," answered the rector; "yes, both better and safer; and specially the latter." "i know," said frank, "that papa and mamma are not fond of total abstinence; but then, i cannot think that they have really looked into the matter as you have." "no, frank, your father and mother do not see the matter in the same light as myself and i have no right to blame them, for, when i first came to waterland, i thought nearly the same as they do. perhaps they will take _my_ view by-and-by." frank shook his head, and then went on,-- "but you do think it the best thing for young people, as well as grown- up people, to be abstainers?" "yes, assuredly; and i will tell you why. i will give you a little illustration. there is a beautiful picture representing what is called the `lorelei,' a spirit fabled to haunt some high rocks that overlook the rhine. this spirit is represented in the picture as a beautiful female, with a sweet but melancholy expression of countenance. she kneels on the top of the rock, and is singing to a harp, which she strikes with her graceful fingers. below is a boat with two men in it, the one old, and the other young. the boat is rapidly nearing the rocks, but both the men are utterly unconscious of their danger--the old man has ceased to hold the helm, the young man has dropped the oars, and both are fondly stretching out their hands towards the deceiving spirit, wholly entranced with her song--a few moments more and their boat will be a wreck. now, it is because the drink is such an enticing thing, like the lorelei spirit; because it seems to sing pleasantly to us, and makes us forget where we are; because it lures on old and young to their ruin, by robbing them of their self-control;--it is for these reasons that i think it such a happy thing to put every safeguard between ourselves and its snares." "yes," said frank thoughtfully; "i know the drink is becoming a snare to me, or may become so. what shall i do? ought i to give it up altogether?" "it is a very difficult thing to answer that question," replied the rector. "i could hardly urge you to give up beer and wine altogether, if your father and mother positively forbid your doing so; there is no sin, of course, in the simple taking of fermented liquors, and therefore i could not advise you to go directly contrary to your parents' orders in this matter." "there is no harm, however, in my trying to give up beer and wine, if my father and mother will allow me?" "certainly not, my dear boy; and may god make your way plain, and remove or overcome your difficulties." the day after this conversation, frank was sitting in his place at the dinner-table of the hall. the butler brought him a glass of beer. "no, thank you," he said. a little while after he filled a tumbler with water, and began to drink it. "frank, my boy," said his father, "are not you well? why don't you take your beer as usual?" "i'm quite well, thank you, papa; but i'd rather have the water." "well, put some port wine in it, at any rate, if you don't fancy the beer to-day." "i'd rather have neither beer nor wine, thank you, papa." by this time lady oldfield's attention was drawn to what was passing between her husband and son. "dear frank," she said, "i shall not allow you to do anything so foolish as to drink water. james, hand the beer again to master frank." "indeed, dear mamma," he urged, "i mean what i say; i really should rather have water." "absurd!" exclaimed her ladyship angrily; "what folly has possessed you now? you know that the medical men all say that wine and beer are necessary for your health." "i'm sure, mamma, the medical men needn't trouble themselves about my health. i'm always very well when i have plenty of air and exercise. if ever i feel unwell, it is when i've had more wine or beer than usual." "and who, pray, has been putting these foolish notions into your head? i see how it is; i always feared it; the oliphants have been filling your head with their extravagant notions about total abstinence. really, my dear," she added, turning to sir thomas, "we must forbid frank's going to the rectory, if they are to make our own child fly in the face of our wishes." "mamma," cried frank, all on fire with excitement and indignation, "you're quite mistaken about the oliphants; they have none of them been trying to talk me over to their own views. i began the subject myself, and asked mr oliphant's advice, and he told me expressly that i ought not to do what you would disapprove of." "and why should you ask mr oliphant's advice? cannot you trust your own father and mother? i am not saying a word against mr oliphant as a clergyman or a christian; he preaches the gospel fully and faithfully, and works hard in his parish, but on this subject of total abstinence he holds views which neither your father nor i approve of; and, really, i must not have you tampered with in this matter." "well, dear mamma, i've done; i'll do as you wish. farewell water-- welcome beer and wine; james, a glass of ale." it was two years after this that a merry company from the hall and rectory set out to explore a remarkable ruin about five miles distant from waterland. frank was leader of the party; he had never given his parents any more anxiety on the score of total abstinence--on the contrary, he had learned to take so freely of wine and beer, that his mother felt at times a little alarmed lest he should seriously overpass the bounds of moderation. when at the rectory, he never again alluded to the subject, but rather seemed eager to turn the conversation when any remark fell from mr or mrs oliphant on the evils arising from intemperance. and now to-day he was in the highest spirits, as he rode on a sprightly little pony by the side of mary oliphant, who was mounted on another pony, and was looking the picture of peaceful beauty. other young people followed, also on horseback. the day was most lovely, and an inspiriting canter along lane and over moor soon brought them to the ruin. it was a stately moss-embroidered fabric, more picturesque in its decay than it ever could have been in its completeness. its shattered columns, solitary mullions, and pendent fragments of tracery hoary with age, and in parts half concealed by the negligent profusion of ivy, entranced the mind by their suggestive and melancholy beauty; while the huge remnant of a massive tower seemed to plead with mute dignity against the violence which had rent and marred it, and against the encroaching vegetation, which was climbing higher and higher, and enveloping its giant stones in a fantastic clothing of shrub and bramble. frank and his party first shut up their horses in the old refectory, closing the entrance with a hurdle, and then dispersed over the ruins. mary had brought her drawing-pad, that she might sketch a magnificent pillar, and the remains of a transept arch which rose gracefully behind it, crowned with drooping ivy, and disclosing in the back ground, through a shattered window, the dreamy blue of the distant hills. she sat on the mutilated chapiter of a column, and was soon so wholly absorbed in her work, that she never turned her eyes to notice frank oldfield, who, leaning against a low archway, was busily engaged in a vigorous sketch, of which herself was the prominent object. and who could blame him? for certainly a lovelier picture, or one more full of harmonious contrast, could hardly have been found, than that presented by the sweet and graceful figure of the rector's daughter, with its surroundings of massive masonry and majestic decay. she all life, a creature of the present, and yet still more of the future, as bright with the sunshine of a hope that could never die; and they, those mouldering stones, that broken tracery, those mossy arches, sad in the desolation of the present, sadder still in the memories of an unenlightened past. frank finished his sketch, and, holding it behind him, stole gently up to the side of mary oliphant. "ah!" he exclaimed, "a most lovely little bit; and yet, i have the vanity to think that my choice of a subject has been better than your own." "the drawing is, no doubt," she answered; "but i hardly think you can find such a picturesque group as this in any other part of the ruins." "let us compare, then," he said, and placed his own sketch by the side of hers. "oh, frank," she cried, "how can you be so foolish?" at the same time the colour which flushed her face, and the bright smile which lighted it, showed that the folly was not very reprehensible in her eyes. "is it so very foolish?" he asked, half seriously, half playfully. "well; i wish i had shown the same kind of folly in my choice of some other things as i have in the choice of a subject." she was about to reply, when suddenly, without any warning, a savage- looking dog dashed into the open space before them, and, making a fierce rush at mary, caught her by the dress. "down, you brute, down!" shouted frank; but the dog still retained his hold, and growled and tossed himself about savagely. frank had no stick nor weapon of any kind in his hands, but he darted to a heap of loose stones, and snatching one up turned towards the dog. in the meantime, mary, in extreme terror, had dropped her drawing-pad, and plucking her dress from the fierce creature's mouth, fled with all her speed across the pavement, and sprang up the projecting stones of an old archway. the dog, with a loud yell, followed her, and easily overtook her, as the ascent up which she had climbed presented a broad footing. utterly terrified, and unconscious of what she was doing, the poor girl clambered higher and higher to escape her enemy. frank had now turned upon the dog, and hurled one huge stone at him; it passed near, but did not touch him. mary's terror only excited the furious animal to follow, and as she saw him close upon her again, with a wild cry she leaped right across to an old fragment of a turret which stood out by itself in an angle of the wall. the dog hesitated, but, before it could decide to follow her, another stone from frank had struck it full in the side. with a tremendous howl it tumbled down into the court and fled. poor mary! she gasped for breath, and could not for a long time recover her self-possession. when at last she became more calm, soothed and encouraged by the kind voice and earnest entreaties of frank, it was only to awake to the extreme danger of her present position. fear had made her take a leap which she could never have dared to attempt in her calm senses. she looked across the chasm over which she had sprung, and shuddered. could she try the leap back again? no; she dared not. in the meantime, the stones to which she was clinging began to loosen beneath her weight. she looked down, and became giddy. "oh, save me--save me--i shall fall!" she cried. she clutched at a strong stem of ivy which was climbing up the wall close by, and so supported herself; but it was evident that she could not long retain her hold in that constrained position, even if the stonework did not give way beneath her feet. all the party had now gathered in the open space below, and some began to climb the path by which she had mounted. frank, in the meanwhile, was making desperate efforts to reach the poor girl. "hold on--hold on--dear mary!" he cried; "a few moments, and i shall be with you; don't lose courage--keep a firm grasp on the ivy; there--i've got a landing on the top of this old arch; now, i'm only a few feet off--steady, steady--don't stir for your life--only a few moments more and i shall be at your side." it was perilous work indeed; and all who beheld him held their breath as he made his way towards where the object of their deep anxiety was crouched. now he was clinging to a rough projecting stone, now swinging by a rusty bar, now grasping ivy or brambles, and every now and then slipping as the old masonry gave way beneath his feet. at last, with immense exertion, he gained a ledge a little below where the terrified girl was perched, half lying, half crouching. here he had firm standing-ground. placing his hand gently upon her, he bade her slide down towards him, assuring her that she would have a firm footing on the ledge. she obeyed at once, feeling his strong arm bearing her up and guiding her. another moment, and she stood beside him. but now, how were they to descend? she dared not attempt to leap back to the spot from whence she had sprung in her terror, and there was no regular descent from the slab on which they were perched, but only a few projecting stones down the perpendicular face of the wall, and these at wide intervals. "there's no way but a roundabout climb down by the ivy," said frank at last. "trust to me, dear mary, and do exactly what i tell you. i will go first, and do you place hand and foot just as i bid you. there--put your foot in that crevice--now take firm hold of that branch; there--now the other foot--now the next step a little to the right, the good ivy makes a noble ladder--now we're nearly landed; there--be careful not to slip on that round stone--one step more, and now we're safe. oh, thank god, _you're_ safe!" he clasped her to his heart; she knew that heart was hers; she could not resent that loving embrace; it was but for a moment. he released her, and was turning to the friends who were gathering and pressing round, when a heavy stone, loosened in their descent, fell on his outstretched arm, and struck him to the ground. mary sprang towards him with a cry of deep distress. "frank, dear frank--you're hurt--you're dreadfully hurt, i'm sure." "no, no; not much, i hope," he said, springing up, but looking very pale. "it's an awkward blow rather, but don't distress yourself--we'll make the best of our way home at once--just one of you see to the horses." he spoke with effort, for he was evidently in great pain. mary's heart ached for him, but exhaustion and anxiety quite deprived her of the power of speaking or thinking collectively. the horses were speedily brought. frank held out his uninjured arm to help mary oliphant to mount her pony. "i'm so very, very sorry," she said, "to have caused this disaster, and spoiled our happy day through my foolish timidity." "nay, nay; you must not blame yourself," said frank. "i am sure we all feel for you. it was that rascal of a dog that did the mischief, but i gave him such a mark of my respect as i don't think he'll part with for a long time." poor frank, he tried to be cheerful; but it was plain to all that he must be suffering severely. they were soon on their way home, but a cloud rested on their spirits. few words were said till they reached the spot where the roads to the hall and the rectory parted. then frank turned to mary and said, with a look full of tenderness, rendered doubly touching by his almost ghastly paleness,-- "farewell; i hope you'll be none the worse, dear mary, for your fright. i shall send over to-morrow to inquire how you are. it was a happy escape." "good-bye, good-bye!" she cried; "a thousand thanks for your noble and timely rescue! oh, i hope--i hope--" she could not say more, but burst into tears. "all right--never fear for me!" he cried cheerily as he rode off, leaving mary and a groom to make their way to waterland, while himself and the rest of the party hastened on to greymoor park. they had not far to ride, but frank was evidently anxious to reach home as speedily as possible. with clenched teeth and knit brow, he urged on his pony to a gallop. soon they reached the lodge; a few moments more and they had passed along the drive and gained the grand entrance. lady oldfield had just returned from a drive, and was standing on the top step. "you're early home," she remarked. "dear frank, i hope there's nothing amiss," she added, noticing the downcast looks of the whole party. her son did not answer, but, dismounting with difficulty, began to walk up the steps. she observed with dismay that he tottered as he approached her. could he have been drinking so freely as to be unable to walk steadily? her heart died within her. the next moment he staggered forward, and fainted in her arms. chapter five. good resolutions. "what--what is this?" cried lady oldfield in bitter distress. "frank-- my child--my beloved boy--oh, open your eyes--look at me--speak--what has happened? oh, he's dying, he's dying--james--richard--carry him up to his room. one of you tell tomkins to ride off immediately for dr portman. thomas, fetch me some brandy--quick--quick!" they carried him in a state of complete insensibility to his room, and laid him on the bed. his mother stood over him, bathing his temples with eau-de-cologne, and weeping bitterly. the brandy was brought; they raised him, and poured a little through his blanched lips; slowly he began to revive; his lips moved. lady oldfield stooped her ear close to his face, and caught the murmured word, "mary." "oh, thank god," she exclaimed, "that he is not dead! does any one know how this has happened?" "i believe, my lady," replied one of the servants, "that mr frank was hit by a big stone which fell on him from the top of the ruins. i heard juniper graves say as much." "ay, my lady," said another; "it were a mercy it didn't kill mr frank outright." the object of their care began now to come more to himself. he tried to rise, but fell back with a groan. "what _can_ i do for you, my poor boy?" asked his mother; "the doctor will be here soon, but can we do anything for you now? where is your pain?" "i fear my left arm is broken," he whispered; "the pain is terrible." "take some more brandy," said his mother. he took it, and was able to sit up. then with great difficulty they undressed him, and he lay on the bed pale and motionless till the doctor arrived. on examination, it was found that the arm was terribly bruised, but not broken. there were, however, other injuries also, though not of a serious character, which frank had sustained in his perilous climbing to the rescue of mary oliphant. fever came on, aggravated by the brandy injudiciously administered. for some days it was doubtful what would be the issue; but at last, to the great joy of sir thomas and his wife, the turning-point was passed, and dr portman pronounced their child out of danger--all he needed now was good nursing, sea-air, and proper nourishment. during the ravings of the fever his mind was often rambling on the scene in the ruins--at one time he would be chiding the dog, at another he would be urging mary to cling firmly to the ivy; and there was a tone of tenderness in these appeals which convinced lady oldfield that her son's heart was given to the rector's daughter. this was confirmed by a conversation which she had with him at the sea-side, where he was gone to recruit his strength. there he opened his whole heart to her, and confessed the depth of his attachment to her whose life he had so gallantly saved. lady oldfield was at first pained; she would not have preferred such an alliance for her son. but, on further reflection, the prospect was not so displeasing to her. mary oliphant was not inferior to her son in birth, and would have, when she came of age, a good fortune which had been left her by a wealthy aunt. frank's love for beer and wine, and even spirits, had grown so much of late, that his mother had begun to feel very anxious about him on that score. she had no wish that he should become a total abstainer; indeed she was, at this very time, giving him, by the doctor's orders, as much porter and wine as he could bear; but she thought that mary's total abstinence might act as a check upon him to keep him within the bounds of strict moderation. she knew, too, that mary was a genuine christian, and she sincerely believed that true religion in a wife was the only solid foundation of domestic happiness. before, therefore, they returned to greymoor park, frank had his mother's hearty consent, subject to sir thomas's approval, to his engaging himself to mary oliphant. and what were mary's own feelings on the subject? poor girl, she had never realised before that day of peril and rescue that she felt, or could feel, more than a half friendly, half sisterly liking for frank oldfield. she had always admired his open generous disposition, and had been happy in his society; but they had been so many years companions, that she had never thought of looking upon him as one likely to form an attachment to herself. but now there could be no doubt on the subject. what passed in the old ruin had convinced her that his heart was given to her; and more than this, that her own heart was given to him. and now his sufferings and illness, brought on him through his exertions to save her from destruction, had called out her love for him into full consciousness. yet with that consciousness there came a deep sense of pain. it had taken her so by surprise; her heart was given before she had had time to reflect whether she ought to have given it. could she be happy with him? was he a real christian? did he love the same saviour she loved herself? oh, these thoughts pressed heavily upon her spirit, but she spread out her cares first before her heavenly father, and then with full childlike openness before her earthly parent--that loving mother from whom she had never had a single concealment. mrs oliphant sighed when her daughter had poured out her anxieties and difficulties. "oh, mamma--dearest mamma!" cried mary, "what ought i to do? i am sure he loves me, and i know that he will tell me so, for he is the very last person to keep back what he feels. what would you and dear papa wish me to do, should he declare his affection? i could not honestly say that my heart is indifferent to him, and yet i should not dare to encourage him to look forward to a time when we shall be one on earth, unless i can trust too that we shall be one hereafter in heaven." "my precious child," replied her mother, "you know our doubts and our fears. you know that frank has acknowledged to increasing fondness for intoxicating drinks. you know that his poor mother will rather encourage that taste. and oh, if you should marry, and he should become a drunkard--a confirmed drunkard--oh, surely he will bring misery on my beloved child, and her father's and mother's grey hairs with sorrow to the grave." "dearest mamma, you have only to say that you are convinced that i cannot be happy with him, or that you and dear papa consider that i ought to relinquish all thoughts about him, and i will at once endeavour to banish him from my heart." "no, my child. your affections, it is clear, have already become entangled, and therefore we are not in the same position to advise you as if your heart were free to give or to withhold. had it been otherwise, we should have urged you to pause before you allowed any thoughts about frank to lodge in your heart, or perhaps to be prepared to give a decided refusal, in case of his making a declaration of his attachment." "but you do not think him quite hopeless, dear mamma? remember how anxious he seemed at one time to become a total abstainer. and might not i influence him to take the decided step, when i should have a right to do so with which no one could interfere?" "it might be so, my darling. god will direct. but only promise me one thing--should frank ask you to engage yourself to him, and you should discover that he is becoming the slave of intemperance before the time arrives when you are both old enough to marry, promise me that in that case you will break off the engagement." "i promise you, dearest mamma, that, cost what struggle it may, i will never marry a drunkard." it was but a few days after the above conversation that frank oldfield called at the rectory. it was the first time that he and mary had met since the day of their memorable adventure. he was looking pale, and carried his arm in a sling, but his open look and bright smile were unchanged. "i carry about with me, you see, dear mary," he said, "my apology for not having sooner called to inquire after you. i hope you were not seriously the worse for your fright and your climb?" "oh no," she replied earnestly; "only so grieved when i found what you had suffered in saving me. how shall i ever thank you enough for sacrificing yourself as you did for me?" "well," he answered with a smile, "i suppose i ought to say that you have nothing to thank me for. and yet i do think that i may accept of some thanks--and, to tell the truth, i have just come over to suggest the best way in which the thanks may be given." mary did not answer, but looked down; and, spite of herself, her tears would fall fast. "dear mary," he said, "the plainest and shortest way is the one that suits me best. i want you to give me your heart--you have had mine long ago, and i think you know it." she did not speak. "oh, mary, dearest mary, can i be mistaken? cannot you--do not you love me?" "frank," she replied, in a low and tearful voice, "it would be affectation in me to make a show of concealing my love to you. i _do_ love you. i never knew it till that day; but since then i have known that my heart is yours." she said this so sadly, that he asked half seriously, half playfully,-- "would you then wish to have it back again?" "no, dear frank; i cannot wish _that_." "then one day--if we are spared--you will be my own loving wife?" there was no reply, but only a burst of tears. "mary, dearest mary, what am i to understand? do your parents object to your engaging yourself to me? oh, surely it is not so?" "no, frank; they have not objected--not exactly--but--" she hesitated and looked down. "oh, why then not give me a plain `yes' at once? you own that your heart is mine--you _know_ that my heart is yours--why not then promise to be mine altogether?" "it is true, dear frank," she replied slowly, "that my heart is yours--i cannot take it back if i would--but it may be my duty not to give my hand with it." "your duty! oh, mary, what a cold, cruel speech! why your duty?" "well," she replied, "the plain truth is best, and best when soonest spoken. you must know, dear frank, how we all here feel about the sin and misery caused by strong drink. and you must know--oh, forgive me for saying it, but i must say it, i must be open with you _now_ on this subject--you must know that we have reason to fear that your own liking for beer and wine and such things has been, for the last year or two, on the increase. and oh, we fear--we fear that, however unconsciously, you may be on the downward road to--to--" she could not finish her sentence. frank hung down his head, and turned half away, the colour flushing up to the top of his fair forehead. he tried to speak, but could not for a while. at last, in a husky voice, he whispered,-- "and so you will give me up to perish, body and soul, and to go down hill with all my might and main?" "no, frank," she answered, having now regained her composure; "no; i have no wish to give you up to sin and ruin. it will rest with yourself. i cannot promise absolutely that i will be yours. it will depend upon--upon--upon what you are yourself when the time comes that we might marry." "and you have promised your mother--" "i have promised--oh, frank, dear frank, pardon me if i wound you by plain, rough words, but they must be spoken--i have promised that i will never be the wife of a drunkard." he bowed his head on his hand, and there was a long and painful silence. poor mary, her heart bled for him, as she saw the tears forcing their way between his thin, pale fingers. "mary," he said at last, "you must be mine; i cannot live without you. trust me; you shall have no cause to be ashamed of me. i know--i feel that i have been in great danger of sliding into intemperate habits; but you shall see me and hear of me henceforth as strictly moderate. i solemnly promise you this; and on the very day that makes us one, i will be one with you in total abstinence also. dearest, will this satisfy you?" "yes, dear frank; i have no right to ask more, if you _can_ be strictly moderate; but oh, do not trust in your own strength. pray for help, dear frank, and then you will be able to conquer." "oh, of course," he said hastily; "but never fear, i give you my solemn promise that you shall never see nor hear of any excess in me." and did he keep his resolution? yes; for a while. but, alas! how little do those in circumstances like his really appreciate the awful difficulties which beset those who are struggling to maintain strict moderation. this makes drunkenness such a fearful and exceptional sin,-- "the bow well bent, and smart the spring, vice seems already slain." the resolution is firmly set; the man walks forth strong as a rock in his determination. he begins to drink; his rock is but a piece of ice after all, but he knows it not; it is beginning to melt with the warmth of the first glass; he is cheered and encouraged by the second glass, and his resolution seems to himself stronger than ever, while in very truth it is only melting faster and faster. at last he is over the border of moderation before he conceives that he had so much as approached it. then, alas! the word "moderation" stands for an unknown quantity, easy to use but hard to define, since one man's moderation may be another man's excess, and to-day's moderation may be an excess to- morrow. poor frank was never more in earnest than when he promised mary oliphant that he would observe strict moderation. he had everything to induce him to keep his word--his love for mary; his desire to please his own parents, who had begun to tremble for him; his own self-respect. so he left the rectory strong as a lion in his own estimation, yet not without a sort of misgiving underlying his conviction of his own firmness; but he would not listen to that misgiving for a moment. "i mean to be what i have promised, and i _will_ be," he said to himself. "mary shall see that, easy and self-indulgent as i have been, i can be rigid as iron when i have the will to be so." poor frank! he did not knew his own weakness; he did not know that his was not a will of iron, but was like a foot once badly sprained, which has lost its firm and unfaltering tread. happy would it have been for him had he sought a strength higher than his own--the strength from above. for several weeks he kept strictly to his purpose. he limited himself to so much beer and wine, and never exceeded. he became proud of his firmness, forgetting that there had been nothing to test the stamina of his resolution. at last the annual harvest-home came round. it was a season of great festivity at greymoor park. sir thomas, as we have said, wished all his tenants and labourers to be sober, and spoke to that effect on these occasions; at the same time he was equally anxious that both meat and drink should be dealt out with no niggard hand. so men and women took as much as they liked, and the squire was very careful to make no very strict inquiries as to the state of any of his work-people on the following day; and if any case of intemperance on these occasions came to his knowledge afterwards, as commonly happened, it was winked at, unless of a very gross and open character. "poor fellows," said the good-natured landlord, "it's only once in a year that they get such a feast, and i must not be too strict with them. there's many a good fellow gets a little too much on these days, who is an excellent steady workman and father all the rest of the year. it's drunkenness--the habit of drunkenness--that is such a sin and scandal." so everything was done to make the harvest-home a day of feasting and mirth. on the present occasion the weather was as bright and propitious as could be desired. a blazing sun poured down his heat from a cloudless sky; scarce a breath of wind stirred the flag which, in honour of the day, floated above the entrance of the hall. two large tents were spread out by the borders of the ornamental water, in full view of the hall windows. a band, hired for the occasion, poured forth a torrent of fierce music. children decked in blue ribbons and ears of corn ran in and out of the tents, getting in everybody's way; but as everybody was just then in the best of humours, it was of no consequence. visitors began to arrive in picturesque groups, strolling through the trees towards the tents. hot footmen were rushing wildly about, carrying all sorts of eatables and drinkables. tables creaked and plates clattered. then, just about one o'clock, came the squire and his lady, followed by many friends, among whom were mr and mrs oliphant; while frank, looking supremely happy, with his sunny face all life and playfulness, came last, with mary on his arm. usually the oliphants had kept away from these harvest-homes, for they were not conducted to the rector's satisfaction, but to-day they had a special reason for coming. frank had been over to the rectory with an urgent request from his father that mr oliphant would be present. he might do good by appearing among them, and frank wanted mary to see how he could use his influence in keeping order and sobriety. there were loud cheers, pleasant smiles, and hearty greetings as the party from the hall entered the tents, where all things were as bright and beautiful as banners, mottoes, and ears of corn arranged in all sorts of appropriate devices could make them. the tenants dined in one tent, the labourers and their wives in the other. sir thomas and lady oldfield presided in the former, and frank took the head of the table in the latter. mr and mrs oliphant and mary sat near the baronet. the two tents were separated by several yards from one another, so that while the guests were all partaking of dinner at the same time, the hum of voices, the clatter of knives and forks, the braying of the brass instruments which were performing in the space between the two parties, and the necessary attention to the wants of the visitors, quite prevented those presiding in the principal tent from hearing what was passing in the other. it was the intention of the squire, after all had been satisfied, to gather both companies together in the open park, and address them before they separated to join in the various amusements provided for them. the guests in the chief tent had just concluded their dinner, and those at the upper table, where the party from the hall had been sitting, were dispersing and making their way into the open air, when a burst of cheers and shrieks of laughter from the other tent made sir thomas remark, with a slight cloud on his face,-- "our friends over there seem very merry." then came louder cheers and louder laughter. mary's heart died within her, she hardly knew why. she hurried out of the tent, when she was met by juniper graves, the groom, a man from whom she shrank with special dislike, for reasons which will shortly be explained. "come here, miss," he cried, with a malicious grin; "here's mr frank making such capital fun; he'll send us all into fits afore he's done! i never seed anything like it--it's quite bacchanalian!" under other circumstances mary would have hurried away at once, but the name of frank acted like a spell. she peeped in at the tent-door where the labourers were dining, and almost sank to the ground at the sight she beheld. standing on a chair at the head of the table, his face flushed a deep red, his beautiful hair tossed back and his eyes flashing with excitement, a bottle flourishing in his right hand, was frank oldfield, roaring out, amidst cheers and shouts of applause, a boisterous, roystering comic song. mary was shrinking back in horror when she saw juniper graves glide behind his young master's chair, and fill his glass from a jug which he held in his hand. frank saw the act, caught up the glass, and drained it in a moment. then launching out into his song again, he swayed himself backwards and forwards, evidently being in danger of falling but for the help of the groom, who held out his arm to steady him. mary tottered back out of the tent, but not till her eyes had met those of her lover. oh! it sickened her to think of so pure and holy a thing as love in connection with such a face as that. "my child," said her father, to whom she had hurried, pale, and ready to sink at every step, "what has happened? what is the matter? are you ill?" "oh, take me home, take me home," she cried, in a terrified whisper. the noise of the band prevented others from hearing her words of distress, and she was hidden from the rest of the company by a fold of the tent. "but what shall i say to sir thomas?" asked her father. "say nothing now, dear papa; let us get away from this--this dreadful place--as quickly as we can. send over a note, and say you took me home because i was ill, as indeed i am--ill in body, sick to death in heart. dearest mamma, come with us; let us slip away at once." so they made their way home swiftly and sadly--sadly, for the rector and his wife had both now guessed the cause of their child's trouble; they had heard something of the uproar, with sorrowful misgivings that frank was the guilty cause. unhappy mary! when they reached home she threw herself into her loving mother's arms, and poured out all her grief. a messenger was at once dispatched to the hall with a note of apology for their abrupt departure. it was, however, needless. the messenger brought back word that, when the people had been gathered for the address, frank oldfield had staggered forwards towards his father so hopelessly intoxicated, that he had to be led away home between two of the servants. sir thomas said a few hasty words to the assembled tenants and work-people, expressing his great regret at his son's state, but excusing it on the ground of his weakness after his illness, so that the great heat of the weather had caused what he had taken to have an unusually powerful effect upon him. in reply to mr oliphant's note, the squire made the same excuse for his son, and trusted that miss oliphant would not take to heart what had happened under such exceptional circumstances. but mary could not pass the matter over so lightly. she could not wipe out from her memory that scene in the tent. she pressed her hand tightly over her eyes, and shuddered as she thought of frank standing there, wild, coarse, debased, brutalised, a thing to make rude and vulgar merriment; while the man, the gentleman, and the christian had been demonised out of that fair form by the drink. oh, what bitter tears she shed that night as she lay awake, racked with thoughts of the past and despairing of the future. the next day came a penitential letter from frank; he threw himself on her pity--he had been overcome--he abhorred himself for it--he saw his own weakness now--he would pray for strength as she had urged him to do--surely she would not cast him off for one offence--he had been most strictly moderate up to that unhappy day--he implored her forgiveness--he asked her to try him only once more--he loved her so dearly, so passionately, that her rejection would be death to him. what could she say? she was but a poor erring sinner herself and should she at once shut the door of pity upon him? he had fallen indeed, but he might be taught such a lesson by that fall as he might never forget. once more--she would try him once more, if her parents thought her right in doing so. and could they say nay?--they felt they could not. little as they really hoped for any permanent improvement, they considered that they should be hardly right in dissuading their child from giving the poor penitent another trial. so mary wrote back a loving earnest letter, imploring frank to seek his strength to keep his resolution in prayer. again they met; again it was sunshine; but, to poor mary's heart, sunshine through a cloud. chapter six. a discussion. it was about a month after the harvest-home, so full of sad memories for all at the hall and rectory, that mr oliphant was seated one afternoon in the drawing-room of greymoor park. the company assembled consisted of the baronet and lady oldfield; the baronet's brother, reverend john oldfield; dr portman, the medical man; and bernard oliphant. mr john oldfield had been telling the news of his part of the county to his brother and sister-in-law. "you'll be sorry to hear," he continued, "that poor mildman's dead." "indeed!" exclaimed the rector. "i'm very sorry. was there any change in him before his death?" "no, i fear not. his has been a very sad case. i remember him well when he was vicar of sapton. a brighter and more loving christian and pastor i never knew, but somehow or other he got into drinking habits, and these have been his ruin." "poor man," said sir thomas, "he used to be the laughing-stock of old bellowen, his squire; it was very grievous to see a man throw himself away as he did. the squire would ply him with drink, and press the bottle upon him, till poor mildman was so tipsy that he had to be taken by the servants to the vicarage. sometimes the butler had to put him into a cart, when it was dark, and had him tumbled out like so much rubbish at his own door." "really," said lady oldfield, "i was surprised to hear mr bellowen talk about him in the way he did. he endeavoured in every possible way to get him to drink, while at the very same time he despised and abused him for drinking, and would launch out at the clergy and their self- indulgent habits." "yes," said her brother-in-law; "no one knew better what a clergyman ought to be than the squire. we may be very thankful that his charges against our order were gross exaggerations. we may congratulate ourselves that the old-fashioned drunken parson is now pretty nearly a creature of the past. don't you think so, mr oliphant?" "i confess to you," replied the rector, "that i was rather thinking, in connection with poor mildman's sad history, of those words, `let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.'" "why, surely you don't think there is much danger in these days of many persons of our profession becoming the victims of intemperance?" "i cannot feel so sure about that," was the reply. "you know i hold strong views on the subject. i wish i could see more clergymen total abstainers." "i must say that i quite disagree with you there," said the other; "what we want, in my view, is, not to make people total abstainers, but to give them those principles which will enable them to enjoy all lawful indulgences lawfully." "i should heartily concur in this view," said mr oliphant, "if the indulgence in strong drink to what people consider a moderate extent were exactly on the same footing as indulgence in other things. but there is something so perilous in the very nature of alcoholic stimulants, that multitudes are lured by them to excess who would have been the last to think, on commencing to drink, that themselves could possibly become transgressors." "then it is the duty of us clergymen," said the other, "to warn people to be more on their guard against excess in this direction but not, by becoming total abstainers ourselves, to lead our flocks to suppose that there is sin in the mere taking of any amount of intoxicating liquors, however small." "i think," said mr oliphant, very gravely, "that our duty is something beyond, and, may i say, above this. we live in a peculiarly self- indulgent age, when men are exceedingly impatient of anything like a restraint upon their appetites and inclinations. we have, besides this, the acknowledged fact that, where other sins slay their thousands, drunkenness slays its hundreds of thousands of all ages. is it not, then, a privilege, (i always prefer to put it rather as a privilege than a duty), for us, who are to be as lights in the world, as ensamples to our flocks, to take a high stand in this matter, and show that we will deny ourselves that which has so insidiously worked the ruin of millions, that so we may perhaps win poor fallen creatures, fallen through drink, to come out of their miserable slough by crying to them, not merely `come out,' but `come out and follow us!'" mr oldfield did not answer; but sir thomas, turning to the rector, said,-- "i am sure this subject is deeply interesting to both you and myself, on our dear frank's account. you know my views on the subject of total abstinence. still i feel that there may be exceptional cases, where its adoption may be wise, and i could imagine that his might be such a case." "i heartily agree with you," replied mr oliphant. "oh no, my dear," exclaimed lady oldfield; "i am quite sure total abstinence would never suit poor frank; his constitution would not bear it; i appeal to you, dr portman, is it not so?" "i am quite of your ladyship's opinion," said the doctor. "you hear what dr portman says," cried her ladyship, turning to the rector. "i do," was the reply; "but that does not alter my conviction. medical men's views have greatly changed of late years on this subject. excuse me, dr portman, for thus differing from you." "really," interposed mr oldfield, "i think you must allow the doctor to be the best judge of the medical side of the question. what would you say if the doctor on his part were to intrude on your province, and question your statements of scriptural truth from the pulpit?" "i should say," answered mr oliphant, "in the first place, that the two cases are essentially different. my statements are drawn from an inspired volume, from an express revelation; the opinions of medical men are simply the deductions of human reason and observation, and are therefore opinions which may be altered or modified. but, further, i should say that i never require my people to receive my statements from the pulpit without question or inquiry. i refer them always to the revelation, the inspired record, and bid them search that record for themselves. now, if the doctor can point me to any inspired medical record which lays down a particular system, and declares directly or by fair inference against total abstinence, i will at once surrender my present position; but as he will not pretend to possess any such inspired medical volume, i must still feel myself at liberty to hold different views from himself on the medical question." "i am well aware, my dear sir," said dr portman, "that you and i shall not agree on this subject, and, of course, i must allow you to be at liberty to hold your own opinions; but it does seem to me, i must confess, very strange that you should look upon total abstinence as universally or generally desirable, when you must be aware that these views are held by so very few of the medical profession, and have only recently been adopted even by those few." "i am afraid," said the rector, smiling, "that you are only entangling yourself in further difficulties. does the recent adoption of a new course of treatment by a few prove that it ought not to be generally adopted? what, then, do you say about the change in the treatment of fever cases? i can myself remember the time when the patient was treated on the lowering system, and when every breath of air was excluded from the sick-room, doors and windows being listed lest the slightest change should take place in the stifling atmosphere of the bed-room. and now all is altered; we have the system supported by nourishments, and abundance of fresh air let in. indeed, it is most amusing to see the change which has taken place as regards fresh air; many of us sleep with our windows open, which would have been thought certain death a few years ago. i know at this time a medical practitioner, (who, by the way, is a total abstainer, and has never given any of his patients alcoholic stimulants for the last five-and- twenty years), who, at the age of between seventy and eighty, sleeps with his window open, and is so hearty that, writing to me a few days since, he says, `i sometimes think what shall i do when i get to be an old man, being now only in my seventy-fourth year.' now, were the medical men wrong who began this change in the treatment of fever cases? or, because they were few at first, ought they to have abandoned their views, and still kept with the majority? of course, those who adopt any great change will at first be few, especially if that change sets very strongly against persons' tastes or prejudices." "i see that we must agree to differ," said dr portman, laughing, and rising to take his leave. when he was gone, sir thomas, who had listened very attentively to mr oliphant's remarks, said,-- "i shall certainly put no hindrance in the way of frank's becoming a total abstainer if you can persuade him to it, and his health does not suffer by it." "nor i," said lady oldfield; "only don't let him sign any pledge. i've a great horror of those pledges. surely, my dear mr oliphant, you would not advise his signing a pledge." "indeed, i should advise it most strongly," was the reply; "both for his own sake and also for the sake of others." "but surely, to sign a pledge is to put things on a totally wrong foundation," observed mr john oldfield; "would not you, as a minister of the gospel, prefer that he should base his total abstinence on christian principle rather than trust to a pledge? does not the pledge usurp the place of divine grace?" "not at all," said the rector. "i would have him abstain on christian principles, as you say; and i would not have him _trust_ to the pledge, but i would still have him use it as a support, though not as a foundation. perhaps an illustration will best explain my meaning. i read some years ago of a fowler who was straying on the shore after sea- birds. he was so engrossed with his sport that he utterly failed to mark the rapid incoming of the tide, and when at last he did notice it, he found to his dismay that he was completely cut off from the land. there was but one chance of life, for he could not swim. a large fragment of rock rose above the waves a few yards behind him; on to this he clambered, and placing his gun between his feet, awaited the rising of the water. in a short time the waves had risen nearly to his feet, then they covered them; and still they rose as the tide came in higher and higher, now round his ankles, next to his knees; and so they kept gradually mounting, covering his body higher and higher. he could mark their rise or fall by the brass buttons on his waistcoat; first one button disappeared, then another, then a third, then a fourth. would the waves rise up to his mouth and choke him? his suspense was dreadful. at last he observed that the topmost button did not disappear so rapidly as the rest; the next wave, however, seemed quite to cover it, but in a few minutes it became quite uncovered; in a little while the button next below became visible, and now he was sure that the tide was ebbing, and that he was safe if only he could hold out long enough. at last the rock itself became visible, and after many hours he was able, almost spent with fatigue, to stagger to the land. now, what saved that man? was it his gun? surely not; it was the rock: _that_ was his standing-ground. but was his gun, therefore, useless? assuredly not, for it helped to steady him on the rock, though it could not take the place of the rock. just so with the pledge; it is not the christian abstainer's standing-ground. christ alone is that standing-ground. he stands by the grace of christ; but the pledge, like the gun, helps to keep him steady on his standing-ground, the rock of ages." "well," said mr oldfield, "let us grant that there is some force in your illustration. i would further ask how it can be that frank's taking the pledge would be a benefit to others as well as himself?" "for the same reason that my own signing of the pledge is beneficial," replied the rector. "nay," interposed sir thomas; "would not your signing the pledge do rather harm than good? would it not rather weaken your own influence by giving people reason to think, (those i mean especially who might not know you well), that you had once been intemperate yourself, or that you were unable to keep sober, or at any rate moderate, without the help of the pledge." "on the contrary," replied mr oliphant, "i look upon those who take the pledge as greatly encouraging others who might be inclined to hang back. it shows that the stronger are willing to fraternise with the weaker. and this is specially the case when those who are known to have never been entangled in the snares of drunkenness are willing to take the pledge as an encouragement to those who have fallen. perhaps you will bear with me if i offer you another illustration. there is a great chasm, a raging torrent at the bottom, and a single strong plank across it. now persons with steady heads can walk over the chasm without difficulty, along the naked plank; but there are others who shudder at the very thought, and dare not venture--their heads swim, their knees tremble, as they approach the edge. what is to be done? why, just put a little light hand-rail from a post on either side, and let one who is strong of head walk over, resting his hand on the rail; he does not need the rail for himself but he uses it just to show how it may be a help, and so the timid and the dizzy-headed follow and feel confidence, and reach the other side in safety. now, suppose the flood at the bottom of that chasm to be intemperance, the plank total abstinence, and the rail the pledge, and i think you will see that those who use the pledge, though they really do not need it to steady themselves, may be a great help to the weak, the timid, and the shrinking." "i certainly," said sir thomas, "have never had the matter set before me in this light. i shall think over our conversation; and as regards poor frank, at any rate, i feel sure that, if his health will bear it, total abstinence will be the safest, if not the best thing for him." chapter seven. the tempter. juniper graves was under-groom at greymoor park. he was a very fine fellow in his own eyes. his parents had given him the name of juniper under the impression that it meant something very striking, and would distinguish their son from the vulgar herd. what it exactly signified, or what illustrious person had ever borne it before, they would have been puzzled to say. so he rejoiced in the name of juniper, and his language was in keeping with it. high-sounding words had ever been his passion--a passion that grew with his growth; so that his conversation was habitually spiced with phrases and expressions in which there was abundance of sound, but generally an equal lack of sense. too full of himself to be willing to keep patiently plodding on like ordinary people, he had run through a good many trades without being master of any. once he was a pastry-cook; at another time a painter; and then an auctioneer--which last business he held to the longest of any, as giving him full scope for exhibiting his graces of language. he had abandoned it, however, in consequence of some rather biting remarks which had come to his ears respecting the choice and suitableness of his epithets. and now he was groom at the hall, and had found it to his advantage to ingratiate himself with frank oldfield, by rendering him all sorts of handy services; and as there were few things which he could not do, or pretend to do, his young master viewed him with particular favour, and made more of a companion of him than was good for either. juniper was a sly but habitual drunkard. he managed, however, so to regulate his intemperance as never to be outwardly the worse for liquor when his services were required by sir thomas or lady oldfield, or when excess was likely to bring him into trouble. when, however, the family was away from the hall, he would transgress more openly; so that his sin became a scandal in the neighbourhood, and brought upon him the severe censure of mr oliphant, who threatened to acquaint the squire with his conduct if he did not amend. juniper's pride was mortally wounded by this rebuke--he never forgot nor forgave it. for other reasons also he hated the rector. in the first place, because mr oliphant was a total abstainer; and further, because he suspected that it was through mr oliphant's representations that he had failed in obtaining the office of postmaster at a neighbouring town, which situation he had greatly coveted, as likely to make him a person of some little importance. so he hated the rector and his family with all the venom of a little mind. no sooner had he discovered the attachment between frank and mary oliphant, than he resolved to do all in his power to bring about a rupture; partly because he felt pretty sure that a closer intimacy between frank and the oliphants would be certain to loosen the ties which bound his young master to himself, and partly because he experienced a savage delight in the thought of wounding the rector through his daughter. he soon noticed the restraint which frank was putting on himself in the matter of drinking beer and wine, and he resolved to break it down. he was quite sure that mary oliphant would never marry a drunkard. so he lost no opportunity of insinuating his own views on the subject of total abstinence, and also constantly laboured to bring his young master into contact with scenes and persons likely to lead him into free indulgence in intoxicating drinks. his success, however, was but small, till the day of the harvest-home, and then he resolved to make a great effort. he contrived to get himself appointed to the office of waiter to frank in the second tent, and took special charge of the drinkables. the beer served out on these occasions was, by sir thomas' express directions, of only a moderate strength; but juniper had contrived to secrete a jug of the very strongest ale in a place where he could easily get at it. with this jug in hand he was constantly slipping behind his master and filling up his glass, while frank was busily engaged in seeing that the wants of his guests were duly supplied. excited by the heat of the day and the whole scene, the poor young man kept raising the glass to his lips, quite unconscious of the way in which his servant was keeping it filled, till at last he lost all self-control, and launched out into the wildest mirth and the most uproarious buffoonery. it was then that juniper graves, grinning with malicious delight, sought out mary oliphant, and brought her to gaze on her lover's degradation. "now," said he to himself, "i've done it. there'll be no more love- making atween them two arter this, i reckon. a very preposterous plan this of mine--very preposterous." but great as was the triumph of juniper at the success of his efforts on this occasion, this very success was well nigh bringing about a total defeat. for it came to frank's ears, by a side wind, as such things so often do, that his man had been playing him a trick, and had been filling up his glass continually with strong ale when he was not conscious of it. "it were a burning shame, it were, to put upon the young master in that way," he overheard a kind-hearted mother say, one of the tenant's wives. so he taxed juniper with it, but the man stoutly denied it. "dear me, sir; to think of my behaving in such a uncompromising way to any gentleman. it's only them ill-natured folks' prevarications. i'll assure you, sir, i only just took care that you had a little in your glass to drink healths with, as was becoming; and i'm sure i was vexed as any one when i saw how the heat and your weakness together, sir, had combined to bring you into a state of unfortunate oblivion." "well," replied frank, "you must look-out, master juniper, i can tell you. if i find you at any of your tricks again, i shall make short work with you." but juniper had no intention of being foiled. he would be more wary, but not less determined. upon two things he was thoroughly resolved-- first, that frank should not become an abstainer; and secondly, that he should not marry mary oliphant. he was greatly staggered, however, when he discovered that his young master, after the affair at the harvest- home, had contrived to make his peace at the rectory. "i must bide my time," he said to himself; "but i'll circumscribe 'em yet, as sure as my name's juniper graves." so he laid himself out in every possible way to please frank, and to make himself essential to his comforts and pleasures. for a while he cautiously avoided any allusion to total abstinence, and was only careful to see that beer and spirits were always at hand, to be had by frank at a moment's notice. if the weather was hot, there was sure to be a jug of shandy-gaff or some other equally enticing compound ready to be produced just at the time when its contents would be most appreciated. if the weather was cold, then, in the time of greatest need, juniper had always an extra flask of spirits to supplement what his master carried. and the crafty fellow so contrived it that frank should feel that, while he was quite moderate in the presence of his parents and their guests, he might go a little over the border with his groom without any danger. things were just in this state at the time when the conversation took place at the hall, which resulted in the permission to mr oliphant to persuade frank--if he could--to become a pledged abstainer. a day or two after that conversation, frank walked over to the rectory. he found mary busily engaged in gathering flowers to decorate the tables at a school feast. his heart, somehow or other, smote him as he looked at her bright sweet face. she was like a pure flower herself; and was there no danger that the hot breath of his own intemperance would wither out the bloom which made her look so beautiful? but he tossed away the reflection with a wave of his flowing hair, and said cheerily,-- "cannot i share, or lighten your task, dear mary?" "thank you--yes--if you would hold the basket while i gather. these autumn flowers have not quite the brightness of the summer ones, but i think i love them more, because they remind me that winter is coming, and that i must therefore prize them doubly." "ah, but we should not carry winter thoughts about us before winter comes. we should look back upon the brightness, not forward to the gloom." "oh, frank," she replied, looking earnestly at him, with entreaty in her tearful eyes, "don't talk of looking back upon the brightness. we are meant to look forwards, not to the gloom indeed, but beyond it, to that blessed land where there shall be no gloom and no shadows." he was silent. "you asked me just now, dear frank," she continued, "if you could lighten my task. you could do more than that--you could take a load off my heart, if you would." "indeed!" he exclaimed; "tell me how." "and will you take it off if i tell you?" "surely," he replied; but not so warmly as she would fain have had him say it. "you remember," she added, "the day you dined with us a long time ago, when you asked papa about becoming an abstainer?" "yes; i remember it well, and that my mother would not hear of it, so, as in duty bound, i gave up all thoughts of it at once." "well, dear frank, papa has been having a long talk on the very subject at the hall, and has convinced both your father and mother that total abstinence is not the objectionable thing they have hitherto thought it to be. oh, dear frank, there is no hindrance _there_ then, if you still think as you once seemed to think on this subject." the colour came into his face, and his brow was troubled as he said,-- "why should you distress yourself about this matter, my own dear mary. cannot you trust me? cannot you believe that i will be strictly moderate? have i not promised?" "you _have_ promised; and i would hope and believe that--that--" she could not go on, her tears choked her words. "ah, i know what you would say," he replied passionately; "you would reproach me with my failure--my one failure, my failure under extraordinary excitement and weakness--i thought you had forgiven me _that_. have i not kept my promise since then? cannot you trust me, unless i put my hand to a formal pledge? if honour, love, religion, will not bind me, do you think that signing a pledge will do it?" "i have not asked you to sign any pledge," she replied sorrowfully; "though i should indeed rejoice to see you do it. i only hoped--oh, how fervently!--that you might see it to be your wisdom, your safety, to become a total abstainer. oh, dearest frank, you are so kind, so open, so unsuspecting, that you are specially liable to be taken off your guard, unless fortified by a strength superior to your own. have you really sought that strength? oh, ask god to show you your duty in this matter. it would make me so very, very happy were you to be led to renounce at once and for ever those stimulants which have ruined thousands of noble souls." "dearest mary, were this necessary, i would promise it you in a moment. but it is not necessary. i am no longer a child. i am not acting in the dark. i see what is my duty. i see that to exceed moderation is a sin. i have had my fall and my warnings, and to be forewarned is to be forearmed. trust me, dear mary--trust me without a pledge, trust me without total abstinence. you shall not have cause to blush for me again. believe me, i love you too well." and with this she was forced to be content. alas! poor frank; he little knew the grasp which the insidious taste for strong drink had fixed upon him. he _liked_ it once, he _loved_ it now. and beside this he shrank from the cross, which pledged total abstinence would call upon him to take up. his engaging manners made him universally popular, and he shrank from anything that would endanger or diminish that popularity. he winced under a frown, but he withered under a sneer; still he had secret misgivings that he should fall, that he should disgrace himself; that he should forfeit mary's love for ever if he did not take the decided step; and more than once he half resolved to make the bold plunge, and sign the pledge, and come out nobly and show his colours like a man. it was while this half resolve was on him that he was one evening returning home after a day's fishing, juniper graves being with him. he had refused the spirit-flask which his servant held out to him more than once, alleging disinclination. at last he said,-- "i've been seriously thinking, juniper, of becoming a total abstainer; and it would do you a great deal of good if you were to be one too." the only reply on the part of juniper was an explosion of laughter, which seemed as if it would tear him in pieces. one outburst of merriment followed another, till he was obliged to lean against a tree for support. frank became quite angry. "what _do_ you mean by making such an abominable fool of yourself;" he cried. "oh dear, oh dear," laughed graves, the tears running over in the extremity of his real or pretended amusement, "you must pardon me, sir; indeed, you must. i really couldn't help it; it did put me so in mind of jerry ogden, the methodist parson. mr frank and his servant juniper, two whining, methodistical, parsimonious teetotallers! oh dear, it _was_ rich." and here he relapsed into another explosion. "methodist parson! i really don't know what you mean, sir," cried frank, beginning to get fairly exasperated. "you seem to me quite to forget yourself. if you don't know better manners, the sooner you take yourself off the better." "oh, sir, i'm very sorry, but really you must excuse me; it did seem so very comical. _you_ a total abstainer, mr frank, and me a-coming arter you. i think i sees you a-telling james to put the water on the table, and then you says, `the water stands with you, colonel coleman.'" "don't talk so absurdly," said frank, amused in spite of himself at the idea of the water-party, with himself for the host. "and what has my becoming a total abstainer to do with jerry what-do-you-call-him, the methodist parson?" "oh, just this, sir. jerry ogden's one of those long-faced gentlemen as turns up their eyes and their noses at us poor miserable sinners as takes a little beer to our dinners. ah! to hear him talk you'd have fancied he was too good to breathe in the same altitude with such as me. such lots of good advice he has for us heathens, such sighing and groaning over us poor deluded drinkers of allegorical liquors. ah! but he's a tidy little cask of his own hid snug out of the way. it's just the case with them all." "i'm really much obliged to you," said his master, laughing, "for comparing me to jerry ogden. he seems, from your account, to have been a regular hypocrite; but that does not show that total abstinence is not a good thing when people take it up honestly." "bless your simplicity, sir," said the other; "they're all pretty much alike." "now there, juniper, i know you are wrong. mr oliphant has many men in his society who are thoroughly honest teetotallers, men who are truly reformed, and, more than that, thorough christians." "reformed! christians!" sneered juniper, venomously; "a pretty likely thing indeed. you don't know them teetotallers as well as i do, sir. `oh dear, no; not a drop, not a drop: wouldn't touch it for the world.' but they manage to have it on the sly for all that. i've no faith in 'em at all. i'd rather be as i am, though i says it as shouldn't say it, an honest fellow as gets drunk now and then, and ain't ashamed to own it, than one of your canting teetotallers. why, they're such an amphibious set, there's no knowing where to have them." "amphibious?" said his master, laughing; "why, i should have thought `aquatic' would have been a better word, as they profess to confine themselves to the water; unless you mean, indeed, that they are only half water animals." "oh, sir," said graves, rather huffed, "it was only a phraseology of mine, meaning that there was no dependence to be placed on 'em." "well but, juniper, i am not speaking of hypocrites or sham teetotallers, but of the real ones. there's mr oliphant and the whole family at the rectory, you'll not pretend, i suppose, that _they_ drink on the sly?" "i wouldn't by no means answer for that," was the reply; "that depends on circumstantials. there's many sorts of drinks as we poor ignorant creatures calls intoxicating which is quite the thing with your tip-top teetotallers. there's champagne, that's quite strict teetotal; then there's cider, then there's cherry-brandy; and if that don't do, then there's teetotal physic." "teetotal physic! i don't understand you." "don't you, sir? that's like your innocence. why, it's just this way. there's a lady teetotaller, and she's a little out of sorts; so she sends a note to the doctor, and he sends back a nice bottle of stuff. it's uncommon good and spirituous-like to smell at, but then it's medicine, only the drugs ain't down in what the chemists call their `farming-up-here.'" "i never heard of that before," remarked frank. "no, i don't suppose, sir, as ever you did. and then there's the teetotal gents; they does it much more free and easy. they've got what the catholics calls a `dispensary' from their pope, (and their pope's the doctor), to take just whatever they likes as a medicine--oh, only as a medicine; so they carries about with 'em a doctor's superscription, which says just this: `let the patient take as much beer, or wine, or spirits, as he can swallow.'" "a pretty picture you have drawn," laughed frank. "i'm afraid there's not much chance of making _you_ an abstainer." "nor you neither, mr frank, i hope. why, i should be ashamed to see my cheerful, handsome young master, (you must forgive me, sir, for being so bold), turned into a sour-looking, turnip-faced, lantern-jawed, whining teetotaller." "why, i thought you said just now," said the other, "that they all take drink on the sly; if that's the case, it can't be total abstinence that spoils their beauty." juniper looked a little at fault, but immediately replied,-- "well, sir, at any rate total abstinence will never do for you. why, you'll have no peace up at the hall, especially in the shooting season, if you mean to take up with them exotic notions. be a man, sir, and asseverate your independence. show that you can take too much or too little as you have a mind. i wouldn't be a slave, sir. `britons never shall be slaves.'" here the conversation closed. the tempter had so far gained his end that he had made frank disinclined to join himself at present to the body of stanch abstainers. he would wait and see--he preferred moderation, it was more manly, more self-reliant. ah, there was his grievous mistake. self-reliant! yes, but that self was blinded, cheated by satan; it was already on the tempter's side. so frank put off, at any rate for the present, joining the abstainers. he was, however, very watchful over himself never openly to transgress. he loved mary, and could not bear the thoughts of losing her, but in very deed he loved his own self-indulgence more. there was a constraint, however, when they met. he could not fully meet her deep truthful eyes with a steady gaze of his own. her words would often lead him to prayer, but then he regarded iniquity in his heart--he did not wish to be taken at his prayer--he did not wish to be led into pledged abstinence, or even into undeviating moderation at all times--he wished to keep in reserve a right to fuller indulgence. poor mary! she was not happy; she felt there was something wrong. if she tried to draw out that something from frank, his only reply was an assurance of ardent affection and devotion. there was no apparent evil on the surface of his life. he was regular at church, steady at home, moderate in what he drank at his father's table and at other houses. she felt, indeed, that he had no real sympathy with her on the highest subjects, but he never refused to listen, only he turned away with evident relief from religious to other topics. yet all this while he was getting more deeply entangled in the meshes of the net which the drink, in the skilful hands of juniper graves, was weaving round him. that cruel tempter was biding his time. he saw with malicious delight that the period must arrive before very long when his young master's drinking excesses would no longer be confined to the darkness and the night, but would break out in open daylight, and then, then for his revenge. it was now between two and three years since the harvest-home which had ended so unhappily. frank was twenty-one and mary oliphant eighteen. this was in the year in which we first introduced them to our readers, the same year in which it was intended that hubert oliphant should join his uncle abraham, at any rate for a time, in south australia. for the last six months dim rumours, getting gradually more clear and decided, had found their way to the rectory that frank oldfield was occasionally drinking to excess. mary grew heart-sick, and began to lose her health through anxiety and sorrow; yet there was nothing, so far, sufficiently definite to make her sure that frank, since his promise to observe strict moderation, had ever over-passed the bounds of sobriety. he never, of course, alluded to the subject himself; and when he could not help remarking on her altered looks, he would evade any questions she put to him on the painful subject, or meet them by an appeal to her whether she could prove anything against him; and by the observation that nothing was easier than to spread rumours against a person's character. she was thus often silenced, but never satisfied. june had come--a bright sky remained for days with scarce a cloud; the hay-makers were everywhere busy, and the fields were fragrant with the sweet perfume of the mown grass. it was on a quiet evening that mary was returning home from a cottage where she had been to visit a sick parishioner of her father's. her way lay in part through a little plantation skirting a hay-field belonging to the greymoor estate. she had just reached the edge of the plantation, and was about to climb over a stile into a lane, when she heard loud and discordant voices, which made her blood run cold; for one of them, she could not doubt, was frank's. "this way, mr frank, this way," cried another voice, which she knew at once to be that of juniper graves. "i tell you," replied the first voice, thickly, "i shan't go that way; i shall go home, i shall. let me alone, i tell you,"--then there followed a loud imprecation. "no, no--this way, sir--there's miss mary getting over the stile; she's waiting for you, sir, to help her over." "very good, juniper; you're a regular brick," said the other voice, suddenly changing to a tone of maudlin affection; "where's my dear mary--ah, there she is!" and the speaker staggered towards the stile. mary saw him indistinctly through the hedge--she would have fled, but terror and misery chained her to the spot. a few moments after and frank, in his shirt-sleeves, (he had been joining the hay-makers), made his way up to her. his face was flushed, his eyes inflamed and staring wildly, his hair disordered, and his whole appearance brutalised. "let me help--help--you, my beloved mary, over shtile--ah, yes--here's juniper--jolly good fellow, juniper--help her, juniper--can't keep shteady--for life of me." he clutched at her dress; but now the spell was loosed, she sprang over the stile, and cast one look back. there stood her lover, holding out his arms with an exaggerated show of tenderness, and mumbling out words of half-articulate fondness; and behind him, a smile of triumphant malice on his features, which haunted her for years, was graves, the tempter, the destroyer of his unhappy master. she cared to see no more, but, with a cry of bitter distress, she rushed away as though some spirit of evil were close behind her, and never stopped till she had gained the rectory. chapter eight. farewell. there are impressions cut deeper into the heart by the sudden stroke of some special trial than any made by the continuous pressure of afflictions, however heavy; impressions which nothing in this world can efface--wounds, like the three-cornered thrust of the bayonet, which will not heal up. such was the keen, piercing sorrow which the sight of frank in his drunkenness had stabbed deep into the soul of mary oliphant. the wound it had made would never heal. oh, miserable drink! which turns the bright, the noble, the intellectual creatures of god into worse than madmen; for the madman's reason is gone--we pity, but we cannot blame him; but in the victim of strong drink reason is suspended but not destroyed, and in all the distortion, grimaces, reelings, babblings, ravings of the miserable wretch while his sin is on him, we see a self-inflicted insanity, and a degradation which is not a misfortune but a crime. the day after that miserable meeting at the stile, frank called at the rectory, the picture of wretchedness and despair. mrs oliphant came to him, and told him that mary declined seeing him; indeed, that she was so utterly unnerved and ill, that she would have been unequal to an interview even had she thought it right to grant him one. "is there no hope for me, then?" he asked. "have i quite sinned away even the possibility of forgiveness?" "i cannot fully answer for mary," replied mrs oliphant; "but i should be wrong if i said anything that could lead you to suppose that she can ever again look upon you as she once did." "is it really so?" he said gloomily. "has this one transgression forfeited her love for ever? is there no place for repentance? i do not justify myself. i do not attempt to make less of the fault. i can thoroughly understand her horror, her disgust. i loathe myself as a vile beast, and worse than a beast. but yet, can i by this one act have cut through _every_ cord that bound her heart to mine?" "excuse me, dear frank," said the other; "but you mistake in speaking of _one_ transgression--one act. it is because poor mary feels, as i feel too, that this act must be only one of many acts of the like kind, though the rest may have been concealed from us, that she dare not trust her happiness in your keeping." "and who has any right," he asked warmly, "to say that i am in the habit of exceeding?" "do you deny yourself that it is so?" she inquired, looking steadily but sorrowfully at him. his eyes dropped before hers, and then he said,-- "i do not see that any one has a right to put such a question to me." "not a right!" exclaimed mrs oliphant. "have not _i_ a right, dear frank, as mary's mother, to put such a question? i know that i have no right to turn inquisitor as regards your conduct and actions in general. but oh, surely, when you know what has happened, when you remember your repeated promises, and how, alas! they have been broken; when you call to mind that mary has expressly promised to me, and declared to you, that she will never marry a drunkard,--can you think that i, the mother whom god has appointed to guard the happiness of my darling daughter, have no right to ask you whether or no you are free from that habit which you cannot indulge in and at the same time honestly claim the hand of my beloved child?" frank for a long time made no answer; when he did reply, he still evaded the question. "i have done wrong," he said; "grievously wrong. i acknowledge it. i could ask mary's pardon for it on my knees, and humble myself in the dust before her. i _might_ plead, in part excuse, or, at any rate, palliation of my fault, the heat of the weather and thirsty nature of the work i was engaged in, which led me into excess before i was aware of what i was doing. but i will not urge that. i will take every blame. i will throw myself entirely on her mercy; and surely human creatures should not be unmerciful since god is so merciful." "i grieve, dear frank, to hear you speak in this way," said mrs oliphant, very gravely and sadly; "you should go on your knees and humble yourself in the dust, not before poor sinners, such as i and my child are, but before him who alone can pardon your sin. i think you are deceiving yourself. i fear so. it is not that mary is void of pity. she does not take upon herself to condemn you--it is not her province; but that does not make her feel that she can look upon you as one who could really make her happy. alas! it is one of the miserable things connected with the drink, that those who have become its slaves cannot be trusted. i may seem to speak harshly, but i _must_ speak out. your expressions of sorrow and penitence cannot secure your future moderation. you mean _now_ what you say; but what guarantee have we that you will not again transgress?" "my own pledged word," replied frank, proudly, "that henceforth i will be all that mary would have me be." "except a pledged total abstainer," said mrs oliphant, quietly. frank remained silent for a few moments, then he said,-- "if i cannot control myself without a pledge, i shall never do so _with_ one." "no, not by the pledge only, or chiefly. but it would be a help. it would be a check. it would be a something to appeal to, as being an open declaration of what you were resolved to keep to. but oh, i fear that you do not wish to put such a restraint upon yourself, as you must do, if you would really be what you would have us believe you mean to be. were it otherwise, you would not hesitate--for mary's sake, for your own peace's sake--to renounce at once, and for ever, and entirely, that drink which has already been to you, ay, and to us all, a source of so much misery. dear frank, i say it once for all, i never could allow my beloved child to cast in her lot for life with one of whom i have reason to fear that he is, or may become, the slave of that drink which has driven peace, and joy, and comfort out of thousands of english homes." "but why should you fear this of me?" persisted frank. "within the last three years i have fallen twice. i do not deny it. but surely two falls in that long space of time do not show a habit of excess. on each occasion i was overcome--taken off my guard. i have now learned, and thoroughly, i trust, the lesson to be watchful. i only ask for one more trial. i want to show mary, i want to show you all, that i can still be strictly sober, strictly moderate, without total abstinence, without a pledge. and oh, do not let it be said that the mother and daughter of a minister of the gospel were less ready to pardon than their heavenly master." "oh, frank," cried mrs oliphant, "how grievously you mistake us! pardon! yes; what are we that we should withhold pity or pardon? but surely it is one thing to forgive, and quite another thing to entrust one's happiness, or the happiness of one's child, into hands which we dare not hope can steadily maintain it. i can say no more. write to mary, and she will answer you calmly and fully by letter, as she could not do were she to meet you now." poor frank! why did he not renounce at once that enticing stimulant which had already worked him so much misery? was it worth while letting so paltry an indulgence separate for ever between himself and one whom he so dearly loved? why would he not pledge himself at once to total abstinence? there was a time when he would have done so--that time when he spoke on the subject to the rector, and made the attempt at his own home. but now a spell seemed to hold him back. he would not or could not see the necessity of relinquishing that which he had come to crave and love more than his daily food. "i must use it," he said to himself; "but there is no reason why i should abuse it." he wrote to mary and told her so. he told her that he was now fully alive to his own weakness, and that she might depend on his watchfulness and moderation, imploring her to give him one, and but one, more trial. he would watch, he would strive, he would pray to be strictly moderate. she should never have cause to reproach him again. she replied:-- "dear frank,--it would be cruelty in me were i to hold out any hope to you that i can ever again be more to you than one who must always take a deep interest in your welfare, and must feel truly grateful to you for having saved her life. that you _mean_ now to be all that you promise, i do not doubt; but that you really _will_ be so, i dare not hope. you have been seen by me twice in such a condition as made me shrink from you with terror and disgust. were we to be married, and you should be betrayed into excess, the first time, you would be overwhelmed; the second time, you would be ashamed and pained; the third time, you would feel it, but not very acutely. you would get used, by degrees, to my witnessing such degradation; it would be killing me, but it would be making less and less impression upon you. i dare not run the terrible risk. i dare not join myself to you in a bond which could never be severed, however aggravated might be my misery and your sin. oh, frank, my heart is well nigh broken! i have loved you, and do love you still. let us be one in heaven, though we never can be so here. pray, oh, pray for grace to resist your temptation! ask to be made a true follower of the lord jesus, and you will be guided aright, and we _shall_ meet then in that bright land where all shall rejoice together who have, by grace, fought the fight and won the victory here.--sincerely yours, mary oliphant." frank read this letter over and over again, and groaned in the fulness of his distress. she had not asked him to become an abstainer. was it because she felt that it was hopeless? _he_ knew it to be so. he knew that if he signed the pledge he should only add a broken vow to his other sins. he felt that, dearly as he loved mary, he could not forego all intoxicating drinks even for her sake. he dared not pray that he might be able to abstain, for he felt that he should not really wish for the accomplishment of such a prayer. habitual indulgence had taken all the stiffness out of his will. and yet the thought of losing mary was utter misery. he leaned his head on his hands, and gazed for a long time on her letter. at last there came a thought into his mind. all might not yet be lost. there was still one way of escape. he rose up comforted, and thrusting the letter into his pocket, sought out his mother. he found her alone. she looked at him with deep anxiety and pitying love, as well she might, when she marked the gloom that had settled down on his once happy face. alas she knew its cause too well. she knew that he was on the downward path of intemperance, and she knew how rapid was the descent. she was well aware that his sinful excess had been the cause of the breaking off of his engagement with the rector's daughter. oh, how her heart ached for him. she would have given all she possessed to see him what he once was. she was prepared for any sacrifice, if only he could be reclaimed before it should be too late. "dearest mother," he said, throwing himself down beside her, clasping her knees, and looking up imploringly into her face, "i'm a miserable creature, on the road to ruin, body and soul, unless something comes to stop me." "oh, my boy, my boy!" cried his mother, bursting into tears; "do not say so. you have gone astray; but so have we all, one way or other. there is hope for you if you return. surely the evil habit cannot be already so strong upon you that you cannot summon strength and resolution to break through it." "oh, you do not, you cannot know what a helpless creature i am!" was his reply. "when once i begin to taste, every good resolution melts away in a moment." "then give up such things, and abstain altogether, my beloved frank, if that be the case," said lady oldfield. "i cannot," he replied bitterly. "i cannot keep from them, they must be kept from me, and then i should have some chance." "but, my dear boy, how can that always be? you cannot expect your father to banish beer and wine from his table, and to refuse to set them before his guests. you cannot expect that he should debar himself the moderate use of these things because you have, unhappily, learned to take them immoderately." "no. i cannot, of course. i cannot, and i do not expect it, and therefore i am come to put before you, my dearest mother, what i believe will be my only chance. you know that hubert oliphant is going to join his uncle abraham in south australia. he sails in october. he is going by a total abstinence ship, which will not therefore carry any intoxicating drinks. will you and my dear father consent to my going with hubert? my unhappy taste would be broken through by the time the voyage was over, as i should never so much as see beer, or wine, or spirits; and the fresh sea-air would be a better tonic than porter, wine, or ale; so that you would have no need to fear about my health." lady oldfield did not reply for several minutes. she was, at first, utterly confounded at such a proposal from the son whom she idolised, and she was on the point of at once scouting the idea as altogether wild and out of the question. but a few moments' reflection made her pause. terrible as was the thought of the separation, the prospect of her son's becoming a confirmed drunkard was more terrible still. this plan, if carried out, might result in frank's return to habitual sobriety. ought she therefore to refuse her sanction absolutely and at once? at last she said,-- "and who, my dearest boy, has put such a strange thought into your head? and how long do you mean to remain away? and what are you to do when you reach australia?" "no one has suggested the thing to me," he replied. "it came into my mind as i was thinking over all the misery the drink has brought on me of late. if i could go with hubert, you know what a friend and support i should have in him. i might remain in the colony two or three years, and then come back again, please god, a thoroughly sober man; and then perhaps dear mary would relent, and give me back my old place in her heart again." lady oldfield drew him close to her, and clasping her arms round him, wept long and bitterly. "oh, my boy, my frank!" she exclaimed; "how shall i bear to part with you? yet it may be that this is god's doing; that he has put this into your heart; and if so, if it should be for your deliverance from your unhappy habit, i dare not say `no.' but i cannot tell what your father will say. i will put the matter before him, however, and i am sure he will do what is wise and right." sir thomas did not refuse his consent. he had felt so keenly the disgrace which his son's increasing excesses were bringing upon the family, that, sorely as he grieved over the thoughts of parting with frank, he was willing that he should join hubert oliphant in his voyage, hoping that the high character and christian example of the rector's son might be of benefit to his poor unhappy and erring child. frank's countenance brightened when he had obtained his father's consent, and he at once made known his purpose to hubert oliphant, and asked his advice and help, begging him also to intercede for him with mary that she would allow him to hope that, if he returned thoroughly reformed, she would consent to their engagement being renewed. hubert, as well as his father, had felt the deepest pity for frank, in spite of his grievous falls, specially when they remembered how, but for his own mother's opposition, he might now have been one of their little temperance band, standing firm, happy himself, and helping to make others happy. they therefore gladly encouraged him to carry out his purpose, promising that hubert should introduce him to his uncle abraham, who might find for him, while he remained in the colony, some employment suitable to his station, where hubert and his uncle could support and strengthen him by companionship and counsel. and would mary hold out any hopes? poor mary, she loved him still. oh, how dearly! could she refuse him all encouragement? no. but she dared not promise unconditionally to be to him as in former days. she would not renew the engagement now; but she would wait and see the issue of his present plans. thus matters stood, when the last week came that frank and hubert would spend in their english homes. mary and frank had met once or twice since his voyage had been decided on, but it was in the presence of others. these were sorrowful meetings, yet there was the glow of a subdued hope, to make them not altogether dark to those who, but for the miserable tyranny of the drink, might now have been bright with happy anticipations of the future. and now it was a sweet autumn evening, when every sight and sound was plaintive with the foreshadowings of a coming winter--the sunset hues, the lights and shadows, the first decaying leaves, the notes of birds, the hum of insects. everything was very still as mary again trod the little path from the cottage of the poor woman whom she had been visiting on the evening of frank's last sad fall. she had nearly reached the stile, her eyes bent on the ground, and her heart full of sorrowful memories and forebodings, when she was startled by hearing the sound of passionate sobbings. she raised her eyes. kneeling by the stile, his head buried in his hands, was frank oldfield; his whole frame shook with the violence of his emotion, and she could hear her own name murmured again and again in the agony of his self-reproach or prayer. how sadly beautiful he looked! and oh, how her heart overflowed with pitying tenderness towards him. "frank," she said; but she could add no more. he started up, for he had not heard her light tread. his hair was wildly tossed back, his eyes filled with tears, his lips quivering. "you here, mary," he gasped. "i little thought of this. i little thought to meet you here. i came to take a parting look at the spot where i had seen you last as my own. here it was that i sinned and fooled away my happiness, and here i would pour out the bitterness of my fruitless sorrow." "not fruitless sorrow, i trust, dear frank," she said gently. "it cannot be fruitless, if it be a genuine sorrow for sin. oh, perhaps there is hope before us yet!" "do _you_ say so, mary? do _you_ bid me hope? well, i will live on that hope. i ask no promise from you, i do not expect it. i am glad that we have met here, after all. here you have seen both my degradation and my sorrow." "yes, frank, and i am glad, too; it will connect this sad spot with brighter memories. god bless you. i shall never cease to pray for you, come what will. may that comfort you, and may you--may you,--" her tears choked her voice. "oh, one word more," he said imploringly, as, having accepted his arm in climbing the stile, she now relinquished it, and was turning from him--"one word more--one word of parting! oh, one word such as once might have been!" his hands were stretched towards her. they might never meet again. she hesitated for an instant. then for one moment they were pressed heart to heart, and lip to lip--but for one moment, and then,-- "farewell," "farewell." chapter nine. young decision. one week later, and three men might be seen walking briskly along a by- street in liverpool towards the docks. these were hubert oliphant, frank oldfield, and captain merryweather, commander of the barque _sabrina_, bound for south australia. the vessel was to sail next day, and the young men were going with the captain to make some final arrangements about their cabins. hubert looked bright and happy, poor frank subdued and sad. the captain was a thorough and hearty-looking sailor, brown as a coffee-berry from exposure to weather; with abundance of bushy beard and whiskers; broad-shouldered, tall, and upright. it was now the middle of october, just three days after the flight of samuel johnson from langhurst, as recorded in the opening of our story. as the captain and his two companions turned the corner of the street they came upon a group which arrested their attention at once. standing not far from the door of a public-house was a lad of about fourteen years of age. he looked worn and hungry, yet he had not at all the appearance of a beggar. he was evidently strange to the place, and looked about him with an air of perplexity, which made it clear that he was in the midst of unfamiliar and uncongenial scenes. three or four sailors were looking hard at him, as they lounged about the public-house door, and were making their comments to one another. "a queer-looking craft," said one. "never sailed in these waters afore, i reckon." "don't look sea-worthy," said another. "started a timber or two, i calculate," remarked a third. "halloa! messmate," shouted another, whose good-humoured face was unhappily flushed by drink, "don't lie-to there in that fashion, but make sail, and come to an anchor on this bench." the lad did not answer, but stood gazing at the sailors in a state of utter bewilderment. "have you carried away your jawing-tackle, my hearty?" asked the man who had last addressed him. "i can't make head nor tail of what you say," was the boy's reply. "well, what's amiss with you, then? can you compass that?" "ay," was the reply; "i understand that well enough. there's plenty amiss with me, for i've had nothing to eat or drink since yesterday, and i haven't brass to buy anything with." "ah, i see. i suppose you mean by that foreign lingo that you haven't a shot in your locker, and you want a bit of summut to stow away in your hold." "i mean," replied the lad, rather sulkily, "that i'm almost starved to death." "well, it's no odds," cried the other. "i can't quite make you out; but i see you've hoisted signals of distress: there, sit you down. landlord, a glass of grog, hot, and sweet, and strong. here, take a pull at that till the grog comes." he handed to him a pewter-pot as he spoke. the boy pushed it from him with a look of disgust. "i can't touch it," he said. "if you'll give me a mouthful of meat instead, i'll thank you; and with all my heart too." "meat!" exclaimed the sailor, in astonishment, "what's the young lubber dreaming about? come, don't be a fool; drink the ale, and you shall have some bread and cheese when you've finished your grog." "jack," expostulated one of his companions, "let the poor lad alone; he hasn't a mind for the drink, perhaps he ain't used to it, and it'll only make him top heavy. you can see he wants ballast; he'll be over on his beam-ends the first squall if he takes the ale and grog aboard." "avast, avast, tom," said the other, who was just sufficiently intoxicated to be obstinate, and determined to have his own way. "if i take him in tow, he must obey sailing orders. grog first, and bread and cheese afterwards; that's what i say." "and i'd die afore i'd touch a drop of the drink," said the poor boy, setting his teeth firmly. "i've seen enough, and more nor enough, of misery from the drink; and i'd starve to skin and bone afore i'd touch a drop of it." "bravo, my lad, bravo!" cried captain merryweather, who had listened to the conversation with the greatest interest. "come hither, my poor boy; you shall have a good meal, and something better than the grog to wash it down with." "oh, never heed jack, captain," cried one of the other sailors; "he's half-seas over just now, and doesn't know which way he's steering. i'll see that the poor lad has something to eat." "thank you kindly, my man," replied the captain; "but he shall go with me, if he will." "ay, sir," said the boy thankfully, "i'll go with you, for i'm sure you speak gradely." the whole party soon reached a temperance hotel, and here the captain ordered his young companion a substantial breakfast. "stay here, my lad," he said, "till i come back; i want to have a word with you. i am going with these gentlemen to the docks, but i shall be back again in half an hour. by the way, what's your name, my boy?" a deep flush came over the other's face at this question. he stared at captain merryweather, and did not answer. "i want to know your name." "my name? ah, well--i don't--you see--" "why, surely you haven't forgotten your own name? what do they call you?" "poor fellow!" said hubert; "his hunger has confused his brain. he'll be better when he has had his breakfast." but the boy had now recovered himself, and replied,-- "i ax your pardon, captain; my name's jacob poole." "well, jacob, you just wait here half an hour, and i shall have something to say to you when i come back, which may suit us both." when captain merryweather returned he found the boy looking out of the window at the streams of people going to and from the docks. his head was resting on his two hands, and it appeared to the captain that he had been weeping. "jacob," he cried, but there was no answer. "jacob poole," again cried the captain, in a louder voice. the other turned round hastily, his face again flushed and troubled. "well, jacob," said the captain, sitting down, "i suppose you're a teetotaller, from what i saw and heard to-day." "yes, to the back-bone," was the reply. "well, so am i. now will you mind telling me, jacob, what has brought you to liverpool. i am not asking questions just for curiosity, but i've taken a liking to you, and want to be your friend, for you don't seem to have many friends here." jacob hesitated; at last he said,-- "captain, you're just right. i've no friends here, nor am like to have. i can't tell you all about myself, but there's nothing wrong about me, if you'll take my word for it. i'm not a thief nor a vagabond." "well, i do believe you," said the other; "there's truth in your face and on your tongue. i flatter myself i know a rogue when i see one. will you tell me, at any rate, what you mean to do in liverpool?" "that's easier asked nor answered," replied jacob. "captain, i don't mind telling you this much--i've just run away to liverpool to get out of the reach of the drink. i am ready to do any honest work, if i can get it, but that don't seem to be so easy." "exactly so," said captain merryweather. "now, what do you say, then, to going a voyage to australia with me? i'm in want of a cabin-boy, and i think you'd suit me. i'll feed and clothe you, and i'll find you a situation over in australia if you conduct yourself well on board ship; or, if you like to keep with me, i'll give you on the return voyage what wages are right." the boy's eyes sparkled with delight. he sprang from his seat, grasped the captain's hand warmly between his own, and cried,-- "captain, i'll go with you to the end of the world and back again, wage or no wage." "i sail to-morrow," said the other; "shall you be ready?" "ready this moment," was the answer. "i have nothing of my own but what i stand in." "come along then with me," said his kind friend; "i'll see you properly rigged out, and you shall go on board with me at once." they had not long left the hotel, and were passing along a back street on their way to the outfitter's, when a man came hastily out of a low public-house, and ran rather roughly against captain merryweather. "halloa, my friend," cried the sailor, "have a care; you should keep a brighter look-out. you've run me down, and might have carried away a spar or two." the man looked round, and muttered something. "i'm sorry to see you coming out of such a place, my man," added the captain. "well, but i'm not drunk," said the other. "perhaps not, but you're just on the right tack to get drunk. come, tell me what you've had." "i've only had seventeen pints of ale and three pennorth of gin." "is it possible?" exclaimed the captain, half out loud, as the man walked off with a tolerably steady step. "he says he's not drunk after taking all that stuff aboard. jacob, you seem as if you knew something of him." "ay, captain," said jacob, who had slunk behind the captain when he saw the man. "i do, for sure; but you must excuse my telling you who he is, or where he comes from." "he's not a good friend or companion for any one, i should think," said the captain. "he's no friend of mine," answered jacob; "he's too fond of the drink. and yet he's called to be a sober man by many, 'cos he brings some of his wage home on the pay-night. yet i've heard him say myself how he's often spent a sovereign in drink between saturday night and monday morning." "and what do you suppose has brought him here?" "i can't tell, unless the mayster he works for has sent him over on count of summat. it's more like, however, as he's come to see his sister as lives somewhere in these parts." "and you'd rather he didn't know you are here, i suppose?" "just so, captain. there's them, perhaps, as'd be arter me if he were to tell 'em as he'd see'd me here; but i don't think as he did see me; he were half fuddled: but he never gets fairly drunk." "well, jacob, i don't wish to pry into your own private concerns. i'll take it for granted that you're dealing honestly by me." "you may be sure of that, captain. i'll never deceive you. i haven't done anything to disgrace myself; but i wish to get gradely out of the reach of such chaps as yon fellow you've just spoke to. i've had weary work with the drink, and i wishes to make a fresh start, and to forget as i ever had any belonging me. so it's just what'll suit me gradely to go with you over to australia; and you must excuse me if i make mistakes at first; but i'll do my best, and i can't say anything beyond that." by this time they had reached the outfitter's, where the captain saw jacob duly rigged out and furnished with all things needful for the voyage. they had left the shop and were on their way to the docks, when a tall sailor-looking man crossed over to them. his face was bronzed from exposure, but was careworn and sad, and bore unmistakable marks of free indulgence in strong drinks. "merryweather, how are you, my friend?" he cried, coming up and shaking the captain warmly by the hand. "ah, thomson, is that you?" said the other, returning the grasp. "i was very sorry indeed to hear of your misfortune." "a bad business--a shocking business," said his friend, shaking his head despondingly. "not a spar saved. three poor fellows drowned. and all my papers and goods gone to the bottom." "yes, i heard something of it, and i was truly grieved. how did it happen?" "why, i'll tell you how it was. i don't know what it is, merryweather, but you're a very lucky fellow. some men seem born to luck: it hasn't been so with me. it's all gone wrong ever since i left australia. we'd fair weather and a good run till we were fairly round the horn; but one forenoon the glass began to fall, and i saw there was heavy weather coming. after a bit it came on to blow a regular gale. the sea got up in no time, and i had to order all hands up to reef topsails. we were rather short-handed, for i could hardly get men when i started, for love or money. well, would you believe it?--half a dozen of the fellows were below so drunk that they couldn't stand." "ah, i feared," said captain merryweather, "that the drink had something to do with your troubles. but how did they manage to get so tipsy?" "oh, they contrived to get at one of the spirit-casks. they bored a hole in it with a gimlet, and sucked the rum out through a straw. there was nothing for it but to send up the steward, and jim, my cabin-boy, along with the others who were on deck. but poor jim was but a clumsy hand at it; and as they were lying out on the yard, the poor fellow lost his hold, and was gone in a moment. i never caught one look at him after he fell. ay, but that wasn't all. about a week after, i was wanting the steward one morning to fetch me something out of the lazarette; so i called him over and over again. he came at last, but so tipsy that i could make nothing of him; and i had to start him off to the steerage, and take on another man in his place. he'd been helping himself to the spirits. it was very vexing, you'll allow; for he was quite a handy chap, and i got on very poorly afterwards without him. i don't know how you manage, but you seem always to get steady men." "yes," said captain merryweather; "because i neither take the drink myself nor have it on board." "ay, but i can never get on without my glass of grog," said the other. "then i'm afraid you'll never get your men to do without it. there's nothing like example--`example's better than precept.'" "i believe you're right. but you haven't heard the end of my misfortunes, nor the worst either. it was a little foggy as we were getting into the channel, and i'd given, of course, strict orders to keep a good look-out; so two of our sharpest fellows went forward when it began to get dark, and i had a steady man at the wheel. i'd been on deck myself a good many hours; so i just turned in to get a wink of sleep, leaving the first mate in charge. i don't know how long i'd slept, for i was very weary, when all in a moment there came a dreadful crash, and i knew we were run into. i was out and on deck like a shot; but the sea was pouring in like a mill-stream, and i'd only just time to see the men all safe in the _condor_--the ship that ran into us--and get on board myself, before the poor _elizabeth_ went down head foremost. it's very strange. i hadn't been off the deck ten minutes, and that was the first time i'd gone below for the last sixteen hours. it's just like my luck. the captain of the _condor_ says we were to blame; and our first mate says their men were to blame. i can't tell how it was. it was rather thick at the time; but we ought to have seen one another's lights. some one sung out on the other ship; but it was too late then, and our two poor fellows who were forward looking out were both lost. it's very strange; don't you think so?" "it's very sad," replied the other; "and i'm heartily sorry for it. it's a bad job anyhow; and yet, to tell you the honest truth, i'm not so very much surprised, for i suspect that the drink was at the bottom of it." "no, no; you're quite mistaken there. i never saw either the mate or the man at the wheel, or any of the men who were then on deck, drunk, or anything like it, during the whole voyage." "that may be," said the other; "but i did not say it was drunkenness, but the drink, that i thought was at the bottom of it. the men may have been the worse for drink without being drunk." "i don't understand you." "no, i see you don't; that's the worst of it. very few people do see it, or understand it; but it's true. a man's the worse for drink when he's taken so much as makes him less fit to do his work, whatever it may be. you'll think it rather strange, perhaps, in me to say so; but i _do_ say it, because i believe it, that more accidents arise from the drink than from drunkenness, or from moderate drinking, as it is called, than from drunkenness." "how so?" "why, thus. a man may take just enough to confuse him, or to make him careless, or to destroy his coolness and self-possession, without being in the least drunk; or he may have taken enough to make him drowsy, and so unfit to do work that wants special attention and watchfulness." "i see what you mean," said the other. "perhaps you'd all been drinking an extra glass when you found yourselves so near home." "why, yes. to tell you the truth, we had all of us a little more than usual that night; and yet i'll defy any man to say that we were not all perfectly sober." "but yet, in my way of looking at it," said captain merryweather, "you were the worse for liquor, because less able to have your wits about you. and that's surely a very serious thing to look at for ourselves, and our employers too; for if we've taken just enough to make us less up to our work, we're the worse for drink, though no man can say we're drunk. take my advice, thomson, and keep clear of the grog altogether, and then you'll find your luck come back again. you'll find it better for head, heart, and pocket, take my word for it." "i believe you're right. i'll think of what you've said," was the reply; and they parted. "jacob, my lad," said captain merryweather, as they walked along, "did you hear what captain thomson said?" "ay, captain; and what you said too. and i'm sure you spoke nothing but the real truth." "well, you just mark that, jacob. there are scores of accidents and crimes from drunkenness, and they get known, and talked about, and punished; but there are hundreds which come from moderate drinking, or from the drink itself, which are never traced. ships run foul of one another, trains come into collision, houses get set on fire; and the drink is at the bottom of most of it, i believe, because people get put off their balance, and ain't themselves, and so get careless, or confused, or excited, and then mischief follows. and yet no one can say they're drunk; and where are you to draw the line? a man's the worse for drink long before he's anything like intoxicated; for it is in the very nature of the drink to fly at once to a man's brain. ah, give me the man or lad, jacob, that takes none. his head is clear, his hand's steady, his eye is quick. he's sure not to have taken too much, because he has taken none at all.--but here we are. there lies my good ship, the barque _sabrina_. you shall come on board with me at once, and see your quarters." chapter ten. outward bound. six weeks had elapsed since the barque _sabrina_ had left the port of liverpool. she was stealing along swiftly before a seven knot breeze on the quarter, with studding-sails set. it was intensely hot, for they had crossed the line only a few days since. captain merryweather had proved himself all that a captain should be--a thorough sailor, equal to any emergency; a firm but considerate commander; an interesting and lively companion, ever evenly cheerful, and watchful to make all around him comfortable and happy. hubert oliphant was full of spirits--happy himself, and anxious to make others the same; a keen observer of every natural phenomenon, and admirer of the varied beauties of ocean and sky; and, better still, with a heart ready to feel the bounty and love of god in everything bright, lovely, and grand. poor frank had become less sad; but his sorrow still lay heavy on his spirits. yet there was hope for him to cling to; and he was rejoicing in the subduing of his evil habit, which was thus far broken through by his forced abstinence. alas! he did not realise that a smouldering fire and an extinct one are very different things. he was sanguine and self-confident; he fancied that his resolution had gained in firmness, whereas it had only rested quiet, no test or strain having been applied to it; and, worst of all, he did not feel the need of seeking in prayer that grace from above which would have given strength to his weakness and nerve to his good resolves. and yet who could see him and not love him? there was a bright, reckless generosity in every look, word, and movement, which took the affections by storm, and chained the judgment. jacob poole had become his devoted admirer. day by day, as he passed near him, and saw his sunny smile and heard his animated words, the young cabin-boy seemed more and more drawn to him by a sort of fascination. jacob was very happy. the captain was a most kind and indulgent master, and he felt it a privilege to do his very best to please him. but his greatest happiness was to listen--when he could do so without neglecting his duty--to the conversations between frank, hubert, and the captain, as they sat at meals round the cuddy-table, or occasionally when in fair weather they stood together on the poop-deck; and it was frank's voice and words that had a special charm for him. frank saw it partly, and often took occasion to have some talk with jacob in his own cheery way; and so bound the boy still closer to him. it was six weeks, as we have said, since the _sabrina_ left liverpool. the day was drawing to a close; in a little while the daylight would melt suddenly into night. not a cloud was in the sky: a fiery glow, mingled with crimson, lit up the sea and heavens for a while, and, speedily fading away, dissolved, through a faint airy glimmer of palest yellow, into clear moonlight. how lovely was the calm!--a calm that rested not only on the sea, but also on the spirits of the voyagers, as the vessel slipped through the waters, gently bending over every now and then as the wind slightly freshened, and almost dipping her studding- sail boom into the sea, which glittered in one long pathway of quivering moonbeams, while every little wave, as far as the eye could reach, threw up a crest of silver. the captain stood near the binnacle. he was giving a lesson in steering to jacob poole, who felt very proud at taking his place at the wheel for the first time, and grasped the spokes with a firm hand, keeping his eye steadily on the compass. frank and hubert stood near, enjoying the lovely evening, and watching captain merryweather and the boy. "steady, my lad, steady," said the captain; "keep her head just south and by east. a firm hand, a steady eye, and a sound heart; there's no good without them." "you'll soon make a good sailor of him, captain," said hubert. "ay, i hope so," was the reply. "he's got the best guarantee for the firm hand and the steady eye in his total abstinence; and i hope he has the sound heart too." "you look, captain, as if total abstinence had thriven with you. have you always been a total abstainer?" asked frank. a shade of deep sadness came over the captain's face as he answered,-- "no, mr oldfield; but it's many years now since i was driven into it." "driven!" exclaimed frank, laughing; "you do not look a likely subject to be driven into anything." "ay, sir; but there are two sorts of driving--body-driving and heart- driving. mine was heart-driving." "i should very much like to hear how it was that you were driven into becoming an abstainer," said hubert; "if it will not be asking too much." "not at all, sir; and perhaps it may do you all good to hear it, though it's a very sad story.--steady, jacob, steady; keep her full.--it may help to keep you firm when you get to australia. you'll find plenty of drinking traps there." "i'm not afraid," said frank. "but by all means let us have your story. we are all attention." hubert sighed; he wished that frank were not so confident. "ay," said the captain, gazing dreamily across the water; "i think i see her now--my poor dear mother. she was a good mother to me. that's one of god's best gifts in this rough world of ours, mr oliphant. i've known many a man--and i'm one of them--that's owed everything to a good mother. well, my poor mother was a sailor's wife; a better sailor, they say, than my father never stepped a plank. he'd one fault, however, when she married him, and only one; so folks like to put it. that fault was, that he took too much grog aboard; but only now and then. so my poor mother smiled when it was talked about in courting time, and they were married. my father was the owner of a small coasting-vessel, and of course was often away from home for weeks and sometimes for months together. a sister and myself were the only children; she was two years the oldest. my father used to be very fond of his children when he came home, and would bring us some present or other in his pocket, and a new gown, or cap, or bonnet for my mother. yet somehow--i could hardly understand it then--she was oftener in tears than in smiles when he stayed ashore. i know how it was now: he'd learned to love the drink more and more; and she, poor thing, had got her eyes opened to the sin and misery it was bringing with it. he was often away at nights now. we children saw but little of him; and yet, when he _was_ at home and sober, a kinder father, a better husband, a nobler-looking man wasn't to be seen anywhere. well, you may be sure things didn't mend as time went on. my mother had hard work to make the stores hold out, for her allowance grew less as we children grew bigger. only one good thing came of all this: when all this trouble blew on my poor mother like a hurricane, she shortened sail, and ran before the gale right into the heavenly port; or, as you'll understand me better, she took her sins and her cares to her saviour, and found peace there. at last my sister grew up into a fine young woman, and i into a stout, healthy lad.--steady, jacob, steady; mind your helm.--my father didn't improve with age. he was not sober as often as he used to be; indeed, when he was on shore he was very rarely sober, and when he did stay an hour or two at home he was cross and snappish. his fine temper and manly bearing were gone; for the drink, you may be sure, leaves its mark upon its slaves. just as it is with a man who has often been put in irons for bad conduct; you'd know him by his walk even when he's at liberty--he's not like a man that has always been free. ah, my poor mother! it was hard times for her. she talked to my father, but he only swore at her. i shall never forget his first oath to her; it seemed to crush the light out of her heart. however bad he'd been before, he had always been gentle to _her_. but he was getting past that. she tried again to reason with him when he was sober. he was sulky at first; then he flew into a passion. and once he struck her. yes; and _i_ saw it, and i couldn't bear it. i was flying at him like a tiger, when my dear mother flung her arms round me, and chained me to the spot. my father never forgot that. he seemed from that day to have lost all love for me; and i must own that i had little left for him. my mother loved him still, and so did my sister; but they left off talking to him about his drunkenness. it was of no use; they prayed for him instead.--steady, jacob; luff a bit, my lad; luff you can." "and did this make you an abstainer?" asked hubert. "no, sir; so far from it, that i was just beginning to like my grog when i could get it. i didn't see the evil of the drink then; i didn't see how the habit keeps winding its little cords round and round a man, till what begins as thin as a log-line, becomes in the end as thick as a hawser. my mother trembled for me, i knew; i saw her look at me with tears in her eyes many a time, when i came home talkative and excited, though not exactly tipsy. i could see she was sick at heart. but i hadn't learned my lesson yet; i was to have a terrible teacher. "there was a young man who began to visit at our cottage when my sister was just about twenty. they used to call him--well, that don't matter; better his name should never be spoken by me. he was a fisherman, as likely a lad as you'd see anywhere; and he'd one boast that few could make, he had never been tipsy in his life; he was proud of it; he had got his measure, he said, and he never went beyond it. he laughed at teetotallers; they were such a sneaking, helpless lot, he said--why couldn't they take what was good for them, and stop there when they'd had enough; surely a man ought to be master of his own appetites--he was, he said; he could stop when he pleased. however, to make a long story short, he took a great fancy to my dear sister, and she soon returned it. our cottage was near the sea, but on a hill-side some hundred feet or more above the beach. high ground rose behind it and sheltered it from the north and east winds. it had a glorious view of the ocean, and one of the loveliest little gardens that any cottage could boast of. the young man i spoke of would often sit with my sister in the little porch, when the roses and jessamine were in full flower all over it; and i used to think, as i looked at them, that a handsomer couple could never be made man and wife. well, it was agreed that they should wait a few months till he was fully prepared to give her a home. my father just then was ashore, and took to the young man amazingly; he must have him spend many an evening at our cottage, and you may be sure that the grog didn't remain in the cupboard. my father had a great many yarns to spin, and liked a good listener; and as listening and talking are both dry work, one glass followed another till the young man's eyes began to sparkle, and my poor sister's to fill with tears; still, he always maintained, when she talked gently to him about it next day, that he knew well what he was about, that he never overstepped his mark, and that she might trust him. ah, it was easy to talk; but it was very plain that his mark began to be set glass after glass higher than it used to be. at last, one night she couldn't hold any longer, and implored him to stop as he was filling another tumbler. upon this my father burst out into a furious passion, and swore that, as he could find no peace at home, he'd go where he _could_ find it,--that was to the public-house, of course. out they both of them went, and we saw no more of them that night, you may be sure; and my mother and sister almost cried their hearts out. it was some days after this before my sister's lover ventured to show his face at our place, and then he didn't dare to meet her eye. she said very little to him; it was plain she was beginning to lose all hope; and she had reason too, for when the demon of drink gets a firm hold, mr oldfield, he'll not let go, if he can help it, till he's strangled every drop of good out of a man. but i mustn't be too long; there isn't much left to tell, however.--steady, jacob, my lad; keep her full.--you may suppose that we hadn't much more of my father's company, or of the young man's either; they found the public-house more to their mind; and so it went on night after night. little was said about the wedding, and my sister never alluded to it even to us. at last october came. it was one lovely moonlight night, just such a night as this, quiet and peaceful. my father was to set out on one of his cruises next morning, and was expecting the mate to bring round his little vessel, and anchor her in the roads off the shore, in sight of our cottage. he had come home pretty sober to tea, bringing my sister's lover with him. after tea there were several things he had to settle with my mother; so, while they were making their arrangements, my sister and the young man had an earnest talk together. i didn't mean to listen, but i could overhear that he was urging her to fix an early day for the wedding, with many promises of amendment and sobriety, which the poor girl listened to with a half-unwilling ear, and yet her heart couldn't say, `no.' at last my father cried, `come, my lad, we'll just go up to the top of the hill, and see if we can make out the _peggy_. she ought to be coming round by this time.' "`oh, father,' cried my sister, `don't go out again to-night.' "`nonsense!' he said, roughly; `do you think i'm a baby, that can't take care of myself?' "my mother said nothing; my sister looked at her lover with an imploring glance. i shall never forget it; there was both entreaty and despair in her eyes. he hesitated a moment, but my father was already out of the door, and loudly calling on him to follow. "`i'll be back again in a few minutes,' he said; `it won't do to cross your father to-night.' "ah, those few minutes! she went to the door. it was a most lovely night; there was a flood of moonlight poured out upon land and sea. all that god had made was as beautiful as if sin had never spoiled it. just a little to the right of our cottage the ground rose up suddenly, and sloped up about a quarter of a mile to the top of a high cliff, from the edge of which was a sheer descent, almost unbroken, to the beach, of several hundred feet. it was a favourite spot of observation, for vessels could be seen miles off. "my sister watched her father and lover in the clear moonlight to the top. there they stood for about half an hour, and then they turned. but which way? home? it seemed so at first--the young man was plainly hesitating. at last he yielded to my father's persuasion, and both disappeared over the farther side of the high ground. my unhappy sister, with a wild cry of distress, came back into the cottage, and threw herself sobbing into a chair. "`oh, mother, mother!' she cried, `they're off again--they're gone to the public-house; father'll be the death of _him_, body and soul.' "my mother made no answer. she could not speak. she had no comfort to offer. she knew that my wretched father was the tempter. she knew that there was nothing but misery before her child. "oh, what a weary night that was! we sat for hours waiting, listening. at last we heard the sound of voices--two voices were shouting out snatches of sea-songs with drunken vehemence. we didn't need any one to tell us whose voices they were. my sister started up and rushed out. i followed her, and so did my mother. we could see now my father and the young man, sharp and clear in the moonlight, arm in arm at the top of the cliff. they were waving their arms about and shouting, as they swayed and staggered to and fro. then they went forward towards the edge, and tried to steady themselves as they looked in the direction of the sea. "`they'll be over!' shrieked my sister; `oh, let us try and save them!' "my mother sank senseless on the ground. for a moment my sister seemed as if she would do the same. then she and i rushed together towards the cliff at the top of our speed. we could just see the two poor miserable drunkards staggering about for a little while, but then a sinking in the ground, as we hurried on, hid them from our sight. a few minutes more and we were on the slope at the top, but where were _they_? they were gone--where? i dared not let my sister go forward, but i could hardly hold her, till at last she sank down in a swoon. and then i made my way to the top of the cliff, and my blood seemed to freeze in my veins as i looked over. there they were on the rocks below, some hundred and fifty feet down. i shouted for help; some of the neighbours had seen us running, and now came to my relief. i left a kind woman with my unhappy sister, and hurried with some fishermen the nearest way to the beach. it was sickening work climbing to the place on to which my miserable father and his companion had pitched in their fall. alas! they were both dead when we reached them, and frightfully mangled. i can hardly bear to go on," and the captain's voice faltered, "and yet i must complete my story. we made a sort of large hammock, wrapped them in it, and by the help of some poles carried them up to our cottage. it was terrible work. my sister did not shed a tear for days, indeed i scarcely ever saw her shed a tear at all; but she pined away, and a few short months closed her sad life." the captain paused, and it was long before any one broke the silence. at last hubert asked,-- "and your mother?" "ah, my mother--well, she did not die. she mourned over her daughter; but i can't say that she seemed to feel my father's loss so much, and i think i can tell you why," he added, looking very earnestly at the two young men. "mark this, young gentlemen, and you jacob, too--there's this curse about the drink, when it's got its footing in a home it eats out all warm affections. i don't think my mother had much love left for my father in her heart when he died. his drunkenness had nearly stamped out the last spark." "it's a sad story indeed," said frank, thoughtfully. "ay; and only one among many such sad stories," said the captain. "and so you were led after this to become a total abstainer?" "yes; it was on the day of my sister's funeral. i came back to the cottage after the service was over with my heart full of sorrowful thoughts. my mother sat in her chair by the fire; her bible was open before her, her head was bowed down, her hands clasped, and her lips moving in prayer. i heard them utter my own name. "`mother,' i said, springing forward, and throwing my arms round her, `please god, and with his help, i'll never touch another drop of the drink from this day.' "`god bless you, my son,' she said, with sobs. `i've prayed him scores of times that my son might be preserved from living a drunkard's life, and dying a drunkard's death. i believe he's heard me. i know he has, and i'll trust him to make you truly his child, and then we shall meet in glory.' from that day to this not a drop of intoxicating liquor has ever passed my lips. but it's time to turn in; we shan't sleep the less sound because we're not indebted to the grog for a nightcap." for some days after the captain had told his story, frank oldfield's manner was subdued and less buoyant than usual--something like a misgiving about his own ability to resist temptation, mingled with sad memories of the past. but his spirits soon recovered their usual brightness. it was on a cloudless day, when scarcely a breath of air puffed out the sails, and the dog-vane drooped lazily, as if desponding at having nothing to do, that hubert was looking listlessly over the stern, marking how the wide expanse of the sea was heaving and swelling like a vast carpet of silk upraised and then drawn down again by some giant hand. suddenly he cried out,-- "what's that cutting its way behind us, just below the surface of the water?" "a shark, most likely," said the mate, coming up. "ay, sure enough it is," he added, looking over the stern. "many a poor fellow has lost his life or his limbs by their ugly teeth. we'll bait a hook for him." this was soon done. a large piece of rusty pork was stuck upon a hook attached to the end of a stout chain, the chain being fastened to a strong rope. all was now excitement on board. the captain, hubert, frank, and jacob poole looked over at the monster, whose dorsal fin just appeared above the water. he did not, however, seem to be in any hurry to take the bait, but kept swimming near it, and now and then knocked it with his nose. "just look at the water," cried frank; "why, it's all alive with little fish. i never saw anything like it." indeed, it was an extraordinary sight. all round the vessel, and as deep down in the water as the eye could penetrate, the ocean was swarming with millions upon millions of little fishes, so that their countless multitudes completely changed the colour of the sea. jacob poole, who was standing close by the captain, now sprang into the boat which hung over the stern to get a better look at the shark and his minute companions. "have a care," shouted the captain, "or you'll be over, if you don't mind." it was too late; for just as jacob was endeavouring to steady himself in the boat, a sudden roll of the ship threw him completely off his balance. he tried to save himself by catching at a rope near him, but missed it, and fell right over the boat's side into the sea below. all was instantly confusion and dismay, for every one on board knew that jacob was no swimmer. happily the ship was moving very sluggishly through the water, so one of the quarter-boats was instantly lowered from the davits. but long before it could row to the rescue help had come from another quarter. for one moment hubert and his friend stood looking on transfixed with dismay, then, without an instant's hesitation, frank sprang upon the taffrail, and plunged headlong into the sea. he was a capital swimmer, and soon reached poor jacob. but now a cry of horror arose from those on board. "the shark! the shark!" the creature had disappeared at the moment of the cabin-boy's fall, the sudden and violent splash having completely scared him away for the instant; but scarcely had frank reached the drowning lad, and raised him in the water, than the huge monster began to make towards them. they were so short a distance from the vessel that those on board could plainly see the movements of the great fish as he glided up to them. "splash about with all your might, for heaven's sake," roared out the captain. "all right," cried young oldfield with perfect coolness, and at the same time making a violent commotion in the water all round him, which had the effect of daunting their enemy for the time. and now the quarter- boat was lowered, and reached them in a few vigorous strokes. "pull for your lives, my lads," shouted the mate, who was steering. "here we are--steady--ship oars. now then, tom davies, lay hold on 'em--in with 'em quick--there's the shark again. jack, you slap away at the water with your oar. ay, my friend, we've puzzled you this time--a near shave, though. now then, all right. give way, my lads. jacob, my boy, you've baulked johnny shark of his dinner this once." they were soon alongside, and on deck, and were greeted by a lusty "hurrah!" from captain and crew. "nobly done, nobly done, mr oldfield!" cried the captain, with tears in his eyes, and shaking frank warmly by the hand. hubert was also earnest in his thanks and congratulations. as for poor jacob, when he had somewhat recovered from the utter bewilderment into which his unfortunate plunge had thrown him, he came up close to his rescuer and said,-- "mr oldfield, i can't thank you as i should, but i shan't forget as you've saved my life." "all right, jacob," said frank, laughing; "you'll do the same for me when i want it, i don't doubt. but you have to thank our kind friends, the mate and his crew, as much as me, or we should have been pretty sure to have been both of us food for the fishes by this time." and so it was that the cabin-boy's attachment to frank oldfield became a passion--a love which many waters could not quench--a love that was wonderful, passing the love of women. each day increased it. and now his one earnest desire was to serve frank on shore in some capacity, that he might be always near him. day by day, as the voyage drew to its close, he was scheming in his head how to bring about what he so ardently desired; and the way was opened for him. it was in the middle of january, the height of the australian summer, that the _sabrina_ came in sight of kangaroo island, and in a little while was running along the coast, the range of hills which form a background to the city of adelaide being visible in the distance. and now all heads, and tongues, and hands were busy, for in a few hours, if the tide should serve for their passing the bar, they would be safe in port adelaide. "well, jacob; my lad," said captain merryweather to the cabin-boy, as he stood looking rather sadly and dreamily at the land, "you don't look very bright. i thought you'd be mad after a run ashore. here comes the pilot; he'll soon let us know whether we can get into port before next tide." when the pilot had taken charge of the ship, and it was found that there was water enough for them to cross the bar at once, the captain again called jacob to him into the cuddy, where he was sitting with hubert and frank. "i see, jacob, my boy," he said, "that there's something on your mind, and i think i half know what it is. now, i'm a plain straightforward sailor, and don't care to go beating about the bush, so i'll speak out plainly. you've been a good lad, and pleased me well, and if you've a mind to go home with me, i've the mind, on my part, to take you. but then i see mr oldfield here has taken a fancy to you, and thinks you might be willing to take service with him. ah, i see it in your eyes, my lad--that settles it. i promised before we sailed that i'd find you a good situation out here, and i believe i've done it. mr oldfield, jacob's your man." poor jacob; the tears filled his eyes--his chest heaved--he crushed his cap out of all shape between his fingers--then he spoke, at first with difficulty, and then in a husky voice,-- "oh, captain, i'm afraid you'll think i'm very ungrateful. i don't know which way to turn. you've been very good to me, and i couldn't for shame leave you. i'd be proud to serve you to the last day of my life. but you seem to have fathomed my heart. i wish one half of me could go back with you, and the other half stay with mr oldfield. but i'll just leave it with yourselves to settle; only you mustn't think, captain, as i've forgotten all your kindness. i'm not that sort of chap." "not a bit, my lad, not a bit," replied the captain, cheerily; "i understand you perfectly. i want to do the best for you; and i don't think i can do better than launch you straight off, and let mr oldfield take you in tow; and if i'm spared to come another voyage here, and you should be unsettled, or want to go home again, why, i shall be right glad to have you, and to give you your wages too." and so it was settled, much to the satisfaction of frank and the happiness of jacob. chapter eleven. abraham oliphant. "and so you're my nephew hubert," said a tall, middle-aged gentleman, who had come on board as soon as the _sabrina_ reached the port, and was now shaking hubert warmly by the hand. "a hearty welcome to south australia. ah, i see; this is mr oldfield. my brother wrote to me about you. you're heartily welcome too, my young friend, for so i suppose i may call you. well, you've come at a warm time of the year, and i hope we shall be able to give you a warm reception. and how did you leave your dear father, hubert? you're very like him; the sight of your face brings back old times to me. and how are your brothers and sister? all well? that's right. thank god for it. and now just put a few things together while i speak to the captain. i'll see that your baggage is cleared and sent up all right after you. my dog-cart's waiting, and will take your friend and yourself and what things you may want for a few days." the speaker's manner was that of a man of good birth and education, with the peculiar tone of independence which characterises the old colonist. hubert and frank both felt at their ease with him at once. it was arranged that jacob poole should remain with captain merryweather for a few days, and should then join his new master in adelaide. after a very hearty leave-taking with the captain, the young men and mr abraham oliphant were soon on shore. there was no railway from the port to the city in those days, but travellers were conveyed by coaches and port-carts, unless they were driven in some friend's carriage or other vehicle. driving tandem was much the fashion, and it was in this way that hubert and frank were making their first journey inland. "now, my dear hubert, and mr oldfield, jump in there; give me your bags; now we're all right;" and away they started. the first mile or two of their journey was not particularly inviting. they passed through albert town, and through a flat country along a very dusty road, trees being few and far between. a mile farther on and they saw a group of natives coming towards them with at least half-a-dozen ragged looking dogs at their heels. the men were lounging along in a lordly sort of way, entirely at their ease; one old fellow, with a grizzly white beard and hair, leaning all his weight on the shoulders of a poor woman, whom he was using as a walking-stick. the other women were all heavily-laden, some with wood, and others with burdens of various sorts, their lords and masters condescending to carry nothing but a couple of light wooden spears, a waddy, or native club, and a boomerang. "poor creatures!" exclaimed hubert; "what miserable specimens of humanity; indeed, they hardly look human at all." "ah," said his uncle, "there are some who are only too glad to declare that these poor creatures are only brutes, that they have no souls. i've heard a man say he'd as soon shoot a native as a dingo; that is, a wild dog." "but _you_ don't think so, dear uncle?" "think so! no indeed. their intellects are sharp enough in some things. yes; it is very easy to take from them their lands, their kangaroo, and their emu, and then talk about their having no souls, just to excuse ourselves from doing anything for them in return. why, those very men who will talk the most disparagingly of them, do not hesitate to make use of them; ay, and trust them too. they will employ them as shepherds, and even as mounted policemen. but let us stop a moment, and hear what they have to say." he drew up, and the natives stopped also, grinning from ear to ear. they were very dark, a dusky olive colour; the older ones were hideously ugly, and yet it was impossible not to be taken with the excessive good humour of their laughing faces. "what name you?" cried the foremost to mr oliphant. "abraham," was the reply. "ah, very good abraham," rejoined the native; "you give me copper, me call you gentleman." "them you piccaninnies?" asked one of the women, pointing to hubert and frank. "no," said mr oliphant; "there--there are some coppers for you; you must do me some work for them when you come to my sit-down." "gammon," cried the black addressed; "me plenty lazy." "a sensible fellow," cried frank laughing, as they drove on; "he knows how to look after his own interests, clearly enough; surely such as these cannot be past teaching." "no indeed," said the other; "we teach them evil fast enough; they learn our vices besides their own. you may be sure they drink when they can. ah, that curse of drunkenness! did you think you had run away from it when you left england? happy for you, hubert, that you're an abstainer; and i suppose, mr oldfield, that you are one too." "not a pledged one," said frank, colouring deeply, "but one in practice, i hope, nevertheless." "well, i tell you honestly that you'll find neither beer, wine, or spirits in my house. to everything else you are both heartily welcome.--ah, that's not so pleasant," he exclaimed suddenly. "is there anything amiss?" asked hubert. "oh, nothing serious!" was the reply; "only a little disagreeable; but we may perhaps escape it. we'll pull up for a moment. there; just look on a few hundred yards." ahead of them some little distance, in the centre of the road, a whirling current of air was making the dust revolve in a rapidly enlarging circle. as this circle widened it increased in substance, till at last it became a furious earth-spout, gathering sticks and leaves, and even larger things, into its vortex, and rising higher and higher in the air till it became a vast black moving column, making a strange rustling noise as it approached. then it left the direct road, and rushed along near them, rising higher and higher in the air, and becoming less and less dense, till its base completely disappeared, and the column spent itself in a fine streak of sand some hundred feet or more above their heads. "a pleasant escape," said mr oliphant; "we shouldn't have gained either in good looks or comfort if we had got into the thick of it." "i should think not indeed," said frank. "do people often get into these whirlwinds, or earth-spouts, or whatever they should be called?" "sometimes they do," said the other, "and then the results are anything but agreeable. i have seen men go into them white--white jacket, white waistcoat, white trousers, white hat, and come out one universal brown-- brown jacket, waistcoat, trousers, hat, eyebrows, whiskers, all brown." "anything but pleasant indeed," said hubert. "but do they ever do serious mischief?" "not very serious, as far as i know," replied his uncle. "once i knew of a pastry-cook's man who was caught in one of these whirlwinds; he had a tray of tarts on his head, and the wind caught the tray, and whirled it off, tarts and all. but here we are at the `half-way house;' people commonly can't go many miles here without the drink. they fancy that, because we live in a country which is very hot in summer, we want more to drink; but it's just the reverse. drink very little of anything in the specially hot days, and you'll not feel the want of it." and now, after a further drive of three or four miles, the outskirts of the city of adelaide were nearly reached, and the distant hills became more plainly visible. "we shall cross the river by the ford at the back of the jail," said mr oliphant, "for there's very little water in the river now." "and is this the river torrens?" asked hubert, with a slight tone of incredulity in his voice. "you may well ask," replied his uncle, laughing. "torrens is certainly an unfortunate name, for it leads a stranger naturally to look for a deep and impetuous stream. some gentleman from melbourne, when he first saw it, was highly incensed and disgusted, and exclaimed, `is this _crack in the earth_ your river torrens?'" "but i suppose," inquired frank, "it is not always as shallow as now?" "no indeed," said the other; "i've seen it many a time a real torrens. when it comes rushing down, swollen by numberless little streams from the hills, it will carry almost everything before it. bridges, and strong ones too, it has swept away, and you may judge both of its violence and of the height to which it rises at such times, when i tell you that, when a flood has subsided, you may sometimes look up and see a dead horse sticking in the fork of a tree which had for a time been nearly under water. and i've often thought that the drink is like this stream; people will scarce credit at first that it can do so much mischief--it's only a little drop, or a glass or two, but the drop becomes a stream, and the glass a mighty river, and down goes all before it, money, home, love, character, peace, everything. but see, that's the jail on our left now. if there were more total abstainers, we shouldn't want such a costly building, nor so many policemen, as we do now. here, as in the old country, the drink is at the bottom of nine- tenths of the crime. and now we're just coming up to the top of hindley street. look down it; it's a busy street; you can see right away through rundle street, which is a continuation of it, to the park lands beyond. now, just take a fact about the drinking habits of this colony. you'll suppose, of course, that this street wants lighting at night. well; how is this done? we have no gas as yet; no doubt we shall have it by-and-by. well, then, look along each side of the street, and you'll see ordinary lamps projecting from houses at tolerably regular intervals. these houses are all public-houses. every publican is bound by law to keep a lamp burning outside his house every dark night; and these lamps light the street very creditably. i use the word `creditably' simply in reference to the lighting; doesn't that speak volumes?" "yes, indeed," said hubert; "i fear it tells of abundant crime and misery." "it does. but we mustn't dwell on the dark side now, for i want this to be a bright day for us all. you see we've some nice shops in hindley street." "yes," said frank; "but what a remarkable variety of style in the houses; there are no two of them, scarcely, alike in size, shape, or height. they remind me rather of a class of boys in our dame school at home, where big and little boys, tidy and ragged, stand side by side in one long row." "you are rather severe upon us," said mr oliphant laughing; "but we are gradually improving; there is, however, plenty of room yet for improvement, i allow." and now they turned into king william street, and drew up at the front of a large store. "this is my business place," said the merchant; "but i shall not ask you to look at it now; we must be off again immediately for my country residence among the hills. here, james, give the horses a little water; now then, let us start again." a few minutes more and they were rapidly crossing the park lands. "these are gum trees, i suppose?" asked hubert. "yes, they are," said his uncle; "but not worth much, either for timber, ornament, or shade. you wouldn't get much relief from the heat under the poor shadow of their tassel-like foliage." "what a very strange noise!" exclaimed frank; "it seems as if a number of stocking-looms were at work in the air." "see now," said mr oliphant, "the force of habit. i'm so used to the sound, that i was utterly unconscious of it. it is made by the cicada, an insect very common in this country. and now, where do you suppose we're coming to? this little village or township before us is norwood, and then comes kensington. i've no doubt it will strike you as one of the oddest things in this colony, till you get used to it, though, of course, it isn't peculiar to this colony, how places are made close neighbours here, which are very widely separated in the old country, from which they are borrowed." "but why not retain the native names?" asked hubert. "ah, why not, indeed? what can be more musical in sound than yatala, aldinga, kooringa, onkaparinga. but then, we could not always find native names enough; and, besides this, the englishman likes to keep the old country before him, by giving his place some dear familiar name that sounds like home." in about another half hour they reached their destination among the hills. "the rocks," as mr abraham oliphant's place was called, was situated on a hill-side, high above the valley, but on a moderate slope. a stout post-and-rail fence surrounded the estate, and one of a more compact nature enclosed the more private grounds. the house was large, and covered a considerable surface, as there were no rooms above the basement floor. the front windows commanded a magnificent view of the city of adelaide, with its surrounding lands, suburbs, and neighbouring villages, and of the sea in the extreme distance. at the back was a remarkable group of rocks, from which the estate took its name; these leaned on the hill-side, and were encased in a setting of wild shrubs and creeping plants of extraordinary beauty. a stream of purest spring water perpetually flowed through a wide cleft in these rocks, and afforded a deliciously cool supply, which never failed in the hottest summer. the house was surrounded by a wide verandah, which, like the building itself, was roofed with shingles, and up the posts and along the edge of which there climbed a profusion of the multiflora rose. the garden sloped away from the house, and contained an abundance of both flowers and fruits. there was the aloe, and more than one kind of cactus, growing freely in the open air, with many other plants which would need the hothouse or greenhouse in a colder climate. fig-trees, vines, standard peach, and nectarine trees were in great abundance, while a fence of the sharp kangaroo island acacia effectually kept all inquisitive cattle at a respectful distance. the inside of the house was tastefully but not unduly furnished, ancient and modern articles being ranged side by side in happy fraternity; for a thorough colonist suits his own taste, and is tolerably independent of fashion. "welcome once more to australia!" exclaimed mr oliphant to his young companions; "and more especially welcome to `the rocks.' come in: here, let me introduce you to my eldest daughter and youngest son--jane and thomas, here's your cousin hubert; and here's his friend, mr frank oldfield; you must give them a hearty welcome." all parties were soon at their ease together. a sumptuous dinner-tea was soon spread on the table of the dining-room--the windows of which apartment commanded a view, across the valley, of the city and distant sea. mr oliphant was a widower, with two daughters and four sons. jane had taken her mother's place; the two eldest sons were married, and settled in other parts of the colony; the third son lived with his younger sister at a sheep-station about twenty-five miles up the country; the youngest son, thomas, a boy about fifteen years old, was still at home, and rode in daily to the collegiate school, returning in the evening. "you'll meet your other cousins before long, i hope," said his uncle to hubert. "they know, of course, that you are coming; and when i send them word that you are actually come, we shall have them riding in at an early day. i suppose you're used to riding yourself? ah, that's right; then you're pretty independent. horseflesh is cheap enough here, but it isn't always of the choicest quality; however, i can furnish you with what you'll want in that way. all your cousins ride, of course, by a sort of colonial instinct. an australian and his horse almost grow together like a centaur." "and do you ride much, cousin jane?" asked hubert. "oh, never mind the `cousin;' you must drop it at once," said mr oliphant. "it's jane, and you're hubert. but i beg jane's pardon for smothering her answer." "oh yes, hubert," replied his cousin; "i ride, as a matter of course; we should never get over much ground, especially in the hot weather, if we walked as much as people seem to do in england. but i have not yet heard how you left my dear aunt and uncle. seeing you seems half like seeing them; i've heard so much of them." "i suppose you hardly venture out kangaroo-hunting, miss oliphant?" asked frank. "i have done so once or twice in the north," she replied; "but the kangaroo is not fond of so many white faces near his haunts, so he has retired from these parts altogether." "and you find you can all stand total abstinence here?" asked hubert of his uncle. "stand it!" exclaimed mr oliphant; "i should think so. why, my dear nephew, it don't need standing; it's the drink i couldn't stand. you should see the whole lot of us when we meet at one of our great family gatherings. well, it's not quite the thing perhaps for a father to say--and yet i fancy it's not very far from the truth--that you'll not see a stouter, a better grown--jane, shall i say handsomer?--i certainly may say a healthier, family anywhere; and not one of us is indebted to any alcoholic stimulant for our good looks." "you have always, then, been an abstainer since you came to the colony?" asked frank. "no, i have not; more's the pity," was the reply; "but only one or two of my children remember the day when i first became an abstainer. from the oldest to the youngest they have been brought up without fermented stimulants, and abhor the very sight of them." "and might i ask," inquired frank, "what led to the change in your case, if the question is not an intrusive one?" "oh, by all means; i've nothing to conceal in the matter," said mr oliphant; "the story is a very simple one. but come, you must make a good tea; listening is often as hungry work as talking. well, the circumstances were just these: when i was left a widower, more than fourteen years ago, jane was about twelve years old and thomas only six months; i was then a moderate drinker, as it is called--that is to say, i never got drunk; but i'm sure if any one had asked me to define `moderation,' i should have been sorely puzzled to do so; and i am quite certain that i often exceeded the bounds of moderation, not in the eyes of my fellow-creatures, but in the eyes of my creator--ay, and in my own eyes too, for i often felt heated and excited by what i drank, so as to wish that i had taken a glass or two less,--yet all this time i never overstepped the bounds, so as to lose my self-control. at this time i kept a capital cellar--i mean a cellar largely stocked with choice wines and spirits. i did not live then at `the rocks,' but in a house on the skirts of the city. you may be sure that i needed a good nurse to look after so many growing children who had just lost their dear mother, and i was happy enough to light upon a treasure of a woman--she was clean, civil, active, faithful, honest, forbearing, and full of love to the children; in a word, all that i could desire her to be. she took an immense deal of care off my hands, and i could have trusted her with everything i had. months passed by, and i began to give large dinner- parties--for i was rather famous for my wines. besides this, i was always having friends dropping in, happy to take a glass. all went on well--so it seemed--till one afternoon a maid came running into my sitting-room and cried out, `oh, sir, nurse is so very ill; what must we do?' i hurried up-stairs. there was the poor woman, sure enough, in a very miserable state. i couldn't make it out at all. "`send for a doctor at once!' i cried. in a little while the doctor came. i waited most anxiously for his report. at last he came down, and the door was closed on us. "`well, doctor,' i cried, in great anxiety; `nothing very serious, i hope? i can ill afford to lose such a faithful creature.' "i saw a curious smile on his face, which rather nettled me, as i thought it very ill-timed. at last he fairly burst out into a laugh, and exclaimed, `there's nothing the matter with the woman, only she's drunk.' "`drunk!' i exclaimed with horror; `impossible!' "`ay, but it's both possible and true too,' said the doctor; `she'll be all right, you'll see, in a few hours.' "and so she was. i then spoke out plainly and kindly to her. oh, i shall never forget her misery and shame. she made no attempt to deny her fault, or even excuse it; she was heart-broken; she said she must go at once. i urged her to stay, and to turn over a new leaf. i promised to overlook what had passed, and told her that she might soon regain her former place in my esteem and confidence. but i could not keep her; she could not bear to remain, much as she loved the children; she must go elsewhere and hide her disgrace. "`but how came you to contract such a habit?' said i. and then she told me that she began by finishing what was left in the glasses of my friends and myself after dinner; then, as i never locked up the cellaret--the thirst becoming stronger and stronger--she helped herself from the bottles, till at last she had become a confirmed drunkard. i pitied her deeply, as you may well understand; and would have kept her on, but nothing would induce her to stay. however, i had learned a lesson, and had made up my mind: i was determined that thenceforward no one should ever sow the first seeds of drunkenness in my house, or have any countenance in drinking from my _example_. the very morning the unhappy woman left, i made a vigorous onslaught on the drink. "`fetch up the cellar!' i cried; and the cellar was forthwith fetched up. beer barrels, wine bottles and spirit-bottles, dozens of pale ale and bitter beer, were soon dragged into light. "`now, fetch me the kitchen-poker!' i shouted; it was brought me, and i commenced such a smashing as i should think has never been witnessed before, nor is likely to be witnessed again. right and left, and all round me, the yard was flooded with malt liquors, spirits and wines. then i knocked out the bungs of the casks, and joined their contents to the flood. you may suppose there was some little staring at all this, but it mattered nothing to me. i was resolved that what had ruined my poor nurse should never ruin any one else at my cost, or in my house; so from that day to this no alcoholic stimulant has passed my lips; nor been given by me to man, woman, or child; nor, please god, ever shall be.--now, my dear young friends, you have had the history of what first led me to become a total abstainer." there was a silence for several minutes, which was at last broken by hubert's asking,-- "and what became of the unhappy woman, dear uncle?" "ah! don't ask me. she went from bad to worse while she remained in the colony. for so it commonly is with drunkards, but most of all with female drunkards. i've known--and i thank god for it--many a reformed male drunkard; but when women take decidedly to drinking, it is very rare indeed to see them cured--at least, that has been _my_ experience. i got poor nurse away with a friend of mine who was going in a temperance ship to england, hoping that the habit might be broken off during the voyage. but, alas! she broke out again soon after reaching home, and died at last a miserable death in a workhouse. but i see you look rather fagged, mr oldfield. shall we take a turn in the garden before it gets dark, and then perhaps you'll like a little music?" and now we must leave abraham oliphant and australia for a while, and return to langhurst, and some of the earlier characters of our story. chapter twelve. an explosion in the pit. "no letter yet from our sammul," cried betty, wearily and sadly, as she came from the mill on a dreary night in the november after her brother's sudden departure. "i thought as how he'd have been sure to write to me. well, i suppose we must make ourselves content till he's got over the sea. but oh, it'll be weary work till we've heard summat from him." "hush, hush, there's a good bairn," said her mother, though the tears were all the while running down her own cheeks as she spoke; "don't take on so; you'll drive your fayther clean crazy. he's down in the mouth enough already. come, don't fret in that fashion, thomas; sammul'll come back afore long: you've been crouching down by the hearth-stone long enough. if you'll be guided by me, you'll just take a drop of good ale, it'll liven you up a bit; you want summat of the sort, or you'll shrivel up till you've nothing but skin on your bones." "ale!" cried thomas, indignantly; "ale'll not make me better--ale won't make me forget--ale won't bring back our sammul, it's driven him far enough away." "well," said his wife, soothingly, "you must go your own way; only, if you keep a-fretting of that fashion, you'll not be able to do your work gradely, and then we shall all have to starve, and that'll be worse for you still." "better starve," replied her husband moodily, "nor ruin body and soul with the drink; i'll have no more of it." "well, you can please yourself;" replied alice, "so long as you don't take me with you. but i must have my drop of beer and my pipe, i can't live without 'em; and so you may rest content with that; it's the truth, it is for sure." "mother," said betty, mournfully, "can you really talk in that fashion to fayther, when you know how the drink's been the cause of all the misery in our house, till it's driven our poor sammul away to crouch him down on other folk's hearth-stones in foreign parts? i should have thought we might all have learnt a lesson by this time." "it's no use talking, child," replied her mother; "you go your way, and take your fayther with you if he's a mind, but don't think to come over me with your talk; i'm not a babe, i can take care of myself. the drink's good enough in moderation, and i'm going to be moderate. but lads and wenches is so proud now-a-days that mothers has to hearken and childer does the teaching." poor betty! she sighed, and said no more. johnson also saw that it was no use reasoning with his wife. her appetite for the drink was unquenchable. it was clear that she loved it better than husband, children, home, conscience, soul. alas! poor thomas's was a heavy burden indeed. could he only have been sure that his son was alive and well, he could have borne his troubles better; but now he seemed crushed to the very earth. and yet, strange as it might seem, he did not feel tempted to fly to the drink again for consolation; he rather shrank from the very sight and thought of it. ah, there were many prayers being offered up for him; unseen hands were guiding him, and in his home was the daily presence of one who was indeed a help and comfort to him. he clung to betty now, and she to him, with a peculiar tenderness. _her_ heart was full of the warm glow of unselfish love, and his was learning to expand and unfold under the influence of her bright example. theirs was a common sorrow and a common hope, as far as samuel was concerned. why had he not written to them from liverpool, or from whatever port he had sailed from? that he _had_ gone beyond the sea, they were both firmly convinced. betty, of course, had her own special sorrow. she could not forget that terrible night--she could not forget the knife and the blood--though she was still fully persuaded that her brother had not laid violent hands on himself. but oh, if he would only write, what a load of misery would be taken off both their hearts; yet no letter came. november wore away, december came and went, the new year began, still there was no news of samuel. ned brierley did all he could to console the unhappy father and daughter, and with some success. he was very urgent with thomas to sign the pledge, and thus openly join himself to the little band of total abstainers, and thomas had pretty nearly made up his mind to do so. he had hesitated, not so much because he dreaded the sneers and jeers of his companions--he had become callous to those-- but he shrank from encountering the daily, wearing, gnawing trial of his wife's taunts and reproaches; for the restless uneasiness of a conscience not yet quite seared into utter insensibility made the unhappy woman doubly bitter in her attacks upon abstinence and abstainers. and thus matters were when february opened. it was on a clear frosty evening in the beginning of that month that betty was returning from the mill. they were running short time that week, and she was coming home about an hour earlier than usual. the ground was hard and crisp, and the setting sun sank a misty red, while a greyish-yellow tint overspread the whole horizon. betty toiled slowly and listlessly up the hill, the old weight still on her heart. she had nearly reached her home, when a sound fearfully loud and awful, like the discharge of the cannon of two conflicting armies underground in one vast but muffled roar, made her heart almost stand still with terror. the next instant a huge body of sulphurous smoke leaped high into the air from one of the pit-mouths. in a moment the dreadful cry arose, "the pit's fired!" the next minute men, women, and children poured out from houses and cottages, horror and dismay on every face. near two hundred men and boys were down that pit; scarce a house but had one or more below. oh, who could adequately describe the dreadful scene of misery, wailing; and confusion which followed! betty knew that her father was down, and she felt that in him all she had to cling to on earth was now, perhaps, torn from her for ever. men and women rushed past her towards the pit's mouth. "lord help us," groaned one poor mother; "our thomas and matthew's down." "fayther's there too," wailed betty. "oh, the lord keep him, and bring him up safe." "where's our bill?--oh, have you seen anything of our bill?" shrieked another poor distracted mother. then came crowds of men, with overlookers and policemen. then a hasty consultation was held as to what must be done. "who'll volunteer to go down with me and send the poor fellows up?" cries the overlooker. three men come forward, and step with him into the tub; not a word do they say, but they look quite calm and self- possessed--they have a work to do, and they will do it. and now the women are clustered round on the pit-bank in haggard expectation, the very picture of woe, some wild in their cries, others rocking themselves to and fro to still, if it may be, their misery; and others bowed down to the earth, the very image of mute despair. and now the wheels rapidly revolve, the rope runs swiftly, at last it slackens speed. the tub reaches the top--two ghastly forms are lifted from it--the women, with straining eyes, pressing forward to look. oh, what a sight! the fiery stream has scorched the faces and limbs of the poor men almost out of knowledge. again the tub descends, again other sufferers are raised, and still the same sad work continues hour after hour, far into the night. some of those brought up are quite dead, poor blackened corpses; others still live, and are borne home, moaning piteously. from the limbs of many the skin peels with a touch. some, less terribly injured, run and leap like madmen when they reach the open fresh air; some come up utterly blinded. and oh, what a vale of tears is that village of langhurst the livelong night! some call in vain for fathers, husbands, brothers; they have not yet been found. some wring their hands over bodies which can never live again till the resurrection morning; some lovingly tend those who lie racked with agony on their beds, every limb writhing with fiery anguish; while some poor victims are so scorched and blackened that none can be found to claim them--one can only be known by his watch-chain, so completely is he burnt out of all remembrance. and what of poor johnson? hour after hour betty and her mother watched near the pit's mouth, sick with sorrow and suspense, pressing forward as each fresh tub-load landed its miserable burden, still to be disappointed; while the wailings, the cries, the tears of those who claimed the dead, the dying, the scorched, on every fresh arrival, only added fuel to their burning grief. at last, about midnight, three men were brought up and laid on the bank, all apparently lifeless. "oh, there's fayther!" "oh, there's thomas!" burst from the lips of betty and her mother. "oh, take him home, take him home, live or dead," entreated betty. he was placed accordingly on a shutter, and carried by four men to his home. there they laid the body down on the couch, and left it alone with the mother and daughter. alice wrung her hands in the bitterest distress. "oh, he's dead, he's dead; he'll never speak to us any more." "mother, hush!" said betty, softly; "he's not dead, i can see his lips move and his breast heave. maybe the lord'll be merciful to us, and spare him. o father in heaven," she cried, throwing herself on her knees, "do hear us, and spare poor fayther, for jesus' sake." the sufferer uttered a deep groan. "ay, ay, betty," cried her mother, "the lord be praised, there's life in him yet. run to old jenny's, and ask her to come and help us. her master's all right; she'll be glad to give a helping hand to a neighbour in trouble." but there was no need to send for assistance, for in a minute after, the cottage was filled with women, eager to use both hands and tongues in the sufferer's service. they carried him to his bed, and gently removed his clothes from him, though not without great difficulty, for he was fearfully burnt; and the act of taking off his clothing caused him great agony, as the skin came away with some of his inner garments. at last he was made as comfortable as was possible under the circumstances, till the doctor should come and dress his burns. betty sat watching him, while her mother and the other women gathered round the fire below, with their pipes and their drink, trying to drown sorrow. she, poor girl, knew where to seek a better consolation; she sought, and found it. at last her mother's step was again on the stairs; she came up unsteadily, and with flushed face approached the bed where her husband lay. she had a mug of spirits in her hand. "i'll give him a drop of this," she said thickly; "it'll put life into him in no time." "oh, mother," cried betty, "you mustn't do it; it's wrong, you'll be the death of him." but alice would not heed her. she put some of the spirits in a spoon to the poor sufferer's lips. she was astonished to find him perfectly conscious, for he closed his mouth tightly, and shook his scarred face from side to side. "he won't have it, mother," said betty, earnestly. "give me a drink of cold water," said the poor man in a low voice. betty fetched it him. "ay, that's it; i want nothing stronger." alice slipped down again to her companions below, but her daughter remained in the chamber. it was a desolate room, as desolate as poverty and drink could make it; and now it looked doubly desolate, as the scorched figure of the old collier lay motionless on the low, comfortless, curtainless bed. a dip in an old wine bottle standing on a box threw a gloomy light on the disfigured features, which looked almost unearthly in the clear moonlight which struggled with the miserable twinkling of the feeble candle, and fell just across the bed. betty sat gazing at her father, full of anxious and sorrowful thoughts. how solemn the contrast between the stillness of that sick-chamber and the babel of eager tongues in the house below! she felt unspeakably wretched, and yet there was a sense of rebuke in her conscience, for she knew how great a mercy it was that her father's life was spared. she sighed deeply, and then, suddenly rising quietly, she lifted the lid of the box, and brought out a well- worn bible. she was not much of a scholar, but she could make out a verse or a passage in the holy book with a little pains. she had put her mark against favourite passages, and now she turned to some of these. "`come, unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and i will give you rest.'" she paused on each word, uttering it half aloud, as she travelled carefully from one line to another. "ah, that's what i want," she said to herself, but in an audible whisper. "it means, come to jesus, i know." she turned over several more leaves, and then she read again, and rather louder,-- "`be careful for nothing; but in everything, by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known unto god. and the peace of god, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds, through christ jesus.' "oh yes, i must do so myself; i must tell the lord all my trouble; my heart'll be lighter, when i've told it all to him." she stopped, and put the book aside, resting her head on her hands. she was startled by hearing her father say,-- "it's very good. read on, betty, my lass." "oh, fayther, i didn't think you could hear me! what shall i read?" "read about some poor sinner like me, that got his sins pardoned by jesus christ." "i can't justly say where it is, fayther; but i know there's one place where it tells of a sinful man as had his sins pardoned by jesus christ, even when he hung upon the cross. i know well it was when the lord were a-dying. ah, here it is;" and she read,-- "`and one of the malefactors which were hanged railed on him, saying, if thou be christ, save thyself and us. but the other answering, rebuked him, saying, dost not thou fear god, seeing thou art in the same condemnation? and we indeed justly; for we receive the due reward of our deeds: but this man hath done nothing amiss. and he said unto jesus, lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom. and jesus said unto him, verily i say unto thee, to-day shalt thou be with me in paradise.'" "do you think, betty," asked johnson very earnestly, "i should go to be with jesus, if i were to die now? oh, if this pain's so bad, what must hell-fire be?" "fayther," replied his daughter quietly, "the lord's spared you for summat. i prayed him to spare you, and he'll not cast you off now as he's heard my prayer. if you take him at his word, he'll not tell you as you're mistaken--he'll not say he hasn't pardon in his heart for you." "i believe it, i will believe it," said the poor man, the tears running down his cheeks. "o god, be merciful to me a sinner, for jesus christ's sake,"--there was a pause; then, after a while, he added, "i think as he'll hear me, betty." "i am sure he will," she answered; "but you must lie still, fayther, or maybe you'll do yourself harm. the doctor'll be here just now." it was a night of darkness and terror, yet even on that sad night there was glorious light which man's eye could not see, for there was joy in the presence of the angels of god over at least one penitent sinner in langhurst. but how full of gloom to most! many had been cut off in the midst of their sins, and those who mourned their loss sorrowed as those who have no hope. two of poor johnson's persecutors were suddenly snatched away in their impenitence and hardness of heart, a third was crippled for life. yet the drink kept firm hold of its victims--the very night of the explosion the "george" gathered a golden harvest. death in its ghastliest forms only seemed to whet the thirst for the drink. at one house, while the blackened corpse lay in its clothes on the outside of the bed, preparatory to its being laid out, the dead man's widow and her female helpers sat refreshing themselves, and driving away care, with large potations of tea, made palatable with rum, and that so near the corpse that any one of the party could have touched it without rising from her seat. the shock caused by the explosion was a terrible one, but its stunning effects passed away, only to leave the most who felt that shock harder and more indifferent than ever. yet in one house that awful blow was found to be a messenger of mercy. thomas johnson rose from his bed of pain a changed and penitent man. oh, what a happy day it was to ned brierley and his little band of stanch christian abstainers, when thomas came forward, as he soon did, and manfully signed the pledge, as resolved henceforth to be, with god's help, consistent and uncompromising in his entire renunciation of all intoxicating drinks! chapter thirteen. midnight darkness. when thomas johnson signed the pledge, a storm of persecution broke upon him which would have rather staggered an ordinary man; but, as we have said before, thomas was no ordinary character, but one of those men who are born to do good service under whatever banner they may range themselves. he had long served in satan's army, and had worked well for him. but now he had chosen another captain, even the lord jesus christ himself, and he was prepared to throw all the energy and decision of his character into his work for his new and heavenly master, and to endure hardness as a good soldier of the captain of his salvation. for he had need indeed to count the cost. he might have done anything else he pleased, except give up the drink and turn real christian, and no one would have quarrelled with him. he might have turned his wife and daughter out to starve in the streets, and his old boon-companions would have forgotten all about it over a pot of beer. but to sign the pledge?--this was indeed unpardonable. and why? because the drunkard cannot afford to let a fellow-victim escape: he has himself lost peace, hope, character, home, happiness, and is drinking his soul into hell, and every fellow-drunkard reformed and removed from his side makes his conscience more bare, and exposed to the glare of that eternal wrath which he tries to shut out from his consciousness, and partly succeeds, as he gathers about him those like-minded with himself. so every petty insult and annoyance was heaped upon johnson by his former companions: they ridiculed his principles, they questioned his sincerity, they scoffed at the idea of his continuing firm, they attributed all sorts of base motives to him. he was often sorely provoked, but he acted upon the advice of that holy man who tells us that, when people throw mud at us, our wisdom is to leave it to dry, when it will fall off of itself, and not to smear our clothes by trying of ourselves to wipe it off. he had hearty helpers in ned brierley and his family; ned himself being a special support, for the persecutors were all afraid of him. but his chief earthly comforter was betty. oh, how she rejoiced in her father's conversion and in his signing the pledge! oh, if samuel would only write, how happy she should be! she would write back and tell him of the great and blessed change wrought by grace in their father, and maybe he would come back again to them when he heard it. but he came not, he wrote not; and this was the bitterest sorrow to both betty and her father. johnson knew that his own sin had driven his son away, and he tried therefore to take the trial patiently, as from the hand of a father who was chastening him in love. betty longed for her brother's return, or at least to hear from him, with a sickening intensity, which grew day by day; for though she was really convinced that he had not destroyed himself, yet dreadful misgivings would cross her mind from time to time. the knife, with its discoloured blade, was still in her possession, and the mystery about it remained entirely unexplained. but she too prayed for patience, and god gave it to her; for hers was the simple prayer of a loving, trusting, and believing heart. perhaps, however, the sorest trial to both johnson and his daughter was the conduct of alice. she was bitterly incensed at her husband's signing the pledge. no foul language was too bad for him; and as for betty, she could hardly give her a civil word. they both, however, bore it patiently. at one time she would be furious, at another moodily silent and sulky for days. but what made the miserable woman most outrageous was the fact that her husband would not trust her with any money, but put his wages into the hands of betty, to purchase what was wanted for the family, and to pay off old scores. she was therefore at her wits' end how to get the drink, for the drink she would have. johnson, with his characteristic decision, had gone round to the different publicans in langhurst and the neighbourhood, taking ned brierley with him as witness, and had plainly given them to understand that he would pay for no more drink on his wife's account. he then came home and told her what he had done, when he was alone with her and betty. poor miserable woman! she became perfectly livid with passion, and was about to pour out her rage in a torrent of furious abuse, when johnson rose from his seat, and looking her steadily in the face, said in a moderately loud and very determined voice,-- "alice, sit you down and hearken to me." there was something in his manner which forced her to obey. she dropped into a chair by the fire, and burst into a hurricane of tears. he let her spend herself, and then, himself sitting down, he said,-- "alice, you've known me long enough to be sure that i'm not the sort of man to be turned from my purpose. you and i have lived together many years now, and all on 'em's been spent in the service of the devil. i'm not laying the blame more on you nor on myself. i've been the worse, it may be, of the two. but i can't go on as i have done. the lord has been very merciful to me, or i shouldn't be here now. i've served the old lad too long by the half, and i mean now to serve a better mayster, and to serve him gradely too, if he'll only help me--and our betty says she's sure he will, for the book says so. now, if i'm to be a gradely servant of the lord jesus christ, i must be an honest man--i must pay my way if i can; but i can't pay at all if my brass is to go for the drink--and you know, alice, you can't deny it, that you'd spend the brass in drink if i gave it yourself. but, more nor that, if i'd as much brass as'd fill the coal-pit, shaft and all, i'd not give my consent to any on it's going for the drink. i know that you can do without the drink if you've a mind. i know you'll be all the better by being without it. i know, and you know yourself, that it's swallowed up the clothes from your own back, and starved and beggared us all. if you'll give it up, and live without it like a christian woman should, you'll never have an afterthought; and as soon as i see that you can be trusted with the brass, i'll give it you again with all my heart. come, alice, there's a good wench; you mustn't think me hard. i've been a hard husband, and fayther too, for years, but i must be different now; and i'll try and do my duty by you all, and folks may just say what they please." alice did not reply a word; her passion had cooled, and she sat rocking herself backwards and forwards, with her apron to her eyes, sobbing bitterly. she knew her husband too well to think of deliberately attempting to make him change his purpose, yet she was equally resolved that the drink she would and must have. at last she said, with many tears,-- "well, thomas, you must please yourself. i know well, to my cost, that i might as well try and turn the hills wrong side out as turn you from what you've set your heart on. but you know all the while that i can't do without my little drop of drink. well, it makes no odds whether i starve to death or die for want of the drink--there'll be short work with me one road or the other; and then you and betty can fill up my place with some of them teetottal chaps you're both so fond on, when i'm in the ground." johnson made no reply, but shortly after left for his work, as he was in the night-shift that week. alice sat for a long time turning over in her mind what steps to take in order to get the means for satisfying her miserable appetite. she had no money; she knew that none of the publicans would trust her any longer; and as for pawning any articles, she had pawned already everything that she dared lay her hands on. her only hope now was in betty; she would speak her fair, and see if she could not so work upon her feelings as to induce her to give her part of her own wages. "betty," she said, softly and sadly, "you're all the wenches i have; ay, and all the childer too, for our sammul's as good as dead and gone, we shall never see him no more--ah, he _was_ a good lad to his poor mother; he'd never have grudged her the brass to buy a drop of drink. you'll not do as your father's doing--break your old mother's heart, and let her waste and die out for want of a drop of drink." "mother," replied betty very quietly, but with a great deal of her father's decision in her manner, "i can't go against what fayther's made me promise. i've worked for you ever since i were a little wench scarce higher nor the table; and i'll work for you and fayther still, and you shall neither on you want meat nor drink while i've an arm to work with; but i can't give you the brass yourself 'cos it'll only go into the publican's pocket, and we've nothing to spare for him." "you might have plenty to spare if you'd a mind," said her mother, gloomily. "no, mother; all fayther's brass, and all my brass too, 'll have to go to pay old debts for many a long week to come." "ah, but you might have as much brass as you liked, if you'd only go the right way to work." "as much brass as i like. i can't tell what you mean, mother; you must be dreaming, i think." "i'm not dreaming," said alice. "there's widow reeves, she's no better wage nor you, and yet she's always got brass to spare for gin and baccy." "widow reeves! mother--yes, but it's other folks' brass, and not her own." "well, but she manages to get the brass anyhow," said her mother coolly. "i know she does, mother, and she's the talk of the whole village. she's in debt to every shop for miles round, and never pays nowt to nobody." "maybe she don't," said alice carelessly, "but she's always brass to spare in her pocket, and so might you." "i couldn't do it," cried betty vehemently, "i couldn't do it, mother. it's a sin and a shame of widow reeves--she takes her brass for a bit to the last new shop as turns up, and then runs up a long score, and leaves without paying." "well, that's her concern, not mine," said the other; "i'm not saying as it's just right; you needn't do as she does--but you're not bound to pay _all_ up at once, you might hold back a little each now and then, and you'd have summat to spare for your poor old mother." "but i've promised fayther, and he trusts me." "promised fayther!--you need say nowt to your fayther about it--he'll never be none the wiser." "o mother, mother, how can you talk so, after all as is come and gone! how can you ask me to cheat my own poor fayther, as is so changed? he's trying gradely to get to heaven, and to bring you along with him too, and you're wanting to pull us all back. mother, mother, how can you do it? how can you ask me to go agen fayther when he leaves all to me? you're acting the devil's part, mother, when you 'tice your own child to do wrong. oh, it's cruel, it's cruel, when you know, if i were to deceive fayther it'd break his heart. but it's the drink that's been speaking. oh, the cursed drink! that can pluck a mother's heart out of her bosom, and make her the tempter of her own child! i must leave you, mother, now. i durstn't stay. i might say summat as i shouldn't, for i am your child still. but oh, mother, pray god to forgive you for what you've said to me this night; and may the lord indeed forgive you, as i pray that i may have grace to do myself." so saying, she hastily threw her handkerchief over her head and left the cottage. and what were alice johnson's thoughts when she was left alone? she sat still by the fire, and never moved for a long time. darkness, midnight darkness, a horror of darkness, was settling down on her soul. she had no false support now from the drink, and so her physical state added to her utter depression. conscience began to speak as it had never spoken before; and then came pressing on her the horrible craving, which she had no means now of gratifying. the past and the future fastened upon her soul like the fiery fangs of two fearful snakes. she saw the wasted past--her children neglected; her home desolate, empty, foul, comfortless; her husband and herself wasting life in the indulgence of their common sin, living without god in the world;--she saw herself the cause, in part at least, of her son's flight; she remembered how she had ever set herself against his joining the band of total abstainers;--and now she beheld herself about the vilest thing on earth--a mother deliberately tempting her daughter to deceive her father, that herself might gratify her craving for the drink. oh, how she loathed herself! oh, what a horror crept over her soul! could she really be so utterly vile? could she really have sunk so low? and then came up before her the yet more fearful future: her husband no longer a companion with her in her sin--she must sin alone; her daughter alienated from her by her own act; and then the drink, for which she had sold herself body and soul, she must be without it, she must crave and not be satisfied--the thought was intolerable, it was madness. but there was a farther future; there was in the far distance the blackness of darkness for ever, yet rendered visible by the glare of a coming hell. evening thickened round her, but she sat on. the air all about her seemed crowded with spirits of evil; her misery became deeper and deeper; she did not, she could not repent--and what then? an hour later betty returned from ned brierley's. where was alice? betty looked for her, but she was nowhere to be found; she called her, but there was no answer. she concluded that she had gone into a neighbour's, and sat down waiting for her till she grew weary: her heart was softened towards her; she would pray for her, she would try still to win her back from the bondage of satan; she was her mother still. hour after hour passed, but still her mother did not come. betty took a light, and went up into the chamber to fetch her bible. something unusual near the door caught her eye--with a scream of terror she darted forward. oh, what a sight! her miserable mother was hanging behind the door from a beam! betty's repeated screams brought in the neighbours; they found the wretched woman quite dead. she had sinned away her day of grace; and was gone to give in her account of body, soul, time, talents, utterly wasted, and of her life taken by her own hands; and all--all under the tyranny of the demon of drink. chapter fourteen. plotting. when betty's cries of horror brought the neighbours round her, they found the poor girl lying insensible by the corpse of her mother, which was still suspended by the beam behind the door. they cut down the wretched creature, and tried everything to restore her to consciousness; but life was fled--the day of trial was over. johnson returned from the pit, from whence he was summoned, to find his wife dead, destroyed by her own hand; and betty utterly prostrate on her bed with the terrible and agonising shock. oh, drink, drink! most heartless of all fiendish destroyers, thou dost kill thy victims with a smile, plucking away from them every stay and support that keeps them from the pit of destruction; robbing them of every comfort, while hugging them in an embrace which promises delight, and yet crushes out the life-blood both of body and soul; making merriment in the eye and on the tongue, while home, love, character, and peace are melting and vanishing away. wretched alice! she might have been a happy mother, a happy wife, with her children loving, honouring, and blessing her; but she had sold herself for the drink, and a life of shame and a death of despair were her miserable reward. poor johnson's life was now a very weary one. he had hope indeed to cheer him--a better than any earthly hope, a hope full of immortality. still he was but a beginner in the christian life, and had hard work to struggle on through the gloom towards the guiding light through the deep shadows of earth that were thickening around him. betty tried to cheer him; but, poor girl, she needed cheering herself. her brother's flight; the uncertainty as to what had really become of him; the hope deferred of hearing from him which made her heart sick; and now the dreadful death of her unhappy mother, and that, too, so immediately following on their last miserable conversation;--all these sorrows combined weighed down her spirit to the very dust. she longed to flee away and be at rest; but she could not escape into forgetfulness, and she would not fly from duty. so a dark cloud hung over that home, and it was soon to be darker still. ned brierley was appointed manager of a colliery in wales, at a place a hundred miles or more from langhurst, and a few months after alice johnson's death he removed to his new situation, with all his family. a night or two before he left he called upon johnson. "well, my lad," he said, taking a seat near the fire, "i reckon you and i mayn't meet again for many a long day. but if you're coming our side at any time, we shall be right glad to see you, and betty too, and give you a hearty total abstainer's welcome." "i'm afraid," said betty, "that fayther nor me's not like to be travelling your road. i'm sure i'm glad you're a-going to better yourselves, for you desarve it; but it'll be the worse for us." "ay," said johnson despondingly; "first one prop's taken away, and then another; and after a bit the roof'll fall in, and make an end on us." "nay, nay, man," said his friend reprovingly, "it's not come to that yet. you forget the best of all friends, the lord jesus christ. he ever liveth; and hasn't he said, `i will never leave thee nor forsake thee?'" "that's true," replied the other; "but i can't always feel it. he's helped me afore now, and i know as he'll help me again--but i can't always trust him as i should." "ah, but you _must_ trust him," said brierley earnestly; "you must stick firm to your saviour. and you must stick firm to your pledge, thomas-- promise me that." "yes; by god's help, so i will," was the reply; "only i see i shall have hard work. but it's no odds, they can't make me break if i'm resolved that i won't." "no, fayther," said his daughter; "and they can't go the breadth of a thread further nor the lord permits." "that's true, betty, my lass," said ned; "so cheer up, thomas. i feel sure--i can't tell you why, but i do feel sure--that the lord'll bring back your sammul again. he'll turn up some day, take my word for it. so don't lose heart, thomas; but remember how the blessed book says, `heaviness may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.'" "god bless you," said johnson, squeezing ned's hand hard; "you're a gradely comforter." and so they parted. it was not long, however, before thomas's patience was tried to the uttermost. his enemies let him alone for a short time after his wife's death--for there is a measure of rugged consideration even among profligates and drunkards. but a storm had been brewing, and it fell at last when ned brierley had been gone from langhurst about a month. a desperate effort was made to get johnson back to join his old companions at the "george," and when this utterly failed, every spiteful thing that malice could suggest and ingenuity effect was practised on the unfortunate collier, and in a measure upon betty also. but, like the wind in the fable, this storm only made johnson wrap himself round more firmly in the folds of his own strong resolution, rendered doubly strong by prayer. such a thought as yielding never crossed his mind. his only anxiety was how best to bear the cross laid on him. there were, of course, other abstainers in langhurst besides the brierleys, and these backed him up, so that by degrees his tormentors began to let him alone, and gave him a space for breathing, but they never ceased to have an eye towards him for mischief. the month of october had now come, when one evening, as johnson and betty were sitting at tea after their day's work, there was a knock at the door, and immediately afterwards a respectable-looking man entered, and asked,-- "does not thomas johnson live here?" "yes; he does," was johnson's reply. "and i suppose, then, you're thomas johnson yourself?" said the stranger. "i reckon you're not so far wrong," was the answer. "ah, well; so it is for sure," broke out betty. "why, you're the teetottal chap as came a-lecturing when me and our poor sammul signed the pledge." "sit ye down, sit ye down," cried her father; "you're welcome to our house, though it is but a sorrowful one." "i think, my friend," said the stranger, "that you are one of us now." "you may well say _now_," replied the other, "for when you was here afore, you'd a gone out of the door a deal quicker nor you came in; but, i bless the lord, things are changed now." "yes, indeed," said the other, "it is the lord's doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes; though, indeed, he does work such wonderful things that we've daily cause to bless and praise him. well, my friend--for we are friends, i see, in the best of bonds now--i have not long to stay now, but i just want to ask you one thing. i should like to have a total abstinence meeting next month in langhurst. will you say a word for us? we want some working man who has been rescued, through god's mercy, from the chains of the drink, to stand up and tell, in a simple, straightforward way, what he once was, and what god has done for him as a pledged abstainer; and i judge, from what i hear, that you're just the man we want." johnson paused for a while. "i don't know," he said, shaking his head; "i don't know. i'm not so sure it'll do at all." "oh, fayther," cried betty, "you must do what the gentleman axes you. it may do good to some poor creatures, and lead 'em to sign. it's only a small candle-end as the lord's given such as we are, but we must light it, and let it shine." "well," said her father, slowly, "maybe i oughtn't to say `no;' and yet you may be sure, if it gets talked on in the village, it's little peace as i shall have." "well, my friend," said the stranger, "of course i don't wish to bring you into trouble. still this is one of the ways in which you may take up a cross nobly for your saviour, and he'll give the strength to carry it." "say no more," replied johnson; "if the lord spares me, they shall hear a gradely tale from me." it was soon noised abroad in langhurst that thomas johnson was to give an account of himself as a reformed man and a total abstainer, at a meeting to be held in the village in the following month of november. his old companions were half mad with rage and vexation. what could be done? they were determined that he should be served out in some way, and that he should be prevented from appearing at the meeting. come what would, he should not stand up and triumph in his teetotalism on the platform--that they were quite resolved on. some scheme or plan must be devised to hinder it. and fortune seemed to favour them. a short time after it became generally known that johnson was to speak, a young lad might be seen hurrying home in his coal-pit-clothes to a low, dirty-looking cottage that stood on the outskirts of the village. "mother," cried the boy, as soon as he reached the house and could recover his breath, "where's fayther?" "he's not come home yet," said the mother; "but what ails you, john?" "why, mother," said the boy, with trembling voice, "fayther gave me a shilling to get change just as we was leaving the pit-bank, and i dropped it somewhere as i were coming down the lane. i'm almost sure ben taylor's lad found it, and picked it up; but when i axed him if he hadn't got it, he said `no,' and told me he'd knock my head against the wall if i didn't hold my noise. i see'd fayther go by at the lane end, but he didn't see me. he'll thrash the life out of me if he finds i've lost the shilling.--i've run for my life, but he'll be here directly. you must make it right, mother--you must." "ay, ay, lad; i'll speak to your fayther. he shan't beat you. just keep out of the road till he's cooled down a bit. eh! here he comes for sure, and a lot of his mates with him. there--just creep under the couch-chair, lad. they'll not tarry so long. fayther'll be off to the `george' as soon as he's had his tea." so the poor boy crept under the couch, the hanging drapery effectually hiding him from the view of any who might come in. another moment, and will jones the father entered the house with half-a-dozen companions. "well, and what's up now?" asked the wife, as the men seated themselves--some on chairs, and one or two on the couch. "never you heed, martha," said her husband; "but just clap to the door, and take yourself off to molly grundy's, or anywhere else you've a mind." "i can tell you i shall do nothing of the sort," was the reply. "a likely thing, indeed, as i'm to take myself off and leave my own hearth- stone while a parcel of chaps is turning the house out of the windows. if you're up to that sort of game, or if you want to be talking anything as decent folk shouldn't hear, you'd better be off to the `george.' it's the fittest place for such work." "eh! don't vex martha," said one of the men. "she'll promise not to split, i'll answer for it. won't you, martha?" "eh, for sure," said martha, "if you're bound to have your talk here, you needn't be afraid of me; only i hope you're not going to do anything as'll bring us into trouble." "never fear," said her husband; "there, sit you down and mend your stockings, and the less you heed us the less you'll have to afterthink." the men then began to talk together in a loudish whisper. "tommy jacky'll be making a fine tale about you and me," said jones. "eh, what a sighing and groaning there will be; and then we shall see in the papers, `mr johnson finished his speech amidst loud applause.'" "eh, but we must put a stopper in his mouth," said another. "but how must we do it?" asked a third. "thomas is not the chap to be scared out of what he's made up his mind to." "no," remarked another; "and there's many a one as'd stand by him if we were to try anything strong." "can't we shame him at the meeting?" asked another. "nay," said jones, "he's gradely. you couldn't shame him by telling folks what he was; and all as knows him knows as he's kept his teetottal strict enough." "i have it!" cried a man, the expression of whose face was a sad mixture of sensuality, shrewdness, and malice. "i'll just tell you what we'll do. you know how people keeps saying--`what a changed man johnson is! how respectable and clean he looks! how tidy he's dressed when he goes to church on a sunday!--you've only to look in his face to see he's a changed man.' now, i'll just tell you what we'll do, if you've a mind to stand by me and give me a help. it'll do him no harm in the end, and'll just take a little of the conceit out on him. and won't it just spoil their sport at the meeting!" "tell us what it is, man," cried all the others eagerly. "well, you know the water-butt at the back of thomas's house. well, you can reach the windows of the chamber by standing on the butt. the window's not hard to open, for i've often seen alice throw it up; and i'm sure it's not fastened. now, just suppose we waits till the night afore the meeting; that'll be the twenty-second--there'll be no moon then. thomas won't be in the night-shift that week. i know he sleeps sound, for i've heard their betty say as it were the only thing as kept 'em up, that they slept both on 'em so well. suppose, then, as we gets a goodish-sized furze bush or two, and goes round to the back about two o'clock in the morning. we must have a rope or two; then we must take off our clogs, and climb up by the water-butt. the one as goes up first must have a dark lantern. well, then, we must creep quietly in, and just lap a rope loosely round the bed till we're all ready. then we'll just tighten the rope so that he can't move, and i'll scratch his sweet face all over with the furze; and one of you chaps must have some gunpowder and lamp-black ready to rub it well into his face where it's been scratched. you must stuff a clout into his mouth if he offers to holler. we can do it all in two minutes by the help of the lantern. the light'll dazzle him so as he'll not be able to make any on us out; and then we must slip out of the window and be off afore he's had time to wriggle himself out of the ropes. eh, won't he be a lovely pictur next day!--his best friends, as they say, won't know him. won't he just look purty at the meeting! there's a model teetottaller for you! do you think he'll have the face to say then, `you've heard, ladies and gentlemen, what i once was; you see what i am now?' oh, what a rare game it'll be!" this proposition was received by the rest of the company with roars of laughter and the fullest approbation. "it'll be first-rate," said jones, "if we can only manage it." "surely," said another, "he'll never dare show his face out of the door." "ah, but," suggested one, "what about betty? she's sure to wake and spoil it all. it's too risky, with her sleeping close by." "no," said another man, "it'll just be all right. betty'll be off at rochdale visiting her aunt. our mary heard fanny higson and betty talking it over at the mill a day or two since. `so you'll not be at the meeting?' says fanny. `why not?' says betty. `'cos you'll be off at your aunt's at rochdale,' says fanny. `ah, but i'm bound to be back for the meeting, and hear fayther tell his tale,' says betty. `i'll be back some time in the forenoon, to see as fayther has his sunday shirt and shoes, and his clothes all right, and time enough to dress myself for the meeting. old jenny'll see to fayther while i'm off. it'll be all right if i'm at home some time in the forenoon.' so you see, mates, it couldn't be better; as the parson says, it's quite a providence." "well, what say you?" cried will jones. "shall we strike hands on it?" all at once shook hands, vowing to serve out poor johnson. "ay," exclaimed one, "we must get the chap as takes photographs to come over on purpose. eh, what a rare cart-der-wissit tommy'll make arter the scratching. you must lay in a lot on 'em, will, and sell 'em for sixpence a piece. you'll make your fortune by it, man." "martha," said jones, turning to his wife, "mind, not a word to any living soul about what we've been saying." "i've said i won't tell," replied his wife; "and in course i won't. but i'm sure you might find summat better to do nor scratching a poor fellow's face as has done you no harm. i'm not fond of your teetottal chaps; but tommy's a quiet, decent sort of man, and their betty's as tidy a wench as you'll meet with anywhere; and i think it's a shame to bring 'em any more trouble, for they've had more nor their share as it is. it'd be a rare and good thing if some of you chaps'd follow tommy's example. there'd be more peace in the house, and more brass in the pocket at the week end." "hold your noise, and mind your own business," shouted her husband, fiercely. "you just blab a word of what we've been saying, and see how i'll sarve you out.--come, mates, let's be off to the `george;' we shall find better company there." so saying, he strode savagely out of the cottage, followed by his companions. when they were fairly gone, the poor boy slipped from his hiding-place. "johnny," said his mother, "if you'll do what your mother bids you, i'll give your fayther the change for the shilling out of my own pocket, and he'll never know as you lost it." "well, mother, i'll do it if i can." "you've heard what your fayther and t'other chaps were saying?" "yes, mother; every word on't." "well, john, i promised i wouldn't let out a word of it myself; but i didn't say that _you_ shouldn't." "eh, mother, if i split, fayther'll break every bone in my body." "but how's your fayther to know anything about it? he knows nothing of your being under the couch-chair. i can swear as i haven't opened my lips to any one out of the house, nor to any one as has come into it. you just slip down now to thomas's, and tell their betty you wants to speak with her by herself. tell her she mustn't say a word to any one. she's a good wench. she's sharp enough, too; she'll keep it all snug. she were very good to me when our moses were down with the fever, and i mustn't let her get into this trouble when i can lend her a helping hand to get her out." "but, mother," said her son, "what am i to tell betty?" "why, just tell her all you've heard, and how you were under the couch- chair, and how i promised myself as i wouldn't split. tell her she must make no din about it, but just keep her fayther out of the way. he may go off to his brother dick's, and come home in the morn, and who's to say as he's heard anything about the scratching." "well, mother," said john, "i'll do as you say. betty's a good wench; she's given me many a kind word, and many a butter cake too, and i'd not like to see her fretting if i could help it." "there's a good lad," said his mother; "be off at once. fayther's safe in the `george.' it'll be pretty dark in the lane. you can go in at the back, and you're pretty sure to find betty at home. be sharp, and i'll keep your tea for you till you come back again." chapter fifteen. flitting. the twenty-second of november, the day before the total abstinence meeting, arrived in a storm of wind and rain. everything was favourable to the conspirators. they had met several times to arrange their plans, but had always talked them over in the open air and in the dark, under a hedge, or at the end of a lane. martha never alluded to the subject with her husband. he had once said to her himself-- "mind what you've promised." she replied,-- "never fear. i said i wouldn't tell, and i haven't told. i haven't breathed a word to any one as wasn't in the house the night when you talked it over." her husband was satisfied. betty was gone to her aunt's, and it was positively ascertained that she was not to return that night. johnson had clearly no intention of spending the night away from home, for, as he was leaving the pit-bank, when will jones stepped up to him and said,-- "well, thomas, i suppose you'll have a rare tale to tell about your old mates to-morrow; we must come all on us and hearken you." he had quietly replied,-- "i hope, will, you'll hear nothing as'll do any of you any harm, and i hope you wish me none, as i'm sure i don't wish any harm to you. i mustn't tarry now, for our betty's off; and i've much to do at home, for to-morrow'll be a busy day for me." a little later on, towards nine o'clock, one of the men in the plot passed by johnson's house, and heard his voice in conversation with some one else. all, therefore, was in a right train for their scheme to succeed. at ten o'clock the whole party met in a lane near will jones's. "it's all right," said the man who had heard johnson in conversation with another man a short time before. "thomas'll be fast asleep afore long. the window's all right, too; i just slipped round to the back and looked at it." "well," said jones, "now we must all on us go home. we mustn't be seen together. we're all to meet in the field when the church clock strikes two. who's got the powder and the lamp-black?" "i have," replied a voice. "and who's got the ropes?" "i have," whispered another. "well, that's all right," said will, with a low, chuckling laugh. "i've got the lantern and furze. i've picked out some with a rare lot of pricks on't. i reckon he'll not look so handsome in the morning." quietly and stealthily they separated, and shrunk off to their own houses. a few hours later, and several dusky figures were slipping along with as little noise as possible towards the dwelling of the poor victim. it was still very boisterous, but the rain had almost ceased. thick, heavy clouds, black as ink, were being hurried across the sky, while the wind was whistling keenly round the ends of the houses. there were gaslights which flickered in the gale along the main road; but everything was in the densest gloom at the rear of the buildings and down the side streets. as the church clock struck two, the first stroke loud and distinct, the next like its mournful echo--as the sound was borne away by the fitful breeze, the conspirators crept with the utmost caution to the back of johnson's house. not a sound but their own muffled footsteps could be heard. not a light was visible through any window. no voice except that of the wailing wind broke the deep stillness. the black walls of the different dwellings rose up dreary and solemn, with spectral-looking pipes dimly projecting from them. the drip, drip of the rain, as it fell off the smoky slates, or streamed down the walls, giving them here and there a dusky glaze, intensified the mournful loneliness of the whole scene. "crouch you down under the water-butt," whispered ben stone, the man who had proposed the scheme, and who now acted as leader. "will, give me your shoulder--where's the lantern?" in another moment he was close to the window, which was gently raised, but at that instant something struck him on the back, he uttered a half- suppressed exclamation, and nearly loosed his hold. "it's only a cat," whispered one of the men below. "all's right." stone again raised himself to the window, and pushed it farther up; then he drew himself down out of sight and listened. not a sound came from the chamber to show that johnson's sleep was disturbed. again the man raised himself. he had previously taken off his clogs, as had also the others. very gradually and warily, with suppressed breath, he lowered himself on to the floor. all was safe so far. betty had slept here, but her bed was now empty; indeed, to ben stone's surprise, the bedstead was bare both of mattress and bedclothes. johnson's was the inner chamber. ben stole softly to the door, all was dark and quiet; he could just make out the bed, and that a figure lay upon it. he hastily caused the light of the lantern to flash on the recumbent form for a single moment, it seemed to him to move; he crouched down close to the floor, and listened--again all was still. he was now convinced that johnson lay there in a deep sleep. now was the time. stepping back to the window on tiptoe, he put out his head, and whispered,-- "all's right; come up as quietly as you can." they were all soon in the outer chamber. "now," said stone in a low voice, "you give me the furze--there, that'll do. will, have you got the pot with the powder and lamp-black?--that's your sort--where's the ropes?--all right--now then." all reached the floor of the outer room without any mishap, and then, treading with the utmost caution, approached the bed in the inner room. the sleeper did not stir. ben stone threw the light upon the prostrate figure, which lay coiled up, and apparently quite unconscious. a rope was now thrown loosely round, the men crawling along the floor, and just raising themselves on one elbow as they jerked it lightly across the bedstead; then another coil was made higher up, still the sleeper did not stir hand or foot. "now, then," cried ben, half out loud, and throwing the full blaze of the lantern on the bed's head; in a moment the other men had drawn the ropes tight, and jones leant over with his pot. but before ben had time to plunge the furze upon the unhappy victim's face, a suppressed cry broke from the whole group. it was no living being that lay there, but only a bundle of old carpeting, with a dirty coverlid thrown over it. the next instant the truth burst upon them all. johnson was gone. they looked at one another the very picture of stupid bewilderment. a hasty flash of the lantern showed that there was no other bed in the chamber. "well, here's a go," whispered jones; "the bird's flown, and a pretty tale we shall have to tell." "stop," said ben, in an under-voice, and motioning the others to keep quiet, "maybe he's sleeping on the couch-chair in the house." "i'll go and see," said jones. cautiously he descended the stairs, terrified at every creak they made under his weight. did he hear anything? no; it was only the pattering of the rain-drops outside. stealthily he peeped into the kitchen; no one was there, the few smouldering ashes in the grate being the only token of recent occupation. so he went back to his friends in the chamber. "eh, see, what's here!" cried one of the men, in an agitated voice; "look on the floor." they turned the light of the lantern on to the chamber-floor, and a strange sight indeed presented itself. right across the room, in regular lines, were immense letters in red and black adhering to the boards. "ben, you're a scholar," said jones; "read 'em." stone, thus appealed to, made the light travel slowly along the words, and read in a low and faltering voice,-- "_no drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of god_." then he passed on to the red letters, and the words were,-- "_prepare to meet thy god_." a deathlike stillness fell on the whole party, who had hitherto spoken in loud whispers. terror seized the hearts of some, and bitter shame stung the consciences of others. "we must get out of this as fast as we can," said jones. "if we're taken roving about the house this fashion, we shall all be clapped in prison for housebreakers. least said about this, mates, soonest mended. we'd best hold our tongues. old tommy's clean outwitted us; he has for sure. maybe it serves us right." all made their way back as hastily as possible through the window, and separated to their several homes, only too glad to have escaped detection. and what was become of thomas johnson? nobody could tell. when the morning arrived, old jenny went to the house, but the door was locked. a piece of furze, an old rag, and some black-looking stuff were found near the water-butt at the back, but what they could have to do with johnson's disappearance no one could say. he was, however, manifestly gone, and betty too, for neither of them made their appearance that day. the meeting was held, but no thomas johnson made his appearance at it, and his friends were lost in conjecture. but days and weeks passed away, and nothing turned up to gratify or satisfy public curiosity in the matter. jones never spoke of it to his wife or any one else, and the rest of the party were equally wise in keeping their own counsel as to the intended assault and its failure. the landlord of johnson's house claimed the scanty furniture for the rent, and no one turned up to dispute the claim. so all traces of thomas johnson were utterly lost to langhurst. chapter sixteen. falling away. and now we must leave the mystery for a future unravelling, and return to abraham oliphant and his guests at "the rocks." for several days hubert and frank remained with mr oliphant, riding out among the hills and into the town, as pleasure or business called them. but an idle, objectless life was not one to suit hubert; and frank, of course, could not continue much longer as a guest at "the rocks." it was soon settled that the nephew should assist his uncle, and frank determined to look-out for a home. it was arranged that jacob poole should come to him as soon as he was settled, and in the meanwhile mr oliphant found the boy employment. unfortunately for himself, frank oldfield was not in any way dependent for his living on his own exertions. his father allowed him to draw on him to the amount of three hundred pounds a year, so that, with reasonable care, he could live very comfortably, especially if he voluntarily continued the total abstinence which he had been compelled to practise on board ship. the reader is aware that he had never been a pledged abstainer at any time. even when most overwhelmed with shame, and most anxious to regain the place he had lost in mary oliphant's esteem and affection, he would not take the one step which might have interposed a barrier between himself and those temptations which he had not power to resist, when they drew upon him with a severe or sudden strain. he thought that he was only asserting a manly independence when he refused to be pledged, whereas he was simply just allowing satan to cheat him with a miserable lie, while he held in reserve his right to commit an excess which he flattered himself he should never be guilty of; but which he was secretly resolved not to bind himself to forego. thus he played fast and loose with his conscience, and was really being carried with the tide while he fancied himself to be riding safely at anchor. had he then forgotten mary? had he relinquished all desire and hope of seeing her once more, and claiming her for his wife? no; she was continually in his thoughts. his affection was deepened by absence and distance; but by a strange infatuation, spite of all that had happened in the past, he would always picture her to himself as his, irrespective of his own steadfastness and sobriety. he knew she would never consent to be a drunkard's wife, yet at the same time he would never allow himself to realise that he could himself forfeit her hand and love through the drunkard's sin. he would never look steadily at the matter in this light at all. he was sober now, and he took for granted that he should continue to be so. it was treason to himself and to his manhood and truth to doubt it. and so, when, after he had been about a month in the colony, he received a letter from mrs oliphant full of kindly expressions of interest and hopes that, by the time he received the letter, he would have formally enrolled himself amongst the pledged abstainers, he fiercely crumpled up the letter and thrust it from him, persuading himself that he was justly annoyed that the permanence of his sober habits should be doubted; whereas, in truth, the sting was in this, that the reading of the letter dragged out from some dark recess of his consciousness the conviction that, with all his high resolve and good intentions, he was standing on an utterly sandy foundation, and leaning for support on a brittle wand of glass. and thus he was but ill-fortified to wrestle with his special temptation when he settled down, a few weeks after his arrival, in a commodious cottage not very far from "the rocks." his new dwelling was the property of a settler, who, having realised a moderate fortune, and wishing to have a peep at the old country, was glad to let his house for a term of three years at a reasonable rent. the rooms were small but very snug, the fittings being all of cedar, which gave a look of refinement and elegance to the interior. there were good stables, coach-house, and offices, and a well of the purest water--a great matter in a place where many had no water at all except what dropped from the heavens, or had to content themselves with brackish wells. there was a lovely garden, with everything in fruit and flower that could be desired; while, in the fields around, grew the aromatic gum, the canidia, or native lilac, with its clusters of purple blossoms, and the wattle, with its waving tufts of almond-scented flowers. when jacob joined his master in his australian home, he hardly knew how to express his delight and admiration. "well, jacob," said frank, "you're likely to have plenty of fresh air and exercise if you stay with me. i shall want you to be gardener, groom, and valet. mrs watson,"--(a widow who had undertaken the situation of housekeeper)--"will look after the house, and the eatables and drinkables." "indeed, sir," said jacob, "i'll do my best; but i shall have to learn, and you must excuse a few blunders at the first. i shall manage the garden well enough, i reckon, after a bit, though i'm not certain which way the roots of the flowers grows in these foreign parts;--the cherries, i see, has their stones growing outside on 'em, and maybe the roots of the flowers is out in the air, and the flowers in the ground. as for the horses, i'm not so much of a rider; but i must stick to their backs, i reckon. they'll be rayther livelier, some on 'em, i suppose, nor our old pit horses, as hadn't seen daylight for ten years or more. but as for being a wally, you must insense me into that, for i don't know anything about it. if it's anything to do with making beds or puddings, i have never had no knowledge of anything of the sort." frank was highly entertained at the poor boy's perplexity. "oh, never fear, jacob; where there's a will there's a way--and i see you've got the will. i'll trust you to learn your gardening from mr oliphant's man at `the rocks.' you must go and get him to give you a lesson or two; and if the seeds should not come up at first, i must take it for granted that you've sown them wrong side upwards. as for the riding, i'll undertake myself to make you a good horseman in a very little time. so there's only one thing left, and that's the valet. you needn't be afraid of it; it's nothing whatever to do with making beds or puddings--that's all in mrs watson's department. what i mean by valet is a person who will just wait upon me, as you waited on captain merryweather on board ship." "oh, is that it!" cried jacob, greatly relieved; "then i can manage it gradely, i haven't a doubt." and he did manage it gradely. never was there a more willing learner or trustworthy servant--his was the service of love; and every day bound him more and more firmly to his young master with the cords of devoted affection. frank returned the attachment with all the natural warmth of his character. he delighted in the rough openness, which never degenerated into rudeness or disrespect; for jacob, while free and unconstrained in his manner, instinctively knew his place and kept it. there was also a raciness and good sense in his observations, which made frank find in him a pleasant companion in their many wanderings, both on horse and on foot. frank was always a welcome guest at "the rocks," where he learned to value and reverence abraham oliphant, and to feel a hearty liking for his sons and daughters. but his heart was over the water, and he felt that he could never settle alone and without mary in that far-off land. he often wrote to his mother, and also to mary. to the latter he expressed himself full of hope that he should be able to return home before many years were passed, and claim her for his own; but he never alluded to the cause of his temporary banishment, nor did he reply to the questions which she put to him on the subject of total abstinence, except by saying briefly that she might trust him, and need not fear. "jacob," he said one day, as he concluded a letter to his mother, "i believe the mail leaves to-day for england, and these letters ought to be in adelaide by three o'clock. you shall ride in with them, and bring me out a `reporter.' by the way, isn't there any one in the old country you would like to write to yourself? perhaps you do write, only i've never noticed you doing so!" the colour flushed up into jacob's face, as he replied, with some confusion and hesitation,-- "well, you see, sir--why--i'm not so sure--well--truth to tell, in the first place, i'm not so much of a scholar." "ah, exactly," said his master; "but that need be no hindrance. i shall be very glad to write for you, if you don't want to send any secrets, and you'll only tell me what to say." jacob got very uneasy. the tears came into his eyes. he did not speak for several minutes. at last he said, with much emotion,-- "'deed, sir, and you're very kind; but there's none as i care to write to gradely. there's them as should be all the world to me, but they're nothing to me now. i can't tell you just what it is; but it's even as i'm saying to you. there's one as i should have liked--ah, well--she'll be better without it. thank you, sir; you're very kind indeed, but i won't trouble you." frank saw that there was a secret; he had therefore too much delicacy of feeling to press jacob any further; so he merely said,-- "well, at any time, if you like me to write home, or anywhere else for you, i shall be glad to do so. and now you'd better be off. take little silvertail; a canter will do her good. i shall ride roderick myself up through the gully. you may tell mrs watson not to bring tea in till she sees me, as i may be late." jacob was soon off on his errands, and his master proceeded slowly up the hilly gorge at the back of his house. "there's some mystery about jacob," he said to himself; as he rode quietly along; "but i suppose it's the case with a great many who come to these colonies. `least said, soonest mended,' is true, i fancy, in a great many cases." it was a lovely afternoon. the sun was pouring forth a blaze of light and heat, such as is rarely experienced out of tropical countries. and yet, when the heat was most intense, there was an elasticity about the air which prevented any feeling of oppression or exhaustion. the road wound up through quaint-looking hills, doubled one into another, like the upturned knuckles of some gigantic hand. every now and then, at a bend in the track, the high lands, sloping away on either side, disclosed the distant town lying like a child's puzzle on the plain, with the shadowy flats and dim ocean in the far background. by overshadowing rocks and down sudden steeps the road kept its irregular course; and now it would cleave its way along a mile of table-land, elevated above a perfect ocean of trees on either side, which seemed as though human hand or foot had never trespassed on their sombre solitude. yet, every here and there the marks of destruction would suggest thoughts of man's work and presence. whole tracts of forest would be filled with half-charred trunks, the centres black and hollowed out, the upper parts green and flourishing as ever. nothing, for a time, broke the silence of frank's solitary ride, as he made his way along the serpentine road rising still higher and higher, and every now and then emerging upon broader and broader views of the plains and ocean beyond them, while the interlocking hills beneath his feet had dwindled down into a row of hillocks like funeral mounts in some titanic graveyard. and now, as he paused in admiration to gaze on the lovely view spread out before him, he felt the burning heat relieved for a moment by a flying cloud; he looked upward--it was a flight of the yellow-crested cockatoo, which passed rapidly on with deafening screeches. a while after, and a flock of the all-coloured parakeet sped past him like the winged fragments of a rainbow. look where he would, all was beautiful: the sky above, a pure italian blue--the distant ocean sparkling--the lands of the plain smiling in peaceful sunshine--the hills on all sides quaint and fantastic--the highlands around him thick with their forests--the sward, wherever trees were thickly scattered, enamelled with flowers of the brightest scarlet. oh, how sad that sin should mar the beauties with which the hand of god has so lavishly clothed even this fallen world. frank's heart was filled with a delight that ascended into adoration of the great creator; then tenderer thoughts stole over him--thoughts of home, thoughts of the hearts which loved him still, spite of the past. oh, how his spirit yearned for a sight of the loved and dear familiar faces he had left behind in the old but now far-off land! tears filled his eyes, and he murmured something like a prayer. it was but for a little while, however, that thoughts like these kept possession of his heart; for he was brought rudely back to things before him by the rapid sound of horses' feet. the next moment, round a turn of the road came a saddled horse without a rider, the broken bridle dangling from its head. "stop her, if you please," cried a young lady, who was following at the top of her speed. frank immediately crossed the path of the runaway animal, and succeeded in catching it. "i hope you have not been thrown or hurt," he said, as he restored it to its owner. "oh no, thank you," she replied. "i'm so much obliged to you. we--that is, some friends and myself--are up in these hills to-day, on a picnicking excursion. my mare was hung up to a tree, and while we were looking after the provisions, she broke her bridle and got off." several gentlemen now came running up. they thanked frank for his timely help, and asked him if he would not come and join their party. there was a heartiness and cheeriness of manner about them which made it impossible for him to say, "no," so he assented, and followed them to an open space a short way off the road, round the next turn, where a very merry company were gathered among the trees, with the scarlet- embroidered sward for their table. "pray, take a seat among us," said one of the gentlemen who had invited him. "i'll secure your horse--is he tolerably quiet?" "perfectly so; but you'd better take his saddle off, lest he should be inclined to indulge in a roll." "i am sure, sir, i owe you many thanks," said the young lady whose horse he had caught; "for, if you had not stopped my mare, she would have been half-way to adelaide by this time, and one of us must have walked." frank made a suitable reply, and was at once quite at ease with his new companions. there were four gentlemen and as many ladies, the latter in the prime of life, and full of spirits, which the stranger's presence did not check. no spot could be more lovely than the one chosen for their open-air meal. before them was the deep, sloping chasm, revealing the distant town and ocean, and clothed on either side with unbroken forests. all around was the brilliant carpeting of flowers; overhead, the intensely blue sky, latticed here and there with the interlacing boughs of trees. the dinner or luncheon was spread out on a white cloth, and consisted of the usual abundance of fowls, pies, and tarts, proper to such occasions, and flanked by what was evidently considered no secondary part of the refreshments--a compact regiment of pale ale, porter, wine, and spirit-bottles. under ordinary circumstances such a sight would have been very inviting; but it was doubly so to frank, after his long and hot ride. all were disposed to treat him, as the stranger, with pressing hospitality; but his own free and gentlemanly bearing, and the openness with which he answered the questions put to him, as well as the hearty geniality of his conversation, made all his new acquaintances delighted with him, and eager to supply his wants as their guest. it is not, therefore, much to be wondered at that any half-formed resolutions as to total abstinence which he might have vaguely entertained soon melted away before the cordial entreaties of the gentlemen that he would not spare the ale, wine, or spirits. "you'll have found riding in such a sun thirsty work, i'm sure, sir," said a stout, jolly-looking man, who was evidently one of the leaders of the party. frank made just a feeble answer about not drinking, and a pretence of holding back his glass, and then allowed himself to be helped first to one tumbler, then another, and then another, of foaming bass. he was soon past all qualms, regrets, or misgivings. "capital stuff this," he said; "do you know where i can get some?" "most proud to serve you, my dear sir," said the stout gentleman. "i have a large stock on hand; anything in the way of ale, porter, wine, or spirits, i flatter myself no one in adelaide is better able to supply; perhaps you'll kindly favour me with an order!" "certainly," said frank, and gave his address, and an order for ale, wine, and spirits to be sent over to his cottage the following day. and now, from his long previous abstinence, what he had already drunk had begun to tell upon him. he felt it, and rose to go, but his entertainers would not hear of his leaving them; for, under the excitement of the strong drink, he had been pouring forth anecdotes, and making himself in other ways so entertaining and agreeable, that his new friends were most anxious to detain him. so wine and brandy were added to his previous potations; and when at last, with assistance, he mounted his horse, it was with the greatest difficulty he could retain his seat in the saddle. and thus the whole party, singing, shouting, laughing, descended along the winding track, making god's beautiful creation hideous by the jarring of their brutal mirth; for surely that mirth is brutal which springs, not from a heart filled with innocent rejoicing, but from lips that sputter out the frenzies of a brain on fire with the stimulants of alcohol. how frank oldfield got home he could not tell. his horse knew his road, and followed it; for, dumb brute as he was, his senses were not clouded by the unnatural stimulant which had stolen away the intellects of his _rational_ master. darkness had settled down when horse and rider reached the slip-rail at the entrance of the field before frank's house. jacob was there, for he had heard his master's voice some ten minutes earlier singing snatches of songs in a wild exaggerated manner. poor jacob, he could hardly believe his ears, as he listened to "rule britannia" shouted out by those lips which, he had imagined, never allowed strong drink to pass them. "is that you, jacob, my boy?" cried frank thickly. "yes, sir," said jacob sorrowfully. "let down--shlip-rail--th-there's--good lad," added his master. "it's down," replied the other shortly. "tchick--tchick, roderick," cried frank, almost tumbling over his horse's head. at last they reached the house door. mrs watson came out, candle in hand. "how are you, mrs watson?" hiccupped her master. "lend us a light--all right; that's poetry, and no mistake--ha, ha, ha! capital, jacob, my boy, ain't it?" and he tumbled over one side of his horse, only saving himself from falling to the ground by catching hold of one of the posts of the verandah. but we need not follow him further. he slept the heavy drunkard's sleep that night, and rose the next morning feverish, sick, thirsty, degraded, humbled, miserable. poor jacob's face would have been a picture, could it have been taken as he looked upon his master staggering into the house by the light of mrs watson's candle--a very picture it would have been of mingled astonishment, perplexity, distress, disgust. "well," he said to himself moodily, "i thought the old lad had his hands full in the old country, but it's like he's not content with that; i'd as soon have thought of the queen of england taking pick and davy-lamp and going down to work in the pit, as of my young mayster coming home beastly drunk. my word, it's awful; 'tis for sure." when master and servant met next day each avoided the other's eye. frank spoke moodily, and jacob answered surlily. but it was not in frank's nature to continue long in constraint of manner with any one, so, calling to his servant in a cheery voice,-- "here, jacob," he cried, "i want you in the garden." jacob ran to him briskly, for there was a charm in his young master's manner which he could not resist. "jacob," said frank oldfield, "you saw me last night as i trust you will never see me again, overcome with drink." "ay, mayster," said the other, "i see'd you sure enough, and i'd sooner have see'd a yard full of lions and tigers nor such a sight as that." "well, jacob, it was the first, and i trust the last time too; it was wrong, very wrong. i'm thoroughly ashamed that you should have seen me in such a plight. i was betrayed into it. i ought to have been more on my guard; you mustn't think any more of it; i'll take care it doesn't happen again." "ah, mayster," said the other, "i shall be rare and glad if it doesn't. i hope you'll keep gradely teetottal, for the drink's a cheating and lying thing." "i hope so too," said frank, and then the conversation dropped. but now he remembered that the wine, beer, and spirits which he had ordered were to come that very evening. what was he to do? conscience said very plainly, "stand forth like a man, be at once a total abstainer, it is your only safe course; tell jacob all about it, and send a counter-order by him at once, with a note of apology; call to- morrow on the merchant, and tell him in a straightforward way that you feel it your duty to become an abstainer forthwith; thus you will at once show your colours, and will save yourself from much annoyance, and, what is better still, from sin; and sign the pledge, that you may have a barrier between yourself and the drink which all the world can understand." thus conscience spoke softly but clearly, as with the vibrations of a silver bell; but lust, with its hot hand, stilled those vibrations with a touch. frank would not counter-order the drink, for he loved it; he persuaded himself that he should be strictly moderate, while he was secretly determined to keep within his reach the means of excess. and yet he was very anxious that jacob should not be aware of the coming of any drink into the house. so he watched hour after hour as evening drew on, feeling more like a felon bent on some deed of darkness than an honest, straightforward englishman. at last he saw the merchant's spring-cart in the distance. making some excuse for sending jacob to a house about a quarter of a mile off, and setting mrs watson down in the kitchen to an interesting article in the newspaper, he met the cart at the gate, and assisted the driver to carry the hampers of strong drinkables, with all possible haste, into his bed-room. then, quickly dismissing the man, he locked himself into his chamber, and carefully deposited the hampers in a large cupboard near the head of his bed. when he had completed all this he began to breathe freely again. and thus he commenced the downward course of unfaltering, deliberate deceit. hitherto he had deceived himself chiefly, keeping the truth in the background of his consciousness; now he was carefully planning to deceive others. and oh, what a mean, paltry deceit it was--so low does rational, immortal man stoop when under the iron grasp of a master sin! and so, with carefully-locked door, and stealthy step, and cautious handling of glass and bottle, lest any one should hear, frank oldfield drank daily of the poison that was ruining his body and paralysing his moral nature; for whatever it might or might not be to others, it was assuredly poison to him. jacob poole mused and wondered, and could not make him out--sometimes he saw him deeply depressed, at another time in a state of overboiling spirits and extravagant gaiety. poor jacob's heart misgave him as to the cause, and yet he fully believed that there were no intoxicating liquors in the house. but things could not remain in this position; there is no sin which runs with such accumulating speed as the drunkard's. frank would now be seldom riding to "the rocks," and often to the town; he would stay away from home night after night, and no one knew what had become of him. poor jacob began to get very weary, and to dread more and more that he should find his young master becoming a confirmed slave to the drink. frank's fine temper, too, was not what it once was, and jacob had to wince under many a hasty word. at last his master began to find that his expenses were getting greatly in advance of his income. he called one day at the bank, drew a cheque, and presented it over the counter. the cashier took it to the manager's desk: there was a brief consultation, and then a request that mr oldfield would step into the manager's private room. "i am exceedingly sorry, mr oldfield," said the manager, "that we feel ourselves in a difficulty as to the cheque you have just drawn; the fact is that you have already overdrawn your account fifty pounds, and we hardly feel justified in cashing any more of your cheques till we receive further remittances to your credit." "very well, sir," said frank haughtily, and rising; "i shall transfer my account to some other bank, which will deal more liberally and courteously with me;" saying which, he hurried into the street in a state of fierce excitement. when, however, he had had time to cool down a little, he began to feel the awkwardness of his position. he was quite sure that his father would not increase his allowance, and an overdrawn account was not a thing so easy to transfer. besides which, he began to be aware that his present habits were getting talked about in the city. but money he must have. to whom could he apply? there was but one person to whom he could bring himself to speak on the subject, and that was hubert. he had seen very little of him, however, of late, for the company and pursuits he had taken to were not such as would find any countenance from young oliphant. something, however, must be done. so he called at the office in king william street, and had a private interview with his friend. "money," said hubert, when he had heard of frank's necessities, "is not a thing i have much at command at present." "but you can procure me the loan of a hundred pounds, i daresay?" asked the other; "my next half-yearly payment will be made in two months, and then i shall be able to repay the money, with the interest." "you want a hundred pounds now, as i understand," said his friend, "and you have already overdrawn your account fifty pounds; when your money is paid in it will just cover this hundred and fifty pounds, without any interest. how do you mean to manage for the interest and your next half-year's expenses?" "oh, i don't know," replied frank testily; "what's the use of bothering a fellow with calculations like that? of course the tradespeople must trust me, and it'll be all right by the time another half-year's payment comes in." "well, if you've paid your tradesmen up to now," rejoined hubert, "of course they may be willing to wait. still, excuse my saying, dear frank, that it's not a very healthy thing this forestalling, and i don't see how you're to pay the interest when you get your next payment." "what a fuss about the interest!" cried the other. "the fellow that lends it must clap on so much more for waiting a little longer, that's all. and as for the tradesmen, they must be content to be paid by degrees. they'll take precious good care not to be losers in the end, i'll warrant them." "dear frank," said hubert kindly, but very gravely, and laying his hand affectionately on the other's shoulder, "you must bear with me if i speak a little plainly to you--you must bear with me, indeed you must. you know that you came out here hoping to redeem the past, and to return home again a new character. you know what lies at the end of such a hope fulfilled. are you really trying to live the life you purposed to live? there are very ugly rumours abroad. you seem to have nearly forsaken old friends; and the new ones, if report says true, are such as will only lead you to ruin. oh, dear frank, if you would only see things in the right light--if you would only see your own weakness, and seek strength in prayer in your saviour's name--oh, surely you would break off at once from your present ways and companions, and there might be hope--oh yes, hope even yet." frank did not speak for some time. at last he said, in a stern, husky voice,-- "can you--or can you not--borrow the money for me?" "if i could feel convinced," was the reply, "that you would at once break off from your present associates, and that you would seriously set about retrenching, i would undertake to procure for you the hundred pounds you require--nay, i would make myself responsible for it." frank sat down, and buried his face in his hands. "oh, help me, hubert," he cried, "and i will promise all you wish. i will pay off old debts as far as possible, and will incur no new ones. i will keep myself out of harm's way; and will take to old friends, if they will receive me again. can i say more?" "will you not become a genuine pledged abstainer? and will you not pray for grace to keep your good resolution?" "well, as far as the total abstinence is concerned, i will think about it." "and will you not pray for strength?" "oh, of course--of course." and frank went off with a light heart, the present pressure being removed. hubert procured the money for him. and now for a time there was a decided outward improvement. frank was startled to find how rapidly he was being brought, by his expensive habits, to the brink of ruin. he tore himself, therefore, from his gay associates, and was often a visitor at "the rocks." but he did not give up the drink. he contrived, by dexterous management, to keep up the stock in his bed- room, without the knowledge of either jacob or mrs watson. but one day he sent jacob for a powder-flask which he had left on his dressing- table, having forgotten, through inadvertence, to lock his cupboard door or remove a spirit-bottle from his table. jacob remained staring at the bottle, and then at the open hamper in the closet, as if fascinated by the gaze of some deadly serpent. he stood there utterly forgetting what he was sent for, till he heard frank's voice impatiently calling him. then he rushed out empty-handed and bewildered till he reached his master's presence. "well, jacob, where's the powder-flask? why, man, what's scared your wits out of you? you haven't seen a boggart, as you tell me they call a ghost in lancashire?" "i've seen what's worse nor ten thousand boggarts, mayster frank," said jacob, sorrowfully. "and pray what may that be?" asked his master. "why, mayster, i've seen what's filled scores of homes and hearts with boggarts. i've seen the bottles as holds the drink--the strong drink as ruins millions upon millions." frank started as if pierced by a sudden sting. his colour went and came. he walked hastily a step or two towards the house, and then turned back. "and pray, my friend jacob," he said, with a forced assumption of gaiety, "why should my little bottle of spirits be worse for you than ten thousand boggarts?" "oh, mayster frank, mayster frank," was the reply, "just excuse me, and hearken to me one minute. i thought when i left my home, where the drink had drowned out all as was good, as i should never love any one any more. i thought as i'd try and get through the world without heart at all--but it wasn't to be. the captain found a soft place in my heart, and i loved him. but that were nothing at all to the love i've had to yourself, mayster frank. i loved you afore you saved my life, and i've loved you better nor my own life ever since you saved it. and oh, i can't abide to see you throw away health and strength, and your good name and all, for the sake of that wretched drink as'll bring you to misery and beggary and shame. oh, don't--dear mayster, don't--don't keep the horrid poison in your house. it's poison to you, as i've seen it poison to scores and scores, eating out manhood, withering out womanhood, crushing down childhood, shrivelling up babyhood. i'll live for you, mayster frank, work for you, slave for you, wage or no wage-- ay, i'll die for you, if need be--only do, do give up this cursed, ruinous, body and soul-destroying drink." "jacob, i will--i will!" cried his master, deeply touched. "every word you say is true. i'm a miserable, worthless wretch. i don't deserve the love and devotion of a noble lad like you." "nay, mayster--don't say so," cried jacob; "but oh, if you'd only sign the pledge, and be an out-and-out gradely teetottaller, it'd be the happiest day of my life." "well, jacob, i'll see about the signing. i daresay i shall have to do it. but you may depend upon me. i'll turn over a new leaf. there--if it'll be any pleasure to you--you may take all that's left in my cupboard, and smash away at the bottles, as good mr oliphant did." jacob needed no second permission. ale, wine, and spirit-bottles were brought out--though but few were left that had not been emptied. however, empty or full, they fell in a few moments before the energetic blows of the delighted jacob poole. "you'll never repent it," he said to his master. but, alas! he did not know poor frank, who did repent it--and bitterly, too. the sudden generosity which dictated the sacrifice was but a momentary flash. frank would have given a great deal could he have recalled the act. but what was to be done? he could not, for very shame, lay in a fresh stock at present; and, equally, he could not resolve to cross his miserable appetite. so he devised a plan by which he could still indulge in the drink, and yet keep jacob poole completely in the dark; for, alas! it was becoming less and less painful to him to breathe in an atmosphere of deception. there was a small cottage not far from frank's dwelling. it had belonged to a labouring man, who had bought a small piece of ground with his hard earnings, had fenced it round, and built the cottage on it. this man, when "the diggins" broke out in melbourne, sold his little property for a third of its value to a worthless fellow, whose one great passion was a love for the drink. through this man frank was able to obtain a constant supply of the pernicious stimulant. he would call at the house in the evening, and bring home in his pockets a flask or two of spirits, which he could easily keep out of the sight of jacob and his housekeeper. but though he could conceal the drink, he could not conceal its effects. again and again he became intoxicated--at first slightly so, and then more and more grossly and openly--till poor jacob, wearied out and heart-sick, retired from frank's service, and obtained work from mr abraham oliphant in his store at adelaide. chapter seventeen. an unhappy surprise. the half-year's remittance came in due time, but frank was quite unable to pay the £ loan. ruin was now staring him in the face. tradesmen were clamorous, rent and wages were unpaid, and he was getting into a state of despair, when, to his great and unspeakable joy, a letter arrived one morning announcing that a legacy of £ , left him by an old lady--his godmother--would be paid into his account at the adelaide bank. here was, indeed, a reprieve. in a transport of gratitude he threw himself on his knees, and gave thanks to god for this unlooked-for help. then he lost not a moment, but rode at once into adelaide, and went first to the bank, where he ascertained that the money had been paid in. then he called on his creditors and discharged their bills. and last of all he went to hubert oliphant and repaid the loan of the £ , with the interest. "oh, hubert," he said, "i can't tell you how thankful and grateful i feel for this relief. i was getting into hopeless difficulties. i was at my wits' end what to do. i felt like a miserable slave, just as if i was walking in irons; and now i could do nothing but shout all the way home, i feel so light and free!" "i don't doubt it," said his friend. "but you were talking just now about being thankful. won't you let it be more than mere words? won't you show, dear frank, that you really are grateful to god?" "i have," replied the other. "i thanked god on my knees for his goodness as soon as i got the letter." "i'm truly rejoiced to hear it. and now, what do you mean to _do_?" "to _do_? why, what should i do?" "does not your own conscience tell you, frank?" "ah, i suppose you mean, give up the drink altogether. well, i intend to do it--and at once too." "and will you ask for strength where you know it can be found?" "yes," said frank, grasping the other's hand warmly; "i promise you i will." "and what about the pledge?" pursued hubert, with a loving, entreating smile. "ah, that pledge! you can never let me rest about the pledge. i see you're afraid to trust me." "dear frank, is there not a cause? can you trust yourself?" "yes i think i can this time--especially if i pray for help." hubert sighed. "by the way," he said, "i was nearly forgetting that i have a little note for you from mary, which came to-day in a letter to myself. here it is." the note was brief and constrained in its tone, though kind. it was as follows:-- "dear frank,--i wrote to you by the last mail, and just send a few lines now in hubert's letter. i can scarce tell how to write. i do not know whether to hope or fear, whether i dare venture to believe that i shall ever see you again with joy. o frank, i have dreadful misgivings. miserable rumours come across the sea to make all our hearts sick. will you not at once and for ever renounce what has been the occasion of sin and disgrace to yourself and of misery to us both? will you not go to the strong for strength, and cast yourself at once on him? i cannot write more now, for i am almost broken-hearted. i shall not cease to pray for you.--yours, mary oliphant." frank hastily thrust the note into his pocket after reading it, and hurried home. there he shut-to his door, and flung himself on his knees. he prayed to be forgiven his sin, and that he might live a steady and sober life for the time to come. he rose up comforted and satisfied. he felt he had done a duty. he was resolved to become a water-drinker, to pay no more visits to the man at the cottage, and to keep no intoxicating drinks in his house. mary's letter had touched him to the quick; he saw how nearly he had lost her; he felt that the stand must be made now or never. but yet he had in no way pledged himself to total abstinence. true, he had prayed to be kept sober; but had his heart fully and sincerely desired what his lips had prayed for? alas, it is to be feared not; for it is no difficult thing to delude ourselves in the matter of prayer. it is easy, when we have sinned, and before the next strong temptation to the same sin presents itself, to pray against repeating it, and so to give a sop to our conscience, without having either the heart's desire or the honest resolve to abstain from that sin. and it is equally easy to pray that we may not fall into a sin, and to have a sort of half sincere desire to that effect; and yet, at the same time, to be quite unwilling to avoid those steps which, though they are not themselves the sin, yet almost of necessity and inevitably lead to it. so it was with poor frank, but he did not think so; on the contrary, he was now quite persuaded that his resolution was like a rock, that he was thoroughly fortified against yielding to his old temptations, and that he should never again deviate from the strictest sobriety. yet he would not sign the pledge, and so put a check between himself and those circumstances and occasions which might lead or surprise him into a transgression. he meant to be a total abstainer at _present_, but he was quite as resolved not to sign the pledge. things were in this state. he had rigidly kept himself to non- intoxicants for more than a month after the receipt of mary's note. he had paid his way and observed a strict economy; he was getting back his character as a steady and sober man; and many looked on with approbation and applauded him. there were, however, three at least in the colony who had but little faith in him as yet; these were hubert, mr oliphant, and jacob poole. things were in this state when one morning, as frank was riding slowly down hindley street, he noticed a man, whose face and whole appearance seemed very familiar to him, talking to a shopman at his door. just as he came opposite, the man turned fully towards him--there could be no longer any doubt. "what! juniper; juniper graves--you here!" "what! mr frank, my dear young master! do i really see you once more? ah, how i've longed for this suspicious day; but it's come at last." "ah, i see it's just yourself," said frank, laughing. "give us your hand, my good fellow. but what has brought you out here? it looks like old times in the dear old country seeing you again." "why, mr frank, the truth's the truth, and it's no use hiding it, though `self-praise is no accommodation,' as the proverb says. you see, sir, i couldn't be happy when you was gone. i missed my dear young master so much. people wondered what was amiss with me, when they found me, as they often did, in a state of refraction. `why, juniper,' they'd say, `what's amiss? are you grieving after mr frank?' i could only nod dissent; my heart was too full. but i mustn't be too long, a- keeping you too, sir, under the vertebral rays of an australian sun. i just couldn't stand it no longer--so i gets together my little savings, pays my own passage, sails across the trackless deep to the southern atmosphere--and here i am, to take my chance for good fortune or bad fortune, if i may only now and then have a smile from my dear young master mr frank, and gaze once more on those familiar ligaments which i loved so much in dear old england. mr frank, it's the simple truth, i assure you. with all my failings and interjections, you'd never any cause to doubt my voracity." "you're a warm-hearted, good fellow, i know," said frank, wiping his eyes, "or you never could have made such a sacrifice on my account. but what do you mean to do with yourself? have you got into any situation or employment?" "oh no, sir. i felt sure--that is to say, i hoped that i should find you out, for you'd be sure to be well-known in the colony, and that i might have the irresponsible happiness of serving you again, either as groom, or in some other capacity." it so happened that frank was parting with his man, so juniper at once stepped into the place. had his master known how matters really were, he would not have been so ready to take his old tempter into his house. the fact was, that juniper graves had gone to such lengths of misbehaviour after frank's departure for australia, that sir thomas had been compelled to dismiss him; feeling, however, sorry for the man, as the favourite servant of his absent son, the squire had not noised abroad his misdemeanours; so that when juniper quitted greymoor park, he did so apparently of his own choice. he had contrived, while in the baronet's service, to appropriate to himself many small valuables of a portable character. these he managed safely to dispose of, and with the money purchased an outfit and paid his passage to south australia. his shallow brains had been fired with the idea of making his fortune at the diggings. he felt sure that, if he could find frank oldfield, he should soon ingratiate himself with him, and that he might then take advantage of his good-nature and of his intemperance to gather to himself sufficient funds to enable him to start as gold-digger. a wretched compound of vanity, selfishness, and shrewdness, where his own interests were concerned, he had no other view as regarded his young master than to use him as a ladder by which he might himself mount to fortune. a week later, and juniper graves was established as general man-servant at frank oldfield's cottage in the hills. "and pray, mrs watson," he asked, on the evening of his arrival, "whereabouts is one to find the cellar in these outlandish premises?" "why, much in the same place as you'd look for it in england," was the answer; "only here you'll find nothing but cellar walls, for our master's turned teetotaller." juniper replied to this by opening his eyes very wide, and giving utterance to a prolonged whistle. "teetottaller!" at last he exclaimed; "and pray how long has he taken to this new fashion?" "not many weeks," was the reply. "and how many weeks do you think he'll stick to it?" "a great many, i hope," replied the housekeeper; "for i'm sure there's neither pleasure nor profit where the drink gets the master. it's driven poor jacob away." "and who may poor jacob be?" "why, as nice, and steady, and hearty a lad as ever i set eyes on, mr graves. he was master's first groom and gardener. he came out in the same ship with master and mr hubert oliphant. mr frank saved jacob from being drowned, and the young man stayed with him here, and worked for him with all his heart till the drink drove him away, for he was a teetotaller, as he used to say of himself, to the back-bone." "well, mrs watson," said graves, "it isn't for me to be contradicting you, but, for my part, i never could abide these teetottallers. what with their tea and their coffee, their lemonade and ginger beer, and other wishy-washy, sour stuffs--why, the very thought of them's enough to cause an involution of one's suggestive organs." but what was he to do? drink there was none in the house, and he was too crafty to make any direct request for its introduction; but, "as sure as my name's juniper," he said to himself, "mr frank shall break off this nonsense afore i'm a month older; it won't suit him, i know, and i'm certain sure it won't suit me." so he submitted to the unfermented beverages of the establishment with as good a grace as he could, turning over in his mind how he should accomplish his object. he had not to wait long. the drunken cottager who had formerly supplied frank with spirits, was of course not best pleased to lose so good a customer, for he had taken care to make a very handsome profit on the liquors which he had supplied. it so happened that this man lighted on juniper one day near his master's house, and a very few minutes' conversation made the groom acquainted with the former connection between this cottager and frank oldfield. "ho, ho!" laughed juniper to himself. "i have it now. good-bye to teetottalism. we'll soon put an end to him." so bidding his new acquaintance keep himself out of sight and hold his tongue, for he'd soon manage to get back his master's custom to him, juniper purchased a few bottles of spirits on his own account, and stowed them safely away in his sleeping-place. a few days after this transaction, frank bid his groom prepare himself for a ride of some length. it was a blazing hot day, and when they had gone some fifteen miles or more, principally in the open, across trackless plains, they struck up suddenly into a wooded pass, and frank, giving the bridle to juniper, threw himself on to the ground, under some trees, and lay panting with the excessive heat. "stiff work this, juniper," he said. "just hang the bridles somewhere, and come and get a little shade. it's like being roasted alive." "ay, sir," replied the other, "it's hot work, and thirsty work too; only you see, sir, total abstainers ain't at liberty to quench their thirst like ordinary mortals." "why not?" asked his master, laughing. "i hear the sound of water not far-off; and i don't doubt there's enough to quench the thirst of all the teetotallers in the colony." "phew!" replied juniper, "it'd be madness to drink cold water in the heat we're in. why, i'm in such a state of respiration myself, sir, that it'd be little better than courting self-destruction if i were to drink such chilly quotations." "perhaps so," replied frank; "certainly it isn't always safe, i believe, to drink cold water when you're very hot; but we must be content with what we can get, and wait till we're a little cooler." "i beg your pardon, sir," said the other, in the blandest of voices; "but i've had the sagacity to bring with me a little flask of something as'll air the cold water famously. here it is, sir; you can use the cover as a cup." he was soon at the stream and back again. "now, sir, shall i just mix you a little? it's really very innocent--as immaculate as a lamb. you must take it as a medicine, sir; you'll find it an excellent stomach-ache, as the doctors say." "i'm more afraid of it's giving me the heart-ache, juniper," replied his master; "but a very little in the water will certainly perhaps be wise. there, thank you; hold--hold--you're helping me, i suppose, as you love me." the cup, however, was drained, and then a second was taken before they started again; and twice more before they reached home they halted, and juniper's flask was produced and emptied before they finally remounted. "i have him," chuckled graves to himself. "i've hooked my trout; and he only wants a little playing, and i'll have him fairly landed." alas! it was too true. frank was in skilful hands; for juniper had a double object: he wanted to indulge his own appetite for the drink at his master's expense; and he also wanted to get into his clutches such a sum of money as would enable him to make a fair start at the diggings on the melbourne side of the australian continent. his friend of the cottage, through whom he obtained his supply of spirits, was well acquainted with many of the returned diggers, and gave him full information on all subjects about which he inquired connected with the gold-digging. his object in the first place was to get as much of his master's money into his own possession as he could do without direct robbery; his next object was to keep his master out of every one else's clutches but his own. so he laid himself out in every way to keep frank amused and occupied, and to leave him as little time as possible for reflection. the spirit-bottle was never allowed to be empty or out of the way; juniper could produce it at a moment's notice. he took care to do so with special dexterity whenever he could engage his master in a game of cards. juniper was an accomplished gambler; he had often played with his young master when they were out alone on fishing or shooting expeditions at greymoor park. frank used then to lose money to him in play occasionally, but juniper was always wily enough not to push his advantage too far--he never would allow himself to win more than small sums. but now he had a different purpose on hand; and so, from time to time, he would draw on his master to play for hours together, keeping the drink going all the while, and managing himself to preserve a sufficient sobriety to prevent his losing his self-possession and defeating his end in view. thus, by degrees, frank found his money melting fast and faster away. if he complained of this to juniper, that worthy either assured him he was mistaken, or that the money had only gone to defray the necessary expenses of the establishment; or else he laughed, and said, "well, sir, you didn't play as well as usual last night. i suppose your luck was bad, or your head wasn't very clear. you lost more than usual, but you'll win it all back; and, after all, i should never think of keeping it if you're really in want of it at any time." "juniper, you're a good fellow," said his poor miserable dupe; "you mean well--i know you do. i'm sure you wouldn't deceive or rob me." "me deceive! me rob, mr frank! no indeed, sir; i hope i've too much duplicity to do anything of the kind. why, didn't i come out here just because i'd such a hampering after you, mr frank? no; i trust, indeed, that you'll never ascertain such hard thoughts of me for a moment." "never fear," was his master's reply; "i believe you love me too well, juniper, to wrong me." but there was one who did not think so. hubert oliphant had discovered, with dismay, that frank's new servant was none other than the reprobate groom of greymoor park. he had called as soon as he heard of it, and implored his friend to dismiss graves from his service. but frank would not hear of such a thing. he dwelt on his old servant's affection, self-sacrifice, and devotion to himself; he palliated his faults, and magnified his virtues; so that poor hubert had to retire baffled and heart-sick. there remained but one other effort to be made, and that was through jacob poole, who was informed by hubert of juniper's character. jacob did not decline the duty, though the service was both a difficult and delicate one; for there was a decision and simple earnestness about his character which made him go forward, without shrinking, to undertake whatever he was persuaded he was rightly called upon to do. it was on a lovely summer's evening that jacob made his way, with a heavy heart, to his former master's cottage. how he had once loved that place! and how he loved it still!--only there had fallen a blight on all that was beautiful, and that was the blight of sin. as he approached the house, he heard singing from more than one voice. he drew near the verandah; and there, by a little round table--on which was a bottle and tumblers, and a box of cigars--sat, or rather lolled, frank and his man, smoking, drinking, and playing cards. "and so it's you, jacob, my boy!" cried frank; "it's quite an age since i've seen you; the boggarts haven't kept you away, i hope?" "no, mayster, it's not the boggarts; it's my own heart as has kept me away." "what, jacob! you've fallen in love with some fair maiden--is that it?" "no, mr frank; i haven't fallen in love with any young wench, and there's some of the other sex as i'm still less like to fall in love with." "oh, you mean my friend juniper here! well, i'm sorry any one should fall foul of poor juniper; he's an old servant of mine, jacob, and he's come all the way over from england on purpose to serve me again." "i'm thinking," said jacob, who had too much lancashire downrightness and straightforwardness to use any diplomacy, or go beating about the bush, "as it's very poor service ye'll get from him, mr frank, if i may be allowed to speak out my mind. he's drawn you into the mire again already, that's plain enough. oh, dear mayster, i cannot hold my tongue--i must and i _will_ speak plain to you. if you let this man serve you as he's doing now, he'll just make a tool on you for his own purposes, till he's squeezed every drop of goodness out of you, and left you like a dry stick as is fit for nothing but the burning." it is impossible to describe adequately the changes which passed over the countenance of juniper graves while this brief conversation was being carried on. rage, malice, fear, hatred--all were mingled in his mean and cunning features. but he controlled himself; and at last spoke with an assumed smoothness, which, however, could not quite hide the passion that made his voice tremulous. "really, sir, i don't know who this young man is--some escaped convict, i should think; or american savage, i should imagine, by his talk. i really hope, sir, you're not going to listen to this wild sort of garbage. if it wasn't demeaning myself, and making too much of the impertinent young scoundrel, i'd bring an action against him for reformation of character." "there, there, juniper," said frank, motioning him to be quiet; "don't distress yourself. jacob's prejudiced; he don't really know you, or he'd speak differently. you must be friends; for i know you both love me, and would do anything to serve me. come, jacob, give juniper your hand; take my word for it, he's an honest fellow." but jacob drew back. "i know nothing about his honesty," he said; "but i _do_ know one thing, for mr hubert's told me--he's led you into sin at home, mayster frank, and he'll lead you into sin again here; and he's just cutting you off from your best friends and your brightest hopes; and i've just come over once more to beg and beseech you, by all as you holds dear, to have nothing no more to do with yon drunken profligate. i'd rayther have said this to yourself alone, but you've forced me to say it now, and it's better said so nor left unsaid altogether. and now i'll bid you good evening, for it's plain i can do little good if i tarry longer." he turned and left them: as he did so, frank's last look was one of mingled anger, shame, remorse, despair; juniper's was one of bitter, deadly, fiery hatred. but other thoughts soon occupied the mind of the tempter. it was plain to him that, if he was to keep a firm hold on his young master, he must get him, as speedily as possible, out of the reach of his old friends. how was he to accomplish this? at last a scheme suggested itself. "what say you, mr frank," he asked suddenly one morning, when his master was evidently rather gloomily disposed--"what say you to a tramp to the diggings? wouldn't it be famous? we could take it easy; there's first-rate fishing in the murray, i hear. we could take our horses, our fishing-tackle, our guns, our pannikins, and our tether-ropes; we must have plenty of powder and shot, and then we shall be nice and independent. if you'd draw out, sir, what you please from the bank, i'll bring what i've got with me. i've no doubt i shall make a first- rate digger, and we'll come back again with our fortunes made." "it's rather a random sort of scheme," said his master; "but i'm sick of this place and of my present life. anything for a bit of a change--so let's try the diggings." a few days after jacob's visit to the cottage, it was rumoured that frank oldfield and his man had left the colony. hubert called at the place and found that they were indeed gone, and that it was quite uncertain when they purposed to return. chapter eighteen. the lone bush. it was about a fortnight after hubert's call at the cottage that a bullock-driver, dusty and bronzed, came into the office at king william street, and asked to speak to mr oliphant's nephew. "i suppose, sir, you're mr hubert oliphant," said the man. "i am." "well, i've just come in from the bush. it's four days now since i left tanindie--it's a sheep-station down on the murray. thomas rowlands, as shepherds there, asked me to come and tell you that there's a young gent called scholfield, or oldfield, or some such name, as is dangerously ill in a little log-hut near the river. the chap as came down with him has just cut and run, and left him to shift for himself; and he's likely to have a bad time of it, as he seems to have some sort of fever, and there's no doctor nearer than forty miles." hubert was greatly shocked. "and how came the shepherd to think about sending to _us_?" he asked. "oh, the poor young man's been raving and talking about you scores of times; and mr abraham's name's well-known all over the colony." hubert went to his uncle with the information. "what can we do?" he asked; "i'll gladly go to him, if you can spare me for a few days." jacob poole, who was in the office, and had heard the conversation, now interposed,-- "oh, mayster oliphant, let me go to him. i'm more used to roughing it nor you. i'll see to poor mayster frank. i can't forget what he's done for me; and maybe, if god spares him, and that rascal juniper graves keeps out of the road, he'll do well yet." this plan commended itself to mr oliphant and his nephew, and it was resolved that jacob should go at once. his master furnished him with what he needed, and bade him send word to him if he should find himself in any trouble or difficulty. "you'll find him out easy enough," said the bullock-driver to mr oliphant, "for there's a party of mounted police setting off this afternoon for the murray, and the crossing's only about two miles lower down than the hut. if he as goes joins the police, he'll be there in half the time it took me to come up." so it was arranged that jacob should start immediately. "and never mind," said mr oliphant, "about the time of your coming back. if you can be of any service to your poor young master by staying on with him, do so. and keep with him altogether if he wishes to take you again into his service. it may keep him from the drink, now that vagabond's taken himself off, though i'll be bound he hasn't gone empty- handed. should you wish, however, jacob, to come back again to me, either now or at any future time, i'll find you a place, for i can always make an opening for a stanch total abstainer." jacob's preparations were soon made. he furnished himself with all necessaries, and then joined the party of police on a stout little bush horse, and started that afternoon on his journey. it was drawing towards the evening of the second day after their departure from adelaide, when they came in sight of the river murray, where a long shelving bank of reeds, like a small forest, intervened between themselves and the river. the country all round them was wild and wooded, with little to remind of civilised man except the tracks of bullock-drays. "and here we part," said the leader of the police. "i've no doubt you'll soon reach the hut you're seeking if you keep along the bank of the river; but be sure you don't lose sight of that." "perhaps," said one of the men, "there may be some one not far-off who could show him his way, so that he'd lose no time. shall i cooey?" "ay, do," said the captain. so the man uttered a prolonged "coo-oo-oo- ee!" and all paused. a faint answering "cooey" was heard in the distance. then a second "cooey" was answered by a nearer response, and soon after a stout-looking bushman made his appearance. "can you take this young man to a hut about two miles up the river, where there's a young englishman lying sick?" asked the captain. "ay, surely i can," was the reply. "i've only left it an hour since." so jacob took a hearty farewell of his escort, and in another minute was following his new guide. "a relation of the young gent's, i guess?" asked the bushman. "no, only an old servant. he saved my life, and i want to help save his, please god." "you'll not do much towards saving it if you give him the same sort of medicine the last chap did," remarked the other drily. "the drink, you mean," said jacob. "no; i'm not likely to do anything of the sort, for i'm an out-and-out total abstainer." "i'm right glad to hear it; give me your hand, friend," cried the bushman, treating him, at the same time, to a grip which made his fingers tingle. "i wish we'd more of your sort among us. it'd be better for 'em, body and soul." "then, of course, you're an abstainer yourself." "to be sure i am. i've four brothers, and not one of us has ever tasted any intoxicating drink." "and do you live hereabouts?" inquired jacob. "yes; my father's head-shepherd at tanindie. we all live together, my mother and all." "and you find you can do your work without the drink?" "look there," said the other, stopping short, and baring his arm. "feel that; some muscle there, i reckon. that muscle's grown on unfermented liquors. me and my four brothers are all just alike. we never trouble the doctor, any of us." "ah!" said jacob; "i've heard strange talk about `can't do without wine;' `can't do without beer;' `can't do without spirits;' `heat of the climate makes it needful to make up for wear and tear of body,' and so on. and then, i've seen a many shake their heads and say as young people can't do without a little now and then `to brace up their nerves,' as they call it, `and give a tone to the constitootion.' i've heard a deal of this talk in the old country." "`plenty gammon, plenty gammon,' all that, as the black fellows say," replied the other. "truth is, people makes artificial wants, and then they must have artificial stimulants. we're no great scholars in our house, but we gets a good many books even out here in the bush, and reads them at odd times; and we've read a great deal of nonsense about young people wanting beer and wine, and such things. if people gets themselves into an unnatural state, they wants unnatural food. but where's the real need? i don't believe the world would suffer a pin if all the intoxicating drinks were thrown into the sea to-morrow. indeed, i'm sure it would be a thousandfold better." "i'm sure of the same," said jacob. "but i suppose it isn't all of your trade as thinks so." "no, indeed; more's the pity. there's plenty about us that loves their drink a vast deal too well. i can tell you strange tales about some of them. i've known hardworking fellows, that have kept sober all the year, go up at the year's end, with all they have saved, to adelaide, and put it into the publican's hand, telling him, `there, you keep that, and give me drink, as i calls for it, till i've drunk it all out.'" "and i'll warrant," said jacob, "as publicans'll not be particular as to a gallon or two about giving them the full worth of their brass." "not they, you may be very sure; and as soon as the publican has squeezed them dry, out they go, neck and crop." "and don't that larn 'em better?" asked jacob. "not a bit of it," replied his companion; "for there's no fool like a drunken fool. they'll do anything for a spree. they're like madmen when they go off with their wages. you may find three or four shepherds clubbing together. they'll call for champagne, and then for a pail. then they'll knock the necks off the bottles, pour the champagne into the pail, and ladle it out with their pannikins as they sit round. and if that don't satisfy them, they'll add a bottle of brandy, or rum, or some other spirit. i think they're fairly crazy after the drink in this colony." "i shouldn't be surprised," said jacob. "it's much the same in most places in the old country." "here we are," said the young bushman, shortly after, as they made their way through the tangled trees and shrubs, and came upon a large-sized log-hut. how strange it was, that solitary hut in that lone wilderness, and in view of the shining river! all around was wild and primitive; and fair in its negligent beauty as though it had never been disturbed by the hand of man. the hut was large and well-constructed, though now a little falling to decay. it was built of logs laid horizontally in order one above another, and rendered tolerably wind-proof by the moss and clay which served to fill up the crevices. into this primitive dwelling jacob followed his guide. he was surprised at the air of comfort presented by the interior. not that there was much to boast of in the way of furniture, but great pains and skill had evidently been used to give an air of snugness to the one long, desolate apartment of which the hut consisted. on a low, roughly-made bedstead lay poor frank oldfield, judiciously shielded from draughts by hangings of carefully arranged drapery. his various possessions lay around him, neatly piled up, or hung on the walls. and what struck jacob with both pleasure and surprise, was a text in large printed characters on the wall--opposite the foot of the bed. the words of the text were: "the blood of jesus christ cleanseth from all sin." oh, what a marvellous power have the words of the blessed bible to prove their own heavenly origin in circumstances like these! in a moment it was clear to jacob that his master was in good hands. these words out of that volume which is the revelation of the god of love to poor guilty sinners, told him so with a force which no eloquence or assurance from human lips could strengthen. yet there were other, and very pleasing, proofs also, for at the bed's head sat a middle-aged, kindly-looking woman, who was acting the part of nurse to the poor emaciated figure that lay on that couch of sickness. "who is it?" asked a feeble voice, as the newcomers entered the hut. "an old servant, mother, of the gentleman's," answered the young bushman. "what, jacob poole!" exclaimed frank, raising himself up. "there, don't worry or excite yourself," said the kind woman. "i'll prop you up a bit, but you mustn't talk too much. it'll only make you bad again." jacob came forward. "mr frank," he said, "i've come over, as soon as i heard as you was badly, to do whatever i can for you. mr oliphant's let me come; and he and mr hubert's rare and vexed as you're so ill. so i'm to see as you want for nothing, and to let them know how you're coming on. and i'm bound to stay with you till you gets round again." the poor patient held out his hand to jacob, while the tears streamed down his face. "you're all very good to me," he said; "too good, far better than i deserve. but i hope god may spare me to reward you, if i can. you see, jacob, i'm brought very low. that rascal juniper robbed me of fifty pounds, and deserted me when i was getting ill. he would have taken all my money, i've no doubt, if he'd only known where to find it. if it had not been for my kind nurse here, and her husband, i should not have been alive now." here he sank back, exhausted with the effort of speaking. he was sadly altered. his fine features were sunk and pinched, his cheeks blanched, and his lips cracked and swollen; while his beautiful hair, once his mother's pride, had fallen under the scissors of the shepherd's wife. he was about to speak again, when his nurse motioned jacob to be seated, and said to her patient,-- "now, sir, you must just keep silent, and let me tell all about your troubles to this young man. you see, it seems that mr oldfield and that man of his, who appears to be a regular scoundrel, came down and settled in this hut, to try a taste of `bush' life, fishing and shooting, and the like. but, dear heart, it was all well enough for a day or two; but after a bit the young gentleman got weary of it. so they took to passing a good deal of their time in drinking and playing cards, i'm afraid. i hope, young man, you're not given to anything of the sort?" "me!" exclaimed jacob; "no, ma'am; that's not in my line, i can assure you. it's the drink as parted my poor mayster and me afore. i'm a gradely total abstainer, and mean to be all the days of my life, please god." "i'm heartily glad to hear it," said the good woman. "you'll do the young gentleman no harm then, i hope, but good. well, as i was saying, when they'd been a long time at this drinking and card-playing, what with the heat, and what with the change in his way of living, the poor gentleman took ill; so what did that man of his do? why, he looked after him for a day or so, and then he made pretence that he'd take one of the horses, and go and look for a doctor, or for some one who could come and give a help. but, bless you, he never cared about doctor, but went straight off with both the horses, and one of the guns, and all the powder and shot as was left, and whatever else he could carry; and it seems too, from what the gentleman says, that he's taken and robbed his master of fifty pounds." "and how did you happen to light on him, and find out he was sick?" asked jacob. "why, i was just going to tell you. my master and dick--dick's our youngest boy, you know--was looking after a stray sheep, when they comes up to this hut, and hears a strange moaning noise. they went in at once, and there was this young gentleman in a high fever, raving, and talking all sorts of wild things, and half dead for want of water. so my master goes back at once to our cottage and fetches me, and here i've been, off and on, ever since. it's a mercy my master found him when he did, or he must have died afore long." frank oldfield nodded his head in assent, and held out his hand, first to the shepherd's wife, and then to jacob. "and so you've come to stay a bit with your old master, jacob. thank god for that." "ay, that's right," said the good woman; "thank him--you've cause to do so, i'm sure god seems nearer to us who live out in the bush, in one way. i mean, our mercies and blessings seem to come straighter like from his own hand when we've so few of our fellow-creatures about us." "jacob," said his master earnestly, "i trust, if i'm spared, that i shall really turn over a new leaf, gradely, as you'd say. the drink has been my curse, my ruin, and almost my death. i'll give it up altogether, and sign the pledge, if god raises me up to health and strength again." "ay, do, mayster," replied the other; "it'll be the best thing you ever did in all your life." the shepherd's wife was now able to delegate many of her kind offices to jacob, who proved a most loving and tender nurse. in a few days their patient was able to sit up without difficulty, and, after a while, to leave the hut for the shepherd's comfortable cottage, to which he was conveyed on a litter of boughs by the stout arms of the shepherd and his sons. here it was agreed that he should remain as a regular lodger, at a moderate remuneration for himself and jacob, which his host and hostess were rather loath to accept, but the refusal of which they saw would give frank oldfield much pain. jacob was his master's devoted attendant, watching over him as a mother over her child. it was one fine afternoon, when frank was better than usual, that he turned to jacob in the midst of a walk, and said abruptly, "jacob, should you like to go to the diggings?" "why, mayster frank," was the reply, "i've often thought i should just like to try my hand at it, for i was trained as a lad to pit-work. but i should never think of leaving you till you're all right again, nor then either, unless you'd wish it yourself." "what made me ask you," said his master, "was this. my kind landlord's three eldest sons are going, as you know, to try their hands for three months or so at gold-digging. now, if you'd like to go with them, it would be a real pleasure to me. you would go in capital company, as they are all stanch teetotallers, like yourself; and nothing would rejoice me more than to find you coming back with a bag full of nuggets." "but what'll _you_ do while i'm off, mr frank?" "oh, that's easily answered. my kind hostess, and her husband, and two youngest sons will be able to do all i want, as i'm getting well so fast; and i shall be glad of an excuse to stop here in this quiet place for a while, and not return to adelaide. i can say, and say with truth, that i am waiting till you and your party come back from the diggings." jacob poole had no objections to make; so in a few days the four young men had crossed the murray, and were on their way to the gold-fields. it is not necessary to describe in detail the history of the party from tanindie during their stay at the diggings, but one or two scenes must be introduced which will further our story. it was a calm sabbath evening; the click of the pick, the rattle of the cradle, the splashing of the water-buckets--all were still. outwardly the day had been kept strictly as a day of rest by all. beneath a tall tree stood, in the dress of a minister of the gospel, a middle-aged but grey-headed man. a rough stool served him for a seat, and a few upturned buckets, supporting some loose planks, were appropriated to the few women and children, while the men stood behind these in various attitudes, but all very attentive; for in such a congregation as this there were none but willing listeners. those who had no mind to the preaching simply pleased themselves, and stayed away. after the singing of a hymn, given out two lines at a time, for the minister alone possessed a hymn-book, a fervent prayer was offered up by the good man, at the commencement of which almost all the little company sank gently on their knees. a few stood, but all remained bareheaded till its conclusion. then he drew forth his pocket bible, and read the first chapter of the first epistle of peter, and took from it as his text the third, fourth, and fifth verses: "blessed be the god and father of our lord jesus christ, which according to his abundant mercy hath begotten us again unto a lively hope by the resurrection of jesus christ from the dead, to an inheritance incorruptible, and undefiled, and that fadeth not away, reserved in heaven for you, who are kept by the power of god through faith unto salvation ready to be revealed in the last time." from these words he addressed his earnestly attentive congregation in the simplest language, but every word came from the heart, and made his hearers feel that he was not standing himself on one side, and bidding them go forward, but was beckoning to them to follow along the path on which he was already going before them. he spoke of the uncertainty of life, and they knew that he spoke the truth; for many who had come there to search for gold had been cut off in the midst of their labours. he spoke of the uncertainty of earthly gain and prosperity, and they knew that he spoke the truth; for many who had left home, and had sold all to come to these diggings, had returned beggars. he spoke of the emptiness of the earthly compared with the fulness of the heavenly inheritance, and bid them set eternity against time, the riches of heaven against the gold of the earth, the house of glory against their shifting tents, the rest of a home with god against their present wanderings, and many a sigh and tear escaped from lips and eyes that seldom spoke or looked except for earthly things. and then he told them of the blood of christ that was shed for their souls, and must be infinitely more precious than corruptible silver or gold, and urged them never to rest satisfied till they could feel that they were truly the children of god and followers of jesus; for what would it profit them if they gained the whole world and lost their own souls? lastly, he pleaded with them to lose no time, but to come at once just as they were, and not any of them to hang back through fear or doubt; for the love of jesus christ was deep enough to swallow up the sins of them all, and was, like himself, "the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever." the simple service concluded with another hymn and prayer, and then all dispersed, silent and thoughtful. on jacob poole, who had been one of the congregation, the sermon of the good minister made a deep impression. he had often heard the gospel preached before, but it had never hitherto come home to his heart as a personal concern, as it did now. there was to him a reality about it such as he had never understood before. his heart was yearning for something; he felt that the gospel was that something, that it could satisfy his heart's cravings. all through the service, but for about half a minute, he had kept his eyes fixed on the preacher. he withdrew them for that half minute to glance round at a man who brushed past him and walked on. as he turned, the man averted his face. he thought it was a face not altogether strange to him, and yet he could not recall where he had seen it. but his eyes returned to the preacher, and other thoughts occupied his mind and heart. during the rest of that week he was ill at ease. many thoughts came crowding in upon him as he worked vigorously in the hole assigned to him. hitherto he had believed men sinners in the gross, and himself as bad but not worse than the general average. now he began to know that he was really himself a sinner, whose transgressions of god's holy laws would bring upon him eternal death, unless he sought and found the only refuge. but was the gospel message really for _him_? would jesus, whom he had so long reverenced, yet never hitherto really loved, be still willing to receive him? he waited impatiently for the return of the sabbath. it came at last, and christ's ambassador was at his old place under the tree with words full of love and encouragement. at the end of his sermon, before retiring, he said,-- "if there is any one of you, my dear hearers, who is in any way troubled in conscience, or for any other reason would wish any conversation with me on religious subjects, i shall be only too happy to talk with him now in my tent." no one spoke, and the good man went his way. but in a little while jacob poole followed him, and asked to be allowed to speak with him for a few minutes. he entered the minister's tent with a distressed and anxious countenance; but when he came away from the interview in which he had unburdened his sorrows, and laid open all his difficulties, there was a bright and happy look on his features, which spoke of a mind stayed on god and a heart at peace. just as he was leaving the minister's tent, a swift, quiet step came behind him; he turned very quickly, and again his eyes fell on the same countenance which he had seen when a person brushed by him at the previous sunday's service. another moment, and the man had vanished in the dusk. again he was puzzled. he could not at all remember where he had seen that face, and yet certainly he _had_ seen it before. there was something forbidding and malicious in it, and a sort of dread crept over him. and yet he could not tell why he should fear. however, he resolved to be on his guard, for strange things had often happened at the diggings, and there were men prowling about the colony who would care nothing about shedding blood, if they could secure thereby the gains of a successful digger. he said nothing, however, to his companions; for it seemed an absurd thing to trouble them with his vague impressions and misgivings, especially as the man who had thus twice been near him had done nothing more than approach him and pass on. it was some ten days later, and violent winds with heavy rains had driven the most ardent diggers early to their tents. jacob was revolving in his mind what he had heard at the last sunday's preaching, and thoughts of home, and duties left undone there, made him very sad. then he thought of his young master at tanindie, and wondered how he was progressing, and whether he would at length really take the one decided step and become a pledged abstainer. thus he mused on, till the twilight melted rapidly into darkness. then, having lifted up his heart to god in prayer, he threw himself down on his bed. but he could not sleep, though weary enough with the exhausting labours of many days. suddenly he half raised himself; he thought he heard a strange noise like some one breathing not far from his head. then the wind, which had lulled for a second or two, resumed its violence, and flapped the canvas of his tent backwards and forwards. again he lay down, but shortly afterwards thought he heard the breathing again--or was he only deceiving himself? it was difficult to hear anything else distinctly for the noise made by the flapping of the tent and the creaking of its supports. still, he did not feel easy. and now in the dusk it seemed to him that the lower part of the folds of the tent near his bed's head moved in a peculiar manner, such as the wind could not cause. without rising, he silently and cautiously rolled himself over from the bed till he could lay his hand on a large rug;--this he quietly folded up, and, creeping back, laid it in his own place on the bed itself. then, drawing himself round noiselessly, he lay at full-length on the ground, at right angles to the bed, with his face not far from the bolster. not a sound, except the flapping and creaking of the tent, was heard for some time, till jacob, feigning to be asleep, began to breathe hard, and then to snore louder and louder. suddenly he was aware that the canvas was lifted slowly a few feet from where he was stretched along. he continued, however, still to breathe hard, as one in a deep sleep. another moment, and a man was stealthily raising himself to his knees inside the tent. then the intruder raised his arm. jacob, concealed by a fold of the tent, could just make out that the man's hand grasped some weapon. the next instant there was a plunge downward of the hand, and a suppressed exclamation of surprise. but jacob waited to see and hear no more. catching up a spade, which he knew was close by, he aimed a furious blow at the intended assassin. he did not, however, fully reach his mark--the blow fell partly short, yet not altogether; there was a cry of pain and terror, and then the murderous intruder rushed from the tent, and made his escape, before jacob could recover his balance, which he had lost in the violence of his stroke. and now conjecture and suspicion were changed to certainty. he could not doubt whose was the voice that uttered that cry; it was too hateful to him ever to be forgotten; he was now sure that his surmises were true, and that the man whom he had twice seen so near him was the same who had just been attempting his life, and was none other than juniper graves. he must have blackened his hair and cultivated a moustache, which would account for jacob's being puzzled to identify him. as soon as he could recover from his surprise, jacob armed himself with a revolver, and cautiously examined the ground outside his tent, thinking that perhaps his enemy might be lurking about, or might have been disabled by the blow of his spade. "i'm certain i marked the villain," he said to himself. "i'm sure, by the way he hollered out, he's got summat with him as he'll remember me by." but all was still, except the howling of the wind and the pattering and splashing of the driving rain. then he made his way to the large tent which the brothers, his companions, all occupied in common. he told his story, which, of course, excited both the sympathy and indignation of his hearers. but what was to be done? "no use looking for him to-night," said one; "he's bolted off far enough by this time, you may depend on't. as good look for a black fellow in the murray reeds, as search for this precious scoundrel in the dark. here; one of us'll come and share your tent to-night, and to-morrow we'll raise a hue and cry." but hue and cry were raised in vain. juniper graves, if he were the culprit, was gone, and had left no trace behind. nothing more was seen or heard of him; no such person was to be found at the diggings, and no one seemed to know anything about him. so jacob was left in peace till the three months were gone, and then returned to tanindie, the party having met with rather more than average good fortune. when the first greetings were over, and jacob had expressed his delight at the thorough restoration of his master's health, frank turned to his faithful servant and said,-- "well, jacob, you've brought me good news, as you've come back safe, and a rich man; and, indeed, if you'd only brought yourself it would have been good news to me. but i am not quite so sure that you'll think my news good news, when you hear what i have to tell you." a cloud gathered on jacob's face, as he said tremblingly,-- "eh, surely, mayster, you--you--you've not been--" "oh, no, no," laughed frank; "set your mind at rest, jacob; i'm a thorough teetotaller now, and have been ever since you left." "and mean to be so still, i hope, mayster." "i hope so," was the reply. "but you have not heard my news, jacob. i'm thinking of going home; not home to adelaide, but back across the sea again--home to england." "indeed, mayster frank. well, i'm not so sorry to hear it." "are you not?" said his master, with a look of disappointment. "i thought you might have been. at any rate, i shall be sorry to lose _you_, jacob, for you've been more like a brother than a servant to me; though, it's true, you'll not be much of a sufferer by losing me." "ay, but, mayster frank, there's no reason why either on us should lose t'other. i haven't forgotten what you did for me on board ship; and i'll serve ye still here or in the old country, till you can find one as'll suit you better." "jacob, you're a good fellow," replied his master; "you shall be my servant, then, and we will go back to old england together. i'll tell you just how it is. my dear mother wants me home again--it seems she can't be content without me; and as there really is no special reason why i should remain in the colony--and certainly i haven't been much of an ornament to it, nor credit to my friends here--i think it better to meet her wishes and return." "and i'll go with you, with all my heart," said the other; "only then you mustn't think, mayster, as it's all on your own account as says so; it wouldn't be honest to let you think so. truth is, i've been having a talk wi' a good minister as came a-preaching where we were on the sabbath up at the diggings; and he's opened my eyes a bit; or, rather, the lord's opened 'em through him. so you see, i've been asking him what's my duty about them as i've left at home, and it seems to me, by what the good man says, as i haven't dealt by 'em quite as i should. it's a long story, and i needn't trouble you with it; but it just comes to this: i came back from the diggings with my mind made up to go home again first opportunity. so, you see, mayster, as you're going yourself, i can go with you all right now." "and do you know, jacob--or rather, i'm pretty sure that you don't know, that your old friend, captain merryweather, has been to adelaide. he's gone to melbourne now, but he'll be back in a month, and we can take our passage home in the dear old _sabrina_." chapter nineteen. homeward bound. it was a month after the return of jacob and his party from the diggings that frank, jacob, and captain merryweather met on board the _sabrina_ at port adelaide. "so, jacob, my boy," cried the captain; "why, how you're grown! colonial life agrees with you. i should hardly have known you. and you're coming home in the old ship. i'm heartily glad of it; that is, supposing you're the same lad as when you sailed with me before. i mean, as stanch an abstainer." "ay, that he is," said frank warmly. "and you too, mr oldfield?" "well, i am at present," replied the other, colouring; "and i hope to continue so." "ah, then, i suppose you've never signed the pledge." "no; more's the pity." "oh, mayster frank," interposed jacob, "you promised me, when you were so ill, as you'd sign when you got better." "and so i will; but it's no use signing for the first time now, when i'm going home in a total abstinence ship. i'll join some society at home. our good rector's, for instance. yes; i'll join his, and my name and example will be really of some use then." "excuse me, mr oldfield, pressing you on the subject, but i hope you'll allow me the privilege of an old friend," said the captain. "i feel so very strongly on the matter. i've seen so very much mischief done from putting off; and if a thing's worth doing, it's worth doing at once; take my advice--`there's no time like the present;' `never put off till to-morrow what you can do to-day;' these are two good proverbs. i've found them of immense value in my line of life." "yes; they're very good proverbs, no doubt," said frank, laughing; "but there are some as good, perhaps, on the other side, though you won't think so; for instance, `second thoughts are best,' and `better late than never.'" "true, mr oldfield; but `late' often runs into never." frank made a gay, evasive reply, and turned hastily away, leaving jacob to arrange some matters in his cabin, while he went himself on shore. he was loitering about among the warehouses till jacob should join him, when a figure which seemed familiar to him approached, in earnest conversation with another man, but he could not see the face of either distinctly. after a while they parted, and the man whom he seemed to recognise was left alone, and turned towards him. but could it really be? dare he believe his eyes? yes; there could be no mistake, it was indeed juniper graves. that rather reckless character was, however, much more spruce in his appearance, and better dressed, than when in frank oldfield's service. there was an assumption of the fine gentleman about him, which made him look ludicrously contemptible, and had frank not been roused to furious indignation at the sight of him, he could hardly have refrained from a violent outburst of merriment at the absurd airs and graces of his former servant. as it was, breathless with wrath, his eyes flashing, and his face in a crimson glow, he rushed upon the object of his just resentment, and, seizing him by the collar, exclaimed in a voice of suppressed passion,-- "you--you confounded scoundrel! you rascally thief! so i've caught you at last. i'll make very short work with _you_, you ungrateful villain." then he paused for a moment, and shaking him violently, added,-- "what have you to say for yourself, why i shouldn't hand you over at once to the police?" nothing could be more whimsically striking than the contrast between juniper graves' grand and jaunty bearing a moment before, and his present utter crawling abjectness. he became white with terror, and looked the very picture of impotent cowardice. but this was but for a minute; then his self-possession returned to him. he felt that, if his master gave him over immediately in charge to the police, everything was lost; but if he could only get a hearing for a few minutes, before any further step was taken, he was persuaded that he could manage to stem the torrent that was bearing against him, especially as, fortunately for him, frank oldfield and himself were alone. his first object, therefore, was to gain time. "oh, mr frank, mr frank!" he cried beseechingly, "spare me--spare me-- you don't know all--you're labouring under a great misapplication; if you only knew all, you'd think very indifferently of me." "that's just what i do now," said the other, smiling in spite of himself. juniper saw the smile. he was satisfied that his case was not hopeless. "pray, mr frank," he said humbly and softly, "pray do take your hand off my coat; there's no need, sir--i shan't try to escape, sir--i'll follow you as impressively as a lamb--only give me time, and i'll explain all." "indeed!" exclaimed frank; "do you mean to tell me that you'll explain back my fifty pounds into my pocket again?" "yes, sir, and more besides, if you'll only be patient and hear me. thank you, sir. if you'll just step in here, sir, i hope to be able to explain all to your satisfaction." they entered a little office connected with a weighing-machine, which happened to be vacant at the time. "now, mind," said frank oldfield, when they were shut in alone, "i'll have a straightforward statement, without any prevarication, or i give you over at once into custody. if you can't clear yourself, and i don't see how you possibly can, there's the jail before you, the only place you're fit for." "i'm quite aware, sir, that appearances are against me," said the other meekly; "but, mr frank, you'll not refuse to listen to your old servant, that's devoted himself so faithfully to you and yours in england, and came across the seas just because he couldn't abide to be separated from you any longer." "come, sir," said frank oldfield sternly; "i'm not to be talked over in this way. you weren't so very anxious to avoid separation when you left me on a sick-bed, and made off with my fifty pounds. come, sir, give me your explanation, as you call it, at once, and without any nonsense about your faithfulness to me and mine, or i shall put the prison-door between you and me, and that'll be a separation you'll not get over so easily." "but you haven't heard me, sir; you haven't heard all. you don't know what i have to say in attenuation of my offence." "i mayn't have heard all, juniper, but i've both heard and seen about you a great deal more than i like; so let me warn you again, i must have a plain, straightforward statement. what have you done with my money, and how can you justify your abandoning me in my illness?" "ah! mr frank, you little know me--you little know what's in my heart. you little know how every pulse reverberates with deepest affection. but i'll go to the point, sir, at once;" for frank began to exhibit signs of impatience. "when i saw you was getting ill, sir, and not able to care for yourself, i says to myself, `i must ride off for a doctor. but what'll my poor master do while i'm gone? he's no power to help himself, and if any stranger should come in--and who knows it mightn't be one of these bushrangers!--he'd be sure to take advantage of him and steal his money while he lay helpless.' so says i to myself again, `i think i'll risk it. i know it'll look awkward,'--but there's nothing like a good conscience, when you know you haven't meant to do wrong. `i'll just take the money with me, and keep it safe for him till i get back.' nay, please, mr frank, hear me out. well, i took the fifty pounds, i don't deny it; it may have been an error in judgment, but we're all of us infallible beings. i rode off to find a doctor, but no doctor could i find; but i met a young bushman, who said he'd get some one to look after you till i could return." "and why didn't you return; and how came you to want two horses to fetch the doctor with?" asked frank impatiently. "ah! dear sir, don't be severe with me till you know all. i took both the horses for the same reason that i took the money. i was afraid a stranger might come while i was away, perhaps a bushranger, and the very first thing he'd have laid his hands on would have been the horse." "well; and why didn't you come back?" "i did try, sir, to come back, but i missed my road, and made many fruitful efforts to regain my lost track. at last, after i'd tried, and tried, and tried again, i gave up in despair, and i should have perished in the scowling wilderness if i hadn't met with a party going to the diggings. then the thought crossed my mind, `i'll go and dig for gold; if i succeed, i'll show my dear master that i'm no slave to mammoth, but i'll lay down my spoils at his feet; and if i fail, i cannot help it.' well, sir, i went and dug with a good will. i prospered. i came back to look for my dear master, but i could not find him--he was evacuated. at last i heard that you were going to england, mr frank, and i said to myself; `i'll go too. i'll pay my own passage. i'll be the dear young master's devoted servant, and he shall see by my unwearied intentions that i never really could have meant to do him wrong.'" "and do you really think me such a fool as to believe all this?" asked frank contemptuously. "yes, sir; i do hope you will, sir," was the reply of juniper. "there, sir," he added, "i'll give you the best proof that i'm not the rogue you took me for. please, sir, to read what's on that packet, and then open it." frank took from his hands a heavy parcel, on which was clearly written, "f oldfield, esquire; from juniper graves." he opened it. it contained six ten-pound notes and a leather bag full of nuggets. "there, sir," said juniper, triumphantly, "you can tell that this is no got-up thing. i've had no time to write these words on the paper since you collared me. i've carried it about just as it is for weeks, as you may plainly see by looking at the cover of it, till i could give it into your own hands." it was clear, certainly, that the paper had been folded and directed some considerable time back, as was manifest from the marks of wear and rubbing which it exhibited. frank was staggered. "really, juniper," he said, "i don't know what to think, i can't deny that this packet has been made up for me before our present meeting, and it has all the appearance of having been some considerable time just as it now is. it certainly looks as if you didn't mean to rob me, as you've paid me, i should think, nearly double what you took. of course, i don't want that. i shall not take more than my fifty pounds." "oh, sir, do take the rest, as some amends for the anxiety i've caused you by my foolish act, in taking charge of your money in the way i did without your knowledge or permission. it was wrong, and i oughtn't to have done it; but i meant it for the best. and oh, dear master, do think the best of me. i never did mean to harm you; and i'm ready to go with you now from the pole to the antipathies." "no, juniper, i shall only take my own," said his master; and he restored him one of the ten-pound notes and the nuggets, which juniper accepted with apparent reluctance. "so far," said frank oldfield, "let bygones be bygones. i trust that you'll not make any more such awkward mistakes." "you're satisfied then, sir?" asked graves. "yes, so far as my money is concerned. but there's a graver charge against you still. jacob poole has informed me, and asserts it most positively, that you stole into his tent at the diggings and tried to murder him." "well, did i ever!" exclaimed juniper, holding up both his hands in amazement. "i really think, sir, that young man can't be quite right in his head. _me_ try to murder him! why, i've never set eyes on him since the day he spoke so impertinently to me at the cottage. _me_ murder him! what can the poor, silly young man be thinking of. it's all his fancy, sir; merely congestion of the brain, sir, i assure you; nothing but congestion of the brain." "it may be so," replied frank; "but here he comes himself; let us hear what he has to say on the subject." they both stepped out into the open air as jacob poole came up. poor jacob, had he seen the "father of lies" himself walking with his master, he could hardly have been more astounded. he rubbed his eyes, and stared hard again at frank and his companion, to assure himself that he was not mistaken or dreaming. no; there could be no doubt of it. frank oldfield was there, and juniper graves was as clearly there; and it was equally plain that there was more of confidence than of distrust in his master's manner towards the robber and intended murderer. what could it all mean? "come here, jacob," said frank. "i see you look rather aghast, and i don't wonder; but perhaps you may find that juniper graves here is not quite so black as we have thought him. he acknowledges that he took my fifty pounds, but he says he never meant to keep it; and that he missed his way in looking for a doctor, and afterwards joined a party at the diggings." "well, mayster frank?" said jacob, with a look of strong incredulity. "ah, i see you don't believe it, and i own it don't sound very likely; but then, you see, he has given me a proof of his wish not to wrong me; for--look here, jacob--he has returned me my fifty pounds, and wanted me to take another ten pounds, and some nuggets besides, his own hard earnings at the diggings; only, of course, i wouldn't have them." "indeed, mayster," replied jacob, with a dry cough of disbelief; and glancing at juniper, who had assumed, and was endeavouring to keep up on his cunning countenance, an appearance of injured virtue. "yes, indeed, jacob," said his master; "and we mustn't be too hard upon him. he did wrong, no doubt, and he has made the best amends he could. if he had been a thorough rogue, he never would have cared to seek me out and return me my money with large interest. and, what's more, he's coming over to england in the same ship with us; not as my servant, but paying his own passage, just for the sake of being near me. that doesn't look like a thoroughly guilty conscience." "coming home in the same vessel with us!" cried jacob, in utter astonishment and dismay. "coming home in the same vessel!" "yes, mr poole," said juniper, stepping forward, and speaking with an air of loftiness and injured innocence; "and, pray, why not coming home in the same vessel? what have _you_ to say against it, i should like to know? am i to ask _your_ leave in what ship i shall cross the brawny deep? have you a conclusive right to the company of our master?--for he is mine as well as yours till he himself banishes me irresolutely from his presence." "you shall not sail in the same vessel with us, if i can hinder it, as sure as my name's jacob poole," said the other. "and how _can_ you hinder it, mr poole, i should like you to tell me? i ask nobody's favour. i've paid my passage-money. i suppose my brass, as you wulgarly call it, is as good as any other man's." "well," said jacob, "i'll just tell you what it is. you'll have to clear up another matter afore you can start for england. you'll have to tell the magistrate how it was as you crept into my tent at the diggings, and tried to stick your knife into me. what do you say to that, mr juniper graves?" just the very slightest tremor passed through juniper's limbs, and the faintest tinge of paleness came over his countenance at this question, but he was himself again in a moment. "really," he exclaimed, "it's enough to throw a man off his balance, and deprive him of his jurisprudence, to have such shocking charges brought against him. but i should like, sir, to ask this mr poole a question or two, as he's so ready to accuse me of all sorts of crimes; he don't suppose that i'm going to take him for judge, jury, and witnesses, without having a little shifting of the evidence." "well, of course, it's only fair that you should ask him for proof;" said frank. "come, then, mr poole," said juniper, in a fierce swaggering tone, "just tell me how you can _prove_ that i ever tried to murder you? pooh! it's easy enough to talk about tents; and knives, and such things, but how can you prove it that i ever tried to murder you? a likely thing, indeed." "prove it!" exclaimed jacob, evidently a little at fault. "yes, prove it. do you think i'm going to have my character sworn away on such unsubstantial hallucinations? tell me, first, what time of the day did it happen?" "it didn't happen in the day at all, as you know well enough." "was it dark?" "yes." "could you see who it was as tried to murder you, as you say?" "no." "then how do you know it was me?" "i hit the scoundrel with my spade," said jacob, indignantly, "and made him sing out, and i knowed it were your voice; i should have knowed it among a thousand." "and that's all your proof," said the other, sneeringly. "you knowed my voice." "ay," replied jacob; "and i left my mark on you too. there's a scar on your hand. i haven't a doubt that's it." "can you prove it?" asked the other, triumphantly. "a scar, indeed! do you think scars are such uncommon things with men as works hard at the diggings, that you can swear to one scar? a precious likely story!" "ah, but i saw you myself." "when?" "at two of the preachings." "preachings! and what then? i didn't try and murder you at the preachings, did i? but are you sure it was me, after all, as you saw at the preachings?" "quite." "how was i dressed? was the person you took for me just the same as me? had he the same coloured hair--smooth face, like me?" "i'll tell you plain truth," said jacob, warmly; "it were you. i'm as sure as i'm here it were you; but you'd blacked your sandy hair, and growed a beard on your lip." "well, i never!" cried the other, in a heat of virtuous indignation. "here's a man as wants to make out i tried to murder him; but when i asks him to prove it, all he says is, he couldn't see me do it, that he heard my voice, that i've got a scar on my hand, that he saw me twice at some preachings, but it wasn't me neither; it wasn't my hair, it wasn't my beard, and yet he's sure it was me. here's pretty sort of evidence to swear away a man's life on. why, i wonder, young man, you ain't ashamed to look me in the face after such a string of tergiversations." "i think, jacob," said his master, "you'd better say no more about it. it's plain you've no legal proof against juniper; you may be mistaken, after all. let us take the charitable side, and forget what's past. there, shake hands; and as we're to be all fellow-voyagers, let us all be friends." but jacob drew back. "no, mayster; i'll not grip the hand of any man, if my heart cannot go with it. time'll show. by your leave, i'll go and get the dog-cart ready; for i suppose you'll be going back to adelaide directly?" his master nodding assent, jacob went to fetch the vehicle, and on his return found his master in earnest conversation with juniper. "good-bye, then, juniper, till we meet next thursday on board the _sabrina_," he cried. "good-bye, sir; and many thanks for your kindness." jacob, of course, uttered no word of farewell; but just looking round for an instant, he saw juniper's eyes fixed on him with such a look of deadly, savage hatred, as assured him--though he needed no such assurance--that his intended murderer was really there. "i think, jacob, you're rather hard on juniper," said his master, as they drove along. "he has done wrong; but i am persuaded he has still a strong attachment to me, and i really cannot think he can have been the person who tried to murder you. why should you think it, jacob? he's never done you any harm before." "mr frank, you must excuse me; but i'm sure i'm not mistaken. he's always hated me ever since the day i spoke out my mind to you at the cottage. take my word for it, mr frank, he's no love for you; he only wants to make a tool of you, just to serve his own purposes." "nay, nay, jacob, my good fellow; not so fast. he cannot be so utterly selfish, or he never would have offered me the extra ten-pound note and the nuggets, over and above the fifty pounds, if he hadn't really a love for me, and a true sorrow for what he has done wrong." "i cannot see that," was the reply. "of course, he knowed he was likely to meet you when he came to adelaide; and he was pretty sure what'd happen if you gave him in charge to the police. he knowed well enough they wouldn't listen to his tale; so, just to keep clear of the prison, he gave you the money, and made up his story just to save hisself. he knowed fast enough as you'd never take more nor your fifty pounds." "ah, but jacob," said his master, "you're wrong there. he had made up the parcel, nuggets and all, and directed it to me long before he saw me. don't that show that he intended it all for me, whether he met me or no?" "not a bit of it, mr frank," replied jacob, bluntly. "he knowed precious well how to play his game. i'll be bound there's summat wrong about his getting this gold; i'll ne'er believe he dug it up hisself. i shouldn't wonder if he hasn't robbed some poor chap as has worked hard for it; and now he wants to get out of the colony as fast as he can afore he's found out. and, in course, he's been carrying this brass lapped up a long time, just in case you should light on him at any time, and he might seem to have a proper tale to tell. but you may be right sure, mr frank, as you'd ne'er have seen a penny of it if he could only have got clear out of the colony without coming across yourself." "you're not very charitable, jacob, i think," said his master; "but it may be as you say. and yet, why should he be so anxious to go out in the same ship with me? if he wanted to keep his money to himself; why didn't he keep close till the _sabrina_ was gone, and then sail by the next vessel?" "perhaps he did mean it, mr frank, only you happened to light on him." "no, that cannot be, for he says he has paid for his own passage." "then, if that's a true tale," said the other, "i'll be bound he's not done it with any good meaning for you or me. i shall keep both my eyes well open, or he'll be too much for me. and as for you, mr frank, oh, don't listen to him, or he'll hook all your brass as he's given you out of your pocket again, or he'll lead you back to the drink if he can." frank coloured, and looked troubled, and turned the conversation to another subject. at last the day of sailing came. the _sabrina_, taken in tow by a steam-tug, soon made her way to holdfast bay, where she was to lie at anchor till saturday morning. hubert and his uncle accompanied frank oldfield thus far, and then returned in the steam-tug. before they parted, hubert had a long conversation with his friend in his cabin. his last words were of mary, and frank's one special temptation; and they separated with a fervent grasp, and eyes brimming with tears. yet in neither of their hearts was there hope. hubert felt that his friend had not satisfied him that he really meant utterly and for ever to renounce strong drink; and frank felt that he had withheld any positive promise so to abstain, because he knew that the deep-rooted purpose of his heart was to resume the indulgence which would be his ruin, body and soul. and where was juniper? no one saw him on deck; and yet assuredly he was on board the vessel, for jacob had seen him come up the side. saturday morning, and a fine favourable wind. up comes the anchor--the _sabrina_ bends to the breeze--away they go! kangaroo island is reached and passed. then emerges juniper graves from his cabin between decks, and smiles as he looks around him. all is safe now. the _sabrina_ had been gone ten days, when a weary, downcast-looking man entered mr abraham oliphant's office. "your name ain't oliphant, is it?" he asked, doggedly. "yes, it is," said hubert, whom he was addressing. the man got up, and stared steadily at him for a minute. "it ain't him!" he muttered to himself. hubert was inclined at first to be amused; but there was something in the man's manner that checked his merriment. "you want my uncle, perhaps," he said. mr abraham oliphant came at his nephew's summons. the man, who had all the appearance of a returned digger, shook his head. "_you've_ neither on you been to the diggings, i reckon?" "no; we have neither of us been," said the merchant. "are there any of your name as has been?" asked the other. "none; i can answer for it," was the reply. "my sons have none of them been; and we, with my nephew here, are all the oliphants in this colony. no oliphant has been to the diggings from south australia." the man sighed deeply. "can you make anything out o' that?" he asked, handing a piece of soiled paper to mr oliphant. "i can't read myself, but you can read it." the merchant took the piece of paper and examined it. it had once been part of an envelope, but had been torn and rolled up to light a pipe, and one end, where it had been used, was burned. the words left on it were all incomplete, except the names "oliphant" and "australia." what was left was as follows:-- _yes_, _oliphant_, _delaide_, _th australia_. both uncle and nephew scrutinised it attentively. at last hubert said,-- "i can tell now who this belonged to." "who?" cried the man, eagerly. "why, to one juniper graves, a servant of mr frank oldfield's. he chose to take upon himself to have his letters from england directed to the care of my uncle, and this is one of the envelopes." "and where is he? can you tell me where i can find him?" cried the digger, in great excitement. "i'm afraid you'll not find him at all, my friend," replied the merchant, "for he left the colony in the _sabrina_ for england ten days ago." the effect of this announcement on the poor man was tremendous. he uttered a violent imprecation, stamped furiously on the ground, while he ground his teeth together. then he sat down, and covered his face with his hands in mute despair. "i fear there has been some foul play," said mr oliphant to his nephew. "foul play!" cried the unfortunate digger, starting up furiously. "i'll tell you what it is. yon rascal's been and robbed me of all as i got by my hard labour; and now he's got clean off. but i'll follow him, and have the law of him, if i work my passage home for it." "i've always had a suspicion that the fellow had not come honestly by his gains," said hubert. "and why didn't you stop him? why didn't you have him taken up on suspicion?" exclaimed the other bitterly. "i had no grounds for doing so," replied hubert. "he might have come honestly by his money for anything i knew to the contrary. there was nothing to show that he had not been successful, as many other diggers have been." "successful!" cried the poor man. "ay, he's been successful in making a precious fool of me." "tell us how it happened," said mr oliphant. "why, you see, gentlemen, my mates and me had done very well; and they was for going to melbourne with what they'd got, but i was for stopping to get a little more. well, i was all alone, and a little fidgetty like for fear of getting robbed, when one evening i sees a sandy-haired chap near my tent as didn't look much used to hard work; so i has a bit o' talk with him. he seemed a greenish sort of piece, and i thought as p'raps i might just make use of him, and keep him for company's sake. so he and i agreed to be mates; he was to do the lighter work, and i was to do the hard digging, and keep the biggest share of what we got. so we chummed together; and he seemed a mighty pleasant sort of a cove for a bit. he was always a-talking, and had his mouth full o' big words. i never said nothing about what i'd got afore, and he never seemed to care to ask me. but it were all his deepness. one night he pulls out a pack of cards, and says, `let's have a game. only for love,' says he, when he saw me look a little shyly at him. `i'm not a gambler,' says he; `i never plays for money.' so we has a game and a pipe together, and he pulls out a little flask of spirits, and we got very cheerful. but i was careful not to take too much that night. however, the rum set my tongue loose, and i let out something about having more gold than he knowed of. i was mighty vexed, however, next day, when i remembered what i'd said. but he never said a word about it, but looked werry innocent. a few nights arterwards we gets drinking and smoking again. then he took a little too much himself. i knowed it, because next day he was axing me if i'd see'd anything of an envelope as he'd lost. i told him `no;' but the real fact was, he'd twisted it up to light his pipe with, and i'd picked up the bit as he threw away, and put it in my pocket. i didn't think anything about it then; but next day, when he made a great fuss about it, and the day after too, i said to myself; `i'll keep the bit of paper; maybe summat'll turn up from it one of these days.' so i took it out of my pocket when he were not by, and stowed it away where i knew he couldn't find it. but i shall weary you, gentlemen, with my long story. well, the long and short of it was just this. he managed to keep the spirit-bottle full, and got me jolly well drunk one night; and then i've no doubt i told him all he wanted to know about my gold, for i know no more nor the man in the moon what i said to him. i asked him next day what i'd been talking about; and he said i was very close, and wouldn't let out anything. well, it seems there was a strong party leaving the diggings a day or so arter; but it was kept very snug. jemmy thomson--that was what my new mate called himself to me--had managed to hear of it, and got leave to join 'em. so, the night afore they went, he gets me into a regular talk about the old country, and tells me all sorts of queer stories, and keeps filling my pannikin with grog till i was so beastly drunk that i knew nothing of what had happened till it was late the next morning. then i found he was off. he'd taken every nugget i'd got, and some bank-notes too, as i'd stowed away in a safe place. the party had started afore daybreak; and nobody knowed which way they'd gone, for they'd got off very secret. i was like one mad, you may be sure, when i discovered what he'd been and done. i took the bit of paper with me, and managed somehow to get to melbourne. i tried to find him out; some only laughed at me. i went to the police; they couldn't do nothing for me--some on 'em told me it served me right for getting drunk. then i went to a minister; and he was very kind, and made all sorts of inquiries for me. he said he'd reason to believe as jemmy thomson--as the rascal called himself--was not in melbourne. and then he looked at my paper. `call on me to- morrow,' says he. and so i did. then he says, `there's no oliphant here as i can find out; but there's a mr abraham oliphant, a merchant, in adelaide. this letter's been to him; you'd better see him.' so i've come here overland with a party; and now i must try my hand at summat or starve, for i shall never see my money nor the villain as stole it no more." mr oliphant was truly sorry for the unfortunate man, and bade him take heart, promising to find him employment if he was willing to stick to his work and be sober. the man was thankful for the offer, and worked for a few weeks, but he was still all athirst for the gold, and, as soon as he could purchase the necessary tools, set out again for the diggings, with an earnest caution from mr oliphant to keep from the drink if he would not suffer a repetition of his loss and misery. and thus it was that juniper graves had acquired his ill-gotten wealth. having ascertained that a party was returning to south australia, he joined himself to them, and got safe off with his stolen gold. as jacob poole had surmised, he had made up the packet of notes with the nuggets, that, should he happen to fall in with his master, he might be able to pacify him, and so prepare the way for regaining his favour and his own hold upon him. he felt quite sure, from what he knew of frank oldfield's generous character, that he never would take more than the fifty pounds, and he was aware that unless he made unhesitating restitution of that sum, he was in danger of losing all, and of being thrown into prison. and now he was anxious to leave the colony as soon as possible, that he might put the sea between himself and the man he had robbed; and, having ascertained that frank oldfield and jacob poole were returning to england in the _sabrina_, he took his passage in the same vessel, partly with the view of getting his young master once more into his power, and partly in the hope of finding an opportunity of wreaking his vengeance on jacob poole. therefore he was determined to leave no stone unturned to regain his influence over frank, for his object was to use him for his own purposes both during and after the voyage. to this end his first great aim would be to cause, if possible, an estrangement between jacob and his master. he also hoped to do his rival--as he considered jacob--some injury of a serious kind, without exposing himself to detection. so far he had succeeded. all had prospered to his utmost wishes; and, as the shores of kangaroo island faded from the view of the voyagers, he hugged himself in secret and said,-- "bravo, juniper!--bravo! you've managed it to a t. ah, mr jacob poole! i'll make your master's cabin too hot to hold you afore any of us is a month older." chapter twenty. a man overboard. and now we bid farewell to australia, and follow the _sabrina_ in her homeward voyage. it was soon evident that there was no love lost between captain merryweather and juniper graves, nor between that cunning gentleman and honest, straightforward jacob. with frank, however, it was different. jacob soon found that his place was often taken by juniper, and that himself was gradually losing his old place in his master's confidence and good graces: frank would also frequently spend a long time in juniper's cabin between decks, from which he returned in a state of great hilarity. "jacob," said the captain to him one day, "i can't quite make it out. i thought your master was an abstainer." jacob shook his head. "i thought so too, captain; but i've found myself grievously mistaken. he's no mind to give up the drink, you may be sure. he's only teetotal when he cannot get it." "i'm pretty sure," said the other, "that he takes it now. that fellow juniper graves is no fit companion for him." "ah, captain, that man's been his ruin in australia; and he'll be his ruin when he gets back to the old country, if he doesn't shake him off. but i fear he'll ne'er do that. the old lad hasna a fitter tool in all the world nor yon chap. he'll not stick at anything. he's tried robbery and murder, and he'll not be over nice about squeezing all he can out of the poor young mayster." jacob then related to captain merryweather all he knew of juniper graves' proceedings, and both he and the captain agreed together to watch him, and do their utmost to keep poor frank out of his clutches. "i don't care so much about myself," said jacob; "though i'm quite sure he'd knock me overboard any day, if he'd the chance of doing it without being seen, for he hates me worse nor poison. but i'm grieved to the heart to see him winding hisself round mayster frank, who's so kind and so warm-hearted and so free. i cannot forget how he risked his life to save mine when we was coming out, as you know, captain; and i'd give my own life for him now, if i could only get him clear of yon cunning rascal as is leading him blindfold to hell." "i've no doubt," said the other, "that this man has brought spirits on board, and that he and mr oldfield drink in his cabin together." "yes," replied jacob; "and you may be quite sure as he'll hook all the brass out of the young mayster afore the voyage is over." it was just as jacob and the captain surmised. juniper graves had brought a good stock of brandy and rum on board with him, and took care that frank oldfield should pay handsomely for what he was willing, after much solicitation, to part with. let us look in upon them, as they sit together by juniper's berth. the time is midnight. frank has stolen in while the captain has been sleeping, for he fears being seen going there by the honest sailor. there is a curtain hung up before the door to hide the light. a small candle lamp hung on gymbals is fixed to the woodwork, and throws a scanty gleam on the two figures which are engaged in earnest play. yet how different are these two, spite of their companionship in evil! frank, still beautiful in the refined cast of features, out of which intemperance has not yet been able to sear the traces of gentle blood and early culture; bright too and graceful in the masses of rich chestnut hair which adorn a forehead high and noble, yet now, alas! often crossed by lines of weary, premature care. juniper, a compound of cat, fox, monkey, wolf--every feature of his contemptible face instinct with the greediest, most self-satisfied cunning. how could two such, so widely different in natural character, be yet so agreed? alas! what will not the love of the drink, the slavery of the drink, the tyranny of the drink accomplish? each holds his cards characteristically. frank so carelessly that his adversary can see them; juniper grasping and shading his with jealous vigilance, lest a single glimpse of them should be visible to his opponent. a large spirit-flask stands under the berth close by juniper's hand, and a glass is within the reach of each. they play on, for a while, in silence. frank's money is clearly slipping through his fingers, though he is allowed now and then to win, especially when he gets at all restive or suspicious. "there, juniper," says frank at last, and in no steady voice, "i declare you'll clean me out before long. i do believe you've come on board for the sake of squeezing me dry, as jacob says." "as jacob says!" cries the other, with affected indignation and astonishment. "i wish, sir, that conceited young puppy had never set foot on this vessel. what does he know of the sort of aversions as are suited to a gentleman of your birth and retrospects?" "juniper," replies the other, "i think the `aversions,' as you call them, belong to you and not to me, if i may judge by your aversion for poor jacob; and as for `retrospects,' i think the less i say about them the better." "well, sir, i don't know," replies juniper, huffily; "you may amuse yourself; sir, with my humble efforts at a superior style of soliloquy; but i'm sure you're doing me injustice, and allowing yourself to be bamboozled, if you let yourself be talked over by that canting hypocrite." "steady--steady, my boy!" cries frank; "you're half-seas over, juniper, or you could not say so. come, hand us the brandy. we'll let jacob alone, and drink his health, and the health of all good lads and lasses." "as you please, sir," says juniper, sulkily. the next morning, when frank oldfield appeared on deck, his face and whole appearance bore the unmistakable marks of last night's excess. his very breath also told the same miserable tale. as for juniper, though he had drunk more cautiously, yet he did not show himself outside his cabin till the afternoon. the captain had his eye upon him, and could not help remarking to himself what a look of deadly malice and venomous baseness pervaded every feature of the villain's face. "he's up to some mischief more than common, i'll be bound," he said to himself. "i'll keep a sharp look-out for you, my friend." a short time after, and juniper had disappeared, nor did he emerge from his retreat till the evening. he was then in high spirits, laughing and chatting with the sailors, and every now and then glancing up at jacob, who was walking up and down the poop with captain merryweather. at last, just as jacob was descending to the main-deck, and had his foot on the topmost step of the ladder, the vessel lying over under a breeze on the quarter, juniper suddenly sprang up the steps in a state of great excitement, shouting out, "a whale!--a whale!" every one but the captain turned suddenly round in the direction to which juniper was pointing, jacob among the number, so that he hung partly over the water. "where?" cried several voices. "there!" he exclaimed, suddenly stumbling with his whole might against jacob, so as very nearly to hurl him into the sea. indeed, had not the captain, who was on the watch, sprung forward and caught hold of him, he must have inevitably gone overboard. "you scoundrel!" shouted the captain, seizing juniper by the collar, and sending him spinning down the ladder on to the deck below, where he lay half stunned for a few moments. "i'm up to your tricks, my man," he added, as juniper limped off to his cabin, vowing vengeance. "what's amiss, captain?" asked frank, in great astonishment. "what's poor juniper been doing? no great harm in fancying he saw a whale, even supposing he was mistaken." "mr oldfield," said the captain, sorrowfully, "you don't know that fellow. if ever there was a serpent in a human body, there's one in that man of yours. bear with me, my dear sir, if i offer you an earnest word or two of caution. i can see that you are not the man you were when we crossed the seas together before. we had a very happy voyage then, and you remember how strong and settled you were on the subject of total abstinence. is it so now? ah! don't let that wretched fellow take all that's good and noble out of you. he don't care a straw for you nor for any one but himself; i'm quite certain. he has mischief in his eye, and there's a black heart under that smooth tongue--if i know anything of what a rogue's like, and i've boarded many that have been sailing under false colours in my day. you must excuse my speaking so warmly and plainly, mr oldfield; but i really cannot bear to see you running on to the reefs without giving you a word of warning." "thank you--thank you, captain," said frank. "i know you mean kindly, but i still think you're hard upon juniper. i believe he's a faithful fellow, with all his faults; and he isn't without them, i'll allow. but he's sincerely attached to me, i believe, and that makes up for a good deal." "attached to you, mr oldfield! don't think it! he's only making a tool of you--he'll just get all he can out of you, and then he'll scuttle you, and leave you to sink." "i can't think it, i cannot indeed," was frank's reply; "there's an old proverb about giving a dog a bad name. he's no friend of yours, i know, nor of jacob poole's either, and i'm sorry for it." "and is he really acting a friend's part by you, mr oldfield?" asked the other. frank coloured, and evaded the question. "at any rate, jacob has no real cause to be at such daggers-drawn with him," he said. "do you think not? are you aware that he was trying to knock jacob overboard only a few minutes ago, and that he attempted his life at the diggings?" "oh, captain, it's all fancy; you're mistaken, both of you. i'm sure you're mistaken. juniper's not the sort of fellow--he hasn't it in him--he hasn't the pluck to commit murder, even if he had the will to do it." "ah, mr oldfield," cried the captain, "i say again, beware of him; you don't know him; if you'd seen the spite in his eye that i've seen you wouldn't talk so. he has malice enough in him to take away life, if he felt sure he could do it without detection and punishment. and is he not, at this very moment, stealing away from you the life of body and soul? don't be offended, pray, mr oldfield; but i say again, i can't bear to see you drifting on to the rocks, and not lend a helping hand to keep you off." "i'm not offended, my kind friend," said frank sorrowfully; "you tell the truth, i fear, when you say i'm drifting on to the rocks; and yet i don't mean to go on as i'm doing now, i assure you--when i touch land again i'm going to turn over a new leaf altogether, and paste it down over the old ones, so that i shall make quite a fresh start." "and do you think," asked the other, "that this fellow will let you keep your good resolutions, even if you had the wish to do so?" "oh yes," replied frank, carelessly; "i've told master juniper that his reign will only last on board ship; i'm to be master, and we're both to say `good-bye' to the drink when once we set foot on shore, and he's quite agreeable." "of course he is," said the captain; "he'll be willing to promise anything for the future, if you'll only let him keep his hold on you now. well, sir, i've warned you, and i hope you may lay it to heart." "i will, my good friend; indeed i will," was the reply. that evening frank kept himself out of juniper's reach, much to the disgust and annoyance of that gentleman, who began to dread lest he had over-reached himself; and set his old master against him. it was not so, however. juniper had become necessary to frank, and a day or two found them as fast friends as ever. and now the _sabrina_ had accomplished half her homeward course, and many a heart on board rejoiced in the hope of a speedy and prosperous completion of the voyage. it was a chilly and boisterous afternoon, the clouds were hurrying in leaden-coloured layers along the sky, the sea was all in a foam, and patches of whitish upper clouds, beneath which the lower drift was scudding, threw a lurid light over the wide expanse of ocean. the wind, which had hitherto been favourable, now veered, and obliged them to tack. the captain, at this juncture, was on the poop, with frank oldfield by him. "i haven't seen mr juniper graves to-day," said the former. "to tell you the truth," answered frank, "he and i have been having a few words together." "i'm not sorry for it," remarked the captain drily; "nothing serious, however, i hope." "nothing very, perhaps; but the matter's simply this: i've been fool enough to play cards with him for rather high stakes lately, and i fancy that i've detected my man peeping over my cards, and using a little sleight of hand in his shuffling too." "i'll be bound he has," remarked the other. "if he'd been a poor man," added frank, "i could have excused it; but the fellow's got a whole fortune in nuggets and notes stowed about him. he's a sort of walking `crocus,' as he told me once, when he wasn't over sober,--meaning `croesus,' of course." "and so you've given him a little of your mind, i suppose." "yes; and it's wounded my gentleman's dignity considerably; so there he is below, hugging his gold, and comforting himself in his own way, which isn't much in your line or jacob's, captain, and i wish it wasn't in mine." "in other words," said captain merryweather, "he's pretty nearly drunk by this time." "you're somewhere about right," was the reply. immediately after this short dialogue the captain proceeded to give the orders for tacking in a stentorian voice, as the wind was high. "ready, ho! ready!" he cried. all were standing ready at their posts. then the word was given to the man at the wheel. "helm's a-lee!" roared the captain. there was rattling of chains, flapping of canvas, and shuffling of feet. "mainsail h-a-u-aul!" bellowed the captain in a prolonged shout. round went the great sail under the swift and strong pulls of willing hands. "let go, and h-a-u-aul!" once more roared out the captain in a voice of thunder. it was just at this moment, when all was apparent confusion, when ropes were rattling, feet stamping, sails quivering, that juniper graves emerged from his cabin on to the main-deck, his head bare, and his sandy hair flying out wildly into the breeze. his eyes were strained and bloodshot, and his whole appearance was that of a person in an agony of terror. aroused from his drunken sleep by the noise overhead, and terrified to find the vessel heeling over to the other side, he imagined, in his drunken bewilderment, that the ship had struck, and that himself and his gold were in danger of perishing with her. filled with frenzy at this idea, he rushed out upon deck, where the general apparent confusion confirmed his fears; then he sprung upon the bulwarks, gazed around him in utter dismay at the crew in busy motion about him, tottered on his insecure standing-ground, caught at a rope to save himself; missed it, and then, with a terrible shriek of horror and despair, fell headlong overboard into the boiling waters. "save him! oh, save him!" cried frank oldfield imploringly. "where is he? let me go, let me go," he screamed, for he was about to plunge overboard, and the captain was holding him back with his powerful grasp. "it's no use, mr oldfield; it'll only be two lives instead of one." "oh, yes, yes," besought frank; "put the ship about--lie-to--throw over a hen-coop, a life-buoy, for mercy's sake--the poor wretch isn't fit to die," and he still struggled to free himself. "listen to reason, sir," said the captain. "we can do nothing; the ship's running nine knots, and no one knows where to look for him; nothing can save him, miserable man; he's sunk no doubt, at once, and all the faster for having his gold about him." "can nothing be done?" cried frank, beseechingly. "nothing, i assure you," replied the other; "there's not a trace of him to be seen, is there, mr walters?" the first mate shook his head. "we're far enough off now from the spot where he fell in. it's in mercy to you, sir, that he's been taken away." frank sank upon a seat, and buried his face in his hands, sobbing bitterly. yes; the tempter was gone, gone to his account--suddenly cut off in the midst of his sins, hurried away in righteous retribution by the very death himself had planned for jacob poole. yes; the tempter was gone, and the tempted still remained. would he take home to his heart the lesson and warning god had thus sent him? the tempter was gone, but, alas! the temptation was not gone. frank had even now in his cabin several flasks of that drink which had already borne such miserable fruits for himself and the guilty wretch just hurried into the presence of his offended god. he had bought the spirits from juniper at an exorbitant price, but would he use them now, after what had happened? the night after juniper's awful death he sat in his cabin weeping. thoughts of home, of mother, father, mary, crowded in upon his heart. the days that once were, when he would have joined with real willingness and hearty earnestness the band of abstainers, as he sat in all boyish sincerity at mr bernard oliphant's table, eager to make the trial and bear the cross, were fresh upon his memory now. and all the bitter past, with its shameful, degrading, sinful records, gathered its thick shadows round his soul. what should he do? he sank upon his knees and prayed--prayed to be forgiven, prayed that he might do better--and then he rose, and was in part comforted. and now, what should he do with the spirits which were still in his possession? he took them out and ranged the flasks on his berth. his scuttle stood open. one minute and he could have thrown them all into the sea. conscience said, "do it, and do it at once." but another voice whispered, "pity to waste so much good stuff; drink these out, but only a moderate quantity at a time, and then you can renounce the drink for ever." he listened to the second voice, and conscience sighed itself to sleep. alas! alas! what fiend like the fiend of drink? it can steal away every good resolution, drown the voice of conscience, and make a man cheat himself into the belief that the indulgence of to-day is a warrant and guarantee for the abstinence of to-morrow. frank was satisfied; he felt sure that it would be wiser to wean himself gradually from his drinking habits; he would use the strictest moderation with his present little stock, and then he should more readily forsake it altogether when this was gone. and so he continued to drink, but more and more sparingly, as he himself supposed, because he was really training himself to a gradual surrender of the drink, but in reality because he dreaded to be left altogether without it. and so the taste was kept up during the remainder of the voyage, and frank oldfield landed on the shores of his native country with the thirst strong upon him. chapter twenty one. homeless and heartless. the _sabrina_ was bound for liverpool, and entered that port some two years after the time when she left it with hubert oliphant and frank oldfield as fellow-passengers. alas! how different were the feelings of the latter now, from those with which he trod the deck of that vessel when preparing for his temporary exile. then, though sad, he was full of hope; now he was both heartless and hopeless; he knew he was the bond-slave of the drink, and, whatever he might say to others, he felt in his own heart that it was useless any longer to try and cheat himself with the transparent phantom of a lie. yet he could not for shame acknowledge thus much to others, nor would he allow his conscience to state it deliberately to himself; he still clung to something, which was yet neither conviction nor hope, that he might even now master his besetting sin. alas! he desired the good end, but he would not use the only means to that good end; and so, when he landed on the soil of the old country again, it was with the settled determination, (though he would not have believed his own handwriting, had he put down that determination on paper) not to give up the drinking of intoxicating liquors at present. how then should he face his parents and mary oliphant? he could not face them at all as yet. he could not at once make up his mind what to do. happily for him, juniper graves had been cut off before he had been able to effect a complete spoliation of his master, so that frank had still rather more than two hundred pounds in his possession. while this money lasted, he resolved to stave off the evil day of taking any decided step. he would not write to his mother or mary till he had quite made up his mind what course he was intending to pursue. he was also well aware that the family of bernard oliphant could give him no welcome with his present habits of excess still upon him. so, on the day of reaching liverpool, he said to jacob poole,-- "well, jacob, are you quite tired of my service, or will you stay by me a little longer? i've no right or wish to stand in your way, and if you would like to make another voyage with captain merryweather, or can find any other situation that will suit you better than mine, i would not have you consider yourself bound to me at all." "mayster frank," was jacob's reply, "i'm not going to leave you now, unless you wish to part with me yourself. i don't feel happy in leaving you to go by yourself nobody knows where." "really, jacob, you make a capital nurse," said the other, laughing; "you seem to be quite convinced that i'm not to be trusted to run alone." "and it's true, sir," replied jacob, seriously; "you need looking after, and i mustn't be letting you get into the hands of any of those chaps as'll hook all as you have out o' you in no time--that is, if you're going to stay by yourself in this big town." "why, yes, jacob; i shall not go down to my father's at once. i don't seem as if i _could_ go. i'd better wait a little bit. i seem out of trim, and out of sorts altogether." "you must please yourself," replied jacob; "and you must know best, mayster frank, what you're bound to do. but, if you'd take my advice, you'd go home at once, afore anything worse happens." "no, jacob, i cannot yet, and so that's settled. now we must look-out for lodgings; they mustn't be expensive ones, else the brass, as you call it, won't hold out, and you can wait on me, and keep me in order, you know. but, by the way, i was forgetting that you have friends of your own to look after. don't let anything i've been saying prevent your going to them, and doing what's right by them. i shall be quite willing to come into any arrangement you may like to make. don't consider yourself bound to me, jacob, but just do whatever you feel to be your duty." "you're very kind, mayster frank: it's just this way with me. i should like to go and see arter them as i left behind when i sailed for australia, and see how they're coming on. but it don't matter for a week or so, for they're not looking for me. i'll see you settled first properly, mayster frank, if you mean to settle here for a bit, and then i'll just take a run over yonder for a few days, and come back to you again, and what i do afterwards'll depend on how i find things yonder." and thus it was finally settled. frank took quiet lodgings in a respectable by-street, in the house of an aged widow, who was delighted with his cheerful open manners, and did her best to make him and jacob comfortable. but the time hung heavily on the hands of both master and man. frank purposed daily writing home, and yet each to-morrow found him more reluctant to do so than the day before. jacob loitered about the town and docks when his master did not want him, and got exceedingly weary of his idleness. "eh, ma'am," he said one day to their landlady, "my arms fair ache with hanging down and doing nothing." thus things went on for about a fortnight, when one evening at tea-time frank failed to make his appearance. seven o'clock, then nine and ten, but no master came to remove poor jacob's misgivings. at last, about midnight, a stumbling against the door and a violent knock made his heart die within him. "who's there?" he cried, before opening the door. "me, old king of trumps!" cried a voice which he knew to be frank's. the minute after, the wretched young man staggered in almost helpless. next day was a season of bitter sorrow, self-reproach, and remorse; but, alas! not to be followed by any real amendment, for frank was now seldom home till late, though he was never again grossly intoxicated. but a shadow had now settled habitually on his once bright and open countenance, which jacob could not quite understand, and which was almost more sad to him than the degrading flush and vacant stare produced by excess in drink. something dreadful was amiss, he was sure, but he could not tell, and hardly dare conjecture what it might be. very, very loth then was he to go, when the time came for his leaving his master entirely to his own devices. he would gladly have put off his journey, but frank would not hear of it, and was evidently annoyed when jacob urged the matter. so it was finally settled that he should be away for a few days, not exceeding a fortnight. the night but one before his intended departure, jacob was pleased to find that his master did not leave home, but took his tea at his lodgings, a very unusual thing of late. after tea he made jacob come and sit with him, and they had a long talk over australian matters, and the events of their late voyage. at last frank said,-- "jacob, i don't wish to pry into your concerns, or to ask questions which you may not like to answer. i hope, however, that you will not scruple to ask my advice on any matter in which i can be of service to you." "well, thank you, sir," replied jacob, with a sort of embarrassment in his manner, "you're very kind, but i've reasons just now why i'd like to say as little as possible about myself to any one. if i find them as i'm going to seek, i may have much to say; but maybe i may find things so as'll make it better i should forget as ever i'd any belonging me." "just so," said his master; "you must be the best judge of your own matters, and i would not intrude on your private concerns for a moment; only i should just like to know what you mean to do with your bag of nuggets; you must be careful where you put it. it would be hardly wise to carry it about with you, if you don't mean to turn it into money at present." jacob was troubled at the question, yet he could hardly tell why; he answered, however,-- "well, mayster frank, i'm not thinking of meddling with my nuggets at present." "hadn't you better then leave them with me till you return?" asked frank. poor jacob was sorely puzzled what to reply. he looked down, and there was an awkward pause. at last he said,-- "i cannot rightly tell what'll be the best to do. mayster oldfield, you mustn't be offended, but i'd better be plain and outspoken. you'd not mean to wrong me of a farthing, i know; but you must be well aware you're not always your own mayster. so if you cannot keep your own brass safe, i can hardly think it wise to trust you to take charge of mine. i don't wish to vex you, mayster frank, but that's just the honest truth." "quite right, jacob, quite right," said his master, laughing; "you don't vex me at all. i should do just the same, if i were in your place. suppose, then, you give your bag in charge to our landlady the morning you start; that'll be soon enough, for, poor soul, she'll be glad, i daresay, not to have charge of other folk's treasure a day longer than necessary; and i'll be a witness that you give it into her charge." "thank you, mayster," said jacob, greatly relieved; "that's good advice, and i'll follow it." the next evening, the last before jacob's expedition, frank again remained at home. he had been out all the morning. jacob looked anxiously at him when he returned. he clearly had not been drinking--at any rate immoderately--yet there was something in his look which jacob could not fathom, and if ever frank met his servant's eye, his own immediately fell. "i'm not satisfied as all's right," said jacob to himself, "and yet i cannot tell what's amiss." that night his sleep was restless and disturbed. once he fancied that his door was opened, and that his master appeared and drew back again. their rooms were on the opposite sides of the same landing. again he fancied, or dreamt, that a hand passed under his pillow, where he kept his nuggets. it was quite dark--he started up and felt for the bag; it was there quite safe, and he laid him down again. but yet again he seemed to feel a hand behind his pillow. "i must have been dreaming," he muttered to himself; "the bag's right." yes, there it was all right when he rose in the morning. he was to start by an early train, so, hastily dressing himself, and having breakfasted, he came to say farewell to his master. "oh, mayster frank," he said, grasping the other's outstretched hand, "i'm heavy at the heart at leaving you. i cannot tell why, but there's a weight like lead upon me. oh, dear mayster frank, for my sake, for your own sake, for the sake of all them as loves you, will you promise me to keep off the drink, leastways till i come back? will you pray the lord to help you, mayster frank? he _will_ help you, if you'll pray honestly." what was it that affected his unhappy master so powerfully? frank's whole frame shook with emotion. he stared at jacob with a gaze of mingled remorse and agony such as touched the other to the quick. "jacob," gasped his master, at last, "i cannot let you go thus--you don't know--i've--i've--" he paused for a moment, and tears and sobs burst from him. then he sat down, and bowed his head on his knees, clasping his hands tightly together. then an unnatural calmness followed; he muttered something to himself, and then said, in a tone of affected indifference and gaiety,-- "there, it don't matter; the best of friends must part. you'll be back before so very long, and i'll try and be a good boy meanwhile. "just call up the landlady, jacob, and we can see her take charge of your nuggets." jacob did as his master bade him. "there, mrs jones," he said, taking the bag hastily from jacob's hands; "this bag of nuggets belongs to my man. you see it contains gold," he added, opening the mouth of the bag, and taking out a small nugget; "there," tying it up with the string which he had removed from it, "he'll know where to look for them when he comes back. we've the fullest confidence, mrs jones, that they will be safe in your keeping." "indeed, sir," said the landlady, curtseying, "i'd rather _you_ should keep them." "no, no, mrs jones; jacob knows very well that you're to be trusted, but that i'm not." "oh, sir!" exclaimed mrs jones; but she was at a loss what farther to say, for she felt that poor frank spoke only the sober truth. at last she said,-- "well, sir, i'll take charge of them, as you both seem to wish it, and i'll take care that no one sees where i put them." and so jacob and his master parted. ten days passed by, and then jacob, downcast and weary, made his way to the lodgings. his heart died within him at the expression of the landlady's face when she had opened the door to him, and found that he was alone. "where's mr oldfield?" he gasped. "that's just what i was going to ask you, mr poole." "what! you don't mean to say he's left your house?" "he has indeed," was the reply. "i've seen nothing of him since the day after you left." "seen nothing of him!" exclaimed jacob in complete bewilderment; "but has he sent you no message--no letter?" "no, mr poole, he's neither sent nor written. he paid me all he owed me up to the last night he slept here, and that's all i know." "and has he left no message, nothing to tell one where he's gone?" asked jacob. "nothing," she said, "unless this letter's from him--it came a few days ago." jacob seized it, and tore it open. when he had read a few lines he let it drop upon the floor, and stood gazing at it as though some strange fascination glared out from it upon him. then he took it up again, read it deliberately through, laid it on the table, and sitting down, burst into an agony of weeping. the letter was as follows:-- "dear jacob,--i _must_ write to you, though i hardly can hold my pen, and every letter, as i write, seems like blood wrung out from my heart. well, it's no use; you shall have the naked truth at once. i have robbed you, jacob, artfully, basely, deliberately, cruelly robbed you, and all through the cursed drink. i hate myself for it as the vilest wretch upon earth. and yet i have no excuse to make. i have been gambling with a wretched set of sharpers, who got hold of me when i was drunk. they cleaned me out of every penny. i was ruined--i was desperate--i thought if i could get hold of your nuggets i could turn them into money, win back what i had lost, and repay you with interest. i got some lead, melted it in a shovel, (i need not tell you _where_ i did this; it was in no good place, you may be sure). i made the lead into the shape of nuggets. the night but one before you left i tried to find out where you kept your bag; you were restless and clutched at your pillow. i knew then that it was there. i got another leather bag and filled it with the leaden nuggets i had made. these i slipped behind your pillow, and took away the real ones, the night before you left; you felt for them, and fancied you had them safe. when i had got out the gold, i crouched down in the dark till you were fast asleep again. then i drew out the bag very carefully from behind your head, and changed it for your own bag, having first filled your own bag with the leaden nuggets and one or two little bits of gold at the top, so that you had your own bag when you woke in the morning, but i had your gold in the other bag. there, you know all now, you can understand all the rest. i sold your nuggets--i spent part of the money in drink--i played again--i've lost all--i shall never be able to repay you--i dare not look you in the face--i dare not look my father and mother in the face--i dare not look--it's no matter. you are an honest fellow, jacob, and will get on, spite of my villainy. if you ever marry and have children, make them total abstainers, if you would keep them safe in body and soul. as for myself, i cannot mend--i'm past it--i've been cheating myself with the belief that i meant to mend, but i never did. i see it now. there, jacob, i don't ask you to forgive me, but i do ask one thing--grant it me for the love you once had to me--it is this: wait a month, i shall be out of the way by that time, and then post the enclosed letter to my poor mother. i have told her how i have robbed you. my father will repay you. tell him where he can find you. i shall soon be out of everybody's reach. and now all i have got to ask you is just to wipe me out of your thoughts altogether, and to forget that there ever was such a person as your guilty, miserable, degraded master." "oh, mr poole," said his landlady, compassionately, when he had begun to recover from the first vehemence of his grief, "i fear there's something dreadfully wrong." jacob shook his head. "all lost--all ruined," he replied. yet even now his heart yearned towards his miserable master. he would not expose him to mrs jones; she at least should know nothing of his own loss. "mrs jones," he said, holding out his hand, "i must say good-bye. i fear my poor master's got into very bad hands. i don't rightly know what's become of him; but where there's life there's hope, and i trust he isn't past that. if you and i meet again, may it be a happier meeting. be so good as to hand me my--my--bag i left in your charge," he added, with quivering voice. "i'm so sorry," said the good woman, when she had fetched the bag. "i wish i could do anything to comfort you. i'm sure i'm truly sorry for the poor young gentleman. it's a thousand pities he's thrown himself away, for a nicer or freer-spoken gentleman never was, when he was in his proper senses. there, mr poole, there's your bag. you see it's just as you gave it me. no one has seen it or touched it but myself." "thank you, mrs jones. it's all right; farewell, and the lord be with us both." he turned from the door utterly broken down in spirit. whither should he go? what should he do? should he really abandon his master to his fate? he could not. should he delay posting the letter? no; and yet he felt a difficulty about it; for frank had stated in his letter to himself that he had told his mother of the robbery, and that jacob must be repaid his loss. but who was to say what was the worth of the nuggets? he had never ascertained their value. he felt that he could not face his master's father; that he could not himself put a value upon what he had lost. his master had saved his life, and he would set that against the pilfered gold, and would forgive what had been done against himself. so having ascertained that it was only too true that his bag contained but two or three little pieces of the precious metal, he cast the rest of its contents into the sea, and determined to start afresh in life, as if the sorrowful part of his past history never had been. but first he posted frank's letter, with one of his own, in which he stated where he had lodged in liverpool, that so his master's parents might have every opportunity of endeavouring to trace their unhappy son. his own letter was as follows:-- "madam,--mr frank oldfield, your son, has bid me send you the letter from him which comes with this. mr frank is my master. you have no doubt heard him say something in his letters from australia about jacob poole. well, i am jacob poole. and we came to england together, my master and me; and my master has took, i am sorry to say it, to drinking again since he came back. i wanted him to go home at once, but he has kept putting it off, and he has got into the hands of some gamblers as has stripped him of all his brass; and he has taken, too, some nuggets of mine, which i got at the diggings, but he didn't mean to keep them, only to borrow them, and pay me back. but, poor young gentleman, he has been quite ruinated by these cheating chaps as has got hold of him. so i don't want anybody to think anything more about me or my nuggets--i should not like any fuss to be made about them--i had rather the whole thing was kept snug. i shall go and get work somewhere or other; and, thank the lord for it, i am young and strong. so, dear madam, don't think any more about me or my nuggets; for mr frank saved my life when he might have lost his own, so he is welcome to the nuggets, and more into the bargain. i am sorry that mr frank has gone off; so i cannot tell you where to find him. i have tried, but it isn't any use. we--that is, my master and me--was lodging with mrs jones, as i've written at the top of the letter. i can tell you no more about where to find him. so no more at present from your very humble servant, jacob poole." "mr frank has written to me not to post his letter for a month, but i don't think it is right to keep it from you, so i send it at once." such was jacob's letter, when cleared of mistakes in spelling and expression. frank's letter to his mother was in these words:-- "dearest mother,--how shall i write to you! what shall i say to you? i feel as if my pen scorched my fingers, and i could not hold it. i feel as though this very paper i am writing on would carry on it the blush of burning shame that covers me. darling mother, how shall i tell you what i am? and yet i must tell you; i _must_ lift the veil once for all, and then it shall drop for ever on your miserable son. i am in england now. i do not know where i shall be when you receive this. i went out to australia, as you know, hoping to become a sober, steady man. i am returned to england a confirmed drunkard, without hope, ay, even without the _wish_ to break off from my sin. i cannot look you or my father in the face as i am now. i never could look mary in the face again. i shall never write or breathe her name again. i have no one to blame but myself. i have no strength left to fight against my sin. i am as weak before the drink as a little child, and weaker. i could pray, but it's no use praying; for i have prayed often, and now i know that i never really desired what i prayed for. i dare not face the prospect of entirely renouncing strong drink. i once dreamed that i could, but it was only a dream; at least, since i first began habitually to exceed. but can i go on and tell you what my love for the drink has led me to? i must, for i want you or my dear father to do one thing for me, the last i shall ever ask. oh, don't cast me utterly out of your heart when you hear it, but i must tell it. i have robbed my poor faithful servant, jacob poole, of his nuggets, which he got by his own hard labour. i secretly took them from him, and spent what they fetched in drink and gaming. i meant to win and pay him back, but i might have known i never could. yes, i robbed the poor young man who nursed me, worked for me, prayed for me, remonstrated with me, bore with me. i robbed him when his back was turned. oh, what a vile wretch the drink has made me! can you have any love for me after reading this? oh, if you have, i want you or my father to repay jacob for his nuggets which i stole. he's as honest as the day. you may trust him to put no more than a fair value on them. one more request i have to make, darling mother. oh,--deal kindly by _her_--i said i would never write her name again, and i will not. i dare not write to her, it would do no good. tell her that i'm lost to her for ever; tell her to forget me. and do _you_ forget me too, dearest mother. i could be nothing but a thorn, a shame, a burden in my old home. i will not tell you where i am, nor where i shall be; it is better not. forget me if you can, and think of me as dead. i am so for all better purposes; for everything good or noble has died out of me. the drink has done it. your hopeless son, frank oldfield." chapter twenty two. a miserable death. three days after jacob poole had posted his letter and its enclosure, a cab drove up to mrs jones's door. in it were sir thomas and lady oldfield. no one who saw them could doubt of the bitter sorrow that had stamped its mark upon their noble features. "are you mrs jones, my poor--poor son's landlady?" asked lady oldfield, when they were seated in the parlour. she could add no more for weeping. "yes, ma'am," was the reply. "i'm sure i'm very sorry, ma'am, very indeed; for mr oldfield was a most kind, free-spoken gentleman; and if he'd only--only--" "i understand you," said the poor sorrowing mother. "and jacob poole; what has become of him?" asked sir thomas. "i'm sure, sir, i don't know. all i can tell is, that he's sure not to be anywhere in liverpool; for he told me the morning he left me that he was going to leave the town, and should not come back again." "i'm grieved to hear it," said the baronet. "and can you give us a clue, mrs jones, to our dear misguided child's present place of abode? can you suggest no way of finding it out?" "i fear not, sir; mr oldfield has left nothing behind him except his bible and prayer-book, which he asked me to accept as a token of his kind feeling and regard, he was good enough to say." "his bible and prayer-book! oh, let me look at them," exclaimed lady oldfield. mrs jones brought them. the prayer-book was one given him on his twelfth birthday by his mother. his name in it was in her own handwriting. the bible was a much newer book, and bore but few marks of use. it was a gift from mary oliphant. the handwriting of his name was hers, as was also that of two texts below the name, which were written out in full-- "be thou faithful unto death, and i will give thee a crown of life." "there hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man; but god is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able, but will, with the temptation, also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it." lady oldfield gazed at these books and the writing in them for a long time without uttering a word, and without shedding a tear. it seemed as though the sight had for the moment chained every other feeling, and left her only the power to stare wildly at the two familiar handwritings. "and he has parted with these," she said at last, half out loud; "he has given them away. oh, merciful father in heaven, what has become of my unhappy boy?" "calm yourself, my dear," said sir thomas; "let us hope that things may be better than our fears." "i'm sure, ma'am," said mrs jones, "i should never think of keeping these books if you or mr oldfield's father wish to have them." "oh, it is not that, it is not that," sobbed lady oldfield. "are you a mother, mrs jones?" she cried, turning abruptly to her. "yes, ma'am; i've had seven children, and five are living now." "then you'll understand _my_ feelings as a mother. i fear, oh, i cannot say how terribly i fear, that poor frank means to do something dreadful; perhaps to--to--oh, i can't bear to think of it." "why, my dear, why," asked her husband, "should you think so?" "why, thomas! oh, isn't there something terrible in his parting with these two books, my gift and dear mary's gift, and at such a time? doesn't it seem as if he was turning his back upon everything that is good and holy, and simply giving himself up to despair. isn't it like saying, `the bible's no longer a book for me, for god is no longer my god?' isn't it like saying, `prayer is no longer for me, for god will not hear me.'" "my dearest wife," said sir thomas, anxiously, "don't look at the darkest side. don't lose your faith and trust now. my good mrs jones, you see we're in sore trouble. you can understand how our hearts are almost broken about our erring son, but still he _is_ our son, and very dear to us; and we want you to help us to find him, if it be possible." "i'm sure, sir," replied the kind-hearted landlady, "i do feel for you both with all my heart, and only wish i knew what to advise. but really i know no more than yourselves where mr oldfield is likely to be found. it seems that he's wished to keep it a secret, and so he has purposely kept me in the dark." sir thomas sighed. "i understand exactly how it is," he said. "i do not see what we can do, except endeavour to get a clue through the police. by the way, mrs jones, you don't happen to know the names or lodgings of any of his associates? that might help us, if you did." "i do not, sir; for i never saw one of them enter this house. your son never brought any one home with him as i know of. jacob poole and he were the only persons who ever were together here while he had my lodgings." "do you happen, then, ever to have heard him mention where any of his companions lived? i mean those persons he used to stay out with at night or in the day?" "never, sir." "nor so much as the name of any of his associates?" "not once, sir. i fear--that is to say--" "speak out, mrs jones, pray. you know this may be a matter of life and death to him, and perhaps to us also. don't be afraid of wounding us; we want to know everything that can in the least help us in our search." "well, sir, i was going to say, only i hesitated to say so much to my lodger's own father and mother, that i feared he had got mixed up with companions as wouldn't be likely to meet him in any private house." "i understand you; you think he met his friends, (his companions or associates, i mean), at some common rendezvous or club." "yes, sir; i fear so from all i heard and saw, and from what mr poole has said." "i fear, then, that you can afford us no information that will help us at present. but here is my card; we shall be staying for some days probably, possibly for some weeks, at the albion hotel. will you kindly, without fail, let us know, and that without loss of time, if you hear or see anything either of our poor son or of jacob poole, or of any one who may be able to give us any light or any help in our search?" "you may depend upon me, sir thomas," said mrs jones; "and i'm sure, sir, i hope you and her ladyship will excuse this homely room. it's only very plainly furnished, but it's the one your son occupied." "pray, don't make any apologies," said her ladyship; "they are not needed. it is not fine rooms and grand furniture that can give peace. i have just one thing to ask you to grant me before we go, and we must not delay, for time is precious." "i'm sure, my lady, i'll grant you anything in my power." "let me, then, see the room where my poor boy slept." "certainly, ma'am, though it's in a sadly untidy state. i've not had time--" "never mind, mrs jones; i shall not notice any defects. my heart aches too sorely for me to heed these trifles. there, thank you; now leave me alone in the room for five minutes. and will you kindly tell my husband that i will join him almost directly!" when the door was closed upon the unhappy mother, she threw herself on her knees beside the bed on which her son had slept, too commonly, alas! the drunkard's sleep, and poured out her heart with tears to god that she might find her poor, lost, and guilty child before it should be too late. rendered calmer by this prayer, she joined sir thomas. "farewell, mrs jones," she said, as they left the house; "many thanks for your kind sympathy. i trust we may have a less sad tale to tell when we meet again." they drove to their hotel, and sir thomas wrote at once to the superintendent of police, requesting him to call upon him at the "albion" at his earliest convenience. in about an hour that functionary appeared. he was a tall and stoutly-built man, of a decidedly military carriage; slightly bald, with a peculiarly searching eye, and thin decided lips. his manner was remarkably quiet, and his language precise and deliberate. he evidently always thought before he spoke, and then spoke what he thought, and nothing more. taking the seat offered him by sir thomas, but declining any refreshment, he put himself in the attitude of listening, as one accustomed to weigh evidence, and to put every fact and conjecture into its right box. "i have requested your kind attendance, mr superintendent," began the baronet, "that i might ask your advice and help in a matter in which lady oldfield here and myself are most deeply concerned." the superintendent gave a slight bend forward, as much as to say that this introduction to the subject in hand was a matter of course. sir thomas then, with some embarrassment of manner, gave his hearer an account of his son's unhappy career, and his own difficulties about tracing him, and concluded by saying,-- "and now, sir, i would ask your help to discover my poor boy before it be too late." the superintendent signified his assent. "what do you think?" asked sir thomas. "we can find him, no doubt, if he is still in liverpool," said the officer. "and do you think he _is_ now in liverpool?" asked lady oldfield. "i do." "what makes you think, so?" asked the baronet. "several things. first, he'll be likely to stay where he can get most easily at the drink. secondly, he'll not go away to any near country place, because he'd get sooner marked there. thirdly, as he seems hard up for money, he'll have to pawn anything he may have left that's worth pawning, and he can do that best and most secretly in a large town." poor sir thomas and his lady felt a shiver through their hearts at the matter-of-fact way in which these words were uttered. "you don't think, then," asked the baronet, "that he has started in any vessel for america or australia?" "no; because no captain would take him as a sailor, and he'd not be able to raise money to go even as a steerage passenger. besides, he wouldn't risk it, as he'd know that all the outward bound vessels might be searched for him by that man of his--poole, i think you called him." "but don't you suppose he may have left by railway, and gone to some other large town?" "of course he may, but i don't think he has, because he'll have sense enough to know that he can't have much to spare for travelling, if he's gambled away his ready money, and don't mean to ask you for any more." "perhaps he has done, or means to do, something desperate," said lady oldfield, tremblingly; "he seemed to hint at something of the kind in his letter to me." "no, he'll not do that, i think--at least not just yet. habitual drunkards have seldom got it in them. they'll talk big, but still they'll go on hanging about where they can get the drink." "then you believe that he is still in liverpool?" said sir thomas. "that's my belief." "and you think that you can find him?" "i do think so. was your son fond of low company when he lived at home?" poor sir thomas and his wife winced at this question, but it was put by the superintendent simply as a matter of business. "why, not exactly," was the reply; "that is to say, he never frequented any gatherings of low people, as far as i know. but he was very much in the habit of making a companion of my under-groom, juniper graves." "ah, exactly so! and this man drank?" "yes." "and they played cards together?" "i fear so." "then he's most likely hooked in with a low set--that makes it easier." "do you suppose that he is still in connection with any such set?" asked lady oldfield. "pretty certain, if he has let out, when he was tipsy, that his father is a gentleman of property. they'll help him on a bit, if they think there's a chance of bleeding him again." "but you know he has resolved to keep us in ignorance of his abode, and all about himself." "yes, he meant it when he wrote; but when he's so hard up as to be near starving, perhaps he'll change his mind." "how then would you propose to proceed?" asked sir thomas. the superintendent thought for half a minute, and then said,-- "have you a photograph of your son with you?" "i have," said the poor mother. she took it out of her pocket-book, and handed it to the officer. he looked at it very carefully for some time, and then said,-- "i suppose he must be a little older looking than this." "yes, surely," was the reply, "for it was taken three years ago, before he went out to australia." "i must ask you then to spare it me for a few days, as it may help us materially." "and how soon may we hope to hear anything from you?" "in a day or two i expect, perhaps sooner. but don't call at the office; it will do no good. you may depend upon hearing from me as soon as i have anything to communicate." that day passed over, a second, and a third day of sickening suspense. how utterly powerless the poor parents felt! lady oldfield prayed, but oh, there were sad thoughts of bitter self-reproach mingling with her prayers. she could not but remember how she had herself been the chief hindrance to her son's becoming a total abstainer when he was bent on making the attempt, and had avowed his intention. oh, she would have given worlds now could she but recall the time, and her own words, when she had dissuaded him from renouncing those stimulants which had proved to him the cause of sin, ruin, and perhaps death. yes; who could tell what might have been now had that unhappy remonstrance never passed her lips. ah, it is easy to laugh down, or press down by a mother's authority, the holy resolve of a child who sees the gigantic monster drunkenness in some of his hideous proportions, and would gladly take that step which would keep him, if leaning on grace for strength, free from the deadly snare; easy to laugh down or crush down that resolve; but oh, impossible to recall the past, impossible to give back to the utterly hardened drunkard his fresh vigorous intellect, his nervous moral power, his unstrained will, his unwarped conscience, his high and holy resolution! lady oldfield felt it; but the past was now gone from her, beyond the reach of effort, remorse, or prayer. at last, on the morning of the fourth day, the superintendent again made his appearance. "have you found him?" cried both parents in a breath. "i believe i am on his tracks," was the reply. "oh, thank god for that!" cried the poor mother, clasping her hands together. "he still lives then?" "i cannot be sure, but i should think so." "oh, then, cannot you take us to him?" "no, madam, not yet; we are only on his tracks at present." "would you tell us in what way you have proceeded?" asked sir thomas. "certainly. in the first place, the young man's photograph was shown to all our constables. some thought they knew the face, and could fix upon the right person in one of the low haunts they are acquainted with. but after a two days' search they were all disappointed. young men dress so much alike in these days that it's often very difficult to tell who's who till you see them very close. then i had the likeness taken round to all the publicans' wives, for the women are closer observers of features than the men. some thought they'd seen such a face, some hesitated, one was quite sure she had. i could tell at once that she was right." "when was this?" eagerly asked lady oldfield. "yesterday." "and what did she say?" "she said that he had been there several nights running with two regular cardsharpers, and they'd been drinking. she was sure it was him, though he had disguised himself a little." "and did you find him?" "no; he hadn't been there for the last two or three nights. perhaps he had nothing to spend, for he came the last time in his shirt-sleeves; so she supposed he'd pawned his coat." "well?" "well, i sent one of our men last night to see if he'd come again, but he never did." "and what can you do now?" "oh, i've left the photograph with the landlady, and she is to see if any of her customers recognise it; it'll stand on the counter." "and what do you think about him now?" asked sir thomas. "that he'll turn up again in a day or two, if he's not ill." "oh, can he--can he have destroyed himself in a fit of despair?" gasped lady oldfield. "i think not, madam. pray don't distress yourself. i believe we shall be able to hunt him out in a day or two. i shall send a man in plain clothes to the gin-shop again to-night to watch for him." early the next day the superintendent called again. "we've found him," he said. "oh, where, where is he?" exclaimed the poor mother; "take us to him at once! oh, is he living?" she asked vehemently, for there was a look of peculiar seriousness on the superintendent's face which made her fear the worst. "he is living, madam, but i'm sorry to say that he's seriously ill." "send for a cab at once," cried sir thomas. "i have one at the door," said the officer; "one of you had better secure a respectable lodging and nurse for him at once, while the other goes with me." "let _me_ go to him," cried lady oldfield. "it will be a strange place for a lady, but you will be safe with me." "oh yes, yes, let me go," was the reply; "am not i his mother? oh, let us go at once." "well, then, sir thomas," said the superintendent, "we will call at the hotel as we return, if you will leave the direction of the lodgings with the landlord." "and how did you find out my poor boy?" asked lady oldfield, as they hurried along through a labyrinth of by-streets, each dirtier and more dismal than the last. "my man in plain clothes, madam, watched last night for a long time by the bar, but saw no one come in like your son. at last an old woman, who was come for a quartern of gin, stared hard at the likeness, and said, `laws, if that ain't the young gent as is down ill o' the fever in our attic!'" "ill of the fever!" exclaimed lady oldfield. "yes; it seems so. of course that was enough. my man went home with her, taking the photograph with him, and soon ascertained that the young gentleman in question is your son. but we must stop here. i'm sorry to bring your ladyship into such a place; but there's no help for it, if you really wish to see the young man yourself." "oh yes, yes," cried the other; "anything, everything, i can bear all, if i may only see him alive, and rescue him from his misery and sin." "wait for us here," said the officer to the cabman, as they alighted in the middle of a nest of streets, which seemed as though huddled together, by common consent, to shut out from public gaze their filth and guilty wretchedness. wretched indeed they were, as the haunts of destitution and crime. all was foul and dingy. distorted roofs patched with mis-shapen tiles; chimneys leaning at various angles out of the perpendicular; walls vile with the smoke and grime of a generation; mortar that looked as though it never in its best days could have been white; shattered doors whose proper colour none could tell, and which, standing ajar, seemed to lead to nothing but darkness; weird women and gaunt children imparting a dismal life to the rows of ungainly dwellings;--all these made up a picture of squalid woe such as might well have appalled a stouter heart than poor lady oldfield's. and was she to find her delicately-nurtured son in such a place as this? they turned down one street, under the wondering eyes of old and young, and then plunged into a narrow court that led to nothing. here, two doors down on the left hand, they entered, and proceeded to climb a rickety stair till they reached the highest floor. a voice that sent all the blood rushing back to poor lady oldfield's heart was heard in high strain, and another, mingling with it, muttering a croaking accompaniment of remonstrance,-- "well, you're a fine young gentleman, i've no doubt; but you'll not bide long in that fashion, i reckon." then came a bit of a song in the younger voice,-- "drink, boys, drink, and drive away your sorrow; for though we're here to-day, we mayn't be here to-morrow." the superintendent knocked at the door, and both entered. the old woman uttered an exclamation of terror at the sight of the strangers, but the appearance of lady oldfield reassured her, for she divined almost immediately who she must be. on her part, lady oldfield instinctively shrunk back at her first entrance, and well she might; for the revolting sights and odours almost overpowered her, spite of her all-absorbing anxiety to find and rescue her beloved child. the room, if it could be justly called so--for it was, more properly speaking, a kind of loft--was lighted, or rather, rendered less dark by a sort of half window, half skylight, which looked out upon a stack of decayed and blackened chimneys, and so much sickly-looking sky as could be seen through the undamaged panes, which were but few, for lumps of rags, old stockings, and similar contrivances blocked up many a space which had once been used to admit the light, while the glass still remaining was robbed of its transparency by accumulated dirt. there was neither stove nor fire-place of any kind. the walls, if they had ever been whitened, had long since lost their original hue, and exhibited instead every variety of damp discoloration. neither chair nor table were there--an old stool and a box were the only seats. in the corner farthest from the light, and where the ceiling sloped down to the floor, was the only thing that could claim the name of a bedstead. low and curtainless, its crazy, worm-eaten frame groaned and creaked ominously under the tossings to and fro of the poor sufferer, who occupied the mass of ragged coverings spread upon it. in the opposite corner was a heap of mingled shavings, straw, and sacking, the present couch of the aged tenant of this gloomy apartment. the box stood close at the bed's head; there were bottles and a glass upon, it, which had plainly not been used for medicinal purposes, as the faded odour of spirits, distinguishable above the general rank close smell of the room, too clearly testified. across the floor, stained with numberless abominations, lady oldfield made her shuddering way to the bed, on which lay, tossing in the delirium of fever, her unhappy son. his trousers and waistcoat were thrown across his feet; his hat lay on the floor near them; there was no coat, for it had been pawned to gratify his craving for the stimulant which had eaten away joy and peace, hope and heart. flinging herself on her knees beside the prostrate form, his mother tried to raise him. "o frank, frank, my darling boy," she cried, with a bitter outburst of weeping; "look at me, speak to me; i'm your own mother. don't you know me? i'm come to take you home." he suddenly sat up, and jerked the clothes from him. his eyes glittered with an unnatural light, his cheeks were deeply flushed with fever heat; his hair, that mother's pride in former days, waved wildly over his forehead. how fair, how beautiful he looked even then! "ah, poor young creetur," croaked the old woman; "it's a pity he's come to this. i knowed he were not used to sich a life--more's the shame to them as led him into it." ay, shame to them, indeed! but oh, how sad, how grievous that the young hand, which might have raised to untainted lips none but those pure draughts which neither heat the brain nor warp the sense of right, should ever learn to grasp the cup that gives a passing brightness to the eye and glitter to the tongue, but clouds at length the intellect, fires the brain, and leaves a multitude of wretched victims cast ashore as shattered moral wrecks. to such results, though from the smallest beginnings, does the drink _tend_ in its very nature. oh, happy they who are altogether free from its toils! the wretched young man stared wildly at his mother. "who are you?" he cried. "i don't know you. more brandy--where's the bottle? `here's a health to all good lasses; pledge it merrily, fill your glasses.' shuffle the cards well; now then, nothing wenture nothing win. spades are trumps." "oh, my boy, my boy," cried the agonised mother, "can nothing be done for you? has a doctor been sent for?" she cried suddenly, turning to the old woman. "doctor!" was the reply. "no, ma'am; who's to pay for a doctor? the young gent's been and popped all his things for the play and the drink; and i haven't myself so much as a brass farden to get a mouthful o' meat with." "oh, will any one run for a doctor?" implored the miserable mother. "here, my good woman," taking out a shilling, "give this to somebody to fetch a doctor; quick--oh, don't lose a moment." "ay, ay, i'll see about it," mumbled the old woman; "that'll fetch a doctor quick enough, you may be sure." she made her way slowly and painfully down the creaking stairs, and after a while returned. "doctor'll be here soon, ma'am, i'll warrant," she said. lady oldfield sat on the box by the bed, watching her son's wild stare and gesticulations in silent misery. "i'm glad you've came, ma'am," continued the old woman; "i've had weary work with the young gentleman. i found him outside the door of the `green dragon' without his coat, and shaking like an aspen. i couldn't help looking at him, poor soul. i asked him why he didn't go home; he said he hadn't got no home. i asked him where his friends lived; he said he hadn't got no friends. i asked him where he lodged; he said he didn't know. i was a-going to ask him summat else, but afore i could speak he tumbles down on the ground. we'd hard work to lift him up; some was for calling police, others wanted to make short work with him. but i said, says i, `you just let him alone, i'll look arter him;' and so i did. i just heaved him up, and got him to a door-step, and then i fetched him a quartern o' gin, and he got a little better; and then i helped him here. i'd hard work to get him to climb up, but i managed it at last. so here he's been ever since, and that's a week come friday." "god bless you for your kindness," cried lady oldfield. "you shall have no cause to repent it." "nay," said the kind-hearted old creature, "i knows i shan't repent it. it's a poor place, is this, for such as he, but it's the best i have, and it's what the drink has brought me to, and scores and thousands better nor me, and will do again." in a short time the doctor arrived. a very rapid inspection of his patient was sufficient to show him the nature and extent of his complaint. "is he in any danger?" asked the poor mother, with deep anxiety. the doctor shook his head gravely. "in great danger, i fear." "can we remove him without risk?" "not without risk, i'm afraid," was the reply; "and yet it may be worse for him to be left here. it is simply a choice of risks. we had better wrap him up well in blankets, and convey him to proper lodgings at once." "is there any hope?" asked poor lady oldfield, with streaming eyes. "i trust so," was all the doctor dared to say. blankets were at once procured, and the emaciated body of the patient was borne by strong and willing arms to the cab, for there is a wondrous sympathy with those suffering from illness even in the breasts of the most hardened and godless; while, at the same time, great was the excitement in the little court and its neighbourhood. lady oldfield poured out her thanks once more to the old woman who had taken compassion on her son, and put into the poor creature's hand more money than it had ever grasped at one time before. "eh! my lady," she exclaimed, in delighted astonishment, "you're very good. i'm sure, never a thought came into my head, when i brought home the poor young gentleman, as any one would have come down so handsome. i'd have done it all the same if i'd never have got a penny." "i'm sure of it," replied her ladyship; "but you have done for me what money can never repay. i shall not lose sight of you; but i must not stop now. god bless and reward you;--and oh, give up the drink, the wretched drink, which has been my poor boy's ruin, and come for pardon and peace to your gracious saviour." "ah!" muttered the old creature, as she turned back to her miserable garret, fondly eyeing the golden treasure which she grasped tight with her withered fingers; "it's easier said nor done, my lady. give up the drink? no, it cannot be. come to my gracious saviour? ah! i used to hear words like those when i were a little 'un, but the drink's drowned 'em out of my heart long since. i'm too old now. give up the drink! no; not till the drink gives _me_ up. it's got me, and it's like to keep me. it's taken all i've had--husband, children, home, money--and it'll have all the rest afore it's done. i must just put this safe by, and then i'll go and wet my lips with a quartern o' mountain dew. it's a rare thing, is the drink; it's meat and drink too, and lodging and firing and all." in the meanwhile the cab sped swiftly on its way to the albion hotel, and from thence to the lodgings, where sir thomas was anxiously waiting their arrival. they carried the sufferer up to his bed-room. what a contrast to the miserable, polluted chamber from which lady oldfield had just rescued him! here all was cleanliness and comfort, with abundant light and ventilation, and a civil and experienced nurse waited to take charge of the unhappy patient. having parted with the superintendent with many heartfelt expressions of gratitude, sir thomas, lady oldfield, and the doctor proceeded to the sick-room. frank lay back on the snow- white pillow, pale and motionless, his eyes closed, his lips apart. oh! was he dead? had the shock been too much for his enfeebled body? had they found him only to lose him at once for ever? sir thomas and his wife approached the bed with beating hearts. no; there was life still; the lips moved, and the hectic of the fever returned to the cheeks. then the eyes opened wide, and frank sprang up into a sitting posture. "frank, frank, don't you know me?" asked sir thomas, in a voice of keen distress. "know you? no; i never saw you before. where's juniper? come here, old fellow. you're a regular trump, and no mistake. give us some brandy. that's the right sort of stuff; ain't it, old gentleman?" said frank, glaring at his father, and uttering a wild laugh. "this is terrible, terrible!" groaned the baronet. "doctor, what can we do?" the medical man looked very grave. "we must keep him as quiet as possible," he replied; "but it's a bad case. he's a bad subject, unhappily, because of his intemperate habits. i hope we shall reduce the fever; but what i fear most is the after exhaustion." "oh!" exclaimed lady oldfield, "if he would only know us--if he would only speak rationally--if he would only keep from these dreadful ramblings about spirits and drinking! it breaks my heart to hear him speak as he does. oh! i could bear to lose him now, though we have just found him, if i could only feel that he was coming back, like the poor prodigal, in penitence to his heavenly father." "you must calm yourself, madam," said the doctor; "we must hope that it will be so. remember, he is not responsible for the words he now utters; they are only the ravings of delirium." "yes; _he_ is not responsible for the words he now utters," cried the poor mother--"but oh, misery, misery! i am responsible. _i_ held him back, _i_ laughed him from his purpose, when he would have pledged himself to renounce that drink which has been his bane and ruin, body and soul." "come, come, my dearest wife," said her husband, "you must be comforted. you acted for the best. we are not responsible for his excess. he never learned excess from us." "no; but i cannot be comforted, for i see--i know that he might now have been otherwise. ay, he might now have been as the oliphants are, if his own mother had not put the fatal hindrance in his way. oh, if i had worlds to give i would give them, could i only undo that miserable past!" "i think," said the medical man, "it will be wiser if all would now leave him except the nurse. the fewer he sees, and the fewer voices he hears, the less he will be likely to excite himself. i will call early again to-morrow." lady oldfield retired to her chamber, and poured out her heart in prayer. oh, might she have but one hour of intelligence--one hour in which she might point her erring child to that loving saviour, whom she had herself sought in earnest and found in truth since the departure of her son from home! oh, might she but see him return to the gatherer of the wandering sheep! she did not ask life for him--she dared not ask it absolutely; but she did ask that her heavenly father would in pity grant her some token that there was hope in her beloved child's death, if he must die. and does not god answer prayer? yes, alway; but not always in our way. when sin has found the sinner out--when warnings have been slighted, mercies despised, the spirit quenched, the gentle arm that would guide us to glory rudely and perseveringly flung aside--then, then, it may be, not even a believing mother's prayer shall avail to turn aside the righteous stroke of the hand of that holy god who is to his determined enemies a consuming fire. all the night long did frank oldfield toss to and fro, or start up with glaring eyes, calling on his drunken associates, singing wild songs, or now and then recalling days when sin had not yet set its searing brand on his heart and conscience. about midnight his father and mother stole into his chamber. the nurse put up her finger. they cautiously shrank back behind the screen of the bed-curtains out of his sight. "juniper, my boy!" exclaimed the wretched sufferer, "where's my mother? gone down to the rectory! ah, they're water-drinkers there. that don't do for you and me, juniper. `this bottle's the sun of our table.' ha, ha!--a capital song that!" lady oldfield sank on her knees, and could not repress her sobs. "who's crying?" exclaimed frank. "is it mary? poor mary! she loved me once--didn't she? my poor mother loved me once--didn't she? why don't she love me now? where's my mother now?" "here i am--here's your mother--your own loving mother--my frank--my darling boy!" burst from the lips of the agonised parent. she flung herself down on her knees beside the bed. he stared at her, but his ramblings went off the next moment to something else. then there was a pause, and he sank back. lady oldfield took the opportunity to send up a fervent prayer. he caught the half-whispered words, and sat up. he looked for the moment so collected, so much himself, that his mother's lips parted with joyful astonishment, and she gasped,-- "he knows us--his reason is restored!" the next moment she saw her sad mistake. "how funny!" cried the poor patient; "there's our old parson praying. poor old parson!--he tried to make me a teetotaller. it wouldn't do, jacob. ah, jacob, never mind me. you're a jolly good fellow, but you don't understand things. give us a song. what shall it be? `three jolly potboys drinking at the "dragon."' what's amiss? i'm quite well--never was better in my life. how d'ye do, captain?" these last words he addressed to his father, who was gazing at him in blank misery. and was it to be always so? was he to pass out of the world into eternity thus--thrilling the hearts of those who heard him with bitterest agony? no; there came a change. another day, the remedies had begun to tell on the patient. the fever gradually left him. the fire had faded from his eye, the hectic from his cheek. and now father and mother, one on either side, bent over him. lady oldfield read from the blessed book the parable of the prodigal son. she thought that frank heard her, for there was on his face a look of mingled surprise, pleasure, and bewilderment. then no one spoke for a while. nothing was heard but the ticking of lady oldfield's watch, which stood in its case on the dressing-table. again the poor mother opened the same precious gospel of saint luke, and read out calmly and clearly the parable of the pharisee and the publican. then she knelt by the bed and prayed that her boy might come with the publican's deep contrition to his god, trusting in the merits of his saviour. there was a whispered sound from those feeble lips. she could just distinguish the words, "to me a sinner." they were all, but she blessed god for them. an hour later, and the doctor came. there was no hope in his eye, as he felt the pulse. "what report?" murmured sir thomas. the doctor shook his head. "oh, tell me--is he dying?" asked the poor mother. "he is sinking fast," was the reply. "can nothing restore him?" "nothing." "oh, frank--darling frank," appealed his mother, in a whisper of agonised entreaty, "let me have one word--one look to tell me you know me." the weary eyes opened, and a faint smile seemed to speak of consciousness. "hear me--hear me, my beloved child," she said again. "christ jesus came into the world to save sinners. jesus died for you. jesus loves you still. look to him--believe in him. he is able to save you even now." again the eyes slowly opened. but the dying glaze was over them. a troubled look came across the brow, and then a faint smile. the lips opened, but could frame no words for a while. lady oldfield put her ear close to those parted lips. they spoke now, but only three short words, very slowly and feebly, "jesus--mother--mary." then all was over. so died frank oldfield. was there hope in his death? who shall say? that heart-broken mother clung, through years of wearing sorrow, to the faint hope that flickered in those few last words and in that feeble smile. he smiled when she spoke of jesus. yes; she clung to these as the drowning man clings to the handful of water-reeds which he clutches in his despair. but where was the happy evidence of genuine repentance and saving faith? ah, miserable death-bed! no bright light shone from it. no glow, caught from a coming glory, rested on those marble features. yet how beautiful was that youthful form, even though defaced by the brand of sin! how gloriously beautiful it might have been as the body of humiliation, hereafter to be fashioned like unto christ's glorious body, had a holy, loving soul dwelt therein in its tabernacle days on earth? then an early death would have been an early glory, and the house of clay, beautiful with god's adornments, would only have been taken down in life's morning to be rebuilt on a nobler model in the paradise of god. chapter twenty three. "ould crow," the knife-grinder. "knives to grind!--scissors to grind!--tools to grind!--umbrels to mend!" these words were being uttered in a prolonged nasal tone by an old grey- haired man of a rather comical cast of countenance in one of the streets in the outskirts of the town of bolton. it was about a week after the sad death of frank oldfield that we come upon him. certainly this approach to the town could not be said to be prepossessing. the houses, straggling up the side of a hill, were low and sombre, being built of a greyish stone, which gave them a dull and haggard appearance. stone was everywhere, giving a cold, comfortless look to the dwellings. stone- paved roads, stone curbs, stone pathways--except here and there, where coal-dust and clay formed a hard and solid footway, occasionally hollowed out by exceptional wear into puddles which looked like gigantic inkstands. high stone slabs also, standing upright, and clamped together by huge iron bolts, served instead of palings and hedges, and inflicted a melancholy, prison-like look on the whole neighbourhood. it was up this street that the old knife-grinder was slowly propelling his apparatus, which was fitted to two large light wheels. a very neat and comprehensive apparatus it was. there was the well-poised grindstone, with its fly-wheel attached; a very bright oil-can, and pipe for dropping water on to the stone; various little nooks and compartments for holding tools, rivets, wire, etcetera. everything was in beautiful order; while a brass plate, on which was engraved the owner's name, blazed like gold when there was any sunshine to fall upon it. at present the day was drizzling and chilly, while the huge volumes of smoke from a whole forest of factory chimneys tended to impart a deeper shade of dismalness to the dispiriting landscape. the old man himself was plainly a character. no part of his dress seemed as if it could ever have been new, and yet all was in such keeping and harmony that every article in it appeared to have faded to a like degree of decay by a common understanding. not that the component parts of this dress were such as could well have been contemporaries on their being first launched into the world, for the whole of the old man's personal outward clothing might almost have been mapped off into divisions--each compartment representing a different era, as the zones on a terrestrial globe enclose differing races of plants and animals. thus, his feet were shod with stout leather shoes, moderately clogged, and fastened, not by the customary clasps, but by an enormous pair of shoe-buckles of a century old at least. his lower limbs were enclosed in leathern garments, which fastened below the knee, leaving visible his grey worsted stockings. an immense waistcoat, the pattern of which was constantly being interrupted by the discordant figuring of a large variety of patches--inserted upside down, or sideways, or crossways, as best suited--hung nearly to his knees; and over this he wore a coat, the age and precise cut of which it would have puzzled the most learned in such things to decide upon. it probably had been two coats once, and possibly three may have contributed to its formation. it was clearly put together for use and not for ornament--as was testified by its extreme length, except in the sleeves, and by the patches of various colours, which stood out upon the back and skirts in startling contrast to the now almost colourless material of the originals. on his head the old man wore a sort of conical cap of felt, which looked as though it had done service more than once on the head of some modern representative of guy fawkes of infamous memory. and yet there was nothing beggarly about the appearance of the old knife-grinder. not a rag disfigured his person. all was whole and neat, though quaint and faded. altogether, he would have formed an admirable subject for an artist's sketch-book; nor could any stranger pass him without being struck with pleasure, if he caught a glimpse of his happy face--for clearly there was sunshine there; yet not the full, bright sunshine of the cloudless summer, but the sunshine that gleams through the storm and lights up the rainbow. "knives to grind!--scissors to grind!" the cry went on as the old man toiled along. but just now no one appeared to heed him. the rain kept pattering down, and he seemed inclined to turn out of his path and try another street. just then a woman's voice shouted out,-- "ould crow--ould crow! here, sithee! just grind me these scissors. our ralph's been scraping the boiler lid with 'em, till they're nearly as blunt as a broom handle." "ay, missus, i'll give 'em an edge; but you mustn't let your ralph have all his own way, or he'll take the edge off your heart afore so long." the scissors-grinding proceeded briskly, and soon a troop of dirty children were gathered round the wheel, and began to teaze the old man. "i'll warm thee!" he cried to one of the foremost, half seriously and half in joke. at last the scissors were finished. "i'll warm thee, ould crow!" shouted out the young urchin, in a mimicking voice, and running up close to him as he was returning to his wheel. the long arm of the knife-grinder darted forward, and his hand grasped the lad, who struggled hard to get away; and at last, by a desperate effort, freed himself, but, in so doing, caused the old man to lose his balance. it was in vain that he strove to recover himself. the stones were slippery with the wet: he staggered a step or two, and then fell heavily forward on his face. another moment, and he felt a strong arm raising him up. "are you much hurt, old friend?" asked his helper, who was none other than jacob poole. "i don't know--the lord help me!--i'm afeerd so," replied old crow, seating himself on the kerb stone with a groan. "those young rascals!" cried jacob. "i'd just like to give 'em such a hiding as they've ne'er had in all their lives afore." "nay, nay, friend," said the other; "it wasn't altogether the lad's fault. but they're a rough lot, for sure; not much respect for an old man. most on 'em's mayster o' their fathers and mothers afore they can well speak plain. thank ye kindly for your help; the lord'll reward ye." "you're welcome, old gentleman," said jacob. "can i do anything more for you?" "just lend me your arm for a moment; there's a good lad. i shall have hard work, i fear, to take myself home, let alone the cart." "never trouble about that," said jacob, cheerily. "i'll wheel your cart home, if you can walk on slowly and show me the road." "bless you, lad; that'll be gradely help--`a friend in need's a friend indeed.' if you'll stick to the handles, i'll make shift to hobble on by your side. i'm better now." they turned down a by-street; and after a slow walk of about a quarter of a mile--for the old man was still in considerable pain, and was much shaken--they arrived at a low but not untidy-looking cottage, with a little outbuilding by its side. "here we are," said the knife-grinder. "now come in, my lad. you shall have your tea, and we'll have a chat together arterwards." old crow pulled a key out of his pocket, and opened the house door. the fire was burning all right, and was soon made to burst into a cheerful blaze. then the old man hobbled round to the shed, and unbolting it from the inside, bade jacob wheel in the cart. this done, they returned into the kitchen. "sit ye down, my lad," said the knife-grinder. "deborah'll be back directly; the mills is just loosed." "is deborah your daughter?" asked jacob. the old man shook his head sorrowfully. "no; i've never a one belonging me now." "that's much same with myself," said jacob. "i've none as belongs me; leastways i cannot find 'em." "indeed!" exclaimed the other. "well, we'll talk more about that just now. deborah, ye see, is widow cartwright's wench; and a good wench she is too, as e'er clapped clog on a foot. she comes in each morn, and sees as fire's all right, and fills kettle for my breakfast. then at noon she comes in again to see as all's right. and after mill's loosed, she just looks in and sets all straight. and then, afore she goes to bed, she comes in, and stretches all up gradely." "and are you quite alone now?" "quite. but i've a better friend as never leaves me nor forsakes me-- the lord jesus christ. i hope, my lad, you know summat about him." "yes; thank the lord, i do," replied jacob. "i learned to love him when i was far away in australia." "in australia!" cried the old man. "deborah'll be glad to hear what you have to say about australia, for she's a brother there. and how long have you been come back from yon foreign land?" "not so very long; but i almost wish as i'd never been." "and why not?" "'cos i shouldn't have knowed one as has caused me heavy sorrow." poor jacob hid his face in his hands, and, spite of himself; the tears _would_ ooze out and trickle through his fingers. "come, my lad," said his new friend, compassionately; "you mustn't fret so. you say you love the lord; well, he will not leave you comfortless." "it's the drink, the cursed drink, as done it," said the other, half to himself. "well, my lad; and if you _have_ been led astray, and are gradely sorry for it, there's room in the lord's heart for you still." "nay, it isn't that. i'm a total abstainer to the back-bone, and have been for years." "the lord be praised!" cried old crow, rising from his seat, and grasping the hand of his companion with all his might. "i shall love you twice over now. i'm an old teetotaller myself; and have been these many years. come, you tell me your tale; and when we've had our tea, i'll tell you mine." jacob then told his story, from his first encountering captain merryweather at liverpool, till the time when he lost sight of his young master. "and now, old friend," he concluded, "i'm just like a ship afloat as don't know which way to steer. i'm fair weary of the sea, an' i don't know what to turn myself to on land." "perhaps we may set that right," replied the old man. "but here's deborah; so we'll just get our tea." the kitchen in which they were seated was a low but comfortable apartment. there was nothing much in the way of furniture there, but everything was clean and tidy; while the neat little window-curtain, the well-stuffed cushion in the old man's rocking-chair, and the broad warm rug on the hearth, made of countless slips of cloth of various colours dexterously sewn together, showed that loving female hands had been caring for the knife-grinder's comfort. deborah was a bright, cheery- looking factory-girl, who evidently loved the old man, and worked for him with a will. the tea was soon set out, deborah joining them by old crow's invitation. jacob had much to tell about australia which deeply interested both his hearers, especially deborah. when the tea-things were removed, and old crow and jacob were left alone, the former said,-- "come; friend jacob, draw thy chair to the fire. thou hast given me thy tale, and a sad one it is; now thou shalt hear mine." they drew closer up on to the hearth, and the old man proceeded with his story. "i were born and reared in a village many miles from bolton; it makes no odds where it were, my tale will be all the same. my fayther and mother were godly people, and taught me to love the lord by precept and example too. i worked in the pit till i were about twenty; when one day, as my butty and me was getting coal a long way off from the shaft, the prop nearest me began to crack, and i knowed as the roof were falling in. i sung out to him, but it were too late. i'd just time to save myself, when down came a big stone a-top of him, poor lad. i shouted for help, and we worked away with our picks like mad; and by the help of crows we managed to heave off the stone. the poor young man were sadly crushed. we carried him home as softly as we could; but he were groaning awful all the way. he were a ghastly sight to look on as he lay on his bed; and i'd little hope for him, for he'd been a heavy drinker. i'd talked to him scores of times about it, but he never heeded. he used to say-- `well, you're called a sober man, and i'm called a drunkard; but what's the difference? you takes what you like, and i takes what i like. you takes what does you good, and i takes what does me good.' `no,' says i, `you takes what does you harm.' `ah, but,' says he, `who's to say just where good ends and harm begins? tom roades takes a quart more nor me, and yet he's called to be a sober man; i suppose 'cos he don't fuddle so soon.' well, but to come back to my poor butty's misfortune. there he lay almost crushed out of all shape, with lots of broken bones. they sends for the doctor, and he says-- `you must keep him quiet. nurse him well; and whatever ye do, don't let him touch a drop of beer or spirits till i give ye leave.' well--would ye believe it?--no sooner were doctor's back turned than they pours some rum down the poor lad's throat, sure as it'd do him good. and so they went on; and the end on it was, they finished him off in a few days, for the poor fellow died mad drunk. arter that i couldna somehow take to the pit again, and i couldn't have anything more to do with the drink. i said to myself; `no one shall take encouragement to drink from _you_ any more.' so i joined a temperance society, and signed the pledge. i'd saved a little money, and looked about for summat to do. i hadn't larning enough to go into an office as a writer; and i wouldn't have gone if i had, for i should have wasted to skin and bone if i'd sat up all the day on a high stool, scrat, scratting with a pen, and my nose almost growing to the papper. so i bethowt me as i'd larn to be a knife-grinder. it'd just suit me. i could wander about from place to place, and have plenty of fresh air, and my liberty too. so i paid a chap to teach me the trade, and set myself up with my cart and all complete. but after a bit, my fayther and mother died; and i felt there were one thing as i were short on, and that were a wife. my brothers and sisters had all gotten married; so i wanted a home. but i wasn't going to take up with any sort; i meant to get a real good wife, or i'd have none at all. well, i found one just the right make for me--a tidy, loving christian she were. i loved my home, and were seldom off more nor two or three days at a time, when i took my cart a little further nor usual. we never had but one child; and she were a girl, and as likely a wench as were to be found in all the country round. she were a good daughter to me, jacob, for many a long year; for her mother died when she were but ten year old, and i didn't wed again. poor rachel! she were no ordinary wench, you may be sure. she were quite a little woman afore she were as high as my waistcoat. all the neighbours used to say, `he'll get a good wife as gets your rachel;' and i used to say, `well, i don't want her to leave me, but i'll ne'er say no if she keeps company with a fellow as loves his bible and hates the drink.' well, there were an old widow in our village as made a great profession of religion. she were always at chapel and meeting, and as full of pious talk as an egg's full of meat. our rachel thought her almost too good for this sinful world; but somehow i couldn't take to her myself. i feared she were not the right side out. i had many a talk with ruth canters--for that were her name. she were always a-sighing o'er the wickedness of the neighbours, and wishing she knew where she could find a young woman as'd suit her son for a wife. i didn't like her looks always, and i thought as there were a smell of spirits sometimes, as didn't suit me at all. but she were ever clean and tidy, and i never see'd any drink in the house. there were always the bible or some other good book at hand, and i couldn't prove as all were not right. howsever, her jim took a fancy to our rachel, and she to him. so they kept company, and were married: and the widow came to live with us, for rachel wouldn't hear of leaving me. jim were a good young man, honest and true, and a gradely christian. but now our rachel began to suspect as summat was wrong. i were often away with my cart for three or four days together; and when i were at home i didn't take so much notice of things, except it always seemed to me as widow canter's religion tasted more of vinegar nor sugar--there were plenty of fault-finding and very little love. says i to rachel one day, when we was by ourselves, `thy mother-in-law's religion has more of the "drive" nor the "draw" in't.' the poor thing sighed. i saw there were summat wrong; but i didn't find it out then." "ah," interrupted jacob, "it were the drink, of course. that's at the bottom of almost all the crime and wickedness." "you're right, my lad," continued the other, with a deep sigh. "ruth canters drank, but it were very slily--so slily that her own son jim wouldn't believe it at first; but he were obliged to at last. oh, what a cheating thing is the drink! she were never so pious in her talk as when she'd been having a little too much; and nothing would convince her but that she were safe for heaven. but i mustn't go grinding on, or i shall grind all your patience away. rachel had a little babe--a bonny little wench. oh, how she loved it--how we both loved it! poor rachel!" the old man paused to wipe away his tears. "well, it were about six months old, when rachel had to go off for some hours to see an aunt as were sick. she wouldn't take the babe with her, 'cos there were a fever in the court where her aunt lived, and she were feart on it for the child. old ruth promised to mind the babe gradely; and our rachel got back as quick as she could, but it were later nor she intended. jim were not coming home till late, and i were off myself for a day or two. when our rachel came to the house door, she tried to open it, but couldn't; it were fast somehow. she knocked, but no one answered. again she tried the door; it were not locked, but summat heavy lay agen it. she pushed hard, and got it a bit open. she just saw summat as looked like a woman's dress. then she shrieked out, and fell down in a faint. the neighbours came running up. they went in by the wash-house door, and found ruth canters lying dead agen the house door inside, and the baby smothered under her. both on 'em were stone dead. she'd taken advantage of our rachel being off to drink more nor usual, and she'd missed her footing with the baby in her arms, and fallen down the stairs right across the house door. our rachel never looked up arter that; she died of a broken heart. and jim couldn't bear to tarry in the neighbourhood; nor i neither. ah, the misery, the misery as springs from the cursed drink! thank the lord, jacob, over and over again a thousand times, as he's given you grace to be a total abstainer." there was a long pause, during which the old man wept silent but not bitter tears. "them as is gone is safe in glory," he said at last; "our rachel and her babe, i mean; and i've done fretting now. i shall go to them; but they will not return to me. and now, jacob, my lad, what do ye say to learning my trade, and taking shares with me? i shan't be good for much again this many a day, and i've taken a fancy to you. you've done me a good turn, and i know you're gradely. i'm not a queer chap, though i looks like one. my clothes is only a whim of mine. they've been in the family so long, that i cannot part with 'em. they'll serve out _my_ time, though we've patched and patched the old coat till there's scarce a yard of the old stuff left in him, and he looks for all the world like a _map_ of england, with the different counties marked on it." "well, mayster crow," began jacob in reply; but the other stopped him by putting up his hand. "eh, lad, you mustn't call me _mayster_ crow; leastwise, if you do afore other folks, they'll scream all the wits out of you with laughing. i'm `old crow' now, and nothing else. my real name's jenkins; but if you or any one else were to ask for isaac jenkins, there's not a soul in these parts as'd know as such a man ever lived. no; they call me `old crow.' maybe 'cos i look summat like a scarecrow. but i cannot rightly tell. it's my name, howsever, and you must call me nothing else." "well, then, old crow," said jacob, "i cannot tell just what i'm going to do. you see i've no friends, and yet i should have some if i could only find 'em." "have you neither fayther nor mother living then?" asked the old man. "i cannot say. my mother's dead. as for the rest--well, it's just this way, old crow, i'm a close sort o' chap, and always were. i left home a fugitive and a vagabond, and i resolved as i'd ne'er come back till i could come as my own mayster, and that i'd ne'er tell anything about my own home and them as belonged me, till i could settle where i pleased in a home of my own. but i learnt at the diggings as it were not right to run off as i did, for the lord sent us a faithful preacher, and he showed me my duty; and i came back with my mind made up to tell them as owned me how god had dealt with me and changed my heart. but i couldn't find nor hear anything about 'em at the old place. they'd flitted, and nobody could tell me where. so i'd rayther say no more about 'em till i've tried a bit longer to find 'em out. and if i cannot light on 'em arter all, why then, i'll start again, as if the past had never been, for it were but a dark and dismal past to me." old crow did not press jacob with further questions, as he was evidently not disposed to be communicative on the subject of his early history, but he said,-- "well, and suppose you take to the grinding; you can drive the cart afore ye, from town to town, and from village to village, as i've done myself scores and scores of times, and maybe you'll light on them as you're seeking. it's strange how many an old face, as i'd never thought to see no more, has turned up as i've jogged along from one place to another." "ah," exclaimed jacob, "i think as that'd just suit me! i never thought of that. i'll take your offer then, old crow, and many thanks to ye, and i hope you'll not find me a bad partner." so it was arranged as the old man suggested, and jacob forthwith began to learn his new trade. it was some weeks before he had become at all proficient in the knife- grinding and umbrella-mending arts; and many a sly laugh and joke on the part of deborah made him at times half-inclined to give up the work; but there was a determination and dogged resolution about his character which did not let him lightly abandon anything he had once undertaken. so he persevered, much to old crow's satisfaction, for he soon began to love jacob as a son, and the other was drawn to the old man as to a father. after a while jacob's education in his new art was pronounced complete, not only by the old knife-grinder himself but even by deborah, critical deborah, who declared that his progress was astonishing. "why," she said, addressing old crow, "when he first took to it, nothing would serve him but he must have mother's old scissors to point; and he grund and grund till the two points turned their backs t'one on t'other, and looked different ways, as if they was weary of keeping company any longer. and when he sharped yon old carving-knife of grandfather's, you couldn't tell arter he'd done which side were the back and which side were the edge. but he's a rare good hand at it now." and, to tell the truth, deborah greatly prized a new pair of scissors, a present from jacob, with the keenest of edges, the result of his first thoroughly successful grinding; indeed, it was pretty clear that the young knife-grinder was by no means an object of indifference to her. the public proclaiming of his vocation in the open streets was the most trying thing to jacob. the very prospect of it almost made him give up. deborah was very merry at his expense, and told him, that "if he were ashamed, she wouldn't mind walking in front of the cart, the first day, and doing all the shouting for him." this difficulty, however, was got over by the old man himself going with jacob on his first few journeys, and introducing him to his customers; after which he was able to take to his new calling without much trouble. but it was quite plain that old crow himself was too much injured by his fall to be able to resume the knife-grinding for many months to come, even if indeed, he were ever able to take to it again. but this did not distress him, for he had learned to trace god's hand, as the hand of a loving father, in everything. though old and grey-headed, he was hearty and cheerful, for his old age was like a healthy winter, "kindly, though frosty;" for "he never did apply hot and rebellious liquors to his blood." spite of his accident, these were happy days for him, for he had found in jacob poole one thoroughly like-minded. oh, the blessings of a home, however humble, where christ is loved, and the drink finds no entrance; for in such a home there are seen no forced spirits, no unnatural excitements! it was a touching sight when the quaint old man, having finished his tea, would bring his rocking-chair nearer to the fire, and bidding jacob draw up closer on the other side, would tell of god's goodness to him in times past, and of his hopes of a better and brighter home on the other side of the dark river. deborah would often make a third, and her mother would join them too at times, and then jacob would tell of the wonders of the deep, and of the distant colony where he had sojourned. then the old man would lay aside the tall cap which he wore even in the house, displaying his scattered white hairs, and would open his big bible with a smile,-- "i always smile when i open the bible," he said one day to jacob, "'cos it's like a loving letter from a far-off land. i'm not afraid of looking into't; for, though i light on some awful verses every now and then, i know as they're not for me. i'm not boasting. it's all of grace; but still it's true `there is therefore now no condemnation to them that are in christ jesus,' and i know that through his mercy i am gradely in him." then they would sing a hymn, for all had the lancashire gift of good ear and voice, after which the old man would sink on his knees and pour out his heart in prayer. yes, that cottage was indeed a happy home, often the very threshold of heaven; and many a time the half-drunken collier, as he sauntered by, would change the sneer that curled his lip at those strains of heartfelt praise, into the tear that melted out of a smitten and sorrowful heart, a heart that knew something of its own bitterness, for it smote him as he thought of a god despised, a soul perishing, a bible neglected, a saviour trampled on, and an earthly home out of which the drink had flooded every real comfort, and from which he could have no well-grounded hope of a passage to a better. chapter twenty four. found. four years had passed away since jacob poole raised the old knife- grinder from his fall in the street in bolton. all that time he had made his abode with the old man, traversing the streets of many a town and village far and near, and ever returning with gladness to his new home. his aged friend had never so far recovered from his accident as to be able to resume his work. he would occasionally go out with jacob, and help him in some odd jobs, but never again took to wheeling out the machine himself. he was brighter, however, than in even more prosperous days, and had come to look upon jacob as his adopted son. it was understood, also, that deborah would ere long become the wife of the young knife-grinder. there was one employment in which the old man delighted, and that was the advocating and forwarding, in every way in his power, the cause of christian total abstinence. for this purpose he would carry suitable tracts with him wherever he went, and would often pause in fine weather, when he accompanied jacob poole on his less distant expeditions; and, sitting on a step or bank, as the case might be, while the wheel was going round, would gather about him old and young, and give them a true temperance harangue. sometimes he met with scoffs and hard words, but he cared little for them; he had his answer ready, or, like his master, when reviled he opened not his mouth. some one called him "a canting old hypocrite." "nay, friend," he replied, "you're mistaken there. i'm not a hypocrite. a hypocrite's a man with two faces. now, you can't say you have ever seen me with two faces. i've seen many a drunkard with two faces--t'one as makes the wife and childer glad, and t'other as makes their hearts ache and jump into their mouths with fear. but you've ne'er seen that in a gradely abstainer." "you're a self-righteous old sinner," said another. "i'm a sinner, i know," was old crow's reply; "but i'm not self- righteous, i hope. i don't despise a poor drunkard; but i cannot respect him. i want to pull him out of the mire, and place him where he can respect hisself." but generally he had ready and attentive listeners, and was the means of winning many to the good way; for all who really knew him respected him for his consistency. and jacob was happy with him, and yet to him there was one thing still wanting. he had never in all his wanderings been able to discover the least trace of those whom he was seeking, and the desire to learn something certain about them increased day by day. at last, one fine july evening, he said to his old companion,-- "ould crow, i can't be content as i am. i must try my luck further off. if you've nothing to say against it, i'll just take the cart with me for a month or six weeks, and see if the lord'll give me success. i'll go right away into shropshire, and try round there; and through staffordshire and derbyshire." "well, my son," was the reply, "you'll just do what you know to be right. i won't say a word against it." "and if," added jacob, "i can't find them as i'm seeking, nor hear anything gradely about 'em, i'll just come back and settle me down content." "the lord go with you," said the old man; "you'll not forget me nor poor deborah." "i cannot," replied jacob; "my heart'll be with you all the time." "and how shall we know how you're coming on?" "oh, i'll send you a letter if i ain't back by the six week end." so the next morning jacob started on his distant journey. many were the roads he traversed, and many the towns and villages he visited, as he slowly made his way through cheshire into shropshire; and many were the disappointments he met with, when he thought he had obtained some clue to guide him in his search. three weeks had gone by, when one lovely evening in the early part of august he was pushing the cart before him, wearied with his day's work and journey, along the high-road leading to a small village in shropshire. the turnpike-road itself ran through the middle of the village. on a dingy board on the side of the first house as he entered, he read the word "fairmow." "knives to grind!--scissors to grind!--umbrels to mend!" he cried wearily and mechanically; but no one seemed to need his services. soon he passed by the public-house--there was clearly no lack of custom there, and yet the sounds that proceeded from it were certainly not those of drunken mirth. he looked up at the sign. no ferocious lion red or black, urged into a rearing posture by unnatural stimulants, was there; nor griffin or dragon, white or green, symbolising the savage tempers kindled by intoxicating drinks; but merely the simple words, "temperance inn." not a letter was there any where about the place to intimate the sale of wine, beer, or spirits. waggons were there, for it was harvest-time, and men young and old were gathered about the door, some quenching their thirst by moderate draughts of beverages which slaked without rekindling it; others taking in solid food with a hearty relish. a pleasant sight it was to jacob; but he would not pause now, as he wished to push on to the next town before night. so he urged his cart before him along the level road, till he came to a turn on the left hand off the main street. here a lovely little peep burst upon him. just a few hundred yards down the turn was a cottage, with a neat green paling before it. the roof was newly thatched, and up the sides grew the rose and jessamine, which mingled their flowers in profusion as they clustered over a snug little latticed porch. the cottage itself was in the old-fashioned black- timbered style, with one larger and one smaller pointed gable. there was a lovely little garden in front, the very picture of neatness, and filled with those homely flowers whose forms, colours, and odours are so sweet because so familiar. beyond the cottage there were no other houses; but the road sloped down to a brook, crossed by a little rustic bridge on the side of the hedge furthest from the cottage. beyond the brook the road rose again, and wound among thick hedges and tall stately trees; while to the left was an extensive park, gradually rising till, at the distance of little more than a mile, a noble mansion of white stone shone out brightly from its setting of dark green woods, over which was just visible the waving outline of a dim, shadowy hill. jacob looked up the road, and gazed on the lovely picture with deep admiration. he could see the deer in the park, and the glorious sunlight just flashing out in a blaze of gold from the windows of the mansion. he sighed as he gazed, though not in discontent; but he was foot-sore and heart-weary, and he longed for rest. he thought he would just take his cart as far as the cottage, more from a desire of having a closer view of it than from much expectation of finding a customer. as he went along he uttered the old cry,-- "knives to grind--scissors to grind." the words attracted the notice of a young man, who came out of the cottage carrying a little child in his arms. "i'll thank you to grind a point to this knife," he said, "and to put a fresh rivet in, if you can; for our samuel's took it out of his mother's drawer when she was out, and he's done it no good, as you may see." jacob put out his hand for the knife, but started back when he saw it as if it had been a serpent. then he seized it eagerly, and looked with staring eyes at the handle. there were scratched rudely on it the letters sj. "where, where did you get this?" he cried, turning first deadly pale, and then very red again. the young man looked at him in amazement. "who, who are you?" stammered jacob again. "who am i?" said the other; "why, my name's john walters. i am afraid you're not quite sober, my friend." but just then a young woman came out from the cottage, leading by the hand a boy about five years old. she looked round first at her husband and then at the knife-grinder with a perplexed and startled gaze. the next moment, with a cry of "betty!" "sammul!" brother and sister were locked in each other's arms,--it was even so--the lost were found at last. chapter twenty five. mutual explanations. "father, father!" cried betty, rushing into the house, "come hither; here's our sammul come back." "eh! what do ye say? our sammul come back?" exclaimed a well-known voice, and johnson hurried out and clasped his son to his heart. "eh! the lord be praised for this," he cried, with streaming eyes. "i've prayed, and prayed for it, till i thought it were past praying for; but come in and sit ye down, and let me look at you." samuel was soon seated, with the whole household gathered round him. "it _is_ his own self, for sure," said betty. "o sammul, i never thought to see you no more." "i should scarce have knowed you, had i met you on the road," said his father, "you're so much altered." "ay," said his sister; "he's gotten a beard to his face, and he's taller and browner like, but his eye's the same--he's our sammul, sure enough. you'll not be for flitting again for a-while," she said, looking at him half playfully and half in earnest. "no," he replied; "i've had flitting enough for a bit. but eh, betty, you've growed yourself into a gradely woman. and this is your husband, i reckon, and these are your childer; have you any more?" "no," said john walters; "these two are all. well, you're heartily welcome, samuel. i'm glad to see you. betty'll leave fretting now." "ay, and fayther too," cried betty. "o sammul, i am _so_ glad to see you. i've prayed, and fayther's prayed too, scores of times; and he's had more faith nor me--though we've both begun to lose heart--but we've never forgot ye, sammul. oh, i shall be happy now. the lord's too good to me," she said, with deep emotion; "as the blessed book says, `my cup runneth over'--ay, it do for sure--i've got the best husband as ever woman had, (you needn't be frowning, john, it's true); and i've got fayther, and they're both total abstainers, and gradely christians too, and now i've got our sammul." "and he's a total abstainer," said samuel, "and, he humbly hopes, a gradely christian." "oh, that's best, that's best of all," cried his sister, again throwing her arms around him. "oh, sammul, i _am_ so glad to see you--you can't wonder, for you're all the brothers i have, and i'm all the sisters _you_ have; you can't wonder at it, john." "i'm not wondering at anything but the lord's goodness," said her husband, in a husky voice, and wiping his eyes. "here, sammul," exclaimed betty to her eldest child, "get on your uncle sammul's knee, and hug him with all your might. eh! i didn't think this morn as i should have to tell you to say `uncle sammul.' he's called arter yourself. if you hadn't been off, he'd a been john or thomas, maybe. but our john knowed how i longed to have him called sammul, so we've called the babe john thomas, arter the fayther and grandfayther. and now you'll want your tea, and then we must all have a gradely talk when childers in bed." oh, what a happy tea that was! the cart was drawn into a shed, and samuel sat gazing through the door, hardly able to eat or drink for happiness. what a peaceful picture it was! betty was bustling in and out of the room, radiant with delight, sometimes laughing and sometimes crying, tumbling over the children, misplacing the tea-things, putting the kettle on the fire without any water in it, and declaring that, "she'd lost her head, and were good for nothing," all which delighted her husband amazingly, who picked up the children by turns, and corrected his wife's mistakes by making others himself; while thomas johnson sat in a corner smiling quietly to himself, and looking with brimming eyes at his son, as being quite satisfied for the time without asking questions. samuel leaned back in his seat, as one who has accomplished the labour of a life, and would rest a while. the house door stood ajar, and he could see the roses and jessamine straggling in through the porch, the sunny road, the noble trees on its farther side, while a herd of cattle slowly made their way towards the brook. every now and then, when the back door opened, (as it did many a time more than was necessary, for betty often went out and returned without remembering what she had gone for), he could see the neat, well-stocked garden, with its hives of bees against the farthest wall, and its thriving store of apple and plum trees, besides all sorts of useful vegetables. he looked round the room, and saw at a glance that neatness, cleanliness, and order reigned there. he looked at a small side-table, and marked among its little pile of books more than one copy of the word of life, which told him that the brighter world was not kept out of sight; he could also gather from the appearance of the furniture and articles of comfort that surrounded him, that his beloved sister's lot was in earthly things a prosperous one. as they drew their chairs to the tea-table, which was at last furnished and arranged to betty's complete satisfaction, and john had reverently asked a blessing, samuel said,-- "fayther, you're looking better than ever i saw you in my life." "yes, i don't doubt, my lad, you never seed me in my right mind afore; i were a slave to the drink then. i'd neither health of body nor peace of mind--now, thank the lord for it, i enjoy both." "have you heard, sammul?" asked betty,--she tried to finish her sentence but could not, and the tears kept dropping on to her hands, as she bowed down her head in the vain endeavour to conceal them. "she's thinking of her poor mother," said john in a soothing tone. "yes; i've heard about it," replied her brother sadly. there was a long pause, and then samuel asked, "did you know as i'd been back to langhurst?" "no," replied his father; "we heard as a stranger had been asking about me and mine, but nobody knowed who it was." "we never got no letter from you, sammul," said his sister; "there was a man as would have seen as we got it, if any letter had come for us arter we flitted." "i never wrote; but i ought to have done; it were not right," replied samuel; "and when i see'd it were my duty, it were too late for writing, for i were coming home myself." "weel," said betty, "we have all on us much to ask, and much to tell; but just you finish your tea, and i'll put the childer to bed; and then you and john can take a turn round the garden, if you've a mind, while i clear the table and tidy up a bit." and now, by common consent, when betty had made all things straight, the whole party adjourned to the garden, and brought their chairs under an old cherry-tree, from which they could see the distant mansion with its embowering woods, and the sloping park in front. samuel sat with his father on one side and betty on the other, one hand in the hand of each. john was on the other side of his wife holding her other hand. "you know, john," she said with a smile, "i only gave you the one hand when we were wed, so our sammul's a right to t'other. and now, tell us all, sammul dear, from the very first. you needn't be afraid of speaking out afore our john; he knows all as we know, and you must take him for your brother." "i'll do so as you say, betty; and when i've told you all, there'll be many things as i shall have to ax you myself. well, then, you remember the night as i went off?" "i shall ne'er forget it as long as i live," said his sister. "well," continued samuel, "i hadn't made up my mind just what to do, but i were resolved as i wouldn't bide at home any longer, so i hurried along the road till i came to the old pit-shaft. i were just a-going to pass it by, when i bethought me as i'd like to take a bit of holly with me as a keepsake. so i climbed up the bank, where there were a fine bush, and took out my knife and tried to cut a bit; but the bough were tough, and i were afraid of somebody coming and finding me, so i cut rather random, for my knife were not so sharp, and i couldn't get the branch off at first, and as the bank were rather steep, i slipped about a good deal, and nearly tumbled back. just then i heard somebody a- coming, and i felt almost sure it were fayther; so i gave one great pull with my knife, the branch came in two all of a suddent, and the knife slipped, and gave my left hand a great gash. i kept it, however, in my hand, but i slipped in getting back into the road, and dropped it. i durstn't stop long, for the man, whoever he were, came nearer and nearer, so i just looked about for a moment or two, and then i set off and ran for my life, and never saw my poor knife again till your john gave it me to sharpen an hour since." "eh, sammul," cried betty, with a great sigh of relief, "you little thought what a stab your knife'd give your poor sister. i went out, same night as you went off, to seek you, and coming home from aunt jenny's i seed a summat shining on the road near the old pit-shaft, for moon were up then; it were this knife o' yourn. i picked it up, and oh, sammul, there were blood on it, and i saw the bank were trampled, and oh, i didn't know what to make on it. i feart ye'd been and kilt yourself. i feart it at first, but i didn't arter a bit, when i'd time to bethink me a little. but i've kept the knife ever since; you shall have it back now, and you mustn't charge us anything for grinding it." "poor betty!" said her brother, "i little thought what sorrow my knife would bring you." "well, go on, it's all right now." "when i'd run a good way," continued samuel, "i began to think a bit what i should do with myself. one thing i were resolved on--i'd make a fresh start--i'd forget as i'd ever had a home--i'd change my name, and be my own mayster. it were not right--i see it now--i were misguided-- it were not right to my poor betty, my loving sister--it were selfish to leave her to bear all the trouble by herself, and it were not right by you, fayther, nor by poor dear mother. i should have borne my trials with patience, and the lord would have made a road through 'em; but i've prayed to be forgiven, and, bless the lord, he's brought good out of evil. arter a while, i thought as i'd walk to liverpool, and see if i couldn't work my passage to america or australia. i didn't wish any one to know where i was gone, so i never wrote. i wished to be as dead to all as had gone before. it were the third day arter i left langhurst that i got to liverpool. i were very foot-sore, and almost famished to death, for i hadn't had a gradely meal since i left home. i were standing near a public, feeling very low and done, when some sailor chaps as was drinking there began to chaff me, and one was for giving me some beer and grog, but i wouldn't taste. just then a captain merryweather, commander of the barque _sabrina_, comes up. he hears what was going on, and takes me to a temperance inn and gives me a good breakfast, and asks me if i'd go with him to australia as cabin-boy." "to australia!" exclaimed both thomas and betty; "have you really been to australia, sammul?" "ay, that i have, and back again too. well, i were right glad to go with the captain, more particularly arterwards, as i seed will jones a- coming out on a public, and i thought if he'd a seen me, he might talk on it at langhurst. when captain axed me if i'd go with him, he wanted to know my name. eh, i were never so taken aback in all my life. i couldn't tell what to say, for i'd made up my mind as i'd drop the name of samuel johnson, but i hadn't got any other at hand to take to. so he axes me my name again. all at once i remembered as i'd see'd the name `jacob poole' over a little shop in a lane near the town, so i thought, `that'll do;' so says i, when he axed me my name again, `jacob poole.' but i were nearly as fast next time as he called to me, for when he says, `jacob,' i takes no notice. so he says again, `jacob poole,' in a loud voice, and then i turns round as if i'd been shot. i wonder he didn't find me out. but i'm used to the name now. i hardly know myself as samuel." "and which must we call you?" asked betty, with a merry twinkle in her eyes. "eh! fancy, `uncle jacob,' `brother jacob.' and yet it's not a bad name neither. i were reading in john to our sammul t'other day about jacob's well--that were gradely drink; it were nothing but good spring wayter. but go on, sammul--jacob, i mean." samuel then proceeded to describe his voyage, his attachment to frank oldfield, his landing in australia, and subsequent separation from his master till he joined him again at tanindie. he then went on to tell about his life at the diggings, and his conversion under the preaching of the faithful missionary. "i began to see then," he continued, "as i'd not done the thing as was right. i talked it over with the minister; and i made up my mind as i'd come home again and find you out." then he told them of his voyage back to england, and of his landing with his master at liverpool. "well, then," he proceeded, "as soon as i could be spared i went over to langhurst. i went to our old place and opened the door. there were none but strange faces. `where's thomas johnson?' says i. `who do ye say?' says a woman as was by the hearth-stone. `thomas johnson? he don't live here.' `where does he live then?' says i again. `there's nobody o' that name in langhurst,' says the woman. it were night when i got there, so i wasn't noticed. then i went to old anne butler's, and i thought i'd not say who i were, for i were always a closeish sort o' chap; and if fayther and our betty had flitted, i didn't want to have all the village arter me. so i just went to old anne's. she didn't know me a bit. so i got talking about the village, and the folks as had come and gone; and i let her have her own way. so she goes from t'one to t'other, till at last she says, `there's poor tommy johnson, as used to live in the stone row; he's flitted with his wench betty, and nobody knows where they've gone.' `that's strange,' says i, `what made 'em flit that fashion?' `oh,' she says, `they'd a deal of trouble. thomas wasn't right in his head arter his lad sammul went off, so he took up with them brierleys, and turned teetotaller; and then his missus,'--but i canna tell ye what she said about poor mother. i were fair upset, ye may be sure, when she told me her sad end; but old anne were so full of her story that she didna heed anything else. then she said, `many of his old pals tried to turn poor tommy back, but they couldn't, but they nearly worritted him out of his life. so one night tommy and his betty went clean off, and nobody's heard nothing no more on 'em, nor of their sammul neither; and what's strangest thing of all, when they came to search the house arter it were known as tommy had flitted, they found some great letters sticking to the chamber-floor in black and red; they was verses out of the bible and testament. the verse in black were, "no drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of god;" t'other verse, in red, were, "prepare to meet thy god." some thought as the old lad had put 'em there; other some said, "the old lad's not like to burn his own tail in the fire." howsever, verses were there for several days; i seed 'em myself: but one stormy night there came a terrible clap of thunner, and an awful flash of lightning, and it went right through chamber of tommy's house, and next morn letters were all gone, and nothing were left but a black mark, like a great scorch with a hot iron.' this were old anne's tale. i didn't tarry long in her house, for i didn't want to be seen by any as knowed me; but i went to many of the towns round about to see if i could hear anything about fayther, but it were no good; so i went back to liverpool arter i'd been off about ten days." samuel then gave them an account of the sad tidings that awaited his return, and then added,-- "i didn't know what to do, nor where to go, but i prayed to the lord to guide me, and lead me in his own good time to fayther and our betty, and the lord has heard me, and he's done it in his own gracious way." he then recounted his meeting with old crow, the knife-grinder, and his subsequent history to the time when, on that very evening, he was led in the good providence of his heavenly father to turn down the lane to the little cottage. "the lord be praised, the lord be praised!" exclaimed poor johnson, when the story was finished. "surely goodness and mercy he's been to us all. and, oh, he's been very good in bringing back our sammul." "we shall have a rare family gathering when we all meet, old crow, deborah, and all," said betty. "there'll be fayther, and our john, and our sammul, and our jacob, and our deborah, and old crow, and little sammul, and the babe. we must get the squire to build us another cottage." "ah, betty, my own sister," said samuel, "it does my heart good to hear your voice once more. add now i want fayther to tell his tale. i want to know all about the flitting, and the black and red letters, and all, and how you came to light on this lovely spot." johnson raised himself in his chair, and prepared to speak. what a wondrous change christian total abstinence had made in his whole appearance. the prominent animal features had sunk or softened down, the rational and intellectual had become developed. he looked like a man, god's thinking and immortal creature now; before, he had looked more like a beast, with all that was savage intensified by the venom of perverted intelligence. now he sat up with all that was noble in his character shining out upon his countenance, specially his quiet iron determination and decision, in which father and son were so much alike. and there was, hallowing every line and look, that peace which passeth understanding, and which flows from no earthly fountain. "sammul, my lad," he said, "god has been very good to me, for i can say, `this my son was lost, and is found.' he's given me a cup brimful of mercies; but the biggest of all is, he's sent us our sammul back again. but i will not spin out my tale with needless talk, as you'll be impatient to know all about our flitting. you'll remember ned brierley?" "ay, well enough," said his son. "well, ned were my best friend on earth, for you must know it were he as got me to sign the pledge. that were arter i got well arter the explosion. ye heard of the explosion?" "yes," replied samuel; "i heard on it arter i left langhurst." "it were a marvellous mercy," continued his father, "as i were spared. i'd halted rather 'tween two opinions afore, but when i left my sick-bed i came forward, and signed. then ned brierley and all the family flitted, for the mayster'd given him a better shop somewhere in wales. that were a bad job for me. i'd a weary life of it then. i thought some of my old mates 'ud a torn me in pieces, or jeered the very life out of me. then, besides, you were not come back to us; and i were very down about your poor mother, so that i were casting about to see if i couldn't find work somewhere at a distance from langhurst, where i could make a fresh start. it were in the november arter the explosion that same total abstinence chap as got yourself to sign came to our house, and axed me to tell my experience at a meeting as was to be held in langhurst on the twenty-third of the month. i'd sooner have had nothing to do wi't, but our betty said she thought i were bound to speak for the good of the cause, so i told the gentleman as i would. now, you may just suppose as my old mates at the `george' were in a fury when they heard of this, and some on 'em were resolved to sarve me out, as they called it, though i'd done 'em no harm. so they meets at will jones's house, a lot on them, and makes a plot to get into our house the night afore the meeting, and scratch my face over with a furze bush while i was asleep, and rub lamp-black and gunpowder all over my face, so as i shouldn't be able for shame to show myself at the meeting. but it so happened as will jones's lad john were under the couch-chair, hiding away from his fayther, all the time they was arranging their plans, and he heard all as they was saying. so will jones's wife martha sends the lad to tell our betty when the men was gone. she'd promised not to say anything herself, but that didn't bind the lad, so he came and told. what were we to do? why, just the right thing were being ordered for us. do ye remember old job paynter, the bill-sticker?" "ay, for sure i do," replied samuel. "he were a good christian man, and a thorough total abstainer." "you're right there, sammul," said his father; "now old job's uncle to our john here. i'd seen a good deal of old job of late. he'd taken to me and our betty, and used often to call and have a cup of tea with us. he knowed how i wished to get away from langhurst; and one night he says to me, `i've a nephew, john walters, down at fairmow, in shropshire. he's one of the right sort. i heard from him a while since as his squire wants a steady man to overlook a small colliery as he's got on his estate. the man as is there now's taken to drinking, so the squire's parting with him in december. would you like me to mention yourself to my nephew?' you may be sure, sammul, i were very thankful for the chance. but it wasn't chance--the word slipped out of my mouth; but i've done with chance long since--it were the lord's doing. so old job wrote to our john about it, and the end were, the squire offered the place to me. i got job to keep it quite snug, for i didn't want my old mates to know anything about it. this were all settled afore i'd agreed to speak at the meeting. so when we found, from martha jones's lad, what my old mates was up to, i talked the matter over with old job paynter, and we hit upon a plan as'd just turn the tables on 'em, and might do 'em some good. it were all arranged with our john as we should be at liberty to come to his cottage here till the place were ready for me at the colliery. then job and i talked it over, and it were settled as our betty should go to her aunt's at rochdale, and take all her things with her, and meet me on the twenty-third of november at stockport. job was to come to our house on the twenty-second. so, a little afore nine, he slips in when it were very dark, and brings a lot of old letters with him ready cut out, and some paste. you must know as he'd a large quantity of old posters by him as had been soiled or torn. so he cuts what black letters he wants out of these, and some red 'uns too, enough to make the two texts, `no drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of god,' and `prepare to meet thy god.' then job and me goes quietly up-stairs, and i holds the candle while he pastes the words on the chamber-floor. then we rolls up some old bits of stuff into a bundle, and lays 'em on my bed, and puts the old coverlid over 'em. then job and me leaves the house, and locks the door; and that, sammul, is last i've seen of langhurst." "and what about the thunder and lightning as scorched out the letters?" asked samuel. "only an old woman's tale, i'll be bound," said his father. "you may be sure the next tenant scoured 'em off." "and now," said john walters, "it comes to my turn. father and betty came down to our house on the twenty-third of november. my dear mother was living then. i was her only son. i was bailiff then, as i am now, to squire collington of the hall up yonder. father worked about at any odd jobs i could find him till his place were ready for him, and betty took to being a good daughter at once to my dear mother. she took to it so natural, and seemed so pleased to help mother, and forget all about herself, that i soon began to think, `if she takes so natural to being a good daughter, she'll not find it hard maybe to learn to be a good wife.' and mother thought so too; and as betty didn't say, `no,' we were married in the following spring." "yes, sammul," said betty, laughing and crying at the same time; "but i made a bargain with john, when we swopped hearts, as i were to leave a little bit of mine left me still for fayther and our sammul." thomas johnson looked at the whole group with a face radiant with happiness, and then said,-- "the lord bless them. they've been all good childer to me." "we've always gotten the news of langhurst from uncle job," said betty. "he settled with the landlord about our rent, and our few odd bits of things; and he was to send us any letter as came from yourself." "and so you've been here ever since?" "yes. our john's mother died two years since come christmas; and then fayther came to live with us. he'd had a cottage of his own afore, with a housekeeper to look arter him." "and is your squire, mr collington, a total abstainer?" "ay, he is, for sure, and a gradely 'un too. he's owner of most of the land and houses here. the whole village belongs to him; and he'll not have a drop of intoxicating drinks sold in it. you passed the public. you heard no swearing nor rowing, i'll warrant. you'll find church, and chapel too, both full of sundays; and there's scarce a house where the bible isn't read every night. ah! the drink's the great curse as robs the heart of its love, the head of its sense, and the soul of its glory!" chapter twenty six. conclusion. there just remain a few creases to be smoothed out, and our story is done. the morning after samuel's arrival betty made her way to the hall, taking her brother with her. she knew that the squire and his lady, and indeed the whole family, would rejoice to hear that the wanderer was returned, for all loved the simple-hearted lancashire girl, and had long sympathised with her and her father in their sorrow about samuel. mr collington and his lady having heard betty's statement with the deepest interest, sent for samuel, and had a long conversation with him. "and what do you say to entering my service?" asked the squire. "we have learned to prize your father and sister so highly, that i shall feel perfect confidence in taking you with no other recommendation than your story and your relationship to them." "well, sir," replied samuel, "you're very good. i'm tired of roving, and shall be glad to settle, if you can find me a place as'll suit me; only i mustn't forget as there's others i owe a duty to." "you mean the friends you have left behind in bolton?" "yes, sir," said betty; "he's bound to be looking arter them. and there's deborah, as he'll be bringing to share his home with him." "and old crow too?" asked mrs collington. "i cannot say, ma'am," replied samuel; "but i must either take his cart back to him, or bring him over this side to his cart." "well, we'll see what can be done," said the squire. let us leave them for a while, and pass to greymoor park. sir thomas and lady oldfield have left it for an absence of several years; indeed, many doubts are expressed in the neighbourhood whether they will ever come back to reside there again. there is the stamp of neglect and sorrow upon the place. sir thomas has become a more thoughtful man--he is breaking up, so people say. his wife has found a measure of comfort at the only true fountain, for her religion is now the substance--it was once only the shadow. but the past cannot be recalled, and a sorrow lies heavy on her heart which must go with her to her grave; and oh, there is a peculiar bitterness in that sorrow when she reflects what her poor boy might have been had she never herself broken down his resolve to renounce entirely that drink which proved his after-ruin. and what of the oliphants at the rectory? bernard oliphant still keeps on his holy course, receiving and scattering light. hubert is abroad and prospers, beloved by all who know him. and mary, poor mary, she carries a sorrow which medicine can never heal. yet she sorrows not altogether without hope; for, according to her promise, she never ceased to pray for the erring object of her love; and she still therefore clings to the trust that there may have been light enough in his soul at the last for him to see and grasp the outstretched hand of jesus. and sorrow has not made her selfish. she has learned to take a deepening interest in the happiness of others; and thus, in her self-denying works of faith and labours of love, she finds the throbbings of her wounded spirit to beat less fiercely. she has gained all she hopes for in this life, peace--not in gloomy seclusion, but in holy activity--and she knows that there is joy for her laid up in that bright, eternal land where the sorrows of the past can cast no shadows on present glory. and now let us pass from those who mourn to those who rejoice. it is a lovely day in early september, and there is evidently something more than ordinary going on at fairmow park. in the village itself there is abundance of bustle and excitement, but all of the most innocent kind, for alcohol has nothing to do with it. old and young are on the move, but the young seem to be specially interested. in fact, it is the "annual meeting of the fairmow band of hope," which is to gather for dinner and recreation, as it always does, in the park. so banners are flying, and children hurrying to and fro, and parents looking proud, and all looking happy. but to-day there is to be a double festivity, for samuel johnson and deborah cartwright are to be married. deborah is staying at john walters', and samuel has got a snug little cottage no great way on the other side of the brook; and not far-off, and a little nearer to the hall, is still another cottage, where old crow is just settled with deborah's mother for housekeeper, for the old man could not rest content to be so far away from his adopted son jacob, for he "means to call him jacob and nothing else as long as he lives." the old man is not without money of his own, and he still means to do a little in the knife-grinding line. so his cart is to be wheeled up for him to the park this afternoon, and he is to sharpen just as many or just as few knives for the squire, and scissors for the ladies, as he pleases. and now--for it is almost half-past ten o'clock--there is a straggling of various groups up to the neat little ivy-covered church. oh, what a joyful day it is for thomas johnson and betty! they hardly know how to hold all the love that swells in their hearts, and every one is so kind to them. then the bells ring out joyfully, and the churchyard is filled with expectant faces of old and young. the squire, his wife, and daughters are to be there, and after the wedding there is to be a short service and an address from the clergyman. and now the little wedding- party winds up the hill, two and two, from john walters' cottage, all supremely happy down to little samuel and the babe, who are to share in the festivities of the day. all enter the church; the squire and his party being already seated. old crow is there, of course, for he is to give deborah away. he has a sunday suit on now, the garments of various eras being only for working days. who so full of joy as samuel, as he passes through the gazing throng with deborah on his arm. they are to drive at once after the wedding to the park in the squire's dog-cart. the marriage-ceremony is duly performed, and the address delivered. then comes the band, with its brazen roar strangely jangling with the merry bells. the road is all alive with labourers in clean smocks, and lads with polished faces. the children in their holiday attire and band of hope ribbons run in and out everywhere. fathers and mothers look glad, and old men and women benevolent. flowers are to be seen in profusion, for total abstinence and flowers go everywhere together: there are flowers in the churchyard, flowers in the church, flowers in button-holes, belts, and bonnets, flowers in huge fragrant nosegays, flowers in choice little bouquets. and so, laughing, smiling, running, walking, hastening, sauntering, chatting, greeting, on go young and middle-aged and old, and the sloping sward of the park is gained, and the hall comes into close view. and there, under a wide expanse of canvas, is spread the healthful, bountiful repast--plenty of meat, plenty of drink of the right sort, and nothing to stimulate appetite but those odours which never tempt any but the gluttonous to excess. all are now gathered and take their places; young and old sit side by side. the squire, his lady, his daughters, and the clergyman are there. every one is assured of a hearty welcome, and falls to in earnest when the grace has been sung. at length the vehement clashing of knives and forks and clattering of plates has subsided to a solitary click or two; all have been satisfied, and the squire rises. he has a word of kindness, love, and encouragement for each. they know how he loves them, and they listen with the deepest attention. and thus he speaks:-- "our kind and beloved pastor has addressed us all in church this morning, and i trust we shall remember well the words of truth and wisdom which he spoke. and now it falls to myself to speak to you. i can most truthfully declare how it rejoices myself and my dear wife to see so many healthy, happy faces at our yearly `band of hope' festivity. but to-day we specially rejoice, because we see here a happy couple who have just been joined together as man and wife in our church, with the blessed prospect of being fellow-partakers of the happiness of heaven. i am very thankful to number them among my tenants and people. you all of you now know something of samuel johnson, his trials, temptations, and struggles as a christian total abstainer. (`hear, hear,' from old crow.) what a truly happy gathering this is! i have no need to look at any with misgiving lest their bright faces should owe their brightness to excess in intoxicating liquors. we have no false stimulants here--we have no clouded brains, no aching consciences here--none will go home needing to rue the gathering and recreations of this day. and now, young people of the `band of hope,' my dear boys and girls, i have just a parting word for you. never let any one persuade you, go where you may, to forsake your pledged total abstinence. never care for a laugh or a frown, they can do you no harm while god is on your side. oh, remember what an insidious, what a crafty tempter the drink is! i have a short story to tell you that will illustrate this. many years ago, when the english and french were at war with one another in north america, a portion of the english army was encamped near a dense and trackless forest. the french were on friendly terms with a tribe of red indians who lived thereabouts, and our men were therefore obliged to be specially on their guard against these crafty savage foes. a sentinel was placed just on the border of the forest, and he was told to be very watchful against a surprise from the indians. but one day, when the sergeant went to relieve guard, he found the sentinel dead, his scalp, (that is, the hair with the skin and all), torn from his head, and his musket gone. this was plainly the work of an indian. strict charge was given to the new sentinel to fire his musket on the first approach of an enemy. again they went to relieve guard, and again they found the sentinel dead and scalped as the one before him. they left another soldier in his place, and after a while, hearing the discharge of a musket, they hurried to the spot. there stood the sentinel uninjured, and close at his feet lay a red indian dead. the sentinel's account was this. while he was keeping his eyes on the forest, he saw coming from it a sort of large hog common in those parts, which rolls itself about in a peculiarly amusing manner. in its gambols it kept getting nearer and nearer to him, when all of a sudden it darted into his mind, `perhaps this creature is only an indian in disguise.' he fired at it, and found it was even so. the crafty savage had thus approached the other sentinels, who had been thrown off their guard by his skilful imitation of the animal's movements, so that the indian had sprung up and overpowered them before they could fire or call for help. now it is just so, dear boys and girls, with the drink. it comes, as it were, all innocence and playfulness: it raises the spirits, unchains the tongue, makes the eyes bright, and persuades a man that the last thing he will do will be to exceed; and then it gets closer and closer, and springs upon him, and gets the mastery over him, before he is at all aware. but don't you trifle with it, for it comes from the enemy's country--it is in league with the enemy--repel it at the outset--have nothing to do with it--it has surprised and slain millions of immortal beings--never taste, and then you will never crave. oh, how happy to show that you can live without it! then you may win others to follow your example. ay, the young total abstainer who will not touch the drink because he loves his saviour, does indeed stand on a rock that cannot be moved, and he can stretch out the helping hand to others, and cry, `come up here and be safe.' and now away to your games and your sports, and may god bless you all!" nearly lost but dearly won by the reverend t.p. wilson, m.a. ________________________________________________________________ wilson wrote several books around the end of the s. he had won a prize some ten years previously for the best book assessed by the band of hope, a society devoted to helping the young never to take up drinking. this present book gives you the impression that it might well have been another one written to be entered into the competition. anyway, if it was, it didn't win. it's quite a good story, but i think its trouble is, that it is neither a book that would appeal directly to teenagers, which one supposes was its target audience, nor yet to young adults. there is nothing like the amount of action we saw in "frank oldfield." it is rather a short book, but one of its crowning glories is the set of ten line drawings by "mdh". these are really superb, full of action and life, particularly where there are children or horses. i wish all childrens' books were as well illustrated. nh ________________________________________________________________ nearly lost but dearly won by the reverend t.p. wilson, m.a. chapter one. esau tankardew. certainly, mr tankardew was not a pattern of cleanliness, either in his house or his person. someone had said of him sarcastically, "that there was nothing clean in his house but his _towels_;" and there was a great deal of truth in the remark. he seemed to dwell in an element of cobwebs; the atmosphere in which he lived, rather than breathed, was apparently a mixture of fog and dust. everything he had on was faded-- everything that he had about him was faded--the only dew that seemed to visit the jaded-looking shrubs in the approach to his dwelling was _mil_dew. dilapidation and dinginess went hand-in-hand everywhere: the railings round the house were dilapidated--some had lost there points, others came to an abrupt conclusion a few inches above the stone-work from which they sprang; the steps were dilapidated--one of them rocked as you set your foot upon it, and the others sloped inwards so as to hold treacherous puddles in wet weather to entrap unwary visitors; the entrance hall was dilapidated; if ever there had been a pattern to the paper, it had now retired out of sight and given place to irregular stains, which looked something like a vast map of a desolate country, all moors and swamps; the doors were dilapidated, fitting so badly, that when the front door opened a sympathetic clatter of all the lesser ones rang through the house; the floors were dilapidated, and afforded ample convenience for easy egress and ingress to the flourishing colonies of rats and mice which had established themselves on the premises; and above all, mr tankardew himself was dilapidated in his dress, and in his whole appearance and habits--his very voice was dilapidated, and his words slipshod and slovenly. and yet mr tankardew was a man of education and a gentleman, and you knew it before you had been five minutes in his company. he was the owner of the house he lived in, on the outskirts of the small town of hopeworth, and also of considerable property in the neighbourhood. amongst other possessions, he was the landlord of two houses of some pretensions, a little out in the country, which were prettily situated in the midst of shrubberies and orchards. in one of these houses lived a mr rothwell, a gentleman of independent means; in the other a mrs franklin, the widow of an officer, with her daughter mary, now about fifteen years of age. mr tankardew had settled in his present residence some ten years since. _why_ he bought it nobody knew, nor was likely to know; all that people were sure of was that he _had_ bought it, and pretty cheap too, for it was not a house likely to attract any one who appreciated comfort or liveliness; moreover, current report said that it was haunted. still, it was for sale, and it passed somehow or other into mr tankardew's hands, and mr tankardew's hands and whole person passed into _it_; and here he was now with his one old servant, molly gilders, a shade more dingy and dilapidated than himself. several persons put questions to molly about her master, but found it a very discouraging business, so they gave up the attempt as hopeless, and it remained an unexplained mystery why mr tankardew came to hopeworth, and where he came from. as for questioning the old gentleman himself, no one had the hardihood to undertake it; and indeed he gave them little opportunity, as he very rarely showed his face out of his own door; so rumour had to say what it pleased, and among other things, rumour said that the old dressing-gown in which he was ordinarily seen was never off duty, either day or night. mr tankardew employed no agent, but collected his own rents; which he required to be paid to himself half-yearly, in the beginning of january and july, at his own residence. it was on one crisp, frosty, cheery january morning that mr rothwell, and his son mark, a young lad of eighteen, were ushered into mr tankardew's sitting-room; if that could be properly called a sitting- room, in which nobody seemed ever to sit, to judge by the deep unruffled coating of dust which reposed on every article, the chairs included. respect for their own garments caused father and son to stand while they waited for their landlord; but, before he made his appearance, two more visitors were introduced, or rather let into the room by old molly, who, considering her duty done when she had given them an entrance into the apartment, never troubled herself as to their further comfort and accommodation. a strange contrast were these visitors to the old room and its furniture. mr rothwell was a tall and rather portly man with a pleasant countenance, a little flushed, indicating a somewhat free indulgence in what is certainly miscalled "good living." the cast of his features was that of a person easy-going, good-tempered, and happy; but a line or two of care here and there, and an occasional wrinkling up of the forehead showed that the surface was not to be trusted. mark, his son, was like him, and the very picture of good humour and light- heartedness; so buoyant, indeed, that at times he seemed indebted to spirits something more than "animal." but the brightness had not yet had any of the gilding rubbed off--everyone liked him, no one could be dull where he was. mrs franklin, how sweet and lovable her gentle face! you could tell that, whatever she might have lost, she had gained grace--a glow from the better land gave her a heavenly cheerfulness. and mary--she had all her mother's sweetness without the shadow from past sorrows, and her laugh was as bright and joyous as the sunlit ripple on a lake in summer time. the rothwells and franklins, as old friends, exchanged a hearty but whispered greeting. "i daren't speak out loud," said mark to mary, "for fear of raising the dust, for that'll set me sneezing, and then good-bye to one another; for the first sneeze 'll raise such a cloud that we shall never see each other till we get out of doors again." "o mark, don't be foolish! you'll make me laugh, and we shall offend poor mr tankardew; but it is very odd. i never was here before, but mamma wished me to come with her, as a sort of protection, for she's half afraid of the old gentleman." "your first visit to our landlord, i think?" said mr rothwell. "yes," replied mrs franklin. "i sent my last half-year's rent by thomas, but as there are some little alterations i want doing at the house, and mr tankardew, i'm told, will never listen to anything on this subject second-hand, i have come myself and brought mary with me." "just exactly my own case," said mr rothwell; "and mark has given me his company, just for the sake of the walk. i think you have never met our landlord?" "no, never!--and i must confess that i feel considerably relieved that our interview will be less private than i had anticipated." further conversation was interrupted by the entrance of mr tankardew himself. he was tall and very grey, with strongly-marked features, and deeply-furrowed cheeks and forehead. his eyes were piercing and restless, but there was a strange gentleness of expression about the mouth, which might lead one, when viewing his countenance as a whole, to gather that he was one who, though often deceived, _must_ still trust and love. he had on slippers and worsted stockings, but neither of them were pairs. he wore an old black handkerchief with the tie half-way towards the back of his neck, while a very long and discoloured dressing-gown happily shrouded from view a considerable portion of his lower raiment. the room in which he met his tenants was thoroughly in keeping with its owner: old and dignified, panelled in dark wood, with a curiously-carved chimneypiece, and a ceiling apparently adorned with some historical or allegorical painting, if you could only have seen it. how mr tankardew got into the room on the present occasion was by no means clear, for nobody saw him enter. mark suggested to mary, in a whisper, that he had come up through a trap door. at any rate he was there, and greeted his visitors without embarrassment. "sorry to keep you waiting," he muttered, "sorry to see you standing. ah! dusty, i see;" and with the long tail of his dressing-gown he proceeded to raise a cloud of dust from four massive oak chairs, much to the disturbance of mark's equanimity, who succeeded with some difficulty in maintaining his gravity. "sorry," added mr tankardew, "to appear in this _dishabille_, must excuse and take me as i am." "pray don't mention it," replied both his tenants, and then proceeded to business. the rent had been paid and receipts duly given, when the old man raised his eyes and fixed them on mary's face. she had been sitting back in the deep recess of a window, terribly afraid of a mirthful explosion from mark, and therefore drawing herself as far out of sight as possible; but now a bright ray of sunshine cast itself full on her sweet, loving features, and as mr tankardew caught their expression he uttered a sudden exclamation, and stood for a moment as if transfixed to the spot. mary felt and looked half-confused, half-frightened, but the next moment mr tankardew turned away, muttered something to himself, and then entered into the subject of requested alterations. his visitors had anticipated some probable difficulties, if not a refusal, on the part of their landlord; but to their surprise and satisfaction he promised at once to do all that they required: indeed he hardly seemed to take the matter in thoroughly, but to have his mind occupied with something quite foreign to the subject in hand. at last he said,-- "well, well, get it all done--get it all done, mr rothwell, mrs franklin--get it all done, and send in the bills to me--there, there." again he fixed his eyes earnestly on mary's face, then slowly withdrew them, and striding up to the fireplace opened a panel above it, and disclosed an exquisite portrait of a young girl about mary's age. nothing could be more striking than the contrast between the gloomy, dingy hue of the apartment, and the vivid colouring of the picture, which beamed out upon them like a rainbow spanning a storm-cloud. then he closed the panel abruptly, and turned towards the company with a deep sigh. "ah! well, well," he said, half aloud; "well, good-morning, good- morning; when shall we meet again?" these last words were addressed to mrs franklin and her daughter. "really," replied the former, hardly knowing what to say, "i'm sure, i--" mr rothwell came to the rescue. "my dear sir, i'm sure i shall be very glad to see you at my house; you don't go into society much; it'll do you good to come out a little; you'll get rid of a few of the cobwebs--from your mind"--he added hastily, becoming painfully conscious that he was treading on rather tender ground when he was talking about cobwebs. "wouldn't mr tankardew like to come to our juvenile party on twelfth night?" asked mark with a little dash of mischief in his voice, and a demure look at mary. mrs franklin bit her lips, and mr rothwell frowned. "a juvenile party at your house?" asked mr tankardew, very gravely. "only my son's nonsense, you must pardon him," said mr rothwell; "we always have a young people's party that night, of course you would be heartily welcome, only--" "a juvenile party?" asked mr tankardew again, very slowly. "yes, sir," replied mark, for the sake of saying something, and feeling a little bit of a culprit; "twelfth cake, crackers, negus, lots of fun, something like a breaking-up at school. miss franklin will be there, and plenty more young people too." "something like a breaking-up," muttered the old man, "more like a breaking-_down_, i should think--i'll come." the effect of this announcement was perfectly overwhelming. mr rothwell expressed his gratification with as much self-possession as he could command, and named the hour. mrs franklin checked an exclamation of astonishment with some difficulty. poor mary coughed her suppressed laughter into her handkerchief; but as for mark, he was forced to beat a hasty retreat, and dashed down the stairs like a whirlwind. the way home lay first down a narrow lane, into which they entered about a hundred yards from mr tankardew's house. here the rest of the party found mark behaving himself rather like a recently-escaped lunatic: he was jumping up and down, then tossing his cap into the air, then leaning back on the bank, holding his sides, and every now and then crying out while the tears rolled over his cheeks. "oh dear! oh dear! what _shall_ i do? old tanky's coming to our juvenile party." chapter two. the juvenile party. let us look into two very different houses on the morning of january th. mr rothwell's place is called "the firs," from a belt of those trees which shelter the premises on the north. all is activity at "the firs" on twelfth-day morning. it is just noon, and mrs rothwell and her daughters are assembled in the drawing-room making elaborate preparations for the evening with holly, and artificial flowers and mottoes, and various cunning and beautiful devices. on a little table by the grand piano stands a tray with a decanter of sherry, a glass jug filled (and likely to remain so) with water, and a few biscuits. mrs rothwell is lying back in an elegant easy-chair, looking flushed and languid. her three daughters, jane, florence, and alice, are standing near her, all looking rather weary. "what a bore these parties are!" exclaimed the eldest. "i'm sick to death of them. i shall be tired out before the evening begins." "so shall i," chimes in her sister florence. "i hate having to be civil to those odious little frights, the graysons, and their cousins. why can't they stay at home and knock one another's heads about in the nursery?" "very aimiable of you i must say, my dears," drawls out mrs rothwell. "come, you must exert yourselves, you know it only comes once a year." "ay, once too often, mamma!" "i'm sure," cries little alice, "i shall enjoy the party very much: it'll be jolly, as mark says, only i wish i wasn't so tired just now: ah! dear me!" "oh! child, don't yawn!" says her mother; "you'll make me more fatigued than i am, and i'm quite sinking now. jane, do just pour me out another glass of sherry. thank you, i can sip a little as i want it. take some yourself, my dear, it'll do you good." "and me too, mamma," cries alice, stretching out her hand. "really, alice, you're too young; you mustn't be getting into wanting wine so early in the day, it'll spoil your digestion." "oh! nonsense, mamma! everybody takes it now; it'll do me good, you'll see. mark often gives me wine; he's a dear good brother is mark." mrs rothwell sighs, and takes a sip of sherry: she is beginning to brighten up. "what in the world did your father mean by asking old mr tankardew to the party to-night?" she exclaims, turning to her elder daughters. "mean! mamma--you may well ask that: the old scarecrow! they say he looks like a bag of dust and rags." "mark says," cries her sister, "that he's just the image of a stuffed guy fawkes, which the boys used to carry about london on a chair." "well, my dears, we must make the best of matters, we can't help it now." "oh! i daresay it'll be capital fun," exclaims alice; "i shall like to see mark doing the polite to `old tanky,' as he calls him." "come, miss pert, you must mind your behaviour," says florence; "remember, mr tankardew is a gentleman and an old man." "indeed, miss gravity, but i'm not going to learn manners of you; mamma pays miss craven to teach me that, so good-bye;" and the child, with a mocking courtesy towards her sister, runs out of the room laughing. and now let us look into the breakfast-room of "the shrubbery," as mrs franklin's house is called. mary and her mother are sitting together, the former adding some little adornments to her evening dress, and the latter knitting. "don't you like mark rothwell, mamma?" "no, my child." "oh! mamma! what a cruelly direct answer!" "shouldn't i speak the direct truth, mary?" "oh! yes, certainly the truth, only you might have softened it off a little, because i think you must like some things in him." "yes, he is cheerful and good-tempered." "and obliging, mamma?" "i'm not so sure of that, mary; self-indulgent people are commonly selfish people, and selfish people are seldom obliging: a really obliging person is one who will cross his own inclination to gratify yours, without having any selfish end in view." "and you don't think mark would do this, mamma?" "i almost think not. i like to see a person obliging from principle, and not merely from impulse: not merely when his being obliging is only another form of self-gratification." "but why should not mark rothwell be obliging on principle?" "well, mary, you know my views. i can trust a person as truly obliging who acts on christian principle, who follows the rule, `look not everyone on his own things, but everyone also on the things of others,' because he loves christ. i am afraid poor mark has never learned to love christ." mary sighs, and her mother looks anxiously at her. "my dearest child," she says, earnestly, "i don't want you to get too intimate with the young rothwells. i am sure they are not such companions as your own heart would approve of." "why, no, mamma, i can't say i admire the way in which they have been brought up." "admire it! oh! mary, this is one of the crying sins of the day. i mean the utter selfishness and self-indulgence in which so many young people are educated; they must eat, they must drink, they must talk just like their elders; they acknowledge no betters, they spurn all authority; the holy rule, `children, obey your parents in the lord, for this is right,' is quite out of date with too many of them now." "i fear it is so, mamma. i don't like the girls much at `the firs,' but i cannot help liking mark; i mean," she added, colouring, "as a light- hearted, generous, pleasant boy." a silence of a few moments, and then she looks up and says, timidly and lovingly, "if you think it better, dearest mamma, i won't go to the party to-night." "no, mary, i would not advise that; _i_ shall be with you, and i should like you to see and judge for yourself. i have every confidence in you. i do believe that you love your saviour, and loving him, i feel sure that you will not knowingly enter into any very intimate acquaintance with any one who has not the same hope; without which hope, my precious child, there may be much amiability and attractiveness, but can be no solid and abiding happiness or peace." mary's reply is a child's earnest embrace and a whispered assurance of unchanging love to her mother, and trust in her judgment. six o'clock.--both drawing-rooms at "the firs" were thrown into one, and brilliantly lighted up. mysterious sounds in the dining-room below told of preparations for that part of the evening's proceedings, by no means the least gratifying to the members of a juvenile party. friends began to assemble: young boys and girls in shoals, the former dazzling in neckties and pins, the latter in brooches and earrings: with a sprinkling of seniors. the host, hostess, and her daughters were all smiles; the last-named especially, unable, indeed, to give expression to their satisfaction at having the happiness of receiving their dear young friends. mark was there, of course, full of fun, and really enjoying himself, the life and soul of everything. and now, when mrs franklin and mary had just taken their seats and had begun to look around them, the door was thrown widely open, and the servant announced in a loud voice, "mr esau tankardew!" every sound was instantly hushed, every head bent forward, every mouth parted in breathless expectation. mark crept close up to mary and squeezed his white gloves into ropes; the next moment mr tankardew entered. marvellous transformation! the faded garments had entirely disappeared. was this the man of dilapidation? yes, it was mr tankardew. he was habited in a suit of black, which, though not new, had evidently not seen much service; his trousers ceased at the knee, leaving his silk stockings and shoes conspicuous. no reproach could be cast on the purity of his white neckcloth, nor on the general cleanliness of his person. his greeting of the host and hostess, though a little old- fashioned, was thoroughly easy and courteous, after which he begged them to leave him to himself, and to give their undivided attention to the young, whose special evening it was. curiosity once gratified, the suspended buzz of eager talk broke out again, and allowed mr tankardew to make his way to mrs franklin and her daughter. these he saluted very heartily, and added, "let an old man sit by you awhile, and watch the proceedings of the young people, and realise if he possibly can that he was once young himself--ah yes! once young," and he sighed deeply. fun and frolic were soon at their height. merry music struck up, and the larger of the two drawing-rooms was cleared for a dance. mark hurried up to mary. "come, mary," he cried, "i want you for a partner; we shall have capital fun; come along." "thank you," she replied; "i prefer to watch the others--at present, at any rate." "oh! nonsense! you _must_ come, there'll be no fun without you; it's very hot though, but there'll be lots of negus presently." "mary will do her part by trying to amuse some of the very little ones," said her mother; "i think that will be more to her taste." "oh! yes, dear mamma, that it will. thank you, mark, all the same." "good, very good, very good," cried mr tankardew, in a low voice, and beating one hand gently on the other; "keep to that, my child, keep to that." mark retired with a very bad grace, and mary, slipping away from her mother's side, gathered a company around her of the tinier sort, with glowing cheeks and very wide eyes, who were rather scared by the more boisterous proceedings of those somewhat older; she amused them in a quiet way, raising many a little happy laugh, and fairly winning their hearts. "god bless her," muttered mr tankardew, when he had watched her for some time very attentively; "very good, that will do, very good indeed; keep her to it, mrs franklin, keep her to it." "she's a dear, good child," said her mother. "very true, madam; yes, dear and good; some are dear and bad--dear at any price. i see some now." wine and negus were soon handed round; the tray was presented to mary. mr tankardew lent forward and bent a piercing look at her. she declined, not at all knowing that he was watching her. "good again; very good, good girl, wise girl, prudent girl," he murmured to himself. the tray now came to mrs franklin. she took a glass of sherry. mr tankardew's brow clouded. "ah!" he exclaimed, and moved restlessly on his chair. the servant then approached him and offered the contents of the tray, but he waved it off with an imperious gesture of his hand, and did not vouchsafe a word. the more boisterous party in the other room now became conscious of the presence of the wine and negus, and rushed in, surrounding the maid who was bringing in a fresh supply. mark was at the head of them, and tossed down two glasses in rapid succession. the rest clamoured for the strong drink with eager hands and outstretched arms. "give me some, give me some," was uttered on all sides. self reigned paramount. mr tankardew's tall form rose high above the edge of the struggling crowd, which he had approached. "poor things, poor things, poor things!" he said gloomily. "a pleasant sight, these little ones enjoying themselves," said mr rothwell, coming up. mr tankardew seemed scarcely to hear him, and returned to his place by mrs franklin. "enjoying themselves!" he exclaimed, in an undertone, "call it pampering the flesh, killing the soul, and courting the devil." "rather hard upon the poor dear children," laughingly remarked a lady, who overheard him: "why, surely you wouldn't deny _them_, their share of the enjoyment of god's good creatures?" "god's good creatures, madam! are the wine and negus god's good creatures?" "certainly they are," was the reply: "god has permitted man to manufacture them out of the fruits of the earth, and to make them the means of pleasurable excitement, and therefore surely we may take them and give them as his good creatures." mr tankardew made no answer, but striding up to mary, where she sat with a circle of little interesting faces round her, eagerly intent on some simple story she was telling them, he said, "miss franklin, will you favour me by bringing me a few of your young friends here. there, now, my dear," (speaking to one of the little girls), "just hand me that empty negus glass." the child did so, and mr tankardew, producing from his coat pocket a considerable sized bottle, turned to the lady who had addressed him, and said: "madam, will you help me to dispense some of the contents of this bottle to these little children?" "gladly," she replied. "i suppose it is something very good, such as little folks like." "it is one of god's good creatures, madam:" saying which, he turned towards the other's astonished gaze the broad label on which was printed in great black letters, "laudanum--poison." "my dear sir, what do you mean?" "i mean, madam, that the liquid in this bottle is made from the poppy, which is one of the fruits of the earth; therefore it is one of god's good creatures, just as the wine and negus are. it produces very pleasurable sensations, too, if you take it, just as _they_ do; therefore it is right to indulge in it, and give it to others, just as it is right for the same reasons to indulge in wine and negus and spirits, and to give them to others." "i really don't understand you, sir." "don't you, madam? i think you won't be able to pick a hole in my argument." "ah! but this liquid is poison!" "so is alcohol, madam, only it is not labelled so: more's the pity, for it has killed thousands and tens of thousands, where laudanum has only killed units. there, my child," he added, turning to mary, and taking an elegant little packet from his pocket, "give these _bonbons_ to the little ones. i didn't mean to disappoint them." while this dialogue was going on, the rest of the party was too full of noisy mirth to notice what was passing. mark's voice was getting very wild and conspicuous; and now he made his way with flushed face and sparkling eyes to mary, who was sitting quietly between her mother and mr tankardew. he carried a jug in one hand, and a glass in the other, and, without noticing the elder people, exclaimed, "it is an hour yet to supper time, and you'll be dead with thirst; i am sure i am. you must take some of this, it is capital stuff; our butler made it: i have just had a tumbler--it is punch. come, mary, you must," and he thrust the glass into her hand: "you must, i say; you shall; never mind old tanky," he added, in what he meant to be a whisper. then he raised the jug with unsteady fingers, but, before a drop could reach the tumbler, mr tankardew had risen, and with one sweep of his hand dashed it out of mary's grasp on the ground. few heard the crash, amidst the din of the general merriment, and those who noticed it supposed it to be an accident. "nearly lost!" whispered mr tankardew in mary's ear; then he said, in a louder voice, "faugh! the atmosphere of this place does not suit me. i must retire. mrs franklin, pray make an old man's excuses to our host and hostess." he was _gone_! chapter three. the swollen stream. it is the morning after the juvenile party at "the firs." a clear, bright frost still: everything _outside_ the house fresh and vigorous: half-a-dozen labourers' little children running to school with faces like peonies; jumping, racing, sliding, puffing out clouds of steaming breath as they shout out again and again for very excess of health and spirits. everything _inside_ the house limp, languid, and lugubrious; the fires are sulky and won't burn; the maids are sulkier still. mr rothwell breakfasts alone, feeling warm in nothing but his temper: the grate sends forth little white jets of smoke from a wall of black coal, instead of presenting a cheery surface of glowing heat: the toast is black at the corners and white in the middle: the eggs look so truly new laid that they seem to have come at once from the henhouse to the table, without passing through the saucepan: the coffee is feeble and the milk smoked: the news in the daily papers is flat, and the state of affairs in country and county peculiarly depressing. upstairs, mrs rothwell tosses about with a sick headache, unable to rest and unwilling to rise. the young ladies are dawdling in dressing-gowns over a bedroom breakfast, and exchanging mutual sarcasms and recriminations, blended with gall and bitterness flung back on last night's party. poor mark has the worst of it, nausea and splitting headache, with a shameful sense of having made both a fool and a beast of himself. so much for the delights of "lots of negus, wine, and punch!" he has also a humbling remembrance of having been rude to mr tankardew. a knock at his door. "come in." "please, sir, there's a hamper come for you," says the butler; "shall i bring it in?" "yes, if you like." the hamper is brought in and opened; it is only a small one. in the midst of a deep bed of straw lies a hard substance; it is taken out and the paper wrapped round it unfolded; only a glass tumbler! there is a paper in it on which is written, "to mr mark rothwell, from mr esau tankardew, to replace what he broke last night: keep it empty, my boy; keep it empty." nine o'clock at "the shrubbery." mary and her mother are seated at breakfast, both a little dull and disinclined to speak. at last mary breaks the silence by a profound sigh. mrs franklin smiles, and says: "you seem rather burdened with care, my child." "well, i don't know, dear mamma; i don't think it is exactly care, but i'm dissatisfied or disappointed that i don't feel happier for last night's party." "you don't think there was much real enjoyment in it?" "not to _me_, mamma; and i don't imagine very much to anybody--except, perhaps, to some of the very little ones. there was a hollowness and emptiness about the whole thing; plenty of excitement and a great deal of selfishness, but nothing to make me feel really brighter and happier." "no, my child; i quite agree with you: and i was specially sorry for old mr tankardew. i can't quite understand what induced him to come: his conduct was very strange, and yet there is something very amiable about him in the midst of his eccentricities." "what a horror he seems to have of wine and negus and suchlike things, mamma." "yes; and i'm sure what he saw last night would not make him any fonder of them. poor mark rothwell quite forgot himself. i was truly glad to get away early." "oh! so was i, mamma; it was terrible. i wish he wouldn't touch such things; i'm sure he'll do himself harm if he does." "yes, indeed, mary; harm in body, and character, and soul. those are fearful words, `no drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of god.'" "i wish i was like mr tankardew," says mary, after a pause; "did you see, mamma, how he refused the negus? i never saw such a frown." "well, mary, i'm not certain that total abstinence would suit either of us, but it is better to be on the safe side. i am sure, in these days of special self-indulgence, it would be worth a little sacrifice if our example might do good; but i'll think about it." it was a lovely morning in the september after the juvenile party, one of those mornings which combine the glow of summer with the richness of autumn. a picnic had been arranged to a celebrated hill about ten miles distant from hopeworth. the rothwells had been the originators, and had pressed mary franklin to join the party. mrs franklin had at first declined for her daughter. she increasingly dreaded any intimacy between her and mark, whose habits she feared were getting more and more self-indulgent; and mary herself was by no means anxious to go, but mark's father had been particularly pressing on the subject, more so than mrs franklin could exactly understand, so she yielded to the joint importunity of father and son, though with much reluctance. mary had seen mark occasionally since the night of the th of january, and still liked him, without a thought of going beyond this; but she was grieved to see how strongly her mother felt against him, and was inclined to think her a little hard. true, he had been betrayed into an excess on twelfth night; but, then, he was no drunkard. so she argued to herself, and so too many argue; but how strange it is that people should argue so differently about the sin of drunkenness from what they argue about other sins! if a man lies to us _now and then_, do we call him _habitually_ truthful? if a man steals _now and then_, do we call him _habitually_ honest? surely not; yet if a man is _only now and then_ drunken, his fault is winked at; he is considered by many as _habitually_ a sober man; and yet, assuredly, if there be one sin more than another which from the guilt and misery that it causes deserves little indulgence, it is the sin of drunkenness. mary took the common view, and could not think of mark as being otherwise than habitually sober, because he was only now and then the worse for strong drink. it was, as we have said, a lovely september morning, and all the members of the picnic party were in high spirits. an omnibus had been hired expressly for the occasion. mark sat by the driver, and acted as presiding genius. the common meeting-place was an old oak, above a mile out of the town, and thither by ten o'clock all the providers and their provisions had made their way. no one could look more bright than mark rothwell, no one more peacefully lovely than mary franklin. all being seated, off they started at an uproarious signal from mark. away they went, along level road, through pebbly lane, its banks gorgeous with foxgloves and fragrant with honeysuckles, over wild heath, and then up grassy slopes. there were fourteen in the party: mr rothwell, mark and his three sisters, and a lady neighbour; mrs franklin and her daughter, with a female friend; and five young gentlemen who were or seemed to be cousins, more or less, to everybody. five miles were soon passed, and then the road was crossed by a little stream. cautiously the lumbering vehicle made its way down the shelving gravel, plunged into the sparkling water, fouling it with thick eddies of liquid mud, and then, with some slight prancings on the part of the willing horses, gained the opposite bank. the other five miles were soon accomplished, all feeling the exhilarating effect of drinking in copious draughts of mountain air--god's pure and unadulterated stimulant to strengthen the nerves, string up the muscles, and clear the brain, free from every drop of spirit except the glowing spirit of health. and now the omnibus was abandoned by a little roadside inn to the care of a hostler, who took the horses (poor dumb brutes!) to feast on corn and water, god's truly "good creatures," unspoilt by the perverse hand of self-indulgent man! the driver, with the rest of the party, toiled up the hill-side, and all, on gaining the summit, gazed with admiration across one of those lovely scenes which may well make us feel that the stamp of god's hand is there, however much man may have marred what his creator has made: wood and lane, cornfields red-ripe, turnip fields in squares of dazzling green, were spread out before them in rich embroidery with belts of silver stream flashing like diamonds on the robe of beauty with which almighty love had clothed the earth. oh! to think that sin should defile so fair a prospect! yet sin was there, though unseen by those delighted gazers. ay, and thickly sown among those sweet hills and dales were drunkards' houses, where hearts were withering, and beings made for immortality were destroying body and soul by a lingering suicide. an hour passed quickly by, and there came a summons to luncheon. under a tall rock, affording an unbroken view of the magnificent landscape outspread below, the tablecloth was laid and secured at the corners by large stones. pies both savoury and sweet were abundant, bread sufficient, salt scanty, and water absent altogether. bottles were plentiful--bottles of ale, of porter, of wines heavy and light. corks popped, champagne fizzed, ale sparkled. mark surrendered the eatables into other hands, and threw his whole energies into the joint consumption and distribution of strong drink. he seemed in this matter, at least, to act upon the rule that "example is better than precept": if he pressed others to drink, he led the way by taking copious draughts himself. the driver, too, was not forgotten; the poor man was getting a chance of rising a little above his daily plodding as he looked out on the lovely scenery before him: but he was not to be left to god's teachings; ale, porter, champagne, he must taste them all. mark insisted on it; so the unfortunate man drank and drank, and then threw himself down among some heath to sleep off, if he could, the fumes of alcohol that were clouding his brains. and what of mrs franklin and mary? both had declined all the stimulants, and had asked for water. "nonsense," cried mark; "water! i've taken very good care that there shall be no water drunk to-day; you must take some wine or ale, you must indeed." "we will manage without it, if you please," said mrs franklin quietly. mark pressed the intoxicants upon them even to rudeness, but without effect. mr rothwell was evidently annoyed at his son's pertinacity, and tried to check him; but all in vain, for mark had taken so much as just to make him obstinate and unmanageable. but, finding that he could not prevail, the young man hurried away in anger, and plied the other members of the company with redoubled vigour. so engrossing had been the luncheon that few of the party had noticed a sudden lull in the atmosphere, and an oppressive calm which had succeeded to the brisk and cheery breeze. but now, as mary rose from her seat on the grass, she said to her mother: "oh, mamma, how close it has become! and look there in the distance: what a threatening bank of clouds! i fear we are going to have a storm." "i fear so indeed, mary; we must give our friends warning, and seek out a shelter." all had now become conscious of the change. a stagnant heat brooded over everything; not a breath of wind; huge banks of magnificent storm- cloud came marching up majestically from the horizon, throwing out little jets of lightning, with solemn murmurs of thunder. drop, drop, drop, tinkled on the gathered leaves, now quicker, now quicker, and thicker. under a huge roof of overhanging rock the party cowered together. at last, down came the storm with a blast like a hurricane, and deluges of rain. on, on it poured relentlessly, with blinding lightning and deafening peals of thunder. hour after hour! would it never cease? at last a lull between four and five o'clock, and, as the tempest rolled murmuring away, the dispirited friends began their preparations for returning. six o'clock before all had reached the inn. where were the driver and mark? another tedious hour before they appeared, and each manifestly the worse for liquor. past seven by the time they had fairly started. and now the clouds began to gather again. on they went, furiously at first, and then in unsteady jerks, the omnibus swaying strangely. it was getting dark, and the lowering clouds made it darker still. not a word was spoken by the passengers, but each was secretly dreading the crossing of the stream. at last the bank was gained--but what a change! the little brook had become a torrent deep and strong. "oh! for goodness' sake, stop! stop! let us get out," screamed the misses rothwell. "in with it! in with it!" roared mark to the driver; "dash through like a trump." "tchuck, tchuck," was the half-drunken driver's reply, as he lashed his horses and urged them into the stream. down they went: splash! dash! plunge! the water foaming against the wheels like a millstream. screams burst from all the terrified ladies except mary and her mother, who held each other's hand tightly. mrs franklin had taught her daughter presence of mind both by example and precept. but now the water rushed into the vehicle itself as the frightened horses struggled for the opposite bank. mark's voice was now heard in curses, as he snatched the whip from the driver and scourged the poor bewildered horses. another splash: the driver was gone: the poor animals pulled nobly. crash! jerk! bang! a trace had snapped: another jerk, a fearful dashing and struggling, the omnibus was drawn half out of the water, and lay partly over on its side: then all was still except the wails and the shrieks of the ladies. happily a lamp had been lighted and still burned in the omnibus, which was now above the full violence of the water. the door was opened and the passengers released; but by whom?--certainly not by mark. a tall figure moved about in the dusk, and coming up to mary threw a large cloak over her shoulders, for it was now raining heavily, and said in a voice whose tones she was sure she knew: "come with me, my child, your mother is close at hand; there, trust to me; take my other arm, mrs franklin: very fortunate i was at hand to help. the drink, the drink," he muttered in a low voice; "if they'd stuck to the water at the beginning they wouldn't have stuck _in_ the water at the end." and now a light flashed on them: it was the ruddy glow from a forge. "come in for a moment," said their conductor, "till i see what is to be done. tom flint, lend us a lantern, and send your jim to show some of these good people the way to the inn; they'll get no strong drink there," he said, half to himself. and now several of the unlucky company had straggled into the smithy, which was only a _few_ yards from the swollen stream. among these was mark, partially sobered by the accident, and dripping from head to foot. "here's some capital stuff to stave off a cold," he said, addressing mrs franklin and her daughter, whose faces were visible in the forge light: at the same time he rilled the cover of a small flask with spirits. "come, let us be as jolly as we can under the circumstances." "thank you," said mrs franklin; "perhaps a very little mixed with water might be prudent, as mary, i fear, is very wet." mark stretched out the cup towards her, but before a drop could be taken the tall stranger had stepped forward, and snatching it, had emptied its contents on the glowing coals. up there shot a brilliant dazzling flame to the smoky roof, and in that vivid blaze mrs franklin and mary both recognised in their timely helper none other than mr esau tankardew. chapter four. a mysterious stranger. "this way, this way," said mr tankardew, utterly unmoved by the expression of angry astonishment on the face of mark rothwell at the sudden conversion of his cup of liquid fire into harmless flame--"come this way, come this way, mrs and miss franklin: tom, give me the lantern, i'll take the ladies to sam hodges' farm, and do you be so good as to see this young gentleman across to the `wheatsheaf'; jones will look well after them all, i know." so saying, he offered his arm to mrs franklin, and bade mary follow close behind. "it will be all right, madam," he added, seeing a little hesitation on the part of his companion; "you may trust an old man to keep you out of harm's way: there, let me go first with the lantern; now, two steps and you are over the stile: the path is rather narrow, you must keep close to the hedge: just over three fields and we shall be there." not a word was uttered as they followed their guide. mrs franklin lifted up her heart in silent praise for their preservation, and in prayer for present direction. backward and forward swayed the lantern, just revealing snatches of hedge and miry path. at last the deep barking of a dog told that they were not far off from a dwelling: the next minute mr tankardew exclaimed, "here we are;" and the light showed them that they were come to a little gate in a paling fence. "hollo, sam," shouted out their guide: the dog's barking was instantly changed into a joyful whine. a door opened a few yards in front of them, and a dark figure appeared in the midst of a square opening all ablaze with cheerful light. "hollo, sam," said mr tankardew again, in a more subdued voice. "is that you, mayster? all right," cried the other. "i've brought you some company, sam, rather late though." "you're welcome, mayster, company and all," was the reply. in a few moments all three had entered, and found themselves in an enormous kitchen, nearly large enough to accommodate a village. huge beams crossed the low white ceiling; great massive doors opened in different directions rather on the slant through age, and giving a liberal allowance of space at top and bottom for ventilation. a small colony of hams and flitches hung in view; and a monstrous chimney, with a fire in the centre, invited a nearer approach, and seemed fashioned for a cozy retiring place from the world of kitchen. everything looked warm and comfortable, from the farmer, his wife and daughter, to the two cats dozing on the hearth. vessels of copper, brass, and tin shone so brightly that it seemed a shame to use them for anything but looking- glasses; while tables and chairs glowed with the results of perpetual friction. "come, sit ye down, sit ye down, ladies," said mrs hodges; "there, come into the chimney nook: eh! deary me! ye're quite wet." "yes, betty," said mr tankardew, "these ladies joined a party to the hills, and, coming back, they've been nearly upset into the brook, which is running now like a mill stream; they came in an omnibus, and very nearly stuck fast in the middle; it is a mercy they were not all drowned; no thanks to the driver, though." "poor things," exclaimed the farmer's wife; "come, i must help you to some dry things, such as they are: and you must stay here to-night; it is not fit for you to go home, indeed it is not," she added, as mrs franklin prepared to decline. "i'll make you as comfortable as ever i can. jane, go and put a fire in the red-room." "indeed," said mrs franklin, "i can't think of allowing you to put yourself to all this trouble; besides, our servants will be alarmed when they find us not returning." "leave that to me, madam," said mr tankardew; "i shall sleep at the `wheatsheaf' to-night, and will take care to send a trusty messenger over to `the shrubbery' to tell them how matters stand; and mr hodges will, i am sure, drive you over in his gig in the morning. hark how the rain comes down! you really must stop: mrs hodges will make you very comfortable." with many thanks, but still with considerable reluctance, mrs franklin acquiesced in this arrangement. their hostess then accommodated them with such garments as they needed, and all assembled round the blazing fire. mr tankardew had divested himself of a rough top coat, and, looking like the gentleman he was, begged mrs hodges to give them some tea. what a tea that was! mary, though delicately brought up, thought she had never tasted anything like it, so delicious and reviving: such ham! such eggs! such bread! such cream! really, it was almost worth while getting the fright and the wetting to enjoy such a meal with so keen a relish. "they've got a famous distillery in this house," remarked mr tankardew when they had finished their tea. "a famous what?" asked mrs franklin, in great surprise. "dear me," said mary aghast, "i really thought i--" "oh! you thought they were teetotalers here: well, you should know that it is a common custom in these parts to put rum or other spirits into the tea, especially when people have company. now, hodges and his wife are not content with putting spirits into the tea, but they put them into everything: into their bread, and their ham, and into their eggs." mrs franklin looked partly dismayed and partly puzzled. "yes, it is true, madam. the fact is simply this: the spirits which my good tenants distil are made up of four ingredients--diligence, good temper, honesty, and total abstinence; and that is what makes everything they have to be so good of its kind." "i wish we had more distilleries of this kind," said mrs franklin, smiling. "so do i, madam; but it is a sadly dishonest, unfaithful, and self- indulgent age, and the drink has very much to do with it, directly or indirectly. here, sam," to the farmer and his wife who had just re- entered the kitchen, "do you and your mistress come and draw up your chairs, and give us a little of your thoughts on the subject; there's nothing, sometimes, so good as seeing with other people's eyes, specially when they are the eyes of persons who look on things from a different level of life." "why, mayster tankardew," said the farmer, "it isn't for the likes of me to be giving my opinion of things afore you and these ladies; but i _has_ my opinion, nevertheless." "of course you have. now, tell us what you think about the young people of our day, and their self-indulgent habits." "ah! mayster! you're got upon a sore subject; it is time summut was done, we're losing all the girls and boys, there'll be none at all thirty years hence." "surely you don't mean," said mrs franklin anxiously, "that there is any unusual mortality just now among children." "no, no, ma'am, that's not it," cried the farmer, laughing: "no, i mean that we shall have nothing but babies and men and women; we shall skip the boys and girls altogether." "how do you mean?" "why, just this way, ma'am: as soon as young mayster and miss gets old enough to know how things is, they're too old for the nursery; they won't go in leading strings; they must be little men and women. plain food won't do for 'em; they must have just what their pas and mas has. they've no notion of holding their tongues--not they; they must talk with the biggest; and i blames their parents for it, i do. they never think of checking them; they're too much like old eli. the good old- fashioned rod's gone to light the fire with." "ay, and sam," broke in his wife, "what's almost worst of all--and oh! it is a sin and a shame--they let 'em get to the beer and the wine and the spirits: you mustn't say them nay. ay, it is sad, it is for sure, to see how these little ones is brought up to think of nothing but themselves; and then, when they goes wrong, their fathers and mothers can't think how it is." "you're right, wife; they dress their bodies as they like, and eat and drink what they like, and don't see how christ bought their bodies for himself, and they are not their own. ah! there'll be an awful reckoning one day. young people can't grow up as they're doing and not leave a mark on our country as it'll take a big fire of the almighty's chastisements to burn it out." mrs franklin sighed, and mary looked very thoughtful. mr tankardew was about to speak when a faint halloo was heard above the noise of the storm, which was now again raging without. all paused to listen. it was repeated again, and this time nearer. "somebody missed his road, i should think," said mr tankardew. "maybe, sir; i'll go out and see." so saying, sam hodges left the kitchen, and calling to quiet his dog who was barking furiously, soon returned with a stranger who was dressed in a long waterproof and felt hat, which he doffed on seeing the ladies, disclosing a head of curling black hair. he was rather tall, and apparently slightly made, as far as could be judged; for the wrappings in which he was clothed from head to foot concealed the build of his person. "sorry to disturb you," he said, in a gentlemanly voice. "it is a terrible night, and i've missed my way. i ought to have been at hopeworth by now, perhaps you can kindly direct me." "nay," said the farmer, "you mustn't be off again to-night: we'll manage to take you in: we'll find you a bed, and you're welcome to such as we have to eat and drink: it is plain, but it is wholesome." "a thousand thanks, kind friends," replied the other; "but i feel sure that i am intruding. these ladies--" "we are driven in here like yourself by the storm," said mrs franklin. "i'm sure i should be the very last to wish any one to expose himself again to such a night on our account." mr tankardew had not spoken since the stranger's entrance; he was sitting rather in shadow and the new-comer had scarcely noticed him. but now the old man leant forward, and looked at the new guest as though his whole soul was going out of his eyes; it was but for a moment, and then he leant back again. the stranger glanced from one to another, and then his eyes rested for a moment admiringly on mary's face--and who could wonder! a sweeter picture and one more full of harmonious contrast could hardly be seen than the young girl with her hair somewhat negligently and yet neatly turned back from her forehead, her dress partly her own and partly the coarser garments of her hostess's daughter, sitting in that plain old massive kitchen, giving refinement and gaining simplicity, with the mingled glow of health and bashfulness lending a special brilliancy to her fair complexion. this was no ordinary man's child the stranger saw, and again he expressed his willingness to retire and make his way to the town rather than intrude his company on those who might prefer greater privacy. "sit ye down, man, sit ye down," said hodges; "the ladies 'll do very well, the kitchen's a good big un, so there's room for ye all. have you crossed the brook? you'd find it no easy matter unless you came over the foot bridge." "i'm sorry, my friend, to say," was the reply, "that i have both crossed the brook and been _in_ it. i was about to go over by a little bridge a mile or so farther down, when i thought i saw some creature or other struggling in the water. i stooped down, and to my surprise and consternation found that it was a man. i plunged into the stream and contrived to drag him to the bank, but he was evidently quite dead. what i had taken for struggling was only the force of the stream swaying him about against the supports of the bridge. his dress was that of a coachman or driver of some public conveyance. i got help from a neighbouring cottage, and we carried him in, and i sent someone off for the nearest doctor, and then i thought to take a short cut into the road, and i've been wandering about for a long time now, and am very thankful to find any shelter." during this account mrs franklin and her daughter turned deadly pale, and then the former exclaimed: "i fear it was our poor driver--i heard a splash while our omnibus was struggling in the water. oh! i fear, i fear it must have been the unfortunate man; and oh! poor man, i'm afraid he wasn't in a fit state to die." "if he was like your young friend at the forge, i fear not indeed," said mr tankardew. "that drink that accursed drink," he added, rising and approaching the stranger, who was now divesting himself of his wet outer garments. he was tall, as we have said, and his figure was slight and graceful; he wore a thick black beard and moustache, and had something of a military air; his eyes were piercing and restless, and seemed to take in at a glance and comprehend whatever they rested on. but what was there in him that seemed familiar to mrs franklin and mary? had they seen him elsewhere? they felt sure that they had not, and yet his voice and face both reminded them of someone they had seen and heard before. the same thing seemed to strike mr tankardew, but, as he turned towards the young stranger, the latter started back and uttered a confused exclamation of astonishment. the old man also was now strangely moved, he muttered aloud: "it must be--no--it cannot be: yes, it surely must be;" then he seemed to restrain himself by a sudden effort, he paused for a moment, and then with two rapid strides he reached the young man, placed his left hand upon the other's lips, and seizing him by the right hand hurried him out of the kitchen before another word could be spoken. poor mrs franklin and her daughter looked on in astonishment, hardly knowing what to say or think of this extraordinary proceeding, but their host reassured them at once. "never fear, ma'am, the old mayster couldn't hurt a fly; it'll be all right, take my word for it; there's summut strange as _we_ can't make out. i think i sees a little into it, but it is not for me to speak if the mayster wants to keep things secret. it'll all turn out right in the end, you may be sure. the old mayster's been getting a bit of a shake of late, but it is a shake of the right sort. he's been coming out of some of his odd ways and giving his mind to better things. he's had his heart broke once, but it seems to me as he's been getting it mended again." for the next half hour, the farmer, his wife, and daughter were busy about their home concerns, and their two guests were left to their own meditations. at last a distant door opened, and mr tankardew appeared followed by the young stranger. by the flickering fire mrs franklin thought she saw the traces of tears on both faces, and there was a strange light in the old man's eyes which she had not seen there before. "let me introduce you to a young friend and an old friend in one," he said, addressing the ladies; "this is mr john randolph, a great traveller." mrs franklin said some kind words expressive of her pleasure in seeing the gratification mr tankardew felt in this renewal of acquaintance. "ah! yes," said the old man; "you may well say gratification. why, i've known this young gentleman's father ever since i can remember. sam," he added to the farmer, who had just come in, "i'm going to run away with our young friend here, we shall both take up our quarters at the inn for to-night. i see it is fairer now. mrs franklin, pray make yourself quite easy. i shall despatch a messenger at once to `the shrubbery' with full particulars. good-night! good-night!" and so mary and her mother were left to their own musings and conjectures, for the farmer and his family made no allusion afterwards to the events of the evening. chapter five. the young musician. a grand piano being carried into mr esau tankardew's! what next! what _can_ the old gentleman want with a grand piano? most likely he has taken it for a bad debt--some tenant sold up. but say what they may, the fact is the same. and, stranger still, a tuner pays a visit to put the instrument in tune. what can it all mean? marvellous reports, too, tell of a sudden domestic revolution. the dust and cobwebs have had notice to quit, brooms and brushes have travelled into corners and crevices hitherto unexplored, the piano rests in a parlour which smiles in the gaiety of a new carpet and new curtains; prints have come to light upon the walls, chairs and tables have taken heart, and now wear an honest gloss upon their legs and faces; ornaments, which had hitherto been too dirty to be ornamental, now show themselves in their real colours. outside the house, also, wonderful things have come to pass; the rocking doorstep is at rest, and its fellow has been adjusted to a proper level; _ever_-greens have taken the place of the old _never_- greens; knocker and door handle are not ashamed to show their native brass; the missing rails have returned to their duty in the ranks. the whole establishment, including its master, has emerged out of a state of foggy dilapidation. old molly gilders has retired into the interior, and given place above stairs to a dapper damsel. as for the ghosts, they could not be expected to remain under such _dispiriting_ circumstances, and have had the good sense to resort to some more congenial dwelling. while gossip on this unlooked-for transformation was still flying in hot haste about hopeworth and the neighbourhood, the families both at "the firs" and "the shrubbery" were greatly astonished one morning by an invitation to spend an evening at mr tankardew's. "well," said mr rothwell, "i suppose it won't do to decline; the old gentleman means it, no doubt, as an attention, and it would not be politic to vex him." "i am sure, my dear," said his wife, "_i_ can't think of going. i shall be bored to death; you must make my excuses and accept the invitation for the girls. i don't suppose mark will care to go; the old man seems to have a spite against him--i can't tell why." "i'll go," interposed mark, "if it be only to see the fun. i'll be on my good behaviour. i'll call for tea and toast-and-water at regular intervals all through the evening, and then the old gentleman will be sure to put me down for something handsome in his will." "you'd better take some music with you," said his mother, turning to her eldest daughter; "mr tankardew has got his new piano on purpose, i suppose." "ay, do," cried mark; "take something lively, and you'll fetch out the old spiders and daddy-long-legs which have been sent into the corners like naughty boys, and they'll come out by millions and dance for us." so it was settled that the invitation should be accepted. the surprise at "the shrubbery" was of a more agreeable kind. mrs franklin and her daughter had learnt to love the old man, in spite of his eccentricities; they saw the sterling strength and consistency of his character. they had, however, hardly expected such an invitation; but the reports of the strange changes in progress in mr tankardew's dwelling had reached their ears, so that it was evident that he was intending, for some unknown reasons, to break through the reserve and retirement of years, and let a little more light and sociability into the inner recesses of his establishment. that he had a special object in doing this they felt assured; what that object was they could not divine. had mrs franklin known that the rothwells had been asked, she would have declined the invitation; but she was unaware of this till she had agreed to go; it was then too late to draw back. all the guests were very punctual on the appointed evening, curiosity having acted as a stimulant with the rothwells of a more wholesome kind than they were in the habit of imbibing. what a change! it was now the end of october, and the evenings were chilly, so that all were glad of the cheery fire, partly of wood and partly of coal, which threw its brightness all abroad in flashes of restless light. old pictures, apparently family portraits, adorned the walls, relieved by prints of a more modern and lively appearance. one space was bare, where a portrait might have been expected as a match to another on the other side of the fireplace. the omission struck every one at once on entering. the furniture, generally, was old-fashioned, and somewhat subdued in its tints, as though it had long languished under the cold shade of neglect, and had passed its best days in obscurity. not many minutes, however, were given to the guests for observation, for mr tankardew soon appeared in evening costume, accompanied by the young stranger who had taken refuge on the night of the storm in samuel hodges' farm kitchen. mr tankardew introduced him to the rothwells as mr john randolph, an old-young friend. "i've known his father sixty years and more," he said; then he added, "my young friend has travelled a good deal, and will have some curiosities to show you by-and-by--but now let us have tea. mrs franklin, pray do me the honour to preside." while tea was in progress, mr tankardew suddenly surprised his guests by remarking dryly, and abruptly: "you must know, ladies and gentlemen, that my mother was a brewer." "indeed!" exclaimed mr rothwell, in considerable astonishment; and then asked, "was the business an extensive one?" "pretty well, pretty well," was the reply. "she brewed every morning and night, but she'd only one _dray_ and that was a _tray_, and she'd a famous large teapot for a vat; we never used hops nor sent our barley to be malted, what little we used we gave to the fowls; and we never felt the want of porter, or pale ale, or bitter beer." "it is a pity that more people are not of your mother's mind," said mrs franklin, laughing. "so it is indeed; but i shouldn't, perhaps, have said anything about it, only the teapot you've got in your hand now was my dear old mother's brewery, and that set me thinking and talking about it." it was not their host's fault, nor mr john randolph's, who acted as joint entertainer, if their guests did not make a hearty tea. the meal concluded, mr tankardew requested his young friend to bring out some of his curiosities. these greatly interested all the party--especially mrs franklin and mary, who were delighted with the traveller's liveliness and intelligence. "show our friends some of your sketches," said the old man. these were produced, and were principally in water colours, evidently being the work of a master's hand. as he turned to a rather un-english scene, the young artist sighed and said, "i have some very sad remembrances connected with that sketch." "pray let us have them," said mr tankardew. mr randolph complied, and proceeded: "this is an australian sketch: you see those curious-looking trees, they are blue and red gums: there is the wattle, too, with its almond-scented flowers, and the native lilac. that cottage in the foreground was put up by an enterprising colonist, who went out from england some fifteen years ago; you see how lovely its situation is with its background of hills. i was out late one evening with a young companion, and we were rather jaded with walking, when we came upon this cottage. we stood upon no ceremony, but marched in and craved hospitality, which no one in the bush ever dreamt of refusing. we found the whole family at supper: the father had died about a year before of consumption, after he had fenced in his three acres and built his house, and planted vineyard and peach orchard. there were sheep, too, with a black fellow for a shepherd, and a stock yard with some fine bullocks in it; altogether, it was a tidy little property, and a blooming family to manage it. the widow sat at the head of the table, and her son, a young man of two-and-twenty, next to her. there were three younger children, two girls and a boy, all looking bright and healthy. we had a hearty welcome, and poured out news while they poured out tea, which with damper (an australian cake baked on the hearth), and mutton made an excellent meal. when tea was over we had a good long talk, and found that the young farmer was an excellent son, and in a fair way to establish the whole family in prosperity. well, the time came for parting, they pressed us to stay the night, but we could not. just as we were leaving, my companion took out a flask of spirits, and said, `come, let us drink to our next happy meeting, and success to the farm.' i shall never forget the look of the poor mother, nor of the young man himself; the old woman turned very pale, and the son very red, and said, `thank you all the same, i've done with these things, i've had too much of them.' `oh! nonsense,' my friend said; `a little drop won't hurt you, perhaps we may never meet again.' `well, i don't know,' said the other, in a sort of irresolute way. i could see he was thirsting for the drink, for his eye sparkled when the flask was produced. i whispered to my friend to forbear, but he would not. `nonsense,' he said; `just a little can do them no harm, it is only friendly to offer it.' `just a taste, then, merely a taste,' said our host, and produced glasses. the mother tried to interfere, but her son frowned her into silence. so grog was made, and the younger ones, too, must taste it, and before we left the flask had been emptied. i took none myself, for never has a drop of intoxicants passed my lips since i first left my english home. i spoke strongly to my companion when we were on our way again, but he only laughed at me, and said, `what's the harm?'" "and what _was_ the harm?" asked mark, in a rather sarcastic tone. "i will tell you," replied john randolph, quietly. "four years later i passed alone across the same track, and thought i would look in on my old entertainer. i found the place, but where were the owners? all was still as death, little of the fence remained, the stock yard was all to pieces, the garden was a wilderness, the cottage a wreck. i made inquiries afterward very diligently, and heard that the young farmer had taken to drinking, that the younger children had followed his example, the poor mother was in her grave, and her eldest son a disreputable vagabond; where the rest were no one knew. oh! i resolved when i heard it that never would i under any circumstances offer intoxicating drinks to others, as i had previously, while myself a total abstainer, occasionally done." "but surely," said mr rothwell, "we are not answerable for the abuse which others may make of what is lawful and useful if taken in moderation. the other day i offered the guard of my train a glass of ale; he took it; afterward the train ran off the line through his neglect; it seems he was drunken, but he appeared all right when i gave him the ale; surely i was not answerable there? the guard ought to have stopped and refused when he knew he had had enough." "no, not answerable for the accident, perhaps," said mr tankardew; "but your case and the case just related by my young friend are not quite parallel, for his companion knew that the farmer had, by his own confession, been in the habit of exceeding; _you_ didn't know but that the guard was a moderate man." "exactly so," replied the other; "i presumed, of course, that he knew when to stop." "and yet, my dear sir," rejoined the old man, earnestly, "isn't it perilous work offering a stimulant which is so ruinous to tens of thousands, and has emptied multitudes of homes of health, and peace, and character?" "well, it may be so; i'm certainly beginning to think it anything but wise getting children into the habit of liking these things;" and he glanced anxiously at mark, who appeared intensely absorbed in looking at some photographs upside down. there was a few moments' pause, and then the old man said, "come, let us have a little music, perhaps miss rothwell will favour us." nothing loth, the young lady led off in a brilliant sonata, displaying in the execution more strength of muscle than purity of taste; then came a duet by the eldest and youngest sisters, and then a song by the second. mr tankardew expressed his satisfaction emphatically at the conclusion, possibly more at finding the performance ended than at the performance itself. mr john randolph then seated himself at the piano, at the host's request, and addressed himself to his work with a loving earnestness that showed that the soul of music dwelt within him. the very first chords he struck riveted at once the attention of every one, an attention which was deepened into surprised delight, as he executed with perfect finish passages of surpassing brilliancy growing out of the national airs of many countries--airs which floated out from the entanglements of the more rapid portions with an earnest pathos that held every hearer as with a spell of enchantment. "marvellous, marvellous! bravo!" cried both mr rothwell and mark at the conclusion. "my young friend," said mr tankardew, "will be glad to give lessons in music, as an occupation. he will be making my house his home at present." there was a slight expression of surprise on every face, and of something like scorn or contempt on the rothwells'. however, both the young ladies at "the firs" and mrs franklin expressed their wish to engage mr randolph's services, and so it was arranged. chapter six. heartless work. music certainly flourished at "the firs" and "the shrubbery" under the able instructions of mr john randolph. the young man's manner was puzzling to his pupils at both houses. with the misses rothwell (who gave _themselves_ airs, besides practising those which were given them by their master), he was quietly civil and deferential, and yet made them sensible of his superiority to them in a way which they could not help feeling, and yet equally could not resent. with mary franklin his respectful manner was mingled with an almost tenderness, ever kept in check by a cautious self-restraint. what did it mean? it made her feel embarrassed and almost unhappy. she had no wish to entangle the young musician's affections, and indeed felt that her own were getting entangled with mark rothwell. mark contrived to throw himself a good deal in her way at this time, far more than her mother liked, but mr rothwell himself seemed bent on promoting the intimacy, and his son laid himself out to please. there was, moreover, rankling in mary's heart the impression that mark was being harshly judged by her mother; this helped to draw her closer to him. he was, besides, an excellent performer on the flute, and would sometimes come over on lesson mornings and accompany her, much to the annoyance of her instructor. on one of these occasions, a little more than a year after the party at his house, mr tankardew was present, having made an unusually early call. mark wished him gone, and when the music lesson was over, and mr randolph had retired, hoped that the old man would take his leave; but nothing seemed farther from that gentleman's thoughts, so that mark was obliged to bottle up his wrath (the only spirit, alas! that he ever did bottle up), and to leave mr tankardew in possession. when he was gone, the old man looked keenly at mother and daughter. mrs franklin coloured and sighed. mary turned very red and then very pale, and took an earnest passing interest in the pattern of the hearthrug. "a very musical young gentleman, mr mark rothwell," said their visitor dryly. "i wish he'd breathe as much harmony into his home as he breathes melody out of his flute." neither mother nor daughter spoke, but mary's heart beat very fast. "hem! i see," continued the other, "you don't believe it! only slander, malice, lies. well, take my word for it, the love that comes out of the brandy flask will never get into the teapot. i wish you both a very good morning; ay, better one than this, a great deal;" and with a sternness of manner quite unusual, the old man took his leave. "how cruel! how unjust!" exclaimed mary, when mr tankardew was gone. "poor mark! every one strikes at him." but _was_ it cruel? _was_ it unjust? let us go with mark rothwell himself, as he leaves his house that very night, sneaking out at the backdoor like a felon. a few hundred yards to the rear of the outbuildings stood a neat and roomy cottage; this was occupied by john gubbins, the coachman, a man bound to mark by unlimited donations of beer, and equally bound to a gang of swindlers who had floated their way to his pocket and privacy on the waves of strong drink. john had been gambling with these men, and had of course lost his money to them, and somebody else's too: the hard- earned savings of one of the maids who had trusted him to put them in the bank: of course he meant to repay them, with interest; that is to say, when the luck turned in his favour; but luck, like fortune, is blind, and tramples on those who court her most. it was very dark outside, as mark groped his way along; but a muffled light showed him where the cottage window was. three times he gave a long, low whistle, and then knocked four distinct raps on the door, which was cautiously opened by a man with a profusion of hair, beard and whiskers, which looked as though they did not belong to him, as was probably the case, not only with his hair, but with everything else that he wore, including some tarnished ornaments. "all right, sir, come in," he said, and mark entered. what a scene for a young man brought up as he had been! could he really find any satisfaction in it? yes, birds that love carrion flock together, and there was plenty of moral carrion here. a long deal table occupied the middle of the room, a smaller round one stood under the window and supported a tray loaded with glasses and pipes, with a tall black bottle in the midst of them. the glasses were turned upside down for the present, a pity it should not have been for the future too; they looked with the bottle in the centre like a little congregation surrounding a preacher. oh! what a sermon of woe that bottle might have preached to them! but it didn't speak; it was to set on fire the tongues of other speakers. there was a coloured print over the mantelpiece of moses smiting the rock. what a solemn contrast to the streams of fire-water soon about to flow! john gubbins sat at the top of the table, looking fat and anxious, half shy and half foolish; the man with the false hair and ornaments placed himself next to him. three other strangers were present, a mixture of sham gentility and swagger, of whom it would be difficult to say which had descended into the lowest depths of blackguardism. and now business was begun; the glasses were transferred to the larger table, the bottle uncorked, lemons and sugar produced, and the poor kettle, made for better things, forced to defile its healthful contents by mixture with liquid madness, in the shape of whisky; then out came cards and dice. but what sound was that? three very faint trembling whistles, followed by four equally feeble taps at the door? another madman, who was he? could it really be jim forbes, the footman, that respectable, steady-looking young man, who waited daily at the dining tables? alas! it was indeed. jim was the son of a poor widow, whose husband, a small farmer, had died of fever, leaving behind him a large family, a small cottage, smaller savings, and a good character; jim was the eldest sort, and next to him was a poor crippled sister, whose patient hands added a little to the common stock by sewing; jim, however, had been his widowed mother's mainstay since his father's death, and a willing, loving helper he was: ay, he _had_ been, but was he still? jim had got a place at "the firs"; first of all as a general helper, then as a footman, in which latter capacity he enjoyed the very questionable privilege of waiting at table, and hearing what was said at meals by mr and mrs rothwell, their children, and guests. what jim learnt on these occasions was this, that money and strong drink were the chief things worth living for. he didn't believe it at first, for he saw in his mother's cottage real happiness where there was little money and less alcohol; he saw, too, on his suffering sister's brow a gilding of heaven's sunshine more lovely than burnished gold, and a smile on her thin pale lips, which grace and love made sweeter than the most sparkling laugh of unsanctified beauty. still, what he heard so constantly on the lips of those better educated than himself left its mark; he began to long for things out of his reach, and to pilfer a little and then a little more of what _was_ in his reach, not money, but drink. indeed he heard so much about betting and gambling, his master's guests seemed to find the cards and the dice box so convenient a way of slipping a few pounds out of a friend's pocket into their own without the trouble of giving an equivalent, that poor jim got confused. true, he had learnt in the eighth commandment, when a boy, the words, "thou shalt not steal"; but these better-informed guests at mr rothwell's seemed able to take a flying leap over this scriptural barrier without any trouble, so he swallowed his scruples and his master's wine at the same time, and thought he should like to have an opportunity of turning a snug little legacy of a hundred pounds, left him by an uncle, into something handsomer by a lucky venture or two. conscience was not satisfied at first, but he silenced it by telling himself that he was going to enrich his poor mother, and make a lady of his crippled sister. somehow or other there is a strange attraction that draws together kindred spirits in evil. mark rothwell found out what was going on in jim's mind, and determined to make use of him; only, of course, so as to get himself out of a little difficulty. oh! no! he meant the poor lad no harm; nay, he intended to put him in the way of making his fortune. so one day after dinner mark and the young man were closeted together for an hour in the butler's pantry; wine flowed freely, and jim was given to understand that his young master was quite willing to admit his humble companion into a choice little society of friends who were to meet at the coachman's cottage on certain evenings, and play games of chance, in which, after due instruction from mark, a person of jim's intelligence would be sure to win a golden harvest without the tedious process of tilling and sowing. the instructions commenced there and then in the pantry; several games were played, nearly all of which jim won to his great delight. they only played "for love" this time, mark said, but it was difficult to see where the "love" was, except for the drink, and there was plenty of that. one little favour, however, was required by the young master, for initiating jim into the mysteries and miseries of gambling, and that was that he should lend his instructor what money he could spare, as mark happened to be rather short just at this time. so jim drew out a part of his legacy from the bank, and deposited half in mark's hands; the other half he took with him to the coachman's cottage. oh! it was a grand thing to be allowed to sit with such company, and to hear the wonderful stories of the gentlemen who condescended to come and place their stores of gold and silver within a poor footman's reach. what with the tales, and the songs, and the whisky punch, jim thought himself the happiest fellow alive the first night he joined the party, especially when he found himself the winner of three or four bright sovereigns, which had become his own for the mere throwing down of a few cards, and a rattle or two of the dice box. but all was not so pleasant the next morning. jim awoke with a sick headache and a sore heart. and what should he do with his winnings? he would take them to his mother: nay, the very thought stung him like a serpent. his mother would want to know how he got the gold; or, when he threw it into her lap, she would say, "the lord bless you, jimmy, and give it you back a hundredfold"; and his sister would clasp her wasted hands in thankfulness, and he could not bear to think of a mother's blessing and a sister's prayers over gains that were tainted with the leprosy of sin. so he kept the money, and the next night of meeting he lost it, and more besides; and then another night he was a gainer; and the gambler's thirst grew strong in him. but loss soon followed loss. his legacy was slipping surely down into the pockets of his new friends. cruel! cruel! heartless mark! and oh! the cursed drink! what meanness is there to which it will not lead its slaves? and now the night came we have before referred to. john gubbins sat at the top of the table; jim forbes took his place near him. the spirits went round; the cards and dice were busy. john gubbins lost, and mark won. jim forbes lost; and his cheeks flushed, and his eyes glittered with excitement, and he ground his teeth together. the strangers affected to be surprised at his ill luck; really they couldn't understand it, they said; they were quite sorry for him; but, "nothing venture, nothing win"; _his_ turn would come next. but it did not come that night. jim had now drawn the whole of his legacy from the bank. the last sovereign was staked; it was lost. he sprang to his feet, seized the uncut pack of cards, and hurled it to the further end of the room; then he shook his fist at his new companions, calling them cheats and villains. up darted the man with the exuberant hair, and up rose mark and gubbins. but what was _that_? a strange noise outside. the dog in the kennel muttered a low growl, and then began to bark furiously; then the approach of footsteps was plain; a deathlike stillness fell on the whole party; the strangers caught up the cards and dice, and looked this way and that, pale and aghast. and now there came a loud and peremptory knocking at the door, as of men who were determined to find entrance. "who's there?" asked gubbins, in quivering tones. "open the door," was the reply from a deep, loud voice. "i can't, by no means, do nothing of the sort, at this unseasonable hour," said the coachman, a little more boldly. "open the door, or i'll force it," said the same voice. poor mark! and poor, wretched jim! how utterly guilty and crestfallen they looked! as for the gamblers, they cowered together, in abject terror, not daring to attempt a retreat by the back, lest the enemy should be lurking for them there. "will you open the door, or will you not?" no answer from within. then came a tremendous blow; then a foot was seen forcing its way over the doorsill, another moment, and the barrier to the entrance of the invaders gave way with a rattling crash. chapter seven. bitter fruit. no sooner was the door burst open, than in rushed several stout men, who proceeded to seize and handcuff the four strangers, who made but the faintest show of resistance. john gubbins shook with abject terror, as he tried in vain to double up his fat person into a small compass in a corner. jim forbes stood speechless for a moment, and then darted out through the open doorway. as for mark rothwell, what with shame and dismay, and semi-intoxication from whisky punch, his position and appearance were anything but enviable. he recovered himself, however, in a few minutes, and turned fiercely on the intruders. "by what right, and by whose authority," he cried, "do you dare to break into my coachman's house, and to lay violent hands on these gentlemen?" "by this warrant, young sir," said the chief of the invading party, producing a parchment. "i'm a detective; i've been looking after these _gentlemen_ a long time; they are part of a regular gang of pickpockets and swindlers, and we've a case or two against 'em as 'll keep 'em at home, under lock and key, for a bit. i'm sorry we've been so rough, but i was afraid of losing 'em. i didn't think to find 'em in such company, and i hope, young gent, if you'll let me give you a word of advice, that you'll keep clear of such as these for the future for your own sake." alas! poor mark! crestfallen and wretched, he slunk away home. and what had become of jim forbes? nobody knew at "the firs." he was missing that night and the next day. mr rothwell asked for him at breakfast, and was told that he had not slept in the house the night before, and was nowhere to be found. the day passed away, but jim did not make his appearance. it was a dark november evening: a dim light twinkled through the casement of mrs forbes' cottage: the wind was whistling and sighing mournfully, sometimes lulling for a while, and then rising and rushing through crack and crevice with a wild complaining moan. inside that little dwelling were weeping eyes and aching hearts. upstairs all was peace; four little children lay fast asleep in the inner chamber, twined in each other's ruddy arms, their regular breathing contrasting, in its deep peace, with the fitful sighings of the wind; yet on the long eyelashes of one of the little sleepers there stood a glistening tear, and from the parted lips there came, now and again, the words, "brother jim." but ah! no blessed sleep stilled the throbbing hearts of those who cowered over the scanty fire in the kitchen below; jim's mother and crippled sister. was it poverty that made them sad? no. poverty was there, but it was very neat and cleanly poverty. no, it was not poverty that wrung the bitter tears from the eyes of those heart-sick watchers; they were rich in faith; they could trust god; they could afford to wait. it wasn't _that_. jim! poor jim! poor erring jim! how changed he had been of late; none of his old brightness; none of his old love. it wasn't so much that he brought his mother no welcome help now; it was hard to miss it, but she could battle on without. it wasn't that crippled sally's cheek grew paler because she was forced to do without the little comforts supplied so long by a brother's thoughtful love, though it was harder still to miss these. no, but it was that mother and daughter both saw, too plainly, that jim was going down-hill, and that too with quickening steps. they saw that he was getting the slave of the drink, and they feared that there was worse behind; and, of course, there was: for when did ever the drink-fiend get an immortal being into his grasp without bringing a companion demon along with him? and now, this very day, jim was reported to them as being missing from "the firs," and dark suspicions and terrible rumours were afloat, and john gubbins' name and the young master's name were mixed up with them. mother and daughter sat there together by the dying embers, and shuddered closer to one another at each moaning of the blast. "oh, mother! i'm heartbroke," at last burst out from the poor girl's lips: "to think of our jim, so kind, so good, 'ticed away by that miserable drink, and gone nobody knows where." "hush! hush! child, ye mustn't fret; i've faith to believe as the lord 'll not forsake us: he'll bring our jim back again: he'll hear a mother's prayer: he'll--" but here a sudden sound of uneven footsteps made the poor widow start to her feet, and sally to cry out. the next moment the door was rudely shaken, and then jim staggered into the room, haggard, blear-eyed, muttering to himself savagely. the sight of his mother and sister seemed partially to sober him, for the spirit within him bowed instinctively before the beauty of holiness, which neither poverty nor terror could obliterate from the face of those whom he used to love so dearly. but the spell was soon broken. "i say," he exclaimed, "what's to do here? i want my supper; i haven't scarce tasted to-day, and nobody cares for me no more nor a dog. i say, mother, stir yourself, and get me my supper." he flung himself into a chair, with an oath, as he almost lost his balance. oh! misery! misery! every word was a separate stab, but mrs forbes restrained herself. "jim, dear," she said, soothingly, "we've nothing in the house for supper: we didn't expect you: we hoped you'd gone back to your master's." "ah! there it is! didn't expect me! no supper! this is all i'm to get after spending all my wages on them as don't care to give me a mouthful of meat and a drop of drink when i want 'em!" "jim! jim! don't," exclaimed his poor sister, "oh! don't! for the lord's sake! you'll repent it bitterly by-and-by! oh! it can't be our dear, kind jim, as god sent to help and comfort us! we'd give you meat and drink, if we had them, but the last crumb's gone, and mother's never bitten to-day!" "nonsense! don't tell _me_! none of your humbug and cant with me! if i can't get supper where i ought, i'll get it where i can! i'll not darken this door again as sure as my name's jim forbes!" with a scowl, and a curse, and a slam of the door that startled the little ones from their sleep, the miserable son flung himself out of his home. the next day he enlisted; the day following he was gone altogether. weep! weep! ye holy angels! howl with savage glee, ye mocking fiends! see what the drink can do! and yet, o wondrous strange! there are thinking men, loving men, christian men, who tell us we are wrong, we are mad in trying to pluck the intoxicating cup away from men and women, and to keep it wholly out of the hands of little children and upgrowing boys and girls. mad are we? be it so; but there's method, there's holy love, there's heavenly wisdom in our madness. a month had passed away, but no tidings of jim forbes; no letter telling of penitence or love. oh! if he would only write: only just a word: only to say, "mother, sister, i love you still." but no; hearts must wither, hearts must break, as the idol car of intemperance holds on its way, crushing out life temporal and eternal from thousands and tens of thousands who throw themselves madly under its wheels. but must it be so for ever?--no! it cannot, it shall not be, god helping us; for their rises up a cry to heaven against the unholy traffic in strong drink; a cry that _must_ be heard. the snow was falling fast, but not faster nor more softly than the tears of the widowed mother and the crippled daughter, as they bowed themselves down before the cold bars, which ought to have enclosed a mass of glowing coals on that pitiless december day; but only a dull red spark or two, amid a heap of dust, just twinkled in the grate, and seemed to mock their wretchedness. cold! cold! everything was cold there but faith and love. food there was none! but on the little table lay the open bible; and just beneath those weary, swollen _eyes_, were the words, "they shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more, neither shall the sun light on them nor any heat; for the lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and lead them to living fountains of waters, and god shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." but what were those voices? were they the voices of angels? poor, shivering, weary watchers! they might almost seem so to you. anyhow, they were very gentle, loving voices; and now they ask admittance. mrs franklin and mary entered; and, though not angels, they were come to do angels' work, as messengers of love and mercy. tea, and bread and butter, and eggs, and divers other comforts came suddenly to light from under the wide folds of the ladies' cloaks, and then the visitors sat down, and stopped the outburst of tearful thanks by bright loving words of pity and interest. "oh, ma'am! it is true, but i never knowed afore how true it was that god will never forsake his own. i'd well nigh given up all for lost." "nay, mother," said sally; "it wasn't you, it was me; _your_ faith held out still." "i was very, very sorry to hear of your troubles," said mrs franklin after a pause; "but you mustn't despair; god will bring your poor son back again." "oh! i believe it, ma'am, but it is hard not to doubt when one's cold and hunger-bitten; he was such a good lad to us afore he took to that miserable drink." "well, we must pray for him, and i daresay mr and mrs rothwell will stand your friends." "friends! ma'am," cried the poor woman; "oh! you don't know, ma'am; look, ma'am, at yon empty cupboard; there ought to be meat and drink there, ma'am, and earned by honest labour. it is not an hour, ma'am, since i was up at `the firs,' taking back some work as my poor sally did for the young ladies (she's a beautiful sewer, is our sally, there's none to match her in all hopeworth), and i'd a fortnight's charing as i was owed for. i'd left the little ones with a kind neighbour, so i went up to the house and asked to see the missus: she couldn't see me, but i begged hard; and they showed me up into the drawing-room. mrs rothwell was lying on a `sofy,' and there was wine on a table close by, and the young ladies was all crowding round the fire, contradicting their mother, and quarrelling with one another. `oh! for goodness' sake don't interrupt us,' says one of the young ladies, and their mamma bids me sit down; and there i sat for a long time, till miss jane had finished a fairy tale; something about a young lady as was shut up in a castle to be eaten by a giant; and how a young gentleman fell in love with her, and got a fairy to turn her into a bird, and get her out of the castle: and they all cried over the story as if their hearts would break, and when it was over they all had some wine; and mrs rothwell, who had been crying very much too, asked me what i wanted. so i told her as i'd come to my last penny, and i should be very thankful if she'd be so good as to pay me for my work, and for what our sally had been doing for the young ladies. then she fired up at once, and told me she thought it very impertinent in me coming and teasing her in that way, as she meant to pay me as soon as it was convenient; and oh! ma'am! then she asked me what i wanted for sally's work; and when i told her, she said i charged too much, though i didn't ask above half as they'd ask for it in hopeworth; and then she nearly cut my heart in two by saying (oh, ma'am! i can't scarce bear to repeat it), that i shouldn't have come to pester her if it hadn't been for my idle vagabond of a son (them was the very words she used, ma'am), as had run away and left his place. oh, mrs franklin! you're a mother; you know how i must feel for my poor wanderer, for he's my own flesh and blood still. i dursn't speak; i couldn't stay; and i've come back penniless as i went: but the lord has sent you to help me, and i'll never doubt him again." "never do," said her visitor; "i'll find you and sally work for the present, and try and think charitably of mrs rothwell; she may mean more kindly than she has spoken." "mean kindly! oh! dear mrs franklin! the drink has washed out all kindness: there's ruin hanging over that house, not as i wishes it to them, but it is so. the children's been brought up to think of just nothing but themselves; their eating and drinking, and dressing, and playing: there's sipping in the parlour all day long; drinking in the dining-room; swilling in the kitchen. our poor jim's seen his betters there living as if men, women, and children had nothing to do in this world but to drown the thoughts of the next in drink and pleasure, and he's learnt his lesson too well; but i trust the lord 'll take the book out of his hand, and teach him the better way again." "i'm afraid what you say is too true," remarked mrs franklin, sadly; "if our young people continue to be brought up in such self-indulgent habits, we may well expect to hear god crying aloud by his judgments, `woe to the drunkards of england,' as he once cried, `woe to the drunkards of ephraim.'" chapter eight. a double peril. "i'll tell you what it is, mark, i _must_ have a stop put to this: my patience is quite worn out. do you think i'm made of money? do you think i can coin money as fast as you choose to spend it? you'll ruin me with your thoughtless, selfish extravagance, and break your mother's heart and mine by your drunkenness and folly, that you will." these words, uttered in a tone of passionate bitterness, were spoken by mr rothwell to his son in the hall at "the firs," as the young man was urging his father to grant him a considerable sum to pay some pressing debts. at the same moment mr john randolph came out of the drawing- room, and could not help overhearing what was being said. mr rothwell turned fiercely upon him: "what right have _you_, sir, to be intruding on my privacy?" he cried, nettled at his rebuke having been overheard by a stranger. "i am not conscious of being guilty of any intrusion," said the other quietly. "you _are_ intruding," cried mark, glad to vent his exasperation at his father's reproaches on somebody, and specially glad of an opportunity of doing so on the music-master. "you shall not need to make the complaint again then," said mr randolph, calmly, "my lessons to your sisters will cease from to-day;" and with a stiff bow he closed the door behind him. rather more than two years had elapsed since jim forbes' enlistment when the scene just described took place. mark had been sinking deeper and deeper in the mire; he was scarcely ever sober except when visiting the franklins, on which occasions he was always on his guard, though his excited manner, and the eagerness with which he tossed down the few glasses of wine to which he, evidently with difficulty, restricted himself, made a most painful impression not only _on_ mrs franklin, but also on her daughter. mary was now nineteen, and shone with the brightness which the gentle light of holiness casts on every word and feature. she was full of innocent cheerfulness, and was the joy of all who knew her. mark loved her as much as he could love anything that was not himself, and tried to make himself acceptable to her. mary _hoped_ the best about him, but that hope had begun to droop for some time past. he had never yet ventured to declare his affection to her; somehow or other he could not. a little spark of nobleness still remained in him unquenched by the drink, and it lighted him to see that to bind mary to himself for life would be to tie her to a living firebrand that would scorch and shrivel up beauty, health and peace. he dared not speak: before her unsullied loveliness his drink-envenomed lips were closed: he could rattle on in wild exuberance of spirits, but he could not yet venture to ask her to be his. and she? she pitied him deeply, and her heart's affections hovered over him; would they settle there? if so, lost! lost! all peace would be lost: how great her peril! another visit from mr tankardew: the old man had been a frequent caller, and was ever welcome. that he cherished a fatherly love for mary was evident; indeed his heart seemed divided between herself and the young musician, mr john randolph, who, though he had ceased to give lessons at "the firs," was most scrupulously punctual in his attendance at "the shrubbery." it was a bright summer's morning as the old man sat in the drawing-room where mary and her mother were engaged in the mysteries of the needle. "let me hear your last piece, my child," he said; "john tells me that he will soon have nothing more to teach you." mary sat down and played with loving grace, till the old man bowed his head upon his hands and wept. "`home, sweet home!'" he murmured. "ay; you have played that lovely air with variations as if you felt it: you know what a sweet home is, mary; i knew it once. `home, sweet home!'" he added again, with a sigh. there was a pause: then he went on: "there are plenty of homes that aren't sweet; homes with variations enough and to spare in them; but they're variations of misery. i hope you'll never have one of those homes, my child." mary coloured deeply, and her mother's eyes filled with tears. mr tankardew looked earnestly at them both. "no danger of any but sweet variations _here_," he said; "but all new homes are not sweet homes--there's no sweetness that will last where the barrel, the bottle, and the spirit-flask play a trio of discords: they'll drown all the harmonies of harp and piano. promise me two things, my child;" he added, abruptly. "what are they?" asked mary, timidly and tearfully. "just these: promise me to become a pledged abstainer; and promise me that you'll never marry a man that loves the drink." poor mary burst into tears, but her mother came to her aid, and said: "i don't quite see what good mary's signing the pledge will do. she has taken neither beer nor wine for some time past, so that she does all that is needed in the way of example." "no, she does not, madam, if you'll excuse my being so blunt. she just does not do what will make her example _tell_. power for good comes through combination; the devil knows it well enough, and he gets drunkards to band together in clubs; and worldly people band together in clubs, and back one another up and concentrate their forces. all who see the curse and misery of the drink should sign, and not stand apart as solitary abstainers; they won't do the same good; it is by uniting together that the great work is done by god's blessing. a body of christian abstainers united in the same work, and bound by the same pledge, attract others, and give them something to lean on and cling to: and that is one reason why we want children to combine in bands of hope. why, i've seen a man light a fire with a piece of glass, but how did he do it? not by putting the fuel under one ray of the sun; not by carrying it about from place to place in the sunshine; but by gathering, with the help of the glass, all the little rays together into one hot bright focus. and so we want to gather together the power and influence of total abstainers in total abstinence societies and bands of hope, by their union through the pledge as a common bond. we want to set hearts on fire with a holy love that shall make them burn to rescue poor slaves of the drink from their misery and ruin. won't you help? can you hold back? are not souls perishing by millions through the drink, and is any sacrifice too dear to make, any cross too heavy to take up in such a cause?" the old man had risen, and was walking up and down the room with great swinging strides. then he stopped abruptly and waited for an answer. "i'm sure," said mrs franklin, "we would both sign if it could do any real good." "it _will_ do good, it _must_ do good: sign now;" he produced a pledge- book: "no time like the present." the signatures were made, and then mr tankardew, clasping his thin hands together, and lifting up his eyes to heaven, offered a short emphatic prayer that god would bless and strengthen these his servants, and enable them by his grace to be a blessing to others as pledged abstainers. and then he turned again to mary, and said: "you have given me the one promise; will you give me the other? will you promise me that you will never knowingly marry a man who loves the drink?" mary buried her face in her hands. a few moments, and no one spoke. "hear me, my child," cried the old man, again beginning to pace the room with measured strides; "you are dear to me, very dear, for you're the image of one lost to me years ago, long weary years ago. i cannot bear to see you offered as another victim on the altar of the drink-moloch: he has had victims enough: too many, too many. do you wish to wither into a premature grave? do you wish to see the light die out of your mother's smile? then marry a drink-worshipper. do you wish to tremble every time you hear the footstep of the man who has turned `sweet home' into a shuddering prison? then marry a drink-worshipper. do you wish to see little children hide the terror of their eyes in your lap and tremble at the name of father? then marry a drink-worshipper. stay, stay, i'm an old fool to break out in this way, and scare you out of your wits;" for mary and her mother were both sobbing bitterly: "forgive me, but don't forget me; there, let us change the subject." but mary had checked her sobs, and, rising up calm and beautiful in her tears, she laid her hand lovingly on the old man's arm, and said, gently but firmly: "dear old friend, thank you for what you have said. i promise you that never will i knowingly marry one who loves intoxicating drinks." "god bless you, my child. you have taken a load off the old man's heart, and off your mother's too, i know." would mary keep her word? she was soon to be put to the test. though mark hesitated to propose to mary franklin, his mother had no scruples on the subject. he had now come to man's estate, and she wished him to marry; specially she wished him to marry mrs franklin's daughter, as mary would enjoy a nice little income when she came of age, and mark's prospects were cloudy enough as far as anything from his father was concerned. besides, she hoped that marrying mary would steady her son-- a favourite scheme with mothers of drunkards. as for mary's own peace or happiness, she never gave them a thought. the experiment would be something like caging a tiger and a lamb together for the purpose of subduing the tiger's ferocity; pleasant enough for the tiger, but simply destruction to the lamb. however, mrs rothwell pressed mark to propose, so he yielded after a faint resistance, and now watched for his opportunity. it was a sweet july evening: the sun was near his setting, and was casting long shadows across the lawn at the back of "the shrubbery." mrs franklin was sitting on a garden seat reading, her attention divided between her book and the glowing tints of a bed of flowers all ablaze with variegated beauty. a little shaded walk turned off near this seat into the kitchen garden, which was separated from the flower garden in this quarter by a deep ravine, at the bottom of which ran a trout stream. the ravine was crossed by a rustic bridge. mr john randolph had been calling at the house with some music, and, being now looked upon more in the light of a friend than an instructor, had the privilege of making a short cut to the turnpike road over this foot bridge and through the kitchen garden. mark rothwell also usually availed himself of this more direct approach to the house. on the present occasion the two young men met in the kitchen garden, and passed each other by without recognition, mark hurrying forward to make his proposal, his already intense excitement inflamed by strong drink, which he had taken with less caution than on his ordinary visits to "the shrubbery"; john randolph lingering on his way in a somewhat discontented mood, which was not improved by the sight of mark. suddenly the stillness was broken by a loud scream and cry for help: it was mary franklin's voice. both the young men rushed towards the bridge, and beheld a sight which filled them with dismay. mary had strolled from her mother's side to the little foot bridge, and, filled with sorrowful thoughts, leant against the rustic parapet. the woodwork, which was inwardly decayed, gave way beneath her weight; she tried to recover herself but in vain, and fell over the side of the bridge, still, however, managing to keep herself from plunging into the stream by clinging to a creaking fragment of the broken rails. her dress also helped to stay her up, having become entangled with the woodwork. mark reached the bridge first, but was so confused by drink and excitement that he scarcely knew what he was doing, when he felt himself flung aside by the strong arm of john randolph, who sprang forward, and stooping down endeavoured to raise the poor terrified girl, but for a few moments without success: indeed his own strength began to fail, and it seemed as if both must be precipitated into the stream, if assistance had not come from another quarter. the gardener hearing the cries hurried up, and, lending his powerful help, mary was delivered from her peril, and was carried, fainting and bruised, into the house by her two rescuers, before mark rothwell had fairly recovered himself from the fall which john randolph had given him in his haste. but now, boiling with wrath and vexation, mark made his way to the front door, and disregarding in the blindness of his passion the sight of mary just recovering consciousness, and of mrs franklin who was bending over her in mingled grief and thankfulness, he turned furiously upon john, who was just retiring, and shaking his fist in his face, cried out: "how dare you interfere with me, sir? i'll not put up with this insolence from my sisters' discarded music-master." the face of the other flushed crimson for a moment, then with unruffled voice he replied: "better, mr mark, to be a master of music and of one's self, than a slave of the drink. i wish you good evening." chapter nine. the crisis. several weeks had passed by after the accident and timely rescue, weeks of anxious watching and tender nursing, before mary franklin was sufficiently recovered from the shock and injuries she had received to appear again among her friends. many had been the inquiries made by mark and mr tankardew, and once or twice by john randolph. it was on a calm sabbath morning that mother and daughter first walked beyond their own grounds, and made their way to the little village church. public thanks were offered that day for mary's wonderful preservation, and many a loving eye looked through tears at the pale, serene face of her who had been so mercifully rescued. was mark rothwell there?--no; but there was one who could not help gazing for a few moments, with a deeper sentiment than admiring pity, at the fair young girl, as the words of holy praise "for the late mercies vouchsafed unto her" were uttered by the minister: it was john randolph. they met after service at the gate of the churchyard, and the young man having expressed his heartfelt congratulations, after a moment's hesitation offered mary his arm, which she gently declined. a slight shade of mingled shame, sadness, and annoyance clouded his face for a moment, and as quickly passed away. mary was struggling to say something to him expressive of her gratitude, but before she could put it into shape he was gone. the next day brought mr tankardew to "the shrubbery." the old man drew mary to him in the fulness of his heart, and blessed her, calling her his child. "well, what have the doctors made of you?" he asked, rather abruptly. "made of me?" asked mary, laughing. "yes, made of you, they never could make anything _of_ me or _by_ me; but what have they made of _you_?" "you puzzle me," replied the other. "did they put labels on all their physic bottles?" "my dear sir," interposed mrs franklin, "i'm thankful to say that our doctor has prescribed little else than rest and tonics." "and were the tonics labelled?" "oh! i understand you now. mary has not broken her pledge, she would take no wine." "excellent girl! of course she was ordered wine?" "oh! yes; and ale or porter too. the doctor almost insisted on it." "of course he did; they always do. ah! well! brave girl! you said no." "yes, i felt convinced that i should do as well without beer or wine, and i have had no cause to regret that i did not take them." "bravo! you'll _never_ regret it. you must help us to fight the doctors: they mean well, some of them; but most of them are building up the palace of intemperance faster than we can pull it down. `the doctor ordered it;' that's an excuse with thousands to drown their souls in drink. i wonder if they'd swallow a shovelful of red hot coals if the doctor ordered it?" summer had now given place to autumn; it was a bright september day when the above conversation took place. when mr tankardew rose to go, mrs franklin and mary volunteered to accompany him a little way. so they went forth, and a sweet and pleasant sight it was, the hale, grey-haired veteran still full of fire, yet checking his steps to keep pace with the young girl's feebler tread: she, all gentleness and sober gladness, and her mother happy in the abiding trust of a believing heart. they passed out of the grounds across a lane thickly shaded by trees, whose foliage was beginning to change its summer hue for the gorgeous varieties of autumnal colouring. then they followed a winding path that skirted a wide sea of wheat, which rose and fell in rustling waves, disclosing now and again bright dazzling gleams of the scarlet poppy. at the end of this field was a stile leading into the highroad to hopeworth. here they paused, and were just about to part, when the sound of a horse's feet in rapid but very irregular motion arrested their attention. the animal and his rider soon came into view, the latter evidently keeping his seat with difficulty. there was plainly a struggle of some kind going on between the brute and the _rational_ being who was mounted on him, and while drawing the reins tight with one hand, was belabouring the poor creature about the head most unmercifully with a heavy hunting whip. the horse not appreciating the advantages of this treatment at the hands of its _intellectual_ owner, was resisting by a shuffling, remonstrating sort of gallop; while his rider, who was evidently a practised horseman, seemed to stick to his saddle by a kind of instinct, having little else to guide him, for his hat was completely shaken down over his eyes. mr tankardew's indignation was kindled in a moment. "the wretch! the drunken beast!" he cried; "serve him right if his horse pitches him head foremost into the first ditch with any dirty water in it." on came the contending pair, the man swaying from side to side, but nevertheless marvellously retaining his seat. at the sight of the ladies, or at a sudden movement forward of mr tankardew, the animal swerved and almost unseated his tormentor, who, however, recovered himself, but in doing so lost his hat, as the poor beast again plunged forward with his almost unconscious burden. the horseman took no notice of his loss, nor did he see who were the spectators of his sinful degradation, but to them he was fully revealed: it was mark rothwell. another minute and he was out of sight. mary sank, with a bitter cry, into her mother's arms, while mr tankardew sprang forward to support them both. in a moment or two, however, the ladies had recovered themselves, and turned homewards. the old man saw that they would prefer to be alone, so, with a kind and courteous farewell, he made his way with slow strides towards the town. "humph!" he muttered to himself; "`good entertainment for man and beast,' that's what they put over some of these alcohol shops. i'd like to know which was the beast just now. entertainment! ay, very entertaining, such a sight to the devil and his angels. o miserable drink! haven't you drowned souls enough yet?" two days after this disgraceful exposure of himself, mark rothwell made an early call at "the shrubbery." he was utterly ignorant of his having been seen in his drunkenness by mrs franklin and her daughter, and was scrupulously sober on the present occasion, and full of good resolutions, as habitual drunkards very commonly are after an outbreak of more than usual violence. he was quite convinced--at least he was enjoying a good deal of cheerful self-congratulation on the supposed conviction--that he never would exceed again; so in the strength of this conviction, he entered the room where mary and her mother were sitting, with a confident step, though he could not quite keep down every feeling of misgiving. still, it never occurred to him that mary could possibly refuse him. he had too high an opinion of himself: he was such a general favourite and so popular, that he felt sure any young lady of his acquaintance would esteem herself honoured by the offer of his hand. he was well aware, it is true, that mary had a horror of drunkenness; but he flattered himself, first, that he could persuade her that he meant to be sober for the future, and a total abstainer too if she required it; and then, that he had got a sufficient hold upon her heart, or at any rate regard, to make her willing to accept him without any stipulations rather than lose him. strong in these impressions, he had now come over to make a formal proposal. the manner, however, of mother and daughter disturbed him; something he saw was amiss; there was a sadness and constraint in the words of both which distressed and embarrassed him. after a brief conversation on commonplace topics mary rose hastily and left the room. mark hesitated, but feeling that he must seize the opportunity, he at once asked mrs franklin's permission to avow his attachment to her daughter. a long and painful pause: broken, at last, by mrs franklin's reply, that she could not advise her daughter to encourage his addresses. mark was thunderstruck! for several minutes surprise and mortification kept him silent. at last he exclaimed: "but what does mary wish herself? we've known each other so long; she knows i love her, she must know it. i'm sure she would not refuse me; may i not see her? may i not have `yes,' or `no,' from her own lips?" "i will ask her," was the reply; and poor mark was left for half an hour to his own not very agreeable reflections. at the end of that time mrs franklin returned, with a sealed letter in her hand. "mary does not feel equal to seeing you now," she said, "and indeed i could not recommend her doing so at present. she sends you this letter instead; do not read it now," for mark was tearing it open, "but wait till you can give it your calm and full attention." mark would have remonstrated, but mrs franklin's quiet decision restrained him; he flung himself out of the house, and on reaching the highway, burst open the envelope and read as follows:-- "dear mark,--we have always been friends, and i hope shall remain so; but we can never be anything more to one another. i have solemnly resolved in god's sight that i will never marry a drunkard, and i never will. i was witness to your ill-usage of your poor horse the other day, when you were intoxicated; i cannot forget it; my mind is made up, i cannot alter it, and my dear mother entirely approves of my decision. i thank you for your offer, and pray that you may have grace given you to forsake the sin which has made it impossible that there can ever be more than a feeling of sincere interest and kindliness towards yourself, from yours truly,-- "mary franklin." mark rothwell tore the letter, when he had glanced through it, into bits, dashed them on the ground, and, with loud imprecations, stamped on them. there was a fire in his heart, a mad desire for revenge; he was, what drunkards must be, essentially selfish. wounded vanity, disappointed affection, bitter jealousy, were the fuel to that fire. he had no thought now of remonstrance with mary: he had no _wish_ to remonstrate: his one great burning desire was to be revenged. he rushed home, but found little to cheer him there. for months past a cloud had hung over "the firs," which had become denser and darker every day. and now it was come abroad that mr rothwell was bankrupt. it was too true: the reckless expenditure of mark, and the incautious good nature of mr rothwell, which had led him, under the influence of free living, to engage in disastrous speculations, had brought ruin on the miserable family. a few more weeks and "the firs" was untenanted. but, in the midst of all this darkness, there shone forth a ray of heavenly light. it was near midnight of the day when the sale of mr rothwell's effects had taken place at "the firs." a candle twinkled still in the cottage of mrs forbes, for there was work to be sent home early on the morrow, and neither lateness nor weariness might suspend their anxious toil. lame sally and her mother had been talking over, what was in everyone's mouth and thoughts, the sad downfall of the rothwells. they saw god's hand in it, but they did not rejoice; they had found their saviour true to his word, and enjoyed a peace in casting their care on him which they knew all the wealth of the world could not have given them. only one thing they still prayed for which the lord had not yet granted: jim, poor jim! but what was that? a footstep: how their hearts beat! could it be the old familiar tread? yes; jim, but no longer drunken, gambling, prodigal jim, was next moment at his mother's feet, and a minute after with his arms round his sister's neck. and there was weeping, but not for sorrow, in that cottage, and there was joy before the angels of heaven over a repentant sinner. jim was come back. a mother's and sister's prayers had reached him and drawn him home. he was sober now: he was a pledged abstainer: he had brought his pay in his hand and love in his heart; and that night, while the shadows lay thick around the deserted mansion of "the firs," and not even the wail of sorrow broke the stillness, there was light and music and peace in that humble cottage; the light of love, the music of thanksgiving, and "the peace of god which passeth understanding." chapter ten. desperate doings. it is not to be supposed that mary franklin could mourn very deeply the departure of mark rothwell. recent events had worn out the old impressions of tenderness. all that was bright and attractive in mark had melted away before the scorching, withering flame of alcohol. she had heard his cruel taunts to her preserver on the evening of her rescue; she had seen him shamefully intoxicated when ill-using his poor horse. could she cherish love or tenderness for such a being as this? impossible! she was thankful to forget him. o misery! why do so many of the good and noble frown upon those who would keep the intoxicating cup altogether out of the hands of the young? what do the young lose by never tasting it? not health, not cheerfulness, not self-respect, not self-control. no! and what do they gain by tasting? too often, habits of ruinous self-indulgence; too often a thirst which grows with years; too often a withered manhood or womanhood, and a decrepit and dishonoured old age. october was drawing to its close: nothing had been heard of the rothwells, and their old dwelling was now occupied by another tenant. john randolph's visits to "the shrubbery" began to be more frequent, and were certainly not unacceptable. gratitude to him for her rescue forbade mary's repelling him; and, indeed, the more she and her mother came to know him, the more they learnt to value his manly and christian character. they began likewise to perceive that he was more than he seemed to be. mr tankardew had given them to understand latterly that he was their equal both in birth and fortune. a mystery there was about him, it was true; but the veil was now getting so thin that they could both see pretty distinctly through it, but were content to wait for the proper time of its withdrawal. and so it was felt by all that, in time, john randolph and mary franklin would be drawn together by a closer bond than that of esteem and respect, but no one as yet gave outspoken expression to this conviction. things were thus hanging in no unpleasing suspense, when, in the twilight of an october evening, two men of rather suspicious appearance might have been seen climbing the paling _fence_ at the back of "the shrubbery." scarcely had one of them reached the top, when a third person approached, at first hastily; then he suddenly checked himself, and cautiously crept along, so as to keep himself out of the sight of the two others who were climbing into the grounds. this third person was john randolph, who had lately left "the shrubbery," and had come round by the road at the back, to call, by mrs franklin's request, on a poor sick cottager in the village. the road in this part was lonely, and the trespassers evidently imagined themselves unobserved. the first who scaled the palings was a stoutish, middle-aged man: but who was the other? randolph's heart beat violently with a terrible suspicion. did he know this second figure? he could not be quite sure, for he was afraid to approach too near; but he was almost convinced that he had seen him before. when fairly over the fence, both men crept along as quietly as possible under the shelter of a large bank of evergreens. he who had climbed over last led the way, and was plainly well acquainted with the grounds; he was a much younger man than his companion, and seemed scarcely sober, yet without having lost self-possession and the knowledge of what he was doing. john waited till they were fairly out of hearing, and then himself rapidly and noiselessly followed them towards the house under cover of the laurels. it was now getting very dusk, but he could manage to track them till they had reached some outhouses, along the wall of which they crawled, crouching down. and now they had arrived at the rear of the house, and stood in shadow opposite a back passage window. randolph crept silently up and squeezed himself behind a huge water-butt, where he was perfectly concealed, and could overhear part of the conversation now hurriedly held between the two burglars, if such they were. "you're sure the man does not sleep in the house?" asked the elder man. "sure," replied the second, in a husky whisper. john randolph felt pretty certain that he knew the voice, but he hardly dared think it. "where's the plate chest?" "don't know: most likely in the pantry." john was now confident that he knew the speaker. "hush!" whispered the elder man, fiercely, "this passage window 'll do: it won't take much to prise it open: you'll look after the women." "trust _me_ for that," muttered the other; and randolph thought he heard a click, as of the cocking of a pistol. "hush, you fool!" growled the older burglar, with an oath: then there was a few moments' silence, and the two crept back. they sat down under the shelter of some large shrubs, with their backs to john, who could only just make them out from his hiding-place, for it was now getting quite dark. a little while, and they rose, and passed very near their unsuspected watcher, who could just catch the words "two o'clock," as they made their way back to the fence. a few moments more, and they were clear of the grounds. john randolph's mind was made up in a moment what to do. having cautiously followed the two men into the road, and ascertained that they were not lurking anywhere about "the shrubbery," he hurried off at once to hopeworth, and communicated what he had seen and heard to the police. he was very anxious that no unnecessary alarm should be given to mrs franklin or mary, and that they should be kept, if possible, in ignorance of the whole matter till the danger was over; so he resolved to accompany the constables, who, with the superintendent, were preparing to encounter the housebreakers. it was presumed, from what he had overheard, that an attempt was to be made on "the shrubbery" that very night, and that the two men seen by john randolph were only part of a larger gang. help was therefore procured, and about one o'clock a party of a dozen, including john, all disguised in labourers' clothes, had noiselessly scaled the fence in different parts by two and two, and, recognising one another by a password previously agreed upon, were soon clustered together under some dense shrubs not far from the passage window before mentioned. it was a tranquil morning, but very cloudy. all was deep stillness in the house. little did mrs franklin and her daughter think, as they read together before parting for the night those comforting words, "the angel of the lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and delivereth them," that such foes and such protectors were so close at hand. but they laid them down in perfect peace, and their heavenly father's loving power was as a wall of fire about them. patiently did the watchers listen from their hiding-place to every sound. two o'clock, at last, rang out clear from the great timepiece on the stairs; they could hear it distinctly outside. what was that sound? only the distant barking of a fox. but now there are other sounds. one, two, three, at length six men in all have crept to the part of the yard opposite the back door. all paused and looked carefully round: everything seemed safe. "well," said one who appeared to be a leader, "it does not seem as if we need be over particular: there's neither dog nor man about, and the women won't _do_ much. where's the crowbar?" "here." just at this moment a bright ray of light flashed out along the passage, and a female figure could be seen crossing the landing. the housebreakers shrunk back. "it will not do," said the leader, half aloud; "they've got scent of us somehow: pr'aps they've some men inside to help them, we'd better be off." "fools! cowards!" exclaimed a younger man, in a fierce whisper, as the others began to slink away; "are you afraid of a parcel of women? but i'll not be baffled: she's there:" and he raised a pistol, and pointed it towards the figure which had descended close to the passage window with the light in her hand, and was trying to peer into the darkness outside. his companion pulled down his arm with a savage imprecation. all was still for a few minutes, and the female retired to the landing and then disappeared. the burglars hesitated, when, just at the moment of their indecision, one of the police imitated the low growling of a dog close at hand. instantly the whole gang took to their heels, closely followed by the constables. no shout had been raised, no word had been spoken, for john randolph had been most anxious that the thieves should be captured without alarming the ladies. and now in the darkness, pursuers and pursued were scattered in different directions. john sprang after the young man who had raised the pistol, and succeeded in grappling with him before he could mount the fence. the clouds were now dispersed, and there was light enough for one to recognise another. randolph could not doubt; the intended murderer was mark rothwell. fiercely did the two young men strive together, and at last both fell, mark undermost; and, relaxing his hold, john was rising to his feet, when the other drew a pistol, but before he could fire his adversary had turned it aside; it went off, wounding the unhappy young man who held it. randolph drew back in dismay, hearing the injured man's involuntary groan, but in another instant mark had drawn a second pistol and fired. the ball grazed the other's forehead, and he staggered back stupefied. when he recovered himself mark had disappeared, and never from that night was heard of or seen in hopeworth or its neighbourhood. near the part of the fence where the scuffle took place were afterwards found marks of a horse's hoofs, and traces of blood. the miserable young man contrived to get clear away: the rest of the gang were all captured by the police. the day after this adventure old mr tankardew and john randolph paid a visit together to "the shrubbery." of course the wildest tales were in circulation, the central point in most being the murder of mrs franklin and her daughter. "i trust," said the old man to mary and her mother, "that you have suffered nothing but a little fright. all's well that ends well, and i'm thankful that my young friend here was able to be of some service; you see, god can take care of his own." "it has been so, indeed," replied mrs franklin; "mary could not sleep, she cannot tell why; she felt restless and uneasy, and just about two o'clock she was crossing to my room, when she thought she heard some unusual sounds in the yard. she looked out of the passage window, but could see nothing; then she heard a sort of scuffle, and, after that, all was still; and, though we were rather alarmed, we heard nothing more. but this morning has brought us strange tidings, and i find that we are again indebted to our kind young friend here for help in time of need, and that, too, i fear, at his own imminent risk." "don't mention this," said the young man; "it has been a privilege to me to have been able to render this assistance. i am only too thankful that i was put in the way of discovering what might have otherwise been a very serious business. but we must see that you are better protected for the future." "true, true, john," interrupted mr tankardew, smiling; "i see i must put in a word. my dear child, miss franklin seems more willing than able to speak just now. yes; let me make a clean breast of it. let me introduce our young friend in a new character, john randolph tankardew, my only son, my only surviving child." his voice trembled, and then he added, "he has twice been the protector of my dear adopted daughter, let me join their hands together as a pledge that he may shortly obtain a better title to be her protector while life shall last." and so, placing the half-shrinking hand of mary in the young man's stronger grasp, he held them together with a fervent blessing. "and now," he added, as they sat in a loving group, too full of tearful peace to wish to break the charmed silence by hasty words, "now let me tell my story, and unravel the little tangle which has made me a mystery to my neighbours, and a burden to my friends. but all that is past; there are brighter days before us now." chapter eleven. mr. tankardew's story begun. "you must know, dear friends," began the old man sadly, "that i'm a wiser man now than i was once. not that there's much wisdom to boast of now; only i have learnt by experience, and he is a sharp schoolmaster. "i was born to trust others; it was misery to me to live in distrust and suspicion; i couldn't do it. people told me i was a fool; it was true, i knew it, but i went on trusting. david said in his haste, `all men are liars.' i said in my haste, or rather my folly, `all men are true.' they might lie to others, but i thought they couldn't, or wouldn't, or didn't lie to me. at any rate i'd trust them; it was so sad to think that a being made in god's image could go about wilfully deceiving others. i'd take a brighter view of my fellow-men and women. i never could abide your shrewd, knowing people, who seemed to be always living with a wink in their eyes, and a grin on their lips, as if they believed in nobody and nothing but their own sharpness. i loathed them, and i loathe them still. but i wasn't wise. i had to smart for it. i had plenty of money when i came of age, and i had plenty of friends, or rather acquaintances, who knew it. but i was shy, and not over fond of many companions; my weakness wasn't in that direction. i had sense enough to see through your common gold-hunters. i was never over fond of sugar-candy; coarse flattery made me sick, and i had no taste for patching up the holes in the purses of profligates and spendthrifts. i never was a worshipper of money, but i knew its value, and wasn't disposed to make ducks and drakes of it, nor partridges and pheasants either. so the summer flies, after buzzing about me a little, flew off to sunnier spots; all except one. he puzzled me a bit at first, but i blamed myself for having a shadow of suspicion of him. all seemed so open about him, open hands, open eyes, open brow; he wound himself round my heart before i knew where i was. mine was a fair estate (it will be yours one day, mary, my child, i trust; john's and yours together). i'd lived away from home many years before i came into it, for both my parents died while i was young, and when i came of age, my nearest relations were only distant. i never had brother nor sister. when i came to reside on my property the neighbours called, and i returned their calls, and it didn't go much beyond that. they thought me cold and unfeeling, but they were mistaken. but i must go back and take up my dropped thread. i said there was one man who got hold of my heart. i had a good stout fence of prejudices, and an inner paling of reserve about that heart of mine, but he contrived to climb over both, and get inside. i could have done anything for him, but he did not seem to want anything but my affection; so i thought. he had a sister: well, what shall i say? i'm a poor, weak, old fool; it is all past and gone now. i must go straight on; but it is like ploughing up my heart into a thousand deep furrows with my own hand. but; well, he had a sister; i'll not tell you her name, nor his either: at least not now. he brought her with him to call on me one day. she had never been in the neighbourhood before, for her brother was only a recent settler in the place. i was charmed with her; the more so because she was so like her brother, so bright and so open; so thoroughly transparent. she beamed upon me like a flood of sunshine, and gilded my cloudy reserve with her own radiance, so that i shone out myself in her company; so they told me, and i believed it. i was young then, you'll remember. i wasn't the wrinkled old pilgrim that i am now. we got attached to one another, it would seem, at once; others may _fall_ in love; _we leapt_ into it; i never thought to ask myself whether she loved god. i was content to know that she loved _me_. i was aware that i had a heart, but at that time i hadn't learnt that i had a soul. well, my friend (shall i drop the `r,' and call him `fiend'? 'twould be truer); he did all he could to hasten on our marriage. he did it very quietly, so openly, too. he was so radiant with joy at the thoughts of my coming happiness. `she was such a sister,' he said, `she would be such a wife to me.' i never had any misgivings but once, and then the shadow was but as the passing of a white cloud before summer's noonday sunshine. i was going from home for a week, but unexpected business detained me for another day. i walked over to my future brother-in-law's in the afternoon. it was summer time. i went in, as was my habit, by the garden door, and was crossing the lawn, when i heard sounds of wild laughter proceeding from a little summer-house; they were sounds of boisterous and almost idiotic mirth. there was a duet of merriment, in which a male and female each took a part. i hardly knew what i was doing, or whether to go back or advance. as i hesitated, all was hushed. i saw a female figure dart like lightning into the house, and then my friend (i must call him so for want of a better title) came forward, and holding out both his hands to me, said `welcome, welcome, this is an unexpected pleasure. i thought you were far away on your journey before now; my sister and i have been almost dying with laughter over a book lent to us by a friend. i do think i never read anything so irresistibly ludicrous in all my life.' i hardly knew what to say in reply, i was so completely taken aback. i was turning, however, towards the summer-house in which i just caught a glance of a table with a bottle and glasses on it, when my companion, catching my arm in his, hurried me away to another part of the garden, where, he said, he was going to make some improvements, about which he must have my judgment and suggestions. as we afterwards went into the house, we again passed the summer-house, but the glasses and bottle were gone. we entered into one of the sitting-rooms, and the servant came to tell us that her mistress had just been sent for to see a poor sick cottager, who wanted her immediately. this led her brother to break out into raptures about his sister's benevolence, self-denial, and charity! indeed, i never heard him so eloquent on any subject before. i left, however, in a little while, for he seemed unnaturally restless and excited during my stay, and a cloud lowered upon me all the way home, but it had melted away by the next morning. but i must hasten on. we were married soon after this, and i settled a handsome allowance on my wife for her own private use. she had no parents living, but had kept house for another brother before she came to reside in our neighbourhood. i wished to suppose myself happy as a married man, but, somehow or other, i was not. my wife made large professions of affection, but, spite of myself, i mistrusted them. her brother, too, seldom came now to see me, unless he had some private business with his sister; and they were often closeted together alone for an hour or more. then she would come out to me, radiant with smiles, and full of excitement; and her brother would rattle on, hurrying from one topic to another, so as to leave me no power to collect my thoughts, or shape any questions which i was anxious to ask him. i am given to trust, as i have told you, and ever shall be, if i live to be a dozen centuries old. still, i couldn't help having my doubts, my grievous doubts. well, one morning, my brother-in-law called; he seemed agitated, and in much distress, saying that he must give up his house and join his brother, with whom he was in partnership; as he found his presence was required for the investigation, and, he feared it might be, the winding-up of their affairs. i pitied him, and offered him help. he refused it almost with indignation, but i pressed it, and he accepted a loan, merely as a loan, he said, of a thousand pounds, for which i gave him a cheque on the spot. with tears in his eyes, and a warm pressure of the hand, he was gone. i never saw him again. a _few_ mornings after this; it was about six months after we were married; my wife and i were sitting at breakfast when she threw a paper to me across the table, saying, `i suppose you'll see to that.' it was a bill for a considerable amount, contracted by herself before our marriage, and for articles which were certainly no part of a lady's toilet or wardrobe, nor could be of any possible use to one of her sex. i was astonished; but she treated the matter very coolly, or appeared to do so. when i asked for an explanation, she avoided my eye, and turned the matter off; and when i pressed her on the subject, she said, `well, it is no use my entering into explanations now; you'll find it all right.' i was greatly disturbed, for there was something in her manner that showed me she was ill at ease, though she endeavoured to wear a nonchalant air. there was a wild light, too, in her eyes, which distressed and almost alarmed me, and a suspicion came over me which almost made me faint. she left the breakfast table abruptly, and i saw no more of her till luncheon time; but when i went to my library, i found a packet on my table which i had not noticed there before. i opened it; it was full of unpaid bills, all made out to my wife in her maiden name, and most, indeed nearly all of them, for articles unsuited for female use. a horrible suspicion flashed across my mind. could it possibly be that these were her brother's debts: that he had got these articles in her name, and had had the bills sent in to her? and could it be that brother and sister had been in league together, and that he with all his assumption of openness and candour and large-heartedness, had entrapped me into this marriage that i might liquidate the debts of an abandoned and reckless profligate? and could it be, farther, (madden ing thought!) that the _whole_ extravagance was not his, and that numerous unpaid accounts for wine and spirits were, partly, for what she had taken as well as her brother? then i thought of the scene in the garden, of the wild laughter, of her sudden disappearance, of the signs of drinking in the summer-house. oh! my heart turned sick; was i tricked, deceived, ruined in my peace for ever? i paced up and down my library, more like a lunatic than a sane man. luncheon time came: we met: she threw herself into my arms, and wept and laughed and implored; but i felt that a drunkard was embracing me, and i flung her from me, and rushed out of the house. o misery! whither should i go, what should i do? it was all too true: her brother was the basest of men: she did love _him_, i believe, it was the only unselfish thing about her. well, i had to go back home; _home_! vilest of names to me then! `home, _bitter_ home!' and yet i loved that poor guilty, fallen creature. there was a terrible light in her eyes as we sat opposite one another at dinner. we had to play a part before the footman. oh! what a dreadful meal that was! i seemed to be feeding on ashes, and drinking wormwood. i felt as if every morsel would choke me. we spoke to one another in measured terms. would the miserable farce of a dinner never be over? it came to an end at last. and then she came to me trembling and penitent, and, laying her head on my shoulder, wept till tears would fall no longer. she was sober then; she had taken nothing but water at dinner. she unburdened her heart to me (so i thought), and confessed all. she told me how she and her brother had been brought up, as children, in habits of self-indulgence, especially in having free access to the wine and spirits. she told me that she and her unworthy brother had been all in all to one another, that gambling and drink had brought him into difficulties, and that she had allowed him to run up accounts in her name. she declared that he really loved and valued me, and that the thought of hurrying on our marriage for any selfish object, was quite a recent idea, suggested by distress under pecuniary embarrassment. she asserted passionately that she truly loved me; she implored me to overlook the past, and promised, with solemn appeal to heaven, that she would renounce the drink from that hour, and give me no more uneasiness. ay, she promised; a drunkard's promise! lighter than the lightest gossamer; brittle as the ice of an april morning. i believed her: did she believe herself? i fear not. but the worst was to come, the shadows were deepening, the storm was gathering. a year had passed over our wedded life, when a little girl was given to us. every cord of my heart that had been untwined or slackened of late wound itself fast round that blessed little one." chapter twelve. mr. tankardew's story finished. "all was joy for a time. we called our little one mary; it was a name i loved. i had not lived as a total abstainer; though, as i told you once, my mother, whom i can only recollect as a widow, had banished all intoxicants from our table. but i was young when she died, and i became, and continued for many years a moderate drinker. but now when our little girl was born, i had swept the house clear of all alcoholic drinks; we hadn't a drop in the place from cellar to attics, so i thought. and my wife agreed with me that our little one should never know the taste of the strong drink. we had not many friends, for i was shy and reserved still, and my home was my world and society; at least i wished it to be so. sometimes i thought my wife strangely excited, it looked very like the old misery, but she solemnly declared that she never tasted anything intoxicating. i hoped she spoke the truth, even against the evidence of my senses. after a while she persuaded me that i wanted change, that i was rusting out in my loneliness. she would have me accept an invitation to a friend's house now and then: it would do me good. _she_ was happy in her home, she said, only she should be happier still if she could see me gaining spirits by occasional intercourse with like-minded friends. not that she wished me to leave her; it was for my own good she said it, and she should be delighting in the thoughts of the good it would do me, and should find abundance to cheer her in my absence, in the care of our darling child. she said all this so openly, so artlessly, that i believed her. i thought she might be right; so i went now and then from home for a few days, and, by degrees, more and more frequently. and my wife encouraged it. she said it did me so much good, and the benefit i reaped in improved health, spirits, and intelligence quite reconciled her to the separation. we went on so till our mary was five years old; i could not say that my wife was ever manifestly intemperate, but painful suspicions hung like a black cloud over me. at last one summer's day, one miserable day: i can never forget it: i set out to pay a week's visit to a friend, who lived some ten miles distant from my home. i drove myself in a light, open carriage; my horse was young and rather shy. i was just going round a bend in the road, when a boy jumped suddenly over a hedge, right in front of us. away went my horse at the top of his speed, and soon landed me in a ditch, and broke away, leaving the carriage with a fractured shaft behind him. i was not hurt myself, so i got assistance from the nearest cottage; and, having caught my horse, and found someone to whom i could trust the repairing of my vehicle, i walked home. it was afternoon when i arrived. i walked straight in through the back of the premises, and entered the dining-room; there was no one there. i was going to ring for one of the servants, when the door opened, and little mary toddled (i ought rather to say tottered) up to me. her mother was close behind her, but, at the sight of me, she uttered a wild cry, shut the door violently, and rushed upstairs. i had seen enough in her face: too much, too much! and the little child, our darling little mary, what was amiss with her? could it be? had that cruel woman dared to do such a thing? yes: it was so indeed: the little child was under the influence of strong drink; i drew the horrible truth from her by degrees. the mother had taught that little babe to like the exciting cup; she had sweetened and made it specially palatable. she had done this to make the child a willing partaker in her sin, to bribe her to secrecy, and to use her as a tool for the gratifying of her own vile appetite. thus was she deliberately poisoning the body and soul of her child, and training her in deceit, that she might league that little one, as she grew up, with herself in procuring the forbidden stimulant, and in deceiving her own father. o accursed drink, which can thus turn a mother into the tempter and destroyer of her own guileless and unsuspecting child! i rushed out of the room, and was about to hurry upstairs, but i shrank back shivering and heart-sick. then i went up slowly and heavily: my bedroom door was bolted; so was the door of my wife's dressing-room; i came downstairs again, and, taking mary by the hand, went into my library. there the storm of trouble did its work, for it drove me down upon my knees. i poured out my heart in strong crying to god; i owned that i had lived without him, and that i had not loved nor sought him. i prayed for pardon and a new heart, and that he would have mercy on my poor wife and child. as i knelt in my agony of supplication i felt two little hands placed on my own, then mine were gently pulled from me, and my precious little child, looking up in my face with streaming eyes, said, `papa, don't cry; dear papa, don't cry. i _will_ be a good girl.' i pressed her to my heart, and blessed god that it was not yet too late. before nightfall i had driven away with that dear child, and had placed her with a valued friend whom i could trust, one of the few who had ever visited at our house, a total abstainer, and, better still, a devoted christian. my child had always loved her, and i felt that i could leave her in such hands with the utmost confidence. but i had a home still, in name at least, for all the sunshine had gone out of the word `home' for me. i returned the next day to our childless house: where was the mother? she lay on the floor of her dressing-room, crushed in spirit to the dust. i raised her up; she would not look at me, but hid her face in her hands; her eyes were dry, she had wept away all her tears. i could not bear her grief, and i tried to comfort her; all might yet be well. again she confessed all, her deceit, her heartlessness; but she laid it to the drink. true, she was in this a self-deceiver, but how terrible must be the power for evil in a stimulant which can so utterly degrade the soul, cloud the intellect, and benumb the conscience! well, she poured forth a torrent of vows, promises, and resolutions for the future. i bade her turn them into prayers, but she did not understand me. however, there was peace for awhile: our mary came home again, and i watched her with an unwearying carefulness. another year brought us a son: he sits among us now: john randolph we call him. there was a sort of truce till john was ten years old. i knew that my poor unhappy wife still continued to obtain strong drink, but she did not take it to excess to my knowledge, and it was never placed upon our table. i was myself, at this time, practically a total abstainer, but i had signed no pledge. i didn't see the use of it then, so i had not got my children to sign. my poor wife _professed_ to take no alcoholic stimulants, yet i could not but know that she was deceiving herself. she was, alas! too self-confident. she seemed to think that all danger of _excess_ was now over, and that a white lie about taking none was no real harm, so long as it satisfied _me_; but it neither deceived nor satisfied me. at last, one winter's day, she proposed that john should drive her in her pony-carriage to the neighbouring village, where there was an old servant of ours who was ill, whom she wanted to see. the pony was a quiet one, and was used to john's driving, so i did not object, as i was very busy at the time, and could not therefore drive myself. it was very late before she came back; she had kept the poor boy at the cottage door nearly two hours, and when she returned to the carriage was so excited that he was in fear and trembling all the way home. that night his miserable mother lay hopelessly intoxicated on a sofa when i retired to my resting-_place_, for to rest i certainly did not retire. from that day she utterly broke down, and became lost to all shame; one appetite, one passion alone, possessed her; a mad thirst for the drink. we separated by mutual consent, and i made her an allowance sufficient to supply all her lawful wants. alas! alas! the sad end hurries on. she wrote to me for a larger allowance; i knew what she wanted it for, and i refused. she wrote again and i did not reply. then she wrote to mary with the same object. of course, i need hardly tell you that the children remained with me. poor dear mary loved her mother dearly, and sent her all her own pocket money. i found it out, and forbade it for the future. two more years passed by. from time to time i heard of my miserable wife; she was sinking lower and lower. at last, in the twilight of an autumn evening, as mary was returning home alone, a wild-looking, ragged woman crept towards her with a strange, undecided step: it was her mother. she flung herself at her child's feet, imploring her, if she still had any love for her, to find her the means of gratifying her insatiable thirst. she must die, she said, if she refused her. poor mary, poor mary! terror-stricken, heart-broken, she spoke words of love, of entreaty, to that miserable creature; she urged her to break off her sin; she pointed her to jesus for strength; she told her that she dared not supply her regularly with money, as she had promised me that she would not, and it would do her no good. the wretched woman slunk away without another word. next day her body was found floating on the river; she had destroyed herself. poor, dear mary never looked up after that. she connected her mother's awful end with her own refusal to give her money for the drink, though there could be no blame to her: and so she faded away, my lovely child, and left me, ere another spring came round, for the land of eternal summers. i was heart-sick, hopeless; life seemed objectless; i gave way to despondency, and forgot my duty as a man and a christian. i felt that i was no proper guide nor companion for poor john; so i sent him first to france, where he gained his skill as an artist and musician; and since then he has, by his own desire, been a traveller in distant lands. i let my house, and came over to hopeworth, to be out of the way of everything and everybody that could remind me of the past. yet, i could not forget. you noticed the vacant space in my sitting-room, where a picture should have been; that empty space reminded me of what might have been, had my wife, whose portrait should have been there, been a different wife to me. but light came at last. when i saw _you_, mary my child, for the first time, i scarce knew what to say or think. you were, and are, the very image of my own loved and lost one, my mary my beloved child; the portrait behind the panel is hers. i longed to have you for my own. i determined, however, to see what you were; i went to the juvenile party merely for that end. and then, when john came home unexpectedly, i resolved in my heart that, if i could bring it about, you _should_ be my own dear child. so john and i talked it over; and john, who is a true branch from the old tree, a little crotchety or so, was resolved to win you in his own fashion; and, having learnt a little colonial independence, he wished to look at you a bit behind the scenes; so he would come before you, not as the heir of an eccentric old gentleman, with a good estate and plenty of money to speak for him, but as the travelled artist and music-master. and now, i think i've pretty well unravelled the greater part of the tangle; the rest you can easily smooth out for yourselves. "so you see it has been `nearly lost, but dearly won.' my child, mary, you nearly lost old esau's heart, when you seemed bent on throwing your own away; but you've won it, and won it dearly, like a dear good child. you nearly lost your peace to one who would soon have drowned it out of home, but you won it dearly and bravely, i know, at no little sacrifice. and john, my son, i once thought you'd nearly lost the noblest and best of wives; but you've won her, and dearly, too, but she's worth the price of a little stooping, ay, and of a great deal too. and old esau tankardew nearly lost his peace and his self-respect, in selfish unsanctified sorrow, but he has won something better than respect, though it cost him a hard struggle; he has won a daughter who hates that drink which blotted out light and joy from the old man's home and heart; and he has won, through grace, a peace that passeth understanding, and can say, `thanks be to god, which giveth us the victory through our lord jesus christ.'" the end. for john's sake; and other stories. [illustration: _frontispiece._ "ruth advanced to the table, and with trembling hands put her full glass down."--_page ._] for john's sake and other stories. by annie frances perram. _author of "that boy mick," "go work," "the opposite house," &c._ [illustration] london: wesleyan methodist sunday school union and ludgate circus buildings; castle street, city road, e.c. preface. it is probable that many of these pages may be read with the comforting conviction that the scenes they depict and the lives they lightly sketch, in no way come within the range of possibility; but to any reader so little acquainted with the snares and perils, the misery and degradation that lay outside the pale of total abstinence, the assurance is tendered that the darkest pictures contained in this collection of stories are minutely faithful to life, and that the saddest incidents related have occurred under the personal observation, or within the knowledge of the writer. a. f. p. contents. for john's sake. page chapter i. afraid for herself " ii. john's brother " iii. hopes and fears " iv. quite unlike himself " v. a change of opinions and of housemaids " vi. the new housemaid " vii. the fate of ruth's letter " viii. a happy ending how the foe crept in. chapter i. moderate drinking " ii. its results the committee's decision the right hand that offended "out of the way" tim maloney's pig the mother's mistake the children's supper roland west's mark how a husband was lost and found downward steps how jarvis was saved why the angels rejoiced [illustration] for john's sake. chapter i. afraid for herself. "i say, john." "well, ruthie." "master's just rung, and he says he wants you and me to come upstairs together." "what for, i wonder! don't look so troubled, little woman;" and john, the well-built, broad-shouldered gardener, looked up with an unmistakable glance of affection at the somewhat clouded face of ruth, the trim, neat parlour-maid, who had come into the conservatory to bring him the message from the dining-room. "i'll just wash my hands and be ready in a minute," he continued, following her into the kitchen. with much inward trepidation, ruth, accompanied by john, entered the dining-room a few minutes later. mr. and mrs. groombridge, their eldest son, who was a medical student; three daughters, and one or two younger boys were seated at the nearly finished dessert. "well, john, i dare say you wonder why we sent for you and ruth; but the fact is, your mistress heard from cook this morning a piece of news which you have been sly enough to keep from us," said mr. groombridge. ruth blushed violently, and withdrew a little behind john's burly figure. "there's nothing to be ashamed of, ruth; indeed, you've every reason to be proud and happy," added mr. groombridge, with a kind look and kinder tone. there was no mistaking the assent that was visible in ruth's shy uplifted eyes. she was proud and happy, and she involuntarily moved a step nearer to john. "we thought you would like to know, john," continued his master, "how really glad we are that you and ruth have settled this little affair between you. you have both been good, faithful servants, and deserve to be 'happy ever after,' as the story-books say. now we want to drink to your health and future happiness, and you must drink with us." mr. groombridge poured out two glasses of wine, and handed them to john and ruth. "your health and happiness, john and ruth," he said, draining his own glass. "your health and happiness, john and ruth," repeated his wife and children, with their glasses to their lips. "and when i go in for matrimony, john, may my choice be as wise as yours," added the eldest son, whose partiality for ruth was no secret. "no doubt you would like to choose some one who would be as ready as ruth to fly at your beck and call, and think nothing too great a trouble to do for you, master harry," saucily remarked his younger sister kate, in an aside. "hush, my dear; little girls of sixteen know nothing about such serious things," gravely responded harry. kate tossed her head, and was about to reply, when john spoke: "i'm sure, sir," he began, "that ruth and me owe our best thanks to you and mistress for your kindness in wishing us well, and if i may be bold enough to say so, sir, we find it our pleasure as well as our duty, to try and please so good and kind a master and mistress, and here's to your health and happiness for many a long day, and the young ladies', and mr. harry's too." and having performed a duty for himself and ruth, john tossed off his wine in much the same fashion as his master. "come, ruth, drink your wine," said mrs. groombridge, perceiving that the girl's glass remained untouched. "drink it, ruth," said john in an undertone. "come, don't be bashful, ruth, we are all your friends," said harry encouragingly. but ruth advanced to the table, and with trembling hands put her full glass down. the rich colour that had dyed her cheeks a few minutes before had gone, and she was white to the lips, but her voice was firm as she answered: "please, ma'am, i can't drink it." "not drink it! why not, ruth?" "because, ma'am, as soon as i was engaged to john, i signed the pledge, and determined i would never touch any intoxicating drink again." mr. groombridge raised his eyebrows, and harry gave a low whistle of astonishment. "what a queer fancy! perhaps you won't have any objection to giving your reason for taking such a step," said mrs. groombridge, with a slight hauteur of manner. "because--because,"--said ruth hesitating, and then desperately proceeding; "because, ma'am, i want to do the best for john that i can, and i mean him to have a happy home, and never any reason to be ashamed of me." ruth stopped suddenly. "well, well, that is very good and creditable, of course, but what has it all to do with not touching intoxicants?" impatiently asked mr. groombridge. "oh, sir, it has everything to do with it. if you knew what i do about the misery and want that has come to happy hearts and homes, just because the wife had got into the habit of taking too much drink, you would think so too. you know, sir, i was brought up in the town, and couldn't help seeing the curse that drink is. sometimes the husband was the drinker, and sometimes both of them; and there was scarce a home about us that hadn't been ruined by drink; and so i made up my mind that if ever i had a home of my own, i would do my part towards keeping it free from such a curse, and for john's sake, i have signed the pledge, and for john's sake i must keep it, sir. i hope you and mistress will forgive me for refusing your wine." "bravo, ruth! you're a brick," cried harry. "be quiet, my son," said his father, adding: "well, ruth, i honour your motive, but there are one or two points that i can't see at all. surely, if you are moderate in your use of stimulant, it would be a blessing, and not a curse, for it is only the excessive use of intoxicants which render them so harmful." "i can't argue about it, sir. i only know that every man and woman who is going down to a drunkard's grave was once moderate in the use of stimulants, and never had a thought of taking too much. i know that there are many who are never anything but moderate drinkers; but there's danger somewhere, and because i can't rightly say where it comes in, and perhaps shouldn't know when it did, i've put myself out of the way of it altogether." "that's woman's logic all the world over; but i would like to know why you cannot just for once take a glass of wine. you know it's good, and quite unlike the wretched stuff that ruins so many." "i've promised not to take any kind of intoxicating drink, and i dare not break my promise, sir," said ruth firmly. mr. groombridge shrugged his shoulders and rose from the table. "wait a minute, john," he said, "we haven't heard what you think of this fancy of ruth's." "to tell the truth, i don't approve of it, sir. it's as good as saying that she hasn't any faith in herself, and expected to go to the bad, if she wasn't bound by a promise she'd put her name to," answered john in a tone of dissatisfaction. "my views, exactly, john; besides, it's setting her judgment against yours, which i wouldn't think of allowing, even at this early juncture," said mr. groombridge, with a serio-comic expression. "oh, father, _you_ wouldn't think of allowing, indeed, when only a few minutes ago, you declared that mother's judgment was ever so much better than yours, and that ever since you had known her, you had trusted to it more than to your own," cried kate. "my dear, your remark is quite irrelevant," and mr. groombridge dismissed the inconvenient topic with john and ruth. "don't be angry with me, john; i couldn't do anything else," timidly said ruth, as she followed john back to the conservatory. "i'm not pleased with you, ruth, i must say. i should like the woman i have chosen to have so much self respect that she would feel it impossible to stoop to degrade herself, as you seem to think you could easily do." "oh, john, i thought you would understand me better than that, for you know so much more than i could tell master and mistress. why, john, don't you know how the curse of drink blighted my own home, and made my early years a misery? can i ever forget the nightly horror when my mother staggered home to rouse the neighbourhood with her drunken shouts and blasphemies? can i forget the dear little ones i nursed while they pined away to sink into untimely graves? can i forget my father's life-long bitterness and premature end? and if i could forget these things, how could i forget the dying despair, the loathing of her sin, and yet the unconquerable craving of disease that held my poor mother captive through her last hours!" "dear ruthie, hush; don't recall those memories. a brighter life is before you, and all i blame you for is because you imagine that without binding yourself you might follow in your mother's footsteps." "that is where you are wrong, john," said ruth, looking up at him with sorrowful eyes: "at my age my mother was no more a slave to drink than i am. she only took it in moderation, and if any one had suggested to her that she was in danger of becoming an habitual drinker, she would have been indignant. it was only because she found that a little stimulant revived her, when she was weak and ailing, that she began to take it frequently, till by and bye the habit became so strong, that though she tried hard to break it she could not, and why should i be stronger than my own mother?" "well, darling, have it your own way. i shall not alter my opinion of you; but i won't argue the point. now, dry your eyes, and be happy;" and being an obedient woman, ruth dismissed her tears, and smiled up at john. "ruth," said john presently; "how is it that you are afraid for yourself, and yet not afraid for me?" "oh, john, i couldn't be; i trust you entirely, and though you know how much i would like you to become an abstainer too, not a thought of danger crosses my mind when you refuse." "i should be sorry and hurt if you felt otherwise, my dear, and you may continue to trust me. i could never disgrace myself and bring more sorrow to you," and john took ruth's hand, and held his head up proudly, and looked every inch of him a man worthy of a woman's trust and devotion. [illustration] chapter ii. john's brother. "ruth, i'm going to spend the evening at home; my brother dick's just returned from australia, and mother's sent up for me to see him. you'll come with me, of course," said john, a few evenings after. "oh, i'm so sorry, i can't even ask to be spared. it's jane's evening out, and we've got company, and there's hot supper ordered." "what a nuisance! ask jane to give up for once; you're always obliging her." "no, i can't do that, john, for cook is not best pleased, and jane doesn't go the way to manage her." "i'll go and give cook the length of my tongue, i declare," said john, angrily. "now you'll do nothing of the sort. you'll go and spend the evening with your brother, and give him my kind regards, and be sure and bring me back all the news." so saying, ruth gave john a bright decided nod, and whisked back into the kitchen. "what do you think of that, cook? the unreasonableness of men!" "what's up now?" asked cook, who was bending with a gloomy face over preparations for an elaborate supper. "why, john wanted me to go home with him to-night, and didn't see why i couldn't, though i told him how busy we should be." "it's quite enough to have one of you gadding out and filling my hands with your work," growled cook. "yes, it's too bad, but we'll manage well enough without jane; let me help you mix that, now," and ruth took the basin, and with deft fingers, which cook secretly admired, beat the compound it contained till it was pronounced "just the thing." notwithstanding her brightness and ready surrender of an evening's pleasure, ruth watched john go off with a keen feeling of disappointment, and for some minutes there was silence in the room. "she's worth a dozen janes," said cook to herself, for she was not so wholly engrossed with her own pursuits as to be quite unobservant of ruth's disappointment. "i don't know how it is," thought ruth, as the busy evening wore away; "cook and i do get on well together; she's quite pleasant to-night, and wasn't cross, though i took the wrong sauce in just now." ah, ruth, if there were more sunny tempers and unclouded faces like yours in the world, there would oftener come to clouded minds and gloomy moods just such brightness as you have brought to your fellow-servant to-night! john's brother dick was several years older than john. some ten years previously he had taken to a seafaring life, but soon tiring of it, he had settled in australia. we say settled, but dick greenwood was one of those men who could never be truly said to settle to anything. he had tried farming, but the work was too hard; then he had joined a party going into the bush, their free and easy life having an attraction for him. after that, he went into a city store, and just as he had mastered the details of the business and might have succeeded in it, he was charmed by the performances of a band of travelling actors, and not being without natural ability in that direction, he had induced them to accept his services, and now, with little money, and a great deal of shady experience, he had worked his passage back to england, that he might just see how things were looking in the old country. "well, jack, my boy, how are you?" he said in a loud, hoarse voice, as john entered the room, which was redolent of tobacco and brandy. "all right, dick; glad to see you, though i shouldn't have known you again. my word, you're a little different to the thin lath of a fellow you were when you left home." "you may say so," cried dick; "i was a poor milksop then, and no mistake; but i've improved, and, you bet, i've learned a thing or two." john was not quite so sure of the improvement. at least the stripling who had left his father's home was fresh and pure looking, but the man who had returned in his place was bloated and pimpled, and his once frank eyes now wandered furtively about. "john's grown a fine fellow, hasn't he, dick?" asked the mother, proudly. "he ain't bad-looking, if that's what you mean, but he don't look up to snuff. no offence, jack. i'll teach you a few wrinkles. have a pipe, boy." "thanks," said john, replenishing his own. "take a glass," and dick made a bumper of hot spirit and pushed it towards his brother. "i don't take spirit, dick. a glass of ale now and then is enough for me." "stuff and nonsense, jack. take it like a man. there's nothing like a glass of brandy and water for putting life into a fellow." john took the glass, with a twinge of conscience as he thought of ruth. but in the excitement of his brother's stirring accounts of bush life everything else was forgotten, and he not only drained the spirit before him, but finished a second glass with which dick slyly supplied him. "i tell you, jack," said his brother, at the close of the evening, "life in england is a slow-going, humbugging sort of thing; hard work and little pay; you've got to bow and scrape to those who've got the brass, and they lord it over you as they don't dare to do anywhere else. now, where i've come from, jack's as good as his master, and in as fair a way of making his fortune too. take my advice, boy, and come back with me. in a year or two you'll have made a home for that bonny lass i've been hearing of, and you can send for her. what do you say, eh?" for a minute john was too surprised to speak. "really, dick, you've taken me unawares. i'd like to get on faster than i have been doing, and make a better home for my little woman than i've any prospect of doing here; but for all that, what you propose is too serious a step to think of taking without a deal of thought, and i don't know what ruth would say." "if the girl's got any grit in her, she'll say, 'go, by all means, and send for me as quick as you can.' you can work your passage out, and i could get you into a store at melbourne, and you're such a sticker, you'd be sure to get on. now i never expect to be a rich man; i can't plod, and i must have change; but you're different, and would soon make your fortune." john bade his parents and brother good-night, and walked home revolving the new idea. it was surrounded by a halo of romance that rendered it increasingly attractive to him. success and happiness seemed to lay within his easy reach, and by the time that he arrived at his master's house he had quite decided to accompany his brother back to australia, if ruth would only consent to follow him. "and she's such a loving, sensible little thing; she wouldn't wish to stand in my way for a moment, especially when she knows it is for her own sake i want to go." so thinking, john let himself in through the garden door, and was not surprised to find a dark figure, with white cap and apron, standing on the kitchen doorstep waiting for him. "you are late, john; cook and jane have gone to bed." "well, ruthie, i'm glad of that, because if you're not too tired, i want a chat with you." too tired, indeed! when all the evening ruth had been looking forward to that few minutes as her ample compensation for the disappointments and worries she had borne so patiently. [illustration] [illustration] chapter iii. hopes and fears. "have you had a pleasant evening, john?" asked ruth, after sitting for a minute or two in silence before the dying embers of the kitchen fire. "why, yes, dear, i believe so; but dick put so many new ideas into my head that i didn't know how the time passed," replied john, wondering how he should speak of his new plans to ruth. "what sort of ideas, john?" "he's been talking of australia, and saying there's no place like it for getting on in the world, and, of course, he's likely to know; and, ruthie, dear, he said if i would go back with him, he'd put me in the way of making money, and getting a home ready for you in no time." ruth took her hand out of john's, and stared fixedly into the fire. "can't you say something, ruth?" asked john, after waiting several minutes. ruth breathed hard. "what do you say, john? do you want to go?" "i don't want to leave you, darling, but if you'd promise to come out to me, i think it would be a good thing for both of us. i could get on so much better, and we could marry so much quicker than if i plodded on at the rate i'm going now." "then," said ruth, looking up with a brave smile upon her white face, "you must go, john, and when you send for me i'll come out to you." "bless you, my dear, brave girl, you shall never repent your decision," cried john. "i'll work harder than ever, and we'll soon be together again, never to say good-bye." but at that dread word, ruth's composure gave way, and she hid her face. "don't take on so, ruthie. it will only be a short separation, and we're bound to each other for life," said john, trying to soothe her. "i've no fear in letting you go from me, john," answered ruth, proudly, through her tears; "and after you're once gone, i shall look forward to seeing you again." and the lump in ruth's throat was choked back, and she sat up with an air that was plainly intended to carry a warning to any rebellious tears that might threaten. "and now, john, tell me about your brother. is he like you?" john laughed. "i'm afraid you wouldn't think so, ruthie, and i can't say australia has much improved him. however, you must judge for yourself, for i shall take you to see him soon. he sent kind messages to you, and is anxious to make your acquaintance." but dick was soon dismissed from the conversation, for ruth and john had much to talk over that was of far more interest even than a brother newly arrived from the other side of the world. before they parted that night, john had succeeded in imparting to ruth a little of his own enthusiasm in view of the new life he was about to enter upon, though her last thought before closing her weary eyes in sleep was: "women feel so differently from men, and i must try and not discourage john by any of my fears, poor boy!" a few days later she accompanied john to his home. "dick's out, my dear, but he'll be in directly, as he knew you were coming," said mrs. greenwood, affectionately greeting ruth. "he don't care to spend much of his time with his old father and mother, dick don't," complained mr. greenwood. "we can hardly expect he'd settle down to our quiet ways, father, such a boy for company as he is. john's different now, and he'll be sure to make a comfortable stay-at-home husband; but then he hasn't the go in him that my dick has." "he's quite sufficient, anyhow," said ruth quickly, with an instinctive feeling of dislike towards the brother who she felt must be so different to john. truly, as the door opened just then, and dick's ungainly figure appeared, the contrast between the brothers was striking. ruth's inward comment was not complimentary, but she struggled with herself, and when john said by way of introduction, "dick, i've brought ruthie to see you," she stretched out her hand with no hesitation of manner. "glad to see you, my lass. jack's a more knowing dog than i thought for, i declare," he exclaimed, looking at ruth's sweet, upturned face with such coarse approbation, that the girl's eyes fell under his scrutiny. "guess i may claim a brother's right a little beforehand," continued dick, trying to draw ruth to him. ruth's eyes flashed, and she started back indignantly, saying: "indeed, you shall do no such thing, mr. richard." "come, come, dick, ruth isn't the girl to allow any liberty," interposed john, putting ruth into a chair. "prudish, eh? ah, well, colonial life will soon knock that rubbish out of her," returned dick, in an unpleasant tone. "so you're really bent on going as well, john?" asked his mother, anxiously. "well, yes, mother; ruth says she'll come after me, and i quite agree with dick in thinking i ought to be doing better for myself." "it's hard to bring up children, and then see them go off to foreign parts so easily," murmured the poor mother. "why, mother, you've got susan, and tom, and bess all settled near, and i'll come over and pay you a visit when i've made my fortune; and you may be sure i'll never forget the dear old folks at home;" and john laid his hand affectionately upon his mother's shoulder. "i say, can't you stop your sentimental rubbish, and get to business?" cried dick. the mother sighed, and knowing well what dick would consider a necessary prelude and accompaniment to business arrangements, brought out a bottle of spirits, some hot water, and glasses. "come, my dear, i'll just mix you a glass, and we'll make up our quarrel and be friends," said dick graciously to ruth. "pray don't trouble, for i never take anything of the kind," replied ruth, very stiffly. "mean to say that you belong to the teetotal set!" "i do." "well, i'm glad jack's got better sense than to follow your example," answered dick; and from that time he treated ruth with open disdain. for john's sake she controlled herself, and sat beside him listening, with an aching heart, to the account of colonial life as dick had known it; watching also, with a vague uneasiness and dread, john's frequent applications to the spirit with which his brother supplied him. if, in her presence, he so readily yielded to dick's persuasion to take "just a drop more," what might be the consequence when he was far away from her, and completely under his brother's influence? in one hour all ruth's bright hopes for the future, and john's well-doing in a distant land, faded; and when she passed out of the reeking atmosphere of the little room into the cool, tranquil moonlight, her heart seemed to have died within her. [illustration] [illustration] chapter iv. quite unlike himself. "how quiet we are, to be sure!" exclaimed john, when he began to observe that ruth was paying no attention to his noisy talk. "i suppose you're offended with dick. that's very silly, for he means no harm, and has just been used to say what he likes. he's a good-hearted fellow at bottom." "i don't mind for myself, john; but, oh, i'm sure he won't do you any good. i wish you would go out by yourself, and not depend upon his promises, for i feel he isn't to be trusted." "rubbish, ruth; who should i trust if not my own brother? and besides, i've got my eyes open, and am able to look out for myself." "but, john, do forgive me for saying it, you didn't look out for yourself even this evening, for you let dick give you more brandy than you have ever been in the habit of taking, and it has made you quite unlike yourself, and i cannot help being afraid of what may happen if you go away with him." "i suppose you mean to say i'm drunk," angrily cried john. "no, john, i can't say that; but it wouldn't take much more brandy to make you so." "then you'd best go home by yourself, for i'm no fit company for you," and john roughly threw ruth's hand off his arm, and turned back with unsteady footsteps towards the town. the girl stood dismayed. john was indeed quite unlike himself, to leave her in a lonely road to find her way home unattended. she waited for some time, hoping that he would relent, but the last sound of his footsteps died away, and presently she slowly walked on. "why, where's john?" asked cook, as ruth entered the kitchen. "oh, he'll be in directly, i expect. he's just turned back for something. you go off to bed, and i'll see to the fire," carelessly returned ruth. "something wrong, i believe," said cook to herself, as she lit her candle, and followed jane upstairs. for an hour ruth waited, and then, unable to bear the suspense, she threw a shawl over her head, and slipped down to the garden gate to watch for john. at length, shivering with cold, she was about to return to the house, when she heard in the distance the noisy snatch of a song. "it can't be john, of course; but i'll just hide behind the laurels till the drunken fellow has passed," thought ruth. nearer and nearer came the sound, till, with beating heart, ruth stepped into the moonlight, and laid her hand on the lips that were profaning the stillness of the midnight air. "oh, john; hush, hush! if master should hear you! oh, what have you been doing, my poor boy?" john made but a feeble resistance to the strong loving hands that drew him into the house. "well, i've had a spree, and why mayn't i, with my own brother?" he said, with an inane smile on his face, as he sank into a chair. ruth made no answer, but wrung a towel out of cold water, and bound it around john's throbbing temples. then she put the remains of some strong coffee, which had been sent down from the drawing-room, over the fire. "drink it," she said, offering it to him when it was sufficiently heated. "it's horrid," said john, shuddering as he tasted the unmilked, sugarless liquid. "it will do you good; drink it at once." john obeyed, and ruth stood watching the effect of ministrations such as she had so often rendered in the past to her drinking mother. in a few minutes john rose to his feet with a sigh. "i've been a fool to-night, ruth; but i'll go off to bed, and by morning i'll be in my right senses," he said. she lit his candle, and carried it for him to the foot of the attic stairs, then went to her own room, and till morning light dawned, resolved endless schemes for preventing the carrying out of john's plans to go abroad with the brother whose influence had already been so powerful for evil. finally, she determined to speak plainly to john, and tell him she could never consent to follow him if he had anything to do with dick, unless he promised to sign the pledge before going away. then she fell into a troubled sleep, until it was time to commence another day's duties. "i'm desperately ashamed of myself," said john, when alone with ruth the next day; "can you find it in your heart to forgive me for costing you so much pain?" "don't talk of forgiveness, john; i shall think nothing of all i have suffered, if it will only teach you to be careful and avoid drinking with dick in the future." "i promise you he shall never make me forget myself again; and if you will only trust me, dear, i'll try and hold my head up once more." "i do trust you, john; but i want you to do what i have done, and promise faithfully not to touch drink again. if you take only a little, it may lead to more, as it did last night; but if you can say 'i never touch it,' you put yourself out of the way of being tempted. do listen to me now, and be persuaded." "really, ruth, that is too much to expect. it isn't manly to be bound by a pledge, and it makes a fellow look as if he hadn't any pluck or self-confidence to be afraid of a glass. why, i believe dick would have nothing to do with me if i took your advice." "so much the better, then," was the decided answer; "dick will be your ruin if you depend on him. do give him up and go out by yourself. master would give you testimonials to his friends in melbourne, and you could be quite independent of your brother." "i'm not going to depend on dick; i've got myself to look to. all i want from dick is a start, and i'll take care he doesn't lead me into harm's way. if not for my own sake, for yours, ruthie, dear, i will be careful." it was hard for ruth to utter her determination after john's tender words; but the bitter past had been too vividly before her all the morning to allow her to falter in her purpose for more than a passing moment. "john," she said, "i've quite made up my mind that i cannot follow you to australia unless you take the pledge first, or at least promise that you will not take intoxicants; for, unless you do so, i know that with the many temptations you will meet, especially if you persist in going with dick, that all hope of a happy home will be at an end, and i will never risk passing through what i once did." "what on earth are you saying, ruth? why, you've promised and can't break your word. i'm going for your sake, and here you say you won't come out to me," cried john, scarce believing his ears. "no, john, i can't, unless you promise what i wish. when i passed my word to you i didn't know what i know now, and i'm quite justified in recalling my promise." "you're a cruel, hard-hearted girl, and i don't believe you care a straw for me, or you wouldn't make a hindrance out of such a paltry thing. i only made a slip yesterday evening, and i vow it shall be for the last time." deeply pained, ruth only shook her head. "so you won't believe me! well, i'll promise no such thing as you ask. i won't be tied to any woman's apron strings," and in extreme irritation, john flung himself out of the kitchen. "this is too hard!" exclaimed ruth despairingly. poor girl! the only earthly brightness that had ever come to her was soon quenched in gloom, and she knew nothing of the comfort and peace which faith in the protection and love of a heavenly father can afford in the darkest hour. no wonder that courage and hope nearly died out of her stricken heart. the days went by, and john made no attempt to bridge the chasm between himself and ruth. she knew he was making preparations for speedily leaving england. she also knew that whenever he returned from visiting his father's home, he was more or less the worse for drink. as usual, she stayed up for him, and kept her knowledge of his condition from her fellow-servants, though she could not hide from them that the relationship between them had changed. "you're not treating that girl well, i believe," said cook sharply to john one day; "you'll never meet her equal again, though you may cross the seas." "mind your own business," angrily retorted john, following ruth into the garden. "have you anything to say to me, ruth? i'm going home to-morrow, and i expect to sail next week," he said. if his tone had been less hard, ruth might have ventured to plead again with him, but she simply said: "no, john, i have said all that i mean to, except that i wish you all success and happiness." "same to you, ruth," dryly responded john, and turned on his heel. [illustration] [illustration] chapter v. a change of opinions and of housemaids. "i can't think what's come to ruth," said mr. groombridge one day, at dinner-time, about six months after john greenwood had sailed for australia; "she's lost all her brightness, and goes about the house as white and silent as a ghost." "she is greatly changed, poor girl, and though i cannot get her to confess it, cook tells me there was some misunderstanding between her and john, and that she has not heard from him since he sailed," replied his wife. "she told me the other day he had arrived safely and was doing well in a store," said harry. "she would hear all that from his parents; but, my dear, you had better try and win the girl's confidence, and see if you can do anything. it's a thousand pities for a young thing to mope and pine away her best years, when a little advice may set matters right, and make two people happy." "i'll do what i can, but i'm afraid it will not be of much use," said mrs. groombridge. "ruth," she said, when retiring that evening, "i want you to do one or two little things in my room." "yes, ma'am," replied ruth, and followed her mistress upstairs. as she was flitting about the bedroom mrs. groombridge suddenly asked: "by the bye, ruth, when did you last hear from john?" ruth turned away to hide the painful flushing of her face. "i--i--what did you say, ma'am?" "when did john last write to you?" a silence ensued, and then ruth said: "he's written to his parents, ma'am, and not to me." "why, how is that, ruth? surely you expected to hear from him." "not much, ma'am," ruth forced herself to say. "but, ruth, if you are going out to marry him, he ought to write to you, and you ought to expect him to do so." ruth's apparent apathy gave way as the remembrance of all her happy dreaming swept over her at her mistress's words. she buried her face in her hands and wept bitterly. mrs. groombridge laid a kindly hand upon her shoulder. "sit down, my poor child, and tell me all about your trouble. something is wrong between you and john, and perhaps i can help to make it right." "oh, no, no, ma'am, it's past any one's help," sobbed ruth, and by degrees her sorrowful story was told. "and, ma'am, i know that his brother will be the ruin of john; he'll go downhill fast, as many a fine young fellow has done." mrs. groombridge looked grave. she was no abstainer, as we know; but she could not help seeing the danger that menaced john, if he could be so easily persuaded to overstep the limits of prudence and sobriety. "yes, ruth, i think there is cause for anxiety about john, but you must not lose heart. i think you acted unwisely in letting him go as you did; at least you might have gone out to him if you knew he was keeping sober and doing well, and the very anticipation of your coming might have given him a motive and impetus that nothing else could. men dislike to be forced into anything, and have a great objection to be bound by a pledge. you should have been more careful in urging that." "but, ma'am, john was one of those who needed to promise, for he's good-tempered and obliging, and doesn't know how to refuse a friend." "still, i think you were too hasty in cutting away the hope he had of your going out to him. what has he to look forward to?" "perhaps you are right, ma'am. i might have waited; but i was frightened to think of what might lie before me. i know the misery of a home cursed by drink." "ruth, will you write and say as much to john? tell him you'll come out to him as soon as he has a home ready for you, and he can assure you that he is leading a sober life." a hard, almost defiant look passed into ruth's eyes for a moment. she thought how cruelly john had left her, without a word of tenderness, and she said coldly: "oh, no, ma'am, i couldn't do that; if john would write and ask me, i might; but i will never humble myself to him, for he has been wrong and unkind all through, and i dare say he's glad to be free." she had said the same to herself many a time since the morning when john had said good-bye to her with as much composure as if he were going to return in a few hours, and she had almost grown to believe they must be true. nevertheless, her heart leaped to hear her mistress say: "you should not try to think that, ruth, for i believe you wrong john by doing so; he is true and manly, and probably he would be only too happy to receive a letter from you." "well, ma'am, i don't feel as if i could write first," was the obstinate reply; and ruth presently left the room with a still heavier heart than she had entered it. "it's a sad case, george, and my conscience is not at rest about the part we have played in it," was mrs. groombridge's remark to her husband, after retailing her conversation with ruth. "how are we to blame, my dear?" was the surprised question. "i can't help remembering how we laughed at ruth for her fanatical whims as we called them, and encouraged john to do the same. events have proved she was right. perhaps if we had taken another stand, john might have followed ruth's example, and all this unhappiness been spared to both." "perhaps," was the curt response. "harry, my boy," said his father the following morning, "how many cases did i hear you say you had at the hospital the other day which were the result of drink?" "about three-fourths, father; of course, not all caused by the drinking habits of the patients themselves: but when a child is brought in badly burned because its mother was off on a drinking spree, or when a man has been run over because a driver is the worse for drink, or even when a woman is dying of disease, the result of want and neglect which drink has brought about, i suppose it's quite fair to credit the drink as the indirect cause of such cases." "oh, decidedly! good gracious! i wish the government would let all other questions go to the wall, ireland included, while they did something to mend matters!" "my dear, how would you like government to step in and stop your supplies?" "i'd be content they should do that, if it were for the public good," warmly replied mr. groombridge. "i have heard of private individuals not waiting for the interference of government; but who, believing it to be for the public good, have themselves banished all intoxicants from their homes," said mrs. groombridge, in a meaning tone. mr. groombridge looked thoughtfully at his wife across the table, but said nothing, and the subject dropped. that evening jane the housemaid bounced into the kitchen, and flung herself into the nearest chair. "what's the matter now?" asked cook, glancing at her disturbed face. "a very good matter indeed! i'm going to make a change. i've had enough scolding and faultfinding, as i told mistress a minute ago." "i suppose she's given you a month's notice, and you deserve it richly for your saucy tongue." "you're a fine one to talk, for i couldn't hold a candle to you! yes, she told me i had better look out for another place, and i told her it was just what i had thought of doing." "well, i hope you'll be taught a lesson, for i tell you there aren't many mistresses as kind and considerate as mrs. groombridge, and you'll find it out to your cost, i'm afraid," said ruth. "you've got no cause to complain, for every one of them pets you up to the skies," replied jane. "ruth's earned all she gets, and so have you, jane, for the matter of that. she's obliging and respectful, and you're disagreeable and pert half your time," said cook. "i ought to be flattered, i'm sure," retorted jane, tossing her head as she sat down to continue her work of trimming a hat with some particularly smart ribbons and flowers. the month passed and jane left, a new housemaid coming in the same day. "a different sort to jane, i can see," whispered cook to ruth, as the new-comer went upstairs to take her bonnet off. it was a pretty, modest face that presently showed itself in the kitchen; but there were traces of sadness about the eyes and mouth, and the new housemaid's dress was trimmed with crape. "poor thing! perhaps she's lost her mother," thought ruth, and cook's usually sharp voice softened as she asked the girl her name. "alice martin," was the timid reply. [illustration] [illustration] chapter vi. the new housemaid. "would you believe it, ruth, that girl's a regular methodist; read her bible, and said her prayers like any parson last night and again this morning. if she don't work as well as pray, i'll be down on her, sharp." ruth looked up with a wondering glance at alice, who entered the kitchen at that moment with brushes and brooms. a bible-reading, praying housemaid was a curiosity she had never witnessed. but alice looked bright and business-like enough to allay any fears respecting her capability to perform her allotted tasks, and after a pleasant "good morning," she proceeded to go about her work in a manner that showed she knew all about it. after a few weeks had passed, both cook and ruth agreed that the new girl was quite a treasure, with the reservation from cook, who saw no connection between alice's religion and her daily life--"if it wasn't for her precious chapel-going and religious humbug." "come with me for a walk, alice, instead of going to your class; it's a shame to stay indoors such an afternoon," said ruth, one sunday. "oh, i couldn't miss my class for anything; but do you come with me, and we can have a little walk after." ruth hesitated. she knew that cook would laugh at her for going, but she was feeling low and depressed, and the thought of a solitary walk was irksome to her. "well, i don't mind, just for once. it's miserable to walk by one's self," she said. so she went to the bible-class which alice so regularly attended. the lesson was interesting and impressive, and as, from the lips of the minister's wife who gave it, there fell words of invitation to the sin-burdened and weary, ruth felt strangely moved. unconsciously her tears fell, for her heart ached with loneliness and longing as she heard of the saviour and friend, who was willing to come into her life and crown it with his forgiving love and mercy. she walked on in silence by the side of her companion. "how did you like mrs. evans?" alice presently asked. "she made me feel wretched; i don't want to go again." "that was just how i felt when i first heard her talk; but do go again, for she will do you so much good." "you never had such reason as i have to be wretched and miserable," exclaimed ruth. "oh, you don't know; i've had more trouble than i've known how to bear; and then there was the burden of my sins that made me more unhappy than i can tell you," added alice, timidly. "i don't know anything about that; but i do know that my life is a burden. i had a wretched home, and when i went to service, and something that seemed too good to be true came, it was just taken from me, and now, i'd like to die and be out of my misery." "do tell me what your trouble is, dear, then i will try to help you," affectionately pleaded alice. ruth needed no persuasion. the sweet consistency of alice's life, her invariable good temper and readiness to help, and a certain wistful look in her eyes when ruth was more than usually depressed, had won her confidence and affection, and the story of her life was readily poured into the ear of her sympathising fellow-servant. "and now," concluded ruth, "if you think there's any hope or help for me, i shall be surprised." "ruth, i know what it is to have a home like you have had, and i know what it is to lose one more dear than any, and i can not only sympathise, but i can assure you there is both hope and help for you," replied alice, with full eyes. "poor girl! then you have suffered, too!" "yes, my father drank himself to death, and my mother died of a broken heart soon after, and then i went to service. i was engaged to a young man i had known a long while, and we were to have been married this spring, but he died quite suddenly, and i thought my heart would break; but mrs. evans came to see me, and helped me so much. she told me of the one who can heal every wound, and now, if i feel lonely and sad sometimes, i know i have a friend in jesus, and i just go to him and tell him about my heart-ache, and he comforts me." "would he give me back my john, if i asked him, do you think, alice?" suddenly asked ruth. "perhaps he would, but he will certainly help you to bear your sorrow if you go to him." "i'm afraid to go to him, alice. i'm only a servant, and i've done a great many wrong things, and he might be angry." "no, dear, for he says: 'come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden,' and he means it. take your sins to him first, and ask his forgiveness, and then tell him all about your trouble. shall we hurry home and pray together?" "oh, yes, for it's all new to me, and i would like you to show me how to pray." the two girls hurried home, and knelt together, while in simple, heartfelt words, alice laid the need of her companion at the feet of him who hears and answers prayer. "that has done me good; thank you so much, alice," whispered ruth, with a grateful kiss. "you will pray by yourself, won't you, dear?" asked alice. "yes, and for john too," answered ruth, a bright hope already dawning in her heart. that evening, at alice's suggestion, she looked through the bible for promises to meet her special need. when she went downstairs to lay supper, it was with a glad heart at the abundant encouragement she had received. from that time she commenced a new life, and though her feet often faltered in the upward path, and her heart sometimes grew heavy with foreboding fears, a light had arisen for her which grew brighter as the months passed. many times she sorely regretted that she had let john go from her in pride and anger. if she had but the opportunity now--and her heart ached for it--how tenderly she would plead with him to be true to himself and her. "john says he supposes you've forgotten all about him," said mrs. greenwood one evening, when she had called. ruth's face grew scarlet. "why doesn't he write to me, then, and let me know what he means?" she cried with bitterness. "i'm sorry you should have quarrelled, my dear, for i believe you're the very woman for him; and i know he's desperately fond of you, and here's dick saying jack would do better with a woman to keep him out of mischief." "what's his address?" asked ruth. it was written down for her, and she soon made an excuse to leave. there were many conflicting thoughts and emotions at work in her mind and heart. how could john suppose she could ever forget him? had he said anything to his mother about his being desperately fond of her, or was it only mrs. greenwood's surmisings? and what did dick mean by saying that john would do better with a woman to keep him out of mischief? was he going downhill so rapidly that his degraded elder brother had lost control over him? might john himself be longing for an assurance that he was forgiven, and if the assurance were given, would it be a help and stay to him? oh, if she dare think so! well, she would risk it, and write that very night, and as she made the decision a great burden fell from her, and she knew her decision was right. far on into the night ruth sat writing sheet after sheet by the light of her candle. she wrote of the new joy that had come to her since john left, and told him it had only increased her love and yearning for him; how night and day she prayed that he might be kept from harm and evil, and that some day they might yet meet and be happy. she concluded by asking him to forgive her, if she had seemed hard and unkind, and reminded him again of her own painful past, and how she felt it was wrong to face a future that might hold a like experience for her; but if he could only assure her that he was living a sober, respectable life, and intended doing so, she would come out to him just as soon as he had a home ready. then with many tears and prayers ruth directed her letter and went to bed. ah, poor ruth! could she have foretold the fate of her letter, how would the bright hopes she was entertaining have been quenched in darkness! [illustration] [illustration] chapter vii. the fate of ruth's letter. dick greenwood was slowly sauntering up one of the chief streets of the city of melbourne. turning down a side street, he entered into a store, and asked if any letters had been left there for him or his brother. "why, yes, i believe there's a packet knocking about. jones, reach 'em off that shelf," answered the foreman. a letter from his mother, and another in a strange handwriting to john, was passed across to dick, who took them and left the store. "that plaguey boy may fetch his own letters. blowed if i'll waste my time calling round; but who's been writing to him now, i wonder? some woman's hand. that means mischief, for sure!" dick turned the envelope over, and studied the calligraphy with an air of uncertainty. suddenly he exclaimed, half aloud: "it's from that soft fool of a girl, i'll bet anything. she's found out which way her bread was buttered, and means to come the doubles over jack; but not quite so easy done, my girl. the boy's got a brother who'll look after him, so here goes;" and dick tore open the envelope, glanced at the signature, nodded his head in triumph, and deliberately read the closely-written pages. "the lying humbug! so that's the way she'd throw dust into jack's eyes, and he'd be as innocent as a new-born babe, and write back begging her forgiveness, and telling her he'd be ready for her in a trice! bah, how i hate such tomfoolery!" and dick tore the letter, which had been written with so many tears and prayers, into a hundred fragments, and sent them flying down the street. some days later found him back in a bush settlement, where he had, a few months before, persuaded john to join him. despite the latter's attempt at bravado, he had left england with a very sore heart, and a resolve to show ruth that he could keep steady, and make his way in the new land. he quite intended to save money towards preparing a home; and thought that, in a year or two, he would write to ruth, and ask her to overlook the past, and come out to him, for he never doubted her love and fidelity. but, though he had soon found a situation where he might have risen and achieved his purpose, he had no sooner commenced to save than his brother dick would appear, and lead him into scenes of revelry and dissipation, where his money would be more than wasted. after one of these times john said, with bitterness: "pity i didn't bring my ruth out! she'd have kept me straight instead of helping me down as you do." in a letter that dick had subsequently written home, he had sneeringly said that jack wanted a woman to look after him. what effect that remark had upon ruth we have previously seen. finally, dick had persuaded john to leave his situation, and join him and his lawless companions in their wild bush life; yet, even there, his thoughts often reverted to ruth, and he made up his mind that if she would only break the silence and tell him she cared as much as ever for him, he would leave his present surroundings and begin a new life. often, when engaged in pursuits new and exciting, or carousing with companions as degraded as his own brother, the sweet, happy restraints of the old home life, and the pure face of the woman he loved would rise before him in vivid contrast, and with an unutterable loathing he would turn from his present life, and long to be free. yet he lacked moral courage to break from his brother's influence; and, as john, in many ways, proved serviceable to dick, the latter, by flattery or by threats, was continually strengthening his hold upon john's weaker nature. so dick was rejoiced that ruth's letter had fallen into his hands, well knowing that john could never have withstood the temptation it would have presented to him. "any letters from home, dick?" inquired john of his brother, who sat before a rough, uncovered table, making heavy inroads upon the provisions with which it was loaded. "there's one in my coat," answered dick, nodding in the direction of his top-coat, which he had flung aside on entering. john got up and felt in the pocket, and drew out his mother's letter. "no other, dick?" "no; ain't that enough for you?" was the answer. john took the letter and went out of the room. "she is too hard on a fellow, she is; but, oh, ruthie, if i had you here, i'd be out of this soon enough!" he said to himself. yet, all through the hours of the following night, john laughed as loudly and drank as deeply as any of the rough men who had been invited to meet dick, and listen to the news after his short absence from the settlement. in the early dawn, the company broke up, and left the log building, making, as they went to their several homes, the still, fragrant air resonant with snatches of ribald song and coarse jest. dick threw himself upon a settle and was soon sleeping heavily; but john staggered out of the noisome atmosphere, and leaned against the framework of the door. the cool morning breeze fanned his heated brow, and the twitter of the birds fell on his dulled ears. the stars had paled, but the moon shone clear in the blue sky, now fast taking on the gorgeous hues of the dawn. he stood, unconscious of the beauty of scene and sound around him, till the echoes of his late companions' unhallowed mirth had died away. then there came to him, as there always did at such times, the thought of ruth. what would she say to see him now? yet, deeply though he had fallen, john would have given worlds, if he had possessed them, to have stood in her presence at that moment with drooping head, and confessed all his weakness and misery, and begged her to forgive him, and help him to retrieve the bitter past. "oh, ruth, you took the pledge for my sake, and now, if you were only here, i'd take it for my own sake and yours too," groaned john. it was only the fancy of a heated imagination, of course, but just then, as the first ray of the rising sun glanced through the forest clearing, and fell at his feet, he felt himself looking down into ruth's upturned, pleading eyes; her hand lay on his arm, and her voice said: "for my sake, john, take it now!" he started, as if from a dream, and looked round. no apparition melted into morning mist, no human form was yet stirring, but, with a strange, mingled sense of awe and gladness, john said: "bless you, my ruthie, i will, for your sake! you shall never have cause to be ashamed of me again!" then he turned indoors, and, throwing himself down beside his brother, was soon fast asleep. [illustration] chapter viii. a happy ending. "you skulking good-for-nothing greenhorn! go and beg on the streets if you will, for i'll never raise my hand to save you from starvation," roared dick greenwood, when a few hours later john told him he intended returning to melbourne. "i quite believe that, dick, for you've done your best to bring me to it," replied john. but dick poured out such a volley of oaths, that john wisely forbore to say anything further. finding he could not provoke john to retaliate, dick sneered: "i suppose now you've sown your wild oats, and got all you could out of me, you'll be sending for that smooth-tongued, virtuous wench to come out and help you keep straight, for such a poor weak fool as you'll never do without some one to look after you; but see if i don't let her know a few of your nice little secrets." john's blood was raised to boiling-point. he started to his feet, and the next minute dick lay prostrate before him. "take that," he cried; "and if you dare to say one more word about her, i'll give you cause to repent it. you're not worthy to lick the ground she treads on." dick looked up, but neither moved nor spoke, while his younger brother thrust a few odds and ends into a bag, and prepared to leave. coward as he was, he feared to provoke john's just anger again, and not till after the door was violently slammed behind his brother, and the sound of his rapid footsteps had died away, did dick rise from the ground. then he shook himself to ascertain if he had received any damages, and finding himself not much the worse for his fall, he sat down and took out his pipe. for some time he smoked furiously, and then struck his hands together as he exclaimed: "i'll do it, as sure as i live! i'll pay him out for this, or my name's not dick greenwood." three days after, john walked into the store in melbourne, where he had been previously employed. "it's you, is it?" said the foreman; "ain't you satisfied with your change?" "no," said john, with emphasis; "i'd rather sweep a crossing. i suppose you've filled my place." the foreman nodded, and jerked his thumb in the direction of a young man who was leisurely serving a customer. "do you really want work, man, or is it only 'come and go' again?" asked he, seeing that john looked disappointed. "mr. smith, i'd give anything for a chance to work. i'm sick of knocking about." "well, look here! he ain't up to much good," and the shopman was again indicated; "got no 'go' in him, and you always suited me. you may come and show him how to do business in my line, but you'll have to start with lower wages, eh?" john thankfully accepted the offer. "now for ruth and a home of my own!" he said the next morning, when beginning his work. it was scarcely a wise decision he had made, not to write to her until he was ready to send for her; but a certain feeling of pride held him back, for he said: "she doubted me once, and now i'll wait till i can prove myself worthy of her trust." meanwhile, in heart-sickening suspense, ruth waited mail after mail for an answer to her letter. at last there came one for her, bearing the australian postmark. she tore it open in fear, for the handwriting was strange. it ran as follows: "dear miss, "i am sorry to send you bad news, but you must take it kindly from one who wishes you well. the truth is, that jack is going to the bad as fast as he can, which i'm sorry to say of my own brother. i was downright ashamed of the way he went on, after reading a letter you sent him. he got real mad over it, and swore he'd have nothing to do with a canting methodist, and a deal more which i won't write, not wishing to put you about. last of all, he tore the letter up. i write these few lines to save you from expecting to hear any more of him, as he's off on his own hook, and i wash my hands of the scamp. "hoping you are in health, i remain, "your obedient servant, "r. greenwood." ruth sat stunned. the bell rang, but she heeded not. alice came up, but she took no notice of her anxious inquiries. hearing of her condition, harry groombridge left the dinner-table and went to her. "she's had some shock; this letter doubtless! may i read it, ruth?" he asked. the girl mutely assented. the young man glanced through the contents, and handed it to his mother, who had followed him. she read it, and they exchanged looks. then mrs. groombridge took one of ruth's cold hands in hers, and said: "ruth, my dear girl, this letter is a hoax, i am persuaded, for you know john's brother is an unprincipled man. i think he has quarrelled with john, and then revenged himself by writing to you in this cruel way. i can't think john has gone so far wrong as to talk of you before his brother in such a manner. my impression is, that he was glad to get your letter, and left his brother, resolving to prove himself worthy of you yet." "that's about it," remarked harry. ruth gasped with a sense of relief. "oh, if i could but think so; but then, why doesn't he write himself?" she said. "i can't say, but trust him a little longer, ruth. when did his parents last hear from him?" "i don't know, ma'am. lately i've felt i couldn't go there." "you shall run down to-night; or stay, you are not fit to go. harry, will you go at once to mrs. greenwood, and ask her to bring john's last letters?" "with pleasure, mother." he soon returned with mrs. greenwood. "you've had a letter from dick, my dear, that's upset you, so the young gentleman says. i hope he's all right, for it's long since we had a line, though we hear every other mail from john," she said. "do tell me where he is, and what he is doing, for dick says he is going to the bad fast, and i can't believe it," said ruth. "that i'm sure he isn't," cried the mother; "he left the store to go with dick, but he's gone back now, for he says it was a wild life that didn't suit him, and he got into a bad set; but he's doing well now, and living quiet and respectable, and tells us he has signed the pledge, and--and--but oh, my dear, i wasn't to tell you this; for he meant to write himself and tell you all about it, but you were so anxious, what could i do?" ruth's eyes filled with happy tears. how abundantly her prayers were being answered she only found when she came to read john's letters! "i must wait patiently till he writes to me; but why doesn't he reply to my letter?" "depend upon it, ruth, he never had it, or he would at least have mentioned it when writing home. it must have fallen into his brother's hands," replied mrs. groombridge. "i don't believe dick is as bad as that," said the mother, when ruth's mistress had left the room. "my dear," said mr. groombridge, after hearing the story; "i shall persuade ruth to go out at once. our friends, the grahams, who find it so difficult to secure good servants in melbourne, will be only too glad of ruth's help until john can make her a home, and she will be a strength and stay to him, and all suspense for her will be over." "i don't like to part with ruth a day before i'm obliged, but i think your plan excellent," returned his wife. it was discovered that, when consulted, ruth's opinion coincided exactly with that of her mistress, and a month afterwards she bade farewell to her friends and sailed for australia. * * * * * "you've a young man named greenwood in your employ, i believe?" said a gentleman, walking into the store where john was engaged. "yes, i have, sir." "can you spare him an hour or two? i want him to meet a friend who is coming in by the steamer to-day from england." "certainly, sir. here, john, this gentleman wants you to go down with him to the docks." john looked surprised, but, supposing it to be a business call, put on his coat and hat and walked out. "are you expecting a friend from england?" asked the stranger. "no, sir, i wish i was," was john's involuntary reply. "i had a letter from my old friend mr. groombridge, of bristol, and he asked me to call for you on my way to the docks, as some one you once knew was coming in by the steamer." "who did he say it was, sir?" asked john, with a sudden tumultuous beating of the heart. "he did mention the name, i believe; but, dear me, i've left the letter at home. it's no matter, though, you will soon learn," said mr. graham, with an amused smile, as he watched john's face. "it couldn't be, of course," argued john to himself; but as the steamer came in he eagerly scanned the faces of the passengers, with but one thought. no, she was not there, and with a bitter feeling of disappointment he fell back. "john! oh, john!" he looked up. how could he have overlooked that figure with eager hands stretched out towards him! yes, it was his trusting, loving ruth, who, unasked, had crossed the seas to help and cheer him in the hard battle he was fighting for her sake. "oh, ruthie," he said, as he grasped her hands; "i don't deserve this. why have you come, darling?" "why, i came for your sake, of course, john; but are you quite sure you want me?" "you may well ask that, for i've been a brute to you; and now i know i ought to have written to you, but you might have sent me a line, ruth." "so i did, and i believe dick must have got it." "the scamp!" exclaimed john. "ah, don't say anything unkind now, for it's all happened for the best." then mr. graham came up, and john went to see about ruth's luggage, further explanations and news from home being reserved till the evening, when john had finished his day's work. when ruth's long story was finished, john sat thoughtful and silent for some time. "yes, ruthie, i do feel you are right. i want a stronger power than even my love for you to keep me from yielding to temptation, and i will from this time give my whole life, with its many sins and mistakes, into the hand of the one who will forgive all, and make me a new creature," he presently said. "thank god for that; we can help each other now, john!" it was only a humble home to which john took ruth a few months later; but mutual love and trust made it the happiest place on earth to the two who had waited so long for the fulfilment of their hopes. "guess what news i've got, john," said ruth, with a beaming face one morning, shortly after she had been installed as mistress. "you've drawn your money out of the savings bank, and taken passage in the steamer that leaves for england to-day." "foolish boy! no, i've had a letter from alice, and she says that master and mistress have agreed to give up all intoxicants, and they say it's all through our example. how delighted i am, to be sure, aren't you, john?" "yes, little woman, i'm very pleased; but don't say our example, for you set the example, and you ought to have all the credit." "ah, john, you know i did it all for your sake, dear," whispered the happy wife. [illustration] [illustration] how the foe crept in.[a] chapter i. moderate drinking. "i say, mother, what do you think's the latest joke?" said a respectable artisan to his wife, as he entered his home with his bag of tools slung across his shoulder. "i'm sure i can't guess, george," answered the woman, with a pleasant smile on her face as she welcomed her husband. "well, don't drop the baby when i tell you. tim morris has signed the pledge!" "good gracious, george, you don't say so! why, do you know, his poor wife came in yesterday morning to borrow sixpence, for they hadn't a loaf of bread or a bit of coal in the house; and tim was out then, drinking like a beast. really i can't help saying such things, george." "well this is what i'm told, susan. he was picked out of the gutter yesterday evening by some teetotal folks, and taken to one of their meetings; and, drunk as he was, he signed, and then they saw him home, and early this morning they were round to see how he was; and anyhow he declares he is going to stick to it. they've taken him on at the works, and given him another chance of redeeming his character." "i'm very glad to hear it, george; and if the teetotal folks keep tim morris out of the gutter, i'll never say another word against them, and shan't let you either." "i don't think i shall want to if they do; but i've very little hope, susan. it'll be the first time that ever i heard of a man who had sunk so low being reclaimed." "yes; all i've ever given that kind of people credit for doing, is to get as many little ones into their meetings--bands of hope, don't they call them?--and make them sign the pledge, and as soon as ever they get to a sensible age, they find out how foolish they've been, and break all their fine promises. and no wonder, for i don't know how people could get on without their glass of ale or porter two or three times a day. i couldn't for one." "and i'm sure i should be lost without my pint at dinner and supper," echoed george, adding: "i guess we're the moderate drinkers teetotalers rave about." "stuff and nonsense," answered susan. "why can't they abuse the creatures who never know when they've had enough for their own good, without wanting to take one of our necessary comforts from us, when we pay our way, and are decent, respectable people?" "that's just what i say, wife. such folks have neither sense nor reason on their side. but i can forgive them all their mistakes if they only turn tim morris into a sober man." "well, sit down, george, and hold the baby, while i put the tea into the pot. go to father, mother's little pet;" and susan dixon placed the well-cared-for baby on her father's knee, where, amidst delighted screams and plunges, she speedily found congenial employment in burying her fat dimpled hands in his masses of brown hair. "there, there, mattie, won't that do for you, little lass?" said he, as he gave her back to her mother, crying with disappointment at the sudden termination of her delightful frolic. "she does get on well, mother," he added, looking with fatherly pride on her rounded limbs and rosy cheeks. "there's no earthly reason why she shouldn't, with all the care that's taken of her. oh dear! it makes my heart ache when poor mrs. morris steps in here sometimes, with her sickly-looking child fretting in her arms, and our mattie looking so different; i'd rather bury her, george, than see her like that." "i tell you, susan, i think that a man who ruins the health and prospects of his wife and children ought to be treated as a felon, and sent to prison until he'd learnt to behave himself as he ought;" said george. the conversation turned shortly after upon other matters, and presently, baby being put to bed, the husband and wife settled down to their usual pleasant evening; for never since his marriage, two years before, had george left his wife, after returning from his daily labour, for a longer space of time than was necessary to fetch the ale for supper from one of the neighbouring public-houses. they were perfectly happy in each other, and in the treasure which had been theirs for nine months, and wondered why every one could not rest contented as they did, in the pure delight of home joys. day after day, week after week, and even month after month passed away, and still, to george and susan dixon's unbounded astonishment, timothy morris kept his pledge, and into his wretched home there began to creep an air of comfort. rags gave place to decent clothing, and the children no longer fled terrified at their father's approach. "i've got another piece of news for you, susan," said george one evening: "timothy morris is announced to speak at the temperance hall to-night." "well, i never did! what next?" exclaimed his astonished wife. "well, i think the next is that, for the pure fun of the thing, i'll go and hear him, if you don't mind being left alone, my dear." "oh, no, not for once, george. besides, i should like to know what tim will have to say for himself; and you'll bring me word, won't you, dear?" replied susan. "of course i'll do that; but i must be quick, for two of my mates are going to call and see if i'm coming. i can tell you it's made quite a sensation among the men to-day." "i dare say it has," said susan, bustling about, and hurrying her husband's tea. that evening she waited, with the supper-cloth laid, for an hour past the usual time; and then, wondering what had kept her husband, took her post at the street door. soon she caught sight of three men coming down the road, and at first thought she recognised george's figure in the moonlight; but hearing from the trio noisy snatches of song and loud laughing, she smiled at the absurdity of her mistake. but yet, as they came nearer, the tones sounded strangely familiar. her heart sank as they halted before her, and her husband separated from them, and entered the house, pushing past his wife, and shouting: "well, good night, mates; we've not signed the pledge, as our friend tim advised, and don't intend to at present." "george, where have you been all this time?" said susan, as she followed him in. "in the right place for a briton who never means to be a slave--to be a slave," he answered thickly. "if this is what temperance meetings do for you, george, i think you'd better stay at home," said his wife in displeased tones. "don't be high and mighty, my dear; we weren't going to hear tim morris declare that the public-house wasn't a fit place for a respectable man to put his nose inside, without showing him that he'd made a confounded teetotaler's mistake; and being three respectable men, we went in, and took our supper beer there, instead of in our own homes. that's all right, isn't it?" he asked defiantly. "if you had stopped at your own supper beer it might have been; but it looks more than likely that you drank your own and your wife's share too, judging from appearances," answered susan bitterly, for she had been feeling the want of her usual stimulant for some time past. "you can fetch yours, my dear; i've no objection, i'm sure." "no objection!" susan felt outraged. if he had been sober, such a word could not have fallen from his lips, for he never would permit her to enter the door of a public-house. there was no help for it now; she must go, for she could not do without her customary glass, and she dared not ask george to go, lest he should be tempted to imbibe still more freely than he had done. putting on her bonnet, and seizing a jug, she hurried down the road to the corner where there were four public-houses blazing with light. she chose the quietest; and entering the jug and bottle department, found herself alone, and screened from all eyes, save those of the barmaid, who stepped forward to take her jug. "half a pint, please," said susan. suddenly a thought struck her. if she took her ale home george would be sure to want some; and she knew that he had already exceeded by far his usual limit; why should she not stand and drink hers there? there was no one to see her; no one would ever be the wiser. it would only be just for once, she told herself, to put temptation out of her husband's way. "if you'll kindly bring me a glass, i'll drink it here," she said to the barmaid. "certainly, ma'am;" and susan rapidly drained her glass, and walked home with her empty jug. if that night the heavy curtain which shrouded the unknown future could have been lifted, and to george and susan dixon there could have been revealed their unwritten history, with what shuddering awe would each have turned from the sin-darkened record, and cried with one of old: "is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing?" footnote: [a] reprinted, by permission, from "the opposite house," published by t. woolmer, castle street, e.c. [illustration] chapter ii. its results. "where's mother, mrs. warren?" inquired a girl of about seven or eight years of age, with pallid face, and dress hanging in tatters about her bare feet, as she slowly dragged up the broken stairs to the one room where her father and mother, herself, and four younger children lived and slept. "you needn't ask me, child. she's locked her door, and the little uns are inside; and here's the key. i 'spect she's off on a spree." the child took the key, and sighing heavily, proceeded on her way. two of the children were screaming loudly, but ceased their cries as she entered the room, and began, one to crawl, and the other to toddle, towards the only being in their little world who never struck or kicked them, but tended them with the love and gentleness which, but for her, they would never have known. "mammie's left us all alone, mattie; and fan and baby has been crying all the morning, and bob and me's been doing all we can, and they won't do nothing but scream," exclaimed the eldest of the four children in wearied tones. "that's right, melie; you're good children; but i've come home, and 'll look after the lot of you. what's for dinner? did mammie say?" "there's some crusts left up on the mantel," answered melie. "bob, you just climb up and fetch 'em down, and i'll nurse the baby, and, fan, you come right away and sit by me." mattie picked up the dirty, tear-stained baby, and seated herself on the only chair in the room. she had been to school all the morning, and, while ostensibly puzzling her little brain with the mysteries of "the three r's," her heart had been full of fear for those little ones in the house. what if her mother should leave them with the door unlocked, and fan and baby should find their way headlong down those dark, steep stairs? or, suppose the window in their room should by any means become unfastened, and one of them should fall to the pavement beneath; for mattie remembered that, only the week before, a drunken mother had let her baby drop from her arms out of the window at the top of the house into the court below, from whence it had been picked up a shapeless, bleeding mass. so she was greatly relieved that everything had gone well in her absence. as for fan's and baby's crying, that was to be expected while she was away. "i shan't go to school this afternoon; 'taint to be expected as i can, although teacher'll be just mad, being as it's near 'xamination time," declared mattie. "that's prime, mattie! what'll we do? not stay up here all the time?" cried bob. "in course not. we'll have our dinner, and then we'll just get a breath of air in the park. it'll do baby good; won't it, darling?" said mattie, stooping over her puny charge as fondly as if he were the bonniest baby in the land, instead of a feeble, wan-faced infant, upon whom, as indeed upon each of the group which surrounded him, there was stamped the unmistakable imprint of an inherited curse. "i'm glad mammie's out, mattie. i wish you was our mammie, and could take us clean away," said bob, hanging about mattie's chair. "when i get bigger and can earn money, that's what i'm going to do, you know, bob. me, and melie, and you'll just work and keep the children, and we won't have 'em knocked about, poor little mites, will we?" "no, we won't, but i wish we was big enough now," sighed bob, to whom the tempting prospect was sufficiently familiar and delightful to help him to bear bravely the privation of his daily lot. "well, we ain't, so it's no use wishing we was," responded matter-of-fact mattie; "but i'll tell you what i do wish, and that is as mammie and daddie'd just turn over a new leaf, and stop the drinking. then we'd never need to be talking of running away and leaving 'em; for i tell you, we'd all pretty soon know the difference." "tell us what a nice home we'd have afore long, and what jolly things we'd get to eat," said bob. "don't you be so greedy, bob. 'tain't the want of good things to eat as troubles me so much. it's the rows, and the swearing, and the kicking, and beating, as takes the life out of one," and mattie's face grew dark as she spoke. "mattie," asked melie, as she munched away at her crust; "do all mammies get drunk like ourn?" "they do about here, i b'lieve," answered mattie, somewhat dubiously; "but lor, no, child, in course they don't. there's the lady in the shop where we buy our penn'orths of bread, as allers is as kind and pleasant spoken to her little uns as--as--" a comparison was not speedily forthcoming, but bob finished his sister's sentence by saying: "like you are to all of us, mattie." "i'd hate to speak cross to bits of things like you," answered mattie loftily, but with a little glow at her heart because of the spontaneous tribute to her sisterly care. "we'd better be off, i'm thinking," she said presently, and tying an old rag under the baby's chin by way of head-gear, she passed her own battered straw hat to melie, saying: "you can wear it this afternoon; i'll be quite hot enough carrying baby, without putting anything on, i guess." as for bob and little fan, the lack of outdoor apparel troubled them not at all; indeed, the trouble would have been if any such unusual and uncomfortable addition to their scanty wardrobe had been forthcoming. rejoicing in their liberty, and strong in the protection of the elder sister, they slowly threaded their way through crowded thoroughfares, until they came to the outskirts of the great manufacturing town, where the park of which mattie had spoken was situated. "that's right! we've got here at last! but you're real heavy, baby, i do declare," said mattie, as she sank exhausted on the first seat with her burden; and although any one else would have considered that, judging from the said baby's appearance, such a statement was decidedly unfounded, mattie being small for her own not very advanced age, might, for obvious reasons, have been excused for making the rash charge. "now, be sure and behave yourselves. don't get wild, or touch them pretty flowers, or that man in the buttons there'll be down on us in a jiffy, and turn us out quicker than we comed in," said mattie, when they had rested and recovered themselves after their weary trudge. the afternoon waned at last, and the children turned their steps homeward. "i wonder whether mammie's comed home; we'll catch it if she has," said melie apprehensively. "don't you be a bothering of your head about that," replied mattie sharply, turning upon the child, who was lagging behind with her little sister. "mammie's safe enough, i'll be bound, somewheres till midnight, and she'll be too dead drunk when she comes in to do anything but tumble into a corner like a pig; that's a mercy!" melie looked cheered at the information, and trudged on bravely. just as they were about to enter their dingy court, bob caught sight of a man who was walking slowly down the road with a placard in front of him and another behind. "mattie, just look at that funny man," he exclaimed. "oh, haven't you ever seen the likes of him afore? wait a minute,--and i'll see what it says on them boards," and mattie read,--as what girl of her tender years, however destitute and forlorn, in this age of educational advantages could not?--"a band of hope meeting will be held at the ---- road board schools this evening, at half-past six. all children will be welcome." "why, that's my school," said mattie; "i declare i should like to go, though what on earth a band of hope meeting is, goodness knows, for i don't." "don't leave us again, mattie," urged melie; "we'll be so lonesome by oursel's." "let's see," said mattie thoughtfully; "it says, 'all children will be welcome.' i've a good mind to take the lot of you; and if they won't let us in with baby, why, we can come back again, i s'pose." "what a heap of treats we are having, mattie! you're a real good 'un!" cried bob, cutting a somersault in view of the unusual and delightful combination of events. "you, bob," called mattie, somewhat ungraciously it might seem, "stop that, and help melie along with fan." tea, which had consisted of the remains from dinner, being over, a neighbouring church clock chimed the hour, and mattie prepared for the evening entertainment. baby was sleeping, and resented mattie's attempts to remove the worst of the grime from his face; but she persevered, for she felt that the credit of the family was entirely in her hands, and she was not going to risk losing it for the sake of sundry struggles and tears from its youngest member. they were all ready at last, and mattie surveyed the effect of her handiwork with satisfaction. "now, you all jest keep behind me, and don't be grinning, or up to any of your larks, or they won't let you in," said mattie, as they neared the building. she presented herself before the door with the baby asleep in her arms, the other children tremblingly bringing up the rear. a gentleman with a kindly face was standing near the entrance. "do you think you can manage your baby, my little woman?" he asked, stooping to mattie. "bless you, yes, sir. he's better with me than his own mammie, and'll sleep like a top all the time; and," she added, glancing behind, "these 'ere little uns belong to me too, and if you'll let us all in, i'll see as they behave theirselves." "i'm very glad to see you all, my dears, come in;" and, with his heart aching at the revelation of the misery which was written in unmistakable characters on the faces of these young children, the gentleman led them to prominent places near the platform. oh, the rich enjoyment of the next hour! the wonderful music, the fine singing, and the simple words from the two or three gentlemen who were there, fell upon mattie's ears with telling effect, and after the meeting was over, she exchanged a few hurried words with melie and bob, and then they all went forward to the table in front of the platform. "please, sir," said mattie to the secretary who sat there, "you said as any as wanted to sign against the drink was to come to you after you'd finished talking; and me, and melie, and bob here wants to sign, only they can't write yet." "we'll manage that, my dear; but have you thought about this signing and what it means?" "oh, yes, sir; it means as we're never to put our lips to mammie's drops when we fetch 'em from the public, and never to touch the drink at all." "yes, that's quite right," said the secretary, with a half smile. "i see you know all about it, and will doubtless keep your own pledge; but what about these little ones? will they understand and remember that they mustn't touch the drink when once they've signed against it?" "don't you be a-troubling of yourself about them, sir; they're little, but they're sharp enough, and i'll look after 'em," replied the elder sister. "i suppose you're mother, then?" said the secretary, glancing compassionately down at the sleeping child in mattie's arms. "pretty nigh," answered mattie, concisely. "tell me where i've to put my name; and, melie, you sit down and hold the baby a minute." the name was carefully written, and the other children made crosses in due form, each receiving a bright pledge-card, which they were told to hang up in their room; then, after receiving an invitation to attend another meeting of the same kind the following week, they left the place. "well, we've done something now," said mattie, as they emerged into the street. "i'll tell you what, if we stick to it, as in course we shall, we'll have a jolly home one day, with no drinking and no beating; and, bob, you'll be able to stuff away on the fat of the land yet." "prime!" ejaculated bob, smacking his lips in gleeful anticipation of the good time coming. "we'll get fan and baby to bed, and then we'll see about hanging our cards somewheres. they'll not fetch anything at the pop-shop, so mammie won't be carrying 'em off, that's one comfort." the three cards were presently hung up, affording a strange contrast to the begrimed and broken walls; and then the wearied children crept into their corners, and, on the rags which alone separated them from the floor, they slept the sleep of innocence and childhood. there was a staggering step on the broken stairs at midnight, and at the familiar sound mattie woke, and drew her baby brother closer to her protecting arms. the door was pushed noisily open, and some one stumbled across the room, muttering: "where's them brats, i wonder?" mattie held her breath, and a moment later she heard a roll on the floor, and knew that her miserable mother would lie where she had fallen in drunken slumber until the morning. as for her father, he was seldom able to mount the stairs; but, if he came home at all, lay at the foot, until aroused in the morning by his landlady's shrill tones, and ordered to seek his own room. so mattie composed herself to sleep again; as, under such happy circumstances, what drunkard's child might not? she was awoke next morning by the baby's fretful wail, and, the others beginning to stir, she sat up and pointed with a warning finger to her still sleeping mother. "if you wake her, you'll catch it, you know, so hold your noise now, and i'll see if i can't get something for you to eat," she hoarsely whispered. with stealthy movement she crept to her mother's side, and, finding her way to the pocket of her dress, she put her hand in and drew out a solitary penny. holding it up, and nodding delightedly over her prize, she picked up the baby and disappeared down the stairs. when she returned there was a good-sized piece of steaming bread in her hand, and baby was already ravenously devouring his share. "eat it up, quick now, afore she wakes," whispered mattie; and the children, nothing loth, soon left not a crumb to be seen. "we don't often get such luck as that," chuckled mattie, thinking of other times when the need had been as great, and not even a penny loaf wherewith to satisfy the cravings of her hungry charge had been forthcoming. "mammie's waking up," whispered bob, shrinking back into his corner; and the little group in silence fixed their fascinated gaze upon the woman to whom they owed their being, as she yawned and stretched, and, finally, with a succession of groans, turned over, and faced her children. can it be the same? are we not doing susan dixon a cruel injustice as we fancy that in yonder bloated face, with its bleared eyes and framework of dishevelled hair, we can discover a resemblance to the bright, happy wife, who, seven years before, had been so unsparing in her condemnation of those who, for the sake of indulging a degraded appetite, wrecked their own prospects, and blasted the young life and future happiness of their helpless offspring? ah, no! for she, who so proudly had boasted of her own strength, had also been overcome and laid low by the mighty tyrant. little by little, with many a struggle at first, and many a fair-sounding promise, did she turn from the beaten track she had marked out for herself, and in the security of which she had prided herself, until now the very desire for a better life seemed hopelessly crushed with every trace of womanly feeling. she looked about in a half-stupified fashion for a while, then raised herself on her elbow, still continuing to groan. "what's the matter, mammie?" mattie ventured to ask. "my head's fit to burst, child; you must fetch me a drop or i shall just go crazy," replied susan, in thick, husky tones. "where's the money, mammie?" tremblingly asked the child, well knowing that the last coin had been spent in their frugal breakfast. susan felt in her pocket, and, to mattie's intense relief, withdrew her hand, simply saying: "drat it, every penny gone again! just like my luck!" her glance went round the room, but there was absolutely nothing within those four walls which would fetch the price of a morning dram. presently her eyes rested upon those three bright patches hanging against the discoloured wall, with a curious expression of wonder. "what's them?" she asked at length. "they're pretty cards as was given us by a gent yesterday, and he said we was to hang 'em up," answered mattie, wondering what the effect of her reply would be, and devoutly hoping that, whatever untimely fate awaited the cards, she and the little ones might escape with no more than their usual share of rough and ready treatment. "let's look, can't you?" were the next impatient words; and mattie took down the three pledges, and, handing them to her mother, stood patiently by, awaiting the result of the prolonged investigation. she was never more surprised than when it came. tossing the cards aside, susan threw her hands over her face, and rocked herself backwards and forwards in an agony of shame and remorse, while floods of tears poured through her fingers. mattie bore the sight as long as she could, and then said: "don't cry, mammie; if you're bad, i'll run and fetch the doctor." but susan took no notice, and probably had not heard her child's words. by and bye her tears ceased, and she staggered to her feet, saying: "oh, god! that i should have come to this, while he--" what did her grief, her broken words mean? the children stood aghast; and, at that juncture, heavy footsteps were heard on the stairs, and directly the husband and father entered the room; his clear brow, fearless eye, and manly bearing all gone, and in their stead, darkness, sullenness, and feebleness. "what's these?" he asked, for the gaudy cards had been thrown to the very entrance of the room, and in another moment his foot would have rested upon them. mattie sprang forward and placed them, without a word, in his hands. susan crossed the room, and came to her husband's side. "who's been putting the brats up to this?" he asked, half angrily, turning to her. "i don't know," she answered; "but, oh, george, look at the signature, and think what that man used to be, and how we couldn't find a name bad enough for him; and now he's respectable and well-to-do, and me and you's sunk lower than ever he did. oh, dear! oh, dear!" and again susan's sobs shook the room. "timothy morris, as i live!" exclaimed george dixon, dropping the cards in sheer amazement, while upon his mind there rushed a score of memories, some joyous and bright; others, and these of later days, sad and sin-shadowed. "don't carry on so, susan," he said; "it makes me feel bad, for i've been as much in the wrong as you." [illustration: "look at the signature, and think what that man used to be."--_page ._] "oh, george, i wouldn't care if i'd only cursed and ruined myself; but look there!" and she pointed to the five children, who, half terrified at the scene, were huddling together in the corner. "come here, mattie," she said; "go to your father, child, and ask him if he remembers the golden-haired, bonnie baby who sat on his knee and pulled his hair when he came home, nigh upon eight years ago, and told me that the drunken sot, whose name is on your pledge-card, had turned teetotal. ask him if you look like that baby at all. oh, you needn't turn away, george, for you know there's but one answer. and what's made the difference between that happy home, and this beastly place? and what's made me and you more like brutes than the loving couple we were, eh, george?" with streaming eyes susan stood before her husband, waiting for the answer to her questions. gnashing his teeth, as if in despair, he hissed out: "it's the moderate drinking as has worked all the mischief, woman, if you want to know; and may god's curse rest upon it!" mattie began to understand at length the meaning of her parents' distress, and hastened to proffer the only advice that was in her power to give. "daddie, mammie," she said, "won't you come and sign the pledge too? then you won't never touch the drink again, and we'll have a nice home; and me, and melie, and bob'll stay with you, and never run away as we've been a talking of." then melie and bob came and said: "oh, please do! we're so hungry and miser'ble all the time; and if you'll only give up the drink we'll be so good, and never want any beating." george looked at susan across the upturned faces of the children, and susan looked back at him wistfully, earnestly. "susan," said george, in low, troubled tones; "if i promise now, can i ever keep my word? for i'm raging for a drop this minute." susan might have answered, "so am i," but, with a touch of returning womanliness, she hid her own suffering that she might minister to the need of the man who thus confessed his weakness. "george," she answered steadily, "i had a praying mother once, and so had you. i once knew how to pray myself, and so did you; and if ever our mothers' prayers for us are going to be answered, it'll be now; and if ever we begin to pray for ourselves again, it'll be this very minute, or we shall be lost for ever!" and susan fell on her knees, and passionately poured out her whole soul that forgiveness might be granted to herself and her erring husband, and that to their weakness and feebleness there might descend the almighty power and perpetual help of an omnipotent saviour. was that prayer answered? could two souls so bound and tied by satan's strongest fetters be loosed and set free, no longer slaves of a tyrant but children of a king? let the new home in a new land, and the subdued brightness of their faces, and the happy abandonment of their children's glee answer, and say that once again the captives of the mighty have been taken away, and the prey of the terrible delivered. in his own land, timothy morris hears, from time to time, of the well doing of his former neighbours; and rejoices that he has been the humble instrument of bringing light and succour to a household which had been darkened and degraded for years through the insidious advances of moderate drinking. [illustration] [illustration] the committee's decision. the weekly band of hope meeting had been carried on through the long winter months with vigour and success, and now on the evening of one of the first spring days, its committee had met to decide upon the all-important question as to whether the meetings should be discontinued through the summer months. "i certainly think it would be a pity to hold the meetings on the long bright evenings," said mr. jones, and, judging from the expression on many of the faces, his opinion was shared by several. "it would be a downright shame to coop up the children in a close school-room when they might be enjoying themselves in the bright sunshine," said mr. gale. it may be here stated that the committee was comprised of equal numbers of abstainers and non-abstainers, to which latter class the afore-mentioned speakers belonged. from a corner, a nervous little man summoned up courage to suggest the possibility of the younger members of the band of hope breaking their pledge, if they had not a constant reminder in the shape of their attractive weekly meeting. "that goes to prove what is my firm conviction, that these kind of affairs, popular as they have become, accomplish little of what they profess to, for although pledges of total abstinence are taken from the young folks who attend in large numbers, it only needs a trivial pretext such as a change of residence, or the suspension of their meetings, and they become forgetful of the pledge which they have signed," said a prominent member of the committee. "you are quite right, my dear sir," replied a middle-aged gentleman beside him; "as i can testify by my own experience. when i was a lad of seven or eight, i attended a band of hope meeting. like all children, i was readily influenced by others, and as most of the little folks who attended signed the pledge, i did the same. two or three years afterwards my parents moved out of the neighbourhood, and it never occurred to my childish mind that i was just as much bound to keep my pledge as though i had still been attending the meeting where i signed it. so i partook with my brothers and sisters of the daily stimulant which found its way to our table, to the amusement of my father, who had looked upon my previous self-denial as a boyish whim." "i believe your experience is by no means an isolated one," added another member, complacently stroking his beard; "i myself joined at least two bands of hope when i was a youngster; but i don't belong to the cold-water ranks to-day." "come, gentlemen, we are not here to discuss whether the band of hope answers the end it has in view; but whether it is advisable to give its juvenile members a long summer vacation. will one of you make a proposition? and we will take the vote of the meeting," said the chairman. the nervous member made an uneasy movement, and looked anxiously around, but before he could summon up courage to open his mouth, a gentleman, who had hitherto remained silent, rose, and commenced to speak. "mr. chairman," he began, "i had no intention of making my voice heard when i came into this meeting, but my soul is too deeply stirred to allow me to preserve silence. sir, it has been suggested that bands of hope accomplish little of what they profess to do, and in proof of that, two of our non-abstaining friends have readily confessed that in their boyhood they were associated with bands of hope. sir, there doubtless is a percentage of children who carelessly or ignorantly take upon themselves these solemn vows, and fail to fulfil them. i may add that to my knowledge, many a drunkard has gone down to his dishonoured grave uttering the impotent wish that he had kept the pledge of his childhood. but, sir, i am in a position to say that such percentage is very small, and that the juvenile temperance movement in this country is doing a mighty work. we are saving the children, and sending into many a sin-darkened home, the little ones as messengers of hope and salvation. and not alone into poverty-stricken courts and alleys, but into abodes of the better classes where the drink demon has asserted his supremacy, do our youthful members find their way. yet, sir, i am not ashamed to say, that these children need the reminder of their weekly meeting. they are but weak, and temptation is oftentimes strong, whether conveyed to them by the sight and smell of the intoxicants which many of them have to fetch, or, as in the case of our friend who has spoken, placed upon the well-spread table within their easy reach. sir, if for the summer months we could compel the publicans, and all who are licensed to sell alcohol in any shape or form, to close their premises, and take a long vacation, and could we during that time banish from the homes of our land every temptation to strong drink, then we might afford to give up our meetings for the next few months; but while the monster intemperance is ceaselessly devastating homes and blighting lives in all classes and communities, let us not dream of giving our endeavours to meet and vanquish the strong man armed a summer holiday." the speaker wiped his brow and sat down, and significant glances went round the room. when a minute later the votes were taken, there were found to be only two members who did not cordially agree with the proposal that the meetings of the band of hope should be continued all through the year. [illustration] [illustration] the right hand that offended. "eh, lass, but thou'rt a bad un ter be talkin' o' turnin' a new leaf; with t' cursin', swearin' toongue, and t' drinkin' waays, dost think it's gooin' ter be so foine and eaasy ter gi'e t' all o'er in sich a moighty hoory?" the question was addressed by a stalwart labouring man to his wife, as he stood in the doorway of his little cottage, one of a few that nestled at the foot of one of the yorkshire hills, and from which could be seen stretching yet further below, the smoky chimneys of a large manufacturing town, in such as which england's wealth and commercial prosperity are so largely centred. "lad, thee moight well woonder at a wicked wench loike thy lass talkin' o' gettin' saaved; ay, and thee may sneer as mooch as thee loikes; aw mun reeap as aw ha' sowed, and aw deserve thy haard woords, and thee'll't not foind me makkin' ony raash booast; but aw mun saay ter thee 'at, he who saaved t' thief on t' cross caanst saave a big sinner loike me; ay, and keep me from t' swearin' and t' drinkin'," answered his wife, who was busily engaged in sweeping a filthy floor, preparatory to bestowing upon the blackened stones a hearty scrubbing. "weel, aw'll not heender thee, loike some 'ud do, if thee'll't see ter my comforts as thou hast t' mornin'," replied john ibbetson, thinking with satisfaction of the unaccustomed luxury of a well-prepared breakfast, which had been awaiting him on his arrival from his work close by, at an early hour, that same morning. pursuing his way thither again, he thought of the strange events that had been crowded into a short space of time. the invitation to the preaching of an evangelist in the mission room on the hill-side, that had been given to his wife yesterday morning; the call of a kindly-disposed neighbour, who herself regularly attended the little room, just before the evening service commenced; and then the sight he had witnessed of the neat, respectable neighbour, and his ill-clothed, dirty wife, going up the hill together. he thought of the strange scene that met his view on his return to his home after spending the evening hours as usual with a neighbour, smoking and conversing on the topics of the day, for john prided himself that his figure had never darkened the doorway of the wretched tavern that was his wife's continual resort. "t' lass knows all about t' inside o' t' beastly plaace, and 'at's enoogh for me," he would say in reply to any invitation from its many frequenters to join them in their social evenings. he never went nearer than when compelled. occasionally he waited at some little distance for the stumbling figure of his wife, in order to help her along the solitary path that led to their miserable dwelling. but no such task lay before him when he left his neighbour's cheerful fireside; neither was his wife lying in a state of helpless intoxication across the bed; nor was she even sitting muddled and stupified, waiting his arrival to make the cottage resound with her oaths, when he should refuse to supply her with the means for further revelry and drunken debauch. in the usually empty grate a glowing fire shed its warmth and radiance through the room; on the table there was a jug of steaming coffee, and a pile of bread and butter; and, strangest of all, on the well-swept hearth were his dilapidated slippers warmed and ready, and close beside them his chair, evidently drawn from its corner in expectation of his arrival. half suspicious of some new design against his peace, he looked dubiously around, and only ventured to say: "thou'rt home early, lass, t' neaght?" "ay, lad, thou sayest it; and more's t' shame, 'at aw've ever been aught but hoom ter greeat thee; aw've gotten good oop at yond meetin' hoose t' neaght, and aw've proomised t' looard and t' fouks 'at aw'll gie oop t' alehoose and t' drink; aw've been a bad woife ter thee, and a weecked mother ter t' childer; but t' looard in mercy ha' forgi'en me all my seens; and aw'm 'at happy aw could daance for t' joy. dost heear me, lad?" she continued, as her husband stared in dumbfounded fashion at her. "thee may weel stare thee een oot wi' wonner, for aw waalked streeaght ter t' tap yonder, and thinkin' ter mysen, now t' looard ha' weshed my blaack heaart t' least aw could do 'ud be t' wesh my blaack faace, aw didn't gi'e o'er rubbin' and scrubbin' till aw left thee little enoogh sooap t' wesh thysen coom t' mornin', and t' floor 'lt ha' its turn t' morrow." "lass, if 'at thee's been saayin' be true, then aw mun saay t' looard, aboot whom thee taalks so glib, 'll ha' his haands full to keeap thee oot o' meescheef for a while; it's a seaght more nor aw could do," said john, at length finding his voice. "thou'rt reaght enoogh, lad; but his hands are aye poowerful, so aw'm toold. maybe, thee 'ud goo ter t' chapel wi' me to-morrow neaght, and hear t' preachin'; it's wonnerful and foine," and then jane handed a steaming cup of coffee to her husband, and waited his reply with some trepidation, for, in her simple soul, there had already sprung up the desire, sure proof of the reality of the spirit's work in any heart that another should partake of the new life that had come to her. "see thee, lass; thee'lt just stop 'at koind o' taalk: aw'll not goo to yond plaace coom a greeat while; thee'lt have ter show t' work's reeal wi' thee, afore thee sees me walkin' oop t' hill aside o' thee; aw've no drinkin', swearin' waays ter gi'e o'er, thee knows," said john. "ay, ay, john, 'at's true, and thou'st been paatient and forbearin' wi' me, and wi' god's help, aw'll mak' thee a better woife in t' future, and mebbe when thou see'st what religion's done for me, thou'lt tak' thy waay wi' me oop to yond little room," hopefully replied sarah. well might john ibbetson pursue his way as in a dream, with such a new experience of domestic comfort to engage his thoughts; yet, reaching the farm on which he worked, he drew a deep sigh as he turned to his ploughing, and muttered: "ay, it proomises fair, but t' lass'll never hoold oot aw'm feared." "lad," said his wife, as they sat at tea before the shining grate; "thou'lt not saay aught agaainst me gooin' to t' meetin' to-noight; aw'm but weeak, and t' seaght o' t' happy faaces oop yonder'll do me a power o' good; aw'll settle doon to spend t'neaghts wi' thee, if thou wilt, by and bye." "go where thou wilt, and welcoom, lass, if 'twill help thee to keeap from t' alehouse," replied john, too wise to utter the surprise that nearly overwhelmed him on hearing his hitherto unmanageable wife appeal to him for permission to spend the evening away from her home, the claims of which had been so completely disregarded by her in the past. as the weeks went by john's fears respecting his wife's steadfastness seemed likely to be unrealised; for, under the inspiration of her new life, the home, her children, and herself underwent a thorough reformation, and her husband began to breathe freely as he marked the visible signs of the change in his wife's heart. but many a wise head was significantly shaken, and many a sage tongue whispered: "bide a while, and ye'll see it 'll all end i' smooke; saarah ann ibbetson's looved her coops too weel to gi'e un oop in sooch a hurry." it was sunday evening, and mrs. ibbetson was seated beside her fireside, spelling out with great pains the last part of the chapter which had been read before the sermon at chapel that night. it was the ninth chapter of st. mark's gospel, and she had commenced at the thirtieth verse, but had not found the passage which had troubled and surprised her whilst hearing it read; but travelling down the verses with her forefinger pointing to each line, lest her eye, unaccustomed to the task, should mislead her, and some of the sacred words be passed over unread, at last she reached the forty-third verse. "it's un!" she triumphantly exclaimed. "eh, but it's a haard un!" was her verdict when she had finished it; "aw 'll raad un agaain;" and she read: "and if thy hand offend thee, cut it off: it is better for thee to enter into life maimed, than having two hands to go into hell, into the fire that never shall be quenched." she put the bible away, and gazing into the fire, mused aloud: "aw'm daazed aboot yond text; aw never heeard loike on't; but aw'm thinkin' it's only fair; if t' reet hand offeends cut un off, and serve un reet too. t' blessed looard, he knows all about it, he does, and he'd raather see his childer waalk inter t' glory wi' one hand than know they'd gone doon inter yond daarkness wi' their two seenful hands ter burn ter all 'ternity; ay, it's plaain enoogh for a poor eegnorant lass loike mysen to get un," and having settled the difficult question to her own satisfaction, without the aid of commentators, sarah ann rose and bustled about getting her husband's supper. john ibbetson was hurrying home one night shortly after the above occurrences pleasantly anticipating the now usual sight of a clean hearth, a waiting supper, and a welcoming wife; but pushing open the door he found the room in total darkness, and on striking a light he saw it was unoccupied. "maybe t' lass 'as grown weary and gone ter bed," said john to himself, resolutely turning from a horrible fear that fell coldly on his heart. taking up the candle he stepped into the sleeping room, but the bed was undisturbed, and he came back into the kitchen, muttering: "t' chapel's all daark and cloosed, where can t'lass be? anyhow aw'll gi'e a look roound," and taking up his hat, john passed into the darkness without. shrieks and shouts, alas! too well known to be mistaken, fell on his ear. hastening forward he took his wife from the hands of those who were bringing her towards her home; but she broke from him, and staggering on with uncertain footsteps, entered the cottage first. he relit the candle, then facing her with folded arms and a stern brow, as she dropped into a chair, he said: "so thee'st been at t' cursed drink agaain, after all t' foine proomises, and thee a-foolin me, poor daft un 'at i be, to a' gi'en ear ter all thou'st had ter say. what deevil has been temptin' thee, lass, to-neet, to forget all t' chapel goin' and t' friends who ha' looked after thee so weel?" but the only answer that sarah ann seemed capable of making was the reiteration: "aw've got ter cut un off, lad; aw'll cut un off, t' wicked haand;" and the poor woman struck at the offending member with such savage force, that her husband interfered and dragged her in sullen despair to her bed. he awoke the next morning with a burden on his heart that he could not account for, until the recollection of the events of the previous night flashed into his mind. "eh, but she's a reet down bad un; what's t' use o' me pullin' one waay, and her t' other; t' poor childer's just dragged oop by t' hair o' t' head; aw'll ha' no more on't, aw've gi'en her her chances o'er and o'er, but she's coom ter t' end o' tether at laast; t' wicked hussy shaal goo," the poor fellow groaned; and with this resolve firmly fixed in his mind, he turned out of bed, and betook himself to the kitchen. there, to his unbounded astonishment, was his wife, whom he had missed, sitting beside the fire, with her arms folded in her apron, and bearing on her face the impress of keen suffering. on the table there was a cup and saucer placed for him, and the kettle was hissing and steaming on the glowing coals. "tak' summat afore thee goos to woork, lad; aw caan't help thee mysen, till t' pain's a bit o'er," said sarah ann in a trembling voice, watching her husband's face in evident fear. "aw want nought ter eat; thou'lt not soft sooap me so eaasy," replied john, gruffly; but looking at her again, he said: "what's the maatter wi' thee noo?" "see thee, lad," and the woman uncovered her apron, and revealed a sickening sight; a right hand, blackened, shrivelled, and quivering with the torture of the fiery ordeal through which it had been made to pass. strong man though he was, john ibbetson staggered back in horror. "lass," gasped he, with his eyes yet riveted, spell-bound, on the hideous spectacle; "lass, what hast thee done wi' t' poor haand?" "fetch yond bible from t' shelf, lad, and read t' neanth chaapter o' maark, and t' forty-third verse." john obeyed, and read aloud the verse which had been the subject of his wife's meditations a few sabbath evenings before. "noo, lad, aw'll tell thee all aboot it. thee'd just goon ter woork yester morn, when emma ward stepped in, and 'lass,' she said, 'thee mun coom oop t' hill wi' me, for jim green's little un's deein', and t' mother's well nigh craazed;' thee knows aw couldn't be unneeboorloike, so aw good, and gi'ed a helpin' haand, and they o'er persuaded me ter tak' a glass o' waarm speerit to keep t' cold oot, and i set my faace against it at first, but it looked so temptin', at aw stretched oot t' reet haand and finished glaas cleean off, and coomin' hoom, deevil, he saaid: 'thee ud best feenish oop at t' ale-hoose,' and aw were paarched for more o' cursed stoof, and t' knows t' rest; and coom t' morn, aw saaid, 'aw'll cut un off, t' reet haand 'at took glaass, for aw'll goo inter t' kingdom maimed sooner aw'll goo to yond plaace o' daarkness wi' my two haands,' and aw'd gotten t' axe ter chop un off, when aw thowt o' thee and the childer, and how thee and them 'ud miss t' haand, and aw coomd baack ter kitchen, and said: 'aw'll gi'en a good lesson, anyhow; aw'll gi'en a taaste o' t' fire as'll mind un o' t' fire 'at burns for aye', and aw put un in and held un in, and thee 'lt ha'e ter see ter thy own meals coom a while, and if t' nasty thing offends again aw'll cut un off, and thee'lt ha' ter do t' best thee can for thysen, for aw've promised to mind all t' book says;" and sarah ann turned the apron carefully over the poor maimed hand, and rocked herself to and fro, in her cruel pain. "thee's a braave lass; and if thou'rt gooin' ter turn t' faace from t' drink agaain, aw'll hould on ter thee, and help thee; but thee'st been reeadin' t' bible oopside doon, aw reeckon; aw never heeard tell o' fouks maimin' theirsens in looike faashion; thee'ud best get paarson ter mak' t' verse reet;" and john walked away to his work with new thoughts stirring in his breast; and a tenderness, to which it had long been a stranger, swelling within his heart at the remembrance of his suffering wife, who was so earnest in her purpose of breaking through the power of evil habit, and, at all costs, finding her way into the kingdom of heaven. "t' lass shall not goo alone," was his decision at length, and john ibbetson made up his mind that next sabbath he and his wife would walk up the hill in company, and for the first time since their marriage, enter the house of god together. the news spread like wildfire through the village that "john ibbetson's lass had well-nigh burned her hand ter t' bone for tamperin' wi' t' drink agaain;" and in the forenoon of the same day, the neighbour who had persuaded sarah ann to accompany her to that special service where a new life had dawned for her some months before, called to see what truth there was in the tale. as soon as she had entered the door mrs. ibbetson greeted her. "aw thowt thee 'ud coom, jane; hast t' heard aw got at t' drink last een? but," she said, holding up her mutilated hand in triumph, "aw've gi'ed un a good waarmin' for its sen." "eh, but it's an awfu' burnin'!" exclaimed the neighbour; "dost think, thou poor lass, at 'll keep thee from t' drink?" "if it doesn't, then aw mun cut un off, for t' book saays it, and aw'm bound to mind what t' book saays," answered mrs. ibbetson. "saarah ann," said her startled neighbour; "if thee thinks 'at t' good looard bids thee hurt and maim thysen, thou'st maade a mistaak." "nay, jane, didn't preacher saay t' other neet from t' book: 'if t' reet haand offeend thee, cut un off'? ay, and aw foound un, and reead un mysen when aw coomed hoom, and it's no mistaake, lass," said mrs. ibbetson eagerly. "but thee hast maade an awfu' mistaake, saarah ann; t' wooards be there, sure enoogh, but they doan't mean fowks mun goo cuttin' and hackin' at their own flesh. t' blessed looard were poonished for t' sin o' t' world, and we've no reet ter be thinkin' we mun poonish oursen for our fro'ard waays." puzzled and dumbfounded, poor sarah ann looked at her visitor for a while, and then asked despondingly: "and what do yond woords mean, jane?" "aw'll mak' it plaain ter thee, saarah ann; see here! t' knows t' good o' t' reet haand; thee never puts t' left ter aught if t' reet 'll do t' wooark, and t' looard knows there be many a sin 'at's loike t' reet haand ter his fouks, and there's many a fouk as 'ud saay o' t' drunkin', swearin' waays: 'aw can't gi'e un oop; aw mun ha'e a drop, or rap oot t' oath soom while, and t' good looard 'll forgi'e un and let un inter t' kingdom by and bye;' but what does t' good looard saay?" "cut un off, cut un off," called out sarah ann, who had been hanging on her neighbour's interpretation with open mouth. "ay, lass, thee sees it, and thee mun be willin' to cut un off before t' looard 'll gi'e thee his forgiveness, and let thee inter t' kingdom o' his graace below; thee knows now 'at he never meant t' poor haand ter suffer for t' sin o' t' soul; if thee sins thee 'lt suffer; but thou mun never tak' t' poonishment o' thysen agaain; thou'lt cut off t' drink, lass; thou mun promise 'at ter t' looard and t' fouks." "ay, ay, jane, aw'll promise 'at! aw'm not loike to forget coom a greeat while wi' t' hand ter mind me," said sarah ann, looking regretfully down at the useless member. "aw'll see to curin' un; aw've soom rare ointment oop at hoom; aw'll fetch un, and then aw'll coom and redd oop for thee;" and so saying jane left the house, and sore as her bodily anguish was, sarah ann knelt and thanked the lord that he had borne the punishment for all her sins; and once more, in a very ignorant fashion, doubtless, but in earnestness and singleness of purpose, she gave herself to him to be kept from her besetting sins; promising, in his strength, to "cut un off," now and for ever, and we are glad to say the promise was faithfully kept. when her neighbour returned with healing appliances, she listened with heart-felt praises on her own lips to the song of praise that was being raised, and joined in words that to her had long been sweetly familiar: "my jesus, i love thee, i know thou art mine; for thee all the pleasures of sin i resign; my gracious redeemer, my saviour art thou; if ever i loved thee, my jesus 'tis now." [illustration] [illustration] "out of the way." "that was a fine sermon, herbert! a masterpiece of eloquence and forceful teaching combined," said mrs. green to her husband, as they walked home one sunday morning after service. a look of pain crossed the good deacon's face, and he answered: "i have news which will surprise you, mary. my own suspicion and that of my brother deacons has been fully confirmed this morning." "what suspicion," asked mrs. green quickly. "that our pastor has for some time past given way to the allurements of strong drink." "oh, that is too dreadful! it cannot be true; so good, devoted, and holy a man as i have always thought him to be!" "it is certainly true. unfortunately, drink spares none, and the more noble and exalted its victims, the more sure and complete is their downfall. it will seem incredible to you; but the truth is, mr. harris preached this morning under the influence of liquor. he had been drinking before he came into the vestry, and was trembling and scarcely able to stand. he said he had been suffering with neuralgia, and asked for a glass of wine to steady his nerves. i said, 'excuse me, mr. harris, it is painfully apparent that you have already indulged too freely in stimulant.' he looked convicted, and covered his face; but presently stammered out something about his excessive intellectual labours compelling him to resort to alcohol. mr. shaw then said: 'we would far rather listen to simpler preaching, mr. harris, than know that your brilliant discourses are composed and delivered under the stimulus of wine.' he promised to be more careful in the future; but declared that it was quite impossible for him to face the large congregation unless he could gain a little self-command; and truly he was in a pitiable condition. it was close upon service time, and there was no alternative but to give him more wine. to my surprise, immediately afterwards he mounted the pulpit stairs steadily, and conducted the service, as you know, with the utmost propriety. but we are resolved that he must either give up the practice of taking stimulant, or leave the church." "oh, herbert! i'm overwhelmed. mr. harris has helped me in my spiritual life as no one else has, and it seems impossible that he could give way to such an awful sin as drunkenness," and mrs. green dashed away the tears of sympathy that had fallen, and resolved to hope and pray that her beloved pastor might break from the fatal habit which was making him its victim. but months went by, and mr. harris was found to be indulging in still deeper excess, until the story of his downfall was on every lip. again and again he vowed reformation, and before god and his people humbled himself; but he lacked the needful courage to put the poisonous cup entirely away. "i must take a little, only a little," he said, and that little continually asserted its power to entice and ensnare. couched in terms of christian sympathy and forbearance, his dismissal from the flock, over whom for years he had tenderly watched, came at length. he was sitting in his study bending over it in remorse and shame when a knock was heard at his door, and a brother minister entered. "just in time to witness my degradation," he exclaimed bitterly. "look here, shafton! it has come to this! what will become of my wife and children now?" the rev. ernest shafton laid his hand upon the shoulder of his brother, perused in silence the official paper before him, and then walked to the window. deeply cogitating, he stood there for some time, while mr. harris's face grew darker, and he muttered, "turned against me, like every one else! well, it's my own doing." "harris," said mr. shafton, suddenly, "do you know what this means for you, my poor fellow?" "ruin, i suppose," was the gloomy answer. "ay, ruin for time and eternity--having preached to others to become yourself a castaway; but you will not suffer alone, harris. your gentle, refined wife will be plunged from comfort to penury; your beautiful, promising children will know the cruel shifts of poverty; will hear their father's name uttered in accents of contempt by a scoffing world; will watch his downward career with fear and loathing, and yet, oh! mark my words, will probably follow in his footsteps, drag out miserable existences, and eventually fill drunkards' graves." "god forbid! god forbid! anything but that," exclaimed the startled minister, rising in great agitation and pacing the room. "god does forbid; but you harris, are paving your children's road to ruin. come, i have a proposal to make. by god's help, i will save you if you will let me." "do what you will, i am ready to submit to anything," groaned the trembling man. "i will use all my influence to change this dismissal into a long suspension of duties. meanwhile, you shall leave your home and come and stay with me, and i will stand beside you while you fight in god's strength against your foe; but, my brother, you must pledge yourself to abstain from all intoxicants, now and for ever. say, are you resolved, for the sake of your wife and children, and your own eternal happiness, to put the accursed thing beneath your feet?" there was a solemn pause, and in the silence a woman's step crossed the floor, and gentle hands twined round the erring man's neck. "jessie, help me, decide for me now," he cried. ernest shafton repeated his proposal to the wife, asking if she would second his efforts to save her husband, by her willing consent to leave him in the care of his friend for a year, or longer if needful, until his reformation were effected. "a year, did you say? a lifetime, if necessary," was the instant reply. stooping to her husband's ear she whispered, "go, dear henry, and in god's strength fight and conquer. let no regretful thought turn towards me, for i shall be content. "'while thee i see living to god, thou art alive to me!'" "you are an angel, jessie!" exclaimed the man, holding his wife's hands and falling on his knees. cries for forgiveness for the past and help for the future broke from him as he knelt, and his prayer was heard and answered. in years that followed he looked back upon that memorable hour as the turning-point in his history, and thanked god for the friendly hand that was reached out to save a brother from the abyss which yawned at his feet. once again he filled an honoured position as the pastor of a large and influential church. once again he passed in and out of the houses of the people, the beloved friend and ready helper of rich and poor; but in addition to former labours he became everywhere known as the advocate of total abstinence for young and old, and so persistent were his efforts in this direction, that many of the deacons and influential men of his church became rigid adherents of the good cause. "sir," said one upon whom all the pastor's arguments had apparently been wasted; "mr. harris, why can't you let us non-abstainers alone? let us go our way, and we will accord you the same liberty of action." mr. harris's brow clouded with some painful recollection, and he said with much feeling: "you compel me to refer to the past. allow me very tenderly, but faithfully to remind you that you did not accord me 'liberty of action' in times gone by." "what do you mean?" inquired the astonished deacon. "forgive me for seeming to be ungrateful for the kindness which alone prompted you; but, oh, my dear friend, remember how in years, that, thank god, are past, you and your brother deacons, equally hospitable and kind-hearted, never allowed me to decline your offer of wine or spirits. if i paid you a call before preaching, you insisted that i needed to be stimulated for my work, and pressed me to accept the best wine your cellars could supply. if i dropped in on my way home, i was sure to be looking white and exhausted, and must therefore take 'just one glass' to restore my energies. heat and cold, rain and sunshine, joy and sorrow, all afforded you an excuse for compelling me to partake of the fatal cup. your wines found their way to my table in abundance. many a time i sought to refuse your false kindness; but you know how deeply i should have grieved you if i had not accepted your hospitality. from the day i first entered upon my pastorate as a moderate drinker, i felt that it was considered a personal slight if i visited any house and refused the proffered wine. can you wonder that i grew to feel it a necessity? that presently i stumbled and fell, and for a time was 'out of the way through strong drink'? oh, my brother, let me beg, that, if you cannot banish intoxicants from your home, you will at least refrain from pressing them upon others, lest you cause a weaker brother to offend." deeply agitated, the deacon wrung his pastor's hand, abruptly leaving him with the broken words: "forgive me--i--didn't mean--didn't know--you've won me over at last." "what is the matter, my dear?" asked mrs. green in alarmed tones, as a few minutes later her husband entered the room where she was working, and throwing himself into a chair, buried his face in his hands. the deacon only groaned. "surely there is nothing wrong with our minister again," said his wife, knowing that her husband had recently been in the company of mr. harris. "no, no, and if so, i, and such as i, would have been to blame, as we were years ago, god forgive us!" mrs. green looked at her husband, half-believing that under some sudden strain his mind had lost its balance. "what do you mean? it was mr. harris's own fault that he gave way to drink, and you should remember that you and his other deacons were faithful in your constant warnings and long-suffering with him beyond what might have been expected." "we, and only we, caused his downfall, and then reproached him for the disgrace he had brought upon our church," gloomily responded the deacon. "you are speaking in enigmas; do explain yourself, herbert," impatiently urged his wife. in answer, mr. green repeated the words of his pastor, which had made so deep an impression upon his own mind. when he had finished he looked up to find that his wife's tears were dropping upon the work which had fallen from her hands. "oh, how guilty we have been, herbert! well do i remember how persistent i always was in my offers of stimulant to our minister in years gone by, and when he declined i pretended to be hurt, and said he must not refuse anything a lady offered, for she would be sure to know what was good for her guest; and then when i conquered, and he reluctantly took the glass from my hands, i felt so exultant, and all the while i was luring him on to the ruin, which might have been eternal." mrs. green broke down utterly, and there was a suspicious huskiness in her husband's voice as he spoke: "yes, we are indeed guilty, and we may have been no less so in many other instances. verily, the blood of souls is on our garments. mary, what shall we do?" "can you ask, herbert? i don't mind how inhospitable it may appear; but i am resolved never again to offer stimulants to our guests, lest i make the same fatal mistake." "that is well said, my dear; but--but--shall we agree to refrain from offering intoxicants to callers, and the visitors who occasionally sit at our table, lest we place temptation in their way, while every day those dearer than our life sit and partake with us of the cup which i now believe to possess such fatal allurements? if we have decided no longer to tempt our guests, shall we continue to tempt our innocent children, to whom we stand in their early years as their sole medium of light and knowledge? think, mary, if a few years hence one of our boys could truthfully say to us what our pastor has just said." "don't say any more; i can't bear it, herbert." for a few moments there was silence. then mrs. green spoke again: "there is only one step to be taken; from this day all intoxicants must be banished from our home. neither our children nor our friends must ever have further opportunity of stumbling over our well-meaning but cruel kindness. god, who knows how blindly and ignorantly we have sinned in the past, will surely grant his forgiving mercy to us, and help us in the future to wage successful battle against this subtle foe who has had, till now, his acknowledged place in our house." "thank god for that decision; my heart already feels lighter. from this time i will take my stand beside mr. harris in his noble temperance work, and so far as i can, help to repair the wrong we have done him. may god speed our efforts!" "amen!" reverently whispered mrs. green. [illustration] [illustration] tim maloney's pig. "och, thin, mate, an' yer don't appair to be takin' kindly to yer wark the morn! shure, an' i'm rale 'shamed uv ye, afther yer day's plasurin'," remarked tim maloney, a broad-shouldered, good-tempered looking irishman, to his fellow-workman, who, with sundry grunts and ejaculations expressive of discontent with the world in general, and his own hard-working existence in particular, had just lazily emptied his hod of bricks at the feet of tim, who was briskly disposing of them, with many dexterous pats and turns of his trowel, as he laid them, one by one, upon the wall he was engaged in building. it was early in the morning of the day following a public holiday; and, of all the workmen employed upon the block of houses in course of erection, only tim maloney and john jarvis had made their appearance, the latter of whom seemed none the better for the previous day's cessation from toil. he answered gloomily: "all very well for the likes of you, tim maloney, to be chaffin' a feller; but i'd like to know if you'd feel fit to kill yerself with work if you'd been draggin' about the day afore with the missis a scoldin', and half a dozen brats at yer heels as gave yer no peace, a spendin' of yer hard-earned money, and seein' nought for it." tim picked up a brick, and placed it tenderly in the mortar bed he had just prepared, then said: "an' isn't it bacomin' that the wife uv yer bossum and the childer should share yer holiday, an' hilp yer to spind yer money, me bhoy?" "i can't say as it isn't," frankly replied john; "but some wives is different to others; and mine just nags and worrits and gives a feller no peace of his life, and the children takes after her." "shure, an' what does she nag and worrit ye about thin?" asked tim, with a twinkle in his eye; but at that moment john shouldered his empty hod and disappeared. "the ould sthory, shure an' certin," muttered tim, and in his honest, kindly heart, for the hundredth time, revolved many a scheme for helping and stimulating his fellow-workman to a better life. the breakfast bell presently rang, and john jarvis, who lived at a little distance, threw himself at full length upon some boards, grumbling at his wife for being late with his breakfast. "maybe she's wearied herself wid followin' ye an' yer half dozen brats yester," dryly suggested tim, as he threw down his trowel and strode away to his cottage home close by, where a plentiful meal awaited him. certainly, when he met mrs. jarvis the next minute, she looked sufficiently white and fagged to justify his suggestion. "mornin' to ye," he said, nodding and hurrying by. but tim's cottage lay in mrs. jarvis's homeward way, and as her lagging footsteps passed the door, the buxom form of tim's wife appeared. "come in, an' rist ye a spell, mrs. jarvis; ye look more fit for yer bed nor to be draggin' about at all, at all." "it's just what i am. i'm sure i don't know what's coming to me," exclaimed mrs. jarvis, as she dropped into a chair. "give her a dhrop uv tay, peggy, an' she'll ravive a bit," said tim. "you're very kind, tim. why, this tea is real good, as good as what the gentry drinks. i feel quite a different creature after it, i declare;" and mrs. jarvis presently set down her empty cup with a surprised air. "i can't think how you manage, mrs. maloney. here's your husband earning the same wages as mine, yet you can afford to live a sight better than us; you're better dressed too, and what a fine place you've got; and isn't that pig in the garden yours?" mrs. jarvis's eyes had roamed from the bright, clean kitchen, through the open window to the well-stocked garden, where, in a corner, stood a sty, the occupant of which was rooting and grunting in the manner peculiar to his kind. "indade, an' ye're rayte; a fine porker he is too. i'll sind ye up a bit whin we kill, an' ye shall tasthe for yerself." "thank you kindly, tim. it's not often we can afford to indulge in a bit of bacon now. times are so hard, you see," returned mrs. jarvis, with a look of still deeper perplexity upon her face as she rose to go. tim whispered to his wife who nodded, and then turned to mrs. jarvis, saying: "now, don't ye be thrudgin' up wid yer husban's bit uv dinner. my tim'll bring him home, an' he's kindly wilcome to the bist of our purvidin'." mrs. jarvis was certainly weak and unnerved, for she fell back into her seat and began to sob. "whist, now, did ye think we mane to pisin yer good man?" said tim, cheerily. "no, no, indeed; but i don't know what to make of such kindness. it's nothing but cross words and scowling looks i ever get." tim sat down with a determined air. "jist dhry yer eyes, me dear, and listhen to me; bekase i mane it all for yer good, and jack's too, poor bhoy!" tim continued: "ye're both uv ye makin' a therrible big misthake that'll ruin ye in time an' etarnity. here's jack, a sheer lump uv misary, wid no heart for wark nor play, an' here's yerself a frettin' an' a pinin' yer life away; an' yer poor childer's like to thread in yer stheps. an' here's mesilf an' me wife, no betther an' no wurse off in the matther uv brass nor ye, as happy an' comforthable as ye'd wish, an' all bekase uv that same big misthake ye're makin'." "what do you mean, tim?" inquired mrs. jarvis, wiping her eyes. "jack 'ud know what i mane, for he's had the lingth uv me tongue many's the time on that same subjact; but i'll till ye, an' maybe ye'll lay it to heart betther nor he. mrs. jarvis, if ye'll belave me, it's the dhrink that's at the botthom uv yer misary." "i won't hear you say such dreadful things, tim. my jack's no drinker, nor me neither. we're both of us moderate, and never--never--" but here mrs. jarvis faltered; and, eyeing her steadily, tim went on: "ye niver, niver take a dhrop too much 'cept on holiday times, an' sich like; an' thin, what wid the boddher uv the childer, an' the sayte seein', an' the heat, maybe ye git a little overcome wid what ye take to quanch yer thirst." "i dare say you're right, tim," said mrs. jarvis, very much ashamed; "but i mean to say that my jack and me don't do what some folks do in the way of drinking. he doesn't spend his evenings in the public, except now and then; and, as for me, i only take what will keep body and soul together, though i confess you're pretty near the truth as to taking more than is good on holidays." "well, we won't say anythin' about sich times. but supposin' it's to-day, ye'll kape about till the childer's home from school, an' the first thing'll be: 'here, sammie, fetch me a pint of bitther,'--it's bitther, i suppose?" "yes, i can't drink swill, there's no strength in it," said mrs. jarvis. "then you'll feel spry for a bit; but it don't last, an' ye want to sit down an' take a nap afore the fire; an' whin ye git up ye feel out uv sorts, an' the babby's a burdhen, an' yer toddlin' jim's a plague; an' by the time that afthernoon school's done ye want windin' up agin, an' ye must have half a pint afore ye touch yer tay; an' whin jack fetches the supper beer, ye're more than riddy to take yer share. thin ye slape heavy like, an' if the babby wants seein' to ye can scarce wake; an' ye don't know how to dhrag yersilf up in the mornin', an' ye wish ye'd got a dhrink uv beer handy to give ye a sthart, on'y ye haven't the face to sind for it afore breakfast; but, ye may belave me, ye'll do that wan uv these days; an' the more ye take uv the pisenin' stuff, the more ye'll want, an' the wurse ye'll feel, for there's no strength an' no good in it at all, at all. it jist gives ye a little spurt for the time, but it's over in a jiffy, an' ye're cross an' fretful wid iverythin' an' iverybody, an' life's a burdhen from morn till night. an' it's jist the same wid jack, poor bhoy. an' thin, whin ye might git a few hours of plasure, ye're in an' out uv the public-houses till ye're fair fuddled; an' the nixt day ye've both sore heads and sour tempers, an' yer money's gone inter the bargain." "do you really think there's no good in the beer, tim? it does seem to put new life into one; and i hanker after it when i'm weakly." "uv coorse, that's nateral, whin ye feel sthronger an' betther afther a glass; but i've sthudied the quastion, an' wiser heads nor mine'll tell ye jist as i do,--that it takes out uv a bodhy more nor it iver puts in. it gives ye for a space what ye want; but ye have to pay for it at an awful rate uv intherest." mrs. jarvis looked frightened; but tim proceeded in still graver tones: "it's the mortal thruth as i'm tellin' ye, indade an' indade; for ye have to pay for ivery bit uv go that yer glass uv bitther gives ye wid yer ha'pence first, uv coorse, an' afther wid loss uv yer good timper, an' the time ye spind in pullin' yersilf togither agin. ye have to pay wid a wakely bodhy and a heavy heart; so the childer's sint out uv yer sayte to git inter mischif an' sin; and yer husban' niver sees yer face wid a smile on it, an' niver hears ye spake a kindly word. an' sooner nor later ye'll find ye'll have to pay for yer bitther wid the loss uv husban' an' childer; for, ye may belave me, the time'll come, bad cess to ye, whin jack'll spind ivery blissid night at the public, an' yer childer will make ye sup sorra be rasin uv turnin' to bad ways; for there's no worritin' wives at the public, an' no grumblin' mothers round the sthreet corners. an' that's the last worrud i can say, for the bell'll ring afore another minit." with a nod to his wife, and a kindly "good mornin'" to mrs. jarvis, tim hastened away. "my missis says i'm to fitch ye home to dinner wid me, jack, an' she's tould yer wife that same; so come along wid ye, for ye'll git nought but air for all ye're growlin' if ye stay there," were the words that fell on john jarvis's astonished ears, as he lay watching his companion get into his coat at the dinner hour. "well, i never, if that don't beat all," he exclaimed, jumping up and seizing his own coat. "what's put that into her head?" "case yer quastions an' look sharp now, for i want ye to have a look round me bit uv ground afther dinner," good-humouredly replied tim. the meal to which john presently sat down was simple enough but abundant, and such as he seldom partook of at his own table. he could not help also contrasting the bright, happy faces of tim's wife and children with his own. he became silent and absorbed in thought, as he walked round tim's garden when the repast was ended. "ye're an' illigant slip uv a pig, an'll make good mate to ralish the bread an' praties nixt winter, shure now, won't ye?" said tim, addressing himself to the bristly porker who grunted his approval of his master's hand, as the two men leaned over the sty. "i'd advase ye to kape a pig, jack; ye've no idaya how handy a bit uv bacon is through the winter, wid so many mouths to be fadin'." "you might just as well advise me to set up a carriage and pair," answered john, somewhat testily. "nonsinse, ye might do it jist as aisy as mesilf." "i'd like to know how you make that out, when i never have a penny to bless myself with after i've paid up on saturday nights." "jist tell me how much ye an' yer ould woman spind a week in beer," was the unexpected reply. "at yer old game, matey, eh; well, really now, i can't say. perhaps i take three pints a day; not much for a working man, tim." "an' maybe yer wife wad take a pint an' a half uv bitther, that wad make sixpence a day for yersilf, an' fourpence ha'pinny for hersilf; an' ye know ye ofthen spind more nor that. that 'ud make six shillin' an' a pinny three farthin's a wake; wan poun' six shillin' an' eight pince a month; an' sixteen poun' a year. how many pigs de ye sind down yer throats at that rate in the coorse uv twelve months, me bhoy?" john jarvis stood open-eyed and open-mouthed. "sixteen pound a year! what on earth have i been a doin'? sixteen pound a year; who'd have thought it!" he ejaculated presently; and no more could tim get out of him, till, late in the afternoon of that day, he emptied a hod of bricks at tim's feet with such energy that tim looked up astonished. "i've made up my mind, tim, to have a pig. i've been a fool, and thank'ee for as good as tellin' of me;" and then, as if afraid to trust himself to say more, he turned away to his work. that night he and his wife, in the course of a long conversation, not necessary to record here, made certain resolves; two of which were never to spend any money in beer, and to try and do their duty better to each other and their children than they ever had done. in future years they never ceased to be thankful for the promises then made, which, being faithfully kept, bore fruit in a happy home, and the envied worldly prosperity which was their neighbour's. [illustration] the mother's mistake. half a dozen little children brimful of life and frolic, a delicate wailing infant, an indolent maid of all work, and a careworn anxious mother, wearied with sleepless nights and the burden of domestic cares! "poor thing! no wonder you look exhausted!" said a friend who had called, and was listening with a sympathetic ear to the story of a woman's fretting cares and heavy responsibilities. "i wouldn't mind if only my health were vigorous, and i had physical strength to face life bravely," sighed mrs. stewart in reply. "do let me beg you to take all the care of yourself that you can. you must think not only of the present, but of the future, for these little ones who need such unceasing toil now will want your loving thought and oversight for many years to come; and for their sake, and your husband's, it is your bounden duty to stimulate your flagging energies and strengthen your system to meet the constant demand upon it," was the response. "how can i?" despairingly asked mrs. stewart; "you see baby, poor little fellow, fills my arms night and day, and seldom gives me a chance of taking proper rest." "i know of only one way in which, overtaxed as you are, you can prevent yourself from breaking down under such pressure, and that is, by taking stimulants in one form or another. when you feel nervous and depressed, don't hesitate to take a glass of wine, and before commencing your dinner and supper take a little malt liquor to give you an appetite, for after attending to the children's wants i am sure you must feel disinclined to eat anything yourself." "yes, i am often unable to eat a mouthful of solid food; but thanks for your advice; i will try what a little stimulant will do for me." so mrs. stewart commenced the daily use of alcoholic stimulants, and finding their effects to be beneficial to body and mind, and knowing little or nothing of the subtle danger that lurked in the poisoned cup, each domestic emergency that arose was ere long met in the fictitious strength afforded by the ready stimulant. years passed away, and the children, whose ceaseless demands upon their mother's patience and love had well-nigh exhausted her strength, grew into girlhood and boyhood. one morning the family was seated at the breakfast table when the servant brought in a letter enclosing a bill with the familiar signature of a well-known firm of brewers. the husband's brows knitted as he glanced down the items. "it seems to me, eliza, that we use too much ale and wine for a private family. why, we consume more and more, and i only take the same quantity that i did years ago. it's more than i can stand!" he said, looking across at his wife, who was listlessly sitting at the head of the table with her coffee untasted before her. she answered sharply: "i can't help it, john; i shouldn't take it if i didn't need it, and you might know that nothing else has kept me alive for many a year." "i don't complain of stimulant in moderation, my dear; but i cannot believe that an extensive use of alcohol can benefit a delicate constitution," replied mr. stewart. his wife was not inclined to let the matter drop. "you seem to forget that the children take their glass of ale too, and that makes some difference in the amount we use." "well, i object to strong, healthy boys and girls touching stimulants; it is expensive and quite unneedful." "but, papa, we like it so much; you mustn't stop our supplies," cried several youthful voices. "i must, and i will, my dears; you have not your mother's plea of ill-health to urge, and from this time i shall not expect you to take alcohol as a daily beverage. i have no objection to lemonade or some other non-intoxicant taking its place, for that will be much less expensive, and besides, i have lately come to the conclusion that young people, at least, are likely to be harmed by the stimulus of ale or wine." "you are very absurd, john. what harm could come to our boys and girls by taking half a glass of ale at dinner and sometimes at supper?" testily asked mrs. stewart. "why, eliza, you know that a taste formed in childhood is held with greater tenacity than any other, and this taste for stimulant, which i am sorry to see the children possess, may not always permit them to remain satisfied with a glass or so daily; for, i was reading not long ago, that the tendency of alcohol is to create a morbid craving which may become that insatiable thirst for drink which has ruined thousands of men and women who were once children as promising as those who sit round our table. i wish i had been as wise years ago; they should never have known the taste of it." so saying, mr. stewart left the table. a chorus of voices was raised as the door closed. "it's too bad!" "a great shame!" "lemonade, indeed!" and other exclamations were uttered expressing disapproval of the father's action. mrs. stewart had not been careful of late years to uphold her husband's authority in the household, and the unfilial remarks passed without rebuke, she merely adding: "you'll have to mind what your father says, you know, or we shall all get into trouble." a few hours after, when the elder children were at school, the youngest, a bright boy of seven, came to her side and said: "shall i get your wine, mamma?" "you are mamma's dear boy to remember her lunch time. yes, bring it out, though it is quite early." the wine was brought, and one glass, and then another, and yet another was drained; the little fellow meanwhile standing by. catching sight of his wistful looks, the mother said: "come, and have a sip, bertie." "papa says i mustn't," faltered bertie, but drawing a step nearer. lost to all sense of duty to husband or child, mrs. stewart answered: "come, and drink, i tell you; didn't your father say you were not to have any at dinner, and this is lunch?" she poured out a full glass, which the child drank without further demur. he was shortly asleep on the sofa, waking at dinner-time in fretful mood, and turning impatiently from his food. "i want my ale," he cried. "you mustn't have it, bertie," said his eldest sister; "we all have to do without it now, thanks to papa's whimsical notions." "wait till you're a man, bertie, and you can drink as much as you please, as i mean to," remarked his fourteen-year-old brother with a contracted brow, and a longing glance towards his mother's glass; while she, poor deluded woman, looked on, languidly smiling, with never a thought of the possible future of these children for whom she had suffered and toiled. many a time, when scarcely conscious of her own actions, did she encourage them to partake with her in secret of that which was banished from the table. it was only by the awful but timely discovery of their mother's degradation that the children were prevented from following in her steps. a few months later, upon entering the house at the close of the day, the father was met by his eldest daughter, a girl of seventeen, who, with dismay on her face, exclaimed: "oh, papa, do come upstairs, and see what is the matter with poor mamma. she has been sleeping heavily for hours, and when i have tried to disturb her, she has spoken quite wildly, and then gone to sleep again. a dreadful thought has just occurred to me that perhaps she has taken poison." mr. stewart anxiously followed his daughter to the room where his wife was lying on the bed. he bent over her. her unnatural appearance, and the strong smell of liquor which proceeded from her parted lips, told the tale; and the truth, horrible and ghastly, stood revealed to the husband. "papa, tell me the truth; is it poison?" asked his daughter, as mr. stewart staggered to a seat. he hesitated a moment, then hoarsely said: "it is poison of the worst kind, my poor child! your mother is intoxicated. oh, what shall we do? how can we save her?" one brief moment of horror, and then, subduing all outward manifestation of her agony, the girl said: "papa, we must put the temptation out of her way. we must all of us do without a luxury which has brought about such a terrible result." so from the house there was banished from that time the alcoholic beverages which had been deemed necessary; but, alas! too late to save the wife and mother from rapidly drifting into confirmed habits of drunkenness. all the schemes that love could devise proved powerless to prevent the mistaken woman from continued indulgence in the fatal cup. the apparent need for constant recourse to stimulants had long since passed away, but the habit of past years had wrought deadly mischief, not alone in gradually weakening the power of self-control, but in creating that morbid craving for alcohol which leaves its deluded victim no alternative but to obey its behests. she had seen no harm in what had become an essential of life to her, until she found herself bound in its toils. true, she did not yield to its slavery without many a struggle, but temptation was overpowering, and finally she succumbed to what she declared was inevitable. she had forgotten the only remedy available in such need as hers. no cry from her despairing heart had risen to heaven; the strength she lacked had not been sought from him who only can save from the thraldom of sin, and so, with the stain of uncancelled guilt upon her conscience, she hastened to an untimely end. as she lay dying with mind weakened by long excess, they sought in vain for some sign of penitence, for some words to assure their sad hearts that the darkness of approaching dissolution was gilded by hues of hope and trust in the forgiving mercy of god through christ. day after day the sufferer's lips were sealed in an obstinate silence that struck dismay into the hearts of the watchers. she was dying without hope it seemed; but the prayer of faithful friends rose that the intercession of the great high priest might be made, and prove effectual for his wandering child. still the shadows deepened until it became evident that the mother's hours were numbered. "i will watch beside her now, my dears," said the husband, dismissing his children for a brief period. taking his seat beside the motionless form, he sent up a petition for help. then, stooping over his wife, he said: "eliza, dear, would you not like me to pray for you?" the dying woman opened her eyes and faintly whispered: "no." "shall i send for a minister to come and pray with you, then, dear?" mrs. stewart roused herself with a great effort, and with energy exclaimed: "no, _he has prayed for me_, and that is enough." they were her last words. before the next morning she had passed away, leaving to husband and children the faint comfort of her dying testimony: "he has prayed for me." say, gentle reader, whether being assured of the thousand parallel cases which exist in this civilised land of ours, you will dare to place temptation in the way of your sister, by advocating the use of alcohol as the necessary stimulant which alone can nerve the failing heart and brain to meet the exigencies of her daily life, thus placing before her unwary feet the stumbling-block over which she may fall never to rise? it may be that you who proffer the well-meaning advice are moderate in the use of your own alcoholic luxuries, and cannot understand the mysterious attraction they may hold for another; yet, surely to you is uttered the divine warning: "woe unto him that giveth his neighbour drink, that puttest thy bottle to him." and you, sister, plying your household tasks with an aching head, amidst the ceaseless prattle of the little ones who call you mother, striving patiently to perform your god-given duties, yet fainting under the burden and heat of the day, beware, oh, beware, of seeking relief from the tension of nerve and brain, which is a woman's allotted portion, by deadening the finely strung susceptibilities of your nature by indulgence in any of the various forms which alcohol assumes, or under which it would hide. beware how you seek its false stimulus to enable you to cope with the almost superhuman duties devolving upon you! patience and strength to endure will be given in god's appointed way; but be assured you will never find it in that which is responsible for myriads of ruined homes and blighted lives. [illustration] [illustration] the children's supper. "she's such a little thing, papa; really it seems quite unnecessary to say anything about it to her for the next few years." "perhaps you are right, dear. elsie will meet with no temptation at home, and a child of her tender years is scarcely likely to find it outside." so said mr. and mrs. morgan, when it had been proposed to introduce the subject of total abstinence to their youngest, a fairy child of six, and suggest to her that she should follow the example of her parents and brothers and sisters, who shortly before had pledged themselves to abstain from the use of intoxicating beverages. "if we say anything to the dear child, it would be necessary to tell her why we consider it advisable to banish wine and ale from the house, and she would be perplexed and saddened by the insight afforded into misery and degradation of which she, at present, knows nothing. her life is all sunshine now, and we have no right to disturb her childish happiness," added mrs. morgan. so elsie's little mind puzzled over the unrevealed reason of the absence from her father's table of the bottled ales and sparkling wines, the taste of which she had already learned to like. a year passed away, and an invitation to a children's party was sent to elsie, who forthwith became wild with excitement. a dainty creature she looked on the afternoon of the important day. her golden curls softly floated over her blue merino dress, and her brown eyes flashed and glowed with delight. "mother's darling, good-bye! try and be a little lady, and nurse shall fetch you at nine o'clock," said the mother, as she pressed her child's coral lips, and then watched the little feet trip down the road beside the servant. the hours, brimful of frolic and merriment, passed all too quickly for the happy children, and at eight o'clock they gathered in the dining-room for the early supper. the long table was covered with luxuries, and beside each child's plate was a small glass of wine. "now, dear children, make yourselves quite at home, and ask for anything you want," said the hostess, as her little guests took their places. "may i have a glass of water, please?" asked an eight-year-old boy, soon after supper had commenced, pushing his glass of wine aside. "oh, my dear charlie, i am sure you will like a glass of wine much better. gentlemen always take wine, you know," replied the lady. "i mus'n't take wine, please, because i belong to the young abstainers' union," replied charlie. "why, whatever kind of a union is that, my boy?" asked the host. "it means that those who join it have promised never to touch wine or anything of the kind." "stuff and nonsense! you'll never be a man unless you can drink a glass of wine with your friends." charlie coloured, but pushed his glass further away. "never mind, dear! our little friend's whims must not be interfered with. he will learn better when he is older," said the hostess, ordering a glass of water to take the place of the wine. elsie sat next to charlie, and turning to her the host said: "now, miss elsie, you don't look as if you belonged to this army of youthful abstainers. let us see how you can drink your wine; then you shall have the glass that charlie despises." nothing loth, elsie obeyed. she had never been allowed more than a sip or two from her father's glass, and it was many months since even that quantity had passed her lips. what wonder, then, that when supper was ended, and she tried to leave her seat, she should stumble and fall to the ground, overcome by her unwonted indulgence in the stimulant. "poor little elsie! let me help you up," cried charlie; but elsie lay at his feet, and kicked and screamed in unaccountable anger. when at last she was picked up, her cheeks were purple with passion, and her eyes gleamed with a strange, wild light. "the excitement has been too much for her, i suppose; but i am quite surprised at such a display of temper. she has always seemed so sweet and gentle," and the hostess hurried elsie away to the waiting nurse. "miss elsie, miss elsie, i am ashamed of you; whatever will your ma say?" expostulated the servant, as elsie clung to her skirts and refused to say good-night. "papa, what is the matter with the child! i never saw her look so strange," exclaimed mrs. morgan, taking elsie a few minutes later from her nurse's arms. mr. morgan sat the child on his knee, and as he did so the fumes of wine met him. "she has taken more wine than has been good for her; that is what is the matter with our little one!" the horrified mother sank into a chair, but elsie raised her dimpled hand and struck at her father, crying in a hoarse unnatural voice: "i haven't, i haven't, you nasty papa! i didn't have half enough of the nice wine." "that is quite sufficient; take her away, nurse, and put her to bed. i will talk to her to-morrow." "we have made a great mistake, wife, and are reaping the consequences in seeing our six-year-old child inflamed with the stimulant which we have banished from our own home," said the father, as the door closed. mrs. morgan wept, and made no reply. long and seriously did the parents talk to elsie on the following day, who, easily influenced, as what child of her tender years might not be, listened with tears to the revelation of unknown dangers, and pleaded that she, like charlie, might make such a promise as would save her childish feet from again being ensnared by the betrayer, and in the following years prove her safeguard and defence. mothers, who read this true story, will you not beware of the danger that threatens your little children, and learn that none are too young and fair to escape the toils of strong drink, unless guarded by an intelligent knowledge of the perils that beset them, and a resolve, early formed, never to touch or handle the treacherous cup? [illustration] roland west's mark, and how he made it. "tell nurse to bring the children down, barnes," said mrs. west, as a servant answered a peal of the dining-room bell. "yes, ma'am," replied barnes, and in a few minutes the children made their appearance. after being introduced to a guest, the elder ones seated themselves at the table, from which the dessert was not yet removed. "please, mamma, may i have half a glass of sherry?" asked one. "i should like port better," said a second. "will you help them, very carefully, please, papa?" asked the mother. "i want some, too," said a bright, handsome boy of five, upraising his sparkling eyes to his father's face. "oh, no, roland, you are such a wee boy; if you have it, leonard will want it." "i do like it so much; let me have just a little drop in papa's glass," teased roland. "oh, come, mamma; that'll never hurt him; only help to make a man of him, won't it, roland?" said his father. "yes, make me a man, like my papa! when i'm big, i'll drink, oh, bottles and bottles; not have a taste of papa's," said the child, looking contemptuously at the remains of the sparkling wine, which, in his father's glass, had been set before him. "when you're a man, roland, you will be a little wiser than you are now," said his father, somewhat sharply. "i'll be as wise as--as--that man in the picture on the library wall, perhaps." "who's that?" asked the guest, in amused tones. "why, gladstone! the precocious youngster strongly admires him, and is for ever declaring his intention of copying his hero's plan of life." "he has the brow and eye of a genius, west!" said the visitor, gazing in admiration at the boy's face. "i wish i had such a child! what are you going to make of him?" "i'll give him a good education, first; fit him for the bar, if he takes kindly to the idea, and he ought, for he talks like a lawyer already. yes, he'll make his mark, i shouldn't wonder," replied the father, with pride; "but what's the matter with the boy? sleepy! at this time! here, sit up! mamma, his forehead's burning. lucy, has he had a fall upstairs?" "no, papa: but he was asleep when barnes came for us, and nurse had to wake him up to come down." mr. and mrs. west looked anxiously at the child, who was already asleep, and after observing his flushed cheeks and heavy breathing, mrs. west sent for the nurse. "nurse," she said, as the servant entered the room, "have you noticed master roland seeming unwell to-day?" "no, ma'am, he was as bright as usual this morning; but, when we were at dinner, i happened to turn my head to attend to miss hetty, and master roland emptied my glass of ale, and since then he has been very drowsy, and i could scarcely rouse him to bring him downstairs." "oh, nurse, i wish you would take your ale some other time; if the children see you taking it they are sure to want it, and i never allow them to touch anything but a little wine," exclaimed mrs. west. "roland won't come to any harm, my dear, so don't trouble yourself. carry him away, nurse, and put him straight to bed. he'll be all right in the morning," said mr. west. nurse obeyed, looking much aggrieved. bending over the sleeping child she murmured: "what with my ale and his father's drops, the boy's drunk. poor little fellow! he'll make his mark, as they're so fond of saying, but i'm afraid it will be a very black one. but i'll take no more blame to myself, for master roland shall never see me touch my ale again; not for missis's sake, though," added the girl with a dark look. ten years went by, and again mr. west entertained the same friend at his well-spread table. "what has become of that fine little fellow of yours, west? roland, i think you called him," inquired the guest, looking round the table and missing from amongst the youthful faces the one that had struck his fancy years ago. "the young scamp's just finishing his schooldays," answered the father. "he's been making his mark, i quite expect; no one could help observing the boy had splendid capabilities. do you still think of making a lawyer of him?" continued the visitor. "i don't know what to do with him; i'm fairly puzzled. it's true enough, as you say, he has splendid capabilities, and might become anything he chose; but he settles to nothing, and as for making his mark at school, he's done it with a vengeance." mrs. west frowned from the bottom of the table, but mr. west took no notice, and continued: "his education and his private bills have cost me a pretty penny." "private bills! what has a school-boy to do with private bills?" asked the guest. "oh, bills for champagne suppers and cigars, on the sly, of course; the young rascal says the other fellows do it, and he must, and i've had to pay the piper. i told him last term he would have to stop his extravagance and settle to hard work, but he seems in no way inclined to do that, and i've had more than one complaint of him from head-quarters." "well, papa, roland's only a boy yet, and we mustn't expect him to be as wise as his father," expostulated mrs. west, in a tone of irritation. "no, my dear, we must not and do not, but when i was his age----" "you were perfect, of course," finished mrs. west; "pray find some other topic of conversation than the little weaknesses of your son." "little weaknesses!" ah! thus had roland's grave faults and his early tendencies to evil courses been glossed over by the false kindness of a fond parent, until now, at the early age of sixteen, few would have recognised in the boisterous stripling, with swaggering gait and eyes already lustreless, the once lovely boy, whose childish years had given the fair promise of a golden future. choosing for himself companions rife for mischief and folly, on leaving school he indulged in those pursuits, from which, though most congenial, he had been greatly debarred during his seclusion. now he began, as he termed it, to enjoy life. each evening he sought the exciting scenes of revelry and debauch, and neither his father's stern reproaches nor the tearful pleadings of his mother, moved him to more than a passing thought of the ruin which he was inevitably working out for himself. but when his constitution had become weakened by excesses, there came into his life influences that were mighty in their gentle drawing towards all that was good and noble. while yet a young man, he met, at the house of a friend, a lady of strong religious tendencies. strongly drawn to her by the attraction of a well-balanced mind and a beautiful exterior, he resolved, if possible, to win her affections. so great was her influence upon him, that, for a time, the force of evil habits lost its power, and other society was readily relinquished for hers, and the house of god beheld him an outwardly reverent worshipper at her side. alas! that one so influenced by the power of human love should have missed those gracious impressions which, made on the tender heart of childhood, so often prove the good seed of the kingdom, springing up into life eternal. in thus taking upon himself the profession of christianity, roland was no hypocrite. he had seen the beauty and acknowledged the power of a life that was far above him, and from his heart he loathed the life he had hitherto led, and earnestly desired to put it away for ever. but strong only in his own strength, and looking to no higher power than earthly love to aid him in his upward course, what marvel that he deceived himself and others also. with his heart's desire at length accomplished, and with renewed prospects of a bright future, roland west might have retrieved the dark past, and entered upon a career of usefulness, such as had been fondly pictured for him. was it so? let one scene, after a lapse of twelve years, tell its sorrowful tale. in a cottage in one of the crowded suburbs of london, a pale, anxious-looking mother was alternately sewing and directing the studies of a fine boy, with a massive forehead and intelligent eyes. "mother, i've mastered it at last; i'm so glad," he said presently. "that's right, my son; you are quick, like your father," his mother replied with a sigh. "my father quick!" said the boy with ill-repressed contempt; "i didn't know that before." "hush, allan, your father was very clever when i first knew him, and could do anything he liked." "then why does he leave you to work so hard now, while he lounges about all day? mother, i must speak; tell me that!" cried the boy impetuously. "i cannot have you speak of your father like that, allan; but i will tell you why he cannot now do what he ought. when he was a boy like you he was allowed to choose his own way in everything, and have all that he asked for, and he chose wrong companions and sinful pleasures until he ruined and blighted his own life and others too." allan hung his head, and remembered how he had sometimes rebelled against the wise decisions of his much loved mother, and determined that in the future he would add as little as possible to the heavy burden that rested upon her frail shoulders. there was a step outside, and mrs. west rose hurriedly saying: "clear your books away, and go to bed, allan; i must lay supper;" but before allan had time to obey, his father entered. was it possible that in a few short years roland west should have become the besotted, degraded-looking man, who flung himself into the one easy-chair the room possessed? "that boy up yet," he said with a scowl, "at those everlasting books; let him go to work like other boys of his age, and earn his salt." "that's what i intend him to do as soon as he is fit, roland," answered his wife in the quiet, firm tone with which she always addressed her husband; usually he outwardly submitted to the controlling power that her voice and eye exerted upon him; but this night he was in no mood to be controlled or reasoned with. "hold your tongue, you saucy jade! what right have you to be bringing up my boy to know more than his father, and teaching him your own fine airs and graces. i'll have no more of it. here, boy, fetch me a pint of ale!" "roland," said his wife, "allan shall not go into that place of cursing and drunkenness; i'll go myself rather." "oh," said the man, inwardly quailing before her flashing eyes, "is that it, my high and mighty dame? either you or allan shall go, then." seizing a jug, in a moment his wife had disappeared, returning shortly with her face crimson, and the foaming vessel in her hand. "well, madam, you've had your way, now i'll have mine," said her husband, and filling a glass, he called his son downstairs. "here, allan," he said, "drain that, or i'll thrash you soundly." "father, you forget, i belong to the band of hope," said the boy appealingly. "drink it, i say," and the infuriated man seized the child's arm. "roland, will you blight your boy's life as you have your own?" interposed the mother. down came the cruel hand on wife and child, and, while a volley of oaths rained from the man's lips, allan lifted the glass and drained the contents. "now, go to bed, and remember that when your father speaks you are to obey. i'll make a man of you yet, you young milksop!" sobbing bitterly, allan crept to his bed, and his anguish found vent in the pitiful question: "what else can i be but a drunkard when my father makes me drink?" what, indeed, could be the future of the child, who from that time was compelled to fetch, and then partake of his brutal father's cup? what marvel that with early acquired taste for strong drink, he impatiently cast aside the restraint of a tender mother, and followed with rapid footsteps his father to a premature dishonoured end! another scene, the closing one, and all that is needful for reproof and warning will have been drawn from the life-history of roland west. * * * * * "he's worse to-day, mum," said the nurse of a workhouse infirmary to a woman closely veiled, who was bending over a bed upon which lay stretched the form of an old man. what a face for any woman to gaze upon, and know that once it had been the joy of her life to mark the light of intellect and the tenderness of devotion sparkling and kindling in the eyes that now only turned in their sunken sockets with dim, vague unrest from side to side. "do you know me, roland?" asked the visitor; but no reply was made, nor sign of any kind given. "bless you, no, mum; he doesn't know me as allus feeds him, and hasn't for months. he jest lays there and rolls his eyes about, and cries sometimes like a babby," said the nurse who stood by. "you see, mum," she continued, "it's more often like this with them as drinks, when they can't get at their drops, they jest get lower and lower, and you can't do nothing for them. my old man went off like this one, and he'd been a frightful drinker." "how do you know when he's worse?" asked mrs. west, for it was she. "he won't swaller his food, mum, and you can't get no heat into him; jest feel his hands." mrs. west took the icy hand into her own, and started at its chill dampness. "this is no ordinary coldness," she said, with a nurse's quick perception; for many years had passed since, obeying her husband's mandate, she had found occupation for herself, and food for her children, at the bedside of the sick and dying. "he is dying," she said, touching the clammy forehead; "oh, roland, say one word to your wife before you go." as if in answer to her appeal there flashed a gleam of intelligence from the glazing eyes, and with a tremendous effort one word broke from the blue lips with terrible distinctness, and rang through the ward. it was the word "forgive." then the eyes grew fixed, and the face slowly settled down into the stillness of death. he who was once the pride of a fond father, and the joy of a doting mother, had made his mark and gone from a workhouse bed to answer before his creator and judge for the deeds done in the body. [illustration] [illustration] how a husband was lost and found.[b] "well, my girl, this is a spanking place to call our own," said richard watson, as he surveyed with pride the two tiny rooms which formed the new home to which he had just brought the woman of his choice. his mother had left them together, after putting the last remaining touches to the place; and they had completed their short tour of investigation, discovering, at each step of their slow progress, some new trace of the thoughtful care that had been bestowed upon the arrangement of the goods and chattels with which the two young people had ventured to set up housekeeping. richard was a mason by trade, and although his wages were not high, they had enabled him to save something towards a rainy day, and to furnish the aforesaid rooms. jane, his wife, had been a domestic servant in a clergyman's family for many years, and had left, with mutual regrets, when richard would no longer wait for the fulfilment of her promise to him. there was only one fault that her mistress ever had occasion to find with jane; and, before her maid left, she very faithfully pointed it out; showing her that continued yielding to her failure would be likely to prove disastrous to her happiness as a wife. jane listened attentively, and promised to remember the warning, and guard against what she knew to be her greatest besetment. and she fully intended to keep her promise. richard had been so patient and good, and was so fond of her, that it would, indeed, be a shame if she did not do all in her power to make him happy. so strong was she in her own purpose, that she forgot that the habit which had grown with her years would be too powerful for merely a good resolution to overcome. but that evening, as they lingered over their meal, there was no suspicion of future trouble. the atmosphere was one of love and calm enjoyment. would that upon every married life there always rested the warm sunshine of that mutual love and trust with which most young people commence their journey together. too often the love grows cold, faith in each other is lost, and the only change that comes to many from the sore misery of living divided lives is the darkness of death, and an unknown, unprepared for, eternity. "o, richard, i never thought you'd have had everything so nice and ready for me. i quite expected plenty of work for a few days," said jane. "'twasn't likely, my dear, as i'd have brought you to that at first, i'd sooner have paid a woman; but mother, she'd have been quite hurt if i hadn't have let her set to work; and i'm sure not even you would have made the place look prettier and brighter," replied richard. "no, you're right, richard. dear old soul! it's very likely that i shouldn't have fixed the rooms half so nicely; but i shall do my very best to keep them just as they are for many a day. missis always said i was careless about my work; but it seems to me as if doing for one's own home must be a very different thing to slaving for any one else." "i've no fear of you, my dear, none at all," replied richard; "but i don't want you to be slaving and toiling away all your time. you'll get plenty of that by and bye, like my poor mother." "i can do all my own work, and perhaps lend her a helping hand, for she'll be sure to miss you; and 'tisn't fair that i should take her son, and not make her some kind of a return." "bless you, my girl! i'd thought of that before, but didn't like to say anything to you about it, because some women might have been jealous if their husbands had thought anything about their old mothers, who nursed 'em and brought 'em up. i'm real glad you're not that sort." "i should think it downright mean to be jealous of my own mother-in-law, so you never need fear for me, my dear," returned jane. thus they chatted on through the evening, the first of many such pleasant times; and for weeks richard never returned from his daily toil without being gladdened by the sight of a figure in clean print dress standing in the doorway to greet him. but one evening, although jane met her husband as usual, there was something about her which puzzled richard. "what's the matter with you, missis?" he inquired at length, examining her critically, as she took her seat opposite him at the table and began to pour out his tea. jane flushed and hesitated, and finally said: "what eyes you men have! can't you see?" "i declare you've never changed your morning gown, and it wasn't extra clean to start with; so said i to myself this morning: 'i suppose jane's going to have a cleaning day; but there's one comfort, she'll be as neat and clean when i get back as she was the first day she stepped foot in the house.'" "that's just how it is, richard. i've had a good hard day's work; and i was so tired, i thought for once it didn't matter about changing my dress, as my hands and face were clean." "humph," said richard. he was evidently not quite of his wife's opinion; and, all that evening, whenever he happened to look across at jane, he experienced a disagreeable sensation at the unaccustomed sight of a dirty dress, and hair that was anything but smooth. richard was certainly very particular; and the next morning, on returning from closing the street door behind him, after listening to his last charge to meet him that evening in her usual spotless attire, jane uttered the ejaculation: "fussy!" at that juncture, her landlady, mrs. jones, stepped in, asking for the loan of some kitchen utensil, and jane, with little work on hand, fell into gossip. "yes," she said, in answer to her neighbour's comments on the appearance of the room, "it does look nice. i spent the best part of yesterday over it. my good man is very particular, and so am i, for the matter of that, and i like a clean place to sit in." "ah, well, wait till you've a batch of children, like me, and you won't be able to have your regular cleaning times, and get done to sit with your husband of evenings. not that mine's ever at home, if i had the chance of sitting down a spell," said mrs. jones. "my husband always stays at home, and i should fret if he took to leaving me alone," replied jane. "don't you make too much fuss over him at first, my dear. he'll be spoiled, and always expect you to keep it up. just you take my advice, mrs. watson, and live a little easy the next few months, while you've got the chance. life'll be hard enough for you, depend upon it; and i'd just save my strength if i was you, for you'll need it all." with these parting words the woman went away, leaving her suggestions and advice to work as they might in jane's mind. it was so different to anything her husband's mother had ever said to her on the matter. "spare no pains," she had said, "during the first year of your married life, to make home the happiest place in all the world for your husband, and you will never regret it." hitherto jane had listened to her words and acted upon them, thereby securing her own and her husband's happiness. now she sat down, somewhat listlessly, to think over what mrs. jones had just said. "who's likely to be right, i wonder, mother or mrs. jones? 'tisn't likely that his own mother would think her son could be spoiled; and yet, i don't know but what i'm doing that, and i'm sure i can't keep it up always. i never have an idle moment," mused she; "what with keeping my own place as clean as a new pin, and running round to mother's. i wonder what mrs. jones would have said if i'd told her that he didn't like my dirty dress yesterday evening, and scarcely said a word to me, after slaving all day to please him! men do want a lot from a woman, i must say!" but just at that point jane started to her feet, and resolutely put away the new thought which had come upon her quite unawares. but jane's habit had asserted itself again, and, little by little, she yielded to it; until one day richard let himself into his home with the latch-key, and, walking into the little kitchen, found an untidy place, and a dirty wife stooping before a fireless grate. "come, come, missis, do you know the time?" he said. "how should i, when the clock's stopped?" "why didn't you wind it then, my dear? but don't flurry yourself," he added kindly; "i'll get cleaned, and then maybe tea'll be ready." and passing into the outer kitchen, richard began to wash away the traces of his day's work. half ashamed of herself, jane bustled about, and soon had tea waiting. when richard came in he glanced at his slatternly-looking wife, and said: "i don't mind waiting while you're making yourself tidy, jane." "it doesn't matter, richard. we're late to-night, and the evening will be gone directly." "well, jane, i don't like my wife to sit down in such a dirty state as you're in. i don't see the need of it, when i can be clean enough." "oh, no! i dare say not; you men think we women folk can do the dirtiest work and never soil our fingers and be always ready to dance attendance on you whenever you choose to come home," said jane, using her perverse woman's tongue as she had never before ventured to do in her husband's presence. richard opened his lips to utter a sharp retort, but, being a man of peace, thought better of it; and, rising from his seat, took down his hat from its peg, remarking that there was one woman at least who he knew would be very glad to dance attendance upon him, and as he thought he had rather neglected her of late, he would go and spend the evening with her. the moment he had gone, jane rushed into the street, calling: "come back, richard, do come back!" but richard had gone too far to hear, or did not choose to heed her cry. "he's never left me before," she cried, as she returned to her desolate room; and conscience, with many a sting, told her that it was all her own doing. richard rapidly made his way to his mother's cottage; but when he reached it, all was darkness, and there was no answer to his repeated knocks. "out nursing again, i suppose," he muttered, and not knowing whither to turn his steps for the evening, for he was determined not to return home till late, he stood hesitating. "well, dick, my boy, what brings you away from your home and your wife to-night? it's a strange thing to clap eyes on you these days," said a voice at his side; and turning, he saw a man with whom he had formerly worked. "you're right; i don't often turn out of nights; but i wanted to see my mother, and i find she's out." "the very ticket! your wife won't be expecting you back just yet; and we want a sociable, sensible fellow like you at our workmen's club. you've promised me many a time to come and see us; now's your chance!" said the man, clapping him on the shoulder. "i don't care if i do look in," said richard after a moment's deliberation; "but i mustn't be late." "come along, then," answered the man, well pleased with the chance of introducing a manly fellow like richard to his companions in the neighbouring tavern, where the meetings of the club were nightly held. suffice it to say, that late that evening richard was helped to the door of his home by some of its members, with the understanding that he was to be enrolled among their number on the following evening. it would take too long to picture jane's distress when she met him after her long waiting and remorse. her husband in such a condition, and none to blame but herself! she did not sleep that night, and in those dark hours she determined that the past should be retrieved. she watched him anxiously the next morning, but he never spoke, except to answer her questions in monosyllables. long before his time for returning from work had arrived, the kitchen was spotlessly clean, the kettle singing on the shining grate, and jane herself arrayed in a clean gown and new ribbon. "surely, he'll want to stay at home to-night, when he sees how pleasant everything looks again," said she to herself. when he came in, he took no apparent heed of his surroundings, but drank his tea in moody silence. when he had finished, he rose and took his hat, but jane started up, crying: "oh, richard, pray don't leave me again to-night! see how nice everything is, and i promise you it shall always be so." "don't take on so, lass," he said, touched by the sight of her tears; "i won't be long away, but i've made a promise, and must stick to it," and with that jane had to be content. but though she watched until she grew weary he came not to cheer her loneliness. she had carelessly permitted him to leave her side, and now other influences were around him, and she must reap the consequences of her folly. from that time jane's evenings were spent in solitude and tears. in vain she sought to keep her husband under the safe shelter of his own roof. when he would have yielded to her entreaties, his companions came and carried him away in triumph. eventually, jane grew resentful and careless, and when her first little one was born she had settled down to habitual neglect of her home and her own person. the responsibility of motherhood roused her to fresh efforts, which, if she had persevered in them, might have proved successful, but she soon relapsed into her slatternly ways, and was content to spend her days listlessly nursing her baby, and musing upon the wretchedness of her lot. at first richard had taken considerable pride in the tiny atom of humanity which had found its way into the home; but baby came in for her share of neglect, and after a while her father took little notice of her. "poor little baby! your father doesn't care for you or me! he loves the drink and his public-house mates a deal better than the pair of us," sighed jane many a time. well, jane, who sent him to the public-house to find friends and amusements, in the first place? you have no one to thank but yourself you know, or you might know, if you would care to think. but jane seldom did think, and the gulf in the cottage home between husband and wife grew wider and deeper as the months and years rolled away. children were born to their lot of misery and neglect, and jane had hard work to fill their hungry mouths and cover their nakedness. pitifully small grew the weekly sum which richard brought home to meet the growing need of those who belonged to him. how else could it be when so large a portion of his hard-earned money went to support the wife and children of the thriving publican whose house richard patronised every evening of the week? "i don't know how you expect me to get bread and pay rent with that pittance," said jane one saturday evening as he threw a few shillings into her lap. "if it isn't enough, why don't you go out, then, and earn for yourself, like many a better woman than you is doing?" he growled. how low richard had sunk! but he had only gone down one step at a time. "and who'd look after your children, i'd like to know, while their mother's away slaving?" retorted his wife. "precious little looking after such dirty brats want. something to eat once or twice a day, and mud to make pies of, and they're enough like their dirty mother to be satisfied," said richard, scowling in disgust at his miserable-looking wife, who replied: "i'm a good match for you, whatever you may say, although i should be sorry to have your red nose and bleared eyes." richard muttered an oath, and his wife disappeared, having gone as far as she deemed prudent. "i've a good mind to go out cleaning after all. it's a new idea. i can't sit in the house, and fold my arms in idleness while the children want bread," said jane to herself that evening. "it's true enough that the children don't want much looking after. i dare say mrs. jones would take baby and give the others their food for a few pence, if i could get work." "i declare i'll do it!" she presently decided. there was little difficulty in getting work, and for her children's sake jane worked as she had never done before. with the continual strain on body and mind she grew prematurely old and worn; but there was no help for it. she must work now until all strength failed, for richard's money ceased altogether, and the children were wholly dependent upon her exertions. one day she went to a new place to which she had been recommended by one of her constant employers. whilst she was cleaning a window in the room where the mistress of the house was seated at work, the lady commenced a conversation. usually reticent about her own affairs, mrs. martyn's gentleness touched jane's desolate spirit, and the story of her wretchedness was soon told. "were you happy when you were first married?" mrs. martyn inquired, and was startled by the vehement answer: "oh, yes, ma'am, as happy as the day was long! my husband was so good, and always spent his evenings at home. ah, we were happy!" "what made the difference, my poor woman?" was the next question, and jane hung her head. she had long ceased to blame herself for her share in the wrong which had blighted her life. it all came back to her now; conscience spoke, and would not be silenced, and told her that but for her wrong-doing, hers might still have been a happy home. "it was my fault, ma'am," she faltered. "i was careless and neglectful of his comforts, and spoke sharply to him for no earthly reason, and he's that changed, i don't know him, and he gets worse. look here, ma'am," and opening her dress she revealed a bruise, inflicted by a cruel hand, "that's the first time he's ever given me a real blow; but he'll not stop at that." "poor thing," said mrs. martyn, shuddering at the revelation of a sister's woe. "couldn't you try and win him back?" "i tried years ago, and it was no use, and now he isn't worth it, ma'am," answered jane. "but suppose he could be drawn from his evil companions, and strong drink! don't you think it would be worth while to have an affectionate father for your children, and a tender husband for yourself, mrs. watson?" "yes, ma'am, if it could be done; but i don't believe it could," replied jane, despondingly. "will you promise me to make one more effort if i help you, and ask mr. martyn to look after your husband? he wouldn't be the first man whom my husband has helped out of the mire." a flash of hope lit up jane's face, and she said: "you're very kind to take any interest in a stranger, ma'am, i'm sure, and if it will please you, i'll try once more." "that's right; now go on with your work as quickly as possible, and i'll do my best to arrange some plan for you." jane's fingers fled over her work, as she looked into a possible future of brightness for herself and her children. "hoping against hope," she called it, and yet she continued to hope. at four o'clock that afternoon, mrs. martyn came to her and bade her lay aside her work, and prepare to go home. "never mind finishing, mrs. watson; the servant can manage very well now, and it is of the utmost importance that you should be home early to carry out my plan," said the lady. "your husband comes home, you tell me, soon after six for his tea. now you must have your kitchen as neat and clean as you can get it in the time. the fire must be bright, and the tea laid, and everything as much like it used to be as possible. in this parcel you will find a little good tea, and a chop for your husband, also a few other things which you may find useful. you may take the old carpeting you shook to-day; it will do to lay down before your fire-place. but, above all, you must be perfectly clean and fresh yourself, your best dress on, and a bright ribbon, if you have it, and your children to match. don't forget anything, and mr. martyn will look in during the evening and see if he cannot persuade your husband to come with him to the gospel temperance room and sign the pledge. remember, i shall be asking god to bless your effort, and i believe he will." "oh, ma'am," cried jane, with streaming eyes, "how can i ever thank you for your goodness?" "don't wait to try, but run off, or you will not have time to prepare for your husband's return." with hurried footsteps jane sped home. arrived there, she begged mrs. jones to keep her baby until she was ready for her, while the other little ones were dismissed into the back yard. it was years since the grate had received such a polishing, or the floor such a scrubbing. when it was finished, jane surveyed the work of her hands with satisfaction. "now for myself," she said. opening the bag mrs. martyn had given her, she discovered a white apron, two or three clean pinafores for the children, besides the things mrs. martyn had specified. "i'll put on one of those print dresses i used to wear. it's faded and old-fashioned now; but it's clean, and that's more than the rags i've got are, and maybe richard'll think i look something like i did years ago," said jane; and, although there were lines of care on her forehead, and hollows in her cheeks, there was such an unwonted sparkle in her eyes as she tried the effect, that she scarcely recognised herself as the same forlorn-looking creature who had left the house that morning. "come, children, i want you." three ragged, unkempt little ones came running in. "oh, mother, what a nice fire!" "oh, mother, what a lovely cake!" and "oh, mother, how grand you look, and what a clean floor you've made!" were the exclamations that burst from the astonished trio, as they entered the room. "yes, it's a clean floor, and you must try to keep it so; and if you're good you'll get some cake when father comes home. listen, children! perhaps if you're very quiet and behave yourselves, father'll stay at home to-night and every night, and then i needn't go out to work any more, and leave you alone all day long." "oh, mother, that would be jolly!" they cried. jane had scarcely imagined what a little attention would do for her neglected children, and she exulted in the thought that their father would scarcely know them. baby's turn came last of all; and finally jane sat down, with all preparations made, in no little trepidation, to await her husband's arrival. his heavy step was heard at last, and she rose as he entered the room, while her children clustered round her. "beg pardon, missis," stammered richard, after a moment's stupified pause; "i've made a mistake somehow." "oh, richard, richard, you've made no mistake! this is your home, i am your wife, and these are your children." "jane," he exclaimed, "what's come to you all? who's coming, and what's this cleaning up for?" "richard, my dear, there's no one but you coming, and this cleaning up is all for you; and if you'll only make up your mind to stay at home always, you'll never find any worse place to come to; but a great deal better in time, i promise you faithfully," and jane sank down in her chair, unable to stand any longer. "well, my girl, i will say as it's the pleasantest sight i've set eyes on for many a long day. put the baby down, and let's look at you again. i declare you look like the jane i brought home years ago. i thought i'd lost her for good, i did; but here she is again," and he put his hands upon her shoulders and kissed her; the first kiss that his lips had left upon hers for years, and jane melted into floods of tears. "oh, richard," she said, laying her head upon his breast, "if you'll only forgive me and love me again, i'll make up for the past by being the best wife that ever a man had!" "nay, my dear, you've got no call to talk like that. i've been a wretched husband, and a bad father, and it's me as needs to ask forgiveness. don't cry, lass, now don't, it hurts me," and jane restrained her tears as quickly as possible, and with womanly tact seated the baby on his knee, and sent the other children to crowd round him while she made the tea; so that when they took their places at the table the strangeness of the scene had well-nigh disappeared. the children partook freely of the good things which mrs. martyn's care had provided; but richard and jane found it hard work to touch anything, for the tide of recollections that swept across them and threatened at times to destroy their outward composure. after tea jane anxiously watched her husband's movements, and in terror saw him rise from his seat. "you're not going out, richard?" she pleaded. "nay, lass, don't be afraid," he said, kindly, "i'm only going to wash, and make myself fit for the clean place and the clean wife." overjoyed, jane bustled about, and quickly put the children to bed; and when richard entered the kitchen again, she was sitting with needle in hand and a pile of ragged garments by her side. "this looks like old times, jane," he said. "it's my fault that there's ever been any change, richard," she answered, humbly; "but if you'll only help me, we'll have our happy home back again." "i don't know what to say, jane, to always staying at home with you. you see, there's the club, and i'm almost bound to attend the meetings sometimes, and they're held in the 'green dragon,' and when once a fellow's there, he can't get away in a hurry." "oh, richard, let the club go. it'll never do you any good, and unless you break away altogether, it'll be the ruin of you." richard looked thoughtful, but said nothing. just then there was a knock at the door, and he started up, saying: "that's some of my mates. i'll send them off to-night, jane, anyhow." "oh, that it may be the kind gentleman who has promised to come!" thought jane. it proved to be mr. martyn, and richard waited with the door in his hand, in doubt as to the stranger's errand. "are you mr. watson?" asked the gentleman. it was so long since richard had heard himself addressed in such a manner, that at first it did not strike him that he was the man who bore that name. "that's me, sir. will you come in?" mr. martyn walked into the kitchen, glanced round in pleased surprise, and took the chair that jane proffered. "now, mr. watson, i have only heard of you this afternoon, but i believe you're just the man we want." "glad to help you in any way i can, sir," answered richard, in much surprise. "well, we have taken a hall down the road, here, and we want to fill it with working-men whose evenings are free; make it a comfortable, homely place, you know, with books, and papers, and harmless amusements, and an occasional lecture or address, with, perhaps, a little speechifying among the men, as some of them know how to talk sensibly. we only commenced last week, but we are getting on nicely, and intend, on sunday evenings, holding a lively service, with plenty of singing. will you join us?" asked mr. martyn. "i should like to, sir; but don't talk of me being the one to help you, for i want helping myself. perhaps you don't know; but i've been going down, down, these six years and more, and i'm fairly sick when i think what a fool i've made of myself," said richard, with drooping head. "come, my friend," answered mr. martyn, with his hand on richard's shoulder: "that's the first step towards becoming a wiser man. the second is, to make up your mind that the past shall be retrieved as far as that is possible, and that for your wife and children's sake you'll turn over a new leaf." "it's easy to talk, sir, excuse me; but you don't know what that means for a poor man like me," said richard. "i do know something about it," replied mr. martyn; "it means, every day, facing, like a man, the taunts and jeers of your fellow-workmen. it means fighting with all the power you have left, and all the power that god can give you, against the terrible cravings of the appetite for strong drink which you have created for yourself. it means giving up any pleasure which you have found in the excitement of the tap-room, and the company of your so-called friends. but let me tell you what else it means. it means holding up your head, like a being created in god's image, as you go through life. it means retaining the love of your wife and children, and once more rejoicing in home comforts and fireside joys; and, above all, it means putting away from you the greatest and most effectual hindrance to your walking in the narrow way, which leads to the heavenly home and eternal life, in the presence of god." richard was much stirred by mr. martyn's words. he buried his head in his hands, and when he looked up again, there were traces of deep emotion on his face. "sir," he said, "i thank you from my heart; it's all true, and a deal more than you've said, but i never heard it put so plain before. i've a mind to come round to your place to-night; leastways, if my poor wife'll spare me," added richard, with unaccustomed consideration. "i shall be delighted, richard, if you'll go; and thank you, a thousand times, for your kindness, sir," said jane, her face beaming. "you can come, too, if you like, mrs. watson," said mr. martyn. "me, sir! do you mean it?" "why of course. you don't think we give invitations to married men without including their wives?" "that's a new idea," said richard, "but i don't know but what it's a good one. we shouldn't get into half so much trouble as we do if our wives went about with us more. i'm glad to have you, jane; it's a long spell since you and me went anywhere together." satisfied with the success of his errand, mr. martyn led the way, chatting to his companions, until they entered the hall. there were many working-men already there, some lounging in chairs, or on forms, with their papers or books; others deeply interested in the game of chess, or draughts. a few were smoking, with glasses of refreshing, but certainly not intoxicating, beverage before them. richard was wonderstruck at the novel scene, and its air of thorough homeliness. "this'll be the place for me, jane," he whispered. an address had been announced for that evening, and mr. martyn was expected to speak. after leading richard and his wife to seats, he mounted the platform at the end of the room, and in a friendly, familiar style, commenced to talk with the company. most of them laid aside their occupations, well pleased to listen to one who was known to be the friend of working-men, and ever ready to help them in the difficulties and temptations of their daily life. like dew on thirsty ground fell his wise suggestions, his timely warnings, his earnest counsels, upon the ears and hearts of the new-comers. responding to the invitation with which he closed, they, with two or three others, stepped forward and asked to sign the pledge, tremblingly venturing to hope that even for them the future might hold a new life. we may take the liberty of raising the curtain which conceals it from their view, and assuring our readers that their hopes were realised, for the old brightness and love found its way back into the home in which sin and misery had reigned for years. trusting no longer in their own strength to keep the good resolutions with which they commenced the new life, they found that he, whom they had slighted and forgotten, was not only ready to forgive their past sin and folly, but was mighty to save and keep them to the end of life's journey. [illustration] footnote: [b] reprinted by permission from "the opposite house," published by t. woolmer, castle street, e.c. [illustration] downward steps. "may the holy vargin an' all the blissid saints purtect us! here's yer father comin' up the coort as dhrunk as a pig. get along inter hidin' wid yer, childer!" so saying, mrs. ryan, who had been standing with her baby in the doorway of her wretched home, gossiping with the neighbours, stepped into her kitchen, and awaited the arrival of her drunken husband with trepidation. "maybe he'll tumble upsthairs an' slape off his dhrops, bad cess to him for a nasthy silfish brute," she muttered. but no, donovan ryan staggered into the kitchen, and greeted his wife with an inane smile, which in no wise deceived her, taught by many an experience, how more than likely it was that the next moment his tipsy amiability might be exchanged for the utmost fury. "an' what will i be gettin' for yer tay? shure ye're home airly the night," she tremblingly said. "it's yersilf that's mighty oblagin' intoirely, an' hasn't donovan ryan, at yer service, ma'am,"--making a low bow which nearly lost him his unsteady balance,--"a right to kem to his own home whiniver it may plaze him, widout askin' yer lave, ye miserable, dirthy, scoldin' broth uv a wumman?" donovan had raised his voice from low, mocking accents to stentorian tones, which shook the little room. poor mrs. ryan shrank further and further away. "shure, donovan, i meant no harm at all, at all. be aisy now; an' i'll git ye a cup uv tay in a jiffy," she said, coaxingly. but, according to his ideas, donovan had received a grievous insult, and there was only one way in which the said insult could be avenged; and, being made of that stern, courageous stuff of which some few of our british workmen are composed, he proceeded to teach mrs. ryan, in a very practical manner, that she really must not venture to offend the perfectly justifiable ideas which he held of his own importance and dignity. in all wifely submission, as in duty bound, and according to long-established custom, she made no demur to the very ordinary proceeding which occupied donovan's attention for the next few minutes. "see what ye'll git for venturin' to interfare wid yer husban'," he said, as he paused for want of breath. with a well-directed kick at the prostrate form before him, and a few genial imprecations on womankind in general and his own wife in particular, he shuffled out of the house. "he's been up to his tricks again; a beatin' of his poor wife. it's well he ain't my husband. i'd never stand it as she does, poor creature," said one of the women who were standing about. "i don't see how you'd prevent it; but i'm going in to see whether poor mrs. ryan is quite done for." mrs. fisher, the last speaker, left the group and entered her neighbour's house. in response to a feeble "come in," she opened the kitchen door, which donovan had slammed behind him. mrs. ryan was sitting on the floor crying bitterly. "i'm kilt intoirely, mrs. fisher, an' me poor babby's frighted to death. shure her father's a murtherin', battherin' wretch. i'll take him afore the magisthrate, i will." "poor thing, let me see what i can do for you," said mrs. fisher. a few womanly ministrations, a cup of tea and kindly words, and mrs. ryan was comforted. "don't be thinkin' hardly uv donovan. he's civil spoken an' kind enough whin the dhrink's out uv him; an' i'll have to put up wid his cross worruds an' his batin's, for he's me husban' an' the father uv me childer," were her parting words to her neighbour. it was easy to be seen that mrs. ryan had proved no dull scholar, but had readily learned the manly logic that might is right almost as perfectly as her husband had intended that she should. "i'll keep your children to tea, mrs. ryan; and, if you like, they can go with my jimmie and alice to some children's affair they're holding in the school-room round the corner this evening." "shure ye're the bist uv neighbours an' i'm grateful to ye for riddin' me uv the worrit uv of the childer for a spell. but will ye jist sind meg in afore she's off to the matin'? me head's crazy, an' she must git me a dhrop uv the craythur to put a bit uv spirit inter me." mrs. fisher promised, and then left the house. after tea, little meg, a forlorn, wiry child of eight years, came in and fetched the stimulant which her mother craved, and with which mrs. ryan comforted herself over her trying lot. about eight o'clock the little ones returned. three unkempt, ragged urchins, full of excitement about all they had witnessed. "oh, mother, sich pritty picthures, an' sich fine singin'. an' sich nice spoken jintlemen an' ladies." "an' sich swate cards wid ribbon to hang 'em up." "an' what was it all about, thin?" asked the weary mother, roused to interest. meg answered: "the jintlemen tould us that the dhrink was a curse an' a shame, an' he said it made folks cruel an' bad--" "thrue for him!" interjected the mother. "an' he said," continued meg, "that it wad be betther for no wan niver to touch it at all, at all, an' thin they wad niver git dhrunk. an' he wanted all the childer in the room to sign a promise niver to put it to their lips; an' heaps uv 'em wint up an' signed, an' got a card wid their names on to hang up, an' mrs. fisher's jimmie an' alice signed. an' we said we'd ax you, mammy, an' maybe you'd say, 'yes,' an' thin we could sign nixt week." "yes, an', mammy, we don't want to be like daddy whin we grow up, so we may sign, mayn't we?" eagerly put in teddie, the youngest. "ye might be worse nor yer poor father, an' don't ye say a worrud against him; an' as for ye signin' the pledge, ye'll do no sich thing. a dhrap uv the craythur now an' thin won't hurt a livin' soul; an' i'll not have ye sit yersilves up to be betther nor yer own father an' mother." and poor deluded mrs. ryan finished her third glass of hot whiskey and water, and drained the sweet dregs into the open mouth of her wan-faced baby. a few days after, his drinking bout being over for the time being, donovan ryan sat over the kitchen fire watching his wife's preparations for tea. "shure, patty, have ye heard that harry fisher has turned teetotal?" he suddenly said. "niver, shurely, now; what's the likes uv him, as niver gits dhrunk more nor wance in a blue moon, nade to be jhinin' a wake-minded, wathery set like the teetotalers?" exclaimed mrs. ryan, in a tone of irritation. donovan stirred uneasily. "sorra am i the man to say he's made a misthake, for i'd jhine that same set mesilf if i thought i'd howld out whin the dhrink craze takes me." "i'd be ashamed to own ye for me husban' if ye made such a fool uv yersilf, donovan," cried his wife, with energy. "it's thrue enough ye overstips the bounds uv sobriety oftener nor harry fisher, more shame to ye; but to make out ye're afeard uv a dhrap uv the craythur, an' give yer worrud niver to touch it, wad be to confess yersilf a poor wake gossoon widout any sperrit in him at all, at all." mrs. ryan was never afraid of her husband in his sober moments, as will be readily observed. indeed, at such times, he stood somewhat in awe of her sharp tongue. on the present occasion she continued to rail against water-drinkers and their weakmindedness, till, as if ashamed of the moral cowardice he had evinced, donovan said: "whist, wumman, hould yer tongue, ye've no nade to fear i'll jhine the teetotalers, so make yer mind aisy on that point." after which assurance mrs. ryan cooled down, and allowed her husband to smoke his pipe in thoughtful silence. "what on airth are ye thinkin' uv, mrs. fisher, to let yer husban' sign against a dhrap uv good beer?" she said the next morning to her neighbour. "i'm downright glad he has, and i mean to do the same. you see, the children's set the example, and were so earnest for their father to sign, that he made up his mind to do so. i wish you'd let your little ones do the same, and persuade your husband too." "bad cess to ye for settin' yerself up to be suparior to yer neighbours, and advasin' uv them to follow yer example. faix, i'd rather me husban' git dhrunk ivery blissid day uv his life, an' bate me black and blue inter the bargain, nor sign the pledge." and in high dudgeon mrs. ryan went in, slamming her door behind her with great violence. weeks and months passed away, and still, in the dingy court where the ryans and fishers lived, the same sad scenes of sin and degradation were witnessed. one day it was rumoured that the fishers were moving into a better neighbourhood, which rumour proved to be correct. "an' didn't i say as her ladyship, wid her illigant slips uv childer, an' her jintleman husban' wad soon be too suparior intoirely to mix wid the likes uv us. axin' yer kind lave, shure it's peggy ryan as wishes ye ivery blissin', an' has the honour uv givin' ye a partin' bit uv advace. lave yer dacint neighbours alone, an' don't hould yer head up so high, me dear." thus saying, mrs. ryan stood in front of mrs. fisher, who was about to follow her goods and chattels out of the court, and, to the amusement of the bystanders, spread out her scanty skirts, and made a sweeping curtesy. for some time past mrs. fisher had found it difficult to live peaceably among her neighbours, proving how advantageous to health and pocket her own and her husband's temperance principles had been, they had both tried to secure adherents to the good cause. they had met with little success, and in some instances, notably that of mrs. ryan, had earned for themselves continual abuse and scorn. years passed and donovan ryan went down to a drunkard's grave unwept and unhonoured. with rapid footsteps his wife followed him, leaving to the children as her legacy, the craving for intoxicants which had been engendered in their infancy and ministered to with such assiduity in following years. is the story improbable, impossible? no, for thousands of lives cursed with the disease of drink attest its truth. there was a ray of hope seen; there was help offered in earlier years; but some hand, perhaps that of the wife and mother, quenched the hope, and thrust aside the offered help, and forced those for whose salvation it was responsible into paths of ever-deepening darkness and rayless despair. [illustration] how jarvis was saved. "it's quite true, ma'am, i've been a drinker; but, indeed, i've given it up, and if you'll only give me a chance of redeeming my character, you shan't ever regret it." the lady who was thus addressed looked up from the letter she had been reading, somewhat doubtfully, at the speaker who was a woman past her early youth, red-faced and coarse-featured, but with honest gray eyes and a set mouth that bore witness to the purpose indicated by her words. "but you lost your last situation by giving way to drink," said mrs. reston. "yes, ma'am, i did. i had got into the habit, and nothing was kept locked up, and i couldn't help taking it when the longing came on me." the woman was singularly frank the lady thought, and after further conversation, it was decided that she should enter mrs. reston's service as cook. "you will find no temptation to drink here," said mrs. reston. "i keep all intoxicants under lock and key, and the housemaid does not take anything of the kind. so you see, if you really wish to reform you have a good chance, and, indeed, if i did not think you were sincere in your wish to turn over a new leaf, i would not engage you." the woman's voice broke a little as she thanked her future mistress and left the house. "really, edmund, i was so struck by her intense desire to begin a new life, and as in every other respect her character was unimpeachable, i thought here was a fine opportunity of putting the golden rule into practice," replied mrs. reston to her husband's remonstrances upon the rashness of her proceeding. "what a woman you are! you know that such an argument is unanswerable, and i must retreat from the field vanquished," laughingly remonstrated the husband, and the matter dropped. "now, jarvis," said mrs. reston, when a few mornings later she had given her orders to the new cook, "i dare say you will miss your usual stimulant for some time, and you are quite at liberty to make yourself coffee or cocoa whenever you wish, and if there is any other way in which you may be helped to fight against your besetment let me know, for i want you to look upon me as your friend." cook stammered something unintelligible, and, somewhat surprised at her agitation, mrs. reston left the kitchen. "if this don't beat everything! nothing but lectures and black looks have i ever had before, and now to think of a real lady speaking so kind, and saying she wanted to be my friend!" and, in her excess of astonishment and emotion, jarvis stood and watched the milk for the pudding she was about to make boil over, and then mechanically emptied what remained into the coffee dregs which were yet standing on the breakfast table. weeks passed away and mr. reston ceased to tease his wife about her latest philanthropic effort, and mrs. reston forgot to watch jarvis with anxiety, and dismissed all misgivings as to the prudence of the step she had taken. "breakfast not ready yet! how's this?" asked mr. reston one morning, entering the dining-room at the usual time, to find the housemaid just commencing to lay the cloth, and his wife looking troubled. "it can't be helped, dear. symonds has been single-handed this morning, for jarvis is not down yet," replied mrs. reston. her husband raised his eyebrows and coughed significantly as he sat down and took up his newspaper. "what's the matter with your paragon, my dear?" he presently said. "i haven't asked her yet," was the dry answer. mr. reston thought he had better not pursue the subject, and relapsed into silence. after he had left the house, mrs. reston examined the contents of the cellaret, and came to the conclusion that jarvis had been helping herself in large quantities from the stores of wine and spirits kept there. she had been visiting with her husband the previous evening, and the housemaid had also been out, thus leaving every opportunity for jarvis to indulge in the stimulants she had stolen. mrs. reston also remembered that on returning home she had found the key of the cellaret, which she had missed, lying on the floor close to the side-board, and the door locked as usual. symonds had come in to prayers alone, and said that cook had gone to bed with a bad headache. "send jarvis to me as soon as she comes down," she said to the housemaid, who answered her summons. "it's too disappointing," she soliloquised; "i felt so positive that jarvis would do well; i am sure there is nothing i have left undone to help her in her attempts to abstain." kind, good mrs. reston, there is just one thing you have left undone; but when you shortly learn how you have failed to do all that was necessary to effectually help your weak sister, will you have sufficient courage and love to enable you to remedy the past and help to save a soul from perishing in its sin? there was a knock at the door, and jarvis entered with swollen, downcast eyes and face redder than usual. "well, jarvis," said mrs. reston, after a moment's silence. "i've got nothing to say, ma'am; i can go as soon as you like," sullenly replied the woman. mrs. reston sighed. was it any use to give jarvis another trial, or should she send her away at once? she looked at the half-averted face and the nervous hands that were busily folding and unfolding the hem of her apron, and with a wave of pity surging in her heart for the sinning, suffering creature before her, said quickly and tenderly: "but i don't want you to go, jarvis. i want to save you, if you will let me. come, tell me what else i can do for you." jarvis looked up, half doubting the evidence of her senses. "ma'am," she gasped, between heavy, choking sobs; "do you really mean to say that you care about saving such an ungrateful wretch as me?" "why, jarvis, of course i do. i will do _anything_ to help you." "would you, oh would you do anything, ma'am?" again mrs. reston repeated the assurance. battling with her emotion, jarvis said: "i'm ashamed to ask such a favour at your hands, ma'am, but i believe there's only one thing under heaven that would be the saving of me." "what is that, jarvis?" there was a long pause, and then jarvis blurted out: "i've never signed the pledge, ma'am; but if you'd draw up some kind of a promise to keep from the drink, and put your own name to it, and let me sign after, it would be the saving of me." "what a strange thing to ask, jarvis! what good would it do you to know that i, who am always moderate in my use of stimulants, had given them up?" "oh, ma'am, it would make me feel that somebody in this wide world cared enough for me to give up something for my sake. i've never had any one to care for me since my mother died fifteen years ago. i made up my mind that i would be independent of every one and look after myself, and when i felt dull i just took a glass, until i got into the habit of taking too much. when i came here you were so kind to me that i couldn't help feeling you were different to my other mistresses who only seemed to care how much they could get out of me, and i've been that grateful, ma'am, i would have done anything for you; but last night i got low, and the longing for drink took me, and something whispered: 'there's your mistress for all her kind words, she's none so different as the rest of them, only she's got another way with her. you're a good cook and suit her well while you keep from the drink, and she thinks if she speaks fair she'll manage you well enough.' and then, ma'am, i thought of your beautiful wines which you could take without any harm to yourself, while my beer had done such cruel work for me, and suddenly the thought came: 'why, your mistress cares for those luxuries that she takes every day far more than she does for you, you poor thing; she wouldn't give them up to save you from filling a drunkard's grave.' then i grew desperate, and came in here to see if there was anything left about, and the key for once was in the side-board, and, and----" "yes, i know, my poor jarvis, and now let me tell you that i do care more for you a thousand times than for the luxuries you speak of, and to prove it, i will never touch them again. i promise that, for your sake, jarvis, do you understand?" for jarvis was standing looking stupified. her wide-open eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she fell at her mistress' feet, and seizing her hand covered it with kisses. "oh, ma'am, you've saved me, you've saved me," she said again and again. yes, jarvis was saved. from that time she steadily fought against her deadly sin, until its besetment lost all power over her. after years of devoted service she became the happy wife of one who loved and trusted her, and to whom she confided the story of her past degradation, and how she was reclaimed by the efforts and self-sacrifice of her former mistress. [illustration] why the angels rejoiced. "good-night, mrs. seymour. must you leave so quickly?" asked a lady of an elderly woman, who was hurrying past her pew with the stream of worshippers that were leaving the chapel after the sabbath-evening service was ended, without waiting for the short prayer-meeting which usually followed. "yes, ma'am, i can't wait a minute longer, for my husband's promised to go to the mission hall, and the angels are going to rejoice to-night," answered margaret seymour with a radiant light of expectancy upon her pale face. "god grant that you may not be disappointed," returned the lady, with a cordial pressure of the hand, and, as margaret hastened out, her friend inwardly marvelled at the strong faith which, during a lifetime of neglect and cruelty, had sustained her poorer sister through terrible seasons of hardship and toil. margaret seymour had early left a christian home to become the wife of a man, who, destitute of any real religion himself, soon commenced to mock and persecute the woman who had been induced to take a false step, hoping to win her husband to seek for himself the joys which were hers. but, hitherto, the hope had proved vain. richard seymour had sunk lower and lower, until, enfeebled in health by his drunkenness and follies, his family mainly depended upon the exertions of the wife and mother for daily bread. still, margaret's faith did not fail. if she worked incessantly all day long, and often far into the night, her prayers went up without intermission to the throne of grace. there had been a time when she had trusted the answer was at hand, for her husband had been induced to attend a small mission hall near by, and whilst there had been powerfully moved, and for a few weeks had given up some of his sinful pursuits; but just when margaret and the friends from the hall were beginning to rejoice over richard as a "brand plucked from the burning," he fell back into his former habits. margaret was sorely disappointed; but, casting herself again upon the faithful word of her god, she took up the cross apportioned to her, and went on her way in confident assurance of coming blessing. but for some weeks past her desire for her husband's salvation had intensified, and she had felt moved to pray with an earnestness that surprised even herself. her cry became that of the patriarch: "i will not let thee go, except thou bless me." but no apparent result manifested itself. indeed, richard appeared to grow more hardened and desperate than ever, and it required all the grace and patience that margaret possessed, to endure his continual cruelty with meekness. on the saturday evening preceding the sunday when she had expressed her conviction of a joyful termination to her anxious watching, a knock was heard at her door, and opening it, the kindly face of one of the workers from the mission hall was seen. "is your husband in, mrs. seymour?" asked the man. "yes," answered margaret, in an undertone, "he's just sitting down a bit before going out for the evening; but come in and you'll catch him nicely." "good-evening, mr. seymour, i'm glad to find you at home," were the words that caused richard to look up in angry surprise. "evenin'," he muttered by way of reply, without removing his pipe from his mouth. "i'm real sorry to have missed you from the hall for so long, mr. seymour, and i've been wondering whether you meant to leave us altogether. we only want to be your friends, you know, and you don't want to run away from those who would do you a good turn if you'd let them," said the worker, nothing daunted by his ungracious reception. again richard looked up, and perhaps the fact that his visitor was a working-man not much above his own station in life, rendered him more susceptible to the attention shown him. and besides, the spoken words were not mere empty talk, richard could not but acknowledge; for practical help in dire need had found its way to the poverty-stricken home, from the christian friends who had rallied round his wife. so, with half-shamed face, he answered gruffly: "i didn't think of comin' again; such places ain't for the likes of me." "and who do you think they are for then? why, my man, it's poor folks like you and me, who wouldn't feel comfortable in grand churches and chapels, that want such homely places, where we can slip in and out without being looked down upon." "maybe you're right so fur; but you don't want no smokin', drinkin' fellers, anyhow," responded richard. "you're making another mistake, mr. seymour; for the truth is, we're better pleased to see them turn up than any other sort of folks; so you'd better give me leave to call for you to-morrow evening at eight o'clock, before the service begins." "well, i'm beat. you mean to take it out of me, somehow, and i may as well give in, but you needn't trouble to call. i'll come, sure enough." "that's settled," said the man, rising to go, adding, as he offered his hand to richard, "you won't forget." "no fear, with my old woman to pester me," answered richard, with a grim relaxing of his features. but as the door closed behind the visitor, his face darkened, and, although he said nothing to his wife, he sat gloomily watching the fire for a long time, then, muttering something about "them interferin' folks," he put his pipe into his pocket, and passed out into the street. "god grant they may have interfered to some purpose!" said margaret. hastily finishing the domestic duties which were filling her hands, she turned for encouragement to the book which had proved its power to solace and cheer in the darkest hour. presently, with thought and desire too intense to allow the usual posture of devotion, she rose, and began to pace her kitchen, while she wrestled and interceded for her sinning husband. it was during that memorable hour of strong crying, that the sweet assurance of a speedy answer was given; and the language of petition no longer poured from her lips, but gave place to that of thanksgiving for another repenting one, over whom there would shortly be rejoicing "in the presence of the angels." but to the eye of sense, nothing seemed more unlikely, as richard staggered home late that night in his usual drunken condition, and rose the next morning in the worst of tempers, following her footsteps from place to place, with the evident purpose of provoking her with his cruel taunts, until she should retaliate. clothed in the armour of god, margaret, however, withstood all the fiery darts that were flung around her during that eventful day. as the winter afternoon waned, she observed, with uneasiness, that richard made no attempt to change the working clothes in which he had lounged about all day, for the better suit and the clean shirt, which she had managed by dint of self-denial should never be wanting. "i'm pretty sure he'll make that his excuse for not going to the hall to-night; but there, the lord isn't confined to that place, and he can just as well save richard in his dirty shirt at home, if he thinks best, as up there; and he's going to do it, sure enough; for didn't he tell me the angels should rejoice over him?" she said to herself. she ventured, however, a quiet remonstrance, saying: "your sunday things are laid out, richard, and you'd better get a wash; you'll feel fresher." but the only answer she received was a curt: "mind your own business, woman." meanwhile, richard himself was feeling his own misery more deeply than he would have confessed to a living soul. "i'd like to escape from it all; but i've gone too far; i've had my chances, if ever a man had, and i'd like to know what good'll come of my goin' to the hall and seein' all those folks again; it'll only make me more miserable than i am. i wish i hadn't promised, and i've half a mind to turn into the 'blue boar' instead," muttered the man to himself. "richard," said his wife as she put on bonnet and shawl, and picked up her bible and hymn-book, after tea was over; "i'm going up to the chapel, but the sermon will be over in plenty of time for me to get back to the mission-place. you'll be sure to be dressed and ready waiting for me." "i shan't promise nothin'," growled richard; but although margaret heard the words as she went out, she left the house with a light heart. altogether uncertain of his own intention, richard strode about the room, his pipe in his mouth, and his hands in his pockets. "anyhow," he said, "i may as well have a look at the water," and going to the sink he washed himself for the first time that day. and then he sat down, making no further attempt to prepare himself for his wife's return. "she never lets a feller have any peace," he said, inwardly blaming her for his mental unrest. he was sitting in his chair, still smoking, when margaret returned. "o, richard, you are not ready, and we shall be late!" she said. "i never told you i was goin'," he answered, scowling at her. "no, but you told mr. brown so, last night; and if you aren't there soon, he's sure to come round, and see what's the matter, as he would be certain to suppose you'd keep your promise unless something had happened." surely it was heaven-sent wisdom that breathed in the words with which she answered richard's evasions. she was unprepared for the sudden effect of her reply. rising in haste, he said: "here, get me my things as quick as you can; i don't want that feller again." in a few minutes, neatly dressed, richard went up the street with his rejoicing wife. they were singing as the two entered; but margaret walked boldly up to the top of the room, and richard was reluctantly compelled to follow her. he would have chosen to have slipped into the first seat by the door, from whence egress could have been easy; but his wife determined that once within those four walls, richard should stay until the end of the meeting. so she allowed him to pass into his seat first, and then she followed him. but there was little fear of richard being anxious to leave the place; for, after the first prayer, he sat spell-bound, and riveted to the spot, while the holy spirit revealed to him his guilt and sin. his wasted life rose before him until the burden of his misery seemed too great to be borne, and he could no longer prevent groans and tears from bearing witness to his anguish of soul. "come and speak to my poor husband, will you, please, mr. brown?" said margaret, as the people were dispersing. the man crossed the room, and sought to pour in the balm of gilead to the wounded conscience. "you don't think he died for such a big sinner as me?" was the response. "why, man, you don't know what a life i've led my poor wife there! she's been beaten and kicked, and half-starved most of her time, while i've spent my money in what's ruined body and soul, and you mean to tell me that i may be saved from the hell i deserve?" "yes, i mean just that, and the saviour tells you so in his own words; so there can be no doubt about it." "let me know quick what he says," groaned the man. mr. brown took a pocket bible from his coat and read the following passages: "then will i sprinkle clean water upon you and ye shall be clean: from all your filthiness and from all your idols, will i cleanse you." "the son of man is come to seek and to save that which was lost." "i am not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance." "come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and i will give you rest." "him that cometh to me, i will in no wise cast out." "do you mean to say that's written all fair and square, in black and white?" asked richard, who had been listening with open mouth to the slow reading of the inspired words. "yes, i do; here, look for yourself." richard grasped the book and, following the direction of mr. brown's finger, with difficulty spelled out for himself the blessed promises and invitations. as he reluctantly handed the bible back, a sigh of relief broke from him, and he exclaimed: "ay, it's there, sure enough! so he came to call sinners, did he? drunkards like me!" a wonderful light overspread his face, and as the truth broke fully upon his troubled mind, he started to his feet crying out: "o, what a mighty saviour! bless him, bless him, for he died for me!" the workers gathered round in silent joy as the shout of a king rang through the place; but margaret fell upon her knees and broke into praise that was surely no faint echo of the exulting song which pealed through the courts of heaven as the glad tidings were proclaimed of another soul new-born into the liberty of the sons of god. "ah, my dear," said richard to his wife, as late at night they sat together in their home: "i've been a brute to you and the children; but, god helping me, i'll make amends." "don't trust to yourself, richard, my dear; you'll get plenty of chaff from your mates, and plenty of temptation from within, and you must look for help to him who's got all needful strength and grace for you," replied margaret, as they sat and talked with one another far on into the early morning. * * * * * "i say, nurse, can't you give this 'ere feller a sleepin' draught, or summat as will keep his mouth shut for a spell? there's no such thing as gettin' a wink o' sleep with him a shoutin' 'glory' all the time," said a rough man who was occupying one of the beds in the infirmary. "poor fellow! it's a wonder to me how he can bear so much suffering and never open his lips to complain," answered the nurse, turning her kindly eyes towards the adjoining bed, where lay richard seymour, wasted by the ravages of a sore disease, doubtless the result of early excess and long years of intemperance. after witnessing a good confession of his faith before ungodly companions, and for his master's sake enduring scorn and persecution nobly, he had suddenly been laid low on the bed of death. "you needn't make any wonder of it, nurse," he answered; "i don't feel as if i could grumble at my pain when my blessed lord suffered on the cross for me--praise his dear name!" "queer kind of a chap, ain't he?" said the man who had first spoken, moving uneasily in his bed. "ay, jim, i wish you knew what it was to feel 'queer' after the same fashion. you may if you like, you know; the same mercy's for you as for me, and o, mates!" said richard, looking round upon the rows of faces that were turned towards him; "it may be 'queer;' but it's worth while havin' somethin' that will make you so happy when you come to face death, that you can't sleep for thinkin' of the blessed saviour, and how he's waitin' for you." so richard testified to his fellow-sufferers until the last. early one morning the nurse heard him whisper faintly: "i'll soon be at home over there." the next moment he quietly closed his eyes in death. verily, a brand plucked from the burning, a sinner saved by grace. [illustration] fletcher and son, printers, norwich. * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired. page , "caligraphy" changed to "calligraphy" (calligraphy with an air) page , "want's" changed to "wants" (this gentleman wants) page , "it's" changed to "its" (ha' its turn) page , "want's" changed to "wants" (if the babby wants) none none none transcriber's note: this document is the text of sowing and reaping. any bracketed notations such as [text missing], [?], and those inserting letters or other comments are from the original text. sowing and reaping a temperance story a rediscovered novel by frances e.w. harper edited by frances smith foster chapter i "i hear that john andrews has given up his saloon; and a foolish thing it was. he was doing a splendid business. what could have induced him?" "they say that his wife was bitterly opposed to the business. i don't know, but i think it quite likely. she has never seemed happy since john has kept saloon." "well, i would never let any woman lead me by the nose. i would let her know that as the living comes by me, the way of getting it is my affair, not hers, as long as she is well provided for." "all men are not alike, and i confess that i value the peace and happiness of my home more than anything else; and i would not like to engage in any business which i knew was a source of constant pain to my wife." "but, what right has a woman to complain, if she has every thing she wants. i would let her know pretty soon who holds the reins, if i had such an unreasonable creature to deal with. i think as much of my wife as any man, but i want her to know her place, and i know mine." "what do you call her place?" "i call her place staying at home and attending to her own affairs. were i a laboring man i would never want my wife to take in work. when a woman has too much on hand, something has to be neglected. now i always furnish my wife with sufficient help and supply every want but how i get the living, and where i go, and what company i keep, is my own business, and i would not allow the best woman in the world to interfere. i have often heard women say that they did not care what their husbands did, so that they provided for them; and i think such conclusions are very sensible." "well, john, i do not think so. i think a woman must be very selfish, if all she cares for her husband is, to have a good provider. i think her husband's honor and welfare should be as dear to her as her own; and no true woman and wife can be indifferent to the moral welfare of her husband. neither man nor woman can live by bread alone in the highest and best sense of the term." "now paul, don't go to preaching. you have always got some moon struck theories, some wild, visionary and impracticable ideas, which would work first rate, if men were angels and earth a paradise. now don't be so serious, old fellow; but you know on this religion business, you and i always part company. you are always up in the clouds, while i am trying to invest in a few acres, or town lots of solid _terra firma_." "and would your hold on earthly possessions, be less firm because you looked beyond the seen to the unseen?" "i think it would, if i let conscience interfere constantly, with every business transaction i undertook. now last week you lost $ fair and square, because you would not foreclose that mortgage on smith's property. i told you that 'business is business,' and that while i pitied the poor man, i would not have risked my money that way, but you said that conscience would not let you; that while other creditors were gathering like hungry vultures around the poor man, you would not join with them, and that you did not believe in striking a man when he is down. now paul, as a business man, if you want to succeed, you have got to look at business in a practical, common sense way. smith is dead, and where is your money now?" "apparently lost; but the time may come when i shall feel that it was one of the best investments i ever made. stranger things than that have happened. i confess that i felt the loss and it has somewhat cramped my business. yet if it was to do over again, i don't think that i would act differently, and when i believe that smith's death was hurried on by anxiety and business troubles, while i regret the loss of my money, i am thankful that i did not press my claim." "sour grapes, but you are right to put the best face on matters." "no, if it were to do over again, i never would push a struggling man to the wall when he was making a desperate fight for his wife and little ones." "well! paul, we are both young men just commencing life, and my motto is to look out for number , and you--" "oh! i believe in lending a helping hand." "so do i, when i can make every corner out to my advantage. i believe in every man looking out for himself." you will see by the dialogue, that the characters i here introduce are the antipodes of each other. they had both been pupils in the same school, and in after life, being engaged as grocers, they frequently met and renewed their acquaintance. they were both established in business, having passed the threshold of that important event, "setting out in life." as far as their outward life was concerned, they were acquaintances; but to each other's inner life they were strangers. john anderson has a fine robust constitution, good intellectual abilities, and superior business faculties. he is eager, keen and alert, and if there is one article of faith that moulds and colors all his life more than anything else, it is a firm and unfaltering belief in the "main chance." he has made up his mind to be rich, and his highest ideal of existence may be expressed in four words--_getting on in life_. to this object, he is ready to sacrifice time, talent, energy and every faculty, which he possesses. nay, he will go farther; he will spend honor, conscience and manhood, in an eager search for gold. he will change his heart into a ledger on which he will write _tare_ and _tret_, loss and gain, exchange and barter, and he will succeed, as worldly men count success. he will add house to house; he will encompass the means of luxury; his purse will be plethoric but, oh, how poverty stricken his soul will be. costly viands will please his taste, but unappeased hunger will gnaw at his soul. amid the blasts of winter he will have the warmth of calcutta in his home; and the health of the ocean and the breezes of the mountains shall fan his brow, amid the heats of summer, but there will be a coolness in his soul that no breath of summer can ever dispel; a fever in his spirit that no frozen confection can ever allay; he shall be rich in lands and houses, but fear of loss and a sense of poverty will poison the fountains of his life; and unless he repent, he shall go out into the eternities a pauper and a bankrupt. paul clifford, whom we have also introduced to you, was the only son of a widow, whose young life had been overshadowed by the curse of intemperance. her husband, a man of splendid abilities and magnificent culture, had fallen a victim to the wine cup. with true womanly devotion she had clung to him in the darkest hours, until death had broken his hold in life, and he was laid away the wreck of his former self in a drunkard's grave. gathering up the remains of what had been an ample fortune, she installed herself in an humble and unpretending home in the suburbs of the city of b., and there with loving solicitude she had watched over and superintended the education of her only son. he was a promising boy, full [of?] life and vivacity, having inherited much of the careless joyousness of his father's temperament; and although he was the light and joy of his home, yet his mother sometimes felt as if her heart was contracting with a spasm of agony, when she remembered that it was through that same geniality of disposition and wonderful fascination of manner, the tempter had woven his meshes for her husband, and that the qualities that made him so desirable at home, made him equally so to his jovial, careless, inexperienced companions. fearful that the appetite for strong drink might have been transmitted to her child as a fatal legacy of sin, she sedulously endeavored to develop within him self control, feeling that the lack of it is a prolific cause of misery and crime, and she spared no pains to create within his mind a horror of intemperance, and when he was old enough to understand the nature of a vow, she knelt with him in earnest prayer, and pledging him to eternal enmity against everything that would intoxicate, whether fermented or distilled. in the morning she sowed the seed which she hoped would blossom in time, and bear fruit throughout eternity. chapter ii the decision[ ] "i hear belle," said jeanette roland[ ] addressing her cousin belle gordon, "that you have refused an excellent offer of marriage." "who said so?" "aunt emma." "i am very sorry that ma told you, i think such things should be kept sacred from comment, and i think the woman is wanting in refinement and delicacy of feeling who makes the rejection of a lover a theme for conversation." "now you dear little prude i had no idea that you would take it so seriously but aunt emma was so disappointed and spoke of the rejected suitor in such glowing terms, and said that you had sacrificed a splendid opportunity because of some squeamish notions on the subject of temperance, and so of course, my dear cousin, it was just like me to let my curiosity overstep the bounds of prudence, and inquire why you rejected mr. romaine."[ ] "because i could not trust him." "couldn't trust him? why belle you are a greater enigma than ever. why not?" "because i feel that the hands of a moderate drinker are not steady enough to hold my future happiness." "was that all? why i breathe again, we girls would have to refuse almost every young man in our set, were we to take that stand." "and suppose you were, would that be any greater misfortune than to be the wives of drunkards." "i don't see the least danger. ma has wine at her entertainments, and i have often handed it to young gentlemen, and i don't see the least harm in it. on last new year's day we had more than fifty callers. ma and i handed wine, to every one of them." "oh i do wish people would abandon that pernicious custom of handing around wine on new year's day. i do think it is a dangerous and reprehensible thing." "wherein lies the danger? of course i do not approve of young men drinking in bar rooms and saloons, but i cannot see any harm in handing round wine at social gatherings. not to do so would seem so odd." "it is said jeanette[,?] 'he is a slave who does not be, in the right with two or three.' it is better, wiser far to stand alone in our integrity than to join with the multitude in doing wrong. you say while you do not approve of young men drinking in bar rooms and saloons, that you have no objection to their drinking beneath the shadow of their homes, why do you object to their drinking in saloons, and bar rooms?" "because it is vulgar. oh! i think these bar rooms are horrid places. i would walk squares out of my way to keep from passing them." "and i object to intemperance not simply because i think it is vulgar but because i know it is wicked; and jeanette i have a young brother for whose welfare i am constantly trembling; but i am not afraid that he will take his first glass of wine in a fashionable saloon, or flashy gin palace, but i do dread his entrance into what you call 'our set.' i fear that my brother has received as an inheritance a temperament which will be easily excited by stimulants, that an appetite for liquor once a awakened will be hard to subdue, and i am so fearful, that at some social gathering, a thoughtless girl will hand him a glass of wine, and that the first glass will be like adding fuel to a smouldering fire." "oh belle do stop, what a train of horrors you can conjure out of an innocent glass of wine." "anything can be innocent that sparkles to betray, that charms at first, but later will bite like an adder and sting like a serpent." "really! belle, if you keep on at this rate you will be a monomaniac on the temperance question. however i do not think mr. romaine will feel highly complimented to know that you refused him because you dreaded he might become a drunkard. you surely did not tell him so." "yes i did, and i do not think that i would have been a true friend to him, had i not done so." "oh! belle, i never could have had the courage to have told him so." "why not?" "i would have dreaded hurting his feelings. were you not afraid of offending him?" "i certainly shrank from the pain which i knew i must inflict, but because i valued his welfare more than my own feelings, i was constrained to be faithful to him. i told him that he was drifting where he ought steer, that instead of holding the helm and rudder of his young life, he was floating down the stream, and unless he stood firmly on the side of temperance, that i never would clasp hands will him for life." "but belle, perhaps you have done him more harm than good; may be you could have effected his reformation by consenting to marrying him." "jeanette, were i the wife of a drunken man i do not think there is any depth of degradation that i would not fathom with my love and pity in trying to save him. i believe i would cling to him, if even his own mother shrank from him. but i never would consent to [marry any man?], whom i knew to be un[?]steady in his principles and a moderate drinker. if his love for me and respect for himself were not strong enough to reform him before marriage, i should despair of effecting it afterwards, and with me in such a case discretion would be the better part of valor." "and so you have given mr. romaine a release?" "yes, he is free." "and i think you have thrown away a splendid opportunity." "i don't think so, the risk was too perilous. oh jeanette, i know by mournful and bitter experience what it means to dwell beneath the shadow of a home cursed by intemperance. i know what it is to see that shadow deepen into the darkness of a drunkard's grave, and i dare not run the fearful risk." "and yet belle this has cost you a great deal, i can see it in the wanness of your face, in your eyes which in spite of yourself, are filled with sudden tears, i know from the intonations of your voice that you are suffering intensely." "yes jeanette, i confess, it was like tearing up the roots of my life to look at this question fairly and squarely in the face, and to say, no; but i must learn to suffer and be strong, i am deeply pained, it is true, but i do not regret the steps i have taken. the man who claims my love and allegiance, must be a victor and not a slave. the reeling brain of a drunkard is not a safe foundation on which to build up a new home." "well belle, you may be right, but i think i would have risked it. i don't think because mr. romaine drinks occasionally that i would have given him up. oh young men will sow their wild oats." "and as we sow, so must we reap, and as to saying about young men sowing their wild oats, i think it is full of pernicious license. a young man has no more right to sow his wild oats than a young woman. god never made one code of ethics for a man and another for a woman. and it is the duty of all true women to demand of men the same standard of morality that they do of woman." "ah belle that is very fine in theory, but you would find it rather difficult, if you tried to reduce your theory to practice." "all that may be true, but the difficulty of a duty is not a valid excuse for its non performance." "my dear cousin it is not my role to be a reformer. i take things as i find them and drift along the tide of circumstances." "and is that your highest ideal of life? why jeanette such a life is not worth living." "whether it is or not, i am living it and i rather enjoy it. your vexing problems of life never disturb me. i do not think i am called to turn this great world 'right side up with care,' and so i float along singing as i go, "i'd be a butterfly born in a bower kissing every rose that is pleasant and sweet, i'd never languish for wealth or for power i'd never sigh to have slaves at my feet." "such a life would never suit me, life must mean to me more than ease, luxury and indulgence, it must mean aspiration and consecration, endeavor and achievement." "well, belle, should we live twenty years longer, i would like to meet you and see by comparing notes which of us shall have gathered the most sunshine or shadow from life." "yes jeanette we will meet in less than twenty years, but before then your glad light eyes will be dim with tears, and the easy path you have striven to walk will be thickly strewn with thorn; and whether you deserve it or not, life will have for you a mournful earnestness, but notwithstanding all your frivolity and flippancy there is fine gold in your character, which the fire of affliction only will reveal." chapter iii [text missing.] chapter iv "how is business?" "very dull, i am losing terribly." "any prospect of times brightening?" "i don't see my way out clear; but i hope there will be a change for the better. confidence has been greatly shaken, men of[?] business have grown exceedingly timid about investing and there is a general depression in every department of trade and business." "now paul will you listen to reason and common sense? i have a proposition to make. i am about to embark in a profitable business, and i know that it will pay better than anything else i could undertake in these times. men will buy liquor if they have not got money for other things. i am going to open a first class saloon, and club-house, on m. street, and if you will join with me we can make a splendid thing of it. why just see how well off joe harden is since he set up in the business; and what airs he does put on! i know when he was not worth fifty dollars, and kept a little low groggery on the corner of l. and s. streets, but he is out of that now--keeps a first class _cafe_, and owns a block of houses. now paul, here is a splendid chance for you; business is dull, and now accept this opening. of course i mean to keep a first class saloon. i don't intend to tolerate loafing, or disorderly conduct, or to sell to drunken men. in fact, i shall put up my scale of prices so that you need fear no annoyance from rough, low, boisterous men who don't know how to behave themselves. what say you, paul?" "i say, no! i wouldn't engage in such a business, not if it paid me a hundred thousand dollars a year. i think these first class saloons are just as great a curse to the community as the low groggeries, and i look upon them as the fountain heads of the low groggeries. the man who begins to drink in the well lighted and splendidly furnished saloon is in danger of finishing in the lowest dens of vice and shame." "as you please," said john anderson stiffly, "i thought that as business is dull that i would show you a chance, that would yield you a handsome profit; but if you refuse, there is no harm done. i know young men who would jump at the chance." you may think it strange that knowing paul clifford as john anderson did, that he should propose to him an interest in a drinking saloon; but john anderson was a man who was almost destitute of faith in human goodness. his motto was that "every man has his price," and as business was fairly dull, and paul was somewhat cramped for want of capital, he thought a good business investment would be the price for paul clifford's conscientious scruples. "anderson," said paul looking him calmly in the face, "you may call me visionary and impracticable; but i am determined however poor i may be, never to engage in any business on which i cannot ask god's blessing. and john i am sorry from the bottom of my heart, that you have concluded to give up your grocery and keep a saloon. you cannot keep that saloon without sending a flood of demoralizing influence over the community. your profit will be the loss of others. young men will form in that saloon habits which will curse and overshadow all their lives. husbands and fathers will waste their time and money, and confirm themselves in habits which will bring misery, crime, and degradation; and the fearful outcome of your business will be broken hearted wives, neglected children, outcast men, blighted characters and worse than wasted lives. no not for the wealth of the indies, would i engage in such a ruinous business, and i am thankful today that i had a dear sainted mother who taught me that it was better to have my hands clear than to have them full. how often would she lay her dear hands upon my head, and clasp my hands in hers and say, 'paul, i want you to live so that you can always feel that there is no eye before whose glance you will shrink, no voice from whose tones your heart will quail, because your hands are not clean, or your record not pure,' and i feel glad to-day that the precepts and example of that dear mother have given tone and coloring to my life; and though she has been in her grave for many years, her memory and her words are still to me an ever present inspiration." "yes paul; i remember your mother. i wish! oh well there is no use wishing. but if all christians were like her, i would have more faith in their religion." "but john the failure of others is no excuse for our own derelictions." "well, i suppose not. it is said, the way jerusalem was kept clean, every man swept before his own door. and so you will not engage in the business?" "no john, no money i would earn would be the least inducement." "how foolish," said john anderson to himself as they parted. "there is a young man who might succeed splendidly if he would only give up some of his old fashioned notions, and launch out into life as if he had some common sense. if business remains as it is, i think he will find out before long that he has got to shut his eyes and swallow down a great many things he don't like." after the refusal of paul clifford, john soon found a young man of facile conscience who was willing to join with him in a conspiracy of sin against the peace, happiness and welfare of the community. and he spared neither pains nor expense to make his saloon attractive to what he called, "the young bloods of the city," and by these he meant young men whose parents were wealthy, and whose sons had more leisure and spending money than was good for them. he succeeded in fitting up a magnificent palace of sin. night after night till morning flashed the orient, eager and anxious men sat over the gaming table watching the turn of a card, or the throw of a dice. sparkling champaign, or ruby-tinted wine were served in beautiful and costly glasses. rich divans and easy chairs invited weary men to seek repose from unnatural excitement. occasionally women entered that saloon, but they were women not as god had made them, but as sin had debased them. women whose costly jewels and magnificent robes were the livery of sin, the outside garnishing of moral death; the flush upon whose cheek, was not the flush of happiness, and the light in their eyes was not the sparkle of innocent joy,--women whose laughter was sadder than their tears, and who were dead while they lived. in that house were wine, and mirth, and revelry, "but the dead were there," men dead to virtue, true honor and rectitude, who walked the streets as other men, laughed, chatted, bought, sold, exchanged and bartered, but whose souls were encased in living tombs, bodies that were dead to righteousness but alive to sin. like a spider weaving its meshes around the unwary fly, john anderson wove his network of sin around the young men that entered his saloon. before they entered there, it was pleasant to see the supple vigor and radiant health that were manifested in the poise of their bodies, the lightness of their eyes, the freshness of their lips and the bloom upon their cheeks. but oh! it was so sad to see how soon the manly gait would change to the drunkard's stagger. to see eyes once bright with intelligence growing vacant and confused and giving place to the drunkard's leer. in many cases lassitude supplanted vigor, and sickness overmastered health. but the saddest thing was the fearful power that appetite had gained over its victims, and though nature lifted her signals of distress, and sent her warnings through weakened nerves and disturbed functions, and although they were wasting money, time, talents, and health, ruining their characters, and alienating their friends, and bringing untold agony to hearts that loved them and yearned over their defections, yet the fascination grew stronger and ever and anon the grave opened at their feet; and disguise it as loving friends might, the seeds of death had been nourished by the fiery waters of alcohol. chapter v [text missing.] chapter vi for a few days the most engrossing topic in a.p. was what shall i wear, and what will you wear. there was an amount of shopping to be done, and dressmakers to be consulted and employed before the great event of the season came off. at length the important evening arrived and in the home of mr. glossop, a wealthy and retired whiskey dealer, there was a brilliant array of wealth and fashion. could all the misery his liquor had caused been turned into blood, there would have been enough to have oozed in great drops from every marble ornament or beautiful piece of frescoe that adorned his home, for that home with its beautiful surroundings and costly furniture was the price of blood, but the glamor of his wealth was in the eyes of his guests; and they came to be amused and entertained and not to moralize on his ill-gotten wealth. the wine flowed out in unstinted measures and some of the women so forgot themselves as to attempt to rival the men in drinking. the barrier being thrown down charles drank freely, till his tones began to thicken, and his eye to grow muddled, and he sat down near jeanette and tried to converse; but he was too much under the influence of liquor to hold a sensible and coherent conversation. "oh! charley you naughty boy, that wine has got into your head and you don't know what you are talking about." "well, miss jenny, i b'lieve you're 'bout half-right, my head does feel funny." "i shouldn't wonder; mine feels rather dizzy, and miss thomas has gone home with a sick headache, and i know what her headaches mean," said jeanette significantly. "my head," said mary gladstone, "really feels as big as a bucket." "and i feel real dizzy," said another. "and so do i," said another, "i feel as if i could hardly stand, i feel awful weak." "why girls, you! are all, all, tipsy, now just own right up, and be done with it," said charles romaine. "why charlie you are as good as a wizard, i believe we have all got too much wine aboard: but we are not as bad as the girls of b.s., for they succeeded in out drinking the men. i heard the men drank eight bottles of wine, and that they drank sixteen." alas for these young people they were sporting upon the verge of a precipice, but its slippery edge was concealed by flowers. they were playing with the firebrands of death and thought they were roman-candles and harmless rockets. "good morning belle," said jeanette roland to her cousin belle as she entered her cousin's sitting-room the morning after the party and found jeanette lounging languidly upon the sofa. "good morning. it is a lovely day, why are you not out enjoying the fresh air? can't you put on your things and go shopping with me? i think you have excellent taste and i often want to consult it." "well after all then i am of some account in your eyes." "of course you are; who said you were not[?]" "oh! nobody only i had an idea that you thought that i was as useless as a canary bird." "i don't think that a canary bird is at all a useless thing. it charms our ears with its song, and pleases our eye with its beauty, and i am a firm believer in the utility of beauty--but can you, or rather will you not go with me?" "oh belle i would, but i am as sleepy as a cat." "what's the matter?" "i was up so late last night at mrs. glossop's party; but really it was a splendid affair, everything was in the richest profusion, and their house is magnificently furnished. oh belle i wish you could have been there." "i don't; there are two classes of people with whom i never wish to associate, or number as my especial friends, and they are rum sellers and slave holders." "oh! well, mr. glossop is not in the business now and what is the use of talking about the past; don't be always remembering a man's sins against him." "would you say the same of a successful pirate who could fare sumptuously from the effects of his piracy?" "no i would not; but belle the cases is not at all parallel." "not entirely. one commits his crime against society within the pale of the law, the other commits his outside. they are both criminals against the welfare of humanity. one murders the body, and the other stabs the soul. if i knew that mr. glossop was sorry for having been a liquor dealer and was bringing forth fruits meet for repentance, i would be among the first to hail his reformation with heartfelt satisfaction; but when i hear that while he no longer sells liquor, that he constantly offers it to his guests, i feel that he should rather sit down in sackcloth and ashes than fireside at sumptuous feasts, obtained by liquor selling. when crime is sanctioned by law, and upheld by custom and fashion, it assumes its most dangerous phase; and there is often a fearful fascination in the sin that is environed by success." "oh! belle do stop. i really think that you will go crazy on the subject of temperance. i think you must have written these lines that i have picked up somewhere; let me see what they are,---- "tell me not that i hate the bowl, hate is a feeble word." "no jeanette, i did not write them, but i have felt all the writer has so nervously expressed. in my own sorrow-darkened home, and over my poor father's grave, i learned to hate liquor in any form with all the intensity of my nature." "well, it was a good thing you were not at mrs. glossop's last night, for some of our heads were rather dizzy, and i know that mr. romaine was out of gear. now belle! don't look so shocked and pained; i am sorry i told you." "yes, i am very sorry. i had great hopes that mr. romaine had entirely given up drinking, and i was greatly pained when i saw him take a glass of wine at your solicitation. jeanette i think mr. romaine feels a newly awakened interest in you, and i know that you possess great influence over him. i saw it that night when he hesitated, when you first asked him to drink, and i was so sorry to see that influence. oh jeanette instead of being his temptress, try and be the angel that keeps his steps. if mr. romaine ever becomes a drunkard and goes down to a drunkard's grave, i cannot help feeling that a large measure of the guilt will cling to your shirts." "oh belle, do stop, or you will give me the horrors. pa takes wine every day at his dinner and i don't see that he is any worse off for it. if charles romaine can't govern himself, i can't see how i am to blame for it." "i think you are to blame for this jeanette: (and pardon me if i speak plainly). when charles romaine was trying to abstain, you tempted him to break his resolution, and he drank to please you. i wouldn't have done so for my right hand." "they say old coals are easily kindled, and i shall be somewhat chary about receiving attention from him, if you feel so deeply upon the subject." "jeanette you entirely misapprehend me. because i have ceased to regard mr. romaine as a lover, does not hinder me from feeling for him as a friend. and because i am his friend and yours also, i take the liberty to remonstrate against your offering him wine at your entertainments." "well belle, i can't see the harm in it, i don't believe there was another soul who refused except you and mr. freeman, and you are so straightlaced, and he is rather green, just fresh from the country, it won't take him long to get citified." "citified or countrified, i couldn't help admiring his strength of principle which stood firm in the midst of temptation and would not yield to the blandishments of the hour. and so you will not go out with me this morning?" "oh! no belle, i am too tired. won't you excuse me?" "certainly, but i must go. good morning." "what a strange creature my cousin belle is," said jeanette, to herself as miss gordon left the room. "she will never be like any one else. i don't think she will ever get over my offering mr. romaine that glass of wine, i wish she hadn't seen it, but i'll try and forget her and go to sleep." but jeanette was not destined to have the whole morning for an unbroken sleep. soon after bell's departure the bell rang and charles romaine was announced, and weary as jeanette was, she was too much interested in his society to refuse him; and arraying herself in a very tasteful and becoming manner, she went down to receive him in the parlor. chapter vii very pleasant was the reception jeanette roland gave mr. romaine. there was no reproof upon her lips nor implied censure in her manner. true he had been disguised by liquor or to use a softer phrase, had taken too much wine. but others had done the same and treated it as a merry escapade, and why should she be so particular? belle gordon would have acted very differently but then she was not belle, and in this instance she did not wish to imitate her. belle was so odd, and had become very unpopular, and besides she wished to be very very pleasant to mr. romaine. he was handsome, agreeable and wealthy, and she found it more congenial to her taste to clasp hands with him and float down stream together, than help him breast the current of his wrong tendencies, and stand firmly on the rock of principle. "you are looking very sweet, but rather pensive this morning," said mr. romaine, noticing a shadow on the bright and beautiful face of jeanette, whose color had deepened by the plain remarks of her cousin belle. "what is the matter?" "oh nothing much, only my cousin belle has been here this morning, and she has been putting me on the stool of repentance." "why! what have you been doing that was naughty?" "oh! she was perfectly horror-stricken when i told her about the wine we drank and mrs. glossop's party. i wish i had not said a word to her about it." "what did she say?" "oh she thought it was awful, the way we were going on. she made me feel that i died [_sic_] something dreadful when i offered you a glass of wine at ma's silver wedding. i don't believe belle ever sees a glass of wine, without thinking of murder, suicide and a drunkard's grave." "but we are not afraid of those dreadful things, are we jeanette?" "of course not, but somehow belle always makes me feel uncomfortable, when she begins to talk on temperance. she says she is terribly in earnest, and i think she is." "miss gordon and i were great friends once," said charles romaine, as a shadow flitted over his face, and a slight sigh escaped his lips. "were you? why didn't you remain so?" "because she was too good for me." "that is a very sorry reason." "but it is true. i think miss gordon is an excellent young lady, but she and i wouldn't agree on the temperance question. the man who marries her has got to toe the mark. she ought to be a minister's wife." "i expect she will be an old maid." "i don't know, but if i were to marry her, i should prepare myself to go to church every sunday morning and to stay home in the afternoon and repeat my catechism." "i would like to see you under her discipline." "it would come hard on a fellow, but i might go farther and fare worse." "and so you and belle were great friends, once?" "yes, but as we could not agree on the total abstinence question, we parted company." "how so? did you part as lovers part?" she with a wronged and broken heart? and you, rejoicing you were free, glad to regain you liberty? "not at all. she gave me the mitten and i had to take it." "were you very sorry?" "yes, till i met you." "oh! mr. romaine," said jeanette blushing and dropping her eyes. "why not? i think i have found in your society an ample compensation for the loss of miss gordon." "but i think belle is better than i am. i sometimes wish i was half so good." "you are good enough for me; belle is very good, but somehow her goodness makes a fellow uncomfortable. she is what i call distressingly good; one doesn't want to be treated like a wild beast in a menagerie, and to be every now and then stirred up with a long stick." "what a comparison!" "well it is a fact; when a fellow's been busy all day pouring over coke and blackstone, or casting up wearisome rows of figures, and seeks a young lady's society in the evening, he wants to enjoy himself, to bathe in the sunshine of her smiles, and not to be lectured about his shortcomings. i tell you, jeanette, it comes hard on a fellow." "you want some one to smooth the wrinkles out of the brow of care, and not to add fresh ones." "yes, and i hope it will be my fortune to have a fair soft hand like his," said mr. romaine, slightly pressing jeanette's hand to perform the welcome and agreeable task. "belle's hand would be firmer than mine for the talk." "it is not the strong hand, but the tender hand i want in a woman." "but belle is very kind; she did it all for your own good." "of course she did; my father used to say so when i was a boy, and he corrected me; but it didn't make me enjoy the correction." "it is said our best friends are those who show us our faults, and teach us how to correct them." "my best friend is a dear, sweet girl who sits by my side, who always welcomes me with a smile, and beguiles me so with her conversation, that i take no note of the hours until the striking of the clock warns me it is time to leave; and i should ask no higher happiness than to be permitted to pass all the remaining hours of my life at her side. can i dare to hope for such a happy fortune?" a bright flush overspread the cheek of jeanette roland; there was a sparkle of joy in her eyes as she seemed intently examining the flowers on her mother's carpet, and she gently referred him to papa for an answer. in due time mr. roland was interviewed, his consent obtained, and jeanette roland and charles romaine were affianced lovers. * * * * * "girls, have you heard the news?" said miss tabitha jones, a pleasant and wealthy spinster, to a number of young girls who were seated at her tea table. "no! what is it?" "i hear mr. romaine is to be married next spring." "to whom?" "jeanette roland." "well! i do declare; i thought he was engaged to belle gordon." "i thought so too, but it is said that she refused him, but i don't believe it; i don't believe that she had a chance." "well i do." "why did she refuse him?" "because he would occasionally take too much wine." "but he is not a drunkard." "but she dreads that he will be." "well! i think it is perfectly ridiculous. i gave belle credit for more common sense. i think he was one of the most eligible gentlemen in our set. wealthy, handsome and agreeable. what could have possessed belle? i think he is perfectly splendid." "yes said another girl, i think belle stood very much in her own light. she is not rich, and if she would marry him she could have everything heart could wish. what a silly girl! you wouldn't catch me throwing away such a chance." "i think," said miss tabitha, "that instead of miss gordon's being a silly girl, that she has acted both sensibly and honorably in refusing to marry a man she could not love. no woman should give her hand where she cannot yield her heart." "but miss tabitha, the strangest thing to me is, that i really believe that belle gordon cares more for mr. romaine than she does for any one else; her face was a perfect study that night at mrs. roland's party." "how so?" "they say that after miss gordon requested mr. romaine, that for a while he scrupulously abstained from taking even a glass of wine. at several entertainments, he adhered to this purpose but on the evening of mrs. roland's silver wedding jeanette succeeded in persuading him to take a glass, in honor of the occasion. i watched belle's face and it was a perfect study, every nerve seemed quivering with intense anxiety. once i think she reached out her hand unconsciously as if to snatch away the glass, and when at last he yielded i saw the light fade from her eyes, a deadly pallor overspread her cheek, and i thought at one time she was about to faint, but she did not, and only laid her head upon her side as if to allay a sudden spasm of agony." chapter viii paul clifford sat at his ledger with a perplexed and anxious look. it was near two o'clock and his note was in bank. if he could not raise five hundred dollars by three o'clock, that note would be protested. money was exceedingly hard to raise, and he was about despairing. once he thought of applying to john anderson, but he said to himself, "no, i will not touch his money, for it is the price of blood," for he did not wish to owe gratitude where he did not feel respect. it was now five minutes past two o'clock and in less than an hour his note would be protested unless relief came from some unexpected quarter. "is mr. clifford in?" said a full manly voice. paul, suddenly roused from his painful reflections, answered, "yes, come in. good morning sir, what can i do for you this morning?" "i have come to see you on business." "i am at your service," said paul. "do you remember," said the young man, "of having aided an unfortunate friend more than a dozen years since by lending him five hundred dollars?" "yes, i remember he was an old friend of mine, a school-mate of my father's, charles smith." "well i am his son, and i have come to liquidate my father's debt. here is the money with interest for twelve years." paul's heart gave a sudden bound of joy. strong man as he was a mist gathered in his eyes as he reached out his hand to receive the thrice welcome sum. he looked at the clock, it was just fifteen minutes to three. "will you walk with me to the bank or wait till i return?" "i will wait," said james smith, taking up the morning paper. * * * * * "you are just in time, mr. clifford," said the banker smiling and bowing as paul entered, "i was afraid your note would be protested; but it is all right." "yes," said paul, "the money market is very tight, but i think i shall weather the storm." "i hope so, you may have to struggle hard for awhile to keep your head above the water; but you must take it for your motto that there is no such word as 'fail.'" "thank you, good morning." "well mr. smith," said paul when he returned, "your father and mine were boys together. he was several years younger than my father, and a great favorite in our family among the young folks. about twelve years since when i had just commenced business, i lent him five hundred dollars, and when his business troubles became complicated i refused to foreclose a mortgage which i had on his home. an acquaintance of mine sneered at my lack of business keenness, and predicted that my money would be totally lost, when i told him perhaps it was the best investment i ever made." he smiled incredulously and said, "i would rather see it than hear of it: but i will say that in all my business career i never received any money that came so opportune as this. it reminds me of the stories that i have read in fairy books. people so often fail in paying their own debts, it seems almost a mystery to me that you should pay a debt contracted by your father when you were but a boy." "the clue to this mystery has been the blessed influence of my sainted mother;" and a flush of satisfaction mantled his cheek as he referred to her. "after my father's death my mother was very poor. when she looked into the drawer there were only sixty cents in money. of course, he had some personal property, but it was not immediately available like money, but through the help of kind friends she was enabled to give him a respectable funeral. like many other women in her condition of life, she had been brought up in entire ignorance of managing any other business, than that which belonged to her household. for years she had been shielded in the warm clasp of loving arms, but now she had to bare her breast to the storm and be father and mother both to her little ones. my father as you know died in debt, and he was hardly in his grave when his creditors were upon her track. i have often heard her speak in the most grateful manner of your forbearance and kindness to her in her hour of trouble. my mother went to see my father's principal creditor and asked him only to give her a little time to straighten out the tangled threads of her business, but he was inexorable, and said that he had waited and lost by it. very soon he had an administrator appointed by the court, who in about two months took the business in his hands; and my mother was left to struggle along with her little ones, and face an uncertain future. these were dark days but we managed to live through them. i have often heard her say that she lived by faith and not sight, that poverty had its compensations, that there was something very sweet in a life of simple trust, to her, god was not some far off and unapproachable force in the universe, the unconscious creator of all consciousness, the unperceiving author of all perception, but a friend and a father coming near to her in sorrows, taking cognizance of her grief, and gently smoothing her path in life. but it was not only by precept that she taught us; her life was a living epistle. one morning as the winter was advancing i heard her say she hoped she would be able to get a nice woolen shawl, as hers was getting worse for wear. shortly after i went out into the street and found a roll of money lying at my feet. oh i remember it as well as if it had just occurred. how my heart bounded with joy. 'here,' i said to myself, 'is money enough to buy mother a shawl and bonnet. oh i am so glad,' and hurrying home i laid it in her lap and said with boyish glee, 'hurrah for your new shawl; look what i found in the street.'" "what is it my son?" she said. "why here is money enough to buy you a new shawl and bonnet too." it seems as if i see her now, as she looked, when she laid it aside, and said---- "but james, it is not ours?" "not ours, mother, why i found it in the street!" "still it is not ours." "why mother ain`t you going to keep it?" "no my son, i shall go down to the _clarion_ office and advertise it." "but mother why not wait till it is advertised?" "and what then?" "if there is no owner for it, then we can keep it." "james" she said calmly and sadly, "i am very sorry to see you so ready to use what is not your own. i should not feel that i was dealing justly, if i kept this money without endeavoring to find the owner." "i confess that i was rather chopfallen at her decision, but in a few days after advertising we found the rightful owner. she was a very poor woman who had saved by dint of hard labor the sum of twenty dollars, and was on her way to pay the doctor who had attended her during a spell of rheumatic fever, when she lost the money and had not one dollar left to pay for advertising and being disheartened, she had given up all hope of finding it, when she happened to see it advertised in the paper. she was very grateful to my mother for restoring the money and offered her some compensation, but she refused to take it, saying she had only done her duty, and would have been ashamed of herself had she not done so. her conduct on this occasion made an impression on my mind that has never been erased. when i grew older she explained to me about my father's affairs, and uncancelled debts, and i resolved that i would liquidate every just claim against him, and take from his memory even the shadow of a reproach. to this end i have labored late and early; to-day i have paid the last claim against him, and i am a free man." "but how came you to find me and pay me to-day?" "i was purchasing in jones & brother's store, when you came in to borrow money, and i heard jones tell his younger brother that he was so sorry that he could not help you, and feared that you would be ruined." "who is he?" said i, "for out west i had lost track of you." "he is paul clifford, a friend of your father's. can you help him? he is perfectly reliable. we would trust him with ten thousand dollars if we had it. can you do anything for him? we will go his security, he is a fine fellow and we hate to see him go under." "yes" said i, "he was one of my father's creditors and i have often heard my mother speak of his generosity to her little ones, and i am glad that i have the privilege of helping him. i immediately went to the bank had a note cashed and i am very glad if i have been of any special service to you." "you certainly have been, and i feel that a heavy load had been lifted from my heart." years ago paul clifford sowed the seeds of kindness and they were yielding him a harvest of satisfaction. chapter ix belle gordon belle gordon was a christian; she had learned or tried to realize what is meant by the apostle paul when he said, "ye are bought with a price." to her those words meant the obligation she was under to her heavenly father, for the goodness and mercy that had surrounded her life, for the patience that had borne with her errors and sins, and above all for the gift of his dear son, the ever blessed christ. faith to her was not a rich traditional inheritance, a set of formulated opinions, received without investigation, and adopted without reflection. she could not believe because others did, and however plausible or popular a thing might be she was too conscientious to say she believed it if she did not, and when she became serious on the subject of religion it was like entering into a wilderness of doubt and distress. she had been taught to look upon god, more as the great and dreadful god, than as the tender loving father of his human children, and so strong was the power of association, that she found it hard to believe that god is good, and yet until she could believe this there seemed to be no resting place for her soul; but in course of time the shadows were lifted from her life. faith took the place of doubting, and in the precious promises of the bible she felt that her soul had found a safe and sure anchorage. if others believed because they had never doubted, she believed because she had doubted and her doubts had been dispelled by the rays of heaven, and believing, she had entered into rest. feeling that she was bought with a price, she realized that she was not her own, but the captive of divine love, and that her talents were not given her to hide beneath a bushel or to use for merely selfish enjoyments. that her time was not her own to be frittered away by the demands of fashion or to be spent in unavailing regrets. every reform which had for its object the lessening of human misery, or the increase of human happiness, found in her an earnest ally. on the subject of temperance she was terribly in earnest. every fiber of her heart responded to its onward movement. there was no hut or den where human beings congregated that she felt was too vile or too repulsive to enter, if by so doing she could help lift some fallen soul out of the depths of sin and degradation. while some doubted the soundness of her religious opinions, none doubted the orthodoxy of her life. little children in darkened homes smiled as the sunlight of her presence came over their paths; reformed men looked upon her as a loving counsellor and faithful friend and sister; women wretched and sorrowful, dragged down from love and light, by the intemperance of their husbands, brought to her their heavy burdens, and by her sympathy and tender consideration she helped them bear them. she was not rich in this world's goods, but she was affluent in tenderness, sympathy, and love, and out of the fullness of her heart, she was a real minister of mercy among the poor and degraded. believing that the inner life developed the outer, she considered the poor, and strove to awaken within them self-reliance, and self-control, feeling that one of the surest ways to render people helpless or dangerous is to crush out their self-respect and self-reliance. she thought it one of the greatest privileges of her life to be permitted to scatter flowers by the wayside of life. other women might write beautiful poems; she did more. she made her life a thing of brightness and beauty. * * * * * "do you think she will die?" said belle gordon, bending tenderly over a pale and fainting woman, whose face in spite of its attenuation showed traces of great beauty. "not if she is properly cared for; she has fainted from exhaustion brought on by overwork and want of proper food." tears gathered in the eyes of belle gordon as she lifted the beautiful head upon her lap and chafed the pale hands to bring back warmth and circulation. "let her be removed to her home as soon as possible," said the doctor. "the air is too heavy and damp for her." "i wonder where she lives," said belle thoughtfully, scanning her face, as the features began to show[ ] returning animation. "round the corner," said an urchin, "she's joe cough's wife. i seed her going down the street with a great big bundle, and mam said, she looked like she was going to topple over." "where is her husband?" "i don't know, i 'spec he's down to jim green's saloon." "what does he do?" "he don't do nothing, but mam says she works awful hard. come this way," said he with a quickness gathered by his constant contact with street life. up two flights of rickety stairs they carried the wasted form of mary gough, and laid her tenderly upon a clean but very poor bed. in spite of her extreme poverty there was an air of neatness in the desolate room. belle looked around and found an old tea pot in which there were a few leaves. there were some dry crusts in the cupboard, while two little children crouched by the embers in the grate, and cried for the mother. belle soon found a few coals in an old basin with which she replenished the fire, and covering up the sick woman as carefully as she could, stepped into the nearest grocery and replenished her basket with some of good the things of life. "is it not too heavy for you[r] might?" said paul clifford from whose grocery belle had bought her supplies. "can i not send them home for you?" "no i don't want them sent home. they are for a poor woman and her suffering children, who live about a square from here in lear's court." paul stood thoughtfully a moment before handing her the basket, and said--"that court has a very bad reputation; had i not better accompany you? i hope you will not consider my offer as an intrusion, but i do not think it is safe for you to venture there alone." "if you think it is not safe i will accept of your company; but i never thought of danger for myself in the presence of that fainting woman and her hungry children. do you know her? her name is mrs. gough." "i think i do. if it is the person i mean, i remember her when she was as lighthearted and happy a girl as i ever saw, but she married against her parents' consent, a worthless fellow named joe gough, and in a short time she disappeared from the village and i suppose she has come home, broken in health and broken in spirit." "and i am afraid she has come home to die. are her parents still alive?" "yes, but her father never forgave her. her mother i believe would take her to her heart as readily as she ever did, but her husband has an iron will and she has got to submit to him." "where do they live?" "at no rouen st. but here we are at the door." paul carried the basket up stairs, and sat down quietly, while belle prepared some refreshing tea and toast for the feeble mother; and some bread and milk for the hungry children. "what shall i do?" said belle looking tenderly upon the wan face, "i hate to leave her alone and yet i confess i do not prefer spending the night here." "of course not," said paul looking thoughtfully into the flickering fire of the grate. "oh! i have it now; i know a very respectable woman who occasionally cleans out my store. just wait a few moments, and i think i can find her," said paul clifford turning to the door. in a short time he returned bringing with him a pleasant looking woman whose face in spite of the poverty of her dress had a look of genuine refinement which comes not so much from mingling with people of culture as from the culture of her own moral and spiritual nature. she had learned to "look up and not to look down." to lend a helping hand wherever she felt it was needed. her life was spent in humble usefulness. she was poor in this world's goods, but rich in faith and good works. no poor person who asked her for bread ever went away empty. sometimes people would say, "i wouldn't give him a mouthful; he is not worthy," and then she would say in the tenderest and sweetest manner: "suppose our heavenly father only gave to us because we are worthy; what would any of us have?" i know she once said of a miserable sot with whom she shared her scanty food, that he is a wretched creature, but i wanted to get at his heart, and the best way to it was through his stomach. i never like to preach religion to hungry people. there is something very beautiful about the charity of the poor, they give not as the rich of their abundance, but of their limited earnings, gifts which when given in a right spirit bring a blessing with them. chapter x mary gough "i think," said paul clifford to miss gordon, "that i have found just the person that will suit you, and if you accept i will be pleased to see you safe home." belle thanked the young grocer, and gratefully accepted his company. belle returned the next day to see her protege and found her getting along comfortably although she could not help seeing it was sorrow more than disease that was sapping her life, and drying up the feeble streams of existence. "how do you feel this morning?" said belle laying her hand tenderly upon her forehead. "better, much better," she replied with an attempt at cheerfulness in her voice. "i am so glad, that mother graham is here. it is like letting the sunshine into these gloomy rooms to have her around. it all seems like a dream to me, i remember carrying a large bundle of work to the store, that my employer spoke harshly to me and talked of cutting down my wages. i also remember turning into the street, my eyes almost blinded with tears, and that i felt a dizziness in my head. the next i remember was seeing a lady feeding my children, and a gentleman coming in with aunty graham." "yes," said belle, "fortunately after i had seen you, i met with mr. clifford who rendered me every necessary assistance. his presence was very opportune," just then belle turned her eyes toward the door and saw mr. clifford standing on the threshold. "ah," said he smiling and advancing "this time the old adage has failed, which says that listeners never hear any good of themselves; for without intending to act the part of an eavesdropper, i heard myself pleasantly complimented." "no more than you deserve," said belle smiling and blushing, as she gave him her hand in a very frank and pleasant manner. "mrs. gough is much better this morning and is very grateful to you for your kindness." "mine," said mr. clifford "if you, will call it so, was only the result of an accident. still i am very glad if i have been of any service, and you are perfectly welcome to make demands upon me that will add to mrs. cough's comfort." "thank you, i am very glad she has found a friend in you. it is such a blessed privilege to be able to help others less fortunate than ourselves." "it certainly is." "just a moment," said belle, as the voice of mrs. gough fell faintly on her ear. "what is it, dear?" said belle bending down to catch her words. "who is that gentleman? his face and voice seem familiar." "it is mr. clifford." "paul clifford?" "yes. do you know him?" "yes, i knew him years ago when i was young and happy; but it seems an age since. oh, isn't it a dreadful thing, to be a drunkard's wife?" "yes it is, but would you like to speak to mr. clifford?" "yes! mam, i would." "mr. clifford," said belle, "mrs. gough would like to speak with you." "do you not know me?" said mary, looking anxiously into his face. "i recognized you as soon as you moved into the neighborhood." "i am very glad. i feared that i was so changed that my own dear mother would hardly recognize me. don't you think she would pity and forgive me, if she saw what a mournful wretch i am?" "yes, i think she has long forgiven you and longs to take you to her heart as warmly as she ever did." "and my father?" "i believe he would receive you, but i don't think he would be willing to recognize your husband. you know he is very set in his ways." "mr. clifford, i feel that my days are numbered and that my span of life will soon be done; but while i live i feel it my duty to cling to my demented husband, and to do all i can to turn him from the error of his ways. but i do so wish that my poor children could have my mother's care, when i am gone. if i were satisfied on that score, i would die content." "do not talk of dying," said belle taking the pale thin hand in hers. "you must try and live for your children's sake. when you get strong i think i can find you some work among my friends. there is mrs. roberts, she often gives out work and i think i will apply to her." "mrs. james roberts on st. james st. near th?" "yes! do you know her?" "yes," said mrs. gough closing her eyes wearily, "i know her and have worked for her." "i think she is an excellent woman, i remember one morning we were talking together on religious experience, and about women speaking in class and conference meetings. i said i did not think i should like to constantly relate my experience in public, there was often such a lack of assurance of faith about me that i shrank from holding up my inner life to inspection; and she replied that she would always say that she loved jesus, and i thought oh, how i would like to have her experience. what rest and peace i would have if i could feel that i was always in harmony with him." "miss belle i hope you will not be offended with me, for i am very ignorant about these matters; but there was something about mrs. roberts dealings with us poor working people, that did seem to me not to be just what i think religion calls for. i found her a very hard person to deal with; she wanted so much work for so little money." "but, mrs. gough, the times are very hard; and the rich feel it as well as the poor." "but not so much. it curtails them in their luxuries, and us in our necessities; perhaps i shouldn't mention, but after my husband had become a confirmed drunkard, and all hope had died out of my heart, i hadn't time to sit down and brood helplessly over my misery. i had to struggle for my children and if possible keep the wolf from the door; and besides food and clothing, i wanted to keep my children in a respectable neighborhood, and my whole soul rose up in revolt against the idea of bringing them up where their eyes and ears would be constantly smitten by improper sights and sounds. while i was worrying over my situation and feeling that my health was failing under the terrible pressure of care and overwork, mrs. roberts brought me work; 'what will you do this for,' she said, displaying one of the articles she wanted made. i replied,'one dollar and twenty-five cents,' and i knew the work well worth it. 'i can get it done for one dollar,' she replied, 'and i am not willing to give any more.' what could i do? i was out of work, my health was poor, and my children clutching at my heart strings for bread; and so i took it at her price. it was very unprofitable, but it was better than nothing." "why that is very strange. i know she pays her dressmaker handsomely." "that is because her dressmaker is in a situation to dictate her own terms; but while she would pay her a large sum for dressmaking, she would screw and pinch a five-cent piece from one who hadn't power to resist her demands. i have seen people save twenty-five or fifty cents in dealing with poor people, who would squander ten times as much on some luxury of the table or wardrobe. i[?] often find that meanness and extravagance go hand in hand." "yes, that is true, still mrs. gough, i think people often act like mrs. roberts more from want of thought than want of heart. it was an old charge brought against the israelite, 'my people doth not consider.'" * * * * * "what is the matter, my dear?" said belle a few mornings after this conversation as she approached the bedside of mary gough, "i thought you were getting along so nicely, and that with proper care you would be on your feet in a few days, but this morning you look so feeble, and seem so nervous and depressed. do tell me what has happened and what has become of your beautiful hair; oh you had such a wealth of tresses, i really loved to toy with them. was your head so painful that the doctor ordered them to be cut?" "oh, no," she said burying her face in the pillow and breaking into a paroxysm of tears. "oh, miss belle, how can i tell you," she replied recovering from her sudden outburst of sorrow. "why, what is it darling? i am at a loss to know what has become of your beautiful hair." with gentle womanly tact belle saw that the loss of her hair was a subject replete with bitter anguish, and turning to the children she took them in her lap and interested and amused them by telling beautiful fairy stories. in a short time mary's composure returned, and she said, "miss belle, i can now tell you how i lost my hair. last night my husband, or the wreck of what was once my husband, came home. his eyes were wild and bloodshot; his face was pale and haggard, his gait uneven, and his hand trembling. i have seen him suffering from _manipaotu_ and dreaded lest he should have a returning of it. mrs. graham had just stepped out, and there was no one here but myself and children. he held in his hand a pair of shears, and approached my bedside. i was ready to faint with terror, when he exclaimed, 'mary i must have liquor or i shall go wild,' he caught my hair in his hand; i was too feeble to resist, and in a few minutes he had cut every lock from my head, and left it just as you see it." "oh, what a pity, and what a shame." "oh, miss gordon do you think the men who make our laws ever stop to consider the misery, crime and destruction that flow out of the liquor traffic? i have done all i could to induce him to abstain, and he has abstained several months at a time and then suddenly like a flash of lightning the temptation returns and all his resolutions are scattered like chaff before the wind. i have been blamed for living with him, but miss belle were you to see him in his moments of remorse, and hear his bitter self reproach, and his earnest resolutions to reform, you would as soon leave a drowning man to struggle alone in the water as to forsake him in his weakness when every one else has turned against him, and if i can be the means of saving him, the joy for his redemption will counterbalance all that i have suffered as a drunkard's wife." chapter xi [text missing.] chapter xii [text missing.] chapter xiii john anderson's saloon _"the end of these things is death."_ "why do you mix that liquor with such care and give it to that child? you know he is not going to pay you for it?" "i am making an investment." "how so?" "why you see that boy's parents are very rich, and in course of time he will be one of my customers." "well! john anderson as old a sinner as i am, i wouldn't do such a thing for my right hand." "what's the harm? you are one of my best customers, did liquor ever harm you?" "yes it does harm me, and when i see young men beginning to drink, i feel like crying out, 'young man you are in danger, don't put your feet in the terrible flood, for ten to one you will be swamped.'" "well! this is the best joke of the season: tom cary preaching temperance. when do you expect to join the crusade? but, oh! talk is cheap." "cheap or dear, john anderson, when i saw you giving liquor to that innocent boy, i couldn't help thinking of my poor charley. he was just such a bright child as that, with beautiful brown eyes, and a fine forehead. ah that boy had a mind; he was always ahead in his studies. but once when he was about twelve years old, i let him go on a travelling tour with his uncle. he was so agreeable and wide awake, his uncle liked to have him for company; but it was a dear trip to my poor charley. during this journey they stopped at a hotel, and my brother gave him a glass of wine. better for my dear boy had he given him a glass of strychnine. that one glass awakened within him a dreadful craving. it raged like a hungry fire. i talked to him, his mother pled with him, but it was no use, liquor was his master, and when he couldn't get liquor i've known him to break into his pantry to get our burning fluid to assuage his thirst. sometimes he would be sober for several weeks at a time, and then our hopes would brighten that charley would be himself again, and then in an hour all our hopes would be dashed to the ground. it seemed as if a spell was upon him. he married a dear good girl, who was as true as steel, but all her entreaties for him to give up drinking were like beating the air. he drank, and drank, until he drank himself into the grave." by this time two or three loungers had gathered around john anderson and thomas gary, and one of them said, "mr. gary you have had sad experience, why don't you give up drinking yourself?" "give it up! because i can't. to-day i would give one half of my farm if i could pass by this saloon and not feel that i wanted to come in. no, i feel that i am a slave. there was a time when i could have broken my chain, but it is too late now, and i say young men take warning by me and don't make slaves and fools of yourselves." "now, tom cary," said john anderson, "it is time for you to dry up, we have had enough of this foolishness, if you can't govern yourself, the more's the pity for you." just then the newsboy came along crying: _"evening mail. all about the dreadful murder! john coots and james loraine. last edition. buy a paper, sir! here's your last edition, all 'bout the dreadful murder"._ "john coots," said several voices all at once, "why he's been here a half dozen times today." "i've drank with him," said one, "at that bar twice since noon. he had a strange look out of his eyes; and i heard him mutter something to himself." "yes," said another, "i heard him say he was going to kill somebody, 'one or the other's got to die,' what does the paper say?" "love, jealousy, and murder." "the old story," said anderson, looking somewhat relieved, "a woman's at the bottom of it." "and liquor," said tom cary, "is at the top of it." "i wish you would keep a civil tongue in your head," said anderson, scowling at cary. "oh! never mind; tom, will have his say. he's got a knack of speaking out in meeting." "and a very disagreeable knack it is." "oh never mind about tom, read about the murder, and tend to tom some other time." eagerly and excitedly they read the dreadful news. a woman, frail and vicious, was at the bottom; a woman that neither of those men would have married as a gracious gift, was the guilty cause of one murder, and when the law would take its course, two deaths would lie at her door. oh, the folly of some men, who, instead of striving to make home a thing of beauty, strength and grace, wander into forbidden pastures, and reap for themselves harvests of misery and disgrace. and all for what? because of the allurements of some idle, vain and sinful woman who has armed herself against the peace, the purity and the progress of the fireside. such women are the dry rot in the social fabric; they dig in the dark beneath the foundation stones of the home. young men enter their houses, and over the mirror of their lives, comes the shadow of pollution. companionship with them unprepares them for the pure, simple joys of a happy and virtuous home; a place which should be the best school for the affections; one of the fairest spots on earth and one of the brightest types of heaven. such a home as this, may exist without wealth, luxury or display; but it cannot exist without the essential elements of purity, love and truth. the story was read, and then came the various comments. "oh, it was dreadful," said one. "mr. loraine belongs to one of the first families in the town; and what a cut it will be to them, not simply that he has been murdered, but murdered where he was--in the house of lizzie wilson. i knew her before she left husband and took to evil courses." "oh, what a pity, i expect it will almost kill his wife, poor thing, i pity her from the bottom of my heart." "why what's the matter harry richards? you look as white as a sheet, and you are all of a tremor." "i've just come from the coroner's inquest, had to be one of the witnesses. i am afraid it will go hard with coots." "why? what was the verdict of the jury?" "they brought in a verdict of death by killing at the hands of john coots." "were you present at the murder?" "yes." "how did it happen?" "why you see john had been spending his money very freely on lizzie wilson, and he took it into his head because loraine had made her some costly presents, that she had treated him rather coolly and wanted to ship him, and so he got dreadfully put out with loraine and made some bitter threats against him. but i don't believe he would have done the deed if he had been sober, but he's been on a spree for several days and he was half crazy when he did it. oh it was heartrending to see loraine's wife when they brought him home a corpse. she gave an awful shriek and fell to the floor, stiff as a poker; and his poor little children, it made my heart bleed to look at them; and his poor old mother. i am afraid it will be the death of her." in a large city with its varied interests, one event rapidly chases the other. life-boats are stranded on the shores of time, pitiful wrecks of humanity are dashed amid the rocks and reefs of existence. old faces disappear and new ones take their places and the stream of life ever hurries on to empty where death's waters meet. * * * * * at the next sitting of the court john coots was arraigned, tried, and convicted of murder in the first degree. his lawyer tried to bring in a plea of emotional insanity but failed. if insane he was insane through the influence of strong drink. it was proven that he had made fierce threats against the life of loraine, and the liquor in which he had so freely indulged had served to fire his brain and nerve his hand to carry out his wicked intent; and so the jury brought in its verdict, and he was sentenced to be executed, which sentence was duly performed and that closed another act of the sad drama. intemperance and sensuality had clasped hands together, and beneath their cruel fostering the gallows had borne its dreadful fruit of death. the light of one home had been quenched in gloom and guilt. a husband had broken over the barriers that god placed around the path of marital love, and his sun had gone down at mid-day. the sun which should have gilded the horizon of life and lent it additional charms, had gone down in darkness, yes, set behind the shadow of a thousand clouds. innocent and unoffending childhood was robbed of a father's care, and a once happy wife, and joyful mother sat down in her widow's weeds with the mantle of a gloomier sorrow around her heart. and all for what? oh who will justify the ways of god to man? who will impress upon the mind of youth with its impulsiveness that it is a privilege as well as a duty to present the body to god, as a living sacrifice holy and acceptable in his sight. that god gives man no law that is not for his best advantage, and that the interests of humanity, and the laws of purity and self-denial all lie in the same direction, and the man who does not take care of his body must fail to take the best care of his soul; for the body should be temple for god's holy spirit and the instrument to do his work, and we have no right to defile the one or blunt the other and thus render ourselves unfit for the master's service. chapter xiv belle gordon's indignation was thoroughly aroused by hearing mary gough's story about the loss of her hair, and she made up her mind that when she saw joe gough she would give him a very plain talking. "i would like to see your husband; i would just like to tell him what i think about his conduct." "oh," said mary, her pale cheek growing whiter with apprehension; "that's his footsteps now, miss belle don't say anything to him, joe's as good and kind a man as i ever saw when he is sober, but sometimes he is really ugly when he has been drinking." just then the door was opened, and joe gough entered, or rather all that remained of the once witty, talented and handsome josiah gough. his face was pale and haggard, and growing premature by age, his wealth of raven hair was unkempt and hung in tangled locks over his forehead, his hand was unsteady and trembling from extreme nervousness, but he was sober enough to comprehend the situation, and to feel a deep sense of remorse and shame, when he gazed upon the weary head from whence he had bereft its magnificent covering. "here mary," said he approaching the bed, "i've brought you a present; i only had four cents, and i thought this would please you, i know you women are so fond of jew-gaws," and he handed [her] a pair of sleeve buttons. "thank you," said she, as a faint smile illuminated her pallid cheek. "this," she said turning to miss gordon, "is my husband, josiah gough." "good morning, mr. gough," said belle bowing politely and extending her hand. joe returned the salutation very courteously and very quietly, sitting down by the bedside, made some remarks about the dampness of the weather. mary lay very quiet, looking pitifully upon the mour[n]ful wretch at her side, who seemed to regard her and her friend with intense interest. it seemed from his countenance that remorse and shame were rousing up his better nature. once he rose as if to go--stood irresolutely for a moment, and then sitting down by the bedside, clasped her thin pale hand in his with a caressing motion, and said, "mary you've had a hard time, but i hope there are better days in store for us, don't get out of heart," and there was a moisture in his eyes in which for a moment beamed a tender, loving light. belle immediately felt her indignation changing to pity. surely she thought within herself, this man is worth saving--there is still love and tenderness within him, notwithstanding all his self-ruin, he reminds me of an expression i have picked up somewhere about "old oak," holding the young fibres at its heart, i will appeal to that better nature, i will use it as a lever to lift him from the depths into which he has fallen. while she was thinking of the best way to approach him, and how to reach that heart into whose hidden depths she had so unexpectedly glanced, he arose and bending over his wife imprinted upon her lips a kiss in which remorse and shame seemed struggling for expression, and left the room. "mother graham," said belle, "a happy thought has just struck me, couldn't we induce mr. gough to attend the meeting of the reform club? mr. r.n. speaks tonight and he has been meeting with glorious success as a temperance reformer, hundreds of men, many of them confirmed drunkards, have joined, and he is doing a remarkable work, he does not wait for the drunkards to come to him, he goes to them, and wins them by his personal sympathy, and it is wonderful the good he has done, i do wish he would go." "i wish so too," said martha graham. "if he should not return while i am here will you invite him to attend? perhaps mrs. gough can spare you an hour or two this evening to accompany him." "that i would gladly do, i think it would do me more good than all the medicines you could give me, to see my poor husband himself once more. before he took to drinking, i was so happy, but it seems as if since then i have suffered sorrow by the spoonful. oh the misery that this drink causes. i do hope these reform clubs will be the means of shutting up every saloon in the place, for just as long as one of them is open he is in danger." "yes," said belle, "what we need is not simply to stop the men from drinking, but to keep the temptation out of their way." "joe," said mary, "belongs to a good family, he has a first-rate education, is a fine penman, and a good bookkeeper, but this dreadful drink has thrown him out of some of the best situations in the town where we were living." "oh what a pity, i heard mr. clifford say that his business was increasing so that he wanted a good clerk and salesman to help him, that he was overworked and crippled for want of sufficient help. maybe if your husband would sign the pledge, mr. clifford would give him a trial, but it is growing late and i must go. i would liked to have seen your husband before i left, and have given him a personal invitation, but you and mother graham can invite him for me, so good bye, keep up a good heart, you know where to cast your burden." just as miss gordon reached the landing, she saw joe gough standing at the outer door and laying her hand gently upon his shoulder, exclaimed, "oh mr. gough, i am so glad to see you again, i wanted to invite you to attend a temperance meeting tonight at amory hall. will you go?" "well i don't like to promise," he replied, looking down upon his seedy coat and dilapidated shoes. "never mind your wardrobe," said miss gordon divining his thoughts. "the soul is more than raiment, 'the world has room for another man and i want you to fill the place.'" "well," said he, "i'll come." "very well, i expect to be there and will look for you. come early and bring mother graham." "mrs. gough can spare her an hour or two this evening, i think your wife is suffering more from exhaustion and debility than anything else." "yes poor mary has had a hard time, but it shan't be always so. as soon as i get work i mean to take her out of this," said he looking disdainfully at the wretched tenement house, with its broken shutters and look of general decay. * * * * * "why mother graham is [the] meeting over? you must have had a fine time, you just look delighted. did joe go in with you, and where is he now?" "yes, he went with me, listened to the speeches, and joined the club, i saw him do it with my own eyes, oh, we had a glorious time!" "oh i am so glad," said mary, her eyes filling with sudden tears. "i do hope he will keep his pledge!" "i hope so too, and i hope he will get something to do. mr. clifford was there when he signed, and miss belle was saying today that he wanted a clerk that would be a first r[at]e place for joe, if he will only keep his pledge. mr. clifford is an active temperance man, and i believe would help to keep joe straight." "i hope he'll get the place, but mother graham, tell me all about the meeting, you don't know how happy i am." "don't i deary? have i been through it all, but it seems as if i had passed through suffering into peace, but never mind mother graham's past troubles, let me tell you about the meeting." "at these meetings quite a number of people speak, just as we went in one of the speakers was telling his experience, and what a terrible struggle he had to overcome the power of appetite. now when he felt the fearful craving coming over him he would walk the carpet till he had actually worn it threadbare; but that he had been converted and found grace to help him in time of need, and how he had gone out and tried to reform others and had seen the work prosper in his hand. i watched joe's face, it seemed lit up with earnestness and hope, as if that man had brought him a message of deliverance; then after the meeting came the signing of the pledge and joining the reform club, and it would have done you good to see the men that joined." "do you remember thomas allison?" "yes, poor fellow, and i think if any man ever inherited drunkenness, he did, for his father and his mother were drunkards before him." "well, he joined and they have made him president of the club." "well did i ever! but tell me all about joe." "when the speaking was over, joe sat still and thoughtful as if making up his mind, when miss gordon came to him and asked him to join, he stopped a minute to button his coat and went right straight up and had his name put down, but oh how the people did clap and shout. well as joe was one of the last to sign, the red ribbons they use for badges was all gone and joe looked so sorry, he said he wanted to take a piece of ribbon home to let his wife know that he belonged to the reform club, miss gordon heard him, and she had a piece of black lace and red ribbon twisted together around her throat and she separated the lace from the ribbon and tied it in his button-hole, so his mary would see it. oh miss belle did look so sweet and mr. clifford never took his eyes off her. i think he admires her very much." "i don't see how he can help it, she is one of the dearest--sweetest, ladies i ever saw, she never seemed to say by her actions, 'i am doing so much for you poor people' and you can't be too thankful." "not she, and between you and i, and the gate-post, i think that will be a match." "i think it would make a splendid one, but hush, i hear some persons coming." the door opened and paul clifford, joe gough, and belle gordon entered. "here mrs. gough," said paul clifford, "as we children used to say. here's your husband safe and sound, and i will add, a member of our reformed club and we have come to congratulate you upon the event." "my dear friends, i am very thankful to you for your great kindness, i don't think i shall ever be able to repay you." "don't be uneasy darling," said belle, "we are getting our pay as we go along, we don't think the cause of humanity owes us anything." "yes," said joe seating himself by the bed side with an air of intense gratification. "here is my badge, i did not want to leave the meeting without having this to show you." "this evening," said mrs. gough smiling through her tears, "reminds me of a little temperance song i learned when a child, i think it commenced with these words: "and are you sure the news is true? are you sure my john has joined? i can't believe the happy news, and leave my fears behind, if john has joined and drinks no more, the happiest wife am i that ever swept a cabin floor, or sung a lullaby. "that's just the way i feel to-night, i haven't been so happy before for years." "and i hope," said mr. clifford, "that you will have many happy days and nights in the future." "and i hope so too," said joe, shaking hands with paul and belle as they rose to go. mr. clifford accompanied belle to her door, and as they parted she said, "this is a glorious work in which it is our privilege to clasp hands." "it is and i hope," but as the words rose to his lips, he looked into the face of belle, and it was so radiant with intelligent tenderness and joy, that she seemed to him almost like a glorified saint, a being too precious high and good for common household uses, and so the remainder of the sentence died upon his lips and he held his peace. chapter xv "i have resolved to dissolve partnership with charles," said augustine romaine to his wife, the next morning after his son's return from the champaign supper at john anderson's. "oh! no you are not in earnest, are you? you seem suddenly to have lost all patience with charlie." "yes i have, and i have made up my mind that i am not going to let him hang like a millstone on our business. no, if he will go down, i am determined he shall not drag me down with him. see what a hurt it would be to us, to have it said, 'don't trust your case with the romaine's for the junior member of that firm is a confirmed drunkard.'" "well, augustine you ought to know best, but it seems like casting him off, to dissolve partnership with him." "i can't help it, if he persists in his downward course he must take the consequences. charles has had every advantage; when other young lawyers have had to battle year after year with obscurity and poverty, he entered into a business that was already established and flourishing. what other men were struggling for, he found ready made to his hand, and if he chooses to throw away every advantage and make a complete wreck of himself, i can't help it." "oh! it does seem so dreadful, i wonder what will become of my poor boy?" "now, mother i want you to look at this thing in the light of reason and common sense. i am not turning charles out of the house. he is not poor, though the way he is going on he will be. you know his grandfather has left him a large estate out west, which is constantly increasing in value. now what i mean to do is to give charles a chance to set up for himself as attorney, wherever he pleases. throwing him on his own resources, with a sense of responsibility, may be the best thing for him; but in the present state of things i do not think it advisable to continue our business relations together. for more than twenty-five years our firm has stood foremost at the bar. ever since my brother and i commenced business together our reputation has been unspotted and i mean to keep it so, if i have to cut off my right hand." mrs. romaine gazed upon the stern sad face of her husband, and felt by the determination of his manner that it was useless to entreat or reason with him to change his purpose; and so with a heavy heart, and eyes drooping with unshed tears, she left the room. "john," said mr. romaine to the waiter, "tell charles i wish to see him before i go down to the office." just then charles entered the room and bade good morning to his father. "good morning," replied his father, rather coldly, and for a moment there was an awkward silence. "charles," said mr. romaine, "after having witnessed the scene of last night, i have come to the conclusion to dissolve the partnership between us." "just as you please," said charles in a tone of cold indifference that irritated his father; but he maintained his self-control. "i am sorry that you will persist in your downward course; but if you are determined to throw yourself away i have made up my mind to cut loose from you. i noticed last week when you were getting out the briefs in that sumpter case, you were not yourself, and several times lately you have made me hang my head in the court room. i am sorry, very sorry," and a touch of deep emotion gave a tone of tenderness to the closing sentence. there was a slight huskiness in charles' voice, as he replied, "whenever the articles of dissolution are made out i am ready to sign." "they shall be ready by to-morrow." "all right, i will sign them." "and what then?" "set up for myself, the world is wide enough for us both." after mr. romaine had left the room, charles sat, burying his head in his hands and indulging bitter thoughts toward his father. "to-day," he said to himself, "he resolved to cut loose from me apparently forgetting that it was from his hands, and at his table i received my first glass of wine. he prides himself on his power of self-control, and after all what does it amount to? it simply means this, that he has an iron constitution, and can drink five times as much as i can without showing its effects, and to-day if mr. r.n. would ask him to sign the total-abstinence pledge, he wouldn't hear to it. yes i am ready to sign any articles he will bring, even if it is to sign never to enter this house, or see his face; but my mother--poor mother, i am sorry for her sake." just then his mother entered the room. "my son." "mother." "just what i feared has come to pass. i have dreaded more than anything else this collision with your father." "now mother don't be so serious about this matter. father's law office does not take in the whole world. i shall either set up for myself in a.p., or go west." "oh! don't talk of going away, i think i should die of anxiety if you were away." "well, as i passed down the street yesterday i saw there was an office to let in frazier's new block, and i think i will engage it and put out my sign. how will that suit you?" "anything, or anywhere, charlie, so you are near me. and charlie don't be too stout with your father, he was very much out of temper when you came home last night, but be calm; it will blow over in a few days, don't add fuel to the fire. and you know that you and miss roland are to be married in two weeks, and i do wish that things might remain as they are, at least till after the wedding. separation just now might give rise to some very unpleasant talk, and i would rather if you and your father can put off this dissolution, that you will consent to let things remain as they are for a few weeks longer. when your father comes home i will put the case to him, and have the thing delayed. just now charles i dread the consequences of a separation." "well, mother, just as you please; perhaps the publication of the articles of dissolution in the paper might complicate matters." when mr. romaine returned home, his wrath was somewhat mollified, and mrs. romaine having taken care to prepare his favorite dishes for dinner, took the opportunity when he had dined to entreat him to delay the intended separation till after the wedding, to which he very graciously consented. * * * * * again there was a merry gathering at the home of jeanette roland. it was her wedding night, and she was about to clasp hands for life with charles romaine. true to her idea of taking things as she found them, she had consented to be his wife without demanding of him any reformation from the habit which was growing so fearfully upon him. his wealth and position in society like charity covered a multitude of sins. at times jeanette felt misgivings about the step she was about to take, but she put back the thoughts like unwelcome intruders, and like the ostrich, hiding her head in the sand, instead of avoiding the danger, she shut her eyes to its fearful reality. that night the wine flowed out like a purple flood; but the men and women who drank were people of culture, wealth and position, and did not seem to think it was just as disgraceful or more so to drink in excess in magnificently furnished parlors, as it was in low barrooms or miserable dens where vice and poverty are huddled together. and if the weary children of hunger and hard toil instead of seeking sleep as nature's sweet restorer, sought to stimulate their flagging energies in the enticing cup, they with the advantages of wealth, culture and refinement could not plead the excuses of extreme wretchedness, or hard and unremitting drudgery. "how beautiful, very beautiful," fell like a pleasant ripple upon the ear of jeanette roland, as she approached the altar, beneath her wreath of orange blossoms, while her bridal veil floated like a cloud of lovely mist from her fair young head. the vows were spoken, the bridal ring placed upon her finger, and amid a train of congratulating friends, she returned home where a sumptuous feast awaited them. "don't talk so loud, but i think belle gordon acted wisely when she refused mr. romaine," said mrs. gladstone, one of the guests. "do you, indeed? why charles romaine, is the only son of mr. romaine, and besides being the heir he has lately received a large legacy from his grandfather's estate. i think jeanette has made a splendid match. i hope my girls will do as well." "i hope on the other hand that my girls will never marry unless they do better." "why how you talk! what's the matter with mr. romaine?" "look at him now," said mrs. fallard joining in the conversation. "this is his wedding night and yet you can plainly see he is under the influence of wine. look at those eyes, don't you know how beautiful and clear they are when he is sober, and how very interesting he is in conversation. now look at him, see how muddled his eye is--but he is approaching--listen to his utterance, don't you notice how thick it is? now if on his wedding night, he can not abstain, i have very grave fears for jeanette's future." "perhaps you are both right, but i never looked at things in that light before, and i know that a magnificent fortune can melt like snow in the hands of a drunken man." "i wish you much joy," rang out a dozen voices, as jeanette approached them. "oh jeanette, you just look splendid! and mr. romaine, oh he is so handsome." "oh jeanette what's to hinder you from being so happy?" "but where is mr. romaine? we have missed him for some time." "i don't know, let me seek my husband." "isn't that a mouthful?" said jeanette laughingly disengaging herself from the merry group, as an undefined sense of apprehension swept over her. was it a presentiment of coming danger? an unspoken prophecy to be verified by bitter tears, and lonely fear that seemed for a moment to turn life's sweetness into bitterness and gall. in the midst of a noisy group, in the dining room, she found charles drinking the wine as it gave its color aright in the cup. she saw the deep flush upon his cheek, and the cloudiness of his eye, and for the first time upon that bridal night she felt a shiver of fear as the veil was suddenly lifted before her unwilling eye; and half reluctantly she said to herself, "suppose after all my cousin belle was right." chapter xvi "good morning! mr. clifford," said joe gough, entering the store of paul clifford, the next day after he joined the reform club. "i have heard that you wanted some one to help you, and i am ready to do anything to make an honest living." "i am very sorry," said paul, "but i have just engaged a young man belonging to our club to come this morning." joe looked sad, but not discouraged, and said, "mr. clifford, i want to turn over a new leaf in my life, but everyone does not know that. do you know of any situation i can get? i have been a book-keeper and a salesman in the town of c., where i once lived, but i am willing to begin almost anywhere on the ladder of life, and make it a stepping-stone to something better." there was a tone of earnestness in his voice, and an air of determination, in his manner that favorably impressed paul clifford and he replied,---- "i was thinking of a friend of mine who wants a helping hand; but it may not be, after all, the kind of work you prefer. he wants a porter, but as you say you want to make your position a stepping-stone to something better, if you make up your mind to do your level best, the way may open before you in some more congenial and unexpected quarter. wait a few minutes, and i will give you a line to him. no! i can do better than that; he is a member of our club, and i will see him myself; but before you do, had we better not go to the barber's?" "i would like to," said joe, "but i haven't--" "haven't the money?" "yes, mr. clifford, that's the fact, i am not able to pay even for a shave. oh! what a fool i have been." "oh! well never mind, let the dead past, bury its dead. the future is before you, try and redeem that. if you accept it, i will lend you a few dollars. i believe in lending a helping hand. so come with me to the barber's and i'll make it all right, you can pay me when you are able, but here we are at the door, let us go in." they entered, and in a few moments joe's face was under the manipulating care of the barber. "fix this so," said joe to the barber, giving him directions how to cut his mustache. paul was somewhat amused, and yet in that simple act, he saw a return of self-respect, and was glad to see its slightest manifestations, and it was pleasant to witness the satisfaction with which joe beheld himself in the glass, as he exclaimed, "why mary would hardly know me!" "suppose now, we go to the tailor's and get some new rigging?" "mr. clifford," said joe hesitatingly, "you are very kind, but i don't know when i shall be able to pay you, and--" "oh! never mind, when you are able i will send my bill. it will help you in looking for a place to go decently dressed. so let us go into the store and get a new suit." they entered a clothing store and in a few moments joe was dressed in a new suit which made him look almost like another person. "now, we are ready," said paul, "appearances are not so much against you." "good morning mr. tennant," said paul to the proprietor of a large store. "i heard last night that you wanted help in your store and i have brought you mr. gough, who is willing to take any situation you will give him, and i will add, he is a member of our reform club." mr. tennant looked thoughtfully a moment, and replied, "i have only one vacancy, and i do not think it would suit your friend. my porter died yesterday and that is the only situation which i can offer him at present." "i will accept it," said joe, "if you will give it to me, i am willing to do anything to make an honest living for my family." "well you can come to-morrow, or stop now and begin." "all right," said joe with a promptness that pleased his employer, and joe was installed in the first day's regular work he had had for months. "what! sitting up sewing?" said belle gordon entering the neat room where mrs. gough was rejuvenating a dress for her older daughter. "why you look like another woman, your cheeks are getting plump, your eyes are brightening, and you look so happy." "i feel just like i look, miss gordon. joe has grown so steady, he gets constant work, and he is providing so well for us all, and he won't hear to me taking again that slop-shop work. he says all he wants me to do, is to get well, and take care of the home and children. but you look rather pale, have you been sick?" "yes, i have been rather unwell for several weeks, and the doctor has ordered among other things that i should have a plentiful supply of fresh air, so to-morrow as there is to be a free excursion, and i am on the committee, i think if nothing prevents, i shall go. perhaps you would like to go?" "yes, if joe will consent, but--" "but, what?" "well joe has pretty high notions, and i think he may object, because it is receiving charity. i can't blame him for it, but joe has a right smart of pride that way." "no! i don't blame him, i rather admire his spirit of self-reliance, and i wouldn't lay the weight of my smallest finger upon his self-respect to repress it; still i would like to see your mamy, and hatty, have a chance to get out into the woods, and have what i call a good time. i think i can have it so arranged that you can go with me, and serve as one of the committee on refreshments, and your services would be an ample compensation for your entertainment." "well if you put it in that light, i think joe would be willing for me to go." "i will leave the matter there, and when your husband comes home you can consult him and send me word. and so you are getting along nicely?" "oh! yes indeed, splendidly. just look here, this is joe's present," and mary held up with both hands a beautifully embossed and illustrated bible. "this was my birth-day present. oh! miss belle, joe seems to me like another man. last night we went to a conference and prayer-meeting, and joe spoke. did you know he had joined the church?" "no! when did that happen?" "last week." "has he become religious?" "well i think joe's trying to do the best he can. he said last night in meeting that he felt like a new man, and if they didn't believe he had religion to ask his wife." "and suppose they had asked you, what would you have said?" "i would have said i believe joe's a changed man, and i hope he will hold out faithful. and miss belle i want to be a christian, but there are some things about religion i can't understand. people often used to talk to me about getting religion, and getting ready to die. religion somehow got associated in my mind with sorrow and death, but it seems to me since i have known you and mr. clifford the thing looks different. i got it associated with something else besides the pall, the hearse, and weeping mourners. you have made me feel that it is as beautiful and valuable for life as it is necessary for death. and yet there are some things i can't understand. miss belle will you be shocked if i tell you something which has often puzzled me?" "i don't know, i hope you have nothing very shocking to tell me." "well perhaps it is, and maybe i had better not say it." "but you have raised my curiosity, and woman like i want to hear it." "now don't be shocked, but let me ask you, if you really believe that god is good?" "yes i do, and to doubt it would be to unmoor my soul from love, from peace, and rest. it seems to me to believe that must be the first resting place for my soul, and i feel that with me "to doubt would be disloyalty to falter would be sin. "but my dear i have been puzzled just as you have, and can say,---- "i have wandered in mazes dark and distressing i've had not a cheering ray my spirit to bless, cheerless unbelief held my laboring soul in grief." "and what then?" "i then turned to the gospel that taught me to pray and trust in the living word from folly away. "and it was here my spirit found a resting place, and i feel that in believing i have entered into rest." "ah!" said mary to herself when belle was gone, "there is something so restful and yet inspiring in her words. i wish i had her faith." chapter xvii "i am sorry, very sorry," said belle gordon, as a shadow of deep distress flitted over her pale sad face. she was usually cheerful and serene in her manner; but now it seemed as if the very depths of her soul had been stirred by some mournful and bitter memory. "your question was so unexpected and--" "and what!" said paul in a tone of sad expectancy, "so unwelcome?" "it was so sudden, i was not prepared for it." "i do not," said paul, "ask an immediate reply. give yourself ample time for consideration." "mr. clifford," said belle, her voice gathering firmness as she proceeded, "while all the relations of life demand that there should be entire truthfulness between us and our fellow creatures, i think we should be especially sincere and candid in our dealings with each other on this question of marriage, a question not only as affecting our own welfare but that of[ ] others, a relation which may throw its sunshine or shadow over the track of unborn ages. permit me now to say to you, that there is no gentleman of my acquaintance whom i esteem more highly than yourself; but when you ask me for my heart and hand, i almost feel as if i had no heart to give; and you know it would be wrong to give my hand where i could not place my heart." "but would it be impossible for you to return my affection?" "i don't know, but i am only living out my [vow] of truthfulness when i say to you, i feel as if i had been undone for love. you tell that in offering your hand that you bring me a heart unhackneyed in the arts of love, that my heart is the first and only shrine on which you have ever laid the wealth of your affections. i cannot say the same in reply. i have had my bright and beautiful day dream, but it has faded, and i have learned what is the hardest of all lessons for a woman to learn. i have learned to live without love." "oh no," said paul, "not to live without love. in darkened homes how many grateful hearts rejoice to hear your footsteps on the threshold. i have seen the eyes of young arabs of the street grow brighter as you approached and say, 'that's my lady, she comes to see my mam when she's sick.' and i have seen little girls in the street quicken their face to catch a loving smile from their dear sunday school teacher. oh miss belle instead of living without love, i think you are surrounded with a cordon of loving hearts." "yes, and i appreciate them--but this is not the love to which i refer. i mean a love which is mine, as anything else on earth is mine, a love precious, enduring and strong, which brings hope and joy and sunshine over one's path in life. a love which commands my allegiance and demands my respect. this is the love i have learned to do without, and perhaps the poor and needy had learned to love me less, had this love surrounded me more." "miss belle, perhaps i was presumptuous, to have asked a return of the earnest affection i have for you; but i had hoped that you would give the question some consideration; and may i not hope that you will think kindly of my proposal? oh miss gordon, ever since the death of my sainted mother, i have had in my mind's eye the ideal of a woman nobly planned, beautiful, intellectual, true and affectionate, and you have filled out that ideal in all its loveliest proportions, and i hope that my desire will not be like reaching out to some bright particular star and wishing to win it. it seems to me," he said with increasing earnestness, "whatever obstacle may be in the way, i would go through fire and water to remove it." "i am sorry," said belle as if speaking to herself, and her face had an absent look about it, as if instead of being interested in the living present she was grouping amid the ashes of the dead past. at length she said, "mr. clifford, permit me to say in the first place, let there be truth between us. if my heart seems callous and indifferent to your love, believe me it is warm to esteem and value you as a friend, i might almost say as a brother, for in sympathy of feeling and congeniality of disposition you are nearer to me than my own brother; but i do not think were i so inclined that it would be advisable for me to accept your hand without letting you know something of my past history. i told you a few moments since that i had my day dream. permit me to tell you, for i think you are entitled to my confidence. the object of that day dream was charles romaine." "charles romaine!" and there was a tone of wonder in the voice, and a puzzled look on the face of paul clifford. "yes! charles romaine, not as you know him now, with the marks of dissipation on his once handsome face, but charles romaine, as i knew him when he stood upon the threshold of early manhood, the very incarnation of beauty, strength and grace. not charles romaine with the blurred and bloated countenance, the staggering gait, the confused and vacant eye; but charles romaine as a young, handsome and talented lawyer, the pride of our village, the hope of his father and the joy of his mother; before whom the future was opening full of rich and rare promises. need i tell you that when he sought my hand in preference to all the other girls in our village, that i gave him what i never can give to another, the first, deep love of my girlish heart. for nearly a whole year i wore his betrothal ring upon my finger, when i saw to my utter anguish and dismay that he was fast becoming a drunkard. oh! mr. clifford if i could have saved him i would have taken blood from every vein and strength from every nerve. we met frequently at entertainments. i noticed time after time, the effects of the wine he had imbibed, upon his manner and conversation. at first i shrank from remonstrating with him, until the burden lay so heavy on my heart that i felt i must speak out, let the consequences be what they might. and so one evening i told him plainly and seriously my fears about his future. he laughed lightly and said my fears were unfounded; that i was nervous and giving away to idle fancies; that his father always had wine at the table, and that he had never seen him under the influence of liquor. silenced, but not convinced, i watched his course with painful solicitude. all remonstrances on my part seemed thrown away; he always had the precedent of his father to plead in reply to my earnest entreaties. at last when remonstrances and entreaties seemed to be all in vain, i resolved to break the engagement. it may have been a harsh and hard alternative, but i would not give my hand where my respect could not follow. it may be that i thought too much of my own happiness, but i felt that marriage must be for me positive misery or positive happiness, and i feared that if i married a man so lacking in self-control as to become a common drunkard, that when i ceased to love and respect him, i should be constantly tempted to hate and despise him. i think one of the saddest fates that can befall a woman is to be tied for life to a miserable bloated wreck of humanity. there may be some women with broad generous hearts, and great charity, strong enough to lift such men out of the depths, but i had no such faith in my strength and so i gave him back his ring. he accepted it, but we parted as friends. for awhile after our engagement was broken, we occasionally met at the houses of our mutual friends in social gatherings and i noticed with intense satisfaction that whenever wine was offered he scrupulously abstained from ever tasting a drop, though i think at times his self-control was severely tested. oh! what hope revived in my heart. here i said to myself is compensation for all i have suffered, if by it he shall be restored to manhood usefulness and society, and learn to make his life not a thing of careless ease and sensuous indulgence, but of noble struggle and high and holy endeavor. but while i was picturing out for him a magnificent future, imagining the lofty triumphs of his intellect--an intellect grand in its achievements and glorious in its possibilities, my beautiful daydream was rudely broken up, and vanished away like the rays of sunset mingling with the shadows of night. my aunt mrs. roland, celebrated her silver-wedding and my cousin's birth-day by giving a large entertainment; and among other things she had a plentiful supply of wine. mr. romaine had lately made the acquaintance of my cousin jeanette roland. she was both beautiful in person and fascinating in her manners, and thoughtlessly she held a glass of wine in her hand and asked mr. romaine if he would not honor the occasion, by drinking her mother's health. for a moment he hesitated, his cheek paled and flushed alternately, he looked irresolute. while i watched him in silent anguish it seemed as if the agony of years was compressed in a few moments. i tried to catch his eye but failed, and with a slight tremor in his hand he lifted the glass to his lips and drank. i do not think i would have felt greater anguish had i seen him suddenly drowned in sight of land. oh! mr. clifford that night comes before me so vividly, it seems as if i am living it all over again. i do not think mr. romaine has ever recovered from the reawakening of his appetite. he has since married jeanette. i meet her occasionally. she has a beautiful home, dresses magnificently, and has a retinue of servants; and yet i fancy she is not happy. that somewhere hidden out of sight there is a worm eating at the core of her life. she has a way of dropping her eyes and an absent look about her that i do not fully understand, but it seems to me that i miss the old elasticity of her spirits, the merry ring of her voice, the pleasant thrills of girlish laughter, and though she never confesses it to me i doubt that jeanette is happy. and with this sad experience in the past can you blame me if i am slow, very slow to let the broken tendrils of my heart entwine again?" "miss belle," said paul clifford catching eagerly at the smallest straw of hope, "if you can not give me the first love of a fresh young life, i am content with the rich [aftermath?] of your maturer years, and ask from life no higher prize; may i not hope for that?" "i will think on it but for the present let us change the subject." * * * * * "do you think jeanette is happy? she seems so different from what she used to be," said miss tabitha jones to several friends who were spending the evening with her. "happy!" replied mary gladstone, "don't see what's to hinder her from being happy. she has everything that heart can wish. i was down to her house yesterday, and she has just moved in her new home. it has all the modern improvements, and everything is in excellent taste. her furniture is of the latest style, and i think it is really superb." "yes," said her sister, "and she dresses magnificently. last week she showed me a most beautiful set of jewelry, and a camel's hair shawl, and i believe it is real camel's hair. i think you could almost run it through a ring. if i had all she has, i think i should be as happy as the days are long. i don't believe i would let a wave of trouble roll across my peaceful breast." "oh! annette," said mrs. gladstone, "don't speak so extravagantly, and i don't like to hear you quote those lines for such an occasion." "why not mother? where's the harm?" "that hymn has been associated in my mind with my earliest religious impressions and experience, and i don't like to see you lift it out of its sacred associations, for such a trifling occasion." "oh mother you are so strict. i shall never be able to keep time with you, but i do think, if i was off as jeanette, that i would be as blithe and happy as a lark, and instead of that she seems to be constantly drooping and fading." "annette," said mrs. gladstone, "i knew a woman who possesses more than jeanette does, and yet she died of starvation." "died of starvation! why, when, and where did that happen? and what became of her husband?" "he is in society, caressed and [ ed?] on by the young girls of his set and i have seen a number of managing mammas to whom i have imagined he would not be an objectionable son-in-law." "do i know him mother?" "no! and i hope you never will." "well mother i would like to know how he starved his wife to death and yet escaped the law." "the law helped him." "oh mother!" said both girls opening their eyes in genuine astonishment. "i thought," said mary gladstone, "it was the province of the law to protect women, i was just telling miss basanquet yesterday, when she was talking about woman's suffrage that i had as many rights as i wanted and that i was willing to let my father and brothers do all the voting for me." "forgetting my dear, that there are millions of women who haven't such fathers and brothers as you have. no my dear, when you examine the matter, a little more closely, you will find there are some painful inequalities in the law for women." "but mother, i do think it would be a dreadful thing for women to vote oh! just think of women being hustled and crowded at the polls by rude men, their breaths reeking with whiskey and tobacco, the very air heavy with their oaths. and then they have the polls at public houses. oh mother, i never want to see the day when women vote." "well i do, because we have one of the kindest and best fathers and husbands and good brothers, who would not permit the winds of heaven to visit us too roughly, there is no reason we should throw ourselves between the sunshine and our less fortunate sisters who shiver in the blast." "but mother, i don't see how voting would help us, i am sure we have influence i have often heard papa say that you were the first to awaken him to a sense of the enormity of slavery. now mother if we women would use our influence with our fathers, brothers, husbands, and sons, could we not have everything we want." "no, my dear we could not, with all our influence we never could have the same sense of responsibility which flows from the possession of power. i want women to possess power as well as influence, i want every christian woman as she passes by a grogshop or liquor saloon, to feel that she has on her heart a burden of responsibility for its existence, i hold my dear that a nation as well as an individual should have a conscience, and on this liquor question there is room for woman's conscience not merely as a persuasive influence but as an enlightened and aggressive power." "well ma i think you would make a first class stump speaker. i expect when women vote we shall be constantly having calls, for the gifted, and talented mrs. gladstone to speak on the duties and perils of the hour." "and i would do it, i would go among my sister women and try to persuade them to use their vote as a moral lever, not to make home less happy, but society more holy. i would have good and sensible women, grave in manner, and cultured in intellect, attend the primary meetings and bring their moral influence and political power to frown down corruption, chicanery, and low cunning." "but mother just think if women went to the polls how many vicious ones would go?" "i hope and believe for the honor of our sex that the vicious women of the community are never in the majority, that for one woman whose feet turn aside from the paths of rectitude that there are thousands of feet that never stray into forbidden paths, and today i believe there is virtue enough in society to confront its vice, and intelligence enough to grapple with its ignorance."[ ] chapter xviii "why mrs. gladstone," said miss tabitha, "you are as zealous as a new convert to the cause of woman suffrage. we single women who are constantly taxed without being represented, know what it is to see ignorance and corruption striking hands together and voting away our money for whatever purposes they choose. i pay as large a tax as many of the men in a.p., and yet cannot say who shall assess my property for a single year." "and there is another thing," said mrs. gladstone, "ought to be brought to the consideration of the men, and it is this. they refuse to let us vote and yet fail to protect our homes from the ravages of rum. my young friend, whom i said died of starvation; foolishly married a dissipated man who happened to be rich and handsome. she was gentle, loving, sensitive to a fault. he was querulous, fault-finding and irritable, because his nervous system was constantly unstrung by liquor. she lacked tenderness, sympathy and heart support, and at last faded and died, not starvation of the body, but a trophy of the soul, and when i say the law helped, i mean it licensed the places that kept the temptation ever in his way. and i fear, that is the secret of jeanette's faded looks, and unhappy bearing." no jeanette was not happy. night after night would she pace the floor of her splendidly furnished chamber waiting and watching for her husband's footsteps. she and his friends had hoped that her influence would be strong enough to win him away from his boon companions, that his home and beautiful bride would present superior attractions to anderson's saloon, his gambling pool, and champaign suppers, and for a while they did, but soon the novelty wore off, and jeanette found out to her great grief that her power to bind him to the simple attractions of home were as futile as a role of cobwebs to moor a ship to the shore, when it has drifted out and is dashing among the breakers. he had learned to live an element of excitement, and to depend upon artificial stimulation, until it seemed as if the very blood in his veins grew sluggish fictitious excitement was removed. his father, hopeless of his future, had dissolved partnership with him, and for months there had been no communication between them; and jeanette saw with agony and dismay that his life was being wrecked upon the broad sea of sin and shame. * * * * * "where is his father? the child can't live. it is one of the worst cases of croup i have had this year, why didn't you send for me sooner? where is his father? it is now just twelve o'clock, time for all respectable men to be in the house," said the bluff but kind hearted family doctor looking tenderly upon jeanette's little boy who lay gasping for breath in the last stages of croup. "oh! i don't know," said jeanette her face crimsoning beneath the doctor's searching glance. "i suppose he is down to anderson's." "anderson's!" said the doctor in a tone of hearty indignation, "what business has he there, and his child dying here?" "but doctor, he didn't know, the child had fever when he went out, but neither of us thought much of it till i was awakened by his strange and unnatural breathing. i sent for you as soon as i could rouse the servants." "well rouse them again, and tell them to go down to anderson's and tell your husband that his child is dying." "oh! no not dying doctor, you surely don't mean it." "yes jeanette," said the old family doctor, tenderly and sadly, "i can do nothing for him, let me take him in my arms and rest you. dear little darling, he will be saved from the evils to come." just as his life was trembling on its frailest chords, and its delicate machinery almost wound up, charles romaine returned, sober enough to take in the situation. he strode up to the dying child, took the clammy hands in his, and said in a tone of bitter anguish, "charlie, don't you know papa? wouldn't you speak one little word to papa?" but it was too late, the shadows that never deceive flitted over the pale beauty of the marble brow, the waxen lid closed over the once bright and laughing eye, and the cold grave for its rest had won the child. chapter xix [text missing.] chapter xx if riches could bring happiness, john anderson should be a happy man; and yet he is far from being happy. he has succeeded in making money, but failed in every thing else. but let us enter his home. as you open the parlor door your feet sink in the rich and beautiful carpet. exquisite statuary, and superbly framed pictures greet your eye and you are ready to exclaim, "oh! how lovely." here are the beautiful conceptions of painters' art and sculptors' skill. it is a home of wealth, luxury and display, but not of love, refinement and culture. years since, before john anderson came to live in the city of a.p. he had formed an attachment for an excellent young lady who taught school in his native village, and they were engaged to be married; but after coming to the city and forming new associations, visions of wealth dazzled his brain, and unsettled his mind, till the idea of love in a cottage grew distasteful to him. he had seen men with no more ability than himself who had come to the city almost pennyless, and who had grown rich in a few years, and he made up his mind that if possible he would do two things, acquire wealth and live an easy life, and he thought the easiest way to accomplish both ends was to open up a gorgeous palace of sin and entice into his meshes the unwary, the inexperienced, and the misguided slaves of appetite. for awhile after he left his native village, he wrote almost constantly to his betrothed; but as new objects and interests engaged his attention, his letters became colder and less frequent, until they finally ceased and the engagement was broken. at first the blow fell heavily upon the heart of his affianced, but she was too sensible to fade away and die the victim of unrequited love, and in after years when she had thrown her whole soul into the temperance cause, and consecrated her life to the work of uplifting fallen humanity, she learned to be thankful that it was not her lot to be united to a man who stood as a barrier across the path of human progress and would have been a weight to her instead of wings. released from his engagement, he entered into an alliance (for that is the better name for a marriage) which was not a union of hearts, or intercommunion of kindred souls; but only an affair of convenience; in a word he married for money a woman, who was no longer young in years, nor beautiful in person, nor amiable in temper. but she was rich, and her money like charity covered a multitude of faults, and as soon as he saw the golden bait he caught at it, and they were married, for he was willing to do almost any thing for money, except work hard for it. it was a marriage however that brought no happiness to either party. mrs. anderson was an illy educated, self willed, narrow minded [woman], full of airs and pretensions, the only daughter of a man who had laid the foundation of his wealth by keeping a low groggery, and dying had left her his only heir. john anderson was selfish and grasping. he loved money, and she loved display, and their home was often the scene of the most pitiful contentions about money matters. harsh words and bitter recriminations were almost common household usages. the children brought up in this unhealthy atmosphere naturally took sides with their mother and their home was literally a house divided against itself. the foolish conduct of the mother inspired the children with disrespect for their father, who failed to support the authority of his wife as the mother and mistress of the home. as her sons grew older they often sought attractions in questionable places, away from the sombre influences of their fireside, and the daughters as soon as they stood upon the verge of early womanhood learned to look upon marriage as an escape valve from domestic discomforts; and in that beautiful home with all its costly surroundings, and sumptuous furniture, there was always something wanting, there was always a lack of tenderness, sympathy and mutual esteem. "i can't afford it," said john anderson, to his wife who had been asking for money for a trip to a fashionable watering place. "you will have to spend the summer elsewhere." "can't afford it! what nonsense; is not it as much to your interest as mine to carry the girls around and give them a chance?" "a chance for what?" "why to see something of the world. you don't know what may happen. that english earl was very attentive last night to sophronia at mrs. jessap's ball." "an english count? who is he? and where did he spring from?" "why he's from england, and is said to be the only son and heir of a very rich nobleman." "i don't believe it, i don't believe he is an earl any more than i am." "that's just like you, always throw cold water on every thing i say" "it is no such thing, but i don't believe in picking up strangers and putting them into my bosom; it is not all gold that glitters." "i know that, but how soon can you let me have some money? i want to go out this afternoon and do some shopping and engage the semptress." "i tell you, annette, i have not the money to spare; the money market is very tight, and i have very heavy bills to meet this month." "the money market tight! why it has been tight ever since i have been married." "well you may believe it or not, just as you choose, but i tell you this crusading has made quite a hole in my business." "now john anderson, tell that to somebody that don't know. i don't believe this crusading has laid a finger's weight upon your business." "yes it has, and if you read the papers you would find that it has even affected the revenue of the state and you will have to retrench somewhere." "well, i'll retrench somewhere. i think we are paying our servants too high wages any how. mrs. shenflint gets twice as much work done for the same money. i'll retrench, john anderson, but i want you to remember that i did not marry you empty handed." "i don't think i shall be apt to forget it in a hurry while i have such a gentle reminder at hand," he replied sarcastically. "and i suppose you would not have married me if i had had no money." "no, i would not," said john anderson thoroughly exasperated, "and i would have been a fool if i had." these bitter words spoken in a heat of passion were calculated to work disastrously in that sin darkened home. for some time she had been suspecting that her money had been the chief inducement which led him to seek her hand, and now her worse suspicions were confirmed, and the last thread of confidence was severed. "i should not have said it," said anderson to himself, "but the woman is so provoking and unreasonable. i suppose she will have a fit of sulks for a month and never be done brooding over those foolish words"; and anderson sighed as if he were an ill used man. he had married for money, and he had got what he bargained for; love, confidence, and mutual esteem were not sought in the contract and these do not necessarily come of themselves. "well, the best i can do is to give her what money she wants and be done with it." * * * * * "is not in her room?" "no sir and her bed has not been rumpled." "where in the world can she be?" "i don't know, but here is a note she left." "what does she say? read it annette." "she says she feels that you were unjust to the earl and that she hopes you will forgive her the steps she has taken, but by the time the letter reaches you she expects to be the countess of clarendon." "poor foolish girl, you see what comes of taking a stranger to your bosom and making so much of him." "that's just like you, john anderson, every thing that goes wrong is blamed on me. i almost wish i was dead." "i wish so too," thought anderson but he concluded it was prudent to keep the wish to himself. john anderson had no faith whatever in the pretensions of his new son-in-law, but his vain and foolish wife on the other hand was elated at the dazzling prospects of her daughter, and often in her imagination visited the palatial residence of "my son, the earl," and was graciously received in society as the mother of the countess of clarendon. she was also highly gratified at the supposed effect of sophronia's marriage upon a certain clique who had been too exclusive to admit her in their set. should not those gladstone girls be ready to snag themselves? and there was that mary talbot, did every thing she could to attract his attention but it was no go. my little sophronia came along and took the rag off the bush. i guess they will almost die with envy. if he had waited for her father's consent we might have waited till the end of the chapter; but i took the responsibility on my shoulders and the thing is done. my daughter, the countess of clarendon. i like the ring of the words; but dear me here's the morning mail, and a letter from the countess, but what does it mean?" "come to me, i am in great trouble." in quick response to the appeal mrs. anderson took the first train to new york and found her daughter in great distress. the "earl" had been arrested for forgery and stealing, and darker suspicions were hinted against him. he had been a body servant to a nobleman who had been travelling for his health and who had died by a lonely farmhouse where he had gone for fresh air and quiet, and his servant had seized upon his effects and letters of introduction, and passed himself off as the original earl, and imitating his handwriting had obtained large remittances, for which he was arrested, tried and sent to prison, and thus ended the enchanting dream of "my daughter the countess of clarendon." chapter xxi "i cannot ensure your life a single hour, unless you quit business. you are liable to be stricken with paralysis at any moment, if [once?] subject to the [least] excitement.[ ] can't you trust your business in the hands of your sons?" "doctor," said john anderson, "i have only two boys. my oldest went west several years ago, and never writes to us unless he wants something, and as to frank, if i would put the concern into his hands, he would drink himself into the grave in less than a month. the whole fact is this, my children are the curse of my life," and there was bitterness in the tone of john anderson[ ] as he uttered these words of fearful sorrow. "well," said the doctor, "you must have rest and quiet or i will not answer for the consequences." "rest and quiet!" said john anderson to himself, "i don't see how i am to get it, with such a wife as i have always worrying and bothering me about something." "mr. anderson," said one of the servants, "mrs. anderson says please come, as quick as possible into mr. frank's room." "what's the matter now!" "i don't know, but mr. frank's acting mightily queer; he thinks there are snakes and lizards crawling over him." "he's got the horrors, just what i expected. tell me about rest and quiet! i'll be there in a minute. oh what's the matter? i feel strange," said anderson falling back on the bed suddenly stricken with paralysis. while in another room lay his younger son a victim to delirium tremens, and dying in fearful agony. the curse that john anderson had sent to other homes had come back darkened with the shadow of death to brood over his own habitation. his son is dying, but he has no word of hope to cheer the parting spirit as it passed out into the eternity, for him the darkness of the tomb, is not gilded with the glory of the resurrection. the best medical skill has been summoned to the aid of john anderson, but neither art, nor skill can bind anew the broken threads of life. the chamber in which he is confined is a marvel of decoration, light streams into his home through panes of beautifully stained glass. pillows of the softest down are placed beneath his head, beautiful cushions lie at his feet that will never take another step on the errands of sin, but no appliances of wealth can give peace to his guilty conscience. he looks back upon the past and the retrospect is a worse than wasted life; and when the future looms up before him he shrinks back from the contemplation, for the sins of the past throw their shadow over the future. he has houses, money and land, but he is a pauper in his soul, and a bankrupt in his character. in his eager selfish grasp for gold, he has shriveled his intellect and hardened and dried up his heart, and in so doing he has cut himself off from the richest sources of human enjoyment. he has wasted life's best opportunities, and there never was an angel, however bright, terrible and strong, that ever had power to roll away the stone from the grave of a dead opportunity, and what john anderson has lost in time, he can never make up in eternity. he has formed no taste for reading, and thus has cut himself off from the glorious companionship of the good, the great, and the wise of all ages. he has been selfish, mean and grasping, and the blessing of the poor and needy never fall as benedictions on his weary head; and in that beautiful home with disease and death clutching at his heartstrings, he has wealth that he cannot enjoy, luxuries that pall upon his taste, and magnificence that can never satisfy the restless craving of his soul. his life has been a wretched failure. he neglected his children to amass the ways of iniquity, and their coldness and indifference pierce him like poisoned arrows. marriage has brought him money, but not the sweet, tender ministrations of loving wifely care, and so he lives on starving in the midst of plenty; dying of thirst, with life's sweetest fountains eluding his grasp. charles romaine is sleeping in a drunkard's grave. after the death of his boy there was a decided change in him. night after night he tore himself away from john anderson's saloon, and struggled with the monster that had enslaved him, and for awhile victory seemed to be perching on the banner of his resolution. another child took the place of the first born, and the dead, and hope and joy began to blossom around jeanette's path. his mother who had never ceased to visit the house marked the change with great satisfaction and prevailed upon his father to invite charles and jeanette to a new year's dinner (only a family gathering). jeanette being unwell excused herself from going, and charles went alone. jeanette felt a fearful foreboding when she saw him leaving the door, and said to herself, "i hope his father will not offer him wine. i am so afraid that something will happen to him, and yet i hated to persuade him not to go. his mother might think i was averse to his reconciliation with his father." "it looks very natural to have charles with us again," said mrs. ro[maine] looking fondly on her son. "yes, it seems like old times, when i always had my seat next to yours." "and i hope," said his father, "it will never be vacant so long again." the dinner hour passed on enlivened by social chat and pleasant reminiscences, and there was nothing to mar the harmony of the occasion. mrs. romaine had been careful to keep everything from the table that would be apt to awaken the old appetite for liquor, but after dinner mr. romaine invited charles into the library to smoke. "here," said he, handing him a cigar, "is one of the finest brands i have smoked lately, and by the way here is some rare old wine, more than years old, which was sent to me yesterday by an old friend and college class mate of mine.[ ] let me pour you out a glass." charles suddenly became agitated, but as his father's back was turned to him, pouring out the wine, he did not notice the sudden paling of his cheek, and the hesitation of his manner. and charles checking back his scruples took the glass and drained it, to the bottom. there is a fable, that a certain king once permitted the devil to kiss his shoulder, and out of those shoulders sprang[ ] two serpents that in the fury of their hunger aimed at his head and tried to get at his brain. he tried to extricate himself from their terrible power. he tore at them with his fingers and found that it was his own flesh that he was lacerating. dormant but not dead was the appetite for strong drink in charles romaine, and that one glass awakened the serpent coiled up in his flesh. he went out from his father's house with a newly awakened appetite clamoring and raging for strong drink. every saloon he passed adding intensity to his craving. at last his appetite overmastered him and he almost rushed into a saloon, and waited impatiently till he was served. every nerve seemed to be quivering with excitement, restlessness; and there was a look of wild despairing anguish on his face, as he clutched the glass to allay the terrible craving of his system. he drank till his head was giddy, and his gait was staggering, and then started for home. he entered the gate and slipped on the ice, and being too intoxicated to rise or comprehend his situation, he lay helpless in the dark and cold, until there crept over him that sleep from which there is no awakening, and when morning had broken in all its glory, charles romaine had drifted out of life, slain by the wine which at [last] had "bitten like an adder and stung like a serpent." jeanette had waited and watched through the small hours of the night, till nature o'erwearied had sought repose in sleep and rising very early in the morning, she had gone to the front door to look down the street for his coming when the first object that met her gaze was the lifeless form of her husband. one wild and bitter shriek rent the air, and she fell fainting on the frozen corpse. her friends gathered round her, all that love and tenderness could do was done for the wretched wife, but nothing could erase from her mind one agonizing sorrow, it was the memory of her fatal triumph over his good resolution years ago at her mother's silver wedding. carelessly she had sowed the seeds of transgression whose fearful yield was a harvest of bitter misery. mrs. clifford came to her in her hour of trial, and tried to comfort and sustain the heart-stricken woman; who had tried to take life easy, but found it terribly hard, and she has measurably succeeded. in the home of her cousin she is trying to bear the burden of her life as well as she can. her eye never lights up with joy. the bloom and flush have left her careworn face. tears from her eyes long used to weeping have blenched the coloring of her life existence, and she is passing through life with the shadow of the grave upon her desolate heart. joe gough has been true to his pledge, plenty and comfort have taken the place of poverty and pain. he continued his membership with the church of his choice and mary is also striving to live a new life, and to be the ministering angel that keeps his steps, and he feels that in answer to prayer, his appetite for strong drink has been taken away. life with mrs. clifford has become a thing of brightness and beauty, and when children sprang up in her path making gladness and sunshine around her home, she was a wife and tender mother, fond but not foolish; firm in her household government, but not stern and unsympathising in her manner. the faithful friend and companion of her daughters, she won their confidence by her loving care and tender caution. she taught them to come to her in their hours of perplexity and trial and to keep no secrets from her sympathising heart. she taught her sons to be as upright in their lives and as pure in their conversation as she would have her daughters, recognizing for each only one code of morals and one law of spiritual life, and in course of time she saw her daughters ripening into such a beautiful womanhood, and her sons entering the arena of life not with the simplicity which is ignorant of danger and evil, but with the sterling integrity which baffles the darts of temptation with the panoply of principle and the armor of uprightness. unconsciously she elevated the tone of society in which she moved by a life which was a beautiful and earnest expression of patient continuance in well doing. paul clifford's life has been a grand success, not in the mere accumulation of wealth, but in the enrichment of his moral and spiritual nature. he is still ever ready to lend a helping hand. he has not lived merely for wealth and enjoyment, but happiness, lasting and true springs up in his soul as naturally as a flower leaps into blossoms, and whether he is loved or hated, honored or forgotten, he constantly endeavors to make the world better by his example and gladdened by his presence feeling that if every one would be faithful to duty that even here, eden would spring up in our path, and paradise be around our way. notes . this installment is numbered as a second chapter i in the original. . the original reads "jeanette romaine." . the original reads "mr. roland." . the original reads "to showing." . the phrase "that of" is repeated in the original. . a note from the _christian recorder_ follows this paragraph: "[the rest of this chapter was crowded out. it will appear next week.]" . the original reads: "if once [or possibly "one"] subject to the lest excitement." . the original reads "and there was a tone of bitterness in the tone of john anderson." . the original reads "by an old friend and college and class mate of mine." . the original reads "out of those shoulders spring two serpents." this file was produced from images generously made available by the canadian institute for historical microreproductions. why and how: a hand-book for the use of the w. c. t. unions in canada. by mrs. addie chisholm, president ontario w. c. t. u. contents. chapter i. suffering chapter ii. awakening chapter iii. organization and work chapter iv. our canadian w. c. t. u. chapter v. why women should work chapter vi. how women may work chapter vii. how to form a w. c. t. u. chapter viii. questions and answers chapter ix. young women's work chapter x. a dream chapter xi. conclusion constitution by-laws order of business the temperance hand-book for the use of the w. c. t. unions of canada. chapter i. suffering. it has been said "woman has a capacity for suffering," and during all the years of the past, in all countries and among all nations, woman has been proving this true. since the dark day when "there stood by the cross of jesus, his mother," and there came to that mother's heart the agony of bereavement, the human disappointment and pangs, whose torture only the father god could understand,--from that day till the present, disappointment, trial and sorrow have entered largely into the life and experience of women. but of all clouds that have darkened their lives and among all sharp swords that have pierced their hearts, the cloud of the liquor traffic has been the darkest, and its blade the keenest. myriads of women have looked with anguish on sacrifices offered and loved ones slain, not to save humanity or to draw men nearer to god, but destroyed at the hands of a tyrant as relentless as death, and as pitiless. in heathen countries, children have been left to float out of existence, an offering to the gods, while the mother has turned sadly and sorrowfully away; in christian countries, children have drifted with the tide of social customs, or inherited appetites for strong drink, out of the boundless sea of evil and wretchedness, while women have wept and wondered, have pondered and prayed. mothers have seen their sons, strong and brave in their young manhood, venture on this stream of rapid currents, have watched them with sad eyes, and called to them in pleading and terrified tones, as they were carried on and on by the rushing waters. at last, it was too late even for mother's love to save, and they were drawn into that terrible vortex, from which there is so seldom escape, despairing hands have reached out for help, the cry of the soul has been an appeal for mercy, and another loved one has gone down a victim to the nation's greed and a sacrifice to the nation's sin. out from a sheltered, sunshiny home has gone the tender, trusting daughter, in her glad girlhood, her heart all aglow with true hallowed love for him, by whose side she has chosen to spend the coming years. the future has looked so bright, as together they have thought, and planned, and built their airy castles; but the clouds have come and passed, and come again and more frequently, till, at length, the young wife has sat continually in their shadow, the brightness and the sunshine all gone out of her life, as her husband has yielded to the influence of strong drink. she has realized that she was a drunkard's wife, her place by a drunkard's side, and, with white lips and breaking heart, she has moaned out her prayer to god for deliverance. and who will say that the fond mother, sitting in the old bright home, has not felt every pang, every blow that reached the daughter's heart as she saw all that the dear one in loyalty to her husband would fain have concealed. this experience comes home to most of us, and we easily recall not one case but many in which wives and daughters have suffered at the hands of this cruel destroyer. homes have been invaded, not with noise of drums and clash of arms, but silently as by the stealthy step of death. their purity and peace have been destroyed, their idols laid in the dust, and the place that was designed to be a sanctuary for humanity, a rest from the weariness of life and a refuge from its storms, has become, instead, a dreary abode of waiting and watching, of enduring and weeping, often a very gethsemane to patient loving souls. in time the domestic life of families is destroyed by this enemy, so strong, cruel and determined; in many cases, the elegant abode gives place to a poorer one; the comfortable dwelling is exchanged for all that is comfortless and forbidding, and there is no longer a home. cardinal manning, in his address at the temperance congress recently held in england, says: "as the foundation they laid deep in the earth was the solid basis of social and political peace, so the domestic life of millions of our people is the foundation of the whole order of our commonwealth. i charge upon this great traffic nine-tenths of the misery and the destroyed and wrecked homes of our joyless people." what is true in england is also true in our young country. the "boys' homes" and "girls' homes" in our large cities furnish evidence of our destroyed homes. it is safe to say that nine-tenths of the inmates of these institutions are there provided with a home at the expense of the public, because strong drink has robbed them of the love and care of father and mother, or both, and taken from their innocent childhood all the delights and happiness of home life. as women, age after age, beheld their loved ones thus taken from them, and saw their homes in the hands of this destroyer, it was not strange that at last there arose from their hearts a cry almost of despair. it was a cry that entered into the ear of god and brought a dim sense of coming help, a consciousness that god knew and cared and had something better in reserve. the plough of pain had torn up the fallow soil of woman's heart; the harrow of suffering had mellowed, and tears of agony, wept for ages, had moistened it; now the seed of thoughtful and determined purpose was ready to be sown, out of which was to spring the plentiful harvest of action. behind were the long dreary wastes of agony, marked with the myriad grave mounds of lost loved ones, over which woman's face had bowed low, while the heart within was breaking; before stretched the wide unknown, full of possibilities. should it unfold the same sad story of patient, passive' suffering, or grow bright with the burnished armor and glad with the hopeful songs of women gathering to the battle, filed against the fell destroyer of their hopes? as the spirit of god brooded over the primeval void and brought therefrom order, light, beauty and life, so the spirit of suffering brooded above the torn and saddened heart of womanhood, till at last the angel of awakening appeared, and the heart that had dumbly, patiently endured, stirred to the impulse of defence, and opened to the thought of freedom. the hour had struck, the call had come. the "arrow had been hidden in god's quiver," waiting his time. when his ringers guide to the mark, what can the arrow do but fulfil its mission? chapter ii. awakening. in the history of oppressed nations, it has often happened that years of suffering have but kindled the desire for freedom and kept it alive, fanned by every fresh act of cruelty and injustice, until, at last, it has burst forth in a fire, which has destroyed the wrong, illuminated the right, and the oppressed people have gone free. in individual lives, there are not wanting those who have come through the white heat of affliction, purified and made free from the bitterness and selfishness of earth and crowned with a noble purpose-- to relieve the sufferings of others, to be, in a sense, god's voice, god's messenger to the helpless, and to be in his hands for the deliverance of the oppressed and enslaved. so in this temperance cause. for years women had asked, as paul had asked, "lord, what wilt thou have me to do?" and it had seemed that the answer came only in the closer pressing to their lips of the cup of suffering. as they still pleaded, spreading the white wings of prayer over their dear ones, suddenly there came to them the inspiration, which led to the crusade, an inspiration from the heart of god. in years past, indications had not been wanting of some such possible uprising, as drops precede the full shower, for, in , at rockport, mass., some women had assembled and, proceeding to several places where intoxicating liquor was sold, had entered and destroyed the liquor they found. that was an impulse born of suffering, and finding expression in action impulsive and unusual; but, not being followed up by organization, it soon ended. in , in rutland, vt., and at clyde, ohio, the women organized to suppress the liquor traffic, visiting saloons, securing pledges, holding prayer meetings, etc., but the great movement, which has given to woman new power in this temperance work, and opened up to her new avenues of usefulness, so long closed, is known as the woman's crusade. it began about the same time in three different places in the month of december, , fredonia, n. y., hillsboro, ohio, and washington court house, ohio, were the first scenes of action. there the first contests were waged and the first victories won. timid christian women, who had never heard their own voices in public prayer, were suddenly called to the front and a message given them of god. dr. dio lewis visited hillsboro in december, , and there gave two lectures, one of them a lecture on temperance, in which he referred to his mother's struggles as a drunkard's wife, doing her best to support her family, and finally, with a few other praying women, visiting the saloon-keeper who sold liquor to her husband, and pleading with him to give up his business, with which request he, at last, complied. at the close of the lecture, dr. lewis called upon all, who were willing to follow his mother's example, to rise, an invitation to which about fifty ladies responded. many gentlemen in the audience promised to stand by them. a meeting was held the following morning in the presbyterian church, at which mrs. judge thomson was chosen leader. after much prayer and consultation, the ladies started out in procession, seventy-five in number, and proceeded, singing the familiar hymn, "give to the winds thy fears," first to the drug stores, and then to the hotels and saloons, which they fearlessly entered, asking permission to sing and pray. in nearly every case, the permission was given during that first day, and a few saloon-keepers yielded to the entreaties of these earnest christian women, and promised to give up selling liquor. as the days went by, the thirteen drinking places of the town were reduced to three, while in washington court house, ohio, in one week, yielding to the persistent appeals of the "praying women," all the drinking places were closed, the three drug stores selling only on prescription. here, while the ladies went in bands from place to place, meeting often with insult and abuse now that the saloon-keepers had recovered from their first surprise, the gentlemen remained in the church to pray. as the fresh toll of the bell announced that another prayer had ascended to heaven in their behalf and for their success and protection, these women were encouraged and became strong to do all that they felt had been committed to them. after a time their approach to a saloon or hotel was the signal for the doors to be locked and entrance was denied them. then, outside, on the public pavement, in the snow of a bitterly cold december, they knelt and prayed for the saloon-keeper and his family, that he might see his error and be persuaded to do right, for those who were in the habit of frequenting that saloon, and for the downfall of the liquor traffic. it was not very long before the liquor-sellers found that prayer, even outside their premises and outside of locked doors, was having its effect, and in order to put a stop to it, they lodged complaints against the women, the burden of which was that they were obstructing the highway and interrupting business. off the sidewalks, therefore, the women went, and in deeper snows, and with more dauntless faith, prayed on, singing, occasionally, a song of praise and thanksgiving. to a few cities belongs the disgrace of imprisoning some of these noble christian women, yet in all this, "a form like unto the son of man" was with them, and the unseen presence was their stay. they were soon released, however, and found that the news of their arrest and imprisonment had only increased the interest of all and the anxiety of many concerning this work. requests for assistance came from other cities and states, to which the ladies of hillsboro and other places responded, till in almost all of the northern states there was a common crusade against the liquor traffic. for about six months this remarkable movement lasted, meeting with varied success and closing saloons and bars of hotels in towns and villages. chapter iii. organization and work. in the united states. gradually these active workers in the temperance cause, conscious of having received a mighty power, a special baptism at the hands of god, for a special work, began to look for something abiding in organization when this unusual movement should have ceased, something in which all christian women could unite for work in this special cause. in the winter and spring of - this wonderful movement, known as "the woman's crusade," took place. in august of the same year many of these crusaders were gathered together at chatauqua, to spend a few days there in the tented grove, on the occasion of the first national s. s. assembly. as they talked over the work done, and the work which the world still had need of, the thought came to one of the band of the possibility of uniting all the women of that land in temperance effort. acting on this suggestion steps were at once taken to form such an association. a public meeting was held on the grounds, afterwards a prayer and a business meeting, at which latter a committee of organization was formed, and a circular letter authorized, asking "the woman's temperance league" of the north to hold conventions for the purpose of electing delegates to an organizing convention, to be held in cleveland, ohio, nov. th, th and th, . at this convention in november mrs. jennie f. willing presided, three hundred delegates and visitors were present, and amid much enthusiasm the national woman's christian temperance union took its place with the hosts of the lord, to lead on to victory. its first officers were: president, mrs. annie wittenmeyer; vice- presidents, one from every state; rec. sec., mrs. mary c. johnson, n.y.; cor. sec., miss frances willard; treasurer, mrs. w. a. ingham, ohio. a constitution and by-laws were adopted, the preamble to which read as follows: "the christian women of this nation, conscious of the increasing evils, and appalled at the dangers and tendencies of intemperance, believe it has become their duty, under the providence of god, to unite their efforts for its extinction." this is the thought that since then has nerved the w. c. t. u. women in every city, town and village of the neighboring states,-- "appalled at the tendencies and dangers of intemperance," to combat this evil they have given their time and strength, their influence and their prayers. for five years mrs. wittenmeyer presided over this society of earnest workers, and during this time contributed greatly to its success by her wise and loving counsel, endearing herself to the hearts of all. in miss frances willard was chosen president, and under her able administration and remarkable skill in leadership , women organized in unions are now marching onward to the goal of prohibition, bearing with them the hopes and prayers of many who would be in that procession if they could. we know that in the houses of many, even of the liquor sellers, sit pure women whose prayers go up quietly, but none the less sincerely, and with no less faith than those of the white ribboned army, for the downfall of the liquor traffic, and for the triumph of the gospel of peace and goodwill to man. it was largely through the effort of the w. c. t. u. women that the state of kansas, on nov. nd , adopted the amendment to the constitution of the state, prohibiting the manufacture or sale of all intoxicating liquors, except for mechanical or medicinal purposes. in ohio, in , the whole campaign for the constitutional amendment was planned and directed by the president of the w. c. t. u., mrs. mary woodbridge. in this she was ably assisted by all the w. c. t. u. women throughout the state. such was the earnestness and spirit of sacrifice manifested that when, at one convention, the question of finance was discussed, it was unanimously decided that they would _go without gloves_ for a certain time, that they might have more money for this campaign. it is worth while for us to observe here that, in this contest, great importance was attached to the distribution of temperance literature. we are told that leaflets, cards, and circulars went out "by the bushel." printed appeals were sent to all corporations and companies of any size, sermons were preached on the subject not on sunday only, but in some places on every day of the week. on the day of the vote the ladies visited the polls, furnishing lunches to all, and gave out the ballots for the amendment. over $ , was raised in that state during that year for the work undertaken by the w.c.t.u. although they were not successful in gaining the amendment, the returns show that in many counties fraudulent count had been made, and it is believed by those in a position to know that an honest count would have carried the amendment by a large majority. as it was it received , votes, while the license amendment received but , . a majority of any votes cast at the general election was necessary for adoption. in florida the passage of the local option bill was due, as one of their legislators testifies, to the influence of the w.c.t.u. for five years the women of iowa, under the leadership of mrs. j, ellen foster, had planned, pleaded and petitioned against the licensed system of that state. on the th june, , the people adopted the constitutional prohibition amendment by a majority of , , the supreme court however declared that on account of some irregularity in the legislative steps of the passage of the amendment, it was of no effect and void. in march , however, the iowa legislature passed a prohibiting law, which came into force on july th of the same year. and so another victory has been gained by the temperance women of the united states, and prohibition has been secured to another important state of the union. for years the n.w.c.t.u. has been pressing for the insertion of one temperance lesson per quarter in the international series of sabbath- school lessons, but without success. at the recent i.s.s. convention, which met in louisville, ky., yielding to the appeal so eloquently urged by miss willard, the convention recommended that the committee on preparation of lessons be instructed to include the quarterly temperance lesson in their series. temperance text books have been added to the books of the public schools in michigan, new hampshire, vermont and new york. this has been done under the management of mrs. mary hunt, aided by the presidents of the different state unions. this victory was the result of a systematic plan laid down by the n.w.c.t.u., the principal points of which are mentioned. the n.w.c.t.u. has also established at chicago, a national organ, "the union signal," edited by mrs. mary b. willard, which is considered to be one of the best conducted papers known. these are some of the successes gained by this society of active christian women, the contemplation of which led j. b. gough to declare that "after forty years of observation, he believed the w.c.t.u, was doing more real, solid work, than all other temperance societies combined." the work of the n.w.c.t.u. is classed as follows, each department being under the control of an active lady superintendent:-- heredity and hygiene. scientific temperance instruction. sunday-school work. juvenile work. free kindergartens. temperance literature. suppression of impure literature. relation of intemperance to capital and labor. influencing the press--"signal service" work. conference with influential bodies. inducing physicians not to prescribe alcoholic stimulants. efforts to overthrow the tobacco habit. suppression of the social evil. evangelistic. prison and police stations. work among railroad employees, soldiers and sailors. use of the unfermented juice of the grape at the lord's table. young woman's work. parlor meetings. kitchen gardens. flower mission. state and county fairs. legislature and petitions. franchise. southern work. work among foreigners. work on the pacific coast. work among the colored people of the north. national organization. in great britain. the influence of the "woman's crusade," and subsequently of the n.w.c.t.u., spread rapidly to other countries and led to the foundation of women's christian temperance unions in great britain, canada, australia, india and japan. in dundee, scotland, the first british w.c.t.u. was formed. as the news of the whiskey war in america reached the women of that city, they, too, resolved to do something in this work. under the leadership of mrs. m. e. parker, they obtained, in six days, the names of , women of the city to a petition, asking that no fresh licenses be granted and that many be withdrawn. marching in procession to the court house, they presented their petition, a scene never before witnessed in great britain. four hundred members were immediately enrolled as members of a working society, and the influence of the dundee w.c.t.u. was felt far and near. afterwards, a british woman's temperance association was formed, of which mrs. parker was president. this association now has, in england, branches, with a membership of more than , ; in scotland, fifty branches; in ireland, about the same number, and a few also in wales. their work has been to use their influence in every possible way, in favor of temperance, with the medical profession, with parliament, corporations and companies, and with ministers of religion. in , they presented a petition in favor of sunday closing, containing , signatures. they have issued a cookery book, and a number of miscellaneous books and papers. mrs. lucas, sister of hon. john bright, has been president of this society for the past few years, and her stirring appeals to the women of england, have roused many to a sense of their responsibility, and kept them thoroughly alive and earnest in the work. mrs. lucas' meetings, public as well as others, are always well attended, and the greatest interest is manifested by her audiences in the subject which she presents with much tenderness and power. other lady speakers, from the ranks of the w.c.t.u. in england, do good service in addressing meetings, both public and private, and the urgent invitations for help in forming societies are so numerous, that the constant demand is for more workers. one of the great needs of the association has been (as the secretary stated from year to year) a paid organizer, whose time should be at the disposal of the society to visit the various branches and places where new unions might be formed. the officers of this association are in part:--president, mrs. lucas, no. charlotte street, bradford square, london, eng.; secretary, mrs. bradley, memorial hall, farringdon. w. london. besides this society there are other associations in england composed of women only, who are doing good work for temperance, notably "the liverpool ladies' temperance association" organized in . the special object of this society is "to reclaim women of every grade of society, who have fallen into habits of intemperance, and to prevent those from falling who are already in circumstances of danger, by visitation, watchful care, and by every means which can be devised; also to spread temperance principles in every possible way." they have six or more missionaries constantly at work, and a "general superintendent, who acts as secretary, and, with the assistance of ladies of the committee, takes charge of special cases, which from the social position of the parties, require to be carefully and delicately dealt with." this society is doing its work more quietly, perhaps, than many others, but a work very much needed, and a service requiring much thought and patience, christian sympathy and tact. president, mrs. d. parrel, waverley road, sefton park, liverpool, eng.; secretary, mrs. h. spring, office--no. y.m.c.a. buildings, mount pleasant, liverpool. the woman's union of the church of england temperance society, with rev. canon ellison as president, is also in a flourishing condition. eighty-five branches have been formed, also a "servants' branch," a "branch for young women engaged in houses of business," and a "branch for girls at restaurants and railway refreshment bars." drawing-room meetings have been held with great success, some in the mansion of the duke and duchess of westminster, and in the drawing-rooms of lord and lady brabazon. the working women's teetotal league, which has also been in operation for about eight years, has for its object to spread teetotalism amongst working-class women. many thousands of pledges have been taken, and benefit societies have been formed under the guidance and supervision of this society. the manchester w.c.t. association is also doing a good work among the young, and in rescuing women from the thraldom of drink. the large and crowded cities of great britain present opportunities and demands for work of this nature, with which our younger country is not so familiar, but the motto of the b.w.t. association bears a message to us equally strong "the master is come and calleth for thee." chapter iv. our canadian w.c.t.u. _history and present condition._ ontario. the first union in canada, of which we have any record, was formed in owen sound, ont. in the spring of , shortly after the first note of the crusade had been sounded, a few earnest christian ladies of that place, stirred by the report of what god was doing through their sisters in the western states, meet to devise some plan, by which they could do something if not to prevent, at least to lessen the evils of intemperance in their town. at this meeting, held on the th of may, a w.c.t.u. was organized under the presidency of mrs. doyle. the first work done by this union was the general circulation of the pledge, and petitioning the council against granting saloon licenses, also asking that the number of tavern licenses be lessened, which request was granted. petitions were also sent to the legislature at toronto, asking for amendments to the license act, and the resolution to submit the dunkin act to the people of that county was the result of the persistent efforts of the w.c.t.u. in the campaign for this purpose these ladies nobly assisted and stood side by side with other and older temperance organizations laboring for the general good. picton union was formed in the autumn of the same year, and the ladies of that union aided largely in securing the passage of the dunkin act in that county (p. e.). from this time unions were formed here and there, but there was no bond of union, no provincial society for ontario until, in , october rd and th, a conference of the existing unions was held in toronto, and it was there decided to organize a provincial woman's christian temperance union. delegates were present from twenty-five unions, more than two-thirds of the local unions thus showing their interest in the object for which they had met. at this conference mrs. letitia youmans presided, and at its close the officers elected were: president, mrs. l. youmans; vice- presidents, one from each county; cor. sec., miss phelps, st. catharines; rec. sec., miss alien, kingston; treasurer mrs. judge jones, brantford. for five years mrs. youmans was the beloved president of this provincial union, during which time she travelled extensively through ontario, quebec and the maritime provinces (as well as in the united states), organizing unions, and doing very much by her earnest and eloquent addresses to convince the public mind of the unrighteousness of the liquor traffic, and the necessity for its overthrow. during the last few years ontario has shared in the general growth of temperance sentiment, and in common with other temperance organizations the w.c.t.u. has received an increase in membership, and has obtained a surer, warmer place in the hearts of the people. recently, owing, no doubt, to the agitation of the scott act contest in many counties, and owing, too, to the earnestness and energy of many of the county superintendents of the provincial union, the number of societies has been more than doubled. the ontario provincial union now comprises ninety-six unions, with a membership of about , . the attention of this provincial union has been largely directed to the importance of introducing scientific instruction in our public schools. dr. richardson's "temperance lesson book," and other text books on this subject, have been widely circulated in teachers' conventions and elsewhere; petitions have been presented to school boards, literature on the subject has been widely distributed, and during the spring months, while the hon. minister of education was visiting the public schools at different points, he was waited upon in many places by deputations from the w.c.t. unions, asking that temperance text books be introduced into the schools of ontario. the committee to whose care this branch of the work is committed, also had an interview with hon. mr. ross, minister of education, and presented a petition from the w.c.t. unions, and other temperance societies, asking that scientific instruction in temperance be given to the children of the public schools. the hon. minister informed the deputation that a book on "physiology and hygiene," having special reference to the effect of alcohol on the human system, was now in course of preparation, and would be introduced in the course of study for next year. medical conventions and assemblies have been approached, and correspondence had with synods, conferences and assemblies, on the medical uses of alcohol, and the use of the unfermented juice of the grape at the lord's table. many thousands of tracts have been sent out from the literature department of this union (which department is just in its infancy), and a large number of newspapers supplied regularly with temperance items. general officers of the ontario w.c.t.u.--president, mrs. a. chisholm, albert street, ottawa; ex-president, mrs. letitia youmans, picton; first vice-president, mrs. tilton, ottawa; second vice-president, mrs. cowan, toronto; recording secretary, miss orchard, galt; corresponding secretary, mrs. fawcett, maple; treasurer, mrs. brethour, milton. three y.w.c.t. unions in ontario, at hamilton, ottawa, and essex centre, are doing good work in this temperance warfare. "boys' night schools," "girls' sewing schools," and "bands of hope" are successfully carried on under their supervision. there are eleven departments of work in connection with this provincial union, corresponding to some of those so successfully controlled by the n. w. c. t. u. plan of work and lecture department, mrs. tilton, convener. literature, mrs. pratt, convener, hamilton. prison and jail work, mrs. rutherford, convener, toronto. legislative, mrs. youmans, picton. press, miss m. phelps, convener, st. catharines. unfermented wine at the lord's table. miss wilmot, convener, milton. county fairs. s. s. temperance work and juvenile unions, mrs. andrews, convener. presenting claims of temperance to influential bodies, mrs. m. fawcett, maple. scientific instruction in temperance, miss orchard, owen sound. y.w.c.t.u. work, miss scott, ottawa. quebec. in the year , a w.c.t.u. was organized at stanstead, p.q., by mrs. charles w. pierce, of boston, who, for a few months, also filled the office of president. this union was composed of members from three villages, viz.: stanstead plain, rock island, p.q., and derby line, vermont. public meetings were held from time to time by this union, prominent lecturers engaged, and a lively interest in temperance matters was manifested by the general public. very much of the success of this union is due to the counsel and instruction given by miss willard during her visit to stanstead in . the next union formed was the huntingdon union, but it was not until the winter of - that the w.c.t.u. work may be said to have gained a foothold in this province. during this winter, mrs. youmans visited many places in the province by invitation of the late rev. thomas gales and prominent christian ladies, giving public addresses and urging the ladies to more active work in this particular branch of christian endeavor. the result of her labors was the formation of sixteen unions and a general quickening and awakening to temperance truth. these unions were soon at work. the education of the children in temperance principles received their special attention. public temperance meetings were promoted, literature distributed, free reading rooms established, petitions circulated against license, temperance picnics, cottage and other meetings held, and a great amount of individual work done that has greatly aided and strengthened the cause of temperance in the province. a y.w.c.t.u. was formed at point st. charles, which is engaged in active work and will be found to be a social power whose weight and influence for good cannot well be estimated. on the th and th october, , a meeting of delegates from local unions was held in montreal for the purpose of organizing a provincial union for the province of quebec. thirty-five delegates were present; encouraging reports were given from the different unions represented, showing a total membership of about , , and a provincial union was at once organized with the following officers:-- president, mrs. middleton, quebec; first vice-president, mrs. dunkin, knowlton; second vice-president, mrs. walker, montreal; corresponding secretary. miss lamb, quebec; recording secretary, mrs. r. w. mclachlan, montreal; treasurer, mrs. a. m. mckenzie forbes, montreal. in the organization of this provincial union, mrs. e. mclaughlin, of boston, miss anna gordon (miss willard's secretary) and mrs. s. w. foster, of knowlton, rendered valuable assistance. the departments of work arranged by this provincial union, are as follows:-- heredity and hygiene, mrs. d. v. lucas, supt., montreal. scientific work, mrs. norton, montreal. juvenile and s.s. work, miss rhynas, montreal. temperance literature, and influencing the press, mrs. jack, chateauguay basin. evangelistic work, miss knowles, east farnham. prison and police work, mrs. dean, quebec. work among intemperate women, mrs. barker, knowlton. social work, mrs. c. t. williams, montreal. legislation, mrs. geggie, quebec. each county vice-president is, to a certain extent, responsible for the work in her county, and in this province as well as in ontario, they have proved themselves to be a band of faithful and efficient workers. in the short time which has elapsed since the formation of the provincial w.c.t.u., and the election of county vice-president, with the assistance of their president, twenty new unions have been added, making, in all, thirty-seven unions, with a total membership of about , . of this number, more than , are in the city of montreal. in this particular union the fee is optional, which may account, in some measure, for the seeming disproportion in members. the maritime provinces. the first local union in the province of new brunswick was organized in the town of moncton, in december, , mrs. (rev.) j. e. brown being president. work among the children has largely engaged the attention of this society, while they have been faithful and persevering in their efforts to educate the public mind by means of lectures and distribution of temperance literature. they have also visited those engaged in selling liquors, and have reasoned with them, to some purpose, on the unrighteousness of their course. unions were formed shortly after in st. john, fredericton, portland, carleton and st. stephen's. in all these places much work has been done, and general temperance sentiment very materially advanced. in october, , in compliance with a call issued by the fredericton union, the delegates of the local unions in that province met to form a provincial union. twenty delegates and visitors were present, representing five unions, and the prov. union was at once organized, the following officers being elected: president, mrs. dunham, portland, n.b.; vice-presidents, mrs., march, st. john, mrs. mcwilliams, carleton, mrs. cunard, portland, mrs. philips, fredericton, mrs. wade, woodstock; secretary, mrs. steadman, fredericton; treasurer, miss lockhart, st. john; auditor, miss carr, carleton. since that time the work in this province has gone steadily forward, some new unions have been added, and a deeper interest in temperance shown, by many who were formerly indifferent. in september, , the annual meeting of this provincial union was again held in fredericton, at which, invited delegates from n.s. and p.e.i. were present. here it was decided that for the best interests of the union work in those eastern provinces, the organization should be made maritime instead of provincial, representing nova scotia and prince edward's island, as well as new brunswick. this was done, and the following officers were elected: president, mrs. dr. todd, st. stephen. vice-presidents, one from each local union. secretary, miss ella l. thorne, fredericton, n.b.; assistant secretary, mrs. denistadt, moncton, n.b.; auditor, mrs. w. w. turnbull, st john, n.b.; treasurer, miss jane lockhart, st. john, n.b. there are ten unions in these provinces. the exact number of members is not furnished, but if we may judge by the work accomplished, there must be very many workers in behalf of this cause in these eastern provinces. the lines of work followed have been similar to those laid down by the other provincial unions. the ladies of st john union have, however, with the assistance of other unions, and private subscriptions, erected a drinking fountain in their city at a cost of about $ . this is the first fountain erected by w.c.t.u. in canada. the portland union has built a hall for its own use, where all union meetings are held. coffee houses and temperance hotels have been established, libraries have been opened, and much attention paid to the scientific instruction in temperance to the children of the public schools. the provincial union of british columbia was formed in , and comprised two local unions, one in victoria, organized at the same time as provincial, and the other in new westminster. total membership . in addition to the branches of work undertaken by the other provincial unions, this society has declared in favor of the ballot for women. president, mrs., (rev.) pollard, victoria, b.c., cor. sec. mrs. d. a. jenkins, victoria, b.c. in manitoba two local unions have been organized. one in winnipeg, mrs. monk, president, mrs. somerset, secretary; and one union in brandon, president, mrs. davidson; secretary, mrs. bliss. these are just beginning the good work, but at the end of another year, will have, doubtless, a record to give of many useful measures planned and executed, by means of which reformatory, educational, preventive and legislative work will have been effectually accomplished. our canadian women gratefully acknowledge the aid given us by many of our sisters across the border, who have greatly assisted us from time to time with wise counsel and stirring words of appeal. especially do they remember the inspiration and fresh courage that came to them with the presence and influence of miss willard. the formation of the dominion union was largely due to her counsel, and to her visit and eloquent addresses we owe the british columbia union, provincial and local. mrs. emily mclaughlin has also won the hearts of all with whom she came in contact during her visits in canada, and a large accession to the membership of the unions has always followed her powerful and persuasive utterances. the dominion w.c.t.u. for some months previous to the meeting of the ontario provincial union in october, , a correspondence had been carried on between some of the leading temperance women in the different provinces, regarding the advisability of forming a dominion union. all were in favor of taking this step if any additional good could be gained, or if it would be of benefit to any. with this feeling, and acting upon the advice of miss willard, president of the n.w.c.t.u., who was present at the meeting, the ontario convention appointed a committee consisting of mrs. chisholm and mrs. strachan, to confer with the executive of the quebec provincial union, for the purpose of forming a dominion union, at the interview with the quebec provincial executive, it was stated that from private letters received from other provinces, there would be no difficulty in the way of organizing the proposed union. it was also suggested that, in the event of such organization, no meeting should be called before , as some of the provincial unions had so recently been formed, and would need all the thought and care that could be given them for a time, at least. after some questions and explanations, with a little discussion, it was decided that a dominion union be organized. a constitution was drawn up, similar to the one in use by the n.w.c.t.u., of the united states, and the following officers elected: president, mrs. l. youmans, picton, ont.; vice-presidents, mrs. a. c. chisholm, ottawa, ont.; mrs. middleton, quebec; mrs. dr. todd, fredericton, n.b.; mrs. rev. pollard, victoria, b.c.; corresponding secretary, mrs. major tilton, ottawa, ont.; recording secretary, miss renaud, montreal, p.q.; treasurer, mrs. judge steadman, fredericton, n. b. the aim of this union will be to unite more closely in their work, the christian temperance women of the different provinces, and to devise plans for the general good, these to be largely carried out by the provincial unions. its first meeting will be held during the session of parliament at ottawa in . chapter v. why women should work. . _for their own sakes._--in the years that are passed women have been to a great extent, "run in moulds like candles," and have been "long threes or short sixes," just as society chose to make them. occasionally, one and another have refused to be run in the old mould, but seeing the need to be so great, and the workers so few, have stepped outside the narrow circle set round them, and with their faith and courage and persistent loving labor, have brought a new inspiration to the world's workers, and a new hope to the world's weary ones. this w.t.c.u. work opens up to women avenues of usefulness that for their own sakes they ought not to hesitate to enter. thus engaged the circle widens and widens until the possibilities of usefulness are almost limitless. as the boundaries are set further on the thought and sympathy of women reach out gradually to their limit, broader views of life and of humanity are taken on, and a deep, great love for all god's suffering ones is added to the love of the heart for family and kindred. in this work is found something of real "fellowship with god," and we are enabled to understand something of his great love, even for the unlovable, and to rejoice as in the "presence of the angels of god," over his repentant, returning children. . _for their sisters' sake._--it is a sad fact that we gather from the statistics and police returns of the large cities of england in relation to the drinking habits of english women. referring to it the archbishop of canterbury calls it "the very dark shadow dogging the steps of the church of england society." "if," said his grace, "drinking is introduced among the women of our middle or still higher classes, by means of grocers' licences, we need not think it will confine itself wholly to them. no, depend upon it, if any practice of women's drinking comes into use, we shall see it in its most open and shameless form." those of us who have tried to do any work among drinking women, must admit the painful truth that a small number of such, comparatively, are ever recovered from the habit of drinking, and a very small proportion are rescued from the haunts of vice. when we think of this, and think too, of the hereditary taint, the craving for drink, transmitted from these mothers to their children, and of the lives of sin which, too often, follow, we do not wonder at the alarm expressed in the recent report of the house of lords' committee on intemperance in these words, "intemperance among women is increasing on a scale so vast, and at a rate of progression so rapid, as to constitute a new _reproach_ and _danger."_ while this is true of england, and while we grieve over the drinking habits of women in other countries, have we not reason to fear that our canadian women are not free from this vice. every district visitor knows, every city missionary is conscious of the fact, that the poverty, the distress in so many homes is not solely because "father drinks," but often because "mother sells everything for whiskey." and the drinking among women is not confined to the class mentioned, for can you not think of ladies of wealth and position in your community, whose names are always spoken in a sort of twilight tone and with a little sigh? do you not know that while ladies go from our large cities to "spend months abroad," in some cases, these months are spent in inebriate asylums, while their friends fondly hope they may return cured? there are homes where the father dare not allow his daughters to attend an evening party, for fear that they may disgrace the family by taking too much wine, and acting in a silly manner. while we know these things to be true, we can not put them from us with a sense of freedom from responsibility. let us then for our own sakes individually, in order that we may be made unselfish and loving, and more like the divine christ, step forward into this work. and for the sake of women, our sisters, let us come out of the narrow path of custom; let us brave opposition or ridicule, which is harder to bear, and be true-hearted and whole-hearted in this temperance work. . _for the children's sake._--to women is largely committed the care of children in those first years of their lives when impressions for good or evil are readily received, and habits easily formed, and during this time principles may be firmly imbedded in the fresh soil that may grow to be a hedge against evil, a barrier between them and wrong in the coming years. mothers have a great responsibility in this matter, and one from which they may not escape. if our children see the wine-glass on the home table, in the side-board, at our evening parties, will they not think wine-drinking right and safe, and will there be any fear in their hearts of that which at the last stingeth like a serpent and biteth like an adder? "the hardest blow i ever received," said a devoted mother, occupying a high social position in our land, "was when my eldest boy turned to me in answer to my expostulation with him about taking too much wine, and said, 'mother, you know i learned to drink at home.'" so many have said, "if i had only known then what i know now, how different my home would have been, i would not now have to reproach myself for the wrongdoing of husband or of sons." recently a member of one of our christian churches, a lady of wealth and refinement, whose home was a home of luxury, and on whose hospitable board the wine-glass was placed as a matter of custom, during the long years of married life, was called to pass through a very painful experience, a very gethsemane. her eldest son had grown to be "a little wild," would go from home occasionally for a day or two, causing his parents great anxiety concerning him. on this occasion nearly a week had passed since they had seen him, when a message came to the mother from one of the city policemen. she hurried with the messenger to the gaol, there to meet her darling boy, the one in whom her fondest hopes had been centred, and for whom her brightest dreams had been so many times thought out, the boy she ceased not thinking of other than true, loving and pure,--to find him battered, bruised, and bleeding, with clothes disordered and torn, a sad example of the transformation which strong drink can produce. some one writes, "it is sad to be disappointed in those we love," but who can tell the agony of that mother's heart as she looked at her shattered idol, and cried out, "my son, why will you drink and break my heart?" i shall not soon forget his reply, "because you gave it to me at home," nor can i forget that mother's face as there came over her soul the awful realization of all that the thoughtlessness of custom had done for her boy. as we passed out she said, "no more wine at our table, god helping me," but while children still at home may be kept, it is too late for the eldest born. to day he is a wanderer from home, and mother, and god. while human hearts and human prayers follow him, god's mercy alone can reach and save. . _for the safely of home._--home is emphatically the kingdom of woman. here she is queen, and can order all its belongings as she deems best. to a very great degree its inmates are _subjects_ of her kingdom, and acknowledge her sway. the cases are few, perhaps, where her wishes are not respected, her right acceded to in all home arrangements. but to ensure a perfect home it is necessary that purity and peace should guard the threshold, that nothing unholy may enter, and that the noise of the world's strife pass not through. here there should be rest and peace. the liquor traffic is the avowed enemy of the home. while this exists not one home is absolutely safe, not one household is quite free from danger. this enemy does not scruple to enter the rightful kingdom of woman to rob, murder, and to destroy, and to lay in ruins all that before was bright and beautiful. the strong man is made helpless under its influence, all loveliness withers at its touch, the darkness of its shadow shuts out the sunlight, and its breath of death is over all. while this is true we ought surely to act as if we believed it to be true, and do all in our power to bar the door against this destroyer. as women to whom god has given reason, intelligence, the blessings of a christian education and much influence in our homes, we dare not bow down longer to a custom so fraught with evil and so ruinous in its effects. a bird will be quick to discover the approach of the serpent, and will spread its wings over the nest to protect its nestlings, and shall we not shield the dear ones in the home nest from the approach of this serpent, whose nature it is to kill and to destroy? . _for the sake of society._--while woman is queen of the home realm, she also reigns in society,--society which is made up from the homes of our land, if all homes were peaceful and pure, society would have no evils, there would be less necessity to warn and protect the innocent, and our newspapers would need small space to tell of moral wrecks, despair, murder and suicide. but until that time shall come, there is need for the influence of true, earnest women to so mould society that men and women shall be made nobler and better for being in their presence. the influence of such women is like the gentle dew, refreshing and enriching tender plant and opening flower; her example is as the sunlight, warming the heart and quickening the life to nobler deeds and guiding the wandering feet heavenward. all over our country, homes are constantly sending out their young men into business, into society, and the home life is exchanged for something new, day by day we are meeting these, receiving them into our homes, making them welcome to our parlors. what shall our influence be upon them? a young man comes to a city with good recommendations; he has high hopes, gets into a good business, is made much of in society. he is a pure man, such as mothers would choose as companion for their sons and daughters. how many hopes and prayers have come with him from the home hearth, and how glad and proud his best friends are to know that he is doing well. as he spends his evenings in our homes, those evenings that would otherwise be very dreary, what will the home do for him? shall women, who rule society, use their influence to disappoint all the bright home dreaming, to check all his high aspirations, and to make it very easy for him to become a victim to this appetite for drink? not that this is ever intentionally done, but the history of many men, given years after in many of our gospel temperance meetings, proves that this is terribly true. "i never offer anything to any one fond of liquor, not even on new year's day," said a lady, "but none of _our_ young men are." are we correct in saying that of any circle in society where wine is tasted, "none of our young men are." women do not know, even the mothers in the same home do not know what young men know of each other. we do not see how the glass of wine at the evening party, where he can take a little, not too much, is followed later in the evening and till the daylight hours, by glass after glass of stronger liquor, taken amid far different surroundings. many young men date their downfall from the first evening spent in society in a strange city, for while they could resist the temptations of young men companions, they have not been able to refuse the wine-glass at the hand of their hostess. in view of all these facts, so sad, so pitiful, ought we not for our own sake, for the sake of innocent children in our homes, for the sake of other women's children and other homes, and for the sake of society at large, in order to lead men and women, as best we may, towards all that is pure and holy, and away from all that is debasing and evil, ought we not to give our influence and our active help to this temperance work? chapter vi. how women may work. every human being has influence, and we may not know the effect of our words or of our silence. the fact being generally known that one is a member of the w.c.t.u. has sometimes a great influence. recently one of our temperance workers spent a few weeks at the sea-side. she had no occasion to speak of her temperance principles, but as the little white envelopes marked w.c.t.u. went out from the office of the hotel from time to time, it soon became known that she was a temperance woman. mrs. ---- one morning was very much interested to hear as she passed a bathing house near her own, "here, take some brandy before mrs. ---- comes down," and the reply, "mamma, she don't take any, and the bathing don't make her sick." it was thought a necessary preventive in this case, but there was a silent influence that conveyed its disapproval. yet there are many ways in which women may exert more than a silent influence in this work. . _in the home._--the time has gone by, when it was thought absolutely necessary to have the brandy bottle on the sideboard and in the kitchen, and when it was thought to be flying in the face of providence if one made a voyage or took a journey without this companion. years ago even temperance people dare not exercise quite enough faith and common sense to enable them to put this thing quite out of their homes, so for every ailment, for spleen and spasms, for tooth ache and toe ache, for head ache and heart ache, this wonderful remedy was used. this greater than all quack medicines, for _some_ of these do stop at _some_ point in their healing power, but this was thought to be _never failing_ in its virtue to alleviate, if not to cure. women in the last few years have been wiser than the doctors, for while they looked only at alleviation of pain, wives and mothers began to look beyond that, at the probable acquirement of the taste for drink, and now this prescription is becoming less frequent. let the women of canada banish this liquor from their sideboards and kitchens, and from their medicine chests. let it be given as medicine, only as a last resort, and by the advice of a careful physician. let temperance papers be taken in the home, that young and old may see and know all that is going on in the world in relation to temperance. we have our political papers, our church papers, our fashion magazines, let us have, too, our temperance papers, books and magazines. encourage the children to become members of a band of hope, and, if possible, go with them occasionally to their meetings, thus showing your interest in their particular work. we are glad to think the custom of supplying farm hands with beer is not prevalent in this country, but there may be places here and there where this has been customary. here farmer's wives may provide a substitute in oatmeal drink, cold tea or coffee. these are a few of the many ways in which women may work for temperance in the home. . _in society_--to exercise an influence for good it is not necessary that we should always sit pledge books in hand, and talk on the subject of temperance, but while this question occupies such a large share of public attention as at the present time, there will be few communities where it will not form one of the topics of conversation. then a quiet declaration of principles is the stand we must take. if we wear the white ribbon, the badge of our union, it will often save us annoyance, and help us when necessary to speak the whole truth. it very often happens that our position is assailed, and then we should be able to give a reason for the stand we take. to this end our women should read and search out for themselves arguments based on scientific investigation, with which to meet opposition. we need to inform ourselves, not only as to the evil effects of alcohol on the human system, but how it produces this effect, the waste to the country in drink, difference between communities where prohibition is in force, and where licence reigns, &c. in giving and attending entertainments, parties, &c., be outspoken in your disapproval of wine drinking. this is no longer running the risk of being singular in society, for some of the highest dignitaries of this land and other lands have banished strong drink in every form from their tables and entertainments. mr. moody said recently, "eight years ago it was difficult for me to mix in english society without being constantly pressed to drink wine. now, i may say, broadly, i am never asked to touch it, and at many places where i go, it is not even on the table." much of this change has been brought about by the influence of english ladies of rank, and by their warm espousal of the cause of the blue ribbon army. some of our ladies do not receive much company in this way, and have not this opportunity for helping on the right, but in quiet visits to and fro, their influence may accomplish much. to speak of a good temperance book to a friend, a book which we have just read, and in which we have been interested, to offer to lend it, saying you are sure she will be as interested in it as you have been,--this is not much, perhaps, but it is the sowing of the seed, which may produce fruit, such as we have not faith to think of, in the days to come. . _in the school._--we have faith to believe that the schools will yet constitute one wing of this great temperance army, for we can never succeed fully without them. the voters of the present day may place a law upon the statute book, and temperance men and women will do their best for its enforcement, and find it a task beset with more or less difficulty. but the boys and girls in our public schools will be the masses of to-morrow. let them be taught _now_ the nature and effects of alcohol on the human system, and to-morrow they will vote intelligently on this question, and will stand by the laws they have made. many of our best women are engaged in teaching these boys and girls, and thus have a grand opportunity for good work in the temperance cause. if a text book on this subject be not in use, there are still ways in which a conscientious teacher, thoroughly alive to its importance, may convey to the minds of her pupils much of the truth about alcohol. she may procure dr. richardson's lesson book, or dr. ridge's primer, so largely in use in the schools of england, dr. steele's physiology and hygiene, or the book authorized by the educational department of ontario, now in course of preparation, and from any of these prepare a lesson, occasionally, for her scholars. different phases of the temperance question might be put before them, in a very simple form, as subjects for their compositions. recitations, with this end in view, might be had from time to time. in the town of pembroke, ont., one of the public school teachers has enrolled all the children willing to join, in a band of hope, with the name "pembroke public school prohibition army." the w.c.t.u. of that place contributed a very handsome banner to be carried by the little ones in their occasional processions, and to have in their place of meeting. then women will have influence with school boards and trustees in many places, and may, by a simple request, gain their consent that temperance lessons be given by the teachers. sometimes a general petition may be necessary, (always to be signed by a majority of _voters_) and this may be successfully arranged by women. where the school is a denominational institution, it is wise also to approach the synod or conference to which it belongs. by patient and never tiring effort in city and country the schools will one day rally as a body to our help in this work. . _in the union._--it has been said so often by busy women whose hearts were nevertheless with the temperance work, "i will contribute to the funds of the union, but it would be of no use for me to join, for i could not find time to attend the meetings." yet, after all, it is better to join, better to be known as a _member,_ if you go only once in three months to a meeting. it is better for the union, better for yourself, and better for your influence at home and in society. and let the members of the union feel that the meeting is in part theirs, and that they are responsible for its success as they would be for the success of a party given in their own house. in both cases there are many circumstances which we must control or make the best of, and christian politeness should never be absent. outside of the meetings there is a wide field not only for general temperance work, but of special work for the union. as we pay our social visits we may talk of the interesting meetings of the w.c.t.u., or of any special work we have in hand, inviting our friends to come and visit the union, even if they do not wish to become members. let this be done in an offhand way, and not in this style, "now i've come to tell you how wicked you are to drink wine, and i want you to sign the pledge and join the union." people cannot be scolded or driven into a new faith, but must be won by patience and love. the loan library of the union ought to be kept in constant circulation among those who are not members, as well as among ourselves. mrs. s.m.i. henry's "voice of the home," and "mabel's work," have exerted an influence for good over the women of our country, and in one community the reading of these books led to the formation of a w.c.t.u. which has done good work, and rendered valuable assistance in the scott act contest. the circulation of works of this kind with those of a more solid nature will secure deeper thought on this subject, and a stronger desire to unite with the women of our land in their efforts to banish the liquor traffic. we can also be loyal to the union, and to every member individually. while we see each other's infirmities more plainly perhaps than we see our own, let us cover them carefully, as far as we may, from those not in sympathy with us, and let the letters w.c.t.u. be indeed a bond of union. . _by the pen._--a w.c.t.u. paper or periodical in canada is one of our great wants, perhaps the greatest. we have gifted ones in our societies, who have it in their power to make its pages interesting and instructive, but we lack the necessary funds. the little "telephone," the organ of the w.c.t.u. of the maritime provinces, which has recently made its appearance, is a credit to that society, as well as to its editor and publisher, mrs. cowil, a woman self-taught in the art of printing, and full of faith and courage in their new enterprise. all over our land there are women ready with their pen, whose message has been long delayed, and whose thoughts we need. while, as yet, we have no paper of our own, the best papers of our provinces will open their columns for the contributions of thoughtful writers on this temperance question, and we should take advantage of this in order to bring our w.c.t.u. work more prominently before the public, and to help on the cause of truth and right. in each county there might be found, at least, one woman who would write for the papers of that county, or send selections concerning the work, better if one such be found in each union. very often incidents occur in the reformatory phase of the work the publication of which may have a greater effect on the public mind than the closest reasoning. if our women will only use their pens in these cases it will tell for good. then, too, privately, we may do much. a little note to this one, a friendly letter to another, a few lines of encouragement to a weak one, a warning of love to another, these stay by one when the sound of words has passed away, and who may estimate the result? the most quiet and retiring may do, those who for many reasons feel themselves shut out from anything more public. . _on the platform._--this is what our canadian women shrink from. one of our most distinguished clergymen recently said, "it is not because our ladies have less talent than those of other lands, that they do not come to the platform, but because they have so little confidence in themselves." while this may be so there is still another reason. we know that in this country there exists a prejudice against women speakers, stronger than even in england, and certainly greater than obtains in the united states. this knowledge has deterred many from yielding to the conviction of duty. dear sisters, this should not be. the first commission given to women was from the risen saviour, "go and tell the brethren." if to-day there are those among our number who have received a message from the divine one, if to them the command has come to tell of the love of god to suffering humanity, are they doing well who refuse? if we have something to say let us say it in the fear of god, whether man will "hear or forbear." as county superintendents or vice-presidents there is scope for the exercise of this gift. all our counties need to be thoroughly canvassed, and in many places addresses given on this subject, in order that people may be roused to their duty, and that new unions may be established. there are few of us that may be called to leave our homes for the public platform, but there is often a necessity at our very doors, and if the opportunity, the need come to us let us with faithful earnestness and prayerful faith give to others our best thoughts and our wisest counsel in relation to this great subject before us. chapter vii. how to form a w.c.t.u. there are, at least, a few earnest christian women in every community who are thoroughly convinced of the great benefit such a society would be to the place in which they live. in many of the counties of ontario and quebec, a vice-president or superintendent is appointed for county work. it would be advisable to correspond with her on this subject, and an invitation given her to meet the ladies with a view to organization. in some counties no vice-president has been appointed, but, because it has not yet been done, let not ladies be deterred from having a w.c.t.u. send to the provincial corresponding secretary for constitutions and plans of work, and then ask your pastors to announce that a meeting for the organization of a w.c.t.u. will be held at time and place designated. it is well to see the pastors of different churches, and solicit their aid in this undertaking. and it is also wise to spend some time in interviewing ladies of the different congregations so that there may be a general interest. a notice similar to the following may be inserted in the daily paper, as well as announced from the pulpit, a week previous to the meeting. "a meeting of ladies in favour of the temperance cause will be held in ---- on ---- at ---- o'clock, when the advisability of organizing a "woman's christian temperance union" will be considered. nearly , christian women of canada are banded together in w.c.t. unions, for the protection of their homes, and for the good of society. the influence and help of the ladies of ---- is needed. mrs. ---- of ---- authorized by the prov. w.c.t.u. will address the meeting, on the history, aims and methods of this work. the presence of pastors is cordially invited, and all ladies are earnestly requested to attend." if no such speaker is expected this part will, of course, be omitted. one of our strongest unions was organized by a christian lady of the town, who had heard and read and thought much of the work of women's christian temperance unions. before the time arrives ask your pastors to share with each other in the opening exercises, but if none are to be present arrange with one of your number accustomed to such exercises, to open the meeting. have some one ready to lead the singing, let a suitable portion of scripture be read, crusade, psalm ( ), parable of the "good samaritan," or other fitting selection, prayer offered, asking the ladies to repeat the lord's prayer, with the leader at the close. one of the ladies will then move that mrs. ---- be chairman of this meeting. this will be seconded and put to vote, and the chairman will take her place. a temporary secretary will be elected in a similar manner, who will keep the minutes of the meeting. in the event of no speaker from a distance being present, the chairman or some lady who has prepared it will state the object of the w.c.t.u. its history and its work, giving an outline of the different departments with their work. items may be given from recent issues of the newspapers showing the alarming prevalence of intemperance and the necessity for all to use their influence and talent in opposing it. after this has been done, a few minutes may be given to answering any questions that may be asked, in order that all may see clearly what they are doing. in this way the doleful experience may be avoided, "yes, we were organized, but we do not know what to do." some one will then offer a resolution that a w.c.t.u. be organized. this motion will be seconded and put to vote by the chairman. we have been accustomed to vote by the uplifted hand, while our american sisters vote "yea" and "no." the sound of the human voice is helpful, and voting in this way may be more satisfactory. then read the constitution, by-laws, and pledge. explain fully the membership fee of cents per year or / cents per quarter, half of which goes to the provincial union. explain that the committees of provincial union being all at work, money is needed to pay necessary expenses of these and of the general officers, some of whom give the most of their time, without remuneration, to this work. explain, too, that an organizer is needed to whom we can pay a salary, who will organize new unions, and visit all unions regularly. if / cents per member is sent quarterly to our provincial unions, it will provide the means for thus enlarging the work. take time to answer all questions on these points. some may object to taking the pledge, as their physicians sometimes prescribe it as medicine. we pledge ourselves not to use it as a "beverage" only. some may be obliged to administer it to others as medicine. this does not violate the pledge. other objections may be stated and met. when constitution, etc., have been adopted by the meeting, send out ladies, previously requested so to act, and provided with pencils and paper, to solicit members. should any be unprepared, the fee may be paid another time, and may be made payable quarterly or yearly. the election of permanent officers is next in order. if it is thought best, a committee on nominations may be appointed by the chair, said committee to represent the different churches, and who shall report at some near day fixed by the meeting. it may be desirable, however, to proceed at once to ballot for officers, and by this method a truer expression of opinion is generally reached. the president duly elected then takes the chair, and vice-presidents are elected. these should be one from each church in the place. then the secretaries, recording and corresponding, and treasurer are elected, also superintendents or committees of the different departments which may be thought advisable. it has been found to work well where the vice-presidents, one from each church, are made conveners of these committees, or superintendents. these conveners of committees or superintendents of departments with the general officers constitute the executive. in a small place it may be as well to transact all business in an open meeting of the union. our ladies are supposed to be loyal to the w.c.t.u., and will not make public matters intended _only for the union._ the place of next meeting will now be determined and announced. a meeting of the executive committee will also be appointed by the president, to confer upon the details of the work. a very good quorum for the executive and for the union, consists of such members as shall be present at any regular or special meeting, due notice having been given of such meeting. a motion will now be made to adjourn, and carried. the president says, "the meeting is adjourned to meet"-- naming time and place. the doxology may be sung or a short prayer offered at the close. committees and their work. executive committee will plan the general work of the union, and attend to any special business that may be brought before them by the corresponding secretary. this committee will meet weekly, and report through their chairman to the union. committee on finance may be composed of ladies and gentlemen, who will devise ways and means for raising funds for the general work. the finance card and envelope is one of the best methods by which to educate the people to _systematic_ giving. pledges for temperance work. dear friend.--the evils of intemperance are sufficiently startling to cause every good man and woman to seek for their removal. many homes are ruined by it; many children robbed; many men and women reduced to drunkenness and death; even those not yet touched by it are not sure that they shall remain exempt. it threatens every child, every home, every youth, every man. the women's christian temperance union, mothers and sisters, to whom home means so much, have banded themselves together to do what they can to oppose it. we do our work among the children, by teaching, distributing temperance literature, etc. we seek out the intemperate and ask them to reform, assisting them with pecuniary aid when necessary. we use our influence to purify the homes and to put away social drinking customs. we are willing to work. will you not help us with your means? please mark with an x upon the sum you will give each month of the coming year. be it little or much, it will aid us. and we do wish, that every woman to whom this appeal is made, would become a member of our w.c.t.u., and encourage us by coming into our meetings. please write your name. residence. fifty cents a year and signature to our pledge constitute membership. as the months come round, take the envelope bearing the name of that month, put in the amount pledged, and deposit it as directed by the person circulating these cards. if you have neglected any month the empty envelope will remind you of it. don't destroy it--use it--put in the money and deposit it. the lord loveth a cheerful giver. committee on literature will secure suitable temperance literature, and distribute it in hotels, cars, reading-rooms, depots, stores, restaurants, at public meetings, from house to house, etc. committee on juvenile work should be composed largely of young ladies enthusiastic in their work. there should be a representative secured, if possible, from every sabbath and day school. they will organize bands of hope and circulate the pledges (triple, if possible), in the sunday schools. they will also see to the introduction of temperance books into sunday school libraries. committee on public meetings and entertainments will arrange for lectures, readings, concerts, temperance mass meetings and gospel temperance meetings on sabbath afternoons, mothers' meetings, cottage prayer meetings, etc. at very many of these meetings it is desirable to have the pledge circulated. committee on new members will endeavor to secure new members for the union, and will also visit those who may have been absent for some time. committee on benevolent work will look after the poor of the town, especially after those families suffering from the effects of intemperance. where there are purely benevolent societies in the town, the work of this committee will be only supplementary. press committee will select extracts from temperance books and papers, to be published regularly in the columns of the local papers, also to specially report the work of the w.c.t.u. both local and general. if the committee cannot itself reach the newspaper, perhaps it can through the aid of some influential _honorary member._ committee on scientific instruction in temperance will visit school directors, and authorities in public and private schools, and urge the introduction of dr. richardson's lesson book, or the new temperance lesson book to be issued by the education department of ontario. suitable literature on the subject might be judiciously used on these visits. an informal social reception of teachers in the town might be held or arranged for by this committee where the subject might be discussed. committee to secure the unfermented juice of the grape at the lord's table will visit not only the pastors, but influential leading members of the different churches, not to argue the matter, but to ask, as the n.w.c.t.u. does, that "in deference to the golden rule, and the pauline doctrine of regard for the weaker brother, the fermented wine be no longer used." suitable literature on this subject, as on all others, may be had from our literature department. committee on coffee and reading rooms will, if desirable, provide a place of this kind, putting it in charge of a suitable person. other committees may be added as the work demands. let each committee read up and thoroughly understand their subject, the convener especially should know _just what she wants,_ as she goes about this branch of the work, and be able to tell _just why it is needed._ this will, in the first place, be a gain. politicians, potentates, and preachers will not be able to put us off or confuse us by asking many questions in connection with the work that we are unable to give. chapter viii. questions and answers. q.--why should our union be auxiliary to the provincial union? a.--we are convinced that the affiliation fee and the reasons for requiring it have not been properly understood by our unions. they have said, why should we pay - / cents per member, quarterly, into the provincial union fund. we answer, because without it the provincial union could not exist. q.--why should it exist? a.--because there is strength in united effort. if local unions here and there in isolated places exert an influence for good, a large band of workers sending their representatives to a central place to consult together and devise method? for the extension of the work throughout the province will certainly wield a greater power, and do more good. all our church organizations, our various charitable and reform associations are based on this principle, and the wisest politicians assure us that system and organization is worth more to their party than argument or brilliant speeches. union is strength. as the delegates from local unions come together to discuss matters of interest pertaining to the work, to devise plans and to compare notes, a new confidence is gained, a more enlarged view is had of the temperance field, and a more intelligent understanding of the general need. then, too, it is impossible for the workers thus to come together without realizing the benefit that results from the interchange of thought and ideas, and from the influence of mind on mind, and the inspiration thus received is imparted by them to the home unions, and all are helped. q.--what is done with the money? a.--in , $ were paid into the provincial treasury of ontario unions, by local unions, as affiliation fees, which sum covered merely the postage account of general officers and expenses of committees. all other expenses of travel and of the convention, about $ , were met by collections at the convention, and by special contributions, mr. gordon of ottawa sending a cheque for $ . we need also an _organizer,_ who shall be able to give her whole time and thought to union work, who shall organize new unions, and visit all regularly. these needs cannot be met without money, but if our thousands of temperance women in canada will make this a personal matter to see that - / cents are sent each quarter to the provincial union, we shall soon be in a position to employ an organizer, and thus do better work. q.--how shall we distribute literature? a.--divide the place into districts, each lady or two ladies taking a district. have these districts as small as possible. the visitors will visit every house in their district regularly, leaving suitable literature, as they will soon ascertain something of the tastes and needs of those whom they visit. sometimes the pledge book may be presented and members solicited for the union. a book from the loan library of the union may often be lent where a leaflet might not be appreciated. another way is to send through the post office to those whom you wish to reach. sometimes, our ladies have stood at the entrance to factories, foundries and large establishments giving a leaflet to each man as he came out. "advantages of temperance" is a very good small leaflet to be given in this way. on all our fair grounds there should be a stand of temperance literature. in hospitals much of this work should be done. many have leisure there, recovering from illness, that they never find outside its walls, the heart is softened and ready for the dropping of the seed, and the door stands open for the entrance of right influences and loving sympathy. in gaols, in depots, barbers' shops, post offices, steamboats, anywhere we may obtain permission let it be done, if possible, by our ladies themselves. in sabbath school libraries ask permission for the union to send a few good temperance stories, or, better still, let a suggestion be offered to the librarian or committee on new books to purchase some temperance books as additions. q--how shall we raise money for our work? a.--first with the "finance card." take a union of members, their membership fee brings them in $ , of this $ goes to the provincial union, so they have only $ left. they will want more. now let each member take ten finance cards, and from among her friends and acquaintances ask ten to contribute something monthly to the funds of the union, suppose it be only cents each per month, that will be from ten persons cents per month, or $ per year. if each one of the twenty members should get no more than this, they have then $ . per year coming in for their work. it needs a little thought and attention, but it pays. apron socials are popular and generally help to increase the funds, as there is always a demand for useful aprons. pound socials have been successful also. to this each person contributes a pound of something useful, all of which is sold by auction during the evening, causing a good deal of amusement. an evening with a celebrated author is very much in vogue now, and is helpful in many ways. for instance, an evening with dickens is observed in the following way: a number will personate the leading characters in any of dickens' works, talking only in language and tone suited to the character, the invited guests ascertaining from his acquaintance with dickens just where they belong. this can be done with or without costumes. light refreshments are served by the dickensites during the evening. the usual fee taken at the door. new england kitchens may be made to bring in something to the funds. here you will need several old-fashioned dressers, the shelves furnished with rows of plates, the more old-fashioned the better, and everything to make it look like a real new england kitchen. refreshments will be doughnuts, pumpkin pie, brown bread, pork and beans, and such like. it would pay to have it in a city for two or three days, open at the dinner hour. floral festivals pay very well in the early spring, before people generally are supplied with plants. let the room be nicely decorated with evergreens, flags and bunting, small booths arranged similarly trimmed, in which the flowers and plants shall be placed, some music furnished, cents admission charged, refreshments and plants extra. the plants can be bought by the at a very cheap rate. if at all possible, let all our social entertainments be opened with prayer. q.--how shall we help in scott act work? a.--most of all by the faithful distribution of temperance literature, and by providing funds for its purchase. by educating the children in regard to it, giving them at their band of hope meetings, in simple language, the reasons why every one should work and vote against it. many a father has been won by his child. by selecting articles on the subject, and having them inserted in the daily papers. by praying for its success in your church prayer meetings, and encouraging others to do the same. by prayer as a union, and by private prayer. by looking after every branch of the temperance work more closely, so that every influence may be brought to bear on all classes and conditions of society. q.--can ladies be received into our society without signing the pledge? a.--the suggestion has been made that such be received as "associate members" or "well-wishers" having every privilege except the vote. q.--when scientific temperance instruction is introduced into the public schools, what remains for the committee on that subject to do? a.--to see that the _law_ is _enforced._ the schools should be visited at the hour when this study is on the programme. conscientious teachers will welcome your presence. q.--should the executive of a local union arrange and finally decide matters without consulting the union? a.--the report of the meetings of the executive should be read at each regular meeting of the union. every member has a right to object, or to ask for explanations and the report will be amended, received or rejected as the union shall determine. q.--shall accounts be paid without the sanction of the union? a.--certainly not. chapter ix. young women's work. it is very important that the interest and sympathy and active help of our young ladies be secured in this work. there is in the heart of every human being a yearning for something higher and better. coupled with this yearning in the heart of woman is the desire to do for others. ever since the days when a woman washed the feet of the holy one with her tears, when the fever healed patient arose and "ministered to them," when the marys prepared sweet spices and ointment for him they loved, ever since that time have women delighted in service for others, and thus, in the highest, broadest forms of christian philanthroxphy, they may come to be more like the loving christ who went about doing good. we covet for humanity the influence of our young ladies, for in the home and in society this influence is needed on the side of all that is good and pure. then, we would for their own sakes, enlist them in temperance work, because, engaged in this or similar service they gain for themselves a breadth, an expansion of views, and a truer thought of life. many have not given the subject a serious thought: they graduate from our seminaries and colleges where every hour has brought its work and every power has been in action, they come back into quiet homes, and "what shall i do now?" is the question presented to their minds. society soon fills in their time with imperious but frivolous demands, and while the mothers enter into this christian work, young ladies soon come to think it is not for them. in time they drift into wifehood and into positions of responsibility of training bodies and souls, with no decided principles in relation to this question, and no intelligence as to the evil effects of this great scourge of intemperance. how sad it is to hear such an expression as this, "oh, i rather like a man when he has had just enough liquor to be jolly." yet, that was the remark of a fashionable young lady not long ago. her listener was a young man who took strong drink, and for whom his friends were anxious, but in his heart there was no respect for this foolish, thoughtless speech, and his dry "ah, do you?" savored just a little of contempt for her, and pity for himself. take a different scene. recently, i spent a day with a few christian women, most of whom were young ladies, members of the y.w.c.t.u. it was delightful afterwards to remember that on that occasion no word of faultfinding or of gossip was spoken, no frivolous or _fashionable_ talk, but the hours sped by on wings as they talked of earnest work done, narrated incidents and planned for the future. these were young ladies _in society,_ bright and happy in their experience, not those to whom disappointment has come in some form or other, and to whom the world offers no attractions. i recall the words of one who was talking earnestly of a scheme to raise money for their work. "but the best of all is," said she, "in this way we can get mr. ---- to work with us, and if he will only sign the pledge it will be worth more than all the money we make" is not this a lesson to us older workers, who are disappointed sometimes when what we call large results do not follow our undertakings? a young lady in the city of ---- joined the y.w.c.t.u. during the winter of . at a sleighing party shortly after wine was offered her. "i cannot take it," she said. "i am a member of the y.w.c.t.u." many were the exclamations, for she was a favorite and an acknowledged leader among her companions, but she had thought it all over, and had her reasons ready. "if you won't take wine _we_ won't," said one. "if the ladies don't take it, we won t," said one of the gentleman, so coffee and hot lemonade were served instead, and to-day most of that company are taking the safe path, and the gentlemen are honorary members of the w.c.t.u. when young men come to see that young ladies expect them to be total abstainers, they will lift themselves up to a higher plane and to a purer manhood. dear, young ladies, will you not give to the temperance cause a little of the time which sometimes hangs heavily on your hands? will you not consecrate to its service a portion of the talent with which god has endowed you? will you not join the band of sister-workers, who are endeavoring to bless and uplift humanity, and by voice, pen, and influence help to make earth a little more like heaven? there are, at present, three y.w.c.t. unions in the province of ontario, and one in quebec province. hamilton y.w.c.t.u., the first organized, is now two years old, and has members besides honorary members. their work is, first, night schools for boys employed during the day time; second, sewing schools for poor girls; third, band of hope; fourth, flower mission. these branches of work with _occasional_ social entertainments keep them very busy. to these socials, honorary members and others are invited, papers on the temperance question are read and discussed, the pledge album presented, refreshments served, and the result is an increase in numbers and in interest. ottawa y.w.c.t.u. was organised in october , has members and honorary members. the work of this union is similar to that of the hamilton union, in addition to that, however, the members of this union meet twice in the month in a reading circle for the purpose of gaining information on the many phases of the temperance question. essex centre y.w.c.t.u. has been in existence only a few months, but is doing a fine work among the children. point st. charles y.w.c.t.u. is in connection with a young ladies' mission band of that place. this united society is engaged in active work, and will be found to be a social power whose weight and influence for good cannot well be estimated. these unions report that boys under years of age attending the night schools and bands of hope in connection with these unions in some instances have come to the meetings under the influence of liquor, and nine out of ten attending the night school, smoke their cigarettes or chew their tobacco up to the last moment before entering the room. our young ladies, however, seem to have had a magnetism over these boys, their obedience and affection have been secured, and an interest also in better things, a result which older hands have tried in vain to accomplish. this is shown in the marked improvement in manner, cleanliness of person, and the giving up of tobacco and signing the pledge. the flower mission has brought a glow of pleasure to many a sick face as the little bouquet has been offered by the young ladies in the hospital wards, in the sick room of many homes, and sometimes in the jails. into all these places the beautiful gifts of god have been taken, each cluster of flowers bearing with it a floral text of scripture, and the earnest prayer of glad young hearts, that god would speak through their offering, to forgive, to comfort, and to save. miss scott, albert street, ottawa, is superintendent of this department. chapter x. a dream. no. . i went to the regular meeting of a w.c.t.u., called for p.m. i entered as the clock struck. the room was full of chairs and benches, a large room with few windows and dark corners. there were three hymn books on the table, and a dusty bible. the clock ticked on, five minutes passed, ten minutes, and one timid woman entered, took no notice of me, but sat with her eyes fixed on the floor, a sad faced woman i saw as i looked more closely, a tired, hopeless expression in the droop of her figure. five minutes more and two busy women came in with a rush. "what! _nobody_ here? i wish people would be punctual," said one, "i can only stay half an hour," "i have another meeting," said the other. the sad faced woman and i were _invisible,_ it seemed, as neither by look nor act did they acknowledge our presence. then three more strolled in leisurely, one saying, "oh, mrs. a., is this meeting at three or half past? i really forget the hour." afterwards a few young ladies came in, and seated themselves in a row, keeping up a whispered conversation in which the pronouns he, she, and i, were often heard. at half-past three the president came in, saying, "i am afraid i am a little late, my watch does not seem to be quite right." taking a hymn book, she asked, "what had we better sing, mrs. b., have you any choice?" no choice being signified, the leaves were turned over and over, and "plunged in a gulf of dark despair" selected and read. "will some one start the tune? mrs. c. will you?" mrs. c. looked around, waited a minute, and then asked, "is it common or long meter?" another pause. the little timid woman began a familiar tune, and had the privilege of singing the first two lines alone. the hymn finished, the president said, "as it is so late, we will dispense with the reading of the scriptures. i will ask mrs. a. to lead in prayer," at which mrs. a. shook her head. "mrs. c. then will you?" "excuse me," said mrs. c., so to the back of her chair the president prayed in a very subdued tone, and i knew _just when_ she was through by the little rustle and moving of the chair as she arose. the secretary now read the minutes, after which the president said, "those in favor of the minutes will signify it." two or three hands went up. the treasurer's report was then presented, but no action taken on it. although this was a large town there seemed to be no committees at work, but each member had been furnished with a pledge book, in which to obtain signatures. no one had any success to report, had quite forgotten it, except the little woman mentioned. she produced her book where the names of half-a-dozen were scrawled with a good thick pen and plenty of ink. her report was received in silence. the president, secretary, and treasurer talked across the table in very low tones, the rest of the company whispered a little, finally mrs. ---- said, looking at her watch, "my half-hour is more than up, i must go." she walked out, followed by the young ladies. the low tones at the table ceased, the books were closed, the ladies put on their extra wrappings and went home. the little woman and i were left alone. "will you let me see your book?" i asked. "oh yes," said she. "i got some of the young men boarding with me to sign, and i hope they'll keep it. i pray they may. i _thought_ the sisters would be glad. i wish i could do more, but it does not seem worth while for _me_ to come to the meetings. i cannot talk much, and i have so much to do at home. i can work quietly there and among my acquaintances." as i passed the young ladies on the way home, i overheard one say, "i am not going to the union meetings any more. two or three do all the talking, and we can't hear what they say." that evening, as i heard in my dream, the president said to her husband, "i think once in two months is often enough to hold our union meetings. there seems to be nothing to do." then i thought, in my dream, that another year had passed, and i came again to the same town, and wended my way to the place of meeting where i had been aforetime. meeting a gentleman near the door i asked him if the union still met there. "oh," said he, "the w.c.t.u. that died out months ago. women don't know very much about business, you see, it is hard for them to keep together." _was it all a dream?_ a dream. no. . a bright spring day i thought it was and i walked to the room of the y.m.c.a., where a union meeting was to be held. it was not quite three o'clock, but i met three or four ladies going in, who asked me if i was coming to the meeting, and upon my answering "yes, if i may," she said, "oh, certainly, come right in." one of them placed a seat for me as i went in, and brought me a hymn book, asking if i was a stranger in town and if i was a member of any union. as i said i was a member of ---- union, she said, "oh! then, you must tell us of the work there." then moving away, and coming back with a lady, she introduced her as the president of the union, and the president expressed her pleasure at meeting another sister interested in the work. looking around the room, i saw a bouquet of flowers on the table, writing materials and reports. just then the clock struck three, the president took her chair, gave out the hymn, "work for the night is coming,' read the th psalm, and engaged in prayer. the secretary then read the minutes. as the president asked, "is there any objection to the minutes?" one lady said that the first resolution at last meeting was moved by mrs. b., instead of mrs. a. this was corrected and the minutes approved, no other objection being offered. the treasurer's reports and reports of different committees were read and adopted. the pledge books produced, and many signatures had been obtained. the president said, "let us sing the doxology over this," and it was sung very heartily. i noticed that all the members spoke to "mrs. president," not to each other, and there was no whispering. the officers at the table spoke so that all could hear. a short paper was then read on "how we may best help in scott act work." at the invitation of the writer this paper was discussed, some points objected to, additional methods proposed, and every body was interested and had learned something. the chairman of the literature committee said she would exchange books in the loan library at the close of the meeting. miss s. was asked to prepare a paper for the next monthly meeting, and after a few words of earnest prayer offered by a young lady at the request of the president, the meeting adjourned. the president walked quickly to the door and shook hands heartily with each member as she passed out, asking kindly after sick ones and erring ones of the families. "you must come and see me to- morrow morning, and tell me all about it," i heard her say to a troubled sister. it was now ten minutes past four o'clock. as i walked along i overtook the troubled one, and said to her, "you had a good meeting to-day." her face brightened as she replied, "oh, we always have. i would not like to miss one of our meetings. it always helps me to go there and hear of the good work being done, and it makes me stronger to do my share of it. these meetings make you feel as if somebody cared for you." a group of young ladies were chatting with some gentlemen at the opposite corner, and i heard a clear, sweet voice say "we want you both as honorary members of our w.c.t.u. we are going to have some readings from dickens and we need your help; you will join, won't you?" to which the gentlemen replied they "would be delighted," etc. then my dream took me to a cozy home where a young man, just out of his teens, was saying to a lady i had seen before, "mother, now the warm weather is coming, and you are not very strong, you had better give up your meetings." "oh, no, my son," the lady said, "there is so much to be done, and it is such a pleasure to work with our ladies, we must keep right on." in my dream i came again. this time the union met in a beautiful room of their own, furnished as a bright, pleasant parlor, with flowers and pictures and piano. their numbers had increased, for the ladies came in groups till the room was nearly filled. i saw some of the old faces, the president was the same, a little older in appearance, her walk a little slower. as she took her place, the sun shone out full in my face and i awoke. _was this, too, only a dream?_ chapter xi. conclusion. to every child of god there comes a time, sooner or later, when a light from heaven having shone round about him, and seeing the great need of the world, he stands. paul-like, before god, and asks: "lord, what wilt thou have _me_ to do?" as the answer came in the olden time, "i will shew him what things he must _suffer,"_ so the answer comes in these later days, and many of god's dear children have come to this christian temperance work through suffering. as christian women, we have come down from the mount of consecration, where we have talked with jesus, and at its base, have been met by the demon of intemperance in every form. friends have brought their loved ones to us, beseeching us to cast out the evil spirit, or, it may be, the monster has come into our homes, and household treasures here and there lie prostrate and helpless in the dust before god. with sad, shrinking hearts we look for a moment, then, with a twofold incentive, we take up our work. for the sake of our dear saviour who did so much for us, whose face, sometimes, in our holiest hours, by faith we see, and whose voice we still hear, "lo! i am with you always," and for the sake of the loved and the lost, or, more happily, the loved and reclaimed, we come to our work. this work is intensely practical, and brings into requisition all the forces which go to make up christian character. it means patient, persevering, persistent, self-denying labor; it means an intelligent consecration of time, money and ability which god may have given us, to be used in the carrying out of the good at which we aim; it means entering into fellowship with christ, (in a very feeble sense, it is true,) in his broad sympathy with humanity, in his sacrificing love; it means, many times, to have our names cast out as evil, to brave the sneer and ridicule of fashionable society, to be willing to be misunderstood by those nearest and dearest to us; to some it means all this and more; still, with a firm conviction of duty, of being called of god, we come to this work. it _may_ extend no further than our own homes, our own circle of friends; but if each build over against his own house, how strong the walls would be, how quickly they would rise! we look out into the night and see here and there a star glimmering in the darkness, and we say, "how dark the night is; how few stars are to be seen!" we wait and watch, and soon the clouds are rolled away; we see the stars one by one coming out from the blackness, until the blue vault above us is covered with heavenly diamond dust, and we rejoice in its brilliancy. so in our work. we see here and there a star coming out of the darkness; only a few to be seen after all the working and watching. by-and-by, god, in answer to our prayers, and giving the reward to faithful toil, shall roll away the clouds and mists that gather so thickly about our work here. we shall see not only here and there a star glimmering, but a host of shining ones, that god hath brought out of the darkness and covered over with an arch of his promises, where he has written, "they shall be mine in that day when i make up my jewels.' in that day, when we shall be permitted to see the polished gems in the keeping of the holy one, we shall realize that no work for the master has been done in vain. here we toil amid the damp and fog and darkness, often underground, with no lamp save the promise of god, which is "a lamp to our feet, and a light to our path;" there we shall be with him and behold his glory. here, the sadness, the weariness, the discouragement, the "why, lord?" and "how?" there, the "well done!" "enter thou!" questions answered, longings satisfied, eternal rest and peace. shall we not, for this joy set before us, consecrate ourselves anew to this christian work, that, at the last, as paul stood in his later days, we may stand and say, "i have finished my course?" and, following closely in the footsteps of jesus, our great teacher, giving all the praise and all the glory to him who is our strength and our righteousness, we may be able to say, reverently and with deep humility, "i have finished the work thou gavest me to do." constitution, by-laws and order of business of a woman's christian temperance union. (local.) article i.--name. this association shall be known as the woman's christian temperance union of ----, auxiliary to the w.c.t.u. of the province of ----. article ii.--objects. the objects of the union shall be to meet together for prayer and conference, to educate public sentiment up to the standard of total abstinence, train the young, save the inebriate, and secure the legal prohibition and complete banishment of the liquor traffic. article iii. any woman may become a member of this association by signing the pledge and constitution, and by the payment of fifty cents per year into the treasury. any woman, practically a total abstainer, but having an objection to signing the pledge, may become an "associate member" of this association, by the payment of the regular fee. gentlemen may become honorary members of this association by signing the pledge and by the payment of the regular fee. honorary and associate members are entitled to all the privileges of members, except the vote. pledge. i hereby promise, god helping me, to abstain from all distilled, fermented and malt liquors, including wine and cider, as a beverage, and to employ all proper means to discourage the use of and traffic in the same. article, iv.--officers the officers of this association shall be a president, vice- presidents, one from each church, when practicable, a corresponding secretary, recording secretary, treasurer, and auditor. these officers (excepting the auditor), with the superintendents of the different departments, shall constitute the executive committee. article v.--auxiliaryship. each local union shall pay to the funds of provincial union a sum equal to six and a quarter cents per member, quarterly, this amount to be taken from the fifty cents membership fee. article vi.--annual meeting. an annual meeting shall be held in the month of september of each year, at which reports of secretary and treasurer shall be presented, which, if possible, shall be published afterwards in the daily newspapers. at this meeting, officers and committees and superintendents shall be elected for the ensuing year, and such services held as may tend to promote the objects of the association. by-laws. article i.--duties of officers. section . president.--it shall be the duty of the president to preside at meetings of the organization, and supervise its general interests, and she may with any three members of the union call special meetings, due notice being given to the members. section . vice-presidents.--it shall be the duty of each vice- president to preside in her turn in the absence of the president, and to enlist women of her own church in the work. section .--it shall be the duty of the corresponding secretary to conduct the correspondence of the union, and report to the corresponding secretary of the provincial union quarterly, on receipt of blank forms (having first submitted her report to the local union), giving such items of general interest as will enable said secretary to judge correctly of the condition of the union. she shall also prepare the report for the annual meeting of the local union. the corresponding secretary shall also prepare a short report for the provincial convention in october (first submitting it to the local union), and sending it with the delegate to the annual meeting, or forwarding it to the provincial secretary two weeks before the date of meeting. section .--it shall be the duty of the recording secretary to keep a record of the proceedings of the union, and notify members and the public of its meetings. section .--it shall be the duty of the treasurer to collect all membership dues, and to devise ways and means to increase the funds of the association. she shall receive and hold all money collected for the use of the union, keeping an exact book account and making a monthly report of the same. she shall pay no bills, except on an order signed by the president and recording secretary. she shall forward regularly the quarterly fee to the treasurer of provincial union. article ii.--election of officers. the officers shall be elected by nomination and ballot. nominations may be made either by a committee appointed for that purpose, or on motion of any member. if there be more than one person nominated for any office, a ballot shall be taken, tellers having been appointed for that purpose. the one having a full majority of all the ballots cast shall be declared elected. [if there be more than two persons balloted for, and the one having the highest number of votes, has not a majority of all the votes given, then the one having the lowest number of votes shall be struck off before proceeding to the next ballot. more than one name may be struck off, provided that the sum of all the vote--so struck off is not equal to, or greater than, the number of votes given to the lowest remaining one.] article iii.--departments of work. if the demands of the work justify it there shall be the following departments of work: juvenile work, temperance literature, influencing the press, evangelistic work, parlor meetings, heredity and hygiene, scientific temperance instruction, kitchen garden, flower mission, unfermented wine, inducing physicians not to prescribe alcoholic stimulants, relation of intemperance to capital and labor, prison and gaol work, young woman's work, work among railroad employees, work among soldiers and sailors, legislation and petitions and such others as the needs of the locality seem to call for and recommended by the provincial union. article iv.--meetings. the regular meeting of the union shall be held weekly, fortnightly or monthly, as the union may decide. the first meeting in the month shall be a devotional meeting. if possible, mass meetings shall be held quarterly. the executive and other committees shall meet as often as may be deemed advisable. article v.--quorum. a quorum shall consist of such members as shall be present at a regular or special meeting, due notice of such meeting being given to the members. article vi.--delegates to the provincial union. delegates to the provincial union are received on the following basis: two for each union, and one additional delegate for every ten paying members of each union. the expenses of general officers for postage, stationery, etc., shall be borne by the union. travelling expenses of delegates to annual convention, shall, where at all practicable, be borne by the union sending those delegates. order of business. devotional exercises. reading minutes of last meeting. treasurer's report. unfinished business. reception of communications. reports of committees. reading of paper on temperance question discussion. regular course of reading. discussion. miscellaneous business. adjournment. [transcriber's note: the spelling "philanthrophy" occurs in the original. also, in the list of numbered items in chapter , the numbering skips from to , but no content seems to be missing. we have left these as they were in our print copy.] the two wives; or, lost and won. by t. s. arthur. philadelphia: . preface. the story of the "two wives; or, lost and won," is intended to show the power of tender, earnest, self-forgetting love, in winning back from the path of danger a husband whose steps have strayed, and who has approached the very brink of ruin; and, by contrast, to exhibit the sad consequences flowing from a want of these virtues under like circumstances. this book is the third in the series of "arthur's library for the household." the fourth, which is nearly ready, will be called "the ways of providence; or, he doeth all things well." the two wives. chapter i. "you are not going out, john?" said mrs. wilkinson, looking up from the work she had just taken into her hands. there was a smile on her lips; but her eyes told, plainly enough, that a cloud was upon her heart. mrs. wilkinson was sitting by a small work-table, in a neatly furnished room. it was evening, and a shaded lamp burned upon the table. mr. wilkinson, who had been reading, was standing on the floor, having thrown down his book and risen up hastily, as if a sudden purpose had been formed in his mind. "i shall only be gone a little while, dear," returned mr. wilkinson, a slight air of impatience visible beneath his kind voice and manner. "don't go, john," said mrs. wilkinson, still forcing a smile to her countenance. "i always feel so lonely when you are away. we only have our evenings to be together; and i cannot bear then to be robbed of your company. don't go out, john; that's a good, dear husband." and mrs. wilkinson, in the earnestness of her desire to keep her husband at home, laid aside her sewing, and rising, approached and leaned her hands upon his shoulder, looking up with an affectionate, appealing expression into his face. "you're a dear, good girl, mary," said mr. wilkinson, tenderly, and he kissed the pure lips of his wife as he spoke. "i know it's wrong to leave you alone here. but, i won't be gone more than half an hour. indeed i won't. see, now;" and he drew forth his watch; "it is just eight o'clock, and i will be home again precisely at half-past eight, to a minute." mrs. wilkinson made no answer; but her husband saw that tears were in the eyes fixed so lovingly upon him. "now don't, love," said he, tenderly, "make so much of just half an hour's absence. i promised elbridge that i would call around and see him about a little matter of business, and i must keep my word. i had forgotten the engagement until it crossed my mind while reading." "if you have an engagement." there was a certain emphasis in the words of mrs. wilkinson that caused her husband to partly turn his face away. "i have, dear. but for that, i should not think of leaving you alone." almost instinctively mrs. wilkinson withdrew the hands she had placed upon the shoulder of her husband, and receded from him a step or two; at the same time her face was bent downwards, and her eyes rested upon the floor. for some moments mr. wilkinson stood as if in earnest debate with himself; then he said, in a cheerful, lively tone-- "good-by, love. i shall only be gone half an hour." and turning away, left the room. he did not pause until he was in the street. then a spirit of irresolution came over him, and he said to himself, as he moved slowly away, "it isn't kind in me to leave mary alone in this way; i know it isn't. but i want to see elbridge; and, in fact, partly promised that i would call upon him this evening. true, i can say all i wish to say to him in the morning, and to quite as good purpose. but--" wilkinson, whose steps had been growing more and more deliberate, stopped. for some time he stood, in a thoughtful attitude--then slowly returned. his hand was in his pocket, his dead-latch key between his fingers, and his foot upon the marble sill of his door. and thus he remained, in debate with himself, for as long a time as two or three minutes. "yes; i must see him! i had forgotten that," he exclaimed, in a low tone, and suddenly stepped back from the door, and with a rapid pace moved down the street. a walk of ten minutes brought him to the house of mr. elbridge. but it so happened that this gentleman was not at home. "how soon do you expect him to return?" was inquired of the servant. "he may be here in half an hour; or not before ten o'clock," was the reply. wilkinson was disappointed. leaving his name with the servant, and saying that he would probably call again during the evening, he descended the steps and walked away. he was moving in the direction of his home, and had arrived within a block thereof when he stopped, saying to himself as he did so-- "i must see elbridge this evening. it is already nearly half an hour since i left home, and i promised mary that i would not remain away a moment longer than that time. but, i did not think elbridge would be out. poor mary! she looks at me with such sad eyes, sometimes, that it goes to my very heart. she cannot bear to have me out of her sight. can she doubt me in any thing? no; i will not believe that. she is a loving, gentle-minded creature--and one of the best of wives. ah me! i wish i were more like her." still wilkinson remained standing, and in debate with himself. "i will go home," said he, at length, with emphasis, and walked quickly onward. he was within a few doors of his own home, when his steps began to linger again. he had come once more into a state of irresolution. "perhaps elbridge has returned." this thought made him stop again. "he must have understood me that i would be around." just at this moment the crying of a child was heard. "is that ella?" wilkinson walked around a little way, until he came nearly opposite his own house. then he stopped to listen more attentively. yes. it was the grieving cry of his own sick babe. "poor child!" he murmured. "i wonder what can ail her?" he looked up at the chamber windows. the curtains were drawn aside, and he saw upon the ceiling of the room the shadow of some one moving to and fro. he did not doubt that it was the shadow of his wife, as, with their sick babe in her arms, she walked to and fro in the effort to soothe it again to sleep. had there been a doubt, it would have been quickly dispelled, for there came to his ears the soft tones of a voice he knew full well--came in tones of music, low and soothing, but with most touching sweetness. it was the voice of his wife, and she sang the air of the cradle-hymn with which he had been soothed to rest when he lay an innocent babe in his mother's arms. the feelings of wilkinson, a good deal excited by the struggle between affection and duty on the one side, and appetite and inclination on the other, were touched and softened by the incident, and he was about entering his house when the approaching form of a man, a short distance in advance, caught his eye, and he paused until he came up. "elbridge! the very one i wished to see!" he exclaimed, in a low voice, as he extended his hand and grasped that of his friend. "i've just been to your house. did you forget that i was to call around?" "i didn't understand you to say, certainly, that you would call, or i should have made it a point to be at home. but no matter. all in good time. i'm on my way home now, and you will please return with me." "i don't know about that," said wilkinson, who could not forget his promise to his wife. "i told mary, when i went out, that i would only be gone half an hour, and that time has expired already." "oh, never mind," returned the other, lightly. "she'll forgive you, i'll be bound. tell her that you came home, in all obedience to her wishes, but that i met you at your own door, and carried you off in spite of yourself." and as elbridge said this, he drew his arm within that of wilkinson, and the two men went chatting away. elbridge was fond of good wine, and always kept a few choice bottles on hand. wilkinson knew this; and, if he had looked narrowly into his heart on the present occasion, he would have discovered that the wine of his friend had for him a stronger attraction than his company. as the latter had anticipated, wine and cigars were produced immediately on their arrival at the house of elbridge; and in the exhilaration of the one and the fumes of the other, he soon forgot his lonely, troubled wife and sick child at home. a friend or two dropped in, in the course of half an hour; and then a second bottle of wine was uncorked, and glasses refilled with its sparkling contents. the head of wilkinson was not very strong. a single glass of wine generally excited him, and two or three proved, always, more than he could bear. it was so on this occasion; and when, at eleven o'clock, he passed forth from the house of his friend, it was only by an effort that he could walk steadily. the cool night air, as it breathed upon his heated brow, partially sobered him, and his thoughts turned towards his home. a sigh and the act of striking his hand upon his forehead marked the effect of this transition of thought. "poor mary! i didn't mean to stay away so late. i meant to return in half an hour," he muttered, half aloud. "but this is always the way. i'm afraid i've taken too much of elbridge's wine; a little affects me. i wonder if mary will notice it; i wouldn't have her to do so for the world. poor child! it would frighten her to death. i rather think i'd better try to walk off the effects of what i've been drinking. it's late, any how, and fifteen or twenty minutes will make but little difference either way." as wilkinson said this, he turned down a cross street which he happened to be passing at the moment, and moved along with a quicker pace. gradually the confusion of his thoughts subsided. "i wish i had remained at home," he sighed, as the image of his wife arose distinctly in his mind. "poor mary! i broke my word with her, though i promised so faithfully. oh, dear! this weakness on my part is terrible. why was i so anxious to see elbridge? there was no real engagement, and yet i told mary there was. i would not have her know of this deception for the world. i forgot about dear little ella's being so sick; what if we should lose that little angel? oh! i could not bear it!" wilkinson stopped suddenly as this thought flashed over his mind. he was soberer by far than when he left the house of mr. elbridge. "i'll go home at once." he turned and began quickly retracing his steps. and now he remembered the moving shadow on the wall, as he stood, nearly three hours before, in front of his house, debating with himself whether to enter or no. he heard too, in imagination, the plaintive cries of his sick child, and the soothing melody of its mother's voice as she sought to hush into sleep its unquiet spirit. chapter ii. wilkinson was nearly in front of his own door, when he was thus familiarly accosted by a man named ellis, who came leisurely walking along with a lighted cigar in his mouth. "hallo! is this you, wilkinson? what in the name of wonder are you doing out at such an hour?" "and suppose i were to ask you the same question?" inquired wilkinson, as he took the hand of the other, who was an old acquaintance. "it would be easily answered," was the unhesitating reply of ellis, who had been drinking rather freely. "well, suppose i have the benefit of your answer." "you're quite welcome. i keep no secrets from an old friend, you see. can't you guess?" "i'm not good at guessing." "had a little tiff with cara," said ellis in a half whisper, as he bent to the ear of his companion. "oh, no!" returned wilkinson. "fact. cara's a dear, good soul, as you know; but she's a self-willed little jade, and if i don't do just as she wants me to--if i don't walk her chalk line--_presto!_ she goes off like a rocket. to-night, d'ye see, i came home with the first volume of prescott's new work on mexico--a perfect romance of a book, and wanted to read it aloud to cara. but no, she had something else in her head, and told me, up and down, that she didn't want to hear any of my dull old histories. i got mad, of course; i always get mad when she comes athwart my hawes in this way. "'dull old histories!' said i, indignantly. 'there's more true life and real interest in this book than in all the wandering jews or laura matilda novels that ever were written; and i wish you'd throw such miserable trash into the fire, and read books from which to get some intelligence and strength of mind.' whew! the way she combed my hair for me at this was curious. i am a philosopher, and on these occasions generally repeat to myself the wise saw-- 'he that fights and runs away, may live to fight another day.' so, deeming discretion the better part of valour, i retreated in disorder." "that's bad," remarked wilkinson, who knew something of the character of his friend's wife. "i know it's bad; but, then, i can't help myself. cara has such a queer temper, i never know how to take her." "you ought to understand her peculiarities by this time, and bear with them." "bear with them! i'd like to see you have the trial for a while; your wife is an angel. ah, john! you're a lucky dog. if i had such a sweet-tempered woman in my house, i would think it a very paradise." "hush! hush! harry; don't speak in that way. few women possess so many good qualities as mrs. ellis; and it is your duty to cherish and love the good, and to bear with the rest." "well preached; but, as i am to apply the discourse, and not you, i must beg to be excused." "good-night. go home, kiss cara, and forgive her," said wilkinson; and he made a motion to pass on, adding, as he did so, "i'm out much later than usual, and am in a hurry to get back. mary will be uneasy about me." but ellis caught hold of one of his arms with both hands, and held on to him. "can't let you go, wilkinson" said he, firmly. "you're the man of all others i want to see--been thinking about you all the evening; want to have a long talk with you." "any other time, but not now," replied wilkinson. "now, and no other time," persisted the other, clinging fast to his arm. "what do you wish to talk about?" said wilkinson, ceasing his effort to release himself from the firm grip of his friend. "about cara," was answered. "go home and make it up with her; that's the best way. she loves you, and you love her; and your love will settle all differences. and besides, harry, you shouldn't talk about these things to other people. the relation between man and wife is too sacred for this." "do you think i talk in this way to everybody? no, indeed!" responded ellis, in a half-offended tone of voice. "but you're a particular friend. you know cara's peculiar temper, and can advise with me as a friend. so come along, i want to have a talk with you." "come where?" ellis turned and pointed to a brilliant gas lamp in the next square, that stood in front of a much frequented tavern. "no, no; i must go home." and wilkinson tried to extricate himself from the firm grasp of his friend. but the latter tightened his hold, as he said-- "it's of no use. i shall not let you go. so come along with me to parker's. over a couple of brandy toddies we will discuss this matter of cara's." a vigorous jerk from the hand of ellis gave the body of wilkinson a motion in the direction of the tavern. had his mind been perfectly clear--had none of the effects of his wine-drinking at elbridge's remained, he would have resisted to the end this solicitation, at the hour and under the circumstances. but his mind was not perfectly clear. and so, a few steps being taken by compulsion, he moved on by a sort of constrained volition. as mentioned above, wilkinson had nearly reached his own door when he encountered ellis; was, in fact, so near, that he could see the light shining from the chamber-window through which, some hours before, he had marked on the wall the flitting shadow of his wife, as she walked to and fro, seeking to soothe into slumber her sick and grieving child. for nearly five minutes, he had stood talking with his friend, and the sound of their voices might easily have been heard in his dwelling, if one had been listening intently there. and one was listening with every sense strung to the acutest perception. just as wilkinson moved away, an observer would have seen the door of his house open, and a slender female form bend forth, and look earnestly into the darkness. a moment or two, she stood thus, and then stepped forth quickly, and leaning upon the iron railing of the door steps, fixed eagerly her eyes upon the slowly receding forms of the two men. "john! john!" she called, in half suppressed tones. but her voice did not reach the ear of her husband, whose form she well knew, even in the obscurity of night. gliding down the steps, mrs. wilkinson ran a few paces along the pavement, but suddenly stopped as some thought passed through her mind; and, turning, went back to the door she had left. there she stood gazing after her husband, until she saw him enter the tavern mentioned as being kept by a man named parker, when, with a heavy, fluttering sigh, she passed into the house, and ascended to the chamber from which she had, a few minutes before, come down. it was past eleven o'clock. the two domestics had retired, and mrs. wilkinson was alone with her sick child. ella's moan of suffering came on her ear the instant she re-entered the room, and she stepped quickly to the crib, and bent over to look into its face. the cheeks of the child were flushed with fever to a bright crimson, and she was moving her head from side to side, and working her lips as if there was something in her mouth. slight twitching motions of the arms and hands were also noticed by the mother. her eyes were partly open. "will ella have a drink of water?" said mrs. wilkinson, placing her hand under the child's head, and slightly raising it from the pillow. but ella did not seem to hear. "say--love, will you have some water?" there was no sign that her words reached the child's ears. a deeper shade of trouble than that which already rested on the mother's face glanced over it. "ella! ella!" mrs. wilkinson slightly shook the child. the only response was the muttering of some incoherent words, and a continued moaning as if pain were disturbing her sleep. the mother now bent low over her child, and eagerly marked the expression of her face and the character of her breathing. then she laid a hand upon her cheek. instantly it was withdrawn with a quick start, but as quickly replaced again. "what a burning fever!" she murmured. then she added, in a tone of anxiety, "how strangely she works her mouth! i don't like this constant rolling of her head. what can it mean? ella! ella!" and she shook the child again. "want some water, love?" the mother's voice did not appear to reach the locked sense of hearing. mrs. wilkinson now lifted a glass of water from the bureau near by, and raising the head of ella with one hand, applied, with the other, the water to her lips. about a table-spoonful was poured into her mouth. it was not swallowed, but ran out upon the pillow. "mercy! mercy! what can ail the child!" exclaimed mrs. wilkinson, a look of fear coming into her face. a little while she stood over her, and then leaving her place beside the crib, she hurried out into the passage, and, pausing at the bottom of the stairs leading to the room above, called several times-- "anna! anna! anna!" but no answer came. the domestic thus summoned had fallen into her first sound sleep, and the voice did not penetrate her ears. "anna!" once more called mrs. wilkinson. there was no response, but the reverberation of her own voice returned upon the oppressive silence. she now hurried back to her sick child, whose low, troubled moaning had not been hushed for a moment. there was no apparent change. ella lay with her half-opened eyes, showing, by the white line, that the balls were turned up unnaturally; with her crimsoned cheeks, and with the nervous motions of her lips and slight twitchings of her hands, at first noticed with anxiety and alarm. mrs. wilkinson was but little familiar with sickness in children; and knew not the signs of real danger--or, rather, what unusual signs such as those now apparent in ella really indicated. but she was sufficiently alarmed, and stood over the child, with her eyes fixed eagerly upon her. again she tried to arouse her from so strange and unnatural a state, but with as little effect as at first. "oh, my husband!" she at length exclaimed, clasping her hands together, and glancing upward, with tearful eyes, "why are you away from me now? oh, why did you break your promise to return hours and hours ago?" then covering her face with her hands, she sobbed and wept, until, startled by a sharp, unnatural cry from the lips of ella, her attention was once more fixed upon her suffering child. chapter iii. "now, what will you take?" said henry ellis, as he entered, with the weak and yielding wilkinson, the bar-room of parker's tavern. "any thing you choose to call for," replied wilkinson, whose mind was turning homeward, and who wished to be there. "in fact, i don't really want any thing. call for two glasses of cold water. these will leave our heads clear." "water! ha! ha! that is a good one, bill"--and ellis spoke to the bar-tender--"mix us a couple of stiff brandy toddies." the bar-tender nodded and smiled his acceptance of the order, and the two men retired to a table that stood in a remote part of the room, at which they were soon served with the liquor. "bill mixes the best brandy toddy i ever tasted. he knows his business," said ellis, as he put the glass to his lips. "isn't it fine?" "it is very good," replied wilkinson, as he sipped the tempting mixture. but his thoughts were turning homeward, and he scarcely perceived the taste of what he drank. suddenly, he pushed the glass from him, and, making a motion to rise from the table, said-- "indeed, ellis, i must go home. my child is sick, and mary will be distressed at my absence. come around to my store, to-morrow, and we will talk this matter over. neither you nor i are now in a fit state to discuss so grave a matter. "sit down, will you!" this was the reply of ellis, as he caught quickly the arm of his friend, and almost forced him, by main strength, to resume his seat. "there, now," he added, as wilkinson resumed his seat. "never put off until to-morrow what can as well be done to-day. that is my motto. i want to talk with you about cara, and no time is so good as the present." "well, well," returned wilkinson, impatiently. "what do you want to say? speak quickly, and to the point." "just what i'm going to do. but, first, i must see the bottom of my tumbler. there, now; come, you must do the same. drink to good old times, and eternal friendship--drink, my fast and faithful friend!" the warmth of the room and the quick effects of a strong glass of brandy toddy were making rapid advances on ellis's partial state of inebriety. wilkinson emptied his glass, and then said-- "speak, now, i'm all attention." "well, you see, jack," and ellis leaned over towards wilkinson familiarly, and rested his arm upon his knee. "you see, jack, that huzzy of mine--if i must call the dear girl by such a name--is leading me the deuce of a life. confound her pretty face! i love her, and would do almost any thing to please her; but she won't be pleased at any thing. she combs my head for me as regularly as the day comes." "hush--hush! don't talk so of cara. her temper may be a little uncertain, but that is her weakness. she is your wife, and you must bear with these things. it isn't manly in you to be vexed at every trifle." "trifle! humph! i'd like you to have a week of my experience. you wouldn't talk any more about trifles." "you should humour her a great deal, harry. i am not so sure that you are not quite as much to blame for these differences and fallings out as she is." "i wasn't to blame to-night, i am sure. didn't i bring home prescott, thinking that she would be delighted to have me sit the evening with her and read so charming an author? but, at the very proposition, she flared up, and said she didn't want to hear my musty old histories. humph! a nice way to make a man love his home. better for her and me, too, i'm thinking, that she had listened to the history, and kept her husband by her side." "and for me, too," thought wilkinson. "i should now, at least, be at home with my loving-hearted wife. ah, me!" "now, what am i to do, jack--say? give me your advice." "the first thing for you to do is to go home, and to go at once. come!" and wilkinson made another effort to rise; but the hand of ellis bore him down. "stay, stay!" he muttered, impatiently. "now don't be in such a confounded hurry. can't you talk with an old friend for a minute or so? look here, i've been thinking--let me see--what was i going to say?" the mind of ellis was growing more and more confused; nor was the head of wilkinson so clear as when he entered the bar-room. the strong glass of brandy toddy was doing its work on both of them. "let me see," went on ellis, in a wandering way. "i was speaking of cara--oh, yes, of cara. bless her heart, but confound her crooked temper! now, what would you advise me to do, my old friend?" "go home, i have said," replied wilkinson. "and get my head combed with a three-legged stool? no, blast me if i do! i've stayed out this long just to make her sensible of her unkindness to one of the best of husbands--and i'm not going home until i am dead drunk. i guess that'll bring her to her bearings. ha! don't you think so, jack?" "good heavens!" was just at this instant exclaimed by one of the inmates of the bar-room, in a low, startled tone of voice. "your wife, as i live!" fell from the lips of ellis, whose face was turned towards the entrance of the bar-room. wilkinson sprang to his feet. just within the door stood a female form, her head uncovered, her under person clad in a white wrapper, and her face colourless as the dress she wore. there was a wild, frightened look in her staring eyes. "is mr. wilkinson here?" she asked, just as her husband's eyes rested upon her, and her thrilling voice reached his ears. with a bound, wilkinson was at her side. "oh, john! john!" she cried, in a voice of anguish. "come home! come quick! our dear little ella is dying!" an instant more, and, to the inmates of the bar-room, the curtain fell upon that startling scene; for wilkinson and his wife vanished almost as suddenly as if they had sunk together through the floor. chapter iv. during the day on which our story opened, henry ellis had obtained from a friend the first volume of prescott's history of mexico, then just from the press. an hour's perusal of its fascinating pages awakened in his mind a deep interest. "just the book to read to cara," said he to himself, closing the volume, and laying it aside. "she's too much taken up with mere fiction. but here is that truth which is stranger than fiction; and i am sure she will soon get absorbed in the narrative." with his new book, and this pleasant thought in his mind, ellis took his way homeward, after the business of the day was over. as he walked along, a friend overtook him, and said, familiarly, as he touched him on the shoulder, "i'm glad to overhaul you so opportunely. half a dozen times, to-day, i have been on the eve of running round to see you, but as often was prevented. all in good time yet, i hope. i want you to come over to my room, this evening. there are to be three or four of our friends there, and some good eating and drinking into the bargain." "a temptation certainly," replied ellis. "no man likes good company better than i do; but, i rather think i must forego the pleasure this time." "why do you say that?" "i've promised myself another pleasure." "another engagement?" "not exactly that. barker has loaned me the first volume of prescott's mexico; and i'm going to spend the evening in reading it to my wife." "any other evening will do as well for that," returned the friend. "so promise me to come around. i can't do without you." "sorry to disappoint you," said ellis, firmly. "but, when i once get my mind fixed on a thing, i am hard to change." "perhaps your wife may have some engagement on hand, for the evening, or be disinclined for reading. what then?" "you will see me at your room," was the prompt answer of ellis; and the words were uttered with more feeling than he had intended to exhibit. the very question brought unpleasant images before his mind. "i shall look for you," said the friend, whose name was jerome. "good evening!" "good evening! say to your friends, if i should not be there, that i am in better company." the two men parted, and ellis kept on his way homeward. not until the suggestion of jerome that his wife might be disinclined to hear him read, did a remembrance of cara's uncertain temper throw a shade across his feelings. he sighed as he moved onward. "i wish she were kinder and more considerate," he said to himself. "i know that i don't always do right; yet, i am not by any means so bad as she sometimes makes me out. to any thing reasonable, i am always ready to yield. but when she frowns if i light a cigar; and calls me a tippler whenever she detects the smell of brandy and water, i grow angry and stubborn. ah, me!" ellis sighed heavily. a little way he walked on, and then began communing with himself. "i don't know"--he went on--"but, may be, i do take a little too much sometimes. i rather think i must have been drinking too freely when i came home last week: by the way cara talked, and by the way she acted for two or three days afterwards. there may be danger. perhaps there is. my head isn't very strong; and it doesn't take much to affect me. i wish cara wouldn't speak to me as she does sometimes. i can't bear it. twice within the last month, she has fairly driven me off to spend my evening in a tavern, when i would much rather have been at home. ah, me! it's a great mistake. and cara may find it out, some day, to her sorrow. i like a glass of brandy, now and then; but i'm not quite so far gone that i must have it whether or no. i'm foolish, i will own, to mind her little, pettish, fretful humours. i ought to be more of a man than i am. but, i didn't make myself, and can't help feeling annoyed, and sometimes angry, when she is unkind and unreasonable. going off to a tavern don't mend the matter, i'll admit; but, when i leave the house, alone, after nightfall, and in a bad humour, it is the most natural thing in the world for me to seek the pleasant company of some of my old friends--and i generally know where to find them." such was the state of mind in which ellis returned home. a word or two will give the reader a better idea of the relation which henry ellis and his wife bore to each other and society. they had been married about six years, and had three children, the oldest a boy, and the other two girls. ellis kept a retail dry-goods store, in a small way. his capital was limited, and his annual profits, therefore, but light. the consequence was, that, in all his domestic arrangements, the utmost frugality had to be observed. he was a man of strict probity, with some ambition to get ahead in the world. these made him careful and economical in his expenditures, both at home and in the management of his business. as a man, he was social in his feelings, but inclined to be domestic. while unmarried, he had lived rather a gay life, and formed a pretty large acquaintance among young men. his associations led him into the pretty free use of intoxicating drinks; but the thought of becoming a slave of a vicious appetite never once crossed his mind with its warning shadow. the first trial of henry ellis's married life was the imperative necessity that required him to lay a restraining hand upon his wife's disposition to spend money more freely than was justified by their circumstances. he had indulged her for the period of a whole year, and the result was so heavy a balance against his expense account, that he became anxious and troubled. there must be a change, or his business would be crippled, and ultimate ruin follow. as gently as he could, ellis brought the attention of his wife to this matter. but, she could not comprehend, to its full extent, the point he urged. it then became necessary for ellis to hold the purse-strings more tightly than he had formerly done. this fretted the mind of his wife, and often led her, in the warmth of the moment of disappointment, to utter unkind expressions. these hurt ellis; and, sometimes, made him angry. the cloud upon cara's brow, consequent upon these occasional misunderstandings, was generally so unpleasant to ellis, whose heart was ever wooing the sunshine, let the rays come through almost any medium, that he would spend his evenings abroad. temptation, as a natural consequence, was in his way. his convivial character made him seek the company of those who do not always walk the safest paths. how anxious should be the wife of such a husband to keep him at home; how light the task would have been for cara. alas! that she was so selfish, so self-willed--so blind! the scene that occurred on the evening of ellis's return home with the book he wished to read for his wife, will give a fair view of mrs. ellis's manner of reacting upon her husband; and his mode of treating her on such occasions. it has been seen in what state of feeling the husband returned home. remembrances of the past brought some natural misgivings to his mind. his face, therefore, wore rather a more subdued expression than usual. still, he was in a tolerably cheerful frame of mind--in fact, he was never moody. to his great relief, cara met him with a smile, and seemed to be in an unusually good humour. their sweet babe was lying asleep on her lap; and his other two children were playing about the room. instantly the sunshine fell warmly again on the heart of ellis. he kissed mother and children fervently, and with a deep sense of love. "i called to see the bride this afternoon," said mrs. ellis, soon after her husband came in. "ah, did you?" he answered. "at her new home?" "yes." "she is well and happy, of course?" "oh, yes; happy as the day is long. how could she help being so in such a little paradise?" "love makes every spot a paradise," said ellis. "beg your pardon," replied the wife, with some change in her tone of voice. "i'm no believer in that doctrine. i want something more than love. external things are of account in the matter; and of very considerable account." "they have every thing very handsome, of course," said ellis; who was generally wise enough not to enter into a discussion with his wife on subjects of this kind. "oh, perfect!" replied his wife, "perfect! i never saw a house furnished with so much taste. i declare it has put me half out of conceit with things at home. oh, dear! how common every thing did look when i returned." "you must remember that our furniture has been in use for about six years," said ellis; "and, moreover, that it was less costly than your friend's, in the beginning. her husband and your's are in different circumstances." "i know all about that," was returned, with a toss of the head. "i know that we are dreadfully poor, and can hardly get bread for our children." "we are certainly not able to furnish as handsomely as mr. and mrs. beaumont. there is no denying that, cara. still, we are able to have every real comfort of life; and therewith let us try to be content. to desire what we cannot possess, will only make us unhappy." "you needn't preach to me," retorted mrs. ellis, her face slightly flushing. "when i want to hear a sermon, i'll go to church." mr. ellis made no answer, but, lifting his babe from its mother's lap, commenced tossing it in the air and singing a pleasant nursery ditty. caroline sat in a moody state of mind for some minutes, and then left the room to give some directions about tea. on her return, ellis said, in as cheerful a voice as if no unpleasant incident had transpired, "oh! i had forgotten to say, cara, that mr. hemming and his wife have returned from boston. they will be around to see us some evening this week." "hum-m--well." this was the cold, moody response of mrs. ellis. "mr. hemming says that his wife's health is much better than it was." "does he?" very coldly uttered. "he seemed very cheerful." mrs. ellis made no comment upon this remark of her husband, and the latter said nothing more. tea was soon announced, and the husband and wife went, with their two oldest children, to partake of their evening meal. a cloud still hung over caroline's features. try as ellis would to feel indifferent to his wife's unhappy state of mind, his sensitiveness to the fact became more and more painful every moment. the interest at first felt in his children, gradually died away, and, by the time supper was over, he was in a moody and fretted state, yet had he manfully striven to keep his mind evenly balanced. on returning to the sitting-room, the sight of the book he had brought home caused ellis to make a strong effort to regain his self-possession. he had set his heart on reading that book to cara, because he was sure she would get interested therein; and he hoped, by introducing this better class of reading, to awaken a healthier appetite for mental food than she now possessed. so he occupied himself with a newspaper, while his wife undressed the children and put them to bed. it seemed to him a long time before she was ready to sit down with her sewing at the table, upon which the soft, pleasant light of their shaded lamp was falling. at last she came, with her small work-basket in her mind. topmost of all its contents was a french novel. when ellis saw this, there came doubts and misgivings across his heart. "cara," said he quickly, and in a tone of forced cheerfulness, taking up, at the same time, his volume of prescott,--"i brought this book home on purpose to read aloud. i dipped into it, to-day, and found it so exceedingly interesting, that i deferred the pleasure of its perusal until i could share it with you." now, under all the circumstances, it cost ellis considerable effort to appear cheerful and interested, while saying this. "what book is it?" returned cara, in a chilling tone, while her eyes were fixed upon her husband's face, with any thing but a look of love. "the first volume of prescott's history of mexico, one of the most charming"-- "pho! i don't want to hear your dull old histories!" said cara, with a contemptuous toss of the head. "dull old histories!" retorted ellis, whose patience was now gone. "dull old histories! you don't know what you are talking about. there's more real interest in this book than in all the french novels that ever were invented to turn silly women's heads." of course, mrs. ellis "fired up" at this. she was just at the right point of ignition to blaze out at a single breath of reproof. we will not repeat the cutting language she used to her husband. enough, that, in the midst of the storm that followed, ellis started up, and bowing, with mock ceremony, said-- "i wish you good evening, madam. and may i see you in a better humour when we meet again." a moment afterwards, and caroline was alone with her own perturbed feelings and unpleasant, self-rebuking thoughts. still, she could not help muttering, as a kind of justification of her own conduct-- "a perfect hotspur! it's rather hard that a woman can't speak to her husband, but he must fling himself off in this way. why didn't he read his history, if it was so very interesting, and let me alone. i don't care about such things, and he knows it." after this, mrs. ellis fell into a state of deep and gloomy abstraction of mind. many images of the past came up to view, and, among them, some that it was by no means pleasant to look upon. this was not the first time that her husband had gone off in a pet; but in no instance had he come home with a mind as clear as when he left her. a deep sigh heaved the wife's bosom as she remembered this; and, for some moments, she suffered from keen self-reproaches. but, an accusing spirit quickly obliterated this impression. in her heart she wrote many bitter things against her husband, and magnified habits and peculiarities into serious faults. poor, unhappy wife! how little did she comprehend the fact that her husband's feet were near the brink of a precipice, and that a fearful abyss of ruin was below; else would she have drawn him lovingly back, instead of driving him onward to destruction. chapter v. ellis, excited and angry, not only left his wife's presence, but the house. repulsed by one pole, he felt the quick attraction of another. not a moment did he hesitate, on gaining the street, but turned his steps toward the room of jerome, where a party of gay young men were to assemble for purposes of conviviality. we will not follow him thither, nor describe the manner of his reception. we will not picture the scene of revelry, nor record the coarse jests that some of the less thoughtful of the company ventured to make on the appearance of ellis in their midst--for, to most of his friends, it was no secret that his wife's uncertain temper often caused him to leave his home in search of more congenial companionship. enough, that at eleven o'clock, ellis left the house of jerome, much excited by drink. the pure, cool night air, as it bathed the heated temples of henry ellis, so far sobered him by the time he reached his own door, that a distant remembrance of what had occurred early in the evening was present to his thoughts; and, still beyond this, a remembrance of how he had been received on returning at a late hour in times gone by. his hand was in his pocket, in search of his dead-latch key, when he suddenly retreated from the door, muttering to himself-- "i'm not going to stand a curtain lecture! there now! i'll wait until she's asleep." saying which, he drew a cigar and match-box from his pocket, and lighting the former, placed it between his lips, and moved leisurely down the street. the meeting with wilkinson has already been described. scarcely less startled was ellis at the sudden apparition of mrs. wilkinson than her husband had been. he remained only a few moments after they retired. then he turned his steps again homeward, with a clearer head and heavier heart than when he refused to enter, in fear of what he called a "curtain lecture." many painful thoughts flitted through his mind as he moved along with a quick pace. "i wish cara understood me better, or that i had more patience with her," he said to himself. "this getting angry with her, and going off to drinking parties and taverns is a bad remedy for the evil, i will confess. it is wrong in me, i know. very wrong. but i can't bear to be snapped, and snubbed up, and lectured in season and out of season. i'm only flesh and blood. oh dear! i'm afraid evil will come of it in the end. poor wilkinson! what a shock the appearance of his wife must have given him! it set every nerve in my body to quivering. and it was all my fault that he wasn't at home with his watching wife and sick child. ah me! how one wrong follows another!" ellis had reached his own door. taking out his night-key, he applied it to the latch; but the door did not open. it had been locked. "locked out, ha!" he ejaculated quickly; and with a feeling of anger. his hand was instantly on the bell-pull, and he jerked it three or four times vigorously; the loud and continued ringing of the bell sounding in his ears where he stood on the doorstep without. a little while he waited, and then the ringing was renewed, and with a more prolonged violence than at first. then he listened, bending his ear close to the door. but he could detect no movement in the house. "confound it!" came sharp and impatiently from his lips. "if i thought this was designed, i'd--" he checked himself, for just at that instant he saw a faint glimmer of light through the glass over the door. then he perceived the distant shuffle of feet along the passage floor. there was a fumbling at the key and bolts, and then the half-asleep and half-awake servant admitted him. "i didn't know you was out, sir," said the servant, "or i wouldn't have locked the door when i went to bed." ellis made no reply, but entered and ascended to his chamber. cara was in bed and asleep, or apparently so. her husband did not fail to observe a certain unsteady motion of the lashes that lay over her closed eyes; and he was not far wrong in his impression that she was awake, and had heard his repeated ringing for admission. his belief that such was the case did not lessen the angry feelings produced by the fact of having the key of his own door turned upon him. but slumber soon locked his senses into oblivion, and he did not awake until the sun was an hour above the horizon. the moment mrs. wilkinson emerged, with her husband, from the bar-room of parker's tavern, she fled along the street like a swift gliding spirit, far outstripping in speed her thoroughly sobered and alarmed husband, who hurried after her with rapid steps. the door of the house had been left open when she came forth in the anguish of her wild alarm to summon her husband, and she re-entered and flew up-stairs without the pause of an instant. wilkinson was but a moment or two later in reaching the house, and in gaining their chamber. the sight that met his eyes sent the blood coldly to his heart. the mother had already snatched the child from the crib in which she had left her, and was standing with her close to the lamp, the light from which fell strongly upon her infantile face, that was fearfully distorted. the eyes were open and rolled up, until the entire pupil was hidden. the lips were white with their firm compression; and yet they had a quick nervous motion. "oh, john! john! what is the matter?" cried mrs. wilkinson, as she looked first upon the face of her child, and then into that of her husband, with a most anxious and imploring glance. "is she dying?" "no, dear, i think not," returned wilkinson, with a composure of voice that belied the agitation of his feelings. "oh! what is the matter? yes! yes! i'm sure she's dying. oh! run quick! quick! for the doctor." "first," said wilkinson, who was becoming, every moment, more self-possessed, and who now saw that the child, who was teething, had been thrown into spasms, "let us do what we can for her. she is in convulsions, and we must get her into a bath of hot water as quickly as possible. i will call up anna. don't be alarmed," he added, in a soothing voice: "there is no immediate danger." "are you sure, john? are you sure? oh! i'm afraid she is dying! my precious, precious babe!" and the mother clasped her child passionately to her bosom. in the course of ten or fifteen minutes, a vessel of hot water was ready, and into this the still writhing form of the convulsed child was placed. then wilkinson hurried off for their physician. half an hour afterwards he returned with him. the good effects of the hot-bath were already perceptible. the face of the child had resumed its placid sweetness of expression, and there was but slight convulsive twitching in the limbs. the doctor remained with them, applying, from time to time, appropriate remedies, until all the painful signs which occasioned so much alarm had vanished, and then left, promising to call early on the next morning. it was past one o'clock. the physician had left, and the domestics retired to their own apartment. mr. and mrs. wilkinson were alone with their still unconscious child, that lay in a deep, unnatural slumber. they were standing, side by side, and bending over the bed on which little ella lay. wilkinson had drawn his arm around his wife, and she had laid her head upon his shoulder. each heard the beating of the other's heart, as thus they stood, silent, yet with troubled thoughts and oppressed feelings. a tear fell upon the hand of wilkinson, and the warm touch, coming as it did in that moment of intense excitement, caused a quick thrill to pass through his nerves; and he started involuntarily. words of confession and promises for the future were on his tongue; but, their utterance, just at that moment, seemed untimely, and he merely answered the mute appeal of tears with a fervent, heart-warm kiss, that, if the power of his will could have gone with it, would have filled the heart of his wife with joy unspeakable. scarcely had his lips touched hers, ere she started up, and flung her arms around his neck, sobbing-- "oh, my husband! my husband!" if she had designed to say more, utterance failed, or was checked; for she hid her face on his bosom, and wept like a heart-broken child. how sincere was wilkinson's repentance for past errors in that solemn hour! and how fervent was the promise of future amendment! "i were worse than an evil spirit, to lay grief upon that gentle heart, or to make of those loving eyes a fountain of tears!" such was the mental ejaculation of wilkinson, and he meant all that he said. "god bless you, dearest!" he murmured in her ear.--"god bless you, and take this shadow quickly from your heart! believe me, mary, that no act of mine will ever dim its bright surface again." mrs. wilkinson slowly raised her pale, tear-moistened face, and fixed, for a few moments, her eyes in those of her husband's. there was more of confidence and hope in them than pages of written language could express. then her face was again hid on his bosom; while his arm clasped her slender form with a more earnest pressure. chapter vi. morning found little ella, though much exhausted by the severe struggle through which she had passed, so far restored that her parents ceased to feel that anxiety with which for hours, as they hung over her, their hearts had been painfully oppressed. it could not but be that a shadow would rest on the gentle face of mrs. wilkinson, as she met her husband at the breakfast table; for it was impossible to obliterate the memory of such a night of trial and alarm as the one through which she had just passed. and yet, with a strong effort, she strove to appear cheerful, and when she spoke to her husband, it was with a forced smile and a tone of tenderness that touched and subdued his feelings; for he well understood that, in a certain sense, she was merely acting. but few words passed between them during the brief morning meal. as the hour was later than usual, wilkinson found it necessary to hurry off to his place of business; so, rising before his wife left the table, he kissed her pale lips, and, without venturing to make a remark, left the room. the door had scarcely closed upon him, ere a tear stole out from the sad eyes of mrs. wilkinson. a few moments she sat in statue-like stillness, then there was a quick glancing of her eye upwards, while the motion of her lips showed that she asked strength for herself, or protection for one whom she loved better than herself. it was a regular custom with wilkinson to stop at a drinking-house on his way to his store, and get a glass of brandy. this was an afternoon as well as a morning custom, which had been continued so long that it was now a habit. yet he was not aware of this fact, and, if he had thought about the custom, would have regarded it as one easily abandoned. he had a glimpse of his error on the present occasion. to do a thing by habit is to do it without reflection; and herein lies the dangerous power of habit; for, when we act from confirmed habit, it is without thought as to the good or evil to result from our action. thus had wilkinson been acting for months as regards his regular glass of brandy in the morning and afternoon, while passing from his dwelling to his store. not until now was he in the least conscious that habit was gaining an undue power over him. as the eyes of wilkinson rested upon the form of a certain elegant coloured glass lamp standing in front of a well-known drinking-house, he was conscious of a desire for his accustomed draught of brandy and water; but, at the same instant, there came a remembrance of the painful occurrences of the evening previous, and he said to himself--"one such lesson ought to make me hate brandy, and every thing else that can rob me of a true regard for the happiness of mary." yet, even as he said this, habit, disturbed in the stronghold of its power, aroused itself, and furnished him with an argument that instantly broke down his forming resolution. this argument was his loss of rest, the consequent debility arising therefrom, and the actual need of his system for something stimulating, in order to enable him to enter properly upon the business of the day. so habit triumphed. wilkinson, without even pausing at the door, entered the drinking-house and obtained his accustomed glass of brandy. "i feel a hundred per cent. better," said he, as he emerged from the bar-room and took his way to his store. "that was just what my system wanted." yet, if he felt, for a little while, better as regarded his bodily sensations, the act did not leave him more comfortable in mind. his instinctive consciousness of having done wrong in yielding to the desire for brandy, troubled him. "i shall have to break up this habit entirely," he remarked to himself during the morning, as his thought returned, again and again, to the subject. "i don't believe i'm in any particular danger; but, then, it troubles mary; and i can't bear to see her troubled." while he thus communed with himself, his friend ellis dropped in. "i meant to have called earlier," said ellis, "to ask about your sick child, but was prevented by a customer. she is better, i hope?" "oh, yes, much better, thank you." "what was the matter?" inquired ellis. "she is teething, and was thrown into convulsions." "ah! yes. well, i never was so startled in my life as by the appearance of mrs. wilkinson. and the child is better?" "when i came away this morning, i left her sleeping calmly and sweetly; and, what is more, the points of two teeth had made their way through the red and swollen gums." "all right, then. but how is mary?" "not very well, of course. how could she be, after such a night of anxiety and alarm? the fact is, harry, i was to blame for having left her alone during the evening, knowing, as i did, that ella was not very well." ellis shrugged his shoulders, as he replied--"not much excuse for you, i must admit. i only wish the attraction at my home was as strong as it is at yours: parker's would not see me often. as for you, my old friend, if i speak what i think, i must say that your inclination to go out in the evening needs correcting. i spend most of my evenings from home, because home is made unpleasant; you leave your wife, because a love of conviviality and gay company entices you away. such company i know to be dangerous, and especially so for you. there now, as a friend, i have talked out plainly. what do you think of it? ain't i right?" "i don't know," replied wilkinson, musingly. "perhaps you are. i have thought as much, sometimes, myself." "i know i'm right," said ellis, positively. "so take a friend's advice, and never go out after sundown, except in company with your wife." there was a change from gravity to mock seriousness in the voice of ellis as he closed this sentence. wilkinson compressed his lips and shook his head. "can't always be tied to my wife's apron-string. oh, no! haven't come to that." "with such a wife, and your temperament, it is the best place for you," said ellis, laughing. "may be it is; but, for all that, i like good company too well to spend all my time with her." "isn't she good company?" "oh, yes; but, then, variety is the very spice of life, you know." "true enough. well, we'll not quarrel about the matter. come! let's go and take a drink; i'm as dry as a fish." "i don't care if i do," was the instinctive reply of wilkinson, who took up his hat as he spoke. the two men left the store, and were, a little while after, taking a lunch at a public house, and chatting over their brandy and water. at the usual dinner hour, wilkinson returned home. he did not fully understand the expression of his wife's face, as she looked at him on his entrance: it was a look of anxious inquiry. she sat with ella upon her lap: the child was sleeping. "how is our little pet?" he asked, as he bent over, first kissing his wife, and then touching his lips lightly to the babe's forehead. "she's been in a heavy sleep for most of the time since morning," replied mrs. wilkinson, turning her face aside, so that her husband could not see its changed expression. mr. wilkinson's habitual use of brandy had long been a source of trouble to his wife. in reviewing the painful incidents of the previous evening, a hope had sprung up in her heart that the effect would be to awaken his mind to a sense of his danger, cause him to reflect, and lead to a change of habit. alas! how like a fairy frost-work fabric melted this hope away, as the strong breath of her husband fell upon her face. she turned away and sighed--sighed in her spirit, but not audibly; for, even in her pain and disappointment, active love prompted to concealment, lest the shadow that came over her should repel the one she so earnestly sought to win from his path of danger. ah, who can tell the effort it cost that true-hearted wife to call up the smile with which, scarcely a moment afterwards, she looked into her husband's face! "it is no worse, if no better," was her sustaining thought; and she leaned upon it, fragile reed as it was. chapter vii. "come home early, dear," said mrs. wilkinson, resting her hand upon her husband, and looking into his face with a loving smile. "the time seems so long when you are away!" "does it?" returned wilkinson, and he kissed his wife. yet, did not the tenderness of tone with which he spoke, nor the act of love which accompanied it, hide from the quick perception of mary the fact that her husband's thoughts were elsewhere. "oh, yes," she replied. "i count the hours when you are absent. you'll be home early to tea?" "certainly i will. there now, let your heart be at rest." and wilkinson retired. this was after dinner, on the day that succeeded the opening of our story. as in the morning, he found it the most natural thing in the world to call in at a certain drinking house and get his accustomed glass of brandy. as he entered the door of the bar-room, a man named carlton stepped forward to meet him, with extended hand. he was an old acquaintance, with whom wilkinson had often passed an agreeable hour,--one of your bar-room loungers, known as good fellows, who, while they exhibit no apparent means of support, generally have money to spend, and plenty of time on their hands. "glad to see you, wilkinson; 'pon my soul! where have you kept yourself for this month of sundays?" such was the familiar greeting of carlton. "and it does one's eyes good to look upon your pleasant face," returned wilkinson, as he grasped the other's hand. "where have you kept yourself?" "oh, i'm always on hand," said carlton, gayly. "it's you who are shut up, and hid away from the pure air and bright sunshine in a gloomy store, delving like a mole in the dark. the fact is, old fellow! you are killing yourself. turning gray, as i live!" and he touched, with his fingers, the locks of wilkinson, in which a few gray lines were visible. "bad! bad!" he went on, shaking his head. "and you are growing as thin as a lath. when did you ride out?" "oh, not for two months past. i've been too closely occupied with business." "business!" there was a slight air of contempt in carlton's voice and manner. "i hate to hear this everlasting cant, if i must so call it, about business; as if there were nothing else in the world to think or care about. men bury themselves between four brick walls, and toil from morning until night, like prison-slaves; and if you talk to them about an hour's recreation for body and mind, all you can get out of them is--'business! business!' pah! i'm out of all patience with it. life was made for enjoyment as well as toil. but come, what'll you drink? i've preached to you until i'm as dry as a chip." the two men stepped to the bar and drank. as they turned away, carlton drew his arm within that of wilkinson, saying, as he did so-- "as it is an age since i saw you, i must prolong the pleasure of this meeting. your work is done for the day, of course." "no, i can't just say that it is." "well, i can then. if you've been immuring yourself, as you have on your own confession, for some two months, or more, an afternoon with good company is indispensable. so, consider this a holiday, and think no more of bags, boxes, cash-book, or ledger. i bought a splendid trotter yesterday, and am going to try his speed. you are a first-rate judge of horse-flesh, and i want your opinion. so, consider yourself engaged for a flying trip to mount airy." "you are a tempter," said wilkinson, laughing. "oh, no. a friend, who will give health to your veins, and life to your spirit." "let me see," said wilkinson, now turning his thoughts upon his business--"if there isn't something special that requires my attention. yes," he added, after thinking for a few moments--"a customer promised to be in after dinner. he is from the country, and bought a good bill last season. you will have to excuse me, carlton. i'll go with you to-morrow." "indeed, and i shall do no such thing," was promptly answered. "let your customers call in the morning--always the best time for business. men don't buy in the afternoon." "my experience says differently." "a fig for your experience! no, no, my good friend. you're booked for a ride with me this very afternoon; so let your business and customers take care of themselves. health is better than dollars; and length of days than great possessions. there's wisdom in miniature for you. wouldn't i make a capital preacher, ha?" "but carlton"-- "but me no buts, my hearty!" and carlton slapped wilkinson on the shoulder as he spoke, in a familiar manner. "you're my prisoner for the rest of the day. do you understand that?" "you've bought a fast trotter, have you?" said wilkinson, after a brief but hurried self-communion, the end of which was a determination to take the afternoon for pleasure, and let his customer call in the morning. "i have; and the prettiest animal your eyes ever looked upon." "fleet as an arrow?" "ay; as the very wind. but you shall have a taste of his quality. so come along. time passes." the two men left the tavern, and went to the stable where carlton's new horse was kept. the animal was soon in harness. four hours afterwards, the last rays of the setting sun came through the windows of a room, in which were seated, at a table, carlton and wilkinson. liquor and glasses were on the table, and cards in the hands of the men. wilkinson appeared excited, but carlton was calm and self-possessed. the former had been drinking freely; but the latter exhibited not the smallest sign of inebriation. a single five-dollar bill lay beside wilkinson; a dozen bills and two gold coins were beside the other. they were playing for the last stake. nervously did wilkinson lay card after card upon the table, while, with the most perfect coolness, his adversary played his hand, a certainty of winning apparent in every motion. and he did win. "curse my luck!" exclaimed wilkinson, grinding his teeth together, as the last five-dollar bill he had with him passed into the hands of his very particular friend. there was more than "luck" against him, if he had but known it. "the fortune of war," smilingly replied the winner. "the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, you know. you played well--very well; never better within my knowledge. but, as you say, luck was against you. and, by the way, what a curious and uncertain thing this luck is! i've seen men lose at every turn of the card, until they had parted with thousands; and then, on a borrowed dollar, perhaps, start again, and not only get every thing back, but break their antagonists. this is an every-day occurrence, in fact." wilkinson had risen from the table, and was pacing the room in a fretful, impatient manner. suddenly he stopped. a light flashed over his face. then, sitting down, he snatched up a pen, and writing on a slip of paper--"due andrew carlton $ ," signed it with his name. carlton saw every letter and word as they left the pen, and ere the last flourish was made to the signature, had selected four five-dollar bills from the pile beside him. simultaneously with the motion of wilkinson's hand, in pushing to him this memorandum of debt, was the motion of his hand in furnishing the sum required. "not the man to be frightened at a little adverse fortune, i see," remarked the cunning tempter. "well, i do like a man who never can acknowledge himself beaten. the timid and easily discouraged are soon left far behind in the world's race--and they deserve to be." wilkinson did not reply. another deal was made, and again the two men bent over the table in their unequal contest. in less than half an hour, the money obtained from carlton had gone back to him. by this time twilight had fallen. "nearly eight o'clock, as i live!" muttered wilkinson. he had drawn forth his watch. "i had no idea of this. and we are ten miles from the city!" a thought of his anxiously waiting wife flitted across his mind. he remembered her last pleading injunction for him to come home early, and the promise he had given. alas! like so many more of his promises to her, made to be broken. "shall we return now; or order supper here?" said carlton, in his bland way. "i must go back immediately," replied wilkinson. "it is an hour later than i supposed. i was to have been home early this evening." "it is too late now to join your family at tea. they have given you out before this. so, i think we'd better order supper here. the moon is full, and it will be almost as clear as daylight; and much pleasanter riding, for the dew will keep down the dust. what say you?" the end was, wilkinson yielded. "not down in the mouth, because of this little run of ill-luck?" said carlton, in a bantering way, as he saw a cloud settling over the face of his victim. lights had been brought in, and the two men still remained seated by the table at which they had been playing, awaiting the preparation of supper. "i'm never down in the mouth," replied wilkinson, forcing a smile to his countenance. "better luck next time, has always been my motto." "and it will carry you safely through the world. try another glass of brandy." "no--i've taken enough already." "it isn't every man who knows when he has enough," returned the other. "i've often wished that i knew exactly the right gauge." and, as carlton spoke, he poured some brandy into a glass, and, adding a little water, affected to take a deep draught thereof; but, though the glass was held long to his mouth, only a small portion of the contents passed his lips. in replacing the tumbler on the table, he managed to give it a position behind the water-pitcher where the eye of wilkinson could not rest upon it. he need hardly have taken this trouble, for his companion was too much absorbed in his own thoughts to notice a matter like this. "they're a long time in getting supper," remarked carlton, in a well-affected tone of impatience. "what is the time now?" wilkinson drew forth his watch, and, after glancing upon the face, replied-- "ten minutes after eight." "we shall have it pretty soon now, i suppose. they don't understand the double quick time movement out here." as carlton said this, his eyes rested, with more than a mere passing interest, on the gold lever that wilkinson, instead of returning to his pocket, retained in one hand, while with the other he toyed with the key and chain in a half-abstracted manner. for the space of nearly a minute, neither of the men spoke, but the thought of each was at the same point. "that's a beautiful watch," at length carlton ventured to say. there was a well disguised indifference in his tones. "it ought to be," was the reply of wilkinson. "what did it cost you?" "one hundred and forty dollars." "is it a good time-keeper?" "first-rate. it hasn't varied a minute in six months." "just such a watch as i would like to own. i've had terrible bad luck with watches." this was a kind of feeler. no reply was made by wilkinson, although an offer to sell trembled on his tongue. he still kept the watch in his hand, and toyed with the key and chain, as before, in an absent manner. "could you be tempted to sell?" finally asked carlton. "i don't know. perhaps i might,"--said wilkinson. he drew his breath deeply as he spoke. "or, perhaps you would trade?" and carlton now produced his gold lever. "mine is a very good watch, though not so valuable as yours. it keeps fair time, however. i paid a hundred dollars for it three or four years ago." a mutual examination of watches took place. "well--what do you say to a trade?" the servant appeared at this juncture, and announced supper. the two watches were returned to their respective places of deposit, and the two men proceeded to the dining-room. here the traffic, just begun, was renewed and completed. the watches were exchanged, and wilkinson received sixty dollars "boot." "shall i order the horse brought out?" asked carlton, as they arose, about half an hour afterwards, from the supper-table. "yes; if you please." this was not said with much promptness of tone; a fact instantly noted by the ear of carlton. "well, i'm ready. come--let's have a drink before we go!" the two men stepped to the bar and drank. then they lingered, each with a lighted cigar, and finally withdrew--to proceed to the city? no. to return to their room up-stairs, and renew their unequal contest. the sixty dollars which wilkinson had received were staked, and soon passed over to his adversary. rendered, now, desperate by his losses and the brandy which inflamed his brain, he borrowed, once more, on his due-bill--this time to the amount of several hundred dollars. his ill-success continued. it was nearly eleven o'clock, when wilkinson started up from the table, exclaiming, as he threw the cards upon the floor-- "fool! fool! fool! one step more, and i am ruined. carlton!" and he fixed his eyes almost fiercely upon his companion. "carlton! i thought you my friend, but find, when it is almost too late to profit by the discovery, that you are a tempter. ay! and worse than a tempter. pure air and the bright sunshine! is this your health for mind and body? oh! weak, weak, unstable one that i am! poor mary!" this was said in a low, mournful, and scarcely audible voice. "thus has my promise to you vanished into thin air!" as wilkinson said this, he turned away and left the room. carlton was in no hurry to follow. when, at length, he came down, and made inquiry for the one he had dealt by so treacherously, the man, who was shutting the windows of the bar-room, and about locking up for the night, replied that he had not seen him. "not seen him?" he asked, in a tone of surprise. "no, sir. he didn't come in here." the hostler was aroused from his sleeping position on a bench in the corner, and directed by carlton to bring out his buggy. during the time he was away, the latter made a hurried search in and around the house. not finding the object thereof, he muttered, in an under tone, a few wicked oaths; then, jumping into his vehicle, he put whip to his horse, and dashed off towards the city. he had wilkinson's due-bills in his pocket for various sums, amounting, in all, to nearly two thousand dollars! chapter viii. almost motionless, with her sleeping babe upon her lap, sat mrs. wilkinson for nearly half an hour after her husband left the house. she saw nothing that was around her--heard nothing--felt nothing. not even the breathings of her sleeping infant reached her ear; nor was she conscious of the pressure of its body against her own. fixed in a dreamy, inward gaze were her eyes; and her soul withdrew itself from the portal at which, a little while before, it hearkened into the world of nature. at last there came a motion of the eyelids--a quivering motion--then they closed, slowly, over the blue orbs beneath; and soon after a tear trembled out to the light from behind the barriers that sought to retain them. a deep, fluttering sigh succeeded to this sign of feeling. then her lips parted, and she spoke audibly to herself. "oh, that i knew how to win him back from the path of danger! he does not love his home; and yet how have i striven to make it attractive! how much have i denied myself! and how much yielded to and thought of him! he is always kind to me; and he--yes--i know he loves me; but--ah!" the low voice trembled back sighing into silence. still, for a long time, the unhappy wife sat almost as motionless as if in sleep. then, as some thought grew active towards a purpose in her mind, she arose, and laying ella on the bed, began busying herself in some household duties. the afternoon passed slowly away, yet not for a moment was the thought of her husband absent from the mind of mrs. wilkinson. "what ought i to do? how shall i make his home sufficiently attractive?" this was her over and over again repeated question; and her thoughts bent themselves eagerly for some answer upon which her heart might rest with even a small degree of hope. the prolonged, intense anxiety and alarm of the previous night, added to bodily fatigue and loss of rest, were not without their effect upon mrs. wilkinson. early in the day she suffered from lassitude and a sense of exhaustion; and, after dinner, a slight headache was added; this increased hourly, and by four o'clock was almost blinding in its violence. still, she tried to forget herself, and what she suffered in thinking about and devising some means of saving her husband from the dangers that lay hidden from his own view about his footsteps. "if i could only add some new attraction to his home!" she murmured to herself, over and over again. sometimes she would hold her temples with both her hands, in the vain effort to still, by pressure, the throbbing arteries within, while she continued to think of her husband. as tea-time drew near, mrs. wilkinson left ella in the care of a domestic, and went into the kitchen to prepare some delicacy for the evening meal of which she knew her husband was fond; this engaged her for half an hour, and the effort increased the pain in her aching head. the usual time at which mr. wilkinson came home arrived, and his wife, who had returned to her chamber, sat with her babe on her bosom, listening for the well-known welcome sound of her husband's footsteps in the passage below. time glided by, yet she waited and listened in vain; and to the pleasant thoughts of the influence her love was to throw around him on that very evening, to keep him at home, began to succeed a fear, which made her heart faint, that he would not come home at all; or, at least, not until a late hour. the sun went down, and stealthily the sober twilight began to fall, bringing with it shadows and forebodings for the heart of the anxious wife. how vainly she waited and watched! the twilight was lost in darkness, and yet her eagerly listening ear failed to note the well-known sound of her husband's footfall on the pavement, as she stood, listening at the open window. "oh! what can keep him so long away!" how often did these words come sighing from her lips, yet there was no answer. alas! how to the very winds were flung the pleasant hopes she had cherished--cherished with a sense of fear and trembling--during the afternoon. night closed in, and the time wore on steadily, minute by minute, and hour by hour, until the poor wife was almost wild with suspense and anxiety. the dainties she had so thoughtfully and lovingly prepared for her husband remained untasted, and had now become cold and unpalatable--were, in fact, forgotten. food she had not, herself, tasted. once or twice a servant had come to know if she would have tea served; but she merely answered--"not until mr. wilkinson returns." nine--ten--eleven o'clock; still mrs. wilkinson was alone. sometimes she moved restlessly about her chamber; or wandered, like a perturbed spirit, from room to room; and, sometimes in mere exhaustion, would drop into a chair or sink across the bed, and sit or lie as motionless as if in a profound sleep. ah! could her husband have looked in upon her, but for a few moments; could he have seen the anguish of her pale face; the fixed and dreamy expression of her tearful eyes; the grieving arch of the lips he loved--could he have seen and comprehended all she suffered and all she feared, it must have won him back from his selfish folly. and how many wives have suffered all this, and more! how many still suffer! errant husband, pause, look upon the picture we have presented, and think of the many, many heart-aches you have given the tender, long-suffering, loving one who clings to you yet so closely, and who, for your sake, would even lay down, if needful, her very life. happily for mrs. wilkinson, her child lay in a sound sleep; for, with the appearance of the edges of two teeth through her red and swollen gums, the feverish excitement of her system yielded to a healthy reaction. twelve o'clock was rung out clearly upon the hushed air of midnight; and yet the poor wife was alone. one o'clock found her in a state of agonized alarm, standing at the open street-door, and hearkening, eagerly, first in one direction and then in another; yet all in vain--for the absent one came not. it was nearly two o'clock, and mrs. wilkinson, in the impotence of her prolonged and intense anxiety and fear, had thrown herself, with a groan, across her bed, when a sound in the street caught her ear. instantly she started up, while a thrill ran through every nerve. feet were on the door-steps; a key was in the lock--a moment more, and the door opened and shut, and a familiar tread that made her heart leap echoed along the passage. her first impulse was to fly to meet the comer, but a hand seemed to hold her back; and so, half reclining, she awaited, with her heart beating violently, the appearance of him whose strange absence had cost her so many hours of bitter anguish. a moment or two more, and then an exclamation of surprise and almost terror, fell from her lips. and well might she be startled at the appearance of her husband. pale, haggard, covered with dust, and with large drops of perspiration on his face, wilkinson stood before his wife. with a grieving look he gazed upon her for some moments, but did not speak. "my husband!" exclaimed mrs. wilkinson as soon as she could recover herself; and, as she uttered the words, she threw her arms around him, and buried her weeping face on his bosom. but wilkinson tried to disengage her arms, saying, as he did so-- "not this!--not this, mary! i am unworthy of even your feeblest regard. speak to me coldly, harshly, angrily, if you will. that i deserve--but nothing of kindness, nothing of love. oh, that i were dead!" "my husband! my husband! you are dearer to me than life!" was whispered in reply, as mary clung to him more closely. such evidences of love melted the strong man's heart. he tried to brace himself up against what, in his pride, he felt to be a weakness, but failed, and leaning his face downward until it rested upon the head of his wife, sobbed aloud. chapter ix. wilkinson, on leaving the presence of the man who, under the guise of friendship, had so basely led him astray, and robbed him--it was robbery, in fact, for carlton had not only enticed his victim to drink until his mind was confused, but had played against him with trick and false dealing--passed, not by the bar-room of the hotel, but through one of the passages, into the open air, and with hurried steps, and mind all in a whirl of excitement, started on foot for home. he was not in a state to consider exactly what he was doing--he did not reflect that he was at least ten miles from the city, and that it would take him hours to walk that distance. his predominant feeling was a desire to escape from the presence of the man who had so basely betrayed and almost ruined him. it was a calm, clear, summer night; and the full moon, which had reached the zenith, shone with an unusual radiance. not a leaf moved on the forest trees, for even the zephyrs were asleep. all was stillness and tranquil beauty. yet nature did not mirror herself on the feelings of wilkinson, for their surface was in wild commotion. the unhappy man was conscious only of the folly he had committed and the wrong he had sustained; and thought only of his culpable weakness in having been drawn, by a specious villain, to the very verge of ruin. onward he strode, toward the city, with rapid pace, and soon his thoughts began to go forward towards his home. "poor mary!" he sighed, as the image of his wife, when she said to him--"i count the hours when you are away," arose before his eyes. then, as the image grew more and more distinct, his hands were clenched tightly, and he murmured through his shut teeth-- "wretch! cruel wretch, that i am! i shall break her heart! oh, why did i not resist this temptation? why was i so thoughtless of the best, the truest, the most loving friend i ever knew or ever can know--my mary!" rapid as his steps had been from the first, the thought of his wife caused wilkinson to increase his pace, and he moved along, the only passenger at that hour upon the road, at almost a running speed. soon the perspiration was gushing freely from every pore, and this, in a short time, relieved the still confused pressure on the brain of the alcohol which had been taken so freely into his system. thoroughly sobered was he, ere he had passed over half the distance; and the clearer his mind became, the more troubled grew his feelings. "what," he repeated to himself, over and over, "what if our dear ella should be in convulsions again?" so great was the anguish of the unhappy man, that he was all unconscious of bodily fatigue. he was nearly half way to the city when overtaken by carlton. the latter called to him three or four times, and invited him to get up and ride; but wilkinson strode on, without so much as uttering a word in reply, or seeming to hear what was said to him. so carlton, finding that his proffer was disregarded, dashed ahead and was soon out of sight. at what hour wilkinson reached his home, and how he was received, has already been seen. too heavy a pressure lay on the mind of the unhappy man, as he met his wife at the breakfast table on the next morning, for him even to make an effort at external cheerfulness. there was not only the remembrance of his broken promise, and the anguish she must have suffered in consequence of his absence for half the night--how visible, alas! was the effect written on her pale face, and eyes still red and swollen from excessive tears--but the remembrance, also, that he had permitted himself, while under the influence of drink, to lose some two thousand dollars at the gaming table! what would he not endure to keep that blasting fact from the knowledge of his single-hearted, upright companion? he a gambler! how sick at heart the thought made him feel, when that thought came into the presence of his wife! few words passed between mr. and mrs. wilkinson, but the manner of each was subdued, gentle, and even affectionate. they parted, after the morning meal, in silence; wilkinson to repair to his place of business, his wife to busy herself in household duties, and await with trembling anxiety the return of her husband at the regular dinner hour. this time, wilkinson did not, as usual, drop in at a certain drinking-house that was in his way, but kept on direct to his store. the reason of this omission of his habitual glass of brandy was not, we are compelled to say, from a purpose in his mind to abandon the dangerous practice, but to avoid encountering the man carlton, who might happen to be there. but he was not to keep clear of him in this way. oh, no. carlton held his due-bills for "debts of honour," calling for various sums, amounting in all, as we have before said, to about two thousand dollars, and he was not a person at all likely to forget this fact. of this wilkinson was made sensible, about an hour after appearing at his store. he was at his desk musing over certain results figured out on a sheet of paper that lay before him, and which had reference to payments to be made during the next three or four weeks, when he heard his name mentioned, and, turning, saw a stranger addressing one of his clerks, who had just pointed to where he was sitting. the man, with his unpleasant eyes fixed upon wilkinson, came, with firm yet deliberate steps, back to his desk. "mr. wilkinson, i believe?" said he. "that is my name." wilkinson tried to feel self-possessed and indifferent. but that was impossible, for he had an instinctive knowledge of the purport of the visit. the man thrust his hand into a deep inside pocket, and abstracted therefrom a huge pocket-book. he did not search long in the compartments of this for what he wanted, but drew directly therefrom sundry small, variously shaped pieces of paper, much blotted and scrawled over in a hurried hand. each of these bore the signature of wilkinson, and words declaring himself indebted in a certain sum to andrew carlton. "i am desired to collect these," said the man coldly. much as wilkinson had thought, in anticipation of this particular crisis, he was yet undecided as to what he should do. he had been made the victim of a specious scoundrel--a wolf who had come to him in sheep's clothing. running back his thoughts, as distinctly as it was possible for him to do, to the occurrences of the previous night, he remembered much that fully satisfied him that carlton had played against him most unfairly; he not only induced him to drink until his mind was confused, but had taken advantage of this confused state, to cheat in the grossest manner. some moments passed ere he replied to the application; then he said-- "i'm not prepared to do any thing with this matter just now." "my directions are to collect these bills," was the simple reply, made in a tone that expressed even more than the words. "you may find that more difficult than you imagine," replied wilkinson, with some impatience. "no--no--we never have much difficulty in collecting debts of this kind." there was a meaning emphasis on the last two words, which wilkinson understood but too well. still he made answer, "you may find it a little harder in the present case than you imagine. i never received value for these tokens of indebtedness." "you must have been a precious fool to have given them then," was promptly returned, with a curling lip, and in a tone of contempt. "they represent, i presume, debts of honour?" "there was precious little honour in the transaction," said wilkinson, who, stung by the manner and words of the collector, lost his self-possessions. "if ever a man was cheated, i was." "say that to mr. carlton himself; it is out of place with me. as i remarked a little while ago, my business is to collect the sums called for by these due-bills. are you prepared to settle them?" "no," was the decisive answer. "perhaps," said the collector, who had his part to play, and who, understanding it thoroughly, showed no inclination to go off in a huff; "you do not clearly understand your position, nor the consequences likely to follow the answer just given; that is, if you adhere to your determination not to settle these due-bills." "you'll make the effort to collect by law, i presume?" "of course we will." "and get nothing. the law will not recognise a debt of this kind." "how is the law to come at the nature of the debt?" "i will"--wilkinson stopped suddenly. "will you?" quickly chimed in the collector. "then you are a bolder, or rather, more reckless man than i took you for. your family, friends, creditors, and mercantile associates will be edified, no doubt, when it comes to light on the trial, under your own statement, that you have been losing large sums of money at the gaming table--over two thousand dollars in a single night." a strong exclamation came from the lips of wilkinson, who saw the trap into which he had fallen, and from which there was, evidently, no safe mode of escape. "it is impossible for me to pay two thousand dollars now," said he, after a long, agitated silence, during which he saw, more clearly than before, the unhappy position in which he was placed. "it will be ruin anyhow; and if loss of credit and character are to come, it might as well come with the most in hand i can retain." "you are the best judge of that," said the collector, coldly, turning partly away as he spoke. "tell carlton that i would like to see him." "he left the city this morning," replied the collector. "left the city?" "yes, sir; and you will perceive that all of these due-bills have been endorsed to me, and are, consequently, my property, for which i have paid a valuable consideration. they are, therefore, legal claims against you in the fullest sense, and i am not the man to waive my rights, or to be thwarted in my purposes. are you prepared to settle?" "not to-day, at least." "i am not disposed to be too hard with you," said the man, slightly softening in his tone; "and will say at a word what i will do, and all i will do. you can take up five hundred of these bills to-day, five hundred in one week, and the balance in equal sums at two and three weeks. i yield this much; but, understand me, it is all i yield, and you need not ask for any further consideration. "well, sir, what do you say?" full five minutes after the collector had given his ultimatum, he thus broke in upon the perplexed and undecided silence of the unhappy victim of his own weakness and folly. "am i to receive five hundred dollars now, or am i not?" "call in an hour, and i will be prepared to give an answer," said wilkinson. "very well. i'll be here in one hour to a minute," and the man consulted his watch. and to a minute was he there. "well, sir, have you decided this matter?" said he, on confronting wilkinson an hour later. he spoke with the air of one who felt indifferent as to which way the decision had been made. without replying, wilkinson took from under a paper weight on his desk a check for five hundred dollars, and presented it to the collector. "all right," was the satisfied remark of the latter as he read the face of the check; and, immediately producing his large pocket-book, drew forth wilkinson's due-bills, and selecting one for three hundred and one for two hundred dollars, placed them in his hands. "on this day one week i will be here again," said the man, impressively, and, turning away, left the store. the moment he was out of sight, wilkinson tore the due-bills he had cancelled into a score of pieces, and, as he scattered them on the floor, said to himself--"perish, sad evidences of my miserable folly! the lesson would be salutary, were it not received at too heavy a cost. can i recover from this? alas! i fear not. fifteen hundred more to be abstracted from my business, and in three weeks! how can it possibly be done?" to a certain extent, the lesson was salutary. during the next three weeks, wilkinson, who felt a nervous reluctance to enter a drinking-house lest he should meet carlton, kept away from such places, and therefore drank but little during the time; nor did he once go out in the evening, except in company with his wife, who was studious, all the time, in the science of making home happy. but it was impossible for her to chase away the shadow that rested upon her husband's brow. promptly, on a certain day in each week of that period, came the man who held the due-bills given to carlton, leaving wilkinson five hundred dollars poorer with each visitation--poorer, unhappier, and more discouraged in regard to his business, which was scarcely stanch enough to bear the sudden withdrawal of so much money. under such circumstances it was impossible for wilkinson to appear otherwise than troubled. to divine the cause of this trouble soon became the central purpose in the mind of his wife. to all her questions on the subject, he gave evasive answers; still she gathered enough to satisfy her that every thing was not right in regard to his business. assuming this to be the case, she began to think over the ways and means of reducing their range of expenses, which were in the neighbourhood of fifteen hundred dollars per annum. the result will appear. chapter x. the morning of the day came on which wilkinson had to make his last payment on account of the due-bills given to carlton. he had nothing in bank, and there were few borrowing resources not already used to the utmost limit. at ten o'clock he went out to see what could be done in the way of effecting further temporary loans among business friends. his success was not very great, for at twelve o'clock he returned with only two hundred dollars. carlton's agent had called twice during the time, and came in a few minutes afterwards. "you're too soon for me," said wilkinson, with not a very cheerful or welcome expression of countenance. "it's past twelve," returned the man. "all the same if it were past three. i haven't the money." the collector's brow lowered heavily. "how soon will you have it?" "can't tell," replied wilkinson, fretfully. "that kind of answer don't just suit me," said the man, with some appearance of anger. "i've been remarkable easy with you, and now"-- "easy!" sharply ejaculated wilkinson. "yes; as the angler who plays his trout. you've already received fifteen hundred dollars of the sum out of which i was swindled, and with that i should think both you and your principal might be content. go back to him, and say that he is about placing on the camel's back the pound that may break it." "i have before told you," was replied, "that mr. carlton has no longer any control in this matter. it is i who hold your obligations; they have been endorsed to me, and for a valuable consideration; and be assured that i shall exact the whole bond." "if," said wilkinson, after some moments' reflection, and speaking in a changed voice and with much deliberation, "if you will take my note of hand for the amount of your due-bills, at six months from to-day, i will give it; if not"-- "preposterous!" returned the man, interrupting him. "if not," continued wilkinson, "you can fall back upon the law. it has its delays and chances; and i am more than half inclined to the belief that i was a fool not to have left this matter for a legal decision in the beginning. i should have gained time at least." "if you are so anxious to get into court, you can be gratified," was answered. "very well; seek your redress in law," said wilkinson, angrily. "occasionally, gamblers and pickpockets get to the end of their rope; and, perhaps, it may turn out so in this instance. my only regret now is, that i didn't let the matter go to court in the beginning." the man turned off hastily, but paused ere he reached the door, stood musing for a while, and then came slowly back. "give me your note at sixty days," said he. "no, sir," was the firm reply of wilkinson. "i offered my note at six months. for not a day less will i give it; and i don't care three coppers whether you take it or no. i had about as lief test the matter in a court of justice as not." the man again made a feint to retire, but again returned. "say three months, then." "it is useless to chaffer with me, sir." wilkinson spoke sternly. "i have said what i will do, and i will do nothing else. even that offer i shall withdraw if not accepted now." the man seemed thrown quite aback by the prompt and decisive manner of wilkinson, and, after some hesitation and grumbling, finally consented to yield up the balance of the due-bills for a note payable in six months. "saved as by fire!" such was the mental ejaculation of wilkinson, as the collector left the store. "i stagger already under the extra weight of fifteen hundred dollars. five hundred added now would come nigh to crushing me. ah! how dearly have i paid for my folly!" while he still sat musing at his desk, his friend ellis came in, looking quite sober. "i know you've been pretty hard run for the last week or ten days," said he, "but can't you strain a point and help me a little? i've been running about all the morning, and am still two hundred dollars short of the amount to be paid in bank to-day." "fortunately," replied wilkinson, "i have just the sum you need." "how long can you spare it?" "until day after to-morrow." "you shall have it then, without fail." the money was counted out and handed to ellis, who, as he received it, said in a desponding voice-- "unless a man is so fortunate as to be born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he finds nothing but up-hill work in this troublesome world. i declare! i'm almost discouraged. i can feel myself going behindhand, instead of advancing." "don't say that. you're only in a desponding mood," replied wilkinson, repressing his own gloomy feelings, and trying to speak encouragingly. "i wish it were only imagination. it is now nearly ten years since i was married, and though my business, at the time, was good, and paying a fair profit on the light capital invested, it has, instead of getting more prosperous, become, little and by little, embarrassed, until now--i speak this confidently, and to one whom i know to be a friend--were every thing closed up, i doubt if i should be worth five hundred dollars." "not so bad as that. you are only in a gloomy state of mind." "i wish it were only nervous despondency, my friend. but it is not so. all the while i am conscious of a retrograde instead of an advance movement." "there must be a cause for this," said wilkinson. "of course. there is no effect without a cause." "do you know what it is?" "yes." "a knowledge of our disease is said to be half the cure." "it has not proved so in my case." "what is the difficulty?" "my expenses are too high." "your store expenses?" "no, my family expenses." "then you ought to reduce them." "that is easily said; but, in my case, not so easily done. i cannot make my wife comprehend the necessity of retrenchment." "if you were to explain the whole matter to her, calmly and clearly, i am certain you would not find her unreasonable. her stake in this matter is equal to yours." "oh, dear! haven't i tried, over and over again?" "if cara will not hear reason, and join with you in prudent reforms, then it is your duty to make them yourself. what are your annual expenses?" "i am ashamed to say." "fifteen hundred dollars?" "they have never fallen below that since we were married, and, for the last three years, have reached the sum of two thousand dollars. this year they will even exceed that." wilkinson shook his head. "too much! too much!" "i know it is. a man in my circumstances has no right to expend even half that sum. why, five hundred dollars a year less in our expenses since we were married would have left me a capital of five thousand dollars in my business." "and placed you now on the sure road to fortune." "undoubtedly." "take my advice, and give to cara a full statement of your affairs. do it at once--this very day. it has been put off too long already. let there be no reserve--no holding back--no concealment. do it calmly, mildly, yet earnestly, and my word for it, she will join you, heart and hand, in any measure of reform and safety that you may propose. she were less than a woman, a wife, and a mother, not to do so. you wrong her by doubt." "perhaps i do," said ellis in reply. "perhaps i have never managed her rightly. i know that i am quick to get out of patience with her, if she oppose my wishes too strongly. but i will try and overcome this. there is too much at stake just now." the two men parted. henry ellis pondered all day over the present state of his affairs, and the absolute necessity there was for a reduction of his expenses. the house in which he lived cost four hundred and fifty dollars a year. two hundred dollars could easily be saved, he thought, by taking a smaller house, where, if they were only willing to think so, they might be just as comfortable as they now were. beyond this reduction in rent, ellis did not see clearly how to proceed. the rest would have mainly to depend upon his wife, who had almost the entire charge of the home department, including the expenditures made on account thereof. the earnestness with which ellis pondered these things lifted his thoughts so much above the sensual plane where they too often rested, that he felt not the desire for stimulating drink returning at certain hours, but passed through the whole of the afternoon without either thinking of or tasting his usual glass of brandy and water. on coming home to his family in the evening, his mind was as clear as a bell. this, unhappily, was not always the case. and now for the task of making cara comprehend the real state of his affairs; and to produce in her a cheerful, loving, earnest co-operation in the work of salutary reform. but how to begin? what first to say? how to disarm her opposition in the outset? these were the questions over which ellis pondered. and the difficulty loomed up larger and larger the nearer he approached it. he felt too serious; and was conscious of this. unhappily, cara's brow was somewhat clouded. ellis approached her with attempts at cheerful conversation; but she was not in the mood to feel interested in any of the topics he introduced. the tea hour passed with little of favourable promise. the toast was badly made, and the chocolate not half boiled. mrs. ellis was annoyed, and scolded the cook, in the presence of her husband, soundly; thus depriving him of the little appetite with which he had come to the table. gradually the unhappy man felt his patience and forbearance leaving him; and more than once he said to himself-- "it will be worse than useless to talk to her. she will throw back my words upon me, in the beginning, as she has so often done before." tea over, mr. and mrs. ellis returned with their children to the sitting-room. the former felt an almost irrepressible desire for the cigar, which habit had rendered so nearly indispensable; but he denied himself the indulgence, lest cara should make it the occasion of some annoying remark. so he took up a newspaper, and occupied himself therewith, until his wife had undressed and put their two oldest children to bed. as she returned from the adjoining room, where they slept, ellis looked earnestly into her face, to see what hope there was for him in its expression. her lips were drawn closely together, her brows slightly contracted, and her countenance had a fretful, discontented expression. he sighed inwardly, and resumed the perusal of his newspaper; or, rather, affected to resume it, for the words that met his eyes conveyed to his mind no intelligible ideas. mrs. ellis took her work-basket, and commenced sewing, while her husband continued to hold the newspaper before his face. after some ten minutes of silence, the latter made a remark, as a kind of feeler. this was replied to with what sounded more like a grunt than a vocal expression. "cara," at length said ellis, forcing himself to the unpleasant work on hand, "i would like to have a little plain talk with you about my affairs." he tried, in saying this, to seem not to be very serious; but his feelings, which had for some time been on the rack, were too painfully excited to admit of this. he both looked and expressed, in the tones of his voice, the trouble he felt. now, just at the moment ellis said this, his wife was on the eve of making the announcement, in rather a peremptory and dogmatic way, that if he didn't give her the money to buy new parlour carpets, for which she had been asking as much as a year past, she would go and order them, and have the bill sent in to him. all day this subject had been in her mind, and she had argued herself into the belief that her husband was perfectly able, not only to afford her new carpets, but also new parlour furniture; and that his unwillingness to do so arose from a penurious spirit. such being her state of mind, she was not prepared to see in the words, voice, and look of her husband the real truth that it was so important for her to know. from the beginning of their married life, she had been disposed to spend freely, and he to restrain her. in consequence, there was a kind of feud between them; and now she regarded his words as coming from a desire on his part to make her believe that he was poorer, in the matter of this world's goods, than was really the case. her reply, therefore, rather pettishly uttered, was-- "oh! i've heard enough about your affairs. no doubt you are on the verge of bankruptcy. a man who indulges his family to the extent that you do must expect shipwreck with every coming gale." the change of countenance and exclamation with which this heartless retort was made startled even cara. rising quickly to his feet, and flinging upon his wife a look of reproach, ellis left the room. a moment or two afterwards, the street-door shut after him with a heavy jar. it was past midnight when he came home, and then he was stupid from drink. chapter xi. how different was it with wilkinson, when he returned to his wife on the same evening, in a most gloomy, troubled, and desponding state of mind! a review of his affairs had brought little, if any thing, to encourage him. this dead loss of two thousand dollars was more, he felt, than he could bear. ere this came upon him, there was often great difficulty in making his payments. how should he be able to make them now, with such an extra weight to carry? the thought completely disheartened him. "i, too, ought to retrench," said he, mentally, his thoughts recurring to the interview which had taken place between him and ellis. "in fact, i don't see what else is to save me. but how can i ask mary to give up her present style of living? how can i ask her to move into a smaller house? to relinquish one of her domestics, and in other respects to deny herself, when the necessity for so doing is wholly chargeable to my folly? it is no use; i can't do it. every change--every step downwards, would rebuke me. no--no. upon mary must not rest the evil consequences of my insane conduct. let me, alone, suffer." but how, alone, was he to bear, without sinking beneath the weight, the pressure that was upon him? with the usual glad smile and heart-warm kiss wilkinson was greeted on his return home. "god bless you, mary!" said he, with much feeling, as he returned his wife's salutation. mrs. wilkinson saw that her husband was inwardly moved to a degree that was unusual. she did not remark thereon, but her manner was gentle, and her tones lower and tenderer than usual, when she spoke to him. but few words passed between them, until the bell rang for tea. while sitting at the table, the voice of ella was heard, crying. "agnes!" called mrs. wilkinson, going to the head of the stairs that led down into the kitchen--"i wish you would go up to ella, she is awake." the girl answered that she would do as desired, and mrs. wilkinson returned to her place at the table. "where is anna?" asked mr. wilkinson. mrs. wilkinson smiled cheerfully, as she replied, "her month was up to-day, and i concluded to let her go." "what!" wilkinson spoke in a quick surprised voice. "she was little more than a fifth wheel to our coach," was replied; "and fifth wheels can easily be dispensed with." "but who is to take care of ella? who is to do the chamber work? not you!" "don't be troubled about that, my good husband!" was answered with a smile. "leave all to me. i am the housekeeper." "you are not strong enough, mary. you will injure your health." "my health is more likely to suffer from lack, than from excess of effort. the truth is, i want more exercise than i have been in the habit of taking." "but the confinement, mary. don't you see that the arrangement you propose will tie you down to the house? indeed, i can't think of it." "i shall not be confined in-doors any more than i am now. agnes will take care of the baby whenever i wish to go out." "there is too much work in this house, mary'" said mr. wilkinson, in a decided way. "you cannot get along with but a single domestic." "there are only you, and ella, and i!" mrs. wilkinson leaned towards her husband, and looked earnestly into his face. there was an expression on her countenance that was full of meaning; yet its import he did not understand. "only you, and ella, and i?" said he. "yes; only we three. now, i have been wondering all day, john, whether there was any real necessity for just we three having so large a house to live in. i don't think there is. it is an expense for nothing, and makes work for nothing." "how you talk, mary!" "don't i talk like a sensible woman?" said the young wife, smiling. "we can't go into a smaller house, dear." "and why not, pray?" "our position in society"-- mr. wilkinson did not finish the sentence; for he knew that argument would be lost on his wife. "we are not rich," said mrs. wilkinson. "no one knows that better than myself," replied the husband, with more feeling than he meant to exhibit. "and, if the truth were known, are living at an expense beyond what we can afford. speak out plainly, dear, and say if this is not the case." "i shouldn't just like to say that," returned wilkinson; yet his tone of voice belied his words. "it is just as i supposed," said mrs. wilkinson, growing more serious. "why have you not confided in me? why have you not spoken freely to me on this subject, john? am i not your wife? and am i not ready to bear all things and to suffer all things for your sake?" "you are too serious mary,--too serious by far. i have not said that there was any thing wrong in my circumstances. i have not said that it was necessary to reduce our expenses." "no matter, dear. we are, by living in our present style, expending several hundred dollars a year more than is necessary. this is useless. do you not say so yourself?" "it is certainly useless to spend more than is necessary to secure comfort." "and wrong to spend more than we can afford?" "undoubtedly." "then let us take a smaller house, john, by all means. i shall feel so much better contented." it was some time before wilkinson replied. when he did so, he spoke with unusual emotion. "ah, my dear wife!" said he, leaning towards her and grasping her hand; "you know not how great a load you have taken from my heart. the change you suggest is necessary; yet i never could have urged it; never could have asked you to give up this for an humbler dwelling. how much rather would i elevate you to a palace!" "my husband! why, why have you concealed this from me? it was not true kindness," said mrs. wilkinson, in a slightly chiding voice. "it is my province to stand, sustainingly, by your side; not to hang upon you, a dead weight." but we will not repeat all that was said. enough that, ere the evening, spent in earnest conversation, closed, all the preliminaries of an early removal and reduction of expenses were settled, and, when wilkinson retired for the night, it was in a hopeful spirit. light had broken through a rift in the dark cloud which had so suddenly loomed up; and he saw, clearly, the way of escape from the evil that threatened to overwhelm him. chapter xii. twelve o'clock of the day on which ellis was to return the two hundred dollars borrowed of wilkinson came, and yet he did not appear at the store of the latter, who had several payments to make, and depended on receiving the amount due from his friend. "has mr. ellis been here?" asked wilkinson of his clerk, coming in about noon from a rather fruitless effort to obtain money. the clerk replied in the negative. "nor sent over his check for two hundred dollars?" "no, sir." "step down to his store, then, if you please, and say to him from me that he mustn't forget the sum to be returned to-day, as i have two notes yet in bank. say also, that if he has any thing over, i shall be glad to have the use of it." the clerk departed on his errand. in due time he returned, but with no money in his possession. "did you see mr. ellis?" asked wilkinson. "no, sir," was replied. "he hasn't been at the store to-day." "not to-day!" "no, sir." "what's the matter? is he sick?" "his clerk didn't say." taking up his hat, wilkinson left his store hurriedly. in a few minutes he entered that of his friend. "where is mr. ellis?" he inquired. "i don't know, sir," was answered by the clerk. "has he been here this morning?" "no, sir." "he must be sick. have you sent to his house to make inquiry?" "not yet. i have expected him all the morning." "he was here yesterday?" "not until late in the afternoon." "indeed! did he complain of not being well?" "no, sir. but he didn't look very well." there was something in the manner of the clerk which wilkinson did not understand clearly at first. but all at once it flashed upon his mind that ellis might, in consequence of some trouble with his wife, have suddenly abandoned himself to drink. with this thought came the remembrance of what had passed between them two days before; and this but confirmed his first impression. "if mr. ellis comes in," said he, after some moments of hurried thought, "tell him that i would like to see him." the clerk promised to do so. "hadn't you better send to his house?" suggested wilkinson, as he turned to leave the store. "he may be sick." "i will do so," replied the clerk, and wilkinson retired, feeling by no means comfortable. by this time it was nearly one o'clock, and six or seven hundred dollars were yet required to make him safe for that day's payments. the failure of ellis to keep his promise laid upon him an additional burden, and gradually caused a feeling of despondency to creep in upon him. instead of making a new and more earnest effort to raise the money, he went back to his store, and remained there for nearly half an hour, in a brooding, disheartened state of mind. a glance at the clock, with the minute-hand alarmingly near the figure , startled him at length from his dreaming inactivity; and he went forth again to raise, if possible, the money needed to keep his name from commercial dishonour. he was successful; but there were only fifteen minutes in his favour when the exact sum he needed was made up, and his notes taken out of bank. two o'clock was mr. wilkinson's dinner hour, and he had always, before, so arranged his bank business as to have his notes taken up long enough before that time to be ready to leave promptly for home. but for the failure of ellis to keep his promise, it would have been so on this day. "it's hardly worth while to go home now," said he, as he closed his cash and bill books, after making some required entries therein. "mary has given me over long ago. and, besides, i don't feel in the mood of mind to see her just now. i can't look cheerful, to save me; and i have already called too many shadows to her face to darken it with any more. by evening i will recover myself, and then can meet her with a brighter countenance. no, i won't go home now. i'll stop around to elder's, and get a cut of roast beef." wilkinson had taken up his hat, and was moving down the store, when a suggestion that came to his mind made him pause. it was this: "but is not mary waiting for me, and will not my absence for the whole day cause her intense anxiety and alarm? i ought to go home." and now began an argument in his thoughts. the fact was, a sense of exhaustion of body and depression of spirits had followed the effort and trouble of the day, and wilkinson felt a much stronger desire for something stimulating to drink than he did for food. elder's was a drinking as well as an eating-house; and in deciding to go there, instead of returning home, the real influence, although he did not perceive it to be so, was the craving felt for a glass of brandy. and now came the conflict between appetite and an instinctive sense of what was due both to himself and his wife. "it will only put her to trouble if i go home now." thus he sought to justify himself in doing what his better sense clearly condemned as wrong. "it will rather relieve her from trouble," was quickly answered to this. for a little while wilkinson stood undecided, then slowly retired to a remote part of the store, took off his hat, and sat down to debate the point at issue in his mind more coolly. "i will go home early," said he to himself. "why not go home now?" was instantly replied. "it is too late; mary has given me up long ago." "she will be extremely anxious." "i can explain all." "better do it now than two or three hours later: poor mary has suffered enough already." this last suggestion caused the image of his wife to come up before the mind of wilkinson very distinctly. he saw, now, her smile of winning love; now, the sad drooping of her countenance, as he turned to leave her alone for an evening; now, the glance of anxiety and fear with which she so often greeted his return; and now, her pale, grief-stricken face, after some one of his too many lapses from the right way. and, in imagination, his thoughts went to his home in the present moment. what did he see? a waiting, anxious, troubled wife, now sitting with fixed and dreamy eyes; now moving about with restless steps; and now standing at the street-door, eagerly straining her eyes to see in the distance his approaching form. with such images of his wife came no repulsive thought to the mind of wilkinson. ever loving, tender, patient, forbearing, and true-hearted had mary been. not once in the whole of their married life had she jarred the chord that bound them together, with a touch of discord. he could only think of her, therefore, with love, and a feeling of attraction; and this it was that saved him in the present hour. starting up suddenly, he said, "i will go home: why have i hesitated an instant? my poor mary! heaven knows you have already suffered enough through my short-comings and wanderings from the way of right and duty. i am walking a narrow path, with destruction on either hand: if i get over safely, it will be through you as my sustaining angel." a skilful limner, at least in this instance, was the imagination of wilkinson. much as it had been pictured to his thoughts was the scene at home. poor mary! with what trembling anxiety did she wait and hope for her husband's coming, after the usual hour for his return had passed. now she sat motionless, gazing on some painful image that was presented to her mind; now she moved about the room from an unquietness of spirit that would not let her be still; and now she bent her ear towards the street, and listened almost breathlessly for the sound of her husband's footsteps. thus the time passed from two until three o'clock, the dinner yet unserved. "oh, what can keep him away so long?" how many, many times was this spoken audibly! now her heart beat with a quick, panting motion, as the thought of some accident to her husband flitted through the mind of mrs. wilkinson; now its irregular motion subsided, and it lay almost still, with a heavy pressure; for the fear lest he had again been tempted from the path of sobriety came with its deep and oppressive shadow. and thus the lingering moments passed. three o'clock came, and yet mr. wilkinson was absent. "i can bear this suspense no longer," said the unhappy wife. "something has happened." and as she said this, she went quickly into her chamber to put into execution some suddenly-formed resolution. opening a wardrobe, she took therefrom her bonnet and a shawl. but, ere she had thrown the latter around her shoulders, she paused, with the words on her lips-- "if business should have detained him at his store, how will my appearance there affect him? i must think of that. i do not want him to feel that i have lost confidence in him." while mrs. wilkinson stood, thus musing, her ear caught the sound of her husband's key in the lock of the street-door. how quickly were her bonnet and shawl returned to their places! how instant and eager were her efforts to suppress all signs of anxiety at the prolonged absence! "he must not see that i have been over-anxious," she murmured. the street-door closed; mr. wilkinson's well-known tread sounded along the passage and up the stairway. with what an eager discrimination was the ear of his wife bent towards him for a sign that would indicate the condition in which he returned to her! how breathless was her suspense! a few moments, and the door of her room opened. "why, john!" said she, with a pleasant smile, and a tone so well disguised that it betrayed little of the sea of agitation below--"what has kept you so late? i was really afraid something had happened. have you been sick; or did business detain you?" "it was business, dear," replied mr. wilkinson, as he took the hand which mary placed within his. the low, nervous tremour of that hand he instantly perceived, and as instantly comprehended its meaning. she had been deeply anxious, but was now seeking to conceal this from him. he understood it all, and was touched by the fact. "i ought to have sent you word," said he, as he kissed her with more than usual tenderness of manner. "it was wrong in me. but i've been very hard put to it to take up my notes, and didn't succeed until near the closing of bank hours. i loaned ellis some money, which he was to return to me to-day; but his failing to do so put me to a good deal of inconvenience." "oh, i'm sorry," was the sympathizing response. "but how came mr. ellis to disappoint you?" "i don't exactly know. he hasn't been at his store to-day." "is he sick?" "worse, i'm afraid." "how, worse?" "his habits have not been very good of late." "oh! how sad! his poor wife!" this was an almost involuntary utterance on the part of mrs. wilkinson. "her poor husband, rather say," was the reply. "the fact is, if ellis goes to ruin, it will be his wife's fault. she has no sympathy with him, no affectionate consideration for him. a thoroughly selfish woman, she merely regards the gratification of her own desires, and is ever making home repulsive, instead of attractive." "you must be mistaken." "no. ellis often complains to me of her conduct." "why, john! i can scarcely credit such a thing." "doubtless it is hard for _you_ to imagine any woman guilty of such unwifelike conduct. yet such is the case. many a night has ellis spent at a tavern, which, but for cara's unamiable temper, would have been spent at home." "ah! she will have her reward," sighed mrs. wilkinson. "and you yours," was the involuntary but silent ejaculation of wilkinson. ere further remark was made, the dinner-bell rang, and mr. wilkinson and his wife repaired to the dining-room. it was not possible for the former to endure the pressure that was on his feelings without letting the fact of its existence betray itself in his countenance; and mary, whose eyes were scarcely a moment from her husband's face, soon saw that his mind was ill at ease. "how much did mr. ellis borrow of you?" she asked, soon after they had taken their places at the table. "two hundred dollars," was replied. "no more?" the mind of mrs. wilkinson was evidently relieved, at knowing the smallness of the sum. "true, it isn't much," said wilkinson. "but even a small sum is of great importance when we have a good deal to pay, and just lack that amount, after gathering in all our available resources. and that was just my position to-day." "why didn't you call on me?" mary smiled, with evident meaning as she said this. "on you!" wilkinson looked at her with a slight air of surprise. "yes, on me. i think i could have made you up that sum." "you!" a bright gleam went over the face of mrs. wilkinson, as she saw the surprise of her husband. "yes, me. why not? you have always been liberal in your supplies of money, and it is by no means wonderful that i should have saved a little. the fact is, john, i've never spent my entire income; i always made it a point of conscience to keep as far below it as possible." "mary!" beyond this simple ejaculation, wilkinson could not go, but sat, with his eyes fixed wonderingly on the face of his wife. "it is true, dear," she answered, in her loving gentle way. "i haven't counted up lately; but, if i do not err, i have twice the sum you needed to-day; and, what is more, the whole is at your service. so don't let this matter of ellis's failure to return you the sum borrowed, trouble you in the least. if it never comes back to you, the loss will be made up in another quarter." it was some moments before wilkinson could make any answer. at last, dropping the knife and fork which he held in his hands, he started from his place, and coming round to where his wife sat, drew his arms around her, and as he pressed his lips to hers, said with an unsteady voice-- "god bless you, mary! you are an angel!" had she not her reward in that happy moment? who will say nay? chapter xiii. on the morning that followed the fruitless attempt of henry ellis to make his wife comprehend the necessity that existed for an immediate reduction in their household expenditures, he did not get up until nearly ten o'clock. for at least an hour before rising, he was awake, suffering in both body and mind; for the night's debauch had left him, as was usually the case, with a most violent headache. during all the time he heard, at intervals, the voice of cara in the adjoining, talking to or scolding at the children; but not once during the time did she come into the chamber where he lay. he felt it as a total want of interest or affection on her part. he had done wrong; he felt that; yet, at the same time, he also felt that cara had her share of the blame to bear. if she had only manifested some feeling for him, some interest in him, he would have been softened; but, as she did not, by keeping entirely away, show that she thought or cared for him, the pure waters of right feeling, that were gushing up in his mind, were touched with the gall of bitterness. rising at length, ellis began dressing himself, purposely making sufficient noise to reach the ears of his wife. but she did not make her appearance. two doors led from the chamber in which he was. one communicated with the adjoining room, used as a nursery, and the other with the passage. after ellis had dressed and shaved himself, he was, for a short time, undecided whether to enter the nursery, in which were his wife and children, or to pass through the other door, and leave the house without seeing them. "i shall only get my feelings hurt," said he, as he stood debating the point. "it's a poor compensation for trouble and the lack of domestic harmony, to get drunk, i know; and i ought to be, and am, ashamed of my own folly. oh dear! what is to become of me? why will not cara see the evil consequences of the way she acts upon her husband? if i go to destruction, and the chances are against me, the sin will mainly rest upon her. yet why should i say this? am i not man enough to keep sober? yes"--thus he went on talking to himself--"but if she will not act in some sort of unity with me, i shall be ruined in my business. it will never do to maintain our present expensive mode of living; and she will never hear to a change." just at this moment an angry exclamation from the lips of mrs. ellis came sharply on the ears of her husband, followed by the whipping and crying of one of the children, who had, as far as ellis could gather, from what was said, overset his mother's work-basket. "no use for me to go in there," muttered the unhappy man. "i shall only increase the storm; and i've had storms enough!" so he went from the chamber by way of the passage, descended to the entry below, and, taking up his hat, left the house. now, of all things in the world, in the peculiar state of body and mind in which ellis then was, did he want a good strong cup of coffee at his own table, and a kind, forbearing, loving wife to set it before him. these would have given to his body and to his mind just what both needed, for the trials and temptations of the day; and they would have saved him, at least for the day, perhaps for life; for the pivot upon which the whole of a man's future destiny turns is often small, and scarcely noticed. as ellis stepped from his door, and received the fresh air upon his face and in his lungs, he was instantly conscious of a want in his system, and a craving for something to supply that want. having taken no breakfast, the feeling was not to be wondered at. ellis understood its meaning, in part, and took the nearest way to an eating-house where he ordered something to eat. for him, it was the most natural thing in the world, under the circumstances, to call for something at the bar while his breakfast was preparing. he felt better after taking a glass of brandy. ellis had finished his breakfast, and was standing at the bar with a second glass of liquor in his hand, when he was accosted in a familiar manner by the same individual who had lured wilkinson to the gaming-table. "ah, my boy! how are you?" said carlton, grasping the hand of ellis and shaking it heartily. "glad to see you, 'pon my word! where do you keep yourself?" "you'll generally find me at my store during business hours," replied ellis. "what do you call business hours?" was asked by carlton. "from eight or nine in the morning until six or seven in the evening." "yes--yes--yes! with you as with every other 'business' man i know. business every thing--living nothing. you'll get rich, i suppose; but, by the time your sixty or a hundred thousand dollars are safely invested in real estate or good securities, health will have departed, never to return." "not so bad as that, i presume," returned ellis. "how can it be otherwise? the human body is not made of iron and steel; and, if it were, it would never stand the usage it receives from some men, you among the number. for what are the pure air and bright sunshine made? to be enjoyed only by the birds and beasts? man is surely entitled to his share; and if he neglects to take it, he does so to his own injury. you don't look well. in fact, i never saw you look worse; and i noticed, when i took your hand, that it was hot. now, my good fellow! this is little better than suicide on your part; and if i do not mistake, you are too good a christian to be guilty of self-murder. why don't you ride out and take the air? you ought to do this daily." "too expensive a pleasure for me," said ellis. "in the first place, with me time is money, and, in the second place, i have no golden mint-drops to exchange for fast horses." "i have a fine animal at your service," replied the tempter. "happy to let you use him at any time." "much obliged for the offer; and when i can run away from business for a few hours, will avail myself of it." "what do you say to a ride this morning? i'm going a few miles over into jersey, and should like your company above all things." "i hardly think i can leave the store to-day," replied ellis. "let me see: have i any thing in the way of a note to take up? i believe not." "you say yes, then?" "i don't know about that. it doesn't just seem right." "nonsense! it is wonderful how this business atmosphere does affect a man's perceptions! he can see nothing but the dollar. every thing is brought down to a money valuation." we will not trace the argument further. enough that the tempter was successful, and that ellis, instead of going to his store, rode out with carlton. he was not, of course, home at his usual dinner-hour. it was between three and four o'clock when he appeared at his place of business, the worse for his absence, in almost every sense of the word. he had been drinking, until he was half stupid, and was a loser at the gaming-table of nearly six hundred dollars. a feeble effort was made by him to go into an examination of the business of the day; but he found it impossible to fix his mind thereon, and so gave up the attempt. he remained at his store until ready to close up for the day, and then turned his steps homeward. by this time he was a good deal sobered, and sadder for his sobriety; for, as his mind became clearer, he remembered, with more vividness, the events of the day, and particularly the fact of having lost several hundred dollars to his pretended friend, carlton. "whither am i going? where is this to end?" was his shuddering ejaculation, as the imminent peril of his position most vividly presented itself. how hopelessly he wended his reluctant way homeward! there was nothing to lean upon there. no strength of ever-enduring love, to be, as it were, a second self to him in his weakness. no outstretched arm to drag him, with something of super-human power, out of the miry pit into which he had fallen; but, instead, an indignant hand to thrust him farther in. "god help me!" he sighed, in the very bitterness of a hopeless spirit; "for there is no aid in man." ah! if, in his weakness, he had only leaned, in true dependence, on him he thus asked to help him; if he had but resisted the motions of evil in himself, as sins against his maker, and resisted them in a determined spirit, he need not have fallen; strength would, assuredly, have been given. the nearer ellis drew to his home, the more unhappy he felt at the thought of meeting his wife. after having left the house without seeing her in the morning, and then remaining from home all day, he had no hope of a kind reception. "it's no use!" he muttered to himself, stopping suddenly, when within a square of his house. "i can't meet cara; she will look coldly at me, or frown, or speak cutting words; and i'm in no state of mind to bear any thing patiently just now. i've done wrong, i know--very wrong; but i don't want it thrown into my face. oh, dear! i am beset within and without, behind and before and there is little hope for me." overcoming this state of indecision, ellis forced himself to go home. on entering the presence of his wife, he made a strong effort to compose himself, and, when he met cara, he spoke to her in a cheerful tone of voice. how great an effort it cost him to do this, considering all the circumstances by which he was surrounded, the reader may easily imagine. and what was his reception? "found your way home at last!" these were the words with which cara received her husband; and they were spoken in a sharp, deriding tone of voice. the day's doubt, suspense, and suffering, had not quieted the evil spirit in her heart. she was angry with her husband, and could not restrain its expression. a bitter retort trembled on the tongue of ellis; but he checked its utterance, and, turning from his wife, took one of his children in his arms. the sphere of innocence that surrounded the spirit of that child penetrated his heart, and touched his feelings with an emotion of tenderness. "oh, wretched man that i am!" he sighed, in the bitterness of a repentant and self-upbraiding spirit. "so much dependent on me, and yet as weak as a reed swaying in the wind." how much that weak, tempted, suffering man, just trembling on the brink of destruction, needed a true-hearted, forbearing, long-suffering wife! such a one might--yes, would--have saved him. by the strong cords of love she would have held him to her side. several times ellis tried to interest cara in conversation; but to every remark she replied only in monosyllables. in fact she was angry with him, and, not feeling kindly, she would not speak kindly. all day she had suffered deeply on his account. a thousand fears had harassed her mind. she had even repented of her unkindness towards him, and resolved to be more forbearing in the future. for more than an hour she kept the table waiting at dinner time, and was so troubled at his absence, that she felt no inclination to touch food. "i'm afraid i am not patient enough with him," she sighed, as better feelings warmed in her heart. "i was always a little irritable. but i will try to do better. if he were not so close about money, i could be more patient." while such thoughts were passing through the mind of mrs. ellis, a particular friend, named mrs. claxton, called to see her. "why, bless me, cara! what's the matter?" exclaimed this lady, as she took the hand of mrs. ellis. "you look dreadful. haven't been sick, i hope?" "no, not sick in body," was replied. "sick in mind. the worst kind of sickness. no serious trouble, i hope?" there was a free, off-hand, yet insinuating manner about mrs. claxton, that, while it won the confidence of a certain class of minds, repulsed others. mrs. ellis, who had no great skill in reading character, belonged to the former class; and mrs. claxton was, therefore as just said, a particular friend, and in a certain sense a confidante. "the old trouble," replied mrs. ellis to the closing question of her friend. "with your husband?" "yes. he pinches me in money matters so closely, and grumbles so eternally at what he calls my extravagance, that i'm out of all patience. last evening, just as i was about telling him that he must give me new parlour carpets, he, divining, i verily believe, my thoughts, cut off every thing, by saying, in a voice as solemn as the grave--'cara, i would like to have a little plain talk with you about my affairs.' i flared right up. i couldn't have helped it, if i'd died for it the next minute." "well; what then?" "oh! the old story. of course he got angry, and went off like a streak of lightning. i cried half the evening, and then went to bed. i don't know how late it was when he came home. this morning, when i got up, he was sleeping as heavy as a log. it was near ten o'clock when i heard him moving about in our chamber, but i did not go in. he had got himself into a huff, and i was determined to let him get himself out of it. just as i supposed he would come into the nursery, where i was sitting with the children, awaiting his lordship's pleasure to appear for breakfast, he opens the door into the passage, and walks himself off." "without his breakfast?" "yes, indeed. and i've seen nothing of him since." "that's bad," said the friend. "a little tiff now and then is all well enough in its place. but this is too serious." "so i feel it. yet what am i to do?" "you will have to manage better than this." "manage?" "yes. i never have scenes of this kind with my husband." "he's not so close with you as henry is with me. he isn't so mean, if i must speak plainly, in money matters." "well, i don't know about that. he isn't perfect by many degrees. one of his faults, from the beginning, has been a disposition to dole out my allowance of money with a very sparing hand. i bore this for some years, but it fretted me; and was the source of occasional misunderstandings that were very unpleasant." mrs. claxton paused. "well; what remedy did you apply?" asked mrs. ellis. "a very simple one. i took what he was pleased to give me, and if it didn't hold out, i bought what i needed, and had the bills sent in to the store." "capital!" exclaimed mrs. ellis. "just what i have been thinking of. and it worked well?" "to a charm." "what did mr. claxton say when the bills came in?" "he looked grave, and said i would ruin him; but, of course, paid them." "is that the way you got your new carpets?" "yes." "and your new blinds?" "yes." "well, i declare! but doesn't mr. claxton diminish your allowances of money?" "yes, but his credit is as good as his money. i never pay for dry goods, shoes, or groceries. the bills are all sent in to him." "and he never grumbles?" "i can't just say that. it isn't a week since he assured me, with the most solemn face in the world, that if i didn't manage to keep the family on less than i did, he would certainly be ruined in his business." "the old story." "yes. i've heard it so often, that it goes in at one ear and out at the other." "so have i. but i like your plan amazingly, and mean to adopt it. in fact, something of the kind was running through my head yesterday." "do so; and you will save yourself a world of petty troubles. i find that it works just right." this advice of her friend mrs. ellis pondered all the afternoon, and, after viewing the matter on all sides, deliberately concluded to act in like manner. yet, for all this, she could not conquer a certain angry feeling that rankled towards her husband, and, in spite of sundry half formed resolutions to meet him, when he returned, in a kind manner, her reception of him was such as the reader has seen. chapter xiv. the turning-point with ellis had nearly come. it required, comparatively, little beyond the weight of a feather to give preponderance to the scale of evil influences. cara's reception, as shown in the last chapter, was no worse than he had anticipated, yet it hurt him none the less; for unkind words from her were always felt as blows, and coldness as the pressure upon his heart of an icy hand. in the love of his children, who were very fond of him, he sought a kind of refuge. henry, his oldest child, was a bright, intelligent boy between eight and nine years of age; and kate, between six and seven, was a sweet-tempered, affectionate little girl, who scarcely ever left her father's side when he was in the house. at the tea-table, only the children's voices were heard: they seemed not to perceive the coldness that separated their parents. after supper, mr. ellis went up into the nursery with henry and kate, and was chatting pleasantly with them, when their mother, who had remained behind to give some directions to a servant, came into the room. "come!" said she, in rather a sharp voice, as she entered, "it is time you were in bed." "papa is telling us a story," returned kate, in a pleading tone: "just let us wait until he is done." "i've got no time to wait for stories. come!" said the mother, imperatively. "papa will soon be done," spoke up henry. "it's early yet, mother," said ellis; "let them sit up a little while. i'm away all day, and don't see much of them." "i want them to go to bed now," was the emphatic answer. "it's their bed-time, and i wish them out of the way, so that i can go to work. if you'd had their noise and confusion about you all day, as i have, you'd be glad to see them in their beds." "you'll have to go," said mr. ellis, in a tone of disappointment that he could not conceal. "but get up early to-morrow morning, and i will tell you the rest of the story. don't cry, dear!" and mr. ellis kissed tenderly his little girl, in whose eyes the tears were already starting. slowly, and with sad faces, the children turned to obey their mother, who, not for a moment relenting, spoke to them sharply for their lack of prompt obedience. they went crying up-stairs, and she scolding. the moment the door of the nursery closed upon the retiring forms of the children, mr. ellis started to his feet with an impatient exclamation, and commenced pacing the room with rapid steps. "temptations without and storms within," said he, bitterly. "oh, that i had the refuge of a quiet home, and the sustaining heart and wise counsels of a loving wife!" by the time mrs. ellis had undressed the children and got them snugly in bed, her excited feelings were, in a measure, calmed; and from calmer feelings flowed the natural result--clearer thoughts. then came the conviction of having done wrong, and regret for a hasty and unkind act. "he sees but little of them, it is true," she murmured, "and i might have let them remain up a little while longer, i'm too thoughtless, sometimes; but i get so tired of their noise and confusion, which is kept up all day long." and then she sighed. slowly, and with gentler feelings, mrs. ellis went down-stairs. better thoughts were in her mind, and she was inwardly resolving to act towards her husband in a different spirit from that just manifested. on entering the nursery, where she had left him, she was not a little disappointed to find that he was not there. "it isn't possible that he has gone out!" was her instant mental ejaculation; and she passed quickly into the adjoining chamber to see if he were there. it was empty. for some time mrs. ellis stood in deep abstraction of mind; then, as a sigh heaved her bosom, she moved from the chamber and went down-stairs. a glance at the hat-stand confirmed her fears; her husband had left the house. "ah, me!" she sighed. "it is hard to know how to get along with him. if every thing isn't just to suit his fancy, off he goes. i might humour him more than i do, but it isn't in me to humour any one. and for a man to want to be humoured! oh, dear! oh, dear! this is a wretched way to live; it will kill me in the end. these men expect their own way in every thing, and if they don't get it, then there is trouble. i'm not fit to be henry's wife. he ought to have married a woman with less independence of spirit; one who would have been the mere creature of his whims and fancies." mrs. ellis, with a troubled heart, went up to the room where so many of her lonely evening hours were spent. taking her work-basket, she tried to sew; but her thoughts troubled her so, that she finally sought refuge therefrom in the pages of an exciting romance. the realizing power of imagination in ellis was very strong. while he paced the floor after his wife and children had left the room, there came to him such a vivid picture of the coldness and reserve that must mark the hours of that evening, if they were passed with cara, that he turned from it with a sickening sense of pain. under the impulse of that feeling he left the house, but with no purpose as to where he was going. for as long, perhaps, as half an hour, ellis walked the street, his mind, during most of the time, pondering the events of the day. his absence from business was so much lost, and would throw double burdens on the morrow, for, besides the sum of two hundred dollars to be returned to wilkinson, he had a hundred to make up for another friend who had accommodated him. but where was the money to come from? in the matter of borrowing, ellis had never done much, and his resources in that line were small. his losses at the gaming-table added so much to the weight of discouragement under which he suffered! "you play well." frequently had the artful tempter, carlton, lured his victim on by this and other similar expressions, during the time he had him in his power; and thus flattered, ellis continued at cards until repeated losses had so far sobered him as to give sufficient mental resolution to enable him to stop. now, these expressions returned to his mind, and their effect upon him was manifested in the thought,-- "if i hadn't been drinking, he would have found in me a different antagonist altogether." it was an easy transition from this state of mind to another. it was almost natural for the wish to try his luck again at cards to be formed; particularly as he was in great need of money, and saw no legitimate means of getting the needed supply. the frequency with which ellis had spent his evenings abroad made him acquainted with many phases of city life hidden from ordinary observers. idle curiosity had more than once led him to visit certain gambling-houses on a mere tour of observation; and, during these visits, he had each time been tempted to try a game or two, in which cases little had been lost or won. the motive for winning did not then exist in tempting strength; and, besides, ellis was naturally a cautious man. now, however, the motive did exist. "yes, i do play well," said he, mentally answering the remembered compliment of carlton, "and but for your stealing away my brains with liquor, you would have found me a different kind of antagonist." ellis had fifty dollars in his pocket. this sum was the amount of the day's sales of goods in his store. instead of leaving the money in his fire-closet, he had taken it with him, a sort of dim idea being in his mind that, possibly, it might be wanted for some such purpose as now contemplated. so he was all prepared for a trial of his skill; and the trial was made. to one of the haunts of iniquity before visited in mere reprehensible curiosity, he now repaired with the deliberate purpose of winning money to make up for losses already sustained, and to provide for the next day's payments. he went in with fifty dollars in his pocket-book; at twelve o'clock he left the place perfectly sober, and the winner of three hundred dollars. though often urged to drink, he had, knowing his weakness, firmly declined in every instance. cara, he found, as usual on returning home late at night, asleep. he sought his pillow without disturbing her, and lay for a long time with his thoughts busy among golden fancies. in a few hours he had won three hundred dollars, and that from a player of no common skill. "yes, yes, carlton said true. i play well." over and over did ellis repeat this, as he lay with his mind too much excited for sleep. wearied nature yielded at last. his dreams repeated the incidents of the evening, and reconstructed them into new and varied forms. when he awoke, at day-dawn, from his restless slumber, it took but a short time for his thoughts to arrange themselves into a purpose, and that purpose was to seek out carlton as the first business of the day, and win back the evidence of debt that he had against him. the meeting of ellis and his wife at the breakfast-table had less of coldness and reserve in it than their meeting at tea-time. no reference was made to the previous evening, nor to the fact of his having remained out to a late hour. it was the intention of ellis, on leaving his house after breakfast, to repair to his store and make some preliminary arrangements for the day before hunting up carlton; but on his way thither, his appetite constrained him to enter a certain drinking-house just for a single glass of brandy to give his nerves their proper tension. "ah! how are you, my boy?" exclaimed carlton, who was there before him, advancing as he spoke, and offering his hand in his usual frank way. "glad to meet you!" returned ellis. "just the man i wished to see. take a drink?" "i don't care if i do." and the two men moved up to the bar. when they turned away, carlton drew his arm familiarly within that of ellis, and bending close to his ear, said--"you wish to take up your due-bills, i presume? "you guess my wishes precisely," was the answer. "well, i shall be pleased to have you cancel them. are you prepared to do it this morning?" "i am--in the way they were created." a gleam of satisfaction lit up the gambler's face, which was partly turned from ellis; but he shrugged his shoulders, and said, in an altered voice--"i'm most afraid to try you again." "we're pretty well matched, i know," said the victim. "if you decline, of course the matter ends." "i never like to be bantered," returned carlton. "if a man were to dare me to jump from the housetop, it would be as much as i could do to restrain myself." "i've got three hundred in my pocket," said ellis, "and i'm prepared to see the last dollar of it." "good stuff in you, my boy!" and carlton laid his hand upon his shoulder in a familiar way. "it would hardly be fair not to give you a chance to get back where you were. so here's for you, win or lose, sink or swim." and the two men left the tavern together. we need not follow them, nor describe the contest that ensued. the result has already been anticipated by the reader. a few hours sufficed to strip ellis of his three hundred dollars, and increase his debts to the gambler nearly double the former amount. chapter xv. mrs. ellis knew, by the appearance of her husband, that he had not been drinking on the night previous, late as he had remained away. this took a weight from her feelings, and relieved her mind from self-upbraidings that would have haunted her all the day. after breakfast her mind began to ponder what mrs. claxton had said on the day previous, and the more she thought of her advice and example, the more she felt inclined to adopt a similar course of action. on new brussels carpets she had, long ago, set her heart, and already worried her husband about them past endurance. to obtain his consent to the purchase, she felt to be hopeless. "i must get them in this way, or not at all. so much is clear." thus she communed with herself. "he's able enough to pay the bill; if i had any doubts of that, the matter would be settled; but i have none." with the prospect of getting the long coveted carpets, came an increased desire for their possession. in imagination mrs. ellis saw them already on the floor. for some hours there was a struggle in her mind. then the tempter triumphed. she dressed herself, and went out for the purpose of making a selection. from this moment she did not hesitate. calling at a well-known carpet warehouse, she made her selection, and directed the bill, after the carpet was made and put down, to be sent in to her husband. the price of the carpet she chose was two dollars and a quarter a yard; and the whole bill, including that of the upholsterer, would reach a hundred and sixty dollars. when mrs. ellis returned home, after having consummated her purpose, the thought of her beautiful carpet gave her far less pleasure than she had anticipated. in every wrong act lies its own punishment. uneasiness of mind follows as a sure consequence. from the idea of her beautiful parlours, her mind would constantly turn to her husband. "what _will_ he say?" ah! if she could only have answered that question satisfactorily! "i will be so good, i will disarm him with kindness. i will humour him in every thing. i will not give him a chance to be angry." for a while this idea pleased the mind of mrs. ellis. but it only brought a temporary respite to the uneasiness produced by her wrong act. "i'll tell him just what i have done," said she to herself, as the dinner hour approached, and cara began to look for her husband's return. "he might as well know it now, as in a week; and, besides, it will give him time to prepare for the bill. yes, that is what i will do." still, her mind felt troubled. the act was done, and no way of retreat remained open. the consequences must be met. the hour for mr. ellis to return home at length arrived, and his wife waited his coming with a feeling of troubled suspense such as she had rarely, if ever, before experienced. smiles, ready to be forced to her countenance, were wreathing themselves in her imagination. she meant to be "_so_ good," so loving, so considerate. a particular dish of which he was so fond had been ordered,--it was a month since it had graced their table. but time moved on. it was thirty minutes past the dinner hour, and he was still away. at last mrs. ellis gave him up. a full hour had elapsed, and there was little probability of his return before the close of business for the day. so she sat down with her children to eat the meal which long delay had spoiled, and for which she had now but little appetite. wearily passed the afternoon, and, as the usual time for ellis's appearance drew near, his wife began to look for his coming with feelings of unusual concern. not concern for him, but for herself. she had pretty well made up her mind to inform him of what she had done, but shrank from the scene which she had every reason to believe would follow. the twilight had just begun to fall, and mrs. ellis, with her babe in her arms, was sitting in one of the parlours, waiting for and thinking of her husband, when she heard his key in the door. he came in, and moving along the entry with a quicker step than usual, went up-stairs. supposing that, not finding her above, he would come down to the parlours, mrs. ellis waited nearly five minutes. then she followed him up-stairs. not finding him in the nursery, she passed into their chamber. here she found him, lying across the bed, on which he had, evidently, thrown himself under some strong excitement, or abandonment, of feeling, for his head was not upon a pillow, and he lay perfectly motionless, as if unconscious of her presence. "henry!" she called his name, but he made no answer, nor gave even a sign. "henry! are you sick?" there was a slight movement of his body, but no reply. "henry! henry!" mrs. ellis spoke in tones of anxiety, as she laid her hand upon him. "speak! what is the matter? are you sick?" a long deep sigh was the only answer. "why don't you speak, henry?" exclaimed mrs. ellis. "you frighten me dreadfully." "don't trouble me just now, if you please," said the wretched man, in a low, half-whispering voice. "but what ails you, henry? are you sick?" "yes." "how? where? what can i do for you?" "nothing!" was faintly murmured. by this time, cara began to feel really alarmed. leaving the room hurriedly, she gave the babe she held in her arms to one of her domestics, and then returned. bending, now, over her husband, she took one of his hands, and clasping it tightly, said, in a voice of earnest affection that went to the heart of ellis with electric quickness-- "do, henry, say what ails you! can't i get something for you?" "i'll feel better in a little while," whispered ellis. "let me send for the doctor." "oh, no! no! i'm not so sick as that," was answered. "i only feel a little faint, not having taken any dinner." "why did you go without a meal? it is not right to do so. i waited for you so long, and was so disappointed that you did not come." there was more of tenderness and wife-like interest in cara's words and manner than had been manifested for a long time, and the feelings of ellis were touched thereby. partly raising himself on his elbow, he replied-- "i know it isn't right; but i was so much engaged!" the twilight pervading the room was too feeble to give mrs. ellis a distinct view of her husband's countenance. its true expression, therefore, was veiled. "you feel better now, do you?" she inquired tenderly. "yes, dear," he answered, slightly pressing the hand she had laid in his. "i will order tea on the table immediately." and mrs. ellis left the room. when she returned, he had risen from the bed, and was sitting in a large chair near one of the windows. "are you better, dear?" tenderly inquired mrs. ellis. "yes, a good deal better," was answered. and the words were truly spoken; for this unlooked-for, kind, even tender reception, had wrought an almost instantaneous change. he had come home with a feeling of despair tugging at his heart. nothing appeared before him but ruin. now the light of hope, feeble though were the rays, came glimmering across the darkness of his spirit. "i am glad to hear it!" was the warm response of cara. "oh! it is so wrong for you to neglect your meals. you confine yourself too closely to business. i wanted you to come home to-day particularly, for i had prepared for you, just in the way you like it, such a nice dish of maccaroni." "it was very thoughtful in you, dear. i wish i had been at home to enjoy it with you." tea being announced, mrs. ellis arose and said: "come; supper is on the table. you must break your long fast." "first let me wash my hands and face," returned ellis, who wished to gain time, as well as use all the means, to restore his countenance to a better expression than it wore, ere meeting cara under the glare of strong lamp light. a basin was filled for him by his wife, and, after washing his hands and face, he left the chamber with her, and went to the dining-room. here cara got a distinct view of her husband's countenance. many lines of the passion and suffering written there during that, to him, ever-to-be-remembered day, were still visible, and, as cara read them without comprehending their import, a vague fear came hovering over her heart. instantly her thoughts turned to what she had been doing, and most sincerely did she repent of the act. "i will confess it to him, this very night," such was her mental resolution,--"and promise, hereafter never to do aught against his wishes." notwithstanding ellis had taken no dinner, he had little appetite for his evening meal; and the concern of his wife was increased on observing that he merely tasted his food and sipped his tea. the more than ordinary trouble evinced, as well in the whole manner of ellis as in the expression of his face and in the tones of his voice, oppressed the heart of cara. she felt that something more than usual must have occurred to disturb him. could it be possible that any thing was wrong in his business? the thought caused a low thrill to tremble along her nerves. he had frequently spoken of his affairs as not very prosperous; was always, in fact, making a "sort of a poor mouth." but all this she had understood as meant for effect--as a cover for his opposition to her wish to spend. what if it were all as he had represented? such thoughts could not but sober the mind of mrs. ellis, and caused her manner towards her husband to assume an air of tenderness and concern to which it had too long been a stranger. how quickly was this felt by ellis! how gratefully did his heart respond to his wife's gentler touches on its tensely strung chords! that evening henry ellis spent at home. not much conversation passed between him and his wife; for the mind of each was too heavily burdened with thoughts of its own to leave room for an interchange of ideas. but the manner of cara towards her husband was subdued, and even tender; and he felt it as the grateful earth feels the strength-giving impression of the gentle rain. leaving the past, to the future both their thoughts turned; and both strengthened themselves in good resolutions. cara resolved to be a better wife--to be more considerate and more yielding towards her husband. and ellis resolved to abandon, at every sacrifice the vicious habits he had indulged,--habits which, within a day or two, had led him aside from the path of safety, and conducted him to the brink of a precipice, from which he now started back with a thrilling sense of fear. more than twenty times during that evening was cara on the eve of telling her husband about the carpet. but she shrank from the confession. "in the morning i will do it," was her final conclusion; thus putting off the evil hour. but morning found her no better prepared for the task. chapter xvi. all through the night, the mind of ellis was haunted with troubled dreams; but, on waking, he felt calm, and good purposes were in his heart. the manner of cara still being tender and considerate, he went forth feeling the strength of her love, and resolving, for her sake, and the sake of his children, to free himself from his present entanglements, cost what it would. seven hundred dollars was the sum he had lost at the gaming-table and for over five hundred of this, carlton held his obligations, payable on demand. besides this, he owed on account of temporary loans, from business friends, about an equal amount. moreover, on that day, a note of three hundred dollars fell due; and in the coming ten days, about a thousand dollars had to be paid into bank. the aggregate of all these obligations, to be met within two weeks, was two thousand three hundred dollars. as ellis looked at this formidable amount, and calculated his resources, he felt, for a time, utterly discouraged. but a reaction from this state of feeling came, and he set his mind vigorously to work in devising means for the pressing emergency. "there is one thing certain," said he to himself, as he pondered the matter. "carlton will have to wait. so there are five hundred dollars pushed ahead. i received no value in the case, and shall not hurry myself to make payment." even while ellis thus spoke, a man called and presented the due-bills he had given to the gambler. "i can't take these up now," was the prompt reply. "my directions are to collect them forthwith," said the man. "mr. carlton will have to wait my convenience." ellis spoke with considerable irritation of manner. "shall i say so to him?" was asked, in a tone that involved a warning of consequences. "you can say to him what you please," answered ellis, sharply. "oh! very well!" the man turned away, and walked towards the door. he paused, however, after going a short distance; stood, as if reflecting, for some moments, and, then came back. "you had better think over this a little;" said he, in a conciliatory voice. "the debt is, i need not remind you, one of _honour_; and it is neither wise nor safe for a man of business to let such a debt be handed over for legal collection. you understand, i presume?" the suggestion caused ellis to start, involuntarily. he saw, at a glance, the dangerous position in which he stood. only by retaining a fair credit would it be possible for him to surmount his present difficulties; and his credit would be instantly blasted if a suit were brought against him by a man he had now good reasons to believe was known in the community as a gambler. "you understand me?" repeated the collector, in a tone of marked significance. ellis tried to regain his self-possession, and affect indifference. but his feelings were poorly disguised. "just say to mr. carlton," he replied, "that it is not my purpose to give him any trouble about this matter. i will take up the due-bills. but i have some heavy payments to make, and cannot do it just now." "when will it be done?" "that i am unable, just now, to say." "can't you give me a part of the money today?" ellis shook his head. "i have notes in bank, and they must take the precedence of all other payments." "to-morrow, then?" "i have five hundred dollars to pay to-morrow." the man's countenance began to lower. "just go to mr. carlton, if you please, and tell him what i say. he's a man of common sense;--he will listen to reason." "my orders to collect were imperative," persisted the man. "tell him that you can't collect to-day. that i must and will have time. there now! go! i've something else to do besides arguing this matter fruitlessly." the collector turned off with an angry, threatening look. a few minutes after he was gone, and ere the mind of ellis had recovered its balance, a customer called in and paid a bill of a hundred dollars. this awakened a feeling of confidence; and, in a hopeful spirit, ellis went forth to make arrangements for the balance of what was wanted for the day. he found no difficulty in procuring the sum he needed, which was four hundred dollars. after taking up his note, he called upon his friend wilkinson with the two hundred dollars he had failed to return the day before, when, after apologizing for his neglect, he asked him how he would be off in regard to money matters during the ensuing two weeks. "tight as a drum," was answered. "i'm sorry to hear that," replied ellis, showing more disappointment than he wished to appear; "for i have made some calculation on you. i have nearly two thousand dollars to take care of in the next ten days." "i wish i could help you. but, indeed, i can not," said wilkinson, looking serious. "i have been a good deal crowded of late, and shall have my hands full, and more than full for some time to come. i never knew money so tight as it is just now." "nor i neither. well, i suppose we shall get through somehow. but i must own that things look dark." "the darkest hour is just before the break of day," said wilkinson, with an earnestness that expressed his faith in what he said. his faith was born of a resolution to separate himself from all dangerous companionship and habits, and a deeply felt conviction of the all-sustaining strength of his wife's self-denying affection. "yes--yes--so the proverb says, and so the poet sings," returned ellis, thoughtfully. "this seems to be my darkest hour. god grant it be only the precursor of day!" "amen!" the solemn response of wilkinson was involuntary. "and so you can't help me?" said ellis, recovering himself, and speaking in a more cheerful voice. "indeed i cannot." "well, help will come, i suppose. there is nothing like trying. so good morning. time is too precious to waste just now." between the store of wilkinson and that of ellis was a refectory, where the latter often repaired for a lunch and something to drink about eleven or twelve o'clock. it was now twelve, and, as ellis had taken only a light breakfast, and omitted his morning dram, he felt both hungry and dry. almost as a matter of course, he was about entering this drinking-house, when, as he stepped on the threshold, his eyes rested on the form of carlton, standing by the bar with a glass in his hand. quickly he turned away, and kept on to his store, where he quenched his thirst with a copious draught of ice-water. not a drop of liquor had passed his lips when he went home at dinner-time. and he was as free from its influence when he joined his family at the close of day. cara received him with the kindness and consideration that were so grateful to his feelings; and he spent the evening, safe from all dangers, at home. chapter xvii. "will you have the money now, dear?" said mrs. wilkinson, as she arose, with her husband, from the dinner-table, on the day she announced to him the fact that she had saved a few hundred dollars, out of the amount given her for the expenses of the family. "no, not to-day," replied wilkinson. "in fact, mary," he added, "i don't feel just right about taking your money; and i think i must manage to get along without it." "john!" mrs. wilkinson seemed hurt by her husband's words. "it is yours, mary," was replied with much tenderness of manner. "you have saved it for some particular purpose, and i shall not feel happy to let it go back again and become absorbed in my business." "have we divided interests, john?" said mrs. wilkinson, in a low, serious voice, as she clung to her husband's arm, and looked steadily into his face. "i hope not, mary." "am i not your wife?" "yes, yes; and one of the best of wives." "and do i not love you?" "never for a single moment has a doubt of your love been whispered in my heart." "such a whisper would have wronged me. yes, my husband, i do love you, and as my very life." wilkinson bent down and pressed his lips to hers. "love ever seeks to bless its object," continued mary, "and finds, in doing so, its purest delight. do you think i could use the money i have, in any way that would bring me so much pleasure as by placing it in your hands? surely your heart says no." "i will take it, dear," said wilkinson, after a slight pause. his voice was unsteady as he spoke; "and you will have your reward," he added, in tones filled with a prophecy for the future. "never--never--never shall act of mine bring a shadow to that dear face!" was the mental ejaculation of wilkinson, as, with an impulse of affection he could not restrain, he threw his arms around his wife and hugged her to his bosom. "bless you! bless you, mary!" came, almost sobbing, from his overflowing heart. on his way to his store, that afternoon, wilkinson felt the old desire to stop and get his usual glass of brandy, and he was actually about to enter a drinking-house, when the image of his wife came so distinctly before his mind, that it seemed almost like a personal presence. he saw a shadow upon her face, and the dimness of tears was in her tender blue eyes. "no!" said he resolutely, and with an audible expression, and quickly passed on. how his bosom rose and fell, with a panting motion, as if from some strong physical effort. "what an escape! it was the very path of danger!" such were his thoughts. "to venture into that path again were the folly of a madman. no, mary, no! your love shall draw me back with its strong attraction. a new light seems breaking all around me. i see as i never saw before. there is the broad way to destruction, and here winds the narrow but pleasant path of safety. ruined hopes, broken hearts, and sad wrecks of humanity are scattered thickly along the first, but heavenly confidence, joyful hearts, and man, with the light of celestial truth upon his upturned face, is to be found in the other. shall i hesitate in which to walk? no!" with a quicker and more elastic step wilkinson pursued his way, and reached his store just as a customer from the country, who had been waiting for him, was leaving. "just in time," said the latter. "i've been waiting for you over half an hour." "i dined later to-day than usual," returned wilkinson. "i wanted to settle my bill, but there were two or three items which your clerk could not explain. so i concluded to let the matter stand over until i was in the city again, which will be in the course of a few weeks. however, as you are here, we will arrange it now." so the two men walked back to the desk upon which lay wilkinson's account books. the customer's bill was referred to, and one or two slight discrepancies reconciled. the amount of it was nearly two hundred dollars. "you will take off five per cent. for cash, i presume?" "certainly," replied wilkinson. the money was paid down. "so much for not stopping on the way to business for a glass of brandy." this thought was spontaneous in the mind of wilkinson. after his customer had left, he fell into a musing state, in which many thoughts were presented, that, from the pain and self-condemnation they occasioned, he tried to push from his mind. but he was not able to do this. much of the history of his daily life for the past few years presented itself, and, in reviewing it, many things stood out in bold relief, which were before regarded as of little moment. not until now did he clearly see the dangerous position in which he stood. "so near the brink of ruin!" he sighed. "i knew the path to be a dangerous one; i knew that other feet had slipped; but felt secure in my own strength. ah! that strength was weakness itself. i a drunkard!" he shuddered as the thought presented itself. "and mary, the hopeless, brokenhearted wife of one lost to every ennobling sentiment of the human mind! it is awful to think of it!" wilkinson was deeply disturbed. for some time longer his mind dwelt on this theme: then, in the depths of his own thoughts, and in the presence of heaven, he resolved to be in safety, by avoiding the path of danger; to put forever from his lips the cup from which he had so often drank confusion. suddenly he appeared to be lifted above the level he had occupied, into a region whose atmosphere was purer, and to a position from which he saw things in new relations. it was only then that he fully comprehended the real danger from which he had escaped. "and my wife has saved me!" was the involuntary acknowledgment of his heart. the rest of the afternoon was spent by wilkinson in a careful investigation of his affairs. he ascertained the entire amount he would have to pay in the coming six months, and also his probable resources during the time. the result was very discouraging. but for the sum lost to carlton he would have seen all clear; but the abstraction of so much lessened his available means, and would so clog the wheels of his business as to make all progress exceedingly difficult. there was a shadow on the brow of wilkinson when he met his wife that evening, and she saw it the moment he came in, notwithstanding his effort to seem cheerful. this shadow fell upon her heart, but she did not permit its reproduction on her countenance. after tea, mary was busied for a short time in getting little ella to sleep. when she returned, at length, to their sitting-room, she had a small package in her hand, which, with a smiling face, she laid upon the table at which her husband sat reading. "what is that, dear?" he asked, lifting his eyes to her face. "we shall soon see," was answered, and mrs. wilkinson commenced opening the package. in a moment or two, five or six rolls of coin were produced, nicely enveloped in paper. "this is my sub-treasury," said she, with a smile. "i took an account of the deposits to-day, and find just five hundred and fifty dollars. so, even if mr. ellis should fail to return the two hundred dollars he borrowed, you will still be three hundred and fifty dollars better off than you thought you were. so push every gloomy thought from your heart. all will come out right in the end." wilkinson looked at the money like one who could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses. "this for the present," said mrs. wilkinson, leaning towards her husband, and fixing her gentle, yet earnest, loving eyes upon his face. "this for the present. and now let me give you my plans for the future. your business is to earn money, and mine to expend so much of it as domestic comfort and well-being requires. thus far i believe the expenditure has not been in a just ratio to the earnings. speak out plainly, dear husband! and say if i am not right." wilkinson sat silent, gradually withdrawing his eyes from those of his wife, and letting them fall to the floor. "yes, i am right," said the latter, after a pause. "and such being the case, you have become pressed for money to conduct your business. a change, then, is required. we must lessen our expenses. and now listen to what i have to propose. i went this afternoon to see mrs. capron, and she says, that if we will furnish our own room, she will board us and a nurse for ten dollars a week." "board us!" "yes, dear. won't it be much better for us to take boarding for two or three years, until we can afford to keep a house?" "but our furniture, mary? what is to be done with that?" "all provided for," said mrs. wilkinson, with sparkling eyes, and a countenance flushed with the excitement she felt. "we will have a sale." "a sale!" "yes, a sale. and this will give you more money. we will live at half the present cost, and you will get back into your business at least a thousand dollars that never should have been taken from it." "but the sacrifice, mary!" said wilkinson, as if seeking an argument against his wife. "did you never hear of such a thing," she replied, "as throwing over a part of the cargo to save the ship?" "bless you! bless you, mary!" exclaimed wilkinson, in a broken voice, as he hid his face upon his wife's bosom. "you have, indeed, saved me from shipwreck, body and soul, just as i was about to be thrown upon the breakers! heaven will reward your devoted love, your tenderness, your long-suffering and patient forbearance. thank god for such a wife!" and the whole frame of the strong man quivered. it was many minutes before either of them spoke; then mr. wilkinson lifted his face, and said calmly-- "yes, mary, we will do as you propose; for you have spoken wisely. i will need every dollar in my business that i can get. and now let me say a few words more. in times past i have not been as kind to you--as considerate--" "dear husband! let the past be as if it had not been. you were always kind, gentle, loving"-- "let me speak what is in my mind. i wish to give it utterance," interrupted wilkinson. "in times past, i have too often sought companionship from home, and such companionship has ever been dangerous and debasing. i have this day resolved to correct that error; and i will keep my resolution. henceforth, home shall be to me the dearest place. and there is one more thing i wish to say"-- the voice of wilkinson changed its expression, while a slight flush came into his face. "there is one habit that i have indulged, and which i feel to be an exceedingly dangerous one. that habit i have solemnly promised, in the sight of heaven, to correct. i will no longer put to my lips the cup of confusion." wilkinson was not prepared for the effect these words had upon his wife, who, instantly uttering a cry of joy, flung herself into her husband's arms, sobbing-- "oh! i am the happiest woman alive this day!" chapter xviii. to ellis the trials of the next two weeks were of the severest character. yet, he kept himself away from drinking-houses, and struggled manfully to retain his feet under him. in this he was only sustained by the kindness of his wife's manner, and the interest she seemed to feel in him. had she acted towards him with her usual want of affectionate consideration, he would have fallen under the heavy burdens that rested upon him. scarcely a day passed in which he was not visited by carlton's agent, and fretted almost past endurance by his importunities. but he steadily refused to take up any of the due-bills; at the same time that he promised to cancel them at some future period. this did not, of course, suit the gambler, who sent threats of an immediate resort to legal proceedings. of all this cara knew nothing; yet she could not help seeing that her husband was troubled, and this caused her to muse on what she had done with increasing uneasiness. she no longer took any pleasure in the thoughts of new parlour carpets. but it was too late, now, to retrace her steps of error. the carpets were already in the hands of the upholsterers, and a few days would see them on the floor. "i must tell him about them," said cara to herself, about a week after her act of folly, as she sat, towards the close of day, brooding over what she had done. "to be forewarned is to be forearmed. in a few days the carpets will be sent home, and then"-- a slight inward shudder was felt by cara, as she paused, with the sentence unfinished. "but i'm foolish," she added, recovering herself, "very foolish. why need i be so afraid of henry? i have some freedom of action left--some right of choice. these were not all yielded in our marriage. his will was not made the imperative law of all my actions. no--no. and here lies the ground of difference between us. the fact is, he is to blame for this very thing, for he drove me to it." but such thoughts did not satisfy the mind of mrs. ellis, nor remove the sense of wrong that oppressed her spirit. so, in a little while, she came back to her resolution to tell her husband, on that very evening, all about what she had done. this was her state of mind, when her friend mrs. claxton called in. after the first pleasant greeting, the lady, assuming a slight gravity of manner, said-- "do you know, mrs. ellis, that i've thought a good deal about the matter we talked of the last time i saw you?" "to what do you allude?" asked cara. "to running up bills without your husband's knowledge. all men are not alike, and mr. ellis might not take it so easily as mr. claxton has done. the fact is, i have been checked off a little, so to speak, within a day or two, and it has rather set me to thinking" "in what way?" inquired mrs. ellis. "i will tell you--but, remember, this is in the strictest confidence. it might injure my husband's business if it got out. in fact, i don't think i have any right to tell you; but, as i advised you to follow my example, i must give you convincing proof that this example is a bad one. last evening, when mr. claxton came home, he looked unusually serious. 'is any thing wrong?' i asked of him, manifesting in my voice and manner the concern i really felt. 'yes,' said he, looking me fixedly in the eyes--'there is something wrong. i came within an ace of being protested to-day.' 'indeed! how?' i exclaimed. 'listen,' said he, 'and you shall hear; and while you hear, believe, for i solemnly declare that every word i utter is the truth, and nothing but the truth. i could not spare the cash when your new carpet and upholstery bill came in, so i gave a note for the amount, which was over two hundred dollars. the note was for six months, and fell due to-day. i also gave a note for your new sofa, chairs, and french bedstead, because i had no cash with which to pay the bill. it was two hundred and fifty dollars, and the note given at four months. that also fell due to-day. now, apart from these, i had more than my hands full to take up business paper, this being an unusually heavy day. at every point where i could do so i borrowed; but at half-past two o'clock i was still short the amount of these two notes. while in the utmost doubt and perplexity as to what i should do in my difficulty, two notes were handed in. one contained a dry goods bill which you had run up of over a hundred and fifty dollars, and the other a shoe bill of twenty-five. i cannot describe to you the paralyzing sense of discouragement that instantly came over me. it is hopeless for me to struggle on at such a disadvantage, said i to myself--utterly hopeless. and i determined to give up the struggle--to let my notes lie over, and thus end the unequal strife in which i was engaged; for, to this, i saw it must come at last. full twenty minutes went by, and i still sat in this state of irresolution. then, as a vivid perception of consequences came to my mind, i aroused myself to make a last, desperate effort. hurriedly drawing a note at thirty days for five hundred dollars, i took it to a money-lender, whom i knew i could tempt by the offer of a large discount. he gave me for it a check on the bank in which my notes were deposited, for four hundred and fifty dollars. just as the clock was striking three, i entered the banking-house.' "my husband paused. i saw by the workings of his face and by the large beads of perspiration which stood upon his forehead, that he was indeed in earnest. i never was so startled by any thing in my life. it seemed for a time as if it were only a dream. i need not say how sincerely i repented of what i had done, nor how i earnestly promised my husband never again to contract a debt of even a dollar without his knowledge. i hope," added mrs. claxton, "that you have not yet been influenced by my advice and example; and i come thus early to speak in your ears a word of caution. pray do not breathe aught of what i have told you--it might injure my husband--i only make the revelation as a matter of duty to one i tried to lead astray." the thoughts of mrs. ellis did not run in a more peaceful channel after the departure of her friend. but she resolved to confess every thing to her husband, and promise to conform herself more to his wishes in the future. "what," she said, "if he should be in like business difficulties with mr. claxton? he has looked serious for a week past, and has remained at home every evening during the time--a thing unusual. and i don't think he has used liquor as freely as common. something is the matter. oh, i wish i had not done that!" while such thoughts were passing through the mind of mrs. ellis, her husband came home. she met him with an affectionate manner, which he returned. but there was a cloud on his brow that even her smile could not drive away. even as she met him, words of confession were on the tongue of mrs. ellis, but she shrank from giving them utterance. after tea she resolved to speak. but, when this set-time of acknowledgment came, she was as little prepared for the task as before. mr. ellis looked so troubled, that she could not find it in her heart to add to the pressure on his mind an additional weight. and so the evening passed, the secret of mrs. ellis remaining undivulged. and so, day after day went on. at length, one morning, the new carpet was sent home and put down. it was a beautiful carpet; but, as mrs. ellis stood looking upon it, after the upholsterer had departed, she found none of the pleasure she anticipated. "oh, why, why, why did i do this?" she murmured. "why was i tempted to such an act of folly?" gradually the new carpet faded from the eyes of mrs. ellis, and she saw only the troubled face of her husband. it was within an hour of dinner-time, and in painful suspense she waited his arrival. various plans for subduing the excitement which she saw would be created in his mind, and for reconciling him to the expense of the carpets, were thought over by mrs. ellis: among those was a proposition that he should give a note for the bill, which she would pay, when it matured, out of savings from her weekly allowance of money. "i can and will do it," said mrs. ellis, resolutely: her thought dwelt longer and longer on this suggestion. "i hope he will not be too angry to listen to what i have to say, when he comes home and sees the carpet. he's rather hasty sometimes." while in the midst of such thoughts, mrs. ellis, who had left the parlour, heard the shutting of the street-door, and the tread of her husband in the passage. glancing at the timepiece on the mantel, she saw that it was half an hour earlier than he usually came home. eagerly she bent her ear to listen. all was soon still. he had entered the rooms below, or paused on the threshold. a few breathless moments passed, then a smothered exclamation was heard, followed by two or three heavy foot-falls and the jarring of the outer door. mr. ellis had left the house! "gone! what does it mean?" exclaimed mrs. ellis, striking her hands together, while a strange uneasiness fell upon her heart. a long time she sat listening for sounds of his return; but she waited in vain. it was fully an hour past their usual time for dining, when she sat down to the table with her children, but not to partake of food herself. leaving mrs. ellis to pass the remainder of that unhappy day with her own troubled and upbraiding thoughts, we will return to her husband, and see how it fares with him. chapter xix. for hours after his wife had sunk into the forgetfulness of sleep, ellis lay awake, pondering over the ways and means by which he was to meet his engagements for the next day, which, exclusive of carlton's demand, were in the neighbourhood of a thousand dollars. during the previous two weeks, he had paid a good deal of money, but he was really but little better off therefor, the money so paid having been mainly procured through temporary loans from business friends. most of it he had promised to return on the morrow. earnestly as the mind of ellis dwelt on the subject, he was not able to devise the means of getting safely through the next day. "and what if i do get over the difficult place?" was the desponding conclusion of his mind--"ultimate failure is inevitable, unless a great reduction can be made in expenses. at present, our living exceeds the profits on my business. ah! if i could only make cara understand this! she has been more considerate and wife-like of late; but i fear to say one word about the embarrassed state of my affairs, lest the sunshine of love be again darkened with clouds and storms." with such thoughts in his mind, ellis fell asleep. on the next morning, he repaired early to his place of business, in order to have time fully to digest his plan of operations for the day. he had many doubts as to his ability to get through, but was resolute not to yield without a vigorous struggle. of the amount to be paid, only four hundred was for notes in bank. the rest was on borrowed money account. fully an hour and a half was spent in drawing off certain accounts, and in determining the line of operations for the morning. on receiving two hundred dollars for these accounts, ellis thought he might with safety calculate; and a lad was sent out to see to their collection. then he started forth himself. first in order, he deemed it best to see if he could not get a little more time on some of his borrowed money. this was a delicate operation, and its attempt could only, he felt, be justified by the exigencies of the case. the largest sum to be returned was three hundred dollars. he had borrowed it from a merchant in good circumstances, who could at any time command his thousands, and to whose credit there usually remained heavy balances in bank. but he was exceedingly punctilious in all business matters. both these facts ellis knew. it would put the merchant to no inconvenience whatever to continue the accommodation for ten days longer; but the policy of asking this was felt to be a very questionable one, as it would be most likely to create in his mind a doubt of ellis's standing, and a doubt in that quarter would be injurious. still, the case was so pressing, that ellis determined to see him. so, assuming a pleasant, partly unconcerned air, he called upon the merchant. "good morning, mr. a--," said he, in a cheerful tone. "good morning, friend ellis," returned the merchant, pushing his spectacles above his forehead, and fixing his eyes upon the face of his visitor, with a sharp, penetrating look which rather belied the smile that played about his lips. "let me see! isn't it to-day that i am to return you the three hundred dollars borrowed last week?" "i don't remember, but can tell you in a moment," replied a--, replacing his glasses, and taking from a pigeon-hole in the desk before which he sat a small memorandum-book. after consulting this, he replied-- "yes: you are right. it is to be returned to-day." "so i thought. very well. i'll send you a check around during the morning. that will answer, i presume?" "oh, certainly--certainly." so far, nothing was gained. a hurried debate, as to the policy of asking a few days more on the loan, took place in the mind of ellis. he then said-- "if just the same to you, it will be more convenient for me to return this money on the day after to-morrow." there was a slight contraction of brow on the part of mr. a--, who replied, rather coldly-- "i shall want it to-day, mr. ellis." "oh, very well--very well," said ellis, hiding artfully his disappointment. "it will be all the same. i will send you around a check in a little while." as he left the store, a-- said to himself-- "of all things, i like to see punctuality in the matter of engagements. the man who promises to return in an hour the money he borrows from you should keep his word to the minute." the failure to get a few days' extension of time on so important a sum had the effect to dispirit ellis a good deal. he left the store of the merchant in a despondent mood, and was returning towards his own place of business, when he met wilkinson. grasping the hand of the latter with the eagerness of one who knows, in a great extremity, that he is face to face with a real friend, he said-- "you must help me to-day." "i don't see that it is possible, ellis," was replied. "what amount do you want?" "i must have a thousand dollars." "so much?" "yes. but where the sum is to be obtained is more than i can divine." "is all to go into bank?" "no. six hundred is for borrowed money." "to whom is the latter due?" "i must return three hundred to a--." "he can do without it for a few days longer." "i have just seen him; but he says it must be returned to-day." "he does?" "yes. he wants to use it." wilkinson stood thoughtfully for some time. "can you return the sum in a week?" he then asked. "o yes; easily." "very well i'll go and ask him to loan me three hundred for a week. he'll do it, i know. you shall have the use of it for the time specified." "if you can get me that sum, you will place me under an everlasting obligation," said ellis, with more feeling than he wished to display. twenty minutes afterward the money was in his hands. it had been obtained from a--, and during the morning returned to him in payment of ellis's loan. so much accomplished, ellis turned his thoughts towards the ways and means for raising the seven hundred dollars yet required for the day's business. by twelve o'clock all of his borrowed money was returned; but his notes still remained in bank. in view of the difficulties yet to be surmounted, he felt that he had erred in not making it the first business of the day to take up his notes, and thus get beyond the danger of protest. but it was too late now for regrets to be of any avail. four hundred dollars must come from some quarter, or ruin was certain. but from whence was aid to come? he had not spent an idle moment since he came to his store in the morning, and had so fully passed over the limits within which his resources lay, that little ground yet remained to be broken, and the promise of that was small. while ellis stood meditating, in much perplexity of mind, what step next to take, a man entered his store, and, approaching him, read aloud from a paper which he drew from his pocket, a summons to answer before an alderman in the case of carlton, who had brought separate suits on his due-bills, each being for an amount less than one hundred dollars. "very well, i will attend to it," said ellis in a voice of assumed calmness, and the officer retired. slowly seating himself in a chair that stood by a low writing-desk, the unhappy man tried to compose his thoughts, in order that he might see precisely in what position this new move would place him. he could bring nothing in bar of carlton's claim unless the plea of its being a gambling debt were urged; and that would only ruin his credit in the business community. a hearing of the case was to take place in a week, when judgment would go against him, and then the quick work of an execution would render the immediate payment of the five hundred dollars necessary. all this ellis revolved in his thoughts, and then deliberately asked himself the question, if it were not better to give up at once. for a brief space of time, in the exhausted state produced by the un-equal struggle in which he was engaged, he felt like abandoning every thing; but a too-vivid realization of the consequences that would inevitably follow spurred his mind into a resolution to make one more vigorous effort to overcome the remaining difficulties of the day. with this new purpose, came a new suggestion of means, and he was in the act of leaving his store to call upon a friend not before thought of, when a carpet dealer, whom he knew very well, came in, and presented a bill. "what is this?" asked mr. ellis. "the bill for your parlour carpets," was answered. "what parlour carpets? you are in an error. we have no new parlour carpets. the bill is meant for some one else." "oh, no," returned the man, smiling. "the carpets were ordered two weeks ago; and this morning they were put down by the upholsterer." "who ordered them?" "mrs. ellis." "she did!" "yes; and directed the bill sent in to you?" "what is the amount?" "one hundred and sixty-eight dollars." "very well," said ellis, controlling himself, "i will attend to it." the man retired, leaving the mind of ellis in a complete sea of agitation. "if this be so," he muttered in a low, angry voice, "then is all over! to struggle against such odds is hopeless. but i cannot believe it. there is--there must be an error. the carpets are not mine. he has mistaken some other woman for my wife, and some other dwelling for mine. yes, yes, it must be so. cara would never dare to do this! but all doubt may be quickly settled." and with, this last sentence on his lips, ellis left his store, and walked with hurried steps homeward. entering his house, he stood for a moment or two in one of the parlour doors. a single glance sufficed. alas! it was but too true. "mad woman!" he exclaimed, in a low, bitter tone. "mad woman! you have driven me over the precipice!" turning quickly away, he left the house--to return to his store?--alas! no. with him the struggle was over. the manly spirit, that had, for nearly two weeks, battled so bravely with difficulty without and temptation within, yielded under this last assault. in less than an hour, all sense of pain was lost in the stupor of inebriation! chapter xx. we will not trace, minutely, the particulars attendant on the headlong downward course of henry ellis. the causes leading thereto have been fully set forth, and we need not refer back to them. enough, that the fall was complete. the wretched man appeared to lose all strength of mind, all hope in life, all self-respect. not even a feeble effort was opposed to the down-rushing torrent of disaster that swept away every vestige of his business. for more than a week he kept himself so stupefied with brandy, that neither friends nor creditors could get from him any intelligible statement in regard to his affairs. in the wish of the latter for an assignment, he passively acquiesced, and permitted all his effects to be taken from his hands. and so he was thrown upon the world, with his family, helpless, penniless, crushed in spirit, and weak as a child in the strong grasp of an over-mastering appetite, which had long been gathering strength for his day of weakness. over the sad history of the succeeding five years let us draw a veil. we have no heart to picture its suffering, its desolation, its hopelessness. if, in the beginning, there was too much pride in the heart of mrs. ellis, all was crushed out under the iron heel of grim adversity. if she had once thought too much of herself, and too little of her husband, a great change succeeded; for she clung to him in all the cruel and disgusting forms his abandonment assumed, and, with a self-sacrificing devotion, struggled with the fearful odds against her to retain for her husband and children some little warmth in the humble home where they were hidden from the world in which they once moved. from the drunkard, angels withdraw themselves, and evil spirits come into nearer companionship; hence, the bestiality and cruelty of drunkenness. the man, changing his internal associates, receives by inflex a new order of influence, and passively acts therefrom. he becomes, for the time, the human agent by which evil spirits effect their wicked purposes; and it usually happens that those who are nearest allied to him, and who have the first claims on him for support, protection, and love, are they who feel the heaviest weight of infernal malice. the husband and father too often becomes, in the hands of his evil associates, the cruel persecutor of those he should love and guard with the tenderest solicitude. so it was in the case of henry ellis. his manly nature underwent a gradually progressing change, until the image of god was wellnigh obliterated from his soul. after the lapse of five miserable years, let us introduce him and his family once more to the reader. five years! what a work has been done in that time! not in a pleasant home, surrounded with every comfort, as we last saw them, will they be found. alas, no! it was late in the year. frost had already done its work upon the embrowned forests, and leaf by leaf the withered foliage had dropped away or been swept in clouds before the autumnal winds. feebler and feebler grew, daily, the sun's planting rays, colder the air, and more cheerless the aspect of nature. one evening,--it was late in november, and the day had been damp and cold,--a woman, whose thin care-worn face and slender form marked her as an invalid, or one whose spirits had been broken by trouble, was busying herself in the preparation of supper. a girl, between twelve and thirteen years of age, was trying to amuse a child two years old, who, from some cause, was in a fretful humour; and a little girl in her seventh year was occupied with a book, in which she was spelling out a lesson that had been given by her mother. this was the family, or, rather, a part of the family of henry ellis. two members were absent, the father and the oldest boy. the room was small, and meagerly furnished, though every thing was clean and in order. in the centre of the floor, extending, perhaps, over half thereof, was a piece of faded carpet. on this a square, unpainted pine table stood, covered with a clean cloth and a few dishes. six common wooden chairs, one or two low stools or benches, a stained work-stand without drawers, and a few other necessary articles, including a bed in one corner, completed the furniture of this apartment, which was used as kitchen and sitting-room by the family, and, with a small room adjoining, constituted the entire household facilities of the family. "henry is late this evening," remarked mrs. ellis, as she laid the last piece of toast she had been making on the dish standing near the fire. "he ought to have been here half an hour ago." "and father is late too," said kate, the oldest daughter, who was engaged with the fretful child. "yes--he is late," returned mrs. ellis, as if speaking to herself. and she sighed heavily. just then the sound of feet was heard in the passage without. "there's henry now," said kate. and in a moment after the boy entered. his face did not wear the cheerful expression with which he usually met the waiting ones at home. his mother noticed the change; but asked no question then as to the cause. "i wish father was home," said mrs. ellis. "supper is all ready." "i don't think it's any use to wait for him," returned henry. "why not?" asked the mother, looking with some surprise at her son, in whose voice was a covert meaning. "because he won't be home to supper." "have you seen him, henry?" mrs. ellis fixed her eyes earnestly upon her son. "yes, mother. i saw him go into a tavern as i was coming along. i went in and tried to persuade him to come home with me. but he was angry about something, and told me to go about my business. i then said--'do, father, come home with me,' and took hold of his arm, when he turned quickly around, and slapped me in the face with the back of his hand." the boy, on saying this, burst into tears, and sobbed for some time violently. "oh, henry! did he do that?" such was the mother's exclamation. she tried to control her feelings, but could not. in a moment or two, tears gushed over her face. the only one who appeared calm was kate, henry's oldest sister. she uttered no expression of pain or surprise, but, after hearing what her brother said, looked down upon the floor, and seemed lost in meditation. "my poor children!" such were the thoughts that passed through the mind of mrs. ellis. "if i could only screen you from these dreadful consequences! if i only were the sufferer, i could bear the burden uncomplainingly. ah! will this cup never be full? is there no hope? how earnestly i have sought to win him back again, heaven only knows." from these reflections mrs. ellis was aroused by the voice of kate, who had arisen up and was taking from a nail in the wall her bonnet and an old merino coat. "where is the tavern, henry?" said she. "what tavern?" answered the boy. "the tavern where you saw father." "in second street." "why do you wish to know?" inquired mrs. ellis. "i will go for him. he'll come home for me." "no--no, kate. don't think of such a thing!" said mrs. ellis, speaking from the impulse of the moment. "it won't be of any use," remarked henry. "besides, it's very dark out, sister, and the tavern where i saw him is a long distance from here. indeed i wouldn't go, kate. he isn't at all himself." the young girl was not in the least influenced by this opposition, but, rather, strengthened in her purpose. she knew that the air was damp and chilly, from an approaching easterly storm; and the thought of his being exposed to cold and rain at night, in the streets, touched her heart with a painful interest in her erring, debased, and fallen parent. "it will rain to-night," said she, looking at her brother. "i felt a fine mist in the driving wind just as i came near the door," replied henry. "if father is not himself, he may fall in the street, and perish in the cold." "i don't think there is any danger of that, sister. he will be home after awhile. at any rate, there is little chance of your finding him, for he won't be likely to remain long at the tavern where i left him." "if i can't find him, so much the worse," replied the girl, firmly. "but, unless mother forbids my going, i must seek him and bring him home." kate turned her eyes full upon her mother's face, as she said this, and, in an attitude of submission, awaited her reply. "i think," said mrs. ellis, after a long silence, "that little good will come of this; yet, i cannot say no." "then i will find him and bring him home," was the animated response of kate. "you must not go alone," remarked henry, taking up the cap he had a few minutes before laid off. "wait for supper. it is all ready," said mrs. ellis. "don't go out until you have eaten something." "no time is to be lost, mother," replied kate. "and, then, i haven't the least appetite." "but your brother has been working hard all day, and is, of course, tired and hungry." "oh, i forgot," said kate. "but henry needn't go with me. if he will only tell me exactly where i can find father, that will be enough. i think i'd better see him alone." "food would choke me now." henry's voice was husky and tremulous. "come, sister," he added, after a pause, "if this work is done at all, it must be done quickly." without a word more on either part, the brother and sister left the room, and started on their errand. chapter xxi. late in the afternoon of the day on which occurred the incidents mentioned in the preceding chapter, mr. wilkinson, who had entirely recovered from his embarrassed condition, and who was now a sober man in every sense of the word, as well as a thrifty merchant, was standing at one of the counters in his large, well filled store, when a miserable looking creature entered and came back to where he stood. "good-day, mr. wilkinson," said the new-comer. surprise kept the merchant silent for some moments, when the other said-- "you don't know me, i presume." "henry ellis!" exclaimed wilkinson. "is it possible you have fallen so low?" "just as you see me," was replied. "you ought to be more of a man than this. you ought to have more strength of character," said wilkinson, giving utterance to the first thought that came into his mind. "oh, yes; it is easy to talk," replied ellis, with a slight impatience of manner. "but you know my history as well almost as i know it myself. i was driven to ruin." "how so?" "why do you ask the question?" "you refer to your wife?" "of course i do. she drove me to destruction." "that is a hard saying, mr. ellis." "yet true as that the sun shines. and she has had her reward!" this last sentence was uttered in a tone of self-satisfaction that deeply pained mr. wilkinson. "i saw your wife this morning," he remarked, after a moment's silence. "you did! where?" "i passed her in the street; and the sight of her made my heart ache. ah, my friend! if you have been wronged, deeply is the wrong repaid! such a wreck! i could scarcely believe my eyes. ellis! i read at a single glance her countenance, marred by long suffering, and found in it only the sad evidences of patient endurance. she is changed. i am bold to say that. if she erred, she has repented." "but not atoned for a wrong that is irreparable," said ellis in a dogged tone, while his heavy brows contracted. "ah! how changed you are, ellis: once so kind-hearted, so forgiving and forbearing!" "and what changed me? answer me that, john wilkinson! yes, i am changed--changed from a man into--into--yes, let me say the word--into a devil! and who held the enchanter's wand? who? the wife of my bosom!" wilkinson felt a shudder creeping along his nerves as he looked at the excited man, and heard his words. "cara never acts toward you, now, other than with kindness," said he. but ellis made no answer to this. "let the past suffice, my friend," added wilkinson. "both have suffered enough. resolve, in the strength of god and your own manhood, to rise out of the horrible pit and miry clay into which you have fallen." "that is impossible. so we won't talk about it," said ellis, impatiently. "lend me half a dollar, won't you?" the hand of wilkinson went instinctively to his pocket. but he withdrew it, without the coin he had designed, from the moment's impulse, to give. shaking his head, he replied to the application, "i can't give you money, ellis." "you can't?" "no; for that would be no real kindness. but, if you will reform your life; if you will abandon drink, and become a sober, industrious man, i will pledge myself to procure you a good situation as clerk. in a few years you may regain all that has been lost." "bah!" muttered ellis, grinding his teeth as he spoke. "all good talk!" and, turning away, he passed from the store of his old friend. without a cent in his pocket, and burning with a desire for drink, he had conquered all reluctance and shame, and applied, as we have seen, to an old friend, for money. two or three other ineffectual attempts were made to get small sums, but they proved fruitless. for some time he wandered about the streets; then he entered one of the lower class of taverns, and boldly called for a glass of liquor. but the keeper of this den, grown suspicious by experience, saw in the face or manner of ellis that he had no money, and coolly demanded pay before setting forth his bottle. it was just at this untimely crisis that henry came in, and, taking hold of his father's arm, urged him to come home. the cruel rebuff he received is known. the blow was no sooner given by ellis than repented of; and this motion of regret prompted him to express his sorrow for the hasty act, but when he turned to speak to the lad, he was gone. almost maddened by thirst and excitement, the poor wretch caught up from the counter a pitcher of ice water, and, placing it to his lips, took therefrom a long deep draught. then slowly turning away, he sought a chair in a far corner of the room; where he seated himself, crossed his arms on a table, and buried his face therein. the pure cold water allayed the fever that burned along the drunkard's veins. gradually a deep calm pervaded his mind, and then thought became active amid thronging memories of the past. he had once loved his home and his children; and the image of henry, when a bright-eyed, curly-headed, happy child, came up so vividly before him, that it was only by an effort that he kept the tears from gushing over his face. for years he had cherished, in mere self-justification, the bitterest feeling towards his wife; and hundreds of times had he given expression to these feelings in words that smote the heart of cara with crushing force. only a little while before he had spoken of her, in the presence of wilkinson, in a hard and unforgiving spirit; but now he thought of her more kindly. he remembered how patiently she had borne with him; how uncomplainingly she had met and struggled with her hard lot; how many times she had tried to smile upon him, even through tears that could not be restrained. never was he met, on his return home, with coldness or neglect. wife and children all sought his comfort; yet he cared nothing for them, and even filled their paths through life with thorns. and his boy, henry, whom he had just repulsed in so cruel a manner, to his labour was he indebted, mainly, for the food that was daily set before him. how this thought smote him! how it filled his heart with shame and repentance! musing thus, the unhappy man remained, until, gradually, his thoughts became confused. the temporary excitement of feeling died away, and sleep overcame him. in his sleep he dreamed, and his dream was vivid as reality. not as of old did he find himself; but, in the vision that came to him, he was still in bondage and degradation, with a horribly distinct realization of his condition. his vile companions were around him, but greatly changed; for they appeared more like monsters of evil than men, and were malignant in their efforts to do harm. against him they seemed to feel an especial hatred. some glared and gleamed upon him with the fire of murder in their eyes; some pointed to a cheerless apartment, in which he saw his wife and children cowering and shivering over a few dying embers, and they said--"it is your work! it is your work!" they were devils in distorted human shapes, and he was terribly afraid. suddenly he was set upon by one, who caught him by the throat and dragged him into what seemed the cell of a prison, where he was cast upon a heap of straw, and left shuddering with cold and fear. alone, for days and weeks he remained in this prison, until despair seemed to dry up the very blood in his veins, and, after a desperate struggle to break through the bars of his narrow house, he sank down exhausted and ready to die. then came a new horror. he had died, to all outward appearance, and was in his coffin. he felt his body compressed, and gasped and panted for air in his narrow house of boards. it was an awful moment. suddenly a voice came to his ear: "father! father!" it was the voice of his child--of kate. how its tones thrilled through him! how his heart leaped with the hope of deliverance! "father! dear father!"--the call was renewed, but he could make no answer, for his tongue was powerless. again and again the call was repeated, yet he could utter no sound--could make no sign. farther off, then, he heard his name called. horror! she had failed to discover him, and was about departing. in the agony of the moment he awoke. there was a hand laid gently upon him, and a voice said--"father! dear father! come!" it was the voice of his child; the same voice that had penetrated his dreaming ear. "oh, kate!" he exclaimed, eagerly; "is it indeed you?" "yes, father," she answered; "and won't you come home with me?" the wretched man did not answer in words but arose immediately and went out with his daughter. "oh, what a dream i had, kate!" said mr. ellis, as he left the door of the tavern; "and you came to me in my dream." his feelings were much excited, and he spoke with emotion. "did i, father?" replied the girl. "and how did i come? as a good angel to save you?" "waking, you have come to me as such," answered the father after a brief silence, speaking more calmly, and as if to himself. how wild a thrill shot through the frame of kate at these words, so full of meaning to her; but she dared not trust herself to make an answer, lest she should do harm rather than good. and so they walked, in silence, all the way home; henry, who had accompanied his sister, keeping a short distance behind them, so that his father had no indication of his presence. chapter xxii. how the hearts of the mother and her two oldest children trembled with hope and fear! a marked change was apparent in mr. ellis when he came home with kate. he was sober, and very serious, but said nothing; and mrs. ellis deemed it prudent to say nothing to him. on the next morning, he did not rise early. henry had eaten his breakfast and was away to his work, and kate had gone to market to get something for dinner, when he got up and dressed himself. mrs. ellis was ready for him with a good cup of coffee, a piece of hot toast, some broiled steak, and a couple of eggs. she said little, but her tones were subdued and very kind. noticing that his hand trembled so that he spilled his coffee in raising his cup to his lips, (his custom was to get a glass of liquor before breakfast to steady his nerves,) she came and stood beside him, saying, as she did so--"let me hold your cup for you." ellis acquiesced; and so his wife held the cup to his lips while he drank. "oh, dear! this is a dreadful state to be in cara!" the exclamation was spontaneous. had ellis thought a moment, his pride would have caused him to repress it. mrs. ellis did not reply, for she was afraid to trust herself to speak, lest her words or voice should express something that would check the better feelings that were in the heart of her husband. but, ere she could repress it, a tear fell upon his hand. almost with a start, ellis turned and looked up into her face. it was calm, yet sorrowful. the pale and wasted condition of that face had never so struck him before. "ah, cara," said he, dropping his knife and fork, "it is dreadful to live in this way. dreadful! dreadful!" the poor, almost heart-broken wife could command herself no longer; and she laid her face down upon her husband and sobbed--the more convulsively from her efforts to regain self-possession. "oh, henry!" she at length murmured, "if the past were only ours! if we could but live over our lives, with some of the experience that living gives, how differently should we act! but, surely, hope is not clean gone for ever! is there not yet a better and a brighter day for even us?" "there is, cara! there is!" replied ellis, in tones of confidence. "it has been a long, long night, cara; a cold and cheerless night. but the morning breaks. there is not much strength left in this poor arm," and he extended his right hand, that trembled like an aspen leaf--"but it can yet do something. it shall not be with us as it has been any longer. in the sight of heaven, and in the hope of strength from above, i promise that, cara. will you help me to keep my promise?" "yes--yes--yes," was the emphatic response. "if there is in me a particle of strength, it is yours, and you may lean on it confidently. oh, henry! trust in me. the lessons of the past have not been learned in vain." "i am very weak, cara; the pressure of a child's hand might throw me over. do not forget this. never forget it! if you will keep close to my side, if you will help me, and love me,"--his voice quivered, and he paused, but regained himself in a few moments--"i think all will be well with us again. god helping me, i will try." "oh, my husband!" sobbed mrs. ellis, drawing her arms lovingly about him--"it will be well with us, for god will help you, i will help you, all will help you. forget? oh, no! i can never forget. have we not all been thoughtful of you, and kind to you in the night that is passing away?" "yes, cara, yes." "and will we not be kinder and more loving in the brighter future? we will! we will, henry! oh! how my glad heart runs over!" "i saw mr. wilkinson yesterday," said ellis, after both had grown calmer; "and he said that he could and would get me a situation as clerk. i am now going to see him, and, if he be as good as his word, this desert place"--and he glanced about the room--"will soon brighten as the rose." the entrance of kate closed the interview. in a little while, ellis, after shaving himself, and in every possible way improving his appearance, left the house and went direct to the store of wilkinson. "henry! is it possible!" exclaimed the latter, in surprise, when ellis stood before him. "in my right mind again," was the calm, but firmly spoken answer. "how glad i am to hear you say so!" and wilkinson grasped the hand of his old friend, and shook it warmly. "you remember your promise of yesterday?" said ellis. he spoke seriously. "to get you a good situation?" "yes." "i have not forgotten my word, henry; and will keep it. you are a good accountant?" "i am." "this morning my book-keeper notified me of his intention to leave as soon as i could supply his place. if you will take the situation at seven hundred and fifty dollars a year, it is open for you." "john wilkinson!" exclaimed ellis, seizing the hand of his friend, and exhibiting much agitation. "are you indeed in earnest?" "i never was more so in my life," was replied. "then, indeed the day has broken!" said ellis, with emotion. "when will you want me to begin?" he asked after a short period of silence. "now," replied wilkinson. "now, did you say?" "yes. i have work that needs attention at once. when will you come?" "a good beginning never can be made too early. now." wilkinson turned, and the two men walked back to a vacant desk. a number of accounts and letters lay thereon, and, as wilkinson began to enter into some explanation in regard to them, ellis took up a pen and laid the point of it on a sheet of paper. the nervous tremor of his hand showed him to be in no condition for the task upon which he was about entering. wilkinson comprehended this in a moment, and a fear lest the drunkard's delirium should follow so sudden a withdrawal of stimulant from the system of ellis, sent a chill through his feelings. instead of putting him to the desk at once, he determined, on the instant, to employ him at more active work about the store for a few weeks, until, if he kept to his good resolution, some degree of firmness was restored to his shattered nerves. in agreement with this humane purpose he acted. with what trembling anxiety did mrs. ellis await the return of her husband at dinner-time! the hours wore slowly away, and, at last, her watchful ear caught the sound of his footsteps. she scarcely breathed until the door opened. one glance sufficed. all was well. how glad was the impulse with which her stilled heart went on again! tears of joy bedewed her face, when he related the good fortune that had attended his call on wilkinson. "yes, yes," said he, when he had told her all, and glancing around the room as he spoke. "this desert place shall blossom as the rose. i have said it, and i will keep my word." in the evening, henry and his father met, for the first time, face to face, since they parted in anger on one side and grief on the other. when kate came home with the latter on the night previous, henry had managed to enter the house before them, and so kept out of his father's way. now, on coming in from his work, he found him already at home, and so changed in appearance, that he gazed upon him with a surprise which he could not at first conceal. "henry, my son," said mr. ellis, in a kind, self-possessed tone of voice, and he reached out his hand as he spoke. the boy took his father's hand, and looked earnestly into his face. "henry, how long have you been with mr. wilson?" inquired mr. ellis. "two years, sir," was answered. the father looked at the boy's hands, and sighed. they were hard and discolored from labour. "tell mr. wilson, in the morning," said he, "that i wish you to leave him after this week." "sir!" henry looked surprised. "tell him that i wish you to go to school for a year or two." "father!" the blood flew suddenly to the lad's face. for a few moments he looked at his father; then turning, he passed quickly into the adjoining room. in the stillness that followed, were audible the sobs that came from his overflowing heart. a week, a month, a year have passed, yet the promise of that happy time is dimmed not by a single cloud. firm in his better purpose and fully sustained at home, henry ellis is walking steadily the path of safety. home is what it ever should have been, the pleasantest place in all the world; for she who is its sunlight never meets him with a clouded face. his desert has, indeed, blossomed as the rose. may the bloom and fragrance thereof never fade nor lose its sweetness! the end. ten nights in a bar room by t. s. arthur contents night the first--the "sickle and sheaf." night the second--the changes of a year. night the third--joe morgan's child. night the fourth--death of little mary morgan. night the fifth--some of the consequences of tavern-keeping. night the sixth--more consequences. night the seventh--sowing the wind. night the eighth--reaping the whirlwind. night the ninth--a fearful consummation. night the tenth--the closing scene at the "sickle and sheaf." night the first. the "sickle and sheaf." ten years ago, business required me to pass a day in cedarville. it was late in the afternoon when the stage set me down at the "sickle and sheaf," a new tavern, just opened by a new landlord, in a new house, built with the special end of providing "accommodations for man and beast." as i stepped from the dusty old vehicle in which i had been jolted along a rough road for some thirty miles, feeling tired and hungry, the good-natured face of simon slade, the landlord, beaming as it did with a hearty welcome, was really a pleasant sight to see, and the grasp of his hand was like that of a true friend. i felt as i entered the new and neatly furnished sitting-room adjoining the bar, that i had indeed found a comfortable resting-place after my wearisome journey. "all as nice as a new pin," said i, approvingly, as i glanced around the room, up to the ceiling--white as the driven snow--and over the handsomely carpeted floor. "haven't seen anything so inviting as this. how long have you been open?" "only a few months," answered the gratified landlord. "but we are not yet in good going order. it takes time, you know, to bring everything into the right shape. have you dined yet?" "no. everything looked so dirty at the stage-house, where we stopped to get dinner, that i couldn't venture upon the experiment of eating. how long before your supper will be ready?" "in an hour," replied the landlord. "that will do. let me have a nice piece of tender steak, and the loss of dinner will soon be forgotten." "you shall have that, cooked fit for an alderman," said the landlord. "i call my wife the best cook in cedarville." as he spoke, a neatly dressed girl, about sixteen years of age, with rather an attractive countenance, passed through the room. "my daughter," said the landlord, as she vanished through the door. there was a sparkle of pride in the father's eyes, and a certain tenderness in the tones of his voice, as he said "my daughter" that told me she was very dear to him. "you are a happy man to have so fair a child," said i, speaking more in compliment than with a careful choice of words. "i am a happy man," was the landlord's smiling answer; his fair, round face, unwrinkled by a line of care or trouble, beaming with self-satisfaction. "i have always been a happy man, and always expect to be. simon slade takes the world as it comes, and takes it easy. my son, sir," he added, as a boy, in his twelfth year, came in. "speak to the gentleman." the boy lifted to mine a pair of deep blue eyes, from which innocence beamed, as he offered me his hand, and said, respectfully--"how do you do, sir?" i could not but remark the girl-like beauty of his face, in which the hardier firmness of the boy's character was already visible. "what is your name?" i asked. "frank, sir." "frank is his name," said the landlord--"we called him after his uncle. frank and flora--the names sound pleasant to the ears. but you know parents are apt to be a little partial and over fond." "better that extreme than its opposite," i remarked. "just what i always say. frank, my son,"--the landlord spoke to the boy--"there's some one in the bar. you can wait on him as well as i can." the lad glided from the room in ready obedience. "a handy boy that, sir; a very handy boy. almost as good, in the bar as a man. he mixes a toddy or a punch just as well as i can." "but," i suggested, "are you not a little afraid of placing one so young in the way of temptation?" "temptation!" the open brows of simon slade contracted a little. "no, sir!" he replied, emphatically. "the till is safer under his care than it would be in that of one man in ten. the boy comes, sir, of honest parents. simon slade never wronged anybody out of a farthing." "oh," said i, quickly, "you altogether misapprehend me. i had no reference to the till, but to the bottle." the landlord's brows were instantly unbent, and a broad smile circled over his good-humored face. "is that all? nothing to fear, i can assure you. frank has no taste for liquor, and might pour it out for mouths without a drop finding its way to his lips. nothing to apprehend there, sir--nothing." i saw that further suggestions of danger would be useless, and so remained silent. the arrival of a traveler called away the landlord, and i was left alone for observation and reflection. the bar adjoined the neat sitting-room, and i could see, through the open door, the customer upon whom the lad was attending. he was a well-dressed young man--or rather boy, for he did not appear to be over nineteen years of age--with a fine, intelligent face, that was already slightly marred by sensual indulgence. he raised the glass to his lips, with a quick, almost eager motion, and drained it at a single draught. "just right," said he, tossing a sixpence to the young bar-tender. "you are first rate at a brandy-toddy. never drank a better in my life." the lad's smiling face told that he was gratified by the compliment. to me the sight was painful, for i saw that this youthful tippler was on dangerous ground. "who is that young man in the bar?" i asked, a few minutes afterward, on being rejoined by the landlord. simon slade stepped to the door and looked into the bar for a moment. two or three men were there by this time; but he was at no loss in answering my question. "oh, that's a son of judge hammond, who lives in the large brick house as you enter the village. willy hammond, as everybody familiarly calls him, is about the finest young man in our neighborhood. there is nothing proud or put-on about him--nothing--even if his father is a judge, and rich into the bargain. every one, gentle or simple, likes willy hammond. and then he is such good company. always so cheerful, and always with a pleasant story on his tongue. and he's so high-spirited withal, and so honorable. willy hammond would lose his right hand rather than be guilty of a mean action." "landlord!" the voice came loud from the road in front of the house, and simon slade again left me to answer the demands of some new-comer. i went into the bar-room, in order to take a closer observation of willy hammond, in whom an interest, not unmingled with concern, had already been awakened in my mind. i found him engaged in a pleasant conversation with a plain-looking farmer, whose homely, terse, common sense was quite as conspicuous as his fine play of words and lively fancy. the farmer was a substantial conservative, and young hammond a warm admirer of new ideas and the quicker adaptation of means to ends. i soon saw that his mental powers were developed beyond his years, while his personal qualities were strongly attractive. i understood better, after being a silent listener and observer for ten minutes, why the landlord had spoken of him so warmly. "take a brandy-toddy, mr. h--?" said hammond, after the discussion closed, good humoredly. "frank, our junior bar-keeper here, beats his father, in that line." "i don't care if i do," returned the farmer; and the two passed up to the bar. "now, frank, my boy, don't belie my praises," said the young man; "do your handsomest." "two brandy-toddies, did you say?" frank made inquiry with quite a professional air. "just what i did say; and let them be equal to jove's nectar." pleased at this familiarity, the boy went briskly to his work of mixing the tempting compound, while hammond looked on with an approving smile. "there," said the latter, as frank passed the glasses across the counter, "if you don't call that first-rate, you're no judge." and he handed one of them to the farmer, who tasted the agreeable draught, and praised its flavor. as before, i noticed that hammond drank eagerly, like one athirst--emptying his glass without once taking it from his lips. soon after the bar-room was empty; and then i walked around the premises, in company with the landlord, and listened to his praise of everything and his plans and purposes for the future. the house, yard, garden, and out-buildings were in the most perfect order; presenting, in the whole, a model of a village tavern. "whatever i do, sir," said the talkative simon slade, "i like to do well. i wasn't just raised to tavern-keeping, you must know; but i am one who can turn his hand to almost any thing." "what was your business?" i inquired. "i'm a miller, sir, by trade," he answered--"and a better miller, though i say it myself, is not to be found in bolton county. i've followed milling these twenty years, and made some little money. but i got tired of hard work, and determined to lead an easier life. so i sold my mill, and built this house with the money. i always thought i'd like tavern-keeping. it's an easy life; and, if rightly seen after, one in which a man is sure to make money." "you were still doing a fair business with your mill?" "oh, yes. whatever i do, i do right. last year, i put by a thousand dollars above all expenses, which is not bad, i can assure you, for a mere grist mill. if the present owner comes out even, he'll do well!" "how is that?" "oh, he's no miller. give him the best wheat that is grown, and he'll ruin it in grinding. he takes the life out of every grain. i don't believe he'll keep half the custom that i transferred with the mill." "a thousand dollars, clear profit, in so useful a business, ought to have satisfied you," said i. "there you and i differ," answered the landlord. "every man desires to make as much money as possible, and with the least labor. i hope to make two or three thousand dollars a year, over and above all expenses, at tavern-keeping. my bar alone ought to yield me that sum. a man with a wife and children very naturally tries to do as well by them as possible." "very true; but," i ventured to suggest, "will this be doing as well by them as if you had kept on at the mill?" "two or three thousand dollars a year against one thousand! where are your figures, man?" "there may be something beyond money to take into the account," said i. "what?" inquired slade, with a kind of half credulity. "consider the different influences of the two callings in life--that of a miller and a tavern-keeper." "well, say on." "will your children be as safe from temptation here as in their former home?" "just as safe," was the unhesitating answer. "why not?" i was about to speak of the alluring glass in the case of frank, but remembering that i had already expressed a fear in that direction, felt that to do so again would be useless, and so kept silent. "a tavern-keeper," said slade, "is just as respectable as a miller--in fact, the very people who used to call me 'simon' or 'neighbor dustycoat,' now say 'landlord,' or 'mr. slade,' and treat me in every way more as if i were an equal than ever they did before." "the change," said i, "may be due to the fact of your giving evidence of possessing some means. men are very apt to be courteous to those who have property. the building of the tavern has, without doubt, contributed to the new estimation in which you are held." "that isn't all," replied the landlord. "it is because i am keeping a good tavern, and thus materially advancing the interests of cedarville, that some of our best people look at me with different eyes." "advancing the interests of cedarville! in what way?" i did not apprehend his meaning. "a good tavern always draws people to a place, while a miserable old tumble-down of an affair, badly kept, such as we have had for years, as surely repels them. you can generally tell something about the condition of a town by looking at its taverns. if they are well kept, and doing a good business, you will hardly be wrong in the conclusion that the place is thriving. why, already, since i built and opened the 'sickle and sheaf,' property has advanced over twenty per cent along the whole street, and not less than five new houses have been commenced." "other causes, besides the simple opening of a new tavern, may have contributed to this result," said i. "none of which i am aware. i was talking with judge hammond only yesterday--he owns a great deal of ground on the street--and he did not hesitate to say, that the building and opening of a good tavern here had increased the value of his property at least five thousand dollars. he said, moreover, that he thought the people of cedarville ought to present me with a silver pitcher; and that, for one, he would contribute ten dollars for that purpose." the ringing of the supper bell interrupted further conversation; and with the best of appetites, i took my way to the room, where a plentiful meal was spread. as i entered, i met the wife of simon slade, just passing out, after seeing that every thing was in order. i had not observed her before; and now could not help remarking that she had a flushed, excited countenance, as if she had been over a hot fire, and was both worried and fatigued. and there was, moreover, a peculiar expression of the mouth, never observed in one whose mind is entirely at ease--an expression that once seen is never forgotten. the face stamped itself instantly on my memory; and i can even now recall it with almost the original distinctness. how strongly it contrasted with that of her smiling, self-satisfied husband, who took his place at the head of his table with an air of conscious importance. i was too hungry to talk much, and so found greater enjoyment in eating than in conversation. the landlord had a more chatty guest by his side, and i left them to entertain each other, while i did ample justice to the excellent food with which the table was liberally provided. after supper i went to the sitting-room, and remained there until the lamps were lighted. a newspaper occupied my time for perhaps half an hour; then the buzz of voices from the adjoining bar-room, which had been increasing for some time, attracted my attention, and i went in there to see and hear what was passing. the first person upon whom my eyes rested was young hammond, who sat talking with a man older than himself by several years. at a glance, i saw that this man could only associate himself with willy hammond as a tempter. unscrupulous selfishness was written all over his sinister countenance; and i wondered that it did not strike every one, as it did me, with instant repulsion. there could not be, i felt certain, any common ground of association, for two such persons, but the dead level of a village bar-room. i afterward learned, during the evening, that this man's name was harvey green, and that he was an occasional visitor at cedarville, remaining a few days, or a few weeks at a time, as appeared to suit his fancy, and having no ostensible business or special acquaintance with anybody in the village. "there is one thing about him," remarked simon slade, in answering some question that i put in reference to the man, "that i don't object to; he has plenty of money, and is not at all niggardly in spending it. he used to come here, so he told me, about once in five or six months; but his stay at the miserably kept tavern, the only one then in cedarville, was so uncomfortable, that he had pretty well made up his mind never to visit us again. now, however, he has engaged one of my best rooms, for which he pays me by the year, and i am to charge him full board for the time he occupies it. he says that there is something about cedarville that always attracts him; and that his health is better while here than it is anywhere except south during the winter season. he'll never leave less than two or three hundred dollars a year in our village--there is one item, for you, of advantage to a place in having a good tavern." "what is his business?" i asked. "is he engaged in any trading operations?" the landlord shrugged his shoulders, and looked slightly mysterious, as he answered: "i never inquire about the business of a guest. my calling is to entertain strangers. if they are pleased with my house, and pay my bills on presentation, i have no right to seek further. as a miller, i never asked a customer, whether he raised, bought, or stole his wheat. it was my business to grind it, and i took care to do it well. beyond that, it was all his own affair. and so it will be in my new calling. i shall mind my own business and keep my own place." besides young hammond and this harvey green, there were in the bar-room, when i entered, four others besides the landlord. among these was a judge lyman--so he was addressed--a man between forty and fifty years of age, who had a few weeks before received the democratic nomination for member of congress. he was very talkative and very affable, and soon formed a kind of centre of attraction to the bar-room circle. among other topics of conversation that came up was the new tavern, introduced by the landlord, in whose mind it was, very naturally, the uppermost thought. "the only wonder to me is," said judge lyman, "that nobody had wit enough to see the advantage of a good tavern in cedarville ten years ago, or enterprise enough to start one. i give our friend slade the credit of being a shrewd, far-seeing man; and, mark my word for it, in ten years from to-day he will be the richest man in the county." "nonsense--ho! ho!" simon slade laughed outright. "the richest man! you forget judge hammond." "no, not even judge hammond, with all deference for our clever friend willy," and judge lyman smiled pleasantly on the young man. "if he gets richer, somebody will be poorer!" the individual who tittered these words had not spoken before, and i turned to look at him more closely. a glance showed him to be one of a class seen in all bar-rooms; a poor, broken-down inebriate, with the inward power of resistance gone--conscious of having no man's respect, and giving respect to none. there was a shrewd twinkle in his eyes, as he fixed them on slade, that gave added force to the peculiar tone in which his brief but telling sentence was uttered. i noticed a slight contraction on the landlord's ample forehead, the first evidence i had yet seen of ruffled feelings. the remark, thrown in so untimely (or timely, some will say), and with a kind of prophetic malice, produced a temporary pause in the conversation. no one answered or questioned the intruder, who, i could perceive, silently enjoyed the effect of his words. but soon the obstructed current ran on again. "if our excellent friend, mr. slade," said harvey green, "is not the richest man in cedarville at the end of ten years, he will at least enjoy the satisfaction of having made his town richer." "a true word that," replied judge lyman--"as true a word as ever was spoken. what a dead-and-alive place this has been until within the last few months. all vigorous growth had stopped, and we were actually going to seed." "and the graveyard, too," muttered the individual who had before disturbed the self-satisfied harmony of the company, remarking upon the closing sentence of harvey green. "come, landlord," he added, as he strode across to the bar, speaking in a changed, reckless sort of a way, "fix me up a good hot whisky-punch, and do it right; and here's another sixpence toward the fortune you are bound to make. it's the last one left--not a copper more in my pockets," and he turned them inside-out, with a half-solemn, half-ludicrous air. "i send it to keep company in your till with four others that have found their way into that snug place since morning, and which will be lonesome without their little friend." i looked at simon slade; his eyes rested on mine for a moment or two, and then sunk beneath my earnest gaze. i saw that his countenance flushed, and that his motions were slightly confused. the incident, it was plain, did not awaken agreeable thoughts. once i saw his hand move toward the sixpence that lay upon the counter; but whether to push it back or draw it toward the till, i could not determine. the whisky-punch was in due time ready, and with it the man retired to a table across the room, and sat down to enjoy the tempting beverage. as he did so, the landlord quietly swept the poor unfortunate's last sixpence into his drawer. the influence of this strong potation was to render the man a little more talkative. to the free conversation passing around him he lent an attentive ear, dropping in a word, now and then, that always told upon the company like a well-directed blow. at last, slade lost all patience with him, and said, a little fretfully: "look here, joe morgan, if you will be ill-natured, pray go somewhere else, and not interrupt good feeling among gentlemen." "got my last sixpence," retorted joe, turning his pockets inside-out again. "no more use for me here to-night. that's the way of the world. how apt a scholar is our good friend dustycoat, in this new school! well, he was a good miller--no one ever disputed that--and it's plain to see that he is going to make a good landlord. i thought his heart was a little too soft; but the indurating process has begun, and, in less than ten years, if it isn't as hard as one of his old mill-stones, joe morgan is no prophet. oh, you needn't knit your brows so, friend simon, we're old friends; and friends are privileged to speak plain." "i wish you'd go home. you're not yourself tonight," said the landlord, a little coaxingly, for he saw that nothing was to be gained by quarreling with morgan. "maybe my heart is growing harder," he added, with affected good-humor; "and it is time, perhaps. one of my weaknesses, i have heard even you say, was being too woman-hearted." "no danger of that now," retorted joe morgan. "i've known a good many landlords in my time, but can't remember one that was troubled with the disease that once afflicted you." just at this moment the outer door was pushed open with a slow, hesitating motion; then a little pale face peered in, and a pair of soft blue eyes went searching about the room. conversation was instantly hushed, and every face, excited with interest, turned toward the child, who had now stepped through the door. she was not over ten years of age; but it moved the heart to look upon the saddened expression of her young countenance, and the forced bravery therein, that scarcely overcame the native timidity so touchingly visible. "father!" i have never heard this word spoken in a voice that sent such a thrill along every nerve. it was full of sorrowful love--full of a tender concern that had its origin too deep for the heart of a child. as she spoke, the little one sprang across the room, and laying her hands upon the arm of joe morgan, lifted her eyes, that were ready to gush over with tears, to his face. "come father! won't you come home?" i hear that low, pleading voice even now, and my heart gives a quicker throb. poor child! darkly shadowed was the sky that bent gloomily over thy young life. morgan arose, and suffered the child to lead him from the room. he seemed passive in her hands. i noticed that he thrust his fingers nervously into his pocket, and that a troubled look went over his face as they were withdrawn. his last sixpence was in the till of simon slade! the first man who spoke was harvey green, and this not for a minute after the father and his child had vanished through the door. "if i was in your place, landlord"--his voice was cold and unfeeling--"i'd pitch that fellow out of the bar-room the next time he stepped through the door. he's no business here, in the first place; and, in the second, he doesn't know how to behave himself. there's no telling how much a vagabond like him injures a respectable house." "i wish he would stay away," said simon, with a perplexed air. "i'd make him stay away," answered green. "that may be easier said than done," remarked judge lyman. "our friend keeps a public-house, and can't just say who shall or shall not come into it." "but such a fellow has no business here. he's a good-for-nothing sot. if i kept a tavern, i'd refuse to sell him liquor." "that you might do," said judge lyman; "and i presume your hint will not be lost on our friend slade." "he will have liquor, so long as he can get a cent to buy it with," remarked one of the company; "and i don't see why our landlord here, who has gone to so much expense to fit up a tavern, shouldn't have the sale of it as well as anybody else. joe talks a little freely sometimes; but no one can say that he is quarrelsome. you've got to take him as he is, that's all." "i am one," retorted harvey green, with a slightly ruffled manner, "who is never disposed to take people as they are when they choose to render themselves disagreeable. if i was mr. slade, as i remarked in the beginning, i'd pitch that fellow into the road the next time he put his foot over my door step." "not if i were present," remarked the other, coolly. green was on his feet in a moment, and i saw, from the flash of his eyes, that he was a man of evil passions. moving a pace or two in the direction of the other, he said sharply. "what is that, sir?" the individual against whom his anger was so suddenly aroused was dressed plainly, and had the appearance of a working man. he was stout and muscular. "i presume you heard my words. they were spoken distinctly," he replied, not moving from where he sat, nor seeming to be in the least disturbed. but there was a cool defiance in the tones of his voice and in the steady look of his eyes. "you're an impertinent fellow, and i'm half tempted to chastise you." green had scarcely finished the sentence, ere he was lying full length upon the floor. the other had sprung upon him like a tiger, and with one blow from his heavy fist, struck him down as if he had been a child. for a moment or two, green lay stunned and bewildered--then, starting up with a savage cry, that sounded more bestial than human, he drew a long knife from a concealed sheath, and attempted to stab his assailant, but the murderous purpose was not accomplished, for the other man, who had superior strength and coolness, saw the design, and with a well directed blow almost broke the arm of green, causing the knife to leave his hand and glide far across the room. "i'm half tempted to wring your neck off," exclaimed the man, whose name was lyon, now much excited, and seizing green by the throat, he strangled him until his face grew black. "draw a knife on me, ha! you murdering villain!" and he gripped him tighter. judge lyman and the landlord now interfered, and rescued green from the hands of his fully aroused antagonist. for some time they stood growling at each other, like two parted dogs struggling to get free, in order to renew the conflict, but gradually cooled off. in a little while judge lyman drew green aside, and the two men left the bar-room to other. in the door, as they were retiring, the former slightly nodded to willy hammond, who soon followed them, going into the sitting room, and from thence, as i could perceive, upstairs to an apartment above. "not after much good," i heard lyon mutter to himself. "if judge hammond don't look a little closer after that boy of his, he'll be sorry for it, that's all." "who is this green?" i asked of lyon, finding myself alone with him in the bar-room soon after. "a blackleg, i take it," was his unhesitating answer. "does judge lyman suspect his real character?" "i don't know anything about that, but i wouldn't be afraid to bet ten dollars, that if you could look in upon them now, you would find cards in their hands." "what a school, and what teachers for the youth who just went with them!" i could not help remarking. "willy hammond?" "yes." "you may well say that. what can his father be thinking about to leave him exposed to such influences!" "he's one of the few who are in raptures about this tavern, because its erection has slightly increased the value of his property about here, but if he is not the loser of fifty per cent for every one gained, before ten years go by, i'm very much in error." "how so?" "it will prove, i fear, the open door to ruin to his son." "that's bad," said i. "bad! it is awful to think of. there is not a finer young man in the country, nor one with better mind and heart, than willy hammond. so much the sadder will be his destruction. ah, sir! this tavern-keeping is a curse to any place." "but i thought, just now, that you spoke in favor of letting even the poor drunkard's money go into the landlord's till, in order to encourage his commendable enterprise in opening so good a tavern." "we all speak with covert irony sometimes," answered the man, "as i did then. poor joe morgan! he is an old and early friend of simon slade. they were boys together, and worked as millers under the same roof for many years. in fact, joe's father owned the mill, and the two learned their trade with him. when old morgan died, the mill came into joe's hands. it was in rather a worn-out condition, and joe went in debt for some pretty thorough repairs and additions of machinery. by and by, simon slade, who was hired by joe to run the mill, received a couple of thousand dollars at the death of an aunt. this sum enabled him to buy a share in the mill, which morgan was very glad to sell in order to get clear of his debt. time passed on, and joe left his milling interest almost entirely in the care of slade, who, it must be said in his favor, did not neglect the business. but it somehow happened--i will not say unfairly--that at the end of ten years, joe morgan no longer owned a share in the mill. the whole property was in the hands of slade. people did not much wonder at this; for while slade was always to be found at the mill, industrious, active, and attentive to customers, morgan was rarely seen on the premises. you would oftener find him in the woods, with a gun over his shoulder, or sitting by a trout brook, or lounging at the tavern. and yet everybody liked joe, for he was companionable, quick-witted, and very kind-hearted. he would say sharp things, sometimes, when people manifested little meannesses; but there was so much honey in his gall, that bitterness rarely predominated. "a year or two before his ownership in the mill ceased, morgan married one of the sweetest girls in our town--fanny ellis, that was her name, and she could have had her pick of the young men. everybody affected to wonder at her choice; and yet nobody really did wonder, for joe was an attractive young man, take him as you would, and just the one to win the heart of a girl like fanny. what if he had been seen, now and then, a little the worse for drink! what if he showed more fondness for pleasure than for business! fanny did not look into the future with doubt or fear. she believed that her love was strong enough to win him from all evil allurements: and, as for this world's goods, they were matters in which her maiden fancies rarely busied themselves. "well. dark days came for her, poor soul! and yet, in all the darkness of her earthly lot, she has never, it is said, been anything but a loving, forbearing, self-denying wife to morgan. and he--fallen as he is, and powerless in the grasp of the monster intemperance--has never, i am sure, hurt her with a cruel word. had he added these, her heart would, long ere this, have broken. poor joe morgan! poor fanny! oh, what a curse is this drink!" the man, warming with his theme, had spoken with an eloquence i had not expected from his lips. slightly overmastered by his feelings, he paused for a moment or two, and then added: "it was unfortunate for joe, at least, that slade sold his mill, and became a tavern-keeper; for joe had a sure berth, and wages regularly paid. he didn't always stick to his work, but would go off on a spree every now and then; but slade bore with all this, and worked harder himself to make up for his hand's shortcoming. and no matter what deficiency the little store-room at home might show, fanny morgan never found her meal barrel empty without knowing where to get it replenished. "but, after slade sold his mill, a sad change took place. the new owner was little disposed to pay wages to a hand who would not give him all his time during working hours; and in less than two weeks from the day he took possession, morgan was discharged. since then, he has been working about at one odd job and another, earning scarcely enough to buy the liquor it requires to feed the inordinate thirst that is consuming him. i am not disposed to blame simon slade for the wrong-doing of morgan; but here is a simple fact in the case--if he had kept on at the useful calling of a miller, he would have saved this man's family from want, suffering, and a lower deep of misery than that into which they have already fallen. i merely state it, and you can draw your own conclusions. it is one of the many facts, on the other side of this tavern question, which it will do no harm to mention. i have noted a good many facts besides, and one is, that before slade opened the 'sickle and sheaf,' he did all in his power to save his early friend from the curse of intemperance; now he has become his tempter. heretofore, it was his hand that provided the means for his family to live in some small degree of comfort; now he takes the poor pittance the wretched man earns, and dropping it in his till, forgets the wife and children at home who are hungry for the bread this money should have purchased. "joe morgan, fallen as he is, sir, is no fool. his mind sees quickly yet; and he rarely utters a sentiment that is not full of meaning. when he spoke of blade's heart growing as hard in ten years as one of his old mill-stones, he was not uttering words at random, nor merely indulging in a harsh sentiment, little caring whether it were closely applicable or not. that the indurating process had begun, he, alas! was too sadly conscious." the landlord had been absent from the room for some time. he left soon after judge lyman, harvey green, and willy hammond withdrew, and i did not see him again during the evening. his son frank was left to attend at the bar; no very hard task, for not more than half a dozen called in to drink from the time morgan left until the bar was closed. while mr. lyon was giving me the brief history just recorded, i noticed a little incident that caused a troubled feeling to pervade my mind. after a man, for whom the landlord's son had prepared a fancy drink, had nearly emptied his glass, he set it down upon the counter and went out. a tablespoonful or two remained in the glass, and i noticed frank, after smelling at it two or three times, put the glass to his lips and sip the sweetened liquor. the flavor proved agreeable; for, after tasting it, he raised the glass again and drained every drop. "frank!" i heard a low voice, in a warning tone, pronounce the name, and glancing toward a door partly open, that led from the inside of the bar to the yard, i saw the face of mrs. slade. it had the same troubled expression i had noticed before, but now blended with anxiety. the boy went out at the call of his mother; and when a new customer entered, i noticed that flora, the daughter, came in to wait upon him. i noticed, too, that while she poured out the liquor, there was a heightened color on her face, in which i fancied that i saw a tinge of shame. it is certain that she was not in the least gracious to the person on whom she was waiting; and that there was little heart in her manner of performing the task. ten o'clock found me alone and musing in the barroom over the occurrences of the evening. of all the incidents, that of the entrance of joe morgan's child kept the most prominent place in my thoughts. the picture of that mournful little face was ever before me; and i seemed all the while to hear the word "father," uttered so touchingly, and yet with such a world of childish tenderness. and the man, who would have opposed the most stubborn resistance to his fellow-men, had they sought to force him from the room, going passively, almost meekly out, led by that little child--i could not, for a time, turn my thoughts from the image thereof! and then thought bore me to the wretched home, back to which the gentle, loving child had taken her father, and my heart grew faint in me as imagination busied itself with all the misery there. and willy hammond. the little that i had heard and seen of him greatly interested me in his favor. ah! upon what dangerous ground was he treading. how many pitfalls awaited his feet--how near they were to the brink of a fearful precipice, down which to fall was certain destruction. how beautiful had been his life-promise! how fair the opening day of his existence! alas! the clouds were gathering already, and the low rumble of the distant thunder presaged the coming of a fearful tempest. was there none to warn him of the danger? alas! all might now come too late, for so few who enter the path in which his steps were treading will hearken to friendly counsel, or heed the solemn warning. where was he now? this question recurred over and over again. he had left the bar-room with judge lyman and green early in the evening, and had not made his appearance since. who and what was green? and judge lyman, was he a man of principle? one with whom it was safe to trust a youth like willy hammond? while i mused thus, the bar-room door opened, and a man past the prime of life, with a somewhat florid face, which gave a strong relief to the gray, almost white hair that, suffered to grow freely, was pushed back, and lay in heavy masses on his coat collar, entered with a hasty step. he was almost venerable in appearance; yet there was in his dark, quick eyes the brightness of unquenched loves, the fires of which were kindled at the altars of selfishness and sensuality. this i saw at a glance. there was a look of concern on his face, as he threw his eyes around the bar-room; and he seemed disappointed, i thought, at finding it empty. "is simon slade here?" as i answered in the negative, mrs. slade entered through the door that opened from the yard, and stood behind the counter. "ah, mrs. slade! good evening, madam!" he said. "good evening, judge hammond." "is your husband at home?" "i believe he is," answered mrs. slade. "i think he is somewhere about the house." "ask him to step here, will you?" mrs. slade went out. nearly five minutes went by, during which time judge hammond paced the floor of the bar-room uneasily. then the landlord made his appearance. the free, open, manly, self-satisfied expression of his countenance, which i had remarked on alighting from the stage in the afternoon, was gone. i noticed at once the change, for it was striking. he did not look steadily into the face of judge hammond, who asked him, in a low voice, if his son had been there during the evening. "he was here," said slade. "when?" "he came in some time after dark and stayed, maybe, an hour." "and hasn't been here since?" "it's nearly two hours since he left the bar-room," replied the landlord. judge hammond seemed perplexed. there was a degree of evasion in slade's manner that he could hardly help noticing. to me it was all apparent, for i had lively suspicions that made my observation acute. judge hammond crossed his arms behind him, and took three or four strides about the floor. "was judge lyman here to-night?" he then asked. "he was," answered slade. "did he and willy go out together?" the question seemed an unexpected one for the landlord. slade appeared slightly confused, and did not answer promptly. "i--i rather think they did," he said, after a brief hesitation. "ah, well! perhaps he is at judge lyman's. i will call over there." and judge hammond left the bar-room. "would you like to retire, sir?" said the landlord, now turning to me, with a forced smile--i saw that it was forced. "if you please," i answered. he lit a candle and conducted me to my room, where, overwearied with the day's exertion, i soon fell asleep, and did not awake until the sun was shining brightly into my windows. i remained at the village a portion of the day, but saw nothing of the parties in whom the incidents of the previous evening had awakened a lively interest. at four o'clock i left in the stage, and did not visit cedarville again for a year. night the second. the changes of a year. a cordial grasp of the hand and a few words of hearty welcome greeted me as i alighted from the stage at the "sickle and sheaf," on my next visit to cedarville. at the first glance, i saw no change in the countenance, manner, or general bearing of simon slade, the landlord. with him, the year seemed to have passed like a pleasant summer day. his face was round, and full, and rosy, and his eyes sparkled with that good humor which flows from intense self-satisfaction. everything about him seemed to say--"all 'right with myself and the world." i had scarcely expected this. from what i saw during my last brief sojourn at the "sickle and sheaf," the inference was natural, that elements had been called into activity, which must produce changes adverse to those pleasant states of mind that threw an almost perpetual sunshine over the landlord's countenance. how many hundreds of times had i thought of tom morgan and willy hammond--of frank, and the temptations to which a bar-room exposed him. the heart of slade must, indeed, be as hard as one of his old mill-stones, if he could remain an unmoved witness of the corruption and degradation of these. "my fears have outrun the actual progress of things," said i to myself, with a sense of relief, as i mused alone in the still neatly arranged sitting-room, after the landlord, who sat and chatted for a few minutes, had left me. "there is, i am willing to believe, a basis of good in this man's character, which has led him to remove, as far as possible, the more palpable evils that ever attach themselves to a house of public entertainment. he had but entered on the business last year. there was much to be learned, pondered, and corrected. experience, i doubt not, has led to many important changes in the manner of conducting the establishment, and especially in what pertains to the bar." as i thought thus, my eyes glanced through the half-open door, and rested on the face of simon slade. he was standing behind his bar--evidently alone in the room--with his head bent in a musing attitude. at first i was in some doubt as to the identity of the singularly changed countenance. two deep perpendicular seams lay sharply defined on his forehead--the arch of his eyebrows was gone, and from each corner of his compressed lips, lines were seen reaching half-way to the chin. blending with a slightly troubled expression, was a strongly marked selfishness, evidently brooding over the consummation of its purpose. for some moments i sat gazing on his face, half doubting at times if it were really that of simon slade. suddenly a gleam flashed over it--an ejaculation was uttered, and one clenched hand brought down, with a sharp stroke, into the open palm of the other. the landlord's mind had reached a conclusion, and was resolved upon action. there were no warm rays in the gleam of light that irradiated his countenance--at least none for my heart, which felt under them an almost icy coldness. "just the man i was thinking about." i heard the landlord say, as some one entered the bar, while his whole manner underwent a sudden change. "the old saying is true," was answered in a voice, the tones of which were familiar to my ears. "thinking of the old harry?" said slade. "yes." "true, literally, in the present case," i heard the landlord remark, though in a much lower tone; "for, if you are not the devil himself, you can't be farther removed than a second cousin." a low, gurgling laugh met this little sally. there was something in it so unlike a human laugh, that it caused my blood to trickle, for a moment, coldly along my veins. i heard nothing more except the murmur of voices in the bar, for a hand shut the partly opened door that led from the sitting room. whose was that voice? i recalled its tones, and tried to fix in my thought the person to whom it belonged, but was unable to do so. i was not very long in doubt, for on stepping out on the porch in front of the tavern, the well remembered face of harvey green presented itself. he stood in the bar-room door, and was talking earnestly to slade, whose back was toward me. i saw that he recognized me, although i had not passed a word with him on the occasion of my former visit, and there was a lighting up of his countenance as if about to speak--but i withdrew my eyes from his face to avoid the unwelcome greeting. when i looked at him again, i saw that he was regarding me with a sinister glance, which was instantly withdrawn. in what broad, black characters was the word tempter written on his face! how was it possible for anyone to look thereon, and not read the warning inscription! soon after, he withdrew into the bar-room and the landlord came and took a seat near me on the porch. "how is the 'sickle and sheaf' coming on?" i inquired. "first rate," was the answer--"first rate." "as well as you expected?" "better." "satisfied with your experiment?" "perfectly. couldn't get me back to the rumbling old mill again, if you were to make me a present of it." "what of the mill?" i asked. "how does the new owner come on?" "about as i thought it would be." "not doing very well?" "how could it be expected when he didn't know enough of the milling business to grind a bushel of wheat right? he lost half of the custom i transferred to him in less than three months. then he broke his main shaft, and it took over three weeks to get in a new one. half of his remaining customers discovered by this time, that they could get far better meal from their grain at harwood's mill near lynwood, and so did not care to trouble him any more. the upshot of the whole matter is, he broke down next, and had to sell the mill at a heavy loss." "who has it now?" "judge hammond is the purchaser." "he is going to rent it, i suppose?" "no; i believe he means to turn it into some kind of a factory--and, i rather think, will connect therewith a distillery. this is a fine grain-growing country, as you know. if he does set up a distillery he'll make a fine thing of it. grain has been too low in this section for some years; this all the farmers have felt, and they are very much pleased at the idea. it will help them wonderfully. i always thought my mill a great thing for the farmers; but what i did for them was a mere song compared to the advantage of an extensive distillery." "judge hammond is one of your richest men?" "yes--the richest in the county. and what is more, he's a shrewd, far-seeing man, and knows how to multiply his riches." "how is his son willy coming on?" "oh! first-rate." the landlord's eyes fell under the searching look i bent upon him. "how old is he now?" "just twenty." "a critical age," i remarked. "so people say; but i didn't find it so," answered slade, a little distantly. "the impulses within and the temptations without, are the measure of its dangers. at his age, you were, no doubt, daily employed at hard work." "i was, and no mistake." "thousands and hundreds of thousands are indebted to useful work, occupying many hours through each day, and leaving them with wearied bodies at night, for their safe passage from yielding youth to firm, resisting manhood. it might not be with you as it is now, had leisure and freedom to go in and out when you pleased been offered at the age of nineteen." "i can't tell as to that," said the landlord, shrugging his shoulders. "but i don't see that willy hammond is in any especial danger. he is a young man with many admirable qualities--is social-liberal--generous almost to a fault--but has good common sense, and wit enough, i take it, to keep out of harm's way." a man passing the house at the moment, gave simon slade an opportunity to break off a conversation that was not, i could see, altogether agreeable. as he left me, i arose and stepped into the bar-room. frank, the landlord's son, was behind the bar. he had grown considerably in the year--and from a rather delicate, innocent-looking boy, to a stout, bold lad. his face was rounder, and had a gross, sensual expression, that showed itself particularly about the mouth. the man green was standing beside the bar talking to him, and i noticed that frank laughed heartily, at some low, half obscene remarks that he was making. in the midst of these, flora, the sister of frank, a really beautiful girl, came in to get something from the bar. green spoke to her familiarly, and flora answered him with a perceptibly heightening color. i glanced toward frank, half expecting to see an indignant flush on his young face. but no--he looked on with a smile! "ah!" thought i, "have the boy's pure impulses so soon died out in this fatal atmosphere? can he bear to see those evil eyes--he knows they are evil--rest upon the face of his sister? or to hear those lips, only a moment since polluted with vile words, address her with the familiarity of a friend?" "fine girl, that sister of yours, frank! fine girl!" said green, after flora had withdrawn--speaking of her with about as much respect in his voice as if he were praising a fleet racer or a favorite hound. the boy smiled, with a pleased air. "i must try and find her a good husband, frank. i wonder if she wouldn't have me?" "you'd better ask her," said the boy, laughing. "i would if i thought there was any chance for me." "nothing like trying. faint heart never won fair lady," returned frank, more with the air of a man than a boy. how fast he was growing old! "a banter, by george!" exclaimed green, slapping his hands together. "you're a great boy, frank! a great boy! i shall have to talk to your father about you. coming on too fast. have to be put back in your lessons--hey!" and green winked at the boy, and shook his finger at him. frank laughed in a pleased way, as he replied: "i guess i'll do." "i guess you will," said green, as, satisfied with his colloquy, he turned off and left the bar-room. "have something to drink, sir?" inquired frank, addressing me in a bold, free way. i shook my head. "here's a newspaper," he added. i took the paper and sat down--not to read, but to observe. two or three men soon came in, and spoke in a very familiar way to frank, who was presently busy setting out the liquors they had called for. their conversation, interlarded with much that was profane and vulgar, was of horses, horse-racing, gunning, and the like, to all of which the young bar-tender lent an attentive ear, putting in a word now and then, and showing an intelligence in such matters quite beyond his age. in the midst thereof, mr. slade made his appearance. his presence caused a marked change in frank, who retired from his place among the men, a step or two outside of the bar, and did not make a remark while his father remained. it was plain from this, that mr. slade was not only aware of frank's dangerous precocity, but had already marked his forwardness by rebuke. so far, all that i had seen and heard impressed me unfavorably, notwithstanding the declaration of simon slade, that everything about the "sickle and sheaf" was coming on "first-rate," and that he was "perfectly satisfied" with his experiment. why, even if the man had gained, in money, fifty thousand dollars by tavern-keeping in a year, he had lost a jewel in the innocence of his boy that was beyond all valuation. "perfectly satisfied?" impossible! he was not perfectly satisfied. how could he be? the look thrown upon frank when he entered the bar-room, and saw him "hale fellow, well met," with three or four idle, profane, drinking customers, contradicted that assertion. after supper, i took a seat in the bar-room, to see how life moved on in that place of rendezvous for the surface-population of cedarville. interest enough in the characters i had met there a year before remained for me to choose this way of spending the time, instead of visiting at the house of a gentleman who had kindly invited me to pass an evening with his family. the bar-room custom, i soon found, had largely increased in a year. it now required, for a good part of the time, the active services of both the landlord and his son to meet the calls for liquor. what pained me most, was to see the large number of lads and young men who came in to lounge and drink; and there was scarcely one of them whose face did not show marks of sensuality, or whose language was not marred by obscenity, profanity, or vulgar slang. the subjects of conversation were varied enough, though politics was the most prominent. in regard to politics i heard nothing in the least instructive; but only abuse of individuals and dogmatism on public measures. they were all exceedingly confident in assertion; but i listened in vain for exposition, or even for demonstrative facts. he who asseverated in the most positive manner, and swore the hardest, carried the day in the petty contests. i noticed, early in the evening, and at a time when all the inmates of the room were in the best possible humor with themselves, the entrance of an elderly man, on whose face i instantly read a deep concern. it was one of those mild, yet strongly marked faces, that strike you at a glance. the forehead was broad, the eyes large and far back in their sockets, the lips full but firm. you saw evidences of a strong, but well-balanced character. as he came in, i noticed a look of intelligence pass from one to another; and then the eyes of two or three were fixed upon a young man who was seated not far from me, with his back to the entrance, playing at dominoes. he had a glass of ale by his side. the old man searched about the room for some moments, before his glance rested upon the individual i have mentioned. my eyes were full upon his face, as he advanced toward him, as yet unseen. upon it was not a sign of angry excitement, but a most touching sorrow. "edward!" he said, as he laid his hand gently on the young man's shoulder. the latter started at the voice, and crimsoned deeply. a few moments he sat irresolute. "edward, my son!" it would have been a cold, hard heart indeed that softened not under the melting tenderness of these tones. the call was irresistible, and obedience a necessity. the powers of evil had, yet, too feeble a grasp on the young man's heart to hold him in thrall. rising with a half-reluctant manner, and with a shamefacedness that it was impossible to conceal, he retired as quietly as possible. the notice of only a few in the bar-room was attracted by the incident. "i can tell you what," i heard the individual, with whom the young man had been playing at dominoes, remark--himself not twenty years of age--"if my old man were to make a fool of himself in this way--sneaking around after me in bar-rooms-he'd get only his trouble for his pains. i'd like to see him try it, though! there'd be a nice time of it, i guess. wouldn't i creep off with him, as meek as a lamb! ho! ho!" "who is that old gentleman who came in just now?" i inquired of the person who thus commented on the incident which had just occurred. "mr. hargrove is his name." "and that was his son?" "yes; and i'm only sorry he doesn't possess a little more spirit." "how old is he?" "about twenty." "not of legal age, then?" "he's old enough to be his own master." "the law says differently," i suggested. in answer, the young man cursed the law, snapping his fingers in its imaginary face as he did so. "at least you will admit," said i, "that edward hargrove, in the use of a liberty to go where he pleases, and do what he pleases, exhibits but small discretion." "i will admit no such thing. what harm is there, i would like to know, in a social little game such as we were playing? there were no stakes--we were not gambling." i pointed to the half-emptied glass of ale left by young hargrove. "oh! oh!" half sneered, half laughed a man, twice the age of the one i had addressed, who sat near by, listening to our conversation. i looked at him for a moment, and then said: "the great danger lies there, without doubt. if it were only a glass of ale and a game of dominoes--but it doesn't stop there, and well the young man's father knows it." "perhaps he does," was answered. "i remember him in his younger days; and a pretty high boy he was. he didn't stop at a glass of ale and a game of dominoes; not he! i've seen him as drunk as a lord many a time; and many a time at a horse-race, or cock-fight, betting with the bravest. i was only a boy, though a pretty old boy; but i can tell you, hargrove was no saint." "i wonder not, then, that he is so anxious for his son," was my remark. "he knows well the lurking dangers in the path he seems inclined to enter." "i don't see that they have done him much harm. he sowed his wild oats--then got married, and settled down into a good, substantial citizen. a little too religious and pharisaical, i always thought; but upright in his dealings. he had his pleasures in early life, as was befitting the season of youth--why not let his son taste of the same agreeable fruit? he's wrong, sir--wrong! and i've said as much to ned. i only wish the boy had shown the right spunk this evening, and told the old man to go home about his business." "so do i," chimed in the young disciple in this bad school. "it's what i'd say to my old man, in double quick time, if he was to come hunting after me." "he knows better than to do that," said the other, in a way that let me deeper into the young man's character. "indeed he does. he's tried his hand on me once or twice during the last year, but found it wouldn't do, no how; tom peters is out of his leading-strings." "and can drink his glass with any one, and not be a grain the worse for it." "exactly, old boy!" said peters, slapping his preceptor on the knee. "exactly! i'm not one of your weak-headed ones. oh no!" "look here, joe morgan!"--the half-angry voice of simon slade now rung through the bar-room,--"just take yourself off home!" i had not observed the entrance of this person. he was standing at the bar, with an emptied glass in his hand. a year had made no improvement in his appearance. on the contrary, his clothes were more worn and tattered; his countenance more sadly marred. what he had said to irritate the landlord, i know not; but slade's face was fiery with passion, and his eyes glared threateningly at the poor besotted one, who showed not the least inclination to obey. "off with you, i say! and never show your face here again. i won't have such low vagabonds as you are about my house. if you can't keep decent and stay decent, don't intrude yourself here." "a rum-seller talk of decency!" retorted morgan. "pah! you were a decent man once, and a good miller into the bargain. but that time's past and gone. decency died out when you exchanged the pick and facing-hammer for the glass and muddler. decency! pah! how you talk! as if it were any more decent to sell rum than to drink it." there was so much of biting contempt in the tones, as well as the words of the half-intoxicated man, that slade, who had himself been drinking rather more freely than usual, was angered beyond self-control. catching up an empty glass from the counter, he hurled it with all his strength at the head of joe morgan. the missive just grazed one of his temples, and flew by on its dangerous course. the quick sharp cry of a child startled the air, followed by exclamations of alarm and horror from many voices. "it's joe morgan's child!" "he's killed her!" "good heavens!" such were the exclamations that rang through the room. i was among the first to reach the spot where a little girl, just gliding in through the door, had been struck on the forehead by the glass, which had cut a deep gash, and stunned her into insensibility. the blood flowed instantly from the wound, and covered her face, which presented a shocking appearance. as i lifted her from the floor, upon which she had fallen, morgan, into whose very soul the piercing cry of his child had penetrated, stood by my side, and grappled his arms around her insensible form, uttering as he did so heart-touching moans and lamentations. "what's the matter? oh, what's the matter?" it was a woman's voice, speaking in frightened tones. "it's nothing! just go out, will you, ann?" i heard the landlord say. but his wife--it was mrs. slade--having heard the shrieks of pain and terror uttered by morgan's child, had come running into the bar-room--heeded not his words, but pressed forward into the little group that stood around the bleeding girl. "run for doctor green, frank," she cried in an imperative voice, the moment her eyes rested on the little one's bloody face. frank came around from behind the bar, in obedience to the word; but his father gave a partial countermand, and he stood still. upon observing which, his mother repeated the order, even more emphatically. "why don't you jump, you young rascal!" exclaimed harvey green. "the child may be dead before the doctor can get here." frank hesitated no longer, but disappeared instantly through the door. "poor, poor child!" almost sobbed mrs. slade, as she lifted the insensible form from my arms. "how did it happen? who struck her?" "who? curse him! who but simon slade?" answered joe morgan, through his clenched teeth. the look of anguish, mingled with bitter reproach, instantly thrown upon the landlord by his wife, can hardly be forgotten by any who saw it that night. "oh, simon! simon! and has it come to this already?" what a world of bitter memories, and sad forebodings of evil, did that little sentence express. "to this already"--ah! in the downward way, how rapidly the steps do tread--how fast the progress! "bring me a basin of water, and a towel, quickly!" she now exclaimed. the water was brought, and in a little while the face of the child lay pure and as white as snow against her bosom. the wound from which the blood had flowed so freely was found on the upper part of the forehead, a little to the side, and extending several inches back, along the top of the head. as soon as the blood stains were wiped away, and the effusion partially stopped, mrs. slade carried the still insensible body into the next room, whither the distressed, and now completely sobered father, accompanied her. i went with them, but slade remained behind. the arrival of the doctor was soon followed by the restoration of life to the inanimate body. he happened to be at home, and came instantly. he had just taken the last stitch in the wound, which required to be drawn together, and was applying strips of adhesive plaster, when the hurried entrance of some one caused me to look up. what an apparition met my eyes! a woman stood in the door, with a face in which maternal anxiety and terror blended fearfully. her countenance was like ashes--her eyes straining wildly--her lips apart, while the panting breath almost hissed through them. "joe! joe! what is it? where is mary? is she dead?" were her eager inquiries. "no, fanny," answered joe morgan, starting up from where he was actually kneeling by the side of the reviving little one, and going quickly to his wife. "she's better now. it's a bad hurt, but the doctor says it's nothing dangerous. poor, dear child!" the pale face of the mother grew paler--she gasped--caught for breath two or three times--a low shudder ran through her frame--and then she lay white and pulseless in the arms of her husband. as the doctor applied restoratives, i had opportunity to note more particularly the appearance of mrs. morgan. her person was very slender, and her face so attenuated that it might almost be called shadowy. her hair, which was a rich chestnut brown, with a slight golden lustre, had fallen from her comb, and now lay all over her neck and bosom in beautiful luxuriance. back from her full temples it had been smoothed away by the hand of morgan, that all the while moved over her brow and temples with a caressing motion that i saw was unconscious, and which revealed the tenderness of feeling with which, debased as he was, he regarded the wife of his youth, and the long suffering companion of his later and evil days. her dress was plain and coarse, but clean and well fitting; and about her whole person was an air of neatness and taste. she could not now be called beautiful; yet in her marred features--marred by suffering and grief--were many lineaments of beauty; and much that told of a true, pure woman's heart beating in her bosom. life came slowly back to the stilled heart, and it was nearly half an hour before the circle of motion was fully restored. then, the twain, with their child, tenderly borne in the arms of her father, went sadly homeward, leaving more than one heart heavier for their visit. i saw more of the landlord's wife on this occasion than before. she had acted with a promptness and humanity that impressed me very favorably. it was plain, from her exclamations on learning that her husband's hand inflicted the blow that came so near destroying the child's life, that her faith for good in the tavern-keeping experiment had never been strong. i had already inferred as much. her face, the few times i had seen her, wore a troubled look; and i could never forget its expression, nor her anxious, warning voice, when she discovered frank sipping the dregs from a glass in the bar-room. it is rarely, i believe, that wives consent freely to the opening of taverns by their husbands; and the determination on the part of the latter to do so, is not unfrequently attended with a breach of confidence and good feeling never afterward fully healed. men look close to the money result; women to the moral consequences. i doubt if there be one dram-seller in ten, between whom and his wife there exists a good understanding--to say nothing of genuine affection. and, in the exceptional cases, it will generally be found that the wife is as mercenary, or careless of the public good, as her husband. i have known some women to set up grog-shops; but they were women of bad principles and worse hearts. i remember one case, where a woman, with a sober, church-going husband, opened a dram-shop. the husband opposed, remonstrated, begged, threatened--but all to no purpose. the wife, by working for the clothing stores, had earned and saved about three hundred dollars. the love of money, in the slow process of accumulation, had been awakened; and, in ministering to the depraved appetites of men who loved drink and neglected their families, she saw a quicker mode of acquiring the gold she coveted. and so the dram-shop was opened. and what was the result? the husband quit going to church. he had no heart for that; for, even on the sabbath day, the fiery stream was stayed not in his house. next he began to tipple. soon, alas! the subtle poison so pervaded his system that morbid desire came; and then he moved along quick-footed in the way of ruin. in less than three years, i think, from the time the grog-shop was opened by his wife, he was in a drunkard's grave. a year or two more, and the pit that was digged for others by the hands of the wife, she fell into herself. after breathing an atmosphere poisoned by the fumes of liquor, the love of tasting it was gradually formed, and she, too, in the end, became a slave to the demon drink. she died at last, poor as a beggar in the street. ah! this liquor-selling is the way to ruin; and they who open the gates, as well as those who enter the downward path, alike go to destruction. but this is digressing. after joe morgan and his wife left the "sickle and sheaf," with that gentle child, who, as i afterward learned, had not, for a year or more, laid her little head to sleep until her father returned home and who, if he stayed out beyond a certain hour, would go for him, and lead him back, a very angel of love and patience--i re-entered the bar-room, to see how life was passing there. not one of all i had left in the room remained. the incident which had occurred was of so painful a nature, that no further unalloyed pleasure was to be had there during the evening, and so each had retired. in his little kingdom the landlord sat alone, his head resting on his hand, and his face shaded from the light. the whole aspect of the man was that of one in self-humiliation. as i entered he raised his head, and turned his face toward me. its expression was painful. "rather an unfortunate affair," said he. "i'm angry with myself, and sorry for the poor child. but she'd no business here. as for joe morgan, it would take a saint to bear his tongue when once set a-going by liquor. i wish he'd stay away from the house. nobody wants his company. oh, dear!" the ejaculation, or rather groan, that closed the sentence showed how little slade was satisfied with himself, notwithstanding this feeble attempt at self-justification. "his thirst for liquor draws him hither," i remarked. "the attraction of your bar to his appetite is like that of the magnet to the needle. he cannot stay away." "he must stay away!" exclaimed the landlord, with some vehemence of tone, striking his fist upon the table by which he sat. "he must stay away! there is scarcely an evening that he does not ruffle my temper, and mar good feelings in all the company. just see what he provoked me to do this evening. i might have killed the child. it makes my blood run cold to think of it! yes, sir--he must stay away. if no better can be done, i'll hire a man to stand at the door and keep him out." "he never troubled you at the mill," said i. "no man was required at the mill door?" "no!" and the landlord gave emphasis to the word by an oath, ejaculated with a heartiness that almost startled me. i had not heard him swear before. "no; the great trouble was to get him and keep him there, the good-for-nothing, idle fellow!" "i am afraid," i ventured to suggest, "that things don't go on quite so smoothly here as they did at the mill. your customers are of a different class." "i don't know about that; why not?" he did not just relish my remark. "between quiet, thrifty, substantial farmers, and drinking bar-room loungers, are many degrees of comparison." "excuse me, sir!" simon slade elevated his person. "the men who visit my bar-room, as a general thing, are quite as respectable, moral, and substantial as any who came to the mill--and i believe more so. the first people in the place, sir, are to be found here. judge lyman and judge hammond; lawyer wilks and doctor maynard; mr. grand and mr. lee; and dozens of others--all our first people. no, sir; you mustn't judge all by vagabonds like joe morgan." there was a testy spirit manifested that i did not care to provoke. i could have met his assertion with facts and inferences of a character to startle any one occupying his position, who was in a calm, reflective state; but to argue with him then would have been worse than idle; and so i let him talk on until the excitement occasioned by my words died out for want of new fuel. night the third. joe morgan's child. "i don't see anything of your very particular friend, joe morgan, this evening," said harvey green, leaning on the bar and speaking to slade. it was the night succeeding that on which the painful and exciting scene with the child had occurred. "no," was answered--and to the word was added a profane imprecation. "no; and if he'll just keep away from here, he may go to--on a hard-trotting horse and a porcupine saddle as fast as he pleases. he's tried my patience beyond endurance, and my mind is made up that he gets no more drams at this bar. i've borne his vile tongue and seen my company annoyed by him just as long as i mean to stand it. last night decided me. suppose i'd killed that child?" "you'd have had trouble then, and no mistake." "wouldn't i? blast her little picture! what business has she creeping in here every night?" "she must have a nice kind of a mother," remarked green, with a cold sneer. "i don't know what she is now," said slade, a slight touch of feeling in his voice--"heart-broken, i suppose. i couldn't look at her last night; it made me sick. but there was a time when fanny morgan was the loveliest and best woman in cedarville. i'll say that for her. oh, dear! what a life her miserable husband has caused her to lead." "better that he were dead and out of the way." "better a thousand times," answered slade. "if he'd only fall down some night and break his neck, it would be a blessing to his family." "and to you in particular," laughed green. "you may be sure it wouldn't cost me a large sum for mourning," was the unfeeling response. let us leave the bar-room of the "sickle and sheaf," and its cold-hearted inmates, and look in upon the family of joe morgan, and see how it is in the home of the poor inebriate. we will pass by a quick transition. "joe!" the thin white hand of mrs. morgan clasps the arm of her husband, who has arisen up suddenly, and now stands by the partly opened door. "don't go out to-night, joe. please, don't go out." "father!" a feeble voice calls from the corner of an old settee, where little mary lies with her head bandaged. "well, i won't then!" is replied--not angrily, nor even fretfully--but in a kind voice. "come and sit by me, father." how tenderly, yet how full of concern is that low, sweet voice. "come, won't you?" "yes, dear." "now hold my hand, father." joe takes the hand of little mary, that instantly tightens upon his. "you won't go away and leave me to-night, will you, father? say you won't." "how very hot your hand is, dear. does your head ache?" "a little; but it will soon feel better." up into the swollen and disfigured face of the fallen father, the large, earnest blue eyes of the child are raised. she does not see the marred lineaments; but only the beloved countenance of her parent. "dear father!" "what, love?" "i wish you'd promise me something." "what, dear?" "will you promise?" "i can't say until i hear your request. if i can promise, i will." "oh, you can promise--you can, father!" how the large blue eyes dance and sparkle! "what is it, love?" "that you will never go into simon slade's bar any more." the child raises herself, evidently with a painful effort; and leans nearer to her father. joe shakes his head, and poor mary drops back upon her pillow with a sigh. her lids fall, and the long lashes lie strongly relieved on her colorless cheeks. "i won't go there to-night, dear. so let your heart be at rest." mary's lids unclose, and two round drops, released from their clasp, glide slowly over her face. "thank you, father--thank you. mother will be so glad." the eyes closed again; and the father moved uneasily. his heart is touched. there is a struggle within him. it is on his lips to say that he will never drink at the "sickle and sheaf" again; but resolution just lacks the force of utterance. "father!" "well, dear?" "i don't, think i'll be well enough to go out in two or three days. you know the doctor said that i would have to keep very still, for i had a great deal of fever." "yes, poor child." "now, won't you promise me one thing?" "what is it, dear?" "not to go out in the evening until i get well." joe morgan hesitated. "just promise me that, father. it won't be long; i shall be up again in a little while." how well the father knows what is in the heart of his child. her fears are all for him. who is to go up after her poor father, and lead him home when the darkness of inebriety is on his spirit, and external perception so dulled that not skill enough remains to shun the harm that lies in his path? "do promise just that, father, dear." he cannot resist the pleading voice and look. "i promise it, mary; so shut your eyes now and go to sleep. i'm afraid this fever will increase." "oh! i'm so glad--so glad!" mary does not clasp her hands, nor show strong external signs of pleasure; but how full of a pure, unselfish joy is that low-murmured ejaculation, spoken in the depths of her spirit, as well as syllabled by her tongue! mrs. morgan has been no unconcerned witness of all this; but knowing the child's influence over her father, she has not ventured a word. more was to be gained, she was sure, by silence on her part; and so she kept silent. now she comes nearer to them, and says, as she lets a hand rest on the shoulder of her husband: "you feel better for that promise already; i know you do." he looks up to her, and smiles faintly. he does feel better, but is hardly willing to acknowledge it. soon after mary is sleeping. it does not escape the observation of mrs. morgan that her husband grows restless; for he gets up suddenly, every now and then, and walks quickly across the room, as if in search of something. then sits down, listlessly--sighs--stretches himself, and says, "oh dear!" what shall she do for him? how is the want of his accustomed evening stimulus to be met? she thinks, and questions, and grieves inwardly. poor joe morgan! his wife understands his case, and pities him from her heart. but what can she do? go out and get him something to drink? "oh, no! no! no! never!" she answered the thought audibly almost, in the excitement of her feelings. an hour has passed--joe's restlessness has increased instead of diminishing. what is to be done? now mrs. morgan has left the room. she has resolved upon something, for the case must be met. ah! here she comes, after an absence of five minutes, bearing in her hand a cup of strong coffee. "it was kind and thoughtful in you, fanny," says morgan, as with a gratified look he takes the cup. but his hand trembles, and he spills a portion of the contents as ho tries to raise it to his lips. how dreadfully his nerves are shattered! unnatural stimulants have been applied so long, that all true vitality seems lost. and now the hand of his wife is holding the cup to his lips, and he drinks eagerly. "this is dreadful--dreadful! where will it end? what is to be done?" fanny suppresses a sob, as she thus gives vent to her troubled feelings. twice, already, has her husband been seized with the drunkard's madness; and, in the nervous prostration consequent upon even a brief withdrawal of his usual strong stimulants, she sees the fearful precursor of another attack of this dreadful and dangerous malady. in the hope of supplying the needed tone she has given him strong coffee; and this for the time, produces the effect desired. the restlessness is allayed, and a quiet state of body and mind succeeds. it needs but a suggestion to induce him to retire for the night. after being a few minutes in bed, sleep steals over him, and his heavy breathing tells that he is in the world of dreams. and now there comes a tap at the door. "come in," is answered. the latch is lifted, the door swings open, and a woman enters. "mrs. slade!" the name is uttered in a tone of surprise. "fanny, how are you this evening?" kindly, yet half sadly, the words are said. "tolerable, i thank you." the hands of the two women are clasped, and for a few moments they gaze into each other's face. what a world of tender commiseration is in that of mrs. slade! "how is little mary to-night?" "not so well, i'm afraid. she has a good deal of fever." "indeed! oh, i'm sorry! poor child! what a dreadful thing it was! oh! fanny! you don't know how it has troubled me. i've been intending to come around all day to see how she was, but couldn't get off until now." "it came near killing her," said mrs. morgan. "it's in god's mercy she escaped. the thought of it curdles the very blood in my veins. poor child! is this her on the settee?" "yes." mrs. slade takes a chair, and sitting by the sleeping child, gazes long upon her pale sweet face. now the lips of mary part--words are murmured--what is she saying? "no, no, mother; i can't go to bed yet. father isn't home. and it's so dark. there's no one to lead him over the bridge. i'm not afraid. don't--don't cry so, mother--i'm not afraid! nothing will hurt me." the child's face flushes. she moans, and throws her arms about uneasily. hark again. "i wish mr. slade wouldn't look so cross at me. he never did when i went to the mill. he doesn't take me on his knee now, and stroke my hair. oh, dear! i wish father wouldn't go there any more. don't, don't, mr. slade. oh! oh!"--the ejaculation prolonged into a frightened cry, "my head! my head!" a few choking sobs are followed by low moans; and then the child breathes easily again. but the flush does not leave her cheek; and when mrs. slade, from whose eyes the tears come forth drop by drop, and roll down her face, touches it lightly, she finds it hot with fever. "has the doctor seen her to-day, fanny?" "no, ma'am." "he should see her at once. i will go for him"; and mrs. slade starts up and goes quickly from the room. in a little while she returns with doctor green, who sits down and looks at the child for some moments with a sober, thoughtful face. then he lays his fingers on her pulse and times its beat by his watch--shakes his head, and looks graver still. "how long has she had fever?" he asks. "all day." "you should have sent for me earlier." "oh, doctor! she is not dangerous, i hope?" mrs. morgan looks frightened. "she's a sick child, madam." "you've promised, father."--the dreamer is speaking again.--"i'm not well enough yet. oh, don't go, father; don't! there! he's gone! well, well! i'll try and walk there--i can sit down and rest by the way. oh, dear! how tired i am! father! father!" the child starts up and looks about her wildly. "oh, mother, is it you?" and she sinks back upon her pillow, looking now inquiringly from face to face. "father--where is father?" she asks. "asleep, dear." "oh! is he? i'm glad." her eyes close wearily. "do you feel any pain, mary?" inquired the doctor. "yes, sir--in my head. it aches and beats so." the cry of "father" had reached the ears of morgan, who is sleeping in the next room, and roused him into consciousness. he knows the doctor's voice. why is he here at this late hour? "do you feel any pain, mary?" the question he hears distinctly, and the faintly uttered reply also. he is sober enough to have all his fears instantly excited. there is nothing in the world that he loves as he loves that child. and so he gets up and dresses himself as quickly as possible; the stimulus of anxiety giving tension to his relaxed nerves. "oh, father!" the quick ears of mary detect his entrance first, and a pleasant smile welcomes him. "is she very sick, doctor?" he asks, in a voice full of anxiety. "she's a sick child, sir; you should have sent for me earlier." the doctor speaks rather sternly, and with a purpose to rebuke. the reply stirs morgan, and he seems to cower half timidly under the words, as if they were blows. mary has already grasped her father's hand, and holds on to it tightly. after examining the case a little more closely, the doctor prepares some medicine, and, promising to call early in the morning, goes away. mrs. slade follows soon after; but, in parting with mrs. morgan, leaves something in her hand, which, to the surprise of the latter, proves to be a ten-dollar bill. the tears start to her eyes; and she conceals the money in her bosom--murmuring a fervent "god bless her!" a simple act of restitution is this on the part of mrs. slade, prompted as well by humanity as a sense of justice. with one hand her husband has taken the bread from the family of his old friend, and thus with the other she restores it. and now morgan and his wife are alone with their sick child. higher the fever rises, and partial delirium seizes upon her over-excited brain. she talks for a time almost incessantly. all her trouble is about her father; and she is constantly referring to his promise not to go out in the evening until she gets well. how tenderly and touchingly she appeals to him; now looking up into his face in partial recognition; and now calling anxiously after him, as if he had left her and was going away. "you'll not forget your promise, will you, father?" she says, speaking so calmly, that he thinks her mind has ceased to wander. "no, dear; i will not forget it," he answers, smoothing her hair gently with his hand. "you'll not go out in the evening again, until i get well?" "no, dear." "father!" "what, love?" "stoop down closer; i don't want mother to hear; it will make her feel so bad." the father bends his ear close to the lips of mary. how he starts and shudders! what has she said?--only these brief words: "i shall not get well, father; i'm going to die." the groans, impossible to repress, that issued through the lips of joe morgan, startled the ears of his wife, and she came quickly to the bedside. "what is it? what is the matter, joe?" she inquired, with a look of anxiety. "hush, father. don't tell her. i only said it to you." and mary put a finger on her lips, and looked mysterious. "there, mother--you go away; you've got trouble enough, any how. don't tell her, father." but the words, which came to him like a prophecy, awoke such pangs of fear and remorse in the heart of joe morgan, that it was impossible for him to repress the signs of pain. for some moments he gazed at his wife--then stooping forward, suddenly, he buried his face in the bed-clothes, and sobbed bitterly. a suggestion of the truth now flashed through the mind of mrs. morgan, sending a thrill of pain along every nerve. ere she had time to recover herself, the low, sweet voice of mary broke upon the hushed air of the room, and she sung: "jesus can make a dying bed feel soft as downy pillows are, while on his breast i lean my head, and breathe my life out, sweetly, there." it was impossible for mrs. morgan longer to repress her feelings. as the softly breathed strain died away, her sobs broke forth, and for a time she wept violently. "there," said the child,--"i didn't mean to tell you. i only told father, because--because he promised not to go to the tavern any more until i got well; and i'm not going to get well. so, you see, mother, he'll never go again--never--never--never. oh, dear! how my head pains. mr. slade threw it so hard. but it didn't strike father; and i'm so glad. how it would have hurt him--poor father! but he'll never go there any more; and that will be so good, won't it, mother?" a light broke over her face; but seeing that her mother still wept, she said: "don't cry. maybe i'll be better." and then her eyes closed heavily, and she slept again. "joe," said mrs. morgan, after she had in a measure recovered herself--she spoke firmly--"joe, did you hear what she said?" morgan only answered with a groan. "her mind wanders; and yet she may have spoken only the truth." he groaned again. "if she should die, joe--" "don't; oh, don't talk so, fanny. she's not going to die. it's only because she's a little light-headed." "why is she light-headed, joe?" "it's the fever--only the fever, fanny." "it was the blow, and the wound on her head, that caused the fever. how do we know the extent of injury on the brain? doctor green looked very serious. i'm afraid, husband, that the worst is before us. i've borne and suffered a great deal--only god knows how much--i pray that i may have strength to bear this trial also. dear child! she is better fitted for heaven than for earth, and it may be that god is about to take her to himself. she's been a great comfort to me--and to you, joe, more like a guardian angel than a child." mrs. morgan had tried to speak very firmly; but as sentence followed sentence, her voice lost more and more of its even tone. with the closing words all self-control vanished; and she wept bitterly. what could her feeble, erring husband do, but weep with her? "joe,"--mrs. morgan aroused herself as quickly as possible, for she had that to say which she feared she might not have the heart to utter--"joe, if mary dies, you cannot forget the cause of her death." "oh, fanny! fanny!" "nor the hand that struck the cruel blow." "forget it? never! and if i forgive simon slade--" "nor the place where the blow was dealt," said mrs. morgan, interrupting him. "poor--poor child!" moaned the conscience-stricken man. "nor your promise, joe--nor your promise given to our dying child." "father! father! dear father!" mary's eyes suddenly unclosed, as she called her father eagerly. "here i am, love. what is it?" and joe morgan pressed up to the bedside. "oh! it's you, father! i dreamed that you had gone out, and--and--but you won't will you, dear father?" "no, love--no." "never any more until i get well?" "i must go out to work, you know, mary." "at night, father. that's what i mean. you won't, will you?" "no, dear, no." a soft smile trembled over the child's face; her eyelids drooped wearily, and she fell off into slumber again. she seemed not so restless as before--did not moan, nor throw herself about in her sleep. "she's better, i think," said morgan, as he bent over her, and listened to her softer breathing. "it seems so," replied his wife. "and now, joe, you must go to bed again. i will lie down here with mary, and be ready to do any thing for her that she may want." "i don't feel sleepy. i'm sure i couldn't close my eyes. so let me sit up with mary. you are tired and worn out." mrs. morgan looked earnestly into her husband's face. his eyes were unusually bright, and she noticed a slight nervous restlessness about his lips. she laid one of her hands on his, and perceived a slight tremor. "you must go to bed," she spoke firmly. "i shall not let you sit up with mary. so go at once." and she drew him almost by force into the next room. "it's no use, fanny. there's not a wink of sleep in my eyes. i shall lie awake anyhow. so do you get a little rest." even as he spoke there were nervous twitchings of his arms and shoulders; and as he entered the chamber, impelled by his wife, he stopped suddenly and said: "what is that?" "where?" asked mrs. morgan. "oh, it's nothing--i see. only one of my old boots. i thought it a great black cat." oh! what a shudder of despair seized upon the heart of the wretched wife. too well she knew the fearful signs of that terrible madness from which, twice before, he had suffered. she could have looked on calmly and seen him die--but, "not this--not this! oh, father in heaven!" she murmured, with such a heart-sinking that it seemed as if life itself would go out. "get into bed, joe; get into bed as quickly as possible." morgan was now passive in the hands of his wife, and obeyed her almost like a child. he had turned down the bed-clothes, and was about getting in, when he started back, with a look of disgust and alarm. "there's nothing there, joe. what's the matter with you?" "i'm sure i don't know, fanny," and his teeth rattled together, as he spoke. "i thought there was a great toad under the clothes." "how foolish you are!"--yet tears were blinding her eyes as she said this. "it's only fancy. get into bed and shut your eyes. i'll make you another cup of strong coffee. perhaps that will do you good. you're only a little nervous. mary's sickness has disturbed you." joe looked cautiously under the bedclothes, as he lifted them up still farther, and peered beneath. "you know there's nothing in your bed, see!" and mrs. morgan threw with a single jerk all the clothes upon the floor. "there now! look for yourself. now shut your eyes," she continued as she spread the sheet and quilt over him after his head was on the pillow. "shut them tight and keep them so until i boil the water and make a cup of coffee you know as well as i do that it's nothing but fancy." morgan closed his eyes firmly, and drew the clothes over his head. "i'll be back in a few minutes" said his wife going hurriedly to the door. ere leaving, however she partly turned her head and glanced back. there sat her husband upright and staring fearfully. "don't fanny! don't go away!" he cried in a frightened voice. joe! joe! why will you be so foolish? it's nothing but imagination. now do lie down and shut your eyes. keep them shut. there now. and she laid a hand over his eyes and pressed it down tightly. "i wish doctor green was here," said the wretched man. "he could give me something." "shall i go for him?" "go fanny! run over right quickly" "but you won't keep in bed" "yes i will. there, now" and he drew the clothes over his face "there i'll lie just so until you come back. now run fanny, and don't stay a minute." scarcely stopping to think mrs. morgan went hurriedly from the room and drawing an old shawl over her head started with swift feet for the residence of doctor green which was not very far away. the kind doctor understood at a word the sad condition of her husband and promised to attend him immediately. back she flew at even a wilder speed her heart throbbing with vague apprehension. oh! what a fearful cry was that which smote her ears as she came within a few paces of home. she knew the voice, changed as it was by terror, and a shudder almost palsied her heart. at a single bound she cleared the intervening space and in the next moment was in the room where she had left her husband. but he was not there! with suspended breath, and feet that scarcely obeyed her will, she passed into the chamber where little mary lay. not here! "joe! husband!" she called in a faint voice. "here he is, mother." and now she saw that joe had crept into the bed behind the sick child and that her arm was drawn tightly around his neck. "you won't let them hurt me, will you dear?" said the pool frightened victim of a terrible mania. "nothing will hurt you father," answered mary, in a voice that showed her mind to be clear, and fully conscious of her parent's true condition. she had seen him thus before. ah! what an experience for a child! "you're an angel--my good angel, mary," he murmured, in a voice yet trembling with fear "pray for me, my child. oh ask your father in heaven to save me from these dreadful creatures. there now!" he cried, rising up suddenly and looking toward the door. "keep out! go away! you can't come in here. this is mary's room, and she's an angel. ah, ha! i knew you wouldn't dare come in here-- "a single saint can put to flight ten thousand blustering sons of night" he added in a half wandering way yet with an assured voice, as he laid himself back upon his pillow and drew the clothes over his head. "poor father!" sighed the child as she gathered both arms about his neck! "i will be your good angel. nothing shall hurt you here." "i knew i would be safe where you were," he whispered--"i knew it, and so i came. kiss me, love." how pure and fervent was the kiss laid instantly upon his lips! there was a power in it to remand the evil influences that were surrounding and pressing in upon him like a flood. all was quiet now, and mrs. morgan neither by word nor movement disturbed the solemn stillness that reigned in the apartment. in a few minutes the deepened breathing of her husband gave a blessed intimation that he was sinking into sleep. oh, sleep! sleep! how tearfully, in times past, had she prayed that he might sleep; and yet no sleep came for hours and days--even though powerful opiates were given--until exhausted nature yielded, and then sleep had a long, long struggle with death. now the sphere of his loving, innocent child seemed to have overcome, at least for the time, the evil influences that were getting possession even of his external senses. yes, yes, he was sleeping! oh, what a fervent "thank god!" went up from the heart of his stricken wife. soon the quick ears of mrs. morgan detected the doctor's approaching footsteps, and she met him at the door with a finger on her lips. a whispered word or two explained the better aspect of affairs, and the doctor said, encouragingly: "that's good, if he will only sleep on." "do you think he will, doctor?" was asked anxiously. "he may. but we cannot hope too strongly. it would be something very unusual." both passed noiselessly into the chamber. morgan still slept, and by his deep breathing it was plain that he slept soundly. and mary, too, was sleeping, her face now laid against her father's, and her arms still about his neck. the sight touched even the doctor's heart and moistened his eyes. for nearly half an hour he remained; and then, as morgan continued to sleep, he left medicine to be given immediately, and went home, promising to call early in the morning. it is now past midnight, and we leave the lonely, sad-hearted watcher with her sick ones. i was sitting, with a newspaper in my hand--not reading, but musing--at the "sickle and sheaf," late in the evening marked by the incidents just detailed. "where's your mother?" i heard simon slade inquire. he had just entered an adjoining room. "she's gone out somewhere," was answered by his daughter flora. "where?" "i don't know." "how long has she been away?" "more than an hour." "and you don't know where she went to?" "no, sir." nothing more was said, but i heard the landlord's heavy feet moving backward and forward across the room for some minutes. "why, ann! where have you been?" the door of the next room had opened and shut. "where i wish you had been with me," was answered in a very firm voice. "where?" "to joe morgan's." "humph!" only this ejaculation met my ears. but something was said in a low voice, to which mrs. slade replied with some warmth: "if you don't have his child's blood clinging for life to your garments, you may be thankful." "what do you mean?" he asked, quickly. "all that my words indicate. little mary is very ill!" "well, what of it?" "much. the doctor thinks her in great danger. the cut on her head has thrown her into a violent fever, and she is delirious. oh, simon! if you had heard what i heard to-night." "what?" was asked in a growling tone. "she is out of her mind, as i said, and talks a great deal. she talked about you." "of me! well, what had she to say?" "she said--so pitifully--'i wish mr. slade wouldn't look so cross at me. he never did when i went to the mill. he doesn't take me on his knee now, and stroke my hair. oh, dear!' poor child! she was always so good." "did she say that?" slade seemed touched. "yes, and a great deal more. once she screamed out, 'oh, don't! don't, mr. slade! don't! my head! my head!' it made my very heart ache. i can never forget her pale, frightened face, nor her cry of fear. simon--if she should die!" there was a long silence. "if we were only back to the mill." it was mrs. slade's voice. "there, now! i don't want to hear that again," quickly spoke out the landlord. "i made a slave of myself long enough." "you had at least a clear conscience," his wife answered. "do hush, will you?" slade was now angry. "one would think, by the way you talk sometimes, that i had broken every command of the decalogue." "you will break hearts as well as commandments, if you keep on for a few years as you have begun--and ruin souls as well as fortunes." mrs. slade spoke calmly, but with marked severity of tone. her husband answered with an oath, and then left the room, banging the door after him. in the hush that followed i retired to my chamber, and lay for an hour awake, pondering on all i had just heard. what a revelation was in that brief passage of words between the landlord and his excited companion! night the fourth. death of little mary morgan. "where are you going, ann?" it was the landlord's voice. time--a little after dark. "i'm going over to see mrs. morgan," answered his wife. "what for?" "i wish to go," was replied. "well, i don't wish you to go," said slade, in a very decided way. "i can't help that, simon. mary, i'm told, is dying, and joe is in a dreadful way. i'm needed there--and so are you, as to that matter. there was a time when, if word came to you that morgan or his family were in trouble--" "do hush, will you!" exclaimed the landlord, angrily. "i won't be preached to in this way any longer." "oh, well; then don't interfere with my movements, simon; that's all i have to say. i'm needed over there, as i just said, and i'm going." there were considerable odds against him, and slade, perceiving this, turned off, muttering something that his wife did not hear, and she went on her way. a hurried walk brought her to the wretched home of the poor drunkard, whose wife met her at the door. "how is mary?" was the visitor's earnest inquiry. mrs. morgan tried to answer the question; but, though her lips moved, no sounds issued therefrom. mrs. slade pressed her hands tightly in both of hers; and then passed in with her to the room where the child lay. a stance sufficed to tell mrs. slade that death had already laid his icy fingers upon her brow. "how are you, dear?" she asked, as she bent over and kissed her. "better, i thank you!" replied mary, in a low whisper. then she fixed her eyes upon her mother's face with a look of inquiry. "what is it, love?" "hasn't father waked up yet?" "no, dear." "won't he wake up soon?" "he's sleeping very soundly. i wouldn't like to disturb him." "oh, no; don't disturb him. i thought, maybe, he was awake." and the child's lids drooped languidly, until the long lashes lay close against her cheeks. there was silence for a little while, and then mrs. morgan said in a half-whisper to mrs. slade: "oh, we've had such a dreadful time with poor joe. he got in that terrible way again last night. i had to go for doctor green and leave him all alone. when i came back, he was in bed with mary; and she, dear child, had her arms around his neck, and was trying to comfort him; and would you believe it, he went off to sleep, and slept in that way for a long time. the doctor came, and when he saw how it was, left some medicine for him, and went away. i was in such hopes that he would sleep it all off. but about twelve o'clock he started up, and sprung out of bed with an awful scream. poor mary! she too had fallen asleep. the cry wakened her, and frightened her dreadfully. she's been getting worse ever since, mrs. slade. "just as he was rushing out of the room, i caught him by the arm, and it took all my strength to hold him. "'father! father!' mary called after him as soon as she was awake enough to understand what was the matter--'don't go out, father; there's nothing here.' "he looked back toward the bed, in a frightful way. "'see, father!' and the dear child turned down the quilt and sheet, in order to convince him that nothing was in the bed. 'i'm here,' she added. 'i'm not afraid. come, father. if there's nothing here to hurt me, there's nothing to hurt you.' "there was something so assuring in this, that joe took a step or two toward the bed, looking sharply into it as he did so. from the bed his eyes wandered up to the ceiling, and the old look of terror came into his face. "'there it is now! jump out of bed, quick! jump out, mary!' he cried. 'see! it's right over your head.' "mary showed no sign of fear as she lifted her eyes to the ceiling, and gazed steadily for a few moments in that direction. "'there's nothing there, father,' said she, in a confident voice. "'it's gone now,' joe spoke in a tone of relief. 'your angel-look drove it away. aha! there it is now, creeping along the floor!' he suddenly exclaimed, fearfully; starting away from where he stood. "'here, father'! here!' mary called to him, and he sprung into the bed again; while she gathered her arms about him tightly, saying in a low, soothing voice, 'nothing can harm you here, father.' "without a moment's delay, i gave him the morphine left by doctor green. he took it eagerly, and then crouched down in the bed, while mary continued to assure him of perfect safety. so long as he was clearly conscious as to where he was, he remained perfectly still. but, as soon as partial slumber came, he would scream out, and spring from the bed in terror and then it would take us several minutes to quiet him again. six times during the night did this occur; and as often, mary coaxed him back. the morphine i continued to give as the doctor had directed. by morning, the opiates had done their work, and he was sleeping soundly. when the doctor came, we removed him to his own bed. he is still asleep; and i begin to feel uneasy, lest he should never awake again. i have heard of this happening." "see if father isn't awake," said mary, raising her head from the pillow. she had not heard what passed between her mother and mrs. slade, for the conversation was carried on in low voices. mrs. morgan stepped to the door, and looked into the room where her husband lay. "he is still asleep, dear," she remarked, coming back to the bed. "oh! i wish he was awake. i want to see him so much. won't you call him, mother?" "i have called him a good many times. but you know the doctor gave him opium. he can't wake up yet." "he's been sleeping a very long time; don't you think so, mother?" "yes, dear, it does seem a long time. but it is best for him. he'll be better when he wakes." mary closed her eyes, wearily. how deathly white was her face--how sunken her eyes--how sharply contracted her features! "i've given her up, mrs. slade," said mrs. morgan, in a low, rough, choking whisper, as she leaned nearer to her friend. "i've given her up! the worst is over; but, oh! it seemed as though my heart would break in the struggle. dear child! in all the darkness of my way, she has helped and comforted me. without her, it would have been the blackness of darkness." "father! father!" the voice of mary broke out with a startling quickness. mrs. morgan turned to the bed, and laying her hand on mary's arm said: "he's still sound asleep, dear." "no, he isn't, mother. i heard him move. won't you go in and see if he is awake?" in order to satisfy the child, her mother left the room. to her surprise, she met the eyes of her husband as she entered the chamber where he lay. he looked at her calmly. "what does mary want with me?" he asked. "she wishes to see you. she's called you so many times. shall i bring her in here?" "no. i'll get up and dress myself." "i wouldn't do that. you've been sick." "father! father!" the clear, earnest voice of mary was heard calling. "i'm coming, dear," answered morgan. "come quick, father, won't you?" "yes, love." and morgan got up and dressed himself--but with unsteady hands, and every sign of nervous prostration. in a little while, with the assistance of his wife, he was ready, and supported by her, came tottering into the room where mary was lying. "oh, father!"--what a light broke over her countenance.--"i've been waiting for you so long. i thought you were never going to wake up. kiss me, father." "what can i do for you, mary?" asked morgan, tenderly, as he laid his face down upon the pillow beside her. "nothing, father. i don't wish for anything. i only wanted to see you." "i'm here now, love." "dear father!" how earnestly, yet tenderly she spoke, laying her small hand upon his face. "you've always been good to me, father." "oh, no. i've never been good to anybody," sobbed the weak, broken-spirited man, as he raised himself from the pillow. how deeply touched was mrs. slade, as she sat, the silent witness of this scene! "you haven't been good to yourself, father--but you've always been good to us." "don't, mary! don't say anything about that," interrupted morgan. "say that i've been very bad--very wicked. oh, mary, dear! i only wish that i was as good as you are; i'd like to die, then, and go right away from this evil world. i wish there was no liquor to drink--no taverns--no bar-rooms. oh, dear! oh, dear! i wish i was dead." and the weak, trembling, half-palsied man laid his face again upon the pillow beside his child, and sobbed aloud. what an oppressive silence reigned for a time through the room! "father." the stillness was broken by mary. her voice was clear and even. "father, i want to tell you something." "what is it, mary?" "there'll be nobody to go for you, father." the child's lips now quivered, and tears filled into her eyes. "don't talk about that, mary. i'm not going out in the evening any more until you get well. don't you remember i promised?" "but, father"--she hesitated. "what, dear?" "i'm going away to leave you and mother." "oh, no--no--no, mary! don't say that."--the poor man's voice was broken.--"don't say that! we can't let you go, dear." "god has called me." the child's voice had a solemn tone, and her eyes turned reverently upward. "i wish he would call me! oh, i wish he would call me!" groaned morgan, hiding his face in his hands. "what shall i do when you are gone? oh, dear! oh. dear!" "father!" mary spoke calmly again. "you are not ready to go yet. god will let you live here longer, that you may get ready." "how can i get ready without you to help me, mary? my angel child!" "haven't i tried to help you, father, oh, so many times?" said mary. "yes--yes--you've always tried." "but it wasn't any use. you would go out--you would go to the tavern. it seemed most as if you couldn't help it." morgan groaned in spirit. "maybe i can help you better, father, after i die. i love you so much, that i am sure god will let me come to you, and stay with you always, and be your angel. don't you think he will, mother?" but mrs. morgan's heart was too full. she did not even try to answer, but sat, with streaming eyes, gazing upon her child's face. "father. i dreamed something about you, while i slept to-day." mary again turned to her father. "what was it, dear?" "i thought it was night, and that i was still sick. you promised not to go out again until i was well. but you did go out; and i thought you went over to mr. slade's tavern. when i knew this, i felt as strong as when i was well, and i got up and dressed myself, and started out after you. but i hadn't gone far, before i met mr. slade's great bull-dog, nero, and he growled at me so dreadfully that i was frightened and ran back home. then i started again, and went away round by mr. mason's. but there was nero in the road, and this time he caught my dress in his mouth and tore a great piece out of the skirt. i ran back again, and he chased me all the way home. just as i got to the door. i looked around, and there was mr. slade, setting nero on me. as soon as i saw mr. slade, though he looked at me very wicked, i lost all my fear, and turning around, i walked past nero, who showed his teeth, and growled as fiercely as ever, but didn't touch me. then mr. slade tried to stop me. but i didn't mind him, and kept right on, until i came to the tavern, and there you stood in the door. and you were dressed so nice. you had on a new hat and a new coat; and your boots were new, and polished just like judge hammond's. i said: 'oh father! is this you?' and then you took me up in your arms and kissed me, and said: 'yes, mary, i am your real father. not old joe morgan--but mr. morgan now.' it seemed all so strange, that i looked into the bar-room to see who was there. but it wasn't a bar-room any longer; but a store full of goods. the sign of the 'sickle and sheaf' was taken down; and over the door i now read your name, father. oh! i was so glad, that i awoke--and then i cried all to myself, for it was only a dream." the last words were said very mournfully, and with a drooping of mary's lids, until the tear-gemmed lashes lay close upon her cheeks. another period of deep silence followed--for the oppressed listeners gave no utterance to what was in their hearts. feeling was too strong for speech. nearly five minutes glided away, and then mary whispered the name of her father, but without opening her eyes. morgan answered, and bent down his ear. "you will only have mother left," she said--"only mother. and she cries so much when you are away." "i won't leave her, mary, only when i go to work," said morgan, whispering back to the child. "and i'll never go out at night any more." "yes; you promised me that." "and i'll promise more." "what, father?" "never to go into a tavern again." "never!" "no, never. and i'll promise still more." "father?" "never to drink a drop of liquor as long as i live." "oh, father! dear, dear father!" and with a cry of joy mary started up and flung herself upon his breast. morgan drew his arms tightly around her, and sat for a long time, with his lips pressed to her cheek--while she lay against his bosom as still as death. as death? yes: for when the father unclasped his arms, the spirit of his child was with the angels of the resurrection! it was my fourth evening in the bar-room of the 'sickle and sheaf'. the company was not large, nor in very gay spirits. all had heard of little mary's illness; which followed so quickly on the blow from the tumbler, that none hesitated about connecting the one with the other. so regular had been the child's visits, and so gently excited, yet powerful her influence over her father, that most of the frequenters at the 'sickle and sheaf' had felt for her a more than common interest; which the cruel treatment she received, and the subsequent illness, materially heightened. "joe morgan hasn't turned up this evening," remarked some one. "and isn't likely to for a while" was answered. "why not?" inquired the first speaker. "they say the man with the poker is after him." "oh, dear that's dreadful. its the second or third chase, isn't it?" "yes." "he'll be likely to catch him this time." "i shouldn't wonder." "poor devil! it won't be much matter. his family will be a great deal better without him." "it will be a blessing to them if he dies." "miserable, drunken wretch!" muttered harvey green who was present. "he's only in the way of everybody. the sooner he's off, the better." the landlord said nothing. he stood leaning across the bar, looking more sober than usual. "that was rather an unlucky affair of yours simon. they say the child is going to die." "who says so?" slade started, scowled and threw a quick glance upon the speaker. "doctor green." "nonsense! doctor green never said any such thing." "yes, he did though." "who heard him?" "i did." "you did?" "yes." "he wasn't in earnest?" a slight paleness overspread the countenance of the landlord. "he was, though. they had an awful time there last night." "where?" "at joe morgan's. joe has the mania, and mrs. morgan was alone with him and her sick girl all night." "he deserves to have it; that's all i've got to say." slade tried to speak with a kind of rough indifference. "that's pretty hard talk," said one of the company. "i don't care if it is. it's the truth. what else could he expect?" "a man like joe is to be pitied," remarked the other. "i pity his family," said slade. "especially little mary." the words were uttered tauntingly, and produced murmurs of satisfaction throughout the room. slade started back from where he stood, in an impatient manner, saying something that i did not hear. "look here, simon, i heard some strong suggestions over at lawyer phillips' office to-day." slade turned his eyes upon the speaker. "if that child should die, you'll probably have to stand a trial for man-slaughter." "no--girl-slaughter," said harvey green, with a cold, inhuman chuckle. "but i'm in earnest." said the other. "mr. phillips said that a case could be made out of it." "it was only an accident, and all the lawyers in christendom can't make anything more of it," remarked green, taking the side of the landlord, and speaking with more gravity than before. "hardly an accident," was replied. "he didn't throw at the girl." "no matter. he threw a heavy tumbler at her father's head. the intention was to do an injury; and the law will not stop to make any nice discriminations in regard to the individual upon whom the injury was wrought. moreover, who is prepared to say that he didn't aim at the girl?" "any man who intimates such a thing is a cursed liar!" exclaimed the landlord, half maddened by the suggestion. "i won't throw a tumbler at your head," coolly remarked the individual whose plain speaking had so irritated simon slade, "throwing tumblers i never thought a very creditable kind of argument--though with some men, when cornered, it is a favorite mode of settling a question. now, as for our friend the landlord, i am sorry to say that his new business doesn't seem to have improved his manners or his temper a great deal. as a miller, he was one of the best-tempered men in the world, and wouldn't have harmed a kitten. but, now, he can swear, and bluster, and throw glasses at people's heads, and all that sort of thing, with the best of brawling rowdies. i'm afraid he's taking lessons in a bad school--i am." "i don't think you have any right to insult a man in his own house," answered slade, in a voice dropped to a lower key than the one in which he had before spoken. "i had no intention to insult you," said the other. "i was only speaking supposititiously, and in view of your position on a trial for manslaughter, when i suggested that no one could prove, or say that you didn't mean to strike little mary, when you threw the tumbler." "well, i didn't mean to strike her: and i don't believe there is a man in this bar-room who thinks that i did--not one." "i'm sure i do not," said the individual with whom he was in controversy. "nor i"--"nor i" went round the room. "but, as i wished to set forth," was continued, "the case will not be so plain a one when it finds its way into court, and twelve men, to each of whom you may be a stranger, come to sit in judgment upon the act. the slightest twist in the evidence, the prepossessions of a witness, or the bad tact of the prosecution, may cause things to look so dark on your side as to leave you but little chance. for my part, if the child should die, i think your chances for a term in the state's prison are as eight to ten; and i should call that pretty close cutting." i looked attentively at the man who said this, all the while he was speaking, but could not clearly make out whether he were altogether in earnest, or merely trying to worry the mind of slade. that he was successful in accomplishing the latter, was very plain; for the landlord's countenance steadily lost color, and became overcast with alarm. with that evil delight which some men take in giving pain, others, seeing slade's anxious looks, joined in the persecution, and soon made the landlord's case look black enough; and the landlord himself almost as frightened as a criminal just under arrest. "it's bad business, and no mistake," said one. "yes, bad enough. i wouldn't be in his shoes for his coat," remarked another. "for his coat? no, not for his whole wardrobe," said a third. "nor for the 'sickle and sheaf thrown into the bargain," added a fourth. "it will be a clear case of manslaughter, and no mistake. what is the penalty?" "from two to ten years in the penitentiary," was readily answered. "they'll give him five. i reckon." "no--not more than two. it will be hard to prove malicious intention." "i don't know that. i've heard him curse the girl and threaten her many a time. haven't you?" "yes"--"yes"--"i have, often," ran round the bar-room. "you'd better hang me at once," said slade, affecting to laugh. at this moment, the door behind slade opened, and i saw his wife's anxious face thrust in for a moment. she said something to her husband, who uttered a low ejaculation of surprise, and went out quickly. "what's the matter now?" asked one of another. "i shouldn't wonder if little mary morgan was dead," was suggested. "i heard her say dead," remarked one who was standing near the bar. "what's the matter, frank?" inquired several voices, as the landlord's son came in through the door out of which his father had passed. "mary morgan is dead," answered the boy. "poor child! poor child!" sighed one, in genuine regret at the not unlooked for intelligence. "her trouble is over." and there was not one present, but harvey green, who did not utter some word of pity or sympathy. he shrugged his shoulders, and looked as much of contempt and indifference as he thought it prudent to express. "see here, boys," spoke out one of the company, "can't we do something for poor mrs. morgan? can't we make up a purse for her?" "that's it," was quickly responded; "i'm good for three dollars; and there they are," drawing out the money and laying it upon the counter. "and here are five to go with them," said i, quickly stepping forward, and placing a five-dollar bill along side of the first contribution. "here are five more," added a third individual. and so it went on, until thirty dollars were paid down for the benefit of mrs. morgan. "into whose hands shall this be placed?" was next asked. "let me suggest mrs. slade," said i. "to my certain knowledge, she has been with mrs. morgan to-night. i know that she feels in her a true woman's interest." "just the person," was answered. "frank, tell your mother we would like to see her. ask her to step into the sitting-room." in a few moments the boy came back, and said that his mother would see us in the next room, into which we all passed. mrs. slade stood near the table, on which burned a lamp. i noticed that her eyes were red, and that there was on her countenance a troubled and sorrowful expression. "we have just heard," said one of the company, "that little mary morgan is dead." "yes--it is too true," answered mrs. slade, mournfully. "i have just left there. poor child! she has passed from an evil world." "evil it has indeed been to her," was remarked. "you may well say that. and yet, amid all the evil, she been an angel of mercy. her last thought in dying was of her miserable father. for him, at any time, she would have laid down her life willingly." "her mother must be nearly broken-hearted. mary is the last of her children." "and yet the child's death may prove a blessing to her." "how so?" "her father promised mary, just at the last moment--solemnly promised her--that, henceforth, he would never taste liquor. that was all her trouble. that was the thorn in her dying pillow. but he plucked it out, and she went to sleep, lying against his heart. oh, gentlemen! it was the most touching sight i ever saw." all present seemed deeply moved. "they are very poor and wretched." was said. "poor and miserable enough," answered mrs.' slade. "we have just been taking up a collection for mrs. morgan. here is the money, mrs. slade--thirty dollars--we place it in your hands for her benefit. do with it, for her, as you may see best." "oh, gentlemen!" what a quick gleam went over the face of mrs. slade. "i thank you, from my heart, in the name of that unhappy one, for this act of true benevolence. to you the sacrifice has been small, to her the benefit will be great indeed. a new life will, i trust be commenced by her husband, and this timely aid will be something to rest upon, until he can get into better employment than he now has. oh, gentlemen! let me urge on you, one and all, to make common cause in favor of joe morgan. his purposes are good now, he means to keep his promise to his dying child--means to reform his life. let good impulses that led to that act of relief further prompt you to watch over him and, if you see him about going astray, to lead him kindly back into the right path. never--oh' never encourage him to drink, but rather take the glass from his hand, if his own appetite lead him aside and by all the persuasive influence you possess, induce him to go out from the place of temptation. "pardon my boldness in saying so much" added mrs. slade, recollecting herself and coloring deeply as she did so "my feelings have led me away." and she took the money from the table where it had been placed, and retired toward the door. "you have spoken well madam" was answered "and we thank you for reminding us of our duty." "one word more--and forgive the earnest heart from which it comes"--said mrs. slade in a voice that trembled on the words she uttered "i cannot help speaking, gentlemen! think if some of you be not entering the road wherein joe morgan has so long been walking. save him in heaven's name! but see that ye do not yourselves become castaways!" as she said this she glided through the door and it closed after her. "i don't know what her husband would say to that," was remarked after a few moments of surprised silence. "i don't care what he would say, but i'll tell you what _i_ will say" spoke out a man whom i had several times noticed as a rather a free tippler "the old lady has given us capital advice, and i mean to take it, for one. i'm going to try to save joe morgan, and--myself too. i've already entered the road she referred to; but i'm going to turn back. so good-night to you all; and if simon slade gets no more of my sixpences, he may thank his wife for it--god bless her!" and the man drew his hat with a jerk over his forehead, and left immediately. this seemed the signal for dispersion, and all retired--not by way of the bar-room, but out into the hall, and through the door leading upon the porch that ran along in front of the house. soon after the bar was closed, and a dead silence reigned throughout the house. i saw no more of slade that night. early in the morning, i left cedarville; the landlord looked very sober when he bade me good-bye through the stage-door, and wished me a pleasant journey. night the fifth. some of the consequences of tavern-keeping. nearly five years glided away before business again called me to cedarville. i knew little of what passed there in the interval, except that simon slade had actually been indicted for manslaughter, in causing the death of morgan's child. he did not stand a trial, however, judge lyman having used his influence, successfully, in getting the indictment quashed. the judge, some people said, interested himself in slade more than was just seemly--especially, as he had, on several occasions, in the discharge of his official duties, displayed what seemed an over-righteous indignation against individuals arraigned for petty offences. the impression made upon me by judge lyman had not been favorable. he seemed a cold, selfish, scheming man of the world. that he was an unscrupulous politician, was plain to me, in a single evening's observation of his sayings and doings among the common herd of a village bar-room. as the stage rolled, with a gay flourish of our driver's bugle, into the village, i noted here and there familiar objects, and marked the varied evidences of change. our way was past the elegant residence and grounds of judge hammond, the most beautiful and highly cultivated in cedarville. at least, such it was regarded at the time of my previous visit. but, the moment my eyes rested upon the dwelling and its various surroundings, i perceived an altered aspect. was it the simple work of time? or, had familiarity with other and more elegantly arranged suburban homes, marred this in my eyes by involuntary contrast? or had the hand of cultivation really been stayed, and the marring fingers of neglect suffered undisturbed to trace on every thing disfiguring characters? such questions were in my thoughts, when i saw a man in the large portico of the dwelling, the ample columns of which, capped in rich corinthian, gave the edifice the aspect of a grecian temple. he stood leaning against one of the columns--his hat off, and his long gray hair thrown back and resting lightly on his neck and shoulders. his head was bent down upon his breast, and he seemed in deep abstraction. just as the coach swept by, he looked up, and in the changed features i recognized judge hammond. his complexion was still florid, but his face had grown thin, and his eyes were sunken. trouble was written in every lineament. trouble? how inadequately does the word express my meaning! ah! at a single glance, what a volume of suffering was opened to the gazer's eye. not lightly had the foot of time rested there, as if treading on odorous flowers, but heavily, and with iron-shod heel. this i saw at a glance; and then, only the image of the man was present to my inner vision, for the swiftly rolling stage-coach had borne me onward past the altered home of the wealthiest denizen of cedarville. in a few minutes our driver reined up before the "sickle and sheaf," and as i stepped to the ground, a rotund, coarse, red-faced man, whom i failed to recognize as simon slade until he spoke, grasped my hand, and pronounced my name. i could not but contrast, in thought, his appearance with what it was when i first saw him, some six years previously; nor help saying to myself: "so much for tavern-keeping!" as marked a change was visible everywhere in and around the "sickle and sheaf." it, too, had grown larger by additions of wings and rooms; but it had also grown coarser in growing larger. when built, all the doors were painted white, and the shutters green, giving to the house a neat, even tasteful appearance. but the white and green had given place to a dark, dirty brown, that to my eyes was particularly unattractive. the bar-room had been extended, and now a polished brass rod, or railing, embellished the counter, and sundry ornamental attractions had been given to the shelving behind the bar--such as mirrors, gilding, etc. pictures, too, were hung upon the walls, or more accurately speaking; coarse colored lithographs, the subjects of which, if not really obscene, were flashing, or vulgar. in the sitting-room, next to the bar, i noticed little change of objects, but much in their condition. the carpet, chairs, and tables were the same in fact, but far from being the same in appearance. the room had a close, greasy odor, and looked as if it had not been thoroughly swept and dusted for a week. a smart young irishman was in the bar, and handed me the book in which passenger's names were registered. after i had recorded mine, he directed my trunk to be carried to the room designated as the one i was to occupy. i followed the porter, who conducted me to the chamber which had been mine at previous visits. here, too, were evidences of change; but not for the better. then the room was as sweet and clean as it could be; the sheets and pillow-cases as white as snow, and the furniture shining with polish. now all was dusty and dingy, the air foul, and the bed-linen scarcely whiter than tow. no curtain made softer the light as it came through the window; nor would the shutters entirely keep out the glare, for several of the slats were broken. a feeling of disgust came over me, at the close smell and foul appearance of everything; so, after washing my hands and face, and brushing the dust from my clothes, i went down stairs. the sitting-room was scarcely more attractive than my chamber; so i went out upon the porch and took a chair. several loungers were here; hearty, strong-looking, but lazy fellows, who, if they had anything to do, liked idling better than working. one of them leaned his chair back against the wall of the house, and was swinging his legs with a half circular motion, and humming "old folks at home." another sat astride of a chair, with his face turned toward, and his chin resting upon, the back. he was in too lazy a condition of body and mind for motion or singing. a third had slidden down in his chair, until he sat on his back, while his feet were elevated above his head, and rested against one of the pillars that supported the porch; while a fourth lay stretched out on a bench, sleeping, his hat over his face to protect him from buzzing and biting flies. though all but the sleeping man eyed me inquisitively, as i took my place among them, not one changed his position. the rolling of eye-balls cost but little exertion; and with that effort they were contented. "hallo! who's that?" one of these loungers suddenly exclaimed, as a man went swiftly by in a light sulky; and he started up, and gazed down the road, seeking to penetrate the cloud of dust which the fleet rider had swept up with hoofs and wheels. "i didn't see." the sleeping man aroused himself, rubbed his eyes, and gazed along the road. "who was it, matthew?" the irish bar-keeper now stood in the door. "willy hammond," was answered by matthew. "indeed! is that his new three hundred dollar horse?" "yes." "my! but he's a screamer!" "isn't he! most as fast as his young master." "hardly," said one of the men, laughing. "i don't think anything in creation can beat hammond. he goes it with a perfect rush." "doesn't he! well; you may say what you please of him, he's as good-hearted a fellow as ever walked; and generous to a fault." "his old dad will agree with you in the last remark," said matthew. "no doubt of that, for he has to stand the bills," was answered. "yes, whether he will or no, for i rather think willy has, somehow or other, got the upper hand of him." "in what way?" "it's hammond and son, over at the mill and distillery." "i know; but what of that!" "willy was made the business man--ostensibly--in order, as the old man thought, to get him to feel the responsibility of the new position, and thus tame him down." "tame him down! oh, dear! it will take more than business to do that. the curb was applied too late." "as the old gentleman has already discovered, i'm thinking, to his sorrow." "he never comes here any more; does he, matthew?" "who?" "judge hammond." "oh, dear, no. he and slade had all sorts of a quarrel about a year ago, and he's never darkened our doors since." "it was something about willy and--." the speaker did not mention any name, but winked knowingly and tossed his head toward the entrance of the house, to indicate some member of slade's family. "i believe so." "d'ye think willy really likes her?" matthew shrugged his shoulders, but made no answer. "she's a nice girl," was remarked in an under tone, "and good enough for hammond's son any day; though, if she were my daughter, i'd rather see her in jericho than fond of his company." "he'll have plenty of money to give her. she can live like a queen." "for how long?" "hush!" came from the lips of matthew. "there she is now." i looked up, and saw at a short distance from the house, and approaching, a young lady, in whose sweet, modest face, i at once recognized flora slade, five years had developed her into a beautiful woman. in her alone, of all that appertained to simon slade, there was no deterioration. her eyes were as mild and pure as when first i met her at gentle sixteen, and her father said "my daughter," with such a mingling of pride and affection in his tone. she passed near where i was sitting, and entered the house. a closer view showed me some marks of thought and suffering; but they only heightened the attraction of her face. i failed not to observe the air of respect with which all returned her slight nod and smile of recognition. "she's a nice girl, and no mistake--the flower of this flock," was said, as soon as she passed into the house. "too good for willy hammond, in my opinion," said matthew. "clever and generous as people call him." "just my opinion," was responded. "she's as pure and good, almost, as an angel; and he?--i can tell you what--he's not the clean thing. he knows a little too much of the world--on its bad side, i mean." the appearance of slade put an end to this conversation. a second observation of his person and countenance did not remove the first unfavorable impression. his face had grown decidedly bad in expression, as well as gross and sensual. the odor of his breath, as he took a chair close to where i was sitting, was that of one who drank habitually and freely; and the red, swimming eyes evidenced, too surely, a rapid progress toward the sad condition of a confirmed inebriate. there was, too, a certain thickness of speech, that gave another corroborating sign of evil progress. "have you seen anything of frank this afternoon?" he inquired of matthew, after we had passed a few words. "nothing," was the bar-keeper's answer. "i saw him with tom wilkins as i came over," said one of the men who was sitting in the porch. "what was he doing with tom wilkins?" said slade, in a fretted tone of voice. "he doesn't seem very choice in his company." "they were gunning." "gunning!" "yes. they both had fowling-pieces. i wasn't near enough to ask where they were going." this information disturbed slade a good deal. after muttering to himself a little while, he started up and went into the house. "and i could have told him a little more, had i been so inclined," said the individual who mentioned the fact that frank was with tom wilkins. "what more?" inquired matthew. "there was a buggy in the case; and a champagne basket. what the latter contained you can easily guess." "whose buggy?" "i don't know anything about the buggy; but if 'lightfoot' doesn't sink in value a hundred dollars or so before sundown, call me a false prophet." "oh, no," said matthew, incredulously. "frank wouldn't do an outrageous thing like that. lightfoot won't be in a condition to drive for a month to come." "i don't care. she's out now; and the way she was putting it down when i saw her, would have made a locomotive look cloudy." "where did he get her?" was inquired. "she's been in the six-acre field, over by mason's bridge, for the last week or so," matthew answered. "well; all i have to say," he added, "is that frank ought to be slung up and well horse-whipped. i never saw such a young rascal. he cares for no good, and fears no evil. he's the worst boy i ever saw." "it would hardly do for you to call him a boy to his face," said one of the men, laughing. "i don't have much to say to him in any way," replied matthew, "for i know very well that if we ever do get into a regular quarrel, there'll be a hard time of it. the same house will not hold us afterward--that's certain. so i steer clear of the young reprobate." "i wonder his father don't put him to some business," was remarked. "the idle life he now leads will be his ruin." "he was behind the bar for a year or two." "yes; and was smart at mixing a glass--but--" "was himself becoming too good a customer?" "precisely. he got drunk as a fool before reaching his fifteenth year." "good gracious!" i exclaimed, involuntarily. "it's true, sir," said the last speaker, turning to me, "i never saw anything like it. and this wasn't all bar-room talk, which, as you may know, isn't the most refined and virtuous in the world. i wouldn't like my son to hear much of it. frank was always an eager listener to everything that was said, and in a very short time became an adept in slang and profanity. i'm no saint myself; but it's often made my blood run cold to hear him swear." "i pity his mother," said i; for my thought turned naturally to mrs. slade. "you may well do that," was answered. "i doubt if cedarville holds a sadder heart. it was a dark day for her, let me tell you, when simon slade sold his mill and built this tavern. she was opposed to it at the beginning." "i have inferred as much." "i know it," said the man. "my wife has been intimate with her for years. indeed, they have always been like sisters. i remember very well her coming to our house, about the time the mill was sold, and crying about it as if her heart would break. she saw nothing but sorrow and trouble ahead. tavern-keeping she had always regarded as a low business, and the change from a respectable miller to a lazy tavern-keeper, as she expressed it, was presented to her mind as something disgraceful. i remember, very well, trying to argue the point with her--assuming that it was quite as respectable to keep tavern as to do anything else; but i might as well have talked to the wind. she was always a pleasant, hopeful, cheerful woman before that time, but, really, i don't think i've seen a true smile on her face since." "that was a great deal for a man to lose," said i. "what?" he inquired, not clearly understanding me. "the cheerfull face of his wife." "the face was but an index of her heart," said he. "so much the worse." "true enough for that. yes, it was a great deal to lose. "what has he gained that will make up for this?" the man shrugged his shoulders. "what has he gained?" i repeated. "can you figure it up?" "he's a richer man, for one thing." "happier?" there was another shrug of the shoulders. "i wouldn't like to say that." "how much richer?" "oh, a great deal. somebody was saying, only yesterday, that he couldn't be worth less than thirty thousand dollars." "indeed? so much." "yes." "how has he managed to accumulate so rapidly?" "his bar has a large run of custom. and, you know, that pays wonderfully." "he must have sold a great deal of liquor in six years." "and he has. i don't think i'm wrong in saying that in the six years which have gone by since the 'sickle and sheaf' was opened, more liquor has been drank than in the previous twenty years." "say forty," remarked a man who had been a listener to what we said. "let it be forty then," was the according answer. "how comes this?" i inquired. "you had a tavern here before the 'sickle and sheaf' was opened." "i know we had, and several places besides, where liquor was sold. but, everybody far and near knew simon slade the miller, and everybody liked him. he was a good miller, and a cheerful, social, chatty sort of man putting everybody in a good humor who came near him. so it became the talk everywhere, when he built this house, which he fitted up nicer than anything that had been seen in these parts. judge hammond, judge lyman, lawyer wilson, and all the big bugs of the place at once patronized the new tavern, and of course, everybody else did the same. so, you can easily see how he got such a run." "it was thought, in the beginning," said i, "that the new tavern was going to do wonders for cedarville." "yes," answered the man laughing, "and so it has." "in what respect?" "oh, in many. it has made some men richer, and some poorer." "who has it made poorer?" "dozens of people. you may always take it for granted, when you see a tavern-keeper who has a good run at his bar, getting rich, that a great many people are getting poor." "how so?" i wished to hear in what way the man who was himself, as was plain to see, a good customer at somebody's bar, reasoned on the subject. "he does not add to the general wealth. he produces nothing. he takes money from his customers, but gives them no article of value in return--nothing that can be called property, personal or real. he is just so much richer and they just so much poorer for the exchange. is it not so?" i readily assented to the position as true, and then said-- "who, in particular, is poorer?" "judge hammond, for one." "indeed! i thought the advance in his property, in consequence of the building of this tavern, was so great, that he was reaping a rich pecuniary harvest." "there was a slight advance in property along the street after the 'sickle and sheaf' was opened, and judge hammond was benefited thereby. interested parties made a good deal of noise about it; but it didn't amount to much, i believe." "what has caused the judge to grow poorer?" "the opening of this tavern, as i just said." "in what way did it affect him?" "he was among slade's warmest supporters, as soon as he felt the advance in the price of building lots, called him one of the most enterprising men in cedarville--a real benefactor to the place--and all that stuff. to set a good example of patronage, he came over every day and took his glass of brandy, and encouraged everybody else that he could influence to do the same. among those who followed his example was his son willy. there was not, let me tell you, in all the country for twenty miles around, a finer young man than willy, nor one of so much promise, when this man-trap"--he let his voice fall, and glanced around, as he thus designated slade's tavern--"was opened; and now, there is not one dashing more recklessly along the road to ruin. when too late, his father saw that his son was corrupted, and that the company he kept was of a dangerous character. two reasons led him to purchase slade's old mill, and turn it into a factory and a distillery. of course, he had to make a heavy outlay for additional buildings, machinery, and distilling apparatus. the reasons influencing him were the prospect of realizing a large amount of money, especially in distilling, and the hope of saving willy, by getting him closely engaged and interested in business. to accomplish, more certainly, the latter end, he unwisely transferred to his son, as his own capital, twenty thousand dollars, and then formed with him a regular copartnership--giving willy an active business control. "but the experiment, sir," added the man, emphatically, "has proved a failure. i heard yesterday, that both mill and distillery were to be shut up, and offered for sale." "they did not prove as money-making as was anticipated?" "no, not under willy hammond's management. he had made too many bad acquaintances--men who clung to him because he had plenty of money at his command, and spent it as freely as water. one-half of his time he was away from the mill, and while there, didn't half attend to business. i've heard it said--and i don't much doubt its truth--that he's squandered his twenty thousand dollars, and a great deal more besides." "how is that possible?" "well; people talk, and not always at random. there's been a man staying here, most of his time, for the last four or five years, named green. he does not do anything, and don't seem to have any friends in the neighborhood. nobody knows where he came from, and he is not at all communicative on that head himself. well, this man became acquainted with young hammond after willy got to visiting the bar here, and attached himself to him at once. they have, to all appearance, been fast friends ever since; riding about, or going off on gunning or fishing excursions almost every day, and secluding themselves somewhere nearly every evening. that man, green, sir, it is whispered, is a gambler; and i believe it. granted, and there is no longer a mystery as to what willy does with his own and his father's money." i readily assented to this view of the case. "and so assuming that green is a gambler," said i, "he has grown richer, in consequence of the opening of a new and more attractive tavern in cedarville." "yes, and cedarville is so much the poorer for all his gains; for i've never heard of his buying a foot of ground, or in any way encouraging productive industry. he's only a blood-sucker." "it is worse than the mere abstraction of money," i remarked; "he corrupts his victims, at the same time that he robs them." "true." "willy hammond may not be his only victim," i suggested. "nor is he, in my opinion. i've been coming to this bar, nightly, for a good many years--a sorry confession for a man to make, i must own," he added, with a slight tinge of shame; "but so it is. well, as i was saying, i've been coming to this bar, nightly, for a good many years, and i generally see all that is going on around me. among the regular visitors are at least half a dozen young men, belonging to our best families--who have been raised with care, and well educated. that their presence here is unknown to their friends, i am quite certain--or, at least, unknown and unsuspected by some of them. they do not drink a great deal yet; but all try a glass or two. toward nine o'clock, often at an earlier hour, you will see one and another of them go quietly out of the bar, through the sitting-room, preceded, or soon followed, by green and slade. at any hour of the night, up to one or two, and sometimes three o'clock, you can see light streaming through the rent in a curtain drawn before a particular window, which i know to be in the room of harvey green. these are facts, sir; and you can draw your own conclusion. i think it a very serious matter." "why does slade go out with these young men?" i inquired. "do you think he gambles also?" "if he isn't a kind of a stool-pigeon for harvey green, then i'm mistaken again." "hardly. he cannot, already, have become so utterly unprincipled." "it's a bad school, sir, this tavern-keeping," said the man. "i readily grant you that." "and it's nearly seven years since he commenced to take lessons. a great deal may be learned, sir, of good or evil, in seven years, especially if any interest be taken in the studies." "true." "and it's true in this case, you may depend upon it. simon slade is not the man he was, seven years ago. anybody with half an eye can see that. he's grown selfish, grasping, unscrupulous, and passionate. there could hardly be a greater difference between men than exists between simon slade the tavern-keeper, and simon slade the miller." "and intemperate, also?" i suggested. "he's beginning to take a little too much," was answered. "in that case, he'll scarcely be as well off five years hence as he is now." "he's at the top of the wheel, some of us think." "what has led to this opinion?" "he's beginning to neglect his house, for one thing." "a bad sign." "and there is another sign. heretofore, he has always been on hand, with the cash, when desirable property went off, under forced sale, at a bargain. in the last three or four months, several great sacrifices have been made, but simon slade showed no inclination to buy. put this fact against another,--week before last, he sold a house and lot in the town for five hundred dollars less than he paid for them, a year ago--and for just that sum less than their true value." "how came that?" i inquired. "ah! there's the question! he wanted money; though for what purpose he has not intimated to any one, as far as i can learn." "what do you think of it?" "just this. he and green have been hunting together in times past; but the professed gambler's instincts are too strong to let him spare even his friend in evil. they have commenced playing one against the other." "ah! you think so?" "i do; and if i conjecture rightly, simon slade will be a poorer man, in a year from this time, than he is now." here our conversation was interrupted. some one asked my talkative friend to go and take a drink, and he, nothing loath, left me without ceremony. very differently served was the supper i partook of on that evening, from the one set before me on the occasion of my first visit to the "sickle and sheaf." the table-cloth was not merely soiled, but offensively dirty; the plates, cups, and saucers, dingy and sticky; the knives and forks unpolished; and the food of a character to satisfy the appetite with a very few mouthfuls. two greasy-looking irish girls waited on the table, at which neither landlord nor landlady presided. i was really hungry when the supper-bell rang; but the craving of my stomach soon ceased in the atmosphere of the dining-room, and i was the first to leave the table. soon after the lamps were lighted, company began to assemble in the spacious bar-room, where were comfortable seats, with tables, newspapers, backgammon boards, dominoes, etc. the first act of nearly every one who came in was to call for a glass of liquor; and sometimes the same individual drank two or three times in the course of half an hour, on the invitation of new comers who were convivially inclined. most of those who came in were strangers to me. i was looking from face to face to see if any of the old company were present, when one countenance struck me as familiar. i was studying it, in order, if possible, to identify the person, when some one addressed him as "judge." changed as the face was, i now recognized it as that of judge lyman. five years had marred that face terribly. it seemed twice the former size; and all its bright expression was gone. the thickened and protruding eyelids half closed the leaden eyes, and the swollen lips and cheeks gave to his countenance a look of all predominating sensuality. true manliness had bowed itself in debasing submission to the bestial. he talked loudly, and with a pompous dogmatism--mainly on political subjects--but talked only from memory; for any one could see, that thought came into but feeble activity. and yet, derationalized, so to speak, as he was, through drink, he had been chosen a representative in congress, at the previous election, on the anti-temperance ticket, and by a very handsome majority. he was the rum candidate; and the rum interest, aided by the easily swayed "indifferents," swept aside the claims of law, order, temperance, and good morals; and the district from which he was chosen as a national legislator sent him up to the national councils, and said in the act--"look upon him we have chosen as our representative, and see in him a type of our principles, our quality, and our condition, as a community." judge lyman, around whom a little circle soon gathered, was very severe on the temperance party, which, for two years, had opposed his election, and which, at the last struggle, showed itself to be a rapidly growing organization. during the canvass, a paper was published by this party, in which his personal habits, character, and moral principles were discussed in the freest manner, and certainly not in a way to elevate him in the estimation of men whose opinion was of any value. it was not much to be wondered at, that he assumed to think temperance issues at the polls were false issues; and that when temperance men sought to tamper with elections, the liberties of the people were in danger; nor that he pronounced the whole body of temperance men as selfish schemers and canting hypocrites. "the next thing we will have," he exclaimed, warming with his theme, and speaking so loud that his voice sounded throughout the room, and arrested every one's attention, "will be laws to fine any man who takes a chew of tobacco, or lights a cigar. touch the liberties of the people in the smallest particular, and all guarantees are gone. the stamp act, against which our noble forefathers rebelled, was a light measure of oppression to that contemplated by these worse than fanatics." "you are right there, judge; right for once in your life, if you (hic) were never right before!" exclaimed a battered-looking specimen of humanity, who stood near the speaker, slapping judge lyman on the shoulder familiarly as he spoke. "there's no telling what they will do. there's (hic) my old uncle josh wilson, who's been keeper of the poor-house these ten years. well, they're going to turn him out, if ever they get the upper hand in bolton county." "if? that word involves a great deal, harry!" said lyman. "we mus'n't let them get the upper hand. every man has a duty to perform to his country in this matter, and every one must do his duty. but what have they got against your uncle joshua? what has he been doing to offend this righteous party?" "they've nothing against him, (hic) i believe. only, they say, they're not going to have a poor-house in the county at all." "what! going to turn the poor wretches out to starve?" said one. "oh no! (hic)," and the fellow grinned, half shrewdly and half maliciously, as he answered--"no, not that. but, when they carry the day, there'll be no need of poor-houses. at least, that's their talk--and i guess maybe there's something in it, for i never knew a man to go to the poor-house, who hadn't (hic) rum to blame for his poverty. but, you see, i'm interested in this matter. i go for keeping up the poor-house (hic); for i guess i'm travelling that road, and i shouldn't like to get to the last milestone (hic) and find no snug quarters--no uncle josh. you're safe for one vote, any how, old chap, on next election day!" and the man's broad hand slapped the member's shoulder again. "huzza for the rummies! that's (hic) the ticket! harry grimes never deserts his friends. true as steel!" "you're a trump!" returned judge lyman, with low familiarity. "never fear about the poor-house and uncle josh. they're all safe." "but look here, judge," resumed the man. "it isn't only the poor-house, the jail is to go next." "indeed!" "yes, that's their talk; and i guess they ain't far out of the way, neither. what takes men to jail? you can tell us something about that, judge, for you've jugged a good many in your time. didn't pretty much all of 'em drink rum (hic)?" but the judge answered nothing. "silence (hic) gives consent," resumed grimes. "and they say more; once give 'em the upper hand--and they're confident of beating us--and the courthouse will be to let. as for judges and lawyers, they'll starve, or go into some better business. so you see, (hic) judge, your liberties are in danger. but fight hard, old fellow; and if you must die, (hic) die game!" how well judge lyman relished this mode of presenting the case, was not very apparent; he was too good a politician and office-seeker, to show any feeling on the subject, and thus endanger a vote. harry grimes' vote counted one, and a single vote sometimes gained or lost an election. "one of their gags," he said, laughing. "but i'm too old a stager not to see the flimsiness of such pretensions. poverty and crime have their origin in the corrupt heart, and their foundations are laid long and long before the first step is taken on the road to inebriety. it is easy to promise results; for only the few look at causes, and trace them to their effects." "rum and ruin (hic). are they not cause and effect?" asked grimes. "sometimes they are," was the half extorted answer. "oh, green, is that you?" exclaimed the judge, as harvey green came in with a soft cat-like step. he was, evidently, glad of a chance to get rid of his familiar friend and elector. i turned my eyes upon the man, and read his face closely. it was unchanged. the same cold, sinister eye; the same chiselled mouth, so firm now, and now yielding so elastically; the same smile "from the teeth outward"--the same lines that revealed his heart's deep, dark selfishness. if he had indulged in drink during the five intervening years, it had not corrupted his blood, nor added thereto a single degree of heat. "have you seen anything of hammond this evening?" asked judge lyman. "i saw him an hour or two ago," answered green. "how does he like his new horse?" "he's delighted with him." "what was the price?" "three hundred dollars." "indeed!" the judge had already arisen, and he and green were now walking side by side across the bar-room floor. "i want to speak a word with you," i heard lyman say. and then the two went out together. i saw no more of them during the evening. not long afterward, willy hammond came in. ah! there was a sad change here; a change that in no way belied the words of matthew the bar-keeper. he went up to the bar, and i heard him ask for judge lyman. the answer was in so low a voice that it did not reach my ear. with a quick, nervous motion, hammond threw his hand toward a row of decanters on the shelf behind the bar-keeper, who immediately set one of them containing brandy before him. from this he poured a tumbler half full, and drank it off at a single draught, unmixed with water. he then asked some further question, which i could not hear, manifesting, as it appeared, considerable excitement of mind. in answering him, matthew glanced his eyes upward, as if indicating some room in the house. the young man then retired, hurriedly, through the sitting-room. "what's the matter with willy hammond tonight?" asked some one of the bar-keeper. "who's he after in such a hurry?" "he wants to see judge lyman," replied matthew. "oh!" "i guess they're after no good," was remarked. "not much, i'm afraid." two young men, well dressed, and with faces marked by intelligence, came in at the moment, drank at the bar, chatted a little while familiarly with the bar-keeper, and then quietly disappeared through the door leading into the sitting-room. i met the eyes of the man with whom i had talked during the afternoon, and his knowing wink brought to mind his suggestion, that in one of the upper rooms gambling went on nightly, and that some of the most promising young men of the town had been drawn, through the bar attraction, into this vortex of ruin. i felt a shudder creeping along my nerves. the conversation that now went on among the company was of such an obscene and profane character that, in disgust, i went out. the night was clear, the air soft, and the moon shining down brightly. i walked for some time in the porch, musing on what i had seen and heard; while a constant stream of visitors came pouring into the bar-room. only a few of these remained. the larger portion went in quickly, took their glass, and then left, as if to avoid observation as much as possible. soon after i commenced walking in the porch, i noticed an elderly lady go slowly by, who, in passing, slightly paused, and evidently tried to look through the bar-room door. the pause was but for an instant. in less than ten minutes she came back, again stopped--this time longer--and again moved off slowly, until she passed out of sight. i was yet thinking about her, when, on lifting my eyes from the ground, she was advancing along the road, but a few rods distant. i almost started at seeing her, for there no longer remained a doubt on my mind, that she was some trembling, heartsick woman, in search of an erring son, whose feet were in dangerous paths. seeing me, she kept on, though lingeringly. she went but a short distance before returning; and this time, she moved in closer to the house, and reached a position that enabled her eyes to range through a large portion of the bar-room. a nearer inspection appeared to satisfy her. she retired with quicker steps; and did not again return during the evening. ah! what a commentary upon the uses of an attractive tavern was here! my heart ached, as i thought of all that unknown mother had suffered, and was doomed to suffer. i could not shut out the image of her drooping form as i lay upon my pillow that night; she even haunted me in my dreams. night the sixth. more consequences. the landlord did not make his appearance on the next morning until nearly ten o'clock; and then he looked like a man who had been on a debauch. it was eleven before harvey green came down. nothing about him indicated the smallest deviation from the most orderly habit. clean shaved, with fresh linen, and a face, every line of which was smoothed into calmness, he looked as if he had slept soundly on a quiet conscience, and now hailed the new day with a tranquil spirit. the first act of slade was to go behind the bar and take a stiff glass of brandy and water; the first act of green, to order beefsteak and coffee for his breakfast. i noticed the meeting between the two men, on the appearance of green. there was a slight reserve on the part of green, and an uneasy embarrassment on the part of slade. not even the ghost of a smile was visible in either countenance. they spoke a few words together, and then separated as if from a sphere of mutual repulsion. i did not observe them again in company during the day. "there's trouble over at the mill," was remarked by a gentleman with whom i had some business transactions in the afternoon. he spoke to a person who sat in his office. "ah! what's the matter?" said the other. "all the hands were discharged at noon, and the mill shut down." "how comes that?" "they've been losing money from the start." "rather bad practice, i should say." "it involves some bad practices, no doubt." "on willy's part?" "yes. he is reported to have squandered the means placed in his hands, after a shameless fashion." "is the loss heavy?" "so it is said." "how much?" "reaching to thirty or forty thousand dollars. but this is rumor, and, of course, an exaggeration." "of course. no such loss as that could have been made. but what was done with the money? how could willy have spent it? he dashes about a great deal; buys fast horses, drinks rather freely, and all that; but thirty or forty thousand dollars couldn't escape in this way." at the moment a swift trotting horse, bearing a light sulky and a man, went by. "there goes young hammond's three hundred dollar animal," said the last speaker. "it was willy hammond's yesterday. but there has been a change of ownership since then; i happen to know." "indeed." "yes. the man green, who has been loafing about cedarville for the last few years--after no good, i can well believe--came into possession to-day." "ah! willy must be very fickle-minded. does the possession of a coveted object so soon bring satiety?" "there is something not clearly understood about the transaction. i saw mr. hammond during the forenoon, and he looked terribly distressed." "the embarrassed condition of things at the mill readily accounts for this." "true; but i think there are causes of trouble beyond the mere embarrassments." "the dissolute, spendthrift habits of his son," was suggested. "these are sufficient to weigh down the father's spirits,--to bow him to the very dust." "to speak out plainly," said the other, "i am afraid that the young man adds another vice to that of drinking and idleness." "what?" "gaining." "no!" "there is little doubt of it in my mind. and it is further my opinion, that his fine horse, for which he paid three hundred dollars only a few days ago, has passed into the hands of this man green, in payment of a debt contracted at the gaming table." "you shock me. surely, there can be no grounds for such a belief." "i have, i am sorry to say, the gravest reasons for what i allege. that green is a professional gambler, who was attracted here by the excellent company that assembled at the 'sickle and sheaf' in the beginning of the lazy miller's pauper-making experiment, i do not in the least question. grant this, and take into account the fact that young hammond has been much in his company, and you have sufficient cause for the most disastrous effects." "if this be really so," observed the gentleman, over whose face a shadow of concern darkened, "then willy hammond may not be his only victim." "and is not, you may rest assured. if rumor be true, other of our promising young men are being drawn into the whirling circles that narrow toward a vortex of ruin." in corroboration of this, i mentioned the conversation i had held with one of the frequenters of slade's bar room, on this very subject; and also what i had myself observed on the previous evening. the man, who had until now been sitting quietly in a chair, started up, exclaiming as he did so-- "merciful heaven! i never dreamed of this! whose sons are safe?" "no man's," was the answer of the gentleman in whose office we were sitting--"no man's--while there are such open doors to ruin as you may find at the 'sickle and sheaf.' did not you vote the anti-temperance ticket at the last election?" "i did," was the answer; "and from principle." "on what were your principles based?" was inquired. "on the broad foundations of civil liberty." "the liberty to do good or evil, just as the individual may choose?" "i would not like to say that. there are certain evils against which there can be no legislation that would not do harm. no civil power in this country has the right to say what a citizen shall eat or drink." "but may not the people, in any community, pass laws, through their delegated law-makers, restraining evil-minded persons from injuring the common good?" "oh, certainly--certainly." "and are you prepared to affirm, that a drinking-shop, where young men are corrupted, aye, destroyed, body and soul--does not work an injury to the common good?" "ah! but there must be houses of public entertainment." "no one denies this. but can that be a really christian community which provides for the moral debasement of strangers, at the same time that it entertains them? is it necessary that, in giving rest and entertainment to the traveler, we also lead him into temptation?" "yes--but--but--it is going too far to legislate on what we are to eat and drink. it is opening too wide a door for fanatical oppression. we must inculcate temperance as a right principle. we must teach our children the evils of intemperance, and send them out into the world as practical teachers of order, virtue and sobriety. if we do this, the reform becomes radical, and in a few years there will be no bar-rooms, for none will crave the fiery poison." "of little value, my friend, will be, in far too many cases, your precepts, if temptation invites our sons at almost every step of their way through life. thousands have fallen, and thousands are now tottering, soon to fall. your sons are not safe; nor are mine. we cannot tell the day nor the hour when they may weakly yield to the solicitation of some companion, and enter the wide open door of ruin. and are we wise and good citizens to commission men to do the evil work of enticement--to encourage them to get gain in corrupting and destroying our children? to hesitate over some vague ideal of human liberty when the sword is among us, slaying our best and dearest? sir! while you hold back from the work of staying the flood that is desolating our fairest homes, the black waters are approaching your own doors." there was a startling emphasis in the tones with which this last sentence was uttered; and i do not wonder at the look of anxious alarm that it called to the face of him whose fears it was meant to excite. "what do you mean, sir?" was inquired. "simply, that your sons are in equal danger with others." "and is that all?" "they have been seen, of late, in the bar-room of the 'sickle and sheaf.'" "who says so?" "twice within a week i have seen them going there," was answered. "good heavens! no!" "it is true, my friend. but who is safe? if we dig pits, and conceal them from view, what marvel if our own children fall therein?" "my sons going to a tavern?" the man seemed utterly confounded. "how can i believe it? you must be in error, sir." "no. what i tell you is the simple truth. and if they go there--" the man paused not to hear the conclusion of the sentence, but went hastily from the office. "we are beginning to reap as we have sown," remarked the gentleman, turning to me as his agitated friend left the office. "as i told them in the commencement it would be, so it is happening. the want of a good tavern in cedarville was over and over again alleged as one of the chief causes of our want of thrift, and when slade opened the 'sickle and sheaf,' the man was almost glorified. the gentleman who has just left us failed not in laudation of the enterprising landlord; the more particularly, as the building of the new tavern advanced the price of ground on the street, and made him a few hundred dollars richer. really, for a time, one might have thought, from the way people went on, that simon slade was going to make every man's fortune in cedarville. but all that has been gained by a small advance in property, is as a grain of sand to a mountain, compared with the fearful demoralization that has followed." i readily assented to this, for i had myself seen enough to justify the conclusion. as i sat in the bar-room of the "sickle and sheaf" that evening, i noticed, soon after the lamps were lighted, the gentleman referred to in the above conversation, whose sons were represented as visitors to the bar, come in quietly, and look anxiously about the room. he spoke to no one, and, after satisfying himself that those he sought were not there, went out. "what sent him here, i wonder?" muttered slade, speaking partly to himself, and partly aside to matthew, the bar-keeper. "after the boys, i suppose," was answered. "i guess the boys are old enough to take care of themselves." "they ought to be," returned matthew. "and are," said slade. "have they been here this evening?" "no, not yet." while they yet talked together, two young men whom i had seen on the night before, and noticed particularly as showing signs of intelligence and respectability beyond the ordinary visitors at a bar-room, came in. "john," i heard slade say, in a low, confidential voice, to one of them, "your old man was here just now." "no!" the young man looked startled--almost confounded. "it's a fact. so you'd better keep shady." "what did he want?" "i don't know." "what did he say?" "nothing. he just came in, looked around, and then went out." "his face was as dark as a thunder-cloud," remarked matthew. "is no. vacant?" inquired one of the young men. "yes." "send us up a bottle of wine and some cigars. and when bill harding and harry lee come in, tell them where they can find us." "all right," said matthew. "and now, take a friend's advice and make yourselves scarce." the young men left the room hastily. scarcely had they departed, ere i saw the same gentleman come in, whose anxious face had, a little while before, thrown its shadow over the apartment. he was the father in search of his sons. again he glanced around nervously; and this time appeared to be disappointed. as he entered, slade went out. "have john and wilson been here this evening?" he asked, coming up to the bar and addressing matthew. "they are not here;" replied matthew, evasively. "but haven't they been here?" "they may have been here; i only came in from my supper a little while ago." "i thought i saw them entering, only a moment or two ago." "they're not here, sir." matthew shook his head and spoke firmly. "where is mr. slade?" "in the house, somewhere." "i wish you would ask him to step here." matthew went out, but in a little while came back with word that the landlord was not to be found. "you are sure the boys are not here?" said the man, with a doubting, dissatisfied manner. "see for yourself, mr. harrison!" "perhaps they are in the parlor?" "step in, sir," coolly returned matthew. the man went through the door into the sitting-room, but came back immediately. "not there?" said matthew. the man shook his head. "i don't think you'll find them about here," added the bar-keeper. mr. harrison--this was the name by which matthew addressed him--stood musing and irresolute for some minutes. he could not be mistaken about the entrance of his sons, and yet they were not there. his manner was much perplexed. at length he took a seat, in a far corner of the bar-room, somewhat beyond the line of observation, evidently with the purpose of waiting to see if those he sought would come in. he had not been there long, before two young men entered, whose appearance at once excited his interest. they went up to the bar and called for liquor. as matthew set the decanter before them, he leaned over the counter, and said something in a whisper. "where?" was instantly ejaculated, in surprise, and both of the young men glanced uneasily about the room. they met the eyes of mr. harrison, fixed intently upon them. i do not think, from the way they swallowed their brandy and water, that it was enjoyed very much. "what the deuce is he doing here?" i heard one of them say, in a low voice. "after the boys, of course." "have they come yet?" matthew winked as he answered, "all safe." "in no. ?" "yes. and the wine and cigars all waiting for you." "good." "you'd better not go through the parlor. their old man's not at all satisfied. he half suspects they're in the house. better go off down the street, and come back and enter through the passage." the young men, acting on this hint, at once retired, the eyes of harrison following them out. for nearly an hour mr. harrison kept his position, a close observer of all that transpired. i am very much in error, if, before leaving that sink of iniquity, he was not fully satisfied as to the propriety of legislating on the liquor question. nay, i incline to the opinion, that, if the power of suppression had rested in his hands, there would not have been, in the whole state, at the expiration of an hour, a single dram-selling establishment. the goring of his ox had opened his eyes to the true merits of the question. while he was yet in the bar-room, young hammond made his appearance. his look was wild and excited. first he called for brandy, and drank with the eagerness of a man long athirst. "where is green?" i heard him inquire, as he set his glass upon the counter. "haven't seen anything of him since supper," was answered by matthew. "is he in his room?" "i think it probable." "has judge lyman been about here tonight?" "yes. he spouted here for half an hour against the temperance party, as usual, and then"--matthew tossed his head toward the door leading to the sitting-room. hammond was moving toward this door, when, in glancing around the room, he encountered the fixed gaze of mr. harrison--a gaze that instantly checked his progress. returning to the bar, and leaning over the counter, he said to matthew: "what has sent him here?" matthew winked knowingly. "after the boys?" inquired hammond. "yes." "where are they?" "up-stairs." "does he suspect this?" "i can't tell. if he doesn't think them here now, he is looking for them to come in." "do they know he is after them?" "oh, yes." "all safe then?" "as an iron chest. if you want to see them, just rap at no. ." hammond stood for some minutes leaning on the bar, and then, not once again looking toward that part of the room where mr. harrison was seated, passed out through the door leading to the street. soon afterward mr. harrison departed. disgusted as on the night before, with the unceasing flow of vile, obscene, and profane language, i left my place of observation in the bar-room and sought the open air. the sky was unobscured by a single cloud, and the moon, almost at the full, shone abroad with more than common brightness. i had not been sitting long in the porch, when the same lady, whose movements had attracted my attention, came in sight, walking very slowly--the deliberate pace assumed, evidently, for the purpose of better observation. on coming opposite the tavern, she slightly paused, as on the evening before, and then kept on, passing down the street until she was beyond observation. "poor mother!" i was still repeating to myself, when her form again met my eyes. slowly she advanced, and now came in nearer to the house. the interest excited in my mind was so strong, that i could not repress the desire i felt to address her, and so stepped from the shadow of the porch. she seemed startled, and retreated backward several paces. "are you in search of any one?" i inquired, respectfully. the woman now stood in a position that let the moon shine full upon her face, revealing every feature. she was far past the meridian of life; and there were lines of suffering and sorrow on her fine countenance. i saw that her lips moved, but it was some time before i distinguished the words. "have you seen my son to-night? they say he comes here." the manner in which this was said caused a cold thrill to run over me. i perceived that the woman's mind wandered. i answered: "no, ma'am; i haven't seen any thing of him." my tone of voice seemed to inspire her with confidence, for she came up close to me, and bent her face toward mine. "it is a dreadful place," she whispered, huskily. "and they say he comes here. poor boy! he isn't what he used to be." "it is a very bad place," said i. "come"--and i moved a step or two in the direction from which i had seen her approaching--"come, you'd better go away as quickly as possible." "but if he's here," she answered, not moving from where she stood, "i might save him, you know." "i am sure you won't find him, ma'am," i urged. "perhaps he is home, now." "oh, no! no!" and she shook her head mournfully. "he never comes home until long after midnight. i wish i could see inside of the bar-room. i'm sure he must be there." "if you will tell me his name, i will go in and search for him." after a moment of hesitation she answered: "his name is willy hammond." how the name, uttered so sadly, and yet with such moving tenderness by the mother's lips, caused me to start--almost to tremble. "if he is in the house, ma'am," said i, firmly, "i will see him for you." and i left her and went into the bar. "in what room do you think i will find young hammond?" i asked of the bar-keeper. he looked at me curiously, but did not answer. the question had come upon him unanticipated. "in harvey green's room?" i pursued. "i don't know, i am sure. he isn't in the house to my knowledge. i saw him go out about half an hour since." "green's room is no.----?" "eleven," he answered. "in the front part of the house?" "yes." i asked no further question, but went to no. , and tapped on the door. but no one answered the summons. i listened, but could not distinguish the slightest sound within. again i knocked; but louder. if my ears did not deceive me, the chink of coin was heard. still there was neither voice nor movement. i was disappointed. that the room had inmates, i felt sure. remembering, now, what i had heard about light being seen in this room through a rent in the curtain, i went down-stairs, and out into the street. a short distance beyond the house, i saw, dimly, the woman's form. she had only just passed in her movement to and fro. glancing up at the window, which i now knew to be the one in green's room, light through the torn curtain was plainly visible. back into the house i went, and up to no. . this time i knocked imperatively; and this time made myself heard. "what's wanted?" came from within. i knew the voice to be that of harvey green. i only knocked louder. a hurried movement and the low murmur of voices was heard for some moments; then the door was unlocked and held partly open by green, whose body so filled the narrow aperture that i could not look into the room. seeing me, a dark scowl fell upon his countenance. "what d'ye want?" he inquired, sharply. "is mr. hammond here? if so, he is wanted downstairs." "no, he's not," was the quick answer. "what sent you here for him, hey?" "the fact that i expected to find him in your room," was my firm answer. green was about shutting the door in my face, when some one placed a hand on his shoulder, and said something to him that i could not hear. "who wants to see him?" he inquired of me. satisfied, now, that hammond was in the room, i said, slightly elevating my voice: "his mother." the words were an "open sesame" to the room. the door was suddenly jerked open, and with a blanching face, the young man confronted me. "who says my mother is down-stairs?" he demanded. "i come from her in search of you," i said. "you will find her in the road, walking up and down in front of the tavern." almost with a bound he swept by me, and descended the stairway at two or three long strides. as the door swung open, i saw besides green and hammond, the landlord and judge lyman. it needed not the loose cards on the table near which the latter were sitting to tell me of their business in that room. as quickly as seemed decorous, i followed hammond. on the porch i met him, coming in from the road. "you have deceived me, sir," said he, sternly--almost menacingly. "no, sir!" i replied. "what i told you was but too true. look! there she is now." the young man sprung around, and stood before the woman, a few paces distant. "mother! oh, mother! what has brought you here?" he exclaimed, in an under tone, as he caught her arm, and moved away. he spoke--not roughly, nor angrily--but with respect--half reproachfulness--and an unmistakable tenderness. "oh, willy! willy!" i heard her answer. "somebody said you came here at night, and i couldn't rest. oh, dear. they'll murder you! i know they will. don't, oh!--" my ears took in the sense no further, though her pleading voice still reached my ears. a few moments, and they were out of sight. nearly two hours afterward, as i was ascending to my chamber, a man brushed quickly by me. i glanced after him, and recognized the person of young hammond. he was going to the room of harvey green! night the seventh. sowing the wind. the state of affairs in cedarville, it was plain, from the partial glimpses i had received, was rather desperate. desperate, i mean, as regarded the various parties brought before my observation. an eating cancer was on the community, and so far as the eye could mark its destructive progress, the ravages were tearful. that its roots were striking deep, and penetrating, concealed from view, in many unsuspected directions, there could be no doubt. what appeared on the surface was but a milder form of the disease, compared with its hidden, more vital, and more dangerous advances. i could not but feel a strong interest in some of these parties. the case of young hammond had, from the first, awakened concern; and now a new element was added in the unlooked-for appearance of his mother on the stage, in a state that seemed one of partial derangement. the gentleman at whose office i met mr. harrison on the day before--the reader will remember mr. h. as having come to the "sickle and sheath" in search of his son--was thoroughly conversant with the affairs of the village, and i called upon him early in the day in order to make some inquiries about mrs. hammond. my first question, as to whether he knew the lady, was answered by the remark: "oh, yes. she is one of my earliest friends." the allusion to her did not seem to awaken agreeable states of mind. a slight shade obscured his face, and i noticed that he sighed involuntarily. "is willy her only child?" "her only living child. she had four; another son, and two daughters; but she lost all but willy when they were quite young. and," he added, after a pause,--"it would have been better for her, and for willy, too, if he had gone to a better land with them." "his course of life must be to her a terrible affliction." said i. "it is destroying her reason," he replied, with emphasis, "he was her idol. no mother ever loved a son with more self-devotion than mrs. hammond loved her beautiful, fine-spirited, intelligent, affectionate boy. to say that she was proud of him, is but a tame expression. intense love--almost idolatry--was the strong passion of her heart. how tender, how watchful was her love! except when at school, he was scarcely ever separated from her. in order to keep him by her side, she gave up her thoughts to the suggestion and maturing of plans for keeping his mind active and interested in her society--and her success was perfect. up to the age of sixteen or seventeen, i do not think he had a desire for other companionship than that of his mother. but this, you know, could not last. the boy's maturing thought must go beyond the home and social circle. the great world, that he was soon to enter, was before him; and through loopholes that opened here and there he obtained partial glimpses of what was beyond. to step forth into this world, where he was soon to be a busy actor and worker, and to step forth alone, next came in the natural order of progress. how his mother trembled with anxiety, as she saw him leave her side! of the dangers that would surround his path, she knew too well; and these were magnified by her fears--at least so i often said to her. alas! how far the sad reality has outrun her most fearful anticipations. "when willy was eighteen--he was then reading law--i think i never saw a young man of fairer promise. as i have often heard it remarked of him, he did not appear to have a single fault. but he had a dangerous gift--rare conversational powers, united with great urbanity of manner. every one who made his acquaintance became charmed with his society; and he soon found himself surrounded by a circle of young men, some of whom were not the best companions he might have chosen. still, his own pure instincts and honorable principles were his safeguard; and i never have believed that any social allurements would have drawn him away from the right path, if this accursed tavern had not been opened by slade." "there was a tavern here before the 'sickle and sheaf' was opened?" said i. "oh, yes. but it was badly kept, and the bar-room visitors were of the lowest class. no respectable young man in cedarville would have been seen there. it offered no temptations to one moving in willy's circle. but the opening of the 'sickle and sheaf' formed a new era. judge hammond--himself not the purest man in the world, i'm afraid--gave his countenance to the establishment, and talked of simon slade as an enterprising man who ought to be encouraged. judge lyman and other men of position in cedarville followed his bad example; and the bar-room of the 'sickle and sheaf' was at once voted respectable. at all times of the day and evening you could see the flower of our young men going in and out, sitting in front of the bar-room, or talking hand-and-glove with the landlord, who, from a worthy miller, regarded as well enough in his place, was suddenly elevated into a man of importance, whom the best in the village were delighted to honor. "in the beginning, willy went with the tide, and, in an incredibly short period, was acquiring a fondness for drink that startled and alarmed his friends. in going in through slade's open door, he entered the downward way, and has been moving onward with fleet footsteps ever since. the fiery poison inflamed his mind, at the same time that it dimmed his noble perceptions. fondness for mere pleasure followed, and this led him into various sensual indulgences, and exciting modes of passing the time. every one liked him--he was so free, so companionable, and so generous--and almost every one encouraged, rather than repressed, his dangerous proclivities. even his father, for a time, treated the matter lightly, as only the first flush of young life. 'i commenced sowing my wild oats at quite as early an age,' i have heard him say. 'he'll cool off, and do well enough. never fear.' but his mother was in a state of painful alarm from the beginning. her truer instincts, made doubly acute by her yearning love, perceived the imminent danger, and in all possible ways did she seek to lure him from the path in which he was moving at so rapid a pace. willy was always very much attached to his mother, and her influence over him was strong; but in this case he regarded her fears as chimerical. the way in which he walked was, to him, so pleasant, and the companions of his journey so delightful, that he could not believe in the prophesied evil; and when his mother talked to him in her warning voice, and with a sad countenance, he smiled at her concern, and made light of her fears. "and so it went on, month after month, and year after year, until the young man's sad declensions were the town talk. in order to throw his mind into a new channel--to awaken, if possible, a new and better interest in life--his father ventured upon the doubtful experiment we spoke of yesterday; that of placing capital in his hands, and making him an equal partner in the business of distilling and cotton-spinning. the disastrous--i might say disgraceful--result you know. the young man squandered his own capital and heavily embarrassed his father. "the effect of all this upon mrs. hammond has been painful in the extreme. we can only dimly imagine the terrible suffering through which she has passed. her present aberration was first visible after a long period of sleeplessness, occasioned by distress of mind. during the whole of two weeks, i am told, she did not close her eyes; the most of that time walking the floor of her chamber, and weeping. powerful anodynes, frequently repeated, at length brought relief. but, when she awoke from a prolonged period of unconsciousness, the brightness of her reason was gone. since then, she has never been clearly conscious of what was passing around her, and well for her, i have sometimes thought it was, for even obscurity of intellect is a blessing in her case. ah, me! i always get the heart-ache, when i think of her." "did not this event startle the young man from his fatal dream, if i may so call his mad infatuation?" i asked. "no. he loved his mother, and was deeply afflicted by the calamity; but it seemed as if he could not stop. some terrible necessity appeared to be impelling him onward. if he formed good resolutions--and i doubt not that he did--they were blown away like threads of gossamer, the moment he came within the sphere of old associations. his way to the mill was by the 'sickle and sheaf'; and it was not easy for him to pass there without being drawn into the bar, either by his own desire for drink, or through the invitation of some pleasant companion, who was lounging in front of the tavern." "there may have been something even more impelling than his love of drink," said i. "what?" i related, briefly, the occurrences of the preceding night. "i feared--nay, i was certain--that he was in the toils of this man! and yet your confirmation of the fact startles and confounds me," said he, moving about his office in a disturbed manner. "if my mind has questioned and doubted in regard to young hammond, it questions and doubts no longer. the word 'mystery' is not now written over the door of his habitation. great father! and is it thus that our young men are led into temptation? thus that their ruin is premeditated, secured? thus that the fowler is permitted to spread his net in the open day, and the destroyer licensed to work ruin in darkness? it is awful to contemplate!" the man was strongly excited. "thus it is," he continued; "and we who see the whole extent, origin, and downward rushing force of a widely sweeping desolation, lift our voices of warning almost in vain. men who have everything at stake--sons to be corrupted, and daughters to become the wives of young men exposed to corrupting influences--stand aloof, questioning and doubting as to the expediency of protecting the innocent from the wolfish designs of bad men; who, to compass their own selfish ends, would destroy them body and soul. we are called fanatics, ultraists, designing, and all that, because we ask our law-makers to stay the fiery ruin. oh, no! we must not touch the traffic. all the dearest and best interests of society may suffer; but the rum-seller must be protected. he must be allowed to get gain, if the jails and poorhouses are filled, and the graveyards made fat with the bodies of young men stricken down in the flower of their years, and of wives and mothers who have died of broken hearts. reform, we are told, must commence at home. we must rear temperate children, and then we shall have temperate men. that when there are none to desire liquor, the rum-seller's traffic will cease. and all the while society's true benefactors are engaged in doing this, the weak, the unsuspecting, and the erring must be left an easy prey, even if the work requires for its accomplishment a hundred years. sir! a human soul destroyed through the rum-seller's infernal agency, is a sacrifice priceless in value. no considerations of worldly gain can, for an instant, be placed in comparison therewith. and yet souls are destroyed by thousands every year; and they will fall by tens of thousands ere society awakens from its fatal indifference, and lays its strong hand of power on the corrupt men who are scattering disease, ruin, and death, broadcast over the land! "i always get warm on this subject," he added, repressing his enthusiasm. "and who that observes and reflects can help growing excited? the evil is appalling; and the indifference of the community one of the strangest facts of the day." while he was yet speaking, the elder mr. hammond came in. he looked wretched. the redness and humidity of his eyes showed want of sleep, and the relaxed muscles of his face exhaustion from weariness and suffering. he drew the person with whom i had been talking aside, and continued an earnest conversation with him for many minutes--often gesticulating violently. i could see his face, though i heard nothing of what he said. the play of his features was painful to look upon, for every changing muscle showed a new phase of mental suffering. "try and see him, will you not?" he said, as he turned, at length, to leave the office. "i will go there immediately," was answered. "bring him home, if possible." "my very best efforts shall be made." judge hammond bowed and went out hurriedly. "do you know the number of the room occupied by the man green?" asked the gentleman, as soon as his visitor had retired. "yes. it is no. ." "willy has not been home since last night. his father, at this late day, suspects green to be a gambler. the truth flashed upon him only yesterday; and this, added to his other sources of trouble, is driving him, so he says, almost mad. as a friend, he wishes me to go to the 'sickle and sheaf,' and try and find willy. have you seen any thing of him this morning?" i answered in the negative. "nor of green?" "no." "was slade about when you left the tavern?" "i saw nothing of him." "what judge hammond fears may be all too true--that, in the present condition of willy's affairs, which have reached the point of disaster, his tempter means to secure the largest possible share of property yet in his power to pledge or transfer,--to squeeze from his victim the last drop of blood that remains, and then fling him, ruthlessly, from his hands." "the young man must have been rendered almost desperate, or he would never have returned, as he did, last night. did you mention this to his father?" "no. it would have distressed him the more, without effecting any good. he is wretched enough. but time passes, and none is to be lost now. will you go with me?" i walked to the tavern with him; and we went into the bar together. two or three men were at the counter, drinking. "is mr. green about this morning?" was asked by the person who had come in search of young hammond. "haven't seen any thing of him." "is he in his room?" "i don't know." "will you ascertain for me?" "certainly. frank,"--and he spoke to the landlord's son, who was lounging on a settee,--"i wish you would see if mr. green is in his room." "go and see yourself. i'm not your waiter," was growled back, in an ill-natured voice. "in a moment i'll ascertain for you," said matthew, politely. after waiting on some new customers, who were just entering, matthew went up-stairs to obtain the desired information. as he left the bar-room, frank got up and went behind the counter, where he mixed himself a glass of liquor, and drank it off, evidently with real enjoyment. "rather a dangerous business for one so young as you are," remarked the gentleman with whom i had come, as frank stepped out of the bar, and passed near where we were standing. the only answer to this was an ill-natured frown, and an expression of face which said almost as plainly as words, "it is none of your business." "not there," said matthew, now coming in. "are you certain?" "yes, sir." but there was a certain involuntary hesitation in the bar-keeper's manner, which led to a suspicion that his answer was not in accordance with the truth. we walked out together, conferring on the subject, and both concluded that his word was not to be relied upon. "what is to be done?" was asked. "go to green's room," i replied, "and knock at the door. if he is there, he may answer, not suspecting your errand." "show me the room." i went up with him, and pointed out no. . he knocked lightly, but there came no sound from within. he repeated the knock; all was silent. again and again he knocked, but there came back only a hollow reverberation. "there's no one there," said he, returning to where i stood, and we walked down-stairs together. on the landing, as we reached the lower passage, we met mrs. slade. i had not, during this visit at cedarville, stood face to face with her before. oh! what a wreck she presented, with her pale, shrunken countenance, hollow, lustreless eyes, and bent, feeble body. i almost shuddered as i looked at her. what a haunting and sternly rebuking spectre she must have moved, daily, before the eyes of her husband. "have you noticed mr. green about this morning?" i asked. "he hasn't come down from his room yet," she replied. "are you certain?" said my companion. "i knocked several times at the door just now, but received no answer." "what do you want with him?" asked mrs. slade, fixing her eyes upon us. "we are in search of willy hammond; and it has been suggested that he was with green." "knock twice lightly, and then three times more firmly," said mrs. slade; and as she spoke, she glided past us with noiseless tread. "shall we go up together?" i did not object; for, although i had no delegated right of intrusion, my feelings were so much excited in the case, that i went forward, scarcely reflecting on the propriety of so doing. the signal knock found instant answer. the door was softly opened, and the unshaven face of simon slade presented itself. "mr. jacobs!" he said, with surprise in his tones. "do you wish to see me?" "no, sir; i wish to see mr. green," and with a quick, firm pressure against the door, he pushed it wide open. the same party was there that i had seen on the night before,--green, young hammond, judge lyman, and slade. on the table at which the three former were sitting, were cards, slips of paper, an ink-stand and pens, and a pile of bank-notes. on a side-table, or, rather, butler's tray, were bottles, decanters, and glasses. "judge lyman! is it possible?" exclaimed mr. jacobs, the name of my companion. "i did not expect to find you here." green instantly swept his hands over the table to secure the money and bills it contained; but, ere he had accomplished his purpose, young hammond grappled three or four narrow strips of paper, and hastily tore them into shreds. "you're a cheating scoundrel!" cried green, fiercely, thrusting his hand into his bosom as if to draw from thence a weapon; but the words were scarcely uttered, ere hammond sprung upon him with the fierceness of a tiger, bearing him down upon the floor. both hands were already about the gambler's neck, and, ere the bewildered spectators could interfere, and drag him off. green was purple in the face, and nearly strangled. "call me a cheating scoundrel!" said hammond, foaming at the mouth, as he spoke,--"me, whom you have followed like a thirsty blood-hound. me! whom you have robbed, and cheated, and debased from the beginning! oh! for a pistol to rid the earth of the blackest-hearted villain that walks its surface. let me go, gentlemen! i have nothing left in the world to care for,--there is no consequence i fear. let me do society one good service before i die!" and, with one vigorous effort, he swept himself clear of the hands that were pinioning him, and sprung again upon the gambler with the fierce energy of a savage beast. by this time, green had got his knife free from its sheath, and, as hammond was closing upon him in his blind rage, plunged it into his side. quick almost as lightning, the knife was withdrawn, and two more stabs inflicted ere we could seize and disarm the murderer. as we did so, willy hammond fell over with a deep groan, the blood flowing from his side. in the terror and excitement that followed, green rushed from the room. the doctor, who was instantly summoned, after carefully examining the wound, and the condition of the unhappy young man, gave it as his opinion that he was fatally injured. oh! the anguish of the father, who had quickly heard of the dreadful occurrence, when this announcement was made. i never saw such fearful agony in any human countenance. the calmest of all the anxious group was willy himself. on his father's face his eyes were fixed as if by a kind of fascination. "are you in much pain, my poor boy!" sobbed the old man, stooping over him, until his long white hair mingled with the damp locks of the sufferer. "not much, father," was the whispered reply. "don't speak of this to mother, yet. i'm afraid it will kill her." what could the father answer? nothing! and he was silent. "does she know of it?" a shadow went over his face. mr. hammond shook his head. yet, even as he spoke, a wild cry of distress was heard below. some indiscreet person had borne to the ears of the mother the fearful news about her son, and she had come wildly flying toward the tavern, and was just entering. "it is my poor mother," said willy, a flush coming into his pale face. "who could have told her of this?" mr. hammond started for the door, but ere he had reached it, the distracted mother entered. "oh! willy, my boy! my boy!" she exclaimed, in tones of anguish that made the heart shudder. and she crouched down on the floor, the moment she reached the bed whereon he lay, and pressed her lips--oh, so tenderly and lovingly!--to his. "dear mother! sweet mother! best of mothers!" he even smiled as he said this; and, into the face now bent over him, looked up with glances of unutterable fondness. "oh, willy! willy! willy! my son, my son!" and again her lips were laid closely to his. mr. hammond now interfered, and endeavored to remove his wife, fearing for the consequence upon his son. "don't, father!" said willy; "let her remain. i am not excited nor disturbed. i am glad that she is here, now. it will be best for us both." "you must not excite him, dear," said mr. hammond--"he is very weak." "i'll not excite him," answered the mother. "i'll not speak a word. there, love"--and she laid her fingers softly upon the lips of her son--"don't speak a single word." for only a few moments did she sit with the quiet formality of a nurse, who feels how much depends on the repose of her patient. then she began weeping, moaning, and wringing her hands. "mother!" the feeble voice of willy stilled, instantly, the tempest of feeling. "mother, kiss me!" she bent down and kissed him. "are you there, mother?" his eyes moved about, with a straining motion. "yes, love, here i am." "i don't see you, mother. it's getting so dark. oh, mother! mother!" he shouted suddenly, starting up and throwing himself forward upon her bosom--"save me! save me!" how quickly did the mother clasp her arms around him--how eagerly did she strain him to her bosom! the doctor, fearing the worst consequences, now came forward, and endeavored to release the arms of mrs. hammond, but she resisted every attempt to do so. "i will save you, my son," she murmured in the ear of the young man. "your mother will protect you. oh! if you had never left her side, nothing on earth could have done you harm." "he is dead!" i heard the doctor whisper; and a thrill of horror went through me. the words reached the ears of mr. hammond, and his groan was one of almost mortal agony. "who says he is dead?" came sharply from the lips of the mother, as she pressed the form of her child back upon the bed from which he had sprung to her arms, and looked wildly upon his face. one long scream of horror told of her convictions, and she fell, lifeless, across the body of her dead son! all in the room believed that mrs. hammond had only fainted. but the doctor's perplexed, troubled countenance, as he ordered her carried into another apartment, and the ghastliness of her face when it was upturned to the light, suggested to every one what proved to be true. even to her obscured perceptions, the consciousness that her son was dead came with a terrible vividness--so terrible, that it extinguished her life. like fire among dry stubble ran the news of this fearful event through cedarville. the whole town was wild with excitement. the prominent fact, that willy hammond had been murdered by green, whose real profession was known by many, and now declared to all, was on every tongue; but a hundred different and exaggerated stories as to the cause and the particulars of the event were in circulation. by the time preparations to remove the dead bodies of mother and son from the "sickle and sheaf" to the residence of mr. hammond were completed, hundreds of people, men, women, and children, were assembled around the tavern and many voices were clamorous for green; while some called out for judge lyman, whose name, it thus appeared, had become associated in the minds of the people with the murderous affair. the appearance, in the midst of this excitement, of the two dead bodies, borne forth on settees, did not tend to allay the feverish state of indignation that prevailed. from more than one voice, i heard the words, "lynch the scoundrel!" a part of the crowd followed the sad procession, while the greater portion, consisting of men, remained about the tavern. all bodies, no matter for what purpose assembled, quickly find leading spirits who, feeling the great moving impulse, give it voice and direction. it was so in this case. intense indignation against green was firing every bosom; and when a man elevated himself a few feet above the agitated mass of humanity, and cried out: "the murderer must not escape!" a wild responding shout, terrible in its fierceness, made the air quiver. "let ten men be chosen to search the house and premises," said the leading spirit. "ay! ay! choose them! name them!" was quickly answered. ten men were called by name, who instantly stepped in front of the crowd. "search everywhere; from garret to cellar; from hayloft to dog-kennel. everywhere! everywhere!" cried the man. and instantly the ten men entered the house. for nearly a quarter of an hour, the crowd waited with increasing signs of impatience. these delegates at length appeared, with the announcement that green was nowhere about the premises. it was received with a groan. "let no man in cedarville do a stroke of work until the murderer is found," now shouted the individual who still occupied his elevated position. "agreed! agreed! no work in cedarville until the murderer is found," rang out fiercely. "let all who have horses saddle and bridle them as quickly as possible, and assemble, mounted, at the court house." about fifty men left the crowd hastily. "let the crowd part in the centre, up and down the road, starting from a line in front of me." this order was obeyed. "separate again, taking the centre of the road for a line." four distinct bodies of men stood now in front of the tavern. "now search for the murderer in every nook and corner, for a distance of three miles from this spot; each party keeping to its own section; the road being one dividing line, and a line through the centre of this tavern the other. the horsemen will pursue the wretch to a greater distance." more than a hundred acquiescing voices responded to this, as the man sprung down from his elevation and mingled with the crowd, which began instantly to move away on its appointed mission. as the hours went by, one, and another, and another, of the searching party returned to the village, wearied with their efforts, or confident that the murderer had made good his escape. the horsemen, too, began to come in, during the afternoon, and by sundown, the last of them, worn out and disappointed, made their appearance. for hours after the exciting events of the forenoon, there were but few visitors at the "sickle and sheaf." slade, who did not show himself among the crowd, came down soon after its dispersion. he had shaved and put on clean linen; but still bore many evidences of a night spent without sleep. his eyes were red and heavy and the eyelids swollen; while his skin was relaxed and colorless. as he descended the stairs, i was walking in the passage. he looked shy at me, and merely nodded. guilt was written plainly on his countenance; and with it was blended anxiety and alarm. that he might be involved in trouble, he had reason to fear; for he was one of the party engaged in gambling in green's room, as both mr. jacobs and i had witnessed. "this is dreadful business," said he, as we met, face to face, half an hour afterward. he did not look me steadily in the eyes. "it is horrible!" i answered. "to corrupt and ruin a young man, and then murder him! there are few deeds in the catalogue of crime blacker than this!" "it was done in the heat of passion," said the landlord, with something of an apology in his manner. "green never meant to kill him." "in peaceful intercourse with his fellow-men, why did he carry a deadly weapon? there was murder in his heart, sir." "that is speaking very strongly." "not stronger than the facts will warrant," i replied. "that green is a murderer in heart, it needed not this awful consummation to show. with a cool, deliberate purpose, he has sought, from the beginning, to destroy young hammond." "it is hardly fair," answered slade, "in the present feverish excitement against green, to assume such a questionable position. it may do him a great wrong." "did willy hammond speak only idle words, when he accused green of having followed him like a thirsty bloodhound?--of having robbed, and cheated, and debased him from the beginning?" "he was terribly excited at the moment." "yes," said i, "no ear that heard his words could for an instant doubt that they were truthful utterances, wrung from a maddened heart." my earnest, positive manner had its effect upon slade. he knew that what i asserted, the whole history of green's intercourse with young hammond would prove; and he had, moreover, the guilty consciousness of being a party to the young man's ruin. his eyes cowered beneath the steady gaze i fixed upon him. i thought of him as one implicated in the murder, and my thoughts must have been visible in my face. "one murder will not justify another," said he. "there is no justification for murder on any plea," was my response. "and yet, if these infuriated men find green, they will murder him." "i hope not. indignation at a horrible crime has fearfully excited the people. but i think their sense of justice is strong enough to prevent the consequences you apprehend." "i would not like to be in green's shoes," said the landlord, with an uneasy movement. i looked him closely in the face. it was the punishment of the man's crime that seemed so fearful in his eyes; not the crime itself. alas! how the corrupting traffic had debased him. my words were so little relished by slade, that he found some ready excuse to leave me. i saw little more of him during the day. as evening began to fall, the gambler's unsuccessful pursuers, one after another, found their way to the tavern, and by the time night had fairly closed in, the bar-room was crowded with excited and angry men, chafing over their disappointment, and loud in their threats of vengeance. that green had made good his escape, was now the general belief; and the stronger this conviction became, the more steadily did the current of passion begin to set in a new direction. it had become known to every one that, besides green and young hammond, judge lyman and slade were in the room engaged in playing cards. the merest suggestion as to the complicity of these two men with green in ruining hammond, and thus driving him mad, was enough to excite strong feelings against them; and now that the mob had been cheated out of its victim, its pent-up indignation sought eagerly some new channel. "where's slade?" some one asked, in a loud voice, from the centre of the crowded bar-room. "why does he keep himself out of sight?" "yes; where's the landlord?" half a dozen voices responded. "did he go on the hunt?" some one inquired. "no!" "no!" "no!" ran around the room. "not he." "and yet, the murder was committed in his own house, and before his own eyes!" "yes, before his own eyes!" repeated one and another, indignantly. "where's slade? where's the landlord? has anybody seen him tonight? matthew, where's simon slade?" from lip to lip passed these interrogations; while the crowd of men became agitated, and swayed to and fro. "i don't think he's home," answered the bar-keeper, in a hesitating manner, and with visible alarm. "how long since he was here?" "i haven't seen him for a couple of hours." "that's a lie!" was sharply said. "who says it's a lie?" matthew affected to be strongly indignant. "i do!" and a rough, fierce-looking man confronted him. "what right have you to say so?" asked matthew, cooling off considerably. "because you lie!" said the man, boldly. "you've seen him within a less time than half an hour, and well you know it. now, if you wish to keep yourself out of this trouble, answer truly. we are in no mood to deal with liars or equivocators. where is simon slade?" "i do not know," replied matthew, firmly. "is he in the house?" "he may be, or he may not be. i am just as ignorant of his exact whereabouts as you are." "will you look for him?" matthew stepped to the door, opening from behind the bar, and called the name of frank. "what's wanted?" growled the boy. "is your father in the house?" "i don't know, nor don't care," was responded in the same ungracious manner. "someone bring him into the bar-room, and we'll see if we can't make him care a little." the suggestion was no sooner made, than two men glided behind the bar, and passed into the room from whence the voice of frank had issued. a moment after they reappeared, each grasping an arm of the boy, and bearing him like a weak child between them. he looked thoroughly frightened at this unlooked-for invasion of his liberty. "see here, young man." one of the leading spirits of the crowd addressed him, as soon as he was brought in front of the counter. "if you wish to keep out of trouble, answer our questions at once, and to the point. we are in no mood for trifling. where's your father?" "somewhere about the house, i believe," frank replied, in an humble tone. he was no little scared at the summary manner with which he had been treated. "how long since you saw him?" "not long ago." "ten minutes." "no; nearly half an hour." "where was he then?" "he was going up-stairs." "very well, we want him. see him, and tell him so." frank went into the house, but came back into the bar-room after an absence of nearly five minutes, and said that he could not find his father anywhere. "where is he then?" was angrily demanded. "indeed, gentlemen, i don't know." frank's anxious look and frightened manner showed that he spoke truly. "there's something wrong about this--something wrong--wrong," said one of the men. "why should he be absent now? why has he taken no steps to secure the man who committed a murder in his own house, and before his own eyes? "i shouldn't wonder if he aided him to escape," said another, making this serious charge with a restlessness and want of evidence that illustrated the reckless and unjust spirit by which the mob is ever governed. "no doubt of it in the least!" was the quick and positive response. and at once this erroneous conviction seized upon every one. not a single fact was presented. the simple, bold assertion, that no doubt existed in the mind of one man as to slade's having aided green to escape, was sufficient for the unreflecting mob. "where is he? where is he? let us find him. he knows where green is, and he shall reveal the secret." this was enough. the passions of the crowd were at fever heat again. two or three men were chosen to search the house and premises, while others dispersed to take a wider range. one of the men who volunteered to go over the house was a person named lyon, with whom i had formed some acquaintance, and several times conversed with on the state of affairs in cedarville. he still remained too good a customer at the bar. i left the bar at the same time that he did, and went up to my room. we walked side by side, and parted at my door, i going in, and he continuing on to make his searches. i felt, of course, anxious and much excited, as well in consequence of the events of the day, as the present aspect of things. my head was aching violently, and in the hope of getting relief, i laid myself down. i had already lighted a candle, and turned the key in my door to prevent intrusion. only for a short time did i lie, listening to the hum of voices that came with a hoarse murmur from below, to the sound of feet moving along the passages, and to the continual opening and shutting of doors, when something like suppressed breathing reached my ears, i started up instantly, and listened; but my quickened pulses were now audible to my own sense, and obscured what was external. "it is only imagination," i said to myself. still, i sat upright, listening. satisfied, at length, that all was mere fancy, i laid myself back on the pillow, and tried to turn my thoughts away from the suggested idea that some one was in the room. scarcely had i succeeded in this, when my heart gave a new impulse, as a sound like a movement fell upon my ears. "mere fancy!" i said to myself, as some one went past the door at the moment. "my mind is overexcited." still i raised my head, supporting it with my hand, and listened, directing my attention inside, and not outside of the room. i was about letting my head fall back upon the pillow, when a slight cough, so distinct as not to be mistaken, caused me to spring to the floor, and look under the bed. the mystery was explained. a pair of eyes glittered in the candlelight. the fugitive, green, was under my bed. for some moments i stood looking at him, so astonished that i had neither utterance nor decision; while he glared at me with a fierce defiance. i saw that he was clutching a revolver. "understand!" he said, in a grating whisper, "that i am not to be taken alive." i let the blanket, which had concealed him from view, fall from my hand, and then tried to collect my thoughts. "escape is impossible," said i, again lifting the temporary curtain by which he was hid. "the whole town is armed, and on the search; and should you fall into the hands of the mob, in its present state of exasperation, your life would not be safe an instant. remain, then, quiet, where you are, until i can see the sheriff, to whom you had better resign yourself, for there's little chance for you except under his protection." after a brief parley he consented that things should take this course, and i went out, locking the room door after me, and started in search of the sheriff. on the information i gave, the sheriff acted promptly. with five officers, fully armed for defence, in case an effort were made to get the prisoner out of their hands, he repaired immediately to the "sickle and sheaf." i had given the key of my room into his possession. the appearance of the sheriff, with his posse, was sufficient to start the suggestion that green was somewhere concealed in the house; and a suggestion was only needed to cause the fact to be assumed, and unhesitatingly declared. intelligence went through the reassembling crowd like an electric current, and ere the sheriff could manacle and lead forth his prisoner, the stairway down which he had to come was packed with bodies, and echoing with oaths and maledictions. "gentlemen, clear the way!" cried the sheriff, as he appeared with the white and trembling culprit at the head of the stairs. "the murderer is now in the hands of the law, and will meet the sure consequences of his crime." a shout of execration rent the air; but not a single individual stirred. "give way, there! give way!" and the sheriff took a step or two forward, but the prisoner held back. "oh, the murdering villain! the cursed blackleg! where's willy hammond?" was heard distinctly above the confused mingling of voices. "gentlemen! the law must have its course; and no good citizen will oppose the law. it is made for your protection--for mine--and for that of the prisoner." "lynch law is good enough for him," shouted a savage voice. "hand him over to us, sheriff, and we'll save you the trouble of hanging him, and the county the cost of the gallows. we'll do the business right." five men, each armed with a revolver, now ranged themselves around the sheriff, and the latter said firmly: "it is my duty to see this man safely conveyed to prison; and i'm going to do my duty. if there is any more blood shed here, the blame will rest with you." and the body of officers pressed forward, the mob slowly retreating before them. green, overwhelmed with terror, held back. i was standing where i could see his face. it was ghastly with mortal fear. grasping his pinioned arms, the sheriff forced him onward. after contending with the crowd for nearly ten minutes, the officers gained the passage below; but the mob was denser here, and blocking up the door, resolutely maintained their position. again and again the sheriff appealed to the good sense and justice of the people. "the prisoner will have to stand a trial and the law will execute sure vengeance." "no, it won't!" was sternly responded. "who'll be judge in the case?" was asked. "why, judge lyman!" was contemptuously answered. "a blackleg himself!" was shouted by two or three voices. "blackleg judge, and blackleg lawyers! oh, yes! the law will execute sure vengeance! who was in the room gambling with green and hammond?" "judge lyman!" "judge lyman!" was answered back. "it won't do, sheriff! there's no law in the country to reach the case but lynch law; and that the scoundrel must have. give him to us!" "never! on, men, with the prisoner!" cried the sheriff resolutely, and the posse made a rush toward the door, bearing back the resisting and now infuriated crowd. shouts, cries, oaths, and savage imprecations blended in wild discord; in the midst of which my blood was chilled by the sharp crack of a pistol. another and another shot followed; and then, as a cry of pain thrilled the air, the fierce storm hushed its fury in an instant. "who's shot? is he killed?" there was a breathless eagerness for the answer. "it's the gambler!" was replied. "somebody has shot green." a low muttered invective against the victim was heard here and there; but the announcement was not received with a shout of exultation, though there was scarcely a heart that did not feel pleasure at the sacrifice of harvey green's life. it was true as had been declared. whether the shot were aimed deliberately, or guided by an unseen hand to the heart of the gambler, was never known; nor did the most careful examination, instituted afterward by the county, elicit any information that even directed suspicion toward the individual who became the agent of his death. at the coroner's inquest, held over the dead body of harvey green, simon slade was present. where he had concealed himself while the mob were in search of him, was not known. he looked haggard; and his eyes were anxious and restless. two murders in his house, occurring in a single day, were quite enough to darken his spirits; and the more so, as his relations with both the victims were not of a character to awaken any thing but self-accusation. as for the mob, in the death of green its eager thirst for vengeance was satisfied. nothing more was said against slade, as a participator in the ruin and death of young hammond. the popular feeling was one of pity rather than indignation toward the landlord; for it was seen that he was deeply troubled. one thing i noticed, and it was that the drinking at the bar was not suspended for a moment. a large proportion of those who made up the crowd of green's angry pursuers were excited by drink as well as indignation, and i am very sure that, but for the maddening effects of liquor, the fatal shot would never have been fired. after the fearful catastrophe, and when every mind was sobered, or ought to have been sobered, the crowd returned to the bar-room, where the drinking was renewed. so rapid were the calls for liquor, that both matthew and frank, the landlord's son, were kept busy mixing the various compounds demanded by the thirsty customers. from the constant stream of human beings that flowed toward the "sickle and sheaf," after the news of green's discovery and death went forth, it seemed as if every man and boy within a distance of two or three miles had received intelligence of the event. few, very, of those who came, but went first into the bar-room; and nearly all who entered the bar-room called for liquor. in an hour after the death of green, the fact that his dead body was laid out in the room immediately adjoining, seemed utterly to pass from the consciousness of every one in the bar. the calls for liquor were incessant; and, as the excitement of drink increased, voices grew louder, and oaths more plentiful, while the sounds of laughter ceased not for an instant. "they're giving him a regular irish wake," i heard remarked, with a brutal laugh. i turned to the speaker, and, to my great surprise, saw that it was judge lyman, more under the influence of drink than i remembered to have seen him. he was about the last man i expected to find here. if he knew of the strong indignation expressed toward him a little while before, by some of the very men now excited with liquor, his own free drinking had extinguished fear. "yes, curse him!" was the answer. "if they have a particularly hot corner 'away down below,' i hope he's made its acquaintance before this." "most likely he's smelled brimstone," chuckled the judge. "smelled it! if old clubfoot hasn't treated him with a brimstone-bath long before this, he hasn't done his duty. if i thought as much, i'd vote for sending his majesty a remonstrance forthwith." "ha! ha!" laughed the judge. "you're warm on the subject." "ain't i? the blackleg scoundrel! hell's too good for him." "h-u-s-h! don't let your indignation run into profanity," said judge lyman, trying to assume a serious air; but the muscles of his face but feebly obeyed his will's feeble effort. "profanity! poh! i don't call that profanity. it's only speaking out in meeting, as they say,--it's only calling black, black--and white, white. you believe in a hell, don't you, judge?" "i suppose there is one; though i don't know very certain." "you'd better be certain!" said the other, meaningly. "why so?" "oh! because if there is one, and you don't cut your cards a little differently, you'll be apt to find it at the end of your journey." "what do you mean by that?" asked the judge, retreating somewhat into himself, and trying to look dignified. "just what i say," was unhesitatingly answered. "do you mean to insinuate any thing?" asked the judge, whose brows were beginning to knit themselves. "nobody thinks you a saint," replied the man, roughly. "i never professed to be." "and it is said"--the man fixed his gaze almost insultingly upon judge lyman's face--"that you'll get about as hot a corner in the lower regions as is to be found there, whenever you make the journey in that direction." "you are insolent!" exclaimed the judge, his face becoming inflamed. "take care what you say, sir!" the man spoke threateningly. "you'd better take care what you say." "so i will," replied the other. "but--" "what's to pay here?" inquired a third party, coming up at the moment, and interrupting the speaker. "the devil will be to pay," said judge lyman, "if somebody don't look out sharp." "do you mean that for me, ha?" the man, between whom and himself this slight contention had so quickly sprung up, began stripping back his coat sleeves, like one about to commence boxing. "i mean it for anybody who presumes to offer me an insult." the raised voices of the two men now drew toward them the attention of every one in the bar-room. "the devil! there's judge lyman!" i heard some one exclaim, in a tone of surprise. "wasn't he in the room with green when willy hammond was murdered?" asked another. "yes, he was; and what's more, it is said he had been playing against him all night, he and green sharing the plunder." this last remark came distinctly to the ears of lyman, who started to his feet instantly, exclaiming fiercely: "whoever says that is a cursed liar!" the words were scarcely out of his mouth, before a blow staggered him against the wall, near which he was standing. another blow felled him, and then his assailant sprang over his prostrate body, kicking him, and stamping upon his face and breast in the most brutal, shocking manner. "kill him! he's worse than green!" somebody cried out, in a voice so full of cruelty and murder that it made my blood curdle. "remember willy hammond!" the terrible scene that followed, in which were heard a confused mingling of blows, cries, yells, and horrible oaths, continued for several minutes, and ceased only when the words--"don't, don't strike him any more! he's dead!" were repeated several times. then the wild strife subsided. as the crowd parted from around the body of judge lyman, and gave way, i caught a single glance at his face. it was covered with blood, and every feature seemed to have been literally trampled down, until all was a level surface! sickened at the sight, i passed hastily from the room into the open air, and caught my breath several times, before respiration again went on freely. as i stood in front of the tavern, the body of judge lyman was borne out by three or four men, and carried off in the direction of his dwelling. "is he dead?" i inquired of those who had him in charge. "no," was the answer. "he's not dead, but terribly beaten," and they passed on. again the loud voices of men in angry strife arose in the bar-room. i did not return there to learn the cause, or to witness the fiend-like conduct of the men, all whose worst passions were stimulated by drink into the wildest fervor. as i was entering my room, the thought flashed through my mind that, as green was found there, it needed only the bare suggestion that i had aided in his concealment, to direct toward me the insane fury of the drunken mob. "it is not safe to remain here." i said this to myself, with the emphasis of a strong internal conviction. against this, my mind opposed a few feeble arguments; but the more i thought of the matter, the more clearly did i become satisfied, that to attempt to pass the night in that room was to me a risk it was not prudent to assume. so i went in search of mrs. slade, to ask her to have another room prepared for me. but she was not in the house; and i learned, upon inquiry, that since the murder of young hammond, she had been suffering from repeated hysterical and fainting fits, and was now, with her daughter, at the house of a relative, whither she had been carried early in the afternoon. it was on my lip to request the chambermaid to give me another room; but this i felt to be scarcely prudent, for if the popular indignation should happen to turn toward me, the servant would be the one questioned, most likely, as to where i had removed my quarters. "it isn't safe to stay in the house," said i, speaking to myself. "two, perhaps three, murders have been committed already. the tiger's thirst for blood has been stimulated, and who can tell how quickly he may spring again, or in what direction?" even while i said this, there came up from the bar-room louder and madder shouts. then blows were heard, mingled with cries and oaths. a shuddering sense of danger oppressed me, and i went hastily down-stairs, and out into the street. as i gained the passage, i looked into the sitting-room, where the body of green was laid out. just then, the bar-room door was burst open by a fighting party, who had been thrown, in their fierce contention, against it. i paused only for a moment or two; and even in that brief period of time, saw blows exchanged over the dead body of the gambler! "this is no place for me," i said, almost aloud, and hurried from the house, and took my way to the residence of a gentleman who had shown me many kindnesses during my visits at cedarville. there was needed scarcely a word of representation on my part, to secure the cordial tender of a bed. what a change! it seemed almost like a passage from pandemonium to a heavenly region, as i seated myself alone in the quiet chamber a cheerful hospitality had assigned me, and mused on the exciting and terrible incidents of the day. they that sow the wind shall reap the whirlwind. how marked had been the realization of this prophecy, couched in such strong but beautiful imagery! on the next day i was to leave cedarville. early in the morning i repaired to the "sickle and sheaf." the storm was over, and all was calm and silent as desolation. hours before, the tempest had subsided; but the evidences left behind of its ravaging fury were fearful to look upon. doors, chairs, windows, and table's were broken, and even the strong brass rod that ornamented the bar had been partially wrenched from its fastenings by strong hands, under an impulse of murder, that only lacked a weapon to execute its fiendish purpose. stains of blood, in drops, marks, and even dried-up pools, were to be seen all over the bar-room and passage floors, and in many places on the porch. in the sitting-room still lay the body of green. here, too, were many signs to indicate a fierce struggle. the looking-glass was smashed to a hundred pieces, and the shivered fragments lay yet untouched upon the floor. a chair, which it was plain had been used as a weapon of assault, had two of its legs broken short off, and was thrown into a corner. and even the bearers on which the dead man lay were pushed from their true position, showing that even in its mortal sleep, the body of green had felt the jarring strife of elements he had himself helped to awaken into mad activity. from his face, the sheet had been drawn aside; but no hand ventured to replace it; and there it lay, in its ghastly paleness, exposed to the light, and covered with restless flies, attracted by the first faint odors of putridity. with gaze averted, i approached the body, and drew the covering decently over it. no person was in the bar. i went out into the stable-yard, where i met the hostler with his head bound up. there was a dark blue circle around one of his eyes, and an ugly-looking red scar on his cheek. "where is mr. slade?" i inquired. "in bed, and likely to keep it for a week," was answered. "how comes that?" "naturally enough. there was fighting all around last night, and he had to come in for a share. the fool! if he'd just held his tongue, he might have come out of it with a whole skin. but, when the rum is in, the wit is out, with him. it's cost me a black eye and a broken head; for how could i stand by and see him murdered outright?" "is he very badly injured?" "i rather think he is. one eye is clean gone." "oh, shocking!" "it's shocking enough, and no mistake." "lost an eye?" "too true, sir. the doctor saw him this morning, and says the eye was fairly gouged out, and broken up. in fact, when we carried him upstairs for dead, last night, his eye was lying upon his cheek. i pushed it back with my own hand!" "oh, horrible!" the relation made me sick. "is he otherwise much injured?" "the doctor thinks there are some bad hurts inside. why, they kicked and trampled upon him, as if he had been a wild beast! i never saw such a pack of blood-thirsty devils in my life!" "so much for rum," said i. "yes, sir; so much for rum," was the emphatic response. "it was the rum, and nothing else. why, some of the very men who acted the most like tigers and devils, are as harmless persons as you will find in cedarville when sober. yes, sir; it was the rum, and nothing else. rum gave me this broken head and black eye." "so you had been drinking also?" "oh, yes. there's no use in denying that." "liquor does you harm." "nobody knows that better than i do." "why do you drink, then?" "oh, just because it comes in the way. liquor is under my eyes and nose all the time, and it's as natural as breathing to take a little now and then. and when i don't think of it myself, somebody will think of it for me, and say--'come, sam, let's take something.' so, you see, for a body such as i am, there isn't much help for it." "but ain't you afraid to go on in this way? don't you know where it will all end?" "just as well as anybody. it will make an end of me or--of all that is good in me. rum and ruin, you know, sir. they go together like twin brothers." "why don't you get out of the way of temptation?" said i. "it's easy enough to ask that question, sir; but how am i to get out of the way of temptation? where shall i go, and not find a bar in my road, and somebody to say--'come, sam, let's take a drink'? it can't be done, sir, nohow. i'm a hostler, and i don't know how to be anything else." "can't you work on a farm?" "yes; i can do something in that way. but, when there are taverns and bar-rooms, as many as three or four in every mile all over the country, how are you to keep clear of them? figure me out that." "i think you'd better vote on the maine law side at next election," said i. "faith, and i did it last time!" replied the man, with a brightening face--"and if i'm spared, i'll go the same ticket next year." "what do you think of the law?" i asked. "think of it! bless your heart! if i was a praying man, which i'm sorry to say i ain't--my mother was a pious woman, sir"--his voice fell and slightly trembled--"if i was a praying man, sir, i'd pray, night and morning, and twenty times every day of my life, for god to put it into the hearts of the people to give us that law. i'd have some hope then. but i haven't much as it is. there's no use in trying to let liquor alone." "do many drinking men think as you do?" "i can count up a dozen or two myself. it isn't the drinking men who are so much opposed to the maine law as your politicians. they throw dust in the people's eyes about it, and make a great many, who know nothing at all of the evils of drinking in themselves, believe some bugbear story about trampling on the rights of i don't know who, nor they either. as for rum-sellers' rights, i never could see any right they had to get rich by ruining poor devils such as i am. i think, though, that we have some right to be protected against them." the ringing of a bell here announced the arrival of some traveler, and the hostler left me. i learned, during the morning, that matthew, the bar-keeper, and also the son of mr. slade, were both considerably hurt during the affrays in the bar-room, and were confined, temporarily, to their beds. mrs. slade still continued in a distressing and dangerous state. judge lyman, though shockingly injured, was not thought to be in a critical condition. a busy day the sheriff had of it, making arrests of various parties engaged in the last night's affairs. even slade, unable as he was to lift his head from his pillow, was required to give heavy bail for his appearance at court. happily, i escaped the inconvenience of being held to appear as a witness, and early in the afternoon had the satisfaction of finding myself rapidly borne away in the stage-coach. it was two years before i entered the pleasant village of cedarville again. night the eighth. reaping the whirlwind. i was in washington city during the succeeding month. it was the short, or closing session, of a regular congressional term. the implication of judge lyman in the affair of green and young hammond had brought him into such bad odor in cedarville and the whole district from which he had been chosen, that his party deemed it wise to set him aside, and take up a candidate less likely to meet with so strong and, it might be, successful an opposition. by so doing, they were able to secure the election, once more, against the growing temperance party, which succeeded, however, in getting a maine law man into the state legislature. it was, therefore, judge lyman's last winter at the federal capital. while seated in the reading-room at fuller's hotel, about noon, on the day after my arrival in washington, i noticed an individual, whose face looked familiar, come in and glance about, as if in search of some one. while yet questioning my mind who he could be, i heard a man remark to a person with whom he had been conversing: "there's that vagabond member away from his place in the house, again." "who?" inquired the other. "why. judge lyman," was answered. "oh!" said the other, indifferently; "it isn't of much consequence. precious little wisdom does he add to that intelligent body." "his vote is worth something, at least, when important questions are at stake." "what does he charge for it?" was coolly inquired. there was a shrug of the shoulders, and an arching of the eyebrows, but no answer. "i'm in earnest, though, in the question," said the last speaker. "not in saying that lyman will sell his vote to the highest bidders?" "that will depend altogether upon whom the bidders may be. they must be men who have something to lose as well as gain--men not at all likely to bruit the matter, and in serving whose personal interests no abandonment of party is required. judge lyman is always on good terms with the lobby members, and may be found in company with some of them daily. doubtless, his absence from the house, now, is for the purpose of a special meeting with gentlemen who are ready to pay well for votes in favor of some bill making appropriations of public money for private or corporate benefit." "you certainly can not mean all you say to be taken in its broadest sense," was replied to this. "yes; in its very broadest. into just this deep of moral and political degradation has this man fallen, disgracing his constituents, and dishonoring his country." "his presence at washington doesn't speak very highly in favor of the community he represents." "no; still, as things are now, we cannot judge of the moral worth of a community by the man sent from it to congress. representatives show merely the strength of parties. the candidate chosen in party primary meetings is not selected because he is the best man they have, and the one fittest to legislate wisely in national affairs; but he who happens to have the strongest personal friends among those who nominate, or who is most likely to poll the highest vote. this is why we find,' in congress, such a large preponderance of tenth-rate men." "a man such as you represent judge lyman to be would sell his country, like another arnold." "yes; if the bid were high enough." "does he gamble?" "gambling, i might say, is a part of his profession. very few nights pass, i am told, without finding him at the gaming-table." i heard no more. at all this, i was not in the least surprised; for my knowledge of the man's antecedents had prepared me for allegations quite as bad as these. during the week i spent at the federal capital, i had several opportunities of seeing judge lyman, in the house and out of it,--in the house only when the yeas and nays were called on some important measure, or a vote taken on a bill granting special privileges. in the latter case, his vote, as i noticed, was generally cast on the affirmative side. several times i saw him staggering on the avenue, and once brought into the house for the purpose of voting, in so drunken a state, that he had to be supported to his seat. and even worse than this--when his name was called, he was asleep, and had to be shaken several times before he was sufficiently aroused to give his vote! happily, for the good of his country, it was his last winter in washington. at the next session, a better man took his place. two years from the period of my last visit to cedarville, i found myself approaching that quiet village again. as the church-spire came in view, and house after house became visible, here and there, standing out in pleasant relief against the green background of woods and fields, all the exciting events which rendered my last visit so memorable, came up fresh in my mind. i was yet thinking of willy hammond's dreadful death, and of his broken-hearted mother, whose life went out with his, when the stage rolled by their old homestead. oh, what a change was here! neglect, decay, and dilapidation were visible, let the eye fall where it would. the fences were down, here and there; the hedges, once so green and nicely trimmed, had grown rankly in some places, but were stunted and dying in others; all the beautiful walks were weedy and grass-grown, and the box-borders dead; the garden, rainbow-hued in its wealth of choice and beautiful flowers when i first saw it, was lying waste,--a rooting-ground for hogs. a glance at the house showed a broken chimney, the bricks unremoved from the spot where they struck the ground; a moss grown roof, with a large limb from a lightning-rent tree lying almost balanced over the eaves, and threatening to fall at the touch of the first wind-storm that swept over. half of the vines that clambered about the portico were dead, and the rest, untrained, twined themselves in wild disorder, or fell groveling to the earth. one of the pillars of the portico was broken, as were, also, two of the steps that went up to it. the windows of the house were closed, but the door stood open, and, as the stage went past, my eyes rested, for a moment, upon an old man seated in the hall. he was not near enough to the door for me to get a view of his face; but the white flowing hair left me in no doubt as to his identity. it was judge hammond. the "sickle and sheaf" was yet the stage-house of cedarville, and there, a few minutes afterward, i found myself. the hand of change had been here also. the first object that attracted my attention was the sign-post, which at my earlier arrival, some eight or nine years before, stood up in its new white garment of paint, as straight as a plummet-line, bearing proudly aloft the golden sheaf and gleaming sickle. now, the post, dingy and shattered and worn from the frequent contact of wheels, and gnawing of restless horses, leaned from its trim perpendicular at an angle of many degrees, as if ashamed of the faded, weather-worn, lying symbol it bore aloft in the sunshine. around the post was a filthy mud-pool, in which a hog lay grunting out its sense of enjoyment. two or three old empty whisky barrels lumbered up the dirty porch, on which a coarse, bloated, vulgar-looking man sat leaning against the wall--his chair tipped back on its hind legs--squinting at me from one eye, as i left the stage and came forward toward the house. "ah! is this you?" said he, as i came near to him, speaking thickly, and getting up with a heavy motion. i now recognized the altered person of simon slade. on looking at him closer, i saw that the eye which i had thought only shut was in fact destroyed. how vividly, now, uprose in imagination the scenes i had witnessed during my last night in his bar-room; the night when a brutal mob, whom he had inebriated with liquor, came near murdering him. "glad to see you once more, my boy! glad to see you! i--i--i'm not just--you see. how are you? how are you?" and he shook my hand with a drunken show of cordiality. i felt shocked and disgusted. wretched man! down the crumbling sides of the pit he had digged for other feet, he was himself sliding, while not enough strength remained even to struggle with his fate. i tried for a few minutes to talk with him; but his mind was altogether beclouded, and his questions and answers incoherent; so i left him, and entered the bar-room. "can i get accommodations here for a couple of days?" i inquired of a stupid, sleepy-looking man, who was sitting in a chair behind the bar. "i reckon so," he answered, but did not rise. i turned, and walked a few paces toward the door, and then walked back again. "i'd like to get a room," said i. the man got up slowly, and going to a desk, fumbled about it for a while. at length he brought out an old, dilapidated bank-book, and throwing it open on the counter, asked me, with an indifferent manner, to write down my name. "i'll take a pen, if you please." "oh, yes!" and he hunted about again in the desk, from which, after a while, he brought forth the blackened stump of a quill, and pushed it toward me across the counter. "ink," said i--fixing my eyes upon him with a look of displeasure. "i don't believe there is any," he muttered. "frank," and he called the landlord's son, going to the door behind the bar as he did so. "what d'ye want?" a rough, ill-natured voice answered. "where's the ink?" "don't know anything about it." "you had it last. what did you do with it?" "nothing!" was growled back. "well, i wish you'd find it." "find it yourself, and--" i cannot repeat the profane language he used. "never mind," said i. "a pencil will do just as well." and i drew one from my pocket. the attempt to write with this, on the begrimed and greasy page of the register, was only partially successful. it would have puzzled almost any one to make out the name. from the date of the last entry, it appeared that mine was the first arrival, for over a week, of any person desiring a room. as i finished writing my name, frank came stalking in, with a cigar in his mouth, and a cloud of smoke around his head. he had grown into a stout man--though his face presented little that was manly, in the true sense of the word. he was disgustingly sensual. on seeing me, a slight flush tinged his cheeks. "how do you do?" he said, offering me his hand. "peter,"--he turned to the lazy-looking bar-keeper--"tell jane to have no. put in order for a gentleman immediately, and tell her to be sure and change the bed linen." "things look rather dull here," i remarked, as the bar-keeper went out to do as he had been directed. "rather; it's a dull place, anyhow." "how is your mother?" i inquired. a slight, troubled look came into his face, as he answered: "no better." "she's sick, then?" "yes; she's been sick a good while; and i'm afraid will never be much better." his manner was not altogether cold and indifferent, but there was a want of feeling in his voice. "is she at home?" "no, sir." as he showed no inclination to say more on the subject, i asked no further questions, and he soon found occasion to leave me. the bar room had undergone no material change, so far as its furniture and arrangements were concerned; but a very great change was apparent in the condition of these. the brass rod around the bar, which, at my last visit was brightly polished, was now a greenish-black, and there came from it an unpleasant odor of verdigris. the walls were fairly coated with dust, smoke, and fly-specks, and the windows let in the light but feebly through the dirt-obscured glass. the floor was filthy. behind the bar, on the shelves designed for a display of liquors, was a confused mingling of empty or half-filled decanters, cigar-boxes, lemons and lemon-peel, old newspapers, glasses, a broken pitcher, a hat, a soiled vest, and a pair of blacking brushes, with other incongruous things, not now remembered. the air of the room was loaded with offensive vapors. disgusted with every thing about the bar, i went into the sitting-room. here, there was some order in the arrangement of the dingy furniture; but you might have written your name in dust on the looking-glass and table. the smell of the torpid atmosphere was even worse than that of the bar-room. so i did not linger here, but passed through the hall, and out upon the porch, to get a draught of pure air. slade still sat leaning against the wall. "fine day this," said he, speaking in a mumbling kind of voice. "very fine," i answered. "yes, very fine." "not doing so well as you were a few years ago," said i. "no--you see--these--these 'ere blamed temperance people are ruining everything." "ah! is that so?" "yes. cedarville isn't what it was when you first came to the 'sickle and sheaf.' i--i--you see. curse the temperance people! they've ruined every thing, you see. every thing! ruined--" and he muttered and mouthed his words in such a way, that i could understand but little he said; and, in that little, there was scarcely any coherency. so i left him, with a feeling of pity in my heart for the wreck he had become, and went into the town to call upon one or two gentlemen with whom i had business. in the course of the afternoon, i learned that mrs. slade was in an insane asylum, about five miles from cedarville. the terrible events of the day on which young hammond was murdered completed the work of mental ruin, begun at the time her husband abandoned the quiet, honorable calling of a miller, and became a tavern-keeper. reason could hold its position no longer. when word came to her that willy and his mother were both dead, she uttered a wild shriek, and fell down in a fainting fit. from that period the balance of her mind was destroyed. long before this, her friends saw that reason wavered. frank had been her idol. a pure, bright, affectionate boy he was, when she removed with him from their pleasant cottage-home, where all the surrounding influences were good, into a tavern, where an angel could scarcely remain without corruption. from the moment this change was decided on by her husband, a shadow fell upon her heart. she saw, before her husband, her children, and herself, a yawning pit, and felt that, in a very few years, all of them must plunge down into its fearful darkness. alas! how quickly began the realization of her worst fears in the corruption of her worshipped boy! and how vain proved all effort and remonstrance, looking to his safety, whether made with himself or his father! from the day the tavern was opened, and frank drew into his lungs full draughts of the changed atmosphere by which he was now surrounded, the work of moral deterioration commenced. the very smell of the liquor exhilarated him unnaturally; while the subjects of conversation, so new to him, that found discussion in the bar-room, soon came to occupy a prominent place in his imagination, to the exclusion of those humane, child-like, tender, and heavenly thoughts and impressions it had been the mother's care to impart and awaken. ah! with what an eager zest does the heart drink in of evil. and how almost hopeless is the case of a boy, surrounded, as frank was, by the corrupting, debasing associations of a bar-room! had his father meditated his ruin, he could not have more surely laid his plans for the fearful consummation; and he reaped as he had sown. with a selfish desire to get gain, he embarked in the trade of corruption, ruin, and death, weakly believing that he and his could pass through the fire harmless. how sadly a few years demonstrated his error, we have seen. flora, i learned, was with her mother, devoting her life to her. the dreadful death of willy hammond, for whom she had conceived a strong attachment, came near depriving her of reason also. since the day on which that awful tragedy occurred, she had never even looked upon her old home. she went away with her unconscious mother, and ever since had remained with her--devoting her life to her comfort. long before this, all her own and mother's influence over her brother had come to an end. it mattered not how she sought to stay his feet, so swiftly moving along the downward way, whether by gentle entreaty, earnest remonstrance, or tears; in either case, wounds for her own heart were the sure consequences, while his steps never lingered a moment. a swift destiny seemed hurrying him on to ruin. the change in her father--once so tender, so cheerful in his tone, so proud of and loving toward his daughter--was another source of deep grief to her pure young spirit. over him, as well as over her brother, all her power was lost; and he even avoided her, as though her presence were an offense to him. and so, when she went out from her unhappy home, she took with her no desire to return. even when imagination bore her back to the "sickle and sheaf," she felt an intense, heart-sickening repulsion toward the place where she had first felt the poisoned arrows of life; and in the depths of her spirit she prayed that her eyes might never look upon it again. in her almost cloister-like seclusion, she sought to gather the mantle of oblivion about her heart. had not her mother's condition made flora's duty a plain one, the true, unselfish instincts of her heart would have doubtless led her back to the polluted home she had left, there, in a kind of living death, to minister as best she could to the comfort of a debased father and brother. but she was spared that trial--that fruitless sacrifice. evening found me once more in the bar-room of the "sickle and sheaf." the sleepy, indifferent bar-keeper, was now more in his element--looked brighter, and had quicker motions. slade, who had partially recovered from the stupefying effects of the heavy draughts of ale with which he washed down his dinner, was also in a better condition, though not inclined to talk. he was sitting at a table, alone, with his eyes wandering about the room. whether his thoughts were agreeable or disagreeable, it was not easy to determine. frank was there, the centre of a noisy group of coarse fellows, whose vulgar sayings and profane expletives continually rung through the room. the noisiest, coarsest, and most profane was frank slade; yet did not the incessant volume of bad language that flowed from his tongue appear in the least to disturb his father. outraged, at length, by this disgusting exhibition, that had not even the excuse of an exciting cause, i was leaving the bar-room, when i heard some one remark to a young man who had just come in: "what! you here again, ned? ain't you afraid your old man will be after you, as usual?" "no," answered the person addressed, chuckling inwardly, "he's gone to a prayer-meeting." "you'll at least have the benefit of his prayers," was lightly remarked. i turned to observe the young man more closely. his face i remembered, though i could not identify him at first. but, when i heard him addressed soon after as ned hargrove, i had a vivid recollection of a little incident that occurred some years before, and which then made a strong impression. the reader has hardly forgotten the visit of mr. hargrove to the bar-room of the "sickle and sheaf," and the conversation among some of its inmates, which his withdrawal, in company with his son, then occasioned. the father's watchfulness over his boy, and his efforts to save him from the allurements and temptations of a bar-room, had proved, as now appeared, unavailing. the son was several years older; but it was sadly evident, from the expression of his face, that he had been growing older in evil faster than in years. the few words that i have mentioned as passing between this young man and another inmate of the bar-room, caused me to turn back from the door, through which i was about passing, and take a chair near to where hargrove had seated himself. as i did so, the eyes of simon slade rested on the last-named individual. "ned hargrove!" he said, speaking roughly--"if you want a drink, you'd better get it, and make yourself scarce." "don't trouble yourself," retorted the young man, "you'll get your money for the drink in good time." this irritated the landlord, who swore at hargrove violently, and said something about not wanting boys about his place who couldn't stir from home without having "daddy or mammy running after them." "never fear!" cried out the person who had first addressed hargrove--"his old man's gone to a prayer-meeting. we shan't have the light of his pious countenance here to-night." i fixed my eyes upon the young man to see what effect this coarse and irreverent allusion to his father would have. a slight tinge of shame was in his face; but i saw that he had not sufficient moral courage to resent the shameful desecration of a parent's name. how should he, when he was himself the first to desecrate that name? "if he were forty fathoms deep in the infernal regions," answered slade, "he'd find out that ned was here, and get half an hour's leave of absence to come after him. the fact is, i'm tired of seeing his solemn, sanctimonious face here every night. if the boy hasn't spirit enough to tell him to mind his own business, as i have done more than fifty times, why, let the boy stay away himself." "why don't you send him off with a flea in his ear, ned?" said one of the company, a young man scarcely his own age. "my old man tried that game with me, but he soon found that i could hold the winning cards." "just what i'm going to do the very next time he comes after me." "oh, yes! so you've said twenty times," remarked frank slade, in a sneering, insolent manner. edward hargrove had not the spirit to resent this; he only answered: "just let him show himself here to-night, and you will see." "no, we won't see," sneered frank. "wouldn't it be fun!" was exclaimed. "i hope to be on hand, should it ever come off." "he's as 'fraid as death of the old chap," laughed a sottish-looking man, whose age ought to have inspired him with some respect for the relation between father and son, and doubtless would, had not a long course of drinking and familiarity with debasing associates blunted his moral sense. "now for it!" i heard uttered, in a quick, delighted voice. "now for fun! spunk up to him, ned! never say die!" i turned toward the door, and there stood the father of edward hargrove. how well i remembered the broad, fine forehead, the steady, yet mild eyes, the firm lips, the elevated, superior bearing of the man i had once before seen in that place, and on a like errand. his form was slightly bent now; his hair was whiter; his eyes farther back in his head; his face thinner and marked with deeper lines; and there was in the whole expression of his face a touching sadness. yet, superior to the marks of time and suffering, an unflinching resolution was visible in his countenance, that gave to it a dignity, and extorted involuntary respect. he stood still, after advancing a few paces, and then, his searching eyes having discovered his son, he said mildly, yet firmly, and with such a strength of parental love in his voice that resistance was scarcely possible: "edward! edward! come, my son." "don't go." the words were spoken in an undertone, and he who uttered them turned his face away from mr. hargrove, so that the old man could not see the motion of his lips. a little while before, he had spoken bravely against the father of edward; now, he could not stand up in his presence. i looked at edward. he did not move from where he was sitting, and yet i saw that to resist his father cost him no light struggle. "edward." there was nothing imperative--nothing stern--nothing commanding in the father's voice; but its great, its almost irresistible power, lay in its expression of the father's belief that his son would instantly leave the place. and it was this power that prevailed. edward arose, and, with eyes cast upon the floor, was moving away from his companions, when frank slade exclaimed: "poor, weak fool!" it was a lightning flash of indignation, rather than a mere glance from the human eye, that mr. hargrove threw instantly upon frank; while his fine form sprung up erect. he did not speak, but merely transfixed him with a look. frank curled his lip impotently, as he tried to return the old man's withering glances. "now look here!" said simon slade, in some wrath, "there's been just about enough of this. i'm getting tired of it. why don't you keep ned at home? nobody wants him here." "refuse to sell him liquor," returned mr. hargrove. "it's my trade to sell liquor," answered slade, boldly. "i wish you had a more honorable calling," said hargrove, almost mournfully. "if you insult my father, i'll strike you down!" exclaimed frank slade, starting up and assuming a threatening aspect. "i respect filial devotion, meet it where i will," calmly replied mr. hargrove,--"i only wish it had a better foundation in this case. i only wish the father had merited----" i will not stain my page with the fearful oath that frank slade yelled, rather than uttered, as, with clenched fist, he sprung toward mr. hargrove. but ere he had reached the unruffled old man--who stood looking at him as one would look into the eyes of a wild beast, confident that he could not stand the gaze--a firm hand grasped his arm, and a rough voice said: "avast, there, young man! touch a hair of that white head, and i'll wring your neck off." "lyon!" as frank uttered the man's name, he raised his fist to strike him. a moment the clenched hand remained poised in the air; then it fell slowly to his side, and he contented himself with an oath and a vile epithet. "you can swear to your heart's content. it will do nobody any harm but yourself," coolly replied mr. lyon, whom i now recognized as the person with whom i had held several conversations during previous visits. "thank you, mr. lyon," said mr. hargrove, "for this manly interference. it is no more than i should have expected from you." "i never suffer a young man to strike an old man," said lyon firmly. "apart from that, mr. hargrove, there are other reasons why your person must be free from violence where i am." "this is a bad place for you, lyon," said mr. hargrove; "and i've said so to you a good many times." he spoke in rattier an undertone. "why will you come here?" "it's a bad place, i know," replied lyon, speaking out boldly, "and we all know it. but habit, mr. hargrove--habit. that's the cursed thing! if the bar-rooms were all shut up, there would be another story to tell. get us the maine law, and there will be some chance for us." "why don't you vote the temperance ticket?" asked mr. hargrove. "why did i? you'd better ask," said lyon. "i thought you voted against us." "not i. ain't quite so blind to my own interest as that. and, if the truth were known, i should not at all wonder if every man in this room, except slade and his son, voted on your side of the house." "it's a little strange, then," said mr. hargrove, "that with the drinking men on our side, we failed to secure the election." "you must blame that on your moderate men, who see no danger and go blind with their party," answered lyon. "we have looked the evil in the face, and know its direful quality." "come! i would like to talk with you, mr. lyon." mr. hargrove, his son, and mr. lyon went out together. as they left the room, frank slade said: "what a cursed liar and hypocrite he is!" "who?" was asked. "why, lyon," answered frank, boldly. "you'd better say that to his face." "it wouldn't be good for him," remarked one of the company. at this frank started to his feet, stalked about the room, and put on all the disgusting airs of a drunken braggart. even his father saw the ridiculous figure he cut, and growled out: "there, frank, that'll do. don't make a miserable fool of yourself!" at which frank retorted, with so much of insolence that his father flew into a towering passion, and ordered him to leave the bar-room. "you can go out yourself if you don't like the company. i'm very well satisfied," answered frank. "leave this room, you impudent young scoundrel!" "can't go, my amiable friend," said frank, with a cool self-possession that maddened his father, who got up hastily, and moved across the bar-room to the place where he was standing. "go out, i tell you!" slade spoke resolutely. "would be happy to oblige you," frank said, in a taunting voice; "but, 'pon my word, it isn't at all convenient." half intoxicated as he was, and already nearly blind with passion, slade lifted his hand to strike his son. and the blow would have fallen had not some one caught his arm, and held him back from the meditated violence. even the debased visitors of this bar-room could not stand by and see nature outraged in a bloody strife between father and son; for it was plain from the face and quickly assumed attitude of frank, that if his father had laid his hand upon him, he would have struck him in return. i could not remain to hear the awful imprecations that father and son, in their impotent rage, called down from heaven upon each other's heads. it was the most shocking exhibition of depraved human nature that i had ever seen. and so i left the bar-room, glad to escape from its stifling atmosphere and revolting scenes. night the ninth. a fearful consummation. neither slade nor his son was present at the breakfast-table on the next morning. as for myself, i did not eat with much appetite. whether this defect arose from the state of my mind, or the state of the food set before me, i did not stop to inquire; but left the stifling, offensive atmosphere of the dining-room in a very few moments after entering that usually attractive place for a hungry man. a few early drinkers were already in the bar-room--men with shattered nerves and cadaverous faces, who could not begin the day's work without the stimulus of brandy or whisky. they came in, with gliding footsteps, asked for what they wanted in low voices, drank in silence, and departed. it was a melancholy sight to look upon. about nine o'clock the landlord made his appearance. he, too, came gliding into the bar-room, and his first act was to seize upon a brandy decanter, pour out nearly half a pint of the fiery liquid, and drink it off. how badly his hand shook--so badly that he spilled the brandy both in pouring it out and in lifting the glass to his lips! what a shattered wreck he was! he looked really worse now than he did on the day before, when drink gave an artificial vitality to his system, a tension to his muscles, and light to his countenance. the miller of ten years ago, and the tavern-keeper of today! who could have identified them as one? slade was turning from the bar, when a man? came in. i noticed an instant change in the landlord's countenance. he looked startled; almost frightened. the man drew a small package from his pocket, and after selecting a paper therefrom, presented it to slade, who received it with a nervous reluctance, opened, and let his eye fall upon the writing within. i was observing him closely at the time, and saw his countenance flush deeply. in a moment or two it became pale again--paler even than before. "very well--all right. i'll attend to it," said the landlord, trying to recover himself, yet swallowing with every sentence. the man who was no other than a sheriff's deputy, and who gave him a sober, professional look, then went out with a firm step, and an air of importance. as he passed through the outer door, slade retired from the bar-room. "trouble coming," i heard the bar-keeper remark, speaking partly to himself and partly with the view, as was evident from his manner, of leading me to question him. but this i did not feel that it was right to do. "got the sheriff on him at last," added the bar-keeper. "what's the matter, bill?" inquired a man who now came in with a bustling, important air, and leaned familiarly over the bar. "who was jenkins after?" "the old man," replied the bar-keeper, in a voice that showed pleasure rather than regret. "no!" "it's a fact." bill, the bar-keeper, actually smiled. "what's to pay?" said the man. "don't know, and don't care much." "did he serve a summons or an execution?" "can't tell." "judge lyman's suit went against him." "did it?" "yes; and i heard judge lyman swear, that if he got him on the hip, he'd sell him out, bag and basket. and he's the man to keep his word." "i never could just make out," said the bar-keeper, "how he ever came to owe judge lyman so much. i've never known of any business transactions between them." "it's been dog eat dog, i rather guess," said the man. "what do you mean by that?" inquired the bar-keeper. "you've heard of dogs hunting in pairs?" "oh, yes." "well, since harvey green got his deserts, the business of fleecing our silly young fellows, who happened to have more money than wit or discretion, has been in the hands of judge lyman and slade. they hunted together, slade holding the game, while the judge acted as blood-sucker. but that business was interrupted about a year ago; and game got so scarce that, as i suggested, dog began to eat dog. and here comes the end of the matter, if i'm not mistaken. so mix us a stiff toddy. i want one more good drink at the 'sickle and sheaf,' before the colors are struck." and the man chuckled at his witty effort. during the day, i learned that affairs stood pretty much as this man had conjectured. lyman's suits had been on sundry notes payable on demand; but nobody knew of any property transactions between him and slade. on the part of slade, no defense had been made--the suit going by default. the visit of the sheriff's officer was for the purpose of serving an execution. as i walked through cedarville on that day, the whole aspect of the place seemed changed. i questioned with myself, often, whether this were really so, or only the effect of imagination. the change was from cheerfulness and thrift, to gloom and neglect. there was, to me, a brooding silence in the air; a pause in the life-movement; a folding of the hands, so to speak, because hope had failed from the heart. the residence of mr. harrison, who, some two years before, had suddenly awakened to a lively sense of the evil of rum-selling, because his own sons were discovered to be in danger, had been one of the most tasteful in cedarville. i had often stopped to admire the beautiful shrubbery and flowers with which it was surrounded; the walks so clear--the borders so fresh and even--the arbors so cool and inviting. there was not a spot upon which the eye could rest, that did not show the hand of taste. when i now came opposite to this house, i was not longer in doubt as to the actuality of a change. there were no marked evidences of neglect; but the high cultivation and nice regard for the small details were lacking. the walks were cleanly swept; but the box-borders were not so carefully trimmed. the vines and bushes that in former times were cut and tied so evenly, could hardly have felt the keen touch of the pruning-knife for months. as i paused to note the change, a lady, somewhat beyond the middle age, came from the house. i was struck by the deep gloom that overshadowed her countenance. ah! said i to myself, as i passed on, how many dear hopes, that once lived in that heart, must have been scattered to the winds. as i conjectured, this was mrs. harrison, and i was not unprepared to hear, as i did a few hours afterward, that her two sons had fallen into drinking habits; and, not only this, had been enticed to the gaming-table. unhappy mother! what a life-time of wretchedness was compressed for thee into a few short years! i walked on, noting, here and there, changes even more marked than appeared about the residence of mr. harrison. judge lyman's beautiful place showed utter neglect; and so did one or two others that, on my first visit to cedarville, charmed me with their order, neatness, and cultivation. in every instance, i learned, on inquiring, that the owners of these, or some members of their families, were, or had been, visitors at the "sickle and sheaf"; and that the ruin, in progress or completed, began after the establishment of that point of attraction in the village. something of a morbid curiosity, excited by what i saw, led me on to take a closer view of the residence of judge hammond than i had obtained on the day before. the first thing that i noticed, on approaching the old, decaying mansion, were handbills, posted on the gate, the front-door, and on one of the windows. a nearer inspection revealed their import. the property had been seized, and was now offered at sheriff's sale! ten years before, judge hammond was known as the richest man in cedarville; and now, the homestead which he had once so loved to beautify--where all that was dearest to him in life once gathered--worn, disfigured, and in ruins, was about to be wrested from him. i paused at the gate, and leaning over it, looked in with saddened feelings upon the dreary waste within. no sign of life was visible. the door was shut--the windows closed--not the faintest wreath of smoke was seen above the blackened chimney-tops. how vividly did imagination restore the life, and beauty, and happiness, that made their home there only a few years before,--the mother and her noble boy, one looking with trembling hope, the other with joyous confidence, into the future,--the father, proud of his household treasures, but not their wise and jealous guardian. ah! that his hands should have unbarred the door, and thrown it wide, for the wolf to enter that precious fold! i saw them all in their sunny life before me; yet, even as i looked upon them, their sky began to darken. i heard the distant mutterings of the storm, and soon the desolating tempest swept down fearfully upon them. i shuddered as it passed away, to look upon the wrecks left scattered around. what a change! "and all this," said i, "that one man, tired of being useful, and eager to get gain, might gather in accursed gold!" pushing open the gate, i entered the yard, and walked around the dwelling, my footsteps echoing in the hushed solitude of the deserted place. hark! was that a human voice? i paused to listen. the sound came, once more, distinctly to my ears, i looked around, above, everywhere, but perceived no living sign. for nearly a minute i stood still, listening. yes; there it was again--a low, moaning voice, as of one in pain or grief. i stepped onward a few paces; and now saw one of the doors standing ajar. as i pushed this door wide open, the moan was repeated. following the direction from which the sound came, i entered one of the large drawing-rooms. the atmosphere was stifling, and all as dark as if it were midnight. groping my way to a window, i drew back the bolt and threw open the shutter. broadly the light fell across the dusty, uncarpeted floor, and on the dingy furniture of the room. as it did so, the moaning voice which had drawn me thither swelled on the air again; and now i saw, lying upon an old sofa, the form of a man. it needed no second glance to tell me that this was judge hammond. i put my hand upon him, and uttered his name; but he answered not. i spoke more firmly, and slightly shook him; but only a piteous moan was returned. "judge hammond!" i now called aloud, and somewhat imperatively. but it availed nothing. the poor old man aroused not from the stupor in which mind and body were enshrouded. "he is dying!" thought i; and instantly left the house in search of some friends to take charge of him in his last, sad extremity. the first person to whom i made known the fact shrugged his shoulders, and said it was no affair of his, and that i must find somebody whose business it was to attend to him. my next application was met in the same spirit; and no better success attended my reference of the matter to a third party. no one to whom i spoke seemed to have any sympathy for the broken-down old man. shocked by this indifference, i went to one of the county officers, who, on learning the condition of judge hammond, took immediate steps to have him removed to the alms-house, some miles distant. "but why to the alms-house?" i inquired, on learning his purpose. "he has property." "everything has been seized for debt," was the reply. "will there be nothing left after his creditors are satisfied?" "very few, if any, will be satisfied," he answered. "there will not be enough to pay half the judgments against him." "and is there no friend to take him in,--no one, of all who moved by his side in the days of prosperity, to give a few hours' shelter, and soothe the last moments of his unhappy life?" "why did you make application here?" was the officer's significant question. i was silent. "your earnest appeals for the poor old man met with no words of sympathy?" "none." "he has, indeed, fallen low. in the days of his prosperity, he had many friends, so called. adversity has shaken them all like dead leaves from sapless branches." "but why? this is not always so." "judge hammond was a selfish, worldly man. people never liked him much. his favoring, so strongly, the tavern of slade, and his distillery operations, turned from him some of his best friends. the corruption and terrible fate of his son--and the insanity and death of his wife--all were charged upon him in people's minds, and every one seemed to turn from him instinctively after the fearful tragedy was completed. he never held tip his head afterward. neighbors shunned him as they would a criminal. and here has come the end at last. he will be taken to the poorhouse, to die there--a pauper!" "and all," said i, partly speaking to myself, "because a man, too lazy to work at an honest calling, must needs go to rum-selling." "the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," remarked the officer with emphasis, as he turned from me to see that his directions touching the removal of mr. hammond to the poor-house were promptly executed. in my wanderings about cedarville during that day, i noticed a small but very neat cottage, a little way from the centre of the village. there was not around it a great profusion of flowers and shrubbery; but the few vines, flowers, and bushes that grew green and flourishing about the door, and along the clean walks, added to the air of taste and comfort that so peculiarly marked the dwelling. "who lives in that pleasant little spot?" i asked of a man whom i had frequently seen in blade's bar-room. he happened to be passing the house at the same time that i was. "joe morgan," was answered. "indeed!" i spoke in some surprise. "and what of morgan? how is he doing?" "very well." "doesn't he drink?" "no. since the death of his child, he has never taken a drop. that event sobered him, and he has remained sober ever since." "what is he doing?" "working at his old trade." "that of a miller?" "yes. after judge hammond broke down, the distillery apparatus and cotton spinning machinery were all sold and removed from cedarville. the purchaser of what remained, having something of the fear of god, as well as regard for man, in his heart, set himself to the restoration of the old order of things, and in due time the revolving mill-wheel was at its old and better work of grinding corn and wheat for bread. the only two men in cedarville competent to take charge of the mill were simon slade and joe morgan. the first could not be had, and the second came in as a matter of course." "and he remains sober and industrious?" "as any man in the village," was the answer. i saw but little of slade or his son during the day. but both were in the bar-room at night, and both in a condition sorrowful to look upon. their presence, together, in the bar-room, half intoxicated as they were, seemed to revive the unhappy temper of the previous evening, as freshly as if the sun had not risen and set upon their anger. during the early part of the evening, considerable company was present, though not of a very select class. a large proportion were young men. to most of them the fact that slade had fallen into the sheriff's hands was known; and i gathered from some aside conversation which reached my ears, that frank's idle, spendthrift habits had hastened the present crisis in his father's affairs. he, too, was in debt to judge lyman--on what account, it was not hard to infer. it was after nine o'clock, and there were not half a dozen persons in the room, when i noticed frank slade go behind the bar for the third or fourth time. he was just lifting a decanter of brandy, when his father, who was considerably under the influence of drink, started forward, and laid his hand upon that of his son. instantly a fierce light gleamed from the eyes of the young man. "let go of my hand!" he exclaimed. "no, i won't. put up that brandy bottle--you're drunk now." "don't meddle with me, old man!" angrily retorted frank. "i'm not in the mood to bear anything more from you." "you're drunk as a fool now," returned slade, who had seized the decanter. "let go the bottle." for only an instant did the young man hesitate. then he drove his half-clenched hand against the breast of his father, who went staggering several paces from the counter. recovering himself, and now almost furious, the landlord rushed forward upon his son, his hand raised to strike him. "keep off!" cried frank. "keep off! if you touch me, i'll strike you down!" at the same time raising the half-filled bottle threateningly. but his father was in too maddened a state to fear any consequences, and so pressed forward upon his son, striking him in the face the moment he came near enough to do so. instantly, the young man, infuriated by drink and evil passions, threw the bottle at his father's head. the dangerous missile fell, crashing upon one of his temples, shivering it into a hundred pieces. a heavy, jarring fall too surely marked the fearful consequences of the blow. when we gathered around the fallen man, and made an effort to lift him from the floor, a thrill of horror went through every heart. a mortal paleness was already on his marred face, and the death-gurgle in his throat! in three minutes from the time the blow was struck, his spirit had gone upward to give an account of the deeds done in the body. "frank slade! you have murdered your father!" sternly were these terrible words uttered. it was some time before the young man seemed to comprehend their meaning. but the moment he realized the awful truth, he uttered an exclamation of horror. almost at the same instant, a pistol-shot came sharply on the ear. but the meditated self-destruction was not accomplished. the aim was not surely taken; and the ball struck harmlessly against the ceiling. half an hour afterward, and frank slade was a lonely prisoner in the county jail! does the reader need a word of comment on this fearful consummation? no; and we will offer none. night the tenth. the closing scene at the "sickle and sheaf." on the day that succeeded the evening of this fearful tragedy, placards were to be seen all over the village, announcing a mass meeting at the "sickle and sheaf" that night. by early twilight, the people commenced assembling. the bar, which had been closed all day, was now thrown open, and lighted; and in this room, where so much of evil had been originated, encouraged and consummated, a crowd of earnest-looking men were soon gathered. among them i saw the fine person of mr. hargrove. joe morgan--or rather, mr. morgan--was also one of the number. the latter i would scarcely have recognized, had not some one near me called him by name. he was well dressed, stood erect, and though there were many deep lines on his thoughtful countenance, all traces of his former habits were gone. while i was observing him, he arose, and addressing a few words to the assemblage, nominated mr. hargrove as chairman of the meeting. to this a unanimous assent was given. on taking the chair, mr. hargrove made a brief address, something to this effect. "ten years ago," said he, his voice evincing a slight unsteadiness as he began, but growing firmer as he proceeded, "there was not a happier spot in bolton county than cedarville. now, the marks of ruin are everywhere. ten years ago, there was a kind-hearted, industrious miller in cedarville, liked by every one, and as harmless as a little child. now, his bloated, disfigured body lies in that room. his death was violent, and by the hand of his own son!" mr. hargrove's words fell slowly, distinctly, and marked by the most forcible emphasis. there was scarcely one present who did not feel a low shudder run along his nerves, as the last words were spoken in a husky whisper. "ten years ago," he proceeded, "the miller had a happy wife, and two innocent, glad-hearted children. now, his wife, bereft of reason, is in a mad-house, and his son the occupant of a felon's cell, charged with the awful crime of parricide!" briefly he paused, while his audience stood gazing upon him with half-suspended respiration. "ten years ago," he went on, "judge hammond was accounted the richest man in cedarville. yesterday he was carried, a friendless pauper, to the alms-house; and to-day he is the unmourned occupant of a pauper's grave! ten years ago, his wife was the proud, hopeful, loving mother of a most promising son. i need not describe what willy hammond was. all here knew him well. ah! what shattered the fine intellect of that noble-minded woman? why did her heart break? where is she? where is willy hammond?" a low, half-repressed groan answered the speaker. "ten years ago, you, sir," pointing to a sad-looking old man, and calling him by name, "had two sons--generous, promising, manly-hearted boys. what are they now? you need not answer the question. too well is their history and your sorrow known. ten years ago, i had a son,--amiable, kind, loving, but weak. heaven knows how i sought to guard and protect him! but he fell also. the arrows of destruction darkened the very air of our once secure and happy village. and who is safe? not mine, nor yours! "shall i go on? shall i call up and pass in review before you, one after another, all the wretched victims who have fallen in cedarville during the last ten years? time does not permit. it would take hours for the enumeration! no; i will not throw additional darkness into the picture. heaven knows it is black enough already! but what is the root of this great evil? where lies the fearful secret? who understands the disease? a direful pestilence is in the air--it walketh in darkness, and wasteth at noonday. it is slaying the first-born in our houses, and the cry of anguish is swelling on every gale. is there no remedy?" "yes! yes! there is a remedy!" was the spontaneous answer from many voices. "be it our task, then, to find and apply it this night," answered the chairman, as he took his seat. "and there is but one remedy," said morgan, as mr. hargrove sat down. "the accursed traffic must cease among us. you must cut off the fountain, if you would dry up the stream. if you would save the young, the weak, and the innocent--on you god has laid the solemn duty of their protection--you must cover them from the tempter. evil is strong, wily, fierce, and active in the pursuit of its ends. the young, the weak, and the innocent can no more resist its assaults, than the lamb can resist the wolf. they are helpless, if you abandon them to the powers of evil. men and brethren! as one who has himself been well-nigh lost--as one who, daily, feels and trembles at the dangers that beset his path--i do conjure you to stay the fiery stream that is bearing every thing good and beautiful among you to destruction. fathers! for the sake of your young children, be up now and doing. think of willy hammond, frank slade, and a dozen more whose names i could repeat, and hesitate no longer! let us resolve, this night, that from henceforth the traffic shall cease in cedarville. is there not a large majority of citizens in favor of such a measure? and whose rights or interests can be affected by such a restriction? who, in fact, has any right to sow disease and death in our community? the liberty, under sufferance, to do so, wrongs the individual who uses it, as well as those who become his victims. do you want proof of this? look at simon slade, the happy, kind-hearted miller; and at simon slade, the tavern-keeper. was he benefited by the liberty to work harm to his neighbor? no! no! in heaven's name, then, let the traffic cease! to this end, i offer these resolutions:-- "be it resolved by the inhabitants of cedarville, that from this day henceforth, no more intoxicating drink shall be sold within the limits of the corporation. "resolved, further, that all the liquors in the 'sickle and sheaf' be forthwith destroyed, and that a fund be raised to pay the creditors of simon slade therefor, should they demand compensation. "resolved, that in closing up all other places where liquor is sold, regard shall be had to the right of property which the law secures to every man. "resolved, that with the consent of the legal authorities, all the liquor for sale in cedarville be destroyed, provided the owners thereof be paid its full value out of a fund specially raised for that purpose." but for the calm yet resolute opposition of one or two men, these resolutions would have passed by acclamation. a little sober argument showed the excited company that no good end is ever secured by the adoption of wrong means. there were, in cedarville, regularly constituted authorities, which alone had the power to determine public measures, or to say what business might or might not be pursued by individuals. and through these authorities they must act in an orderly way. there was some little chafing at this view of the case. but good sense and reason prevailed. somewhat modified, the resolutions passed, and the more ultra-inclined contented themselves with carrying out the second resolution, to destroy forthwith all the liquor to be found on the premises; which was immediately done. after which the people dispersed to their homes, each with a lighter heart, and better hopes for the future of their village. on the next day, as i entered the stage that was to bear me from cedarville, i saw a man strike his sharp axe into the worn, faded, and leaning post that had, for so many years, borne aloft the "sickle and sheaf"; and, just as the driver gave word to his horses, the false emblem which had invited so many to enter the way of destruction, fell crashing to the earth. the end. personal experience of a physician, with an appeal to the medical and clerical professions; and an appendix, a review of "christ and the temperance question" in the christian union. by john ellis, m.d. contents. chapter i. personal medical experience ok a physician. chapter ii. why every physician should examine homoeopathy. chapter iii. dangers that result from the allopathic treatment of diseases. chapter iv. personal religious experience of a physician. chapter v. the dawn of a new dispensation. chapter vi. a new day to our earth. chapter vii. the wants of the christian church. chapter viii. restraining and curing spiritual and natural diseases. chapter ix. personal experience continued and efforts. chapter x. final appeal to the clergy. addendum. a review of "christ and the temperance question," in the "christian union." personal experience of a physician. chapter i. we all admit that every one who attempts to act as a physician, should strive to qualify himself, or herself, for the work by obtaining the best education which our medical schools afford; for to physicians are intrusted, not simply the property or money, but the very lives of their fellow-citizens. as the responsibility is great, so the duty of preparing one's self before commencing practice, and of keeping fully abreast of all new and valuable discoveries in the art of healing, is equally great. a physician should not be led blindly by his teachers and prominent medical writers, and so strongly confirm himself in the theories and views which they proclaim that he cannot, without prejudice, examine new views and theories with due care. it has been said that when harvey discovered the true course of the circulation of the blood, there was not a single professor in the medical colleges of england over fifty years of age, who ever believed "the heresy," as his discovery was called. however this may have been, it is certain that professors and prominent medical writers are not always the first to see and recognize the truth, even when it is clearly presented to their notice. a native of western massachusetts, i studied medicine with an intelligent and worthy physician in my native town, and attended two and one-half courses of medical lectures at the berkshire medical college, at pittsfield, mass., and graduated in ; and during the following winter i attended the medical college at albany, n. y., devoting a large portion of my time to dissecting. after finishing at albany, i visited various places in western and central massachusetts, and operated on eyes for strabismus or cross-eyes,--an operation which had then been recently introduced for that deformity; after which i settled at chesterfield (mass.), and commenced practicing medicine, where i remained about one year. one day i visited northampton, and, calling on a physician with whom i was acquainted, i found upon his table a homoeopathic book. "why," i exclaimed with astonishment, "you are not studying homoeopathy, are you?" "yes," he replied, "i am studying it, and trying the remedies cautiously;" and he went on to describe cases which he had treated satisfactorily by the use of the remedies, and among them a case of pleurisy and one of intermittent fever, and he wound up by saying: "now, if you will go down the street to a book-store and purchase 'hull's jahr,' in two volumes, i will give you half a dozen homoeopathic remedies, and you can try them for yourself." here was a dilemma. never until that hour had i ever heard homoeopathy spoken of, by either a medical professor or one of my professional brethren, except with contempt and ridicule. "but," i said to myself, "if there is any truth in homoeopathy i ought to know it, and i cannot treat this physician's testimony with contempt; and it is a duty which i owe to my fellow-men, and especially to my patients, to investigate the new system carefully." i immediately went and purchased the books, and he give me six bottles of medicine, and i took them back with me to chesterfield. i remember making but one homoeopathic prescription before leaving chesterfield, and that was for a case of uterine hemorrhage, which i had treated unsuccessfully for some time with allopathic remedies. i looked over my homoeopathic books carefully and found that china (cinchona) was indicated. as that remedy was not among the bottles of medicated pellets which my medical friend had given me, i directed that one drop of the ordinary tincture of peruvian bark should be dropped into a glass of water, and that, after stirring it well, one teaspoonful of the solution thus made should be given three or four times a day. the patient commenced improving immediately, and was soon well. soon after that i removed to grand rapids, michigan, and commenced anew the practice of medicine. i then had neither the knowledge nor the faith in homoeopathy which i thought would justify me in treating any serious case of disease with homoeopathic remedies; but i did not neglect to study the new books. one day, a friend of my younger days, who was residing at grand haven, came into my office and said that he had been suffering from the toothache for several days, and that he did not like to have the tooth extracted, and he wanted to know if i could do anything for it without extracting it. i told him that i had recently obtained some homoeopathic books and remedies, and that i had noticed that remedies were spoken of for toothache. so i looked over my books and selected belladonna as the remedy suitable in his case, and gave him a dose of it and other doses to take with him if he needed them. we talked in the office for a short time, and then we walked up to the hotel where he was stopping; as we entered, he stood still a moment and remarked: "well, my tooth does not ache as severely as it did." i saw him weeks afterward, and he told me that he had not had the toothache from the hour he took the medicine. away in that new place, then a village of about one thousand inhabitants, with no homoeopathic physician within a hundred miles of me, i commenced cautiously the use of the new remedies; first in mild cases of disease, and in cases where allopathic treatment failed to produce the desired effect. among the first of the serious cases where i used the remedies was a case of pneumonia. a young man had been very sick with that disease for many days. i had resorted vigorously to the antiphlogistic treatment then in vogue; a consulting physician was called, and at last we told the family that our patient could not live until the next morning. i then said to the consulting physician: "i have some homoeopathic remedies; suppose we try them?" his reply was: "it does not make any difference what you try; he will not live until morning." under such circumstances i felt that i was justified in trying the new remedies. i accordingly dissolved a few pellets of aconite in a glass of water, and of bryonia alb. in another glass of water, and directed that a teaspoonful of the solution of aconite should be given once an hour for five hours, and that a similar dose of bryonia be given instead of aconite every sixth hour. i sat down by his bedside and watched his case for two hours. at the end of that period i found that his pulse was five beats less frequent in a minute, and that his breathing was a little easier. the next morning all of his dangerous symptoms had disappeared, and in a reasonable period of time he was restored to health. i talked with the consulting physician about his unexpected recovery, and we were, disposed to think that we had made a false prognosis, and that he would have recovered any way. still, the case made some impression on me; so that in the next case of pneumonia to which i was called, i resolved to try the same remedies in the same way. the patient was a man about forty years of age. under the action of the aconite and bryonia the patient about held his own, neither gaining nor losing very perceptibly for about three days. at the end of that period i became alarmed, and felt that if the patient were to die i should be guilty of the crime of manslaughter. i discontinued the treatment, and resorted to the then regular antiphlogistic treatment; the patient immediately began to get worse, and at the end of three days more he was a very sick man. i then came to the conclusion that my patient had done much better under the homoeopathic treatment than he had under the allopathic, and i discontinued the latter and returned to the former, giving the aconite and bryonia. the patient ceased to grow worse; he held his own for two or three days, then he began to improve, and was soon restored to health. from that day to this i have never bled a patient suffering from either pneumonia or pleurisy, neither have i applied a blister, or given a cathartic, or an allopathic dose of tartar emetic, or an opiate, or any form of alcoholic or fermented drinks, either during the continuance of the above-named diseases or during convalescence; nor have i ever regretted, in a single instance, not having done so. during the fall of the year we had many cases of dysentery which were very obstinate, continuing one or two weeks or longer, attended by a fever approaching a typhoid character. i found the allopathic treatment unsatisfactory, as there were quite a number of deaths. so i consulted my homoeopathic books and concluded to try the remedies; but at that time i had only the six carefully prepared remedies given me by the physician in northampton, and i found that i needed some other remedies; so for arsenicum i used a drop of fowler's solution of arsenic in a glassful of water, giving a teaspoonful of the solution thus prepared for a dose, and i also used the tincture of colocynth and other remedies in the same manner. even with the help of such crude remedies i found that i could generally control the disease far more speedily and with greater certainty and safety than by allopathic treatment. i was called to attend a young man who, while stooping over to set a trap in the woods, was mistaken for a bear by a comrade who was hunting with him, and shot through the neck. to restrain secondary hemorrhage i was obliged, in order to save the life of my patient, to ligature both carotid arteries at the interval of only four and one-half days, which, at that time, had never been done successfully at an interval of less than twelve months between the operations. my patient did not suffer from head symptoms, as i was fearful he would, but his lungs became seriously congested. i resorted to the allopathic treatment without affording any relief; and, as he was steadily getting worse, i consulted my homoeopathic works and gave him aconite, a drop of the tincture in a glass of water; of the solution thus made i directed a teaspoonful to be given every hour; this gave prompt relief to the active symptoms of congestion. for a cough which remained i gave a few doses of belladonna prepared in the same manner, and all of the symptoms soon disappeared. i reported this case to the new york journal of medicine, and it was transferred, even to the homoeopathic prescriptions, to the american edition of velpeau's great work on surgery. i found when i went to grand rapids that the intermittent, remittent, and pernicious fevers, which prevailed in that place and in the surrounding country, were generally treated by the resident physicians with mercurial or other cathartic remedies, followed or accompanied by quinine and brandy or fermented drinks containing alcohol, and opiates where they were supposed to be necessary. as i began to look into homoeopathy, i first prescribed ipecac for the vomiting which sometimes attended these fevers, one drop of the tincture in a glass of water, and giving a teaspoonful from the glass for a dose. for watery diarrhoeas i gave fowler's solution of arsenic in the same manner, and in both instances generally with very satisfactory results. as my confidence in the homoeopathic treatment of diseases increased, i sent to new york and obtained an assortment of the remedies and more books, and was then much better prepared to prescribe successfully. i soon found that by their use i could dispense with cathartic remedies and thus avoid the danger of causing a medicinal irritation of the bowels, which it is sometimes difficult to control. i also found that i could do much better without alcohol in any form, in the treatment of these fevers, than with it; and i soon ceased to use brandy, wine, beer, etc. as to quinine, that remedy will unquestionably interrupt the paroxysms of intermittent and remittent fevers promptly if it is given at the proper time and in suitable doses; and, if the attack is the first the patient has ever had, a return of the disease may at least sometimes be prevented by giving once a week in two or three doses, at an interval of twelve hours, about the quantity which would be required to interrupt the disease in the first instance. these doses should be given the day before the disease is expected to return. i found it much better to give about two large doses of quinine than to give the same quantity in or grain doses. i reported the results of my experiments and observations in the use of quinine at grand rapids to the _new york journal of medicine_ (allopathic). in all instances where life is in danger from a return of a paroxysm of intermittent or remittent fever, the patient can be rescued from immediate danger by giving quinine in doses sufficient to prevent a return of the paroxysm. in all other cases, and perhaps even in such, we can rely safely on homoeopathic remedies in minute doses. quinine in allopathic doses will rarely cure the disease, excepting, it may be, as named above, in a first attack. if the patient has ever had more than one or two attacks, it is almost sure to return again and again for two seasons, complicated with symptoms caused by the remedy, in spite of allopathic doses of quinine; whereas by treating the patient homoeopathically, except in old cases, you will not suddenly interrupt the paroxysms, for they may continue one or two weeks, or even a few days longer, but when they cease there is generally the end of the disease, and the patient speedily regains his ordinary state of health instead of lingering along with frequent returns of the disease for generally two seasons, as he does when quinine is used. old cases of intermittent fever are frequently cured promptly by infinitesimal doses of homoeopathic remedies. i have never seen allopathic doses of quinine do any good in typhoid fevers. and, as to the use of cathartics, from my observation i soon became satisfied that a vast number of lives have been lost by their use in cases of remittent and typhoid fevers, the tendency to irritation of the mucous membrane, which exists especially in the latter disease, being often fatally aggravated by cathartic remedies. i found the prejudice so strong against homoeopathy when i commenced my investigations, that i generally said nothing about the kind of remedies i was using, and sometimes disguised the remedies by mixing with sugar or pulverized liquorice root, or by mixing or dissolving them in water. i have given the above details to show how carefully and patiently, step by step, i commenced my investigations, and watched the action of remedies when given in accordance with the homoeopathic law of cure, and compared the results with the results which followed the use of allopathic remedies. i remained at grand rapids two years. during that period i gradually substituted the homoeopathic treatment of diseases for the allopathic, as fast as i found i could cure the various diseases which came under my observation with more safety and certainty by the former method of treatment than by the latter. now i ask the intelligent, conscientious, and philanthropic reader, did i do right or did i do wrong in thus investigating homoeopathy and using cautiously the remedies for the cure of the sick, as i found them more efficacious and safe than the remedies which i had been taught to use and had used previously? if it was my duty to thus critically examine the new method of treatment, when my attention was seriously called to it, and to cautiously try the remedies on the sick, is it not clearly the duty of every allopathic physician in our land to do the same? to thus earnestly call the attention of physicians of every school to the importance of investigating homoeopathy, and carefully using the remedies for the cure of the sick, and to entreat them not to stop and be satisfied with crude doses, such as drop doses of tinctures and the first, second or third dilutions or triturations of remedies, as some have done, is my sole object in writing these pages. the most decided and satisfactory cures which i have ever witnessed have been effected by the thirtieth and two hundredth dilutions. but, according to my experience, it is not well to confine one's self absolutely to either high or low dilutions, as some have done; but if you are satisfied that you have selected the right remedy, instead of changing the remedy when you do not see relief from its use, change the dilution from low to high or high to low, as the case may be. i could detail many cases to show the importance of doing this. no physician should labor specially to sustain either a theory or preconceived ideas, but to cure his patients promptly. the health and lives of our fellow-beings are too important to be trifled with. during the early years of my practice of homoeopathy i was called to see a young man recently attacked with "epileptic fits." as he was going immediately to new york, with his sister, i advised them to call on the late dr. john f. gray, with whom i became acquainted during my first visit to new york. on reaching new york they called on dr. gray, and the young man remained under his treatment for several weeks. of dr. gray's treatment of this patient, so far as remedies were concerned, i know only of a single remedy which he gave, which was nitrate of silver, which i understood was given in a somewhat crude form, and not even in a low centesimal dilution. the young man, finding little or no benefit from the treatment, went to his home in georgia, after which i received a letter stating that he had not been essentially benefited by dr. gray's treatment, and requesting me to prescribe for him. in response i sent him the th dilution of nux vomica, which he took and soon recovered from the disease, and never had any return of the paroxysms. dr. gray was a low dilutionist. on the other hand, during my second or third visit to new york i called on dr. edward bayard, who was a high dilutionist. i found him in poor health. he had been suffering, as he told me, for some time from a subacute irritation of the mucous membrane of the bowels, with loose passages, and some febrile excitement. he asked me to prescribe for him. after a careful inquiry as to existing symptoms i said to him, "mercurius vivus ought to cure you." he replied that he had taken it repeatedly without the slightest effect. i asked him what dilution of this remedy he had taken. he replied that he had taken the th and th dilutions. i suggested that he should take the d trituration. "why," he exclaimed, "i have not prescribed the d trituration of mercury for many years, and i do not know as i have any in my office." but, on looking around, he found a bottle of the second centesimal trituration; and i said to him: "that will answer. you can take a dose of that now [which he did] and repeat it three or four times between now and to-morrow night, after which take a dose of the th or th dilution of sulphur." the next time i saw him he told me that my prescription cured him promptly. that the careful treatment of diseases by the use of low dilutions of homoeopathic remedies, when compared with the allopathic treatment, is wonderfully successful i well know; for it was by the success which attended the use of the low dilutions that i was led into the new practice, as thousands of other graduates of allopathic colleges have been. still, i know very well by experience that the low dilutionists, in a very large number of cases, fail to cure patients promptly, and in many cases fail to cure them at all when they could cure them promptly by the use of the high dilutions, often by the very same remedy which they have been using. i was called to see a patient suffering from puerperal anaemia, with "nursing sore mouth." she was greatly exhausted; her stomach, which was very acid, would retain very little nourishment. she had been under allopathic treatment for some time without experiencing any relief. i gave her a low dilution of pulsatilla, which afforded her no relief. then i selected other remedies, from which she derived no benefit. after that i gave her the th dilution of pulsatilla, the first dose of which produced, as she declared, a change for the better within an hour, and she rapidly recovered under its use. a lady who had for two winters been sent to florida by her allopathic physician for a severe cough, attended by the physical signs of induration of the summit of one of her lungs, called on me early in the fall, saying that her physician advised her to go again to florida, but that she did not like to go, and wanted me to prescribe for her. after examining her symptoms carefully i gave her a single dose of sulphur, th dilution; at the end of a week she was better, at the end of another week much better, and at the end of the third week she had but few symptoms remaining, for which i gave only one dose of arsenicum, th, which completed the cure. having practiced medicine for two years at grand rapids, i spent a winter east and visited new york, making the acquaintance of homoeopathic physicians, and conversing with them about the new system of treating disease, attending medical lectures and clinics at the two allopathic colleges. i remember very well attending a clinic at the college of physicians and surgeons, held by the late prof. willard parker, when a little child was brought in suffering from whooping cough. prof. parker, looking around upon the students, said: "here, gentlemen, is a case of disease which, like the small-pox, measles, and scarlet fever, runs a definite course; if you will let the patients alone they will generally get well, but if you commence dosing them you will often bring on complications and they will die." this statement, coming from a medical man of his prominence, surely was worthy of consideration. after spending the winter at the east i went to detroit, mich., and opened an office in connection with dr. p. m. wheaton. i practiced in detroit for fifteen years, excepting that during the last six years of that time i spent a part of each year at cleveland, giving a course of lectures on the theory and practice of medicine at the western homoeopathic medical college, of cleveland, ohio. when i went to detroit the prejudice against homoeopathy was very strong, especially among physicians. an attempt was made to pass a bill through the legislature of michigan which would virtually prohibit the practice in the state. the bill passed the senate, but, owing to the prompt action of the friends of homoeopathy in exposing the design of the advocates of the bill, it was defeated in the house of representatives. the presence of the asiatic cholera in in the city, and the success which attended the homoeopathic treatment of that disease, was instrumental in calling the attention of large numbers of the most intelligent and influential citizens to the new practice and establishing it upon a firm basis. when the disease first appeared in the city, we furnished the families which we were accustomed to attend, and all others who desired them, with veratrum album and cuprum metallicum, which had been earnestly recommended by homoeopathic physicians elsewhere, who had had experience in treating the disease, as preventive remedies, a dose or two of each to be taken daily. as a result, very few among the families which we were accustomed to attend were attacked with the disease, and in such cases as occurred the disease was generally readily controlled. as a rule, the most troublesome cases which we had to treat were those in which opium or morphine in some form had been administered before we were called. in such cases it was exceedingly difficult to get a satisfactory response from our remedies, however carefully we selected them. the asiatic cholera is a violent disease and rapid in its progress, and if severe cases of this disease are to be treated successfully, it must be by remedies which are prompt in their action. it is here that homoeopathic remedies show their superiority over all other remedies or methods of treatment, for they act upon the diseased organs in the direction of the disease, and thus excite a prompt reaction. homoeopathic remedies, when properly used, do not benumb, nor do they seriously aggravate existing diseased action; and they neither cause diseased action in well organs, nor reduce the quantity of blood, nor lessen the vitality of the organism and the ability to react against the encroachment of diseased action, as does the allopathic treatment; and, consequently, if a patient dies the physician and his friends have the consolation, at least, of knowing that he did not die from the treatment. i well remember, while practicing in detroit, attending a prominent citizen, a lawyer, who had a severe attack of pneumonia; and, while recovering from it, he went one night into a cold room to sleep, and this brought on a relapse which involved both lungs, and my patient became very sick. one day on visiting him i found an allopathic physician sitting by his bedside. i was told that he simply called as a friend. as i entered he arose and walked out into the hall. i followed him, and asked him what he thought of my patient. he replied very promptly: "he will die! he will die, sir!! he ought to have been bled, blistered, and physicked long ago, but it is too late now." i replied: "he will not die, sir, for the very reason that he has not had the treatment you name; he has his blood and vital energies, unimpaired by the treatment, to sustain him." and he did not die, but recovered, and was appointed governor of one of the western territories long after that. after having practiced medicine for fifteen years, except the months i was absent at cleveland the last six years of the time, i was invited to fill the chair of theory and practice in the new york homoeopathic medical college. this invitation i accepted, and removed to new york and took up my residence there, and commenced practice again in a new field. about the year i invented a new process for refining petroleum by the aid of superheated steam, and spent eighteen months in developing the process at binghamton, n. y., and then returned to my practice in new york city. in the year i gave up the practice of medicine, and in connection with two gentlemen who were interested in selling oils, i commenced the refining of petroleum, manufacturing therefrom machinery and other oils; to which business i have devoted my attention ever since. i have attended chiefly to the manufacturing department and my partners to the selling. i have been frequently asked: "why did you quit the practice of medicine? was not that a useful business?" yes, it was; but i had come to feel that there were fields for greater usefulness--in fact, that it was vastly more important to teach people the laws of health and life, and to strive to lead them by precept and example to shun the causes of disease, than it was to cure them when they were sick--that prevention was better than cure. consequently, when i saw before me a reasonably sure prospect of being able to make a good deal more money at the refining business than i could ever expect to make in the practice of medicine, i could but feel that, by the aid of a reasonable portion of the money thus made, i could perform a far greater use than i could by practicing medicine. this, then, was the reason for my giving up a good and useful profession and practice for my present business. what i have attempted to do for the benefit of suffering humanity since i gave up the practice of medicine, i will name in a future chapter. chapter ii. why every physician should examine and test homoeopathy. i was born in the year , and on the th of november, , was years of age. i have not practiced medicine as a business for many years, and i never expect to practice again. as to money, my present business gives me all i need, and money to spare for benevolent purposes. i do not expect, nor do i desire, to receive one cent, directly or indirectly, for the writing of this pamphlet, or for the money which i expect to spend for paper, printing, binding, and sending it, post paid, to every physician and clergyman in the united states and canada whose name i can get. i do it because i believe and hope it will be a useful work and instrumental in doing good, and that many who are willing and waiting will find useful suggestions contained in its pages, and that through their instrumentality humanity may be benefited. a few years after i became a convert to homoeopathy i met in a railroad car a venerable professor from the college where i graduated. we were mutually pleased to see each other, and after our congratulations were over i remarked to him that, so far as the administration of remedies was concerned, i had departed somewhat from the "general principles" which he used to inculcate, and that i had become a homoeopathist. the professor looked up with astonishment and exclaimed most earnestly: "i am sorry to hear that! i am sorry to hear that!" he manifested not the slightest desire to know why i had made the change, but was ready to denounce and condemn. it would be useless to talk to such a man. before one can see a new truth, however plain it may be, he must be willing to either examine the question carefully himself, or to heed the testimony of those who have examined it. fortunately, all physicians have not been like the above professor; for there have been thousands who were educated in and graduated from allopathic schools, some of them gray-haired men, who, like myself, have carefully studied homoeopathy and cautiously tested the remedies upon the sick, who have become converts to the new practice, and who have ever after relied upon its remedies in the treatment of the sick. no intelligent physician of any other school has ever carefully read the homoeopathic works, and has to any considerable extent cautiously used the remedies in the treatment of severe cases of various diseases, without being able to see the vast superiority of the homoeopathic over the allopathic treatment of disease; and no one, without prejudice, and willing to see the truth, will ever do so without being convinced. can a man, with eyes open, on a clear day, go out at noon time and declare that the sun does not shine? he may make such a declaration while shut up in a cellar or cavern, or if he never opens his eyes. as one who has patiently and diligently studied and practiced both systems, i say without the slightest hesitation that homoeopathy, as a system of practice, is as superior to allopathy as the direct light of the sun is to the reflected light of the moon; in fact, much of the allopathic practice of to-day is but a reflection of the homoeopathic light. what intelligent physician to-day bleeds, blisters, salivates, or vomits his patients, as students were taught to do by preceptors, professors, and books fifty years ago? and why is such treatment so frequently, to say the least, discarded now by allopathic physicians? is it not largely because the success which results from the homoeopathic treatment of diseases, has convinced allopathic physicians and their patients that such violent disease-creating measures and remedies are unnecessary? homoeopathy is strictly a scientific system of medicine. it is based upon a law of nature--"_similia similibus curantur_," or the law that remedies will cure symptoms and diseases similar to those which they will cause when taken by healthy persons. it is wonderful with what care, skill, and perseverance the new materia medica has been developed, mostly by intelligent physicians, commencing with hahnemann, taking the different remedies in varying doses, and carefully and patiently watching the symptoms that follow, and writing them down day after day; and then, when similar symptoms occur in case of disease, giving the remedies and carefully watching and writing down the results. allopathic physicians, as a rule, have not the slightest conception of the vast amount of patient and persevering labor in this direction which has been done by physicians as well educated as they are, and most of whom have graduated in the same schools, who have devoted their lives to this work. are not these facts worthy of the consideration of every physician in the world who desires the highest good of his fellow men? it is well known to every intelligent physician that there is some truth in the homoeopathic law of cure, and that it has to some extent been recognized from the earliest periods of medical history. a cathartic remedy, even in allopathic doses, will sometimes cure a diarrhoea, and an emetic will sometimes cure a nauseated stomach; but such remedies when given in large doses do not always cure, or they would generally be used by allopathists; they sometimes seriously and even dangerously aggravate the disease, so that the vital forces do not react and thus effect a cure. nitrate of silver and acetate of zinc, which applied to well eyes will cause irritation and inflammation, are often applied to inflamed eyes. the kine pox, which is a similar disease, is well known to either prevent or materially modify smallpox; and so i could go on enumerating cases where allopathic physicians treat their patients in accordance with the homoeopathic law of cure. the great discovery of hahnemann was not so much the homoeopathic law of cure, for some knowledge of that was possessed before his day, but the practical application of that law to the cure of disease. he found by careful experiments that diseases can be cured by remedies, which when given to the well will produce similar symptoms or diseases, in doses so small as not to seriously aggravate the existing disease or symptoms; and that all diseases may be thus treated with a success hitherto unknown. this discovery was accompanied by the most careful experiments by him and his followers upon themselves, to ascertain with the greatest possible care the effects of various remedies upon the healthy, so as to be able to make accurate prescriptions for the sick. here you have most careful scientific investigation and experiments as to the action of remedies upon the well and sick, made, not by pretenders or quacks, but by well educated physicians, that should command the admiration and respect of every intelligent man and educated physician. as to the doses given to the sick, which have been such a stumbling-block to our allopathic brethren, their size is simply the result of the most careful experiments. everyone can understand that if we give an allopathic dose of ipecac to a patient already sick and vomiting, or of veratrum album to a patient suffering from asiatic cholera or cholera morbus, we will almost certainly aggravate the disease, perhaps to a fatal extent; for it is the reaction of the vital forces of the system against the new excitement caused by the remedy, which overcomes this new excitement and the diseased action at the same time. now, if the action of the remedy is so severe that no reaction follows, then, of course, no cure follows, and even death may result. the great beauty and excellence of the homoeopathic system of medicine consists in the ability to treat patients successfully thereby, without making well organs sick, or aggravating existing diseased action, or creating an opposite diseased state, as you do when you give a cathartic remedy in a cathartic dose for constipation; in that case the reaction, if reaction follows, is not in the right direction, consequently the constipation is often aggravated. i have hardly ever seen, excepting in cases of mechanical obstruction, a severe and troublesome case of constipation that had not been caused by the use of cathartic remedies. so if we give an opiate, or an astringent, for a diarrhoea, we can see that it is a direct effort to restrain the disease by force, as it were, and we necessarily have to give large doses; and, if the vital forces react against this medicinal intrusion, the reaction is not in the direction of health. it is true that the vital forces sometimes overcome the diseased action in spite of the medicinal action; but it does not always do this, and subacute and chronic diarrhoeas are the result of the use of such remedies in some cases. to create disease of a well organ for the sake of curing disease in another organ, as is done when blisters are applied to the skin for diseases of internal organs, and when cathartics are given for diseases of the head or lungs, every one can see is a roundabout treatment; and while patients may sometimes be benefited by this calling off, as it were, the attention of the vital forces from the diseased action in other organs, still it is not a very satisfactory treatment as a whole; for you may lessen the vital power of resistance against diseased action, and may even cause serious disease of the organ assailed. i repeat, one of the great beauties of homoeopathy lies in the fact that when remedies are given in accordance with its law of cure, they do not have to be given in disease-creating doses. hahnemann tells us that a single dose of the th dilution of aconite, which contains but the decillionth of a drop of the tincture of the remedy, will cure acute pleurisy in twenty-four hours. i have thus treated patients suffering from pleurisy with a single dose of that remedy (it should be given soon after the commencement of the disease), and at the end of twenty-four hours have found the pain and fever all gone, and the skin moist and cool; and in one instance within two days the patient was on his way to california. i have never seen any such satisfactory cures of that disease from any kind of allopathic treatment, nor from the low dilutions of aconite or any other homoeopathic remedy. hereafter i shall call attention of both physicians and the clergy to the causes and different methods of restraining or curing both spiritual and natural diseases; for there is the most beautiful analogy or correspondence between the methods of treating natural and spiritual diseases, and they must be considered in connection if we would clearly see the truth. chapter iii. the dangers that result from the allopathic treatment of diseases. this treatment of diseases, more in the past than at present, consists largely in giving and applying remedies in disease-creating doses. the antiphlogistic treatment consists of blood-letting and the use and application of reducing remedies which directly or indirectly lessen the inflammatory or febrile action; but it is manifest that while it may lessen the activity of the diseased symptoms it also lessens the vitality of the system as a whole, and consequently its power to resist and overcome the existing diseased action; so that it is a serious question whether in many cases more is not lost than gained, and it is certain that, owing to the loss of blood and strength, convalescence will be more tedious. then the use of remedies which cause active diseased action is not always safe. my own mother, at the age of years, while in delicate health, was taken with a severe pain in her side. a physician was called. she thought an emetic would do her good. the physician gave her one, and she died during its operation, or immediately afterward. her physician was so affected by this sudden and unexpected result that he had to go and lie down. at that time i was but years old. in typhoid fever there is a tendency to irritation of the mucous membrane of the small intestines; and, as i have already stated, i am satisfied from observation that when cathartics are given during this disease this irritation is often most seriously aggravated, and death not unfrequently follows as a result. but the greatest danger and evil which result from the allopathic treatment of disease lie, not in the direction of the sudden deaths which sometimes result from the use of its remedies, but in the liability of patients to be led into the habitual use of a drug that has afforded them palliative relief during sickness, and the countenance thus given for the use of such drugs by the laity during health. perhaps as a rule poisonous substances palliate the symptoms which they cause, or which follow their use. a cathartic remedy will palliate the costiveness which frequently follows the use of cathartic remedies. opium will palliate the sleeplessness and suffering that follow when the patient leaves off the use of opiates which he has been taking for disease; and alcohol and all fluids and remedies which contain an appreciable quantity of alcohol will palliate the coldness of the surface, craving, and distress which follow when a patient who has been taking such remedies attempts to discontinue their use. and thus the patient is led to continue the remedy because it makes him feel better every time he takes it; and, consequently, he is led on as naturally as water runs down hill, until he becomes a slave to his appetite. now, cannot every conscientious and intelligent man see what an immense blessing to his fellow men it would be if all physicians were able to treat their patients as successfully by the use of homoeopathic remedies and doses as by the use of the so-called alcoholic stimulants and narcotics, which are enslaving and ruining so many, and thus be able to discard and discountenance the use of all such remedies? how can honest, conscientious physicians disregard and treat with contempt the testimony of physicians who have been educated in the same schools with themselves, but who have used their reason and freedom to investigate the new practice and test the curative action of its remedies, when they assure them that they have treated their patients far more successfully by the use of homoeopathic remedies than they ever have done by the use of narcotics, alcoholic and fermented drinks, and other allopathic remedies? how can physicians disregard the testimony of multitudes of patients who have been thus cured? why should not every physician study homoeopathy and test the remedies on the sick? he can do it cautiously; he has all of his old remedies by him; what has he to lose? if they do not relieve his patient's sufferings more safely and promptly, he is not obliged to continue to use them. is it a sensible and rational course for any one to allow himself to be so strongly confirmed in the views of prominent professors, teachers, and books, that he cannot without prejudice examine new truths and new methods of treating diseases, and even new theories? should not a man strive to keep abreast of the age in which he is living? take it, for instance, in regard to the action of alcohol on living structures. no other man has ever experimented so carefully, patiently, and thoroughly as has dr. richardson, of england, and the results of his experiments appeal to the common sense and observation of every unbiased man. he shows conclusively by its action that it should never have been given in a vast majority of the cases of disease where it is given by physicians; yet what attention is paid to his testimony and demonstrations, which every disinterested physician can see to be true if he will? dr. richardson has also shown conclusively that alcohol paralyzes the minute capillary vessels, so that while the blood is forced into them through the arteries by the heart, it does not flow out of these minute vessels into the veins as rapidly as it does during their healthy action; consequently these vessels are congested and unnaturally distended with blood; the face and surface of the body become red, owing to the presence of an unnatural quantity of blood in these vessels. nor is this all. the heat of the body is generated by changes going on in the blood and flows with the blood, and consequently the surface of the body becomes, from the presence of this excess of blood, unnaturally warm; but the heat is rapidly radiated from the surface, consequently the body, as a whole, becomes cooler. dr. richardson found by careful experiment that, while the surface was warmer, internally the body was cooler and less able to stand the cold; and he also substantiated the truth of his experiments by experiments on pigeons. i will allow canon wilberforce, of south hampton, england, to describe his experiment. while attending a reception during his recent visit to new york he was asked the following question:-- dr. e. p. thwing: "i would like to ask the canon, as a physician, if the feeling as to alcoholic medication in england has changed for the better; for instance, the aspect of the british medical association toward this subject?" canon wilberforce: "i believe that is one point in which we are going furthest ahead. i think that the whole aspect of the medical question is changing, mainly under the influence of that distinguished man of science, dr. richardson. he is one of the leading scientific minds of great britain. he has been successful in his experiments and as bold as a lion in his utterances, and he is leading scientific thought in this direction. he has proved over and over again, to use a common phrase, that from the monarch on the throne down to the maggot in the cheese, every healthy being is better without alcohol. the other day he was staying with me. i have the greatest possible objection to experimenting upon living animals, but he described to me an experiment on pigeons. it was not a very painful experiment; indeed, there are some people who, i am afraid, would like to have the experiment made upon them. he tried to induce the pigeons to take peas soaked in alcohol. they refused to do so at first; but after a while they were pleased, and they selected the peas saturated with alcohol. one cold night he turned the pigeons out, and on the following day, when he was examining them, strange to say, all those pigeons that ate the alcoholized peas were frozen to death, and those that remained teetotalers were perfectly safe and sound." the drinking of alcoholic liquors generates no heat, it simply holds the heat in the congested blood-vessels upon the surface of the body, where it is wasted, and thus the temperature of the body as a whole is lowered. the greatest mortality which results from the use of intoxicating drinks does not result from what is recognized as drunkenness, but from what is recognized as moderate but steady drinking. the drunkard after his sprees usually has seasons of abstinence, during which he has a chance to recuperate or regain strength and vigor, and consequently drunkards often live to an advanced age; but the steady drinker has no such seasons of rest, but his face, by its almost constantly congested appearance, shows the condition of his internal organs; for the effect of alcohol is to paralyze the minute capillary vessels throughout the body and fill them with blood, which produces redness upon the surface and a sensation of warmth. the separation of waste and worn-out materials and their removal is largely effected through these minute blood-vessels, and it is through them that nourishment reaches all the structures of the body; consequently, the almost constant state of congestion of these minute vessels, which results from regular, moderate drinking, interferes very seriously with this change or purification and renewal of all the structures of the body. as a result, while some drinkers die from drunkenness, many more die from apoplexy, paralysis, laryngitis and bronchitis, heart failure, fatty degeneration of the heart, diseases of the stomach and liver, bright's disease of the kidneys, etc., and especially from an inability to either resist or withstand epidemic, contagious, or inflammatory diseases, or even mechanical injuries. there are life insurance companies that give special privileges to total abstainers over moderate drinkers (they never insure drunkards). such companies find that they can give a bonus of from to per cent. to total abstainers as compared with moderate drinkers. i remember very well attending the family of a brewer. he was standing by when i advised his wife not to drink beer, for it was not good for her, as it would increase her debility and retard her recovery. with astonishment and great emphasis he exclaimed: "tell me that beer is not good for her!" striking his chest with his fist, he said: "just look at me and see what beer has done for me!" he was born in scotland, and manifestly inherited a good, strong constitution. i replied to him: "you are a large, strong man, but a little too fleshy; what beer has done for you time will tell better than i can." a few months, perhaps a year or two, after that conversation, i was riding up a street which led toward his residence when i was called in a hurry into a saloon to see a man who was said to have fallen down "in a fit." on reaching his side i found the above brewer dead upon the floor. without much question he died of heart failure, from fatty degeneration caused by the steady use of beer. i never heard of his being intoxicated. dr. w. b. carpenter, who stands at the very head of the physiologists of our century, says:-- "that the taking of alcoholic stimulants is in any way useful in keeping up the heat of the body, may now be considered as a myth altogether exploded." again he says:-- "now, it is the result of many observations that the introduction of alcohol specially deranges the vaso-motor system; this derangement showing itself alike in disturbance of the heart's action, and in relaxation of the capillary vessels, which become filled with blood, especially in the nervous system and in the skin. this causes one to feel that warmth and exhilaration which is the first effect of the introduction of these disturbing agencies, and which are appealed to as evidence that drink does us good. well, what are the facts? the fresh glow is simply the result of relaxation of the capillary vessels of the skin, allowing a large quantity of blood to come to the surface, so as to give the feeling of superficial warmth. but if a larger amount of blood comes to the surface, it robs the parts within; and the feeling of genial warmth gives way to a general depression, especially when we are exposed to severe cold. the temporary exhilaration of the nervous system, too, is followed by a corresponding depression. hence a person feels 'sick and sorry' the next morning after taking alcoholic stimulant." as to alcohol giving strength, it is well known that it supplies no substance to the tissues; therefore it meets no want, and consequently can give no strength. every one can see that blood-vessels, when paralyzed and congested with blood by alcohol, cannot perform their function in the metamorphosis of the tissues of the body, or of conveying nourishment to them and removing worn-out, effete substances from them, as during health. if you would see the legitimate effects of alcohol, look at the permanently congested face of the steady drinker, or his "rum blossoms," and remember that the capillary vessels of his brain and other internal organs are in a similar state, and then say if you think he has been strengthened by alcoholic drinks. i remember very well when a young man, when a neighboring farmer was sick and unable to gather his hay, that the young men in the neighborhood set a day when they would meet and gather his hay for him. when, on the day set, we met in the field, and the neighboring young men noticed that my brother and myself had no bottle of cider brandy with us, they exclaimed with delight, "we will lay you out before noon." a spirited contest with our scythes commenced in good earnest. but they did not lay us out; they were glad to seek and lie in the shade of trees to rest, while we were able to continue our work. it is well known that men who are preparing themselves for, or engaging in, feats requiring great strength and endurance are beginning to find that they must let intoxicating drinks alone. it is something marvelous to see with what tenacity so many physicians hold on to the idea that fermented wine, beer, brandy, and whiskey are strengthening. this idea comes, to a great extent, from the custom which prevails of giving such drinks to patients who are recovering from fevers, acute diseases, and from the effects of other debilitating causes. many physicians have been so accustomed to give these drinks to patients, under such circumstances, that they have not the slightest idea how much better they would do without them. a few years ago i met a german woman whose husband i knew well, and had reason to fear that beer drinking was doing him great harm. i said to her that, on her husband's account, she should never let another drop of beer enter her house if she could help it. "why," she exclaimed, "i cannot do without beer. i suffer so much during and after confinement, and am so weak, and have so little milk for my child, that my doctor says that i must have beer to give me strength." she was then expecting to be confined within a few months. i replied to her by saying: "i have attended a great many more patients during confinement than your physician has ever attended, and after the first three years of my practice, i never gave to a single patient beer, fermented wine, whiskey, or brandy, or any other intoxicating drink. now, if you will follow my advice, you will have a very different time from what you have ever had before; and my advice is that from this time forth you do not taste a single drop of beer, wine, or any other intoxicating drink." she said she would follow my suggestions. i met her again when her child was a few months old, and she looked like another woman. she came up to me and said: "well, doctor, i have followed your advice strictly. i have not tasted beer, wine, or any other intoxicating drink, and i never before had such a comfortable time during my confinement. i never was so strong or gained my strength so rapidly. i never had so much nurse for my child, and i never had such a good-natured baby before." she was the mother of several children. such are the results of the two methods of treatment. there is no surer way to retard and often prevent recovery than to give patients drinks or even remedies which contain an appreciable quantity of alcohol. where the tendency to recovery is strong they will recover sooner or later in spite of the treatment; but in some cases the physician may keep a delicate, nervous patient sick as long as he gives alcohol in any form; and in the most critical stage of typhoid fever, pneumonia, and other diseases where the patient needs nourishment, and that impurities should be removed, there is no more dangerous treatment than to give alcohol in any form, which interferes with these processes by paralyzing and congesting the capillary vessels. hot water and nourishment, cautiously supplied, are what such patients require, not alcoholic stimulants. the habit of taking either opium or morphine in our country has very generally resulted from the prescriptions of physicians. the patient may obtain palliative relief from its use, but suffers when he attempts to leave it off; consequently, without fully realizing the danger which he incurs, he continues the remedy until he is enslaved. with the exception of alcohol, i know of no more dangerous medicine to give during the critical stages of inflammatory, febrile, and other diseases than allopathic doses of opium in any form. this anodyne, by its retarding, benumbing, and stupefying effects upon the body, often destroys the power of reaction at the critical stage of the disease when the vital forces should be left free to act, and consequently in many cases patients die who would not die if they were not under the influence of this drug. patients will often go very near to the border line and yet rally if kept free from the so-called "stimulants" and narcotics, and simple, plain nourishment is cautiously given and the body kept warm. physicians are sometimes responsible for the habit of using tobacco among their patrons. it is generally in chronic cases of disease where tobacco is prescribed, and, as a rule, when it is once prescribed by a physician the patient never thinks of giving up the use of the remedy; nor, so far as i have known, are physicians who prescribe tobacco often, if ever, careful to direct patients to discontinue using the remedy as soon as the symptoms of the disease from which they are suffering are relieved. of course, a physician who neglects to do this seriously neglects his duty. it is safe to say that few physicians ever prescribe the smoking or chewing of tobacco as a remedy for diseases who do not use the weed themselves, for they can generally find much better and safer remedies. if a physician loves intoxicating drinks and has become a slave to them, he actually feels that they do him good every time he drinks, for by relieving the symptoms temporarily which they have caused they actually make him feel better; and what is more natural than that he should prescribe them for his patients? here, then, it can be clearly seen that there is great danger in employing physicians who love intoxicating drinks, tobacco, or opium in any form; for they believe in the efficacy of these poisons, and they will often prescribe them when a physician not addicted to their use would not think of doing so. i have alluded to some of the dangers which attend and the evils which often result from the allopathic treatment of diseases. every one can see that they are formidable enough and that they merit the serious attention of every lover of his race. the skillful homoeopathic physician is able to avoid these dangers and evils, for he does not use disease-creating or appetite-begetting doses of any remedy. we notice that those having the management of our railroads are beginning to see that, for the protection of the property of the owners and lives of their patrons, it is not safe to employ men who drink intoxicating drinks at all; for it is well known that large numbers of those who drink are sooner or later sure to become unreliable and careless. is it not time that physicians should cease to accept as students, and that our medical colleges should cease to graduate and send forth as physicians, men who drink intoxicating drinks? should not medical professors and teachers have as much regard for the health and lives of men, women, and children as the managers of our railroads? again, it is well known that the use of tobacco tends to prevent development, impair health, and to make men moody, if not careless, and it not unfrequently leads them, especially when young, to disregard the rights and feelings of others. we see men and boys smoking wherever it is not strictly prohibited, even lighting their cigars and cigarettes as they leave our elevated railroad stations, and walking down the stairs before ladies and gentlemen, thus compelling those who follow to breathe the atmosphere which they have polluted. as a fair illustration of the spirit so frequently manifested, i will describe a little incident which occurred in my presence. a young man, perhaps twenty years old, stood in a line of men approaching the paying teller's window in one of our banks, vigorously smoking his cigar. an elderly gentleman behind him asked him if he would be so kind as not to smoke. the young man immediately straightened himself up in a most self-important manner and exclaimed: "what do you think i care if it is offensive to you?" in our railroad cars smokers have to separate themselves from wives, children, and friends and go by themselves into a smoking-car or apartment, and why? simply because tobacco smoke is unpleasant to every man, woman, and child who is not accustomed to it; and the smoker's breath often smells so strong of the smoke when his cigar is gone that it is exceedingly unpleasant to sensitive persons. why should our medical colleges graduate young men to go forth for the purpose of attempting to heal sick, sensitive, and nervous patients, who smoke or chew tobacco, and thus are unpleasant to many and a bad example to all? have we not enough cleanly young men, of good habits, to supply all the physicians we need in our country? a smoking physician, by his breath and bad example to the young, may do a vast deal more harm than he can ever do good as a physician in the world. the use of an intoxicating wine as a communion wine in so many of our churches, and the efforts of so many clergymen to justify its use, together with the prescription of intoxicating drinks by physicians, are the chief supports which to-day sustain our distilleries, breweries, and saloons, and the prevalent drinking habits and consequent drunkenness. let all of our clergy, churches, and physicians withdraw their patronage and sanction of intoxicating drinks, and it would not be many years before the manufacture and sale of such drinks would be prohibited throughout the length and breadth of our land. that day will surely come, for a new age is opening up before us very different from the past. the lord is coming at this day in the "clouds of heaven" with power and great glory. old things are passing away and all things are being made new--new heavens and a new earth. sir astley cooper says: "i never suffer ardent spirits in my house, thinking them evil spirits. if the poor could witness the white livers, the dropsies, or the shattered nervous systems which i have seen, the consequences of drinking, they would be aware that spirits and poisons are synonymous terms." again he says: "we have all been in error in recommending wine as a tonic. ardent spirits and poisons are convertible terms." dr. benj. richardson declares it to be his opinion that the administration of alcohol will become, like blood-letting, a thing of the past, that it is passing into the same position as blood-letting. he, as a student, was educated to bleed; he was educated in the employment of alcohol; he saw the effects of the application of these tested by comparison, and he has, in one instance as much as in the other, come to consider them as behind the age, and both as remedies belonging to a departed and deceived generation.--the dawn (english), nov. , . i cannot close this chapter without again earnestly calling the attention of all physicians to the great danger to life which results from giving alcohol in any form to patients in very critical cases, or as they are at or approaching the crisis in their disease, in fevers and in inflammatory diseases, such as pneumonia, etc. since writing the preceding pages, in fact, since most of them were in type, my attention has been called by notices in our papers to the fact that champagne was given to a starving man, and that a few drops of brandy were mixed with the milk given to a child in a similar condition, or suffering from marasmus; and within a week a physician who has traveled extensively and lectured before medical, theological, and literary organizations, and who has frequently been in consultation in critical cases, described in my hearing several cases of pneumonia which he visited, which were, as he expressed it, drunk. when asked by the attending physician what he would suggest, he always replied, "stop giving your patients alcoholic liquids;" and with a single exception, out of a large number, and that was a complicated case, recovery followed. while practicing in detroit i was called to see a prominent citizen who was suffering from typhoid fever. his physicians had told his family that he would die, but that the "stimulants" they were giving him might keep him alive a few hours. i found him delirious, with cold, clammy extremities and almost pulseless. i stopped his "stimulants" at once and gave him homoeopathic remedies and nourishment, and the next day he was out of danger. no more dangerous treatment has ever been adopted than to give a patient in a critical stage of disease alcohol in any form or quantity. every intelligent physician ought to be able to see that this is true. i repeat, alcohol paralyzes the minute capillary vessels and veins (look at the face of the drinker) on the surface of the body, in the brain (look at a drinker's words and actions), stomach, lungs, and kidneys, and congests them with blood, through which the structures are nourished with food and drink and purified by the removal of decomposed and effete substances. cannot every one see that these vessels, when thus paralyzed and congested, cannot perform their duty as well as they can in a natural state? then, again, the temperature of the body is lowered internally and its heat wasted from the surface. what patients in the critical stages of disease require are warmth applied, if needed, to the surface of the body and limbs, and hot water (not scalding hot, of course), milk, unfermented wine, and other simple, easily digested articles which will nourish and strengthen the body taken internally. it is possible that in sudden, severe cases of hemorrhage, alcohol may sometimes rescue a patient from fainting and bleeding to death, by storing the blood in the capillary vessels of the brain and surface of the body temporarily while the bleeding vessels contract; but even in such cases other remedies, if at hand, may prove more reliable. in cases of marasmus in children, if homoeopathic remedies and nourishing articles fail to give relief, and the child becomes greatly emaciated, give the child cautiously salt fat pork, fried, but not to a crisp; give him a piece in his hand, too large for him to swallow, and see with what avidity he will chew and suck it. the fat in combination with the salt will supply a want in the child's system, and patients will often be restored by this simple treatment after other measures have failed. even if alcohol were a stimulant, as some claim, we can certainly see that to give it to a patient in a state of great exhaustion, either from lack of nourishment or from an inability to take nourishment owing to diseased action, is to most seriously endanger the life of the patient and often to destroy life; for alcohol gives no nourishment, and all unnatural excitement is necessarily followed by corresponding depression, which often carries patients in critical cases below the living point, and death follows. i will close with the following from the _health monthly_:--"the theory that whiskey is necessary in the treatment of pneumonia has received a blow from dr. bull, of new york, who discovers that in the new york hospitals sixty-five per cent. of the pneumonia patients die with alcoholic treatment, while in london, at the object lesson temperance hospital, only five per cent. die.--_ex._" chapter iv. personal religious experience of a physician; and an appeal in behalf of a new dispensation. we know that in various ages of the world the lord has revealed a knowledge of himself to man. in the ten commandments we have the laws of spiritual life, in accordance with which we must live if we would enjoy spiritual health, precisely as we must live in accordance with the laws of natural life and health, if we would enjoy natural health. we are dependent upon revelation for a knowledge of the laws of spiritual health, and of the causes and methods for the cure of spiritual diseases; but the lord gives us, if we will keep his sayings, the ability, by careful scientific study and investigation, to obtain a knowledge of the physical laws of health, and the causes and methods of curing physical diseases. and it is wonderful how the natural in all respects symbolizes or corresponds to the spiritual. to the jewish church the lord revealed so much knowledge of himself, and how they should live if they would be prosperous and happy here and hereafter, as that church was prepared to receive; and he also promised to manifest himself in person. all christians believe that he fulfilled his promise when jesus christ appeared on earth; but he did not come in the manner which the jews at the time of his advent expected. he came, not as a temporal ruler or prince; consequently they took him for an impostor and crucified him. to his followers and disciples he promised to come again in the clouds of heaven; but the clouds of heaven may not be the clouds of the material earth, any more than the spiritual kingdom which he came to establish was a natural kingdom; and it is possible that his second coming may not be in the manner anticipated by the christian church at the time of his second coming. he intimated as much when he inquired if he should find faith on earth. should christians, then, not watch and pray, and heed the signs of the times, lest they follow the example of the jews, and reject him at his second coming? should not clergymen, as well as physicians, be led in freedom according to reason, and not blindly by prominent religious professors, clergymen and writers, and creeds formulated in an age of comparative darkness? should the traditions and creeds of men be allowed to make of none effect the word of god? do we not see all around us signs of a most wonderful change going on in the world? are these changes which we behold from the lord, or from man? i was reared in the baptist church. my father was a deacon, and labored faithfully to bring his children into the church. i was taught that i must be converted, or get religion, before being baptized or joining the church. what was meant by being converted i never fully comprehended, but i inferred from the instruction i received that it meant a radical change in one's feelings, the result of faith in the lord's "atoning blood;" and that when this change was effected, i should be able to tell an experience similar to what i had heard others tell before joining the church, which sometimes seemed quite marvelous. i attended "protracted meetings" and "revival meetings." and, one evening, i remember hoping and almost feeling that i felt a little change, and i even thought of announcing my feelings in the meeting; but caution prevailed, and i concluded to wait until the next day and see if there really was any change in my feelings. when the next day came, i could see no change, and consequently i made no announcement. thus, i grew up and continued, until i was over thirty years of age, outside of the organized church. i always respected religion, the bible, and religious teachers, but i never got converted. i had many things during childhood and early youth to be thankful for. my father and grandfather before him were accustomed to gather the family, night and morning, and read, or have some member of the family read, a chapter in the bible, and then prayer was offered. now, when this is done regularly, and especially if the bible is read, in course, with here and there a few kindly remarks by the father or mother, no one can tell the good impression which is made on the children; they learn to reverence the bible, and, what is of exceeding great moment, they hear it read through and through several times before they reach manhood, and they become comparatively familiar with the good and living precepts therein contained. the sabbath-school, once a week for an hour or two, is all very well; but, in my estimation, it is very little, compared with daily family worship and acknowledging the lord, and asking a blessing. o, that all christian men and women could be aroused to the importance of such religious observances? some years ago, i went with my wife and a friend for a summer outing to the catskill mountains, and spent a few days at the mountain house. there were a large number of guests there, of the various religious denominations. those religiously inclined had established the custom of meeting every morning around a table, in a large room, when a chapter from the bible was read, followed by singing and prayer. there have been few, if any, incidents of my whole life that i have more frequently thought of, or with greater pleasure and delight, than of those large, non-sectarian, and, as it were, family gatherings and simple services. my mother died, as stated in the first part of this work, when i was ten years old. after remaining a widower for three years, during which period my grandparents, who lived with us, died and my only sister was married, my father married a widow, the mother of several children, a good christian woman and a member of the baptist church. i have always been thankful that i had a step-mother. no own mother could have been more kind, or have exercised a stronger influence for good over a son than she strove to exercise over me. she entered our home when i was thirteen years of age, when i needed a mother's influence and care perhaps as much as at any period of my life after i had ceased to draw my nourishment from my mother's breasts. tears come into my eyes as i recall the pleasant, useful, and happy evenings and sunday afternoons which i spent with her, when we happened to be alone in the house, reading and conversing about the interesting stories in the bible and other religious books and papers that she thought would interest me. she may have had faults, yet i was about to say i do not remember one; but, unfortunately, she had one--she was a smoker of tobacco. years before she had been troubled with "water brash," and a physician who, without much question, was himself a smoker, advised her to smoke; so she commenced smoking. he did not tell her to stop smoking as soon as she felt relief, as any intelligent physician should have done, if he was so unwise as to make such a prescription; but it is a question whether she ever experienced any permanent relief; for she was a bright, intelligent woman, and would have been likely to stop smoking of her own accord if she had been cured. in my estimation the physician who made the prescription was much more to be blamed than she was for the habit which followed. but seventy years ago very little was known as to the fearful slavery and diseases and mortality which result from the use of tobacco, compared with what is known to-day. the sin of ignorance cannot be pleaded in extenuation of such habits to-day, as it could then. as to intoxicating drinks, i remember hearing my grandfather, when he was over eighty years old, after taking a drink of cider-brandy, exclaim: "a good gift of god, if taken with faith and prayer." fortunately, or providentially, i would say, the temperance reformation commenced soon after, and my father and other prominent members and the clergymen of the baptist and congregational churches in our town took an active part in the new movement. my father signed the pledge not to drink intoxicating drinks, and i followed his example; and i thank the lord that i did so, for it gave me the strength and courage to say, "no, i thank you, i never drink," when invited and tempted to drink intoxicating drinks. no intoxicating drinks have been publicly sold in that town (ashfield, mass.) for many years. during a recent visit there i found that, within the past three years, there have been deaths in the town, of whom only were under years of age, whereas were over years, of whom were over years of age. what do you think of that, christian brother? i remember very well the first ideas i had of god when a boy, which i derived from the preaching and praying of ministers. it was that god and our lord jesus christ were two distinct beings. we had for a time a venerable gray-headed old man who preached one sabbath, and a young man who preached the next. i thought the old man represented god the father and the young man represented jesus christ. when i arrived at manhood and came in contact with men of different religious views, and read some of their writings, the doctrine of the trinity became more and more a mystery to me. at one time i was slightly inclined to unitarianism, but i could not reconcile their doctrines with the bible. yet the trinitarians seemed to teach distinctly that there are either two gods, possessing different attributes, or that jesus christ was not god. it does not make any difference what we say with our lips; the question is, what do we "think in our hearts"? when i heard a bishop of one of the prevailing denominations stand up in his pulpit, as i have, and represent jesus christ as standing with one hand upon the throne of jehovah, and the other hand resting upon the sinner's head, pleading with the father to forgive him for his (christ's) sake, was there not in the mind of that bishop a distinct idea of two beings, possessing different feelings and passions? now, were both of them gods, or was one of them not god? and when i heard prayers so frequently terminated by the phrase, "forgive us for christ's sake," the question naturally arose, to whom were such prayers addressed? if there are any intelligent rational ideas connected with the phrase in the mind of the one using it, has not his prayer unquestionably been addressed to some god outside of the lord jesus christ? who is that god? can christian men safely reject the express teaching of our lord himself when on earth, when he declared: "i and my father are one;" "whose hath seen me, hath seen the father"? and the apostle's teaching, that "god was in christ, reconciling the world unto himself"? is there any other way to the father at this day except through the person of the lord jesus christ--god manifest in the flesh? is he not the "alpha and omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last"? why, then, pray to an unknown god? in the old testament, we are told that "i, jehovah, am your savior, and beside me there is no savior," and in the new testament we are told that in jesus christ dwelt all the fullness of the godhead bodily. he is "immanuel--god with us." let us, then, worship him--one god in one divine person. the doctrine of election and predestination early troubled me. i could not reconcile it with the loving kindness which the sacred scriptures proclaim as characteristic of our heavenly father. the doctrine of justification by faith alone, "without the deeds of the law," as the old hymn read, was not a doctrine which appealed to my reason, but it was a very consoling doctrine. every young man who has been carefully reared by religious parents, and under the influences of a church, expects to be converted and get religion some time before he dies, and to join a church. but if he enjoys good health and the prospect of living for many years, especially if he is taught that, by merely believing or having faith at any time in the "atoning blood of christ," he can escape the consequences of his evil deeds, there is great danger of procrastination. a clergyman once said to me: "if a man repents and gets converted one hour before his death, the worse he has been or lived, the happier he will be." it seems to me better to be guided by the word of the lord, and to believe that the evil doer shall not go unpunished. the lord came into the world to save men from sin and from the penalty only so far as they co-operate with him. sin is the cause, the penalty is the effect; and effect follows cause as a normal and necessary consequence. the young, as well as the old, should be taught the great truth, that every thought we harbor, and every word we speak, and every act we do, aid in building up our spiritual organism, and will tell on our eternal destiny, just as the natural food and drink we use, and the exercise we take, will tell on the future health of our material bodies, for good or evil; and there is no avoiding it. if a man or woman, young or old, would be right in the future, he must do right in the present. no one should forget that, even if we reach heaven, the mansion which we will occupy there will depend on our lives here--every one will unite with those like himself. no one can tell the immense harm which has been done to our race, by teaching that either by faith alone, or through the influence or efforts of the clergy, men can be saved from the penalties or consequences which are sure to follow an evil life. the "willing and obedient" shall eat the good of the land. our blessed lord tells us: "if ye keep my commandments, ye shall abide in my love" (john xv: ). thus beautiful, symmetrical, spiritual organisms are built up, not by "sowing wild oats" during youth, and disobeying the divine commandments during the subsequent period of life. it is well for all, young or old, to remember the word: "be not deceived; god is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap." (gal. vi: .) at this day we need practical doctrines, which shall unite religion and life, or faith and charity, and such alone will command the respect of non-churchgoers. while a young man my attention was early called to the doctrines of the universalists, but their doctrines did not seem to me to accord with the sacred scriptures; nor did i think that all men could be equally happy hereafter, when there is such a vast difference in their conduct and lives here. genuine happiness is the result of right willing and doing; in other words, of keeping the commandments. i have no doubt but the lord desires that all men should thus live and be happy; but we know that all men are not willing. having created them free agents, god does not compel them here to love the lord and their neighbor, which loves manifestly constitute heaven; what reason, then, have we to think he will compel them to do it hereafter? if a man deliberately leads an evil life here, growing ever stronger and more confirmed in that life, until he has made evil his good and rejoices in it, what reason have we to suppose or assume that he will change when he enters the next life? i am willing to leave him in the hands of the lord--he has passed from my sight. i well remember the remarks of my grandmother when she was eighty-six years of age, a few days after the death of her husband, my grandfather. she said: "i do not fear to die, for i feel that god will do me no injustice." within a few days she departed in peace. the millerite excitement commenced when i was a young man. when i was about twenty years old i was traveling in central massachusetts. one night there was a meeting of millerites in the neighborhood where i was stopping, and i attended the meeting. the speaker was very zealous and earnest in his remarks. there was a comet with quite a long tail then visible, and he seemed to think that that comet, with its tail, might sweep across the track of our earth and work its destruction, which he anticipated. i remember very well my reflections on leaving that meeting. a few days before i had stood upon the side of a hill near the track, and had seen for the first time a railroad train on its way from boston to worcester. i said to myself: "now we have railroads, steamboats, friction matches, temperance societies, sunday-schools, the bible translated into various languages, which but a few years ago were unknown. this great continent, from being a wilderness, inhabited by a comparatively few wild indians, has been discovered and is being developed and cultivated by civilized and christian people, and gradually being made capable of containing and sustaining hundreds of millions of inhabitants." with all these facts before me, i said to myself, "it looks a great deal more as though the world is just beginning to live; in fact, that a new era is dawning, than it does that the world is going to be destroyed." from that night the millerite doctrine never troubled me any more, for i felt that i beheld, in all the wonderful inventions being made and changes going on in the world, the dawning light of a better day for the inhabitants of our earth. chapter v. the dawn of a new dispensation. we behold the dawn of a new day before we see the sun, from whence the light proceeds. the young in the baptist church, not having been baptized in infancy, are brought up to feel that they are out of the church, and that they have to be converted, or "to get religion," before they join the church, instead of being brought up to feel that, having been baptized, they belong to the church and must believe its doctrines, and live the life which they teach. thus i remained out of the church until i was over thirty years of age. after i was twenty-three years old i attended different churches, as was most convenient. for a time i attended the episcopal church, while studying medicine; and after i graduated i attended the congregational church for several years more frequently than any other; but i had no thought of joining that church, for during those days i always thought that immersion was the only true mode of baptism. while practicing medicine in detroit, a gentleman whose family i was attending asked me if i would not like to read a work on "heaven and hell," written by emanuel swedenborg, who claimed, he said, to have had open intercourse with the spiritual world, and to have written of what he had seen and heard in that world. he said that he had read it, and believed that the views therein contained were rational and true. if i had ever heard of them at all, at that time, i had never heard the writings of swendenborg spoken of favorably before. out of respect to the gentleman, i took the book home with me, but did not feel sufficient interest in it to attempt to read it through in course, but read here and there a few pages; and, after keeping it a few weeks, i returned it to the owner, feeling from what i had read no interest in its contents. not long after this a lady whom i was attending asked me if i would not like to read professor george bush's reasons for accepting as true the revelations contained in the writings of emanuel swedenborg. well, i thought to myself, if the gentleman who lent me "heaven and hell," if my patient here, who is a very intelligent woman, and professor bush, whom i had understood was a very learned man, believe that swedenborg's writings contain truths good and useful, it may be well for me to read the pamphlet then before me. so i took the book home with me and commenced reading it. about that time rev. george field commenced the delivery of a course of lectures on creation and the first chapters of genesis, treating the subject from the standpoint of swedenborg's writings. i attended his lectures, which added very much to my interest, and i read bush's reasons with care. then i obtained "heaven and hell," and read it carefully through with the greatest interest. when a small boy i remember very well listening with fear and trembling to a discourse delivered by a clergyman, on "god is angry with the wicked every day," in which the speaker dwelt upon the fearful sufferings which the lord had in reserve for the wicked in a hell of fire and brimstone, where they were to be tortured forever and ever. when i came to read swedenborg's "heaven and hell," i found a very different and more rational doctrine taught--that heaven consists in loving the lord and the neighbor, or in religious obedience to the divine commandments; and that hell consists in loving one's self and the world supremely, or sensual and selfish gratification, without regard to use; that either heaven or hell is within us, according to the character of our ruling love; that the lord casts no one into hell, but does all he can, without interfering with man's freedom, to prevent men from going to hell; if they go there, they go of their own free choice, among their like, where selfishness in some form rules the hearts of the inhabitants; they would not and could not be happy among those who are ruled by love to the lord and the neighbor; or by obedience to the divine commandments. the spiritual world is a more real world than this; therefore, in that world the motives, thoughts, and intentions of men cannot be hidden as readily as in this world; consequently, there is a great gulf between heaven and hell. one is opposite to the other. when love to the lord and to the neighbor rules in the hearts of all the inhabitants, there is no need of penal laws or punishments, for each one is a law unto himself, and all are striving to do good to each other and to all; consequently, unity, peace, and harmony prevail. how different from this is hell, where selfishness prevails; where the love of dominion over others, or the love of vain show, the love of acquiring unfairly that which belongs to others, the love of riches for the sake of being rich, and of selfish and sensual gratification without regard to use, rules in the hearts of all the inhabitants. we know that such perverted passions make a hell hot enough here; and, as death does not change the character of a man's ruling love, they will make a hell hot enough hereafter. but the lord, in his mercy which endureth forever, by his angels governs the hells as well as the heavens, and does not permit vindictive punishments. all punishments are for the benefit of evil doers, to restrain and prevent them from doing evil to others and themselves, and from sinking to greater depths of wickedness; we may, therefore, safely leave the inhabitants of that world in his care. no man or woman can read "heaven and hell" attentively, carefully, and prayerfully without great benefit. it is clearly shown that, to escape hell, an evil man has but to repent, to look to the lord and shun evils as sins against him, and that the lord is no respecter of persons, but that he gives to every man the ability to do this, if he is willing. when we examine ourselves carefully in the light of the sacred scriptures, and discover an evil, if we shun that evil as a sin against the lord, he keeps us in the effort to shun all evils, and enables us more clearly to see other evils to which we are inclined. here is an open door for approaching the lord, free to all; there is no mystery about it. if an evil man is to be reformed, he must repent or face about and commence a life of shunning evils as sins against god; otherwise, there will be no radical change, but a miserable shuffling from one evil habit to another. even if a man shuns one evil habit, like the smoking or chewing of tobacco, because it injures his health and is likely to destroy his life, and not because it is a sin, and without the acknowledgment that it is a sin, he is almost sure to seek as a substitute some form of intoxicating drinks--opium, strong coffee, or tea. we make a great mistake, as christians, if we try to substitute coffee- or tea-houses for saloons; not that the effects of coffee and tea are as pernicious as intoxicants, but they are unnecessary, and often diseases and great suffering result from their use. we should strive to show men and women, in the light of this day, what substances are unmistakably injurious to health and endanger life, and strive to lead them, by precept and example, to shun their use as sins against god. after reading "heaven and hell" i read the "true christian religion," which is the last work that swedenborg published, containing the essential doctrines of the new christian church, or the new jerusalem now descending from god out of heaven, "making all things new." in this work it is clearly shown that god is one in essence and in person, and that in the lord jesus christ that one god is manifested to men. god is love. "in the beginning was the word and the word was, with god and the word was god." here we have the father or divine love, the son or divine wisdom, and the holy spirit or divine proceeding, flowing from the father because he is a being of infinite love, wisdom, and power, through the son, a trinity in unity. the divine being is no more three persons than a man is three persons, because he is created in the image of god and has affection or love, an understanding, or thoughts, words, and acts that flow from his love through his understanding out toward his fellow men. all the doctrines of the new christianity are based upon the sacred scriptures and appeal to our highest reason; and we are to receive them because we see them to be true and in strict harmony with the word when the latter is correctly understood. but i have neither time nor space to discuss these doctrines here. i will simply say, that when we come to see clearly that there is but one god whose name is one, who was manifested in the person of the lord jesus christ, and that whoso seeth him seeth the father, then a number of false doctrines which proceed from and cohere with the doctrine of a tri-personal deity will disappear like mists before the rising sun; and we shall be prepared to see and understand the rest of the beautiful and rational doctrines taught in "the true christian religion," and the mystery of babylon and all man-made creeds will disappear before this new revelation from our lord jesus christ. after reading the "true christian religion" i read the work on divine providence, which gives such a clear view of the lord's providential care over men that it strengthens and encourages the earnest seeker after truth wonderfully. it is a book which should be read by every christian man and woman. next, "the angelic wisdom concerning the divine love and wisdom" throws a flood of light on the origin of the material universe and all created things. in this work we are clearly shown that the lord is love itself, because he is life itself: and "that angels and men are recipients of life;" and "that all created things in a certain image represent man," and "that love is the life of man." but swedenborg's "apocalypse revealed" was one of the most satisfactory works i ever read. it opened up to me a new world of thought, of expectation, hope and joy. the reading of this work and the first volume of his "arcana celestia" satisfied me that the sacred scriptures are divine or a special revelation from god to man, and differ from all merely human writings as much as a living man differs from a statue; for they are filled with a divine spirit. the lord says: "my words are spirit and life." the sacred scriptures are written in accordance with the law of correspondence between spiritual and natural things. the spiritual is the cause, the natural is the effect; and effects must correspond to their causes in every particular. the lord is the sun of the spiritual world and the creator of all things: consequently our natural sun corresponds to the spiritual sun, or the lord. from the lord, or the spiritual sun, love and wisdom proceed, and give life to man's spiritual body; from the natural sun flow natural heat and light which enable the natural body to live; natural heat and light therefore correspond to spiritual heat and light, or to love and truth, which are heat and light to the spirit of man. through the natural clouds and atmosphere which surround the earth we receive natural heat and light from the natural sun, as we receive spiritual heat and light or love and truth from the lord through the literal sense of the sacred scriptures; consequently the clouds of heaven in which the lord was to come are the literal sense of his holy word, unfolding its spirit and life and manifesting the father clearly to his children. the sun which was to be darkened was not the natural but the spiritual sun, or the lord obscured to man's spiritual perception. when men in their creeds separated the lord into three persons, and framed doctrines in accordance therewith, which, in their estimation, would enable them to reach heaven by believing certain dogmas, instead of by a life according to the divine commandments, then was the sun indeed darkened in the minds of men. then a true faith or knowledge of the lord was destroyed and the moon became as blood. a true faith reflects the light or wisdom of the lord upon man, as the natural moon reflects the light of the natural sun. water corresponds to truth upon the natural plane of the mind, for it cleanses the natural body as truth cleanses his spirit; it also circulates throughout the natural body, conveying nourishment to all the structures of the body as truth circulates through the spiritual body, conveying that which is good and true to strengthen and develop the spiritual body. it is owing to this correspondence that water is used in the ordinance of baptism, for it performs the same office for the natural body that truth does for the spiritual body; it cleanses and conveys nourishment; and therefore baptism by water signifies that man is to be regenerated by receiving and living according to the truth. it is also the christian sign--a sign that one baptized is of the christian church, or professes the christian religion. the "fruit of the vine," or pure unfermented or unleavened wine, has been organized by the lord in the vegetable kingdom; it therefore not only contains water, but also organized nourishment for the structures of the body, which supply in a most remarkable degree the wants of the body, like a mother's milk to her infant child; it therefore most beautifully symbolizes blood, and corresponds to spiritual truth, united with good from the lord, which nourishes and builds up the spirit of man, when he drinks or appropriates it, or when he lives as divine truth teaches, shunning evils as sins against god. it is consequently used appropriately in the most holy supper. it has been my aim above to simply give the reader a glimpse of this most wonderful and beautiful of all sciences, and really the foundation of all sciences-the science of correspondence between natural and spiritual things. he who reads carefully and without prejudice the "apocalypse revealed" and the "arcana celestia," with a desire to know and live according to the truth, cannot fail to see that the sacred scriptures are plenarily inspired, and are a special revelation from god to man; and that, different from all merely human writings, they contain within the letter a connected spiritual sense. that the science of correspondences was once understood by the inhabitants of our earth, is to be seen in the relics which remain in a more or less perverted form in the hieroglyphics of egypt, the idolatry among many nations, and sun-worship, where the spiritual signification has often been lost and men have come to worship the natural objects instead of the spiritual, which they represent. the mythological writings of many nations, and even masonry, contain remains of this once well known science. the first chapters of genesis and the entire word are written in strict accordance with this science. the first chapters of genesis, like the parables of our lord, were not intended to be understood literally; the very names therein show this clearly. a tree of life, a tree of knowledge of good and evil, a talking serpent, how can any man for a moment suppose these to be natural trees and a natural snake? do serpents ever talk? the garden eastward in eden, and an ark which would not hold the hides and teeth of all the animals on earth--were these to be understood literally? chapter vi. a new day to our earth. "'behold he cometh with clouds,' signifies that the lord will reveal himself in the literal sense of the word, and will open its spiritual sense at the end of the church."--_a. r. ._ a church, we are taught, comes to its end when the true doctrines of the word are falsified by its members, to justify evils of life; or when the members of a church who are in the love of ruling over others in civil and ecclesiastical affairs, for their own aggrandizement, or for vain show, or who love money or sensual gratification without regard to use, strive to justify the gratification of their perverted loves and appetites by an appeal to the sacred scriptures, and thus frame creeds and doctrines which exalt faith and ceremonials above a life of charity, and when men come to live in accordance with such false doctrines the church comes to its end. at the same time, there remain some who are still in the good of life, or striving to live good lives in obedience to the divine commandments. such comprise the common people who receive the lord with joy at his coming, and follow him, among whom a new dispensation of divine truth commences. such may be found both among the clergy and laity. the end of the world is the end of the dispensation or age, and not of the material earth--"the earth endureth forever." we are told by swedenborg that the angels rejoiced greatly that it had pleased the lord to reveal a knowledge of correspondences so deeply concealed during some thousands of years; "and they said it was done in order that the christian church which is founded on the word, and is now at its end, may again revive and draw breath through heaven from the lord."--_conjugial love_, . so we are not to look for the destruction of the prevailing religious organizations, but for the rejection of their false and irrational doctrines, and the receiving of new light and life from the lord. and how is such a result to be brought about? it was apparently the opinion of swedenborg that his writings would be read by the clergy, who would teach the doctrines therein contained to their congregations; and thus the glorious truths for this new era or crowning church would be spread among the people; for, in speaking of the descent of the new church, or new jerusalem, from god out of heaven, he says it can only take place "in proportion as the falses of the former church are removed; for what is new cannot gain admission where falses have before been implanted, unless those falses are first rooted out; and this must first take place among the clergy, and by their means among the laity." that swedenborg's anticipations are surely and somewhat rapidly being realized at this time seems beyond question; for over , clergymen of the various religious denominations of our country have already sent for and obtained swedenborg's "true christian religion" and "heaven and hell," and over , have received his "apocalypse revealed." it is known that large numbers are reading the above works with great interest, and that hundreds if not thousands are full receivers of the doctrines therein contained, and that they are teaching them to their people as fast as they find they can receive them. in fact, many of swedenborg's writings were translated into english by the late rev. john clowes, rector of st. john's church, manchester, england, who, for many years, without ever being required to sever his connection with the church of england, openly and boldly taught the doctrines revealed through swedenborg. mr. clowes says:-- "nothing, therefore, can be plainer than that the new jerusalem dispensation is to be universal, and to extend unto all people, nations, and languages on the face of the earth, to be a blessing unto such as are meet to receive a blessing. sects and sectarians, as such, can find no place in this general assembly of the ransomed of the lord. all the little distinctions of modes, forms, and particular expressions of devotion and worship will be swallowed up and lost in the unlimited effusions of heavenly love, charity, and benevolence with which the hearts of every member of this glorious new church and body of jesus christ will overflow one toward another. men will no longer judge one another as to the mere externals of church communion, be they perfect or imperfect; for they will be taught that whosoever acknowledges the incarnate jehovah in heart and life, departing from evil, and doing what is right and good according to the commandments, he is a member of the new jerusalem, a living stone in the lord's new temple, and a part of that great family in heaven and earth whose common father and head is jesus christ. every one, therefore, will call his neighbor _brother_, in whom he observes this spirit of pure charity; and he will ask no questions concerning the form of words which compose his creed, but will be satisfied with observing in him the purity and power of a heavenly life." "the gentiles," says swedenborg, "cannot profane the holy things of the church like christians, because they are not acquainted with them." "they are afraid of christians on account of their lives." "those who have lived well, according to their religious principles, are instructed by the angels, and easily receive the truths of faith, and acknowledge the lord," "for they have not formed for themselves any principles of falsity opposed to the truths of faith, which would need to be first removed." "although gentiles are not in genuine truths during their life in the world, they receive them in the other life from a principle of love." "the church of the lord exists with all in the universe who live in good according to their religious principles, and acknowledge the divine being; and they are accepted of the lord and go to heaven." the above is in strict accordance with all that swedenborg has written; for he says:-- "in the spiritual world to which every man goes after death, it is not the character of your faith into which inquiry is made, nor of your _doctrine_, but of your _life_, whether it has been of this character or that; for it is known that such as a man's _life_ is, such is his faith--nay, more, such is his doctrine; for life forms its doctrine and faith for itself." (_d. p._ .) "for the good of life according to one's religion contains within it the affection of knowing truths, which such persons also learn and receive when they come into the other life." (_a. c._ .) "evils which belong to the will, are what condemn a man and sink him down to hell; and falsities only so far as they become conjoined with evils; then one follows the other. this is proved by numerous instances of persons who are in falsities, and yet are saved." (_ibid._ .) "it has been provided that every one, in whatever heresy he may be as to the understanding, can still be reformed and saved, provided he shuns evils as sins, and does not confirm heretical falsities in himself; for by shunning evils as sins the will is reformed, and through the will the understanding, which then first comes out of darkness into light. there are three essentials of the church: the acknowledgment of the divine of the lord, the acknowledgment of the holiness of the word, and the life which is called charity. according to the life, which is charity, every one has faith; from the word is the knowledge of what the life must be; and from the lord are reformation and salvation. if the church had held these three as essentials, intellectual dissensions would not have divided but only varied it, as light varies its colors in beautiful objects, and as various diadems give beauty in the crown of a king." (_d. p._ .) here, then, we have a broad spirit of charity which acknowledges every man as a brother who believes in a supreme being, shuns evils as sins, and strives to live conscientiously and honestly according to the light he possesses. as many who will be likely to receive this pamphlet may know little, if anything, in regard to the claims which swedenborg makes, that he was the human instrument chosen by the lord through whom to reveal to the world the truths of a new dispensation, even of the second coming of the son of man, it may be well to allow this chosen servant to speak for himself as to his mission. he says:-- "i have been called to a holy office by the lord himself. i can sacredly and solemnly declare that the lord himself has been seen of me, and that he has sent me to do what i do, and for such purpose has opened and enlightened the interior part of my soul, which is my spirit, so that i can see what is in the spiritual world and those that are therein; and this privilege has now been continued to me for twenty-two years. but in the present state of infidelity, can the most solemn oath make such a thing credible or to be believed? yet such as have received true christian light and understanding will be convinced of the truths contained in my writings, which are particularly evident in the book of 'revelations revealed.' who, indeed, has hitherto known anything of importance of the spiritual sense of the word of god, of the spiritual world, or of heaven and hell; the nature of the life of man, and the state of souls after the decease of the body? is it to be supposed that these, and other things of like consequence, are to be eternally hidden from christians?" again, in the "true christian religion," at a later date, toward the close of his life in this world, he says:-- "i foresee that many who read the relations after the chapters, will believe that they are inventions of the imagination; but i assert in truth that they are not inventions, but were truly seen and heard; not seen and heard in any state of mind buried in sleep, but in a state of full wakefulness. for it has pleased the lord to manifest himself to me, and to send me to teach those things which will be of his new church, which is meant by the new jerusalem in the revelation; for which end he has opened the interiors of my mind or spirit, by which it has been given me to be in the spiritual world with angels, and at the same time in the natural world with men, and this now for twenty-seven years." in a letter to the king of sweden, with characteristic simplicity and boldness, he says:-- "when my writings are read with attention and cool reflection (in which many things are to be met with hitherto unknown) it is easy enough to conclude that i could not come to such knowledge but by a real vision and converse with those who are in the spiritual world. i am ready to testify with the most solemn oath that can be offered in this matter, that i have said nothing but essential and real truth, without any admixture of deception. this knowledge is given to me by our saviour, not for any particular merit of mine, but for the great concern of all christians' salvation." when asked why a philosopher was chosen to this office he replied:-- "to the end that the spiritual knowledge which is revealed at this day might be reasonably learned and naturally understood; because spiritual truths answer unto natural ones, inasmuch as these originate and flow from them, and serve as a foundation for the former." to the swedish clergymen who visited him a short time before his death, and who urged him to recant what he had written if it was not true, he replied, with great zeal and emphasis:-- "as true as you see me before you, so true is everything that i have written, and i could have said more had i been permitted. when you come into eternity you will see all things as i have stated and described them, and we shall have much to discourse about with each other." here, then, we have in this illustrious seer the unparalleled instance of a man, not in the enthusiasm of youth, but at the mature age of fifty-six years, standing among the first in the philosophical world, with reputation unsullied, high in office in his native country, with proffered promotion, giving up all, and proclaiming to the world that he was called by the lord to the important office of revealing new truths of vast moment to his fellow-men--even the truths of a new dispensation, or of the second coming of our lord and saviour jesus christ. now, i appeal to you, one and all, clergymen of the christian church, of every name, to obtain and read his writings. in the good providence of the lord, three among his most important works can be obtained without money and without price by the clergy and theological students of our country, by simply ordering them and sending the postage--as will be seen on the second page of the cover of this pamphlet. swedenborg does not require or desire you to believe anything contained in his writings on his simple declaration, but you are to believe the statements made, and doctrines proclaimed, in his writings, only as you perceive them to be true, and in strict accordance with the sacred scriptures. what have you to lose by reading his writings? thousands of laymen and clergyman testify to you that they have found the greatest help and strength from reading them, even where they may not have read enough to fully recognize his claims. canon wilberforce, of southampton, england, one of the most distinguished clergymen of the english church, visited this country a few years ago; and while he was here, being a prominent temperance man, the national temperance society gave him a reception, during which some one introduced me to him as a believer in the writings of emanuel swedenborg. stopping a moment, and looking steadily at me and those in the immediate vicinity, he exclaimed, most emphatically: "emanuel swedenborg has done the christian church an immense service! an immense service!! especially in his explanation and illustration of the doctrine of the lord." these words were spoken manfully and boldly in the presence of members and clergymen of his own and other churches. the doctrine of the lord is the chief corner-stone of the new jerusalem now descending from god out of heaven. let that doctrine be accepted by our churches, and their creeds, so far as they are based on a tri-personal god, will need no revision; they will disappear. "all things," says a great authority, "are of god, who hath reconciled us to himself by jesus christ, and hath committed unto us the ministry of reconciliation; to wit, that god was in christ reconciling the world unto himself, not imputing their trespasses unto them." ( cor. v: , ) the late professor george bush and a large number of distinguished scholars and clergymen, after a most thorough and careful examination of swedenborg's writings, assure us that in them they find the truths of a new dispensation, even of the second coming of the son of man in the clouds of heaven. the light of a new day is shining. christian brethren, will you close your eyes against it? was there ever any greater need of a new revelation from god to teach men anew that, if they would reach heaven and happiness, they must repent and shun evils as sins against god, and strive to live a life according to the commandments? look at the fearful evils which prevail in our beloved country; the love of rule, civil and ecclesiastical; the miserly love of money, selfishness, vanity and sensualism, in their worst and most degrading forms! customs and habits prevail which threaten the extinction of at least the protestant portion of the community in large sections of our country. a catholic bishop stated, a few years ago, that one quarter of the inhabitants of new england are catholics, and that one-fourth of the population give birth to per cent. of the children born in new england. more recent inquiries, it is stated, show that the average number of children in a family among the canadian french settled in new england, averages ; whereas among the native new englanders the average number of children in a family is - / . it is not difficult to see by whom the land of the puritans will be ruled within the next quarter of a century. seventy years ago, the average number of children to a family among new englanders was fully equal to the number among the french to-day. why this change? fashionable habits of dress--tight lacing, which is worse to-day than ever before--has, to a large extent, destroyed the ability of the new england and other native american women to bear healthy and well-developed children, and to properly nurse them after they are born. among our present deformed women, child-bearing is attended with much more danger and suffering than among well-developed, symmetrical, and beautifully formed women. no man who desires peace, health, and happiness in his home, and desires to leave children behind him, and to thus perform the most important use which can be performed in this life, should ever think of marrying a small-waisted woman. then again, to have a good family of children is thought not to be fashionable, among those who are led by fashion, as it interferes too much with one's selfish pleasures, they think; most dearly do they pay in after life, if they live many years, for their folly. children are a blessing; and yet the most unnatural and injurious measures are adopted to prevent bearing children, even to the destroying of the unborn. the catholic church, through the confessional, holds some restraint over catholics; but what restraint do our protestant churches hold over their members in regard to such evils? look at the miserable caricatures of the female form printed in our fashionable magazines, and even in our daily papers, and sent forth and freely spread before our young girls, for them to pattern after, and thus deform themselves. look at the drunkenness, the leaden and congested faces of our steady drinkers of intoxicating drinks, and the innumerable deaths and the wretchedness and sorrow which follow such drinking; and remember that the chief support of such drinking at this day is the use of the drunkard's cup instead of "the fruit of the vine" as a communion wine in so many of our churches, and the example of so many of our clergy, backed up by the prescribing of such drinks by so many of our doctors. do away with these two chief supports, and prohibition would be enacted and enforced throughout our land within five years. look at the use of tobacco, which is to-day recognized as one of the most deadly poisons, which when used by the young prevents the development of the human body, and at all ages causes innumerable diseases and deaths and an inability to withstand the encroachment of other causes of disease; and the smoke and saliva from the nostrils and mouths of those who use it, which are so unpleasant and disagreeable to those who are not accustomed to them, but who yet are so frequently compelled to breathe a polluted atmosphere. please read the following and tell us whether to thus prevent the development of the body and lessen one's ability to withstand the causes of diseases should be shunned as a sin against god or not:-- smoking and physical development. from the records of the senior class of yale college during the past eight years, the non-smokers have proved to have decidedly gained over the smokers in height, weight, and lung capacity. all candidates for the crews and other athletic sports were non-smokers. the non-smokers were per cent. taller than the smokers, per cent. heavier, and had per cent. more lung capacity. in the graduating class of amherst college of the present year, those not using tobacco have in weight gained per cent. over those using tobacco, in height per cent., in chest girth per cent., while they have a greater average lung capacity by . cubic inches.--_medical news._ just see the countenance which is given to this habit by too many of our clergymen--the example which they set! yes, in many of our denominations, young men who are known to be smokers, or chewers of tobacco, with their breaths smelling of this filthy, poisonous weed, are deliberately licensed and ordained by clergymen, when it is known that they will go in and out before young and old, setting them an example which will unquestionably do untold injury to the rising generation, and confirm old smokers and chewers in their injurious and destructive habits, and thus be instrumental in destroying many lives. what are the fathers and mothers in our churches thinking about when they consent to such an example being set before their children? is it not time that they awake to the importance of choosing and introducing into office their own ministers, instead of entrusting this duty to the clergy? swedenborg has given us the true signification of ordination by the laity. in speaking of the ordination of the levites by the laity he says: "by the sons of israel laying their hands upon the levites was signified the transference of the power of ministering for them, and the reception of it by the levites, thus separation."--a. c. , . it will be seen that it was not aaron the priest who laid his hands upon the levites when they were introduced into the office of the priesthood, but the laity, or the children of israel; and we can all see how appropriate and significative the ceremony was; and it was strictly in accordance with republican usages of this day. it does not exalt the officer above the office which he fills. is there a race of men on earth to-day who stand in greater need of light on spiritual subjects, and of the services of good, earnest, clean, pure-minded christian missionaries, who shall call men and women to repentance, and by precept and example lead them to shun the fearful evils named above, and many others, as sins against god, more than the people of the united states? look at our children, many of whom, if they live at all, grow up with crooked legs and spines, delicate muscles and irritable brains, imperfectly developed jaws and consequently crowded teeth, which commence decaying and torturing the young before they are twenty years old, instead of lasting during life as they should; all of which results principally from feeding children with starvation bread, or superfine flour bread, cakes, and puddings, instead of the "full corn in the ear," or unbolted flour or meal, as the lord has organized it in the kernel of grain. many years ago scientific investigation demonstrated the fact that the portions of the grain which nourish the brain, muscles, and bones is principally confined to the dark, hard portion of the kernel immediately beneath the hull; this is not easily pulverized or rolled into superfine flour, and if it were the flour would not be white; but it goes principally into, the second and third runnings or as canal, shorts, and bran, and is fed to the horses, cattle, and hogs, causing them to be well developed, strong, and healthy, while our children, for the want of it, are half starved. even a dog, it has been found by experiment, will starve to death on superfine flour bread, but will live well enough on graham or unbolted flour bread. i have seen a child come near starving to death on such bread, and only rescued her from impending death by mixing mashed potatoes with the flour from which the bread was made. the little girl thought she could eat no other food but such bread, and if she ate anything else she threw it up. and yet, strange to say, i have known in one or more institutions under the care of physicians, which were devoted to the treatment of deformed and crippled children, superfine flour bread to be given them to eat. it is fashionable and customary to use superfine flour bread; and as a physician, and an employer of men, i know how difficult it is to induce or persuade fathers and mothers, even for the sake of their children, to use graham or unbolted flour bread, cakes, and puddings, which will give nourishment to the brain, muscles, teeth and bones, and all the fat and heat-producing material they need, instead of superfine white flour bread, cakes, and puddings, which give comparatively little more than fat and heat-producing material. i remember very well when my wife and myself were traveling in egypt up the nile, and were at ancient thebes, mounted on donkeys, going to the tombs of the kings, the young arab girl, with a vessel of water upon her head, balanced by the ends of the fingers of one hand, who ran beside us over the sand, stones, and hills; for she was one of the most beautiful and symmetrical female forms i have ever seen. there was no contracted waist or humped shoulders, but a beautiful female figure, full of life, with splendid teeth and sparkling eyes. and on a visit to the house of our arab dragoman, or guide, we saw how the flour or meal was made upon which that young girl was fed. in the court-yard two women were grinding at a mill as they ground thousands of years ago. there were two circular mill stones, perhaps inches in diameter, standing in a basin; through the centre of the upper stone there was an opening through which the wheat was poured, and upon two sides were erect wooden handles, by which the women turned the stone round and round, and back and forth, and the meal escaped into the pan at the circumference. i said to our dragoman: "we have not had a bit of good bread in egypt. we have been stopping at hotels where they think they must give the americans and englishmen white bread. now, i wish you would bring me some bread made from that flour to-morrow morning;" and he brought us some bread, and it was by far the best bread that we had in egypt. the fearful evils which i have hastily named in the preceding pages, and many others which cause the prevailing deformities, diseases, insanity, and premature deaths, are not to be dragged along into the church of the new jerusalem now descending from god out of heaven; but our race is to be purified, renovated, and developed into a healthy, noble, symmetrical, graceful manhood by the new inflowing of truths from the lord, pointing out the evils and falses which are causing the present suffering and wretchedness, and calling on men and women to shun such evils and falses as sins against god. a reformation from worldly motives is but "skin deep," and generally only results in the changing of one bad habit for another. men and women must be earnestly called to repentance, and to the absolute necessity of shunning the evils which prevent the development of the body, impair health and reason, and so fearfully shorten the average duration of human life, as sins against god, which will tell on their eternal destiny. the fact that individuals who drink intoxicating drinks, smoke or chew tobacco, or deform their bodies by tight dressing, sometimes live to old age under otherwise favorable circumstances, amounts to nothing. the simple question is, do such habits shorten the average duration of human life? if they do, they are a violation of the laws of god as manifested in the organization of the human body and in his word. chapter vii. the wants of the christian church. the christian church at this day, first of all, needs true doctrines which are in harmony with the sacred scriptures, and which all men who are willing to see and obey, using the reason with which god has endowed them, can accept and see to be true. second, such a law or principle of interpretation of the sacred scriptures, that when they are interpreted in accordance with it, every man and woman who is willing to see and obey the truth will find there is actually no conflict between the word of the lord and his works, and no real contradictions to be found in the sacred scriptures. in the writings of swedenborg the lord has shown us that "all religion has relation to life, and that the life of religion is to do good;" and that, if we would enter into the heavenly life, or have heaven within us, we must strive faithfully and honestly to keep the commandments, not simply in external acts, but also in our motives, thoughts, and words, as well as in act. in the writings of swedenborg the lord has clearly revealed himself and has come down to the comprehension of man--god in christ and in his word. the science of correspondences enables us to see that the first eleven chapters of genesis are purely allegorical, and in their spiritual and true sense treat of the regeneration of man, and his fall through the seduction of his lowest or sensual nature and appetites, as men are seduced to-day; and of a flood of evils and falses, similar to the flood which threatens to overwhelm the christian world, at least in our land, at this day; and a new church as an ark of safety. while the science of correspondences shows that there are no more contradictions in the word of the lord than in his works, there are apparent truths and real truths in both. it is an apparent truth that god is angry with the wicked every day; but the real truth is that god is never angry, but when man disobeys his laws and brings upon himself consequent suffering, it appears to him that god is angry. so it appears to us that night and darkness are caused by the going down of the sun, but the real truth is that the sun always shines and that night and darkness are caused by the earth's diurnal revolution on its axis. it will therefore be seen that if the sacred scriptures are the word of god and in accordance with his works, they must contain both apparent and real truths. no man who has ever diligently and faithfully, without prejudice, read the sacred scriptures in the light of the science of correspondences, as revealed by the lord through emanuel swedenborg, has ever failed to be satisfied that the sacred scriptures are divine and plenarily inspired, and that they differ as much from the writings of men as do the works of god from the works of men. at this day, when so many of our clergy and intelligent laymen are beginning to doubt the special inspiration of the sacred scriptures, a knowledge of the science of correspondences, in accordance with which they were written, is wanted above every thing else, that the christian church "may revive again and draw breath through heaven from the lord." the lord speaks to man in parables, and "without a parable," we read, "spake he not unto them." the lord intimates in many passages that the sacred scriptures, or his words, contain a spiritual sense, as in the following: "it is the spirit that quickeneth; the flesh profiteth nothing; the words that i speak unto you, they are spirit and they are life." "the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life." "the early christian fathers, clement of alexandria, and origen, understood that the sacred scriptures have a spiritual sense; and origen--when that shrewd enemy of christianity, celsus, ridiculed the stories of the rib, the serpent, etc., as childish fables--reproaches him for want of candor in purposely keeping out of sight, what was so evident upon the face of the narrative, that the whole is a _pure allegory_."--_noble's plenary inspiration._ "the idea of a spiritual sense in every part of the scripture was the generally received doctrine of the primitive church--believed and taught by origen, ignatius, justin martyr, jerome, augustine, pantaenus, tatian, theophilus, pamphilius, clement and cyril of alexandria, and nearly all the early christian fathers. and the same belief has been held by many eminent theologians ever since. dr. mosheim, speaking of the illustrious writers of the second century, says: 'they _all_ attributed a double sense to the words of scripture; the one _obvious_ and _literal_, the other _hidden_ and _mysterious_, which lay concealed, as it were, under the veil of the outward letter.' but the fathers had no recognized rule for eliciting the spiritual sense. each one's own spiritual perception was his only guide. a hundred different expositors, therefore, might give as many different expositions of the same text."--_rev. b. f. barrett_. every natural object is the form and embodiment of some spiritual idea or principle; and therefore it is the most perfect expression or type or picture of that idea. "inasmuch as the end of the creation is an angelic heaven out of the human race, and thus the human race itself, therefore all other things that are created are mediate ends, which being referable to man, look to these three things of man, his body, his rational part, and his spiritual part, for sake of conjunction with the lord. for a man cannot be conjoined to the lord unless he be spiritual; nor can he be spiritual unless he be rational; nor can he be rational unless his body is in a sound state. these things are like a house, of which the body is the foundation, and the rational is the house built upon it; the spiritual comprises those things which are in the house, and conjunction with the lord is being at home in it." here are outlined clearly and distinctly three fields for much needed labor. we see above, clearly taught by swedenborg, that "a man cannot be spiritual unless he be rational, nor can he be rational unless his body be in a sound state." the reason is plain: for the natural corresponds to the spiritual; natural diseases and natural causes of disease correspond to spiritual diseases and spiritual causes of spiritual disease. swedenborg says that: "diseases correspond to the lusts and passions of the mind; these, therefore, are the origins of diseases; for the origins of diseases in general are intemperance, luxuries of various kinds, pleasures merely corporal; also envyings, hatreds, revenges, lasciviousness, and the like; which destroy the interiors of man, and when these are destroyed the exteriors suffer and draw man into diseases, and thereby into death."-- _arcana coelestia_, . for this reason, if a man is to be reformed and regenerated, his reformation must commence by his shunning natural falses and bad habits of life, which correspond to his spiritual evils. swedenborg's writings give us a wonderful insight into the causes and cure of both spiritual and natural diseases, as we shall hereafter see, and many suggestions which it would be well for us to heed. he says:-- "the man who is willing to be enlightened by the lord, must take especial heed lest he appropriate to himself any doctrinal which patronizes evil; for man in such case appropriates it to himself, when he confirms it with himself, for thereby he makes it a principle of his faith, and still more so if he lives according to it. when this is the case, then evil remains inscribed on his soul and his heart; and when this effect has place, he cannot afterwards in any wise be enlightened by the word from the lord; for his whole mind is in the faith and in the love of his principle, and whatsoever is contrary to it, this he either does not see, or rejects, or falsifies." (a. c. , .) every one can see how true this is in regard to evil habits which destroy health, reason, and life, such as the prevailing use of tobacco and the drinking of intoxicating drinks. if a man drinks thoughtlessly, without knowing any better, he can be taught and shown that it is wrong and a sin to drink poisonous fluids which are entirely unnecessary, and which endanger health, reason, life, and the welfare and happiness of all associated with him, and actually destroy vast multitudes of those who drink them moderately. all children and young persons who are free from bad examples and false teachings can be taught and can readily see that it is wrong and a sin to use such drinks; but let a man strive to justify such habits by the sacred scriptures, and to make them accord with his religious principles, and we all know how difficult it is for him ever to see the truth upon this and kindred subjects. much-needed instruction. inquiry should be made into the natural causes of disease, into which spiritual causes flow and cause the suffering, wretchedness, and premature deaths which prevail, and men and women should be led by precept and example to see them as evils and to shun them as sins against god. swedenborg says:-- "thus, by washing the feet, is meant to purify the natural principle of man; for unless this principle appertaining to man, when he lives in the world, is purified and cleansed, it cannot afterwards be purified to eternity; for such as the natural principle of man is when he dies such it remains; for it is not afterwards amended, inasmuch as it is that plane into which interior things, which are spiritual, flow in--it being their receptacle; wherefore when it is perverted, interior things, when they flow in, are perverted like it." (a. c. , .) there are two great hindrances to the reformation of the world at this day; the first is false teaching in regard to evils, by which unlawful indulgences are justified, and in moderation held to be good; for by this the individual is strongly confirmed in their favor and prevented from seeing the truth. the second is the love of the evil which the truth condemns, which closes the mind against the truth, and, as it were, binds and imprisons the individual (see a. c. ). it must be self-evident to every intelligent christian that if it is wrong to deliberately appropriate falses and evils "temperately" or moderately to the building up of our spiritual organizations, it is equally wrong to appropriate temperately those natural substances which correspond to falses and evils in a vain attempt to build up healthy natural bodies. total abstinence in both cases is the only law of life. the lover of intoxicating drinks can never be radically reformed or regenerated until he resolves, with the help of the lord, to stop drinking intoxicating drinks and sets himself honestly about it; so the thief must stop stealing, the vain woman must stop her tight dressing and habits of idleness; and so of all other evils affecting physical and spiritual health and life. but to-day the great difficulty is, that multitudes of the young and of all ages become "bond-servants" to evil habits, which impair health and reason and shorten life, through ignorance, hereditary inclination, and the bad example of others. and how are they to regain their freedom, and the innocent to be protected from contamination and from a like slavery? the truth can alone make them free; and even when received by the willing and obedient, line upon line and precept upon precept may be required. and they will often have to endure many a hard struggle; and those who are free should have sympathy and charity, and judge them not. men, women, and children must be taught that they have no right to follow habits which will endanger health and reason, and which observation and carefully collected statistics show will shorten the average duration of life; for to thus act is to violate the command, "thou shall not kill." the causes of ill health, deformity, and the prevailing insanity and premature deaths must be sought out and exposed, and a call to repentance must be made. in the good providence of the lord, we have men who, by education, diligent investigation, and careful observation, are most admirably adapted to give the needed instruction--physicians. let physicians arm themselves with true doctrines, with the spiritual sense of the word, with the science of correspondences and a knowledge of natural sciences, and they will be able to combat the prevailing evils as no other men can; and they should lead in all the great necessary reforms of this age that have regard to physical health, life, and morals. in almost every society of our churches of any size will be found one or more medical men who have devoted their lives to the study of anatomy, physiology, the causes of disease, diseases and their cure, and the effects of poisons and the bad habits of dress, and other habits injurious to health; and they are able to speak with authority in regard to the prevailing evils of life, which are so destructive to our race. these men, thus providentially prepared, should be called into the field as lecturers. there is not a religious society which does not actually need the services of such teachers; and we can send no other missionaries to those outside of our church organizations who will, to the same extent, command their attention and respect. in order that the body with its environment may be a fit dwelling place for the spirit, there are provided-- "_uses for sustaining the body_, comprising its nourishment, clothing, habitation, recreation and enjoyment, protection and conservation of state. the uses created for the nourishment of the body comprise all things of the vegetable kingdom which are good for food and drink; fruits, berries, seeds, pulse, and herbs; all things of the animal kingdom which serve for meat, oxen, cows, calves, deer, sheep, kids, goats, lambs; not to mention milk; also fowls and fish of many kinds." (d. l. w. .) "good uses," says swedenborg, "are from the lord, and evil uses are from hell. evil uses were not created by the lord, but they originated together with hell." (d. l. w. .) among the evil uses he enumerates all kinds of poisons--in a word, "all things that do hurt and kill men." (_ibid_. .) here, then, is a criterion by which we must judge of the suitability of any article for nourishing and supplying the wants of our natural bodies. it should be evident to every one that substances which have their origin from hell, which, when used as we use legitimate articles of food and drink, seriously endanger, hurt, and kill men, should never be used for such purpose. who are better qualified to judge as to what are evil uses than the physician, who has made them the study of his life? the men and women who are violating the laws of life cannot see that such violations injure them; for such violations palliate the sufferings which they cause, and make the transgressors feel better every time they indulge. the true physician, by precept and example, is qualified to lead all who are willing to be led to a higher life and to protect the innocent and the young. that such teachers are most important at this day is manifest "from the signification of physicians as denoting preservation from evils--the evils which obstruct conjunction. in the word, physicians, the art of physic and medicine, signify preservation from evils and falses.... that in the word, physicians, the art of physic and medicine, signify preservation from evils and falses, is manifest from the passages where they are named.... hence it is evident what _medicine_ signifies, viz., that which preserves from falses and evils; for when the truth of faith leads to the good of love, it preserves, because it withdraws from evils." (a. c. .) here, then, we have the men suitable for this use. shall we call them into the fields which are ripe and ready for the harvest? a clergyman who has a knowledge of the medical profession and of medicine, in speaking of the importance of such teachers, says: "moreover, from their relation to the sick and suffering, from their habit of analyzing the mental and moral states of their patients, and from the deep, tender sympathy which sincere, god-fearing physicians have for suffering human beings, they are placed in a much closer relation to the people than any other vocation could give them. how many persons have been comforted, strengthened, instructed, and turned to uprightness of life through the kindly ministrations of their physicians!" and church organizations are languishing for the want of such teachers, and can never thrive in true doctrine and good lives, as they should, without them. surely every one can but see of what immense benefit such lecturers would be, especially to the young in our churches. one physician might be employed by and serve several societies, giving to the different societies once or twice a week a lecture in each society, fully illustrated by drawings, plates, stereoscopic and microscopic views, which would attract young and old, and fill our churches to overflowing with those who now attend no church; and the latter, when they found a physician, with the consent of the church, thus clearly pointing out the great evils of life which cause so much suffering, wretchedness, sorrow, and so many premature deaths, and calling young and old, from a religious standpoint, to shun them as sins against god, could but feel that our churches are striving to elevate humanity, and are a great blessing, and that it would be desirable to belong to them, and especially to have their children brought up under the influence of the church. nearly the same could be said in regard to the important services which a second class of teachers of which i am about to speak could render. by the lectures of the two new life would be infused into our churches, and they would stand upon a sure foundation by manifesting love to god and man in our external natural lives, by teaching and leading men to act from spiritual motives, and to be willing to see their evils, and to commence by shunning well-known evils as sins against god. what a glorious day would this open up to our churches and for the elevation of our race through them! the second class of teachers required. physicians as teachers in our churches should have for a special work the teaching of truth as to the physical life of man in connection with his spiritual life--the laws of health, the causes of prevailing diseases, deformities, insanities, and premature deaths, together with the methods and the duty of shunning them as sins against god. but there are other evils and questions which require careful consideration in our churches, such as the true relation, according to the laws of justice, mercy, and right, which should exist between men as neighbors, citizens, and christians; and the clear light of this new day should be brought down to guide men into a life of peace and harmony and good-will in this wilderness state of the world. important questions are pressing for a solution, and for a careful consideration, by the religious teachers of our churches, such as the ecclesiastical and civil government best adapted for men of different countries and races, especially for our own country and churches; the relation of capital and labor; the right of single individuals to hold an unlimited amount of real estate, and transmit it to their children; the rights of corporations and of women; and our duties to others in all the relations of life. fortunately, we have in our churches legal men or lawyers, who, while familiar with the doctrines of the church, have devoted their lives to the consideration of such questions. it would not be difficult to point out several members of the legal fraternity belonging to our church organizations who would be able to perform a great use to the church as lecturers and acting as missionaries among those who do not attend church as opportunity may offer. they would enter into a field of usefulness almost altogether beyond the reach and influence of our present ministers. their advice, their counsel, their discourse, in their legal practice, are channels for the introduction of christian thought and doctrine otherwise closed. there is one passage in the writings which indicates this use:-- "_and strengthen the things which remain that are ready to die_--that hereby is signified; that the things which pertain to the moral life should be vivified, appears from the signification of strengthening, as denoting to vivify the moral life by truths; _for truths from the word vivify that life_, which, when it is vivified, is also strengthened, for it then acts as one with the spiritual life." (a. e. .) to meet and vivify the moral life of man with truths from the word is a use eminently adapted to the position and mind of the legal profession. we need the services of such ministers, especially at this day, when we inherit from the fallen churches of the past an inclination to the love of spiritual and temporal dominion or rule, and the love of money and of vain show without regard to use. the evils that result from the gratification of such perverted affections must be fearlessly exposed, and a call to repentance made, before the injustice, oppression, and wrong which exist all over the world can be materially lessened. lawyers, by making a special study of the word in connection with their professional-studies, could not fail to impart much valuable instruction both to the church and the world. christian physicians and lawyers would take hold of men in their present low state, showing them what acts are evil and wrong, and why they are so; and would call on them to repent and stop doing the evil acts which the truth condemns, fully realizing that a man must cease doing evil before he can cease thinking and willing evil; or, in other words, that reformation must commence on the natural plane, and from the highest motives of which the individual at present is susceptible. it is the duty of our clergy to teach spiritual truths and the spiritual sense of the word, and to lead men and women to live good lives, in obedience to the divine commandments, from spiritual and celestial motives. but it is difficult for them to fill the entire field where religious instruction is needed, for we are living in the midst of the most direful evils of life, which must be put away before the new jerusalem can descend and have an abiding place with men. evils so terrible as to destroy vast multitudes of men and women of all ages, and even innocent children, all around us, too frequently go unheeded by our clergy and the periodicals under their charge. i know that in this respect there are some noble exceptions among our clergy and editors; but however willing and anxious they may be, it is impossible for one man to possess the knowledge and to impart all the necessary instruction as perfectly as three men thoroughly educated and trained for the different fields for labor could do it. to recapitulate: the physicians are required to teach and to lead men to obey, from a principle of obedience, the spiritual and natural laws of health and life; the lawyers are required to teach and lead men by spiritual truths to act from a principle of justice, truth, and neighborly love in all their relations with others; our ministers are required to teach and lead men to act from love to the lord and thence the neighbor, and to do right because it is right, and to administer the ordinances of the church. while some church organizations are laboring earnestly for the reform of men and women addicted to evils, and are striving to guard the innocent and young; and while in many of the churches in england they are organizing their temperance societies and "bands of hope," many of our organizations are as silent as the grave in regard to these evils. can our churches prosper without teachers who are able to point out the evils of life which are so destructive to our race, and who are sufficiently free themselves to be able earnestly and consistently to call men to repentance, and to lead them to live orderly lives? various denominations of christians, in sending forth missionaries to distant lands, have, of late years, been sending, among others, some well-educated physicians as missionaries, and have found them very efficient in reaching and influencing the people among whom they labor. may not all take a hint when some of the religious organizations around us are beginning to see the advantages of sending out medical missionaries? if we would reach the gentiles, or non-church goers, in our midst, should we not follow their example? a vast number of children and young people are growing up in our country, who are more ignorant of the spiritual and natural laws of health and life than many in gentile lands; many of them rarely read or hear the sacred scriptures read, and do not even know the ten commandments. chapter viii. methods for restraining and curing spiritual and natural diseases. as there is a correspondence between the natural and spiritual causes of disease, so there must be a correspondence between the methods of restraining and curing natural and spiritual diseases. first: spiritual diseases or evils are restrained by punishments which, by force, as it were, counteract the inclination to do evil; corresponding to this method we have the antipathic method of restraining natural diseases, which is one of the prevailing methods; for instance, for constipation cathartics are given, for a diarrhoea astringents, and opiates are given to forcibly relieve or restrain the symptoms of disease. every one can but see that such remedies for the cure of natural diseases, like punishments for the cure of spiritual diseases or evils, are but palliative; for the reaction, if reaction ensue, is not in the right direction. it is true that a cure sometimes results in spite of the treatment, especially in transient cases, the vital forces restoring health during the temporary restraint of the diseased action; but in many cases the constipation is only aggravated by cathartics, and diarrhoeas are not benefited by astringents; and the evil man often becomes more vicious after punishment. second: spiritual evils are often restrained by exciting one passion to restrain evil acts in another direction; for instance, acquisitiveness and vanity are often excited to restrain evil men from evil acts, which might result from hatred and a desire for revenge, thus calling off the attention from the prevailing evil inclination. corresponding to this method of restraining spiritual diseases we have the allopathic method of restraining diseased action in one organ by exciting diseased action in another organ or part, as is done when a cathartic is given for disease of the head or lungs, or when a blister is applied to the skin in case of internal diseased action; thus, as it were, calling off the attention of the vital forces from the diseased structures, and thus palliative relief is often obtained in natural as in spiritual diseases. third: either from afflictions, suffering, disappointments, or from voluntarily hearkening to the truth, a man begins to feel a desire to change his life, and looking to the lord he repents and resolves to obey the divine commandments by shunning evils as sins against god. but when he commences to do this, evil spirits flow into his mind and tempt him to again do evil acts; if the temptations are too strong he falls, but he may fall to rise again; he will either do this by renewing his resolution to overcome the evil inclination, or he will fall to rise no more, and keep on in his old course of life, perhaps worse than before. thoughts come before actions; if a man, when tempted to do evil, resists the thoughts of doing the evil acts, every one can see that he is striking a blow at the perverted affection through which he has been tempted to do evil; consequently the step toward a cure is far more radical and permanent than it would have been if he had done the evil act. children and the young should be taught that to violate the divine commandments is a sin against god, and that they should resist their hereditary or acquired inclination to speak wrong words or do evil acts the moment such inclinations are manifested in their thoughts, which is far better than to allow them to move them to do evil acts. the cure of spiritual diseases by the resisting of temptation is a genuine method of cure. corresponding with this for the treatment of natural diseases, we have their treatment by the use of homoeopathic remedies. only spirits of a similar inclination can tempt a man to do an evil act and thus manifest his unsubdued inclination to him, which enables him to see and overcome the inclination by resisting it. so, on the natural plane, it is only a poisonous substance or remedy, which is capable of causing a similar disease to the one existing, which can manifest the disease to the vital forces and thus enable them to react against the disease. but if the dose of the remedy given is too large it will aggravate the disease, as a cathartic dose of a cathartic remedy will aggravate a diarrhoea; but the vital forces may react and overcome the disease, or they may not, and the disease continue even worse than before. it is the reaction of the vital forces that overcomes the diseased action and effects the cure, and not the remedy, any more than it is the evil spirit that tempts man that overcomes his spiritual evils during regeneration. as it is not necessary that the temptation should be so strong as to make a man take the first step toward performing an evil act, to enable him to resist it if he will the moment the inclination is seen in his thoughts, so it is not necessary that a dose of a homoeopathic remedy should be so strong as to aggravate the natural diseased action in the slightest degree before it can be seen by the vital forces, and a reaction follow. the size of the dose must be determined by experience; but we know that its effects need only to equal the effects of temptations which proceed no further than the thought of doing evil before reaction may follow, therefore we can form no conception of the minuteness of the dose which may be sufficient for a cure to follow. but if a man would be restored to spiritual health by getting rid of his hereditary and acquired inclinations to do evil, he must acknowledge the lord, diligently search his word, and be willing to see and obey his commandments, which are the laws of spiritual health and life, and must be obeyed conscientiously, in intention, thought, word, and deed, if health is to be restored; otherwise, punishment, hope of reward, and temptations can only afford palliative relief at best. so in regard to natural diseases. if a man would be restored to physical health by getting rid of his hereditary and acquired inclinations to diseases, he must recognize that the laws of nature are the laws established for his good by the lord, and he must diligently study the laws pertaining to health and life, and be willing to see and obey those laws as to sunlight, air, exercise, clothing, and in eating and drinking, etc., if he would be restored to health; otherwise, antipathic, allopathic, and even homoeopathic remedies will prove only palliative at best. if we expect to be well, spiritually or naturally, we must strive to know and obey the laws of health and life. temptations by evil spirits permitted and controlled by the lord for the sake of removing many spiritual evils, and a corresponding action of homoeopathic remedies administered by a skillful hand, for the sake of removing natural diseases, are curative methods which belong to the new jerusalem dispensation, now descending from god out of heaven, making all things new--the church of the future. chapter ix. personal experience continued--and efforts. soon after i commenced reading the writings of emanuel swedenborg, while residing in detroit, i was invited to attend a social gathering at the residence of one of the members of the congregation of believers in his writings in that city. during the evening, to my astonishment, fermented wine was passed around to the guests, of which quite a number partook. as already stated in the preceding pages, while a young man, through the efficient teachings of baptist and congregational clergymen and prominent members of the churches, and the results of drinking which i witnessed, i was providentially enabled to see that to use drinks which endangered health, reason, and life was wrong, and consequently a sin; and with many others i signed a pledge never to drink intoxicating drinks during health. the reader can imagine how i was shocked to see intoxicating wine presented and partaken of among gentlemen and ladies who professed to be receivers and believers in a new revelation of divine truth from god to man. i immediately saw the clergyman of the society, and asked him if swedenborg teaches that it is right and proper to drink an intoxicating wine. he replied that he did. he and members of his society were holding sunday afternoon meetings for the purpose of reading the writings and discussing such questions as might arise, which meetings i attended. i said to the reverend gentleman that i would like to have this wine question discussed at our next meeting, to which he assented. at that meeting, i brought up the medical and scientific aspects of the question, and endeavored to show that fermented wine was a dangerous poison, it having destroyed vast multitudes of the human race, and that it performed no use when taken into the stomach of healthy men and women; and, consequently, that it is wrong to drink a wine which does so much harm. the clergyman tried to justify its use by quoting certain comparisons which swedenborg had made between the apparent combat which takes place during fermentation and the combat which ensues during the regeneration of man, and the clearness of resulting wine after fermentation and that of truth in the mind after regeneration, and also of the purity of alcohol after it has been through certain processes, which he named, compared with pure truth. but we know that pure alcohol cannot be used as a beverage, and therefore it is certain that these comparisons were simply as to the clearness of fermented wine after fermentation, and the purity of alcohol after being purified; and that they have nothing to do with the inherent quality of these fluids, or their ability to affect man when he drinks them. we had an earnest discussion of the question from our different standpoints, but neither of us was satisfied with the result; and, consequently, we adjourned the discussion of the subject until the next sabbath afternoon. in the meantime, the clergyman prepared a discourse, which he delivered on sunday morning, in which he endeavored to show that fermentation was caused by an influx of angels from the highest heaven into the juice of the grape, stirring it up and cleansing it from "inherent impurities." providentially, during the week, i had obtained a copy of swedenborg's work on the "angelic wisdom concerning the divine love and wisdom," in which he teaches that all poisonous substances which do harm and kill man derive their life from or through hell. when we came together in the afternoon to discuss the question, we were about as far apart as it was possible to be, as the reader can readily see. he took the ground that fermentation was caused by influx from the highest heaven, and i took the ground that it was caused by influx from the lowest hell, and we had an earnest discussion; but he certainly did not satisfy me nor many of his audience, if any, that his position was true. how could he? for there is no doubt but that fermented wine has harmed and killed more of the human race in ages past than any other poison. as a result of that discussion, within my knowledge, fermented wine was never again used at the sociables of that society during my residence in detroit. within perhaps a year after that discussion, i was baptized and united with the detroit society of the new church. when i came to understand, from the writings of swedenborg, the true signification of water and the ordinance of baptism--that water signified natural truth and that baptism introduced one into the church, and signified that man is to be regenerated or purified by living a life according to the truth, and that the head represented the man--i did not regard immersion as so important as i had previously, consequently i was baptized by the application of water to the head. there is, i think, no serious objection to any one being baptized by immersion who prefers it. children should, i think, be baptized into the church, and be brought up to feel that they belong to the church, and are expected to live the life of the church. more and more have i seen the importance of bringing children up under the influence of the church, where they should be instructed and entertained and thus kept away from bad company. why a separate new-church organization. swedenborg made no attempt to organize the believers in the revelations made by the lord through his instrumentality into a separate church organization, and nowhere in his writings does he express the opinion that such a separate organization would ever be needed or desirable. and he apparently expected that the prevailing false doctrines of the churches would, in the increasing light of the new jerusalem, be seen to be false by the clergy of existing church organizations; and that through them the laity would be enabled to see that they are false, and thus they would be put away, as is manifest in passages which i have quoted elsewhere; also see t. c. r. . when individual men or churches put away false doctrines, they are prepared, if in the good of life, to see and receive the truth; consequently swedenborg says that although the first christian church has come to its end through false doctrines and evils of life, yet it is to revive again through the instrumentality of the newly revealed science of correspondences; consequently it is not to utterly perish, for there is a remnant within its borders. then the reader will inquire, "why was an external new-church organization ever formed?" we have not to look far to find the reason. first, there was a vast multitude of intelligent men and women who did not belong to any church organization, and when some of them came to see and believe the new doctrines, they naturally desired to be baptized and to join a church organization; but seeing clearly in the light of the new revelations that, according to the sacred scriptures, god is one in essence and in person, and that that one god was manifested to man in the person of the lord jesus christ, and that he made that human form divine and is henceforth to be worshiped as one god in his divine humanity, and that a life according to his sayings and the commandments is essential to salvation, they could not join the prevailing churches, for they could not assent to their creeds. second. when, as soon occurred, both clergymen and laymen, belonging to various church organizations, began to read the writings, and to see that the lord is in very deed now coming in the clouds of heaven, and desired to let the new light shine among their brethren, they found that they were often not free to do so without giving offense; and in not a few instances clergymen found that they were silenced as preachers, and sometimes both clergymen and laymen were expelled, for believing the heavenly doctrines instead of the creeds; consequently the receivers of the doctrines of the new dispensation had no choice but to form a new church organization. but at this day there is a vast change, and i trust that from but a very few if any church organizations would a lay member be expelled for believing in the supreme divinity of the lord jesus christ, and that the sacred scriptures are divine and plenarily inspired, and that a life according to the lord's sayings and his commandments is essential to salvation. consequently there are thousands of earnest receivers of the heavenly doctrines of the new jerusalem scattered throughout the various churches, gradually leavening, as i trust, the whole lump; and there are clergymen not a few who are gradually beholding, with more or less fullness, the light of this new day; and as they receive it, large numbers of them are not slow to let the light shine among their fellow-men, as they are prepared to receive it. the lord has given to men freedom and reason, and they are responsible for their acts. to whom do a clergyman and members of a church organization owe fealty, to the lord and his word and the members of the congregations where they worship, or to a creed and church or a church organization formulated and organized during darker ages of the world and church? should men or should they not, when they behold the glorious light of the lord's second coming in the clouds of heaven, stand in their place and proclaim the glad tidings to all who are willing to hear? swedenborg, in giving the spiritual sense of the second chapter of the apocalypse, in no. of the _apocalypse revealed_, says:-- "this and the following chapter treat of the seven churches, by which are described all those in the christian church who have any religion, and out of whom the new church, which is the new jerusalem, can be formed; and this is formed by those who approach the lord only, and at the same time perform repentance from evil works. the rest, who do not approach the lord alone, from the confirmed negation of the divinity of his humanity, and who do not perform repentance from evil works, are indeed in the church, but have nothing of the church in them." if all clergymen and members of our churches, the moment they begin to see that portions of their creeds are false and injurious in their tendency, instead of trying, by proclaiming the truth among their brethren, to have the false doctrines removed and true doctrines substituted, were to immediately forsake the church organization in which, in the good providence of the lord, they stand, what hope would there be for the perpetuation of existing churches as christian organizations at all? the great danger at this day is that false doctrines will be seen faster than true doctrines will be seen to take their place, and thus our churches and members will be left desolate and return to a gentile state. for instance, if our clergy and intelligent laymen begin to see, as many of them seem to be doing already, that the doctrine of a tri-personal god, instead of a trinity in unity, and the doctrine of the vicarious atonement are contrary to the teachings of the sacred scriptures, and unreasonable and inconsistent, and do not at the same time see clearly the scriptural doctrine that god is one in essence and in person, and that in the person of our lord jesus christ that one god was manifested for the purpose of reconciling the world unto himself, such individuals are almost sure sooner or later to deny the divinity of the lord jesus christ, and that the sacred scriptures are divine and special revelations from god to man, and consequently plenarily inspired. the doctrines which are false in the prevailing church organizations must go--they are going--from the minds of their members if not from their creeds. then are these organizations to become gentile and stand like the remnants of the ancient church, which we behold in southern and eastern asia? i think not; for we are told, as has been already stated in the revelations made by the lord through emanuel swedenborg, that the science of correspondences was revealed that the christian church "may revive and again draw breath from the lord through heaven." gentiles received the lord at his first coming with joy; and so i believe the gentiles in and out of our church organizations will receive him now as he comes in the clouds of heaven. in the light manifested in the sacred scriptures by the aid of the science of correspondences, every willing and obedient man and woman is able to see that god is one, and that the lord jesus christ, or god in his divine humanity, is that one god and the only being whom men should and whom angels do worship. then of what unspeakable importance it is that the attention of all clergymen and laymen be speedily called to the writings for the church of the new jerusalem which is now descending from god out of heaven! after practicing medicine for ten or twelve years, and on accepting the chair of "theory and practice of medicine" tendered by the western homoeopathic college at cleveland, ohio, i commenced, as it were, the study of the practical department of my profession anew, in order to prepare myself for filling the chair profitably to the students and creditably to myself. while preparing forgiving lectures, and especially in after years while away from my active medical practice at detroit, giving a course of lectures at cleveland every winter, i began to study and investigate in my leisure hours the causes of diseases. step by step i pursued my investigations, until i became satisfied that most of the deformities, diseases, and insanity which exist have been caused by the violation of the physical and spiritual laws of our being which could have been avoided in the past, and which can and must be in the future, if our race is to be restored to a state of healthy, symmetrical, and noble manhood. consequently i came to the conclusion that it is far more important that men, women, and children should be taught the laws of health and to understand the causes of the prevailing deformities and diseases, and how to shun them, than it was for them and their children to get sick, deformed, and suffer, and often to pay their hard-earned money to doctors for the uncertain chance of being cured--in fact, that "an ounce of prevention is worth more than a pound of cure." as a result of my investigations i wrote a series of articles for the _detroit tribune_ on the bad habits which cause diseases, insanity, and deformity; and, as opportunity offered, i gave lectures upon such subjects; and finally i wrote a work entitled the "avoidable causes of disease," of pages, of which i printed several editions, the first of which was in , and furnished to different publishers, and advertised to a limited extent; after that it was published for several years by messrs. mason brothers, of new york; after which it came into my hands again. i also wrote a pamphlet of pages on "marriage and its violations," which, for a time, was bound separately, but afterward was bound with the "avoidable causes of disease." in all, eleven editions of the work have been printed; the last edition was printed by messrs boericke & tafel, of philadelphia, who will probably publish any future editions which may be demanded. i soon found, what my publishers found after me, and other writers and their publishers have found, that it does not pay to advertise books which contain the greatest amount of practical and useful information which is calculated to benefit readers, especially if they call in question the bad habits and evils of life in which so many people indulge; consequently, feeling that a work treating of diseases and their cure, in which i could advertise my first work and call special attention to it, would sell more readily, i wrote a book of pages, entitled "family homoeopathy," in which i took great pains to carefully describe in few words the various diseases, and gave as definite and positive instruction as was practicable to guide laymen, so that harmless homoeopathic remedies might take the place of drastic drugs and injurious domestic remedies, which are so frequently used when it is thought not necessary to call a physician, or before his arrival when called. at the end of this volume i inserted a carefully prepared table of the contents of the "avoidable causes of disease," occupying three pages, and referred not unfrequently to that work when treating of various diseases. with but very slight efforts, and no advertising on my part, "family homoeopathy" sold very well--principally through the different homoeopathic pharmacies in our country; and this increased the sale of "the avoidable causes of disease" very materially, as i expected it would. seventeen editions of "family homoeopathy" have been printed and sold, the last edition by dr. e. r. ellis, of detroit, michigan, who will continue to print and supply applicants as wanted. spiritual causes of diseases. as i continued my investigation into the causes of disease, and especially as i read the writings of emanuel swedenborg, i began to see more and more clearly that diseases, to a large extent at least, have a spiritual origin, and that the great obstacles to the removal of their causes lie in the false doctrines of christian churches. when selfish men who were leaders in the churches desired to exercise their love of rule in spiritual and natural things and to exercise despotic power, when they desired to reduce other men to slavery and to hold them as slaves, or when they desired to gratify other perverted passions and sensual appetites, they all went to the bible and strove to justify their conduct from its pages, with the expectation of reaching heaven at last; for this purpose it required the invention of special doctrines, and these they taught to their children, and thus the word of god was made of no effect by the traditions and doctrines of men. unfortunately for the protestant church, early in its history, instead of "if ye would enter into life, keep the commandments," there was substituted the doctrine of justification by faith alone; which led men, especially the young, to hope that by getting religion and having faith, they could at any time escape the legitimate penalties which are attached by the lord to evil doing. no young man, religiously brought up, expects to go to hell; but he intends to repent and be converted before he dies; he often thinks he will "sow his wild oats" first, instead of earnestly and faithfully striving to keep the divine commandments from his youth up. evil thinking and doing develop an infernal life within him, which often gradually gains strength until he is ruled by his perverted appetites and passions; and day by day his ability to regain his freedom grows less. when the priesthood of the roman catholic church began to teach men that the punishment which rightly inheres to the doing of evil can be escaped by confessing to the priest, doing penance, and receiving absolution, and that every catholic priest has from the lord the power to forgive sins and to grant indulgences, then the hope of escaping the penalties of sin by something short of keeping the divine law in everyday life was held out to the young of the catholic laity, similar to that which the doctrine of faith alone offered to the young of the protestant world; and the results have been similar. we know, however, that among religious teachers there are many to-day in all of the various sects of christians who have put away, or are gradually putting away, or materially modifying, the perverted doctrines of the past. as an illustration of the changes which are taking place, i clip the following from an english paper, recently received:-- "the rev. t. vincent tymms, the new principal of rawdon college, preaching to his late congregation at clapham, said:-- "'from the first day i stood in this pulpit until now, i have desired to tear away from every heart that obscuring veil of pagan thought which first attributes a wrathful justice to the father and a tender mercy to christ, and then represents the son as dying to soothe the anger and satisfy the relentless demands of the father. such unholy and revolting ideas are the leaven of heathenism, not the unleavened bread of christian truth.' "this is from the first of 'three farewell sermons,' published by messrs. james clarke & co., fleet street, e. c." more and more, as time progressed, i began to realize that there was very little chance for any radical improvement of our race until the false doctrines which have come down to us from the dark ages were put away; and knowing that in the writings of emanuel swedenborg we have a new revelation from the lord, even the truths of his second coming in the clouds of heaven, which are destined to make all things new by leading men back to a life of obedience to the divine commandments; and, furthermore, believing the most important missionary field to-day in the world to be among the clergy of our country, i wrote an "address to the clergy" of pages. this address i sent to over , clergymen. a few years before i wrote that address, the late mr. l. c. iungerich, of philadelphia, through the book publishing firm of j. b. lippincott & co., of that city, had offered to clergymen who would order and send the stamps to pay the postage, swedenborg's "true christian religion," and afterward he added the "apocalypse revealed;" and the new church tract society added to the above works "heaven and hell,"--all to be sent free to clergymen on receipt of postage. several thousand copies of the above works had been sent when i wrote and sent out my address. upon the second page of the cover of my tract was a notice of the above-named gift books; and my aim was to hastily call the attention of clergymen to them, and to give them some idea of the claims of swedenborg's writings to their attention, and to encourage them to send for and to read the books thus providentially within their reach. as a result of receiving the address, thousands of clergymen sent for and obtained one or more of the above books. when i commenced sending the above-named address to the clergy, i resolved to devote one-tenth of my income to the work of spreading a knowledge of the doctrines of the new jerusalem and of an orderly life among my fellow-men. i can truly say, and will say for the encouragement of others, that as i have given i have received; for never had i prospered financially as i have since that resolution was made and lived up to. after having secured a competency for myself and family i did not stop at one-tenth of my income. the result of sending the address was so satisfactory that i wrote and compiled a work of pages, entitled, "skepticism and divine revelation," with the intention of sending it to the clergy. my aim was to present a hasty view of the application of the science of correspondences in the interpretation of the first chapters of genesis, and some other parts of the word, and to meet the arguments of skeptics, and thus to show that the sacred scriptures are divine revelations from god to man, and plenarily inspired, consequently differing as much from the words of man as god's works do from the works of man. in that work the attention of the reader is called to the creation of the world, the creation of man and woman, eve, the garden of eden, its trees and river, the fall of man, the serpent, cain and abel, the flood, noah, shem, ham, and japheth, the flood of waters, the ark, the tower of babel, sun worship and idolatry, spiritualism, the little reliance to be placed upon communications from spirits, and why. next, the doctrines of the new jerusalem--god, the incarnation, the divine trinity, sacrificial worship, the cross, a true and heavenly life, the end of the world and second coming of the lord, the resurrection, state of infants in the other life, the state and condition of the heathen and gentiles in another life, the new jerusalem--the church of the future--the crown of all churches, the divine promise to those who receive the new jerusalem at the lord's second coming as revealed through emanuel swedenborg. such were the subjects discussed in the light of the revelations made by the lord's chosen servant. my aim was to produce the best work i could. consequently, when i found in the writings of others passages, or even whole sections, in which the ideas that i desired to present were as well or better conveyed than i thought i could present them, i selected them, giving the writers credit for the same, and the sixteenth and twenty-third chapters were written at my request by the rev. william b. hayden, who assisted me materially in seeing the work through the press. about one-half of the matter in the volume was selected from other writers. i commenced to send this work in editions of , to the clergy of our country, and when i had sent about , , i had the "address to the clergy" printed and bound with it, and both were sent to the catholic clergy, to whom the address had not previously been sent. from that time both works have been printed and bound in one volume. about , of the above works, containing a notice of the gift books, named in preceding pages, on the second page of the cover, have been sent to the clergy of america, about , have been sent to physicians, and as many more have been circulated among laymen. the sending of this book to the clergy immensely increased the orders for the gift books. the above works have been translated into the german language, and about , copies sent to german-speaking clergymen in germany and other parts of europe, and in our own country. they have been translated into the swedish language, and about copies have been sent to the clergy of sweden and norway and circulated among the laity; and they have been translated into italian, and , sent to and circulated in italy. and more recently they have been translated into french, and , printed which are now being sent to the clergy of france and the french-speaking clergy of other european countries, and of our own country. then, i have aided materially in sending other works to the clergy of our country, either explaining or containing the doctrines of the new jerusalem, upon the second page of the covers of which will be found a notice of the gift books offered to clergymen. i aided with money the swedenborg publishing association in sending rev. mr. ravlin's "progressive thoughts on great subjects" to all the clergy of our country whose names could be had; and, later, i have aided the american swedenborg printing and publishing society in sending, first, "the new jerusalem and its heavenly doctrines;" second, "the doctrine of the lord;" third, "the doctrine of life"--all three swedenborg's own works--to all the clergy in our country whose names could be readily obtained; in all , . so that almost every clergyman in our country has had an opportunity to acquire some knowledge of the doctrines and revelations made by the lord through emanuel swedenborg for the benefit of men in this new age--doctrines very different from those formulated in the creeds of bygone centuries--and thousands of our clergy are beginning to realize, that we must return to the rational and plain doctrines taught in the sacred scriptures, and summed up by the lord when on earth in the two great commandments, thou shalt love the lord with all thy might and strength, and thy neighbor as thyself, and that we must commence the new life by repentance, or by being willing to see our evils and to shun them as sins against god. as a result of the efforts made by others and myself to make known to the clergy the offer of the gift books, , clergymen have sent for and obtained "the true christian religion," , have obtained "heaven and hell," and , have obtained "the apocalypse revealed," according to the report of the trustees of the iungerich fund (may, ). communion wine. for several years after i joined the church i paid little attention to the subject of communion wine. but at last an article appeared in a new-church paper, in which the writer claimed that fermented wine was a good and useful article to be used as a beverage, and he tried to justify its use by the teachings of the church. such views were so contrary to what i regarded as true, that i immediately commenced a more careful and critical examination of the writings of swedenborg, to ascertain what is taught therein as to wine. i soon found that he distinctly recognized two kinds of wine, as does the bible: one kind unfermented, a good and nourishing fluid to which he always gives a good signification when its use is not abused; and the other kind, known by its effects on man when he drinks it to be fermented, to which he has never given a good signification when it is clear from the context that reference is had to fermented wine. and i will here say that my opponents in the church have done precisely what the advocates of slavery, intoxicating drinks, and skeptics have done in their appeals to the bible to sustain their views. they find here and there a comparison and passage which, by placing their own construction upon them, they think will justify their views, while they totally ignore a large number of passages which most clearly and positively teach a totally different doctrine; and they ignore scientific facts, the well known effects of drinking fermented wine, and the testimony of ancient writers whenever such testimony does not accord with their own views. thus they uphold the use of the drunkard's cup as a beverage and even as a sacramental wine; and within my knowledge more than one poor man in our church who was struggling to reform his life has been led back by partaking of it to drunkenness. a distinguished clergyman said in a letter to the writer:-- "i can never forget the experience already related to you when mr. ----, my wife's brother-in-law, a gentleman of classical education, had become a sober man through my efforts and received the heavenly doctrines ... then came the lord's supper and we had fermented california wine. i handed him the cup, he drank, and after church he fled to some place where wine could be had, came home late in the evening drunk, and continued drinking for three months, until he died one evening after being brought home beastly drunk. unfermented wine is no seducer, and had mr. ---- been given such in the sacrament, he might be living, a sober man, to-day. your books on the 'wine question' deserve, therefore, all that you have done and expended under the lord's guidance for their publication and circulation, and god only knows how much good they will yet have to do." another clergyman wrote:-- "i was called to officiate at the funeral of a child. the parents--who were non-professors of religion--became much interested in the new church. i furnished them suitable reading matter and visited them occasionally. within a year they united with our society. the man had formerly been a drinking man, but had ceased entirely. they were regular attendants on our church services. he was a mechanic. his well-behaved life restored public confidence in him, and he soon found constant employment at his trade. after about two years he felt a desire to take the lord's supper. i did not dissuade him; for, as he had abstained so long and faithfully, i felt sure he would continue. he presented himself with the communicants. upon receiving the cup he took a sip and moved to return the cup to me; but suddenly, the old appetite being touched by the alcoholic spark, he returned the cup to his lips--it was about two-thirds full-and nearly drained it, as though urged on by demons. poor man! realizing what he had done, and evidently feeling disgraced, he at once arose and left the temple. from that time he returned to drink, and i have been unable to regain sufficient influence over him to effect his return to our services. "another man in my society formerly drank to excess. i dare not encourage him to come to the communion. a majority of our members favor intoxicating wine for the lord's supper. how they can do so after witnessing its dreadful effects, i cannot understand. but the light is spreading, and may the lord hasten the full day." o lord! how long? how long shall such evils continue in our churches? of course i replied to the article in the new-church paper alluded to above, and others replied to me, and i to them in return; but it was not long before notice was given that the discussion would cease, and that with three unanswered articles against me in one number of the paper, and that in a paper edited by a clergyman, and published by the general body of the church. well, looking for the welfare of the church and its members which i loved, i could not stand still and see such false and dangerous views boldly and dogmatically proclaimed in the most extensively circulated periodical of the church without doing my best to counteract them. consequently i wrote a reply in a tract form, and sent it to every new-churchman whose name i could obtain. this was but the beginning. an article appeared in another periodical of the church to which i was allowed to reply; but the discussion was soon closed, and i was given no chance to reply to the last communication, and a reserved communication which was published afterward. finding that there was no chance to present the temperance side of the wine question fairly before the readers of these two periodicals, i was led to write several pamphlets in reply to such articles as appeared in favor of the use of fermented wine, in which i endeavored to present fully and fairly, generally in the language of its advocates, their views of the question, and i endeavored to answer them in the light afforded by the sacred scriptures, the writings of the church, ancient history, science, and well-known facts as to the manufacture and preservation of unfermented and fermented wines in all ages. several pamphlets were published in reply to the advocates for the use of fermented wine in our new-church periodicals in the course of five or six years, of which about , of each were printed and sent to all newchurchmen whose names i was able to obtain in this country, england, and elsewhere, hoping to reach as far as possible the readers of the writings of my opponents and others. the following are the names of the pamphlets written, printed, and sent, viz: "pure wine, fermented wine, and other alcoholic drinks," published in ; "the wine question in the light of the new dispensation," in ; "reply to the academy's review," in ; "intoxicants, prohibition, and our new-church periodicals," , to which was added "deterioration of the puritan stock," ; making in all, with index, pages. finally, i had printed an edition of all of the above pamphlets from the plates, and bound in cloth, of which i sent a copy to all new-church ministers in the world whose names i could get, and to some others. my controversy with the clergy on the wine question led me to fear that there were other evils gradually creeping into the church organization which should be exposed, and against which both laymen and clergymen should be warned; therefore, i wrote a tract entitled, "the new church: its ministry, laity, and ordinances, with an appendix on intoxicants and our new-church periodicals," published and sent out in , the latter part to answer some articles which had recently appeared in the church papers. this tract was sent to about , or , newchurchmen. then i wrote and compiled and condensed from my previous writings, including "the avoidable causes of disease," a work of pages, fully presenting the wine question in all its aspects, and the use of tobacco and opium, and the bad habits of women, faulty methods of rearing children, etc., etc., of which in paper covers i sent out over , to my new-church brethren, and about , copies i sent to clergymen of various denominations. in the year my attention was seriously called to the signs of deterioration of the puritan stock in new england, especially in massachusetts, my native state, where it was shown that in six years, ending in , the deaths among the native population fully equaled, if they did not exceed, the births; whereas, among the people of foreign birth, the births exceeded the deaths by over , . and i found, on visiting my native town in western massachusetts, and the school district where i attended, where we used to have about thirty scholars in the winter and twenty in the summer, when i was a boy, and although there are but two families less residing there now than when i was a boy, and all native americans, still i found that they had but eight or nine scholars during the winter, and not enough to keep up a school in summer. as a result of my inquiries i wrote a work of pages, calling attention to the spiritual and natural causes of such decline of the native stock, and especially to the bad habits and false ideas of men and women which have produced it. this pamphlet i entitled, "deterioration of the puritan stock, and its causes," and printed , copies, which i sent to all the clergymen and physicians in our country whose names i could get, regarding them as the teachers and leaders of the people, and largely responsible for the existence of at least some of the prevailing evils of life. within the last few years pamphlets have been written by prominent clergymen of some of the prevailing denominations advocating the use of fermented wine, especially for sacramental purposes, in strong language, and claiming that it is a good and useful fluid. this seemed to aid and comfort distillers, brewers, and saloonists very much. at last one appeared entitled "communion wine," in which the advocates for the use of the "fruit of the vine," or pure unfermented wine, were assailed in no very gentle language. several thousand of this pamphlet were sent by a rev. doctor of divinity to clergymen, with a special request from him, to at least some of them, that they should read them and give him their opinion as to its merits. about clergymen responded, most of them in favor of the views contained in the pamphlet, but most decidedly opposed. the arguments in favor of fermented wine were based upon assumptions which were entirely groundless, and which have again and again been exposed. i could but feel that the time had come when a concise statement of the truth upon the wine question should be written and placed in the hands of every clergyman in our country; and as, in the controversy extending over several years, i had had occasion to examine the wine question in all of its various aspects, and to read whatever i could find written on both sides of the question, and had had suggestions from, and the cooperation of, some of the most distinguished scholars upon this question in this country and england, i felt that it was my duty to write a reply, which i did, of pages, which was printed in connection with a short article on "the holy supper is representative," by mr. j. r. hoffer, editor of the mount joy _herald_, mount joy, pa. of this pamphlet over , were sent by mr. hoffer to clergymen in the united states. and of my reply alone, in a tract form, which is based upon the letter of the sacred scriptures--the testimony of ancient writers and science--about , copies have been printed and distributed by mr. j. n. stearns, reade street, new york, who keeps a supply on hand to fill all orders. the last pamphlet before this one which i have written is one recently published by "the swedenborg publishing association," of germantown, philadelphia, pa., entitled "the essential points of the wine question carefully examined," which, with an addendum of pages by w. j. parsons, son of the late professor theophilus parsons, contained pages. this pamphlet was written for newchurchmen and based upon the sacred scriptures as unfolded by the science of correspondences revealed through swedenborg. this pamphlet was sent only to , newchurchmen. the results of efforts in behalf of temperance. the reader may reasonably inquire what results have followed all the efforts which i have made to call the attention of the clergy and laity of the new church, and the clergy of other churches, to the importance of using as a communion wine, the genuine "fruit of the vine" as the lord has organized, ripened, and sweetened it in the grape, instead of a leavened or fermented wine, which, when used as a beverage, causes disease, drunkenness, insanity, and death, in innumerable instances, among the clergy and laity of our churches, and enslaves their children often before their rational faculties are fully developed. i am happy to say that to-day there are quite a number of new-church clergymen, in this country and england, and a large number of laymen, who, after a careful examination of the subject, are satisfied that the good wine of the word and the writings, and the only wine suitable for use as a communion wine, is always the fruit of the vine, and never fermented wine. many of these clergymen and church members have not always thought thus, and did not when i commenced writing upon the subject. at the annual meetings of the general convention of the new church, when unfermented as well as fermented wine has been permitted to be used, and full notice has been given, nearly or quite one-third of the members present have deliberately partaken of unfermented wine. i am satisfied, from what i have seen and heard, that one of the most useful works which the lord has enabled me to do was the writing and sending the reply to "communion wine" to over , clergymen. the clergy of the prevailing organizations are not so difficult to reach upon this subject as are a majority of those of the new church, for they have not confirmed themselves in favor of fermented wine from the writings for the new dispensation. it is one thing to see new truths when they are revealed, but it is another step to be willing to see that those truths condemn falses in which we have strongly confirmed ourselves, or evil habits in which we delight, and to avoid confirming ourselves in falses, and to avoid striving to justify evils. to do the latter means to endure and resist temptations, and to engage in a warfare until the old man with his deeds is put off. the new church is descending from god out of heaven, and as it progresses, fermented wine is disappearing from the communion tables of christian churches. "the new wine," says swedenborg, "is the divine truth of the new testament, and thus of the new church." (a. r. .) the new wine for the new christian church is unfermented wine, pure as it comes from the hands of our lord and saviour, jesus christ, in the fruit of the vine, and not a leavened wine. and when men return to its exclusive use, multitudes now enslaved, diseased, and insane from leavened wine will be set free, cured and restored to their right mind by the great physician--by the inflowing life from him through this physical representative of his blood. the new church is not a new sect or organization, but a new faith and a renewed life resulting from a revelation of divine truth, made by the lord through emanuel swedenborg, for the benefit of all sects and all men, that the christian church may "revive again" and be reunited in the bonds of charity, by worshiping the one god whose name is one--even the lord jesus christ--and by striving to live a life according to his commandments. chapter x. final appeal to the clergy. i again appeal to you, as christian men, to lay aside prejudice and preconceived ideas, if you are troubled with any that have come down to you from darker ages, and to patiently examine the writings of emanuel swedenborg. if you desire and are prepared to read with open eyes and a willing heart, you can but see that the fig-tree is putting forth its leaves, and that we are living in the dawning light and warmth of a new summer. look at the radical changes which have taken place within the last one hundred and thirty-five years, and are taking place to-day with increasing rapidity, in every department of science, arts, mechanics, medicine, and even in the religious sentiments of the people and in theology, and in civil and ecclesiastical governments, and you may rest assured, that as certain as the word of the lord is true, so sure it is that we are now seeing but the beginning of the changes which are yet to be witnessed; for the sure word of prophecy is, "behold, i make all things new"--new heavens and a new earth--old things are to pass away, and we can see that they are passing away. swedenborg assures us that he was permitted by the lord to witness the last judgment in , which, like all general judgments, took place in the spiritual world. the lord when on earth declared, "now is the judgment of this world, now is the prince of this world cast out." swedenborg tells us that between the lord's first coming and his second coming vast societies were organized in the world of spirits, which is intermediate between heaven and hell, from among those who were not fully prepared for either heaven or hell; and they were associated with those of like affections and persuasions in this world. as the first christian church became gradually perverted by false doctrines and evils of life, and as its members increased in the spiritual world, their influence was more and more felt among the religious societies in this world, interfering with the inflowing of good and truth from the lord and his word into the minds of men, and threatening their ability to see and obey the truth. the judgment consisted in a new influx of divine truth into such societies, the effects of which were such that those who were really good were received into heaven, and those who were evil joined their like in hell, glad to escape from the new inflowing of heavenly light and life. in this way they were separated from men on the earth and human freedom reestablished. the effects of that judgment are to-day gradually being manifested here on earth. swedenborg tells us that he witnessed the downfall of babylon the great in the spiritual world. by babylon is meant those who are in the love of spiritual dominion over the souls of men. and also he witnessed the casting down of the dragon. by the dragon is meant those who are in the doctrine of salvation by faith and ceremonials alone. as the above vast organizations in the spiritual world were then removed from contact with men, i will let swedenborg speak of some of the results which followed that judgment in the spiritual world, and of those which are following and which must follow in the church on earth. "after the last judgment (in ) a new heaven was formed from among christians, only from those, however, who acknowledged the lord to be the god of heaven and earth, and also repented in the world of their evil works. from this heaven the new church on earth, which is the new jerusalem, descends, and will continue to descend.... and the new church on earth makes one with the new heaven." (preface to a.r.) "in this new christian heaven are all those who, from the first formation of the christian church, worshiped the lord and lived according to his commandments in the word, and were therefore in charity and faith from the lord through the word." (a.r. .) swedenborg tells us that "the slavery and captivity in which the man of the church was formerly" were removed by the last judgment; so that "he can now, from restored liberty, more easily perceive interior truths if he has a desire for them." (l.j. .) and again he tells us that, as a result of the last judgment, the people of christendom "would be in a more free state of thinking on matters of faith, that is, on spiritual things which relate to heaven, because spiritual liberty has been restored to them" (l.j. ); and that consequently "the state of the world and of the church before the last judgment," compared with what it was, or was to be after, "was as evening and night compared with morning and day." (contin. l. j.) now can we not all see that the very changes anticipated in the above quotations are rapidly taking place in the christian world all around us? men and women are beginning to cease to be willing to be led blindly by clergymen and creeds, with their understandings under subjection to dogma. many of our clergy, we see, are not willing to be thus led. swedenborg tells us that in this new dispensation men are to be led in freedom according to reason, and that professing to believe doctrines which they neither understand nor perceive to be true is of very little use to men. as false doctrines are passing away, is it not of vast moment that true and rational doctrines should take their place, that our houses and churches be not left desolate? somewhat extensively among the clergy, and far more extensively among scientists and intelligent people, is the divine origin of the sacred scriptures being called in question. in the writings of swedenborg, as has already been stated, you will find this question clearly and distinctly settled, for you are there shown that they are written according to the law of correspondence between natural and spiritual things, and therefore that they contain a connected spiritual sense which causes them to differ from all merely human writings, and demonstrates their divine origin to all who are willing to examine and to see the truth. the day is not far distant when, in the christian church, the sacred scriptures will be reverenced as they have never been before; for the coming of the son of man in the clouds of heaven, or in the literal sense of the word, is with power and great glory. even now in the dawning light old false doctrines are rapidly passing away. look! what congregation would be willing to sit quietly and hear the doctrine of infant damnation proclaimed? who is satisfied with the doctrine of election and predestination as taught but a few years ago? that favorite doctrine of my childhood's days, the vicarious atonement as taught then, is trembling in the balance, for it is being found not to accord with the word of the lord, nor does it appeal to human reason. the doctrine of a trinity of divine persons will soon follow. how few even now believe in the resurrection of the material body! our church members are rapidly coming to believe with st. paul that there is a natural body and there is a spiritual body, and that the spiritual body is raised at death, and that flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of god. the doctrine of a literal hell of fire and brimstone, as taught but a few years ago, is rarely taught to-day. and now, christian ministers, as these old doctrines are departing, what have you to substitute for them? you know very well that when extreme views are given up, there is great danger that opposite extreme views will be substituted. troublesome questions are arising to-day before the clergy and in our churches, which require to be handled with care by intelligent and wise men, if the lord and his word are to be reverenced in our churches as they should be, and men are to be led to live heavenly lives. the question of probation after death is troubling many clergymen and laymen at this day. they see that men and women often leave this world in a very uncertain state of life, so far as they can judge, ill prepared for either heaven or hell; what is to-become of them is the question. are they all to put away their false doctrines and evils of life and go to heaven, as some believe; or are some of them to go through purgatory and finally, after being purified, to enter heaven, and the rest go to hell, as others believe? or again, has a man the same chance of choosing and the same ability to choose between truth and falsehood and good and evil, and of shaping his life there, as he has here? upon these questions the new revelations made by the lord through emanuel swedenborg throw a flood of rational light. they show us that heaven is not a place into which a man can be let as a matter of favor; but that, for a man to enter heaven, heaven must be within him. heaven consists in loving supremely the lord and the neighbor, or obedience to the divine commandments. hell consists in loving self, money, vain show, ruling over others without regard to use, or sensual gratifications supremely. before a man can become a resident of hell, hell must be within him. men enter the other world in much the same state as they leave this world; death does not change their essential characters. good angels appointed by the lord strive to teach heavenly truths to all, and to lead all into heavenly affections and societies who are willing to be led. but as the lord respects the freedom of all men in this world and compels no man to love him, his neighbor, or obedience to the divine commandments supremely, he compels no man there. the lord casts no one into hell, but when our material bodies are put off and we appear among the inhabitants of the spiritual world, our thoughts and intentions can be seen more clearly than in this world; consequently the good and evil necessarily separate; and finally every one sooner or later associates with his like, the good forming heavenly societies and the evil, infernal societies. it is evident that those who are guided in all they think and do by either love of the lord, the neighbor, or of obeying the divine commandments, need no penal laws or punishments. it is equally evident that men who are actuated by the supreme love of self, vain show, or sensual gratifications must be restrained, in that world as in this, by penal laws and punishments. but we are told that the lord governs the hells as well as the heavens through his angels, and does not permit vindictive or unjust punishments. all punishments in that world are reformatory, or for the purpose of restraining spirits from evil doing, and protecting others, as all punishments should be in this world. the lord's tender mercies are around all his creatures in that world as well as in this, and he strives to make all happy. even the evil man is permitted to enjoy his delight so long as he does not interfere with or harm others or himself. here in this state of probation good and evil men dwell together in the same society, so that the evil have good instruction and good examples, and every chance for repentance and reformation; but in hell they dwell among their like, and it would seem that they are not so favorably circumstanced for changing their life's love there as in this world. in the world of spirits into which we enter at death, all who are not fully prepared by their lives here for heaven or hell tarry until their characters are fully developed, when each one goes to his own congenial society either in heaven or hell, according to his ruling love. swedenborg, so far as he was permitted, describes what he saw in the spiritual world; but he did not claim to be a prophet--the future, he tells us, is known to the lord alone, not even to the angels. some of the readers of his writings, from certain passages contained therein, have come to think that the lord in his loving kindness may yet so change the inhabitants of hell that they may be received into heavenly societies, as some have drawn from the letter of the sacred scriptures a similar conclusion; while a majority of readers, in both cases, have come to a different conclusion. but the future is known to the lord alone, and he is love itself, and in his hands we may safely leave the inhabitants of hell; especially as our belief one way or the other will not change the final destiny of a single individual one iota; therefore it is not a practical question. prevailing evils of life. we are living in the midst of prevailing evils of life which should command the special attention of every clergyman and every christian. even infants and children are dying on all sides, and those that survive are being contaminated often even in our churches by the example of clergymen and prominent members. but yesterday, as i was speaking to a very intelligent, well-known citizen of new york, he expressed to me the opinion that gambling and a desire to obtain money or valuables without returning a due equivalent, by purchasing lottery or chance tickets and stock gambling, is a greater evil than selling and drinking intoxicating drinks; and he most earnestly blamed many of our clergy and churches for the prevalence of this great evil; for, as is well known, it is at church fairs that the young and even children frequently take their first lessons, enticed thereto by the hope that they may be able to obtain an article of much value for a trifling sum. in this the work of demoralization commences, and leads naturally to gambling for money, betting on games, horse-racing, buying lottery tickets, and stock gambling, stimulated by the hope of making fortunes by risking small amounts, not stopping to think that what they gain, if successful, others must lose who are probably no better able to lose than they are. how much short of stealing is this? look at the sad results which follow the practice started in so many of our churches--the poverty, the thieving, the failures, the breaches of trust, the disgrace and loss of character, and the poor wretches in prison, and others who merit punishment. christian ministers, is not this a most fearful evil which you, if guilty of encouraging it, should put away from your own lives and teach your people to shun as a sin against god? again, it is the duty of husbands and wives to reproduce their species or to multiply and replenish the earth, and this is the most important use of life. yet a vast multitude of women, by tight dressing to gratify vanity, impair health and their ability to bear healthy, well-formed children, and even their ability to nurse such as are born to them; and such deformed women walk into and out of our churches as examples to young girls, without one word of admonition. and some church members deliberately shirk the responsibility of rearing families of children, either because it is not fashionable to have large families, or because children would interfere with their selfish or sensual enjoyment; and this is not the worst which could be said of some. now, although it is equally the duty of all husbands and wives to multiply and replenish the earth, yet church members who, either for the want of ability or inclination, have no children, and bachelors and maidens who do not marry, will stand idly by and see the husbands and wives, however poor they may be, who are willing to do their duty, take the entire care of their children until they reach adult age; they deliberately leave the entire responsibility upon the parents of caring for and raising the money required for the support of the children, who are to be the men and women of the next generation. is this right? it is true that public schools have been established, for all feel that it will not be safe for the children, who are to rule our country a few years hence to grow up in ignorance. men and women will roll in their thousands and hundreds of thousands and even millions, and see the toiling, struggling, hard-working brothers and sisters, sometimes even in the same church organization, striving to do faithfully their part in the care of the children who are to people and replenish the earth, without feeling that they have any responsibility or duty to perform in the way of giving a helping hand in this most important work of life. now i ask you, brethren of the christian church, are such things in accordance with the grand and noble precepts of christianity, in which we profess to believe--thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself? of course, husbands and wives who are able are but too glad to take care of their own children; but there are multitudes who need help. if wealthy husbands and wives are not willing or able to have children, or if bachelors and maidens are not willing to marry and have children, have they no duty to perform toward aiding, even financially, and by their own hands if such help is needed, those who do this most important work, and thus add to the number of intelligent and christian inhabitants of our country? for the want of whom our country is being flooded by multitudes of the most ignorant of other nations, who have comparatively no knowledge of our free institutions and of religious freedom. it is true that our poorhouses are established at the expense of the public, to which parents who are without means or employment or adequate wages to support their children can go with their children to avoid starvation; but what parents desire to take their children to such institutions? and we have also charitable institutions to which children can be sent to prevent their starving and going naked; but what father or mother likes to part with their children? it is not charity that such need, but the kind, helping hands of christian brothers and sisters. all things are to be made new. as the light and especially the heat or love of the new jerusalem descend into the minds of men, hard-hearted selfishness will disappear, and true christians will love and strive to help one another and all men as they may need. and now, in conclusion, i appeal to you, christian ministers, one and all, to diligently read the revelations made by the lord at his second coming through his chosen servant, emanuel swedenborg, for they will give you new light and, if you are willing, new life. the light is spreading from the east even unto the west, and the day is not far distant when a clergyman, to be acceptable to an intelligent christian congregation, must be familiar with the grand and rational doctrines and precepts revealed by the lord for the benefit of the men of our day and the church of the future. it must be evident to you even now that many of the clergy and intelligent laymen are steadily drifting in one of two directions; either to a distinct recognition of the supreme divinity of the lord jesus christ, of the holiness and divinity of the sacred scriptures and of the life of charity or of obedience to the divine commandments as the only way of salvation; or to an ignoring the existence of a personal god, and of course of all revelation from god. there is no middle ground. choose ye this day whom ye will serve. below you will find a notice of a work on the science of correspondences, the science in accordance with which all material things were created and the sacred scriptures were written. send for it. it will give you new light. [advertisement page] addendum. a review of an article entitled "christ and the temperance question" in "the christian union." in the _christian union_ for july , , will be found an article written by a clergyman which should not be allowed to go unnoticed. the reverend gentleman assumes in that article that "the life and teaching of jesus christ constitute a divine standard for all his followers." and so do i most unequivocally; but i also claim that we should not be blinded by either strong confirmations or sensual appetites in favor of false views and evil habits, so that, having eyes, we see not the truth and consequently cannot lead a life in accordance with the truth. the writer truly says: "christ is not to be blindly, but intelligently, followed." in other words, i would say the light afforded by science, by well-known facts and ancient history, must be allowed to shine upon such an important question as the one under consideration. then again, the testimony of distinguished scholars who have devoted years to a careful consideration of the wine question in the light of the hebrew and greek scriptures, of ancient history and science, should not be ignored, and statements made which have repeatedly been shown to have no foundation in truth, but which are contradicted by facts which at this day should be known by every man who attempts to write upon such an important question. in the consideration of this question the above writer appears to utterly confound good and truth with the evil and false, which, it is manifest, should never be done. his whole argument is based upon assumptions which we shall find, the more carefully we examine them, have no foundation in truth. he assumes that fermented wine is a good and useful article to be used as a beverage, and, after admitting that he thinks the law of christian love requires a general abstinence at the present day, he says:-- "but i trust that this necessity belongs simply to the present epoch, and i am not without hope that we shall yet come to a time--though not in my day--when a pure wine can be used by society with no more seriously evil results than now are produced by the use of tea and coffee." by pure wine he means fermented wine. he apparently thinks that tea and coffee are harmless drinks. of this more hereafter. again he says:-- "any permanent temperance reform, however great emphasis it may lay on a christian duty of total abstinence, must draw sharply and maintain stoutly the distinction between total abstinence and temperance, between drunkenness and drinking. it must recognize drunkenness to be everywhere and always a sin, drinking to be made so only by the circumstances; temperance to be always and everywhere a duty, total abstinence to be only a means now to be employed for promoting temperance." now let us examine this assumption in the light of science, facts, and history. first. it is known that all the drunkenness in the world up to the sixth century--and history and even the bible shows us that there was plenty of it, and this the above writer admits--was caused by drinking fermented wine and other fermented drinks, for the art of distillation was unknown. and almost all of the drunkenness in our country at this day results either directly from men and boys drinking wine, beer, or other fermented drinks, or from the appetite thus formed leading them on to the use of distilled liquors; for it is rarely that they commence by using such liquors. there has never been an age in the world's history when the drinking of fermented wine did not lead large numbers of those who drank it to drunkenness, and it is safe to say that in no age of the world has there ever been more drunkenness among those who drink at all than there is at this day. as to temperance: that old philosopher, aristotle, tells us that temperance consists in the moderate use of things good and useful, and total abstinence from things injurious. second. fermented wine is either one of the good gifts of god, to be used as a drink to build up and supply the wants of the human body, and may be used freely as we may use milk, the unfermented juice of grapes, and water, or it is not. let us examine this question carefully for a few moments. we all know that there are animal, vegetable, and mineral substances which act as poisons when taken into the stomach, and that to thus use them is to violate the laws of health and life and to seriously endanger health, reason, and life; and not a few are destroyed by their use. the divine commandment in regard to all such we know is, "thou shall not" use them if they kill or endanger life when used. we know that there are other substances which are useful and necessary to nourish and build up the body and give it strength and health. how are we to distinguish these two classes of substances? by their effects on the body we may distinguish between good and useful substances and poisons. there is a natural appetite for wholesome food, which is satisfied by the usual quantity, and the middle-aged and old do not require any more nor even as much as the young man. but for poisons, unless they are made sweet by other substances, there is no natural appetite, but it has to be cultivated by using the poison; but when the appetite is once developed no other substance in nature will satisfy the appetite for it, and the appetite demands that the quantity taken shall be steadily increased to relieve the craving and diseased symptoms which the poison has caused; and if the natural inclination to increase the quantity or frequency is followed, unrestrained by caution or conscience, the individual comes at last to be able to take a quantity with impunity which would kill more than one person not addicted to its use. we all know that this is notably true in regard to fermented wine and other alcoholic drinks, opium and tobacco. again, all poisons, when taken into the stomach in a sufficient quantity and length of time, cause specific diseases characteristic of the poison taken. healthy food does not do this. you see a man reeling in the streets, or drunk on the sidewalk, or with rum-blossoms on his face; you know that he has been drinking fermented wine or some fluid containing its chief ingredient--alcohol. now, unfermented wine and other healthy drinks never cause such specific diseases or symptoms, however freely used. here then, in the characteristics given above, is a broad gulf, as broad and deep as that between heaven and hell, between nourishing, life-giving substances and the poisons named above. of the one we are to use temperately, but from the latter we are to totally abstain. "thou shalt not" is clearly written. in all ages fermented wine has been regarded as a poison. in the bible it is likened to the poison of dragons and the cruel venom of asps. solomon tells us not to look upon it, for at last it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder. clement of alexandria, who lived at the close of the second century, says: "from its use arise excessive desires and licentious conduct. the circulation is accelerated, and the body inflames the soul."--_divine law as to wines._ we know by observation that fermented wine is a fluid which fills man when he drinks of it as freely as he may of healthy needed drinks with all manner of uncleanness of both body and soul. how can a clergyman talk of using such a fluid temperately? can we steal temperately, bear false witness temperately, commit adultery temperately, or murder temperately? is it right to deliberately do any of these acts temperately? if it is, then it is right to deliberately drink fermented wine temperately, which we know endangers health, freedom, reason and life, and leads men to commit crimes even the most filthy. one glass leads naturally to another, and that to many; just as stealing pennies leads to stealing dollars, and hundreds and thousands of dollars. a perverted appetite or passion can never be fully satisfied, but it leads to sorrow. all such evils must be shunned totally as sins against god. it would be difficult to find elsewhere in the english language, in so few lines, as many statements so absolutely untrue, dogmatically proclaimed, as in the following from the article in the _christian union_:-- "this notion of two wines, one fermented, the other unfermented, must be dismissed as a pure invention, unsupported by any facts, unsanctioned by any scholarship. there was but one wine known to the ancients--fermented grape-juice. this was the wine christ made, drank, blessed. there was no other used in his time or known to his day." first, as to scholarship. does the writer of the above believe that he is superior as to scholarship to the following distinguished scholars, all of whom believe in "this notion of two wines, one fermented and the other unfermented," several of whom, after a most patient and careful examination of the question, have written one or more volumes upon the subject, and one of them has been twice to the bible lands for the purpose of carefully investigating the question there and verifying his statements? viz., moses stuart, eliphalet nott, alonzo potter, george bush, albert barns, william m. jacobus, taylor lewis, geo. w. sampson, leon c. field, f. r. lees, norman kerr, canon farrar, canon wilberforce, dawson burns, wm. ritchie, george duffield, c. h. fowler, wm. patton, adam clarke, j. m. van buren, s. m. isaacs, wm. m. thayer, john j. owen; charles hartwell, and many other writers i could name, who, after a most critical examination of the question, have written earnestly in favor of the "notion of two wines, one fermented and the other unfermented." in view of the opinion of such men as these, can the above writer say truthfully that the "notion of two wines" is "unsanctioned by any scholarship"? have we any more distinguished scholars than those i have named? are not scholars who have for years made a special study of a question like this, in all of its aspects, much more competent to judge correctly than those who have not? it is certain that the writer in the _christian union_ has never examined both sides of this question with the slightest care; for if he had done so, as an honest christian man, as i trust he is, he could never have made many of the statements he has made. he says that the "notion of two wines" is unsupported by any facts, and that "there was but one kind of wine known to the ancients--fermented grape-juice." has he never read the bible--even the new testament? i shall first bring the testimony of the lord himself against him. he says:-- "neither do men put new wine (_oinon neon_) into old bottles; else the bottles break, and the wine runneth out, and the bottles perish; but they put new wine into new bottles, and both are preserved." matt, ix, . here we have the fresh, unfermented juice of the grape called wine--"new wine." it could not be put into old bottles and be preserved, for old bottles, especially skin bottles, are sure to contain leaven cells, which would inevitably cause fermentation and burst the bottles, whether they were of skins, glass, or earthenware. we know that fermented wine can be preserved in old bottles, and that it is so preserved without bursting the bottles. here, then, the fresh, unfermented juice of grapes is called wine by the lord. should not our clergy heed his testimony? there is no difficulty in preserving the juice of grapes, or new wine, unfermented by various methods described by ancient writers. thus columella, who lived during the apostolic days, tells us to fill bottles with fresh grape-juice and seal or cork them carefully and sink them in a well of cold water and fermentation will not ensue. i have tried it successfully; any one can do the same. next, fill a new or clean bottle with new wine just pressed from the grapes up to its neck, then pour about half an inch of sweet oil on the surface of the wine and cork it carefully, leaving a little space between the cork and oil, and stand the bottle in a cellar, and it will keep. i have three bottles thus preserved free from fermentation for over three years; the cork must not be removed and the bottle must not be shaken. again, heat the juice to [degrees] fahr., or to the boiling-point if you please, bottle, cork, and seal it, and it will never ferment. now we will turn hastily to the old testament. in isaiah xvi, , we read: "the treaders shall tread out no wine (_yayin_) in their presses." here we have the juice of grapes, as it is trodden from grapes, called wine. in jeremiah xl, , , we read: "but gather ye wine (_yayin_) and summer fruits and oils," and we read that they "gathered wine and summer fruits very much." here we have the juice of grapes called wine, as it is gathered in with other fruits. chapter xlviii, : "and i have caused wine (_yayin_) to fail from the wine-presses." dr. adam clarke says: "the hebrew, greek, and latin words which are rendered 'wine' mean simply the expressed juice of the grape." this juice, like our cider, may be fermented or unfermented, and it is still called by the same name. here, then, in both the new and old testaments, we have the unfermented juice of grapes distinctly recognized as wine, and called wine; and all admit that the fermented juice of grapes is called wine, consequently there are two wines. and distinguished scholars say:-- "in all the passages where the good wine is named (in the bible), there is no lisp of warning, no intimation of danger, no hint of disapprobation, but always of decided approval. how bold and strongly marked is the contrast! "the _one_ the cause of intoxication, of violence, and of woes; "the _other_ the occasion of comfort and of peace. "the _one_ the cause of irreligion and of self-destruction; "the _other_ the devout offering of piety on the altar of god. "the _one_ the symbol of the divine wrath; "the _other_ the symbol of spiritual blessings. "the _one_ the emblem of eternal damnation; "the _other_ the emblem of eternal salvation."--_bible wines_. "the _one_ the cause of intoxication, of violence, and of woes; "the _other_ the occasion of comfort and of peace. "the _one_ the cause of irreligion and of self-destruction; "the _other_ the devout offering of piety on the altar of god. "the _one_ the symbol of the divine wrath; "the _other_ the symbol of spiritual blessings. "the _one_ the emblem of eternal damnation; "the _other_ the emblem of eternal salvation."--_bible wines_. "the distinction in _quality_ between the good and the bad wine is as clear as that between good and bad men, or good and bad wives, or good and bad spirits; for one is the constant subject of warning, designated poison literally, analogically, and figuratively; while the other is commended as refreshing and innocent, which no alcoholic wine is."--_lees' appendix_, p. . _tirosh_ is another hebrew word that is often used in the old testament for grapes and the juice of grapes, like our word must, but it is rarely if ever applied to the juice after fermentation has commenced. we read: "they shall gather together corn and new wine (_tirosh_), they shall eat together and praise jehovah, and _they who are gathered together shall drink it in the courts of my holiness_."--isaiah lxii, . and again, in regard to _tirosh_, we read: "that thou mayest gather in thy corn, thy wine (_tirosh_), and thine oil." (deut. xi, .) "thus saith the lord, as the new wine (_tirosh_) is found in the cluster, and _one_ saith destroy it not, for a blessing is in it." (isaiah lxv, .) "and thou shalt eat before the lord thy god in the place he shall choose, the tithe of thy corn and wine (_tirosh_)." (deut. xiv, .) here we see that _tirosh_ was to be eaten. the word _tirosh_ occurs thirty-eight times in the hebrew bible. it is translated into greek, in the septuagint, by [seventy] distinguished hebrew scholars, about three centuries before the christian era, as follows: "the lxx renders _tirosh_ in every case but two by _oinos_ (the greek word for wine), the generic name for _yayin_." now, are we for a moment to suppose that the above seventy distinguished ancient scholars did not understand as well what was included under the name of wine in their day, as does the writer in the _christian union_ to-day, when they classed the unfermented juice of grapes with wine, and called it wine? how can the above writer say that "there was but one kind of wine known to the ancients--fermented grape juice"? unfermented wine not known to the ancients, indeed! how utterly contrary to the truth, and to well-known facts, is such a statement. just look a moment, gentle reader-- "aristotle ('meteorologica,' iv, ) says of the sweet wine of his day ([greek text]), that it did not intoxicate ([greek text]). and athenaeus ('banquet,' ii, ) makes a similar statement."--_oinos_. "josephus, the jewish historian, paraphrasing the dream of pharaoh's butler, who dreamed that he took clusters of grapes and pressed them into pharaoh's cup, and gave the cup to pharaoh, repeatedly calls this grape-juice _wine_. bishop lowth, , in his 'commentary' (isaiah v, ) says: 'the fresh juice pressed from the grape' was by herodotus styled _oinos ampelinos_, that is, wine of the vine."--_wine of the word_. the celebrated opimian wine, which pliny [born a. d. ] tells us (xiv, ) had in his day, two centuries after it was made, the consistency of honey, was unquestionably an inspissated article. such was the taeniotic wine of egypt, which athenaeus, in his "banquet" (i, ), tells us had such a degree of richness that "it is dissolved little by little when it is mixed with water, just as the attic honey is dissolved by the same process." "there is abundance of evidence," says the rev. dr. patton, "that the ancients mixed their wines with water; not because they were so strong with alcohol as to require dilution, but because, being rich syrups, they needed water to prepare them for drinking. the quantity of water was regulated by the richness of the wine and the time of year." "aristotle (born about b. c. ) testifies that the _wines of arcadia_ were so thick that they dried up in goat-skins, and that it was the practice to scrape them off and dissolve the scrapings in water." (meteorology, iv, .)--"temperance bible commentary." we know very well that these ancient wines, which were called wine in those days, which did not intoxicate, and others that were as thick as honey, were not fermented wines; for fermented wines do intoxicate, and wines as thick as honey cannot be made from fermented wine, for the albuminous and other substances which make condensed wines thick are cast down or out, or destroyed by fermentation. i have four samples of such condensed wines, or grape-juice, which are as thick as honey. one i obtained at buda-pesth, hungary; one in cairo, egypt; one in damascus, asia; and the fourth was condensed and sent to me by a gentleman then residing in california. i have had these samples now over six years. why should the writer in the _christian union_ quote from another writer, and thus try to make it appear that the ancient condensed wines were nothing but "grape jellies"? does he not know that they are very different preparations, and prepared by different methods? condensed wines are prepared by crushing and pressing the juice from the pulp, skins, and seeds, and then boiling or otherwise evaporating the water until the juice is as thick as honey, so that it can be easily preserved from fermentation? whereas grape jellies are made by boiling the grapes until they are well cooked, then rubbing or squeezing all the pulp and skins practicable through a colander, sieve, or coarsely-woven strainer; and then sugar is added to sweeten and aid in forming a jelly. condensed wines will dissolve in water as we are told the ancient thick wines did, but grape jellies will do so only very imperfectly, for they are composed largely of the pulp of the grape. the writer in the _christian union_ tells us, in a passage already quoted, speaking of fermented wine:-- "this was the wine christ made, drank, blessed." and again he says:-- "he (christ) commenced his public ministry by making, by a miracle, wine in considerable quantity, and this apparently only to add to the joyous festivities of a wedding. he apparently used wine customarily, if not habitually. when he was about to die, he chose wine as the symbol of his blood, shed for many for the remission of sins, asked his father's blessing on a cup containing wine, passed it to his disciples with the direction, 'drink ye all of it.'" now, intelligent christian reader, what are we to think of the above statements? let us look at these statements in the light of reason, common sense, science, and revelation. is it probable, is it possible, that at that wedding feast, after the guests had drank freely of an intoxicating wine, that our blessed lord, guided by love and wisdom, would create a large quantity more of an intoxicating wine for them to drink? it is not possible; and the assumption is flatly contradicted by the governor of the feast, who pronounced the wine created as the "best wine." place to the lips of a child of parents who do not use intoxicating drinks, or to a man or woman who never drinks such drinks, two glasses, one containing a well-fermented wine, and the other containing the sweet, delicious juice of good ripe grapes, and there is not the slightest doubt as to which would be chosen and pronounced "best" every time--try it. then again, is it possible that, on that occasion, a kind of wine was made of which the lord has never created a single drop in the fruit of the vine? fermented wine is a product of leaven or ferment and of man's ingenuity; and its chief and essential constituent, alcohol, for which men drink it, is an effete product, and holds a similar relation to the leaven that urine does to the animal body. as pasteur says, "ferment eats, as it were," or consumes the nourishing and useful ingredients in the juice of the grapes, decomposes them, and casts out excretions, as man does when he eats grapes. consequently, fermented wine is an utterly unclean fluid, and it fills man, when he drinks it, with all manner of uncleanness, mentally and physically, from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, as we well know. it is preeminently a leavened substance, for it is never purified by heat, as is leavened bread. we have an abundance of testimony, which the reverend writer of the article ignores, that the orthodox jews have regarded, in all ages, and do to-day as a rule regard, fermented wine as coming under the restrictions placed upon leavened things. the celebrated jewish rabbi, s. m. isaacs, said in : "the jews do not use in their feasts for sacred purposes fermented drinks of any kind. the marriage feast is a sacrament with us." in a recent work ( ) written by a jewish rabbi, the rev. e. m. myers, entitled "the jews, their customs and ceremonies, with a full account of all their religious observances from the cradle to the grave," we read that among the strictly orthodox jews, "during the entire festival (of the passover) no leavened food nor fermented liquors are permitted to be used, in accordance with scriptural injunctions." (ex. xii, , , ; deut. xvii, , .) this, we think, settles the question so far as the orthodox jews are concerned; and their customs, without much question, represent those prevailing at the time of our lord's advent. the editor of the london _methodist times_ lately witnessed the celebration of the jewish passover in that city, and at the close of the services said to the rabbi: "may i ask with what _kind_ of wine you have celebrated the passover this evening?" the answer promptly given was:-- "with a non-intoxicating wine. jews never use fermented wine in their synagogue services, and must not use it on the passover, either for synagogue or home purposes. fermented liquor of any kind comes under the category of 'leaven,' which is proscribed in so many well-known places in the old testament. * * * i have recently read the passage in matthew in which the paschal supper is described. there can be no doubt whatever that the wine used upon that occasion was unfermented. jesus, as an observant jew, would not only not have drunk fermented wine on the passover, but would not have celebrated the passover in any house from which everything fermented had not been removed. i may mention that the wine i use in the service at the synagogue is an infusion of raisins. you will allow me, perhaps, to express my surprise that christians, who profess to be followers of jesus of nazareth, can take what he could not possibly have taken as a jew--intoxicating wine--at so sacred a service as the sacrament of the lord's supper." [transcriber's note: the asterisks in the preceding paragraph are thus in the book.] it is utterly impossible that jesus christ could have used fermented wine as a symbol of his blood, for in its essential constituents, which are alcohol, vinegar, etc., it bears not the slightest resemblance to blood; whereas unfermented wine, in its essential constituents, which are albumen, sugar, etc., bears the greatest resemblance to blood. this simple fact ought to satisfy every intelligent man. then again, our lord, when he took the cup and blessed and said, "drink ye all of it," knowing that fermented wine was included under the name of wine, and as if foreseeing that his followers might mistake and use intoxicating wine, carefully avoided the use of the word wine at all, and called it the "fruit of the vine," which unfermented wine is and fermented wine is not. it does seem that these facts should satisfy every intelligent, christian man. can there be, my christian brethren, a greater profanation of a holy ordinance than the use of the drunkard's cup as a communion wine, instead of the fruit of the vine? by the use of fermented wine as a communion wine many a man who was struggling to reform his life has been led back to drunkenness and death. i have known of some sad instances. it might be well for some of our clergy to hear and heed the warning voice of the sacred scriptures:-- "'it is not for kings to drink wine, nor princes strong drink, lest they drink and forget the law and pervert the judgment of the afflicted.' here is abstinence enjoined, and the reason for it plainly given. again (lev. x, - ), _it is required of the priests_: 'and the lord spake unto aaron, saying, do not drink wine nor strong drink, thou, nor thy sons with thee, when ye go into the tabernacle of the congregation, lest ye die: it shall be a statute for ever throughout your generations: that ye may put a difference between holy and unholy, and between unclean and clean; and that ye may teach the children of israel all the statutes which the lord hath spoken unto them by the hand of moses.'" "wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging: and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise."--prov. xx, i. no one questions that the wine referred to above as unholy and a mocker and unclean, is fermented wine, and no one supposes for a moment that it is unfermented wine. "but they also have erred through wine, and through strong drink are out of the way; the priest and the prophet have erred through strong drink, they are swallowed up of wine, they are out of the way through strong drink, they err in vision, they stumble in judgment. for all tables are full of vomit and filthiness, so that there is no place clean." (isa. xxviii, , .) how correctly and literally do the above words represent the effects of drinking fermented wine and strong drinks, seen today as of old. o gentlemen of the clergy! beware! beware! "woe to him that giveth his neighbor drink; that putteth thy bottle to him." (hab. ii, , .) you have young and inexperienced men and women and even boys under your charge. may the lord protect them! canon wilberforce on sacramental wines. canon wilberforce is reported by the london _temperance record_ as saying at a recent meeting in england: "he believed if people desired to go back literally and absolutely to the days of the institution of the sacrament, it would be a most difficult thing, if not impossible, to prove that the particular cup which their master took in his hand in that solemn crisis of his life when he instituted the holy eucharist was fermented at all. there was abundant testimony to prove it was not. some went back to primitive authorities. he should like to read one or two which might have weight with them. take for example the testimony of st. cyprian, who wrote in a. d. :-- "'when the lord gives the name of his body to bread, composed of the union of many particles, he indicates that our people, whose sins he bore, are united. and when he calls wine squeezed out from bunches of grapes his blood, he intimates that our flocks are similarly joined by the varied admixture of a united multitude." "this distinctly implied, for all he knew, squeezing bunches of grapes. but there was more important testimony from one man who was considered by a certain party in the church of great value--st. thomas aquinas, a great father of the th century. he said:-- "'the juice of ripe grapes, on the other hand, has already the form of wine; for its sweet taste evidences a mellowing change, which is its completion by natural heat (as it is said in the "meteorologica," iv, , not far from the beginning), and for that reason this sacrament can be fulfilled by the juice of grapes.'" while in egypt in i visited the american missionaries, and asked them what kind of wine they used as a communion wine in their churches. they told me that almost all of their members were from among the copts, who are the descendants from the early christians of egypt, who have been comparatively isolated and separated from the christian world for many centuries, and when they told them that the western christians used fermented wine, or "shop wine," as they called it, they were horrified at the idea, and would not partake of it; so they steeped or soaked raisins in water, and then pressed the juice from them and used that, as has been done by the orthodox jews when they could not obtain pure unfermented wine. i visited the grand patriarch of the coptic church, and through an interpreter he told me that he did the same, and that it was suitable for use the moment that it was pressed from the raisins. the day is not far distant when the members of the western christian churches will be as much horrified at the idea of using fermented wine as a sacramental wine as are the unperverted christians of egypt, and this will occur when our clergy and laity cease to be controlled by either strong confirmations or preconceived ideas or by sensual appetites, and can study the sacred scriptures and ancient history, and science and well-established facts, in the light of reason and common sense, instead of assuming everything which accords with their desires, and ignoring everything which conflicts therewith. again, the writer of the article i am reviewing says:-- "drunkenness is always and everywhere a sin; whether drinking is a sin depends upon circumstances; and whether the circumstances are such as to make drinking sinful, each individual must decide for himself, and answer for his decision, not to a priesthood, a society, or a newspaper press, but to his own conscience and his god." while drunk the drunkard is insane, and when not drunk he is an abject slave. his appetite controls him, soul and body; he will sacrifice his property, his reputation, and the comfort of wife and children to gratify it. if, gentle reader, you have witnessed the struggles which some have witnessed of men striving earnestly to break loose from that habit, you would not be so ready to pronounce drunkenness always a sin; you would hardly dare thus to judge the poor victim. god alone can realize what he suffers. i ask the intelligent reader, in the light of reason and common sense and of the word of god, which is the greater sinner, the man who, after he has witnessed all the wretchedness, sorrows, drunkenness, and deaths which we see around us, deliberately takes his first glass of the fluid which has caused this misery, or continues to drink after he has once commenced, while he has the ability in freedom to restrain his appetite, or the man who, by thus drinking, has lost his freedom and reason, and then drinks to drunkenness? if either is a sinner, can there be any doubt as to which is the greatest sinner? a far greater number, die from steady drinking than from drunkenness; they die from an inability to withstand the ordinary causes of disease, or to resist diseased action when attacked, and vast multitudes die from diseases caused by so-called temperate drinking, short of drunkenness. the statistics of insurance companies show that the average duration of adult human lives is shortened from seventeen to twenty-four per cent. is it no sin to enter upon or to continue such a life? is such deliberate self-murder no sin? and again, no man living who commences and continues drinking can have any assurance that he will not become a drunkard. i well remember when a young man, perhaps eighteen years old, standing on my native new england hills, working upon the highway with a young man three or four years older than myself. i said to him that i thought it was well to make up our minds never to drink intoxicating drinks during health, and to join a temperance society; he differed from me, and he said that when he was tired, or went out in the cold and wet and got chilled, he thought that a little "cider brandy" did him good. "but," he exclaimed with great energy, "the man who cannot restrain his appetite is a fool! if you ever hear of my getting drunk, tell me, and i will quit drinking." i intimated to him that it then might be too late. alas! alas for that young man! he became a drunkard; he spent the farm left by his father; his wife died; his children were scattered among friends; and years after, when i returned to my native town, i was told that he was a pauper at the poorhouse. we are told by the reverend gentleman in the _christian union_ that nature produces alcohol in the juices, as though its production was by a natural and orderly process. the process of fermentation is just as natural as the putrefaction of meat, when not prevented by care, and from an altogether similar cause; and as orderly as the eating of grain by rats if no care is taken to prevent it; and it is a no more natural or orderly process. the writer tells us that:-- "whether the community can properly, without infringing on the liberty of the individual, prohibit all manufacture and sale of alcoholic liquors, is a political question, on which the life and teachings of christ throw no light." a strange statement, indeed! is it not right to prohibit theft, highway robbery, and other evil acts? do christ's teachings throw no light upon such questions? "thou shall love thy neighbor as thyself." in our country the government is by the people and for the people, and voters are responsible for the laws made or unmade; and they should be governed by christ's precepts and not by political cliques. we do not hesitate to enact laws to prohibit druggists and others from selling other well-known poisons to people without the prescription of a physician, for fear they may possibly be used by the purchasers to harm either themselves or others; and i presume the reverend writer does not seriously question the justice and propriety of such laws; yet, strange to say, we license men, and thus give the sanction of the law, to sell fermented wine, beer, and other intoxicating drinks, and allow them to sell tobacco, all deadly poisons, when they know the purchasers will use them to harm themselves and others, and often destroy their lives. yes, we thus license men to sell when we know that these poisons are sold to men and women who are controlled by an unnatural appetite instead of by reason; when it is known that they have harmed and killed more of the human family than all other poisons put together, and that many of the purchasers, to say the least, will certainly use them to destroy health, reason, and their own lives, and to render their own families and all intimately associated with them unspeakably wretched and unhappy. and yet, exclaims the above writer, whether the community can prohibit such sales of alcoholic liquors or not, without infringing on the liberty of the individual, "is a political question, on which the life and teachings of christ throw no light." and the inference is that christians, preachers, and our religious press have nothing to do with this question. "o consistency! thou art a jewel." let stealing become as universal as the selling of intoxicants, and wives and children thereby be deprived of their means of support as extensively as they are by the selling of intoxicants, would the reverend gentleman stand aloof, and represent that the life and teachings of christ throw no light upon the question of prohibiting such a violation of the divine commandments? shall christians stand aloof from enacting laws to prohibit stealing for fear of infringing on the liberty of individual thieves? can crimes be prevented without interfering with the "personal liberty" of criminals to commit crimes? what is stealing when compared to the selling of intoxicating drinks and tobacco as they are sold in our streets, and all over our own and other lands? kind christian parents, which in your estimation would be the greatest crime, and which would you prefer, that a thief should steal from your boy or son, before he is twenty-one years of age, or after you cease to be responsible for him, his money, or that a man should sell cigarettes, beer, fermented wine, or other intoxicants unbeknown to you, and take his money, giving these poisons instead, and thus leading him on step by step, until an unnatural appetite is formed, and he becomes a slave to the use of a poison often before he has reached the age when his rational faculties are fully developed; and when by the use of these poisons the full development of his body is prevented, and his prospects for enjoying good health thereafter and of living to the allotted age of man are most materially lessened. in both instances his money is taken, and we know, by the poverty-stricken men and women and young men we see visiting our saloons, that some of the saloonists, as well as the thief, will take his last penny. which is the greatest crime, to steal a man's money who is under bondage to a perverted appetite, and consequently comparatively irresponsible for his acts, or to sell him the above named poisons, which so seriously prevent development and endanger his health, reason, and life, and which bring such wretchedness and sorrow to so many homes? in both instances the man's money is gone, his wife and children are deprived of the benefit which might result from its legitimate use; but in the one case the man returns to his family a sober, loving husband and father--in the other, perchance, drunk, or on the direct road that leads to drunkenness. in reply to his intimation that the bible permits christians to use fermented wine, but the koran does not allow mohammedans to use it, i would simply intimate to the reverend gentleman that the lord, in his good providence, has permitted, through the koran, the mohammedans to be protected from the drinking of fermented wine and other intoxicating drinks, as he has attempted to protect christians directly by the numerous warnings in his word; but the difference lies right here--the former have heeded the warnings, while the latter have not, and hence the fearful drunkenness prevalent in christian countries. and we see the people of christian countries sending their whiskey into heathen or gentile lands with their missionaries. alas! alas! which is better--to be a good heathen or a drunken christian? a gentleman whom i desired to see resides at constantinople. he is an englishman, and when my wife and myself were there in he had resided there twenty-two years, and had run the largest flouring mill in turkey. we visited his mill, which was about two miles up the golden horn, and he spent an evening with us at the hotel where we were stopping. during our conversation i said to him: "i would like to know about the mohammedan turks: what kind of men are they? in our country you can hardly call a man by a worse name than to call him a turk." he replied that the government officials and those who come much in contact with foreigners are apt to be corrupt enough. "but," he exclaimed with great emphasis, "the laboring turk! the laboring turk has a great future before him!! if i want a man to row me down the golden horn when the weather is rough, or to watch my mills when i am away and asleep, who i know will do his duty faithfully, i always choose a turk instead of a christian." he admitted that the fact that they never drink fermented wine or other intoxicating drinks was one of the causes of their greater reliability. "hon. chauncey m. depew will scarcely be accused of fanaticism on the question of liquor drinking. his opinion as a man of wide observation and knowledge of human nature is valuable even to those who would discount his opinions on the political methods of dealing with the evil. here is mr. depew's experience as stated in a speech before a company of railroad men:-- "'twenty-five years ago i knew every man, woman, and child in peekskill. and it has been a study with me to mark boys who started in every grade of life with myself, to see what has become of them. i was up last fall and began to count them over, and it was an instructive exhibit. some of them became clerks, merchants, manufacturers, lawyers, doctors. _it is remarkable that every one of those that drank is dead;_ not one living of my age. barring a few who were taken off by sickness, _every one who proved a wreck and wrecked his family did it from rum and no other cause_. of those who were church-going people, who were steady, industrious, and hard-working men, who were frugal and thrifty, every single one of them, without an exception, owns the house in which he lives and has something laid by, the interest on which, with his house, would carry him through many a rainy day. when a man becomes debased with gambling, rum, or drink, he does not care; all his finer feelings are crowded out. the poor women at home are the ones who suffer--suffer in their tenderest emotions; suffer in their affections for those whom they love better than life.'"--_the voice_. i think almost every man who is years old, if he will look back and review carefully his youthful acquaintances, can bear almost if not equally as strong testimony as to the effects of intoxicating drinks on human life. it is certain that but a small proportion of the drinkers who died prematurely were drunkards; they were simply what is called temperate drinkers. i fully agree with the reverend writer in the _christian union_ that we should not judge others to be bad or evil men because they do not speak and act just as we think they should, for we cannot see the motives from which their words and acts spring--they are known to the lord alone; but should we not judge whether a man's words and acts are true and useful and in accordance with the divine commandments, or whether they are false and evil and in violation of the commandments? for instance, when we clearly see that the arguments in favor of fermented wine are all based upon assumptions which the most careful investigations by scholars as competent as any in the world show have no foundation in truth, and when we find from historical records that in all ages its use has caused an immense amount of suffering, wretchedness, drunkenness, and an untold number of premature deaths; and we see the same results following its use all around us at this day; and when science teaches us that its use is entirely unnecessary during health, and a direct violation of the laws of health and life; and when in the sacred scriptures fermented wine is likened, as to its effects on man, to the poison of dragons and the cruel venom of asps, and solomon tells us that at last "it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder;"--is it not clearly our duty to show to our fellow-men, and especially to the young, that to commence drinking fermented wine or beer, or to continue to drink so long as we have the power to resist the inclination to drink, is a violation of the commands, thou shalt not kill, thou shalt love the lord thy god supremely, and not the gratification of a perverted appetite; and should we not as clearly as possible point out the truth, and call men to repentance and to the shunning of such evils as sins against god? how else is the world to be reformed and elevated, and the life of the new jerusalem to descend from god out of heaven, and find an abiding place among men? the boy, the young man, and those of all ages, in whom the regenerate life has either not commenced or has barely commenced, cannot be expected to live and act up to the pauline maxim--"if meat cause my brother to offend," etc. satisfy such that fermented wine is not the "cup of devils," but that it derives its life from the lord through heaven instead of through hell, and that it is a good and useful drink, and that it is to be hoped the time will come when it can be safely drank, can they want any greater license for commencing and for continuing the life which leads to drunkenness? no one ever intends to become a drunkard or to destroy his life by drinking. he only drinks enough to satisfy his perverted appetite and to make him feel good; that is all. now, dear christian reader, what can be more unfortunate for the christian church than for clergymen standing high in the church, as do several who have written in favor of fermented wine, to write when they possess _only_ such an extremely superficial knowledge of the wine question, in its biblical, historical, scientific, and medical aspects, as is manifested in the article under review, and several others which have been printed and circulated within a few years? and how unfortunate that such articles should ever be published in religious periodicals that enter the homes where dwell children, and the young and innocent as well as drinkers! i thank the lord that no religious paper bearing such seductive messages ever entered my father's house as i approached manhood. the greatest obstacle which the grand temperance reformation has to encounter to-day is the stand publicly taken by so many of our clergy and religious periodicals in favor of fermented wine as a good and useful drink, and the use of intoxicating wine as a communion wine in so many of our churches. but the true light has come into the world, and it will shine more and more until the perfect day. as to tea and coffee, while they can hardly be compared with intoxicating drinks, tobacco, and opium, as to their injurious effects on man when he uses them, yet they are very far from being harmless; for, like the other poisons named, their use begets an unnatural appetite which healthy fluids will not satisfy, and they cause symptoms and diseases characteristic of the fluid taken. tea causes sleeplessness, palpitation of the heart, and other symptoms, while coffee causes the "coffee headache," often destroys the morning appetite; if given to children, interferes with their development, interferes with digestion, and causes a variety of nervous symptoms about the chest and stomach. parents make a great mistake and do their children great injustice when they allow them to taste of tea or coffee before they are twenty-one years of age, or until they have passed out from their control. if the young can be kept from becoming enslaved by such habits, and consequently remain in freedom, until their rational faculties are fully developed, in the increasing light of this new day, it will not be difficult for them to see that all such substances should be avoided. they do not add to one's enjoyment, for they, like intoxicants, tobacco, and all stimulating condiments, destroy or seriously impair the natural delicacy of taste with which the lord has endowed us, when we eat or drink wholesome and needed articles of food. i am seventy-six years of age, yet i never had a better appetite, and food never tasted better than it does to-day; and i attribute this to my having so generally avoided improper articles of food and drink. after a most patient and careful examination of both sides of the wine question in the light of divine revelation, ancient history and of science, for many years, and after having witnessed the fearful demoralization, the wretchedness and sorrow, the diseases and deaths which result from drinking fermented wine and other intoxicants, nothing so surprises me, and discourages me, in regard to the immediate future of the american people, as the pertinacity and persistency with which so many of the clergy of our country, without any careful examination of both sides of this question, are striving to justify the use of fermented wine as a beverage and even as a communion wine. instead of assuming and ignoring everything, let the advocates of fermented wine answer the following inquiry by the rev. dr. eliphalet nott, president of union college: "can the same thing, in the same state, be good and bad; a symbol of wrath and a symbol of mercy; a thing to be sought after and a thing to be avoided? certainly not. and is the bible, then, inconsistent with itself? no, certainly." proofreading team note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) grappling with the monster or, the curse and the cure of strong drink by t. s. arthur author of "ten nights in a bar-room," "three years in a man-trap," "cast adrift," "danger," etc. [illustration: in the monster's clutches. body and brain on fire.] introduction. in preparing this, his latest volume, the author found himself embarrassed from the beginning, because of the large amount of material which came into his hands, and the consequent difficulty of selection and condensation. there is not a chapter which might not have been extended to twice its present length, nor a fact stated, or argument used, which might not have been supplemented by many equally pertinent and conclusive. the extent to which alcohol curses the whole people cannot be shown in a few pages: the sad and terrible history would fill hundreds of volumes. and the same may be said of the curse which this poisonous substance lays upon the souls and bodies of men. fearful as is the record which will be found in the chapters devoted to the curse of drink, let the reader bear in mind that a thousandth part has not been told. in treating of the means of reformation, prevention and cure, our effort has been to give to each agency the largest possible credit for what it is doing. there is no movement, organization or work, however broad or limited in its sphere, which has for its object the cure of drunkenness in the individual, or the suppression of the liquor traffic in the state, that is not contributing its measure of service to the great cause every true temperance advocate has at heart; and what we largely need is, toleration for those who do not see with us, nor act with us in our special methods. let us never forget the divine admonition--"forbid him not: for he that is not against us is for us." patience, toleration and self-repression are of vital importance in any good cause. if we cannot see with another, let us be careful that, by opposition, we do not cripple him in his work. if we can assist him by friendly counsel to clearer seeing, or, by a careful study of his methods, gain a large efficiency for our own, far more good will be done than by hard antagonism, which rarely helps, and too surely blinds and hinders. our book treats of the curse and cure of drunkenness. how much better not to come under the terrible curse! how much better to run no risks where the malady is so disastrous, and the cure so difficult! to young men who are drifting easily into the dangerous drinking habits of society, we earnestly commend the chapters in which will be found the medical testimony against alcohol, and also the one on "the growth and power of appetite." they will see that it is impossible for a man to use alcoholic drinks regularly without laying the foundation for both physical and mental diseases, and, at the same time, lessening his power to make the best of himself in his life-work; while beyond this lies the awful risk of acquiring an appetite which may enslave, degrade and ruin him, body and soul, as it is degrading and ruining its tens of thousands yearly. it is sincerely hoped that many may be led by the facts here presented, to grapple with the monster and to thus promote his final overthrow. contents. chapter i. the monster, strong drink chapter ii. it curses the body chapter iii. it curses the body--continued chapter iv. it curses the soul chapter v. not a food, and very limited in its range as a medicine chapter vi. the growth and power of appetite chapter vii. means of cure chapter viii. inebriate asylums chapter ix. reformatory homes chapter x. tobacco as an incitant to the use of alcoholic stimulants, and an obstacle in the way of a permanent reformation chapter xi. the woman's crusade chapter xii. the woman's national christian temperance union chapter xiii. reform clubs chapter xiv. gospel temperance chapter xv. temperance coffee-houses and friendly inns chapter xvi. temperance literature chapter xvii. license a failure and a disgrace chapter xviii. prohibition list of illustrations. in the monster's clutches god's best beverage, pure water heaping burdens upon poverty an utter wreck "take warning by my career" crazed by drink alcohol and gambling ( _sequence pictures_) four stages of the downward course a victim of the drinking club financial view of the license system _"woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink, that puttest thy bottle to him, and makest him drunken also._"--habakkuk ii, . chapter i. the monster, strong drink. there are two remarkable passages in a very old book, known as the proverbs of solomon, which cannot be read too often, nor pondered too deeply. let us quote them here: . "wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging; and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise." . "who hath woe? who hath sorrow? who hath contentions? who hath babblings? who hath wounds without cause? who hath, redness of eyes? they that tarry long at the wine; they that go to seek mixed wine. look not thou upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth his color in the cup, when it moveth itself aright. at the last it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder." it is many thousands of years since this record was made, and to-day, as in that far distant age of the world, wine is a mocker, and strong drink raging; and still, as then, they who tarry long at the wine; who go to seek mixed wine, discover that, "_at the last_," it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder. this mocking and raging! these bitings and stingings! these woes and woundings! alas, for the exceeding bitter cry of their pain, which is heard above every other cry of sorrow and suffering. alcohol an enemy. the curse of strong drink! where shall we begin, where end, or how, in the clear and truthful sentences that wrest conviction from doubt, make plain the allegations we shall bring against an enemy that is sowing disease, poverty, crime and sorrow throughout the land? among our most intelligent, respectable and influential people, this enemy finds a welcome and a place of honor. indeed, with many he is regarded as a friend and treated as such. every possible opportunity is given him to gain favor in the household and with intimate and valued friends. he is given the amplest confidence and the largest freedom; and he always repays this confidence with treachery and spoliation; too often blinding and deceiving his victims while his work of robbery goes on. he is not only a robber, but a cruel master; and his bondsmen and abject slaves are to be found in hundreds and thousands, and even tens of thousands, of our homes, from the poor dwelling of the day-laborer, up to the palace of the merchant-prince. place and power in the household. of this fact no one is ignorant; and yet, strange to tell, large numbers of our most intelligent, respectable and influential people continue to smile upon this enemy; to give him place and power in their households, and to cherish him as a friend; but with this singular reserve of thought and purpose, that he is to be trusted just so far and no farther. he is so pleasant and genial, that, for the sake of his favor, they are ready to encounter the risk of his acquiring, through the license they afford, the vantage-ground of a pitiless enemy! but, it is not only in their social life that the people hold this enemy in favorable regard, and give him the opportunity to hurt and destroy. our great republic has entered into a compact with him, and, for a money-consideration, given him the freedom of the nation; so that he can go up and down the land at will. and not only has our great republic done this but the states of which it is composed, with only one or two exceptions, accord to him the same freedom. still more surprising, in almost every town and city, his right to plunder, degrade, enslave and destroy the people has been established under the safe guarantee of law. let us give ourselves to the sober consideration of what we are suffering at his hands, and take measures of defense and safety, instead of burying our heads in the sand, like the foolish, ostrich, while the huntsmen are sweeping down upon us. enormous consumption. only those who have given the subject careful consideration have any true idea of the enormous annual consumption, in this country, of spirits, wines and malt liquors. dr. hargreaves, in "our wasted resources," gives these startling figures: it amounted in to , , gallons of domestic spirits, , , gallons of fermented liquors, , , gallons of imported spirits, , , gallons of wines, , gallons of spirituous compounds, and , , gallons of ale, beer, etc., or a total of , , gallons for , with a total increase of , , gallons in , and of , , gallons in addition in . all this in a single year, and at a cost variously estimated at from six to seven hundred millions of dollars! or, a sum, as statistics tell us, nearly equal to the cost of all the flour, cotton and woolen goods, boots and shoes, clothing, and books and newspapers purchased by the people in the same period of time. if this were all the cost? if the people wasted no more than seven hundred millions of dollars on these beverages every year, the question of their use would be only one of pecuniary loss or gain. but what farther, in connection with this subject, are we told by statistics? why, that, in consequence of using these beverages, we have six hundred thousand drunkards; and that of these, sixty thousand die every year. that we have over three hundred murders and four hundred suicides. that over two hundred thousand children are left homeless and friendless. and that at least eighty per cent. of all the crime and pauperism of the land arises from the consumption of this enormous quantity of intoxicating drinks. in this single view, the question of intemperance assumes a most appalling aspect. the poverty and destitution found in so large a portion of our laboring classes, and their consequent restlessness and discontent, come almost entirely from the waste of substance, idleness and physical incapacity for work, which attend the free use of alcoholic beverages. of the six or seven hundred millions of dollars paid annually for these beverages, not less than two-thirds are taken out of the earnings of our artisans and laborers, and those who, like them, work for wages. loss to labor. but the loss does not, of course, stop here. the consequent waste of bodily vigor, and the idleness that is ever the sure accompaniment of drinking, rob this class of at least as much more. total abstinence societies, building associations, and the use of banks for savings, instead of the dram-sellers' banks for losings, would do more for the well-being of our working classes than all the trades-unions or labor combinations, that ever have or ever will exist. the laboring man's protective union lies in his own good common sense, united with temperance, self-denial and economy. there are very many in our land who know this way; and their condition, as compared with those who know it not, or knowing, will not walk therein, is found to be in striking contrast. taxation. besides the wasting drain for drink, and the loss in national wealth, growing out of the idleness and diminished power for work, that invariably follows the use of alcohol in any of its forms, the people are heavily taxed for the repression and punishment of crimes, and the support of paupers and destitute children. a fact or two will give the reader some idea of what this enormous cost must be. in "the twentieth annual report of the executive committee of the prison association of new york," is this sentence: "there can be no doubt that, of all the proximate sources of crime, the use of intoxicating liquors is the most prolific and the most deadly. of other causes it may be said that they slay their thousands; of this it may be acknowledged that it slays its tens of thousands. the committee asked for the opinion of the jail officers in nearly every county in the state as to the proportion of commitments due, either directly or indirectly, to strong drink." the whole number of commitments is given in these words: "not less than , to , [or the sixtieth portion of the inhabitants of the state of new york] human beings--men, women and children--either guilty, or arrested on suspicion of being guilty of crime, pass every year through these institutions." the answers made to the committee by the jail officers, varied from two-thirds as the lowest, to nine-tenths as the highest; and, on taking the average of their figures, it gave seven-eighths as the proportion of commitments for crime directly ascribed to the use of intoxicating drinks! taking this as the proportion of those who are made criminals through intemperance, let us get at some estimate of the cost to tax-payers. we find it stated in tract no. , issued by the national temperance society, that "a committee was appointed by the ulster county temperance society, in , for the express purpose of ascertaining, from reliable sources, the percentage on every dollar tax paid to the county to support her paupers and criminal justice. the committee, after due examination, came to the conclusion that upwards of sixty cents on the dollar was for the above purpose. this amount was required, _according to law_, to be paid by every tax-payer as a _penalty, or rather as a rum bill_, for allowing the liquor traffic to be carried on in the above county. what is said of ulster county, may, more or less, if a like examination were entered into, be said of every other county, not only in the state of new york, but in every county in the united states." from the same tract we take this statement: "in a document published by the legislature of the state of new york, for , being the report of the secretary of the state to the legislature, we have the following statements: 'the whole number of paupers relieved during the same period, was , . during the year , , .' these numbers would be in the ratio of one pauper annually to every fifteen inhabitants throughout the state. in an examination made into the history of those paupers by a competent committee, _seven-eighths of them were reduced_ to this low and degraded condition, directly or indirectly, through intemperance." cursing the poor. looking at our laboring classes, with the fact before us, that the cost of the liquor sold annually by retail dealers is equal to nearly $ for every man, woman and child in our whole population, and we can readily see why so much destitution is to be found among them. throwing out those who abstain altogether; the children, and a large proportion of women, and those who take a glass only now and then, and it will be seen that for the rest the average of cost must be more than treble. among working men who drink the cheaper beverages, the ratio of cost to each cannot fall short of a hundred dollars a year. with many, drink consumes from a fourth to one-half of their entire earnings. is it, then, any wonder that so much poverty and suffering are to be found among them? crime and pauperism. the causes that produce crime and pauperism in our own country, work the same disastrous results in other lands where intoxicants are used. an english writer, speaking of the sad effects of intemperance in great britain, says: "one hundred million pounds, which is now annually wasted, is a sum as great as was spent in seven years upon all the railways of the kingdom--in the very heyday of railway projects; a sum so vast, that if saved annually, for seven years, would blot out the national debt!" another writer says, "that in the year , over £ , , , or a tenth part of the whole national revenue, was required to support her paupers." dr. lees, of london, in speaking of ireland, says: "ireland has been a poor nation from want of capital, and has wanted capital chiefly because the people have preferred swallowing it to saving it." the rev. g. holt, chaplain of the birmingham workhouse, says: "from my own experience, i am convinced of the accuracy of a statement made by the late governor, that of every one hundred persons admitted, ninety-nine were reduced to this state of humiliation and dependence, either directly or indirectly, through the prevalent and ruinous drinking usages." [illustration: heaping burdens upon poverty.] mr. charles buxton, m.p., in his pamphlet, "how to stop drunkenness," says: "it would not be too much to say that if all drinking of fermented liquors could be done away, crime of every kind would fall to a fourth of its present amount, and the whole tone of moral feeling in the lower order might be indefinitely raised. not only does this vice produce all kinds of wanton mischief, but it has also a negative effect of great importance. it is the mightiest of all the forces that clog the progress of good. * * * the struggle of the school, the library and the church, all united against the beer-shop and the gin-palace, is but one development of the war between heaven and hell. it is, in short, intoxication that fills our jails; it is intoxication that fills our lunatic asylums; it is intoxication that fills our work-houses with poor. were it not for this one cause, pauperism would be nearly extinguished in england." the blight everywhere. we could go on and fill pages with corroborative facts and figures, drawn from the most reliable sources. but these are amply sufficient to show the extent and magnitude of the curse which the liquor traffic has laid upon our people. its blight is everywhere--on our industries, on our social life; on our politics, and even on our religion. and, now, let us take the individual man himself, and see in what manner this treacherous enemy deals with him when he gets him into his power. chapter ii. it curses the body. first as to the body. one would suppose, from the marred and scarred, and sometimes awfully disfigured forms and faces of men who have indulged in intoxicating drinks, which are to be seen everywhere and among all classes of society, that there would be no need of other testimony to show that alcohol is an enemy to the body. and yet, strange to say, men of good sense, clear judgment and quick perception in all moral questions and in the general affairs of life, are often so blind, or infatuated here, as to affirm that this substance, alcohol, which they use under the various forms of wine, brandy, whisky, gin, ale or beer, is not only harmless, when taken in moderation--each being his own judge as to what "moderation" means--but actually useful and nutritious! until within the last fifteen or twenty years, a large proportion of the medical profession not only favored this view, but made constant prescription of alcohol in one form or another, the sad results of which too often made their appearance in exacerbations of disease, or in the formation of intemperate habits among their patients. since then, the chemist and the physiologist have subjected alcohol to the most rigid tests, carried on often for years, and with a faithfulness that could not be satisfied with guess work, or inference, or hasty conclusion. alcohol not a food and of doubtful use as a medicine. as a result of these carefully-conducted and long-continued examinations and experiments, the medical profession stands to-day almost as a unit against alcohol; and makes solemn public declaration to the people that it "is not shown to have a definite food value by any of the usual methods of chemical analysis or physiological investigations;" and that as a medicine its range is very limited, admitting often of a substitute, and that it should never be taken unless prescribed by a physician. reports of these investigations to which we have referred have appeared, from time to time, in the medical journals of europe and america, and their results are now embodied in many of the standard and most reliable treatises and text-books of the medical profession. in this chapter we shall endeavor to give our readers a description of the changes and deteriorations which take place in the blood, nerves, membranes, tissues and organs, in consequence of the continued introduction of alcohol into the human body; and in doing so, we shall quote freely from medical writers, in order that our readers may have the testimony before them in its directest form, and so be able to judge for themselves as to its value. digestion. and here, in order to give those who are not familiar with, the process of digestion, a clear idea of that important operation, and the effect produced when alcohol is taken with food, we quote from the lecture of an english physician, dr. henry monroe, on "the physiological action of alcohol." he says: "every kind of substance employed by man as food consists of sugar, starch, oil and glutinous matters, mingled together in various proportions; these are designed for the support of the animal frame. the glutinous principles of food--_fibrine, albumen_ and _casein_--are employed to build up the structure; while the _oil, starch_ and _sugar_ are chiefly used to generate heat in the body. "the first step of the digestive process is the breaking up of the food in the mouth by means of the jaws and teeth. on this being done, the saliva, a viscid liquor, is poured into the mouth from the salivary glands, and as it mixes with the food, it performs a very important part in the operation of digestion, rendering the starch of the food soluble, and gradually changing it into a sort of sugar, after which the other principles become more miscible with it. nearly a pint of saliva is furnished every twenty-four hours for the use of an adult. when the food has been masticated and mixed with the saliva, it is then passed into the stomach, where it is acted upon by a juice secreted by the filaments of that organ, and poured into the stomach in large quantities whenever food comes in contact with its mucous coats. it consists of a dilute acid known to the chemists as hydrochloric acid, composed of hydrogen and chlorine, united together in certain definite proportions. the gastric juice contains, also, a peculiar organic-ferment or decomposing substance, containing nitrogen--something of the nature of yeast--termed _pepsine_, which is easily soluble in the acid just named. that gastric juice acts as a simple chemical solvent, is proved by the fact that, after death, it has been known to dissolve the stomach itself." alcohol retards digestion. "it is an error to suppose that, after a good dinner, a glass of spirits or beer assists digestion; or that any liquor containing alcohol--even bitter beer--can in any way assist digestion. mix some bread and meat with gastric juice; place them in a phial, and keep that phial in a sand-bath at the slow heat of degrees, occasionally shaking briskly the contents to imitate the motion of the stomach; you will find, after six or eight hours, the whole contents blended into one pultaceous mass. if to another phial of food and gastric juice, treated in the same way, i add a glass of pale ale or a quantity of alcohol, at the end of seven or eight hours, or even some days, the food is scarcely acted upon at all. this is a fact; and if you are led to ask why, i answer, because alcohol has the peculiar power of chemically affecting or decomposing the gastric juice by precipitating one of its principal constituents, viz., pepsine, rendering its solvent properties much less efficacious. hence alcohol can not be considered either as food or as a solvent for food. not as the latter certainly, for it refuses to act with the gastric juice. "'it is a remarkable fact,' says dr. dundas thompson, 'that alcohol, when added to the digestive fluid, produces a white precipitate, so that the fluid is no longer capable of digesting animal or vegetable matter.' 'the use of alcoholic stimulants,' say drs. todd and bowman, 'retards digestion by coagulating the pepsine, an essential element of the gastric juice, and thereby interfering with its action. were it not that wine and spirits are rapidly absorbed, the introduction of these into the stomach, in any quantity, would be a complete bar to the digestion of food, as the pepsine would be precipitated from the solution as quickly as it was formed by the stomach.' spirit, in any quantity, as a dietary adjunct, is pernicious on account of its antiseptic qualities, which resist the digestion of food by the absorption of water from its particles, in direct antagonism to chemical operation." its effect on the blood. dr. richardson, in his lectures on alcohol, given both in england and america, speaking of the action of this substance on the blood after passing from the stomach, says: "suppose, then, a certain measure of alcohol be taken into the stomach, it will be absorbed there, but, previous to absorption, it will have to undergo a proper degree of dilution with water, for there is this peculiarity respecting alcohol when it is separated by an animal membrane from a watery fluid like the blood, that it will not pass through the membrane until it has become charged, to a given point of dilution, with water. it is itself, in fact, _so greedy for water, it will pick it up from watery textures, and deprive them of it until, by its saturation, its power of reception is exhausted_, after which it will diffuse into the current of circulating fluid." it is this power of absorbing water from every texture with which alcoholic spirits comes in contact, that creates the burning thirst of those who freely indulge in its use. its effect, when it reaches the circulation, is thus described by dr. richardson: "as it passes through the circulation of the lungs it is exposed to the air, and some little of it, raised into vapor by the natural heat, is thrown off in expiration. if the quantity of it be large, this loss may be considerable, and the odor of the spirit may be detected in the expired breath. if the quantity be small, the loss will be comparatively little, as the spirit will be held in solution by the water in the blood. after it has passed through the lungs, and has been driven by the left heart over the arterial circuit, it passes into what is called the minute circulation, or the structural circulation of the organism. the arteries here extend into very small vessels, which are called arterioles, and from these infinitely small vessels spring the equally minute radicals or roots of the veins, which are ultimately to become the great rivers bearing the blood back to the heart. in its passage through this minute circulation the alcohol finds its way to every organ. to this brain, to these muscles, to these secreting or excreting organs, nay, even into this bony structure itself, it moves with the blood. in some of these parts which are not excreting, it remains for a time diffused, and in those parts where there is a large percentage of water, it remains longer than in other parts. from some organs which have an open tube for conveying fluids away, as the liver and kidneys, it is thrown out or eliminated, and in this way a portion of it is ultimately removed from the body. the rest passing round and round with the circulation, is probably decomposed and carried off in new forms of matter. "when we know the course which the alcohol takes in its passage through the body, from the period of its absorption to that of its elimination, we are the better able to judge what physical changes it induces in the different organs and structures with which it comes in contact. it first reaches the blood; but, as a rule, the quantity of it that enters is insufficient to produce any material effect on that fluid. if, however, the dose taken be poisonous or semi-poisonous, then even the blood, rich as it is in water--and it contains seven hundred and ninety parts in a thousand--is affected. the alcohol is diffused through this water, and there it comes in contact with the other constituent parts, with the fibrine, that plastic substance which, when blood is drawn, clots and coagulates, and which is present in the proportion of from two to three parts in a thousand; with the albumen which exists in the proportion of seventy parts; with the salts which yield about ten parts; with the fatty matters; and lastly, with those minute, round bodies which float in myriads in the blood (which were discovered by the dutch philosopher, leuwenhock, as one of the first results of microscopical observation, about the middle of the seventeenth century), and which are called the blood globules or corpuscles. these last-named bodies are, in fact, cells; their discs, when natural, have a smooth outline, they are depressed in the centre, and they are red in color; the color of the blood being derived from them. we have discovered in recent years that there exist other corpuscles or cells in the blood in much smaller quantity, which are called white cells, and these different cells float in the blood-stream within the vessels. the red take the centre of the stream; the white lie externally near the sides of the vessels, moving less quickly. our business is mainly with the red corpuscles. they perform the most important functions in the economy; they absorb, in great part, the oxygen which we inhale in breathing, and carry it to the extreme tissues of the body; they absorb, in great part, the carbonic acid gas which is produced in the combustion of the body in the extreme tissues, and bring that gas back to the lungs to be exchanged for oxygen there; in short, they are the vital instruments of the circulation. "with all these parts of the blood, with the water, fibrine, albumen, salts, fatty matter and corpuscles, the alcohol comes in contact when it enters the blood, and, if it be in sufficient quantity, it produces disturbing action. i have watched this disturbance very carefully on the blood corpuscles; for, in some animals we can see these floating along during life, and we can also observe them from men who are under the effects of alcohol, by removing a speck of blood, and examining it with the microscope. the action of the alcohol, when it is observable, is varied. it may cause the corpuscles to run too closely together, and to adhere in rolls; it may modify their outline, making the clear-defined, smooth, outer edge irregular or crenate, or even starlike; it may change the round corpuscle into the oval form, or, in very extreme cases, it may produce what i may call a truncated form of corpuscles, in which the change is so great that if we did not trace it through all its stages, we should be puzzled to know whether the object looked at were indeed a blood-cell. all these changes are due to the action of the spirit upon the water contained in the corpuscles; upon the capacity of the spirit to extract water from them. during every stage of modification of corpuscles thus described, their function to absorb and fix gases is impaired, and when the aggregation of the cells, in masses, is great, other difficulties arise, for the cells, united together, pass less easily than they should through the minute vessels of the lungs and of the general circulation, and impede the current, by which local injury is produced. "a further action upon the blood, instituted by alcohol in excess, is upon the fibrine or the plastic colloidal matter. on this the spirit may act in two different ways, according to the degree in which it affects the water that holds the fibrine in solution. it may fix the water with the fibrine, and thus destroy the power of coagulation; or it may extract the water so determinately as to produce coagulation." on the minute circulation. the doctor then goes on to describe the minute circulation through which the constructive material in the blood is distributed to every part of the body. "from this distribution of blood in these minute vessels," he says, "the structure of organs derive their constituent parts; through these vessels brain matter, muscle, gland, membrane, are given out from the blood by a refined process of selection of material, which, up to this time, is only so far understood as to enable us to say that it exists. the minute and intermediate vessels are more intimately connected than any other part with the construction and with the function of the living matter of which the body is composed. think you that this mechanism is left uncontrolled? no; the vessels, small as they are, are under distinct control. infinitely refined in structure, they nevertheless have the power of contraction and dilatation, which power is governed by nervous action of a special kind." now, there are certain chemical agents, which, by their action on the nerves, have the power to paralyze and relax these minute blood-vessels, at their extreme points. "the whole series of nitrates," says dr. richardson, "possess this power; ether possesses it; but the great point i wish to bring forth is, that the substance we are specially dealing with, alcohol, possesses the self-same power. by this influence it produces all those peculiar effects which in every-day life are so frequently illustrated." paralyzes the minute blood-vessels. it paralyzes the minute blood-vessels, and allows them to become dilated with the flowing blood. "if you attend a large dinner party, you will observe, after the first few courses, when the wine is beginning to circulate, a progressive change in some of those about you who have taken wine. the face begins to get flushed, the eye brightens, and the murmur of conversation becomes loud. what is the reason of that flushing of the countenance? it is the same as the flush from blushing, or from the reaction of cold, or from the nitrite of amyl. it is the dilatation of vessels following upon the reduction of nervous control, which reduction has been induced by the alcohol. in a word, the first stage, the stage of vascular excitement from alcohol, has been established." heart disturbance. "the action of the alcohol extending so far does not stop there. with the disturbance of power in the extreme vessels, more disturbance is set up in other organs, and the first organ that shares in it is the heart. with each beat of the heart a certain degree of resistance is offered by the vessels when their nervous supply is perfect, and the stroke of the heart is moderated in respect both to tension and to time. but when the vessels are rendered relaxed, the resistance is removed, the heart begins to run quicker, like a watch from which the pallets have been removed, and the heart-stroke, losing nothing in force, is greatly increased in frequency, with a weakened recoil stroke. it is easy to account, in this manner, for the quickened heart and pulse which accompany the first stage of deranged action from alcohol, and you will be interested to know to what extent this increase of vascular action proceeds. the information on this subject is exceedingly curious and important." * * * * * "the stage of primary excitement of the circulation thus induced lasts for a considerable time, but at length the heart flags from its overaction, and requires the stimulus of more spirit to carry it on in its work. let us take what we may call a moderate amount of alcohol, say two ounces by volume, in form of wine, or beer, or spirits. what is called strong sherry or port may contain as much as twenty-five per cent. by volume. brandy over fifty; gin, thirty-eight; rum, forty-eight; whisky, forty-three; vin ordeinaire, eight; strong ale, fourteen; champagne, ten to eleven; it matters not which, if the quantity of alcohol be regulated by the amount present in the liquor imbibed. when we reach the two ounces, a distinct physiological effect follows, leading on to that first stage of excitement with which we are now conversant. the reception of the spirit arrested at this point, there need be no important mischief done to the organism; but if the quantity imbibed be increased, further changes quickly occur. we have seen that all the organs of the body are built upon the vascular structures, and therefore it follows that a prolonged paralysis of the minute circulation must of necessity lead to disturbance in other organs than the heart." other organs involved. "by common observation, the flush seen on the cheek during the first stage of alcoholic excitation, is presumed to extend merely to the parts actually exposed to view. it cannot, however, be too forcibly impressed that the condition is universal in the body. if the lungs could be seen, they, too, would be found with their vessels injected; if the brain and spinal cord could be laid open to view, they would be discovered in the same condition; if the stomach, the liver, the spleen, the kidneys or any other vascular organs or parts could be exposed, the vascular engorgement would be equally manifest. in the lower animals, i have been able to witness this extreme vascular condition in the lungs, and there are here presented to you two drawings from nature, showing, one the lungs in a natural state of an animal killed by a sudden blow, the other the lungs of an animal killed equally suddenly, but at a time when it was under the influence of alcohol. you will see, as if you were looking at the structures themselves, how different they are in respect to the blood which they contained, how intensely charged with blood is the lung in which the vessels had been paralyzed by the alcoholic spirit." effect on the brain. "i once had the unusual, though unhappy, opportunity of observing the same phenomenon in the brain structure of a man, who, in a paroxysm of alcoholic excitement, decapitated himself under the wheel of a railway carriage, and whose brain was instantaneously evolved from the skull by the crash. the brain itself, entire, was before me within three minutes after the death. it exhaled the odor of spirit most distinctly, and its membranes and minute structures were vascular in the extreme. it looked as if it had been recently injected with vermilion. the white matter of the cerebrum, studded with red points, could scarcely be distinguished, when it was incised, by its natural whiteness; and the pia-mater, or internal vascular membrane covering the brain, resembled a delicate web of coagulated red blood, so tensely were its fine vessels engorged. "i should add that this condition extended through both the larger and the smaller brain, the cerebrum and cerebellum, but was not so marked in the medulla or commencing portion of the spinal cord." the spinal cord and nerves. "the action of alcohol continued beyond the first stage, the function of the spinal cord is influenced. through this part of the nervous system we are accustomed, in health, to perform automatic acts of a mechanical kind, which proceed systematically even when we are thinking or speaking on other subjects. thus a skilled workman will continue his mechanical work perfectly, while his mind is bent on some other subject; and thus we all perform various acts in a purely automatic way, without calling in the aid of the higher centres, except something more than ordinary occurs to demand their service, upon which we think before we perform. under alcohol, as the spinal centres become influenced, these pure automatic acts cease to be correctly carried on. that the hand may reach any object, or the foot be correctly planted, the higher intellectual centre must be invoked to make the proceeding secure. there follows quickly upon this a deficient power of co-ordination of muscular movement. the nervous control of certain of the muscles is lost, and the nervous stimulus is more or less enfeebled. the muscles of the lower lip in the human subject usually fail first of all, then the muscles of the lower limbs, and it is worthy of remark that the extensor muscles give way earlier than the flexors. the muscles themselves, by this time, are also failing in power; they respond more feebly than is natural to the nervous stimulus; they, too, are coming under the depressing influence of the paralyzing agent, their structure is temporarily deranged, and their contractile power reduced. "this modification of the animal functions under alcohol, marks the second degree of its action. in young subjects, there is now, usually, vomiting with faintness, followed by gradual relief from the burden of the poison." [illustration: an utter wreck.] effect on the brain centres. "the alcoholic spirit carried yet a further degree, the cerebral or brain centres become influenced; they are reduced in power, and the controlling influences of will and of judgment are lost. as these centres are unbalanced and thrown into chaos, the rational part of the nature of the man gives way before the emotional, passional or organic part. the reason is now off duty, or is fooling with duty, and all the mere animal instincts and sentiments are laid atrociously bare. the coward shows up more craven, the braggart more boastful, the cruel more merciless, the untruthful more false, the carnal more degraded. '_in vino veritas_' expresses, even, indeed, to physiological accuracy, the true condition. the reason, the emotions, the instincts, are all in a state of carnival, and in chaotic feebleness. "finally, the action of the alcohol still extending, the superior brain centres are overpowered; the senses are beclouded, the voluntary muscular prostration is perfected, sensibility is lost, and the body lies a mere log, dead by all but one-fourth, on which alone its life hangs. the heart still remains true to its duty, and while it just lives it feeds the breathing power. and so the circulation and the respiration, in the otherwise inert mass, keeps the mass within the bare domain of life until the poison begins to pass away and the nervous centres to revive again. it is happy for the inebriate that, as a rule, the brain fails so long before the heart that he has neither the power nor the sense to continue his process of destruction up to the act of death of his circulation. therefore he lives to die another day. * * * * * "such is an outline of the primary action of alcohol on those who may be said to be unaccustomed to it, or who have not yet fallen into a fixed habit of taking it: for a long time the organism will bear these perversions of its functions without apparent injury, but if the experiment be repeated too often and too long, if it be continued after the term of life when the body is fully developed, when the elasticity of the membranes and of the blood-vessels is lessened, and when the tone of the muscular fibre is reduced, then organic series of structural changes, so characteristic of the persistent effects of spirit, become prominent and permanent. then the external surface becomes darkened and congested, its vessels, in parts, visibly large; the skin becomes blotched, the proverbial red nose is defined, and those other striking vascular changes which disfigure many who may probably be called moderate alcoholics, are developed. these changes, belonging, as they do, to external surfaces, come under direct observation; they are accompanied with certain other changes in the internal organs, which we shall show to be more destructive still." chapter iii. it curses the body.--continued. we have quoted thus freely in the preceding chapter, in order that the intelligent and thoughtful reader, who is really seeking for the truth in regard to the physical action of alcohol, may be able to gain clear impressions on the subject. the specific changes wrought by this substance on the internal organs are of a most serious character, and should be well understood by all who indulge habitually in its use. effect on the membranes. the parts which first suffer from alcohol are those expansions of the body which the anatomists call the membranes. "the skin is a membranous envelope. through the whole of the alimentary surface, from the lips downward, and through the bronchial passages to their minutest ramifications, extends the mucous membrane. the lungs, the heart, the liver, the kidneys are folded in delicate membranes, which can be stripped easily from these parts. if you take a portion of bone, you will find it easy to strip off from it a membranous sheath or covering; if you examine a joint, you will find both the head and the socket lined with membranes. the whole of the intestines are enveloped in a fine membrane called _peritoneum_. all the muscles are enveloped in membranes, and the fasciculi, or bundles and fibres of muscles, have their membranous sheathing. the brain and spinal cord are enveloped in three membranes; one nearest to themselves, a pure vascular structure, a net-work of blood-vessels; another, a thin serous structure; a third, a strong fibrous structure. the eyeball is a structure of colloidal humors and membranes, and of nothing else. to complete the description, the minute structures of the vital organs are enrolled in membranous matter." these membranes are the filters of the body. "in their absence there could be no building of structure, no solidification of tissue, nor organic mechanism. passive themselves, they, nevertheless, separate all structures into their respective positions and adaptations." membranous deteriorations. in order to make perfectly clear to the reader's mind the action and use of these membranous expansions, and the way in which alcohol deteriorates them, and obstructs their work, we quote again from dr. richardson: "the animal receives from the vegetable world and from the earth the food and drink it requires for its sustenance and motion. it receives colloidal food for its muscles: combustible food for its motion; water for the solution of its various parts; salt for constructive and other physical purposes. these have all to be arranged in the body; and they are arranged by means of the membranous envelopes. through these membranes nothing can pass that is not, for the time, in a state of aqueous solution, like water or soluble salts. water passes freely through them, salts pass freely through them, but the constructive matter of the active parts that is colloidal does not pass; it is retained in them until it is chemically decomposed into the soluble type of matter. when we take for our food a portion of animal flesh, it is first resolved, in digestion, into a soluble fluid before it can be absorbed; in the blood it is resolved into the fluid colloidal condition; in the solids it is laid down within the membranes into new structure, and when it has played its part, it is digested again, if i may so say, into a crystalloidal soluble substance, ready to be carried away and replaced by addition of new matter, then it is dialysed or passed through, the membranes into the blood, and is disposed of in the excretions. "see, then, what an all-important part these membranous structures play in the animal life. upon their integrity all the silent work of the building up of the body depends. if these membranes are rendered too porous, and let out the colloidal fluids of the blood--the albumen, for example--the body so circumstanced, dies; dies as if it were slowly bled to death. if, on the contrary, they become condensed or thickened, or loaded with foreign material, then they fail to allow the natural fluids to pass through them. they fail to dialyse, and the result is, either an accumulation of the fluid in a closed cavity, or contraction of the substance inclosed within the membrane, or dryness of membrane in surfaces that ought to be freely lubricated and kept apart. in old age we see the effects of modification of membrane naturally induced; we see the fixed joint, the shrunken and feeble muscle, the dimmed eye, the deaf ear, the enfeebled nervous function. "it may possibly seem, at first sight, that i am leading immediately away from the subject of the secondary action of alcohol. it is not so. i am leading directly to it. upon all these membranous structures alcohol exerts a direct perversion of action. it produces in them a thickening, a shrinking and an inactivity that reduces their functional power. that they may work rapidly and equally, they require to be at all times charged with water to saturation. if, into contact with them, any agent is brought that deprives them of water, then is their work interfered with; they cease to separate the saline constituents properly; and, if the evil that is thus started, be allowed to continue, they contract upon their contained matter in whatever organ it may be situated, and condense it. "in brief, under the prolonged influence of alcohol those changes which take place from it in the blood corpuscles, and which have already been described, extend to the other organic parts, involving them in structural deteriorations, which are always dangerous, and are often ultimately fatal." action of alcohol on the stomach. passing from the effect of alcohol upon the membranes, we come to its action on the stomach. that it impairs, instead of assisting digestion, has already been shown in the extract from dr. monroe, given near the commencement of the preceding chapter. a large amount of medical testimony could be quoted in corroboration, but enough has been educed. we shall only quote dr. richardson on "alcoholic dyspepsia:" "the stomach, unable to produce, in proper quantity, the natural digestive fluid, and also unable to absorb the food which it may imperfectly digest, is in constant anxiety and irritation. it is oppressed with the sense of nausea; it is oppressed with the sense of emptiness and prostration; it is oppressed with a sense of distention; it is oppressed with a loathing for food, and it is teased with a craving for more drink. thus there is engendered, a permanent disorder which, for politeness' sake, is called dyspepsia, and for which different remedies are often sought but never found. antibilious pills--whatever they may mean--seidlitz powders, effervescing waters, and all that pharmacopoeia of aids to further indigestion, in which the afflicted who nurse their own diseases so liberally and innocently indulge, are tried in vain. i do not strain a syllable when i state that the worst forms of confirmed indigestion originate in the practice that is here explained. by this practice all the functions are vitiated, the skin at one moment is flushed and perspiring, and at the next moment it is pale, cold and clammy, while every other secreting structure is equally disarranged." tic-douloureux and sciatica. nervous derangements follow as a matter of course, for the delicate membranes which envelope and immediately surround the nervous cords, are affected by the alcohol more readily than the coarser membranous textures of other parts of the body, and give rise to a series of troublesome conditions, which are too often attributed to other than the true causes. some of these are thus described: "the perverted condition of the membranous covering of the nerves gives rise to pressure within the sheath of the nerve, and to pain as a consequence. to the pain thus excited the term neuralgia is commonly applied, or 'tic;' or, if the large nerve running down the thigh be the seat of the pain, 'sciatica.' sometimes this pain is developed as a toothache. it is pain commencing, in nearly every instance, at some point where a nerve is inclosed in a bony cavity, or where pressure is easily excited, as at the lower jawbone near the centre of the chin, or at the opening in front of the lower part of the ear, or at the opening over the eyeball in the frontal bone." degeneration of the liver. the organic deteriorations which follow the long-continued use of alcoholic drinks are often of a serious and fatal character. the same author says: "the organ of the body, that, perhaps, the most frequently undergoes structural changes from alcohol, is the _liver_. the capacity of this organ for holding active substances in its cellular parts, is one of its marked physiological distinctions. in instances of poisoning by arsenic, antimony, strychnine and other poisonous compounds, we turn to the liver, in conducting our analyses, as if it were the central depot of the foreign matter. it is, practically, the same in respect to alcohol. the liver of the confirmed alcoholic is, probably, never free from the influence of the poison; it is too often saturated with it. the effect of the alcohol upon the liver is upon the minute membranous or capsular structure of the organ, upon which, it acts to prevent the proper dialysis and free secretion. the organ, at first, becomes large from the distention of its vessels, the surcharge of fluid matter and the thickening of tissue. after a time, there follows contraction of membrane, and slow shrinking of the whole mass of the organ in its cellular parts. then the shrunken, hardened, roughened mass is said to be 'hob-nailed,' a common, but expressive term. by the time this change occurs, the body of him in whom it is developed is usually dropsical in its lower parts, owing to the obstruction offered to the returning blood by the veins, and his fate is sealed.... again, under an increase of fatty substance in the body, the structure of the liver may be charged with, fatty cells, and undergo what is technically designated fatty degeneration." how the kidneys suffer. "the kidneys, also, suffer deterioration. their minute structures undergo fatty modification; their vessels lose their due elasticity of power of contraction; or their membranes permit to pass through them the albumen from the blood. this last condition reached, the body loses power as if it were being gradually drained even of its blood." congestion of the lungs. "the vessels of the lungs are easily relaxed by alcohol; and as they, of all parts, are most exposed to vicissitudes of heat and cold, they are readily congested when, paralyzed by the spirit, they are subjected to the effects of a sudden fall of atmospheric temperature. thus, the suddenly fatal congestions of lungs which so easily befall the confirmed alcoholic during the severe winter seasons." organic deteriorations of the heart. the heart is one of the greatest sufferers from alcohol. quoting again from dr. richardson: "the membranous structures which envelope and line the organ are changed in quality, are thickened, rendered cartilaginous and even calcareous or bony. then the valves, which are made up of folds of membrane, lose their suppleness, and what is called valvular disease is permanently established. the coats of the great blood-vessel leading from the heart, the aorto, share, not unfrequently, in the same changes of structure, so that the vessel loses its elasticity and its power to feed the heart by the recoil from its distention, after the heart, by its stroke, has filled it with blood. "again, the muscular structure of the heart fails, owing to degenerative changes in its tissue. the elements of the muscular fibre are replaced by fatty cells; or, if not so replaced, are themselves transferred into a modified muscular texture in which the power of contraction is greatly reduced. "those who suffer from these organic deteriorations of the central and governing organ of the circulation of the blood learn the fact so insidiously, it hardly breaks upon them until the mischief is far advanced. they are, for years, conscious of a central failure of power from slight causes, such as overexertion, trouble, broken rest, or too long abstinence from food. they feel what they call a 'sinking,' but they know that wine or some other stimulant will at once relieve the sensation. thus they seek to relieve it until at last they discover that the remedy fails. the jaded, overworked, faithful heart will bear no more; it has run its course, and, the governor of the blood-streams broken, the current either overflows into the tissues, gradually damming up the courses, or under some slight shock or excess of motion, ceases wholly at the centre." epilepsy and paralysis. lastly, the brain and spinal cord, and all the nervous matter, become, under the influence of alcohol, subject alike to organic deterioration. "the membranes enveloping the nervous substance undergo thickening; the blood-vessels are subjected to change of structure, by which their resistance and resiliency is impaired; and the true nervous matter is sometimes modified, by softening or shrinking of its texture, by degeneration of its cellular structure or by interposition of fatty particles. these deteriorations of cerebral and spinal matter give rise to a series of derangements, which show themselves in the worst forms of nervous diseases--epilepsy; paralysis, local or general; insanity." we have quoted thus largely from dr. richardson's valuable lectures, in order that our readers may have an intelligent comprehension of this most important subject. it is because the great mass of the people are ignorant of the real character of the effects produced on the body by alcohol that so many indulge in its use, and lay the foundation for troublesome, and often painful and fatal diseases in their later years. in corroboration of dr. richardson's testimony against alcohol, we will, in closing this chapter, make a few quotations from other medical authorities. farther medical testimony. dr. ezra m. hunt says: "the capacity of the alcohols for impairment of functions and the initiation and promotion of organic lesions in vital parts, is unsurpassed by any record in the whole range of medicine. _the facts as to this are so indisputable, and so far granted by the profession, as to be no longer debatable_. changes in stomach and liver, in kidneys and lungs, in the blood-vessels to the minutest capillary, and in the blood to the smallest red and white blood disc disturbances of secretion, fibroid and fatty degenerations in almost every organ, impairment of muscular power, impressions so profound on both nervous systems as to be often toxic--these, and such as these, are the oft manifested results. and these are not confined to those called intemperate." professor youmans says: "it is evident that, so far from being the conservator of health, alcohol is an active and powerful cause of disease, interfering, as it does, with the respiration, the circulation and the nutrition; now, is any other result possible?" dr. f.r. lees says: "that alcohol should contribute to the fattening process under certain conditions, and produce in drinkers fatty degeneration of the blood, follows, as a matter of course, since, on the one hand, we have an agent that _retains waste_ matter by lowering the nutritive and excretory functions, and on the other, a _direct poisoner_ of the vesicles of the vital stream." dr. henry monroe says: "there is no kind of tissue, whether healthy or morbid, that may not undergo fatty degeneration; and there is no organic disease so troublesome to the medical man, or so difficult of cure. if, by the aid of the microscope, we examine a very fine section of muscle taken from a person in good health, we find the muscles firm, elastic and of a bright red color, made up of parallel fibres, with beautiful crossings or striae; but, if we similarly examine the muscle of a man who leads an idle, sedentary life, and indulges in intoxicating drinks, we detect, at once, a pale, flabby, inelastic, oily appearance. alcoholic narcotization appears to produce this peculiar conditions of the tissues _more than any other agent with which we are acquainted._ 'three-quarters of the chronic illness which the medical man has to treat,' says dr. chambers, 'are occasioned by this disease.' the eminent french analytical chemist, lecanu, found as much as one hundred and seventeen parts of fat in one thousand parts of a drunkard's blood, the highest estimate of the quantity in health being eight and one-quarter parts, while the ordinary quantity is not more than two or three parts, so that the blood of the drunkard contains forty times in excess of the ordinary quantity." dr. hammond, who has written, in partial defense of alcohol as containing a food power, says: "when i say that it, of all other causes, _is most prolific_ in exciting derangements of the brain, the spinal cord and the nerves, i make a statement which my own experience shows to be correct." another eminent physician says of alcohol: "it substitutes suppuration for growth. * * it helps time to produce the effects of age; and, in a word, is the genius of degeneration." dr. monroe, from whom we have already quoted, says: "alcohol, taken in small quantities, or largely diluted, as in the form of beer, causes the stomach gradually to lose its tone, and makes it dependent upon artificial stimulus. atony, or want of tone of the stomach, gradually supervenes, and incurable disorder of health results. * * * should a dose of alcoholic drink be taken daily, the heart will very often become hypertrophied, or enlarged throughout. indeed, it is painful to witness how _many_ persons are actually laboring under disease of the heart, owing chiefly to the use of alcoholic liquors." dr. t.k. chambers, physician to the prince of wales, says: "alcohol is really the most ungenerous diet there is. it impoverishes the blood, and there is no surer road to that degeneration of muscular fibre so much to be feared; and in heart disease it is more especially hurtful, by quickening the beat, causing capillary congestion and irregular circulation, and thus mechanically inducing dilatation." sir henry thompson, a distinguished surgeon, says: "don't take your daily wine under any pretext of its doing you good. take it frankly as a luxury--one which must be paid for, by some persons very lightly, by some at a high price, _but always to be paid for_. and, mostly, some loss of health, or of mental power, or of calmness of temper, or of judgment, is the price." dr. charles jewett says: "the late prof. parks, of england, in his great work on hygiene, has effectually disposed of the notion, long and very generally entertained, that alcohol is a valuable prophylactic where a bad climate, bad water and other conditions unfavorable to health, exist; and an unfortunate experiment with the article, in the union army, on the banks of the chickahominy, in the year , proved conclusively that, instead of guarding the human constitution against the influence of agencies hostile to health, its use gives to them additional force. the medical history of the british army in india teaches the same lesson." but why present farther testimony? is not the evidence complete? to the man who values good health; who would not lay the foundation for disease and suffering in his later years, we need not offer a single additional argument in favor of entire abstinence from alcoholic drinks. he will eschew them as poisons. chapter iv. it curses the soul. the physical disasters that follow the continued use of intoxicating beverages are sad enough, and terrible enough; but the surely attendant mental, moral and spiritual disasters are sadder and more terrible still. if you disturb the healthy condition of the brain, which is the physical organ through which the mind acts, you disturb the mind. it will not have the same clearness of perception as before; nor have the same rational control over the impulses and passions. in what manner alcohol deteriorates the body and brain has been shown in the two preceding chapters. in this one we purpose showing how the curse goes deeper than the body and brain, and involves the whole man--morally and spiritually, as well as physically. heavenly order in the body. in order to understand a subject clearly, certain general laws, or principles, must be seen and admitted. and here we assume, as a general truth, that health in the human body is normal heavenly order on the physical plane of life, and that any disturbance of that order exposes the man to destructive influences, which are evil and infernal in their character. above the natural and physical plane, and resting upon it, while man lives in this world, is the mental and spiritual plane, or degree of life. this degree is in heavenly order when the reason is clear, and the appetites and passions under its wise control. but, if, through any cause, this fine equipoise is disturbed, or lost, then a way is opened for the influx of more subtle evil influences than such as invade the body, because they have power to act upon the reason and the passions, obscuring the one and inflaming the others. mental disturbances. we know how surely the loss of bodily health results in mental disturbance. if the seat of disease be remote from the brain, the disturbance is usually slight; but it increases as the trouble comes nearer and nearer to that organ, and shows itself in multiform ways according to character, temperament or inherited disposition; but almost always in a predominance of what is evil instead of good. there will be fretfulness, or ill-nature, or selfish exactions, or mental obscurity, or unreasoning demands, or, it may be, vicious and cruel propensities, where, when the brain was undisturbed by disease, reason held rule with patience and loving kindness. if the disease which has attacked the brain goes on increasing, the mental disease which follows as a consequence of organic disturbance or deterioration, will have increased also, until insanity may be established in some one or more of its many sad and varied forms. insanity. it is, therefore, a very serious thing for a man to take into his body any substance which, on reaching that wonderfully delicate organ--the brain, sets up therein a diseased action; for, diseased mental action is sure to follow, and there is only one true name for mental disease, and that is _insanity_. a fever is a fever, whether it be light or intensely burning; and so any disturbance of the mind's rational equipoise is insanity, whether it be in the simplest form of temporary obscurity, or in the midnight of a totally darkened intellect. we are not writing in the interest of any special theory, nor in the spirit of partisanship; but with an earnest desire to make the truth appear. the reader must not accept anything simply because we say it, but because he sees it to be true. now, as to this matter of insanity, let him think calmly. the word is one that gives us a shock; and, as we hear it, we almost involuntarily thank god for the good gift of a well-balanced mind. what, if from any cause this beautiful equipoise should be disturbed and the mind lose its power to think clearly, or to hold the lower passions in due control? shall we exceed the truth if we say that the man in whom this takes place is insane just in the degree that he has lost his rational self-control; and that he is restored when he regains that control? in this view, the question as to the hurtfulness of alcoholic drinks assumes a new and graver aspect. do they disturb the brain when they come in contact with its substance; and deteriorate it if the contact be long continued? fact, observation, experience and scientific investigation all emphatically say yes; and we know that if the brain be disordered the mind, will be disordered, likewise; and a disordered mind is an insane mind. clearly, then, in the degree that a man impairs or hurts his brain--temporarily or continuously--in that degree his mind is unbalanced; in that degree he is not a truly rational and sane man. we are holding the reader's thought just here that he may have time to think, and to look at the question in the light of reason and common sense. so far as he does this, will he be able to feel the force of such evidence as we shall educe in what follows, and to comprehend its true meaning. no substance affects the brain like alcohol. other substances besides alcohol act injuriously on the brain; but there is none that compares with this in the extent, variety and diabolical aspect of the mental aberrations which follow its use. we are not speaking thoughtlessly or wildly; but simply uttering a truth well-known to every man of observation, and which every man, and especially those who take this substance in any form, should, lay deeply to heart. why it is that such awful and destructive forms of insanity should follow, as they do, the use of alcohol it is not for us to say. that they do follow it, we know, and we hold, up the fact in solemn warning. inherited latent evil forces. another consideration, which should have weight with every one, is this, that no man can tell what may be the character of the legacy he has received from his ancestors. he may have an inheritance of latent evil forces, transmitted through many generations, which only await some favoring opportunity to spring into life and action. so long as he maintains a rational self-control, and the healthy order of his life be not disturbed, they may continue quiescent; but if his brain loses its equipoise, or is hurt or impaired, then a diseased psychical condition may be induced and the latent evil forces be quickened into life. no substance in nature, as far as yet known, has, when it reaches the brain, such power to induce mental and moral changes of a disastrous character as alcohol. its transforming power is marvelous, and often appalling. it seems to open a way of entrance into the soul for all classes of foolish, insane or malignant spirits, who, so long as it remains in contact with the brain, are able to hold possession. men of the kindest nature when sober, act often like fiends when drunk. crimes and outrages are committed, which shock and shame the perpetrators when the excitement of inebriation has passed away. referring to this subject, dr. henry munroe says: "it appears from the experience of mr. fletcher, who has paid much attention to the cases of drunkards, from the remarks of mr. dunn, in his 'medical psychology,' and from observations of my own, that there is some analogy between our physical and psychical natures; for, as the physical part of us, when its power is at a low ebb, becomes susceptible of morbid influences which, in full vigor, would pass over it without effect, so when the psychical (synonymous with the _moral_) part of the brain has its healthy function disturbed and deranged by the introduction of a morbid poison like alcohol, the individual so circumstanced sinks in depravity, and "becomes the helpless subject of the forces of evil, "which are powerless against a nature free from the morbid influences of alcohol. [illustration: "take warning by my career."] "different persons are affected in different ways by the same poison. indulgence in alcoholic drinks may act upon one or more of the cerebral organs; and, as its necessary consequence, the manifestations of functional disturbance will follow in such of the mental powers as these organs subserve. if the indulgence be continued, then, either from deranged nutrition or organic lesion, manifestations formerly developed only during a fit of intoxication may become _permanent_, and terminate in insanity or dypso-mania. m. flourens first pointed out the fact that certain morbific agents, when introduced into the current of the circulation, tend to act _primarily_ and _specially_ on one nervous centre in preference to that of another, by virtue of some special elective affinity between such morbific agents and certain ganglia. thus, in the tottering gait of the tipsy man, we see the influence of alcohol upon the functions of the _cerebellum_ in the impairment of its power of co-ordinating the muscles. "certain writers on diseases of the mind make especial allusion to that form of insanity termed dypsomania, in which a person has an unquenchable thirst for alcoholic drinks--a tendency as decidedly maniacal as that of _homicidal mania_; or the uncontrollable desire to burn, termed _pyromania_; or to steal, called _kleptomania_." homicidal mania. "the different tendencies of homicidal mania in different individuals are often only nursed into action when the current of the blood has been poisoned with alcohol. i had a case of a person who, whenever his brain was so excited, told me that he experienced a most uncontrollable desire to kill or injure some one; so much so, that he could at times hardly restrain himself from the action, and was obliged to refrain from all stimulants, lest, in an unlucky moment, he might commit himself. townley, who murdered the young lady of his affections, for which he was sentenced to be imprisoned in a lunatic asylum for life, _poisoned his brain with brandy_ and soda-water before he committed the rash act. the brandy stimulated into action certain portions of the brain, which acquired such a power as to subjugate his will, and hurry him to the performance of a frightful deed, opposed alike to his better judgment and his ordinary desires. "as to _pyromania_, some years ago i knew a laboring man in a country village, who, whenever he had had a few glasses of ale at the public-house, would chuckle with delight at the thought of firing certain gentlemen's stacks. yet, when his brain was free from the poison, a quieter, better-disposed man could not be. unfortunately, he became addicted to habits of intoxication; and, one night, under alcoholic excitement, fired some stacks belonging to his employers, for which, he was sentenced for fifteen years to a penal settlement, where his brain would never again be alcoholically excited." kleptomania. "next, i will give an example of _kleptomania_. i knew, many years ago, a very clever, industrious and talented young man, who told me that whenever he had been drinking, he could hardly withstand, the temptation of stealing anything that came in his way; but that these feelings never troubled him at other times. one afternoon, after he had been indulging with his fellow-workmen in drink, his will, unfortunately, was overpowered, and he took from the mansion where he was working some articles of worth, for which he was accused, and afterwards sentenced to a term of imprisonment. when set at liberty he had the good fortune to be placed among some kind-hearted persons, vulgarly called _teetotallers_; and, from conscientious motives, signed the pledge, now above twenty years ago. from that time to the present moment he has never experienced the overmastering desire which so often beset him in his drinking days--to take that which was not his own. moreover, no pretext on earth could now entice him to taste of any liquor containing alcohol, feeling that, under its influence, he might again fall its victim. he holds an influential position in the town where he resides. "i have known some ladies of good position in society, who, after a dinner or supper-party, and after having taken sundry glasses of wine, could not withstand the temptation of taking home any little article not their own, when the opportunity offered; and who, in their sober moments, have returned them, as if taken by mistake. we have many instances recorded in our police reports of gentlemen of position, under the influence of drink, committing thefts of the most paltry articles, afterwards returned to the owners by their friends, which can only be accounted for, psychologically, by the fact that the _will_ had been for the time completely overpowered by the subtle influence of alcohol." loss of mental clearness. "that alcohol, whether taken in large or small doses, immediately disturbs the natural functions of the mind and body, is now conceded by the most eminent physiologists. dr. brinton says: 'mental acuteness, accuracy of conception, and delicacy of the senses, are all so far opposed by the action of alcohol, as that the maximum efforts of each are _incompatible_ with the ingestion of any moderate quantity of fermented liquid. indeed, there is scarcely any calling which demands skillful and exact effort of mind and body, or which requires the balanced exercise of many faculties, that does not illustrate this rule. the mathematician, the gambler, the metaphysician, the billiard-player, the author, the artist, the physician, would, if they could analyze their experience aright, generally concur in the statement, that _a single glass will often suffice to take_, so to speak, _the edge off both mind and body_, and to reduce their capacity to something below what is relatively their perfection of work.' "not long ago, a railway train was driven carelessly into one of the principal london stations, running into another train, killing, by the collision, six or seven persons, and injuring many others. from the evidence at the inquest, it appeared that the guard was reckoned sober, _only he had had two glasses of ale_ with a friend at a previous station. now, reasoning psychologically, these two glasses of ale had probably been instrumental in _taking off the edge_ from his perceptions and prudence, and producing a carelessness or boldness of action which would not have occurred under the cooling, temperate influence of a beverage free from alcohol. many persons have admitted to me that they were not the same after taking even one glass of ale or wine that they were before, and could not _thoroughly_ trust themselves after they had taken this single glass." impairment of memory. an impairment of the memory is among the early symptoms of alcoholic derangement. "this," says dr. richardson, "extends even to forgetfulness of the commonest things; to names of familiar persons, to dates, to duties of daily life. strangely, too," he adds, "this failure, like that which indicates, in the aged, the era of second childishness and mere oblivion, does not extend to the things of the past, but is confined to events that are passing. on old memories the mind retains its power; on new ones it requires constant prompting and sustainment." in this failure of memory nature gives a solemn warning that imminent peril is at hand. well for the habitual drinker if he heed the warning. should he not do so, symptoms of a more serious character will, in time, develop themselves, as the brain becomes more and more diseased, ending, it may be, in permanent insanity. mental and moral diseases. of the mental and moral diseases which too often follow the regular drinking of alcohol, we have painful records in asylum reports, in medical testimony and in our daily observation and experience. these are so full and varied, and thrust so constantly on our attention, that the wonder is that men are not afraid to run the terrible risks involved even in what is called the moderate use of alcoholic beverages. in , a select committee of the house of commons, appointed "to consider the best plan for the control and management of habitual drunkards," called upon some of the most eminent medical men in great britain to give their testimony in answer to a large number of questions, embracing every topic within the range of inquiry, from the pathology of inebriation to the practical usefulness of prohibitory laws. in this testimony much was said about the effect of alcoholic stimulation on the mental condition and moral character. one physician, dr. james crichton brown, who, in ten years' experience as superintendent of lunatic asylums, has paid special attention to the relations of habitual drunkenness to insanity, having carefully examined five hundred cases, testified that alcohol, taken in excess, produced different forms of mental disease, of which he mentioned four classes: . _mania a potu_, or alcoholic mania. . the monomania of suspicion. . chronic alcoholism, characterized by failure of the memory and power of judgment, with partial paralysis--generally ending fatally. . dypsomania, or an _irresistible_ craving for alcoholic stimulants, occuring very frequently, paroxysmally, and with constant liability to periodical exacerbations, when the craving becomes altogether uncontrollable. of this latter form of disease, he says: "this is invariably associated with a certain _impairment of the intellect, and of the affections and the moral powers_." dr. alexander peddie, a physician of over thirty-seven years' practice in edinburgh, gave, in his evidence, many remarkable instances of the moral perversions that followed continued drinking. relation between insanity and drunkenness. dr. john nugent said that his experience of twenty-six years among lunatics, led him to believe that there is a very close relation between the results of the abuse of alcohol and insanity. the population of ireland had decreased, he said, two millions in twenty-five years, but there was the same amount of insanity now that there was before. he attributed this, in a great measure, to indulgence in drink. dr. arthur mitchell, commissioner of lunacy for scotland, testified that the excessive use of alcohol caused a large amount of the lunacy, crime and pauperism of that country. in some men, he said, habitual drinking leads to other diseases than insanity, because the effect is always in the direction of the proclivity, but it is certain that there are many in whom there is a clear proclivity to insanity, _who would escape that dreadful consummation but for drinking; excessive drinking in many persons determining the insanity to which they are, at any rate, predisposed_. the children of drunkards, he further said, are in a larger proportion idiotic than other children, and in a larger proportion become themselves drunkards; they are also in a larger proportion liable to the ordinary forms of acquired insanity. dr. winslow forbes believed that in the habitual drunkard the whole nervous structure, and the brain especially, became poisoned by alcohol. all the mental symptoms which you see accompanying ordinary intoxication, he remarks, result from the poisonous effects of alcohol on the brain. it is the brain which is mainly effected. in temporary drunkenness, the brain becomes in an abnormal state of alimentation, and if this habit is persisted in for years, the nervous tissue itself becomes permeated with alcohol, and organic changes take place in the nervous tissues of the brain, producing _that frightful and dreadful chronic insanity which we see in lunatic asylums, traceable entirely to habits of intoxication_. a large percentage of frightful mental and brain disturbances can, he declared, be traced to the drunkenness of parents. dr. d.g. dodge, late of the new york state inebriate asylum, who, with. dr. joseph parrish, gave testimony before the committee of the house of commons, said, in one of his answers: "with the excessive use of alcohol, functional disorder will invariably appear, and no organ will be more seriously affected, and possibly impaired, than the brain. _this is shown in the inebriate by a weakened intellect, a general debility of the mental faculties_, a partial or total loss of self-respect, and a departure of the power of self-command; all of which, acting together, place the victim at the mercy of a depraved and morbid appetite, and make him utterly powerless, by his own unaided efforts, to secure his recovery from the disease which is destroying him." and he adds: "i am of opinion that there is a "great similarity between inebriety and insanity. "i am decidedly of opinion that the former has taken its place in the family of diseases as prominently as its twin-brother insanity; and, in my opinion, the day is not far distant when the pathology of the former will be as fully understood and as successfully treated as the latter, and even more successfully, since it is more within the reach and bounds of human control, which, wisely exercised and scientifically administered, may prevent curable inebriation from verging into possible incurable insanity." general impairment of the faculties. in a more recent lecture than the one from which we have quoted so freely, dr. richardson, speaking of the action of alcohol on the mind, gives the following sad picture of its ravages: "an analysis of the condition of the mind induced and maintained by the free daily use of alcohol as a drink, reveals a singular order of facts. the manifestation fails altogether to reveal the exaltation of any reasoning power in a useful or satisfactory direction. i have never met with an instance in which such a claim for alcohol has been made. on the contrary, confirmed alcoholics constantly say that for this or that work, requiring thought and attention, it is necessary to forego some of the usual potations in order to have a cool head for hard work. "on the other side, the experience is overwhelmingly in favor of the observation that the use of "alcohol sells the reasoning powers, "make weak men and women the easy prey of the wicked and strong, and leads men and women who should know better into every grade of misery and vice. * * * if, then, alcohol enfeebles the reason, what part of the mental constitution does it exalt and excite? it excites and exalts those animal, organic, emotional centres of mind which, in the dual nature of man, so often cross and oppose that pure and abstract reasoning nature which lifts man above the lower animals, and rightly exercised, little lower than the angels. it excites man's worst passions. "exciting these animal centres, it lets loose all the passions, and gives them more or less of unlicensed dominion over the man. it excites anger, and when it does not lead to this extreme, it keeps the mind fretful, irritable, dissatisfied and captious.... and if i were to take you through all the passions, love, hate, lust, envy, avarice and pride, i should but show you that alcohol ministers to them all; that, paralyzing the reason, it takes from off these passions that fine adjustment of reason, which places man above the lower animals. from the beginning to the end of its influence it subdues reason and sets the passions free. the analogies, physical and mental, are perfect. that which loosens the tension of the vessels which feed the body with due order and precision, and, thereby, lets loose the heart to violent excess and unbridled motion, loosens, also, the reason and lets loose the passion. in both instances, heart and head are, for a time, out of harmony; their balance broken. the man descends closer and closer to the lower animals. from the angels he glides farther and farther away. a sad and terrible picture. "the _destructive_ effects of alcohol on the human mind present, finally, the saddest picture of its influence. the most æsthetic artist can find no angel here. all is animal, and animal of the worst type. memory irretrievably lost, words and very elements of speech forgotten or words displaced to have no meaning in them. rage and anger persistent and mischievous, or remittent and impotent. fear at every corner of life, distrust on every side, grief merged into blank despair, hopelessness into permanent melancholy. surely no pandemonium that ever poet dreamt of could equal that which would exist if all the drunkards of the world were driven into one mortal sphere. [illustration: crazed by drink. "god's rational offspring ... become a brute."] "as i have moved among those who are physically stricken with alcohol, and have detected under the various disguises of name the fatal diseases, the pains and penalties it imposes on the body, the picture has been sufficiently cruel. but even that picture pales, as i conjure up, without any stretch of imagination, the devastations which the same agent inflicts on the mind. forty per cent., the learned superintendent of colney hatch, dr. sheppard, tells us, of those who were brought into that asylum in , were so brought because of the direct or indirect effects of alcohol. if the facts of all the asylums were collected with equal care, the same tale would, i fear, be told. what need we further to show the destructive action on the human mind? the pandemonium of drunkards; the grand transformation scene of that pantomime of drink which commences with, moderation! let it never more be forgotten by those who love their fellow-men until, through their efforts, it is closed forever." we might go on, adding page after page of evidence, showing how alcohol curses the souls, as well as the bodies, of men; but enough has been educed to force conviction on the mind of every reader not already satisfied of its poisonous and destructive quality. how light are all evils flowing from intemperance compared with those which it thus inflicts on man's higher nature. "what," says dr. w.e. channing, "is the great essential evil of intemperance? the reply is given, when i say, that intemperance is the "voluntary extinction of reason. "the great evil is inward or spiritual. the intemperate man divests himself, for a time, of his rational and moral nature, casts from himself self-consciousness and self-command, brings on frenzy, and by repetition of this insanity, prostrates more and more his rational and moral powers. he sins immediately and directly against the rational nature, that divine principle which, distinguishes between truth and falsehood, between right and wrong action, which, distinguishes man from the brute. this is the essence of the vice, what constitutes its peculiar guilt and woe, and what should particularly impress and awaken those who are laboring for its suppression. other evils of intemperance are light compared with this, and almost all flow from this; and it is right, it is to be desired that all other evils should be joined with and follow this. it is to be desired, when a man lifts a suicidal arm against his higher life, when he quenches reason and conscience, that he and all others should receive solemn, startling warning of the greatness of his guilt; that terrible outward calamities should bear witness to the inward ruin which he is working; that the handwriting of judgment and woe on his countenance, form and whole condition, should declare what a fearful thing it is for a man, "god's rational offspring, to renounce his reason, and become a brute." chapter v. not a food, and very limited in its range as a medicine. the use of alcohol as a medicine has been very large. if his patient was weak and nervous, the physician too often ordered wine or ale; or, not taking the trouble to refer his own case to a physician, the invalid prescribed these articles for himself. if there was a failure of appetite, its restoration was sought in the use of one or both of the above-named forms of alcohol; or, perhaps, adopting a more heroic treatment, the sufferer poured brandy or whisky into his weak and sensitive stomach. protection from cold was sought in a draught of some alcoholic beverage, and relief from fatigue and exhaustion in the use of the same deleterious substance. indeed, there is scarcely any form of bodily ailment or discomfort, or mental disturbance, for the relief of which a resort was not had to alcohol in some one of its many forms. it is fair to say that, as a medicine, its consumption has far exceeded that of any other substance prescribed and taken for physical and mental derangements. the inquiry, then, as to the true remedial value of alcohol is one of the gravest import; and it is of interest to know that for some years past the medical profession has been giving this subject a careful and thorough investigation. the result is to be found in the brief declaration made by the section on medicine, of the international medical congress, which met in philadelphia in . this body was composed of about six hundred delegates, from europe and america, among them, some of the ablest men in the profession. realizing the importance of some expression in relation to the use of alcohol, medical and otherwise, from this congress, the national temperance society laid before it, through its president, w.e. dodge, and secretary, j.n. stearns, the following memorial: "the national temperance society sends greeting, and respectfully invites from your distinguished body a public declaration to the effect that alcohol should be classed with other powerful drugs; that, when, prescribed medicinally, it should be with conscientious caution and a sense of grave responsibility; that it is in no sense food to the human system; that its improper use is productive of a large amount of physical disease, tending to deteriorate the human race; and to recommend, as representatives of enlightened science, to your several nationalities, total abstinence from alcoholic beverages." in response to this memorial, the president of the society received from j. ewing mears, m.d., secretary of the section on medicine, international congress, the following official letter, under date of september th, : "dear sir: i am instructed by the section on medicine, international medical congress, of , to transmit to you, as the action of the section, the following conclusions adopted by it with regard to the use of alcohol in medicine, the same being in reply to the communication sent by the national temperance society. " . alcohol is not shown to have a definite food value by any of the usual methods of chemical analysis or physiological investigation. " . its use as a medicine is chiefly that of a cardiac stimulant, and often admits of substitution. " . as a medicine, it is not well fitted for self-prescription by the laity, and the medical profession is not accountable for such administration, or for the enormous evils arising therefrom. " . the purity of alcoholic liquors is, in general, not as well assured as that of articles used for medicine should be. the various mixtures, when used as medicine, should have definite and known composition, and should not be interchanged promiscuously." the reader will see in this no hesitating or halfway speech. the declaration is strong and clear, that, as a food, alcohol is not shown, when subjected to the usual method of chemical or physiological investigation, to have any food value; and that, as a medicine, its use is chiefly confined to a cardiac stimulant, and often admits of substitution. a declaration like this, coming, as it does, from a body of medical men representing the most advanced ideas held by the profession, must have great weight with the people. but we do not propose resting on this declaration alone. as it was based on the results of chemical and physiological investigations, let us go back of the opinion expressed by the medical congress, and examine these results, in order that the ground of its opinion may become apparent. there was presented to this congress, by a distinguished physician of new jersey, dr. ezra m. hunt, a paper on "alcohol as a food and medicine," in which the whole subject is examined in the light of the most recent and carefully-conducted experiments of english, french, german and american chemists and physiologists, and their conclusions, as well as those of the author of the paper, set forth in the plainest manner. this has since been published by the national temperance society, and should be read and carefully studied by every one who is seeking for accurate information on the important subject we are now considering. it is impossible for us to more than glance at the evidence brought forward in proof of the assertion that alcohol has no food value, and is exceedingly limited in its action as a remedial agent; and we, therefore, urge upon all who are interested in this subject, to possess themselves of dr. hunt's exhaustive treatise, and to study it carefully. if the reader will refer to the quotation made by us in the second chapter from dr. henry monroe, where the food value of any article is treated of, he will see it stated that "every kind of substance employed by man as food consists of sugar, starch, oil and glutinous matter, mingled together in various proportions; these are designed for the support of the animal frame. the glutinous principles of food--fibrine, albumen and casein--are employed to build up the structure; while the oil, starch and sugar are chiefly used to generate heat in the body." now, it is clear, that if alcohol is a food, it will be found to contain one or more of these substances. there must be in it either the nitrogenous elements found chiefly in meats, eggs, milk, vegetables and seeds, out of which animal tissue is built and waste repaired; or the carbonaceous elements found in fat, starch and sugar, in the consumption of which heat and force are evolved. "the distinctness of these groups of foods," says dr. hunt, "and their relations to the tissue-producing and heat-evolving capacities of man, are so definite and so confirmed by experiments on animals and by manifold tests of scientific, physiological and clinical experience, that no attempt to discard the classification has prevailed. to draw so straight a line of demarcation as to limit the one entirely to tissue or cell production, and the other to heat and force production through ordinary combustion, and to deny any power of interchangeability under special demands or amid defective supply of one variety, is, indeed, untenable. this does not in the least invalidate the fact that we are able to use these as ascertained landmarks." how these substances, when taken into the body, are assimilated, and how they generate force, are well known to the chemist and physiologist, who is able, in the light of well-ascertained laws, to determine whether alcohol does or does not possess a food value. for years, the ablest men in the medical profession have given this subject the most careful study, and have subjected alcohol to every known test and experiment, and the result is that it has been, by common consent, excluded from the class of tissue-building foods. "we have never," says dr. hunt, "seen but a single suggestion that it could so act, and this a promiscuous guess. one writer (hammond) thinks it possible that it may 'somehow' enter into combination with the products of decay in tissues, and 'under certain circumstances might yield _their_ nitrogen to the construction of new tissues.' no parallel in organic chemistry, nor any evidence in animal chemistry, can be found to surround this guess with the areola of a possible hypothesis." dr. richardson says: "alcohol contains no nitrogen; it has none of the qualities of structure-building foods; it is incapable of being transformed into any of them; it is, therefore, not a food in any sense of its being a constructive agent in building up the body." dr. w.b. carpenter says: "alcohol cannot supply anything which is essential to the true nutrition of the tissues." dr. liebig says: "beer, wine, spirits, etc., furnish no element capable of entering into the composition of the blood, muscular fibre, or any part which is the seat of the principle of life." dr. hammond, in his tribune lectures, in which he advocates the use of alcohol in certain cases, says: "it is not demonstrable that alcohol undergoes conversion into tissue." cameron, in his manuel of hygiene, says: "there is nothing in alcohol with which any part of the body can be nourished." dr. e. smith, f.r.s., says: "alcohol is not a true food. it interferes with alimentation." dr. t.k. chambers says: "it is clear that we must cease to regard alcohol, as in any sense, a food." "not detecting in this substance," says dr. hunt, "any tissue-making ingredients, nor in its breaking up any combinations, such as we are able to trace in the cell foods, nor any evidence either in the experience of physiologists or the trials of alimentarians, it is not wonderful that in it we should find neither the expectancy nor the realization of constructive power." not finding in alcohol anything out of which the body can be built up or its waste supplied, it is next to be examined as to its heat-producing quality. alcohol not a producer of heat. "the first usual test for a force-producing food," says dr. hunt, "and that to which other foods of that class respond, is the production of heat in the combination of oxygen therewith. this heat means vital force, and is, in no small degree, a measure of the comparative value of the so-called respiratory foods. * * * if we examine the fats, the starches and the sugars, we can trace and estimate the processes by which they evolve heat and are changed into vital force, and can weigh the capacities of different foods. we find that the consumption of carbon by union with oxygen is the law, that heat is the product, and that the legitimate result is force, while the result of the union of the hydrogen of the foods with oxygen is water. if alcohol comes at all under this class of foods, we rightly expect to find some of the evidences which attach to the hydrocarbons." what, then, is the result of experiments in this direction? they have been conducted through long periods and with the greatest care, by men of the highest attainments in chemistry and physiology, and the result is given in these few words, by dr. h.r. wood, jr., in his materia medica. "no one has been able to detect in the blood any of the ordinary results of its oxidation." that is, no one has been able to find that alcohol has undergone combustion, like fat, or starch, or sugar, and so given heat to the body. on the contrary, it is now known and admitted by the medical profession that alcohol reduces the temperature of the body, instead of increasing it; and it has even been used in fevers as an anti-pyretic. so uniform has been the testimony of physicians in europe and this country as to the cooling effects of alcohol, that dr. wood says, in his materia medica, "that it does not seem worth while to occupy space with a discussion of the subject." liebermeister, one of the most learned contributors to zeimssen's cyclopædia of the practice of medicine, , says: "i long since convinced myself, by direct experiments, that alcohol, even in comparatively large doses, does not elevate the temperature of the body in either well or sick people." so well had this become known to arctic voyagers, that, even before physiologists had demonstrated the fact that alcohol reduced, instead of increasing, the temperature of the body, they had learned that spirits lessened their power to withstand extreme cold. "in the northern regions," says edward smith, "it was proved that the entire exclusion of spirits was necessary, in order to retain heat under these unfavorable conditions." alcohol does not give strength. if alcohol does not contain tissue-building material, nor give heat to the body, it cannot possibly add to its strength. "every kind of power an animal can generate," says dr. g. budd, f.r.s., "the mechanical power of the muscles, the chemical (or digestive) power of the stomach, the intellectual power of the brain--accumulates _through the nutrition of the organ_ on which it depends." dr. f.r. lees, of edinburgh, after discussing the question, and educing evidence, remarks: "from the very nature of things, it will now be seen how _impossible_ it is that alcohol can be strengthening food of either kind. since it cannot become a _part_ of the body, it cannot consequently contribute to its cohesive, organic strength, or fixed power; and, since it comes out of the body just as it went in, it cannot, by its decomposition, generate _heat_-force." sir benjamin brodie says: "stimulants do not create nervous power; they merely enable you, as it were, to _use up_ that which is left, and then they leave you more in need of rest than before." baron liebig, so far back as , in his "animal chemistry," pointed out the fallacy of alcohol generating power. he says: "the circulation will appear accelerated at the expense of the force available for voluntary motion, but without the production of a greater amount of mechanical force." in his later "letters," he again says: "wine is quite superfluous to man, * * * it is constantly followed by the expenditure of power"--whereas, the real function of food is to give power. he adds: "these drinks promote the change of matter in the body, and are, consequently, attended by an inward loss of power, which ceases to be productive, because it is not employed in overcoming outward difficulties--i.e., in working." in other words, this great chemist asserts that alcohol abstracts the power of the system from doing useful work in the field or workshop, in order to cleanse the house from the defilement of alcohol itself. the late dr. w. brinton, physician to st. thomas', in his great work on dietetics, says: "careful observation leaves little doubt that a moderate dose of beer or wine would, in most cases, at once diminish the maximum weight which a healthy person could lift. mental acuteness, accuracy of perception and delicacy of the senses are all so far opposed by alcohol, as that the maximum efforts of each are incompatible with the ingestion of any moderate quantity of fermented liquid. a single glass will often suffice to take the edge off both mind and body, and to reduce their capacity to something below their perfection of work." dr. f.r. lees, f.s.a., writing on the subject of alcohol as a food, makes the following quotation from an essay on "stimulating drinks," published by dr. h.r. madden, as long ago as : "alcohol is not the natural stimulus to any of our organs, and hence, functions performed in consequence of its application, tend to debilitate the organ acted upon. "alcohol is incapable of being assimilated or converted into any organic proximate principle, and hence, cannot be considered nutritious. "the strength experienced after the use of alcohol is not new strength added to the system, but is manifested by calling into exercise the nervous energy pre-existing. "the ultimate exhausting effects of alcohol, owing to its stimulant properties, produce an unnatural susceptibility to morbid action in all the organs, and this, with the plethora superinduced, becomes a fertile source of disease. "a person who habitually exerts himself to such an extent as to require the daily use of stimulants to ward off exhaustion, may be compared to a machine working under high pressure. he will become much more obnoxious to the causes of disease, and will certainly break down sooner than he would have done under more favorable circumstances. "the more frequently alcohol is had recourse to for the purpose of overcoming feelings of debility, the more it will be required, and by constant repetition a period is at length reached when it cannot be foregone, unless reaction is simultaneously brought about by a temporary total change of the habits of life. "owing to the above facts, i conclude that the daily use of stimulants is indefensible under any known circumstances." driven to the wall. not finding that alcohol possesses any direct alimentary value, the medical advocates of its use have been driven to the assumption that it is a kind of secondary food, in that it has the power to delay the metamorphosis of tissue. "by the metamorphosis of tissue is meant," says dr. hunt, "that change which is constantly going on in the system which involves a constant disintegration of material; a breaking up and avoiding of that which is no longer aliment, making room for that new supply which is to sustain life." another medical writer, in referring to this metamorphosis, says: "the importance of this process to the maintenance of life is readily shown by the injurious effects which follow upon its disturbance. if the discharge of the excrementitious substances be in any way impeded or suspended, these substances accumulate either in the blood or tissues, or both. in consequence of this retention and accumulation they become poisonous, and rapidly produce a derangement of the vital functions. their influence is principally exerted upon the nervous system, through which they produce most frequent irritability, disturbance of the special senses, delirium, insensibility, coma, and finally, death." "this description," remarks dr. hunt, "seems almost intended for alcohol." he then says: "to claim alcohol as a food because it delays the metamorphosis of tissue, is to claim that it in some way suspends the normal conduct of the laws of assimilation and nutrition, of waste and repair. a leading advocate of alcohol (hammond) thus illustrates it: 'alcohol retards the destruction of the tissues. by this destruction, force is generated, muscles contract, thoughts are developed, organs secrete and excrete.' in other words, alcohol interferes with all these. no wonder the author 'is not clear' how it does this, and we are not clear how such delayed metamorphosis recuperates. to take an agent which is "not known to be in any sense an originator of vital force; "which is not known to have any of the usual power of foods, and use it on the double assumption that it delays metamorphosis of tissue, and that such delay is conservative of health, is to pass outside of the bounds of science into the land of remote possibilities, and confer the title of adjuster upon an agent whose agency is itself doubtful. * * * * "having failed to identify alcohol as a nitrogenous or non-nitrogenous food, not having found it amenable to any of the evidences by which the food-force of aliments is generally measured, it will not do for us to talk of benefit by delay of regressive metamorphosis unless such process is accompanied with something evidential of the fact--something scientifically descriptive of its mode of accomplishment in the case at hand, and unless it is shown to be practically desirable for alimentation. "there can be no doubt that alcohol does cause _defects_ in the processes of elimination which are natural to the healthy body and which even in disease are often conservative of health. in the pent-in evils which pathology so often shows occurrent in the case of spirit-drinkers, in the vascular, fatty and fibroid degenerations which take place, in the accumulations of rheumatic and scrofulous tendencies, there is the strongest evidence that "alcohol acts as a disturbing element "and is very prone to initiate serious disturbances amid the normal conduct both of organ and function. "to assert that this interference is conservative in the midst of such a fearful accumulation of evidence as to result in quite the other direction, and that this kind of delay in tissue-change accumulates vital force, is as unscientific as it is paradoxical. "dickinson, in his able expose of the effects of alcohol, (_lancet_, nov., ,) confines himself to pathological facts. after recounting, with accuracy, the structural changes which it initiates, and the structural changes and consequent derangement and suspension of vital functions which it involves, he aptly terms it the 'genius of degeneration.' "with abundant provision of indisputable foods, select that liquid which has failed to command the general assent of experts that it is a food at all, and because it is claimed to diminish some of the excretions, call that a delay of metamorphosis of tissue conservative of health! the ostrich may bury his head in the sand, but science will not close its eyes before such impalpable dust." speaking of this desperate effort to claim alcohol as a food, dr. n.s. davis well says: "it seems hardly possible that men of eminent attainments in the profession should so far forget one of the most fundamental and universally recognized laws of organic life as to promulgate the fallacy here stated. the fundamental law to which we allude is, that all vital phenomena are accompanied by, and dependent on, molecular or atomic changes; and whatever retards these retards the phenomena of life; whatever suspends these suspends life. hence, to say that an agent which retards tissue metamorphosis is in any sense a food, is simply to pervert and misapply terms." well may the author of the paper from which we have quoted so freely, exclaim: "strangest of foods! most impalpable of aliments! defying all the research of animal chemistry, tasking all the ingenuity of experts in hypothetical explanations, registering its effects chiefly by functional disturbance and organic lesions, causing its very defenders as a food to stultify themselves when in fealty to facts they are compelled to disclose its destructions, and to find the only defense in that line of demarcation, more imaginary than the equator, more delusive than the mirage, between use and abuse." that alcohol is not a food in any sense, has been fully shown; and now, what is its value as a medicine? our reply to this question will be brief. the reader has, already, the declaration of the international medical congress, that, as a medicine, the range of alcohol is limited and doubtful, and that its self-prescription by the laity should be utterly discountenanced by the profession. no physician who has made himself thoroughly acquainted with the effects of alcohol when introduced into the blood and brought in contact with the membranes, nerves and organs of the human body, would now venture to prescribe its free use to consumptives as was done a very few years ago. "in the whole management of lung diseases," remarks dr. hunt, "with the exception of the few who can always be relied upon to befriend alcohol, other remedies have largely superseded all spirituous liquors. its employment in stomach disease, once so popular, gets no encouragement, from a careful examination of its local and constitutional effects, as separated from the water, sugar and acids imbibed with it." typhoid fever. it is in typhoid fever that alcohol has been used, perhaps, most frequently by the profession; but this use is now restricted, and the administration made with great caution. prof. a.l. loomis, of new york city, has published several lectures on the pathology and treatment of typhoid fever. referring thereto, dr. hunt says: "no one in our country can speak more authoritatively, and as he has no radical views as to the exclusion of alcohol, it is worth while to notice the place to which he assigns it. in the milder cases he entirely excludes it. as a means of reducing temperature, he does not mention it, but relies on cold, quinine, and sometimes, digitalis and quinine." when, about the third week, signs of failure of heart-power begin to manifest themselves, and the use of some form of stimulant seems to be indicated, dr. loomis gives the most guarded advice as to their employment. "never," he says, "give a patient stimulants simply because he has typhoid fever." and again, "where there is reasonable doubt as to the propriety of giving or withholding stimulants, it is safer to withhold them." he then insists that, if stimulants are administered, the patient should be visited every two hours to watch their effects. it will thus be seen how guarded has now become the use of alcohol as a cardiac stimulant in typhoid fevers, where it was once employed with an almost reckless freedom. many practitioners have come to exclude it altogether, and to rely wholly on ammonia, ether and foods. in cameron's "hygiene" is this sentence: "in candor, it must be admitted that many eminent physicians deny the efficacy of alcohol in the treatment of any kind of disease, _and some assert that it is worse than useless_." accumulative testimony. dr. arnold lees, f.l.s., in a recent paper on the "use and action of alcohol in disease," assumes "_that the old use of alcohol was not science, but a grave blunder_." prof. c.a. parks says: "it is impossible not to feel that, so far, the progress of physiological inquiry renders the use of alcohol (in medicine) more and more doubtful." dr. anstie says: "if alcohol is to be administered at all for the _relief_ of neuralgia, it should be given with as much precision, as to dose, as we should use in giving an acknowledged _deadly poison_." dr. f.t. roberts, an eminent english physician, in advocating a guarded use of alcohol in typhoid fever, says: "alcoholic stimulants are, by no means, always required, and their indiscriminate use may do a great deal of harm." in asiatic cholera, brandy was formerly administered freely to patients when in the stage of collapse. the effect was injurious, instead of beneficial. "again and again," says prof. g. johnson, "have i seen a patient grow colder, and his pulse diminish in volume and power, after a dose of brandy, and, apparently, as a direct result of the brandy." and dr. pidduck, of london, who used common salt in cholera treatment, says: "of eighty-six cases in the stage of collapse, sixteen only proved fatal, and scarcely one would have died, _if i had been able to prevent them from taking brandy and laudanum_." dr. collenette, of guernsey, says: "for more than thirty years i have abandoned the use of all kinds of alcoholic drinks in my practice, and with such good results, that, were i sick, _nothing_ would induce _me_ to have resource to them--_they are but noxious depressants_." as a non-professional writer, we cannot go beyond the medical testimony which has been educed, and we now leave it with the reader. we could add many pages to this testimony, but such cumulative evidence would add but little to its force with the reader. if he is not yet convinced that alcohol has no food value, and that, as a medicine, its range is exceedingly limited, and always of doubtful administration, nothing further that we might be able to cite or say could have any influence with him. chapter vi. the growth and power of appetite. one fact attendant on habitual drinking stands out so prominently that none can call it in question. it is that of the steady growth of appetite. there are exceptions, as in the action of nearly every rule; but the almost invariable result of the habit we have mentioned, is, as we have said, a steady growth of appetite for the stimulant imbibed. that this is in consequence of certain morbid changes in the physical condition produced by the alcohol itself, will hardly be questioned by any one who has made himself acquainted with the various functional and organic derangements which invariably follow the continued introduction of this substance into the body. but it is to the fact itself, not to its cause, that we now wish to direct the reader's attention. the man who is satisfied at first with a single glass of wine at dinner, finds, after awhile, that appetite asks for a little more; and, in time, a second glass is conceded. the increase of desire may be very slow, but it goes on surely until, in the end, a whole bottle will scarcely suffice, with far too many, to meet its imperious demands. it is the same in regard to the use of every other form of alcoholic drink. now, there are men so constituted that they are able, for a long series of years, or even for a whole lifetime, to hold this appetite within a certain limit of indulgence. to say "so far, and no farther." they suffer ultimately from physical ailments, which surely follow the prolonged contact of alcoholic poison with the delicate structures of the body, many of a painful character, and shorten the term of their natural lives; but still they are able to drink without an increase of appetite so great as to reach an overmastering degree. they do not become abandoned drunkards. no man safe who drinks. but no man who begins the use of alcohol in any form can tell what, in the end, is going to be its effect on his body or mind. thousands and tens of thousands, once wholly unconscious of danger from this source, go down yearly into drunkards' graves. there is no standard by which any one can measure the latent evil forces in his inherited nature. he may have from ancestors, near or remote, an unhealthy moral tendency, or physical diathesis, to which the peculiarly disturbing influence of alcohol will give the morbid condition in which it will find its disastrous life. that such results follow the use of alcohol in a large number of cases, is now a well-known fact in the history of inebriation. during the past few years, the subject of alcoholism, with the mental and moral causes leading thereto, have attracted a great deal of earnest attention. physicians, superintendents of inebriate and lunatic asylums, prison-keepers, legislators and philanthropists have been observing and studying its many sad and terrible phases, and recording results and opinions. while differences are held on some points, as, for instance, whether drunkenness is a disease for which, after it has been established, the individual ceases to be responsible, and should be subject to restraint and treatment, as for lunacy or fever; a crime to be punished; or a sin to be repented of and healed by the physician of souls, all agree that there is an inherited or acquired mental and nervous condition with many, which renders any use of alcohol exceedingly dangerous. the point we wish to make with the reader is, that no man can possibly know, until he has used alcoholic drinks for a certain period of time, whether he has or has not this hereditary or acquired physical or mental condition; and that, if it should exist, a discovery of the fact may come too late. dr. d.g. dodge, late superintendent of the new york state inebriate asylum, speaking of the causes leading to intemperance, after stating his belief that it is a transmissible disease, like "scrofula, gout or consumption," says: "there are men who have an organization, which may be termed an alcoholic idiosyncrasy; with them the latent desire for stimulants, if indulged, soon leads to habits of intemperance, and eventually to a morbid appetite, which has all the characteristics of a diseased condition of the system, which the patient, unassisted, is powerless to relieve--since the weakness of the will that led to the disease obstructs its removal. "again, we find in another class of persons, those who have had healthy parents, and have been educated and accustomed to good social influences, moral and social, but whose temperament and physical constitution are such, that, when they once indulge in the use of stimulants, which they find pleasurable, they continue to habitually indulge till they cease to be moderate, and become excessive drinkers. a depraved appetite is established, that leads them on slowly, but surely, to destruction." a dangerous delusion. in this chapter, our chief purpose is to show the growth and awful power of an appetite which begins striving for the mastery the moment it is indulged, and against the encroachments of which no man who gives it any indulgence is absolutely safe. he who so regards himself is resting in a most dangerous delusion. so gradually does it increase, that few observe its steady accessions of strength until it has acquired the power of a master. dr. george m. burr, in a paper on the pathology of drunkenness, read before the "american association for the cure of inebriates," says, in referring to the first indications of an appetite, which he considers one of the symptoms of a forming disease, says: "this early stage is marked by an occasional desire to drink, which recurs at shorter and shorter intervals, and a propensity, likewise, gradually increasing for a greater quantity at each time. this stage has long been believed to be one of voluntary indulgence, for which the subject of it was morally responsible. the drinker has been held as criminal for his occasional indulgence, and his example has been most severely censured. this habit, however, must be regarded as the first intimation of the approaching disease--the stage of invasion, precisely as sensations of _mal-aise_ and chills usher in a febrile attack. "it is by no means claimed that in this stage the subject is free from responsibility as regards the consequences of his acts, or that his case is to be looked upon as beyond all attempts at reclamation. quite to the contrary. this is the stage for active interference. restraint, prohibition, quarantine, anything may be resorted to, to arrest the farther advance of the disease. instead of being taught that the habit of occasional drinking is merely a moral _lapsus_ (not the most powerful restraining motive always), the subject of it should be made to understand that it is the commencement of a malady, which, if unchecked, will overwhelm him in ruin, and, compared with which, cholera and yellow fever are harmless. he should be impressed with the fact that the early stage is the one when recuperation is most easy--that the will then has not lost its power of control, and that the fatal propensity is not incurable. the duty of prevention, or avoidance, should be enforced with as much earnestness and vigor as we are required to carry out sanitary measures against the spread of small-pox or any infectious disease. the subject of inebriety may be justly held responsible, if he neglects all such efforts, and allows the disease to progress without a struggle to arrest it. "the formative stage of inebriety continues for a longer or shorter period, when, as is well known, more frequent repetitions of the practice of drinking are to be observed. the impulse to drink grows stronger and stronger, the will-power is overthrown and the entire organism becomes subject to the fearful demands for stimulus. it is now that the stage of confirmed inebriation is formed, and _dypso-mania_ fully established. the constant introduction of alcohol into the system, circulating with the fluids and permeating the tissues, adds fuel to the already enkindled flame, and intensifies the propensity to an irresistible degree. nothing now satisfies short of complete intoxication, and, until the unhappy subject of the disease falls senseless and completely overcome, will he cease his efforts to gratify this most insatiable desire." dr. alexander peddie, of edinburgh, who has given twenty years of study to this subject, remarked, in his testimony before a committee of the house of commons, that there seemed to be "a peculiar elective affinity for the action of alcohol on the nervous system after it had found its way through the circulation into the brain," by which the whole organism was disturbed, and the man rendered less able to resist morbid influences of any kind. he gave many striking instances of the growth and power of appetite, which had come under his professional notice, and of the ingenious devices and desperate resorts to which dypsomaniacs were driven in their efforts to satisfy their inordinate cravings. no consideration, temporal or spiritual, had any power to restrain their appetite, if, by any means, fair or foul, they could obtain alcoholic stimulants. to get this, he said, the unhappy subject of this terrible thirst "will tell the most shameful lies--for no truth is ever found in connection with the habitual drunkard's state. he never yet saw truth in relation to drink got out of one who was a dypsomaniac--he has sufficient reason left to tell these untruths, and to understand his position, because people in that condition are seldom dead drunk; they are seldom in the condition of total stupidity; they have generally an eye open to their own affairs, and that which is the main business of their existence, namely, how to get drink. they will resort to the most ingenious, mean and degrading contrivances and practices to procure and conceal liquor, and this, too, while closely watched; and will succeed in deception, although fabulous quantities are daily swallowed." dr. john nugent gives a case which came within his own knowledge, of a lady who had been a most exemplary nun for fifteen or twenty years. in consequence of her devotion to the poor, attending them in fevers, and like cases, it seemed necessary for her to take stimulants; these stimulants grew to be habitual, and she had been compelled, five or six times, to place herself in a private asylum. in three or four weeks after being let out, she would relapse, although she was believed to be under the strongest influences of religion, and of the most virtuous desires. there had been developed in her that disposition to drink which she was unable to overcome or control. the power of this appetite, and the frightful moral perversions that often follow its indulgence are vividly portrayed in the following extract, from an address by dr. elisha harris, of new york, in which he discusses the question of the criminality of drunkenness. "let the fact be noticed that such is the lethargy which alcoholism produces upon reason and conscience, that it is sometimes necessary to bring the offender to view his drunken indulgence as a crime. we have known a refined and influential citizen to be so startled at the fact that he wished to destroy the lives of all persons, even of his own family, who manifested unhappiness at his intemperance, that seeing this terrible criminality of his indulgence, instantly formed, and has forever kept, his resolutions of abstinence. we have known the hereditary dypsomaniac break from his destroyer, and when tempted in secret by the monstrous appetite, so grind his teeth and clinch his jaws in keeping his vows to taste not, that blood dripped from his mouth and cold sweat bathed his face. that man is a model of temperance and moral power to-day. and it was the consciousness of personal criminality that stimulated these successful conflicts with the morbid appetite and the powers of the alcohol disease that had fastened upon them. shall we hesitate to hold ourselves, or to demand that communities shall hold every drunkard--not yet insane--responsible for every act of inebriety? certainly, it is not cruel or unjust to deal thus with drunkenness. it is not the prison we open, but conscience." the danger in which those stand who have an inherited predisposition to drink, is very great. rev. i. willett, superintendent of the inebriate's home, fort hamilton, kings county, new york, thus refers to this class, which is larger than many think: "there are a host of living men and women to be found who never drank, and who dare not drink, intoxicating liquors or beverages, because one or both of their parents were inebriates before they were born into the world; and, besides, a number of these have brothers or sisters who, having given way to the inherited appetite, are now passing downward on this descending sliding scale. the greater portion of them have already passed over the bounds of self-control, and the varied preliminary symptoms of melancholy, mania, paralysis, ideas of persecution, etc., etc., are developing. as to the question of responsibility, each case is either more or less doubtful, and can only be tested on its separate merits. there is, however, abundant evidence to prove that this predisposition to inebriety, even after long indulgence, can, by a skillful process of medication, accompanied by either voluntary or compulsory restraint, be subdued; and the counterbalancing physical and mental powers can at the same time be so strengthened and invigorated as in the future to enable the person to resist the temptations by which he may be surrounded. yea, though the powers of reason may, for the time being, be dethroned, and lunacy be developed, these cases, in most instances, will yield to medical treatment where the surrounding conditions of restraint and careful nursing are supplemental. "we have observed that in many instances the fact of the patient being convinced that he is an hereditary inebriate, has produced beneficial results. summoning to his aid all the latent counterbalancing energies which he has at command, and clothing himself with this armor, he goes forth to war, throws up the fortifications of physical and mental restraint, repairs the breaches and inroads of diseased appetite, regains control of the citadel of the brain, and then, with shouts of triumph, he unfurls the banner of 'victory!'" dr. wood, of london, in his work on insanity, speaking on the subject of hereditary inebriety, says: "instances are sufficiently familiar, and several have occurred within my own personal knowledge, where the father, having died at any early age from the effects of intemperance, has left a son to be brought up by those who have severely suffered from his excesses, and have therefore the strongest motives to prevent, if possible, a repetition of such misery; every pain has been taken to enforce sobriety, and yet, notwithstanding all precautions, the habits of the father have become those of the son, who, never having seen him from infancy, could not have adopted them from imitation. everything was done to encourage habits of temperance, but all to no purpose; the seeds of the disease had begun to germinate; a blind impulse led the doomed individual, by successive and rapid strides, along the same course which was fatal to the father, and which, ere long, terminated in his own destruction." how great and fearful the power of an appetite which cannot only enslave and curse the man over which it gains control, but send its malign influence down to the second and third and fourth generations, sometimes to the absolute extinguishment of families! morel, a frenchman, gives the following as the result of his observation of the hereditary effects of drunkenness: "_first generation_: immorality, depravity, excess in the use of alcoholic liquors, moral debasement. _second generation_: hereditary drunkenness, paroxysms of mania, general paralysis. _third generation_: sobriety, hypochondria, melancholy, systematic ideas of being persecuted, homicidal tendencies. _fourth generation_: intelligence slightly developed, first accessions of mania at sixteen years of age, stupidity, subsequent idiocy and probable extinction of family." dr. t.d. crothers, in an analysis of the hundred cases of inebriety received at the new york inebriate asylum, gives this result: "inebriety inherited direct from parents was traced in twenty-one cases. in eleven of these the father drank alone, in six instances the mother drank, and in four cases both parents drank. "in thirty-three cases inebriety was traced to ancestors more remote, as grandfather, grandmother, etc., etc., the collateral branches exhibiting both inebriety and insanity. in some instances a whole generation had been passed over, and the disorders of the grandparents appeared again. "in twenty cases various neurosal disorders had been prominent in the family and its branches, of which neuralgia, chorea, hysteria, eccentricity, mania, epilepsy and inebriety, were most common. "in some cases, a wonderful periodicity in the outbreak of these disorders was manifested. "for instance, in one family, for two generations, inebriety appeared in seven out of twelve members, after they had passed forty, and ended fatally within ten years. in another, hysteria, chorea, epilepsy and mania, with drunkenness, came on soon after puberty, and seemed to deflect to other disorders, or exhaust itself before middle life. this occurred in eight out of fourteen, extending over two generations. in another instance, the descendants of three generations, and many of the collateral branches, developed inebriety, mental eccentricities, with other disorders bordering on mania, at about thirty-five years of age. in some cases this lasted only a few years, in others a lifetime." and here let us say that in this matter of an inherited appetite there is a difference of views with some who believe that appetite is never transmitted but always acquired. this difference of view is more apparent than real. it is not the drunkard's appetite that is transmitted, but the bias or proclivity which renders the subject of such an inherited tendency more susceptible to exciting causes, and therefore in greater danger from the use of alcoholic drinks than others. dr. n.s. davis, in an article in the _washingtonian_, published at chicago, presents the opposite view of the case. the following extract from this article is well worthy to be read and considered: "if we should say that man is so constituted that he is capable of feeling weary, restless, despondent and anxious, and that he instinctively desires to be relieved of these unpleasant feelings, we should assert a self-evident fact. and we should thereby assert all the instincts or natural impulse there is in the matter. it is simply a desire to be relieved from unpleasant feelings, and does not, in the slightest degree, indicate or suggest any particular remedy. it no more actually suggests the idea of alcohol or opium than it does bread and water. but if, by accident, or by the experience of others, the individual has learned that his unpleasant feelings can be relieved, for the time being, by alcohol, opium or any other exhilarant, he not only uses the remedy himself, but perpetuates a knowledge of the same to others. it is in this way, and this only, that most of the nations and tribes of our race, have, much to their detriment, found a knowledge of some kind of intoxicant. the same explanation is applicable to the supposed 'constitutional susceptibility,' as a primary cause of intemperance. that some persons inherit a greater degree of nervous and organic susceptibility than others, and are, in consequence of this greater susceptibility, more readily affected by a given quantity of narcotic, anæsthetic or intoxicant, is undoubtedly true. and that such will "more readily become drunkards, "if they once commence to use intoxicating drinks, is also true. but that such persons, or any others, have the slightest inherent or constitutional taste or any longing for intoxicants, until they have acquired such taste or longing by actual use, we find no reliable proof. it is true that statistics appear to show that a larger proportion of the children of drunkards become themselves drunkards, than of children born of total abstainers. and hence the conclusion has been drawn that such children inherited the constitutional tendency to inebriation. but before we are justified in adopting such a conclusion, several other important facts must be ascertained. " st. we must know whether the mother, while nursing, used more or less constantly some kind of alcoholic beverage, by which the alcohol might have impregnated the milk in her breasts and thereby made its early impression on the tastes and longings of the child. " d. we must know whether the intemperate parents were in the habit of frequently giving alcoholic preparations to the children, either to relieve temporary ailments, or for the same reason that they drank it themselves. i am constrained to say, that from my own observation, extending over a period of forty years, and a field by no means limited, i am satisfied that nineteen out of every twenty persons who have been regarded as hereditary inebriates have simply acquired the disposition to drink by one or both of the methods just mentioned, after birth." the views here presented in no way lessen but really heighten the perils of moderate drinking. it is affirmed that some persons inherit a greater degree of nervous and organic susceptibility than others, and are, in consequence, more readily affected by a given quantity of narcotic, anæsthetic or intoxicant; _and that such "will more readily become drunkards if they commence to use intoxicating drinks."_ be the cause of this inherited nervous susceptibility what it may, and it is far more general than is to be inferred from the admission just quoted, the fact stands forth as a solemn warning of the peril every man encounters in even the most moderate use of alcohol. speaking of this matter, dr. george m. beard, who is not as sound on the liquor question as we could wish, says, in an article on the "causes of the recent increase of inebriety in america:" "as a means of prevention, abstinence from the _habit_ of drinking is to be enforced. such abstinence may not have been necessary for our fathers, but it is rendered necessary for a large body of the american people on account of our greater nervous susceptibility. it is possible to drink without being an habitual drinker, as it is possible to take chloral or opium without forming the habit of taking these substances. in certain countries and climates where the nervous system is strong and the temperature more equable than with us, in what i sometimes call the temperate belt of the world, including spain, italy, southern france, syria and persia, the habitual use of wine rarely leads to drunkenness, and never, or almost never, to inebriety; but in the intemperate belt, where we live, and which includes northern europe and the united states, with a cold and violently changeable climate, the habit of drinking either wines or stronger liquors is liable to develop in some cases a habit of intemperance. notably in our country, where nervous sensitiveness is seen in its extreme manifestations, the majority of brain-workers are not safe so long as they are in the habit of even moderate drinking. i admit that this was not the case one hundred years ago--and the reasons i have already given--it is not the case to-day in continental europe; even in england it is not so markedly the case as in the northern part of the united states. _for those individuals who inherit a tendency to inebriety, the only safe course is absolute abstinence, especially in early life._" in the same article, dr. baird remarks: "the number of those in this country who cannot bear tea, coffee or alcoholic liquors of any kind, is very large. there are many, especially in the northern states, who must forego coffee entirely, and use tea only with caution; either, in any excess, cause trembling nerves and sleepless nights. the susceptibility to alcohol is so marked, with many persons, that no pledges, and no medical advice, and no moral or legal influences are needed to keep them in the paths of temperance. _such persons are warned by flushing of the face, or by headache, that alcohol, whatever it may be to others, or whatever it may have been to their ancestors, is poison to them._" but, in order to give a higher emphasis to precepts, admonition and medical testimony, we offer a single example of the enslaving power of appetite, when, to a predisposing hereditary tendency, the excitement of indulgence has been added. the facts of this case were communicated to us by a professional gentleman connected with one of our largest inebriate asylums, and we give them almost in his very words in which they were related. a remarkable case. a clever, but dissipated actor married clandestinely a farmer's daughter in the state of new york. the parents of the girl would not recognize him as the husband of their child; rejecting him so utterly that he finally left the neighborhood. a son born of this marriage gave early evidence of great mental activity, and was regarded, in the college where he graduated, as almost a prodigy of learning. he carried off many prizes, and distinguished himself as a brilliant orator. afterwards he went to princeton and studied for the ministry. while there, it was discovered that he was secretly drinking. the faculty did everything in their power to help and restrain him; and his co-operation with them was earnest as to purpose, but not permanently availing. the nervous susceptibility inherited from his father responded with a morbid quickness to every exciting cause, and the moment wine or spirits touched the sense of smell or taste, he was seized with an almost irresistible desire to drink to excess, and too often yielded to its demands. for months he would abstain entirely; and then drink to intoxication in secret. after graduating from princeton he became pastor of a church in one of the largest cities of western new york, where he remained for two years, distinguishing himself for his earnest work and fervid eloquence. but the appetite he had formed was imperious in its demands, and periodically became so strong that he lost the power of resistance. when these periodic assaults of appetite came, he would lock himself in his room for days and satiate the fierce thirst, coming out sick and exhausted. it was impossible to conceal from his congregation the dreadful habit into which he had fallen, and ere two years had elapsed he was dismissed for drunkenness. he then went to one of the chief cities of the west, where he received a call, and was, for a time, distinguished as a preacher; but again he fell into disgrace and had to leave his charge. two other churches called him to fill the office of pastor, but the same sad defections from sobriety followed. for a considerable time after this his friends lost sight of him. then he was found in the streets of new york city by the president of the college from which he had first graduated, wretched and debased from drink, coatless and hatless. his old friend took him to a hotel, and then brought his case to the notice of the people at a prayer-meeting held in the evening at one of the churches. his case was immediately taken in hand and money raised to send him to the state inebriate asylum. after he had remained there for a year, he began to preach as a supply in a church a few miles distant, going on saturday evening and returning on monday morning; but always having an attendant with him, not daring to trust himself alone. this went on for nearly a whole year, when a revival sprang up in the church, which he conducted with great eloquence and fervor. after the second week of this new excitement, he began to lock himself up in his room after returning from the service, and could not be seen until the next morning. in the third week of the revival, the excitement of the meetings grew intense. after this he was only seen in the pulpit, where his air and manner were wild and thrilling. his friends at the asylum knew that he must be drinking, and while hesitating as to their wisest course, waited anxiously for the result. one day he was grandly eloquent. such power in the pulpit had never been witnessed there before--his appeals were unequalled; but so wild and impassioned that some began to fear for his reason. at the close of this day's services, the chaplain of the institution of which he was an inmate, returned with him to the asylum, and on the way, told him frankly that he was deceiving the people--that his eloquent appeals came not from the power of the holy spirit, but from the excitement of drink; and that all farther conduct of the meetings must be left in other hands. on reaching the asylum he retired, greatly agitated, and soon after died from a stroke of apoplexy. in his room many empty bottles, which had contained brandy, were found; but the people outside remained in ignorance of the true cause of the marvelous eloquence which had so charmed and moved them. we have already extended this chapter beyond the limit at first proposed. our object has not only been to show the thoughtful and intelligent reader who uses alcoholic beverages, the great peril in which he stands, but to make apparent to every one, how insidious is the growth and how terrible the power of this appetite for intoxicants; an appetite which, if once established, is almost sure to rob its victim of honor, pity, tenderness and love; an appetite, whose indulgence too often transforms the man into a selfish demon. think of it, all ye who dally with the treacherous cup; are not the risks you are running too great? nay, considering your duties and your obligations, have you any right to run these risks? and now that we have shown the curse of strong drink, let us see what agencies are at work in the abatement, prevention and cure of a disease that is undermining the health of whole nations, shortening the natural term of human life, and in our own country alone, sending over sixty thousand men and women annually into untimely graves. [illustration: satan sends his trusted servants, alcohol and gambling, out upon a mission.] [illustration: alcohol meets a bright young man and cultivates his acquaintance.] [illustration: alcohol introduces the youth to his old-time friend, gambling.] [illustration: the mutual friends relieve the youth of his cash.] [illustration: alcohol and his victim have a jolly time.] [illustration: the young man comes to grief, but alcohol sticks by him.] [illustration: they suggest an easy method for replenishing his exchequer.] [illustration: the mutual friends determine to follow him to the inmost cell of the prison.] [illustration: alcohol and gambling incite their victim to murder.] [illustration: they mock him when upon the scaffold.] [illustration: alcohol and gambling bury their victim in an untimely and dishonored grave.] [illustration: they report their success to satan and receive his congratulations.] chapter vii. means of cure. is this disease, or vice, or sin, or crime of intemperance--call it by what name you will--increasing or diminishing? has any impression been made upon it during the half-century in which there have been such earnest and untiring efforts to limit its encroachments on the health, prosperity, happiness and life of the people? what are the agencies of repression at work; how effective are they, and what is each doing? these are questions full of momentous interest. diseases of the body, if not cured, work a steady impairment of health, and bring pains and physical disabilities. if their assaults be upon nervous centres, or vital organs, the danger of paralysis or death becomes imminent. now, as to this disease of intemperance, which is a social and moral as well as a physical disease, it is not to be concealed that it has invaded the common body of the people to an alarming degree, until, using the words of holy writ, "the whole head is sick and the whole heart faint." nay, until, using a still stronger form of scriptural illustration, "from the sole of the foot even unto the head, there is no soundness in it; but wounds and bruises and putrifying sores." in this view, the inquiry as to increase or diminution, assumes the gravest importance. if, under all the agencies of cure and reform which have been in active operation during the past fifty years, no impression has been made upon this great evil which is so cursing the people, then is the case indeed desperate, if not hopeless. but if it appears that, under these varied agencies, there has been an arrest of the disease here, a limitation of its aggressive force there, its almost entire extirpation in certain cases, and a better public sentiment everywhere; then, indeed, may we take heart and say "god speed temperance work!" in all of its varied aspects. hopeful signs. and here, at the outset of our presentation of some of the leading agencies of reform and cure, let us say, that the evidence going to show that an impression has been made upon the disease is clear and indisputable; and that this impression is so marked as to give the strongest hope and assurance. in the face of prejudice, opposition, ridicule, persecution, obloquy and all manner of discouragements, the advocates of temperance have held steadily to their work these many years, and now the good results are seen on every hand. contrast the public sentiment of to-day with that of twenty, thirty and forty years ago, and the progress becomes at once apparent. in few things is this so marked as in the changed attitude of the medical profession towards alcohol. one of the most dangerous, and, at the same time, one of the most securely intrenched of all our enemies, was the family doctor. among his remedies and restoratives, wine, brandy, whisky and tonic ale all held a high place, and were administered more frequently, perhaps, than any other articles in the materia medica. the disease of his patients arrested by special remedies or broken by an effort of nature, he too often commenced the administration of alcohol in some one or more of its disguised and attractive forms, in order to give tone and stimulus to the stomach and nerves, and as a general vitalizer and restorative. the evil consequences growing out of this almost universal prescription of alcohol, were of the most lamentable character, and thousands and tens of thousands of men and women were betrayed into drunkenness. but to-day, you will not find a physician of any high repute in america or europe who will give it to his patients, except in the most guarded manner and under the closest limitations; and he will not consent to any self-prescription whatever. fruits of temperance work. is not this a great gain? and it has come as the result of temperance work and agitation, as dr. henry monroe frankly admits in his lecture on the physiological action of alcohol, where, after stating that his remarks would not partake of the character of a total abstinence lecture, but rather of a scientific inquiry into the mode of action of alcohol when introduced into the tissues of the body, he adds: "nevertheless, i would not have it understood that i, in any way, disparage the moral efforts made by total abstainers who, years ago, amid good report and evil report, stood in the front of the battle to war against the multitude of evils occasioned by strong drink;--all praise be due to them for their noble and self-denying exertions! had it not been for the successful labors of these moral giants in the great cause of temperance, presenting to the world in their own personal experiences many new and astounding physiological facts, _men of science would, probably, never have had their attention drawn to the topic._" then, as a result of temperance work, we have a more restrictive legislation in many states, and prohibitory laws in new hampshire, vermont and maine. in the state of maine, a prohibitory law has been in operation for over twenty-six years; and so salutary has been the effect as seen in the reduction of poverty, pauperism and crime, that the legislature, in january, , added new and heavier penalties to the law, both houses passing on the amendment without a dissenting voice. in all that state there is not, now, a single distillery or brewery in operation, nor a single open bar-room. forty years ago the pulpit was almost silent on the subject of intemperance and the liquor traffic; now, the church is fast arraying itself on the side of total abstinence and prohibition, and among its ministers are to be found many of our most active temperance workers. forty or fifty years ago, the etiquette of hospitality was violated if wine, or cordial, or brandy were not tendered. nearly every sideboard had its display of decanters, well filled, and it was almost as much an offense for the guest to decline as for the host to omit the proffered glass. even boys and girls were included in the custom; and tastes were acquired which led to drunkenness in after life. all this is changed now. the curse of the liquor traffic is attracting, as never before, the attention of all civilized people; and national, state and local legislatures and governments are appointing commissions of inquiry, and gathering data and facts, with a view to its restriction. and, more hopeful than all, signs are becoming more and more apparent that the people are everywhere awakening to a sense of the dangers that attend this traffic. enlightenment is steadily progressing. reason and judgment; common sense and prudence, are all coming to the aid of repression. men see, as they never saw before, how utterly evil and destructive are the drinking habits of this and other nations; how they weaken the judgment and deprave the moral sense; how they not only take from every man who falls into them his ability to do his best in any pursuit or calling, but sow in his body the germs of diseases which will curse him in his later years and abridge their term. other evidences of the steady growth among the people of a sentiment adverse to drinking might be given. we see it in the almost feverish response that everywhere meets the strong appeals of temperance speakers, and in the more pronounced attitude taken by public and professional men. judges on the bench and preachers from the pulpit alike lift their voices in condemnation. grand juries repeat and repeat their presentations of liquor selling and liquor drinking as the fruitful source of more than two-thirds of the crimes and miseries that afflict the community; and prison reports add their painful emphasis to the warning of the inquest. the people learn slowly, but they are learning. until they _will_ that this accursed traffic shall cease, it must go on with its sad and awful consequences. but the old will of the people has been debased by sensual indulgence. it is too weak to set itself against the appetite by which it has become enslaved. there must be a new will formed in the ground of enlightenment and intelligence; and then, out of knowing what is right and duty in regard to this great question of temperance and restriction, will come the will to do. and when we have this new will resting in the true enlightenment of the people, we shall have no impeded action. whatever sets itself in opposition thereto must go down. and for this the time is coming, though it may still be far off. of its steady approach, the evidences are many and cheering. meanwhile, we must work and wait. if we are not yet strong enough to drive out the enemy, we may limit his power, and do the work of healing and saving. what, then, is being done in this work of healing and saving? is there, in fact, any cure for the dreadful malady of drunkenness? are men ever really saved from its curse? and, if so, how is it done, and what are the agencies employed? among the first of these to which we shall refer, is the pledge. as a means of reform and restriction, it has been used by temperance workers from the beginning, and still holds a prominent place. seeing that only in a complete abstinence from intoxicating drinks was there any hope of rescue for the drunkard, or any security for the moderate drinker, it was felt that under a solemn pledge to wholly abstain from their use, large numbers of men would, from a sense of honor, self-respect or conscience, hold themselves free from touch or taste. in the case of moderate drinkers, with whom appetite is yet under control, the pledge has been of great value; but almost useless after appetite has gained the mastery. in a simple pledge there is no element of self-control. if honor, self-respect or conscience, rallying to its support in the hour of temptation, be not stronger than appetite, it will be of no avail. and it too often happens that, with the poor inebriate, these have become blunted, or well-nigh extinguished. the consequence has been that where the pledge has been solely relied upon, the percentage of reform has been very small. as a first means of rescue, it is invaluable; because it is, on the part of him who takes it, a complete removal of himself from the sphere of temptation, and so long as he holds himself away from the touch and taste of liquor, he is safe. if the pledge will enable him to do this, then the pledge will save him. but it is well known, from sad experience, that only a few are saved by the pledge. the strength that saves must be something more than the external bond of a promise; it must come from within, and be grounded in a new and changed life, internally as well as externally. if the reformed man, after he takes his pledge, does not endeavor to lead a better moral life--does not keep himself away from old debasing associations--does not try, earnestly and persistently, to become, in all things, a truer, purer, nobler man, then his pledge is only as a hoop, that any overstrain may break, and not an internal bond, holding in integrity all things from the centre to the circumference of his life. so well is this now understood, that little reliance is had on the pledge in itself, though its use is still general. it is regarded as a first and most important step in the right direction. as the beginning of a true and earnest effort on the part of some unhappy soul to break the bonds of a fearful slavery. but few would think of leaving such a soul to the saving power of the pledge alone. if other help came not, the effort would be, except in rare cases, too surely, all in vain. the need of something more reliable than a simple pledge has led to other means of reform and cure, each taking character and shape from the peculiar views of those who have adopted them. inebriate asylums and reformatory homes have been established in various parts of the country, and through their agency many who were once enslaved by drink are being restored to society and good citizenship. in what is popularly known as the "gospel temperance" movement, the weakness of the pledge, in itself, is recognized, and, "god being my helper," is declared to be the ultimate and only sure dependence. it is through this abandonment of all trust in the pledge, beyond a few exceptional cases, that reformatory work rises to its true sphere and level of success. and we shall now endeavor to show what is being done in the work of curing drunkards, as well in asylums and reformatory homes, as by the so-called "gospel" methods. in this we shall, as far as possible, let each of these important agencies speak for itself, explaining its own methods and giving its own results. all are accomplishing good in their special line of action; all are saving men from the curse of drink, and the public needs to be more generally advised of what they are doing. chapter viii. inebriate asylums. the careful observation and study of inebriety by medical men, during the past twenty-five or thirty years, as well in private practice as in hospitals and prisons, has led them to regard it as, in many of its phases, a disease needing wise and careful treatment. to secure such treatment was seen to be almost impossible unless the subject of intemperance could be removed from old associations and influences, and placed under new conditions, in which there would be no enticement to drink, and where the means of moral and physical recovery could be judiciously applied. it was felt that, as a disease, the treatment of drunkenness, while its subject remained in the old atmosphere of temptation, was as difficult, if not impossible, as the treatment of a malarious fever in a miasmatic district. the result of this view was the establishment of inebriate asylums for voluntary or enforced seclusion, first in the united states, and afterwards in england and some of her dependencies. in the beginning, these institutions did not have much favor with the public; and, as the earlier methods of treatment pursued therein were, for the most part, experimental, and based on a limited knowledge of the pathology of drunkenness, the beneficial results were not large. still, the work went on, and the reports of cures made by the new york state asylum, at binghampton, the pioneer of these institutions, were sufficiently encouraging to lead to their establishment in other places; and there are now in this country as many as from twelve to fifteen public and private institutions for the treatment of drunkenness. of these, the new york state inebriate asylum, at binghampton; the inebriate home, at fort hamilton, long island; and the home for incurables, san francisco, cal., are the most prominent. at hartford, conn., the walnut hill asylum has recently been opened for the treatment of inebriate and opium cases, under the care of dr. t.d. crothers. the pinel hospital, at richmond, va., chartered by the state, in , is for the treatment of nervous and mental diseases, and for the reclamation of inebriates and opium-eaters. in needham, mass., is the appleton temporary home, where a considerable number of inebriates are received every year. besides these, there are private institutions, in which dypsomaniac patients are received. the methods of treatment differ according to the views and experience of those having charge of these institutions. up to this time a great deal of the treatment has been experimental; and there is still much difference of opinion among physicians and superintendents in regard to the best means of cure. but, on two important points, all are nearly in agreement. the first is in the necessity for an immediate and absolute withdrawal of all intoxicants from the patient, no matter how long he may have used them; and the second in the necessity of his entire abstinence therefrom after leaving the institution. _the cure never places a man back where he was before he became subject to the disease; and he can never, after his recovery, taste even the milder forms of alcoholic beverage without being exposed to the most imminent danger of relapse._ the great value of an asylum where the victim of intemperance can be placed for a time beyond the reach of alcohol is thus stated by dr. carpenter: "vain is it to recall the motives for a better course of conduct, to one who is already familiar with them all, but is destitute of the will to act upon them; the seclusion of such persons from the reach of alcoholic liquors, for a sufficient length of time to _free the blood from its contamination, to restore the healthful nutrition of the brain and to enable the recovered mental vigor to be wisely directed, seems to afford the only prospect of reformation:_ and this cannot be expected to be permanent, unless the patient determinately adopts and steadily acts on the resolution to abstain from that which, _if again indulged in, will be poison, alike to his body and to his mind_." in the study of inebriety and the causes leading thereto, much important information has been gathered by the superintendents and physicians connected with these establishments. dr. d.g. dodge, late superintendent of the new york state inebriate asylum, read a paper before the american association for the cure of inebriates, in , on "inebriate asylums and their management," in which are given the results of many years of study, observation and experience. speaking of the causes leading to drunkenness, he says: "occupation has a powerful controlling influence in developing or warding off the disease. in-door life in all kinds of business, is a predisposing cause, from the fact that nearly the whole force of the stimulant is concentrated and expended upon the brain and nervous system. a proper amount of out-door exercise, or labor, tends to throw off the stimulus more rapidly through the various functional operations of the system. occupation of all kinds, mental or muscular, assist the nervous system to retard or resist the action of stimulants--other conditions being equal. want of employment, or voluntary idleness is the great nursery of this disease." tobacco. "_the use of tobacco predisposes the system to alcoholism,_ and it has an effect upon the brain and nervous system similar to that of alcohol. the use of tobacco, if not prohibited, should be discouraged. the treatment of inebriates can never be wholly successful until the use of tobacco in all forms is absolutely dispensed with. "statistics show that inebriety oftenest prevails between the _ages of thirty and forty-five. the habit seldom culminates until thirty_, the subject to this age generally being a _moderate drinker; later in life the system is unable to endure the strain of a continued course of dissipation._ "like all hereditary diseases, intemperance is transmitted from parent to child as much as scrofula, gout or consumption. it observes all the laws in transmitting disease. it sometimes overleaps one generation and appears in the succeeding, or it will miss even the third generation, and then reappear in all its former activity and violence. hereditary inebriety, like all transmissible diseases, gives the least hope of permanent cure, and temporary relief is all that can generally be reasonably expected. "another class possesses an organization which may be termed an alcoholic idiosyncrasy; with them the latent desire for stimulants, if indulged, soon leads to habits of intemperance, and eventually to a morbid appetite, which has all the characteristics of a diseased condition of the system, which the patient, unassisted, is powerless to relieve, since the weakness of will that led to the disease obstructs its removal. "the second class may be subdivided as follows: first, those who have had healthy and temperate parents, and have been educated and accustomed to good influences, moral and social, but whose temperament and physical constitution are such _that when they once indulge in the use of stimulants, which they find pleasurable, they continue to habitually indulge till they cease to be moderate, and become excessive drinkers. a depraved appetite is established that leads them on slowly, but surely, to destruction._ "temperaments have much to do with the formation of the habit of excessive drinking. those of a nervous temperament are less likely to contract the habit, from the fact that they are acutely sensitive to danger, and avoid it while they have the power of self-control. on the other hand, those of a bilious, sanguine and lymphatic temperament, rush on, unmindful of the present, and soon become slaves to a depraved and morbid appetite, powerless to stay, or even to check their downward course." as we cannot speak of the treatment pursued in inebriate asylums from personal observation, we know of no better way to give our readers correct impressions on the subject, than to quote still farther from dr. dodge. "for a better understanding," he says, "of the requisite discipline demanded in the way of remedial restraint of inebriates, we notice some of the results of chronic inebriation affecting more particularly the brain and nervous system--which, in addition to the necessary medical treatment, necessitates strict discipline to the successful management of these cases." results of chronic inebriation. "we have _alcoholic epilepsy, alcoholic mania, delirium tremens, tremors, hallucinations, insomnia, vertigo, mental and muscular debility, impairment of vision, mental depression, paralysis, a partial or total loss of self-respect and a departure of the power of self-control._ many minor difficulties arise from mere functional derangement of the brain and nervous system, which surely and rapidly disappear when the cause is removed." the general rule, on the reception of a patient, is to cut off at once and altogether the use of alcohol in every form. "more," says the doctor, "can be done by diet and medicine, than can be obtained by a compromise in the moderate use of stimulants for a limited period." it is a mistake, he adds, to suppose "that any special danger arises from stopping the accustomed stimulus. alcohol is a poison, and we should discontinue its use at once, as it can be done with safety and perfect impunity, except in rare cases." to secure all the benefits to be derived from medical treatment, "we should have," says dr. dodge, "institutions for the reception of inebriates, where total abstinence can be rigidly, but judiciously enforced for a sufficient length of time, to test the curative powers of absolute restraint from all intoxicating drinks. when the craving for stimulants is irresistible, it is useless to make an attempt to reclaim and cure the drunkard, _unless the detention is compulsory_, and there is complete restraint from all spirituous or alcoholic stimulants." removal from temptation. in regard to the compulsory power that should inhere in asylums for the cure of drunkenness, there is little difference of opinion among those who have had experience in their management. they have more faith in time than in medicine, and think it as much the duty of the state to establish asylums for the treatment of drunkenness as for the treatment of insanity. "the length of time necessary to cure inebriation," says dr. dodge, "is a very important consideration. a habit covering five, ten, fifteen or twenty years, cannot be expected to be permanently eradicated in a week or a month. the fact that the excessive use of stimulants for a long period of time has caused a radical change, physically, mentally and morally, is not only the strongest possible proof that its entire absence is necessary, but, also, that it requires a liberal allowance of time to effect a return to a normal condition. the shortest period of continuous restraint and treatment, as a general rule, should not be less than six months in the most hopeful cases, and extending from one to two years with the less hopeful, and more especially for the class of periodical drinkers, and those with an hereditary tendency." a well-directed inebriate asylum not only affords, says the same authority, "effectual removal of the patient from temptations and associations which surrounded him in the outer world, but by precept and example it teaches him that he can gain by his reformation, not the ability to drink moderately and with the least safety, _but the power to abstain altogether_. with the restraint imposed by the institution, and the self-restraint accepted on the part of the patient, are remedial agents from the moment he enters the asylum, growing stronger and more effective day by day, until finally he finds _total abstinence not only possible, but permanent_. with this much gained in the beginning, the asylum is prepared to assist in the cure by all the means and appliances at its command. with the co-operation of the patient, and such medicinal remedies and hygienic and sanitary measures as may be required, the most hopeful results may be confidently looked for. "the hygienic and sanitary measures "consist in total abstinence from all alcoholic beverages; good nourishing diet; well ventilated rooms; pure, bracing air; mental rest, and proper bodily exercise. * * * every patient should be required to conform to all rules and regulations which have for their object the improvement of his social, moral and religious condition. he must begin a different mode of life, by breaking up former habits and associations; driving from the mind the old companions of an intemperate life; forming new thoughts, new ideas and new and better habits, which necessitates a new life in every respect. this is the aim and object of the rules for the control and government of inebriates. to assist in this work, inebriate institutions should have stated religious services, and all the patients and officers should be required to attend them, unless excused by the medical officer in charge, for sickness, or other sufficient cause." the binghampton asylum. of all the inebriate asylums yet established, the one at binghampton, new york, has been, so far, the most prominent. it is here that a large part of the experimental work has been done; and here, we believe, that the best results have been obtained. this asylum is a state institution, and will accommodate one hundred and twenty patients. in all cases preference must be given to "indigent inebriates," who may be sent to the asylum by county officers, who are required to pay seven dollars a week for the medical attendance, board and washing, of each patient so sent. whenever there are vacancies in the asylum, the superintendent can admit, under special agreement, such private patients as may seek admission, and who, in his opinion, promise reformation. the building is situated on an eminence two hundred and fifty feet above the susquehanna river, the scenery stretching far up and down the valley, having features of uncommon beauty and grandeur. each patient has a thoroughly warmed and ventilated room, which, from the peculiar situation of the house, commands a wide view of the adjoining country. the tables are supplied with a variety and abundance of good food, suitable in every respect to the wants of the patients, whose tastes and needs are carefully considered. amusements of various kinds, including billiards, etc., are provided within the building, which afford pleasure and profit to the patients. out-door pastimes, such as games of ball and croquet, and other invigorating sports, are encouraged and practised. the asylum grounds embrace over four hundred acres, part of which are in a state of cultivation. the remainder diversified in character, and partly consisting of forest. gentlemen who desire to place themselves under the care of the asylum, may enter it without any other formality than a compliance with such conditions as may be agreed upon between themselves and the superintendent. the price of admission varies according to location of rooms and attention required. persons differ so widely in their circumstances and desires, that the scale of prices has been fixed at from ten to twenty-five dollars per week, which includes board, medical attendance, washing, etc. in all cases the price of board for three months must be paid in advance. from one of the annual reports of this institution now before us, we learn that the number of patients treated during the year was three hundred and thirty-six, of whom one hundred and ninety-eight "were discharged with great hopes of permanent reformation." fifty-eight were discharged unimproved. the largest number of patients in the asylum at one time was a hundred and five. saving and reforming influences. of those discharged--two hundred and fifty-six in number--eighty-six were of a nervous temperament, ninety-eight sanguine and seventy-two bilious. in their habits, two hundred and thirty-four were social and twenty-two solitary. out of the whole number, two hundred and forty-four used tobacco--only twelve being free from its use. of these, one hundred and sixty had been constant and ninety-six periodical drinkers. serious affliction, being unfortunate in business, love matters, prosperity, etc., were given as reasons for drinking by one hundred and two of the patients. one hundred and twenty-two had intemperate parents or ancestors. one hundred and forty were married men and one hundred and sixteen single. their occupations were varied. merchants, fifty-eight; clerks, thirty-five; lawyers, seventeen; book-keepers, sixteen; manufacturers, eight; bankers and brokers, eight; machinists, seven; mechanics, six; farmers, six; clergymen, five; editors and reporters, five, etc. in regard to some of the special influences brought to bear upon the patients in this institution, we have the following. it is from a communication (in answer to a letter of inquiry) received by us from dr. t.d. crothers, formerly of binghampton, but now superintendent of the new walnut hill asylum, at hartford, connecticut: "you have failed to do us credit," he says, "in supposing that we do not use the spiritual forces in our treatment. we depend largely upon them. we have a regularly-appointed chaplain who lives in the building;, and gives his entire time to the religious culture of the patients. rev. dr. bush was with us eight years. he died a few months ago. he was very devoted to his work, and the good he did, both apparent to us and unknown, was beyond estimate. his correspondence was very extensive, and continued for years with patients and their families. he was the counselor and adviser of many persons who did not know him personally, but through patients. i have seen letters to him from patients in all conditions asking counsel, both on secular and spiritual matters; also the most heart-rending appeals and statements of fathers, mothers, wives and children, all of which he religiously answered. he urged that the great duty and obligation of every drunkard was to take care of his body; to build up all the physical, to avoid all danger, and take no risks or perils; that his only help and reliance were on _god and good health_; that with regular living and healthy surroundings, and a mind full of faith and hope in spiritual realities, the disorder would die out. our new chaplain holds daily service, as usual, and spends much of his time among the patients. he lives in the building, pronounces grace at the table and is personally identified as a power to help men towards recovery. quite a large number of patients become religious men here. our work and its influences have a strong tendency this way. i believe in the force of a chaplain whose daily walk is with us; who, by example and precept, can win men to higher thoughts. he is the receptacle of secrets and much of the inner life of patients that physicians do not reach." in another letter to us, dr. crothers says: "every asylum that i know of is doing good work, and should be aided and encouraged by all means. the time has not come yet, nor the experience or study to any one man or asylum, necessary to build up a system of treatment to the exclusion of all others. we want many years of study by competent men, and the accumulated experience of many asylums before we can understand the first principles of that moral and physical disorder we call drunkenness." treatment. "as to the treatment and the agents governing it, we recognize in every drunkard general debility and conditions of nerve and brain exhaustion, and a certain train of exciting causes which always end in drinking. now, if we can teach these men the 'sources of danger,' and pledge them and point them to a higher power for help, we combine both spiritual and physical means. we believe that little can be expected from spiritual aids, or pledges, or resolves, unless the patient can so build up his physical as to sustain them. give a man a healthy body and brainpower, and you can build up his spiritual life; but all attempts to cultivate a power that is crushed by diseased forces will be practically useless. call it a vice or a disease, it matters not, the return to health must be along _the line of natural laws and means_. some men will not feel any longing for drink unless they get in the centre of excitement, or violate some natural law, or neglect the common means of health. now, teach them these exciting causes, and build up their health, and the pledge will not be difficult to keep. this asylum is a marvel. it is, to-day, successful. other asylums are the same, and we feel that we are working in the line of laws that are fixed, though obscure." deeply interesting cases. the records of this institution furnish cases of reform of the most deeply interesting character. here are a few of them: case no. . a southern planter who had become a drunkard was brought to this asylum by his faithful colored man. in his fits of intoxication he fell into the extraordinary delusion that his devoted wife was unfaithful; and so exasperated did he become when seized by this insane delusion, that he often attempted her life. she was at last obliged to keep out of his way whenever he came under the influence of liquor. when sober, his memory of these hallucinations was sufficiently distinct to fill him with sorrow, shame and fear; for he sincerely loved his wife and knew her to be above reproach. after the war, during which he held the position of a general in the southern army, he became very much reduced in his circumstances, lost heart and gave himself up to drink. the friends of his wife tried to prevail on her to abandon him; but she still clung to her husband, though her life was often in danger from his insane passion. four years of this dreadful experience, in which she three times received serious personal injuries from his hands, and then the old home was broken up, and he went drifting from place to place, a human ship without a rudder on temptation's stormy sea; his unhappy wife following him, more or less, in secret, and often doing him service and securing his protection. in the spring of , his faithful colored man brought him to the asylum at binghampton, a perfect wreck. his wife came, also, and for three months boarded near the institution, and, without his knowledge, watched and prayed for him. after a few weeks' residence, the chaplain was able to lead his mind to the consideration of spiritual subjects, and to impress him with the value of religious faith and the power of prayer. he became, at length, deeply interested; read many religious books, and particularly the bible. at the end of three months his wife came to see him, and their meeting was of a most affecting character. a year later, he left the asylum and went to a western city, where he now resides--a prosperous and happy man. case no. . a clergyman of fortune, position and education lost his daughter, and began to drink in order to drown his sorrow. it was in vain that his wife and friends opposed, remonstrated, implored and persuaded; he drank on, the appetite steadily increasing, until he became its slave. his congregation dismissed him; his wife died of a broken heart; he squandered his fortune; lost his friends, and, at last, became a street reporter for some of the new york papers, through means of which he picked up a scanty living. from bad to worse, he swept down rapidly, and, for some offense committed while drunk, was, at last, sent for three months to the state prison. on coming out, and returning to the city, he became a fish-peddler, but continued to drink desperately. one day he was picked up in the street in a state of dead intoxication and taken to the hospital, where he was recognized by the doctor, who had him sent to binghampton as a county patient. here he remained for over a year, submitting himself to the regime, and coming under the salutary influences of the institution, and making an earnest, prayerful and determined effort at reform. at the end of this period he left the asylum to enter upon the duties of a minister in the far west; and to-day he is the president of a new college, and a devout and earnest man! he attributes his cure to the influence of the late chaplain, rev. mr. bush, and to the new life he was able to lead under the protecting influences and sanitary regulations of the asylum. this is a meagre outline of a very remarkable case. case no. . a poor farmer's boy acquired, while in the army, an inordinate appetite for drink. he was sent to the new york inebriate asylum, but was expelled because he made no effort to reform. six months afterwards he joined a temperance society, and kept sober for a year; but fell, and was again sent to the asylum. this time he made an earnest effort, and remained at the asylum for seven months, when he was offered a situation in chicago, which he accepted. for a year he held this place, then relapsed and came back to the asylum, where he stayed for over twelve months. at the end of that time he returned to chicago and into his old situation. he is now a member of the firm, and an active temperance man, with every prospect of remaining so to the end of his life. the care and treatment of drunkards. the subject of the care and treatment of habitual drunkards is attracting more and more attention. they form so large a non-producing, and often vicious and dangerous class of half-insane men, that considerations of public and private weal demand the institution of some effective means for their reformation, control or restraint. legislative aid has been invoked, and laws submitted and discussed; but, so far, beyond sentences of brief imprisonment in jails, asylums and houses of correction, but little has really been done for the prevention or cure of the worst evil that inflicts our own and other civilized nations. on the subject of every man's "liberty to get drunk," and waste his substance and abuse and beggar his family, the public mind is peculiarly sensitive and singularly averse to restrictive legislation. but a public sentiment favorable to such legislation is steadily gaining ground; and to the formation and growth of this sentiment, many leading and intelligent physicians, both in this country and great britain, who have given the subject of drunkenness as a disease long and careful attention, are lending all their influence. it is seen that a man who habitually gets drunk is dangerous to society, and needs control and restraint as much as if he were insane. legislative control. in , a deputation, principally representative of the medical profession, urged upon the british government the desirability of measures for the control and management of habitual drunkards. on presenting the memorial to the secretary of state for the home department, sir thomas watson, m.d., observed: "that during his very long professional life he had been incredulous respecting the reclamation of habitual drunkards; but his late experience had made him sanguine as to their cure, with a very considerable number of whom excessive drinking indulged in as a vice, developed itself into a most formidable bodily and mental disease." in the early part of february, , "a bill to facilitate the control and care of habitual drunkards," was introduced into the house of commons. it is supposed to embody the latest and most practical methods of dealing legally with that class, and is of unusual interest from the fact that it was prepared under the direction of a society for the promotion of legislation for the cure of habitual drunkards, recently organized in london, in which are included some of the most learned, influential and scientific men of the kingdom. this bill provides for the establishment of retreats or asylums, public or private, into which drunkards may be admitted on their own application, or to which they may be sent by their friends, and where they can be held by law for a term not exceeding twelve months. in the state of connecticut, there is a law which may be regarded as embodying the most advanced legislation on this important subject. the first section is as follows: "whenever any person shall have become an habitual drunkard, a dypsomaniac, or so far addicted to the intemperate use of narcotics or stimulants as to have lost the power of self-control, the court of probate for the district in which such person resides, or has a legal domicil, shall, on application of a majority of the selectmen of the town where such person resides, or has a legal domicil, or of any relative of such person, make due inquiry, and if it shall find such person to have become an habitual drunkard, or so far addicted to the intemperate use of narcotics or stimulants as to have lost the power of self-control, then said court shall order such person to be taken to some inebriate asylum within this state, for treatment, care and custody, for a term not less than four months, and not more than twelve months; but if said person shall be found to be a dypsomaniac, said term of commitment shall be for the period of three years: _provided, however_, that the court of probate shall not in either case make such order without the certificate of at least two respectable practising physicians, after a personal examination, made within one week before the time of said application or said commitment, which certificate shall contain the opinion of said physicians that such person has become, as the case may be, a dypsomaniac, an habitual drunkard, or has, by reason of the intemperate use of narcotics or stimulants, lost the power of self-control, and requires the treatment, care and custody of some inebriate asylum, and shall be subscribed and sworn to by said physicians before an authority empowered to administer oaths." loss to the state in not establishing asylums in a brief article in the _quarterly journal of inebriety_, for , dr. dodge thus emphasizes his views of the importance to the state of establishing asylums to which drunkards may be sent for treatment: "every insane man who is sent to an asylum, is simply removed from doing harm, and well cared for, and rarely comes back to be a producer again. but inebriates (the hopeful class) promise immeasurably more in their recovery. they are, as inebriates, non-producers and centres of disease, bad sanitary and worse moral surroundings. all their career leads down to crime and poverty. the more drunkards, the more courts of law, and almshouses, and insane asylums, and greater the taxes. statistics show that from fifty to sixty per cent. of crime is due to drunkenness; and we all know how large poverty is due to this cause. drunkenness is alone responsible for from twenty to twenty-five per cent. of all our insane. "we assert, and believe it can be proved, that reclaiming the drunkard is a greater gain to the state, practical and immediate, than any other charity. "it is a low estimate to say it costs every county in the state three hundred dollars yearly to support a drunkard; that is, this amount, and more, is diverted from healthy channels of commerce, and is, practically, lost to the state. at an inebriate asylum, but little over that amount would, in a large majority of cases, restore them as active producers again. "figures cannot represent the actual loss to society, nor can we compute the gain from a single case cured and returned to normal life and usefulness. inebriety is sapping the foundation of our government, both state and national, and unless we can provide means adequate to check it, we shall leave a legacy of physical, moral and political disease to our descendants, that will ultimately wreck this country. inebriate asylums will do much to check and relieve this evil." we conclude this chapter, which is but an imperfect presentation of the work of our inebriate asylums, by a quotation from the _quarterly journal of inebriety_, for september, . this periodical is published under the auspices of "the american association for the cure of inebriates." the editor, dr. crothers, says: "we publish in this number, reports of a large number of asylums from all parts of the country, indicating great prosperity and success, notwithstanding the depression of the times. among the patients received at these asylums, broken-down merchants, bankers, business men, who are inebriates of recent date, and chronic cases that have been moderate drinkers for many years, seem to be more numerous. the explanation is found in the peculiar times in which so many of the business men are ruined, and the discharge of a class of employees whose uncertain habits and want of special fitness for their work make them less valuable. both of these classes drift to the inebriate asylum, and, if not able to pay, finally go to insane hospitals and disappear. "another class of patients seem more prominent this year, namely, the hard-working professional and business men, who formerly went away to europe, or some watering-place, with a retinue of servants; now they appear at our retreats, spend a few months, and go away much restored. the outlook was never more cheery than at present, the advent of several new asylums, and the increased usefulness of those in existence, with the constant agitation of the subject among medical men at home and abroad, are evidence of great promise for the future. of the journal we can only say that, as the organ of the american association for the cure of inebriates, it will represent the broadest principles and studies which the experience of all asylums confirm, and independent of any personal interest, strive to present the subject of inebriety and its treatment in its most comprehensive sense." chapter ix. reformatory homes. differing in some essential particulars from inebriate asylums or hospitals for the cure of drunkenness as a disease, are the institutions called "homes." their name indicates their character. it is now about twenty years since the first of these was established. it is located at waltham street, boston, in an elegant and commodious building recently erected, and is called the "washingtonian home." the superintendent is dr. albert day. in , another institution of this character came into existence in the city of chicago. this is also called the "washingtonian home." it is situated in west madison street, opposite union park. the building is large and handsomely fitted up, and has accommodations for over one hundred inmates. prof. d. wilkins is the superintendent. in "the franklin reformatory home," of philadelphia, was established. it is located at nos. , and locust street, in a well-arranged and thoroughly-furnished building, in which all the comforts of a home may be found, and can accommodate over seventy persons. mr. john graff is the superintendent. as we have said, the name of these institutions indicates their character. they are not so much hospitals for the cure of a disease, as homes of refuge and safety, into which the poor inebriate, who has lost or destroyed his own home, with all its good and saving influences, may come and make a new effort, under the most favoring influences, to recover himself. the success which, has attended the work of the three institutions named above, has been of the most gratifying character. in the washingtonian home at boston, drunkenness has been regarded as a malady, which may be cured through the application of remedial agencies that can be successfully employed only under certain conditions; and these are sought to be secured for the patient. the home and the hospital are, in a certain sense, united. "while we are treating inebriety as a disease, or a pathological condition," says the superintendent, in his last report, "there are those who regard it as a species of wickedness or diabolism, to be removed only by moral agencies. both of these propositions are true in a certain sense. there is a difference between sin and evil, but the line of demarkation is, as yet, obscure, as much so as the line between the responsibility and irresponsibility of the inebriate." doubtless, the good work done in this excellent institution is due, in a large measure, to the moral and religious influences under which the inmates are brought. nature is quick to repair physical waste and deterioration, when the exciting causes of disease are removed. the diseased body of the drunkard, as soon as it is relieved from the poisoning influence of alcohol, is restored, in a measure, to health. the brain is clear once more, and the moral faculties again able to act with reason and conscience. and here comes in the true work of the home, which is the restoration of the man to a state of rational self-control; the quickening in his heart of old affections, and the revival of old and better desires and principles. beneficial results. "among the beneficial results of our labor," says dr. day, "we see our patients developing a higher principle of respect for themselves and their friends. this, to us, is of great interest. we see indications convincing us that the mind, under our treatment, awakens to a consciousness of what it is, and what it is made for. we see man becoming to himself a higher object, and attaining to the conviction of the equal and indestructible of every being. in them, we see the dawning of the great principle advocated by us continually, viz., that the individual is not made to be the instrument of others, but to govern himself by an inward law, and to advance towards his proper perfections; that he belongs to himself and to god, and to no human superior. in all our teachings we aim to purify and ennoble the character of our patients by promoting in them true virtue, strong temperance proclivities and a true piety; and to accomplish these ends we endeavor to stimulate their own exertions for a better knowledge of god, and for a determined self-control." and again he says: "almost every day we hear from some one who has been with us under treatment, who has been cured. their struggles had been fierce, and the battle sometimes would seem to be against them; but, at last, they have claimed the victory. in my experience, i have found that so long as the victim of strong drink has the will, feeble as it may be, to put forth his efforts for a better life, an his constant struggle is in the right direction, he is almost sure to regain his will power, and succeed in overcoming the habit. by exercise, the will gains strength. the thorns in the flesh of our spiritual nature will be plucked out, the spiritual life will be developed, and our peace shall flow as the river. this condition we constantly invoke, and by all the means within our reach we try to stimulate the desire for a better life. i am pleased to say our efforts in this direction have not been in vain. for nearly twenty years we have been engaged in this work, and we have now more confidence in the means employed than at any other period. situated, as we are, in the midst of a great city, with a christian sympathy constantly active and co-operating with us, no one can remain in the institution without being the recipient of beneficial influences, the effect of which is salutary in the extreme. i am fully satisfied that the 'washingtonian home' is greatly indebted to these moral agencies for its success." the following letter, received by us, from otis clapp, who has been for sixteen years president of the "washingtonian home," will give the reader a still clearer impression of the workings of that institution. it is in answer to one we wrote, asking for information about the institution in which he had been interested for so many years: "boston, august th, . "dear sir:--your letter is received, and i am glad to learn that your mind is directed to the subject of the curse and cure of drunkenness. this is one of the largest of human fields to work in. the 'washingtonian home' was commenced in a very humble way, in november, . an act of incorporation was obtained from the state, march th, . "the institution has, therefore, been in existence nearly twenty years. my connection with it has been for eighteen years--sixteen years as president. during the period of its existence the whole number of patients has been five thousand three hundred and forty-eight. of this number, the superintendent, dr. day, estimates the cured at one-half. of the remainder, it is estimated that one-half, making one-quarter of the whole, are greatly improved. "you say, 'i take the general ground, and urge it strongly upon the reader that, _without spiritual help--regeneration, in a, word--there is, for the confirmed inebriate, but little hope, and no true safety._' "in this i fully concur. i believe in using all the agencies--medical, social, moral and religious--to bear upon the patient, and to encourage him to follow the 'straight and narrow way.' with this view, a morning service is held each day; a sunday evening service at six o'clock, and every friday evening a meeting, where patients relate their experience, and encourage each other in gaining power over the enemy. i have had much experience and abundant evidence that these meetings are of great value, for the reason that the patients are the principal speakers, and can do more to encourage each other than those outside of their own ranks. these meetings are usually attended by about equal numbers of both sexes, and, with fine music, can be kept up with interest indefinitely. "it would be, in my judgment, a matter of wide economy for the intelligent citizens of every city, with twenty thousand or more inhabitants, to establish a home, or asylum for inebriates. let those who favor sobriety in the community, take a part in it, and they will soon learn how to reach the class who needs assistance. a large, old-fashioned house can be leased at small expense, and the means raised by contributions of money and other necessary articles to start. the act of doing this will soon enable those engaged in the work to learn what the wants are, and how to meet them. it is only obeying the command, 'go out into the highways and hedges and compel them to come in, that my house may be filled.' this is the master's work, and those who hear this invitation, as well as those who accept it, will share in its blessings. "those who cultivate the spirit of 'love to god, and good-will to their fellow-men,' will be surprised to see how much easier it is to _do_ these things when they _try_, than when they only _think_ about them. "much, of course, depends upon the superintendent, who needs to possess those genial qualities which readily win the confidence and good-will of patients, and which he readily turns to account, by encouraging them to use the means which the creator has given them to co-operate in curing themselves. the means of cure are in the patient's own hands, and it is quite a gift to be able to make him see it." the washingtonian home at chicago is on the same plan, in all essential respects, with that of boston; and the reports show about the same average of cures and beneficial results. how the patient is treated in this home may be inferred from the following extract from an article on "the cause, effect and cure of inebriety," from the pen of prof. d. wilkins, the superintendent, which appeared in a late number of _the quarterly journal of inebriety_. in answer to the question, how can we best save the poor drunkard, and restore him to his manhood, his family and society, he says: "money, friends, relatives and all have forsaken him, his hope blasted, his ambition gone, and he feels that no one has confidence in him, no one cares for him. in this condition he wends his way to an institution of reform, a penniless, homeless, degraded, lost and hopeless drunkard. here is our subject, how shall we save him? he has come from the squalid dens, and lanes of filth, of misery, of want, of debauchery and death; no home, no sympathy and no kind words have greeted him, perhaps, for years. he is taken to the hospital. a few days pass, and he awakes from the stupidity of drink, and as he opens his eyes, what a change! he looks around, kind and gentle voices welcome him, his bed is clean and soft, the room beautiful, tasteful and pleasant in its arrangements, the superintendent, the physician, the steward and the inmates meet him with a smile and treat him as a brother. he is silent, lost in meditation. thoughts of other days, of other years, pass through his mind in quick succession as the tears steal gently down his cheeks. he talks thus to himself: 'i am mistaken. _somebody does care_ for the drunkard. and if somebody cares for me, _i ought to care for myself_.' here reform first commences. in a few days, when free, to some extent, from alcohol, he is admitted to the freedom of the institution. as he enters the reading-room, the library, the amusement, the gymnasium, dining-room and spacious halls, the conviction becomes stronger and stronger that somebody is interested in the inebriate, and he should be interested in himself. then comes the lessons of the superintendent. he is taught that he cannot be reformed, but that he can reform himself. that god helps those only who help themselves. that he must ignore all boon companions of the cup as associates, all places where liquor is kept and sold, that, in order to reform himself, he must become a reformer, labor for the good of his brother; in short, he must shun every rivulet that leads him into the stream of intemperance, and as a cap-stone which completes the arch, that he must look to him from whence cometh all grace and power to help in time of need. "as he converses with those that are strong in experience, listens to the reading of the holy scriptures in the morning devotions, joins in the sweet songs of zion and unites in unison with his brother inmates in saying the lord's prayer, as he hears the strong experiences in the public meetings and secret associations of those who have remained firm for one, two, three, and up to ten or fifteen years, little by little his confidence is strengthened, and almost before he is aware, the firm determination is formed and the resolve made, _i will drink no more_. as week after week, and month after month, glides pleasantly away, these resolutions become stronger and stronger, and by thus educating his intellect and strengthening his moral power, the once hopeless, disheartened and helpless one regains his former manhood and lost confidence, and becomes a, moral, independent, reformed man. perhaps the most difficult thing in this work of reform, is to convince our inmates that resolving to stop drinking, or even stopping drinking for the time being, is not reforming. those admitted, generally, in about two weeks, under the direction of a skillful physician, and the nursing of a faithful steward, recover so as to sleep well and eat heartily, and their wills, seemingly, are as strong as ever. feeling thus, they often leave the institution, sobered up, not reformed, and when the periodical time arrives, or temptation comes, they have no moral power to resist, and they rush back to habits of intoxication. they forget that the will is like a door on its hinges, with the animal desires, appetites, evil inclinations and passions attached to one side, leading them into trouble and making them unhappy, unless they are held by the strong power of the sense of moral right attached to the other side, and that for years they have been stifling and weakening this power, until its strength is almost, if not entirely, gone, and that the only way they can possibly strengthen it, independent of the grace of god, is by education, moral light and testing it under circumstances so favorable that it will not yield. it took years of disobedience to destroy the moral power, and it will take years of obedience to restore it again. the inebriate must be taught that he can refrain from drink only as he strengthens this moral power, and this requires time and trial. here is just where we, as superintendents, or reformers, assume great responsibility. to understand just when to test, and how much temptation can be resisted by those under our charge, requires much wisdom and great experience." from this extract the reader will learn something of the influences which are brought to bear upon the inmates of a home for the reformation of inebriates; and he will see how much reliance is placed on moral and religious agencies. testimony of the reformed. from the chicago home is issued a monthly paper called _the washingtonian_, devoted to the interest of the institution and to temperance. in this appear many communications from those who are, or have been, inmates. we make a few selections from some of these, which will be read with interest: "when i came into the home, mind, memory, hope and energy were shattered. the only animating thought remaining to me was a misty speculation as to where the next drink was to come from. i had a kind of feeble perception that a few days more of the life i was leading must end my earthly career, but i didn't care. as to the 'hereafter'--that might take care of itself; i had no energy to make any provision for it. "to-day, how different! a new man, utterly defiant of the devil and all 'his works and pomps,' i am ready and eager to take my place once more in the battle of life; atone for the miserable time gone by; to take again the place in the world i had forfeited, bearing ever in my breast the beautiful maxims of the german poet and philosopher, schiller: 'look not sorrowfully into the past; it comes not back again. wisely improve the present; it is thine. go forth to meet the shadowy future without fear, and with a manly heart.'" another writes: "i have been true and faithful to my promise, and have not touched or tampered with the curse since the first morning i entered the home, ten months ago to-day, and, mr. superintendent, i shall never drink again as long as i live. my whole trust and hope is in god, who made me live, move and have my being; and as long as i trust in him--and which i am thoroughly satisfied i always shall--i will be crowned with success in each and every good effort i make. * * * the day i reached here, my little ones were out of town, but were telegraphed for at once. they came in the next morning, and, oh! how my heart rejoiced to see they knew and loved me. they came to my arms and threw their little arms around my neck, and hugged and kissed me until i wept with joy. they begged of me never to leave them again, and i never shall. my dear father, mother and all now wish me to stay with them, for they feel i can now be as great a comfort as i once, i might say, was a terror to them. thank god, i can prove a comfort to them, and my daily life shall be such that they never can do without me. praises be to god for his goodness and mercy to me, and for showing and guiding me in the straight path, that which leadeth, at last, to an everlasting life with. him and his redeemed in that great and glorious kingdom above." another writes, two years after leaving the home: "in different places where i lived, i was generally a moving spirit in everything of a literary character, and, from a naturally social, convivial disposition, enjoyed the conversation and society of literary men over a glass of beer more than any other attraction that could have been presented. for years, this continued, i, all the time, an active spirit in whatever church i was a member of, and an active worker in whatever i engaged in, thereby always commanding a prominent position wherever i was. thus matters progressed till i was about twenty-seven, and then i began to realize my position; but, alas, when it was too late. the kindly admonition of friends and my own intelligence began to tell me the story, and then how i struggled for months and months--a naturally sensitive nature only making me worse--till, at last, the conviction forced itself upon me that, for me there was no redemption, that i was bound, hand and foot, perfectly powerless, and then i was forced to accept the fact. my only desire then was to save those dear to me from any knowledge of the truth; for this reason i chose chicago for my home. not wishing to take my own life in my hands, i was simply waiting for the moment when, having gone lower and lower, it would, at last, please god to relieve me of my earthly sufferings. oh! the mental agonies i endured! too true is it that the drunkard carries his hell around with him. at any moment i was perfectly willing to die, perfectly willing to trust whatever might be before me in the other world, feeling it could be no worse. at last, by god's grace, i was directed to the 'washingtonian home,' and there, for the first time, i learned that i could be free; and in this knowledge lies the power of the home. the home took hold of me and bade me be a man, and directed me to god for help; and, at the same time, told me to work out my own salvation. its teachings were not in vain; and to-day i can look up and ask god's blessing on you all for your kind labors. but for that home, i should, to-day, have been filling a dishonored grave." and another says: "it is now over five years since i applied to mr. drake for admission to the home. i was then prostrated, both physically and mentally, to that degree that i had scarcely strength to drag myself along, or moral courage enough to look any decent man in the face. i was often assured that to quit whisky would kill me. i thought there was a probability of that; but, on the other hand, there was a certainty that to continue it would kill me. i resolved to make one more effort and die sober, for i never expected to live; had no hope of that. from the day i entered the home i have been a changed man. the encouragement and counsel i received there, gave me strength, to keep the resolution i had formed, and which i have kept to the present moment, viz: to drink no more! ever since i left chicago, i have held a respectable position; and now hold the principal position in a house of business, the doors of which i was forbidden to enter six years ago. i do not write this in any spirit of self-laudation, but simply to lay the honor where it belongs--at the door of the 'washingtonian home.'" the following from the "experience" of one of the inmates of the chicago "home," will give the reader an idea of the true character of this and similar institutions, and of the way in which those who become inmates are treated. a lady who took an interest in the writer, had said to him, "you had better go to the washingtonian home." what followed is thus related: how i was treated in the home. "i looked at her in surprise. send me to a reformatory? i told her that i did not think that i was sunk so low, or bound so fast in the coils of the 'worm of the still,' that it was necessary for me, a young man not yet entered into the prime of manhood, to be confined in a place designed for the cure of habitual drunkards. i had heard vague stories, but nothing definite concerning the home, and thought that the question was an insult, but i did not reply to the question. all that night my thoughts would revert to the above question. my life past since i had become a devotee of the 'demon of strong drink,' passed in review before my mind. what had i gained? how improved? what had i obtained by it? and the answer was nothing. then i asked myself, what had i lost by it? and the answer came to me with crushing force, everything that maketh life desirable. starting out young in years into the busy highways of the world, with a good fortune, bright prospects and a host of friends to aid and cheer me on, i had lost all in my love for strong drink, and at times i thought and felt that i was a modern ishmael. "the lady, the next morning, again returned to the attack, and then, not thinking it an insult, but a benefit, to be conferred on me, i yielded a willing acquiescence. that same evening, with a slow step and aching head, i walked up madison street towards the washingtonian home, with thoughts that i would be considered by the officers of the institution as a sort of a felon, or, if not that, at least something very near akin to the brute, and it was with a sinking heart that i pushed open the main door and ascended the broad, easy stairs to the office. i asked if the superintendent was in, and the gentlemanly clerk at the desk told me that he was, and would be down immediately, meanwhile telling me to be seated. after the lapse of a few minutes, the superintendent, mr. wilkins, came into the office, his countenance beaming with benevolence. he took the card that i had brought with me, read it, and, turning round to where i sat, with a genial smile lighting up his countenance, with outstretched hand, greeted me most kindly and introduced me to the gentlemen present. i was dumbfounded, and it was with great difficulty that i restrained myself from shedding tears. it was the very opposite of the reception that i had pictured that i would receive, and i found that i was to be treated as a human being and not as a brute. with a smile, the superintendent addressed me again, and told me to follow him; and it was with a lighter heart and spirits that i ascended the second flight of stairs than the first, i can assure you. i was brought to the steward, who also greeted me most kindly, conversed with me a short time, fixed up some medicine for me and then took me into the hospital. by the word 'hospital,' dear reader, you must not take the usual definition of all that word implies, but in this case, take it as a moderate-sized room with eight or nine beds, covered with snow-white sheets and coverlids, and filled with air of the purest; no sickly smells or suffering pain to offend the most delicate. "after a most refreshing night's rest--the first that i had had in three or four long, weary months--i arose, and for a few moments could not realize where i was, but memory came back, and i fell on my knees and gave thanks to god that i had fallen into the hands of the 'good samaritans.' after breakfast, i went with great diffidence into the common sitting-room, where there was about ten of the inmates sitting smoking, playing checkers, etc. i did not know how i would be received here, but as soon as i entered i was greeted most kindly and told to make myself at home. it seemed as if my cup was full and running over, and for a few moments i could scarcely speak, and i thought that the institution's motto must be founded on the saviour's command to 'love one another.' "the first day i was not allowed to go down to the dining-room, i still being under the care of the hospital steward. the second day i was discharged from the hospital, assigned a most comfortable and cheerful furnished bed-room, and allowed the liberty of the whole building, and the day passed pleasantly. the next morning, at about six, i was awakened by the clangor of a bell shaken by a vigorous arm. hurriedly dressing, i descended to the wash-room and performed my ablutions, and then waited for the next step. half an hour having elapsed, the bell was rung a second time, and we all entered what is called the service-room. shortly after mr. wilkins and his family entered; the superintendent read a chapter of the bible, the inmates sung a hymn, accompanied on the organ by miss clara wilkins; after a short prayer, the inmates marched in single file to the head of the room, where mr. wilkins stood, his kind face actually beaming, and with extended hand greeted every individual inmate. after leaving him we marched to the other side of the room, where we also received a cheery 'good morning,' and cordial grasp of the hand from the estimable and motherly wife of the superintendent. to describe one day is sufficient to picture the manner in which the inmates of the home (and i sincerely believe that 'home' is the right designation for it) pass their time. i have never felt happier or more contented even in my most prosperous days than i have in these few short days that i have been an inmate of the washingtonian home." in this institution, according to the last annual report, two thousand two hundred and fifty-two persons have been treated since it was opened. of these, one thousand one hundred and eighteen, or over sixty per cent., are said to have remained sober, or nearly so, up to this time. during the last year two hundred and fifty-eight patients were under treatment (one-third free patients). of these only thirty had relapsed, the others giving great promise of recovery. the philadelphia institution, known as the "franklin reformatory home for inebriates," has been in existence over five years. it was organized in april, . in this institution intemperance is not regarded as a disease, which may be cured through hygienic or medical treatment, but as _a sin, which must be repented of, resisted and overcome through the help of god_. in order to place the inebriate, who honestly desires to reform and lead a better life, under conditions most favorable to this work of inner reformation and true recovery, all the external associations and comforts of a pleasant home are provided, as with the two institutions whose record of good results has just been made. its administrative work and home-life vary but little from that of the homes in boston and chicago. but it is differenced from them and other institutions which have for their aim the cure of inebriety, in its rejection of the disease theory, and sole reliance on moral and spiritual agencies in the work of saving men from the curse of drink. it says to its inmates, this appetite for drink is not a disease that medicine can cure, or change, or eradicate. new sanitary conditions, removal from temptations, more favorable surroundings, congenial occupation, improved health, a higher self-respect, a sense of honor and responsibility, and the tenderness and strength of love for wife and children, may be powerful enough as motives to hold you always in the future above its enticements. but, trusting in these alone, you can never dwell in complete safety. you need a deeper work of cure than it is possible for you to obtain from any earthly physician. only god can heal you of this infirmity. a religious home. while never undervaluing external influences, and always using the best means in their power to make their institution a home in all that the word implies, the managers have sought to make it distinctively something more--_a religious home_. they rely for restoration chiefly on the reforming and regenerating power of divine grace. until a man is brought under spiritual influences, they do not regard him as in safety; and the result of their work so far only confirms them in this view. they say, that in almost every case where an inmate has shown himself indifferent, or opposed to the religious influences of the home, he has, on leaving it, relapsed, after a short period, into intemperance, while the men who have stood firm are those who have sought help from god, and given their lives to his service. under this view, which has never been lost sight of from the beginning, in the work of the "franklin home," and which is always urged upon those who seek its aid in their efforts to reform their lives, there has come to be in the institution a pervading sentiment favorable to a religious life as the only safe life, and all who are brought within, the sphere of its influence soon become impressed with the fact. and it is regarded as one of the most hopeful of signs when the new inmate is drawn into accord with this sentiment, and as a most discouraging one if he sets himself in opposition thereto. who are received into "the franklin home." as in other institutions, the managers of this one have had to gain wisdom from experience. they have learned that there is a class of drinking men for whom efforts at recovery are almost useless; and from this class they rarely now take any one into the home. men of known vicious or criminal lives are not received. nor are the friends of such as indulge in an occasional drunken debauch permitted to send them there for temporary seclusion. none are admitted but men of good character, in all but intemperance; and these must be sincere and earnest in their purpose to reform. the capacity of an institution in which the care, and service, and protection of a home can be given, is too small for mere experiment or waste of effort. there are too many who are anxious, through the means offered in a place like this, to break the chains of a debasing habit, and get back their lost manhood once more, to waste effort on the evil-minded and morally depraved, who only seek a temporary asylum and the opportunity for partial recovery, but with no purpose of becoming better men and better citizens. apart from the fruitlessness of all attempts to permanently restore such men to sobriety, it has been found that their presence in the home has had an injurious effect; some having been retarded in recovery through their influence, and others led away into vicious courses. there is a chapel in the building, capable of holding over two hundred persons. in this, divine worship is held every sunday afternoon. a minister from some one of the churches is usually in attendance to preach and conduct the services. it rarely happens that the chapel is not well filled with present and former inmates of the home, their wives, children and friends. every evening, at half-past nine o'clock, there is family prayer in the chapel, and every sunday afternoon the president, mr. s.p. godwin, has a class for bible study and instruction in the same place. on tuesday evenings there is a conversational temperance meeting; and on thursday evening of each week the godwin association, organized for mutual help and encouragement, holds a meeting in the chapel. use of tobacco discouraged. the attending physician, dr. robert p. harris, having given much thought and observation to the effects of tobacco on the physical system, and its connection with inebriety, discourages its use among the inmates, doing all in his power, by advice and admonition, to lead them to abandon a habit that not only disturbs and weakens the nervous forces, but too often produces that very condition of nervous exhaustion which leads the sufferer to resort to stimulation. in many cases where men, after leaving the "home," have stood firm for a longer or shorter period of time, and then, relapsing into intemperance, have again sought its help in a new effort at reformation, he has been able to find the cause of their fall in an excessive use of tobacco. dr. harris is well assured, from a long study of the connection between the use of tobacco and alcohol, that, in a very large number of cases tobacco has produced the nervous condition which led to inebriety. and he is satisfied that, if men who are seeking to break away from the slavery of drink, will give up their tobacco and their whisky at the same time, they will find the work easier, and their ability to stand by their good resolutions, far greater. see the next chapter for a clear and concise statement, from the pen of dr. harris, of the effects of tobacco, and the obstacles its use throws in the way of men who are trying to reform. what has been accomplished. the results of the work done in this "home" are of the most satisfactory kind. from the fifth annual report, we learn that there have been received into the home, since its commencement, seven hundred and forty-one persons. of these, the report gives three hundred and fifty-four as reformed, and one hundred and three as benefited. two hundred and ninety-seven were free patients. woman's work in the home. in the management of this home there is, beside the board of directors, an auxiliary board of twenty-six lady managers, who supervise the work of the home, and see to its orderly condition and the comfort of the inmates. through visiting and relief committees the families of such of the inmates as need temporary care and assistance are seen, and such help and counsel given as may be required. an extract or two from the reports of this auxiliary board will not only give an idea of the religious influences of the institution, but of what is being done by the woman's branch of the work. says the secretary, mrs. e.m. gregory, in her last annual report: "the religious influence exerted by this institution by means of its sunday evening services, its bible class and its frequent temperance meetings, which are cordially open to all, is silently, but, we think, surely making itself felt among those brought within its reach, and establishing the highest and strongest bond among those whose natural ties are often unhappily severed by intemperance. we find whole families, long unused to any religious observance, now _regularly, for years_, accompanying the husband and father to this place of worship, and joining devoutly in the exercises. "especial emphasis is laid upon the doctrine that the only foundation for a thorough, enduring reformation is found in a radical change of heart, a preparation for the future life by a conscientious, persistent effort to lead a christ-like life here. "one result of this teaching is found in the fact that several of the inmates, not in the first pleasant excitement of their rescue from the immediate horrors of their condition, but after long and faithful observance of their pledge and constant attendance upon the religious instruction of the home, have voluntarily and with solemn resolve united themselves to some christian church, and are devoting a large share of their time and means to the work of bringing in their old companions to share this great salvation. when, in our visits among their families, we hear of those who formerly spent all their earnings at the saloon, bringing nothing but distress and terror into their homes, now walking the streets all day in search of work, without dinner themselves, because the 'wife and children need what little there is in the house;' and another, not only denying himself a reasonable share of the scanty food, but nursing a sick wife and taking entire care of the children and house, hastening out, when relieved awhile by a kindly neighbor, to do '_anything_ to bring in a little money'--when we see changes like these, accompanied by patience and cheerfulness, and a growing sense of personal responsibility, we thankfully accept them as proofs of the genuineness of the work and hopefully look for its continuance." touching incidents. in a previous report, speaking of the visits made to the families of inmates, she says: "in no case has a visit ever been received without expression of absolute pleasure, and especially gratitude, for 'what the home has done for me and mine.' "although, unhappily, there are instances of men having, through stress of temptation, violated their pledges, it is believed that not one case has occurred of a family, once brought together through the influence of the home, again being separated by the return to intemperance of the husband and father, and the results of their faithfulness are to be seen in the growing comfort and happiness of those dependent on them. "an aged mother, not only bowed down with the weight of seventy years, but heart-sick with the 'hope deferred' of ever finding her intemperate son, heard of him at last, as rescued by the home; and, being brought to the sunday and evening services, met him there, 'clothed and in his right mind.' the tears streamed down her face, as she said: 'that man is forty years old, and i've been a widow ever since he was a baby, and i've wept over him often and often, and _to-day_ i've shed tears enough to bathe him from head to foot, but, oh! thank the lord! _these_ are such _happy_ tears!' "said one wife: 'some days, these hard times, we have enough to eat, and some days we don't; but _all_ the time i'm just as happy as i can be! "'i wish you could see my children run, laughing, to the door when their father comes home. oh! he is _another_ man from what he was a year ago; he is so happy at home with us now, and always so patient and kind! "'do tell us if there isn't something;--if it is ever so little--that we women can do for the home; we _never_ can forget what it has done for us!' "such words, heard again and again with every variety of expression, attests the sincerity of those who, in widely differing circumstances, perhaps, have yet this common bond, that through this instrumentality, they are rejoicing over a husband, a father, a son, 'which was dead, and is alive--was lost, and is found.' "surely, such proof of the intrinsic worth of a work like this, is beyond all expression--full of comfort and encouragement to persevere." again: "through their instrumentality families long alienated and separated have been happily brought together. this branch of the ladies' work has been peculiarly blest; and their reward is rich in witnessing not only homes made happier through their labors, but hearts so melted by their personal kindness, and by the gospel message which they carry, that husbands and wives, convicted of the sinfulness of their neglect of the great salvation, come forward to declare themselves soldiers of the cross, and unite with the christian church." the testimony of inmates. as the value of this and similar institutions is best seen in what they have done and are doing, we give two extracts from letters received from men who have been reformed through the agency of the "home" in philadelphia. in the first, the writer says: "it has now been nearly two years since i left the franklin home. i had been a drinking man ten years, and it got such a hold on me that i could not resist taking it. i had tried a number of times to reform, and at one time, was in the dashaway's home, in california, where they steep everything in liquor, but when i came out i still had the desire to drink, and only kept from it for nine months. i again commenced, and kept sinking lower and lower, till i lost my friends, and felt there was no hope for me. on the st day of may, , i came to the franklin home, and have never tasted intoxicating liquor since, which is the longest time i was ever without it since i commenced to drink. i feel now that i will never drink again, as i do not associate with drinking men, or go to places where liquor is sold. it was so different at the home from anything i had ever met or heard of, that i went away with more strength to resist than ever before. when i came to the home i could not get a position in philadelphia, nobody having confidence in me. since then i have been engaged as foreman in a manufacturing establishment, by the very man that had discharged me several times for drinking, and have been with him a year. i feel more happy and contented now than any time in ten years past, and if i had a friend who i found this was taking hold of, i would bring him to the home, for i believe any one that is sincere can be reformed, and i would recommend any man that needs and desires to reform to go to the home, as i did." after five years. writing to mr. samuel p. godwin, president of the franklin home, an old inmate, five years after his reformation, says: "i received your kind letter and recognized in it the challenge of the ever-watchful sentinel, 'how goes the night, brother?' i answer back, 'all is well.' i am delighted to hear of the continued success of 'my second mother,' the home, and the association, my brothers; and i thank god, who is encouraging you all in your efforts for fallen men, by showing you the ripening fruits of your labor--efforts and labors that are inspired by a love of god that enables you to see in every fallen man the soul made like unto _his_ own image. the home and all its workers, its principles, the endless and untiring efforts made, challenge the wonder and admiration of every christian heart. its grand results will admit of but one explanation, that 'it is god's work.' we, the reclaimed, can never give expression to the grateful emotions of our hearts. we can only let our lives be its best eulogy. we hope to vindicate in the future, as we have in the past, (by adhering to its principles) the great christian truth, the grace of god is all-powerful, all-saving. _oh! what has not the home done for us all!_ it sought us amid temptations, misery and sorrow, and took us into its warm and fond embrace, clearing away the debris that intemperance and misfortune had piled up, tearing down all false theories of disease and seizing our convictions. it reached down into our hearts by its admirable practical mode of imparting its principles, impressing all its lessons with the examples of living, active men, who, through its aid, accepting its teachings and practicing them, have become reformed men--in a word, conquerors of self. by its love, fostering care and ever-watchful solicitude for us, it has awakened the lessons of love and faith learned at a dear mother's knee in childhood, which, if forgotten for a time, were never entirely dead, and required but just such an influence to warm them into life. it enables me to say to you now, at the end of five years, i have been a total abstinence man for that time, and by and with the help of god, i will die that." but enough has been educed to show the importance of this and other "homes" for the recovery of inebriates, and to direct public attention to their great value. those already established should be liberally sustained by the communities in which they are located, and similar institutions should be organised and put in operation in all the larger cities of the union. thousands of outcast, helpless, perishing men, who, but for the fatal habits they have acquired, would be good and useful citizens, might, if this were done, be every year restored to themselves, their families and to society. if we cannot, as yet, stay the curse that is upon our land, let us do all in our power to heal what has been hurt, and to restore what has been lost. in every truly reformed man, the temperance cause gains a new and valuable recruit. the great army that is to do successful battle with the destroying enemy that is abroad in the land, will come chiefly from the ranks of those who have felt the crush of his iron heel. so we gain strength with every prisoner that is rescued from the enemy; for every such rescued man will hate this enemy with an undying hatred, and so long as he maintains his integrity, stand fronting him in the field. dr. harris, the attending physician of the "franklin reformatory home," whose long experience and careful observation enable him to speak intelligently as to the causes which lead to relapses among reformed men, has kindly furnished us with the following suggestions as to the dangers that beset their way. the doctor has done a good service in this. to be forewarned is to be forearmed. we are also indebted to him for the chapter on "tobacco as an incitant to the use of alcoholic stimulant," which immediately follows this one, and which was especially prepared by him for the present volume. dangers that beset the reformed inebriate. by dr. r.p. harris. _"come, take a drink."_--how pernicious is this treating generosity of the inebriate, and how important to the reformed to be firm in declining his invitation. to hesitate, is, in most cases, to yield. _old companions._--these should be avoided, and made to understand that their company is not congenial; and new and safe ones should be selected. _attacks of sickness._--a quondam inebriate should never employ a physician who drinks, and should always tell his medical attendant that he cannot take any medicine containing alcohol. it is very unsafe to resort to essence of ginger, paregoric, spirits of lavender or burnt brandy, and friends very injudiciously, sometimes, recommend remedies that are dangerous in the extreme. we saw one man driven into insanity by his employer recommending him a preparation of rhubarb, in jamaica spirits, which he took with many misgivings, because, six years before he had been a drunkard. the old appetite was revived in full force at once. diarrhoea can be much better treated without tinctures and essences than with them, as proved by the large experience of the franklin home, where they are never prescribed. _bad company of either sex._--remember what is said of the strange woman in proverbs v., - ; and the advice given in the first psalm. lust has driven to drunkenness and death many a promising case of reform. _entering a tavern._--it is never safe to buy a cigar, take a glass of lemonade, eat a plate of oysters or even drink water at a bar where liquors are sold. the temptation, and revival of old associations, are too much for weak human nature to withstand. _politics, military organizations, etc._--many a man has been made a drunkard by the war, or by becoming an active politician. associations of men leading to excitement of any kind stimulate them to invite each other to drink as a social custom. former inebriates should avoid all forms of excitement. said a former politician, who has not drank for five years: "if i was to go back to politics, and allow matters to take their natural course, i should soon drift again into drunkenness." "_idleness_," says the french proverb, "is the mother of all vices;" hence the advantage and importance of being actively employed. _working in communities._--there are no men more inclined to drunkenness than shoemakers, hatters and those in machine shops. shoemakers are especially difficult to reform, as they incite each other to drink, and club together and send out for beer or whisky. _use of excessive quantities of pepper, mustard and horse-radish._--no person can use biting condiments to the same degree as drunkards; and reformed men must largely moderate their allowance, if they expect to keep their appetite under for something stronger. tavern-keepers understand that salt and peppery articles, furnished gratis for lunch, will pay back principal and profit in the amount they induce men to drink. _loss of money or death in the family._--these are among the most severe of all the trials to be encountered by the reformed drunkard. hazardous ventures in stocks or business are dangerous in the extreme. without the grace of god in the heart, and the strength that it gives in times of depression of spirits under severe trial, there are few reformed men who can bear, with any safety, the loss of a wife or very dear child. thousands who have, for the time, abandoned the habit have returned to it to drown, in unconsciousness, their feeling of loss; hence the great and vital importance of an entire change of heart to enable a man to go to his faith for consolation, and to look to god for help in times of trial and temptation. [illustration: boyhood. the first step.] [illustration: youth. the second step.] [illustration: manhood. a confirmed drunkard.] [illustration: old age. a total wreck.] chapter x. tobacco as an incitant to the use of alcoholic stimulants, and an obstacle in the way of a permanent reformation. by dr. r.p. harris, physician of the "franklin reformatory home." when we consider the almost universal use of tobacco, especially in the form of smoking, among our male population, it is not to be wondered at that this powerful poison has come to be regarded as an innocent and almost necessary vegetable production, not to be used as food exactly, but greatly allied to it as an article of daily consumption. few stop to reason about its properties or effects; they remember, perhaps, how sick they were made by the first chew or smoke, but this having long passed, believe that as their systems have become accustomed, _apparently_, to the poison, it cannot be doing them any real injury. when we reflect that tobacco contains from one to nearly seven per cent, of _nicotine_--one of the most powerful vegetable poisons known--a few drops of which are sufficient to destroy life, it is not difficult to perceive that this faith in the _innocence_ begotten of use must be fallacious. we have met with instances where the poisonous effects of tobacco were manifest after every smoke, even where the attempt to accustom the system to its use had been persevered in for many years; and yet the men never realized what was the matter with them, until they had, under medical advice, ceased to use the drug. before the discovery of anæsthetics, tobacco was used as a remedy to produce relaxation in cases of strangulated hernia; and although very cautiously administered in the form of tea, or smoke per rectum, proved fatal in many instances. as little as twelve grains in six ounces of water having thus acted; and from half a drachm to two drachms in a number of instances. when men chew as high as a pound and a quarter of strong navy tobacco a week, or three packages of fine-cut in a day, it must certainly tell upon them sooner or later; or even in much less quantity. if men used tobacco in moderation, there would be much less objection to it, if it was not so intimately associated with the habit of drinking. this is recognized by the trade, in the fact that we see many tobacco stores as the entrance to drinking saloons. ninety-three per cent. of the men who have been admitted to the franklin reformatory home used tobacco, and eighty per cent. of them chewed it. there may be possibly as high as ninety-three per cent. of male adults who smoke, but eighty per cent. of chewers is undoubtedly a large proportion as compared with those in the same ranks of society who do not drink. although the poisonous symptoms of tobacco are, in a great degree, the same in different persons at the inception of the habit, the effects vary materially in after years according to the quantity and variety used, the form employed and the habits and temperament of the user. one man will chew a paper a week, another four, many use one a day, and a few from one and a half to three a day, besides smoking. occasionally, but very rarely, we find a man who limits himself to one cigar a day, a number allow themselves but three, but of later years even these are moderate compared with those who use eight, ten or more. there are many men who, for years, preserve a robust, hale appearance under both tobacco and whisky, who are, notwithstanding their apparent health, steadily laying the foundation of diseased heart, or derangement of the digestive organs or nervous system from the former, or an organic fatal disease of the liver or kidneys from the latter. healthy-looking men are often rejected by examiners of life insurance companies because of irregular and intermittent action of the heart from tobacco; and equally robust subjects are forced to abandon the habit because of tremors, vertigo or a peculiar form of dyspepsia. we have known men who died from the use of tobacco, and others who met a like fate from whisky, who were never fully in the state denominated drunk. men may earn a hobnail liver and dropsy by the constant, steady use of alcoholic drink taken systematically, so as always to keep within the limits of intoxication; or they may, in the same way, get a diabetes or bright's disease. abundant testimony in regard to the effects of tobacco in creating an appetite for strong drink has been given by the inmates of the franklin home. in a few exceptional cases the use of tobacco does not appear to create any sense of thirst; and this is specially the case with the smokers who do not spit when smoking. some men seem to be free from any alcoholic craving when using tobacco, and say that when they commence to drink they give up the drug for the time being. these are exceptional cases, for excess in drinking generally leads to an excess in the use of tobacco, often to double the amount ordinarily employed. we have often been told by moderate drinkers, that they frequently felt a desire for a little whisky after a smoke, and they have confessed that they were only saved from a habit of drinking to excess by the fact that they had no innate fondness for alcoholic stimulation. unfortunately, there is a large and increasing class of men who, finding that water does not, but that alcohol does, relieve the dryness of throat and diseased thirst resulting from tobacco, are led, little by little, into the habit of using whisky to excess. such men, after, it may be, a long abstinence, are not unfrequently led back into their old habits by an attack of nervousness, resulting from a temporary excessive use of tobacco, and a feeling that all that is wanting to relieve this is a glass of whisky, which being taken, at once determines a debauch of long or short duration, according to the habits and character of the party. many a _so-called periodical drinker_ fixes the return of his period by an act of this kind, and with such cases it is all-important to their permanent reformation, that they should cease entirely and forever from the use of tobacco. we have, in a few instances, prevailed upon men to do this, but in a large majority of cases, where they have admitted the connection between the two habits, in their own person, or volunteered to tell how much tobacco had acted in forming and keeping up their appetite for whisky, they have failed in being able to sum up sufficient resolution to abandon the use of the drug, saying that they felt the importance of the step, and would be glad to be able to give it up, but that the habit was ten times as difficult to conquer as that of whisky-drinking. all that we have been able to accomplish in such cases has been to check the excessive use. we have repeatedly assured men, after a careful examination of their peculiar cases, that they would certainly drink again unless they gave up their tobacco, and have seen this opinion verified, because they took no heed to the warning. we have also been gratified in a few instances by hearing a man say that he felt confident that he could never have accomplished his reformation as he had done, if he had not taken the advice given him about abandoning his tobacco. in contrast with the men of weak purpose, we have to admire one who had resolution enough to break off the three habits of opium-eating, whisky-drinking and tobacco-chewing--no trifling matter--when the first was of ten and the last of more than thirty years' duration. we have been repeatedly asked which was the most injurious, smoking or chewing, and have replied, that everything depended upon the amount of nicotine absorbed in the process, and the loss to the system in the saliva spit out. men have died from the direct effect of excessive smoking, and quite recently a death in a child was reported from the result of blowing soap-bubbles with an old wooden pipe. we have known a little boy to vomit from drawing air a few times through the empty meerschaum pipe of his german teacher. the smoking of two pipes as the first essay, very nearly caused the death of a young man, whose case was reported by dr. marshall hall. the least poisonous tobaccos are those of syria and turkey, but the cigarettes made of them in the east and imported into this country are said to be impregnated with opium. virginia tobacco, for the pipe or chewing, contains a large percentage of nicotine, and the former is often impregnated with foreign matters, recognizable by the choking effect of the smoke when inhaled, or by the removal of the epithelium (outer skin) of the tongue at the point under the end of the pipe-stem. if we fail in our efforts to reform the tobacco habit, the next best thing to do, is to show men what the nature and capabilities of the poison are, and endeavor to persuade them to use the milder varieties and in a moderate quantity. one of the great curses of the rising generation is the passion for imitating and acquiring the evil habits of men, under an impression that it hastens their approach to manhood. weak, frail, delicate boys, with inherited tendencies to disease, who should, by all means, never use tobacco, or anything injurious, are often as obstinately bent upon learning to smoke, in spite of medical advice, as those in whom a moderate use would be far less objectionable. a recent observer, in examining into the cases of thirty-eight boys who had formed the habit of using tobacco, found that twenty-seven of them had also a fondness for alcoholic stimulants. a large proportion of the franklin home inmates attribute their habit of drinking to the effects of company; many commenced in the army, and many were induced to drink at first by invitation. if smoking was a solitary habit, it would be less likely to lead to drinking; but the same companionship, and habits of treating prevail, as in the saloon, and the step from the _estaminet_ to the bar-room under invitation, is an easy one, where the diseased thirst, so often induced by tobacco, favors the movement to treat. we have no prejudice against tobacco, other than what would naturally arise in the mind from a careful examination of the effects of the poison in hundreds of cases. we have seen large, hale-looking men forced in time to abandon, although very reluctantly, the use of tobacco in every form; and the most bitter enemy we have ever met to the _vile weed_ as he termed it, was a physician, who had been forced to give up chewing on account of the state of his heart, after years of indulgence. we have seen many such instances, and, in one case, the abandonment of the habit entirely cured a dyspepsia of twenty-eight years' standing. chapter xi. the woman's crusade. for every one saved through the agency of inebriate asylums and reformatory homes, hundreds are lost and hundreds added yearly to the great army of drunkards. good and useful as such institutions are, they do not meet the desperate exigencies of the case. something of wider reach and quicker application is demanded. what shall it be? in prohibition many look for the means by which the curse of drunkenness is to be abated. but, while we wait for a public sentiment strong enough to determine legislation, sixty thousand unhappy beings are yearly consigned to drunkards' graves. what have temperance men accomplished in the fifty years during which they have so earnestly opposed the drinking usages of society and the traffic in alcoholic drinks? and what have they done for the prevention and cure of drunkenness? in limiting the use of intoxicants, in restricting the liquor traffic and in giving a right direction to public sentiment, they have done a great and good work; but their efforts to reclaim the fallen drunkard have met with sad discouragements. in the work of prevention, much has been accomplished; in the work of cure, alas! how little. the appetite once formed, and the unhappy victim finds himself under the control of a power from which he can rarely get free. pledges, new associations, better and more favorable surroundings, all are tried, and many are saved; but the number of the saved are few in comparison with those who, after a season of sobriety, fall back into their old ways. in all these many years of untiring efforts to lift up and save the fallen, what sad disappointments have met our earnest and devoted temperance workers. from how many fields, which seemed full of a rich promise, have they gathered only a meagre harvest. but still they have worked on, gaining strength from defeat and disappointment; for they knew that the cause in which they were engaged was the cause of god and humanity, and that in the end it must prevail. meantime, the bitter, half-despairing cry, "o lord, how long!" was going up from the lips of brokenhearted wives and mothers all over the land, and year by year this cry grew deeper and more desperate. all hope in man was failing from their hearts. they saw restrictive legislation here and there, and even prohibition; but, except in a few cases, no removal of the curse; for behind law, usage, prejudice, interest and appetite the traffic stood intrenched and held its seat of power. at last, in the waning years of the first century of our nation's existence, their failing hope in man died utterly, and with another and deeper and more despairing cry, the women of our land sent up their voices to god. not now saying "o lord, how long!" but "lord, come to our help against the mighty!" what followed is history. the first result of this utter abandonment of all hope in moral suasion or legal force, and of a turning to god in prayer and faith, was that strange, intense, impulsive movement known as the "woman's crusade." beginning of the crusade. let us briefly give the story of its initiation late in the month of december, . dr. dio lewis, in a lecture which he had been engaged to deliver at hillsboro, ohio, related how, forty years before, his pious mother, the wife of a drunkard, who was struggling to feed, clothe and educate her five helpless children, went, with other women who had a similar sorrow with her own, to the tavern-keeper who sold their husbands drink, and, kneeling down in his bar-room, prayed with and for him, and besought him to abandon a business that was cursing his neighbors and bringing want and suffering into their homes. their prayers and entreaties prevailed. after telling this story of his mother, the lecturer asked all the women present who were willing to follow her example to rise, and in response, nearly the entire audience arose. a meeting was then called for the next morning, to be held in the presbyterian church. dr. lewis was a guest at the old mansion of ex-governor trimble, father of mrs. e.j. thompson, a most cultivated, devoted christian woman, mother of eight children. she was not present at the lecture, but "prepared," as she writes, "as those who watch for the morning, for the first gray light upon this dark night of sorrow. few comments were made in our house," she continues, "upon this new line of policy until after breakfast the next morning, when, just as we gathered about the hearth-stone, my daughter mary said, very gently: 'mother, will you go the meeting this morning?' hesitatingly i replied: 'i don't know yet what i shall do.' my husband, fully appreciating the responsibility of the moment, said: 'children, let us leave your mother alone; for you know where she goes with all vexed questions;' and pointing to the old family bible, left the room. the awful responsibility of the step that i must needs next take was wonderfully relieved by thought of the 'cloudy pillar' and 'parted waters' of the past; hence, with confidence, i was about turning my eye of faith 'up to the hills,' from whence had come my help, when, in response to a gentle tap at my door, i met my dear mary, who, with her bible in hand and tearful eyes, said: 'mother, i opened to psalm cxlvi., and i believe it is for you.' she withdrew and i sat down to read the wonderful message from god. as i read what i had so often read before, the spirit so strangely 'took of the things of god,' and showed me new meanings, i no longer hesitated, but, in the strength thus imparted, started to the scene of action. "upon entering the church, i was startled to find myself chosen as leader. the old bible was taken down from the desk, and psalm cxlvi. read. mrs. general mcdowell, by request, led in prayer, and, although she had never before heard her own voice in a public prayer, on this occasion 'the tongue of fire' sat upon her, and all were deeply affected. mrs. cowden, our methodist minister's wife, was then requested to sing to a familiar air-- "'give to the winds thy fears! hope, and be undismayed; god hears thy sighs and counts thy tears: he will lift up thy head.' "and while thus engaged, the women (seventy-five in number) fell in line, two and two, and proceeded first to the drug stores and then to the hotels and saloons." thus began this memorable crusade, which was maintained in hillsboro for over six months, during which time the saloons were visited almost daily. within two days, the women of washington court-house, a neighboring town, felt the inspiration of their sisters, and inaugurated the movement there. a description of what was done at this place will afford the reader a clear impression of the way in which the "crusaders" worked, and the results that followed their efforts. we quote from the account given by mrs. m.v. ustick: "after an hour of prayer, forty-four women filed slowly and solemnly down the aisle and started forth upon their strange mission, with fear and trembling, while the male portion of the audience remained at church to pray from the success of this new undertaking; the tolling of the church-bell keeping time to the solemn march of the women, as they wended their way to the first drug store on the list (the number of places within the city limits where intoxicating drinks were sold was fourteen--eleven saloons and three drug stores). here, as in every place, they entered singing, every woman taking up the sacred strain as she crossed the threshold. this was followed by the reading of the appeal and prayer, and then earnest pleading to desist from their soul-destroying traffic and to sign the dealers' pledge. thus, all the day long, going from place to place, without stopping even for dinner or lunch, till five o'clock, meeting with no marked success; but invariably courtesy was extended to them. "the next day an increased number of women went forth, leaving the men in the church to pray all day long. on this day the contest really began, and at the first place the doors were found locked. with hearts full of compassion, the women knelt in the snow upon the pavement to plead for the divine influence upon the heart of the liquor-dealer, and there held their first street prayer-meeting. the sabbath was devoted to a union mass-meeting. monday, december th, is one long to be remembered in washington as the day on which occurred the first surrender ever made by a liquor-dealer of his stock of liquors of every kind and variety to the women, in answer to their prayers and entreaties, and by them poured into the street. nearly a thousand men, women and children witnessed the mingling of beer, ale, wine and whisky, as they filled the gutters and were drunk up by the earth, while bells were ringing, men and boys shouting, and women singing and praying to god, who had given the victory. "on the fourth day, the campaign reached its height; the town being filled with visitors from all parts of the country and adjoining villages. another public surrender and another pouring into the street of a larger stock of liquors than on the day before, and more intense excitement and enthusiasm. in eight days all the saloons, eleven in number, had been closed, and the three drug stores pledged to sell only on prescription. "early in the third week the discouraging intelligence came that a new man had taken out license to sell liquor in one of the deserted saloons, and that he was backed by a whisky house in cincinnati to the amount of five thousand dollars to break down this movement. on wednesday, th of january, the whisky was unloaded at his room. about forty women were on the ground and followed the liquor in, and remained holding an uninterrupted prayer-meeting all day and until eleven o'clock at night. the next day--bitterly cold--was spent in the same place and manner, without fire or chairs, two hours of that time the women being locked in, while the proprietor was off attending a trial. on the following day, the coldest of the winter of , the women were locked out, and remained on the street holding religious services all day long. next morning a tabernacle was built in the street just in front of the house, and was occupied for the double purpose of watching and praying through the day; but before night the sheriff closed the saloon, and the proprietor surrendered. a short time afterwards, on a dying bed, this four-day's liquor-dealer sent for some of these women, telling them their songs and prayers had never ceased to ring in his ears, and urging them to pray again in his behalf; so he passed away." from this beginning the new temperance movement increased and spread with a marvelous rapidity. the incidents attendant on the progress of the "crusade" were often of a novel and exciting character. such an interference with their business was not to be tolerated by the liquor men; and they soon began to organize for defense and retaliation. they not only had the law on their side, but in many cases, the administrators of the law. yet it often happened, in consequence of their reckless violations of statutes made to limit and regulate the traffic, that dealers found themselves without standing in the courts, or entangled in the meshes of the very laws they had invoked for protection. in the smaller towns the movement was, for a time, almost irresistible; and in many of them the drink traffic ceased altogether. but when it struck the larger cities, it met with impediments, against which it beat violently for awhile, but without the force to bear them down. our space will not permit us to more than glance at some of the incidents attendant on this singular crusade. the excitement that followed its inauguration in the large city of cleveland was intense. it is thus described by mrs. sarah k. bolton in her history of the woman's crusade, to which we have already referred: how the crusaders were treated. "the question was constantly asked: 'will the women of a conservative city of one hundred and fifty thousand go upon the street as a praying-band?' the liquor-dealers said: 'send committees of two or three and we will talk with them; but coming in a body to pray with us brands our business as disreputable.' the time came when the master seemed to call for a mightier power to bear upon the liquor traffic, and a company of heroic women, many of them the wives of prominent clergymen, led by mrs. w.a. ingham, said: 'here am i; the lord's will be done.' "on the third day of the street work, the whisky and beer interest seemed to have awakened to a full consciousness of the situation. drinkers, dealers and roughs gathered in large numbers on the street to wait for the praying women. a mob, headed by an organization of brewers, rushed upon them, kicking them, striking them with their fists and hitting them with brickbats. the women were locked in a store away from the infuriated mob, who, on the arrival of a stronger body of police, were dispersed, cursing and yelling as they went. the next day, taking their lives in their hands, a larger company of women went out, and somewhat similar scenes were enacted. meantime, public meetings, called in the churches, were so crowded that standing room could not be found. the clergy, as one man, came to the front. business men left their stores and shops, ministers their studies, and a thousand manly men went out to defend the praying women. the military companies were ordered to be in readiness, resting on their arms; the police force was increased, and the liquor interest soon made to feel that the city was not under its control. the mob never again tried its power. for three months, with scarcely a day's exception, the praying-bands, sometimes with twenty in each, working in various parts of the city; sometimes with five hundred, quietly and silently, two by two, forming a procession over a quarter of a mile in length, followed by scores in carriages, who could not bear the long walks, went from saloon to saloon, holding services where the proprietors were willing, and in warehouses which were thrown open to them, or in vacant lots near by, when they were unwilling. men took off their hats, and often wept as the long procession went by. little children gathered close to the singers, and catching the words, sang them months afterwards in their dingy hovels. haggard women bent their heads as they murmured with unutterable sadness, 'you've come too late to save my boy or my husband.' many saloon-keepers gave up their business and never resumed it. many who had lost all hope because of the appetite which bound them, heard from woman's lips the glad tidings of freedom in christ, and accepted the liberty of the gospel." in many other places the crusaders met with violence from exasperated liquor-dealers and their brutish associates. a pail of cold water was thrown into the face of a woman in clyde, ohio, as she knelt praying in front of a saloon. dirty water was thrown by pailfuls over the women at norwalk. at columbus, a saloon-keeper assaulted one of the praying-band, injuring her seriously. in cincinnati, forty-three women were arrested by the authorities for praying in the street and lodged in jail. in bellefontaine, a large liquor-dealer declared that if the praying-band visited him he would use powder and lead; but the women, undeterred by his threat, sang and prayed in front of his saloon every day for a week, in spite of the insults and noisy interferences of himself and customers. at the end of that time the man made his appearance at a mass-meeting and signed the pledge; and on the following sunday attended church for the first time in five years. decline of the crusading spirit. from ohio the excitement soon spread to other western states, and then passed east and south, until it was felt in nearly every state in the union; but it did not gain force by extension. to the sober, second-thought of those who had, in singleness of heart, self-consecration and trust in god, thrown themselves into this work because they believed that they were drawn of the spirit, came the perception of other, better and more orderly ways of accomplishing the good they sought. if god were, indeed, with them--if it was his divine work of saving human souls upon which they had entered, he would lead them into the right ways, if they were but willing to walk therein. of this there came to them a deep assurance; and in the great calm that fell after the rush and excitement and wild confusion of that first movement against the enemy, they heard the voice of god calling to them still. and, as they hearkened, waiting to be led, and willing to obey, light came, and they saw more clearly. not by swift, impetuous impulse, but through organization and slow progression was the victory to be won. in the language of frances e. willard, in her history of "the woman's national christian temperance union," to be found in the centennial temperance volume: "the women who went forth by an impulse sudden, irresistible, divine, to pray in the saloons, became convinced, as weeks and months passed by, that theirs was to be no easily-won victory. the enemy was rich beyond their power to comprehend. he had upon his side the majesty of the law, the trickery of politics and the leagued strength of that almost invincible pair--appetite, avarice. he was persistent, too, as fate; determined to fight it out on that line to the last dollar of his enormous treasure-house and the last ounce of his power. but these women of the crusade believed in god, and in themselves as among his appointed instruments to destroy the rum-power in america. they loved christ's cause; they loved the native land that had been so mindful of them; they loved their sweet and sacred homes; and so it came about that, though, they had gone forth only as skirmishers, they soon fell into line of battle; though they had ignorantly hoped to take the enemy by a sudden assault, they buckled on the armor for the long campaign. the woman's praying-bands, earnest, impetuous, inspired, became the woman's temperance unions, firm, patient, persevering. the praying-bands were without leadership, save that which inevitably results from 'the survival of the fittest;' the woman's unions are regularly officered in the usual way. they first wrought their grand pioneer work in sublime indifference to prescribed forms of procedure--'so say we all of us' being the spirit of 'motions' often made, seconded and carried by the chair, while the assembled women nodded their earnest acquiescence; the second are possessed of good, strong constitutions (with by-laws annexed), and follow the order of business with a dutiful regard to parliamentary usage. in the first, women who had never lifted up their voices in their own church prayer-meetings stood before thousands and 'spoke as they were moved;' in the second, these same women with added experience, and a host of others who have since enlisted, impress the public thought and conscience by utterances carefully considered. the praying-bands, hoping for immediate victory, pressed their members into incessant service; the woman's unions, aware that the battle is to be a long one, ask only for such help as can be given consistently with other duties." as the result of this intelligent effort at effective organization by the women who inaugurated and were prominent in the "crusade," we have "the woman's national christian temperance union," with its auxiliary and local unions in nearly every state; one of the most efficient agencies in the practical work of temperance reform which the country has yet seen. chapter xii. the woman's national christian temperance union. during the summer of , when the reaction which had checked the "crusade" was recognized as something permanent by the more thoughtful and observant of the women who had been engaged in it, they paused for deliberation, and took counsel together. great victories had been won in the brief season during which they were masters of the field; and now that the enemy had rallied his forces, and intrenched himself behind law, public opinion, politics and the state, should they weakly give up the contest? not so. they had discovered wherein the weakness, as well as the strength, of their enemy lay, and had come into a new perception of their own powers and resources. organization. the first step taken was to call conventions in the various states where the crusade had been active. these were attended by delegates chosen by the local praying-bands. the result was the organization, in some of the states, of what were known as "temperance leagues." afterwards the word "unions" was substituted for leagues. having organized by states, the next thing was to have a national union. in august of that year, the first national sunday-school assembly was held at chautauqua lake, near buffalo, new york. many of the most earnest workers in the temperance crusade, from different parts of the united states, and from the various denominations of christians, were present, and the conviction was general that steps should at once be taken towards forming a national league, in order to make permanent the work that had already been done. after much deliberation, a committee of organization was appointed, consisting of a woman from each state. this committee issued a circular letter, asking the various woman's temperance leagues to hold meetings, for the purpose of electing one woman from each congressional district as a delegate to a national convention, to be held in november, at cleveland, ohio. a single paragraph from this circular will show the spirit that animated the call. "it is hardly necessary to remind those who have worked so nobly in the grand temperance uprising that in union and organization are its success and permanence, and the consequent redemption of this land from the curse of intemperance. in the name of our master--in behalf of the thousands of women who suffer from this terrible evil, we call upon all to unite in an earnest, continued effort to hold the ground already won, and move onward together to a complete victory over the foes we fight." delegates representing sixteen states were present at the convention, which held its first session in cleveland, commencing on the th of november, , and lasting for three days. prominent among its members were active leaders of the crusade, but, besides these, says miss willard, "there were present many thoughtful and gifted women, whose hearts had been stirred by the great movement, though until now they had lacked the opportunity to identify themselves with it. mrs. jennie f. willing presided over the convention, which was one of the most earnest and enthusiastic ever held. a constitution was adopted, also a plan of organization intended to reach every hamlet, town and city in the land. there was a declaration of principles, of which christianity alone could have furnished the animus. an appeal to the women of our country was provided for; another to the girls of america; a third to lands beyond the sea; a memorial to congress was ordered, and a deputation to carry it appointed; a national temperance paper, to be edited and published by women, was agreed upon, also a financial plan, asking for a cent a week from members; and last, not least, was appointed a special committee on temperance work among the children. four large mass-meetings were held during the convention, all of them addressed by women. mrs. annie wittenmyer, of philadelphia, was elected president; miss frances e. willard, of chicago, corresponding secretary; mrs. mary c. johnson, of brooklyn, recording secretary; mrs. mary a. ingham, of cleveland, treasurer, with one vice-president from each state represented in the convention." the spirit of this assembly of workers is shown in the closing resolution, which it adopted unanimously: "_resolved_, that, recognizing the fact that our cause is, and is to be, combated by mighty, determined and relentless forces, we will, trusting in him who is the prince of peace, meet argument with argument, misjudgment with patience, denunciation with kindness, and all our difficulties and dangers with prayer." first year's work. during the first year six state organizations were added to the number represented in the beginning, including scores of local unions. a monthly paper was established; a deputation of women sent to congress with a memorial, to which hundreds of thousands of signatures had been obtained, asking for inquiry and legislation in regard to the liquor traffic; a manual of "hints and helps," concerning methods of temperance work, prepared and issued; and other agencies of reform, and for the extermination of the liquor traffic, set in motion. the reports from state unions, made to the first annual meeting, held in cincinnati, november, , were, in most cases, highly encouraging. in ohio, a large number of local unions were formed, nearly two hundred friendly inns established, while reading-rooms, juvenile societies and young people's leagues were reported as multiplying all over the state. indiana showed effective work in the same direction; so did illinois. in both of these states many local unions, reform clubs and juvenile organizations came into existence, while the work of temperance agitation was carried on with untiring vigor. iowa reported fifty local unions, eleven juvenile societies, seven reform clubs and six coffee-houses and reading-rooms. but, how better can we sum up the results of this year's work, and how better give a clear idea of the new forces which were coming into the field under the leadership of women, than by giving an extract from the first annual report of the corresponding secretary, miss frances e. willard: "briefly to recapitulate, bringing out salient features, maine has given, since the crusade, the idea of the temperance camp-meeting, which, though not original with us, has been rendered effective largely through the efforts of our own workers. connecticut influences elections, has availed itself of petitions and given us the best form on record. new york has kept alive the visitation of saloons, and proved, what may we never forget, that this is always practicable, if conducted wisely. in the relief and rescue branches of our work, the empire state is perhaps without a rival. the women of pennsylvania have bearded the gubernatorial lion in his den, and the hartranft veto had the added sin of women's prayers and tears denied. maryland and the district of columbia prove that the north must look to her laurels when the south is free to enter on our work. as for ohio, as daniel webster said of the old bay state, 'there she stands; look at her!'--foremost among leaders in the new crusade. michigan is working bravely amid discouragements. illinois has given us the most promising phase of our juvenile work, and leads off in reform clubs. our best organized states are ohio, indiana, new york, pennsylvania and iowa. by reason of their multiplied conventions of state, district and county, their numerous auxiliaries, their petitions and their juvenile work, ohio and indiana bear off the palm, and stand as the banner states of our union up to this time, each of them having as many as two hundred and fifty auxiliaries. "our review develops the fact that of the forty-seven states and territories forming the united states, twenty-two states have formed temperance unions auxiliary to the woman's national union. of the twenty-five not yet organized, twelve are southern states and eight are territories; while of the remaining five, three are about to organize state unions, and have already flourishing local unions. so, that, without exaggeration, we may say we have fairly entered into the land to possess it. to bring about this vast result of organization, and to maintain it, there have been held (not to mention conventions of districts and counties, the name of which is legion,) forty-five state conventions of women, almost all within the last year. "the number of written communications sent out during the year from our western office to women in every state in the union, is nearly five thousand. this is exclusive of 'documents,' which have gone by the bushel from the eastern and western offices, and also of the incessant correspondence of our president. either president or secretary has spoken in nearly every state in which our organization exists. during the summer months, conventions, camp-meetings and local auxiliaries in large numbers have been addressed by officers of our national and state unions in all of the eastern and middle and in many of the western states. noteworthy in our history for the year, is the monster petition circulated in nearly every state, presented to congress on our behalf by senator morton, of indiana, and defended in an eloquent speech before the finance committee by our president." the second year's work. the second annual meeting of the "woman's national christian temperance union" was held in newark, n.j., in october, . from the reports made to this meeting, we take the following interesting statements, showing how actively the work, for which this great national association was organized, has been prosecuted. twenty-two state unions were represented at this meeting, and local unions were reported as having been formed for the first time in tennessee, louisiana and arkansas, preparatory to state organizations. an international temperance convention of women had been held in the academy of music, philadelphia, from which resulted an international woman's temperance union. a summary of the work of the year says: "in almost every organized state, the request of our national committee that ministerial, medical and educational associations be asked to declare their position in relation to temperance reform has been complied with. in every instance, the ladies have been courteously received, and in no case has the declaration of opinion been adverse, and in many, most hopeful to our cause. the letter of mrs. wittenmyer to the international medical convention recently held in philadelphia, secured the important declaration against alcohol made by that body. "in february, our president, accompanied by mrs. mary r. denman, president of new jersey w.t.u., made a trip to kentucky, tennessee and louisiana, in the endeavor to enlist our southern sisters in the temperance work. large meetings were addressed and several local unions organized. "in the month, of may thirty-six temperance meetings were held in the state of ohio, by the corresponding secretary, who has also made a trip through michigan, and spoken in all the eastern, middle and several of the western states since the last meeting. "our recording secretary, mrs. mary c. johnson, has visited great britain, by invitation of christian women there, for the purpose of introducing our gospel work. going in the spirit of the crusade, mrs. johnson's labors have awakened an earnest spirit of inquiry and activity among the thoughtful and comparatively leisure class. during her six months' absence in england and ireland, she addressed one hundred and twenty-one audiences and conducted forty prayer-meetings. "'mother stewart,' of ohio, has also visited england and scotland this year, under the auspices of the good templars, and much good has resulted from her labors. "our union has circulated the petition to congress for a commission of inquiry into the costs and results of the liquor traffic in america, and to the centennial commissioners praying them not to allow the sale of intoxicants on the exposition grounds. the desired commission of inquiry has been ordered by the senate in response to the wish of the united temperance societies of the land, but the subject did not come before the house at the last session. "our paper has constantly increased in its hold upon the local unions, whose devotion to its interests augurs well for its future success. "the number of documents scattered among our auxiliaries cannot be accurately stated, but is not less than twelve or fifteen thousand, and the correspondence of the officers by letter and postal-card, will not fall short of the same estimate. to correct misapprehensions, it should, perhaps, be stated that no officer of the national union has received a dollar for services or traveling expenses during the year." a working organization. to meet annually in convention and pass resolutions and make promises is one thing; to do practical and effective work all through the year is quite another. and it is just here that this new temperance organization exhibits its power. the women whom it represents are very much in earnest and mean work. what they resolve to do, if clearly seen to be in the right direction, will hardly fail for lack of effort. in their plan of work, one branch particularly embraces the children. if the rising generation can not only be pledged to abstinence; but so carefully instructed in regard to the sin and evil of intemperance, and their duty, when they become men and women, to make war upon the liquor traffic, and to discountenance all form of social drinking, then an immense gain will be had for the cause in the next generation, when the boys and girls of to-day will hold the ballots, make the laws, give direction to public sentiment and determine the usages of society. looking after the children. to what extent, then, are the state and local unions looking after the children? writing, as we now are, before the third annual meeting of the national union, and, therefore, without a general report of the year's work before us, we are unable to give a statement in full of the important temperance work which has been done with and for the rising generation. but, from official and other reliable sources of information, we are in possession of facts of a most gratifying character. in the state of minnesota, as the result of woman's efforts, they have had for several years a "sunday-school temperance league," and their last annual report gives seventeen thousand as the number of children already "pledged to abstain from all intoxicants as a beverage." says their report for , "we have carried the work into sixty-one new schools, held sixty-three anniversary meetings and temperance concerts, instigated about one thousand addresses in the sunday-schools, secured six thousand six hundred and seventy-four signers to our pledges, and one thousand and fifteen to our constitution." in most of the larger towns throughout the united states where active local unions exist, juvenile unions, bands of hope or temperance associations by some other name, have been formed among the children. these have, in many cases, a large membership; often as high as from five to six hundred. in rockford, ill., the juvenile union numbers over eight hundred boys and as many girls. the pledge taken by these children includes, in some localities, tobacco and profanity as well as intoxicants. the work of reform and rescue. in the work of reform and rescue, the state and local unions are very active, especially in the larger towns and cities. in the smaller towns, religious temperance meetings are held weekly, and in the larger cities, daily, and sometimes twice a day. chicago has as many as eighteen meetings every week. in chapters xix. and xx. of the first part of this volume, we have described at length, and from personal observation, the way in which these temperance prayer-meetings are generally conducted, and the means used for lifting up and saving the poor drunkard. what are known as "reform clubs," have grown out of the efforts made of these praying women, to hold in safety the men whom they have been able to rescue. these clubs are numerous in new england and the western states, and have a large membership, which is composed exclusively of reformed men. the common platform upon which they all stand is: . total abstinence. . reliance upon god's help in all things. . missionary work to induce others to sign the pledge. in newark, n.j., there is a club with a membership of over six hundred reformed men, nearly all of whom have been rescued in the past three years, through the efforts of the woman's christian temperance union of that city. in an interview with mrs. wittenmyer, president of the national union, who had received reports of the third year's work from the various unions, we learned that, after deducting from the returns all who were known to have broken the pledge, ten thousand remained as the number reported to have been saved during the year, and who were still standing in the strength which god had given them. the larger part of these rescued men had united themselves with the church, and were earnestly endeavoring to lead christian lives. keeping alive a sentiment adverse to the liquor traffic. another and most important branch of the work of the "woman's christian temperance union," is that of arousing, keeping alive and intensifying a sentiment adverse to the liquor traffic. so long as the state and national governments give the sanction of law to this traffic, they find their efforts to save the fallen, utterly unavailing in far too many instances. in an appeal made by the women of the state union to the voters of massachusetts, under date of august th, , the curse of this traffic is exhibited in words of solemn earnestness. the document is strong and convincing, yet temperate and respectful. we copy it entire as presenting arguments and considerations which every humane and christian voter in the land should lay deeply to heart: "the woman's christian temperance union comes to you with a solemn and earnest appeal. "our mission is the redemption of the commonwealth from the curse of intemperance. during the past year we have labored incessantly for this end, and have expended nearly twenty thousand dollars in efforts to rescue the perishing, and to educate public sentiment in favor of total abstinence. "in this work we have met numerous obstacles--the apathy of the people, the inherited and depraved appetites of drunkards, and the perilous social customs of the day, which are indorsed by the practice of many otherwise excellent people. worse than all these combined is the influence of the licensed dram-shop. we can arouse the indifferent to action; we can enkindle in the drunkard aspirations for a better life than that of debauchery; we hope, in time, by constant agitation, to change the social customs of the day. but against the influence of the licensed dram-shop we are powerless. we have no ability to cope with this most formidable enemy of virtue, prosperity and good order. "a long and bitter experience compels us to say that the most untiring efforts to reclaim the drunkard have, in many instances, proved unavailing, because his demoralized will has been powerless to resist the temptations placed in his path by the sanction of the state. "worse, if possible, even than this--the licensed dram-shop is instrumental in creating a new generation of drunkards. for thither resort our young men, the future hope of the country, who speedily fall before the seductions of the place, their habits of sobriety are subverted, their moral sense is blunted, their will palsied, and they drift rapidly into the appalling condition of habitual drunkenness. the licensed dram-shops are recruiting offices, where another army of drunkards is enlisted, to fill the ranks depleted by dishonored deaths--and the great commonwealth extends over them the ægis of its protection, indorsing them by the sanction of law. the people of massachusetts drink annually twenty-five million dollars' worth of intoxicating liquors. _only god can furnish the statistics of sorrow, poverty, disease, vice and crime, begotten by this fearful consumption of strong drink._ "under these discouraging circumstances, men of massachusetts, we appeal to you! the licensed dram-shop is the creature of political action. we are wholly destitute of political power, by which it must be overthrown. anguished by the peril of fathers and brothers, husbands and sons, we appeal to you to make good the oft-repeated assertion that the men of the state represent and protect the women of the state at the ballot-box. we beseech you to make earnest efforts to secure the repeal of the license law at the next election, and the enactment of a law prohibiting the sale of intoxicating liquors as a beverage. "we are sure we speak the sentiment of the christian people of this state, and of all who stand for morality, thrift, virtue and good order, when we say that the great state of massachusetts should not take sides with the drunkard-maker against his victim. if either is to be protected by law, it should be the drunkard, since he is the weaker, rather than the rumseller, who persistently blocks the pathway of reform. "we know that we utter the voice of the majority of the women of the state when we plead the cause of prohibition--and the women of massachusetts outnumbers its men by more than sixty thousand. it is women who are the greatest sufferers from the licensed dram-shops of the community--and we pray you, therefore, voters of massachusetts, to take such action that the law which protects these drinking shops may be blotted from the statute book at the next election." this appeal from the christian women of massachusetts is signed by mrs. mary a. livermore, president, and mrs. l.b. barrett, secretary of the state branch of the woman's national temperance union, and shows the animating spirit of that body. no one can read it without a new impression of the wickedness of a traffic that curses everything it touches. but not alone in massachusetts are the women of the "union" using their efforts to shape public opinion and influence the ballot. in all the states where unions exist, this part of the work is steadily prosecuted; and it cannot be long ere its good results will become manifest at the polls in a steadily increasing anti-license vote, and, ultimately in the ranging of state after state with maine, vermont and new hampshire on the side of prohibition. influence on the medical profession. in still another direction important gains have been realized. but for the efforts of the woman's national and state temperance unions we should scarcely have had the declaration of the international medical congress of , adverse to the use of alcohol as food or medicine. early in their work, the women of the "union," seeing how largely the medical prescription of alcohol was hurting the cause of temperance, and being in possession of the latest results of chemical and physiological investigation in regard to its specific action on the body, sent delegations to various state medical associations at their annual meetings, urging them to pass resolutions defining its true status as a food or a medicine and discouraging its use in the profession. with most of these medical associations they found a respectful hearing; and their presentation of the matter had the effect of drawing to the subject the attention of a large number of medical men who had not, from old prejudices, or in consequence of their absorption in professional duties, given careful attention to the later results of scientific investigation. as a consequence, many physicians who had been in the habit of ordering alcoholic stimulants for weak or convalescent patients, gave up the practice entirely; while those who still resorted to their use, deemed it safest to be more guarded in their administration than heretofore. action of the international medical congress. but the crowning result of this effort to induce the medical profession to limit or abandon the prescription of alcohol, came when the international congress, one of the largest and ablest medical bodies ever convened, made, through its "section on medicine," the brief, but clear and unequivocal declaration already given in a previous chapter, and at once and forever laid upon alcohol the ban of the profession. official communications were addressed to this body by the national temperance society, through its president, hon. wm. e. dodge, by the woman's christian temperance union, through its president, mrs. annie wittenmyer, and by the new york friends' temperance union, asking from it a declaration as to the true character of alcohol and its value in medicine. the following is the full text of the memorial of the woman's christian temperance union: _to the chairman and members of the international medical congress_: "honored sirs:--i take the liberty, as a representative of the woman's national christian temperance union of the united states, to call your attention to the relation of the medical use of alcohol to the prevalence of that fearful scourge, _intemperance_. "the distinguished dr. mussey said, many years ago: 'so long as alcohol retains a place among sick patients, so long there will be drunkards.' "dr. rush wrote strongly against its use as early as . and at one time the college of physicians at philadelphia memorialized congress in favor of restraining the use of distilled liquors, because, as they claimed, they were 'destructive of life, health and the faculties of the mind.' "'a medical declaration,' published in london, december, , asserts that 'it is believed that the inconsiderate prescription of alcoholic liquids by medical men for their patients has given rise, in many instances, to the formation of intemperate habits.' this manifesto was signed by over two hundred and fifty of the leading medical men of the united kingdom. when the nature and effects of alcohol were little known, ft was thought to be invaluable as a medicine. but in the light of recent scientific investigations, its claims have been challenged and its value denied. "we are aware that the question of the medical use of alcohol has not been fully decided, and that there is a difference of opinion among the ablest medical writers. but we notice that as the discussion and investigation goes on, and the new facts are brought out, its value as a remedial agent is depreciated. "a great many claims have been brought forward in its favor, but one by one they have gone down under the severe scrutiny of scientific research, until only a few points are left in doubt. in view of this, and the _startling fact_ that tens of thousands die annually from its baneful effects, we earnestly urge you to give the subject a careful examination. "you have made the study of the physical nature of man your life-work, and you are the trusted advisers of the people in all matters pertaining to the treatment of diseases and the preservation of life and health. "you are, therefore, in a position to instruct and warn the masses in regard to its indiscriminate use, either as a medicine or a beverage. "we feel sure that, true to your professional honor, and the grave responsibilities of your distinguished position, you will search out and give us the facts, whatever they may be. [illustration: a victim of the drinking club.] "if you should appoint a standing committee from your own number, of practical scientific men, who would give time and thought to this question, it would be very gratifying to the _one hundred thousand_ women i represent, and most acceptable to the general public. "i am, with high considerations of respect, "your obed't servant, "annie wittenmyer, "_pres't w. nat. chris. temp. union. "philadelphia, sept. th, ._" how was this memorial received? scarcely had it been presented ere a member moved that it be laid on the table without reading; but ere the vote could be taken the voice of another member rose clear and strong in the question whether that body could afford to treat a hundred thousand american women with such a discourtesy! and the motion to lay on the table was lost. a vote to refer to the "section on medicine" was largely carried; and to that section the petitioners took their case, and were not only accorded a gracious and respectful hearing, but, after a full discussion of the subject, a declaration against the use of alcohol, as a substance both hurtful and dangerous--possessing no food value whatever, and as a medicine, being exceedingly limited in its range. all the points in reply were passed upon unanimously by the section to which the matter was referred, and afterwards by the congress in full session, with but a single dissenting vote, and the result officially communicated to the president of the woman's christian temperance union. an official notification of the action of the congress was also sent to hon. wm. e. dodge, president of the national temperance society. other aspects of the work of this young and vigorous organization might be given; but enough has been presented to show that its agency in temperance reform is already far-reaching and powerful; and to give assurance that if the spirit which has influenced and directed its counsels so wisely from the beginning, can be maintained, it will achieve still greater and more important victories for the cause of temperance. chapter xiii. reform clubs. these differ in some aspects from most of the associations which, prior to their organization, had for their object the reformation of men who had fallen into habits of drunkenness. the distinguishing characteristics of the reform club is its religious spirit, its dependence upon god and its reliance upon prayer. the first movement in this direction was made in gardiner, maine, in january, , by mr. i.k. osgood. he says of himself that in fifteen years he had run down from a moderate and fashionable drinker of wine, to a constant and immoderate drinker of the vilest spirits; and from the condition of a respectable business man to one of misery and destitution. coming back to his wretched home late one night, he saw through the window his poor wife sitting lonely and sorrowful, waiting for his return. the sight touched his heart and caused him to reflect, and then to resolve, that god being his helper he would never drink again. that resolution he found himself able, by god's help, to keep. a few months later he began the work of trying to reform others. his first effort was with a lawyer, an old friend, who was as much reduced by drink as he had been. after much entreaty, this man consented to break off drinking and sign the pledge. mr. osgood then drew up the following call for a meeting which both signed: "reformers' meeting.--there will be a meeting of reformed drinkers at city hall, gardiner, on friday evening, january th, at seven o'clock. a cordial invitation is extended to all occasional drinkers, constant drinkers, hard drinkers and young men who are tempted to drink. come and hear what rum has done for us." a crowd came to the city hall. the two men addressed the meeting with great earnestness, and then offered the pledge, which was signed by eight of their old drinking companions. these organized themselves into a reform club, which soon reached a hundred members, all of whom had been men of intemperate habits. the movement soon attracted attention in other places, especially among drinking men, and clubs multiplied rapidly throughout the state. in a few months, the aggregate membership reached nearly twenty thousand. in june of the following year, mr. osgood began his work in massachusetts, under the auspices of the massachusetts temperance alliance, organizing about forty clubs, one of which, in haverill, numbered over three thousand members. in new hampshire and vermont, many clubs were organized by mr. osgood and some of his converts. dr. henry a. reynolds. another effective worker in the field is dr. henry a. reynolds, of bangor, maine, where he was born in . in , he graduated from the medical college of harvard university, and was assistant surgeon in the first maine regiment, heavy artillery, during two years of the war, receiving an honorable discharge. he then entered upon the practice of medicine in his native city, and continued therein until . but he had inherited a taste for strong drink, through the indulgence of which he became its abject slave. after many efforts at reform which proved of no avail, he resolved to look to almighty god, and ask for strength to overcome his dreadful appetite. about this time there was, in the city of bangor, a band of christian women who met frequently to pray for the salvation of the intemperate. at one of their meetings, the doctor presented himself--it was two days after he had knelt alone in his office and prayed to god for help--and publicly signed the pledge. sympathy for those who were in the dreadful slough from which he had been lifted, soon began stirring in his heart, and he sought, by various methods, to influence and save them. after working for several months, with only partial success, it became evident, that for sure and permanent work, there must be organization, and he conceived the plan of a reform club made up exclusively of those who had been drinking men; believing, as he did, that there must exist between two men who had once been intemperate, a sympathy which could not exist between a man who has, and one who has never, drank to excess. as soon as this matter became clear to him, dr. reynolds, by notice in a daily paper, invited the drinking men of the city to meet him at a certain place. eleven men responded to the call, and the bangor reform club, the first of its kind, was organized, september th, , with dr. henry a. reynolds as president. the motto of the new organization was, "dare to do right." filled with the true missionary spirit, this little band held other meetings, and did their utmost to bring in new members, and so successful were their efforts, that in a few weeks their membership swelled to hundreds, and the whole city was in a state of excitement over the new and strange work which had been inaugurated. from bangor, the excitement soon spread through the state. dr. reynolds, believing that god had called him to the work of saving men from intemperance and leading them to christ, gave up his profession and threw himself into the work of preaching temperance and organizing reform clubs. within a year forty-five thousand reformed men were gathered into clubs in the state of maine. in august, , at a meeting of the national christian temperance camp-meeting association, held at old orchard, maine, where temperance workers from all parts of the country had congregated, the president of the woman's christian temperance union of salem, massachusetts, learned of the great work of reform progressing in maine under the leadership of dr. reynolds, and invited him to introduce his work in massachusetts by holding a series of meetings in salem during the month of september. so the work began in the old bay state, and within a year, forty thousand men of that commonwealth, who had been habitual drinkers, were organized into reform clubs. formation of clubs. the method pursued by dr. reynolds in the formation of these clubs is very simple. there is a constitution with by-laws, to which the following pledge is prefixed: "having seen and felt the evils of intemperance, therefore, resolved, that we, the undersigned, for our own good, and the good of the world in which we live, do hereby promise and engage, with the help of almighty god, to abstain from buying, selling or using alcoholic or malt beverages, wine and cider included." article iii. of the constitution gives the qualification for membership: "all male persons of the age of eighteen or upwards, who have been in the habit of using intoxicating liquor to a greater or less extent, are eligible to membership in this club." after organizing a club of persons who have been addicted to drink, dr. reynolds appeals to the christian women of the locality to throw around them the shield of their care and sympathy, and urges upon the people at large the necessity of upholding and encouraging them in every possible way. the meetings of the clubs are held at least once during the week, in the evenings; and on sunday afternoons or evenings, the clubs, with the woman's christian temperance unions, hold public religious temperance meetings, which are often crowded to overflowing. the order of exercises at these public meetings consist of prayer, reading of scripture and brief addresses by reformed men, interspersed with the singing of such hymns as "rock of ages," "hold the fort," "i need thee every hour," etc. brief addresses are the rule, and a hymn is usually sung between each address. the badge worn by members of these reformed clubs is a red ribbon. their motto is "dare to do right." one of the first fruits of the establishment of a reform club in any locality, is an increase in church attendance, and a decrease in the tax rate. in many towns where they exist, liquor-selling has become unprofitable, and liquor-drinking a custom that hurts a man's social standing. from the east, dr. reynolds extended his labors into the west, where his work has been chiefly confined to the state of michigan. in a letter to the _union_, the organ of the woman's christian temperance union, under date of july, , the aspect and results of dr. reynolds's work in that state are thus referred to by a correspondent from evanston: "his plan is to take a state and settle down in it 'to stay' until it capitulates to the red-ribbon pledge. none but men over eighteen years of age are allowed to sign this pledge. eighty thousand men in michigan, to-day, wear the ribbon, which is a token of their signature--all of them have been drinking men. 'none others need apply' as members of dr. reynolds's reform clubs. his method is to speak in a general way to the public on the evening of his arrival--his meetings being held in a hall and thoroughly announced. the next afternoon, the doctor addresses women, chiefly from the medical point of view. if they have not a w.t.u. he organizes one. the second night he talks to the public generally again, and organizes his club, then goes on his way, and leaves the town rejoicing. the doctor is thoroughly business-like and methodical. there is no doubt about his securing, in every state he visits, the same results as in michigan, for his ability is marked, his experience growing, his sincerity complete and all his work is 'begun, continued and ended' in a firm reliance upon god." to give an idea of the excitement created by the presence of dr. reynolds in any community, and of the results of his efforts to reclaim intemperate men, we copy the following brief reference to his work in the spring of : "it is impossible to give figures, for there are additions every day of hundreds in the state, and the climax of enthusiasm is by no means reached in any town while dr. reynolds is there. "in jackson, sabbath evening, february th, two months after the organization of the club, union hall was so packed that the galleries settled and were cleared, and hundreds could not gain admittance. "as the result of ten days' work in saginaw valley--at the three cities--(bay city, saginaw city and east saginaw), the clubs number about three thousand men. "from there, dr. reynolds went to lansing, our capital, and at the first signing, two hundred and forty-five joined the club, which is far up in the hundreds now. "the last and greatest victory is detroit. slow, critical, conservative, staid, not-any-shams-for-me detroit. "friday and saturday nights there were crowded houses. sabbath afternoon, two thousand five hundred _men_ together, and a club of three hundred and forty-five formed. sabbath evening, no room could hold the people, and the club reached nearly nine hundred. it is safe to say to-day that a thousand men in the city of detroit are wearing the red ribbon. "dr. reynolds has done another grand work, and that is in bringing up the w.c.t. unions. everywhere this follows, churches are packed with women. dr. reynolds tells them how they can help the men and their families, and they fall into line by the hundreds. three hundred have enlisted in bay city, four hundred in lansing, two hundred in east saginaw, and so on, all over the state." the establishment of reform clubs has been more general in new england and the western states than in other parts of the country, though their organization in some of the middle states has been attended with marked success. vermont has a large number of clubs, the membership ranging from one hundred to fifteen hundred. francis murphy. the work of francis murphy, which, has been attended with such remarkable fervors of excitement in nearly every community where he has labored, is not so definite in its purpose, nor so closely organized, nor so permanent in its results as that of dr. reynolds. he draws vast assemblies, and obtains large numbers of signers to his pledge, which, reads: "with malice towards none and charity for all, i, the undersigned, do pledge my word and honor, god helping me, to abstain from all intoxicating liquors as a beverage, and that i will, by all honorable means, encourage others to abstain." an irishman by birth, and full of the warm impulse and quick enthusiasm of his people, he has thrown himself into the work of temperance reform with an earnestness that commands a hearing, and with an ardor of appeal and solicitation that is, for the time, almost irresistible. in the fall of , francis murphy found himself in the cell of a prison in the city of portland, maine, to which he had been committed for drunkenness. he had been a liquor-seller, commencing the work as a sober man with a good character, and ending it in ruin to himself and family, and with the curse of the drunkard's appetite upon him. a christian gentleman, captain cyrus sturdevant, had obtained permission of the authorities to visit the jail and talk and pray with the prisoners. this brought him into personal contact with mr. murphy, who was not only deeply humiliated at the disgrace into which his intemperate life had brought him, but almost in despair. he tells the story of this part of his life with a moving eloquence. capt. sturdevant, after some solicitation, induced him to leave his cell one sunday morning and attend religious services with the prisoners. he was in a state of mind to be deeply impressed by these services, and the result was a solemn resolution to walk, with god's help, in a new and better way. while yet a prisoner, he began his work of trying to save men from the curse of drink, and to lead them to enter upon a religious life; and his influence with his fellow-prisoners was very marked and for good. on leaving the jail, he began at once his efforts to rescue others from the slavery from which he had escaped. his first appearance as a lecturer was in the city of portland. the effort was well received by the audience, and at its close he found himself an object of special interest. from this time, he gave himself almost wholly to the cause of temperance. after working for a time in portland, and assisting in the organization of a reform club, he extended his efforts to other parts of the state of maine, and afterwards to new hampshire and the adjoining states, in which, he labored for nearly three years with marked and often extraordinary success. from new england, mr. murphy went, on invitation, to the west, and was very active there, especially in iowa and illinois, in which states he aroused the people, and was instrumental in the organization of large numbers of local societies and reform clubs. in the winter of - , his work in pittsburgh was attended with remarkable results; over sixty thousand signatures were obtained to his pledge, and over five hundred saloons in allegheny and neighboring counties closed their doors for want of patronage. the succeeding spring and summer mr. murphy spent in philadelphia, where the excitement was almost as great as it had been in pittsburgh. but, as in the last-named city, too large a portion of the harvest which had been reaped was left to perish on the ground for lack of the means, or the will, to gather and garner it. the real substantial and enduring work here has been that of the woman's christian temperance union; which not only held its meetings daily during the exciting time of the murphy meetings, but has held them daily ever since, keeping, all the while, hand and heart upon the men who are trying in earnest to reform, and helping, encouraging and protecting them by all the means in their power. mr. murphy continues to work in various parts of the country, attracting large audiences wherever he appears, and leading thousands to sign his pledge. he has done and is still doing good service in the cause to which he is so earnestly devoting himself. chapter xiv. gospel temperance. as we have seen in the chapters on the "crusade," the "woman's christian temperance union," and the "reform clubs," this new temperance movement, which has attained in the last few years such large dimensions, has in it many of the features of a religious revival. on this account, and to distinguish it from all preceding efforts to break down the liquor traffic and save the drunkard, it has been called a gospel temperance movement. its chief reliance with many has been on prayer and faith, as agencies by which the mighty power of god could be so determined as not only to save the drunkard from the curse of his debasing appetite, but to so move and act upon the liquor-seller as to lead him to abandon his accursed traffic. the value of prayer and faith alone. at the commencement of this movement, which took the form of what is known as the "woman's crusade," the power of prayer seemed for awhile to be an almost irresistible force. thousands and tens of thousands of men were, as they felt assured in their hearts, freed in an instant of time from an appetite which had been growing and strengthening for years, until it held complete mastery over them; and this in answer to the prayer of faith. and hundreds of saloon and tavern-keepers abandoned their evil work, because, as was believed, god, in answer to the prayers of pious men and women, had turned upon them the influences of his holy spirit, and constrained them to this abandonment. for awhile this power of prayer was regarded as the force that was to break down the liquor traffic, and rescue the people from the curse of appetite. if prayer were persistent enough, and faith strong enough, god would come to the rescue, overthrow the enemy, and redeem and save the wretched victims he was holding in such cruel bondage. but, as time moved on, and the enemy, whose ranks were at first thrown into confusion, rallied his forces and held himself secure against renewed attack, there came a doubt in the minds of many as to the value of prayer and faith, as the sole agency by which the rule of the demon of intemperance was to be overthrown; and the same doubt came as to the power of prayer and faith alone to work the removal of an appetite for drink, when it was found by sad experience that of the thousands of men who signed the pledge under religious excitement, and made public declaration that, through faith in christ, they had been healed of their infirmity, only a few were able to stand in the hour of temptation; and these stood fast because they rested in no vain security. they knew, from an inner conviction, that appetite had not been destroyed; and that, in some unguarded moment, it would spring upon and endeavor to enslave them again. but, with god's help, they had resolved to hold it in check. humbly they looked to him for strength--meantime watching, as well as praying--to fight and overcome when their hour of trial and darkness came. so they stood ever on guard; and god gave them the strength they asked for, and victory after victory, until their enemy was under their feet; not dead, but held there by the power which is given to every one who will use it against the enemies of his soul. prayer supplemented by organized work. not so much dependence on prayer and faith now as on organized work in the natural plane of means and forces. this came as an orderly sequence, and gave to the cause of gospel temperance a surer foundation to rest upon, and a larger promise of success. there was no turning away from god; no weakness of faith in his divine power and readiness to save; but clearer light as to his ways with man, and as to how he is able to save, to the uttermost, all who come unto him. the instances going to show that men were not cured of the appetite for strong drink in a moment of time by prayer and faith, were too many and too sorrowful not to force this conviction upon the mind of every thoughtful and observant christian man and woman. and, so, even while many sincere and self-devoted workers in this cause still hold to the view that god can, and will, if the faith be strong enough, change a man in an instant of time, and with no co-operation of his own beyond this act of faith, from vileness to purity--from a love of evil to a love of good--the sounder, safer and more scriptural doctrine that, if a man would be saved from the enemies of his soul, he must fight and overcome them in the strength which god gives to all who will ask and receive, is the one now more generally preached to reformed men; and, as a result, the number of those who stand fast in the new life to which they have attained, is steadily increasing. the appetite for drink not taken away in a moment. still, far too widely in this gospel work of saving fallen men from the power of appetite, is the delusive idea held out that if a man will "give his heart to christ," as it is called; that is, pray humbly, sincerely and in faith to have his sins forgiven, and his soul purified from all evil by an application of divine grace; god will, in answer to this prayer alone, and in an instant of time, take away the appetite for drink which has been for years gradually gaining the mastery over him. we have heard a man declare, in the presence of an assemblage of men who had been slaves to drink, and who were seeking for a way of escape, that god had, in answer to his prayers, destroyed in a moment the appetite which had long held him in a close bondage; and that, if they would come to him and give him their hearts, he would work in them the same miracle of spiritual healing. as we listened to his confident speech, we felt how great was the danger in which he himself stood, and how much better it would have been for his hearers if he had kept silent. how many are really saved. facts are solid things, and weigh heavily in the scale of argument. they are not always pleasant to look at; but it is weakness to ignore them. let us take a few facts in connection with this gospel temperance work. the first of these came to our knowledge while we were revolving the contents of this chapter, and before we had commenced writing it. a leading temperance worker, who was an active participant in the murphy movement, and who holds that there is for the confirmed drunkard no hope or safety but in the power of religion, stated to us that during the moody and sankey revival in philadelphia, something over two hundred drunken men were reclaimed and converted; changed in heart, as it was declared, and "_saved_" by the power of god. these were gathered together on a certain evening in one of the churches, and the gentleman to whom we have referred was among those who addressed them. the poor, weak, and in too many instances, friendless and homeless men were talked to, and then committed to god in prayer. they had his grace in their hearts--had been "saved" through prayer and faith--and would he not care for, protect and defend them? alas, for the sequel! of all these two hundred converted and "saved" men, who had, in a moment of time, been changed from servants of sensuality and sin into children of god, their souls made "whiter than snow," not over five or six can to-day be found in the ranks of sober men! in and around pittsburgh, during the religious temperance revival which, under francis murphy, wrought such marvels in that city and neighborhood, over fifty thousand signatures were obtained to the pledge, the signers, in a large number of cases, professing faith in christ, and having an inner assurance, as they believed, that he would keep them, by the power of his grace, from again falling into the sin and misery of intemperance. but, to-day, only a small proportionate number can be found out of this great multitude who are standing fast by their profession. a like result has followed the great gospel work of mr. murphy in philadelphia. of the thirty or forty thousand who signed the pledge and professed to be saved through faith in christ, the number of men who have been rescued from drunkenness can scarcely be counted by hundreds; and of these the large proportion owe their salvation to the natural safeguards and orderly external conditions which were brought to the aid of spiritual resolve and spiritual forces. when the excitement of these great revivals was over, and the contagious enthusiasm had died away, and men fell back into their old ways, amid old surroundings and temptations, each alone in the house of his own real life, then came the trial and the test, and it was found that to depend on grace alone, and the inner change it had effected in answer to prayer, was to rest, too often, in a vain security. the new convert was the same as to the essential evil quality of his life as before his conversion--or turning round to go the other way--and if he stood still where he had turned, and did not, in a new life of practical obedience to divine laws, walk forward in the heavenly road, his conversion would avail him nothing. not that he was left alone by god to stand or fall as he might. no human heart ever felt even the faintest motions of that divine pity, and compassion, and yearning to save his lost and perishing children, which is felt by our heavenly father, who is very love itself. but he cannot save humanity by destroying it, and this destruction would take place the moment he touched man's freedom to choose between good and evil. of his own will, man has turned away from god; and of his own will he must return to him if ever he return at all. the way of return has been opened and made plain, and god is forever calling and entreating his poor, wandering ones to come back, and offering them strength to walk, and weapons to fight, and armor for defense. but he cannot walk for them, nor fight for them, nor defend them unless they put on the armor his mercy supplies. they must, of themselves, using the strength he gives them, walk in the heavenly way; and with the sword of divine truth he places in their hands, do battle with the enemies of their souls. there is no other means of attaining heaven. this strength to walk and fight and overcome, is the divine grace that saves. it is the free gift of our lord and saviour jesus christ; the very power of god unto salvation. the divine grace that saves. it is by the application of this divine grace that men are saved from their sins and from the power of hell. but they can never receive it as passive subjects. they must take it and apply it in and of themselves, and use it as if it were their own; yet never forgetting that it is the gift of god, and never ceasing to acknowledge and thank him for his infinite goodness and mercy in teaching their "hands to war;" in "girding" them "with strength unto the battle," and in giving them a "lamp unto their feet and a light unto their path," so that they may walk in safety. if salvation were of grace alone, as so many teach in this gospel temperance work, what need of "sword," or "armor," or a "lamp unto the feet?" for if, in answer to prayer and faith, a man's evil nature is instantly changed, he is no longer subject to temptation, and cannot, therefore, enter into combat with evil; and if god lift him out of the darkness of his carnal nature into the light of regeneration solely in answer to prayer, what need of any lamp unto his feet or light unto his path? he is no longer a pilgrim and a wayfarer, journeying heavenward through an enemy's land. we press this subject on the reader's attention, because so much of success or failure in this great gospel temperance work depends on a right understanding of spiritual laws and a true comprehension of the means of salvation. holding, as we do, that, for the thousands and hundreds of thousands of unhappy and wretched men and women in our land who have become the almost helpless slaves of an appetite which is rarely, if ever, wholly destroyed, no true succor lies in anything but divine grace and help, we feel that a great responsibility rests with all who, in the providence of god, have been drawn into this work. referring to the loose, and we cannot help saying hurtful teachings of too many temperance revivalists, rev. charles i. warren, writing in the new york _christian advocate_, says: "religious conversion, all are agreed, is the first necessity for all men, and especially for inebriates, as the surest hope of a real and permanent reformation of life. and intemperate men, especially those who become demented rather than demonized, it is well known, are always easily moved by religious influences, even when so drunk that they would wisely be deemed incompetent to execute a will for the disposal of earthly property, and incapable of giving testimony in a court of law. "yet, this idea of a spiritual renovation of the heart, while the head is too intoxicated to apprehend a moral obligation, is almost beyond rational belief. it is difficult to conceive that any man, in such a state of voluntarily-induced imbecility, too drunk to hold intelligent converse with men, can be competent to transact business with god, to receive and answer those calls from the holy spirit that decide the eternal destinies of the soul." and he adds: "we judge instinctively that all men, intemperate or sober, must work out their own salvation with fear, while god works in them to will and to do." this is the key-note to the whole subject of spiritual regeneration. it is active co-operation; work, conflict, victory; and this down on the sphere of common life, and in the midst of temptation--not out of the world, but "in the world;" not something done in and for a man while he waits in prayer on god, but after he has fought his battle with some enemy of his soul, and overcome in the strength which god has given him in answer to prayer. only they who have fought and conquered can possess the land and dwell there in safety. an unsound and dangerous doctrine. in a meeting at which we were present, and where from one to two hundred reformed men were gathered for religious worship, and for help and counsel, the hymn commencing "prone to wander, lord i feel it," was sung. at its close, a man rose from his seat and entered his protest against the singing of that hymn any more. it is not true, he said, that the man whom god has converted feels any proneness to wander. he had had the grace of god in his soul for--we don't remember how many years--and he could testify that the desire to wander from god's commandments had been wholly removed. he, therefore, repeated his protest against the use of a hymn containing a sentiment so dishonorable to a truly saved christian. as he sat down, a very young man arose and added the weight of his testimony to the assertion of his older christian brother. he also, in answer to prayer, as he confidently asserted, had attained unto that higher life which is not only free from sin, but from even the desire to wander from the ways of holiness. as we looked into and read the faces of these two men, we sighed for what we saw therein, and pitied them for the peril in which they stood. but our greater concern was for the poor, weak, almost helpless ones we saw around us, and for the effect of this delusive error which had been so needlessly thrown into their minds. if any of them should rest in the belief that they, too, had, by the grace of god, been wholly set free from the bondage of sin; that the appetite for drink and the lust of all evil had been extinguished, and their proneness to wander from god taken away in simple answer to prayer, then would their danger, we felt, be so imminent as to leave but little room for hope of their standing in the new life. a stumbling-block had been laid in their way over which they must almost surely fall. we are writing for the help and safety of men for whom there is but little or no hope of rescue from the depths of evil and sensuality into which they have fallen, except in a truly religious life; not a life of mere faith, and sentiment and fancied holiness, but of earnest conflict and daily right living. a life in which not only intemperance is to be shunned, as a sin against god, but every impure and evil desire of the heart, and every thought and purpose of wrong to the neighbor. and, believing as we do, that god's grace and power can only be given to those who will take it as active subjects--not mere passive recipients--and by using it as if it were their own, avail themselves of its purifying and regenerating influence, we can do no less than question and reject any doctrine that even seems to give a different impression, as delusive and exceedingly dangerous. to make gospel temperance the true power of god unto the salvation of intemperate men, we must have in it, and with it, the gospel of conflict with evil, the gospel of daily right living, the gospel of love to the neighbor and the gospel of common sense. and these are coming more and more into the work, which is widening and increasing, and every year adding thousands upon thousands to the number of those who are saved from the curse of drink. chapter xv. temperance coffee-houses and friendly inns. the cure of a drunkard is always attended with peculiar difficulties. the cost is often great. sometimes cure is found to be impossible. a hundred may be protected from the ravages of intemperance at the cost of saving one who has fallen a victim to the terrible malady. "an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure." while so much is being done to reform and save the drunkard, the work of prevention has not been forgotten. great good has been accomplished in this direction through the spread of total-abstinence principles. in this the various temperance organizations have done much, and especially with the rising generation. but, so long as men are licensed by the state to sell intoxicating drinks, the net of the tempter is spread on every hand, and thousands of the weak and unwary are yearly drawn therein and betrayed to their ruin. in our great cities large number of men who have to do business at points remote from their dwellings, are exposed to special temptations. the down-town lunch-room and dining-room have, in most cases, their drinking bars; or, if no bar is visible, the bill of fare offers in too many cases, any kind of intoxicating beverage that may be desired. thousands of men are, in consequence, yearly led away from sobriety. seeing this, efforts have been made during the past few years to establish, cheap temperance coffee-houses, where workingmen and others may get a good noonday lunch, or a morning and evening meal at a trifling cost. in all cases, these have been found of great service to the cause of temperance. a pint mug of excellent coffee, with sugar and milk, and a large, sweet roll, costing five cents, are found to make a far better and healthier lunch than the highly-seasoned hashes and scraps called "free lunches," which must be washed down by a, five or ten-cent glass of liquor. the experiment in philadelphia. the success which has attended the establishment of cheap temperance coffee-houses in this city (philadelphia), is quite remarkable. in the fall of , joshua l. baily, one of our active, clear-headed merchants, who had been for many years an earnest temperance man, determined to give the cheap coffee-house experiment a fair trial, cost what it might; for he saw that if it could be made successful, it would be a powerful agency in the work of prevention. he began in a modest way, taking a small store at the corner of market and fifteenth streets, and fitting it up in a neat and attractive manner. with a few pounds of coffee, and a few dozens of rolls, the place was opened, the single attendant, a woman, acting the double part of cook and waiter. for five cents a pint mug of the best java coffee, with milk and sugar, and a good-sized roll, were furnished. from the very start "the workingmen's central coffee-house," as mr. baily called it, was successful. in the immediate neighborhood five hundred workmen were employed on the city buildings, and opposite stood the pennsylvania railroad freight depot, to which came daily about the same number of men--draymen, teamsters and others. it took but a few days to so crowd the new coffee-room at the usual lunching time as to require an additional assistant. from day to day the business went on increasing, until more help and larger accommodations became necessary. soon a complete kitchen had to be built in the basement, and the adjoining store added, in order to meet the steadily-enlarging demands upon the new establishment. the fame of the good coffee, which was better than most people found at home, spread far and near, and larger and larger numbers of clerks, workingmen and others, turned their steps daily, at lunch time, towards the central coffee-house. it was so much better than the poor stuff served in most of the eating-houses; and, with the sweet roll added, so much better than the free lunch and glass of beer or whisky with which too many had been accustomed to regale themselves. signal success. steadily swelled the tide of custom. within a year a third store, adjoining, was added. but the enlarged premises soon proved inadequate to the accommodation of the still-increasing crowd. at this writing "the central" is from six to seven times larger than when first opened; and there lunch in its rooms, daily, nearly two thousand persons. one room has been fitted up for ladies exclusively, in which from forty to fifty can lunch at one time. but mr. baily looked beyond the cheap coffee and rolls by which he was able to keep so many away from bar-rooms and restaurants where liquor was sold. he believed in other influences and safeguards. and to this end, and at his own cost, he fitted up the various rooms over the seven stores extending along market street from fifteenth to broad, in which the coffee-rooms are located, and set them apart for various uses. here is a lecture-hall, capable of seating four hundred persons; a free reading-room, well warmed and lighted and supplied with the best daily newspapers, american and english illustrated publications, and the standard periodicals; besides four other rooms that will hold from seventy to one hundred persons, which are used for various meeting purposes, all in connection with temperance. five regular services are held in the lecture-room every week, viz.: "bible reading," on sunday afternoon; "temperance experience meeting," on monday evening; "prayer and praise meeting," tuesday evening; "gospel temperance meeting," on thursday evening; and "youths' temperance meeting," friday evening. these meetings are often crowded, and, like the coffee-rooms below, attract audiences made up from every rank in society. at many of these meetings, mr. baily presides in person. encouraged by the success of this first effort, mr. baily opened another cheap coffee-house in the very centre of the wholesale trade of the city, where thousands of clerks, workingmen and merchants were in the habit of resorting for lunch or dinner to the restaurants and bar-rooms in the neighborhood. this, located at no. south fourth street, he called "the model coffee-house." crowded from the first. from the first it was crowded even to an uncomfortable extent. the demands of its patrons soon rendered larger quarters a necessity. a new building was erected specially adapted to the purpose, many novel features being introduced which a twelve-month's experience had suggested. the _new_ "model" opened june st, . many persons thought it was too large, and that it would never be filled. but it was thronged on the day of opening, and on every day since the demands upon it have been fully up to its capacity. the number lunching here daily is about three thousand. in the establishment of the coffee-houses there were, of course, many mistakes, the results of inexperience. many things had to be unlearned as well as many learned. but mistakes were promptly corrected. with the growth of the work, ability to provide for it seemed to keep pace, and modifications in the management were adopted as necessity dictated. not much was anticipated at the commencement beyond furnishing a mug of coffee and a roll of bread, but it soon became apparent that something more than this was needed. to meet this necessity, the coffee-house bill of fare was greatly extended, and now quite a variety of nutritious and substantial dishes are provided, and each at the uniform price of _five cents_. the main feature--the coffee--is, however, preserved. a full pint mug of the best java (equal to two ordinary cups) with pure, rich milk and white sugar, and two ounces of either wheat or brown bread, all for _five cents_, is the every-day lunch of many a man who, but for this provision, would be found in the dram shop. no dish, as we have said, costs over five cents, which is the standard price the year round, whatever the fluctuations of markets may be. in addition to the bread and coffee already mentioned for five cents, the bill of fare comprises puddings of rice, tapioca and corn starch, baked apples dressed with sugar and milk, all sorts of pies (half a pie being given for a portion), mushes of cracked wheat, corn and oatmeal, dumplings, eggs, potatoes, beans, ham, corned beef, liver, "scrapple," sausage, custards, soups, pickles and, in season, fresh fruits. of bread, there are boston and philadelphia brown, wheat, philadelphia and vienna rolls. a pint glass of milk with a roll, costs five cents; butter three cents, and extra rolls one cent each; so that for ten or fifteen cents a man gets a full luncheon, as every portion of food is equal to a large saucer heaped. these establishments require, of course, the most methodical, orderly and careful management, with capable matrons at the head of each, and a steward or superintendent to make intelligent purchases. at the "model coffee-house," there are nearly fifty employees, and, excepting three or four men, they are girls and women. the upper rooms of the building are for the lodgings, offices, laundry and drawing-room, for the use of the employees. the girls, who are mostly of country birth and training, are thus furnished with a good and safe home, where they have books and music, large and well-furnished chambers, a good table--they dine at one family table in their own dining-room--and have their washing and ironing done in the house. they are required to be neat and tidy in appearance, respectable and discreet in character and manner. the good done. the good that is done through an instrumentality like this can never be fully known. of those who are drawn into paths of safety, we do not so often hear as of those who are led astray. but enough is already known of the good done by these two coffee-houses to give large encouragement for their establishment in other localities and other cities. hundreds of young men who had fallen into the dangerous habit of taking a glass of beer every day with their lunch, now take a fragrant cup of coffee instead, and find themselves better for the change; hundreds more who had begun to feel the insidious encroachments of appetite, have been able to get out of the way of temptation. the question that naturally arises with all who look practically at this matter is, whether there is any profit in the business of keeping a cheap temperance coffee-house? can a pint of coffee, with sugar, milk and a two-ounce roll of bread, be furnished for five cents and leave any margin for profit? mr. baily's experiment has proved that it can. friendly inns. but not alone in philadelphia is the cheap coffee-house to be found. there are hundreds of them in our various towns and cities, though none on so large a scale as here; and they are rapidly multiplying and doing good. "the friendly inn," and "the holly-tree inn," are places somewhat similar in character, but partaking more of the nature of an "inn" than a simple eating-house. these have, usually, a pleasant parlor, with light, and warmth, and books, into which, any one may come and pass the evening, instead of drifting into a saloon, and where cheap meals and lodgings can be had if needed. in cleveland, ohio, christian temperance work, which is very large and effective, is carried on almost entirely in connection with "friendly inns," of which there are five. a chapel, reading-room, sleeping apartments and a cheap restaurant are maintained in connection with each of these inns. the women engaged in the cause of gospel temperance in that city regard them as most valuable auxiliaries to the spiritual work in which they are engaged. in a large number of cases, they have been the direct means of bringing men in whom few traces of goodness could at first be discerned in such contact with religious influences as to win them over to a better life. chapter xvi. temperance literature. the greatest and most effective agency in any work of enlightenment and reform is the press. by it the advanced thinker and christian philanthropist is able to speak to the whole people, and to instruct, persuade and influence them. he can address the reason and conscience of thousands, and even of hundreds of thousands of people to whom he could never find access in any other way, and so turn their minds to the right consideration of questions of social interest in regard to which they had been, from old prejudices or habits of thinking, in doubt or grievous error. no cause has been more largely indebted to the press than that of temperance reform. from the very beginning of agitation on the subject of this reform, the press has been used with great efficiency; and to-day, the literature of temperance is a force of such magnitude and power, that it is moving whole nations, and compelling parliaments, chambers of deputies and houses of congress to consider the claims of a question which, if presented fifty years ago, would have been treated, in these grave assemblages, with levity or contempt. for many years after the reform movement began in this country, the press was used with marked effect. but as most of the books, pamphlets and tracts which were issued came through individual enterprise, the editions were often small and the prices high; and as the sale of such publications was limited, and the profit, if any, light, the efforts to create a broad and comprehensive temperance literature met with but feeble encouragement. but in , a convention was called to meet at saratoga to consider the subject of a national organization so comprehensive and practical that all the friends of temperance in religious denominations and temperance organizations could unite therein for common work. out of this convention grew the national temperance society and publication house, which began, at once, the creation of a temperance literature worthy of the great cause it represented. the president of this society is hon. william e. dodge, of new york. the vice-presidents are ninety-two in number, and include some of the most distinguished men in the country; clergymen, jurists, statesmen, and private citizens eminent for their public spirit and philanthropy. it has now been in existence some twelve years. let us see what it has done in that time for temperance literature and the direction and growth of a public sentiment adverse to the liquor traffic. we let the efficient corresponding secretary and publishing agent, j.n. stearns, speak for the association he so ably represents. its rooms are at no. reade street, new york. referring to the initial work of the society, "it was resolved," says mr. stearns, "that the publishing agent should keep 'all the temperance literature of the day.' this was found to consist of less than a dozen different publications in print, and these of no special value. all the plates of valuable works before in existence were either shipped across the water or melted up and destroyed. the society commenced at once to create a literature of its own, but found it was not the work of a moment. the first publication outside of its monthly paper, was a four-page tract by rev. t.l. cuyler, d.d., in february, , entitled 'a shot at the decanter,' of which about two hundred thousand copies have been published." first book published. "the first book was published in may of the same year, entitled, 'scripture testimony against intoxicating wine.' prizes were offered for the best tracts and books, and the best talent in the land sought and solicited to aid in giving light upon every phase of the question. the result has been that an immense mass of manuscripts have been received, examined, assorted, some approved and many rejected, and the list of publications has gone on steadily increasing, until in the eleven years it amounts to four hundred and fifty varieties upon every branch, of the temperance question. there were over twenty separate so-called secret temperance societies, each with a different ritual and constitution, with subordinate organizations scattered all over the land. these contained probably about one million of members. then there were churches, open societies, state temperance unions, etc., each operating independently and with no common bond of union. some were for moral suasion alone, others for political action, while others were for both united. the great need for some national organization which should be a common centre and ground of union, a medium of communication between all, and to aid, strengthen and benefit every existing organization and denomination, was felt all over the land. "this society was organized to supply such a need. it is both a society and a publication house. the need and demand came from every quarter for facts, statistics, arguments and appeals upon every phase of the question, in neat, cheap and compact form, which, could be sent everywhere and used by everybody. public opinion had settled down against us, and light was needed to arouse it to right action. the pulpit and the platform were to be supplemented by the press, which, henceforth, was to be used in this great and rapidly strengthening cause, as in every other, to reach the individuals and homes of every portion of the land." after twelve years. "twelve years have passed--years of anxious preparation and toil, of seed-planting and sowing, and they have been improved. this society now publishes books and tracts upon the moral, economical, physiological, political, financial, religious, medical and social phases of the reform. we have the writings of over two hundred different persons in almost every walk and station in life. we already have a literature of no mean character. its influence is not only felt in every state and territory in the land, but in every country on the globe. * * * * * "among the early publications of the society were those printed upon 'the adulteration of liquors,' 'the physiological action of alcohol,' 'alcohol: its nature and effects,' 'alcohol: its place and power,' 'is alcohol food?' text-book of temperance,' etc., followed later by 'bacchus dethroned,' 'the medical use of alcohol,' 'is alcohol a necessary of life?' 'our wasted resources,' 'on alcohol,' 'prohibition does prohibit,' 'fruits of the liquor traffic,' 'the throne of iniquity,' 'suppression of the liquor traffic,' 'alcohol as a food and medicine,' etc. "the truths of these books and pamphlets, which have been reproduced in a thousand ways in sermons, addresses, newspapers, etc., have already permeated the community to such an extent as to bear much fruit." in the creation of a literature for children, the society early issued _the youths' temperance banner_, a paper for sunday-schools. this has attained a circulation of nearly one hundred and fifty thousand copies monthly. it has also created a sunday-school temperance library, which numbers already as many as seventy bound, volumes; editions of which reaching in the aggregate to one hundred and eighty-three thousand five hundred and seventy-six volumes have already been sold. the society also publishes a monthly paper called the _national temperance advocate_, which has a wide circulation. remarkable growth of temperance literature. the number of books, pamphlets and tracts which have been issued by the national temperance society during the twelve years of its existence, is four hundred and sixty, some of them large and important volumes. to this extraordinary production and growth of temperance literature in the past twelve years are the people indebted for that advanced public sentiment which is to-day gathering such force and will. and here, let us say, in behalf of a society which has done such grand and noble work, that from the very outset it has had to struggle with pecuniary difficulties. referring to the difficulties and embarrassments with which the society has had to contend from the beginning, the secretary says: "the early financial struggles of the society are known only to a very few persons. it was deemed best by the majority of the board not to let the public know our poverty. looking back over the eleven years of severe struggles, pecuniary embarrassments, unexpected difficulties, anxious days, toiling, wearisome nights, with hopes of relief dashed at almost every turn, surrounded by the indifference of friends, and with the violent opposition of enemies, we can only wonder that the society has breasted the storm and is saved from a complete and total wreck. * * * this society never was endowed, never had a working capital, never has been the recipient of contributions from churches or of systematic donations from individuals. it never has had a day of relief from financial embarrassment since its organization; and yet there never has been a day but that the sum of ten thousand dollars would have lifted it out of its embarrassments and started it with a buoyant heart on towards the accomplishment of its mission." and he adds: "notwithstanding all these constant and ever-pressing financial embarrassments, the society has never faltered for one moment, but has gone steadily on doing its appointed work, exploring new fields, and developing both old and new truths and documents and principles, and it stands to-day the strongest and most solid and substantial bulwark against intemperance in the land." a most important agency. as the most important of all the agencies now used for the suppression of the liquor traffic, and as the efficient ally of all let us rally to the support of our great publication house and see that it has ampler means for the work in which it is engaged. there are hundreds of thousands of men and women in our land who are happy and prosperous to-day because of what this society has done in the last twelve years to create a sentiment adverse to the traffic and to the drinking usages of society. its work is so silent and unobtrusive in comparison, with that of many other efficient, but more limited instrumentalities, that we are apt to lose sight of its claims, and to fail in giving an adequate support to the very power, which is, in a large measure, the source of power to all the rest. if we would war successfully with our strong and defiant enemy, we must look to it that the literature of temperance does not languish. we are not making it half as efficient as it might be. here we have a thoroughly organized publication house, with capable and active agents, which, if the means were placed at its disposal, could flood the country with books, pamphlets and tracts by millions every year; and we leave it to struggle with embarrassments, and to halting and crippled work. this is not well. our literature is our right arm in this great conflict, and only in the degree that we strengthen this arm will we be successful in our pursuit of victory. [illustration: financial view of the license system. "whatever revenue license pays the state is fully counterbalanced by the increased cost of jails, poorhouses and police, for which the patient public pays immense taxation. the moral burdens from the infamous traffic are all additional to the financial."] chapter xvii. license a failure and a disgrace. for over two hundred years in this country, and for a much longer period of time in great britain and some of the countries of continental europe, attempts have been made to protect the people against the evils of intemperance by restrictive liquor laws. but as these laws were permissive and not prohibitory, the evil was not restrained. nay, its larger growth came as the natural consequence of such laws, for they not only gave to a few men in every community the right to live and grow rich by doing all in their power to increase the evil, but threw around them the protection of the state; so leaving the people powerless in their hands. history of license in massachusetts. the history of all restrictive laws which have stopped short of absolute prohibition, is a history of the saddest of failures, and shows that to license an evil is to increase its power. judge robert c. pitman, in his "alcohol and the state," an exceedingly valuable discussion of the "problem of law as applied to the liquor traffic," gives an instructive history of the license laws of massachusetts from early colonial times down to the year . the experience of massachusetts is that of every other community, state or nation, which has sought to repress drunkenness and its attendant evils by the enactment of license laws; and we ask the reader's earnest and candid consideration of the facts we shall here present. as early as , an effort was made in the old colony to lessen intemperance by the passage of a restrictive law, declaring "that none be suffered to retail wine, strong water or beer, either within doors or without, except in inns or victualing-houses allowed." that this law did not lessen the evil of drunkenness is plain from the fact that, in , in the preamble to a new liquor law it was declared by the massachusetts colony that, "forasmuch as drunkenness is a vice to be abhorred of all nations, especially of those who hold out and profess the gospel of christ, and seeing _any strict law will not prevail unless the cause be taken away_, it is, therefore, ordered by this court,"--what? entire prohibition of the sale of intoxicating drinks? no. only, "that no merchant, cooper or any other person whatever, shall, after the first day of the first month, sell any wine under one-quarter of a cask, neither by quart, gallon or any other measure, _but only such taverners as are licensed to sell by the gallon_." and in order still further to protect and encourage the publican in his tested and exclusive right, it was further enacted that, "any _taverners_ or other persons who shall inform against any transgressor, shall have one-half of the fines for his _encouragement_." this law contained a section which forbids any person licensed "to sell strong waters, or any private housekeeper to permit any person to sit drinking or tippling strong waters, wine or strong beer in their houses." the evil still increasing. still the evil of drunkenness went on increasing under the license system, until in , we find in a preamble to certain more stringent laws for the regulation of the traffic, this sad confession: "and forasmuch as the ancient, true and principal use of inns, taverns, ale-houses, victualing-houses and other houses for common entertainment is for receipt, relief and lodging of travelers and strangers, and the refreshment of persons on lawful business. * * * and not for entertainment and harboring of lewd or idle people to spend or consume their time or money there; therefore, _to prevent the mischief and great disorders happening daily by abuse of such houses_, it is further enacted," etc.--not prohibition of the sale; but further restrictions and penalties. how far these restrictions and penalties were effective, appears from the statue of , in the preamble of which is a complaint that divers persons who had obtained license to sell liquor to be taken away and not drunk in their houses, did, notwithstanding, "give entertainment to persons to sit drinking and tippling there," while others who "_have no license at all_ are yet so hardy as to run upon the law," to the "great increase of drunkenness and other debaucheries." these colonial fathers, in their efforts to lessen the evil of drinking by restrictive license, for which a fee to the state was required, opened a door for the unlicensed dram-shop, which was then, as it is now, one of the worst forms of the liquor traffic, because it is in the hands of more unscrupulous persons, too many of whom are of the lowest and vilest class, and whose tippling-houses are dens of crime and infamy as well as drunkenness. how this was in the colony of massachusetts under license in is seen above, and further appears in this recital taken from the statute to further limit the spread of drunkenness, wherein it refers to "divers _ill-disposed and indigent persons, the pains and penalties in the laws already made not regarding,_ who are so hardy _as to presume to sell and retail_ strong beer, ale, cider, sherry wine, rum or other strong liquors or mixed drinks, and _to keep common tippling-houses_, thereby harboring and entertaining apprentices, indians, negroes and other idle and dissolute persons, tending to the ruin and impoverishment of families, and all impieties and debaucheries, and _if detected are unable to pay their fine_." all such were sentenced to the whipping-post. three years later, the curse of the licensed traffic had so augmented that another effort was made for its regulation by the enactment of a new and more comprehensive law entitled, "an act for the inspecting and _suppressing of disorders_ in licensed houses." worse and worse. how successful the good people of massachusetts were in holding in check and regulating the evil which they had clothed with power by license, appears in the preamble to a new act passed in , "for reclaiming the over great number of licensed houses, many of which are chiefly used for revelling and tippling, and become _nurseries of intemperance and debauchery_, indulged by the masters and keepers of the same for the sake of gain." so it went on, from bad to worse, under the colonial government, until , when the state constitution was adopted. to what a frightful magnitude the evil of drunkenness, provided for and fostered by license, had grown, appears from an entry in the diary of john adams, under date of february th, , in which he says that few things were "so fruitful of destructive evils" as "licensed houses." they had become, he declares, "the eternal haunts of loose, disorderly people of the town, which renders them offensive and unfit for the entertainment of any traveler of the least delicacy." * * * "young people are tempted to waste their time and money, and to acquire habits of intemperance and idleness, that we often see reduce many to beggary and vice, and lead some of them, at least, to prison and the gallows." in entering upon her career as a state, massachusetts continued the license system, laying upon it many prudent restrictions, all of which were of no avail, for the testimony is complete as to the steady increase of drunkenness, crime and debauchery. testimony of john adams. writing to mr. rush, in , john adams says: "fifty-three years ago i was fired with a zeal, amounting to enthusiasm, against ardent spirits, the multiplication of taverns, retailers, dram-shops and tippling-houses. grieved to the heart to see the number of idlers, thieves, sots and consumptive patients made for the physicians in these infamous seminaries, i applied to the court of sessions, procured a committee of inspection and inquiry, reduced the number of licensed houses, etc., _but i only acquired the reputation of a hypocrite and an ambitious demagogue by it_. the number of licensed houses was soon reinstated; drams, grog and sotting were not diminished, _and remain to this day as deplorable as ever_." opening a wider door. in , so demoralized had the sentiment of the people become, and so strong the liquor interest of the state, that the saving provision in the license laws, which limited the sale of liquor to inns and taverns, was repealed, and licenses were granted to common victualers, "who shall not be required to furnish accommodations" for travelers; and also to confectioners on the same terms as to inn-keepers; that is, to sell and to be drunk on the premises. this change in the license laws of massachusetts was declared, by judge aldrich, in , to be "one of the most fruitful sources of crime and vice that ever existed in this commonwealth." up to as late as , attempts were continued to patch up and amend the license laws of the state; after that they were left, for a time, to do their evil work, all efforts to make them anything but promoters of drunkenness, crime and poverty being regarded as fruitless. "miserable in principle," says judge pitman, "license laws were found no less inefficient in practice." meantime, the battle against the liquor traffic had been going on in various parts of the state. in , a law was secured by which the office of county commissioner (the licensing authority) was made an elective office; heretofore it had been held by appointment. this gave the people of each county a local control over the liquor question, and in the very first year the counties of plymouth and bristol elected boards committed to the policy of no license. other counties followed this good example; and to bar all questions of the right to refuse every license by a county, the power was expressly conferred by a law passed in . a change for the better. the good results were immediately apparent in all places where license to sell intoxicating drinks was refused. after a thorough investigation of the matter, the judiciary committee of the legislature reported the evidence to be "perfectly incontrovertable, that the good order and the physical and moral welfare of the community had been promoted by refusing to license the sale of ardent spirits; and that although the laws have been and are violated to some extent in different places, the practice soon becomes disreputable and hides itself from the public eye by shrinking into obscure and dark places; that noisy and tumultuous assemblies in the streets and public quarrels cease where license is refused; _and that pauperism has very rapidly diminished from the same cause_." an attempt to prohibit entirely the retail liquor traffic was made in , by the passage of what was known as the "fifteen-gallon law," which forbade the sale of spirituous liquors in a less quantity than fifteen gallons, which had to be "carried away all at one time;" except by apothecaries and practicing physicians, who might sell for use in the arts and for medicinal purposes. but this law remained in operation only a year and a half; when, in concession to the liquor interest of the state, which had been strong enough to precipitate a political revolution and get its own men in the legislature, it was repealed. "but the state," says judge pitman, "while the memory of license was fresh, was not to fall again under its sway. the struggle for local prohibition was at once renewed, and in a few years license had ceased throughout the commonwealth. the statement may surprise many; but i have the authority of the city clerk of boston for saying, that 'no licenses for the sale of intoxicating liquors were granted in boston between and .' * * * and so the chapter of license was apparently closed. it had not only had its 'day,' but its centuries in court; and the well-nigh unanimous verdict was: '_disgrace_--_failure_'" so strong was this conviction in the minds of the people of massachusetts, that governor bullock, in , while acting as chairman of the judiciary committee of the house, gave it expression in these notable words: "it may be taken as the solemnly declared, judgment of the people of the commonwealth, that the principle of licensing the traffic in intoxicating drinks as a beverage, _and thus giving legal sanction to that which is regarded in itself as an evil, is no longer admissible in morals or in legislation_" the liquor power in the ascendant again. but in , adverse influences prevailed, and after all her sad and disgraceful experience, massachusetts abandoned her prohibition of the traffic and went back to license again; but the evil consequences began to show themselves so quickly that the law was repealed in less than a year. governor claflin, in his message to the legislature in january, , thus speaks of the effect of the new license law: "the increase of drunkenness and crime during the last six months, as compared with the same period of , is very marked and decisive as to the operation of the law. _the state prisons, jails and houses of correction are being rapidly filled_, and will soon require enlarged accommodation if the commitments continue to increase as they have since the present law went in force." while the chaplain of the state prison in his annual report for , says: "the prison never was so full as at the present time. if the rapidly increasing tide of intemperance, so greatly swollen by the present wretched license law, is suffered to rush on unchecked, there will be a fearful increase of crime, and the state must soon extend the limits of the prison, or create another." this law was repealed, as we have seen. a year of its bitter fruit was enough for the people. submitting again to the yoke. but, strange to say, after all she has suffered from license laws, the old bay state has again submitted to the yoke, and is once more in the hands of the great liquor interest. in , she drifted out from the safe harbor of prohibition, and we find her, to-day, on the stormy and storm-wrecked sea of license. a miserable attempt has been made by the friends of this law to show that its action has been salutory in boston, the headquarters of the liquor power, in the diminution of dram-shops and arrests for drunkenness. water may run up hill in boston; but it obeys the law of gravitation in other places. we leave the reader to draw his own conclusions from this extract from the report of the license commissioners of that city, made february st, : "it must be admitted that the business of liquor-selling in this city is, to a very large extent, in the hands of _irresponsible men and women_, whose idea of a license law ends with the simple matter of paying a certain sum, the amount making but little difference to them, _provided they are left to do as they please after payment_. besides the saloons and bar-rooms, which are open publicly, the traffic in small grocery stores, in cellars and in dwelling-houses, in some parts of the city, _is almost astounding. the sunday trade is enormous, and it seems as if there were not hours enough in the whole round of twenty-four, or days enough in the entire week to satisfy the dealers_." the experience of massachusetts is, as we have already said, the experience of every community, state or nation in which an effort has been made to abridge the evils of intemperance by licensing the dram-shop. and to whom and to what class of citizens does the state accord, under license, the privilege of making gain out of the people's loss? for whom is every interest in the nation taxed and every industry hurt? for whom are the houses of the poor made poorer; and the supply of bread diminished? for whom are a crime-assaulted and pauper-ridden people driven to build jails and poor-houses, and insane asylums, and maintain courts and juries and a vast army of police, at the cost of millions of dollars every year? for great benefactors to whom the nation owes a debt of gratitude? for men who are engaged in great industrial or commercial enterprises? promoters of education? leaders in the great march of civilization? even if this were so, better not to have accepted the service than pay for it at so fearful a cost. who and what are these men?--this great privileged class? let us see. in boston, we have the testimony of the license commissioners that liquor-selling is in the hands of "irresponsible men and women," who pay a license for the privilege of doing "as they please after payment." and for the maintenance of these "irresponsible" men and women in their right to corrupt and degrade the people, a forced tax is laid on every bit of property and every interest in the great city of boston! what was the tax on tea to this? and yet, boston patiently submits! is it better in new york, philadelphia, baltimore, cincinnati, chicago or any other of our large cities? not a whit! in some it is worse, even, than in the capital of the old bay state. in one of these last-mentioned cities, where, under the license system so dear to politicians, and for which they are chiefly responsible, between seven and eight thousand places in which liquor is sold at retail exist, an effort was made in to ascertain the character and antecedents of every person engaged in dram-selling. we are not able to say how carefully or thoroughly the investigation was pursued, but it was in the hands of those who meant that it should be complete and accurate. one fact elicited was, that the proportion of native-born citizens to the whole number engaged in the business was less than one-sixth. another was, that over six thousand of these dram-sellers belonged to the criminal class, and had suffered imprisonment, some for extended terms in the state prison. and another was, that nearly four thousand of the drinking-places which had been established under the fostering care of state license laws were houses of ill-fame as well! comment is unnecessary. we cannot lessen the evil nor abate the curse of drunkenness so long as we license a traffic, which, from its essential hostility to all the best interests of society, naturally falls into the hands of our worst citizens, who persistently violate every salutory and restrictive feature in the laws which give their trade a recognized existence. what then? is there any remedy short of prohibition? we believe not. chapter xviii. prohibition. it has taken nearly half a century to convince the people that only in total abstinence lies any hope of cure for the drunkard. when this doctrine was first announced, its advocates met with opposition, ridicule and even insult. now it has almost universal acceptance. the effort to hold an inebriate's appetite in check by any restriction that included license, has, in all cases, proved so signal a failure, that the "letting down," or "tapering off" process has been wholly abandoned in inebriate asylums. there is no hope, as we have said, but in complete abstinence. no remedy but prohibition. is there any other means of cure for national drunkenness? the remedy of license has been found as valueless for the whole people as restriction for the individual. appetite, when once depraved, becomes, in the individual, lawless, exacting and unscrupulous; not hesitating to trample on duty, justice, humanity and every public and private virtue. it will keep no faith; it will hold to no pledge, however solemnly taken. it must be wholly denied or it will be wholly master. as in the individual, so in the nation, state or community. appetite loses nothing by aggregation; nor are the laws of its action changed. if not denied by prohibition in the state, as by total abstinence in the individual, it will continue to entail upon the people loss and ruin and unutterable woes. license, restrictive permission, tax, all will be vain in the future as they have been in the past. there is no hope, no help, no refuge in anything but _prohibition_! and here we art met by two questions, fairly and honestly asked. first. is prohibition right in the abstract as a legislative measure? second. can prohibitory laws be enforced, and will they cure the evil of drunkenness? first, as to the question of legislative action. can the state forbid the sale of intoxicating drinks as a beverage without violating the natural right of certain citizens, engaged in the manufacture and sale of these articles, to supply them to customers who wish to purchase? we answer, that no man has a natural right to do wrong; that is, to engage in any pursuit by which he makes gain out of loss and injury to his neighbor. the essential principle of government is the well-being of the people. it guarantees to the weak, security against the strong; it punishes evil doers, and seeks to protect its citizens from the evil effects of that unscrupulous selfishness in the individual which would trample on the rights of all the rest in its pursuit of money or power. now, if it can be shown that the liquor traffic is a good thing; that it benefits the people; makes them more prosperous and happy; improves their health; promotes education and encourages virtue, then its right to exist in the community has been established. or, even if the good claimed for it be only negative instead, of positive, its right must still be unquestioned. but what if it works evil and only evil in the state? what if it blights and curses every neighborhood, and town, and city, and nation in which it exists; laying heavy taxes upon the people that it may live and flourish, crippling all industries; corrupting the morals of the people; enticing the young from virtue; filling jails, and poor-houses, and asylums with a great army of criminals, paupers and insane men and women, yearly extinguishing the light in thousands of happy homes? what then? does this fruit of the liquor traffic establish its right to existence and to the protection of law? let the reader answer the question for himself. that it entails all of these evils, and many more, upon the community, cannot and will not be denied. that it does any good, cannot be shown. fairly, then, it has no right to existence in any government established for the good of the people; and in suppressing it, no wrong can be done. prohibition not unconstitutional. how the question of prohibition is regarded by the highest legal authority in the united states will appear from the following opinions officially given by four of the justices of our supreme court. they are expressed in no doubtful or hesitating form of speech: chief justice taney said: "if any state deems the retail and internal traffic in ardent spirits injurious to its citizens, and calculated to produce idleness, vice or debauchery, i see nothing in the constitution of the united states to prevent it from regulating or restraining the traffic, or from prohibiting it altogether, if it thinks proper."--[ howard, .] hon. justice mclean said: "a license to sell is a matter of police and revenue within the power of the state."--[ ibid., .] "if the foreign article be injurious to the health and morals of the community, a state may prohibit the sale of it." hon. justice catron said: "if the state has the power of restraint by license to any extent, she may go to the length of prohibiting sales altogether."--[ ibid., .] hon. justice grier said: "it is not necessary to array the appalling statistics of misery, pauperism and crime which have their origin in the use and abuse of ardent spirits. the police power, which is exclusively in the state, is competent to the correction of these great evils, and all measures of restraint or prohibition necessary to effect that purpose are within the scope of that authority."--[ibid., .] that the state has a clear right to prohibit the sale of intoxicating drinks, because this sale not only hurts all other interests, but destroys the health and degrades the morals of the people, has been fully shown. the question next to be considered is, can prohibitory laws be enforced? and if so, will they remove from the people the curse of drunkenness? can prohibitory laws be enforced? as to the complete enforcement of any salutory law, that depends mainly on the public sentiment regarding it, and on the organized strength of its opposers. if the common sentiment of the people were in favor of every man's liberty to steal whatever he could lay his hands on, it would be found very difficult to convict a rogue, no matter how clearly expressed the law against stealing. a single thief in the jury-box could defeat the ends of justice. a hundred loop-holes for escape can always be found in the provisions of a law with which the majority of the people are not in sympathy. indeed, it often happens that such loop-holes are provided by the law-makers themselves; and this is especially true in too many of the laws made for the suppression of the liquor trade. is this an argument against the enactment of laws to protect the people from great wrongs--especially the weaker and more helpless ones? to the half-hearted, the indifferent and the pusillanimous--yes! but with brave, true men, who have at heart the best interests of humanity, this can only intensify opposition to wrong, and give strength for new efforts to destroy its power. these have an undying faith in the ultimate victory of good over evil, and mean, so far as they are concerned, that the battle shall continue until that victory is won. judge pitman has eloquently expressed this sentiment in the closing pages of his recent work, to which we have more than once referred. speaking of those who distrust the practicability of securing such legislation as will effectually destroy the liquor trade, he says: "they are appalled at the power of the traffic. they see that it has uncounted wealth at its command; that it is organized and unscrupulous; that it has the support of fierce appetite behind it and the alliance of every evil lust; that it is able to bribe or intimidate the great political parties. all this is true; but still it is not to be the final victor. it has all the elemental moral forces of the human race against it, and though their working be slow, and their rate of progress dependent on human energy and fidelity, the ultimate result is as certain as the action of the law of gravity in the material universe. wealth may be against us; rank may affect to despise us; but the light whose dawn makes a new morning in the world, rarely shines from palace or crown, but from the manger and the cross. before the aroused consciences of the people, wielding the indomitable will of a state, the destroyers of soul and body shall go down forever." the value of prohibitory laws when enforced. it remains now to show how far prohibitory laws, when enforced, have secured the end for which they were created. on this point, the evidence is clear and satisfactory. in vermont, a prohibitory law has existed for over twenty-three years. in some parts of the state it is rigidly enforced; in others with less severity. judge peck, of the supreme court says: "the law has had an effect upon our customs, and has done away with that of treating and promiscuous drinking. * * * _in attending court for ten years, i do not remember to have seen a drunken man."_ in st. johnsbury, where there is a population of five thousand, the law has been strictly enforced; and the testimony in regard to the town is this: "there is no bar, no dram-shop, no poor, and no policeman walks the streets. it is the workingman's paradise." connecticut enacted a prohibitory law in . in , governor dutton said, in his annual message to the general assembly: "there is scarcely an open grog-shop in the state, the jails are fast becoming tenantless, and a delightful air of security is everywhere enjoyed." in meriden, the chaplain of the reform school testified that "crime had diminished seventy-five per cent." in new london, the jail was tenantless. in norwich, the jails and almshouses were reported "as almost empty." but in , the liquor influence was strong enough in the legislature to substitute license for prohibition. the consequence was an immediate increase of drunkenness and crime. two years afterwards, the secretary of state declared that "there was a greater increase of crime in one year under license than in seven years under prohibition." vineland, new jersey, has a population of ten thousand. absolute prohibition is the law of that community. one constable, who is also overseer of the poor, is sufficient to maintain public order. in , his annual report says: "we have practically no debt. * * * the police expenses of vineland amount to seventy-five dollars a year, the sum paid to me, and our poor expenses are a mere trifle." in potter county, pennsylvania, there has been a prohibitory law for many years. hon. john s. mann says: "its effect, as regards crime, is marked and conspicuous. _our jail is without inmates, except the sheriff_, for more than half the time." other instances of local prohibition in this country could be given, but these are sufficient. bessbrook, a town in ireland of four thousand inhabitants, has no liquor-shop, and whisky and strong drink are strictly prohibited. _there is no poor-house, pawn-shop or police-station._ the town is entirely free from strife, discord or disturbance. in the county of tyrone, ireland, no drinking house is allowed. in , right hon. claude hamilton said: "at present there is not a single policeman in that district. the poor-rates are half what they were before, and the magistrates testify to the great absence of crime." in many parts of england and scotland there is local prohibition, and the uniform testimony as to the absence of pauperism and crime is as unequivocal as that given above. the maine law--its complete vindication. but it is to the state of maine, where a prohibitory law has existed for over a quarter of a century, and where prohibition has been put to the severest tests, that we must look for the more decisive proofs of success or failure. on the evidence which maine furnishes, the advocates of legal suppression are content to rest their case. in order to get a brief, but thoroughly accurate and reliable history of the maine law, we addressed a letter to hon. neal dow, of portland, maine, asking him to furnish us, for this volume, with the facts and evidence by which our readers could for themselves judge whether the law were a dead letter, as some asserted, or effective and salutory. in reply, mr. dow has kindly furnished us with the following deeply interesting and important communication: testimony of hon. neal dow. portland, october th, . t.s. arthur, esq.: _dear sir_--i will gladly furnish you with a brief history of the maine law, and a statement of its operation and effects in maine, in the hope that the wide circulation of the work you have in preparation may serve to correct the mistaken notion that prevails, to the effect that the law has failed of any useful result, and that the liquor traffic is carried on as extensively in maine as ever it had been, with all its baleful effects upon the moral and material interests of the state. in the old time the people of maine were as much addicted to the use of strong drinks as those of any other part of the country; and the effects of this shocking habit were seen everywhere in shabby buildings, neglected farms and in wide-spread poverty. there were, in this state, magnificent forests of the best pine timber in the world. the manufacture of this timber into "lumber" of various descriptions, and the sale of it, were the leading industries of maine. the products of our vast forests were sent chiefly to the west india islands, and the returns were mostly in rum and in molasses, to be converted into rum by our own distilleries, of which there were many among us, in various parts of the state--seven of them in this city, running night and day. this rum, almost the whole of it, whether imported or home-made, was consumed among our own people. it was sent in the way of trade and in exchange for "lumber" into every part of our territory; not a town or village, or rural district escaped, however remote or thinly populated it might be. the result of this was, that almost the entire value of all this vast industry went down the throats of our people in the shape of rum, either imported or home-made. i have heard men say who had been extensively engaged in this lumber trade, that maine is not a dollar the richer, and never was, on account of this immense business; but that the people were poorer in consequence of it, and more miserable than they would have been if the pine forests had been swept away by a great conflagration. the effects of this course of trade were seen everywhere throughout the state. in scarcely any part of it was there any evidence of business prosperity or thrift, but, generally, there was abundant evidence of poverty, untidiness and decay. in the lumbering towns and villages, where the innumerable saw-mills were, the greatest bustle and activity prevailed. the air resounded with the loud noises coming from these mills. night and day they were "run," never ceasing until the "logs" were "worked up." relays of hands were employed at all these lumbering centres, so that the saw-mills never stopped even for an hour during "the season," except for some occasional repairs. all these men drank rum; a quart a day per man was a moderate quantity; but a great many of them required two quarts a day. the result of this was, that the entire wages of the men were consumed in drink, except a meagre share that went to the miserable wives and children at home. everywhere throughout the state the results of this way of life was to be seen--in the general poverty of the people, and in the shabbiness of all their surroundings. but some persons conceived the idea that all this evil was not necessary and inevitable; that it came from the liquor traffic, which might be prohibited and suppressed, as lottery-tickets, gambling-houses and impure books and pictures had already been. and they devoted themselves constantly and industriously to the work of correcting the public opinion of the people as to the liquor traffic by demonstrating to them that this trade was in deadly hostility to every interest of the state, while no good came from it, nor could come from it, to state or people. this educational work was carried on persistently for years; meetings were held by these persons in every little country-church and town-house, and in every little wayside school-house, where the farmers and their wives and children assembled at the call of these missionaries, to listen to their burning denunciation of the liquor traffic, which lived only by spreading poverty, pauperism, suffering, insanity, crime and premature death broadcast over the state. the result of this teaching was, that the public opinion of the state became thoroughly changed as to the character of the liquor traffic and its relation to the public prosperity and welfare. when we thought the time had come for it, we demanded of the legislature that the law of "license," then upon the statute books, which represented the public opinion of the old time, should be changed for a law of prohibition, representing the improved public opinion of the present time; and, after two unsuccessful attempts to procure such a law, we obtained what we desired, an act of absolute prohibition to the manufacture and sale of strong drink--a measure for which we had labored long and industriously for many years. at the time of the enactment of this statute, now known as the maine law the world over, the liquor traffic was carried on extensively in the state, wholesale and retail, precisely as it is now in new york, new jersey, pennsylvania and in every other state where that trade is licensed and protected by the law. the maine law went into operation immediately upon its approval by the governor, and by its provisions, liquors kept for sale everywhere, all over the state, were liable to be seized, forfeited and destroyed, and the owners to be punished by fine and imprisonment. the municipal authorities of the cities and towns allowed the dealers a reasonable time to send away their stocks of liquors to other states and countries, where their sale was permitted by the law. the liquor-traders availed themselves of this forbearance of the authorities, and did generally send their stock of liquors out of the state. the open sale of liquors came instantly to an end throughout all our territory, and where it continued, it was done secretly, as other things are done in violation of law. the manufacture of intoxicating liquors was entirely stopped, so that in all the state there was absolutely none produced, except cider, which might be made and used for vinegar. the effect of this policy of prohibition to the liquor traffic was speedily visible in our work-houses, jails and houses of corrections. the jail of cumberland county, the most populous of the state, had been badly over-crowded, but within four months of the enactment of the law there were but five prisoners in it, three of whom were liquor-sellers, put in for violation of the law. the jails of penobscot; kennebec, franklin, oxford and york were absolutely empty. the inmates of the work-houses were greatly reduced in number, and in some of the smaller towns pauperism ceased entirely. but, during all this time, in every part of the country, reports were industriously circulated that the law was inoperative for good, and that liquors were sold in maine as freely and in as large quantities as before the law. these false statements were industriously and persistently made everywhere by those interested in the liquor trade, and by those impelled by appetite or passion. it is sufficient for me to say here that the maine law, from the first, has been as faithfully executed as our other criminal laws have been, though there has been, at certain times, and in certain localities, considerable complicity with the violators of it, on the part of many officers of the law, so that the legislature has at last provided heavy penalties for the punishment of prosecuting officers, justices of the peace and judges of municipal and police courts, in case of failure in their duty. i am glad to be able to say that the judges of our higher courts have, from the first, been true to their duty in the administration of this law, as of all others. in much the larger part of maine, in all the rural districts, in the villages and smaller towns, the liquor traffic is absolutely unknown; no such thing as a liquor-shop exists there, either open or secret. the traffic lingers secretly only in the larger towns and cities, where it leads a precarious and troubled life--only among the lowest and vilest part of our foreign population. nowhere in the state is there any visible sign of this horrible trade. the penalties of the law, as they now stand, are sufficient to extinguish the traffic in all the small towns, and to drive it into dens and dark corners in the larger towns. the people of maine now regard this trade as living, where it exists at all, only on the misery and wretchedness of the community. they speak of it everywhere, in the press, on the platform, and in legislative halls, as the gigantic crime of crimes, and we mean to treat it as such by the law. for some years after the enactment of the law, it entered largely into the politics of the state. candidates were nominated by one party or the other with reference to their proclivities for rum or their hostility to it, and the people were determined in their votes, one way or the other, by this consideration. now, the policy of prohibition, with penalties stringent enough to be effective, has become as firmly settled in this state as that of universal education or the vote by ballot. the republican party, in its annual conventions, during all these years, has affirmed, unanimously, its "adhesion to prohibition and the vigorous enforcement of laws to that end;" and the democratic party, in its annual convention of this year, rejected, by an immense majority, and with enthusiastic cheers, a resolution, proposed from the floor, in favor of "license." the original maine law was enacted by a vote in the house of eighty-six to forty, and in the senate by eighteen to ten. there have been several subsequent liquor laws, all in the direction of greater stringency; and the legislature of this year enacted an additional law, with penalties much more stringent than any which had preceded it, without a dissenting vote. no one can mistake the significance of this fact; it was an unanimous affirmation of adhesion to the policy of prohibition, after a steady trial of it and experience of its results for more than a quarter of a century. and, since that time, the people have passed upon it at the late annual election by an approval of the policy and of the men who favor it--by an immense majority. if it be conceded that the people of maine possess an ordinary share of intelligence and common sense, this result would be impossible, unless the effect of prohibition had been beneficial to the state and to them. while we were earnestly at work in bringing up the public opinion of the state to the point of demanding the prohibition of the liquor traffic, as a more important political and social question than any other or all others, i was startled at hearing a gentleman of the town of raymond declare that in his town the people consumed in strong drink its entire valuation in every period of eighteen years eight months and twenty-five days! "here are the figures," he said; "i know the quantity of liquor brought into the town annually. i am so situated that i am able to state this accurately, beyond all possibility of doubt, except that liquors may be brought here by other than the ordinary mode of transportation without my knowledge; but the quantities stated in this paper (which he held in his hand), and their cost are within my knowledge." this was part of a speech to his fellow-townsmen, and his statement was admitted to be true. now there is not a drop of liquor sold in that town, and there has not been any sold there for many years. this statement may strike us at first blush to be tremendously exaggerated, that the people of any locality should consume in strong drink the entire value of its real estate and personal property in every period of less than twenty years. but let us examine it. we learn from the bureau of statistics that the annual liquor bill of the united states is seven hundred millions of dollars. this does not include the enormous quantity of "crooked whisky" which has been put upon the market with or without the knowledge, consent, assent or complicity of our public officers, from the highest to the lowest. the drink bill of the united kingdom, with a population smaller than ours, is more than this by many millions. this valuation--seven hundred millions of dollars--is the price, by the quantity, taken from the figures as they come into the public office, while the cost to the consumers is vastly greater. now, this sum with annual compound interest for ten years, amounts to the enormous figure of eight billions nine hundred and forty-four millions one hundred and forty-one thousands of dollars--almost nine thousand millions of dollars! for twenty years the amount is twenty-five billions two hundred and forty-five millions six hundred and eighty-one thousands of dollars. twenty-five thousand two hundred and forty-five millions of dollars and more; actually as much, within a fraction, as the entire value of the personal and landed property of the united states! my friend of raymond may well be credited in the statement made to his fellow-townsmen. now, as the result of the maine law, in maine, the wealth and prosperity of the people have greatly increased. this can be seen in every part of the state, and is obvious to the most casual observer who knew what maine was before the law of prohibition and knows what it has been since and down to the present time. evidences of industry, enterprise and thrift everywhere, instead of the general poverty, unthrift and shabbiness of the old rum-time. the share of maine of the national drink-bill would be about thirteen millions of dollars, and but for the maine law, we should be consuming our full proportion; but now i feel myself fully warranted in saying that we do not expend in that way one-tenth of that sum. a mayor of the city of portland, in a message to the city council, said: "the quantity of liquor now sold is not one-fiftieth part as much as it was before the enactment of the law." the difference, whatever it may be, between the sum we should waste in strong drink, but for the law, and that which we actually squander in that way, we have in our pockets, in our savings banks and in our business, so that maine has suffered far less, financially, during this crisis than any other part of the country. i have said the drink-bill of maine, but for prohibition, would be about thirteen millions of dollars annually, in proportion to that of the whole country. now, this sum, with annual compound interest at six per cent., in ten years will amount to one hundred and seventy millions three hundred and nineteen thousand five hundred and twenty-eight dollars, and in twenty years to four hundred and sixty-three millions eight hundred and fifty-four thousand four hundred and twenty dollars--more than twice the entire valuation of the state by the estimate made in , which was two hundred and twenty-four millions eight hundred and twenty-two thousand nine hundred and thirteen dollars. there was a reason then for the fact, that in the old rum-time the people of maine were poor and unthrifty in every way--and for that other fact, that now they are prosperous and flourishing, with a better business than that of any other state, proportionately. notwithstanding the fact that in portland a great conflagration destroyed ten millions of dollars in , burned down half the town, and turned ten thousand people out of doors, the prosperity of the city has been steadily on the increase. its valuation, in , was twenty-one millions eight hundred and sixty-six thousand dollars, and in , twenty-nine millions four hundred and thirty-nine thousand two hundred and fifty-seven dollars. in the last year the increase in valuation, in spite of the hard times, was four hundred and eighty thousand dollars, while boston, with free rum, has lost more than eight millions, and new york and brooklyn has experienced an immense depreciation. i think i have said enough to satisfy every intelligent, unprejudiced man that the absolute prohibition and suppression of the liquor traffic has been in the highest interest of our state and people. i am very truly, yours, neal dow. and here we close our discussion of the most important of all the social questions that are to-day before the people; and, in doing so, declare it as our solemn conviction, that until the liquor traffic is abolished, and the evils with which it curses the people removed, all efforts at moral reforms must languish, and the church find impediments in her way which cannot be removed. the curse is upon us, and there is but one cure: _total abstinence_, by the help of god, for the individual, and _prohibition_ for the state. [illustration: lord james dropped without a groan. "you coward!--you murderer!" she gasped. chapter xxx] out of the primitive by robert ames bennet author of "into the primitive," etc. with four illustrations in colors by allen t. true to my friend james collier chapter i the castaways the second night north of the zambezi, as well as the first, the little tramp rescue steamer had run out many miles into the offing and laid-to during the hours of darkness. the vicinity of the coral reefs that fringe the southeast coast of africa is decidedly undesirable on moonless nights. when the right honorable the earl of avondale came out of his close, hot stateroom into the refreshing coolness that preceded the dawn, the position of the southern cross, scintillating in the blue-black sky to port, told him that the steamer was headed in for the coast. the black surface of the quiet sea crinkled with lines of phosphorescent light under the ruffling of the faint breeze, which crept offshore heavy with the stench of rotting vegetation. it was evident that the ship was already close in again to the mozambique swamps. lord james sniffed the rank odor, and hastened to make his way forward to the bridge. as he neared the foot of the ladder, his resilient step and the snowy whiteness of his linen suit attracted the attention of the watcher above on the bridge. "good-morning, m' lord," the officer called down in a bluff but respectful tone. "you're on deck early." "hullo, meggs! that you?" replied his lordship, mounting the steps with youthful agility. "it seems you're still earlier." "knowing your lordship's anxiety, i decided to run in, so that we could renew the search with the first glimmer of daylight," explained the skipper. "we're now barely under headway. according to the smell, we're as near those reefs as i care to venture in the dark." "right-o! we'll lose no time," approved the young earl. "d'you still think to-day is apt to tell the tale, one way or the other?" "aye, your lordship. i may be mistaken; but, as i told you, reckoning together all the probabilities, we should to-day cover the spot where the _impala_ must have been driven on the coral--that is, unless she foundered in deep water." "but, man, you said that was not probable." "a new boat should be able to stand the racking of half a dozen cyclones, m' lord, without straining a bottom plate. no; it's far more probable she shook off her screw, or something went wrong with the steering gear or in the engine room. i've recharted her probable course and that of the cyclone. it was as well for us to begin our search at the zambezi, as i told your lordship. but if to-day we fail to find where she piled her bones on the coral, it's odds we'll not to-morrow. on beyond, at port mozambique, we got only the north rim of the storm. i put in there for shelter when the barometer dropped." "that was on your run south. glad i had the luck to chance on a man who knows the coast as you do," remarked lord james. "look at those steamers mr. leslie chartered by cable--a good week the start of us, and still beating the coverts down there along sofala! wasting time! if only i'd not gone off on that shunt to india--and they six weeks in these damnable swamps--if they won ashore at all! you still believe they had a chance of that?" "aye. as i explained to your lordship, if the _impala_ hadn't lost all her boats before she struck, there's a fair probability that the water inside the reefs--" "yes, yes, to be sure! if there was the slightest chance for any one aboard--lady bayrose, miss leslie and their maids, the only women passengers, and a british ship! everything must have been done to save them. while tom--he'd be sure to make the shore, if that was within the bounds of possibility. yet even if they were cast up alive--six weeks on the vilest stretch of coast between zanzibar and the zambezi! they may be dying of the fever now--this very hour! deuce take it, man! d'you wonder i'm impatient?" "aye, m'lord! but here's the dawn, and mcphee is keeping up a full head of steam. we'll soon be doing seven knots." as he spoke, the skipper turned to step into the pilot house. lord james faced about to the eastern sky, where the gray dawn was beginning to lessen the star-gemmed blackness above the watery horizon. swiftly the faint glow brightened and became tinged with pink. the day was approaching with the suddenness of the tropical sunrise. in quick succession, the pink shaded to rose, the rose to crimson and scarlet splendor; and then the sun came leaping above the horizon, to flood sea and sky with its dazzling effulgence. captain meggs had entered the pilot house in the blackness of night. he came out in the full glare of day. lord james had turned his back to the sun. he was staring at the bank of white mist that, less than two miles to westward, shrouded the swampy coast. meggs had brought out two pairs of binoculars, one of which he handed to his charterer. "your lordship sees," he remarked. "we're none too far out from the reefs." "beastly mist!" complained lord james, his handsome high-bred face creased with impatience and anxiety. "d'you fancy we're anywhere near the islet from which we put off last evening?" "i've tried to hold our position, m'lord. but these mozambique channel currents are so strong, and shift so with the tides, we may have been either set back or ahead." already the bank of morning mist was beginning to break up and melt away under the fervent rays of the sun. the young earl raised his glasses and gazed southwards along the face of the dissolving curtain. through and between the ghostly wreaths and wisps of vapor he could see the winged habitants of the swamps--flamingoes, cranes, pelicans, ibises, storks, geese, all the countless tropical waterfowl--swimming and wading about the reedy lagoons or circling up to fly to other feeding grounds. opposite the steamer the glasses showed with startling distinctness a number of hideous crocodiles crawling out on a slimy mudbank to bask in the sunshine. but nowhere could the searcher discern a trace of man or of man's habitation. "gad! not a sign! rotten luck!" he muttered. he turned and swept the four-mile curve of coast around to the north-northeast. suddenly he stiffened and held the glasses fixed. "look!" he cried. "off there to the northwards--cliffs!" "cliffs? aye, a headland," confirmed the skipper. "put about for it immediately," directed lord james. "if they were cast up here, they'd not have lingered in these vile bogs--would have made for the high ground." meggs nodded, and called the order to the steersman. the ship's bows swung around, and the little steamer was soon scuttling upcoast towards the headland, along the outer line of reefs, at a speed of seven knots. from the first, lord james held his glasses fixed on the barren guano-whitened ledges of the headland. but though he could discern with quickly increasing distinctness the seabirds that soared about the cliff crest and nested in its crevices, he perceived no sign of any signal such as castaways might be expected to place on so prominent a height. when, after a full half-hour's run, the steamer skirted along the edge of the reefs, close in under the seaward face of the headland, the searcher at last lowered his binoculars, bitterly disappointed. "not a trace--not a trace!" he complained. "if they've been here, they've either gone inland or--we're too late! six weeks--starvation--fever!" meggs shook his head reassuringly. "the top of the headland may be inaccessible, m'lord. we may find that they--heh! what's that?" he leaned forward to peer through his glasses at a second headland that was swinging into view around the corner of the cliffs. "_smoke!_" he cried. "_smoke!--and a flag!_" "gad!" murmured lord james, hastily bringing his own glasses to bear. the second headland was about five miles away. the thin column of smoke that was ascending from its crest near the outer end, could plainly be seen with the naked eye. but a sunlit cloud beyond necessitated the full magnifying power of the binoculars to disclose the white signal flag that flapped lazily on a slender staff near the beacon. lord james drew in a deep breath, and his gray eyes glowed with hope. here was evidence that not all aboard the wrecked or foundered _impala_ had been lost. "meggs," he cried, "you're the one and only skipper! it must be their signal--it _is_ their signal! but which of them?--who went under and who escaped!--miss genevieve? tom?" "this mr. blake?" ventured meggs. "i take it, he's some relation to your lordship." "no; chum--american engineer. gad! if he went down! but it's impossible--most resourceful man i ever knew. he must have won ashore with the others. and the women--a british captain! it must be we'll find crew and all safe!" "not on this coast," replied meggs. "they'd have lost most their boats before the _impala_ struck." "in that event--deuce take it! will we never get there? if i had my motor-boat now! by jove, this stretch here between the headlands is not swamp. it's dry plain--and black. been burnt over. there's a place--tree-trunks still smouldering. the grass has been fired within the last day or two." "no one in sight as yet, on the cliffs," said the skipper, who had continued to scrutinize the northern headland. "no watch above; no sign of any one or any camp below. must all be around on the far side. we'll clear the point, and run in through the first break in the reefs." "if they fail to show up on this side," qualified lord james, slowly sweeping the cliffs from foot to crest and inland along the dry fire-blackened plain. about half a mile from the beach the wall of rock was cleft by a wooded ravine that ran up through the cliff ridge. at its foot was a grove of trees whose bright green foliage seemed to indicate an abundance of water. above, a gigantic baobab tree towered out of the cleft and upreared its enormous cabbage-shaped crown high over the crest of the ridge. in the midst of the general barrenness and aridity, the verdant oasis of the ravine appeared to be the most certain place to look for the castaways. lord james fancied that he could discern a slight haze of smoke rising out of the cleft beneath the baobab. but if there was a camp in the cleft bottom, it was hidden from view by the trees and cliff walls. the only certain sign of man within sight was the signal flag and the smoke of the smouldering fire in the midst of the seabird colony near the outer end of the cliff crest. the steamer was gliding along, with slackened headway, close in under the headland, when a breath of air opened out the folds of the tattered white flag. meggs had been watching it through his binoculars. he lowered the glasses, and remarked knowingly: "thought so. that's no ship's canvas. it's linen or duck--a woman's skirt ripped open." "what! then at least one of the women got ashore!" "aye. but d' you make out how that cloth is lashed to the bamboo? it was knotted on by a landsman. we'll find neither officers nor crew among the survivors." the steamer was now opposite the face of the headland, meggs sprang into the pilot house. within the next few moments the speed of the vessel fell off to less than a knot. slowly the old steamer swung her bows around towards the shore and began feeling her way into a narrow gap through the half hidden barrier of the reefs, which here were merged into a single line. for the time being all the attention of meggs was concentrated upon the safe conning of his ship through the dangerous passage. it was otherwise with lord james. the last two shiplengths before the turn had opened up the view around the north corner of the headland. from the flank of the cliff ridge a wedge of brush-dotted plain extended a quarter-mile or so to a dense high jungle bordering a small river. the first glance had shown his lordship that it was of no use to look beyond the river. the coast trended away northwards in another vast stretch of fetid swamps and slimy lagoons. with almost feverish eagerness, he turned to scan the little plain. first to catch his eye were a dozen or more graceful animals dashing away from the shore in panic-stricken flight. he turned his glasses upon them and saw that they were antelope. this was not encouraging. that the timid animals had been feeding in the vicinity of a human habitation a full hour after dawn was not probable. nor did a careful search of the plain through the glasses disclose any sign of a hut or tent or the smoke of a camp-fire. an order from meggs preparatory for letting go anchor roused lord james from his momentary pause. he faced the skipper, who was leaning from a window of the pilot house. "sound your siren, man!" he exclaimed. "there's no camp in sight. yet they must be within hearing." meggs nodded, called an order for the lowering of a boat, and drew back into the pilot house. as he reappeared in the doorway, to step out on the bridge, the tramp's siren shrilled a blast loud enough to carry for miles. it echoed and re-echoed along the cliff walls, and was flung back upon the little steamer in a deafening blare. lord james turned to sweep the border of the river jungle with his glasses. a herd of fat ungainly hippopotami, on the bar out beyond the mangroves of the river mouth, fixed his gaze. but a moment afterwards one of the sailors in the bows pointed upwards and yelled excitedly: "hi! hi!--there aloft! lookut th' bloomin' mad 'un!" at last--one of the castaways! high above, on the very brink of the precipice, near the outer end of the headland, a man stood waving down to the ship in wild excitement. lord james hastily focussed his glasses upon the beckoner. seen through their powerful lenses, he seemed to leap to within a few feet--so near that lord james could see the heaving of his broad chest under the tattered flannel shirt as he flung his arms about his head and bellowed down at the steamer in half frantic joy. the looker wasted no second glance on the rude trousers of spotted hyena skin or the big lean body of the castaway. neither the wild whirling of the sun-blackened arms nor the bristly stubble of a six weeks' growth of beard could prevent him from instantly recognizing the face of his friend. "tom!--tom!" he hailed. "hullo! hullo, old man! come down!" even as he cried out he realized that he could neither be heard nor recognized at so great a distance. though the binoculars enabled him to see his friend with such wonderful distinctness, the deep shouts that the other was uttering were hardly audible above the clatter aboard the steamer. but now the ship's siren began to answer the hails of the castaway with a succession of joyous shrieks. in the same moment lord james perceived that a second castaway--a woman--was running forward along the crest of the headland. fearlessly she came darting down the broken ledges, to stand on the cliff edge close beside the man. lord james stared wonderingly at her dainty girlish form, clad in a barbaric costume of leopard skin. her bare arms, slender from privation and burned brown by the sun, were upraised in graceful greeting above the sensitive high-bred face and its crown of soft brown hair. "genevieve!" murmured the earl. "what luck! gad! what luck! even if hawkins went to the bottom and took the jewels with him! she's safe--both of 'em safe! hey! what's that? signalling towards the far side--there he bolts, and she after him! couldn't run that way if they had the fever!" he whirled about and sprang to descend the ladder, but paused to direct the skipper. "i'll command the boat. men are not to land. d'you take me? there's at least one of the ladies here. have a sling ready, and tell the stewardess her services will soon be required." before meggs could reply, he was down the ladder and darting across to the side. but there he turned and ran aft to the cabin. the stewardess, a buxom englishwoman, stood at the head of the companionway, gazing towards the cliff top. at his order, she followed him below. after several minutes he reappeared with a lady's dust-coat folded over his arm. the boat was already lowered and manned. he swung himself outboard and went down the tackle hand under hand. as he dropped lightly into the sternsheets beside the cockswain he signed the men to thrust off. the boat shot out across the still water, and headed shorewards on a slant for the south corner of the headland. urged on by their impatient passenger, the rowers bent to their oars with a will, despite the broiling heat of the sun in the dead calm air under the lee of the cliffs. they were well in to the shore before the cockswain discovered a submerged ledge that ran out athwart their course almost to the coral reefs. this compelled them to put about and follow the ledge until they could round its outer end. as the boat at last cleared the obstruction and headed in again for the shore, the south flank of the cliffs came into view. a short distance inland, the two castaways that had appeared on the cliff top were running towards the beach, the girl clinging to the hand of the man. "give way! give way, men!" urged lord james. "at least let's not keep them waiting!" chapter ii two--and one spurred to their utmost, the oarsmen drove the boat shorewards so swiftly that it was less than thirty yards out when the castaways came flying out the rocky slope of the cliff foot and scrambled down to the water's edge. lord james sprang up and waved his yachting cap. "miss leslie!--tom, old man!" he joyously hailed them. "you're safe!--both safe!" "good lord! that you, jimmy?" shouted back the man, "well, of all the--hey! down brakes! 'ware rocks!" at the warning, the boat's crew backed water and came on inshore with more caution. without stopping to ask her permission, the man caught up the panting, excited girl in his arms, and waded out to meet the boat. "that's near enough. swing round," he ordered. the boat came about and backed in a length, to where he stood thigh-deep in the still water, with the blushing girl upraised on his broad shoulder. lord james again lifted his cap. his bow could not have been more formal and respectful had the meeting occurred in the queen's drawing-room. "miss leslie! this is a very great pleasure, 'pon my word! but you've overheated yourself. you should not have run," he remonstrated. as blake lifted her in over the stern, he deftly unfolded the silk dustcoat and held it open for her. "permit me--no need of such haste, y'know. i assure you, we're not so strict as to our hour of sailing." "i--i--of course we--" stammered the girl. "to be sure! ah, no hat! i should have foreseen. very stupid of me not to've brought a hat or parasol. but i dare say you'll make out till we get back aboard ship." his conventional manner and quiet conversational tone alike tended to ease her of her embarrassment. by the time she had slipped on the coat and seated herself, the crimson blushes that had flooded her tanned cheeks were fast subsiding, and she was able to respond with a fair degree of composure: "that was extremely thoughtful of you, lord avondale!" "not at all, not at all," he disclaimed. "cocks'n, if you'll be so kind as to go forward, i'll take the tiller. tom, old man! don't stand there all day. you'll get your feet damp. climb in!" "no; pull out," replied blake, his eyes hardening with sudden resolve. "i forgot something. got to go back to the cleft. you take jen--miss leslie aboard at once." "oh, no, tom!" hastily protested the girl. "we'll wait here for you." "here?" he demanded. "and without your hat?" miss leslie put her scarred and begrimed little hands to her dishevelled hair. blake went on in an authoritative tone: "it won't do for you to get a sunstroke now--after all these weeks. jimmy, take her straight aboard. i've got to go back, i tell you. we didn't stop for anything. there's a jarful of mud and so forth that we sure can't leave to the hyenas." he met the girl's appealing glance with firm decision. "you must get aboard, out of this sun, fast as they can take you." "yes, of course, if you think it best--tom," she acquiesced. her ready docility would of itself have been sufficient to surprise lord james. but, in addition, there was a soft note in her voice and a glow in her beautiful hazel eyes that caused him to glance quickly from her to his friend. blake was already turning about to wade ashore. from what little could be seen of his bristly face, its expression was stern, almost morose. the powerful jaw was clenched. though puzzled and a trifle discomposed, lord james quietly seated himself beside the girl, and signing the men to give way, took the tiller. "my dear miss leslie," he murmured, "if you but knew my delight over having found both you and tom safe and well!" "then you really know him?" she replied. "yes, to be sure; he called you by your first name. wait! i remember now. one day soon after we were cast ashore--the second day, when we were thinking how to get fire, to drive away the leopard--" "leopard? i say! so that's where you got this odd gown?" "no--the mother leopard and the cubs. i was going to say, tom remarked that james scarbridge had been his chum." "had been? he meant _is!_" "then it's true! oh, isn't it strange and--and splendid? you know, i did not connect the remark with you, lord james. he had told me to try to think how we were to find food for the next meal. his reference to you was made quite casually in his talk with winthrope." "winthrope!" exclaimed lord james. "then he, too, reached shore? yet if so--" the girl put her hand before her eyes, as if to shut out some terrible sight. her voice sank to a whisper: "he--he was killed in the second cyclone--a few days ago." "ah!" muttered the young earl. after a pause, he asked in a tone of profound sympathy, "and the others--lady bayrose?" "don't ask! don't ask!" she cried, shuddering and trembling. but quickly she regained her composure and looked up at him with a calm unwavering gaze that told him how much she had undergone and the strength of character she had gained during the fearful weeks that she had been marooned on this savage and desolate coast. "how foolish of me to give way!" she reproached herself. "it is what you might have expected of me before--before i had been through all this, with his example to uplift me out of my helplessness and inefficiency. believe me, lord avondale, i am a very different young woman from the shallow, frivolous girl you knew during those days on the mediterranean." "shallow! frivolous!" he protested. "anything but that, miss genevieve! you must have known how vastly different were my--er--impressions. if lady bayrose hadn't so suddenly shunted you off at aden to the cape boat--took me quite by surprise, i assure you. had you kept on to india, i had hoped to--er--" she gave him a glance that checked his fast-mounting ardor. "i--i beg pardon!" he apologized. "this of course is hardly the time--about the others, if i may ask--that is, if it's not too painful for you. i infer that lady bayrose--that she did not--reach the shore." the girl's thorn-scarred, sun-blistered hands clasped together almost convulsively. but she met his look of concern with unflinching braveness. "poor dear lady bayrose!" she murmured. "they had put her and the maids into one of the boats--there at the first, when the ship crashed on the reef. they ran back to fetch me, but before they could rush me across, a wave more terrible than all the others swept the ship. it tore loose the boat and whirled them away, over and over!" "gad!" he exclaimed. "it also carried away the captain and most of the crew. between the breakers, winthrope and tom and i were flung into the one remaining boat. winthrope cut the rope before the sailors could follow, and then--then the steamer slipped back off the reef and went down." "i say! only the three of you left! the boat brought you safe ashore?" "no, we were overturned in the breakers, but were washed up--flung up--how, i cannot tell. the wind was frightful. it must have blown us out of the surf and along with the water that was being driven up and over into the lagoon. the first i knew, i was behind a little knoll with winthrope. tom was near--in a pool. he--he crawled out. it was nearly dark. we were all so beaten and exhausted that we slept until morning. when we awoke, there was no sign of--of any one else, or of the boat--nothing; only the top of the highest mast sticking up above the water, out beside the reef. tom swam out to it; but he couldn't get anything--even he couldn't." "swam out, you say? these waters swarm with sharks. they're keen to nip a swimmer!" the girl's eyes flashed. "do you believe he'd fear them?--that he'd fear anything?" "not he! i fancy i ought to know, if any one. knocked about with him, half 'round the world. i dare say he's told you." "would it be like him to claim the credit of your friendship? no! before, on the steamer, we had mistaken him to be--to be what he appears to strangers--rough, almost uncouth. yet even that frightful morning--it was among the swamps, ten miles or more up the coast. he carried us safe out of them, me nearly all the way--out of the bog and water, safe to the palms; and he as much tortured with thirst as were we!" "fancy! no joke about that--thirst!" "yet it was only the beginning of what he did for us. starvation and wild beasts and snakes and the fever--he saved us from all. yet he had nothing to begin with--no tools or weapons, only his burning glass. can you wonder that i--that i--" she stopped and looked down, the color mounting swiftly under the dark coat of tan that covered the exquisite complexion he remembered so pleasantly. "my word!" he remonstrated, amazed and disquieted. "surely not that! it's--it's impossible! it can't be possible!" "do you think so?" she whispered. "if you but knew the half--the tenth--of what he has done!" the rusty side of the tramp loomed up above them. the boat crew flung up their oars, and lord james steered in alongside, under the sling that was being lowered for the rescued lady. she pointed up at it, and met the reproachful, half-dazed glance of her companion with a look of compassionate regret for his disappointment. yet she made no effort to conceal the love for his friend and rival that shone with tender radiance from her candid eyes. "you should know him--his true, his real self!" she said. "hasten back. do not delay to come aboard with me. hasten ashore and to the cleft. see for yourself." she caught the descending sling with a dexterity that astonished him, and seated herself in it before he could rise to assist her. "haul away," she called in a clear voice that held no note of timidity. those above at the tackle hastened to obey. as she was swung upwards, she looked down at the earl and waved him to put off. "hasten!" she urged. "do not wait. i am all right now. even if he is returning, go to the cleft and see." he shook his head, and waited until she had been hauled up the ship's side. but as her little moccasined feet cleared the bulwarks and meggs himself leaned out to draw her inboard, he signed the oarsmen to thrust off again. knowing the course, they made direct for the end of the sunken ledge. blake had not returned, nor was he anywhere in sight. they skirted in along the rocky slope of the cliff foot to where it curved away into the sand beach of the plain. lord james sprang ashore alone and hastened inland along the base of the cliffs. a brisk walk of ten minutes over the sandy plain brought him to the grove at the foot of the cleft. in the midst of the trees was a pool, half choked with the dried mud and rubbish of a recent flood from the ravine. the wash had obliterated all tracks below; but there were traces of a trail leading up the ravine over a four-foot ledge. he took the rock at a bound, and hastened on upwards between the lofty walled sides of the cleft. at the first turn he was brought to an abrupt halt. from side to side, between two outjutting corners of rock, the ravine had been barricaded with a twelve-foot _boma_ of thorn scrub. it was a fence high enough and strong enough to stop even a hungry lion. in the centre was a low opening, partly masked by the dry spiky fronds of a small date palm. "gad!" murmured the englishman. "some of tom's engineering! and she said he started without weapons or tools--on this coast! . . . yet for him to have won her--no, no, it's impossible! impossible! american or not, she's a lady--thoroughbred! he's a true stone, but in the rough--uncut, unpolished! a girl of her breeding--he's worth it, 'pon my word, he is; though i never would have fancied that she, of all girls--she's so different. no! it's impossible! it can't be! must be pure fancy on her part--gratitude. it can't be anything more!" a heavy step sounded on the far side of the barrier, and a deep voice called out to him: "hello, there! that you, jimmy? thought it about time you were due. what you doing?--telling yourself how to climb over? abase yeh noble knee to the dust and crawl through, me lud." without pausing to reply, lord james stooped and crept through the narrow passage under the thorny wall. as he straightened up on the inner side, blake caught and gripped his hand in a big calloused palm. "jimmy!" he exclaimed, his pale blue eyes glistening with the soft light of deep friendship. "jimmy boy! to think you beat 'em to it! i figured ten to one odds that it was a tramp chartered by papa leslie--and then to see you pop up in the sternsheets, spic and span as a laundry ad! when you sang out--lord!" "ring off, bo! those're my fingers you're mashing!" objected the victim. as blake released him, he stepped aside and ran his eye up and down the sinewy rag-and-skin-clad form of the engineer. he nodded approvingly. "lean, hard as nails, no sign of fever--and after six weeks on this beastly coast! how'd you do it, old man? you're fit--deuced fit!" "fit to give pointers to the wild man from borneo," chuckled blake. he drew out a silver cigarette case and snapped open the lid. "see those little beauties?--no! hands off! good lord! those're my arrow tips, soaking in snake poison! a scratch would do for you as sure as a drink of cyanide. brought down an eland with one of those little points--antelope big as a steer." "poison! fancy now!" exclaimed lord james. "yes; from a puff adder that almost got miss jenny--fellow big as my leg. struck at her as she bent to pick an amaryllis. if it had so much as grazed her hand or arm--god!" he looked away, his teeth clenched together and the sweat starting out on his broad forehead. what he thought of genevieve leslie was plainly evident in his convulsed face and dilated eyes. if he could be so overwrought by the mere remembrance of a danger that she had escaped, he must love her, not as most men love, but with all the depth and strength of his powerful nature. lord james's lips pressed together and his gray eyes clouded with pain. "close shave, heh?" he muttered. "yes," replied blake. he drew in a deep breath, and added, "not the first, though, nor the last. but a miss is as good as a mile, hey, jimmy boy?" "gad, old man, that sounds natural! can't say you look it, though--not altogether. must get you aboard and into another style of fine raiment. fur trousers not good form in this climate, y'know. you picked up that shirt at a remnant counter, i take it. come aboard. must mow that alfalfa patch before any one suspects you're trying to raise a beard." the friendly banter seemed to have the contrary effect from that intended. blake's face darkened. "good lord, no!" he rumbled. "go aboard with her? what d'you take me for?" "give you my word, i don't take you at all," replied the puzzled englishman. "what! hasn't she told you? but of course she wouldn't--unless she saw you alone," muttered blake. "come on up the canon. i've thought it all out--just what must be done. but it'll take some time to explain. wait! did you come alone?--any one follow you?" "no. told 'em to stay near the boat." "just the same, i'll make sure," said blake. he dived into the barricade passage, and quickly reappeared, dragging at the butt of the date palm. "there, me lud; the door is shut. nobody is going to walk in on our private conference now. come on." chapter iii lord and man blake turned about and swung away up the ravine. lord james followed in the half-obliterated path, which led along the edge of a tiny spring rill. the cleft was here closed in on each side with sheer walls of rock from twenty to thirty feet high. at the point where this small box canon intersected the middle of the cliff ridge, the gigantic baobab that lord james had seen from the steamer, towered skyward, its huge trunk filling a good third of the width of the gorge. across from it and nearer at hand was a thicket of bamboos, around which the spring rill trickled from a natural basin in the rock. but the visitor gave scant heed to the natural features of the place. his glance passed from a great antelope hide, drying on a frame, to the bamboo racks on which sun-seared strips of flesh were curing over a smudge fire. looking to his left, he saw a hut hardly larger than a dog kennel but ingeniously thatched with bamboo leaves. then his glance was caught and held by a curious contrivance of interwoven thorn branches and creepers, fitted into a high narrow opening in the trunk of the baobab. "what's that?--hollow tree?" he asked. "yes," answered blake, without turning. "sixteen-foot room inside. that's where the she-leopard and the cubs were smothered. fired the gully to drive out the family. all stayed at home and got smothered 'cept old mr. leopard. he ran the gantlet. lord, how he squalled, poor brute! but they'd have eaten us if we hadn't eaten them. he landed in the pool, too scorched to see. settled him with my club." "clubbed him?--a leopard! i say now! a bit different, that, to snipe shooting." "well, yes, a trifle different, jeems--a trifle," conceded blake. "my word! what haven't you been through!" burst out the englishman. "and to think she, too, went through it all--six weeks of it!" "that's it!" enthused blake. "she's the truest, grittiest little girl the sun ever had the good luck to shine on! if she thinks now i can't realize--that i'm not going to do the square thing by her! i've been thinking it all over, jimmy. i've got it all mapped out what i'm going to do. wait, though!" he sprang ahead and pulled at the thorny contrivance that stopped the opening in the baobab trunk. it was balanced midway up, on a crossbar. almost at a touch, the lower part swung up and outward and the upper half down and inward. he stepped in under it, hesitated a moment, and went on into the hollow, with an exclamation of relief: "no, 't isn't her room any more, thank god!" lord james stared. well as he knew the sterling qualities of his friend, he had never suspected him of such delicacy. he gazed curiously around at the unshapely but flawless sand-glazed earthenware set on a bamboo rack beside the open stone fireplace, at the rough-woven but strong baskets piled together near the foot of the baobab, at the pouch of antelope skin, the grass sombreros, the bamboo spits and forks and spoons--all the many useful utensils that told of the ingenuity and resourcefulness of his friend. but, most of all, he was interested in the weighty hardwood club leaning against the tree trunk and the great bamboo bow hanging above in a skin sheath beside a quiver full of long feather-tipped arrows. he was balancing the club when blake came out of the tree-cave, carrying a young cocoanut in one hand, and in the other a small pot seemingly full of dried mud. lord james replaced the club, and waved his hand around at the camp. "'pon my word, tom," he commented, "you've out-crusoed old robinson!" "sure!" agreed blake. "he had a whole shipful of stuff as a starter, while we didn't have anything except my magnifying glass and win's penknife and keys." he pulled out a curious sheath-knife made of a narrow ribbon of steel set in a bone back. "how's that for a blade? big flat british keys--good steel. i welded 'em together, end to end." "gad! the pater's private keys!" gasped lord james. "you don't tell me the rascal was imbecile enough to keep those keys in his pocket?--certain means of identification if he'd been searched!" "what!" shouted blake. "then the duke he cleaned out was your dad. _whew!_" he whirled the mud-stoppered jug overhead and dashed it down at his feet. from amidst the shattered fragments he caught up a dirty cloth that was quilted across in small squares. he held it out to lord james. "there you are, jimmy--my compliments and more or less of your family heirlooms." "my word!" murmured the earl, catching eagerly at the cloth. "you got the loot from him? that's like you, tom!" "look out!" cautioned blake. "i opened one square to see what it was he had hidden. you'll find he hadn't been too daffy to melt the settings--keys or no keys. say, but it's luck to learn they're yours! hope they're all there." "all the good ones will be. he couldn't have sold or pawned any of the best stones after we cabled. gad! won't the pater be tickled! ah!" from the open square of which blake had spoken, his lordship drew out a resplendent ruby. "centre stone of lady anne's brooch!" he ran his immaculate finger-tips over the many squares in the cloth. "a stone in every one--must be all of the really valuable loot! the settings were out of date--small value. how'd you get it from him, tom?" blake hesitated, and answered in a low tone: "he got hurt the night of the second cyclone. but he wasn't responsible--poor devil! he must have been dotty all along. it didn't show much before--but i felt uneasy. that's why i built that thorn door--so she could bar herself in." lord james stared in horrified surprise. "you really do not mean--?" "yes--and it almost happened! god!" again blake clenched his teeth and the cold sweat burst out on his forehead. "my word! that's worse than the snake!" murmured lord james. "she--she'd left the door up--heat was stifling," explained blake. "i had gone off north, exploring. the beast was crawling in--but i've got to remember he wasn't responsible--a paranoiac!" "ah, yes. and then?" questioned the englishman, tugging nervously at the tip of his little blond mustache. "then--then--" muttered blake. "he got what was coming to him. cyclone struck like a tornado. door whirled down and knocked him out of the opening--smashed him!" "the end he had earned!" "yes--even if he wasn't responsible, he had become just that--a beast. she had saved his life, too--night i ran down to the beach after eating a poison fish. barricade hadn't been finished. he was down with the fever. they were attacked--jackals, hyenas. she got him safe inside the tree, with the yelling curs jumping at her." "my word! she did that?--she? of all the young ladies i've ever known, she was the very last i should have expected--" "what! you've met her before?" demanded blake. "then she hasn't told you?" replied his friend. "lady bayrose was one of my old friends, y'know. met 'em aboard ship--sailed on the same steamer, after my run home." "you did?" muttered blake, in blank astonishment. "you know her?" "you must have heard me sing out to her from the boat. yes, i--er--had the voyage with her through the mediterranean and down the red sea. but lady bayrose got tiffed at me, and at aden shifted to a cape boat. i had to go on to india alone." "india?" queried blake. "trailing hawkins. he first went to india. but he doubled back and 'round to cape colony." "so that's why you didn't get here sooner," said blake. "yes. didn't notice that the _impala_ was posted. didn't know either you or miss leslie was aboard her until after i learned you'd thrown up the management of that rand mine. traced you to cape town. odd that you and she and hawkins should all have booked on the same steamer!" "think so?" said blake. "i don't. winthrope--hawkins, that is--was smooth enough to know he'd not be suspected if travelling as a member of lady bayrose's party. he had already wormed himself into her favor. as for me--well, they had come to look at the mine, and i had shown jenny through the workings. does that make it clear why i threw up the job and followed them to cape town?" "she had not given you any reason to--surely, not any encouragement? no, i can't believe it!" "course not, you british doughhead! it was all the other way 'round. think i didn't realize? she, a lady, and me--what i am! but i couldn't help it--i just couldn't help myself, jimmy. knew her father, too--all about his millions and how he made them! he did me--twice. you'd think the very name would have turned me. yet the minute i set eyes on her--say!" "you're certainly hard hit!" murmured the young earl. he flushed, bit his lip, hesitated, and burst out with impulsive generosity: "gad, old man! if it's true--if she really--er--has come to love you, i own that you've won her fair and square--all this, y'know." he waved his hand around in a sweeping gesture. "saved her from all this. yes--if it's really true!" blake looked away, and spoke in a hushed voice: "it's--it's true, jimmy! only a little while ago, there on the cliff edge when we saw your steamer, she--she told me. it started yesterday after i bluffed off the lion. you see, she--" "lion?" ejaculated lord james. "yes." blake flung up his head in an impatient gesture. "the beast tried to stalk us. jumped back into the grass when i circled out at him. i got the grass fired before he screwed up courage to tackle me.--don't cut in!--it was then that jenny--she--she tried to say something. but i streaked for home. this morning, though, when i saw we were safe, i was weak enough to let her--speak out." lord james hesitated just perceptibly, and then caught his friend's big, ill-used hand in a cordial clasp. "so--you're engaged! congratulations!" "if only it was just that!" cried blake. he flushed red under his thick coat of tan. "i--i suppose i've got to tell you, jimmy--i must. i need your help to carry out my plan." "your plan?" repeated the englishman wonderingly. "to save her from--from committing herself. it isn't fair to her to let her do it now. she ought to wait till she gets back home, among her own people. you see she wants to--she--she says that ship captains can--" he caught his breath, and bent nearer, but with his face half averted. his voice sank to an almost inaudible murmur--"that ship captains can marry people." "ah!" gasped lord james. but he recovered on the instant. "gad! that _is_ a surprise, old man. always the lady's privilege, though, to name the day, y'know. i shipped a stewardess to wait on the women--had hoped they would all have been saved. she'll do for lady's maid. also brought along some women's togs, in case of emergencies. as for yourself, between mine and megg's and his own wardrobes, my man can rig you up a presentable outfit. clever chap, that wilton." "you've gone back to a valet again!" reproached blake, momentarily diverted. then his fists clenched and his brows met in a frown of self-disgust. "lord! for me to forget for a second! look here, jimmy, you're clean off. you don't savvy a little bit. don't you see the point? i can't let her commit herself now--here! you know i can't. it wouldn't be fair to her, and you know it." lord james met his look with a clear and unfaltering gaze, and answered steadily: "that all depends on one thing, tom. if she really loves you--" "d'you think she's the kind to do it, if she didn't?" demanded blake. "no, that's not the point, at all. i've tried to be square, so far. she saw what i'm like when i cut loose--there on the ship. i was two-thirds drunk when the cyclone flung us ashore. no excuse--except that all of them had turned me down from the first--there at cape town. yes, she knows just what i'm like when the craving is on me. yesterday, down there at the south headland, before the lion came around, i gave her some idea of what i've done--all that." "you've lived a cleaner life than most who're considered eligible!" exclaimed lord james. "i know that with respect to women, you're the cleanest--" "eligible!" broke in blake. "no man is that, far as she's concerned, unless it's you, jimmy." "chuck it! you're always knocking yourself. but about this plan that's bothering you? out with it." "that's talking! all right, here it is, straight--i want you to get back aboard and steam away, fast as you can hike. you can run into port mozambique, if you're going north, and arrange for a boat to call by for me." "you're daft!" cried lord james. "daft! mad as a hatter! can you fancy for a moment i'd go off and leave you here?" "guess you can't help yourself, jimmy. the most you can do is force me to take to the jungle. you can't get me aboard. i tell you, i've figured it all out. i won't go aboard and let her do--what she's planning to do. you ought to know. jimmy, that when i say a thing, i mean it. she's not going to set eyes on me again until after she's back in america. is that plain?" "tom--old man! that's like you!" cried the englishman, and again he gripped the other's rough hand. "i see now what you're driving at. it's a thing few men would have the bigness to do. you're giving up a certainty, because your love for her is great enough, unselfish enough to consider only her good. d'you fancy i could do such a thing? you're risking everything. shows you're fit, even for her!" "it's little enough--for her!" put in blake. "that's like you to say it," rejoined his friend. "see here, old man. you've made a clean breast of it all. i should be no less candid. you know now that i met her before--was all those weeks with her aboard ship. need i tell you that i, too, love her?" "you?" growled blake. "but of course! i don't blame you. you couldn't help it." "it's been an odd shuffling of the cards," remarked his friend. "what if--aren't you afraid there may be a new deal, tom? if you don't come aboard, she and i will be together at least as far as zanzibar, and probably all the way to aden, before i can find some one else to take her on to england." "what of that?" rejoined blake. "think i don't know you're square, after the months we roughed-it together?" "then--but i can't leave you here in this hell-hole! you've no right to ask me to do that, tom. if i could bring my guns ashore and stay with you--but she'll never be more in need of some one, if you insist upon your plan. i say! i have it--we'll slip you aboard after dark. you can lie in covert till we reach port mozambique. i trust i'm clever enough to keep her diverted that long. can put it that you're outfitting--all that, y' know." "say, that's not so bad," admitted blake, half persuaded. "i could slip ashore, soon as we ran into harbor, leaving her a note to tell her why." "right-o, tammas! but wait. i'll go you one better. you can write your note and give it out that you've shifted to another ship. but you'll stay aboard with us, under cover. of all the steamers that touch at aden, one will soon come along with parties whom either she or i know. then off she goes to the tight little island, and we follow after in our little tramp or on another liner. hey, tammas?" "well, i don't know," hesitated blake. "it sounds all right." "it _is_ all right," insisted the younger man. "you'll be aboard the same steamer with her as far as aden, to keep an eye on me, y'know." "on you?" "you'd better. my word, tom! don't you realize? if you--er--put it off, i'm bound to try for myself. can't help it!" "think you've got a show, do you?" rallied blake. "i fancied i had as much chance as any one, before all this occurred. i at least should have been in the running, had it not been for the wreck--and you." blake stood for several moments, with his head down-bent and eyes fixed upon the ground. when he looked up and spoke, his face was grave and his voice deep and low. "it's all of a piece, jimmy. i don't blame you. fact is, it's all the better. i've had all the advantage here. she and i've been living in the cave age, and i've proved myself an a- cave-man, if i do say it myself. it may be hard for her to get the right perspective of things, even after she's back in her own environment. understand?" "i take it, you mean she has seen the display of your strongest and best qualities, in circumstances that did not call for such non-essentials as mere polish--drawing room culture." "you mean, for all that counts most with ninety-nine per cent of your class and hers," rejoined blake. "and there's the craving, too. i'll have to fight that out before i'll be fit to let her do anything. think i don't know the difference between us? no! i'm going to go the limit, jimmy. i can't do less, and be square to her. so i give you full leave. you're free to play your hand for all there is in it. i'll stay here--" "no--no! i'll not hear of it, tom!" "yes, you will. i'll stay here, and you'll see her clear through to america--to chicago--right to her papa's house and in through the door. understand? i don't make a single condition. you're to try your best to win; and if you do, why--don't you see?--it'll show that this which she thinks is the real thing is all a mistake." "my word, old man! you'd not give her up without a fight? that wouldn't be like you!" "it all depends. i won't if it's true she loves me--god! no! i'd go through hell-fire for her!" "if i know you, tom, you'll suffer that and more, should the event prove she is mistaken as to the nature of her present feeling." "what of it?" muttered blake, with a look that told the other the uselessness of persuasion. "think i'd let her marry me, long as there's a shadow of a chance of her being mistaken?" "very well, then," replied his friend. "you've said your say. now i'll say mine. i can ease the tedium of miss leslie's trip up the coast; and i stand ready to do so--on two conditions. in the first place; you're to come aboard and stay aboard. after i find a chaperon for her at aden, you're to go on home with me, to visit at ruthby." "excuse _me!_" said blake. "i can see myself parading around your ancestral stone-heap with your ducal dad!" "you not only can, but will," rejoined the earl. "come now. you'll be allowed to write that note at port mozambique, and keep in covert till miss leslie is safe off the ship. but you'll do the rest--you'll not stay here. another thing--you have my word for it now--i shall endeavor no more than yourself to win her, until after she has returned to her home in the states." "lord, jimmy! that's square--to me, i mean. but how about her?" "no fear," reassured the englishman. "she's received everywhere. she's been presented--at court, y'know. if she stays over on this side a bit, there'll be dozens of 'em dancing attendance on her. come, now; it's all settled." "well, i don't know," hesitated blake. "i tell you, you'll sail with us, else i shall leave her at port mozambique and come back for you." "um-m--if you take it that hard! but are you sure you can keep her satisfied till we put in there?" "trust me for that. if she becomes apprehensive, i'll put it that you'd rather be married in port, by the american consul." "that's no lie. say, what's the use of waiting till dark? you said there's a stewardess aboard. jenny will sure be below with her until--until she's ready for the ceremony." "quite true, yes. then it's all settled. at port mozambique, your note; you bunk forward, under cover, till aden; then home with me for a visit; neither of us see her beyond aden until we follow her to the states." "since you insist--yes, it's a go, jimmy!" agreed blake. he turned to hasten away along the gorge, past the baobab. "i'll be back soon. got to pull down that flag." lord james followed, and saw him ascend to the cliff crest on the right, up a withered, leafless tree. the trunk had been burned through at the base in such manner that the top had fallen over against the edge of the rocky wall. a pile of stones offered an easy means of reaching the lower branches. the earl climbed up into the top, and watched his friend run forward over the broken ledges of the ridge. the bamboo flagstaff was wrenched from its supports and lowered amidst a wild commotion of the nesting sea birds. blake came back at a jog-trot, regardless of the fierce heat of the sun. in his arms were gathered the tattered folds of the signal flag. "that's one thing i'm going to take away," he said, in response to the other's look of inquiry. "she sewed that leopard-skin dress all by herself, with a thorn for needle, so we could have her skirt for the flag." "fancy!" murmured the englishman. "with a thorn, you say!" blake nodded, and followed him down the tree-ladder and back along the cleft to the baobab. there he paused to take down his archery outfit. "guess i'll keep these, too, as souvenirs," he remarked. he pointed to the blackened strips of flesh on the curing racks. "may i ask lord avondale to stay to dinner?" "very kind, i'm sure. but i've a previous engagement," declined his lordship. "now, now, jeems. needn't turn up your aristocratic nose at first-class jerked antelope. ought to 've been with us the first three days. great _menu_--raw fish, cocoanuts, more cocoanuts, and then, just when we were whetting our teeth for a nice fat snake or an _entree_ of caterpillars, i landed that old papa leopard. managed to haggle some of the india rubber off his bones. tough!--but it was filling. all the same, we didn't wear out any more teeth on him after we got up the cleft and found the cubs. they were tender as spring lambs." "and miss genevieve went through all that!" "yes. told you she's the grittiest little girl ever--and a lady! my god, when i think of it all! . . . well, she's come through it alive. what's more, she's not going to suffer any bad consequences from it, not if i can help it! come on. got your heirloom rag?" "safe--inside pocket." "all right, then. come on. you don't think i'm aching to hang 'round this cursed hole, do you?--now that she's gone!" he flung his bow and quiver over his shoulder, thrust the signal flag into the skin pouch, and turned to go. lord james stepped before him, with hand outstretched. "one moment, tom! here's for home and america--a fair field, and best man wins!" "it's a go!" cried blake, gripping the proffered hand. "may she get the one that'll make her happiest!" chapter iv the earl and the others miss dolores gantry shook the snow from her furs, and with the graceful assurance of a yacht running aslant a craft-swarming harbor, cut into the crowd that surged through the union station. she brought up in an empty corner of the iron fence, close beside the exit gate through which passengers were hurrying from the last train that had arrived. her velvety black eyes flashed an eager glance at the out-pouring stream, perceived a mackinaw jacket, and turned to make swift comparison of the depot clock and the tiny bracelet watch on her slender wrist. as she again looked up she met the ardent gaze and ingratiating smile of an elegant young man who was sauntering up the train-platform to the exit gate, fastidiously apart from his fellow passengers. he raised his hat, and at the girl's curt nod of recognition, hastened through the gate for a more intimate greeting. "my dear dodie!" he exclaimed, reaching for her hand. "this is a most delightful surprise." "my dear laffie!" she mocked, deftly slipping both slender hands into her muff. "i quite agree as to it's being a surprise." "then you didn't come down to meet me?" "you?" she asked, with an irony too fine drawn for his conceit. "come to meet you?" "yes. didn't you get my note saying that all work on my bridge was stopped by the cold and that i would run down to see you?" "to see me--plus the world, the flesh, and the devil!" "now, dodie!" he protested, with a smirk on his handsome, richly colored face. the girl's eyes hardened into black diamonds as she met his assured gaze. "mr. brice-ashton, you will hereafter kindly address me as 'miss gantry.' you must be aware that i am now _out_." "oh, i've no objections, just so _we're_ not out," he punned. she gave him her shoulder, and peered eagerly through the pickets of the iron fence at a train that was backing into the station. ashton shrugged, lighted a gilt-tipped cigarette, and asked: "permit me to inquire, miss gon-tray, if i'm not the happy man for whom you wait, who is?" she replied without turning: "how can i tell until i see him? i think it will be the hero. if not, it will be the earl." "hero?--earl?" repeated ashton. "yes, whichever one vievie leaves for me." "what! genevieve? miss leslie? she's not--is she really coming home so soon?--when she had such a chance for a gay season in london?" "don't give yourself away. the london season is in summer." "you don't say! well, in england, then. why didn't you write me?" "i'm not running a correspondence-school or news agency, mr. brice-ashton." "oh, cut it, dodie! post me up, that's a good girl! what i've heard has been so muddled. this hero business, for a starter--what about it? i thought it was an english duke that chartered the steamer to rescue genevieve." "no, only the son of a duke,--james scarbridge, the right honorable the earl of avondale." "my ante!" "it's in the jack-pot, and as good as lost. what chance have you now to win genevieve,--with a real earl and a real hero in the field?" "earl _and_ hero? i thought he was the hero." "that's one of the jokes on mamma. earl jimmy had nothing to do with the rescue ships that uncle herbert cabled to search the mozambique coast. no; jeems chartered a tramp steamer on his own account, to look for friend tommy. he found the heroic thomas and, incidentally, the fair genevieve--who wasn't so _very_ fair after weeks of broiling in that east african sun." "it's wonderful--wonderful! to think that she alone of all aboard her steamer should have survived shipwreck on that savage coast!" "she didn't survive alone--she couldn't have. that's where tommy came in. there was another man, but he didn't count for much, i guess. vievie merely wrote that he died during the second cyclone." "what an experience!--and for a girl like genevieve!" "she, of all girls!" chimed in dolores enviously. "you remember she never went in for sports of any kind, not even riding. and for her to be flung out that way into the tropical jungles, among lions and crocodiles and snakes and things! why can't i ever have romantic adventures?" "you wouldn't give the man a chance to prove himself a hero," objected ashton. "you'd shoot the lions yourself." "i _am_ good at archery. a bow and arrows, you know, were all that mr. blake had." "blake?" repeated ashton in rather a peculiar tone. "yes, tommy the hero, otherwise mr. thomas blake." "blake--thomas blake?" echoed ashton. "i--rather odd--i once--seems to me i once knew a man of that name. you don't happen to know if he's a--that is, what his occupation is, do you?" ashton was not the kind of man from whom is expected hesitancy of speech. the girl spared him a swift glance from the out-flocking stream of passengers. his fixed gaze and slack lower jaw betrayed even more uneasiness than had his voice. "don't be afraid," she mocked. "he's not a minister; so he couldn't marry her without help, and he's not done it since the rescue." "not done it?" repeated ashton vaguely. "no. according to mamma's letter, earl jimmy outgeneraled the low-browed hero. at aden he put vievie on a p. and o. steamer, in the charge of lady chetwynd. he and the hero followed in the tramp steamer to england, where he kept friend thomas at his daddy's ducal castle until vievie made mamma start home with her. you know mamma streaked it for london, at uncle herbert's expense, the moment vievie cabled from port mozambique that she was safe. uncle herbert would have sent me, too, but mamma wouldn't have it. just like her! it was her first chance to do england and crowd in on vievie's noble friends. she said i might spoil the good impression she hoped to make, because i'm too much of a tomboy." "but if it's your mother and genevieve you're waiting for--i understood you to say the earl and that man blake." "oh, they followed on the next steamer. mamma wired that they are all coming on together from new york." "where's mr. leslie? did he go to meet them?" "he? you should know how busy uncle herbert always is. i called by his office for him. he sent out word to go on. he would follow." "what! after all genevieve went through, all those hardships and dangers? you'd think that even he--" "look i oh, look i there she is now!" cried the girl, pressing close against the fence and waving her handkerchief between the pickets. "where? yes, i see! beside your mother!" exclaimed ashton, and he lifted his hat on his cane. the signals won them recognition from the approaching ladies, the younger of whom responded with a quietly upraised hand. beside her walked a rosy-cheeked blonde young englishman, while in front a big square-built man thrust the crowd forward ahead of them. they were followed by two maids, a valet, and two porters, with hand luggage. as the party emerged from the gateway the younger lady leaned forward and spoke in a clear soft voice: "turn to the left, tom." the big man in the lead swerved out of the crowd and across the corner past miss gantry, who was advancing with outstretched arms, her eyes sparkling with joyous excitement. "vievie!" she half shrieked. blake glanced over his shoulder and stopped short at sight of the girls locked in each other's arms. after a moment's fervent embrace, dolores thrust her cousin out at arm's-length and surveyed her from top to toe with radiant eyes. "vievie! vievie! i really can't believe it! to think you're home again--when we never expected to see you--and you've got almost all the tan off already!" genevieve looked up into the vivacious face of the younger girl with an affectionate smile on her delicately curved lips and tears of joy in her hazel eyes. "it _is_ good to be home again, dear!" she murmured. she drew dolores about to face the big man, who stood looking on with rather a surly expression, in his pale blue eyes. "tom," she said, "this is my cousin, miss gantry. dolores, mr. blake." "the hee-row!" sighed dolores, clasping a hand dramatically on her heart. blake's strong face lighted with a humorous smile. "guess i've got to own up to it, miss dolores. anything jenny--miss leslie--says goes." as he spoke he raised his english steamer cap slightly and extended a square powerful hand. dolores entrusted her slender fingers to the calloused palm, which closed upon them with utmost gentleness. "really, mr. blake!" she exclaimed, "i mean it. you _are_ a hero." blake's smile broadened, and as he released her hand, he glanced at her mother, who had drawn a little apart with the englishman. "don't let me shut out your mamma and jimmy." "oh, mamma believes that any display of family affection is immodest," she replied. "but duty, you know--duty!" she whirled about and impressed a loud salute upon the drooping jowl of the stately mrs. gantry. "dolores!" admonished the dame. "when _will_ you remember you're no longer a hoyden? such impetuosity--and before his lordship!" "goodness! is he really?" panted her daughter, surveying the englishman with candid curiosity. "is he really!" mrs. gantry was profoundly shocked. "if you weren't out, i'd see that you had at least two more years in a finishing school." "horrors! that certainly would finish me. but you forget yourself, mamma. you keep his earlship waiting for his introduction." the englishman shot a humorous glance at blake, and drew out his monocle. he screwed it into his eye and stared blandly at the irrepressible miss gantry, while her mother, with some effort, regained a degree of composure. she bowed in a most formal manner. "the right honorable the earl of avondale: i present my daughter." the earl dropped his monocle, raised his cap, and bowed with unaffected grace. dolores nodded and caught his hand in her vigorous clasp. "glad to meet you," she said. "it's rare we meet a real live earl in chicago. most of 'em are caught in new york, soon as they land." "it's good of you to say it, miss gantry," he replied, tugging at the tip of his little mustache. "i've been over before, you know. came in disguise. this time i was able to march through new york with colors flying, thanks to your mother and miss leslie." dolores sent her glance flashing after his, and saw genevieve responding coldly to the effusive greeting of ashton. the young man was edging towards the earl. but genevieve turned to introduce him first to her companion. "mr. blake, mr. brice-ashton." "i'm sure i'm--pleased to meet you, mr. blake," murmured ashton, his voice breaking slightly as blake grasped his gloved hand in the bare calloused palm. "any friend of miss jenny's!" responded blake with hearty cordiality. but as he released the other's hand, he muttered half to himself, "ashton?--ashton? haven't i met you before, somewhere?" as ashton hesitated over his reply, genevieve spoke for him: "no doubt it's the familiarity of the name, tom. mr. brice-ashton's father is mr. george ashton, the financier." "what! him?" exclaimed blake. "but no. it's his face. i remember now. met him in your father's office." "in father's office?" "when i was acting as secretary for your father, miss genevieve," ashton hastened to explain. "you remember, i was in your father's office for a year. that was before i succeeded with my--plans for the michamac cantilever bridge and went to take charge of the construction as resident engineer." "your plans?" muttered blake incredulously. "to be sure. i remember now," said genevieve absently, and she turned to look about, with a perplexed uptilting of her arched brows. "but, dolores, where is papa?" "coming--coming, viviekins," reassured her cousin, breaking short an animated conversation with the earl. "don't worry, dear. he'll be along in a few minutes." genevieve stepped forward beside blake to peer at the crowd. dolores took pity on ashton, who had edged around, eager for an introduction to the titled stranger. "oh, your earlship," she remarked, "this, by the way, is mr. laffie brice-ashton. i'd like to present him to you, but i'm afraid your right honorableness wouldn't take him even as a gift if you knew him as well as i do." "oh, now, do--miss gon-tray!" protested ashton. the englishman bowed formally and adjusted his monocle, oblivious of the hand that ashton had stripped of its glove. "your--your grace--i should say, your lordship," stammered ashton, hastily dropping his hand, "i'm extremely delighted--honored, i mean--at the unexpected pleasure of meeting your lordship." "ah, really?" murmured his lordship. "mr. brice-ashton's father is one of our most eminent financiers," interposed mrs. gantry. "ah, really? what luck!" politely exclaimed the englishman. he stepped past the son of the eminent financier, to address genevieve in an impulsive, boyish tone, "i say, miss leslie, hop up on a suitcase between tom and me. you'll see over their heads." "hold on," said blake, who was staring towards the outer door. "he's coming now." "where? are you sure, tom?" asked genevieve, here eyes radiant. "sure, i'm sure," said blake. "met your father _once_. that was enough for me." "tom! you'll not-?" "enough for me to remember him," he explained with grim humor. "don't worry. i don't want a row any more than you do." "or than he will! he'll not forget that had it not been for you--" "and jimmy!" "chuck it, old man," put in lord james. "miss leslie knows as well as you do that one or more of the steamers chartered by her father must certainly have sighted your signal flag within a fortnight. i merely had the luck to be first." "a lot of things can happen inside two weeks, down on the mozambique coast. eh, miss jenny?" said blake. for the moment, forgetful even of her father, genevieve clasped her gloved hands and gazed upwards over the heads of the rushing multitude at a vision of swampy lagoons, of palm clumps and tangled jungles, of towering cliffs, and hot sand beaches, all aglare with the fierce downbeat of the tropical sun. chapter v a refractory hero a short, stout, gray-haired man burst out of the crowd, jerked off his hat to mrs. gantry, and hastened forward, his gray-brown eyes fixed hungrily upon genevieve. a moment later he had her in his arms. she returned his embrace with fervor yet with a well-bred quietness that drew a nod of approval from mrs. gantry. "so! you're home--at last--my dear!" commented mr. leslie, patting his daughter's back with a sallow, vein-corded hand. "at last, papa! i should have hurried to you at once, in spite of your cables, if you hadn't said you were starting for arizona." "couldn't tell how long i'd be on that trip. wanted you to enjoy the month in england, since lady chetwynd had asked you. but come now. i must see you started home. cut short one board meeting. must be at another within half an hour." he stepped apart from her and jerked out his watch. "yes, papa, only--" she paused and looked at him earnestly. "did you not receive my telegram, that we had met mr. blake and lord james in new york, and that they were to come on with us?" "hey?" snapped mr. leslie, his eyes glinting keen and cold below their shaggy brows. first to be transfixed by their glance was young ashton, who stood toying with the fringe of dolores' muff. "what's this, sir? what you doing here?" ashton gave back a trifle before the older man's irascibility, but answered with easy assurance: "i thought it would do no harm to run down for a few days. all work at michamac is stopped--frozen up tight." "it's not the way your father got his start in life--frivolity! stick to your work all the time--stick!" rejoined mr. leslie. he turned and met the monocled stare of the earl. "h'm. this, i suppose, is the gentleman who--" "my dear herbert, permit me," interposed mrs. gantry. "ah--the right honorable the earl of avondale: i have the honor to present--" "glad to meet you, sir!" broke in mr. leslie, clutching the englishman's hand in a nervous grip. "glad of the chance to thank you in person!" "but, i say, i'm not the right man, y' know," protested lord james. "the small part i had in it is not worth mentioning." he laid a hand on blake's broad shoulder. "it's my friend thomas blake you should thank." mr. leslie stepped back and eyed blake's impassive face with marked coldness. "your friend blake?" he repeated. "old friend--camp-mate, chum--all over western america and south africa. it's he who's entitled to the credit for the rescue of miss leslie." "we'll talk about your part later. you'll, of course, call on us," said mr. leslie. he fixed his narrowing eyes on blake. "h'm. so you're tom blake--the same one." "that's no lie," replied blake dryly. "you heard me say i'm busy. have no time to-day. i'll give you an appointment for to-morrow, at my office, ten a. m. sharp." "thanks. but you're a bit too previous," said blake. "i haven't asked for any appointment with you that i know of." "but, tom!" exclaimed genevieve, astonished at the hostility in his tone, "of course you'll go. papa wishes to thank you for--for all you've done. to-day, you see, he's so very busy." blake's hard eyes softened before her appealing glance, only to stare back sullenly at her father. "i'm not asking any thanks from him, miss jenny," he replied. the girl caught the arm of her father, who stood glowering irritably at blake. "papa, i--i don't understand why you and tom--couldn't you--won't you please be a little more cordial? wait! i have it!" she flashed an eager glance at blake. "tom, you'll dine with us this evening." he looked at lord james, and replied steadily: "sorry, miss jenny. you know i'd like to come. but i've got a previous engagement." "if i ask you to break it, tom?" "can't do it. i've given my word--worse luck!" "but i do so wish you and papa to come to an understanding." "guess i understand him already; so it's no use to--there now, don't worry. long as you want me to, i'll accept his polite invitation for to-morrow." "ten a.m. sharp!" rasped mr. leslie. he drew genevieve about, and rushed her off, with a curt call to mrs. gantry: "come, amice. dolores brought the coupe. i'll put you in. the maids and baggage can follow in my car. hurry up." genevieve was whirled away into the thick of the crowd, with scarcely time for a parting glance at blake and lord james. mrs. gantry lingered an instant to address the young englishman: "pray do not forget, earl, you are to dine with me." as lord james bowed in polite agreement, ashton, who had been scribbling on one of his cards, held it out. "pardon me, your lordship. here's a list of my favorite clubs. look me up. i'll steer you to all the gay spots in little old chi." "mr. brice-ashton is one of our hustling young grain speculators," explained dolores. "before he went to michamac he almost cornered the market in wild oats." "now, miss dodie!" smirked ashton. "wait! i'll do your elbowing." but the girl was already plunging into the crowd, in the wake of her mother, the maids, and the porters. ashton hastened after, in a vain attempt to overtake her. crowds part easier before a pretty, smiling, fashionably dressed girl than before a foppish young man who affects the french mode. the card with the list of clubs fell from the hand that lord james raised to screw in his monocle. "stow it, jimmy," growled blake. "i feel just prime for smashing that fool window." lord james slipped the monocle into his pocket, and twisted at the end of his short mustache. "don't blame you, old man," he remarked. "her guv'nor _was_ a bit crusty. quite a clever girl that--the cousin--eh?" "miss dolores? she sure is a hummer. doesn't take after her mother; so she's all right," assented blake. he added eagerly, "say, jimmy, she's just the one for you. you're so blondy blonde you need a real brunette to set off your charms." "sorry, tom. saw too much of some one else coming up to aden--and before. shouldn't have to remind you of that." "damn the luck!" swore blake. "well, we've come to the show-down. she's home now; agreement's off." "to-morrow," corrected his friend. "lord! if only you weren't you! i'd knock you clean out of the running!" "rotten luck!" murmured lord james sympathetically. "had it been any other girl, now! but having met her before you did--deuce take it, old man, how could i help it?" "'t ain't your fault, jimmy. you know i don't blame you. i don't forget you began to play fair just as soon as you got next to how matters stood between.--how they stood with me." "couldn't play the cad, you know. i say, though, it's time we talked it all over again. give me your trunk check. i'll have my man send your luggage to my hotel. you're to keep on bunking with me." "no," replied blake. "it was all right, long as we were travelling. now i've got to hunt a hallroom and begin scratching gravel." "but at least until you find a position." "no. i'm sure of something first pop, if old grif is in town. you remember, i once told you all about him--m. f. griffith, my old engineer--man who boosted me from a bum to a transitman. whitest man that ever was! last i heard, he'd located here in chicago as a consulting engineer. he'll give me work, or find it for me; and mollie--that's mrs. grif--she'll board me, if she has to set up a bed in her parlor to do it." "oh, if you're set on chucking me," murmured lord james. "but i'll stay by you till you've looked around. if you don't find your friend, you're to come with me." "must think i need a chaperon," rallied blake in a fond growl. "well, signal your man friday, and we'll run a line to the nearest directory." lord james signed to his valet, who stood near, discreetly observant. on the instant the man stepped forward with his master's hand luggage, and reached down to grasp blake's suitcase, which had been left by one of the porters. but blake was too quick for him. catching up the suitcase himself, he swung away through the crowd and up the broad stairway, to the bureau of information. two minutes later he was copying an address from the city business directory. "got his office o.k.," he informed his friend. "over on dearborn street. next thing's to see if he's in town. shunt your collar-buttoner, and come on. we can walk over inside ten minutes." lord james instructed his valet to take a taxicab to the hotel. he himself proceeded to button up his overcoat from top to bottom and turn up the collar. "your balmy native clime!" he gibed, staring ruefully through the depot windows at the whirling snowstorm without. "if i freeze my grecian nose, you'll have to buy me a wax one." blake chuckled. "remember that night up in the kootenay when the blizzard struck us and we lost the road?" "pleasant time to recall it!" rejoined lord james, with a shiver. "but come on. i'm keen to meet your mr. griffith." chapter vi three of a kind they reached the great office building on dearborn street, red-faced and tingling from the whirling drive of the powdery snow. it was so dry with frost that scarcely a flake clung to their coats when they pushed in through the storm doors. the elevator shot them up to the top floor of the building before they could catch their breath in the close, steam-heated atmosphere. "_whew!_" said blake, stepping out and dropping his suitcase, to shed his english raincoat. "talk about mozambique! guess you know now you're in hammurica, me lud. all the way from the pole to panama in one swing of the street door." "what was your friend's number?" asked lord james, eying the doors across the corridor. "seventeen-fifteen. must be down this way," answered blake. catching up his suitcase, he led around to the rear corner of the building. at the end of the side hall they came to a door marked "no. ." on the frosted glass below the number there was painted in plain black letters a modest sign: m. f. griffith, c. e. consulting engineer blake led the way in and across to the plain table-desk where a young clerk was checking up a surveyor's field book. "hello," said blake. "mr. griffith in?" "why, yes, he's in. but i think he's busy," replied the clerk, starting to rise. "i'll see. what business?" "don't bother, sonny," said blake. "we'll just step in and sit down." the clerk stared, but resumed his seat, while blake crossed to the door marked "private," and motioned lord james to follow him in. when they entered, a lank, gray-haired man sat facing them at a table-desk as plain as the clerk's. it was covered with drawings, over which the veteran engineer was poring with such intentness that he failed to perceive his callers. "hello! what's up now?" asked blake in a casual tone. "going to bridge behring straits?" "hey?" demanded the worker, glancing up with an abstracted look. his dark eyes narrowed as he took in the trim figure of the earl and blake's english cap and tweeds. but at sight of blake's face he shoved back his chair and came hurrying around the end of the desk, his thin dry face lighted by a rare smile of friendship. he warily caught the tip of blake's thick fingers in his bony clasp. "well! i'll be--switched!" he croaked. "what you doing here, tommy? thought we'd got rid of you for good." "guess you'll have to lump it," rejoined blake. "i'm here with both feet, and i want a job--p-d-q. first, though, i want you to shake hands with my friend, jimmy scarbridge--hold on! wait a second." he drew himself up pompously, and bowed to lord james in burlesque mimicry of mrs. gantry. "aw, beg pawdon, m'lud. er--the--aw--right hon'able the--aw--earl of avondale: i present--aw--mistah griffith." "chuck it! the original's enough and to spare," cut in his lordship. he turned to griffith with unaffected cordiality. "glad to meet one of tom's other friends, mr. griffith." "the only other," added blake. "then i'm still gladder!" said lord james, gripping the bony hand of griffith. "don't let tom chaff you. my name's just scarbridge--james scarbridge." "owh, me lud! himpossible!" gasped blake. "and your papa a juke!" at sight of griffith's upcurving eyebrows, lord james smiled resignedly and explained: "quite true--as to his grace, y'know. but i assure you that even in england i am legally only a commoner. it's only by courtesy--custom, you know--that i'm given my father's second title." "that's all right, mr. scarbridge," assured griffith, in turn. "glad to meet you. have a seat." while the callers drew up chairs for themselves, he returned to his seat and hauled out a box of good cigars. blake helped himself and passed the box to lord james. griffith took out an old pipe and proceeded to load it with rank durham. "well?" he croaked, as he handed over a match-box. "what's the good word, tommy?" "haven't you heard?" replied blake. "i'm a hero, the real live article,--t. blake, c. e. h. e., r. o.--oh!" "no joshing, you injin," admonished griffith, pausing with a lighted match above the bowl of his pipe. lord james gazed reproachfully at the grinning blake. "he tries to belittle it, mr. griffith, but it's quite true. haven't you seen about it in the press?" "too busy over this arizona dam," said griffith, jerking his pipe towards the drawings on his desk. "what dam?" demanded blake, bending forward, keenly alert. "zariba--big arizona irrigation project. simple as a, b, c, except the dam itself. that has stumped half a dozen of the best men. promoters are giving me a try at it now. but i'm beginning to think i've bitten off more 'n i can chew." "you?" said blake incredulously. "yes, me. when it comes to applying what's in the books, i'm not so worse. you know that, tommy. but this proposition--only available dam site is across a stretch of bottomless bog, yet it's got to hold a sixty-five foot head of water." "je-ru-salem!" whistled blake. "say, you've sure got to give me a shy at that, grif. it can't be worked out--that's a cinch. just the same, i'd like to fool with the proposition." griffith squinted at the younger engineer through his pipe smoke, and grunted: "guess i'll _have_ to let you try, if you're set on it." he nodded to lord james. "you know how much use it is bucking against tommy. the boys used to call him a mule. they were half wrong. that half is bulldog." "aw, come off!" put in blake. "you know it's just because i hate to quit." "that's straight. you're no quitter. shouldn't wonder if you held on to this dam problem till you swallowed it." "stow the kidding," said blake, embarrassed. "i'm giving it to you straight. this dam has made a lot of good ones quit. i'm about ready to quit, myself. but i'll be--switched if i don't think you'll make a go of it, tommy." "in your eye!" "no." griffith took out his pipe and fixed an earnest gaze on blake. "i'm not one to slop over. you know that. i can put it all over you in mathematics--in everything that's in the books. so can a hundred or more men in this country. just the same, there's something--you've got something in you that ain't in the books." "whiskey?" suggested blake, with bitter self-derision. "tom!" protested lord james. "what's the use of lying about it?" muttered blake. "you've no whiskey in you now," rejoined griffith. "i'm talking about what you are now,--what you've got in your head. it's brains." "pickled in alcohol!" added blake, more bitterly than before. "that's a lie, and you know it, tommy. you're not yet on the shelf--not by a long sight." blake grinned sardonically at lord james. "hear that, jimmy? never take the guess of an engineer. they're no good at guessing. it's not in the business." "chuck it. you know you've got something worth fighting for now." "lots of chance i'll have to win out against you!" blake's teeth ground together on his unlighted cigar. he jerked it from his mouth and flung it savagely into the wastebasket. but the violent movement discharged the tension of his black humor. "lord! what a grouch i am!" he mumbled. "guess i'm in for a go at the same old thing." griffith and lord james exchanged a quick glance, and the former hastened to reply: "don't you believe it, tommy. don't talk about _my_ guessing. you're steady as a rock, and you're going to keep steady. you're on the zariba dam now,--understand?" "it's a go!" cried blake, his eyes glowing. "that fixes me. you know my old rule: not a drop of anything when i'm on a job. only one thing more, and i'm ready to pitch in. i must get mollie to put me up." griffith looked down, his teeth clenching on the pipe stem. there was a moment's pause. then he replied in a tone more than ever dry and emotionless: "guess my last letter didn't reach you. i lost her, a year ago--typhoid." "god!" murmured blake. he bent forward and gripped his friend's listless hand. griffith winced under the sympathetic clasp, turned his face away, coughed, and rasped out: "work's the one thing in the world, tommy. always believed it. i've proved it this year. work! beats whiskey any day for making you forget ... i've got rooms here. you'll bunk with me. pretty fair restaurant down around the corner." "it's a go," said blake. he nodded to lord james. "that lets you out, jimmy." "out in the cold," complained his lordship. "what! with mamma gantry waiting to present you to the upper crust?--i mean, present the crust to you." "best part of the pie is under the crust." "now, now, none of that, jimmy boy. you're not the sort to take in the town with a made-in-france thing like that young ashton." "ashton?" queried griffith. "you don't mean laffie ashton?" "he was down at the depot to give our party the glad hand." "your party?" repeated griffith. he saw blake wink at lord james, and thought he understood. "i see. he knows mr. scarbridge, eh? it's like him, dropping his work and running down here, when he ought to stick by his bridge." "his bridge?" asked blake. "say, he did blow about having landed the michamac bridge. but of course that's all hot air. he didn't even take part in the competition. besides, you needn't tell me he's anything more than a joke as an engineer." "isn't he, though? after you pulled out the last time--after the competition,--he put in plans and got the michamac bridge." "you're joking!" cried blake. "he got it?--that _gent!_" "you'll remember that all who took part in the competition failed on the long central span," said griffith. "no!" contradicted blake. "_i_ didn't. i tell you, it was just as i wrote you i'd do. i worked out a new truss modification. i'd have sworn my cantilever was the only one that could span michamac strait." "and then to have your plans lost!" put in griffith with keen sympathy beneath his dry croak. "hell! that bridge would have landed you at the top of the ladder in one jump." "losing those plans landed me on a brake-beam, after my worst spree ever," muttered blake. "don't wonder," said griffith. "what gets me, though, is the way this young ashton, this lily-white lallapaloozer of a kid-glove c. e., came slipping in with his plans less than a month after the contest. i looked up the records." "what were you doing, digging into that proposition?" demanded blake. "what d' you suppose? ashton was slick enough to get an ironclad contract as resident engineer. his bridge plans are a wonder, but he's proved himself n. g. on construction work. has to be told how to build his own bridge. i'm on as consulting engineer." "you?" growled blake. "you, working again for h. v. leslie!" "give the devil his due, tommy. he's sharp as tacks, but if you've got his name to a straightforward contract--" "after he threw us down on the q. t. survey?" griffith coughed and hesitated. "well--now--look here, tommy, you're not the kind to hold a grudge. anyway, the bridge was turned over to the coville construction company." he turned quickly to lord james. "say, what's that about his being in the papers? if it's anything to his credit, put me next, won't you? i couldn't pry it out of him with a crow-bar." "so you're going to use a jimmy instead, eh?" countered blake. "right-o, tammas," said lord james. "we're going to open up the incident out of hand." "lord!" groaned blake. he rose, flushing with embarrassment, and swung across, to stare at a blueprint in the far corner of the room. lord james flicked the ash from his cigar with his little finger, and smiled at griffith. "tom and i had been knocking around quite a bit, you know," he began. "fetched up in south africa. american engineers in demand on the rand. tom was asked to manage a mine." "he could do it," commented griffith. "was two years on a low-grade proposition in colorado--made it pay dividends. didn't he suit the rand people?" "better than they suited him, i take it. i left for a run home. week before i arrived a servant looted the family jewels--heirlooms, all that, you know--chap named hawkins. thought i'd play sherlock holmes. learned that my man had booked passage for india. traced him to calcutta. lost two months; found he'd doubled back and gone to the cape. cape town, found he'd booked passage for england under his last alias--winthrope. steamer list also showed names of my friend lady bayrose, miss leslie, and tom." "hey?" ejaculated griffith, opening his narrowed eyes a line. "same time, learned the steamer had been posted as lost, somewhere between port natal and zanzibar." "crickey!" gasped griffith. "then it was tom who pulled h. v.'s daughter--miss leslie--through that deal! heard all about it from h. v. himself, when he took me out to arizona to look over this zariba dam proposition. but he didn't name the man. well, i'll be--switched! tommy sure did land in high society that time!" "they landed in the primitive, so to speak,--he and miss leslie and hawkins,--when the cyclone flung them ashore in the swamps." "hawkins? didn't you just say--" "rather a grim joke, was it not? every soul aboard drowned except those three--tom and miss leslie and hawkins, of all men!" "bet tommy shook your family jewels out of his pockets mighty sudden." lord james lost his smile. "he got them, later on, when the fellow--died." "died? how?" "fever--another cyclone." "eh? well, god's country is good enough for me. those tropical holes sure are hell. tommy once wrote me about one of the central american ports. you. don't ever catch me south of the u. s. this east african proposition, now? must have been a tough deal even for tommy." "they were doing well enough when i found him, both he and miss leslie,--skin clothes, poisoned arrows, house in a tree hollow--all that, y'know." "well, i'll be--! but that's tommy, for sure. he's got the kind of brains that get there. if he can't buck through a proposition, he'll triangulate around it. go on." "there's not much to tell, i fancy, now that you know he was the man. you're aware that, had it not been for his resourcefulness and courage, miss leslie would have perished in that savage land of wild beasts and fever. yet there _is_ something more than you could have heard from her father, something i'm not free to tell about. wish i was, 'pon my word, i do! finest thing he ever did,--something even _we_ would not have expected of him." "dunno 'bout that," qualified griffith. "there's mighty little i don't expect of him--if only he can cut out the lushing." lord james twisted his mustache. "ever think of him as wearing a dress suit, mr. griffith?" griffith looked blank. "tommy?--in a dress suit!" "there's one in his box. when we landed in england i took him down to ruthby. kept him there a month. you'd have been jolly well pleased to see the way he and the guv'nor hit it off." "governor?" "yes, my pater--father, y' know." "so he's a governor? then tommy was stringing me about the earl and duke business." "oh, no, no, indeed, no. the pater is the duke of ruthby, seventh in the line, and twenty-first earl of avondale; but he's a crack-up jolly old chap, i assure you. not all our titled people are of the kind you see most of over here in the states." "but--hold on--if your father is a real duke, then you're not mr.--" "yes, i must insist upon that. even in england i am only mr. scarbridge--legally, y' know. hope you'll do me the favor of remembering i prefer it that way." "i'd do a whole lot for any man _he_ calls his friend," said griffith, gazing across at blake's broad back. lord james glanced at his watch, and rose. "sorry. must go." "well, if you must," said griffith. "you know the way here now. drop in any time you feel like it. rooms are always open. if i'm busy, i've got a pretty good technical library--if you're interested in engineering,--and some photographs of scenery and construction work. took 'em myself." "thanks. i'll come," responded lord james. he nodded cordially, and turned to call slangily to blake: "s' long, bo. i'm on my way." blake wheeled about from the wall. "what's this? not going already?" "ah, to be sure. pressing engagement. must give wilton time to attire me--those studied effects--last artistic touches, don't y' know," chaffed the englishman. but his banter won no responsive smile from his friend. blake's face darkened. "you're not going to see her to-day," he muttered. "how could you think it, tom?" reproached the younger man, flushing hotly. "i have it! we'll extend the agreement until noon to-morrow. you have that appointment with her father in the morning." "that's square! just like you, jimmy. course i knew you'd play fair--it's only my grouch. i remember now. madam g. gave you a bid to dine with her." lord james drew out his monocle, replaced it, and smiled. "er--quite true; but possibly the daughter may be a compensation." "sure," assented blake, a trifle too eagerly, "you're bound to like miss dolores. i sized her up for a mighty fine girl. not at all like her mamma--handsome, lively young lady--just your style, jimmy." "can't see it, old man. sorry!" replied his lordship. "good-day. good-day, mr. griffith." chapter vii the hero explains for half a minute after his titled friend had bowed himself out, blake stood glowering at the door. the sharp crackle of a blueprint under the thrumming fingers of griffith caused him to start from his abstraction and cross to the desk, where he dropped heavily into his former seat. "well?" demanded griffith. "out with it." "with what?" "you called him your friend. he's a likely-looking youngster, even if he _is_ the son of a duke. same time, there's something in the wind. cough it up. haven't happened to smash any heads or windows, have you, while you were--" "no!" broke in blake harshly. "it's worse than that, ten times worse! it's--it's jenny--miss leslie!" griffith's thin lips puckered in a soundless whistle. "well, i'll be--! don't tell me you've gone and--why, you never cared a rap for girls." "no, but this time, grif--it began when i showed her through that rand mine. jimmy has told you what followed." griffith blinked, and discreetly said nothing as to what lie had heard from miss leslie's father. "h'm. i'd like to hear it all, straight from you." "can't now. too long a yarn. i want to tell you about the results. couldn't do it to any one else," explained blake, blushing darkly under his thick layer of tropical tan. he sought to beat around the bush. "well, i proved myself fit to survive in that environment, tough as it was--sort of cave-man's hell. queer thing, though, jenny--miss leslie--proved fit, too; that is, she did after right at the start. she's got a headpiece, and _grit!_" "takes after her dad," suggested griffith. "him!" "as to the brains and grit." "not in anything else, though. they're no more alike than garlic and roses." "getting poetic, eh?" cackled griffith. "don't laugh, grif. it's too serious a matter. i'd do anything in the world for her. she's the truest, grittiest girl alive. she told me straight out, there at the last, that she--she loved me." "crickey!" ejaculated griffith. "she told you that?--she?--miss--" "hush! not so loud!" cautioned blake. again the color deepened in his bronzed cheeks. his pale eyes shone very blue and soft. "it was when we heard the siren of jimmy's steamer. she--you'll forget this, grif? never whisper a hint of it?" "sure! what you take me for?" "well, she wouldn't agree to wait. wanted to be married as soon as we got aboard ship." "she--!" griffith lacked breath even for an expletive. "i agreed. couldn't help it, with her looking at me that way. then we went down around through the cleft to the shore, where the boat was pulling in. well, there was jimmy in the sternsheets, in a white yachting suit--me with my hyena pants, and jenny in her leopard-skin dress!" "say, you _were_ doing the crusoe business!" cackled griffith. "it shook me out of my dream all right, soon as i set eyes on jimmy. i waded out with--miss leslie, and put her into the boat. told him to hurry her aboard. i cut back to the cleft--the place where we'd been staying." "off your head, eh?" "no. don't you see? i had to save jenny. i had proved myself a pretty good cave-man, and she had been living so close to that sort of thing that she had lost her perspective. wasn't fair to her to let her tie herself up to me till she'd first had a chance to size me up with the men of her class." "you mean to say you passed up your chance?" "i'd have been a blackguard to 've let her marry me then!" cried blake, his eyes flashing angrily. he checked himself, and went on in a monotone: "i waited till jimmy came back to fetch me. course i had to explain the situation. asked him to pull out without me, and send down a boat from port mozambique. no go. finally we fixed it up for me to slip aboard into the forecastle." "well, i'll be--switched!" croaked griffith. "you did that, to escape marrying the daughter of a multi-millionaire!" "it would have been the same if she'd been poor, grif. she's a lady, through and through, and i--i love her! god! how i love her!" "guess that's no lie," commented griffith in his dryest tone. blake relaxed the grip that seemed to be crushing the arms of his chair. "well, i went aboard and kept under cover. jimmy managed to keep her diverted till we put into port mozambique. there i sent a note aft to her, letting on that i had already landed, and swearing that i was going to steer clear of her until after she got back to her father. but i kept aboard, in the forecastle, as jimmy had made me promise to do. at aden, jimmy put her on a p. and o. liner in the care of a friend of his, lady chetwynd, who was on her way home to england from india." "he went along, too; leaving you to shift for yourself, eh?" "don't you think it! he had been spending half the time forward with me in that stew-hole of a forecastle. soon as she was safe, i hiked aft and bunked with him. no; jimmy's as square as they make 'em. to prove it--he had met jenny before; greatly taken with her. there on the steamer was the very chance he had been after. but he played fair; didn't try to win her. told me all about it, right at the first, and we came to an agreement. we were both to steer clear of her over on that side. that's why we stuck close to ruthby castle till jenny sailed for home. no; jimmy is white. he had invitations to more than one house-party where she was visiting around with lady chetwynd and madam gantry." "so neither of you have seen her since there at aden?" "yes, we have. came on from new york with her and her aunt. they had stopped over when they landed, and we blundered into them before we could dodge." "and miss leslie? you look glum. guess you got what was coming to you, eh?" blake's face clouded. "haven't seen her apart from her aunt yet. she has been kind but--mighty reserved. i'd give a lot to know whether--" he paused, gripping his chair convulsively. "just the same, i haven't quit. the agreement with jimmy is off to-morrow afternoon. she's had plenty of time for comparisons. i'll make my try then." "don't fash yourself, tom. if she's the sort you say, and went as far as you say, she's not likely to throw you over now." "you don't savvy!" exclaimed blake. "there on that infernal coast i was the real thing--and the only one, at that. here i'm just t. blake, ex-bum, periodic drunkard, all around--" "stow that drivel!" ordered griffith. "what if you were a kid hobo? what are you now?--one of the best engineers in the country; one that's going to make the top in short order. i tell you, you're going to succeed. what's more, mollie said--" "mollie!" repeated blake softly. "say, but wasn't she a booster! had even you beat, hands down. good lord, to think that she, of all the little women--! only thing, typhoid isn't so bad as some things. they don't suffer so much." "yes," assented griffith. "that helps--some--when i get to thinking of it. she went out quietly--wasn't thinking of herself." "she never did!" put in blake, "say, but can't a woman make a heap of difference--when she's the right sort!" "there was a message for you. she said, almost the last thing: 'tell tom not to give up the fight. tell him,' she said, 'he'll win out, i know he'll win out in the end.'" "god!" whispered blake. "she said that?" he bent over and covered his eyes with his hand. griffith averted his head and peered at the blueprints on the nearest wall with unseeing eyes. a full minute passed. keeping his face still averted, he began to tap out the ash and half-smoked tobacco from his pipe. "h'm--guess you'd better work in a room apart," he remarked in a matter-of-fact tone. "too much running in and out here. d' you want to start right off?" "no," muttered blake. he paused and then straightened to face his friend. his eyes were blood-shot but resolute, his face impassive. "no. i'll wait till after to-morrow. big order on for to-morrow morning. appointment to meet h. v." "hey?" "he was down at the depot. you can imagine how effusive he wasn't over my saving his daughter. curse the luck! if only she had had any one else for a father!" "now, now, tommy, don't fly off the handle. you know there are lots of 'em worse than h. v." "none i'm in so hard with. first place, there's that q. t. survey." "that's all smoothed over. he came around all right. just ask for your pay-check. he'll shell out." "i'll ask for interest. ought to have a hundred per cent. i needed the money then mighty bad." "we all did. let it slide. he's her father. you can't afford to buck his game." "i'd do it quick enough if it wasn't for her," rejoined blake. "that's where he's got me. lord! if only he and she weren't--!" blake's teeth clenched on the end of the sentence. "now look here, tommy," protested griffith. "this isn't like you to hold a grudge. it's true h. v. did us dirt on the survey pay. but he gave in, soon as i got a chance to talk it over with him." "'cause he had to have you on the michamac bridge, eh?" demanded blake, his face darkening. "stow it! that may be true, but--didn't i tell you he turned the bridge over to the coville company?" "afraid he'd be found out, eh?" "found out? what do you mean?" "mean!" repeated blake, his voice hoarse with passion. he brought his big fist down upon the desk with the thud of a maul. "mean? listen here! i didn't write it to you--i couldn't believe it then, even of him. but answer me this, if you can. i was fool enough not to send my plans for the bridge competition to him by registered mail; i was fool enough to hand them in to his secretary without asking a receipt. after the contest, i called for my plans. clerk told me he couldn't find them; couldn't find any record that they'd been received. i tell you my plans solved that central span problem. who was it could use my plans?--who were they worth a mint of money to?" griffith stared at his friend, his forehead furrowed with an anxious frown. "see here, tom--this tropical roughing--it must be mighty overtaxing on a man. you didn't happen to have a sunstroke or--" blake's scowl relaxed in an ironical grin. "all right, take it that way, if you want to. he let on he thought i was trying to blackmail him." "crickey! you don't mean to say you--" "didn't get a chance to see him that time. just sent in a polite note asking for my plans. he sent out word by his private-detective office-boy that if i called again he'd have me run in." "and now you come back with this dotty pipe-dream that he knows what became of your plans! take my advice. think it all you want, if that does you any good; but keep your head closed--keep it closed! first thing he'd do would be to look up the phone number of the nearest asylum." "i'd like to see him do it," replied blake. he shook his head dubiously. "that's straight, grif. i'd like to see him do it. i can't forget he's her father. if only i could be sure he hadn't a finger in the disappearance of those plans--well, you can guess how i feel about it." "you're dotty to think it a minute. he's a money-grubber--as sharp as some others. but he wouldn't do a thing like that. don't you believe it!" "wish i'd never thought of it--he's her father. but it's been growing on me. i handed them in to his secretary, that young dude, ashton." "ashton? there you've hit on a probability," argued griffith. "of all the heedless, inefficient papa's boys, he takes the cake! he wasn't h. v.'s secretary except in name. wine, women, sports, and gambling--nothing else under his hat. always had a mess on his desk. ten to one, he got your package mixed in the litter, and shoved all together into his wastebasket." "i'll put it up to him!" growled blake. "what's the use? he couldn't remember a matter of business over night, to save him." "lord! i sweat blood over those plans! it was hard enough to enter a competition put up by h. v., but it was the chance of a lifetime for me. why, if only i'd known in time that they were lost, i'd have put in my scratch drawings and won on _them_. i tell you, grif, that truss was something new." "oh, no, there's no inventiveness, no brains in your head, oh, no!" rallied griffith. "wait till you make good on this zariba dam." "you just bet i'll make a stagger at it!" cried blake. his eyes shone bright with the joy of work,--and as suddenly clouded with renewed moroseness. "i'll be working for you, though," he qualified. "i don't take any jobs from h. v. leslie--not until that matter of the bridge plans is cleared up." chapter viii flint and steel at three minutes to ten the following morning blake entered the doorway of the mammoth international industrial company building. at one minute to ten he was facing the outermost of the guards who fenced in the private office of h. v. leslie, capitalist. "your business, sir? mr. leslie is very busy, sir." "he told me to call this morning," explained blake. "step in, sir, please." blake entered, and found himself in a well-remembered waiting-room, in company with a dozen or more visitors. he swung leisurely across to the second uniformed doorkeeper. "business?" demanded this attendant with a brusqueness due perhaps to his closer proximity to the great man. blake answered without the flicker of a smile: "i'm a civil engineer, if you want to know." "your business here?" "none that concerns you," rejoined blake. his eyes fixed upon the man with a cold steely glint that visibly disconcerted him. but the fellow had been in training for years. he replied promptly, though in a more civil tone: "if you do not wish to state your business to me, sir, you'll have to wait until--" "no, i won't have to wait until," put in blake. "your boss told me to call at ten sharp." "in that case, of course--your name, please." "blake." the man slipped inside, closing the door behind him. he was gone perhaps a quarter of a minute. when he reappeared, he held the door half open for blake. "step in, sir," he said. "mr. leslie can spare you fifteen minutes." blake looked the man up and down coolly. "see here," he replied, "just you trot back and tell mr. h. v. leslie i'm much obliged for his favoring me with an appointment, but long as he's so rushed, i'll make him a present of his blessed quarter-hour." "my land, sir!" gasped the doorkeeper. "i can't take such a message to _him_!" "suit yourself," said blake, deliberately drawing a cigar from his vest pocket and biting off the tip. this time the man was gone a full half-minute. he eyed blake with respectful curiosity as he swung the door wide open and announced: "mr. leslie asks you to come in, sir." as the door closed softly behind him, blake stared around the bare little room into which he had been shown. he was looking for the third guardian of the sanctum,--the great man's private secretary. but the room was empty. without pausing, he crossed to the door in the side wall and walked aggressively into the private office of genevieve's father. mr. leslie sat at a neat little desk, hurriedly mumbling into the trumpet of a small phonograph. "moment!" he flung out sideways, and went on with his mumbling. blake swung around one of the heavy leather-seated chairs with a twist of his wrist, and drew out a silver matchsafe. as he took out a match, mr. leslie touched a spring that stopped the whirring mechanism of the phonograph, and wheeled around in his swivel desk-chair. "dictate on wax," he explained. "cuts out stenographer. any clerk can typewrite. no mislaid stenographer's notes; no mistakes. well, you're nearly on time." "sharp at the door, according to your waiting-room clock," said blake, striking the match on his heel. "good--punctuality. first point you score. now, what do you expect to get out of me?" blake held the match to his cigar with deliberate care, blew it out, and flipped it into the wastebasket, with the terse answer: "just _that_ much." the other's bushy eyebrows came down over the keen eyes. for a full minute the two stared, the man of business seeking to pierce with his narrowed glance blake's hard, open gaze. the failure of his attempt perhaps irritated him beyond discretion. at any rate, his silent antagonism burst out in an explosion of irascibility. "needn't tell me your game, young man," he rasped. "you think, because you were alone with my daughter, you can force me to pay hush money." blake rose to his feet with a look in his eyes before which mr. leslie shrank back and cringed. "wait! sit down! sit down! i--i didn't mean that!" he exclaimed. blake drew in a deep breath and slowly sat down again. he said nothing, but puffed hard at his cigar. mr. leslie rebounded from panic to renewed irascibility. "h'm! so you're one of that sort. i might have foreseen it." blake looked his indifference. "all right. that's the safety-valve. blow off all the steam you want to through it. only don't try the other again. you're her father, and that gives you a big vantage. any one else have said what you did, he wouldn't have had the chance to take it back." "do you mean to threaten me?" "i've smashed men for less." "you look the part." "it's not the part of a lickspittle." "look here, young man. as the man who happened to save the life of my daughter--" "suppose we leave her out of this palaver," suggested blake. "unfortunately, that is impossible. it is solely owing to the obligations under which your service to her have put me that i--" "that you're willing to let me come in here and listen to your pleasant conversation," broke in blake ironically. "well, let me tell you, i'm some busy myself these days. just now i'm out collecting one of your past-due obligations, i've heard you admit you owe for that first q. t. railroad survey." "there was no legal claim on me. i conceded the point at the request of mr. griffith." "had to hire him, eh? best consulting engineer in the city. and he held out for a settlement," rallied blake. "you were one of the party?" "transitman." "then apply to my auditor. he has your pay-check waiting for you." "how about interest? it's two years over-due." "i never allow interest on such accounts." blake took out his cigar and looked at his antagonist, his jaw out-thrust. "if i had a million, i wouldn't mind spending it to make you pay that interest." "you could spend twice that, and then not get it," snapped mr. leslie. "you'll soon find out i can't be driven, young man. on the other hand--how big a position do you think you could fill?" "quien sabe?" "see here. you've put me under obligations. i'd rather it had been any other man than you--" "ditto on you!" rejoined blake. the blow struck a shower of flinty sparks from mr. leslie's narrowed eyes. "you'll do well to be more conciliatory, young man," he warned. "conciliatory? _bah!_" "didn't take you for a fool." "well, you won't take me in for one," countered blake. "you seem determined to hurt your own interests. unfortunately you've put me in your debt--an obligation i must pay in full." "why not get a receiver appointed, and reorganize?" gibed blake. "that's one of the ways you dodge obligations, isn't it?" mr. leslie's wrinkled face quickly turned red, and from red to purple. he thrust a quivering finger against a push-button. blake grinned exultantly and picked up his hat. "don't bother your bouncer," he remarked in a cheerful tone. "i don't need any invitation to leave." the tall doorkeeper stepped alertly into the room, but turned back on the instant at sight of his master's repellent gesture. "mistake," snapped mr. leslie, and as the man disappeared, he turned to blake. "wait! don't go yet." blake was rising to his feet. he paused, considered, and resumed his seat. mr. leslie had regained his normal color and his composure. he put his finger-tips together, and jerked out in his usual incisive tone: "i propose to liquidate this obligation to you without delay. would you prefer a cash payment?" "no." again blake set his jaw. "you couldn't settle with me for cash, not even if you overdrew your bank account." "nonsense!" snapped mr. leslie. he studied the young man's resolute face, and asked impatiently, "well--what?" "can't you get it into your head?" rejoined blake. "i'm not asking for any pay for what i did." "what, then? if not a money reward--i see. you're perhaps ambitious. you want to make a name in your profession." "ever know an engineer that didn't?" "i see. i'll arrange to give you a position that--" "thanks," broke in blake dryly. "wait till i ask you for a job." "what are you going to do?--loaf?" "that's my business." mr. leslie again studied blake's face. though accustomed to read men at a glance, he was baffled by the engineer's inscrutable calm. "you nearly always win at poker," he stated. "used to," confirmed blake. "cut it out, though. a gambler is a fool. more fun in a nickel earned than a dollar made at play or speculating." "so! you're one of these socialist cranks." blake laughed outright. "it's the cranks that make the world go 'round! no; i've been too busy boosting for number one--like you--to let myself think of the other fellow. the trouble with that crazy outfit is they want to set you to working for the people, instead of working the people. no; i've steered clear of them. 'fraid i might get infected with altruism. like you, i'm a born anarchist--excuse me!--individualist. what would become of those who have the big interests of the country at heart if they didn't have the big interests in hand?" mr. leslie ignored the sarcasm. "either you're a fool, or you're playing a deep game. it occurs to me you may have heard that my daughter has money in her own right." "three million, she said," assented blake. "she told you!" "guess she told me more than she seems to have told you." "about what?" "ask her." mr. leslie's eyes narrowed to thin slits. "her aunt wrote me that she suspected you had the effrontery to--aspire to my daughter's hand. i couldn't believe it possible." "that so?" said blake with calm indifference. mr. leslie started as though stung. "it's true, then! you--you!--" he choked with rage. "i thought that would reach you," commented blake. "you rascal! you blackguard!" spluttered mr. leslie. "so that's your game? you know she's an heiress! think you have the whip-handle--bleed me or force her to marry you!--alone with her after the other man--! you--you scoundrel! you blackguard! i'll--" "shut up!" commanded blake, his voice low-pitched and hoarse, his face white to the lips. for the second time during the interview mr. leslie cringed before his look. his pale eyes were like balls of white-hot steel. slowly the glare faded from blake's eyes, and the color returned to his bronzed face. he relaxed his fists. "god!" he whispered huskily. "god! ... but you're her father!" something in his tone compelled conviction, despite mr. leslie's bitter prejudice. he jerked out reluctantly: "i'm not so sure--perhaps i spoke too--too hastily. but--the indications--" "needn't try to apologize," growled blake. "i'll not--in words. how about a twenty-five-thousand-dollar position?" "what?" demanded blake, astonished. "that, as a beginning. if you prove yourself the kind of man i think you are,--the kind that can learn to run a railroad system,--i'll push you up the line to a hundred thousand, besides chances to come in on stock deals with george ashton and myself." "but if you think i'm a--" "you're the only man that ever outfaced me in my own office. i'll chance the rest,--though i had your record looked up as soon as your name was cabled to me. i know not only who you are but _what_ you are." blake bent forward, frowning. "i've stood about enough of this." "wait," said mr. leslie. "i'm not going to drag that in. i mention it only that you will understand without argument why my offer is based on the condition that you at once and for all time give over your ridiculous idea of becoming my son-in-law." "you--mean--that--?" "that i'd rather see my daughter in her grave than married to you. is that plain enough? you're a good engineer--when you're not a _drunkard_." for a moment blake sat tense and silent. then he replied steadily: "i haven't touched a drop of drink since that steamer piled up on that coral reef." "three months, at the outside," rejoined mr. leslie. "you've been known to go half a year. but always--" "yes, always before this try," said blake. "it's different, though, now, with the backing of two such--ladies!" "two?" queried mr. leslie sharply. "one's dead," replied blake with simple gravity. "h'm. i--it's possible i've misjudged you in some things. but this question of drink--i'll risk backing you in a business way, if it costs me a million. i owe you that much. but i won't risk my daughter's happiness--supposing you had so much as a shadow of a chance of winning her. no! you saved her life. you shall have no chance whatever to make her miserable. but i'll give you opportunities--i'll put you on the road to making your own millions." blake raised his cigar and flecked off the ash. "_that_ for your damned millions!" he swore. mr. leslie stared and muttered to himself: "might have known it! man of that kind. crazy fool!" "fool?" repeated blake contemptuously. "just because money is _your_ god, you needn't think it's everybody else's. you--money--hog! you think i'd sell out my chance of winning _her!_" "you have no chance, sir! the thought of such a thing is absurd--ridiculous!" "well, then, why don't you laugh? no; you hear me. if i knew i didn't have one chance in a million, i'd tell you to take your offer and--" "now, now! make no rash statements. i'm offering you, to begin with, a twenty-five-thousand-dollar position, and your chance to acquire a fortune, if you--" blake's smouldering anger flared out in white heat. "think you can bribe me, do you? well, you can just take your positions and your dollars, and go clean, plumb to hell!" "that will do, sir!--that will do!" gasped mr. leslie, shocked almost beyond speech. "no, it won't do, mr. h. v. leslie!" retorted blake. "i'm not one of your employees, to throw a fit when you put on the heavy pedal, and i'm not one of the lickspittles that are always _baa-ing_ around the golden calf. you've had your say. now i'll have mine. to begin with, let me tell you, i don't need your positions or your money. griffith has given me work. i'm working for him, not you. understand?" "you are? he's my consulting engineer." "that cuts no ice. i'm doing some work for him--for _him_; understand? it's not for you. he gave me the job--not you. after what you've said to me here, i wouldn't take a _hundred_-thousand-dollar job from you, not if i was walking around on my uppers. understand?" "but--but-" blake's anger burst out in volcanic rage. "that's it, straight! i don't want your jobs or your money. they're dirty! you've looked up my record, have you? how about your own? how about the michamac bridge? griffith says the coville company has taken it over; but you started it--you called for plans--you advertised a competition. where are my plans?--you!" mr. leslie shrank back before the enraged engineer. "calm yourself, mr. blake!" he soothed in a quavering voice. "calm yourself! this illusion of yours about lost plans--" "illusion?" cried blake. "when i handed them in myself to your secretary--that dude, ashton." mr. leslie sat up, keenly alert. "to him? you say you handed in a set of bridge plans to my former secretary?" "he wasn't a _former_ secretary then." "to young ashton, at that time my secretary. where was it?" "in there," muttered blake, jerking his thumb towards the empty anteroom. "i had to butt in to get even that far." "why didn't you show your receipt when you applied for your plans?" "hadn't a receipt." "you didn't take a receipt?" "and after that q. t. survey, too!" thrust blake. "i sure did play the fool, didn't i? but i was all up in the air over the way i had worked out that central span, and didn't think of anything but the committee you'd appointed to pass on the competing plans. those judges were all right. i knew they'd be square." "sure you had any plans? where's your proof?" demanded mr. leslie with a shrewdness that won a sarcastic grin from blake. "don't fash yourself," he jeered. "you're safe--legally. of course my scratch copy of them went down in the steamer. the fact i wrote griffith about them before the contest wouldn't cut any ice--with your lawyers across the table from any i could afford to hire." "griffith knows about your plans?" "didn't get a chance to show them to him. all he knows is i wrote him i was drawing them to compete for the bridge--which of course was part of my plan to blackmail you," gibed blake. he rose, with a look that was almost good-humored. "well, guess we're through swapping compliments. i won't take up any of your valuable time discussing the weather." with shrewd eyes blinking uneasily under their shaggy brows, mr. leslie watched his visitor cross towards the door. the engineer walked firmly and resolutely, with his head well up, yet without any trace of swagger or bravado. as he reached for the doorknob, mr. leslie bent forward and called in an irritable tone: "wait! i want to tell you--" "excuse _me!_ my time's too valuable," rejoined blake, and he swung out of the room. mr. leslie sat for a few moments with his forehead creased in intent thought. he roused, to touch a button with an incisive thrust of his finger. to the clerk who came hastening in he ordered tersely: "phone griffith--appointment nine-fifteen to-morrow. important." chapter ix plays for position about three o'clock of the same day a smart electric _coupe_ whirled up lake shore drive under a rattling fusillade of sleet from over the lake. at the entrance of the grounds of the leslie mansion it curved around and shot in under the _porte cochere._ a footman in the quiet dark green and black of the leslie livery sprang out to open the _coupe_ door, while the footman with the _coupe_, whose livery was not so quiet, swung down to hand out the occupants. before the servant could offer his services, dolores gantry darted out past him and in through the welcome doorway of the side entrance. her mother followed with stately leisure, regardless of a wind-flung dash of sleet on her sealskins. having been relieved of their furs, the callers were shown to the drawing-room. as the footman glided away to inform his mistress of their arrival, dolores danced across to the door of the rear drawing-room and called in a clear, full-throated, contralto voice: "ho, vievie! vievie! you in here? hurry up! there's something i do so want to tell you." mrs. gantry paused in the act of seating herself. "dolores! why must you shriek out like a magpie? will you never forget you're a tomboy?" "i'm not, mamma. i'm simply acting as if i were one. you forget i'm a full-blown _debutante_. vievie has already promised me a ball." "behave yourself, if you wish to attend it." dolores jumped to a chair and sank into it with an air of elegant languor. "yes, mamma. this--ah--driving in moist weather is so fatiguing, don't you find it?" mrs. gantry disposed herself upon the comfortable seat that she had selected, and raised her gold lorgnette. "do not forget that the ball genevieve has so generously promised you is to be honored by the presence--" "of a real live earl and a real hero, with laffie ashton thrown in for good--i mean, bad--measure!" cut in dolores with enthusiasm. "you know, i asked vievie to 'put him on her list, else he never may be kissed!'" again mrs. gantry raised her lorgnette to transfix her daughter with her cold stare. "_you_ asked her to invite lafayette ashton? and you know his reputation!" "of course. but you mustn't ask for the details, mamma," reproved the girl. "it's best that you should not become aware of such things, my dear. only, you know, 'boys will be boys,' and we must not lose sight of the fact that poor dear laffie will be worth twenty millions some day--if his papa doesn't make a will. besides, he dances divinely. of course earl jimmy's mustache is simply too cute for anything, but, alas! unless vievie clings to her heroic tommy--" "tommyrot!" sniffed mrs. gantry. "the presumption of that low fellow! to think of his following her to america!" "you should have forewarned the authorities at ellis island, and had him excluded as dangerous--to your plans." "no more of this frivolity! i've confided to you that that man is dangerous to genevieve's happiness. i'll not permit it. what a fortunate chance that the earl came with him! i shall see to it that genevieve becomes a countess." dolores pulled a mock-tragic face. "oh, mamma," she implored, "why don't you root for me, instead? i'm sure a coronet would fit me to perfection, and his mustache is _so_ cute!" to judge by mrs. gantry's expression, it was fortunate for her daughter that genevieve came in upon them. dolores divined this last from the sudden mellowing of her mother's face. she whirled up out of her chair and around, with a cry of joyous escape: "oh, vievie! you're just in time to save me!" "from what, dear?" asked genevieve, smilingly permitting herself to be crumpled in an impetuous embrace. "mamma was just going to run the steam-roller over me, simply because i said jimmy's mustache is cute. it _is_ cute, isn't it?" "'jimmy'?" inquired genevieve, moving to a chair beside mrs. gantry. "his honorable earlship, then--since mamma is with us." "you may leave the room," said her mother. "i may," repeated the girl. she pirouetted up the room and stopped to look at a painting of a desolate tropical coast. "it's such a dreadful day out, aunt amice," said genevieve. "and you can't be rested from the trip." "quite true, my dear," agreed mrs. gantry. "but i had to see you--to talk matters over with you. i did not wish to break in on your enjoyment of those delightful english house parties; and crossing over, you know, i was too wretchedly ill to think of anything. can i never get accustomed to the sea!" "it's so unfortunate," condoled genevieve. "i believe i'm a born sailor." "you proved it, starting off with that globe-trotting lady bayrose." "poor lady bayrose! to think that she--" the girl pressed her hands to her eyes. "the way that frightful breaker whirled the boat loose and over and over!--and the water swarming with sharks!" "do not think of it, my dear! really, you must not think of it!" urged mrs. gantry. "be thankful it happened before the sailors had time to put you in the same boat. better still, my dear, do not permit yourself to think of it at all. put all that dreadful experience out of your mind." "but you do not understand, aunt amice. i fear you never will. except for that--for poor lady bayrose--i've told you, i do not wish to forget it." "my dear!" protested mrs. gantry, "cannot you realize how very improper--? that man! what if he should talk?" "is there anything to be concealed?" asked genevieve, with quiet dignity. "you know how people misconstrue things," insisted her aunt. "that newspaper notoriety was quite sufficiently--it's most fortunate that lord avondale is not affected. i must admit, his attitude towards that man puzzles me." "i can understand it very well," replied genevieve, firmly. "you both insist that the fellow is--is not absolutely unspeakable! i should never have thought it of you, genevieve, nor of such a thorough gentleman as lord avondale--gentleman in _our_ sense of the term,--refined, cultured, and _clean_. were he one of the gentry who have reasons for leaving england,--who go west and consort with ruffians--remittance men--but no. lady chetwynd assured me he has been presented at court, and you know the strictness of queen mary." "you admit that lord avondale is, shall i say--perfect. yet--" "he is irreproachable, my dear, except as regards his extraordinary insistence upon an intimate friendship with that man." "that is what confirms my good opinion of him, aunt amice." "that!" "it proves he is himself manly and sincere." mrs. gantry raised a plump hand, palm outward. "between the two of you--" "we know mr. blake--the real man. you do not." "i never shall. i will not receive him--never. he is impossible!" "what! never?--the man who saved me from starvation, fever, wild beasts, from all the horrors of that savage coast?--the intimate friend of the earl of avondale?" "does he paint, vievie?" called dolores. "is this a picture of your crusoe coast?" "no, dear. i bought that in new york. but it is very like the place where tom--" "'tom'!" reproached mrs. gantry. she looked around at her daughter. "dolores, i presumed you left us when i ordered you." "oh, no, not 'ordered,' mamma. you said 'may,' not 'must.'" "leave the room!" the girl sauntered down towards the arched opening into the rear drawing-room. as she passed the others, she paused to pat her cousin's soft brown hair. "i do believe the sun has burnt it a shade lighter, vievie," she remarked. "what fun it must have been! when _are_ you going to show me that leopard-skin gown?" "leave the room this instant!" commanded mrs. gantry. dolores crossed her hands on her bosom and crept out with an air of martyred innocence. her mother turned to genevieve for sympathy. "that girl! i don't know what ever i shall do with her--absolutely irrepressible! these titled englishmen are so particular--she is your cousin." genevieve colored slightly. "you should know lord avondale better. if he is at all interested--" "he is, most decidedly. he dined with us last evening. laffie ashton called; so i succeeded in getting the earl away from dolores. we had a most satisfying little _tete-a-tete_. i led him into explaining everything." "everything?" queried genevieve. "yes, everything, my dear. his aloofness since you reached aden has been due merely to his high sense of honor,--to an absurd but chivalrous agreement with that fellow to not press his suit until after your arrival home. at aden he had given the man his word--" "at aden?" interrupted genevieve. "how could that be, when tom left the ship at port mozambique?" "he didn't. it seems that the fellow was aboard all the time, hiding in the steerage or stoke-hole, or somewhere--no doubt to spy on you and lord avondale." genevieve averted her head and murmured in a half whisper: "he was aboard all that time, and never came up for a breath of air all those smothering days! i remember lord james speaking of how hot and vile it was down in the forecastle. this explains why he went forward so much!" "it explains why he did not book passage with you from aden--why he did not hasten to you at lady chetwynd's--all because of his chivalrous but mistaken sense of loyalty to that low fellow." "if you please, aunt amice," said genevieve, in a tone as incisive as it was quiet, "you will remember that i esteem mr. blake." mrs. gantry stared over her half-raised lorgnette. she had never before known her niece to be other than the very pattern of docility. "well!" she remarked, and, after a little pause; "fortunately, that absurd agreement is now at an end. the earl intimated that he would call on you this afternoon. i am sure, my dear--" of what the lady was sure was left to conjecture. the footman appeared in the hall entrance and announced: "mr. brice-ashton." ashton came in, effusive and eager. "my dear miss genevieve! i--ah, mrs. gantry! didn't expect to meet you here, such a day as this. most unexpected--ah--pleasure! _n'est-ce pas?_--no, no! my dear miss leslie; keep your seat!" genevieve had seemed about to rise, but he quite deftly drew a chair around and sat down close before her. "i simply couldn't wait any longer. i felt i must call to congratulate you over that marvellous escape. it must have been terrible--terrible!" genevieve replied with perceptible coldness: "thank you, mr. ashton. i had not expected a call from you." "'mr.' ashton!" he echoed. "has it come to that?--when we used to make mudpies together! dolores said that you--" "not so fast, laffie!" called the girl, as she came dancing into the room in her most animated manner. "don't forget i'm miss gantry now." ashton continued to address genevieve, without turning: "i came all the way down from michamac just to congratulate you--left my bridge!" "you're too sudden with your congratulations, laffie," mocked dolores. "genevieve hasn't yet decided whether it's to be the hero or the earl." "dolores," admonished her mother. "i told you to leave the room." "yes, and forgot to tell me to stay out. it's no use now, is it? unless you wish me to drag out laffie for a little _tete-a-tete_ in the conservatory." "sit down, dear," said genevieve. mrs. gantry turned to ashton with a sudden unbending from hauteur. "my dear lafayette, i observed your manner yesterday towards that--towards mr. blake. am i right in surmising that you know something with regard to his past?" "about blake?" replied ashton, his usually wide and ardent eyes shifting their glance uneasily from his questioner to genevieve and towards the outer door. "about my friend mr. blake," said genevieve. "you call him a friend?--a fellow like that!" ashton rashly exclaimed. "he has proved himself a disinterested friend,--which i cannot say of all with whom i am acquainted." "oh, of course, if you feel that way." "my other friends will remember that he saved my life." "if only he had been a gentleman!" sighed mrs. gantry. "yes, vievie," added dolores. "next time any one goes to save you, shoo him off unless he first offers his card." "mr. blake is what many a seeming gentleman is not," said genevieve, her levelled glance fixed upon ashton. "tom blake is a man, a strong, courageous man!" "we quite agree with you," ventured ashton. "he is a man of the type one so frequently sees among firemen and the police." mrs. gantry intervened with quick tact: "mr. blake is quite an eminent civil engineer, we understand. as a fellow engineer, you have met him, i dare say--have had dealings with him." "i?--with him? no--that is--" ashton stammered and shifted about uneasily under genevieve's level gaze. "it was only when i was acting as mr. leslie's secretary. blake handed me the bridge plans that he afterwards claimed were lost. i tell you, i had nothing to do with them--nothing! i merely received them from him. that was all. i went away the very next day--resigned my position. i don't know what became of his plans,--nothing whatever! i tell you, the michamac bridge--" "why, lame!" giggled dolores. "what makes you squirm so? you're twitching all over. i thought you'd had enough of the simple life at michamac to recover from the effects of that corner in oats. you haven't started another corner already, have you?" "no, i have--i mean, yes--just a few cocktails at the club--yes, that's it. so bitter cold, this sleet! you'll understand, mrs. gantry--perhaps one too much. haven't had any since i went back to the bridge last time." "then up at michamac you take it straight?" asked dolores. ashton forced a nervous laugh. "keep it up, dodie! you'll make a wit yet." he bent towards genevieve. "you'll pardon me, won't you, genevieve?" the girl raised her fine brows ever so slightly. "'miss leslie,' if you please." "of course--of course! just another slip--that last cocktail and the sleet. wet cold always sends it to my head. that about blake, too--i oughtn't to 've spoken of it after you said he was your friend. it's, of course, your father's affair." "then you need say no more about it," said genevieve with ironical graciousness. he shifted about in his chair, and she caught him deftly. "must you be going?--really! good-day." he rose uncertainly to his feet, his handsome face flushed, and his full red lower lip twitching. "i--i had not intended--" he began. "good-day!" said mrs. gantry with significant emphasis. "so sorry you must rush off so soon, laffie," mocked dolores. social training has its value. ashton pulled himself together, bowed gracefully, and started up the room with easy assurance. as he neared the doorway, the footman appeared and announced with unction: "the right honorable, the earl of avondale." ashton stopped short, and when the englishman entered, met him with an effusive greeting: "_mon dieu!_ such a fortunate chance, your lordship! so glad to meet you again,--and here, of all places! don't forget to look me up at my clubs." "hearts are trumps, laffie--not clubs," called dolores, as lord james passed him by with a vague nod. chapter x the shadow of doubt before the earl had reached them mrs. gantry was rising. genevieve rose to protest. "you're not going so soon, aunt amice? you'll stay for a cup of tea?" "not to-day, my dear. ah, earl! you're just in time to relieve genevieve from the ennui of a solitary afternoon. i regret so much that we cannot stay with you. come, dolores." dolores settled back comfortably on her chair. "go right on, mamma. don't wait for me. i'll stay and help vievie entertain lord avondale." "come--at once." "oh, fudge! well, start on. i'll catch you." mrs. gantry stepped past lord james. genevieve met his eager glance, and hastened to overtake her aunt. "really, won't you stay, aunt amice? i'll have tea brought in at once." "so sorry, my dear," replied mrs. gantry, placidly sailing on towards the reception hall. dolores simulated a yawn. "o-o-ho! i'm _so_ tired. will nobody help me get up?" with a boyish twinkle in his gray eyes but profound gravity in his manner, lord james offered her his hand. she placed her fingers in his palm and sprang up beside him. the others were still moving up the room. she surprised him by meeting his amused gaze with an angry flash of her big black eyes. "shame!" she flung at him. "you, his friend, and would take her from him!" he stared blankly. the girl whirled away from him with a swish of silken skirts and fled past her mother, all her anger lost in wild panic. "dolores! whatever can--" cried mrs. gantry. but dolores had vanished. "really, genevieve, that madcap girl--! about yourself, my dear. promise me now, if you cannot say 'yes,' at least you'll not make it a final 'no.'" "but, aunt amice, unless i feel--" "promise me! you must give yourself time to make sure. he will wait. i am certain he will wait until you have found out--" "i cannot promise anything now," replied genevieve. mrs. gantry did not press the point. it was the second time during the call that her niece had proved herself less docile than she had expected. as she left the room, genevieve returned to lord james without any outward sign of hesitancy. she seated herself and smiled composedly at her caller, who still stood in the daze into which dolores's outburst had thrown him. "won't you sit down?" she invited. "how is mr. blake?" [illustration: "shame!" she flung at him. "you, his friend, and would take her from him!"] with rather an abstracted air, lord james sank down on the chair opposite her and began fiddling with the cord of his monocle. "haven't seen him since yesterday," he replied, "left him at the office of a mr. griffith--engineer--old friend. gave him work immediately--something big, i take it. asked tom to bunk with him." "it's so good to hear he has work already--and to stay with a friend! you mean, live with him?" "yes." "he--the friend--seems desirable?" "decidedly so, i should say. engineer who first started him on his career, if i remember aright what tom once told me of his early life." "oh, that is such good news! but have you seen him since--since this morning? he had that appointment with papa, you know." "no, i regret to say i haven't; and i fear i cannot reassure you as to the outcome. you know tom's way; and your father, i take it, is rather--it would seem that they had a disagreement before tom went west the last time." "yes. he once referred to it. some misunderstanding with regard to the payment of a railway survey. i asked papa about it last evening, and he told me that it had been made all right--that tom would get his pay for his share in the survey." "little enough, in the circumstances," remarked lord james. "that was not all. papa promised to give him a very good position. he had intended to offer money. but i explained to him that, of course, tom would not accept money." "very true. i doubt if he would have accepted it even had it not been for his hope that--" lord james paused and stared glumly at his finger-tips. "bally mess, deuce take it! he and your father at outs, and he and i--" "you have not quarrelled? you're still friends?" exclaimed genevieve. "quarrelled? no, i assure you, no! yet am i his friend? permit me to be candid, miss leslie. i'm in a deuce of a quandary. on the trip up to aden, you'll remember, i told you something of the way he and i had knocked about together." "yes. frankly, it added not a little to my esteem for you that you had learned to value his sterling worth." "i did not tell you how it started. it was in the kootenay country--british columbia, you know. bunch of sharpers set about to rook me on a frame-up--a bunco game. tom tipped me off, though i had snubbed him, like the egregious ass i was. i paid no heed; blundered into the trap. wouldn't have minded losing the thousand pounds they wanted, but they brought a woman into the affair--made it appear as if i were a cad--or worse." "surely not that, lord james. no one could believe that of you." "you don't know the beastly cleverness of those bunco chaps. they had me in a nasty hole, when tom stepped in and showed them up. seems he knew more about the woman and two of the men than they cared to have published. they decamped." "that was so like tom!" murmured genevieve. "claimed he did it because of an old grudge against the parties. had to force my thanks on him. told you how we'd chummed together since. deuce take it! why should it have been you on that steamer--with him?" "why?" echoed genevieve, gazing down at her clasped hands, which still showed a trace of tropical tan. "you know it--it puts me in rather a nasty box," went on lord james. "had i not met you before he did, it is possible that i could have avoided--you see my predicament. he and i've been together so much, i can foresee the effect on him of--er--of a great disappointment." genevieve gazed up at him with startled eyes. "lord james, you must explain that; you must be explicit." "i--i did not intend to so much as mention it," stammered the young englishman, bitterly chagrined at himself. "it was only--pray, do not ask me, miss leslie!" "you referred, of course, to his drinking," said genevieve, in a tone as tense as it was quiet. "do not reproach yourself. when we were cast ashore together, he was--not himself. but when i remember all those weeks that followed--! you cannot imagine how brave and resolute, how truly courageous he was!--and under that outward roughness, how kind and gentle!" "i too know him. that's what makes it so hard. the thought that i may possibly cause him a disappointment that may result in--" lord james came to a stop, tugging at his mustache. genevieve was again staring at the slender little hands, from which the most expert manicuring had not yet entirely removed all traces of rough usage. "he told me something of--of what he had to fight," she murmured in a troubled voice. "but i feel that--that if something came into his life--" she blushed, but went on bravely--"something to take him out of what he calls the grind--" lord james had instantly averted his gaze from her crimsoning face. "that's the worst of it!" he burst out. "if only i could feel sure that he--i've seen him fight--gad! how he has fought--time and again. yet sooner or later, always the inevitable defeat!" "i cannot believe it! i cannot!" insisted genevieve. "with his strength, his courage! it's only been the circumstances; that he has had nobody to--i--i beg your pardon! of course you--what i mean is somebody who--" she buried her face in her hands, blushing more vividly than before. the englishman's face lightened. "then you've not let my deplorable blunder alter your attitude towards him?" "not in the slightest." he leaned forward. "then--i can wait no longer! you must know how greatly i--all those days coming up to aden i could say nothing. before coming aboard, he had told me why he could not permit you to--to commit yourself irrevocably." he paused. genevieve bent over lower. she did not speak. he went on steadily: "it was then i realized fully his innate fineness. i own it astonished me, well as i thought i knew him. with his brains, his 'grit,' and _that_, i'd say he could become anything he wished--were it not for his--for the one weakness." genevieve flung up her head, to gaze at him in indignant protest. "weakness! how can you say that? he is so strong--so strong!" "in all else than that," insisted lord james. "you must face the hard fact. gad! this is far worse than i thought it would be. but i knew you before he did, and i've played fair with him. it was not easy to say nothing those days before we reached aden, or to stay away from you after i reached home. even he could not have found it so hard. he has all that stubborn power of endurance; while i--" "you have no cause to reproach yourself. i cannot say how greatly it pleased me that you took him to ruthby castle." "could you but have been there, too! he and the pater hit it off out of hand. jolly sensible chap, the pater--quiet, bookish--long head." "he must be!" "not strange about tom, though. it's odd how his bigness makes itself felt--to those who've any sense of judgment. and yet it's not so odd, when you come to think. my word! if only it were not for his--forgive me, miss genevieve! i've the right to consider what it might mean to you. it gives me the right to speak for myself. he himself insisted that, in justice to you, i should not withdraw." "lord james!" "pray, do not misunderstand, miss genevieve. he knew what it meant to me. but our first thought was for you. he wished you to have the full contrast of your own proper environment, that you might regain your perspective--the point of view natural to one of your position." "he could think i'd go back to the shams and conventions, after those weeks of _real_ life!" "sometimes life is a bit too real in the most conventional of surroundings," said his lordship, with a rueful smile. "no. he saw that you had no right to commit yourself then; that you should reconsider matters in the environment in which you belong and for which he is not now fitted--whatever may be the outcome of his efforts to make himself fit." "he will succeed!" "he may succeed. i should not have the slightest hesitancy in saying that success would be certain, were it not for that one flaw. it's not to be held against him--an inherited weakness." "do you not believe we can overcome heredity?" "in some cases, i daresay. but with him--you must bear in mind i've seen the futility of his struggle. all his resolution and courage and endurance seem to count for nothing. but it's too painful! can't we leave him out of this? you are aware that i missed my opportunity when lady bayrose changed her plans and rushed you off on the other ship. after that you may imagine how difficult i found it to say nothing, do nothing, coming up to aden." "please, please say no more!" begged genevieve, her eyes bright with tears of distress. "i regard you too highly. you have my utmost esteem, my respect and friendship, my--you see he has taught me to be sincere--you have my affection. dear friend, i shall be perfectly candid. i was a silly girl. i had never sensed the realities of life. i had a young girl's covetousness of a coronet--of a title. yet that was not all. i felt a warm regard for you. had you spoken before i met him, before i learned to know him--" "before you knew him? then you still--? the contrast of civilization--of your own environment--has made no difference?" "i do not say that. yet it is not in the manner you suppose." she looked away, with a piteous attempt to smile. "it's strange how much pain can be caused by the slightest shadow of a doubt." "miss genevieve! i--i shall never be able to forgive myself! for me to have said a word--it was despicable!" "no, do not say it. can you think me capable of misunderstanding? dear friend, i esteem you all the more for what i know it must have cost you. but no; what i spoke of was something that was already in my own mind." "ah--then you, too--miss genevieve, it's been so good of you. let me beg that you do not consider this as final." "but i can promise you nothing. it would not be right to you." "i ask only that you do not consider this final. you have admitted a shadow of a doubt. with your permission, i propose to wait until you have solved that doubt. you have given me cause to hope that, were it not for him--" "it is not right for me to give you the slightest hope." "but i take it. meantime, no more annoyance to you. we'll be jolly good friends, no more. you take me?" "i'll ring for tea. you deserve it." "no objections, i assure you. i'll serve as stopgap till tom turns up." genevieve rose quickly, her color deepening. "he is coming?--this afternoon!" "i should not have been surprised had i found him here. and now--" he glanced at his watch. "it's already half after four." "oh, and papa said he'd be home early to-day!--though his custom is to come barely in time to dress for dinner." "hope tom hit it off with him this morning--but--" lord james shook his head dubiously--"i fear he was not in a conciliatory mood." chapter xi rebellion genevieve rang for tea, and changed the conversation to impersonal topics. a footman brought in a russian samovar and a service of eggshell china. they sipped their tea and chatted lightly about english acquaintances, but with frequent glances towards the hall entrance. each was wondering which one would be first to come, blake or mr. leslie. the conversation had languished to a mere pretext when blake was announced. the engineer entered slowly, his face red and moist from the fierce drive of the sleet off the lake. he had come afoot. genevieve placed a trembling hand on the cover of her samovar, and called to him gayly: "hurry here at once and have a good hot cup of tea. you must be frozen." blake came to them across the waxed floor with an ease and assurance of step in part due to his visit to ruthby castle and in part to his walk over the sleet-coated pavements. "no tea for me, miss jenny," he replied with cheerful heartiness. "thanks, just the same. but i'm warm as toast--look it, too, eh?" "then take it to cool you off," suggested lord james. "that's the russian plan. when you're cold, hot tea to warm you; when you're hot, hot tea to cool you." "not when water tastes good to me," replied blake with a significance that did not escape his friend. "well, jimmy, so you beat me to it." "waited till after three," said lord james. "thought you'd hang back to give me the start? went you one better, eh?" replied blake. he stared fixedly into the handsome high-bred face of his friend and then at genevieve's down-bent head. "well? what's the good word? is it--congratulations?" "not this time, old man," answered the englishman lightly. he rose. "take my seat. must be going." blake's eyes glowed. "you're the gamest ever, jimmy boy." "don't crow till you're out of the woods," laughed his friend. "can't wish you success, y'know. but it's to continue the same between us as it has been, if you're willing." "that's like you, jimmy!" "to be sure. but i really must be going. good-day, miss genevieve." the girl looked up without attempting to conceal her affection and sympathy for him. "dear friend," she said, "before you go, i wish to tell you how highly i value and appreciate--" "no more, no more, i beg of you," he protested, with genial insistence. "tom, i'll be dropping in on you at your office." he bowed to genevieve, and still cloaking his hurt with a cheerful smile, started to leave them. at the same moment mr. leslie came hurrying into the room. the sight of lord james brought him to a stand. "h'm!" he coughed. "so it's you, lord avondale? hodges said--" his keen eyes glanced past the englishman to the big form across the corner of the table from genevieve. "what! right, was he?--genevieve." "yes, papa?" replied the girl, looking at blake with a startled gaze. she was very pale, but her delicately curved lips straightened with quiet determination. she did not rise. "er--glad to meet you again so soon, mr. leslie," said lord james, deftly placing himself so that the other could not avoid his proffered hand without marked discourtesy. mr. leslie held out his flaccid fingers. they were caught fast and retained during a cordial and prolonged handshake. "when we first met," went on his lordship suavely, "time was lacking for me to congratulate you on the fact that your daughter came through her terrible experience so well. she has assured me that she feels all the better for it. only one, like myself, accustomed to knocking about the tropics, can fully realize the extraordinary resourcefulness and courage of the man who had the good fortune to bring her through it all safely and, as she says, bettered." "yes, yes, we all know that, and admit it," replied the captive, attempting to free his hand. lord james gave it a final wring. "to be sure! you, of all men, will bear in mind what he accomplished. yet i must insist that my own appreciation is no less keen. it is the greatest satisfaction to me that i am privileged to call thomas blake my friend." "your friend has put me under obligations," answered mr. leslie. "i have acknowledged to him that i owe him a heavy debt for what he has done. i stand ready to pay him for his services, whenever he is ready to accept payment." "ah, indeed," murmured lord james. "'pon my word, now, that's what i call deuced generous." "no; that's not the question at all. it's merely a matter of a business settlement for services rendered," replied mr. leslie. "yet one does not--er--value gratitude in pounds and dollars, y' know." "no, no, of course you do not, papa!" exclaimed genevieve. "please remember--please try to consider--" she would better have remained silent. her evident concern alarmed her father to the point of exasperation. "i am considering how this friend of lord avondale's bore himself towards me, in my office, this morning," he interrupted her. he turned again to lord james. "i should not need to tell you, sir, that the manner of expressing gratitude depends altogether on the circumstances. we are now, however, considering another matter. you were about to leave--you will always be welcome to my house, lord avondale, and so will be your friends, _when they come and go with you._" "father!" protested genevieve, rising to face him. "my mistake, miss jenny," said blake, coolly drawing himself up beside her. "i thought it was _your_ house." he swung about to mr. leslie, and said, with unexpected mildness: "don't worry; i'm going. we don't want to fuss here, do we?--to make it any harder for her. but first, there's one thing. you're her father--i want to say i'm sorry i cut loose this morning." "what! you apologize?" "as to what i said about my bridge plans--yes. if you had left out about--if you hadn't rubbed it in so hard about me and--you know what i mean. it made me red-hot. i couldn't help cutting loose. but, just the same, i oughtn't to've said that about the plans, because--well, because, you see, i don't believe it." "you don't? then why--?" "i did believe it before. i believed it this morning, when i was mad. but i've had time to cool off and think it over. queer thing--all the evidence and probabilities are there, just the same; but somehow i can't believe it of you any longer--simply can't. you're her father." "h'm--this puts a different face on the matter," admitted mr. leslie. "i begin to think that i may have been rather too hasty. had you been more conciliatory, less--h'm--positive, i'm inclined to believe that we--" "i don't care what _you_ believe," was blake's brusque rejoinder. "i'm not trying to curry favor with you. understand? come on, jimmy." but genevieve was at his elbow, between him and the door. "you are not going now, tom," she said. "genevieve," reproved her father. "this is most unlike you." "unlike my former frivolous, pampered self!" cried the girl. "i'm no longer a silly debutante, papa. i've lived the grim hard realities of life--there on that dreadful coast--with him. i'm a woman." "you child! you're not even twenty-one." "i am old--older than the centuries, papa--old enough to know my own mind." she turned to blake. "you were right, tom. this is my home--legally mine. you are welcome to stay." "mr. leslie!" interposed lord james, before her father could reply. "one moment, if you please. i have told you that mr. blake and i are friends. more than that, we are intimate friends--chums. i wish to impress on you the very high esteem in which i hold him, the more than admiration--" "chuck it, jimmy," put in blake. lord james concluded in a tone of polite frigidity. "and since you place conditions on his welcome to your house, permit me to remark that i prefer his acquaintance to yours." he bowed with utmost formality. "h'm!" rasped mr. leslie. "you should understand, sir. had you not interrupted me--" he abruptly faced blake. "you, at least, will understand my position--that i have some reason--it is not that i wish to appear discourteous, even after this morning. you've apologized; i cannot ask you to go--i do not ask you to go. yet--" "if you please, papa," said genevieve with entrancing sweetness. "well?" "isn't it time for you to dress?" "no--came home early," replied mr. leslie, jerking out his watch. he searched his daughter's face with an apprehensive glance, and again addressed blake. "too early. there's time for a run out to george ashton's. want to see him on a matter of business. valuable acquaintance for you to make. jump into the runabout with me, and i'll introduce you to him." "thanks," said blake dryly. "not to-day." "mr. blake has just come, papa," said genevieve. "you would not deprive us of the pleasure of a little visit." "h'm. by cutting it close, i can wait a few minutes." "you need not trouble to wait, papa. you can introduce him to mr. ashton some other time." "may i offer myself as a substitute?" put in lord james. "mrs. gantry has told me so much about the elder mr. ashton. quite curious to meet him." blandly taking mr. leslie's assent as a matter of course, he started toward the door. "good-day, miss leslie. ah--do we go out this way? can't tell you how i value the opportunity. very good of you, very!" "wait," said mr. leslie. "genevieve, haven't you an engagement out, this afternoon?" "if i had a dozen, papa, i should not deprive mr. blake of his call." "mr. blake is welcome to his call. but--since you force me to say it--i must expressly tell you, it is my wish that you should not see him alone." "i'm very sorry, papa, that you should forbid me," said genevieve with a quiet tensity that should have forewarned him. "sorry?" "yes, papa, because, if you insist, i shall have to disobey you." "you will?" he stared at her, astounded, and she sustained his gaze with a steadiness that he perceived could not be shaken. lord james again interposed. "i beg your pardon, mr. leslie, if i may seem to interfere. but as he is my friend, i, too, request you--" "you?" exclaimed mr. leslie, with fresh astonishment. "you also side with him?--when my sister-in-law tells me--" "that is all by-the-bye, i assure you, sir. the least i can do for the man who saved her life is to play fair. permit me to say that you can do no less." mr. leslie looked at genevieve with a troubled frown. "at least, my dear, i hope you'll remember who you are," he said. she made no reply, but stood white-faced and resolute until he went from the room. lord james followed close after him. blake and genevieve were left alone. chapter xii the deepening of doubt blake stood as motionless as a carved figure, his eyes glowing upon the girl, blue and radiant with tenderness and compassion and profound love. the clang of a heavy door told her that her father had left the house. on the instant all her firmness left her. she hid her face in her hands and sank into the nearest chair, quivering and weeping, in silent anguish. blake came near and stood over her. he spoke to her in a voice that was deep and low and very soft: "there, there, little girl, don't you mind! just cry it out. it'll do you good. you know i understand. have a good cry!" the sympathetic urging to give way freely to her weeping almost immediately soothed her grief and checked the flow of tears. she rose uncertainly, dabbing at her eyes. "i--i couldn't help it, tom. it's the fi-first time papa's ever been so cross with me!" "my fault, i guess. rubbed his fur the wrong way this morning pretty hard. but don't you fret, girlie. it'll be all right. only we mustn't blame him. think of what it means to him. you're all he has, and if he thinks you're--if he thinks he's going to lose you--" "but it was so cruel!--so unjust!--the way he treated you!" "oh, that's all right, little woman. i don't mind that. we'll all forget it by to-morrow. he didn't mean half he said. it was just the thought that i--that somebody might take you away from him. jenny!" his eyes glowed upon her blue as sapphires. "you're home now." he held his arms open for her to come to him. she swayed forward as if to give herself into the clasp of those strong arms, but instantly checked the movement and shrank back a little way. "wait, tom," she murmured hesitatingly. "we must first--" "wait longer, jenny?" he exclaimed, his deep voice vibrant with the intensity of his feeling. "no, i must say it! i've waited all these weeks--good lord!--when maybe you've thought it was because i didn't want to--to do as you asked!" "it's not that, tom, truly it's not that. i was hurt and--shamed. but even then i divined why you had done it and realized the nobility of your motive." "nobility? that's a good joke! you know i was only trying to do the square thing. any man would have done the same." "any _man_ would. i'm not so certain as to some who call themselves gentlemen." "there're some who're real gentlemen--worse luck to me--jimmy, for one. i can never catch up with him in that line, girlie, but i can make a stagger at it." "you can become anything you will, tom," she said with calm conviction. "maybe," he replied. "but, jenny, i can't wait for that. wish i could. i'm still only--what you know. same time, you're back home now, and you've been visiting with your titled friends. also you've seen how your father looks at it, and how--" "what does all that amount to--even papa's anger? if only that were all!" "jenny! then you still--?" his voice quivered with passion. "my little girl!--how i love you! god i how i love you! i never thought much of girls, but i loved you the first time i ever set eyes on you, there in the transvaal. that's why i threw up the management of the mine. i knew who your father was; i knew i hadn't a ghost of a show. but i followed you to cape town--couldn't help it!" "you--you old silly!" she murmured, half frightened by the greatness of his passion. "you should have known i was only a shallow society girl!" "shallow?--you? you're deep as blue water!" "the ocean is fickle." "you're not; you're true! you've _lived!_ i've seen you face with a smile what many a man would have run from." "because with me was one who would have died sooner than that harm should come to me! those weeks, those wonderful weeks that we lived, so close to primitive, savage nature--bloody fanged nature!--those weeks that i stood by your side and saw her paint for us her beautiful, terrible pictures of life, pictures whose blue was the storm-wave and the sky veiled with fever-haze, whose white was the roaring surf and the glare of thunderbolts, whose red was fire and blood! and you saved me from all--all! i had never even dreamt that a man could be so courageous, so enduring, so strong!" his face clouded, and he gave back before her radiant look. "strong?" he muttered. "that's the question. am i?" "of course you are! i'm sure you are. you _must_ be. it was that which compelled my--which made me--" she paused, and a swift blush swept over her face from forehead to throat--"made me propose to you, there on the cliff, when the steamer came." "that a lady should have loved me like that!" he murmured. "i still can't believe it was true! my little girl, it's not possible--not possible!" "you say 'loved,'" she whispered. her eyelids fluttered and drooped before his ardent gaze; her scarlet face bent downward; she held out her hands to him in timid surrender. he caught them between his big palms, but not to draw her to him. a jagged mark on her round wrist caught his eye. it was the scar of a vicious thorn. the last time he had seen it was on the cliff top,--that other time when she put out her arms to him. he bent over and kissed the red scar. "jenny," he replied in bitter self-reproach, "here's another time i've proved i'm not in your class--not a gentleman. you've raised a point--the real point. am i what you think me? you think i'm at least a man. am i?" she looked up at him, her face suddenly gone white again. "tom! you don't mean--?" "about my being strong. all that you've seen so far are my leading suits. there's that other to be reckoned with yet. i told your father i hadn't touched a drop since the wreck. but you know how it was before." "yes, dear, but that _was_ before!" "i know. things are different now. i've something at stake that'll help me fight. you can't guess, though, how that craving--lucky i'll have jimmy, as well, to back me up. he's great when it comes to jollying a fellow over the bumps. he'll help." "it's little enough, after all you've done for him! he told me." "just like him. but let's not get sidetracked. what i wanted to make clear is that i'm not so everlastingly strong as you seem to think." "tom, you'll not give way! you'll fight!" "yes, i'll fight," he responded soberly. "and you'll win!" "i hope so, girlie. i've fought it before, and it has downed me, time and again. but now it's different--unless you've found you were mistaken. but if you still feel as when you--as you did there on the cliff that morning--good god! how _could_ i lose out, with you backing me up?" she looked at him with a quick recurrence of doubt. "you ask help of me?" "if you care enough, jenny. it's not going to be a joke. i've tried before, and gone under so many times that some people would say i've no show left. but let me tell you, girlie, i'm going to fight this time for all i'm worth. i'm going to break this curse if i can. it _is_ a curse, you'll remember. i told you about my mother." "you should not think of that. what does heredity count as against environment!" "environment?--heredity? by all accounts, my father was the man you've thought me, and a lot more--railroad engineer; nerviest man ever ran an engine out of chicago on the pennsylvania line; american stock from way back--scotch-irish; sober as a church, steady, strong as a bull. never an accident all the years he pulled the fast express till the one that smashed him. could have jumped and saved himself--stayed by his throttle, and saved the train. they brought him home--what was left of him. papers headlined him; you know how they do it. that was my father." "oh, tom! and with such a father!" "wait a minute. you spoke of heredity and environment. i'm giving you all sides, except anything more about my mother. her father was a cranky inventor ... well, inside six months we were living in a tenement. i was a little shaver of six. the younger of my sisters was a baby. talk about environment! wasn't many years before i was known as the toughest kid in rat alley." "don't dwell on that, tom. don't even speak of it," begged genevieve. he shook his head. "i want you to know just what i've been. it's your right to know. i wasn't one of the nasty kind and i wasn't a sneak. but i was the leader of my gang. maybe you know what that means. of course the police got it in for me. finally they made it so hot i had to get out of chicago. i took to the road--became a bum." "not that!--surely not that!" "well, no, only a kid hobo. but i'd have slid on down if i hadn't dropped into a camp of surveyors who were heading off into the mountains and had need of another man. griffith, the engineer in charge, talked me into joining the party as axman. i took a fancy to him. he proved himself the first real friend i'd ever had--or was to have till i met jimmy scarbridge." "a man's worth is measured by the friends he makes," she observed. "not always. well, griffith got me interested. i joined the party. _whew!_--seven months in the mountains, and not a saloon within fifty miles any of the time. but i stuck it out. nobody ever called me a quitter." "and now, tom, you'll not quit! you'll win!" "i'll try--for you, girlie! you can't guess how that braces me--the thought that it's for you! you see, i'm beginning to count on things now. i'm not even afraid of your money now. good old grif--griffith, you know--has given me a shy at a peach of a proposition--toughest problem i was ever up against. it's a big irrigation dam that has feazed half a dozen good engineers." "but you'll solve the problem! you can do anything!" "i'm not so sure, jenny. i've only begun to dig into the field books. even if i do make a go of it in the end, chances are i'll have to work like--like blazes to get there. but that'll help me on this other fight--help choke down the craving when it comes. a whole lot turns on that dam. if i make good on it, i'm made myself. tack up my ad. as consulting engineer, and i'll have all the work i want. won't be ashamed to look your three millions in the face." "my money! can you still believe that counts with me? money! it is what we are ourselves that counts. if you acquired all the money in the world, yes, and all the fame, but failed to master yourself, you'd not be the man i thought you--the man whom i--whom i said i loved." "jenny! then it's gone--you no longer care?" "you have no right to ask anything of me until you've--" "i'm not, jenny! don't think it for a moment. i'm not asking anything now. i wanted to wait. it's only that i want you to know how i love you. i wouldn't dream of asking you to--to marry me now--no, not till i've won out, made good. understand? all i want is for you to wait for me till i've made my name as an a- engineer and until i've downed that cursed craving for drink." "you will, tom--you _must!_" "with you to back me, little woman! yes, i guess i can make it this time, with you waiting for me!" genevieve met his smile and enthused gaze with a look of firm decision. her doubt and hesitancy had at last crystallized into a set purpose. she replied in a tone that rang with a hardness new to him: "no. it must be more than that." "more?" he asked, surprised. "more, much more. that morning, after i so shamelessly forced you to listen to me, nothing could have altered my purpose had you come aboard the steamer with me." "but i couldn't then. 't wouldn't have been fair to you." "yet it might have been wise. who knows? at the least, the question would have been settled 'for better or for worse.' it is easier to face the trouble which one cannot escape than deliberately to make choice of entering into the state that may or may not bring about the dreaded misfortune. had you married me then, tom, i would surely have been happy for a time. but now--you have made me believe that you were right." blake drew back from her, his head downbent in sudden despondency. "so you've found out you don't feel the same?" her eyes dimmed with tears of compassion for him, but her voice was as firm as before. "i loved tom blake because he was so manly, so strong! i still love that tom blake. you are not sure that you are strong." "but if i knew i had your love back of me, jenny!" "that's it--you wish to lean on me! it's weak; it's not like you. you won my love by your courage, your resolution, your strength! all my love for you is based on your strength. if that fails--if you prove weak--how am i to tell whether my love will endure?" "i'll win out. i know i can win out if i have you to fight for." "if you have me to _lean_ on! no; you must prove yourself stronger than that. i had no doubts then. i urged you to marry me--flung myself at you. but now, after what i've been forced to realize since then--" she stopped short, leaving him to infer the rest. he took it at the worst. he replied despairingly yet without a trace of bitterness: "yes, you'd better take jimmy. he's your kind." "tom! how can you? i've a great esteem for lord james, i like him very much, but--" "he's the right sort. you could count on being happy with him," stated blake, in seeming resignation. she looked at him, puzzled and hurt by his calmness. the look fired him to a passionate outburst. "don't you think it, though! he's not going to have you! i can't give you up! i'm going to win you. my god! i love you so much i'd try to win you--i'd have to win you, even if i thought you'd be unhappy!" her voice softened with responsive tenderness. "oh, tom, if only i knew we would have--would have and keep that great love that covers all things! i'd rather be miserable with you than happy without you!" "jenny! you do love me!" he cried, advancing with outstretched arms. she drew back from him. "not now--not now, tom!" he smiled, only slightly dashed. "not now, but when i've made good. you'll wait for me! i can count on that!" "no," she answered with utmost firmness. "jenny!" "i'll make no promise--not even a conditional one. you must make this fight without leaning on any one. i _must_ know whether you are strong, whether you are the real tom blake i love." "but i'm not asking anything--only in case i make good." "no; i'll not bind myself in any way. i'll not promise to marry you even if you should win. it was you who made me wait, and now i shall make sure. unless i feel certain that we would be bound together for all time by the deepest, truest love, i know it would be a mistake. if i were certain, right now, that you lack the strength to conquer yourself for the sake of your own manhood, i would accept lord james." whether or not the girl was capable of such an act, there could be no doubt that she meant what she said, and her tone carried conviction to blake. he was silent for a long moment. when he replied, it was in a voice dull and heavy with despondency. "you don't realize what you're putting me up against." "i realize that you must clear away all my doubt of your strength," she rejoined, with no lessening of her firmness. "you were strong there on that savage coast, in the primitive. but you must prove yourself strong enough to rise _out_ of the primitive--to rise to your true, your higher self." he bent as if he were being crushed under a ponderous weight. his voice dulled to a half articulate murmur. "you--won't--help--me?" "i cannot--i dare not!" she insisted almost fiercely. "if i did i should doubt. this dreadful fear! you _must_ prove you're strong! you _must_ master yourself for the sake of your own manhood!" at last he was forced to realize that it was necessity, not desire, that impelled her to thrust him from her. he must fight his hard battle alone--he must fight without even the thought that he had her sympathy. he should have divined that she would be secretly hoping, perhaps praying for him, striving for him in spirit with all the might of her true love. but by her insistence she had at last compelled him to doubt her love. he thought of the many times that he had gone down in disgraceful defeat, and black despair fell upon him. his broad shoulders stooped yet more. "what's the use?" he muttered thickly. but the question itself served as the goad to quicken all his immense reserve of endurance. he looked up at genevieve, heavy-eyed but grim with determination. "you don't know what you've put me up against," he said. "but i'll not lay down yet. nobody ever called me a quitter. you've a right to ask me to make good. i'll make a stagger at it. good-bye!" he turned from her and walked up the room with the steady deliberation of one who bears a heavy burden. it was almost more than she could endure. she started to dart after him, and her lips parted to utter an entreaty for him to come back to her. but her spirit had been tempered in that fierce struggle for life on the savage coast of mozambique. she checked herself, and waited until, without a backward glance, he had passed out through the curtained doorway. then, and not until then, she sank down in her chair and gave way to the anguish of her love and doubt and dread. chapter xiii plans and other plans a quarter after nine the next morning found griffith at the door of mr. leslie's sanctum. he stuffed his gauntlet gloves into a pocket of his old fur coat, and entered the office, his worn, dark eyes vague with habitual abstraction. mr. leslie was in the midst of his phonographic dictation. he abruptly stopped the machine and whirled about in his swivel-chair to face the engineer. "sit down," he said. "how's the zariba dam?" "no progress," answered griffith with terse precision. he sat down with an air of complete absorption in the act, drew out an old knife and his pipe, and observed: "you didn't send for me for that." "how's the bridge?" "same," croaked the engineer, beginning to scrape out the bowl of his pipe with the one unbroken blade of his knife. "that young fool still running around town?" "can't say. it'd be a good thing to have him do it all the time if work was going on. had a letter from mcgraw, that man i put in as general foreman. he says everything is frozen up tight; may keep so for two weeks or more." "you've laid off most the force?" "no, not even the slovaks." mr. leslie frowned. "two or three weeks at full pay, and no work? that's an item." "hard enough to hold together a competent force on such winter work as that," rejoined griffith. "almost impossible with your kid-glove resident engineer. i've said nothing all this time; but he's made some of my best men quit--bridge workers that've stayed by me for years. said they couldn't stand for his damned swell-headedness, not even to oblige me." "well, well, i leave it to you. do the best you can. it's a bad bargain, but we've got to go through with it. only time the young fool ever showed a glimmer of sense was when he had his father's lawyers drew his contract with me. my lawyers can't find a flaw in it." "not even diamond cut diamond, eh?" cackled griffith. he ceased scraping at his pipe to peer inquisitively into the bowl. "what i've never been able to figure out is how he happened to solve the problem of that central span. don't think you've ever realized what a wonderful piece of work that was. it's something new. must have been a happy accident--must have come to him in what i'd call a flash of intuition or genius. he sure hadn't it in him to work such a thing out in cold blood." "genius?--_pah!_" scoffed mr. leslie. "hey?" queried griffith, glancing up sharply. "what else, then?" "i've recently been given reason to suspect--" began mr. leslie. he paused, hesitated, and refrained. "but we'll talk of that later. first, my reason for sending for you. i understand that you know this man blake, who, unfortunately, was the person that saved my daughter." griffith replied with rather more than his usual dryness. "if i've got a correct estimate of what miss leslie had to be pulled through, it's lucky that tom blake was the man." "you've a higher opinion of him than i have." "we've worked together." "he's in your office now," snapped mr. leslie. "yes, and he stays there long as he wants," rejoined griffith in a quiet matter-of-fact tone. "it's your privilege to hire another consulting engineer." mr. leslie brought his shaggy eyebrows together in a perplexed frown. "must say, i can't understand how the fellow makes such friends. your case is hardly less puzzling than that of the earl of avondale." "hey? oh, you mean young scarbridge. he seems to be one of the right sort--even if he _is_ the son of a duke. but if tommy hadn't introduced him as a friend--" "we're talking about blake," interrupted mr. leslie. "i want your help." "well?" asked griffith warily. "he has put me under obligations, and refuses to accept any reward from me. it's intolerable!" "won't accept anything, eh? well, if he says he won't, he won't. no use butting your head against a concrete wall." "he's a fool!" "i'd hardly agree as to that. he doesn't always do as people expect him to. same time, he usually has a reason." "but for him to refuse to take either cash or a position!" "i notice, though, he drew his pay-check for the q. t. survey. no; tommy isn't altogether a fool--not altogether." "twenty-five-thousand-dollar position!" rasped mr. leslie. "hey?" "offered him that, and--" "you offered him--?" echoed griffith, his lean, creased face almost grotesque with astonishment. "think i don't value my daughter's life?" snapped mr. leslie. "i was ready to do that and far more for him. he refused--not only refused but insulted me." griffith peered intently into the angry face of his employer. "insulted you, eh? guess you prodded him up first." "i admit i had rather misjudged him in some respects." "so you gave him the gaff, eh?--and got it back harder!" cackled griffith. "he shall be compelled to accept what i owe him, indirectly, if not directly. you have given him work?" "yes." "you've, of course, told him that i'm the coville construction company." "not yet." "what! you're certain of that?" griffith nodded. "he sailed into me, first thing, for taking work from you. to ease him off, i said the coville company had taken over the bridge from you. the matter hasn't happened to come up again since." "you're certain he doesn't know i'm interested in the company?" "not unless somebody else has told him." "then--let's see-- we'll appoint him assistant resident engineer on the bridge." "he'll not take it under young ashton." "not if his salary is put at twenty-five thousand?" "as assistant engineer?" said griffith, incredulous. "you'll be too busy with my other projects to keep up these visits to michamac. besides, you said the bridge is coming to the crucial point of construction." "that central span," confirmed griffith. "if you consider blake sufficiently reliable, you can give him detailed instructions and send him up to take charge." "how about ashton's contract?" "he'll be satisfied with the glory. reports will continue to name him as resident engineer. if he won't listen to reason, i'll ask his father to drop him a line. the young fool has had his allowance cut twice already. he'd consider his pay as engineer a bare pittance." "heir to the ashton millions, eh?" croaked griffith. "if i know george ashton, he has a good safe will drawn, providing that his fortune is to be held in trust. that fool boy won't have any chance to squander more than his allowance,--and he won't keep me now from paying off this obligation to blake." "perhaps not. i'm not so sure, though, that tom will--one thing's certain. he won't go up to michamac right away." "he won't? why not? it's just the time for him to get the run of things, now while there's no work going on." "he'd catch on quick enough. it's not that. fact is, he's got hold of something a lot bigger, and i know he'll not quit till he has either won out or it has downed him. never knew of but one thing that ever downed him." mr. leslie glared at the engineer, his face reddening with rage. "something bigger!" he repeated. "so the fellow has bragged about it!" griffith stared back, perplexed by the other's sudden heat. "guess we've got our wires crossed," he said. "i told him, of course. he didn't know anything about it." "what you talking about?" demanded mr. leslie, puzzled in turn. "the zariba dam." "that!" exclaimed mr. leslie, and his face cleared. "h'm,--what about the dam?" "i had about thrown it up. i'm giving tom a go at it." mr. leslie's eyebrows bristled in high curves. "what! wasting time with a man like that? if _you've_ given it up, we'll try england or europe." "no use. plenty of good men over there. they can give us pointers on some things. but if they've ever done anything just like this zariba dam, they've kept it out of print." "but an unknown second-rate engineer!" "that's what's said of every first-rater till he gets his chance." "you're serious?" "i don't guarantee he can do it. i do say, i won't be any too surprised if he pulls it off. it's a thing that calls for invention. he'll swear he hasn't an ounce of it in him--says he just happens to blunder on things, or applies what he has picked up. all gas! he once showed me some musty old drawings that made it look like one of his grandfathers ought to be credited with the basic inventions of a dozen machines that to-day are making the owners of the patent-rights rich. guess some of that grandfather's bump can be located on tom's head." "inventor--h'm--inventor!" muttered mr. leslie half to himself. "that puts rather a different face on that bridge matter." "as how?" casually asked griffith, beginning to scrape afresh at his pipe-bowl. mr. leslie considered, and replied with another question: "at the time of the competition in plans for the bridge, did you know that blake was to be a contestant?" "he writes letters about as often as a hen gets a tooth pulled. but i got a letter the time you mention,--a dozen lines or so, with another added, saying that he was in for a whirl at the michamac cantilever." "you've shown him ashton's bridge plans?" "not yet. he's been too busy on the zariba field books." "you've seen his own plans for the bridge?" "no. they were lost." "the originals, i mean--his preliminary copy. he must have kept something." "yes. but i guess they're pretty wet by now," replied griffith, his face crackling with dry humor. "they're aboard that steamer, down on the african coast. if you want to see them, you might finance a wrecking expedition. but tom says she went down mast-under, and there are plenty of sharks nosing along the coral reef." mr. leslie winced at the word _sharks_, and reluctantly admitted: "i've had a long talk with my daughter. he played the part of a man. i acknowledge that i've held a strong prejudice against him. it seems, however, that in part i've been mistaken." "now you're talking, mr. leslie!" "only in part, i say--about his lost bridge plans. i had thought he was trying to blackmail me." "more apt to be a black eye, if you let him know you thought that," was griffith's dry comment. "he came near to resorting to violence. as i look at it now, i can't say i blame him. those bridge plans, though--knowing this about his inventiveness, has it not occurred to you that his plans may not have been lost, after all?" "look here, mr. leslie," said griffith, rising with the angularity of a jumping-jack, "we've rubbed along pretty smooth since we got together last year; but tom blake is my friend." "sit down! _sit_ down!" insisted mr. leslie. "you ought to see by this time that i'm trying to prove myself anything but an enemy to him." griffith sat down and began mechanically to load his pipe with the formidable durham. mr. leslie put the tips of his fingers together, coughed, and went on in a lowered tone. "those plans disappeared. his charge was preposterous, ridiculous--_as against me_. yet if the plans were not lost, what became of them? he told me yesterday that he himself handed them to the person who was at that time acting as my secretary. you catch the point?" "um-m," grunted griffith, his face as emotionless as a piece of crackled wood. "young ashton was my secretary. he resigned the next day. said he had been secretly working on plans for the michamac cantilever; thought he had solved the problem of the central span; might go ahead and put in his plans if none of the competitors were awarded the bridge. within a month he did put in plans." "well?" queried griffith. "don't you make the connection?" demanded mr. leslie. "blake handed his plans to ashton, and took no receipt. the plans disappeared. ashton leaves; comes back in a month with plans that he hasn't the skill to apply in the construction of the bridge--plans include an entirely new modification of bridge trusses--stroke of inventive genius, you called it." griffith's lean jaw dropped. "you--you don't mean to say he--the son of george ashton--that he could--god a'mighty, he's heir to twenty millions!" "you don't believe it? suppose you knew he was about to be cut off without a cent? george had stood about all he could from the young fool. those bridge plans came in just in time to prevent the drawing of a new will." the hand in which griffith held his pipe shook as if he had been seized with a fever chill, but his voice was dry and emotionless. "that accounts for those queer slips and errors in the plans. he couldn't even make an accurate copy, and was too much afraid of being found out to take time to check tom's drawings. jammed them into his fireplace soon's he'd finished. the thief!--the infernal thief!--the--!" griffith spat out a curse that made even mr. leslie start. "good lord, griffith," he remonstrated. "that's the first time i ever heard you swear." "i keep it for _dirt_! ... well, what you going to do about it?" "i am going to have you show ashton's plans to blake. if he recognizes them as a copy of his own--" "better get ready to ship laffie out of the country. once saw tom manhandle a brute who was beating his wife--one of those husky saloon bouncers. the wife had a month's nursing to do. tom will pound that--that sneak to pulp." "show him the plans. if he recognizes them, i'll let the thief know he has been found out. he'll run, and we'll be rid of him without any scandal. we'll arrange for blake to get the credit for the bridge, after a time. george ashton and i are rather close together. i don't want him to be hit harder than's necessary." "say, mr. leslie, i don't mind admitting you _are_ square!" exclaimed griffith. "you don't like tom, and you know he hasn't a line of proof. it would be only his word against laffie's. unknown engineer trying to blackmail the son of george ashton. you know what would be said." "i told you, i owe him a debt. i intend to pay it in full." "one thing though," cautioned griffith. "even a cornered rat will fight. there's the chance that laffie may not run. he'd be a drivelling idiot if he did, with his father's millions at stake. don't forget we've no proof. it won't look even possible to outsiders. suppose i hold off showing tom those plans till we see if he can make it on the zariba dam? if he pulls that off, no engineer in the u. s. will doubt his claims to the bridge." "that means a delay," said mr. leslie irritably. "my first plan was to send blake to michamac at once." "lord! with one cantilever finished and the other out to the central span--if it's tom's bridge, he'd recognize it as quick as his plans. and if he did--well, i'd not answer for what would happen to that damn thief." "h'm--perhaps you're right," considered mr. leslie. he thought a moment, and added with quick decision, "very well. keep him on at the dam. what are you paying him?" "two hundred." "double it." "no go. he'd suspect something." "suspect, would he? h'm--several expert engineers have failed on that dam. if it can be put through, the project will net me a half-million. ten per cent of my profits might stimulate you engineers. i offer fifty thousand dollars as reward to the man who solves the problem of the zariba dam." "say, that's going some!" commented griffith. "plain business proposition. if i can't get it done for wages, it is cheaper to pay a bonus than to have the project fail." "good way to put it," admitted griffith. "don't just know, though, what i'll do with all that money." "you? thought you said that blake--" "d'you suppose he'd take a cent of it? he's working for me." "but if he does the work?" "he might accept the credit. the cash would come to me, if he had to cram it down my throat. he won't touch your money." "crazy fool!" rasped mr. leslie. again he paused to consider, and again he spoke with quick decision. "the coville company takes over the project. i don't believe the dam can be built; i'm tired of the whole thing. so i unload on the coville company. you see? the company offers the fifty thousand bonus as a last hope. it hires blake direct on some of its routine work. you insist that he try for the dam, between times." "that's the ticket!" said griffith. "we'll try it on him." "then call by the coville office. i'll phone over for them to have the transfer made and a letter waiting for you," said mr. leslie, and he jerked out his watch. griffith rose at the signal. he fumbled for a moment with his hat and gloves, and spoke with a queer catch in his voice. "i'd like to--let you know how i--appreciate--" "no call for it! no call for it!" broke in mr. leslie. "good-day!" he whirled about to his desk and caught up the receiver of one of his private-line telephones. chapter xiv between friends lord james sauntered into the office of griffiths, c.e., and inquired for mr. blake. the cleric stared in vague recognition, and answered that mr. blake was busy. nothing daunted, the visitor crossed to the door toward which the clerk had glanced. when he entered, he found blake in his shirtsleeves, humped over a small desk. he was intently absorbed in comparing the figures of two field books and in making little pencil diagrams. "hello, old man. what's the good word?" sang out his lordship. blake nodded absently, and went on with his last diagram. when he had finished it, he looked up and perceived his friend standing graceful and debonair in the centre of the room. "why, hello, jimmy," he said, as if only just aware of the other's presence. "can't you find a chair?" "how's the dam?" "dam 'fi 'no," punned blake. he slapped his pencil down on the desk, and flung up his arms to stretch his cramped body. "you need a breather," advised lord james. "young ashton came 'round to my hotel last evening. wanted me to go to some bally musical comedy--little supper afterward with two of the show-girls--all that. i had another engagement. he then asked me to drop around this morning and take my pick of his stable. wants me to ride one of his mounts while i'm here, you know. suppose you come up-town with me and help me pick out a beast." "no," said blake. "less i see of that papa's boy the better i'll like him." "oh, but as a fellow-engineer, y'know," minced lord james. "you love him 'bout as much as i do." lord james adjusted the pink carnation in his lapel, and casually remarked: "you'll be calling at the leslies' this afternoon, i daresay." "no," said blake. "indeed?" exclaimed the younger man. he flushed and gazed confusedly at blake, pleased on his own account, yet none the less distressed for his friend. blake explained the situation with sober friendliness. "it's all up in the air, jimmy. i've got to make good, and she won't promise anything even if i succeed." "not even if you succeed?" lord james was bewildered. "can't say i blame her, since i've had time to think it over," said blake. "if it was you, for instance, she might have a show to get some happiness out of life, even with the whiskey. but think of her tied up to me, whiskey or no whiskey!" "you'll down the habit this time, old man." blake smiled ironically. "that's what you've said every time. it's what i've said myself, every time since i woke up to what the cursed sprees meant. no; don't be afraid. you'll have your chance soon enough. she has cut me clean off from outside help. she wouldn't even give me so much as a 'good luck to you'!" "she wouldn't? but of course you know that she wishes it." "does she? but that's not the point. she's made me believe she isn't sure of her--of her feelings toward me. don't think i blame her. i don't. she's right. if i can't stand up and fight it out and win, without being propped up by my friends, i ought to lose out. i'm not fit to marry any woman--much less her." lord james tugged and twisted at his mustache, and at last brought out his reply: "now, i--i say, you look here, old chap, you've got to win this time. it means her, y'know. you must win." "jimmy," stated blake, his eyes softening, "you're the limit!" "you're not!" flashed back his friend. "there's no limit to you--to what you can do." "heap of good it does--your saying it," grumbled blake. "this--er--situation won't prevent your calling at the leslies', i hope." "i'm not so sure," considered blake. "leastways you won't see me there till i begin to think i see a way to figure out this dam." lord james swung a leg over the corner of the desk and proceeded to light a cigarette. through the haze of the first two puffs he squinted across at the glum face of his friend, and said: "don't be an ass. she hasn't told you not to call." "no," admitted blake. "just the same, she said she wouldn't give me any help." "that doesn't bar you from calling. the sight of her will keep you keen." "i tell you, i'm not going near her house till i think i've a show to make good on this dam." "then you'll lunch with me and make an early call at the gantrys'. miss dolores requested me to give you an urgent invitation." "excuse _me!_" said blake. "no high society in mine." "you'll come," confidently rejoined his friend. "you owe it to miss genevieve." blake frowned and sat for some moments studying the point. lord james had him fast. "guess you've nailed me for once," he at last admitted. "rather have a tooth pulled, though." "i say, now, you got along swimmingly at ruthby." "with your father. he wasn't a chicago society dame." "oh, well, you must make allowances for the madam. miss dolores explained to me that 'vievie has only to meet people in order to be received, but mamma has to keep butting in to arrive--that's why she cultivates her grand air.'" "no sham about miss dolores!" approved blake. "right-o! you'll come, i take it. what if the dragon does have rather a frosty stare for you? she said i might bring you to call. seriously, tom, you must learn to meet her without showing that her manner flecks you. best kind of training for society. as i said just now, you owe it to miss genevieve." "well--long as you put it that way," muttered blake. "you'll get along famously with miss dolores, i'm sure," said lord james. "she's quite a charming girl,--vivacious and all that, you know. she's taken quite a fancy to you. the mother is one of those silly climbers who never look below the surface. you have twice my moral stamina, but just because i happen to have a title and some polish--" "don't try to gloze it over," cut in blake. "let's have it straight. you're a thoroughbred. i'm a broncho." "mistaken metaphor," rejoined his friend. "i'm a well-bred nonentity. you're a diamond in the rough. when once you've been cut and polished--" "then the flaws will show up in great shape," gibed blake. "never think it, old man! there is only one flaw, and that will disappear with the one cutting required to bring the stone to the best possible shape." "stow it!" ordered blake. the rattling of the doorknob drew his gaze about. "here's grif, back at last. he's been to chin with papa leslie." he squinted aggressively at the older engineer, who entered with his usual air of seeming absorption in the performance of his most trivial actions. "hello, you injin! gone into partnership with h. v.? you've been there all morning." "other way 'round, if anything," answered griffith. he nodded cordially in response to the greeting of lord james, and began rummaging in his pockets as he came over to the desk. "now, where's that letter? hey?--oh, here it is." he drew out a long envelope, and started to open it in a precise, deliberate manner. "so he fired you, eh?" rallied blake. "in a way," said griffith, peering at the paper in his hand. "it seems he's unloaded the zariba project onto the coville company." "thought it couldn't be put through, eh?" said blake. "bet he didn't let it go for nothing, though." "it's not often he comes out at the little end of the horn," replied griffith. "didn't take the coville people long to wake up to the situation. look here." blake took the opened letter, which was headed with the name and officers of the coville construction company. he read it through with care, whistled, and read it through the second time. "well, what you think of it?" impatiently demanded griffith. "_whee!_ they sure must think h. v. has left them to hold the bag. fifty thousand bonus to the engineer that shows 'em how the dam can be built!" "strict business," croaked griffith. "the company is stuck if they quit. fifty thousand is only ten per cent of their net profits if the project goes through. wish i had a show at it." "well, haven't you? it says any engineer." "i had quit before you came, only i didn't like to own up to h. v." "you needn't yet a while. i'll keep digging away at it. if i put it through, we divvy up. i'm working for you. see?" "not on your life, tommy! i don't smouge on another man's work." "well, then, we'll say i'm to split it because you put me next to the chance." "no go. i've no use for three-fourths of what i'm making nowadays. it's just piling up on me. look here. i happened to speak about you to the coville people--looking ahead, you know. they want me to try you out on some work i'm too busy to do myself. it's not much, and they offer only one-fifty a month as a starter, but it may lead to something better than i can do for you." "yes, that's so," considered blake. "it is checking field work reports that come in slowly this time of year. that's the only trouble. you'll be sitting around doing nothing half the time--that is, unless you're fool enough to waste any more time on this dam' dam." "waste time?" cried blake, his eyes flashing. "watch me! wait till you get your next bill for electric lights! you've given me my cue, grif. i'm going to buck through this little proposition in one-two-three style, grab my fifty thousand, and plunge into the new york four hundred as tommy van damdam. clear out, you hobos. i'm going to work!" "don't forget i've got you on for lunch and mrs. gantry's," reminded lord james. blake paused, pencil in hand. "aw, say, jimmy, you'll have to let me off now." "can't do it, old man, really." "at least that infernal call." "no, you've got to get used to it. tell you what, i'll let you off on the lunch if you'll be at my hotel at four sharp. don't squirm. that gives you as many hours to grind as are good for you at one stretch. if you try to funk it, i'll hold you for both lunch and call. your social progress is on my conscience." "huh!" rejoined blake. "don't wish you any hard luck, but if you and your conscience were in--" "four sharp, remember!" put in lord james, dodging from the room. griffith followed him closely and shut the door. "i'm not so busy, mr. scarbridge. step into my private office and have a cigar," he invited, and as lord james hesitated, he added in a lower tone, "want your idea about him." lord james at once went with the engineer into his office. "you wish to speak about tom?" he said. "yes. did you notice that look about his eyes? it's the first sign." "oh, no! let us hope not, mr. griffith. i happen to know he has suffered a severe disappointment. it may be that." "well, maybe. i hope so," said griffith dubiously. with innate delicacy, he refrained from any inquiry as to the nature of blake's disappointment. as he handed out his box of cigars, he went on, "i don't quite like it, though. he's a glutton for field work, but this indoors figuring soon sets him on edge. he can't stand being cooped up." "count on me to do all i can to get him out." "yes, i'm figuring on you, mr. scarbridge. he's told me all about you. between the two of us, we might stave it off and keep him going for months. wish i knew more about the girl--miss leslie. if she's the right sort, there's just a chance of something being done that i gave up as being impossible, last time he was with me--he might be straightened out for good." "it's possible, quite possible! others have been cured,--why not he?" exclaimed lord james, his face aglow with boyish enthusiasm. but as suddenly it clouded. "ah, though, most unfortunate--this stand of miss leslie's!" "what about her?" queried griffith, as the other hesitated. "she has told him that he must win out absolutely on his own strength, without her aid or sympathy." "well, i'll be--switched! thought she loved him." lord james flushed, yet answered without hesitancy. "it is to be presumed she does, otherwise she would not have forced this test upon him." "how d' you make that out?" "mere grateful interest in his welfare would have been satisfied by the assurance of his material success. on the other hand, her--ah--feeling toward him is at present held in restraint by her acute judgment. she had reason to esteem him in that savage environment. she now realizes that he must win her esteem in her own proper environment. she is not merely a young lady--she is a lady. her rare good sense tells her that she must not accept him unless he proves himself fit." "he's a lot fitter than all these lallapaloozer papa's boys and some of their fathers,--all those empty-headed swells that are called eligibles," rejoined griffith. "it's not a question of polish or culture, believe me. she is far too clever to doubt that he would acquire that quickly enough. my reference was to this one flaw, which may yet shatter him. the question is whether it penetrates too deep into his nature. if not--if he can rid himself of it--then even i admit that he would make her happy." "yet she won't lift a finger to help him fight it out?" "courage is the fundamental virtue in a man. it includes moral strength. if she cannot be sure of his strength, she will always doubt him and her love for him." "can't see it that way. if she helped him, and he won out, he'd be cured, wouldn't he?" "i've been trying to guess at a woman's reason, but i'm not so rash as to attempt to argue the matter," said lord james. he picked up his hat and held out a cordial hand to the engineer. "she may or may not be right. i'm not altogether certain as to the intuitive wisdom of women. however that may be, we at least shall do our best to pull him through." "that's talking, mr. scarbridge!" exclaimed griffith. chapter xv by-play promptly at four that afternoon blake was shown to the rooms of his friend at the hotel. he entered with a glum look not altogether assumed. "well, here i am," he grumbled. "hope you're satisfied. you're robbing me of the best part of the day." "i daresay," cheerfully assented lord james. "now look pleasant till i see if you're dressed." "no, i haven't a thing on. just clothed in sunshine and a sweet smile," growled blake, throwing open his raincoat to show his suit of rough gray homespun. "you don't ever get me into that skirty coat again. i can stand full dress, but not that afternoon horror-gown. i'm no minister." "don't fash yourself, old man. at least you've been tailored in london, and that's something. you'll do--in chicago." "i'll do o.k. right here," said blake. "what say? you've spoiled my afternoon. we'll call it quits if you settle down with me and put in the time chinning about things." "tammas, i'm shocked at you," reproved lord james. "you cannot wish to disappoint mrs. gantry, really!" "mrs. gantry be--" "no, no! do not say it, my deah tammas! when one is in society, y'know, one is privileged to think it, but it's bad form to express it so--ah--broadly--ah--i assure you." he adjusted his monocle and stared with a vacuous blandness well calculated to madden his friend. blake hurled a magazine, which his lordship deftly sidestepped. he reached for his hat, and faced blake with boyish eagerness. "come on, tom. chuck the rotting. we're wasting time." "must have a taxicab waiting for you," bantered blake. "no, a young lady. miss dolores is really eager to become acquainted with you, and--er--she may have a friend or two--" "excuse _me!_" "tammas the quitter!" lord james started for the door, and blake followed him, striving hard to maintain his surly look. at the street entrance he sought to postpone the coming ordeal by urging his need for exercise. "don't worry. i'll pay," said lord james, pretending to misunderstand, and he raised his finger to the chauffeur of the nearest cab. "you can walk home, if you wish to save pennies. now, you know, we desire to reach mrs. gantry's as soon as possible." "yes, we do!" growled blake. he seemed more than ever determined to remain in his glum mood, and the pleasant badinage of his friend during their run out to lincoln park boulevard rather increased than lessened his surliness. when they entered through the old colonial portal of the gantry home, he jerked off his english topcoat unaided, contemptuously spurning the assistance of the buff-and-yellow liveried footman. but as they were announced, he assumed what lord james termed his "poker face," and entered beside his friend, with head well up and shoulders squared. "good boy! keep it up," murmured lord james. "she'll take you for a distinguished personage." blake spoiled the effect by a grin, which, an instant later, was transformed into a radiant smile at sight of genevieve beside mrs. gantry. dolores came darting to meet them, her black eyes sparkling and her lithe young body aquiver with animation. "oh, lord avondale!" she cried. "so you _did_ make him come. mr. blake, why didn't you call at once?" "wasn't asked," answered blake, his eyes twinkling. "you are now. so please remember to come often. never fear mamma. i'll protect you. oh, i'm just on tiptoe to see you in those skin things you wore in africa. i made vievie put on her leopard-skin gown, and i think it's the most terrible romantic thing! and now i'm just dying to see your hyena-skin trousers and those awful poisoned arrows and--" "dolores!" admonished mrs. gantry. "oh, piffle!" complained the girl, drawing aside for the men to pass her. even mrs. gantry was not equal to the rudeness of snubbing a caller in her own house--when she had given an earl permission to bring him. but the contrast between her greetings of the two men was, to say the least, noticeable. blake met her supercilious bearing toward him with an impassiveness that was intended to mask his contemptuous resentment. but genevieve saw and understood. she rose and quietly remarked: "you'll excuse us, aunt amice. i wish mr. blake to see the palm room. i fancy it will carry him back to mozambique." mrs. gantry's look said that she wished mr. blake could be carried back to mozambique and kept there. her tongue said: "as you please, my dear. yet i should have thought you'd had quite enough of africa for a lifetime." "one never can tell," replied genevieve with a coldness that chilled the glow in blake's eyes. they went out side by side yet perceptibly constrained in their bearing toward one another. dolores flung herself across the room and into a chair facing her mother and lord james. "did you see that?" she demanded. "i do believe vievie is the coldest blooded creature! when she knows he's just dying for love of her! why, i never--" "that will do!" interrupted mrs. gantry. "i'll leave it to lord avondale. isn't it the exact truth?" "er--he still looks rather robust," parried lord james. "you know what i mean. but i didn't think she'd behave in this dog-in-the-manger fashion. she might have at least given me a chance for a tete-a-tete with him, even if he is _her_ hero." "i am only too well aware what lord avondale will think of _you_, going on in this silly way," observed mrs. gantry. "if lord avondale doesn't like me and my manners, he needn't. need you, mr. scarbridge?" "but how can i help liking you?" asked the young englishman with such evident sincerity that the girl was disconcerted. she flashed a bewildered glance into his earnest face, and turned quickly away, her cheeks scarlet with confusion. "ah, earl," purred her mother, "i fully appreciate your kindness. she is genevieve's cousin. you are therefore pleased to disregard her gaucheries." "ho! so that's it?" retorted dolores. "lord avondale needn't trouble to disregard anything about me." "believe me, i do not, miss gantry," replied lord james. "i find you most charming." "because i'm vievie's cousin! well, if you wish to know what i think, i think all englishmen are simply detestable!" cried the girl, and she sprang up and flounced away, her face crimson with anger. "you had better go straight to your room," reproved her mother. the girl promptly dodged the doorway for which she was headed, and veered around to a window, where she turned her back on them and perched herself on the arm of a chair. mrs. gantry sighed profoundly. "_a-a-ah!_ was ever a mother so tried! such temper, such perversity! her father, all over again!" "if you'll permit me to offer a suggestion," ventured lord james, "may it not be that you drive with rather too taut a rein?" "too taut! can you not see? the slightest relaxation, and i should have a runaway." "but a little freedom to canter? it's this chafing against the bit. so high spirited, you know. i must confess, it's that which i find most charming about her." "impossible! you cannot realize." "then, too, her candor--one of the rarest and most admirable traits in a woman." "simply terrible! that she should fling her--opinion of you in your face!" "better that than the usual insincerity in such cases of dislike. it gives me reason to hope that eventually i can win her friendship." "your kindness is more than i can ever repay!" "you can by granting me a single favor." "indeed?" mrs. gantry raised her eyebrows in high arches. "by receiving my friend as my friend." "ah! had you not asked permission to bring him, he would not have been received at all." "not even as the man who saved your niece?" "that is an obligation to be discharged by her father." "i see. very well, then. regarding him simply as my friend, i ask you to consider that he is undergoing a most difficult, i may say, cruel test. he must overcome something that he has vainly fought for years--something that has crushed many of the greatest intellects the world has known." "the more reason for me to save genevieve from ruin. from what you say, i imply that it is a hopeless case of degeneracy." "not hopeless; and degenerate in that respect alone--if you must insist on the term." "i do insist." "what if he should succeed in overcoming it?" "he cannot. even should he seem to, there will always be a weakness to be feared." "is that just?" "it is just to genevieve." "everything for vievie, coronet included!" called dolores over her shoulder. mrs. gantry's english complexion deepened to the purple of mortification. the frank smile that told of his lordship's enjoyment of her discomfiture was the last straw. she rose in her stateliest manner. "i shall leave you a few moments to be entertained by the dear child, since you find her so amusing," she said. "genevieve must not be permitted to remain too long in the close hot air of the palm room." "there's some hot air outside the conservatory, mamma," remarked dolores. but mrs. gantry sailed majestically from the room, without deigning to heed the pleasantry. lord james sauntered across to the window and perched himself on a chair arm close before the girl. "when do you begin?" he asked. "your mamma said you were to entertain me." "best possible reason why i shouldn't," she snapped, staring hard out of the window. "what if i should try to entertain you?" "you wouldn't succeed. i wanted to talk to a man. it's too bad! simply because you asked me to, i was silly enough to tease vievie into coming over this afternoon--and the minute he comes, she rushes him off to the conservatory." "believe me, i regret quite as keenly that she did not take me instead." "that's complimentary--to me!" "can you blame me for agreeing, when you express a preference for the man instead of the mere son of a duke?" "perhaps you're a man yourself. who knows?" "quien sabe, senorita dolores?" he rallied her. "tell me how to prove it." she flashed him a glance of naive coquetry. "you ask how? if i were my great grandmother, you might try to kiss me, and chance a stiletto thrust in return." "your great grandmother was an italian?" the girl's red lips curled disdainfully. "no, she was spanish. though she lived in mexico, her family were castilian and related to the royal valois family of france. so you see how far back it goes. we have the journal of her husband. she married dr. robinson, who accompanied lieutenant pike on his famous expedition." "pike? leftenant pike?" "no, he wasn't 'left.' he came back and became the general pike who died at the moment of his glorious victory over the english, in the war of ." "ah, come to think--pike of pike's peak. never heard of the battle you mention; but as an explorer--so one of his companions married your ancestress?" "yes. he must have been another such man as mr. blake." "the kind to risk stiletto thrusts for kisses?" "yes. i know i must be exactly like her--that haughty senorita alisanda." "indeed, yes. i can almost see her dagger up your sleeve." the girl's black eyes flashed fire. "if it _was_ there, you'd get a good scratch!" "believe me," he apologized, "you quite failed to take me." "it's no question of taking you. i prefer heroes." "can't say i blame you. you've all the fire and charm of a spanish girl, and, permit me to add, the far greater charm of an american girl." she looked to see if he was mocking her. finding him unaffectedly sincere, she promptly melted into a most amiable and vivacious though unconventional debutante. chapter xvi the amaryllis the constraint between blake and genevieve had rather increased than lessened when they left the others. neither spoke until they had passed through the outer conservatory into the tropical heat of the palm room. but there the first whiff of the odor from the moist warm mould brought with it a flood of pungent memories. "the river jungle," muttered blake, sniffing. "air was drier out under the cocoanut palms." "that first night, in the tree!" murmured genevieve. "how easily you hauled us up with the vine rope! ah, then--and now!" blake drew away from her, his face darkening. "hope you don't think i expected to see you here? if jimmy knew, he didn't tell me." "how could he know? dolores did not phone to me until mid-afternoon. but even had you been told, i see no reason why you shouldn't have come." "you don't?" he asked, his face brightening. "i was afraid you might think i was trying to dodge your conditions. besides, i had promised myself not to call on you till i thought i saw a way to work out a big piece of engineering that i'm on." "then you have a good position? i'm so glad!" "not a regular position. but i've been given work and a chance at one of the biggest things in hydraulics--the zariba dam, out in arizona." "you're not going away?" calmly as she tried to speak, she could not entirely repress an under-note of apprehension. slight as was the betrayal of feeling, it enheartened him immensely. he beamed up at the palm crests that brushed the glazed dome. "looks like they're going to raise the roof, doesn't it?" he said. "feel that way myself. your father unloaded the zariba project onto the coville construction company, and they've offered a cool fifty thousand dollars to the man that figures out a feasible way to construct the dam. i spoke about it before, you may remember; but this bonus wasn't up then. if i put it through, i'll be recognized as a first-class engineer." "you will succeed, of course," said genevieve with perfect confidence in his ability to overcome such a relatively easy difficulty. "hope so," responded blake. "i'm still tunnelling in the dark, though. not a glimmer of a hole out." "that is of small concern." "isn't it, though? i'm counting on that to boost me along on the other thing. nothing like a little good luck to keep a fellow braced up." "but i'm sure you have some dutch blood,--and you know the dutch never fight harder than when the odds are against them." "then it's too bad i'm not hans van amsterdam. he'd have the scrap of his life." "do you mean that the odds are so greatly against you?" asked genevieve, with sudden gravity. "what's the use of talking about it?" said blake, almost brusquely. "if i win, i win; and i'm supposed to believe that is all it means. if i lose, you're rid of me for good." genevieve bit her lip and turned her head to hide her starting tears. "i did not think you would be so bitter over it!" she half sobbed. "can't you take a joke?" he demanded. "great joke!--me thinking i've a ghost of a show of winning you! no; the laugh's on me, all right. idea of me dreaming i can down that damnable thirst!" "tom, you'll not give up--you'll not!" she cried with a fierceness that shook him out of his bitter despondency. "give up?" he rejoined. "what d' you take me for? i'll fight--course i'll fight, till i'm down and out. people don't much believe in hell nowadays, jenny. i do. i've been there. i'm bound to go there again, i don't know how soon. don't think i'm begging for help or whining. nobody goes to hell that hasn't got hell in him. he always gets just what's coming to him." "no, no! it's not fair. i can't bear to hear you blame yourself. there's no justice in it. both heredity and environment have been against you." "justice?" he repeated. he shook his head, with rather a grim smile. "told you once i worked in a pottery. supposing the clay of a piece wasn't mixed right, it wasn't the dish's fault if it cracked in the firing. just the same, it got heaved on the scrap-heap." genevieve looked down at her clasped hands and whispered: "may not even a flawed piece prove so unique, so valuable in other respects, that it is cemented and kept?" blake laughed harshly. "ever know a cracked dish to cement itself?" "this is all wrong! the metaphor doesn't apply," protested the girl. "you're not a lifeless piece of clay; you're a man--you have a free, powerful will." "that's the question. have i? has anybody? some scientists argue that we're nothing but automatons--the creatures of heredity and environment." "it's not true. we're morally responsible for all we do--that is, unless we're insane." "and i'm only dippy, eh?" said blake. he moved ahead around the screening fronds of a young areca palm, and came to an abrupt halt, his eyes fixed on an object in the midst of the tropical undergrowth. "look here!" he called in a hushed tone. genevieve hesitated, and came to him with reluctant slowness. but when she reached his side and saw what it was he was looking at so intently, her cold face warmed with a tender glow, and, unable to restrain her emotion, she pressed her cheek against his arm. he quivered, yet made no attempt to take advantage of her weakness. "tom! oh, tom!" she whispered. "it's exactly the color of the other one!" "wish _this_ snake was as easy to smash!" he muttered. "it will be!" she reassured him. he made no response. after a short silence, she said, "in memory of that, tom, i wish you would kiss me." he bent over and touched his lips to her forehead with reverent tenderness. that was all. when mrs. gantry came in on them, they were still standing side by side, but apart, contemplating the great crimson amaryllis blossom. their attitude and their silence were, however, sufficient to quicken her apprehensions. "my dear child," she reproached genevieve, "you should know that this damp mouldy air is not wholesome for you." "she's right, miss jenny," agreed blake. "it's too much like mozambique--gets your thoughts muddled. you've failed to do as you said you would. i ought to've gone sooner. good-day, mrs. gantry. good-day, miss jenny." he turned away with decisive quickness. "must you go?" asked genevieve, with a trace of entreaty that did not escape her aunt. "yes," said blake. "you'll come to see me soon!" "not till i see daylight ahead on the dam. don't know when that will be. best i can say is adios!" "i trust it will be soon." "same here," he responded, and he left the palm room with head down-bent, as if he were already pondering the problem, the solving of which was to free him from the self-imposed taboo of her house. "my dear genevieve!" mrs. gantry hastened to exclaim. "why must you encourage the man?" the girl pointed to the gorgeous blossom of the amaryllis. "that is one reason, aunt amice." "that? what do you mean?" "your amaryllis--not the flower itself, but what it stands for to me." "still, i do not--" "not when you recall what i told you about that frightful puff adder--that i was stooping to pick an amaryllis when the hideous creature struck at me?" "you mentioned something about a snake, but there was so much else--" "yes, it was only once of the many, many times when he proved himself a man. though the adder only struck the fold of my skirt, i stood paralyzed with horror. winthrope, as usual, was ineffectual. tom came running with his club--and then--" the girl paused until the vivid blush that had leaped into her cheeks had ebbed away. "it was not alone his courage but his resourcefulness. most men would have turned away from the writhing monster, full of loathing. he saw the opportunity to convert what had been a most deadly peril into a source of safety. he sent me away, and extracted the poison for his arrow tips." "my dear child, i freely admit that he is an admirable savage," conceded mrs. gantry. "say rather that he was fit to survive in a savage environment. we shall now see him adapt himself to the other extreme." "young girls always tend to idealize those whom they chance to fancy." "chance? fancy? dear aunt amice, you and papa do not, perhaps cannot, realize that for those many weeks i lived with storm and starvation, sun and fever, serpents and ferocious beasts all striving to destroy me. i saw the hard realities of life, and learned to think. mentally i am no longer a young girl, but a woman, qualified to judge what her future should be." the glowing face of her usually composed niece warned mrs. gantry to be discreet. she patted the coils of soft hair. "there, there, my dear. pray do not misunderstand me. all i ask is that you make sure before you commit yourself,--a few months of delay, that you may compare him with the men of our own class." genevieve smiled. "i have gone quite beyond that already, aunt amice." "indeed?" murmured the elder woman. too tactful to venture further, she placed a ring-crowded hand upon her ample bosom. "it is too close in here. i feel oppressed." genevieve readily accompanied her from the conservatory. blake had gone, alone, for they found lord james in the midst of a lively tete-a-tete with dolores. at sight of the merry couple, genevieve paused in the doorway to recall to her companion some previous conversation. "you see, aunty. confess now. they would make a perfect couple." "nonsense. he would never dream of such a thing, even were you out of his thoughts. what is more, though he seems to have caught her in one of her gay moods, i know that she simply abominates him. she told him as much, within a minute after you left us." "i'm so sorry!" sighed genevieve. "at least let us slip out without interrupting them. i must be going, anyway." "my dear, i have you to consider before dolores," replied mrs. gantry, and she advanced upon the unconscious couple. "genevieve is going." lord james looked about, for the slightest fraction of a moment discomposed. genevieve perceived the fleeting expression, and hastened to interpose. "do not trouble. it is so short a distance." but the englishman was already bowing to dolores. the girl turned her back upon him with deliberate rudeness. "you see!" murmured mrs. gantry to genevieve. when lord james and her niece had gone, the outraged dame wheeled upon her daughter. but at the first word, dolores faced her with such an outblazing of rebellious anger that the mother thought best to defer her lecture. chapter xvii entrapped on a frosty sunday morning, some ten days later, blake came swinging out lake shore drive at a space-devouring stride that soon brought him to the leslie mansion. he turned in, and the footman, who had received orders regarding him, promptly bowed him in. after a moment's hesitancy, blake handed over a calling card. all his previous cards had been printed, with a "c. e." after his name and nothing before it. these social insignia had been ordered for him by lord james. blake wondered how the innovation would impress genevieve. she presently came down to him, dressed for church but without her hat. he was quick to note the fact. "you're going out. didn't mean to call at the wrong time." "no," she replied. "i am going to church, but not until aunt amice and dolores call by for us. that may not be for half an hour. i am very glad to see you. i remember what you said about your next call. this means, does it not, that you believe you can solve the problem of the zariba dam?" "yes. i sidetracked the proposition four days ago. had all the facts and factors in my head, but couldn't seem to get anywhere. well, i hadn't tried to think about the dam since then, but this morning, all of a sudden, the idea came to me." "you had set your subconscious mind to working," remarked genevieve. "the ideas of many of the great inventions and discoveries have come that way." "don't know about any subconscious mind," said blake. "but that idea flashed into my head when i wasn't thinking of the dam at all--just like i'd dreamed it." "you mean 'as if' you'd dreamed it, not 'like,'" said genevieve, with a look of playful reproof. "how's that?" he queried. "never thought that was wrong. but i like your telling me. is that right?" "quite,--grammatically as well as otherwise," she answered, smiling at his soberness. but her tone was as earnest as his. "the speech of a great engineer should be as correct as his figures." "that's a go!" agreed blake. "i'll hire a grammar expert just as soon as i work out this dam idea--_um_--you know what i mean--this idea about the dam. don't know how long that will take. but i'm pretty sure i've got the thing cinched--else i wouldn't have had the nerve to come here this morning. you'll believe that, jenny?" "of course. yet there was no reason why you should have remained away even had you not succeeded. i did not mean you to--to take it that way, tom." "all right, then. i'll drop around often if it's not against rules." "you'll come to church with me this morning?" "church!" echoed blake, in mock-tragic fright. "haven't been inside a church since i don't know when." "all the more reason why you should go with us now," she argued. "us?" "aunt amice always calls by for papa. he is one of the vestrymen of the cathedral, you know, but he'd never go if aunty did not come for him. we share the same pew. but it's a large one. there'll be room for you." "not in the same pew with your aunt and father," rejoined blake. "it'd take a larger pew than was ever made, to hold them and me." "oh, but you must come, tom. you'll enjoy the music. here they are now." "o-ho, vievie, you in here?" called dolores, and she darted in upon them. "goodness! who's the man? why, it's mr. blake. hail to the hero!" she pirouetted down to them and shook blake's hand vigorously, chattering her fastest. "you can't imagine how glad i am to see you. i've had less than half of jeems, with mamma butting in all the way over. of course he'll sit between her and vievie. if you'll come along as my own particular, i'll feed you on chocolates and keep you nudged during the sermon." "oh, but i say, miss gantry, those were to be my chocolates," protested lord james from the doorway. "hello," said blake. "so you're the man, are you? better look out. first thing you know, you'll get roped." "roped? what's that?" demanded dolores. "ask jeems," laughed blake. "er--seems to me i've heard the expression in relation to the term 'steer,'" observed lord james. "oh, something to do with a ship," said the girl. "yes, with what the sailormen would call a trim craft. eh, jeems?" chuckled blake. "you're laughing at me!" accused the girl. "to make up for it, you'll have to come and hold my prayer-book for me. just think!--a real hero to hold my prayer-book!" "excuse _me!_" objected blake. "i don't know the places." "never mind. we can study the styles quite as well. vievie, let's hurry on. mamma has gone up to rout out uncle herbert. they'll be late--as usual." "well, then, i'll clear the track," said blake. "take good care of jeems for me. good-bye, miss jenny." "don't leave, tom," replied genevieve. "if you do not wish to go to the cathedral--" "we'll all stay home," cut in dolores. "what's this about staying home?" came the voice of mrs. gantry from the hall. "quick, mr. blake!" exclaimed dolores in a stage whisper. "hide behind me. i'm taller than vievie." her mother came in upon them in time to catch blake's broadest grin. "stay at home, indeed! such a delightful day as--ah!" "it is mr. blake, aunt amice," said genevieve in a tone that compelled the stiffening matron to bow. "well, good-bye," repeated blake. "please wait," said genevieve. "if you do not wish to go to church, you must stay to--here's papa." "not late this time, am i?" demanded mr. leslie, bustling into the room. "all ready, my dear? no, you've not got on your hat. hello!" he stopped short, staring at blake. "didn't know you were to be with us." "i'm not," said blake. "you're not? h'm,--why not? not afraid of church, are you? better join us." blake stared in open astonishment. "thanks, i--not this time, i guess," he replied. mr. leslie seemed about to press the point, but paused and glanced at his watch. "please do not wait for me," said genevieve. "i have decided not to go." if blake expected an outburst over this, he had another surprise in store for him. mrs. gantry turned away, tight-lipped and high of chin, either too full for utterance or else aware that it was an instant when silence was the better part of diplomacy. mr. leslie followed her, after a half-irritable, half-cordial word to blake. "very well, very well. some other time, then." as lord james took his leave of genevieve with apparent nonchalance, blake noted an exultant sparkle in the black eyes of dolores. yet the look was flatly contradicted by her words as she flounced about toward the door: "you needn't say good-bye, mr. scarbridge. you may as well stay right here, since she's not going." "you see how she rags me," complained lord james, hastening out after her. blake watched them go, his eyes keen with eager observation. he was still staring at the doorway when genevieve offered banteringly, "a penny for your thoughts, mr. blake." "you'll have to bid higher. make it a coronet--i mean, half a crown." "only half a crown? why not a crown--the oak crown of the conqueror? you know the bible verse: 'he that overcometh himself is greater than he that taketh a city.'" "can't say as to that; but i've taken in the town, after having failed to overcome," said blake with bitter humor. "tom! you must not speak of your defeats. they are past and of the past. you must not even think of them. have you ever been baptized?" "baptized? let's see... yes, i remember the question was brought up when i came back from my first hoboing and my sisters got me going to the episcopal mission. they even persuaded me to join what's called a confirmation class. that's when it had to be proved i'd been baptized." "oh, tom! then you've been confirmed--you're an episcopalian!" "i was confirmed. that's not saying i'm an episcopalian now." "have you joined another denomination?" "no. it was just that my religious streak pinched out, and some years after that i read darwin and spencer and haeckel." "but that's no reason. if only you had read drummond first, you'd have seen that true science and true religion are not opposed but are complementary to each other." "drummond?" queried blake. "never heard of him, that i remember. anyway, i guess i'm not one of the religious kind. it was only to please my sisters i started in that time." "but you'll go to church with me now, tom?" blake hesitated. "thought you told them you'd decided not to go?" "not to the cathedral. there's the little chapel down the street, in which i was confirmed. it's nearer. we could walk. the bishop officiates at the communion this morning, but he is ill; so mr. vincent, the vicar, will preach. he's a young clergyman and is said to be as popular with the men of his congregation as with the women. his text to-day for morning service is--no, i'll not tell it to you, but i'm sure you'll find the sermon helpful." "if you're so anxious to have me go, jenny, i'll go. but it's to be with you, not because i'm interested in that kind of religion. i don't believe in going to a church every week and whining about being full of sin and iniquity and all that. the people that do it are either hypocrites and don't believe what they are saying, or else it's true, and they ought to go to jail." genevieve smiled regretfully. "you and i live in such different worlds. will you not try to at least look into mine?" "well, i'll not sleep during the sermon," promised blake. she shook her head at his levity, and left him, to fetch her hat and furs. when they went out, blake had no need to stop in the hall. he had brought no overcoat. the first breath of the clear frosty air outside caused her to draw her furs about her graceful throat. she glanced at blake, and asked with almost maternal concern. "where's your topcoat? you'll take cold." "what, a day like this?" he replied. "on a good hustling job i'd call this shirtsleeve weather." "you're so hardy! that is part of your strength." "um-m," muttered blake. "that cousin of yours is a hummer, isn't she?" "if you but knew how she envies me my crusoe adventures!" "i'm not surprised to hear it. what gets me is seeing her go to the same church as her mother." "she doesn't usually. but how could she miss such a chance to tease aunty and lord james? she's a dear contrary girl." "then she's not an episcopalian?" "oh, yes. isn't it nice that we all are?" "we all?" queried blake. "if you've been confirmed, you are, too. that's why i'm so glad you're coming with me. we'll take the communion together." blake's face darkened, and he replied hesitatingly: "why, you see, jenny, i--i don't think i want to." "but, tom, when it will please me so much!" "you know i'd like to please you--only, you see, i'm not--i don't believe in it." "do you positively disbelieve in it?" "well, i can't say just that." "then i'm sure it will be all right. you'll not be irreverent, and maybe it will reawaken your own true spiritual self." "sorry," said blake uneasily. "i'm afraid i can't do it, even to please you." "but why not? surely, tom, you'll not allow your hard cold science to stand in the way of a sacrament!" "i don't know whether it is a sacrament or isn't." "is that your reason for refusing what i so greatly desire?" he looked away from her, and asked in a tone that was meant to be casual, "do they use regular wine, or the unfermented kind?" "so that's your reason!" she exclaimed. "i did not think you'd be afraid." "anything that has alcohol in it--" he sought to explain. "it's the very devil to rouse that craving! there have been times when i've taken a drink and fought it down--but not when--no, i can't risk it, jenny." "not the communion wine? surely no harm could come from that! you need take only the slightest sip." "one taste might prove to be as bad as a glassful. you can't guess what it's like. i'm apt to go wild. just the smell is bad enough." "but it's the _communion_, tom. you have been confirmed in the church. you know what the consecrated bread and wine symbolize. you can recall to mind all the sacred associations." "i'm mighty sorry," replied blake. "if only that meant to me what it does to you, i might risk it. i'm no blatant atheist or anti-religionist. i'm simply agnostic; i don't believe. that's all. you have faith. i haven't. i didn't wish to get rid of my faith. it just went." "it may come to you again, if you seek to partake of the spiritual communion," urged genevieve. "i'm willing enough to try that. but i'll not risk any wine." "you'll not?" she cried. "afraid to taste the consecrated wine? then you _are_ weak!--you _are_ a coward! and i thought you strong, despite your own confession!" the outburst of reproach forced blake to flinch. he muttered in protest, "good lord, jenny! you don't mean to say you make this a part of the test?" "does it mean nothing to you that i long to have you share the communion with me?" she rejoined. "what must i think of you if you dare not venture to partake of that holy symbol, in the communion of all that is highest within you with the father?" blake quivered as though the frosty air had at last sent a chill through his powerful frame. "you insist?" he asked huskily. "you are strong. you will do it," she replied. "you don't know what it means. but, since you insist--" he reluctantly acquiesced. he added almost inaudibly, "up against it for sure! still--there have been times--" chapter xviii holy communion they reached the chapel and entered during the last verse of the processional hymn. as genevieve was known to the usher in charge of the centre aisle, they were shown to a pew farther forward than blake would have chosen. genevieve produced a dainty hymnal and prayer-book, and gave her companion the pleasurable employment of helping her hold first one and then the other, throughout the service. if his spirit was quickened by a re-hearing of the prayers in which he had once believed, he did not show it. but he seemed pleased at the fact that genevieve was too intent upon worship to gaze around at the hats and dresses of the other ladies. the chapel choir could not boast of any exceptional voices. it was, however, very well trained. throughout the anthem blake sat tense, almost quivering, so keen was his delight. at the close he sank back into the corner of the pew, his gaze shifting uneasily from the infirm and aged bishop in the episcopal chair to the thin, eager-faced young vicar who had hastened around to mount up into the pulpit. with a quick movement, the vicar opened the thick bible to his text, the announcement of which caused blake to start and fix his attention upon him: "'he that is slow to anger is better than the mighty, and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.' proverbs : ." genevieve glanced at blake, who recalled how she had expressed her certainty that he would find the sermon helpful. the text was apt, to say the least. his hard-set face momentarily softened with a smile that caused her to settle back, in serene contentment. he assumed what lord james would have termed his "poker face" and leaned up in the corner of the pew, to gaze at the preacher, as impassive as a wooden image. the manner in which the reverend mr. vincent elucidated his text soon won a stare of pleased surprise from blake. he began by describing, no less vividly than briefly, the walled cities of the ancients and the enormous difficulty of capturing them, either by siege or assault. this was followed by a graphic summary of the life of alexander the great. blake listened with such intentness to this novel sermon that he did not perceive that genevieve was no less intently studying him. it was evident he was deeply impressed by the obvious inference to be drawn from the life of the mighty young macedonian,--the youth who conquered worlds, only to be himself conquered by his own vices. but when, warming to his theme, the young vicar entered upon a eulogy of asceticism, blake bent over and stared moodily at the printed "suggestions to worshippers" pasted on the back of the next pew. his big body, to all appearances, was absolutely still and rigid, but the fingers of his right hand moved about restlessly, tapping his knee or clenching upon the broad palm. in the midst of mr. vincent's explanations of what he considered the fundamental differences between the self-torture of the hindu yogis and the mortifications of spirit and body practised by the mediaeval monks, blake shook his head in an uneasy, annoyed gesture. yet if he meant this as an indication of dissent, he gave no other sign that he was following the thread of the sermon. even the close of the eloquent peroration, in which mr. vincent besought his hearers to prepare for the fasting and prayer of the lenten season, failed to rouse blake from his moody abstraction. but at the end of the regular service, when the white-gowned choir-boys flocked out and the majority of the congregation began to crowd into the aisles with decorous murmurings and the soft rustling of silken skirts, blake raised his head and followed their departure with a shifting, disquieted gaze. at last all others than those who had remained for the communion had passed out into the vestibule, and the closing of the doors muffled the loud clear voices of those on the outer steps. genevieve touched blake's arm. he started, and glanced up into the chancel. as he caught sight of the bishop and mr. vincent behind the rail, his uneasiness became so pronounced that genevieve was alarmed. "what is it? are you ill?" she whispered. "no," he replied. he thrust his shaking hands into his coat pockets, forced himself to take a deep breath, and added in a thick, half-inarticulate mutter, "no--won't give in--not a quitter." she could not catch the words, but the resolute tone reassured her. "it's the air in here. it's stifling. but we shall not be long now," she murmured, and she lapsed into devotional concentration. blake, however, followed the service with increasing restlessness. his fingers twitched within the sheltering pockets, and the lines of his face drew tense. he glanced about two or three times as though half inclined to bolt. a little more, and he might have broken under the strain and run away. but then the communicants began to leave their pews and drift forward into the chancel. at the touch of genevieve's hand upon his arm he started more sharply than before. "tom, you really are ill!" she insisted. "no," he mumbled, "i guess i--wait, though. i've forgotten. does he mean we're supposed to take it as real flesh and blood?" "only the romanists hold to that. we take it symbolically." "then why doesn't he say so?" "he did. besides, every one understands. you are coming?" "wine--alcohol--and she still insists!" he muttered in a thick, almost inarticulate voice. intent upon the sacrament, she failed to heed either his tone or the despair in his tense face. "come. we are the last," she urged. "we'll soon be out in the open air." with a heaviness that she mistook for solemnity, he stepped out into the aisle for her to leave the pew, and walked beside her up into the chancel. she knelt near the extreme end of the altar rail, and bent over with her face in the little hand that she had bared to receive the communion bread. for a moment blake stood beside her, staring dubiously at the venerable figure of the bishop. mr. vincent passed between. blake took a step to the left and knelt down beside genevieve. the only sounds in the chancel were the intoned murmurings of the bishop and mr. vincent and the labored breathing of an asthmatic woman next to genevieve. the less indistinct of the murmuring voices drew near. genevieve thrust out her palm a little way. blake, without looking up, did the same. mr. vincent reiterated his intoned statement above them, as though in invocation, and placed tiny squares of bread in their palms. they were the last in the line of kneeling communicants. blake waited until genevieve raised her hand to her mouth. mechanically he followed her example. he swallowed the little morsel of bread with perceptible effort. again he pressed his forehead down upon the hand that gripped the brass rail. the bishop's voice now murmured near them, feeble and broken, yet very solemn: "'the blood of our lord jesus christ, which was shed for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life. drink this in remembrance that christ's blood was shed for thee, and be thankful.'" both of blake's hands now clutched the rail in a grip that whitened the knuckles. persons from the other end and the centre of the line were rising and softly retiring to their pews. the asthmatic woman gasped and fell silent as the bishop held the communion cup to her lips. the bishop shuffled quietly along another step and stood bowed over the last two communicants. he was a very old man and he was ill. his voice sank to an inaudible murmur: "'the blood ... shed for thee, preserve ... life. drink this ..." blake waited, tense and rigid, as one about to meet the shock of a deadly attack. the bishop drew the chalice back from genevieve's lips in his trembling hands, and paused for blake to reach out and take it. blake did not move. the bishop bent farther over. the fumes of the wine rose in the face of the kneeling man. he quivered and shrank back--then, almost violently, he flung up his head and caught the cup to his lips. genevieve was rising. blake stood up abruptly and followed her down to their pew. she knelt at once; but he caught up his soft hat, and holding it before his face, bent down close to her ear. he spoke in a strained whisper: "excuse me. i've got to go." she half rose. "you're ill! i'll go with you and--" "no. sit still. i've a--a most important engagement with, a friend--mr. griffith. got to hurry!" "not so loud!" she cautioned him. "if you _must_ go, tom!" "yes, must! sorry, but--" his hand sought and closed upon hers in a sudden caressing clasp, and his voice became husky. "good-bye, girlie! may not see you for a--for a time!" "why, are you going out of town?" she asked. but he was already turning away. without pausing to answer her question, he started rapidly down the aisle, his head and shoulders bent forward in a peculiar crouch. a slight frown of perplexity and displeasure marred the serenity of genevieve's face. but the benign voice of the bishop immediately soothed her back into her beatific abstraction. when the service was ended, she walked home in a most devotional frame of mind, and after luncheon, spent the afternoon searching out scriptural verses that she thought would aid in the spiritual re-awakening of blake. later in the afternoon she accompanied her father to the gantrys', her face aglow with reverent joy. it was as if she felt that she had already guided blake into the straight and narrow way that leads up out of the primitive. they found dolores industriously shocking her mother by a persistent heckling of lord james, who was smiling at her quips and sallies and twirling his little blond mustache as if he enjoyed the raillery. "oh, here's vievie, at last!" cried the girl. "vievie darling, your eyes positively shine! have you and the heroic thomas been talking about the sharks and crocodiles of your late paradise? that was so cute of you, waiting this morning till we had gone, and then slipping off with him alone." "we went to my little chapel. i knew the dear old bishop would be there. and the new vicar, mr. vincent, preached a splendid sermon." "which you talked about all the way home--i don't think," mocked dolores. "no, you never think," agreed mrs. gantry. "mr. blake had to hasten away, just before the close of the communion service," explained genevieve. "he remembered an important engagement with mr. griffith." "about the zariba dam?" queried her father with alert eagerness. "he did not say. i am not altogether sure that he--" "pardon me," interrupted lord james. "do you really believe that, in the circumstances, he would leave you for a business appointment?" "why shouldn't he?" said mr. leslie. "if he solves the problem of that dam, his fortune is as good as made. he'll have big positions thrust upon him. did he seem excited, my dear--abstracted?" "oh, do you think it was that?" replied genevieve. "i feared he was ill. the ventilation of the chapel is so wretched. he did look odd; yet he would not admit that he felt ill. i was half doubtful whether it was right to insist that he stay to communion." "communion!" gasped mrs. gantry. "you don't mean to say, my dear, that you've made a convert of him? impossible!" "i'm afraid not," sighed genevieve. "i believe he took the communion merely to oblige me." "took the communion?" echoed lord james, no less astonished than mrs. gantry. "surely you do not--er--it seems quite impossible, you know." "is it so very amazing, when i asked him--urged him?" said genevieve, flushing ever so slightly under his incredulous look. "my word!" he murmured. "tom did that!" "i regret that he was not in a condition to receive the utmost good from it. but he was either ill or else rendered uneasy over his business with mr. griffith," remarked genevieve. "of course, of course!" assented lord james, bending over to brush a speck from his knee. "quite a pity, indeed!" he straightened and turned to mrs. gantry, with a forced smile. "er--it's deuced stupid of me--agreeing to dine, y'know--deuced stupid. must beg pardon for cutting it! i'd quite forgotten i was to meet tom--er--and griffith, at their offices. they may be waiting for me now." "why, of all things!" protested dolores. "you don't mean to say you are going to run off, just when dinner is ready?" "lord avondale has made his excuses," said her mother. "no doubt another time--" "very soon, i trust--very soon," assented lord james, with a propitiatory glance at dolores. "it's a keen disappointment, i assure you." he looked about at genevieve. "if you ladies will be so kind--it's a most pressing matter. er--griffith is not in the best of health. he may have to take a trip to florida." "no, he won't," broke in mr. leslie. "not unless he leaves some one to manage lafayette ashton. the young cub isn't fit to be left alone with that bridge. isn't that what this appointment is about? griffith may have it in mind to put blake in charge of the bridge." "er--must say it wouldn't surprise me if he takes a run up there with griffith," said lord james. "may go along myself." "but you'll be back for the ball!" exclaimed dolores. "right-o! count on me for the ball. that's a fortnight off. ample time." "then i promise you two waltzes. bring back laffie with you. he dances divinely." lord james smiled in rather an absent manner, and turned to genevieve. "you take me? i expect to be away with tom for a few days. he will probably lack opportunity to call on you before he leaves town. you may have a message for me to take to him." "give him my best wishes for the success--of his work." "that is all?" for a few moments genevieve stood hesitating, too intent upon her own thoughts to heed the covert stare of dolores and the open scrutiny of her aunt and father. lord james waited, with his averted gaze fixed upon the anxious face of mrs. gantry. "that is all," quietly answered the girl, at last. mrs. gantry sighed with relief, but dolores frowned, and mr. leslie stared in irritable perplexity. lord james bowed and hastened out before any of the others had observed his expression. chapter xix the fall of man griffith, c.e., sat in the inner room of the bare living apartments adjoining his office. his feet, clad in white socks and an ancient pair of carpet slippers, were perched upon the top of a clicking steam radiator. his lank body balanced itself perilously in a rickety cane-seated chair, which was tilted far back on the rear legs. his pipe, long since burnt out and cold, hung from his slack jaw, while his eyes, bright and excited, galloped through the last pages of a sensational society novel. he reached the final climax of the series of climaxes, and sat for a moment tense; then, flirting the cheap thing into a corner, he drew down his feet and stood up, stretching and yawning. having relieved his cramped muscles, he drew out a tobacco pouch. but while in the act of opening it, he glanced at the alarm-clock on the book-shelves, and ended by replacing the pouch, without loading his pipe. "nine," he croaked, and again he stretched and yawned. a sharp knock sounded at the hall-door of the outer room. before he could start in response, a second and far louder knock followed. "h'm--must be a wire," he muttered, and he shuffled quickly over the faded carpet into the front room. the door shook with a third knocking that sounded like fist blows. griffith's eyes sharpened with the look of a man who has lived in rough places and scents danger. he turned the night-catch and stepped to one side as he flung the door open. before him stood a tall young man in an english topcoat. the visitor's curly yellow hair was bare and his handsome face scarlet with embarrassment. "i--er--i beg your pardon, mr. griffith. i--" he stammered. a big hand swung up on his shoulder, and a deep voice, thick and jocular, cut short his apology. "thash all ri', cheems. wash ri' in. ish on'y ol' grishsh. wash ri' in, i shay." propelled by the hand on his shoulder, lord james entered with a precipitancy that carried him half across the room. blake followed with solemn deliberation, keeping a hand upon the door casing. griffith stepped around and shut and bolted the door. without a second glance at blake, he shuffled close up to lord james and demanded in a rasping, metallic voice, "what's the meaning of this, mr. scarbridge?" "thash all ri', grish," interposed blake, "thash all ri'. m'frensh chimmy ear' albondash. hish fa'er's dush rubby--y' shee?" without raising his voice, griffith gave utterance to a volley of blasphemous expletives that crackled on the air like an electric discharge. "if you will kindly permit me, sir--" "hell!" cut in the engineer. "you call yourself his friend. good friend you are, to let him touch a drop!" "this is no time for misunderstandings between his friends, mr. griffith," said lord james, with a quiet insistence that checked the other's anger. "he was hard at it when, i found him--had been for hours." "ri' she are, chi-chimmy boy! ching o' it, grishsh!--thish ish a relish--relishush lushingsh--church shaloo--loon." griffith went over to the swaying figure, and stared close into the pallid face and glittering, bloodshot eyes. "you damned fool!" he jerked out. "whash--whash 'at? whash you shay, grishsh?" "you damned idiot!" "thash all ri'. goo' frensh, grishsh, youm me. lesh hash a dro-drop." "come on in," said the engineer. "i'll give you several drops." he shot a glance at the englishman. "lend a hand, will you?" lord james stepped quickly to the other side of blake, who clasped each about the neck in a maudlin but vice-like embrace. as they moved toward the bedroom, griffith exclaimed with strategic enthusiasm: "that's it, boys, come right on in. it's so confounded dusty here, let's have a bath." "all ri', grishsh, en'ching you shay. bu' you wanna wash ou' y' don' gi' wa'er insish. wa'er insish a man'sh wor' ching--" "that's all right, old man," cut in lord james, "i'll see to that. leave it to me." by this time they had come in beside blake's own cot, which extended out of the corner of the room, at the foot of griffith's equally simple bed. griffith opened the door of a tiny bathroom and turned on the hot water in the tub. lord james fell to stripping blake, regardless of his protests that he could undress himself. "chuck it!" ordered his lordship, as blake sought to interfere. "you don't want to keep us waiting our turn, do you?" blake launched upon an elaborate and envolved disclaimer that he had harbored the remotest idea of causing his friends the slightest trouble. in the midst griffith came out of the bathroom. with his help, blake was soon got ready, and the two led him in between them. in the corner of the bathroom was a small cabinet shower-bath with a wooden door. blake turned toward it, but griffith drew him about to the steaming tub. "hot room first, tommy," he said. "haven't forgotten how to take a turkish, have you?" blake entered upon another profuse apology, meantime docily permitting the others to immerse him in the tub of hot water. griffith promptly added still hotter water to the bath, while lord james held the vapor curtains tight about the patient's neck. before many minutes blake began to grow restless, then to curse. but between them, griffith and lord james managed to keep him in the tub for more than a quarter of an hour. "all right, tommy. now for the shower," said griffith, at last. blake came out of the tub red and still wobbly. they rushed him over and shoved him into the cabinet. lord james stepped clear, and griffith slammed shut the door, latched it with an outside hook, and jerked open the lever of the shower-faucet, which was outside the cabinet. "_oof!_" grunted blake, as the cold deluge poured down upon his bare head and body. "fine, hey?" called griffith. "_wow!_ lemme ou'! _oo-ou!_" the cabinet shook with a bump that would have upset it had it not been screwed fast to the wall. "aw, now, don't do the baby-act, tommy!" jeered griffith. "yowling like a bum, over a bath!" "be game, old man!" chimed in lord james. "take your medicine." "bu-but 'sh cole! _w-whew!_" "stay with it, old man--stay with it!" urged lord james. "don't lay down. be a sport!" "g-gosh! 'm free-freezin'! lemme out!" griffith rubbed his hands together and cackled: "stay with it, tommy. it's doing the work. stay with it." "damnation!" swore blake. "o-open that door!" "time we were moving, mr. scarbridge," said griffith. he followed lord james out of the bathroom, and closed the door. he led the way through into the front room, and closed that door. they stood waiting, silent and expectant. the walls shook with a muffled crash. "repairs, five dollars," said griffith. "better stand farther over this way." the bathroom door slammed open violently. the two men glanced into each other's eyes. "you've played football?" croaked the engineer. lord james nodded. "tackle him low--fouler the better," advised griffith. there was a pause ... one of the cots in the bedroom creaked complainingly. "huh," muttered griffith. "sulking, eh? good thing for us." he gazed full into the englishman's face, and offered his hand. "i hope you'll overlook what i said, mr. scarbridge--lord scarbridge. under the circumstances--" "don't mention it, mr. griffith! it's--it's the most positive proof of your friendship for him--that you should have been so angered. deuce take it, i'd give anything if this hadn't happened!" "how did it happen?" asked griffith. "sit down--no; no chance of his coming out now." lord james slipped off his heavy topcoat, and seated himself, his dress clothes and immaculate linen offering an odd contrast to the shabby room. but the engineer looked only at the face of his visitor. "it's a beastly shame--when he was holding his own so well!" exclaimed the englishman. "that's what gets me," said griffith. "he seemed to have staved it off indefinitely. i didn't notice a single one of the usual signs. and he has let out that the dam was almost a certainty. if he had fizzled on it, i could understand how that and the way he's been grinding indoors night and day--" "no; he's stood that better than i had feared. what a shame! what a beastly shame! when miss leslie learns--" "miss leslie?" cut in griffith. "if she shakes him for this, she's not much account--after all he did for her. if she's worth anything, now's the time for her to set to and help pull him up again. but you haven't said yet how it happened." "that's the worst of it! to be sure, she was perfectly innocent. she must have thought it simply impossible that the communion wine--" "hey!--communion wine? that's what he meant by church saloons and religious lushing, then. she steered him up against that--knowing his one weakness?" "my dear sir, how could she realize?" "he told me she knew." "but the communion wine!" "communion alcohol! alcohol is alcohol, i don't care whether it's in a saloon or a church or pickling snakes in a museum. i tell you, tommy's case has made a prohibition crank of me. talk about it's being a man's lack of will and moral strength--_bah!_ i never knew a man who had more will power than he, or who was more on the square. you know it." "i--to be sure--except, you know, when he gives way to these attacks." "gives way!--and you've seen him fight! it's a disease, i tell you--a monomania like any other monomania. why don't they say to a crazy man in his lucid intervals, 'trouble with you is your lack of will power and moral strength. brace up. go to church'?" "but you'd surely not say that tom's insane? he himself lays it to his own weakness." "what else is insanity but a kind of weakness--a broken cog in the machine which slips and throws everything out of gear, no matter how big the dynamo? i tell you, a dipsomaniac is no more to be blamed for lack of will power or moral strength than is a kleptomaniac, or than an epileptic is to be blamed for having fits. it's a disease. i'm giving it to you straight what the doctors say." all the hopefulness went out of the englishman's boyish face. "gad!" he murmured. "gad! then he can't overcome it." "i don't know. the doctors don't seem to know. they say that a few seem to outgrow it--they don't know how, though. but all agree that the thing to do is to keep the patient braced--keep him boosted up." "count on me for that!" exclaimed lord james. "it's where this girl--miss leslie--ought to come in, if she's worth anything," thrust griffith. "but--but, my dear sir, you quite fail to understand. it will never do to so much as hint to her that he has failed." "failed!" retorted griffith. "when she herself forced him to take the first drink--don't cut in! if you know tommy as well as you ought, you know he would never have taken that drink in the condition he was in--not a single drop of anything containing alcohol! no! the girl forced him--she must have. he's dead in love with her. he'd butt his head against a stone wall, if she told him to. hell!--just when he had his chance at last!" "his chance?" "i've been figuring it as a chance. supposing he had pulled off this big zariba dam, he'd have felt that he had made good. it might have brought around that change the doctors tell about. don't you see? it might have fixed that broken cog--straightened him up somehow for good. but now--hell!" griffith bent over, with a groan. "gad!" murmured lord james. after a long pause, he added slowly, "but, i assure you, regarding miss leslie, it will never do to tell her. if she hears of this, he will have no chance--none! that occurred to me immediately i inferred the deplorable truth. i told her we were thinking of going with you to the bridge--michamac." "you did? say, i thought britishers were slow, but you got your finger on the right button first shove. it's the very thing for him--change, open air, the bridge--wait a minute, though! with the chances more than even that it's tommy's own--until he makes good on the dam, nobody would take his word against that lallapaloozer's." "i--er--beg pardon. i fail to take you," said lord james. "just the question of his finding out something that's apt to make him manhandle young ashton." "ah--all the better, i say. anything to divert his mind." griffith looked at the englishman with an approving smile. "you sure are the goods, mr. scarbridge! it'll take two or three days for him to fight down the craving, even with all the help we can give him. wait a minute till i phone to a drug-store." he shuffled out through a side doorway that led into his private office. while he was telephoning, lord james heard low moans from the bedroom. he clenched his hands, but he did not go in to his friend until griffith returned and crossed to the inner door. "come in, mr. scarbridge," he said. "next thing is to see if we can talk him into going to michamac." chapter xx de profundis he opened the door and, seemingly heedless of all else, hastened through to the bathroom, to shut off the flow of the shower. lord james followed him as far as the corner cot, where blake, wet-haired and half dressed, sat bowed far over, his elbows on his knees and his face between his hands. "head ache, old man?" blake raised his head barely enough for his friend to catch a glimpse of his haggard face and miserable eyes. "come now, tommy," snapped griffith, shuffling back from the bathroom, "we all admit you've made a damned fool of yourself; but what's the use of grouching? sit up now--look pleasant!" he swung around a chair for lord james, and seated himself in an old rocker. "come, sit up, tommy. we're going to hold an inquest on the remains." "they need it--that's no lie," mumbled blake. "_bah!_ cherk up, you rooster! it isn't the first time you've lost your feet. maybe your feelings are jolted, but--the instrument is safe. remember that time you fell down the fifty-foot bank and never even knocked your transit out of adjustment? you never let go of your grip on it! come; you'll soon be streaking out again, same as ever." "no, you're clean off this time, grif." instead of raising his head, blake hunched over still lower. he went on in a dreary monotone, "no, i'm done for this trip--down for the count. i'm all in." "rot!" protested lord james. "all in, for keeps, this time. i'm not too big a fool to see that. everything coming my way,--and to go and chuck it all like this. needn't tell me she'll overlook it. wouldn't ask her to. i'm not worth it." "she's got to!" cried griffith, with sudden heat. "she steered you up against this." "what if she did? only makes it all the worse. didn't have sand enough to refuse. i'm no good, that's all--not fit to look at her--she's a lady. you needn't cut in with any hot air. i'm no more 'n a blackguard that got my chance to impose on her--and took it. that's the only name for it--young girl all alone!" "no, no, old man, just the contrary, believe me!" exclaimed lord james. "i doubt if i myself could have done what you did when she--er--" "'cause there'd have been no need. you're in her class, while i--" he groaned, and burst out morosely: "you know i'm not, both of you. what's the use of lying?" the two friends glanced across at each other and were silent. blake went on again, in his hopeless, dreary monotone. "down and out--down and out. only son of his mother, and she a drunkard. nothing like scripture, jimmy, for consoling texts." he began to quote, with an added bitterness in his despair: "'woe unto them that are mighty to drink, and men of strength to mingle strong drink ... their root shall be as rottenness, and their blossom shall go up as dust--' 'awake, ye drunkards, and weep and howl, all ye drinkers of wine.' 'for while they are drunken as drunkards, they shall be devoured as stubble fully dry.'--dry? good lord! ring up a can of suds, grif. i've got ten miles of alkali desert down my throat!" "all right, tommy," said griffith. "we'll soon fix that. i've sent in an order already." "you have not!" rejoined blake, in an incredulous growl. "well, suppose you ring 'em up again. if that can doesn't get here mighty sudden, i'll save the fellow the trouble of bringing it." "hold on, young man," ordered griffith, as blake started to heave himself to his feet. "i'm running this soiree." he stood up and shuffled out into the front room. blake shifted around restlessly, and was again about to rise, when there came a sharp rapping at the outer door. "that's the man now," said lord james. "hold tight. it will now be only a moment." blake restrained himself. but it was a very long moment before griffith came in with a pitcher and three glasses upon a battered tray. at the tinkle of the glasses blake looked up, his face aflame. he made a clutch at the pitcher. [illustration: he went on in a dreary monotone, "no, i'm done for this trip--down for the count. i'm all in."] griffith gave him his shoulder, and cackled: "don't play the hog, tommy. i've been up in canada enough to know that the nobility always get first helping. eh, lord scarbridge?" "you--you--" gasped blake. "but this time," went on griffith, hastily pouring out a brimming glassful of liquid from the pitcher, "we'll make an exception." he turned about quickly, and with his hand clasped over the top of the glass, reached it out to blake. half maddened by his thirst, the latter clutched the glass, and, without pausing to look at its contents, drained it at a gulp. an instant later the glass shattered to fragments on the floor, and blake's fist flung out toward griffith. "quassia!" he growled. "you dotty old idiot! needn't think you're going to head me off this soon!" griffith set the tray on his bed, and crossing to the door, locked it and put the key in his pocket. "now, tommy," he croaked, "you've got just two friends that i know of. they're here. maybe you can take the key from us; but you know what you'll have to do to us first." blake stared at him with morose, bloodshot eyes. "you're dotty!" he growled. "you know you can't stop me, once i'm under way. i don't want to roughhouse it, but i want something for this thirst, and i'm going to have it. understand?" "h'm. if that's all," said griffith. "that's all, if you're reasonable," replied blake less morosely. "they gave me all i wanted when i took the gold cure." "cured you, too," jeered griffith. "that's all right. the point now is, do i get something? if i do, i agree to stay here. if i don't, i'm going out." "try another glass of this while you're waiting," suggested lord james, and he poured out a second glassful of the bitter decoction. "no," answered blake. "you tossed down the other too fast. sip it. you'll find that it will ease the dryness while you are waiting," insisted lord james. "try it, to oblige me." "_ugh!_" growled blake. he hesitated, then reluctantly took the glass and began to sip the quassia. after the last swallow, he turned sullenly to griffith. "well, what you waiting for? get a move on you." "it does help, doesn't it?" interposed lord james. blake muttered something behind his lips that the others chose to take for assent. "yes, it's the real thing," said griffith. "try another, tommy, same way." "another? _bah!_ you can't fool me. i'm on to your game." "sure you are," assented griffith. "what's more, you're sober enough now to know that our game is your game. own up. don't lie." blake looked down morosely, and for a long quarter of a minute his friends waited in anxious suspense. at last, without looking up, he held out his empty glass for lord james to refill it. the second battle was won. as lord james took the glass, griffith interposed. "hold on. we'll keep that for later. i've something else now." "more dope!" growled blake. "no, good stuff to offset the effects of the poison you've been swilling since morning. next course is bromide of potassium." "take your medicine, bo!" chimed in lord james. "_ugh!_" groaned blake. "dish it out, then. only don't forget. you know, well as i do, that if the craving comes on that bad again, i'm bound to have a drink. i tell you, i can't help myself. i've told you about it time and again. it's hell till i get enough aboard to make me forget. you know i don't like the stuff. i've hated the very smell of it since before my first real spree." griffith shot a significant glance at lord james. "that's all right, tommy,--we understand how it is. but we've got hold of it this time. you'll never quit if you can help it, and we know now you can help it, with this quassia to keep your throat from sizzling. here's your bromide." blake gulped down the dose, but muttered despondently: "what's the use? you know you can't head me off for keeps, once i'm as far under way as i've got to-day. think you're going to stop me now, do you?" "that's what," rejoined griffith. "you'll think the same in about ten minutes. i'm going to talk to you like a dutch uncle." "and i've got to sit here while you unwind your jaw! cut it short. don't see why you want to chin, anyway. all that's left is to haul me to the scrapheap. . . . you don't think i'd go near her after this, do you? i've got a little decency left. only thing i can do is to open wide and cut loose. d.t. finish is the one for me. won't take long for her to forget me. any fool can see that." "we're going up to michamac, first thing tomorrow," remarked griffith in a casual tone. "you may be. i'm not." "it's all arranged, tammas," drawled lord james. "i told miss leslie--" "you told her! mighty friendly of you! good thing, though. sooner she knows just what i am, the better. how soon do you figure on the wedding?" "chuck it, you duffer!" exclaimed the englishman, flushing scarlet. "i didn't tell her _this_. she doesn't know." blake's haggard face lighted with a flash of hope, only to settle back into black despair. "she'll learn soon enough. i'm done for, for good, this trip!" he groaned. he clenched his fist and bent forward to glare at them in sullen fury. "damn you! call yourselves my friends, and sit here yawping, you damned job's comforters! think i'm a mummy?--when i've lost her! god!--to sit here with my brains going--to know i've lost all--all! give me some whiskey--anything! ... my girl--my girl!" he bent over, writhing and panting, in an agony of remorse. griffith fetched a tablet and a glass of water, to which he added some of the quassia. "here's your dose of sulphonal," he said, in his driest, most matter-of-fact tone. "you've got to get to sleep. it's an early train." "what's the use? leave me alone!" groaned blake. "gad, old man," put in lord james. "any one who didn't know you would think you were a quitter." "what's the use? i've lost out. i'm smashed." "all right. let's call it a smashup," croaked griffith. "just the same, you don't go out of commission till you've squared accounts. you're not going to leave the zariba dam in the air." "guess i've got enough on paper for you to work out the solution, if it's workable." "and if not?" "i'm all in, i tell you. i'm smashed for good." "no, you're not. anyway, there's one thing you've got to do. you've got to settle about that bridge. you've been too busy over the dam to think of asking for a look at ashton's plans, and i've said nothing. i've been waiting for you to make good on the dam. with that behind you, no engineer in the u.s. would doubt your word if you claimed the bridge." "what of that? what do i care?" muttered blake. "the game's up. what's the use?" "this!" snapped griffith. "either laffie ashton is a dirty sneak thief, or he's a man that deserves my apologies. it's a question of fair play to me as well as to him. you're square, tom. you'll come up to michamac with me and settle this matter." "lord! why can't you let me alone?" groaned blake. but he took the sulphonal and washed it down with the quassia-flavored water. lord james went out into the office to phone his man at the hotel to fetch over clothes for a short trip. when he reentered the bedroom blake was stretched out in bed, and griffith was spreading a blanket for himself on the floor. "should i not run over to my hotel for the night?" remarked the englishman. "don't want to put you out of your bed, y' know." "no. i sleep as well, or better, on the floor. we want to be sure of an early start," said griffith. blake rose on his elbow and blinked at them. his eyes were still bloodshot and his face haggard, but the change in his voice was unmistakably for the better. "say, bos, it does pay to have friends--sometimes!" "forget it!" rejoined griffith. "you go to snoozing. it's an early train, remember." blake sighed drowsily, and stretched out again on the flat of his back. within a minute he was fast asleep. chapter xxi the bridge at dawn they roused him out of his drugged sleep and gave him a showerbath and rubdown that brought a healthy glow to his cold skin. he turned pale at the mere mention of food, but after a drink of quassia, griffith induced him to take a cup of clear coffee and some thickly buttered toast. after that the three hastened in a cab to the station, stopping on the way to buy half a case each of grapefruit and oranges. aboard the train blake was at once set to eating grapefruit and chewing the bitter pith to allay the burning of his terrible thirst. throughout the trip, which lasted until mid-afternoon, one or the other of the two friends was ever at his side, ready to urge more of the acid fruit upon him and continually seeking to divert and entertain him by cheerful talk. until after the noon hour they were on the main line and had the benefit of the dining-car. griffith ordered a hearty meal, more dinner than luncheon, and blake was able to eat the greater part of a spring chicken. the most trying and critical time during the trip was the short wait at the junction, where they transferred to the old daycoach that was attached to the train of structural steel for the michamac bridge. blake caught sight of a saloon, and the associations roused by it quickened his craving to an almost irresistible fury. when, none too soon, the train pulled out of the little town, he sank back in his seat morose and almost exhausted by his struggle. though lord james made every effort to rouse him to a more cheerful mood, his face was still sullen and heavy when the train clanked in over the switches of the material yards at the bridge. before they left the car griffith made certain that blake was wrapped about in overcoat and muffler and had on the arctics that he had bought for him. having directed one of the trainmen to bring the boxes of fruit to the office, griffith led the way up the path formed by the bridge-service track. the rails had been kept shovelled clear from the february snowdrifts and ran straight out through the midst of the bleak unlovely buildings grouped near the edge of michamac strait, at the southern terminus of the bridge. hardly had the three passengers stepped from the train, when blake lifted his head for a clear view of the big electric derricks, the vast orderly piles of structural steel, floor beams, and planking, the sheds containing paint, machinery, and other stores, the gorged coal-bins, and all the other evidences of a vast work of engineering. his gaze followed the bridge-service track past the cookhouse and bunkhouse and the storehouses, out across the completed shore span to the gigantic structure of the south cantilever. far beyond, between its lofty skeleton towers and upsweeping side webs, appeared, in seemingly reduced proportions, the towers and webs of the north cantilever, across on the north edge of the channel of the strait. blake drew in a deep breath, and stared at the titanic structure, eager-eyed. there was no need for lord james to nudge griffith. the engineer had not missed a single shade of the great change in blake's expression. he asked casually, "well, how does the first sight strike you, tommy?" "you didn't say she was so far along," replied blake. "didn't i? h. v., you know, has a pull with the steel trust. we've had our material delivered in short order, no matter who else waited. north cantilever is completed; ditto the south, except for part of the timbering and flooring. the central span is built out a third of the way from the north 'lever. but several miles of the feed track on that side the strait have been put into such bad shape by the weather that we'll have the central span completed from this side before the road over there is open again." "that so?" said blake. "i want to see about that span." "we'll go out for a look at once, soon as we dump our baggage in on laffie," said griffith. "is that thing here?" growled blake. "now, just you keep on your shirt, tommy," warned griffith. "he may be here, or he mayn't. you are here to look at the michamac bridge and hold on to yourself. understand?" blake scowled and stared menacingly toward a snow-embanked, snow-covered building, the verandahs of which distinguished it as the office and quarters of the resident engineer. "i want your promise you'll do nothing or say nothing to him till after you've made good on the zariba dam," went on griffith. "you don't want your blast to go off before you've tamped the hole." blake's scowl deepened, and he clenched his fist in its thick fur glove. but after a long moment he answered morosely, "guess you're right. he holds the cards on me now and has the drop. but if i find he slipped the aces out of my hand, it won't be long before i get the drop on him." "and then something will drop!" added lord james. "i'll smash him--the dirty sneak!" growled blake. "now, now, tommy; you're not sure yet," cautioned griffith. "that so?" replied blake in a tone that brought a glint of excitement into the worn eyes of the older engineer. but before he could speak, a silk-robed figure stepped out onto the verandah of the resident engineer's office, and called delightedly, "ah, lord avondale!--welcome to michamac! you escaped my hospitality in town, but you can't here!" "thanks. very good of you, i'm sure," replied lord james dryly. "i see you've come with old grif," ashton gayly rattled on. "hello, griffith! hurry in, all of you. it's cold as the south pole. i'll have a punch brewed in two shakes. who's the other gentleman?" at the question, blake, who had been staring fixedly at the bridge, turned his muffled face full to the effusive welcomer. before his hard, impassive look ashton shivered as if suddenly struck through to the marrow by the cold. "blake!" he gasped. "here?" "no objections, have you?" asked blake in a noncommittal tone. "just thought i'd run up with mr. griffith and take a look at your bridge. he says it's worth seeing. but of course, if you don't allow visitors--" "just the opposite, tommy," put in griffith, quick to catch his cue. "mr. ashton is always glad to have his bridge examined by those who know what's what. isn't that so, mr. ashton?" "why, of--of course--i--" stammered ashton, his teeth chattering. "sure," went on griffith. "any man who's invented such a modification of the truss as this bridge shows, ought to have all the fame he can get out of it. in england he'd be made a lord, i suppose. eh, mr. scarbridge?" "er--we've knighted brewers and soap-boilers. but then, y'know, with us beer and soap are two of the necessities," drawled lord james. "w-won't you come in?" urged ashton. "it's chi-illy out here! i'll have that punch brewed in half a s-second." "my god!" gasped blake, his jaws clenched and face black with the agony of his temptation. all unintentionally ashton had turned the tables on his tormentors. griffith scowled at him and demanded: "where's mcgraw?" "b-bunkhouse," answered ashton. griffith spoke to lord james in a low tone. "go in and keep him there, will you? might stay with him all night. we'll stop at the bunkhouse." "i'm on," said lord james. griffith raised his voice. "well, then, if you prefer it that way, mr. scarbridge. it's true ashton can make you more comfortable, and i'll be busy half the night checking over reports and so forth with mcgraw. ashton, if you'll send over your report, it'll leave you free to entertain mr. scarbridge. and say, send over the boxes that'll be coming along in a little while. i'm trying a diet of grapefruit." he turned to blake. "come on. we don't want to keep mr. ashton out here, to shiver a screw loose." blake uttered an inarticulate growl, but turned away with griffith as lord james sprang up the verandah steps and blandly led the vacillating resident engineer into his quarters. the visiting engineers crossed over to the big ungainly bunkhouse, and entered the section divided off for the bosses and steel workers and the other skilled men. within was babel. kept indoors by the cold that enforced idleness on all the bridge force, the men were crowded thickly about their reading and card tables or outstretched in their bunks, talking, laughing, grumbling, singing, brooding--each according to his mood and disposition, but almost all smoking. at sight of griffith a half-hundred voices roared out a rough but hearty welcome that caused blake's face to lighten with a flush of pleasure. the greeting ended in a cheer, started by one of the irish foremen. griffith sniffed at the foul, smoke-reeking air, and looked doubtfully at blake. he held up his hand. across the hush that fell upon the room quavered a doleful wail from the irish foreman: "leave av hivin, misther griffith, can't ye broibe th' weather bur-r-reau? me schlovaks an' th' eyetalians'll be afther a-knifin' wan another, give 'em wan wake more av this." "there are indications that the cold snap will break within a week," replied griffith. "you'll be at it, full blast, in two or three days. where's mcgraw?" a big, fat, stolid-faced man ploughed forward between the crowded tables. as he came up, he held out a pudgy hand, and grunted: "huh! glad t' see you." griffith shook hands, and motioned toward blake. "my friend mr. blake. trying to get him to take charge here--nominally as assistant engineer--in case i have to go to florida." mcgraw's deep-set little eyes lingered for a moment on the stranger's mouth and jaw. "good thing," he grunted. "the company is offering him double what mr. ashton gets; but he's not anxious to take it as assistant." the big general foreman was moved out of his phlegmatic stolidity. "huh? he's not?" "not under that thing," put in blake grimly. "must know him." "he may change his mind," said griffith. "the company has authorized me to make it a standing offer. so if he turns up any time--" mcgraw nodded, and offered his hand to blake. "hope you'll come. c'n do m' own work. bridge needs an engineer, though--resident one." "h'm,--mr. ashton might call that a slap on the wrist," remarked griffith. "get on your coat. we're going out to the bridge." mcgraw headed across for his separate room. while waiting for him, griffith introduced blake to the engine-driver of the bridge-service train, two or three foremen, and several of the bridge workers. but the moment mcgraw reappeared in arctics and mackinaw coat, griffith hurriedly led the way out of the smother of smoke and foul air. as the three started bridgeward along the clean-shovelled service-track blake fell in behind his companions. seeing that he did not wish to talk, griffith walked on in the lead with mcgraw. they were soon swinging out across the shore, or approach, span of the bridge. this extended from the high ground on the south side of the strait to an inner pier at the edge of the water, where it joined on to the anchor arm of the south cantilever. almost all the area of the bridge flooring, which had been completed to beyond the centre of the cantilever, was covered with stacked lumber and piles of structural steel and rails, and kegs of nails, rivets, and bolts. here every chink and crevice was packed with snow and ice. but all the titanic steel structure above and the unfloored bottom-chords and girders of the outer, or extension, arm of the cantilever had been swept bare of snow by the winter gales and left glistening with the glaze of the last shower of sleet. blake swung steadily along after the others, his face impassive. but his eyes scrutinized with fierce eagerness the immense webs of steel posts and diagonals that ran up on either side, under the grand vertical curves of the top-chords, almost to the peaks of the cantilever towers. he had to tilt back his head to see the tops of those huge steel columns, which reared their peaks two hundred and fifty feet above the bridge-floor level and a round four hundred feet above the water of the strait. presently the three were passing the centre of the cantilever, between the gigantic towers, whose iron heels were socketed far below in the top-plates of the massive concrete piers, built on the very edge of deep water. from this point the outer arm of the cantilever extended far out over the broad chasm of the strait, where, a hundred and fifty feet beneath its unfloored level, the broken ice from the upper lake crashed and thundered on its wild passage of the strait. blake looked down carelessly into the abyss of grinding, hurtling ice cakes. the drop from that dizzy height would of itself have meant certain death. yet without a second glance at the ice-covered waters, he followed his companions along the narrow walk of sleeted planks that ran out alongside the service-track. though his gaze frequently shifted downward as well as upward, it went no farther than the ponderous chords and girders and posts of the bridge's framework. striding along the narrow runway of ice-glazed planks with the assurance of goats, the three at last passed under the main traveller, a huge structure of eleven hundred tons' weight that straddled the bridge's sides and rose higher than the towers. its electromagnetic cranes were folded together and cemented in place by the ice. a few yards beyond they came to the end of the extension arm of the cantilever and out upon the uncompleted first section of the central, or suspension, span. it was poised high in space, far out over the dizzy abyss. many yards away, across a yawning gap, the completed north third of the suspension span reached out, above the gulf, from the tip of the north cantilever, like the arm of a titan straining to clasp hands with his brother of the south shore. yet the mid-air companionship of this outreaching skeleton-arm served only to heighten the giddiness and seeming instability of the south-side overhang. from across the broad gap, the eye followed the curve of the bottom-chords of the north cantilever away down into the abyss toward the far shore of the strait, where the lofty towers upreared upon their massive piers. from this viewpoint there was no relieving glimpse of the shoreward curving anchor-arm that balanced the outer half of the north cantilever alike in line and weight. there was only the vast upcurve of the top-chords and the stupendous down-curve of the bottom-chords and the line between that stood for the foreshortened sixteen hundred feet of bridge-floor level extending from the north shore to the swaying tip of that unanchored north third of the central span. few even among men accustomed to great heights could have stood anywhere upon the outer reach of the overhang without a feeling of nausea and vertigo. not only did the gigantic structure on the far side of the gap seem continually on the verge of toppling forward into the abyss, but the end of the south cantilever likewise quivered and swayed, and the mad flow of the roaring, ice-covered waters beneath added to the giddiness of height the terrifying illusion that the immense steel skeleton had torn loose from its anchorage to earth and was hurtling up the strait through mid-air, ready to crash down to destruction the instant its winged driving-force failed. yet griffith and blake followed mcgraw out to the extreme end of the icy walk and poised themselves, shoulder to wind, on narrow sleet-glazed steel beams, as unconcerned as sailors on a yardarm. griffith and mcgraw were absorbed in a minute inspection of the bridge's condition and in estimating the time it would take to throw forward the remaining sections of the central, or suspension, span, upon the termination of the irksome spell of extreme frosty weather. blake looked, as they looked, at post and diagonal, eyebolt and bottom-chord, and across the gap at the swaying tip of the north cantilever. but his face showed clearly that his thoughts were not the same as their thoughts. his eyes shone like polished steel, and there was a glow in his haggard face that told of an exultance beyond his power of repression. at last griffith roused from his absorption. he immediately noticed blake's expression, and dryly demanded: "well?" "well your own self!" rejoined blake, striving to speak in an indifferent tone. "something of a bridge, eh?" "it's not so bad," admitted blake. he glanced at mcgraw, who had paused in his ox-like ruminating. griffith addressed the general foreman. "mr. blake is a bit off his feed. a friend that came with us will occupy my room in mr. ashton's quarters. i'd like a room in the bunkhouse for mr. blake and myself, with a good stove and a window that'll let in lots of fresh air." "c'n have mine," grunted mcgraw. "extra bunk in yardmaster's room," "it'll be a favor," said griffith. "you might get it ready, if you will. mr. blake must have clean air when he goes inside. he and i will take our time going back. there are two or three things i want another look at." mcgraw at once started shoreward, without making any verbal response, yet betraying under his dull manner his eagerness to oblige the consulting engineer. when he had gone well beyond earshot, griffith turned upon blake with a quizzical look. "so!" he croaked. "it's a certainty." "knew that soon's i got the first look," said blake. griffith's forehead creased with an anxious frown. "you promise not to mix it with him." "don't fash yourself," reassured blake. "i've waited too long for this, to go off at half-cock now." "that's talking! you'll wait till you're sure you can settle him--the skunk! come on, now. we'll start inshore before you get chilled." "how about yourself?" chuckled blake, as he led back along the runway. "won't take the frost two shakes to reach the centre of your circumference, once it gets through that old wolfskin coat." "huh! i can still go you one better, young man. i'll soon be thawing out in florida, while you'll be trotting back here to boss the completion of t. blake's cantilever--largest suspension span cantilever in the world." "god!" whispered blake, staring incredulously at the titanic structure born of his brain. "but it's mine--it _is_ mine!... i sweat blood over those plans!" "doggone you, tommy, you're no engineer--you're an inventor, class a- !" exulted griffith. "first this; then the zariba dam. after that, the lord only knows what! trouble with you, you're a genius." "and a whiskey soak!" added blake, with a sudden upwelling of bitterness. "hey! what!--after this?" demanded griffith, his voice sharp with apprehension. he could not see the face of his companion, but the manner in which blake's head bent forward between his hunching shoulders was more than enough to confirm his alarm. "come, now, tommy!" he reproached. "don't be a fool--just when things are coming your way." "think so?" muttered blake. "what d'you suppose i care for what i'd get out of this or the dam? good god! you can't see it--yet you had mollie!" for a moment the older man was forced to a worried silence. it ended in an outflashing of hope. "i told you what she said about you--almost her last words. you'll win out--she said it!" blake halted and turned about to his friend, his face convulsed with doubt and a despondency that verged on despair. they were still half way out on the overhang of the extension arm. he pointed down to the crashing, tumbling ice far beneath his feet. "do you know what i'd do if i had any nerve?" he cried. "i'd step over ... end it! ... you could tell her i slipped. there wouldn't be any need to tell her about--yesterday. she would remember me as she knew me there in mozambique. after a time she'd make jimmy happy--and be happy herself. trouble is, i'm what she suspected. i haven't the nerve, when it comes to the real showdown." "damnation!" swore griffith. "have you gone clean dotty? you're not the kind to quit, tom!--to slide out from under because you haven't the grit to hang on!" "that's it. i'm booked for the d. t. route," muttered blake. "wasn't born for a watery end. whiskey for mine!" "rats! you're over the worst of this bump already. you're going back to-morrow and dig in to make good on the dam." "the dam! what's it to me now?" "fifty thousand dollars, the credit for your bridge, and a place among the top-notchers." "much that amounts to--when i've lost her!" retorted blake. he turned about again and plodded heavily shoreward, his chin on his breast and his big shoulders bowed forward. chapter xxii condemned though he sank into a taciturn and morose mood from which no efforts of his friends could rouse him, blake sullenly accepted the continued treatment that griffith thrust upon him. in the morning he muttered a confirmation of the statement of lord james that he was looking better and that the attack must be well over. ashton, forced probably by an irresistible impulse to learn the worst, followed lord james to the room occupied by the engineers. blake cut short his vacillating in the doorway with a curt invitation to come in and sit down. having satisfied what he considered the requirements of hospitality, blake paid no further attention to the resident engineer. as nothing was said about the bridge, ashton soon regained all his usual assurance, and even went so far as to comment upon blake's attack of biliousness. when, beside the car step, an hour later, ashton held out his hand, blake seemingly failed to perceive it. ashton's look of relief indicated that he mistook the other's profound contempt for stupid carelessness. to one of his nature, the fact that blake had not at once denounced him as a thief seemed proof positive that the sick man had failed to recognize in the bridge structure the embodiment of his stolen plans. he turned from blake to lord james. "ah, my dear earl, this has been such a pleasure--such a delight! you cannot imagine how intolerable it is to be cut off from the world in this dreary hole--deprived of all society and compelled to associate, if at all, with, these common brutes!" "really," murmured lord james. "for my part, y' know, i rather enjoy the company of intelligent men who have their part in the world's work. though one of the drones myself, i value the 'sons of martha' at their full worth." "oh, they have their place. the trouble is to make them keep it." "'pon my word, i scarcely thought you'd say that--so clever an engineer as yourself!" ashton glanced up to be certain that both griffith and blake had passed on into the car. "your lordship hasn't quite caught the point," he said. "one may have the brains--the intellect--necessary to create such a bridge as this, without having to lower himself into the herd of common workers." "ah, really," drawled the englishman, swinging up the car steps. ashton raised his hat and bowed. "_au revoir_, earl. your visit has been both a delight and an honor. i shall hope soon to have the pleasure of seeing you in town." "yes?" murmured lord james with a rising inflection. "good-day." he nodded in response to ashton's final bow, and hastened in to where blake and griffith were making themselves comfortable in the middle of the car. the three were the only passengers for the down trip. "so he didn't get you to stay over for the winter?" remarked griffith as the englishman began to shed his topcoat. "gad, no! he couldn't afford it. tried to show me how to play poker last night. i've his check for two thousand. he insisted upon teaching me the fine points of the game." "crickey!--when you've travelled with t. blake!" cackled griffith. "hey, tommy? any one who's watched you play even once ought to be able to clean out a dub like lallapaloozer laf. say, though, i didn't think even you could keep on your poker face as you have this morning. it's dollars to doughnuts, he sized it up that you had failed to get next." "told you i wasn't going to show him my cards," muttered blake. lord james looked at him inquiringly, but he lapsed into his morose silence, while griffith commenced to write his report on the bridge, without volunteering an explanation. lord james repressed his curiosity, and instead of asking questions, quietly prepared for his friend one of the last of the grapefruit. an hour or so later blake growled out a monosyllabic assurance that he was now safely over his attack. yet all the efforts of lord james to jolly him into a cheerful mood utterly failed. throughout the trip he continued to brood, and did not rouse out of his sullen taciturnity until the train was backing into the depot. "here we are," remarked lord james. "get ready to make your break for cover, old man. what d' you say, mr. griffith? will it be all right for him to keep close to his work for a while--to lie low?" "what's that?" growled blake. "young ashton's a bally ass," explained lord james. "he bolted down whole what i said about your attack of bile. others, however, may not be so credulous or blind. you'd better keep close till you look a bit less knocked-up. there's no need that what's happened should come to miss leslie." "think so, do you?" said blake. "well, i don't." "what's that?" put in griffith. "there's not going to be any frame-up over this, that's what," rejoined blake, reaching for his hat and suitcase. "soon 's i get a shave i'm going out to tell her." "gad, old man!" protested lord james. "but you can't do that--it's impossible! you surely do not realize--" "i don't, eh?" broke in blake bitterly. "i'm up against it. i know it, and you know it. you don't think i'm going to do the baby act, do you? i've failed to make good. think i'm going to lie to her about it? no!--nor you neither!" his friends exchanged a look of helplessness. they knew that tone only too well. yet lord james sought to avert the worst. "might have known you'd be an ass over it," he commented. "best i can do, i presume, is to go along and explain to her my view of what started you off." "best nothing. you'll keep out of this. it's none of your funeral." "there's more than one opinion as to that." "i tell you, this is between her and me. you'll keep out of it," said blake, with a forcefulness that the other could not withstand. "don't worry. you'll have your turn later on." "deuce take it!" cried the englishman. "you can't fancy i'm dwelling on that! you can't think me such a cad as to be waiting for an opportunity derived from an injustice to you!" "injustice, _bah!_" gibed blake. "i'll get what's coming to me. it's of her i'm thinking, not you. she was right. i'm going to tell her so. that's all." "but, in view of what she herself did--" "i'll tell her the facts. that's enough," said blake, and he led the way from the car. he hastened out of the depot and would have started off afoot, had not lord james hailed a taxicab and taken him and griffith home. he went in with them, and when blake had shaved and dressed, proposed that they should go on together as far as the hotel. to this blake gave a sullen acquiescence, and they whirred away to the north side. but instead of stopping at the hotel, their cab sped on out to the lake shore drive. lord james coolly explained that he intended to take his friend to the door of the leslies. blake would have objected, but acquiesced as soon as he understood that lord james intended to remain in the cab. during the day the cold had moderated, and when blake swung out of the cab he was wrapped about in the chilly embrace of a dripping wet fog from off the lake. he shivered as he hurried across and up the steps and into the stately portico of the leslie house. at the touch of his finger on the electric button, the heavy door swung open. he was bowed in and divested of hat and raincoat by an overzealous footman before he could protest. silent and frowning, he was ushered to a door that he had not before entered. the footman announced him and drew the curtains together behind him. still frowning, blake stepped forward and stopped short to stare about him at the resplendent room of gold and ivory enamel that he had entered. only at the second glance did he perceive the graceful figure that had risen from the window-seat at the far end of the room and stood in a startled attitude, gazing fixedly at him. before he could speak, genevieve came toward him with impetuous swiftness, her hands outstretched in more than cordial welcome. "tom! is it really you?" she exclaimed. "i had not looked for you back so soon." "it's somewhat sooner than i expected myself," he replied, with a bitter humor that should have forewarned her. but she was too relieved and delighted to heed either his tone or his failure to clasp her hands, "yes. you know, i've been so worried. you really looked ill sunday, and i thought lord james' manner that evening was rather odd--i mean when i spoke to him about you." "shouldn't wonder," said blake in a harsh voice. "jimmy had been there before. he knew." "knew? you mean--?" the girl stepped back a little way and gazed up into his face, startled and anxious. "tom, you _have_ been sick--very sick! how could i have been so blind as not to have seen it at once? you've been suffering terribly!" again she held out her hands to him, and again he failed to take them. "don't touch me," he replied. "i'm not fit. it's true i've suffered. do you wonder? i've been in hell again--where i belong." "tom! oh, tom!--no, no!" she whispered, and she averted her face, unable to endure the black despair that she saw in his unflinching eyes. "jimmy and old grif, between them, managed to catch me when i was under full headway," he explained. "they stopped me and took me up to the michamac bridge. i'm on my feet again now. just the same, i went under, and if it hadn't been for them, i'd be beastly, roaring drunk this minute." "no, tom! it's impossible--impossible! i can't believe it!" "think i'd lie about a little thing like that?" he asked with the terrible levity of utter despair. "but it's--it's so awful!" "i've known funnier jokes. god! d'you think i've done much laughing over being smashed for good? it's rid you of a drunken degenerate. it's you who ought to laugh. how about me? i've lost _you!_ god!" he bent over, with his chin on his breast and his big fists clenched down at his sides. she stared at him, dazed, almost stunned by the shock. only after what seemed an age of waiting could she find words for the stress of bitter disappointment and mortified love that drove the blood to her heart and left her white and dizzy. "then--you have--failed. you _are_--weak!" she at last managed to say. simple as were the words, the tone in which they were spoken was enough for blake. "yes," he answered, and he swung about toward the door. "have you no excuses--no defence?" she demanded. "i might lay it to that wine at the church--and prove myself still weaker," said blake. "the holy communion!" she reproached. "i never made fun even of a chinaman's religion," he said. "just the same, if i don't believe a thing, i don't lie and let on i do. i told you that wine meant nothing to me in a religious way. but even if it had, i don't think it would have made any difference. drop nitric acid on the altar rail, and it will eat the brass just the same as if it was in a brass foundry. put alcohol inside me, and the craving starts up full blast." "then you believe i should excuse--" "no," he interrupted with grim firmness. "i might have thought it then--but not now. i've had two days to think it over. it all comes down to this: if, knowing how you felt about it, i could not kneel there beside you and take that taste of wine without going under, i'm just what you suspected--weak, unfit." she clasped her hands on her bosom. "you--admit it?" "what's the use of lying about it?" he said. "if it hadn't come about that way, you can see now it was bound to happen some other way." "i--suppose--yes. oh! but it's horrible!--horrible! i thought you so strong!" "i won't bother you any more," he muttered. "good-bye." he went out without venturing a glance at her white face. she waited, motionless, looking toward the spot where he had stood. several moments passed before she seemed to realize that he had gone. chapter xxiii a reprieve lord james did not call upon genevieve until late afternoon of the next day, and then he did not come alone. he had called first upon mrs. gantry and dolores, who brought him on in their coupe. genevieve came down to them noticeably pale and with dark shadows under her fine eyes, but her manner was, if anything, rather more composed than usual. she even had a smile to exchange for the gay greeting of dolores. mrs. gantry met her with a kiss a full degree more fervent than was consistent with strict decorum. "my dear child!" she exclaimed. "i have hastened over to see you. lord avondale has told me all about that fellow." "yes?" asked genevieve, looking at lord james calmly but with a slight lift of her eyebrows that betrayed her astonishment. "hasn't your father told you?" replied mrs. gantry, reposing herself in the most comfortable seat. "it seems that he has arranged--" "beg pardon," said lord james. "it was the coville construction company that made the offer." "very true. an arrangement has been made, my dear, that will take that person to the bridge and keep him there." "provided he accepts the offer," added lord james. "how can it be otherwise? the salary is simply stupendous for a man of his class and standing." "laffie gets only twelve thousand a year, yet he designed the bridge," remarked dolores. "he told me it wasn't even enough for pin-money." "i fancy he must contrive to make it go farther since his last trip to town," said mrs. gantry. "the little visit proved rather expensive. his father made another reduction in his allowance." "goodness!" exclaimed dolores. "poor dear laffie boy! if i conclude to marry him, i shall insist that papa ashton is to give me a separate allowance." "my word, miss dolores!" expostulated lord james. "you're not encouraging that fellow?" "oh, it's as well to have more than one hook on the line. ask mamma if it isn't. besides, laffie would be a gilt-edged investment--provided his papa made the right kind of a will. anyway, i could get uncle herbert's lawyers to fix up an agreement as to that--a kind of pre-nuptial alimony contract between me and laffie's papa's millions." mrs. gantry held up her hands. "could you have believed it, genevieve! she was frivolous enough before i went over for you. but now!" dolores coolly disregarded her mother, to turn a meaning look on lord james. "if i have frivolled enough, it's about time you said something." the young englishman put an uneasy hand to his mustache. "er--i should have preferred a--a rather more favorable time, miss dolores." "yes, and have mamma slam him before you put in the buffer," rejoined the girl. "see here, vievie. it's too bad, but you must have tattled something to uncle herbert, and he--" "tattled!" repeated genevieve. "i have always been candid with papa, if that is what you mean, dolores." "all right, then, miss candid. though we called it tattling ten years ago. anyway, uncle herbert wrote about it to mamma. he sent the letter out this noon. next thing, it'll be all over chicago--and england." "dolores! i must insist!" admonished mrs. gantry. "so must i, mamma! if it's wrong to destroy the property of others, it's no less wrong to destroy their reputations." her mother expanded with self-righteous indignation. "well, i never!--indeed! when the fellow has neither character nor reputation!" "dear auntie," soothed genevieve, "i know you too well to believe you could intentionally harm any one." "i would do _anything_ to save you from ruining your life!" exclaimed mrs. gantry, moved almost to tears. "i shall not ruin my life," replied genevieve, with a quiet firmness that brought a profound sigh of relief from her aunt. "_a-a-h!_--my dear child! then you at last realize what sort of a man he is." "vievie knows he _is_ a man--which is more than can be said of some of them," thrust dolores, with a mocking glance at lord james. "my dear," urged mrs. gantry, "give no heed to that silly chit. i wish to commend your stand against the fatal attraction of mere brute efficiency." "oh, i say!" put in lord james. "it's this i must protest against, miss leslie--this talk of his brute qualities--when it's only the lack of polish. you should know that. he's a thistle, prickly without, but within soft as silk." "do i not know?" exclaimed genevieve, for the moment unable to maintain her perfect composure. "the metaphor was very touching and most loyal, my dear earl," said mrs. gantry. "yet you must pardon me if i suggest that your opinion of him may be somewhat biased by friendship." "but of course mamma's opinion isn't biased," remarked dolores. she shot an angry glance at her mother, and added--"by friendship." "it would relieve me very much if no more were said about mr. blake," said genevieve. "we can't--now," snapped dolores, frowning at the footman who had appeared in the doorway. "some one must have sighted the right honorable earl in our coupe." her irony was justified by the actions of the three young matrons who fluttered in on the breeze of the footman's announcement. they immediately fell into raptures over his lordship, who was forced in self-defence to tug and twist at his mustache and toy with his monocle. at this last dolores flung herself out of the room in ill-concealed disdain. she was not to be found when, all too soon, her mother tore the "charming earl avondale" away from his chattering adorers. after the worshipful one had been borne off, the dejected trio did not linger long. their departure was followed by the prompt reappearance of dolores. she came at her cousin with eyes flashing. "now you're all alone, vievie! i've been waiting for this. do you know what i'm going to do? i'm going to give you a piece of my mind." "please, dear!" begged genevieve. "no. i'll not please! you deserve a good beating, and i'm going to give it to you. that poor mr. blake! aren't you 'shamed of yourself? breaking his big noble heart!" "dolores! i must ask you--" "no, you mustn't! you've got to listen to me, you know you have. to think that you, who've always pretended to be so kind and considerate, should be a regular cat!" "you foolish dear!" murmured genevieve. "do you imagine that anything that you can say can hurt me, after--after--" she turned away to hide her starting tears. "that's it!" jeered her cousin. "be a snivelly little hypocrite. pretend to be so sorry--when you're not sorry at all. _pah!_" genevieve recovered her dignity with her composure. "that is quite enough, my dear. i can overlook what you have already said. you know absolutely nothing about love and the bitter grief it brings." "you don't say!" retorted dolores, her nostrils quivering. "much you know about me. but you!--the idea of pretending you love him--that you ever so much as dreamed of loving him!" genevieve shrank back as if she had been struck. "oh! for any one to say that to me!" "it's true--it must be true!" insisted dolores, half frightened yet still too surcharged with anger to contain herself. "if it isn't true, how could you break his heart?--the man who saved you from that terrible savage wilderness!" "i--i cannot explain to you. it's something that--" "i know! you needn't tell me. it's mamma. she's been knocking him. i'll bet she started knocking him when she first cabled to you--at least she would have, had she known anything about him. think i don't know mamma and her methods? if only he'd been his lordship--owh, deah! what a difference, don't y' know! she'd never have let you get out of england unmarried!" "dolores! this is quite enough!" "the countess of avondale, future duchess of ruthby! think i don't see through mamma's little game? and you'd shillyshally around, and throw over the true, noble hero to whom you owe everything--whom you've pretended you loved--to run after a title, an englishman, when you could have that big-hearted american!" genevieve's lips straightened. "what a patriot!" she rejoined with quiet irony. "you, of course, would never dream of marrying an englishman." "that's none of your business," snapped dolores, not a little taken aback by the counter attack. "you spoke about pretence and hypocrisy," went on genevieve. "how about the way you tease and make sport of lord avondale?" for a moment the younger girl stood quivering, transfixed by the dart. suddenly she put her hands before her eyes and rushed from the room in a storm of tears. genevieve started up as if to hasten after her, but checked herself and sank back into her chair. for a long time she sat motionless, in the blank dreary silence of profound grief, her eyes fixed upon vacancy, dry and lustreless. when, a few minutes before their dinner hour, her father hurried into the room, expectant of his usual affectionate welcome, she did not spring up to greet him. the sound of his brisk step failed to penetrate to her consciousness. he came over to her and put a fond hand on her shoulder. "h'm--how's this, my dear?" he asked. "not asleep? brown study, eh?" she looked up at him dully; but at sight of the loving concern in his eyes, the unendurable hardness of her grief suddenly melted to tears. she flung herself into his arms, to weep and sob with a violence of which he had never imagined his quiet high-bred daughter capable. bewildered and alarmed by the storm of emotion, he knew not what to do, and so instinctively did what was right. he patted her on the back and murmured inarticulate sounds of love and pity. his sympathy and the blessed relief of tears soon restored her quiet self-control. she ceased sobbing and drew away from him, mortified at her outburst. "there now," he ventured. "you feel better, don't you?" "i've been very silly!" she exclaimed, drying her tear-wet cheeks. "you're never silly--that is, since you came home this time," he qualified. "because--because--" she stopped with an odd catch in her voice, and seemed again about to burst into tears. "because _he_ taught you to be sensible,--you'd say." "ye--yes," she sobbed. "oh, papa, i can't bear it--i can't! to think that after he'd shown himself so brave and strong--! but for that, i should never have--have come to this!" "h'm,--from the way you talked last night, i took it that the matter was settled. you said then that you could no longer--h'm--love him." "i can't!--i mustn't! don't you see? he's proved himself weak. how, then, can i keep on loving him? but they--they infer that it is my fault. i believe they think i tempted him." "how's that?" "because i urged him to take the communion with me. i told you what he himself said about alcohol. but he did not blame me. he pointed out that if he was too weak to resist then, he would have yielded to the next temptation." "h'm,--no doubt. yet i've been considering that point--the fact that you did force him against his will." "surely, papa, you cannot say it was my fault, when he himself admits that his own weakness--" "wait," broke in her father. "what do you know about the curse of drink? it's possible that he might be able to resist the craving if not roused by the taste." "yet if he is so weak that a few drops of the holy communion wine could cause him to give way so shamelessly--" "holy?--h'm!" commented mr. leslie. "alcohol is a poison. suppose the church used a decoction containing arsenic. would that make arsenic holy?" "oh, papa! but it's so very different!" "yes. alcohol and arsenic are different poisons. but they're similar in at least one respect. the effects of each are cumulative. to one who has been over-drugged with arsenic a slight amount more may prove a fatal dose. so of a person whose will has been undermined and almost paralyzed with alcohol--" "that's it, papa. don't you see? if he lacks the will, the strength, the self-control to resist!" "no, that isn't the point. it's your part in this most unfortunate occurrence that i'm now considering." "my part?" "you told him that he must not look to you for help or even sympathy. i can understand your position as to that. at the same time, should you not have been as neutral on the other side? was it quite fair for you to add to his temptations?" "yet the fact of his weakness--" "i'm not talking about him, my dear. it's what you've done--the question whether you do not owe him reparation for your part in his--misfortune." "my part?" "had you not forced him into what i cannot but consider an unfair test of his strength, he would not have fallen. griffith tells me that he was well along toward a solution of the zariba dam. had you not caused this unfortunate interruption in his work, he might soon have proved himself a master engineer. that would have strengthened him in his fight against this hereditary curse." "he was to fight it on his own strength." "what else would this engineering triumph have been but a proof to himself of his strength? you have deprived him of that. griffith tells me that, hard as he is striving to work out the idea which he was certain would meet the difficulties of the dam, he now seems unable to make any progress." "so mr. griffith and you blame all upon me?" "you mistake me, my dear. what i wish to make clear to you is that, however hopeless blake's condition may be, you are responsible for his failure upon this occasion." "and if so?" "premising that in one respect my attitude toward him is unalterable, i wish to say that he has risen very much in my esteem. i have had confidential talks with griffith and lord avondale regarding him. i have been forced to the conclusion that you were justified in considering him, aside from this one great fault, a man essentially sound and reliable. he has brains, integrity, courage, and endurance. given sufficient inducement, those qualities would soon enable him to acquire all that he lacks,--manners and culture." "oh, papa, do not speak of it! it was because i saw all that in him that i felt so certain. if only it were not for the one thing!" "h'm," considered mr. leslie, scrutinizing her tense face. "then i gather it's not true what yesterday you said and no doubt believed. you still regard him with the same feelings as before this occurrence." "no! no! he has destroyed all my faith in him. i--i can pity him. but anything more than that is--it must be--dead." "can't say i regret it. but--this is another question. you've lost him one chance. i believe you should give him another." "another chance?--you say that?" she asked incredulously. "you should cancel this record--this occurrence. blot it out. start anew." "how can i? it is impossible to forget that he has failed so utterly." "thanks to the poison you put into his mouth." "father! i did not think that you--" "i was unjust to him. you also have done him a wrong. i am seeking to make reparation. in part payment, i wish to make clear to you what you should do to offset your fault. in view of the development of your character (which, by the way, you claim was brought about by your african experience), i feel that i should have no need to urge this matter. you are not a thoughtless child. think it over. here's hodges." she went in with him to dinner, perfectly composed in the presence of the grave-faced old butler. but after the meal, when her father left for his customary cigar in the conservatory, she sought the seclusion of the library, and attempted to fight down the growing doubt of her justice toward blake that had been roused by her father's suggestions. it was easy for her to maintain the resolute stand she had taken so long as she kept her thoughts fixed on his fall from manhood. but presently she began to recall incidents that had occurred during those terrible weeks on the savage coast of mozambique. she remembered, most vividly of all, a day on the southern headland--the eventful day before the arrival of the steamer--when he had spoken freely of the faults of his past life.... he had never lied to her or sought to gloze over his weakness. and he could have concealed this present failure. she divined that both griffith and lord james would never have betrayed him. yet he had come direct to her and confessed, knowing that she would condemn him. the thought was more than she could withstand. she crossed over to her desk, and wrote swiftly:-- dear friend: you are to consider that all which has taken place since sunday is as if it had never happened. come to me to-morrow, at ten. jenny. enclosing the note in an envelope addressed to blake, she gave it to a servant for immediate delivery. as soon as the man left the room, she went to the telephone and arranged for a private consultation with one of the most eminent physicians in the city. chapter xxiv the way of a woman blake was humped over his desk, his fingers deep in his hair, and his forehead furrowed with the knotted wrinkles of utter weariness and perplexity, as his eyes pored over the complex diagrams and figures jotted down on the plan before him. griffith came shuffling into the room in his old carpet slippers. he looked anxiously at the bent form across the desk from him, and said: "see here, tommy, what's the use of wasting electricity?" blake stared up at him, blear-eyed with overstudy and loss of sleep. "told you 'm going to keep going long as the wheels go 'round," he mumbled. "they'd keep going a heap longer if you laid off sundays," advised griffith. "i'm no fanatic; but no man can keep at it day and night, this way, without breaking." "sooner the better!" growled blake. "you go tuck yourself into your cradle." griffith shook his head dubiously and was shuffling out when he heard a knock at the hall door of the living-room. he hastened to respond, and soon returned with a dainty envelope. blake was again poring over his plans and figures. the older man tossed the missive upon the desk. "hey, wake up," he cackled. "letter from one of your high society lady friends. flunkey in livery for messenger." "livery?" echoed blake. "brown and yellow, eh?--as if his clothes had malaria." "no. dark green and black." blake started to his feet, his face contorted with the conflict of his emotions. "don't joke!--for god's sake! that's hers!" griffith ripped the note from its envelope and held it out. blake clutched it from him, and opened up the sheet with trembling fingers, to find the signature. for a moment he stood staring at it as if unable to believe his own eyes. then he turned to the heading of the note and began to read. "well?" queried griffith, as the other reached the end and again stood staring at the signature. instead of replying, blake dropped into his chair and buried his face in his arms. griffith hovered over him, gazing worriedly at the big heaving shoulders. "must say you're mighty talkative," he at last remarked, and he started toward the door. "good-night." "wait!" panted blake. "read it!" griffith took the note, which was thrust out to him, and read it through twice. "huh," he commented. "she wasn't so awfully sudden over it. 'bout time, i'd say." "shut up!" cried blake, flinging himself erect in the chair, to beam upon his friend. "you've no license to kick, you old grouch. i'm coming to bed. but wait till to-morrow afternoon. maybe the fur won't fly on old zariba!" "come on, then. i'll get your sulphonal." "you will--not! no more dope in mine, grif. i've got something a thousand per cent better." "she ought to've come through with it at the start-off," grumbled griffith. but he gladly accompanied his friend to the bedroom. in the morning blake awoke from a profound natural sleep, clear-eyed and clear-brained. his first act was to telephone to a florist's to send their largest crimson amaryllis to miss genevieve leslie. though he forced himself to walk, he reached the leslie mansion a full half-hour before ten. to kill time, he swung on out the drive into lincoln park. he went a good mile, yet was back again five minutes before the hour. unable to wait a moment longer, he hastened up into the stately portico and rang. as on the previous day, he was at once bowed in and ushered to the beautiful room of gold and ivory enamel. he entered eagerly, and was not a little dashed to find himself alone. his spirits rebounded at the remembrance that he was early. he stopped in the centre of the room and stood waiting, tense with expectancy. very soon genevieve came in at one of the side doorways. he started toward her the instant he heard her light step. but her look and bearing checked his eager advance. she was very pale, and her eyelids were swollen from hours of weeping. "jenny!" he stammered. "what is it? your note--i thought that--that--" "you poor boy! you poor boy!" she murmured, her eyes brimming over with tears of compassion. "what is it?" he muttered, and he drew nearer to her. she put out her hands and grasped his coat, and looked up at him, her forehead creased with deep lines of grief, and the corners of her sweet mouth drooping piteously. "oh, tom! tom!" she sobbed, "i know the worst now! i know how greatly i wronged you by forcing you into temptation. i have been to one who knows--one of the great physicians." "about me?" asked blake, greatly surprised. "i used no names. he does not know who i am. but i told him the facts, as you have told them to me, dear. he said--oh, i cannot--i cannot repeat it!" she bent forward and pressed her face against his breast, sobbing with an uncontrollable outburst of grief. he raised his arms to draw her to him, but dropped them heavily. "well?" he asked in a harsh voice. "what of it?" she drew herself away from him, still quivering, but striving hard to control her emotion. "i--i must tell you!" she forced herself to answer. "i have no right to keep it from you. he said that it is a--a disease; that it is a matter of pathology, not of moral courage." "disease?" repeated blake. "well, what if it is? i don't see what difference that makes. if i fight it down--all well and good. if i lose out, i lose out--that's all." "but don't you see the difference it makes to me?" she insisted. "i blamed you--when it wasn't your fault at all. but i did not realize, dear. i've been under a frightful strain ever since we reached home. just because i do not weep and cry out, every one imagines i'm cold and unfeeling. i've been reproached for treating you cruelly. but you see now--" "of course!" he declared. "don't you suppose i know? it's your grit. needn't tell me how you've felt. you're the truest, kindest little woman that ever was!" "oh, tom! that's so like you!--and after i _have_ treated you so cruelly!" "you? what on earth put that into your head? maybe you mean, because you didn't give me the second chance at once when i owned up to failing. but it was no more than right for you to send me off. didn't i deserve it? i had given you cause enough to despise me--to send me off for good." "no, no, not despise you, tom! you know that never could be, when there in that terrible wilderness you proved yourself so true and kind--such a man! and not that alone! i know all now--how you, to save me--" she paused and looked away, her face scarlet. yet she went on bravely: "how, in order that i might be compelled to make certain, you endured the frightful heat and smother of that foul forecastle, all those days to aden!" "that wasn't anything," disclaimed blake. "i slept on deck every night. just a picnic. i knew you were safe--no more danger of that damnable fever--and with jimmy to entertain you." "while you had to hide from me all day! james said that it was frightful in the forecastle." "much he knows about such places! it wasn't anything to a glass-factory or steelworks. if it had been the stokehole, instead--i did try stoking, one day, just to pass the time. stood it two hours. those lascars are born under the equator. i don't see how any white man can stoke in the tropics." "you did that?--to pass the time! while we were aft, under double awnings, up where we could catch every breath of air! had i known that you did not land at port mozambique, i should have--should have--" "course you would have!" he replied. "but now you see how well it was you didn't know." "perhaps--yet i'm not so sure--i--i--" she clasped her hands over her eyes, as all her grief and anguish came back upon her in full flood. "oh, tom! what shall we do? my dear, my poor dear! that doctor, with his cold, hard science! i have learned the meaning of that fearful verse of the bible: 'unto the third and fourth generation.' you may succeed; you may win your great fight for self-mastery. but your children--the curse would hang over them. one and all, they too might suffer. though you should hold to your self-mastery, there would still be a chance,--epilepsy, insanity, your own form of the curse! and should you again fall back into the pit--" she stopped, overcome. he drew back a little way, and stood regarding her with a look of utter despair. "so that is why you sent for me," he said. "i came here thinking you might be going to give me another chance. now you tell me it's a lot worse than even i thought." "no, no!" she protested. "i learned what i've told you afterward--after i had sent you the note. you must not think--" he broke in upon her explanation with a laugh as mirthless as were his hard-set face and despairing eyes. she shrank back from him. "stop it!--stop it!" she cried. "i can't bear it!" he fell silent, and began aimlessly fumbling through his pockets. his gaze was fixed on the wall above and beyond her in a vacant stare. "tom!" she whispered, alarmed at his abstraction. he looked down at her as if mildly surprised that she was still in the room. "excuse me," he muttered. "i was just wondering what it all amounts to, anyway. a fellow squirms and flounders, or else drifts with the current. maybe he helps others to keep afloat, and maybe he doesn't. maybe some one else helps him hold up. but, sooner or later, he goes down for good. it will all be the same a hundred years from now." "no!" she denied. "you know that's not true. you don't believe it." he straightened, and raised his half-clenched fist. "you're right, jenny. it's the facts, but not the truth. it's up to a man to pound away for all he's worth; not whine around about what's going to happen to him to-morrow or next year or when he dies. only time i ever was a floater was when i was a kid and didn't know the real meaning of work. since then i've lived. i can at least say i haven't been a parasite. and i've had the fun of the fight." he flung out his hand, and his dulled eyes flashed with the fire of battle. "lord!--what if i _have_ lost you! that's no reason for me to quit. you did love me there--and i'll love you always, little woman! you've given me a thousand times more than i deserve. i've got that to remember, to keep me up to the fighting pitch. i'm going to keep on fighting this curse, anyway. idea of a man lying down, long as he can stagger! even if the curse downs me in the end, there're lots of things i can do before i go under. there're lots of things to be done in the world--big things! pound away! what if a man _is_ to be laid on the shelf to-morrow? pound away! keep doing--that's life! do your best--that's living!" "i know of _one_ who has lived!" whispered genevieve. "jenny! then it's not true? you'll give me another chance? you still love me?" "wait! no, you must not!" she replied, shrinking back again. "i cannot--i will not give way! i must think of the future--not mine, but _theirs!_ i must do what is right. i tell you, there is one supreme duty in a woman's lot--she should choose rightly the man who is to be the father of her children! it is a crime to bring into the world children who are cursed!" a flame of color leaped into her face, but she stood with upraised head, regarding him with clear and candid eyes that glowed with the ecstasy of self-sacrifice. before her look, his gaze softened to deepest tenderness and reverence. when he spoke, his voice was hushed, almost awed. "now i understand, jenny. it's--it's a holy thing you've done--telling me! i'll never forget it, night or day, so long as i live. good-bye!" he turned to go; but in an instant she was before him with hands outflung to stop him. "wait! you do not understand. listen! i did not mean what you think--only--only if you fail! can you imagine i could be so unjust? if you do not fail--if you win--oh, can't you see?" he stared at her, dazed by the sudden glimmering of hope through the blackness of his despair. "but you said that, even if i should win--" he muttered. "yes, yes; he told me there would still be a risk. but i cannot believe it. at least it would not be so grave a risk. oh, if you can but win, tom!" "i'll try," he answered soberly. "you will win--you shall win! i will help you." "you?" "yes. don't you understand? that is why i sent for you--to tell you that." "but you said--" "i don't care what i said. it's all different now. i see what i should do. i have failed far worse than you. there on that savage coast you required me to do my share; but always you stood ready to advise and help me. yet after all that--how ungrateful you must think me!" "no, never!" he cried. "you sha'n't say that. i can't stand it. you're the truest, kindest--" "it's like you to say it!" she broke in. "but look at the facts. did you ever set me a task that called for the very utmost of my strength--perhaps more; and then turn coldly away, with the cruel word that i must win alone or perish?" "it's not the same case at all," he remonstrated. "you're not fair to yourself. i'm a man." "and i've called myself a woman," she replied. "after those weeks with you i thought myself no longer a shallow, unthinking girl. a woman! now i see, tom--i know! i have failed in the woman's part. but now i shall stand by you in your fight. i shall do my part, and you will win!" blake's eyes shone soft and blue, and he again held out his arms to her. but in the same moment the glow faded and his arms fell to his side. "i almost forgot," he murmured. "you said that i must win by my own strength--that you must be sure of my strength." "that was before i learned the truth," she replied. "i no longer ask so much. i shall--i must help you, as you helped me. i owe you life and more than life. you know that. you cannot think me so ungrateful as not to do all i can." "no," he replied, with sudden resolve. "you are to do as you first said--as we agreed." "you mean, not help you? but i must, tom, now that i realize." "all i want is another chance," he said. "it's more than i deserve. i can't accept still more." "you'll not let me help you? yet what the doctor said makes it all so different." "not to me," replied blake, setting his jaw. "i've started in on this fight, and i'm going through with it the way i began. it'll be a big help to know how you feel now; but, just the same, i'm going to fight it out alone. the doctors may say what they please,--if i haven't will power enough to win, without being propped up, i'm not fit to marry any woman, much less you!" "tom!" she cried. "you _are_ the man i thought you. you _will_ win!" she held out her hands to him. he took them in his big palms, and bent over to kiss her on the forehead. "there!" he said, stepping away. "that's a lot more than i'm entitled to now, jenny. it's time i left, to go and try to earn it." "you won't allow me to help?" she begged. "no," he answered, with a quiet firmness that she knew could not be shaken. "at least you cannot keep me from praying for you," she said. "that's true; and it will be a help to know how you feel about it now," he admitted. "you will come again--soon?" "no, not until i begin to see my way out on the zariba dam." "oh, that will be soon, i'm sure." "i hope so. good-bye!" he turned and hurried from the room with an abruptness that in other circumstances she might have thought rude. but she understood. he was so determined in his purpose that he would not take the slightest risk that might be incurred by lingering. she went to a front window, and watched him down the drive. his step was quick but firm, and his head and shoulders were bent slightly forward, as if to meet and push through all obstacles. chapter xxv heavy odds for a few days lord james was able to bring genevieve encouraging reports of a vast improvement in blake's spirits. but still the engineer-inventor failed to make the headway he had expected toward the solution of the complex and intricate problem of the dam. in consequence, he re-doubled his efforts and worked overtime, permitting himself less than four hours of sleep a night. his meals he either went without or took at his desk. all the urgings of griffith and lord james could not induce him to cease driving himself to the very limit of endurance. day by day he fell off, growing steadily thinner and more haggard and more feverish; yet still he toiled on, figuring and planning, planning and figuring. but on the morning of the day set for genevieve's ball, the weary, haggard worker tossed his pencil into the air, and uttered a shout that brought his two friends on a run from griffith's office. "i've got it! i've got it!" he flung at them, as they rushed in. he thrust a tablet across the table. "there's the proof. check those totals, grif." lord james leaned over the table to grasp blake's hand. "gad, old man!" he said. "just in time for you to go to the ball." griffith paused in his swift checking of blake's final computations. "ball? not on your sweet life! he's going to bed." "you promised to go, tom," said lord james. "did i?" replied blake. "well, then, of course i'm going." "of course!" jeered griffith. "it's no use arguing against a mule. can't help but wish you hadn't reminded him, mr. scarbridge." "the change will do him good," argued lord james. "i'm in for it, anyway," said blake. "only thing, i wish i could get some sleep, in between. well, here's for a good hot bath and a square meal. that'll set me up." griffith shook his head. "i'm not so sure. what you need is twelve hours on your back." that he was right the englishman had to admit himself with no little contrition before the ball was half over. blake presented a good figure, and though he talked little and danced less, yet on the whole he produced a very good impression. as lord james had once observed, with regard to his visit at ruthby castle, blake's bigness of mind seemed to be instinctively sensed by nearly all those with whom he came in contact on favorable terms. but, from the first, he avoided genevieve with a persistence so marked as almost to disarm mrs. gantry. most of his few dances were with dolores, who discovered that, notwithstanding his evident weariness, he was astonishingly light on his feet and by no means a poor waltzer. but after midnight she found it increasingly difficult to lure him out on the floor whenever she was seized with the whim to favor him by scratching the name--and feelings--of some other partner. more than once lord james urged him to go home and turn in. blake's reply was that he knew he ought not to have come to the ball, but since he had come, he proposed to stick it out,--he would not be a quitter. so he stayed on, hour after hour, weary-eyed and taciturn, but by no means ill-humored. many of the wall-flowers and elderly guests poured their chatter into his unhearing ear, and thought him a most sympathetic listener. genevieve, however, with each glimpse that she caught of him, perceived how his fatigue was constantly verging toward exhaustion. at last, between three and four in the morning, she cut short a dance with young ashton and asked lord james to take her into the library for a few minutes' rest. he was with dolores, but immediately relinquished her to ashton, and went off with genevieve. they soon passed out of the chatter and whirl of the crowd into the seclusion of the library. genevieve led the way to her father's favorite table, but avoided the big high-backed armchair. lord james placed a smaller chair for her at the other side of the table, facing the door of the cardroom, and as she sank into it he took the chair at the corner. "ah!" sighed genevieve. "it's so restful to get away from them all for a few moments." "i wonder you're not still more fatigued. awful crush," replied lord james. "i daresay you haven't had any chance all evening for a nibble of anything. directed that something be brought to us here." "that was very thoughtful of you. i do need something. i'm depressed--it's about tom. i brought you in here to ask your opinion. he has looked so haggard and worn to-night." "overwork," explained lord james. "he's been hard at it, day and night, in that stuffy office. he could stand any amount of work out in the open. but this being cooped up indoors and grinding all the time at those bally figures!" "if only it's nothing worse! i'm so afraid!" "no. it hasn't come on again; though that may happen any time when he's so nearly pegged. must confess, i blame myself for urging him to come to-night. but he said he had solved the big problem, and i thought the change would do him good--relax his mind, you know. egregious mistake, i fear. i've urged him to go; but he insists upon sticking it out." "but you're certain that he--has--done nothing as yet?" "no, indeed, i assure you! this over-fatigue--i'm not even certain whether the craving is on him or not.... you'll pardon me, miss genevieve--but do you realize how hard you have made it for him, cutting him off from all help in his desperate struggle?" "then he _is_ fighting all alone?" she exclaimed. "yes. he won't allow even me to jolly him up now. he's given me the cold shoulder. said the inference to be drawn from your conditions was that he should have no help whatever." "isn't that brave!--isn't that just like him!" cried the girl, her eyes sparkling and cheeks aglow. "he _will_ win! i feel sure he'll win!" lord james looked down at the table, and asked in rather an odd and hesitating tone: "we must hope it. but--if he does win--what then?" blake came slowly into the room through the doorway behind them, his head downbent as if he were pondering a problem. unaware of the newcomer, genevieve looked regretfully into the troubled face of her companion, and answered him with absolute candor. "dear friend, need i repeat? i am very fond of you, and i esteem you very highly. yet if he succeeds, i must say 'no' to you." as the young englishman bent over, without replying, blake roused from his abstraction and perceived that he was not alone in the room. "hello--'scuse me!" he mumbled. half startled, they turned to look at him. he met them with a rare smile. "so it's you, jeems--and miss jenny. didn't mean to cut in on your 'tates-an'-tay, as the irishman put it." he started to turn back. genevieve sought to stop him. "won't you join us, tom?" "thanks, no. it's jimmy's sit-out. i just stepped in here to see if i could find a book on the differential calculus. been figuring a problem in my head all evening, and there's a formula i need to get my final solution. i know that formula well as i know you, but somehow my memory seems to've stopped working." "those bally figures! can't you ever chop off?" remonstrated lord james. "you're pegged. come and join us. miss genevieve will be interested to hear about the dam." "i'm interested, indeed i am, tom. papa says you are working out a piece of wonderful engineering." blake stared. "what does _he_ know about it?" "i suppose his consulting engineer told him--your friend mr. griffith." "grif's not working for him now." "indeed? then i misunderstood. anyway, you must come and explain all about the dam." "well, if you insist," said blake. he went around to the big armchair, across from genevieve, and sat down wearily while explaining: "but the dam is a long way from being built. it's all on paper yet, and i've had to rely on the reports sent in by the field engineers." a footman came in and set food and wine before genevieve and lord james. blake went on, with quick-mounting enthusiasm, heedless of the coming and going of the soft-footed, unobtrusive servant. "that's the only thing i'm afraid of. would have liked to've gone over the ground myself first. but they had two surveys, and the field notes check fairly well. barring mistakes in them, i've got the proposition worked out to a t. it's all done except some figuring of details that any good engineer could do. just as well, for i'm about all in. stiffest proposition i ever went up against." he sank back into the depths of the big chair, with a sudden giving way of enthusiasm to fatigue. lord james reached out his plate to him. "you _are_ pegged, old man," he said. "have a sandwich." "no," replied blake. "i'm too played out to eat. just want to rest." genevieve had been scrutinizing his face, and her deepening concern lent a note of sharpness to her reproach: "you're exhausted! you should not have come to-night!" "couldn't pass up a dance at your house, could i?" he smilingly rejoined. "don't you worry about me. it's all right, long's i've got that whole damn irrigation system worked out." "ha! ha! old man!" chuckled lord james. "that expresses it to a t, as you put it. but wouldn't it be better form to say, 'the whole irrigation dam system'?" blake smiled shamefacedly. "did i make a break like--such as that? 'scuse me, miss jenny. i'm sort of--i'm rather muddled to-night." "no wonder, after all you've done," said genevieve. she added, with a radiant smile, "but isn't it glorious that you've finished such a great work! papa says that you've actually invented a new kind of dam." the silent footman had reappeared with another plate and glass of wine. he glided around behind blake, who had leaned forward again with the right arm upon the edge of the table. unconscious of the servant, who placed the plate and wine glass near him on his left and quietly glided from the room, the engineer responded to genevieve's remark with an animation that might have been likened to the last flare of a dying candle. "no," he said, "it's not exactly a new kind of dam--not an invention. i did work out once a modification of bridge trusses which some might call an invention,--new principle in the application of trusses to bridge structure. allows for a longer suspension span on cantilever bridges." "but this zariba dam," remarked lord james; "i've yet to learn, myself, just how you worked it out." "well, it wasn't any invention; just a sort of discovery how to combine a lot of well-known principles of construction to fit the particular case. you see, it's this way. there was only one available site for the dam, and the mid-section of that was bottomless bog; yet provision had to be made for a sixty-five foot head of water." "you take him, miss genevieve," said lord james. "they have no solid ground to build on, and the water above the dam is to be sixty-five feet deep." "i should think the dam would sink into the bog," remarked genevieve. "that was one factor in the problem," said blake. "solved it by putting the steel reinforcement of the concrete in the form of my bridge-truss span. the whole central section could hang in midair and not buckle or drop. that was simple enough, long's i had my truss already invented. the main difficulty was that deep bog. if you studied hydrostatics, you'd soon learn that a sixty-five foot head of water puts an enormous pressure on the bed of a reservoir." absorbed in his explanation, blake unconsciously grasped the wine glass in his left hand, as he went on: "that pressure would be enough to make the water boil down through the bog and clear out under the deepest foundation any of the other engineers had been able to figure out. well, i figured and figured, but somehow i couldn't make anything in the books go. at last, when i had almost given up--" "no! you couldn't do that," put in lord james. blake smiled at him, and paused to grasp again his broken thread of thought. in the fatal moment when his wakeful consciousness was diverted, and before lord james could interpose to avert the act, his subconsciousness automatically caused his left hand to raise the glass which it held to his lips. before he was aware of what he was doing, he had taken a sip of the wine. an instant afterward the glass shattered on the floor beside his chair, and he clutched at the edge of the table, his face convulsed and his eyes glaring with the horror of what he had done. "hell!" he gasped. genevieve rose and started back from the table, shocked and frightened by what she mistook for an outburst of rage or madness. lord james rose almost as quickly, no less shocked and quite as uncertain as to what his friend would do. [illustration: his jaw closed fast,--and in the same instant his outstretched hand smashed down upon the wine glass] "tom!" he called warningly, and he laid his hand on blake's shoulder. almost beside himself in the paroxysm of fear and craving that had stricken his face white and half choked him with seeming rage, blake shook off the restraining hand, and gasped hoarsely at genevieve: "wine!--here--in your house! god! shoved into my hand! smell wasn't enough--must taste it! god! tough deal!" "lord avondale!" cried genevieve, and she turned to leave the room, furiously indignant. "gad! old man!" murmured lord james, staring uncertainly from blake to the angry girl, for once in his life utterly disconcerted and bewildered. he was unable to think, and the impulse of his breeding urged him to accompany genevieve. after a moment's vacillation, he sprang about and hastened with her from the room. blake sat writhing in dumb anguish, his distended eyes fixed upon the doorway for many moments after they had gone. then slowly yet as though drawn by an irresistible force, his gaze sank until it rested upon the half-filled wine glass left by lord james. he glared at it in fearful fascination. suddenly his hand shot out to clutch at it,--and as suddenly was drawn back. there followed a grim and silent struggle, which ended in a second clutch at the glass. this time the shaking fingers closed on the slender stem. the wine was almost wetting his lips when, with a convulsive jerk, he flung it out upon the rug beside his chair. shuddering and quivering, blake sank back in the chair, with his left arm upraised across his face as if he were expectant of a crushing blow or sought to shut out some horrible sight. his right arm slipped limply down outside the chair-arm, and the empty glass dropped to the floor out of his relaxing fingers. yet the lull in the contest was only momentary. as his protecting arm sank down again, his bloodshot eyes caught sight of the wine in genevieve's glass. instantly he started up rigid in his chair and clutched the edge of the table, as if to spring up and escape. but he could not tear his gaze away from the crimson wine. again there came the grim and silent struggle, and again the fierce craving for drink compelled his hand to go out to grasp the glass. but his will was not yet totally benumbed. as his fingers crooked to clutch the glass-stem, he made a last desperate effort to withstand the all but irresistible impulse that was forcing him over the brink of the pit. beads of cold sweat started out on his forehead. his face creased with furrows of unbearable agony. his mouth gaped. the serpent had him by the throat. the struggling man realized that he was on the verge of defeat. he was almost overcome. in a flash he perceived the one way to escape. for a single instant his slack jaw closed fast,--and in the same instant his outstretched hand clenched together and upraised and smashed down upon the wine glass. utterly exhausted, the victor collapsed forward, with head and arms upon the table, in a half swoon that quickly passed into the sleep-stupor of outspent strength. chapter xxvi turning the odd trick thus it was lord james found his friend when he came hurrying back into the library. he did not rouse blake to ask questions. one glance at the shattered glass and blake's bleeding hand was enough to tell him what had happened. there could be no doubt that blake had won. it was no less certain, however, that the struggle had cost him the last ounce of his strength. what he now needed was absolute rest. with utmost gentleness, lord james examined the cut hand for fragments of glass and bound it up with his own handkerchief. as quietly, he gathered up the broken glass and the dishes, and wiped the blood and wine from the table. another hour would see the end of the ball. many of the guests already had gone, and it was not probable that any of those who remained would leave the ballroom or the cardroom to wander into the secluded library. yet he thought it as well to remove the traces of blake's struggle. he placed the bandaged hand of his unconscious friend down on the chair-arm, in the shadow of the edge of the table, and went out with the plates and glass, closing the door behind him. he had been gone only a few minutes when the door of the cardroom swung open before a sharp thrust, and mr. leslie stepped into the library, followed by mrs. gantry. mr. leslie closed the door, and each took advantage of the seclusion to blink and yawn and stretch luxuriously. they had just risen from the card table, and were both cramped and sleepy. also neither perceived blake, who was hidden from them by the back of the big chair. "ho-ho-hum!" yawned mr. leslie, in a last relaxing stretch. "that ends it for this time." he wagged his head at his sister-in-law, and rubbed his hands together exultantly. "for once you'll have to admit i _can_ play bridge." "for once," she conceded, as she moved toward the table. "you're still nothing more than a whist-player, yet had it not been for the honor score, you'd have beaten us disgracefully. one is fortunate when one has the honor score in one's favor." "h'm! h'm!" he rallied. "i'll admit you women can _score_ honor, but the question is, do you know what honor is?" "most certainly--when the score is in our favor. one would fancy you'd been reading ibsen. of all the _bad_ taste--" mrs. gantry stopped short, to raise her lorgnette and stare at the flaccid form of blake. "hoity-toity! what have we here?" "hey?" queried mr. leslie, peering around her shoulder. "asleep? who is he?" mrs. gantry turned to him and answered in a lowered voice: "it's that fellow, blake. i do believe he's intoxicated." "intoxicated?" exclaimed mr. leslie. he went quickly around and bent over blake. he came back to her on tiptoe and led her away from the table. "you're mistaken," he whispered. "i'm certain he hasn't touched a drop." "certain?" "yes. some one has spilled wine on the table; but his breath proves that he hasn't had any. it's merely that he's worn out--fallen asleep. poor boy!" "'poor boy'?" repeated mrs. gantry, quizzing her brother-in-law through her lorgnette. "h'm. why not?" he demanded. "i was most unjust to him. i've been compelled to reverse my judgment of him on every point that was against him. as you know, he refused everything i offered in the way of money or position. he has proved that his intentions are absolutely honorable,--and now he has proved himself a great engineer. by his solution of the zariba dam problem, he has virtually put half a million, dollars into my pocket." "i understood that you turned that project over to some company." "the coville company--of which i own over ninety-five per cent of the stock. he would quit if he knew it, and i can't afford to lose him. the solution of the dam is a wonderful feat of engineering. that's what's the matter with him now. he worked at it to the point of exhaustion--and then for him to come here, already worn out!" "i'm sure he was quite welcome to stay away," put in the lady. mr. leslie frowned, and went on: "griffith tells me that he can stand any amount of outdoor work, but that office work runs him down fast. but i'll soon fix that. we arranged to put him in charge of the michamac bridge." "in charge? how will you get rid of lafayette? you've grumbled so often about his having a contract to remain there as chief builder, because he drew the bridge plans." "copied them, you should say." "ah, is that the term?" "for what he did, yes--unless one uses the stronger term." "i quite fail to take you." "you'll understand--later on. griffith and i are figuring that tom will take the bridge and keep it." "he has my heartfelt wish that he will take it soon, and remain in personal possession for all time!" "h'm. i presume genevieve could come down to visit us occasionally." "herbert! you surely cannot mean--?" "griffith has told me something in connection with this bridge that proves thomas blake to be one of the greatest engineers, if not the greatest, in america. i'd be proud to have him for a son-in-law." "impossible! _impossible!_ it can't be you'll withdraw your opposition!" "not only that; i'll back him to win. i like your earl. he's a fine young fellow. but, after all, blake is an _american_." "he's a brute! herbert, it is impossible!" "they said that dam was impossible. he has mastered it. he's big; he's got brains. he'll be a gentleman within six months. he's a genius!" "_poof!_ he's a degenerate!" "you'll see," rejoined mr. leslie. he went back to the table and tapped the sleeper sharply on the shoulder. blake stirred, and mumbled drowsily: "huh! what--whatcha want?" "wake up," answered mr. leslie. "i wish to congratulate you." blake slowly heaved himself up and blinked at his disturber with haggard, bloodshot eyes. he was still very weary and only half roused from his stupor. "huh!" he muttered. "must 'uv dropped 'sleep--dog tired." his bleared gaze swung around and took in mrs. gantry. he started and tried to sit more erect. "excuse me! didn't know there was a lady here." "don't apologize. that's for me to do," interposed mr. leslie, offering his hand. "my--that is, the coville company officers tell me you've worked out a wonderful piece of engineering for them." blake stared hard at the bookcase behind mrs. gantry and answered curtly, oblivious of the older man's hand. "that remains to be seen. it's only on paper, so far." "but i--h'm--it seems they are sufficiently satisfied to wish to put you in charge of the michamac bridge." "in charge?" "yes." "how about ashton--their contract with him?" "that's to be settled later. i wish--h'm--i understand that you are to be sent nominally as assistant engineer." "i am, eh? excuse _me_!" "at double the salary of ashton, and--" "not at ten times the salary as _his_ assistant!" "but you must know that griffith's doctor has ordered him to florida, and with the work rushing on the bridge--he tells me it has reached the most critical stage of construction--that suspension span--" "you seem mighty interested in a project you got rid of," remarked blake, vaguely conscious of the other's repressed eagerness. "yes. i was the first to consider the possibility of bridging the strait." "your idea, was it?" said blake, with reluctant admiration. "it was a big one, all right." "nothing as compared to the invention of that bridge," returned mr. leslie. "your young friend ashton sure is a great one," countered blake. "the man who planned that bridge is a genius," stated mr. leslie with enthusiasm. "that's one fact. another is that laffie ashton is unfit to supervise the construction of the suspension span. i'll see to it myself that the matter is so arranged that you--" "thanks, no. you'll do nothing of the kind," broke in blake. he spoke without brusqueness yet with stubborn determination. "i don't want any favors from you, and you know why. i can appreciate your congratulations, long as you seem to want to be friendly. but you needn't say anything to the company." "very well, very well, sir!" snapped mr. leslie, irritated at the rebuff. he jerked himself about to mrs. gantry. "there's time yet. what do you say to another rubber?" "you should have spoken before we rose," replied the lady. "there'll be others who wish to go. you'll be able to take over some one's hand. i prefer to remain in here for a _tete-a tete_ with mr. blake." blake and mr. leslie stared at her, alike surprised. the younger man muttered in far other than a cordial tone: "thanks. but i'm not fit company. ought to've been abed and asleep hours ago." "yet if you'll pardon me for insisting, i wish to have a little chat with you," replied mrs. gantry. at her expectant glance, mr. leslie started for the door of the cardroom. as he went out and closed the door, mrs. gantry took the chair on the other side of the table from blake, and explained in a confidential tone: "it is about this unfortunate situation." blake stared at her, with a puzzled frown. "unfortunate what?" "unfortunate situation," she replied, making an effort to moderate her superciliousness to mere condescension. "i assure you, i too have learned that first impressions may err. i cannot now believe that you are torturing my niece purposely." blake roused up on the instant, for the first time wide awake. "what!" he demanded. "i--torturing--her?" "most unfortunately, that is, at least, the effect of the situation." "but i--i don't understand! what is it, anyhow? i'd do anything to save her the slightest suffering!" "ah!" said mrs. gantry, and she averted her gaze. "don't you believe me?" he demanded. "to be sure--to be sure!" she hastened to respond. "had i not thought you capable of that, i should not have troubled to speak to you." "but what is it? what do you mean?" he asked, with swift-growing uneasiness. "i do not say that i blame you for failing to see and understand," she evaded. "no doubt you, too, have suffered." "yes, i've--but that's nothing. it's jenny!" he exclaimed, fast on the barbed hook. "good god! if it's true i've made her suffer--but how? why? i don't understand." mrs. gantry studied him with a gravity that seemed to include a trace of sympathy. there was an almost imperceptible tremor in her voice. "need i tell you, mr. blake, how a girl of her high ideals, her high conception of noblesse oblige, of duty (you saved her life as heroically as--er--as a fireman)--need i point out how grateful she must always feel toward you, and how easily she might mistake her gratitude for something else?" "you mean that she--that she--" he could not complete the sentence. mrs. gantry went on almost blandly. "a girl of her fine and generous nature is apt to mistake so strong a feeling of gratitude for what you no doubt thought it was." "yet that morning--on the cliffs--when the steamer came--" "even then. can you believe that if she really loved you then, she could doubt it now?" "you say she--does--doubt it? i thought that--maybe--" the heavy words dragged until they failed to pass blake's tense lips. "doubt it!" repeated mrs. gantry. "has she accepted you?" "no. i--" "has she promised you anything?" "no. she said that, unless she was sure--" "what more do you need to realize that she is _not_ sure? can you fancy for a moment that she would hesitate if she really loved you--if she did not intuitively realize that her feeling is no more than gratitude? that is why she is suffering so. she realizes the truth, yet will not admit it even to herself." blake forced himself to face the worst. "then what--what do you--?" "ah! so you really are generous!" exclaimed mrs. gantry, beaming upon him, with unfeigned suavity. "need i tell you that she is extremely fond of lord avondale? with him there could be no doubts, no uncertainties." "jimmy is all right," loyally assented blake. "yes, he's all right. just the same, unless she--" he stopped, unable to speak the word. "in accepting him she would attain to--" the tactful dame paused, considered, and altered her remark. "with him she would be happy." "i'm not saying 'no' to that," admitted blake. "that is, provided--" "ah! and you say you love her!" broke in mrs. gantry. "what love is it that would stand between her and happiness--that would compel her to sacrifice her life, out of gratitude to you?" blake bent over and asked in a dull murmur: "you are sure it's that?" "indeed, yes! how can it be otherwise?--a girl of her breeding; and you--what you are!" blake bent over still lower, and all his fortitude could not repress the groan that rose to his lips. mrs. gantry watched him closely, her face set in its suave smile, but her eyes hard and cold. she went on, without a sign of compunction: "but i now believe you are possessed of sterling qualities, else i should not have troubled to speak the truth to you." she paused to emphasize what was to follow. "there is only one way for you to save her. she is too generous to save herself. i believe that you really love her. you can prove it by--" again she paused--"going away." blake bent over on the table and buried his face in his arms. his smothered groan would have won him the compassion of a savage. it was the cry of a strong man crushed under an unbearable burden. mrs. gantry was not a savage. her eyes sparkled coldly. "you will go away. you will prove your love for her," she said. certain that she had accomplished what she had set out to do, she returned to the cardroom, and left her victim to his misery and despair. chapter xxvii a packing case already exhausted by the stress of the fierce fight that he had so hardly won, blake could no longer sustain such acute grief. nature mercifully dulled his consciousness. he sank into a stupor that outwardly was not unlike heavy slumber. mrs. gantry had been gone several minutes when the other door swung open. dolores skipped in, closely followed by lafayette ashton. the young man's face was flushed, and there was a slight uncertainty in his step; but as he closed the door and followed the girl across the room, he spoke with rather more distinctness than usual. "here we are, _ma cher_. i knew we'd find a place where you could show me how kind you feel toward your fond fayette." "so that's the way you cross the line?" criticised dolores. "what a get-away for a fast pacer who has gone the pace!" "now, dodie, don't hang back. you know as well as i do--" "hush! don't whisper it aloud!" cautioned the girl, pointing dramatically to blake. "betray no secrets. we are not alone!" ashton muttered a french curse, and went over to the table. "it's that fellow, blake," he whispered, over his shoulder. "mr. blake?" exclaimed dolores, tiptoeing to the table. "he's gone to sleep. poor man! i know he must be awfully tired, else he would have waltzed with me again the last time i scratched your name." "what you and genevieve can see in him gets me!" muttered ashton, with a shrug. "look at him now. needn't tell me he's asleep. he's intoxicated. that's what's the matter with him." dolores leaned far over the table toward blake, sniffed, and drew back, with a judicial shake of her head. "can't detect it. but, then, i couldn't expect to, with you in the room." "now, dodie!" she again leaned over the table. "see," she whispered. "his hand is tied up. it's hurt." "told you he's intoxicated," insisted ashton. the girl moved toward a davenport in the corner farthest from blake. "come over here," she ordered. "it's a nuisance to sit it out with you, when it's one of the last waltzes. at least i won't let you disturb mr. blake." "mr. t. blake, our heroic cave-man!" replied ashton, as he followed her across the room. "how you love him!" she rallied. "what's the cause of your jealousy?" "who says i'm jealous?" "of course there's no reason for you to be. he's not interested in me, and you're not in genevieve--just now." "my dear dodie! you know you've always been the only one." "since the last!" she added. "but if it's not jealousy, what is it?--professional envy? you've been knocking him all the evening. you began it the day he came. what have you against him, anyway? he has never wronged you." ashton's eyes narrowed, and one corner of his mouth drew up. "hasn't he, though!" he retorted. "the big brute! i can't imagine how your mother can allow you and genevieve to speak to him, when she knows what he is. and your uncle--the low fellow tried to blackmail him--accused him of stealing his bridge plans. first thing i know, he'll be saying _i_ did it!" "did you?" teased the girl, as she seated herself on the heap of pillows at the head of the davenport. ashton's flushed face turned a sickly yellow. he fell, rather than seated himself, in the centre of the davenport. "what--what--" he babbled; "you don't mean--no! i didn't!--i tell you, i didn't! they're my plans; i drew them all myself!" "why, laffie! what is the matter with you?" she demanded, half startled out of her mockery. "can it be you've mixed them too freely? or is it the lobster? you've a regular heavy-seas-the-first-day-out look." he managed to pull himself together and mutter in assent: "yes, it must be the lobster. but the sight of that brute is enough to--to--" "then perhaps you had better leave the room," sweetly advised dolores. "mr. blake happens to be one of my friends." "no, he isn't," corrected ashton. "really!" "no. i won't have it. you needn't expect me to have anything to do with you unless you cut him." "oh, laffie! how could you be so cruel?" she mocked. he was so far intoxicated that he mistook her sarcasm for entreaty. he responded with maudlin fervor. "don't weep, dodiekins! i'll be as easy on you as i can. you see, i must inform you on such things, if you're to be my _fiancee_." she was quick to note his mistake, and sobbed realistically: "_fi-fiancee!_ oh! oh, laffie! bu-but you haven't asked me yet!" he moved along the davenport nearer to her, and attempted to clasp her hand. "you're a coy one, dodiekins!" he replied. "of course i'm asking you, you know that. you can't think i don't mean it. you know i mean it." "really?" "of course! haven't i been trying to get a chance to tell you, all the evening? of course i mean it! you're the fair maiden of my choice, dodiekins, even if you aren't so rich as some." "fair?--but i'm a brunette," she corrected. "it's genevieve you're thinking of. confess now, it is, isn't it?" "no, indeed, no!" he protested. "i prefer brunettes--always have! you're a perfect brunette, dodiekins. i've always liked you more than genevieve. you're the perfect brunette type, and you have all that _verve_--you're so _spirituelle_. just say 'yes' now, and let's have it over with. to-morrow i'll buy you the biggest solitaire in town." "oh, laffie!--the biggest? you're too kind! i couldn't think of it!" she mocked. "but i mean it, dodie, every word, indeed i do!" he insisted, ardently thrusting out an arm to embrace her. she slipped clear, and sprang up, to stand just beyond his reach. "so great an honor!" she murmured. "how can i deprive all the other girls of the greatest catch in town?" "they've tried hard enough to catch me," he replied. "but i'd rather have you than all the blondes put together. i mean it, every word. i don't mind at all that you're not so rich as genevieve. i'll have enough for two, as soon as the old man shuffles off this mortal coil. you'll bring him dead to rights on the will question. he likes you almost as well as he likes genevieve. you're second choice with him." "second!--not the third?--nor the fourth? you're sure?" "no, second; and you can count on it, he'll do the handsome thing by mrs. lafayette, even if he keeps me on an allowance. so now, say the word, and come and cuddle up." "oh, laffie!--in here? we might disturb mr. blake." "blake!" he muttered, and he looked angrily at the big inert form half prostrate on the table. "he's intoxicated, i tell you--or if he's not, he ought to be. the insolence of him, hanging around genevieve! i hope he _is_ drunk! that would settle it all. we'd be rid of him then." "'we'?" queried dolores. he caught her curious glance, and hastened to disclaim: "no, not we--genevieve--i meant genevieve, of course!" dolores affected a coquettish air. "oh, mr. brice-ashton! i do believe you want to get him out of the way." "i? no, no!" he protested, with an uneasy, furtive glance at blake. "don't try to fool me," she insisted. "i know your scheme. but it's of no use. if she doesn't take the hero, she'll accept the earl. ah, me! to think you're still scheming to get vievie, when all the evening you've pretended it was i!" in the reaction from his fright, he sprang up and advanced on her ardently. "it _is_ you, dodie! you know it is. own up, now--we're just suited to each other. it's a case of soul-mates!" "oh, is it, really?" she gushed. he sought to kiss her, but she eluded him coquettishly. "wait, please. we must first settle the question. if it's a case of soul-mates, who's to be the captain?" "see here, dodie," he admonished; "we've fooled long enough. i'm in earnest. you don't seem to realize this is a serious proposal." "really?" she mocked. "a formal declaration of your most honorable intentions to make me mrs. l. brice-ashton?" "of course! you don't take it for a joke, do you?" she smiled upon him with tantalizing sweetness. "isn't it? well, _it_ may not be. but how about yourself?" "dolores," he warned, "unless you wish me to withdraw my--" "your solemn suit!" she cut in. "with that and the case you mentioned, the matter is complete. a suit and a case make a suitcase. you have my permission to pack." "dodie! you can't mean it!" "can't i? you may pack yourself off and get a tailor to press your suit. he can do it better. run along now. i'm going to make up to mr. blake for that waltz of yours that he wouldn't let me give to him." "you flirt!" cried ashton, flushing crimson. "i believe your heart is made of petrified wood." "then don't ask me to throw it at you. it might hurt your soft head." "dolores!" he warned her. "yes," she went on, pretending to misunderstand him. "wouldn't it be awful?--a chunk of petrified wood plunking into a can of woodpulp!" "i wish you to remember, miss gantry--" he began, "don't fret," she impatiently interrupted. "i'll not forget 'miss gantry,' and i wish you wouldn't so often. 'dodie,' 'dodie,' 'dodie,' all the evening. it's monotonous." "indeed. am i to infer, miss gantry, that you are foolish enough to play fast and loose with me?" "you're so fast, how could i loose you?" she punned. he muttered a french oath. "naughty! naughty!" she mocked. "swearing in french, when you know i don't speak it! why not say, 'damn it' right out? that would sound better." "see here, dodie," he warned. "i've stood enough of this. you know you're just dying to say 'yes.' but let me tell you, if you permit this chance to slip by--" "oh, run along, do!" she exclaimed. "i want to think, and it's impossible with you around." "think?" he retorted. "i know better. what you want is a chance to coquet with him." he looked about at blake, with a wry twist in his lower lip. "one enjoys conversing with a man once in a while," she replied, and she turned from him a glance of supreme contempt and loathing that pierced the thickness of his conceit. disconcerted and confused, he beat a flurried retreat, jerking shut the door with a violent slam. chapter xxviii the shortest way the noise of the door jarred blake from his lethargy. he groaned and sluggishly raised his head. his face was bloodless and haggard, his bloodshot eyes were dull and bleared. he had the look of a man at the close of a drunken debauch. dolores hastened to him, exclaiming, "mr. blake, you are ill! i shall phone for a doctor!" "no," he mumbled apologetically. "don't bother yourself, miss dolores. it's not a doctor i need. i'm only--" "you _are_ ill! i'll call genevieve." she started toward the door. "don't!" he cried. "not her--for god's sake, not her!" he rose to his feet heavily but steadily. "i'm going--away." "going away? where?" asked dolores, puzzled and concerned. "alaska--panama--anywhere! you're the right sort, miss dolores. you'll explain to her why i had to go without stopping to say good-bye." "of course, mr. blake--anything i can do. but why are you leaving?" "your mother--she told me." "told you what? i do believe you're dreaming." blake quivered. "wish it _was_ a nightmare!" he groaned. he steadied himself with an effort. "no use, though. she told me the truth about--your cousin. said her feeling for me is only gratitude." "what! vievie's?--only gratitude? don't you believe it! mamma is rooting for jeems. she may believe it; she probably does. she _wants_ to believe it. she wants a countess in the family." "she couldn't do better in that line, nor in any other," replied blake with loyal friendship. "jimmy is all right; he's the real thing." "yes, twenty-four carats fine!" "don't joke, miss dolores. i know you don't like him, but it's true, just the same. i knocked around a whole lot with jimmy, in all sorts of places. i give it to you straight,--he's square, he's white, and he's what all kinds of people would call a gentleman." "but as for being a man?" she scoffed. blake's dull eyes brightened with a fond glow. "man?" he repeated. "d' you think i'd fool around with one of these swell dudes? no; jimmy is the real thing, and he's a thoroughbred." "such a cute little mustache!" mocked the girl. "it's one of the few things i couldn't cure him of---that and his monocle." forgetful of self, blake smiled at her regretfully and shook his head. "it's too bad, miss dolores. no use talking when it's too late; but couldn't you have liked him enough to forget the english part? you and he would sure have made a team." "yes, isn't it too bad? a coronet would fit my head just as well as vievie's. but mamma is so silly. she never thought of that." blake stared in surprise. "you don't mean--?" "mamma has been so busy saving vievie from you, she's not had time to consider me." "say," exclaimed blake, "i've half a notion you do like him. that would account for the way you keep at him with your nagging and teasing." "you don't say!" "yes. that's the way one of my sisters used to treat me." "how smart you are!" cried the girl, and she faced away from him petulantly, that he might not see her flaming cheeks. "oh, yes, of course i like him! i'm head over heels in love with him! how could i help but be?" "some day you'll know such things aren't joking matters," he gravely reproved her. she turned to him, unable longer to sustain her pretence. her voice quavered and broke: "but it's--it's true! i do!" she bent over with her face in her hands, and her slender form shook with silent sobs. he came quickly around to her, his eyes soft with commiseration. "you poor little girl! so you lose out, too!" she looked up at him with her tearful dark eyes, and clutched eagerly at the lapel of his coat. "mr. blake! he has told me how resolute you are. you must not give up! i'm certain vievie likes you. if only mamma hadn't meddled! she's always messing things. it's just because she can't realize i'm in long frocks. if--if only she had seen how much grander it would be to make herself the mother-in-law of an earl, instead of a mere aunt-in-law!" blake's face darkened morosely. "that's the way things are--misdeal all around. your mother is right. you've lost out; i've lost out. what's the use?" "surely you're not going to give up?" she demanded. "i've never before been called a quitter; but--sooner i get out from between her and jimmy, the better," he rejoined, and turning on his heel, he started toward the door by which ashton had left. "but, mr. blake," she urged, "wait. i wish to tell you--" "no use," he broke in, without turning or stopping. she was about to dart after him, when the door opened, and ashton entered, carrying a bottle of champagne and a glass. he nodded familiarly to blake and approached him with an air of easy good-fellowship. blake saw only the glass and the bottle. he glared at them, his face convulsed with fierce craving. then he forced himself to avert his gaze. but as he started to turn aside, his jaw clenched and his eyes burned with a sudden desperate resolve. he stopped and waited, his face as hard as a granite mask. dolores did not see his expression. she was eying ashton, whom she sought to crush with her scorn. "ho!" she jeered. "so you're going to drown your sorrows in the flowing bowl. you ought to've remembered that absence makes the heart grow fonder." to better show her contempt, she turned her back on him. he instantly stepped forward beside blake and began pouring out a glass of the champagne. he smiled suavely, but his eyes narrowed, and his full lower lip twisted askew. "look here, blake," he began, "i know you're on the water-wagon; but you have it in for me for some reason, and i want to make it up with you. take a glass of fizz with me." dolores whirled about and saw him with the glass of sparkling wine outreached to blake, who was eying it with a peculiar oblique gaze. "lafayette ashton!" she cried. "aren't you ashamed of yourself?--aren't you ashamed?" ashton shrugged cynically, and urged the wine on blake. "come on! one glass wouldn't hurt a fly. i've heard of your wonderful success with the zariba dam. i want to congratulate you." "congratulate--that's it!" replied blake, in a harsh, strained voice. "best man wins. loser gets out of the way. all right. i'll take the short-cut." he reached out his bandaged right hand to take the glass. dolores darted toward him, crying out shrilly in horrified protest: "stop! stop! mr. blake! think what you're doing!" "i know what i'm doing," he said taking the glass and facing her with a smile that brought tears of pity to her eyes. "your mother is right. i'm in your cousin's way. i'm going to get out of her way, and i'm going to do it in a fashion that'll rid her of me for keeps. hell is nearer than alaska." "wait! wait!" she cried, as he raised the glass to his lips. "for her sake, don't. wait!" "for her sake!" he rejoined, still with that heart-rending smile. "here's to her and to him--congratulations!" he tossed down the wine at a swallow before she could clutch his upraised arm. she turned upon ashton, in a fury of scorn and anger. "you--you beast!" "why, what's the matter?" he protested, feigning innocence. "what's the harm in a glass of fizz?" "you knew!" she cried, pressing upon him so fiercely that he gave back. "you knew what it means for him to drink anything--a single drop! you scoundrel!" "there, now, miss dolores!" soothed blake, patting her on the shoulder. "what's the use of telling him what he is? he knows it as well as we do. anyhow, i didn't have to take the drink. i'm the only one to blame." "oh, mr. blake! how could you? how could you?" she cried. "it was easy enough--doing it for her," he answered. "for her! how can you say it?" "well, it's done now. good-bye. i'm not likely to see you again soon. it's a long trip from hell to heaven," he explained with grim humor. great as was his fortitude, she caught a glimpse of the anguish behind his mask. but his tone, as he swung ashton around, repulsed her. "come on, mephistopheles. you've turned the trick. we've less than three hours before daylight. it's whiskey straight we're after." chapter xxix light and darkness not unnaturally dolores failed to realize at once the utter ruin that blake had brought upon himself by overthrowing the pillars of his temple. she was too intent upon her own tragedy. with blake out of the way, lord james would of course have no difficulty in winning genevieve. there was now no hope for her. she flung herself down in a chair, with a childlike wail. "why did he do it? oh! why did he do it? oh, jimmy! you'll never look at me now! if only i could _hurt_ mamma!" she bent over, weeping with bitter grief and anger. she was still sobbing and crying when, sometime later, lord james slipped hastily in from the cardroom. he closed the door swiftly and hurried toward the table, his eyes widening with his attempt to see clearly in the half light of the library. "tom, old man!" he called eagerly. "i'm now free to see you home. we'll slip out the side entrance--" he stopped short, perceiving that the big chair was empty, and that the figure in the chair across was not a man's. "er--beg pardon!" he stammered. "i--er--expected to find my friend here. believe me, i would not have intruded--" "so you d--don't consider me a friend!" retorted dolores, vainly striving to hide her grief under a scornful tone. "miss gantry!" he exclaimed. "is it you?" "it's not vievie, that's certain. the sooner you run along and mind your business, the better." "miss dolores, i--i really can't see why you hold such a dislike to me. i'll go immediately. i hadn't the remotest idea of intruding. you'll believe that? only, y'know, i left tom--mr. blake--in here. i came to go home with him. he was quite knocked-up. he should not have come to-night." "you knew it!--you knew it, and left him in here alone!" "why, what do you mean, miss dolores? you alarm me! i left him asleep--fancied he'd not be disturbed in here--that an hour or so of sleep would freshen him up for the drive home." "so you left him--alone--for mamma and that despicable creature to do their worst!" "miss dolores, i--i beg your pardon, but i quite fail to take you. if anything has happened to tom--" "regrets! what's the good of them, when it's too late?" "too late? surely you cannot mean that he--?" "yes, the worst, the very worst,--and that miserable, detestable creature knew it when he offered him the wine. i believe he brought it in deliberately to tempt him." "wine? he drank! how long ago? where is he now? i must try to check him." "if only you could! but it's too late. he went off with laffie." "not too late! the craving has been checked once--i've seen it done." "but this time it's not the craving." "how's that?" "it's because he was driven desperate. he took it deliberately--intentionally." "impossible! tom would never--" "he would! he did! i saw him. but don't you blame him. she's the one. how could he know better, in his condition?--utterly tired out! she drove him to it, i tell you." "she--genevieve? i assure you--" "no, no! mamma, of course! she told him a pack of lies--took away all his hope. she made him think that vievie had never really loved him." "impossible!--unless your mother herself believes it." "oh, she believes it--or thinks she does. she's so anxious--so anxious!" the girl sprang up and stamped her foot. "oh! i wish she and her meddling were in hades!" "my dear miss dolores!" protested lord james, tugging nervously at his mustache. she whirled upon him in hysterical fury. "don't you call me that! don't you dare call me that! i won't have it! i won't! i'm not your dear! i tell you--" his look of blank astonishment checked her in the midst. "i--i--i didn't mean--" she gasped. "oh! what must you think of me!" she turned from him, her face scarlet with shame. but in the same instant she remembered blake, and forgot herself in the disaster to him. "how selfish of me, when he--poor mr. blake! what can be done? we must do something--at once!" "if anything can be done!" said lord james in a hopeless tone. "you say he took it deliberately?" "yes. can't you see? mamma had stuffed him with a lot of rot about gratitude--about vievie sacrificing herself to him on account of gratitude. it's easy enough to guess mamma's little game. oh! it's simply terrible! of course he believed it, and of course he planned at once to go away--that's the kind of man he is! he planned to go away--run off--so that vievie couldn't sacrifice herself." "my word!" "and just then laffie ashton came back with the wine. i believe he did it a-purpose--that he _wanted_ to get mr. blake intoxicated!" "the unmitigated cad! yet why should he? it seems impossible that any man--" "how should i know? he's vicious enough to do _anything_. but what does that matter? it's mr. blake. can't you see why he took it? he was getting himself out of the way. i didn't understand then what he said--about the bad place being nearer than alaska--but now i do. what he was determined to do was to get himself out of vievie's way for good. the quickest that he could do it was to start drinking--go on a spree." "gad!" "and now you stand here like a dummy, when there's a way to save him." "yes, yes! i'll go after him!" he started alertly toward the door. she sprang before him, "no! what good would that do? you know he's set on saving vievie. he'll not listen to you." "gad! that's true. he's hard enough to handle, at best. with this added--yet i cannot but make the effort. i'll phone mr. griffith." "griffith? what's the use of wasting time? there's just one person who can save him, and you know it." "no, unless griffith--" "are you absolutely stupid? can't you see? it's vievie alone who--" "genevieve!" "now's the time for her to do something. she must prove her love. that alone can stop him." "if she does love him." "can you doubt it?" "she has doubted it." "she may think she does. but it's all due to mamma's knocking and suggesting. vievie loves him as much as he loves her. needn't tell me! i know all about it. she made him fail--the time you took him up to michamac. this time it's all mamma's fault. vievie has got to save him!" "most assuredly it is hopeless unless she--" "that's no reason for you to stand here gawking! you've got to go and tell her. she wouldn't listen to me; but you're a man and his friend. you can make her see the injustice of it all. she's to blame as much as mamma. this never would have happened if it hadn't been for her shillyshallying." lord james paused before replying, his clear gray eyes dark with doubt and indecision. "my word!" he murmured. "could i but feel certain--this second failure, in so short a time! there is _her_ future to be considered, as well." "her future as countess of avondale!" scoffed the girl. "no, i assure you, no!" he insisted. "can you believe i could be so low?--and at such a time as this! it was of the consequences to her as well as to him--he has failed again. can he ever win out, even should he have her aid?" "you claim to be his friend!" "for his sake, no less than hers--consider what it would mean to a man of his nature, unable to check himself in his downward course, yet conscious that it was wrecking her happiness, possibly her life." "it won't happen, not if she really loves him. you don't half know him. he could do anything--anything!--if she went to him and asked him to do it for her sake." "could i but be sure of that!" "_pah!_ you pretend to be his friend. how long would you stand here fiddling and fussing, if you didn't want her yourself?" "that--it is too much!" he said, his face pale and very quiet. "i had ventured to hope that i might overcome your dislike. now i see that it is as well that you have refused to regard me other than as you have." "why, what do you mean? i--i don't understand." "you have always been candid. permit me to be the same. the truth is that i had begun to wish tom success--not alone because of my friendship for him. but now i realize that his fight is hopeless. i shall do my utmost to make your cousin happy." dolores stared at him with dilating eyes. "jimmy!" she whispered. "it can't be you mean that you--that you--?" "yes," he answered. "pardon me for saying anything about it. i shall not bother you again." "oh, thank you!" she scoffed. "so now you're going to stay quiet and wait for vievie to fling herself into your arms when she hears about your rival." the young englishman flushed and as suddenly became white, yet his voice was as steady as it was low. "i shall do whatever she wishes, if she finds that she does not love him." "and that's all?" she jeered. "you'll calmly keep out of it while he commits hara-kiri, and then you'll step into his shoes." "no. i shall go to her at once and ask her to save my friend--if she loves him." "you will?" "yes." "you will!" cried the girl, her cheeks flushing and her black eyes sparkling with delight--"you will! oh, jimmy!" even as the words left her lips, she became conscious of what she had done, and her flush brightened into a vivid scarlet blush. she turned and fled from him, panic-stricken. he stood dazed, unable at first to believe what her tone and look had betrayed to him. when, after some moments, his doubt gave way to certainty, his face lighted with what might be termed joyous exasperation. "my word!" he murmured. "the little witch! i'll pay her out jolly well for it all!" but his blissfully exultant vexation was no more than a flash that deepened the gloom with which he recalled the disaster to his friend. "gad!" he reproached himself. "what am i thinking of--with her and tom--" he turned quickly to the door of the cardroom. chapter xxx the end of doubt when the englishman entered the card-room, the last of the players to linger at their table had risen and were taking their leave of genevieve. her father and aunt were disputing over their last game. but at sight of the newcomer, mrs. gantry bowed and beckoned to him, instantly forgetful of her argument. "you are always in time, earl," she remarked. "we are just about to leave. may i ask if you have seen dolores?" "not a moment ago. i daresay she has gone for her wraps." "huh! ran off from you, eh?" bantered mr. leslie. "she's a coltish kitten. didn't scratch, did she?" "she misses no opportunity for that, the hoyden!" put in mrs. gantry. "ah, earl, we are the last." she rose and went to meet genevieve, who was coming to them from the farther door. "my dear girl, i congratulate you! it has been a grand success!" "thank you, aunt amice," replied genevieve in rather a listless tone. "must you be going?" "lord avondale has just come in to let me know that it is time." "er--beg pardon," said lord james. "i wish to speak with miss leslie before going." "ah, in that case," murmured mrs. gantry, with a gratified smile, "you are excused, of course! herbert, you may see me out." mr. leslie looked from lord james to his daughter doubtfully. but the englishman was fingering a pack of cards with seeming nonchalance, and genevieve met her father's glance with a quiet smile. he shook his head, and went out with mrs. gantry. as they left the room, lord james faced genevieve with a sudden tensity that compelled her attention. "what is it?" she asked, half startled by his manner. "you said you wished to speak with me?" "if you'll be so kind as to come into the library. it's a most serious matter. there'll be less chance of interruptions." she permitted him to lead her in to her former seat at the library table. he took the big chair across from her. "you look so grave," she said. "please tell me what it is." "directly. yet first i ask you to prepare yourself. something has happened--most unfortunate!" she bent toward him, startled out of her fatigue and lassitude. "you alarm me!" "i cannot help it," he replied. "genevieve, matters have come to an unexpected crisis. there can be no more delay. i must ask you to make your decision now. do you love tom?" "you have no right to ask that. i did not give you the right. you said you would wait." "i am not asking for myself," he insisted. "it is for him. he has the right to know." "the right? how?" she asked, with growing agitation. "i do not understand. you spoke of some misfortune. has papa--?" "quite the contrary. yet tom is in a very bad way, and unless you--" "tom ill--ill?" she cried. "and i did not realize it! that i should have been angered--should have left him--because i thought he was in a rage--and all the time it was because of his suffering, his illness! it was despicable of me--selfish! oh, tom, tom!" she covered her face with her hands, and bent over, quivering with silent grief and penitence. "you have answered me," said lord james, regarding her with grave sympathy. "you love him." she looked up at him, dry-eyed, her face drawn with anxiety. "where is he? why aren't you with him? he has a doctor? he must have the best!" "that rests with you, genevieve," he replied. "there is one person alone who can save him--if she loves him enough to try." the truth flashed upon her. she stared at him, her eyes dilating with horror. "it is _that_ you mean! he has failed--again!" he sought to ease her despair. "believe me, it is not yet too late--permit me to explain." "explain?" she asked. "what is there to explain? he has failed!" her voice broke in a sob of uncontrollable grief. "i tried to forget, still hoping he was strong--that he would prove himself strong. how i have hoped and prayed--and now!" she bent over, with her face on the table, in a vain effort to conceal and repress her grief. lord james leaned forward, eagerly insistent. "you must listen to me. he has not had fair play. such a gallant fight as he was making! i believe he would have won, i really believe he would have won, had it not been for that woman." "what woman?" asked genevieve, half lifting her head. "pardon me," he replied. "but your aunt--it was most uncalled for, most unfair. it seems she sought him out--to-night, of all times!--when he was pegged--completely knocked-up. you have seen that yourself. this was after we deserted him." "deserted? yes, that is the word--deserted!" "at the moment when he tasted the wine, quite unaware of what he was doing. we deserted him at the time when he had utmost need of us. what clearer proof of his great strength than that he fought off the temptation?" "yet now you say--?" "he fought it off then. he proved himself as strong as even you could desire. when i hastened in i found him still where i am sitting, but doubled over, utterly spent--asleep, poor chap. his hand was bleeding. he had shattered your--he had crushed one of the glasses with his fist." "crushed a glass! but why?" "to prevent himself from drinking what was in it. can't you see? the struggle must have been frightful; yet he won. had i but foreseen! i fancied he would be undisturbed in here--would get a bit of refreshing sleep to pull him up. but your aunt came in. she took her opportunity--convinced him that you did not love him; that your feeling was only gratitude." genevieve bent over, with renewed despair. "and for that he gave up the fight!" "he fought and won when we left him, when we deserted him in his need. it was only after your aunt had convinced him that you did not--" "he foresaw that he would lose!" she cried. "he foresaw! but i--i could not believe it possible!" "but you do not understand. it was not that he really lost. he did not give way because of weakness. he did it deliberately--" "deliberately?" she gasped. surprise gave place to an outflashing of scorn. "deliberately! oh, that he could do such a thing--deliberately!" "no, no! i must insist. to cut himself off from you, that was his purpose. he thought to save you from sacrificing yourself. however mistaken he was, you must see how high a motive--how magnanimous was his intention." but the girl was on the verge of hysteria, and quite beyond reason. "you may believe it--i don't! i can't! he's weak--utterly weak!" "genevieve, no! there's still time to save him. a word from you, if you love him." "love him!" she cried, almost beside herself. "how can i love him? he did it deliberately! i despise him!" "you are vexed--angry. pray calm yourself. i remember what you had to say about him, there on the steamer, coming up from aden. you loved him then." "but now--oh, how could he? how could he?" the englishman failed to understand the real cause of her half-frenzied anger and despair--the thought that blake had ruined himself deliberately. "but don't you see it was not weakness? he proved it when he shattered the glass. his hand was cut and bleeding. he has proved that he can master that craving. i've sought to explain how it was. it is not yet too late. a word from you would save him, a single word!" "no. it is too late. i can't see it as you do. it was weakness--weakness! i cannot believe otherwise." "yet--if you love him?" "james, it is generous of you--noble!--when you yourself--" "that's quite out of it now. it's of him i am thinking, and of you." "never of yourself!" she murmured. she looked down for a short moment. when she again raised her eyes, she had regained her usual quiet composure. she spoke seriously and with a degree of formality: "lord avondale, when you honored me with your offer, you asked me to wait before giving you a final answer." he was completely taken unawares. "i--i--to be sure. but i cannot permit you--your happiness is my first consideration." "it is that disregard of self, that generosity, which enables me to speak. as i told you, i can now give you no more than the utmost of my esteem and affection. but if you are willing to take that as a beginning, perhaps, later on, i may be able to return your love as you deserve." "but you--i do not know how to say it--in justice to yourself, no less than to him, you should make sure." "i have never been more sure," she replied. "you have been most generous and patient. it is not right or considerate for me to longer delay my decision." "er--very good of you, very!" he murmured, gazing down at his interlocked fingers. "yet--if you would care to wait--to make sure, y' know." "but why should i wait? no, james, i am clear in what i am doing. i know that i can trust you absolutely." lord james slowly raised his head and met her gaze, too intent upon repressing the stress of his emotions to perceive the big fur-clad form that stood rigid in the doorway beyond genevieve. "miss leslie," he said, speaking in the same formal and serious tone that she had used in giving her decision, "i am then to understand that you accept my proposal--you will marry me?" "within the year, if you desire," she responded, without any sign of hesitancy. "it's very good of you!" he replied. "i shall devote myself to your happiness." if his voice lacked the joyful ring and his look the ardent delight of a successful lover, she failed to heed it. he rose and bent over the table with grave gallantry to kiss the hand that she held out to him. "'gratulations!" said a harsh voice, seemingly almost in their ears. they looked up, startled. blake stood close to them, at the end of the table, with his soft hat in his half-raised left hand, and his shaggy fur coat hanging limp from his bowed shoulders. he stood with perfect steadiness. only in the fixed stare of his bloodshot eyes and the twitching of the muscles in his gray-white face could they perceive the mental stress and excitement under which he was laboring. "tom!" stammered the englishman. "you here!" "couldn't get ashton started," replied blake. his voice was hoarse and rasping but not thick. though he spoke slowly, his enunciation was distinct. "his man just carried him out. i've been waiting to slip out, unseen, this way. i ask you to excuse me. long's i'm here, i'll make the best of it i can. congratulations to you! best man wins!" while he was speaking, genevieve had drawn her hand out of the unconscious clasp of lord james and slowly risen from her chair. her face was as white as blake's; her eyes were wide with fear and pity and horror. "you!--how could you do it?" she gasped. "when i had given you the second chance--to fail again!" the sight of his powerful jaw, clenched and resolute, stung her into an outburst of angry scorn. "fail, fail! always fail! yet with that look of strength! to come here with that look, after failing again so utterly, miserably--in my house! you coward!" "that's it," assented blake in a dead monotone. "only pity is you couldn't see it sooner. but you know me now. ought to 've known me from the first. i didn't get drunk there in mozambique 'cause i hadn't the stuff. you might have known that. but now it's settled. i've proved myself a brute and a fizzle--been proving it ever since ashton got a bottle and showed me into a little room. we've been guzzling whiskey in there ever since. his man took him out dead drunk. so far i'm only--" "tom!" broke in lord james. "no more of that! tell the truth--tell her why you did it!" "tell her--when she's guessed already. but if you say so, jimmy--it's the first time i ever owned up i'm a quitter. great joke that, when all my life i haven't been anything else,--hobo, fizzle, quitter, bum--" "gad! not that drivel! if you can't explain to her, then keep silent." "no, i don't keep silent till i've had my say," rejoined blake morosely. "needn't think i don't know just what i'm saying and what i'm doing." his voice harshened and broke with a despair that was all the more terrible for the deadness of his tone. "god! that's why the whiskey won't work. i've poured it down like water, but it's no use--it won't work! i can't forget i've lost out!" genevieve leaned toward him, half frenzied, her face crimson and her gentle eyes ablaze with scorn. "and you--you!--claiming to be sober--come in here and say that to me!--that you've deliberately sought to intoxicate yourself in my house--in my house! you haven't even the decency to go away to do it! you must flaunt your shame in my face!" "i told you i meant to slip out unseen," he mumbled, for the moment weakening in his determination to vilify himself. "didn't think you'd give me the gaff--when it was all for you." "for me!" she cried, in a storm of hysteria--"for me! oh! to destroy all my love for you--my trust in the courage, the strength, the heroism i thought was yours! oh! and to prove yourself a brute, a mere brute!--here in my own house!--my guest! oh! oh! i hate you! i hate you!" she flung herself, gasping and quivering, into her chair, in a desperate effort to regain self-control. blake bent over her and murmured with profound tenderness: "there, there, little girl! don't take on so! i ought to 've cleared out right at first--that's a fact. but i didn't mean to bother you. just blundered in. but i'm glad to know you've found out the truth. long's you know for sure that you hate me, 't won't take you long to feel right toward him. he's all i'm not. mighty glad you're going to be happy. good-bye!" genevieve had become very still. but she neither looked up at him nor spoke when he stopped. he turned steadily about and started toward the door of the cardroom. lord james thrust back the heavy chair and sprang to place himself before his friend. "wait, tom!" he demanded. "can't you see? she's overcome. good god! you can't go off this way! you must wait and tell her the truth--how it happened--why you did it!" blake looked at him quietly and spoke in a tone of gentle warning, as one speaks to a young child: "now, now, jimmy boy, get out of my way. don't pester me. just think how easily i could smash you--and i'm not so far from it. stand clear, now." "no! in justice to yourself--to her!" "that's all settled. let me by." he stepped to one side, but lord james again interfered. "no, tom, not till you've told her! you shall not go!" the englishman stood resolute. blake shook his head slowly, and spoke in a tone of keen regret: "sorry, jimmy; but if you _will_ have it!" his bandaged right fist drove out and struck squarely on the point of his friend's jaw. his nerves of sensation were so blunted by the liquor he had drunk that he struck far harder than he intended. lord james dropped without a groan, and lay stunned. blake stared down at him, and then slowly swung around to look at genevieve. she had risen and stood with her hands clutching the edge of the table. her face was distorted with horror and loathing. "you coward!--you murderer!" she gasped. "yes, that's it," he assented--"brute, drunkard, coward, murderer--all go together. you're right to hate me! but you can't hate me half as much as i hate myself. that's hell all right--to hate yourself." suddenly he flung out his arms toward her and his voice softened to passionate tenderness. "god! but it's worth the price!--to save you, jenny! i'd do it all over again, a thousand times, to make you happy, little girl!" she shrank back and flung up her arm in a gesture of bewilderment, which he mistook for fear. "don't be afraid," he reassured. "i'm going." he turned hastily, stooped to feel the heart of the unconscious man, and rose to swing across to the cardroom door. he passed out swiftly and closed the door behind him, without pausing for a backward glance. genevieve stared after him, dazed and bewildered by her half realization of the truth. the door had closed between them--what seemed to her an age had passed--when the full realization of what he had done flashed in upon her clouded brain like a ray of glaring white light. she flung out her arms and cried entreatingly: "tom! tom--dearest!" she tried to dart around the table, but swayed and tottered, barely saving herself from the fall by sinking into a chair. the heavy, muffled clang of the street door came to her as from a vast distance. the merciful darkness closed over her. chapter xxxi a bridge game the cold snap at michamac had been broken for nearly a month, and work on the bridge was progressing with unprecedented rapidity. two days after the ball, ashton had returned to the bridge sobered and chastened. the change in him may have been due to another cut in his allowance, or to a peppery interview during which mr. leslie had sought to browbeat him into resigning his position. whatever the cause of his change of heart, ashton had so far proved himself almost feverishly eager to establish a record. griffith, badly shaken by the failure and disappearance of blake, had been peremptorily ordered south by his physician. seizing the opportunity, ashton, instead of interfering with the work, as mcgraw expected, had astonished the phlegmatic general foreman by pushing operations with utmost zeal and energy. more mechanics and laborers had been hired, and the augmented force divided into three eight-hour shifts. all day, in sun or fog or snow, and all night, under the bluish glare of the arc-lights, the expert bridgemen toiled away upon the gaunt skeleton of the gigantic bridge, far out and above the abyss of the strait. not a moment of the twenty-four hours was lost. but the resident engineer's brief spurt of energy had already notably relaxed, when, one sunny day near the end of march, a man not a member of the train crew nor a regular passenger came in on the afternoon train. as he emerged from under a coal car, one of the switchmen stared at him blankly, swore a few lurid oaths, and laughed. the brake-rider had paid for his ride, though not in money. he limped as he walked off, and the gray pallor of his unshaven face was grotesquely shaded and blotched with coal dust. his shoddy clothes were torn and mud-stained, his soft hat begrimed and shapeless, his cheap shoes too far gone for repair. yet for all his shiftless footwear and his limp, his stride was long and quick. a watchman caught sight of him, and hurried after, to warn him off the grounds. the hobo disappeared behind a pile of girders. when the watchman turned the corner, his quarry had disappeared. he shook his head doubtfully at the bridge-service train, which was backing out along the track before him with a load of eyebars and girders. there was reason to believe that the hobo had boarded it; but if so, it was under too speedy headway for the rheumatic watchman to follow. his suspicions were well founded. as the train clattered past the unlovely buildings of rough lumber and sheet iron clustered about the bridge terminus, the stranger clambered up between two of the swaying cars and perched himself upon the wheel-like top of the handbrake. seated thus, with feet dangling and hands thrust carelessly into the pockets of his disreputable coat, he gazed intently about at the bridge, regardless of the bitter sting of the lake wind. the train rattled out across the shore span and along the anchor arm of the south cantilever. the brake-rider scrutinized the immense webs and lofty towers with the look of a father greeting his first-born. the train rolled on out between the towers and beyond, where swarms of carpenters and laborers were laying beams and stringers and floor planking and piling up immense stacks of material to be used farther out. the finishing gangs were following up the steel workers as fast as they could be pushed. beyond them, out near the end of the extension-arm, the electro-magnetic cranes of the huge main traveller were sorting and shifting forward a great heap of structural steel. the material thus handled came within the reach of the smaller traveller, which crouched upon the top-chords like a skeleton spider, swinging out the steel as wanted to the end of the unfinished suspension span. at sight of the great heaps of structural steel and flooring material and of the ponderous main traveller so far out toward the end of the overhang, the glow in the sunken eyes of the brake-rider died out, and his grimy brows gathered in a troubled frown. the airbrakes hissed, the cars bumped and clanked, and the train came to a laborious stop with the outermost cars beneath the lofty latticed framework of the main traveller. at once the electro-magnetic cranes began to descend, ready to swing off whole carloads of steel in their magic monstrous clutch. the brake-rider had slipped down and was walking rapidly outward along the narrow plank footway. as he advanced he looked about him with an anxious gaze, but it was at the unfloored substructure of the bridge, not at the awesome spectacle of the swift-flowing, ice-covered stream a hundred and fifty feet beneath. once he paused and stooped over to look closer at a rivet head. he hurried on to where, under the smaller traveller, the uncompleted south part of the central, or suspension, span poised dizzily in space, over-arching the abyss. many yards of gap still yawned between its tip and the tip of the sections that strained out to meet it from the end of the north cantilever. the sections built on to the southern part of the central span had brought the overhang still more dizzily out over the broad strait. the wonder was that men could be found who were willing to work day after day in a position of such real peril. yet since ashton's change of attitude, mcgraw had experienced no difficulty in securing and holding enough and to spare of expert bridge-workers, who toiled and sweat at their task with seemingly never a thought of the abyss that yawned beneath them. when the brake-rider left the train, the men of the evening shift, just come on, were swarming about the end of the overhang like ants upon the tip of a broken twig,--alert-eyed, quick-handed, cool-brained "sons of martha," who, balanced unconcernedly in mid-air on narrow stringers, clenched fast the rivets in death's steel harness. during the lulls between the furiously rattling volley-blows of the electric riveting-machines they grumbled about the deterioration of smoking tobacco or speculated on next season's baseball scores. with his beefy shoulders braced against the last top-chord post, mcgraw stood chewing the end of a fat black cigar while he watched the placing of a bottom-chord of a new sub-panel. from the ox-like unconcern of his stolid face and deepset eyes, his interest in the proceedings seemed to be of the most casual nature. but at the slightest gesture of his pudgy hand, cranes swung up and down, men hauled upon guy ropes, riveters moved alertly forward with their machines. one of the men caught mcgraw's eye, and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. the general foreman looked about and saw the grimy stranger standing on the plank walk a few yards back. mcgraw stared, ruminated, signed to a sub-foreman, and walked stolidly back along a string of single planks to where the stranger stood waiting for him. the soft hat of the brake-rider was now pulled down over his eyes, and his chin was hidden in the upturned collar of his tattered coat. as mcgraw approached him, he drew back out of the deafening clatter of the riveting-machines. mcgraw followed, his heavy face of a sudden grown truculent. he came up close to the stranger. "you dirty bum!" he threatened. "what you doin' here? get t' hell outer here, or i'll trow you over!" the stranger pushed back his hat, and met the other's menacing stare with a grin. his pale blue eyes were twinkling. mcgraw's heavy jowl fell slack. "well, mcgraw--thought you wouldn't forget me this soon. what's the latest from mr. griffith?" "jacksonville--holy saints! you've sure been lushin' some, mr. blake." "looks like it; but as it happens i haven't. tried to turn loose, but got switched. instead of a spree, i've been on a bum--tour of the sunny south." "bum?" repeated mcgraw. "yes. needed a change. too much indoors work; so i got out." "_uh?_" mumbled mcgraw in slow astonishment. "no booze?" "no. that's the funny part of it. didn't touch a drop of anything. i used to be afraid of it when i wasn't on a tear, but now i don't even think of it. seems as if i couldn't get up a thirst if i tried. can't make it out." "sick," commented mcgraw. "no. i'm eating like a horse, and getting my strength back, hand over fist." "in your head," qualified mcgraw, touching his forehead. "guess that's it. must be. never before opened the throttle and cut loose, to come to a dead stop this way. it's as if you got up a full head of steam, and then drew the fire. mighty queer, though,--my head is as clear as crystal." "huh," grunted mcgraw ambiguously. "come to take your job--assistant?" blake's face darkened. "no, just dropped by on my way to canada. thought i'd have a look at my--" he paused, and altered his statement--"that i'd see how your old scrap-heap is getting along." "huh." "but, long as i'm here, guess i'll take hold for a turn or two, just to keep my hand in." "good! need an engineer." "i might as well earn enough for railroad fare. this brake-beaming and riding the rods isn't as soft a snap as it used to seem when i was a kid." "soft? y'look like a second-hand garbage-can!" "thanks. where's your resident swell?" "quarters. hit up the pace--work--been goin' some." mcgraw swept his fat arm around in an explanatory gesture. "laid down a'ready." "all right. i'm on the job. but i've got to get some sleep soon. and say, just pick out a spry kid to steer me up against the wash-house, will you?" mcgraw signed to the nearest man. "pete--mr. blake, our 'sistant engineer--t' my room." he turned to blake. "help y'self. safety razor 'n' tub handy. clothes in locker. you c'n wear 'em over to commissary. guess you c'n git into 'em." he nodded, unaware that he had said anything humorous, and pivoted around to return to his work. blake limped briskly away after the puzzled but silent pete. at the bunkhouse pete showed his charge into mcgraw's room, and went to order hot water for a bath. when he returned, blake, with half the stubble already shorn from his lathered face, handed over a telegraph message addressed to griffith. eager to be of service to the consulting engineer, the man hurried the message to the telegraph operator. the latter, no less friendly to griffith, corrected the address to the sick engineer's hotel in tampa, and wired the despatch "rush." the message could hardly have been more laconic: on the job. tom. when pete returned for further orders, he met the assistant engineer at the door of the commissary, baggily draped in a suit of mcgraw's clothes, which fitted nowhere except across the shoulders. blake dismissed him, and went in to outfit himself with a costume in keeping with his position. almost asleep, he then went back to the bunkhouse, stumbling and yawning, and stretched out in mcgraw's bed, utterly fagged. chapter xxxii laffie plays--blake trumps after an evening at poker with one of the new bridge-workers, ashton had retired at midnight. he had not heard of blake's coming, for mcgraw had presumed that the assistant engineer had reported to the office before turning in to sleep. when he awoke, the sun was half way up the eastern sky. he yawned, glanced at the sun, and rang for his breakfast. it was presently brought in to him by his english valet, who, like the chef, was not unused to the city social hours of his employer. ashton did not trouble to go into his elegant little dining-room, but ordered the meal served at his bedside. sometime later, blake, over in the bunkhouse, opened his eyes, yawned, and sprang out into the middle of mcgraw's unaesthetic room. he had slept eighteen hours without a break. he awoke still stiff and sore, but brimming over with energy, and hungry as a shark. he gave himself a cold rubdown, jumped into his new clothes, and ran to the cookhouse for a hearty meal. when he came out again, he headed straight across the tracks for the office of the resident engineer. he smiled ironically as he noted the green and white paint and the trimmings of the verandahs with which ashton had endeavored to give a bungalow effect to the shack-like structure. but as he swung up the steps into the front verandah, the grimness of his look increased and the humor vanished. his heavy tread through the weather vestibule announced his entrance into the office. he took no pains to walk softly. ashton, attired in a lounging-robe of scarlet silk, was half reclining in an easy chair. the big desk beside him was littered with engineering journals, reports, and blueprints of bridge plans, topped with detail drawings in ink of the long central span. the resident engineer was not studying the plans. he was reading a french novel of the variety seldom translated. at blake's entrance, he looked up, his delicate high-arched eyebrows gathered in a frown of annoyance. almost in the same moment he recognized the intruder, and started to his feet in open alarm. "how!--why!" he stammered. "you here? i thought you--that after--" "too bad, eh?" bantered blake. "but you mustn't blame yourself. you did your best. but accidents will happen." "then you're--you're not--yet you look--" "appearances often deceive," quoted blake lightly. "you gave me a great start-off--had me going south. so i went." "going south?" "yes. but that's all by-the-bye, as my friend, the right honorable the earl of avondale, would say. i'm here now for you to enter my acceptance of the standing offer of the assistant engineership." "you--you agree to take it--under me?" cried ashton in astonishment. "why not?" asked blake with well-feigned surprise. "why, of course if--you see, it's--it's rather unexpected," ashton sought to explain as he regained assurance. "old griffith wrote me about the way you had put through the zariba dam. after that i never dreamed you'd accept any position as assistant." "well, i like to please grif," was blake's easy reply. "he's been worrying because office work uses me up. nothing suits me better than an outdoor job, and i happened to take a fancy to your bridge the other time i came. it's a good deal like those plans of mine that got mislaid. of course you can't know that." "no, of course not!" assented ashton, moistening his lower lip. "course not," repeated blake. "so i can't blame you if you find it hard to believe that my plans would have been accepted before you drew yours if they hadn't been mislaid." "then you--no longer accuse mr. leslie of--having taken them?" ashton ventured to ask. "couldn't prove it on him, could i? no use _baa-ing_ over spilt milk. well, you understand i'm on the job now; i've accepted the offer." "ye-es," reluctantly admitted ashton. "not that i see the use. there's no need for another engineer." "that's no lie. one engineer is enough," said blake dryly. "you sure proved yourself one when you planned this little old cantilever. however, i'm short of cash. i'll hang around and do what i can. may be able to save you bother by carrying orders out to mcgraw or checking over reports for you." he picked up the vellum-cloth drawings of the central span and some of the blueprints, and began in a matter-of-fact manner to roll them up. "hold on!" sharply interposed ashton. "what are you about?" "i'm going to bunk with mcgraw. thought i'd take these over and try to get in touch with the work." "no, you sha'n't! i can't allow you to take those. they're the original drawings. they must not be taken out of my office." "original drawings?" repeated blake in a tone of perfect innocence. "excuse me. i took them for copies." "c-copies!" stuttered ashton, turning white even to his lips. "yes. hasn't grif the originals?" asked blake in a careless tone that was barely touched with surprise. ashton rallied from his fright. "no, you're mistaken, completely mistaken! these are the originals. i drew them myself. i couldn't trust to a draughtsman." "sure not, such important work as this span of yours. grif tells me there's never before been anything built like this suspension span," agreed blake, bending over to study the drawings. "but you'll admit some of these figures are rather slipshod for work on original drawings put in to win a competition." "but i--i didn't compete. the idea came to me too late for that. i tried my utmost to be in time for the contest. i was working fast to get my plans drawn. that's why i made some errors--which you may have noticed." blake looked up with an ironical smile. ashton moistened his lips, hesitated, and asked in an uneasy tone: "about--about how long do you expect to stay? i suppose you will stay, won't you?" "well, three or four days, maybe. as you probably know, grif screwed the company up to offer me a stiff salary--on the strength of that zariba work, i suppose. i didn't intend to take the offer at all, but my clothes were--they got rather out of repair on my southern tour, and i came on up here without stopping at my tailor's. happened to leave my checkbook, too, and it's a long walk to town." "oh, if it's only that you're strapped," ashton hastened to reply; "i'll be pleased to draw you a check--little loan, you know--anything from a hundred to a thousand. no hurry about paying it back. i'm flush." "you're too kind!" said blake dryly. "it's nothing--nothing--a mere trifle!" assured ashton, with a touch of condescension. "you know i'll have scads of money to burn some day." he opened a drawer of his desk and took out a checkbook. "i know you can't be anxious to hang around a dreary hole like this. suppose i make it five thousand? you can keep the money as long as you wish. there's just time for you to catch the extra train we're sending down to the junction for more steel." "thanks. but i need a good rest," said blake. "i'll think it over, and let you know. maybe i'll decide to loaf around with you a few days and save borrowing." "oh, well, if you can stand this jumping-off place," replied ashton, visibly disappointed. he glanced down into the open drawer, and his eyes narrowed with a look of furtive eagerness that did not escape blake. in a corner of the drawer was a squat black bottle and a tumbler. ashton lifted them out and poured a half-glassful of whiskey that was thick and oily with age. "the real stuff!" he said, holding out the tumbler to blake. "older than your grandmother. let's wet your welcome to michamac!" "here's how!" replied blake, with a geniality of tone and manner that diverted the other's attention from the glint in his eyes. he took the glass and deliberately twisted his hand backward so that the whiskey poured out on the bare floor in front of the desk. "look out! you're spilling it!" exclaimed ashton. "no, just pouring it," explained blake. "german custom. next time you're in a beer-garden do it, and they'll let you know what it means." "means?" echoed ashton. "in this case, it means i never drink when i'm on a job. one of my rules. told you i had accepted that standing offer, didn't i?" "yes. but i didn't know that you--" "well, you know now. i'm on this job." ashton shot a covert glance at his square-jawed opponent. "then it's a mistake--the report that you refused to accept any position from mr. leslie," he murmured. "mistake? no," curtly answered blake. "needn't try to fool me. mr. leslie turned the bridge over to the coville company months ago." "fool you?" sneered ashton. "you're too easy! the coville company is only another name for papa leslie." "look here," warned blake. "you're apt to learn soon that some lies aren't healthy." "it's the truth," replied ashton, giving back a little, but insistent on the facts. "it's a way he avoids responsibility. but he owns ninety-nine per cent of the stock. griffith must have told you that. he knows all about it." this obstinate insistence, despite the young fellow's evident fear, convinced blake. he half raised his clenched fist. "and i fell to it!" he muttered. "let him bunco me into putting through that dam for him! scheme to make me take his money!" "you as good as put half a million into his pocket," jeered ashton. "what do i care about that?" rejoined blake. "it's that fifty thousand bonus. he'll be trying to force it on me." ashton thought he had misunderstood. "don't fear he'll not pay up. he's good pay when you have it in black and white. there's still time to catch the train. you'll find your check waiting you at the offices of the company." blake did not reply. one of the dimensional figures on a blueprint of the south cantilever had caught his glance, and he had bent over to peer at it. a sudden stillness seemed to have fallen upon him. after a perceptible pause, he asked in a tone that was very low and quiet and deliberate: "would you mind telling me if this blueprint was made direct from your originals--from the original drawings used in ordering the structural steel?" "yes, of course," answered ashton. "why?" "you are sure?" "i'm certain. you don't think i'd let any one with a pen fool around my drawings, do you?" "lord, no! might correct your damn errors!" cried blake, all his stony calm fluxing to lava before an outflare of volcanic excitement. "you fool!--lord! wasting time! sit down--scratch off an order. that cantilever must be relieved p.d.q.--every ounce skinned off it!" "what--what's that?" asked ashton, staring blankly. he had never before seen blake agitated. "you fool!" shouted blake. "you've got that outer arm loaded down with material 'way beyond the margin of safety. you damned fool, you made an error here in the figures--over the bottom-chords and posts. they'll hold anything, once the suspension span is completed, but now! lord! mcgraw is a mule--he'll insist on a written order. weather report says wind. and another train loading to run out on the overhang, when we ought to be hauling steel off!" "oh, we ought, ought we?" blustered ashton, venturing bravado in view of blake's agitation. "who d' you think is running this bridge, you barrel-house bum? i'll give you to understand i'm the engineer in charge here. you're my assistant--my assistant! d'you hear?" "yes, yes!" urged blake. "only scratch off an order! there's no time to lose! i'll do the work. for god's sake, hurry! you've a hundred men out there on that deadfall--a million dollars' worth of steel-work! those bottom-chords may buckle any second!" from eager pleading, blake burst out in an angry roar: "damn you! get busy! write that order!" seized with desperate fear of the big form that leaned menacingly toward him over the desk, ashton snatched an automatic pistol from the top drawer, and thrust it out toward blake. "stand back! stand back! keep away!" he cried shrilly. blake hastily stepped back. it was not the first time he had seen a panic-stricken fool with a pistol. the quick retreat instantly restored ashton's assurance. he rebounded from fear to contempt. "you big bluff!" he jeered. "good thing you hopped lively. i'll show you! thought i wasn't armed, did you?" "you doughhead!" rejoined blake. "can't you understand? i tell you that bridge--" "_bah!_ you knocker! i see your game. you know now that it's papa leslie's job; you want to get in charge--knock out my work--spoil the record i'm making. that's it! you think you'll get my place, and try to smooth things up with genevieve." "shut up!" commanded blake, raising his fist. ashton hastily sighted the pistol, which he had half lowered. "you--you--don't you threaten me! i'll shoot!" as blake made no attempt to attack, he went on viciously: "you'd better not! i'll show you! i'm the boss here--get out of here! you're fired! get out; keep off my bridge; leave the grounds, or i'll have you kicked off!" "you fool!" said blake. he swung around and started off with stern determination. but within three strides he faced about again. "you dotty fool! i had intended to let you down easy." he came back toward the desk, grim-faced and very quiet. ashton was puzzled and disconcerted by this sudden change of front. the pistol wavered in his trembling hand. "keep away! don't you touch me! don't you come near me!" he half whimpered. blake advanced to the opposite side of the desk, and spoke in a tone of cool raillery: "you're rattled. better put up that gun. it might go off." "it will in half a second!" snapped ashton. blake leaned forward and transfixed him with a stare of cold contempt. "you thief!" he said. "your game is up. you sneak thief!" ashton lowered his pistol and cowered as though blake had struck him. "no, no! i'm not--i'm not! you haven't any proof--you can't prove it!" "proof?" growled blake. "when i've known it ever since i came up before--knew it the first look. my bridge from shoe to peak--every girder, every rivet--and my truss! not another bridge in the world has that truss. you dirty sneak thief!--_huh!_ you would, would you?" ashton had sought to raise and aim the pistol. this time blake did not step back. instead, he flung himself forward, and his hand closed in an iron grip on the wrist of the hand that held the pistol. the weapon fell from the paralyzed fingers. ashton made a frantic clutch with his left hand to regain the pistol, but he was jerked violently forward, up and over the desk. as he floundered across in a flurry of rustling, tearing maps and papers, he swore in shrill anger. blake's left hand gripped his throat, his anger gave place to terror. he sought to scream, but the fingers tightened and throttled him. he was dragged across and down upon the floor, choking and gurgling. blake bent lower. "lie still!" he ordered. "i'm going to let go your throat. if you squawk, i'll break your neck!" he removed his grip alike of wrist and throat, and ashton, gasping and panting, felt gingerly of his throat with his soft fingers. he could not see the dark marks left by blake's terrible clutch, but he could feel the bruises. he glared up, terror-stricken, into the pale hard eyes that blazed down into his own with a light like that of molten steel. "you--you'll not--not murder me!" he panted. "i'll break your neck if you don't keep quiet and mind," menaced blake. he sprang erect. "get up to your desk--quick!" ashton needed no urging. as lie scrambled around to the chair, blake picked up the automatic pistol and tested its mechanism with expert swiftness. "don't! don't!" implored ashton, dodging down. "_bah!_ take that pen--write!" commanded blake. ashton clutched at his pen and an order pad. "steady, you fool! now write, _'bridge in danger. strip bare. blake in charge.'_" ashton scribbled with frantic swiftness. "got that? sign your name in full as resident engineer." the moment ashton obeyed, blake reached over and snatched up the order pad and an indelible pencil. in his other hand he thrust out the pistol to press its muzzle against ashton's temple. "oh!--oh!--don't!" whimpered the coward. "you skunk!" growled blake. "keep your mouth shut, or i'll smash you like a rattlesnake. i'm going to save my bridge. don't get in my way!" he pointed with the pistol toward the rear door of the room. "what's in there?" "my--my quarters." "get in there! stay in! no yawping!" the terse orders ended in a flash of grim humor. "you're sick. mind you don't get worse." ashton was already slinking into his apartment. there was a rumble of freight cars outside. blake spun about on his heel and rushed out through the vestibule. chapter xxxiii above the abyss a train loaded with steel was backing out to the bridge. blake ran down the track to the engine and swung up into the cab. "stop her!" he shouted. the engine-driver was among the men who had been introduced to blake on his visit with griffith. he recognized the engineer at the first glance. "hello, mr. blake!" he sang out. "you here?" "brakes!" cut in blake so incisively that the driver closed his throttle and applied the airbrakes with emergency swiftness. anticipating his questions, blake tersely explained: "bridge in danger. i'm in charge. have you a lot of empties handy?" "how?--bridge?" queried the fireman, peering around at the stranger. "dozen empties--" began the driver. "good!" said blake. "clear these cars and--" "what's this?" demanded the yardmaster, who had run up at the sudden stoppage of the train. "back on out, jones. there's the coal to switch." "damn your coal!" swore blake. "get a big string of empties out the bridge, quick as you can!" "who the hell are you?" blustered the yardmaster. "engineer in charge," answered blake, holding out ashton's order. "bridge in danger--error in plans--overloaded--and weather report says wind! jones, toot up your whistle--fire-call--anything! i want every man of every shift out here in two shakes." without waiting for orders from the yardmaster, jones signed to his fireman, reversed, and threw open his throttle. the fireman clutched the whistle-cord and began jerking out a succession of wild shrieks and toots. as the train started away from the bridge, blake swung to the ground to meet the excited men who came running from all directions. he held ashton's order close under the nose of the yardmaster, and shouted above the din of the engine whistle: "see that? she'll go when the wind rises. hustle out those empties, with every man you have." impelled by the engineer's look, the yardmaster sprang about and sprinted alongside the train, waving signals to his switch crew. blake no less swiftly sprang into the midst of the mob of off-shift men streaming from the bunkhouse. "i'm blake--engineer in charge--from griffith!" he shouted. "bridge overloaded--will go down when wind rises. we've got to clear her. she may go down when the empties back out. any yellow cur that wants to quit can call for his pay-check. i'm going out. come on, boys!" he started along the service-track at a quick jog-trot. the men, without a single exception, followed him in a mass, jostling each other for the lead. near the outer end of the approach span they met the morning shift of carpenters and laborers, who were hurrying shoreward in response to the wild alarm of the engine whistle. blake waved them about. "bridge in danger!" he shouted. "volunteers to clear material." few of the carpenters and none of the chattering slovaks and italians caught anything except the word "danger." but zeal and fearlessness are sometimes as contagious as fear. a half-dozen or so drew aside to slink on shoreward. all the others joined the silent eager crowd behind blake. before they had gone a hundred feet every man in the crowd knew that at any moment the huge cantilever might crash down with them to certain destruction in the chasm, yet not one turned back. a short distance beyond the cantilever towers they came to the foremost of the on-shift steel workers, who had halted in their shoreward run when they saw that the outcoming party showed no sign of halting. but those in their rear and mcgraw, who had been left behind farthest of all in the race, were still moving forward. blake waved his pad to mcgraw and called out to him over the heads of the others: "here's my order! i'm in charge. take every man you can handle, and work the main traveller to the towers. hustle!" "your order!" wheezed mcgraw stubbornly. blake was already close upon him. he had dealt before with men of mcgraw's character. he tore off ashton's order, thrust it into the other's pudgy hand, and paused to scribble an order to hold the train on the shore span. on occasion mcgraw could be nimble both in mind and body. the moment he had read ashton's order, he wheeled about to rush back the way he had come, and let out a bull-like bellow: "hi, youse! clear f'r trav'ller! out-shift, follow me!" the steel workers who had been on shift raced after and past him to the main traveller. he followed at a surprisingly rapid pace, bellowing his instructions. blake, holding back in the lead of his far larger party from the shore, began to issue terse orders to the gangs of carpenters and laborers. they strung along the extension arm, outward from the point where the floor-system was completed. before blake could pass on ahead, tons of beams and stringers, iron fittings and kegs of bolts and nails began to rain down into the abyss. having detailed half of the two shore shifts of steel workers to clear the way for the inrolling of the huge traveller, blake took the other half out with him to the extreme end of the overhang. as soon as the main traveller began its slow movement shoreward, he ordered the smaller traveller run back several yards, in readiness to load the heavier pieces of structural steel. all his own men being now engaged in the most effectual manner, he turned about to quiet mcgraw, who, for once shaken out of his phlegmatic calm, had been reduced to a state of apoplectic rage by the inability of his men to perform miracles. blake's cool manner and terse directions almost redoubled the efficiency of the workers. the main traveller began to creep toward the towers with relative rapidity. blake walked ahead of it, to steady and encourage the gangs that toiled and sweat in the frosty sweep of the rising wind. he came back again to the overhang and stood for a few moments gazing across at the outstretched tip of the north cantilever. suddenly his face lightened. he glanced over his shoulder at the lofty towers behind him, nodded decisively, and hastened back to where mcgraw, once more his usual stolid taciturn self, was extracting every ounce of working energy out of the men who swarmed about the main traveller. "goin' some!" he grunted, as blake tapped his arm. "stop her fifty feet this side towers," ordered blake. "how many central-span sections have you stacked up out here?" "all 'cept four north-side 'uns. last come this mornin'. in yards yet." "how long'll it take us to rig a cable tram from the traveller across to the north 'lever?" "huh?" demanded mcgraw blankly. "we'll run the north-side steel across by tram, and push the work from both ends. once the central span's connected, this bridge'll stand up under any load that can be piled on her." "wind risin'--an' you figurin' on construction work!" commented mcgraw. "if she doesn't go to smash in the next half-hour, we'll be o.k.," answered blake coolly. "that train has waited long enough. you look to the steel. load the first sections for this end on the outermost car. we can cut it off the train at the towers." at mcgraw's nod, he scratched off an order and sent a man running with it to the waiting train. very shortly the three outermost cars came rolling toward him, pushed by the switch crew and a gang of laborers. their weight was several times offset by the weight of flooring material that had already been hurled from the bridge. blake tested the force of the wind, noted the distance that the main traveller had moved shoreward, and promptly ordered the work of destruction to cease. some forty or fifty thousand dollars' worth of material had already gone over into the strait, and he was too much of an engineer to permit unnecessary waste. the electro-magnetic crane of the smaller traveller was already swinging up a number of pieces of structural steel to load on the cars as they rolled out to the extreme end of the service-track. mcgraw came hurrying to take charge of the eager loading gang. blake went out past them to the end of the overhang, and perching himself on a pile of steel, began to jot down figures and small diagrams on the back of his pad. he was still figuring when a cheer from the carloaders caused him to look up. the cars, which had been stacked with steel to their utmost capacity, were being connected with the rear of the train by means of a wire rope. in response to the signals of mcgraw, the engine started slowly shoreward. before the train had moved many yards the slack of the steel rope was taken up. it tautened and drew up almost to a straight line, so tense that it sang like a violin string in the sharp wind gusts. then the steel-laden cars creaked, started, and rolled shoreward after the train, groaning under their burden. the men all along the bridge raised a wild cheer. blake stepped back beside mcgraw. "well, mac, guess we've turned the trick," he said. "close,--huh?" replied the general foreman, holding up his hand to the wind. "close enough," agreed blake. "she might have gone any minute since we came out. _whee!_--if i hadn't headed off that train of steel! well, a miss is as good as a mile. she'll stand now. next thing is to connect the span." "huh?" ejaculated mcgraw. "ain't goin' t' tackle that, mr. blake, 'fore reinforcin' bottom-chords?" "what! wait for auxiliary bracing to come on from the mills? not on your life! once connected, she'll be unbreakable--all strains and stresses will be so altered as to give a wide margin of safety, spite of that damned skunk!" "huh?" queried mcgraw. blake's lips tightened grimly, but he ignored the question. "we'll drive the work on twelve-hour shifts,--double pay and best food that can be bought. divide up the force now, and turn in with your shift--those who most need sleep." chapter xxxiv "the guilty flee" in the midst of the wild flurry of work on the bridge, an engine from the junction had puffed into the switching yards with a single coach, the private car of h. v. leslie. despite the shrill whistle that signalled its approach, no one ran out to meet the special,--no workman appeared in the midst of the sheds and material piles to stare at the unexpected arrival. irritated at this inattention, mr. leslie swung down from his car, closely followed by lord james. "what can this mean?" he demanded. "not a man in sight. entire place seems deserted." "quite true," agreed lord james. "ah, but out on the bridge--great crowd of men working out there. seems to be fairly swarming with men." "so there are--so there are. yet why so many out there, and none in the yards?" "can't say, i'm sure. i daresay we'll learn at the office." "learn what, mr. scarbridge?" asked dolores, who had popped out into the car vestibule. without waiting for an answer or for his assistance, she sprang down the steps, waving her muff. "come on, vievie. don't wait for mamma." "what are you going to do?" demanded mr. leslie. "hunt for our heroic hero, of course," answered the girl. "you shall do no such thing," said her mother, appearing majestically in the vestibule. genevieve, pale and calm and resolute, came out past her aunt. "we shall go to mr. ashton's office, papa," she said, as lord james handed her down the steps. "if mr. blake is not there, mr. ashton will know where to send for him." "tom's out on the bridge," stated lord james. "he is? how do you know?" queried mr. leslie. "it's a hundred to one odds. that wire to griffith--'on the job,' y' know. he'll be where the most work is going on. i'll go fetch him." "if you will, james," said genevieve. "tell him that papa--not i--you understand." "trust me!" he smiled, glanced appealingly at dolores, met a frown, and started briskly away out the service-track. "wait," ordered dolores. "i'll go, too. i've never been out on an unfinished bridge." "you'll not. you'll stay ashore," interposed her mother. "oh fudge! trot along, then, mr. scarbridge." at her call, lord james had halted and turned about, eagerly expectant. as, disappointed, he started on again, she addressed mr. leslie: "i'm not going back into that stuffy car, uncle herbert. where's the place you call the office?" he pointed to ashton's quarters, and she skipped forward, past the engine, before her mother could interfere. the others followed her, wrapping their furs close about them to shut out the bitterly cold wind. dolores was still in the lead when the party reached the office, but she paused in the vestibule for her uncle to open the door. when he entered, she stepped in after him, followed by genevieve and mrs. gantry. darting his glances about the office in keen search, mr. leslie crossed the room to stare concernedly at the litter of torn maps and papers on the floor in front of the desk. he hurried to the inner door and rapped vigorously. there was no immediate response. he rapped again. the door opened a few inches, and ashton's english valet peered in at the visitors with a timid, startled look. "well?" demanded mr. leslie. "what d' you mean, sir, gawking that way? what's the matter here?--all these papers scattered about--everybody out on the bridge. who are you, anyway?" "m-mr. ashton's m-man, sir!" stuttered the valet. "his man? where is he?--out on the bridge?" "n-no, sir; in his rooms, sir." "tell him to come here at once!" "y-yes, sir, very good, sir. but i fear he'll be afraid to come out, sir. mr. blake--he ordered 'im to stay in, sir." "blake ordered him! why? speak out, man! why?" "he--he said the bridge--that it was about to fall, sir." "bridge--about to fall?" "yes, sir. so he pulled mr. ashton across the desk by 'is neck--manhandled 'im awful, and 'e told 'im--" "what! what! tell ashton i'm here--mr. leslie! tell him to come at once--at once! d' you hear?" as the valet vanished, genevieve darted to her father, her eyes wide with swift-mounting alarm. "papa! didn't you hear him? he said the bridge--it's about to fall!" "he did! he did!" cried dolores, catching the alarm. "oh, and jimmy's gone out, too!" "'jimmy'!" echoed mrs. gantry, staring. the girl ran to the windows in the end of the room, which afforded a full view of the gigantic bridge. "hurry! hurry, papa! do something!" cried genevieve. "if the bridge falls--!" "nonsense!" argued her father. "there can't be any danger. it's still standing--and all those men remaining out on it. if there was any danger--must be some mistake of that fool valet." "then why are there no men ashore? why are they all out there?" questioned genevieve with intuitive logic. "oh! it's true--i know it's true! he's in danger! and james--both! they're out there--it will fall! he'll be killed! send some one--tell them to come ashore! i'll go myself!" she started toward the door. "no, no, let me!" cried dolores, darting ahead of her. "stop!--both of you!" exclaimed mrs. gantry. "are you mad?" "stop!" commanded mr. leslie. genevieve paused and stood hesitating before the vestibule door. dolores darted back to the windows. a voice across the room called out: "that's--that's right! there's no need to go. it's all a fake--a pretence!" staring about, mr. leslie and the ladies saw ashton beside the inner door. he was striving to assume an air of easy assurance, but the doorknob, which he still grasped, rattled audibly. "you!" rasped mr. leslie. "what you doing in here--skulking in here?" ashton cringed back, all the assurance stricken from his face. "you--you believe him!" he stammered. "but it's not fair! you've heard only his side--his lies about me!" "whose lies? speak out!" "his--blake's! the big brute took me by surprise--half murdered me. he came here, drunk or crazy, i don't know which. pretended the bridge was in danger." "pretended? isn't it?" "all rot! not a bit of it!" "what!" "i tell you, it's all a put-up job--a frame-up. the brute thought he'd get in with you again--you and genevieve. he schemed to discredit me, to get my place." "blake?--he did that?" eagerly queried mrs. gantry. "yes!" cried ashton, and he turned again to mr. leslie. "don't you see? he guessed that you were coming up. so he sneaked here ahead of you--took away my pistol and threatened to murder me if i left my rooms." genevieve looked the glib relator up and down, white with scorn. "you lie!" she said. "but--but--i--" he stammered, disconcerted. he stepped toward her, half desperate. "it's the truth, i tell you, the solemn truth! i'll swear to it! it was there, right at my desk. you see the maps, torn when he dragged me across--by the throat! look here at my neck--at the marks of his fingers!" "you're in luck. he had good cause to break your neck," commented mr. leslie. "herbert!" reproved mrs. gantry, greatly shocked. "papa! papa!" urged genevieve, running to grasp her father's arm. "you can't believe him! if tom said the bridge was in danger--we stand here doing nothing! send some one! if the bridge should fall--" "fall?" sneered ashton. "i tell you it's safe, safe as a rock. look for yourselves. it's still standing." "then he has saved it," snapped mr. leslie. "he's saved my bridge--his bridge! while you, you skulking thief--" ashton cringed back as if struck. but genevieve dragged her father about from him. "don't mind him, papa! what does that matter now? send some one at once!" "they're all out on the bridge already," he replied. "there's no one to send. wait! i'll go myself!" "oh! oh! the train has started on shore again--it's coming clear off the bridge!" cried dolores. "it stopped part way, near this end. they'll be on it, they'll surely be on it. yes, yes! there he is! there's jimmy!" she flung up a window-sash and leaned far out, waving her handkerchief. her mother turned to genevieve, who stood as if dazed. "my dear," she said, "do you not understand? lord james is safe--quite safe!" "yes?" replied genevieve vaguely. "and blake!" exclaimed mr. leslie. "he'll of course be coming, too. i'm going to meet him--learn the truth." he cast a threatening glance at ashton, and went out like a shot. "uncle herbert, take me with you!" called dolores, flying out after him. "blake!--coming here!" gasped ashton. he ran to place himself before genevieve, who was about to go out. "wait, wait, miss genevieve, please! save me! he--he said he'd smash me if i talked--he did! he did! don't let him hurt me! he threatened to kill me--it's true--true!" "threatened to kill you?" repeated mrs. gantry. "genevieve, call back your father. if the man really is violent, as lafayette says--" "aunt amice!" remonstrated genevieve. "can you believe this miserable creature for an instant?" "but it's true--it _is_ true!" gasped ashton. "mrs. gantry, dear, dear mrs. gantry, you'll believe me! he will kill me! take me aboard the car! please, please take me aboard the car and hide me!" "my dear genevieve," said mrs. gantry, "the poor boy is really terrified." "take him to the car, if you wish," replied genevieve. "he can leave it at the junction." "oh, thank you, thank you, miss genevieve!" stammered ashton. but genevieve went out without looking at him. he followed with mrs. gantry, keeping close beside her. chapter xxxv the future countess as the fugitive and his protectress passed out through the verandah and turned away from the bridge toward the car, they were relieved to see that blake was not yet in sight. genevieve was hastening out the track to where her father and dolores and lord james stood beside the heavily loaded bridge-service train. before genevieve could reach the others, lord james and dolores came toward her, and dolores cried out the joyful news: "it's safe, vievie!--the bridge is safe now! mr. blake will be ashore in a few minutes." "you're sure, james?" asked genevieve. "quite safe?--and he--?" "yes, yes, give you my word! perfectly safe now, he said, and he'll be coming soon. er--miss dolores, there's your mother going back to the car." "and laffi with her!" "quite true--quite true. i say now--you've left your muff in the office. you'll be chilled--nipping keen wind, this. we'd best go inside while we're waiting." "yes," agreed the girl. "come back in, vievie." "no, no, dear. i'll come later. i'll wait here with papa." "ah, if you prefer," murmured lord james. "but you, miss dolores--really you should not stand out in this wind." "oh, well, if you insist," she acquiesced, with seeming reluctance. "i do, indeed!" he replied, and he hurried her to the office. when they entered, he led her to the big drum heating stove in the corner of the room, and went across to the inner door. he opened it, and called a terse order to ashton's valet. he then closed the door and locked it. dolores started to edge toward the outer door. but he was too quick for her. he hastened across and cut off her retreat. "no, no!" he declared. "you sha'n't run away." "run away?" she rejoined, drawing herself up with a strong show of indignation. "it's--it's the very first opportunity i've had--the first time alone with you all these days," he answered. "i must insist! i--i beg your pardon, but i must find out, really i must! it seemed to me that--that just now you waved to me, from the window." "to you? but how could i tell, so far off, that mr. blake was not on the train?" "so that was it?" he replied, suddenly dashed. "very stupid of me--very! yet--yet--i must say it! miss gantry--dolores, you've insisted on showing me your deepened dislike even since that evening. but you're so sincere, so candid--if only you'll tell me my faults, i'll do anything i possibly can to please you, to win your regard!" "ho! so that's it?" she jeered. "because vievie threw you over, you think i'll do as second choice--you think i'm waiting to catch you on the rebound." "you?" he exclaimed. "how could that be? you've always been so frank in showing your dislike for me--how could i think that? but if only i might convince you how desirous i am to--to overcome your antipathy!" "lord avondale," she said, "it is probable that you are laboring under a misconception. i am not an heiress; i am not wealthy. we are barely well-to-do. so, you see--" "ah, yes! and you--" he exclaimed, stepping nearer to her--"you, then, shall see that it is yourself alone! if i can but win you! tell me, now--why is it you dislike me? i'll do anything in my power. forget i'm my father's son--that i'm english. i must win you! tell me how i can overcome your dislike!" dolores drew back, blushing first scarlet then crimson with blissful confusion. all her ready wit fled from her and left her quivering with the sweet agitation of her love. "but it's--it's not true, jimmy!" she whispered. "i don't--i'm not what you think me! i'm not sincere or honest--i'm just a liar! i've been pretending all along. it's not true that i ever disliked you!" "not true?" he asked incredulously. she gave him a glance that answered him far more clearly than words. he started toward her impulsively. "dolores!--it can't be!" she avoided him, in an attempt to delay the inevitable surrender. "ware danger, your earlship!" she mocked. "i warn you i'm a designing female. how do you know it's not the coronet i'm after?" "dearest!" he exclaimed, and this time he succeeded in capturing the hand that she flung out to fend him off. "wait--wait!" she protested. "this is most--ah--indecorous. think how shocked mamma would be. you haven't even declared your intentions." "my intentions," he stated, "are to do--this!" he boldly placed his arm about her shoulders, and bent down over her back-tilted head. "_my_ dear miss gantry, i have the honor of saluting--the future countess of avondale!" instead of shrinking--from him, as he half feared, she slipped an arm up about his neck. with a blissful sigh, she drew back from the kiss, to answer him in a tone of tender mockery: "the right honorable the earl of avondale is informed that his--ah--salute is received with pleasure." "darling!" "wait," she teased. "you have it all turned 'round. you've yet to tell me the exact moment when. vievie took second place." "my word! how am i to answer that? really, it's quite impossible to tell. you piqued my interest from the very first." "but did you still lo--like vievie when you proposed to her?" "er--yes--quite true. that was the day after our arrival from new york, y'know." "of course. but i wished to make doubly sure that you were sincere with her. oh, jimmy, to think i've got you, after all! i'm so happy!" he promptly offered another salute, which was not refused. the sound of quick steps in the vestibule startled them. dolores sprang away as genevieve came hurrying in, too agitated to heed her cousin's blushes. "oh! i'm so glad you're still here!" she panted. "he's coming ashore. i--i told papa to tell him that--but not that i'm here! i must--i want to--" "to play puss-in-the-corner with your tom," rallied dolores. "oh, vievie! who'd have thought it? you've lost your head! hide over here behind the stove." greatly to her surprise, genevieve instantly ran over and hid herself in the corner behind the big stove. dolores and lord james stared at one another. it was the first time that they had ever seen genevieve flurried. "why, vievie!" exclaimed the girl, "i actually believe you're frightened." "no, i'm not. it's only that i must have time to--to think." "ah," said lord james, with sympathetic readiness. "i shall go out and meet him--detain him a bit." "no, no. it's very kind of you, james. but there's no need. if only you and dolores will wait and speak with him. i--i wish to hear how his voice sounds--first." "well, of all things!" rallied dolores. "can't you imagine how it will sound? he'll be hoarse as a crow, after shouting all his heroic orders to save the bridge. ten to one, he'll have a fine cold, too--out there in this wind. jimmy says it's really nawsty, y'know, with the beastly zephyrs wafting through the bloomin' steel-work, and the water so deuced far down below--quite a bit awful, don't y'know!" "don't tease, dear," begged genevieve. "but you said 'jimmy'! oh, have you really--?" her face appeared around the bulge of the stove, flushed with delight. but the sound of a heavy tread in the verandah caused it to disappear on the instant. blake came in slowly and with anything but an elated look. it was evident that mr. leslie had refrained from rousing his expectations. he stared at dolores in surprise. "you, miss dolores?" "what?" she teased. "you surely did not think it would be vievie, did you?" "didn't think--" "yes--with jimmy." she held out her hand to lord james, who clasped it fondly. blake caught the glance that passed between them. his face darkened. "her?" he muttered. "didn't think you were the kind to play fast and loose, jimmy!" "tom! you can't believe that of me!" protested the englishman. "couldn't explain matters out there among all your men, y' know, but genevieve insisted upon terminating our engagement the very morning after. i had said nothing. she had already seen her mistake." "mistake?" queried blake. "you men are so silly," criticised dolores, with a mischievous glance toward the stove. "you ought to 've known she loved you, all the time. of course you won't believe it till she herself tells you." blake looked about the room. genevieve was close behind the stove. he shook his head and muttered despondently: "till she tells me!" "did you ever play puss-in-the-corner?" asked dolores. "you witch!" exclaimed lord james. to divert her attention, he drew her to him and slipped a ring on her slender finger. "ha! caught you napping! it's on--fast!" she gave him an adorable look. "if it's ever taken off, you'll have to do it." "that shall be--never!" he replied. drawing her arm through his, he led her toward the door. "we're on our way, tom. see you later at the car, i daresay. must go now to break the news to 'mamma.'" "won't she be surprised!" exulted dolores. "it's such a joke that you and genevieve didn't tell her! she's so sure of her methods--so sure. she'll find there are others who have methods, won't she, lord avondale?" "most charming methods!" agreed lord james. "s'long, jimmy!" said blake, gripping the other's carelessly offered hand. "here's congratulations and good luck to you! tell her--tell the others good-bye for me. i'll not come to the car. tell 'em i'm too--too busy." "right-o! but we'll look to see you in town before a great while," replied lord james, and he hurried dolores out through the vestibule. from the verandah the girl's clear voice sounded through the closed doors, free and merry, almost mocking. chapter xxxvi the outcome blake stood where the lovers had left him. their sudden and seemingly indifferent leave-taking had added its quota of depression to his already sinking spirit. when he had come ashore and had been intercepted by mr. leslie he already had begun to feel the reaction from the strain and excitement of those interminable minutes and hours on the bridge--the frightful responsibility of keeping all those hundreds of men out on the gigantic structure, which at any second might have crashed down with them to certain destruction. now even the remembrance that he had saved the bridge could not stimulate him. mr. leslie's friendly praise, even his more than cordial hand-grip, seemed meaningless. the world had suddenly turned drab and gray. her father had stated vaguely that some one was waiting to speak with him in the office. he had hastened in, half hoping to find _her_--and had found only them. he had saved the bridge; he had found strength to do the square thing by mr. leslie and even ashton. and now they were all gone, even jimmy, and he was alone--alone! _she_ had come with the party. he was certain that some one had told him that. yet she had not spoken to him. she had not even let him see her! he went heavily across the room to the desk, and dropping into a chair, began methodically to gather up and fold the torn and rumpled blueprints upon the floor. but even an almost automatic habit has its limitations. a drawing slipped, half-folded, from his listless fingers. he groaned and leaned forward upon the desk, with his face buried in his arms. genevieve came out from her hiding place very quietly, and stood gazing at blake. it was the first time that she had ever seen him give way to grief or suffering. always he had stood before her firm and unyielding, even when most certain of defeat. it had never occurred to her that he could be other than hard and defiant over his own struggles and sorrows. all the mother-love of her woman's nature welled up from her heart in a wave of tenderness and compassion. she went to him and laid her hand softly on his dishevelled head. "tom!" she soothed. "tom! you poor boy!" the touch of her hand had stricken his body rigid with suspense. but at the sound of her voice he slowly raised his head and fixed his eyes upon her in an incredulous stare. "it is i, tom. don't you know me?" she half whispered, shrinking back a little way before the wildness of his look. "_you_!" he gasped. he rose heavily. "excuse me. i thought you were with them--on the car." "did not papa tell you?" "he said something. i thought i had mistaken him. but you _are_ here." "yes. i--i waited to speak with you--to tell you--" "you told me that night all that's necessary," he said, averting his head to hide the look of pain that he could not repress. "i was beside myself!" she replied. "you should have known that, tom. how else could i have told you--told you--" "the truth!" he broke in. "don't think i blame you, miss jenny. don't blame yourself." "no, no, you do not understand!" she insisted. "wait--what did you and papa do?" "made it up. so that's one thing less to worry you. he did it handsomely. cracked me up for saving his bridge." "your bridge, too!" "what! you know that?" "yes, and that you're to be partner with mr. griffith--finish your bridge, and build that great dam you invented, and--and if you wish, be partner in some of papa's business." "that's too much. i told him i'd be satisfied with the credit for my bridge truss." "only that? surely you'll not give up the bridge?" "well, 't isn't fair to kick a man when he's down. ashton will have a tough enough time of it, i guess, from what your father said. he's to be allowed to resign, on condition that he acknowledges that he borrowed my bridge truss." "borrowed?" "yes. it seems that his father is one of your father's particular friends. so that's all settled." she looked at him with radiant eyes. "tom! you're even bigger--more generous--than i had thought!" "don't!" he muttered, drawing back. "it makes it so much harder. you don't realize!" "don't i?" she whispered, the color mounting swiftly in her down-bent face. "that night--that fearful night, i--tell me--has james explained how we searched for you?--everywhere, all those days! we telegraphed all over the country. james searched the city, and papa had all his private agents--where did you go?" "south." "south? oh, and all this time--but that's past now--all the dreadful waiting and anxiety! could you but know our delight when mr. griffith telegraphed that you were here!" "what! then you came because--" "yes, yes, to find you. don't you see? we should have been here sooner, only the telegram was not delivered until after midnight, and i had to persuade aunt amice. she refused, until after i said i'd come anyway. but of course she doesn't know, even now. oh, tom! tom!--to think you're over that dreadful attack and--" "attack?" he inquired. "the one that started that night--through my fault--mine!" "your fault?" he repeated. "how on earth do you make that out?" "i should have seen--understood! james had tried to explain; but i was overwrought. not until you were going--but that is all past, dear! i've come to tell you that now you must let me help you. it is not right for you to fight alone--to refuse my aid, when i--when i--love you!" "jenny! you can't mean it? after that night--after what i did that night!" "yes," she whispered. "if you--if you'll forgive me." "but--the drinking?" "you can win! you proved it that night, when you crushed the glass. i no longer fear, tom. all my doubt has gone. even without my help i know that you--but i want to do my share, dear. if you're--you're willing, we'll be married, and--" "jenny!" he stood for a moment, overcome. then the words burst from his deep chest: "girl! girl!--god! to think that i have that to tell you! yes, it's true--i proved it that night--i won out that night! do you hear, jenny? i broke the curse! i proved it when i left you--went out into the night--after drinking all that whiskey--went down into the stockyards, past the worst saloons, all the joints. i went in and stood about, in all the odor--whiskey, beer--one after the other, i went in, and came out again, without having touched a drop. all the time i kept remembering that i had lost you; but--i knew i had found myself." "tom!" "when i had made sure, i went to the freight yards, got into a fruit-car, and went to sleep. when i woke up, i was on the way to new orleans. been hoboing ever since." "oh!" "best thing for me. put kinks into my body, but took 'em all out of my brain. about the drinking--it wasn't that night alone. i've kept testing myself every chance--even took a taste to make sure. now i know. it's the simple truth, jenny. i've won." "my _man_!" she cried, and she came to him as he opened his arms. the end little nettie. [illustration: mr. mathieson stalked out of the house and strode along the road.] little nettie; or, home sunshine. by the author of "the wide, wide world," etc., etc. london: frederick warne & co. and new york. contents. chapter page i.--_saturday evening's work_ ii.--_sunday's rest_ iii.--_nettie's garret_ iv.--_the brown cloak in november_ v.--_the new blanket_ vi.--_the house-raising_ vii.--_the waffles_ viii.--_the golden city_ little nettie; or, home sunshine. chapter i. _saturday evening's work._ "tender and only beloved in the sight of my mother."-- _prov._ iv. . down in a little hollow, with the sides grown full of wild thorn, alder bushes, and stunted cedars, ran the stream of a clear spring. it ran over a bed of pebbly stones, showing every one, as if there had been no water there, so clear it was; and it ran with a sweet soft murmur or gurgle over the stones, as if singing to itself and the bushes as it ran. on one side of the little stream a worn footpath took its course among the bushes; and down this path, one summer's afternoon, came a woman and a girl. they had pails to fill at the spring: the woman had a large wooden one and the girl a light tin pail; and they drew the water with a little tin dipper, for it was not deep enough to let a pail be used for that. the pails were filled in silence, only the spring always was singing; and the woman and girl turned and went up the path again. after getting up the bank, which was only a few feet, the path still went gently rising through a wild bit of ground, full of trees and low bushes; and not far off, through the trees, there came a gleam of bright light from the window of a house on which the setting sun was shining. half-way to the house the girl and the woman stopped to rest; for water is heavy, and the tin pail, which was so light before it was filled, had made the little girl's figure bend over to one side like a willow branch all the way from the spring. they stopped to rest, and even the woman had a very weary, jaded look. "i feel as if i shall give up some of these days," she exclaimed. "oh, no, mother!" the little girl answered, cheerfully. she was panting, with her hand on her side, and her face had a quiet, very sober look; only at those words a little pleasant smile broke over it. "i shall," said the woman. "one can't stand everything,--for ever." the little girl had not got over panting yet, but standing there, she struck up the sweet air and words,-- "'there is rest for the weary, there is rest for the weary, there is rest for the weary, there is rest for you.'" "yes, in the grave!" said the woman bitterly. "there's no rest short of that--for mind or body." "oh, yes, mother dear. 'for we which have believed do enter into rest.' the lord jesus don't make us wait." "i believe you eat the bible and sleep on the bible," said the woman, with a faint smile, taking at the same time a corner of her apron to wipe away a stray tear which had gathered in her eye. "i am glad it rests you, nettie." "and you, mother." "sometimes," mrs. mathieson answered with a sigh. "but there's your father going to bring home a boarder, nettie." "a boarder, mother!--what for?" "heaven knows!--if it isn't to break my back and my heart together. i thought i had enough to manage before, but here's this man coming, and i've got to get everything ready for him by to-morrow night." "who is it, mother?" "it's one of your father's friends; so it's no good," said mrs. mathieson. "but where can he sleep?" nettie asked, after a moment of thinking. her mother paused. "there's no room but yours he can have. barry won't be moved." "where shall i sleep, mother?" "there's no place but up in the attic. i'll see what i can do to fit up a corner for you--if i ever can get time," said mrs. mathieson, taking up her pail. nettie followed her example, and certainly did not smile again till they reached the house. they went round to the front door, because the back door belonged to another family. at the door, as they set down their pails again before mounting the stairs, nettie smiled at her mother very placidly, and said, "don't you go to fit up the attic, mother; i'll see to it in time. i can do it just as well." mrs. mathieson made no answer, but groaned internally, and they went up the flight of steps which led to their part of the house. the ground floor was occupied by somebody else. a little entry-way received the wooden pail of water, and with the tin one nettie went into the room used by the family. it was her father and mother's sleeping-room, their bed standing in one corner. it was the kitchen apparently, for a small cooking-stove was there, on which nettie put the tea-kettle when she had filled it. and it was the common living-room also; for the next thing she did was to open a cupboard and take out cups and saucers, and arrange them on a leaf table which stood toward one end of the room. the furniture was wooden and plain; the woodwork of the windows was unpainted; the cups and plates were of the commonest kind; and the floor had no covering but two strips of rag carpeting; nevertheless the whole was tidy and very clean, showing constant care. mrs. mathieson had sunk into a chair as one who had no spirit to do anything, and watched her little daughter setting the table with eyes which seemed not to see her. they gazed inwardly at something she was thinking of. "mother, what is there for supper?" "there is nothing. i must make some porridge." and mrs. mathieson got up from her chair. "sit you still, mother, and i'll make it. i can." "if both our backs are to be broken," said mrs. mathieson, "i'd rather mine would break first." and she went on with her preparations. "but you don't like porridge," said nettie. "you didn't eat anything last night." "that's nothing, child. i can bear an empty stomach, if only my brain wasn't quite so full." nettie drew near the stove and looked on, a little sorrowfully. "i wish you had something you liked, mother! if only i was a little older, wouldn't it be nice? i could earn something then, and i would bring you home things that you liked out of my own money." this was not said sorrowfully, but with a bright gleam as of some fancied and pleasant possibility. the gleam was so catching, mrs. mathieson turned from her porridge-pot, which she was stirring, to give a very heartfelt kiss to nettie's lips; then she stirred on, and the shadow came over her face again. "dear," she said, "just go in barry's room and straighten it up a little before he comes in--will you? i haven't had a minute to do it, all day; and there won't be a bit of peace if he comes in and it isn't in order." nettie turned and opened another door, which let her into a small chamber used as somebody's bed-room. it was all brown like the other, a strip of the same carpet in the middle of the floor, and a small cheap chest of drawers, and a table. the bed had not been made up, and the tossed condition of the bed-clothes spoke for the strength and energy of the person that used them, whoever he was. a pair of coarse shoes were in the middle of the whole; another pair, or rather a pair of half-boots, out at the toes, were in the middle of the floor; stockings,--one under the bed and one under the table. on the table was a heap of confusion; and on the little bureau were to be seen pieces of wood, half-cut and uncut, with shavings, and the knife and saw that had made them. old newspapers, and school-books, and a slate, and two kites, with no end of tails, were lying over every part of the room that happened to be convenient; also an ink-bottle and pens, with chalk and resin and a medley of unimaginable things beside, that only boys can collect together and find delight in. if nettie sighed as all this hurly-burly met her eye, it was only an internal sigh. she set about patiently bringing things to order. first she made the bed, which it took all her strength to do, for the coverlets were of a very heavy and coarse manufacture of cotton and woollen mixed, blue and white; and then gradually she found a way to bestow the various articles in barry's apartment, so that things looked neat and comfortable. but perhaps it was a little bit of a sign of nettie's feelings, that she began softly to sing to herself,-- "'there is rest for the weary.'" "hallo!" burst in a rude boy of some fifteen years, opening the door from the entry,--"who's puttin' my room to rights?" a very gentle voice said, "i've done it, barry." "what have you done with that pine log?" "here it is,--in the corner behind the bureau." "don't you touch it, now, to take it for your fire,--mind, nettie! where's my kite?" "you won't have time to fly it now, barry; supper will be ready in two minutes." "what have you got?" "the same kind we had last night." "_i_ don't care for supper." barry was getting the tail of his kite together. "but please, barry, come now; because it will give mother so much more trouble if you don't. she has the things to clear away after you're done, you know." "trouble! so much talk about trouble! _i_ don't mind trouble. i don't want any supper, i tell you." nettie knew well enough he would want it by-and-bye, but there was no use in saying anything more, and she said nothing. barry got his kite together and went off. then came a heavier step on the stairs, which she knew; and she hastily went into the other room to see that all was ready. the tea was made, and mrs. mathieson put the smoking dish of porridge on the table, just as the door opened and a man came in--a tall, burly, strong man, with a face that would have been a good face enough if its expression had been different and if its hue had not been that of a purplish-red flush. he came to the table and silently sat down as he took a survey of what was on it. "give me a cup of tea! have you got no bread, sophia?" "nothing but what you see. i hoped you would bring home some money, mr. mathieson. i have neither milk nor bread; it's a mercy there's sugar. i don't know what you expect a lodger to live on." "live on his board,--that'll give you enough. but you want something to begin with. i'd go out and get one or two things--but i'm so confoundedly tired, i can't." mrs. mathieson, without a word, put on a shawl and went to the closet for her bonnet. "i'll go, mother! let me go, please. i want to go," exclaimed nettie, eagerly. "i can get it. what shall i get, father?" slowly and weariedly the mother laid off her things; as quickly the child put hers on. "what shall i get, father?" "well, you can go down the street to jackson's, and get what your mother wants: some milk and bread; and then you'd better fetch seven pounds of meal and a quart of treacle. and ask him to give you a nice piece of pork out of his barrel." "she can't bring all that!" exclaimed the mother; "you'd better go yourself, mr. mathieson. that would be a great deal more than the child can carry, or i either." "then i'll go twice, mother: it isn't far; i'd like to go. i'll get it. please give me the money, father." he cursed and swore at her for answer. "go along, and do as you are bid, without all this chaffering! go to jackson's, and tell him you want the things, and i'll give him the money to-morrow. he knows me." nettie knew he did, and stood her ground. her father was just enough in liquor to be a little thick-headed and foolish. "you know i can't go without the money, father," she said, gently; "and to-morrow is sunday." he cursed sunday and swore again, but finally put his hand in his pocket and threw some money across the table to her. he was just in a state not to be careful what he did, and he threw her crown-pieces where, if he had been quite himself, he would have given shillings. nettie took them without any remark, and her basket, and went out. it was just sundown. the village lay glittering in the light that would be gone in a few minutes; and up on the hill the white church, standing high, showed all bright in the sun-beams, from its sparkling vane at the top of the spire down to the lowest step at the door. nettie's home was in a branch road, a few steps from the main street of the village, that led up to the church at one end of it. all along that street the sunlight lay, on the grass, and the roadway, and the side-walks, and the tops of a few elm trees. the street was empty; it was most people's supper-time. nettie turned the corner and went down the village. she went slowly: her little feet were already tired with the work they had done that day, and back and arms and head all seemed tired too. but nettie never thought it hard that her mother did not go instead of letting her go; she knew her mother could not bear to be seen in the village in the old shabby gown and shawl she wore; for mrs. mathieson had seen better days. and besides that, she would be busy enough as it was, and till a late hour, this saturday night. nettie's gown was shabby too--yes, very shabby, compared with that almost every other child in the village wore; yet somehow nettie was not ashamed. she did not think of it now, as her slow steps took her down the village street; she was thinking what she should do about the money. her father had given her two or three times as much, she knew, as he meant her to spend; he was a good workman, and had just got in his week's wages. what should nettie do? might she keep and give to her mother what was over? it was, and would be, so much wanted! and from her father they could never get it again. he had his own ways of disposing of what he earned, and very little indeed went to the wants of his wife and daughter. what might nettie do! she pondered, swinging her basket in her hand, till she reached a corner where the village street turned off again, and where the store of mr. jackson stood. there she found barry bargaining for some things he at least had money for. "oh, barry, how good!" exclaimed nettie; "you can help me carry my things home." "i'll know the reason first, though," answered barry. "what are you going to get?" "father wants a bag of corn-meal, and a piece of pork, and some treacle; and you know i can't carry them all, barry. i've got to get bread and milk besides." "hurrah!" said barry; "now we'll have fried cakes! i'll tell you what i'll do, nettie--i'll take home the treacle, if you'll make me some to-night for supper." "oh, i can't, barry! i've got so much else to do, and it's saturday night." "very good--get your things home yourself, then." barry turned away, and nettie made her bargains. he still stood by, however, and watched her. when the pork and the meal and the treacle were bestowed in the basket, it was so heavy she could not manage to carry it. how many journeys to and fro would it cost her? "barry," she said, "you take this home for me, and if mother says so, i'll make you the cakes." "be quick, then," said her brother, shouldering the basket, "for i'm getting hungry." nettie went a few steps farther on the main road of the village, which was little besides one long street, and not very long either, and went in at the door of a very little dwelling, neat and tidy like all the rest. it admitted her to the tiniest morsel of a shop--at least there was a long table there which seemed to do duty as a counter; and before, not behind it, sat a spruce little woman sewing. she jumped up as nettie entered. by the becoming smartness of her calico dress and white collar, the beautiful order of her hair, and a certain peculiarity of feature, you might know before she spoke that the little baker was a frenchwoman. she spoke english quite well, but rather slowly. "i want two loaves of bread, mrs. august, and a pint of milk, if you please." "how will you carry them, my child? you cannot take them all at the time." "oh yes, i can," said nettie, cheerfully. "i can manage. they are not heavy." "no, i hope not," said the frenchwoman; "it is not heavy, my bread! but two loaves are not one, no more. is your mother well?" she then set busily about wrapping the loaves in paper and measuring out the milk. nettie answered, her mother was well. "and you?" said the little woman, looking at her sideways. "somebody is tired this evening." "yes," said nettie, brightly; "but i don't mind. one must be tired sometimes. thank you, ma'am." the woman had put the loaves and the milk carefully in her arms and in her hands, so that she could carry them, and looked after her as she went up the street. "one must be tired sometimes!" said she to herself, with a turn of her capable little head. "i should like to hear her say 'one must be rested sometimes;' but i do not hear that." so perhaps nettie thought, as she went homeward. it would have been very natural. now the sun was down, the bright gleam was off the village; the soft shades of evening were gathering, and lights twinkled in windows. nettie walked very slowly, her arms full of the bread. perhaps she wished her saturday's work was all done, like other people's. all i can tell you is, that as she went along through the quiet deserted street, all alone, she broke out softly singing to herself the words,-- "no need of the sun in that day which never is followed by night;" and that when she got home she ran upstairs quite briskly, and came in with a very placid face, and told her mother she had had a pleasant walk--which was perfectly true. "god bless you, child!" said her mother; "you are the very rose of my heart!" there was only time for this little dialogue, for which mr. mathieson's slumbers had given a chance. but then barry entered, and noisily claimed nettie's promise. and without a cloud crossing her sweet brow, she made the cakes, and baked them on the stove, and served barry until he had enough; nor ever said how weary she was of being on her feet. there were more cakes left, and mrs. mathieson saw to it that nettie sat down and ate them; and then sent her off to bed, without suffering her to do anything more; though nettie pleaded to be allowed to clear away the dishes. mrs. mathieson did that, and then sat down to darns and patches on various articles of clothing, till the old clock of the church on the hill tolled out solemnly the hour of twelve all over the village. chapter ii. _sunday's rest._ "this is the day which the lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it."--_psalm_ cxviii, . nettie's room was the only room on that floor besides her mother's and barry's. it was at the back of the house, with a pleasant look-out over the trees and bushes between it and the spring. over these the view went to distant hills and fields, that always looked pretty in all sorts of lights, nettie thought. besides that, it was a clean, neat little room; bare, to be sure, without even barry's strip of rag carpet; but on a little black table lay nettie's bible and sunday-school books; and each window had a chair; and a chest of drawers held all her little wardrobe and a great deal of room to spare besides; and the cot-bed in one corner was nicely made up. it was a very comfortable-looking room to nettie. "so this is the last night i shall sleep here!" she thought as she went in. "to-morrow i must go up to the attic. well, i can pray there just the same; and god will be with me there just the same." it was a comfort; but it was the only one nettie could think of in connection with her removal. the attic was no room, but only a little garret used as a lumber-place; not boarded up nor plastered at all; nothing but the beams and the side boarding for the walls, and nothing but the rafters and the shingles between it and the sky. besides which, it was full of lumber of one sort and another. how nettie was to move up there the next day, being sunday, she could not imagine; but she was so tired that as soon as her head touched her pillow she fell asleep, and forgot to think about it. the next thing was the bright morning light rousing her, and the joyful thought that it was sunday morning. a beautiful day it was. the eastern light was shining over upon nettie's distant hills with all sorts of fresh, lovely colours, and promise of what the coming hours would bring. nettie looked at them lovingly, for she was very fond of them, and had a great many thoughts about those hills. "as the mountains are round about jerusalem, so the lord is round about his people;"--that was one thing they made her think of. she thought of it now as she was dressing, and it gave her the feeling of being surrounded with a mighty and strong protection on every side. it made nettie's heart curiously glad, and her tongue speak joyful things; for when she knelt down to pray she was full of thanksgiving. the next thing was that, taking her tin pail, nettie set off down to the spring to get water to boil her kettle. it was so sweet and pleasant--no other spring could supply nicer water. the dew brushed from the bushes and grass as she went by; and from every green thing there went up a fresh dewy smell, that was reviving. the breath of the summer wind, moving gently, touched her cheek and fluttered her hair, and said god had given a beautiful day to the world; and nettie thanked him in her heart, and went on rejoicing. sunday was nettie's holiday, and sunday school and church were her delight. and though she went in all weathers, and nothing would keep her, yet sunshine is sunshine, and she felt so this morning. so she gaily filled her pail at the spring and trudged back with it to the house. the next thing was to tap at her mother's door. mrs. mathieson opened it, in her night-gown; she was just up, and looked as if her night's sleep had been all too short for her. "why, nettie! is it late?" she said, as nettie and the tin pail came in. "no, mother; it's just good time. you get dressed, and i'll make the fire ready. it's beautiful out, mother!" mrs. mathieson made no answer, and nettie went to work with the fire. it was an easy matter to put in some paper and kindle the light wood; and when the kettle was on, nettie went round the room, softly setting it to rights as well as she could; then glanced at her father, still sleeping. "i can't set the table yet, mother." "no, child; go off, and i'll see to the rest.--if i can get folks up, at least," said mrs. mathieson, somewhat despondingly. sunday morning that was a doubtful business, she and nettie knew. nettie went to her own room to carry out a plan she had. if she could manage to get her things conveyed up to the attic without her mother knowing it, just so much labour and trouble would be spared her, and her mother might have a better chance of some rest that day. little enough, with a lodger coming that evening! to get her things up there,--that was all nettie would do to-day; but that must be done. the steep stairs to the attic went up from the entry-way, just outside of nettie's door. she went up the first time to see what room there was to bestow anything. the little garret was strewn all over with things carelessly thrown in merely to get them out of the way. there was a small shutter window in each gable. one was open, just revealing the utter confusion, but half showing the dust that lay on everything. the other window, the back one, was fairly shut up by a great heap of boxes and barrels piled against it. in no part was there a clear space or a hopeful opening. nettie stood aghast for some moments, not knowing what to do. "but if i don't, mother will have to do it," she thought. it nerved her little arm, and one thought of her invisible protector nerved her heart, which had sunk at first coming up. softly she moved and began her operations, lest her mother downstairs should hear and find out what she was about before it was done. sunday too! but there was no help for it. notwithstanding the pile of boxes, she resolved to begin at the end with the closed window; for near the other there were things she could not move: an old stove, a wheelbarrow, a box of heavy iron tools, and some bags of charcoal, and other matters. by a little pushing and coaxing, nettie made a place for the boxes, and then began her task of removing them. one by one, painfully, for some were unwieldy and some were weighty, they travelled across in nettie's arms, or were shoved and turned over and across the floor, from the window to a snug position under the eaves, where she stowed them. barry would have been a good hand at this business, not to speak of his father; but nettie knew there was no help to be expected from either of them, and the very thought of them did not come into her head. mr. mathieson, provided he worked at his trade, thought the "women folks" might look after the house; barry considered that when he had got through the heavy labours of school, he had done his part of the world's work. so nettie toiled on with her boxes and barrels. they scratched her arms; they covered her clean face with dust; they tried her strength; but every effort saved one to her mother, and nettie never stopped except to gather breath and rest. the last thing of all under the window was a great old chest. nettie could not move it, and she thought it might stay there very conveniently for a seat. all the rest of the pile she cleared away, and then opened the window. there was no sash--nothing but a wooden shutter fastened with a hook. nettie threw it open. there, to her great joy, behold, she had the very same view of her hills, all shining in the sun now. only this window was higher than her old one and lifted her up more above the tops of the trees, and gave a better and clearer and wider view of the distant open country she liked so much. nettie was greatly delighted, and refreshed herself with a good look out and a breath of fresh air before she began her labours again. that gave the dust a little chance to settle too. there was a good deal to do yet before she could have a place clear for her bed, not to speak of anything more. however, it was done at last, the floor brushed up, all ready, and the top of the chest wiped clean; and next nettie set about bringing all her things up the stairs and setting them here, where she could. her clothes, her little bit of a looking-glass, her bible and books and slate, even her little washstand, she managed to lug up to the attic, with many a journey and much pains. but it was about done before her mother called her to breakfast. the two lagging members of the family had been roused at last, and were seated at the table. "why, what have you been doing, child? how you look!" said mrs. mathieson. "how do i look?" said nettie. "queer enough," said her father. nettie laughed, and hastened to another subject: she knew if they got upon this there would be some disagreeable words before it was over. she had made up her mind what to do, and now handed her father the money remaining from her purchases. "you gave me too much, father, last night," she said, simply; "here is the rest." mr. mathieson took it and looked at it. "did i give you all this?" "yes, father." "did you pay for what you got, besides?" "yes." he muttered something which was very like an oath in his throat, and looked at his little daughter, who was quietly eating her breakfast. something touched him unwontedly. "you're an honest little girl," he said. "there! you may have that for yourself." and he tossed her a shilling. you could see, by a little streak of pink colour down each of nettie's cheeks, that some great thought of pleasure had started into her mind. "for myself, father?" she repeated. "all for yourself," said mr. mathieson, buttoning up his money with a very satisfied air. nettie said no more, only ate her breakfast a little quicker after that. it was time, too; for the late hours of some of the family always made her in a hurry about getting to sunday school; and the minute nettie had done, she got her bonnet--her sunday bonnet--the best she had to wear--and set off. mrs. mathieson never let her wait for anything at home _that_ morning. this was nettie's happy time. it never troubled her that she had nothing but a sun-bonnet of white muslin, nicely starched and ironed, while almost all the other girls that came to the school had little straw bonnets trimmed with blue and pink, and yellow and green ribbons; and some of them wore silk bonnets. nettie did not even think of it; she loved her sunday lesson, and her bible, and her teacher, so much; and it was such a pleasant time when she went to enjoy them all together. it was only a little way she had to go, for the road where mrs. mathieson lived, after running down a little farther from the village, met another road which turned right up the hill to the church; or nettie could take the other way, to the main village street, and straight up that. generally she chose the forked way, because it was the emptiest. nettie's class in the sunday school was of ten little girls about her own age; and their teacher was a very pleasant and kind gentleman, named mr. folke. nettie loved him dearly; she would do anything that mr. folke told her to do. their teacher was very apt to give the children a question to answer from the bible, for which they had to look out texts during the week. this week the question was, "who are happy?" and nettie was very eager to know what answers the other girls would bring. she was in good time, and sat resting and watching the boys and girls and teachers as they came in, before the school began. she was first there of all her class; and she watched so eagerly to see those who were coming, that she did not know mr. folke was near till he spoke to her. nettie started and turned. "how do you do?" said her teacher, kindly. "are you quite well, nettie, this morning?" for he thought she looked pale and tired. but her face coloured with pleasure, and a smile shone all over it, as she told him she was very well. "have you found out who are the happy people, nettie?" "yes, mr. folke; i have found a verse. but i knew before." "i thought you did. who are they, nettie?" "those who love jesus, sir." "ay. in the christian armour, you know, the feet are 'shod with the preparation of the gospel of peace.' with the love of jesus in our hearts, our feet can go over rough ways and hardly feel that they are rough. do you find it so?" "oh yes, sir!" he said no more, for others of the class now came up; and nettie wondered how he knew, or if he knew, that she had a rough way to go over. but his words were a help and comfort to her. so was the whole lesson that day. the verses about the happy people were beautiful. the seven girls who sat on one side of nettie repeated the blessings told of in the fifth chapter of st. matthew, about the poor in spirit, the mourners, the meek, those that hunger and thirst after righteousness, the merciful, the pure in heart, and the peacemakers. then came nettie's verse. it was this: "happy is he that hath the god of jacob for his help, whose hope is in the lord his god." the next girl gave the words of jesus, "if ye know these things, happy are ye if ye do them." the last gave "blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered." then came mr. folke's verse, and netty thought it was the most beautiful of all. "blessed are they that do his commandments, that they may have right to the tree of life, and may enter in through the gates into the city." then mr. folke talked about that city--its streets of gold, and the gates of pearl, through which nothing that defileth can by any means enter. he told how jesus will make his people happy there; how they will be with him, and all their tears wiped away. and jesus will be their shepherd; his sheep will not wander from him any more; "and they shall see his face, and his name shall be in their foreheads." from school they went to church, of course. a strange clergyman preached that day, and nettie could not understand him always; but the words of the hymn and mr. folke's words ran in her head then, and she was very happy all church-time. and as she was walking home, still the tune and the words ran in her ears,-- "jesus all the day long is my joy and my song; o that all his salvation might see!" so, thinking busily, nettie got home and ran upstairs. what a change! it looked like a place very, very far from those gates of pearl. her mother sat on one side of the stove, not dressed for church, and leaning her head on her hand. mr. mathieson was on the other side, talking and angry. barry stood back, playing ball by himself by throwing it up and catching it again. the talk stopped at nettie's entrance. she threw off her bonnet and began to set the table, hoping that would bring peace. "your father don't want any dinner," said mrs. mathieson. "yes, i do!" thundered her husband; "but i tell you i'll not take anything now; so leave your cooking till supper--when lumber will be here. go on, child, and get your work done." there were no preparations for dinner, and nettie was at a loss, and did not like to say anything for fear of bringing on a storm. her mother looked both weary and out of temper. the kettle was boiling, the only thing about the room that had a pleasant seeming. "will you have a cup of tea, father?" said nettie. "anything you like--yes, a cup of tea will do; and hark ye, child, i want a good stout supper got this afternoon. your mother don't choose to hear me. mr. lumber is coming, and i want a good supper to make him think he's got to the right place. do you hear, nettie?" "yes, father." nettie went on to do the best she could. she warmed the remains of last night's porridge, and gave it to barry, with treacle, to keep him quiet. meanwhile she had made the tea, and toasted a slice of bread very nicely, though with great pains, for the fire wasn't good; and the toast and a cup of tea she gave to her father. he ate it with an eagerness which let nettie know she must make another slice as fast as possible. "hallo! nettie--i say, give us some of that, will you?" said barry, finding his porridge poor in taste. "barry, there isn't bread enough--i can't," whispered nettie. "we've got to keep a loaf for supper." "eat what you've got, or let it alone!" thundered mr. mathieson, in the way he had when he was out of patience, and which always tried nettie exceedingly. "she's got more," said barry. "she's toasting two pieces this minute. i want one." "i'll knock you over if you say another word," said his father. nettie was frightened, for she saw he meant to have the whole, and she had destined a bit for her mother. however, when she gave her father his second slice, she ventured, and took the other with a cup of tea to the forlorn figure on the other side of the stove. mrs. mathieson took only the tea. but mr. mathieson's ire was roused afresh. perhaps toast and tea didn't agree with him. "have you got all ready for mr. lumber?" he said, in a tone of voice very unwilling to be pleased. "no," said his wife,--"i have had no chance. i have been cooking and clearing up all the morning. his room isn't ready." "well, you had better get it ready pretty quick. what's to do?" "everything's to do," said mrs. mathieson. he swore at her. "why can't you answer a plain question? i say, _what's_ to do?" "there's all nettie's things in the room at present. they are all to move upstairs, and the red bedstead to bring down." "no, mother," said nettie, gently, "all my things are upstairs already; there's only the cot and the bed, that i couldn't move." mrs. mathieson gave no outward sign of the mixed feeling of pain and pleasure that shot through her heart. pleasure at her child's thoughtful love, pain that she should have to show it in such a way. "when did you do it, nettie?" "this morning before breakfast, mother. it's all ready, father, if you or barry would take up my cot and the bed, and bring down the other bedstead. it's too heavy for me." "that's what i call doing business and having some spirit," said her father. "not sitting and letting your work come to you. here, nettie, i'll do the rest for you." nettie ran with him to show him what was wanted; and mr. mathieson's strong arms had it all done very quickly. nettie eagerly thanked him; and then seeing him in good humour with her, she ventured something more. "mother's very tired to-day, father," she whispered; "she'll feel better by-and-bye if she has a little rest. do you think you would mind helping me put up this bedstead?" "well, here goes!" returned mr. mathieson. "which piece belongs here, to begin with?" nettie did not know much better than he; but putting not only her whole mind but also her whole heart into it, she managed to find out and to direct him successfully. her part was hard work: she had to stand holding up the heavy end of the bedstead while her father fitted in the long pieces; and then she helped him to lace the cords, which had to be drawn very tight; and precious time was running away fast, and nettie had had no dinner. but she stood patiently, with a thought in her heart which kept her in peace all the while. when it was done, mr. mathieson went out, and nettie returned to her mother. she was sitting where she had left her. barry was gone. "mother, won't you have something to eat?" "i can't eat, child. have you had anything yourself?" nettie had seized a remnant of her father's toast, and was munching it hastily. "mother, won't you put on your gown and come to church this afternoon? do! it will rest you. do, mother!" "you forget i've got to get supper, child. your father doesn't think it necessary that anybody should rest, or go to church, or do anything except work. what he is thinking of, i am sure i don't know. there is no place to eat in but this room, and he is going to bring a stranger into it; and if i was dying i should have to get up for every meal that is wanted. i never thought i should come to live so! and i cannot dress myself, or prepare the victuals, or have a moment to myself, but i have the chance of mr. lumber and your father in here to look on! it is worse than a dog's life!" it looked pretty bad, nettie thought. she did not know what to say. she began clearing away the things on the table. "and what sort of a man this mr. lumber is, i don't know. i dare say he is like his name--one of your father's cronies--a drinker and a swearer. and mr. mathieson will bring him here, to be on my hands! it will kill me before spring, if it lasts." "couldn't there be a bed made somewhere else for barry, mother? and then we could eat in there." "where would you make it? i could curtain off a corner of this room, but barry wouldn't have it, nor your father; and they'd all want to be close to the fire the minute the weather grows the least bit cool. no; there is nothing for me but to live on till death calls for me!" "mother, jesus said, 'he that liveth and believeth in me shall never die.'" "oh, yes!" said mrs. mathieson, with a kind of long-drawn groan, "i don't know how it will be about that! i get so put about now in these times, that it seems to me i don't know my own soul!" "mother, come to church this afternoon." "i can't, child. i've got to put up that man's bed and make it." "that is all done, mother, and the floor brushed up. do come!" "why, who put it up?" "father and i." "well! you do beat all, nettie. but i can't, child; i haven't time." "yes, mother, plenty. there's all the hour of sunday school before church begins. now do, mother!" "well, you go off to school; and if i can, maybe i will. you go right off, nettie." nettie went, feeling weary and empty by dint of hard work and a dinner of a small bit of dry toast. but she thought little about that. she wanted to ask mr. folke a question. the lesson that afternoon was upon the peacemakers; and mr. folke asked the children what ways they knew of being a peacemaker. the answer, somehow, was not very ready. "isn't it to stop people from quarrelling?" one child asked. "how can you do that, jane?" jane seemed doubtful. "i could ask them to stop," she said. "well, suppose you did. would angry people mind your asking?" "i don't know, sir. if they were very angry, i suppose they wouldn't." "perhaps not. one thing is certain, jane; you must have peace in your own heart, to give you the least chance." "how, mr. folke?" "if you want to put out a fire, you must not stick into it something that will catch." "that would make the fire worse," said one of the girls. "certainly. so if you want to touch quarrelsome spirits with the least hope of softening them, you must be so full of the love of jesus yourself that nothing but love can come out of your own spirit. you see, it means a good deal to be a peacemaker." "i always thought that must be one of the easiest things of the whole list," said one of the class. "you won't find it so, i think; or rather you will find they are all parts of the same character, and the blessing is one. but there are more ways of being a peacemaker. what do you do when the hinge of a door creaks?" one said "she didn't know;" another said "nothing." "i stop my ears," said a third. mr. folke laughed. "_that_ would not do for a peacemaker," he said. "don't you know what makes machinery work smoothly?" "oil!" cried jane. "oil to be sure! one little drop of oil will stop ever so much creaking and groaning and complaining, of hinges and wheels and all sorts of machines. now, people's tempers are like wheels and hinges. but what sort of oil shall we use?" the girls looked at each other, and then one of them said, "kindness." "to be sure! a gentle word, a look of love, a little bit of kindness, will smooth down a roughened temper or a wry face, and soften a hard piece of work, and make all go easily. and so of reproving sinners. the psalmist says, 'let the righteous smite me; it shall be a kindness: and let him reprove me; it shall be an excellent oil, which shall not break my head.' but, you see, the peacemaker must be righteous himself, or he hasn't the oil. love is the oil--the 'love of jesus.'" "mr. folke," said nettie, timidly, "wasn't jesus a peacemaker?" "the greatest that ever lived!" said mr. folke, his eyes lighting up with pleasure at her question. "he made all the peace there is in the world, for he bought it, when he died on the cross to reconcile man with god. all our drops of oil were bought with drops of blood." "and," said nettie, hesitatingly, "mr. folke, isn't that one way of being a peacemaker?" "what?" "i mean, to persuade people to be at peace with him?" "that is the way above all others, my child; that is truly to be the 'children of god.' jesus came and preached peace; and that is what his servants are doing, and will do, till he comes. and 'they shall be called the children of god.' 'beloved, if god so loved us, we ought also to love one another.'" mr. folke paused, with a face so full of thought, of eagerness, and of love, that none of the children spoke, and some of them wondered. and before mr. folke spoke again, the superintendent's little bell rang, and they all stood up to sing. but nettie mathieson hardly could sing; it seemed to her so glorious a thing to be _that_ sort of a peacemaker. could she be one? but the lord blessed the peacemakers; then it must be his will that all his children should be such; then he would enable her to be one! it was a great thought. nettie's heart swelled with hope and joy and prayer. she knew whose peace she longed for first of all. her mother had now come to church, so nettie enjoyed all the services, with nothing to hinder. then they walked home together, not speaking much to each other, but every step of the way pleasant in the sunday afternoon light, till they got to their own door. nettie knew what her mother's sigh meant, as they mounted the stairs. happily, nobody was at home yet but themselves. "now, mother," said nettie, when she had changed her dress and come to the common room, "what's to be for supper? i'll get it. you sit still and read, if you want to, while it's quiet. what must we have?" "there is not a great deal to do," said mrs. mathieson. "i boiled the pork this morning, and that was what set your father up so; that's ready; and he says there must be cakes. the potatoes are all ready to put down--i was going to boil 'em this morning, and he stopped me." nettie looked grave about the cakes. "however, mother," she said, "i don't believe that little loaf of bread would last, even if you and i didn't touch it; it is not very big." mrs. mathieson wearily sat down and took her testament, as nettie begged her; and nettie put on the kettle and the pot of potatoes, and made the cakes ready to bake. the table was set, and the treacle and everything on it, except the hot things, when barry burst in. "hallo, cakes!--hallo, treacle!" he shouted. "pork and treacle--that's the right sort of thing. now we're going to live something like." "hush, barry, don't make such a noise," said his sister. "you know it's sunday evening." "sunday! well, what about sunday? what's sunday good for, except to eat, i should like to know?" "o barry!" "o barry!" said he, mimicking her. "come, shut up, and fry your cake. father and lumber will be here just now." nettie hushed, as she was bidden; and as soon as her father's step was heard below, she went to frying cakes with all her might. she just turned her head to give one look at mr. lumber as he came in. he appeared to her very like her father, but without the recommendation which her affection gave to mr. mathieson. a big, strong, burly fellow, with the same tinges of red about his face that the summer sun had never brought there. nettie did not want to look again. she had a good specimen this evening of what they might expect in future. mrs. mathieson poured out the tea, and nettie baked the cakes; and perhaps because she was almost faint for want of something to eat, she thought no three people ever ate so many griddle cakes before at one meal. in vain plateful after plateful went upon the board, and nettie baked them as fast as she could; they were eaten just as fast; and when finally the chairs were pushed back, and the men went downstairs, nettie and her mother looked at each other. "there's only one left, mother," said nettie. "and he has certainly eaten half the piece of pork," said mrs. mathieson. "come, child, take something yourself; you're ready to drop. i'll clear away." but it is beyond the power of any disturbance to take away the gladness of a heart where jesus is. nettie's bread was sweet to her, even that evening. before she had well finished her supper, her father and his lodger came back. they sat down on either side the fire, and began to talk of politics, and of their work on which they were then engaged, with their employers and their fellow-workmen; of the state of business in the village, and profits and losses, and the success of particular men in making money. they talked loudly and eagerly; and nettie had to go round and round them to get to the fire for hot water, and back to the table to wash up the cups and plates. her mother was helping at the table, but to get round mr. lumber to the pot of hot water on the fire every now and then, fell to nettie's share. it was not a very nice ending of her sweet sabbath day, she thought. the dishes were done and put away, and still the talk went on as hard as ever. it was sometimes a pleasure to nettie's father to hear her sing hymns of a sunday evening. nettie watched for a chance, and the first time there was a lull of the voices of the two men, she asked softly, "shall i sing, father?" mr. mathieson hesitated, and then answered, "no,--better not, nettie: mr. lumber might not find it amusing;" and the talk began again. nettie waited a little longer, feeling exceedingly tired. then she rose and lighted a candle. "what are you doing, nettie?" her mother said. "i am going to bed, mother." "you can't take a candle up there, child! the attic's all full of things, and you would certainly set us on fire." "i'll take great care, mother." "but you can't, child! the wind might blow the snuff of your candle right into something that would be all a-flame by the time you're asleep. you must manage without a light somehow." "but i can't see to find my way," said nettie, who was secretly trembling with fear. "i'll light you then, for once, and you'll soon learn the way. give me the candle." nettie hushed the words that came crowding into her mouth, and clambered up the steep stairs to the attic. mrs. mathieson followed her with the candle till she got to the top, and there she held it till nettie had found her way to the other end where her bed was. then she said "good night!" and went down. the little square shutter of the window was open, and a ray of moonlight streamed in upon the bed. it was nicely made up: nettie saw that her mother had been there and had done that for her, and wrought a little more space and order among the things around the bed. but the moonlight did not get in far enough to show much more. just a little of this thing and of that could be seen; a corner of a chest, or a gleam on the side of a meal-bag: the half-light showed nothing clearly except the confused fulness of the little attic. nettie had given her head a blow against a piece of timber as she came through it; and she sat down upon her little bed, feeling rather miserable. her fear was that the rats might visit her up there. she did not certainly know that there were rats in the attic, but she had been fearing to think of them, and did not dare to ask, as well as unwilling to give trouble to her mother; for if they _did_ come there, nettie did not see how the matter could be mended. she sat down on her little bed, so much frightened that she forgot how tired she was. her ears were as sharp as needles, listening to hear the scrape of a rat's tooth upon a timber, or the patter of his feet over the floor. for a few minutes nettie almost thought she could not sleep up there alone, and must go down and implore her mother to let her spread her bed in a corner of her room. but what a bustle that would make! her mother would be troubled, and her father would be angry, and the lodger would be disturbed, and there was no telling how much harm would come of it. no; the peacemaker of the family must not do that. and then the words floated into nettie's mind again, "blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of god." like a strain of the sweetest music it floated in; and if an angel had come and brought the words straight to nettie, she could not have been more comforted. she felt the rats could not hurt her while she was within hearing of that music; and she got up and kneeled down upon the chest under the little window, and looked out. it was like the day that had passed, not like the evening. so purely and softly the moon-beams lay on all the fields and trees and hills, there was no sign of anything but peace and purity to be seen. no noise of men's work or voices; no clangour of the iron foundry which on week-days might be heard; no sight of anything unlovely; but the wide beauty which god had made, and the still peace and light which he had spread over it. every little flapping leaf seemed to nettie to tell of its maker; and the music of those words seemed to be all through the still air--"blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of god." tears of gladness and hope slowly gathered in nettie's eyes. the children of god will enter in, by-and-bye, through those pearly gates, into that city of gold "where they need no candle, neither light of the sun, for the lord god giveth them light." "so he can give me light here--or what's better than light," thought nettie. "god isn't only out there, in all that beautiful moonlight world--he is here in my poor little attic too; and he will take just as good care of me as he does of the birds, and better, for i am his child, and they are only his beautiful little servants." nettie's fear was gone. she prayed her evening prayer, and trusted herself to the lord jesus to take care of her; and then she undressed herself and lay down and went to sleep, just as quietly as any sparrow of them all, with its head under its wing. "o day of rest and gladness! o day of joy and light! o balm of care and sadness, most beautiful, most bright! on thee the high and lowly, through ages join'd in tune, sing, holy, holy, holy, to the great god triune." chapter iii. _nettie's garret._ "i will fear no evil, for thou art with me."--_psalm_ xxiii. . nettie's attic grew to be a very pleasant place to her. she never heard the least sound of rats; and it was so nicely out of the way. barry never came up there, and there she could not even hear the voices of her father and mr. lumber. she had a tired time of it down stairs. the first afternoon was a good specimen of the way things went on. nettie's mornings were always spent at school; mrs. mathieson would have that, as she said, whether she could get on without nettie or no. from the time nettie got home till she went to bed she was as busy as she could be. there was so much bread to make and so much beef and pork to boil, and so much washing of pots and kettles; and at meal-times there was often cakes to fry, besides all the other preparations. mr. mathieson seemed to have made up his mind that his lodger's rent should all go to the table and be eaten up immediately; but the difficulty was to make as much as he expected of it in that line; for now he brought none of his own earnings home, and mrs. mathieson had more than a sad guess where they went. by degrees he came to be very little at home in the evenings, and he carried off barry with him. nettie saw her mother burdened with a great outward and inward care at once, and stood in the breach all she could. she worked to the extent of her strength, and beyond it, in the endless getting and clearing away of meals; and watching every chance, when the men were out of the way, she would coax her mother to sit down and read a chapter in her testament. "it will rest you so, mother," nettie would say; "and i will make the bread just as soon as i get the dishes done. do let me! i like to do it." sometimes mrs. mathieson could not be persuaded; sometimes she would yield, in a despondent kind of way, and sit down with the testament, and look at it as if neither there nor anywhere else in the universe could she find rest or comfort any more. "it don't signify, child," said she, one afternoon when nettie had been urging her to sit down and read. "i haven't the heart to do anything. we're all driving to rack and ruin just as fast as we can go." "oh no, mother," said nettie, "i don't think we are." "i am sure of it. i see it coming every day. every day it is a little worse; and barry is going along with your father; and they are destroying me among them, body and soul too." "no, mother," said nettie, "i don't think that. i have prayed the lord jesus, and you know he has promised to hear prayer; and i know we are not going to ruin." "_you_ are not, child, i believe; but you are the only one of us that isn't. i wish i was dead, to be out of my misery!" "sit down, mother, and read a little bit; and don't talk so. do, mother! it will be an hour or more yet to supper, and i'll get it ready. you sit down and read, and i'll make the shortcakes. do, mother! and you'll feel better." it was half despair and half persuasion that made her do it; but mrs. mathieson did sit down by the open window and take her testament; and nettie flew quietly about, making her shortcakes and making up the fire and setting the table, and through it all casting many a loving glance over to the open book in her mother's hand, and the weary, stony face that was bent over it. nettie had not said how her own back was aching, and she forgot it almost in her business and her thoughts; though by the time her work was done her head was aching wearily too. but cakes and table and fire and everything else were in readiness; and nettie stole up behind her mother and leaned over her shoulder--leaned a little heavily. "don't that chapter comfort you, mother?" she whispered. "no. it don't seem to me as i've got any feeling left," said mrs. mathieson. it was the fourth chapter of john at which they were both looking. "don't it comfort you to read of jesus being wearied?" nettie went on, her head lying on her mother's shoulder. "why should it, child?" "i like to read it," said nettie. "then i know he knows how i feel sometimes." "god knows everything, nettie." with that mrs. mathieson cast down her book and burst into such a passion of weeping that nettie was frightened. it was like the breaking up of an icy winter. she flung her apron over her head and sobbed aloud; till, hearing the steps of the men upon the staircase, she rushed off to barry's room, and presently got quiet, for she came out to supper as if nothing had happened. from that time there was a gentler mood upon her mother; nettie saw, though she looked weary and careworn as ever, there was now not often the hard, dogged look which had been wont to be there for months past. nettie had no difficulty to get her to read the testament; and of all things, what she liked was to get a quiet hour of an evening alone with nettie, and hear her sing hymns. but both nettie and she had a great deal, as mrs. mathieson said, "to put up with." as weeks went on, the father of the family was more and more out at nights, and less and less agreeable when he was at home. he and his friend lumber helped each other in mischief. the lodger's rent and board had been at first given for the household daily expenses; but then mr. mathieson began to pay over a smaller sum, saying that it was all that was due; and mrs. mathieson began to suspect that the rest had been paid away already for brandy. then mr. mathieson told her to trade at jackson's on account, and he would settle the bill. mrs. mathieson held off from this as long as it was possible. she and nettie did their very best to make the little that was given them go a good way: they wasted not a crumb nor a penny. by degrees it came to be very customary for mrs. mathieson and nettie to make their meal of porridge and bread, after all the more savoury food had been devoured by the others; and many a weary patch and darn filled the night hours because they had not money to buy a cheap dress or two. nettie bore it very patiently. mrs. mathieson was sometimes impatient. "this won't last me through the week, to get the things you want," she said one saturday to her husband, when he gave her what he said was lumber's payment to him. "you'll have to make it last," said he gruffly. "will you tell me how i'm going to do that? here isn't more than half what you gave me at first." "send to jackson's for what you want!" he roared at her; "didn't i tell you so? and don't come bothering me with your noise." "when will you pay jackson?" "i'll pay you first!" he said, with an oath, and very violently. it was a ruder word than he had ever said to her before, and mrs. mathieson was staggered for a moment by it; but there was another word she was determined to say. "may do what you like to me," she said, doggedly; "but i should think you would see for yourself that nettie has too much to get on with. she is getting just as thin and pale as she can be." "that's just your fool's nonsense!" said mr. mathieson; but he spoke it more quietly. nettie just then entered the room. "here, nettie, what ails you? come here. let's look at you. ain't you as strong as ever you was? here's your mother says you're getting puny." nettie's smile and answer were so placid and untroubled, and the little colour that rose in her cheeks at her father's question made her look so fresh and well, that he was quieted. he drew her within his arms, for his gentle, dutiful little daughter had a place in his respect and affection both, though he did not often show it very broadly; but now he kissed her. "there!" said he; "don't you go to growing thin and weak without telling me, for i don't like such doings. you tell me when you want anything." but with that mr. mathieson got up and went off out of the house; and nettie had small chance to tell him if she wanted anything. however, this little word and kiss were a great comfort and pleasure to her. it was the last she had from him in a good while. nettie, however, was not working for praise or kisses, and very little of either she got. generally her father was rough, imperious, impatient, speaking fast enough if anything went wrong, but very sparing in expressions of pleasure. sometimes a blessing did come upon her from the very depth of mrs. mathieson's heart, and went straight to nettie's; but it was for another blessing she laboured, and prayed, and waited. as the summer passed away, it began to grow cold, too, up in her garret. nettie had never thought of that. as long as the summer sun warmed the roof well in the day, and only the soft summer wind played in and out of her window at night, it was all very well, and nettie thought her sleeping-chamber was the best in the whole house, for it was nearest the sky. but august departed with its sunny days, and september grew cool in the evening; and october brought still sunny days, it is true, but the nights had a clear sharp frost in them; and nettie was obliged to cover herself up warm in bed and look at the moonlight and the stars as she could see them through the little square opening left by the shutter. the stars looked very lovely to nettie, when they peeped at her so in her bed out of their high heaven; and she was very content. then came november; and the winds began to come into the garret, not only through the open window, but through every crack between two boards. the whole garret was filled with the winds, nettie thought. it was hard work managing then. shutting the shutter would bar out the stars, but not the wind, she found; and to keep from being quite chilled through at her times of prayer, morning and evening, nettie used to take the blanket and coverlets from the bed, and wrap herself in them. it was all she could do. still, she forgot the inconveniences; and her little garret chamber seemed to nettie very near heaven, as well as near the sky. but all this way of life did not make her grow strong or rosy; and though nettie never told her father that she wanted anything, her mother's heart measured the times when it ought to be told. chapter iv. _the brown cloak in november._ "how long, o lord?"--_rev._ vi. . november days drew toward an end; december was near. one afternoon mrs. mathieson, wanting nettie, went to the foot of the garret stairs to call her. "yes, mother. coming." "fetch down your school cloak, child." she went back to her room, and presently nettie came in with the cloak, looking placid as usual, but very pale. "somebody's got to go to mr. jackson's, but you ain't fit, child; you ate next to nothing at noon. you can't live on porridge." "i like it, mother; but i wasn't hungry. what's wanting from jackson's?" nettie put on her cloak, and took her basket, and went out. it was after sundown already, and a keen wind swept through the village street, and swept through nettie's brown cloak too, tight as she wrapt it about her. but though she was cold and blue, and the wind seemed to go through _her_ as well as the cloak, nettie was thinking of something else. she knew that her mother had eaten a very scanty, poor sort of dinner, as well as herself, and that _she_ often looked pale and wan; and nettie was almost ready to wish she had not given the last penny of her shilling on sunday to the missionary-box. "what do you want?" said mr. jackson, rather curtly, when nettie's turn came to be served, and she had told her errand. "what!" he exclaimed, "seven pounds of meal, and a pound of butter, and two pounds of sugar! well, you tell your father that i should like to have my bill settled; it's all drawn up, you see, and i don't like to open a new account till it's all square." he turned away immediately to another customer, and nettie felt she had got her answer. she stood a moment, very disappointed, and a little mortified, and somewhat downhearted. what should they do for supper? and what a storm there would be when her father heard about all this, and found nothing but bread and tea on the table! slowly nettie turned away, and slowly made the few steps from the door to the corner. she felt very blue indeed; coming out of the warm store, the chill wind made her shiver. just at the corner somebody stopped her. "nettie!" said the voice of the little french baker, "what ails you? you look not well." nettie gave her a grateful smile, and said she was well. "you look not like it," said madame auguste; "you look as if the wind might carry you off before you get home. come to my house; i want to see you in the light." "i haven't time; i must go home to mother, mrs. august." "yes, i know! you will go home all the faster for coming this way first. you have not been to see me in these three or four weeks." she carried nettie along with her; it was but a step, and nettie did not feel capable of resisting anything. the little frenchwoman put her into the shop before her, made her sit down, and lighted a candle. the shop was nice and warm, and full of the savoury smell of fresh baking. "we have made our own bread lately," said nettie, in answer to the charge of not coming there. "do you make it good?" said madame auguste. "it isn't like yours, mrs. august," said nettie, smiling. "if you will come and live with me next summer, i will teach you how to do some things; and you shall not look so blue neither. have you had your supper?" "no; and i am just going home to get supper. i must go, mrs. august." "you come in here," said the frenchwoman; "you are my prisoner. i am all alone, and i want somebody for company. you take off your cloak, nettie, and i shall give you something to keep the wind out. you do what i bid you!" nettie felt too cold and weak to make any ado about complying, unless duty had forbade; and she thought there was time enough yet. she let her cloak drop, and took off her hood. the little back room to which madame auguste had brought her was only a trifle bigger than the bit of a shop; but it was as cozy as it was little. a tiny stove warmed it, and kept warm, too, a tiny iron pot and tea-kettle, which were steaming away. the bed was at one end, draped nicely with red curtains; there was a little looking-glass, and some prints in frames round the walls; there was madame's little table covered with a purple cloth, and with her work and a small clock and various pretty things on it. madame auguste had gone to a cupboard in the wall, and taken out a couple of plates and little bowls, which she set on a little round stand; and then lifting the cover of the pot on the stove, she ladled out a bowlful of what was in it, and gave it to nettie with one of her nice crisp rolls. "eat that!" she said. "i shan't let you go home till you have swallowed that to keep the cold out. it makes me all freeze to look at you." so she filled her own bowl, and made good play with her spoon, while between spoonfuls she looked at nettie; and the good little woman smiled in her heart to see how easy it was for nettie to obey her. the savoury, simple, comforting broth she had set before her was the best thing to the child's delicate stomach that she had tasted for many a day. "is it good?" said the frenchwoman, when nettie's bowl was half empty. "it's so good!" said nettie. "i didn't know i was so hungry." "now you will not feel the cold so," said the frenchwoman, "and you will go back quicker. do you like my _riz-au-gras_?" "_what_ is it, ma'am?" said nettie. the frenchwoman laughed, and made nettie say it over till she could pronounce the words. "now you like it," she said, "that is a french dish. do you think mrs. mat'ieson would like it?" "i am sure she would!" said nettie. "but i don't know how to make it." "you shall come here, and i will teach it to you. and now you shall carry a little home to your mother, and ask her if she will do the honour to a french dish to approve it. it do not cost anything. i cannot sell much bread the winters; i live on what cost me nothing." while saying this, madame auguste had filled a little pail with the _riz-au-gras_, and put a couple of her rolls along with it. "it must have the french bread," she said; and she gave it to nettie, who looked quite cheered up, and very grateful. "you are a good little girl!" she said. "how keep you always your face looking so happy? there is always one little streak of sunshine here"--drawing her finger across above nettie's eyebrows--"and another here,"--and her finger passed over the line of nettie's lips. "that's because i _am_ happy, mrs. august." "_always?_" "yes, always." "what makes you so happy always? you was just the same in the cold winter out there, as when you was eating my _riz-au-gras_. now, me--i am cross in the cold, and not happy." but the frenchwoman saw a deeper light come into nettie's eyes as she answered, "it is because i love the lord jesus, mrs. august, and he makes me happy." "_you?_" said madame. "my child! what do you say, nettie? i think not i have heard you right." "yes, mrs. august, i am happy because i love jesus. i know he loves me, and he will take me to be with him." "not just yet," said the frenchwoman, "i hope. well, i wish i was so happy as you, nettie. good bye!" nettie ran home, more comforted by her good supper, and more thankful to the goodness of god in giving it, and happy in the feeling of his goodness, than can be told. and very, very glad she was of that little tin pail in her hand she knew her mother needed. mrs. mathieson had time to eat the rice broth before her husband came in. "she said she would show me how to make it," said nettie, "and it don't cost anything." "why, it's just rice and--_what_ is it? i don't see," said mrs. mathieson. "it isn't rice and milk." nettie laughed at her mother. "mrs. august didn't tell. she called it reeso--i forget what she called it!" "it's the best thing i ever saw," said mrs. mathieson. "there--put the pail away. your father's coming." he was in a terrible humour, as they expected; and nettie and her mother had a sad evening of it. and the same sort of thing lasted for several days. mrs. mathieson hoped that perhaps mr. lumber would take into his head to seek lodgings somewhere else, or, at least, that mathieson would have been shamed into paying jackson's bill; but neither thing happened. mr. lumber found his quarters too comfortable; and mr. mathieson spent too much of his earnings on drink to find the amount necessary to clear off the scores at the grocer's shop. from that time, as they could run up no new account, the family were obliged to live on what they could immediately pay for. that was seldom a sufficient supply; and so, in dread of the storms that came whenever their wants touched mr. mathieson's own comfort, nettie and her mother denied themselves constantly what they very much needed. the old can sometimes bear this better than the young. nettie grew more delicate, more thin, and more feeble every day. it troubled her mother sadly. mr. mathieson could not be made to see it. indeed, he was little at home except when he was eating. "scarce discerning aught before us, on our weary way we go; but one guiding star is o'er us, beaming forth the way to show. "watch we, pray we, that we sink not, journeying on while yet we can; at a moment when we think not we shall meet the son of man." chapter v. _the new blanket._ "lift up your hands in the sanctuary, and bless the lord." _ps._ cxxxiv. . it was very cold up in nettie's garret now; the winter had moved on into the latter part of december, and the frosts were very keen; and the winter winds seemed to come in at one end of the attic and to just sweep through to the other, bringing all except the snow with them. even the snow often drifted in through the cracks of the rough wainscoat board, or under the shutter, and lay in little white streaks or heaps on the floor, and never melted. to-night there was no wind, and nettie had left her shutter open, that she might see the stars as she lay in bed. it did not make much difference in the feeling of the place, for it was about as cold inside as out; and the stars were great friends of nettie's. how bright they looked down to-night! it was very cold, and lying awake made nettie colder: she shivered sometimes under all her coverings; still she lay looking at the stars in that square patch of sky that her shutter-opening gave her to see, and thinking of the golden city. "they shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. for the lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters; and god shall wipe all tears from their eyes." "his servants shall serve him,"--thought nettie; "and mother will be there, and barry--and i shall be there! and then i shall be happy. and i am happy now. 'blessed be the lord, which hath not turned away my prayer, nor his mercy from me!'" and if that verse went through nettie's head once, it did fifty times: so did this one, which the quiet stars seemed to repeat and whisper to her, "the lord redeemeth the soul of his servants, and none of them that trust in him shall be desolate." and though now and then a shiver passed over nettie's shoulders with the cold, she was ready to sing for very gladness and fulness of heart. but lying awake and shivering did not do nettie's little body any good; she looked so very white the next day that it caught even mr. mathieson's attention. he reached out his arm and drew nettie toward him, as she was passing between the cupboard and the table. then he looked at her, but he did not say how she looked. "do you know the day after to-morrow is christmas day?" said he. "yes, i know. it's the day when christ was born," said nettie. "well, i don't know anything about that," said her father; "but what i mean is, that a week after is new year. what would you like me to give you, nettie,--hey?" nettie stood still for a moment, then her eyes lighted up. "will you give it to me, father, if i tell you?" "i don't know. if it is not extravagant, perhaps i will." "it will not cost much," said nettie, earnestly. "will you give me what i choose, father, if it does not cost too much?" "i suppose i will. what is it?" "father, you won't be displeased?" "not i!" said mr. mathieson, drawing nettie's little form tighter in his grasp: he thought he had never felt it so slight and thin before. "father, i am going to ask you a great thing!--to go to church with me new year's day." "to church!" said her father, frowning; but he remembered his promise, and he felt nettie in his arms yet. "what on earth good will that do you?" "a great deal of good. it would please me so much, father." "what do you want me to go to church for?" said mr. mathieson, not sure yet what humour he was going to be in. "to thank god, father, that there was a christmas, when jesus came, that we might have a new year." "what--what!" said mr. mathieson. "what are you talking about?" "because, father," said nettie, trembling, and seizing her chance, "since jesus loved us, and came and died for us, we all may have a new year of glory. i shall, father; and i want you too. oh do, father!" and nettie burst into tears. mr. mathieson held her fast, and his face showed a succession of changes for a minute or so. but she presently raised her head and kissed him, and said, "may i have what i want, father?" "yes--go along," said mr. mathieson. "i should like to know how to refuse you, though. but, nettie, don't you want me to give you anything else?" "nothing else!" she told him, with her face all shining with joy. mr. mathieson looked at her, and seemed very thoughtful all supper-time. "can't you strengthen that child up a bit?" he said to his wife afterwards. "she does too much." "she does as little as i can help," said mrs. mathieson, "but she is always at something. i am afraid her room is too cold o' nights. she ain't fit to bear it. it's bitter up there." "give her another blanket or quilt, then," said her husband. "i should think you would see to that. does she say she is cold?" "no,--never, except sometimes when i see her looking blue, and ask her." "and what does she say then?" "she says sometimes she is a little cold," said mrs. mathieson. "well, do put something more over her, and have no more of it!" said her husband, violently. "sit still and let the child be cold, when another covering would make it all right!"--and he ended with swearing at her. mrs. mathieson did not dare to tell him that nettie's food was not of a sufficiently nourishing kind: she knew what the answer to that would be; and she feared that a word more about nettie's sleeping-room would be thought an attack upon mr. lumber's being in the house. so she was silent. but there came home something for nettie in the course of the christmas week, which comforted her a little, and perhaps quieted mr. mathieson too. he brought with him, on coming home to supper one evening, a great thick roll of a bundle, and put it in nettie's arms, telling her that was for her new year. "for me?" said nettie, the colour starting a little into her cheeks. "yes, for you. open it, and see." so nettie did, with some trouble, and there tumbled out upon the floor a great heavy warm blanket, new from the shop. mr. mathieson thought the pink in her cheeks was the prettiest thing he had seen in a long while. "is this for _me_, father?" "i mean it to be so. see if it will go on that bed of yours, and keep you warm." nettie gave her father some very hearty thanks, which he took in a silent, pleased way; and then she hastened off with her blanket upstairs. how thick and warm it was! and how nicely it would keep her comfortable when she knelt all wrapped up in it on that cold floor! for a little while it would; not even a warm blanket would keep her from the cold more than a little while at a time up there. but nettie tried its powers the first thing she did. did mr. mathieson mean the blanket to take the place of his promise? nettie thought of that, but like a wise child she said nothing at all till the sunday morning came. then, before she set off for sunday school, she came to her father's elbow. "father, i'll be home at a quarter after ten; will you be ready then?" "ready for what?" said mr. mathieson. "for my new year's gift," said nettie. "you know you promised i should go to church with you." "did i? and ain't you going to take the blanket for your new year's gift, and let me off, nettie?" "no, father, to be sure not. i'll be home at a quarter past; please don't forget." and nettie went off to school very thankful and happy, for her father's tone was not unkind. how glad she was new year's day had come on sunday! mr. mathieson was as good as his word. he was ready at the time, and they walked to the church together. that was a great day to nettie. her father and mother going to church in company with her and with each other! and when they got to church, it seemed as if every word of the prayers, and of the reading, and of the hymns, and of the sermon, struck on all nettie's nerves of hearing and feeling. would her father understand any of those sweet words? would he feel them? would they reach him? nettie little thought that what he felt most, what _did_ reach him, though he did not thoroughly understand it, was the look of her own face, though she never but once dared turn it toward him. there was a little colour in it more than usual; her eye was deep in its earnestness; and the grave set of her little mouth was broken up now and then in a way that mr. mathieson wanted to watch better than the straight sides of her sun-bonnet would let him. once he thought he saw something more. he walked home very soberly, and was a good deal on the silent order during the rest of the day. he did not go to church in the afternoon. but in the evening, as her mother was busy in and out getting supper ready, and mr. lumber had not come in, mr. mathieson called nettie to his side. "what were you crying for in church this forenoon?" he said low. "crying!" said nettie, surprised. "was i crying?" "if it wasn't tears i saw dropping from under your hands on to the floor, it must have been some drops of rain that had got there, and i don't see how they could very well. there warn't no rain outside. what was it for, hey?" there came a great flush all over nettie's face, and she did not at once speak. "hey?--what was it for?"--repeated mr. mathieson. the flush passed away. nettie spoke very low, and with lips all of a quiver. "i remember. i was thinking, father, how 'all things are ready'--and i couldn't help wishing that you were ready too." "ready for what?" said mr. mathieson, somewhat roughly. "all things ready for what?" "ready for you," said nettie. "jesus is ready to love you, and calls you--and the angels are ready to rejoice for you--and i----" "go on. what of you?" nettie lifted her eyes to him. "i am ready to rejoice too, father." but the time of rejoicing was not yet. nettie burst into tears. mr. mathieson was not angry, yet he flung away from her with a rude "pshaw!" and that was all the answer she got. but the truth was, that there was something in nettie's look of tenderness, and purity, and trembling hope, that her father's heart could not bear to meet; and, what is more, that he was never able to forget. nettie went about her evening business, helping her mother, and keeping back the tears which were very near again; and mr. mathieson began to talk with mr. lumber, and everything was to all appearance just as it had been hitherto. and so it went on after that. "well i know thy troubles, o my servant true! thou art very weary-- i was weary too: but that toil shall make thee some day all mine own; and the end of sorrow shall be near my throne!" chapter vi. _the house-raising._[ ] "in your patience possess ye your souls."--_luke_ xxi. . it grew colder and colder in nettie's garret--or else she grew thinner and felt it more. she certainly thought it was colder. the snow came, and piled a thick covering on the roof, and stopped up some of the chinks in the clapboarding with its white caulking; and that made the place a little better: then the winds from off the snow-covered country were keen and bitter. footnote : a festival common in america on the completion of a house. one morning nettie went to barry secretly in his room, and asked him to bring the pail of water from the spring for her. barry had no mind to the job. "why can't mother do it," he said, "if you can't?" "mother is busy and hasn't a minute. i always do it for her." "well, why can't you go on doing it? you're accustomed to it, you see, and i don't like going out so early," said barry, stretching himself. "i would, and i wouldn't ask you, only, barry, somehow i don't think i'm quite strong lately, and i can hardly bring the pail--it's so heavy to me. i have to stop and rest ever so many times before i can get to the house with it." "well, if you stop and rest, i suppose it won't hurt you," said barry. "_i_ should want to stop and rest too, myself." his little sister was turning away, giving it up, when she was met by her father, who stepped in from the entry. he looked red with anger. "you take the pail, and go get the water!" said he to his son; "and you hear me! don't you let nettie bring in another pailful when you're at home, or i'll turn you out of the house. you lazy scoundrel! you don't deserve the bread you eat. would you let her work for you, when you are as strong as sixty?" barry's grumbled words in answer were so very unsatisfactory, that mr. mathieson in a rage advanced towards him with uplifted fist; but nettie sprang in between, and very nearly caught the blow that was meant for her brother. "please, father, don't!" she cried;--"please, father, don't be angry! barry didn't think--he didn't----" "why didn't he?" said mr. mathieson. "great lazy rascal! he wants to be flogged." "oh, don't!" said nettie: "he didn't know why i asked him, or he wouldn't have refused me." "why did you, then?" "because it made my back ache so to bring it--i couldn't help asking him." "did you ever ask him before?" "never mind, please, father!" said nettie, sweetly. "just don't think about me, and don't be angry with barry. it's no matter now." "who does think about you? your mother don't, or she would have seen to this before." "mother didn't know my back ached. father, you know she hasn't a minute: she is so busy getting breakfast in time; and she didn't know i wasn't strong enough. father, don't tell her, please, i asked barry. it would worry her so. please don't, father." "_you_ think of folks, anyhow. you're a regular peacemaker!" exclaimed mr. mathieson, as he turned away and left her. nettie stood still, the flush paling on her cheek, her hand pressed to her side. "am i that?" she thought. "shall i be that? o lord, my saviour, my dear redeemer, send thy peace here!" she was still in the same place and position when barry came in again. "it's wretched work!" he exclaimed, under his breath, for his father was in the next room. "it's as slippery as the plague going down that path to the water: it's no use to have legs, for you can't hold up. i'm all froze stiff with the water i've spilt on me!" "i know it's very slippery," said nettie. "and then you can't get at the water when you're there, without stepping into it--it's filled chuck full of snow and ice all over the edge. it's the most wretched work!" "i know it, barry," said nettie. "i am sorry you have to do it." "why did you make me do it, then?" said he angrily. "you got it your own way this time. but never mind; i'll be even with you for it." "barry," said his sister, "please do it just a little while for me, till i get stronger and don't mind; and as soon as ever i can i'll do it again. but you don't know how it made me ache all through, bringing the pail up that path." "stuff!" said barry. and from that time, though he did not fail to bring the water in the morning, yet nettie saw he owed her a grudge for it all the day afterward. he was almost always away with his father, and she had little chance to win him to better feeling. so the winter slowly passed and the spring came. spring months came, at least; and now and then, to be sure, a sweet spring day, when all nature softened; the sun shone mildly, the birds sang, the air smelt sweet with the opening buds. "there's that house-raising to-morrow, nettie," said mrs. mathieson; "it's been on my mind this fortnight past, and it kills me." "why, mother?" "i know how it will be," said mrs. mathieson: "they'll have a grand set-to after they get it up, and your father'll be in the first of it; and i somehow feel as if it would be the finishing of him. i wish almost he'd get ill--or anything to keep him away. they make such a time after a house-raising." "oh, mother, don't wish that," said nettie; but she began to think how it would be possible to withdraw her father from the frolic with which the day's business would be ended. mr. mathieson was a carpenter, and a fine workman, and always had plenty of work, and was much looked up to among his fellows. nettie began to think whether _she_ could make any effort to keep her father from the dangers into which he was so fond of plunging. hitherto she had done nothing but pray for him: could she do anything more, with any chance of good coming of it? she thought and thought, and resolved that she must try. it did not look hopeful; there was little she could urge to lure mr. mathieson from his drinking companions; nothing except her own timid affection and the one other thing it was possible to offer him--a good supper. how to get that was not so easy; but she consulted with her mother. mrs. mathieson said she used in her younger days to know how to make waffles[ ], and mr. mathieson used to think they were the best things that ever were made: now, if mrs. moss, a neighbour, would lend her waffle-iron, and she could get a few eggs, she believed she could manage it still. footnote : _waffles_, a species of sweet cake used on such festivals in america. "but we haven't the eggs, child," she said; "and i don't believe any power under heaven can get him to come away from that raising frolic." nor did nettie. it was to no power _under_ heaven that she trusted. but she must use her means. she easily got the iron from mrs. moss. then she borrowed the eggs from madame auguste, who in lent-time always had them; then she watched with grave eyes, and many a heart-prayer the while, the mixing and making of the waffles. "how do you manage the iron, mother?" "why, it is made hot," said mrs. mathieson, "very hot, and buttered; and then, when the batter is light, you pour it in and clap it together, and put it in the stove." "but how can you pour it in, mother? i don't see how you can fill the iron." "why, you can't, child; you fill one half, and shut it together: and when it bakes it rises up and fills the other half. you'll see." the first thing nettie asked when she came home from school in the afternoon was, if the waffles were light? she never saw any look better, mrs. mathieson said. "but i forgot, child, we ought to have cinnamon and white sugar to eat on them. it was so that your father used to admire them; they won't be waffles without sugar and cinnamon. i'm afraid he'll think----but i don't believe you'll get him home to think anything about them." mrs. mathieson ended with a sigh. nettie said nothing; she went round the room, putting it in particularly nice order, then set the table. when all that was right, she went up to her garret, and knelt down and prayed that god would take care of her and bless her errand. she put the whole matter in the lord's hands; then she dressed herself in her hood and cloak, and went down to her mother. mr. mathieson had not come home to dinner, being busy with the house-raising; so they had had no opportunity to invite him, and nettie was now on her way to do it. "it's turned a bad afternoon; i'm afraid it ain't fit for you to go, nettie." "i don't mind," said nettie. "maybe i'll get some sugar and cinnamon, mother, before i come back." "well, you know where the raising is; it's out on the shallonway road, on beyond mrs. august's a good bit." nettie nodded and went out; and as the door closed on her grave, sweet little face, her mother felt a great strain on her heart. she would have been glad to relieve herself by tears, but it was a dry pain that would not be relieved so. she went to the window and looked out at the weather. "lord, thy children guide and keep, as with feeble steps they press on the pathway rough and steep, through this weary wilderness. holy jesu, day by day lead us in the narrow way. "there are stony ways to tread; give the strength we sorely lack. there are tangled paths to thread; light us, lest we miss the track. holy jesu, day by day lead us in the narrow way." chapter vii. _the waffles._ "my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways," saith the lord.--_isaiah_ lv. . the early part of the day had been brilliant and beautiful; then, march-like, it had changed about, gathered up a whole skyful of clouds, and turned at last to snowing. the large feathery flakes were falling now fast; melting as fast as they fell; making everything wet and chill, in the air and under the foot. nettie had no overshoes: she was accustomed to get her feet wet very often, so that was nothing new. she hugged herself in her brown cloak, on which the beautiful snow-flakes rested white a moment and then melted away, gradually wetting the covering of her arms and shoulders in a way that would reach through by-and-bye. nettie thought little of it. what was she thinking of? she was comforting herself with the thought of that strong and blessed friend who has promised to be always with his servants, and remembering his promise, "they shall not be ashamed that wait for me." what did the snow and the wet matter to nettie? yet she looked too much like a snow-flake herself when she reached mr. jackson's store and went in. the white frost had lodged all round her old black silk hood, and even edged the shoulders of her brown cloak; and the white little face within looked just as pure. mr. jackson looked at her with more than usual attention; and when nettie asked him if he would let her have a shilling's-worth of fine white sugar and cinnamon, and trust her till the next week for the money, he made not the slightest difficulty, but measured or weighed it out for her directly, and even said he would trust her for more than that. so nettie thanked him, and went on to the less easy part of her errand. her heart began to beat a little bit now. the feathery snowflakes fell thicker, and made everything wetter than ever; it was very raw and chill, and few people were abroad. nettie went on, past the little bake-woman's house, and past all the thickly built part of the village. then came houses more scattered--large handsome houses, with beautiful gardens and grounds, and handsome palings along the road-side. past one or two of these, and then there was a space of wild ground; and here mr. jackson was putting up a new house for himself, and meant to have a fine place. the wild bushes grew in a thick hedge along by the fence, but over the tops of them nettie could see the new timbers of the frame that the carpenters had been raising that day. she went on till she came to an opening in the hedge and fence as well, and then the new building was close before her. the men were at work yet, finishing their day's business; the sound of hammering rang sharp on all sides of the frame; some were up on the ladders, some were below. nettie walked slowly up and then round the place, searching for her father. at last she found him. he and barry, who was learning his father's trade, were on the ground at one side of the frame, busy as bees. talking was going on roundly too, as well as hammering, and nettie drew near and stood a few minutes without any one noticing her. she was not in a hurry to interrupt the work nor to tell her errand: she waited. barry saw her first, but ungraciously would not speak to her nor for her. if she was there for anything, he said to himself, it was for some spoil-sport; and one pail of water a day was enough for him. mr. mathieson was looking the other way. "i say, mathieson," called one of the men from the inside of the frame, "i s'pose 'tain't worth carrying any of this stuff--jackson'll have enough without it?" the words were explained, to nettie's horror, by a jug in the man's hands, which he lifted to his lips. "jackson will do something handsome in that way to-night," said nettie's father; "or he'll not do as he's done by, such a wet evening. but i've stood to my word, and i expect he'll stand to his'n." "he gave his word there was to be oysters, warn't it?" called another man, from the top of the ladder. "punch and oysters," said mathieson, hammering away, "or i've raised the last frame i ever _will_ raise for him. i expect he'll stand it." "oysters ain't much 'count," said another speaker. "i'd rather have a slice of good sweet pork any day." "father," said nettie. she had come close up to him, but she trembled. what possible chance could she have? "holloa!" said mr. mathieson, turning suddenly. "nettie!--what's the matter, girl?" he spoke roughly, and nettie saw that his face was red. she trembled all over, but spoke as bravely as she could. "father, i am come to invite you home to supper to-night. mother and i have a particular reason to want to see you. will you come?" "come where?" said mr. mathieson, but half understanding her. "come home to tea, father. i came to ask you. mother has made something you like." "i'm busy, child. go home. i'm going to supper at jackson's. go home." he turned to his hammering again. but nettie stood still in the snow and waited. "father," she said, after a minute, coming yet closer and speaking more low. "what! ain't you gone?" exclaimed mr. mathieson. "father," said nettie, softly, "mother has made waffles for you; and you used to like them so much, she says; and they are light and beautiful, and just ready to bake. won't you come and have them with us? mother says they'll be very nice." "why didn't she make 'em another time," grumbled barry, "when we weren't going to punch and oysters? that's a better game." if mathieson had not been drinking, he might have been touched by the sight of nettie; so very white and delicate her little face looked, trembling and eager, within that border of her black hood, on which the snow crystals lay, a very doubtful and unwholesome embroidery. she looked as if she was going to melt and disappear like one of them; and perhaps mr. mathieson did feel the effect of her presence, but he felt it only to be vexed and irritated; and barry's suggestion fell into ready ground. "i tell you, go home!" he said, roughly. "what are you doing here? i tell you i'm _not_ coming home--i'm engaged to supper to-night, and i'm not going to miss it for any fool's nonsense. go home!" nettie's lip trembled, but that was all the outward show of the agitation within. she would not have delayed to obey if her father had been quite himself; but in his present condition she thought perhaps the next word might undo the last; she could not go without another trial. she waited an instant, and again said softly and pleadingly, "father, i've been and got cinnamon and sugar for you,--all ready." "cinnamon and sugar--" he cursed with a great oath; and turning, gave nettie a violent push from him, which was half a blow. "go home!" he repeated--"go home and mind your own business, and don't take it upon you to mind mine." nettie reeled, staggered, and coming blindly against one or two timbers that lay on the ground, she fell heavily over them. nobody saw her; but that her father should have laid a rough hand on her hurt her sorely; it hurt her bitterly. he had never done so before; and the cause why he came to do it now rather made it more sorrowful than less so to nettie's mind. she could not help a few salt tears from falling; and for a moment nettie's faith trembled. feeling weak, and broken, and miserable, the thought came coldly across her mind, _would_ the lord not hear her, after all? it was but a moment of faith-trembling, but it made her ill. there was more to do that: the push and fall over the timbers had jarred her more than she knew at the moment. nettie walked slowly back on her road till she neared the shop of madame auguste, then she felt herself growing very ill, and just reached the frenchwoman's door to faint away on her steps. she did not remain there two seconds. madame auguste had seen her go by an hour before, and now sat at her window looking out to amuse herself, but with a special intent to see and waylay that pale child on her repassing the house. she saw the little black hood reappear, and started to open the door, just in time to see nettie fall down at her threshold. as instantly, two willing arms were put under her, and lifted up the child and bore her into the house. then madame took off her hood, touched her lips with brandy, and her brow with cologne water, and chafed her hands. she had laid nettie on the floor of the inner room, and put a pillow under her head; the strength which had brought her so far having failed there, and proved unequal to lift her again and put her on the bed. nettie presently came to, opened her eyes, and looked at her nurse. "why, my nettie," said the little woman, "what is this, my child? what is the matter with you?" "i don't know. but i must go home!" said nettie, trying to raise herself. "mother will want me--she'll want me." "you will lie still, like a good child," said her friend, gently putting her back on her pillow; "and i will find some person to carry you home--or some person what will bring your mother here. i will go see if i can find some one now. you lie still, nettie." nettie lay still, feeling weak after that exertion of trying to raise herself. she was quite restored now, and her first thoughts were of grief that she had for a moment failed to trust fully the lord's promises. she fully trusted them now. let her father do what he would, let things look as dark as they might, nettie felt sure that "the rewarder of them that diligently seek him" had a blessing in store for her. bible words, sweet and long loved and rested on, came to her mind, and nettie rested on them with perfect rest. "for he hath not despised nor abhorred the affliction of the afflicted; neither hath he hid his face from him; but when he cried unto him, _he heard_." "our heart shall rejoice in him, _because we have trusted in his holy name_." prayer for forgiveness, and a thanksgiving of great peace, filled nettie's heart all the while the frenchwoman was gone. meanwhile madame auguste had been looking into the street, and seeing nobody out in the wet snow, she rushed back to nettie. nettie was like herself now, only very pale. "i must have cut my lip somehow," she said; "there's blood on my handkerchief. how did i come in here?" "blood!" said the frenchwoman; "where did you cut yourself, nettie? let me look!" which she did, with a face so anxious and eager that nettie smiled at her. her own brow was as quiet and placid as ever it was. "how did i get in here, mrs. august?" the frenchwoman, however, did not answer her. instead of which she went to her cupboard and got a cup and spoon, and then from a little saucepan on the stove dipped out some _riz-au-gras_ again. "what did you have for dinner, nettie? you did not tell me." "not much--i wasn't hungry," said nettie. "oh, i must get up and go home to mother." "you shall eat something first," said her friend; and she raised nettie's head upon another pillow, and began to feed her with the spoon. "it is good for you. you must take it. where is your father? don't talk, but tell me. i will do everything right." "he is at work on mr. jackson's new house." "is he there to-day?" "yes." madame auguste gave her all the "broth" in the cup, then bade her keep still, and went to the shop window. it was time for the men to be quitting work, she knew; she watched for the carpenters to come,--if they were not gone by already!--how should she know? even as she thought this, a sound of rude steps and men's voices came from down the road; and the frenchwoman went to her door and opened it. the men came along, a scattered group of four or five. "is mr. mat'ieson there?" she said. madame auguste hardly knew him by sight. "men, i say! is mr. mat'ieson there?" "george, that's you; you're wanted," said one of the group, looking back; and a fine-looking tall man paused at madame's threshold. "are you mr. mat'ieson?" said the frenchwoman. "yes, ma'am. that's my name." "will you come in? i have something to speak to you. your little daughter nettie is very ill." "ill!" exclaimed the man. "nettie!--where is she?" "she is here. hush! you must not say nothing to her, but she is very ill. she is come fainting at my door, and i have got her in here; but she wants to go home, and i think you had better tell her she will not go home, but she will stay here with me to-night." "where is she?" said mr. mathieson; and he stepped in with so little ceremony that the mistress of the house gave way before him. he looked round the shop. "she is not here--you shall see her--but you must not tell her she is ill," said the frenchwoman, anxiously. "where is she?" repeated mr. mathieson, with a tone and look which made madame auguste afraid he would burst the doors if she did not open them. she opened the inner door without further preparation, and mr. mathieson walked in. by the fading light he saw nettie lying on the floor at his feet. he was thoroughly himself now; sobered in more ways than one. he stood still when he had got there, and spoke not a word. "father," said nettie, softly. he stooped down over her. "what do you want, nettie?" "can't i go home?" "she must better not go home to-night," began madame auguste, earnestly, "it is so wet and cold! she will stay here with me to-night, mr. mat'ieson. you will tell her that it is best." but nettie said, "_please_ let me go home! mother will be so troubled." she spoke little, for she felt weak; but her father saw her very eager in the request. he stooped and put his strong arms under her, and lifted her up. "have you got anything to put over her?" he said, looking round the room. "i'll fetch it back." seeing that the matter was quite taken out of her hands, the kind little frenchwoman was very quick in her arrangements. she put on nettie's head a warm hood of her own; then round her and over her she wrapped a thick woollen counterpane, that to be sure would have let no snow through if the distance to be travelled had been twice as far. as she folded and arranged the thick stuff round nettie's head, so as to shield even her face from the outer air, she said, half whispering, "i would not tell nothing to mother about your lip; it is not much. i wish i could keep you. now she is ready, mr. mat'ieson." and mr. mathieson stalked out of the house and strode along the road with firm, swift steps, till, past jackson's, and past the turning, he came to his own door, and carried nettie upstairs. he never said a word the whole way. nettie was too muffled up and too feeble to speak; so the first word was when he had come in and sat down in a chair, which he did with nettie still in his arms. mrs. mathieson, standing white and silent, waited to see what was the matter; she had no power to ask a question. her husband unfolded the counterpane that was wrapped round nettie's head; and there she was, looking very like her usual self, only exceedingly pale. as soon as she caught sight of her mother's face, nettie would have risen and stood up, but her father's arms held her fast. "what do you want, nettie?" he asked. it was the first word. "nothing, father," said nettie, "only lay me on the bed, please; and then you and mother have supper." mr. mathieson took her to the bed and laid her gently down, removing the wet counterpane which was round her. "what is the matter?" faltered mrs. mathieson. "nothing much, mother," said nettie, quietly; "only i was a little ill. won't you bake the waffles and have supper?" "what will _you_ have?" said her father. "nothing--i've had something. i feel nicely now," said nettie. "mother, won't you have supper, and let me see you?" mrs. mathieson's strength had well-nigh deserted her; but nettie's desire was urgent, and seeing that her husband had seated himself by the bed-side, and seemed to have no idea of being anywhere but at home that evening, she at length gathered up her faculties to do what was the best thing to be done, and went about preparing the supper. nettie's eyes watched her, and mr. mathieson, when he thought himself safe, watched _her_. he did not look like the same man, so changed and sobered was the expression of his face. mrs. mathieson was devoured by fear, even in observing this; but nettie was exceedingly happy. she did not feel anything but weakness; and she lay on her pillow watching the waffles baked and sugared, and then watching them eaten, wondering and rejoicing within herself at the way in which her father had been brought to eat his supper there at home after all. she was the only one that enjoyed anything, though her father and mother ate to please her. mrs. mathieson had asked an account of nettie's illness, and got a very unsatisfactory one. she had been faint, her husband said; he had found her at mrs. auguste's, and brought her home; that was about all. after supper he came and sat by nettie again, and said she was to sleep there, and he would go up and take nettie's place in the attic. nettie in vain said she was well enough to go upstairs; her father cut the question short, and bade mrs. mathieson go up and get anything nettie wanted. when she had left the room he stooped his head down to nettie and said low, "what was that about your lip?" nettie started: she thought he would fancy it had it been done, if done at all, when he gave her the push at the frame-house. but she did not, dare not, answer. she said it was only that she had found a little blood on her handkerchief, and supposed she might have cut her lip when she fell on mrs. auguste's threshold, when she had fainted. "show me your handkerchief," said her father. nettie obeyed. he looked at it, and looked close at her lips, to find where they might have been wounded; and nettie was sorry to see how much he felt, for he even looked pale himself as he turned away from her. but he was as gentle and kind as he could be! nettie had never seen him so; and when he went off up to bed, and nettie was drawn into her mother's arms to go to sleep, she was very, very happy. but she did not tell her hopes or her joys to her mother; she only told her thanks to the lord; and that she did till she fell asleep. the next morning nettie was well enough to get up and dress herself. that was all she was suffered to do by father or mother. mr. mathieson sent barry for water and wood, and himself looked after the fire while mrs. mathieson was busy; all the rest he did was to take nettie in his arms and sit holding her till breakfast was ready. he did not talk, and he kept barry quiet: he was like a different man. nettie, feeling indeed very weak, could only sit with her head on her father's shoulder, and wonder, and think, and repeat quiet prayers in her heart. she was very pale yet, and it distressed mr. mathieson to see that she could not eat. so he laid her on the bed when he was going to his work, and told her she was to stay there and be still, and he would bring her something good when he came home. he was as good as his word, and at night brought home some oysters, to tempt nettie's appetite; but it was much more to her that he stayed quietly at home, and never made a move towards going out. eating was not in nettie's line just now; the kind little frenchwoman had been to see her in the course of the day, and brought some delicious rolls and a jug of _riz-au-gras_, which was what seemed to suit nettie's appetite best of all. chapter viii. _the golden city._ "blessed are the peacemakers."--_matt._ v. . several days went on. she did not feel ill, and she was a little stronger; but appetite and colour were wanting. her father would not let her do anything; he would not let her go up to her garret to sleep, though nettie pleaded for it, fearing he must be uncomfortable. he said it was fitter for him than for her, though he made faces about it. he always came home and stayed at home now, and especially attended to nettie; his wages came home too, and he brought every day something to try to tempt her to eat; and he was quiet and grave and kind--not the same person. mrs. mathieson, in the midst of all her distress about nettie, began to draw some free breaths. but her husband thought only of his child--unless, perhaps, of himself--and drew none. regularly after supper he would draw nettie to his arms, and sit with her head upon his shoulder; silent generally, only he would sometimes ask her what she would like. the first time he put this inquiry when mr. lumber was out of the way, nettie answered by asking him to read to her. mr. mathieson hesitated a little, not unkindly, and then read--a chapter in the bible, of course, for nettie wished to hear nothing else. and after that he often read to her; for mr. lumber kept up his old habits and preferred livelier company, and so was always out in the evenings. so several days passed; and when saturday came, mr. mathieson lost half a day's work, and took a long walk to a farm where the people kept pigeons, and brought home one for nettie's supper. however, she could fancy but little of it. "what shall i do for you?" said her father. "you go round like a shadow, and you don't eat much more. what shall i do that you would like?" this time there was nobody in the room. nettie lifted her head from his shoulders and met his eyes, "if you would come to jesus, father!" "what does that mean, nettie? you know i don't know." "it means, father, that jesus is holding out his hand with a promise to you. now, if you will take the promise,--that is all." "what is the promise, nettie?" nettie waited, gathered breath, for the talk made her heart beat, and then said, "'this is the promise that he hath promised us, even eternal life.'" "how can a sinful man take such a promise?" said mr. mathieson, with suppressed feeling. "that is for people like you, nettie, not me." "oh, jesus, has bought it!" cried nettie; "it's free. it's without price. you may have it if you'll believe in him and love him, father.--i can't talk." she had talked too much, or the excitement had been too strong for her. her words were broken off by coughing, and she remarked that her lip must have bled again. her father laid her on the bed, and from that time for a number of days she was kept as quiet as possible; for her strength had failed anew, and yet more than at first. for two weeks she hardly moved from the bed. but except that she was so very pale, she did not look very ill; her face wore just its own patient and happy expression. her father would not now let her talk to him; but he did everything she asked. he read to her in the bible; nettie would turn over the leaves to the place she wanted, and then point it out to him with a look of life, and love, and pleasure, that were like a whole sermon; and her father read first that sermon and then the chapter. he went to church as she asked him; and without her asking him, after the first sunday. nettie stayed at home on the bed, and sang psalms in her heart. after those two weeks there was a change for the better. nettie felt stronger, looked more as she used to look, and got up and even went about a little. the weather was changing too, now. april days were growing soft and green; trees budding and grass freshening up, and birds all alive in the branches; and above all, the air and the light, the wonderful soft breath of spring, and sunshine of spring, made people forget that winter had ever been harsh or severe. nettie went out and took little walks in the sun which seemed to do her good; and she begged so hard to be allowed to go to her garret again, that her father took pity on her, sent mr. lumber away, and gave her her old nice little room on the same floor with the others. her mother cleaned it and put it in order, and nettie felt too happy when she found herself mistress of it again, and possessed of a quiet place where she could read and pray alone. with windows open, how sweetly the spring walked in there, and made it warm, and bright, and fragrant too! nettie wished she could sing, for she had often seen singing comfort her mother; but she had not the power to-day. she gave her the best she could. her words, however, constantly carried hurt and healing together to her mother's mind. but when nettie went on to repeat softly the verse of a hymn that follows, she was soothed, notwithstanding the hinted meaning in the words. so sweet was the trust of the hymn, so unruffled the trust of the speaker. the words were from a little bit of a book of translations of german hymns which mr. folke, her sunday-school teacher, had brought her, and which was never out of nettie's hand. "as god leads me, so my heart in faith shall rest. no grief nor fear my soul shall part from jesus' breast. "in sweet belief i know what way my life doth go; since god permitteth so, that must be best." slowly she said the words, with her usual sober, placid face; and mrs. mathieson was mute. for some weeks, as the spring breathed warmer and warmer, nettie revived; so much that her mother at times felt encouraged about her. mr. mathieson was never deceived. whether his former neglect of his child had given him particular keenness of vision in all that concerned her now, or for whatever reason, _he_ saw well enough, and saw constantly, that nettie was going to leave him. there was never a wish of hers uncared for now; there was not a straw suffered to lie in her path, that he could take out of it. he went to church, and he read at home; he changed his behaviour to her mother as well as to herself, and he brought barry to his bearings. what more did nettie want? one sunday, late in may, her father came into her room to see her. he kissed her, and said a few words, and then went to the window and stood there looking out. both were silent for some time, while the birds sang on. "father," said nettie. he turned instantly, and asked her what she wanted. "father," said nettie, "the streets of the heavenly city are all of gold." "well," said he, meeting her grave eyes, "and what then, nettie?" "only i was thinking, if the _streets_ are gold, how clean must the feet be that walk on them!" he knew what her intent eyes meant, and he sat down by her bed-side and laid his face in his hands. "i am a sinful man, nettie!" he said. "father, 'this is a faithful saying, that jesus christ came into the world to save sinners.'" "i don't deserve he should save me, nettie." "well, father, ask him to save you, _because_ you don't deserve it." "what sort of a prayer would that be?" "the right one, father; for jesus does deserve it, and for his sake is the only way. if you deserved it, you wouldn't want jesus; but now '_he_ is our peace.' oh, father, listen, listen to what the bible says." she had been turning the leaves of her bible, and read low and earnestly, "'now we are ambassadors for god, as though god did beseech you by us; we pray you, in christ's stead, be ye reconciled to god.' oh, father, aren't you willing to be reconciled to him?" "god knows i am willing!" said mr. mathieson. "_he_ is willing, i am sure," said nettie. there was a long silence. mr. mathieson never stirred. nor nettie hardly. the words were true of her,--"he that believeth shall not make haste." she waited, looking at him. then he said, "what must i do, nettie?" "believe on the lord jesus christ." "how, child?" "father, the best way is to ask him, and he will tell you how. if you are only willing to be his servant, if you are willing to give yourself to the lord jesus--are you willing, father?" "i am willing--anything!--if he will have me," said mr. mathieson. "then go, father!" said nettie, eagerly, "go and ask him, and he will teach you how; he will! he has promised. go, father, and ask the lord--will you? go now." her father remained still a moment--then he rose up and went out of the room, and she heard his steps going up to the unused attic. nettie crossed her hands upon her breast, and smiled. she was too much exhausted to pray otherwise than with a thought. then slumber stole over her, and she slept sweetly and quietly while the hours of the summer afternoon rolled away. her mother watched beside her for a long while before she awoke, and during that time read surely in nettie's delicate cheek and too delicate colour what was the sentence of separation. she read it, and smothered the cry of her heart, for nettie's sake. the sun was descending toward the western hill country, and long level rays of light were playing in the tree-tops, when nettie awoke. "are you there, mother?" she said--"and is the sunday so near over? how i have slept!" "how do you feel, dear?" "why, i feel well," said nettie. "it has been a good day. the gold is all in the air here--not in the streets." she had half raised herself, and was sitting looking out of the window. "do you think of that city all the time?" inquired mrs. mathieson, half jealously. "mother," said nettie, slowly, still looking out at the sunlight, "would you be very sorry, and very much surprised, if i were to go there before long?" "i should not be very much surprised, nettie," answered her mother, in a tone that told all the rest. her child's eye turned to her sorrowfully and understandingly. "you'll not be very long before you'll be there too," she said. "now kiss me, mother." could mrs. mathieson help it? she took nettie in her arms, but instead of the required kiss, there came a burst of passion that bowed her head in convulsive grief against her child's breast. ashamed of her giving way, mrs. mathieson checked herself and dried her tears. nettie lay down wearily. "i will stay here, mother," she said, "till tea is ready; and then i will come." mrs. mathieson went to attend to it. when nettie went into the other room, her father was sitting there. she said nothing, however, and even for some time did not look in his face to see what he might have to say to her. she took a cup of tea and a biscuit, and ate an egg that her mother had boiled for her. it was when supper was over, and they had moved from the table, and mrs. mathieson was busy about, that nettie turned her eyes once more upon her father, with their soft, full inquiry. he looked grave, subdued, tender--she had heard that in his voice already; not as she had ever seen him look before. he met her eyes and answered them. "i understand it now, nettie," he said; then drew her close within his arms; and without one word nettie sat there, till for very happiness and weariness she fell asleep, and he carried her to her room. there was a great calm fell upon the family for a little time thereafter. it was like one of those spring days that were past--full of misty light, and peace, and hope, and promise. it was a breath of rest. but they knew it would end--for a time; and one summer day the end came. it was a sunday again, and again nettie was lying on her bed, enjoying in her weakness the loveliness of the air and beauty without. her mother was with her, and knew that she had been failing very fast for some days. nettie knew it too. "how soon do you think father will be home?" she said. "not before another hour, i think," said mrs. mathieson. "why, what of it, nettie?" "nothing----" said nettie, doubtfully. "i'd like him to come." "it won't be long," said her mother. "mother, i am going to give you my little dear hymn-book," said nettie presently; "and i want to read you a hymn now, and then you will think of me when you read it. may i?" "read," said mrs. mathieson; and she put up her hand to hide her face from nettie. nettie did not look, however; her eyes were on her hymn, and she read it, low and sweetly--very sweetly--through. there was no tremor in her voice, but now and then a little accent of joy or a shade of tenderness. mrs. mathieson's head bowed as the hymn went on, but she dared not give way to tears, and nettie's manner half awed and half charmed her into quietness. when the reading ceased, and mrs. mathieson felt that she could look toward nettie again, she saw that the book had fallen from her hand, and that she was almost fainting. alarmed, instantly she called for help, and got one of the inmates of the house to go after mr. mathieson. but nettie sank so fast, they were afraid he would not come in time. the messenger came back without having been able to find him; for after the close of the services in the church mr. mathieson had gone out of his way on an errand of kindness. nettie herself was too low to ask for him, if indeed she was conscious he was not there. they could not tell; she lay without taking any notice. but just as the last rays of the sun were bright in the leaves of the trees and on the hills in the distance, mr. mathieson's step was heard. one of the neighbours met him and told him what he must expect; and he came straight to nettie's room. and when he bent down over her and spoke, nettie knew his voice, and opened her eyes, and once more smiled. it was like a smile from another country. her eyes were fixed on him. mr. mathieson bent yet nearer and put his lips to hers; then he tried to speak. "my little peacemaker, what shall i do without you?" nettie drew a long, long breath. "peace--is--made!" she slowly said. and the peacemaker was gone. "there's a rest for little children. above the bright blue sky, who love the blessed saviour, and to his father cry, a rest from every trouble, from sin and danger free, there every little pilgrim shall rest eternally. "there's a home for little children, above the bright blue sky, where jesus reigns in glory, a home of peace and joy; no home on earth is like it, nor can with it compare, for every one is happy, nor can be happier there. "there are crowns for little children, above the bright blue sky; and all who look to jesus shall wear them by-and-bye, yea, crowns of brightest glory, which he shall sure bestow on all who love the saviour and walk with him below." transcriber's note hyphenation is inconsistent, and some of the punctuation is non-standard. the helpful french lady appears as madame auguste in the narrative, but as mrs. august when she is addressed in english. one instance of mathison was changed to match all the mathiesons. one additional change was made to the text: "that would make the fire worse," said one of girls. now reads: "that would make the fire worse," said one of the girls. christmas stories. containing john wildgoose the poacher, the smuggler, and good-nature, or parish matters. oxford, _printed by w. baxter_, for j. parker; and f. c. and j. rivington, st. paul's church yard, and waterloo place, london. . the history of john wildgoose. advertisement. the author of the following tale has, for some time, wished to put together a little tract on the evil and danger of _poaching_; an offence which so often leads on to the most immoral habits, and the most heinous crimes. it seemed that his object might be answered by the aid of narrative and dialogue, more effectually than by a regular and continued discourse. if it should be thought, in any degree, worthy of standing on the same shelf with "trimmer's instructive tales," and the "cheap repository tracts," the ambition of the author will be gratified. _jan._ , . [illustration] the history of john wildgoose. thomas wildgoose was an honest and hard-working man, in one of the midland counties. he had long been attached to susan jenkins, a well-behaved young woman of the same village; but from prudence and a proper independence of mind, he determined not to take a wife until he had a house to bring her to, as well as some prospect of providing for a family without being a burthen to the farmers, who were already complaining of the pressure of the poor-rates. in consequence of his good character he was never out of work; and though his wages were not high, yet he almost every week contrived to put by something, which he deposited in a bank for savings, lately established in the neighbouring market town. his weekly deposits were not very large sums, yet "many a little makes a mickle." this was helped out by a legacy of thirty pounds from an uncle; so that in a few years he was enabled to purchase a cottage with a small garden, and had still something over for a few articles of furniture. susan, meanwhile, had gone on steadily in service, always making a point of putting by some part of her wages; so that when they married, they were comparatively rich. for some time after his marriage wildgoose continued to work for his old master; and susan, by field work in the hay-making and harvest, and by taking in sewing at other times of the year, was able to earn a good deal towards maintaining their children. the wants of an increasing family, however, led him to consider how he might enlarge his means of subsistence; and the success of an old acquaintance in the adjoining village, determined him to endeavour to purchase a horse and cart, and commence business as a higler. a higler's business is liable to so many chances, and takes a man so much from home, that perhaps he would have acted more wisely if he had stuck to work. we cannot however blame him for endeavouring to better his circumstances in an honest way. though he occasionally met with some losses from bad debts, yet upon the whole he did pretty well. one day in november, as he was returning home from market rather late in the evening, and was walking quietly by the side of the cart, he was suddenly startled by a rattling noise behind him; and turning round, saw the true blue stage driving furiously along the road, and the opposition coach a short distance behind. wildgoose immediately went to his horse's head, and drew his cart as close as he could to the hedge; but just at that moment the opposition coach had got up with the other, and in endeavouring to pass it, one of the leaders knocked poor wildgoose down, and the wheels went over him. the unfeeling coachmen were too eager in the race to attend to the mischief which they had occasioned; and the poor man was left lying in the road, until two neighbouring farmers, returning from market, found him, and brought him home, more dead than alive, in his own cart. at first some faint expectations were entertained of his recovery; but soon it was found that the injury which he had sustained was too serious to admit of hope. mr. hooker, the clergyman of the parish, came to visit him frequently, for the purpose both of assisting his devotions, and of comforting his poor wife: and on one of these occasions he took an opportunity of asking him, in as kind a manner as possible, whether he had settled his worldly affairs. this certainly had not occurred to wildgoose: when, however, mr. hooker explained to him, that if he died without a will, his house and garden would all go to his eldest son, subject to dower to his wife; and that in strictness of law his household furniture, shop-goods, and cart and horse, would be to be divided in three parts, one to his wife, and two between his children; he saw the propriety of arranging these matters while he was able. mr. smith the attorney was accordingly sent for. poor wildgoose, who had reason to have full confidence in the good sense and judgment of his wife, and in her impartial affection to her children, felt that he could not do better than leave every thing to her, at the same time constituting her sole executrix. he knew that she would consider herself as a trustee for the children, felt sure that she would not marry again, and thought it best not to fetter her by any minute directions. mr. smith prepared the will accordingly; and as three witnesses are necessary to a will bequeathing a freehold, their good neighbour simpson the tailor was called in, who together with mr. hooker and mr. smith attested wildgoose's execution of the will. when this was done, the poor man felt his mind relieved: and endeavoured more and more to detach his thoughts from all earthly cares, and to fix them on subjects connected with those unseen things which are eternal. the next day he received the sacrament, which he had been in the habit of receiving frequently during his life; and before the end of the week he died. poor susan had been for some time preparing for this sad event; but still when it actually happened, it seemed to come upon her by surprise. she felt quite stunned by the blow. at first, she could attend to, could think of, nothing but her own loss, her own sad and desolate condition. she was however soon enabled to turn for support to that being, who bids the widow to trust in him, and who promises to protect the fatherless children. her mind found a comfort in prayer; and the sort of strain and oppression which she felt through her whole frame was soon relieved by a flood of tears. the necessity of acting forced her to rouse and exert herself. her husband had desired to be buried in as plain and simple a manner as possible; and she felt that she shewed him more real respect by complying with this direction, than by spending in useless shew that money which was wanted to provide necessaries for the children. thomas had been one of the singers. the band accordingly met, and shewed their respect to his memory by singing the funeral psalm, after the conclusion of the beautiful and impressive lesson in the burial service. poor susan, who was naturally a strong-minded woman, had been able so far to exert herself as to attend the last sad ceremony, but had nearly sunk while the psalm was singing. she felt, however, the ground of consolation suggested to her by the service. when the clergyman read, "blessed are the dead which die in the lord," and again, when he spoke of "the souls of the faithful after they are delivered from the burden of the flesh being in joy and felicity with the lord," she felt an humble trust that these words were applicable to her dear departed husband. deep therefore and acute as her sorrow was, she endeavoured to comply with the admonition of the holy apostle st. paul, "not to be sorry as one without hope." she had little time, however, for the indulgence of grief. the circumstances of her family made it absolutely necessary for her to consider by what means she should provide for them. one of her first cares was to administer to the will. mr. hooker told her that she was liable to a heavy penalty if she neglected this; and that though the penalty was seldom levied, she was hardly complete executrix until it was done. the next thing to be considered was, how she could get a living without being a burden to the parish. once she had some thoughts of carrying on the higling business herself; but the being taken so much from her home and children, and several other circumstances, convinced her that this plan was not advisable. she therefore determined to sell the horse and cart, and set up a shop, for which there was a fair opening in the village, without doing injury to any of her neighbours. it went to her heart to part with the horse, which had been her dear husband's fellow-traveller in so many journeys, and of which he had taken such good care; but prudence forbad her to give way to feelings of this nature. she therefore endeavoured to find for him a kind master, and got quite as good a price as she could expect. the cart too sold for as much as it was worth; and with the money which was thus produced, she was enabled to open her shop with a good supply of articles purchased at the ready money price. one plan, which she very early adopted, may be worth the attention of those who are engaged in the same business. she soon contrived to learn, what was the usual rate of profit, which the shops in the neighbourhood made upon the articles which they sold. they all sold upon credit, and of course lost a good deal by bad debts. mrs. wildgoose would gladly have sold nothing but for ready money; but as she soon found that this was out of the question, partly because some of the poor were irregularly paid by their employers, and partly from other causes, she adopted the following plan. in general she gave the same credit as the other shops, and thought it fair to make the same profit, but always gladly gave up half the profit to a ready money customer. three of her children were able to make themselves of use. john, the eldest, who was now eleven years old, was employed by a farmer at seven-pence per day. mary, the next, assisted in washing and mending, and in taking care of little sarah while her mother was in the shop; and sam could earn two shillings a week, sometimes by pig-keeping, and sometimes by jingling a sheep-bell, to keep the birds from the corn. and here i must just mention by the bye a scrape that little sam once got into. he was sitting on the watch, under a hedge close to the public road, when a flight of pigeons settled on the wheat. up jumped sam, and, all at once, began hallooing as loud as his lungs would let him, and making the most alarming noise with his bell. he succeeded in driving off the plunderers but, unluckily, the suddenness of the noise close by the road so frightened the horse of a gentleman who was riding by, that he turned short round, and threw his rider into the dirt. the gentleman was not much hurt, but a good deal out of temper; and vented his anger by giving a few cuts with his whip to the boy, who caused his disaster. poor sam meant no harm; but perhaps he deserved some punishment, as his thoughtlessness in making a sudden noise so near the public road, might have been the occasion of a broken limb, or even a more serious accident. notwithstanding a few occasional rubs and grievances, the family for some time got on pretty well; but there was something in the character of her eldest son, which gave mrs. wildgoose much uneasiness. he had, i am afraid, been rather spoilt from his infancy. both father and mother were so fond of their first child, that they humoured him in every thing. whatever he cried for he was almost sure to have, and this mistaken indulgence made him, from very early years, selfish, and wilful. care and diligence afterwards, prospered by the grace of god, may certainly correct the effects of early spoiling; but, though they had so many other good qualities, the parents of john wildgoose had not been sufficiently aware of the necessity of paying attention to the forming of his temper and principles. for a few years he was sent to the day school, and learnt to read tolerably well; but when he was between eight and nine years old, he was taken to work; and employed, sometimes by the farmers, sometimes to go on errands for his father. he felt his father's death a good deal, and for some time seemed anxious to do what he could to assist his mother. he stuck to his work, and regularly brought his earnings home; and was kind to his brother and sisters. soon, however, the wilfulness of his character began again to shew itself, and gained strength by being no longer checked by the authority of a father. his mother was grieved to find that he would often go his own way instead of complying with her wishes. one of his principal faults at this time was a neglect of the lord's day. he seldom came to church; and when he did happen to come, was inattentive to every part of the service. mr. hooker several times endeavoured to persuade him to come to the sunday school; he told him that one principal use of such schools was the enabling those boys, who were engaged in labour during the week, to keep up and to improve the learning which they had acquired at the day school before they went to work; but he would not be persuaded. in spring he was bird's nesting; in summer he was lying on the grass, or bathing in the river; in autumn he was nutting, and, i am sorry to say, was sometimes guilty of making an inroad on a neighbour's orchard; and in winter he was engaged in sliding on the ice, hunting squirrels, or some other diversion. both his mother and mr. hooker lamented this, and in the kindest manner endeavoured to make him sensible of the folly of his conduct. he received their admonitions in sullen silence; and instead of feeling, as he ought to have felt, that their advice proceeded from a regard for his welfare, seemed to think that it was meant to answer some object of their own. when he was just past seventeen, he unluckily struck up a close intimacy with a young man in the village, a few years older than himself. his name was william atkins, but he was usually called black will. atkins was a lively fellow, with a good deal of coarse humour. he was one of those men who neither fear god nor regard man, and who take pleasure in turning religion and every thing serious into ridicule. with him young wildgoose passed many of his leisure hours; and sometimes on a sunday evening they used to join a party of idlers at the fighting cocks, a lone public house, about a quarter of a mile from the village. mrs. wildgoose saw the intimacy which her son had formed with great pain, and repeatedly cautioned him against it. "jack," she one day said to him, "i do wish from my heart that you would not keep company with that will atkins. i am sure no good can come of it." "why, mother," answered jack, "what harm is there in poor will? he is a good-humoured fellow, that loves a joke; and, i'm sure, he's always very kind and friendly to me." "as pleasant as you may find him," replied his mother, "you know that he bears but a middling character." "yes," said the son, "but i shall take care not to be hurt by that." "don't be too sure," rejoined she; "the _good book_ tells us, that _evil communications corrupt good manners, that he that toucheth pitch shall be defiled therewith_, and that _the companion of fools shall be destroyed_." jack never liked any thing approaching to a lecture; and sulkily saying, "i think, mother, i'm old enough now to judge for myself," left the house. black will, among other qualifications, possessed that of being an experienced poacher; and it was not long before he let john wildgoose into the art and mystery of this species of marauding. he used to tell him stories of his dexterity in eluding the keepers, of his skill in entrapping the game, of the fine sums of money he made by it, and of the jolly parties which that money enabled them to have at the fighting cocks. jack was amused with his stories, and began very soon to think that he should like to have a share in these adventures. as a boy he was always fond of bird's nesting, and bat fowling, and was eager to try his hand upon game of a higher description. will was ready enough to lead him on. the next autumn he gave him a few wires, taught him how to set them in the most likely places, and how to make more. young wildgoose was at this time employed in keeping sheep, and was with them early and late. his friend instructed him to set his wires in the evening, and when he returned to his flock in the morning, to go round and see how they had succeeded. when he found a hare, he directly hid it in a ditch, or some snug place, till dark, and then carried it to atkins, who used to meet him for this purpose near the fighting cocks. secretly as he managed this, he did not escape the vigilant eye of sir john's keeper; but besides that he felt for the young man's mother, and therefore was unwilling to expose him, he thought that he should do his master and the public more service by discovering the receiver of the hares, than by proceeding against the catcher of them. he had seen the direction which young wildgoose usually took when he left his sheep, and contrived one night to station himself so, that he witnessed his meeting with atkins, and saw the latter directly carry the booty into the public house. stephen tomkins the landlord was a keen, knowing kind of person. though he sold a good deal of beer, yet he chose to say that he could not get his bread by keeping to his regular business, and had many other ways of earning a few shillings. among the rest, he kept a horse and cart, with which he travelled every week as a higler, either to the county town, or wherever else suited his purpose. the game-keeper had long suspected him of carrying game, but had never been able actually to catch him. what he now saw, added to some private information which he had received, satisfied him that his suspicions were just. early next morning therefore he applied for a warrant to search for game, and waited with the constable and two other men at the turn of the road, before you come to the turnpike at the entrance of the town. about the hour they reckoned upon, tomkins's cart made its appearance, and they sallied out from the hovel where they had concealed themselves. tomkins, upon being desired to stop, at first looked a little frightened, but soon contrived to put a good face upon the business. when they shewed him their warrant, he pretended to be surprised, and affronted that they should suspect such a man as him of any thing improper; at the same time asserting with many oaths, that he had nothing in his cart but a few fowls and the butter which he had collected from the dairymen. the keepers, however, insisted upon searching; and were so long before they succeeded, that they almost thought that he had got some hint of their intentions. at last, however, quite at the bottom of the cart, under butter baskets, fowls, and other commodities of the same nature, they discovered first one hare, then a second, then a third. as it was market day, the magistrates were holding their usual petty sessions. the keepers immediately carried stephen tomkins and the hares into the justice room. the regular steps having been gone through, and the witnesses sworn and examined, tomkins had not a word to say in his defence. mr. hale, therefore, who acted as chairman of the bench, proceeded to conviction, and addressed him in the following words. "stephen tomkins, you have been convicted upon the clearest evidence of having game in your possession in your higler's cart, by which offence you have incurred the penalty of [english pound]; that is, [english pound] for each head of game, half to the informer and half to the poor of the parish[a]. the law does not give us the power of mitigating this penalty; and even if it did, we probably should not feel that there was any cause for mitigation. the offence of which you are convicted is one, the effects of which are very mischievous. it has been said, that if there were no receivers of stolen goods there would be no thieves: and it may be said, with equal truth, that there would be few poachers if there were no clandestine receivers of game. such men as you encourage thoughtless young men in this manner to break the laws of their country, and to take to a course of life which often brings them to an untimely end. we hope that this conviction will be a warning to you, and will induce you to desist from such practices." [footnote a: see note [a.]] tomkins said, that it was very hard that he should have to pay so heavy a fine, only for having a few hares in his cart; and did not see how he was more to blame than the poulterer, to whom he was going to send them, or than the gentlemen who bought them of the poulterers. mr. hale replied, that he and his brother justices sat there to execute the laws, and had not time to discuss the propriety of them, or the cases of other offenders who were not before them. "as for you, mr. tomkins," he continued, "for the reasons which i have given, i do not think your punishment at all too severe: at all events, it is the punishment prescribed by law, which we are bound to inflict. as for those other persons to whom you allude, a poulterer exposing game for sale, and a gentleman or other person _buying it_[b], are liable to the same penalty, and if they should be brought before us with sufficient evidence against them, it would be our duty to convict them. perhaps i might also feel it right to give them the same admonition that i have given you. i might feel it right to hint to them, as i have done to you, that they are encouraging poor men to break the laws by poaching, and that they are in one point of view more to blame than the poachers themselves. a poacher often pleads distress and poverty. this is no excuse for him, but can certainly often be pleaded with truth. now, certainly, a poor, uneducated man, who breaks the laws through distress--though mind, i again say, that that is no excuse for him--must in one point of view at least, be considered as less blameable than he who knowingly breaks them for the purpose of mere gain, or, than he who violates them for the sake of gratifying his appetite or his vanity, by seeing game upon his table." [footnote b: see note [b.]] tomkins had nothing more to say, excepting that he had not the money by him, and wanted a little time to raise it. the justices therefore allowed him to defer the payment till that day fortnight. when the culprit returned into the market-place, he pretended to make light of the affair; and calling at the red lion for a pot of ale with some gin in it, drank "good luck to poaching," and affected to laugh at the magistrates. fifteen pounds, however, was really a heavy pull upon tomkins's purse, and whatever he might pretend, it weighed upon his mind a good deal. when he got back to his own house, he was loud in expressing his ill humour against mr. hale, and the whole bench of justices: and uttered against them the most dreadful curses. "come, come, stephen," said old truman, his father-in-law, who was quietly sitting in the chimney-corner, "come, come, you are going a little too far; i am sorry for many reasons that you have got into this scrape, and don't wonder at your being vexed; but what right have you to cry out so against mr. hale?"--"right!" said tomkins, "right enough, i think. why, has'nt he fined me fifteen pounds?"--"yes; but could he do otherwise? every magistrate, you know, is sworn to execute the laws to the best of his judgment. if, after such clear evidence, he had let you off, he would have broken his oath, and have acted ill towards the public at large, and unjustly towards those who are entitled to receive the money. besides, stephen, you don't suppose, because a magistrate punishes you as an _offender_, that he bears any ill will to you as a _man_. excepting on licensing-day, he probably never saw you before, and never thought about you one way or the other."--"well then," said tomkins, "i hate him for being a magistrate at all."--"now there you're wrong again," said the old man; "i'm sure we all ought to be very thankful to those gentlemen, who will undertake such a troublesome office, especially as they get nothing by it. there are few people in these days that will work without pay. the judges get some thousands a year, and a pension when they are too old for service. i do not wish them one farthing less, for they deserve richly all they get, and are, generally speaking, an honour to the country. the attorneys too, if you have any dealings with them, come pretty quick upon you with their three-and-fourpences, and their six-and-eightpences; and the counsellors seldom open their mouths under a guinea or two. tho' here again i must say, that i don't think either of these sorts of lawyers over-paid, when you consider how many years most of them work before they get any thing, (many, i believe, never get any thing at all.) the gentlemen, however, who act as justices, give their time and attention for nothing, and run the risk of giving offence to many of their neighbours into the bargain. no one, i'm sure, will undertake the office, who values his own ease, and quiet, and comfort, at a higher rate than the being of use to his neighbours and the public."--"i wish," said tomkins peevishly, "there were no such things as laws or magistrates in the world."--"like enough, like enough," replied truman, "men are apt to quarrel with the laws when the laws are too hard for 'em. you don't often look into the bible, stephen, but that would tell you, that the magistrate _beareth not the sword in vain, but is an avenger to execute wrath upon every soul that doeth evil_. it is, therefore, natural for a man, who has done evil, or who means to do evil, to wish that there was no such check upon him. but those who, instead of doing evil, wish to lead quiet and peaceable lives in an honest way, are glad to have the laws to protect them from evil doers, and are thankful to those who duly execute them." tomkins did not much like truman's lecture, and instead of being benefited by it, retained in his heart all his ill-will against mr. hale. in this he was not only very wrong, but, i am disposed to think, more unreasonable than the generality of men who may be in the same unlucky circumstances with himself. for men, who are convicted upon sufficient evidence, have generally the sense to see that the magistrate who convicts them, merely does his bounden duty. tomkins put common sense and reason out of the question, and determined to do something by way of revenge. mr. hale's house was situated about seven miles off. it stood at the extremity of a rather extensive paddock, at the other end of which was a large fish pond, well stored with jack and perch. tomkins knew the pond well, and took it into his head, that he would make it refund part of his fifteen pounds. he communicated his plan to will atkins, young wildgoose, and mike simmons, who readily entered into it. they heard that mr. hale was from home for a few days, and determined to execute their plan without delay. they accordingly furnished themselves with a large net, and in the dusk of the evening proceeded to a barn, at a little distance from mr. hale's grounds. here they concealed themselves till towards twelve o'clock at night. they then got over the pales, and were just beginning to open their net, when they were alarmed by the sound of horses coming swiftly along the road. they thought themselves safe from the owner of the pond, but were of course afraid of being seen at that time of night by any one else, and crouched down to avoid observation. in this they did not succeed. it was a cloudy night, but still the moon gave some light, and the horsemen, who proved to be mr. hale, (who had been unexpectedly called home,) his brother the captain, and a servant, caught a glimpse of them. the gentlemen directly gave their horses to the servant, and jumping over the pales hastened towards the pond. the plunderers immediately ran off, and three of them were soon lost in the plantations. wildgoose, however, in the hurry set his foot in a drain, threw himself down, and was taken. when told his name and place of abode, mr. hale said, that "he remembered his father as an honest and industrious man:" indeed the sad accident by which he lost his life, had made his name known throughout the neighbourhood. and then addressing himself to his prisoner, "young man," said he, "i respected your father, and have heard that your mother bears an excellent character; i am therefore, heartily sorry to find that their son has taken to such bad practices. it is well for you that i did not come up a little later, after you had carried your scheme into execution. had that been the case, you might have been transported." "transported!" said wildgoose in astonishment, "what, transported for taking a few fish!" "yes, transported," replied the magistrate; "if a man steals fish from a pond in any inclosed ground, he is, upon conviction before one justice, to be sentenced to pay five pounds: but if he enters into any park, or paddock, or garden adjoining to a house, and steals fish from any river, or pond in it, he is liable to be indicted at the assizes, and transported for seven years[c]. the law often finds it necessary to protect, by a severe penalty, property that is much exposed; and when a man is daring enough to carry on his depredations in the very homestead of his neighbour, he requires a severe punishment. in the present case, though your intention is sufficiently clear, i have no wish, and do not feel bound, to prosecute you. nor shall i (as i might do) sue you for the trespass. go home to your mother, and never again allow yourself to be led by bad advisers into the like crime." [footnote c: see note [c.]] jack had told his mother that he was going to a friend at a distance, and should not return home that night. this made her sadly anxious; but she knew by experience that persuasion was lost upon him. when he returned home in the morning, she was confirmed in the suspicion that something was wrong. from his intimacy with will atkins she concluded he had been upon some poaching scheme; and determined, as she could do nothing herself, to try what effect mr. hooker could produce upon her son. it was not long before a good opportunity offered. just as jack left mr. hale's paddock, a heavy rain had come on, which soon soaked his clothes. wet as he was, he got into a shed, partly for shelter, and partly to fill up the time, till his mother was up in the morning to let him in. the consequence was, that he caught a severe cold, attended with so much fever and head-ache, that he was unfit to go to work. mr. hooker called, and having kindly enquired after his health, began giving some hints on the subject of poaching. jack sulkily answered, that "no one had a right to consider him as a poacher, until he was caught." mr. hooker, however, who had had some communication with sir john's keeper, soon let him know that he had good ground for what he said; and endeavoured to make him sensible of the criminality and danger of his conduct. jack would not acknowledge that poaching was wrong. stealing he knew was disgraceful and sinful. to carry off a sheep, or to rob a henroost, deserved, he allowed, to be severely punished; "but," said he, "i cannot see the harm of _poaching_: animals that run wild by nature belong to nobody, and any body that can has a right to catch them. i don't know why it is more wrong to kill a partridge than it is to kill a crow or a sparrow; or why catching a hare is worse than knocking down a squirrel." "the laws of the land," said mr. hooker, "have made a difference between those animals, and it is the duty of every man to obey the laws of the country in which he lives." "not," answered jack, "if the laws are hard or unfair." "our duty," replied mr. hooker, "is to obey the laws as we find them. if every one were at liberty to reject such laws as he disliked, we might almost as well have no laws at all. the thief would cast off the laws against stealing; the drunkard those against drunkenness; and of course the poacher would have no laws against poaching. the scriptures teach us _to submit ourselves to every ordinance of man_; why? _for the lord's sake_:--as a matter of religious duty. they bid us to be subject not only for wrath, for fear of punishment, but _for conscience sake_. they teach us _to obey magistrates_: to be dutiful _to the king as supreme, and to magistrates as to them that are sent by him for the punishment of evil doers, and the praise of them that do well_. remember, therefore, that quiet obedience to the laws of the land is a christian duty. we are to obey the laws, whether we approve of them or not: but perhaps, after all, the laws against poaching are not so unreasonable as you take them to be. upon what do the hares, and pheasants, and partridges feed?" "why, upon a number of things; chiefly upon the grass and corn, and such like; and a deal of mischief they do." "well then, being supported by the produce of the land, they ought in some way to belong to the land; but as from their wildness they move about from place to place, it is for the law to say in what manner they shall belong to it; and the law does this by making a certain property in land the principal qualification for killing game. perhaps i may think that some alteration in the qualification might be an advantage; but i am not a lawgiver, jack, any more than you; and as i said before, we are to obey the laws as we find them." "it's very well," said jack, sulkily, "for a gentleman like you to talk about obedience to the laws, but i don't know what good the laws do to such a poor fellow as i am." mr. hooker did not immediately notice this, but, seeming to change the conversation, said, "by the bye, john, i was sorry to hear of your quarrel with tom nutman, the blacksmith at ratton. i'm told that he threatens to break every bone in your skin. are you not afraid of meeting him?" "afraid," said jack, "let him touch me if he dare." "why, do you think that he is prevented by any sense of religion from putting his threat in execution?" "religion! he has no more religion than a dog." "oh! then you think that he is afraid of you, and that you are more than a match for him?" "why no, i can't say that:--he's much the strongest man of the two, and is a noted prize fighter." "then why should he not dare to touch you?" "because he knows, that if he should strike me, i should get a warrant against him, and have him off to prison before he was a day older." "oh! that is what you mean, is it? it seems then that the law is of some use to you, poor as you are. and as you say that he is not influenced by the fear of god, what is there that prevents his coming to-morrow, with half a dozen of the ratton men, carrying off every thing in your mother's shop, and breaking your head if you said a word against it?--the laws of the land certainly, which he knows would severely punish his wrong doing." john was forced to acknowledge, that even the poor had an interest in the protection afforded by the law to persons and property. "but," continued mr. hooker, "poaching is positively wrong, not only as it is a breach of the laws, but on many other accounts. it is plainly contrary to the great rule of doing as you would be done by. you would not like, if the law gave you a right to any particular thing, to have any man come and take that thing from you: and so, when the proprietor of an estate and manor, like sir john, is at much expence and trouble in order to preserve the game, which the law gives him a right to preserve, it is clearly wrong, and in opposition to the great rule which i have mentioned, for any man to invade that right. besides, poaching is apt to bring a man into bad company, which is always most dangerous. the habit of being out at nights makes him familiar with deeds which shun the light; and too often, if he is disappointed of his game, the poacher makes up for it by taking poultry, or any thing else he can lay his hands on. we hear too every day, how poaching leads on to deeds of violence, and even of bloodshed, in the conflicts which it occasions with the men, whose duty it is to protect the game. in short, john, poaching is wrong in itself; it leads a man into a lawless way of life, and frequently is the beginning of all kinds of wickedness." young wildgoose felt that there was much truth in what mr. hooker said; and though the pride, or stubbornness of his character would not allow him to acknowledge it at the time, yet when he came to reflect on it after the clergyman was gone, he pretty much determined within himself that he would give up the sinful and dangerous practice into which he had been drawn. perhaps some private reason came in aid of his good resolution. he stuck to his work; kept away from the fighting cocks; and avoided the company of will atkins and his old associates. his mother observed the alteration in his conduct with heartfelt pleasure. from the odd temper of her son, she thought it might be prudent not to say much about it: but she was particularly kind in her manner to him, and did all that she could to make his home comfortable. young wildgoose felt this as he ought, and for some time every thing went on well. unhappily one evening in november, as john was returning from his work, he accidentally fell in with his old companion atkins: "why, jack," cried he, "what have you been doing with yourself? we never see thee among us now; and many a merry night have we had. what has made thee so shy of late?" wildgoose told him that he was going to turn over a new leaf, and had given up poaching. "well now, i'm sorry for that; but still that's no reason why you should'nt now and then join a friend or two over a pot of beer; so come along with me to tomkins's. he'll be quite glad to see thee again." john refused with some steadiness, but atkins said so much, with a sort of good-humoured raillery, that at last he gave way. in one pot of ale he thought there could be no harm. at the fighting cocks they found four or five of will atkins's particular friends sitting round the fire. they had not been drinking much, seemed sociable and friendly, and talked about any thing that came uppermost. wildgoose soon went beyond the quantity, to which he had stinted himself; when all at once atkins called out, "come now, jack, do tell us what could possess you to give up sporting. you used to take as much pleasure in it as any gentleman in the land." john was taken by surprise, and did not well know what to answer. at length he fairly acknowledged that he gave it up in consequence of what mr. hooker had said to him. "well now, that is too bad," said will, "i thought that you had been a lad of too much spirit to be talked over by a parson. i concluded that you had some real good reason, and never should have guessed that you had nothing more to say for yourself than that." john replied, that mr. hooker spoke very kindly to him; and that in what he said, he seemed to have both sense and scripture on his side. "scripture!" exclaimed bob fowler, "why sure enough jack wildgoose is turned methodist." they all laughed heartily at the joke, and went on for some time bantering wildgoose upon his being so straight-laced. jack never could stand being laughed at. he had not resolution enough to hold fast his integrity, when his integrity exposed him to ridicule. he did not remember the words of the prophet, _fear ye not the reproach of men, neither be afraid of their revilings_: nor those of our saviour, _whosoever shall be ashamed of me and of my words_--that is, ashamed of being religious, of being a christian--_in this adulterous and sinful generation, of him shall the son of man be ashamed when he cometh in his glory with his holy angels_. in short, atkins and his comrades plied jack wildgoose so successfully with ale and bantering, that he gave up his good resolutions, and agreed to accompany them on a scheme which they had already planned for making an attack upon sir john's preserve. they sat drinking till past twelve o'clock at night, and then repaired by different roads to the scene of action. it so happened, that the keepers had received some information, which had carried them to the opposite side of the manor. the gang, therefore, carried on their operations for some time without interruption; and when their firing had drawn the keepers towards them, one of the party, who had been posted on the look-out, contrived to give them a signal, so that they got away without difficulty. they returned to their rendezvous loaded with pheasants, for which tomkins paid them a good price, with some gin into the bargain. they gave wildgoose more than his fair share of the money by way of encouragement; and agreed to meet again on the following thursday. on that day they determined to try their luck in the wood which covers the north side of the hill, just at the outside of sir john's park. the party consisted of black will, bob fowler, john wildgoose, tom cade, and one more. will and bob were provided with guns; the rest had bludgeons, in order to assist them, in case of any interruption from the keepers. atkins and cade entered the wood from the park, and the three others a little lower down. atkins had just fired at a pheasant, when one of the under keepers jumped up out of the ditch, and calling out, "holloa! what are you at there?" ran to atkins, and collared him. tom, who was at a small distance behind a tree, immediately came to his friend's assistance, and a well aimed blow of his bludgeon laid the assailant at their feet. at this moment the head keeper and several of sir john's men came up, and secured tom. the other poachers were brought by the noise to the field of battle, and attempted to rescue their comrade; but as fowler was aiming a blow at the man who had hold of him, one of sir john's garden men struck him on the right arm, just above the elbow, with such tremendous force, that the bone was broken. the poachers, who before had begun to find that the keepers were too many for them, immediately ran, leaving bob wounded, and tom a prisoner. the former, in consequence of the hurt which he had received, was allowed to return to his family; but tom was carried off to a magistrate, and then to gaol, in order to take his trial at the ensuing quarter sessions. the other three, when they found themselves safe from pursuit, slackened their pace. will first broke silence, by exclaiming, "a pretty business we have made of it to-night. well, we can't always manage as we did last week; but i hate to go home empty-handed." they were now passing through the orchard at the back of farmer dobson's house, when will spied some turkeys, which had imprudently chosen to roost in the trees, instead of going into the poultry house. the opportunity was tempting; and for want of other game, will twitched two of them from their branch, and carried them off so quietly, that the farmer's dog did not utter a single bark. wildgoose was a good deal shocked at this. in the pursuit of game, though illegal, he thought there was something spirited and manly; but revolted at the idea of _stealing_. what mr. hooker had said on the tendency of poaching to lead on to other crimes occurred to him. he ventured to remonstrate; but will answered, "why, what's the harm? the old fellow is rich enough, and can well spare a turkey or two. if i had left them, they would only have bought a little more finery for his daughters." john still persisted that stealing was dishonourable, but his comrade replied, "come, come, let's have no more preaching; in our way of life a man must not mind trifles. to tell you the truth, i have done as much by a sheep before now;--only then, to be sure, i had a little bit of a grudge against the farmer, and i knew he could easily afford it." wildgoose was more and more staggered. he saw how easily a man, who was in the habit of breaking the laws in one instance, could go on to break them in another, but gave up arguing the point with his companion. fowler contrived to get home with his broken arm before the morning. when the surgeon arrived, he found that the fracture was a bad one; and the worse from the severe bruise with which it was accompanied. on the saturday morning, his wife, who had four small children, went to the overseer for relief. "and so you think," said he, "nanny, that because your husband has thrown himself out of work, by his own misconduct, he is to be supported out of the pockets of the farmers? we have enough to do to pay rents and taxes, and provide for our own families, without having to provide for the families of poachers. if your husband had met with an accident in an honest way, i'm sure, i for one should have been for giving him all possible assistance; and no farmer in the parish would have said a word against it: but it is very hard that we should be expected to pay for his bad deeds." nanny fowler felt the truth of what he said, but replied, "that still they must not starve." "it is true," answered the overseer, "the law does say that nobody shall starve; but you must not expect much more from me than is just necessary to keep you from starving. i'm sorry, nanny, for you and your children, but when the father of a family breaks the laws, he must expect his family to suffer for it as well as himself. it is in the nature of things that it should be so. you shall have from the parish just what is necessary; but even that you shall receive by way of loan[d], and if your husband recovers the use of his arm, we shall compel him to repay it in the summer. if his arm never gets well again, which i fear may possibly be the case, we can't expect to get the money back; but we shall not maintain him in idleness. we shall set him to do what he can; and if he earns but a little, and is kept but just from starving, he will have no one to blame but himself." [footnote d: see note [d.]] the bad success of the last expedition, and the loss of strength which they had sustained, kept the gang of plunderers comparatively quiet. jack wildgoose, however, and black will, again took to their old practice of wiring hares[e]; and contrived to dispose of a considerable number. the keepers were aware of it, but somehow could never manage to come upon them exactly at the right time. one sunday morning, when jack had gone round to examine into the state of his snares, and had just taken up a hare with the wire round its neck, stokes the under-keeper, who had been concealed on the other side of the hedge, suddenly started up, and caught him in the fact. an information against him was immediately laid by one of stokes's fellow-servants; a summons was procured; and john wildgoose appeared at the justice meeting, which took place next day. [footnote e: see note [e.]] the information having been read, and wildgoose having pleaded not guilty, the keeper was sworn, and began to give his evidence. being asked at what hour in the morning the transaction took place, he replied, "a little after seven: for i had heard the great clock at sir john's strike a few minutes before." "that's false, however," said a voice from the crowd, which was assembled in the justice room. "come forward there," said one of the justices; when who should make his appearance but black will. the magistrate told him not to interrupt the witness, but that if he had any thing to say, he should state it upon oath when the keeper's evidence had been gone through. this was soon done; and then atkins being sworn, and desired to state what he knew of the business, replied, "i know but little about it; but this i _can_ say, before seven on sunday morning jack wildgoose and i started together to see a friend at hollybourn, which your worship may perhaps know is about six miles off. we went to church there, and did not get back till the afternoon. so how jack can have been wiring hares after seven i don't very well know." the justices looked surprised, as the under-keeper had the character of being an honest, truth-telling man. wildgoose himself said nothing. mr. hale, who acted as chairman, was beginning to put some questions to stokes, in the hope of finding something either to confirm or to weaken his testimony, when an elderly man in a smock frock came to the bar, and said, "i should be as glad as any one to have the young man got off, both for his own sake, and for the sake of his good mother; but i cannot stand by in silence, and hear a man take such an audacious false oath as that sworn by will atkins. why you know, will," continued he, "that you skulked by the fighting cocks soon after seven; i was afraid that you were about no good, and if the gentlemen won't believe me, i can name another who saw you as well as i." this was old truman, who had got a lift in tomkins's cart for the sake of hearing the proceedings, but without the most distant thought of taking any part in them himself. his high respect for the name of god, and his general love of truth, compelled him to speak against his own wishes. the fact was this. atkins, who had gone to meet wildgoose on the sunday morning, in order to receive from him the hares which he had snared, heard that he had been detected, and almost immediately determined to try the chance of setting up an _alibi_. for himself, as he had not the fear of god before his eyes, he cared not whether what he swore was false or true, so that it answered his purpose. he therefore had directed wildgoose, though without telling him his intention, to keep close at home, and let no one see him; and had hastened himself to get out of the village, unobserved as he thought by any one. when truman spoke, black will turned pale with vexation and rage, and darted at the old man a look, which said that he longed to strike him to the earth. when truman, however, had repeated his statement upon oath, atkins endeavoured to get out of the scrape as well as he could, and stammered out something about mistaking the hour. mr. hale the chairman gave him a most serious reprimand. he told him, that "the deliberately calling upon the god of truth to bear witness to a falsehood, was daring the almighty to his face. that, as the property, the good name, and even the lives of men depended in great measure upon preserving the proper respect for an oath, the man who wilfully took a false oath deserved to be banished out of all civilized society; he added, that he hoped sir john would indict him for perjury." he then proceeded to convict wildgoose. "the penalty," said he, "for using engines for the destruction of game, on other days, is, as you know well enough, five pounds. but as your offence was committed on the lord's day, the penalty is any sum that we think fit, provided it is not more than [english pound] nor less than [english pound]. in compassion to your mother we will fix the lower sum. this it is our duty to sentence you to pay. if you cannot pay it, and have not goods which we can distrain, you must go to prison." wildgoose answered that as for the penalty, he neither could nor would pay it: that he had no goods, as he was only a sort of a lodger in his mother's house, and that he had as soon go to prison as not. he knew that there he should have plenty to eat and little to do. in this last supposition he was mistaken, as the magistrates had, though with some difficulty, contrived to find work enough to keep the prisoners continually employed. the parish constable, under whose care wildgoose was, said, that of his own certain knowledge he was able to confirm the truth of his statement as to his having no goods to distrain. the commitment therefore was made out, and jack was sent off to the county gaol. lightly as he had talked of going to prison, yet he felt a good deal when actually on his way thither; and when he saw the high walls, the grated windows, the narrow cells,--still more when he heard the clank of the fetters of some of his fellow prisoners, who were confined for heinous offences, his soul sank within him. he was shocked too and mortified at being required to put on that token of disgrace, a prison dress. he did not, however, remain there long. his poor mother was thunderstruck at hearing that her son was really sent to prison, and lost no time in endeavouring to get money enough to pay the fine in order to procure his freedom. she had hardly any money in the house; but her neighbours were ready to lend her what they had by them; and four pounds, being the whole of her savings in service, were eagerly and freely given by lucy wilmot, a well-behaved young woman, to whom jack wildgoose had for some time been attached. mrs. wildgoose could not bear to be in debt; and as she never was able to do much more than just maintain her family, she knew that she must deny herself and her children every little indulgence in order to repay her kind neighbours. but she thought that any thing was better than suffering her son to remain in prison, in the society, it might be, of depraved and abandoned characters. the penalty having been paid, jack was immediately set at liberty. he felt a little abashed at first coming home; but the kind manner of his mother, who, though her heart was full of grief, would not utter the least reproach, relieved him. jack soon observed in a variety of little things a change in his mother's manner of living. she had been accustomed, for instance, to give her children a bit of meat baked with a pudding on sundays. when, instead of this, nothing made its appearance but some potatoes and dripping, with bread and cheese, the girls looked disconcerted, and sam cried out, "why, mother, what's become of the meat and pudding? this is no better than a working-day's dinner." mrs. wildgoose told them, that she could not at present afford to give them a better, and they should be thankful for what they had. john knew well enough the meaning of this, and, to do him justice, felt a good deal. often did he now wish that he had in his pocket again those many shillings and sixpences, which he had uselessly spent at the fighting cocks. his mother, who had always been pleased with his attachment to lucy wilmot, thought it but fair to tell him one day how generously she had contributed to his enlargement. john was much overcome, and took the first opportunity of warmly thanking lucy for her kindness to him. lucy was vexed at his knowing it, and was a good deal confused; but there was something in her manner, which encouraged him to express his hopes of being some day united to her. lucy was a frank, ingenuous, open-hearted girl, and did not pretend to deny the regard that she felt for him; "but, john," said she, "i can never consent to marry a poacher; i should not think it right to unite myself to a man who lives in the habit of breaking the laws. i could not bear to have for a husband, the companion of nightly plunderers, drunkards, and sabbath-breakers. besides, i should never have a moment's peace. the thoughts of fines, and imprisonments, and fightings with game-keepers, and all sorts of terrible things, would never be out of my head. instead of your coming home to me at night, i should expect to hear of your being taken up, or wounded, or being forced to fly the country. no, john; i don't pretend to deny the kindness i feel for you. we were play-fellows when children; were always good friends as we were growing up; and--perhaps--i might now use a stronger term of regard; but i never will--i never can--marry a poacher." wildgoose promised again and again, that he would give it up. "so you said before, john. nobody could promise fairer than you did; and for a little while i hoped you would keep your promise. but you know how little came of it after all." john promised that this time he would be more steady. lucy replied, "as yet, john, we are both much too young to think of settling. if i know my own heart, i think that i shall never love any man but you: but i will never become your wife, until you have shewn, by the experience of a year or two, that you have firmness enough to keep to your present resolution." wildgoose's spirit was a little _up_ at lucy's not choosing to _trust_ him at once. he was deeply gratified by her acknowledgment that she was attached to him; but at the same time felt something like pique and ill-humour, at what he called her want of confidence in him. he was doubly resolved, however, to prove by his conduct that she had no reason to doubt his steadiness. every thing now seemed going on well. john passed his days in honest labour, and spent his evenings at home. he saw lucy frequently; but soon after christmas she was obliged to return to her place, which was in the family of a respectable gentleman, at some distance. towards the latter end of the second week in january, wildgoose happened to be passing the public house, when atkins and two or three others came running out, and eagerly asked him whether he had heard the news. "news!" said john, "what news do you mean?" "news in which you are very nearly concerned," said mike simmons; "but we can't tell you here; come in with us into the house." to enter the door of the fighting cocks was rather contrary to wildgoose's resolution; but his desire to hear news, in which he was so greatly interested, got the better of his scruples. he therefore went in, and found two or three other men, of no very good character, sitting round the fire, with their beer on the table. jack felt bound to call for some too, and asked to hear their news. "and sad news it is," said will; "the quarter sessions are just over; and--would you believe it!--they have sentenced poor tom cade to transportation." wildgoose did not happen to have heard of the law, by which such nightly depredators, if armed in any way, are made liable to that punishment[f], and expressed some surprise. "yes, they have condemned him to transportation," exclaimed the whole party; "transportation! only for trying to shoot a pheasant or two." "now there you mistake the matter," said old truman, (who, as he lodged with his son-in-law, was present at more of these conversations than he wished,) "you mistake the matter altogether. the law does not transport a man merely for killing a pheasant, but for going out at night _armed_, and prepared for deeds of violence against those whose duty it is to protect the game. the law gives every man a right to take care of his property. it gives the owner of a manor and land a sort of property in the game on his manor and land, and a right to appoint persons to preserve it. if lawless men choose to go, where they have no right to be at all, prepared to beat, wound, and perhaps to kill, the men, whose duty it is to protect the game, they deserve to be trounced pretty tightly. besides, you must remember, when a man is taken to in this way, he can't be punished at all without a fair trial by a jury; while in common game cases the justice is both judge and jury too. to be sure," added he, "if a man thinks himself wronged by a justice's judgment, he has always a right to appeal against it." having said this, old truman, who did not much like the company, and had no hopes of reforming them, went to bed. [footnote f: see note [f.]] "for all the old man's fine talking," cried atkins, "i say it is very hard and cruel usage of poor tom: and i never suffer a friend to be wronged without being revenged. sir john's pheasants, at all rates, shall pay for it, and i would advise the keepers not to put themselves in harm's way." "let's go to-night," said tim nesbit, "there will be a fine moon; and besides, i understand sir john comes home to-morrow from wales, and then we shan't have so good a chance." this was agreed upon, and tim began singing the poacher's song; oh! 'tis a merry moony night; to catch the little hares o! they sat on drinking, though not so as to get intoxicated, till they thought the time suited their purpose. when preparing to start, atkins said to wildgoose, who had taken a good deal more beer than of late he had been accustomed to, "you'll go with us, jack?" wildgoose replied, that he had given up poaching for good and all, and should go quietly home. "now don't ye be shy," said maurice croft, "come along, like a hearty fellow as you used to be." john still continued firm, and said that he should go back to his mother. "aye, let johnny go and be tied to his mother's apron string; that's a good johnny," cried tim nesbit, "i always thought him a chicken-hearted fellow. why, did'nt bob tell you that he was turned methodist? you can't expect a fellow like that to be true to his friends, or to have any spirit about him." "when a man has, as you may say, lost a limb in the service," said bob fowler, who was sitting by the fire with his arm in a sling, "it's all fair that he should be a little backward, but i can't bear that a stout young fellow like that should turn coward." wildgoose felt mortified, and vexed, and angered; and his anger was upon the point of so far getting the better, as to make him still more determined upon avoiding their company; when atkins, who had not joined in the cry against him, pretended to take his part. "jack's as stout-hearted a fellow as any of you," said he, "and he'll shew it to-night. i know he'll go with us, if it's only to pleasure me, that have always been his friend, and run the risk of the pillory to get him off; and just to prove to you once for all that he's no coward." "come, jack, i know you'll come with us this once, and we won't plague you again about it. what has been said now, was all said in joke, so you mus'nt be angry. you know you need'nt carry a gun if you do'nt like it, but you _shall_ just come and see the sport. no harm _can_ come of it: as we shall be five of us, you may be sure the keepers will be wise enough to keep their distance." wildgoose, at last, suffered himself to be persuaded. he thought that lucy would not hear of it; and that at all events it should be the last time. away they went, and were soon at the outside of sir john's preserve. it was a still serene night. the moon shone brightly, and the hoar frost sparkled like diamonds on the twigs and few dead leaves. atkins, who on these occasions always took a sort of lead, turned to his companions, and said, "now, remember, my boys, we don't come here to be taken, and sent out of the country like poor tom. for my part i don't think the keepers will come near us; but if they do, we must stand true to each other, and send them home again as wise as they came." they entered the wood, and dispersing themselves so as to be at no great distance from each other, began their attack upon the sleeping pheasants. they had not fired many shots before the game-keeper, who was going his rounds, was brought to the spot. as he was getting over the hedge, one of the stakes of which he had taken hold broke short off, and let him fall back into the ditch. the noise gave the alarm to the poachers, and they most of them concealed themselves behind large trees, or the inequalities of ground in an old gravel pit. michael simmons was not so quick as the rest. the keeper got sight of, and soon contrived to seize him, exclaiming, "so ho! my lad! you must go along with me." he hardly uttered the words, when maurice croft came to the rescue of his comrade. the keeper, who was a powerful man, still kept hold of him, and warded off a blow or two which maurice aimed, as well as he could, when he found himself suddenly seized by two men from behind, and borne to the ground. "blind his eyes, that he may'nt see too much of us," said black will; "tie his hands behind him, and make him fast to this young oak tree; he shall then have the amusement of hearing what pretty work we make among his pheasants." these orders were immediately obeyed. his gun was given to wildgoose, who was growing more and more eager in the sport. a handkerchief was placed over his eyes, and he was bound to the tree so tightly, as to occasion a considerable degree of pain. the gang went gaily to work again, and the keeper had the mortification of hearing the pheasants fall on all sides of him. his trusty fellow-servant, stokes, however, was not idle. he inhabited a cottage in the park. the first shot that was fired had made him rub his eyes and raise his head from the pillow: and the second made him jump out of bed. from the number of shots he judged that the poachers were in force; and accordingly called up the two garden-men, the stable servants, and a labourer or two, who were kept in pay for such occasions. they hastened altogether to the scene of action, armed, some with guns, and the rest with stout bludgeons. the marauders soon got together, and appeared disposed to face them: but when a few blows had been struck, they found themselves so decidedly outnumbered, that they turned about and ran off in different directions. some of sir john's men hastened to unbind the game-keeper, while others went in pursuit. stokes, as it happened, followed wildgoose, and having nearly come up with him, called upon him to surrender. wildgoose turned short round, presented his gun, and bad him keep off, or he would fire. he was determined not to be taken: and upon recognizing stokes, he saw in him the occasion of his imprisonment, and of the difficulties which the payment of the fine had occasioned to his mother. he ought rather to have felt that he himself was the only cause of these evils, and that stokes had merely done his duty. he had no time for reflection however; and his angry feelings of hostility, together with the desire to escape, so got the better of him, that upon stokes's advancing to take hold of him, he fired. stokes uttered a cry--exclaimed, "i'm a dead man"--and fell lifeless upon the ground. upon hearing the report of the gun, the keeper and his men quitted the pursuit of the other poachers, and hurried to the spot. for a moment or two wildgoose stood motionless with horror at what he had done; but when he saw the men coming towards him, he endeavoured to provide for his safety by flight. some difficulty which he found in clearing a hedge, enabled three of them to get up with him. he defended himself for a short time with the butt end of the fowling piece, but was at length overpowered and taken. during the remainder of the night he was guarded at the keeper's house; and next morning was carried before a magistrate, who having taken the evidence of sir john's men, committed him to the county gaol in order to take his trial at the assizes. every body was sorry for poor stokes, who was as honest and civil a fellow as any in the neighbourhood. all too felt for his widow, who with three small children were thus suddenly deprived of a kind husband, on whose industry and good character she depended for subsistence. when the dreadful intelligence reached wildgoose's mother, she stood like a statue. she shed no tears; she uttered no lamentations; she stirred neither hand nor foot. at last, uttering a faint scream, she dropped senseless on the floor. her eldest daughter, and a neighbour who had been called in, got her to bed, and it was long before she came to herself. at first she had but an indistinct recollection of what had happened, and felt as if awaking from a horrible dream. in proportion as her senses returned, she felt that it was no dream, but a sad reality. her first impulse was to go to her son; but when she attempted to get up, she was unable to stand, and fell back upon the bed. a violent fever came on, attended with almost constant delirium, and the doctor had great apprehensions for her life. the country house of the gentleman, in whose family lucy wilmot lived as house-maid, was at a considerable distance; and she had now accompanied her master and mistress to london. it so happened that the sad news did not reach her till a few days before the assizes. when she had a little recovered from the first dreadful shock, she immediately determined to hasten to poor wildgoose, in order to give him whatever comfort or assistance his awful situation would admit of. she requested therefore her mistress to allow her a short leave of absence; borrowed a few pounds of the house-keeper, placed herself on the top of a stage, and next morning reached the county town. with an aching heart, and trembling steps, she hurried to the gaol. the gaoler, who, like most of his brethren of the present day, was a kind and humane man, having asked her a few questions, conducted her into his own parlour, and promised to bring wildgoose to her: adding, that though his duty did not permit him to leave them alone together, yet that they might depend upon his not repeating any thing of what might pass between them. poor lucy's heart sickened at the heavy creaking of the door which led to the prisoners' day room; and she was nearly fainting when she heard footsteps approaching the little parlour where she was sitting. when wildgoose entered, she started up, and without speaking, eagerly tried to take his hand. he, however, uttering a deep groan, clasped both his hands to his face, and turning his head away, burst into a convulsive fit of sobbing. lucy still held her hand stretched towards him, when he at last said in a smothered voice, "oh! lucy, don't try to shake hands with me; the hand of such a good girl as you are must not be touched by the hand of a murderer." he then sank on a bench, and in spite of all his efforts to command himself, gave way to an agony of grief. lucy could hardly stand; she had, however, been internally seeking strength from him, who alone can give it, and by his aid was supported. her ardent wish too, to be of use, led her to exert herself to the utmost. when, after some minutes, wildgoose became a little more composed, she spoke to him of taking steps for his defence at his trial; and said that she was provided with money in order to secure the assistance of a lawyer. at first he would not hear of it. he said that it would be of no use, and that he deserved to suffer. lucy herself, from what she had heard, hardly indulged any hope of his acquittal; but still urged him to make use of what assistance he could, both that he might have longer space for repentance, and also for the sake of his mother. "oh, my mother! my dear, dear mother!" exclaimed wildgoose, striking his hand to his forehead, and giving way to the expression of the most piercing anguish. several minutes passed before he could at all compose himself, but when he was a little calmed, he at last consented that lucy should take whatever steps she thought expedient. with a voice almost stifled with emotion, wildgoose then asked lucy if she had heard any thing of the poor woman who had been deprived by his rashness of a tender husband. lucy replied that she had not. "alas!" said he, "what is done cannot be undone, nothing can make up to her for her loss; but if my life should be spared, how gladly would i work night and day, to keep her and her poor children from want." the gaoler now hinted to them that his duty required his attendance in another part of the gaol. the prisoner was therefore reconducted to his ward; and lucy was just leaving the parlour, when a gentleman entered. from his dress and appearance she guessed him to be the chaplain of the gaol; and having ascertained by a timid and respectful enquiry that her conjecture was well founded, she implored him in the most earnest and pathetic manner to use his best offices in preparing wildgoose for whatever might be the event of his trial. the chaplain answered, that he had already had many very serious conversations with the prisoner, about whom she seemed to be so much interested, and that he trusted that he was properly affected by his awful situation; "he appears," said he, "never to have been entirely without some impressions of religion, though his conduct was not sufficiently governed by it; and dreadful as is the crime with which he is charged, yet it has not the additional guilt of premeditation. i never dare to build much upon a profession of repentance occasioned by the near prospect of death; but as far as i can judge, his repentance is deep and sincere. he is full of shame and sorrow for having lived in such neglect of god and his laws, and for having paid no better attention to serious religion. the anguish which he feels from this last fatal deed is heart-breaking; and it becomes doubly acute, when he thinks of the desolate condition of her whom his hand has made a widow. his only hope of forgiveness is founded on god's mercy in christ." "may i understand then, sir," said lucy, in an eager though tremulous voice, "that you think that if--if--if he should suffer for the crime, his eternal interests are safe?" "i dare not say so; it is not for one sinful and erring mortal to pronounce confidently on the final state of another. the mercy of god is extended to all truly penitent sinners, through the atonement of christ. i hope that the faith and the repentance of your friend are sincere; but, generally speaking, repentance under such circumstances must be attended with much of fear and doubt[g]. as i said before, i hope that the penitence of this poor young man is such, that it would, if his life should be spared, shew itself to have been real, by producing the fruits of a holy life; but i presume not to speak with confidence. let us both pray to god to perfect his repentance, and to increase and strengthen his faith." many aspirations to this effect had already been fervently offered up by lucy, and she renewed them with redoubled earnestness. [footnote g: see note [g.] to which i particularly request attention.] lucy was allowed to see wildgoose frequently. when the anxious time of trial came, she secured him the assistance of an able lawyer, who exerted himself in his defence. it was however all in vain. the facts of the case were so clear, and the evidence so strong, that the jury without hesitation returned a verdict of guilty. the judge, after a short preface, in which he emphatically introduced the words of scripture, _whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed_, proceeded to pronounce the awful sentence of the law. he did this in the most feeling and impressive manner, and many of the audience were in tears. when he concluded in the solemn words, "the lord have mercy on your soul," the prisoner, who during the trial had maintained a steady but melancholy composure, seemed torn and agitated by conflicting emotions. after half uttering a deep and smothered groan, however, he in some measure recovered himself, and was removed from the bar. lucy, it may easily be imagined, could not bear to be present at the trial, but waited in painful and breathless suspense at her lodgings. she thought that she was prepared for the worst, and had in fact never allowed herself to encourage any hope; but when the tidings of the sentence reached her, she felt a sudden mist before her eyes, and fell lifeless on the ground. the woman of the house kindly gave her every assistance; but it was long before she came to herself. at length she opened her eyes, and wildly looking round her, exclaimed, "where is he? where is he? they have not torn him from me?" again her eyes closed; and she lost the sense of her misery in another swoon. when she was a little recovered, the people with whom she lodged endeavoured to prevail on her to go to bed. she was, however, steady in her refusal; and as soon as her limbs were able to support her, hastened to the prison. she now found wildgoose heavily ironed, and additional measures taken for securing him. they grasped each other's hand in silent agony, and were long unable to speak. at length wildgoose exerted himself so far as to give her a message to his mother and family, and lucy employed the little time she was allowed to remain with him, in suggesting such religious consolation as seemed most adapted to his situation. the next day, which was sunday, she received the sacrament with him. wildgoose was calm beyond her expectations; and behaved throughout with a seriousness and fervour of devotion, which gave her more comfort than she had yet experienced. i must spare both myself and the reader the pain of speaking of the awful scene of the day following. it is distressing even to think, or to speak of an execution. how is it possible that such numbers--sometimes, i fear, even women--can seem to take pleasure in going to witness the last pangs of a fellow-creature, who is condemned to forfeit his life to the offended laws of his country! i would have every one pray for, and feel for, the criminal, but on no account seek to gratify curiosity, by actually witnessing his death. the following paper was handed about, as the last dying speech of john wildgoose. "i acknowledge the justice of the sentence by which i suffer; and would have all young men take warning from my example. i attribute my crime and punishment, in the first place, to my neglect of the lord's day; and in the second, to my keeping bad company. had i been regular in going to church, and attentive to my religious duties, i should, under the blessing of god, have preserved and increased the good impressions, which i had received from my parents. these impressions, however, i suffered to wither away. by keeping bad company i was led into _poaching_, in which i at first thought there was not much harm. when by a kind friend i was convinced that it was wrong, the want of firmness in religion prevented me from giving it up. poaching made me the companion of sabbath-breakers, swearers, drunkards, and thieves; and at last led me on to the dreadful crime of murder. may god support and comfort the poor woman whom my hand has robbed of a husband, and the dear and excellent parent, whom the same rash action has deprived of a son; may he make my sad fate productive of good to all who hear of it; and may he have mercy on my own soul through jesus christ!" as soon as lucy had recovered her strength sufficiently to enable her to travel, she went to her native village, where she found that mrs. wildgoose had passed the crisis of her disorder, and was beginning to recover. her two daughters were most attentive to her; but lucy obtained permission to assist them in nursing, and to take her turn in sitting up by her bed-side during the night. when the poor woman's health was in some degree re-established, lucy felt it right to return to her kind mistress; but her cheerfulness and good spirits had entirely forsaken her, and a settled melancholy seemed to have taken possession of her soul. her only comfort is in prayer, and the consolations of religion. after a confinement to her bed of several weeks, susan wildgoose was at length able to move about her house; and the wants of herself and family forced her to return to her former occupations: but she hardly spoke to any one; she served her customers in silence; and it is evident that the deep affliction under which she continually labours, will shortly bring her to the grave. her daughters and surviving son have youth and health on their side; but their behaviour and appearance are totally changed: and instead of being merry and light-hearted, they have become pensive and serious. time will wear away much of the acuteness of their grief, but it is probable that, as long as they live, they will never be free from the most painful and distressing recollection, that they have had a brother who was executed as a murderer. _n.b. this tale is sold as a tract, price d._ notes. _the following extracts from acts of parliament are much abridged._ [footnote a.: if any higler, carrier, inn-keeper, &c. shall have in his possession, or shall buy, sell, or offer for sale, any hare, pheasant, partridge, or grouse, every such higler, &c. unless such game be sent by some person qualified, shall forfeit for every hare, pheasant, &c. the sum of five pounds, half to the informer, and half to the poor. ann. c. . s. .] [footnote b.: if any person whatsoever, _whether qualified or not qualified to kill game_, shall buy any hare, pheasant, partridge, or grouse, he shall, on conviction before one justice, forfeit _l._ half to the informer and half to the poor. g. iii. c. . s. . any person may recover the said penalty by information, or may sue for and recover the _whole for his own use_, in any court of record, wherein the plaintiff if he recovers shall have double costs. sect. .] [footnote c.: if any person shall enter any park or paddock, fenced in and inclosed, or into any garden, orchard, or yard, adjoining or belonging to any dwelling house, and shall steal any fish kept in any water therein; or shall be assisting therein; or shall receive or buy any such fish, knowing the same to be stolen; and at the assizes be convicted of such offence, he shall be transported for seven years. g. iii. c. . s. , . and if any person shall take or destroy, or attempt to take or destroy, any fish, in any other inclosed ground, being private property, without the consent of the owner, he shall upon conviction by one justice forfeit _l._ to the owner of the pond or fishery, and, in default of payment, shall be committed to the house of correction for any time not exceeding six months. sect. , .] [footnote d.: whenever it shall appear to the justices, or to the overseers, to whom application shall be made for relief of any poor person, that he might, but for his _extravagance_, _neglect_, or _wilful misconduct_, have been able to maintain himself, or to support his family, it shall be lawful for the overseers (by the direction of the justices, &c.) to advance money to the person applying, by way of _loan_ only, and take his receipt for, and engagement to repay, (without stamp;) upon default of payment, two justices may commit him for not exceeding three calendar months. g. iii. cap. . sect. .] [footnote e.: if any person shall knowingly and wilfully kill, take, or destroy any hare, or use any gun, dog, snare, net, or other engine, with intent to kill, take, or destroy any hare in the night, (or in the day time, upon a sunday or christmas-day,) he shall on conviction, on oath of one witness, before one justice, forfeit for the first offence not exceeding _l._ nor less than _l._; and for the second not exceeding _l._ nor less than _l._] [footnote f.: if any person or persons, having entered into any park, wood, plantation, or other open or inclosed ground, with intent illegally to take, or kill, game, or rabbits, or to aid and assist in so doing, shall be found at night armed with any gun, fire arms, bludgeon, or any other offensive weapon, such person being lawfully convicted, shall be adjudged guilty of a misdemeanour, and shall be sentenced to transportation for seven years, or such other punishment as may be inflicted on persons guilty of misdemeanour; and if any such offender shall return before the expiration of such term, he shall be sentenced to transportation for life. g. iii. cap. . sect. .] [footnote g.: _extracts from stonhouse's "sick man's friend," on a death-bed repentance._ bishop burnet, in his excellent book entitled the pastoral care, (page , of the fourth edition,) says, "a clergyman ought to give no encouragement to men, who have led a bad course of life, to hope much from a death-bed repentance; yet he is to set them to implore the mercies of god in christ jesus, and to do all they can to obtain his favour. but unless the sickness has been of long continuance, and that the person's repentance, patience, and piety, have been very extraordinary during the course of it, he must be sure to give him no positive ground of hope, but leave him to the mercies of god. for there cannot be any greater treachery to souls that is more fatal and pernicious than the giving quick and easy hopes, upon so short, so forced, and so imperfect a repentance. it not only makes those persons perish securely themselves, but it leads all about them to destruction, when they see one, of whose bad life and late repentance they have been the witnesses, put so soon in hopes, nay by some unfaithful guides made sure of salvation. this must make them go on very secure in their sins, when they see how small a measure of repentance sets all right at last: all the order and justice of a nation would be presently dissolved, should the howlings of criminals and their promises work on juries, judges, and princes. so the hopes that are given to death-bed penitents must be the most effectual means to root out the sense of religion from the minds of all who see it. therefore, though no dying man is to be driven to despair, and left to die obstinate in his sins, yet, if we love the souls of our people, if we set a due value on the blood of christ, and if we are touched with any sense of the honour or interests of religion, we must not say any thing that may encourage others, who are but too apt of themselves, to put all off to the last hour. we can give them no hopes from the nature of the gospel covenant; yet, after all, the best thing a dying man can do is to repent. if he recover, that may be the seed and beginning of a new life, and a new nature in him: nor do we know the measure of the _riches of god's grace and mercy_." "when," says dr. assheton, page and of his death-bed repentance, "you visit sick beds, and hear a poor dying creature lamenting his sins with tears, and most earnestly begging pardon for the sake of jesus christ; when you observe how passionately he resolves, that if god will but spare him, he will become a new man, and never be guilty of such extravagance; what do you say or do in such a case? nay, what must such a wicked man do, who having lived in sin, shall thus happen to be surprised by death? dare you be so uncharitable as to declare that he is past hope, that there is no remedy, but that he will certainly be damned? i answer, that i dare not presume to limit god, whose mercies are infinite. in such a case i will not censure him, but admonish and instruct him to the best of my judgment and abilities. i will exhort the dying sinner to remember his sins, to bewail them, to beg pardon for them, to form firm resolutions of amendment, and (when there is occasion) to make restitution; and having prayed earnestly for him, and recommended him to god's mercy, do i _then_ say such a one will be damned? no, i _dare_ not. but do i say he shall be _saved_? no, i _cannot_. what then do i resolve? what do i determine in this matter? i will be silent, and determine nothing; for as i dare not flatter him into a false and groundless presumption, so neither would i sink him into the horror of despair. i say, i will determine nothing: i will judge nothing before the time. however, i must be so faithful to my ministerial office as to admonish this dying sinner, that the gospel (by the laws of which we are to be judged) expressly declares, that "without holiness no man shall see the lord," and that christ is the author of eternal salvation unto them (and to them _only_) who obey him. _heb._ v. . when therefore the sick man has been vicious and extravagant all his life long, if god accepts his dying _resolutions_, it is more than he has _promised_, and it is more than he has given his ministers power to _preach_ and _declare_." repentance is a change of heart from an evil to a good disposition; no man can justly be called a true penitent, till his heart be thus changed, and whenever that change is made, repentance is certainly complete. now there is reason to conclude, god will consider that life as amended, which would have been amended if he had spared it. repentance in the sight of man cannot be known but by its fruits. the only way man can judge is by the rule christ himself has given us, "by their fruits ye shall know them." _matt._ vii. . but god (our great creator) sees the fruit in the _blossom_ or in the _seed_. he (and he _only_) knows those resolutions which are _fixed_; those conversions which would be lasting; and will receive such as are qualified by holy desires for works of righteousness, without exacting from them those _outward_ duties, which the shortness of their lives hindered them from performing. all, therefore, a minister can do, is to recommend a _death-bed_ penitent to the mercies of god. but it is impossible for _him_ to pronounce what will be his state in another world.] the smuggler. advertisement. it is possible that in the following little tale there may be several inaccuracies with regard to the habits and manners both of seamen, and of smugglers. the residence of the author in an _inland_ county must be his apology. the similarity in some respects of the offence of smuggling, to the illegal pursuit which forms the subject of the preceding tale--written two years ago--must be the author's excuse for the recurrence of similar sentiments and expressions. _jan. ._ [illustration] the smuggler. it was the latter end of the month of november, when mary waldron, having carefully put her two children to bed, sat down with an aching head and a heavy heart, to wait for the return of her husband. he had sailed from folkestone in a stiff half-decked vessel, in company with eight or ten of his sea-faring companions, and then told his wife that she might expect him back on the day following. but that day and another had passed away, and he was still absent. the night was dark and tempestuous. the wind howled mournfully round the house; the rain beat hard against the windows; and whenever the storm seemed lulled for a moment, the continued roar of the waves, as they broke on the shingly beach, came heavily on her ear. she tried to occupy herself in mending one of her husband's fishing jackets; but her hands and the jacket were constantly in her lap, and it was with difficulty that from time to time she was able in some degree to rouse herself. at length, wearied out with watching and anxiety, and her candle having nearly burnt to the socket, she lay down on the bed in her clothes, and was just falling into an unquiet slumber, when she was waked by a knocking at the door. she hurried down stairs, and let in her husband, who was accompanied by a short stout-built ill-looking man, in a rough seaman's jacket, from one of the pockets of which peeped forth the butt end of a pistol. both were wet and tired, and both seemed sullen, and out of temper. at their first entrance, mary eagerly cried out, "oh! james, i am so glad to have you home again. i have passed a sad wearisome time since you went." but waldron received his wife's greeting coldly, and almost in silence. he walked up to the fire place, and, stooping over the embers, began drawing them together, at the same time telling his wife to get a bit or two of wood, and then to warm a little beer. his companion had under his arm a large bundle, tied round with a piece of sail-cloth. "at least we've got that safe," said james, placing it in one of the chairs: and he then ordered his wife to put it under the bed for the night, and to carry it early in the morning, before it was quite light, to mrs. hawker's shop, near the church. "i," added he, "shall be glad to lie in bed a bit, after being up three nights running." when they had finished their beer, the stranger withdrew; and mary, after uttering a fervent prayer for all who are in peril by land or by water, and for the bringing back to the right way of those who have strayed from it, retired to rest. early the next morning, mary, in compliance with her husband's directions, carried the sail-cloth bundle to mrs. hawker, who received it with one of her most gracious smiles, while her little black eyes sparkled with satisfaction. she immediately took it into a back parlour, and then returning to the shop, pressed mary waldron to take a glass of something comfortable. this mary declined, and immediately hastened home, carrying with her a loaf for her husband's breakfast. she found him still asleep, and the eldest of the two children trying to keep his little sister quiet, that she might not disturb him. at length, towards eleven o'clock, he got up, and the refreshment of a night's rest, a comfortable breakfast, and the active though quiet assiduity of his wife, seemed to have restored him to good humour. "we'd a roughish time of it last night," said he. "yes, indeed," replied mary; "and i wish, my dear james, you did but know a hundredth part of what i have suffered since you took to your present way of life." "why should you be more uneasy now," said james, "than when i was nothing but a fisherman? we were then often out night after night, and sometimes in rough weather too." "to be sure, i used now and then to be a little anxious," said mary, "but you were seldom out when it blew hard, and besides"--she hesitated a little--"besides--don't now be angry with me, james, for saying it--i felt then that you were trying to get your living in a lawful and honest way. now when you are absent, my thoughts run upon all horrible things. i do not think so much of the perils of the wind and the waves, though that is bad enough, as of the chance of your being taken as a smuggler, or of your doing some dreadful deed in order to escape. they tell me, that the preventive-service men keep a sharp look out." "a pretty deal too sharp," said waldron, "i can tell you; if it had not been for them, we should have been back to folkestone the night before last. we were to have landed our tubs just beyond dimchurch, and had made a signal for the men to be ready with the horses to meet us. there was a thickish fog at the time; but still, these fellows somehow got sight of us, and pulled off in their boat, just as we were nearing the land. jack spraggon, the man that was here last night, proposed sinking them; but, though they deserved it, i was not quite bloody-minded enough for that. we had nothing else to do, therefore, but to put about, and as the wind blew off shore, we soon by the help of the fog gave them the slip. as it was of no use to think of landing then, we stood right out to sea. the wind soon after chopped about, and freshened to a gale. when we were nearly off folkestone, a dane merchantman had managed to run aground at some distance from the shore. the king's men--i must say _that_ for them--are always ready enough to help any ship in distress, and dashed away to take the poor fellows off the wreck. and while they were busy at this job, two of our boats came out to us, and put us and part of our cargo on shore in east weare bay--just under the red and white cliff there, under the signal house. as ill luck would have it, one of the men on the look out saw us, and gave the alarm. we soon knocked him down; but the rest of them got together so fast, that we were forced to run for it, leaving our tubs behind. i kept hold, however, of my bale of silk, and jack and i scrambled up one of the winding paths in the cliff, and got clear off." "oh! james," said mary, "how many risks do you run since you've taken to this free-trading, as you call it." "nonsense," replied waldron, "a seaman's wife must never talk of danger." "i feel," replied mary, "as if i could almost consent to your braving any danger in a good cause; but the cause that you are now engaged in is not a good one." "not a good one! why where's the harm, i should like to know, in buying in france a little brandy, or a few silks, or cambric, or laces, or what not, and selling them cheap in england, without going through all the trouble and expense of the custom-house?" "there _must_ be harm," said mary, "in constant opposition to the laws of the land; there _must_ be harm in living with such wicked men, as you now keep company with." "why, to be sure," replied waldron, "the consciences of some of our free-traders are not over-scrupulous, but there are indifferent characters in all professions; and as for breaking the laws, i don't see much harm in that--i'm sure the laws do me no good." "and what else but the laws," said mary, "protect your house from plunder, and your wife and children from violence, when you are far away? but i don't pretend to argue the matter, nor is it necessary that i should; you know the word of god." "come, come," retorted james, with a good deal of quickness and ill humour, "don't be trying to come over me with your lecturing and cant." "oh! my dear, dear james," said mary, with much earnestness, "if you love me, do not let me again hear you call the mention of the word of god by the name of cant. you used formerly to keep your church, and you still sometimes read your bible; surely the evil men with whom you have associated lately have not taught you to deny the authority of the scriptures?" "why no," said james, "it's not quite so bad as that; but what do the scriptures say about the laws, or about smuggling?" "why, in one place the scriptures tell us to _submit to the powers that be_, that is, to the laws and constitution of the country, not only from fear of punishment, but _for conscience sake_, and from a sense of the advantage derived from them by society. in another place they bid us _to submit to every ordinance of man for the lord's sake_. and with respect to smuggling, they command us to _render tribute to whom tribute is due, custom to whom custom_. therefore, whenever you smuggle goods into the country without paying duty at the custom-house, you directly fly in the face of this injunction of the scriptures. and at the same time that the smuggler thus breaks the laws of god and the laws of his country, he also injures the regular trader by underselling him; for, of course, the man, who conscientiously pays duty, cannot sell so cheap as he who pays no duty at all." "and that puts me in mind," said waldron, who wished to put an end to the conversation, "that i shall want a couple of pounds before night. do, mary, just step up to mrs. hawker's, and ask her to let me have them on account of the silk." mary was always ready to comply with the wishes of her husband, and putting on her cloak, went to mrs. hawker's house. she found her in her back parlour, shewing the silks to two smartly dressed young ladies. the eldest appeared to be about nineteen, the other two or three years younger. the countenances of both were expressive of good humour and liveliness, without much indication of thought or reflection. each had selected a sufficient quantity of silk for a gown, and they were in the act of cheapening their purchases, when mary came in. "no, indeed now, mrs. hawker, you _must_ take off a shilling a yard. we really could get it as cheap in london, and, after all, the english silk they make now is quite as good." "that may be true," said mrs. hawker, "but you must consider, my dear young ladies, the difficulty i have in getting it, and the risk the poor fellows run." "yes, indeed," said mary, with a sigh, "it is the blood of men that you are buying." the young ladies, who had not before seen mary, as she was waiting near the door, turned round, and were just going to ask her what she meant, when one or two loud authoritative raps were heard at the outer door. at the same moment the maid servant came running in with every symptom of alarm, saying, in a suppressed voice, "mistress, mistress, make haste, the custom-house officers are here." mrs. hawker's countenance changed, but she was too much used to such occurrences to lose her presence of mind. "there, ladies, pop the silks under your pelisses--there--quick." the knocking was repeated more loudly than before. "who's there," said mrs. hawker, in a shrill tone. a man's voice replied, "let us in, we must come in directly." "coming, sir, coming immediately." then in the same breath turning to the young ladies, "stay, that will not do. if they find you here, they, perhaps, will search you. there, run into that back pantry, and keep the door tight." molly, meanwhile, had run off with the bale of silk to a hiding-place prepared for such occasions, and mrs. hawker hastened to the door. before the officers had time to express their anger at being kept waiting, she put on one of her best smiles, and addressed them with, "mr. scroggins, is it you? well now, i'm so sorry that you've had to wait; but the girl was down at the farther end of the garden, and i happened to be busy with my needle up stairs, and did not come down the first moment, as i did not know but that she was in the house. but pray come in--i'm so sorry that i made you wait." this speech gave their wrath a little time to cool: but scroggins answered gravely, "mrs. hawker, we are come upon rather an unpleasant piece of business. we have had information that a suspicious looking parcel was brought to your house this morning." "what, to my house!" said mrs. hawker; "well! what will people say next. i'm sure i should never have thought of such a thing; but pray satisfy yourselves--search wherever you please." the officers looked about the shop and the back parlour, and went up stairs. the place where the silk was concealed was, however, so well contrived, as to escape their observation; and mrs. hawker put on the appearance of innocence so completely, that the men began to think that they really had been misinformed. the young ladies trembled with apprehension when they heard them come into the kitchen, and still more, when, as they passed the pantry, one of the men called out, "what door is that?" "o," said mrs. hawker, "that is a sort of out building, but it let in so much cold wind to the kitchen, that we had it nailed up before michaelmas;--but, i dare say, we can get it open, if you wish to see it;--i'm sure i want no concealment;--run, molly, run down to mr. bellows, the blacksmith--you know where he lives--near the pier."--"why, i believe, we need not give you that trouble," said scroggins; "i must say that you have been very ready to let us search every where: and, to tell you the truth, we are just now rather in a hurry, and it would be some time before bellows with his lame leg could hobble here." "well, as you please," said mrs. hawker, "it's all one to me--i only hope that another time, mr. scroggins, you will not be quite so ready to believe idle stories that people make against their neighbours." the officers wished her good day, and walked off. she watched them to a considerable distance before she ventured to release her prisoners from their confinement. they had been sadly frightened, but could not help laughing when they got out, though the eldest of them had greased the bottom of her pelisse against a flitch of bacon, which was lying on the bricks under the dresser; and the feathers of her sister were not improved by the intercourse which had taken place between them and a bunch of tallow candles, which were suspended from the low ceiling. having directed the silks which they had purchased to be wrapped up in a few yards of manchester cotton and sent after them, and having put half a dozen pair of french gloves in their reticules, they set out on their return to sandgate, where their father, admiral mowbray, had passed the greatest part of the autumn. before descending the hill, they stopped, as in their walks back from folkestone they generally did, to contemplate the scene before them, which though, perhaps, not remarkably striking, has something of a pleasing character. immediately beneath them was sandgate, sheltered from the east and north by a range of sand hills of no great height, but presenting considerable variety of form. from the top of this range a nearly level tract of country stretched along to the foot of the chalk ridge, the line of which is here relieved by several singular conical hills, which stand forward as detached outworks of the principal rampart of chalk. close under them on the left was the castle, the grey tints and roughnesses of which have been smoothed and polished away by modern trowels, till it has acquired the appearance of a cluster of martello towers. beyond sandgate were some traces of the unfinished works, once destined to protect the commencement of the military canal, and the sea, now nearly at high water, almost breaking over the road. the middle distance was formed by the town of hythe, with its church on the bold rising ground to the north, its lancet-shaped east window peeping through the trees; and far to the left ran the long line of low land terminating in dunge ness. the fishing boats of hythe and romney, with a revenue cutter and three or four brigs, gave animation to the near sea view; while, at a considerable distance, a couple of indiamen were majestically making their way down the channel. after admiring the prospect, the two sisters were slowly descending the hill, when they heard behind them the footsteps of two persons, who seemed to be rapidly approaching. their imaginations were filled with the idea of custom-house officers, and they immediately concluded that they were pursued. they therefore walked on as fast as they could, being apprehensive that if they _ran_ they should confirm the suspicions of their pursuers. the same apprehension prevented them from looking back. the strangers, however, continued to gain upon them, but when almost ready to sink with alarm, the young ladies found that their fears were groundless. they were overtaken and passed by a remarkably well-made active man, with a stout bludgeon in his hand, in company with a woman of a slight and elegant form, who contrived to keep pace with him, though she had a child in her arms. they were in earnest conversation; the woman appearing to be using entreaties, to which the man refused to listen. just after they had passed them, they heard the man say in a voice, at once expressive of determination and of an agitated state of feeling, "come--there's no use in trying to persuade me; i've told you that i must be in the marsh to-night. do you go home and mind the children, i shall not be absent long, and shall, most likely, get back to you before to-morrow night." he then seemed to make an effort, disengaged himself from his companion, and went on with a hurried step. the poor woman gazed after him for some time, and then turned back with an expression of anxiety and woe, which went to the hearts of the two sisters. their compassion and benevolence prompted them to endeavour to offer some consolation, but delicacy prevented them from intruding on the sorrows of a perfect stranger. upon looking at her more attentively, they recognized the same woman whom they had seen, not long before, at mrs. hawker's, and by whose remark upon their smuggling purchases they had been surprised and shocked. they could not resist bringing it to her recollection, and asking her what she meant. poor mary immediately burst into a flood of tears; the violence of her grief affected and alarmed the young ladies; and while they were trying to soothe both her and her child, the eldest of the young ladies exclaimed, "surely you are--but no, it is not likely:--you cannot be the mary allen, who, about ten years since lived as house-maid with mrs. stanwick in hertfordshire?" surprise and a sensation of pleasure checked the current of mary's sorrow. "yes, indeed, i am," said she; "and is it possible that you young ladies are my dear mistress's nieces, who used so often to be staying with her when your father, the admiral, was at sea? oh! how kind you were to me, and how fond i used to be of you both! but then you were both little girls, and i could venture to talk to you with freedom." "and so you may now," said emily mowbray; "you seem to be in some affliction. before we knew who you were, we longed to comfort you; and now that we find that you are an old acquaintance, we shall have double pleasure in being of any use to you." the circumstance of having, in early youth, been inmates of the same house, and in habits of frequent and kindly intercourse, leaves generally a lasting impression upon the heart. this is often felt by schoolfellows, who, when they meet, after having been long separated, have a peculiar frankness and warmth of feeling towards each other, which is seldom produced by an acquaintance contracted in maturer years. and something of the same warmth and disposition to freedom of communication is occasionally produced in children--children of the gentler sex particularly--towards the tried and valued servants of the families, in which many of their earliest and happiest days have been passed. this species of feeling now glowed in full vigour in the bosoms of the two sisters, and of mary waldron. mary had met with sympathizing friends when she most wanted them; and the miss mowbrays found the interest, which had been excited by witnessing her grief, increased to a ten-fold degree by this unexpected recognition. they pressed her to accompany them to their father's lodging house. the child, however, which she had left at home under the care of a neighbour, made this impossible. they therefore turned back, and walked slowly with her towards folkestone, caroline mowbray having relieved her, by taking the child out of her arms. during their walk, mary told them, that nine years before she had accompanied her mistress to hastings. they passed the winter there, and during that time, she became acquainted with james waldron, who frequently came to the house with fish. every body spoke well of him, as a sober, industrious, good-tempered man; and she became his wife when mrs. stanwick returned into hertfordshire. for about six years they lived happily together at hastings; they then removed to folkestone, where a small house had been left to waldron by a relation. here he continued for some time to follow his old occupation, but unhappily became acquainted with some notorious smugglers, and was persuaded occasionally to accompany them in their expeditions to the french coast. he was led on step by step, till smuggling had become his principal employment. "from the time that he took to the smuggling line," continued poor mary, "my happiness has been at an end. he used to be the kindest of husbands and of fathers. now he is seldom at home, and when he is, is generally out of temper. now and then he will play with his children a little, but more frequently complains of their being troublesome. he used to be sobriety itself, but latterly has taken to drinking spirits. his very countenance is changed; it used to be frank and open, but now is apt to have a downcast anxious look, like that of a man who has some sad burden on his mind. and oh! how many fears do i have for him! sometimes, i think he will be lost at sea, for they are out in all weathers; and sometimes i tremble lest he should be taken on shore, or that to prevent himself from being taken, he should do some dreadful deed that should bring him to the gallows." "i now too well understand," said emily mowbray, "what you meant by what you said to us at mrs. hawker's." "i should not have said it," answered mary, "had i known who i was speaking to--but still it was nothing but the truth. little do ladies, who in the lightness of their hearts come to purchase the smuggled silks, and the gloves, and the cambrics, little do they think what a sad business they are encouraging; that they are in fact buying men's blood. and oh! my dear, dear young ladies, would to heaven that were all--i tremble to think how not only the lives, but the souls, of these poor fellows--the soul of"--but here her voice failed, she clapped her hands to her face, and burst into an agony of grief. the two sisters soothed her as well as they could, and when she seemed tolerably composed again, turned their steps towards sandgate. the admiral had been a little uneasy at their long absence. "well! girls," he exclaimed upon seeing them, "where _have_ you been all this time?" "why, papa?"--"well, you must not stop to tell me now, but make haste to get ready for dinner. your cousin harry stanwick has promised to dine with us. we can seldom catch him, you know; but i told him, that coming to us was not being off duty, as he is as handy here as at the castle, in case any of these smuggling fellows should require to be looked after." the young ladies hurried to their rooms, and when they came down stairs, found their cousin already arrived. the admiral was eagerly trying to get from him some of the particulars of his saving the poor shipwrecked danes. "we had some difficulty," said lieutenant stanwick, "in launching our boat. the first time, when we had just got her into the water, a heavy wave knocked her clean over. upon a second attempt we got her afloat, and were just beginning to use our oars, when she was swamped again, and two of the men were nearly lost in trying to get back to the shore. my brave fellows, however, would not give it up: they could not bear, they said, to leave fellow-creatures to perish almost within hale of the land. at the third trial we succeeded. we got under the lee of the ship, and found her fast a-ground, her main-mast and mizen-mast blown away, and a tremendous sea breaking over her. several of the crew had been already washed off the deck. i never shall forget the joy the poor fellows expressed, when we got them into our boat. there was a black man particularly, whom they had brought with them from the west indies, and who seemed quite overpowered with gratitude. we brought them all safely on shore, and weary and buffeted as they were, the preventive-service men gave them up their beds, and the greatest part of their rations[h]." [footnote h: founded on fact.] during dinner the admiral was continually asking for some particulars respecting the shipwreck, and it was with delight, mixed with a sort of trepidation, that the sisters heard the different instances of intrepidity and considerate kindness of these rough seamen. emily mowbray especially, every now and then, could not help betraying, by the animation of her eyes and the glow on her countenance, the deep interest she felt in the display of these qualities in their commander, anxious as he seemed to be in his narrative to keep himself in the back ground. when the servants had withdrawn, the admiral turned to his daughters, to enquire what had become of them all the morning. "why to tell you the truth, papa," said emily, "we had a little business in folkestone." "some smuggling transaction, i dare say," replied the admiral; "but why did that detain you so long?" the young ladies felt, that in prudence the less they said the better, but still they were so full of their morning's adventure with the custom-house officers, that they could not help telling it. "and could there, papa, have been _really_ any danger of their searching us?" "they would not have dared," said henry eagerly, his dark eyes flashing fire, and his face becoming crimson; but almost immediately both his manner and his countenance changed--"but i don't know--perhaps they would." "yes, indeed," said the admiral; "from what little i have seen or heard of these custom-house officers, they are well enough disposed to be civil where they have no ground of suspicion; but where persons choose to place themselves in suspicious circumstances, they are bound to do their duty.--i own i am quite astonished that any lady, with the slightest sense of propriety or delicacy of feeling, can expose herself to the possibility of being placed in so unpleasant a predicament." "why do you speak of ladies only, papa? i'm sure gentlemen smuggle as much as we do." "i am afraid that some do," said the admiral, "but it is generally in your service. i am quite hurt for the credit of the class of society with which i associate, when i hear of any gentleman or lady taking advantage of the confidence, which is reposed in them as such, for the purpose of evading the laws of their country. and for what?--for the sake of saving a few pounds; or for the gratification of some foolish vanity. i have sometimes fallen in with men, who would have shot me through the head if i had barely hinted the possibility of their telling a lie, who would yet be guilty of the most paltry falsehood and equivocation for the sake of deceiving a custom-house officer; who, after all, allowed himself to be deceived, only because he trusted that, being gentlemen, they would not condescend to lie. no, my dear girls, don't let me hear of your smuggling again." the two sisters in the course of the morning had received a lesson against smuggling, which had not been lost upon them; but still the spirit of emily rose at this attack, and she replied, "what, not smuggle at all? why it is one of the chief amusements of coming to the sea coast." "i wonder what pleasure you can find in it," said her father. "why, in the first place, the things are so much better and prettier than we can get in england; and then the little difficulties which we have to surmount, and the contrivances and concealment which we have to manage, produce a sort of excitement, somewhat similar to that, which i imagine men to derive from the sports of the field. and, after all, what is the harm of smuggling? it is no offence in itself, and is merely made an offence by the arbitrary enactments of human laws." "and ought you not, my dear emily, to pay obedience to the laws, under the protection of which you live? i might take higher ground, and refer you to the express words of scripture.--you know the passage to which i allude.--the poorest man in the country is protected by the laws, but if he is not sufficiently aware of the benefits which he derives from them, some little allowance may be made for him on the plea of ignorance, want of education, and the many wants and privations which he actually encounters. no such excuse, however, can be made for you, possessed as you are not only of all the necessaries, but of many of the superfluities, of life. in the enjoyment of all these comforts and luxuries--in the rank and station which you hold in society--you are protected by the laws of your country, and surely those laws have a just claim to your obedience." "there is, i acknowledge," replied emily, "much force in what you say; but i am sure, that you must think the laws against smuggling are much too severe." "the severity of laws is occasioned by the boldness of those who break them: when more lenient methods are found ineffectual, recourse is had to stronger and harsher measures. smuggling, as you know, consists either in evading the payment of the legal duties, or in purchasing articles which are prohibited altogether.--the evading of the payment of duties is clearly the same as robbing the public of so much of its revenue[i]. a poor man, who steals from distress, is punished, and justly punished, for no distress can justify doing wrong; but, i must say, that i think a well-educated person, who is guilty of wilfully plundering the public by smuggling, is a more guilty person than he is." [footnote i: "_worthy._ pray, mr. bragwell, what should you think of a man, who would dip his hand into a bag, and take out a few guineas? _bragwell._ think! why i think that he should be hanged, to be sure. _worthy._ but suppose that bag stood in the king's treasury? _bragwell._ in the king's treasury! worse and worse! what, rob the king's treasury! well, i hope the robber will be taken up and executed, for i suppose we shall all be taxed to pay the damage. _worthy._ very true. if one man takes money out of the treasury, others must be obliged to pay the more into it; but what think you if the fellow should be found to have stopped some money _in its way_ to the treasury, instead of taking it out of the bag after it got there? _bragwell._ guilty, mr. worthy; it is all the same, in my opinion. if i was a juryman, i should say, guilty, death. _worthy._ hark ye, mr. bragwell, he that deals in smuggled brandy is the man who takes to himself the king's money in its way to the treasury, and he as much robs the government, as if he dipped his hands into a bag of guineas in the treasury-chamber. it comes to the same thing exactly." from the cheap repository tract, called "the two wealthy farmers:"--a story, which, while it abounds in most useful moral and religious instruction, displays an insight into human nature, a talent for lively description, and a turn for quiet humour, which have seldom been surpassed.] "well; but you can't say that we defraud the revenue, when we buy silks, or gloves, or lace, upon which we _can_ pay no duty, even if we wished it!" "these articles are absolutely prohibited by law, and you break the laws by purchasing them." "but if the english can't make these things so well as the french, i don't see why i am obliged to buy inferior articles when i can get better--i am sure that i have heard you say yourself, that all matters of trade and manufacture should be suffered to find their own level, with as few restrictions as possible." "this doctrine may be generally true; but there are many circumstances of a local or of a temporary nature, which may make restrictions expedient. however, you and i emily are not _legislators_. _our_ business is to obey the laws of our country, even if they should happen to be not quite consistent with our own notions of political [oe]conomy.--but i must just add one or two observations upon the articles which you ladies are the most fond of smuggling. the prohibition of french and italian silks was intended for the encouragement of our home manufacturers; especially the silk weavers in spitalfields. you have often heard of the distress and poverty of those poor people. by buying foreign silk in preference to british, you, to a certain degree, add to that distress, and rob them of the encouragement, which they are entitled to by law. of late, i believe, that branch of our manufactures has been in a flourishing state, and that the silk weavers are not only fully employed, but that they manufacture silks quite equal to those from abroad. if so, the ladies who smuggle them have no inducement but the pleasure of doing what is forbidden. the french and italians you know, have advantages in the production of the raw material, which we have not; and it seems reasonable to give our own countrymen some protection to countervail those advantages.--so again with respect to gloves, and lace. one of the principal difficulties which in these times we have to contend with, is the difficulty of finding employment for our overflowing population. glove-making and lace-making furnish employment for our poor women; employment the more desirable, inasmuch as they follow it at their own homes. if you knew how eagerly multitudes of your own sex catch at any employment, by which they can earn but a few shillings a week, both your patriotism and your benevolence would render you unwilling to deprive them of it. for you, emily, with your warm and affectionate heart, are not one of those who would annihilate all distinctions of kindred and country, in a vague idea of universal benevolence. "but, after all," continued the admiral, "perhaps my principal objection to your smuggling is the encouragement, which you thereby give to the poor fellows, who follow this dangerous and illegal occupation. the habit of living in constant opposition to the laws is not only criminal in itself, but has a most injurious effect upon the whole of a man's character. i have just given you credit for some feelings of patriotism, but you know that these feelings seldom exist in the breast of a smuggler. we have buonaparte's testimony, that, during the war, they were constantly employed in traitorously giving intelligence to the enemy; and in assisting the escape of the french prisoners of war. this is bad enough; but we all know how frequently they are guilty of crimes of a still higher description, of the dreadful crime of murder itself. and are you lady-smugglers quite sure that you are clear of all participation in this accumulated guilt? the receiver of stolen goods is deemed by the law the accessary of the thief: and is not the purchaser of smuggled goods in some degree an accessary of the smugglers? besides, if you knew the distress and misery which smuggling often occasions to the families of those engaged in it, you could not, i think, encourage it." the sisters felt the force of this latter argument more deeply than their father was aware of. they were both silent. at length emily said, "come, cousin henry, cannot you put in a word to help us?" "to help you?" replied he; "no indeed:" and then added gravely, "but i am sure, that my dear cousins will not continue smuggling, while i and my brave fellows are daily hazarding our lives for its prevention." emily looked down, while her face and neck became scarlet, and a long pause ensued. the admiral felt that enough had been said, and was endeavouring to change the conversation to some other subject, when a servant opened the door, and said to henry, "you are wanted, if you please, sir." he went out, and returning in a few minutes, said to his uncle, "i must be off directly. a large smuggling lugger has been for some time hovering off the coast, and we have reason to believe, that they mean to land their cargo to-night in romney marsh, in spite of us. one of my brother officers has sent me word, that a number of men from a considerable distance inland are getting together with their led horses, and that he apprehends that they will muster one or two hundred. we, of course, must join forces to be a match for them; so good night." he affectionately shook hands with the admiral and the two sisters, and went out. the door had hardly closed, when he came back, and a second time, taking emily's hand, said, "you are not angry with me for what i said?" "angry, oh no!" he pressed her hand in his, and disappeared. in less than five minutes, he was in his boat. two of his men waited on the beach to shove him off, and then jumping in, they pulled stoutly to the westward. the moon shone brightly, the water sparkled on their oars, and the clean white sides of the boat were reflected brilliantly on the waves. they had passed hithe, and were nearly off dimchurch, when they saw the lugger at some distance from them getting under weigh. by the assistance of her sweeps, and that of a favourable breeze which had just sprung up, she was soon out of sight. five boats had just completed their second trip, and were beginning to land the remainder of her cargo. the beach presented an animated scene of activity and bustle. several horsemen, each with one or more led horses, were gallopping down the beach, making the pebbles fly around them in all directions. one of their light carts was disappearing behind the mound of earth, which at high water forms a sort of barrier against the sea; a second was labouring up the steep bank of shingles; and two others were just quitting the water's edge. a considerable number of men on foot, each with a tub slung at his back, were hurrying from the shore. the men in the boats were clearing them of the remainder of their cargo as fast as possible; while others were loading with tubs the horses which had just reached them. at some distance to the right, lieutenant stanwick, to his surprise and indignation, discovered a pretty strong party of king's men in a state of inaction, and apparently uncertain what to do. the fact was, that the smugglers had posted behind the sea bank, which served as a breastwork, two strong parties of sixty or seventy men each, one on each side of the passage leading to the sea. these parties, being well provided with fire-arms, rendered any attempt to approach the carrying party extremely hazardous. stanwick made his men pull right for the shore; but the moment the boat touched the ground, they were received with a volley of musketry, discharged by an invisible enemy. the balls whistled over their heads, but from the lowness of their position not a man was touched. they immediately leaped on shore, and advanced rapidly towards the spot from which the fire proceeded. a second volley more destructive than the first arrested their progress. three of their number fell; one killed on the spot, and two dangerously wounded. stanwick himself received a bullet in his left arm, which shattered the bone a little above the elbow. the men for a moment hesitated, and seemed almost disposed to retreat. their commander, however, having contrived to support his arm in the breast of his jacket, again pressed forward, calling to his men, "come, my lads, don't let us be beat by a parcel of smugglers!" at the same moment they were joined by the other party of seamen, and both uniting together, soon came to close quarters with the motley, but resolute, band of men, who were opposed to them. the vigour of their attack made the smugglers give ground; but as they were almost immediately supported by the party from the other side of the road, the combat was renewed. the seamen fought with the most determined gallantry, but were so greatly outnumbered, that they were in some danger of being overpowered, when they heard the trampling of horses rapidly approaching, and saw the glittering of arms in the moon-light. the alarm had been given at the barracks, and a troop of dragoons had been immediately ordered out, who had been directed by the firing to the scene of action. the smugglers, who, by this time, had nearly secured the whole of their cargo, commenced a hasty retreat, leaving three of their number killed. for a short distance, they kept the public road; then turning suddenly to the right, crossed a broad ditch by means of a light wooden bridge, or pontoon, which was ready prepared for that purpose; and continued their flight across the marsh. the cavalry came up in time to make prisoners of two of the gang, who having been slightly wounded, had not kept up with the rest: but they found the bridge removed. the three foremost of the dragoons, without hesitation, spurred their horses at the ditch. one of them swerved to the left; another came against the opposite bank and fell back upon his rider, who extricated himself with difficulty from his perilous situation. the third leaped short, and came into the ditch on his legs: he floundered on for a short way in the mud, the dragoon preserving his seat as steadily as if he had been on parade, until a low place in the bank enabled him to scramble back to his companions. the moon was now setting, and farther pursuit appeared to be not only useless, but dangerous. the excitement occasioned by the short but vigorous conflict having ceased, henry stanwick found his strength beginning to fail. exhausted by pain and fatigue, and faint from the loss of blood, he sunk down on the sea bank. one of his men, however, quickly contrived to tap one of the kegs, which had been dropped in the confusion, and gave him a small quantity of brandy, by which he was a good deal revived. as his men were anxiously proffering assistance, "never mind me," said he, "i am only hurt in the arm, and shall do well enough; but there's a poor fellow there, who stands much more in need of assistance than i do." at the same time, he pointed to a man in a seaman's jacket, who was lying on the ground at a short distance from him. his hat was off, he had received a severe gash in the forehead, and a pistol ball had passed through the upper part of his body near the right shoulder. an old musket which appeared to have been recently discharged, and the stock of which was broken, was lying near him. when stanwick's men approached him, he was hardly able to articulate. they, however, made out, that he wished to be conveyed to folkestone. they accordingly carried him carefully down the beach, and placed him in the boat, in the easiest posture they could. henry stanwick was able to get on board without much assistance. they rowed slowly back to sandgate, and having landed their lieutenant, proceeded on to folkestone. it was not without difficulty that the wounded man was lifted from the boat; and then, some of his brother townsmen having taken a door off the hinges, and gently laid him on it, set off with slow and heavy steps towards his house. as waldron had told his wife not to expect him till the next day, she had gone to bed, and was quietly asleep with her children. hannah reeves, a poor woman who lived near the pier, had kindly gone forward to prepare mary for what she had to go through, and knocked gently at her door. she started up in her bed immediately, for the anxious state in which she had been living had accustomed her to awake at the slightest noise. having put on a few clothes, and struck a light, she hurried down stairs. in the countenance and manner of her kind-hearted neighbour, she immediately saw that she had some sad intelligence to communicate; but when she heard that her husband had been brought to folkestone severely wounded, her eyes grew dizzy, her head swam, and she would have fallen to the ground had not hannah supported her. it was no time, however, for giving way to grief, and, by a strong effort, she almost immediately roused herself. understanding that there might be some difficulty in getting her husband up the narrow winding staircase, she set to work, with the assistance of hannah reeves, to bring the matress on which she slept into a little back room, the floor of which was boarded. she made it as comfortable as she could, and had hardly completed her preparations, when the heavy tread of a number of men was heard approaching the door. mary was unable to speak, but silently assisted in placing her unhappy husband on the bed, that she had got ready for him. the rough weather-beaten countenances of the men who had brought him, were softened to an expression of mournful sympathy; the eyes of several of them were filled with tears. as soon as they found they could be of no farther use, they quietly withdrew. waldron had hardly shewn any signs of life, excepting by uttering now and then a deep and heavy groan: but when the men were gone, he contrived to raise himself a little in the bed; and taking the hand of his wife, who was hanging over him in speechless agony, said in a voice, almost inarticulate from weakness and emotion, "oh! mary, why did i not listen to your advice! i might have earned my bread in an honest way, and been happy with you and the children; but i listened to the persuasion of evil men, and now, smuggling has brought me to this." he would have said more, but the effort which he had made was too much for him--he sank down on the bed, and after one or two deep but feeble groans, expired. mary did not immediately perceive what had happened; but when the dreadful reality burst upon her, the shock was too powerful for her frame, exhausted as it was by anxiety and grief. while there was an immediate call for exertion--while there was any thing to be done for her husband--the exertion had roused and supported her. that support was now at an end, and she fell senseless on the floor. hannah reeves was up stairs with the children, one of them having begun to cry, and she had succeeded in quieting and lulling it asleep. upon returning to the back room, she found mary waldron extended motionless by the side of her husband. gently raising her up, she endeavoured to restore her to herself by throwing cold water in her face, applying burnt feathers to her nostrils, and making use of such other remedies, as either she, or two or three neighbours, who had come in to her assistance, could think of. for a long time their endeavours were ineffectual. at length a slight convulsive tremor seemed to pass over her. her lips, which had been deadly pale, began to assume something of their natural colour, and after one or two deep and long drawn sighs, she appeared to breathe with some degree of freedom. the first care of her kind attentive neighbours was, to remove her from the sad object which was stretched out by her side. with difficulty they got her up stairs, and undressing her, laid her in the same bed with her children. hannah reeves was anxiously watching over her, when she opened her eyes, and said in a faint voice, "what, is it you, hannah? what brings you here so early in the morning? but i suppose it is time for me to think of getting up.--oh! hannah, i have had such a dreadful dream! but it is all over now, i am so glad that you woke me." and then after a little pause, added, "how soon do you think james will be home again? he told me that he should come back before night." poor hannah turned away her head, and seemed to busy herself in another part of the room, and mary again fell into an unquiet slumber. henry stanwick had been landed near the castle at sandgate, supported by one of his men, he was slowly ascending the beach, when he was met by the admiral muffled up in a sea cloak. he had heard of the engagement with the smugglers, and of his nephew's wounds. "come along, harry, with me," said he, "we must nurse you at my house. i have no doubt that you would be taken very good care of here: but still there are some little comforts, which perhaps can be furnished better at a private house; and we must allow that the women understand these matters better than we do." henry yielded to his uncle's persuasions. he found his two cousins ready to receive him, with looks expressive of tender affection, mixed with deep anxiety. they had been busily occupied in preparing his room. as the surgeon was expected every moment, they were fearful of altering the position of the wounded arm until his arrival. in the interval lieutenant stanwick, though suffering a good deal of pain, shortly mentioned a few particulars of the conflict; adding, "i cannot help longing to hear what becomes of the poor fellow, that we brought away in our boat. he wished to be carried to folkestone, and "--"to folkestone!" exclaimed emily, "i hope it is not poor mary's husband!" "he did not mention his name," said henry; "indeed he could hardly speak at all, but he was a remarkably well-made active looking fellow, and i was vexed to my heart at his having engaged in such a service." the sisters could not help having some misgivings, but they had a nearer cause for anxiety in the severe wound of a relation so deservedly dear to them. when the surgeon arrived, he found the bone of the arm so much injured, that immediate amputation was necessary. the operation was successfully performed, but was followed by a considerable degree of fever, during which the two sisters nursed him with unremitting assiduity. the fourth day after the amputation henry seemed much better, and both he and the admiral begged them not to continue to keep themselves such close prisoners, but to resume their usual exercise. they were the more ready to comply, as they were very anxious to go themselves to folkestone, to enquire after mary waldron. they found out the house; but upon approaching it, observed a degree of bustle, and saw several men in sailors' jackets--most of them with some symbol of mourning about their dress--issuing from the door. presently the coffin was brought out; the men raised it on their shoulders; the black pall was thrown over it; and with measured steps they moved towards the church-yard, while the solemn toll of the bell, being heard at shorter intervals, announced the near approach of the corpse to its last mansion. the sisters waited at some little distance, till the melancholy procession had passed on; and then going up to the door of one of the neighbouring cottages, enquired with feelings of deep interest after poor mary. she, they found, was perfectly insensible to all that was passing. the morning after her husband had been brought home, she for sometime appeared to retain no trace of what had happened. the circumstance of her being not in her own bed, and the manner of hannah reeves, who was unable to control her feelings, by degrees brought back to her recollection the dreadful calamity which had befallen her. she uttered one piercing cry of woe, and then a deadly stupor took possession of her whole frame. from this she had at last been roused, but it was succeeded by a wild delirium, and a burning fever, which no skill or attention had been able in the slightest degree to mitigate. the sisters went to this house of mourning. the children had been removed to the cottage of a neighbour, but hannah reeves came down to them. she had hardly ever quitted the bedside of the sufferer, and attended her with that watchful kindness, which the poor so often shew to each other when in distress. the miss mowbrays begged hannah to let nothing be omitted which might contribute to the recovery of poor mary, at the same time mentioning their intention to take every expense upon themselves. they did not know hannah, but there was something in her manner which told them that any hint of remuneration to her would be misplaced. upon their return to sandgate they found sitting with the admiral the captain of the troop of dragoons, which had come to the assistance of the seamen. from him they understood, that of the two smugglers who had been taken, one was a folkestone man of the name of spraggon, a man of notoriously bad character, and who had behaved in the engagement with the king's men with a boldness bordering on ferocity. the other prisoner was a labourer belonging to a village just above the marsh, who had long been in the practice of assisting in running smuggled goods. he received high pay--five, eight, ten shillings a night--sometimes even more. money obtained by breaking the laws seldom does a man any good. and, in fact, when he came to deduct the sum which he might have earned by more creditable work--for a man who had been out all night could not work the day following--and also the money which went in drink and other expenses--it was generally found that little came home to his family. his earnings of all descriptions, however, were now put an end to. he and spraggon were convicted at the next assizes of the murder of the seaman; and two days after were executed. it was long before mary waldron shewed any signs of returning health. the fever, however, gradually gave way, but it left her in a state of the most deplorable weakness. emily and caroline called at the house very frequently during the whole progress of her illness, supplying abundantly whatever they thought likely to contribute to her recovery, or to her comfort in her present state of suffering. but from the time that her reason and recollection began to return, their walks to folkestone became almost daily. in the gentlest and kindest manner they said and did all they could, to comfort her, and to assist in directing her thoughts to the only unfailing source of consolation--to that being, who invites the widow to trust in him, and promises to protect and provide for the fatherless children. from such considerations as these, and from that aid which was granted from above in answer to her humble and fervent supplication, mary recovered a degree of calm composure almost sooner than the sisters had anticipated. once, when speaking of her future means of subsistence, they hinted the idea of making up, with the assistance of their friends, an annual sum, which would be sufficient to keep her from want. but mary would not hear of this. "if it please god," said she, "to restore me to health, i have no doubt, but that by taking in washing and needle work, i shall be able to get bread for myself and my poor children; and as long as i am able to work for myself, i could not bear to be a burden to any one." "but it would be no _burden_ to _us_ at all," said emily. "of that," replied mary, "i am well assured, from the kindness, which you have already shewn me; but i feel that i could not be so happy if i depended for my livelihood, under providence, upon any one but myself." in their walks to folkestone they were often accompanied by their cousin harry, who in consequence of his wound had been relieved from the painful service in which he had been employed, and appointed first lieutenant to a frigate, which was destined to the mediterranean, but was not to sail for some months. one day, as they were approaching mary's house, the two little children came running out, with much glee and animation in their eyes, to thank them for their nice new frocks. the sisters knew not what they meant. upon entering the house, mary expressed her acknowledgments for what they had sent the children, as well as for the gown and other clothing which she had received herself. they looked surprised, and said that they had sent nothing. the colour of henry's face soon told mary who had been her benefactor. in their walk they had passed by mrs. hawker's shop, and found the windows shut up. they asked mary the meaning of this. she told them, that some time before, the officers had made a large seizure of smuggled goods in her house, and had sued her for the penalties, which amounted to so large a sum, that she was utterly ruined. it is hardly necessary to say, that the miss mowbrays had never visited her house since their purchase of the silks. the many crimes and calamities which a single day had witnessed, had given them a sufficient lesson upon the evils of engaging in illicit traffic; and neither the stump of henry stanwick's arm, nor the sight of the widowed mary and her fatherless children, were needed to make them resolve, that they would never again be guilty of _smuggling_. good-nature, or parish matters. [illustration] good-nature, or parish matters. mr. stanley had just reached the last stile in the footpath leading to inglewood parsonage, when his progress was for a moment interrupted by two persons, who were talking so earnestly, that they did not see him. one of them was a short fat man, in the dress of a farmer. his round and rosy face seemed to be full of good cheer and good humour; but bore no great signs of intelligence. he was speaking to an untidy looking woman, whose manner was expressive of a sort of low familiarity, not however unmixed with symptoms of servility and cringing. "never mind, nanny," said the farmer, "never mind--neighbour oldacre is, i must needs say, a little hard upon the poor--but never mind; i shall take to the books in a fortnight's time, and then things will be better." "but you know, master," said the woman, "if you could but manage that little job for us, we should hardly trouble the parish at all." "well, i'll do what i can," answered the farmer; "my being a parish-officer, will help." the woman was going to reply, but happening to see mr. stanley, she drew back from the stile, and allowed him to pass on. trifling as the occurrence was, mr. stanley happened to mention it to his friend at the parsonage, as they were sitting together after dinner. upon his describing the figure and face of the farmer, "yes," said mr. hooker, with a smile, "that must have been my parishioner, farmer barton. he is, as you describe him, a good-humoured looking fellow, and it has always been the height of his ambition to be reckoned a _good-natured_ man." "i cannot much blame him for that," replied stanley; "_good-nature_ is a most amiable quality, and i heartily wish there was more of it in the world than there is." "in that wish i cordially agree with you," said mr. hooker; "if by _good-nature_ you mean a genuine spirit of kindness or christian benevolence, which prompts a man to do whatever good he can to the bodies and souls of all within his reach. the _good-nature_, however, of farmer barton is not exactly of this description. it springs from a love of low popularity, from a wish to gain by whatever means the good will and good word of all descriptions of people. this wish leads him to assent to whatever is said, and to accede to almost every request, unless it immediately touches his pocket. to that indeed his _good-nature_ does not always extend. in his fear of being thought _ill-natured_, he very often loses sight of duty, and his dread of offending or of contradicting those who happen to be _present_, makes him not unfrequently forget what is due to those who are _absent_." the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the servant, who came to tell his master that farmer barton wished to speak with him. "pray shew him in," said mr. hooker; "but i am unable to guess what his business can be." the farmer came in, and, upon mr. hooker's asking him what he wanted, replied, "why, it is only to get you to put your hand to this bit of paper." "let us look at it," said mr. hooker; and then casting his eye over it, added, "this i see is an application to the magistrates, to set up a new public house in the village, and a recommendation of robert fowler as a fit man to keep it." "yes, sir," replied the farmer; "poor bob since he got the hurt in his arm has never been able to do the work of another man, and he and nanny have begged me and some of the neighbours to help him to set up a public house, as a means of keeping him off the parish." "and do you, farmer barton, honestly think," said mr. hooker, "that we _want_ a public house here? you know that there is hardly any thoroughfare through the village; and even if there was, we are but two miles from a market town, where there are inns and ale-houses in abundance." "why i can't say there is any particular want of it," said barton. "but fowler's family is likely to be a heavy burden to the parish." "the parish, i am satisfied," rejoined mr. hooker, "would be no gainer in the end. don't you suppose that many of the labouring men would often, after their day's work, go to the ale-house, instead of going home; and spend there, some part of the money which ought to find food and clothes for their wives and families? a country ale-house is too often found to be attended with raggedness and hunger in the women and children; and i know that this is the opinion of the poor women themselves. besides, don't you remember, what drunkenness and quarrelling we used to have before tomkins's house was put down?" "why, i must say, that the men have been more quiet and sober of late." "as clergyman of this parish," said mr. hooker, "i shall never assist in setting forward a measure, which i think would be hurtful to my parishioners: and i must own, that i am surprised to see that so many sensible and respectable men have signed their names to this recommendation." "why a man don't like to seem _ill-natured_," said the farmer. "we must not," replied mr. hooker, "for the sake of assisting one man or one family, do that which would be prejudicial to the whole parish. and besides, i thought that fowler was one of the most drunken, idle fellows in the village." "why to be sure," said the farmer, "he does like drink better than work." "and yet you and your brother farmers are here ready to certify that he is of good fame, sober life and conversation, and a fit and proper person to be intrusted with a licence! do you not see that you have all set your hands to a direct falsehood?" barton looked foolish, but added, "why one don't like to refuse such a thing--and when others do it, it would look so _ill-natured_." "and so, for fear of being thought _ill-natured_, you can not only set your name to a lie, but give a helping hand to a measure, which by your own acknowledgment would be likely to increase the poverty as well as the immorality of many of your poor neighbours. indeed, indeed, mr. barton, an english farmer ought to have had more manliness of character than this comes to." "but then poor bob is such a _good-tempered_ fellow; and besides, you know, he is half disabled for work!" "yes, he received his hurt in the very act of breaking the laws of the land by poaching, and i do not think _that_ a reason for putting him in a situation in some respects above that of the generality of cottagers." farmer barton found that he was not likely to succeed in the object of his visit; and saying with a smile, "well, sir, i did not think you had been so hard-hearted," quitted the room. "there! stanley," said mr. hooker, "that's the way of the world. most of the men who have signed that certificate are, as times go, decent and respectable men, and would, i doubt not, pretty much agree with me as to the probability that both poverty and immorality would be increased by the establishment of an ale-house in the village; but yet for the sake of being _good-natured_ to an individual, they set forward a measure, which they think will be generally pernicious; and set their hands to a lie, rather than refuse an unreasonable request. their _good-nature_, to be sure, is not confined to fowler as its only object. some of them, probably, wish to be _good-natured_ to a brother farmer, who is the owner of the house; and some think that they shall do a kindness to the brewer, who will supply it with beer." "but what," replied stanley, "shall you do in this business?" "why, i don't very well know," said mr. hooker. "you have been acquainted with me long enough to be assured, that i would suffer my hand to be cut off, rather than set it to a palpable falsehood;--and that i would never take any _active_ step in assisting a measure which in my opinion will be hurtful to my parishioners.--but perhaps something of the same sort of weakness which i blame in others, may prevent me from taking any _active_ measures _against_ it. i am not fond of going into public, or of encountering the bustle of the justice-room.--perhaps i shall be _passive_, and try to quiet my own conscience by saying, that things must take their course: that it is not for me to come forward in opposition to the declared wish of most of the respectable part of my parishioners." "but surely the magistrates will not set up a new public house without the signature of the clergyman to the certificate?" "the new act requires the signature _either_ of the clergyman, _or_ that of the majority of the parish officers, together with four reputable and substantial householders;--or that of eight respectable and substantial householders. fowler's certificate has all the parish officers but one, and other names in abundance, and _good-nature_ will prevent any one from saying that some of those names are neither respectable nor substantial. the magistrates will see that the requirements of the act are complied with, and they will perhaps feel like me;--they will be unwilling to incur the odium of opposing the wishes of all those _respectable_ and _substantial_ personages, and thus _good-nature_ may induce them to sign the licence." "at all events," said stanley, "you will be able to keep fowler in order by the penalties of the new act. the old system of absolutely forfeiting the recognizance was too severe to be acted on." "perhaps," said mr. hooker, "now and then, in some flagrant case, by which some individual is _personally_ injured, these provisions may be called into play. but how seldom do you hear--in the country at least--of penalties being enforced from a sense of public duty? _good-nature_ is always against it; and the man who from the purest motives endeavoured to enforce them, would be sure to have all the host of the _good-natured_ arrayed against him." two days after was the licensing day: the _good-natured_ barton having undertaken the patronage of fowler's application, set out in good time to advocate it at the justice-meeting. he had got about three quarters of a mile from the village, in his way to chippingden the market town, when he was overtaken by mr. bentley, one of the magistrates. "you have a dreadful road here, farmer barton," said mr. bentley. "who is your surveyor?" "why, i am at present," replied barton, "and as we are a little behind hand with the duty, i am afraid that i shall have to go on for another year." "then why do you suffer the road to continue in this state? the ruts are so deep, that it really is hardly safe." "it is all occasioned by that high hedge," answered the farmer, "which keeps off both sun and wind.--and besides, from there being no trunk or tunnel in that gate-way, the water of the ditch is thrown into the road. to be sure it _was_ pretty dirty in the winter, for all we buried so many stones in it." "then why was not the hedge cut, and a tunnel made in the gateway to carry off the water?" said mr. bentley. "i did once give farmer dobson a hint about it," answered barton, "but he says, that the hedge is not above nine years' growth, and that he shall have better poles by leaving it a few years longer." "but you know very well," replied the magistrate, "that your warrant empowers you to require him to cut it, and if he refuses, to do it yourself at his expence." "i know that well enough," said barton, "but that would be so _ill-natured_ and unneighbourly-neighbourly, that i could not bear to think of it." "and so," rejoined mr. bentley, "the necks and limbs of his majesty's subjects are to be endangered, and the whole neighbourhood put to inconvenience, for the credit of your _good-nature_? a man in a public office, mr. barton, should always execute the duties of that office with as much civility and kindness as possible; but he must never neglect his public duty, for the sake of gratifying any private individual whatever.--and look! what business has this dunghill here? your warrant tells you that nothing should be laid within fifteen feet of the middle of the road--and this dunghill is so close, that the road is ruined by the moisture proceeding from it. and see how the farmer has cut the road to pieces by drawing out his dung in the wet weather." "to be sure, what you say is true, but the field won't be ready for the dung till the spring." "another sacrifice of the interests of the public to private convenience!--and here again--you'll think and call me a troublesome fellow, mr. barton--but why do you suffer these heaps of stones to be so forward in the road? they are absolutely dangerous." "why the men who work on the road like to have them _handy_." "as they are paid by the day it can make no difference to them, and even if it did, you must not endanger the safety of travellers from a _good-natured_ wish to humour your workmen--i suppose the same reason induces you to allow them to put in the stones without breaking them?" barton acknowledged that it was. mr. bentley charged him again not to let his _good-nature_ make him forget his duty to the public--"but," added he laughing, "perhaps i must confess that it is some feeling of the same sort, which keeps me from fining you five pounds, as i might and ought to do, for these neglects of your duty as surveyor." they now reached the town, and happening to use the same inn, rode into the yard together. fowler and his wife, who were already there, augured well from this circumstance--and mr. bentley was hardly off his horse, when nanny accosted him in a wheedling tone, with, "i hope, sir, you'll be so kind as to _stand our friend_ about this licence." "we shall see about that presently," said mr. bentley, as he walked off, wishing to cut short applications of this nature till he got into the justice-room. he found his way stopped, however, by two or three poor women from the village near which he resided. "well!" said he, "and what brings you all to chippingden?" "why, sir, we want a little of your kindness." "my _kindness_! why can you find none of my _kindness_ at home?" "o yes, sir, you are always ready to assist a poor person yourself, but we want you to _stand our friend_, and order us a little more relief from the farmers." "that, my good woman, is quite a different story. as a magistrate i must not be a _friend_ to any one person more than to another; but must endeavour to act without favour or affection either to rich or poor. with respect to parochial relief, our business is to consider, as well as we are able, what the laws require and allow, and to act accordingly. poor people often apply to us in great distress, and the relief which we can order seems but very little. if we listened to our own feelings, our own _good-nature_ as you would call it, we should often be glad to order much more, but we must not indulge such feelings at another man's expense--we must not be _good-natured_ with other people's money." "but, sir," said betty horseman, "i only wanted about a shilling a week more, and i'm sure that can't hurt the farmers." "whether it is much or little," said mr. bentley, "we cannot order more, than the law, in our opinion, appears to require. knowingly to order more than that, is to rob those out of whose pockets the poor rates are paid. you would not wish me, betty, to help you in picking a man's pocket." "but it is so little that i ask for," said betty, still harping upon the same string. "we may not pick a man's pocket of sixpence, any more than of a hundred pounds. your application shall be heard presently, betty, and we will give it the best attention we can. if we think that you ought to have more, we will order it.--but you must remember, that if you have a shilling a week more, every family in the like circumstances will expect the same, which will make your shilling a week a pretty round sum. in short, i am always glad as far as i can to help a poor person out of my own pocket, but must consider well before i help him out of the pockets of other people." mr. bentley now joined his brother magistrates in the justice-room. the licensing business came on first; and the licences to the old established houses having been renewed, the applications for _new_ houses were taken into consideration. fowler produced his certificate. "this certificate," said mr. hale the chairman, "has not the clergyman's name; how happens that?" farmer barton was at fowler's elbow, and immediately answered, "mr. hooker has laid down a rule not to set his hand to an application of this sort, and could not break through it--but i'm sure he has no objection." "and besides," said one of the justices, "if my memory does not deceive me, there was a man of that name in your parish who was a noted poacher." "why, i must confess," said the farmer, "that some time back the poor man was led by distress to go out once or twice; but he has, long ago, given it up, and is now quite an altered character.--when a man has seen his fault, and turned over a new leaf, i am sure, gentlemen, that you are too _good-natured_ to bring it up against him." the justices still hesitated; but barton and two or three of the farmers of the village represented to them that there always used to be a public house; that it was in many respects inconvenient to be without one; and that in this instance, it would give occupation and maintenance to a poor family. at length the magistrates said, that in general they were not disposed to increase the number of ale-houses, but that they would give way to the declared wish of almost all the leading men in the parish. in a case of doubt, they naturally leant to the side of _good-nature_. accordingly the licence was granted. fowler was overjoyed at his success, and after making his acknowledgments, set off, first to the carpenter, and then to the painter, to give directions for a sign and its appendages. after these matters of business, he could not think of returning without drinking the health of the magistrates at the red lion. several friends dropped in to congratulate him; and when he thought about going home, he was not quite able to walk straight. the butcher's boy, who had made one of the party at the red lion, offered to give him a lift in his cart. they set off in high glee, and the exalted state of their spirits induced them to urge on the horse. though the night was dark and the horse sometimes swerved to one side of the road and sometimes to the other, yet the light colour of the road served for a guide, and they felt that as long as they kept to that they were safe. they were mistaken, however. they were within a mile of inglewood, and had got the horse almost into a gallop, when all at once the wheel came upon one of the heaps of stones, which had been shot down in the _quartering_, and the cart was overturned. peter, the butcher's boy, called out that he was killed; but having got up and shaken himself, and found that he had received no sort of injury, he burst into a loud fit of laughter. poor fowler, however, lay groaning in the road, unable to stir. he was severely bruised, and both the bones of his right leg were broken. peter scratched his head, and was quite at a loss what to do, when luckily farmer barton and one of his neighbours came to the spot, in their way back from market. they extricated the horse, which, having put his foot in the deep rut, had fallen with the cart, and then raised the cart without difficulty. it was not, however, so easy a matter to get fowler into it. he cried out from pain every time that they took hold of him, and sometimes begged that they would leave him to die where he was. at last, however, they succeeded, and at a slow pace he was conveyed to his humble cottage, which was soon to assume the dignity and importance of a public house. his wife helped to get him to bed, though not without reproaching him with some asperity for staying so long at the red lion after he had sent her home. having taken as much care of him, as in her opinion he deserved, she hastened down stairs to comfort herself with some tea, of which two or three of her neighbours, who had been brought to the house by the tidings of the accident, were invited to partake. the condolences and lamentations were soon over, and they fell into the usual train of village gossip. the hardness of the times, of course, was one of the topics of conversation. "well, hannah," said one of the party, "and what did you get from the justices?" "oh! there's no use in a poor person's going to them," said hannah, "they're all for the farmers?" "i wonder to hear you say that," said nanny, who was naturally disposed to be in good humour with the magistrates, who had just granted a licence to her husband; "i wonder to hear you say that, for as i was going out of the room, i fell in with two or three overseers, who were saying just the contrary. they were complaining that the justices were ready to hear all the idle stories of the poor about wanting relief, and that they were much too apt to order some little addition. in fact, they said, that they were all in favour of the poor; and the farmers could not stand it." "if the poor complain that they were in favour of the farmers, and the farmers that they favoured the poor," said an old man sitting in the chimney corner, "i dare say they pretty nearly did the thing that was right between both parties." "well," said hannah, "if i was a justice, i could'nt bear that the poor should think me _ill-natured_. be it how it would, i'd take care to have _their_ good word, even if i did now and then order a trifle more than was quite right." "what should you say, hannah," said the same old man, "of a justice who acted contrary to law for the sake of a sum of money?" "what! a bribe! why i'd have him turned out before he was a day older." "and is not acting contrary to law for the sake of any one's good will, or good word, pretty much the same as doing so for a bribe? a magistrate is sworn to do justice, according to law, to the best of his knowledge." all the women, however, consoled themselves with the near approach of the time, when the poor would have to apply for their weekly allowances to farmer barton instead of farmer oldacre; it being the custom of the parish that the overseers should divide the year between them, each taking the trouble of the office for six months. "yes, indeed," said hannah bolt, "it will be a happy day for us poor creatures, when mr. barton takes the books;--farmer oldacre was always a hard man to the poor." "farmer oldacre a hard man to the poor!" said old john truman, who came in at the moment from the sick man's room--"farmer oldacre a hard man to the poor! i'm sure you're an ungrateful woman for saying so; as i should be an ungrateful man, if i allowed you to say it without taking you to task.--i've worked for him now these seventeen years, and a better or a kinder master cannot be. did'nt i see you, hannah, day after day, when your little boy was ill, going to his house, sometimes for a little milk, sometimes for a little made wine, and did he ever refuse you? did he ever refuse _any_ poor person, who was really in want, any thing that he was able to give?" "i can't say but that he's ready enough to help a poor body with any thing he has himself; but then if one asks him for a little more parish relief, he's so terrible particular, and asks so many questions, that it's quite unpleasant, and perhaps we can get nothing after all." "in short," said john, "you mean to say that he is liberal and kind in giving from his own pocket, but careful and cautious how he makes free with the pockets of other people. and then again--who employs so many men as farmer oldacre? i'm sure i have often known him in the winter try to find out jobs for the sake of keeping the men at work; and after all i believe, that he feels the change of times as much as any man, and that he and his family allow themselves little beyond bare necessaries. and even with respect to parish relief, i believe that the _old_ men and women, who are really past work, are better off when farmer oldacre has the books, than at any other time." "but then," answered hannah, "farmer barton is so _good-natured_ when we go to him. he says that a shilling or two cannot signify to the farmers, and is not worth thinking about." "i believe it would be better for all parties," replied truman, "if the able-bodied poor thought less of running to the parish, and more of depending, under god's blessing, on themselves. when i was young, a man would have been ashamed of begging for parish relief. indeed, the law was, that those who were relieved were to be marked by a badge. i know that i contrived to bring up a family of seven children without being beholden to any body. for a few years it was certainly hard work, but god helped us on." "but wages," said nanny fowler, "were better in those days." "compared with what they would buy, perhaps they were, but their being low now is, i take it, partly owing to the poor rates." "why how can you make that out?" cried the whole party. "in the first place, can you tell me, why wheat is so cheap just at present? it was, you know, ten shillings the bushel, and indeed sometimes a great deal more--it is now less than five." "why it's cheap to be sure, because there is such plenty of it." "and is it not the over-plenty of labourers, that makes labour cheap? i remember this village when there were not more than fifty labourers' families, each with a cottage to itself; now there are upwards of eighty families, and sometimes two crammed together in one house. i have read in the newspapers, that the people throughout england have increased in the last twenty years thirty-two in every hundred--that is, where there were but ten, there are now more than thirteen." "but what has that to do with the poor rates?" "why do not you think that the poor rates are an encouragement to early marriages?" "and what then," said hannah; "did not the almighty say, _increase and multiply_?" "the command to _increase and multiply and replenish the earth_, was given--_first_, when there were upon the face of the whole earth no men and women at all, excepting the first pair: and _again_, when all mankind had been destroyed, with the exception of the family of noah. the world was pretty well empty of inhabitants then, and wanted _replenishing_. but the case is different in an old inhabited country, which is already so _replenished_--so full and over-full--that the people stand in each other's way." "but surely, john, you are not for preventing marriages?" "heaven forbid!" said the old man, wiping a tear of thankfulness from his eye; "heaven forbid! it is to marriage that i owe the greater part of the happiness that i have enjoyed in this life; and marriage, i trust, has assisted in preparing me, through divine grace and the merits of my redeemer, for happiness in the life to come. i know too who it is that has said, _marriage is honourable in all_.--no, no, i am no enemy to marriage, i am its warmest friend. but then, as the prayer-book tells us, there are _two_ ways of engaging in marriage. men may either enter upon it _reverently_, _discreetly_, _advisedly_, and _in the fear of god_; or else they may engage in it _inadvisedly_, _lightly_, and _wantonly_, '_like brute beasts that have no understanding_.' i am afraid that now-a-days young people are more apt to engage in marriage after the latter manner, than after the former. when i was young, men generally did not like to marry--i'm sure i did not--till they had secured a bit of a cottage to put a wife in, and a few articles of furniture, and perhaps a few pounds to begin the world with. now boys and girls marry without thought and reflection, without sixpence beforehand, and trust to the parish for every thing--house, goods, clothes, and the maintenance of their children. as for the parish finding houses for all that wish to marry, it's what can't be done.--no, no, i don't want to prevent their marrying, i only want them to wait a very few years, that they may have a better chance of happiness when they marry. we all know, that _when want comes in at the door, love is very apt to fly out at the window_; and parish pay is but a poor dependence after all. "and why should they not wait? those, who are better off in the world, are for the most part forced to wait a good number of years. the sons of the farmers, of the tradesmen, and of the gentlemen, generally wait, i think, till they are nearer thirty than five and twenty. look at squire bentley's family: there's his eldest son that is the counsellor, who, as they say, has been for some years engaged to one of mr. hale's daughters; he is now, i take it, upwards of thirty, but he waits till they have a better chance of maintaining a family. there's his second son, who is to be a physician; and the third in the army; both i dare say would be glad enough to marry, if they could marry with any sort of prudence.--it is because the poor think that the parish must find every thing, that they marry without thought or care; and then the numbers of the people increase till there are more hands than work; and that makes wages so low. "there's another way in which the poor rates keep down the price of labour. a man is out of work. he goes round to the farmers; but they all say that they don't want him: they have hands more than enough already. he then goes to the overseer for employment.--now the parish--if bound by law to find work for him at all, about which there seems to be some doubt--is only bound to pay him enough to keep him from starving, and for that may require a full day's work. the farmers of course know this; and as in these times it is natural for them to wish to get hands at as low a rate as possible, one of them tells this man that he will give him a trifle more than the parish, though still a _mere trifle_, and turns off one of his regular workmen to make way for him; and so it may go on, till all are brought down to the same low key.--or perhaps the farmers will pay all the labourers, either in whole, or in part, out of the poor rates. this i take to be a very bad plan for the farmers in the end; for as men will seldom do more work than they are paid for, the work will not be done so well or so cheerfully; and besides, it sadly breaks the spirit of the labourers. in short, i wish, as i said before, that the poor depended less upon parish pay, and more upon themselves." "but, john," said hannah, "you are not for knocking up the poor laws altogether?" "by no means," answered john: "i am in one sense a poor man myself; and i am glad that there is such a provision for those, who can do nothing for themselves, and for those who are thrown back by a severe sickness, or by some accident. for myself, i hope that, by the blessing of god, i shall never be forced to stoop to ask for parish relief. as my wife and i contrived to bring up a family without any help from an overseer, so when our children were old enough to get out, and take care of themselves, we began to think of putting by a trifle against old age. the savings bank notion has given us a lift, and i think that i have that there, which will keep me from being a burden to any one. as times are now, a man with a large family can't help going to the parish, and no one can blame him for it--i only wish that times were such as to enable him, with industry and prudence, to look for maintenance to no one but himself and god almighty." by the time that old truman had finished this _dissertation_ on the poor laws, the surgeon had arrived. he examined fowler's leg, and found the fracture to be as bad a one as well could be. it was attended too with a considerable degree of fever, which was increased by the heated state of the blood, occasioned by excessive drinking. the next day he was delirious, and the fever had increased so much, that but slight hopes were entertained of his recovery. he remained for some days in this state, hanging between life and death, till at length the fever abated. the delirium too was at an end; but it left him in a state of the most deplorable weakness. nanny fowler never had bestowed one serious thought upon a future life; but some of her neighbours told her, that with her husband in such a dangerous condition, she ought to desire the parson to come and see him. this she accordingly did. mr. hooker, at his two or three first visits, found both body and mind so weakened, that he did little more than pray by him. neither fowler nor his wife entered much into the meaning or spirit of his prayers, but still they were flattered and pleased by the attention of their pastor. for many years fowler had hardly set foot in church, excepting once to attend the funeral of a relation, and twice as godfather to the children of two of his friends. though he had not shewn any positive disrespect to mr. hooker to his face, yet he was in the habit of laughing at him behind his back, and of trying to turn whatever he did or said in the execution of his sacred office--and indeed his office itself--into ridicule. in this, according to the opinion of his thoughtless and profligate companions, he succeeded tolerably well; for he had a turn for low humour; and it is sometimes found, the more sacred any thing is, the greater is the effect of representing it in a ludicrous point of view, to those who are unrestrained by any sense of decency or of religion. from mr. hooker he had never received any thing but tokens of kindness, but he disliked him, because he knew that he disapproved of his manner of going on, and still more, for one or two admonitions which he had received from him. he now felt ashamed of his former disrespectful behaviour towards his worthy minister. the fever having entirely left him, mr. hooker determined to take advantage of the opportunity which this accident afforded, for the purpose of endeavouring to bring fowler to some proper sense of religion. he accordingly often talked to him in the most serious manner, trying both to inform his understanding, and to affect his heart. one day when he called, he found barton sitting by the bed side. the farmer immediately got up to go away; fowler, however, begged him to stay; and mr. hooker was not without hopes, that what he said might not be entirely lost upon barton, of whose religious sentiments he had but an unfavourable opinion. after making use of the prayers in the visitation office, he represented to fowler the folly of living without god in the world; the hateful nature of sin; and the awful consequences of continuing in sin without repentance. he spoke of the great atonement, but told him that the benefits even of that would be lost to those who continued hardened and impenitent. he added a few words upon the particular vice of drunkenness, upon its tendency to lead on to almost all other sins without exception, and upon its dreadful punishment in the world to come, since _drunkards can not inherit the kingdom of god_. fowler appeared to be attentive, and to feel what was said, and barton looked every now and then a little uneasy. his uneasiness was occasioned, not by the slightest degree of apprehension for his own religious interests, but by the wound which his _good-nature_ received, at hearing such strong things said. the farmer accompanied mr. hooker down stairs; but the moment he had quitted the house, exclaimed, "i wish, nanny, you would not let the parson come to your husband any more. i'm sure it's enough to make a man ill to hear him talk." "why, what's the matter?" said nanny, "what's the matter?" "why, he has been talking about his soul, and getting drunk, and heaven, and hell, and i know not what besides; i'm sure, i thought it very _ill-natured_ of him. it's bad enough for poor bob to have broken his leg, without being troubled with such melancholy thoughts. and what's the use of it? there's no chance of his dying this bout, and there can be no occasion for his making himself uneasy with these church-yard thoughts yet." "surely you are not in earnest, neighbour," said farmer oldacre, who had called in to enquire how the broken leg was going on; "you cannot really mean what you say." "yes, but i do though," replied barton, "and i say again, it was very _ill-natured_ of mr. hooker." "i always thought," said oldacre, "that you professed and called yourself a christian." "as good a christian as yourself," rejoined barton, with some quickness; "aye, or as mr. hooker _either_, though, perhaps, i mayn't talk so much about it as some people." "well, don't be angry," said oldacre calmly, "but just listen to me for two minutes. if a christian, you of course acknowledge the scriptures to be the word of god?" "to be sure i do." "well--you know--the whole parish knows--that poor bob fowler was leading a most ungodly and wicked life." "no, i do _not_ know it; poor bob was nobody's enemy but his own; and if he did get drunk now and then, what was that to any body else? i don't call that being wicked." "and what _do_ you call being _wicked_?" "why, i call a man wicked, when he robs and steals, or commits murder, or--let me see--let me see--when he takes a false oath before a justice--or--when he slanders his neighbours." "these, certainly," answered oldacre, "are instances of great wickedness; but you seem to confine the word _wickedness_ almost entirely to offences, by which _men_ are injured; now i call a man _wicked_, when he lives in the wilful and habitual neglect of any part of his duty; and since the scriptures tell us, that the first and chief part of our duty is our duty towards god, i particularly call a man wicked when he lives in the open neglect of that duty--when he leads, in short, an ungodly life." barton made no answer, but seemed to be waiting to hear what was to come next. "now as for poor bob fowler, you know very well that he never went to church, never thought of keeping holy the lord's day, that he was in the constant habit of profane swearing, that he never spoke of religion but to laugh at it, and that instead of having god in all his thoughts, he lived in a total forgetfulness both of him and of his laws. now the scriptures tell us, over and over again, that _the wicked shall be turned into hell, and all the people that forget god_. if these words of scripture be true--and you acknowledge yourself that they are so--fowler was certainly in a dangerous state. now, neighbour, suppose you were to see a blind man walking right on to the brink of a pit, and ready to fall into it, should you think it _ill-natured_ to tell him of his danger? and is it _ill-natured_ of mr. hooker, to try to save a man from falling into the pit of destruction?" "but why should he do it at such a time--when bob has a broken leg to vex him?" "i know," replied oldacre, "that mr. hooker did sometimes speak to him when he was in health; but fowler was either sulky, or turned it into joke: he was one of those, who _sit in the seat of the scornful_; it was like _casting pearls before swine, which turn again and rend you_. his present confinement offers an opportunity for giving him some notions of religion; and our good minister, who is always on the watch for opportunities of being of use, most likely felt, that if this opportunity was not taken advantage of, he might never have another." "but is it not enough to drive a man to despair," said barton, "to talk to him about death and judgment, and future punishment?" "it is rather the best way to save a man from despair. mr. hooker speaks to him of future misery, in order that he may escape it. i dare say that he tells him, as he tells us in church, that if he will but repent of and forsake his sins, full forgiveness is offered, through the mediation of the redeemer. a man who wilfully goes on in a worldly, ungodly course of life, has certainly nothing before him but a _fearful looking for of judgment and fiery indignation_. surely it is not _ill-natured_, but rather the kindest thing that can be done for such a man, to try to persuade him to flee from the wrath to come, by changing his course of life by the aid of god's grace, and by seeking for god's mercy through christ, before the gates of mercy are closed for ever." there was a pause of some minutes. barton, however, did not like to give up his notions of _ill-nature_, and returned to the charge. "still, i must say, neighbour oldacre, that the parson speaks of these things much too plainly and too strongly; and, to tell you the truth, that is the reason why i so seldom go to hear him in church. it would not look well, you know, for a man like me _never_ to go to church at all, so i drop in sometimes when there is no sermon. i like to be _good-humoured_ and pleasant, and don't like to think of these melancholy subjects until i've occasion." oldacre found that he was impenetrable by any thing that _he_ could say, and was not inclined to resume the conversation, and went up stairs to fowler to ask him how he was. barton quitted the house, but the door was hardly closed, when his _good-nature_ was put to a fresh trial of a different description. he was met by a stranger, who, having asked him whether his name was barton, and received his answer that it was, put into his hands a paper, which he found was a notice to him as surveyor, that a certain part of the road in the parish had been indicted at the quarter sessions which were just over, and a true bill found. the fact was this.--a gentleman, who was going to the sessions on business, had occasion to travel along the road, the bad state of which mr. bentley had pointed out to farmer barton. one of his coach-horses shyed at a heap of dung lying close to the road side, the coachman whipped him, the horses sprang forward, but in crossing the deep ruts, one of the fore springs of the carriage snapped, and the near horse was thrown down, and cut both his knees. the gentleman proceeded slowly to chippingden; and while his servants were getting the spring made safe for the remainder of his journey, had the worst part of the road measured, and then travelling on to sessions in the full heat of his anger and vexation, preferred a bill of indictment against the parish of inglewood. this farmer barton thought the most _ill-natured_ proceeding that ever was known; and in the first warmth of his indignation said, that there should be no _putting off_, but that the parish should try it out at the following sessions. he was still surveyor, for he had so entirely neglected calling out the statute-duty, and indeed every part of his office, that he was ashamed to attend the justice meeting, which was held for the purpose of appointing new surveyors; and felt pretty sure, that his non-attendance would not be taken notice of. the magistrates, every now and then, threatened _stoutly_, and talked of fining the absentees, but they would not be so _ill-natured_ as to carry their threats into execution; and the comfort and convenience of the public, and the real interests of the several parishes themselves, were sacrificed for the credit of their _good-nature_. fowler's leg, meanwhile, continued to mend, and he was able to get down stairs, and attend to his new business. what mr. hooker had said to him, produced considerable effect upon his mind and conduct. but though he left off drinking himself, yet from his former habits and character he could not be expected to possess much authority over those who resorted to his house. many of the poor never entered the public house at all; many went to it now and then for a pot of beer to drink in a quiet family way at home; but a few of the married men, and several of the young ones, spent there many of their evenings, and most of their money. many little disturbances consequently took place in the village. one evening in particular, tim nesbit came from the public house so drunk, and was so noisy and troublesome, that some of the neighbours talked of having him fined, or set in the stocks. "surely you wou'dn't be so _ill-natured_ as that comes to," said barton. "when a man robs and steals, punish him to the utmost; but drunkenness is a _good-natured_ fault, and the drunken man is nobody's enemy but his own." "nobody's enemy but his own!" said old truman, who happened to be standing by, "i think a drunken man the enemy of every body. he is ready to quarrel with every body that comes in his way, and to do all sorts of mischief." "yes," replied barton, "but when a man don't know what he is doing, he has a right to be excused." "now i say just the contrary," answered truman. "when a man chooses to throw away his reason, and to bring himself down to a level with a beast, he must take the consequences. drunkenness, instead of being an excuse for any fault, is an aggravation, and the law of the land says the same. i heartily wish that the laws against tippling and drunkenness[j] were more frequently put in execution." [footnote j: if any person (with a few particular exceptions) shall continue drinking or tippling in a public house, he shall forfeit three shillings and fourpence to the use of the poor, or be set in the stocks for four hours. any person convicted of drunkenness shall for the first offence forfeit five shillings to the use of the poor, or be set in the stocks for six hours. upon a second conviction the offender shall be bound, with two sureties, to be thenceforth of good behaviour.] "these laws," replied barton, "cannot, generally speaking, be put in force, unless some one will _inform_, and that would be so _ill-natured_. and besides, every one hates and cries out against the very name of an _informer_." "i grant you," said truman, "that when a man turns _informer_ from spite--or for the sake of getting money--or from a view to private interest of any sort--he may perhaps deserve to be disliked. but a man who, _after fair notice, informs_ against an offender from a sense of public duty--with a view to check a bad practice which is hurtful both to society and to those who are guilty of it--or from a sincere zeal for the interests of morality and religion, is a benefactor to the community. the lawless and profligate, who would be glad to get rid of all the restraints of every sort, will of course try to run him down; but he ought not to mind that, and he certainly deserves the thanks of all the friends of good order and morality." not only was the quiet of the village of inglewood sometimes disturbed by drunken _rows_, but many little acts of mischief were committed, not from any particular spite, but in the mere wantonness of drunkenness. the farmers too found some of their men less disposed to work than formerly, and more disposed to be saucy; and they saw the wives and children of some few growing more and more ragged and miserable. they consoled themselves by abusing the justices for consenting to the establishment of the alehouse, and by blaming their minister for not taking more active measures to prevent it; and said for themselves, that they would never have set their hands to the certificate, if at the time they had not felt sure that the licence would not be granted. fowler's friends, however, determined to make it as good a thing for him as they could. his accident, and long confinement in consequence of it, had thrown him back, and they wished, they said, to give him a _start_. they resolved to have some _pastime_ in the village, and tried to make up a purse for two prize fighters, who resided in the neighbourhood. barton entered zealously into the scheme, and took care to have the fame of the projected amusement spread through the adjoining villages. having occasion to call on mr. hooker on other business, he said that he hoped that he did not object to what was going forward. mr. hooker replied, that "he disapproved of it most decidedly." barton's _good-nature_ was immediately up in arms. "surely, sir, it's very hard that the poor may not have a little amusement now and then. our only object is, to give them a day's pleasure, and at the same time to give a little help to fowler in his business, after his sad accident, which has thrown him back so unluckily." "nobody," said mr. hooker, "can be more friendly than i am to the amusements of the poor; provided they are _innocent_, and do not, almost necessarily, lead to immorality and sin. you know, mr. barton, as well as i do, that the _pastime_, as you call it, which you propose, will be attended with a great deal of drunkenness. your avowed object is, that fowler should sell as much beer and spirits as possible. i need not tell you, that drunkenness is not only a great sin in itself, but that it also leads to sins of every description. you know very well too, that on occasions of this sort, there is generally a great deal of swearing, a great deal of improper language, and, perhaps, a great deal of quarrelling. with respect to _prize-fighting_, sensible men have entertained different sentiments. my own opinion is, that it is a positive offence against the laws both of god and man; that it is a most disgusting exhibition; and surely a most improper sight for the women and children, who, in a village, will be spectators of it. i think also, that if one of the combatants should be killed, as is frequently the case, all those who have promoted the battle are parties in the guilt of manslaughter. "do not say that i am an enemy to the amusements of the poor. i like to have them enjoy themselves at proper times, and in a proper manner. i can take pleasure in seeing them engaged in a game at cricket, at football, at quoits, or any other manly exercise, provided they engage in it without swearing, or drunkenness, or other vice; but of the amusement now proposed in the village, i disapprove most decidedly." the disapprobation of the clergyman, however, was not attended to. barton talked of the parson's _ill-nature_ in grudging the poor a little enjoyment, and said it was all of a piece with his finding fault with the poor boys for going to play on a sunday, instead of going to church or the sunday school. the promised day at length arrived. the village was filled with a motley concourse from all the country round, and the fight took place. the men were equally matched, and fought with skill and courage. both got severely bruised; but one of them received an unfortunate blow under the ear. he fell into the arms of his second, and it was soon discovered that the blow was mortal--he never spoke again. this sad _accident_ threw a damp over the amusement of the day, and many repented of the _good-nature_ which had led them to promote the _pastime_. we will not, however, dwell upon this melancholy event, but proceed to the result of the indictment of the roads of the parish of inglewood. january came, and the quarter sessions. both parties wished to have the indictment tried at once, and came prepared--the prosecutor with witnesses to prove that the road was very bad and unsafe--and barton with several _good-natured_ men, who were ready to swear, that it was as good a road as they wished to travel. the parish, however, was beat; and it being proved that frequent representations had been made of the bad state of the road in question, inglewood was sentenced to pay a fine of fifty pounds, together with all costs, which amounted to forty more. farmer barton hardly knew which was most _ill-natured_, the prosecutor, the jury, or the bench of magistrates. perhaps he was most out of humour with the _jury_; for consisting, as it did principally, of farmers, they might, he thought, have put their oaths and their consciences a little on one side, where brother farmers were concerned. however, there was no help for it, and the money was to be found before the easter sessions. he returned to inglewood to console himself with the popularity, which he acquired in the exercise of the office of overseer. his _good-nature_ led him to accede to almost every application, but his _good-nature_ arose rather from his "fear of offending the importunate, than his desire of making the deserving happy[k]." the industrious and the modest remained contented with their former pittance; but the forward, and the impudent, and the clamorous, were continually urging their claims for more relief, and seldom urged them in vain. [footnote k: goldsmith.] "i hope, farmer barton," said one woman, "you will give me a little more allowance: when bread, and candles, and soap are paid for, there's hardly any thing left for tea and sugar." "why i suppose then i must give you a trifle more--the parish can't miss it." one petitioner he manfully refused, and told her she must be content with what she had. "and how am i to buy snuff out of that[l]?" the overseer relented: he loved a pinch of snuff himself. farmer oldacre would gladly have filled a deserving old woman's snuff box at his own expense, but not at the expense of the parish. [footnote l: fact.] the liberal allowances granted by barton, of course, required frequent rates, which it was not very convenient to the farmers to pay. those, however, who happened to have money by them, paid, and allowed themselves the satisfaction of grumbling. those who had it not, begged for time, and kept their grumbling to themselves. barton's _good-nature_ did not permit him to be very pressing. the consequence was, that, as he was neither disposed, nor perhaps able, to advance the money from his own pocket, fresh rates became necessary, and those who _could_ pay made up for the deficiencies of those who could not. farmer oldacre was one of the former description; and though he often told his brother overseer, that he was bound in law to levy and expend one rate before he applied for another; yet when his own pocket seemed to be concerned, he would not be peremptory. another of those who were always ready with their money, and were consequently entitled to the privilege of grumbling, was richard sterling. richard occupied five or six acres of land, kept three cows, and got on pretty well by supplying his neighbours with milk. "what, another rate, master barton!--why it seems but t'other day that i paid the last."--"it can't be helped, richard;--the poor must be provided for."--"i know they must," answered sterling, "and as for those who cannot keep themselves, and are come to poverty without any fault of their own, i should not grudge it them if they had more;--but there are some who might as well help to support me, as i to support them. pray, what may you give to tim nesbit?"--"why--perhaps the matter of three and sixpence a week."--"three and sixpence a week?--that comes i think to about nine pounds twelve a-year.--tim and i were born in the same year; when we grew up we worked for the same master; we married much about the same time, and our families are of the same size. the only difference between us was, that while i tried to put by what i could spare, tim, whether single or married, always carried good part of his earnings to the ale-house. now is it not a little hard that i must now be forced to help to maintain him, because he chose to squander away his money? he might at this present time have been every bit as well off in the world as i am; but because he chose to be careless and a spendthrift, i am forced to take bread, as it were, from my own children, and give it to his[m]." [footnote m: see a lively dialogue to this purpose in that excellent little publication, the cottagers' monthly visitor.] one day, when barton was going towards his house, he was overtaken by ralph the butcher's lad, who accosted him with, "mr. barton, i want you to do me a kindness." "what is it?" said barton. "why, you must know, that i have some thoughts of marrying, and want the parish just to run me up a bit of a house. master will give carriage, and i can manage a good deal of the labour myself, so that it will cost the parish a mere trifle." "_you_ going to be married!" said barton laughing, "why, how old are you?" "old enough in all conscience, i shall be nineteen come february." "it might be as well to wait a few years longer," answered barton; "however, i can't wonder at you; and we'll see what can be done." he accordingly mentioned the subject to his brother overseer, whom he found in the field near his house. "i must say," replied oldacre, "that i am no friend to these early marriages in any class of society. young men and women--or rather i should say, boys and girls--take it into their heads to marry, before they can be supposed really to know their own minds. they are struck by something in the outward appearance, or taken by some whim and fancy, and become partners for life, before they have become acquainted with each other's temper or character, and before they have considered how to provide for a family. the consequence too often is, that the marriage turns out unhappily. among the poor especially, who look to the parish for every thing, these early marriages produce a habit of dependence, which lowers their character and spirit for life." "what you say, is much about the truth," replied barton, "but these young people are bent upon marrying, and then, you know, there's no stopping them. of course they must have a place to be in, and i suppose we may as well run him up a bit of a cottage at once." "it is a serious thing," said oldacre, "for farmers at rack-rent to begin building houses for their poor; but i am against it, for the sake of the poor themselves." "now i'm sure you _must_ be wrong in that opinion," said barton. "do just tell me," answered his brother overseer, "have we already labourers enough to do all the work of the parish?" "enough, and much more than enough. you know how puzzled we are to find employment for them in the winter. indeed, excepting just in hay-making and harvest, we have always some men to be paid for their work out of the rates." "then is not increasing the number a bad thing for the poor themselves, if they already stand in each other's way? and do you not see, that building cottages is just the way to increase them? if you built twenty cottages, you would have them filled in a week's time. we have of late been forced to _double_ some families, but that must be so uncomfortable in every way, that people do not like to marry upon such a prospect. but there are plenty of young men and women quite ready to hasten to the altar, if they could be sure of a roof to themselves to shelter them at night[n]. this of course, would make a lasting addition to the poor rates, would throw a heavy burden on the land, and render it still more difficult for the poor to find work. [footnote n: townsend.] "the cottages that we have i wish to see as comfortable as possible, and would have the poor people who inhabit them take a pride in keeping them neat and clean, and their gardens in nice order; but i am not for increasing the number of them. such increase, i am persuaded, would be against the interest of the poor themselves." mr. stanley, during a former visit to inglewood, had often fallen in with mr. oldacre in his walks, and got into conversation with him: he happened to come up at the moment, and catching the last words that had fallen from the farmer, said to him, "i suspect, mr. oldacre, that you are not very friendly to the system of the poor laws." "i will not by any means say that," replied oldacre; "i believe that in every state of society, in a populous and old-inhabited country especially, there always will, and must, be poor. as the scripture says, _the poor shall never cease out of the land_. i am glad, therefore, that provision is made by law for those who are unable to help themselves. private charity, in many places, does a great deal; and if there were no poor-laws, would do a great deal more. but if all were left to be provided for by private charity, the kind-hearted would be oppressed by claims, and often give more than they could afford, while the selfish and covetous would contribute nothing. it is right that these latter should be forced to take their share of the burden. in many places again, if there was nothing but voluntary benevolence to trust to, multitudes would starve, and no civilized country ought to suffer that, if it can help it. indeed, i wish that we were able to give a larger measure of parochial relief to the aged and infirm, who are reduced to want through no fault of their own. but then, i must say, though i shall be thought _ill-natured_ for saying so, that i cannot help seeing that the poor-laws--whether from bad management, or from the peculiar circumstances of the times, i will not pretend to say--have in many ways done no good to the character and the habits of several among the poor." "i know," said mr. stanley, "that many sensible men entertain the same opinion; but, perhaps, you can give me a few instances which may make your meaning more clear." "many of the poor," replied oldacre, "have not been hurt by them, but still preserve the steady, manly, independent character, which becomes an englishman. but too frequently dependence on parish rates has produced very pernicious consequences. "the connection between a farmer and his labourers--you will say, that i speak like a farmer, in mentioning that _first_--ought to be advantageous to both--not merely as a contract, by which the employer is to receive so much work, and the workman so much money; but as it tends to produce an interchange between them of kind offices and kind feelings. by many of the labourers this is still felt as it ought to be felt, and they take a pride and a pleasure in working year after year for the same master, and try to obtain his approbation by industry and good conduct. some of them, however, have no notion of fixing themselves. they care little whether their employer is pleased with them or not, and upon the slightest affront as they call it, or the slightest difference about wages, they are off directly. if one wont employ them, another _must_; or, at all events, they _must_ be employed by the parish. "again; the natural affection which subsists between parent and child, is strengthened and increased in both--as is the case indeed with brute animals--by the dependence of the children on their parents for subsistence. but now this dependence is, in many instances, removed from the parent to the overseer. on the other hand, when the parents grow old and infirm, the children often might do much to assist them, and if left to themselves would delight in doing so. but under the present system, if they do it at all, they do it by _stealth_; for _why_, say they, _should we favour the parish_? if they happen to have a little matter of money left them, they are tempted for the same reason to conceal it. here again they ask, why should they favour the parish? and they will not feel, that the receiving of parish relief, when they have any thing of their own, is a fraud upon the parish, an act of dishonesty. "few virtues are more useful in any condition of life than _frugality_ and _foresight_. upon these, however, the poor laws have certainly made a sad inroad: unmarried men, or those, who though married have no families, or whose children have _got out_, while they continue in full health and vigour, might often contrive to lay by something against old age. but this few of them think of doing, for _why should they favour the parish_? the parish must provide for them at any rate, and so they may as well spend their money as fast as they get it. the _future_ satisfaction of living on their own means, instead of on parish pay, is not sufficient to stand against the temptation of _present_ pleasure.--savings banks are an excellent institution, but when once a man has quartered himself as a pauper upon the parish, he will not make use of them. why should he put money into the bank in order to _favour the parish_?--i shall tire you, sir, i fear," continued the farmer, "but you must let me mention one thing more. _beneficence_ is, we know, twice blessed; it blesses him that gives, and him that takes; but parish relief comes sadly in the way of beneficence. when men are forced to pay so much to the poor through the hands of the overseer, they have neither the inclination, nor, in fact, the power, to give so largely in the way of voluntary charity. "many other instances i could give of the unfavourable effect which the poor laws have had upon the characters, and consequently upon the happiness, of the poor[o]. i do not blame the poor:--many, who would otherwise keep off the parish, are driven to it by the low rate of wages, which has been occasioned, i suppose, partly by an oversupply of hands, and partly by irregularities in our currency. [footnote o: see the eloquent and forcible pamphlets of townsend, bicheno, and jerram; and particularly the judicious and well-arranged sermon on "the immoral effect of the poor-laws," by dr richards of bampton.] "as i said before, i am glad that a legal provision is made for the poor, but i wish that more than half the money we now pay in rates was paid in wages, and that wages were such that a man in health, and with a good character, might always be pretty well able to provide for a moderate-sized family by his own exertions. the parish pay should be kept chiefly for unforeseen calamities, for the orphan and for the widow. we should then be able to give _them_ a better allowance. now there are so many claimants, that we cannot give _much_ to any, and the able, bodied and strong are the means of lessening the pittance of the sick and the helpless." lady-day was now approaching, and with it the time when barton was to go out of office. his _good-nature_ had lavished so much of the public money upon clamorous applicants, that many parish bills were still unpaid. the fine too imposed upon the inhabitants of inglewood upon the indictment of the road, and the legal costs attending it, were also now to be cleared off, so that altogether a very considerable sum was to be made up. it was well known, that many of the rates were much in arrears; and the farmers who had hitherto paid with some degree of punctuality, grumbled more and more at the neglect of the acting overseer in not levying them. most of them expressed their determination to pay no more, till all arrears were cleared up. one large farm was about to change its occupier, and the in-coming tenant declared--as he had a good right to declare--that he would have nothing to do with the debts of the parish incurred before his coming into it. strong hints also were thrown out, that barton should take the consequences of his own neglect upon himself, and should make up all deficiencies out of his own pocket. these threats answered the purpose of alarming barton, whose _good-nature_, great as it was, had never been able to stifle his regard for his own interest. he accordingly set actively to work to collect the arrears. those who had been unable to pay _one_ rate, were not likely to pay _four_, which had now become due, together with the heavy addition occasioned by the indictment. some of the defaulters blamed the overseer, for having let it run on so long; and all found fault with him for having brought so serious an expense upon the parish by his neglect about the roads. _all_, i should not say;--for the poor widow wildgoose uttered not a word of reproach or complaint against any one, but when asked for her arrears of rates, passively replied that she had no money, and that the parish must take her goods. she had never held up her head since the death of her eldest son. when she first set up her shop, she dealt a good deal for ready money, of course selling to ready-money customers at a much lower rate. from the time of her son's death, however, her activity and attention to business had deserted her. she suffered many of the poor to run deeply in her debt, and if she hinted any thing about payment, they pretended to be affronted, and took all their ready money to the other shops. farmer barton, too, thought that it would be _good-natured_ to give the poor widow the _credit_ of his custom and protection, and had almost all his shop-goods and grocery from her house. unfortunately, however, neither his _good-nature_, of which he had so much--nor his sense of justice, of which he had but little--ever led him to recollect to pay her. she was too much depressed--too _meek-spirited_--to urge, or even to ask for, payment, and the consequence was, that she was just approaching to utter ruin, which was of course likely to be accelerated by her goods being distrained for poor rates. her surviving children were in service in creditable places, and would have helped her in a moment; but she could not bear to tell them of her difficulties. now, however, one of her neighbours contrived to let them know the situation, in which their mother was. immediately they made up out of their wages a sum sufficient not only to pay off her arrears, but to give her a trifle for her present wants. and soon after she received by the post a blank cover addressed to her, inclosing a five pound note. she had no guess who could have sent it, but it was soon discovered that it came from lucy wilmot, a young woman to whom her eldest son had been attached. her second son sam lived with a kind-hearted lawyer in london, who, upon hearing of the distress of the poor widow and its cause, not only sent her some assistance in money, but promised to take an early opportunity of looking into her affairs, and of taking measures for compelling those of her debtors who were able, to pay what they owed her. of the other defaulters, some contrived to procure the necessary money; some were summoned before the magistrates, and then, finding that they had no remedy, found a friend to advance the money; against others warrants of distress were issued. no case excited more commiseration than that of michael fielding. michael had been a remarkably industrious and prudent labourer, and had managed to save a considerable sum of money. he married a young woman of similar character, and being naturally anxious to get forward in the world, they had ventured, seven or eight years before, to take a small farm. the rent was moderate when they took their lease, but they had felt the change of times severely. the property was in the hands of trustees, who did not feel justified in making a diminution of rent; and consequently poor michael, every year, saw his means growing less, while his family grew larger. he was at work early and late, his wife gave all the help she could in the farm, and mended the children's clothes as long as they would hold together; and the hard-earned bread, upon which the family lived, was so coarse, that many of the labourers in the village would have turned from it in disdain. michael was naturally of a cheerful disposition, and not apt to murmur or complain; sometimes, however, he could hardly suppress a sigh, when he thought of his own children, and of the hard fare to which they were accustomed, and saw in the parish-books the large sums that were given by the _good-nature_ of barton to idle and worthless characters[p]. now and then he had ventured gently to remonstrate upon the hardship of being obliged to contribute so large a portion of his limited means towards the maintenance of men, who had begun the world with the same advantages with himself, and who, but for their own improvidence, might have lived without being a burden to any one. the comparative smallness of his farm, however, and his former situation in life, prevented his remonstrance from being of much weight. he was now nearly insolvent. several persons, to whom his character was known, would have been happy to have assisted him, but he was too high-minded to acquaint them with his difficulties. all the money, that by his utmost exertion he could scrape together, was just gone for rent, and he had nothing at all left to meet the demand for the arrears of rates, and for his portion of the expenses of the indictment. barton, in spite of his _good-nature_, felt obliged to distrain. this brought other creditors upon poor michael, and he was obliged to sell off every thing. [footnote p: townsend.] barton, however, was enabled to make up his accounts, and had got them passed at the vestry, though there certainly was among his brother farmers a little grumbling. barton defended himself as well as he could, and added, that at all events he had got the _good-word_ of the poor; that he always had borne, and always hoped to bear, the character of a _good-natured man_. farmer oldacre could not suffer this to pass without observation. he had been a little irritated by some things which he had witnessed at the vestry, and felt deeply for poor michael, who had formerly worked upon his farm, and whom he had always loved and respected. "come, come, neighbour barton," said he, "let us hear no more of your _good-nature_, for which we all have to pay so dear. your wish to obtain the _good-word_ of the poor has not really benefitted them, and has done serious injury to the rest of your neighbours. your _good-nature_ about the licence has increased the immorality and the poverty of the parish;--and your _good-nature_ to the road-workmen has given fowler a broken leg;--your _good-nature_ to farmer dobson, in not making him cut his hedge, and do his statute-duty, has cost us ninety pounds;--and your _good-nature_ as overseer has made the parish less able to pay that sum, and has helped to complete the ruin of two or three deserving families. and--if i may venture here to mention so serious a consideration--your _good-nature_ would have allowed a sinner to go on towards eternal destruction without warning, and, for the sake of avoiding uneasiness of mind _here_, would have suffered him to incur everlasting punishment _hereafter_. "farmer barton--i value brotherly-kindness most highly. i know that the love of our neighbour, and a readiness to do him good offices, is the second great commandment both of the law and of the gospel. but i hope that i shall ever be on my guard against that love of low popularity, that weak fear of giving offence, that sacrifice of _public_ principle to _private_ considerations, which, under the engaging name of _good-nature_, often lead to forgetfulness of duty both towards god and man, and do as much harm in the world as positive dishonesty." notes. dr. benjamin franklin is well known as the friend of the poor and of liberty, and as one of the founders of american independence. the following observations will, with many persons, have additional weight, as coming from _his_ pen. _extract from observations written in pennsylvania in ._ .--when families can be easily supported, more persons marry, and earlier in life. . in cities, where all trades, occupations, and offices are full, many delay marrying till they can see how to bear the charges of a family; which charges are greater in cities, as luxury is more common: many live single during life, and continue servants to families, journeymen to trades, &c. hence cities do not, by natural generation, supply themselves with inhabitants; the deaths are more than the births. . in countries full settled, the case must be nearly the same, all lands being occupied and improved to the height; those who cannot get land, must labour for others that have it; when labourers are plenty, their wages will be low; by low wages a family is supported with difficulty; this difficulty deters many from marriage, who therefore long continue servants and single. only, as the cities take supplies of people from the country, and thereby make a little more room in the country, marriage is a little more encouraged there, and the births exceed the deaths. _dr. franklin's letter on the labouring poor. dated april, ._ _sir,_ i have met with much invective in the papers, for these two years past, against the hard-heartedness of the rich, and much complaint of the great oppressions suffered in this country by the labouring poor. will you admit a word or two on the other side of the question? i do not propose to be an advocate for oppression or oppressors; but when i see that the poor are, by such writings, exasperated against the rich, and excited to insurrections, by which much mischief is done, and some lose their lives, i could wish the true state of things were better understood; the poor not made by these busy writers more uneasy and unhappy than their situation subjects them to be, and the nation not brought into disrepute among foreigners, by public groundless accusations of ourselves, as if the rich in england had no compassion for the poor, and englishmen wanted common humanity. in justice, then, to this country, give me leave to remark, that the condition of the poor here is by far the best in europe; for that, except in england and her american colonies, there is not in any country in the known world (not even in scotland[q] or ireland) a provision by law to enforce a support of the poor. every where else necessity reduces to beggary. this law was not made by the poor. the legislators were men of fortune. by that act they voluntarily subjected their own estates, and the estates of all others, to the payment of a tax for the support of the poor, encumbering those estates with a kind of rent charge for that purpose, whereby the poor are vested with an inheritance, as it were, in all the estates of the rich. i wish they were benefitted by this generous provision, in any degree equal to the good intention with which it was made, and is continued; but i fear the giving mankind a dependence on any thing for support, in age or sickness, besides industry and frugality during health, tends to flatter our natural indolence, to encourage idleness and prodigality, and thereby to promote and increase poverty, the very evil it was intended to cure; thus multiplying beggars, instead of diminishing them. [footnote q: this, i believe, is inaccurate.] besides this tax, which the rich in england have subjected themselves to in behalf of the poor, amounting in some places to five or six shillings in the pound of their annual income, they have, by donations and subscriptions, erected numerous schools in various parts of the kingdom, for educating, gratis, the children of the poor in reading and writing; and in many of these schools the children are also fed and clothed; they have erected hospitals at an immense expence, for the reception and cure of the sick, the lame, the wounded, and the insane poor, for lying-in women, and deserted children. they are also continually contributing towards making up losses occasioned by fire, by storms, or by floods; and to relieve the poor in severe seasons of frost, in time of scarcity, &c. in which benevolent and charitable contributions no nation exceeds us. surely there is some gratitude due for so many instances of goodness. add to this all the laws made to discourage foreign manufactures, by laying heavy duties on them, or totally prohibiting them; whereby the rich are obliged to pay much higher prices for what they wear and consume than if the trade was open. there are so many laws for the support of our labouring poor made by the rich, and continued at their expence: all the difference of price between our own and foreign commodities, being so much given by our rich to our poor; who would indeed be enabled by it to get by degrees above poverty, if they did not, as too generally they do, consider every increase of wages only as something that enables them to drink more and work less; so that their distress in sickness, age, or times of scarcity, continues to be the same as if such laws had never been made in their favour. much malignant censure have some writers bestowed upon the rich for their luxury and expensive living, while the poor are starving, not considering that what the rich expend, the labouring poor receive in payment for their labour. it may seem a paradox if i should assert, that our labouring poor do, in every year, receive the _whole revenue of the nation_; i mean not only the public revenue, but also the revenue or clear income of all private estates, or a sum equivalent to the whole. in support of this position, i reason thus: the rich do not work for one another; their habitations, furniture, clothing, carriages, food, ornaments, and every thing, in short, that they or their families use and consume, is the work or produce of the labouring poor, who are, and must be, continually paid for their labour in producing the same. in these payments the revenues of private estates are expended; for most people live up to their incomes. in clothing, or provision for troops, in arms, ammunition, ships, tents, carriages, &c. &c. (every particular the produce of labour,) much of the public revenue is expended. the pay of officers, civil and military, and of the private soldiers and sailors, requires the rest; and they spend that also in paying for what is produced by the labouring poor. i allow that some estates may increase by the owners spending less than their income; but then i conceive, that other estates do at the same time diminish, by the owners spending more than their incomes; so that when the enriched want to buy more land, they easily find lands in the hands of the impoverished, whose necessities oblige them to sell; and thus this difference is equalled. i allow also, that part of the expense of the rich is in foreign produce, or manufactures, for producing which the labouring poor of other nations must be paid: but then, i say, we must first pay our own labouring poor for an equal quantity of our manufactures or produce, to exchange for those foreign productions, or we must pay for them in money, which money not being a natural produce to our country, must first be purchased from abroad, by sending out its value in the produce or manufactures of this country, for which manufactures our labouring poor are to be paid. and, indeed, if we did not export more than we import, we could have no money at all. i allow farther, that there are middle men, who make a profit, and even get estates, by purchasing the labour of the poor, and selling it at advanced prices to the rich; but then they cannot enjoy that profit, or the increase of estates, but by spending them in employing and paying our labouring poor, in some shape or other, for the products of industry. even beggars, pensioners, hospitals, &c. all that are supported by charity, spend their incomes in the same manner. so that finally, as i said at first, our labouring poor receive annually the whole of the clear revenues of the nation, and from us they can have no more. if it be said that their wages are too low, and that they ought to be better paid for their labour, i heartily wish that any means could be fallen upon to do it consistent with their interest and happiness; but as the cheapness of other things is owing to the plenty of those things, so the cheapness of labour is in most cases owing to the multitude of labourers, and to their underworking one another in order to obtain employment. how is this to be remedied? a law might be made to raise their wages; but if our manufactures are too dear, they will not vend abroad, and all that part of employment will fail, unless, by fighting and conquering, we compel other nations to buy our goods, whether they will or no, which some have been mad enough at times to propose. among ourselves, unless we give our working people less employment, how can we, for what they do, pay them higher than we do? out of what fund is the additional price of labour to be paid, when all our present incomes are, as it were, mortgaged to them? should they get higher wages, would that make them less poor, if in consequence they worked fewer days of the week proportionably? i have said, a law might be made to raise their wages; but i doubt much, whether it could be executed to any purpose, unless another law, now indeed almost obsolete, could at the same time be revived and enforced; a law, i mean, that i have often heard and repeated, but few have ever duly considered, _six days shalt thou labour_. this is as positive a part of the commandment, as that which says, _the seventh day thou shalt rest_: but we remember well to observe the indulgent part, and never think of the other. _saint monday_[r] is generally as duly kept by our working people as sunday: the only difference is, that instead of employing it cheaply at church, they are wasting it expensively at the alehouse. i am, sir, your's, &c. [footnote r: this applies not so much to farmers' workmen as to _manufacturers'_ labourers.] _extract from dr. franklin's remarks on luxury, idleness, and industry._ some of those who grow rich will be prudent, live within bounds, and preserve what they have gained for their posterity: others, fond of shewing their wealth, will be extravagant, and ruin themselves. laws cannot prevent this; and perhaps it is not always an evil to the public. a shilling spent idly by a fool, may be picked up by a wiser person, who knows better what to do with it. it is therefore not lost. a vain silly fellow builds a fine house, furnishes it richly, lives in it expensively, and in a few years ruins himself: but the masons, carpenters, smiths, and other honest tradesmen, have been by his employ assisted in maintaining and raising their families: the farmer has been paid for his labour, and encouraged, and the estate is now in better hands. in some cases, indeed, certain modes of luxury may be a public evil, in the same manner as it is a private one. the end. * * * * * [transcriber's note: older form of contractions retained. spelling "aground" and "a-ground" used in the text. spelling "ale-house" and "alehouse" used in the text. spelling "bed-side" and "bedside" used in the text. spelling "gate-way" and "gateway" used in the text. spelling "benefited" and "benefitted" used in the text. spelling "licence" and "license" used in the text. spelling "parish officer" and "parish-officer" used in text. page . letter 'f' added to text (as a matter of). page . comma, blank space and double quote removed after 'answered'. (wildgoose answered that as for the penalty,) page . quotation marks around 'mrs. hawker' removed. (no, indeed now, mrs. hawker, you must) page . the notation '[oe]' is used for the oe-ligature. page . word 'carrried' changed to 'carried' (accordingly carried him). page . word 'matress' spelling retained. may be period correct. page . word 'unfrequently' spelling retained. may be period correct. page . closing double-quote added. (as a fit man to keep it.) page . word 'intrusted' spelling retained. may be period correct.] produced from images generously made available by the kentuckiana digital library) when 'bear cat' went dry [illustration: you're agoing to marry me and we're goin' to dwell thar--together] when 'bear cat' went dry by charles neville buck _author of_ "the call of the cumberlands," etc. illustrations by george w. gage new york w. j. watt & company publishers copyright, , by w. j. watt & company _other books_ _by_ charles neville buck the key to yesterday the lighted match the portal of dreams the call of the cumberlands the battle cry the code of the mountains destiny the tyranny of weakness press of braunworth & co. book manufacturers brooklyn, n. y. to m. f. when 'bear cat' went dry chapter i a creaking complaint of loose and rattling boards rose under the old mountaineer's brogans as he stepped from the threshold to the porch. his eyes, searching the wooded mountain-side, held at first only that penetration which born woodsmen share with the hawk and ferret, but presently they kindled into irascibility as well. he raised his voice in a loud whoop that went skittering off across the rocky creek bed where little slippery crawled along to feed the trickle of big slippery ten miles below, and the volume of sound broke into a splintering of echoes against the forested crags of the old wilderness ridges. "you, turner!" bellowed the man with such a bull-like roar as might have issued from the chest of a viking. "you, turner, don't ye heer me a-callin' ye?" a woman, rawboned and crone-like before her time under the merciless forcing of drudgery, appeared in the door, wiping reddened hands on a coarse cotton apron. "i reckon he'll be hyar, presently, paw," she suggested in a high-pitched voice meant to be placating. "i reckon he hain't fared far away." the hodden-gray figure of the man turned to his wife and his voice, as it dropped to conversational pitch, held a surprisingly low and drawling cadence. "what needcessity did he hev ter go away a-tall?" came his interrogation. "he knowed i aimed ter hev him tote thet gryste acrost ther ridge ter the tub-mill, didn't he? he knows that hits perilous business ter leave corn like that a-layin' 'round, don't he--_sprouted corn_!" a flash of poignant anxiety clouded the woman's eyes. corn sprouted in the grain before grinding! she knew well enough what that meant--incrimination in the eyes of the government--trial, perhaps, and imprisonment. "ye 'lowed a long while since, lone," she reminded him with a trace of wistfulness in her voice, "that ye aimed ter quit makin' blockade licker fer all time. hit don't pleasure me none ter see ye a-follerin' hit ergin. seems like thar's a curse on hit from start ter finish." "i don't foller hit because i delights in hit," he retorted grimly. "but what else is thar ter do? i reckon we've got ter live somehow--hain't we?" for an instant his eyes flared with an upleaping of rebellion; then he turned again on his heel and roared "turner--you, turner!" "ther boy seemed kinderly fagged out when he come in. i reckon he aimed ter slip off and rest in ther shade somewhars fer a lettle spell afore ye needed him," volunteered the boy's mother, but the suggestion failed to mollify the mounting impatience of the father. "fagged! what's fagged him? i hain't never disc'arned nothin' puny about him. he's survigrous enough ter go a-snortin' an' a-stompin' over ther hills like a yearlin' bull, a-honin' fer battle. he's knowed from god's blessin' creek ter hell's holler by ther name of bear cat stacy, hain't he? bear cat stacy! i'd hate ter take my name from a varmint--but it pleasures him." "i don't sca'cely b'lieve he seeks no aimless quarrels," argued the mother defensively. "thar hain't no _meanness_ in him. he's jest like you was, lone, when ye was twenty a-goin' on twenty-one. he's full o' sperrit. i reckon bear cat jest means thet he's quick-like an' supple." "supple! hell's torment! whar's he at now? he's jest about a-layin' somewhar's on his shoulder-blades a-readin' thet everlastin' book erbout abe lincoln--you, turner!" then the figure of a young man appeared, swinging along with an effortless stride down the steep grade of the mountain which was richly mottled with the afternoon sun. he came between giant clusters of flowering laurel, along aisles pink with wild roses and white with the foaming spray of elder blossoms; flanked by masses of colossal rock, and every movement was a note of frictionless power. like his father, turner stacy measured a full six feet, but age and the yoke of hardship had not yet stooped his fine shoulders nor thickened his slenderness of girth. his face was striking in its clear chiseling of feature and its bronzed color. it would have been arrestingly handsome but for its marring shadow of surliness. in one hand he held a battered book, palpably one used with the constancy and devotion of a monk's breviary, and a forefinger was still thrust between the dog-eared pages. "lincoln: master of men,"--such was the title of the volume. as turner stacy arrived at the house, his father's uncompromisingly stern eyes dwelt on the book and they were brimming with displeasure. "didn't ye know i hed work for ye ter do terday?" the boy nodded indifferently. "i 'lowed ye hed ther power ter shout fer me when ye war ready, i wasn't more'n a whoop an' a holler distant." the mother, hovering in the shadowed interior of the house, listened silently, and a little anxiously. this friction of unbending temper between her husband and son was a thing to which she could never quite accustom herself. always she was interposing herself as a buffer between their threats of clashing wills. "turner," said the elder man slowly, and now he spoke quietly with an effort to curb his irascibililty, "i knows thet boys often-times gits uppety an' brash when they're a-growin' inter manhood. they've got thar growth an' they feel thar strength an' they hain't acquired neither sense ner experience enough ter realize how plumb teetotally much they _don't_ know yit. but speakin' jedgmatically, i hain't never heered tell of no stacy afore what hain't been loyal ter his family an' ther head of his house. 'pears like ter me hit pleasures ye beyond all reason ter sot yoreself crost-wise erginst me." the boy's eyes grew somberly dark as they met those of his father with undeviating steadiness. an analyst would have said that the outward surliness was after all only a mask for an inner questioning--the inarticulate stress of a cramped and aspiring spirit. "i don't know as ye hev any rightful cause fer ter charge me with bein' disloyal," he answered slowly, as if pondering the accusation. "i hain't never aimed ter contrary ye." lone stacy paused for a moment and then the timbre of his voice acquired the barb of an irony more massive than subtle. "air yore heart in torment because ye hain't ther presi_dent_ of ther country, like abe lincoln was? is _thet_ why ye don't delight in nothin' save dilitary dreams?" a slow, brick-red flush suffused the brown cheeks of bear cat stacy, and his answer came with a slowness that was almost halting. "when abraham lincoln was twenty years old he warn't no more presi_dent_ then what i be. thar hain't many lincoln's, but any feller kin have ther thing in him, though, thet carried lincoln up ter whar he went. any feller kin do his best and want ter do some better. thet's all i'm aimin' after." the father studied his son's suddenly animated eyes and inquired drily, "does this book-l'arnin' teach ye ter lay around plumb ind'lent with times so slavish hard thet i've been pintedly compelled ter start ther still workin' ergin, despite my a-bein' a christian an' a law-lover: despite my seekin' godliness an' abhorin' iniquity?" there was in the sober expression of the questioner no cast of hypocrisy or conscious anomaly, and the younger man shook his head. "i hain't never shirked no labor, neither in ther field ner at ther still, but----" he paused a moment and once more the rebellious light flared in his eyes and he continued with the level steadiness of resolution. "but i hates ter foller thet business, an' when i comes of age i aims ter quit hit." "ye aims ter quit hit, does ye?" the old mountaineer forgot, in the sudden leaping of wrath at such unfilial utterances, that he himself had a few minutes before spoken in the same tenor. "ye aims ter defy me, does ye? wa'al even afore ye comes of age hit wouldn't hardly hurt ye none ter quit _drinkin'_ hit. ye're too everlastin' good ter _make_ blockade licker, but ye hain't none too good ter lay drunk up thar with hit." this time the boy's flush was one of genuine chagrin and he bit off the instinctive retort that perhaps a realization of this overpowering thirst was the precise thing which haunted him: the exact urge which made him want to break away from a serfdom that held him always chained to his temptation. "ye thinks ye're too much like abe lincoln ter make blockade licker," went on the angry parent, "but ye hain't above rampagin' about these hills seekin' trouble an' raisin' up enemies whar i've done spent my days aimin' ter consort peaceable with my neighbors. hit hain't been but a week since ye broke ratler webb's nose." "hit come about in fair fight--fist an' skull, an' i only hit him oncet." "nobody else didn't feel compelled ter hit him even oncet, did they?" "mebby not--but he was seekin' ter bulldoze me an' he hurt my feelin's. i'd done laughed hit off twic't." "an' so ye're a-goin' on a-layin' up trouble erginst ther future. hit hain't ther _makin'_ of licker thet's laid a curse on these hills. hit's _drinkin'_ hit. ef a man kin walk abroad nowadays without totin' his rifle-gun an' a-dreadin' ther shot from the la'rel, hit's because men like me hev sought day an' night ter bring about peace. i counseled a truce in ther stacy-towers war because i war a christian an' i didn't 'low thet god favored bloodshed. but ther truce won't hardly last ef ye goes about stirrin' up ructions. "bear cat stacy!" stormed the older man furiously as his anger fed upon itself. "what air a bear cat anyways? hit's a beast thet rouses up from sleep an' crosses a mountain fer ther pure pleasure of tearin' out some other critter's throat an' vitals. hit's a varmint drove on by ther devil's own sperit of hatefulness. "even in ther feud days men warred with clean powder an' lead, but sich-like fightin' don't seem ter satisfy ye. ye hain't got no use fer a rifle-gun. ye wants ter tear men apart with yore bare hands an' ter plumb rend 'em asunder! i've trod ther streets of marlin town with ye, an' watched yore eyes burnin' like hot embers, until peaceable men drew back from ye an' p'inted ye out ter strangers. 'thar goes ther bear cat,' they'd whisper. 'give him ther whole road!' even ther town marshal walked in fear of ye an' war a-prayin' ter god almighty ye wouldn't start nothin'." "i don't never seek no fight." this time turner stacy spoke without shame. "i don't never have no trouble save whar i'm plumb _obleeged_ ter hev hit." "thet's what kinnard towers always 'lowed," was the dry retort, "though he's killed numerous men, and folks says he's hired others killed, too." the boy met the accusing glance and answered quietly: "ye don't favor peace no more than what i do." "i've aimed ter be both god-fearin' an' law-abidin'," continued the parent whose face and figure might have been cast in bronze as a type of the american pioneer, "yet ye censures me fer makin' untaxed licker!" his voice trembled with a repressed thunder of emotion. "i've seed times right hyar on this creek when fer ther most part of a whole winter we hurted fer salt an' thar warn't none to be had fer love nor money. thar warn't no money in these hills nohow--an' damn'-little love ter brag about. yore maw an' me an' poverty dwelt hyar tergether--ther three of us. we've got timber an' coal an' no way ter git hit ter market. thar's jest only one thing we kin turn inter money or store-credit--an' thet's our corn run inter white licker." he paused as if awaiting a reply and when his son volunteered none he swept on to his peroration. "when i makes hit now i takes numerous chances, an' don't complain. some revenuer, a-settin' on his hunkers, takin' life easy an' a-waitin' fer a fist full of blood money is liable ter meet up in ther highway with some feller thet's nursin' of a grudge erginst me or you. hit's plumb risky an' hits damn'-hard work, but hit hain't no wrong-doin' an' ef yore grandsires an' yore father hain't been above hit, i rekon _you_ hain't above hit neither." turner stacy was still standing on the porch, with one finger marking the place where he had left off reading his biography of lincoln--the master of men. born of a line of stoics, heir to laconic speech and reared to stifle emotions, he was inarticulate and the somberness of his eyes, which masked a pageantry of dreams and a surging conflict in his breast, seemed only the surliness of rebellion. he looked at his father and his mother, withered to sereness by their unrelenting battle with a life that had all been frostbite until even their power of resentment for its injustice had guttered out and dried into a dull acceptance. his fingers gripped the book. abraham lincoln had, like himself, started life in a log house and among crude people. probably he, too, had in those early days no one who could give an understanding ear to the whispering voices that urged him upward. at first the urge itself must have been blurred of detail and shadowy of object. turner's lips parted under an impulse of explanation, and closed again into a more hopelessly sullen line. the older man had chafed too long in heavy harness to comprehend a new vision. any attempt at self-expression would be futile. so the picture he made was only that of a headstrong and wilful junior who had listened unmoved to reason, and a mounting resentment kindled in the gaze of the bearded moonshiner. "i've done aimed ter talk reason with ye," barked the angry voice, "an' hit don't seem ter convince ye none. ef ther pattern of life i've sot ye hain't good enough, do ye think ye're better than yore maw, too?" "i didn't never say ye warn't good enough." the boy found himself freezing into defiant stiffness under this misconstruction until his very eagerness to be understood militated against him. "wa'al, i'll tell ye a thing i don't talk a heap about. hit's a thing thet happened when ye was a young baby. i spent two y'ars in prison then fer makin' white whiskey." "you!" turner stacy's eyes dilated with amazement and the older face hardened with a baleful resentment. "hit warn't jest bein' put in ther jail-house thet i kain't fergit ner fergive so long as i goes on livin'. hit war ther _reason_. ye talks mighty brash erbout ther sacredness of ther revenue laws--wa'al, listen ter me afore ye talks any more." he paused and then continued, as if forcing himself to an unwelcome recital. "i've always borne the name hyarabouts of bein' a law-abidin' citizen and a man thet could be trusted. i'd hoped ter bring peace to the mountings, but when they lawed me and sent me down to looeyville fer trial, ther govern_ment_ lawyer 'lowed thet sence i was a prominent citizen up hyar a-breakin' of the law, they had ought to make a sample of me. because my reputation was good i got two y'ars. ef hit hed been bad, i mout hev come cl'ar." the son took an impulsive step forward, but with an imperious wave of the hand, his father halted him and the chance for a sympathetic understanding was gone. "hold on! i hain't quite done talkin' yit. in them days we war livin' over ther ridge, whar little ivy heads up. you thinks this hyar's a pore fashion of dwellin'-house, but _thet_ one hed jest a single room an' na'ry a winder in all hits four walls. you're maw war right ailin' when they tuck me away ter ther big co'te an' she war mighty young, too, an' purty them days afore she broke. thar warn't no man left ter raise ther crops, an' _you_ ra'red like a young calf ef ye didn't git yore vittles reg'lar. "i reckon mebby ye hain't hardly got no proper idee how long two y'ars kin string out ter be when a man's sulterin' behind bars with a young wife an' a baby thet's liable ter be starvin' meanwhile! i reckon ye don't hardly realize how i studied down thar in prison about ther snow on these godforsaken hillsides an' ther wind whirrin' through ther chinks. but mebby ye _kin_ comprehend this hyar fact. _you'd_ hev pintedly starved ter death, ef yore maw hedn't rigged up a new still in place of ther one the govern_ment_ confiscated, an' made white licker all ther time i was down thar sarvin' time. _she_ did thet an' paid off ther interest on the mortgage an' saved a leetle mite for me erginst ther day when i come home. now air ye sich a sight better then yore maw was?" a yellow flood of sunlight fell upon the two figures and threw into a relief of high lights their two faces; one sternly patriarchal and rugged, the other vitally young and spare of feature. corded arteries appeared on bear cat's temples and, as he listened, the nails of his fingers bit into the flesh of his palms, but his father swept on, giving him no opportunity to reply. "my daddy hed jest shortly afore been lay-wayed an' killed by some towers murderer, an' his property had done been parceled out amongst his children. thar wasn't but jest fourteen of us ter heir hit an' nobody got much. when they tuck me down ter ther big co'te i had ter hire me a lawyer--an' thet meant a mortgage. yore maw hedn't, up ter then, been used ter sich-like slavish poverty. she could hev married mighty nigh any man in these parts--an' she tuck me. "whilst i war a-layin' thar in jail a-tormentin' myself with my doubtin' whether either one of ye would weather them times alive, _she_ was a-runnin' ther still hyar in my stead. many's the day she tromped over them hills through ther snow an' mud with _you_ a-whimperin' on her breast an' wropped in a shawl thet she needed her own self. many's ther night she tromped back ergin an' went hongry ter bed, so's _you_ could have plenty ter eat, when thar warn't sca'cely enough ter divide betwixt ye. but them things _she_ did in famine days, _you're_ too sanctified ter relish now." turner stacy trembled from head to foot. it seemed to him that he could see that grim picture in retrospect and despite his stoic's training his eyes burned with unshed tears. loyalty to kith and kin is the cornerstone of every mountain man's religion, the very grail of his faith. into his eyes blazed a tawny, tigerish light, but words choked in his throat and his father read, in his agitation, only a defiance which was no part of his thought. "now, see hyar," he went on with mounting autocracy, "i've done told ye things i don't oftentimes discuss. i've done reasoned with ye an' now i commands ye! ye hain't of age yit and until ye do be, ye've got to do as i bids ye. atter that, ef ye aims to turn yore back on yore family ye can do hit, an' i reckon we can go our two ways. that's all i got to say to ye. now pick up that sack of gryste an' be gone with hit." the boy's face blackened and his muscles tautened under the arrogant domineering of the edict. for a moment he neither spoke nor stirred from his place, though his chest heaved with the fulness of his breathing. the elder man moved ominously forward and his tone was violently truculent. "air ye goin' ter obey me or do i hev ter _make_ ye? thar's a sayin' thet come acrost ther waters thet no man kin lick his own daddy. i reckon hit still holds good." still the son remained as unmoving as bronze while his eyes sustained unflinchingly the wrathful gaze of a patriarchal order. then he spoke in a voice carefully schooled to quietness. "as to thet sayin'," he suggested evenly, "i reckon mebbe hit mought be disproved, but i hain't aimin' to try hit. ye've done said some right-hard things to-day an' some thet wasn't hardly justified--but i aims ter fergit 'em." suddenly, by virtue of a leaping light in his eyes, the boy in jeans and hodden-gray stood forth strangely transfigured. some spirit revelation seemed to have converted him into a mystifying incarnation of latent, if uncomprehended power. it was as startling as though a road-side beggar had tossed aside a drab cloak and hood of rags and revealed beneath it, the glitter of helmet and whole armor. "i aims ter fergit hit all," he repeated. "but don't seek ter fo'ce me ner ter drive me none--fer thet's a thing i kain't hardly suffer. as fur as a man kin go outen loyalty i'll go fer _you_--but i've got ter go in my own fashion--an' of my own free will. ye've done said that i went erbout seekin' trouble an' i hain't got no doubt ye believes what ye says albeit most of hit's false. ye says i lays drunk sometimes. thet's true an' hit's a shameful thing fer a man ter admit, but hit's a thing i've got ter fight out fer myself. hit don't profit neither of us fer ye ter vilify me." he broke off abruptly, his chest heaving, and to lone stacy it seemed that the air was electrically charged, as with the still tensity that goes, windless and breathless, before the bursting of thunder heads among the crags. then bear cat spoke again somewhat gropingly and with inarticulate faultiness, as though a flood pressure were seeking egress through a choked channel. the words were crude, but back of them was a dammed-up meaning like the power of hurricane and forest fire. "thar's somethin' in me--i don't know how ter name it--thar's somethin' in me sort of strugglin' an' a-drivin' me like a torment! thet weakness fer licker--i hates hit like--like all hell--but i hain't _all_ weakness! thet thing, whatever hit be--sometimes jest when hit seems like hit ought ter raise me up--hit crushes me down like the weight of ther mountings themselves." he wheeled suddenly and disappeared into the house where he deposited his book on the mantel-shelf and from behind the door swung a grain sack to his shoulder. then he left the house. lone stacy turned to his wife and lifted his hands with a gesture of baffled perplexity as he inquired, "does ye understand ther boy? he's our own blood an' bone, but sometimes i feels like i was talkin' ter a person from a teetotally diff'rent world. nobody round hyar don't comprehend him. i've even heered hit norated round amongst foolish folks thet he talks with graveyard ha'nts an' hes a witch-craft charm on his life. air he jest headstrong, maw, or air he so master big thet we kain't comprehend him? no man hain't never called me a coward, but thar's spells when i'm half-way skeered of my own boy." "mebby," suggested the woman quietly, "ef ye gentled him a leetle mite he wouldn't contrary ye so much." lone stacy nodded his head and spoke with a grim smile. "seems like i've got ter be eternally blusterin' at him jest ter remind myself thet i'm ther head of this fam'ly. ef i didn't fo'ce myself ter git mad, i'd be actin' like he was my daddy instid of me bein' his'n." chapter ii the afternoon was half spent and the sun, making its way toward the purpled ridges of the west, was already casting long shadows athwart the valleys. along a trail which wound itself in many tortuous twists across forested heights and dipped down to lose itself at intervals in the creek bed of little slippery, a mounted traveler rode at a snail-like pace. the horse was a lean brute through whose rusty coat the ribs showed in under-nourished prominence, but it went sure-footedly up and down broken stairways of slimy ledges where tiny waterfalls licked at its fetlocks and along the brinks of chasms where the sand shelved with treacherous looseness. the rider, a man weather-rusted to a drab monotone, slouched in his saddle with an apathetic droop which was almost stupor, permitting his reins to flap loosely. his face, under an unclean bristle of beard, wore a sleepy sneer and his eyes were bloodshot from white whiskey. as he rode, unseeing, through the magnificent beauty of the cumberlands his glance was sluggish and his face emotionless. but at last the horse halted where a spring came with a crystal gush out of the rhododendron thickets, and then ratler webb's stupefaction yielded to a semi-wakefulness of interest. he rubbed a shoddy coat-sleeve across his eyes and straightened his stooped shoulders. the old horse had thrust his nose thirstily into the basin with evident eagerness to drink. yet, after splashing his muzzle about for a moment he refused refreshment and jerked his head up with a snort of disgust. a leering smile parted the man's lips over his yellow and uneven teeth: "so ye won't partake of hit, old bag-o'-bones, won't ye?" he inquired ironically. "ye hain't nobody's brag critter to look at, but i reckon some revenue fellers mought be willin' to pay a master price fer ye. ye kin stand at ther mouth of a spring-branch an' smell a still-house cl'ar up on hits headwaters, kain't ye?" for a while webb suffered the tired horse to stand panting in the creek bed, while his own eyes, lit now with a crafty livening, traveled up the hillside impenetrably masked with verdure, where all was silence. somewhere up along the watercourse was the mash-vat and coil which had contaminated this basin for his mount's brute fastidiousness: an illicit distillery. this man clad in rusty store clothes was not inspired with a crusading ardor for supporting the law. he lived among men whose community opinion condones certain offenses--and pillories the tale-bearer. but above the ethical bearing of local standards and federal statutes, alike, loomed a matter of personal hatred, which powerfully stimulated his curiosity. he raised one hand and thoughtfully stroked his nose--recently broken with workman-like thoroughness and reset with amateurish imperfection. "damn thet bear cat stacy," he muttered, as he kicked his weary mount into jogging motion. "i reckon i'll hev my chance at him yit. i'm jest a-waitin' fer hit." a half-mile further on, he suddenly drew rein and remained in an attitude of alert listening. then slipping quietly to the ground, he hitched his horse in the concealment of a deep gulch and melted out of sight into the thicket. soon he sat crouched on his heels, invisible in the tangled laurel. his place of vantage overlooked a foot-path so little traveled as to be hardly discernible, but shortly a figure came into view around a hulking head of rock, and ratler webb's smile broadened to a grin of satisfaction. the figure was tall and spare and it stooped as it plodded up the ascent under the weight of a heavy sack upon its shoulders. the observer did not move or make a sound until the other man had been for several minutes out of sight. he was engaged in reflection. "so, thet's how ther land lays," he ruminated. "bear cat stacy's totin' thet gryste over to bud jason's tub-mill on little ivy despite ther fact thet thar's numerous bigger mills nigher to his house. thet sack's full of _sprouted_ corn, and he dasn't turn it in at no _reg'lar_ mill. them stacys air jest about blockadin' up thet spring-branch." he spat at a toad which blinked beadily up at him and then, rising from his cramped posture, he commented, "i hain't plumb dead sartin yet, but i aims ter be afore sun-up ter-morrer." bear cat stacy might have crossed the ridge that afternoon by a less devious route than the one he followed. in so doing he would have saved much weariness of leg and ache of burdened shoulder, but ratler webb's summing up had been correct, and though honest corn may follow the highways, sprouted grain must go by blinder trails. when he reached the backbone of the heights, he eased the jute sack from his shoulders to the ground and stretched the cramp out of his arms. sweat dripped from his face and streamed down the brown throat where his coarse shirt stood open. he had carried a dead weight of seventy pounds across a mountain, and must carry back another as heavy. now he wiped his forehead with his shirt-sleeve and stood looking away with a sudden distraction of dreaminess. a few more steps would take him again into the steamy swelter of woods where no breath of breeze stirred the still leafage, and even in the open spaces the afternoon was torridly hot. but here he could sweep with his eyes league upon league of a vast panorama where sky and peak mingled in a glory of purple haze. unaccountably the whole beauty of it smote him with a sense of undefined appreciation and grateful wonderment. the cramp of heart was eased and the groping voices of imagination seemed for the time no longer tortured nightmares of complaint. there was no one here to censor his fantasies and out of the gray eyes went their veiling sullenness and out of the lips their taut grimness. into eyes and lips alike came something else--something touched with the zealousness of aspiration. "hit's right over thar!" he murmured aloud but in a voice low pitched and caressing of tone. "i've got ter get me money enough ter buy thet farm offen kinnard towers." he was looking down upon a point far below him where through a cleared space flashed the shimmer of flowing water, and where in a small pocket of acreage, the bottom ground rolled in gracious amenability to the plow and harrow. again he nodded, and since he was quite alone he laughed aloud. "she 'lows thet's ther place whar she wants ter live at," he added to himself, "an' i aims ter satisfy her." so after all some of his day-dreams were tangible! he realized that he ought to be going on, yet he lingered and after a few moments he spoke again, confiding his secrets to the open woods and the arching skies--his only confidants. "blossom 'lowed yestiddy she was a-goin' over ter aunt jane colby's this mornin'. 'pears like she ought ter be passin' back by hyar about this time." cupping his hands at his lips, he sent out a long whoop, but before he did that he took the precaution of concealing his sack of sprouted grain under a ledge. then he bent listening for an answer--but without reward, and disappointment mantled in his gray eyes as he dropped to the age-corroded rock and sat with his hands clasped about his updrawn knees. it was very still there, except for the industrious hammering of a "peckerwood" on a decayed tree trunk, and the young mountaineer sat almost as motionless as his pedestal. then without warning a lilting peal of laughter sounded at his back and turner came to his feet. as he wheeled he saw blossom fulkerson standing there above him and her eyes were dancing with the mischievous delight of having stalked him undiscovered. "it's a right happy thing fer you, turner stacy, that i didn't aim ter kill ye," she informed him with mock solemnity. "i've heered ye brag thet no feller hereabouts could slip up on ye in the woods, unbeknownst." "i wasn't studyin' erbout nobody slippin' up on me. blossom," he answered calmly. "i hain't got no cause ter be a-hidin' out from nobody." she was standing with the waxen green of the laurel breaking into pink flower-foam at her back and through the oak and poplar branches showed scraps of blue sky--the blue of june. a catch came into turner's voice and he said somewhat huskily, "when they christened ye blossom they didn't misname ye none." blossom, he thought, was like a wild-rose growing among sun-flowers. when the evening star came up luminous and dewy-fresh over the darkening peaks, while twilight still lingered at the edges of the world, he always thought of her. but the charm was not all in his own eye: not all the magic endowment of first love. the mountain preacher's daughter had escaped those slovenly habits of backwoods life that inevitably coarsen. her beauty had slender strength and flower freshness. now she stood holding with one hand to the gnarled branch of a dogwood sapling. a blue sunbonnet falling back from her head left the abundance of her hair bared to the light so that it shimmered between brown and gold. she was perhaps sixteen and her heavily lashed eyes were brownish amber and just now full of a mirthful sparkle. "ye seemed ter be studyin' about somethin' almighty hard," she insisted teasingly. "i thought for a minute that mebbe ye'd done growed thar." turner stacy smiled again as he looked at her. in his eyes was unveiled and honest worship. "i was a'studyin' about you, blossom. i don't know no way ter do that save almighty hard. didn't ye hear me whoop?" the girl's head nodded. "why didn't ye answer me?" "i aimed ter slip up on ye, if i could, turner, but i didn't low it would be so plumb easy.--you made believe that yore ears could hear the grass a-growin'." the youth took a sudden step toward her and stood close, so close that her breath touched his face fragrantly as she looked up with a witching mockery in her eyes. his heart fluttered with the clamor of impulse to seize her in his arms, but his half-lifted hands dropped to his sides. he was not quite twenty-one and she was only sixteen, and the code of the mountains is strict with the simplicity of the pioneer. a woman gives her lips in betrothal or, giving them lightly, drops to the caste of a light woman. so the boy drew back with a resolute jerk of his head. "i was a-studyin' erbout some day, blossom," he said, "when thar's a-goin' ter be a dwellin'-house down thar. not a house of warped timbers whar the hawgs scratch their backs under the floors--but a _real_ house. mebby by thet day an' time thar'll be a highway men kin travel without torment." as he paused, at a loss for power of architectural enlargement, the girl sighed. "then i reckon ye don't hardly 'low ter raise thet house in my lifetime, turner," she teased. "i'll most likely be too old ter visit ye thar afore a highway gits built." but he shook his head. "i aims ter speed up ther comin' of sich things," he announced with the splendid effrontery of youth. "hit hain't been so long since ther fust wagon crossed cedar mountain. we're liable to see balloons comin' afore we die." "aunt jane colby was tellin' me about that first wagon to-day at dinner," blossom assented. "she says one old man asked folks whether it was true or whether he was fitified. he said: 'what manner of _contrivance_ air thet? hit's got four wheels an' one pair's bigger then t'other pair, an' two of 'em goes round faster then t'other two an' the lord a'mighty only knows how hit manages ter keep up with hitself.'" they both laughed with young condescension for the old-fashioned and then turner went on, haltingly by reason of callow diffidence. "ef thet house couldn't be reared in time fer _you_ ter come to hit, blossom--hit wouldn't be no manner of use ter me a-tall." "does ye aim ter make me a present of a house?" she challenged and again the provocative allurement of her swept him so that the smooth sinews of his arms tightened as if with physical effort. "i means thet someday--when i've done something worth doin' an' when ye're a leetle bit older yoreself, blossom, you're agoin' ter marry me, an' we're goin' ter dwell thar--together." the girl's cheeks reddened furiously and for a moment she made no response, then she declared with a stout self-assertion designed to mask her confusion, "i reckon i'll hev somethin' ter say about thet." "ye'll have _everything_ ter say about hit, blossom, but"--there was a purposeful ring in his voice that hinted at ultimate victory--"but some day i aims ter persuade ye ter say, 'yes.'" her cheeks were brightly pink and she pretended to be engrossed in the demeanor of a squirrel that chattered quarrelsomely at them from a nearby poplar. turner stacy dropped his voice until it was very soft. "i kin bide my time an' wait twell ye're ready, blossom, but if ye don't _never_ say hit, i don't hardly see how i kin go on livin'." "i'm right glad ef ye likes me, turner," she demurely assured him. "we've growed up together an' ef ye was to go away somewhar's an' leave me, i reckon i'd nigh die of lonesomeness." distrust of effusiveness was bred in his bone. laconic utterance was his heritage, and now that his heart demanded expression and his eyes kindled with the dreamer's fire, he stood struggling against the fettering of his tongue. then abruptly, tumultuously he burst out, talking fast. "i hain't got ther gift of speech, blossom; i only knows thet hit hain't enough ter jest have ye miss me ef i went away. i knows thet when ye stands thar with ther sun on yore hair hit would be springtime fer me, even ef thar war snow on ther hillsides an' ice in ther creek. i knows thet i'm standin' hyar on solid rock. yore paw says these-hyar hills were old when ther alps hadn't riz up yit outen ther waters, but when i looks at ye, blossom, this mountain's shakin' under me ... an' yore face is ther only thing thet's steady afore my eyes." he broke off with something like a choke in his throat and blossom was trembling a little under that first impact of new emotion that comes with the waking of the senses. then she remembered the stories of his escapades and her eyes clouded. her hand fell flutteringly on his arm. "if--if ye cares thet much about me, turner, i wish--i don't aim ter nag ye--but i wish ye'd promise me thet ye won't give men cause ter say ye drinks too much." turner's brow contracted and his lips stiffened. the defensive mask which seemed sullen because it was his idea of impassiveness set itself again, but he nodded. "thet's a fair thing," he said slowly at last. "drinkin' hain't hardly a thing a gal kin understand noways. i hain't jest a common drunkard, blossom. thar's times though when i feels es ef i war a-livin' in a jail-house--an' seekin' ter git free. thar's su'thin' in me--i don't know jest what--thet's always fightin'. these hyar hills with their ign'rance an' dirt an' poverty seems ter be on top of me 'stid of underneath me. thet's when i drinks too much. fer a little spell i seems ter dream i'm free." a few minutes later the girl started down the "yon" side of the wooded slope, going with a light step and humming a ballade that had come across the sea with the beginnings of america, and the boy looked after her with a passionate tenderness that was far from stoical. if most of his dreams were intangible and misty, this, his greatest and brightest dream, was at least clear and vivid. when he could no longer see the flash of her blue dress between the interlacing branches he turned, and drawing his sack of sprouted corn out of its hiding place, hefted it to his shoulders. he would have to hurry now to finish his task and get back by dusk. chapter iii old man bud jason stood at the door of his tub-mill, leaning on the long hickory staff which he always carried. he stood gauntly tall even now that his once-broad shoulders sagged and his mane of hair was white, and from his lips came a querulous mumbling as though he were awaiting some one tardy of arrival. at last, though, he gave a grunt of relief when the thicket far above him stirred and the figure of bear cat stacy appeared, bending under his load of grist. he turned then into the shack and drew out a sack of meal from the bottom of a pile, and as he finished this task a shadow fell across the door. turner stacy let his burden fall and availed himself of the opportunity to drop into a sitting posture on the step of the shanty, resting his back against a post. his broad chest heaved and a profound sigh of relief broke from his panting lips. the old miller stood regarding him for a little while without words, then broke into volcanic utterance: "hell's banjer! may god almighty holp a country whar a young pa'r of shoulders like your'n don't find no worthier use than man-powerin' good corn acrost ther ridges ter turn hit inter bad licker." turner stacy glanced up with mild surprise for the sentiment. "i hain't nuver heered ye cavil with a man's license ter use his own corn as he sees fit, afore, bud," was his casual reply, and the white-bearded one wagged his head and laughed tremulously after the fashion of the old. "i reckon ye don't mistrust me none, bear cat, even ef i does hit now, but here of late i've cogitated a heap whilst i've been a-settin' hyar listenin' ter ther creak of that old mill. seems almost like ther wheel was a-lamentin' over hits job. thar bein' sich a sight of wickedness in ther community whar my grand-children hes got ter be reared up is a powerful solemn thing fer me ter study over, an' i've jes erbout concluded thet whilst ther whiskey-makin' goes on ther killin's an gin'ral wickedness won't hardly diminish none." furrows of dubious thought etched themselves on the young man's forehead. "ef ye feels thet-a-way, bud, why does yer consent ter grind corn fer blockaders?" he demanded, and the reply was prompt: "i don't grind hit only fer a few men thet i'm beholden to." pausing a moment, he became more specific. "yore paw stood over my body onct when i'd done been shot outen my saddle, an' fought off numerous enemies single-handed, thereby savin' me from death in ther creekbed. i couldn't hardly deny him ther use of my mill even ef his corn _hes_ got sprouts in ther grain two inches long, now, could i?" the boy looked abstractedly away, then suddenly blurted out: "i disgusts blockadin', too, bud, but pap 'lows hit's ther only way ter mek a livin' hyarabouts." "lots of folks argues hit out in like fashion, but i don't hold with 'em." the speaker rapped the boards with his long staff and spoke with conviction. "what these mountings needs air a mite of l'arnin' an' a leetle common sense an' a heap of good roads. ef prosperity ever comes ter these hills, sonny, hit'll come along a highway--an' so long as stills don't thrive none along highways, hit looks mightily like a sorry chance." after a thoughtful pause he added, "hit won't never change, so long es hits only furriners thet aims ter alter hit. revenuers kain't do nothin'. damn thar skunk hides anyhow! they're our mortal enemies." the old man drew himself up as if he were seeing a vision and his eyes held an almost fanatical gleam. "but mark down my words! some day thar'll rise up a mountain man--a man thet hain't never met up with fear an thet's as steadfast as ther hills he sprung from. _thet_ man will change hit all, like ther sun changes fog. i wisht i mout live ter see thet day." "hit'll tek a powerful towerin' man ter bring sich things ter pass," mused the listener and the oracle declared vehemently: "hit teks a powerful towerin' man ter lead any fight ter victory, whether hit's a-guidin' ther children of israel outen thar bondage or our benighted children outen thars." suddenly the miller laid a trembling hand on the boy's arm and demanded in a hushed voice: "why shouldn't hit be you, bear cat? folks says ye bears a charmed life, thet thar hain't enough lead in ther mountings ter kill ye. i heered kinnard towers say with my own ears, thet hit war a god's blessin' ther feud ended afore ye got yore growth--an' kinnard don't fear many. when a man thet's hardly nothin' but a saplin' of a boy bears a repute like thet--hit must denote thet thar's power in him beyond ther common!" the boy stood silent for a moment and slowly his brow drew into a black scowl. "i reckon, bud, one reason air this," he said bitterly, "thet i'm accounted ter be a drunkard my own self an' like as not, one sich reason es thet air plenty." turner glanced up to the bristling ridge which he must climb. already the west was kindling into a flare of richness and the skyline hills were dyed with ashy purple. "i've done over-tarried," he said abruptly, as he lifted his sack from the floor, but his face wore a glow which was not altogether from the sinking sun. "i reckon i'd better be on my way--but i hain't denyin' thet i've done hed thoughts like your'n myself, bud." but young stacy had not gone far when that sense of intensified woodcraft which blossom had derided caused him to halt dead in his tracks. the sound that had first arrested him had been nothing more than a laugh, but, in it, he had recognized a quality that bespoke derisive hostility and a thickness that indicated drink. he had left the place empty except for old bud jason and no one could have reached it, unannounced by normal sounds, so soon unless the approach had been achieved by stealth. bear cat stacy put down his sack and worked his way back, holding the concealment of rock and laurel; guarding each footfall against the betrayal of a broken twig--and, as yet, denied a view of the tub-mill. but his cars were open and doing duty for his eyes. "wa'al," came the miller's voice in a wrathful tremolo, "what business brings ye hyar es ef ye war aimin' ter lay-way somebody? folks gin'rally comes hither upstandin'--an' open." this time the voice of the new arrival was sneeringly truculent: "does they come thet-a-way when they fotches in sprouted corn thet they dastn't take elsewhere?" bear cat stiffened as he recognized the voice of ratler webb, whom he had not met since their encounter in which a nose had been broken. he knew that in the breast of this man, hitherto unchallenged as neighborhood bully, an ugly and dangerous grudge was festering. now it seemed that the old miller, because of friendship for the stacys was to be heckled, and bear cat's wrath boiled. he heard bud jason inquiring in tones no longer querulous but firmly indignant: "is thet all ye come fer? ter blackguard me?" ratler answered in a voice savoring more of highwayman's coercion than request. "i was jest a-funnin' with ye, old bud, but i'd be mighty obleeged ter ye fer a leetle dram of licker. my bottle's nigh empty an' i've got a far way ter travel yit." turner stacy had now arrived at a point from which he could see around the hulking shoulder of sandstone and the picture which met his eye was not reassuring. the miller stood barring the door to his shack and the visitor, inflamed of eye, a little unsteady on his feet, confronted him with a swagger of lawless daredeviltry. "i hain't got no licker. i don't never use hit," replied jason curtly. "so ef thet's all thet brought ye hyar, ye've already got yore answer an' ye mout es well be farin' on." webb's leer darkened to malignity and his voice came in a snarl. "ye hain't hardly got no tolerance fer drinkin', hes ye, bud? albeit ye hain't none too sanctified ter grind up all ther sprouted corn thet other fellers fotches in ter ye." the old fellow was alone and unarmed save for his hickory staff, but he was vested with that authority which stiffens a man, standing on his own threshold and facing an insolent trespasser. his manner was choleric and crisp in its note of command. "i don't aim ter waste no time cavilin' with a drunken carouser. i bids ye ter leave my place. begone!" but the traveler, inflamed with the venom of the drunken bully, lurched forward, whipping a revolver from its sagging pocket. with an oath he rammed the muzzle close against the pit of the other's stomach. bud's level eyes did not falter. he gripped his useless hickory as if it had been a lictor's staff of unchallengeable office. perhaps that steady moment saved his life, for before his assailant's flood of obscene vilification had reached its period, ratler webb leaped back--interrupted. he changed front, wheeling to protect his back against the logs of the rude wall and thrusting his pistol before him, while his jaw sagged abruptly in dismay. bear cat stood facing him, ten yards distant, and his right hand was thrust into his opened shirt, under the armpit, where the mountain man carries his holster. that the position of the hand was a bluff, covering an unarmed helplessness, ratler webb did not know. "air ye follerin' revenuin' these days, ratler?" inquired stacy in a voice of such velvet softness that the other responded only with an incoherent snarl. "because ef ye air, numerous folks hyarabouts will be right glad ter find out who it is that's informin' on 'em." "damn ye! keep thet hand whar hit's at!" ordered the aggressor violently and like the cornered rat he had become doubly dangerous. he had set out only to torture a defenseless victim, and now it seemed a question of killing or being killed, so he loaded his voice with truculence as he went on. "ef ye seeks ter draw hit out or come a step frontwards, so help me almighty god i'll kill ye in yore tracks!" turner stacy smiled. upon his ability to do so with a semblance of quiet contempt he was staking everything. "shoot whenever ye gits ready, ratler," he challenged. "but don't do hit onless ye're expectin' ter die, too. when this trigger-work commences, i aims ter _git_ ye." "move a hand or a foot then, an' see--" the voice was desperately high pitched and nasal now, almost falsetto, but through its threat bear cat recognized an undercurrent of sudden terror. the desperado remembered that his horse stood hitched a quarter of a mile away. his right boot sole had been freshly patched and left a clearly identifying mark in the mud. he had prepared no alibi in advance, and within a few hours after turner fell scores of his kinsmen would be baying on the trail. "shoot!" taunted bear cat stacy. "why don't ye shoot?"--and then with an effrontery which dazed his antagonist, he deliberately moved several steps forward--halting nearer the pistol's muzzle. "i don't aim ter kill ye onless i has ter," stormed webb with weakening assurance. "halt! i'm givin' ye fa'r warnin'. hit's self-d_ee_fense ef ye crowds me." stacy spoke again, standing once more motionless. "ye couldn't shoot thet pistol at me ef i walked in on ye with my hands over my head. my time hain't come yit ter die, because ther's things i was born ter do--an' god almighty aims ter hev me live till i've done 'em. he don't aim ter hev me hurt by no coward like you, i reckon. ye couldn't shoot any man noways whilst his eyes was lookin' full at ye. ye has need ter lay hid in ther la'rel afore ye kin pull yore trigger finger. i dares ye to shoot!" the white-bearded miller stood motionless, too, measuring all the chances. for a moment he wondered whether it would be possible to strike up the armed hand with his long staff, but he wisely repressed the impulse. this after all was a new sort of combat, a duel of wills rather than of weapons. he knew that bear cat stacy was unarmed because he had so recently seen the sweat-drenched shirt clinging close to the arched chest. ratler webb's hand no longer trembled with the uncertainty of tipsiness. his eyes were no longer obfuscated and muddled with whiskey fumes. he had reverted to the feral instincts of desperation--and was suddenly sobered. he gripped his out-thrust pistol in both hands for greater surety and half-crouched with knees bent under him, ready either to spring or brace himself against attack. his eyes, gleaming with blood-passion, traveled shiftily so that he could keep watch on both his possible adversaries. the other and younger man stood upright, but his muscles, too, were poised and balanced with all nicety of readiness and his eyes were measuring the distance between: gauging sundry odds of life and death. for a moment more the tableau held in silence. both the miller and the boy could hear the labored, almost gasping breath of the man with the pistol and both knew that the mean temper of his heart's metal was weakening. then when a squirrel barked from the timber, ratler webb started violently and above the stubble of dirty beard, sweat drops began to ooze on his face. why didn't bear cat stacy say something? why didn't somebody move? if he fired now he must kill both men or leave a witness to blab deadly information close on the heels of his flight! in his heart welled a rising tide of panic. turner knew by instinct that every moment he could hold ratler there with his pistol leveled, was for the desperado, a moment of weakening resolve and nerve-breaking suspense. but he also knew another thing. when the strain of that waiting snapped ratler would either run or shoot. mountain annals hold more instances of the latter decision that the former, but that was the chance to be taken. webb carried a notched gun. he had forced many fights in his day, but in all of them there had been the swift tonic of action and little time to think. now he dared not lower his weapon in surrender--and he was afraid to fire. he felt that his lips were growing dry and thickening. he thrust out his tongue to lick them, and its red tip gave, to his ugly features, a strange grotesqueness. under the brown of wind and sun and the red of liquor-flush his face paled perceptibly. then it grew greenish yellow with a sick clamminess of dread. at last with a discernible quaver in his voice he broke the unendurable silence, and his words came brokenly and disjointed: "i didn't aim ter force no quarrel on ye, bear cat.... ef ye plumb compels me ter do hit, i've got ter kill ye, but i hain't a-hankerin' none fer ther task." "thet's a lie, too. ye come hyar a-seekin' of _evidence_ because ye're harborin' a grudge erginst me an' ye dastn't satisfy hit no other way." there was a pause, then webb said slowly, and with a half-heartedness from which all the effrontery had ebbed: "i 'lows ter go on erbout my business now, but if either one of ye moves from whar ye're standin' twell i'm outen range i aims ter kill ye both." shifting his revolver to his right hand and feeling behind him with his left, he began backing away, still covering his retreat and edging a step at a time toward the corner of the shack, but at the second step, with a swiftness which vindicated his name, the bear cat sprang. the old miller shook his head, but made no outcry. he heard the thud of two bodies and the grunt driven from a chest by the impact of charging shoulders. he saw two figures go down together while a tongue of flame and a muffled roar broke belatedly from the mouth of the pistol. whether the bullet had taken effect or, if so, who was its victim, he could not at first distinguish. two human beings, muscled like razor-backs were writhing and twisting in a smother of dust, their limbs clinched and their voices mingled in snarling and incoherent savagery. the mountain ethics of "fist and skull" impose no queensbury restrictions. tooth and knee, heel and knuckle may do their best--and worst. but the pistol itself flew clear and the old miller picked it up, turning again to observe the result of the encounter. the fighters had struggled up again to their feet and were locked in a bone-breaking embrace of hatred. for the moment the advantage seemed to rest with webb, who was clutching turner's head in the distressing chancery of his powerful right arm and doing his utmost to break the neck. bear cat's breathing was a hoarse and strangling agony, but his fists battered like unremitting flails against the ribs and kidneys of his antagonist. as they swayed and tottered their brogans were ploughing up the hard soil and, totally blinded by sweat and rage, they wavered perilously close to the edge of the huge rock--with its ten-foot drop to the mill race. even as old bud gave his warning cry, they went down together--and fell short of the brink, escaping that danger. stacy writhed free from the neck-grip, and both came up again, leaping into a fresh embrace of panthers, with eyes glaring insanely out of blood-smeared faces. then it all ended abruptly. bear cat wrenched himself free and sent a chance blow, but one behind which went all his weight and passion, to the other's mouth. the smitten head went back with a jerk. webb reeled groggily for an instant, then crumpled, but before he had quite fallen stacy, with an insensate fury, was dragging him to his feet and clutching at the throat which his fingers ached to strangle. at that instant, the old miller seized his arms. "hold on thar, bear cat," he cried with his quavering voice. "he's already licked. you'll kill him ef ye hain't heedful." "i _aims_ ter kill him," panted the boy, casting off the interference of aged arms with the savagery of a dog whose fangs have been pried too soon from the throat of its victim. but bud jason clung on, reiterating: "fer shame, son! thet hain't _yore_ manner of conduct. fer shame!" unsteadily, then, with a slow dawning of reason bear cat stacy staggered back and leaned heavily against the wall of the tub-mill, breathing in sob-like gasps. his shirt was half torn from his body and for the first time the miller saw the ugly gash where a pistol bullet had bitten its grazing course along his left shoulder. grime and blood stained him and for a while he stood gazing down on the collapsed figure at his feet--a figure that stirred gropingly. "i reckon," he said slowly, "i'd jest about hev finished him, ef hit hadn't a-been fer _you_, bud. i'm beholden ter ye. i reckon i was seein' red." together they lifted ratler webb and gave him water from the gourd that hung by the door. when he was able to stand, dourly resentful, baleful of eye but mute as to tongue, bear cat spoke briefly with the victor's authority: "i aims ter keep thet pistol o' your'n fer a spell, ratler. i don't hardly trust ye with hit jest yit. when ye wants hit, come by my house and ask fer hit." the bully turned sullenly away. he spoke no word of farewell and offered no protest, but when he was out of sight the miller shook his head and his voice was troubled. "of course ye knows, son, thet he hain't never agoin' ter fergit hit? so long as ther two of ye lives ye've got ter keep on watchin' him." turner nodded. he was bathing his shoulder and spreading cobwebs on its grazed wound. "i've done wasted a heap of time," he said irrelevantly. "an' hit's comin' on to rain, too. i reckon i'll be benighted afore i gets over ter ther still." starting away, he paused and turned shamefacedly back for a moment. "hit won't profit us none to norrate this matter abroad," he suggested. "i've got enough name already fer gittin' into ructions. paw don't like hit none." gazing after the retreating figures the old man wagged his head and his expression was one of foreboding. "meanness an' grudge-nursin' kin bring on a heap of pestilence," he mused. "this ratler will nurse his on ther bottle, an' he won't never wean hit--an' some day----! but it don't profit a feller ter borry trouble. these hills hes got enough misfortunes withouten thet." already twilight was settling over the valleys and the ridges were starkly grim as their color died to the neutrality of night, and the murk of a gathering storm. chapter iv with a mutter of distant thunder in his ears, the young mountaineer plodded "slavishly" on under his load as night closed about him. the path twisted among heaped up bowlders where a misstep might mean broken bones and crawled through entanglements of fallen timber: of gnarled rhododendron and thorn-leaved holly. it wormed into dew-drenched thicknesses where branches lashed the burden-bearer's face with the sting of whips, and soon the colossal barriers began to echo with the storm roar of high places. the clouds were ripped with the blue-white blades of lightning. the rock walls of the ranges seemed quaking under the thunder's incessant cannonading, and the wind's shrieking mania. then through the rent and buffeted timber-tops the rain burst in a lashing curtain of water as violent as a shot-shower. bear cat stacy, wet to the skin, with the steaming sweat of toil and fight turned into a marrow-pinching chill, cast about him for a place where he could protect his sack of meal until an abatement should come to the storm's violence. as he sat under a dripping roof of shelving rock to which he had groped his way by the beacon of the lightning, a startled owl swept past him, almost brushing his face with its downy wings. his wet clothes hung to his flesh with what seemed icy coldness. his shoulder throbbed with an abomination of pain and his bones ached with a dull wretchedness. but after a time the wind and thunder dropped away to whimpering echoes. it was as if the hound pack of the furies had been whistled in, its hunt ended. turner rose and stamped his numbed feet. there was yet a long way to go before he arrived at the low-built shed, thatched with brush and screened behind a fallen hemlock top, where the stacy still lay hidden. at last he was there, with every muscle proclaiming its location by the outcry of sore tissues, and ahead of him lay the task of watching and feeding the fire under the mash kettle until dawn. "ye kin lay down when ye're ready, lee," he said shortly to the stockily built man whom he was relieving from duty there. "i'll keep ther fire goin' an' call ye round about dawn." taking up the rifle to which he had fallen heir, as picket, he made his way from the sentinel's shelter to the still-house itself, stooping low, so that the waning fire might not throw his figure or face into relief. he piled a handful of wood under the kettle and crawled back into the timber. the heavens were full of stars now: not the small light-points of skies arching over lowlands, but the gorgeous, great stars of the walled highlands. his mother had done this sort of work to keep him alive, while his father was in prison! if he went on doing it, and if blossom married him, they faced a future of the same drab decay! at the thought of that prospect he ground his chattering teeth and cursed under his breath. the dull glow of the fire on a tin bucket and cup held his eyes with a spell of fascination. it was white liquor, raw, sweetish and freshly brewed. a gleam of craving flashed into his eyes: a craving that had come down through generations of grandsires--even though his own father had escaped it. turner put out one hand, trembling with anticipation. here was warmth! here was to be had for the taking a glow about the heart and a quickened current in the veins. here was the stuff from which ease and waking dreams would come; release from his aching chill and dulness of spirit! bear cat's eyes burned thirstily. he seemed only a vessel of flesh overflowing with craving--with a torture of craving--an utter hell of craving! then he drew back the eagerly extended hand. "no," he said grimly. "blossom air right. ther stuff'll ruin me." resolutely he turned his back and stood facing the woods, listening to the drip of drenched leafage. through raw hours he struggled with his appetite. each time that he went back to throw fresh faggots on the fire he moved warily around the bucket, seeking to keep his eyes averted, but each time his gaze came back to it, and rested there thirstily. twice as his watch drew near its end he dipped the cup into the pail only to spill back the contents again, almost wildly, watching the thin trickle; and greedily sniffing its sweetish invitation of odor. once the rim met his lips and the taste touched his tongue, but he violently spat it out and wiped his lips on the sleeve of his shirt. "hits ther devil's holy water," he murmured to himself. "thet's what brother fulkerson says--an' i reckon he's right." the evening star always reminded him of blossom. he thought of it as her star, and upon it, as upon her own face, he kept his eyes fixed for encouragement as his spirit's resistance waned in the mounting tide of exhaustion. but when even that beacon was gone behind the mountain-top he felt the despair of one whose last ally has abandoned him to face travail unsupported. he fell back on his dreams; dreams of what lincoln had faced and conquered; of what he, too, might achieve. but now he could see them only dispiritedly as hollow shapes; misty things without hope or substance. that bucket now--a sip from it would rehabilitate them, give them at least the semblance of attainability. there lay relief from despair! his mind flashed back to his father's rebuke and his answer: "ye says i lay drunk. thet's true an' hit's a shameful thing fer a man ter admit.... but hit's a thing i've got ter fight out fer myself." a great indignation against his father's misunderstanding possessed him. he must fight in his own way! even blossom had only asked him not to drink "too much." when it needed only an hour more for the coming of dawn, his face grew darkly sullen. "hit's hell thet i've got ter spend my whole life a-brewin' ther stuff ergin my will--takin' chances of ther jail-house fer hit--an' yit i kain't have a drink when i'm wet ter ther bone," he growled. going as if drawn by a power stronger than his own volition, he moved balkingly yet with inevitable progress once more to the bucket. he half filled the cup--raised it--and this time gulped it down greedily and recklessly to the bottom. immediately his chilled veins began to glow with an ardent gratefulness. the stars seemed brighter and the little voices of the night became sweeter. the iron-bound gates of imagination swung wide to a pageantry of dreams, and as he crouched in the reeking underbrush, he half forgot his discontent. repeatedly he dipped and drained the cup. he was still on duty, but now he watched with a diminished vigilance. gradually his senses became more blunt. the waking dreams were vaguer, too, and more absurd. he still tended the fire under the kettle--but he laughed scornfully at the foolish need of keeping his face always in the shadow. then suddenly he dropped down close to the dark earth, let the cup splash into the bucket, and thrust forward his rifle. his ears had caught a sound which might have been a raccoon stirring in the brush--or a fox slipping covertly through the fallen hemlock top. but there was no repetition, so he laughed again and with the first pallid hint of dawn on the ridges he shook the shoulder of his sleeping companion. then he himself sank down in the heavy torpor of exhaustion and drunkenness. at the same time, because it would soon be light, the living creature which had made the sound began creeping away, and in doing so it avoided any other alarms. it was the figure of a man who had learned what he came there to determine. when lone stacy plodded up to his still-house some hours later, he exchanged nods with the squat mountaineer whom he found waiting. "whar's turner?" was his brief inquiry and the reply matched it in taciturnity. "in thar--a-layin' drunk." the father went over and looked scowlingly down at the prostrate figure stretched awkwardly in open-mouthed stupor. "i reckon," he announced succinctly, "thar hain't nothin' fer hit but ter suffer him ter sleep hit off." with the toe of his boot lone stacy stirred the insensate body which sprawled there; all its youthful vitality stilled into grotesque stagnation. but when the hired man, lee, was out of sight the bearded face twitched with a spasm of distress. its eyes traveled in a silent pathos from the sight of sagging jaw and hunched shoulders to the unresponsive majesty of the calm hills as if beseeching comfort there. in his only son's spirit had seemed to burn a fire of promise which even he could not understand. was that fire to be quenched into the stale ashes of habitual drunkenness? a groan rumbled in his throat. yet, had he remembered his scriptures, samson, the mighty, had surrendered in his moment of weakness to the allurements and the shears of delilah! afterward, he had pulled down the pillars of the temple. these hills that had stood upright in days when the alps and the himalayas had not yet stirred in conception, looked down placid, and unsympathetic. perhaps the eternal spirit of the range was not ashamed of this erring child, asleep on its bosom. perhaps, cognizant alike of tempest and calm, it recognized this son's kinship with itself. the prophecy which dwells in the immemorial may have foreseen gathering powers of hurricane and might, which should some day make him rise, above lesser summits. possibly as he slept the great, silent voices were crooning a lullaby over offspring destined for mastery. * * * * * when ratler webb had turned away from the tub-mill his brain was still half stunned from the jarring punishment of battle. he was thoroughly conscious only of deep chagrin and a gnawing hunger for reprisal. from childhood he retained no tender memories. there was no one upon whom he had a claim of blood, and neighborhood report had not let him forget that he was a woodscolt. in hill parlance a woodscolt signifies one whose birth has been sanctioned by no prior rites of matrimony. since he could remember he had existed only by virtue of the same predatory boldness which gives the lean razor-back strength and innate craftiness to live. just now his whole abundant capacity for hatred was centered on bear cat stacy, yet since bear cat's kinsmen peopled every creek and spring-branch of this country he could not be casually murdered. any word slipped to the ear of the revenue man might be traced back to him and after that he could no longer live among his native hills. still, he reflected as he slowly rubbed his fingers along his uneven nose, time brings changes and chances. the possession of definite evidence against his enemy might some day bear fruit. so ratler did not ride home after his encounter at the mill. he took refuge instead in an abandoned cabin of which he knew, strategically located within a mile of the place where he had surmised the stacy family were making illicit whiskey. while the storm raged, threatening to bring down the sagging roof timbers about his ears, he sat before its dead and ruined hearth, entertaining bitter thoughts. between midnight and dawn he stepped over the broken threshold and began his reconnaissance. for two hours he crouched, wet and cramped, in the laurel near enough to throw a stone against the kettle of the primitive distillery--waiting for that moment of relaxed vigilance, when the figure that moved in the shadows should permit a ray from the fire to fall upon its features. when dawn had almost come his vigil was rewarded and he had turned away again. blossom fulkerson knew none of these things at noon of the day following the fight at the mill when, in the road, she encountered lone stacy making his way back to his house for his midday dinner, but as the old man stopped and nodded she read trouble in his eyes. "air ye worrited about somethin', mr. stacy?" she demanded, and for a little space the man stood hesitantly silent. at last he hazarded, "little gal, thar's a thing i'd like ter name ter ye. i reckon if anybody kin holp me hit mout be you." the girl's eyes lighted with an instinctive sympathy--then shadowed with a premonition of what was coming. "is hit--about--turner?" the father nodded his head gravely. his eyes wore the harassed disquiet of a problem for which he knew no solution. "does ye mean thet he's--he's----" she broke off abruptly and lone stacy answered her with unrelieved bluntness. "he's a-layin' up thar drunk ergin, an' he's got a gash on one shoulder thet's powder burned. i reckon he's been engagin' in some manner of ruction." for a moment the girl did not speak, but her cheeks paled and tears swam abruptly in her eyes. she raised one hand and brushed them fiercely away. she had awakened this morning with a new and unaccountable happiness in her heart. in all the lilt and sparkle of the world and all the tunefulness of the young summer there had seemed a direct message to herself. in her memory she had been hearing afresh the crude but impassioned eloquence with which the boy had talked to her yesterday. now he lay up there at the distillery in the heavy sleep of the drunkard. "ther boy's all i've got," announced lone stacy with an unaccustomed break in his voice. "i reckon mebby ef i hadn't been so harsh i mout hev more influence with him." then he turned abruptly on his heel and trudged on. blossom fulkerson slipped into the woods and came to a sun-flecked amphitheater of rock and rhododendron where the ferns grew lush and tall, by the sparkle of water. there she sank down and covered her face with her hands. her sobs shook her for a while, and then washing the tears away, she knelt and prayed with a passionate simplicity. sometimes she lifted a pale face and her lips twisted themselves pathetically in the earnestness of her prayer. the almighty to whom she made her plea, and who knew everything, must know, even as she knew, that turner stacy was not like those rowdy youths who habitually disgraced the hills. that occasional smile which lurked with its inherent sweetness under his affected sullenness must mean _something_. turner had always been her willing vassal, and "sometime" she had supposed, though hitherto that had always seemed a vaguely distant matter like the purple haze on the horizon, they would be avowed sweethearts. yesterday, though, as she walked back from the meeting on the ridge it had seemed as if she had spent a moment in that languourous land where the far mists drouse,--and yet the glamour had not faded. she hadn't sought to analyze then, she had only felt a new thrill in her heart as she instinctively broke clusters of pink-hearted bloom from the laurel. she left the woods after a while and as she came out again to the high road, she heard a voice raised in the high-pitched, almost falsetto, minors of mountain minstrelsy. it was not a pleasing voice, nor was the ballad a cheery one. as for the singer himself, the twisting of the way still concealed him from view, so that his song proclaimed him like a herald in advance. "he stobbed her to ther heart an' she fell with a groan. he threw a leetle dirt _ov_-er her, an' started fer home," wailed the dolorous voice of the traveler. there was a splashing of hoofs in shallow water, then a continuation "his debt ter ther devil now william must pay, fer he fell down an' died afore break of day." thus announced, a mule plodded shortly into sight, and upon his back, perching sidewise, sat a tow-headed lout of a boy with staring, vacant eyes and a mouth which hung open, even when he desisted from song. with an access of callow diffidence he halted his mount at sight of blossom, staring with a nod and a bashful "howdy." "howdy, leander," accosted the girl. "how's all your folks?" leander white, of crowfoot branch, aged fifteen, gulped twice with prodigious and spasmodic play of his adam's apple, before he eventually commanded voice to reply: "they're all well.... i'm obleeged ... ter ye." then, however, reassured by the cordial smile on the lips of blossom fulkerson, his power of speech and his hunger for gossip returned to him in unison. "but old aunt lucy hutton, over acrost ther branch, she fell down yistiddy an' broke a bone inside of her, though." "did she?" demanded the girl, readily sympathetic, and leander, thus given sanction as a purveyor of tidings, nodded and gathered confidence. "huh-huh, an' revenuers raided joe simmons's still-house on ther headwaters of skinflint an' cyarried off a _beau_tiful piece o' copper--atter they'd punched hit full o' holes." "revenuers!" into the girl's voice now came a note of anxiety. "huh-huh, revenuers. folks says they're gittin' bodaciously pesky these days." "ye ain't--ye ain't seen none of 'em yourself, have ye, leander?" the question came a bit breathlessly and the boy forgot his bashfulness as he expanded with the importance of his traveler's tales. "not to know 'em fer sich," he admitted, "but i met up with a furriner a few leagues back along ther highway. he was broguein' along mighty brash on his own two feet. la! but he was an elegant party ter be a-ridin' on shoe-leather, though!" "what manner of furriner was he, leander?" demanded blossom with a clutch of fright at her heart, but the boy shook his head stupidly. "wa'al he was jest a feller from down below. ter tell hit proper, i didn't hev much speech with him. we jest met an' made our manners an' went our ways. he 'lowed ter go ter lone stacy's house." "lone stacy's house," echoed the girl faintly. "reckon' i'll be a-ridin' on," drawled the young horseman nonchalantly. "reckon i've done told ye all ther tidings i knows." blossom stood, for a while, rooted where he had left her, listening to the splash of the mule's feet along the creek. if a prying eye should discover the stacy still to-day it would find not only "a beautiful piece of copper" but bear cat lying there incapacitated and helpless! her heart missed its beat at the thought. the hills seemed to close in on her stiflingly with all their age-old oppression of fears and impending tragedies, and she sat down by the roadside to think it out. what should she do? after a while she saw the tall figure of the elder stacy climbing the mountainside, but he was taking a short cut--and would not come within hailing distance. her eye, trained to read indications, noted that a rifle swung in his right hand. bitterly she had been taught by her father to resent the illicit business to which turner's service was grudgingly given. but above all ethical hatred of law-breaking rose the very present danger to turner himself. laws were abstract things and turner was turner! there was only one answer. she must watch and, if need arose, give warning. just where the brook that trickled down from the still gushed out to the creek and the road which followed its course, lay a steeply sloping field of young corn. along its back grew rows of "shuckybeans," and here blossom took her station for her self-appointed task of sentry duty. chapter v jerry henderson had lost his way. aching muscles protested the extra miles because back there at marlin town he had been advised to cross cedar mountain on foot. "unless they suspicions ye, 'most any man'll contrive ter take ye in an' enjoy ye somehow," his counselors had pointed out. "but thar's heaps of them pore fam'lies over thar thet hain't got feed fer a ridin' critter noways." now cedar mountain is not, as its name mendaciously implies, a single peak but a chain that crawls, zig-zag as herringbone, for more than a hundred miles with few crossings which wheels can follow. it is a wall twenty-five hundred feet high, separating the world from "back of beyond." having scaled it since breakfast, jerry henderson was tired. he was tanned and toughened like saddle-leather. he was broad of shoulder, narrow of thigh, and possessed of a good, resolute brow and a straight-cut jaw. his eyes were keen with intelligence and sufficiently cool with boldness. arriving at a narrow thread of clear water which came singing out at the edge of a corn-field, his eyes lighted with satisfaction. tilled ground presumably denoted the proximity of a human habitation where questions could be answered. so he stood, searching the forested landscape for a thread of smoke or a roof, and as he did so he perceived a movement at the edge of the field where the stalks had grown higher than the average and merged with the confusion of the thicket. jerry turned and began making his way along the edge of the patch, respecting the corn rows by holding close to the tangle at the margin. then suddenly with a rustling of the shrubbery as startling as the sound with which a covey of quail rises from nowhere, a figure stepped into sight and the stranger halted in an astonishment which, had blossom fulkerson realized it, was the purest form of flattery. he had seen many women and girls working in the fields as he had come along the way and most of them had been heavy of feature and slovenly of dress. here was one who might have been the spirit of the hills themselves in bloom; one who suggested kinship with the free skies and the sunlit foliage. with frank delight in the astonishing vision, jerry henderson stood there, his feet well apart, his pack still on his shoulders and his lips parted in a smile of greeting and friendliness. "howdy," he said, but the girl remained motionless, vouchsafing no response. "i'm a stranger in these parts," he volunteered easily, using the vernacular of the hills, "and i've strayed off my course. i was aiming to go to lone stacy's dwelling-house." still she remained statuesque and voiceless, so the man went on: "can you set me right? there seems to be a sort of a path here. does it lead anywhere in particular?" he took a step nearer and eased his pack to the ground among the briars of the blackberry bushes. abruptly, as if to bar his threatened progress, blossom moved a little to the side, obstructing the path. into her eyes leaped a flame of amazonian hostility and her hands clenched themselves tautly at her sides. her lips parted and from her throat came a long, mellow cry not unlike the yodle of the tyrol. it echoed through the timber and died away--and again she stood confronting him--wordless! "i didn't mean to startle you," he declared reassuringly, "i only wanted information." again the far-carrying but musical shout was sent through the quiet of the forest--his only answer. "since you won't answer my questions," said jerry henderson, irritated into capriciousness, "i think i'll see for myself where this trail leads." instantly, then, she planted herself before him, with a violently heaving bosom and a wrathful quivering of her delicate nostrils, her challenge broke tensely from her lips with a note of unyielding defiance. "ye can't pass hyar!" "so you _can_ talk, after all," he observed coolly. "it's a help to learn that much at all events." he had chanced on a path, he realized, which some moonshiner preferred keeping closed and the girl had been stationed there as a human declaration, "no thoroughfare." still he stood where he was and presently he had the result of his waiting. a deep, masculine voice, unmistakable in the peremptoriness of its command, sounded from the massed tangle of the hillside. it expressed itself in the single word "begone!" and henderson was not fool enough to search the underbrush for an identifying glimpse of his challenger. "my name is jerry henderson and i was seeking to be shown my way," he said quietly, keeping his eyes, as he spoke, studiously on the face of the girl. "begone! i'm a-warnin' ye fa'r. begone!" the wayfarer shrugged his shoulders. debate seemed impracticable, but his annoyance was not lessened as he recognized in the clear eyes of the young woman a half-suppressed mockery of scorn and triumph. henderson stooped and hefted his pack again to his shoulders, adjusting it deliberately. if it must be retreat, he wished at least to retire with the honors of war. the girl's expression had piqued him into irascibility. "i'd heard tell that folks hereabouts were civil to strangers," he announced bluntly. "and i don't give a damn about whatever secret you're bent on hiding from me." then he turned on his heel and started, not rapidly but with a leisurely stride to the road. he seemed to feel the eyes of the girl following him as he went, and his spirit of resentment prompted an act of mild bravado as he halted by the rotten line of fence and unhurriedly tightened the lace of a boot. "hasten!" barked the warning voice from the laurel, but henderson did not hasten. he acknowledged the disquieting surmise of a rifle trained on him from the dense cover, but he neither looked back nor altered his pace. then he heard a gun bark from the shrubbery and a bullet zip as it found its billet in a tree trunk above his head, but that he had expected. it was merely a demonstration in warning--not an attempt on his life. as long as he kept on his way, he believed hostilities would go no further. without venturing to use his eyes, he let his ears do their best, and a satirical smile came to his lips as he heard a low, half-smothered scream of fright break from the lips of the girl whom he could no longer see. and, had he been able to study the golden-brown eyes just then, he would have been even more compensated, for into them crept a slow light of admiration and astonished interest. "he ain't nobody's coward anyways," she murmured as the figure of the unknown man swung out of sight around the bend, and some thought of the same sort passed through the mind of the elderly man in the thicket, bringing a grim but not an altogether humorless smile to his lips. "wa'al, i run him off," he mused, "but i didn't hardly run him no-ways _hard_!" jerry henderson had borne credentials from uncle israel calvert who kept a store on big ivy, and he had been everywhere told that once uncle billy had viséd his passports, he would need no further safe-conduct. in the encounter at the cornfield there had been no opportunity to show that bill of health and it was only after an hour spent in walking the wrong way, that its possessor met the next person to whom he could put questions. then he learned that "lone stacy dwelt in a sizeable house over on little slippery,"--but that he had strayed so far from the true course that now he must climb a mountain or take a detour and that in either event he would have to hasten to arrive there before nightfall. so the shadows were lengthening when he turned into the course of what must be "little slippery"--and came face to face with two men of generous stature, one elderly and the other youthful. he noted that the older of these men carried a rifle on his shoulder and was conscious of a piercing scrutiny from both pairs of eyes. "i'm seeking lone stacy," began henderson, and the older face darkened into a momentary scowl of animosity, with the coming of the curt reply: "thet's my name." the traveler gave a violent start of astonishment. it was a deep-chested voice which, once heard, was not to be confused with other voices, and jerry henderson had heard it not many hours before raised in stentorian warning from the depth of the thickets. but promptly he recovered his poise and smiled. "i have a piece of paper here," he said, "from uncle israel calvert. he said that if he vouched for me you would be satisfied." as lone stacy accepted the proffered note with his left hand he passed his rifle to the younger man with his right, and even then he held the sheet unopened for a space while his serious gaze swept the stranger slowly from head to foot in challenging appraisal. he read slowly, with the knitted brows of the unscholastic, and as he did so the youth kept his eye on henderson's face--and his finger on the trigger. having seen the boy's face, henderson found it hard to shift his glance elsewhere. he had encountered many mountain faces that were sinister and vindictive--almost malign, but it was not the unyielding challenge which arrested him now. it was something far more individual and impressive. there are eyes that reflect light with the quicksilver responsiveness of mirrors. there are others, though more rare, which shine from an inner fire. bear cat stacy's held the golden, unresting flame that one encounters in the tawny iris of a captive lion or eagle. such eyes in a human face mean something and it is something which leads their possessor to the gallows or the throne. they are heralds of a spirit untameable and invincible; of the will to rend or rebuild. henderson found himself thinking of volcanoes which are latent but not extinct. it was a first glimpse, but if he never again saw this boy, who stood there measuring him with cool deliberation, he would always remember him as one remembers the few instantly convincing personalities one has brushed in walking through life. but when lone stacy had finished his perusal, the nod of his head was an assurance of dissipated doubt. there was even a grave sort of courtesy in his manner now, as he announced: "thet's good enough fer me. if uncle israel vouches fer ye, ye're welcome. he says hyar 'ther bearer is trustworthy'--but he don't say who ye air. ye said yore name war jerry henderson, didn't ye?" "that _is_ my name," assented the newcomer, once more astonished. "but i didn't realize i'd told it yet." with an outright scorn for subterfuge the older man replied, "i reckon thar hain't no profit in a-beatin' ther devil round ther stump. you've heered my voice afore--an' i've seed yore face. ye tole me yore name back thar--in ther la'rel, didn't ye?" henderson bowed. "i _did_ recognize your voice, but i didn't aim to speak of it--unless you did." "when i says that i trusts a man," the moonshiner spoke with an unambiguous quietness of force, "i means what i says an' takes my chances accordin'. ef a man betrays my confidence--" he paused just an instant then added pointedly--"he takes _his_ chances. what did ye 'low yore business war, hyarabouts, mr. henderson?" "i mean to explain that to you in due time, mr. stacy, but just now it takes fewer words to say what's _not_ my business." "wall then, what _hain't_ yore business?" "other people's business." "wa'al so far as hit goes thet's straight talk. i favors outright speech myself an' ye don't seem none mealy-mouthed. ye talks right fer yoreself--like a mountain man." "you see," said henderson calmly, "i _am_ a mountain man even if i've dwelt down below for some years." "you--a mountain man?" echoed the bearded giant in bewilderment and the visitor nodded. "ever hear of torment henderson?" he inquired. "colonel torment henderson! why, hell's fiddle, man, my daddy sarved under him in ther war over slavery! i was raised upon stories of how he tuck thet thar name of 'torment' in battle." "he was my grandpap," the stranger announced, dropping easily into the phrases of the country. "mr. henderson," said the old man, drawing himself up a trifle straighter, "we're pore folks, but we're proud ter hev ye enjoy what little we've got. this hyar's my son, turner stacy." then bear cat spoke for the first time. "i reckon ye be leg-weary, mr. henderson. i'll fotch yore contraptions ter ther house." there remained to the splendidly resilient powers of bear cat's physical endowment no trace of last night's debauch except that invisible aftermath of desperate chagrin and mortification. as he lifted the pack which henderson had put down something like admiring wonderment awoke in him. here was a man born like himself in the hills, reared in crude places, who yet bore himself with the air of one familiar with the world, and who spoke with the fluency of education. as the wearied traveler trudged along with his two hosts, he had glowing before his eyes the final fires of sunset over hills that grew awesomely somber and majestic under the radiance of gold and ash of rose. then they reached a gate, where a horse stood hitched, and before them bulked the dark shape of a house whose open door was a yellow slab of lamplight. from the porch as they came up, rose a gray figure in the neutrality of the dying light; a man with a patriarchal beard that fell over his breast and an upper lip clean shaven, like a mormon elder. even in that dimness a rude dignity seemed inherent to this man and as henderson glanced at him he heard lone stacy declaring, "brother fulkerson, ye're welcome. this hyar is mr. henderson." then turning to the guest, the householder explained. "brother fulkerson air ther preacher of god's word hyarabouts. he's a friend ter every christian an' a mighty wrastler with sin." as the stranger acknowledged this presentation he glanced up and, standing in the light from the door, found himself face to face with yet another figure; the figure of a girl who was silhouetted there in profile, for the moment seemingly frozen motionless by astonishment. her face was flooded with the pinkness of a deep blush, and her slender beauty was as undeniable as an axiom. lone stacy turned with an amused laugh, "an' this, mr. henderson," he went on, "air brother fulkerson's gal, blossom. i reckon ye two hev met afore--albeit ye didn't, in a way of speakin', make yore manners ther fust time." blossom bowed, then she laughed shyly but with a delicious quality of music in her voice. "i reckon ye 'lowed i didn't know nothin'--i mean anything--about manners, mr. henderson," she confessed and the man hastily assured her: "i 'lowed that you were splendidly loyal--to somebody." as he spoke he saw bear cat at his elbow, his eyes fixed on the girl with a wordless appeal of contrition and devotion, and he thought he understood. "howdy, blossom," murmured turner, and the girl's chin came up. her voice seemed to excommunicate him as she replied briefly: "howdy, turner." this was a lover's quarrel, surmised henderson and discreetly he turned again to the host, but, even so, he saw turner step swiftly forward and raise his hands. his lips were parted and his eyes full of supplication, but he did not speak. he only let his arms fall and turned away with a face of stricken misery. blossom knew about last night, reflected bear cat. he was, as he deserved to be, in disgrace. then as the girl stood looking off into the gathering darkness her own face filled wistfully with pain and the boy, dropping to a seat on the floor of the porch, watched her covertly with sidewise glances. "blossom met me down ther road," observed the minister, "an' named ter me thet she hed----" he paused, casting a dubious glance at the stranger, and lone stacy interrupted: "she named ter ye thet she stood guard at ther still an' warned mr. henderson off?" brother fulkerson nodded gravely. "i was a little mite troubled in my mind lest she'd put herself in jeopardy of the law. thet's why i lighted down an' hitched hyar: ter hev speech with ye." "ye needn't worrit yoreself none, brother fulkerson," reassured the host. "mr. henderson comes vouched fer by uncle israel." the preacher sat for a space silent and when he next spoke it was still with a remnant of misgiving in his tone. "i don't aim to go about crossin' good men and a-cavilin' with thar opinions," he began apologetically. "like as not heaps of 'em air godlier men than me, but i holds it to be my duty to speak out free." again he paused and cast a questioning glance at his host as though in deference to the hospitality of the roof, and the tall mountaineer, standing beside the post of his porch, nodded assent with equal gravity. "talk right fer yoreself, brother fulkerson. i don't never aim ter muzzle no man's speech." "waal, this day i've rid some twenty miles acrost high ridges and down inter shadowy valleys, i've done traversed some places thet war powerful wild an' laurely. wharsoever god's work calls me, i'm obleeged ter go, but i raised my voice in song as i fared along amongst them thickets, lest some man thet i couldn't see; some man a-layin' on watch, mout suspicion i was seekin' ter discover somethin' he aimed ter keep hid--jest as ye suspicioned mr. henderson, hyar." lone stacy stroked his beard. "i reckon thet war ther wisest way, brother fulkerson, unless every man over thar knowed ye." "i reckon god likes ther songs of his birds better," declared the preacher, "then ther song of a man thet _hes_ ter sing ter protect his own life. i reckon no country won't ever prosper mightily, whilst hit's a land of hidin' out with rifle-guns in ther laurel." there was no wrath in the eyes of the host as he listened to his guest's indictment or the voice of thrilling earnestness in which it was delivered. he only raised one hand and pointed upward where a mighty shoulder of mountain rose hulking through the twilight. near its top one could just make out the thread-like whiteness of a new fence line. "yonder's my corn patch," he said. "when i cl'ared hit an' grubbed hit out my neighbors all came ter ther workin' an' amongst us we toiled thar from sun-up twell one o'clock at night--daylight an' moonlight. on thet patch i kin raise me two or three master crops o' corn an' atter _thet_ hit won't hardly raise rag weeds! a bushel o' thet corn, sledded over ter ther nighest store fotches in mebby forty cents. but thar's two gallons of licker in hit an' _thet's_ wuth money. who's a-goin' ter deny me ther rightful license ter do hit?" "ther law denies ye," replied the preacher gravely, but without acerbity. "thar's things thet's erginst ther law," announced the old man with a swift gathering of fierceness in his tone, "an' thar's things thet's _above_ ther law. a criminal is a man thet's done befouled his own self-respect. i hain't never done thet an' i hain't no criminal. what do _you_ think, mr. henderson?" henderson had no wish to be drawn, so soon, into any conflict of local opinion, yet he realized that a candid reply was expected. "my opinion is that of theory only," he responded seriously. "but i agree with brother fulkerson. a community with secrets to hide is a hermit community--and one of the strangers that is frightened away--is prosperity." bear cat stacy, brooding silently in his place, looked suddenly up. hitherto he had seen only the sweet wistfulness of blossom's eyes. now he remembered the words of the old miller. "some day a mountain man will rise up as steadfast as the hills he sprung from--an' he'll change hit all like ther sun changes fog!" perhaps turner stacy was ripe for hero-worship. over the mountain top appeared the beacon of the evening star--luminous but pale. as if saluting it the timber became wistful with the call of whippoorwills and fireflies began to flit against the sooty curtain of night. something stirred in the boy, as though the freshening breeze brought the new message of an awakening. here was the talk of wise men, concurring with the voices of his dreams! but at that moment his mother appeared in the doorway and announced "you men kin come in an' _eat_, now." chapter vi in former days an appalachian tavern was a "quarter-house"; a hostelry where one paid a quarter for one's bed and a quarter, each, for meals. now the term has fallen into such disuse as to be no longer generic, but locally it survived with a meaning both specific and malodorous. the press of kentucky and virginia had used it often, coupled with lurid stories of blood-lettings and orgies; linking with it always the name of its proprietor, kinnard towers. how could such things go on in the twentieth century? questioned the readers of these news columns, forgetting that this ramparted isolation lives not in the twentieth century but still in the eighteenth; that its people who have never seen salt water still sing the ballads of walter raleigh's sea-rovers, and that from their lips still fall, warm with every-day usage, the colloquialisms of chaucer and of piers the ploughman. the quarterhouse stood in a cleft where the mountains had been riven. its front door opened into virginia and its rear door gave into kentucky. across the puncheon floor was humorously painted a stripe of whitewash, as constantly renewed as the markings of a well-kept tennis court--and that line was a state boundary. hither flocked refugees from the justice of two states, and if a suddenly materializing sheriff confronted his quarry in the room where each day and each night foregathered the wildest spirits of a wild land, the hounded culprit had only to cross that white line and stand upon his lawful demand for extradition papers. here, therefore, the hunted foxes of the law ran to ground. the man who presided as proprietor was a power to be feared, admired, hated as individual circumstance dictated, but in any case one whose wrath was not to be advisedly stirred. he had found it possible to become wealthy in a land where such achievement involves battening on poverty. cruel--suave; predatory--charitable, he had taken life by his own hand and that of the hireling, but also he had, in famine-times, succored the poor. he had, in short, awed local courts and intimidated juries of the vicinage until he seemed beyond the law, and until office-holders wore his collar. kinnard towers was floridly blond of coloring, mild of eye and urbanely soft-spoken of voice. once, almost two decades ago, while the feud was still eruptive, it had seemed advisable to him to have lone stacy done to death, and to that end he had bargained with black tom carmichael. black tom had been provided with a double-barreled gun, loaded with buckshot, and placed in a thicket which, at the appointed hour, the intended victim must pass. but it had chanced that fate intervened. on that day lone stacy had carried in his arms his baby son, turner stacy, and, seeing the child, black tom had faltered. later in the seclusion of a room over the quarterhouse, the employer had wrathfully taken his churl to task. "wa'al, why didn't ye git him?" was the truculent interrogation. "he passed by close enough fer ye ter hit him with a rock." "he was totin' his baby," apologized the designated assassin shamefacedly, yet with a sullen obstinacy, "i was only hired ter kill a growed-up man. ef ye'd a-give me a rifle-gun like i asked ye 'stid of a scatter-gun i could've got him through his damned head an' not harmed ther child none. thet's why i held my hand." kinnard towers had scornfully questioned: "what makes ye so tormentin' mincy erbout ther kid? don't ye know full well thet when he grows up we'll have ter git _him_, too? howsoever next time i'll give ye a rifle-gun." like all unlettered folk the mountaineer is deeply superstitious and prone to believe in portents and wonders. often, though he can never be brought to confess it he gives credence to tales of sorcery and witchcraft. turner stacy was from his birth a "survigrous" child, and he was born on the day of the eclipse. as he came into the world the sun was darkened. immediately after that a sudden tempest broke which tore the forests to tatters, awoke quiet brooks to swirling torrents, unroofed houses and took its toll of human life. even in after years when men spoke of the "big storm" they always alluded to _that_ one. an old crone who was accounted able to read fortunes and work charms announced that turner stacy came into life on the wings of that storm, and that the sun darkened its face because his birth savored of the supernatural. this being so, she said, he was immune from any harm of man's devising. her absurd story was told and retold around many a smoky cabin hearth, and there were those who accorded it an unconfessed credence. later black tom was given a rifle and again stationed in ambush. again lone stacy, favored by chance, carried his baby son in his arms. black tom, whose conscience had never before impeded his action, continued to gaze over his gun-sights--without pressing the trigger. towers was furious, but carmichael could only shake his head in a frightened bewilderment, as if he had seen a ghost. "ther brat looked at me jest as i was about to fire," he protested. "his eyes didn't look like a human bein's. he hain't no baby--he was born a man--or somethin' more then a man." as affairs developed, the truce was arranged soon afterward, and also the marked man's death became unnecessary, because he was safe in prison on a charge of moonshining. neither lone stacy nor his son had ever known of this occurrence, and now the stacys and the towers met on the road and "made their manners" without gun-play. but to kinnard towers local happenings remained vital and, for all his crudity, few things of topical interest occurred of which he was not duly apprised. into his dwelling place came one day the honorable abraham towers, his nephew, who sat in the state legislature at frankfort. the two were closeted together for an hour and as the nephew emerged, at the end of the interview, kinnard walked with him to the hitching-post where the visitor's horse stood tethered. "i'm obleeged ter ye, abe," he said graciously. "when this man henderson gits hyar, i'll make hit a point ter hev casual speech with him. i aims ter l'arn his business, an' ef what ye suspicions air true, he'll have dealin's with me--or else he won't hardly succeed." so it happened logically enough that on the evening of jerry's arrival, kinnard towers mounted and started out over the hill trails. he rode, as he always did when he went far abroad, under armed escort since tyrants are never secure. four rifle-equipped vassals accompanied him; two riding as advance guard and two protecting the rear. kinnard's destination was the house of lone stacy on little slippery, a house whose threshold he could not, in the old days, have crossed without blood-letting; but these were the days of peace. arriving, he did not go direct to the door and knock, but discreetly halting in the highway, lifted his voice and shouted aloud, "halloo! i'm kinnard towers an' i'm a-comin' in." the door was thrown promptly open and lone stacy appeared, framed between threshold and lintel, holding a lamp aloft and offering welcome. "gentlemen," said the host in a matter-of-fact voice, "ef you'll excuse me, i'll rest yore guns." then in observance of a quaint and ancient ceremonial, each armed guardian passed in, surrendering his rifle at the threshold. in retarded appalachia so runs the rule. to fail in its fulfilment is to express distrust for the honesty and ability of the householder to protect his guests, and such an implication constitutes a grave discourtesy. inside a fire roared on the hearth, for even in june, the mountain nights are raw. henderson, watching the small cavalcade troop in, smiled inwardly. he was not unmindful of the identity or the power of this modern baron, and he was not without suspicion that he himself was the cause of the visit. "i chanced ter be farin' by, lone," kinnard towers enlightened his host easily, "an' i 'lowed i'd light down an' rest a little spell." "ye're welcome," was the simple reply. "draw up ter ther fire an' set ye a cheer." the talk lingered for a space on neighborhood topics, but the host had found time, between hearing the shout outside and replying to it, to say in a low voice to his guest: "i reckon atter kinnard towers comes in we won't talk no more erbout my still--jest stills in gin'ral," and that caution was religiously observed. the kitchen tasks had been finished now and while the men sat close to the smoking hearth the faces of the women looked on from the shadowed corners of the room, where they sat half obscured upon the huge four-poster beds. the man who had crossed cedar mountain lighted his pipe from the bed of coals and then, straightening up, he stood on the hearth where his eyes could take in the whole semicircle of listening faces. they were eyes that, for all their seeming of a theorist's engrossment, missed little. this house might have been a pioneer abode of two hundred years ago, standing unamended by the whole swelling tide of modernity that had passed it by untouched. the leaping blaze glittered on the metal of polished rifles stacked in a corner, and on two others hanging against the smoke-dimmed logs of the walls. red pods of peppers and brown leaves of tobacco were strung along the rafters. hardly defined of shape against one shadowy wall, stood a spinning wheel. henderson knew that the room was pregnant with the conflict of human elements. he realized that he himself faced possibilities which made his mission here a thing of delicate manipulation; even of personal danger. the blond man with the heavy neck, who sat contemplatively chewing at the stem of an unlighted pipe, listened in silence. he hardly seemed interested, but henderson recognized him for the sponsor and beneficiary of lawlessness. he more than any other would be the logical foe to a new order which brought the law in its wake--and the law's reckonings. near to the enemy whom he had heretofore faced in pitched battle, sat old lone stacy, his brogans kicked off and his bare feet thrust out to the warmth; bearded, shrewd of eye, a professed lover of the law, asking only the exemption of his illicit still. he, too, in the feud days had wielded power, but had sought in the main to wield it for peace. and there, showing no disposition to draw aside the skirts of his raiment in disgust, sat the preacher of the hills whose strength lay in his ability to reconcile antagonisms, while yet he stood staunch, abating nothing of self-sacrificial effort. it was almost as though church and crown and commoner were gathered in informal conclave. but luminous, like fixed stars, gleamed two other pairs of eyes. as he realized them, henderson straightened up with such a thrill as comes from a vision. here were the eyes of builders of the future--agleam as they looked on the present! blossom's were wide and enthralled and turner stacy's burned as might those of a young crusader hearing from the lips of old and seasoned knights recitals of the wars of the sepulchre. bear cat stacy saw in this stranger the prophet bearing messages for which he had longed--and waited almost without hope. but kinnard towers saw in him a dangerous and unsettling agitator. "you said," declared henderson, when the theme had swung back again to economic discussion, "that your cornfield was good for a few crops and then the rains would wash it bare, yet as i came along the road i saw an out-cropping vein of coal that reached above my head, and on each side of me were magnificent stretches of timber that the world needs and that is growing scarce." "much profit thet does me," lone stacy laughed dryly. "down at uncle israel's store thar's a dollar bill thet looks like hit's a-layin' on ther counter--but when ye aims to pick hit up ye discarns thet hit's pasted under ther glass. thet coal an' timber of mine air pasted ter ther wrong side of cedar mounting." "and why? because there are few roads and fewer schools. it's less the cost and difficulties of building wagon roads than something else that stands in the way. it's the laurel." "the laurel?" repeated lone stacy, but the preacher nodded comprehendingly, and the visitor went on: "yes. the laurel. i've been in central american jungles where men died of fever because the thick growth held and bred the miasma. here the laurel holds a spirit of concealment. if there wasn't a bush in all these hills big enough to hide a man, the country would be thrown open to the markets of the world. it's the spirit of hiding--that locks life in and keeps it poor." "i presume ye means on account of ther blockade licker," replied the host, "but thet don't tech ther root of ther matter. how erbout ther fields thet stand on end; fields thet kain't be plowed an' thet ther rains brings down on yore head, leavin' nuthin 'thar but ther rock?" henderson had the power of convincing words, abetted by a persuasive quality of voice. as a mountain man he preached his faith in the future of the hills. he spoke of the vineyards of madeira where slopes as incorrigibly steep as these were redeemed by terracing. he talked of other lands that were being exhausted of resources and turning greedy eyes upon the untapped wealth of the cumberlands. he painted the picture glowingly and fervently, and turner stacy, listening, bent forward with a new fire in his eyes: a fire which kinnard towers did not fail to mark. "when ther railroad taps us," interpolated lone stacy, in a pause, "mebby we kin manage ter live. some says ther road aims ter cross cedar mounting." "don't deceive yourself with false hopes," warned the visitor. "this change must be brought about from inside--not outside. the coming of the railroad lies a decade or two away. i've investigated that question pretty thoroughly and i know. the coal-fields are so large that railroads can still, for a long time to come, choose the less expensive routes. cedar mountain balks them for the present. it will probably balk them for the length of our lives--but this country can progress without waiting for that." "so ye thinks thet even without no railroad this god-forsaken land kin still prosper somehow?" inquired the host skeptically, and the visitor answered promptly: "i do. i am so convinced of it that i'm here to buy property--to invest all i have and all my mother and sisters have. i think that by introducing modern methods of intensive farming, i can make it pay a fair return in my own time--and when i die i'll leave property that will ultimately enrich the younger generations. i _don't_ think it can make me rich in my lifetime--but _some_ day it's a certainty of millions." "why don't ye buy yoreself property whar ther railroad will come in yore own day, then? wouldn't thet pay ye better?" the suggestion was the first contribution to the conversation that had come from kinnard towers, and it was proffered in a voice almost urbane of tone. henderson turned toward him. "that's a straight question and i'll answer it straight. to buy as much property as i want along a possible railway line would cost too much money. i'm gambling, not on the present but on the future. i come here because i know the railroad is _not_ coming and for that reason prices will be moderate." as he made this explanation the newcomer was watching the face of his questioner almost eagerly. what he read there might spell the success or failure of his plans. any enterprise across which kinnard towers stamped the word "prohibited" was an enterprise doomed to great vicissitude in a land where his word was often above the law. but the blond and florid man granted him the satisfaction of no reply. he gazed pensively at the logs crackling on the hearth and his features were as inscrutably blank as those of the sphinx. after a moment towers did speak, but it was to his host and on another topic. "lone," he said, "thet firewood of yourn's right green an' sappy, hain't it? hit pops like ther fo'th of july." brother fulkerson spoke reflectively: "we needs two more things then we've got in these hills--an' one thing less then we've got. we wants roads an' schools--and the end of makin' white licker." henderson saw blossom slip from the bed and flit shadow-like through the door, and a few moments later he missed, too, the eagerly attentive presence of the boy. blossom had escaped from the reek of tobacco smoke inside, to the soft cadences of the night-song and the silver wash of the moonlight. turner stacy found her sitting, with her face between her palms, under a great oak that leaned out across the trickle of the creek, and when he spoke her name, she raised eyes glistening with tears. "blossom," he began in a contrite voice, "ye're mad at me, ain't ye? ye've done heerd about--about last night." then he added with moody self-accusation, "god knows i don't blame ye none." she turned her head away and did not at once answer. suddenly her throat choked and she broke into sobs that shook her with their violence. the young man stood rigid, his face drawn with self-hatred and at last she looked up at him. "somehow, turner," she said unsteadily, "hit wouldn't of been jest ther same ef hit had been any other time. yestiddy--up thar on ther ridge--ye promised me thet ye'd be heedful with licker." "i knows i did," he declared bitterly. "ye've got a right ter plumb hate me." "ef i'd a-hated ye," she reminded him simply, "i wouldn't sca'cely have watched ther road all day." then irrelevantly she demanded, "how did ye git yore shoulder hurt?" the wish to defend himself with the palliations of last night's desperate fatigue and the chill in his wound was a strong temptation, but he repressed it. knowledge of his encounter with ratler webb would only alarm her and conjure up fears of unforgiving vengeance. "hit war just a gun thet went off accidental-like," he prevaricated. "i wasn't harmed none, blossom." then in a tense voice he continued: "i only aimed ter drink a leetle--not too much--an' then somehow i didn't seem ter hev ther power ter quit." he felt the lameness of that plea and broke off. "i'd been studyin' about what you said on ther ridge," she told him falteringly, and the tremor of her voice electrified him. again the mountains on their ancient foundations grew unsteady before his eyes. "does ye mean thet--thet despite last night--ye keers fer me?" he bent forward, lips parted and heart pounding--and her reply was an unsteady whisper. "i hain't plumb dead sartain yit, turner, but--but this mornin' i couldn't think of nothin' else but you." "blossom!" exclaimed the boy, his voice ringing with a solemn earnestness. "i don't want thet ye shall hev ter feel shame fer me--but----" once again the words refused to come. the girl had risen now and stood slender in the silver light, her lashes wet with tears. with that picture in his eyes it became impossible to balance the other problems of his life. so he straightened himself stiffly and turned his gaze away from her. he was seeing instead a picture of the squat shanty where the copper worm was at work in the shadow, and for him it was a picture of bondage. so she waited, feeling some hint of realization for the struggle his eyes mirrored. there would be many other wet nights up there, he reflected as his jaw set itself grimly; many nights of chilled and aching bones with that wild thirst creeping seductively, everpoweringly upon him out of the darkness. there would be the clutch of longing, strangling his heart and gnawing at his stomach. but if he _did_ promise and failed, he could never again recover his self-respect. he would be doomed. with his face still averted, he spoke huskily and laboriously. "i reckon thar hain't no way ter make ye understand, blossom. i don't drink like some folks, jest ter carouse. i don't oftentimes want ter tech hit, but seems like sometimes i jest _has_ ter hev hit. hit's most gin'rally when i'm plumb sick of livin' on hyar withouten no chance ter better myself." even in the moonlight she could see that his face was drawn and pallid. then abruptly he wheeled: "ther stacys always keeps thar bonds. i reckons ye wants me ter give ye my hand thet i won't never tech another drop, blossom, but i kain't do thet yit--i've got ter fight hit out fust an' be plumb dead sartain thet i could keep my word ef i pledged hit----" blossom heard her father calling her from the porch and as she seized the boy's arms she found them set as hard as rawhide. "i understands, turney," she declared hastily, "an'--an'--i'm a-goin' ter be prayin' fer ye afore i lays down ternight!" as turner watched the preacher mount and ride away, his daughter walking alongside, he did not return to the house. he meant to fight it out in his own way. last night when the hills had rocked to the fury of the storm--he had surrendered. to-night when the moonlit slopes drowsed in the quiet of silver mists, the storm was in himself. within a few feet of the gate he took his seat at the edge of a thick rhododendron bush, where the shadow blotted him into total invisibility. he sat there drawn of face and his hands clenched and unclenched themselves. he did not know it, but, in his silence and darkness, he was growing. there was for him a touch of golgotha in those long moments of reflection and something of that anguished concentration which one sees in rodin's figure of "the thinker"--that bronze man bent in the melancholy travail of the birth of thought. when an hour later kinnard towers and his cortège trooped out of lone stacy's house, jerry henderson, willing to breathe the freshness of the night, strolled along. the men with the rifles swung to their saddles and rode a few rods away, but towers himself lingered and at last with a steady gaze upon the stranger he made a tentative suggestion. "i don't aim ter discourage a man thet's got fine ideas, mr. henderson, but hev ye duly considered thet when ye undertakes ter wake up a country thet's been slumberin' as ye puts hit, fer two centuries, ye're right apt ter find some sleepy-heads thet would rather be--left alone?" "i'm not undertaking a revolution," smiled the new arrival. "i'm only aiming to show folks, by my own example, how to better themselves." the man who stood as the sponsor of the old order mounted and looked down from his saddle. "hain't thet right smart like a doctor a-comin' in ter cure a man," he inquired dryly, "a-fore ther sick person hes sent fer him? sometimes ther ailin' one moutn't take hit kindly." "i should say," retorted henderson blandly, "that it's more like the doctor who hangs out his shingle--so that men can come if they like." there was a momentary silence and at its end towers spoke again with just a hint of the enigmatical in his voice. "ye spoke in thar of havin' personal knowledge thet ther railroad didn't aim ter come acrost cedar mounting, didn't ye?" "yes." "well now, mr. henderson--not meanin' ter dispute ye none--i don't feel so sartain about thet." "i spoke from fairly definite information." the man on horseback nodded. "i aims ter talk pretty plain. we're a long ways behind ther times up hyar, an' thet means thet we likes ter sort of pass on folks thet comes ter dwell amongst us." "i call that reasonable, mr. towers." "i'm obleeged ter ye. now jest let's suppose thet ther railroad _did_ aim ter come in atter all an' let's jest suppose for ther fun of ther thing, thet hit likewise aimed ter grab off all ther best coal an' timber rights afore ther pore, ign'rant mountain-men caught on ter what war happenin'. in sich a case, ther fust step would be ter send a man on ahead, wouldn't hit--a mountain man, if possible--ter preach thet ther railroad didn't aim ter come? thet would mean bargains, wouldn't hit?" jerry henderson laughed aloud. "do you mean that you suspect me of such a mission?" glancing about to assure himself that no one heard except his single auditor, the erstwhile hirer of assassins bent over his saddle pommel. into the suavity of his voice had crept a new hardness and into the pale color of his eyes an ominous glint. "back in ther days of ther war with england, mr. henderson, i've heered tell thet our grandsires hed a flag with a rattlesnake on hit, an' ther words, 'don't tread on me!' some folks says we're right-smart like our grandsires back hyar in ther timber." "if that's a threat, mr. towers," said henderson steadily, "i make it a point never to understand them." "an' i makes hit a point never ter give them more then onct. i don't say i suspicions ye--but i do _p'intedly_ say this ter ye: whatever yore real project air, afore ye goes inter hit too deep--afore ye invests all ye've got, an' all yore mother hes got an' all yore sister hes got, hit mout be right heedful ter ride over ter my dwellin'-house an' hev speech with me." an indignant retort rose to jerry's lips, but with diplomatic forbearance he repressed it. "when i've been here a while, i guess your suspicions will be allayed without verbal assurances, mr. towers." "even if ye only comes preachin' ther drivin' out of licker," said towers slowly, "ye're treadin' on my friends. we suffers sabbath talk like thet from preachers, but we don't relish hit on week-days from strangers. in thar a while back i listened. i seen ye an' brother fulkerson a-stirrin' up an' onsettlin' ther young folks. i kin feel ther restless things thet's a-ridin' in ther wind ter-night, mr. henderson, an' hit hain't sca'cely right ter bring trouble on these folks thet's shelterin' ye." bear cat stacy, unseen but eagerly listening, felt a leaping of resentment in his veins. all the feudal instincts that had their currents there woke to wrath as he heard his hereditary enemy warning away his guest. it was the intolerable affront of a hint that the power of the stacys had dwindled and waned until it could no longer secure the protection of its own roof-trees. with the anger of marmion for angus, sternly repressed but forceful, bear cat suddenly stood out revealed in the moonlight. he had only to take a step, but the effect was precisely that of having been suddenly materialized out of nothingness, and when his voice announced him, even the case-hardened control of kinnard towers suffered a violent jolt of surprise. "i reckon, kinnard towers," said the boy with a velvety evenness of voice, "ther day hain't hardly come yit when ther stacys hes ter ask ye what visitors they kin take inter thar dwellin'-houses. i reckon mebby mr. henderson's ideas may suit some folks hyarabouts, even if they don't pleasure you none. so long as he aims ter tarry hyar, an' we aims ter enjoy him, ther man thet seeks ter harm him will hev ter come hyar an' git him." never since the fend had ended in a pact of peace, had two factional leaders come so near a rupture. henderson could feel the ominous tensity in the air, but towers himself only shook his head and laughed. it was a good-humored laugh, since this was not the time for open enmity. "oh, pshaw, son! i reckon nobody don't aim no harm to mr. henderson. i jest knows this country an' he ought ter realize thet my counsel mout help him." there was a brief pause and then with an audacity of bantering kinnard proceeded. "i've done heered thet ye tuck yore dram onct in a while yoreself--mebby you've got friends thet makes licker--an' you knows how they mout feel about too much talk." bear cat stacy stood with his shoulders drawn back and his eyes smoldering. "thet's my business," he retorted curtly, but the quarterhouse baron went on with the same teasing smile. "mebby so, son, but hit kinderly 'peared like ter me thet brother fulkerson's gal war a-'lowin' thet hit war _her_ business, too. i overheered yore maw say somethin' 'bout yore drinkin' some last night an' i seed blossom's purty eyes flash." the mounted man waved his hand and rode away, his escort falling in at front and rear, but when the cavalcade had turned the angle of the road kinnard towers beckoned black tom carmichael to his side and spoke grimly. "thar's trouble breedin', tom, an' this young bear cat stacy's in ther b'ilin'. ye played ther fool when yer failed ter git him as a kid. hit war only a-layin' up torment erginst ther future." henderson lay long awake that night in the loft which he shared with bear cat. he heard the snores of the man and woman sleeping below, but the unmoving figure beside him had not relaxed in slumber. henderson wondered if he were reflecting upon that talk by the gate and all the dark possibilities it might presage. it was almost dawn, when bear cat slipped from under his quilt, drew on his shoes and trousers and left the loft-like attic, his feet making no sound on the rungs of the ladder. what furtive mission was taking him out, pondered henderson, into the laurel-masked hills at that hour? but out in the creek-bed road, with the setting moon on his face, bear cat stacy paused and drank in a long breath. "he seen blossom's eyes flash, he said," murmured the boy with his hands clenched at his sides, then he threw back his shoulders and spoke half aloud and very resolutely: "wa'al they won't never hev ter flash no more fer thet cause." after a little while, his gaze fixed on the myriad stars, he spoke again. "god almighty, i needs thet ye should holp me now. i aims ter go dry fer all time--an' i kain't hardly compass hit withouten ye upholds me." wheeling abruptly, he went with long strides around the turn of the road. a half hour later he was noiselessly opening the gate of the preacher's house. he meant to wait there until blossom awoke, but prompted by habit he gave, thrice repeated, the quavering and perfectly counterfeited call of a barn owl. since she had been a very small girl, that had been their signal, and though she would not hear it now, it pleased him to repeat it. then to his astonishment he heard, very low, the whining creak of an opening door, and there before him, fully dressed, intently awake, stood the girl herself. "blossom," said bear cat in a low voice that trembled a little, "blossom, i came over ter wail hyar till ye woke up. i came ter tell ye--thet i'm ready ter give ye my hand. i hain't never goin' ter tech a drap of licker no more, so long es i lives. i says hit ter ye with god almighty listenin'." "oh, turney----!" she exclaimed, then her voice broke and her eyes swam with tears. "i'm--i'm right proud of ye," was all she could find the words to add. "did i wake ye up?" demanded the boy in a voice of self-accusation. "i didn't aim to. i 'lowed i'd wait till mornin'." blossom shook her head. "i hain't been asleep yit," she assured him. her cheeks flushed and she drooped her head as she explained. "i've been a-prayin, turney. god's done answered my prayer." turner stacy took off his hat and shook back the dark lock of hair that fell over his forehead. beads of moisture stood out on his temples. "did ye keer--thet much, blossom?" he humbly questioned, and suddenly the girl threw both arms about his neck. "i keers all a gal _kin_ keer, turney. i wasn't sartain afore--but i knowed hit es soon as i begun prayin' fer ye." standing there in the pallid mistiness before dawn, and yielding her lips to the pressure of his kiss, blossom felt the almost religious solemnity of the moment. she was crossing the boundary of acknowledged love--and he had passed through the stress of terrific struggle before he had been able to bring her his pledge. his face, now cool, had been hot with its fevered passion. but she did not know that out of this moment was to be born transforming elements of change destined to shake her life and his; to quake the very mountains themselves; to rend the old order's crust, and finally, after tempest and bloodshed--to bring the light of a new day. no gift of prophecy told her that, of the parentage of this declaration of her love and this declaration of his pledge, was to be born in him a warrior's spirit of crusade which could only reach victory after all the old vindictive furies had been roused to wrath--and conquered--and the shadow of tragedy had touched them both. and had bear cat stacy, holding her soft cheek pressed to his own, been able to look even a little way ahead, he would have gone home and withdrawn the hospitality he had pledged to the guest who slept there. chapter vii because jerry henderson viewed the life of the hills through understanding eyes, certain paradoxes resolved themselves into the expected. he was not surprised to find under lone stacy's rude exterior an innate politeness which was a thing not of formula but of instinct. "would hit pleasure ye," demanded the host casually the next morning, "ter go along with me up thar an' see that same identical still thet i tuck sich pains yestiddy ye _shouldn't_ see?" but henderson shook his head, smiling. "no, thank you. i'd rather not see any still that i can avoid. what i don't know can't get me--or anyone else--into trouble." lone stacy nodded his approval as he said: "i didn't aim ter deny ye no mark of confi_dence_. i 'lowed i'd ought ter ask ye." turner stacy stood further off from illiteracy than his father. in the loft which the visitor had shared with him the night before he had found a copy of the kentucky statutes and one of blackstone's commentaries, though neither of them was so fondly thumbed as the life of lincoln. by adroit questioning jerry elicited the information that the boy had been as far along the way of learning as the sadly deficient district schools could conduct him; those shambling wayside institutions where, on puncheon benches, the children memorize in that droning chorus from which comes the local name of "blab-school." turner had even taken his certificate and taught for a term in one of these pathetic places. he laughed as he confessed this: "hit jest proves how pore ther schools air, hyarabouts," he avowed. "i expect you'd have liked to go to college," inquired henderson, and the boy's eyes blazed passionately with his thwarted lust for opportunity--then dimmed to wretchedness. "like hit! hell, mr. henderson, i'd lay my left hand down, without begrudgin' hit, an' cut hit off at ther wrist fer ther chanst ter do thet!" henderson sketched for him briefly the histories of schools that had come to other sections of the hills; schools taught by inspired teachers, with their model farms, their saw-mills and even their hospitals: schools to which not only children but pupils whose hair had turned white came and eagerly learned their alphabets, and as much more as they sought. the boy raised a hand. "fer god's sake don't narrate them things," he implored. "they sots me on fire. my grandsires hev been satisfied hyar fer centuries an' all my folks sees in me, fer dreamin' erbout things like thet, is lackin' of loyalty." henderson found his interest so powerfully engaged that he talked on with an excess of enthusiasm. "but back of those grandsires were other grandsires, turner. they were the strongest, the best and the most american of all america; those earlier ancestors of yours and mine. they dared to face the wilderness, and those that got across the mountains won the west." "ours didn't git acrost though," countered the boy dryly. "ours was them thet started out ter do big things an' failed." henderson smiled. "a mule that went lame, a failure to strike one of the few possible passes, made all the difference between success and failure in that pilgrimage, but the blood of those empire-builders is our blood and what they are now, we shall be when we catch up. we've been marking time while they were marching, that's all." "ye've done been off ter college yoreself, hain't ye, mr. henderson?" "yes. harvard." "harvard? seems ter me i've heered tell of hit. air hit as good as berea?" the visitor repressed his smile, but before he could answer bear cat pressed on: "whilst ye're up hyar, i wonder ef hit'd be askin' too master much of ye ef--" the boy paused, gulped down his embarrassment and continued hastily--"ef ye could kinderly tell me a few books ter read?" "gladly," agreed henderson. "it's the young men like you who have the opportunity to make life up here worth living for the rest." after a moment bear cat suggested dubiously: "but amongst my folks i wouldn't git much thanks fer tryin'. ther outside world stands fer interference--an' they won't suffer hit. they believes in holdin' with their kith an' kin." again henderson nodded, and this time the smile that danced in his eyes was irresistibly infectious. in a low voice he quoted: "the men of my own stock they may do ill or well, but they tell the lies i am wonted to, they are used to the lies i tell. we do not need interpreters when we go to buy and sell." bear cat stacy stood looking off over the mountain sides. he filled his splendidly rounded chest with a deep draft of the morning air,--air as clean and sparkling as a fine wine, and into his veins stole an ardor like intoxication. in his eyes kindled again that light, which had made henderson think of volcanoes lying quiet with immeasurable fires slumbering at their hearts. last night the boy had fought out the hardest battle of his life, and to-day he was one who had passed a definite mile-post of progress. this morning, too, a seed had dropped and a new life influence was stirring. it would take storm and stress and seasons to bring it to fulfilment, perhaps. the poplar does not grow from seed to great tree in a day--but, this morning, the seed had begun to swell and quicken. what broke, like the fledgling of a new conception, in bear cat's heart, was less palpably but none the less certainly abroad in the air, riding the winds--with varied results. that an outside voice was speaking: a voice which was dangerous to the old gods of custom, was the conviction entertained, not with elation but with somber resentment in the mind of kinnard towers. upon that realization followed a grim resolve to clip the wings of innovation while there was yet time. it was no part of this crude dictator's program to suffer a stranger, with a gift for "glib speech," to curtail his enjoyment of prerogatives built upon a lifetime of stress and proven power. back of cedar mountain, where there are few telephones, news travels on swift, if unseen wings. henderson had not been at lone stacy's house twenty-four hours when the large excitement of his coming, gathering mythical embellishment as it passed from mouth to mouth, was mysteriously launched. wayfarers, meeting in the road and halting for talk, accosted each other thus: "i heer tell thar's a man over ter lone stacy's house thet's done been clar ter ther other world an' back. he's met up with all character of outlanders." having come back from "ther other world" did not indeed mean, as might be casually inferred, that henderson had risen from his grave; relinquishing his shroud for a rehabilitated life. it signified only that he had been "acrost the waters"--a matter almost as vague. so the legend grew as it traveled, endowing jerry with a "survigrous" importance. "folks says," went the rumor, "thet he knows ways fer a man ter make a livin' offen these-hyar tormentin' rocks. hev ye seed him yit?" having come to the house of lone stacy, it was quite in accordance with the custom of the hills that he should remain there indefinitely. his plans for acquiring land meant first establishing himself in popular esteem and to this end no means could have contributed more directly than acceptance under a stacy roof. with the younger stacy this approval was something more: it savored of hero-worship and upon henderson's store of wisdom, bear cat's avid hunger for knowledge feasted itself. henderson saw blossom often in these days and her initial shyness, in his presence, remained obdurate. but through it he caught, with a refreshing quality, the quick-flashing alertness of her mind and he became anxious to win her confidence and friendship. and she, for all her timidity, was profoundly impressed and fed vicariously on his wisdom--through the enthusiastic relaying of bear cat stacy's narration. when conversation with jerry was unavoidable, turner noted that she was giving a new and unaccustomed care to her diction, catching herself up from vernacular to an effort at more correct forms. "blossom," he gravely questioned her one day, "what makes ye so mindful of yore p's and q's when ye hes speech with jerry henderson?" "i reckon hit's jest shame fer my ign'rance," she candidly replied, forgetting to be ashamed of it now that the stranger was no longer present. "and yit," he reminded her, "ye've got more eddication now then common--hyarabouts." "_hyarabouts_, yes," came the prompt retort, touched with irony. "so hev _you_. air ye satisfied with hit?" "no," he admitted honestly. "god knows i hain't!" * * * * * one evening kinnard towers entered the saloon at the quarterhouse and stood unobserved at the door, as he watched the roistering crowd about the bar. it was a squalid place, but to the foreign eye it would have been, in a sordid sense, interesting. its walls and the eight-foot stockade that went around it were stoutly builded of hewn timbers as though it had been planned with a view toward defense against siege. a few lithographed calendars from mail-order houses afforded the sole note of decoration to the interior. the ordinary bar-mirror was dispensed with. it could hardly have come across the mountain intact. had it come it could scarcely have survived. the less perishable fixtures of woodwork and ceiling bore testimony to that in their pitted scars reminiscent of gun-play undertaken in rude sport--and in deadly earnest. the shutters, heavy and solid, had on occasion done service as stretchers and cooling boards. vilely odorous kerosene lamps swung against the walls, dimly abetted by tin reflectors, and across the floor went the painted white line of the state border. at the room's exact center were two huge letters. that east of the line was v. and that west was k. the air was thick with the reek of smoke and the fumes of liquor. the boisterousness was raucously profane--the general atmosphere was that of an unclean rookery. as the proprietor stood at the threshold, loud guffaws of maudlin laughter greeted his ears and, seeking the concrete cause, his gaze encountered ratler webb, propped against the bar, somewhat redder of eye and more unsteady on his legs than usual. obviously he was the enraged butt of ill-advised heckling. "ye hadn't ought ter hev crossed bear cat," suggested a badgering voice. "then ye wouldn't hev a busted nose. he's a bad man ter fool with. thar war witches at his bornin'." "i reckon bear cat knows what's healthful fer him," snarled webb. "when we meets in ther highway he rides plumb round me." the speaker broke off and, with a sweeping truculence, challenged contradiction. "air any of you men friends of his'n? does airy one of ye aim ter dispute what i says?" silence ensued, possibly influenced by the circumstance that ratler's hand was on his pistol grip as he spoke, so he continued: "ef i sought ter be a damn' tale-bearer, i could penitenshery him fer blockadin' right now, but thet wouldn't satisfy me nohow. i aims ter handle him my own self." again there was absence of contradiction near about the braggart, though ripples of derisive mirth trickled in from the outskirts. ratler jerked out his weapon and leaned against the bar. as he waved the muzzle about he stormed furiously: "who laughed back thar?" and no one volunteered response. webb squinted hazily up at one of the reflector-backed lamps. "damn thet light," he exclaimed. "hit hurts my eyes." there followed a report and the lamp fell crashing. for a brief space the drunken man stood holding the smoking weapon in his hand, then he looked up and started, but this time he let the pistol swing inactive at his side and the truculent blackness of his face faded to an expression of dismay. kinnard towers stood facing him with an unpleasant coldness in his eyes. "i reckon, ratler," suggested the proprietor, "ye'd better come along with me. i wants ter hev peaceable speech with ye." in a room above-stairs kinnard motioned him to a chair much as a teacher might command a child taken red-handed in some mad prank. "ratler, hit hain't a right wise thing ter talk over-much," he volunteered at last. "whar air thet still ye spoke erbout--bear cat stacy's still?" webb cringed. "i war jest a-talkin'. i don't know nuthin' erbout no sich still." what means of loosening unwilling tongues kinnard towers commanded was his own secret. a half hour later he knew what he wished to know and ratler webb left the place. upon his ishmaelite neck was firmly fastened the collar of vassalage to the baron of the quarterhouse. on the day following that evening towers talked with black tom carmichael. "this man henderson," he said musingly, "air plumb stirring up ther country. i reckon hit'd better be seen to." black tom nodded. "thet oughtn't ter be much trouble." but towers shook his blond head with an air of less assured confidence. "ter me hit don't look like no easy matter. lone stacy's givin' him countenance. ef i war ter run him outen these parts i reckon ther stacys would jest about swarm inter war over hit." "what does ye aim ter do, kinnard?" "so far i'm only bidin' my time, but i aims ter keep a mighty sharp eye on him. he hain't made no move yit, but he's gainin' friends fast an' a man's obleeged ter kinderly plan ahead. when ther time's ripe he's got ter go." towers paused, then added significantly, "one way or another--but afore thet's undertook, i 'lows ter git rid of his protectors." "thet's a mighty perilous thing ter try, kinnard," demurred the lieutenant in a voice fraught with anxiety. "ye kain't bring hit ter pass without ye opens up ther war afresh--an' _this_ time they'd hev bear cat ter lead 'em." but towers smiled easily. "i've got a plan, tom. they won't even suspicion i knows anything about events. i'm goin' ter foller mr. henderson's counsel an' do things ther _new_ way, 'stid of ther old." chapter viii henderson found brother fulkerson a preacher who, more by service and example and comforting the disconsolate than by pulpit oratory, held a strong influence upon his people, and commanded their deep devotion. his quiet ministry had indeed been heard of beyond the hills and even in the black days of feudal hatred, dead lines had been wiped out for him so that he came and went freely among both factions, and no man doubted him. kindly, grave and steadfast, henderson found him to be, and possessed of a natively shrewd brain, as well. blossom was usually at the fulkerson house when jerry called, but she fitted silently in the background and her eyes regarded him with that shy gravity, in which he found an insurmountable barrier to better acquaintance. one morning as he passed the fulkerson abode he found the girl alone by the gate--and paused there. the season's first tenderness of greenery along the slopes had ripened now to the sunburned and freckled warmth of midsummer, but the day was young enough for lingering drops of the heavy dew to remain on the petals of the morning-glories and the weed stalks along the roadside. between the waxen delicacy and rich variety of the morning-glory petals and the bloom of the girl, jerry fell musingly to tracing analogies. the morning-glory is among the most plebeian of flowering things, boasting no nobility except a charm too fragile to endure long its coarse companionship with smart-weed and mullen, so that each day it comes confidently into being only to shrink shortly into disappointed death. blossom, too, would in the course of nature and environment, have a brief bloom and a swift fading--but just now her beauty was only enhanced by the pathos of its doom. "blossom," he smilingly suggested, "i'd like to be friends with you, just as i am with turner. i'm not really an evil spirit you know, yet you seem always half afraid of me." the girl's lashes drooped shyly, veiling her splendid eyes, but she made no immediate response to his amenities, and henderson laughed. "it's all the stranger," he said, "because i can't forget our first meeting. then you were the spirit of warfare. i can still seem to see you standing there barring the path; your eyes ablaze and your nostrils aquiver with righteous wrath." for an instant, in recollection of the incident, she forgot her timidity and there flashed into her face the swift illumination of a smile. "thet war when i 'lowed ye war an enemy. folks don't show no--i mean don't show any--fear of thar enemies. leastways--at least--mountain folks don't." he understood that attitude, but he smiled, pretending to misconstrue it. "then i'm not dangerous as an enemy? it's only when i seek to be a friend that i need be feared?" her flush deepened into positive confusion and her reply was faltering. "i didn't mean nothin' like thet. hit's jest thet when i tries ter talk with ye, i feels so plumb ign'rant an'--an' benighted--thet--thet----" she broke off and the man leaning on the fence bent toward her. "you mean that when you talk to me you think i'm comparing you with the girls i know down below, isn't that it?" blossom nodded her head and added, "with gals--girls i mean--that wears fancy fixin's an' talks grammar." "sit down there for a minute, blossom," he commanded, and when she had enthroned herself on the square-hewn horse-block by the gate he seated himself, cross-legged at her feet. "grammar isn't so very hard to learn," he assured her. "and any woman who carries herself with your lance-like ease, starts out equipped with more than 'fancy fixin's.' i want to tell you about a dream i had the other night." at once her face grew as absorbed as a child's at the promise of a fairy story. "i dreamed that i went to a very grand ball in a city down below. the ladies were gorgeously dressed, but late in the evening an unknown girl came into the room and everybody turned to look at her, forgetting all the rest of the party." he paused a moment before adding, "i dreamed that that girl was you." "what did they all hev ter say about me?" she eagerly demanded. "to be perfectly frank--you see it was a dream--most of them just exclaimed: 'my god!'" "i don't hardly censure 'em," admitted blossom. "i reckon i cut a right sorry figger at that party." henderson laughed aloud. "but don't you see, that wasn't it at all. they were all breathless with admiration. you had the things they would have given all their jewels for--things they can't buy." for a little space she looked at him with serious, pained eyes, suspicious of ridicule, then the expression altered to bewilderment, and her question came in a lowered voice. "things i hev thet they lacks? what manner of things air them--i mean----those?" "the very rare gifts of originality and an elfin personality," he assured her. "besides that you have beauty of the freshest and most colorful sort." for a moment blossom flushed again shyly, then she lifted one hand and pointed across the road. "see thet white flower? thet's wild parsely. i always calls it the pore relation to the elder bush--but it's jest got to stay a pore relation--always--because it started out thet way." henderson, as the summer progressed, discovered an absurd thought lurking in his mind with annoying pertinacity. he could not for long banish the fanciful picture of blossom fulkerson transplanted--of blossom as she might be with fuller opportunities for development. there is an undeniable fascination in building air-castles about the cinderella theme of human transformations and the sight of her always teased his imagination into play. that these fantasies bore any personal relation to himself he did not admit or even suspect. readily enough, and satisfactorily enough he explained to himself that he, who was accustomed to a life of teeming activities, was here marooned in monotony. all things are measurable by contrasts, and in her little world, blossom stood out radiantly and exquisitely different from her colorless sisters. when he had crossed cedar mountain again and boarded a railroad train, more vital things would engage him, and he would promptly forget the beautiful little barbarian. one hot afternoon in late july jerry henderson sat in the lounging-room of his club in louisville. the windows were open and the street noises, after the still whispers of the mountains, seemed to beat on his senses with discordant insistence. down the length of the broad, wainscoted hall he saw a party of young men in flannels and girls in soft muslins passing out and he growled testily. "all cut to a single pattern!" he exclaimed. "all impeccably monotonous!" then he irrelevantly added to himself, "i'm allowing myself to become absurd--i expect its the damned heat. anyhow she's bear cat stacy's gal!" as jerry sat alone he was, quite unconsciously, affording a theme of conversation for two fellow clubmen in the billiard-room. "i see jerry henderson has reappeared in our midst," commented one. "i wonder what titanic enterprise is engaging his genius just now." "give it up," was the laconic reply. "but whatever it is, i'm ready to wager he'll emerge from it unscathed and that everybody who backs him will be ruined. that's the history of his buccaneer activities up to date." "what's his secret? why don't his creditors fall on him and destroy him?" inquired the first speaker and his companion yawned. "it's the damned charm of the fellow, i suppose. he could hypnotize the shah of persia into calvinism." for a moment the speakers fell silent, watching a shot on the pool-table, then one of them spoke with languid interest. "whatever we may think of our friend henderson, he's a picturesque figure, and he's running a most diverting race. he's always just a jump behind a billion dollars and just a jump ahead of the wolf and the constable." while this conversation proceeded, a heavy-set and elderly gentleman, with determined eyes, entered the club. it was president wallace of the c. and s-e railways, and palpably something was on his mind. glancing in at the reading-room, and seeing henderson there, he promptly disposed himself in a heavily cushioned chair at his side and inquired: "well, what have you to report?" "very little so far," rejoined henderson with his suavest smile. "you see, there's a man up there who has an annoying capacity for seeing into things and through things. on the day of my arrival he put his finger on my actual purpose in coming." "you mean kinnard towers, i presume." the railroad president drummed thoughtfully on the table-top with his fingers. "i was afraid he would try to hold us up." jerry nodded. "he pretends to be unalterably opposed to innovation, but i fancy he really wants to be let in on the ground floor. he has decided that unless he shares our loot, there is to be no plundering." "possibly," the railroad magnate spoke thoughtfully, "we'd better meet his terms. the damned outlaw has power up there and we stand to win--or lose--a little empire of wealth." henderson's closed fist fell softly but very firmly on the table. his tone was smooth and determined. "please leave me in command for a while, mr. wallace. i mean to beat this highbinder at his own favorite game. if we yield to him he'll emasculate our profits. you gave me five years when we first discussed this thing. in that time i can accomplish it." "take seven if you need them. it's worth it." sitting in the smoking-car of the train that was transporting him again from civilization to "back of beyond," jerry henderson found himself absorbed in somewhat disquieting thoughts. he gazed out with a dulled admiration on the fertility of blue-grass farms where the land rolled with as smooth and gracious a swell as a woman's bosom. always heretofore the central kentucky mansions with their colonial dignity and quiet air of pride had brought an eager appreciation to his thoughts--the tribute of one who worships an aristocracy based on wealth. but now when he saw again the tangled underbrush and outcropping rock of the first foothills, something in him cried out, for the first time since boyhood, "i'm going home!" when the altitudes began to clamber into the loftiness of peaks, with wet streamers of cloud along their slopes, the feeling grew. the sight of an eagle circling far overhead almost excited him. jerry henderson was a soldier of fortune, with napoleonic dreams, and finance was his terrain of conquest. to its overweening ambition he had subordinated everything else. to that attainment he had pointed his whole training, cultivating himself not only in the practicalities of life but also in its refinements, until his bearing, his speech, his manners were possibly a shade too meticulously perfect; too impeccably starched. where other men had permitted themselves mild adventures in love and moderate indulgence in drink, he had set upon his conduct a rigid censorship. his heart, like his conduct, had been severely schooled, for upon marriage, as upon all else, he looked with an opportunist's eye. his wife must come as an ally, strengthening his position socially and financially. she must be a lady of the old aristocracy, bringing to his house cultivated charm and the power of wealth. she must be fitted, when he took his place among the financially elect, to reign with him. so it was strange that as he sat here in the smoking-car he should be thinking of an unlettered girl across cedar mountain, and acknowledging with a boyish elation that on the way to lone stacy's house he would pass her cabin, see her--hear the lilting music of her laugh. and when cedar mountain itself rose before him he swung his way with buoyant stride, up one side and down the other of the range. blossom was not in sight when at last he reached the fulkerson cabin, but the door stood open and henderson approached it stealthily. he paused for a moment, pondering how conspicuously the small house contrasted with the shabbiness of its neighborhood. it was as trim as a swiss chalet, reflecting the personality of its mistress. door frames and window casings were neatly painted--and he knew that was bear cat's labor of love. the low hickory-withed chairs on the porch were put together with an approach to a craftsman's skill--and he knew that, too, was bear cat's labor of love. as he reached the porch he saw the girl herself sitting just within, and a broad shaft of sun fell across her, lighting the exquisite quality of her cheeks and the richness of her hair. she was bending studiously over a book, and her lips were drooping with an unconscious wistfulness. then, as his shadow fell, blossom looked up and, in the sudden delight with which she came to her feet, she betrayed her secret of a welcome deeper than that accorded to a friendly but casual stranger. they were still very much engrossed in each other when half an hour later bear cat stacy appeared without warning in the door. for just a moment he halted on the threshold with pained eyes, before he entered. the two men walked home together and, along the way, the younger was unaccountably silent. his demeanor had relapsed into that shadow of sullenness which it had often worn before henderson's coming. finally jerry smilingly demanded an explanation and bear cat stacy turned upon him a face which had suddenly paled. he spoke with a dead evenness. "we've been honest with each other up to now, mr. henderson, an' i demands thet ye be honest with me still." "i aim to be, turner. what is it?" the younger man gulped down a lump which had suddenly risen in his throat, and jerked his head toward the house they had just left. "hit's blossom. does ye aim ter--ter co'te her?" "court her! what put such an idea into your head?" "never mind what put hit thar. i've got ter know! blossom hain't never promised ter wed me, yit, but----" he broke off and for a little while could not resume though his face was expressive enough of his wretchedness. finally he echoed: "i've got to know! ef she'd rather marry _you_, she's got a license ter choose a-tween us. only i hadn't never thought of thet--an'----." once more he fell silent. "my god, turner," exclaimed jerry, with a sudden realization of the absurdity of such an idea, "i could have no thought of marrying her." "why couldn't ye?" for an instant the gray eyes narrowed and into them came a dangerous gleam. "hain't she good enough--fer you or any other man?" jerry henderson nodded with grave assent. "she's good enough for any man alive," he declared. "but i can't think of marriage at all now. all my plans of life prohibit that." bear cat stacy drank in the clear air in a long breath of joyous relief. "that's all i needs ter know," he said with entire sincerity. "only," his voice dropped and he spoke very gently, "only, i reckon ye don't realize how much yore eddycation counts with us thet wants hit an' hain't got hit. don't let her misunderstand ye none, mr. henderson. i don't want ter see her hurt." chapter ix marlin town lies cradled in the elbow of the river and about its ragged edges the hills stand beetling, hemming it in. had it been located in switzerland, it would have been acclaimed in guide-book and traveler's tales for the sheer beauty of its surroundings. hither, when the summer had spent its heat and the hard duties of the farmer had relaxed, flocked the men and women and the children of the country side for that annual diversion which combined with the ardor of religious pilgrimage a long-denied hunger for personal intercourse and excitement. then, in fine, came "big-meeting time." the clans gathered from "'way over on t'other side of nowhars." they trooped in from communities which the circuit rider visited so rarely that it was no disgrace for a man and a maid to dwell together as man and wife until a child had been born to them before opportunity came to have the marriage rites solemnized. they flocked from localities so remote that in them sometimes the dead lay buried without funeral until an itinerant minister chanced by to hold obsequies over all delinquent graves in common. it is even told how occasionally a widowed husband wept over the mortal remains of his first and second wife--at a sermon held for both. so while the magnet which draws them out of their deep-burrowed existence is the camp-meeting with its hymns and discourse, the occasion holds also the secular importance of county-fair and social conclave. brother fulkerson left his cabin before daylight one morning for the journey to town, riding his old mare, with his daughter on a pillion behind him. with them started lone stacy, bear cat and henderson, though since these three must travel with only two mules, the younger men followed the ancient custom of "riding and tying"--alternating in the saddle and on foot. the air held the heady bouquet of autumn now with the flavor of cider presses and of ripened fox-grapes for the delight of the nostril and the dreamy softness of hazy horizons for the eye. oak and poplar flaunted their carnival color along the hillsides. maples threw out scarlet and orange banners against the sedate tone of the pines and cedars. among the falling acorns of the woods, mast-fed razor-backs were fattening against the day of slaughter, when for a little while the scantily supplied cabin-dwellers would be abundantly provisioned with pork and cider. bear cat's eyes dwelt steadfastly on blossom, and jerry henderson's turned toward her oftener than he meant them to. there was, in the air, a pervasive holiday spirit. roads usually so bare of travel were full now, full with a rude procession of wayfarers; men trudging along with trailing families at their heels; calico-clad women riding sideways on bony steeds, sometimes bizarre in fanciful efforts at finery; tow-headed children with wide-staring eyes. then at last they were in marlin town, rubbing shoulders with all the narrow mountain world. there was kinnard towers riding among his rifle-armed henchmen. he sat stiff in his saddle, baronially pleased as men pointed him out,--and jerry thought it a safe wager that kinnard had not come as a convert to the mourners' bench. towers nodded affably and shouted his salutation in passing. but among all the strange types foregathered here with a tone of the medieval about them and over them, none were more fantastic than the two preachers who were to conduct the revival. brother fulkerson and his party encountered this pair as they passed the court-house. both were tall, cadaverous and preternaturally solemn of visage. both wore rusty prince albert coats faded to a threadbare green. one had a collar and no necktie; the other a necktie and no collar. between the frayed bottoms of shrunken trousers and the battered tops of crude brogans each showed a dusty and unstockinged shank. "who are these preachers we're going to hear?" inquired jerry henderson, and brother fulkerson shook his head dubiously. "i heer tell thet they're some new sect," was the guarded reply. "i don't hold with them none, myself." "they are sensational exhorters, i take it," hazarded jerry, and again the preacher from across the mountain tempered his criticism with charity: "folks say so. i don't aim ter jedge 'em though--leastways not till i've sat under th'ar discourse first." but bear cat was restrained by no such inhibition and his voice was openly scornful. "they're ther sort of preachers thet keeps folks benighted. all they teaches is superstition an' ign'rance." "son," suggested lone stacy with a grave consideration, "i wouldn't hardly condemn 'em unheard, ef i was you. they claims ter be preachers of god's word, an' thar's room, a-plenty, fer all sorts an' sects." but the younger man's eyes glowed with that tawny fire of militant rebellion, which was awakening in him against all the shackling influences of mental lethargy. "they don't believe in book larnin'," went on bear cat contemptuously, "because they says thar hain't no holy ghost in hit. they harangues so long es thar wind holds out, an' all they keers about is how many takes a big through at meetin'." jerry smiled at the characterization. he had seen men and women "take big throughs," that hysterical--and often ephemeral declaration of conversion which measures its over-wrought zeal by the vehemence of outcry and bodily contortion with which the convert comes through to the mourners' bench. later in the day henderson and bear cat, returning from the livery stable, were walking single-file along the narrow plank that served as a sidewalk, when they encountered a young man, blood-shot of eye and malevolent of expression. either bear cat stacy who was in advance or the newcomer must step down into the mud and surrender the right-of-way. if pedestrians so situated are friends, each will be prompt of courtesy. if they are enemies, ethics require that the weaker will must yield and the stronger hold to its rights. now henderson perceived that the two were confronting each other rigidly. over turner's shoulder he could see the bleary eyes of the other smolder with a wrath that he knew meant blood-lust as bear cat waved his hand in an imperious gesture which commanded as plainly as words, "give me the road!" it was a brief and tense situation, but it was being publicly observed and he who surrendered would be branded in street-corner gossip with cowardice. passers-by, across the way, halted and held their breath. the more timid glanced about for shelter should gun-play ensue, but after an instant ratler webb turned grudgingly aside and stepped down into the outer road. bear cat stacy walked on, stiffly erect, and he did not turn his head for a backward glance. ratler halted where he stood, dangerously snarling, and his hand fumbled for a moment under his coat. he challengingly swept the faces of all men in sight, and murmurs of laughter, which had broken out in sheer relief at a relaxed tension, died as abruptly as they had begun. every pair of eyes became studiously inattentive. * * * * * through the crowds that overflowed the town moved one figure who seemed more the ishmaelite than even the disgraced ratler. men who had, in the past, plotted against each other's lives to-day "met an' made their manners" with all outward guise of complete amity, yet this one figure walked ungreeted or recognized only with the curt nod which was in itself a modified ostracism. it must be said of him that he bore the baleful insistence of public enmity with a half-contemptuous steadiness in his own eyes, and a certain bold dignity of bearing. mark tapier--mongrelized by mountain pronunciation into tapper--was the revenue officer and behind him, though operating from remote distance, lay the power of washington. to comprehend the universal hatred of the backwoods highlander for the "revenue" one must step back from to-day's standard of vision into the far past and accept that prejudice which existed when as legalistic a mind as blackstone said: "from its original to the present time, the very name of excise has been odious to the people of england," and when dr. johnson defined the term in his dictionary as: "a hateful tax levied upon commodities ... by wretches hired by those to whom excise is paid." such a "wretch" was mark tapper in the local forum of public thought; a wretch with an avocation dependent upon stealth and treachery of broken confidences; profiting like judas iscariot upon blood-money. yet before the first day of "big meeting time" had progressed to noon, mark tapper sat in close and secret conference with the strongest and most typical exponent of the old order of the hills. into the side door of the court-house strolled kinnard towers at ten-thirty in the morning. from the jailer, who was his vassal, he received the key which unlocked the small study giving off from the circuit court-room--the judge's chamber--now vacant and cobwebbed. in this sanctum of the law's ostensible upholding, surrounded by battered volumes of code and precedent, the man who was above the law received first jud white, the town marshal. "i reckon sich a gatherin' of folks es this hyar sort of complicates yore job, jud," he began blandly. "i thought i ought to tell ye thet ratler webb's broguein' round town gittin' fuller of licker an' hostility every minute thet goes by." the town marshal scowled with a joyless foreboding. "mebby," he tentatively mused, "hit moutn't be a bad idee ter clap him in ther jail-house right now--afore he gits too pizen mean ter handle." but with judicial forbearance kinnard towers shook his head. "no, i wouldn't counsel ye ter do thet. hit wouldn't be hardly lawful. i've done instructed black tom carmichael ter kinderly keep an eye on him." after a moment he casually added: "thar's bad blood betwixt ratler an' young bear cat stacy. hit would sarve a better purpose fer ye ter keep a heedful watch on bear cat." the town marshal's face fell. he felt that to him was being assigned a greater share than his poor deserts in the matter of safe-guarding the peace and dignity of the commonwealth. towers caught the crestfallen frown and repressed a twinkle of amusement. "what's ther matter, jud? air ye a-settin' on carpet tacks?" he inquired with even, good humor. "or air ye jest plain skeered at ther idee of contraryin' bear cat stacy?" "no, i hain't skeered of bear cat," lied the officer, reddening. "ef he breaches ther peace terday i aims ter jail him fer hit ther same es anybody else." he paused, then broke out with fervor: "but he's a mighty good man ter leave alone, kinnard. he's ther best man ter leave alone i ever met up with, an' thet's god's own blessed truth." towers laughed. "well, son, i aims ter be kinderly keepin' in touch with bear cat stacy myself, an' ef any ruction rises a-tween ye, i'll be thar ter straighten hit out. so, if need be,--why, jest treat him like anybody else--as ye says--an' don't be narvous about hit." ten minutes after the dejected exit of jud white, mark tapper, the revenuer, entered the front door of the courthouse and shouldered his way aggressively among loungers who eyed him with hostile vindictiveness. passing unchallenged between several rifle-bearers in the upper area, he entered the judge's office, where towers sat expectantly waiting. kinnard opened the interview by drawing forth his wallet and counting sundry bank notes into tapper's extended palm. "kinnard," suggested the federal sleuth irritably, "it was clearly understood between us that you were going to limit those stills you're interested in--not develop them into a damned syndicate." towers frowned a little. "ther more thar is of 'em ther more ye gits, don't ye?" "yes, and where my revenue, from your hush money, increases a picayune, my peril increases--vastly. one tip to the government, and i'm ruined." "oh, pshaw, mark," urged towers conciliatingly, "hit's jest an exchange of leetle favors a-tween us. there's some fellers i've got ter kinderly protect an' thar's some information ye needs ter hev in yore business--so 'stid of wagin' war on one another we trades tergether. thet's all." for a few moments the revenue officer restlessly paced the room, then, halting before the desk, he rapped sharply with his knuckles. "since i let myself in for this folly of selling you protection i'm not damned fool enough to try to threaten you. you can hurt me worse than i can hurt you--and have me assassinated to boot--but unless we can arrange things more to my liking, i'll get myself transferred to another district--and you'll have to begin all over again." towers did not at once answer. when he did it was with the air of one tendering the olive branch of peace. "set down, mark, an' let's be reasonable. if so be thar's dissatisfaction i reckon we kin fix matters. right now i've got a bigger project in mind than _thet_--an' i needs yore aid. this here jerry henderson stands mightily in my light an' i aims ter be rid of him. he hain't got no money invested hyar. he kin go without no loss ner trouble. he don't even hev ter put out ther fire an' call ther dawg. he sets by lone stacy's fire an' he hain't got no dawg." "if you mean a watch-dog he doesn't need one--so long as the stacys choose to protect him." towers slowly nodded. "thet's right, but with lone stacy and bear cat moved away fer a leetle spell, hit would be as easy as old shoes." "and how do you aim to move them?" "thet's whar you comes in, mark. lone's runnin' a blockade still over on little slippery." the revenuer leaned forward with as unreceptive a stare as though his companion had graciously proffered him the gift of a hornet's nest. "hold on," he bluntly protested, "i have no evidence of that--and what's more, i don't want any." "air you like ther balance of 'em hyarabouts?" came kinnard's satiric inquiry. "air ye skeered ter tackle bear cat stacy?" mark tapper replied with entire sincerity. "yes, i'm afraid to tackle him--and i'm brave enough to admit it. once in a century a man like that is born and he's born to be a master. i warn you betimes, kinnard, _leave him alone_! play with a keg of blasting powder and a lighted match if you like. tickle a kicking mule if you've a mind to, but _leave bear cat alone_!" the minion of the federal law rose from his chair and spoke excitedly. "and if you're hell-bent on starting an avalanche, do it for yourself--don't try to make me pull it down on my own head, because i won't do it." kinnard towers leaned back in the judge's swivel chair and laughed uproariously. "mark, right sensibly at times, ye shows signs of human discernment. i hain't seekin' no open rupture with this young tiger cat my own self. i aims ter show in this matter only es his friend. _you_ hain't overly popular with them stacys nohow an' i've got hit all _dee_vised, ter plumb convince 'em thet ye're only actin' in ther lawful discharge of yore duty." "that will be very nice--if you succeed," commented the proposed catspaw dryly. "i aims ter succeed," came the prompt assurance. "i aims ter demonstrate thet thar war so much talkin' goin' round thet ye war plumb obleeged ter act an' thet thar hain't no profit in resistin'. i'll tell 'em hit's a weak case atter all. they won't harm ye. ye hain't a-goin' ter arrest ther boy nohow--jest ther old man." "and leave bear cat foot-loose to avenge his daddy! no thank you. not for me." again towers smiled. "now don't be short-sighted, mark. bear cat won't be hyar neither." "why won't he be here? because you'll tell him to go?" "i won't need ter say a word. his daddy'll counsel him ter leave fer a spell an' hide out--so thet he kain't be tuck down ter looeyville fer a gover'_ment_ witness." "when am i supposed to perform this highly spectacular stunt?" inquired mark tapper. "i aims ter hev ye do hit this afternoon." "this afternoon--with every foot of street and sidewalk full of wild men, ready to pull me to pieces!" the revenuer's face was hot with amazement. "besides i have no evidence." "ye kin git thet later," towers assured him calmly. "besides we don't keer a heap if ye fails ter convict. we only wants 'em outen ther way fer a while. es fer ther crowds, i'm fixed ter safeguard ye. i've got all my people hyar--ready--an' armed. i aims ter run things an' keep peace in marlin town terday!" chapter x on the river bank at the outskirts of marlin town that afternoon so primitive was the aspect of life that it seemed appropriate to say in scriptural form: "a great multitude was gathered together." the haze of indian summer lay veil-like and sweetly brooding along the ridged and purple horizon. the mountainsides flared with torch-like fires of autumnal splendor--and the quaint old town with its shingled roofs and its ox-teams in the streets, lay sleepily quiet in the mid-distance. toward the crudely constructed rostrum of the two preachers in long-tailed coats, strained the eyes of the throng, pathetically solemn in their tense earnestness. men bent with labor and women broken by toil and perennial child-bearing; children whose faces bore the stupid vacuity of in-bred degeneracy; other children alert and keen, needing only the chance they would never have. it was a sea of unlettered humanity in jeans and calico, in hodden-gray and homespun--seeking a sign from heaven, less to save their immortal souls than to break the tedium of their mortal weariness. henderson stood with folded arms beside the preacher whose pattern of faith differed from that of the two exhorters he had come to hear. blossom's cheeks were abloom and her eyes, back of their grave courtesy, rippled with a suppressed amusement. to her mind, her father exemplified true ministry and these others were interesting quacks, but to bear cat, standing at her elbow, they were performers whose clownish antics savored of charlatanism--and who capitalized the illiteracy of their hearers. lone stacy was there, too, but with a mask-like impassiveness of feature that betrayed neither the trend nor color of his thought. not far distant, though above and beyond the press of the crowd, stood the towers chief, and his four guardians, and shifting here and there, sauntered others of his henchmen, swinging rifles at their sides and watchful, through their seeming carelessness, for any signal from him. once for a moment henderson caught a glimpse of ratler webb's skulking figure with a vindictive glance bent upon bear cat--but in another instant he had disappeared. the first of the exhorters had swung into the full tide of his discourse. his arm swung flail-like. his eyes rolled in awe-provoking frenzy. his voice leaped and fell after the fashion of a troubled wind and through his pauses there came back to him the occasional low wail of some almost convinced sinner. gradually, under this invocation of passionate phrase and "holy-tone," the tide of crowd-psychology was mounting to hysteria. between sentences and phrases the preacher interlarded his sermon with grunts of emotion-laden "oh's" and "ah's." "fer them thet denies ther faith, oh brethren--oh! ah! ther pits of hell air yawnin' wide an' red! almighty god air jest a-bidin' his time afore he kicks 'em inter ther ragin', fiery furnace an' ther caldrons of molten brimstone, oh! ah!" the speaker rolled his eyes skyward until only their whites remained visible. with his upflung fingers clawing talon-wise at the air he froze abruptly out of crescendo into grotesque and motionless silence. through the close-ranked listeners ran a shuddering quaver, followed by a sighing sound like rising wind which in turn broke into a shrieking chorus of "amens!" and "hallelujahs!" the simple throng was an instrument upon which he played. their naive credulity was his keyboard. joel fulkerson's eyes were mirrors of silent pain as he looked on and listened. "lord god," he said in his heart, "i have toiled a lifetime in thy service and men have hardened their hearts. yet to these who harangue them in the market-place, they give ear--ay, and shed abundant tears." then the long-coated, long-haired preacher having exhausted the dramatic value of the pause, launched himself afresh. "ther lord hes said thet ef a man hes faith, even so sizeable es a mustard seed, he shell say ter thet mounting, 'move' an' hit'll plumb move! oh-ah!" once more the tone dwindled to a haunting whisper, then vaulted into sudden thunder. "brethren, i _hev_ sich faith! right now i could say ter thet thar mounting thet's stood thar since ther commencement of time, 'move,' an' hit would roll away like a cloud afore ther wind! right now afore ye all, i could walk down ter thet river an' cross hits deep waters dry-shod!" jerry henderson, looking with amusement about the overwrought crowd, saw no spirit of skepticism on any untutored face, only a superstitiously deep earnestness everywhere. now even the hysterical "amens!" which had been like responses to a crazed litany were left unspoken. the hearers sat in a strained silence; a voicelessness of bated breath--as if awed into a trance. that stillness held hypnotically and long. then like a bomb bursting in a cathedral came a clear voice, frankly scornful and full of challenge from somewhere on the fringe of the congregation. "all right--let's see ye do hit! let's see ye walk over ther waters dry-shod!" petrified, breathlessly shocked, men and women held for a little space their stunned poses, so that a margin of silence gave emphasis to the sacrilege. then, gradually gathering volume, from a gasp to a murmur, from a murmur to a sullen roar, spoke the voice of resentment. some indignant person, wanting full comprehension and seeking only a biblical form of expression, shouted loudly: "crucify him!" and following that, pandemonium drowned out individual utterances. kinnard towers did not share in the general excitement. he only bit liberally from his tobacco plug and remarked: "i reckon bear cat stacy's drunk ergin." but bear cat stacy, standing at the point from which he had interrupted the meeting, looked on with blazing eyes and said nothing. "now ye've done gone an' made another damn' fool of yourself!" whispered his father hoarsely in his ear. "ye've done disturbed public worship--an' as like es not hit'll end in bloodshed." turner made no reply. his fingers were tense as they gripped biceps equally set. the fury of his face died into quiet seriousness. if the howling mob destroyed him he had, at least, flung down the gauntlet to these impostors who sought to victimize the helplessness of ignorance. about him surged a crowd with shuffling feet and murmuring undertones; a crowd that moved and swayed like milling cattle in a corral, awaiting only leadership for violence. then abruptly a pistol shot ripped out, followed instantly by another, and the edges of the throng began an excited eddying of stampede. the babel of high voices, questioning, volunteering unreliable information, swelling into a deep-throated outcry, became inarticulate. the first impression was that some one in a moment of fanaticism had conceived himself called upon to punish sacrilege. the second had it that bear cat stacy himself, not satisfied with his impious beginnings, was bent on carrying his disturbance to a more sweeping conclusion. neither assumption was accurate. a few moments before bear cat's outbreak, kinnard towers had whispered to black tom carmichael, indicating with a glance of his eye the skulking figure of ratler webb, "watch him." nodding in response to that whisper, black tom had strolled casually over, stationing himself directly behind bear cat. his face wore a calm benignity and his arms were crossed on his breast so peacefully that one would hardly have guessed the right hand caressed the grip of an automatic pistol and that the pistol had already been drawn half free from its hidden holster. it happened that ratler's hand, in his coat pocket, was also nursing a weapon. ratler was biding his time. he had read into every face a contemptuous mockery for his surrender of the road to turner stacy that morning. in his disordered brain a fixed idea had festered into the mandate of a single word: "revengeance." then when bear cat had drawn down on himself the wrath of an outraged camp-meeting ratler thought his opportunity knocked. the crowd began to shift and move so that the focus of men's impressions was blurred. availing himself of that momentary confusion, he stole a little nearer and shifted sidewise so that he might see around black tom carmichael's bulking shoulders. he glanced furtively about him. kinnard towers was looking off abstractedly--another way. no one at front or back seemed to be noticing him. ratler webb's arm flashed up with a swiftness that was sheer slight-of-hand and black tom's vigilant eye caught a dull glint of blue metal. with a legerdemain superlatively quick, carmichael's hand, too, flashed from his breast. his pistol spoke, and ratler's shot was a harmless one into the air. when the startled faces turned that way ratler was staggering back with a flesh wound and black tom was once more standing calmly by. on the ground between his feet and bear cat stacy's, as near to the one as the other, lay a smoking pistol. "bear cat's done shot ratler webb!" yelled a treble voice, and again the agitated crowd broke into a confused roar. turner bent quickly toward blossom and spoke in a tense whisper. "leave hyar fer god's sake. this hain't no place fer _you_ right now!" the girl's eyes leaped into instant and amazonian fire and, as her chin came up, she answered in a low voice of unamenable obduracy: "so long es _you_ stays, i stays, too. i don't aim ter run away." the crowd was edging in, not swiftly but sullenly and there were faces through whose snarls showed such yellow fangs as suggested a wolf pack. here and there one could see the flash of a drawn pistol or the glint of a "dirk-knife." then, coming reluctantly, yet keyed to his hard duty by the consciousness of kinnard towers' scrutiny, jud white, the town marshal, arrived and laid a hand on bear cat's shoulder. "i reckon," he said, licking his lips, "ye'll hev ter come ter ther jail-house with me, bear cat." "what fer, jud?" inquired turner quietly, though the tawny fire was burning in his eyes. "i didn't shoot them shoots." "folks ses ye did, bear cat." "them folks lies." a sudden crescendo of violent outcry interrupted their debate. through it came shouts of: "kill ther blasphemer!" "string him up!" with a sudden flash of sardonic humor in his eyes bear cat suggested softly: "i reckon, jud, hit's yore duty ter kinderly protect yore prisoner, hain't hit?" a cold sweat broke out over the face of the town officer and as he stood irresolute, the crowd, in which mob passion was spreading like flames in dry grass, swayed in a brief indicision--and in that moment brother fulkerson stood forward, raising his arms above his head. "brethren," he cried in a voice that trembled, "i implores ye ter listen ter me. i hain't never lied ter ye afore now, an' unless my labors hev been fer naught, i des'arves ter be h'arkened to." curiosity prevailed and the din subsided enough to let the evangelist be heard. "i was standin' right hyar by bear cat stacy when them shots war fired," fulkerson went on earnestly, "an' i swears ter ye, with almighty god fer my witness, thet he didn't hev nothin' more ter do with hit then what i did." as he paused a sarcastic voice from the crowd demanded: "will ye swear he didn't aim ter break up ther meetin' neither?" "let me answer that question," shouted bear cat stacy, stepping defiantly forward. there was peril in that interruption, and the young man knew it. he realized that only a savage, cat-and-mouse spirit of prolonging excitement had, so far, held in leash the strained wrath of a crowd worked already to frenzy. but the mountaineer loves oratory of any sort, and a lynching need not be hurried through. they would have listened to brother fulkerson--but would they give _him_ a hearing? for a moment bear cat stood there, sweeping them with a gaze that held no fear and a great deal of open scorn. the effrontery of his attitude, the blaze of his eyes and even the rumors of his charmed life were having their effects. then he spoke: "any man thet charges me with blasphemin' lies! brother fulkerson hes done toiled his life away amongst ye--an' ye skeercely heeds his preachin'. i believes these fellers thet calls themselves god's sarvents ter be false prophets. instid of the light of knowledge, they offers ye ther smoke of ign'rance. they hev 'lowed thet they kin work miracles. ef they kin, why don't they? ef they kain't they lies an' sich a lie as thet air blasphemy. i called on 'em ter make good thar brag--an' now i calls on 'em ergin! let's see a miracle." he ended and, as the voice of the crowd rose once more, this time a shade less unanimous in tone, a strange thing happened. about bear cat stacy and the town marshal appeared a little knot of rifle-armed men, and coming to their front, kinnard towers bellowed: "men! listen!" they looked at his face and his guns--and listened. "i was standin' whar i could see this whole matter," asserted towers. "bear cat stacy never drawed nor fired no weepin. my friend tom carmichael shot ratler webb in _dee_fense of his life. ratler shot a shoot, too. i counsels ther town marshal not ter jail bear cat stacy, an' i counsels ther rest of ye ter settle down ergin ter quiet. mebby bear cat oughtn't ter hev interrupted ther preachin', but whoever aims ter harm him must needs take him away from me!" over the sea of faces ran a wave of amazement sounding out in a prolonged murmur. here was the incredible situation of a towers leader vouching for and protecting a stacy chieftain. feudal blood tingled with the drama of that realization. varied excitements were breaking the drab monotony of life to-day for marlin town! a voice shouted, "i reckon ratler needs a leetle shootin' anyhow," and the sally was greeted with laughter. the tide had turned. on bear cat's face, though, as he wheeled to his powerful rescuer was a mingling of emotions; surprise blended with a frown of unwillingly incurred obligation. "i'm obleeged ter ye, kinnard towers," he said dubiously, "but i reckon i could hev keered fer myself. i hain't seekin' ter be beholden ter ye." the florid man laughed. "ye hain't none beholden ter me, son," was his hearty disclaimer. "a man likes ter testify ter ther truth when he sees somebody falsely accused, thet's all." brother fulkerson and his daughter started back to little slippery that same evening, meaning to spend the night with friends a few miles from town. after bidding them farewell at the edge of the town, henderson and bear cat strolled back together toward the shack tavern where jerry had his quarters. the younger man's eyes were brooding, and suddenly he broke out in vehement insurgency: "i reckon i was a fool down thar by ther river--but i couldn't hold my peace deespite all my effort. hyar's a land dry-rottin' away in ign'rance--an' no man raisin' his voice fer its real betterment." his tone dropped and became gentle with an undernote of pain. "i looked at blossom, standin' thar, with a right ter ther best thar is--an' i could foresee ther misery an' tribulation of all this makin' her old in a few years. i jest had ter speak out." henderson only nodded. he, too, had been thinking of blossom, and he realized that wherever he went, when he left the hills, there was going to be an emptiness in his life. he was not going to be able to forget her. the shield which he had always held before his heart had failed to protect him against the dancing eyes of a girl who could not even speak correct english--the tilted chin of a girl who would not flee from a mob. "turner," he said, drawing himself together with an effort, "come over to the hotel with me. i'm going down to louisville for a few days, and i want you to help me make out a list of books for blossom and yourself." turner's eyes lighted. one man at least sought to be, in so far as he could, a torch-bearer. as they sat talking of titles and authors the boy's face softened and glowed with imagination. off through the window the peaks bulked loftily against the sunset's ash-of-rose. both men looked toward the west and a silence fell between them, then they heard hurried footsteps and, without knocking, jud white the town marshal, flung open the door. "bear cat," he announced briefly, "yore paw bade me fotch ye ter him direct. the revenue hes got him in ther jail-house, charged with blockadin'." chapter xi under the impact of these tidings turner stacy came to his feet with a sudden transformation of bearing. the poetic abstraction which had, a moment ago, been a facial mirror for the sunset mysticism, vanished to be harshly usurped by a spirit of sinister wrath. for several seconds he did not speak, but stood statuesquely taut and strained, the line of his lips straight and unbending over the angle of a set jaw. the yellow glow of the sinking sun seemed to light him as he stood by the window into a ruddy kinship with bronze, awakening a glint of metallic hardness on cheekbone, temple and dilated nostril. it was the menacing figure of a man whose ancestors had always settled their own scores in private reprisal and by undiscounted tally, and one just now forgetful of all save his heritage of blood. then the strained posture relaxed and bear cat stacy inquired in a tone of dead and impersonal calm: "mr. henderson, hev ye got a gun?" as jerry shook his head, bear cat wheeled abruptly on jud white: "lend me yore weepin, jud," he demanded with a manner of overbearing peremptoriness. "i'd love ter obleege ye, bear cat," haltingly parried the officer, "but i kain't hardly do hit--lawfully." volcanic fires burst instantly in the eyes where they had been smoldering, until from them seemed to spurt an outpouring of flame and the voice of command was as explosive as the rending thunders that release a flow of molten lava. "don't balk me, jud," stacy cautioned. "i'm in dire haste. air ye goin' ter loan me thet gun of yore own free will or hev i got ter take hit offen ye?" the town marshal glanced backward toward the exit, but with leopard swiftness bear cat was at the door, barring it with the weight of his body, and his breath was coming with deep intake of passion. after an irresolute moment, white surrendered his automatic pistol. but as turner gripped the knob, jerry henderson laid a deterring hand on his shoulder. "just a moment, bear cat," he said quietly. somewhat to his surprise the younger man paused and, as he turned his face questioningly to the speaker, some part of its fury dissolved. "this is a time, turner, when it's mighty easy to make a mistake," went on the promoter earnestly. "if your father sent for you, it's pretty certain that he wants to speak to you before you take any step." "thet's identically what he bade me caution ye, bear cat," echoed white. "he 'lowed thar'd be time enough fer reprisal later on." "mr. white," henderson demanded as he turned and fronted the marshal with a questioning gaze, "before he goes over there, i want you to give me your hand that this isn't a scheme to get bear cat stacy in the jail under false pretenses, so that he can be more easily arrested." "an' answer thet honest," turner warned vehemently, "because ef i don't walk outen thet jail-house es free es i goes inter hit, you won't never leave hit alive yoreself, jud. how comes hit ther revenue didn't seek ter arrest me, too?" "so holp me almighty god, men," the voice of the officer carried conviction of its sincerity. "i came over hyar only bearin' tidin's from lone stacy. i hain't aidin' no revenue. i heered mark tapper 'low thet he hedn't no charge ter mek ergin ye jest now." "in that case," declared henderson, assuming the rôle of spokesman, "we'll both go with you to the jail. bear cat will give me the gun, since he can't go in unsearched, and you will remain with me, unarmed, as a hostage until he comes out." "thet satisfies me, all right," readily agreed the town marshal. the jail-house at marlin town squats low of roof and uncompromising in its squareness to the left of the courthouse; hardly more than a brick pen, sturdily solid and sullenly unlovely of façade. when father and son met in the bare room where one rude chair was the only furnishing save for a tin basin on a soap-box, the fire of renewed wrath leaped in turner's eyes and he spoke with a tremor of voice: "i reckon ye knows full well, pap, thet i don't aim ter let ye lay hyar long. i aims ter tek ye outen hyar afore sun-up--ef i hes ter take ye single-handed!" the sunset was fading and in the bleak cell there was a grayness relieved only by the dim light from a high, barred slit that served as a window. the two men had to peer intently at each other through widened pupils to read the expression of lips and eyes. old lone stacy smiled grimly. "i'm obleeged ter ye, son." his response was quiet. "an' i knows ye means what ye says, but jest now ye've got ter let _me_ decide whether hit's a fit time ter wage war--or submit." "submit!" echoed the son in blank amazement. "ye don't aim ter let 'em penitenshery ye ergin, does ye?" laying a soothing hand on the arm that shook passionately, the senior went on in a modulated voice. "i've done studied this matter out, son, more ca'mly then you've hed time ter do yit--an' i discerns how ye kin holp me best. sometimes hit profits a man more ter study ther fox then ther eagle." the boy stood there in the half light, finding it bitter to stomach such passive counsel, but he gulped down his rising gorge of fury and forced himself to acquiesce calmly, "i'm hearkenin' ter ye." "ther revenue 'lowed thet he war plumb obleeged ter jail me," went on the elder moonshiner evenly, "because tidin's hes done reached ther men up above him." "i aims ter compel mark tapper ter give me ther names of them damn' tale-bearers," exploded bear cat violently, "an' i'm a-goin' ter settle with him an' them, too, in due course." but again lone stacy shook his head. "thet would only bring on more trouble," he declared steadfastly. "mark tapper made admission thet he hes a weak case, an' he said thet ef i went with him peaceable he wouldn't press hit no further then what he war compelled ter. he 'lowed he hedn't no evi_dence_ erginst _you_. i don't believe he's seed our still yit an' ef ye heeds my counsel, he won't never see hit." "what does ye counsel then? i'm a-listenin'." lone stacy's voice cast off its almost conciliating tone and became one of command. "i wants thet ye shell ride back over thar es fast es a beast kin carry ye--an' git thar afore ther revenue. i wants thet ye shell move thet still into a place of safe concealment erginst his comin', i wants thet 'stid of tryin' ter carcumvent him ye sha'n't be thar at all when he comes." "not be thar?" the words were echoed in surprise, and the older head bowed gravely. "jist so. ef they don't find ther copper worm ner ther kittle--an' don't git ye ter testify ergin me, i've still got a right gay chanst ter come cl'ar." "does ye 'low," demanded the son with deeply hurt pride, "that anybody this side of hell-a-poppin' could fo'ce me ter give testimony ergin my own blood?" again the wrinkled hand of the father fell on the shoulder of his son. it was as near to a caress as his undemonstrative nature could approach. "i wouldn't hev ye perjure yoreself, son--an' without ye did thet--ye'd convict me--ef ye was thar in co'te." turner glanced up at the narrow slit in the brick wall through which now showed only a greenish strip of pallid sky. his lips worked spasmodically. "i come over hyar resolved ter sot ye free," he said slowly, "ter fight my way outen hyar an' take ye along with me--but i'm ready ter heed yore counsel." "then ride over home es fast es ye kin go--an' when ye've told yore maw what's happened, an' hid ther still, take lee along with ye an' go cl'ar acrost inter virginny whar no summons sarver kain't find ye. stay plumb away from hyar till i sends ye word. tell yore maw where i kin reach ye, but don't tell me. i wants ter swear i don't know." bear cat hesitated, then his voice shook with a storm of protest. "i don't delight none thet ye should go down thar an' sulter in jail whilst i'm up hyar enjoyin' freedom." the older man met this impetuous outburst with the stoic's fine tranquillity. "when they tuck me afore," he said, "i left yore maw unprotected behind me an' you was only a burden on her then. now i kin go easy in my mind, knowin' she's got you." the prisoner's voice softened. "she war a mighty purty gal, yore maw, in them times. right sensibly blossom fulkerson puts me in mind of her now." lone stacy broke off with abruptness and added gruffly: "i reckon ye'd better be a-startin' home now--hit's comin' on ter be nightfall." as turner stacy went out he turned and looked back. the cell was almost totally dark now and its inmate had reseated himself, his shoulders sagging dejectedly. "i'll do what he bids me now," bear cat told himself grimly, "but some day thar's a-goin' ter be a reckonin'." on his way to the livery stable he met kinnard towers on foot but, as always, under escort. still stinging under the chagrin of an hereditary enemy's gratuitous intervention in his behalf and a deep-seated suspicion of the man, he halted stiffly and his brow was lowering. "air these hyar tidin's true, bear cat? i've heerd thet yore paw's done been jailed," demanded kinnard solicitously, ignoring the coldness of his greeting. "kin i holp ye in any fashion?" "no, we don't need no aid," was the curt response. "ef we did we'd call on ther stacys fer hit." towers smiled. "i aimed ter show ye this a'tternoon thet i _felt_ friendly, turner." the manner was seemingly so sincere that the young man felt ashamed of his contrasting churlishness and hastened to amend it. "i reckon i hev need ter ask yore pardon, kinnard. i'm sore fretted about this matter." "an' i don't blame ye neither, son. i jest stopped ter acquaint ye with what folks says. this hyar whole matter looks like a sort of bluff on mark tapper's part ter make a good showin' with ther govern_ment_. he hain't hardly got nothin' but hearsay ter go on--unless he kin make _you_ testify. ef ye was ter kinderly disappear now fer a space of time, i reckon nothin' much wouldn't come of hit." "i'm obleeged ter ye kinnard. paw hes don' give me ther same counsel," said bear cat, as he hurried to the stable where he parted with jerry henderson after a brief and earnest interview. it was with a very set face and with very deep thoughts that bear cat stacy set out for his home on little slippery. he rode all night with the starlight and the clean sweep of mountain wind in his face, and at sunrise stabled his mount at the cabin of a kinsman and started on again by a short cut "over the roughs" where a man can travel faster on foot. when eventually he entered the door of his house his mother looked across the dish she was drying to inquire, "where's yore paw at?" he told her and, under the sudden scorn in her eyes, he flinched. "ye went down thar ter town with him," she accused in the high falsetto of wrath, "an' ye come back scot free an' abandoned him ter ther penitenshery an' ye didn't raise a hand ter save him! ef hit hed of been me i'd hev brought him home safe or i wouldn't of been hyar myself ter tell of hit!" bear cat stacy went over and took the woman's wasted hands in both of his own. as he looked down on her from his six feet of height there came into his eyes a gentleness so winning that his expression was one of surprising and tender sweetness. "does ye 'low," he asked softly, "that i'd hev done _thet_ ef he hadn't p'intedly an' severely bid me do hit?" he told her the story in all its detail and as she listened no tears came into her eyes to relieve the hard misery of her face. but when he had drawn a chair for her to the hearth and she had seated herself stolidly there, he realized that he must go and remove the evidence which still remained back there in the laurel thickets. he left her tearless and haggard of expression, gazing dully ahead of her at the ashes of the burned-out fire; the gaunt figure of a mountain woman to whom life is a serial of apprehension. when he came back at sunset she still sat there, bending tearlessly forward, and it was not until he had crossed the threshold that he saw another figure rise from its knees. blossom fulkerson had been kneeling with her arms about the shrunken shoulders--but how long, he did not know. "blossom," he said that evening as he was starting away into banishment across the virginia boundary, "i don't know how long i'm a-goin' ter be gone, but i reckon you knows how i feels. i've done asked mr. henderson ter look atter ye, when he comes back from louisville. he aims ter see ter hit that paw gits ther best lawyers ter defend him while he's thar." "i reckon then," replied the girl with a faith of hero-worship which sent a sharp paroxysm of pain into bear cat's heart, "thet yore paw will mighty sartain come cl'ar." they were standing by the gate of the stacy house, for blossom meant to spend that night with the lone woman who sat staring dully into the blackened fireplace. to the lips of the departing lover rose a question, inspired by that note of admiration which had lent a thrill to her voice at mention of jerry henderson, but he sternly repressed it. to catechize her love would be disloyal and ungenerous. it would be a wrong alike to her whom he trusted and to the man who was his loyal friend--and hers. but in his heart, already sore with the prospect of exile, with the thought of that dejectedly rocking figure inside and the other figure he had left in the neutral grayness of the jail cell, awakened a new ache. he was thinking how untutored and raw he must seem now that his life had been thrown into the parallel of contrast with the man who knew the broad world of "down below" and even of over-seas. if to blossom's thinking he himself had shrunken in stature, it was not a surprising thing--but that did not rob the realization of its cutting edge or its barb. "blossom," he said, as his face once more became ineffably gentle, "thar's ther evenin' star comin' up over ther wilderness ridges." he took both her hands in his and looked not at the evening star but into the eyes that she lifted to gaze at it. "so long es i'm away--so long es i lives--i won't never see hit withouten i thinks of _you_. but hit hain't only when i see _hit_ thet i thinks of ye--hit's _always_. i reckon ye don't sca'cely realize even a leetle portion of how much i loves ye." he fell for a space silent, his glance caressing her, then added unsteadily and with an effort to smile, "i reckon thet's jest got ter be a secret a-tween ther almighty, who knows everything--an' me thet don't know much else but jest _thet_!" she pressed his hands, but she did not put her arms about him nor offer to kiss him, and he reflected rather wretchedly that she had done that only once. though it might be ungenerous to think of it, save as a coincidence, that one time had been before jerry henderson had been on the scene for twenty-four hours. bear cat stacy, with the lemon afterglow at his back and only the darkness before his face, was carrying a burdened spirit over into old virginia, where for the first time in his life he must, like some red-handed murderer, "hide out" from the law. kinnard towers felt that his plans had worked with a well-oiled precision until the day after lone stacy's arrest, when he awoke to receive the unwelcome tidings that jerry henderson had taken the train at four o'clock that morning for louisville. for a moment black rage possessed him, then it cleared away into a more philosophical mood as his informant added, "but he 'lowed ter several folks thet he aimed ter come back ergin in about a week's time." * * * * * on that trip to louisville jerry henderson saw to it that old lone stacy should face trial with every advantage of learned and distinguished counsel. jerry and president williams of the c. and s.-e. railways knew, though the public did not, that the expenses of that defense were to be charged up to the road's accounts under the head of "incidentals--_in re_ cedar mountain extension." old lone had been an unconscious sponsor during these months and his friendship warranted recognition, not only for what he had done, but also for what he might yet do. but the promoter's stay in the city was not happy since he found himself floundering in a quandary of mind and heart which he could no longer laugh away. he had heretofore boasted an adequate strength to regulate and discipline his life. such a power he had always regarded as test and measure of an ambitious man's effectiveness. its failure, total or partial, was a flaw which endangered the metal and temper of resolution. on these keen and bracing days, as he walked briskly along the streets of the city, he found himself instinctively searching for a face not to be found; the face of blossom fulkerson and always upon realization followed a pang of disappointment. unless he watched himself he would be idiotically falling in love with her, he mused, which was only a vain denial that he was already in love with her. it was in their half-conscious pervasiveness, their dream-like subtlety, that these influences were strongest. when they emerged into the full light of consciousness he laughed them away. such fantasies did not fit into his pattern of life. they were suicidally dangerous. yet they lingered in the fairy land of the partially realized. he wished that her ancestors had been among those who had won through to the promised land of the bluegrass, instead of those who had been stranded in the dry-rot of the hills. in that event, perhaps, her grandmothers would have been ladies in brocade and powdered hair instead of bent crones dipping snuff by cabin hearth-stones. all their inherent fineness of mind and charm, blossom had--under the submerging of generations. the most stately garden will go to ragged and weed-choked desolation if left too long untended. but he could hardly hope to make his more fashionable world see that. the freshness of her charm would be less obvious than the lapses of her grammar; the flash of her wit less marked than her difficulties with a tea-cup. blossom, too, of late had been troubled with a restlessness of spirit, new to her experience. until that day last june upon which so many important things had happened the gay spontaneity of her nature had dealt little with perplexities. she had acknowledged a deep and unsatisfied yearning for "education" and a fuller life, but even that was not poignantly destructive of happiness. then within a space of twenty-four hours, henderson had made his appearance, bringing a sense of contact with the wonder-world beyond the purple barriers; she had prayed through the night for turner and he had come to her at dawn with his pledge--and finally, she had confessed her love. in short she had matured with that swift sequence of happenings into womanhood, and since then nothing had been quite the same. but of all the unsettling elements, the disturbing-in-chief was jerry henderson. he had flashed into her life with all the startling fascination of cinderella's prince, and matters hitherto accepted as axiomatic remained no longer certain. "gittin' education" had before that meant keeping pace with turner's ambition. now it involved a pathetic effort to raise herself to henderson's more complex plane. she had sought as studiously as jerry himself to banish the absurd idea that this readjustment of values was sentimental, and she had as signally failed. these changes in herself had been of such gradual incubation that she had never realized their force sufficiently to face and analyze them--yet she had sent young stacy away without a caress! "i'm jest the same as plighted to bear cat," she told herself accusingly, because loyalty was an element of her blood. "i ain't hardly got ther right to think of mr. henderson." but she did think of him. perhaps she was culpable, but she was very young. turner had seemed a planet among small stars--then jerry had come like a flaming comet--and her heart was in sore doubt. when, on his return, henderson dropped from the step of the rickety day-coach to the cinder platform of the station at marlin town, he met uncle israel calvert who paused to greet him. "wa'al howdy, stranger," began the old man with a full volumed heartiness, then he added swiftly under his breath and with almost as little movement of his lips as a ventriloquist. "don't leave town withouten ye sees me fust--hit's urgent. don't appear ter hev much speech with me in public. meet me at ther farmers' bank--upsta'rs--one hour hence." jerry henderson recognized the whispered message as a warning which it would be foolhardiness to ignore. probably even as he received it he was under surveillance, so instead of setting out at once on foot, he waited and at the appointed time strolled with every appearance of unconcern into the farmers' bank. at the same time black tom carmichael happened in to have a two-dollar bill changed into silver, and overheard the cashier saying in a matter-of-fact voice, "thar's been some little tangle in yore balance, mr. henderson. would ye mind steppin' up to the directors' room an' seein' ef ye kin straighten it out with the bookkeeper. she's up thar." with a smile of assent henderson mounted the narrow stairs and black tom lighted his pipe and loafed with inquisitive indolence below. chapter xii instead of a puzzled accountant jerry found in the bare upper room the rosy-faced, white-haired man who had given him credentials when he first arrived in the hills, and who kept the store over on big ivy. "i come over hyar on my way ter knoxville ter lay me in a stock of winter goods," volunteered the storekeeper, "an' i 'lowed i'd tarry an' hev speech with ye afore i fared any further on." as he spoke he tilted back his chair, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. henderson lifted his brows in interrogation and the storekeeper proceeded with deliberate emphasis. "somebody, i hain't found out jest who--aims ter hev ye lay-wayed on yore trip acrost ther mounting. i felt obleeged ter warn ye." "have me way-laid," repeated jerry blankly, "what for?" uncle israel shook his silvery poll. "i hain't hardly got ther power ter answer thet," he said, "but thar's right-smart loose talk goin' round. some folks laments thet ye 'lowed ter teach profitable farmin' an' ye hain't done nothin'. they 'lows ye must hev some crooked projeck afoot. this much is all i jedgmatic'lly knows, joe campbell was over ter hook brewer's blind tiger, on skinflint, last week. some fellers got ter drinkin' an' talkin' aimless-like an' yore name come up. somebody 'lowed thet yore tarryin' hyar warn't a-goin' ter be tolerated no longer, an' thet he knowed of a plan ter git ye es ye crossed ther mounting whilst lone stacy an' bear cat was both away. joe, bein' a kinsman of mine an' lone's, told me. thet's all i knows, but ef i was you i wouldn't disregard hit." "what would you advise, uncle israel?" "does ye plumb pi'ntedly _hev_ ter go over thar? ye couldn't jest linger hyar in town twell ther night train pulls out an' go away on hit?" henderson shook his head with a sharp snap of decisiveness. "no, i'm not ready to be scared away just yet by enemies that threaten me from ambush. i mean to cross the mountain." for a moment the old storekeeper chewed reflectively on the stem of his pipe, then he nodded his approval and went on: "no, i didn't hardly 'low ye'd submit ter ther likes of thet without no debate." he lifted a package wrapped in newspaper which lay at his elbow on the table. "this hyar's one of them new-fangled automatic pistols and a box of ca'tridges ter fit hit. i reckon ye'd better slip hit inter yore pocket.... when i started over hyar, i borrowed a mule from lone stacy's house ... hit's at ther liv'ry-stable now an' ye kin call fer hit an' ride hit back." "i usually go on foot," interrupted henderson, but uncle israel raised a hand, commanding attention. "i knows thet, but this time hit'll profit ye ter ride ther mule. he's got calked irons on his feet an' every man knows his tracks in ther mud.... they won't sca'cely aim ter lay-way yer till ye gits a good ways out from town, whar ther timber's more la'rely an' wild-like.... word'll go on ahead of ye by them leetle deestrick telephone boxes thet ye're comin' mule-back an' they'll 'low ye don't suspicion nothin'. they will be a-watchin' fer ther mule then ... an' ef ye starts out within ther hour's time ye kin make hit ter the head of leetle ivy by nightfall." the adviser paused a moment, then went succinctly on. "hit's from thar on thet ye'll be in peril.... now when ye reaches some rocky p'int whar hit won't leave no shoe-track, git down offen ther critter an' hit him a severe whack.... thet mule will go straight on home jest as stiddy es ef ye war still ridin' him ... whilst _you_ turns inter ther la'rel on foot an' takes a hike straight across ther roughs. hit's ther roads they'll be watchin' an' _you_ won't be on no road." jerry henderson rose briskly from his chair. "uncle israel," he said feelingly, "i reckon i don't have to say i'm obliged to you. the quicker the start i get now, the better." the old man settled back again with leisurely calm. "go right on yore way, son, an' i'll tarry hyar a spell so nairy person won't connect my goin'-out with your'n." as he passed the cashier's grating henderson nodded to black tom carmichael. "does ye aim ter start acrost ther mounting?" politely inquired the chief lieutenant of kinnard towers, and jerry smiled. "yes, i'm going to the livery stable right now to get lone stacy's mule." "i wishes ye a gay journey then," the henchman assured him, using the stereotyped phrase of well-wishing, to the wayfarer. gorgeous was the flaunting color of autumn as henderson left the edges of the ragged town behind him. he drank in the spicy air that swept across the pines, and the beauty was so compelling that for a time his danger affected him only as an intoxicating sort of stimulant under whose beguiling he reared air-castles. it would be, he told himself, smiling with fantastic pleasure, a delectable way to salvage the hard practicalities of life if he could have a home here, presided over by blossom, and outside an arena of achievement. in the market-places of modern activity, he could then win his worldly triumphs and return here as to a quiet haven. one phase would supply the plaudits of cæsar--and one the tranquil philosophy of plato. but with evening came the bite of frost. the same crests that had been brilliantly colorful began to close in, brooding and sinister, and the reality of his danger could no longer be disavowed. twilight brought the death of all color save the lingering lemon of the afterglow, and now he had come to the head of little ivy, where uncle israel had said travel would become precarious. here he should abandon his mule and cut across the tangles, but a little way ahead lay a disk of pallid light in the general choke of the shadows--a place where the creek had spread itself into a shallow pool across the road. the hills and woods were already merged into a gray-blue silhouette, but the water down there still caught and clung to a remnant of the afterglow and dimly showed back the inverted counterparts of trees which were themselves lost to the eye. he might as well cross that water dry-shod, he reflected, and dismount just beyond. but, suddenly, he dragged hard at the bit and crouched low in his saddle. he had seen a reflection which belonged neither to fence nor roadside sapling. inverted in the dim and oblong mirror of the pool he made out the shoulders and head of a man with a rifle thrust forward. that up-side-down figure was so ready of poise that only one conclusion was feasible. the human being who stood so mirrored did not realize that he was close enough to the water's line to be himself revealed, but he was watching for another figure to be betrayed by the same agency. henderson slid quietly from his saddle and jabbed the mule's flank with the muzzle of his pistol. at his back was a thicket into which he melted as his mount splashed into the water, and he held with his eyes to the inverted shadow. he saw the rifle rise and bark with a spurt of flame; heard his beast plunge blunderingly on and then caught an oath of astonished dismay from beyond the pool, as two inverted shadows stood where there had been one. "damn me ef i hain't done shot acrost an empty saddle!" "mebby they got him further back," suggested the second voice as jerry henderson crouched in his hiding place. "mebby joe tuck up his stand at ther t'other crossin'." jerry henderson smiled grimly to himself. "that was shaving it pretty thin," he mused. "after all it was only a shadow that saved me." as he lay there unmoving, he heard one of his would-be assassins rattle off through the dry weed stalks after the lunging mule. the second splashed through the shallow water and passed almost in arm's length, but to neither did it occur that the intended victim had left the saddle at just that point. ten minutes later, with dead silence about him, jerry retreated into the woods and spent the night under a ledge of shielding rock. he had lived too long in the easy security of cities to pit his woodcraft against an unknown number of pursuers whose eyes and ears were more than a match for his own in the dark. had he known every foot of the way, night travel would have been safer, but, imperfectly familiar with the blind trails he meant to move only when he could gauge his course and pursue it cautiously step by step. from sunrise to dark on the following day he went at the rate of a half-mile an hour through thickets that lacerated his face and tore the skin from his hands and wrists. often he lay crouched close to the ground, listening. he had no food and dared not show his face at any house, and since he must avoid well-defined paths, he multiplied the distance so that when he arrived on the familiar ground of his own neighborhood, his hunger had become an acute pain and his weariness amounted to exhaustion. incidentally, he had slipped once and wrenched his ankle. within a radius of two miles were two houses only, lone stacy's and brother fulkerson's. the stacy place would presumably be watched, but brother fulkerson would not deny him food and shelter. painfully, yard by yard, he crept down the mountainside to the rear of the preacher's abode. then on a tour of reconnaissance he cautiously circled it. there were no visible signs of picketing and through one unshuttered window came a grateful glow of lamplight. he dared neither knock on the door nor scratch on the pane, but he remembered the signal that had been bear cat stacy's. he had heard the boy give it, and now he cautiously repeated, three times, the softly quavering call of the barn-owl. it was a moonless night, but the stars were frostily clear and as the refugee crouched, dissolved in shadow, against the mortised logs of the cabin's corner, the door opened and blossom stood, slim and straight, against the yellow background of the lamp-lit door. she might have seemed, to one passing, interested only in the star-filled skies and the starkly etched peaks, but in a low voice of extreme guardedness she demanded, "bear cat, where air ye?" henderson remembered that turner, too, was "hiding out" and that this girl had the ingrained self-repression of a people inured to the perils of ambuscade. without leaving the cancellation of the shadowed wall he spoke with a caution that equaled her own. "don't seem to hear me ... just keep looking straight ahead.... it's not bear cat.... it's henderson ... and they are after me.... so far i've escaped ... but i reckon they're following." he had seen the impulsive start with which she heard his announcement and the instant recovery with which she relaxed her attitude into one of less tell-tale significance. "thank god," breathed the pursued man, "for that self-control!" he detected a heart-wrenching anxiety in her voice, which belied the picture she made of unruffled simplicity as she commanded in a tense whisper, "go on, i'm hearkenin'." "go back into the house," he directed evenly. "close the window shutters ... then open the back door...." she did not obey with the haste of excitement. she was too wise for that, but paused unhurriedly, humming an ancient ballade, as though the stresses of life had no meaning for her, before she drew back and closed the door. reappearing, at the window, she repeated the same convincing assumption of untroubled indolence as she drew in the heavy shutters; but a moment later she stood shaken and blanched of cheek at the rear door. "come in hastily," she pleaded. "air ye hurted?" slipping through the aperture, henderson smiled at her. his heart had leaped wildly as he read the terror of her eyes: a terror for his danger. "i'm not hurt," he assured her, "except for a twisted ankle, but it's a miracle of luck. where's your father?" no actress trained and finished in her art could have carried off with greater perfection a semblance of tranquillity than had blossom while his safety hung in the balance. now, with that need ended, she leaned back against the support of the wall with her hands gropingly spread; weak of knee and limp almost to collapse. her amber eyes were preternaturally wide and her words came with gasping difficulty. she had forgotten her striving after exemplary grammar. "he hain't hyar--he won't be back afore to-morrow noon. thar hain't nobody hyar but me." "oh!" the monosyllable slipped from the man's lips with bitter disappointment. he knew the rigid tenets of mountain usage--an unwritten law. a stranger may share a one-roomed shack with men, women and children, but the traveler who is received into a cabin in the absence of its men compromises the honor of its women. "oh," he repeated dejectedly, "i was seekin' shelter for the night. i'm famishin' an' weary. kin ye give me a snack to eat. blossom, afore i fares forth again?" it was with entire unconsciousness that he had slipped back into the rough vernacular of his childhood. at that moment he was a man who had rubbed elbows with death and he had reverted to type as instinctively as though he had never known any other life. "afore ye fares forth!" in blossom's eyes blazed the same valkyrie fire that had been in them as she barred his path to bear cat stacy's still. "ye hain't a-goin ter fare forth, ter be murdered! i aims ter hide ye out right hyar!" civilization just then seemed far away; the primal very near--and, in that mood, the hot currents of long-denied love for this woman who was defying her own laws to offer him sanctuary, mounted to supremacy. such a love appeared as logical as a little while ago it had seemed illogical. eagle blood should mate with eagle blood. "but, little gal," jerry protested, "ye're alone hyar. i kain't hardly tarry. ef hit became known----" "thet's jest ther reason," she flashed back at him, "thet nobody won't suspicion ye _air_ hyar an' ef ye're in peril hit don't make no differ ter me what folks says nohow. i aims ter safeguard ye from harm." his eyes, darkly ringed by fatigue and hunger, held an even deeper avidity. he looked at the high-chinned and resolute face crowned with masses of hair which lamp-light and hearth-glow kindled into an aura and deep into amber eyes that were candid with their confession of love. slowly jerry henderson put his question--a question already answered. "i reckon ye knows what this means, blossom. why air ye willin' ter venture hit?" still leaning tremulously against the chinked wall, she answered with the thrill of feeling and purpose in her voice. "i hain't askin' what hit means. i hain't keerin' what hit means. all i knows it thet ye're in peril--an' thet's enough." jerry caught her in his arms, crushed her to him, felt her lips against his lips; her arms clinging softly about his neck, and at last he spoke--no longer with restraint. "until to-night i've always fought against love and i thought i was stronger than _it_ was, but i reckon that was just because i've never really come face-to-face with its full power, before. now i'm going out again." "no! no! i won't suffer hit," she protested with fervent vehemence. "ye're a-goin' ter stay right hyar. ye b'longs ter me now an' i aims ter keep ye--unharmed!" abruptly they fell silent, warned by some premonitory sense and, as they stood listening, a clamor of knocking sounded at the door. thrusting him into her bedroom and screening him behind a mass of clothing that hung in a small corner closet unenclosed, but deeply shadowed, she braced herself once more into seeming tranquillity and went to the front of the house. then she threw wide the door. "we wants ter hev speech with brother fulkerson," came the unrecognized voice of a stranger whose hat brim shielded his face in the darkness. "he hain't hyar an' he won't be back afore midday ter-morrow," responded the girl with ingenuous composure. "i kain't hardly invite ye in--because i'm hyar all alone," she added with a disarming gravity. "will ye leave any message?" out there among the shadows she heard the murmurs of a whispered consultation, and despite a palpitation of fear she bravely held the picture. then, partly because her manner carried conviction against suspicion, and partly because to enter would be to reveal identities, the voice shouted back: "no, thank ye, ma'am. i reckon we'll fare on." chapter xiii before henderson had come that night, blossom had been trying to study, but the pages of her book had developed the trick of becoming blurred. two faces persisted in rising before her imagination; one, the reproachful countenance of bear cat, whom she ought to love whole-heartedly; the other, that of henderson, whom she told herself she admired only as she might admire the president of the united states or the man who had written the dictionary--with distant and respectful appreciation. "he says i'm all right," she mused, "but i reckon he _knows_ in his heart that i ain't good enough fer him--ner fer his folks." tears sprang into her eyes at the confession, and her reasoning went upon the rocks of illogic. "in the first place," she irrelevantly argued, "i'm in love with bear cat--an' in the second to think about mr. henderson would be right smart like crying for the moon." then henderson had come; had come asking refuge from danger. he had declared his love with tumultuous force--and it seemed to blossom that, after all, the moon was hers without crying for it. when she had fed him in silence, because of the possibility of lurking spies outside, they sat, unmindful of passing hours, before the roar of the stone hearth and as the man's arms held her close to him she let her long lashes droop over her eyes and surrendered her hair and lips to his kisses. they had no great need of words, but sometimes she raised her lids and gazed steadfastly into his face, and as the carmine flecks of the blaze lighted her cheeks, the eyes were wide and unmasked, with a full, yet proud, surrender. he thought that for this gift of flower-like beauty and love the abandonment of his stern opportunism was a cheap exchange. his eyes, too, were glowing with an ardent light and both were spared the irony of realization that afterward impulse must again yield to the censorship of colder considerations. there is nothing more real than an impossible dream--while it endures. once the girl's glance fell on a home-made doll, with a coarse wig of horse-hair, propped on the mantel-shelf. it was one of those crude makeshifts which mountain children call poppets, as our great-grandfathers' great-grandmothers called them puppets. a shadow of self-accusing pain crossed blossom's face. "turney whittled that poppet fer me outen hickory wood when i was a jest a leetle gal," she whispered remorsefully, then added: "turney 'lowed ter wed me some day." henderson reassured her with irrefutable logic. "turner wouldn't have you disobey your heart, blossom. only you must be sure what your heart commands." "i _am_ sure. i'm plumb dead-sartain sure!" she vehemently responded, though still in a suppressed voice. they sat before the fire, alertly wakeful, in the shadow of impending danger until the first pale hint of dawn. then blossom went out with water pails, ostensibly busied about her early tasks but really on a journey of investigation. returning, satisfied of temporary safety, she said briefly and authoritatively: "come on, hit won't do fer ye ter tarry hyar. they'll come back, sartain sure. thar's a leetle cave back thar in ther rocks that's beknownst only to turner an' me. hit's dry an' clean an' thar's sweet water runnin' through hit. i'll fotch ye yore victuals every day--an' when the s'arch fer ye lets up a leetle, i'll guide ye acrost inter virginny whar ye kin strike the railroad without goin' back to marlin town." "if i were you, blossom," suggested the man as they slipped out of the house before full daylight, "i wouldn't tell brother fulkerson anything about my hiding place. these men who seek my life are probably influential. if your father can truthfully deny any knowledge of my being near, it will save him embarrassment. i don't want to make enemies for him--and you." the girl pondered this phase of the situation judicially for a moment, then nodded gravely: "i reckon thet's ther wisest way," she agreed. for three days blossom carried food across the steeps to the hidden man, then late one cold night, when again her father was away on some mission of kindness which would keep him from home for twenty-four hours or more, she appeared at the mouth of the cave and signaled to the refugee. she had decided that the moment had arrived for making the dash with him across the virginia border, and since she knew every foot of the way, it would be better to travel in the cover of darkness. it was a long and tedious journey, and the girl led the way tirelessly through frost-rimed thickets with a resilient endurance that seemed incompatible with her slenderness. when the rising sun was a pale disk like platinum, they had arrived on the backbone of a high ridge and the time had come for parting. below them banks of white vapor obliterated the valleys. above them, in the misty skies, began to appear opalescent patches of exquisite color and delicacy. about them swept and eddied clean and invigorating currents of frosted air. for a little while reluctant of leave-taking, they stood silent, and the argent shield of the sun burst into fiery splendor. then the heights stood out brilliant and unveiled. "i reckon," said blossom falteringly, "hit's come time to bid ye farewell." the man took her hands in his and held them lingeringly; but with a sudden and passionate gesture blossom withdrew them and threw her arms about his neck. "but ye hain't a-goin' fer always? ye aims ter come back ter me ergin in good time, don't ye?" for a little while he held her tightly clasped with his lips pressed to her soft hair, then he spoke impetuously: "i aims ter come back ter ye right soon." "ye mustn't come twell hit's safe, though," she commanded, and after that she asked softly: "now thet we're plighted i reckon ye don't forbid me ter tell my pappy, does ye?" henderson's muscles grew suddenly rigid and beads of sweat moistened his forehead in spite of the frosty tang of the morning air. the words brought back a sudden and terrifying realization; the renewed conflict of a dilemma. he was going out into the other world, leaving the dead reckoning of the primal for the calculated standards of modernity. he was plighted to a semi-illiterate! yet as her breath came fragrantly from upturned lips against his temples, all that went down under a wave of passionate love. "no, blossom," he advised steadily, "don't tell him yet. there are things that must be arranged--things that are hard to explain to you just now. wait until i come back. i've got to study out this attack from ambush so that i can know whom i'm fighting and how to fight. it may take time--and if i write to you, naming a place,--will you come to me?" gravely and with full trust she nodded her head. "i'll come anywhars--an' any time--to you," she told him, and the man kissed her good-bye. * * * * * turner stacy's longing to see blossom had driven him to the imprudence of breaking the restrictions of exile. after traveling by night and hiding by day it happened that he was breasting a ridge just at sunrise one morning on his way to her house, when his alert gaze caught an indistinct movement through the hazy half-light of the dawn. he could make out only that two figures seemed coming west along the mist-veiled path and that they appeared to be the figures of a man and a woman. surprised to encounter travelers at so remote a spot at that hour, he edged cautiously into the underbrush and lay flat on a huge rock which overlooked the path from a low eminence at its right. they had halted just beyond the range of hearing, but when with mountain suddenness, like a torn curtain, the half-light became full-light he froze into a petrified astonishment which seemed to have clutched and squeezed all the vitality out of his heart, and to have left his blood currentless. the abrupt revelation of light had fallen on the bright hair of blossom fulkerson and the dark uncovered head of jerry henderson; and before the monstrous incredibility of the situation could be fully grasped, the girl, to whom he had bade farewell as his acknowledged sweetheart, had thrown her arms around the neck of the man to whose loyal care he had confided her, and that man was kissing her with a lover's ardor! what their words might be he could not tell--but their clinging embrace said enough--and blossom was giving her lips with eager willingness. [illustration: what their words might be he could not tell--but their clinging embrace said enough] bear cat lay for a moment, sick, dizzy and motionless while a groan, which never reached his lips, spasmodically shook his chest and shoulders. succeeding that paralyzed instant, a fever of unspeakable fury surged over him and while all the rest of his body stretched unstirring, his arms slipped forward and the muzzle of his rifle crept over the ledge of rock. but that, too, was only a response to instinct and the thumb halted in the act of cocking the hammer. his vengeance called not only for satisfaction but for glutting. henderson must die face to face with him, not by the stealth of ambuscade, but by open violence to be administered with bare hands--realizing the cause of his punishment--dying by inches! but as he was on the point of rising to confront them, something arrested him: the stupor of a man whose mind and heart had trusted so implicitly that they could not yet fully credit even the full demonstration of his eyes. this must, despite all its certainty, be some hallucination--some wide-eyed nightmare! while the spell of his stunned heart held him in the thrall of inaction, henderson and blossom parted with slow reluctance and took up their opposite direction of journey. left alone, like a man sitting, shaken and demoralized, upon the broken débris of a wrecked universe, turner stared ahead with a dull incredulity. but inaction was foreign to his nature and after a while he rose unsteadily to his feet. he turned and started at a swift stride which broke presently into a dog-trot along the way henderson had taken; then he hesitated, halted and wheeled in his tracks. "no!" he exclaimed. "no, by god, ef i meets up with _him_ the way i feels now, i'll kill him afore he has ther chanst ter speak with me. i kain't govern myself. i aims ter let _her_ tell hit to me her own self!" so he altered his direction and went plunging westward. a short route through broken rock and tangled brush enabled him to cut ahead of blossom's course so that, turning an abrupt angle in the trail, the girl found him standing before her with clenched hands and a face so set and pale that she started back. it seemed to her that, instead of himself, it was his ghost which confronted her. with a slow and stifled outcry, at the apparition, she carried her hands to her face, then broke into convulsive sobs. "i didn't aim ter eavesdrop, blossom," said turner, his sternness wavering before her tears. "but i seed ye givin' yore lips ter jerry henderson back thar. hit seems ter me like i kin almost discern the stain of thet kiss soilin' em now. i reckon i ought rightfully ter hev speech with him fust--but i knowed i'd kill him ef i did--an' so i held my hand twell i'd done seed _you_." they were both trembling, and the girl's hands came slowly away from a face pitifully agitated. her voice was a whisper. "ye mustn't censure me, turney," she huskily protested. "i'm plighted--ter _him_." "plighted!" the word broke from the man as explosively as an oath, then after a moment's silence she heard him saying, in a slow and stunned fashion: "i 'lowed thet ye war all but plighted to _me_." "i knows--i knows, turney," she pleaded desperately. "i wants thet ye should understand. i thought thet i loved ye--i _do_ love ye better then ef ye war my own blood brother--but i didn't know afore now ther kind of love thet--thet----" "thet jerry henderson's done stole from me," he finished for her, in a voice she had never before heard on his lips. "atter all i did make a mistake. hit _war_ him i should hev spoke with fust--an' i reckon hit hain't too late ter overtake him yit." her hands were clinging to his arms. "no, turney," she sought to explain. "he didn't know hit an' i didn't know hit either, when ye left. neither one of us wouldn't hev sought ter lie ter ye." bear cat stacy was only partly conscious of what she was saying. before his eyes swam red spots of fury which blinded him. if there was any vestige of truth in his ugly suspicion that blossom was being deceived or played with, the responsible man, trusted friend and admired preceptor though he had been, was bear cat's to kill--and must die! so he stood, tensely strained of attitude and ashen of cheek while a murder light kindled afresh in his eyes, and blossom seemed the wavering shape of a dream: the dream of every hope his life had known--now utterly unattainable. her fingers were clutching his taut arms yet she seemed suddenly withdrawn from his world, leaving it void. but she was talking earnestly, beseeching, and with the strained effort of one striving to separate lucid voices from the chaotic din of a delirium, he gave painstaking heed. she told the story of jerry's narrow escape from death and of her conducting him to a place of safe departure. part of it only he understood through the crashing dissonance of tempest which still confused his brain. the volcanic fires within him that were destined to bring earthquake and transition were licking consumingly at the gates of his self-control. his whole life had been builded on a single dream: the dream of her love--and she had promised it. for that he had fought the one enemy that had ever mastered him, and had conquered. for that he had shaped his life. now he had been robbed of everything! "don't ye see how hit is, turney?" she pleaded. "hit wasn't his fault ner hit wasn't my fault.... hit jest had ter be! ye sees how hit is, don't ye?" "yes, i sees--how hit is!" the response came dully, then with a nearer recovery of a natural tone he went on. "anyways i reckon ye've got ther right ter decide atween us. i reckon yore heart's yore own ter give or withhold. hit war ter me that ye pledged yoreself first. yore first kiss was mine--an' ye suffered me ter hope an' believe." there was a strained pause, then he added: "but even ef i could hold yer erginst yore free will, i wouldn't seek ter do hit." blossom's contrite wretchedness was so sincere and her sympathy so inarticulate that his face presently changed. the bitter and accusing sternness died gradually out of it and after a grief-stricken moment gave way to a great gentleness--such a gentleness as brought a transformation and stamped his lips and brow with a spirit of renunciation. "thar was murder in my heart, jest at first, little gal," he assured her softly, "but i reckon atter all hit's a right-pore love thet seeks ter kill a man fer gainin' somethin' hit's lost hitself. he kin take ye down thar whar life means sich things as ye desarves ter enjoy. with me ye'd have ter endure ther same hardships thet broke my mother down. i wants above all else thet ye should be happy--an' ef i kain't make ye happy----" he paused abruptly with a choked throat and demanded: "when does ye aim ter wed?" the girl flushed. she did not think turner would accord a sympathetic understanding to her lover's somewhat vague attitude on that point, so she only answered. "he 'lows ter write ter me--ef so be he kain't come back soon." "write ter ye!" the militant scorn snapped again in his eyes, burning away their softness as a prairie fire consumes dry grass, in its first hot breath. "write ter ye! no, by almighty god in heaven, ye says ye're plighted ter wed him! ye've done suffered him ter hold ye in his arms. mountain men comes ter fotch thar brides ter church--they don't send fer 'em ter journey forth an' meet 'em. in these hills of old kaintuck men come to thar women! he's got ter come hyar an' claim ye ef he has ter fight his way acrost every league of ther journey--an' ef he _don't_----!" but bear cat broke off suddenly with a catch in his voice. "i've got full trust, turney," she declared, and her eyes showed it, so that the man forced himself to calmness again, and went on in a level voice. "i aims ter see thet ye hes what ye wants, blossom, ef i hes ter plumb tear ther hills down level by level ter git hit fer ye. i must be a-farin' back inter virginny," he announced a moment later with a curtness meant to bulwark him against a fresh outburst of feeling. blossom raised her hands as if to detain him, then let them drop again with a pathetic gesture. bear cat picked up his hat which had fallen to the ground and stood crushing its limp brim in his clenched fingers. finally he said, without anger, but very seriously: "i wants thet ye should give me back my pledge--erbout drinkin'. ye knows why i give hit ter ye--an' now----" "oh, turner," she interrupted protestingly, "don't ask thet!" "i'm obleeged ter ask hit, blossom," he obdurately answered. "i reckon mebby i kin still win my fight with licker--but i mustn't be beholden by a bond thet's lost hits cause." tearfully she nodded her head. "i'll free ye if ye demands hit," she conceded, "but i aims ter go on a-prayin'." * * * * * jerry henderson was not a scoundrel in a general sense nor had he hitherto been a weakling, but for once he was the self-governed man who has lost control of his life and fallen victim to vacillation. surging waves of heart-hunger made him want to go recklessly back; to fight his way, if need be, through all the towers' minions to blossom's side and claim her as his promised bride. other and perhaps saner waves of tremendous misgiving beat with steady reiteration against those of impulse. he must live out most of his days among people to whom such an alliance would be stripped of all illusion; would resolve itself into nothing more than a mesalliance. for both of them it would eventuate in wreck--and so blossom heard nothing from him and she tasted first fear, then despair. at last kinnard towers either learned or guessed the truth; that blossom had hidden henderson out in the absence of her father and had aided his escape. he saw to it that the report gained wide currency in a land avid for gossip. whatever the condition of his love affairs, jerry came up short against the realization that he could not indefinitely abandon his business. he must, in some way, demonstrate that he was not being effectively put to flight by feudal threats and so he carried his perplexities to lone stacy, who was awaiting trial in the louisville jail, and unbosomed himself in a full and candid recital. the bearded moonshiner, gaunter than ever and with the haunted eyes of a caged eagle, listened with grave courtesy but with a brow that gradually knitted into an expression half puzzled and half sinister. "i reckon bear cat'll feel right-sensibly broke up," he said slowly. "ye've done cut him out with his sweetheart, endurin' his absence from home, and ther two of 'em's growed up without no other notion then thet of bein' wed some day." henderson was on the point of self-justification, but before he could speak the prisoner went thoughtfully on: "howsoever, a gal's got a rather as to her sweet-heartin'--an' ef ye won her fa'r an' above-board, i reckon turner kin be fa'r-minded, too. i was thinkin' of somethin' else, though. from what ye tells me hit looks like es ef all these things, my jailin' an' yore lay-wayin', is jest pieces of one pattern. hit looks like _i_ was brought down hyar so thet kinnard towers could git _you_. ef i'd a-knowed erbout his warnin' ye off thet night ye came, i mout hev guessed hit afore now." he rose and paced the floor of the room where prisoners were permitted to receive guests bearing special permits--under the chaperonage of a turnkey. suddenly he halted and his eyes flared, though his voice remained low and tense. "i'm a christian an' a man of peace," he said ominously, "but ef what i suspicions air true i don't aim ter submit ter hit. does ye want ter go back thar ter little slippery?" "i do, indeed," replied henderson eagerly. "and soon!" "all right then. ther stacys hev still got some power acrost cedar mounting an' they aims ter exercise hit. i'll straightway send a letter ter my brother, joe stacy. ef ye gits offen ther train in marlin town one week from terday, he'll be thar ter meet ye--an' he'll hev enough men thar with rifle-guns ter see ye through safe--an' hold ye safe, too." "joe stacy," repeated henderson, "i've never met him, have i?" "i don't hardly believe ye hes. he dwells on skinflint, but he'll know _you_ when he sees ye." later that same day the turnkey, who had from time to time received certain courtesies from mark tapper, repeated the conversation to that officer, and within forty-eight hours a messenger relayed it verbally to kinnard towers. "ef thar's any way ter head off thet letter ter joe, now," reflected the backwoods master of intrigue, "an' thet bodyguard don't show up--i reckon we kin still compass what we failed in, ther first time." * * * * * to the house in virginia where bear cat was temporarily established came lew turner, a distant kinsman on an enterprise of cattle trading. the meeting was a coincidence though a natural one, since their host was a man who had migrated from little slippery and had long been known to both. shortly the two sat alone in conversation, and bear cat demanded news from home. "wa'al thar hain't no welcome tidings ter give ye. they keeps puttin' off yore paw's trial jest ter frazzle him out, fer one thing," began the newcomer lugubriously. "then henderson come back from down below an' some fellers aimed ter lay-way him, so he sought refuge in brother fulkerson's dwellin'-house when ther preacher warn't thar. blossom tuck him in outen charity an' the two of 'em spent ther night thar all alone by tharselves. hit didn't become gin'rally known till after he'd got away safe, but then ther gossips started in tongue-waggin'." "hold on, lew! by god almighty, ye've done said too much," bear cat broke out with a dangerous note of warning, his eyes narrowing into slits of menacing glitter. the man from home hastily hedged his statement. "hit warn't no fashion blossom's fault. he'd done faithfully promised ter wed with her." bear cat stacy had risen eruptively out of his chair. he bent over the intervening table, resting on hands in which the knuckles stood out white. "go on!" he commanded fiercely. "what next?" "thet's erbout all, save thet since thet time she's done been pinin' round like somebody sickenin' ter her death. es fer ther preacher, he just clamps his mouth shet an' won't say nothin' at all. howsoever, he looks like he'd done been stricken." bear cat straightened up and passed a hand across his forehead. he was rocking unsteadily on his feet as he reached for his hat. "whar air ye a-goin', bear cat?" asked the kinsman, with a sudden fear for the consequences of his narrative. "whar am i 'goin'? god, he knows! wharever jerry henderson's at, _thar's_ whar i'm 'goin'--an' no man hed better seek ter hinder me!" chapter xiv the post-office at possum trot, which serves the dwellers along the waters of skinflint, is housed in one corner of a shack store and the distribution of its mail is attended with a friendly informality. thus no suspicion was engendered when a neighbor of joe stacy's dropped in each day and regularly volunteered, with a spirit of neighborly accommodation, "i reckon ef thar's anything fer joe stacy or airy other folks dwellin' 'twixt hyar an' my house, i'll fotch hit over to 'em." the post-master had no way of knowing that this person was an agent of kinnard towers or that, when one day he handed out a letter "backed" to joe in the scrawl of lone stacy, it went not to its rightful recipient but to the quarterhouse. jerry henderson, in due time, stepped from his day coach at marlin town, equally innocent of suspicion, and was pleased to see emerging from the raw, twilight shadows, a man, unfamiliar of face, whose elbow cradled a repeating rifle. "i reckon ye be jerry henderson, hain't ye?" inquired a suave and amicable voice, and with a nod jerry replied, "yes--and you are joe stacy?" the man, slight but wiry and quick of movement, shook his head. "no--my name's john blackwell. joe, he couldn't hardly git hyar hisself, so he sent me in his stid but i reckon me an' ther boys kin put ye over ther route, without _dee_fault." as if in corroboration of this assurance jerry saw shadowy shapes materializing out of the empty darkness and as he mounted the extra horse provided for him he counted the armed figures swinging easily into their saddles. there were eight of them. his personal escort was larger than that with which towers himself traveled abroad. but when the cortège swung at length into an unfamiliar turning jerry was startled and demanded sharply: "why are we leaving the high road? this isn't the way to lone stacy's house." the man who had met him bowed with a reassuring calmness. "no, but joe 'lowed hit would be safer an' handier, too, fer ye ter spend ther night at his house on skinflint. hit's nigher an' all these men air neighbors of his'n. ter-morrow you kin fare on ter little slippery by daylight." with an acquiescent nod, henderson relapsed into silence and they rode in the starlight without sound save the thud of cuppy hooves on muddy byways, the straining creak of stirrup straps and a clinking of bit-rings. finally the cavalcade halted at a crossing where the shadows lay in sooty patches and its leader detached himself to engage in low-voiced converse with someone who seemed to have been suddenly created out of the pitchy thickness of the roadside. soon blackwell rode back and, with entire seriousness, made a startling suggestion. "right down thar, in thet valley, mr. henderson--whar ye kin see a leetle speck of light--sets kinnard towers' quarterhouse. would hit pleasure ye ter stop off thar an' enjoy a small dram? hit's a right-chillin' night." the railroad's agent had never visited that place of whose ill repute he had heard such bizarre tales, but in all this high, wild country, he thought, there was no other spot of which it so well behooved his party to ride wide. john blackwell was lighting his pipe just then and by the flare of the match henderson studied the face for a glint of jesting, but the eyes were humorless and entirely sober. "i think we'd better give the quarterhouse as wide a berth as possible," he answered dryly. "hits fer you ter say, mr. henderson," was the quiet rejoinder. "but i'll give ye joe stacy's message. from what his brother writ him joe concluded thet lone warn't aimin' ter start no needless strife with kinnard towers, but he aimed ter make hit p'intedly cl'ar thet ther stacys was detarmined ter pertect ye, an' thet ye'd done come back hyar plumb open an' upstandin'." "that's true enough," assented jerry. "i'm not trying to hide out, but i don't see any profit in walking into the lion's den." the guide nodded sympathetically. he seemed imbued with the excellent military conception of obeying orders and proffering no gratuitous counsel. "joe 'lowed thet ef things looked favorable hit mout be a right-bold sort of thing an' a right wise one, too, to stop in thar as ye rid by. hit's a public tavern--an' hit would prove thet ye're hyar, with a bodyguard, neither seekin' trouble ner fearin' hit." "why didn't you suggest this before, mr. blackwell?" inquired henderson to whom the very effrontery of the plan carried an appeal. "joe didn't want me ter risk even namin' hit ter ye twell we knowed how ther land lay over thar," came the prompt and easy response. "ye seed me talkin' with a man out front thar jest now, didn't ye? wa'al thet war one of our boys, thet come direct from ther quarterhouse, ter bear me ther tidin's. thar hain't more'n a handful of men thar now--an' half of 'em's our friends. i reckon ye hain't in no great peril nohow so long as we're all tergither--an' full-armed." henderson felt that already his prestige had suffered from an appearance of flight. here was an opportunity ready to hand for its complete rehabilitation. the bold course is always the best defense, and his decision was prompt. "come on then. let's go in." at the long rack in front of the frowning stockade, as they dismounted and hitched, were already tethered a half-dozen horses. * * * * * bear cat stacy, impelled by lew turner's news, traveled in a fever of haste. he meant to go as straight as a hiving bee to marlin and if need be to follow henderson to the lowlands of kentucky. henderson had compromised blossom, by the undeviating standards of mountain code, and he must come back and marry her even if he had to be dragged out of the most conspicuous place in louisville itself. casting all considerations of precaution and safety to the winds, the lover, whose devotion called for self-effacement, sought only the shortest way, and the shortest way led past the quarterhouse. when he was within a mile of the point where towers' resort straddled the state line he met a mounted man with a lantern swinging at his pommel. "i kain't tarry ter hev speech with ye, sim," he said shortly, "i'm in hot haste." yet as the other drawled a question, bear cat did tarry and a cold moisture dewed his temples. "did ye know thet yore friend, jerry henderson, hed done come back?" inquired sim, and turner's limbs trembled, then grew stiff as saddle leather. "come back! when did he come? whar is he now?" the questions tumbled upon each other with a mounting vibrance of impetuosity. "i war a-ridin' inter the road outen a side path a leetle spell back when i heered hosses an' so i drawed up ter let 'em go by," the chance traveler informed him. "i reckon they didn't hardly discern me. i hadn't lit my lantern then, but one of 'em lighted his pipe with a match an' i _ree_cognized two faces. one was mr. henderson's an' one was sam carlyle's. i seed sev'ral rifles acrost ther saddles, too." "which way war they ridin'?" "'peared like most likely they war makin' fer ther quarterhouse." "i'm obleeged ter ye." and bear cat was gone again into the darkness. when he had turned the first bend his walk broke into a run. his mind was racing, too. so henderson had not only come back, but come back with a reversed allegiance. he was riding with a towers bodyguard and bound for a towers stronghold! the name of sam carlyle indicated that as definitely as if it had been the name of black tom carmichael. in one way this dropping of all friendly pretense by jerry made his own task clearer and easier--but it was the most hazardous thing he had ever undertaken. single handed, he must go into the place where bloodshed was no novelty and take henderson away, and he went at a run. presumably, jerry henderson would not stop long in the bar-room, but would be conducted to the presence of kinnard towers, and, with all his haste, bear cat's speed seemed to himself desperately slow. he and his father had protected this ingrate against towers' wrath, he bitterly reflected, and this was their requital. their guest had used that hospitality to steal the love of blossom and then to discard her. he had deceived her, compromised her, promised her marriage and fled in the face of danger. lew turner had said: "she's been pinin' round like somebody sickenin' ter her death!" that was what her full trust had come to--and if she had trusted that far her trust might have gone farther! then finally from the secure distance of the city henderson had made his terms with kinnard towers! now blossom was going to be married--a heart-racking groan rumbled in his throat. blossom's wedding! how he had dreamed of it from his first days of callow love-thoughts! he had fed his imagination upon pictures of the house he had meant to build for her down there by the river! to his nostrils now seemed to come the sweet fragrance of freshly hewn timbers and sawed lumber; incense of home-making! a hundred times he had visualized himself--the ceremony over--riding proudly with his bride on a pillion behind him, as the mountain groom had always brought his bride, from her father's house to his own--and her own! now her honor required that an unwilling husband should be brought to her--her honor and her heart's bruised wish--and he, who had planned it all differently, must see the matter accomplished--to-night! * * * * * henderson and his guard had strolled with a fine assumption of carelessness into the barn-like resort and, as the handful of loiterers there recognized them, an abrupt silence fell and glasses, half-raised, were held for a moment poised. from a huge hearth-cavern at one end of the room leaped the ruddy illumination of burning logs and fagots in the flaming proportions of a bonfire. wreaths of blue and brown smoke floated in foggy streamers between the dark walls and up to the cobwebbed rafters. the lamps guttered and flared against their tin reflectors, reeking with an oily stench in the stagnation of the unaltered air. along one end of the place went the bar, backed by its shelves of bottles and thick glassware, and in each side wall gaped a door--one for each state. besides a few hickory-withed chairs there were several even ruder tables and benches, riven with axe and adze out of wide logs, and supported by such legs as those of a butcher's block. but these furnishings were all near the walls--and the whole center area of the floor, with its white-painted boundary line, was as unencumbered as a deck cleared for action. the momentary surprise which greeted the newcomers was for the most part fictitious--and carefully rehearsed, but of this jerry henderson had no knowledge. he walked to the bar, followed by one or two of his guardians, and extended a general invitation. "gentlemen, it's my treat. what will you-all have?" after the glasses had been filled and drained, henderson went over and stood for a while in the grateful warmth of the booming hearth. he was looking on at this picture with its savor of medievalism--the ensemble that called to mind a hogarth prim, but soon he nodded to his guide who slouched not far from his elbow. "i reckon we'd better fare on, mr. blackwell," he suggested evenly. "we've still got a journey ahead of us." blackwell seemed less impressed with the immediate urgency. "thar hain't no tormentin' haste," he demurred. "we're all right stiff-j'inted from ridin'. we mout as well limber up a leetle mite afore we starts out ergin." jerry's eyes clouded. he would have preferred finding a spirit of readier obedience in his body-guard, but it was best to accept the situation with philosophy. accordingly he turned again to the bar, though this time he made only a pretense of drinking. fresh arrivals had begun drifting in and the place now held more than a score. among them were already several whose voices were thickening or growing shrill, according to their individual fashions of becoming drunk. jerry sought to reassure himself against the disquieting birth of suspicion, yet when he heard one of the newcomers address blackwell as sam instead of john, an ugly apprehension settled upon him and this foreboding was not allayed as he caught the response in a low and savage growl: "shet up, ye fool!" the temper of the motley outfit was rapidly growing boisterous, though he himself seemed ignored until, in turning, he accidently jostled a man whom he had never seen before to-night, and that individual wheeled on him with an abusive truculence. henderson's gorge rose, but his realization was now fully awake to the requirement of self-control, so with a good-natured retort he moved away. beckoning peremptorily to blackwell, he started at a deliberate pace toward the door, but before he reached it, the staggering figure of the quarrelsome unknown overtook him and lurched drunkenly against him. then henderson felt a stunning blow in the face, and under its unexpected force he reeled back against the wall. he was no longer in doubt. he had been beguiled here to be made the victim of what should appear an accidental encounter, and all that remained now was to sell his life at as punitive a rate as possible. as he reached under his coat for the automatic pistol which was his sole remaining dependence, he caught in a sidewise glimpse the face of sam carlyle alias john blackwell. it wore a sardonic smile and its lips opened like a trap to shout in a staccato abandonment of disguise. "git him, boys! _git_ him!" it was palpably enough a signal for which they had been waiting, like the pack-master's horn casting loose his hounds. instantly the place burst into an eruption of confused and frenzied tumult. henderson had a momentary sense of unshaven faces with lips drawn over wolfish fangs, of the pungent reek of gunpowder in his nostrils and, in his ears, the cracking of pistol reports--as yet sounding only in demonstration. with a few steps more they would be swarming upon him, as a pack piles upon its defenseless quarry. but his own weapon spat doggedly, too, and for the brevity of an instant the rush wavered. his assailants were crowding each other so hamperingly that the fusillade from the front was wild and, at first, ineffective. those at the fore, cooled by a resolute reception and the sight of one of their number going down, with a snarl of pain, pressed forcibly back. for the space of one quick breath, they afforded their victim a reprieve. he was groping, with his left hand outstretched, against the wall toward the nearby door, when he felt that arm grow numb and drop limp at his side. through his left shoulder darted a sensation hardly recognized as pain. the two doors had not been closed. it was unnecessary. before the victim should reach either he would be riddled, and even if he gained one he would fall before he could mount and ride away. since they had him at their mercy they could afford to toy with him. no one saw the figure that had materialized on the threshold to which all the backs of the yelping crowd were turned. it had come unannounced from the outer darkness. it stood for a moment looking on and in that moment understood the only thing necessary to comprehend: that the man who must be married to-night, was being prematurely assassinated. from his shadow of concealment at the door, this volunteer in the conflict thrust forward his rifle. his lean jaws were set and his eyes were full of a cold and very deadly light. it was the ringing voice of his repeater that announced him as it launched into the place so swift and fatal a sequence of messages that, to those inside, it appeared that they were being raked by a squad's volley. the sharp challenge of the clean-mouthed rifle, multiplied by its echo, dominated the muffled belching of revolvers like thunder crashing through the smother of winds, and upon the drunken mob of murderers, the effect was both immediate and appalling. to a savage lust for violence succeeded panic and an uncontrollable instinct of flight. a very different performance had been rehearsed in advance. it had contemplated a pretense of mêlée in which jerry henderson was to be killed--and no one else was to suffer. what had been staged as a bar-room brawl with an incidental murder had been switched without prior notice into battle and siege, and as every head came about with eyes starting and jaws sagging, many dropped and lay prone on the floor to escape the scathe of flying lead. utilizing the respite of diverted attention, jerry henderson overturned a heavy table, behind which he crouched. he was bleeding now from half a dozen wounds--and his only thought was to die fighting. but that moment of terror-arrested inaction would not last, and before it was spent, bear cat stacy had hurled himself with hurricane fury into the room, his rifle clubbed and flying, flail-like, about his head. the brief advantage of surprise must be utilized for the rush across the floor and, if it were to succeed, it must be accomplished before the boldest recovered their poise. he must reach henderson's side and the two must fight their way out shoulder to shoulder. henderson must not die--just yet! turner stacy covered half the distance by the sheer impetuosity of his onslaught, and reached the painted line of the state border, before a voice from the outskirts sought to rally the dismayed and disorganized forces with a rafter-rocking howl: "bear cat stacy! _git_ him boys! git 'em both!" but the new arrival was not easy to "git." he seemed an indestructible spirit of devastation; a second samson wielding the jaw bone of an ass and wreaking death among his adversaries. he hurled aside his rifle shattered against broken heads and caught up a heavy chair. he cast away the chair, carrying a man down with it as it flew, and fought with his hands. the superstition of his charmed life seemed to have something more of verity, just then, than old wives' gossip. then the initial spell of panic broke and those who had neither fled nor fallen swarmed grimly upon him. the pistols broke out again in their ragged yelping, but bear cat seemed everywhere at once, and always at such close grips with one or more adversaries that lead could not reach him save through the flesh of his assailants. and while this deadly romp went forward, henderson rose and ducked like a jack-in-the-box behind his massive obstruction, sniping at such as fell back from the core of the conflict. but preponderating numbers must ultimately prevail and neither stacy nor henderson could have outlasted the minute in that inferno, had not sam carlyle undertaken to hurl himself on bear cat when, for a moment, the single combatant had wrenched himself free of the struggling mass. carlyle dived instead of standing off and shooting, and with the swiftness of a leopard's stroke turner whipped out his pistol and received the towers henchman on its muzzle. "hands high!" he ordered in a voice that crackled with pleasure at this miracle of deliverance, and carlyle, realizing too late his blunder, stretched his arms overhead. then giving back step by step and holding the would-be assassin as a shield at his front, bear cat edged to the corner of the table. he was bleeding, too, not in one place but in many. "git behind me, henderson," he commanded briefly, "an' make yore way ter ther door!" roused to a fictitious strength by the infection of his rescuer's prowess, the wounded promoter sought to gain his feet, but his legs gave way under the seeming burden of tons. "i'm not just wounded," he mused, "i'm riddled and shredded." sinking back, he said gaspingly, "save yourself, stacy.... i reckon ... i'm done for." but bear cat, crouching with his pistol thrust against the breast of his human shield, snapped out his words with a resolve which appeared ready to assume command over death itself. "do what i tells ye! ye kain't die yit--ye've got to endure fer a spell. i hain't done with ye!" [illustration: then giving back step by step, bear cat edged to the corner of the table] pulling himself painfully up by the table's edge with his one sound arm, jerry made a panting and final effort, but, as he struggled, part of his body became exposed and that was the signal for several desultory shots. he fell back again, bleeding at the mouth, and the spot where he collapsed was reddened with the flow from his wounds. bear cat stacy's voice ripped out again in a furious roar. "quit shootin'!" he yelled. "one more shoot an' i kills sam carlyle in his tracks. i warns ye!" carlyle turned his head, too, and bellowed across his shoulder. "fer god's sake boys, hold up! he means hit!" as the racket subsided, stacy knelt, still covering his hostage and said briefly to jerry, "hook yore arm round my shoulders. i'll tote ye." he came laboriously to his feet again with his clinging burden of bleeding freight,--and abruptly kinnard towers appeared in the other door. his voice was raised in a semblance of rage, corroborated by an anger so well-simulated that it made his face livid. "what manner of hell's deviltry air all this?" he thundered. "who attacked these men in my place? by god, i don't 'low ter hev my house turned into no murder den." his minions, acting on his orders, knew their chief too well to argue, and as they fell shamefacedly silent, kinnard shouted to bear cat. "son, let me succor ye. he looks badly hurted." "succor, hell!" retorted bear cat grimly. "you an' me will talk later. now ef any feller follers me, i aims ter kill this man ye hires ter do yore murderin'." at the hitching-rack several horses still stood tethered. there was need for haste, for one fugitive was perhaps bleeding to death and the other was wounded and exhausted. some of the scattered murderers might be already waiting, too, in the shadows of the thickets. then for the first time bear cat spoke to henderson of the mission that had brought him there. "now ye've got ter git up an' ride ter brother fulkerson's house," he said, with a bitter curtness. "ye're a-goin' ter be married ter-night." "married! to-night!" jerry was hanging limp in the arms of his rescuer. his senses were reeling with pain and a weakness which was close to coma, but at the tone he raised his lids and met the glittering eyes that bent close, feeling a hot breath on his cheeks. this was the face of the man who had recklessly walked into a death trap to save him, but in its implacable fixity of feature there was now no vestige of friendliness. "married!" echoed the plunger feebly. "no, buried. i'm mortally hurt, i tell you.... i'm dying. just put me down and save yourself while ... you can." but bear cat stacy was lifting him bodily to the saddle and holding him in place. "dying?" he scornfully repeated. "i hopes ter god ye air, but afore ye dies ye're agoin' ter be married. maybe i'm dying, too--i don't know--but i aims ter last long enough ter stand up with ye first." chapter xv kinnard towers had spent that evening in his house at the distance of a furlong from the stockaded structure wherein the drama of his authorship was to be staged and acted. the cast, from principals to supernumeraries, having been adequately rehearsed in lines and business, his own presence on the scene would be not only unnecessary but distinctly ill advised, and like a shrinkingly modest playwright, he remained invisible. the plot was forcible in its direct simplicity. a chance disturbance would spring out of some slight pretext--and henderson, the troublesome apostle of innovation, would fall, its accidental and single victim. when death sealed his lips the only version of the affair to reach alien ears would be that dictated by towers himself: the narrative of a regrettable brawl in a rough saloon. against miscarriage, the arrangements seemed airtight, and there was need that it should be so for, desirable as was the elimination of jerry's activities, that object would not have warranted recklessly fanning into active eruption the dormant crater of stacy animosities. however, with lone stacy in duress and turner stacy in hiding beyond the state border, the hereditary foes were left leaderless--and would hardly rise in open warfare. moreover, kinnard meant to insure himself against contingencies by hastening to such prominent stacys as might be in communication with the absentees and avowing, with deep show of conviction that, of all the turbulent affairs which had ever come to focus in his tavern, nothing had so outraged him as this particular calamity. he would appear eager for active participation in hunting down and punishing the malefactors. of course, a scape-goat might be required, perhaps more than one, but there were men who could be well enough sacrificed to such a diplomatic necessity. so during the first part of that evening, kinnard sat comfortably by his hearth, smoking his pipe with contemplative serenity the while he waited for the rattle of firearms, which should announce the climax of the drama. he allowed to drop on his knees the sheaf of correspondence which had come to his hand through the courtesy of his nephew in the legislature. these papers bore the caption: c. and s. e. railways company: "_in re_--cedar mountain extension," and they contained meaty information culled from underground and confidential sources. across the hearth from him, with bare feet spread to the blaze, sat the well-trusted tom carmichael--sunk deep in meditation, though his eyes were not entirely serene--nor cloudless of apprehension. "'pears like ther show ought ter be startin' up," complained towers restively. "ye seed 'em go inter ther quarterhouse, ye said?" tom nodded. "i watched 'em from ther shadders of ther roadside. they went in all right. they're inside now." after a brief pause the lieutenant demanded querulously, "ye've done tuck inter account thet ther killin' of this feller from looeyville's goin' ter stir up them furriners down below, hain't ye, kinnard? i wouldn't be none astonished ef they sent them damn' milishy soldiers up hyar ergin." "ease yore mind, tom." towers spoke with the confidence of the strategist who has, in advance, balanced the odds of campaign. "ther railroad will kick up hit's heels--an' snort like all hell--but ther co'te sets _hyar_--an' i carries ther co'te in my breeches pocket." after a moment he added, "the only people i'm a-fear'd of air ther stacys--an' i've done arranged _thet_." at last across the frosty, sound-carrying distance, came the spiteful crack of pistols, and kinnard towers leaned attentively forward in his chair. "them damn' fools air bunglin' hit, some fashion," he broke out wrathfully. "thar hain't no sort of sense in a-stringin' hit out so long." a momentary diminuendo of the racket was followed by the sharp, repeated bark of a rifle, which brought the intriguer violently to his feet. "hell's fiddle!" he ejaculated in sudden alarm. "they hain't finished hit up yit! i cautioned 'em special not ter use no rifle-guns--jest pistols, accidental like." hatless and coatless, he rushed out and made for the quarterhouse, disquieted and alarmed by the din of a howling chorus which sounded more like uncertain battle than orderly and definite assassination. before his panting, galloping haste brought him to the stockade he caught, above the confused pandemonium, a yell of: "bear cat stacy! _git_ him! git 'em both!" "good god!" he muttered between grinding teeth. "good god, them fools air startin' ther war ergin! i've got ter stop hit!" if bear cat fell within the four walls of that house to-morrow would dawn upon a country-side disrupted in open warfare. so kinnard appeared in the door, his face distorted with an ashen fury and sought, too late, to assume again the rôle of pacifist and rescuer. as bear cat had gone stumbling out, bearing his burden of wounded and misused humanity, two men started forward keyed for pursuit. "we kin still git 'em from ther brush," hazarded one, but with a biting sarcasm the chieftain wheeled on the volunteer. "stand where ye're at, ye fool! ye've done flung away ther chanst--an' plunged us all inter tribulation! hain't i got no men thet hain't damned bunglers?" he stood panting in a rage like hydrophobia. "thet bear cat, he hain't mortal noways!" whined a disheveled youth who nursed a limp arm. "i seed his chest square on my pistol sights, not two yards' distant, an' i shot two shoots thet hed a right ter be deadeners--but ther bullets jest bounced offen him. ye kin bleed him a leetle, but ye kain't in no fashion _kill_ him." kinnard towers stood looking about the débris of the place where shattered bottles on the shelves and grotesque figures cluttering the floor bore testimony to the hurricane that had swept and wrecked it. "them fools war mortal enough," he disdainfully commented. "i reckon ye'd better take a tally an' see what kin be done fer 'em." * * * * * under stars that were frostily clear, bear cat stacy rode doggedly on, gripping in his arms the limp and helpless figure of jerry henderson. beneath his shirt he was conscious of a lukewarm seeping of moisture as if a bottle had broken in an inner pocket and he recognized the leakage as waste from his own arteries. within his skull persisted a throbbing torture, so that from time to time he closed his eyes in futile effort to ease the blinding and confusing pain. with both arms wrapped about the insensible figure before him, and one hand clutching his pistol, rather from instinct than usefulness, he went with hanging reins. a trickle of blood filled his eyes and, having no free hand, he bent and dabbed his face against the shoulder of his human burden. through all his joints and veins he could feel the scalding rise of a fever wave like a swelling tide. to his imagination this half-delirious recognition of sanity-consuming heat became an external thing which he must combat with will-power. so long as he could fight it down from engulfing and quenching his brain, he told himself, he could go on. failing in that, he would be drowned in a steaming whirlpool of madness. the stark and shapeless ramparts of the hills became to his disordered senses hordes of crowding titans, pressing in ponderously to smother and bury him. he felt that he must fend them off; hold back from crushing and fatal assault the very mountains and the pitchiness of death--for a while yet--until his task was finished. above all he must think. no man could defeat death, but, for a sufficient cause and with dauntless temper of resolution, a man might postpone it. he must win blossom's battle before he fell. he swayed drunkenly in his saddle and gasped in his effort to breathe as a hooked fish gasps, out of water. it seemed that on his breast lay all the massiveness of the rock-built ranges and at his reason licked fiery tongues of lunacy so that he had constant need to remind himself of his mission. there was some task that he had set out to accomplish--but it wavered into shadowy vagueness. there were scores of mountains to be pushed back and a heavy, sagging thing which he carried in his arms, to be delivered somewhere--before it was too late. his mind wandered and his lips chattered crazy, fever-born things, but to his burden he clung, with a grim survival of instinctive purpose. sometimes an inarticulate and stifled sound came stertorously from the swollen lips of the weltering body that sagged across the horse's withers--but that was all, and it failed to recall the custodian from the nightmare shades of delirium. but the night was keenly edged with frost and as the plodding mount splashed across shallow fords its hooves broke through a thin rime of ice. that same cold touch laid its restoring influence on turner stacy's pounding temples. his eyes saw and recognized the setting of the evening star--and something lucid came back to him. to him the evening star meant blossom. he remembered now. he was taking a bridegroom to the woman he loved--and the bridegroom must be delivered alive. jerking himself painfully up in his saddle, he bent his head. "air ye alive?" he demanded fiercely, but there was no response. he shifted his burden a little and held his ear close. the lips were still breathing, though with broken fitfulness. his fever would return, bear cat told himself, in intermittent waves, and he must utilize to the full the available periods of reason. henderson would bleed to death unless his wounds were promptly staunched. liquor must be forced down his throat if he were to last to brother fulkerson's house with life enough to say "i will." since the dawn when bear cat had given his pledge to blossom he had always carried a flask in his pocket. he had done so in order that his fight should be one without any sort of evasion of issues: in order that the thirst should be met squarely and that whenever or wherever it attacked him he would have to face and conquer it with the knowledge that drink was at hand. now he felt for that flask and found that in the mêlée it had been shattered. rough and almost perpendicular leagues intervened between here and brother fulkerson's and there must immediately be some administration of first aid. the instinct of second nature came to bear cat's aid as he groped for his bearings. over this hill, a half mile through the "roughs," unless it had been moved of late, lay dog tate's blockade still. slipping back of his saddle, onto the flanks of his mount, turner lowered henderson until he hung limp after the fashion of a meal-sack between cantle and pommel. he himself slid experimentally to the ground, supporting himself against the horse while he tested his legs. he could still stand--but could he carry a man as heavy as himself? "a man kin do whatsoever he's obleeged ter do," he grimly told himself. "this hyar's a task i'm plumb decreed ter finish." the fever had temporarily subsided. his brain felt preternaturally clarified by the contrast, but the hinges of his knees seemed frail and collapsible. he hitched the horse, and hefting the insensible man in his arms, staggered blindly into the timber. dog's place was hedged about with the discouragement of thickets as arduous as a _cheval de frise_, but bear cat's feet groped along the blind path with a surety that survived from a life of wood-craft. once he fell, sprawling, and it was a little while before he could conquer the nausea of pain sufficiently to rise, gather up his weighty burden, and stumble on again. "i'll hev abundant time ter lay down an' die ter-morrow," he growled between the clamped jaws that were unconsciously biting the blood out of his tongue. "but i've got ter endure a spell yit--i hain't quite finished my job." at last he lifted his voice and called guardedly out of the thickets. "this is bear cat stacy--i'm bad wounded an' i seeks succor!" there was no reply, but shortly he defined a shadow stealing cautiously toward him and dog tate stood close, peering through the sooty dark with amazement welling in his eyes. the gorge which dog had chosen for his nefarious enterprise was a "master shut-in" between beetling walls of rock, fairly secure against discovery and now both the moonshiner and his sentinel brought their lanterns for an inquiry into this unexpected visit. at first mute astonishment held them. these two figures were bruised, torn and blood-stained, almost beyond semblance to humanity. in the yellow circlet of flare that the lantern bit out of the darkness, they seemed gory reminders of a slaughter-house. but much of the blood that besmeared bear cat stacy had come from his weltering burden. "i hain't got overly much time fer speech, dog," gasped turner between labored breaths. "we've got ter make brother fulkerson's afore we gives out.... strip this man an' bind up his hurts es well es ye kin.... git him licker, too!" they staunched henderson's graver wounds with a rough but not undeft speed, and when they had forced white liquor between his lips the faltering heart began to beat with less tenuous hold on the frayed fringes of life. "ef he lives ter git thar hit's a god's miracle," commented dog. he passed the whiskey to bear cat, who thrust it ungraciously back as he repeated, with dogged reiteration. "he's got ter last twell mornin'. he's _got_ ter." when the prostrate figure stirred with a flicker of returning consciousness turner's eyes became abruptly keen and his words ran swiftly into a current of decisiveness: "dog, yore maw war a stacy--an' yore paw was kilt from ther la'rel. i reckon ye suspicions who caused his death?" a baleful light glimmered instantly into the moonshiner's pupils; the light of a long-fostered and bitter hate. his answer was breathed rather than spoken. "i reckon kinnard towers hired him killed.... i was a kid when he died, but my mammy give me his handkerchief, dipped in his blood ... an' i tuck my oath then." he paused a moment and went on more soberly: "i've done held my hand ... because of ther truce ... but i hain't nowise forgetful ... an' some day----" bear cat leaned forward and laid an interrupting hand on the shoulder of the speaker, to find it trembling. "hearken, dog," he said. "mebby yore time will come sooner then ye reckoned. i wants thet afore sun-up ter-morrow word should go ter every stacy in these-hyar hills, thet i've done sent out my call, an' thet they shell be ready ter answer hit--full-armed. i wants thet ye shall summons all sich as ye hev ther power ter reach, ter meet fer counsel at my dwellin'-house ter-morrow mornin' ... an' now i wants ter hev private speech with this-hyar man--" he jerked his head toward henderson--"afore he gits past talkin'." with a nod of comprehension the moonshiner and his helper slipped out of sight in the shadows, and kneeling at jerry's side, bear cat again raised a cup of white whiskey to his lips. the odor of the stuff stole seductively into his own nostrils, but he raised his eyes and saw again the evening star, not rising but setting. "blossom's star!" he groaned, then added, "ye don't delight in me none, little gal! thar hain't but one thing left thet i kin do fer ye--an' i aims ter see hit through." with insupportable impatience he bent, waiting for a steadier light of consciousness to dawn in that other face. every atom of his own will was focused and concentrated in the effort to compel a response of sensibility. finally henderson's eyes opened and the wounded man saw close to him a face so fiercely fixed that slowly, under its tense insistence, fragments of remembrance came driftingly and disjointedly back to him. "kin ye hear me?" demanded bear cat stacy with an implacably ringing voice. "does ye understand me?" and the other's head moved faintly--almost imperceptibly. "then mark me clost because i reckon both of us hes got ter stand afore many hours facin' almighty god--an' hit don't profit us none ter mince words." through the haze of a brain still fogged and reeling, henderson became aware of a hatred so bitter that it dwarfed into petulance that of the murder horde at the quarterhouse. "ye come hyar ... an' we tuck ye in." the tone rose from feebleness to an iron steadiness as it continued. "when i come inter ther quarterhouse i 'lowed ye'd done turned traitor an' joined kinnard towers ... but since they sought ter kill ye, mayhap i war misguided.... thet don't make no difference, now, nohow." he paused and struggled for breath. "ye tuck blossom away from me ... ye made her love ye because she hadn't never knowed ... an eddicated man afore.... all my days an' nights i'd dreamed of her.... ter make her happy, i'd gladly hev laid down my life ... but i war jest a rough mounting man ... an' then she seed _you_." henderson's lips moved in a futile effort as bear cat halted, gasping. his hand wavered in a weak gesture of protest--as against an unjust charge. but bear cat's voice leaped suddenly. "don't stop me! thar hain't much time left! you an' me needs ter go ter god's jedgment seat with our jobs finished.... i don't censure blossom none ... hit war es rightful thet she should want a _real_ life ... es fer ther flowers ter want sunshine.... but _you_! ye stole her love--an' then abandoned her." henderson's eyes were eloquent with a denial--but the darkness hid it--and his lips refused utterance, while the other talked on, feebleness muting the accusing voice to a lower timbre. "she warn't good enough fer _you_--her thet war too good fer any man! but perchance ye may be wiser dyin' then livin'." the weak utterance mounted into inexorable command. "now ye're a-goin' ter make good afore ye dies.... she trusted ye ... an--" turner broke suddenly into a deep sob of agony. "i don't know how fur ye taxed her trust ... but i knows she told me she had full faith in ye, an' faith like thet don't stop ter reckon up costs. now she's sickenin' away--an' thet trust is broke ... an' i reckon her heart's broke, too." henderson moistened his lips and with a supreme effort succeeded in whispering almost inaudibly, "that's a lie." "a lie is hit? she gave ye her lips," went on the burning indictment. "an' in these hills when a woman like blossom gives her lips ter a man, she gives him her soul ter keep.... ye're a mountain man yoreself ... ye knows full well what mountain folks holds.... ye hain't got no excuse of ign'rance ter hide behind. ye knows thet withouten ye weds her, folks will tell lies an' she won't never be able ter hold up her head--ner smile again." "stacy--" henderson had rallied a little now, but he sagged back and at first got no further than the name. with another struggle, he added, "i ... i'm dying----" "mebby so. i hopes ye air ... but fust ye're a-goin' over thar with me ... an', because she'll be happier ef she thinks ye come of yore own free will.... i hain't a-goin' ter tell her ... thet i dragged ye thar ... like a sheep-killin' dog.... ye're a-goin' ter let her think thet her hero has done come back ter her ... _dee_spite death hitself." "but--but----" the young mountaineer broke out with something half sob and half muffled roar. "hell, thar hain't no but! i'm tellin' ye what ye air a-goin' ter do! with god's aid i aims ter keep ye alive thet long ... an' atter thet--i hain't takin' no heed what comes ter pass." "was ... that ... why you ... saved me?" the words were barely audible. "what else would hit be? did ye reckon hit war love for ther man thet hed done stole everything i counted dear--ther traitor thet betrayed my roof-tree? did ye 'low thet hit war fer yore own sake i war openin' up ther war ergin, deespite ther fact that i knows hit'll make these hills run red with ther blood of my kith an' kin?" abruptly bear cat came to his feet and shouted into the darkness. henderson saw two figures detach themselves from the inky void and come forward. then as they lifted him he swooned with pain. chapter xvi dog tate had left his mash kettle unguarded that night, putting clan loyalty above individual interest as he hastened off to stir into action the dwellers of the stacy cabins, and to dispatch other night-riders upon the same mission. but he sent joe sanders, his assistant, to convoy the wounded men along their road. they went at a labored and snail-like pace, sanders walking on one side of the horse, supporting the swooning figure it bore, while turner stacy trudged at the other saddle skirt. sometimes bear cat plodded on with fair erectness, setting his teeth against weariness and pain, but at other times the intermittent waves of fever rose scaldingly until, in a blind fog, he dragged shuffling feet, clinging grimly the while to pommel and stirrup-leather as his head sagged forward between his shoulders. sometimes, too, he mumbled incomprehensible things in a voice that was weirdly unnatural. from time to time there was a halt to make sure that the life spark still flickered, though tenuously and gutteringly, in the breast of the inert thing lashed to the saddle. when they had been on the road for three hours bear cat and sanders, by a common impulse, strained their ears through what had been silence, except for the wail of the high-riding breeze among the pine crests. now faint, and far away, hardly more than a hint of sound, they could hear something else, and it lifted turner out of his reek of nightmare and semi-delirium so that his eyes cleared and his head came up. it was as though a bugle had sounded a note of martial encouragement through the mists of despair. joe sanders spoke shortly, half to his companion and half to himself. "hit kinderly seems like dog tate's rousin' em up. i reckon ther war's on now all right an' it's liable ter be unshirted hell." * * * * * blossom had been sitting until late that evening with her hands lying listlessly in her lap and her eyes staringly fixed on the blaze of her hearth. their amber pools were darkened with jaded misery and her cheeks were pale. their graciousness of youthful curve had been somewhat flattened, as her whole life had been flattened. only her hair, awakened into halo-brightness by the blaze of the logs, spoke of that old vividness of color that had been a sort of delicate gorgeousness and even that nimbus had the suggestion of the glow about the head of a saint who has achieved sanctity through suffering. "he swore he aimed ter come back ter me right soon," she repeated to herself. "i wouldn't have him imperil himself--but he mout have writ me a letter." her instinct told her what had happened with a fulness of realization from which there was no escape. it was only because she had pretended her cinderella dream to be a fact, that she had not all along recognized it for an impossible fairy tale. the jerry henderson who had promised her marriage was only a temporary jerry: a man swept off his feet by the stress and freshet of crisis. the mountain blood in his veins had welled up to flood tide and swept away the dams of his superimposed cultivation. he had relapsed into her life--for a little while--just as his ardent tongue had relapsed into her uncouth vernacular. now the more permanent jerry, awakened by his return to city conditions, was standing aloof, regarding that experience with self-contemptuous regret: thinking of it as a lapse into savagery. it had been an impetuous thing of the flesh to which his mind denied permanent sanction. the dream was over now--but she could not forget it. her fingers twisted themselves tightly together and she rose and leaned wearily against the mantel-shelf. as her eyes, clouded with misery, traveled about the tidy room, its every note spoke of bear cat stacy. he had fashioned, for her comfort, all the furnishings that made it a place different from the rooms of other mountain cabins. on the pelion of her own misery she heaped the ossa of self-condemnation. she saw again the stricken look in turner's eyes as he had set out for virginia after hearing the news that had cut the foundation from under all his own life-dream. she remembered, too, the gentleness with which, placing thought of her above self, he had made his renunciation. "oh, god," she murmured, "why air hit thet we kain't love best of all ther folks thet loves us most? turney would hev walked through ther valley of death fer me--an' i've got ter break my heart fer a man thet don't hold me good enough ter wed." yet even now she was making excuses for the lover who had neither come nor written. the first bond between turner and herself had been their common revolt against a life of squalid ignorance and emptiness. that revolt had carried them into the no-man's land of discontent without bringing them to the other side: the line of real attainment upon which jerry stood secure. her father came once to the door, but did not enter it. his bearded face was more soberly patriarchal than ever. he had long struggled against violence in his efforts to shepherd a wild and turbulent flock. he had pleaded for the christ-law of forgiven sins, but in his veins ran the unforgetting blood of warring generations. there had been times of late when he had felt that he would need god's help and restraint should he ever meet the man who had broken his daughter's heart. "i reckon thar hain't sca'cely nothin' i kin say ter console her," he mused as he turned away from the door. at length when the fire had burned low blossom went to bed and lay wide-eyed for other hours. through the harping wind in the evergreens sometimes came the high, wild note of southward-winging ducks and geese--refugees from winter. henceforth her life was all to be winter. neither the freshly green and tuneful things of springtime nor the gorgeousness and fragrance of autumn could amend or temper its lethargy. she had tossed until nearly dawn, and the house lay deadly quiet. if sleep came near her it was only to veer away again for each sputter of a dying ember brought her, with a start, into tenser wakefulness. then came another sound, and her nervous little body tightened into the dismay of panic. unmoving, holding her breath between pressed lips, she strained her ears. there was no mistake--she had heard it again. it was a wild note riding the wind, and now for the first time it became more than a legend in her experience. from babyhood she had heard of this night noise, long silenced by the truce, and had trembled at its portentousness. she had from childhood heard her father thank god that men were no more roused by it from their sleep: that it was one accursed thing which belonged to the past. now it had found resurrection! as she lay listening it sounded once more, nearer than before, a shout suggestive of a wild-cat's wail that quavered and rose and dwindled and rose again. that clan-signal of the stacys along the ridges meant war--open and unmitigated war. it was not merely a demonstration of inimical feeling but a definite summons. the man of that blood who heard it needed no particulars. he had his orders. straightway he must arm and rally. from her father's room came a deeply anguished groan and the muttering of a prayer. he, too, had been awakened and realized that the "war" had broken out afresh. it was useless to try to sleep now. blossom rose and threw fresh fagots on the fire. she dressed and sat with her fingers twisting and her lips trembling. once she stifled a scream at the rush of hoof-beats and the scatter of gravel along the road, but the commotion went by in hot haste and silence closed down again. eventually an abrupt shout sounded imperatively from just beyond the door--a voice which blossom did not recognize, and as she came to her feet she heard her father's stern challenge, "who's out thar?" "hit's joe sanders--an' i'm in haste!" despite the urgency of word and tone the preacher hesitated to demand: "what business brings ye hyar in ther dead of night-time?" "i've got bear cat stacy an' mr. henderson. they're both sore wounded. fer god's sake, hasten!" with a swiftness of motion that outstripped her father's, blossom flung herself forward and with feverish fingers was sliding the bar from its sockets. but while the preacher stood waiting, his lips drew themselves into an unbending line and his shaggy brows lowered. inwardly he was praying: "almighty god, i beseeches ye ter strengthen me in this hour ter fergive mine enemies--fer thou knowest thar's murder in my heart!" as the girl threw the door wide, she saw what seemed to be three figures locked in a close embrace. the trio lurched rather than stepped into the lighted area, and, shrinking back horrified, blossom saw brother fulkerson close his house, his face marked, as she had never before seen it, with a grim unwelcome. sanders carried in his arms a figure whose limbs fell in grotesque inertia. its clothing was torn by briars and bullets; matted with mire and blood. its face was half hidden by a rough bandage made from jerry's own handkerchief, upon which the stains had turned from red to dull brown, except at the spots where the crimson had been renewed by an unstaunched trickle. bear cat stumbled across the threshold unaided, but as he halted, blinking at the light, he reeled drunkenly and propped his disheveled body against the wall. that was for a moment only and at its end he drew himself into something nearer uprightness and swept his hand across his brow. he had not carried the matter this far to fail at the finish. "lay thet man on a bed," he panted with fierce earnestness. "thar hain't no time ter waste ... he's nigh death ... an' he's come hyar ter be wedded." brother fulkerson answered in a voice of bewilderment, tinged, too, with protest. "thar hain't sca'cely no life in him. hit's too late fer marryin'." "not yit hit hain't ... hit will be ef ye tarries!" turner ripped out his words with the staccato snap of rifle fire. his own feebleness seemed to drop away like the hat he flung to one side. his eyes burned with tawny fire and a positive fury of haste. for hours, he felt he had been holding death in abeyance by a sheer grapple of resolution, and now men paused to parley and make comment. an impulse of insane wrath besieged him. he must be obeyed--and the moments were flying--the sands running out. "hasten now--an' talk afterwards," he burst out. they laid jerry on blossom's bed, its coverings magically smoothed into comfort by her flying hands, and joe sanders once more pressed his pocket flask to the white lips. the girl, buoyed up, beyond her strength, by the moment's need and the mettle of her blood, swiftly and capably eased the posture of the wounded man, loosened his heavy boots and rushed from the room to prepare fresh bandages. the stunning impact of despair would come later. now every fighting chance must be preserved to him. while she was still out of the room, henderson's eyes opened in a fluttering and precarious consciousness, to find other eyes fixed on them with flaming intensity. the basilisk gaze was fabulously reputed to bring death, but turner stacy was reversing its hypnotism to compel life. "where--am i?" whispered jerry; and the answer was as peremptory as predestination. "ye're at blossom's house--ter git married--an,' by god, ye've got ter last thet long. she's got ter believe ye come of yore own free will--see thet she does!" the half-insensible eyes ranged vaguely about the place. the weak fingers plucked absently at the coverlet, and then essayed a gesture. the promoter seemed rallying his failing faculties for a supreme effort though his voice was hardly audible. "but--stacy--you don't--under--stand." bear cat brought his face close; a face with belligerently out-thrust chin and fiercely narrowed eyes. henderson must consent before blossom returned to divine with her quick intuition that her dying lover balked in the shadow of death. "don't explain nothin' ter me. save yore breath ter say 'i will.' thet's all ye hev need ter utter now--an' hits need enough." in his overwrought singleness of purpose turner forgot that this man was beyond any force of threat or coercion. as he spoke so dictatorially he believed himself, too, to be facing death with equal certainty, though more slowly, and what he had sworn to do must first be done. yet there was such an inescapable compulsion in the ernest fixity of his pale face and burning eyes that the outstretched figure felt its own declining will merged and conquered. "hit's ther only decent thing thet's left fer ye ter do," went on the strained but inflexible voice. "ye took her heart fer yore own--an' broke hit. ye've got ter let her have yore name an' ther consolation of believin' thet ye came ter her ... honest, fightin' back black death hitself!" sometimes between sleep and waking come fugitive thoughts that seem crystal-clear, but that elude definite memory. such a process enacted itself in the mind of the dying man. doubt and complications were dissolved into simplicity--and acquiescence. faintly he nodded his head and even tried to hold out his hand to be shaken. perhaps bear cat was too excited to recognize that proffer of amenity. possibly his own bitterness was yet too black for forgiveness--at all events he turned away without response to seek out joel fulkerson, who had disappeared. "ye've got ter hasten, brother fulkerson," he hurriedly urged. "jerry henderson's done come back ter give his name ter blossom afore he dies an' death hain't far off." the old evangelist was bending over a medicine chest. it was a thing which a visiting surgeon had once given him and in the use of which he had developed an inborn skill that had before now saved lives and ameliorated suffering. he straightened up dubiously and faced the younger man. "turney," he said grimly, "ef they don't wed, folks hyarabouts'll always look askance at my little gal with a suspicion thet i'm confi_dent_ is as false as hell hitself--but god made ther state of matrimony holy--an' i'm his servant--onlessen they both enters inter hit free-minded hit wouldn't be nothin' but a blasphemy. _air_ they both of one mind?" turner stiffened to a ramrod straightness. his hands clenched themselves into hard fists and his nostrils quivered. "brother fulkerson, ye're a godly man," he declared with suppressed passion, "an' i hain't never sought ter dispute ye ner defy ye afore now--but thar hain't no time ter argyfy. willin'ly or unwillin'ly ye're a-goin' ter wed them two--right hyar--an' now! he plighted his troth ter her. he's got a mighty brief chanct ter fulfill his pledge an' leave her thinkin' she gave her love ter a true man. he's come acrost hyar, shot like a bob-white--jest fer thet. i've fought off death my own self ter-night--jest fer thet! ef god has spared both of us this long, i reckon he done hit--jest fer thet! i'll answer ter him at ther jedgment-seat, ef so be i'm wrong." for an irresolute moment the father hesitated, then he said briefly, "come on." turner wheeled, bracing himself for the bitterest ordeal of all. he must be the spokesman for a rival whom he hated beyond superlatives--and in order that blossom might keep her dream, which was all she could now hope to salvage out of life, he meant to tell a lie which would for all time enshrine that detestable traitor. none the less, when he had drawn her aside, he spoke with great gentleness, perjuring himself with knightly self-effacement. he took both her hands in his own and looked with a tender consideration into her forlorn eyes, gulping down the choke that rose in his throat and threatened his power of speech. though her gaze was fixed on his face she seemed hardly to see him, so stiff and trance-like was her posture and so tight-drawn and expressionless her features. if he could soften that paralysis of grief it was worth a self-sacrificing lie. "blossom," he began softly, "mr. henderson fell inter a murder trap an' i got thar too late ... ter fotch him out unharmed. betwixt us we _did_ come through, though, with ther breath still in our bodies ... an' he made me pledge myself ter git him hyar in time ... ter wed with ye afore he died." he saw the eyes widen and soften as if the tight constriction of heart and nerve had been a little eased. into them came even a pale hint of serenity and pride--pride for the splendid vindication of a hero whom she had tried to believe true and had been compelled to doubt. even the bleak dreariness of widowhood could not tarnish that memory: her ideal instead of being shattered was canonized! "i knowed he'd prove true," she loyally declared. "despite everything i jest knowed hit deep down in my heart!" a pallid thinning of the darkness was discernible over the eastern ridges as brother fulkerson, who had administered his most powerful restoratives, thrust back his medicine chest. his face became mysteriously grave as he joined the hands of his daughter and the man whose fingers were limp in their enfeebled clasp. across the quilted four-poster stood bear cat stacy, as erectly motionless as bronze. his unblinking eyes and lips, schooled into firm stoicism, might have suggested some young indian brave going, set of purpose, to his torture. the lamp flared and sputtered toward the end of its night-long service and the fire had dwindled to an ashen desolation. at the foot of the bed, and depressed with a dull sense of awe, was joe sanders, fingering his hat-brim and shifting his weight from foot to foot. the old preacher of the hills, ordained in no recognized school of divinity, had for this occasion put aside the simple formula that the mountains knew and substituted for it such fragments as he remembered from the church of england's more stately ritual. it was a service that he had heard infrequently and long ago, but it had stirred him with its solemn beauty and god would forgive any unmeant distortions since the intent was reverent. "dearly beloved, we're gathered together hyar in ther sight of god a'mighty an' in the face of this hyar company ... to j'ine tergither this-hyar man an' this-hyar woman." there exact memory failed him and his voice broke in a pathetic quaver. bear cat stacy bit his tongue until he could taste the blood in his mouth as he held his gaze rigidly fixed above the heads of the little group. god alone knew how bitter were the broken dreams in his heart, just then. "i require an' charge ye both, as ye will answer at ther dreadful day of jedgment--" the holy words were still illusive and memory tricky--"thet ef either one of ye knows any--any--cause why ye kain't rightfully be j'ined tergither in matrimony ... ye do now confess hit." the pause which ensued lay upon the small company with oppressive weight. joe sanders coughed and nervously cleared his throat. "wilt thou have this-hyar woman fer thy wedded wife? wilt thou love her, comfort her an' keep her in sickness an' in health?" for a moment there was dead and unresponsive silence. a cold fear smote upon them all that death had intervened. then bear cat, bringing his eyes back from their fixity, bent abruptly; so abruptly that his movement seemed a thing of violent threat. "don't ye hear?" he demanded in a strained whisper. "speak whilst thar's breath left. say 'i will.' say hit speedily!" recalled by that sharp challenge out of his sinking consciousness, jerry henderson stirred and murmured faintly, "i will." "wilt thou have this-hyar man fer thy wedded husband ter serve, honor an' obey----" but before the interrogation came to its period blossom fulkerson broke in with a prideful and willing avowal, "i will! i will!" turner stacy felt icy moisture on his temples. his world seemed rocking as he stood straight again with wooden immobility. "i pronounces ye man an' wife." bear cat turned away, walking with the stiff fashion of an automaton. he could feel a stringent tightness like paralysis at his heart--and his limbs seemed unresponsive and heavy. then to his ears came, on the morning breeze, that same call to arms that had stiffened blossom into a paralysis of fear. his cramped posture relaxed, and to himself he said, "i reckon i hain't quite through yit!" chapter xvii blossom still knelt at the bedside with eyes of absorbed suffering and fingers that strayed flutteringly toward the bandaged head. bear cat, with his hand on the latch, lingered at the door, held there by a spell which he seemed powerless to combat. his part here was played out and to remain longer was an intrusion--yet he seemed unable to go. the kneeling girl was not even conscious of his presence. for her there was no world except that little one bounded by the sides and the end of the bed upon which her lover lay dying. her hands clasped themselves at last and her face buried itself in the coverings. she was praying. bear cat saw the glimmer of the firelight on her hair and to him it was all the lost gold of his dreams. he caught the sweet graciousness of her lissome curves, and his own fingers clutched at the shirt which had become stiff with dried blood. once she had prayed for him, he remembered--but that was before her real power of loving had burned to its fulness. now he stood there forgotten. he did not blame her for that forgetfulness. it only demonstrated the singleness of devotion of which she was capable; the dedication of heart which he had once hoped would be lavished on himself. he, too, was so centered on one yearning that he was beyond the realization of lesser matters, so that the gaunt preacher came within arm's length unnoticed and laid a hand on his shoulder. brother fulkerson nodded toward the other room, and turner followed him with the dumb and perfunctory abstraction of a sleep-walker. "now, son, ef hit hain't too late ter avail, let's hev a look at yore own hurts. ye didn't come through totally unscathed yore own self." bear cat stood apathetically and his eyes turned hungrily toward the stout partition of logs beyond which knelt the girl. it was not until the older man had spoken the second time that he replied with a flat tonelessness of voice, "my worst hurts ... hain't none ... thet ye kin aid." "thet's what i aims ter find out." joel fulkerson's manner was brisk and authoritative. "strip off yore coat an' shirt." indifferently bear cat obeyed. several times his lips moved without sound, while the other pressed investigating fingers over the splendidly sinewed torso and bathed away the dried blood. "hit looks p'intedly like ye've been seekin' ter prove them fruitless stories thet bullets kain't kill ye," observed the preacher at the end of his inspection, speaking with a somber humor. "ye've done been shot right nigh yore heart, an' ther bullet jest glanced round a rib without penetratin'. ye've done suffered wounds enough ter kill a half-dozen ord'nary humans--an' beyond wastin' a heap of blood ye don't seem much injured." "i wisht," declared the young man bitterly, "ye'd done told me thet i was about ter lay down an' die. thet's all i'm longin' fer now." for some moments they were silent; then joel fulkerson's grave pupils flickered and a hint of quaver stole into his voice. "son, i've done spent my life in god's sarvice--unworthily yet plumb earnest, too, an' thar's been times a-plenty when hit almost looked ter me like he'd turned aside his face in wrath fer ther unregenerate sin of these-hyar hills. i've hed my big dreams, too, turner ... an' i've seed 'em fail. oftentimes, despairin' of ther heathenism of ther growed-ups, i've sot my hopes on ther comin' generation. if ther children could be given a new pattern of life ther whole system mout come ter betterment." the young man had been putting on again his discarded shirt and coat, but his hands moved with the fumbling and apathetic motions of a sleep-walker. his face, turned always toward that room beyond the wall, was set in a dull immobility, yet he heard what the elder man was saying, and listened with the impatience of one whose thoughts are in travail, and whose interest for abstractions is dead. the preacher recognized this, but with a resolute effort he continued. "when _you_ war a leetle shaver i seed in yore eyes thet ye hed dreams above sordidness.... oft-times when i watched ye gazin' off acrost the most distant ridges i 'lowed that god hed breathed a wonderful gift inter ye ... ther ability ter dream an' make them dreams come true. i seed thet ye hed _power_, power thet mout do great good or make yore name a terror ter mankind, dependin' on which way ye turned hit." an agonized groan came brokenly from the twisted lips. bear cat dropped into a chair and covered his eyes with trembling palms. he had faced his enemies without flinching, but after the cumulative forms of torture through which he had passed to-night, his stoicism threatened to break under the kind intentions of a talkative friend. still the evangelist went on: "i had visions of a new type of mountain folks--some day ... when boys like you an' gals like blossom grew up--and wedded. folks with all the honesty an' generosity we've got now--but with ther black hate an' suspicion gone--. ay--an' ther cause of hit gone, too,--ther blockade stills." turner's nails bit into his temples as if with an effort to hold the fugitive reason in his bursting head, as the words assaulted his ears. "i've set hyar afore my fire many's ther night, a-dreamin' of some day when there'd be a grandchild on my knee ... yore child an' blossom's ... a baby thet would be trained up right." suddenly turner's silence of apathy broke and he fell to trembling, while his eyes flared wildly. "in god's name why does ye have ter taunt me in this hour with reminders of all thet i've lived fer an' lost? does ye reckon i kin ever fergit hit?" he broke off, then went on again with panting vehemence. "i hain't never had no dream but what was jest a part of _thet_ dream. "why i've stood up thar on ther ridges in ther spring when ther face of god's earth war so beautiful thet i've wondered ef his heaven could be much better--an' thet's ther sperit of ther hills thet blossom stood fer ter me." the shaking voice gathered volume and passion. "i've seed ther bleak misery of winter strangle all but ther breath of life hitself outen folks thet lives hyar--an' thet's what this country means ter me without blossom! folks knows how ter hate up hyar, but jest now, somehow, i feels thet no man in all these god-forsaken mountings kin hate life an' humanity like i hates 'em!" joel fulkerson responded soberly though without reproof: "yore man lincoln could go right on when things was turrible black. when his own ends failed he still went on--fer others. he didn't give way ter hate. he could go on tell he give his life hitself--fer dreams of betterin' things thet needed betterment, an' he come from ther same blood as us." "wharfore in god's name does ye stand thar preachin' at me?" the young man's reaction from stunned torpor to passion had brought with it something like the fever of madness. "ye knows i holds with ye es ter schools--an' all fashion of betterment--but what's them things ter me now? what i wants in this hour is ter visit on ther man thet's ruint my life ther direst punishment thet kin be meted out--an' he's cheatin' me by a-dyin'. listen--" he broke off and bent his head toward the wall of blossom's room and his voice took on a queer, almost maniacal note. "kain't ye heer her--in thar--groanin' out her heart! let me git outen hyar.... i kain't endure hit.... i'm liable ter do even _you_ an injury ef i stays--albeit i loves ye!" "i hates thet man in thar, too, turner." the preacher laid a restraining hand on his companion's taut arm and sought to soothe the frenzy of wrath with the cool steadiness of his tone. "i've had need ter pray fer strength against thet hate--but i've heered ther stacy rallyin' cry ter-night an' we've got ter hev speech." "speech hain't ergoin' ter mollify me. what i wants is ter hev ther things i've suffered this night paid fer. hit's all _got_ ter be paid fer!" the inheritor of feudal instincts wheeled and burst from the room, the preacher following more slowly but still determined. outside turner halted. the ordeal through which he had passed had left him shaken in a frenzy of passion, and he stood looking about him with the gaze of a wild beast fretting under the feral urge of blood-lust. with a clan easily inflamed and gathering to his call, brother fulkerson realized the danger of that mood. its menace must be met and stemmed before it ran to a flood-tide of homicidal violence. the preacher came close and spoke quietly. "i don't know yit what tuck place ter night--over yon," he said. "i only knows i've heered acrost ther hills a sound i'd prayed i mout never hear ergin--ther cry of ther stacys rallyin' fer battle. ye've got power, son--power beyond ther common. what air ye goin' ter do with hit? air ye a-goin' ter fergit yore dreams, because ther future's black afore ye? or air ye goin' ter be big enough, since ye're denied children of yore own, ter make them dreams come true fer ther benefit of other men's children?" bear cat stacy's voice as he answered was gratingly hard and his eyes were unyielding. "i don't know yit," he savagely announced. "i don't know yit fer sure whose a-goin' ter need punishment, but i've called on my kinsmen ter gather--an' when i knows the truth we'll be ready to deal hit out full measure." "ther days of feuds is past, son. fer god's sake don't be ther backwardest man in all this evil-ridden country--you thet should be the forwardest." but bear cat's hands, clenched into fists, were raised high above his head. "my paw's in jail," he ripped out. "i hed ter go over thar ter hide out in virginny. ef them things hadn't come ter pass mebby i mout hev saved blossom from her tribulation." suddenly he fell silent. in the dim light the preacher saw his face alter to the ugly set of a gargoyle and his body come to such sudden rigidity as paralysis might have brought. "god almighty in heaven!" turner exclaimed, then his words come racing in a torrent of frenzy. "i war a damn' fool not ter hev seed hit afore! why air my paw in jail? why did kinnard towers counsel me ter go ter virginny an' hide out? hit war because he war plannin' ter murder jerry henderson--an' he didn't dast do hit with us hyar! i knows now who needs killin' an' so holp me god, i hain't a goin' ter lay down ner sleep, ever again, until i kills him!" the eyes burned madly; the figure shook and he would have rushed off at the moment had not the preacher caught his arms and held them doggedly even though the infuriated young giant tossed him about in his efforts to free himself. yet for all his thinness and age, joel fulkerson had power in his frame--and an unshakeable determination in his heart. "listen ter me," he pleaded. "i won't keep ye hyar long--an' ef ye don't listen now, ye won't never forgive yoreself hereafter.... ye hain't got no cause ter misdoubt my loyalty.... i hain't never asked a favor of ye afore." at any other time turner would have acquiesced without debate and in a spirit of fairness, but now he was driven by all the furies of his blood. he had been through the icy chill of dull despair and then plunged into the blast furnace of red wrath. upon some guilty agency reprisal must be wreaked--and as if with a revelation, he thought he saw the origin of the conspiracy which his father had long ago suspected. he saw it so late because until now his mind had been too focused on effects to hark back to causes, and now that he did see it, unless he could be curbed, he would run amuck with the recklessness of a mad mullah. "let me go, damn ye," the young man almost shrieked as he tore himself loose from the restraining grasp, and flung the old preacher spinning to the side so that he fell to his knees, shaken. he clambered up slowly with a thin trickle of blood on his lips, where his teeth had cut them in the fall. "thet war a pity, bear cat," he said in a queer voice, though still unangered, wiping his mouth with his bony hand. "i'd thought thet we two--with a common sorrow between us----" there he broke off, and the boy stood for a breathing space, panting and smoldering. he could not come back to cold sanity at one step because he had been too far shaken from his balance--but as he watched the gray-haired man, to whom he had always looked up with veneration and love, standing there, hurt to the quick, and realized that upon that man he had laid violent hands, the crazy fire in his arteries began to cool into an unutterable mortification. since the cattle trader's story had been told back in the virginia cabin, until this moment, his mind had been successively scorched with wrath, chilled in despair and buffeted by hurricane violence, but never had it for a tranquil instant been stilled to normality. over at the quarterhouse, when in berserker rage he had been lashing out through a red mist of battle, he had suffered less than since, because in action he was spending the hoarded accumulation of wrath--but since then he had been in the pits of an unbearable hell. now at the sight of that unresenting figure, wiping the blood from its lip, a new emotion swept him with a flood of chagrin and self-contempt. he had struck down a friend, defenseless and old, who had sought only to give true counsel. the stubborn spirit that had upheld him as he fought his fever-scalded way over the hills, and remained with him as he watched the wedding ceremony, broke; and with face hidden behind spread palms and a body racked by a spasm of collapse, he shook with dry sobs that come in wrenching incoherence from deep in his chest. he reeled and rocked on his feet under the tempest of tearless weeping--and like a blind man staggered back and forth, until the preacher, with a hand on each shoulder, had soothed him, as a child is soothed. at last he found the power of speech. "fer god's sake, brother fulkerson, fergive me ... ef ye kin.... i don't know what i'm doin'.... i'm seein' red." again his voice vaulted into choleric transports. "ye says i mustn't call ther stacys ter bloodshed. ye're right. hit's my own private job--an' i'm goin' back thar ter kill him--now! but es fer _you_, i wouldn't hev treated ye with sich disrespect fer no cause in ther world--ef i hadn't been well-nigh crazed." "son, i forgives ye full free ... but ye jest suspicions these other matters. ye hain't dead sure--and ye hain't ther man ter go out killin' without ye _air_ plumb sartain.... now will ye set down an' give me leave ter talk a spell?" the boy dropped upon the edge of the porch and jerked with a palsy of wretchedness, and as he sat the old preacher pleaded. for a while bear cat's attention was perfunctory. he listened because he had promised to listen, but as the evangelist swept on with an earnestness that gave a fire of eloquence to his uncouth words, his congregation of one was heeding him because of the compulsion of interest. he saw a bigger enemy and one more worthy of his warfare behind the malign individual who was, after all, only its figure-head and coefficient. "ef them ye loves hed been struck ter death by a rattlesnake--and hit war feasible fer ye, 'stid of jest killin' ther snake, ter put an end ter ther pizen hitself--fer all time--would ye waste strength on a single sarpent?" the eyes of the speaker were glowing with ardor. "men like kinnard air snakes thet couldn't do no harm save fer ther pizen of ther copper worms. hit's because they pertects them worms thet ther lawless stands behind sich men--an' ther law-abidin' fears 'em. wipe out ther curse itself--an' ye wipes out ther whole system of meanness an' murder." he paused, and for the first time since his outburst bear cat spoke soberly. "over thar--at ther quarterhouse--whar they sought ter git henderson--they warn't nothin' but a yelpin' pack of mad dogs--all fired ter murder with white licker." brother fulkerson nodded. "i said ye hed power, an' i don't want ter see ye misuse hit. "ye asked me a spell back why i pestered ye with talk about betterment in this hour of yore affliction. hit's because i wants ye ter go on fightin' fer thet dream--even ef hit's denied ye ter profit by hit. i wants thet jest now with ther stacys gatherin' in from back of beyond, ye starts out leadin' 'em rightfully 'stid of wrongfully--fer whichever way ye leads, ye'll go far." bear cat stacy rose from his seat. his chest still heaved, but his eyes were aflame with a fire no longer baleful. in them was the thrilling blaze of far-reaching vision. for a time he stood silent, then he thrust out his hand. "brother fulkerson, i've done been right close ter hell's edge ter-night--but ye've brought me out. i hevn't put by my resolve ter punish murder--if i can prove hit--but i've put by punishin' hit with more murder. i aims ter make an end of blockadin'." "praise god," murmured brother fulkerson with the glowing face of an old and wearied prophet who sees a younger and mightier rise before him. yet because his own long labors had taken heavy toll of weariness, he knew the ashes of despair as well as the flame of ardor. now he found himself arguing the insurmountable difficulties. "but how does ye aim ter persuade men ter forego blockadin'? yore own kinfolks air amongst 'em." bear cat's excitement of resolve brought a tremor to his voice. "by god, i don't aim ter persuade 'em over-much. i aims ter force 'em. i aims ter rip out every still this side of cedar mounting--stacys' and towers' alike, an' i don't aim ter sneak up on 'em, but ter march open about ther business!" it was to a campaign of persuasion, rather than abrupt coercion, that the preacher had sought to guide his convert, and at this announcement of audacious purpose he shook his head, and the hopefulness faded from his pupils. "the system hes hits roots set deep in ancient toleration, an' hooked under ther rocks themselves. afore ye alters hit by fo'ce, ye've got ter shake, ter the bottom-most ledges, hills thet hain't never been shuck afore." but bear cat stacy had within the hour become the crusader in spirit, hot with a new-born purpose, and it would have been as possible to send molten lava traveling uphill to go tamely back again into its bursted crater, as to shake his purpose. he was in eruption. "i knows thet, but i aims ter blast out the bed-rock hitself an' build hit up anew. "hit seems ter me right now es ef i kin see ther picture of this land in y'ars ter come. i kin see men walkin' with thar heads high an' thar gaze cl'ar--'stid of reelin' in thar saddles an' scowlin' hate outen drunken eyes. i kin see sich schools es jerry henderson named ter me in other valleys an' coves. "ye says hit hain't a-goin' ter be easy, but i tells ye more then thet--hit's goin' ter be jest one mite short of impossible--an' none-the-less i'm a-goin' ter do hit. i'm a-goin' ter lay ther foundations fer a peace thet kin endure. i reckon folks'll laugh at 'em fust, an' then mark me down fer death, but i means ter prevail afore i quits--an' i'm beholden ter ye fer p'intin' me ther way." the preacher clasped his hands in a nervous uncertainty. the transition from night to the twilight of the day's beginning had passed through its most ghostly vagueness to a fog-wrapped morning. a dour veil of gray and sodden mists trailed along the slopes with that chill that strikes at the heart and quenches the spirit in depression. joel fulkerson stood, gray, too, and colorless. "i don't hardly know how ter counsel ye, son," he said, and his voice was that of a man whose burden of weariness was crushing him. "ye aims ter do a thing thet hain't nuver been successfully undertook afore. ef ye seeks ter fo'ce men 'stid of persuadin' 'em--ye're mighty liable ter fail--and cause ther valleys ter run red." bear cat's lips twisted themselves into a smile ironically mirthless. "brother fulkerson," he said, "in thar--ye kin almost hear her moanin' now--is ther gal thet i've always loved. ter me ther ground she walks on is holy--ther air she breathes is ther only air i kin breathe without tormint ... ter-night i fotched hyar ther man thet my heart was clamorin' ter kill: fotched him hyar ter wed with her." as he paused turner's face twitched painfully. "ye says i mustn't undertake this job in no spirit of vengeance. thar hain't no other fashion i _kin_ undertake hit. i must needs throw myself inter this warfare with all ther hate--an' all ther love thet's in my blood. i hain't a-goin' ter try ter gentle iniquity--i'm goin' ter strive ter tromp hit underfoot." when bear cat was joined by joe sanders a few minutes later, the ridges were still grim and unrelieved heaps of ragged gray. the sky was lowering and vague, and the face of the sun pale and sullen. joe, too, in that depressing dimness looked like a churlish ghost, and as the pair stood silently in the road they saw a trio of horsemen approaching and recognized at their head dog tate, mud-splashed and astride a horse that limped stiffly with weariness. dog slid from his saddle, and reported briefly. "ther boys air a-comin' in from ther branch waters an' ther furthermost coves. i've done started a tide of men flowin' ter-night." "i'm beholden ter ye. i reckon we'd all better fare over ter my house and make ready ter meet 'em thar." tate leaned forward and gripped bear cat's arm. "i've done warned everybody thet our folks must come in quiet. i 'lowed ye'd want ter hold counsel afore any man fired a shot--but--" he paused and looked furtively about him, then lowered his voice. "but thar's a thing comin' ter pass thet don't pleasure me none. kinnard towers air a-ridin' over hyar ter hev speech with ye--an' ef ye jest says ther word--thar hain't no need of his ever gittin' hyar." "kinnard towers!" for an instant an astonished and renewed anger flared in bear cat's pupils, and the face of the other man blackened with the malevolence of a grudge long nursed and long festering in repression. "kinnard towers," repeated dog tate, vindictively mouthing the name. "he's hired more men killed then he's got teeth in his jaws. he's raked hell itself, stirrin' tribulation fer yore people an' mine--an' i've done took my oath. jest es soon es things start poppin' he's my man ter kill!" abruptly tate fell to trembling. his face became a thing of ash and flint. from his pocket he drew a small package folded in newspaper, which he unwrapped and held out, displaying an old and very soiled handkerchief, spotted with dark discolorations. a shrill note sharpened his voice as he spoke in vehement haste. "thar hit air! thet's my daddy's 'kerchief--an' thet spot air ther blood thet was spilled outen his heart--by a bullet kinnard towers caused ter be fired! seems like i kin see him a-lyin' thar now, sort of gaspin' an' tryin' ter say somethin' ter me, thet he didn't never succeed in utterin' afore he died! i wasn't hardly more'n a baby them days an' when i come ter manhood they'd done made a truce an' yore paw 'lowed thet hit bound me. but now!" the man's excited tones cracked like a mule-whip. "now ef ther truce air ended, hit's my right ter hev ther fust chance." slowly, with a comprehending sympathy but a firm resolution, stacy shook his head. "ye've got ter be as heedful an' patient es ye bade ther others be. i've got a right-sensible hankerin' atter vengeance myself to-day, dog--but i've got ter hold my hand for a spell yit, an' ye've got ter give me yore solemn pledge ter hold your'n, too. hit mustn't be said thet ef any man--even kinnard--trusts us enough ter ride inter our midst when we're gathered, he kain't be heered in safety." the messenger stood looking down at the grewsome souvenir of the tragedy which he believed left him a debtor with an unpaid score. clan obedience and individual lust for reprisal shook him in profound dilemma, but finally, with a strong effort, he nodded his head--though grudgingly. "i gives ye my hand," he said in a dull voice, and up to them at that moment rode a spattered horseman who, because of towers' relationship and marriage with a stacy wife, was qualified as a neutral. "i brings tidin's from kinnard towers," he announced. "he seeks ter hold a parley with ye. he comes in peace, an' he wants yore pledge thet he kin fare hither without harm." turner's jaw came out with a belligerent set, but he answered slowly. "i was over at his place last night an' he didn't hardly hold _me_ harmless. none-the-less, tell him ter come on. i'll send back a few of my kinfolks with ye ter safeguard him along ther way." chapter xviii luke towers, the father of kinnard, had been one of those fierce and humorless old feudists of primal animosities and exploits as engagingly bold as the feats of moss-trooping barons. the "stacy-towers" war had broken into eruption in his day. no man remembered to just what origin it was traceable--but it had, from its forgotten cause, flared, guttered, smoldered and flared again until its toll of lives had reached a scattering summary enumerated in scores and its record had included some sanguinary highlights of pitched battle. the state government had sought to regulate its bloodier phases with the impressive lesson of troops and gatling guns, but that had been very much like scourging tempestuous seas with rods. courts sat and charged panels, with a fine ironic mask of solemnity. grand juries were sworn and listened with an equal mockery of owlish dignity. deputies rode forth and returned with unserved subpoenas. prosecutions collapsed, since no law unbacked by public sanction in its own jurisdiction can prevail. stacys and towers, alike fierce in private quarrel and jealous of their right of personal settlement, became blankly ignorant in the witness chair; welded by their very animosities into a common cause against judge and jury. there had been, among that generation of stacys, no such outstanding figure as old mark towers, the indomitable lion of the hills. kinnard had followed mark, bringing to the succession no such picturesque savagery--but still a bold spirit, tempered by craft. in lieu of the sledge blow he favored the smiling face with the dirk unsheathed behind his back. times were altering and to him mere leadership meant less than enough. he was also covetous of wealth, in a land of meagerness. to clan loyalty as an abstract principle he must have added such obedience as comes only from fear--and men must know that to thwart him was dangerous. upon that principle, he had built his dominance until men shaped even their court testimony to the pattern of his requirements. at first the stacy clan had challenged his autocracy, but twenty years before, the truce had been made and, since no stacy leader had arisen of sufficient caliber to wrest from him the ascendency of his guile and bold wits, he had triumphed and fattened in material wealth. the farm that he had "heired" from his father, with its few fallow acres of river bottom, had spread gradually but graciously into something like a domain. he might now have moved his household to a smoother land and basked in the security of fair affluence--but an invisible bond chains the mountain-born to mountain environment. highland nostrils shut themselves against lowland air. highland lips spit out as flat and stale that water which does not gush from the source of living brooks. there were enemies here who hungered for his life--a contingency which he faced with open-eyed realization--enemies actuated by grievances apart from feud cleavage. three attempts upon his life, he had already survived. some day he would not escape. but that eventuality was more welcome, despite its endless threat, than an ease that carried with it surrender of his rude ascendency and the strong intoxication of petty might. for several years now he had been hearing tales of a stacy youth who bore the ear-marks of leadership, and from whom, some day, he might expect a challenge of power. if such a test came, he must combat a younger and fierier adversary when his own prime had passed. elsewhere in the hills waves of transition were encroaching on the old order of lethargic ignorance. the hermit blindfold was being loosened from eager eyes--and men like himself were being recognized and overthrown. so far the rock-built ridges of cedar mountain had been a reef, protecting his own locality--but the advent of jerry henderson had bespoken the imminence of a mounting tide--and whispered the warning of deluge. the elimination of jerry had seemed imperative, but the result promised disaster--since the wounding of bear cat had threatened the wrath-glutting of the stacys. there was only one method of discounting that danger. bear cat had come single-handed to his stronghold--he must now go single-handed, or escorted only by his customary body-guard, into the heart of stacy territory, disavowing responsibility for the attack. he must, by that convincingly reckless device, appear to demonstrate that he trusted himself among them and expected in turn to be trusted by them. he hoped with a fair degree of confidence that jerry henderson had not reached the minister's alive--or that at all events he had not been able to talk with a revealing fluency. so the guileful old wolf had set out to ride boldly through an aroused and hostile country, facing a score of parlous contingencies. as he rode, he heard the rallying cry and its full portent in no wise escaped his just appraisal. it caused him to spur on faster, however, for the ugliness of the situation made it the more imperative that he should reach lone stacy's house in time to present himself as an ally before he was sought out as an enemy. but when he had sent his message ahead by a neutral bearer, kinnard towers slowed down and watched the stream of horsemen that flowed past him: all men with scowling eyes responding to the cry which meant war: all men who passed without attack, only because, as yet, the summons had not been explained. "by ther godlings!" muttered the towers chieftain, with a bitter humor, "i didn't know thar was sich a passel o' stacys in ther world. they'll stand a heap of thinnin' out!" "an' as shore es hell's hot," growled black tom carmichael with a dark pessimism brooding in his eyes, "they'll _do_ right-smart thinnin' out their own selves--once they gits stirred up." * * * * * by the time the sun had fully dissipated the early mists, the door yard of lone stacy's house was dotted with little groups of men, and from the wide doors of the barn more faces looked expectantly out. along the sandy creek-bed of the road, where a flock of geese waddled and hissed, other arrivals stamped their feet against the cold of the frost-stiffened mud, and rammed chapped hands into trouser pockets. they talked little, but waited with an enduring patience. they were determined men, raggedly clothed and bearded; incurious of gaze and uncommunicative of speech--but armed and purposeful. they were men who had left their beds to respond to the call of their clan. slowly bear cat circulated among the motley crowd, exchanging greetings, but holding his counsel until the tide of arrivals should end. it was a tatterdemalion array that he had conjured into conclave with his skittering whoop along the hill-tops. there were lads in jeans and veterans in long-tailed coats, green of seam and fringed of cuff. they carried rifles of all descriptions from modern repeaters to antiquated squirrel guns, but, in the bond of unshrinking stalwartness, they were uniform. to hold such a headstrong army--mightily leaning toward violence--in leash needed a firm hand, and an unbending will. old fires were kindling in them, ignited by the cry that had been a match set to tinder and gunpowder. it was, all in all, a parlous time, but no one caught any riffle of doubt in turner stacy's self-confident authority as he passed from group to group, explaining the vital need of forbearant control until kinnard towers had come, spoken and departed. the stacy honor was at stake and must be upheld. his morning hurricane of passion had left him alertly cool and self-possessed--but there was battle-light in his eyes. in grim expectancy they waited, while nerves tightened under the heavy burden of suspense. turner had sternly commanded cold sobriety, and the elders had sought to enforce it, but here and there in hidden places the more light-headed passed flasks from hand to hand and from mouth to mouth. such was the crowd into which kinnard towers eventually rode, with his double body-guard, and even his tough-fibred spirit must have acknowledged an inward qualm of trepidation, though he nodded with a suave ease of bearing as he swung himself from his saddle at the gate. the urbane blue eyes under the straw-yellow brows were not unseeing, nor were they lacking in a just power of estimate. they noted the thunder-cloud quiet--and did not like it, but, after all, they had not expected to like it. as bear cat came forward the towers chieftain began unctuously. "how air mr. henderson? air he still alive?" "he war last time i heered," was the curt reply. towers nodded with the air of one whose grave anxiety has been allayed, but under the meditative quality of his sabbath calm he was wishing that he could learn, without asking, whether jerry had been able to talk. a great deal depended on that--but making the best of affairs as he found them, he broached his mission. "this hyar trouble came up in my place--an' hit's made me mighty sore-hearted," he avowed. "but i've got ther names of every man thet war thar when i come in--an' i rid over hyar ter proffer ye my aid in runnin' down ther matter and punishin' them thet's guilty." he paused, and feeling the unmasked distrust with which his assurance was greeted, added: "i reckon yore father's son wouldn't hardly want no _illegal_ punishment." bear cat declined to meet diplomacy in kind. "ye reckons thet my father's son aims ter stand out fer a truce thet's kept on one side an' broke on ther t'other. air thet what ye means?" kinnard towers felt his cheek-bones grow red and hot with anger at the taunt, but he blunted the edge of acerbity and parried in sober dignity. "ef i'd aimed ter bust ther truce i wouldn't hardly hev interfered ter save ye, fust in marlin town and then ergin last night. i rid over hyar with ther roads full of stacys ter hold counsel with ye. i aimed ter tell ye all i knowed and find out what _you_ knowed, so thet betwixt us we could sift this matter ter ther bottom." "whatever ye've got ter say ter me, ye kin say ter these men, too," was the tartly unconciliating reply. "i've pledged ye safety twell ye rides back home. i aims ter say some things myself--an' i reckon most of 'em won't pleasure ye none." the speaker's eyes flared as he added, "but from this day forwards either you or me air goin' ter run things in these hills an' ther t'other one of us won't hardly hev standin' room left." "i reckon," said kinnard towers,--and now the ingratiating quality that had sugar-coated his address dissolved into frank enmity,--"i reckon ef thet's ther road ye elects ter travel, thar hain't scarcely any avail in my tarryin' hyar. i mout es well say farewell an' tell hell with ye! yore paw wouldn't hardly be so malicious an' stiff-necked. ye don't need ter be told thet i've got numerous enemies hyar in these mountings, too--an' thet more'n once they've marked me down fer death." the younger man's attitude was that of unmasked distrust, yet of patience to listen to the end. kinnard towers, hirer of assassins though he was, spoke with a certain dignity that savored of sound logic. "moreover, ye knows right well thet when i rid over hyar with yore war-whoop skitterin' from hill-top ter hill-top, an' yore men trapesin' along highways an' through ther timber trails, i traveled, in a manner of speakin', with my neck in a halter. i was willin' ter risk ther shot from the la'rel because, in a fashion, you an' me holds ther lives an' ther welfare of our people in ther hollers of our hands. i fared hither seekin' peace; aimin' ter stand side by side with ye in huntin' down ther men thet sought ter murder you an' yore friend from down below." a crimson flush mantled on the full jowl and bull-like neck. the voice shook with antagonism. "but i didn't come over hyar ter _sue_ fer peace--an' the day hain't dawned yit when any man kin order me ter leave ther mountings whar i belongs." "by god in heaven!" bear cat stacy leaned forward and his words cracked like flame in green wood. "ye says ye stands fer law--an' ye' makes slaves of ther men thet runs ther co'tes of law! ye says ye stands fer ther people an' ye fosters thar ign'rance and denies 'em roads an' schools. ye sacrifices everything fer yore own gain--an' ther profit of yore boot-lickers thet seeks ter run blockade stills. wa'al ef thet's law, i'm goin' ter start ter-day makin' war on ther law. i'm goin' ter see what an outlaw kin do! i aims ter give thet message to them thet's gathered hyar this afternoon--an' as soon as i'm done talkin' i'm goin' ter commence actin'. atter ter-day thar'll be decent towerses alongside of me and worthless stacys 'longside of _you_!" his voice fell--then leaped again to passion. "i reckon ther time's ripe. let's go now an' talk with 'em. i've jest been a-waitin' fer ye ter get hyar." deeply perplexed and depressed with the foreboding of one who fights enemies shadowy and ill-defined, yet forced, since he had come so far, to go forward, kinnard towers followed, as bear cat led the way to a huge rock which afforded a natural rostrum. "men," cried turner stacy when a semi-circle of lowering faces had pressed close and attentive about the shallow eminence, "last night mr. henderson an' me come sore wounded from ther quarterhouse, whar a murder hed done been hatched: a murder thet partly failed. i sent out messengers ter call ye tergether fer counsel as ter whether ther truce hed been busted. i hain't found out yit fer sartain whether hit has er not--an' until we knows fer sure we're still held in our bonds of peace. meanwhile i've done give my hand ter kinnard towers hyar, in my name an' yourn, thet he kin ride home, safe. if he speaks ther truth he's entitled ter respect. if he lies thar'll be time a plenty an' men a plenty ter deal with him hereafter. kinnard aims ter talk ter ye, an' i wants thet ye hearken till he gits through." the hereditary foeman, who knew that he was being pilloried in bitter disbelief, stood with an erect calmness as he was introduced. his face held an almost ministerial tranquillity, though his sense apprised him of the hush that goes ahead of the storm. he saw the green patches of the pines against the unaltered blue of the sky and the dull sparkle awakened by the sunlight on the barrels and locks of fiercely-caressed firearms. as he moved a pace forward a chorused growl of truculent hatred was his reception, but that was a demonstration for which he was prepared--and against which he had steeled himself. he was less accustomed to making public pleas than to giving orders in cloistered privacy--but he was a lord of lies, and deeply versed in the prejudices upon which he hoped to play. "i come over hyar this day," he declared by way of preface, "of my own free will--an' unsolicited by any man. i come open-eyed an' chancin' death, because i knowed i'd done kept ther compact of ther peace--an' i trusted myself ter ther upstandin' honesty of ther stacys ter do likewise. ef harm overtakes me hit'll be because i trusted thet honesty over-much." chapter xix as the snarling restiveness moderated to curiosity under kinnard's uncouth forcefulness and seemingly candid words, he repeated the mendacious story of his outraged righteousness, when he had learned that in his tavern the murder of a gentleman from the lowlands had been attempted. his place, he pointed out, was open to all comers--the law required that he extend its entertainment to every man who paid the price. he himself had not been present in time to prevent the outbreak. had he entertained a prior and guilty knowledge of the plot, he would scarcely have interfered last night. he would not have come to-day with his assurance of sympathy and his proffer of aid into a nest of swarming hornets. mr. henderson's life had been attempted by some unknown foe once before, he reminded them. apparently it had been his misfortune to make enemies as well as friends. the speaker paused and shook his head regretfully. "he come hyar a stranger amongst us an' war tuck in by lone stacy, a man we all trusts--a man we all loves. why should ther hand of anybody hev been lifted erginst him? ther stranger thet sojourns hyarabouts, mindin' his own business, gin'rally walks safe. hit's a question i kain't answer.... mebby hit war because mr. henderson fell inter ther error of preachin' too strong a doctrine of change.... i only knows this much myself: thet on ther night he got hyar i heered him talk thet a-way--an' outen sheer friendliness i warned him thet amongst us simple folks thar'd be some thet wouldn't take kindly ter sich notions. he aimed ter show us how wrong our idees war; notions of life thet our grand-sires hes fostered fer two hundred y'ars an' upwards. he aimed ter undo in a twinklin' all thet's growed into our bones an' blood an' free life endurin' ginerations--an' ter _civilize_ us. it war considerable undertakin'." again a low growl ran through his audience, but this time its indignation was not aimed at the speaker. "i've even heered men claim thet mr. henderson come up hyar seekin' ter rob us in ther interest of ther railroad, though i don't sceercely like ter believe hit--ner even ter repeat hit." once more the blond head was shaken in sad regretfulness. "we've done dwelt hyar, cut off from ther rest of ther world fer ginerations. we hain't got much eddication, but we're honest an' independent an' all we asks is ter be left alone ter work out our own salvation. in other times ther feud split us up into enemies, but since ther truce war made we've consorted peaceable." for a space he paused to gaze meditatively at the spear-like timber fringe against the fleckless blue. "ef mr. henderson unthoughtedly meddled an' somebody acted rash," went on towers easily, "sorry es we all feels fer hit, an' det'armined es we all air ter punish thet person in full accordance with ther law--still hit warn't no stacy thet was attacked. mr. henderson lays thar a-dyin' an' fer him i hain't got no feelin' but charity--but he warn't no stacy! ther folks down below, whar he hails from, will take plentiful pains ter avenge his death. ter them, we hain't nothin' but benighted barbarians of ther bloody hills--an' he war an eddicated gentleman! hit'll be a turrible pity ef we neighborly men goes ter war ergin over any false suspicion." kinnard swept his hands outward in a gesture like a benediction and stepped back. where slurring growls had greeted him he left a silence which testified to the telling effect of his words. their anger now was readier to burn into indignation against the invader who had sought to alter their life. though the young stacy had interrupted by no word or sound, there was something in his stillness of deportment that presaged storm ready to burst. as he came to the edge of the bowlder his movements had the smooth elasticity of a panther--and when he stood silent for a moment his eyes rained lightning bolts of intensity. "i've done stood here without interruptin' an' listened at kinnard towers' talk," he said, and the contempt of his tone was as stinging as a rawhide lash. "'most all of what he has told ye, i believes ter be lies an' if they be, i aims ter have a full reckonin', but afore i begins i wants ter charge ye all in full solemnity thet we've pledged him a safe journey home--an' ef harm comes ter him afore he gits thar our name stands disgraced ter ther end of time. he's a hirer of murderers an' he's fattened offen poverty an' ther gallows air too good fer him--but a pledge is a bond!" bear cat wheeled for a moment to face kinnard towers himself as he made this assertion, then he proceeded with the crescendo of a gathering tempest. "he says thet ther murder of jerry henderson hain't no consarn of your'n, and he tells ye thet henderson's under suspicion of seekin' ter cheat ye outen yore birthright. ef he believed thet on good reason an' held his counsel thus far he aided an' abetted ther robbery. but i believes thet's a lie, too, because ef jerry henderson sought ter rob ye an' plunder ye successfully all he needed ter do war to _make a deal_ with kinnard towers, fust. "this man thet rules thet country from a boozin' ken, whar' ther stench of infamy pizens ther air, tells ye he stands fer law--an' i tells ye thet his kind of law makes all decent men want ter be outlaws. judges an' juries hyarabouts does his biddin' ter ther damage of every honest man, because they walks in terror of him--an' debauches themselves ter hold his favor! he flies high an' his wings are strong--he passes fer an eagle--but he feeds on carrion." bear cat swept into a stinging arraignment of the chicanery with which he charged towers, piling invective upon anathema with the passionate sweep of a tornado. as faces that had listened to towers with attention hardened again, kinnard braced himself and forced a satirical smile. "this man aimed ter git jerry henderson from ther fust day he come hyar--not because ther stranger sought ter feel ther way fer ther railroad, but because he dared ter talk fer enlightenment: for schools whar yore children could grow inter straight manhood, an' roads thet could take yore crops and timber ter market. sich open speech didn't suit kinnard, hyar, because when folks has knowledge they ceases ter be victims ter his greed and cunnin'. "jerry henderson spoke out his belief an' he was marked down by kinnard towers fer death. he's a-dyin' now." a low and dangerous murmur ran over the crowd, but bear cat stacy stilled it with his raised hands. "i believes thet kinnard connived with ther judas revenuer to jail my paw expressly ter cl'ar ther road fer this murder. ef thet's true he didn't jest attack a furriner, but he affronted every stacy an' busted ther truce ter boot! till i kin prove what i suspicions, i aims ter hold my hand; but i stud in brother fulkerson's house last night amids ther ashes of sorrow an' i've done dedicated what's left of my life ter one aim. "i don't know whether i'll hev holp or go single-handed, but as almighty god hears me, i aims ter clean up these hills! i aims thet 'stid of grumblin' like old grannies because our fields air littered with rock an' our roads air all dirt, we shell take ther rock outen ther fields an' put hit on ther roads. i aims thet every child thet hankers fer enough larnin' ter raise himself above ther level of beasts shell hev a school whar he kin git hit. i aims thet when yore baby falls sick or thar's a bornin' at yore house, ther doctor kin git thar--in time!" he paused, and his audience, swept by the abandon of his extemporaneous fervor, fell into an excited approval. the magic of inherent strength and sheer personality was at work upon them. "before sich things es them kin be brought ter pass," began the speaker again in a voice dropping suddenly to stern calm, "ther wrath of numerous folks will flare up ter murder-hate--because thar's a stumblin' block in ther path thet's ancient an' thet hes got ter be man-powered loose. betwixt us an' betterment stands ther thing thet all our troubles springs from--an' though hit don't profit but one man in every score, yit thar be some amongst ye thet'll die fer hit!" he stopped and looked down into faces puzzled and uncomprehending. eyes turned up to the speaker out of lean and serious visages, waiting for his next sentence, and he himself stood there for a moment or two in a silence which was as much an emphasis as a blank margin which stresses the conspicuousness of print. his own face, still drawn with the travail of last night's gamut of emotion, and his figure motionless with the pent-up dynamics of a tight-wound coil, carried the impression of action presently to burst with a force beyond governing. they had always thought of him as a man bred for action but short of speech; a man bound like themselves by the constrictions which generations of taciturn ancestors had laid upon fluency, damming it into difficulty. but now self-consciousness was as absent from his attitude as though the torrential quality of his thoughts and words came from an external force sweeping through him and speaking through him. abruptly he thrust a hand into the breast pocket of his coat--a coat torn recently by bullets meant for his heart--and drew out a thing familiar to every man in that assemblage: a flat flask of colorless glass, filled with a fluid as white as itself. he held the thing high above his head, and ripped out his words with a crackling force. "thar's ther enemy thet's laid hits curse on the men an' women of these-hyar mountings! thar's ther thing thet's hatched from ther worm of their still--ther pizen thet breeds in ther la'rel! _that's_ what turns kindly men inter brutes an' wives inter widders an' children inter orphans! thar's ther thing thet hes made ther purest blood in all america bear ther repute afore ther rest of ther world of a people of bloody outlaws! "hit's bottles like thet thet hes shut ther doors of our country against progress an' prosperity--an' barred out ther future from ther hills. hit's bottles like thet thet hes chained us ter ther dead past when our kinsmen down below war a-marchin' on ter advancement. hit's ther false idee thet a man hes a license ter break ther law in blockadin', even ter ther hurt of them thet don't blockade, thet's carried along with hit a contempt fer all other law--an' raised up a spirit of murder an' lay-wayin'." as he paused again for a breathing space, still holding high the flask above his head, he might have read a warning in the clouding of pupils and the tightening of lips; in the out-thrusting of jaws and the stiffening of shoulders. but these indications of hostile sentiment seemed only to bring a more fiery hotness to his words and his voice. "i made this licker myself," he declared. "i made hit up thar in ther thickets. my paw lies in jail now fer doin' ther same thing. many's ther night--an' ther day, too--thet i've laid up thar drunk with ther pizen thet i've brewed--but no man will ever see me drunk ergin! "i've carried this flask in my pocket whar i could feel hit a-layin' against my heart--ever since ther day i quit. i've carried hit thar so thet thar wouldn't never be a time, day or night, when hit couldn't hev ther chance ter lick me, ef so be hit proved bigger an' stronger then me. i wasn't askin' no favors of ther worm of ther still--an' now i hain't a-goin' ter give hit none! thar's been times when my throat scalded me an' my belly tormented me--when i felt like as ef i'd burn an' shrivel ef i didn't uncork hit an' drink. but i hain't never teched hit since then--an' now i kin laugh at hit. now i know that satan helped me ter make hit--an' i'm a-goin' ter make war on hit till i stomps hit out or hit kills me!" bear cat stacy, with that quick gesture so often seen in the hills, raised the flask to his mouth and jerked out the cork with his teeth--then he spat the stopper out of his mouth, and with hand again raised high, inverted the flask so that the contents gurgled out in a thin stream and, in the dead silence, the blubbering sound of the emptying was as if the thing itself was giving up its life with a sob of protest. then dashing down the bottle and shattering it on the rocks, the young man broke out with a crescendo of vehemence. "what you men hev seed me do with thet-thar flask of blockade licker thet i made myself, ye're a-goin' ter see me do in like fashion with all the rest this side of cedar mounting. ye're a-goin' ter see me lift ther curse thet's been on us like a lunacy an' a pestilence. ye're goin' ter see me smash every flask an' every bottle. ye're goin' ter see me empty out every jug an' knock in ther head of every kag an' barrel, twell ther spleen of meanness an' murder runs out with ther licker--an' a peace comes thet kin hope ter endure." then with abrupt and climacteric effect he wheeled and shouted to someone who stood unseen behind the angular shoulder of the rock itself. the next moment he lifted up and set down at his feet a spiral thing of copper tubing which caught on its burnished coils the brightness of the sun and gave back a red glitter. "ther day of hills enslaved by a copper sarpint hes done come to an end!" he declared in a passion-shaken voice. "i aims ter do ter every cursed one of 'em this side of cedar mountain what i'm goin' ter do ter this one, hyar an' now!" he seized up an axe which had been lying at his feet and swung it above his head. poised in that posture of arrested action, his final words were defiantly thundered out. "i've done took my oath ter hang these things like dead snakes along ther highway fer all men ter see. they stands accountable fer poverty an' squalor an' bloodshed. because of ther pestilence they've brought an' ther prosperity they've turned away--they've got ter go." the ax crashed down in stroke after stroke upon the coiled thing at his feet, gashing it into destruction as the crowd broke into a restive shuffling of feet and looked on in dismay--as yet too dumfounded for open protest. "my god, bear cat's done gone crazed," whispered a man on the outskirts of the crowd. "he's plumb fittified." slowly the spell of astonishment began to give way to a fuller realization of the heresy that had been preached and which had appalled them by its audacity. comparatively few of them were actual moonshiners but at other times many of them had been--and their spirit was defense of their institutions. yet the face of this young man, bred to their own traditions, was fired with an ardor amazingly convincing and dauntless. in many of the elder heads had glimmered a germ of the same thought that bear cat had put into hot words; glimmered in transient consideration, to be thrust back because the daring needed for its expression was lacking. here was bear cat stacy boldly proclaiming his revolutionary purpose in advance because he wished to be fair; announcing that if need arose he would wage war on his enemies and his friends alike in its fulfilment. it would take a bold spirit to volunteer aid--and yet there were those whose only objection to the crusade was its mad impracticability. there were others, too, who, as bear cat had prophesied, would fight such vandal menace to the death. so, after the first spell-bound pause, a threatening growl ran through the crowd and then like a magpie chorus broke and swelled the babel of discussion. out of it came a dominating note of disappointment--almost disgust--for the leader to whom they had loyally rallied. kinnard towers stood for a while appraising their temper, then his lips parted in a smile that savored of satisfaction. "so bear cat stacy goes dry!" he exclaimed with a contemptuous tone intended to be generally overheard. then in a lower voice he added for turner's ear alone: "son, ye've done made a damn' fool of yoreself, but hit hain't hardly fer me ter censure ye. hit suits me right well. afore this day i feared ye mout be troublesome ter me, but ye've done broke yore own wings. from this time forward ye hain't nothin' but an eaglet thet kain't rise offen ther ground. i was sensibly indignant whilst ye blackguarded me a while ago--but now i kin look over hit. i reckon yore own people will handle ye all right, without any interference from me." the chief of the towers clan turned insolently on his heel and walked away and the crowd fell back to let him pass. chapter xx when the jews heard of a messiah coming as a king they made ready to acclaim him, but when they found him a moralist commanding the sacrifice of their favorite sins, they surrendered him to pilate and cried out to have barrabas freed to them. that afternoon turner stacy, the apostate leader, saw his kinsmen breaking into troubled groups of seething debate. the yeast of surprise and palpable disappointment was fermenting in their thoughts. they had come prepared to follow blindly the command of a warrior--and had encountered what seemed to them a noisy parson. those who saw in the young man a bigger and broader leadership than they had expected were those who just now said little. so some regarded him with silent and pitying reproach while others scowled openly and spat in disgust--but all dropped away and the crowd melted from formidable numbers to lingering and unenthusiastic squads. they had not even attached serious importance to his threat upon blockading--it was mere bumptiousness indicating his mercurial folly. in every indication he read utter repudiation by his clan. his eager but limited reading had taught him that every true leader, if he is far enough in advance of those he leads, must bear this bitter brunt of misunderstanding, but he was young and a freshly inspired fanatic, and that meant that he was in this respect, humorless--but he was not beaten. standing somewhat apart with a satirical smite drawing his lips, bear cat watched them ride away, and when most of them had gone his uncle, joe stacy, came over and stood by his side. "ontil ter-day, turner," he said with a note of deep sorrow in his voice, "i 'lowed ye hed ahead of ye a right hopeful future. i 'lowed ye'd be a leader--but ye kain't lead men contrarywise ter doctrines thet they fed on at thar mothers' breasts. i've always kind of hed ther notion thet someday ye'd go down thar ter frankfort an' set in ther legislature ... but ter-day ye've done flung away ther loyalty of men that bragged about ye an' war ready ter die, follerin' ye." "i reckon they kin find plenty of men ter lead 'em _thet_ way,--round an' round in circles thet don't git nowhars," came the defiant response. "thet hain't ther sort of leadership i craves." "hit hain't thet i holds no love fer blockade 'stillin'," explained the older man seriously. "i got my belly full a long time back--an' quit. ef ye could stomp hit out, i'd say do hit--but ye kain't. ye hain't jest seekin' ter t'ar out stills--ye're splittin' up yore own blood inter factions an' warfare. thar hain't nothin' kin come outen hit all, save fer ye ter be diskivered some day a-layin' stretched out in a creek-bed road, with a bullet bored through yore body." bear cat only shook his head with stubborn insistence. "ye don't raise no crop," he declared, "twell ye've done cl'ared ther ground, an' ef ther snags goes deep hit takes dynamite." "then i kain't dissuade ye? ye aims ter go ahead with hit?" "i aims ter go ahead with hit twell i finishes my job or gets kilt tryin'." "then thar hain't nuthin' left ter do but bid ye farewell. ye've done made yoreself a hard bed. in a fashion i honors ye fer hit, but i pities ye, too. ye've done signed yore own doom." "i thanks ye," said bear cat gravely. "but i hain't askin' pity yit." in the yard where so many feet had been tramping there was now total emptiness. the flock of geese still waddled and squawked down by the creek, but by the gate bear cat stood alone--a man who had forfeited his heritage. the sun was setting and the ache of recent wounds and fatigue was accentuated by the rawness of approaching twilight. beyond the trickle of prattling water, went up the frowning and unchanging hills, bleak and sinister with their ancient contempt for change. bear cat stacy threw back his head. "they don't see nothin' in me but brag an' foolishness," he bitterly admitted, "but afore god i aims ter show 'em thet thar's more in me then thet!" already a plan for the first chapter of his undertaking had fully evolved itself and it was a thing which must be launched to-night--but first he meant to make a sad pilgrimage. he would not go in, but he would stand outside blossom's window--perhaps for the last time. something drew him there--a compelling force and he remained an hour. when he turned away cold beads of nervous sweat stood on his temples. suddenly he saw two figures cross the road and plunge furtively into the laurel, and they moved as men move who have a nefarious intent. they were dog tate and joe sanders; the men to whom, last night, he had fled for succor, and at once he divined their purpose. bear cat, too, turned into the timber and, by hurrying over the broken face of the slopes, intercepted their more cautious course. but when he stood out in the path and confronted them, it was no longer into friendly faces that he looked. "dog, i wants ter hev speech with ye," he said quietly, and the moonshiner, who had instinctively thrust forward his rifle, stood with a finger that trembled in impatience while it nursed the trigger. "don't hinder me, bear cat," he barked warningly, "i'm in dire haste--an' i've got severe work ahead of me." "i knows right well what thet work air, dog." the young man spoke calmly. "i reckon hit's a thing ye gave me yore pledge not many hours back ye'd put by twell another day an' i hain't freed ye from thet bond." "who air _you_ ter talk of pledges?" the friend of last night savagely snarled his question with a scorn that shook his voice. "you thet this day broke yore faith with yore blood ter line up with raiders an' revenuers!" bear cat's face whitened with an anger which he rigidly repressed. "ye succored me last night when i needed ye sore," came the steady response, "an' i'm willin' ter look over these hardships of speech, but a pledge given is a pledge thet's got ter stand till hit's done been given back." tate's eyes were blazing with a dangerous passion and his rage made his words come pantingly: "hit's too late fer preachin' texts, bear cat. we believed in ye yestiddy. ter-day we spits ye outen our mouths. ye kain't call us ter war one day an' send us back home, unsatisfied, ther next. my pappy's kerchief's right hyar in my pocket now--an' ther blood thet's on hit calls out ter me louder then yore fine palaverin's!" bear cat stacy's rifle had been swinging in his hand. he made no effort to raise it. "when ye calls me a traitor ter my blood, ye lies, dog," he said with a hard evenness of tone. "i reckon ye knows what hit means ter hold a bitter hate--i've done read thet much in yore face, but i holds a deeper an' blacker hate then ye ever dreamt of--an' i've done put hit aside--fer a reason thet meant more ter me then _hit_ did." through the excitement that made the other's chest heave turner recognized a bewildered curiosity and he went on. "i hain't never stood by afore an' suffered no man ter give me names like you've jest called me. i reckon i won't hardly never do hit ergin--but i owes ye gratitude fer last night an' i'm goin' ter owe ye more. ye hain't a-goin' ter lay-way kinnard towers this night, dog. ye're a-goin' along with me ter do what i bids ye." "like hell i am!" snarled tate, though in the next breath, without realizing the anti-climax of his question, he added, "why am i?" "because i've got a bigger aim then sneakin' murders an' i aims ter hev men like you holp me. because when we finishes our job yore children air goin' ter dwell in safety." he talked on fervently and despite himself the man with his finger on the trigger listened. it all seemed very fantastic and radical to dog tate, yet there was such a hypnotic power in the voice and manner that he lowered his cocked rifle. "bear cat," he said with a sort of bewilderment, "thet talk sounds powerful flighty ter me, but if ye air outen yer right mind i reckon i kain't kill ye--an' ef thar's a solitary grain of sense in what ye says god knows i'd like ter hev ye show hit ter me." the shadows lengthened across the valleys and the peaks grew cloudily somber as bear cat stacy talked. he was trying for his first convert and his soul went into his persuasiveness. he had himself done first what he asked of others. his still was destroyed for a bigger aim. it was a new and more effective warfare which required certain sacrifices. a slow grin of sardonic amusement spread eventually over the face of dog tate. he put down his rifle. "then ye means thet hit hain't a-goin' ter be jest preachin'? kinnard hain't goin' ter escape scot-free? because i've always figgered he belonged ter me." "so many men figgers thet," retorted stacy dryly, "thet in ther time of final reckonin' thar won't be enough of him ter go round. i aims ter hang him in marlin town, with his own jedge passin' sentence on him." dog tate drew a clay pipe from his pocket and kindled it. his eyes glowed with a pleasurable anticipation. "wa'al, now, es ter thet blockade still of mine," he drawled reflectively. "my old woman's been faultin' me erbout hit fer a long spell, an' seekin' ter prevail on me ter quit. she 'lows hit'll cost more'n hit comes ter afore we gits through an' i misdoubts she hain't fur wrong." he chewed on the pipe-stem yet a while longer, then suddenly he announced: "i reckon thet still don't owe me nothin' much. hit's about wore out anyhow. let's go over thar an' bust her up--an' straightway start hell a-poppin'." bear cat stacy glanced keenly at joe sanders who had remained a pace or two apart, holding his counsel with a face that bore no index to his sentiments. "air you with us, too, joe?" he demanded. "this-hyar business hain't a-goin' ter be no frolic. we don't want no men thet don't aim ter go through with hit." joe scratched his head, speaking cautiously. "i works fer wages myself. dog hires me--albeit i'd ruther do any other fashion of labor. howsoever, i don't aim ter make common cause with no revenuers. i hain't no judas priest." "revenuers--hell!" exploded bear cat stacy. "i don't make no common cause with 'em nuther. i'm willin' ter let ther govern_ment_ skin hits own skunks." for so portentous a decision, joe sanders gave a disproportionately laconic reply. "all right then. ye kin count me in es fur es ye goes." it was a night of fitful moonlight, breaking through a scud of windy clouds, only to be swallowed again, when by the flare of a lantern the three men stood over the ruins of what had been a crude distillery--its erstwhile proprietor grinning sardonically as he surveyed the completeness of his vandalism. "i reckon thet finishes ye up, old whiskey-snake," he commented in grim obituary. "i boughten thet piece of copper offen a feller thet murdered a revenuer ter save hit--so hit's due fer punishment." "thet's all right so far es hit goes," bear cat reminded him crisply, "but hit don't go far enough. we've got more work ter do yit. when men wakes up ter-morrer, they've got ter hev proof thet i've started out in earnest." around the fire the three squatted on their heels, and talked in low voices. "i knows of three more stills sca'cely more'n a whoop an' a holler distant from hyar es ye mout say," volunteered joe sanders. "i hain't settin' hit out fer gospel fact, but i've heered hit norated round about, thet mark tapper don't even try ter molest these stills on account of a deal he's made with kinnard." "wa'al, kinnard hain't got no bit in _my_ mouth," growled dog. "whar air these places at, joe?" sanders was now innoculated with the spirit of crusade--not so much as a reform as a new and impudent adventure--and his lips parted in a contented grin that showed his uneven teeth. "a couple on 'em air closed down fer ther time-bein'," he enlightened, "but ther worms air thar. by ter-morrer kinnard'll jest about hev passed on a warnin' an' they'll be watched, but ter-night hit's cl'ar sleddin'. a man kin bust 'em up single handed an' nuver be suspicioned. hit'll tek all three of us tergether ter manage ther third one though, because _thet_ still b'longs ter little jake kinnard an' jake or his law-kin mat branham'll be on watch--mebby both of 'em." bear cat's eyes brightened at this prospect of immediate action. "little" jake, so dubbed after mountain custom because his father still lived and bore the same given name, was a nephew of kinnard towers, and despite his diminutive title prided himself on his evil and murderous repute. he was a "notched-gun" man and high in his uncle's favor. "air they runnin' thet kittle in ther same place es they used to a year back?" demanded turner, and joe nodded as he replied. "ther same identical spot. hit's, as a man mout say, right in ther shadder of ther quarterhouse hitself." bear cat stacy was on his feet and his words came with the animation of a daring plan already formulated. "now hearken.... you two boys look atter them idle stills.... i aims ter manage this t'other one--by myself." dog tate raised a hand in remonstrance, but turner beat down argument with a contemptuous laugh. "i'm in haste because i'm a-wearied," he explained, "an' thet's ther speediest way ter git through an' lay down. i'll be at yore house afore sun-up, an' i reckon ye kin hide me out thar fer a few hours while i sleeps, kain't ye?" "i kin take keer of ye--ef ye gits thar alive," affirmed the first recruit. "but hit looks severely dubious ter me." turner tightened his belt, but as he was leaving he wheeled to direct: "this worm of your'n an' ther t'other two hes got ter be hangin' in ther highway by daylight. i aims ter hang jake kinnard's right up erginst ther stockade of ther quarterhouse." as he scuttled through the dark timber the moon broke out at intervals, making of the road a patch-work of shadow and light. last night he was hiding out only from the revenue agent and his informers. to-night he had flung his challenge to the vested rights of tradition and forfeited clan sponsorship. every hand was against him. his way carried him past the quarterhouse itself and near the hitching-rack he halted, crouched low against the naked briars and dead brush-wood. among the several beasts fastened there was a gray horse more visible than its darker companions, which he recognized as belonging to black tom carmichael. yet black tom had been otherwise mounted to-day when he had ridden away from little slippery with kinnard towers. obviously the fresh animal stood saddled for a new journey--probably a mission of general warning. bear cat drew back into the invisibility of the steep hillside to watch, and it was only a short time before the door of kinnard's own house, on the opposite slope, opened. towers himself he only glimpsed, for the chieftain did not make a practice of offering himself as a target by night, framed in lighted doorways. but black tom came down the path to mount and ride away, and bear cat struck off at right angles through the woods. the horseman must follow the road he had taken to the next crossing, and the pedestrian could reach the place more quickly by the footpath. having arrived, he lay belly-down on a titanic bowlder in time to hear the cuppy thud of unshod hooves on the soft road and, a little later, to see black tom dismount and hitch. carmichael turned into the woodland trail without suspicion. he was on territory which should be safe, and he walked with a noisy carelessness that swallowed up what little sound turner stacy could not avoid as he followed. by the simple device of playing shadow to the man in front bear cat drew so near to the still that he could both see and hear, though the last stage of the journey through the interlocked thickets he accomplished with such minute caution that black tom sat by the fire with a tin cup of white liquor in his hand before his follower lay ensconced a stone's throw away. it was a nest of secrecy, buried from even a near view by the tops of felled hemlock which would hold their screen of foliage throughout the winter. edging the narrow circle of firelight, walls of rock and naked trees were sketched flat and grotesque against the inky void beyond them. two figures in muddied overcoats huddled close to the blaze, and black tom was reciting the events of the day over on little slippery. "they didn't p'intedly aim ter harm bear cat stacy last night--he jest run inter ther ruction. hit war ther furriner thet kinnard wanted kilt." "drink all ye craves an' tell me ther whole story," amicably invited "little" jake kinnard. "i aimed ter warn ye erbout this bear cat's threat ter rip out stills--albeit we deems hit ter be mostly brash talk," carmichael explained. "we didn't invite no trouble with ther stacys. kinnard fixed hit with mark tapper ter hev old lone jailed so thet ther thing could he done easy like--an' peaceable--but bear cat come a-beltin' back an' hit went awry." the simmering fury of his blood boiled over in turner's veins while he listened. all the duplicity of to-day now stood revealed and positive. all his suspicions were proven. with two quick shots from his rifle he could put an end to both these assassins, but he remained rigid. "no, by god," he mused. "i aims ter do hit on ther gallows-tree--not from ambush." after a period black tom rose, making ready to leave, and now turner stacy had need to hasten. the point at which he wished to await kinnard's second in command was the outer end of a narrow defile which served as a sort of gateway to the place. centuries of trickling water-tongues had licked it out of the rock walls and it was so narrow that two men could not pass through it abreast. but carmichael paused for further converse on the edge of his departure, and turner wailed for some minutes, shivering because he had taken off his coat, before his ears told him of the approach of a single pair of heavy feet. the scudding raggedness of the clouds had been swept into wider tatters now and the moon was steadier though still not brightly clear. bear cat stooped, like a crouching panther, just outside the elbow of the rock wall, holding his coat as a _matador_ holds the flag in the course of a charging bull. then a bulky figure emerged and there followed a sweep of heavy cloth; an attempted outcry which ended in a stifled gurgle, and carmichael went down, borne under the impact of an unexpected onslaught, with his breath smothered in an enmeshing tangle. for a moment bear cat knelt on the prostrate figure which had been stunned by its heavy fall, twisting the coat about the face and throat; then, experimentally, he eased the suffocation--and there was no hint of attempted outcry. a few minutes later black tom opened his eyes and peered through the darkness. to his dizzy eyes matters seemed confused. his mouth was securely gagged and, at his back, his wrists were so stiffly pinioned that when he struggled to free them he felt the nasty bite of metal--evidently a buckle. above him he made out a pair of eyes that glittered down on him with an unpleasant truculence. "git up an' come on," ordered a voice. "ye'll hev ter excuse me fer takin' yore rifle-gun an' pistol." slowly tom rose and went, prodded into amenability by the muzzle of a rifle in the small of his back. when he had been thus goaded to the point where his horse was hitched his captor stripped saddle, bridle and halter of their straps and ropes, and set the beast free. some of the commandeered tethers he employed to truss his prisoner up in a manner that left him as helplessly immovable as a mummy. "now i reckon ye'll hev ter wait fer me a leetle," said bear cat with brutal shortness. "thar's still one more back thar ter attend ter." carrying with him bridle-reins and stirrup-straps, he disappeared again into the defile. creeping for the second time with the best of his indian-like stealth to the edge of the fire-lighted clearing, he saw jake kinnard standing, with his eyes on the embers, ten feet away from the rifle that was propped against a tree. with a leap that sounded crashingly in the dead bushes turner catapulted himself into the lighted area, and as the moonshiner wheeled, his hand going instinctively out toward his weapon, he found himself covered from a distance of two yards. "hands overhead!--an' no noise," came the sharp warning, and had he been inclined to disobey the words there was an avid glitter in the eyes of the sudden visitor discouraging to argument. "lay down betwixt them two saplin's thar," was the next order, and foaming with futile rage, jake glanced about wildly--and discreetly did as he was told. ten minutes later turner rose from his knees, leaving behind him a man gagged and staked out, indian fashion, with feet harnessed to one tree-trunk and hands to another. lying mute and harrowed with chagrin, he saw his copper coil battered into shapelessness and his mash vat emptied upon the ground. then he saw bear cat stacy disappear into the shadows, trophy-laden. dawn was near once more before turner reached the quarterhouse, and from the hitching-rack the last mount had been ridden away. before him, still muffled against outcry, plodded black carmichael, seething with a fury which would ride him like a mania until he had avenged his indignities--but for the moment he was inoffensive. at the place where the gray horse had been tethered, turner lashed the rider. above his head to an over-arching sycamore branch, he swung a maltreated coil of copper tubing. then he turned, somewhat wearied and aching of muscle, into the timber again. "i reckon now," he said to himself, "i kin go over thar an' lay down." chapter xxi three times along the way, as the new crusader trudged on to dog tate's cabin, the late-setting moon glinted on queerly twisted things suspended from road-side trees--things unlike the fruit of either hickory or poplar. a grim satisfaction enlivened his tired eyes, but it lingered only for a moment. before them rose the picture of a girl sitting stricken by a bedside, and his brows contracted painfully with the memory. from the window of tate's cabin came a faint gleam of light, and, as he drew cautiously near, a figure rose wearily from the dark doorstep. "i've been settin' up fer ye," announced dog. "i mistrusted ye'd done met with mishap." inside the cabin crowded with sleeping and snoring figures, the host pointed to a loft under the shingles. "ye'll hev ter bed in up thar," he said. "don't come down ter-morrer twell i gives ye ther word. right likely thar'll be folks abroad sarchin' fer ye. me an' joe aims ter blackguard ye no end fer bustin' up our still." "thet's what i 'lowed ter caution ye ter do," acquiesced turner. "all i'm askin' now air a few hours of slumber." he climbed the ladder with heavy limbs, and, falling on the floor among its litter of household effects, was instantly asleep. * * * * * it was the habit of kinnard towers to rise early, even for a people of early risers, and on this morning he followed his customary routine. last night he had slept restlessly because the events of the day had been stressful and uncertain, even if, in their summary, there had been an element of satisfaction. so kinnard pulled on his trousers and boots, still thinking of yesterday, and crossed the hall to the room where black tom carmichael slept. black tom's bed had not been disturbed, and his door swung open. towers roused two other members of his household and the three went out into the first mists of dawn to investigate. at the hitching-rack they halted in dismay and their jaws sagged. the light was yet dim and ghostly, and at first the body that hung unconscious with hours of chilling and cramp had every appearance of lifelessness. a bitter anger broke out in kinnard's face and for a time none of them spoke. then from the chief's lips escaped an oath so fierce and profane that his men paused in their attempt at resuscitating the corpse-like figure, and following his eyes they saw the fresh insult which he had just discovered--a still-worm demolished and hanging high. "hell's clinkers!" stormed the leader. "what manner of deviltry air this?" restored, an hour later, by hot coffee and whiskey, black tom told his story, colorfully embellished with profane metaphor, and a squad went riding "hell-fer-leather" to the still of "little" jake kinnard. when the sun was fully revealed they were back again, with another man, feeble and half-frozen of body, but molten-hot of spirit to vouchsafe indignant evidence. the cup of towers' fury was brimming over, but before its first bitterness had been quaffed yet other heralds of tribulation arrived to pour in fresh wormwood. "thar's still-house quiles hangin' all up an' down ther high-road," they lamented. kinnard looked at his henchman out of eyes somberly furious and his florid face turned a choleric purple. "thar hain't but one way ter treat sech a damn' pest es thet," he said slowly with the implacable manner of one passing final sentence. "he's got ter be kilt--an' kilt quick." but a sudden reflection obtruded itself, snarling the simple edict with complication. "hold on!" he added with a less assured finality. "hev any stills been tampered with among his own folks--or air hit jest over hyar?" "we hain't heered much from ther yon side yit," admitted the news-bearers. "thar's one thet dog tate used ter run, though, thet's hangin' high as haaman. dog's a kinsman of his'n but he dwells nigh ter hyar." "hev some fellers ride over thar an' talk with him," commanded towers with prompt efficiency. "ef i war sure they wouldn't all stand behind him, i'd take a crowd of men over thar an' hang him in front of his own house. yestiddy they didn't seem ter hev much use fer him." of one thing, however, he failed to take adequate cognizance. that turning away of the clan, yesterday, in cool or angry repudiation had been less unanimous than it seemed. there were elders among them who had for years deplored the locked-in life of their kind and to whom this boy's effrontery secretly appealed. none of their own heritage and breed had ever before dared to raise his voice against forcible scourging out of a tolerated practice--but that did not mean that all men sanctioned it in their hearts. so as the stacys had scattered they had discussed the matter, guardedly save where the speaker was sure of his auditor, and kinnard would have been astonished to know how many of them said, "i reckon mebby ther boy is fittified--but ef he could do what he seeks ter, hit would sartain sure be a god's blessin' ter these hills." "i don't see no diff'rence atween what he aims at, an' what them damn' revenuers seeks ter do," suggested a young man who had fallen in with joe stacy after the gathering and rode knee to knee with him. "myself i don't foller nuther makin' hit ner drinkin' hit. hit kilt my daddy an' my maw raised me up ter hate ther stuff--but i'm jest tellin' how hit looks ter me." "sim," said joe stacy gravely, "i counseled turner ter put aside this notion--because i misdoubted hit would mean his death, but ef ye don't see no difference atween him an' a revenuer ye're jest a plain idjit--an' i don't mean no offense neither. ther revenuer works fer blood money. bear cat hain't seekin' no gain but ter bring profit ter his people. ther revenuer slips up with knowledge thet he gains by busted faith an' spies. bear cat's done spoke out open an' deeclared hisself." the young man reined in his horse abruptly. "i'm obleeged ter ye fer enlightenen' me," he said with blunt directness. "i'll ask ye ter hold yore counsel about this matter. i aims ter go back thar an' work with him." a slow smile spread over the ragged lips of bear cat's uncle. he made no criticism, but one might have gathered that he was not displeased. back at lone stacy's house on the morning that kinnard towers was awakening to conditions, were gathered a handful of men. they lounged shiftlessly as though responding to no object save casual curiosity. they were cautious to express neither approbation nor disapproval, but intangibly the threads of sympathy and hostility were unraveling. those who were the steadier of gaze, clearer of pupil and fitter of brawn, inclined toward bear cat and his crusade, and, conversely, those who wore the stamp of reddened eye and puffed socket gave back sneering scowls to the mention of his name. but all alike crowded around, when a traveler, who had elected to cross the mountain from marlin town by night, paused, puffed with the importance of one bearing news. "hev ye folks done heered ther tidin's?" he demanded, shifting to a sidewise position in his saddle. "bear cat stacy's been raidin' stills. thar's a copper worm hangin' right at ther quarterhouse door--an' trees air bloomin' with others all along ther high road." the murmur was half a growl--for the group was not without its blockader or two--and half pure tribute to prompt achievement. "nor thet hain't all by half," went on the traveler, relating with the gusto of a true climax how black tom had been bound to a hitching-rack and jake kinnard staked out by his demolished mash kettle. this was pure exploit--and whatever its motive the mountain man loves exploit. moreover, these sufferers from bear cat's wrath were men close to the hated kinnard towers. faces that had brooded yesterday grinned to-day. * * * * * kinnard's squad reached the house of dog tate while the morning was yet young, searching each cabin along the way, in the hope that last night's raider might be still hiding in their own terrain. they found joe sanders sitting on the doorstep, with the morose aspect of a man deprived of his avocation in life. the wintry hillsides were no moodier than his eyes, and the sullen skies no more darkly lowering. but dog tate himself was loquacious to a fault. he raved with a fury so unbridled that it suggested lunacy. bear cat had come to his place wounded and had been succored. twenty-four hours later he had come there again treasonably to repay that service by ripping out an unguarded still. henceforth the stacy call might remain eternally unanswered, and be relegated to perdition for all of him. "dog," suggested the leader of the squad, "we've done been askin' leave ter kinderly hev a look inter dwellin' houses--in case bear cat's still layin' concealed over hyar. i reckon ye hain't hardly got no objection, hev ye?" "does ye 'low thet i'd be hidin' out ther man thet raided me?" the host put his question with a fine irony, and the reply was apologetic. "not sca'cely. hit's jest so thet we kin tell kinnard, we didn't pass no house by, thet's all." the speaker and the ex-moonshiner were standing at the threshold of the log shack. it was a place of a single, windowless room with a lean-to kitchen--and above was the loft reached by a trap and ladder. "come right in then," acceded dog tate with disarming readiness. "i hain't got no _ex_cess of love fer kinnard--but i've got yit less fer still-busters." far back where the shingle roof dropped steeply from ridge pole to edge was a murky recess hidden behind a litter of old bedding, piled up potatoes and onions. silently listening and mercifully blotted into shadow there, bear cat stacy crouched with rifle-barrel thrust forward and his finger caressing the trigger. the squad-leader looked about the place with perfunctory eye and then, seeing the ladder, set his foot upon its lowest rung. dog tate felt a sudden commotion of hammering pulses, but his lids did not flicker nor his mouth alter its line. quite unostentatiously, however, his wife moved toward the front door and stood there blankly expressionless. also, dog laid his hand idly on the ladder as the visitor climbed upward. if the search proved embarrassing he meant to kick the support from under the towers minion, and his wife meant to bar the door for siege. but the intruder went only high enough to thrust his head into the overhead darkness while a match flared and went out. he had seen nothing, and as he stumped down again the poised finger relaxed on the rifle trigger, and the tates breathed free. "i'm obleeged ter ye," said the searching lieutenant. "ef ye wants ter start up yore still ergin, i reckon ye'll be safe. he won't be runnin' wild fer long nohow." * * * * * the quarterhouse emissaries were raking the hills with an admirable thoroughness, running like a pack in full cry on the man trail, but they did not again come so near the fringes of success as when they missed the opportunity at dog tate's house. in spite of a watchfulness that gave eyes to the hills and ears to the timber, their quarry left that house and went to his own. he had no intention of making the mad effort to remain there. the wild tangle of cliff and forest was his safest refuge now--but there were two things to be done at home. he wished to have for companionship in exile his "lincoln, master of men," and he wished to learn if out of the wholesale desertion of yesterday there had not come back to him even one or two followers. so that afternoon he slipped, undetected by his trailers, into and out of his father's house; and there followed him, though each went singly and casually to escape detection, some eight or ten men, who henceforth were to be his secret followers and, he hoped, the nucleus of a larger force. the next morning in both stacy and towers territory, hickories and walnuts and sycamores burst into copper fruitage. the hills were alive with armed search-parties, liquor-incited and vowing vengeance, yet through their cordons he moved like some invisible and soundless creature, striking and escaping while they raged. at ever-changing points of rendezvous he met and instructed his mysterious handful of faithful supporters, struck telling blows--made fresh raids and seemingly evaporated. from all that towers could learn, it appeared that bear cat stacy was operating as a lone bandit. yet the ground he seemed to cover single-handed was so wide of boundary and his success so phenomenal that already he was being hallowed, in country-side gossip, with legendary and heroic qualities. in that towers read a serious menace to his own prestige; until he ground his teeth and swore sulphurously. he organized a larger force of human hounds and fired them more hotly with the incentive of liquor and greed for promised reward. the doors of old lone stacy's house, tenanted now only by the wife of the prisoner and the mother of the refugee, were endlessly watched by unseen eyes. around the cabin where jerry henderson lay lingering with a tenuous hold on life, lounged the men posted there by joe stacy, and back in the timbered slopes that frowned down upon its roof crouched yet other shapes of butter-nut brown; shapes stationed there at the behest of the quarterhouse. going in and out among these would-be avengers and learning all their plans, by dint of a pretendedly bitter hatred of bear cat stacy, were such men as dog tate and joe sanders, spying upon the spies. old bud jason at his little tub-mill and uncle israel at his general store secretly nodded their wise old heads and chuckled. they knew that, hushed and undeclared, a strong sentiment was being born for the boy who was outwitting scores of time-seasoned murder hirelings. but they shook their heads, too--realizing the deadly odds of the game and its tragic chances. one afternoon after a day sheeted in cold rain that sometimes merged into snow, bear cat crept cautiously toward the sagging door of the abandoned cabin which had, on another night, housed ratler webb. it had been a perilously difficult day for the man upon whose head towers had set the price of a river-bottom farm. like a hard-run fox he had doubled back and forth under relentless pursuit and gone often to earth. the only things they needed with which to harry him further were bloodhounds. now in the later afternoon he came to the cabin and sought a few minutes' shelter there against the penetrating misery of rain and sloppy snow that thawed as it fell. he dared not light a fire, and must not relax the vigilance of his outlook. just before sunset bear cat saw a man edging cautiously through the timber, moving with a shadowy furtiveness--and recognized joe sanders. the newcomer slipped through the rotting lintels, bringing a face stamped with foreboding. "ye kain't stay hyar," announced the excited voice. "i don't hardly know whar ye _kin_ go to nuther, onlessen' ye kin make hit back ter dog tate's dwellin'-house by ther hill-trail." "tell me all ye knows, joe," directed stacy with a steadying calmness, and the other went on hurriedly: "they've done picked up yore trail--an' lost hit ergin--a couple of miles back. they 'lows ye hain't fur off, an' thar's two score of 'em out huntin'--all licker-crazed but yit not disabled none. some of 'em 'lows ter come by hyar. i'm with a bunch thet's travelin' a diff'rent route. they're spreadin' out like a turkey gobbler's tail feathers an' combin' this territory plumb close. above all don't go to'rds home. hit's thet way thet they's most numerous of all. i surmised i'd find ye hyar an' i slipped by ter warn ye." "i'm obleeged ter ye, joe. what's thet ye've got thar?" the last question was prompted by the gesture with which saunders, as if in afterthought, thrust his hand into his coat pocket. "hit hain't nuthin' but a letter brother fulkerson bid me give ter ye--but thar hain't no time ter read hand-write now. every minute's wuth countless letters." but turner stacy was ripping the envelope. already he had recognized the clear, precise hand which had been the fruit of blossom's arduous efforts at self-education. "don't tarry, man! i cautions ye they're already makin' ready ter celebrate yore murder," expostulated the messenger, but bear cat did not seem to hear him. in the fading light he was reading and rereading, forgetful of all else. joe sanders, fixing him with a keen and impatient scrutiny, noticed how gaunt were his cheeks and how hollow-socketed his eyes. yet as he began the letter there was a sudden and eager hopefulness in his face which faded into misery as he finished. "a famed doctor came up from louisville," wrote blossom. "he's done all that could be done. he says now that only jerry's great courage keeps life in him and that can't avail for long. he hasn't been able to talk--except for a few words. the longest speech was this: 'send word to bear cat--that i'm honester than he thinks.... i want to die with his friendship ... or i can't rest afterwards....' he looked like he wanted to tell something else and he named your father and your uncle joe stacy, but he couldn't finish. he keeps saying 'stacy, you don't understand.' what is it, that you don't understand, turney? can't you slip over just long enough to shake hands with him? he wants you to do it--and he's dying--and i love him. for my sake can't you come? your mother says you came once just to get a book--won't you do that much for me? blossom henderson." joe sanders shuffled his feet in poignant disgust for the perilous procrastination. here was a man whose life hung on instant flight, yet he stood with eyes wide and staring, holding before them a silly sheet of paper. his lips whispered, "blossom henderson--_henderson_--not fulkerson no more!" then a wave of black resentment swept bear cat's face and he licked his dry lips. "joe," he said absently, "i hates him! i kain't shake his hand. i tells ye i kain't do hit." "whose hand?--don't shake hit, then," retorted sanders irritably, and, with a sudden start as though he had been rudely awakened while prattling in his sleep, bear cat laughed bitterly. "hit don't make no difference," he added shortly. "i war kinderly talking ter myself. i reckon i'd better be leavin'." hurrying through the timber, toward dog tate's house, turner's mind was in a vexed quandary and after a little he irresolutely halted. his forehead was drawn and his lips were tight. "blossom henderson!" he muttered. "god knows i took plentiful risks thet ye mout w'ar thet name--an' yit--yit when i reads hit, seems like hit drives me plumb ravin' mad!" from the tangle of dead briars the cold rain dripped desolately. a single smear of lurid red was splashed across the west beyond the silhouetted ridges. "they're aimin' ter head me off ef i goes to'rds home," he reflected in a bitter spirit. "an' he wants thet i should fight my way through all them enemies ter shake his hand--so thet he kin die easy. i reckon hit don't make no manner of diff'rence how hard i dies myself." he covered his face with his hands and when he took them away he altered his course, setting his steps in the direction of his own house. "she said--fer _her_ sake," he repeated in a dazed voice, touched with tenderness. "i reckon i've got ter undertake hit." never before had the woods been so efficiently picketed. never had the net of relentless pursuit been so tight-drawn and close of mesh. for a long distance he eluded its entanglement though at times, as it grew dark, he saw the glimmer of lanterns whose portent he understood. but finally the clouds broke and a cold moon shone out to aid the pack and cut to a forlorn hope the chances of the quarry. as bear cat went creeping from shadow to shadow he could hear faint sounds of pursuit closing in upon him. he came at length upon a narrow road that must be crossed and for a while he bent low, listening, then stole forward, reassured. but as he reached the farther side, the black solidity of a hill-side broke not in one but in several tongues of flame and the bark of three rifles shattered the quiet. bear cat doubled back and cut again into the timber which he had left, running now to put a margin of distance between himself and the greater numbers. that fusillade and its echoes would bring other rifles and reinforcements. after a few pantingly stressful minutes he found himself standing at the lip of a steep bluff, and a roar of water beneath warned him that the creek, some twenty feet below, had been swollen from a trickling thread to a seething caldron. he gazed questioningly about, gauging his chances with swift calculation, since there was no time for indecision. "i aimed ter come, blossom," he breathed between his teeth, "but i've done failed!" he stepped out to look over the ledge and for a moment his figure was silhouetted in the open light. then again the curtain of blue-black shadow was shot through with fiery threads and a rifle barked sharply, trailing a broken wake of echoes. bear cat stacy's two hands went high above his head, his right still clutching his rifle. he swayed for the duration of a breath, rocking on his feet, then plunged forward and outward. the next morning, no worms were found hanging in the highway, but, back at the quarterhouse, kinnard towers turned in his hand a battered hat that had been retrieved from floating drift. "yes, i reckon thet's his hat," he commented after a close scrutiny. "i reecollect seein' thet raw-hide thong laced round hit, endurin' his speech over thar. wa'al, he elected ter go chargin' amuck--an' he's done reaped his harvest." chapter xxii the story of turner's death at unknown hands spread in the next few days like wild fire. whatever may have been the lack of sympathy for the young man's undertakings of reform, it was now only remembered that he was a stacy who had been "dogged to his death" by towers' minions, and ugly rumblings of threat awoke along the water courses where his kinsmen dwelt. it was voiced abroad that jerry henderson could not outlive that week: that when he died, the body of bear cat stacy would be buried with him, and that, from those two graves, the stacys would turn away to wreak a sanguinary vengeance. yet all this was the sheerest sort of rumor. no man had proof that a towers rifle had killed turner--the man to whom his clan had looked for leadership. no man had seen the body which his family was said to be holding for that dramatic consignment to the earth. but in part the report found fulfilment. on sunday afternoon blossom leaned over the quilt-covered figure of her dying husband to realize that he was no longer dying but dead. "speak ter me, jerry," she cried as she dug her nails into her palms. "speak ter me--jest one time more." she sought to call out to her father, but her lips refused the service, and as she came to her feet she stretched out her hands and crumpled, insensible, to the floor. brother fulkerson went that afternoon to the saw-mill at the back of uncle israel's store and stood by as the storekeeper himself sawed planks and knocked together the crude box which must serve jerry henderson as a casket. later across the counter he bought some yards of coarse cloth cut from a bolt of black calico, which was to be his daughter's pathetic attempt at mourning dress. the afternoon of the funeral was unspeakably sullen and dismal. clouds of leaden dreariness hung to the bristling mountains, themselves as gray as slate. cold skies promised snow and through the bleak nakedness of the forest whined the dirge-like complaint of a gusty wind. to the unkempt place of briar-choked and sunken graves, crawled a dingy procession. blossom would have preferred going with her dead unattended save by her father, but that mountain usage forebade. a wedding or a funeral could not be so monopolized in a land where there is frugally little to break daily monotony. this funeral above all others, belonged in part to the public, made pregnant with interest by the story that two bodies instead of one would be laid to rest. the question of how bear cat stacy had come to his death would be answered over his open grave, and men would know at the falling of the last clod whether they should return quietly to their homes or prepare for the sterner task of reprisal. kinnard towers must know, too, what happened there, and must know it speedily, though to go himself or to send one of his recognized lieutenants was beyond the question. yet his plans were carefully laid. those few nondescripts who bore the repute of being stacy sympathizers, while in fact they were towers informers, were to be present; and along the miles of "slavish roughs" between quarterhouse and burial-ground, like runners in a relay race, were other heralds. when the news began to come from the place it would travel fast. sitting grimly behind the closed stockade of the quarterhouse and surrounded now not only by a body-guard but by some scores of fighting men, the old intriguer anxiously awaited the outcome. long before the hour for the services had arrived men, as drab and neutral in color as the sodden skies, and women wrapped in shawls of red and blue, began to gather from hither and yon over roads mired to the prohibition even of "jolt-wagons." they came on foot or on muddied mules and horses with briar-tangled manes and tails--and having arrived, they waited, shuffling their weary feet against frost-bite and eddying in restless currents. two men were still at work with shovels and they had spread out their excavation so wide, in removing slabs of unbreakable rock, that the place might have been a single, double or even a triple grave. the wind moaned as murky clouds began to spit snow, and then on the gulch-washed road which climbed steeply, a little procession was glimpsed in the distance. the men fondled their guns, but the cortège was lost again to view behind a screen of cedars and until it turned finally on the level of the graveyard itself, its details remained invested with the suspense of expectancy. at the fore, when it arrived, was brother fulkerson astride his old mare, and on a pillion behind him rode the "widder henderson," the whiteness of her thin face startlingly accentuated by the unrelieved lines of her black calico gown. under her erstwhile vivid eyes lay dark rings of suffering, but she held her head rigid and gazed straight before her. the cortège came without the proper hush of due solemnity, for the rough coffin that held jerry henderson's body was borne on a fodder sledge and the stolid team of oxen that drew it required constant and vociferous shouts and goading as they strained unwillingly against their yokes. after the sledge trailed a dozen neighbors, afoot and mounted; all plastered with mud--but the crowd caught its breath and broke into a low murmur. there was only one casket! as the evangelist dismounted and lifted his daughter down, the men who were there as observers for kinnard towers sought places near enough to hear every syllable. yet when the elderly preacher began to speak, while his daughter stood with the dull apathy of one only half realizing, the faces of the crowd mirrored a sort of sullen disappointment. for them the burial of the man who was, after all, well-nigh a stranger, was secondary in interest. it was in every material respect touching their lives and deeper interests, bear cat's funeral they had come to attend. but on that topic the bearded shepherd meant to give them no satisfaction. so far he had made no mention of bear cat, and now he was concluding with the injunction: "let us pray." but as he bent his head, a woman standing near the foot of the grave raised a hand that trembled with all the violence of superstitious fear. from her thin lips broke a half-smothered shriek, not loud but eerie and disconcerting, and she shrilled in terrorized notes, "air thet a specter i sees thar?" many eyes followed the pointed finger and again a dismayed chorus of inarticulate sound broke from the crowd. just behind blossom--herself ghostlike in her white rigidness--had materialized a figure that had not been there before. it was a gaunt figure whose face these people had seen before only bronzed and aggressive. now the cheek-bones stood out in exaggerated prominence and the flesh was bloodlessly gray. though bear cat stacy was present in the flesh his sudden materialization there might well have startled a superstitious mind into the thought that he had come not only from a bed of illness but from one of death. ignoring the sensation he had created, he spoke in a whisper to the minister, and brother fulkerson made a quiet announcement. "hit hain't no ghost, sister. turner stacy hes been sore sick an' nigh ter death, but hit's pleased ther almighty ter spare him. let us pray." a man near the grave began quietly working his way to the outer fringes of the gathering, and when he had escaped immediate observation, he went with hot haste. kinnard must know of this. he had detected an undernote in that general murmur of astonishment, which was clearly one of satisfaction. the stacys had derived pleasure in this ocular proof that bear cat was not dead. as the preacher said "amen" bear cat bent tensely forward and caught both of blossom's hands in his own. "i kain't tarry," he said, "even fer a leetle spell, but i wanted ye ter know thet i done my best ter get hyar afore." she looked at him with dazed eyes which under the intensity of his gaze slowly began to awaken into understanding. turner went on eagerly, "i started over hyar as soon as i got yore letter, but i was set upon an' wounded. i've been insensible well nigh ever sence then." "oh, turney!" she whispered, as the grief which had held her in its thrall of unrelieved apathy suddenly broke into an overflow of tears. "oh, turney, i'm glad ye _tried_. he kept callin' fer ye. 'peared like he wanted to tell ye somethin'." the clods were falling dully on the grave. the crowd held back, fretting against the edict of decorum, as the voices rose in the miserable treble of song, to which two hounds added their anguished howls. at the last words of the verse, an instant clamor of question and discussion broke in eager storm--but bear cat had melted into the thicket at his back. with the same mystifying suddenness that had characterized his appearance, he had now disappeared. excited men rushed hither and thither, calling his name. they beat the woods and tramped the roads, but with as little result as though he had, in fact, appeared out of his grave and returned again to its hiding. the story of that funeral was going with the pervasive swiftness of wind throughout the country-side. it was being mouthed over in dark cabins where toothless grannies and white-shocked grandsires wagged their heads and recalled the manner of bear cat's birth. * * * * * when joe sanders had left bear cat that afternoon at the abandoned cabin, it had been with the impression that stacy meant to take the path which he had advised; the only path that was not certainly closed to his escape, and seek refuge at dog tate's house. he had found an immediate opportunity to report that program to dog himself, and dog sought to make use of it in bear cat's service. tate, in recognition of his grievance as an outraged distiller, had been given the leadership of one of the largest of the search parties, which it was his secret purpose to lead far afield on a blind trail. inasmuch as bear cat had been specifically cautioned against going in the direction of his own dwelling place, and yet since that would seem a logical goal, dog had maneuvered his hunters into territory between the abandoned cabin and little slippery. he himself had been in the woods across the waters of the suddenly swollen creek, when an outburst of rifle fire told him that something had gone wrong and brought him running back to the guidance of that musketry. he arrived at the edge of the swirling, drift-encumbered water in time to see the silhouetted figure on the opposite bluff totter and plunge head first into the moonlit whirlpool. dog knew that he was the only man on that side of the stream, but any effort to plunge in and try for a rescue would mean death to himself without hope of saving the man who had fallen. as he watched he made out what seemed to be the lifeless body come to the surface, to be swept in a rushing circle and, as chance would have it, to catch and hang lodged in a mass of floating dead-wood. the creek at ordinary times ran shallow and though it was gushing now beyond its normal borders it was still not wide. the deadwood swirled, raced forward, and fouled the out-jutting root of a giant sycamore. dog tate crawled out along the precarious support of the slimy rootage and slowly drew the mass of drift into shallow water. it was tedious work since any violent tugging might loosen the lightly held tangle and send the body floating away unbuoyed. the night was all a thing of blue and silver moonlight and sooty shadows, but under the muddy bulwark at the base of the overhanging sycamore the velvet denseness of impenetrable black prevailed. once dog saw figures outlined on the bluff from which bear cat had fallen, and had to lie still for the seeming of hours, trusting to the favor of the shadow. eventually he succeeded in drawing the mass of flotsam shoreward until he could wade in to the shallows, chancing the quicksands that were tricky there. then he stumbled up the bank with his burden and deposited it between two bowlders where without daylight it would hardly be found. dog was thinking fast, now. he did not yet know whether he had saved a living man or retrieved a dead body, but his eagerness for investigation on that score must wait. now he must rejoin the chase and turn it away from such dangerous nearness to its quarry. so tate ran down the bank and shouted. voices replied and figures became visible on the farther shore. "i seed him fall in," came the mendacious assurance of the man who was playing two parts. "i waded in atter him--but he went floatin' on down stream." "did he look like he mout be alive?" was the anxious query and the reply came as promptly. "he had every seemin' of bein' stone dead." for a while they searched the banks, until, having discovered the hat, they decided to go back and let the final hunt for the body wait until morning. but dog had gone home and roused joe sanders, who had come in about midnight from another group of searchers, and the two of them had slipped back and recovered the limp burden--to find it still alive. between midnight and dawn they carried bear cat to the house of bud jason. the wound this time had glanced the skull, bringing unconsciousness but no fracture. the shock and the hours of lying wet in the freezing air had resulted in something like pneumonia, and for days bear cat had lain there in fever and delirium. but the old miller had held grimly on despite the danger of discovery, and his woman had nursed with her rude knowledge of herbs, until the splendid reserve of strength, that had already been so prodigally taxed, proved itself still adequate. he had raved, they told him later, of shaking hands with someone whom he hated. "hev ye raided any more stills?" demanded bear cat when at last he had been able to talk, and dog, who had been in every day, grinned: "we 'lowed thet could wait a spell," he assured the crusader. "we had our hands right full es hit war." but the morning following jerry henderson's funeral, two more coils of copper were discovered aloft, and one of the men who had composed kinnard's relay of messengers was liberated at daybreak after spending several tedious and unsatisfactory hours lashed to a dog-wood sapling. * * * * * if kinnard towers had raged before, now he fumed. heretofore, it had been a condition of open war or one of acknowledged, even if precarious, peace. this was a mongrel situation which was neither the one nor the other, and every course was a dangerous one. the stacys held their counsel, neither sanctioning the incorrigible black sheep of their flock in open declaration, nor yet totally relinquishing their right to avenge him, if an outside hand fell upon him. meanwhile, the fiction of this young trouble-maker's charmed life was arousing the superstitious to its acceptance as a sort of powerful fetish. the very name bear cat was beginning to fall from the lips of tow-headed children, with open-mouthed awe, like a term of witchcraft, and this candid terror of children was, of course, only a reflection of the unconfessed, yet profound impression, stamped upon the minds of their elders. "what ails everybody hyarabouts?" rumbled kinnard over his evening pipe. "heretofore when a man needed killin' he's been kilt--an' thet's all thar was ter hit. this young hellion walks inter sure death traps an' walks out ergin. he falls over a clift inter a ragin' torrent--an' slips through an army of men. in satan's name, what air hit?" black tom's rejoinder was not cheering: "ef ye asks me, i think all these stories of witchcraft, backed up by his luck, hes cast a spell on folks. they thinks bear cat's in league with grave-yard spooks." kinnard knocked the ashes out of his pipe. his lips curled contemptuously. "an' es fer yoreself--does you take stock in thet damn' foolery, too?" "i hain't talkin' erbout myself," retorted tom sullenly. "ye asked erbout what folks was cogitatin' an' i'm a-tellin' ye. if ye don't believe thar's a notion thet graves opens an' ther dead fights with him, jest go out an' talk ter these benighted hill-billies yoreself. if evidence air what ye wants, ye'll git a lavish of hit." those who were in bear cat's confidence constituted a close corporation, and they were not all, like dog and joe, men who mixed also with the enemy, gaining information while they railed against their own leader. there was talk of secret and mysterious meetings held at midnight by oath-bound men--to whom flowed a tide of recruits. kinnard believed these meetings to be a part of the general myth. his crude but effective secret service could gather no tangible evidence in support of their storied sessions. one evening report drifted in to the quarterhouse that some one had seen bear cat stacy at a point not far distant, and that he had been boldly walking the open road--unaccompanied. within the hour a party was out, supplied with jugs and bottles enough to keep the vengeful fires well fueled throughout the night. it was an evil-looking squad, and its appearance was in no wise deceptive. its members, all save one, had begun their evening at the quarterhouse bar. the one exception was george kelly, a young man recently married, who had gone there to talk other business with towers. george had an instinctive tendency toward straightforwardness, but he had also an infirmity of character which caused him to follow where a more aggressive nature led--and he had fallen under kinnard's domination. his small tract of tillable land was mortgaged, and kinnard held over him the lash of financial supremacy. he could fight, but he could not argue, and when the unofficial posse was sent out that night, being in the place, he lacked the courage to refuse participation. they had found the footprints of the fugitive and had met two men who claimed to have seen him in the flesh, but bear cat himself had eluded them and near midnight they halted to rest. they threw themselves down in a small rock-walled basin which was broken at one point by a narrow gorge, through which they had come. it was a good place to revel in after labor because it was so shut-in that the bonfire they kindled could not be far seen. the jugs were opened and passed around. it had set in to rain, and though they could endure that bodily discomfort while they had white liquor, their provident souls took thought against the rusting of their firearms. the guns were accordingly placed under a ledge of rock a few feet distant, all save one. kelly lacking the buoyant courage of drunkenness, preferred to keep his weapon close at hand. he listened moodily and unresponsively to the obscene stories and ribald songs, which elicited thick peals of laughter from his companions. they had hunted hard, and now they were wassailing hard. the long march home would sober them so they need not restrain their appetites. some impulse led kelly to raise his eyes from the sordid picture in the red waver of the fire and glance toward the doorlike opening of the gorge. the eyes remained fixed--and somehow the rifle on his knees did not come up, as it should have done. a figure stood there silently, contemptuously looking on, and it was as gaunt and gray as that of a foraging wolf. it was as lean and sinewy, too, and out of the face glowed a pair of eyes dangerously narrow and glittering. then with a scornful laugh the figure stepped forward, bending lithely from the waist, with two steel-steady hands gripping two automatic pistols at its front. "war you boys a-sarchin' fer me?" demanded bear cat and the trailing voices, that had been drunkenly essaying close harmony, broke off mid-verse. "stay right whar ye're at, every mother's son of ye!" came the sharp injunction. "the man thet stirs air a dead man. this hain't no play-party thet i've done come ter." they sat suddenly silent, abruptly surly and helpless; all save one. george kelly was still armed, and sitting somewhat apart. beseechingly his companions sought by covert glance to signal him that he should avail himself of his armed advantage while they continued to distract the newcomer's attention. bear cat's pistols broke out and two treasured jugs were shattered. "jim towers," came the raspingly dictatorial order, "when ye goes back ter ther quarterhouse ye kin tell kinnard towers thet bear cat stacy hain't ter be captured by no litter of drunkards. tell him he mout es well hire sober murderers or else quit." as towers sat glowering and silent, stacy's voice continued in its stinging contempt. "you damned murder hirelings, does ye think thet i'm ter be tuck prisoner by sneakin' weasels like you?" george kelly had sat silent. now he rose to his feet, and stacy ordered curtly, "lay down thet gun, george. ye're ther only man i'm astonished ter see hyar. i 'lowed ye war better then a hired assassin." from someone came thick-tongued exhortation, "git him, kelly, you've got a gun. git ther damn' parson." in the momentary centering of bear cat's attention upon george, some one slipped with a cat-like furtiveness of motion back into the thicker darkness--toward the cached rifles. then a strange thing happened. george kelly wheeled, ignoring the order to drop his weapon, but instead of pointing it at the lone invader he leveled it across the fire-lit circle. "stop thet!" he yelled. "leave them rifle-guns be or i aims ter shoot." surprise was following on surprise, and the half-befuddled faces of the drinkers went blank with perplexity and incredulity. "what ther hell does ye mean? what did ye come out with us fer?" demanded a shrill voice, and kelly's response spat back at him viciously. "i means thet what bear cat says are true es text. i mean thet 'stid of seekin' ter kill him, i'm a-goin' along with him. i've done been a slave ter kinnard towers long enough--an' right now i aims ter quit." "shell we tell kinnard thet?" demanded jim towers dryly. "tell him any damn' thing ye likes. i'm through with him," and turning toward the astonished stacy, he added, "i reckon we've done all we needs ter do hyar. we've busted thar bottles--an' thet's ter say we've busted thar hearts. let's leave." but bear cat's face was still grim and his words came with a clear-clipped sharpness. "not yit.... they've still got some guns over thar.... i'll hold 'em where they're huddled, steady es a bird-dog. you git them guns." george kelly went circumspectly around the circumference of the fire and started back again, bearing an armful of rifles. at one point he had to pass so close to the dejectedly hulking shoulders of a seated figure that his knee brushed the coat--and at that instant the man swept out his hand and jerked violently at the passing ankle. kelly did not go down, but he lunged stumblingly, and scattered weapons broke from his grasp. even then he had the quickness of thought to throw them outward toward bear cat's feet and leaped side-wise himself, still clinging to one that had not fallen. taking advantage of the excitement jim towers sought to recover his feet--and almost succeeded. but with a readier agility bear cat leaped and his right hand, still gripping the pistol, swept outward in an arc. under a blow that dropped him unconscious and bleeding from a face laid open as if by a shod hoof, towers collapsed, scattering red embers as he fell. two others were on their feet now, but, facing stacy's twin pistols and the rifle in the hands of their deserter, they gauged the chances and without a word stretched their hands high above their heads. "now well tek up a collection--of guns--once more," directed stacy, "an' leave hyar." as two men backed through the gorge into darkness, out of which only one had come, a murder party, disarmed and mortified, shambled to its respective feet and busied itself with a figure that lay insensible with its head among the scattered embers. "george," said turner a half hour later, "ye come ter me when i needed ye right bad--but hit's mighty unfortunate thet ye hed ter do hit jest thet way. ye're ther only man i've got whose name is beknownst ter kinnard towers--an' next ter me, thar won't be a man in ther hills harder dogged. ye hain't been married long--an' ye dastn't go home now." george kelly shook his head. "i'm in hit now up ter my neck--an' thar hain't no goin' back. afore they hes ther chanst ter stop me though, i'm goin' by home ter see my woman, an' bid her fare over ter her folks in virginny." chapter xxiii bear cat stacy had gone with george kelly to the house where his wife was awaiting him that night, and though he had remained outside while the husband went in, it was not hard to guess something of what took place. the wife of only a few months came out a little later with eyes that were still wet with tears, and with what things she was going to take away with her, wrapped in a shawl. she stood by as george kelly nailed slats across the door. already she had put out the fire on the hearth, and about her ankles a lean cat stropped its arched back. bear cat had averted his face, but he heard the spasmodic sob of her farewell and the strange unmanning rattle in the husband's throat. it was a new house, of four-squared logs, recently raised by the kindly hands of neighbors, amid much merry-making and well-wishing and it had been their first home together. now it was no longer a place where they could live. for the man it would henceforth be a trap of death, and the wife could not remain there alone. it stood on ground bought from kinnard towers--and not yet paid for. kelly and his wife paused by the log foot-bridge which spanned the creek at their yard fence. in the gray cheerlessness, before dawn, the house with its stark chimney was only a patch of heavier shadow against ghostly darkness. they looked back on it, with wordless regret, and then a mile further on the path forked, and the woman clutched wildly at her husband's shoulders before she took one way and he the other. "be heedful of yoreself, george," was all she said, and the man answered with a miserable nod. so kelly became turner's companion in hiding, denied the comfort of a definite roof, and depending upon that power of concealment which could only exist in a forest-masked land, heaped into a gigantic clutter of cliffs and honey-combed with natural retreats. but two days after his wife's departure, he was drawn to the place that had been his home by an impulse that outweighed danger, and looked down as furtively as some skulking fox from the tangled elevation at its back. then in the wintry woods he rose and clenched his hands and the muscles about his strong jaw-bones tightened like leather. the chimney still stood and a few uprights licked into charred blackness by flame. his nostrils could taste the pungent reek of a recent fire upon whose débris rain had fallen. for the rest there was a pile of ashes, and that surprising sense of smallness which one receives from the skeleton of a burned house, seemingly at variance with the dignity of its inhabited size. "hit didn't take 'em long ter set hit," was his only comment, but afterward he slipped down and studied upon the frozen ground certain marks that had been made before it hardened. he found an empty kerosene can--and some characteristics, marking the tracks of feet, that seemed to have a meaning for him. so kelly wrote down on the index of his memory two names for future reference. it had occurred to mark tapper, the revenue agent, that the activities of bear cat stacy constituted a great wastage, bringing no material profit to anyone. he himself was left in the disconcerting attitude of a professional who sees his efforts fail while an amateur collects trophies. before long the fame of recent events would cease to be local. the talk would be borne on wayfaring tongues to the towns at the ends of the rails and some local newspaper correspondent, starving on space rates, would discover in it a bonanza. here ready-made was the story of an outlaw waging a successful war on outlawry. it afforded an intensity of drama which would require little embellishment. if such a story went to press there would be news editors quick to dispatch staff correspondents to the scene and from somewhere on the fringes of things these scribes would spill out columns of saffron melodrama. all these matters worked through the thoughts of mark tapper as preliminary and incidental. his part in such publicity would be unpleasant. his superiors would ask questions, difficult to answer, as to why he, backed--in theory--with the power of the government had failed where this local prodigy had made the waysides bloom with copper. decidedly he must effect a secret coalition with bear cat stacy. if he could make some such arrangement as he already had with towers, it might work out to mutual satisfaction. it might be embarrassing for bear cat to raid his kinsmen. it was equally so for tapper to raid towers' favorites. but by exchanging information they could both obtain results as harmonious as the arrangement of jack spratt and his wife. it was all a very pretty scheme for double-and-triple-crossing--but the first difficulty was in seeing bear cat himself. finally mark decided to mail a letter to his man. for all his hiding out it was quite likely that there was a secret line of communication open between his shifting sanctuary and his home. he wrote tactfully inviting turner to meet him across the virginia line where he would be safe from local enemies. he gave assurance that he had no intention of serving any kind of summons and that he would come to the meeting place unaccompanied. he held out the bait of using his influence toward a dismissal of the prosecution against bear cat's father. then he waited. in due time he received a reply in bear cat's own hand. "men that want to see me must come to me. i don't go to them," was the curt reply. "i warn you that it will be a waste of time, but if you will come to the door of the school-house at the forks of skinflint and little slippery at nine o'clock tuesday night there will be somebody to meet you, and bring you to me. if you are not alone or have spies following you, your trouble will be for naught. you won't see anybody. bear cat stacy." at the appointed time and in strict compliance with the designated conditions mark tapper stood at the indicated point. at length a shadow, unrecognizable in the night, gradually detached itself from the surrounding shadows and a low voice commanded, "come on." mark tapper followed the guide whose up-turned collar and down-drawn hat would have shielded his features even had the darker cloak of the night not done so. after fifteen minutes spent in tortuous twisting through wire-like snarls of thorn, the voice said: "stand quiet--an' wait." left alone, the revenuer realized that his guide had gone back to assure himself that no spies were following at a distance. tapper knew this country reasonably well, but at the end of an hour he confessed himself lost. finally he came out on a narrow plateau-like level and heard the roar of water far below him. he saw, too, what looked like a window cut in the solid night curtain itself. then the shadow-shape halted. "go on in thar," it directed, and with something more like trepidation than he cared to admit, tapper groped forward, felt for the doorstep with his toe and rapped. "come in," said a steady voice, and again he obeyed. he stood in an empty cabin and one which had obviously been long tenantless. a musty reek hung between the walls, but on the hearth blazed a hot fire. the wind sent great volumes of choking smoke eddying back into the room from the wide chimney and gusts buffeted in, too, through the seams of the rotting floor. bear cat stacy stood before the hearth alone and seemingly unarmed. he had thrown aside his coat and his arms were folded across a chest still strongly arched. his eyes were boring into the visitor with a gimlet-like and disconcerting penetration. "wa'al," came his crisp interrogation, "what does ye want of me?" "i wanted to talk things over with you, stacy," began the revenuer, and the younger man cut him short with an incisive interruption. "don't call me stacy. call me bear cat. folks round hyar gave me thet name in derision, but i aims ter make hit ther best knowed an' ther wust feared name in ther hills. i aims ter be knowed by hit henceforth." "all right, bear cat. you and i are doing the same thing--from different angles." the visitor paused and drew closer to the fire. he talked with a difficult assumption of ease, pointing out that since bear cat had recognized and declared war on the curse of illicit distilling, he should feel a new sympathy for the man upon whom the government imposed a kindred duty. he had hoped that bear cat would make matters easier by joining in the talk, but as he went on, he became uncomfortably aware that the conversation was a monologue--and a strained one. stacy stood gazing at him with eyes that seemed to punch holes in his sham of attitude. when the revenuer paused silence lay upon the place until he himself broke it. finally tapper reached a lame conclusion, but he had not yet dared to suggest the thing he had come to broach, the arrangement whereby the two of them were to divide territory, and swap betrayals of confidence. "air ye done talkin' now?" the question came with the restrained iciness of dammed-up anger. "well--i guess so. until you answer what i've already said." "then i'll answer ye right speedily. i'm bustin' stills like a man blasts up rock thet bars a road: ter make way fer highways an' schools. _you_ raid stills like kinnard towers' men commit murder--fer hire. i reckon thar hain't no common ground thet we two kin stand on. ye lives by treachery an' blood money. yore saint air judas iscariot an' yore god air gain. i hunts open, an'--though ye won't skeercely comprehend my meanin'--thar's a dream back of what i'm doin'--a big dream." mark tapper flushed brick red, and rose. "bear cat," he said slowly. "your father lies in jail waiting trial. i can do a heap to help him--and a heap to hurt him. you'd better think twice before you turn me away with insults." turner's voice hardened and his eyes became menacing slits. "yes--he lays in jail because kinnard towers bartered with ye ter jail him, but i hain't a-goin' ter barter with ye ter free him. ye talks of turnin' ye away with insult--but i tells ye now hit's all i kin do ter turn ye away without killin' ye." stacy was unarmed and mark's own automatic pistol was in his coat pocket. he should have known better, but the discovery that somehow bear cat stacy had learned his complicity in a murder plot blinded him with an insane fury of fear and the hand leaped, armed, from its pocket. "ef i war you," suggested bear cat, who had not moved the folded arms on his chest, "i wouldn't undertake no vi'lence--leastways tell i'd looked well about me. hev a glance at that trap overhead--an' them two doors." already the officer, with deep chagrin, recognized his folly. the open trap of the loft bristled with rifle mouths. the two doors which had a moment before been closed were now open and showed other muzzles peeping through, but who the men behind the guns might be, there was no indication--and there had been no sound. "i didn't need ter show them guns--jest fer you," said bear cat slowly. "a man don't hardly need ter call his folks tergether ter fight a skunk--but i knowed thet ye'd go back ter kinnard towers, an' i'd jest as lief hev ye name hit ter him, thet ye didn't find me hyar all by myself." he paused and then the cold contempt of his manner gave way to a more explosive anger. "i aims ter furnish ye with a lantern an' one of my men will start ye on yore road.... i wants ter see thet lantern goin' over ther hill-top plumb outen sight--an' i don't want ter see hit hesitate whilst hit goes. ef hit does pause--or ef ye ever comes back ter me ergin with any proffer of partnership, so holp me god almighty, i'll send yore scalp ter washin'ton with my regards ter ther government." he pointed a peremptory finger to the front door. "now, damn ye, begone an' go swiftly!" outside tapper saw a lantern moving, but revealing no face. he knew that it was attached to a long pole and that one side was masked--the hill device of men who need light for their footsteps yet seek to avoid becoming conspicuous--and he followed its glimmer until a voice said, "i reckon ye kin go yore own route from hyar--yon way lies ther high road. ye kin tek ther lantern with ye." * * * * * blossom who, until a few weeks ago, had been thought of as a lovely child, was now the "widder henderson" to all who spoke her name. the people she met accosted her with a lugubrious sympathy which was hard to bear, so that she hastened by with a furtive shyness and an anxiety to be left alone. every day she made her pilgrimage to the graveyard to lay freshly cut evergreens on the grave there, and the rabbit that had its nest deep under the thorns sat on its haunches regarding her with a frank curiosity devoid of fear. he seemed to recognize a kinship of shy aloofness between them which need not set even his most timorous of hearts into a flutter. yet although she was the "widder henderson," who had experienced the bitter fate of so many mountain wives, she was after all, in years and in experience, a child. until a little while ago--a very little while--she had sung with the birds and her spirits had sparkled with the sunshine that flashed back from woodland greenery. life had seemed a simple thing with the rainbow promise of romance lying somewhere ahead. then turner had awakened her to a conception of adult love--a conception which might have satisfied all her dreams had not jerry henderson come to dazzle her and alter her standards of comparison. henderson had, as even his critic at the club admitted, that "damned charm" that is seductively indefinable yet potent, and what had been "damned charm" to the clubman's sophistication was a marvelous and prodigal wonder to the mountain girl. he had wooed her passionately in the shadow of death. he had come back to her through the shadow of death, and left her to go, not only into its shadow, but its grimly mysterious reality. now he was not only her hero but also her martyr. mountain children know little of christmas, except that it is often a period of tragedy, since then men ride wildly with pistol and jug, and hilarity turns too often to homicide. but one christmas legend the children do know: that on the night and at the hour of the saviour's birth the cattle kneel in homage and the sere elder bushes, for a brief matter of miraculous minutes, break into a foam of bloom. blossom clung to that beautiful parable, even now finding comfort in its sentiment, as she stood among the untended graves. "i wonder now," she speculated, nodding her head wistfully toward the inquisitive cotton-tail that sat wriggling its diminutive nose, "i wonder now ef it would be _wrong_ to put some elder branches here christmas eve so thet--that--if they does bloom--i mean _do_ bloom--they'd be nigh him?" "howdy, blossom," accosted a voice and the girl looked up startled. lone stacy's wife stood at the thicketed edge of the burial-ground, gazing at her, with eyes less friendly than their former wont. the girl-widow came slowly forward, trying to smile, but under that unblinking stare she felt unhappy, and the older woman went on with a candid bluntness. "la! ye've done broke turrible, hain't ye? an' ye used ter be ther purtiest gal hyarabouts, too." "it's been--hard times fer me," blossom answered faintly. "hit's done been right hard times fer all of us, i reckon," came the uncompromising rejoinder, "but thet hain't no proper cause ter ketch yore death of grave-yard damp," and with that admonition, mrs. stacy went on her way. blossom stood silently looking after her, wondering vaguely why that almost resentful note of hardness had rasped in her voice. "i haven't done nothin'--anything, i mean," she murmured in distress. "why did she look at me that way, i wonder." then suddenly she understood. that was just it. she had not done anything. the old woman was alone; her husband in prison and her son hunted from hiding place to hiding place like some beast dogged to death, and she, the girl who had always been like a daughter in that house, had been too stunned by her own sorrow to take account of her neighbor's distress. mrs. stacy had always expected that blossom's children would be her grandchildren. turner had been wounded in defense of jerry henderson. into the girl's memory flashed a picture with a vivid completeness which had failed to impress her in its just proportions at the time of its reality. then her eyes had been engrossed with one figure in the group to the exclusion of all others. now in retrospect she could visualize the trio that had stumbled through the door of her house, when they brought jerry henderson in. she could see again the way bear cat had reeled and braced himself against the wall, and the stricken wretchedness of his face. slowly the tremendous self-effacement of his generosity began to dawn upon her, and to sting her with self-reproach. so long as she lived she felt that her heart was dead to any love save that for the man in the grave, but to the old comradeship--to the gratitude for such a friendship as few women had ever had--she would no longer be recreant. no wonder that turner's mother looked at her with tightly pressed lips and hostile eyes. she would go over there and do what she could to make amends and alleviate the loneliness of a house emptied of its men; a house over which hung the unlifting veil of terror, which saw in the approach of every passer-by a possible herald of tragedy. * * * * * uncle israel calvert sat alone by the small red-hot stove of his way-side store late in the afternoon. he was half dozing in his hickory-withed chair, and it was improbable that any customer would arouse him. a wild day of bellowing wind was spending itself in gusty puffs and the promise of blizzard, while a tarnished sun sank into lurid banks of cloud-threat. uncle israel's pipe had gone out, though it still hung precariously between his clean-shaven jaws and his white poll fell drowsily forward from time to time. he listened between cat-naps to the voice of the storm and mumbled to himself. "i reckon nobody won't come in ter-night--leastways nobody thet hain't hurtin' powerful bad fer some plumb needcessity." then he fell again to dozing. the rush of wind through a door suddenly opened, and closed, roused him, and seeing the figure of a man on the threshold, uncle israel came to his feet with a springy quickness of amazement. "bear cat!" he exclaimed. "hell's blazes, man, whar did ye drap from?" but at the same moment he went discreetly to the window and, since the shutters hinged from outside, hastily hung two empty jute sacks across the smeared panes. "uncle israel," bear cat spoke with the brevity of one in haste, as he tossed a wet rubber poncho and black hat to the counter, "hev ye got any black cloth on them shelves?" the storekeeper went ploddingly around the counter and began inspecting his wares, rubbing his chin as he peered through the dim lamp-light. "wa'al now," he pondered, "let's see. i've got jest what ye mout call a scant remainder of this hyar black domestic. i don't keep no great quantity because thar hain't no severe call fer hit--save fer them women-folks thet affects mournin'. ther widder henderson bought most of what i had a few days back." bear cat stacy flinched a little, but the old man had his face to his shelves and did not see that. "ye'd better lay in a stock then," said turner curtly. "henceforth thar's liable ter be _more_ demand." something in the tone made uncle israel turn sharply. "does ye mean fer mournin'?" he demanded, and the reply was enigmatical. "mebby so--but fer another kind of mournin' then what ye hev in mind, i reckon. these hills has a plenty ter mourn about. i reckon ye'll heer tell of this black cloth again." * * * * * it was a night when cabin doors were tight-barred and when families huddled indoors, drawing close to the fires that roasted their faces while their backs were cold from wind hissing through the chinks in wall and puncheon flooring. even the drag net of kinnard towers' search lay idle to-night in the icy grip of the storm. through the wildness of shrieking winds, lashing the tree-tops, some men said that they heard ghostly incantations like the chant of a great company of restless spirits. jim towers, who had been knocked sprawling into his own bonfire before the eyes of his myrmidons, was feeling somewhat appeased in spirit to-night. he dwelt in a two-story house so weatherproof that, for him, the tempest remained an external matter. to-night he had with him some half-dozen friends who had come for counsel earlier in the day and whom the storm had interned there for the night. they were all men who had been with him on the expedition that had gone awry when george kelly had deserted. now, as then, the company was defeating tedium with wassail. the drab woman who was jim's wife, and his slave, had fed them all to repletion with "side-meat" and corn pone and gravy, and had withdrawn to a chair apart, where she sat forgotten. they had been cursing bear cat stacy and george kelly until their invectives had been exhausted and the liquor had warmed them into a cheerier mood in which they planned spectacular and complete reprisal. "es fer kelly, i reckon he's got his belly full an' bustin' already," boasted jim towers with an unpleasant chuckle. "charlie reverdy, hyar, an' me hes seen ter thet right fully. in ther place whar his dwellin'-house stood thar hain't nothin' left but jest a pile of ashes. he dastn't show his face in ther open--an' in due time kinnard aims ter fo'close on ther ground hitself." "george kelly hain't ther only man thet's aidin' an' abettin' him, though," demurred a saturnine guest, whose hair grew down close to his eyebrows. "no man knows how many low-down sons of hussies he's got with him." jim towers laughed and poured from jug to tin-cup. "a single fox kin hide out whar a pack of wolves would hev ter shew themselves," he said. "i estimate thet he's got mebby a half dozen--an' afore long now we'll hev ther hides of ther outfit nailed up an' dryin' out." at length the host arose and stretched his arms sleepily. "i reckon hit's mighty nigh time ter lay down," he suggested, and as yawning lips assented he added, "be quiet a minute--i want ter listen. 'pears like ther storm's done plumb spent hitself an' abated." a silence fell upon them, and then as an uncanny and inexplicable sound came to their ears, they stood transfixed, and into their bewilderment crept an unconfessed hint of panic. their eyes dilated as though they had been confronted by an apparition, and yet none of them was accounted timorous. "hell an' tormint, what _air_ thet?" whispered jim towers in a hissing undertone. they all fell into attitudes of concentrated attention--bent forward and listening. out in the night where there had been only the lashing of wind, rose a swell of song, bursting confidently and ominously from human throats. it sounded like a mighty chorus carried on the lips of a marching host, and with its martial assurance it brought a terrifying menace. "i've heered thet song afore," quavered the woman, whose lips were ashen as she rose out of her obscurity. "hit's called ther battle hymn--my daddy l'arned hit in ther war over slavery ... hit says su'thin 'bout 'my eyes hes seed ther glory of ther comin' of ther lord!'" "shet up, woman," commanded her husband, roughly. "i'm a-listenin'." towers braced himself against a nameless foreboding and went cautiously to the door, picking up his rifle on the way. the other men, instinctively drifted toward their weapons, too, though they felt it to be as futile a defense as arming against ghosts. soon the master of the house was back, with a face of greenish pallor. he licked his lips and stammered in his effort at speech. "i kain't ... in no fashion ... make hit out--" he admitted. "thar's a host of torches comin' hither.... they're flamin' like es ef hell hitself war a-marchin' in on us!" the woman threw herself down on her knees and fell into hysterical and incoherent prayer. for a little space the men stood irresolute, divided between a wild impulse to seek hiding in the timber and a sentiment in favor of pinning their trust to the strength of solid walls and barred doors. but upon their jarred nerves the great volume of sound, crashing nearer and nearer, beat like a gathering flood. turning out the lamp and half-smothering the fire, jim towers stole noiselessly to the back door and opened it to a narrow slit. he thrust forth his head and drew it back again as precipitately as though it had been struck by a fist. "what did ye see?" came the whispered interrogation from stiff lips, and the man hoarsely gasped out his response. "thar was--a black ghost standin' thar--black as sin from head ter foot. he held a torch, an' each side of him stood another one jest like him--good god! i reckon hit's jedgment day an' nothin' less!" the woman had slipped out of sight, but now she came lurching back in wild terror. "i peeked outen a winder," she whimpered. "thar's score on' score of men--or sperrits out thar--all black as midnight. they've got torches flamin'--but they hain't got no faces--jest black skulls! oh--lord, fergive my sins!" then upon front and back doors simultaneously came a loud rapping, and the men inside fell into a rude circle, as quail hover at night with eyes out-turned against danger. "i'm bear cat stacy," came a voice of stentorian command. "open the doors--and drop yore guns. we don't seek ter harm no women ner children." still there was dead silence inside, as eye turned to eye for counsel. then against the panels they heard the solid blow of heavy timbers. chapter xxiv when the door fell in, bear cat stacy stepped across the splintered woodwork, unarmed save for the holstered pistol in his belt. he made a clear target for at his back was the red and yellow glare of blazing flambeaux. yet no finger pressed its trigger because the mad uselessness of resistance proclaimed itself. like flood-water running through a broken dyke, a black and steady stream flowed around him into the house, lining the walls with a mourning border of unidentified human figures. their funereal like had never before been seen in the hills, and they seemed to come endlessly with an uncanny silence and precision. they were not ghosts but men; men draped in rubber ponchos or slickers that fell, glinting with the sheen of melted snow, to their knees. their black felt hats were pointed into cones and under the brims their eyes looked out through masks of black cloth that betrayed no feature. except for bear cat stacy himself and george kelly, who were both unmasked, no man was recognized--and no voice sounded to distinguish its possessor. the mauling of the battering ram on the rear door ceased and a pulseless quiet followed save for the tramp-tramp of feet as yet other spectral and monotonously similar figures slipped through the door and fell into enveloping ranks along the walls, and for the woman's half-smothered hysteria of fright. angered by her disconcerting sobs, jim towers seized his wife's shoulder and shook her brutally. "damn ye, shet up afore i hurts ye," he snarled, and, as he finished, bear cat stacy's open hand smote him across the lips and brought a trickle of blood. into the eyes of the trapped man came an evil glitter of ineffectual rage, and from an upper room rose the wail of awakened children. "go up sta'rs, ma'am, an' comfort ther youngsters," turner quietly directed the woman. "no harm hain't a-goin' ter come ter you--ner them." then, wheeling, he ripped out a command to the huddled prisoners. "drap them guns!" when the surrendered arms had been gathered in, stacy drew his captives into line and nodded to george kelly, who stepped forward, his face working with a strong emotion. one could see that only the effect of acknowledged discipline stifled his longing to leap at the throat of jim towers. "kin ye identify any one man or more hyar, es them thet burned down yore dwellin' house? if ye kin, point him out." walking to a position from which he directly confronted towers, kelly raised a finger unsteady with rage and thrust it almost into the face itself. then the hand grew steady and remained accusingly poised. there was a moment of silence, tensely charged, which bear cat's voice broke with a steady precision of judicial inquiry. "what proof hev ye got ter offer us?" "make him lift up his right foot an' show ther patch thet he's got on ther sole an' ther nails on ther heel," demanded kelly eagerly, but at that stacy shook his head. "no. fust ye tell us what manner of shoe hit war--then we'll see ef ye're right." george kelly described a print made by a shoe, home-mended with a triangular patch, and with a heel from whose circle of hobs, two were missing. "now," snapped bear cat. "let's see thet shoe. tek hit off." reluctantly the man whose house had been invaded stooped and unlaced his brogan. stacy wheeled abruptly to face one of the lines against the wall. "you men thet seen them foot-prints, atter thet fire, step ter ther fore." a quartette of figures detached themselves and formed a squad facing the captives and when the shoe had been passed from hand to hand along their line turner went forward with his inquisition. from no other throat came a syllable of sound. "i wants every man thet's willin' ter take oath thet he recognizes thet sole--as ther same one thet made them prints--ter raise his right hand above his head. ef he hain't p'intedly sure, let him keep his arms down, an' ef he misdoubts hit's ther same identical shoe, let him hold up his left hand." in prompt unison four right hands came up, and, having testified, the mute witnesses fell back again to their places against the walls. "does ye _ree_cognize anybody else, thet war thar?" kelly was questioned and without a falter of doubt he again thrust an index finger forward close to the blanching face of charlie reverdy. jim towers stood bracing himself with a stiff-necked effort at defiance. he was caught by an overwhelming force of his enemies--and no help was at hand. no rescue was possible and he expected death, as in similar circumstances, he would have inflicted it. but the sneer which he forced to his lips could not out-testify the sickly green of his pallor as he awaited his sentence. when the identification of reverdy had been also corroborated by similar procedure, bear cat turned once more to confront towers. "hev ye any denial ter make? hev ye anything ter say?" "all i've got ter say," was the insolent retort, "air thet ye kin go ter hell. finish up yore murder ... ye kain't affright me none." "burnin' down dwellin' houses air a grave matter," pursued stacy with a grim calm. "hangin' hain't none too severe fer any man thet would foller hit. so we hyarby sentences ye ter death--but we suspends ther sentence. we don't aim ter hang ye--leastways not yit." after a pause freighted with deep anxiety for the accused he added, "all we aims ter do with ye air ter tie ye on bare-backed mules thet's right bony an' slavish ter ride, an' ter tek ye acrost ther line inter virginny." the tone in which the edict was pronounced bore inexorable and sincere finality. "but from thar on, both of ye air ter leave ther mountings an' never come back ter this community ergin. an' ef ye _does_ undertake ter come back, we swears afore almighty god ter kill ye both--an' onless ye both gives yore solemn oath ter faithfully obey this command--we'll kill ye now an' hyar." there was no choice. grudgingly the pair accepted exile, which after all was a more lenient punishment than they had expected or deserved. towers was permitted to take leave of his family, but it is doubtful if the woman regarded that parting as an unmixed affliction. slowly the culprits were escorted out to see in the darkness of the forests other black shapes that wavered fantastically and dreadfully under the flare and sputter of pine torches. at the middle of a long column, twisting like a huge snake along deserted roads, they were escorted into banishment. the other men in the house were held prisoners until dawn. then each, blindfolded and in custody of a separate squad, was taken to a point distant from his home--and liberated. the morning came with a crystal clarity and hills locked in a grip of ice, but the army whose marching song had startled sleeping cabins into wakefulness had dissolved as though its ghostly existence could not survive the light of day. yet behind that appearance and disappearance had been left an impression so profound that the life of the community would never again be precisely what it had been before. a new power had arisen, inexplicable and mysterious--but one that could no longer be ignored. with bated breath, around their hearth fires, the timorous and ignorant gossiped of witchcraft, and sparking swains were already singing to the accompaniment of banjo and "dulcimore" ballads of home-made minstrelsy, celebrating the unparalleled achievements of the young avenger of wrong-doings and his summary punishment of miscreants. they sang of the man who: "riz outen ther night with black specters at his back, ter ther numbers of scores upon scores, an' rid straightway ter ther dwellin' house of bad jim towers, who treemored es they battered down ther doors." more than one mountain girl bent forward listening with heightened pulses as the lad who had come "sweet-heartin'" her shrilled out his chorus. "so his debt fer thet evil jim towers hed ter pay, fer they driv him outen old kaintuck, afore ther break of day. all sich es follers burnin' down a pore man's happy home, will hev ter reck ther bear cat's wrath an' no more free ter roam." and perhaps as the lass listened, she wondered if her own home-spun cavalier might not be going straight from her door to one of those mysterious meetings where oath-bound men gathered in awful and spectral conclave. sometimes, too, it was not only a song but an actual sight as well, which made the flesh creep along the scalp. sometimes out of the distances came, first low and faint, then swelling into fulness that chorus of male voices along the breeze, and after it came the sight of a long serpent of light crawling the highways. through doors opened only to slits wondering eyes peered out into the blackness while that mysterious procession passed, seemingly an endless line of torches shining on black horsemen riding in single file. when the singing ended and the night-riders went in silence they were even more awe-inspiring and ghost-like than before--and, except by remembering that the man of the house was absent, no woman could guess who any member of the train might be, for they passed with hat brims bent low and black masks coming down to their black slickers, and even their horses were swathed in flowing coverings of the same inky disguise. they were torch-lit silhouettes riding the night, but when they passed, those who saw them knew that some task was being accomplished in which the law had failed and that somewhere black dread would deservedly strike. kinnard towers himself, racking his brain, took a less romantic view, but one of equal concern. "hit's done got beyond a hurtful pest now," he grumbled to black tom as the two of them sat over their pipes. "ther longer he goes on unchecked ther more an' more fools will flock ter him. he's gittin' ther _people_ behind him an' hit's a-spreadin' like hawg cholera amongst young shoats." "does ye 'low they're all stacys--or air thar some of our own kin mixed in with 'em?" queried tom anxiously, and because he, too, had been pondering that vexing question, the towers leader shook his head moodily. "thar hain't no possible way of tellin'. they seems ter possess a means of smellin' a man thet hain't genu-_wine_ly fer 'em an' sich-like kain't git inter no meetin's ter find out nothin'." he puffed out a cloud of smoke and sought to comfort himself with specious optimism. "i reckon folks is misled as ter numbers, though. a few folks ridin' in ther night-time with noise an' torches looks like a whole passel." "they acts like a whole passel, too," supplemented black tom, who had a blunt and unrelieved fashion of speaking his mind. "what does ye aim ter do erbout hit all?" the florid man brought his great fist down on the table and his bull-like neck swelled with anger. "i aims ter keep right on twell i gits this damned young night-rider hisself. ther minute he dies ther rest of hit'll fall in like a roof without no ridge-pole." he paused, then went on musingly: "i wouldn't be amazed none if fulkerson's gal knows whar he's at right frequent. i've done _dee_vised a means ter hev her lead somebody ter him some time when he's by hisself. ratler webb seed him walkin' alone in ther woods only yistiddy." "why didn't ratler git him then?" kinnard ground his teeth. "why don't none of 'em ever git him? he claims he hed a bad ca'tridge in his rifle-gun an' hit snapped on him. folks calls him bear cat an' hit 'pears like he's got nine lives in common with other cats. we've got ter keep right on till we puts an end ter all of em." black tom was so inconsiderate as to burst in a raucous laugh of ridicule. "hit usen't ter be so damn' hard ter kill one man," was his unfeeling comment. about that time kinnard's man-pack developed a strong disinclination to take bold chances of falling in with the black army of torches. they moved about their tasks with such constraint that their quarry had a correspondingly greater freedom and latitude. and moonshiners no longer boasted defiance, but dug in and became infinitely secretive. in spite of all these precautions, however, day after day saw new trophies hanging along way-side branches until there were few left to hunt out. one afternoon, walking alone through the woods, bear cat stacy stooped at the edge of a "spring branch" to quench his thirst, and as he knelt he saw floating past him yellow and broken grains of corn. cautiously and invisibly he followed the stream upward, worming himself along until he lay looking in upon the tiny plant of a typical illicit still. its fire was burning under the mash kettle and back far enough to escape the revealing light was a bark roofed, browse-thatched retreat in which sat an old man, reflectively smoking. as bear cat looked on, a startled surprise came into his expression and his face worked spasmodically as if in pain. he wished he might not have seen the floating evidence which had brought him here and confronted him with the hardest tug-of-war between sincerity and blood-loyalty that he had yet encountered. the man huddled there in his rabbit-warren retreat was old turner stacy, brother of bear cat's father and the uncle for whom he had himself been named. bear cat had not even suspected that this kinsman was operating such a plant. the elder turner stacy was a fierce and close-mouthed fellow whose affairs were confided to no one. bracing himself for an ordeal, bear cat emerged from his concealment and walked forward. at sight of an unannounced visitor the old man's hand went quickly out toward the rifle lying at his side, but as he recognized the face, he rose without it and stood silently glowering. "uncle turner," began the nephew seriously, "i hain't hardly willin' ter use fo'ce erginst ye--but ye knows what hit would sound like fer folks ter fling hit up erginst me thet i'm favorin' my own blood. i wants thet ye give me yore hand ter quit." for a moment the aged face worked with passion, its white beard bristling and its eyes flaming. "who do ye think ye air--god almighty?" came the angry question. "who give ye license ter come brow-beatin' yore elders? yore own paw's in jail now because somebody betrayed him.... i wonder war hit _you_!" the young man recoiled as though an unexpected blow in the face had stunned him. "my god," he exclaimed in a low voice, "i didn't never expect ter hear a kinsman charge me with sich infamy. i reckon i've got ter look over hit though. ye're my father's brother an' ye're right aged." he paused and then his voice changed to one crisp and peremptory. "i reckon ye knows i've got ther power ter compel ye as i've compelled others. does ye aim ter destroy thet thing yoreself,--now,--or does ye want thet i brings fo'ce?" there ensued a half hour of storm, but at its end the older stacy bowed to necessity. he, too, knew of the black army, and though he swore like a baffled pirate into his beard he capitulated. bear cat left a demolished place, carrying with him a fresh trophy, but he went with a heavy heart. it would have surprised him had he known that, left alone, his uncle's wrath had turned suddenly to amusement for some private joke of his own. as the old man watched the retreating figure he chuckled and mumbled to himself. "hit's right good fortune thet he came this week 'stid of next," he soliloquized as he refilled his pipe's bowl, still smiling. "i'm glad he didn't know i'd done ordered me a brand-new worm--an' thet hit's due ter get hyar right soon." as he puffed at the home grown tobacco, the elder turner stacy added: "i reckon, though, i'd better pick out a fresh spot afore i sets ther new one up." * * * * * since blossom had realized her neglect of turner's mother that day in the grave yard she had sought to make amends by many small attentions and frequent visits. one afternoon as she came into the house, she found mrs. stacy, who had been bed-ridden with a deep cold, dressing herself with weak and trembling hands. the girl's face became instantly stern. "i told ye not ter rise from yore bed ter-day," she began and the other woman dropped into a chair in pure feebleness. "i don't seem ter hev no stren'th lef' in me," she complained. "seems like i've got a thousand bones inside me--an' all on 'em achin'." "you must go back to bed, straightway. i'll brew ye somethin' hot an' kiver ye up, an' read ter ye twell ye goes ter sleep." but mrs. stacy responded with a short laugh that rasped bitterly. "turney air a hidin' out ter-night in thet small cavern whar ye tuck mr. henderson oncet. i've done carried him victuals over thar twict since he's been livin' like a varmint in the woods. i war jest makin' ready ter sot out ergin. ther riders hain't a-meetin' ter-night an' he's thar all by hisself." "whar's george kelly?" demanded blossom quickly, for she was to some degree initiated in the operating methods of turner and his followers. "he's done fared over inter virginny ter visit his wife. she's ailin'." "but i don't understand. what does turner need?" the mother trembled with a sudden access of the terror she had been fighting back. her voice rose shrilly and broke: "he needs ter be fore-warned. his enemies hev diskivered whar he's at--an' they aims ter trap him thar ter-night." the color went out of the girl's face as she questioned tensely. "how--how did ye hear tell of this?" "a leetle while back i heered a shout outside, an i riz' up an' went ter ther door. thar wasn't nobody in sight, but i found this hyar letter stuck thar with a pin. whosoever hit war thet left hit, hed done went away." she held out a clenched, talon-like hand and opened it, and on a small sheet of ruled paper, printed out unevenly, blossom read the anonymous message: "i can't be seen giving you this letter because i'm accounted to be kinnard's man. they knows where bear cat is hiding to-night and are planning according. git him warned straightway.--a friend." "thet's all i knows," moaned the mother, "but thar hain't nobody with him--an' he don't suspicion nothin'." the girl was already throwing her discarded shawl about her shoulders. "you go right back ter bed. i reckon ye kin trust me ter warn him." her eyes were full of warlike fire. "i kin go quicker then you, an' i won't pause till i've got thar an' told him." "ye'll fare right back again, won't ye?" quavered the sick woman. "an' fotch me tidin's--thet he got away safe." blossom had been a little stoop-shouldered of late with that carelessness of carriage that comes from grief, but now again she was lance-like in her straightness and vibrant with the determination of a valkyr. "i'll come back ter ye," she vowed and then she burst out: "i reckon this day i kin pay back some leetle part of ther debt i owes to turney. god knows he's done enough fer me!" she went over the steep path with the light fleetness of some wild thing--and of course she did not know that after her, unseen and silent as a shadow, followed a slouching figure, using her as a guide. she did not know either that, as she left the more traveled ways and turned abruptly into the thicketed forest, that figure was joined by two others, or that one of them, after a few whispered words, struck off to communicate with more distant members of the hidden pack. a wild haste drove her for she knew that turner trusted the secrecy of that cave, known, as he thought, only to his friends. every moment she could gain for him would mean a distance put between him and his peril. several times she paused just long enough to look about and assure herself that she was not being followed--and then went forward again, falsely reassured by the silence and seeming emptiness of the wintry woods. pantingly she came to the mouth of the cave. before it lay a small plateau, gashed across by a gulch that went down a sheer hundred feet and littered with piles of broken and gigantic rock. the opening to the grotto itself was tucked back between these great bowlders, and for that reason had remained so nearly undiscovered. just outside the fissure, she halted and gave the old signal of the owl's call. thrice she repeated it, and then as she stood with her hands pressed to her heart, she saw a face appear, and a moment later bear cat had thrust himself lengthwise out of the bottle neck, and stood at her side, his face glowing with surprised delight for her coming. "blossom!" he cried. "what brought ye?" and in his voice throbbed the rebirth of wild hope for the miracle which, he had told himself, would never come back into his life. but blossom laid a sobering hand on his arm and talked rapidly. "thar's dire need of haste an' little time fer speech. yore enemies know you're here an' ter-night they're comin' ter hem ye in--an slay ye. fer god's sake go--swiftly!" the man's face, which had softened into tenderness, stiffened. he gulped down his disappointment and said simply, "i'm obleeged ter ye, blossom," then went into the black cranny. the girl could see the dim glow of his electric torch flashing there, but as she waited she heard something from the other direction which made her heart miss its beat; the sound of furtively guarded voices somewhere in the litter of bowlders. instantly she, too, disappeared into the fissure. "they're hyar a'ready," she panted. "i've done come too late. thar hain't but ther one way out, neither, is thar?" for an instant turner stacy stood immovable, listening as his thumb slid back the hammer of his rifle. "thar hain't but one way _you_ kin go out," he told her--"ther same way ye come in." his face was grim and hurriedly he went on: "but hyar of late i diskivered a leetle hole jest big enough ter crawl through--way back at ther end of a small gulch. thar's a tree-top nigh by--but ye hes ter dive fer hit offen ther edge of ther clift--and trust god ter aid ye when ye seeks ter ketch hold of a limb. i reckon mebby i mout go out thet way--ef i war by myself." but blossom's eyes had lighted with a sudden hope. "ye've got ter try hit, then, turney," she declared staunchly. "take yore pistol an' leave me yore rifle. i'll make 'em think ye're still hyar fer a spell anyhow." "does ye reckon i'd go away an' leave ye hyar ter them wolves?" questioned the man scornfully, and with palms against his chest, as if she would push him bodily back to the one chance of escape, she spoke urgently: "in thet leetle hole thar, one gun kin hold back a whole mob an' ef ye gits away i reckon ye kin git some friends an' come back, kain't ye?" "ef i kin make pinnacle rock an' light a fire thar--i kin hev a score of men hyar in two hours' time--but two hours----" he broke off with a groan. "then do hit. i kin hold 'em back longer then thet. ef they does git in, i'll pretend ye jest left by ther backway. they won't harm me nowhow." he doubted that, but he knew that his staying meant ultimate death for both of them, and that once outside he had a chance to rally his forces for her rescue. for a little longer his reluctance to abandon her even temporarily held him in quandary, then realizing that it offered the only hope, he seized her fingers in a tight grasp and whispered: "farewell--then. god be with ye twell i gits back." he worked his way along a twisting passage hitherto known only to spiders and bats until at length he could see a yellow shred of westering sky through a narrow rent in the blackness. as he edged his body through the rift he heard a rifle shot reverberating brokenly through the twisting tunnels, followed by a dogged spatter of response--or was it only echo? he ground his teeth and poised himself precariously on a foothold, inches wide, and treacherously insecure. he measured the distance to a hickory branch that the wind rocked and between its support and himself was emptiness. the scaly bark of the limb for which he must leap was near the top of a tree whose roots were planted fifty feet lower. turner gathered his muscles into elastic readiness--and plunged outward. there was an instant of terrific uncertainty, then he swung pendulum-like, upon a support that sagged and gave under his weight as he hooked his knees about the branch and drank in a deep breath of thanksgiving. blossom, kneeling unseen and partly protected by a sandstone barricade, had been peering out at the broken gulches which were already filling with a dusky gray. she must keep those alley ways clear and there were two of them. a twilight depression gnawed at her heart. finally she saw a furtive and leering face thrust slowly and cautiously around the angle of stone. her pulses pounded, but her rifle was trained, and her hands unshaking. for the first time since henderson's murder, something like a thrill warmed her veins. now she could hit back and avenge and take a man's chance of death in doing it. then the man, bent on reconnaissance, ventured a forward step. he had not come quite far enough to see the opening itself though he knew that it must be hidden somewhere among those bowlders. he peered with lynx-like eagerness--ready to leap back if need be--and blossom pressed her trigger. without a groan the figure wilted down and lay in grotesque shapelessness between the rocks. the fusillade which came in response was random and ineffective, and the girl, nerved to battle, found the long and anxious silence which ensued a purgatory of suspense. at the end she knew they would attempt to overwhelm defense in a charge and the passing minutes ate like decay into the tissue of her courage. then what she dreaded came. they were making a rush through both alleys at once. if they succeeded in crossing the twenty feet of open danger, they could spread out on each side of the cave's mouth, themselves safe by reason of the angle, and seal the place up like a tomb. yet the first assault broke into demoralized flight under her fierce welcome of fire and two other assailants fell wounded. once more soundless minutes dragged by in interminable suspense--then as the second charge was launched, blossom's rifle jammed its mechanism and became dead in her hands. she threw it down and ran toward the passage at the back. as it narrowed until she had to go on hands and knees, she heard voices inside the cave--and then for the first time her nerves snapped and she fainted. chapter xxv when the curtain of unconsciousness rolled up again blossom was no longer in the cave, but was lying on the ground between the rocks outside. it was dark now, but a lantern was lighted near at hand, and her wrists and ankles ached with the bite of knotted ropes. although she could see no one, she had the distinct sense of eyes gazing at her from somewhere beyond the narrow circle of light and as she stirred uneasily, she heard a voice that seemed to come from behind the sandstone at her right. "she's done come ter herself. now we've need ter hasten." then from her left a sugar-loaf bowlder appeared to question her. "whar did he go to? you knows an' we knows ye know--an' we don't aim ter be trifled with neither. ef ye speaks out honest an' ready, we'll go an' git him fust an' then come back an' sot ye free afterwards." blossom writhed with a realization that she was in the hands of creatures as savagely merciless as wolves, but she set her teeth. "i hain't never a-goin' ter tell ye," she declared staunchly, "not ef ye kills me!" a satirical laugh drifted from the shadows. "all right, then, we've done made provision fer thet, too. ef ye won't tell us whar he's at we'll find out fer ourselves, but we aims ter leave one man hyar with ye when we goes. he's done been drinkin' right-smart licker--an' he natch'rally won't want ye ter go away an' tell his name ter nobody." the unseen speaker paused significantly, then added with a deliberate brutality: "i reckon ye'll have ter be mighty sweet ter thet man ef ye hopes ter go away from hyar alive." the girl lay blanched but unyielding. she did not dare to hope that the threat was empty and her single chance lay in parrying for time. bear cat had said he would come back with reinforcements in two hours--if he won through--but he, too, was facing desperate odds and already they might have overwhelmed him: he might have failed in his dive from precipice to tree-top. her heart sank into a nausea of terror. no outrage was beyond these human jackals, but she was bred to iron courage and the warlike blood in her veins welled up in defiance. "i've done already give ye my answer," she retorted, forgetting her ideals of diction. "i don't aim ter alter hit none--damn ye!" "we aims ter be plumb fa'r an' reasonable," wheedled the voice of the spokesman with an evil sneer. "deespite yore contrary muleishness, we're goin' ter tarry hyar jest precisely five minutes by ther watch ter afford ye a chanst ter study ther matter over, but don't make no mistake. we means, in sum an' substance, jest what we says ... most anythin's liable ter happen ter ye when we goes away." blossom's pulses pounded so furiously that her sanity reeled through a thousand nightmare tortures before she heard the detestable voice once more drawling, "wa'al, time's up. ef ye fo'ces us now, hit's jest plain suicide--thet's all." after that, for a while, she remembered nothing save the delusion that she was drowning--sinking down and still more deeply down through eternities. her next definite impression came when she found herself inside the cave, with her head resting against the muddied knees of a man who sat cross-legged on the ground. at the mouth of the grotto was a lantern with its dimming shield turned outward so that, inside, its light fell in a grotesque effect of ragged formlessness. as she stirred into returning consciousness, the creature who was cradling her aching head on his marrow-bones, took down the tin cup which just then obscured his face. blossom recognized ratler webb and the breath stopped in her tightened throat. the degenerate face was unshaven and bristling. its blood-shot eyes smirked at her with the brutalized leer of a satyr. the man bent over a little and with grimy fingers fondled the hair on her neck and temples. "jest tek yore time, sweetheart," he said. "don't hasten ter rouse yoreself up. we've got ther night afore us." as the girl flinched and struggled away from the beast-light of those predatory eyes, her captor only clasped her the closer so that his alcoholic breath came sickeningly close to her face. he chuckled thickly as he added, "i reckon i kin allow ye a leetle time--because we're beholden ter ye. we didn't hev no notion whar yore beau war a-hidin' at twell we left thet note over thar. then ye led us straight ter ther place." * * * * * turner stacy had clambered and slid precariously down the hickory tree without greater mishap than raw and bleeding hands. once more on the ground, he ran like a madman, bending low in the timber. the signal fire which he meant to build on the bald crest of pinnacle rock, would send out a flare visible to three states. already he was twenty-five hundred feet above sea-level, but there remained a climb of almost a thousand more, and he was taking the direct and well-nigh perpendicular route. breathless, panting, vaulting from rock to rock; gripping, on faith, root and sapling, he climbed the steep stairway--where sometimes the earth shelved away underfoot--and he clutched wildly out for fresh support. once there, with a fire blazing, he would have twenty or more of his nearest adherents riding to the rescue. they would rally on the highway just below the signal fire itself and there seek instructions--or signs. fortunately for the present need, the night-riders had developed a mysterious but thorough system of communication. their code of signals embraced a series of crude emblems, which to the initiated designated the zone into which they were called for action. with frenzied haste bear cat laid and lighted his fire on the bald summit--pausing only long enough to see its red glare leaping upward. then he plunged downward again. along the highroad, which, for a little way, he followed boldly, he placed peeled twigs bent into circles at various conspicuous places, knowing that those who were to come would read from them the course to follow. after that he disappeared into the thickets again and traveled swiftly. twice, as he hurried, soft-footed, through the woods he halted and threw himself flat while members of the pursuing party well-nigh ran over him. but eventually he reached a litter of giant rocks that stood like undisciplined sentinels guarding the cave's entrance. then he stopped and listened, and when he heard no sound he crept forward obsessed with apprehension. he could not escape the feeling that this seeming of calm was dangerously deceptive. finally as he lay flattened and listening with all his faculties razor-edged, he heard something that electrified him--a woman's scream. clawing out his pistol, he threw all caution to the winds and raced for the entrance of the cave, and as he went he heard it again, now sharp and terrified, and he recognized blossom's voice. in his haste it did not even occur to him to feel surprised that no rifles greeted him. an exaltation of wrath intoxicated him with superlative confidence. he could meet and overcome a host of enemies! his voice rose in berserker frenzy. "i'm a-comin', blossom! i'm a-comin'!" * * * * * for perhaps three-quarters of an hour after blossom had recovered consciousness the second time, it had pleased her captor to sit across the narrow way from her, gloating with a bestial satisfaction over her helplessness, while he poured white stuff from bottle to tin cup. despite the advantages of his position, ratler had thoughts which were disconcerting. at his hands lay the final opportunity to glut his long-starved hunger for revenge: to glut it fully and in a fashion of beastly brutality, and for that he had waited with a singleness of thought and purpose. but behind him to-night he must leave no witness, and as he approached his task, he found that his nerves needed the steadying of strong drink--and yet more strong drink. out of the flask he was not only drawing appeasement of thirst, but fuel for determination. for a while he had even dozed while the girl, bound hand and foot, had shudderingly watched his dissolute and depraved face. then at the end he had risen, stretched his long arms and sauntered insolently over, looking down while he phrased repulsive compliments to her beauty. tiring eventually of his cat-and-mouse deliberateness, ratler leaned down and, putting his arm about her waist, drew her up to him. then it was that with all the revulsion that was in her she had screamed not once but until his hand had choked off her breath--and at that instant she had heard the shout from beyond the cave's entrance. webb heard it, too, and hurled the woman away from him, suddenly brought back to something nearer sobriety by the shock. he wheeled and trained his pistol on the entrance. he had laid aside his rifle and there was no time now to hunt for it. bear cat would have to stoop and edge his way into the place and in the process he could be easily dispatched. but while he waited ratler's knees shook and when, instead of crawling, he saw a shape dive almost horizontally through the aperture his courage evaporated. the lantern was badly placed and it confused the man inside because it darkened the opening while it left him in plain sight. ratler's revolver was spitting venomously but ineffectually. his hand was unsteady and his eye confused. the drunkard was reeling as he fought and after a dazed moment he felt himself caught in a bone-breaking embrace while the butt of a pistol hammered the consciousness out of his skull. turner stacy was a wild man now. he stumbled blindly out of the cave dragging a limp figure behind him, and when he straightened up again and wiped his sweat-streaming face he had hurled the thing bodily outward, where the ravine dropped down a hundred feet. he came back, palsied and shaken, and as he bent over the girl and cut away her bonds, his voice struggled through dry sobs. "blossom," he pleaded brokenly, "blossom, tell me ye're only affrighted. tell me thet ye didn't come ter no harm--fer my sake." "i hain't hurt--turney," she managed to whisper. "ye came back--in time--jest barely in time." she stood leaning weakly against the rock wall with her hands pressed tightly to her face. the man stood, panting with excitement and exertion, but into his pupils came a sudden light of hope. "blossom," he whispered huskily, "blossom--ye didn't ... come over ... hyar ... because ye ... because ye keered fer me, did ye?" she took her hands away from her temples and looked at him with a white face, and in the unhappy honesty of her eyes the man read his answer. it was as if she had said, "my heart lies over there in _his_ grave," and slowly, gravely turner nodded his head. his face had gone gray, but through its misery it held a stamp of gentleness. "i understands ye," he said simply. "i won't never pester ye no more." then as some note of alarm came to his ears he wheeled, all alertness again and his hand was once more gripping his pistol. "i've only got three ca'tridges left," he said to himself. "hit's nip an' tuck now which git hyar fust." as he reached the mouth of the cave a shout came out of the darkness. "ratler, air ye in thar?" and out into the night went the defiant response. "no, ratler hain't hyar, but bear cat stacy's hyar. come on an' git me ef ye wants me." there was a silence after that, which he knew meant a parley. as he knelt waiting he felt a hand on his shoulder and with eyes still searching the ominous darkness he spoke low, in a trained effort at self-control: "blossom, hit looks like we're trapped. ye came inter this peril in an effort ter save me--an' i fears hit's goin' ter be hopeless. i hain't got but three ca'tridges left." "save one of 'em, turney," she said without a tremor in her voice. "shoot twice ef ye wants ter do hit--an' then give ther pistol ter me. i kain't bear ter fall inter their hands again." then as they counted the seconds they heard another sound. from across the nearer crests lusty voices, raised in unison, were chanting. turner even fancied he could distinguish the familiar words, "mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the lord." there was a clatter of gravel under dispersing footsteps and a low wake of frightened oaths--and the night had taken the attacking party to itself. * * * * * the stacys had pressing topics to discuss. the activities of their young kinsman were no longer a matter of theory but a condition, and their clan attitude toward him must be determined. was he to be regarded as a renegade or as one still entitled to recognition? at the house of joe stacy on a cold winter day a dozen of the elders gathered to discuss this matter. "bear cat's done cast off all regards fer fam'ly loyalty," cried out a turbulent spirit whose eyes and voice bespoke fellowship with the jug. "he's makin' war on everything we've ever stood fer. thet damned furriner bewitched him, i reckon. he's jest rampagin' round with a passel of wuthless stacys and towerses alike, destroyin' propitty. he's stirrin' up ther cast-offs an' woods-colts of both factions an' he hain't nuthin' more ner less then a damn' traitor." but joe stacy, steadier of balance, thrust himself into the discussion. "thet hain't no fa'r ner rightful statement," he said slowly with the weight of thoughtful force. "thar's some amongst us thet don't hold with bear cat an' some thet does--but he hain't no traitor. he told us out-spoken what he aimed ter do afore he commenced doin' hit, an' thet needed courage. myself, i thinks he's a man with a vision, an' afore we casts him out i aims ter be heered." there was a hum of discussion and while it was at its height, the elder turner stacy burst tempestuously into the midst of the gathering. the old man shook with rage and his voice quavered. "by god," he roared, "thet boy's plumb crazed. he's got ter be handled--an' checked. i suffered him ter bust up my old still 'cause i knowed ther new one was a-comin', but now he's busted up ther new one, too. hit war a beautiful piece of copper--an' right hard ter smuggle in." the group of elders regarded the old blockader with varying emotions, as he stood glaring with an ember-like ferocity which he genuinely believed to be righteous indignation. but joe stacy, his own brother, permitted his shrewd eyes to twinkle as he laid a calming hand on the anger-palsied shoulder of the new arrival. "wa'al now, turner," he suggested dryly, "by yore own showin' ye lied ter ther boy an' consented ter quit stillin'. hit's right sensibly like these-hyar other outrages thet's done been reported. he hain't nuver interfered with no man's _lawful_ business yit--an' albeit i don't know who ther fellers air thet rides with him by night, i kin discarn right well by thar way they does things thet thar hain't no licker-befuddled folks amongst 'em." suddenly the speaker's voice rose. "an', by god, i knows another thing besides thet! i knows thet some fellers roundabout, thet used ter be red-eyed an' sullen-visaged, kin look a man straight in ther face ter-day, clear-sighted an' high-headed. i've got a notion thet ye kin jest erbout identify these-hyar outlaws by ther way they carries thar chins high." "what law air thar fer a man ter sot out compellin' other men ter adopt his notions, i wants ter know?" came the fierce demand, and joe stacy smiled. "thet's a fa'r question," he admitted, "an' i'll meet hit with an answer ther minit' ye tells me what law thar air fer blockadin'." * * * * * one morning bear cat was coming along the road when he heard voices beyond the bend, and turned into the brush. looking out, he saw such a strange procession that he emerged again. a man whose back was stooped, and whose face wore a dull stamp of hopelessness, trudged along, carrying a bundle over his shoulder and a dilapidated carpet-bag in one hand. behind him trailed three small children, the largest two also staggering under rough bundles. "whar be ye a-goin', matthew blakey?" hailed stacy, and the man halted. he opened a mouth well-nigh toothless, though he was yet young, and replied in a tone of deep depression. "i'm farin' over ter thet new school, with fotched-on teachers in fletcher county. i aims ter ask 'em ter take in these-hyar chil'len." "hain't ye goin' ter house 'em an' tend 'em no longer yore own self?" was the somewhat stern interrogation, and the man's pale blue eyes filled suddenly with a suspicion of tears. "since thar mother died three y'ars back, i've done sewed an' washed all thar clothes my own self--an' gone out inter ther field an' wucked for 'em," he said humbly. "i've done raised 'em es right es i knows, but i kain't do what i ought fer 'em. when i has ter leave 'em i kain't holp but study, s'pose ther house war ter ketch fire? they're all sleepy-headed leetle shavers." "why don't ye git married again?" the voice shook a little. "young 'uns oughtn't ter hev but just one mammy--an' i couldn't nuver be content with no other woman." he paused. "hit's forty mile ter thet school, an' mebby they're full up--but i've done been over thar an' seed hit." the weary eyes lighted. "god knows i nuver 'lowed thet thar _war_ sich fine places ter raise chil'len to'rds humanity an' l'arn 'em all manner of wisdom!" "all right, go on over thar, matthew," said bear cat in a matter-of-fact voice, but in his own pupils gleamed a soft light, "an' when ye come back jine with me. i'm seekin' ter bring hit erbout thet we kin hev a school like thet over hyar--whar yore children wouldn't be so far away." the father stood twisting his broganed toe in the mud. "i heers thet ye don't tolerate licker, bear cat," he said sheepishly. "hit hain't nuver made me mean ner nuthin' like thet--but since my woman died i've done tuck ter drinkin' hit--i misdoubts ef i could plumb stop." bear cat stacy smiled. "ter-morrer drink half what ye've been usin' an' next day cut thet down a leetle. anyhow come an' hev speech with me." matthew nodded and turner watched the little procession trail out of sight behind the gray screen of the timber-line. "all sore-eyed, an' all sickly," he commented under his breath. "not one of 'em gittin' a chanst ter grow straight! mebby over thar, they will, though." chapter xxvi "take a cheer an' sit down, an' light a pipe--unless ye've got a cigar." the invitation came from the honorable william renshaw, circuit judge, seated in the same small chamber adjoining the court-room in marlin town, from which kinnard towers had issued orders on that afternoon of big-meetin' time. "co'te don't meet till two o'clock--an' i'm always glad to have the chance to chat with distinguished counsel from down below--i don't get down thar oftentimes myself." the man to whom judge renshaw spoke seemed conspicuously out of his own environment in this musty place of unwashed windows, cob-webbed walls and cracking plaster. his dress bespoke the skill of a good tailor and his fingers were manicured. he drew out a cigar case and proffered a perfecto to his honor, then deliberately snipped the end from his own. evidently he had something embarrassing to say. "judge," he began briefly, "i've been here now for upwards of a week, trying to get this business under way. you know what the results have been--or rather have not been. i've encountered total failure." "hasn't the prosecutin' attorney afforded you every facility, mr. sidney?" the inquiry was put in a tone of the utmost solicitude. "that's not the difficulty," objected the visiting lawyer. "mr. hurlburt has shown me every courtesy--in precisely the way you have. your instructions to the grand jurors were admirable. the prosecutor consented at once that i should participate in getting the evidence before them, and in assisting him to punish the guilty when indicted. it is now february. jerry henderson was murdered before the first snow flew. those subpoenas which we have sent out have for the most part come back--unserved. what witnesses we have secured might as well be mutes. the thing is inexplicable. surely the judge can do something to energize the machinery of his court out of utter lethargy. i appeal to you, sir. we all know that henderson was murdered ... we all suspect who had it done, yet we make no progress." judge renshaw nodded his head affirmatively. "it looks right considerably that way." then seeing the impatient expression on the other face, he spoke again--in a different voice, leaning forward. "mr. sidney, i reckon i know what's in your mind. you're thinkin' that both me and the prosecutin' attorney ain't much better than tools of kinnard towers.... maybe there's a grain of truth in it. i'm judge of a district that takes in several county seats and i ride the circuit. before i was elected to the bench i was a backwoods lawyer that sometimes knew the pinch of hunger. you say kinnard towers is dishonest--and worse. if i said it, i _might_ hold office till the next election--but more likely i wouldn't live that long." as the notable attorney from the city sought to disarm his smile of its satirical barb, the other proceeded: "that strikes you as a thing that's exaggerated--and a thing that a man ought to be ashamed to admit even if it was true. all right. do you know that when you took the henderson matter to the grand jury, nine men on the panel sought to be excused from service in fear of their lives? do you know that on every day they did serve all twelve got anonymous letters threatenin' them with death? they know it anyhow--and you see they haven't brought in any true bills an' i predict that no matter what evidence you put before them--they won't." "why were those letters not presented to the court? you have power to protect your panels with every company of militia in the state if need be." "so i told 'em." the reply was laconic, and it was supplemented in a slow drawl. "but you see they've known militia protection before--and that guarantee didn't satisfy them. they figure that the soldiers go away after awhile--but there's other forces that stay on all the time--and those other forces can wait months or years without forgetting or forgiving." "and this terrorization paralyzes your courts of justice?" "well, no. it lets 'em run along in a fashion--as you've seen." mr. sidney strove to repress his choler, but his manner was icy as he remarked: "that's a strange utterance for a judge on the bench." "is it?" renshaw's quiet eyes showed just a glint of repressed anger. "doesn't it work the same way in your district--or materially the same? are your judges free from the coercion of strong interests? are your jurors all willing to die for their duty?" after a brief silence he added: "why, mr. sidney, you came here yourself ostensibly in the interest of friends and relatives who were unwilling to let this murder go 'unwhipped of justice'--them were your words. yet we all know that you're the chief lawyer for a railroad that hasn't ever been famed for altruism." the visitor flushed. "while you were working up this evidence," inquired his honor, "did you go out and try to talk to bear cat stacy?" "certainly not. he's an outlaw--whom your deputies failed to bring in when i had a subpoena issued. my life wouldn't be worth tuppence if i tried to get to him." judge renshaw smiled somewhat grimly. "yes, they call him an outlaw--but he swings a power right now that this high court doesn't pretend to have. he's the one man that kinnard fears--and maybe he'd help you if the two of you could get together." "a lawyer should not have to be his own process-server," was the retort of offended dignity. "no--neither ought a judge." renshaw took the cigar from his mouth and studied it. then he spoke slowly: "mr. sidney, there's nothing further i can do, but--put it on whatever ground you like--i'll make a suggestion. i'm beginning to doubt if kinnard towers is going to remain supreme here much longer. i think his power is on the wane. if you will make a motion to swear me off the bench for the duration of these proceedin's--and can persuade the governor to send a special judge and prosecutor here--i'll gladly vacate. then you can bring your soldier boys and see what that will effect. that's the best satisfaction i can give you--but if i were you, since you have no patience with men that consider personal risks--i'd talk with this stacy first. of course, kinnard towers won't like that." mr. sidney rose, piqued at the suggestion of timidity, into a sudden announcement. "very well," he said, "i'll ride over there to little slippery to-night--to hell with this bugaboo towers!" "if i lived as far away as you do," suggested the judge, "i might allow myself to say, amen to that sentiment." mr. sidney did not, in point of fact, go that night, but he did a few days later. had he known it, he was safe enough. kinnard towers had no wish just then to hurl a challenge into the teeth of the whole state by harming a distinguished member of the metropolitan bar, but before george sidney started out, the quarterhouse leader had knowledge of his mission, and surmised that he would be sheltered at the house of joel fulkerson. when the lawyer arrived the old preacher was standing by the gate of his yard with a letter in his hand, that had arrived a little while before. it was from an anonymous writer and its message was this: "if you aid the lawyer from louisville, in any fashion whatsoever, or take him into your house, it will cost you your life." brother fulkerson had been wondering whether to confide to any one the receipt of that threat. heretofore factional bitterness had always passed him by. now he decided to dismiss the matter without alarming his friends with its mention. as he strode forward to welcome the stranger, he absently tore the crumpled sheet of paper to bits and consigned it to the winds. "i am george sidney," announced the man who was sliding from his saddle, stiff-limbed from a long ride. "i'm trying to effect the punishment of your son-in-law's murder, and i've come to your house." "ye're welcome," said the evangelist simply, and there was no riffle of visible misgiving in his eyes. "come right in an' set ye a cheer." two days later mr. sidney rode away again, but in an altered frame of mind. he had met bear cat stacy and was disposed to talk less slightingly of outlaws. he had even seen a thing that had made the flesh creep on his scalp and given to his pulses such a wild thrill as they had not known since boyhood. he had watched a long line of black horsemen, masked and riding single-file with flambeaux along a narrow road between encompassing shadows. he had heard the next day of a "blind tiger" raided, and of an undesirable citizen who had been sentenced to exile--though related by blood ties to the leader of the vigilance committee. it was sitting in the lounging-room of his louisville club a week later that he unfolded his morning paper and read the following item--and the paper dropped from his hand which had become suddenly nerveless. "joel fulkerson," he read, after the first shock of the head-lines, "a mountain evangelist, whose work had brought him into prominence even beyond the hills of marlin county, was shot to death yesterday while riding on a mission of mercy through a thickly wooded territory. since, even in the bitterest feud days, fulkerson was regarded as the friend of all men and all factions, it is presumed that the unknown assassin mistook him for some one other than himself." george sidney took an early train to frankfort, and that same day sat in conference with the governor. "it's a strange story," said the chief executive at length, "and the remedy you suggest is even stranger--but this far i will go. if you swear renshaw off the bench, i will name a temporary judge and set a special term of court, to convene at once. the rest comes later, and we will take it up as we reach it." * * * * * once more, just after that, bear cat stacy stood again with blossom by a new-made grave, but this time he came openly. those kinsmen who saw him there were of one mind, and had he spoken the word, they would have followed him through blood to vengeance. but stacy, with the hardest effort of his life, held them in check. it would mar the peaceful sleep of that gentle soul whom they were laying to rest, he thought, to punish bloody violence with other bloody violence--and in his mind a more effective plan was incubating. all that he would tell the grim men who met in conclave that night, ready to don their masks and fare forth, was that this was, above all others, an occasion for biding their time. "but i pledges ye faithful," he declared in a voice that shook with solemn feeling, "ye won't hev need ter grow wearied with waitin'...." no towers watchmen came in these days to turner's house. they contented themselves with keeping a vindictive vigil along the creeks and tributaries where they were numerically stronger. each day turner came to watch over blossom with the quiet fidelity of a great dog. there was little enough that he could do, but he came and looked at her with hungry eyes out of a hungry heart, speaking no word of his own love, but listening as she talked of her father. he sought in a hundred small ways to divert her thoughts from the grim thing that had twice scarred her life and taken the light out of her eyes. as he trudged back to his house, where he had again taken up his residence, after these visits, he walked with a set jaw and registered oaths of reprisal to take a form new to the hills. as the days passed it was reported that on the motion of the commonwealth, alleging bias and prejudice, judge renshaw had vacated the bench, and that the governor had named a pro-tem. successor from another district--and called a special term of court, to sit at marlin town. kinnard towers heard that news with a smile of derision. "let 'em bring on thar jedges an' soldiers," he said complacently. "ther law still fo'ces 'em ter put native names in ther jury wheel an' i reckon no grand jury thet dwells hyar-abouts won't hardly indict me ner no petty jury convict me." so it was something of a shock to his confidence when he heard that he, black tom carmichael and sam carlyle had been indicted for conspiracy to commit murder. even that he regarded as merely an annoyance, for as one of the grand jurors had hastened to assure him: "hit war jest a sort of a formality, kinnard. we knowed ther little jury would cl'ar you-all an' hit looked more legal-like ter let hit come up fer trial." but the bringing of those indictments was really a tribute to the dawning power of kinnard's enemies. the thing was intended as a compromise by which the grand jury should satisfy the stacys and the petit jury should mollify towers by acquitting him later. kinnard knew that sam carlyle had gone to oklahoma, and that without him any prosecution must fail--but he did not know that the prosecution had already located him there and taken steps to extradite him. then one day, bear cat received a summons by mail to meet george sidney in frankfort, and since secrecy was the essence of the plan they had already discussed in embryo, he went in a roundabout way through virginia and came back into kentucky at hagen. he was absent for a week and toward its end he found himself, under the escort of the louisville lawyer, standing in the private office of the chief executive himself. turner had never seen a city before. he had never met a man of such consequence, but the governor himself brought to the interview a dignity no more unabashed. "this is the young man of whom i spoke, governor," said sidney. "he has given his community the nearest approach it has known to placing sobriety and humanity above lawlessness. there are two men down there who run things. towers owns the courts and--maintains feudalism. this young man heads an organization of night-riders--and challenges towers. it's the young against the old: the modern spirit against the ancient habit." the governor subjected bear cat stacy to an inquisitorial scrutiny--which was met with a glance as undeviating. "i am told that it has been impossible in your country," he began, "to enforce the attendance of witnesses and even of defendants at court. i am also told that you believe you can alter this." turner nodded gravely. "i kin fetch 'em in--dead or alive," he said with bold directness. "all i needs air ter be told who ter git." "dead witnesses," remarked the chief executive, "are very little use to any tribunal. if these men are your avowed enemies and in your power, why have you held your hand?" bear cat flushed and though he spoke quietly there was the bell-like ring of ardor in his voice. "my power hain't ther law," he said. "i aims fer sich betterment as kain't come save by law: a betterment that kin last when i'm dead an' gone." "this is the case, governor," interposed the lawyer. "the courts there are a bitter jest. kinnard towers operates a stronghold which is a pest-spot and breeding-nest of crime and debauchery. there is one agency only that can drag him out of it. that agency this man represents--and heads." "then if you are sent out, during this session of court," inquired the executive, "you agree to bring in whatever men are called to attendance?" "dead or alive--yes," reiterated stacy with inflexible persistency. "unfortunately," smiled the great man, "the legislature, in its wisdom, has vested in me no power to instruct any citizen to deprive other citizens, however undesirable, of their lives. whoever undertakes such an enterprise must do so on his own responsibility--and, despite the worthiness of his motive, he faces a strong chance of the death penalty." there was a brief pause, as the lawyer and his protegé rose to depart, and the governor shook bear cat's hand. "you are a picturesque person, mr. stacy. i hope to hear more of you." then as a quizzical twinkle wrinkled the corner of his eyes he added: "i almost think it is a pity that i have no power to authorize your wading in free-handed--but it's not within my official scope." bear cat was standing straight and looking with searching gravity into the face of the governor. there seemed an odd variance between the words and the spirit back of the words, and then he saw the tall man with the distinguished face engage his glance with something intangibly subtle--and he saw one dignified eye deliberately close leaving its mate open. the governor of the commonwealth had winked at him--and he understood the perplexing variance between words and spirit. outside, in a corridor of the state building, bear cat laid a hand on sidney's arm. "when ther time comes," he said shortly, "i'll be ready. i wants thet ye should hev hit give out in marlin town, thet ye sought ter persuade me, but that i wouldn't hev nuthin' more ter do with aidin' state co'tes then i would with revenuers." and that was the message that percolated through the hills. when turner returned home he went first to blossom's cabin, his heart full of thoughts of her and sympathy for her loneliness. old days there swarmed into memory, and just to see her, even now that he counted for so little, meant a great deal to him. but in the road, at first sight of the house, he halted in astonishment--for the chimney was smokeless--and when he hurried forward his dismay grew into something like panic as he found the windows blankly shuttered and the door nailed up. hastening to his own house, he demanded in a strained voice of fright. "whar air she, maw? whar's blossom at?" the old woman rose and took from the mantel-shelf a folded sheet of paper which she handed him without a word of explanation, and with shaking fingers he opened and read it. "dear turney," she said, and her round chirography had run wild as weeds with the disturbed mood of that composition, "i can't bear it here any longer. i'm going away--for always. jerry left a little money and the lawyers have paid it to me. it's not much, but it's enough. these mountains are beautiful--but they are full of misery--and memories that haunt me day and night. you have been more than good to me and i'll always pray for you. i don't know yet where i'll go. with love, blossom." turner sagged into a chair by the hearth-stone and the paper dropped from his inert fingers. his face became very drawn and he silently licked lips which burned with a dry feverishness. * * * * * the special session of court convened in marlin town with a quiet that lacked any tang of genuine interest. these fiascos had come before and passed without result. since bear cat stacy had permitted it to be understood that he would hold aloof, no strength would challenge the sway of kinnard towers, save a "fotched on" judge and a few white-faced lawyers who wore stiff collars. they had not even brought tin soldiers this time nor dignified the occasion with a gatling gun. towers himself remained comfortably at the quarterhouse, and if he had about him a small army of men its protection of rifle-muzzles pointed toward little slippery rather than marlin town. a posse would come, of course, since even his own courts must follow the forms and pretenses of the statutes made and provided, but their coming, too, would be a formality. outside a late winter storm had turned into a blizzard and though he did not often spend his evenings at the bar, kinnard was to-night leaning with his elbow on its high counter. his blond face was suave and his manner full of friendliness, because men who were anxious to display their solicitude were coming in to denounce the farce of the trial inagurated by "furriners" and to proclaim their sympathy. it was all incense to his undiminished dominance, thought towers, and it pleased him to meet such amenities with graciousness. "any time now--any time at all," he laughed, "them turrible deputy sheriffs air liable ter come bustin' through thet door, and drag me off ter ther jail-house." as he uttered this pleasantry, the assembled cohorts shouted their laughter. it was as diverting as to hear a battle-scarred tom-cat express panic over a mouse. "howsoever, i hain't a shettin' no doors. they all stands open," added kinnard. then, even as he spoke, the telephone jangled. it was a neighborhood wire which connected only a few houses in a narrow radius, but the voice that sounded through the receiver was excited. the proprietor of the lawless stronghold listened and made some unruffled reply, then turned to his audience a smiling face on which was written amusement. "well, boys," he genially inquired, "what did i tell ye? thar's a scant handful of deputy sheriffs a-ridin' over hyar right now. they're within a measured mile of this place at ther present minute." a low hum of voices rose in apprehensive notes, but kinnard lifted his hand. "you men needn't feel no oneasiness, i don't reckon," he assured them. "they hain't got nothin' erginst ther balance of ye. hit's jest me they aims ter drag off ter ther calaboose--an' es i said afore, i'm leavin' my doors wide open." as an indication of his confidence he ordered his bartender to fill all glasses, and beamed benignly on the recipients of his hospitality, while he awaited the minions of the law. "they hed ought ter be hyar by now, them turrible fellers," he suggested at length, and as if in answer to his speech a sound of heavy steps sounded just outside the door. a small posse stamped into the room, and the excellent jest of the entire situation became more pointed as men noted with what a shamefaced bearing they presented themselves. "kinnard," began the chief-deputy in an embarrassment which almost choked him, "i've got ter put ye under arrest. you an' tom carmichael thar, both. ye're charged with murder." the crowd wanted to laugh again, but because of their curiosity they desisted. towers himself stepped back two paces. "gentlemen," he said blandly, "ye'll hev ter git papers fust from ther governor of virginny." he swept his hand toward the white line on the floor. "ye hain't hardly got no license ter foller me outen old kaintuck. thar's ther leetle matter of a state line lyin' atween us." they had all known that towers would handle the situation with a triumph of resource, and a subdued murmur of applause and adulation rose from many bewhiskered lips, as the posse withdrew slowly to the threshold over which it had entered. then they became deadly quiet, for a voice had spoken from the virginia door. "hold on!" they wheeled and saw a single figure there, unarmed, and hands began going to holsters. "virginny and kaintuck looks right-smart alike ter me," said bear cat stacy with the level voice of one who has long waited his moment and finds it at hand. "will ye all lay down yore arms, and surrender ther men we wants--or will ye stand siege an' have this pest-house burnt down over yore heads? i'll wait outside for an answer." the amazement of the moment had held them gripped in tableau as he spoke, but when he stepped swiftly back, a dozen pistols spat and barked at him, and then, louder than the firing, they heard a circle of song--compassing the stockaded building on all sides--a giant chorus that swelled in the frosty air: "mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the lord." kinnard towers' self-assurance fell away from him. his hand was unsteady as he raised it and said huskily; "boys, we needs must fight." chapter xxvii the volume of the singing out there and the flare of the ruddy torches, left no doubt as to the substantial strength of the force which had swept aside such legal technicalities as state jurisdiction. when bear cat had trusted himself so recklessly on the threshold while the opposite door still stood open, the spectral figures with masked faces could have streamed in, wave on wave, to smother out any up-flaming spirit of resistance, but in doing that there would have been hand-to-hand conflict, in which the innocent must pay as heavy and ultimate a penalty as the guilty. so turner had withdrawn, and permitted the barring of the doors--though he knew that the structure had the solid strength of square-sawed oak and that the besieged scores were fully armed. now from the outside he hammered on the massive panels with a rifle butt. "ef ye wants ter send a man out hyar ter parley with me," he shouted through the heavy barrier, "i gives ye my pledge that he kin go back safe. ef ye don't see fit ter do thet, we've got ter believe thet ye're all one stripe, resistin' arrest, and we aims ter set this hell-house ter ther torch." "let me have five minutes ter study erbout hit," towers gave answer, then he turned to the men inside. "go upsta'rs, tom," he directed swiftly, "an' look out. let me know how many thar seems ter be of 'em." carmichael, peering out of dark windows above, saw against the snow, innumerable sable figures bulking formidably in the red flare of blazing pine fagots. other torches burned with a menacing assurance of power beyond them along the road, and far up the distant slopes glittered reinforcements of scattered tongues of flame. the figures nearest at hand stood steady with an ominous and spectral stillness, and their ghostliness was enhanced by the fitful torch-light in which the whole picture leaped and subsided with a phantom uncertainty of line and mass. black tom came back and shook his head. "hit hain't no manner of use," he announced. "we mout es well give up. i reckon we kin still come cl'ar in co'te." but the old lion, whose jaws and fangs had always proved strong enough to crush, was of no mind to be caged now. "come cl'ar! hell's blazes!" he roared with a livid face. "don't ye see what's done come ter pass? he'll take these damn' outlaws over thar an' no jury won't dast ter cl'ar us. if we quits now we're done." towers leaped, with an astonishing agility to the counter of the bar and raised his clenched fists high above his head. "men!" he thundered, "hearken ter me! don't make no mistake in thinkin' thet ef ye goes out thar, ye'll hev any mercy showed ye. this is ther finish fight betwixt all ther customs of yore blood--an' this damn' outlaw's new-fangled tyranny! he don't aim jest ter jail me an' tom--he aims ter wipe out every mother's son thet's ever been a friend ter me. "we've got solid walls around us now--but any man thet goes out thar, goes straight ter murder. es fer me i don't aim ter be took alive--air ye of ther same mind? will ye fight?" his flaming utterance found credence in their befuddled minds. they could not conceive of merciful treatment from the man they had hounded and sought for months to murder from ambush. inside at least they could die fighting, and nods of grim assent gave their answer. "ther stockade hain't no good now," towers reminded them. "they're already inside hit, but from them upsta'r winders we kin still rake 'em severe an' plentiful whilst they're waitin' fer our answer. let them winders be filled with men, but don't let no man shoot till he heers my pistol--then all tergether--an' give 'em unshirted hell." so, answering the reprieve with deceit, the block house, which had, for a generation, been an infamous seat of power, remained silent until a pistol snapped out and then from every window leaped spiteful jets of powder lightning and the solid roar of a united volley. that was the answer and as a light clatter of sliding breech bolts followed the crescendo, its defenders went on shooting, more raggedly now, as fast as each man could work his repeater. a chorused bellow of defiance was hurled outward as they fired. yet from out there came no response of musketry and, after all, the deceitful effort to convert the period of parley into a paralyzing blow had failed. few flambeaux had been blazing in the space between the stockade and the house itself, and the ponderous eight-foot wall of logs built to make the place a fortress had become a protection for the besiegers so that only a few scattered figures fell. then, with amazing unanimity of action, the torches were thrust down and quenched in the snow. but bear cat stacy himself had remained flattened against the door, too close to be seen from any window, and at his feet was a can of kerosene. the glow from a match-end became first a slender filament of flame which widened to a greedy blanket as it lapped at the oil and spread crackling up the woodwork of the door's frame. then, gathering a swift and mighty force, it laid a frenzied and roaring mantle of destruction upon the integrity of the walls themselves. from inside came a chorused howl of bitter wrath and despair, and as bear cat turned and ran for it, crossing the space between door and stockade, he went through a hail of lead--and went with the old charm still holding him safe. the quarterhouse was strong enough to laugh at rifles, but to flame it was tinder-like food. the roar and crackle of its glutting soon drowned the howls of its imprisoned victims. maddened with the thought that, having refused parley, their lives were forfeit unless they could cut their way out, they raved like dying maniacs. the glare reddened and inflamed the skies and sent out a rain of soaring sparks that was seen from many miles away. the virginia door was obliterated in a blanket of flame, but abruptly the kentucky door vomited a stream of desperate men, running and shooting as they came. then, for the first time, the cordon of rifles that held them in its grip gave voice. between the house-door and the stockade, figures fell, grotesque in the glare, and those that did not fall wheeled and rushed back within the blazing walls. but in there was an unendurable furnace. they shouted and raved, choking with the suffocation of foul smoke waves like the demoralized shapes of madmen in some lurid inferno. then standing at the one door which still afforded a chance of exit, kinnard towers for the last time raised his arms. "throw down yore guns, men, an' go out with yore hands up," he yelled, seeking to be heard above the din of conflagration. "myself, i aims ter stay hyar!" a few caught the words and plunged precipitately out, unarmed, with hands high in surrender; and others, seeing that they did not fall, followed with a sheep-like imitation--but some, already struggling with the asphyxiation that clawed at their throats, writhed uneasily on the floor--and then lay motionless. kinnard towers, with a bitter despair in his eyes, and yet with the leonine glare of defiance unquenched, stood watching that final retreat. he saw that at the stockade gate, they were being passed out and put under guard. it was in his own mind, when he had been left quite alone to walk deliberately out, fighting until he fell. about him the skies were red and angry. his death would come with a full and pyrotechnic illumination, seen of all men, and it would at least be said of him that he had never yielded. so picking up a rifle from the floor, he deliberately examined its magazine and efficiency. after that he stepped out, paused on the doorstep, and fired defiantly at the open gate of the stockade. there was a spatter of bullets against the walls at his back, but he stood uninjured and defiantly laughing. without haste he walked forward. then a tall figure, with masked face came running toward him and he leveled the rifle at its breast. but he was close to the gate now, and the man plunged in, in time to strike his barrel up and bear him to the ground. outside the stockade stood, herded, the prisoners, and at their front, the posse of deputies brooded over kinnard towers and tom carmichael, both shamefully hand-cuffed. bear cat stacy looked over his captives who, taking their cue from towers himself, remained doggedly silent. "you men," he said crisply, "all save these two kin go home now--but when ther co'te needs ye ye've got ter answer--an ye've got ter speak ther truth." as they listened in surprised silence turner's voice became sterner: "ef ye lies ter ther high co'te thar's another co'te thet ye kain't lie ter. now begone." then bear cat turned to the tall figure that had defeated kinnard's determination to die uncaptured. "we've done seed ther manner of yore fightin'," he said in the voice of one who would confer the accolade. "now let's see what manner of face ye w'ars. i reckon we don't need ter go masked no longer, anyhow." the mountaineer ripped off his hat and the black cloth which had covered his face--and turner stacy stood looking into the eyes of lone stacy, his father. for an instant he leaned forward incredulously, and his voice was strangely unsteady. "how did ye git hyar," he demanded. "they kept puttin' off my trial--ontil i reckon they wearied of hit," was the grave response. "day before yistiddy ther jedge dismissed my case." "but no man hain't nuver been with us afore without he was oath-bound--how did ye contrive hit?" the old man smiled. "dog tate 'lowed i could take ther oath an' all ther rest of ther formalities in due time. he fixed me up an' brought me along. this hyar war a matter thet i was right interested in." "i 'lowed," turner's voice fell to a more confidential note, "i 'lowed ye mout be right wrathful at all i've been doin' since ye went away. ye used ter berate me fer not lovin' blockadin'." there was a momentary silence. the bearded man, somewhat thinner and more bent than when he had gone away to prison, and the son with a face more matured by these weeks and months, stood gazing into each other's eyes. to the reserve of each, outspoken sentiment came hard and even now both felt an intangible barrier of diffidence. then lone stacy answered gruffly, but there was an unsteadiness of feeling under his laconic reply. "i've done showed ye how wrathful i air. i'm tolable old--but i reckon i kin still l'arn." * * * * * even when kinnard towers sat a prisoner in the courtroom which he had dominated, and heard sam carlyle, seeking to save his own neck by turning traitor, tell the lurid story of all his iniquities, an unbending doggedness characterized his attitude. as his eyes dwelt on the henchman who was swearing away his life, they burned so scornfully that the witness twisted and fidgeted and glanced sidewise with hangdog shame. when the jury trooped in and stood lined solemnly before the bench, he gazed out of the window where the hills were beginning to soften their slaty monotone with a hint of tender green. he did not need to hear them respond to the droning inquiries of the clerk, because he had read the verdict in their faces long before. but when they had, for greater security, removed him to the louisville jail and had put him in that row of cells reserved for those whose lives are forfeit to the law, it is doubtful whether that masklike inexpressiveness truly mirrored an inward phlegm. there was an electric lamp fixed against the iron bars of the death corridor, turned inward like a spot-light of shame which was never dimmed either day or night--and there was a warden who paced the place, never leaving him unwatched--and kinnard towers had lived in places where eagles breed and where the air is wild and bites the lungs with its tang of freedom. * * * * * it was june again--june full-bosomed and tuneful with the over-spilling melody of birds. over the tall peaks arched a sky of such a pure and colorful blue that it, too, seemed to sing--and the little clouds that drifted placidly along were like the lazy sails of pleasure craft, floating in high currents. along the dimmest and most distant ridges lay a violet mist that was all ash-of-dreams--but near at hand, whether on the upper levels of high hills or down in the shadowed recesses, where the small waters trickled, everything was color--color, bloom and song. the rhododendron, which the mountaineer calls laurel, was abloom. the laurel, which is known in hill parlance as ivy, was gay with pink-hearted blossom. the mountain magnolia flaunted its great petals of waxen while and the wild rose nodded its frail face everywhere. but these were details. over the silver tinkle of happy little brooks was the low but infinite harping of the breeze, and over the glint of golden flecks on mossy rock, was the sweep of sunlight and shadow across the majesty of towering peaks and the league-wide spread of valleys. the hills were all singing of summer and rebirth, but as bear cat stacy went riding across them his eyes were brooding with the thought of dreams that had not come true. many of them had come true, he told himself, in their larger aspects--even though he found himself miserably unsatisfied. there was a large reward in the manner of men and women who paused in their tasks of "drappin' an' kiverin'" along the sloping cornfields to wave their hats or their hands at him and to shout cheery words. those simple folk looked upon him as one who had led them out of bondage to a wider freedom, instilling into them a spirit of enterprise. one farmer halted his plow and came to the fence as bear cat was riding by. "i heers tell," he began, "thet ther whole world, pretty nigh, air at war an' thet corn's goin' ter be wuth money enough, this crop, ter pay fer haulin' hit." stacy nodded. "i reckon that's right," he said. "an' i heers thet, deespite all contrary accounts, ther railroad aims ter come in hyar--an' pay fa'r prices." turner smiled. "they had ter come round to it," he answered. "there are more tons of coal in marlin county than there are dollars in jefferson county, and jefferson county is the richest in the state." the farmer rested his fore-arms on the top rail of the fence and gazed at the young man on horseback. "i reckon us folks are right-smart beholden ter ye, bear cat," he suggested diffidently. "with a chief like you, we'll see prosperity yit." "we don't have no chiefs here," declared the young man with a determined setting of his jaw. "we're all free and equal. the last chief was kinnard towers--and he's passed on." "none-the-less, hit wouldn't amaze me none ter see ye git ter be the president of this hull world," declared the other with simple hero-worship. "whar are ye ridin' ter?" "i'm going over into fletcher county to see that school there. i'm hopin' that we can have one like it over here." the farmer nodded. "i reckon we kin manage hit," he affirmed. turner had heard much of that school to which matthew blakey had taken his three children--so much that all of it could hardly be true. now he was going to see for himself. but his thoughts, as he rode, were beyond his control and memories of blossom crowded out the more impersonal things. at last he came to a high backbone of ridge. from there he ought to be able to catch his first glimpse of the tract which the school had redeemed from overgrown raggedness into a model farm, but as yet the dense leafage along the way cut off the view of the valley. then he came to a more open space and reined in his horse, and as he looked out his eyes widened in astonishment. spreading below him, he saw such even and gracious spaces of cultivation as were elsewhere unknown to the hills. down there the fences were even and the fields smooth, but what astonished him most were the buildings. clustered over a generous expanse of hill and valley, of field and garden all laid out as though some landscape gardener had made it a labor of love, were houses such as he had dreamed of--houses with dignity of line and proportion, with architectural beauty of design. everything, even at that distance, could be seen to be substantially designed for usefulness, and yet everything combined with that prime object of service the quality of art. he was looking down on a tiny village, uncrowded and nestling on the varied levels of an undulating valley, and he counted out a dozen houses, recognizing some of them--the tiny hospital on its hill--the model dairies at one edge--the saw-mill sending out its fragrance--the dormitories with sleeping porches and the school-buildings themselves. this was what he had visioned--and yet he realized how cramped had been his dream as he urged his tired horse forward and listened to the whistle of a bob-white in the stubble. "ef blossom could know that we're goin' ter have a school like this over there!" he breathed to himself. then as he rode along the twisting descent of road, between park-like forest trees and masses of rhododendron, and dismounted before a large house he saw a broad porch with a concrete foundation, and easy chairs and tables littered with magazines and books. from the door came a lady, smiling to greet him. it was miss pendleton, the woman who from small beginnings had built here in the wilderness such an achievement, and as she came to the stairs she held out her hand. "i've been greatly interested in your letters, mr. stacy," she said, "and i don't see why we can't repeat over there what we have done here. we have grown from very small beginnings--and now i want to show you around our premises--unless you are too tired." with wonderment that grew, he followed her, and a swarm of happy-faced children went with them; children keen of eye and rosy of cheek, and when they had inspected together the buildings where the pupils were taught from books, and the dairies and gardens where they were taught by practice, the lady showed him into a log house as artistic and charming as a swiss chalet and said: "this will be your abiding place while you're here. i'll send one of the boys to see that you have everything you need--and later on i'll introduce you to a lady who is much interested in your plans for a school on little slippery and who can discuss the details." left alone on the porch of his "pole-house," bear cat sat gazing upward to the american flag that floated from a tall staff before his door, and as he did so a small boy with clear and intelligent eyes came and said: "i've done been named ter look atter ye." in the young face was none of that somber shyness which shadows the faces of many mountain children. turner put his hand on the boy's head. "thank you, son," he said slowly. "haven't i seen you before somewhar?" the boy laughed. "i remembers _you_" he asserted. "i seed ye when my paw was fotchin' me an' my brother an' sister over hyar. i'm matthew blakey's boy." "you had right-sore eyes then, didn't you?" the child laughed. "i did then--but i hain't now." after a moment's pause he added with a note of pride: "see thet flag? hit's ther american flag an' hit's my job ter put hit up every day at sun-up an' take hit down at sun-set. i aims ter show ye right now how i does hit." bear cat met young women from eastern colleges who had come here to aid in the work. in their presence he felt very uncouth and ignorant, but they did not suspect that inner admission. they saw a young man who reminded them of a bronze athlete, with clear and fearless eyes, touched with a dreamer's zeal, and in his manner they recognized a simple dignity and an inherent chivalry. chapter xxviii on the porch of miss pendleton's house that night, guitars were tinkling. from inside came the glow of shaded lamps softly amber--and outside along the hillsides where the whippoorwills called plaintively, slept a silver wash of moonlight. the stars were large and low-hanging and a pale mist tempered the slopes that rose in a nocturne of majesty and peace. bear cat stacy sat there immersed in reverie. he was seeing such a school grow up on the spot where he had hoped to build a house for blossom and himself--then that vision faded and his face grew set because the other and more personal picture had intervened--the picture of the dwelling-house to which he had looked forward. he did not notice that the guitars and the singing voices had come to silence, and that the white patches of the women's dresses had vanished from the shaded porch--he was looking out into the summer mists--and thinking his own thoughts. then he heard miss pendleton's voice, and came out of his abstraction with a start, looking about to realize for the first time that the two of them stood alone out there. "now you must talk business," smiled the lady. "i haven't introduced you yet to the person who is best of all fitted to discuss the details. she knows just what we seek to do here and how we do it. she knows the needs of mountain children, too--because she is a mountain girl herself. she came here really as a pupil--but she's much more than that now. she teaches the younger children while she studies herself--and she has developed a positive genius for this work." miss pendleton paused and then added: "i'm going to let the two of you talk together first--and then i'll join you." bear cat rose and stood courteously acquiescent, then his hostess left him and he saw another figure appear to stand framed in the door. his heart rose out of his breast into the throat and choked him, for he believed that his dreaming had unsettled his mind. there stood blossom with the amber light kindling her soft hair into a nimbus of radiance, and in her cheeks was the old color like the heart of the laurel's flower. she stood slim and straight, no longer pallid or thin, and in her eyes danced a light of welcome. "blossom," he stammered--and she left her frame and its amber background to come forward--with her hands extended. "turney," was all she said. "how came you here?" he demanded, forgetting to release her slim hands. "how did this come to pass?" she looked out over the blue and silver leagues of the june night, and said simply. "there's lots to tell you--let's go out there and talk." they were standing on a great bowlder where the moss and ferns grew, and about them twinkled myriads of fireflies. they had been silent for a long time and turner's voice had a strained note as he said slowly. "i promised ye ... thet i wouldn't ever pester ye again with ... love-making ... but to-night it's right hard ter keep thet pledge." the breeze was stirring her hair and her own eyes were deep as she gazed away, but suddenly she turned and her long lashes were raised as she met his gaze. "i don't want ... that you should keep it," she whispered. "i give you back your pledge." as in those old days the hills seemed to rock about him and the arms that came forward and paused were unsteady. "ye means ... thet...." "i means thet i loved ye first, turney." the words came tremulously, almost whispered, and in them was something of self-accusation. "maybe i ought to be ashamed--but somehow i can't. all of what happened seems to me like a dream that doesn't really belong in my life. it seems to me that i was dazzled and couldn't tell the true from the seeming.... it seems as i look back that a little piece of my life was torn loose from the rest--but that the real me has always been yours." she laid her hands on his shoulders, and as he caught her in his arms, the light breath of the night breeze brought the fragrance of honeysuckle to them both. she rested for a moment in his embrace with the serene feeling that she was at home. between them fell a silence but in the bath of silvery light through the fragrant stillness of dove gray night-tones and cobalt shadows the girl's eyes were brightly eloquent. yet after a moment a shade of troubling thought came into them and the lips moved into the tremulousness of a self-searching and somewhat self-accusing whisper. "turney," she said, "there's one thing that i've got to say--and i guess it had better be now." "if it's any fault you're finding with yourself--don't say it," he protested as his hands closed over her slender fingers. "there ain't anything that i need to have explained. i reckon i understand what happiness means and that's enough." but blossom shook her head. "if i'd been straight loyal--like you've been, turney, i reckon i couldn't ever have made any mistake. there wouldn't ever have been room for anybody but you." she paused and then went falteringly ahead. "from now on there won't ever be. you've known me always and yet even you can't realize how young and foolish and _plumb_ ignorant i was a year ago. if i'd been just a _little_ more experienced, it couldn't have happened. if things hadn't come with such a rush after they began, that i was just swept along like a log in a spring-tide--it couldn't have happened." it seemed difficult for her to force the words, but she obeyed the mandate of her conscience with the candor of the confessional. "i never had the chance to think--until i came over here and began looking back. a person like i was doesn't think very clear in the midst of cyclones and confusions, and i didn't see that the real bigness was in you--more than in--him. i didn't see it until later. i'd grown up with you, and i took you too much for granted, i reckon, and everything he said or did seemed like a scrap out of a fairy story to my foolish mind." there was one thing she did not tell him, even now; that she had learned at last through the lawyers what her husband's connection with the railroad plans had been. back of all his fascination there had been a tarnished honesty, but that secret she still kept to herself. but she lifted eyes to turner that were wide open for his reading, and gravely she said: "i lost my way once--but i've found it again and if you can forget what a little fool i was at sixteen, you won't ever have need to doubt me any more." "all thet's happened was worth goin' through--if it led to this," he declared in a husky whisper, and as she raised her lips to his her eyes were sparkling, and her words fell whimsically into dialect. "thet piece of bottom land down thar, turney--i reckon we kin raise a dwellin'-house on hit now--a dwellin'-house an' a school-house, too." the end. [illustration: hot corn, life scenes in new york illustrated.] hot corn: life scenes in new york illustrated. including the story of little katy, madalina, the rag-picker's daughter, wild maggie, &c. with original designs, engraved by n. orr. by solon robinson. "bid that welcome which comes to punish us." "a beggar's book outworth's a noble's blood." "of every inordinate cup beware, or drink, and with it misery share." * * * * * new york: de witt and davenport, publishers, & nassau street. . entered according to act of congress, in the year , by de witt & davenport, in the clerk's office of the district court for the southern district of new-york * * * * * w. h. tinson, stereotyper, &c., spruce street, new york. r. craighead, printer, vesey st, n. y. to horace greeley, and his co-laborers, editors of the new york tribune; the friends of the working man; the advocates of lifting up poor trodden-down humanity; the ardent supporters of, and earnest advocates for the maine law; the wishers for better rewards for woman's labor, and all honest industry, this volume is respectfully dedicated, by your friend and fellow worker, the author. introduction. the growing taste for works of this kind--works intended to promote temperance and virtue, to lift up the lowly, to expose to open day the hidden effects produced by rum, to give narratives of misery suffered by the poor in this city--has induced the publishers to offer liberal inducements to the author to use his powerful pen, and words of fire, to depict his "life scenes," and embody them in a volume, which, we are satisfied, will prove one of the most acceptable to the moral portion of the community, ever published. it is a work of high tone, that must do good. the peculiar style of the author is as original as the tales of truth which he narrates. it is unlike that of any other author, and every page is full of fresh interest and thrilling narrative. as a temperance tale, it has no equal. as such, we hope it may prove but the commencement of a series. as an exposé of life among the poor in this city, it will be read with deep and abiding interest, in all parts of this country. it is a work for the fireside of every family; a book that commends itself to the heart. no one who has read the "hot corn stories," as they appeared in the _tribune_, but will rejoice to have the opportunity to possess them, and many more like them, all complete and connected, in one handsome volume, such as we now offer. to a moral and religious public; to all who would promote temperance; to all who would rather see virtue than vice abound; to all who have a heart to feel for other's woes; to all who would have their hearts touched with sympathy for the afflictions of their fellow creatures, "life scenes," as depicted in this volume, are respectfully commended, by the publishers. author's preface. "oh, pshaw," says pretty miss impulsive, "i hate prefaces." so do i. nobody reads them; that is, nobody but a few old fellows with spectacles. i would not write one, only that some folks think a book looks not well without. well, then, i have written a great deal in my life--travels, tales, songs, temperance stories, some politics, a good deal upon agriculture, much truth, and some fiction, always in the newspapers, never before in a book. i know that many, very many, have read what i have written with pleasure, or else "this world is awfully given to lying," for they have said so. will they read my _book_? that we shall see. if they do, they must not criticise too closely. remember that some of the most thrilling sketches were written amid the daily scenes and avocations of a city editor's office, for the paper in which they first appeared, without any thought or design on the part of the author of making a book;--that was the thought of the publishers. they read the first sketches, and judged, we hope rightly, if enlarged and embodied in a neat volume, it would be appreciated as one of the best efforts, in this book-making age, to do good. if they have judged rightly,--if it _does_ have that effect,--if the public _do_ appreciate the volume as they often have my fugitive effusions,--then shall i be rewarded, and they may rest assured, whenever they buy a volume, that a portion of the purchase money will go to ameliorate the condition of the poor, such as you will become acquainted with, if you follow me in my walks through the city, as depicted in this volume, which i offer most hopingly to all who do not know, and most trustingly to all who do know him, who has so often signed himself your old friend, solon robinson. new york, _november_, . contents. chapter i. scenes in broadway first appearance of hot corn sally eaton--julia antrim drunken man killed by an omnibus bill eaton sent to the hospital the fire--mrs. eaton's house burned three golden words chapter ii. hot corn--first interview with little katy a shilling's worth of happiness a watch-word chapter iii. wild maggie the five points--dens where human beings live wild maggie's home the house of industry--commencement of the ragged school the rat-hole--the temperance meeting--the pledge--'tis done jim reagan--tom nolan--his temperance address ring-nosed bill--snaky jo the pledge and a kiss chapter iv. the temptation--the fall--james reagan after the pledge the conspiracy at cale jones's grocery tom top--snaky jo--ring-nosed bill--old angeline reagan rescued by maggie his second fall tom finds and feeds him his second visit to the temperance meeting chapter v. the two-penny marriage--thomas elting chapter vi. the home of little katy a sad tale and its termination--"will he come?" chapter vii. wild maggie's mother wild maggie's father wild maggie's letter death and his victim greenwood, and the rose planted by a new-made grave chapter viii. athalia, the sewing girl the morgans athalia's song her home--jeannette the blow and its results charley vail and walter morgan chapter ix. the trip to lake george--preparation--a new bonnet one bottle too many, and the catastrophe marriage and death where shall the dead find rest? going "to get a drink" chapter x. walter morgan and wife--charley vail and wife going to savannah the ten dollar bill seeing is believing athalia homeless and friendless chapter xi. life at the five points--madalina, the rag-picker's daughter cow bay and its inhabitants tom and the glass of cold water "i never kiss any but those i love" "our trade," said the fiend pocket-picking the poor-house hearse chapter xii. athalia, and the home she found mrs. laylor--nannette the arts of deception frank barkley chapter xiii. the little peddler the exchange--money for rum, health for misery mr. lovetree stella may savage, civilized, and christian nature a walk up broadway mysterious disappearance the legless flower-seller visit to a suspicious house agnes brentnall and the negro wood-sawyer phebe and her bible a girl lost stella may and her mother the will chapter xiv. new scenes and new characters mrs. mctravers visit to the five points the home of little katy deserted mrs. de vrai--who is she? a woman drunk in the street chapter xv. little katy's mother. de vrai, and a night scene chapter xvi. agnes brentnall spirit mediums how agnes was deceived chapter xvii. the intelligence office agnes' story mr. lovetree's story agnes finds her mother mrs. de vrai's story song--will he come? a death-bed appeal chapter xviii. julia antrim and other old acquaintances the penitentiary--the visit to mrs. may stella may in her new home julia antrim's story names and characters for life scenes invitation to a party going to be married visit to mrs. de vrai--mrs. meltrand--agnes and adaleta chapter the last. "she is gone, sir!" the death-bed--little sissee the wedding party at mrs. morgan's who is the bride?--the double marriage greenwood cemetery--the grave "'tis the last of earth" "will he come?" in the dark grave sleeping--a poem a voice from the grave--a poem the last word hot corn. life scenes in new york illustrated. chapter i. our title.--the story. "how hard it is to hide the sparks of nature." "it is a queer title for a book; what can it mean?" is the exclamation of those who open it for the first time. visit this city--walk with me from nine o'clock till midnight, through the streets of new york, in the month of august, then read the first interview of the author with little katy, the hot corn girl, and the story of her life, and you will not ask, "what does it mean?" but you may ask, what does it mean that i see so many squalid-looking women, so many tender children, so many boys, who with well directed labor might work their way to fortune; or crippled men, sitting upon the stone steps along the street crying, "hot corn! here's your nice hot corn--smoking hot, smoking hot, just from the pot!" your heart, if it has not grown callous, will be pained as mine has been at the sights of misery you will meet with, and you will then exclaim, "what does it mean that i see these things in the very heart of this great commercial city, where wealth, luxury, extravagance, all abound in such profusion? surely the condition of the people, the ways and wants of the poor, cannot be known, or they would be improved. why does not somebody write a book illustrating these 'life scenes in new york,' whose every page shall be a cry, startling as this of 'hot corn, hot corn!' now pealing in the midnight air?" so thought i; and so straightway set about the work, with ample material at hand, and more accumulating at every step. in writing a book, the first thought of the author is, what shall be my title? what better could i have than hot corn, since that was the inciting cry that waked my pen to action, to paint these life scenes in vivid pictures, for the world to look at and improve? if, in my daily walks and midnight rambles, i have seen revolting sights, the details of which are harrowing to your soul as you read, so much the more need that they be opened to your view. wounds must be seen to be healed. old sores are often pronounced incurable, simply because they are old. first, strip off their dirty covering, then probe and wash, and then apply the healing balsam. if not already gangrened from long neglect, you may save the patient's life, and at all events, ease his suffering, and smooth his road to the grave. be mine the task to strip and expose, and yours to wash and heal. of just such life scenes as i depict, there are enough transpiring every night to fill a volume. come, walk with me, of an august evening, from the battery to union square, and you shall see all the characters of a romance. 'tis concert night at castle garden. stand here a short half hour, and look at the gay and smiling throng. there is material for many a tale. three thousand robes of fine cloth, silks, gauze, and lace, pass the battery gates in one night, fluttering to the open sea breeze, without one thought from those who wear them for the poor little girl that sits shivering by the path, crying hot corn, or vainly striving to beg one penny from the overflowing purses that freely give dollars for amusement, and less than nothing to misery, or for its annihilation. little do they think that this child has a mother at home, who once counted one in just such a thoughtless throng. here might a chapter be written, but let us on; we shall find plenty of subjects. if we stop to write the history of that little girl and her mother, we shall fill our book before we start. the philadelphia boat has just landed her passengers at pier no. ., north river, and the crowd are coming up battery place. here is a picture of american character. every one is pushing forward as though there was but one bed left in the city, and to obtain that he intended to outstride and overreach all his fellow travellers. take care, little hot corn girl, or you will be run over, and your store trampled under-foot. bitter tears for your loss will run down your hollow cheeks, but they will gain you no sympathy. the only answer that you will get, will be, "why didn't you get out of the way, you little dirty brat--good enough for you." yes, good enough for you, that you have lost your entire stock of merchandize; what business had you in the way of commerce, or path of pleasure? "but, sir," says benevolence in a drab bonnet, "you have hurt the child." "what if i have? she has no business in the way. she is nothing but a hot corn girl; they are no better than beggars and often are little thieves. why don't she stay at home?" sure enough. simply because necessity or cruelty drives her into the street. now your cruelty will drive her home to be beaten by a drunken father, for your act of wanton carelessness. stand aside, my little sufferer, or you will be run over again. here comes a little dark skinned, black-eyed, black-haired man, with life and death in his very step. what magic power impels him forward. he is a jew--a dealer in second-hand clothes. surely his business cannot be so important that he need to upset little children, or step on the gouty toes of slow-going old gentlemen, in his hurry to get forward. it is friday night, his sabbath has already commenced, he can do no business--make no monish--to-night. he is not in a hurry to reach the synagogue, that is closed, what then? he has a christian partner, and he wants to arrange a little speculation for to-morrow. he has just received information of a shipment of yellow fever patients' clothing, which will arrive to-morrow or sunday, and he wants his christian partner to look out on saturday; on sunday, the jew will watch the chance to buy the infected rags, which both will sell on monday at a hundred per cent profit. "what, at the risk of human life? oh, i can believe that of a jew, but certainly no christian would do it." there spoke the christian reader. the jew will say the same, only reversing the character. no good christian or jew either will do it; yet it will be done, and little beggar girls will be run over in the hot haste to meet the coming ship. walk on. the side-walks are crowded, and the street between the curb-stones full of great lumbering omnibuses and carriages, that go up and down all night for hire; but there is a melancholy stillness in all the houses where wealth and fashion, in our young days, lived in lamp-lighted parlors, and diamonds flashed down upon the listener to music which had its home in these gay dwellings, where happy looking faces were seen through open windows. iron shutters close them now, and commerce wears a dark frown by gas light. on the right is wall street, where fortunes are made and lost as by the turn of a card, or rattle of a dice box. it is very thronged at noon day. it is very dull now. a few watchmen tread slowly around the great banking houses, working for a dollar a night to eke out a poorly paid day, by guarding treasures that the owners would not watch all the live long night for all the watchman is worth. but he must watch and work; he has a sick wife at home, and four little girls are growing up to womanhood and city life. god knows for what! a few express wagons, and more of these ever-going ever-coming omnibuses, are coming out of wall street to join the great broadway throng. and a pale-faced little girl sits upon the steps of the bank of the republic, adding to that constant cry, "hot corn! hot corn!" now here comes the cerberus of this money palace. what possible harm to his treasures, can this little poverty-clad girl and her sickly looking little beggar boy brother do, sitting here upon the cold grey, stone steps, with an appealing look to every passer-by to give a penny or buy an ear of corn. does he think they are merely using their trade to plot mischief and schemes to rob his vaults of their stores of gold? one would judge so by the way he growls at them. "clear out, you dirty brats--away with you, lousy beggars--home to your kennel, young thieves. don't come on these steps again, or i will throw your corn in the gutter." are these the words to work reform? they are such as fall every day and night upon the ear of just such specimens of the young sprouts of humanity, that vegetate and grow a brief summer in the city, dying in some of the chill winters of neglect, that come over their tender years, blighting, freezing, killing. how little of the gold, cerberus guards, would serve to warm these two young children into useful life. how little those who guard or use it, care for those they drive unfeelingly away from their door steps--for what? they have made it a place of convenience for their nightly trade. tired of walking, carrying a heavy pail between them--heavy to them--it would be light, and were it all gold, compared with that within--they have sat themselves down, and just uttered one brief cry of "hot corn, here's your nice hot corn!" when they are roughly ordered to "clear out, you dirty brats." yes, they are dirty, poor, and miserable, children of a drunken father--who made them so? no matter. they are so, and little has that gold done to make them otherwise. "clear out--get off these steps, or i will kick you off." they did so, and went over to the other side of broadway, and clung to that strong iron fence, and looked up three hundred feet along that spire which points to heaven from trinity church. did they think of the half million of dollars there piled up, to tell the world of the wealth of new york city? no, they thought of the poor, wretched room, to them their only home, a little way down rector street, scarcely a stone's throw from this great pile, in a house, owned and rented to its poor occupants by that great land monopoly, the rectory of this great church. "bill," says the girl, "do you see that gal? how fine she is tittivated up. don't she look like a lady? i know who she is, bill. do you think when i gets a little bigger, the old woman is going to keep me in the street all day and half the night, peddling peanuts and selling hot corn? no, sir-ee. i will dress as fine as she does, and go to balls and theatres, and have good suppers and wine, at taylor's, and lay a-bed next day just as long as i please. why not? i am as good-looking, if i was dressed up, as she is." "why, sal, how will you do that? you ha'n't got no good clothes, and mother ha'n't got none, and if she had, she wouldn't give 'em to ye." "i don't care, i know how to get them. i know the woman that owns every rag that street gal has got on her back." "them ain't rags, them's silk, and just as good dress as them opera gals had on, that went stringing along down broadway a while ago. i don't see how you can get sich, 'less you prig 'em. i'd do that if i had a chance, blessed quick. how'd she get 'em, sal?" "i knows, and that's 'nuff." why should she not know? she had been to school long enough to learn, and would be a very inapt scholar if she had not learned some of the ways of the street, in thirteen years. in thirteen years more she will be a fit subject to excite the care of the moral reform society, or become the inmate of a mary magdalene asylum; perchance, of randall's island. there is a history about these two children and their parents, which you may read by and by. we cannot stop, now. let us walk on. iron shutters--bolted, barred, and strong locked doors, what piles of treasure lie just within. at maiden lane on the right, and courtlandt street on the left, more omnibuses come up, crowding their way into an already overfull "broadway." oh! what a scream. it is a woman's scream. a cry of anguish--of horror, that chills the blood. it comes from the apple woman at the corner, and yet she is not hurt. no one is near her, the crowd is rushing to the centre of the street. what for? an omnibus has run over a drunken man. this is always enough to excite the sympathy of woman, and make her cry out as with pain. it is pain, the worst of pain; it comes from a blow upon the heart; worse than that, in this case, for the man is her husband. he has just left her, where he has been tormenting her for an hour, begging, coaxing, pleading, promising, that if she would give him one shilling, he would go directly home and go to bed, as soon as he got something to eat. "something to drink." no. upon his word, he would not touch another drop the blessed night. she well knew the value of such promises. she well knew that the corner grocery, where he would stop to buy the loaf of bread, which he promised to share with the two children, kept a row of glistening glasses and decanters upon the same shelf with the loaves. "the staff of life," and life's destroyer, side by side. she knew his appetite--she knew the temptation to which he would be subjected, she knew he could not resist, she knew the vampire who dealt in life and death, would suck up that shilling, if with it came the heart's blood of him, her, and their two children. she knew her husband, he could not resist the temptation. once sober and he could keep so, if the means of intoxication were kept out of his sight. once drunk and he would keep so, as long as he could obtain a shilling to pay for the poison. his last resource was to beg from his wife's scanty profits, by which she mainly supported the family, who often went supperless to bed, for the rent must be paid. landlords are inexorable. hers was worth so many millions that the income was a source of great care, how it should be disposed of. her rent was coming due, and every shilling looked to her of tenfold value to-night. her children are in the street, filling the night air with an appealing cry, "hot corn, hot corn, who'll buy my nice hot corn?" her husband was begging for one more shilling to waste--worse than waste--to close an ill-spent day. oh, what a contrast between this and their wedding day! she resisted his importunity until he found 'twas no avail, and then he swore he would upset her little store in the gutter, if she did not give him the money. what could she do? she would not call an officer to take him away. no, she could not do that, he was her husband. she could not resist him, could not have an altercation in the street, that would draw an idle crowd around her, spoil her trade, and worse than that, let the world know that this bloated, ill-looking, miserable remnant of a man, was her husband. shame did what persuasion or fear could not: she gave him the shilling, and he started to cross the crowded street. he heeded little of danger--he had often crossed when more drunk than now--he heeded not the tripartite crush of carriages coming up and going down these streets, all meeting in a sort of vortex at that point. he heard, or heeded not, the drivers, "hi, hi, hi, get out of the way, you drunken son of a----," and down he went among the horses' clattering feet, upon the slippery stones, and the wheels passed over him, crushing bones--human bones, and mangling flesh, and mixing human blood with street dirt. the omnibuses turned aside, the passengers shuddered as the poor wretch was lifted up, covered with blood and dirt, and inquired, "is he dead?" the drivers looked down coolly from their high seats, with a consoling remark, that, "it's nothing but a drunken man," yet, that drunken man was that woman's husband; him who, fourteen years ago, walked the streets as well dressed, as proud, as sober as any in the crowd who now gaze carelessly upon his bruised form, and hear the remark, that he, "is nothing but a drunken man." fourteen years ago--yes, this very night--that woman walked this very street, arm in arm, with that man, and heard him, for the first time, call her wife. it was a happy time then, and "all was merry as the marriage bell." little thought they then--less thought they a year afterwards, while rocking the cradle in their own happy home, that the time would come when he would raise his hand in anger to strike that loving wife, or that child would be driven, with kicks and curses, into the streets, or that he would lie bleeding upon the pavement he had so often and so proudly trod before, a poor mangled drunkard. oh how those words--joyous words--first rung in that happy mother's ears, when the proud father said:-- "have you got a baby?" "yes, willie, _we_ have got a baby." how these words have rung like electric sparks through many a happy heart. "have you got a baby?" said a little girl to a gentleman riding out of boston. it was a queer question, arising as it did from a child he overtook on the road. how his city friends would have laughed at him if they had heard the question--"have you got a baby?" no he had got no baby, yet he was a man full forty years of age, and looked as though he might have been a father, and so thought the little girl. yet he had no baby. why? he was a bachelor! so he had to answer, "no, my pretty miss, i have got no baby." "oh la, haven't you? well _we_ have. we have got a baby at _our_ house!!" this was not interesting to a bachelor. how different it would have been if he had married lucy smith, whom he intended to a dozen years ago, but he was too busy then--too intent upon making money enough, to support a wife before he got one. nonsense! how little he knew of the sweet music of the words, "have you got a baby?" how her heart would have leaped up and choked her utterance if she had now been riding by his side as his wife, instead of his "old flame," lucy smith! lucy smith, still, for she had never heard those words touchingly applied to her, "have you got a baby?" nor had she ever heard a sweet little girl say of her, "we have got a baby at our house!" how many a mother's heart has leapt for joy, at that question, when she could answer it, "yes, i _have_ got a baby!" how many a father's heart will be touched with emotion when he reads, "have you got a baby?" for he will think as i do, of a time when, returning from a long journey, he meets just such a little cherub of a girl at his own gate, who does not stop to ask him how he does, nor climb his knee for the accustomed kiss, so exuberant is her joy--so anxious is she to possess him with the secret that wells up and fills her very existence to overflowing, so that she must speak or burst, and hence she watches for papa, and runs out to meet him at the gate with such a smile--such a joyous, glorious smile, and cry of "oh, papa, we have got a baby!!" how many a mother's heart will swell and throb, and how the warm tears--tears of joy and gladness--will flow as she hears that husband's footstep approach, for she knows he will say, "_have_ you got a baby?" but there is no such joy now for that mother's heart. yet that is the same father--fallen, trampled, dying, and she rushes to the rescue. two police officers bear him to the side-walk and lift him, lifeless as he is, upon a hand-cart. how the idle crowd push and jostle each other to get a sight of the wounded man. what for? to administer to his wants; to give, if need be, something to minister to his relief? no. to gratify curiosity--morbid, idle curiosity. how this woman pushes and struggles to break the circle, crying, "let me in, let me in; let me see him." how little the crowd heed her. they think it is curiosity, too, nothing but curiosity, that impels her, as it does themselves. why don't she say, "it is my husband?" and then they would give her room, or the officers would make them. why! why don't she say it? she is ashamed to tell unfeeling hearts how low she has been sunk in the world since first she called that man by that name, or heard those heart-touching words when their first child was born. husband was a sweet word once; it is a bitter one now; yet it must be spoken, for they are about to bear him away to the hospital. whether dead or alive she knows not, and she rushes madly forward, seizing the policeman, with a cry of, "no, no; not there, not there; take him home, i will take care of him--nobody can take care of him so well as i can. oh, let me take him home! do let me take him home." what could she do with him in her one room, the home of herself and children. she could not stay to nurse him day after day, for then her trade would be lost; somebody else would take her stand; there would be no income, all would be outgo, and all would soon be exhausted; nothing to buy bread, nothing to pay rent, and then out must go the whole, sick or well; they must go in the street if they fail to meet that dreaded periodical--the rent day. there is no help for it. all this is hastily considered, and there is no other way; he must go to the hospital. 'tis a blessed institution--a noble honor to the city, charitably sustained, to give relief to--who? a thousand just such subjects as this; made drunk, covered with gore, maimed with broken limbs, by a legalized traffic in hell's best aid on earth. a trade that fills jails, thieves-dens, and brothels, and furnishes subjects like this for hospitals. "he must go to the hospital." "then i will follow and nurse him there." there spoke the wife, as, ever since that holy name was known, the wife has spoken--can speak alone. how can she go? something clings to her dress and pulls her back. she looks around upon a little boy and girl--it is the hot corn girl, just driven from the banking-house steps three squares below. "mother, mother, do speak to us; it is bill and me. is father dead? what killed him?" rum! she did not say so. she only thought. she thought, too, of her helpless children, and what would they do if she went to take care of their father. she did not think of the blows, the kicks, and cuffs, and curses, received from him during long bitter years, for they were given by--not by him--not by her husband--but by the demon in him--the devil engendered by rum. she thought nothing of the cruel neglect and poverty and suffering of herself and children, for that was a sequence of the other. she did think of this night, fourteen years ago. she did think of the night when this girl, now clinging to her dress and convulsively crying, "mother, is he dead," was born, for then she was a happy wife and mother. then that father took that child in his arms and kissed and blessed it--then he took her in his arms and kissed and loved her, and called her his dear wife. she did not think of the night when that little slender boy, now ten years old, was born, for then a devil--not a husband--dragged her by the hair, while in labor, from her poor cot, and bid her go out in the pitiless storm to fill his bottle for him. no, she did not remember that; she only remembered that he was her husband; wounded, dying husband, in need of some kind hand to make his bed and smooth his passage to the grave, and she would leave all without a thought to follow him to the hospital. she was his wife. now there is a struggle between duty and affection--between husband and children. she cannot go with both. one must be neglected; which shall it be? had the husband been what he was when that girl was born, the heart of many a wife would give the ready answer. she looked upon her and remembered the time when she first heard these words, "have you got a baby?" she looked upon her, and all intervening time faded from memory, and she thought and felt as she would have felt if he had been struck down that night. she tears herself away from the grasp of the little girl, telling her to pick up the apples and go home, she must go with father. another hand clings to her dress, and looks up with such an appealing look and says:-- "don't go, mother; they will take care of father. don't leave us." she looked upon her sickly boy, and thought of the night he was born. why does she start and turn round? did some one pull her by the hair? no, it was only fancy. a sort of magnetic influence, linked with thought. that twinge decided her. that twinge decided his fate, and saved her children's lives. she went home with them, and tired nature slept in spite of mental agony. at four o'clock the bells rung for fire; it was long before she could wake sufficiently to count the eight strokes which told it was in her district. dreamily unconscious of danger, she moves not till she hears a crash and sees a light through the small rear window, when she springs up, opens the door, looks out in the direction of the stairs, and meets a burst of flame and smoke coming up. back, back to the bed, closing the door--a thin pine door--the only barrier between the fire and her sleeping babes, she drags them out and up to the window. will she throw them down upon the pavement below, as the only hope of saving their lives, for the fire is fairly up the stairs and rattling at the door behind her? if it enters all is lost. the window is opened, and the little boy first--he is the darling--poised upon the sill, in the bewildered amazement of half-awaking consciousness. "oh mother, mother, don't throw me out! i will be a good boy, mother. i never will tear my jacket again. indeed i could not help it. it was a big boy that pulled me. oh, mother, mother, don't, pray don't." he screams with fear, as he hangs convulsively upon his mother's neck, and looks down upon the gathering crowd, crying, "throw him out, throw him out; we will catch him." and a hundred hands are outstretched, a hundred noble hearts would prostrate themselves upon the pavement to save, to break the fall of a beggar boy whom they would have kicked out of their path the day before. now a mother appeals to her fellow men to save her child. she had oft appealed before, but then the house was not on fire; the fire was in his father's mouth--and that they heeded not. no bells rung, to call the engines with copious streams of water to put it out--they are ringing now. and now see the outstretched hands, each ready to risk its own life to save that of a child. [illustration: the new-york fireman.--_page ._] "let him go--throw him out--you will all burn up in five minutes more--this old wooden house burns like tinder." she looks behind her; the flame is sending serpent tongues under the door. her dress upon a chair is on fire--now the bed. they must jump, naked too, down among those men, or die. "hold on! hold on! way there--give way there. hurrah, men! lively now!" oh, that was a sight for that mother and her two children. a ladder company thundered down the street with their cry of "way there!" for they have caught the sight of a woman and children in distress; and oh! how they do press forward, shouting, "way there! lively now! hold on, we will save you!" how quick, after they reach the spot, a ladder is loosened and off the carriage, with one end on the ground and the other going up, up--"up with her now!" and so they do. before it has found a resting-place, a man, active as a cat, is halfway up. now he is at the top; now--hurrah!--how the shouts rend the air, for he has the boy in one arm and the girl in the other, and tells the mother to follow. she hesitates. what for? the noble fireman sees at a glance, stops a moment, pulls off his coat and throws it to her--"now"--down they go--now they are safe. safe with life--not a thing else on earth but her two fatherless children, her only covering a fireman's coat. where is her husband now? where he will never see them again; for while his attendant slept he tore the bandages from his wound, and then slept himself--a sleep that one voice alone will awaken. judge him not harshly; he was the victim, not the criminal. he is dead now, tread lightly upon his grave. look to his wife and children. it is they who need your sympathy. raised in the worst school on earth--the streets of this city, some of the life scenes of which i aim to depict--the boy has already learned to "prig;" and, so he shared the proceeds with his father--that father, or rather the monster who made him a devil, would encourage the boy to be a thief. what could the mother do to counteract such deleterious influence? all day she must stand at her corner, selling fruit, pea-nuts, and candy, to make bread to feed her else starving offspring, and to keep her husband out of the prison or alms-house. you have already seen the effect of the street education upon sally; the sight of her playmate, julia antrim, dressed in silks and laces, although borrowed--no, furnished, by "the woman," on hire, for a purpose more wicked than murder, for murder only kills the body--has already tempted her towards the same road--to that broad path to woe; not in the future, but here present with us every day; and she has already determined that she will follow it as soon as "she gets big enough." who shall rescue her? the danger is still more imminent now. houseless, naked, starving in the street, how shall she live? one step, one resolution, will take her to the clothes-lending harpy, who fattens upon the life-blood of young girls, whom she dooms to the fate of ixion for the remainder of their lives; for her garments are the shirts of nessus to all who wear them. she feels that she _is_ big enough now--big enough to begin. younger girls than her are night-walkers. julia is no older, and but little bigger, and she has often stopped in her walk to eat hot corn or pea-nuts with sally, and show her shining gold, trying to tempt her to go and do likewise. she has an interest, too, in the temptation, for she has told mrs. brown of her old playmate, sally eaton, and how good-looking she was; and mrs. brown has been to see her, has bought her merchandise, and spoken words of soul-trapping flattery, and promised julia a present of a new silk dress--that is, just as good as new, it had just been bought by a girl whom she turned out of doors because she could not pay her way--if she will coax sally to come and live with her. and so she has been sorely tempted. eve was so, and fell. these tempting words are now running through the brain of sally, as she stands in the crowd, wrapt in a blanket, kindly lent her, with her mother and little willie, looking at their home and every earthly thing going up in flame and smoke heavenward. her mother weeps, for the first time in long years. long, long, had she steeled her heart against such indulgence; its pent up fountains burst now. not for grief; no, they were tears, such as she shed when that girl was born. how she cried, and thanked god, and pressed the hand of the fireman and thanked him for saving her children's lives, dearer to her than all her household goods. how little he thought of the noble act. he almost repulsed her and her gratitude. "there, that'll do, old woman. you had better be getting in somewhere." somewhere! yes, somewhere! where? that is the question. the crowd shout at the heroic deeds of the firemen, and would carry them in triumph through the streets, or bring out baskets of champaigne to drink libations to their honor, for saving two helpless children from the flames. saved for what? to stand naked in the street! no. let them go to their friends. they have none. yes, they have, but not relatives. a few dollars are put into the mother's hand, but who will take her in? who will give her a home? one that three years ago had no home himself. one who had been more drunken than bill eaton--had been drunk for forty years. he is sober now--you shall hear directly how he became so. a man advanced in years, say more than half a century, followed by a tall, fine-formed, well-dressed, bright-eyed girl, about one-third her father's age, press through the crowd to where the widow and her children stand, take them by the hand and lead on, with the simple words, "come with us." it needs but few such words, spoken in such kind tones, to the afflicted to lead them into paths of peace, and hope, and joy. the mother went forward with a sort of mechanical motion of the limbs, unaided by any impulse of the mind. willie followed, as the lamb follows the ewe, whether to green fields or the butcher's shambles. sally was more independent. she was on the point of being entirely so, but a moment before. now she clung to her girlish companion, as the wrecked mariner to hope. had hope come one minute later, she had been led by the tempter that was gnawing at her heart-strings, to slip away from her mother, and in one hour afterwards, she would have been knocking at the ever-ready-to-open door of mrs. brown, and once passing that threshold, woe, woe, woe, had been written upon every page of her life. once having passed that door, every other but its like had been closed against her for ever. for the sin of entering that door, in her young years, the world would never forgive her. no matter, that gaudily dressed and luxuriously fed tempters had beset her and led her in. such tempters--such school teachers for city children are allowed to monopolise the broadway sidewalks, and hold their infant evening schools, if not by authority of the common council, at least by permission and countenance of the chief of police and all his "stars." no proserpine can walk this street at night alone, without meeting, or at least subjecting herself to, the sad fate of proserpine of old. few of those we meet in our late walks, are proserpines or vestas; although they may be goddesses of fire. seek not to lift the veil, you will find pandora there; blame not the girl who got her teachings in such a street, if, in her deep adversity she was tempted--tempted to leave that mother and brother, and slip away in the crowd, to go where she knew she would find a home. where else should she go? she knew of none. no one of all that crowd offered to take her home with him. she had no hope. she was a fit subject for despair, and despair is the father of temptation. what a blessed thing is hope, charity, and a will to do good; when it flows from one young girl to another! but who is it says, "come with us?" the voice seemed familiar, and yet not familiar to sally's ear. if the person had been clothed in such a garb of poverty as she herself had always worn, she would have known her, although it was three years since they had met. she was not; she wore a neat tidy calico frock, and clean white sun-bonnet, hastily put on, and altogether looked so neat, so smart, so comfortable, as though she had a home which she meant to take them to, when she said, "come with us," that the tempter's spell was broken. sally would not have gone with julia antrim, for all her gold and silks, good suppers and other enjoyments. the words were few and common-place. how often the mother and children had heard them before--"come with us." but they never sounded as they did this night. there is something in the tone, as well as words. there is a magnetic power in kindness. kind words are always winning, whether from friend or stranger. these came from strangers. not altogether so; the man had been one of the drunken companions of bill eaton; had helped to make him such, and now he was going to pay part of the damage to his family. the girl, in her father's drunken days, had been one of sally's street companions; they had begged, and stole, and peddled hot corn and pea-nuts together. but sally knew her not. how could she? then she was, ragged and dirty, far worse than sally; her parents were far poorer, and lived in a worse room, one of the worst in centre street, and both of them were great drunkards, and she was, so everybody said, "the worse child that ever run unhung." how could she know the well behaved, nice looking young lady, walking by her side. but she did know that she spoke kind words in a sweet tone, and her heart was touched, and she went on with a light step. that blanket wrapped a happier heart that night, than ever fluttered under the silk dress of her former playmate, julia antrim. they went on; the old man gave his arm to the widow and led the little boy; the daughter walked with sally. they enter the _front_ door of a good house--when did either ever enter the front door before--up one flight of clean stairs, and there is their home, a room, and two bed-rooms, and kitchen; small to be sure, but a most comfortable home, for the old man and his daughter. he was a carpenter, and made from a dollar and a half to two dollars a day; she was a stock-maker, and could earn from three to five dollars a week, enough to pay nearly all expenses. "three years ago," said he, "i was the most hopeless drunkard that ever tumbled into a centre street cellar. and my wife--but no matter--she is in heaven now. all that girl's work. she reformed us; she made me a sober man, and, god willing, i shall never fill a drunkard's grave." "oh, if she could only reform my husband, how i would bless her." "it is too late." "no, no; it is never too late; while there is life there is hope." "yes, true; but--" "but what? what is it? what do you know?" "why, you see, ma'am, i was in the crowd last night when the accident happened. it was me that first picked him up; and so, you see, i went up with him. it was me that told you that you couldn't go, 'cause i knew how 'twas with the children, and how you hadn't much to do with at home; for i had been sort o' watching bill, and he had promised to go with me this very night to sign the pledge; and so, you see, i went up with him, and they dressed his wounds, and i knew he wouldn't get over it, his blood was so bad, and it was so warm; but he might have lived a while, and so when they got things fixed, i thought i would come down and tell you about it; but just as i got down to the gate, a fellow came running after me to go back--it was a'most morning then--and so back i went. they said he had got crazy while i was in the room with another old friend, and when--when i--i--" "yes, i see; he is dead." "yes; he is dead. when i came back he was about gone, but he was just as rational as i am now. 'oh, jim,' said he, 'jim reagan, if i had only taken the pledge when you did, i should have been a man now. but i am glad i am going. my folks will be a great deal better off without me.'" "oh, no, no, no! he was my husband--their father--he might have reformed." "tell them," said he, "that i am dying, and that for the first time in ten years i feel as though i had my senses. if i could see them and know they forgave me all the wrongs i have inflicted upon them! do you think my wife could forgive--" "yes, yes; everything, everything." "so i told him, and that seemed to quiet him. and then i begged him to forgive me for what i had done towards making him a drunkard. 'oh,' says he, 'i can forgive everybody--even those who used to sell it to us, who used to take the bread out of our children's mouths for liquor, but i never can forgive those who made the law, or licensed them to murder us. i forgive everybody else that ever injured me, and i die in peace. tell my wife i die loving her. god bless her and my poor children, what will become of them? good bye, jim; go and see my wife, and tell her good bye, and that i die as i wish i had lived; but it is too late, too late. god bless my wife!' "i could not speak, i turned my eyes away a minute, looked again, and poor bill eaton was gone--gone to heaven, i am sure, if sincere repentance would take him there. well, you see, i could not do anything more for poor bill, for he was gone where we must all go pretty soon, and so i come down and waked up maggie." there was a start--a sudden wakening up to consciousness on the part of sally, she had recognised the name. "and says i, maggie, daughter, come get up, and go with me to see a poor widow and children in distress. oh, i wish you could have seen how she bounded out of bed--we sleep in beds, good clean beds, now, and how quick she dressed herself, and how neat, and cheerful, and pretty she looked, and how sweetly she said, 'now, father, i am ready, who is it?' and when i told her, how her heart bounded with joy, and then she told me she knew sally, but had not seen her for a long time, and so, arm in arm, we went out, and you know the rest. poor bill!" "oh, that i could have seen him--could have heard him speak soberly and affectionately once more--i think i could have given him up without a murmur." "no. you would not have been willing to give him up to die, just as he had begun to live. be content, you must not murmur. who knows but all this overwhelming affliction will work together for your good, and your children's good." "yes, mother, i am sure it will for mine. it has already, for i will be like maggie; don't you remember maggie?" "no. i don't recollect but one maggie--'wild maggie of the five points'--the most mischievous, ragged, dirty little beggar in all that dreadful neighborhood; and her father, the most filthy drunkard i ever saw. why he was a great deal worse than----." "your husband. speak it out, i am not ashamed to own it, now i have reformed." "you--you, not you; this is not maggie." "yes, mother, this is 'wild maggie,' and this is her father. this nice young lady, that said so sweetly, 'come with us,' this is 'wild maggie,' and this is--is--" "old jim reagan, the miserable old drunkard, that used to live in a miserable cellar, in centre street, and finally got turned out of that, and this is maggie, and this is our home." and he looked around proudly upon the comforts of this home, and contrasted them with the miseries of that. now margaret--mag or maggie, no longer--began to "fly around." breakfast was to be got, and what was much more difficult, a full-sized woman, a half-grown girl, and a quarter-grown boy, were to be clothed. how was it to be done? one of her dresses, "with a tuck,"--tucks are fashionable in these days--was soon made to fit sally. the father said, he would go out and get some clothes for mrs. eaton and little willie, for, thank god, he was able to do it, for what he saved by soberness, not only enabled him to live and clothe himself, but to fulfil that best of all christian injunctions, to be kind to the widows and fatherless, and he did not know of any that he was under more obligations to than the wife and children of bill eaton, and, god willing, he was going to clothe them, and then he was going to go with them to mr. pease, the man that had been the means of reclaiming him, and get them a home in the house of industry, until they could find some other one, or a way to earn a living. apparently it was not willed that he should spend his scanty store to clothe the naked at this time; the will to do so was equally acceptable to the great will, as though the deed were done, for just now there was a rap at the door, indicating an early visitor. who could it be? margaret ran down to see. a boy from a second-hand clothing store, entered with a large bundle. "i wants to know as how if the woman that was burnt out is here?" "yes." "and a little boy and gal?" "yes." "this is the place then. are you the gal what was at the fire and said, 'come with us?'" "yes, why do you ask that?" "'cause the gentleman told me to ask, and when i was sure i was right, to give the gal these three gold pieces, one for each word, and the bundle of clothes and the letter to the woman. that's all. so here they are. i am sure i is right for you don't look as though you could tell a lie if you tried. why what ails the gal? i'll be blamed if i see anything to cry about. why, hang me, what does it mean? i feel just so i should cry too if i stayed in this house long. so good bye. i am sure it is all right?" and the door closed behind him, and he was gone. what could it mean? was she dreaming? no! there lay the bundle, there glistened the half eagles in her hand. it could not be a dream, yet it was a mystery. how could any one know so soon that her roof contained one so needy? who had heard those words, those three little words, every one of which had turned to gold? yes, and will yet turn to fruit more precious. how she wished she had asked the boy who it was, who had been so suddenly raised up, so mysteriously sent to visit the widow in her affliction. perhaps the letter would tell. so she took it and the bundle up stairs and opened both. one contained full suits for the mother, daughter, and little boy, all black--the other was a letter to mr. pease. "can this be the work of man?" said mrs. eaton; "who knew, who could know, that i must wear the widow's weeds, so soon?" "there is a spirit of intelligence which maketh known secret things. how could any one without such spiritual aid know that you was a widow, that you was destitute, that we had bid you come with us, that i was just going out to buy clothes, and here they come like manna in the wilderness to israel's host. who will deny spiritual influence and special interposition now?" who will believe it, when they are told how all this seeming mystery will melt away with the shades of the night which brought it into the minds of these simple people? "but what is in the letter, my child, does that tell anything?" "nothing, father; it is addressed to the rev. mr. pease, at the five points house of industry, requesting him to give a home to a poor woman and two children, and says the writer will see him about it soon." "ah, that is just where i intended to take them, after the funeral." "yes, and see how nicely these clothes fit them, just as well as though made on purpose. how could anybody guess so well?" "it is no guess work. there is something more than guess work about this." so there was. "breakfast is ready, father." "then let us eat it in thankfulness and then." and then! chapter ii.[a] little katy.--a midnight interview. what is said in this, will apply to everything similar. "here's your nice hot corn, smoking hot, smoking hot, just from the pot!" hour after hour one evening, as i sat over the desk, this cry came up in a soft, plaintive voice, under my window, which told me of one of the ways of the poor to eke out means of subsistence in this over-burdened, ill-fed, and worse-lodged home of misery--of so many without means, who are constantly crowding into the dirtiest purlieus of this notoriously dirty city, where they are exposed to the daily chance of death from some sudden outbreaking epidemic like that now desolating the same kind of streets in new orleans, and swallowing up its thousands of victims from the same class of poverty-stricken, uncomfortably-provided for human beings, who know not how, or have not the power, to flee to the healthy hills and green fields of the country. here they live--barely live--in holes almost as hot as the hot corn, the cry of which rung in my ears from dark till midnight. [a] this chapter was published under the simple title of "hot corn," among the "city items" of the new york daily tribune, august , . it is but slightly altered from the original text. [illustration: "hot corn! here's your nice hot corn!"--_page ._] "hot corn! hot corn! here's your nice hot corn," rose up in a faint, child like voice, which seemed to have been aroused by the sound of my step as i was about entering the park, while the city clock told the hour when ghosts go forth upon their midnight rambles. i started, as though a spirit had given me a rap, for the sound seemed to come out of one of the iron posts which stand as sentinels over the main entrance, forbidding all vehicles to enter, unless the driver takes the trouble to pull up and tumble out of the way one of the aforesaid posts, which is not often done, because one of them, often, if not always, is out of its place, giving free ingress to the court-yard, or livery stable grounds of the city hall, which, in consideration of the growth of a few miserable dusty brown trees and doubtful colored grass-patches, we call "the park." looking over the post i discovered the owner of the hot corn cry, in the person of an emaciated little girl about twelve years old, whose dirty shawl was nearly the color of the rusty iron, and whose face, hands, and feet, naturally white and delicate, were grimmed with dirt until nearly of the same color. there were two white streaks running down from the soft blue eyes, that told of the hot scalding tears that were coursing their way over that naturally beautiful face. "some corn, sir," lisped the little sufferer, as she saw i had stopped to look at her, hardly daring to speak to one who did not address her in rough tones of command, such as "give me some corn, you little wolf's whelp," or a name still more opprobrious both to herself and mother. seeing i had no look of contempt for her, she said, piteously, "please buy some corn, sir." "no, my dear, i do not wish any; it is not very healthy in such warm weather as this, and especially so late at night." "oh dear, then, what shall i do?" "why, go home. it is past midnight, and such little girls as you ought not to be in the streets of this bad city at this time of night." "i can't go home--and i am so tired and sleepy. oh dear!" "cannot go home. why not?" "oh, sir, my mother will whip me if i go home without selling all my corn. oh, sir, do buy one ear, and then i shall have only two left, and i am sure she might let little sis and me eat them, for i have not had anything to eat since morning, only one apple the man gave me, and part of one he threw away. i could have stole a turnip at the grocery when i went to get--to get something in the pitcher for mother, but i dared not. i did use to steal, but mr. pease says it is naughty to steal, and i don't want to be naughty, indeed i don't; and i don't want to be a bad girl, like lizzy smith, and she is only two years older than me, if she does dress fine; 'cause mr. pease says she will be just like old drunken kate, one of these days. oh dear! now there goes a man, and i did not cry hot corn, what shall i do?" "do! there, that is what you shall do," as i dashed the corn in the gutter. "go home; tell your mother you have sold it all, and here is the money." "wont that be a lie, sir? mr. pease says we must not tell lies." "no, my dear, that wont be a lie, because i have bought it and thrown it away, instead of eating it." "but, sir, may i eat it then, if you don't want it?" "no, it is not good for you; good bread is better, and here is a sixpence to buy a loaf, and here is another to buy some nice cakes for you. now that is your money; don't give it to your mother, and don't stay out so late again. go home earlier and tell your mother you cannot sell all your corn and you cannot keep awake, and if she is a good mother she won't whip you." "oh, sir, she is a good mother sometimes. but i am sure the grocery man at the corner is not a good man, or he would not sell my mother rum, when he knows--for mr. pease told him so--that we poor children are starving. oh, i wish all the men were good men like him, and then my mother would not drink that nasty liquor, and beat and starve us, 'cause there would be nobody to sell her any--and then we should have plenty to eat." away she ran down the street towards that reeking centre of filth, poverty and misery, the noted five points of new, york. as i plodded up broadway, looking in here and there upon the palatial splendors of metropolitan "saloons"--i think that is the word for fashionable upper class grog-shops--i almost involuntarily cried, "hot corn," as i saw the hot spirit of that grain, under the various guises of "pure gin"--"old rum"--"pale brandy"--"pure port"--"heidsick"--or "lager-bier"--poured down the throats of men--and ah! yes, of women, too, whose daughters may some day sit, at midnight, upon the cold curbstone, crying "hot corn," to gain a penny for the purchase of a drink of the fiery dragon they are now inviting to a home in their bosoms, whose cry in after years will be, "give, give, give," and still as unsatisfied as the horse-leech's daughters. again, as i passed on up that street, still busy and thronged at midnight, as a country village at mid-day intermission of church service, ever and anon, from some side-street, came up the cry of "hot corn--hot corn!" and ever as i heard it, and ever as i shall, through all years to come, i thought of that little girl and her drunken mother, and the "bad man" at the corner grocery, and that her's was the best, the strongest maine law argument which had ever fallen upon my listening ear. again, as i turned the corner of spring street, the glare and splendor of a thousand gas lights, and the glittering cut glass of that, for the first time lighted-up, bar-room of the prescott house--so lauded by the press for its magnificence--dashes our eyes and blinds our senses, till we are almost ready to agree, that first class hotels must have such five point denizen-making appurtenances, as this glittering room, shamelessly, invitingly open to the street; when that watch-word cry, like the pibroch's startling peal, came up from the near vicinity, wailing like a lost spirit on the midnight air--"hot corn, hot corn!--here's your nice hot corn--smoking hot--hot--hot corn." "yes, yes!" i hear you cry--"it is a watchword--a glorious watchword, that bids us do or die--until the smoking hot, fiery furnace-like gates of hell, like this one now yawning before us, shall cease to be licensed by a christian people, or send delicate little girls at midnight through the streets, crying 'hot corn,' to support a drunken mother, whose first glass was taken in a 'fashionable saloon,' or first-class liquor-selling hotel." "hot corn," then, be the watchword of all who would rather see the grain fed to the drunkard's wife and children, than into the insatiable hot maw of the whiskey still. let your resolutions grow hot and strong, every time you hear this midnight city cry, that you will devote, if nothing more, "three grains of corn, mother, only three grains of corn," towards the salvation of the thousand equally pitiable objects as the little girl whose wailing cry has been the inciting cause of this present dish of "hot corn--smoking hot!" chapter iii. wild maggie. "a woman sometimes scorns what best contents her." it is human nature to scorn many things which would content us--which do content us after we once taste them. one of the reasons why the vicious scorn those who would make them better; why they scorn to change their present wretched life, or miserable habitations, is because they know not what would best content them. when that missionary first located his mission to the poorest of new york city poor, the drunkards, thieves, and prostitutes of the five points, he was scorned by those he came to save. he and his mission were hated with all the bitter hate which the evil mind oft feels for the good, made still more bitter by the sectarian venom of ignorant catholics towards the hated heretic protestants. every annoyance that low cunning could invent was thrown in his way. feeling the inefficiency of the system so long and so uselessly practiced, of giving bibles or tracts to such people, to be sold or pawned for a tenth part of their value, he began a new system. this was to give employment to the idle, to teach all, who would learn, how to work, how to earn their own living, and that industry would bring more content than drunkenness and its concomitant vices. though stolen fruit may be sweet, the bread of toil is sweeter, and he would teach them how to gain it. one of the first efforts made was work for the needle; because that was the most easily started, can be carried on with less capital, and, on the other hand, produces the least capital--or rather poorest pay to those who labor. yet it is better than idleness, and he soon found willing hands to work, after he opened his shop, and invited all who would conform to the rules, and were willing to earn their bread, rather than beg or steal it, to come and get work--such as coarse shirts and pants--work that they could do, many of them with skill and great rapidity, but such as they could not get trusted with at any common establishment--the very name of the place where they lived being sufficient to discredit them--so that security, which they could not give, for the return of the garments, closed the door against their very will to work. another discouraging thing against the very poor who did occasionally get "slop shop work," arose from some gross, cruel, wicked, downright robbery, perpetrated upon "sewing women" by some incarnate fiend in the clothing trade. the difficulty to get work, the miserably poor pay offered to those who "stitch, stitch, stitch, band and gusset and seam, seam and gusset and band, with eyes and lamp both burning dim, with none to lend a helping hand," is enough to sink stouter hearts than those which beat in misery's bosom. sunk in misery, poverty, crime, filth, degradation, want; neglected by all the world; hated by those who should love; trodden down by those who should, if they did a christian duty, lift up; living in habitations such as--but no matter, you shall go with me, by and by, to see where they live--how could they lift themselves up, how could they be industrious and improve their condition, how could they accept bibles and tracts, with any promise of good? so thought the missionary; and so he set himself about giving them the means to labor, with a hope and sure promise of reward. some of those who sent him there to preach salvation to the heathen of the five points differed with him--differ still--thinking that a christian minister degrades himself when he goes into a "slop shop" to give out needle-work to misery's household--or attempts to teach industry to idle, vicious children, or reform degraded women, by teaching them the ways of living without sin, without selling their bodies to buy bread, or in their despair, to exchange the last loaf for rum. so he opened a shop--now enlarged into a "house of industry"--and soon found his reward. but he was annoyed, hated, persecuted, beaten--but god and a good will conquered. among other petty, vexatious trifles--it is trifles that annoy--a little girl, in rags and filth, with a mat of soft "bonny brown hair," no doubt well colonized, bare-headed and bare-footed, in cold or heat, used to come every day to the door, ringing her shrill musical voice through the open way, through the crack or key-hole, if it was shut, calling him all sorts of opprobrious names, mixed with all sorts of sentences of catholic hatred to protestantism, that showed that she was herself a missionary from adults of evil minds. then she would call over the names of the inmates, with all their catalogue of crimes, giving little scraps of their history, and their hateful nick-names--singing some of the songs they used to sing in their drunken debauches at pete williams's; and such a voice as she had would have won her worshippers in high life, and she had been with them and of them. and her features and blue eyes were as beautiful as her voice was strong and sweet; and there she would tell him, and the crowd of idlers who came to listen, and laugh, and shout at her cunning tricks and evident annoyances, for what purpose he wanted all them old ----'s; and so it went on, day after day. all attempts to get rid of her were of no avail. scolding, threatening, were alike unheeded. "catch me first," was her answer. then he followed her to her home, to expostulate with her parents. vain effort! up anthony street to centre; come with me, reader, let us look at that home! there is a row of dens all along upon the east side of that street, full of those whom hope has forsaken, and misery has in her household. above ground, below ground, in cellar or garret, back room or front, black and white, see how they swarm at door and window, in hall and stairway, and out upon the sidewalk, all day in idleness, all night in mischief, crime, and sin. elbow your way along among the standing, and step over the prostrate drunken or sleeping women and children along the side-walk. stop here--here is a sort of hole-in-the-ground entrance to a long, dark, narrow alley, let us enter. "no, no, not there," you will exclaim. "surely human beings cannot live there?" yes, they do. that girl has just gone down there, and we will follow. "better not go there," says a young urchin in the crowd; "a man was stabbed down there last night." encouraging; but we enter, and grope along about a hundred feet, and a door opens on the right, the girl we have followed darts out, up like a cat, over a high fence, on to a roof, up that, into a garret window, with a wild laugh and ringing words, "you didn't do it this time, you old protestant thief, did you? you want to catch me, to send me to 'the island.' i know you, you old missionary villain you. i heard father phelan tell what you want to do with the poor folks at the points; you want to turn them out of house and home, and build up your grand houses, and make them all go to hear you preach your lies; you do, you old heretic, but you didn't catch me. i'll plague you again to-morrow." we entered her home--the home that the missionary was trying to turn her out of. can it be possible that human nature can cling to such a home, and refuse to be turned out, or occupy a better one. the room is one of a "row," along the narrow dark corridor we entered, half sunken below the ground, with another just such another row overhead, each ten or twelve feet square, with a door and one little window upon this narrow alley which is the only yard; at the end of which there is a contagion-breeding temple of cloacina, common to all. in "the house" that we enter, a man lies helplessly drunk upon a dirty rug on the floor; a woman, too much overcome to rise, sits propped up in one corner. there is altogether, perhaps, fifty cents worth of furniture and clothing in the room. and this is the loved home of one of the smartest, brightest, most intelligent little girls in this god-forsaken neighborhood. the missionary made known his errand and was told that he might do anything he pleased with the girl, if he would catch her and tame her. "for," said her mother, "what do we want with her at home--_at home_!--she is never here, only to sleep." only to sleep! where did she sleep? on the damp, bare floor, of course, where else could she sleep in that home? the next morning various devices were contrived to catch her, to force her into a better home. all failed. when did force ever succeed with one of her sex? if the serpent had _bid_ our first mother to eat the apple, she would have thrown it down the villain's throat, splitting his forked tongue in its passage. finally it was arranged that a boy, noted as "a runner," should stand behind the door, and when she came with her jibes, sometimes provoking mirth, and sometimes ire, he should jump out and catch her. "catch me if you can!" and away went she, away went he, under this cart and over that. now he will have her--his hand is outstretched to seize his chase--vain hope--she drops suddenly in his path, and he goes headlong down a cellar. when he came up there was a great shout, and a great many dirty bare-footed girls about, but that one was nowhere in sight. so back he goes, enters the door; and a wild laugh follows him close upon his heels. "you didn't catch me this time, did you? don't you want another race? ha, ha, ha." and away she went, singing: "up, up, and away with the rising sun, the chase is now before ye; up, up and away with hound and gun, the chase is now before ye." it was a chase that cunning must catch, strength could not win. everybody said she never could be caught and tamed. she had run wild all her young years. she was not by nature vicious, but she was most incorrigibly mischievous. she was, so everybody said, and he ought to know, beyond the hope of redemption. yet everybody was mistaken. reader, you already know this girl, for this is "wild maggie, of the five points." this is the kind, sweet, tender-hearted margaret, you have read of in a former chapter, ministering to the wants of that poor widow and destitute children, living in comfort, with neatness and industry, and her father, in a happy home; and that father the poor, miserable, wretched, besotted drunkard, whom we found in that wretched hole, in that dark alley in centre street. what a change! it was a change for good. it was a deed of mercy to redeem such a child as this from a course of life that has but one phase--one worse than useless object--one wretched termination. what magic power had wrought this change? words of kindness, charity, hope, teachings of the happiness attendant on virtue, religion, industry; by these the worst can be redeemed. how? "finding every effort unavailing," said the missionary, "i changed my tactics. i was busy one morning in the workshop, laying out work, when i cast my eye towards the open door, and there saw wild maggie, waiting for a word upon which she might retort. without seeming to notice her, i said, loud enough for her to hear, 'oh, how i wish i had some one to help me lay out this work.' there was a look of intelligence spreading over her face, which seemed to say as plainly as looks could say, 'i could do that.' "'will you?' i said; she started as though i was mentally replying to her passing thoughts. "she did not say, 'yes,' but she thought it. i had touched a chord. "'maggie,' said i, with all the tone and looks of kindness i could command, 'maggie, my girl, come in; you can help me; i know you are smart, come, i will give you sixpence if you will help me a little while.' she stepped into the door, looked behind it suspiciously, and started back. she remembered the trap. 'no, i won't. you want to catch me and send me to the island. i know you, you old protestant. old kate told me yesterday, that you had sent off liz. smith, nance hastings, and hump-backed lize, and a lot of girls.' "'so i have, but not to the island. they have all got good places where they are contented and happy. but i don't send anybody away that don't want to go. i won't send you away, nor won't keep you if you don't want to stay.' "'will you let me come out again, if i come in, when i am a mind to?' "'yes, certainly, my dear child.' "my dear child!" where has she ever heard those words? in former days, before her father and mother had sunk so low, as they now are, when she used to go to school, to church, and sabbath-school, and wear clothes, such as she was not ashamed of. want of clothing will sink the highest to the lowest state of rags, and dirt, and misery. "'will you swear, that you will let me come out, and you won't beat me. limping bill and one-eyed luce, his woman, says, you licked little sappy till she died.' "'they are great liars.' "'so they say you are. that you preach nothing but lies.' "'well, i won't lie to you, maggie, and i won't whip you, but i won't swear. did you ever know any good man swear?' "she thought a moment, and replied, 'well, i don't know--i know them that swear the most will lie. will you let the door stand open? if you will i will come in?' "'yes,' and in she came. "'now, what do you want i should do?' "'there, do you look at me. i am laying out shirts for the women to sew. that pile, there, that is the body; this, the sleeves; that, the collar; these, the wristbands; these, the gussets; here are six buttons, and here is the thread to make it, and then it will be a shirt when made. now we roll it up and tie a string around it; now it is ready to give out. now, you can do that just as well as i can, and you don't know how much it will help me.' "'yes, i can, and i can beat you.' so she could. she was just as quick at work as she was at play and mischief, and the piles disappeared under her nimble fingers much more rapidly than they did under his, and so he told her. who had ever praised her work before, though all had "her deviltry?" the spirit of reformation had already commenced its glorious work. "when that job was finished, she turned her sweet blue eyes upon me, with an expression which said as plain as eyes can speak, 'i am sorry that job is done. i like that, can't you give me another?' "there was no other which she could do just then, but she said, 'what shall i do now?'" "well, maggie, i have no more work for you to-day, but here is your sixpence, i promised you, and here are some cakes; come again to-morrow, you can help me every day. i like your help." she did not want to go. she had tasted of a fruit which had opened her eyes, and she would fain clothe herself in fig leaves, so they hid the deformity of dirt, and rags, and sin. wild as the fawn, as easily as the fawn subdued. at the approach of man, that timid animal bounds into the thickest brake and hides away; but once in the hands of man, it turns and follows him to his home, licking his hand as though it were with its own dam. so was wild maggie tamed. "what shall i do now?" what should she do? a score of little girls were huddling around the door, for the news was out that maggie, wild maggie, had been caught and caged, and they wanted to see "what would come of it." "a thought struck me," said the missionary. "i asked her if she could read. yes, and write. had she been to school? yes. then you shall play school. you shall have these benches, and you shall call in those children, and you shall be the teacher, and so you may play school." was there ever a happier thought engendered. maggie was delighted, the children came rushing in, ready for "a play never before enacted in this theatre." for an hour or more she plied her task diligently, and it was astonishing with what effect. how she reduced her unruly materials to order. how she made them say, yes, ma'am, and no, ma'am, to their school mistress. how she made them sit and "look like somebody." taught this one his a b cs, and that one to spell b-a-k-e-r. how she told this one to wash his face, next time he came to school, and that one if she had any better clothes, to wear them. poor maggie, she never thought of the poverty of her own. "now," said she, "every one of you sit still; not a word of noise, and no running out while i am gone, or i shall punish you worse than shutting you up in a dark closet. mr. pease, will you look to my school a moment?" away she bounded. oh, what a step! step! it was more like flying. a moment, hardly time for a few pleasant words to her school, and she bounds in again, with a little paper parcel in her hand. what could it mean? it means that, many a flower in wilds unseen, the sweetest fragrance grows; from many a deep and hidden spring, the coolest water flows. she first inquires, "have they all been good?" "yes, all." then she unwraps her parcel. how they look and wonder, "what is it?" what is it? simply this. she has been out and spent her sixpence to do unto others just as she had been done unto. did ever cakes taste sweeter? did ever benevolence better enjoy herself than maggie did, while thus distributing her rewards? what a lesson of self-sacrifice! the first sixpence--the whole treasure of this world's goods, spent to promote the happiness of others. this was a hint. it were a dull intellect that could not improve it. the children were further fed, and bid to come again to-morrow. "and this," said he, "was the beginning of our ragged beggar children school, that has proved such a blessing to this neighborhood. "maggie," said i, taking her by the hand and looking her in the eye. "maggie, you have helped me a great deal to-day, will you come again to-morrow?" the string was touched, and tears flowed. when had tears, except tears of anger, filled those eyes before? what had touched that string? kind words! "if you will let me stay, i wont go away. i can learn to sew. i can make these shirts." "yes, yes; and if you are here, these children will come, and we will have school every day." and so wild maggie was wild maggie no more. she was tamed. her life had taken on a new phase. to the questions, what would her father say? what would her mother say? she replied, "what do they care? what have they ever cared? though they were not always so bad as they now are." no, they were not always so bad as they now are. none of his class were always so bad as they now are. once her father was james reagan, a respectable man, a good carpenter, and had a good home. now where was he. sunk, step by step, from hotel to saloon, from saloon to bar-room, from bar-room to corner grocery, from grocery to cellar rum hole, from a good house to a filthy, underground den in centre street. he has but one more step to take--one more underground hole to occupy. but such as he may reform. he did. you have seen that. will you ask, how? you shall know. maggie became one of the household. she was washed, and fed, and clothed; and how she worked, and learnt everything, and how she listened at the temperance meetings to what "the pledge" had done, and how she wished her mother would come and try--try to leave off drinking, and become "the good mother she was when i was a little girl." for her father she had no hope. for her mother, she determined to persevere. when she was sober she would talk, and cry, and promise, but the demon rum would overcome her, and then she would curse her daughter, and call her all the vile names that the insane devil in her could invent. and so it went on; maggie still determined, still trying. the right time came at last. one night, maggie was not at the meeting. by and by, there was a little stir at the door. what is the matter? a little girl is pulling a woman, almost by force, into the room. it is maggie and her mother. she has got her old ragged dress off, and looks quite neat in one that maggie has made for her. but she hides her face. she is ashamed to look those in the face she would have once looked down upon. a woman is speaking--women can speak upon temperance--just such a woman as herself--is it not herself--is she awake, or does she sleep and dream? if awake, she hears her own story. the story of a woman with a drunken husband. and she traces his fall from affluence down to beggary; then her fall, down, down, down, to a cellar in farlow's court; there her husband dies; there upon a pile of straw and rags upon the floor, in drunken unconsciousness, she gives birth to a child--a living child by the side of its dead father. "what a night--what a scene, but you have not seen the worst of it. the very heavens, as though angry at such awful use of the gifts of reason, and the abuse of appetite, sent their forked messengers of fire to the earth--less dangerous than the fire that man bottles up for his own damnation; and the water came down in torrents, pouring into that cave where the dead, and living, and new born were lying together, and overflowed the floor, and when i felt its chill," said she, "i awaked out of my drunken sleep, and felt around me, to see, no, i could not see, all was pitch darkness. my child cried, and then--then a whole army of rats, driven in by the rain, driven by the water from the floor, came creeping on to me. oh! how their slimy bodies felt as they crept over my face. then i tried to awaken my husband, but he would not wake, and in my frenzy i struck and bit him--bit a dead man--for his was the sleep of eternity. then i summoned almost superhuman strength, and creeped up the stairs and out into the court. i looked up; the storm was gone; there was a smile in heaven--it was the smile of that murdered babe; for when i had begged a light, and went back again to that dreadful, dreadful habitation--why are human beings permitted to live in such awful holes--has nobody any care for human life--what did i see? mothers, mothers--mothers that sleep on soft couches--hear me, hear me--hear of the bitter fruits the rum trade bears--the rats had devoured the life blood of that child. what next i know not. i know that i have never drank since--never will again--by signing this pledge i was saved--all may be saved." "all? all? can i--can i be restored as you have been--can i shake off this demon that has dragged me down so low that my own mother would not know me; or knowing, would spurn me? can i be saved?" it was maggie's mother. "yes, you, you, i was a thousand times worse. look at me now." "yes, mother, you. come." and she took her by the hand and led her up to the table, put a pen in her hand--dropt upon her knees--looked up to her mother imploringly--up to heaven prayerfully--her lips quivered--the tears rolled down her cheeks--"now, mother, now." 'tis done. she wrote her name in a fair hand--mary reagan--'tis done. 'tis done!--'tis done!--wild maggie cries; 'tis done!--'tis done!--the mother sighs; 'tis done!--'tis done!--in chorus join, to bear aloft the news along. 'tis done!--'tis done! a voice replies, stand forth, be strong, and you shall rise. and so she did. she never fell. she came to live in the house with maggie. "i cannot go back," she said, "to live with your father, if i would stand fast; and i cannot think, after hearing that woman's story, last night, of ever drinking again. i know that woman; i knew her when she was a girl, one of the proudest and prettiest. my husband has spent many a dollar with hers in the bar-room. oh yes, i knew her well. i did not know her last night; but when she told me who she was--that she was elsie wendall--then i knew her. oh! i could tell you such a story--but not now. no! no, i cannot live with your father again, for i never will drink any more--never--never!" "but what, if father will take the pledge?" "oh! then i should be a happy woman again. but there is no hope." "yes, there is hope. i shall watch him; and, mother, i _will_ save him." it was a great promise--a great undertaking for a young girl to promise with an "i will." when did "i will" in woman's mouth ever fail? that will was the strength of her life. it was for that she now lived and labored. now she had hope--now 'twas lost--now revived again. now he worked a month--sober for a whole month--then down he went if he happened to go into one of his old haunts, or meet with some of his old companions, who said, "come, jim, let's take one drink--only one--one won't do any hurt"--but two follow the one. then maggie would look him up, get him sober again, and get him to work. god bless that child! god did bless her, for she stuck to him, until he finally consented to come once, just once to the temperance meeting--but he would not sign the pledge--he never would sign away his liberties--no--he was a free man. well only come, come and listen--come and see mother. that touched him. he loved mother--yes he would come. the evening came. maggie watched every shadow that darkened the door. finally the last one seemed to have entered, but jim reagan was not among them. maggie could not give it up. she slipped out into the street, it was well she did. she was just in time. a knot of men were talking together, of the tyranny of temperance men, wanting to make slaves of the people, getting them to sign away their rights--rights their fathers fought and bled for. yes, and so had they--at the nose. they had just carried the point, and started to follow cale jones over to his grocery, who was going to stand treat all round. one lingered a moment--looked back--as though he had promised to go that way--but appetite was too strong for conscience, and he turned towards the rum-hole. just then a gentle hand is laid upon his arm, and a sweet voice says: "father, come with me, come and see mother--don't go with those men." woman conquered. when cale jones counted noses, to see which he should charge with the treat he had promised "to stand," he found jim reagan was not in the crowd. "why, damn the fellow, he has given us the slip after all our trouble. i thought we had made a sure thing of it. i tell you what it is, boys, we must manage somehow to stop this business, or trade is ruined. if people are not to be allowed to drink anything but water, there'll be many an honest man out of business. times is hard enough now, what'll they be then?" just then tom nolan, the mason--it used to be drunken tom nolan--was telling what they would be, at the temperance meeting. it was a propitious time for maggie. she led her father in, he hung back a little, and tried to get into a dark corner near the door. that she would not allow; some of satan's imps might drag him away from the very threshold of salvation. she led him along, he was sober now, and looked sad, perhaps, ashamed. "james, you here? oh!" it was his wife. he knew her voice, it was that of other days. he stared at her; could it be her, so neat, and clean, and well dressed, and speaking so fondly to him--to him--for she had refused to see him ever since she took the pledge. now, she came forward, took him by the hand, ragged and dirty as he was--she knew what would clean him--led him to a seat and sat down by his side. maggie sat on the other. for a minute the speaker could not go on. there was a choking in his throat, strong man as he was, and there were many tears in the eyes that looked upon that father, mother, and daughter, that night. "jim reagan," said the speaker, "i am glad to see you here. you are an old acquaintance of mine." jim reagan looked at him with astonishment. could that well dressed laboring man, clean shaved and clean shirted, be tom nolan? "i don't wonder that you look inquiringly at me, as much as to say, 'is that you?' yes, it is me, tom nolan, the mason, me who used to lay around the dirty rum holes with you, begging, lying, stealing, to get a drink. do you think that now i would pick up old cigar stumps and quids of tobacco, to fill my pipe? do you think i would wear a hat, as i have done, that my poor beggared boy picked out of the street? look at that. does that look like the old battered thing i used to wear? do these clothes look like the dirty rags i wore when you and i slept in cale jones's coal-box? do i look like the drunken tom nolan that kept a family of starving beggars, with two other families, in one room, ten by twelve feet square; and that a garret room, without fireplace, without glass in its one window; with the roof so low that i could only stand up straight in one corner; and that mean room in the vilest locality on earth, in a house--ah! whole row of houses, tenanted by just such miserable, rum-beggared human beings--buildings owned by a human monster--houses for the poor which are enough to sicken the vilest of beasts; such as no good man would let for tenements, even when he could get tenants as degraded as i was--tenements that any christian grand jury would indict, and any court, which desired to protect the lives of the people, would compel the owners to pull down, as the worst, with one exception, of all city nuisances. "how did i live there? how did my wife and children ever live there, in that little miserable room, with seven others, just such wretches as ourselves? how do hundreds of such men, women, and children as we were, still live there? i was in that same room--the place my children used to call _home_--this evening. the entrance is in cow bay. if you would like to see it, saturate your handkerchief with camphor, so that you can endure the horrid stench, and enter. grope your way through the long, dark, narrow passage--turn to your right, up the dark and dangerous stairway; be careful where you place your foot around the lower step, or in the corners of the broad stairs, for it is more than shoe-mouth deep of steaming filth. be careful too, or you may meet some one--perhaps a man, perhaps a woman--as nature divides the sexes; as the rum seller combines them, both beasts, who in their drunken frenzy may thrust you, for the very hatred of your better clothes, or the fear that you have come to rescue them from their crazy loved dens of death, down, headlong down, those filthy stairs. up, up, winding up, five stories high, now you are under the black smoky roof; turn to the left--take care and not upset that seething pot of butcher's offal soup, that is cooking upon a little furnace at the head of the stairs--open that door--go in, if you can get in. look; here is a negro and his wife sitting upon the floor--where else could they sit, for there is no chair--eating their supper off of the bottom of a pail. a broken brown earthen jug holds water--perhaps not all water. another negro and his wife occupy another corner; a third sits in the window monopolising all the air astir. in another corner, what do we see? "a negro man, and a stout, hearty, rather good looking, young white woman." "not sleeping together?" "no, not exactly that--there is no bed in the room--no chair--no table--no nothing--but rags, and dirt, and vermin, and degraded, rum degraded, human beings--men and women with just such souls as animate the highest and proudest in the land." "who is this man?" "dat am ring-nosed bill." "is that his wife?" "well, i don't know that. he calls her his woman." "and she lives with him as his wife--you all live here together in this room?" "well, we is got nowhere else to live. poor folks can't lib as rich ones do--hab to pay rent--pretty hard to do that alone." "how much rent for this room?" "seventy-five cents a week, ebry time in advance." "who is this man?" "they calls me snaky jo. 'spose may be my name is jo snaky. don't know rightly." "what do you do for a living?" "well, mighty hard to tell dat, dat am fact, massa. picks up a job now and then. mighty hard times though--give poor man a lift, massa." "is that man and woman drunk." "well, 'spose am, little tossicated." "a little intoxicated! they are dead drunk, lying perfectly unconscious, in each other's _emesis_, upon the bare floor. the atmosphere of this room is enough to breed contagion, and sicken the whole neighborhood, and would, but that the whole neighborhood is equally bad. let us hasten down to the open air of the court--it is but little better--all pollution--all that breathe it, polluted. yet, in that gate of death i once lived. look at me, james, you knew me then. look at me now, you don't know me. you knew me a beast--you may know me a man--you may know yourself one. sign this paper--there is a power of magic in it--and you shall go home with me, and see where i live now, and i will clothe you and help to sustain you in your sober life, just as thomas elting did me, and with heaven's blessing, we will make a man of you." "too late! too late! not enough of the old frame left to rebuild." "it is never too late. look at the piles of old brick, and tiles, and boards, and joist, and rafters, and doors, and glass, of the pulled down houses. are they wasted? i am a mason, you a carpenter; if we cannot put them back and build up the same old-fashioned edifice, we can make a good, snug, comfortable house. come, sign the contract, and let us set right about the job." "father, come, father!" he turned and spoke a few low words to his wife, to which she replied: "yes, i will. keep the pledge one month and i will go and live with you, die with you." "then try it, father, come." and she led him forward, just as she had done her mother. you have seen, shall see, how heaven blessed her for filial piety. "i used to write. 'tis a long time since i did. maggie, my hand trembles. help me--guide the pen. i cannot see clearly." no wonder. there was a tear in each eye. there were other tears when maggie took him again by the hand, and again said: "come, father, let us pray;" and then all kneeled down together, and then mr. nolan took him by the arm, and said, "come, james, let us go home." not yet. he had one more act to perform. he shook his wife's hand, and said, "good bye. i shall keep it." then he looked wishfully at maggie, as though he wanted something, yet dare not ask it, for fear he should be repulsed. still the yearning of nature was upon him. it was a long time since he had felt it as he now felt, but he was beginning to be a new man. maggie was his only child, his once loved, much caressed child. would she ever cling those arms around his neck again. she had shown herself this night one of the blessed of this earth. she had done, or induced him to do, what no other soul on earth could have done, and how his heart did yearn to clasp her in his arms. he stopped half way to the door, and looked upon her with tearful, loving, thankful eyes. it needs no wires, no magnet, no human contrivance, to convey the magnetism of the heart. she felt its power, as it sprung from the lightning flash of loving eyes, and quick as that flash, she made one bound, one word, "father!" and her arms were around his neck, her lips to his, and here let us shift the scene. chapter iv. the temptation.--the fall. eve was tempted of satan, and fell. so have been her children. about two months after the events of the last chapter, a few of the new friends of james reagan joined together, procured a comfortable room in mulberry street, and put in the necessary articles of furniture, and his wife, faithful to her promise, came to live with him. there was a great contrast between this and the home where we visited him in centre street. nolan and elting stuck to him, and he stuck to the pledge. margaret watched him, visited him, went with him and her mother to church and temperance meetings, and, finally, became satisfied and happy that her father had made a complete reformation, and that he had outlived all danger of relapse; so she accepted a good offer to go into the country, and live in a farmer's house, where she would learn house-work. it was her fortune, but his misfortune, thus to be separated. she was his ever-watchful guardian angel. his wife was affectionately kind, and they lived together, as of old, happily. and so, as of adam and eve in paradise, they might have lived, if there had been no serpents in new york. they beset him--waylaid him--tempted him--but no art could induce him to enter their sulphurous dens. cale jones swore that he would get him back; that he would have him among his old cronies again, or die in the attempt. "them ere cold water chaps aren't a going to crow over me that ere way, no how. i tell you what it is, boys, you must contrive some way to get jim in here some night; he has got money now, and if he won't drink himself, he shall stand treat any how. we've treated him many a time." "dat am de fac," says ring-nosed bill. "shut your clapper, you drunken nigger, you; who axt you to put in your oar. if you want to do anything, just get jim reagan, by hook or crook, in here once more." "and you will give him what you did pedlar jake." "shut pan, or i'll chuck your ivory into your bread-basket. what's in your wool, snakey?" "dis nigger knows how to fix him. make him come his self." "let her rip, snakey; how'll you do it?" "jis go to work at right end foremost. 'spose you the debble stick him forked tongue right out all at once to frighten fader adam? no, sir-ee; he creep round mighty sly, and wiggle him tail at mudder eve, and den she come it over de old man. dat am the way. aren't you got no gumption?" "i understand. who shall the eve be, snakey?" "smoky sal. she is a pet of his. he got her in." "i know it. she is in that old missionary's claws. how are you going to get her out?" "dat easy 'nuff, so you work him right. gib us a drink, cale. i isn't going to grab for you for nothing." "i'll give you a gallon if you bring him in. how'll you do it?' "do you think this nigger am a fool, sure? 'spose i gwine to tell you, and lose the gallon. take notice, ring-nose, it's a fair trade. so jis you git ready to-morrow night for business, case he'll be down then." the next night the trap was set. snakey went to one-eyed angeline, and promised her a share in the gallon, if she would contrive a plan to get smoky sal out of the house of industry, and get her over to cale jones's, and get her drunk. these two had long been sisters in sin. one had reformed, or was trying to reform, for reagan had got her into the house, and seemed very anxious for her, having, as he said, been the cause of her downfall. the other hated her for her reformation, and would drag her back, down, down, to the wretched life she had escaped from. so she sent word to sally that she was sick and almost dying, and begged her to come and see her. how could she refuse? so she went, and found her with her head tied up, and in dreadful pain. directly in came snakey jo, with the first installment of the gallon. it was to bathe her head. can an old inebriate put liquor upon the outside of the head without putting it in? sally could not. she smelt--she tasted--she drank--was drunk--and then angeline took her down to cale jones's grocery, and into his back room, and then that black imp of a worse than slave's master, watched for reagan as he started for home, and with an air of honesty that might deceive the wariest old fox into a trap, he told him how "angeline had coaxed sally into the grocery, and he had been watching an hour"--that was the only truth he spoke--he watched for another victim--"and she hadn't come out yet, and he was afraid she was in trouble; and now, mister reagan, i is so glad i is fell in wid you, accidental like, case i didn't know as you was in the points, case you can get her out, and get her back home." with a natural impulse to do good, he determined, imprudently, to be sure, to do what he had not done since he signed the pledge--to enter a rum-hole. there he found the two women as the negro had told him. sally was completely overcome, and lying in one corner of "the back room." back it was, quite out of sight or hearing of the street, where many a victim had been robbed at a game of cards, or by more direct means. it was in this room that pedlar jake got his quietus. "i had been in the room often before," said reagan. "i knew the way, and i paid no heed to the hypocritically angry words i was greeted with as i entered, and told to clear out and mind my own business. i pushed my way through the crowd of loafers, and entered the door of death. that old witch, angeline, took care to get out of my way as i went in. i sat down upon the bed and tried to rouse up the victim of this infernal plot, little thinking that i was the greatest one of the two. the room was very close and foul, and as i had been unused, lately, to breathe such air, it made me sick. 'tom,' said i--let me stop and moralize a little upon this name. i would never call a child, tom. there is something fatal in the word. i have known more drunken toms than of all other names. it is a low-bred name. bill, jim, joe, sam, ike, are all bad, but none equal to tom." "two of my drunkenest companions," said reagan, "afterwards, my best friends, were toms--now thomas elting and thomas nolan." parents, don't nickname your children, it is a step down that may carry them to the bottom of the ladder. give your children good names; names they will not be ashamed of in after life, and never cut them short. never call, william, bill; or, catherine, kate; or, mary, that most beautiful of all names, a name i love, moll; it will, perhaps, be the direct cause of their ruin as they grow up. who would think of speaking a foul word to miss mary dudley? who would speak with respect to moll dud? parents, think of it. now, here was another tom. a bright, active boy--tom top, whose proper name was, thomas topham. what if he had been called charles? why, his nickname would have been an elongation to charley, a name that everybody loves. at any rate, he would not have been, drunken tom--a poor, neglected orphan boy, who, for want of some one to guide and keep him in the path of virtue, had strayed into the very worst of all paths of vice. from a home, where he received a fair education, and had a good mother, but a father who learned him to drink, and who thought it cunning to call him, tom top, he was come down to be a mere hanger-on around cale jones's grocery. "god never works without an object," is an axiom of those who look every day to him for counsel. we shall see in time how the villain was defeated in his object of bringing reagan into this place, and making use of tom for an instrument of his ruin. "'tom,' said i, 'bring me a glass of water.' he did so, i tasted it and set it down a moment for the ice to melt. when i took it up again, i swallowed the whole tumbler full at a gulph. in a moment my throat, my stomach, my brain were on fire. i had drank half-a-pint of white whiskey. those wicked wretches had hired tom to substitute one glass for the other. what transpired for three days after, i know not." the next morning, before sunrise, his wife came down to the points in an agony of fear. "was reagan there?" was her hopeful inquiry. hope sunk and almost carried her with it when told that he left there before ten to go home. "then he is lost, lost, lost!" all that day he was searched for up and down, high and low, but nobody had seen him. how the villains lied, for they were all the time gloating over their victory--double victory--two stray sheep won back--back to the wolf's den. all that day the pack were carousing upon the money robbed from reagan. "what a glorious haul, boys," says cale jones, "we must have tom elting and nolan, next, and then hurrah, boys, we'll break up old pease and drive him out of the points yet." how could human nature become so infernally depraved, as to rejoice over and glorify such deeds of darkness? by rum. the very parent of total depravity. at night, after their day's work, elting and nolan came down and joined the search, looking into every hole that was most likely to have been used for his tomb, worse than tomb, for it was the burial-place of his soul. they did not look in cale jones's back room, for he "took his bible oath that jim reagan had never entered his door in a three month." finally, after the pack had spent every cent of his money, and pawned every article of his clothing, they were ready to get rid of his company. but they were not quite satisfied with the misery they had made for his wife, and so they plotted a scheme so wicked that the most incarnate one of all the hosts of the infernal regions would blush to own the deed. they knew that sally had been a source of disturbance, a cause of jealousy to his wife in by-gone years, and so they laid their plan. madalina, a little beggar girl, an italian rag-picker's daughter, was promised a sixpence to go, as she would not be suspected, to tell mrs. reagan, that tom knew where her husband was. it was a faint hope, but drowning men catch at straws. tom was hunted up. he was easily found, for he had his instructions, "to bring the old woman along." did they hope in her frenzy of despair and jealousy that she too would fall? yes they did. could human ingenuity contrive anything more harrowing to the mind of a wife, searching for her absent husband, than an introduction into a room where he was in bed with another woman, folding her, in his drunken insanity, in his arms, protesting how he loved her, loved her better than he did--better than--his grog? the monsters missed their aim. mrs. reagan spoke kindly to him as though in her own bed; begged him to get up and go home with her. no he would not. she might go back to her old missionary paramour. she might go to ---- no matter where, he was drunk. but he could not get up, for the villains had stripped him of every stitch of clothing; they had not even left him a shirt. so she went away, sorrowing. "tom," said she, "come, go home with me, that is a good boy, i feel so faint and weak." tom was a good boy; who had ever said it though? one, one he remembered, and these words came like hers and nestled down in his heart. they will live there and drive out evil ones. tom went home with her, giving her his arm and telling her to lean upon it. tom was not the best of guides, he made several missteps that day, for tears dimmed his eyes, but he made one good step, it was up the ladder of reform. "mrs. reagan," said he, "let me stay here to-day, i have got no home, and i don't feel as though i wanted to go back to cale jones's." no. he did not want to go back there. he had heard the sound of his dead mother's voice, saying, good boy. nobody would say, good boy, if he went back there. conscience too was doing her work; conscience told him what he had done to a woman who now said, "good boy." so he stayed--he was a good boy--she was sick and he waited upon her all day. at night he was going to get mr. elting and nolan to go with him and bring reagan home. that would be his reward. he has his hand upon the door to go out, but waits a moment to see who comes. he opens it to a hurried footstep, and in bounds wild maggie, her face radiant with health, strength, and the lovely bloom of country life. "where's father? mother sick? what's the matter?" her mother draws the clothes over her face. she would not have her daughter see her weep. "tom, my boy, tell me; come, tom, that is a good boy--the truth, nothing but the truth--i must know it." good boy, again, and his heart overflowed. he could stand kicks, and cuffs, and curses, without a tear, but he could not hold out against, "good boy." "maggie, i will not lie to _you_, i could not; but i can't tell you the truth." "why?" "i am 'fraid you won't call me good boy again." "yes, i will. i don't believe you are a bad one." "and you won't hate me?" "no, no; she cannot hate you, for you have been good to her mother, to-day." "mother! oh! i know all about it. you need not tell me. only, where is he? i will go and bring him home." "did heaven ever give a mother such another child?" yes, many such. many a flower would send its blossomed sweets to many a heart, but for blighting frosts in its young years. "what sent you home, maggie?" "i don't know, mother; i felt as though i was wanted. something told me so. i dreamed so for three nights, and so i came." she was soon told everything. tom made a full confession; and still she did not hate him. she told him how he could help her. he should go with her; she was going to bring her father home. she gave him a little bundle of clothes to carry; and away they went. she stopped on her way down, at the police office, made her complaint, and took an officer along with her, who arrested cale jones and the two women; the rest of the gang were prowling for prey somewhere else. the women were sent to the island, next day, for they had no friends. the plotter of villainy had. the alderman of the sixth ward, was his friend; political friend; him he sent for; and after being an hour in custody, he was discharged; and this was the end of his punishment. reagan, since his wife's visit in the morning, had steadily refused to drink any more, and had become in a measure sober. it was a sad meeting with his daughter. at first, he refused to see or speak to her. he was ashamed. nature overcame him at last, and he got up and pulled off the dirty suit his robbers had put on him, preparatory to kicking him into the street, and put on the clean ones, which maggie and tom had brought him; and then they took him, each by an arm, and went home. it was a sad home; it never will be a happy one again. then she went to work and got him some supper, spending of her own little store to buy some tea, and such things as he could eat. "now," says she, "i have got another thing to do to-night, for i must go back again in the morning. tom, i am going to provide you with a home. you must go to the house of industry, reform, and make a man of yourself." reader, do not forget. this ministering angel, is wild maggie. most willingly he went with her, and was most kindly received by the superintendent. there we will leave him awhile. we shall see him again perhaps. maggie went back to her country home. her father remained sick for some days, and then went to work, but his spirit was broken, he grew more and more uneasy, and finally, in a fit of despondency, met with one of his old cronies, and back he went, down, down, to his former degradation. had he gone back and renewed his pledge, after his first fall, when he was dragged down, he might have been saved; but he would not; he said, he had proved himself incapable of ever being a man again, and so he sunk in despair. week after week his clothes, his furniture, his wife's clothes, even her daughter's gift-bible, went for rum. nothing was left, but starvation. yes, there was one thing left for her--one thing that that wife had never before received from her husband. a blow, a black-eye, and a kick. it was one drop too much in her cup of affliction, and she parted with him for ever, and came back to her old home, the house of industry. tom welcomed her with a smile; he was door-keeper now. "it is better to be door-keeper," said he, "in the house--you know the rest. i will call mr. p. i am sure, he will give you a home, he said as much yesterday. i shall write to maggie now, and let her know all about it." "you are very kind, tom, to say that." "well, wasn't she kind to me? where should i have been all this time, if it had not been for her? i think, we will get the old man in again, yet." "no, no, he is passed everything, now. he never was so bad before, never struck me a blow before. a blow from him! oh! it is dreadful. i never can forgive that." "don't say that. 'forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.'" "true, my boy, you have taught me a lesson. i will forgive, but i don't think he will ever get over this bout; he is very violent." "the most violent fires are soonest burnt out." tom had faith, she had none, she was a sad victim of despair--a despairing wife. but time will heal the deepest wounds. she went to work, grew cheerful, and contented there to spend the remainder of her life, which she said, would not be long. of that she seemed to have a presentiment, and made all preparation which it becomes a reasonable mortal to make for such a prospective journey. she seemed to have but one wish. "oh! if i could see my husband as he was a few months ago, i should be willing to die then. but i cannot bear to die now with the thought upon my mind, that he would never shed a tear at my grave." his time was coming. tom was a philosopher. "didn't i tell you," says he, "that the fire would soon burn out. he was here last night, walking up and down the pavement for hours, looking down into the kitchen when you were at work." "perhaps he wanted to strike me again." "no, he was as sober as a judge." "oh, dear! then may be he was hungry, poor man." "so i thought, and went and bought him a loaf of bread. when i gave it to him, he burst into tears, and walked away to a cart and sat down to eat it. he was hungry, and for fear he would be dry, and go to that cursed hole--" "don't swear, tom." "i can't help it; it is one, and why not call it so? i did not want him to go there, and so i went and got him a cup of water, and carried to him, and then i thought if everybody knew what a blessed thing it is to give these poor old drunkards bread and water instead of rum, how much happiness they might make in the world. and then i talked to him about taking the pledge again, but he said, 'no, tom, i took it once, i don't want to break it again.' 'no,' said i, 'you did not break it, it was me that did it, i was the guilty one.' and then i told him all about it. he never knew before. the rascals there told him, that he and sally came there together and called for whiskey, and then got drunk and went to bed together, and he believed it; his mind was so confused that he forgot all about the past, and he never knew till now that they had lied to him so shockingly. 'you don't know,' says he, 'tom, what a load you have lifted off of my conscience.' then i asked him where he was going to sleep that night? "'where? where should i? in the cart or under it. anywhere i can find a hole. me that have had a house of my own, and built a score of houses for others to sleep in, have not slept in one these two months. perhaps never shall again.' "'yes you will,' says i; 'you will sleep in that one to-night.' "'what! under the same roof with my wife once more; i don't know as i could stand it; it is more happiness than i deserve.' "'no, it is not; and if you will go away in the morning, and stay away all day, and come back at night as sober as you are now, i will ask the superintendent to take you in for good.' "'i will, i will! i will go away and sweep the streets to-morrow; they will give me another loaf of bread, and that is more than i have had for a whole week.' "so you see, he will come again to-night, and then it is temperance meeting, and we will get him in. depend upon it, if he ever takes the pledge again he will never break it." true to his word, reagan came the next night sober. "see," said he, "tom, i have got a quarter of a dollar, and have not spent it for liquor. if some of the harpies knew i had it, how they would be after me." he hesitated long about going into the meeting. he was afraid his wife would be there, and he could not bear to meet her. she was equally afraid to meet him. finally, one of the assistants went out and talked with him. "do you think," he replied, "that i could ever be a man again? i am afraid there is not enough of me left to make one. manhood is all gone. i feel as though i had made a beast of myself so long, that i must always be a beast. but if you think there is enough left of the old wreck--" "enough? yes; come along." this was a new voice, just come up on the other side. he looked around; it was nolan. "nolan, my old friend--you were a friend to me; and i will try if mr. pease will agree to shut me up and keep me out of the way of these alligators. look at them. don't they lie about just like alligators in the mud and swamps, ready to snap up every poor dog that comes within reach of their tails or jaws?" well, he took the pledge, and in due time we will see how he kept it. while i give my readers a little respite from the contemplation of such characters as have been introduced in the preceding chapters, i propose to introduce a little episode in the life of two of those which they have seen engaged in the noble work of reclaiming and sustaining a poor inebriate in his efforts to become a sober man. that they had reason to believe in the possibility of such reclamation, the reader will understand after reading the historical facts of the next chapter. chapter v. the two penny marriage. "and ye twain shall be one flesh." "what god hath joined together, let no man put asunder." no, not even rum; yet it often does. we have just read of one of the many thousand sad instances that have occurred in this world, of rum separating those who had taken upon them that holy ordinance which makes them as one flesh, one heart, one mind; and, unless such have one mind both to be drunk together, how can they live with one another? how can they live in rum's pollution in the holy bonds of matrimony? there is nothing holy about such a sinful life. do away with the cause--abolish intoxicating liquor from society, and you will not only rivet those holy bonds with golden rivets, but you will shut up nine-tenths of the brothels and gaming houses in this city. without rum they could not live over the first quarter's rent day. with it their profits are enormous--its effects awful. i could point you to a house in this city, with its twenty-five painted harlots, where the sales of wine in one year have been thirteen thousand bottles, costing $ , , and selling for $ , . and why not a profit, since men and women will get drunk in a palace, the mere repairs or additions to which, in one season, cost the almost incredible sum of $ , ? who furnished the money? who made the inmates what they are? those who _made the wine_; not those who furnished the grape juice, for it is probable that the whole did not contain a thousand bottles full of that liquor. what caused the inmates to be what they are? rum! who made them harlots? not those who marry, or are given in marriage. marriage is one of the best preventives of licentiousness, but it is not often perhaps that it produces so positive a reformation as in the following cases. "i have married," said mr. pease to me one day, "some very curious couples. that of elting was very remarkable." he was sitting one evening, trying to post up his books, amid continued interruptions, such as, "little lucy's eyes are worse to-night, sir." "let me see. she must go into the hospital. send the sore-eye nurse to me. take this little girl to your room--keep her eyes well washed with cold water, and use that ointment. report to me to-morrow. go." "that is a fine-looking woman." "yes, and an excellent nurse. she lived last year in one of those centre street cellars. she came here with both eyes nearly out of her head; gouged by a drunken husband. we put her into the sore eye hospital, and soon found she would make a good nurse for the afflicted children." "mr. pease, is it the powder once and the pills every hour, or is it t'other way?" "exactly. the other way. you have hit it. the powder is dover's powder, to allay fever. the pills are cathartic. go." "cathartic. i never heard of that pill-maker before. wonder if he will make as many as brandreth has," says this interrupter as she goes away. "susan apsley says you promised her she might go out this evening." "did she come in all right when she was out before?" "all right, sir." "let her go." "please, sir, may i go with her?" "who is this." "juliana, sir. i want to go and see my cousin madalina, sir." "oh, yes, i remember. you are the little italian tambourine girl. yes, you may go. see if you can get that pretty cousin of yours to come and live here." "she would like to, sir, but her mother won't let her." "very well. go." and he resumed his work. " and are , and are ; two 's are --" "yes, but two ones want to be made one." "how is that--what do you want?" reader, will you just turn to the illustration of the couple that now presented themselves as candidates for matrimony. the delineator and engraver have made one of the most perfect daguerreian pictures ever got up from description. "what do you want of me?" "we want to be married, sir." "want to be married--what for?" "why, you see, we don't think it is right for us to be living together this way any longer, and we have been talking over the matter to-day, and you see----" "yes, yes, i see you have been talking over the matter over the bottle, and have come to a sort of drunken conclusion to get married. when you get sober, you will both repent it, probably." "no, sir, we are not very drunk now, not so drunk but what we can think, and we don't think we are doing right--we are not doing as we were brought up to do by pious parents. we have been reading about the good things you have done for just such poor outcasts as we are, and we want you to try and do something for us." "read! can you read? do you read the bible?" "well, not much lately, but we read the newspapers, and sometimes we read something good in them. how can we read the bible when we are drunk?" "do you think getting married will keep you from getting drunk?" "yes, for we are going to take the pledge too, and we shall keep it, depend upon that." "suppose you take the pledge and try that first, and if you can keep it till you can wash some of the dirt away, and get some clothes on, then i will marry you." [illustration: the two penny marriage couple.--_page ._] "no; that won't do. i shall get to thinking what a poor, dirty, miserable wretch i am, and how i am living with this woman, who is not a bad woman by nature; and then i will drink, and then she will drink--oh, cursed rum!--and what is to prevent us? but if we were married, my wife, yes, mr. pease, my wife, would say, 'thomas'--she would not say, 'tom, you dirty brute,'--'don't be tempted;' and who knows but we might be somebody yet--somebody that our own mothers would not be ashamed of?" here the woman, who had been silent and rather moody, burst into a violent flood of tears, crying, "mother, mother, i know not whether she is alive or not, and dare not inquire; but if we were married and reformed, i would make her happy once more." "i could no longer resist the appeal," said mr. p., "and determined to give them a trial. i have married a good many poor, wretched-looking couples, but none that looked quite so much so as this. the man was hatless and shoeless, without coat or vest, with long hair and beard grimed with dirt. he was by trade a bricklayer, one of the best in the city. the woman wore the last remains of a silk bonnet, and something that might pass for shoes, and an old, very old dress, once a rich merino, apparently without any under garments." "your name is thomas--thomas what?" "elting, sir. thomas elting, a good, true name and true man; that is, shall be, if you marry us." "well, well. i am going to marry you." "are you? there, mag, i told you so." "don't call me mag. if i am going to be married, it shall be by my right name, the one my mother gave me." "not mag? well, i never knew that." "now, thomas, hold your tongue, you talk too much. what is your name?" "matilda. must i tell you the other? yes, i will, and i never will disgrace it. i don't think, i should ever have been as bad if i had kept it. that bad woman who first tempted me to ruin, made me take a false name. they always do that, sir, and so she said i must take another name, i did not know what for then; and so they called me mag, and that is the name he knows me by, and i never would have told him my right name, only that we are going to get married, and reform." could they do it--could beings sunk so low, reform? we shall see. "it is a bad thing, sir, for a girl to give up her name unless for that of a good husband. matilda morgan. nobody that is good knows me by any other name in this bad city." yes, it is a bad thing for a girl to give up her own name for a fictitious one. i could tell a touching story of an instance of a poor sewing woman, who went to one of these name-changing houses to work, not to sin, who was coaxed to be called lucy, instead of her own sweet name of athalia, and how she was accidentally discovered and rescued from the very jaws of ruin by her own uncle. but not now, i must go on with the marriage. the bride and bridegroom are waiting, and the reader for a share of the feast. "now i am going to join you two in wedlock; it cannot make you worse, it may better. look me in the face. now, matilda and thomas, take each other by the right hand, look at me, while i unite you in the holy bonds of marriage by god's ordinance. do you think you are sufficiently sober to comprehend its solemnity?" "yes, sir." "marriage being one of god's holy ordinances, cannot be kept in sin, misery, filth, and drunkenness. thomas, will you take matilda to be your lawful, true, only, wedded wife?" "yes, sir." "you promise that you will live with her, in sickness as well as health, and nourish, protect, and comfort her as your true and faithful wife; that you will be to her a true and faithful husband; that you will not get drunk, and will clothe yourself and keep clean?" "so i will." "never mind answering until i get through. you promise to abstain totally from every kind of drink that intoxicates, and treat this woman kindly, affectionately, and love her as a husband should love his wedded wife. now, all of this will you, here before me as the servant of the most high,--here, in the sight of god, in heaven, most faithfully promise, if i give you this woman to be your wedded wife?" "yes, i will." "and you, matilda, on your part, will you promise the same, and be a true wife to this man?" "i will try, sir." "but do you promise all this faithfully?" "yes, sir, i will." it was a woman's "i will," spoken right out with a good, hearty emphasis, that told, as it always tells, the faith and truth of woman, when she says, "i will." "then i pronounce you man and wife." "now, thomas," says the new wife, after i had made out the certificate and given it to her, with an injunction to keep it safely--"now pay mr. pease, and let us go home and break the bottle." thomas felt first in the right pocket, then the left, then back to the right, then he examined the watch fob. it is probable that the former owner of this principal article of his wardrobe, owned a watch. it is more likely that the present owner had been often in the hands of the watch, than that he had often had a watch in his hands. he was evidently searching for lost treasures. "why, where is it?" says she. "you had two dollars this morning." "yes, i know it; but i have only got two cents this evening. there, mr. pease, take them. it is all i have got in the world--what more can i give?" sure enough; what could he do more? he took them and prayed over them, that in parting with the last penny, this couple might have parted with a vice--a wicked, foolish practice, which had reduced them to such a degree of poverty and wretchedness, that the monster power of rum could hardly send its victims lower. so, by a few words, i hope, words of power to do good, thomas and matilda, long known as, drunken tom and mag, were transformed into mr. and mrs. elting, and having grown somewhat more sober while in the house, seemed to fully understand their new position, and all the obligations they had taken upon themselves. "for a few days," said mr. p., "i thought occasionally of this two-penny marriage, and then it became absorbed with a thousand other scenes of wretchedness which i have witnessed since i have lived in this centre of city misery. time wore on, and i married many other couples; often those who came in their carriage and left a golden marriage fee--a delicate way of giving to the needy--but among all, i had never performed the rite for a couple quite so low as that of this two-penny fee, and i resolved i never would again. at length, however, i had a call from a full match to them, which i refused." "why do you come to me to be married, my friend?" said i to the man. "you are both too poor to live separate; and, besides, you are both terrible drunkards, i know you are." "that is just what we want to get married for, and take the pledge." "take that first." "no; we must take all together--nothing else will save us." "will that?" "it did one of my friends." "well, then, go and bring that friend here; let me see and hear how much it saved him, and then i will make up my mind what to do. if i can do you any good, i want to do it." "my friend is at work--he has got a good job and several hands working for him, and is making money, and won't quit till night. shall i come this evening?" "yes, i will stay at home and wait for you." he little expected to see him again, but about eight o'clock the servant said that man and his girl, with a _gentleman_ and _lady_, were waiting in the reception room. he told him to ask the lady and gentleman to walk up to the parlor and sit a moment, while he sent the candidates for marriage away, being determined never to unite another drunken couple, not dreaming that there was any sympathy between the parties. but they would not come up; they wanted to see that couple married. so he went down, and found the squalidly wretched pair, that had been there in the morning, in conversation, and apparently very friendly and intimate, with the lady and gentleman. he had the appearance of a well dressed laboring man, for he wore a fine black coat, silk vest, gold watch-chain, clean white shirt and cravat, polished calf-skin boots; and his wife was just as neat and tidily dressed as anybody's wife, and her face beamed with intelligence, and the way in which she clung to the arm of her husband, as she seemed to shrink out of sight, told that she was a loving as well as a pretty wife. "this couple," said the gentleman, "have come to be married." "yes, i know it," said mr. p., "and i have refused. look at them; do they look like fit subjects for such a holy ordinance? god never intended those, whom he created in his own image, should live in matrimony like this man and woman. i cannot marry them." "cannot! why not? you married us when we were worse off--more dirty--worse clothed, and more intoxicated." "the woman shrunk back a little more out of sight. i saw she trembled violently, and put her clean cambric handkerchief up to her eyes." "what could it mean? married them when worse off? who were they?" "have you forgotten us?" said the woman, taking my hands in hers, and dropping on her knees; "have you forgotten drunken tom and mag? we have never forgotten you, but pray for you every day!" "if you have forgotten them, you have not forgotten the two-penny marriage. no wonder you did not know us. i told matilda she need not be afraid, or ashamed, if you did know her. but i knew you would not. how could you? we were in rags and dirt then. look at us now. all your work, sir. all the blessing of the pledge and that marriage, and that good advice you gave us. look at this suit of clothes, and her dress--all matilda's work, every stitch of it. come and look at our house, as neat as she is. everything in it to make a comfortable home; and, oh! sir, there is a cradle in our bedroom. five hundred dollars already in bank, and i shall add as much more next week when i finish my job. so much for one year of a sober life, and a faithful, honest, good wife. now, this man is as good a workman as i am, only he is bound down with the galling fetters of drunkenness, and living with a woman as i did, only worse, for they have two children. what will they be, if they chance to live, and grow up to womanhood in cow bay? now he has made up his mind to try to be a man again--he is a beast now--he thinks that he can reform just as well as me; but he thinks he must take the pledge of the same man, and have his first effort sanctified with the same blessing, and then, with a good resolution, and matilda and me to watch over them, i do believe they will succeed." so they did. so may others, by the same means. they were married, solemnly, impressively, solemnly married; and pledged to total abstinence in the most earnest manner; and promised most faithfully, not only to keep the pledge, but to do unto others, as elting had done unto them. both promises you have seen that they have kept well. as they were parting, elting slipped something into nolan's hand, and told him to pay the marriage fee. "i thought," said the missionary, "of the two pennies, and expected nothing more, and therefore was not disappointed when he handed me the two reddish-looking coins. i thought, well, they are bright, new looking cents, at any rate, and i hope their lives will be like them. i was in hopes that it might have been a couple of dollars this time, but i said nothing, and we parted with a mutual god bless you. when i went up stairs, i tossed the coin into my wife's lap, with the remark, 'two pennies again, my dear.'" "two pennies! why, husband, they are eagles--real golden eagles. what a deal of good they will do. what blessings have followed that act." and what blessings did follow the last one; will always follow the pledge faithfully kept; will always follow a well formed, faithfully kept union, even if it is a "two-penny marriage." chapter vi. the home of little katy. "there is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow." "he, that of the greatest works is finisher, oft does them by the weakest minister." i have still another little episode in this life drama--a scene in one of the acts, which we may as well put upon the stage at this point of the story, though it is quite unconnected with those that immediately precede it; yet you will find a character here, in whom you have, perhaps, taken some interest. it is the termination of the story of the hot corn girl, whom you read about in chapter second, whose portrait you have already looked at in the frontispiece of this volume. you have read in the story of little katy, what a world of cheap happiness can be bought with a shilling. no one of the thousand silver coins wasted that night in hotel, saloon, bar-room, grocery, or rum hole, gave the waster half the pleasure that that shilling gave to three individuals--he that gave and those who received. no ice-cream, cake, jelly, or health-destroying candy, tasted half so sweet as the bread purchased with that sixpence. no man ever made so small an investment, that paid so well, both in a pecuniary point of view and large increase of human happiness, for it has been the means of waking up benevolence, not dead but sleeping, to look about and inquire, what shall i do to remove this misery-producing curse from among us? thousands have read the story of little katy, and thousands of little hearts have been touched. many hands have been opened--more will be. these little stories, detailing some of the sufferings which crime and misery bring upon the poor of this city, will be, as some of them already have been, read with tearful eyes. you have read the story of a poor neglected child of a drunken mother--not always so--wasting her young life away with no object but to live, with no thought of death. it is a sad tale, and it is not yet finished. the next night after the interview with that neglected, ill-used little girl, the same plaintive cry of "hot corn, hot corn!--here's your nice hot corn!" came up through our open window, on the midnight air, while the rain came dripping down from the overcharged clouds, in just sufficient quantities to wet the thin single garment of the owner of that sweet young voice, without giving her an acceptable excuse for leaving her post before her hard task was completed. at length the voice grew faint, and then ceased altogether, and then i knew that exhausted nature slept--that a tender house-plant was exposed to the chilling influence of a night rain--that an innocent girl had the curb-stone for a bed and an iron post for a pillow--that by and by she would awaken, not invigorated with refreshing slumber, but poisoned with the sleep-inhaled miasma of the filth-reeking gutter at her feet, which may he breathed with impunity awake, but like the malaria of our southern coast, is death to the sleeper.[b] not soothed by a dreamy consciousness of hearing a mother's voice tuning a soft lullaby of "hush, my child, lie still and slumber;" but starting like a sentinel upon a savage frontier post, with alarm at having slept; shivering with night air and fear, and, finally, compelled to go home, trembling like a culprit, to hear the harsh words of a mother--yes, a mother--but oh! what a mother--cursing her for not performing an impossibility, because exhausted nature slept--because her child had not made a profit which would have enabled her more freely to indulge in the soul and body-destroying vice of drunkenness, to which she had fallen from an estate, when "my carriage" was one of the "household words" which used to greet the young ears of that poor little death-stricken, neglected, street sufferer. [b] on many of the rice and sea island plantations in south carolina and georgia, in fact upon almost all the coast lands of these states, the malaria is so deadly in its effects upon the sleeper, that every effort is made to keep awake by those who are accidentally exposed for a single night to its influence. many of the most beautiful residences in the vicinity of charleston, are uninhabited by white persons in summer. the negroes are not at all, or only slightly affected. the overseers often have a little cabin in the most convenient pine woods, to which they retire before nightfall. no doubt, though to a less deadly degree, the malaria arises from the filth in our dirty streets, killing its thousands of little children every year. it was past midnight when she awoke, and found herself, with a desperate effort, just able to reach the bottom of the rickety stairs which led to her _home_. we shall not go up now. in a little while, reader, you shall see where live the city poor. you shall go with me at midnight to the _home of little katy_. you shall see where she lies upon her straw pallet in a miserable garret; yet she was born in as rich a chamber as you or you, who tread upon soft turkey carpets when you go to your downy couches. wait a little. tired--worn with the daily toil--for such is the work of an editor who caters for the appetites of his morning readers--i was not present the next night to note the absence of that cry from its accustomed spot; but the next and next, and still on, i listened in vain--that voice was not there. true, the same hot-corn cry came floating upon the evening breeze across the park, or wormed its way from some cracked-fiddle voice down the street, up and around the corner, or out of some dark alley, with a broken english accent, that sounded almost as much like "lager bier" as it did like the commodity the immigrant, struggling to eke out his precarious existence, wished to sell. all over this great poverty-burdened, and wicked waste, extravagant city, at this season, that cry goes up, nightly proclaiming one of the habits of this late-supper eating people. yes, i missed that cry. "hot corn" was no longer like the music of a stringed instrument to a weary man, for the treble-string was broken, and, for me the harmony spoiled. who shall say there is not music in those two little words? "hot corn" shall yet be trilled from boudoir and parlor, as fairy fingers run over the piano keys. hot corn! hot corn! shall yet be the chorus of the minstrel's song, and hot tears shall flow at the remembrance of "little katy." but that one song had ceased. that voice came not upon my listening ear. what was that voice to me? it was but one in a thousand, just as miserable, which may be daily heard where human misery has its abode. that voice, as some others have, did not haunt me, but its absence, in spite of all reasoning, made me feel uneasy. i do not believe in spiritual manifestations half as strongly as some of the costermongers of the fruits of other men's brains, who eke out their existence by retailing petty scandal to long-eared listeners, would have them believe; yet i do believe there is a spirit in man, not yet made manifest, which makes us yearn after coexisting spirits in this sphere and in this life, and that there is no need of going beyond it, after strange idols. i shall not stop to inquire whether it was a spirit of "the first, third or sixth sphere," that prompted me, as i left my desk one evening, to go down among the abodes of the poor, with a feeling of certainty that i should see or hear something of the lost voice, or what spirit led me on; perhaps it was the spirit of curiosity; no matter, it led, and i followed, in the road i had seen that little one go before--it was my only cue--i knew no name--had no number, nor knew any one that knew her whom i was going to find. yes, i knew that good missionary; and she had told me of the good words which he had spoken; but would he know her from the hundred just like her? perhaps. it will cost nothing to inquire. i went down centre street with a light heart; i turned into cross street with a step buoyed with hope; i stood at the corner of little-water street, and looked around inquiringly of the spirit, and mentally said, "which way now?" the answer was a far-off scream of despair. i stood still with an open ear, for the sound of prayer, followed by a sweet hymn of praise to god, went up from the site of the old brewery, in which i joined, thankful that that was no longer the abode of all the worst crimes ever concentrated under one roof. hark! a step approaches. my unseen guide whispered, "ask him." it were a curious question to ask a stranger, in such a strange place, particularly one like him, haggard with over much care, toil, or mental labor. prematurely old, his days shortened by overwork in his young years, as his furrowed face and almost frenzied eye hurriedly indicate, as we see the flash of the lamp upon his dark visage, as he approaches with that peculiar american step which impels the body forward at railroad speed. shall i get out of his way before he walks over me? what if he is a crazy man? no; the spirit was right--no false raps here. it is that good missionary. that man who has done more to reform that den of crime, the five points of new-york, than all the municipal authorities of this police-hunting, and prison-punishing city, where misfortune is deemed a crime, or the unfortunate driven to it, by the way they are treated with harsh words, damp cells--death cells--and cold prison-bars, instead of being reformed, or strengthened in their resolution to reform, by kind words; means to earn food, rather than forced to steal it; by schools and infant-teaching, rather than old offenders-punishing. "sir," said mr. pease, "what brings you here at this time of night, for i know there is an object; can i aid you?" "perhaps, i don't know--a foolish whim--a little child--one of the miserable, with a drunken mother." "come with me, then. there are many such. i am just going to visit one, who will die before morning--a sweet little girl, born in better days, and dying now--but you shall see, and then we will talk about the one you would seek to save." we were soon treading a narrow alley, where pestilence walketh in darkness; and crime, wretched poverty, and filthy misery, go hand in hand to destruction. "behold," said my friend, "the fruits of our city excise. here is the profit of money spent for license to kill the body and damn the soul." proven by the awful curses and loud blows of a drunken husband upon a wife, once an ornament of society, and exemplary member of a christian church, that came up out of one of the low cellars, which human beings call by the holy name of home! the fetid odor of this filthy lane had been made more fetid by the late and almost scalding hot rains, until it seemed to us that such an air was only fit for a charnel house. with the thermometer at , at midnight, how could men live in such a place, below the surface of the earth? has rum rendered them proof against the effect of carbonic acid gas? we groped our way along to the foot of an outside stair-case, where our conductor paused for a moment, calling my attention to the spot. "here," said mr. pease, "the little sufferer we are going to see, fainted a few nights ago, and lay all night exposed to the rain, where she was found and beaten in the morning by her miserable mother, just then coming home from a night of debauch and licentiousness, with a man who would be ashamed to visit her in her habitation, or have 'the world' know that he consorted with a street wanderer." "beat her! for what?" "because she had not sold all her corn, which she had been sent out with the evening before. poor thing, she had fallen asleep, and some villain had robbed her of her little store, and, as it is with greater crimes, the wicked escaped and the innocent suffered." i thought aloud: "great and unknown cause, hast thou brought me to her very door?" my friend stared, but did not comprehend the expression. "be careful," said he, "the stairs are very old, and slippery." "beat her?" said i, without regarding what he was saying. "yes, beat her, while she was in a fever of delirium, from which she has never rallied. she has never spoken rationally, since she was taken. her constant prayer seems to be to see some particular person before she dies. "'oh, if i could see him once more--there--there--that is him--no, no, he did not speak that way to me--he did not curse and beat me.' "such is her conversation, and that induced her mother to send for me, but i was not the man. 'will he come?' she says, every time i visit her; for, thinking to soothe and comfort her, i promised to bring him." we had reached the top of the stairs, and stood a moment at the open door, where sin and misery dwelt, where sickness had come, and where death would soon enter. "will he come?" a faint voice came up from a low bed in one corner, seen by the very dim light of a miserable lamp. that voice. i could not be mistaken. i could not enter. let me wait a moment in the open air, for there is a choking sensation coming over me. "come in," said my friend. "will he come?" two hands were stretched out imploringly towards the missionary, as the sound of his voice was recognised. "she is much weaker to-night," said her mother, in quite a lady-like manner, for the sense of her drunken wrong to her dying child had kept her sober, ever since she had been sick; "but she is quite delirious, and all the time talking about that man who spoke kindly to her one night in the park, and gave her money to buy bread." "will he come?" "yes, yes; through the guidance of the good spirit that rules the world, and leads us by unseen paths, through dark places, for his own wise purposes, _he has come_." the little emaciated form started up in bed, and a pair of beautiful, soft blue eyes glanced around the room, peering through the semi-darkness, as if in search of something heard but unseen. "katy, darling," said the mother, "what is the matter?" "where is he, mother? he is here. i heard him speak." "yes, yes, sweet little innocent, he is here, kneeling by your bedside. there, lay down, you are very sick." "only once, just once, let me put my arms around your neck, and kiss you, just as i used to kiss papa. i had a papa once, when we lived in the big house--there, there. oh, i did want to see you, to thank you for the bread and the cakes; i was very hungry, and it did taste so good--and little sis, she waked up, and she eat and eat, and after a while she went to sleep with a piece in her hand, and i went to sleep; hav'n't i been asleep a good while? i thought i was asleep in the park, and somebody stole all my corn, and my mother whipt me for it, but i could not help it. oh dear, i feel sleepy now. i can't talk any more. i am very tired. i cannot see; the candle has gone out. i think i am going to die. i thank you; i wanted to thank you for the bread--i thought you would not come. good bye--sissy, good bye. sissy--you will come--mother--don't--drink--any more--mother--good b--." "'tis the last of earth," said the good man at our side--"let us pray." reader, christian reader, little katy is in her grave. prayers for her are unavailing. there are in this city a thousand just such cases. prayers for them are unavailing. faith without works, works not reform. a faithful, prayerful resolution, to work out that reform which will save you from reading the recital of such scenes--such fruits of the rum trade as this before you, will work together for your own and others' good. go forth and listen. if you hear a little voice crying _hot corn!_ think of poor katy, and of the hosts of innocents slain by that remorseless tyrant--rum. go forth and seek a better spirit to rule over us. cry aloud, "will he come," and the answer will be, "yes, yes, he is here." * * * * * the commendation given to these stories, as they were published in the _tribune_, was an inducement for me to "keep the cry of _hot corn_ before the people," for i saw that they appreciated my labors; and i set about collecting other materials, and writing out notes made during many a night-watch among the habitations of men, yet the abodes of misery, with which this city abounds. many an anxious mind, after conning the preceding chapters, has yearned after further knowledge touching the things therein hinted at. many have asked to know more of "sissy," and little katy's mother. it is a laudable curiosity: it shall be gratified in due time. i have other stories--other scenes where you may stop a moment and drop a tear, and then we will walk on with our life scenes. first we will finish that of maggie's mother. chapter vii. maggie's mother. let go thy hold--the glass has run out its sands--the wheel goes down hill. there is a time to mourn. reagan took the pledge, and took up his residence at that house of the destitute. at first, he did not ask to live with his wife. he said, he was not worthy of her. he begged tom to write to maggie: "i know it will make her happy to learn that i am here." so it did. the rose had another rival now. her cheeks blossomed afresh. reagan worked busily--he did up a great many little jobs of joiner-work; and when there was nothing more to do at that, he said, let me go into the bake-shop, shoe-shop, anywhere. i will sit down with those women and use the needle, rather than be idle, or venture out where tempters will beset me. so he went on for some time, till he grew stronger and gained more confidence--his wife strengthened him by her counsel, and then he ventured out to work where he could earn good wages. it was curious to see him go quite out of his way, around a whole square, perhaps, to avoid going by one of his old haunts. "i have suffered so much," said he to me one day, "from the temptation of these places, where the liquor is placed in our sight on purpose to allure and whet our depraved appetites, that it is no wonder that the poor inebriate loses his balance and falls into the abyss. if there was no liquor in sight, there would be no danger of our falling back into old habits. i never should think of going to look after it. the danger is when it is thrust right under my nose. oh, that these rum shops might be shut up, or at least, kept out of sight!" this was the earnest prayer of one who knew the demon power of temptation which one, who is trying to reform, has constantly to combat with. those who sell liquor know the advantage to them of this temptation. so they fix up the street corners with all the enticing attractions of artistic skill. the cool ice water; the free lunch; the ever-burning light for the smoker's convenience; the arm-chair and easy lounge, and cool room in summer, or well heated one in winter; the ever open, always free resting-place for the tired walker, or ennui-tormented genteel loafer, are only a few of the inducements to just "step in a moment;" and then the old appetite is aroused by the sight and smell of liquor in the glistening array of cut glass, and by the influence of a score of old companions standing before the bar--they will stand before another bar hereafter--or sitting at the little white marble tables, sipping or sucking "sherry cobblers" and "mint juleps" through a glass "straw." woe to the tired walker who has been tempted into one of these invitingly open rooms. if he has the power to resist his own inclination to drink, he may not have enough to resist the persuasion of half a dozen of his acquaintances, or the force of crazed brains and strong hands, by which he is dragged up and held, while they merit the curse denounced upon those who "put the cup to their neighbor's lips." perhaps he will be taunted with meanness for coming in to drink water and rest himself, "and not patronise the house." from this, those of us who desire to see those places of temptation shut up, may take the hint. let reading rooms be opened, free to all who choose to come in and read the papers, drink ice water, and enjoy their rest in the shade, or partake of the comforts of a warm room, for a five cent fee. a coffee and tea room, strictly so, may be attached. how much better than drinking such liquor as those who visit all our public places must do, or be set down as mean. "let them stay at home," is a common answer to those who say they fell by the temptations of such places. "suppose," said jim reagan to me one day, "that we have no home. that was my case when i was a young man. i lived in a common boarding-house; in my little uncomfortable room i would not stay; where else had i to go but the public bar room, and there i learned to drink; i was a good fellow then; a genteel young man, and married a genteel young girl; i did not go down all at once--it was step by step, slow but sure--to cale jones's grocery and the centre street cellar." true, thought i, as i entered the front door of the first hotel in this great metropolis, the largest in america, and looked through the splendid marble hall, two hundred feet long, lighted by glittering chandeliers, into the immense drinking saloon of that fashionable place of resort; and i said to myself, "some of these fine forms of men, clothed in fine linen and rich broad cloth, may some day fall as low as thee, poor jim reagan. you began your course in just such a genteel drinking room." "yes," says he, "and the first drink i ever took in one, for i was brought up a temperance boy, i was dragged up by the strength of two companions, and held while the bar-keeper baptised me, as he called it, by pouring the liquor down my throat, over my head, and saturating my clothes till the smell made me sick, and then they gave me more to settle it. 'a hair of the same dog,' said they, 'will cure the bite.' bite it was. no mad dog's bite ever caused more sin and sorrow than that bite did me. we cry, 'mad dog,' and kill the poor brute; the worse than brute we 'license' to live." thus he would sit and talk by the hour. "if i can only keep out of the way of the tempters," said he, "i never shall drink again." he was now accumulating money; he always came home to sleep, "for," says he, "i feel, as sure as i enter this door, that i am safe." it was determined, as soon as maggie came again, that they would go to keeping house. "if that blessed child was only with me," said the father, as the tears rolled down his furrowed cheeks, "i should feel as though i had a shield--through which none of these traffickers in human souls could reach me. my wife is like an aged counsellor, there is wisdom in her every word, but she cannot go out through the streets, leaning upon my arm, still full of manly strength, like maggie, while i lean upon her still greater strength--the strength and might of a strong mind." "here is a letter from our dear child," said mrs. reagan to her husband, one evening as he came in from work. "sit down and read it aloud, for some how, my old eyes get dim every time i try; i cannot imagine what is the matter with them." i can. they were full of tears. strange, that we shed bitter and sweet water from the same fountain. reagan put on his spectacles, took the letter, looked at the first words, took them off, wiped the glasses, looked again, repeated the operation, laid both letter and spectacles upon the table, got up and walked the room back and forth, then he tried to speak--to utter the first words of that letter; if he could get over that he could go on, but he could not, they stuck in his throat. at length he got them up--"dear father and mother, i am coming home to kiss you both." simple words! common every-day words. but they were strong words, for they had overcome the strength of a strong man, and he fell upon his wife's neck and wept like a child. "such words to me--me who have kicked, and cuffed, and froze, and starved, and abused that child for years. oh, god, preserve my life to make her ample amends for my wrongs and her love! oh, god, preserve her life to make us both happy, and drop a tear at our grave!" prayer calms the spirit. realization and acknowledgment of sin soothes the soul. reagan could now read the letter without difficulty. his spectacles did not need wiping again. it was dated, "near katona, westchester county, new york. "dear father and mother: "i am coming home to kiss you both. i don't know but i shall kiss tom, for he has written me all about it--i know it all--i know how you was brought in, and how you took the pledge, and how you have kept it, and how industrious you have been, and how you have saved your money, and how you want to go to housekeeping again, and all about it--i know it all. tom writes me every week. he is a good boy. well, in two months i am coming down. you need not look for me before, and then, if you want me, i will come and live with you." "if we want her! did you ever hear the like? but, then, what is she to do? she is a big girl now, and must not be idle. i wish she had a trade. every child ought to have a trade." "well, well, wife, let us have the balance of the letter." "yes, yes, go on; you need not mind what i say. go on." "let me see; where was i? 'come and live with you,' that's it." "and now i must tell you such a piece of news--good news. oh, it was a good thing i came up here. i have got a trade--a trade that will support us all when you get so you cannot work." "heaven bless the girl, what is it?" "do wait, wife, and you shall hear." "it is a nice, genteel trade, too. now we will take a house, and father will work at his trade, and mother will do the house-work, and i will work at my trade, and we shall live so happy." "so we shall. but, dear me, why don't she tell what it is?" "so she will if you let me alone. a girl must have her own way to tell it; probably she will do that in a postscript." "well, read on. i am so impatient." "perhaps you would like to know what my trade is?" "why to be sure we should. why don't she tell?" "so i will tell you. i am a stock-maker--those things the gentlemen wear round their necks. and it is very curious how i learned the trade. a lady from new york--oh, she is a lady!--came up here on a visit, and for work she brought along some stocks to make. she lives in new york. i believe she keeps a few boarders, and makes stocks. she is a widow lady, quite young, and very pretty, only she is in bad health; she has no family, only her uncle, who is an old bachelor--a nice old gentleman, who has adopted her as his daughter, and is going to give her all he has when he dies. she has no father and mother, as i have, and no brothers and sisters; nobody to love but the old uncle--he does love her, so do i. i did not at first. i was afraid of her. i thought she was some grand city lady; and she used to sit and sew in her room, only when her uncle--papa she calls him, and he calls her daughter--'athalia, daughter,' so sweet; is it not a sweet name? her name is athalia morgan--" "morgan, morgan--athalia morgan. i will warrant it is she. don't you remember, wife, that old morgan, the great shipping merchant? his son married a sewing girl, and his sister married george wendall." "oh, oh, how singular! it was she that was talking when maggie took me into the temperance meeting that night, telling how her husband died. and now maggie has met with another of the family. and her husband must be dead too." "yes, he died just as miserable a death as wendall. let us read on and see what of his wife. i hope he did not drag her down with him as i did mine." "james, james, you are not to speak of anything that is past." "well, well," and he brushed away another tear and read on: "after she had been here a few days, our folks told her about me, and how i used to run the streets, and how i got into the house of industry, and how they got me from there, and what a good girl i had been--yes, they did--and then mrs. morgan, she began to talk to me so kindly; and then i told her everything about myself, and some about you, and she told me a great many things about herself. oh, it would be such a story to put in a book. and then she grew as fond of me as i was of her. and every day when i had my work done, and every evening, i used to be up in her room, and she showed me all about her work, and i used to help her, and now she declares that i can make just as good a stock as she can, and almost as fast. she can make eight in a day; when i help her, odd times and evenings, she can make twelve. last week she made, with what i did, seventy-two, and put them all in a box. how nice they do look! that is seventy-two york shillings--nine dollars! and she says when i come home to live, she will recommend me--i must have a good recommend to get work--when i can get just as much such work as i can do. oh, but she is a good woman! i guess you would cry though as much as i have, to hear her story. i will tell it you some day. mrs. morgan is going down to-morrow. i wish i was. but i cannot. in two months my time is up; then you will see me. now, good night. say 'good by' to tom for me. kiss mother, father, and ever love your "maggie." "oh, james, something tells me that if she don't come before that, i never shall see her. but you will be happy with her. you will live a long life, i hope, for her to bless and comfort you in your old age. you are not so old and so broken down as i am." "all my fault, all my fault. if i had treated you as a rational man should treat a wife, you would not be so broken down now." "you must not look back. look ahead and aloft. think what a treasure of a daughter you have got. how i should like to see her once more before i go to my rest, and give her my blessing; and oh! how i should like to see that blessed woman, that mrs. morgan. i want to bring her and elsie together, and make peace on earth as there will be in heaven, where i hope to meet them both. they will soon follow. this life, at best, is short. mine will be, i am sure." "don't have such gloomy forebodings, wife; it seems to me that you were never in better health." "i know it, and never more happy." this was on thursday evening. on saturday evening everybody was astonished to see maggie come bounding in, with a step as light and quick as a playful lamb. "where's mother? is she well? has anything happened? where is father? is everything all right with him?" were the questions she asked, in such rapid succession that nobody could answer any one of them. "where is tom? is he well? where is mr. pease and mrs. pease? are they well? is mother in the kitchen?" "yes, yes, yes, yes, to the whole string." away she went, three stairs at a time, and then she almost overwhelmed her mother with kisses and questions; and up she went to the third story, and there was father in his room, reading the bible. when had she ever seen that before? the last time she saw him, he was so dreadfully intoxicated that he did not know his own child, that was lifting him out of the gutter. now he was sober, well clothed, cheerful, and happy. as she opened the door he read: "who hath woe? who hath sorrow? who hath contentions? who hath babbling? who hath wounds without cause? who hath redness of eyes? "they that tarry long at the wine; they that go to seek mixed wine. "look not thou upon the wine when it is red; when it giveth his color in the cup; when it moveth itself aright. "at the last it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder. "thine eyes shall behold strange women, and--" and he looked up, as his ear caught a little rustle of a woman's clothes, and his eyes beheld a strange woman--a beautiful, neatly-dressed young woman, with laughing, bright eyes and rosy cheeks, and such a saucy little straw hat, so tastily trimmed--mrs. morgan did that--and altogether such a lady-like girl, that he did not recognise her, and he turned his eyes again to the book and repeated: "thine eyes shall behold strange women--" "father!" the book dropped from his knees to the floor, as he sprang towards her. "am i so strange, father, that you did not know me?" "indeed, my daughter, i was afraid to speak; i did not know but a strange woman had been sent to punish me, to 'sting me like an adder.' oh, maggie, you don't know how i feel that i deserve it. and yet you are so good. you are a strange woman. it is strange, passing strange, to think that my daughter, my little neglected, dirty, ragged, mischievous--" "wild maggie, father." "yes, she had run wild; should be the lovely--you do look lovely, maggie--girl now in my arms. oh, maggie! maggie! this is all your work." "no, no, father; you must give the good missionary his share of the credit; and the good people all over the country who have sent him money and clothes to feed and clothe the naked, and reform the drunkard. what should we have been to-day, if he had not come to live in the five points, father?" "i should have been in my grave; a poor, miserable drunkard's grave; it is awful to think where else i should have been." "well, well, father, you are happy now," "yes, i am, and so is mother, and we shall be more so when we get a home of our own, and all live together. why, maggie, why, who did dress you up so neat?" "oh, my new friend i wrote you about, mrs. morgan--you got my letter--yes--well, i do wish you could see her, she is such a good woman." so they talked on, and then the old lady came up, and then maggie told how they had arranged it all. on monday, father was to see if he could find a couple of nice rooms, and maggie was going to see mrs. morgan, for mrs. morgan's old uncle had told maggie, that whenever she wanted to go to keeping house, to come to him, she did not know what for, but she was sure it was something good, for he was a good man, but he never let anybody know what he did for poor folks, he did love to do things in his own way. and mrs. morgan was going to write up to the people where she lived, and if father and mother wanted her, they would let her come before her time was up. "your father will want you." "will you, too? do not you want me, mother?" "i do not know, maggie, i can hardly tell. who can tell what a day may bring forth. i am glad to see you; i have been praying all day, that the good spirit would direct your steps hither to-day." "did you pray that last night?" "yes." "and this morning?" "yes." "i thought so--i felt it, all night, all the morning, just as though a little stream of fire was running through me, all over; now in my head, now, in my heart, now in my very fingers' ends; now i started at a whisper in my ear, that sounded just like mother, saying, 'oh, maggie! oh, that she would come! oh, that i could see her once more!' and then i felt as though i must come. i was afraid something was going to happen. but now i find you all well, i see what a foolish girl i have been." "no, maggie, not foolish, not foolish; something tells me that you have only obeyed the dictates of a good heart, guided by an invisible power. but we will not talk about it any more now. i have arranged a place for you to sleep to-night, for the house is very full, and we can scarcely find beds for those we have, and there are applications for more poor children every day. do you remember that pretty little italian beggar girl, madalina, that you used to go out with sometimes? she is going to sleep in that little room, and you may sleep with her." "oh, mother, she is so dirty!" "she used to be, she is not so now. she was so when she ran the streets, just like another little girl." "oh, mother, i know who you mean, but i did not know that she had been improved." the next day, the father and mother and daughter were sitting side by side in the chapel, and it was the remark of more than one, "oh, what a change!" "is it possible that that is old drunken reagan and his wife, that used to live in that centre street cellar, and that that is 'wild maggie?' what a change! why she is real pretty, and so bright, and so affectionate--see how she looks out the hymn for her mother; and now they all kneel together. well well, that is better than all drunk together." after morning service, mrs. reagan went into the kitchen to assist about dinner. "i cannot tell how it is," said she, "but i feel as though this was the last meal i shall ever eat with my husband and maggie; perhaps i shall not eat this." she never did. half an hour after that, the house was in wild commotion. "where is mr. reagan?--where is maggie?--call the doctor!--oh, dear!--oh, dear! mrs. reagan is in a fit." it was a fit which all must have sooner or later. her forebodings, from whatever cause they came, had given her prescience of her death. the husband and daughter were soon kneeling over her where she had fallen upon the floor, vainly trying to revive animation. the physician vainly essayed his skill. "it is too late. my mother is in heaven." "it is certain she is in the hands of god, and she died with a blessing on her lips for her child," said one of the women who were present when she fell. "what did she say, angeline?" "sally, how was it? you heard it best." this is drunken sal and old angeline, whom you have seen before. they, too, are inmates; sober, industrious ones, of the house of industry. "she said, 'oh, god, forgive me all my sins! and my husband, forgive him, oh, lord! as i do. margaret, oh, god! i thank thee for sending her to see me once more--god bless as i do my dear maggie. i die in peace, i die--dying--hap--oh!' and she fell forward; i caught her in my arms, and laid her down gently, but she never breathed again." "oh, mother, mother, are you dead, dead, dead! will you never, never speak to your maggie again? oh! it is so hard to part with you now, just as we were going to be so happy, and all live together." "yes," said angeline, "and that reminds me to tell you that she said just before she died, but i thought she was talking wild like, that if she did not see you again, that i must tell you not to go back to westchester, but you must be sure to stay with your father, he would be so lonesome when she was gone." the poor husband was lonesome; he already felt it. then he felt what blessings he had left. he had good health and strength, and a most affectionate good child to comfort him in his old age. and then he poured out such a prayer, as all ought to hear who lack courage to go on in the glorious work of lifting up the fallen, and giving strength to the feeble, and forgiveness to the erring. the day closed in sadness, yet there were some who witnessed the sad scene who felt that "it is good to be afflicted." the next day after these events i was in greenwood cemetery, that lovely resting-place for the dead. it is a landmark in this progressive age, that shows the good fruits of an improved state of society. if any of the readers of these life scenes, are curious to know what becomes of the falling leaves of this great forest of human beings, let them go over the brooklyn south ferry, and follow some of the score of mourning trains that go every day to put away some dead trunk, or lopped limb, or twig, leaf, or flower, perhaps nothing but a bud, which they will plant in earth to blossom in heaven; and they will see where a portion of the fallen go to decay. it is a place for a day, not of gloom, but sweet meditations, such as does the soul good. i was meditating over a late made grave. it was by the side of one almost old enough to be forgotten, and yet the number of years since it was made were very few, and very, very short. there was a rose bush growing at the head, but i saw through the green leaves the name of "morgan, Æt. ." i was not curious to know what morgan, for my thoughts were far away. i did wonder, it is natural to do so, if that was mrs. morgan by his side, and if they had always lain so quiet, without words of contention, or "caudle lectures." my doubts were soon to be solved, for now came a cart and a couple of stone setters. how quick, and how carelessly they work; now the hole is dug, now they lift the little stone out of the cart, now they set it upright, now they fill in the dirt around it, now they give a few stamps with heavy boots just over the head of the sleeper--he hears them not--now the stone is planted, now they jump into the cart, slash the whip, and curse the poor old horse for his laziness, and rattle away with a whistle and merry glee. now we can read the name on the new stone. ah, it is not his wife--it is "walter morgan, Æt. ." his son--perhaps, an only son--how soon he has come after his father. it is a common name, or i might moralize farther upon what i know of that name. i am interrupted, and walk off a little way and turn to look again. a fine, benevolent looking gentleman--faces do look benevolent--is getting out of a carriage. he is about the age of the elder morgan. his brother, perhaps. now, he lifts out a rose bush, in bloom, in its little world, all its own, in an earthen pot. ah, ha! that is to be planted at the new stone just put in its place. now he lifts out a lovelier flower. it is a young widow. fancy is at work now; it says, "is she pretty?" we are too far off to discern features, but we can think. we do think that a widow who comes to plant a flower at her husband's grave, is a flower of a woman, let her face be what it may. so i sat down with pencil in hand, writing, "musings at the tomb." i had just written, "benevolent old gent and beautiful young widow," and was going to add, rose bush planted at husband's grave, and all that sort of thing, when somebody slapped me on the back--that knocks out the sentimental--with a clear hearty expression of, "my old friend." "why, lovetree, is this you? athalia--mrs. morgan, i should say." "no; always call me by the name you first knew me by." "then i should call you lucy." "no, no, not that, not that." "forgive me, but i did not intend to call up unpleasant reminiscences. ah, what have we here? a little train of mourners, with a tenant for that open grave. see, that is the missionary from the five points." "and, oh, uncle, that is maggie, our little maggie from up the country. it must be her mother. yes, it is, for she takes the arm of a man with a crape on his hat--it is her father. her mother has her wish. he will drop a tear at her grave. see, he does; his handkerchief is at his eyes. oh, it is a sad thing for a husband to follow the wife he has lived with forty years, to such an end as this. poor maggie, how she weeps. i must go and see her as soon as the ceremony is over. suppose, uncle, that we take them in our carriage home with us, it will not be quite so melancholy as it will be to go back to the house of death." "so we will, and then i will arrange the plan for them to go to housekeeping together. i have already got a place in view." so they met, and so athalia said, "come with us." and so they went. maggie looked upon it as another remarkable interposition, or something, at any rate, that she could not account for, that mrs. morgan should have felt impelled to come over here to-day, of all other days, and that they should meet so singularly; "for," said she, "fifty different parties might be riding about among these hills, and dales, and groves, looking at this lonely poor grave, and at that twenty thousand dollar monument, and yet no one know that the other was so near. well, it is a place where all must come. i hope we shall all meet our friends as happily as i have mine to-day." so they went home with mrs. morgan, and three days after they went to a house of their own. you have already seen how they were able afterwards to say to others, "come with us," when a houseless widow and her two children stood in the street the night of the fire--the night that rum and its effects made mrs. eaton a widow. perhaps you would like to see the benevolent gentleman that clothed the naked after that fire? you have seen him. turn back a leaf and look at him again as he lifts that rose-bush out of the carriage, to plant at that grave. you did not see him in the crowd at the fire, but he was there, and heard his protégé say, "come with us." he was just going to say it, but he liked it better that maggie had said it first. then he said to himself--it was one of his odd freaks of benevolence--i will surprise the dear girl directly, and make her remember those golden words to her dying day. you have seen him. it was athalia's uncle. who is athalia? turn over. read. chapter viii. athalia, the sewing girl. "how full of briars is this working day world." "with fingers weary and worn, with eyelids heavy and red, a woman sat in unwomanly rags, plying her needle and thread." athalia wore not unwomanly rags at the period when i shall commence her history. she was clad in the garb of a country girl, just arrived in the city, in the full expectation that fortune awaited her, just as soon as she could learn the trade of a dress-maker. oh, how she worked, and laughed, and sung! she was the life of the shop. sometimes she thought of home--home where mother was--and then she wept. but the sunshine of youth soon sends the clouds and dew drops that dim the eye away to forgetfulness. athalia was sixteen--sweet sixteen in face and mind. what a bright blue eye, what soft brown hair, what wit, and oh, what a voice in song! and such a heart, 'twas tuned for others' woes, and not her own. why comes this mountain flower from her country home? her father was a farmer--ah! _was_--would be still, only that he had swallowed his farm. the mortgage to the store at the cross roads, the damage paid in a law suit for a fight, and the cost of throwing his neighbor's horse down his well, had left him without a home for himself, and so his children went forth into the world to seek bread; the daughter, of course, by the needle, the sons at sea. athalia chose the city. how little she knew the danger. she would have shuddered to see a man sit carelessly down upon a powder keg with a pipe in his mouth. not half so dangerous is that, as for a young country girl, with a beautiful face, to come here. oh, how she worked one whole year to learn her dress-maker's trade, without one cent of compensation. such is the law. the law of custom with milliners' apprentices. then she went home. how joyfully her mother opened her arms; how sweet was that kiss--a loved mother's kiss. did she love her father? how could she love a man who often cursed, and sometimes beat that mother? she went home to stay, to ply her new trade among her old neighbors. how could she love her father when he would not let her stay, and, like a drunken brute as he was, drove her back again to the city? "you have learnt a city trade, and you have got city airs; nobody wants you here." it was not so. everybody wanted her there but her miserable father. everybody else loved athalia. they saw no city airs; all they saw was that a rough diamond had been polished. what is it worth without? so she came back to the city with a heavy heart. what was she to do? she could go back to her old shop and work eighteen hours a day, for twenty-five cents, and scanty food; lodging, as she had done during her long year of apprenticeship, three in a narrow bed, in a room with just air and space enough for the decent accommodation of a cat, nothing more. what hope in such a life? what would she have at the end of the year? just what she had at the beginning? no; for one year of youth would be gone. she could not go back; there was no hope there. so, with another girl just as poor, but just as willing to work, she took a room, and took in work, or went out to do it. then how she was exposed, how in danger. libertines live in genteel families. ah, and are pet sons of mothers who would give dollars to dissipated rakes, and grudge shillings to poor dress-makers. and if the poor girl should be caught in the snare of such a son, how the mother would rave and drive her away unpaid, because she had disgraced her "respectable boy." mrs. morgan was one of athalia's lady "patrons." haughtily proud, yet not, like some of her class, positively dishonest, cruelly dishonest. she wanted the labor of the poor sewing girl, because she possessed great taste, and could dress her daughters better, and what was still more, though so little practised by the rich, cheaper, than she could get their dresses at a "regular establishment." that was just what the daughters most disliked. they knew that none of their acquaintances wore such neat-fitting dresses, but when the question was put, "where did you get them made?" they could not answer, "oh, we always get everything at madame chalambeau's fashionable establishment in broadway." they could not change their mother's policy, and so they determined to drive poor athalia out of the house. they had another object. athalia was beautiful. her face was such as we are apt to conceive that an angel must have. and everybody who came in the house while she was there, and saw her, said, "oh, what a sweet face!" this was gall and wormwood to the "young ladies," for their faces were just such as you would suppose were made out of those two ingredients, and they were true indications of their minds. so they hated the poor seamstress for double cause. at first she came to the table with the family. but the girls could not help observing that she was the diamond, they the setting, to all eyes. she was better bred than they, with all their boarding-school education. where had she got it? in a country school house, and her mother's kitchen. once, once only, after tea she was invited to sing. who supposed that she could touch a piano note. she accepted the invitation, as all well-bred girls do, who know that they can sing, and walter offered his arm to lead her to the piano. walter was the brother, the only "son and heir of our family." he had just returned from a lady-killing niagara tour, and met athalia for the first time at the tea table. it was the last time, the sisters said, that he should meet her there. she went home that evening; she had finished her job and received her poor pay. that was one of mrs. morgan's virtues; she paid the stipulated price to those who worked for her. what daggers, scorpions' stings, and poisoned darts, poor athalia and walter would have felt, while he stood over her at the piano, if they could have felt the glances of scornful, angry eyes. how he was taken to task afterwards for paying attention to "a sewing girl," particularly for waiting upon her home. how he justified himself. just as though there was need of it. but aristocracy had stept down to the level of one who "plied her needle and thread, in poverty, hunger, and toil;" who sang with a voice of saddening song, of the home on her own native soil. of the spring and the brook where it flow'd, of the plums and the pears where they grew, of the meadows and hay lately mow'd. and the roses all dripping with dew. and her heart it went journeying back, while her fingers plied needle and thread, till the morning came in at a crack, where it found her still out of her bed. shall i ever work thus like a slave, with the scorn of the rich and the proud? for they think that a seamstress must crave for the work that is making her shroud. walter justified, apologised, for he was bound in the iron fetters, "polite custom." "i found," says he, "when i came home, a beautiful, well-dressed, well-behaved girl, to all appearance a young lady, at your tea table." "well, she shall never come there again. i always told mother that she might know better than to bring her to the table; and the pert minx, if she knew her place, would never try to stick herself into genteel company. so much for having a dress-maker in the house." "elsie, elsie, i am ashamed of you." "i think you had better be ashamed of yourself, mother." "i found her," resumed walter, "at your table, and i took the only vacant seat, by her side. i did not find her pert, but on the contrary, i must say it, better behaved, better spoken, than my sister elsie, when speaking of or to her mother." "you had better insult me, by your comparison, sir walter." "no; i do not intend that. but i was only explaining why i paid attention to the lady." "the lady--lady! that to a sewing girl who goes out to work by day's work. did you learn that at college or at saratoga?" "i have learned to call every female lady, who looks, acts, and talks like one. i hope my sister elsie will not unlearn me. i found the lady at your table. i found her polite and diffident. she is not a forward minx. i walked with her to the parlor." "yes, and she should have known better than to go there. why did she not go back to her work?" "elsie, she had done her work, and was waiting for your father to come home, so i could get some money to pay her; for i should be ashamed to keep her out of her money, or oblige her to call again. you had spent all the change i had in the house in your afternoon shopping. it was me that asked her to stay. it was me that asked her into the parlor. it was me, your mother, that asked her to sing one of those plaintive, sweet songs, i had heard her sing to the children while at work. it was you that urged her. what for? that she might fail. elsie, elsie, there is envy in your heart." "and she did sing. was ever anything sweeter? i can repeat every word, for every note went down into my soul, and printed itself like the magnetic telegraph. listen: "oh, i was born where waters leaping, cascade down the green, green hill; oh, i was born where lambkins bleating, leap along the clear, clear rill. oh, i was born where lightning flashes, 'luminate the green, green trees; oh, i was born where the wild wind dashes, raging o'er the deep, deep seas. "oh, now i live amid confusion, commerce wears an ugly frown; oh, who would give that sweet seclusion, for all the pleasures of the town? oh, how i love my native mountain, hills and glens and all their flocks, oh, how i love that sweet sweet fountain, every tree, and all the rocks." "smitten--smitten--my brother walter smitten with my dress-maker! faugh! i wonder if he went home with her, for he went out at the same time?" yes, he did go home with her. it was her first false step. but ye that stand fast, do not censure this first step of her fall. she was young and handsome; so was he. theirs were such hearts as nature sports with. both were touched. he went home with her. they got into a stage at seventeenth street to ride to broome, for there was the home of the sewing girl. at broome street he forgot to pull the check string. she did not notice it till the crowd of cars, carriages, and swarms of human beings, which fill up that great wide thoroughfare, canal street, awakened her, from her reverie of wild thoughts, to the fact that they were already too far down. before he could stop her she had pulled the string, and the driver held up and looked down through his little peep hole at his passengers, ready for his sixpenny fare, which he will contrive to make seven cents, if he makes change for you. walter acknowledged that he did not mean to stop the stage; he wanted athalia to go to taylor's, and take an ice cream with him. but she was inexorable. he plead, she said, no; she said it sweetly, and, finally, they compromised by her agreeing to go to-morrow evening. the second false step! then he walked home with her. she said, good night, at the door, he said, "oh, let me see you up these dim stairs." "oh, no, i am used to them, i can find my room in the dark. if jeannette is at home, she will hear a little signal upon the wall, and open the door, then it will be light." "give it then." she did; jeannette was not at home. "oh, let me go up, and just look in, and see where angels live." oh, flattery! thy power is great. why should she refuse, since he was to come again, she had promised that? so she said, "come up, then," and away she tripped into the darkness, her step so light that he could not tell where it fell. directly there was a little scratch, a flash, a blue flame, very small, and then a full white light, and a match, and then a lamp was burning. "come up. take care of the narrow, crooked steps, they are not like your broad easy stair-case." she had made another false step. did far off visions of fancy revel in her brain, that she might some day go up that broad stair-case, arm in arm with that handsome young man? what if they did? you too have dreamed more unlikely day dreams. "come up, can you see?" yes, he could see, "by the lamp dimly burning," just up there above him, one of the houris he had often read of, often dreamed of, never before seen. he went up, to her little heaven of a room. how could she sing that, "commerce wears an ugly frown," while everything looked so smiling in her mart? how could she long for the sweet seclusion of her country home, with such a bijou of a hermit's cell here? he stood amazed. he spoke not, but he thought. did she divine his thoughts?--she answered them--how did she know them? the magnetic telegraph of the soul was at work. "yes, sir, we are obliged to keep our room neat, because ladies come here to get work done, and they would not give us their custom if we lived in a plain room." plain room! what would his sisters say to a plainly furnished room, if that was not one? "true, it is plainer than theirs--i mean--but you did not speak--i thought you spoke--yes it is plain compared with rooms that ladies occupy. we pay enough though for the furniture to have good." "do you hire it then?" "yes, we neither of us had money enough to furnish a room, only a few things, and pay the rent in advance. so we hired a furniture man to put in the things, and we pay him for the use of them." "how much?" "five dollars a month." "five dollars! why there is not over a hundred dollars worth." "no, sir; that is just what it was counted at. they are all second-hand articles. there is the bedstead; we furnished the bed and bedding; my mother gave me that; jeannette has no mother; and the table, and the other little pine table, the bureau, the wash-stand, the six chairs, the rocker, and the sofa; we made those ottomans, and the curtains; and in that pantry----. oh, i declare how i am running on." "pray, tell me, miss----, i really have not learned your name yet." "athalia. i am sure you heard your mother call me that." "yes, but i was going to call you by your sirname." "lovetree, sir. athalia lovetree." "oh, that is a very sweet, pretty name." "yes, sir, so much so that i think i shall always keep it." "so all the young ladies say. but it hardly ever proves true with one who owns so pretty a name, and a face prettier still." more flattery. she did not hear it. no. she felt it though. "well, i am very sure i never shall change my first name. i never shall be called by any other than athalia." she thought so then; i wonder if she ever thought of it in after years? "but you have not told me what is in that pantry." "oh, no matter; that is where we keep all our dishes and cooking utensils. we have a stove in winter; in summer, a little charcoal furnace behind the fire-board." "and is your room warm in winter?" "why yes, sir, if we have plenty of work." "does work keep you warm?" "oh, no; but work gives us money to buy coal. there was a time last winter, when we were out of work, that----" "you had no fire?" "yes, sir, but only a few days, we had to make up the month's rent, eight dollars for the room, and five for the furniture." walter put his hand in his pocket. what for? he felt how easy it would be to take out a hundred dollars, and tell her, to go and pay for that furniture, and not pay rent for it any longer. then he thought how ridiculous, to be so affected by the woes and wants of a sewing girl. how his proud sisters would laugh at him. pride conquered a heart prone to a good action. "and so you went without fire, to pay that usurious old miser who owns this furniture, sixty per cent per annum, for the use of it. sixty, yes, more than a hundred upon what it would sell for at auction. and what did you do for food in the meantime?" "well, we did not need much, and should not have suffered any, if mrs. jenkins had paid me for my work. oh, if she only knew how much we did need it. jeannette was sick, and what little money i had, i spent for her; i had almost ten dollars due me for work, and could not get one. it is wicked to keep poor girls out of their money; indeed it is, when they are sick and suffering for it." "and you suffered, while mrs. jenkins, with her thirteen servants, and coach and horses owed you for work?" "well, we did not suffer much, except i had to pawn my black silk dress, the very one too that i needed most when it was cold, and had to do without fire when jeannette was sick, and should, by all means, have had one. she is a sweet, good girl; i wish she was at home." "wish again, and you will see her." both started as though caught in something they were ashamed of. why should they be? true he had approached very close to athalia, as she stood watering her flowers and feeding her bird--both windows were full of flowers, and over each a canary bird; and he was watching all her operations with as much interest as though they were all his own. "poor things," she said, "they look neglected." she loved flowers. so did he. he loved their owner, but he had not said so yet. he hardly knew it; he would not let any one know it; hence he started when jeannette spoke, for he thought she must have seen it. he blushed and turned round, and then she blushed; there was a trio of blushes. what for? jeannette did not think it was a stranger. she thought it was charley vail. charley was a sort of beau, yet not a beau. he was jeannette's cousin; and though he did not love her exactly, he liked her, and i guess that she liked him; athalia thought more than liked him. charley would have loved athalia if she had given him the least encouragement, but she would not, for she hoped he would love his cousin and marry her. he was a good fellow, always ready to do anything on earth for "the girls"--in short he was charley. jeannette blushed. she had reason to, for, thinking it was cousin charley--who else could it be, there in their room alone with athalia, in the evening--she tripped up behind him and gave him a good hearty slap on the back. he turned around, she almost felt him hugging and kissing her, but he did not. she looked again, the light now shone in his face, and there she stood before a stranger. is it any wonder she blushed? is it any wonder he blushed? is it any wonder they all blushed? she played with her bonnet strings; he twirled his hat; athalia could not play with any thing. she had the lamp in one hand, and the bird cage in the other. but she could laugh, and she burst out in such clear, musical tones, as she said, "why, jeannette, did you think it was charley?" that explained the whole. he understood the blow now. did he also understand what charley would have done, if it had been him that got the blow. perhaps he thought, for he said, "you have struck me, miss. i never take a blow without giving one back. there." did he strike her? what! strike a woman! shame! oh, no; but he caught her in his arms, before she could be aware of the movement, and such a kiss! such, a good, hearty kiss as he gave her. ah, well! who would not? she was a nice, sweet girl, not quite so pretty as athalia, but one that a colder heart than his might relish in just such a case. she pouted a little, and talked about great liberty in a stranger; but who took the first liberty? true; but "that was a mistake." "then count the other a mistake too." "no, that was done on purpose." "so it was, and i should like to do it again, but i will not, so rudely. pray forgive me." what had she to forgive? what to be angry about. how could she hold out against that, "i should like to do it again?" after all she was not half so angry as athalia. and what was she angry about? that he had kissed jeannette instead of her? take care, little heart, jealousy is creeping in among thy pulsations. take care, big heart, for just now charley enters the scene, and before he has observed that a stranger is in the room, he has kissed athalia. mischief has broke loose to-night. what is in the men? what is in walter morgan, that a kiss given to that girl, for the first time seen that night, should send a pang to his heart? how it goes throbbing through every nerve, and pricks into the very core of sensation. take care, big heart and little heart, nature is at her sports and she always makes pleasures sweet by contrast with pain. finally, all are reconciled. how they do laugh over the queer mistakes. jeannette would have sooner struck a bear than him, yet he did not bite her. charley would have sooner kissed that same bear, and risked the hug, than have kissed athalia before a stranger, for he is a good boy, a little mischievous, but would never do a thing to hurt the feelings of another, particularly a woman. how they did sit, and talk, and laugh, and enjoy happiness, such as walter had never found in rose-wood furnished parlors. what would his proud sisters say, if they knew how "low he had sunk himself, to keep company with sewing girls?" but he would not tell them. take care, young man, you are breaking in upon the conventionalities of life. you must stick to your _caste_, in america as well as india. you may lay your heart at the feet of anything that is old and ugly, even as your sisters, so that she is _ton_ and of the _ton_--the upper _ton_. but offer to love one who lives, barely lives, by her needle, and see how your own flesh and blood will hate you. so passed the evening away. then walter would go. but he wanted to hear athalia sing once more. no. she had no piano. his hand was in his pocket again. how he would like to send her one to-morrow, but he dared not say so. he did look around the room, to see where he could set it. there was no room. she could not sing any more to-night. ask jeannette. she sings a beautiful little song while we are at work. no, she could not. she was afraid to sing before strangers. but charley asked her, in his blandest manner, and then she would sing one verse if he would go right home. how anxious she was to get rid of him. so she sung: "why bitter life with useless tears, with mourning unavailing? why bitter hope with ceaseless fears, of shoals where we are sailing? with lively song and music peals, make life just like the ocean, when flapping sails a zephyr steals, to toss us with its motion, motion, motion, motion. to toss us with its motion." "there now, i hope you are satisfied. if not you may go, for i shall not sing another word to-night. i don't know how i came to do that." no, they were not satisfied. who ever knew a man that was? who ever got one favor of a woman, that did not ask for two more? so they both asked both the girls to go to the theatre to-morrow night, and both promised. more false steps. how many will it take to reach the end? walter went home, never more happy. you have seen how he was taken to task. he had defied the laws of caste. it did not require stronger argus eyes than his two sisters possessed to see how deeply he was enamored with athalia. how they did wish they knew whether she had dared to look up to him, as he had down to her. how should they find out. it does not take mischief-makers long to contrive their plot. if one woman wants to ruin another one, there is one always ready to assist her in her wicked design. no doubt he was the father of millinery, for he caused the first apron to be made, and he has assisted largely in all the designs of female apparel from that day to this. sometimes his fashion is very fig-leafish, barely hiding a portion of the body, while the limbs, head, neck, shoulders, and other "excitements," are left exposed to adam's rude gaze. then he contrives his fashion of so much cloth, that those who follow it may lose their souls in its attainment, and those who make them may feel, as they "work, work, work, till the stars shine through the roof," that they are weaving a web with sin for the woof, "till the brain begins to swim, till the eyes grow heavy and dim, sewing at once, with a double thread, a dress for the living and dead." mischief is always busy. it must be so with an envious wicked woman. the morgans changed their tactics, and adopted those more wicked than i could invent. they soon found that they wanted more dresses, and what was very remarkable, they did not want to go to the french dress-maker. what could be the reason? they had watched their brother; they had seen him go to athalia's; they had seen him in the theatre with her; they had met them walking, arm in arm, in broadway, "the shameless hussey;" and once they had entered thompson's, and walked upstairs to take ice cream, "actually over our heads." walter morgan, the richest merchant's son, in new york, gallanting a seamstress--their own dress-maker. and every day some of their acquaintance were asking them, "who is that beautiful girl i saw with walter?" of course they did not know; how could they tell that he had taken up with "such a thing?" in vain they talk to him, he was mum, or if he spoke of her, it was with the highest respect. would he marry her? ah, there was the rub. "it is a pity," said elsie, "that he would not ruin her, and that would be the end of it." did a spirit furnish that cue, or was it a wicked woman's own conceit? at any rate, it was a cue upon which they acted. athalia was sent for, and the young ladies never were so affable before. every opportunity was contrived for walter to accomplish the purpose of a villain. their schemes had the exact contrary effect desired. he had made such advances at first as "men about town" do make, and had met with such a decided repulse, not an angry one, but a virtuous one, that he never would try again. "i expected it," said she to his proposals, "i am used to it--i am almost every day exposed to such tempting offers, to escape a life of poverty--i have ceased to look upon them as insulting--nature, and fashion, and the state of society, are such in this city, that a girl with an unfortunate face like mine, must fall, unless she is possessed of such fortitude as but few young girls are naturally gifted with. you may ask me that question every day; every day you may, if you feel like wounding the feelings of a poor girl, repeat your question, and every day you will get the same answer." "athalia, forgive me. oh, forgive me; i never will repeat the question again; whether you forgive me or not, you need have no fear of that." what a failure then had his sisters made. they did just what they did not intend to do; they led walter to think, that his family would approve a match with one so virtuous, so beautiful, so lovely, even if she was a sewing girl, and he began to build castles in the air upon this foundation. they were very sandy, and a storm was approaching that would soon beat upon the frail walls, and like all such fabrics, down they will tumble. chapter ix. athalia, the sewing girl. "one sorrow never comes but brings an heir, that may succeed as its inheritor." "proper deformity seems not in the fiend so horrid, as in woman." marriage, death, bankruptcy, poverty, sin, and, finally, "plucked like a brand from the burning," are the contents, the introduction, and peroration, of this chapter. if you are satisfied at a glance, you can pass on, the filling up, is but the shading of the sketch. but if you are curious to know who marries, who dies, and who does worse--read. "it is but a step from the palace to the tomb," yet the road sometimes seems a long and dreary one, leading through strange, dark places. i have come to the conclusion, that lovers of romance, and those who cater for them, writing tales of fiction, have mistaken their vocation. let them gather up and detail a few of the incidents of real life scenes as they occur, and there will be no occasion for fiction. so let us on with our narration of events. mr. morgan was a merchant, wealthy as croesus, perhaps more so; and he had more need to be, for he lived "up town," in "up town" style. the simple interest upon the cost of his house and furniture was seven thousand dollars a year, and his annual expenses double that sum. of course his daughters had never taken a stitch in their lives. they had been to school, where nothing useful is taught; and learned what is called music, and could waltz to perfection. walter, had been to college. what had he learnt? to drink a bottle of wine every day after dinner, and "fill up," with mint juleps, sherry coblers, and brandy smashes, the intermediate time. not one useful thing had either of them been taught, not one lesson in the art of self-support; all was self-indulgence. they laughed, or would have laughed at the idea, if any one had dared to mention it, that the time would ever come, that they would have occasion to lift a hand to procure their own bread. it is a bad school--it has many scholars. mr. morgan came home one day in unusual glee; he was naturally a stern man. he had heard of the very successful voyage of the matilda--named after his daughter--to china, where she would load with teas and silks for a home voyage. she was insured in a very rich london office. some of his cautious friends advised him to "hedge," by insuring also in other offices; he had never met with a single loss in his life; he had often been his own insurer, and took about half the value of the matilda now on his own insurance book, which showed a great many thousand dollars in his favor. "yes," said a paul pry, of my acquaintance, "more thousands than he is now worth, if his debts were paid." who believed it? not the banks, which loaned him any amount he desired. not the wife, and son, and daughters, for that stern husband and father never told them of his business. "that is my business," was the cut-off valve which always shut down upon every question as certain as that of the steam engine at the point where it must change the motion. after dinner and the second bottle, the family were startled by the sudden announcement he made for to-morrow. "we start for lake george to-morrow morning; come, get ready." "why, father, what has started you all of a sudden?" "that's my business." "well, we cannot get ready, no way in the world." "pshaw! i could get a ship ready before ten o'clock." "but we cannot get new hats." "plenty of time. start right out." "to-night? buy a hat in the evening, who ever heard of such a thing? what would mrs. grundy say?" "ask her, she is going with us; or rather, we are going with them. grundy is in shoal water, and wants to get out of sight a few days; and i want he should, for i am on his paper heavy." "oh, it is absolutely impossible for us to go to our milliner to-night." "go in the morning, then. time enough." "what? before ten o'clock. how vulgar you are, father." "very well: if you cannot get up new flying gibs, go to sea with the old ones." "well, i suppose we might send for madam pantanosi to call in the morning; but, dear me, there are our dresses all in the work-room, not one of them done. you don't expect athalia is going to finish them to-night, do you?" "have you no others?" "what if we have? the grundys know that we have new ones making, and of course, will expect to see them. you don't expect your daughters, i hope, to wear old dresses, on a tour to the lakes?" "why not? that is the place to wear them." "you may talk, father, but it is out of the question." "well, settle it your own way. i go to-morrow, and if you are going with me, you had better be getting ready; besides, let me tell you, young wendall is going up too. we are going to have some great sport, fishing." that decided elsie. if george wendall and the grundys were going, she must go, for he and minnie grundy needed watching. she would go, if she wore the old hat, and a dress that had been worn twice before. "where is that seamstress? she must work all night, and get my dress done any way." "elsie, daughter, she cannot do that, her eyes are very weak. you had better take her along with us, the poor girl; give her a little country air, and let her finish your dresses there." "yes, yes, that's it, wife, let her go along. she appears to be a right, tight little craft. a sail will do her good. what a pity she did not hail from the right port." "you have very curious notions, father." "that is my business." "well, for my part," says matilda, "i think she can go just as well as not; our maid and she can have a room together, and nobody need to know that we have brought a seamstress along with us; if they did, they would think it very vulgar. of course, she won't come to the table with us, at the hotel." "no, indeed; i guess she will not; though, i suppose, we shall have a private table; shall we not, father?" "that is my business." but as it was settled that she was to go, it was, finally, thought necessary to tell her so, and she was sent for, and told of the arrangement. how could she go? how start so sudden? how leave jeannette? she could not go. yet she would like to. perhaps she never would have another opportunity. she would go down and see jeannette, and if she could go, she would come up very early. away she ran upstairs for her little straw hat and black mantilla. walter had been a "silent member" of the party. what wild thoughts ran through his brain, when he found that athalia was to be one of the party. did he dream of the shady walk, the moonlit lake, and egg-shell boat, with only two in it, floating upon the glassy surface of the water? did he think that he should climb the rocks with her, and wander through the ruins of old ticonderoga? yes, he did dream; youth do dream. did she dream, while she stood before the glass, tying her bonnet strings? what of? of the hook that he would bait and put in her hands, and the fish that would be caught. fish! it is not fish alone that young girls catch, when young men bait hooks for them, in wild woods, and lonely glens, where mountain streams murmur soft music. as she came down upon the steps, walter was waiting there. what for? for a poor sewing girl. he wanted, he said, that she should stop with him and pick out a hat and some little articles, a toilet box, and sundry conveniences or necessaries, to one on a journey, for his sister matilda. oh yes, she would do that, with pleasure, if he wished it. he did wish it. the selections were made with great taste and without regard to expense. the hat was a little treasure. what was that sigh for? can a woman--a young girl--just on the eve, too, of a journey to a watering place, see such a hat shut up in its paper case, without a sigh? it is more than human nature ever could do. athalia is human, and that hat is just such a one as she would like herself. she is too poor. so she sighed and went home. "shall i send it?" "let it be until i return, and then i will give directions." it is no matter what walter said to her on the way home, but she had determined to go with the morgans, to lake george, and so she told him. "good night then, i must go home and get ready, you know what the word is with father--'that is my business.'" he had a little other business. he went back to the store, and gave the necessary orders about the purchase. "would the lady be kind enough to write a little note that he would dictate, and put it in the bonnet box?" "certainly, anything to oblige the gentleman. was that his sister? his cousin perhaps? well, she is very pretty, at any rate. was that her name? what a sweet name." what sweet words to walter. how we do like to hear those we love spoken of in such words. how athalia busied herself getting her few things ready. what she lacked, jeannette, the good soul, lent her. she never thought how lonely the room would be for the two or three weeks she would be away. "i wish i had a few dollars to spare, jeannette, i certainly would go and buy just such a hat as i picked out this evening for matilda morgan. it was very pretty. and walter, he admired it too. he said it was so tasty, when i tried it on, to let him see how it looked." just then there was a rap at the door. "oh there comes cousin charley." no, it could not be charley, it was a little rap. the door was opened, and there stood a little girl with a bandbox and bundle.--it is a shame to send such little girls out late in the evening with such heavy bundles. "does miss lovetree live here?" "yes." "then this is the place." "oh dear," says jeannette, "more work. who can this be from? why, athalia, what is the matter, you look amazed?" "i am amazed. is there no mistake in the direction?" "no, it is miss athalia lovetree. no.--broome street, up-stairs." "oh! i cannot take it, indeed i cannot. accept such a present from him? no, no, no." he had thought of that. jeannette by this time had the bandbox open. did woman ever resist that temptation? "ah here is a note. this will explain the mystery." "to miss lovetree:-- "as it is decided that you will go with us to lake george, please accept a few things that you will need, which i have commissioned my son to buy. "from your friend, "mrs. morgan." "oh that is a different thing, if they come from her. and then for him to pretend all the time that they were for his sister. it is too bad. oh, but it is a love of a hat though! is it not, jeannette?" yes, it was; that was settled. first one tried it on, and then the other. jeannette said it was a _bride's_ hat. athalia said she ought to be ashamed of herself to say so. then all the other little bijouterie were overhauled, and looked at, and talked over, and praised, and then the note was read again, and the postscript; there was a postscript, there always is a postscript to a woman's letter. it was the postscript that gave it the air of genuineness. it read: "p. s.--don't say a word to me, or hint where the hat came from, for i don't want mr. morgan or the girls ever to know; nobody knows but walter." no, nobody knows but walter. there was no fiction in that. in the morning there was another rap--louder this time. it did not disturb any sleep though; there had been none in that room that night. it was john, come for the trunk and bandbox--two things that a modern lady never travels without. there was a wagon load of them left the morgan and grundy mansions that morning, and they and their owners all arrived, in due course of cars and locomotives, at lake george. mr. morgan and george wendall fished, the girls flirted, athalia sewed and sighed, and walked out evenings, slyly, with walter morgan. more false steps. sly walks in town are bad--in the country, dangerous. there are a great many precipices, down which such a couple may tumble. george was a glorious fishing companion for the shipping merchant. he could row and drive, and get up all the fixings; and, after dinner, talk, and laugh, and drink, till both went to bed "glorious." "mr. morgan, you drink one bottle too many." "pshaw. what if i do? that is my business." it is sometimes the wife's business. george was a boon companion, that was all. he had nothing, did nothing, lived somehow, dressed well--ill-natured folks said he did not pay his tailor. who ever thought that he would be mr. morgan's son-in-law? he did, and so had his daughter, elsie, lately concluded, for the country air and scenery are provocatives to that end. "ask father." "enough said." he did. he took care to ask him just at the right time. "why, george, my boy, good fellow to fish. did not think you had your hook there. got any bait? no. well i have. enough for both of us. i will bait your hook, boy. that is my business." "thank you, sir. when shall it be?" george knew the art of fishing with a fresh bait, and never losing sight of the fish after he had tasted it, until he had him safe bagged. "when shall it be? now, now--right off to-night. nothing like going to sea while the tide serves." he was a prompt man always. it was no use to say no, after he had said yes, or, "that is my business;" so in half an hour after that, elsie morgan was elsie wendall. of course more wine was drank, after which a letter was brought to him, from his head clerk, marked, "important--in haste." so mrs. morgan told him. "that is my business; take it up to my room. do you think i am going to read the stupid letters of old precision at this time of the evening, and my daughter just married?" at ten o'clock next morning, after the mail had gone, he read: "sir:-- "we have advices by telegraph from london, just as the steamer was leaving port, of the failure of the london insurance office, in which the matilda is insured. she is now over-due, and not yet reported. shall i insure her? be sure to answer by first mail. "james precision." how the bell did ring; how he stamped, and swore, and wrote, and yet he could not send his letter till next morning. "why did not old precision insure at once? every dollar on earth would be swallowed up if that ship were lost." simply because he was precision, and the merchant, who had directed him for forty years, had never given him leave to act, upon his own discretion, in an emergency like this. "that is my business," was the unvarying answer. two days after, he had another letter from his precise clerk. he did not order it up to his room, to wait till next morning, for he was in a tearing passion when it was handed him; and he felt as though he would have opened it if the biggest rocks in that mountainous region had been piled upon it. what had so disturbed the rich merchant? those who have them not, are apt to fancy that, riches and happiness are handmaids. what was the matter? his son, his only son, had just approached him, taking advantage, as wendall had, of a propitious hour, when wine had done its work--he drank brandy since the news in that letter, and that fired, not soothed him--he approached him with a beautiful sweet girl upon his arm, to ask his consent to their marriage. mrs. wendall screamed and fainted--that is, in appearance. matilda said, "why, walter! to that girl--marry that thing--a dressmaker" mrs. morgan simply said, "walter, you have disgraced yourself and the mother that bore you. and i never wish to see you again." athalia trembled and quailed before the storm of angry words and envenomed looks that surrounded her. how gladly would she have escaped. it was too late. "father, your consent." "never! you, my only son, marry a common sewing girl, never." "it is too late. here is my marriage certificate." his father opened his mouth to curse him. what for? he had married a girl he loved--a girl, handsome, virtuous, industrious, but poor--a seamstress. "a letter, sir;" said a servant. "give it me." he tore it open and read; "sir:-- "yours of the th inst. came too late. news reached the city an hour before that the matilda was----" he did not say lost. he looked it. he looked at his son and his poor trembling little wife, as though he wished them both at the bottom of the sea, with the matilda and her cargo--all his fortune! he felt all the envenomed bitterness that a violent natural temper can feel, when heated and inflamed by drunkenness; for he was drunk, fashionably drunk; but not so much so but he could feel how irretrievably ruined he was, and that the failure to insure was occasioned by drunkenness, such drunkenness as the highest class of society indulge in, when they take an "extra bottle," after dinner, upon extraordinary occasions. he knew the fault was all his own. he had said, when urged to open the letter, an answer to which would have saved all, "that is my business." it was a sad, sad business. that one more bottle had beggared himself, and all that were dependant upon him. he had just married one daughter to a man whose only qualification was "a good fellow," who could shoot, fish, smoke, drink, drive fast horses, cheat his tailor, and the poor widow boarding-house keeper, and, finally, take advantage of a besotted old rich merchant, when he had drunk just to the point of good-nature--when the indulger in strong drink feels like hugging everybody and "all the rest of mankind,"--to get his consent for him to marry his ugly daughter. it was a marriage of convenience, the obligations of which he intended to keep just as many other such obligations are kept in this city. all this ran through his mind upon the electric telegraph of the brain. flash after flash it went through, and then came the heavy thunderbolt. he could have endured all the rest; he could not endure that his son should marry a sewing girl. why? his father was a tailor, and he married a tailor's daughter, and he hated everything that could remind him of his own needle-and-thread origin. he hated her too, because she was so much more lovely than his own daughters. for five minutes he sat with the letter in his hand, glaring at that, then at his wife and matilda with a look of sorrow; then at elsie and her half-drunken husband, with contempt; then his eye came back with a fixidity of hatred upon walter and athalia. at length walter ventured to break the awful silence. "father." "don't call me father again. i disown you, you poor milliner's apprentice. beggar! don't speak to me." walter paid no heed to the order, but said mildly, "is the matilda lost." "that is my business. leave the room." his sisters took up the cue. "yes, you had better go now. go, and set up shop. you can carry home dresses for your wife." he came to that afterwards. then elsie's husband put in a word of insult. "i say, walter, it strikes me, that is rather a costly topsail for a beggar's wife. i hope she gets her bonnets in an honest way. who pays the milliners' bills?" walter raised his cane to strike the villain that could utter such a vile insinuation upon the character of a virtuous girl, and would have paid all his tailors' bills at one blow, but athalia sprung upon his arm, and held it down. his father either thought, or pretended to think, that he raised his cane to strike him; probably not having heard the remark of wendall, and thinking only of his own wrongs. he seized a bottle--a weapon that has knocked down its thousands--and sprang forward to strike down his son. his arm was already up, a horrid oath was struggling in his throat, his face turned black from the effects of suffocation, he reeled, the bottle fell to the floor with a crash, and he would have fallen down among the broken glass and spilt wine, but for walter, who caught him in his arms, and bore him from the room towards his chamber. athalia rushed out for a physician. it was too late!--death had already said, "that is my business." * * * * * while these events were transpiring in the country, others of great import to the rich merchant's family were enacting in the city. creditors are not slow when they see misfortune fall upon one, whom they were ready to bow to yesterday, to tread upon him to-day. creditors and their ministers,--the judges, attorneys, sheriffs,--are all ready for a share of the pound of the broken merchant's flesh. shylocks still live, and antonios still fail. that was a sad funeral cortége which accompanied the dead bankrupt back to the city. sad, not so much from sorrow, as wounded pride and fallen greatness. it was sad to see the daughters of a dead father absolutely refuse to travel upon the same train, with an only brother's wife. he would not go without her, and so they went without him. it was night when they arrived. they had despatched john in advance, to set the house in order, and meet them at the depot with the carriage and a hearse. the latter was there, the former was not, and they had to submit to the indignity of a hired hack. at the house, all was dark. what could it mean? "that villain, john, has got drunk again!" that was the fact. who taught him? he was only following the long-studied precepts of his employer and lady, the young ladies, the young gentlemen, and all their fashionable associates, in their fondness for exhilarating drink. why should he not get drunk? they rung the bell angrily. it was a long time before it was answered. then a heavy footstep came down stairs--not up from the servants' room--and approached the door, and opened the inner one, so that he could see through the blind who demanded admission. a sharp-faced, keen, black-eyed, weasel-looking man, with a chamber-lamp in his hand, and one of mr. morgan's dressing gowns upon his back, stood before the astonished family with the question trembling upon his lips, of "vats you vant here?" "want? we want to come in, to be sure, why don't you open the door? who are you? what are you doing here?" "vell, you can't come in. i is the sheriff's man, and he has put me keeper here, and he tells me not to let anybody in without his order. you must go to him. vat you vakes me up for?" and he closed the door in their faces, and they heard his heavy step reverberating through the long hall, and up the broad stair-case, as he went back to his lounge, "in my lady's chamber." there were heavy hearts upon the outside of that door. the men had brought the coffin up, and set it down upon the steps. the hearse and hired hack had driven off. there lay the dead--he never would say, "this is my business," again--the wine-maker might say so. both were silent. neither would own his work. in the vaults of that house, three thousand dollars worth--no, _cost_--of wines were stored. fifty thousand dollars worth of the richest rosewood and mahogany furniture, china, cut glass, and silver ware, stood idle, while its late possessor lay in his coffin upon the threshold, with his family standing around, vainly asking permission to rest the body of the dead owner one night, in its journey to the tomb. what should they do? walter, if he had been there, could have directed what to do. he was not. then he was cursed in thought, if not word, because he was not there. "it is all his fault," said elsie; "it was his abominable marriage that killed father." where was her husband? she looked around for him. he had slipped away "to get a drink." what a brute, she thought. so he was. that is what going to "get a drink" makes of a man. "we must go to mr. grundy's," said the widow. how? the hearse and hack were gone, and could not be got back in an hour. a passing cart was called, and the coffin of the millionaire placed upon it, and the family followed, to knock at the door of a neighbor's house, with the same results--to be answered by another sheriff's officer, but who, by chance, happening to be an american, and possessed of common sense enough to know that the dead would not steal, and those who attended upon him would not be likely to do so, he opened the door, lit the gas, called up one or two of the servants still left in the house, and did a few other things that natural humanity dictates upon such an occasion. an hour after, the grundys themselves arrived, to find their home in the hands of a "keeper," who had let in the morgans by courtesy, and now admitted them as mourning friends of the family. here, i draw the curtain. you have already seen the termination of a man who could leave his young wife and her dead father standing in the street, to go and "get a drink." it was him that died in the rat hole, in cow bay. it was elsie that told how he died, how she gave birth to a child by the side of her dead husband, and how the rats sucked up the life blood of that child. you have seen matilda, before. turn back to a picture, in chapter v., and look at her upon her wedding-day. it is needless for me to go with you along the beaten path of her career, down, down, down, from ball-room to bar-room; from house of----"a place to meet a friend"--to a house of----"ladies' boarding-house"--to a house of common resort--the abode of wretchedness, woe, sin, degradation, disease, and "painted sepulchres"--from that to a low room, with "my man," and, finally, to fill the picture in the twopenny marriage. let the curtain fall--the dead rest in peace. watch the living. chapter x. athalia, the sewing girl. "it is their husbands' fault, if wives do fall." "the weakest goes to the wall." walter came down on the train with the grundys. they urged him to "abandon his folly, and go home with them." they little thought they had no home to go to themselves. he said, no; she was his wife, and he never would leave her. he thought so then. if he had left the bottle, he never would. "where shall we go, athalia?" "come with me; i have a home." so he went to her little room in broome street. the door was fast, and the room dark. she rapped, and was soon answered by jeannette's voice: "who is there?" "it is me." what a world of meaning is in those three little words. how the memory of many a wife will wander back into other days, when she heard a midnight rap, and putting her head out of the chamber window, where she had been "making a frock and rocking the cradle" all the early part of the night; and how her heart palpitates at the answer to her half spoken, half whispered question, "who is there?" "it is me," comes up to her ready ear in the open window. down goes the sash, for the wind might blow on "the baby;" they "have got a baby." in a minute, oh half that time, "me" sees the light through the key-hole, and hears a little step running down stairs. it stops an instant to set the lamp on the table. what for? she could hold it in one hand, while she unlocked the door with the other. yes, but when the door is open she will have work for both hands--both arms will be around the neck of somebody. "heigho, for somebody!" i wish every loving heart had somebody; somebody to say, "it is me." "wait a minute." a little light flashed through the key-hole, then the bolt went back with a click, then the door opened, a night-cap and white gown, a pair of blue eyes, and some pale red curls, were seen a moment, and then a very light scream, and athalia and walter were in the dark again. the door was closed in their faces. was she, too, shut out from her home? "open the door, jeannette. never mind your night-gown." "oh. i cannot; indeed i cannot. that is not all. charles is here." charles there, at that time of night, and she in her night-gown! what can it mean? "jeannette, what does it mean?" "now, don't go to being angry with me, athalia." and she opened the door a little way, and looked out. she had slipped on a wrapper, and slipped off the night-cap. what is there in a night-cap, or night-gown, that a lady should be ashamed to be seen in it? "what does it mean, jeannette?" "oh, now, don't go to being angry, athalia, don't. indeed i could not help it, i was so lonesome after you went away--only think of staying here all alone." "shame on you, jeannette. and so because you were lonesome, you have taken cousin charles to sleep with you." "yes; why not?" "why not! why, jeannette?" "why, athalia, we are married. you don't think i would do it if we were not, do you?" "married! ha, ha, ha! come in walter, you can come in now. we are all married folks together. ha, ha, ha!" how her laugh did ring. she was anything but angry. "why, athalia, you are only joking." "no. i am in sober earnest." how jeannette did laugh, and hug, and kiss athalia; and then she ran to the bed, and there was a "kiss in the dark." "come, charley, get up and see the bride. come, we are all married folks together." "oh, jeannette, we must not carry on so with walter now." "why not? are we not all married? if we cannot carry on a little now, i don't know when we should." "yes, but--" "what?" "walter's father is dead." "oh, dear! don't say that." "i must; it is true. and walter must stay here to-night; how shall we fix it?" "oh, that is very easy. there are two matrasses on the bedstead; we will lay one down here--the bolster will do for pillows--there are some nice clean sheets, and a spread. we will just take that side curtain and turn it round, and pin it to the window curtain, and then you see how easy it will be to have two beds and two bed-rooms. you and i will sleep on the floor, and charles and walter shall sleep on the bed." no; that would never do. charles and walter would both sleep on the floor, and their wives should sleep where they always had, together on the bed. that the girls would not listen to. they were their guests, and they must sleep on the bedstead--that was the state bed--the bed of honor--walter had never slept on the floor in his life. then the men put in their argument, and thus the question stood, until it seemed likely that both beds would remain unoccupied. finally, it was settled by "compromise." charley whispered jeannette, and jeannette answered aloud, "why not? so we will. husbands and wives should sleep together. always together. what business has a man sleeping with anybody else?"--with another woman she thought. so it was settled how they should sleep. then there was another contention where, that seemed likely to be as interminable as the first. finally, athalia settled it. she took walter by the arm and said, "come," leaving jeannette and charley with the light, "because they were married longer and were more used to it." walter was soon asleep. athalia lay listening to a low conversation between charles and jeannette, in which she caught, now and then, a word. "the west--new country--log cabin--little farm--cows, and pigs, and chickens--and a baby"--she thought that--and she thought how happy they will be, and how much better off than here in the city. so she was not at all surprised when jeannette told her, in the morning, what they had concluded to do. in three days they did it. when i was in their little cabin, and heard from the lips of jeannette several things that i should not have known otherwise, i found that they had realized all their hopes, for they had not built them high. and when she found that i knew athalia, how she did hang upon my arm, and insist that i should stay all night, and sleep in the little bed-room where the rose-bush i had so much admired, overhung the window, and tell her the story, how she got along, and what became of her, and all about it. shall i begin at the beginning, or in the middle, or at the end? "oh, at the beginning, to be sure. where is she now? is she alive?" that is it; you are a true woman. you tell me to begin at the beginning, and then the very first question you ask is about the end. i see you are impatient, and so i will gratify you. i will begin at the beginning of the end, and finish in the middle. athalia, poor girl, she is-- "oh, don't say that--not dead!" no, no; she is alive and very well, and almost as pretty as ever. she is a widow, and lives in new york, and keeps a boarding house, and is making a comfortable living. "a widow! why, where is her husband?" why, where should he be? if she is a widow, he must be either dead or in california; it is about all the same in new york. "what did he die of?" the same disease that kills nine-tenths of his class--rum! "oh, dear, and he such a fine young man. i would have married him myself, if it had not been for charley. well, i have one great blessing; if charles is not so rich as walter, he is as sober as a judge. oh, i forgot to tell you that he is almost one; he is justice of the peace. but do tell me, did walter leave her rich? the morgans were very wealthy." ah, i see now; athalia never told of their failure, and how all their wealth vanished like morning dew; that all those five dollar carpets, thousand dollar mirrors, and single chairs that cost more than all your neat furniture, were sold under the hammer to pay debts; and that walter had not a cent in the world, and that he lived a long time upon the money which she earned, with, "'work, work, work. from weary chime to chime,' through many a day and many a night, 'as prisoners work for crime;' until she sighed and sung: "'oh, for only one short hour, to feel as i used to feel, before i knew the woes of want, and the walk that costs a meal.'" "and did walter do nothing?" what could he do? he knew nothing--had never learned to do anything; besides that, how could he take to any occupation, when he had always been above work, and free from want. if his father had put him into his counting-room with old precision, he might have been a good bookkeeper, and could now have had employment upon a salary. as it was, he was a useless, worthless member of society. his father had been asked, if he did not think of putting walter into some situation where he would learn to help himself, but his answer was, "that is my business;" and there ended the matter. finally, after some months of idleness, supported by his young wife's toil, a few friends concluded to advance him a thousand dollars, to go south, where, as he thought, he could make a fortune; and if he got away where nobody knew him, he could go into some sort of business. athalia went with him. they landed at savannah, put up at the best hotel, four dollars a day, and wine and cigars, upon an average, six more. it was easy to calculate just how long a thousand dollars would last at that business. athalia pined in idleness; of course, a young "northern merchant's" wife could not use her needle in a city where a lady, of any pretensions to fashion, would not help herself to a glass of water if the pitcher stood at her elbow. a slave, always ready at her bidding, must be called to wait upon "young missus." it did not take walter long to form new acquaintances; besides, he met with several of his old college chums, and so it was a day here and a night there, upon this plantation and that; of course, his pretty wife was always welcome, so long as nobody knew that she was a sewing girl. that secret leaked out at last, and then-- "what then?" then those who had courted and fawned around the rich merchant's wife, and thought she was the prettiest and best bred woman, and most intelligent, they had ever met with, and the most modest and most amiable-- "so she was. i never saw her equal." nor they either--but then she was a sewing girl, when he married her--perhaps never was married. that was finally annexed by envious, malicious, jealous rivals, who felt her superiority, and how much more she was admired by the gentlemen than they were. all this came at last, by a true friend--a slave--to athalia's ear. she had felt the chilling change, and, finally, obtained the secret from her yellow chambermaid. her mind was instantly made up. that night she packed her trunk; walter, as usual, was out "attending to business," such as young men often attend to at midnight in some private back room, sitting around a table, counting spots upon little bits of pasteboard. the steamboat would leave the next morning for charleston. she waited in vain for walter, and then wrote a long letter, detailing all the facts and giving ample reasons for her course, and begging him to abandon his; to settle up what matters he had as soon as possible and follow her. then she laid down for a short nap, with orders to mary to wake her if mr. morgan came in, and if not, to call her in time for the boat at any rate, and then to give him the letter. it was an impulsive step, but that was her nature. "so it was. she always thought and acted at the same moment; and almost always right." in one week she was back in her old room, which she had let temporarily during her absence. in one week more she had an additional room and a few girls at work for her at dress-making. she issued her little card, sent it around to old customers, and got some new ones, and all the work that she could do. in three months she had ceased to pay rent for furniture; she had bought and paid for it, and was making weekly deposits of little sums in the savings bank. then her husband came back. where his thousand dollars had gone you may judge, when i tell you that athalia had to go and redeem his trunk, retained on board a brig for his passage. he could not go himself for it, he was sick; with what complaint you may easily judge; i shall not tell you, as he did not tell his wife, until she too was sick, and in her ignorance, neglected to call a physician, until so bad that she was laid up from work, and of course lost custom. how her little store melted under this accumulation of expense! finally, they got agoing again, and she persuaded him to get into some kind of employment. what could he do? there was but one "genteel"--mark the word--business that he knew of. he became a bar keeper. he had one regular customer. it was walter morgan! down hill is an easy road. he took it. athalia soon found some of her best customers dropping off. "what was the cause?" there were two. in the first place walter had been the means of getting a notorious courtezan to give her custom to his wife. he brought her there and introduced her as mrs. layton, formerly of south carolina, now living with her nieces and daughter in this city. she used to come often, always in her carriage, with liveried servants. once athalia rode home with her to fit a dress to "a sick young lady, that boarded with her." she found that mrs. layton lived in an elegant four story house, near a church and in a very respectable neighborhood in a fashionable street. her rooms were furnished with a degree of splendor almost equal to the morgans. little did she suspect the character of the house, particularly as her husband had introduced her there. but there was another cause why she lost her best customers. in a fashionable soirée, to which walter still found his way occasionally, when questioned by a score of his old acquaintances, with whom he used to flirt, and every one of whom were envious and jealous of athalia, they rallied him most unmercifully upon his marriage with a sewing girl, and then the base cowardly wretch--rum makes such of gentlemen--declared upon his honor that he was not married. it was only a marriage of convenience. "a mistress--a mistress--oh! that alters the case. and only to think we have been getting the shameless thing to make our common dresses. well, i never will go near her again." "nor i. nor i. nor i." "and that accounts for what i heard the other day, that she was seen riding home with that madame layton, who keeps a house of assignation in ---- street." "how did she know that she kept such a house!" it was matilda morgan, that said it. she had been there. the train once lighted, which fires the dry prairie, how it sweeps on before the wind. it little regards who stand in the way. as little regards the slanderer, and as rapidly spreads the fire of a scandalous tongue, devouring its victims with a consuming fire. athalia was a victim. the man who should have been her shield, had himself thrown the first dart. it had been more envenomed by a pretended female friend, who had told her all that he said. she could have forgiven him everything else, she would not forgive him that. things now looked dark. she was obliged to look for work among a class of customers where nothing but the direst necessity would have led her. her husband had tended bar, until his employer found that he drank up all the profits. now he was drinking up the hard earnings of his wife. then he began to stay out nights. where, she could only guess. one day she sent him to pay the rent. it was the last money she had. about a week after, the landlord called for it. he had not seen walter, had not been paid, and was very sorry for her, but he must have the rent. "would he wait a few days? she hoped her husband would pay it." there was a curl of derision upon his lip. what could it mean? "fact is, mrs. morgan, or miss lovetree, or whatever your name is, i let the premises to you, and look to you for the rent. i shall not run after such a miserable drunken ---- as walter morgan." she did not drop dead under this heavy blow; she simply said, "you shall have your rent to-morrow." "very well then; and you may as well look for a new place too, in the course of the week." "i intend to," was her calm reply. when he was gone, she slipt on her bonnet and shawl, and thought she would take her watch and ear-rings, and a few little things, where her husband had twice taken them before, and whence she had redeemed them, after he had spent the money; for money he would have, and if she did not give it to him, he would steal her things and pawn them. he had done so now. all was gone, even her large bible, the present of her dying mother. her only alternative was to get a jew to come and look at the furniture, and advance enough to pay the rent. on the way she thought she would take a dress home, and got the money for that. she knew it was going to a house of bad repute; she had been obliged to work for such, and on several occasions walter had carried them home. it was a sort of perquisite with him to get the pay for such. she looked for the dress, that too was gone. there was another to go to the same house, which she could finish in about an hour. it was her only resource for the necessities of to-morrow. at nine o'clock she took it upon her arm and went out, and with trembling step, up to the door of a magnificent house, only one block from broadway. as the door opened for her, half-a-dozen "up town bloods," came out. "i say," said one of them, before he was out of her hearing, "i say, fred, that is walt. morgan's gal, let us go back and see the fun." the voice was familiar, though the bloated countenance of the roué was not. she had heard it before. it was george wendall. "see the fun"--what could it mean? she felt like anything but fun. is it fun for a man to see a woman's heart broken? they went on, fred remarking, "she is dev'lish pretty; curse me if i don't try my hand there. i will walk into her affections." such is the opinion of the roué--that the door of woman's affections is always open for every self-conceited puppy to walk in. her heart was in her throat. she choked it down, and went in and inquired for miss nannette, and was shown up to her room. a gentleman was there, whom nannette introduced as mr. smith, from the south. he might be from the south, but athalia knew him to be a married man, with a sweet young wife and two children, in this city. the dress was to be tried on, and nannette began to strip off without a blush. athalia did blush, and did object, and would not stay. "well, then, george, go down a few minutes to the parlor, that is a good soul, she is so fastidious." no, he did not want to be seen there; he would go home. "well, then, give me some money to pay for making this dress. you gave me the stuff, you might as well go the whole figure." he handed her a ten dollar bill; she handed it to athalia,--the dress was only five--remarking: "give him the change; i won't take but a five out of it this time." athalia had no change. she looked at him, to be certain of her man, and remarked: "no; i will keep the whole, and credit him the balance, on account of seven dollars he has owed me these two months, for work for his wife." he stammered something about mistake--not him--cursed blunder--and left the room. the dress fitted beautifully, and athalia felt the soothing influence of praise for her work, and would have left happier than she came, but just then her ear caught a voice in the next room. she listened. a woman replied: "yes, if you have brought any money. i have made up my mind that you shall not stay in this room another night without you give me more money." "oh, josephine, i have got something better than money for you. look here." "oh! you are a dear good fellow, after all. what a pretty watch, and what a dear little locket. that will do. now you may stay all night, and to-morrow we will go down to coney island again, and have a good time. i'll pass for your wife, you know." there was a door opening out of nannette's room into a bath-room, and out of that, a window into the room where the voices came from. it was but a thought; thoughts are quick, and so were her's, and the step that took her up on a chair, and her hand up to the curtain, which was the only thing preventing her from seeing who owned that voice. she looked. what a sight for a wife! she saw, what she knew before, but would be doubly sure, that the voice was her husband's. she knew that--she knew that he was giving her watch, and the locket which contained the donor's likeness, that of a dear brother lost at sea--a treasure that she would not part with sooner than her own heart--to a woman to whom he had before given money--money that came, drop by drop, distilled from her heart's blood, through the alembic of her needle; and she would see--what woman would not--what wife could resist the opportunity of seeing?--she could not--what the woman looked like, who could displace her in her husband's affections. the first sight she caught was her bible upon the table. "what could she want of that?" she was sometimes religious--a great many of them are, and read the bible to find some text to justify their own course. they are also visited by clergymen, who prefer those of "a religious turn of mind." then this bible was elegantly bound, and very valuable. then she saw her watch in the hands of a woman with ugly red hair, with dull, voluptuous eyes, thick lips, ugly teeth, a little snub nose, and a gaunt awkward figure, forming altogether one of the ugliest looking women, athalia thought, that she had ever seen. the words burst involuntarily from her lips: "oh, how ugly!" "she is uglier than she looks," said nannette. "she has ruined more men than any other woman in the city. she has kicked that fool out half a dozen times because he did not give her more money. i should not wonder now, if he has stolen his wife's watch to give that wretch." and this was the woman that athalia had been toiling for her husband to pamper. oh, how she did pray to die! nannette, when she learned the facts, was furious. she would have gone in and torn her heart out. she said she never did have anything to do with a married man, if she knew it. george had lied to her, and never should see her but once again--once, to get her blessing. athalia was calm. she sat down a few minutes, to recover from this last stab in the heart, and then said she would look once more and then go home. she did look, and saw her husband locked in the arms of that red-headed fury. then she went home; she did not go to bed; she worked all night putting her things in order. next day, at ten o'clock, a red flag was fluttering at her window, and while walter and his mistress were going down the bay, her furniture was "going, going, gone," to the highest bidder. at sundown she was homeless, friendless, worse than husbandless, alone, in the streets of new york! chapter xi. life at the five points. madalina, the rag-picker's daughter. "youth is bought more oft, than begged or borrowed." some wounds do never heal. although all my scenes are connected, and bear some relation one to the other, yet they are not continuous. like the panorama of niagara, we must go back, cross over, look up, look down, first from this point of view, then from that, to see all the scenes of that wonder of wonders. so here, where a mighty torrent rushes on, sweeping a multitude down the great cascade, we have to look at scene after scene, before we can join them all together into one panoramic view. our scenes, too, are as real and life-like as those. sometimes a tree here, a flower there, then a little spray, then a cloud, or the natural color, a little heightened to give effect, and make the picture more vivid; but the rocks and rushing torrent, the real foundation of the picture, are all as nature made them. so it is with my present panoramic view of "life scenes in new york." again i shift the scene. still you will find characters that you have met before, will meet again. it is a tale of sorrow, but a tale of truth. a little girl was weeping there, pearl drops of bitter tears, and hope with her was sleeping where she spent her youthful years; her useless life was fleeing fast, her only school the street; the future, gloomy shadows cast, where e'er she set her feet. her ev'ry day had one sad end, her ev'ry night the same; or sick, or well, she had no friend, 'twere worthy of that name. a mother gave this child her birth, or else she had not been; but judas like that mother's worth-- she sold her child to sin! for gold she gave her child to sin, for gold her child betray'd; what gold would you, dear mother, win, your own to thus degrade? what gold would you to others give, from sin such others save? though gold is good to those who live, 'tis useless in the grave. poor madalina claims a tear, from those her story read pray stop and pay that tribute here, it is her only meed. now con her story careful o'er, her life was one of grief, she needs not now your pity more-- to others give relief. i suppose there are some who will turn away in disgust from the double title of this chapter. what, they will say, can "life at the five points" have in it that is interesting to me, who lounge on silk brocatelle, and look down upon beggar girls and rag-pickers--disgusting objects--through lace curtains that cost more, to every window, than would furnish a hundred families in that locality with better furniture than they now possess? no doubt you will turn away in disgust at the very sight of the title of "the rag-picker's daughter." yet you may find something in the character of "madalina," which will make you love the name. i should not wonder, in some of my walks through the city in future years, to hear that pretty name spoken to some sweet child, yet to be born in rose-perfumed chamber. then pass not by my tale of one so lowly. see how sweet is a cup of cold water to the dying. read. "sir," said the door-keeper, to mr. pease, one night, "little madalina, the beggar girl, is at the door, crying bitterly, and says she wants to see you." "i suppose," said the tired missionary, "i answered hastily, perhaps petulantly, for i had been very much engaged all day. tell her to go away, i cannot see her to-night; it is eleven o'clock, and i am very tired. she must come to-morrow." the poor fellow turned upon his heel to go away, but as he did so, the glimpse of his hand and motion of the coat sleeve across his eyes, told a story. "tom," said mr. p., "tom, my dear boy, what is the matter?" tom did not turn round as he had been taught, and usually did, so as to look him full in the face when he answered; in fact he did not answer readily; there was a choking sensation in his utterance which prevented the words from coming forth distinctly. now, this boy had been but a short time in "the home," and perhaps a more squalid, wretched, drunken boy, cannot be found in the purlieus of the five points, than he was when he was almost literally picked out of the gutter, as he had been once before he came here finally, in the way you have already seen. once before, he had actually been dragged out of the filthiest hole in anthony street, brought in, washed and dressed, before he came to, so as to be conscious of the change that had come over him. then he was brought back again to his low degradation, by just such wretches and ways of the wicked as were brought to bear upon poor reagan, and will be upon many others, while the destroyer is permitted to walk abroad like a pestilence at noon-day. now this outcast, who had cared for nothing human, not even himself, stood vainly trying to choke down his grief for the sorrows of a little beggar girl. were the reminiscences of one, almost as low down in the scale of humanity, running through his mind--one who, after having been herself lifted up, had exerted an influence upon him to his salvation? the tired missionary forgot his fatigue. "tom," said he, springing up, "i will go and see what is the matter. who is this madalina?" "she is an italian rag-picker's daughter, sir--they live in cow bay--i used to lodge with them sometimes. that is, the mother picks rags, and the father goes with the hand-organ and monkey." "ah, that is where the little tambourine girl came from that we have now in school. there is a quarrel, i suppose, and the little girl has come for me." tom went down stairs, with a heart as light as his step, "which," said mr. p., "i followed, i must acknowledge, rather heavily, for i did not quite relish the idea of being wakened out of a comfortable evening nap, to do police duty in cow bay, and i fear there might not have been quite as much suavity in my tone and manner towards the rag-picker's daughter, as we ought to use when speaking to those poor children, for i recollect the words were, 'what do you want?' instead of, 'what can i do for you, my child--come tell me, and don't cry any more.'" "i don't want to be a beggar girl. i want to be like my cousin juliana." "juliana--juliana. i don't know her." "it is the little tambourine girl, sir," said tom. "oh, i see now. juliana is your cousin, then. come here madalina; let me look at you, and i will talk about it. did juliana tell you to come here?" "yes, sir; she has told me a good many times, but they would not let me. i am afraid to stay there to-night, they are drinking and fighting so bad." "i thought so; and you want me to go and stop them; is that it?" "no, sir. i want to stay here." "oh, a poor little girl flying for fear from her own parents, because they are drinking and fighting so." he drew her forward into the light, and looked upon as fine a set of features as he ever saw. her hair, which, as a matter of course, was black almost as the raven's wing, and subsequently, when cleaned of dirt and its accompaniments, became almost as glossy, overshadowed a pair of the keenest, yet mildest, black eyes i ever met with. her skin was dark, partly natural, and partly the effect of the sun upon its unwashed, unsheltered surface. her teeth, oh! what a set of teeth! which, she afterward told me, she kept clean by a habit she had of eating charcoal. she was about twelve years old, slim form, rather tall, but delicate structure. her dress consisted of a dirty cotton frock, reaching a little below the knees, and nothing else. barefooted, bareheaded, almost naked, at the hour of midnight, of a cold march night, a little innocent child, wandering through the streets of new york, vainly plying the words, "please give me a penny, sir," to well-fed, comfortably-dressed men, whose feelings have grown callous by constantly hearing such words from such objects, to whom to give is not to relieve, but rather encourage to continue in the pursuit of such ill-gotten means of prolonging life, without any prospect of benefit to themselves or their fellow-creatures. "then you don't want to beg, madalina! why not?" "because people push me, and curse me, and to-day one man kicked me right here, sir." and she laid her hand upon her stomach, and a little groan of anguish and accusation against the unfeeling monster who had done the deed, went to the recording angel, and was set down in the black catalogue of rum-selling crimes, for a day of retribution yet to come. "kicked you! what for? were you saucy?" "no, sir; i am never saucy. my mother says if i am saucy, men won't give me anything. i must be very quiet, and not talk any, nor answer any questions." "then how came he to kick you?" "i don't know, sir; i did not say a word, i only went into one of those nice rooms in broadway, where they have such beautiful glass bottles and tumblers, and looking-glasses, and such a sight of all sorts of liquor, and where so many fine gentlemen go and sit, and talk, and laugh, and drink, and smoke; and i just went along and held out my hand to the gentlemen, when one of them told me to open my mouth, and shut my eyes, and hold out my hand, and he would give me a shilling. now look what he did--he put his cigar all burning in my hand, and shut it up and held it there." horrible! she opened her hand, and showed three fingers and a palm all in a blister. "oh, sir, that is nothing to what another one did. he put a great nasty chaw of tobacco in my mouth, and then i could not help crying; then the man who sells the liquor, he ran out from behind the counter, and how he did swear, and caught me by the hair, and pulled me down on the floor, and kicked me so i could hardly get away. but he told me if i did not he would set the dogs on me and tear me to pieces." "what did you go into such a place for?" "i had been all day in the streets and only got three pennies, and i wanted to go home." "well, why did you not go?" "my mother said if i did not get sixpence to-day she would whip me, and so i went to that place. i did not think such nice dressed gentlemen would do so. what if they should have to beg some day! my father used to dress as fine as they when he kept the _café de l'imperator_." "and where have you been since they abused you so?" "i crept up into a cart in pearl street; i was so sick, after the tobacco and the kick, for it was very hard." "could you not get home?" "no, sir. besides, what if i could, and my mother had been drinking. she would kick me again, perhaps." "what, then, are you going to do to-night? you cannot sleep in the street; it is too cold." "won't you let me sleep?"---- "with your cousin juliana?" "no, sir, not that; she is clean, and i--i wish i was. won't you let me sleep on the floor?" "you shall have a place to sleep to-night; and to-morrow, if your mother is willing, you shall come and live with your cousin juliana, and be dressed as she is, and learn to sew; and when you get big enough"---- "her mother will prostitute her, as she did her older sister to a miserable old pimp for ten dollars." "tom, tom, what is that?" "the truth, sir. have i ever told you a lie since i have been in your house?" "well, well, tom, take madalina to the housekeeper, and give her somewhere to sleep to-night, and to-morrow morning you shall go to her mother and see what she will do." "lord, sir, i must go to-night. she will be off with her hook and basket, poking in the gutters after rags before the stars go to bed. these rag-pickers are early birds. i have known them travel four or five miles of a morning, to get to their own walk." "own walk. what is that?" "all the city is divided up among them. each must keep to his own walk. if one should trespass upon another, he would get a wet cloth over his mouth some night when he was asleep, and nobody would know or care how he died." "the coroner's jury would inquire into the matter." "coroner! fiddlesticks! i beg your pardon, sir, but i did not mean to answer you that way, though i did know that coroner's juries care the least of anybody how such fellows die. the verdict would be 'accidental death,' 'found dead,' 'died of visitation of providence;' or, if the murderers got a chance, which they might do easy enough, to chuck the body in the dock, the verdict would be 'found drowned,' no matter if he had a hole in his head as big as my fist." "they could not carry the body from this neighborhood to the river without being detected." "couldn't they. how did ring-nosed bill and snakey jo carry pedlar jake from cale jones's to peck-slip and send him afloat?" "what, dead?" "yes, sir, they put too much opium in his rum to get him to sleep, so they could rob him, and he did not wake up, and so they walked him off." "walked him off, how?" "they stood him up and fastened one of their legs to his each side, so that when they stepped his feet travelled too, and so they-went along, talking to him and cursing him for being so drunk, till they got to the dock." "where were the police, do they never notice such things?" "lord, no sir, they steps round the corner when they sees a drunken man coming, particularly if he has one of his friends with him." "and do you think, tom, that the rag-pickers would murder a fellow-creature who trespassed, as they call it, upon their grounds, without compunction of conscience?" "conscience, sir, what do they know about conscience? the 'padre' keeps their conscience." "but the law, is there no law in this christian city?" "law, pshaw! what has your book-law to do with rag-pickers' law?" "true enough; or 'father confessors,' either." the next morning tom made his report. at first it was a positive refusal. "she can make sixpence a day, and pick up enough to eat." "well then she shall pay you sixpence a day. she can soon learn to sew and earn more than that. juliana does it every day." "but she shall not stay there nights. they will make a protestant of her." "that was not the sticking point," says tom, "if she stays here, she cannot make a ---- of her there. the best i could do was to let her go home nights and come days. that is better than nothing. the poor little thing won't have to go begging, and be burned, and kicked, and vomited with filthy tobacco cuds, and then whipped if she don't bring home sixpence every night for her mother to buy rum with. if she cannot earn it here at first, i will, and we will get her away entirely, after a while." noble tom! glorious good boy! what a heart! how long is it since thou wert as one of them, kicked and cuffed, and groveling drunk in the gutter? who thought then that thy rags and filth covered such a heart? who knew of the virtuous lessons given thee by a pious mother; and how, after years of forgetfulness, sin, wretchedness, misery, that that good seed would vegetate and bring forth such sweet flowers and good fruit, as we are now tasting in these good deeds and kind words. what if nine of the fallen whom we lift up, fall back again? so that one stand, who shall refuse to lend a helping hand? let us lift up the lowly and make the haughty humble. why should they do evil? again the messenger went up to the great recorder, and a double deed of mercy was written down. wild maggie, thy sins are forgiven. look at thy work. this is the poor outcast boy of whom you said, "tom, i am going to provide you with a home. you must go to the house of industry, reform, and make a man of yourself." the work is more than half done. madalina, though still suffering from her brutal treatment, was a happy girl when she found that she was not to be driven out to beg in the streets. but she could not understand why her mother wanted her to sleep at home. tom could. "too young! pooh! before she is a year-older, she will be lost." too true! before she had been in "the home" six months, she had learned to read, write, and work, and had grown much in stature and fine looks. then she would have been placed in some good family, but her mother would not consent. she still complained of her breast, and had frequent turns of vomiting. she always felt worse in the morning, "because," she said, "that was such a dreadful place to sleep." sometimes she did not come for a few days; her mother made her stay at home and sew. she had learned to work, and her services were worth more at that than begging. one night she came in, in great haste, crying. "what is the matter, madalina?" "my mother has had an offer for me." "an offer for you. what is that?" tom looked daggers. "i told you so." "what is it, my good girl. tell me all about it." "my mother bid me go out with her this evening, both of us dressed in our best. she said she had an offer for me, and was going to meet the man in duane street. "'what does the man want of me, mother?' said i. "'oh, he will make a fine lady of you, and you will live with him.' "'but i don't want to live with him; i had rather live with mr. pease, at "the home." i had rather live where tom is, for tom is good to me.'" young love's first happy dream! "but we went on, and i held my head down, and felt very bad. by-and-by i heard my mother say,'here she is,' and i looked up a little, and saw two gentlemen--that is, they were clothed like gentlemen--and directly one spoke to the other. "'i say, jim, she will do; give the old woman the money, and let us take her up to kate's.' "mercy on me, that voice! i felt that sore spot in my breast grow more and more painful. i looked up; _it was the man who kicked me_; the other was the man who put the tobacco in my mouth." "what did you do?" "i stood a little behind my mother while she held out her hand for the money, and when their eyes were turned i ran. i only heard them say, 'why, damn her, she is gone.' yes, i was gone, and here i am. oh, i am so sick and so faint! do let me lay down, and don't let those men have me. oh dear, the thought of it will kill me!" so it did. a cruel blow had fallen upon a tender plant. the beggar girl might not have felt it. the little seamstress did. a taste of virtue, civilization, christianity, friendship, love, had given the food of sin and shame a hated taste. sold by a mother to a libidinous brute--to a miserable rum-selling,--worse than rum-drinking--wretch, who wears gentlemanly garments, and kicks, burns, and gags little beggar girls. it was too much for human nature to bear, and it sunk under this last blow, worse than the first. madalina went to bed with a raging fever--a nervous prostration. all that kindness and skill could do, was done for the poor sufferer; but what could we do for the body, when the heart was sick? next morning her mother came and insisted that she should go home. they begged, pleaded, and promised in vain; go she must. "never mind," said madalina, "it will be only for a little, little while. i shall be well--at least all will be well with me in a few days. i cannot endure this pain in my breast. you will come and see me. good bye. tom, you will?" it was an honest, manly tear that tom turned away to hide. poor fellow, he need not have been ashamed of it. such is nature. "she is worse, sir," said tom, one morning, "and no wonder. i wish you would go and see her; she wants to see you once more. such a place to be sick in! oh, dear! how did i ever sleep there? i wish you would go with me to-night, about ten o'clock, when they are all in. you will see life as it is." "very well, tom, i will go. call for me at ten, or when you are ready." it was my fortune to drop in upon that very evening, and form one of the company to that abode of misery,--that home of the city poor,--so that i am able to describe it in my own language. the place where madalina lived, is a well known five points locality, called "cow bay." as you go up that great broadway of wealth, fashion, luxury, and extravagance of this great city, from the park and its marble halls of justice, you will pass another great marble front--it is the palace of trade, where the rich are clothed every day in fine linens, when they go "shopping at stewart's." further along are great marts, where velvet coverings for the floor are sold; for there are some who have never trod upon bare boards. you need not look down duane street, unless you have a curiosity to see the spot where a miserable mother would sell the virtue of her child to a wretch whose trade is seduction. don't look into that little old wooden shanty at the comer of pearl street; it is a "family grocery." the little ragged girl you see coming out with a rusty tin coffee-pot, has not been there for milk for her sick mother--her father is in the hospital on the opposite side of the way--his arm was broken in a "family quarrel." you will pass the broadway theatre before you reach the next corner, with its surroundings of fashionable "saloons," into any of which you may go without fear of losing caste among genteel brandy-smashers and wine-bibbers. perhaps you will be amused with a small play, such as burning, kicking, or vomiting a little beggar girl; for nice young men are fond of theatrical amusements. do not go into that place of "fashionable resort," the theatre, if it is a hot evening, for it is worse ventilated than the black-hole of calcutta, and if the fetid air does not breed a fever, it will breed a feverish thirst, which will tempt you to quench it in potations of poison. probably that is why it was thus built. a few steps beyond is anthony street. stop a moment here, and look up and down the great thoroughfare of new-york before you leave it. a hundred pedestrians pass you every minute; almost without an exception, every one of them richly dressed men and women, smiling in joy and happiness. here is an exception, certainly. a woman in poverty's garb, with a bundle of broken boards and old timbers, from a demolished building, that would be a load for a pack-horse. she is followed by two little boys, with each a bundle, crushing their young years into early decrepitude. they have brought their heavy loads all the long way from murray street. they turn down anthony; look where they go. if they live in that street, it cannot be far, for there, in plain view, stands a large frame house, corner-wise towards you, right in the middle of the street. no, it only looks so, it is beyond the end of it. yet look, note it well, the corner of that house so plain in view, pointing towards you, is one of the world-wide-known five points of new-york. "what! not so near broadway, right in plain sight of all who wear silks and broadcloth, and go up and down that street every day? surely that is not the place where all those bad, miserable, poor outcasts live, that the newspapers talk so much about." "the very spot, my dear lady." "really, this must be looked to. it is quite too bad to think that place is so near our fashionable street, and in sight too. i thought it was away off somewhere the _other_ side of town. if i thought it would do any good, i would let peter take a few dollars and some old clothes, and go down with them to-morrow." "try it, madam. better go yourself. let peter drive you down; see for yourself what has been done and what is yet to do. lend your hand to cure that eye-sore, which will pain you every time you pass, for you cannot shut it out of sight, now you know where it is; so near your daily walk or drive to stewart's, or nightly visit to the theatre, or weekly visit to the church. go to-morrow; don't put it off till next week." in the meantime, reader, let us follow the woman and two boys with their heavy burden, on their homeward way to-night. we will go and see where they live. so i followed down anthony, past some very old rat-harbor houses, filled with human beings, almost as thick as those quadrupeds burrow in a rotten wharf; so on they go across elm; now they stand a moment on the edge of centre, for one of the little boys has taken hold of his mother's dress to pull her back--for she cannot look up with her load--with a sudden cry of, "stop, old woman! don't you see the car is coming? why, you are as blind as a brick. that is black jim a-driving, and he had just as soon drive over the likes of you as eat. hang you for a fool, han't you got no sense, old stupid? there now, run like thunder, blast ye, for here comes another of the darned cars--run, i tell you!" she did run with her great load, till she almost dropped under its overwhelming weight. why should she thus labor--thus expend so much strength to so little purpose? she knew no other way to live. nobody gave her remunerative labor for strong hands; nobody took those two stout boys, and set them to till the earth, or taught them how to create bread, and yet they must eat, and so they prowl about the pulled-down houses, snatching everything they can carry away--a sort of permitted petty larceny, that teaches those who practice it how to do bigger deeds; and those old timbers they split up into kindling wood and peddle through the streets. poor uncared for fellow creatures; working and stealing to escape starvation--living, for what?--running to escape being run over by an unfeeling driver who cared just as much for them as for so many dogs. on they went, down anthony street; and i followed, determined to see the _home_ of this portion of the city poor. it was but one block further--only one little space beyond this great, wide, open, railroad street, whose thoughtless thousands daily go up and down from homes of wealth to wealth-producing ships and stores, little thinking of the amount of human misery within a stone's throw of the rails on which they glide swiftly along. one block further, and the street opens into a little, half acre sort of triangular space, sometimes dignified with the name of "park," but why, those who know can only tell, for it has no fence, no grass, and but a dozen miserable trees; 'tis lumbered up with carts and piles of stones, and strings of drying clothes, and scores of unwashed specimens of young humanity, whose home is in the dirt, whether in the street or parents' domicil. here let us stop and look around. a very short street, only one block across the base of the "park," runs to the right from where we stand, past the "five points house of industry," to cross street. this is the most notorious little street in new york. its name is little water street. it lead from the "old brewery" to "cow bay." who that has lived long in this city, or read its history, particularly that portion of it written by dickens, has not heard of the "old brewery?" it is not there now. that awful den of crime, poverty, and wretched drunken misery has been pulled down, and in its place a substantial brick edifice, in which is a chapel and school-room, and home of another missionary, has been erected by the noble, generous efforts of the ladies' home missionary society, of the methodist church. the old tenants have been driven out or reformed. how different, too, are the present occupants of that large brick pile in little water street, from those who filled its numerous rooms before the missionary came there. every room was a brothel or a den of thieves, or both combined. now it is a house of prayer--a home for the homeless--a place of refuge for midnight wandering little beggar girls. before us lies the misnamed, neglected triangle, called a park. at the further end is the frame house that we see so plainly as we look down anthony street from broadway. at the left, as though it were a continuation of little water street, lies that notorious five points collection of dens of misery, cow bay. it is a _cul-de-sac_, perhaps thirty feet wide at the mouth, narrowing, with crooked, uneven lines, back to a point about a hundred feet from the entrance. into this court i tracked the kindling-wood-splitters, and threaded my way among the throng of carts and piles of steaming garbage; elbowing my way along the narrow side-walk, and up a flight of broken, almost impassable steps, i reached the first floor hall of one of the houses, just in time to see that great load of wood and its bearer toiling up a narrow, dark, broken stairway, which i essayed to climb; but just then, from the room on the left, at the foot of the stairs, there came such a piercing, murder-telling, woman's shriek, that i started back, grasped my stout cane, determined to brave the worst for the rescue, made one step, pushed open the door, creaking with a horrid grating upon its rusty hinges, and stood in the presence of an eve, before the fall, in point of clothing, but long, long after that in point of sin. as i entered the open door, she sprung towards it; her husband caught her by the hair, and drew her back, with no gentle hand or word. "let me go, let me go--help!--he wants to murder me; let me go--help, help, help!" i did help, but it was help to the poor man, for she turned upon him with the fury of a tiger, scratching and tearing his face and clothes, and then settling with a grasp upon his throat, which produced the death-rattle of suffocation. a strong silk handkerchief served the hand-cuff's place, and to bind hands and feet together; after which she lay quietly upon a little straw and rags, in one corner, the only articles of furniture in the room, except a bottle, broken cup, and something that looked as though it once had been female apparel. "is this your wife?" "she was." "what is she now?" "the devil's fury. you saw what she is." "do you live with her?" "i did for seven years." "did she drink then?" "sometimes--not so bad." "did you drink?" "well, none to hurt. i kept a coffee house." "and made your wife a drunkard. how came she reduced to this dreadful condition? you are well dressed." "i left her three months ago, and went west to find a place to move to. she said if she could go where nobody knew her she would reform. i left her in a comfortable room, with good furniture and good clothes. now, where are they? all gone to the pawnbroker's; the money gone for rum--her virtue, shame, everything gone. how, what, and where do i find her? as you see, crazy drunk, in this miserable hole, in cow bay. and my boy, starved, made drunk, and--" "what, have you a child by her, then?" "yes, a sweet little boy, six years old. oh, i wish he was awake, that you might see him." and he stepped to the miserable bed, and lifted the dirty rag of a quilt, looked a moment upon the pale boy, dropped upon his knees, raised him in his arms, looked again wildly, and fell back fainting as he exclaimed, "great god, he is dead!" what little i could do or say to relieve such heart-crushing woe as overwhelmed this poor father of that murdered child--this miserable husband of that wretched, crazy--rum-crazy woman, was soon done. what else could i do than call in a police officer to take her away to prison? whence she went to the hospital, then to the drunkard's uncared-for, unwept-over grave! now, strange footsteps are winding up the rickety stairs, which i follow. they were those of tom and the missionary, for here lived little madalina. the second floor was divided into three rooms. we looked in as we passed. the back room was ten by twelve feet square, inhabited by two black men and their wives, and a white woman lodger, who "sometimes has company." here they eat, drink, and sleep,--cook, wash, and iron. the latter operation is performed on the bottom of the wash-tub, for there is no table. the front room, eight by fourteen feet, contained five blacks, men and women. each of these rooms rented for four dollars a month, _in advance_. a dark centre room, occupied by a white woman, was only six by seven feet, for which she paid fifty cents a week. on the third floor, the dark centre room, same size, was occupied by a real good looking, young, healthy german woman, with her husband, a great burly negro, as black as africa's own son, and a fine looking little white boy, four years old, as a lodger. we found the door shut, and no ventilator bigger than the key-hole. there _was_ a smell about the air. in the back room, ten by twelve, we found the wood-splitters--the woman and her two boys, a negro and his wife, a woman lodger, and occasional company. the rent of this room is one dollar a week in advance. the total amount of furniture, was not good security for one week's rent. "good woman, why do you bring all your great piles of wood up these steep, slippery stairs, to fill up your room?" "cot in himmel, vare vould i puts him? in te court? de peoples steal him all." true, there was no place but in that one room to store up a supply, while the time of gleaning was good. then it has to be carried down to the court, to be split up into kindlings, and then again carried up for storage. how so many find room to live in such narrow space, if our readers would learn, let them go and make personal inquiry. they will find plenty of just such cases, with slight search. up, up again, one more flight of creaking stairs, without bannisters, the thin worn steps bending beneath our tread, and we are on the upper floor of this one of a hundred just alike "tenant houses." along the dark, narrow passage, opening by that low door at the end, into a room under the roof, ten by fifteen feet, lighted by one dormer window, and we are in the home of madalina, the rag-picker's daughter. home! can it be that that holy name has been so desecrated--that this child, with sylph-like form and angel face, must call this room her home. 'tis only for a little while! she will soon have another! in one corner of the room stood two hand organs, such as the most of us city dwellers are daily tormented with, groaning out their horrid music under our windows, while the grinder and his monkey look anxiously for falling pennies or pea-nuts. these stand a little way apart, with a couple of boards laid across the space. on these boards there had been an attempt to make a bed, of sundry old coats, a dirty blanket, and other vermin harbors. on this bed lay the poor little sufferer. not so very little either. in her own native italy she had been counted almost a woman. we have seen many, many beautiful faces, but never one like this--so angelic. "it is a bad sign," said tom, in answer to a remark upon the expression of her face; "it is a sign she will soon be among those she looks so much like. she never looked so before. she is a living angel now, she will soon be a real one." "madalina, my good child," said the missionary, "how do you feel to-night?" "the pain in my breast has been very bad, but it is easier now. it always goes away when you come. i am so glad you came to-night, for i wanted to thank you for a thousand good things you have done for me." "are you afraid you will not get well?" "oh, no, i am not afraid; i know i shall not, but i am not afraid. i don't want to live, if i must live here; look around. it did not use to look as it does now to me; when i went out begging, and came home tired and cold and hungry, i could lay down with the monkeys on my mother's bag of nasty, wet rags, and go to sleep directly. now they worry me to death with their chattering. do drive them down, tom, that is a dear, good fellow." it would evidently have been a source of great gratification to tom, to have pitched five or six of them out of the window. but there were dark eyes scowling on him, out of a dozen sockets of men who come from the land of the stiletto, and looked now as though they could as readily use it as play the organ and lead the monkey. i looked about, and counted six men or stout boys, and eight women and girls, besides several children, monkeys, tambourines and hand organs. in one corner was the rag-picker's store. this had been the bed of madalina until this evening, she grew so much worse, that she was lifted up to the bed i have described. but here she had not escaped the torment of the monkeys. they had long been her companions and seemed determined to be so still. they were climbing up and down, or sitting chattering on her bed. late as it was in the evening there were several fresh arrivals of parties of musicians and rag-pickers from their distant walks. several were at supper. a long, black table with a wooden bench, on either side, was furnished with two wooden trays, which had seen long service and little soap. into these was ladled from time to time, the savory contents of a large pot simmering upon the stove. each guest helped himself with fingers and spoon. whether the stew was composed of monkey meat, or two days old veal, i cannot say. that onions formed a strong part of the ingredients, we had olfactory demonstration. some of the party indulged in a bottle of wine, and we smelt something very much like bad rum or worse brandy; but generally speaking, this class of the city poor are not great drunkards. one end of the room was entirely occupied by a camp bed. that is, in that narrow space of ten feet, ten human beings, big and little, of both sexes, laid down side by side. the balance of the family lay around here and there; some on and some under the table, some on great black chests, of which each family had one, wherein they lock all their personal goods from their pilfering room mates. the stove and a few dishes finishes the catalogue of furniture. how many persons are, or can be stowed into this one room, is beyond my powers of computation. will some of my readers, who faint at the smell of unsavory food, or who could not sleep but in fresh linen and well aired rooms, fancy what must be the feelings of poor madalina, who had just begun to taste of the comforts of civilized life, now sick and dying in such a room, where the penny candle only served to make the thick clouds of tobacco smoke more visible and more suffocating? one of the difficulties in all these close-packed rooms is the necessity of keeping the door always shut, to prevent pilfering, thus leaving the only chance for fresh air to enter, or foul air to escape, by the one small window in the roof. having given you a view of the room, and its inhabitants and furniture, let us look again upon poor madalina, as she lies panting for breath upon her hard pallet. her face, naturally dark, has an unhealthy whiteness spread over it, and there is a small, bright crimson spot upon one cheek--the other is hidden in the taper fingers of the hand upon which it rests. such a pair of bright black eyes! oh, how beautiful! her wavy locks of jet, are set off by a clean, white handkerchief, spread over the bundle of rags which forms her pillow, by one of her visitors. now, in spite of pain, there is a smile lighting up her face, and showing such a set of teeth as a princess might covet. whence this happy smile? listen how cheaply it is brought upon the face of the suffering innocent. she had said, "i am so thirsty, and nothing to drink but nasty, warm tea." directly, tom was missing. now he was back again, and there he stood with a nice, white pitcher in one hand, full of ice water, and a glass tumbler in the other. now he pours it full of the sparkling nectar--now he drops upon one knee and carries it to those parched lips. is it any wonder that she smiles? is it any wonder that that simple-minded, good-hearted boy should look up, as i stood looking over the kneeling missionary, and say, "don't she look like an angel, sir?" [illustration: the death-bed of madalina.--_page ._] it was an angelic smile. it was a sight worth days and nights of earnest seeking, and yet, oh, how cheaply purchased. only one glass of cold water! would that i had some raphaelic power to transfer the picture of that scene to this page, for you to look upon as well as read of, for a sight of that face with its surroundings, would do you good. it would make you yearn after the blessed opportunity of holding the cup of cold water to other fevered lips, lighting up other angelic, happy, thankful smiles. as it is, the artist has only been able to give you a faint illustration of the principal features of this scene. so far as it goes, you cannot but admire his skill--admire the delineator's art, by which the picture is sketched upon the block, and the engraver's skill, who cuts the lines by which the printer spreads the scene out before the admiring eyes of those who read and view. such is art, and skill, and industry. how much better than the idle life of those who furnished the originals for these "life scenes!" vainly we pleaded with the mother of madalina to carry her to a comfortable room--to my house--to any house--to the hospital--to get a physician--a nurse--some one, at least, to give her a drink of cold water through the next long, long day, when she would be left nearly alone--perhaps quite so--locked in this dreadful room--while men and monkeys, organs and tambourines, beggers and rag-pickers, were all away plying their trades in the streets of the city. it was no use; she was inexorable. the _padre_ was a very good doctor--the _padre_ was good for her soul--the _padre_ would pray for her; and if she was to die, she should not die in the house of a heretic. so we parted. it was a hard parting, for she clung to each one as she said: "good bye; i wish i could go with you, but my mother--you have taught me to obey my mother, that all good children obey their mothers--so good bye--good bye, tom. you will bring me another drink to-morrow? yes, i knew you would, if i asked you, you are so good to me." there were tears at parting, and they were not all tears of a sick child, or good boy, but strong men wept. "tom," said the feeble, sobbing voice, after we had almost reached the door, over the careless sleepers on the floor; "tom, come back a minute, i want to--want to--say--what if i should not see you again? i want to send something to mrs. pease; she was so kind to me; i wish i had something to send her to remember me by; but i have got nothing--nothing. yes, i will send her a--a little nearer." and she put her arms around his neck, and imprinted a kiss upon his lips. "there, i will send her that, it is all i have--it will tell her i love her, for i never kiss any but those i love." poor madalina! poor tom! what must have been his feelings at that moment, with the kiss of that angelic, dying girl burning upon his lips, and running streams of lava down into his young heart, while these words, "i never kiss any but those i love," are thrilling through his brain like words of fire? what he felt i cannot tell. i will not tell what i felt after the first flow of scalding tears had passed away, but i fear there was an unforgiving spirit in my heart; and if the foot which crashed that tender flower had been there then, perhaps it and its fellow had not carried their moving power, the head, "this side up with care." perhaps that head would have been pitched headlong down these long, steep, dark, and narrow stairs, to the pavement--less hard than its guiding heart. "we must not kill," said tom, as we reached the street. had he divined my secret thoughts, or was it the response to his own? "we must not kill those who sell the rum, or kick little children to death, or make brutes of their mothers, but we will kill the business, or else we will prove that all are not good men in this world who pretend to be." "it is greatly changed," i said to the missionary, as we came down upon the street, "since you have lived here; as it was some years ago, when i first knew this locality, it might not have been quite safe to walk alone through these streets at this midnight hour; now we have no fear. good night." "it will be better two years hence, if you and i live. good night." "good night. heaven protect you, and bless your labors. good night, tom." but tom heard me not. "i never kiss any but those i love," was ringing in his ears. he heard nothing--thought of nothing else. poor tom! he carried a heavy heart to a sleepless bed that night. back, up anthony to centre, then along that one block, and i stood and contemplated that great sombre, gray stone building which fills a whole square, looking down gloomily upon the multitude who reek in misery on the opposite side of the street, or pursue their nefarious schemes of crime within the very shadow of "the tombs." alas! prisons prevent not crime, nor does incarceration work reformation upon such as dwell in tenements such as we have just visited. "it is but a step from the palace to the tomb." true, and so it seemed this night; for ere i had fairly realized the fact that i had passed over the short step of two squares between the city prison--the tombs--and broadway, i stood looking into that great palace hall on the corner of franklin street, known as taylor's saloon. was ever eating and drinking temptation more gorgeously fitted up? how the gilt and carving, and elaborate skill of the painter's art glitter in the more than sun-light splendor of a hundred sparkling gas-burners. are the windows open? no. the ten-feet long plates of glass are so clear from speck, it seems as though it were open space. look in. it is midnight. is all still? do the tired servants sleep? no. they are flitting up and down, with noiseless tread, to furnish late suppers and health-destroying luxuries, to a host of men and gayly dressed women. 'tis the palace of luxury--'tis but a step from the palace to the tombs--'tis but a step beyond to the home of "the rag picker's daughter"--'tis here that the first step is taken which leads to infamy like that of that daughter's mother. 'tis here that he, whose trade is seduction, walketh unshamed at noonday, or prowls at midnight, to select his victims. 'tis here that mothers suffer young daughters to come at this untimely midnight hour to drink "light wines," or eat ice cream, drugged with passion-exciting vanilla. "ha, ha, ha!" laughed the fiend as we passed, on, "rag-picking mothers are not the only ones who traffic away the virtue of young daughters in this rum-flooded city." "what," said i, as i passed on, "if all the mis-spent shillings, worse than wasted in this palace, were dropped into the treasury of the house of industry?" "cow bay, farlow's court, and rotten row, would be no more, and my occupation would be gone," said the fiend. "it must not be. dry up rum, and murder would cease and misery have no home here. it must not be. _our_ trade is in danger; i must alarm my friends!" and he clattered his cloven foot down the steps of a nearby cellar, where there were loud sounds of blasphemous words, the noise of jingling glasses, and much wrangling, amid which i heard female voices in one of the "private rooms," and then an order for more wine--then i heard old cloven foot say, "give them a bottle of two-and-sixpenny cider, they are so drunk now they wont know the odds." then i understood why the fiend said "our trade"--it is one which none else than such delight in. i listened again. there was an awful string of oaths coming up out of the infernal regions, where men and women--street-walkers--were getting drunk upon alcohol, carbonic acid, and cider, mixed into three dollar bottles of "wine"--pure champagne. "give me my pocket-book, you----" i cannot repeat the horrid expletives. why does a man call a woman with whom he associates, such vile names? why does the woman retort upon him that he is the son of a female dog, and call upon god to send his soul to perdition? because they have "tarried long at the wine; have looked upon it when it is red, when it giveth its color in the cup." now "it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder." now the woman has picked the pocket of her male companion--i cannot say gentleman; now he utters those terrible oaths; now she pours out such a stream of words as would pollute the very air where virtue lives; now there is a struggle; now a man is stabbed by a woman; now there is a crash of broken glass, a female street-walker is knocked down with a bottle in the hands of a man who has picked her up, and whose pockets she has picked; surely it was no vision of the brain that fancied we saw the incarnate fiend go down there; now there is a cry of murder; now there is a rapping of clubs upon the pavement, and running of men with brass stars upon the left breast of their coats; now the police bear up a wounded man--if, madalina was here her wounded breast would ache with new pain--she is avenged at last; now they drag up a woman, a young girl, on her way to the tombs--it is julia antrim. drop the curtain. surely you would not look into a prison cell, or go into the police court, or with a "vagrant," not yet fourteen years old, to randall's island. in some change of the scene you may see her again. _quien sabe?_ "it was late next morning," said mr. pease, "when i woke up, and then i lay in a sort of dreamy reverie, thinking what a world of good i could do if i had plenty of means, until near ten o'clock. finally, i heard an uneasy step outside my door and at length it seemed to venture to approach, and then there was a timid rap." "may i come in?" "yes, tom, come in. what is it, tom?" "if you please, sir, i want to go away to-day." "oh, no, tom, don't go away to-day, you remember what you promised to do for madalina." "yes, sir, and i am going to do it. i am going to see where they put her, and then i will plant a flower there, and i will water it too, and that is not all, either, that i am going to do with water before i die. i am going to teach people to drink it, and not drink rum." "going to see where they put her?" "yes, sir." "tom, do i understand you?" "i don't know, sir, she did." "tell me, my boy, what you mean. you seem a little wild, your eyes are very red. did you sleep any last night?" "sleep! could you sleep, with those words ringing in your ears all night? her last words--she never spoke again." "by this time i had reached the window. i looked out. there was a 'poor house hearse' in cow bay. a little coffin was brought down and put in, and it moved away. it carried the rag-picker's daughter." chapter xii. athalia, the sewing girl. "oftentimes, to win us to our harm, the instruments of darkness tell us truths: "win us with honest trifles, to betray us in deepest consequence." at the close of chapter nine, we left athalia standing by the side of her trunk and bandbox on the sidewalk, in front of her now empty home. after paying up the rent, and a few outstanding little bills, she had but a scanty store left in her little purse. of this she set apart, as a sacred deposit, almost the entire sum, to redeem her bible and watch--the locket at any rate. now she wished she could see nannette, for she was the only instrument she knew, that she could employ in the negociation. she could not go where she lived, for fear of meeting walter, whom she had determined never to see again. she had sent for a hack to take her away, she really knew not where. she had but few, except business acquaintances in the city; none upon whom she felt willing to call in her emergency. she felt so cast down, that she could not look one of them in the face. she had made up her mind to go to a hotel for the night, and leave the city in the morning; whither she knew not; anywhere to get away, then she thought that she could not go without seeing nannette, and making an effort to regain her valued keepsakes how should she see her? what should she do? it is an old proverb, "wish for the devil and he will appear." just then a carriage drove up and stopped where she stood. she was so certain it was the one she had sent for, that she did not observe that it contained two ladies, until the driver had opened the door, and one of them spoke. "why, mrs. morgan, are you going away? how unfortunate. i wanted three or four dresses made. when will you be back?" when? how could she tell, since she did not know where she was going? she was in a fever of excitement to go somewhere, to get away before walter should come. she felt as though it would kill her to see him then. all day she had been calm; she had found it absolutely necessary, in order to keep herself so, to drink two or three glasses of wine. if it had been wine, such as the fermented juice of grapes will make, it had not done her material harm; but it was such as is made in this city, or "got up" expressly for this market; and she began to feel the effects of the alcohol it contained dying away. she felt as though she was dying, too. she did not, therefore, hesitate long, or refuse the pressing invitation of mrs. laylor to go home with her and stay all night. although she began to suspect the character of mrs. laylor's house, she did not know it, or her either, or she would have spent the night where she stood rather than in her best room. she was still further induced to go, when she found that her companion was nannette. true, there was a flash, a mere flash of thought across her mind, why so common a woman as nannette should be in the carriage of so reserved a lady; one who, if she was guilty of slight improprieties herself would not be suspected for the world, and had no charity for the inmates of houses in m---- street. little thought athalia, that nannette, when she visited mrs. laylor's, passed for "a very respectable married lady, who would not be known for anything--it would ruin her;" or else, when dressed in deep mourning, with a thick veil over her face, which nothing could induce her to remove, was a "very interesting young widow, of one of the first families in the city, who was obliged, by necessity, to accept the love of a gentleman--a married gentleman--who visited her house, but would not make the acquaintance of any woman except one in just such a condition as this 'sweet young widow.'" i know, i speak it boldly, a woman now living in this city, in up-town style, upon money obtained from six dupes, every one of whom she had "on a string" at the same time, and some of whom she used to meet at that very house, under just such guises. i say it, still more boldly and truly, for "old sores must be seen to be healed," that she has thus duped the whole six in one day. i know the woman--i know five of the dupes, and that each one of them has a wife. two wear the title of judge; one deals in flour; one in dry goods; and one has another employment i dare not speak so boldly of, for the sake of his children and unsuspecting wife. he drives fast horses, and truth, might drive a good woman to despair. athalia little suspected all this; still less did she suspect that she had been watched all day; that her order for a carriage even had been intercepted, and mrs. laylor had come in its stead. she did not know then that the stable owner was the paramour of mrs. laylor, and nannette the pimp of this most dangerous woman--dangerous, because she struck her game, both male and female, out of the upper class of society, giving them a fair start on the road down to a cellar in cow bay. we have seen one of the morgan family that she started on that course, who run a swift race. she is now fishing for another--already has her in her net, for she has ordered cato to put up the baggage--already has athalia seated by her side, condoling with her in her afflictions, giving her sweet sympathy, telling her a few truths and many lies--"instruments of darkness" win by such--wondering how she could have lived with her bad husband so long as she had, when she could live so much better--"_by the needle_"--without such a man. she does not propose another now--of course not; she will bide her time for that, when all her plots have ripened the seed she is now sowing. they were soon at home; before athalia had half done telling how fearful she was of meeting walter, and how she wanted to get out of town before he discovered her; and then mrs. laylor told her how very private she could be at her house--she would give her the third floor back room, and send her meals up to her, and she need not see a single soul but nannette and herself, besides the chamber-maid--"none but your best friends." why did mrs. laylor whisper nannette, and why did she run in the basement way, and why did they have to wait ten minutes for the door to be opened? and where was athalia's thick veil, with which she had intended to hide her face so that no one would see her, for the excitement of the day had flushed her cheeks, and made her fascinatingly beautiful, and she had no desire to expose it to tempt the passion of any one who might chance to meet her? "where can my veil be, i am sure i had it in my hand when i got in the carriage?" "i cannot see; perhaps nannette has gathered it up with her shawl." so she had. it had been slipped into the folds of it on purpose, for mrs. laylor was already working her plans, and counting the hundred dollars that she was going to charge some rich fool for bringing about a meeting with "one of the handsomest women in the city--a dress-maker, fresh from the country." in furtherance of this object of a wicked woman, in pursuit of gain, she had sent nannette into the house, to station one of her dupes where he could see, without being seen, the unveiled face of athalia, as she passed in, and up the stairs. for this purpose, the usually dark hall had been lighted, and the veil stolen. "none but friends," there. the victim that nannette went to put in place, was a young clergyman, like other men in the vigor of youth, possessed of like passions. he would have sought a wife, but his salary would not support one in the style that she would demand, or his congregation expect their pastor to maintain; and so he sought indulgence where he had found out accidentally that some of the members of his own church had sought it for themselves. he had slipped in, with handkerchief over his face, just before mrs. laylor went out. she told him that she was going to the railroad depot to meet a young woman from the country, a dress-maker, whom she had sent for, to come and make a few dresses for her and "my daughter," as she unblushingly, called nannette, who, she said, "had been away from home, at school." the words were true, yet the speech was a lie, a wicked lie, made to deceive one who had been unwary enough to put his finger in a trap. she had been away from home, a home where she left a mother, and brothers, and sisters. and she had been at school--a school where language and manners are taught; but, oh! what language, and what ways, and manners. it is a school which is computed to have thirty thousand teachers in this city. what strange inconsistencies our human nature is possessed of. this nannette had naturally a good heart. we saw that in the scene where mrs. morgan discovers the depth of depravity to which one of those teachers had dragged down her husband. yet, no sooner is athalia placed by misfortune in a position to be subject to temptation, than she offers her gratuitous services to mrs. laylor, to effect her complete ruin. what for? who can answer? i cannot, unless the fable of the fox that lost his tail in a trap, will give a cue to the solution. i fear, that we are too apt to wish others no better than ourselves. it must have been some such motive that actuated nannette: the little pecuniary advantage offered by mrs. laylor for her assistance, does not seem to be a sufficient motive for one female, though she herself has lost the priceless jewel of female virtue, to wish to bring another of her sex into that vortex which engulfs all who come within its mäelstrom power, as certain as that upon the norway coast. be the motive what it may, she had certainly lent herself this day, as a willing tool, to do a double deed of wrong. i cannot name the clergyman who was to be made--had been made--the victim in this nefarious plot, because he is still living, and has paid the penalty of ruined health for visiting such a house, and a still greater penalty of a gnawing conscience for the sin, and the lies told to cover it up. as a _nom de plume_, i will call him, otis, because it is the most dissimilar to his own, of any one i can think of. otis had been tempted to visit this house, as i said before, by a natural strong passion, but that would have been insufficient, had not a sort of paul pry friend told him of the delinquency of one of his flock, and urged him to watch him. he did so, saw him enter the house with a woman, certainly not his wife, charged him afterwards, with a view to his reformation, and was met with a plump denial of the character of the place, and even threatened with exposure of his attempt to watch and pry into other peoples' business. goaded with such an accusation, he retorted upon his informer, and he in his turn reiterated the charge, and urged otis to "call on a professional (that is pastoral) visit," and satisfy himself. this he did, and found the house most genteelly and richly furnished; the owner, "a widow, living," she said, "upon the interest of money in bank,"--she meant the interest of bankers' money--a very modest, genteel lady, very much pleased to have him call, and begged him to repeat the visit "some afternoon or evening when the young ladies, her nieces and daughter, would be at home, and if he was fond of music, they would play for him, and one of them could sing beautifully." she could sing the "mermaid's song." he was completely deceived. who might not be by such a siren? the truth is, that her penetrating eye had seen at a glance quite down into his very secret thoughts, and that he possessed passions which she could inflame and turn to account, and she laid all her plans to that end. although satisfied, after one or two visits, that all the inmates of the house were correct, he had his suspicions aroused as to those who visited them, for he could not help noticing the fact, that while he was there one evening, there were no less than five calls, apparently of couples, who were received in a dark hall, with whispered words, and then went upstairs, and after awhile went out in the same quiet way. twice, he saw through the crack of the door that the ladies were veiled with thick dark veils, such as we meet every day upon the broadway side-walk. but the most convincing thing of all, was an incautious word spoken aloud by one of the visitors as mrs. laylor was letting him out. he knew the voice. it was the man whose conduct had led him first to this house. then he was so well satisfied, that he told mrs. laylor his suspicions, and she acknowledged that she did sometimes let a room to a gentleman and lady, but to none except persons of the highest respectability, such as himself, for instance. that was a cue. he took it and fell into the snare. she agreed "for a consideration," to introduce him to one of the most respectable ladies, upon the understanding that she was to remain closely veiled,--as the whole proceeding was to be veiled from the argus eyes of the world. the "respectable lady" was drawn from the same house to which we have before had an introduction; in short, she was the same "lady" in whose room athalia saw her husband from nannette's room. with otis she played the part of "clergyman's widow," and for that purpose always dressed in deep mourning, just as her sisters in sin do now every day in the fashionable promenades of this city; and she played it well, until one night, after having taken one bottle extra between them, for he had not yet learned that wine drinking was but little better than whiskey drinking, "she let out on him," in such a manner that his eyes were opened, and he determined to leave the house. but he had tasted sin, and who that has, but well knows how much harder it is afterwards to resist the temptation? so he came back. what an excuse he made to conscience as he did so!--that it was only to upbraid the woman for deceiving him. he deceived himself. first, in trusting himself in a deceitful woman's power; and, secondly, in supposing that after she had deceived him once, she would not again. this last visit was upon the very night in which athalia was introduced into the house, and hence the lies to inflame his mind, and the art made use of to give him a stolen glance of her face. it is no wonder that the first man fell, when "tempted of a woman." it is idle to talk of our power to withstand their seductive arts. otis was entrapped again. the sight of athalia's beauty inflamed his already wine-heated blood, and he readily offered mrs. laylor a hundred dollars to bring about a successful negociation. this was just what she intended--what she expected--she had baited her trap high, and the game was already caught. and he was not the only one she intended to catch with the same bait. she intended to use her as a profitable investment upon all her "regular customers"--for all such houses boast of such--as long as she could make the lie of "fresh from the country," pass as current coin. she little thought, and cared less, how many lies she had to contrive and tell athalia, before she could accomplish her purpose. it does seem as though, when a woman loses her own virtue, that she imagines all her sex have lost or would lose theirs just as easy as herself. "i drag down," should be graven upon the brow of every one of her class. whether man or woman, whoever comes within their influence--and who does not, since they are permitted to go forth at noonday through the thoroughfares of this city, seeking whom they may devour, and all night long they show their brazen faces in the streets, "picking up" poor fools for victims, whom they drag down--true, they go willingly--to their dens of destruction. it does seem as though when a man loses his balance so far as to fall into the influence of such a woman, that he is "ready to believe a lie even unto his own damnation." how else could walter morgan--there are a great many walter morgans--leave such a wife as athalia for such a jezebel as he did? how else did such a man as otis, whose business it was to watch the fold, allow the wolf to enter and carry off the shepherd? why, after he had found out how much he had been cheated, did he believe the lies of the cheat again? who can answer? i cannot. i can only say, that in this branch of intoxication, the only safe rule is that of the teetotaller, "touch not, taste not, handle not;" and it must be more rigidly applied in the one case than the other. a man may possibly touch liquor and drink not. can he play with a harlot and not fall? otis should have preached a sermon, not to his congregation, but to his own conscience in his own closet, from this text: "for a whore is a deep ditch: and a strange woman is a narrow pit. "she also lieth in wait as for a prey, and increaseth the transgressions among men." she certainly had increased the transgressions in the case of otis, and she lay in wait for athalia as a prey. otis would have sought an introduction immediately, for wine had mastered reason; wine, that is made expressly for such houses, had inflamed his blood. this the master-piece of iniquity knew would never answer. but she promised him that for the sum named, she would bring about the desired interview. "to-night?" "yes. at least she would try." "to-night or never! to-night is the last night that i shall ever set foot in your house. i have registered a vow in heaven to that, and i will keep it." so he did. he had good cause to remember that night. mrs. laylor saw that he looked as though he intended to keep it, and as he had been fool enough to tell her so, she at once determined to fool him to her own profit. so she promised him that he should have his utmost desire, and upon that she ordered up another bottle of wine, urged him to drink and amuse himself with the young ladies, while she went up and "smoothed the way." there is but little need of smoothing the way that leads nearly every young man, who visits such places, to destruction. but she had a way to smooth. it was her last chance with this victim, and she determined on profit and revenge. in due time she came in, and reported favorably. "the lady would see him, in consideration of his profession, upon one condition--that he would not seek to learn her name, or anything about her, and that he should not see her face." what did he care for that, since he had already seen it, and it was daguerreotyped upon his heated imagination, so that he would know her whenever he should meet her afterwards in the street. let the curtain of night fall. the sun shone into an eastern window of no. -- h----n street the next morning, while otis still slept. its bright rays awakened him to the startling consciousness of having over-slept himself after a night of debauch. how should he get away without being seen? the thought troubled him sorely. but he soon determined what he would do; he would steal the veil from the face of the sleeping beauty to hide his own, and then slip out by the basement door, perhaps unseen. what harm could it do to her, since he had seen and knew the face so well? he dressed himself hurriedly, then gently drew the veil away, with a salvo to his conscience that he would not then see her face, he would look the other way. his conscience would have been more easy afterwards if he had kept that resolve. he could not. the glance at athalia's beauty the night before had maddened him, and he turned, as he was going out of the door, to look back where she slept, and steal--"thou shalt not steal"--he had forgotten that--steal one more glance. he did, but instead of the face of athalia, he saw that of a common street-walker--a young harridan--and he rushed from the room with the full weight of a burning conscience for his folly, with a feeling of self-degradation at being victimized a second time by the same deceitful woman; hating himself and everybody else; dreading to meet any one he knew, and, finally, encountering in the basement hall, striving to get out in the same sly way, the very man whom he had first taken to task for visiting this den of infamy. what a recognition! neither could speak, so intense was the thought in the mind of each that the other might ruin him by simply revealing the truth. strange that neither thought how little the other would dare to speak, least it should be inquired, "how did you know he was there? where was you?" otis said afterwards to an acquaintance of mine, a physician, whom he was obliged to consult in consequence of that sinful night, that he could not conceive any agony more intensely painful in this life than that which he endured the next sabbath, when he arose in the pulpit and looked down upon the congregation, but saw nothing, could see nothing, but that one pair of eyes glaring upon him just as they did the morning he met them in the hall of that house where he had been so disgraced. "i little knew then," said he, "as i did afterwards, that he felt just as bad as i did, for he told me that it seemed to him that i was about to denounce him to the whole congregation. so intense had this feeling become, that he was on the point of seizing his hat and rushing out when the words burst from my lips, 'if thou knowest aught of thy brother's failing, cover it up from the rude gaze of the world, for it can profit them nothing to know of his faults.' "'go to him privately and speak kindly, and he will reform!' so he did, to our mutual benefit." this relieved the mind of otis, but it did not save him from the sad effect of a poisoned, neglected system, but it cured him from visiting places where he was ashamed to show his face. it taught him that "the way of the transgressor is hard." he had one more trial. he had not paid mrs. laylor the hundred dollars promised while heated with wine, for he felt that she was not entitled to it, and he had no such sum to spare. late one saturday night he received a note from the lady, requesting immediate payment, and threatening exposure in church the next day if he failed to make it instanter. he had not so much money in the world, and knew no way by which he could get it immediately. he was in an agony of fear all the evening. the only man to whom he dared apply either for money or advice, the man who was equally guilty, was out of town. what should he do? he did what every christian should do. he opened his bible, and the first words, that his eyes fell upon were, "ask and it shall be given you." he did ask, and ask earnestly, what shall i do? before he had done asking, the door bell rang and a letter marked "private--by express," was laid upon his table. a glance at the superscription told him it was from the man he was so anxious to see. he opened and read: "my dear friend otis, "i have had a sort of presentiment upon my mind that you were about to be distressed for that hundred dollars, and as i am well aware that you never would have been placed in jeopardy if i had not first done wrong, i beg you to accept the enclosed check for that amount. "i need not say who it is from." how strange, how opportune, how quick the answer to his asking had come back. what a load it lifted off his mind. it is not the first load that prayer, earnest, sincere prayer, has lifted. he was relieved in more ways than one; he had repented of his folly, and had become a better and a wiser man. gold is refined of its adhering dross by fire. otis still lives, and every day he warns some one, not only of the folly and sin, but the danger, of visiting that class of houses, if only from curiosity. they are all traps for the unwary, and gulfs into which the soul sinks blindfold down to perdition. we have lost sight of athalia. let us return to her--she will need all our sympathy, for she stands upon the very brink of a precipice, over which though many have fallen, few ever returned. mrs. laylor manifested the greatest sympathy for athalia that one friend could for another. she gave her the most private room in the house, and assured her that she should be welcome to it just as long as she pleased; "but of course," she said, "you will not remain a moment, after you get your things from that wicked woman. now what can i do to assist you?" this was said in such a kind, sympathizing manner, that a more suspicious mind than hers might have been deceived; and she answered, "oh, you can do a good deal. i am afraid to go out, particularly to go to that house, or that woman, and i want my keepsakes. i have got seventy dollars, and i will give it freely if i can get them again." she did not see the glisten of the eye, or the avaricious clutch of the hand, as that miserly woman thought, "i will have that." she only heard the soft tones of her voice as she said, "my dear mrs. morgan, i will take it and see what i can do, but i am really afraid it is not sufficient to induce her to part with them, as you say they are actually worth more money." "what shall i do then? i feel as though i could not part with them, and in such a way too, that is worse than all. i would have sacrificed them in a moment for that man, if he had been sick and suffering, for want of food or medicine." "well, well, my dear friend, do not worry yourself. remember that you have friends, kind sympathizing friends, who will do more for you than they would for themselves. i will go directly and see what can be done if you will give me the money." so she did, and by dint of threats, and coaxing, and promises to josephine, to try and get something out of "the poor fool's wife," for her, she gave them up, and mrs. laylor, before night, had them safely locked in her own iron chest. "why did she not give them to athalia at once?" simply, because she intended to keep both money and things. so she told athalia, that josephine had not yet returned from coney island, where she knew she had gone with her husband, wearing her watch, passing for his wife, spending her money, which he had collected for the making of the dress that he had stolen away without her knowledge. but she had come back; where was walter? somewhere with his set. he had not yet dared to face his injured wife. he intended to skulk home late at night. in the evening he went to see his dear, sweet, amiable mistress. she was in about the same state of mind after mrs. laylor left her, that a female tiger would be, on arriving at her lair, after a little pleasure excursion, in which she might have killed a couple of indian children, but was driven off before her appetite for blood was satisfied, and now found that some other equally ferocious animal had despoiled her of her own young. walter and she had had "a good time" together, and parted lovingly only a few hours before. how he was surprised as he entered her room carelessly, to hear her tell him with a terrible oath--oaths are ten times more terrible in woman's than in man's mouth--to leave the room or she would take his life. at first, he thought she was in sport. one look was enough to convince him of his error. then he thought she was mad, because he had entered without knocking, and found her engaged in dressing for the evening debauch and usual scenes of dissipation, and began to rally her on her eve-like appearance. that was more than some more amiable women can bear. no matter how ill dressed or undressed, a woman does not like to be rallied on her personal appearance. it was more than such a human tiger could, or would bear. she darted at him, and proceeded vigorously in the task of reducing him to the same state, so far as his toilet was concerned, as herself. it did not take long. first, she crushed his hat. his dress coat was fine, and it was tender, for it was old, and she tore it into ribbons, in an instant. his vest and shirt followed, and she made vigorous efforts at the remaining garment, and then he broke and ran from the wild fury. she overtook him at the top of the stairs, gave him a vigorous kick that sent him, naked and insensible, down to the lower hall, where he was picked up by the police, and carried to the station house; there he had his bruises attended to, and there he would have got a passport to "the island," only that he happened to be known, and when he told where he lived, one of the officers said, that was the fact, that he knew his wife, and a most excellent woman she was, and it would be a pity, on her account, to send him up this time, and so he volunteered to go home with him, and get some clothes and see what his wife wanted done with him. walter found his trunk and all that he could claim as his own--it was not much, hardly enough for present necessity--where athalia had left it, in the next-door shop, and there he learned the facts about the sale, and his wife going off in a carriage with two ladies, and a negro driver; but he did not learn why she had gone, he needed no words to tell him that, a monitor within spoke louder than words. "a guilty conscience needs no accuser." what should he do? it is easy to say what a man should do. he should go and find his wife, and fall down upon his knees; yes, bow his face into the dust, pray for forgiveness, and promise reform. and he would be forgiven. that is woman's nature. the forgiver of all sins, is not more forgiving. "what did he do?" that is just as easy said. he sold his last good shirt--one that his wife had just made--to procure the means of getting drunk. "what a pity that there should be any places where such a man could get liquor; or that such places, if they do exist, should be kept by wretches who will take the shirt off the back of the poor inebriate for rum." yes, it is a pity. it is the cause of ruin of more men than all other causes. from this last fall walter never recovered. he went down, step by step, to the final termination of almost every young man who surrenders his reason to such vile influences. you heard reagan say what that end was. let his epitaph be, "requiescat in pace." with various excuses, athalia was kept in daily expectation of recovering her property, until continued disappointment made her heart sick. in vain she begged for something to do. everyday it was promised, and every day the promise broken. she was kept from going out of the house by continual tales about her husband watching it day after day, and night after night. of course this was all sham. he had been told that she had gone out of town, and he believed it; he never got sober enough to think of inquiring or caring whether she was dead or alive. finally, when athalia could not be kept any longer upon such lying promises, mrs. laylor told her "that she had finally got josephine to consent to give up the watch, and chain, and locket, and the bible, for a hundred dollars." where was the poor girl to get the other thirty. she knew it was more than they were worth to anybody else, but she felt as though she would give it freely if she had it. to add to her distress of mind, just at this time she overheard a conversation in the next room between mrs. laylor and one of the girls--it was got up on purpose--to this effect: "to be sure she will pay for her board. of course she cannot expect to have the best room in the house ten weeks for nothing. but i shall only charge her seven dollars a week." "seven dollars!" thought athalia; "that takes the whole of my seventy dollars, and my watch and bible still remain in the hands of that red-headed----oh, dear! what shall i do?" the two continued their conversation. "but, aunt, you have promised to give that seventy dollars, and thirty more with it, to redeem her traps; how are you going to get seventy dollars more? or if you take that for her board, and let the watch go, what is she going to do in future? she has got no money, and don't work any." "don't work any," thought she. "how can i work shut up here? i would work, if i had it to do. i could have earned that sum before this time." and again she said "oh dear! what shall i do?" it was just what they wanted she should say. mrs. laylor replied: "do! why, she must do what other folks have to do. frank barkley is dying to do for her, the fool that she is; he would give her any amount of money, if she would be a little more agreeable when he calls. it was a long time before i could persuade her to drink a glass of wine with him. some girls would have helped me to sell two or three bottles every evening. i shall tell her to-day that she has got to do something. i cannot keep anybody in the house this way much longer." what a dose of gall and wormwood was this to poor athalia! this was boasted friendship. forced by one specious pretence after another to remain; purposely kept without work, that she might get in debt, for that would put her in her creditor's power; and robbed of her money--worse than robbed; and yet she was only served just as innumerable poor girls have been served before, and will be again; it was enough to make her cry out, "what shall i do?" and then to be accused of being ungrateful. that was worse than all. then she thought that perhaps she had been. mrs. laylor had told her several times how much wine some girls could induce gentlemen to buy, and how much profit she made upon every bottle; and more than that, she had hinted very strongly how much money such a handsome woman as athalia could make, if she was disposed to; and then she told a story about a young clergyman that used to come there, and what a great fool he was when he drank a little wine, and how she made a hundred dollars out of the simpleton, and a great deal more; but she did not tell her how she cheated him, nor how she had cheated athalia out of her seventy dollars, nor that frank barkley had paid her board, which she was now trumping up an account for, so as to drive her to the seeming necessity of selling her body and soul to escape from the tangled web which this human spider was weaving around this poor weak fly. in the course of the day, after this overheard conversation, mrs. laylor came to tell athalia "that she had succeeded at last in obtaining her watch and bible, by paying thirty dollars out of her own pocket, although she did not know how in the world to spare it, but she supposed mrs. morgan would repay it almost immediately." repay it! how could she? and so she said bitterly that she had no hope. her heart was almost broken. mrs. laylor, of course, condoled with her, soothed her, reassured her of her pure friendship, took out the watch and put the chain over her neck, sent down and had the bible brought up, and with it a bottle of wine, one of the half brandy sort, and insisted upon her drinking of it freely, and driving off the blues; and then, after she had got her into a state of partial intoxication, and fit for any act of desperation, sent for frank barkley, who had just arrived, to come up to athalia's room, and play a game of cards. she had never before consented to that, but now mrs. laylor was there, and she desired it, and so he came. it had been all previously arranged that he should, and that he should order another bottle of wine--mixed wine--and then mrs. laylor was called out, and went suddenly, saying as she did so: "let the cards lie, i will be back in a minute." that minute never came. that night was the last of conscious purity which had so long sustained athalia through all her trials. for the next six months she never allowed herself to think. she was lost. the instruments of darkness had betrayed her into the deepest consequences. the scene shifts. shall we see athalia again? wait. chapter xiii. the little pedlar.--more of athalia. "wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile," and thus at this may laugh the scoffer. "let those laugh who win." we started in the first chapter of our volume of "life scenes," to take an evening-walk up broadway. how little progress we have made. we turned off at cortland street, to follow mrs. eaton and her children home, and then we went with the crowd to the fire. then we came back to listen to the cry of "hot corn, hot corn! here is your nice hot corn, smoking hot!" that came up in such plaintive music from the mouth of little katy, in the park. then we followed her to her home, and to her grave. what a ramble i have led you, reader. occasionally our route has led us back again and again into this great, broad, main artery of the lower part of this bustling world, this great moving, living body, called new york. there are several other broadways in the upper part of the city. we have but one in the lowest portion of it--that is for carriages. there are a good many broadways of the town, through which pedestrians go, where they "put an enemy in the mouth to steal away the brains," an enemy "whose edge is sharper than the sword: whose tongue out-venoms all the worms of nile; whose breath rides on the winds, and doth belie all corners of the world; kings, queens, and states, maids, matrons," all in one fell swoop, to earth struck down. such a broadway may be seen, nay, must be seen, by all who enter the great, high, oaken doors of the granite portal of one of the best of the great broadway hotels in new york, for the way is wide open, inviting the weary traveller to enter the great, dome-shaped "exchange"--exchange of gold, health, peace of mind, domestic blessings, for a worm that will gnaw out the very soul; a worm with teeth, "whose edge is sharper than the sword." that granite pile is a creditable ornament to the city. its walls have a look of solidity as enduring as the hills. yet it contains an element within that has settled the strong built fabrics of a greater master builder than the architect of that house, down to the very dust, in a few short years, carrying with it marble palaces and granite walls. that building was erected by one who sprang, from a class as lowly as the day laborer who helped to rear its walls, to almost immeasurable wealth, by a life of industry, free from the vice or misfortune of drunkenness. at first it did not contain that great broadway to death. true, death had his abode there, but he kept in a cave out of sight. he did not thrust his hideous visage into the face of every guest, as he does now. the place of his "exchange" was then a place of green grass and flowers and sparkling fountains, upon which all the interior windows of that great caravansery looked down with joy and gladness, smiling o'er the perfumed atmosphere, and beauty admired beautiful flowers, and listened to love-inspiring songs of birds, and pattering of falling water in the great marble basin. ah! that was a court, worthy of such a traveller's home. but it did not produce the profit that flows to the owner through another liquid channel, where that fountain once leaped, played and sparkled in the sunshine. lovely eyes still look down from the surrounding chamber windows, not upon the flowers and birds and crystal waters, but upon an unsightly dome, and in fancy through its roof, and there they see their husbands, brothers, fathers, friends, putting an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains. how fancy will work; how it will send sharp pangs to the heart; sharper than a two-edged sword; how the feeble wife will look down upon that roof, and pray for it to give up her husband. other wives have prayed the tomb for the same object, both equally effective. both will pray to both again, and both will feel that hardest of all pangs for a wife to bear, the pang that tells of a lost husband; lost in one case almost as sure as the other; the loss more hard to bear, when lost while living, than when lost by death. i was sitting, one night, in the corridor of this, with the exception of its drinking "exchange," really good, well managed hotel, looking over the balustrade, at the in-coming and out-going throng, counting the numbers that went rum-ward as three to one, to those who went up the solid stone steps, already deeply worn by the constant dropping of feet, and trying to read the varied countenances of the ever-changing, varying scene before me. it is a useful study, to study our own kind; it is a good place, in the corridor of a great hotel, to practice. every now and then, a face beamed out from the mass which made me sensible that it was not new, but whether an old acquaintance, or one seen before in some other crowd, i could not tell. once only i was sure that the face which riveted my attention was that of one i had called friend, yet, for my life, i could not tell when or where. it was one of those faces which we never forget. it was one which a child would approach with confidence, to ask for a favor. it was one, which a stranger in his walk through the city, would pick out among a hundred, to ask for a direction to a particular street. ten chances to one, he would not be satisfied to give that stranger a direction in words, but would turn round, and go a little out of the way to show the inquirer the best route, or stand upon the side-walk until one of the right line of stages came up so as to be sure that he went right. there are a few such faces, which go far to redeem the mass from the charge of coldness or selfishness, which does seem to be the distinguishing mark of the majority. i followed this one up the steps, and as far as the vision extended, as he walked away to one of the parlors. he was an elderly man, silvering with age, neatly, but plainly dressed, and i could not help feeling that he looked in everything about him, as though it would rejoice his very soul to have a chance to do a good action. i was not mistaken. you will not be if you read on. i could not sit still after he had passed up. i went into a long train of thought upon the mental question, the one absorbing question, "who is he?" the argument grew intensely painful, and i became so much absorbed in it, that i almost forgot for a moment where i was, until i was brought back to consciousness by a little voice in my ear, of, "please to buy these, sir." i almost said, no, without deigning to look up at the quasi beggar, as the frequency of the question, in all public places, is such that it is somewhat annoying. but there was a something in the tone of the voice that sent its magnetic power through me, and put down that spirit which gives the cold shoulder to the poor, and bids them "call again to-morrow." "there is a providence in all things," many a pious heart will aspirate, as the truths of this little incident are made manifest. it does, certainly, seem a little singular that this little pedlar girl should be the chosen instrument of connexion between me and that benevolent gentleman, whom i had been vainly endeavoring to recognise in thought, and also another character, with which the reader is already acquainted. what is there in a word, or tone, the mere sound of the voice, that sends a stream of magnetic fluid through the system, to repel or attract the speaker? what singular means are used to bring about strange results! i was magnetized by that voice. what the result was, you shall see. but after the fluid had once entered my brain, i could no more repel the voice, or its owner, or drive it away, than the iron can disengage itself from the magnet. i looked up, and a little girl with a basket upon her arm was standing by my side, holding up a pair of suspenders while she uttered the "please buy these, sir?" close to my ear. she was a pretty child, between twelve and thirteen years old, rather precocious in appearance; was neatly dressed, and possessed of such a mild, sweet voice, that the mocking-bird might imitate it in his dulcet notes. i could not say, no, in such tones as would send her away, and so i replied, pleasantly, "no, my girl, i do not wish to buy them." the timid take courage at mild words. was she too, attracted by mine? there is magnetism in the human voice. "then, perhaps, you will buy a box of matches?" "no." "or a comb." "no." "oh, do buy something, sir, it is getting late, and i am so anxious to sell a few shillings' worth more. will you buy a pair of gloves? you wear gloves, don't you? oh! do let me sell you a pair, you look as though you would buy something of me if you wanted anything. will you buy a shirt collar? there is a nice one, sir, one that my sick mother made, sir. will you buy that?" "no, my girl, i never wear collars, but i will buy a pair of gloves, if you will answer me a few questions." "will you? well sir, if they are such as i may answer, i will, and i don't think you would ask me any other--some men do, though." "that is just one of the questions i wanted to ask you." "oh, sir, i wish you would not ask me what some men say to me, it is so bad; only yesterday evening, one very bad man--but i cannot tell." and she burst into tears. "well, then, don't tell if it distresses you so." "it won't now, and i want to tell you, because i should like to let you know what a good man that grey-headed old gentleman is that came in just before i did." "what, the one with a gold-headed cane?" "yes, sir, a tall man, with a grey frock-coat, and such a good-looking face." "then, i do want you to tell me, if it is anything about him. i think i have seen him before." "then, i hope you will again, for he is one of the real good men. well, sir, yesterday evening, i was here, and i offered to sell some things to a young gentleman, and he talked so clever, that i felt glad to think how many things he was going to buy, for he picked out a pair of gloves and six shirt collars, and several other things, and told me to come up to his room, and get the money, and i went up; i did not think it any harm, for i had been up several times before to gentlemen's rooms, and they never acted bad to me, but this one did, and i was so frightened that i screamed, and then he caught me, and put his handkerchief to my mouth, and i don't know what he would have done, but just then i heard a rap at the door, and somebody demanded to come in, but the door was locked, and he could not, and so the man that held me told him, but it did no good, for he was a strong man, and he burst the lock off in an instant, and how he did talk to the one in the room, and he made him pay me for all the things he had picked out, and then he told him to pack up his trunk, and leave the city by the first boat or railroad in the morning. and then he told him how he had watched his manoeuvres, and then he took me in his room, and talked to me so good, so kind, and asked me all about my mother, and where she lived, and what she did, and why i went about peddling, and all that; and then he asked me if i would not like to go and live with some good family in the country? and then i told him that i should like to live with him, for, indeed, sir, i loved him, he talked so good to me. then he gave a little sigh, and said, 'ah, my girl, i wish i had a home to take you to, but i have none; i am a lone man in the world, but i will go and see your mother, and see what we can do for you, as you have grown too big for such work as this. you must quit it, or ruin is your doom,' and a great deal more, he said." "and why have you followed it till now?" "because my mother would not let me quit it--in fact, sir, i do not see how we could live if i did quit, for i make about three dollars a week, and that is more than my mother can make with her needle, and work every day till midnight; and then she is sick sometimes, and so i must do something, for mother is very feeble and says she is almost worn out, and that i shall soon have nobody but myself to work for. i am sure i don't know what will become of me then; do you, sir?" i thought, but dared not give it utterance. and i almost wept at the certainty of her sad fate, if she remained in the city; a fate she could not escape from, without abandoning her helpless mother, one of the poor sewing women of this pandemonium. "now, will you buy the gloves, for i have answered all the questions you asked?" "one more. what is your mother's name?" "may--mrs. may. if you should want any shirts made, sir, there is her name and number on that little card." "is that your mother's writing?" "yes, sir; don't she write pretty? i can write too, but not like that." "well, i shall call and see your mother, if i want work. here is the money for the gloves." "i cannot make change; have you got the change, or shall i run out and get it changed? i will if you will keep my basket." "no, no; i do not wish any change. you may keep it all." "oh, that is just the way that good old gentleman said last night--keep it all. ah, me!" and she gave a little start of surprise as she looked at the individual who seemed to be standing behind my chair. "why, here he is now. i do wonder if he has heard me talking all about him? i hope i have not said anything wrong." "no, no, nothing that you need to blush for. i am glad you have found another friend to talk with; one who is willing to pay you for the time--time is money--that he keeps you from your business." it was my turn to start now. i had heard that voice before. in a moment i could fix it in my memory, though it was a good many years since i had heard it, and then it was in the wilds of the west. i offered him my hand, and said: "we have shaken hands before. your name is--" "lovetree. and now i know you. i thought it was some one whom i had seen before. i saw you in such earnest conversation with this little pedlar girl, that i could not help drawing nigh to hear; i must own i wished to see if she would tell you the same story she did me. i think now she is a girl of truth. what can we do for her? shall we go and see her mother?" "i wish you would to-morrow. she is not at home to-night. she has gone--at any rate she told me she would go to see a lady, a real good lady, who is worse off than my mother, for she is in a bad house, and she wants to get away; she told me so to-day, and they will not let her. she is one of the best women in the world. she is a dress-maker, and she used to live so nice in broome street, close by my mother, with another good girl, and that girl got married and moved away off out west, i don't know how many thousand miles; and this girl got married too; and, oh dear! her husband used to get so drunk, and go to bad places, and his wife used to work and work; my mother used to work for her, and she was good to my mother, and that is what makes me so sorry for her now." "how came she in the bad house you tell of, and how did you come to find her there?" "oh my, i cannot tell you all about it, i don't know; i know she had an auction, and she went away in a carriage, and i felt so sorry, and i did not know where she went; but to-day, i saw that same carriage, and saw her with that same woman, and i followed it home, and then i went up to the door, and i told the girl i had come to see mrs. morgan; that was no lie, for i had, if i did not know before that she was there; and that mrs. morgan wanted to buy some needles; that was a lie; but what should i say, i wanted to see her so bad; and then the girl said, she was not there, that there was no mrs. morgan in the house, and then i felt bad, because i knew she was there, and i was afraid something was wrong, and i began to cry, indeed, sir; don't laugh at me, i could not help it, i would have cried my eyes out to see her, but the girl said, she was not there, and i said, i saw her come there in the carriage, just a minute ago; and then another girl told the servant girl, it was lucy, lucy smith, that i wanted to see; but i knew it was not, but i thought i would go up and see lucy smith, and may be she would tell me about mrs. morgan; and so i went to lucy smith's room, and i rapped on the door, and somebody said, come in; i thought i should go off, for i knew the voice in a minute, and i opened the door, and then it was not lucy smith, they only called her so for sham, and so that nobody would know her; it was mrs. morgan. how glad i was to see her, and how glad she was to see me; how she did hug me and kiss me, and call me her little pet; and then she told me--but you don't want to hear--why did you not stop me before--my mother says i always talk too much when i get a-going; i am sorry that i have talked so much, but, oh, how i do wish you would go and see mrs. morgan, and help her to get away from there; i will give you all the money i have made to-day, to help you, and i am sure my mother would give it as soon as i would, for she cried and took on so when i told her. oh dear! i know well enough she never would be a bad woman, unless they made her." "i do not understand this matter at all; do you?" "oh, yes, i replied, perfectly. some poor unfortunate woman, with a miserable, drunken husband, has been driven by necessity, probably to take up her abode in some house of sin, where she finds her life miserable, and is anxious to escape; i suppose that is it." "anxious to escape! why, sir, you confuse me worse than ever. no one is obliged to stay in such houses, are they? if she wished to go away, she could go; it is her own sinful choice that she is there." "friend lovetree, how long have you lived out west?" "well, some twenty-five years, i suppose. you have a short way of turning a corner. was i talking anything about the west?" "no. twenty-five years. this city has changed some in that time, and you have got behind the times. you don't know as much as this little girl about this matter. ask her." "how is it little girl--what did you tell me was your name?" "stella, sir, stella may." "well then stella, what is to hinder this mrs. morgan from coming away if she wishes?" "because she is in debt, sir." "debt, sir, debt! do private citizens imprison their fellows for debt? are women compelled to live in houses of prostitution in this city, a city where the bible is read and gospel preached, against their will? preposterous, i will not believe it." "nevertheless it is gospel truth, as much as the bible itself. the keepers of such houses sometimes inveigle innocent young girls into their dens, board and clothe them, and get them in debt, and in fact make them slaves, as sure as those who are bought and sold in southern cities. they cannot leave unless they leave naked, with the mark of their owner branded, not upon the surface of their bodies, but burnt into the inmost recesses of the mind. "sometimes those who go there voluntarily, repent afterwards most bitterly, most gladly would leave, but the door is closed against them, they are shut out of the world by the mark upon them, and shut in by their creditor mistress, or kept in such a state of intoxication that they have no time to redeem themselves from their life of slavery. "from this little girl's account i venture to say that this woman is some one of the thousands of poor seamstresses, who stitch and starve in this city, who perhaps in very despair after a long struggle to live with a drunken husband, has been tempted into one of these places, and is now repenting grievously, and would gladly get away, but has not the means to do so; for she lacks a small sum to pay her greedy landlady some iniquitous charge, and a few dollars and some friend to assist her in her immediate necessities. thus she will live a short life of excitement, and go friendless and unwept to an early grave." "she shall not. she shall not. i have money, useless, idle, more than i shall ever want, and i have no friends. i will be her friend, i will rescue her, and she shall be mine." stella, the little pedler, had stood as though transfixed, during all this time, drinking in every word, until she found that her friend, poor mrs. morgan, would have some one to care for her, some one to love her as she loved her, one who had money, "more money than he wanted," to assist her, and then she grew as enthusiastic as mr. lovetree. she caught him by the hand, and as the tears ran down her cheeks, tears of joy, blessed tears, that drop like honey upon the lips, sending sweetness through every channel of sensation in the whole system, she said, "will you, will you give her money to get out of that place? will you go and see her? will you love her? oh i am so happy! i must run home and tell my mother, and that will make her happy too. now i am so glad i told you all about it." "and you will do it," said she, looking up in his face so earnestly, "yes, i know you will, you don't look like one of those kind of folks who say one thing and mean another." yes he would do it, i knew that; naturally enthusiastic, though not easily carried away by sudden flaws of side winds, when he once said, "i will do it," it was half done. "now i will run home and tell mother, for i want her to be as happy as me. good night." "stop, stop a moment, you have not told us where the poor lady is that you wish us to go and see, nor what her name is." "oh dear, i forgot that. yes i told you, mrs. morgan, but you want her whole name; well that is such a pretty name; i love pretty names; have you a card, i will write it for you." "what, can you write?" "oh yes, sir, before we got so poor, i used to go to school. i would like to go now, but i have no time. you ought to see my mother write; she can write so pretty." i saw what was working in the benevolent old gentleman's face, while stella was writing. he had heard her say, "i would like to go to school now," and he was resolving in his mind, "why not? why should i not send her there? i have none of my own to send." it was a good resolve. "there, that is it. 'mrs. athalia morgan, at mrs. laylor's in h----n street.' i don't recollect the number, but you can find it easy enough; mother says it does seem as though the evil one always stood ready to lead folks to such houses. but you had better inquire for lucy smith. they don't know her by any other name there. shall i go now? good night. i am so anxious to tell mother." "athalia!--athalia!" said my friend, as he spelt over the name on the card. "athalia! oh, pshaw! that is nonsense, yet it might be--why not? i say, my little girl, you knew her before she was married. what was her name then?" "and what is that, 'why not,' and what about that name? the little girl is well on her way home, by this time, if she kept on at the speed she went down stairs. her earnestness makes me begin to feel a good deal interested in that woman." "nothing, only a thought, a mere passing thought, and yet i cannot shake it off. it is rather an unusual name. i had a brother--yes, i had a brother, whether i have or not now, i cannot tell; yet he was not exactly a brother either, though we called the same woman mother, and the same man father, and whether he is living now or not i cannot say, but think not. he did very badly, drank up all his property, and took the usual course, and i suppose he is dead, and his wife too, and then his children are orphans, and why not this be one of them; it is the same name. athalia--it is not a common name; if it had been i should not remember it, for i never saw her but once, then a little girl not as big as this one just here. i wish she had not run away so soon, before i could ask her a single question. what shall i do now?" "go and ask athalia herself." "what! to-night? it is now ten o'clock, time all respectable citizens were in bed. it is too late." "no, it is never too late to begin to do good. it is just the hour that the lives of the inmates of such houses, as we propose to visit, begin. from this till one or two o'clock, drinking, carousing, swearing, and all sorts of revelry and debauchery, and then----it is well that night has curtains. now this house where we are to go, however, i take, from its location, to be one of a different character, one that maintains a show of respectability, yet is one of the most dangerous, for its victims are drawn from among a class just as good as stella has described mrs. morgan." "you think, then, that we may go there safely, at this hour of the night?" "as safely, as respects our persons, as to church. as dangerously, as respects our morals, as the poor weak bird fluttering within the charmed circle of the fascinating serpent." "as to that i fear nothing." "so has said many a one. i say, 'he must have a long spoon that must eat with the devil,' or he will soon come to such familiarity that he will eat freely out of the same dish. no man is proof against the fascinations of a designing woman. but as we go doubly armed, for our cause is just, let us go, go at once, for i see you are excited about that name. it would be strange, if it should prove to be your niece." "yes and stranger still, the way that we have been brought together, and to a knowledge of her, through our mutual sympathy for this little pedler girl, such an one as we may see every hour in the streets, without exciting a passing thought. what a mysterious power governs all our actions, and how we are influenced and turned aside from the path we had marked out, by the most trivial circumstances. i had seen this little girl come in here and offer her little wares a score of times, without paying any attention to her or her movements, except to wonder how any mother could trust such a child, bright, good-looking, free spoken, forward--that is, precocious--among so many fops and libertines, who would take advantage of her some day, and by deceit and money work her ruin. last night i had put on my gloves and hat, and was just walking out as she came in with her 'please to buy this, sir,' and why i did not go out i cannot tell, but some unaccountable influence turned me back, and i picked up a paper and sat apparently absorbed in its contents, while my ear was open and mind awake to every word and movement of the libertine rascal who made a pretence of buying liberally, to induce her to go up to his room to get the pay. i followed, watched him to his room, heard the key turn in the lock, heard all his conversation, his vile proposals, and her virtuous rejection, with an energy, 'that she had rather starve and see her mother dead;' and then i heard a struggle and i knew the villain was using his brutal strength upon a weak girl, and then i burst the door, and then--you know the rest." "why did you not strike the villain dead at your feet?" "that is savage nature." "why not arrest and punish him, then, for his attempt at rape?" "that is civilized nature." "what then did you do?" "i forgave him, and bade him repent, and ask god to forgive him, as i did." "lovetree, give me your hand, i give you my heart; i stand rebuked. i understand you now, that was christian nature. let us go." reader, walk with us. we threaded our way along the crowded side-walk, passing or meeting, between the astor house and canal street, not less than fifty girls; some of them not over twelve years old, many about fourteen or fifteen, some of them superbly beautiful, naturally or artificially, and all, such as the spirit, hovering over the poor shipwrecked mariner upon the stormy ocean, cries wildly to, as they sink, down, down, to death, "lost, lost, lost!" "why, why, tell me why they are permitted to roam through the streets, plying their seductive arts? where are your police? where your city fathers?--guardians of the morals of strangers and citizens! how can anything, male or female, remain pure in such an atmosphere of impurity? where are your laws? laws of love that lift up the fallen. where all your high-paid, well-fed city guardians, who should watch the city youth, to keep them from becoming impure?" echo gave the answer, and it reverberated back and forth from granite wall to freestone, from marble front to red-burnt bricks, from dark cellar to gas-lighted hall, from low dens of death to high rooms of wealth and fashion, from law makers to law breakers; echo came back with that one word, "impure, impure, impure." how the throng go thoughtlessly onward. do they ever think--think what a sirocco blast from the valley of the upas tree, is sweeping over this city? do mothers ever inquire, ever think whether it is possible for their sons to escape the contagion of such company as they keep in the great evening promenade of this mighty babylon? have new york mothers no feeling of fear for their sons? or has "the pestilence that walketh in darkness," obtained such strength that this is overcome? or has the plague spot grown so familiar to their eyes that they no longer seek to wash it out? if they have given up their sons, if they have surrendered the great street to the almost exclusive occupancy, at night, of painted harlots; have they also given up their daughters, surrendered them to the wiles of the seducer? do they let them go out without fear, even in company with their male friends, to be jostled upon the side-walks by midnight ramblers, and seated at the same table, at some of the great "saloons," side by side with those who win to kill, whose trade is death, whose life is gilded misery, though enticing as the siren's song? have they forgotten that we are all creatures of surrounding circumstances, subject to like influences, and liable to the same disease as those who breathe the same atmosphere, and if that is impure, those who breathe it may become so? even now, while i write, the "new york daily tribune," gives this "item" to its readers:-- "mysterious disappearance.--on sunday evening last, between six and seven o'clock, miss g. c---- left her father in spring street, near broadway, to go to her brother-in-law's (mr. b----), no. -- spring street, since which time nothing has been heard of her, and it is feared that she has been dealt foully with. she is seventeen years of age, good-looking and rather tall; dark complexion, and dark eyes; lisps somewhat when in conversation. she was dressed in plaid, light and dark stripe; talma cape; straw bonnet, trimmed with white outside, and green and white inside. her disappearance has caused the deepest affliction to her family, and any information that can be given will be gratefully received by her aged parent, no.--spring street." "it is feared that she has been foully dealt with." yes, and it ought to be feared that "good-looking, rather tall" young girls, are foully dealt with in the streets of this city, every night in the week. it is feared she is not the first girl of seventeen, whose "mysterious disappearance has caused the deepest affliction to her family." "any information will be gratefully received." yes, any information will be gratefully received by the author of this book, which he can use effectually to awaken aged parents to the fact, that each one of these girls who wander the streets at midnight, or who fill up the dens of infamy that line whole blocks of some of the best streets in this city, is somebody's child; some "mysterious disappearance," that has caused deep affliction, and will cause more, for she is now influencing others to disappear from the path of rectitude, in the same way that she did. perhaps, yea, it is probable, more than probable, that miss g. c---- has been inveigled into one of these dens where worse than cannibals live, for they only eat the body, while these destroy the soul. how long would a house be permitted to stand, where human flesh was served up as a banquet for those who delighted to feast upon such dainty food? a house where young girls were driven in by force or fascination, to be cooked and eaten by young epicures and gouty gormandizers. how the city's indignation would boil over, and how the storm of wrath would beat upon that house, until there would not be one stone left upon another. yet how calmly that same public sleeps on by the side of a thousand worse houses, where victims are worse than cooked and eaten every day--they are roasted alive. how coldly parents will read that "mysterious disappearance;" they will never think that girl has been destroyed by cannibals, far worse are here--they belong to savage life. how carelessly, how thoughtlessly mothers will read this page that tells how their daughters may be influenced to ruin themselves, by such unfortunate associations as they must meet with in their walks through the city, while our municipal government permits the streets to be monopolized by the impure, because it is itself just what the echo answered. how i would rejoice if i could make the truth manifest, as regards this matter, that, "to the pure all things are pure." now, let us walk on. you need not stop to drop anything into the hand of that woman with a child on her lap. true, she looks like a pitiable object, with her opium-drugged infant wrapped in that old blue cloak, but she is not. she is a professional beggar. i have known her these three years. that child is not hers. it is hired for the purpose. it draws a share of the benefit, as it does the sympathy of those who are attracted by that well-put-on, appealing look. that child is kept by a woman who keeps three others "to let." they never grow too big. laudanum is not the food that infants grow upon. they will die young, and others will be begged, borrowed, or stolen, for the same purpose. there, the sixpence you have given that little child, will go into the till of that "family grocery," before we are a block farther on our way. i know her. it is hardly charity to give to that man; i know him too, and where he lives. "but, he is blind." i know it, and that is his fortune. with it he supports himself and family of great idle girls and boys, better than many others live who labor. he is a stout, rugged, hearty man, capable of doing much useful labor, if he had any one to direct him. "well, here, what of this?" yes, you may give there; no, give me the quarter, see what i will do with it. i will buy two smiles. "good evening, joseph, how do you do this evening?" "oh, very well, sir, thank you. how are you this evening?" "very well. how is trade with you, joseph? do these gay people buy your bouquets?" "well, some do, sir, but these big boys and stout men can run about and forestall a poor black man who has got no legs." "joseph, has that sewing woman been down this evening; the one who always stops to give you a kind word and look, and smell of your flowers?" "what, the one that looks so pale, the one who makes shirt collars; the one you gave the bouquet to, sir?" "yes; and i want you to give her another, here is the money." "i wish i had known it a few minutes ago, for her daughter went by; she stopped a moment just to admire this one, and said, how she did wish she could afford to buy it for her mother; and then she said, it did not matter, she had such good news to tell her, and she picked up her basket, and away she ran." there was a queer idea came into my mind, when he said basket, just as though there could be but one girl out to-night with a basket. i was about to drive away the idea as a foolish one, when something whispered me, "ask him." so i did. "a girl with a basket? who is that girl with a basket; do you know her name?" "oh, yes. we call her, the little pedler. she is a nice girl. her mother's name is may." the queer idea was a true one after all. and so this woman, whom i had often seen speaking pleasant words to this poor legless negro man, who sits night after night, upon the broadway side-walk, selling bouquets, is mrs. may, the little pedler's mother. "do you know where she lives?--could you get anybody to carry this to her to-night?" "yes, sir, here is tom top, he will go in a minute; he will do anything for me, or for a lady; he is ragged and dirty, but he is a good boy; it is a pity he had not somebody to be good to him. tom, will you go to mrs. may's for me? stella, the little pedler's mother, you know where she lives?" "yes, sir, shall i carry that? is that for stella?" "no, that is for her mother." "and this," said mr. lovetree, picking up another beauty, "this is for stella. stop, tom. here is a shilling for you. don't tell who sent you. now let us go on. you know this poor black fellow, then, do you? what is his name!" "joseph butler. he was a sailor. he was shipwrecked, and lost his legs by freezing, fourteen years ago. he has been to sea five years since, as cook, hobbling around on the stumps. now, he supports his family by selling bouquets. did you ever see a finer face? always cheerful, intelligent, and polite; it is a pleasure to buy flowers of him. it is a wonder that ladies and gentlemen do not all feel it a duty and pleasure both, to buy all their bouquets of this poor cripple." "it is because they never think. if they did, they certainly would." "then, i must ask them to think. i must try and awaken the sympathies of the benevolent to look at this poor unfortunate black man as they pass, and see if they do not think him a fit subject for honest sympathy. he is not a beggar. he gives a fair equivalent for your money. at least, give him a kind word, or pleasant look, and he will return you the same." how we do linger in our walk. so will you, reader, if you come to new york, and undertake to see all the curiosities of broadway, in one night. at length, we reached mrs. laylor's. it is a handsome house, in a quiet street. my friend hesitated about entering. he thought i must be mistaken. it did not look like what he had conceived of such houses. then he was afraid they would suspect us, and would not let us in. "for the fact is, we do not look much like the class of men who visit such places," said he. "that shows how little you know of life in new york. let me manage this matter, and i assure you, they will think us two old rakes, rich ones, too, out of whom they may make a harvest." so we went up the broad, high steps, and rang the bell with a jerk, that said, as near as bells can speak, that is somebody that has been here before. the lady, as is the usual practice, came herself to the door, unlocked it, and opened it a little way, where it is held by a chain, so that she could reconnoitre, and if the company did not suit, or if a stranger applied, she would refuse him, particularly, if she had plenty of company, unless he could give very good references. i thought of that, and so i said, with the same confidence that i had put into my pull of the bell, "good evening, mrs. laylor, how do you do this evening? you were unwell the other evening when i was here. this is mr. treewell, from the south." that was an "open sesame," that undid the chain directly, and we walked in as old acquaintances. true, she could not exactly locate us, but our easy assurance carried us through. "walk into the parlor, gentlemen, there is nobody there, we are quite alone this evening. or, will you go in the back room; the young ladies and i were having a little game of whist together, to drive off the dullness." yes, to drive off the dullness, thought i; to get rid of the horror of thinking. that is the greatest curse that this class of women have to endure. they cannot bear to think. they must have something "to drive off the dullness." if they have no company, they must play cards, or something else to keep away thought. if they have company, wine is the panacea. they cannot afford to buy it themselves, but they often persuade gentlemen to do so, pretending to be very thirsty, when they have just been drinking, because that is a part of the contract upon which they are kept by the mistress of the house. if a girl had any conscientious scruples about coaxing a gentleman to buy, or about drinking, or wasting all the wine that all of them would buy, she would be trained into the work, or turned out of doors. so that it is a very rare thing for one of them to go to bed sober. in the morning, or rather towards night, when they wake up, they are almost unable to dress themselves for the next scene in the round of dissipation, until they have sent out and got a little cheap rum, "to bring them up." those who have studied the life of these poor, wretched women as carefully as i have, will not wonder at the shortness of it. of course we accepted the very polite invitation to go in where the young ladies were. we had an object in doing so. neither of us knew mrs. morgan, and if we should inquire for her, if it suited the convenience of madame she would palm off any other one that she thought she could make pass. i adopted my plan of operations very quickly. i thought if they had had no company yet to-night, they had had no wine, and consequently would not be in the best of moods to be communicative. as soon as we were introduced, i ordered a bottle of wine and thought i would find out if either of the three girls present answered to the name of lucy, and if she did, i intended to whisper one word in her ear, and that word should be "athalia," and watch what emotion it produced. it would be entirely impossible for a stranger to form an idea what an emotion the very name of wine caused among them. they were fairly longing for it. we were in the good graces of all the household at once. i pleaded headache not to drink. lovetree took his glass with them. i fixed upon one that i thought perhaps might be athalia, but soon found that she was called nannette. another was belle, and the third was adelaide. the latter was one of the most perfectly beautiful girls in face and form i ever saw, and she had really pretty red hair. i have often met or passed her since that in the street and never without admiring her beauty and thinking of her mother, and how she must mourn "a girl lost." i was now satisfied that athalia was not in the room, and i said carelessly. "where is that other girl i saw here, with brown hair and blue eyes, not very tall?" "what was her name?" "oh, confound names, i never can think of names." "oh, i know who he means," said adelaide, "it is lucy, lucy smith." "yes, yes, that is it. it is lucy at any rate." "she is in her room. she has got the dumps--the blues--i should not wonder if she was all melted by this time, she has been crying these three days." "crying, why what has she to cry about? i should not think anybody need to cry in this house, you never cry, do you?" the very question almost brought a tear, but she drove it back. "well, lucy must come down and have some wine. get her down, and we will have another bottle." "she won't come. we are all tired of trying. she has got the pouts, because mrs. laylor took her trunk away from her to keep for her board. she don't make any thing. all she ever did make was out of frank barkley, and that she gave to redeem her watch and a good-for-nothing old bible i don't see what she wants of that." "well, i am going to have her down--i have no opinion of having any girl in the dumps. where is her room?" "third floor back room. that is right, go and bring her out whether or no. she has hardly been out for a week till to-day mrs. laylor took her out riding with her, to try to put a little life in her, for fear she would die on her hands, and she would have to bury her for charity." "well, well, i will bring her down, see if i don't. come, treewell, if she will not come without we will bring her." so away we went upstairs, now satisfied that we were on the right trail, and that we had completely lulled all suspicion that we wanted anything of lucy smith, except to compel the poor heart-sick woman to join in a bacchanalian revel, at which her soul revolted. up, up we went, passed three "private rooms," in which we will not seek to look, for they are occupied by those who come veiled and in the dark. here is the room we want. we knocked but received no welcome "come in." how quick she would open the door if she knew who was waiting for admission. tired of knocking, we enter unbidden, and find the room empty. the prisoner has escaped. the truth flashed upon my mind in a moment. she has gone off with mrs. may. mr. lovetree thought not, for stella said they would not let her go out except some one in the house went with her to watch her. "no matter. i am almost sure that woman has got her away. these women are great at contrivance. very likely she came prepared for it, as stella told her of course, all that mrs. morgan had told her." we made a light and the first thing that lovetree saw was the bible, and athalia's name--her age and birth-place and the age and names of her father and mother and grandfather and grandmother, a complete family record. i thought the man would go crazy. it would have made him nearly crazy if he had found her an inmate here, as much lost to shame as those we had just been carousing with, and now to find that she was not here put him into a perfect agony. he thought he could not live till morning without seeing her. at first we thought of going directly to mrs. may's but then we recollected we did not know where she lived and could not find out, for i had lost her card that stella gave me. finally we concluded to go down and talk a minute in the same kind of sang froid manner, to keep up our assumed characters and then go home and await coming events. we were rallied as we entered the room with a jeering laugh at not being able to bring one woman between us both. then i pretended to get angry at being sent upon a fool's errand, to a room where nobody was at home. at that mrs. laylor started. "was she not in the room?" "no, nor has not been lately. you are playing tricks with the wrong persons, trying to fool us." "indeed, gentlemen, upon my honor it is no trick." she rang the servants' bell violently. "martha, do you know where lucy smith is? she is not in her room. have you let her out to-night?" "no, ma'am. i have not let anybody out but that sewing woman." "where is kate? send kate up. kate have you let anybody out to-night?" "yes, ma'am. i let that sewing woman out." "you let her out! martha says she let her out." "so i did." "and so did i." "both of you." "i did." "well, i did." "you have let out the ----. get out of the room, you stupid irish ----s. you have let out the sewing woman, sure enough. i have lost my bet which i made with frank, of a hundred dollars that i would keep her here till she would not want to go away." and there was such, a string of oaths as i never heard before, and hope i never shall hear again, particularly from female profane lips. none but a drunken slave driver, ever poured out such a stream of awful language, full of oaths, anger and billingsgate expressions, at the escape of one of his victims, as she did at the escape of a woman whom she had determined to debase to her own level, until she had brought her to that condition that she would feel degraded in the eyes of the world, would know that all her own sex had closed and barred the door against her, so that she could never return to the paths of virtue, and she would be to her mistress a "profitable investment," for she would be attractive, by her beauty and manners, and "draw custom to the house." but she had escaped--gone off too in a temper of mind which might send retribution back upon the head of one who under the guise of friendship had first robbed, then by pretended debt, enslaved her mind, coaxed and almost driven her into intoxication, and then prostituted her most shamefully. it would be idle to pretend that athalia had escaped without sin. she had not. she had sinned deeply. she said afterwards while claiming some extenuation, though by no means trying to justify her fall, that her mind was so wrought upon by her disappointments of life, by her lone and friendless condition, by the accumulation of debt, by the terrible treachery of those she had entrusted herself with as such disinterested friends, by her anxiety to obtain her valued keepsakes and get money enough to redeem them, and then escape from the pandemonium she found that she had unwittingly entered, that she had determined to drown her thoughts in wine, and then she accepted the oft-repeated proposals of frank barkley to redeem her watch, which he honorably did, but which another _friend_, one of mrs. laylor's friends, whom she forced her to accept, and which cost her the friendship of frank, robbed her of, and carried off so that she never saw it again; whether he kept it or gave it to mrs. laylor, she never knew. often she intended to fly, but it seemed to her that she could not get away; she was kept in one constant whirl of excitement so that she could not reason with herself long enough to determine what to do. what deterred her most, was that she had nowhere to go to, no friend to call upon for counsel or assistance, and thus she went on from day to day, adopting one plan in the morning to discard it at night. frank was very kind to her in a certain measure. he liked her, but it was a very selfish liking. he did not like to hear her talk about leaving. he liked her there, and he was almost as much her jailer as mrs. laylor. he took her out to all manner of dissipation, theatres, saloons, late suppers, balls and frolics, in which strong drink--not athalia morgan--acted as wild a part as the wildest. but he offered her no means of escape. she began to have a sort of fondness for frank. what woman can avoid liking one who is devoted to her? but this devotion to one was not what mrs. laylor wished. it was not what brought the most money to her iron chest. she would like to negotiate the charms of athalia to some rich libertine every day, whenever she could meet with one fool enough to pay her well for her influence with the "young widow." among the most determined of her suitors, was a young frenchman, who used every art which he knew well how to use with words and money, to win athalia's favor. as a last resort, he pledged a splendid diamond ring to mrs. laylor, if she would accomplish what he could not. when all other arts fail to work ruin and misery in a woman's mind, there is one left, one which concentrates all the power of all the lies of the father of deception. it is jealousy. there is a little story in "othello," about the arts of a villain, to produce mischief by that power. it is nothing compared with the villainy and lies invented to produce jealousy between frank and athalia, so as to let in the frenchman, and win that ring. villainy is too often successful in this life. it was in this case. jealousy, a feeling of revenge, drives more women to infidelity towards those they love, than all other causes. it did its perfect work with athalia, and then the fiend who had accomplished the work, laughed at her, and told her how she had been fooled, thinking it would have the usual effect, to make her careless of what she did in future. it had an entirely different effect upon athalia. it was this that produced the state of mind that adelaide called the dumps, the blues, and the tears that stella saw her shed. stella had told her mother much that athalia told her, much that the child did not understand, but the mother did, for she knew how girls were inveigled into those houses, and kept there as prisoners. i have lately witnessed a scene, highly illustrative of this fact. it is one of the "life scenes of new york." coming up one of the streets west of broadway, about one o'clock at night, i saw a fellow hovering near a house, whom i recognized as a negro wood-sawyer that i had seen the day before, engaged at the same house, putting wood down the cellar grate. i knew him or thought i did, as a poor but honest man, and i felt pained with a fear that i had been deceived, that he had left the grate unfastened, and now was about to steal something from the cellar. i passed on around the next corner, out of sight, and then turned back and crossed over, where i could have a full view of his operations. there were no lamps burning, because there should, or might have been moonlight, if it had been clear; as it was, it was a fitting time for the burglar's trade. directly, the fellow approached the grate, opened it carefully, and drew up a trunk. my heart beat with excitement, fear, and sorrow. i was just on the point of calling, "watch," i must own with a view of letting the fellow escape, and saving the trunk, when i saw a bonnet, then a shawl, and then a full suit of woman's clothes follow the trunk up from that dark recess. my mind was somewhat relieved; my honest wood-sawyer might be honest still, though he was probably assisting a dishonest woman; else why did she leave that house, to all appearance, an honest house, for all that i had ever seen in passing it a hundred times, in such a clandestine manner. the negro walked on with the trunk on his shoulder, and the woman followed. it was a scene of such frequent occurrence, that it would excite no suspicion or question from a policeman. he would think it was a passenger by the train, from boston, or albany, or the erie railroad, all of which make midnight arrivals. on they went, block after block, and i followed, till i thought the chase likely to prove a long one, and then i stepped up to the woman, and laying my hand upon her shoulder, said, "stop!" she uttered a little cry of alarm, and said, "oh, don't take me up, please don't." the negro stopped, looked round, and set down the trunk hastily, evidently supposing that a star had nabbed her, and that the better part of a fight consists in running away. there was a light here, for the lamp-lighters were just going their late rounds. he gave one glance back before he started, to be sure he had good cause to run, and instantly burst into a most merry fit of laughter, very unlike what might be supposed that of a caught burglar. [illustration: "'spec a body has a right to steal own trunk."--_page ._] "ha! ha! ha! ki, missee, you don't know dat gemman? you nebber seed dat gemman 'fore? you tink him a star? look at um. you tink he look so he hurt you? he wouldn't hurt a child, much more a woman. i know dat gemman. ki, i mighty glad to see him. 'spose tell him all about um? spec he say a body has a right to steal he own trunk, and run away from such a house as dat." "such a house as that, peter; is that not a good house?" "well, spec him house good enough, but spec he folks dat lib dare, not 'zactly straight up and down like dog hind leg." "why, peter, what do you mean? is not that mr. ingram, whose name i see on the door, and whom i know as apparently a gentleman of wealth and leisure, for i have often seen him associating with gentlemen about the hotels; is he not the gentleman of the house?" "gentlum! lord, sir, he is dat woman's man, her pimp, she gives him all dem fine clothes and gold rings, and he gets fellows to come an see her gals." "mercy on me! the outside of the platter is made clean, while the inside is full of dead men's bones." "dat's just what agnes says; she says, she find dead men's bones in the ashes, and buttons, and bits of burnt woman's clothes in a pile in the cellar, and she seed woman's ghost dare, and she won't stay in dat house no how can fix um, and dat's what it mean 'bout i got dis trunk; did you see how i get him, massa?" "yes, i did, and i want to know something about why you 'get him' at this time of night out of that cellar. the ghost story won't do; if she was afraid of ghosts she would not go down into that cellar at night any more than she would go down to her grave. it won't do." "oh, sir, the ghost goes upstairs every night, to stay in the room where she was seduced. none of the girls in the house will stay in that room. they gave it to me when first i went there. i did not know it was haunted then, but i found out afterwards that it was, for she told me so, and how she was shut up in the coal cellar, and starved, and suffocated to death, and then cut up, and part of her body burned, and part buried in lime and ashes, and how, if i would look in one corner of the cellar, i would find some of her bones, and i did; and then i determined to run away, and that is why i am hero." "and what are you going to do now?" "i am going home with peter, i have got nowhere else to go, and then i shall try to get a place." "a place! why, peter, is not this one of the girls of that house?" "why, no, not 'zactly; but 'spose you go wid us in my house, he close by here now, and she tell you all about herself. i spec she not a bad gal, sir." "go ahead then;" and he shouldered his load, and went a few steps farther, and then turned into a dark alley, where i should have hesitated about following the burglars, but now followed the honest, good-hearted wood-sawyer, and his protégé with delightful pleasure, up the long, dark alley into the centre of the block, and there was a tenant house, inhabited by the better class of blacks. compared with some of those full of foreigners, it was a little paradise. up, up to the sixth story, that is where the poor live; here is where the poor legless negro flower-seller lives, with his nice little family; a door opened as we approached, and a light shined out, and a voice said: "is dat you, peter? has you got her, peter? thank god for that!" it was peter's wife, rejoicing at the rescue of a woman from perdition. one of a poor, down-trodden race, a member of a christian church, yet considered unworthy to sit by the side of white skinned (thin skinned) christians, doing a most christian act, such an one as many of her sisters in the church would consider beneath their dignity to do. we entered peter's home. it was but one small room, scantily, yet neatly furnished. there was a little stove, and all necessary cooking utensils, and plenty of dishes, a table, a bureau, a carpet on the floor, a stand in one corner covered with a clean white cloth, and on this a large bible, covered with green baize, lying open, with phebe's spectacles on the page, indicating her employment while waiting and watching for peter to return, as she expected, with company--one more than she expected. there was a bedstead in one corner, from which a portion of the bed had been removed and made into a nice pallet upon the floor, in readiness for an expected lodger. agnes met a warm welcome from phebe. we shall see phebe again, out on another errand of mercy. in some of these ever shifting scenes, we may have another glimpse of agnes. peter explained to phebe, how i happened to be in company, and then we all sat down to hear agnes's story. i shall not tell it now. but i will tell here another little story, which will give a clue to what she said about the haunted house. it is a story about "a girl lost." the "tribune" one day published an appeal to the kind-hearted of the city, to give a distracted family some information of "a girl lost." she was "a good-looking, rather tall girl, seventeen years of age, dark complexion and dark hair. she was well-dressed, and started to go from her father's house in spring street, near broadway, to her brother's in the same street. "and she was lost!" some stranger who reads that simple announcement, one who has spent a night at one of the three great hotels on the corners of spring street and broadway, may wonder that a girl should be lost in such a respectable neighborhood. he does not know that the guests of one of those great hotels look down from one side upon one of the worst gambling hells and police-permitted gambling lottery offices in the city, and on the other side upon still worse premises; houses which the vocabulary of infamous language has no words black enough to describe; houses which are ever open for innocent young girls to enter--from which innocent young girls never return. they are "lost." this is not the first girl lost in new york. these are not the first parents who have been deeply afflicted; who have appealed in vain through the press for any information of "a girl lost." i have a little incident to relate of a girl lost. a few years ago no. church street, was accounted the "luckiest house in the street." there are a great many unlucky ones in that street now, and that particular one is esteemed the most unlucky of all of them. it should be so. it was in that house about three years ago, that a girl was lost. for the sake of her parents, brothers and sisters, and large family of relatives, i will not give her true name. you may call it julia montgomery. she was just such a girl as the one described in the "mysterious disappearance!" she was tall and handsome, just seventeen, with dark hair and eyes, and well dressed. she lived in one of the river towns, and came down upon one of the barges that float down such a multitude of things produced by farmers, in company with her father and mother, who brought some of their own produce to market. on the same boat were two young men who had been up the river, they said, on a sporting excursion. this was true. but they might have added, "what is sport to us is death to you." they were gamblers. on the passage they made the acquaintance of julia, and by their bland manners completely won the confidence of the old folks. when they arrived, they were very anxious that julia should go home with them and see their sisters. they were not so anxious that her mother should go, but they insisted very hard that she should, because they knew she would not; she had her butter and eggs and chickens to sell, and lots of shopping to do, so julia went alone. she came back to the boat towards night to tell her mother what nice girls the miss camptowns were, and that they wanted she should go with them to the theatre, and then as it would be late, stay all night. the mother consented, as mr. camptown was such a fine young man. after the play they had an oyster supper and wine, and julia became very much elated. then they went home, to mr. camptown's home, which was no other than that notorious church street den, and the "sisters" the most notorious sinners in it. of course more wine was drank, and julia became oblivious of what transpired. she waked to consciousness next morning to find herself--"a girl lost." almost delirious, she flew from the wicked scoundrel at her side to the street door, to find it barred against her. in vain she begged and prayed, and cried to be let out. the soul incarcerated in the infernal regions might as well pray for egress. she finds in both cases only scoffing at the victim's agony. then she grew wildly furious, and then they tied her hands and feet and carried her down into the coal cellar, "to let her get over her fit, and keep her out of sight till the old woman was out of the way." for three days, camptown watched her father and mother, and then they gave up and went home with heavy hearts, for "a girl was lost." yes, she was "lost." then camptown went back to enjoy his "country beauty." she was lost to him also. in some of the pullings down and diggings up in that street, all that remains to earth will make another "item" in a daily paper. it will be headed "human bones found." the inmates of that house soon left. it was no longer a lucky house. the ghost of that murdered girl walked through every room. one in particular, it never allowed any one to occupy. it is said that that ghost still haunts that house. it is still an unlucky house. the old harridan who kept it--well known in that street when that girl was lost--went off to new orleans, lost all her property, and then was lost herself. camptown still lives. i saw him a few days ago, in the very street where that girl was lost, noticed in the "tribune." has he any connection with her loss? reader, there is a girl lost. ask where and why? rum and gambling can answer. now, let us leave agnes in the hands of the wood-sawyer and his wife, those good-hearted, kind christians, that despised, because black-skinned, brother and sister, more worthy than many of the despisers, and return to mrs. may, and see how she effected the rescue of another prisoner. what stella told her mother was sufficient to give her the most intense anxiety about athalia. she was so well acquainted with the ways of the wicked in this city, that she felt satisfied that her friend wanted good counsel, and perhaps assistance, and she determined to give it to one who had often given such to her. as soon as it was sufficiently dark, she slipped on a shawl and hood, and went into a neighbor's and borrowed another just like her own. "what in the world do you want of it?" said the woman. "no matter, it shall come safe back to you, in the course of the evening." so it did, and with it came athalia, who, by that double, had eluded her jailers. lovetree went to his hotel in a state of mind not to be envied. he had found the strongest evidence that his niece had been in a house which pollutes all who breathe its atmosphere, and he had heard vile women speak of her as one of themselves, and he knew not how far she was like them. he had witnessed an exposition of character that night, such as he never had before conceived possible. he first saw mrs. laylor, a specimen of a high-bred lady, bland as the dewy morn that opes the buds to flowers. then he saw her furious as the winds, by boreas rudely driven, wild as the storm, when jove hurls down his thunderbolts from heaven. he trembled with fear that she would pursue athalia, and drag her back, and perhaps hide her where he could never find her. undoubtedly she would have exercised her vindictiveness upon athalia in some way, if she had known where she was. lovetree had heard mrs. laylor swear that athalia had robbed her, and that she would have her punished, and although he did not believe a word of such a charge, he believed that vile woman wicked enough to swear away an innocent girl's life. he was quite mistaken. she was furious at her disappointment and loss of gain, for gold she worshipped, but after all she would not have done a thing to put the life or liberty of athalia in danger of the law. the restraint she had put upon her, was one of policy, all in the way of her business. lying and cheating were a part of her trade; it is of some others. she had been outwitted by one whom she thought too tame to resent an injury, or protect herself. lovetree did not know that like a furious wind it would soon blow out, or that a portion of her apparent anger was put on for effect, for one of the other girls was held by a slender thread, and it was an object to deter her from taking the same step that athalia had. it is a great object--great as it is with the merchant to get new goods--with all this class of houses to get new girls; those fresh from the country are objects of great importance; hence the effort to keep them until their conscience is obliterated from hearts made for virtuous actions, and then they stay willingly--often, have to beg for the privilege of staying, for "old goods" in this branch of trade are a greater drug in the market of seduction, than old dry goods upon the merchant's shelves. they are more like old meat upon the butcher's stall; nobody wants to buy, though all may admire its fatness, and remark how good it had been, but when they examine closely, an odor cometh up to the nostrils, which giveth offence to the stomach. men treat all these poor girls as children treat toys. the fresh and beautiful are admired, then barely tolerated, then kicked aside to make room for a fresh set. hence all the arts that cunning vile women know of are used to obtain new toys for their customers. lovetree slept but little that night. how he did walk up and down the corridors of the astor house the next morning, watching every one that entered, hoping it might be the little pedler girl. she was at home and asleep. she got home before her mother, and went to bed, so that she knew nothing of the coming of mrs. morgan. all slept late, and stella's mother saw her daughter sleeping so sweetly that she could not bear to wake her for her daily task until breakfast was ready. how delighted she was to see mrs. morgan! "oh, mother, mother, let me go and tell that gentleman; i will bring him right here. he will be so glad to see mrs. morgan." "so glad to see me, stella, who is it that knows me?" "he don't know you at all. but when i told him about you, he and that other gentleman said that they would go right off to mrs. laylor's, and get you away." "why, stella, my daughter, who are you talking about? we do not understand a word you are saying." "don't you, no, you do not; i had forgotten that i had not told you about those two nice gentlemen that i met at the astor house last night. oh, mother, where did you get those bouquets? as i live there is the very one that i looked at and talked about with joseph butler, last night. did you buy them, mother?" "no, tom top brought them here just as we got home, and said that an old gray-headed gentleman bought them of joseph, and gave him a shilling to bring them here, one for me, and one for you." "oh, my, that must be him, who else could it be? and then, only think of it, his name is just like mrs. morgan's before she was married." "what, lovetree? is his name lovetree? how remarkable it would be if he should turn out to be my uncle from the west." "so it would. now i think of it, he does look like you. no, no, i cannot eat now, i must run and tell him, that you are here, it will make him so happy." so it did. there was another happy person that day; ah, two or three of them, for mrs. may and stella were almost as happy as athalia; when he came they saw how quickly she recognized him, and how overjoyed he was to see her, and how he hugged her and kissed her, and then he took stella in his arms and kissed her, and told her that she should never go out peddling again; that he would set her mother up in a little shop, and stella should be her clerk, for he felt that he owed all that he now enjoyed to her, and he owed her mother a great debt for her kind intention and goodness of heart, in getting athalia away from that house; and then he told them all about his visit to mrs. laylor's, and mrs. may told all about how she worked her plan to get athalia away; how she dressed her up and sent her down first, and then she watched until she saw the other girl in the hall, and then went down herself. then stella said, she must run and see joseph, she wanted joseph to tell that other gentleman; and so she did, and joseph told "the other gentleman," when he came by and stopped to give the poor crippled black man a kind word, which always lighted up a pleasant smile upon his fine face; and in the evening the two gentlemen, and the two ladies, and the dear little girl, all sat down in mrs. may's little parlor, to such a supper, as, perhaps, never had been set in that room before. this was one of mr. lovetree's whims. it was a thanksgiving supper, he said, for the prodigal returned, and he wanted to eat it there, all by themselves; and so he went out and ordered the best of everything that could be provided sent there, and then as happy a party sat down as ever enjoyed a supper in new york. athalia and her uncle had talked all day, and she had told him all the secrets of her life, and he had forgiven her everything, and told her that he would love her as long as she would love him. then he asked stella to go out and get him some writing materials, and then her eyes fairly danced with joy as she ran and got her own little portfolio, one that she had made herself out of some colored paper, and asked him if he would use her pen and paper. he did so, and then wrapped up the little home-made article in a newspaper, and carried it away with him, without saying a word. stella thought it very queer that he should do so, and she almost dropped a tear at the thought of losing it, for it had cost her a good many hours of busy work to make it. after awhile a boy brought it back, wrapped in the same paper, but as it had her name on the outside, she thought she would open it, to see what he had put in it; "some paper, i dare say, in place of that which he had used." that was not what she found; she found in place of her old one, the most beautiful portfolio that could be found in new york, filled with all sorts of stationery that could be desired. after supper was over, of course stella had to get her portfolio, and show it, and talk about it; and then mr. lovetree talked about what he had written with stella's pen--it was his will. "i have made," said he, "athalia my heir. i adopt her as my daughter, and shall always treat her as my child. i hope she will always feel towards me as she would if i were her father in fact. she is an orphan, and she is----a widow." "a widow--a widow?" "is walter dead?" "is that so, uncle--father?" "yes, it is so. when i went to the attorney to see if i had got my will all right, and when he came to the name of athalia morgan, he said, 'oh, that is walter morgan's widow.' then, i said, widow, widow, just as you all did a minute since. and he told me, that was the fact; and a good thing it was that he was dead, for he got to be a terrible sot. and now, athalia is my heir, and my executor. when i am dead she will do what she pleases with what i leave, and get married again if she likes; she has promised me that she never will while i live. there is one little clause in my will that i will read now, for i like to make people happy, and i am going to make a mother happy, free from anxiety about what her child will do when she is gone. this is the clause, 'to the owner of the pen with which i wrote this will, i bequeath five hundred dollars.'" "why, what is there in that to cry about? bless my heart, i thought i was going to make you all happy, and here you are all shedding tears." "oh, uncle, uncle, you have made us happy. these are tears of joy and gladness. how noble, how generous, how good!" "just like him," said the other gentleman. "this to me! oh, mr. lovetree, this to the poor widow! this to my daughter!" "to me, mother, to me? does it mean me? yes! oh, mother, may i kiss him?" before anybody could say no, if they had been disposed to, stella was in his arms, and who shall say, that to one of his wealth, that moment was not cheaply purchased for five hundred dollars. happiness is contagious. those who feel it, feel as though they would like to make everybody else feel just so. stella did, for she reached out one hand and drew her mother to the same enfolding arms, and then athalia enfolded them all, until it seemed to my dim-growing eyes that four exceedingly happy people were blending all in one. feeling how useless is a fifth wheel to a vehicle already having four, and feeling too a sort of choking sensation, as though the air of the street would be beneficial, while this scene was on, i went off. when i had breathed the fresh air long enough to recover my equilibrium of thoughts, one came into my mind that i might do something to increase the happiness of the full hearts i had just left. with this new idea in my mind i took my way directly to mrs. laylor's. of course i found the storm had passed. a may morning could not be more calm and pleasant. of course i was a welcome visitor. i had ordered a bottle of wine the night before, that paid my footing. i had spent money for one sin, and apparently seemed willing to spend more for another, and that always makes welcome guests, because profit can be made out of such visitors. i had an object in my course the night before; i had nothing of that kind to accomplish to-night, and so i ordered no wine. i looked serious, earnest, determined, and asked mrs. laylor for a private interview. it is not necessary to inflict the particulars upon my readers; it will be only interesting to them to know that one of the results of the talk did add to the happiness of those whom i had just left already very happy, for just as lovetree was in the act of kissing good-night to athalia, there came a rap to the door, it was a porter's rap; his load was a trunk, a bandbox and a square bundle. the bundle was opened first, its contents were now doubly dear, and athalia longed to show it to her uncle. it was the old family bible. everything had been sent but the watch. that was irrecoverably lost. as i was leaving mrs. laylor's, with the porter and athalia's trunk, i met frank barkley and had five minutes talk with him. as we parted, he said: "depend upon it i shall claim my bet, and the stake is in the hands of a friend who will fork over." the next morning athalia met with another surprise. the three had just finished breakfast, and sat talking over the strange events of the last day or two, congratulating each other upon their singular good fortune, and laying out plans for the day, while awaiting the momentarily expected arrival of mr. lovetree. mrs. may and stella were to go out and look up a place for the "little shop," which was to hold an assortment of just such goods as she had been accustomed to sell out of her basket, to which her mother was to add her nice shirt collars, and perhaps the work of some other poor woman who might be in need of assistance; and athalia and her uncle were to go "house hunting," a very common employment in new york, for he was going to set her up in a business that she could live by, and have a house for herself and him too, when he was in the city, and pretty soon he hoped that would be all the time; it should be as soon as he could get his western business settled up; but she should have a house and take a few boarders, and always keep a room for him, and he would always call that home; "and we shall be so happy," says she, "and if he is sick i will take care of him, and if i am sick i know he will be kind to me, he looks just as though he would; don't you think so, mrs. may?" "indeed he does; and you will be so happy, but i do not know as you will be quite so happy as stella and i shall be, when we get a-going. i am happy now, only one thing troubles me a little, i do not know what i am going to do for a little money for present necessities. i had just paid my month's rent, ten dollars in advance, and bought a piece of linen for my work, and stella had laid out all of her little stock, and now we are quite out. if you had money as you once had, i should know very well what to do. i should ask you for a loan of five dollars, and i know very well what you would say; no, you would not say anything, you would jump up and run to the little drawer, the left-hand top drawer of the bureau, i can almost see it now, and then you would say, 'there, there it is, go along, i don't want you to stop to thank me.' but that time has past away. i suppose i shall have to do what we poor folks often have to do, go to the pawnbroker again. "your trouble, mrs. may, is just mine too; i want a few dollars so bad that i do not know what to do, and i was about to ask you; i do not like to ask my uncle, so soon, and would not on my own account, but will on yours." "no, no, no, do not, i can get along very well, i can pawn the linen, i shall not want that for a few days." "yes, i will, do not say anything more, i have made up my mind, and here he comes, so it is too late for argument." there was a rap, and as they did not expect anybody else, of course it must be her uncle; who else should it be? but it was not. it was the same porter who was there last evening. he did not bring any trunk or bundle, he simply brought a letter and a very small package; a letter addressed, "lucy smith." athalia was on the point of denying it, but then she thought that mrs. may and stella both knew that was the name she was known by at mrs. laylor's. still she blushed and trembled. she blushed to think that she had once said of her first name, "i never shall change that." it is a sad thing for a girl to change that. she trembled at the thought of having any of her old acquaintances, who knew her by that name, write to her or speak to her as friends, for they were only friends of days which she would gladly blot out of memory--days of sin and shame, which she looked back upon with horror, as she felt their deep degradation. she trembled still more when she opened the letter, and saw that the signature was frank barkley. she felt faint, and her eyes grew dim, for she felt that she was still pursued--"the guilty flee when no man pursueth"--by one with whom she had sinned, and she felt that it was a renewal of the proposition to sin again. she saw the name, and the "dear lucy" with which it commenced, she saw no more, she could see no more, and so she handed the letter to mrs. may, with an "oh, dear!" mrs. may read it, and then _she_ said, "oh, dear," but it was a very different "oh, dear," from athalia's. it was an "oh, dear, what a fortune," and then she handed the letter back to athalia, and said, "read, you will not find it very bad." her joyous smile reassured the fainting, trembling athalia, and she read: "my dear lucy. "dearer to me now than ever. i have heard from a mutual friend all about it. first, forgive me for the wrong i have done you. i shall not do it again. blush not to meet me in the street or church, for by no look or word will i ever seek to renew our acquaintance. i know you now, i never did before, and i feel that i am not worthy to renew that acquaintance. i am a man of the world, and enjoy what my own class call pleasures. i have enjoyed pleasant hours with you, but i never enjoyed a night as i have the last. i have been alone in my room all night. i have been thinking. i have thought how much myself and my associates have done to swell the class of females whom we look upon with contempt, as they pass us in the street. i have found that it is good to think. i have thought a great deal of you, and of your history, as i gleaned it partly from you and partly from mrs. laylor, but the last and best part from your friend. believe me when i say that i am most sincerely glad that you have escaped from a life which i had persuaded you to adopt. i was selfish then. i am sober now. "of course you know i have won my bet. i have got the money. i do not need it, you do. it is your due and much more from that avaricious woman who deceived you so bitterly. you lost your watch. it was partly my fault. if i had not believed the lies told of you, it would not have happened, for then in a spirit of retaliation, i had not been false to you, nor you to me, and you would not have made the acquaintance of the gambler who stole your watch. i cannot return that, but i send one in its place. i also send you my check for the money won, and the same sum which was staked against it. if you are ever in need hereafter remember your real, truly sincere friend, "frank barkley." she looked up with tearful eyes, and simply said, "mrs. may, you will not have to go to the pawnbroker's to-day. take this check and go to the bank, or i will write a note to a friend who will cash it in a minute, it needs no endorsement, it is payable to the bearer, and you shall have one hundred and i the other. now let us look at the watch." they did look at it, and of course admire it, and then mr. lovetree came in, and then the letter was read again, and then he said, "the fellow has got a heart after all, it has only been spoiled by bad associations; he has got a good start now in the right path, and i shall make it my business to look him up and help him along. do you know, athalia, where he lives?" "i have his card, sir, in my trunk." "very well, give it to me at your leisure, and we will let him know that the pearls of that letter have not been cast before the very worst sort of pigs." then stella was going out to get the check changed, and then he said, "never mind, give it to me," and then he put it in his pocket-book very carefully, and put that away in his left-hand pocket--he had a place for everything; and then he put his hand into his right-hand pocket, and took out fifty dollars in gold, and handed that to athalia, with the remark that he would bring her the balance to-morrow, that that was as much as she would want to-day; and then he said, as he saw her slipping it slyly into mrs. may's hand, "oh, that is it, is it?" and then mrs. may said, "she _must_ tell, and then she did tell all about her want of money, and how she used to go to athalia when she was in want, and now, when neither of them had any, it did seem as though the good spirit had opened the heart of that man to repentance and good works, just when it was most needed." and then they all went out, mrs. may and stella to hunt for the shop, which they found and had in operation in a week, and which was the foundation of a fortune, for it prospered wonderfully. the ball only needed a start, it would accumulate at every roll. it is accumulating still. i wish a few more benevolent old gentlemen would take each one of them a little girl out of the street, and set the ball to rolling. good bye, mrs. may--good bye, stella. "we may never meet again, but we never shall forget you, good-hearted little girl, and kind, blessed, good mother. thy good works have their reward." athalia and her uncle found a house. we have heard of that before, from maggie; we shall hear of them again, in some of these shifting "scenes." i shall draw the curtain now. it may remain down for one or two or more years, what does it matter to the reader? it is facts that he wants, he cares nothing for time, or which scene comes first. if the reader is a woman, she cares neither for time nor facts, so that the story is good. what next? look in the next chapter. chapter xiv. new scenes and new characters. "there is some soul of goodness in things evil, would man observingly distil it out." that was well exemplified in the last chapter. it may be in this. if any of the readers of these "scenes" suppose the writer lost sight of the chance to do good, and the right time to do it, that the death of "little katy," offered, they are quite mistaken. although he may not be able to do with his own purse, he has a way of procuring others to do a part that is so much needed to be done. he found that katy had an aunt in the city, who was able to do for her sister, and he took the preliminary steps to restore the poor, lost sheep to the fold from which she had strayed. that he should have lost sight of her for a little while, in the busy whirl of city life, is not surprising. that the reader has been left in suspense, while he has had many other scenes before him, the author hopes he will not regret. we do not travel old, beaten paths, in this volume. as the subject is new, so is the way of illustrating it. now, let us walk on. "there has been a black woman here twice this evening after you, and she says, she must have the sight of ye afore she sleeps, any how." this was a piece of irish information, which met me as i opened the door, one night, in rather a melancholy mood, for i was as yet supperless, tired, sleepy, and about half sick, from breathing fetid air four or five hours, while visiting the poorest of the city poor, the denizens of cow bay. now, it must not be understood that mrs. mctravers intended to tell me that the ethiopian female, who had twice called at my abode, and declared that "she must have the sight of me before she slept," had the least desire to gouge out my eyes. on the contrary, she was only anxious to have a sight of the ugly visage i own, and come within speaking distance of me. "what for? what did she want, mrs. mctravers?" "sure, your honor, it's not the likes of me knows what a lady wants with a lone gentleman at this time o'night." if i did not swear, i had some very hard thoughts at the blundering awkwardness of this woman, or her entire inability to convey ideas by language, so that i could understand them "at this time of night." she proceeded to give a most minute description of "the black woman," how she looked, and talked, and dressed. who could it be? i run over in my mind all of my african female acquaintances--not large--but not one of them answered the description given by mrs. mctravers. i was about proceeding up stairs, when she said, "ye'll surely go and see the sick lady." i had a slight internal intimation that i was nearly losing my patience. "mrs. mctravers, what is it about a sick lady? you have not told me a word about anybody, sick or well, except a negro woman, and you have not told me what she wanted." "and sure, then, i thought you knew all about it. the wench said you knew the lady." "i know a good many, but how can i tell which one of my acquaintances this may be?" "why sure, then i thought you would know when i told you where she lived." "in the name of common sense, mrs. mctravers, if you know who the sick woman is, or where she lives, or what she wants, why don't you tell me?" "wasn't i going to, only you put me into such a flusteration? there, sure, that'll tell you all about it." and she handed me a piece of paper, on which was written, in a very delicate lady hand, though evidently nervous, "madame de vrai, w--street." i am sure i must have looked like a living specimen of confusion worse confounded. the name i had never heard before. the street was an unknown locality. i only knew it was a street on the west side of the city, somewhere, and whether it had such a number as " ," was entirely too much for my arithmetic. i determined not to go. still there was a mystery, that natural curiosity prompted me to solve. who could it be? "did the black woman say that i was acquainted with the lady?" "she did that, and that you had been very kind to her. god bless you for that same, for being so to a stranger and a foreigner too at that. the black woman said you was a blessed good man to the poor lady, and a father to her childer, dead and alive." was anything ever so provoking as the stolidity of an irish servant. every word she uttered made the mystery still darker. i knew no madame de vrai; never heard of the name before in my life--took no credit to myself for any special act of kindness to the poor in general, and certainly could not call to mind any act of my life that would warrant me in appropriating the blessing so heartily offered for my acceptance. as to being the father of the poor woman's "childer, dead and alive," i declared emphatically that it was just no such thing. i would not own them. so i called for something to eat, and determined to go to bed, fully satisfied that african blunders and irish ditto, duly mixed, had made one this time too large for my mastery, either with my very common name, or by a mistake in the street or number; or else somebody else had undertaken to father this family, and now desired to shift the responsibility; certainly i had not, could not, would not father them. so i sat munching and musing over my bread and butter and cold water, of the scenes of the evening which i had witnessed. "would to heaven i knew what had become of her," i thought aloud. "who?" said a kind voice at my elbow. "what lady are you so anxious about now. any of your five point protégés?" "yes. you have guessed it exactly. none other." "is that what you have been looking for to-night. do tell me of your visit. what have you seen?" "more of human misery than i ever saw before in one night. would you like to hear the detail?" "yes, it may do me good to hear how others live, and if worse than i do, it may make me more contented with my own lot." "worse than you do? why, madam, have you not all that is necessary to make life comfortable around you. a neat, airy, well-furnished house, plenty of room, plenty to eat, good bed to sleep on, good baths for evening ablution or morning renovation, and above all the other luxuries of city life, plenty of that greatest of new york's blessings, the croton water? now listen how and where others live. in a close, dirty, pent up court, are piles of old bricks and frame houses, perfect rat harbors, filled with human beings, men, women, children, from cellar bottom to garret peak, poor beyond the power of imagination, dirty to a degree that is sickening to behold, criminal through necessity----" "no, not necessity. nobody is necessitated to be criminal." "you are simply mistaken. i repeat, criminal by necessity. so educated from childhood, that they know of no way to live, but by the beggar's trade, or pilferer's, or prostitute's crime. such are the parents, such must be the children. there is no hope otherwise. they are sent out in infancy to beg, and early taught to 'pick up things;' the place of education is the street, the watch house, or city prison." "why don't their parents send them to school?" "why should they? they never went to such a place themselves, and care not that their children should go. they care for nothing but rum, and that the builders of prisons, and hangers of murderers, take care they shall have the means of getting. the imprisonment and hanging, is the sequence of the license system." "but you were to tell us what you saw this evening." "human misery. the houses of the city poor. the locality is cow bay. it opens upon anthony street at the north west angle of the five points." the first _home_ we entered was a cellar room twelve by twenty feet, quite below the surface, and only just high enough to stand up under the beams of the floor over head, while at every step the water oozed up through the boards we trod upon. at one end was the narrow, muddy stairway and door, by which we entered, and at the other a fire-place. on one side two windows with places for three panes of glass to each, gave all the light and ventilation afforded to the four families who occupied the room. these consisted of two men and their wives, two single women, an old woman and her three boys, and a young girl as a boarder. there were four sleeping places, called beds, upon forms, elevated above the floor, for none could sleep on that on account of the water. "do you always have the water as bad as it is now?" i inquired. "bad is it? an i wish then you could see it after a big rain, when the water is over the floor entirely fornent the the door." "have these women husbands?" "these two with the young children have." "what do they do for a living?" "one of them jobs about--but he is on the island now." "what for?" "just nothing at all, yer honor, he is as kind a husband as ever lived, only when he takes a drop too much once in a while." "hould your tongue now, ellen maguire, you know your husband is drunk every time he can get liquor, and that is as often as he can coax anybody that has got money into that dirty hole at the corner--cale jones's grocery. he is a burner, sir?" "a burner. what is that?" "he asks some one to go and take a drink with him, and then tells him to call for what he likes, and so he drinks and drinks, thinking all the time it is a treat, till he gets ready to go, and then the fellow who keeps the shop stops him and makes him pay for all the liquor the company have drank." "don't he refuse?" "what's the use? he is burnt, and must stand it. if he refuse, they will take his coat, or hat, or shoes. if he gets off with his breeches on he is lucky." "what does this woman's husband do to support his family?" "deil a bit can i tell. it is not for me to pry into peoples' business who pay the rint like honest folks." "the rent. how much rent do you pay for this room?" "fifty cents a week for each of us--that is two dollars in all, every monday morning in advance; sure, you may well believe that, if you know billy crown, the agent. it's never a poor woman that he lets slip; if she was dying, and never a mouthful of bread or drop of anything in the house, the rint must be paid." "well, these women what do they do?" "what should a lone woman do? she must live. there is but one way." "have you a husband?" "the lord be thanked, no. it is enough for me to live with me boys. what would i do if i had a drunken husband to support out of me arnings?" sure enough. what should any woman want of a drunken husband? let us look above ground. perchance misery only dwells in dark, low, damp cellars. up, then, to the very garret of the same house. it is divided into three rooms, one is ten feet square with one window, without fire-place or stove. what may be inside we know not, for a strong hasp and padlock guard the treasure. back of this, through a two feet wide passage, is another room, eight feet by twelve. this is partly under the roof, has a dilapidated fire-place and broken window. this is inhabited by a black man and his wife. there is a bed, a table, dishes and two chairs, and an air of neatness, contrasting strongly with the cellar. by the side of this is another room inhabited by a negro and his white wife, and a white man and wife. did you ever see four uglier beasts in one cage? the white man is a hyena; his wife a tiger; the negro a hippopotamus; his wife a sort of human tortoise; the dirt, representing the shell, out of which the vicious head poked itself, glaring at the intruders upon her premises, with a look that plainly said, oh, how i should like to bite and claw you, and strip off those clean clothes, and spoil that face, and put out those eyes, and make ye as dirty and ugly and miserable as i am. the black man was social, courteous and intelligent. he was a cobbler, and diligently plied his hammer and awl. with a kind master and well cared for, he would be a faithful, good servant. he has no faculty to take care of himself. by nature the slave of one of nature's strongest passions, he has sunk down into slavery to this hard-shell woman, and the tool of his designing hyena and tiger room-mates. the white man looked as if he were counting the contents of our pockets, and what chance there would be for a grab at our watches. the shape of this room was peculiar. take a large watermelon, cut it in quarters, cut one of those across--the flesh sides will represent the floor and one wall--the cross-cut the end, where there is a fire-place--the rind is the roof and other side of the room, through which at the butt end, there is a window. there is no bedstead, or place for one. there is no table, or occasion for any. two boxes and a stool serve for chairs. the bedding is very scarce, but the floor is of soft wood, and the weather is warm. each of these rooms rents for three dollars a month, always in advance. now let us go down the rotten stairway to the next floor. though what we have seen is bad, we may yet say: "the worst is not so long as we can say, 'this is the worst.'" what have we here? something worse. yes, for coupled with poverty and crime, is fanatical hatred of everything that is not worse than itself. let us rap at this door. a gruff woman's voice bids us enter. we are met by an insolent defiant scowl and an angry "what do you want here?" "good woman, is some one sick here?" "yes. what of that. nobody wants the like of you, with your pious faces and 'good woman,' prowling about at this time of night. you're after nothing good, any one might swear that." "perhaps we can give you some good advice for your sick child." "give your advice when we ask it. haven't we got father mullany to give us advice, and he a good doctor too. i tell you we don't want any miserable heretics in the house and me child a dying. and who have i to thank for it?" "surely, madam, we cannot tell. perhaps you can, or your husband, where is he?" if a dog were thrown among the whelps in a wolf's lair, it would not arouse the dam quicker than these words did this human she-wolf. she sprang towards us, foaming with rage. a stout cane in my strong right hand caught her eye, and she stood at bay. "what was she so mad at you and your companion for? did she know either of you?" "she knew us by sight, or rather she knew him as one of the active helpers of the missionary, mr. pease, the house of industry, and the five points mission. what more should she know to hate us? she knew we were not of her faith; that we believed not in the efficacy of holy water and confession, to work out sin; that we did not kneel and receive a consecrated wafer with 'extreme unction', and so she hated us with all the fervent rancor of religious hate. she hated us for our mission of good; for she knew we hated what she dearly loved--drunkenness and all its concomitant evils. she hated us with that envious hate of depravity, which would sink everything to its own level. she knew that we would take her dying child to a clean bed and airy room, and give it food and medicine, and nurse it into life, and she hated us for that." "how could she? how could a mother be so wicked to her poor sick child? i am sure if i could not take care of mine, i would trust it with anybody who would save its life." thus will say more than one christian mother. think--be careful--be not uncharitable--good mother. would you let it go with those who saved its life to be reared with them--taught their creed--perhaps to hate yours? certainly if taught the principles of temperance--virtue--neatness--her child could not love its drunken mother, in her rags and dirt and life of sin. "but then the child would be brought up by religious teachers, and taught to be a christian." yes, a protestant christian; she is a good catholic. would you willingly give up your child if it were to be reared a pagan, a mahometan, or even a jew? "no! i would let it die." there spoke the five points mother. sooner than it should go into a protestant house, she would see it die. alas! poor human nature; yes, poor human nature, sunk down into those depths of misery and degradation, yet every one of them are our brothers and sisters, who are rearing up children like themselves, as true as like produces like, while we look on, shrug our comfortably-wrapped shoulders, and "thank god we are not like one of these," and yet never give, out of our abundance, one cent to make one of them like one of us. "well, what of her husband?" "my husband, is it?" she said, as she stood glaring at us; "my husband? go, look in your city prison, you old gray-headed villains, where ye or the likes of ye, murdered him without judge or jury. did you try him for his life? no. had he been a murderer? no. had he done any crime? no. you licensed him to sell liquor, and he drank too much--i drank too much--what else can you expect, when you set fools to play with live coals, but they will burn themselves? what next? what is the natural consequence of getting drunk? a quarrel. i know it. don't ask me what i get drunk for; i know you did not speak, but i saw it in your eye--yes, your eye--turn it away--i cannot bear it, it looks right into my soul. don't look at me that way, or i shall cry, and i had rather die than do that. it would kill me to cry for such as you, who murdered my poor husband. you licensed him to sell rum, in the first place, to make other wives miserable with drunken husbands--mine was not drunken then, and i did not have to live in such a hole as this--look around you, ye murdering villains. what do you see?--poverty, filth, and rags; starvation, misery, crime--on that bed is my dying boy--that is nothing. let him die, i am glad of it--the priest has made it all right with him. now, look in that bed, rum-selling, licensing whelps that you are--that is worse than the dying boy in the other--see what we have bought with our money paid to your excise office. see what a mother is sunk to by rum. yes, i do drink it--why do your eyes ask the question? i do drink, and will again. what else have i got to live for? what lower hole can i sink to? me, a mother. a mother! mother of that shameless girl, do you see her, there in that bed, before her mother's eyes?" "yes, and a pretty looking, bright-eyed girl she is." "bright-eyed. yes, bright-eyed. i would to heaven she had none--that she had been born blind. her bright eyes have been her ruin--a curse to her and the mother that bore her--they are a curse to any poor girl among such villains as you are. ye are men--how many hearts have you broken?--withered, trampled on?--there, go, go. i hate the sight of all men." "who is this man i see with your daughter; is he her husband?" "husband! husband! do the like of her get husbands? where is my husband?" "we cannot tell, can you?" "tell! who can tell where a man is that died drunk--died--murdered in your man-killing city prison, and the priest not there to give him absolution. what had he done? what crime? drank rum that you licensed him to sell--beat me because i drank too. what next? next come your dirty police--the biggest scoundrels in the city--mad at my husband because he would not 'touch their palms,' and drag him to the tombs--a right name--good name--true name--tombs indeed--a tomb to my husband." "did he die there?" "no! he was murdered there. look here. can you read? yes, yes, i know ye can. so can i. do you see that account of prisoners dying by suffocation--poisoned by carbonic acid gas--there, read it,"--and she thrust a crumpled paper before us--"read how ye reform drunkards--shut them up in prison cells, and in spite of their prayers, and groans, and dying cries for air, ye let them die. are ye not murderers? do you see that name? that is--that was my husband. ha, ha, ha! now, what is he, where is he? don't answer--i know your answer; but if he is in hell, who sent him there? who, who, who?" and she sank down upon one of the pallets which were spread over the floor, in a paroxysm of wild, delirious grief and rage, speechless as her dying boy, lying unheeded and unheeding, by her side. what could we do? nothing here; much elsewhere; and we looked up and registered a vow, that much as she hated us for what we had not done, yet had permitted our fellows to do without crying out against them, that she should be avenged. if we could do nothing here--if we could not pull down the sturdy oak by taking hold of its topmost branches, yet, although its mighty strength defies our weak efforts thus applied, we can and will dig around its roots--we will take away the life-sustaining earth--and that strong tree shall be made to feel our power--it shall wither, dry up, and die, and time shall rot down its strong trunk, and the place that once knew it, shall know it no more. this then is our pledge, made over that dying boy, and, worse than by murder, widowed mother, and here now we redeem it. here we expose the hydra-headed monster--the orphan and widow-maker--the property, health, and virtue-destroyer. sad, harrowing as these scenes of wretchedness and misery are, they must be laid open to the gaze of the world. "wounds must be seen to be healed." weak nerves tremble at the idea that physicians cut and carve the dead, talking, aye laughing, as freely over the quiet heart and still nerves in the dissecting-room, as the butcher over his beef upon the market house block; yet without the dissecting of one and butchering of the other, how should the maimed be healed, or meat-eating multitude be fed? so let us on with our panorama of scenes from life in new york. [illustration: old plato cooking hot corn.--_page ._] let us open this door. ah! we have been here before. the room is seven by twelve feet, under the roof, which comes down at one end within a foot of the floor. there is a broken, dirty, window in the roof, at the right hand of the door as we enter on the side. no fire-place or stove, no table, only two broken chairs--a very old bureau--a dilapidated trunk--a band-box--a few articles of female apparel--some poor dishes and a few cooking utensils--used upon a little portable furnace standing in the room--a poor old bedstead and straw bed in one corner--a child's cot and a doll; and yet the only occupant of the room is an old negro man, who sits of nights upon cold stones, crying hot corn. we look about wonderingly, peering in here and there, but except the old man we see no one. "she gone, massa, clean gone--cry old eyes out when i come home next day arter dat one, you know massa, which one dis child mean--sad day--don't like to mention him, massa--give me chaw terbacca, massa--come home and find her and little sis--nice child dat--" "you found her." "no sir, found her gone--done gone entirely--key in old place where i knew where to find him--everything all here--no word for old plato--what i give to see her once more--to see little sissee--oh that i knew where she was. oh, oh, oh." "and would to heaven we could tell what has become of her." "who?" said the lady who had been listening with intense interest to my narrative. "true, i had forgotten to tell you that we stood in the chamber where little katy died. where that last sweet kiss of an angel was given--where the candle seemed to the dying innocent to go out--where she said, 'good bye--mother--don't drink--any more--good b--' but before the word was finished, there was another angel added to the heavenly host around the throne of god." it was here that the scene, which the artist has so touchingly illustrated upon the opposite page, transpired. turn your thoughts a moment from this page to that and look upon the picture. turn back to chapter vi., "the home of little katy," and read over the story of the death of that poor innocent, and you will better appreciate the description and illustration of that home and that dying scene. 'twas then and there that that fallen mother was touched by a power greater than human strength--'twas then as she knelt over her dead child, she had said, "never, never, never, will i touch that accursed poison cup. oh, god," she prayed, "take my child, my wronged and murdered child, and i will not repine; i will thank thee; i will praise thy name as my mother taught me to praise thee; as she loved and blessed, and prayed for me all her life, even after my fall, although hastened to her grave by my sin. oh, my mother, forgive me; oh, my child, forgive me; oh, my god, forgive me, but let me live to repent, and be a mother and a blessing to my living child. oh, my sister, where are you, cold and unforgiving sister, but for you i had not been here--why could you not forgive. oh, god, canst thou?" what was that still small voice that seemed to say in our ears, as she ceased speaking, and lay sobbing upon the breast of little katy? "yes, sister, he can, he will, he has; rise, thy sins are forgiven thee." did she hear it too? else, why did she instantly rise up, with dry eyes and calm, almost happy features? it was then that i gained from her the secret of her sister's name, upon a promise that i did not keep--i could not keep--it was not my duty to keep it. but where has she gone? has her sister got my letter?--has her heart at last been touched?--has she taken her away? if so, why has she not told me where? long days and nights of anxiety have come and gone, and she comes not back to her home. has despair worked its wonted result, and does the ocean wave roll over the mother and her child, in a suicide's watery grave? "what would i give to know?" "you must wait," said our sympathizing friend. yes, we must wait. yet "hope deferred maketh the heart sick." "have you been to see the woman who sent for you to-day?" "no! it is nobody that i know. some mistake." yes, it was some mistake. "but she sent her name by the black woman, when she came the second time." "i know it, but it is no one that i know. the name is utterly unknown to me. it is a french name. some mistake." there was a mistake. what prompted me to look again at the name? i knew it as well as i should if i looked at that paper a hundred times. yet i was prompted to look at it once more. the desire was irresistible. who has ever felt a longing after something unseen, unknown, unheard, undefined, something that he feels as though he must have or die, yet knows not how to obtain, may realize the intensity of my desire to see that paper once more. where is it? this pocket, and that is searched, turned wrong side out, and turned back again; the table, floor, books, papers, hunted over, but nowhere can it be found. what has spirited it away? it could not blow out of the window, for there is no air stirring. "it must," said the lady, "have gone down on the tea-tray--i will call bridget." a woman is worth a dozen men for thought, and this time she thought truly. it had gone down that way, and gone into the slop-bucket, and into the street. "bridget, will you take a lamp and go out and see if you can find it." "yes, sir, certainly, and i think i can." blessed hope. my friend was curious to know, what in the world i wanted of that piece of paper? "you say, you remember the name and number perfectly, and yet you act as though it was of the utmost value. i recollect seeing you once when you had lost a twenty dollar bill, as cool and careless as though it had been as worthless as this little scrap of paper. now you act strangely, what can it mean?" "i don't know--i know i want to see that paper. i cannot tell why." "well, you will soon be gratified. she has found it. do wait, don't be so impatient to meet her at the foot of the stairs." i did not wait though. i gave one glance at the soiled scrap--it was enough--the pen and ink name had faded out, but there were three words--talismanic words--in pencil marks, evidently added as an after-thought by her who had first written her name in ink--words which sent me out of the door, and half way to the next street, before that voice, sent after me from the stair-head, of "do stop him, bridget, he is crazy, to go out in this rain," had reached my ears. it did not stop me--i was gone beyond the reach of her voice. the girl stood amazed. she looked at the scrap of paper with about the same degree of astonishment as did the savage tribe at the white man's paper talk. "bring it to me, bridget." "he is gone, ma'am." "yes, yes, i know he is gone, bring it to me." "i can't ma'am, he is gone." "not him, bridget, the paper, the paper. i want to see what is on it, that has driven that man out at this hour, in such a rainy night." the girl looked at the door just closed, shutting the man out in the rain, then she examined the corner where the cane and umbrella usually stood, to be sure they had gone out too, that she had not been dreaming all the while; then she gave a glance at the table to satisfy herself that the hat had gone with the cane and umbrella; then she looked again at the paper, to see what magic power that might possess, to do such midnight deeds. papers have great power. poor bridget, she could not read, but she could feel, and she knew that there was a cause--the effect she had seen. "bridget, what is the matter? are you frightened to death?" "yes, ma'am. no, ma'am--only speechless. did you ever see the like? that that little dirty scrap of paper, i picked out of the gutter, should send the gentleman out of the house faster than i ever saw him go before in the year and a half i have been with you. what does it mean? will you please to tell me, what these little marks mean? what does it read? there now, you can see them good. please, read them to me, ma'am." "little katy's mother." "is that all?" "yes, and quite enough. i wonder not he went so quickly. i almost fancy i can-- 'by the lamp dimly burning, or the pale moonlight-- see where he goes--' almost past whole house fronts at a single stride. if a cart is in the way at the crossing he will not go around--two steps and he is over. if there is a bell at the door, take care, or the wires will crack. if a knocker, it will thunder loud this night. woe to the watchman, who, thinking he may be a runaway burglar, puts out a hand to stop him in his walk. the bull, that butted the locomotive, made equal speed in his intent. he went down--the steam went on." "is he mad, ma'am?" "no, bridget, only enthusiastic. if he is mad, 'there is method in his madness,' he is only very much interested about a woman." "oh, yes, ma'am, i understand it now. i have seen gentlemen often mad after women. i suppose little katy, then, is his child." "oh, no, bridget, you are all wrong. she is not his child." "oh, well, ma'am, then, i suppose, she is somebody's else child. and if her mother is an interesting woman, i don't see as there is anything so very wrong about the matter. what am i all wrong about, ma'am?" "little katy is dead." "oh, is she? i am sure then i am very sorry. can i do anything about helping to get her ready to be buried?" "no, she was buried long ago. you may see her grave some day in greenwood cemetery." "i don't see, then, what was the gentleman's great hurry, if nobody is sick and nobody to be buried." "perhaps the mother is sick--perhaps in want--perhaps some unknown power has drawn him to her assistance. i have seen stranger things than that. this is a strange world." "indeed it is, ma'am. and there is a strange noise in the street." and she looked from the window. "what can it be, bridget, there is a crowd around our area fence, and see, there is a woman under the steps by the basement door. go down and see what is the matter. are you afraid? well then, i will go with you; it is somebody that a parcel of brutal men and boys are persecuting. no matter who, or what she is, she is a woman, and should be protected." so down they went and she said to them, "oh men, men, where is your manhood, thus to hunt a woman through the streets? have you forgotten that mothers bore you in pain into this world? have you no daughters, no sisters, are you savages--wolves--is this a lamb or stricken deer, that ye trail by her bloody track?" "no, ma'am," said a bull pup looking boy, "she is drunk, and we is just having a little fun with her, that is all." god of mercy! didst thou make man in thine own image, and yet leave him void of that heavenly attribute--mercy! why, "a merciful man is merciful to his beast," and yet these images of their maker hunt this poor woman through the streets of a christian city, as savages hunt tigers through the jungles of africa--for fun. what for? "she is drunk." a potent reason, surely. who made her so? how came she drunk? who is she, what is she? no matter, she is a woman, in distress at a woman's door, and she must, she shall be protected. there is a commotion in the crowd. the human blood-hounds are about to lose their prey--they want more _fun_. "bring her out bill, never mind the women--it is none of their business--bring her out and let us see her run again. she is a real ' . ' nag." and they shouted and screamed like so many wild indians. what but savages are they? true they had white skins and christian clothes, and spoke the language of a civilized nation, and dwelt in "one of the first cities in the world." yet they pursued a poor, young, helpless female, like a hunted hare through the streets, and now press hard upon her two protectors; one a delicate, sickly lady, the other a timid servant girl, with a cry to bill, the leader, to "bring her out"--to drag her by force from where she has sunk down upon the very threshold of a house which she hopes may offer her protection, yet she dares not ask it. shame has overcome her, she buries her face in her hands as she sits crouched up in a corner, but neither looks up nor speaks. the crowd press forward, the servant shrinks back, the lady stands firm, with a determination to protect or perish. can she do it? what can a woman without strength, do against a pack of loosened blood-hounds, already licking their chops with delight at the sight of their prey? "drag her out, some of ye, down there, why don't ye," screamed a human tiger, in the rear of the crowd; "don't mind that woman, she is no better than the gal. let me in and i'll bring her." a strong hand is laid upon the poor girl's arm, and for the first time she looks up, but ventures not a word. the look was enough. it appealed to a woman's heart for protection--an appeal that never failed. how can she protect the helpless with her feeble strength, against the brutal force of rum crazed men and vicious boys, who shout, "drag her out, drag her out." will they do it? they heed not the appealing look of their victim--their object of sport--_fun_--fun for them, death to her. they heed not the appealing words of her who would protect. god help you, poor soul, you have drank wine--you are drunk in the streets at midnight--you have none but those who are as weak as yourself, to save you, poor, timid, stricken fawn. "drag her out, drag her out." how it rung in her ears! how those terrible words went down into her soul! succor is at hand. there was a shout, a yell, a horrid scream of anguish, a few hurried oaths, a pushing, shoving, care-for-self-only struggle among the crowd, as a shower of smoking water fell among them, and they were gone. the lady turned her eyes, and there stood mrs. mctravers, in her night cap, pail in hand, her effective engine of war. "oh, mrs. mctravers, how could you scald them?" "didn't they deserve it, the brutes?" "yes, yes; no, not so bad as that. i am afraid you have put out their eyes." "oh, never fear that. didn't i timper it, like 'the wind to the shorn lamb,' just warm enough to wash the faces of the dirty spalpeens, and give them a good fright? how the cowards did run. what were they afraid of? i had spent all my ammunition in the first volley. this is nothing but cold water, and that never hurt anybody. it is a pity the scurvy dogs did not use more of it every day, and nothing else. they would never chase poor girls through the streets, if they drank nothing but water." "come, young woman, you can get up now and go home, if you have any to go to, and if you have not, what are you going to do with yourself?" "why, mrs. mctravers, we will take her in and put her to bed, and let her sleep till morning." "take her in? what, take a common street-walker in to disgrace your house?" "indeed, my dear, good, kind lady," said the object of their conversation, now for the first time speaking. "i am no street-walker--i am not what you take me for. do not--pray do not, force me to go into the street again to-night. let me lay here on the door-sill till daylight." "never! it shall never be said i refused to give shelter to one of my own sex in distress, no matter what she is or has been. mrs. mctravers, she must have a bed in the house to-night." "i should like to know then where you will find it. every bed in the house is full." "i will give her mine then, and sleep myself on the floor." "no, no, no, let me sleep on the floor--on the hearth--on the stones in the back-yard, rather than go in the street again, but i won't sleep in your bed." "well, well, come with me to my room. i will make you a bed on the floor, and you shall sleep there." "sure, sure, heaven will bless you; and if you knew all you would forgive me, for i am not so bad as you think i am, or as that woman thinks i am." "oh, never mind what she says, she has a good heart after all. come, come along with me." "did you ever see the like of it. she is going to take that thing to her room, a miserable tramper; i dare say the house will be robbed before morning. i will pick up the spoons, and lock all the closets, before i go to bed again. dear me, did anybody ever see such a woman as that? she never sees a woman in rags, but she wants to pull off her shawl, and give her. i dare say, she won't let this girl out of the house to-morrow till she has all her draggled clothes washed and fixed up, and may be then will send for a carriage to take her away. it is a great plague to anybody to have such a tender heart. it is all the time getting them into trouble. "there, now i believe the silver is all safe, but mercy knows what will become of this night's adventure. so much for getting drunk. what does anybody want to get drunk for? there was mctravers, the brute, always getting drunk. i am sure, i love a little bitters to clear my throat in the morning, and a glass or two of wine at dinner, and a little hot stuff as i am going to bed, but as for getting drunk--bah--i hate anybody that gets drunk. oh, dear, this night air, i wish i had not wasted all the hot water on the drunken dogs, for i do feel as though i wanted a dram now, and no more water--what will i do? i must take a little cold, or i shall not sleep a wink to-night. bah, how i hate drunkards." what for, mrs. mctravers, why should you hate your own manufacture? let the reader reflect; there is a night before him. when the curtain rises, we shall see what the author saw last night. chapter xv. little katy's mother. "a true devoted pilgrim is not weary, to measure kingdoms with his steps." when mrs. mctravers told me that mrs. de vrai had sent a message for me, i was too weary to measure steps along a few blocks; but when i read those three little magic words, weariness had gone. bridget thought so too. "he is gone, ma'am." yes, he was gone, gone abroad at midnight with a merry heart. "a merry heart goes all day, your sad one tires in a mile." a mile was soon told, and i felt no tiring. up this step and that, peering at the blind numbers on the doors; how could i tell one from the other? the almanac said there should be moonshine at this hour, the clouds and rain put in their veto. no matter, the almanac had said it, and that was enough for the gas contractors. if the moon chose to get behind a cloud, it was none of their look out. they would not light their lamps, though darkness, thick, black darkness, spread over the earth. why should they? it was not in the bond. so the traveller plodded on in the dark. how could one see the numbers? not by city light, but by city license. here burns a "coffee-house" lamp, where rum alone is sold. more improvident than his city fathers, this one lights up his lamp, of dark, rainy nights, whether the moon is in the almanac, or city fathers' brains. his number is plain enough. 'tis an even number--i am on the wrong side of the street. now, cross over, and here is, , , , --this must be it, and yet it cannot be. it is a neat, two story, brick house, with basement and attic, in a row of the same sort, in a clean, wide street. it is a very unlikely place for such a home as we have seen, for the home of little katy's mother. how, are we deceived again? it must be in the number; perhaps we can not see it rightly by the dim glimmer of the grog-shop lamp. it is the first glimmer that ever came from such a place to any good. there is no bell, but there is an old-fashioned iron knocker upon the door; shall i use it; what if it wakes up some strange sleeper and brings a fever-heated night-capped angry head out of the upper window, with hasty words, perhaps cross ones of "who is there?" i have no familiar "it's me," to answer. no one will say, "wait a moment, dear, and i will open the door." all is still within. it were a pity to disturb the quiet sleepers for nothing, nothing but the gratification of idle curiosity; to make the inquiry if--if--mrs. mrs.--what was her name? now that is gone--faded from my memory as easily as it was washed away from that paper. whom could i inquire for? should i inquire for "little katy's mother?" i should in all probability be told to go across the street and inquire there, where i got my liquor, upon which to get drunk. or else, perhaps, to go home and inquire if my "mother knew that i was out;" or told that she might happen to wake up, and find her green gosling of a son gone--gone out in the street to inquire after little girls' mothers--no doubt she would be much alarmed. it was well that the moon was veiled, or else the man in it would have seen how sheepish i looked as i sneaked down the steps, with a weary step, that could not have gone the half a mile without tiring. how i did rejoice that no watchman was in sight to see how crest-fallen i went away and stood up in the shade of a lamp post! a few minutes afterwards, i would have given gold for the sight of a brass star. what for? why did i not go home? what prompted me to keep watch at that lamp post? my object in coming had failed. i had acted upon the momentary spur of a nervous temperament, heated into a state of excitement by what i had seen in the early part of the evening, connected with some of the scenes of the last few weeks' exciting life, which had driven me, without consideration, to start off chasing an ignis fatuus, in the swampy, jack o'lantern producing air of this city, and it had led me here and left me leaning against a lamp post. was ever poor wight led into a deeper bog? "go home," reason told us. if the lamp post had been a repelling magnet, i should have gone. it was the contrary, and i could not break the attraction. that iron lamp post may possess a very strong magnetic power, yet it is hardly possible, or probable--nay, it is very improbable that it was that power which had drawn me hither and kept me waiting "coming events." they do "cast their shadows before," for the shadow, and then the substance of a man came round the corner. like half of those who walk the streets at this hour, he was drunk. just then there was a moving light in no. . the intoxicated night-walker caught the sight of it just as he came opposite the lamp post, and he stopped and laughed one of those horrid laughs, which give the blood a chill and send it with a pang and fluttering fear to the heart. the last sad remains of a gentlemen--no--a roué, stood in the dim light of a lamp which had been to him the guide to ruin. "ha, ha, ha, my old bird, you are astir i see. it is a long time since i have seen you, but i have caged you at last. you would not speak to me, ha, in broadway, but i tracked you home, and now i am going to roost in the old nest, or i will blow you out of your fine feathers, my lady. won't let me in? won't let me in? then i will break in. hold, here comes a star. i'll keep dark while it shines." back he went around the corner, the star went carelessly onward down that way, and i went eaves-dropping. i was impelled to do it. i saw a light come in the front room and heard voices, and felt that there was some strange connection between this house and that man, and perhaps myself, and that the mystery must soon be solved. the blinds were closed, but the sash was up. i stood close under the window, and the voices dropped down upon my ear through the slats, clear and distinct as though i had been in the room. the light-bearer with a noiseless step, as though afraid of awaking some sick sleeper, approached a bed, shading the light with her hand. it was no use. the timid start easy. there was a rustling-sound, as though some one started up from an uneasy pillow and sleep-disturbing dreams. "will he come?" that voice, those words. do i dream, or are there spirits near? oh, how familiar--how painfully familiar--reminiscential of things past. what can it mean? but one voice ever spoke those words in that tone, and that voice will never speak again. the dreamer is in the street. it is my brain that is disturbed. hark! again! i heard aright. "oh, no, he will not come. why should he? what am i to him? yet i wanted to see him a moment. it seems as though it is he only who can protect me from that dreaded man. oh, phebe, phebe, what should we do if he were to come here to-night? he has sworn to have revenge upon me for leaving him; yet how could i live with a man who threatened my life every day in his drunken fits? long after i went to paris, he wrote to me that he would rob me of my child--his child, if he died in the attempt. i long thought--nay, hoped that he was--that is, that he never would return from cuba. i heard of him in the dungeons of the moro, and now he is here." "yes, ma'am, i is sure he is here. dat am de fact. jis sich man, stout, red face, black hair, and such eyes. i is sure he is a wicked man." "only when he is drinking." "well, dat all de time wid some folk." there was a groan of anguish in the bed. "but, phebe, you describe his looks just as i saw them to-day. have you seen him?" "oh, yes, ma'am--thought i wouldn't tell you though--but it come out when i didn't know him." "where? has he been here? has he tracked me home?" "why, you see, ma'am, when i goes to the door to let agnes brentnall out, i sees him over the way, by de lamp, and when she goes down the street, he walks after her, and dat am last i see of him dis night." "poor girl, then she is lost. if ever he fixes his basalisk eye upon her beauty, how can she escape. poor girl--god protect thee--man will not." there was a sobbing that told of tears--tears that told of a kind heart, crushed by a cold and careless world. then i was about to enter, but something said, "not yet," and i stepped down into the shadow by the high steps, till the footfall i heard upon the pavement should go by. it did not pass--it came directly up to the door, familiar as a burglar with its night latch key. why had they not bolted the door? it opened as though to one who had a right to enter. the intruder--it was the dark-visaged man i had seen five minutes before--closed the door gently after him without latching it. there was a thin lace curtain before the window, through which, as i looked in between the slats of the blind, i could see him as he approached the bed. phebe had left the light and gone into the back room. the lady had buried her face in the pillows--nothing but her raven locks, hanging loose in her neck, were visible. the villain looked at her for a moment, then, satisfied that she was asleep, he reached over her, and lifted a beautiful little girl from her side. "mother! mother!" the light shone in her face--the mother started at the appealing cry for help--sprang up--heavens, what do we see? it is little sissee--little katy's sister and her mother! what a sight for that mother! the man she so much dreaded--the man who had so disturbed her dreams--with her child, her last, her only child, in his strong arms, and no one near to protect, to save. she sprang towards him, and fixed her feeble hands in his hair. of what avail? he flung her from him reeling, fainting, across the room. the noise brought the faithful phebe from her couch--too late. the mother saw her child disappearing in the dark passage--she heard her screams for help--she heard no more. one look of his terrible eye, as he bore away her struggling child, was enough to kill one of a stronger form than hers. one look of satisfied revenge--revenge of a man upon a feeble woman, and his hand is upon the door. one step more and he is in the street. one step more and he fell, beneath a blow of a stout cane in a strong man's hand, and lay trembling across that threshold, quivering like a bullock felled by the butcher's blow. [illustration: a new york street scene.--_page ._] "here, phebe, take the child; take care of the mother; tell her all is safe; the lord watches over the truly penitent; he will protect; he will save." i dragged the unconscious mass of human flesh down upon the pavement, and struck three sharp blows upon the stones, with the broken cane--broken in avenging a feeble woman. it was answered right and left, up and down, and again repeated. i peered into the darkness for the coming succor. will it come? will it come in time? for a strong hand has seized my only weapon, now he has it in his. there is a momentary struggle--the prostrate man is up and the other one down. a large bowie knife, the midnight prowler's fashionable weapon, is gleaming at my throat. a moment more, and all my debts were paid and duties done. moments fleet fast, but all too slow for the assassin's knife, when it is not the will of him that giveth life, that life should fail. the knife fell, but not with a blow--it fell from a broken arm. the watchman's club had done the work. the watchman had heard the call, and had come in time to save the avenger and punish the assassin. "take him away. you know me and where to send when i am wanted. i have another life to save inside this house." what was said or done need not be told. the reader is dull of divining power, if he does not already know. i cannot tell. i only know that i awaked from a short nap, next morning, in an easy chair, with a sweet little girl, some three years old, clinging her arms around my neck and nestling her cheek up to mine. had mortal ever sweeter dreams? "what time is it, phebe?" "don't know dat, sir; sun up yonder." "is it? and she sleeps quietly? very well, let her sleep. i will send a doctor, on my way home, to look at her. good by. bon jour, sis. one more kiss, there." "you will come again, when mamma wakes up?" "yes--good bye." chapter xvi. agnes brentnall. "every inordinate cup is unblessed, and the ingredient is a devil." so it proved that night to agnes brentnall. but who is she? that we have yet to learn. we have only heard the name once, during the conversation, between madame de vrai and the black woman, phebe, overheard in that eaves-dropping midnight scene described in the last chapter, unless this agnes is the same one that we saw in a previous midnight scene, perhaps it is, for now we remember there was a phebe in that. at any rate that name, from both of these night scenes, had become deeply impressed upon my mind, as belonging to a beautiful girl, followed in the street by a night-prowling wolf, with a canine instinct which snuffs in the breeze the far-off scent that leads him to some wandering female. mrs. de vrai had said; "then she is lost." what had become of her? had the woman-devouring monster consumed the innocent girl and come back for more prey? he will prey no more, soon; he has met his deserts at last. the stony walls of the tombs' prison, will hold him safe, and when he recovers from his broken arm, the law will have its course. he will make a good sing sing worker in stone. it will not break his heart, for it is as hard as the stone he will hammer. but what of poor agnes? would that i knew. did she fall before his basalisk eye? such thoughts were upon my mind as i entered the door of the house i called my home, after such a night of strange adventures as i have just made the reader acquainted with. "where have you been?" was the anxious question that met me as i entered. "what in the world took you out and kept you out all night? did you find that woman? how is she? is anything the matter? i do think you might write quite a romance out of your adventures." there is no occasion to write romance, it is only necessary to give the real pictures of life--real scenes as they occur in new york, to make up a volume more strange than wildest romance. "where have i been? where i saw strange sights. where it does seem as though some mysterious influence led me, to meet with another adventure." "you might have had one at home, sufficiently interesting, i should think. a young girl, wickedly made drunk, for the basest purpose on earth--'tis a horrid tale--you shall hear it by and by--unprotected--alone in the street, at midnight--staggering to and fro, chased like a dog by a crowd of boys and half-drunken men, taking refuge in our basement area, within ten minutes after you left the house." "you took her in? yes, yes; i see, i see--a heavenly deed produces a heavenly smile." what was it shot through my brain? a thought. a strange thought. what could have sent it there. is it true? we shall see. "what is her name?--where is she? you have not sent her away?" "you shall see--come up-stairs. she is not up yet. she has been distressingly sick--she is better now, almost well, though very feeble. the doctor says, she was poisoned." "no doubt, if drunk, of course she was. every drop of drunkenness-producing liquor is poison, of the most subtle kind--slow, but sure." she was still in bed. her kind protector had furnished her with a clean, white bed-gown and cap, and a prettier face, indicating about sixteen or seventeen years, never looked up smilingly from a downy pillow. "she is very pale now. she vomited terribly all the latter part of the night. her color will soon come again." "oh, yes, ma'am, i feel quite well now. do let me get up and dress myself, and go home--i cannot bear to be a trouble to you any longer. oh, sir, she has been a mother to me--more than a mother--if i had such a mother----." "well, well, my girl, never mind now. you cannot get up yet. you must keep quiet to-day. to-morrow, we will see you safe home." "oh, sir, i cannot possibly wait till to-morrow. what will mrs. meltrand think?" "she shall know all about it before night." "oh, no, no, no! not all, not all! i should die with shame." "well, then, only that you have been to see a friend, and was taken very sick." "yes, i have been to see a friend, a dear friend, a poor unfortunate woman. indeed, i must get up. she is sicker than i am, and besides, i promised to go, too, and see a friend for her. it is a gentleman that she thinks a great deal of, sir,--one who was very kind to her when she was very bad, and lived very miserably, and she thinks he was sent by providence to save her from total ruin. that, sir, was before her little daughter died. did you ever read about that, sir? it was published in 'the new york tribune.'" "i do not know; that paper publishes so many stories. i read the most of them. then, you want to see mr. greeley. you need not go there for that, you can----" "oh, are you mr. greeley, then?" "no, but i shall see him soon, and i will tell him what you want. if it is to assist some poor distressed widow, you may depend upon it, he will do all he can afford, for he is a good man; his worst enemies acknowledge that." "no, sir, it is not mr. greeley, that i am to go and see, it is another gentleman in the office of his paper." "who is it? what is his name? i know all of the gentlemen in that office; i can take your message to any one of them, and will do so with pleasure. is it mr. dana? he is the next principal editor to mr. greeley." "no, that is not the name. i cannot recollect it, now. but he is one of the editors." "one of the editors! why, my girl, that paper has a dozen editors. perhaps, it is one of the assistants. is it mr. cleveland?--no--mr. snow?--no--mr. fry, mr. thayer?--no--mr. ripley?--no--mr. ottarson?" "no, i think not, but that sounds something like it." "why, my dear girl, there are a hundred men, editors, reporters, compositors, pressmen, book-keepers, and all, in that office; now, how are you going to find one that you do not know, and say you have forgotten his name?" "may be i shall recollect it when i get there. don't you know how names come back to us sometimes? do you never forget names?" "often, but i never forget faces. i have seen yours before, but i have forgotten where, just as you have forgotten that gentleman's name." "oh, sir, have you? well, i do not remember your face, but it does seem as though i had heard your voice, and, perhaps, if the room was not so dark, i should know you. the lady said, i must keep it dark, and sleep this morning. it is no wonder that i should forget everything, i was so badly frightened last night." "well, i don't see how you are to find which one you wish to see, among so many, unless you can recollect his name." "oh, that will be easy enough, sir. i will ask one of the gentlemen. i am sure any one of them will tell me, for i am sure they are all gentlemen, real gentlemen." "i do not see what it is that you are to inquire for, or who, or now to find, out which one, or anything about it." "oh, sir, it is the one that wrote that little story about her daughter." "her daughter?" "yes, sir, mrs. de vrai's daughter." a light began to dawn in my mind, and i said carelessly, "her daughter?" "yes, sir, her daughter. little katy, in that pretty story of hot corn. she is little katy's mother, sir, and she wants to see the gentleman that wrote that story. she did not know his name until yesterday. she thought it was mr. greeley, and he was out of town, and she had never seen him since little katy was buried, and she had moved away from where she used to live, without letting him know where she was. yesterday she found out her mistake, and sent phebe--you laugh--do you know phebe?" "yes, yes, i know phebe, and i know you now; i know you for a kind-hearted, good-natured girl. your name is agnes." "oh, yes, sir, has mrs. morgan told you." now the reader is surprised. yes, it is mrs. morgan--athalia. it was she that faced the crowd of savages that cried "drag her out." it was she that took poor agnes in and gave up her own bed, and nursed and watched her all night, and sent for a physician for her. it was agnes, the girl that you have seen in the picture with the negro wood-sawyer, and at his home when phebe divided her bed to give the poor girl a lodging. there is some goodness yet in human nature. it was phebe that agnes went to see, while nursing mrs. de vrai. it was the latter for whom she was now so anxious to get up out of her sick bed, that she might go and tell the gentleman who wrote the story of "little katy," that little katy's mother was almost dying to see him. it was by that token that she would find him. "did mrs. morgan tell you my name." "no, she has not told me; you told me that a long time ago." "me, sir? do you know me, sir?" "yes, better than you do me. you have forgotten the gentleman that stopped you in the street one night with old peter?" "oh, dear me; yes, no, not forgotten, but i did not remember. oh, oh, how singular that i should come right here to this house, where you live, and this dear good lady lives. oh, i wish i was good; but i am not a good girl. oh, sir, has this lady told you how bad i was last night? but it was not all my fault, sir. if you only know, what a poor unfortunate girl i have been--but sir, upon my word, i have not been what folks call a _bad_ girl." "we believe you. there, don't cry, keep yourself quiet to-day, and we hope to see you quite smart this evening." "oh, do let me go and find that gentleman, for mrs. de vrai. if you only knew what a good lady she is now, now she don't drink any more. but i am afraid she won't live very long. she has got a dreadful cough. and she was worse last night, for she saw somebody in the street yesterday--some man--a bad man--i believe they are all bad--no, no, i don't mean all--but a good many of them." "i am glad that the sight of bad men in the street, don't make every lady sick who sees one; if it did we might turn the whole city into a general hospital. but what about that man?" "i don't know what, but she was dreadful 'fraid of him, and that he would come where she lives." "so he did, but he will not come again, soon." "then you know him, too?" "yes. and that is not all i know. i know you left mrs. de vrai's last night about half-past nine o'clock, on your way home; that soon after you started you were overtaken by a stout-built gentleman, with black hair and black whiskers, who said, 'good evening, miss, how did you leave mrs. de vrai, this evening?'" "mercy on me, his exact words. did you hear them? i am sure i did not see anybody else near us at the time." "no, i did not hear him--was not in that part of the city." "he has told you then. i am sure i never did." "no, neither have told me." "what then?" "what then? why, then you answered, 'oh, sir, are you acquainted with mrs. de vrai?'" "so i did; why how strange that you should know it all." "and then he began to talk to you about the danger of such a pretty girl going home alone--" "yes, sir, and then he offered me his arm; and, and, and i thought as he was a friend of mrs. de vrai's i might take it, and he said so many pretty things that----" "that you were deceived by a villain, and----" "oh, sir, for mercy sake don't tell all before this dear good lady, she who saved my life last night. don't tell all." "why, agnes, i cannot tell all. how do you suppose i know all?" "i don't know, sir, but i am sure you do. what is it makes you know it; is it what they call animal magnetism, or what is it? are you a medium?" "yes, i hope so; a medium of glad tidings, that will bring great joy to the world. but not a spirit medium, as they are called." "i don't know then how you know all about me, but i am sure you do." "no, i do not; i never saw you but once before, in my life--never heard of you since except to hear your name mentioned once last night, and that you had been at mrs. de vrai's in the evening, and that that man followed you from there, and i guessed his wicked purpose." "yes, yes, wicked indeed." "i know nothing more. i do not ask you either to tell more, yet i believe it would be a relief to you to tell it, and that it will be a burden off of your mind." "yes, yes, it will, it will; but i am afraid that you will not believe me, or that you will despise me, or laugh at me for being so simple, to be so deceived by a stranger; but then how could i tell that he was a bad man, and the streets so dark?" poor child, could she have told any better if it had been as light as noonday, that the soft-spoken, smiling gentleman, with his sweet words, only used them to cover up a heart full of bitterness and lying deceit? "and so he told you he was an acquaintance of mrs. de vrai's, a friend, and then he offered you his arm." "yes, sir, and i thought i might take it--that it was so kind of him--for he told me that he was just going in to see her when he saw a lady come out, and he thought he would step along and ask her if mrs. de vrai was up, and how she was this evening, and if she had gone to bed, he would not disturb her; perhaps too, he might be of service to a friend of hers, by walking home with her. and then he asked me a great many questions about mrs. de vrai, how long she had lived there, and who lived with her, and who else lived in the house, and about little sissee; he asked such a heap of questions--if she was pretty, and how big she was, and where she slept, and where her mother slept, and oh! i cannot tell you how many things; and then he told me how he knew her in paris, and what a pretty little girl she had--that was katy, sir,--and then i told him that katy was dead, and then--but i did not think of it then--he did not seem a bit sorry about it, while i could not help crying, only thinking about it--and that she should die just then too, when her mother was going to be a good mother, and when some good men were just going to begin to be good to her. oh, sir, it was sad, very sad for her to die then, was it not? but i suppose it is all right--that everything is for the best--mr. pease says it is. do you know mr. pease--has mr. pease ever told you about her; has he told you how mrs. de vrai used to live in the five points, and how little katy used to sell hot corn?" "no, nothing, but never mind that now. you were going to tell us about the stranger you were walking and chatting with so cosily." "so i will." "yes, so i was. but when i talked about little katy's death, i got off my story. well, sir, we walked on towards broadway, and he said we would go through canal street, it was lighter there, and so it was, a good many shops were open, and all the places where folks go to drink, and the ice cream saloons were open, and there were such crowds of pretty girls walking arm in arm with nice gentlemen, looking so proud and happy with their beaux, and i suppose i looked just so, too, for i could not help thinking how poor i had been, and now how well dressed i was, and that i had a beau, too; and when i saw others going in to get ice cream and good suppers, i almost wished--well, i did feel tempted and i suppose all girls do, who see such things; and i suppose he must have guessed what i was thinking of, for he said, 'we won't go into any of those public places, there is a nice place just round the corner--real genteel--it is the ---- hotel--we will go there and have some ice cream and good cool ice water--you don't drink anything else?' said he, sort of inquiringly--'no, sir, not now, i have taken the pledge,'--'so have i,' says he--'that is right--all girls ought to take the pledge.' so we turned up broadway, and then i should think just round one corner, but i don't know certain, it was so light, and so many finely dressed gentlemen round the door, and one of them said, 'look there, jim, what a pretty girl de v. has got; and that made me blush, and feel so confused i did not know which way i went, and so i clung to his arm, for i thought with him i was safe, and the first that i knew, we were standing close behind some ladies and gentlemen going in at a door--i saw 'private door' on it, and did not quite like that, but i did not exactly know what it meant, and hung back a little, and then he spoke so sweetly, and said, 'don't be afraid,' that i thought it was all right, or else what would so many ladies and gentlemen go there for? so we went in, and the gentleman says to the nice-looking waiter, in his clean white apron, 'no. , bill.' "'no. is occupied, sir, but i will give you another room--all right.'" 'all right.' what could it mean? what could it mean that most all the ladies i saw, wore thick, close veils, so that nobody could tell who they were, old or young, ugly or pretty? but i had not much time to think, for we walked very fast through the passage, between i don't know how many little private supper rooms, and pretty soon we went into one ourselves. there was a table, four chairs and not much else in the room. the waiter made the gas light burn bright and then stood a moment for his order. "'what shall it be, miss--i do not recollect your name.' "how should he? i had never told him, he never knew it. i answered, 'brentnall.' "'oh, yes, miss brentnall, what shall we have?'" how easy poor, weak girls are flattered. it was the first time, perhaps, she had been thus addressed. what would she have? she did not know. "i was hungry, real hungry, and, so i told him, when he insisted upon it, that i was so; and then he said, how fortunate that two hungry persons should happen to meet, and that they had come to such a good place, where they could get everything that the heart could wish. did i like crabs--soft crabs--then we would have a supper of soft crabs. 'and i say, bill, while they are cooking, bring some ice water, a chicken salad, and, let me see, you drink nothing but water, i drink no liquor, no wine. are you fond of heidsick?' i could not tell--i did not know what heidsick was, only that it was some kind of drink that the fellows used to call for at that house where you saw peter help me to get away from. i thought it was some kind of soda water, it used to sparkle and foam so, when they poured it out, but i would never taste it then; i wish i had not now. i would not, only that the gentleman said it was like water. "'it is a sweet, pleasant french drink,' said he, 'not a drop of spirit in it--about like ginger pop, or soda water--you will see how it flies when i draw the cork.' "it did fly and foam and sparkle, as he poured it out, and looked so good. he handed me a glass with such a smile, how could i refuse? how could i know i should break my pledge by tasting? it tasted so good, how could i help drinking. the salad was very good, and that made the drink taste better still, and so we eat and sipped, and sipped and eat with a silver fork. it was delightful. "after a while the crabs came, and then we eat them--how good. was it any wonder that so many come here to eat, and drink 'hiedsick?' and then the rooms were so quiet. still, the partitions are very thin, for i overheard a woman in the next room say to a gentleman, 'now quit that, or i will tell my husband. you had better not do that again.' and then i heard a little scuffle, and then she said, 'are you not ashamed of yourself?'" why was she not ashamed of herself? she would have been "mortified to death" to have her husband know that she was in that room, eating late suppers and drinking wine, at least, once a week. no wonder she wore a thick veil. she was yet a little ashamed, for fashion's sake, ashamed to be seen going into a private room, at ten o'clock, at night, with a _cavalier servante_. she is on a quick voyage to a shameless harbor, and will soon arrive there--perhaps, just such a harbor as the home of elsie morgan, where the rats harbored with her in the same cellar; or the home of little katy, and her mother in cow bay. she would have been ashamed to have her husband know, that under pretence of going to visit a sick friend, she had come with _a friend_ to sup in a "private room," in a "fashionable eating-house." so, too, would that husband have been ashamed to have his wife know, that under pretence of going to call on an old friend at the hotel, he was actually, at that moment, enjoying himself with that friend in the next room, and that that friend was a friend of his wife, too--the fashionable mrs. smith, whose husband is in california, toiling to earn money, which he remits to her, which she is using to procure a divorce from him, that she may marry a man she is already playing the harlot with, and whom she will fool in the same way she does her present poor simpleton of a husband. in fact, she is already fooling her paramour, for she is here with another man; and that man is the husband of a lady, whom she addresses as her "dear friend." ah, well! _c'est la vie_ in new york. "so we sat and talked, and eat and drank, a long time, for time went merrily on, and at last he poured out the last of the good bottle, and we were just going to drink it and go, for i said, 'i must go home, i have a good mile to go yet,' and he said, 'oh, i will see you safe home.' so as i was lifting the glass, he caught my arm, and said, 'stop, there is a fly in it;' and he took my glass and began to look about for something to take the fly out. "'oh, this will do.' and he took a little folded piece of paper out of his pocket, and stooped down a little under the table, as though to throw it on the floor." "what for?" "do you think he could have put anything in the glass out of that piece of paper, just in the moment he had it? i thought there was a bitter taste. i wish i had thought so at first. but i drank it, and then started to go home. when i got in the street, i did not know which way i went. i should have gone up broadway, but we did not. everything seemed so strange. i felt as though i could fly almost. i never felt so before. i clung to his arm, i could not walk without it. i felt as though i could almost hug him. and then he put his arm around my waist; i am sure i would not have let him do that if i had known what i was about; and so we went on, i do not know how far, or which way, but it could not have been a great way, and then he went up to a great fine house, with a silver plate on the door, with a name on it in great letters, it was phillips or brown, or something, only one name--just as though they were ashamed of the other, or else did not want to be known, or something. i said, don't go in there, what will the folks think? and he said, 'oh, this is a friend of mine lives here, a very nice lady, and we will stop and rest a little while, and then i will go home with you. i guess the hiedsick has got in your head a little, and we will go in here and wait awhile, till you feel better.' well, i did feel as though i could not go home, until i got over my dizziness, and when he said, he knew the folks, and that they were nice people, i thought i would go in a few minutes. so he rung the bell, and then a woman came and opened a little blind in the door, so that she could see who was there, and then he said, 'open the door, leta,' and then she said, 'oh, is that you?' and then i knew he was acquainted there, and in we went, and he whispered something to her, and then she called the servant girl and told her to show the gentleman up to no. . there it was, no. again. and there it was again, for she said, 'there is a gentleman and lady in no. now; i will give them another, all right.' i am sure, i never shall hear that word again without believing it means all wrong. but i scarcely knew right from wrong; i just held to his arm, and went wherever he led me. it was a very nice room that she showed us in. there were beautiful pictures on the walls; i could not see very well what they were, but i thought they looked like some i had seen once before, such as i am sure never should be hung up anywhere. there was a great mirror, and marble-top tables, and washstand, a very rich carpet, and such a splendid bed, and chairs and rocking chairs, one of which i sat down in, for i felt so tired and sort of sleepy; and then he told the servant to bring in some water, and when it came, he poured out a tumbler full, but i do believe it was half wine, and i drank it down, and then i felt, oh, i never can tell how i felt, or what happened after that; but i know more happened, and that more was--was--what i never can tell." "villain, black-hearted villain; who laid his snares for a poor, simple-hearted girl, to work her ruin. i wonder that you ever got away, ever got out of that house. how did you do it?" "when i came to a little, i ran down stairs as fast as i could go, and he ran after me, and cried, 'stop her,' and two other women ran out in the hall to do it, but just then the door was opened, and two gentlemen were going out, and i ran right into the arms of one of them, and he carried me clear out, in spite of them, and then the other one said, 'let her go, she is drunk--now run.' i did run and they hallooed, and then the boys took after me, and, oh, dear, you know the rest." chapter xvii. the intelligence office.--agnes. "all things are pure to those who are pure." "wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile." perhaps some of my readers have been sufficiently interested to inquire, "who is agnes, and what of her?" perhaps there may be some, who, like mrs. mctravers, think she is not a proper character to introduce into a respectable family, coming as she did from a house which gives an air of taint, spoiled, lost, ruined, to every character that is found within its walls. i am aware that there is room for suspicion, but suspicion is not proof. in the case of athalia, her acknowledged sin is no more proof of moral turpitude than any other act of a deranged mind. a lunatic may kill, yet it is not murder. a drunken husband may beat his loving wife, and love her still. it was not the man who struck the blow, it was the demon rum! it was not athalia who lost her virtue, it was the worse than demon who robbed her--intoxicated her--destroyed her reason--enslaved her mind--but he did not, could not, destroy her virtuous, benevolent heart. her conduct toward agnes, is alone sufficient to prove this. and if she had known as much as i did of agnes, that there might be some ground of suspicion against her, it would have made no odds; she would have taken her in and taken care of her in the same way, if she had known that she was a great sinner; that is the true way to work reformation; and then she would have said, "go, daughter, and sin no more." but she knew nothing against agnes; even after i had told her of the trunk, she said, all may yet be right. she was unwilling to believe that all was wrong. how triumphantly she met me as i came home in the evening--how a woman does love to triumph over us in a good cause, proving herself what she is in all the purest qualities of the heart,--our superior. "i told you so," said athalia. "i knew there had been some base deception, some wickedness practiced towards that poor girl to inveigle her into that house. come up stairs, and you shall hear her story from her own lips; she is quite smart now, and able to sit up and talk, and looks so pretty--she is pretty, and that has been the great cause of her trouble. but she is a good girl; i have heard a good deal about her to-day, besides what she has told me. phebe and peter, have both been here, and such a meeting, oh! it would have done your heart good to have been here, and to see these poor blacks' conduct towards this girl, after i had told them the story of her adventures last evening: they hugged her, and kissed her with as much affection as though she had been one of their own; and then peter went to see the lady where she had been living, at the place he got for her, the next day after your first interview with her, and the lady was terribly alarmed about the poor girl, and so she would not let peter come back until she had the carriage up, and then she took him in--only to think, such a sweet, nice, pretty lady did not feel herself in the least disgraced to ride with a poor, old, negro wood-sawyer in her fine carriage, to visit a poor sick servant girl. and so she came, and such a time! why, if she had been her own child, she could not have been more affectionate. and then agnes told us her story, and then i told mrs. meltrand, that is her name, about mrs. de vrai, and how that same man, who treated agnes so badly, tried to steal mrs. de vrai's little girl, and then she said, 'how singular,' and then of course i said, what is so singular?" "ah me, it is a long story, and would not interest you, but i was robbed of a dear little girl, fifteen years ago, in england, by just such a man, in just the same way, but it could not have been this man, his name was brentnall." "brentnall, why that is my name," said agnes. "your name, why you never told me that before." "no, ma'am, you never asked me, and i did not suppose that you cared to know anything about me, only that i was a good girl, and did your work well, and answered to the name of agnes." true. how little interest we all take in our servants; they come and go and we never know that they have any name but one that is most convenient to call them by, and we take no interest in them, hardly enough to know that they possess souls as precious as our own. "and so, your name is brentnall, what was your father's name?" "i don't know, ma'am, as i ever had any, or mother either." "but you must have had both." "oh yes, i suppose i must, to have been born, but i mean i never saw any." "where did you live, and who brought you up?" "i lived with an uncle, near belfast, and came over with him and his family, and every one of them died of ship fever on the voyage, and when i landed here in this great city, i was utterly alone, and almost penniless. oh dear!" "and then mrs. meltrand, said, 'oh dear,' and she went away feeling sad. i do wish i knew what it could be in that name that made her feel so sad. some reminiscence connected with the loss of her little girl, i suppose. it is very sad, to lose a child by death, it must be very much more sad to have one stolen away, and never know what becomes of it, whether dead or alive; and if the mother should meet her own child in the street not to know it; but dear me, how i am running on while you are eating your supper, as though you had nothing to think of but the things that interest me so much. but if you have been able to eat while i have been talking, come up to my room and see my protégé and hear her story." so we went up, and found the invalid almost recovered, looking so sweet, for she looked grateful, and that, when it beams out like the sunlight, will make any face look beautiful. "i told you," said mrs. morgan, "about her landing here penniless and alone, and i want she should tell you--there now, there is the bell, how i do hope that is uncle--yes it is--it is; do you hear him talking to bridget? that is his step, now--" now the door opens, and now she is in his arms, and now there are more questions than answers:-- "when did he arrive? how did he find things out west? has he been to supper? what is the news?" "now you are a perfect woman, you are enough to confuse a whirlwind. sit down, and be quiet, and i will tell you all that you need to know. but first tell me who is this young lady; you forgot to introduce me." "so i did, but of course she knows by this time that you are my uncle, and you will know directly all about her, for she was just going to tell part of her story, and i shall tell the rest before you go to bed." "i will warrant that. perhaps you would like to hear mine, and where i have been since i arrived." "yes, indeed, do tell me, and why you did not come right home?" "i have been to jail, since i arrived; locked up in the criminal cells. it is a little singular too, how i got there. it is all owing to the newspapers." "owing to the newspapers, uncle, i do not understand how the papers should get you in prison." "very well i do. i saw an item in one of them this evening, about the arrest of a person whose name struck me very forcibly as being that of a man whom i once knew in europe, and who i was very anxious to see, for i felt the deepest interest to know what had become of his wife. for him i cared nothing, i knew he was a villain, and felt rejoiced to think he had met his deserts at last; but his wife was a sweet good woman, a victim of unfortunate circumstances all through her life, and when i saw her last i had reason to fear that she was falling into a course adopted by many, many others, of drowning sorrow in wine. but i shall not tell my story now; i will sit down and hear yours." "well then, agnes, tell what you did after landing." at the sound of her name, mr. lovetree gave a little start, and said, "agnes! oh, pshaw!" and sunk back again in his easy chair, as though he had been affected by the name, and thought it very foolish that he had been so. agnes, said: "indeed, ma'am, i don't think the gentlemen will be at all interested to hear anything about me." "yes, yes, i have promised them." "well, then, after my uncle died, and all my friends, i felt dreadful; it is dreadful for a young girl to be left all alone in a strange country. so when the ship landed, or rather when she came to anchor, the people from shore came aboard, and i saw how many of the poor emigrants had friends to welcome them, and that i had none; it was then that i felt the dreadful loneliness of my situation, and i sat down and cried, for i could not help it, and then a man came and spoke to me very pleasantly, and asked me where i wanted to go, and all about it, and then i told him all my troubles, and then he said it was the luckiest thing in the world that i had met with him, for he was an emigrant agent, appointed by law, and he would take charge of me and take me ashore to a boarding-house, and do everything for me. and then he asked me how much money i had, and i told him that i had but a few shillings, of my own, but that i had three gold sovereigns that were my uncle's--he had more, a great deal more, when he died, but somebody must have taken it away--and that was all i had in the world besides their chests of clothes and things. and then he said, that it was very lucky for me that i had that, for he would have to pay half a guinea head-money for each passenger, no matter how many were dead, and then he would have to pay the custom-house duty, and the wharfage and the cartage, and the week in advance for the board, and that would take all the money and more too, but he would pay that and hold the things until i could pay him back. so i gave him the money, and he got the chests, all but my trunk, i would keep that, and took them ashore, and took me to a boarding-house, and that was the last i ever saw of him, or the money or chests either, he had robbed me of all of my poor uncle's things, and my three gold sovereigns; so the landlady said, and he never paid her a cent of board. i did not know what to do; i was willing to work, but how should i find a place. the landlady said, i must go to the 'intelligence office.' i thought i should like to go somewhere to get intelligence of the man who had run away with my things, or any other intelligence that would be of any benefit to a poor stranger in this great babel of a city. and i asked her to tell me the way to the 'intelligence office,' and i went there. it was a great room, divided into two parts; one was full of men, and the other of girls, sitting on long benches. i went in and sat down among them, and i suppose, i looked sad--i felt so, and i felt worse when i heard some of the girls snickering, and overheard them say, 'there is a green one.' if that was an 'intelligence' office, i thought it a very queer way of giving it to one so much in need of it as i was. after a while, one of the girls came and sat down by me, and spoke kindly, and asked where i came from, and a good many questions; i was almost afraid to answer her, for fear that she was 'an emigrant agent,' too, and had some plan to cheat me, or practice some deception, but i became convinced in a little while that she meant kindly; and then i told her all about myself. then, she said, that i must get my name registered. i did not know what that was for, but i went up to the bookkeeper, and told him my name, and age, and where i came from, and what i could do, and he wrote it all down in a book and then told me to give him half a dollar, and when i got a place i must give him another one; i did not know what for; he gave me no intelligence about how i was to get a place, but he told me to go and sit down again. so i did, all that day and all the three next days, waiting for somebody to pick me out of the lot. every hour, somebody came and looked over all the girls, for all the world just as i have seen the people do in the pig-market, at an irish fair, until they found one that would suit. one objected to me because i was 'green;' another, because i had never been at service in this country; another, because i had no recommend; and then a girl whispered to me, and told me she knew a man who would write me just as many recommends as i wanted, for a shilling a piece. if that is the way recommends are made, i don't see what good they are. at last, after being looked over day after day, like a lot of damaged goods, a lady, at least, i thought she was a lady, selected me the very first one, and for the very reason that twenty others had rejected me--because i was too good-looking. when she found that i had no friends in this country, and no father or mother in the world, she seemed still more anxious to have me, which i thought so kind of her, and then she told me that the work would be very light, only some rooms to take care of, and wait upon company a little, and she knew i should like the place; i thought i should; i did at first, but, i don't want to tell, before the gentlemen, why i did not like to live there; this one knows already." "well, well, you need not tell, we understand all about it. you have been treated just as a great many poor girls without friends have been treated before in this city; and you got just as much intelligence, and just as much profit from your application to the 'intelligence office,' as a great many others have done before you." now, it was athalia's turn to tell her uncle all that she knew about agnes, and then he told about his visit to the prison. "i found," said he, "the very man i expected, or rather hoped, it might be, and it is well that i acted upon the impulse of the moment, for if i had not, i should have been too late. it is the doctor's opinion, that he will not live till morning. it seems that he got into some difficulty with the police last night, and one of them, to prevent him from stabbing another man, broke his arm." there was a little start of surprise on my part, and that of mrs. morgan; but we made no interruption, and lovetree went on with his story. we thought, though, we could not help that. "i expect he had been drinking hard, for he tore off the bandage from his arm in the night, and when the keeper opened his cell this morning, he found him almost dead with loss of blood and vital prostration. he cannot live. they had aroused him, and i found him quite rational when i went in, and was immediately placed beyond all doubt as to the identity of the man, for he called me by name the moment he saw me." "i am glad you have come," said he, "i can trust you, and i want to make a clean breast of it before i die. my wife and child--my last one--are in this city, and when i am gone, i want you to go and see her, and tell her, that i shall never trouble her any more; she will be glad to hear it, for she saw me last night, and i left the old lady somewhat in a fright. i cannot tell you the exact number, but i can tell you so that you can find the house easy enough. it is in w-- street." "oh, dear, i cannot stand it any longer," said mrs. morgan. "cannot stand it? i don't see anything that you cannot stand. you surprise me." "not half as much as you surprise us. we know all about it. it was him," and she pointed to me, "that knocked the ruffian down; it was him that he was about to stab when the watchman broke his arm; and it is she, uncle, mrs. de vrai, his wife, who is the mother of little katy; now, you know all about it; we know all about it." "no, not all, for he told me, that he believed his other wife was in this city, also, married here, and he wanted that i should look her up, too; and tell her where, perhaps, she may find her child." "tell her," said he, "that i left it with my brother, near belfast, an irish farmer, by the name of william brentnall." "william brentnall!" said agnes, her eyes opening with wild surprise. "i do think," said mr. lovetree, "that i have lost my senses, or else some of the rest of you have. first, one, and then the other, fairly screams out some exclamation as though i were a conjurer, and you could cot comprehend my words or actions. have you done now, shall i go on?" "yes, yes, uncle; i am dying with curiosity, and as for agnes, she looks the very picture of wonder." "indeed i feel so." "well, i don't understand why, but i suppose i might as well proceed. 'tell her,' said he, 'that he is well known and easily found, and that i left the child with him, telling him that it was mine, and that its mother was dead.' then i was a little surprised, for i thought his name was de vrai, 'but that,' he said, 'was an assumed one, the name by which he married the woman that i knew, because he dared not marry her by his own name. then, i asked him what was her name, who i should look for, and who she should inquire for, to find her child? then he took a little card out of his pocket, as though he would write her name, and then he seemed to recollect his broken arm, and said, with a groan, 'my writing days are over, and all my days nearly.' then, he told me, to take the card and write, and so i did, here it is--'this is the mother's name, and this is her daughter's, upon the truth of a dying man--tell her so, beg her to forgive and forget the dead.'" "what are the names? do tell us, uncle." "mrs. meltrand--agnes brentnall." now there were at least two screams and one, "oh how wonderful!" then agnes said, "mrs. meltrand my mother!--that is wonderful!" then mr. lovetree looked surprised; all around him seemed to be a mass of mystery. others began to see through it, he was now in the dark. athalia explained. there was one point that she was not quite clear upon, and she asked her uncle if agnes was really de vrai's daughter, or only mrs. meltrand's? "his own. mrs. meltrand, was his lawful wife when he married mrs. de vrai." "oh my god! then agnes is his own child." none spoke--what each thought sent a thrill of icy horror to every heart. all groaned or wept, none could speak. there are moments in life of speechless agony, when the mind is completely horrified, when anything that breaks the silence comes as a relief. it came now in the sound of the door bell. it was a messenger to mr. lovetree. it brought relief to aching minds. it was very short. it only said, "he is dead." it is perhaps wrong to rejoice at the death of a fellow creature, but we could not feel regret. after the first flush of excitement was over, a note was written to agnes's mother, simply stating that if she would call at mrs. morgan's at her earliest convenience, she would meet with an individual who could tell her of her long-lost daughter. she made it convenient to come immediately, though it was then ten o'clock at night. it is not reasonable to suppose that she could keep away till morning, particularly as she had heard a word or two at her first visit which left her mind uneasy. i drop the curtain upon the scene when the mother acknowledges and receives to her arms her long-lost daughter, while i go to carry comfort to the heart of mrs. de vrai, the ill-treated wife--the widow of a villain--the mother of his child, soon to be an orphan. what a load it lifted from her crushed heart, when i told her those three little words--"he is dead." "then my child will be safe, at least from his evil influences." what a dreadful thing it is for a wife to feel upon the death of her husband that she is safe herself, that her child is safe, more safe among strangers than with its own father. why should she feel so? why does she feel so? the answer is still shorter than that which gave her relief--which told her that her child's father was dead. that was composed of three words, this of one. that one word is--rum!! it was that which made a villain of him, a double villain to two wives and the children of both. it was that which made him attempt the greatest wrong that a father can do to his own child. poor agnes! it was that which drove mrs. de vrai step by step from the paths of peaceful, youthful innocence, comfort and affluence, to--but i will not name the intermediate steps--to that wretched abode where the little girl who sold hot corn, and slept in the rain upon the cold stones, breathed her pure life away in prayers to that mother not to drink any more of that soul and body destroying rum. it was that mother, who, upon her death bed, prayed me to tell the world the fruits that the traffic in rum produces. "tell them to look at me, at my history, or a brief view of it; its details would fill a volume. tell mothers to watch their daughters. tell those who bring up children in hotels and public houses, that they are rearing their daughters to one chance of virtue, against ten of sin and woe. my mother was left early a widow, with a competence to raise her two daughters 'at home,' yet she seemed to delight in the excitement incident to a life in a hotel or great boarding-house. as children, we were petted and spoiled; as misses, we learned all that girls usually learn in such boarding-schools as fashionable mothers send them to; as young ladies, we were the flattered of fops and roués, and our mother allowed us to be in a constant flirtation at home, or out every night to parties, balls, soirées, theatres, concerts, and then to saloons, late suppers, and wines, and--oh dear!--what if i had had a home and a mother to keep me out of temptation; but i had not, and i met with the fate almost inevitable. "among the boarders at the hotel, where we stopped at saratoga, was an englishman, who claimed, and i believe rightly, to be one of the nobility, for he wrote his name, sir charles r----, and had a well-known coat of arms upon his seal, which he used publicly. of course, i was flattered, proud, vain of the attentions of an english nobleman, young, handsome, full of money, and ardent in his professions of love, which i have no reason to think of otherwise than as sincere; i was seventeen, tall, straight, handsome form, face, and figure, and always dressed with taste. my eyes were black; cheeks, rosy; and hair like the wing of a crow. i was well bred, and well read, and could talk and sing to captivate. so could he, and we were both equally affected. when we left the springs, he came with us to new york, and put up at the same hotel. then i was innocent. oh, mothers! mothers! how long can you answer for the innocence of your daughters who go to fashionable eating and drinking saloons, and leave them after midnight, with their young blood on fire, and in such a state of mind that they hardly know whether they go home to rest in their own room, or in some of the thousand traps for the unwary, in almost every street in the city? "oh, mothers, mothers, every one, with daughters free from sin, how can you look so coldly on the ways from virtue daughters win? "late suppers and wines, and constantly seeing others, who should set the young better examples, going the road that ruins virtue, had its effect. if i had been properly restrained by my mother, had been kept at home nights, and never learned to sip fashionable intoxicating drinks, my mother would not have mourned 'a girl lost.' "a few months after my first acquaintance with sir charles, i was living with him in a richly furnished house, in eighteenth street, shamelessly passing as his wife, and treated as such by our acquaintance, although they knew that i was not. it was here that katy was born, and received her first impressions of home and a fond father's love. here i lived away my young womanhood in fashionable dissipation, and then sir charles died suddenly, and without a will. he had always said, he would make a will, and give his vast property to me and our child. but he put it off, as many others do, one day too long. why do men defer this duty? a sacred duty to those they leave behind them, of their own flesh and blood. i knew, as his wife, i had rights; and i went to england to try and obtain them. i left my elegantly furnished house, which cost, i don't know how many thousand dollars to furnish, for my mother and my sister, and an uncle to occupy while i was gone. i found all the property in the hands of sir charles's brother, and he was unwilling to give up the share that rightfully belonged to his wife and child, because he said, we could not recover it by law. he did not say why, my conscience did. as a compromise, if i would give him a general release, he offered five thousand pounds. i would have taken it, but i had employed a lawyer, and he hooted at the idea; he looked for more than that for his fee when he recovered the full amount. i told him that i had no marriage certificate, and that the minister who married us was dead. so he was; sir charles was dead. i did not tell him that no other ever blessed our banns. i told him, that numerous persons would swear that they had heard him call me wife, and katy his child. he said, that would do. i did not know that our opponents could produce as many more to swear, that they had heard sir charles say, that it was only a marriage of convenience. so, for an uncertainty of five hundred thousand as a mere prospect, i refused the certainty of five thousand, and went to law. the evidence stood so balanced that the judge could not decide. 'let the wife be sworn. let her say, upon her oath, that she was married to sir charles, and the case will be given in her favor.' "there was a chuckling laugh just behind me, the tones of which went to my heart, and i fainted. it was de vrai. he had known me in this city, and persecuted me with his importunities while sir charles was living. i had turned him off with a promise, all too common, 'when sir charles is dead.' then he renewed his importunities, and i told him, to wait a respectful time. he followed me to england, and still pressed me, and i still put him off. he had hinted several times that if i recovered the suit, he well knew that he should lose his. it was him that furnished my opponent with a clue to the proof that we were never married. it was him that laughed in my ear when the case rested upon the question, whether i would swear that i was married or not. for a moment, for the sake of my child, i was tempted; that laugh recalled me partially, and i was carried away in a litter, and the case adjourned. for aught i know it still remains adjourned. "de vrai followed me to my hotel. i was in a state bordering upon distraction. with a foolish pride, to keep up appearances, as the wife of sir charles, i had exhausted all my means, and run awfully in debt. i had written to my uncle, in new york, to sell my furniture at auction, and send me the money. after a long delay i got five hundred dollars, and a very short letter, saying, that was all the nett proceeds. i felt, i cannot tell how. i knew i was cheated, and wrote a bitter letter back. then, my own friends, those who had fawned around the rich mistress of sir charles, cast off the poor woman struggling to recover something for his child. in this she failed, because that child was not born in wedlock. "i was now poor indeed. what could i do, alone in a strange land? i knew that de vrai had no affection for me, only such as one animal has for another, but in my despair i married him. "his means of living were derived from the same source that hundreds of well-dressed gentlemen derive theirs from, in this city. he was a gambler; a genteel gambler. such as you may find in every hotel in new york, in every public place, dressed in the very best style, living in the most expensive manner, with no trade, occupation, or exercise of mind or skill, except the skill of cheating at card playing. "at first, we lived pleasantly; but pleasures with such men are short-lived, and must be often changed. if successful in business--that is what they call their nefarious employment--they are all smiles and affection to wife and children; but if 'luck is against them,' they are the most unhappy men in the world, and make everybody else unhappy around them. as for enduring conjugal affection, i believe the excitement of a gambler's life renders them incapable of feeling its influence. i can scarcely tell how the months passed which i lived with that man, for i drank wine to excess every day. not to become intoxicated; only just fashionably excited. we lived in the best style of hotel life, often at the expense of the proprietors. "a little before sis was born, de vrai met with 'a run of luck,' and we took a cottage out of town, and lived very comfortably for a year, upon the proceeds of that 'windfall.' "what that run of luck was, may be guessed at from the following extract from a morning paper:-- "suicide.--an american gentleman was found dead in his bed, at his lodgings, this morning, and it is supposed he died from poison, administered by himself, in consequence of immense losses at the gaming table, not only of his own money, but a sum which he had received in trust for a widow and orphans, in america. it is said, that he owes his losses to the wretched practice of drinking to intoxication, and that he was fairly robbed while in this condition, by a companion of his, one who made great pretence of friendship. he leaves a beautiful young wife, 'quite destitute,' 'tis said." "i did not know then that this companion of his was my husband. i found that out afterwards, and that he was more than robbed. "soon after that event, de vrai brought the widow of his victim to live in our house. i was the wife--she the mistress. i was blind at first, but i soon had my eyes opened. opened not only to that fact, but that that wife had stood behind her husband's chair while he played with the villain who robbed him, and gave the signal of what cards he held; and afterwards, when he became sober enough to realize his ruin, she proposed that they should take poison, and die together. "the result need not be told, only that he died and she lived. "when i made these discoveries from an overheard conversation, i ordered the vile woman from my house. "'my house, my house, ha, ha, you poor simpleton. every article in this house and every cent of money that you or your husband has on earth belongs to me, and these are the papers. "'now if you behave yourself you can stay here, if not, you will have to tramp, both of you.' "she shook the papers in my face, and laughed at my look of fear and astonishment. to finish my agony, when i began to talk something about the rights of an english wife, she coolly told me that she had just as good a right to my husband as i had, for he had one wife when i married him, and that rendered my marriage a nullity. what a shock for a wife--to hear that she is no wife, or if she is, the wife of a robber, adulterer, and murderer. "i heard all this with a sort of indifference foreign to my very nature. it was well that i did, for it enabled me to perfect my plans, and carry them out with a degree of coolness worthy of a better purpose. i had been promising for some time to visit a friend for a week, and i set about packing up for the journey at once. i said not one word to de vrai of what i heard, nor gave him one look of reproof. fortune had made me acquainted with the secret hiding-place of the money this guilty pair had obtained from their poor victim, and i did not feel any compunctions of conscience in taking it from them. in three days afterwards i was in paris. here i lived a few months a wretched life of dissipation, and then de vrai, tracked me to my hiding-place and i had to fly once more; this time across the ocean. "i had five hundred dollars when i arrived in this city. what might i not have done with that sum, if i had used it prudently? what i did do, i must tell, that it may be a warning to others. it would be a source of consolation to me if i knew that the follies of my life could be illuminated and set up as a beacon light to my fellow creatures, to save them from the quicksands of dissipation upon which i have been wrecked--wrecked by my own folly and foolish pride. "it was pride, foolish wicked pride, that led me to go to a fashionable hotel, and put up, with my two children and nurse, as madame de vrai, from paris. how soon five hundred dollars melt away, even with prudent living, at a new york hotel. i did not live prudently. i drank to excess, gave late suppers, and gambled. this could not last long, though many hundreds of the dollars worse than wasted in those few weeks, were won from others equally guilty of this besetting wickedness and folly with myself. such a life could not last. my first step down was to a cheap lodging in crosby street. i cannot tell how i lived there. i only know that my valuables, my clothes, everything went to the pawnbroker, and i went to that wretched hole where you first saw me in cow bay, from whence i drove my poor little katy out in the streets at midnight, to sell hot corn. it was there that my poor child died. it was there that you received her dying blessing, and i her dying forgiveness for all the wrongs that i had heaped upon her poor innocent head. it was then by her death that i was awakened to consciousness and i felt and saw my own deep soul and body destroying degradation. it was through her death and translation to a home in heaven, that i have obtained a hope that my father may forgive what my child has forgiven, and that, i may yet see her again. it was him, it must have been him that opened your ear to that little plaintive cry of 'hot corn,' that rose up through your window on its way to the home of angels watching over a child whom her mother had forsaken. "it was his power--no earthly power could have aroused my mind from its lethargy, that awakened me one moment before it was too late. it was a bitter trial, but nothing else but the death of that sweet child would have been sufficient to save her wicked mother; i cannot mourn her loss, because i feel that she is now so much better off than while singing her nightly cry through the streets, of 'hot corn, hot corn, here's your nice hot corn!' speaking of singing, have you seen the new song, just published, called 'the dying words of little katy, or will he come?" "oh it is beautiful. here it is, do read it:-- "here's hot corn, nice hot corn!" a voice was crying! sweet hot corn, sweet hot corn! the breeze is sighing! come buy, come buy--the world's unfeeling-- how can she sell while sleep is stealing? "hot corn, come buy my nice hot corn!" all alone, all alone, she sat there weeping; while at home, while at home, her sister's sleeping, "come buy, come buy, i'm tired of staying; come buy, come buy, i'm tired of saying, hot corn, come buy my nice hot corn!" often there, often there, she sat so drear'ly with one thought, for she loved her sister dearly: did'st hate, did'st hate--how could she ever, how could she hate her mother?--never. "hot corn, come buy my nice hot corn!" often there, often there, while others playing, hear the cry, "buy my corn," she's ever praying. "pray buy, pray buy, kind hearted stranger, one ear, then home, i'll brave the danger; hot corn, come buy my nice hot corn!" now at home, now at home, her cry is changing! "will he come, will he come?" while fever's raging. she cries, she cries, "pray let me see him; once more, once more, pray let me see him. hot corn, he'll buy my nice hot corn!" "will he come, will he come?" she's constant crying, "will he come, will he come?" poor katy's dying. "'twas he, 'twas he, kind words was speaking hot corn, hot corn, while i was seeking hot corn, who'll buy my nice hot corn?" "midnight there, midnight there, my hot corn crying, kindly spoke, first kind words, they stop'd my sighing. that night, that night, when sleep was stealing, kind words, kind words--my heart was healing; hot corn, he'll buy my nice hot corn!" "will he come, will he come?"--weak hands are feeling! "he has come, he has come--i see him kneeling-- one kiss--the light--how dim 'tis growing-- i thank--'tis dark--good bye--i'm going-- hot corn--no more shall cry--hot corn!!!" drop a tear, drop a tear, for she's departed, drop a tear, drop a tear, poor broken hearted, now pledge, now pledge, the world is crying, take warning, warning, by katy's dying, "hot corn, who'll buy my nice hot corn?" "the music of this, as it is arranged for the piano, is one of the sweetest, plaintive things you ever heard." "and besides that, there are a good many other songs and tales, so agnes tells me, already written, which never would have been if my poor child had not been called away from her home of misery here on earth to one made for the innocent and good beyond the grave. who knows how much good all those songs and stories may do in the world, to save others from the road which i took to destruction!" "oh, if the wretched, awful misery occasioned by rum, which i alone have seen, could be pictured to the world, it does seem to me that no sane man or woman could ever look upon the picture and live, without becoming so affected that they would foreswear all intoxicating beverages for ever afterwards." "oh, sir, i know that i am now on my death bed, and i feel as though i was talking from the spirit world, and i do pray you to tell my fellow creatures, one and all--tell my own sex who are just beginning this life of temptation, degradation, sin, shame, woe, and death, what it brought me to, what it will bring all to, sooner or later, who, indulge as i did, first in wine, and, finally, in anything, everything that could sink reason into forgetfulness." reader, have i obeyed that dying injunction? chapter xviii. julia antrim, and other old acquaintances. "should old acquaintance be forgot?" "there is a lost sheep returned to the fold." if those who would reform the vicious, knew the power of love and kind words towards the poor fallen creatures who abound in our city, and how much stronger they are than prison bars, how much more powerful than handcuffs, fetters and whip lashes, we should soon see the spirit of reformation hovering over us like the guardian angel sent to save a city that should be found to contain only five righteous persons. my readers may remember the slight glimpse they had of the face of julia antrim, on two occasions--once as a street walker, only thirteen years old, dressed in borrowed clothes, or rather in garments furnished by one of the beldams who keep the keys of our numerous city pandemoniums, where innocence is entrapped, and virtue sold at a discount; and again a year or two later, when the fiend who said "our trade," laughed to see her dragged out of one of the underground dens where demons dwell, where rum is sold and souls destroyed, on her way to prison, and the termination of a career, to which one half, at least, arrive at, who take the first step--false step--in the same road. in the morning she was "sent up:" a short phrase which means imprisonment for six months in the city penitentiary. penitentiary!! what is a penitentiary? a place of repentance and reformation. ours is a place to harden young offenders, or rum-made criminals--to make them worse rather than better. it made julia antrim worse. it was the work of the missionary, and the benevolent heart of mr. lovetree, and the kind words of mrs. may and stella, that effected what dungeons, fetters whips, and harsh language could not. "oh!" said mrs. morgan to me one evening, "such a story as my uncle has been telling me; do tell him, uncle, about one of those 'five point girls,' rescued from one of those miserable dens." "you remember the girl," said he, "that you saw dragged out of the cellar for picking her paramour's pocket? come with me and you shall see her and hear her own story. athalia, come put on your hat and go with us. you know how glad mrs. may and stella always are to see you." they were so this evening. stella was in the front shop busy with her pins and needles, threads and tapes, and all the numerous little articles of necessity which go to make up an assortment, for which she had a demand that not only kept her busy, but also a fine bright active little boy. he is on the road to wealth and manhood now. he was on the road to ruin once. he was the son of a drunken father, who taught him to "prig" and sell the stolen articles for rum. the reader has seen him before. would you like to know where? turn back to page --look at that picture of the fireman rescuing two children from the flames. this bright boy is the child of drunken bill eaton. how stella's eyes did sparkle as she saw us enter; far more than they would to see her best customer, for now she saw her best friend, her kind patron, who gave her the means to gain good customers. "oh, mother, mother, here is mr. lovetree and mrs. morgan, and that other gentleman!" then mrs. may's eyes sparkled, for "she was so glad to see us"--she was always glad to see us. she was very busy in the little back shop, working away, and she had two very neat-looking industrious girls at work with her. we have seen both of them before. one of them for the first time on the steps of the bank of the republic, clothed in a poor dirty ragged dress, with that same little boy, sickly and pale, leaning upon his sister for support, and keeping her company as the two wandered through the streets, making midnight melodious with that ever pealing summer cry, of, "hot corn, hot corn, here's your nice hot corn, smoking hot, smoking hot, just from the pot, all hot, hot, hot!" she will sing, it no more. she is in a better situation now for a little girl than midnight street rambling; that is not the best school for young girls--we have seen how near the brink of ruin it led sally eaton. she was rescued just in time--just before she was lost. two great calamities fell upon her in one night. her father was killed, and her mother's house was burned, leaving the poor widow and her two children in the street, naked, except one garment, amid the crowd that came to look upon what she then thought the wreck of all hope. it proved her greatest blessing; for in that crowd were those who took her in, and clothed and fed, and sent her children to school, and taught her girl how to work; and, finally, placed her as a help to another widow, where she will soon learn and earn enough to help herself. the other girl, who is now working with her old companion, was once her street associate in rags and wretchedness; afterwards, her envied, because better clothed, acquaintance. we saw her too, upon the same evening that we first saw the little hot corn girl driven away from her hard seat upon those cold stone steps--less cold than the heart of the great world towards its outcast population. we saw her again, just where we then knew that her course of life would lead her--to intoxication,--wretchedness--crime--prisons, and--no, she stopped just short of death, and returned to virtue, industry, and happiness. after the heartfelt, happiness-giving congratulations of mrs. may, stella, sally eaton, and "brother willie," were over, i turned to a nice, modest-looking young girl and said, "and who is this? what is your name?" "julia antrim, sir." did i dream? no, i did not dream, i looked upon sober reality. it was the poor outcast, whom i had seen dragged away from the underground abode of all that is bad, to "the tombs," and from whence she went to "the island," and as i heard, from there, at the expiration of her noviciate, to one of the lowest, most degraded, worse than beastly, abodes of those who have only the form of humanity remaining. so i told her i had heard, and she replied, "true--where else could i go? i could go nowhere but there. i came out of prison with only the clothes they gave me there, with my hair cropped--branded, to tell all the world to beware of me--that i was a 'prison bird.' if i desired, and i really did, to return to a virtuous life, the door was for ever closed against me. i went back to mrs. brown's, the woman who had first tempted me, with fine clothes and jewelry, to sin--to that house where i lost all that a poor girl has on earth--her virtue--where i had sinned and profited, as the term is, by sinning; where i had left piles of rich clothing, and pretended friends. i knocked at the door, once so ready to open for my first admission, and that too was closed in my face with an oath, a horrid, wicked woman's oath, bidding me to go away or she would send a policeman--i knew the policeman would do her bidding--to take me away as a common street vagrant, coming there to disgrace a 'respectable house.' i went away, dispirited, broken-hearted, and sunk down into that wretched abode in anthony street, where i was found by mr. pease, and actually compelled, much against my will, to go to the five points house of industry, where i was washed, and clothed, and fed, and sobered, furnished with work, and, above all else, taught to love god and pray, and, for the first time in more than two years, to feel one moment of happiness. "when i was with those wretches in that miserable hole where mr. pease found me, i really thought that my heart had got so bad, that it could not, would not, ever be good again. "how i did use to curse and hate everybody that was good. that good man who saved me at last, i hated worse than all others. all who are like what i was then, hate him and fear him more then they do all the prisons and police in the city. if somebody would publish the truth, or only half the truth, of what i alone know of the crime and misery about the five points of new york, and how much good all the good men have done who have devoted themselves to the reformation of those wretched human beings, i do think that everybody with a good heart would buy the book, and thus contribute a mite to aid the good work--a work that saves from a life worse than death, scores of children and young girls, lost to every virtuous thought or action; lost to all hope in life or eternity. "oh, sir," and she seized me by the hands in her energy, "you can write--stella has told me how you can write--that you have written some powerful stories; pray write more, more, more; the world will read, and it will do a world of good." "well, julia, if i write, i must have characters and names, to fill up the incidents of my life scenes, shall i use yours?" "yes, yes, if it will do good, and save others." "and mine." "and mine." "and mine." "i think," said mrs. may, "that the incidents connected with athalia's life, would alone make quite a volume; would you have any objection to having them written out and published, mrs. morgan?" "perhaps i might consent, if it was well done, if it would serve as a beacon to save others from being shipwrecked upon the same desolate shore where i came so near being totally lost; only escaping by the smallest chance, and by one of the most singular interpositions of providence, and through the efforts of one of the weakest instruments. it is to stella, first of all that i owe my present happiness. it was through her that all my friends became interested for me. in fact, if it had not been for her, my dear uncle would never have known where to find me." "rather give the credit to a higher power; that power which gave him the kind benevolent heart that beats in his breast; that disposition to watch over the young and guard the innocent, which led him to take an interest in my poor child. let us be grateful to all the humble instruments of him who giveth every good and perfect gift to man, but to him to whom we owe all of our present happiness, be the final praise." now there was a little space of silence; a time for reflection; all were too full of thought, holy, happy thought, to speak. it is good to think. the world is generally too much given to act without thinking. mr. lovetree was not. he thought that we had agreed to visit mrs. de vrai, on our way home, "but before i go," said he, "i want to invite you all to dine with us next sabbath. i want to see our little party of friends all together, for a certain purpose." "uncle always has a little surprise to play off upon his friends. i am afraid this is not a pleasant one, or else he would not have chosen sunday." "i chose that," said he, "because i know how difficult it is for the laboring poor to give a day from their working time, for any kind of recreation. i assure you that this will be a pleasant surprise, though not an inappropriate one for the day, for i intend to have a minister with us to ask a blessing upon our food." "oh," said stella, "i can guess it." young girls are always ready to guess as she did. she guessed it was to be a wedding. she guessed that mrs. morgan was going to be married. then the others guessed so too. mrs. morgan guessed not. she was sure she could not get married without somebody to have her. of course not. but stella thought that "somebody" would not be very hard to find. she knew a gentleman that liked her well enough to marry her. at any rate, that the party was to be a wedding one was pretty well settled. whether the bride will be athalia or not we shall see. so then, after lots of "good night" and "do come again soon," we parted, and went on our way to visit the sick and dying victim of fashionable dissipation, which led her through a rapid career of a few happy months, and then through years of woe, from wine at dinner, to "cobblers" at late suppers, and bitters in the morning; till an appetite was acquired which could only be satisfied by constant libations of anything that would intoxicate, procured by any means, however debasing, till she ceased to be a lady; almost ceased to be a woman; quite forgot that she was a mother; else how could she have driven that poor little innocent child out upon the streets, murky and damp, with her cry of "hot corn, hot corn, all smoking hot!" while the poor child was chilly, cold, and starving? poor girl--poor little katy! thy mother loves thee now. look down from thy blest abode--it is thy mother calls, it is thy voice she hears, and she answers, "yes, yes i will come." "she is better, sir," said phebe, as we entered the door. "she has been sitting up a good deal, and she talks of going over to your house to-morrow, mrs. morgan; she says she must go out, and take the air, or she never will get well." this was pleasant news, and it quite elated mrs. morgan. mr. lovetree gave one of his peculiar expressions of countenance as soon as he saw her, which told as plain as though he had spoken it, that she never would go out again but once, that would be a ride which all must, none are willing, to take. we were all very much delighted to find mrs. meltrand and agnes, with mrs. de vrai. mrs. meltrand, ever since she had first seen her, had fallen in love with little sissee, the sweet little adaleta, and this evening mrs. de vrai, had made her a final promise, that if she should not get well, mrs. meltrand should have her for her own; and she had promised to adopt her and make her as much her child as though she was really so. "but what is the use of talking? i don't feel any more like dying than you do. i am almost well. my cough has quite gone." but a bright crimson spot upon each cheek had not gone, and that told its own tale. adaleta was delighted with sister agnes. she could hardly bear to part with her. she will not, but her mother must. how little any one would have thought, as we parted that evening, leaving the invalid so cheerful and full of hope, that we had parted for the last time. no! not the last time--may we hope for one more meeting? let us now retire to our chambers and prepare for that meeting. let us say to the reader, as we said to the poor sufferer, "good night. god be with you!" chapter the last. all things must have an end. where there is true friendship, there needs no gloss to our deeds, no hollow welcome to real friends. "by and by" is easy said; it means an uncertain time, but it comes at last. it came to mrs. de vrai, only a few hours after our last parting. phebe came with the early morning to say, "she is gone, sir; gone to meet her poor child in the hope of the penitent. after you went away, she lay and talked and talked about you, all of you, and mrs. meltrand and agnes, and how happy she should be if she was a going to die, to think that her child would have such a good mother and sister, and so many real friends; and how different it would be with herself now, here and hereafter, as well as her child, than it would have been if she had died in her former residence of wretchedness, sin, and woe. then i asked her if she would take her medicine and go to sleep, and she said; 'by and by, not now; i feel so well, so happy, i can almost fancy that i see my poor little katy in heaven among the angels. i often see her here in the room when i am laying with my eyes closed, but not asleep; and i often think i hear her dying words, "will he come!" and i say "yes, he has come; the saviour has come, my child, to your mother." then she says, "then come, mother, come and live with us;" and i answer, "by and by." by and by, phebe i shall go, but not yet, i am going to get well now.' "so i went and lay down in the back room, and i heard nothing of her, though i got up and looked at her a good many times, but she seemed to be sleeping so sweet, i thought i would not wake her to take her medicine--the doctor said i need not. in the morning i got up, and looked in the room, and there was sissee sitting up in the bed, trying to open her mother's eyes; then she would put her arms around her neck and kiss her, but there was no kiss in return. then she sat back and looked at her a minute, and then called--'phebe, phebe, mamma does not speak, oh phebe, is mamma dead!" yes mamma was dead. she had died as calm and free from pain and full of joy as when she said "good night" to her friends. she had died full of anticipation that she was going to live to get well; that she would not join the spirit of little katy now, but by and by: by and by she would come. drop a tear, drop a tear, for she's departed! wreath a smile, for she died not broken-hearted. this was on friday morning. on the sunday following, the intended party met at mrs. morgan's and partook of an early dinner. "for," said mr. lovetree, "we have a good deal to do this afternoon. in the first place, some of our friends are disposed to be united in the holy, the blessed bonds, that bind the sexes together in a union that should be indissoluble, and productive of nothing but happiness. after that we have a duty to perform, which though it is generally termed melancholy, must not be made so on the present occasion. we shall go to deposit the body in greenwood, that lovely place of rest for the dead, of one who we have every reason to believe died a true penitent, and is now with the spirit of little katy, where those who are murdered by the same cause that produced her death, will seldom ever be found. our good missionary is with us, and we will have the wedding ceremony before the funeral one, because many go from that to the grave, none come from there to the marriage feast." now all began to look around for the happy couple. mrs. morgan was dressed as though she might be a bride, but where was the groom? mr. lovetree whispered to mrs. meltrand, for she was there with agnes and little sis, and mrs. meltrand said that frank would be there by the time. "now what frank is that?" said stella in a whisper to mrs. may; "it must be frank barkley; and so it is mrs. morgan that is going to be married. oh, dear, i am sorry, i was in hopes she would always live with her old uncle, as she does now." it _was_ frank barkley who was expected. he was an old acquaintance of mrs. meltrand, a little wild in his youth, and came within an inch of the precipice over which so many young men tumble. mr. lovetree had said, "there is something good in the fellow," and between him and mrs. meltrand, it was developed. he is a good fellow--a sober fellow now--and he is going to be married. now the door bell rings. "there that is him." yes, it was him. he was told that all were waiting for him, and he said "he had come to the minute agreed upon." poor stella shed tears. she cried to think her dear friend, mrs. morgan, was about to be married. she cried without a cause. mr. lovetree said to frank, "allow me to introduce you to my niece, mrs. morgan." he started back from her, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. stella rubbed hers. she was convinced now that they were not to be married. poor frank looked confused and in doubt. he approached near enough to mrs. morgan to whisper, "lucy," to which she replied, "yes," and he said, "god bless you then," and turned away to meet his bride. this was agnes. and he took her by the hand, and led her up to the minister who was to pronounce them man and wife, and said--"now, sir, we are ready." then a couple, who were to act as bridesmaid and bridegroom's attendant, took their stations upon the floor. it was the opinion of all present that they would act as principals in a similar scene by and by. perhaps the reader would like to know who this neatly-dressed, bright couple are, for he has seen them several times before. it is one of mr. lovetree's oddities that you see them now. you have seen them when they would not be very fitting guests in a parlor, but they wear wedding-garments now. this is tom, who held the cup of cold water to the lips of the dying madalina, and this is his reward. the neat, lovely girl at his side is wild maggie--miss margaret reagan. the fine-looking hearty man that is leading up a well-dressed woman to the altar--another couple to be married--is one of the former customers of cale jones's grocery. it is maggie's father. his bride is mrs. eaton. we have seen her and her two children in some of the early scenes of this volume. we saw them in the street then--we see them in the parlor now. we see them much better, much happier this time, and we see them just as we might see all the laboring class, if we could abolish the traffic in rum from the world. there are two other couples here to bear testimony to that fact. it was the particular request of reagan and maggie that they should be present to witness and rejoice over the power of the pledge to save. we have seen both these couples stand up to be married before the same minister who is now saying the solemn words of the marriage ceremony to those before him. you may see them as they were when you first saw them, if you will turn back to the plate facing the "two penny marriage." julia antrim and willie reagan act as attendants upon this last couple, and sally reagan and stella may, dressed in pure white--dresses of their own make--with wreaths of flowers in their hair, made by their own hands--served the company with cakes and fruits and tea and coffee. then the carriages came to the door, and all went--not to a tavern, or drinking saloon for a riot, to commemorate the most serious event of life, but in all soberness due to the occasion, to consign the remains of poor madame de vrai to her final resting-place on the earth. it is a pleasant drive to greenwood cemetery, and it is a pleasant place for the tombs of our friends. it is a good place to go to meditate, among the new-made graves in the fresh-turned earth, and among the proud monuments of those who have lain long enough beneath their marble coverings to be forgotten. i did not forget to look, as i passed along, at the rose bush which i saw planted by a widow at the grave of her rum-murdered husband. it was growing fresh and vigorously. now we stand around the open grave that is soon to be filled by another victim of a trade that feeds scores and starves millions--that saves one life and causes a thousand deaths--that consigns youth, innocence and beauty, equally with old age, to a premature grave. now we lower this last victim--still young, beautiful, intelligent, full of sweetness of disposition and kindness of heart--into her grave. now we look at the little cherub, the darling, sweet, much loved adaleta, her orphan child, and now at her sister's grave, then at the weeping circle, who stand and sob as the falling clods bring forth that hollow sound, never heard in any other place. now the voice of him who says: "'tis the last of earth," "let us pray," breaks the charmed circle of intense silence. why is every eye upturned at the close? did each listening ear fancy it heard the sound of an angel's voice in the air, breathing the words,--"will he come?" "will he come?" and did they expect to see the face of little katy in the clouds, looking down upon those she loved, paying this tribute to her mother, now sleeping by her side in the grave; now with her child in the spirit land of the blest? now the tall corn is waving o'er the mountain and glen, and the sickle is reaping both the corn and the men; and the child that was sleeping where the lamps dimly shone, like the corn, now is with'ring, in the vale all alone. "hot corn!" she was crying, in the night, all alone, "hot corn! here's your nice hot corn!" in the grave all alone. where the chill rain was falling, sat the poor child asleep; where the lights nightly burning, city vigils help keep-- where the ague was creeping through the blood and the bone of the child that was sleeping on the curb-stone alone. "hot corn!" she was crying, in the night all alone, "hot corn! here's your nice hot corn!" in the grave all alone. in a dark room lonely, lay the child all awake, with a voice wildly crying, "will he come, for my sake?" then a good man was praying, while to her dimly shone, poor fading light--ceases burning--and with god she's alone. "hot corn!" she was crying, in the night all alone, "hot corn! here's your nice hot corn!" in the grave all alone. in the dark grave sleeping, while poor katy's at rest, while the wild storm raging, ever sweeps o'er her breast-- while the mourners are weeping for the dead passed away, let us pledge by the living that the cause we will stay. "hot corn!" she was crying, in the night all alone, "hot corn! here's your nice hot corn," in the grave all alone. a voice from katy's grave. among the many poetical effusions which have been elicited by reading the story of "little katy," i think the following, which appeared in the new york tribune, will be read with pleasure. it is from the pen of mrs. b. f. foster, of new york:-- with dizzy whirl, on rushed the wheels along the city's murky street, and music's light, inspiring peals rang out from folly's gay retreat; and busy footsteps hurried past, and human voices, harsh and wild, commingling, floated on the blast; when the shrill accents of a child rose mid the din, in tones forlorn, and cried, "come, buy hot corn, hot corn!" like some sad spirit wafted by, a stranger to the ways of earth, came up that little plaintive cry-- sweet discord to the sounds of mirth. unheeded by the reckless crowd, there stood a girl, a pale, wan thing, and 'neath her bosom's tattered shroud there lurk'd an age of suffering; while e'en till night approached the morn, in feebler voice, she cried, "hot corn!" the gas lamp's glare fell on her face, but lighted not her languid eyes; and down her pallid cheeks, the trace of tears, bespoke her miseries; with hunger gnawing at her heart, she shivered, as the night wind blew her soiled and ragged clothes apart; till all insensible she grew, and sinking in unblessed sleep, forgot to cry, "hot corn," and weep. alone, so young, how came she there? to sell hot corn so late at night; had she no friends, no home, nowhere to rest, and hide her from the sight of the rude world? no mother? hush! that holy name is not the one for katy's parent. woman! blush for thy lost sister; blush to own that thou canst ever fall so low, to plunge thy children into woe. within that mother's heart, the light of love was quench'd, quench'd by the flood, the damning flood, whose waters blight all that is left of human good: and in her breast that demon reigned, who "give, give, give!" is ever crying; demanding still to be maintained, while all within, around, is dying; outpouring in its baneful breath, destruction, sorrow, sin and death. the lips which should have kiss'd away her daughter's tears, dealt curses forth; the hand which should have been her stay, was but the minister of wrath; blind to her wants, deaf to her prayers, regardless of the driving storm, to open streets and midnight airs, she drove that little shrinking form, to earn a dram! in shame and scorn with famished lips to cry, "hot corn!" "hot corn, hot corn!"--night after night, more faint and feeble grew that voice-- still fiercely burned each glaring light, still music bade the town rejoice; the ceaseless footsteps passed along, up came the wild discordant tones, the voices of the thoughtless throng,-- the bounding wheels rolled o'er the stones,-- but midst the din, the rush, the roar, poor katy's cry is heard no more. in one of those dark, noisome cells, the wretched call their home, she lies all motionless; the icy spells of death, have closed those weary eyes; she speaks not now. alas! how dread! that calm reproachful silence, when beside the wronged and injured dead, we kneel in vain! low in that den behold the stricken mother cower; grown sober in one fearful hour. she calls her, "katy, darling!"--peers into that pale and sunken face, she bathes her senseless brow with tears, sees on those bruised limbs, the trace of her own cruelty;--again she calls, and prays for one last word, of blest forgiveness;--all in vain, the answering voice no more is heard, the soulless clay alone is there, and fell remorse, and dark despair. weep, wretched woman, weep! that face shall haunt thee to thy dying day; nor time from memory erase thy child's deep wrongs; for they shall scorch into thy guilty breast; in mad excitement thou shalt hear her cries; and midst thy fitful rest, shall that pale phantom form appear, and o'er thy drunken moping, stand to curse thee with an outstretched hand. yet not alone with thee, abides that curse. oh, men, and christians! can ye robe yourself in god-like pride, and boast your land, the one where man is most exalted; yet permit the demon drunkenness to roam unfettered through your streets; to sit by ev'ry corner, ev'ry home-- the weak and wretched to allure to drink, to suffer, and endure? in mercy, then, arrest the reign of this dread fiend; and oh! protect man from his self-inflicted pain. spare the young wife, whose hopes are wreck'd, whose heart is crushed, whose home forsaken, whose life's a desolated wild. to infant prayers and tears awaken, and from the mother save the child. hark to that echo!--"save, oh, save!" pleads a sad voice from katy's grave. * * * * * "pleads a sad voice from katy's grave-- save, oh, save!" fathers! mothers! sons! daughters! husbands! wives! christians! philanthropists! all--brothers and sisters!--hear ye that voice? if ye do not, then, indeed, are ye deaf. then have i cried in vain. in vain i have visited the abodes of wretchedness and sin, to draw materials for my panorama of "life scenes in new york." in vain i have painted you dark scenes of life, instead of those which shine out in the noonday sun. in vain have i endeavored to awaken your sympathies by relations of tales of woe, or painted vice, as i have met with it in my midnight rambles, to guard you from its snares, if i have failed to touch that chord in your heart which brings a tear to the eye, for it is that which will prompt you to action--to sleepless vigilance, to eradicate from the world the great cause of such human misery as i have depicted. it is that which, will prompt you to give, if nothing more, "three grains of corn, only three grains of corn, mother," towards the redemption of the fallen, and protection of those who need a staff and a guide to hold them back from the precipice over which they have gone down to ruin. reader, if you have not yet done it, do not close the book until you have paid the tribute of a tear at the grave of [illustration: little katy] transcriber's note: misspellings, archaic spellings, and multiple spellings retained as in original. the google books library project (http://books.google.com) note: images of the original pages are available through the the google books library project. see http://www.google.com/books?id=w iwaaaayaaj the drunkard by guy thorne author of "when it was dark," "first it was ordained," "made in his image," etc., etc. new york sturgis & walton company copyright, by sturgis & walton company published january, transcriber's note: inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, and hyphenation have been retained as printed. the cover of this ebook was created by the transcriber and is hereby placed in the public domain. dedication to louis tracy, esquire _my dear louis_: it is more than a year ago now that i asked you to accept the dedication of this story. it was on an evening when i was staying with you at your yorkshire house and we had just come in from shooting. but i discussed the tale with you long before that. it was either--as well as i can remember--at my place in the isle of wight, or when we were all together in the italian alps. i like to think that it was at that time i first asked your opinion and advice about this book upon which i have laboured so long. one night comes back to me very vividly--yes, that surely was the night. dinner was over. we were sitting in front of the brilliantly lit hotel with coffee and cigarettes. you had met all my kind italian friends. our wives were sitting together at one little table with signora maerdi and madame riva monico--to whom be greeting! my father was at ours, and happy as a boy for all his white beard and skull-cap of black velvet. your son, dick, was dancing with the italian girls in the bright salon behind us, and the piano music tinkled out into the hot night. the alpine woods of ilex and pine rose up in the moonlight to where the snow-capped mountains of st. gothard hung glistening silver-green. i ask you to take this book as a memorial of a happy, uninterrupted and dignified friendship, not less valuable and gracious because your wife and mine are friends also. _nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico!_ yours ever sincerely, guy thorne. foreword the sixth chapter in the third book of this story can hardly be called fiction. the notes upon which it is founded were placed in my possession by a brilliant man of letters some short time before he died. serious students of the psychology of the inebriate may use the document certain that it is genuine. i have to acknowledge my indebtedness to the illuminating study in heredity of dr. archdall reed, m.b., c.m., f.r.s.e. his book "alcoholism" ought to be read by every temperance reformer in europe and america. "the drink problem," a book published by messrs. methuen and written in concert by the greatest experts on the subject of inebriety, has been most helpful. i have not needed technical help to make my story, but i have found that it gives ample corroboration of protracted investigation and study. my thanks are due to mr. john theodore tussaud for assistance in the writing of chapter four, book three. lastly, i should be ungrateful indeed, if i did not put down my sincere thanks to my secretary miss ethel paczensky for all she has done for me during the making of this tale. the mere careful typewriting, revision and arrangement of a long story which is to be published in america and europe, requires considerable skill. the fact that the loyal help and sympathy of a young and acute mind have been so devotedly at my service, merits more thanks and acknowledgment than can be easily conveyed in a foreword. g. t. contents prologue page part i a book of poems arrives for dr. morton sims part ii the murderer book one lothian in london chapter i under the waggon-roof. a dinner in bryanstone square ii gravely unfortunate occurrence in mrs. amberley's drawing room iii shame in "the roaring gallant town" iv lothian goes to the library of pure literature v "for the first time, he was going to have a girl friend" book two lothian in norfolk i vignette of early morning. "gilbert is coming home!" ii an exhibition of doctor morton sims and doctor medley, with an account of how lothian returned to mortland royal iii psychology of the inebriate, and the letter of jewelled words iv dickson ingworth under the microscope v a quarrel in the "most select lounge in the county" vi an _omnes_ exeunt from mortland royal book three fruit of the dead sea i the girls in the fourth story flat ii over the rubicon iii thirst iv the chamber of horrors v the night journey from nice when mrs. daly speaks words of fire vi gilbert lothian's diary vii ingworth redux: toftrees complacens viii the amnesic dream-phase ix a startling experience for "wog" epilogue a year later what occurred at the edward hall in kingsway prologue part i a book of poems arrives for dr. morton sims "how many bards gild the lapses of time a few of them have ever been the food of my delighted fancy." --_keats._ the rain came down through the london fog like ribands of lead as the butler entered the library with tea, and pulling the heavy curtains shut out the picture of the sombre winter's afternoon. the man poked the fire into a blaze, switched on the electric lights, and putting a late edition of the _westminster gazette_ upon the table, left the room. for five minutes the library remained empty. the fire crackled and threw a glancing light upon the green and gold of the book shelves or sent changing expressions over the faces of the portraits. the ghostly blue flame which burnt under a brass kettle on the tea table sang like a mosquito, and from the square outside came the patter of rain, the drone of passing taxi-cabs, and the occasional beat of horses' hoofs which made an odd flute-like noise upon the wet wood pavement. then the door opened and dr. morton sims, the leading authority in england upon inebriety, entered his study. the doctor was a slim man of medium height. his moustache and pointed beard were grey and the hair was thinning upon his high forehead. his movements were quick and alert without suggesting nervousness or hurry, and a steady flame burned in brown eyes which were the most remarkable feature of his face. the doctor drew up a chair to the fire and made himself a cup of weak tea, pouring a little lime-juice into it instead of milk. as he sipped he gazed into the pink and amethyst heart of the fire. his eyes were abstracted--turned inwards upon himself so to speak--and the constriction of thought drew grey threads across his brow. after about ten minutes, and when he had finished his single cup of tea, dr. morton sims opened the evening paper and glanced rapidly up and down the broad, well-printed columns. his eye fell upon a small paragraph at the bottom of the second news-sheet which ran thus:-- "hancock, the hackney murderer, is to be executed to-morrow morning in the north london prison at eight o'clock. it is understood that he has refused the ministrations of the prison chaplain and seems indifferent to his fate." the paper dropped from the doctor's hands and he sighed. the paragraph might or might not be accurate--that remained to be seen--but it suggested a curious train of thought to his mind. the man who was to be hanged in a few hours had committed a murder marked by every circumstance of callousness and cunning. the facts were so sinister and cold that the horrible case had excited no sympathy whatever. even the silly faddists who generally make fools of themselves on such an occasion in england had organised no petition for reprieve. morton sims was one of those rare souls whose charity of mind, as well as of action, was great. he always tried to take the other side, to combat and resist the verdict passed by the world upon the unhappy and discredited. but in the case of this murderer even he could have had no sympathy, if he had not known and understood something about the man which no one in the country understood, and only a few people would have been capable of realising if they had been enlightened. it was his life-work to understand why deeds like this were done. a clock upon the high mantel of polished oak struck five. the doctor rose from his chair and stretched himself, and as he did this the wrinkles faded from his forehead, while his eyes ceased to be clouded by abstraction. morton sims, in common with many successful men, had entire control over his own mind. he perfectly understood the structure and the working of the machine that secretes thought. in his mental context correct muscular co-ordination, with due action of the reflexes, enabled him to put aside a subject with the precision of a man closing a cupboard door. his mind was divided into thought-tight compartments. it was so now. he wished to think of the murderer in north london prison no more at the moment, and immediately the subject passed away from him. at that moment the butler re-entered with some letters and a small parcel upon a tray. "the five o'clock post, sir," he said, putting the letters down upon the table. "oh, very well, proctor," the doctor answered. "is everything arranged for miss sims and mrs. daly?" "yes, sir. fires are lit in both the bedrooms, and dinner is for half-past six. the boat train from liverpool gets in to euston at a quarter to. the brougham will be at the station in good time. they will have a cold journey i expect, sir." "no, i don't think so, proctor. the liverpool boat-trains are most comfortable and they will have had tea. very well, then." the butler went away. morton sims looked at the clock. it was ten minutes past five. his sister and her friend, who had arrived at liverpool from new york a few hours ago would not arrive in london before six. he looked at the four or five letters on the tray but did not open any of them. the label upon the parcel bore handwriting that he knew. he cut the string and opened that, taking from it a book bound in light green and a letter. both were from his great friend bishop moultrie, late of simla and now rector of great petherwick in norfolk, canon of norwich, and a sort of unofficial second suffragan in that enormous diocese. "my dear john," ran the letter, "here is the book that i was telling you of at the athenæum last week. you may keep this copy, and i have put your name in it. the author, gilbert lothian, lives near me in norfolk. i know him a little and he has presented me with another copy himself. you won't agree with some of the thoughts, one or two of the poems you may even dislike. but on the whole you will be as pleased and interested as i am and you will recognise a genuine new inspiration--such a phenomenon now-a-days. such verse must leave every reader with a quickened sense of the beauty and compass of human feeling, to say nothing of its special appeal to xn thinkers. some of it is like george herbert made musical. lothian is crashaw born again, but born greater--sometimes a crashaw who has been listening to some one playing chopin! but read for yourself. give my regards to your sister when she returns. i hear from many sources of the great mark her speeches have made at the american congress and i am anxiously hoping to meet mrs. daly during her stay over here. she must be a splendid woman! helena sends all kind remembrances and hopes to see you here soon. yours affectionately, w. d. moultrie." three quarters of an hour were at his disposal. morton sims took up the book, which bore the title "surgit amari" upon the cover, and began to read. like many other members of his profession he was something of a man of letters. for him the life-long pursuit of science had been humanised and sweetened by art. ever since his days at harrow with his friend, the bishop, he had loved books. he read very slowly the longish opening poem only, applying delicate critical tests to every word; analytic and scientific still in the temper of his mind, and distrusting the mere sensuous impression of a first glance. this new man, this gilbert lothian, would be great. he would make his way by charm, the charm of voice, of jewel-like language, above all by the intellectual charm of new, moving, luminous ideas. at three minutes to six the doctor closed the book and waited. almost as the clock struck the hour, he heard his motor-brougham stop outside the house, and hurrying out into the hall had opened the door before the butler could reach it. two tall women in furs came into the hall. the brother and sister kissed each other quietly, but their embrace was a long one and there was something that vibrated deep down in the voices of their greeting. then miss morton sims turned to the other lady. "forgive me, julia," she said, in her clear bell-like voice--in america they had said that her voice "tolled upon the ear"--"but i haven't seen him for five months. john, here is julia daly at last!" the doctor took his guest's hand. his face was bright and eager as he looked at the american woman. she was tall, dressed with a kind of sumptuous good taste, and the face under its masses of grey hair shone with a minerva-like wisdom and serenity. "welcome," the doctor said simply. "we have been friends so long, we have corresponded so often, it is a great joy to me to meet you at last!" the three people entered the library for a moment, exchanging the happy commonplaces of greeting, and then the two women went up to their rooms. "dinner at half past six," the doctor called after them. "i knew you'd want it. we can have a long talk then. at eight i have to go out upon an important errand." he stood in front of the library fire, thinking about the new arrivals and smoking a cigarette. his sister edith had always lived with him, had shared his hopes, his theories and his work. he was the great scientist slowly getting deep down, discovering the laws which govern the vital question of alcoholism. she was the popular voice, one of the famous women leaders of the temperance movement, the most lucid, the least emotional of them all. her name was familiar to every one in england. her brother gave her the weapons with which she fought. his theories upon temperance reform were quite opposed to the majority of those held by earnest workers in the same field, but he and his sister were beginning to form a strong party of influential people who thought with them. mrs. daly was, in america, very much what edith morton sims was in great britain--perhaps even more widely known. apart from her propaganda she was one of the few great women orators living, and in her case also, inspiration came from the english doctor, while she was making his beliefs and schemes widely known in the united states. as he waited in the library, the doctor thought that probably no man had ever had such noble helpers as these two women to whom such great gifts had been given. his heart was very full of love for his sister that night, of gratitude and admiration for the stately lady who had come to be his guest and whom he now met in the flesh for the first time. for the first part of dinner the ladies were very full of their recent campaign in america. there was an infinity of news to tell, experiences and impressions must be recorded, progress reported. the eager sparkling talk of the two women was delightful to the doctor, and he was especially pleased with the conversation of mrs. daly. every word she spoke fell with the right ring and chimed, he seemed to have known her for years--as indeed he had done, through the medium of her letters. conversation, which with people like these is a sort of music, resembles the progress of harmonics in this also--that a lull arrives with mathematical incidence when a certain stage is reached in the progress of a theme. it happened so now, at a certain stage of dinner. there was much more to be said, but all three people had reached a momentary pause. the butler came into the room just then, with a letter. "this has just come by messenger from north london prison, sir," he said, unable to repress a faint gleam of curiosity in his eyes. with a gesture of apology, the doctor opened the envelope. "very well," he said, in a moment or two. "i need not write an answer. but go to the library, proctor, and ring up the north london prison. say doctor morton sims' thanks and he will be there punctually at half past eight." the servant withdrew and both the ladies looked inquiringly at the doctor. "it is a dreadful thing," he said, after a moment's hesitation, "but i may as well tell you. it must go no further though. a wretched man is to be executed to-morrow and i have to go and see him." edith shuddered. "how frightful," she said, growing rather pale; "but why, john? how does it concern you? are you forced to go?" he nodded. "i must go," he said, "though it is the most painful thing i have ever had to do. it is hancock, the hackney murderer." two startled faces were turned to him now, and a new atmosphere suddenly seemed to have come into the warm luxurious room, something that was cold, something that had entered from outside. "you don't know," he went on. "of course you have been out of england for some months. well, it is this. hancock is a youngish man of five and twenty. he was a chemist at hackney, and of quite exceptional intelligence. he was at one time an assistant at williamsons' in oxford street, where some of my prescriptions are made up and where i buy drugs for experimental purposes. i took rather an interest in him several years ago. he passed all his examinations with credit and became engaged to a really charming young woman, who was employed in a big ladies' shop in regent street. he wanted to set up in business for himself, very naturally, and i helped him with a money loan. he married the girl, bought a business at hackney, and became prosperous enough in a moderate sort of way. he paid me back the hundred pounds i lent him and from time to time i heard that things were going on very well. he was respected in the district, and his wife especially was liked. she was a good and religious woman and did a lot of work for a local church. they appeared to be a most devoted couple." the doctor stopped in his story and glanced at the set faces turned towards him. he poured some water into a tumbler and drank it. "oh, it's a hideous story," he said, with some emotion and marked distaste in his voice. "i won't go into the details. hancock poisoned his wife with the most calculating and wicked cunning. he had become enamoured of a girl in the neighbourhood and he wanted to get rid of his wife in order to marry her. his wife adored him. she had been a perfect wife to him, but it made no difference. the thing was discovered, as such things nearly always are, he was condemned to death and will be hanged to-morrow morning at breakfast time." "and you are going to see him _to-night_, john?" "yes. it is my duty. i owe it to my work, and to the wretched man too. i was present at the trial. from the first i realised that there must have been some definite toxic influence at work on the man's mind to change him from an intelligent and well-meaning member of society into a ghastly monster of crime. i was quite right. it was alcohol. he had been secretly drinking for years, though, as strong-minded and cunning inebriates do, he had managed to preserve appearances. as you know, edith, the home secretary is a friend of mine and interested in our work. hancock has expressed a wish to see me, to give me some definite information about himself which will be of great use in my researches into the psychology of alcoholism. with me, the home secretary realises the value of such an opportunity, and as it is the convict's earnest wish, i am given the fullest facilities for to-night. of course the matter is one of absolute privacy. there would be an outcry among the sentimental section of the public if it were known. but it is my clear duty to go." there was a dead silence in the room. mrs. daly played uneasily with her napkin ring. suddenly it escaped her nervous fingers and rolled up against a tumbler with a loud ringing sound. she started and seemed to awake from a bitter dream. "again!" she said in a low voice that throbbed with pain. "at all hours, in all places, we meet it! the scourge of humanity, the fiend alcohol! the curse of the world!--how long, how long?" part ii the murderer "ma femme est morte, je suis libre! je puis donc boire tout mon soûl. lorsque je rentrais sans un sou, ses cris me déchiraient la fibre." --_baudelaire._ the rain had ceased but the night was bitter cold, as dr. morton sims' motor went from his house in russell square towards the north london prison. a pall of fog hung a few hundred feet above london. the brilliant artificial lights of the streets glowed with a hard and rather ghastly radiance. as the car rolled down this and that roaring thoroughfare, the people in it seemed to morton sims to be walking like marionettes. the driver in front moved mechanically like a clockwork puppet, the town seemed fantastic and unreal to-night. a heavy depression weighed upon the doctor's senses. his heart beat slowly. some other artery within him was throbbing like a funeral drum. it had come upon him suddenly as he left the house. he had never, in all his life, known anything like it before. perhaps the mournful words of the american woman had been the cause. her deep contralto voice tolled in his ears still. some white cell in the brain was affected, the nerves of his body were in revolt. the depression grew deeper and deeper. a nameless malady of the soul was upon him, he had a sick horror of his task. the hands in his fur gloves grew wet and there was a salt taste in his mouth. the car left ways that were familiar. presently it turned into a street of long houses. the street rose steeply before, and was outlined by a long, double row of gas-lamps, stretching away to a point. it was quite silent, and the note of the car's engine sank a full tone as the ascent began. through the window in front, and to the left of the chauffeur, the doctor could see the lamps running past him, and suddenly he became aware of a vast blackness, darker than the houses, deeper than the sky, coming to meet him. incredibly huge and sinister, a precipice, a mountain of stone, a nightmare castle whose grim towers were lost in night, closed the long road and barred all progress onward. it was the north london prison, hideous by day, frightful by night, the frontier citadel of a land of death and gloom and shadows. the doctor left his car and told the man to return in an hour and wait for him. he stood before a high arched gateway. in this gateway was a door studded with sexagonal bosses of iron. above the door was a gas-lamp. hanging to the side of this door was an iron rod terminating in a handle of brass. this was the bell. a sombre silence hung over everything. the roar of london seemed like a sound heard in a vision. a thin night wind sighed like a ghost in the doctor's ear as he stood before the ultimate reality of life, a reality surpassing the reality of dreams. he stretched out his arm and pulled the bell. the smooth and sudden noise of oiled steel bars sliding in their grooves was heard, and then a gentle "thud" as they came to rest. a small wicket door in the great ones opened. a huge sombre figure filled it and there was a little musical jingle of keys. the visitor's voice was muffled as he spoke. in his own ears it sounded strange. "i am dr. morton sims," he said. "i have a special permit from the home secretary for an interview with the convict hancock." the figure moved aside. the doctor stepped in through the narrow doorway. there was a sharp click, a jingle of keys, the thud of the steel bars as they went home and a final snap, three times repeated--snap--snap--snap. a huge, bull-necked man in a dark uniform and a peaked cap, stood close to the doctor--strangely close, he thought with a vague feeling of discomfort. from an open doorway set in a stone wall, orange-coloured light was pouring from a lit interior. framed in the light were two other dark figures in uniform. morton sims stood immediately under the gate tower of the prison. a lamp hung from the high groined roof. beyond was another iron-studded door, and on either side of this entrance hall were lit windows. "you are expected, sir," said the giant with the keys. "step this way if you please." sims followed the janitor into a bare room, brilliantly illuminated by gas. at the end near the door a fire of coke and coal was glowing. a couple of warders, youngish military-looking men, with bristling moustaches, were sitting on wooden chairs by the fire and reading papers. they rose and saluted as the doctor came in. at the other end of the room, an elderly man, clean shaved save for short side whiskers which were turning grey, was sitting at a table on which were writing materials and some books which looked like ledgers. "good-evening, sir," he said, deferentially, as doctor sims was taken up to him. "you have your letter i suppose?" sims handed it to him, and pulling on a pair of spectacles the man read it carefully. "i shall have to keep this, sir," he said, putting it under a paper-weight. "my orders are to send you to the medical officer at once. he will take you to the condemned cell and do all that is necessary. the governor sends his compliments and if you should wish to see him after your interview he will be at your service." "i don't think i shall want to trouble colonel wilde, thank you," said the doctor. "very good, sir. of course you can change your mind if you wish, afterwards. but the governor's time is certainly very much taken up. it always is on the night before an execution. jones, take this gentleman to the medical officer." again the cold air, as morton sims left the room with one of the warders. again the sound of sliding bars and jingling keys, the soft closing of heavy doors. then a bare, whitewashed hall, with a long counter like that of a cloak-room at a railway station, a weighing machine, gaunt anthropometrical instruments standing against the walls, and iron doors on every side--all seen under the dim light of gas-jets half turned down. "the reception room, sir," said the warder, in a quiet voice, unlocking one of the doors, and showing a long corridor, much better lighted, stretching away for a considerable distance. the man stepped through with the noiseless footfall of a cat. the doctor followed him, and as he did so his boots echoed upon the stone floor. the noise was startling in this place of silence, and for the first time sims realised that his guide was wearing shoes soled with felt. they went down the corridor, the warder's feet making a soft padding sound, the steel chain that hung in a loop from his belt of black leather shining in the gas light. almost at the end of the passage they came to a door--an ordinary varnished door with a brass handle--at which the man rapped. "come in," cried a voice. the warder held the door open. "the gentleman to see hancock, sir," he said. the chief prison doctor, a youngish-looking, clean-shaved man, rose from his chair. "wait in the passage till i call you," he said. "how-do-you-do, dr. morton sims. we had your telephone message some time ago. you are very punctual! do sit down for a minute." sims sank into an armchair, with a little involuntary sigh of relief. the room in which he found himself was comfortable and ordinary. a carpet was on the floor, a bright fire burned upon the hearth, there was a leather-covered writing table with books and a stethoscope upon it. the place was normal. "my name is marriott, of 'barts'," said the medical officer. "do take off your coat, sir, that fur must be frightfully hot in here and you won't need it until you leave the prison again." "thank you, i will," sims answered, and already his voice had regained its usual calmness, his eyes their steady glow. anticipation was over, the deep depression was passing away. there was work to be done and his nerves responded to the call upon them. "there is no hitch, i suppose?" "none whatever. hancock is waiting for you, and anxious to see you." "it will be very painful," sims answered in a thoughtful voice, looking at the fire. "i knew the man in his younger days, poor, wretched creature. is he resigned?" "i think so. we've done all we could for him; we always do. as far as i can judge, and i have been present at nine executions, he will die quite calmly. 'i shall be glad when it's over,' he said to me this morning." "and his physical condition?" "just beginning to improve. if i had him here for six months under the second class regulations--i should not certify him for hard labour--i could turn him out in fair average health. he's a confirmed alcoholic subject, of course. it's been a case of ammonium bromide and milk diet ever since his condemnation. for the first two days i feared delirium tremens from the shock. but we tided over that. he'll be able to talk to you all right, sir. he's extremely intelligent, and i should say that the interview should prove of great value." "he has absolutely refused to see the chaplain? i read so in to-night's paper." "yes. some of them do you know. the religious sense isn't developed at all in him. it will be all the easier for him to-morrow." "how so?" "so many of them become religious on the edge of the drop simply out of funk--nervous collapse and a sort of clutching at a chance in the next world. they often struggle and call out when they're being pinioned. it's impossible to give them any sort of anæsthetic." "is that done then? i didn't know." "it's not talked about, of course, sir. it's quite unofficial and it's not generally known. but we nearly always give them something if it's possible, and then they know nothing of what's happening." sims nodded. "the best way," he said sadly, "the lethal chamber would be better still." there was a momentary silence between the two men. the prison doctor felt instinctively that his distinguished visitor shrank from the ordeal before him and was bracing himself to go through with it. he was unwilling to interrupt such a famous member of his profession. it was an event to meet him, a thing which he would always remember. suddenly sims rose from his chair. "now, then," he said with a rather wan smile, "take me to the poor fellow." dr. marriott opened the door and made a sign to the waiting warder. together the three men went to the end of the passage. another door was unlocked and they found themselves in a low stone hall, with a roof of heavily barred ground glass. there was a door on each side of the place. "that's the execution room," said dr. marriott in a whisper, pointing to one of the doors. "the other's the condemned cell. it's only about ten steps from one to the other. the convict, of course, never knows that. but from the time he leaves his cell to the moment of death is rarely more than forty-five seconds." the voice of the prison doctor, though very low in key, was not subdued by any note of awe. the machinery of death had no terrors for him. he spoke in a matter-of-fact way, with an unconscious note of the showman. the curator of a museum might have shown his treasures thus to an intelligent observer. for a second of time--so strange are the operations of the memory cells--another and far distant scene grew vivid in the mind of morton sims. once more he was paying his first visit to rome, and had been driven from his hotel upon the pincio to the nine o'clock mass at st. peter's. a suave guide had accompanied him, and among the curious crowd that thronged the rails, had told in a complacent whisper of this or that monsignore who said or served the mass. dr. marriott went to the door opposite to the one he had pointed out as the death-chamber. he moved aside a hanging disc of metal on a level with his eyes, and peered through a glass-covered spy-hole into the condemned cell. after a scrutiny of some seconds, he slid the disc into its place and rapped softly upon the door. almost immediately it was opened a foot or so, silently, as the door of a sick-room is opened by one who watches within. there was a whispered confabulation, and a warder came out. "this gentleman," said the medical officer, "as you have already been informed by the governor, is to have an interview with the convict absolutely alone. you, and the man with you, are to sit just outside the cell and to keep it under continual observation through the glass. if you think it necessary you are to enter the cell at once. and at the least gesture of this gentleman you will do so too. but otherwise, dr. morton sims is to be left alone with the prisoner for an hour. you quite understand?" "perfectly, sir." "you anticipate no trouble?--how is he?" "quiet as a lamb, sir. there's no fear of any trouble with him. he's cheerful and he's been talking a lot about himself--about his violin playing mostly, and a week he had in paris. his hands are twitching a bit, but less than usual with them." "very well. jones will remain here and will fetch me at once if i am wanted. now take dr. morton sims in." the door was opened. a gust of hot air came from within as morton sims hesitated for a moment upon the threshold. the warm air, indeed, was upon his face, but once again the chill was at his heart. lean and icy fingers seemed to grope about it. at the edge of what abysmal precipice, and the end of what sombre perspective of fate was he standing? from youth upwards he had travelled the goodly highways of life. he had walked in the clear light, the four winds of heaven had blown upon him. sunshine and tempest, dawn and dusk, fair and foul weather had been his portion in common with the rest of the wayfaring world. but now he had strayed from out the bright and strenuous paths of men. the brave high-road was far, far away. he had entered a strange and unfamiliar lane. the darkness had deepened. he had come into a marsh of miasmic mist lit up by pale fires that were not of heaven and where dreadful presences thronged the purple gloom. this was the end of all things. a life of shame closed here--through that door where a living corpse was waiting for him "pent up in murderers' hole." he felt a kindly and deprecating hand upon his arm. "you will find it quite ordinary, really, sir. you needn't hesitate in the very least"--thus the consoling voice of marriott. morton sims walked into the cell. another warder who had been sitting there glided out. the door was closed. the doctor found himself heartily shaking hands with someone whom he did not seem to know. and here again, as he was to remember exactly two years afterwards, under circumstances of supreme mental anguish and with a sick recognition of past experience, his sensation was without precedent. some one, was it not rather _something_? was shaking him warmly by the hand. a strained voice was greeting him. yet he felt as if he were sawing at the arm of a great doll, not a live thing in which blood still circulated and systole and diastole still kept the soul co-ordinate and co-incident. then that also went. the precipitate of long control was dropped into the clouded vessel of thought and it cleared again. the fantastic imaginings, the natural horror of a kind and sensitive man at being where he was, passed away. the keen scientist stood in the cell now, alert to perform the duty for which he was there. the room was of a fair size. in one corner was a low bed, with a blanket, sheet and pillow. in the centre, a deal table stood. a wooden chair, from which the convict had just risen, stood by the table, and upon it were a bible, some writing materials, and a novel--bound in the dark-green of the prison library--by "enid and herbert toftrees." hancock wore a drab prison suit, which was grotesquely ill-fitting. he was of medium height, and about twenty-five years of age. he was fat, with a broad-shouldered corpulence which would have been less noticeable in a man who was some inches taller. his face was ordinarily clean-shaven, but there was now a disfiguring stubble upon it, a three weeks' growth which even the scissors of the prison-barber had not been allowed to correct and which gave him a sordid and disgusting aspect. the face was fattish, but even the bristling hairs, which squirted out all over the lower part, could not quite disguise a curious suggestion of contour about it. it should have been a pure oval, one would have thought, and in the gas-light, as the head moved, it almost seemed to have that for fugitive instants. it was a contour veiled by a dreadful something that was, but ought not to have been there. the eyes were grey and had a certain capability of expression. it was now enigmatic and veiled. the mouth was by far the most real and significant feature of the face. in all faces, mouths generally are. the murderer's mouth was small. it was clearly and definitely cut, with an undefinable hint of breeding in it which nothing else about the man seemed to warrant. but despite the approach to beauty which, in another face, it might have had, slyness and egotism lurked in every curve. . . . "so that's how it first began, doctor. first one with one, then one with another. you know!" the conversation was in full swing now. the doll had come to life--or it was not quite a doll yet and some of the life that was ebbing from it still remained. the voice was low, confidential, horribly "just between you and me." but it was a pleased voice also, full of an eager and voluble satisfaction,--the last chance of toxic insanity to explain itself! the lurid swan-song of a conceited and poisoned man. . . . "business was going well. there seemed no prospect of a child just then, so mary got in with church work at st. philip's. that brought a lot more customers to the shop too. fancy soaps, scents and toilette articles and all that. dr. mitchell of hackney, was a church-warden at st. philip's and in time all his prescriptions came to me. no one had a better chance than i did. and mary was that good to me." . . . two facile, miserable tears rolled from the man's glazing eyes. he wiped them away with the back of his hand. "you can't think, sir, being a bachelor. anything i'd a mind to fancy! sweet-breads she could cook a treat, and burgundy we used to 'ave--california wine, 'big bush' brand in flagons at two and eight. and never before half-past seven. late dinner you might have called it, while my assistant was in the shop. and after that i'd play to her on the violin. nothing common, good music--'orer pro nobis' and 'rousoh's dream.' you never heard me play did you? i was in the orchestra of the hackney choral society. i remember one day . . ." "and then?" the doctor said, gently. he had already gathered something, but not all that he had come to gather. the minutes were hurrying by. the man looked up at the doctor with a sudden glance, almost of hatred. for a single instant the abnormal egoism of the criminal, swelled out upon the face and turned it into the mask of a devil. dr. morton sims spoke in a sharp, urgent voice. "why did you ask me to come here, hancock?" he said. "you know that i am glad to be here, if i can be of any use to you. but you don't seem to want the sort of sympathetic help that the chaplain here could give you far better than i can. what do you want to say to me? have you really anything to say? if you have, be a man and say it!" there was a brief but horrible interlude. "well, you are cruel, doctor, not 'arf!--and me with only an hour or two to live,"--the man said with a cringing and sinister grin. the doctor frowned and looked at the man steadily. then he asked a sudden question. "who were your father and mother?" he said. the convict looked at the doctor with startled eyes. "who told you?" he asked. "i thought nobody knew!" "answer my question, hancock. only a few minutes remain." "will it be of use, sir?" "of use?" "in your work--it was so that i could leave a warning to others, that i wanted to see you." "of great use, if you will tell me." "well, doctor, i never thought to tell any one. it's always been a sore point with me, but i wasn't born legitimate! i tried hard to make up for it, and i did so too! no one was more respectable than i was in hackney, until the drink came along and took me." "yes? yes?"--the hunter was on the trail now, heredity? reversion? at last the game was flushed!--"yes, tell me!" "my father was a gentleman, doctor. that's where i got my refined tastes. and that's where i got my love of drink--damn him! god almighty curse him for the blood he gave me!" "yes? yes?" "my father was old mr. lothian, the solicitor of grey's inn square. he was a well-known gentleman. my mother was his housekeeper, eliza hancock. my father was a widower when my mother went into his service. he had another son, at one of the big schools for gentlemen. that was his son by his real wife--gilbert he was called, and what money was left went to him. my father was a drunkard. he never was sober--what you might rightly call sober--for years, i've heard . . . mother died soon after mr. lothian did. she left a hundred pounds with my aunt, to bring me up and educate me. aunt ellen--but i'm a gentleman's son, doctor!--drunken old swine he was too! what about my blood now? wasn't my veins swollen with drink from the first? christ! _you_ ought to know--you with your job to know--_now_ are you happy? i'm not a _love_ child, i'm a _drink_ child, that's what i am! son of old mr. lothian, the gentleman-drunkard, brother of his son who's a gentleman somewhere, i don't doubt! p'r'aps 'e mops it up 'imself!--shouldn't wonder, this--brother of mine!" the man's voice had risen into a hoarse scream. "have you got what you came to get?" he yelled. his eyes blazed, his mouth writhed. there was a crash as the deal table was overturned, and he leapt at the doctor. in a second the room was full of people. dark figures held down something that yelled and struggled on the truckle bed. it was done with wonderful deftness, quickness and experience. . . . morton sims stood outside the closed door of the condemned cell. a muffled noise reached him from within, the prison doctor was standing by him and looking anxiously into his face. --"i can't tell you how sorry i am, dr. morton sims. i really can't say enough. i had no idea that the latent toxic influence was so strong. . . ." on the other side of the little glass-roofed hall the door was open. another cell was shown, brilliantly lit. two men, in their shirt-sleeves, were bending over a square, black aperture in the wooden floor. some carpenters' tools were lying about. an insignificant looking little man, with a fair moustache, was standing in the doorway. "that'll be quite satisfactory, thank you," he was saying, "with just a drop of oil on the lever. and whatever you do, don't forget my chalk to mark where he's to stand." from behind the closed door of the condemned cell a strangulated, muffled noise could still be heard. "not now!" said dr. marriott, as the executioner came up to him--"in half an hour. now dr. morton sims, please come away to my room. this must have been most distressing. i feel so much that it is my fault." . . . the two men stood at the prison gate, sims was shaking hands with the younger doctor. "thank you very much indeed," he was saying. "how could you possibly have helped it?--you'll take steps--?" "i'm going back to the cell now. it's incipient delirium tremens of course--after all this time too! i shall inject hyoscene and he will know nothing more at all. he will be practically carried to the shed--good-night! _good_-night, sir. i hope i may have the pleasure of meeting you again." * * * * * the luxurious car rolled away from the citadel of death and shadows--down the hill into london and into life. the man within it was thinking deeply, sorting out and tabulating his impressions, sifting the irrelevant from what was of value, and making a précis of what he had gained. there were a dozen minor notes to be made in his book when he reached home. the changing quality of the man's voice, the ebb and flow of uncontrolled emotion, the latent fear--"i must be present at the post mortem to-morrow," he said to himself as a new idea struck him. "there should be much to be learnt from an examination of the peripheral nerves. and the brain too--there will be interesting indications in the cerebellum, and the association fibres." . . . the carriage swung again into the familiar parts of town. as he looked out of the windows at the lights and movement, morton sims forgot the purely scientific side of thought. the kindly human side of him reasserted itself. how infinitely sad it was! how deep the underlying horror of this sordid life-tragedy at the close of which he had been assisting! who should say, who could define, the true responsibility of the man they were killing up there on the north london hill? predisposition to alcohol, reversion, heredity!--was not the drunken old solicitor, long since dust, the true murderer of the gentle-mannered girl in hackney? _lothian_, the father of gilbert lothian the poet! the poet who certainly knew nothing of what was being done to the young man in the prison, who had probably never heard of his existence even. the "fiend alcohol" at work once more, planting ghastly growths behind the scutcheons of every family! a cunning murderer with a poisoned mind and body on one side, the brilliant young poet in the sunlight of success and high approbation upon the other! mystery of mysteries that god should allow so foul a thing to dominate and tangle the fair threads and delicate tissues of life! "well, that's that!" said the doctor, in a phrase he was fond of using when he dosed an episode in his mind. "i'll make my notes on hancock's case and forget it until i find it necessary to use them in my work. and i'll lock up the poems moultrie has sent me and i won't look at the book again for a month. then i shall be able to read the verses for themselves and without any arrière-penseé. "but, i wonder . . . ?" the brougham stopped at the doctor's house in russell square. * * * * * book one lothian in london "myself, arch traitor to myself, my hollowest friend, my deadliest foe, my clog whatever road i go." the drunkard chapter i under the waggon-roof. a dinner in bryanstone square "le véritable amphitryon est l'amphitryon où l'on dine." --_molière._ it was a warm night in july when mr. amberley, the publisher, entertained a few friends at dinner to meet gilbert lothian, the poet. although the evening was extremely sultry and the houses of the west end were radiating the heat which they had stored up from the sun-rays during the day, mr. amberley's dining room was deliciously cool. the house was one of those roomy old-fashioned places still to be found unspoiled in bryanstone square, and the dining room, especially, was notable. it was on the first floor, over-looking the square, a long and lofty room with a magnificent waggon-roof which was the envy of every one who saw it, and gave the place extraordinary distinction. the walls were panelled with oak, which had been stained a curious green, that was not olive nor ash-green but partook of both--the veritable colour, indeed, of the grey-green olive trees that one sees on some terrace of the italian alps at dawn. the pictures were very few, considering the size of the room, and they were all quite modern--"in the movement"--as shrewd mr. amberley was himself. a portrait of mrs. amberley by william nicholson, which was quite famous in its way, displayed all the severe pregnancy and almost solemn reserve of this painter. there was a pastel of prydes' which showed--rather suggested--a squalid room in which a gentleman of , with a flavour of robert macaire about him, stood in the full rays of the wine and honey-coloured light of an afternoon sun. upon yet another panel was a painting upon silk by charles conder, inspired of course, by watteau, informed by that sad and haunting catching after a fairyland never quite reached, which is the distinctive note of conder's style, and which might well have served for an illustration to a grotesque fantasy of heine. mrs. amberley loved this painting. she had a pater-like faculty of reading into--or from--a picture, something which the artist never thought about at all, and she used to call this little masterpiece "an ode of horace in patch, powder and peruque!" she adored these perfectly painted little snuff-box deities who wandered through shadowy mists of amethyst and rouge-de-fer in a fantastic wood. it is extremely interesting to discover, know of, or to sit at ease in a room which, in its way, is historic, and this is what the amberleys' guests always felt, and were meant to feel. in its present form, and with its actual decorations, this celebrated room only dated from some fifteen years back. the waggon-roof alone remained unaltered from its earlier periods. the publishing house of ince and amberley had been a bulwark of the victorian era, and not without some growing celebrity in the earlier georgian period. lord byron had spoken well of the young firm once, rogers was believed to have advanced them money, and when that eminent cornish pugilist "the lamorna cove" wrote his reminiscences they were published by ince and amberley, while old lord alvanley himself contributed a preface. from small beginnings came great things. the firm grew and acquired a status, and about this time, or possibly a little later, the dining-room at bryanstone square had come into being. its walls were not panelled then in delicate green. they were covered with rich plum-coloured paper festooned by roses of high-gilt. in the pictures, with their heavy frames of gold, the dogs and stags of landseer were let loose, or the sly sleek gipsies of mr. frith told rustic fortunes beneath the spreading chestnut trees. but browning had dined there--in the later times--an inextinguishable fire just covered with a sprinkling of grey ash. with solemn ritual, charles dickens had brewed milk punch in an old bowl of lowestoft china, still preserved in the drawing-room. the young robert cecil, in his early _saturday review_ days, had cracked his walnuts and sipped his "pint of port" with little thought of the high destiny to which he should come, and alfred tennyson, then bohemian and unknown, had been allowed to vent that grim philosophy which is the reaction of all imaginative and sensitive natures against the seeming impossibility of success and being understood. the traditions of ince and amberley--its dignified and quiet home was in hanover square--had always been preserved. its policy, at the same time, had continually altered with the passage of years and the change of the public taste. yet, so carefully, and indeed so genuinely, had this been accomplished that none of the historic prestige of the business had been lost. it still stood as a bulwark of the old dignified age. a young modern author, whatever his new celebrity, felt that to be published by ince and amberley hall-marked him as it were. younger firms, greedy of his momentary notoriety, might offer him better terms--and generally did--but ince and amberley conferred the accolade! he was admitted to the dining room. john amberley (the inces had long since disappeared), at fifty was a great publisher, and a charming man of the world. he was one of the personalities of london, carrying out what heredity and natural aptitude had fitted him to do, and was this evening entertaining some literary personages of the day in the famous dining room. the waggon-roof, which had looked down upon just such gatherings as these for generations, would, if it could have spoken, have discovered no very essential difference between this dinner party and others in the past. true, the walls were differently coloured and pictures which appealed to a different set of artistic conventions were hanging upon them. the people who were accustomed to meet round the table in -- were not dressed as other gatherings had been. there was no huge silver epergne in the centre of that table now. nor did the amberley at one end of it display his mastery of ritual carving. but the talk was the same. words only were different. the guests' vocabularies were wider and less restrained. it was the music of piano and the pizzicato plucking of strings--there was no pompous organ note, no ore rotundo any more. they all talked of what they had done, were doing, and hoped to do. there was a hurry of the mind, inherent in people of their craft and like a man running, in all of them. the eyes of some of them burned like restless ghosts as they tried to explain themselves, display their own genius, become prophets and acquire honour in the heart of their own country. yes! it had always been so! the brightest and most lucent brains had flashed into winged words and illuminated that long handsome room. and ever, at the head of the long table, there had been a bland, listening amberley, catching, tasting and sifting the idea, analysing the constituents of the flash, balancing the brilliant theory against the momentary public taste. a kind, uncreative, managing amberley! a fair and honest enough amberley in the main. serene, enthroned and necessary. the publisher was a large man, broad in the shoulder and slightly corpulent. there was something georgian about him--he cultivated it rather, and was delighted when pleated shirts became again fashionable for evening wear. he had a veritable face of the regency, more especially in profile, sensual, fine, a thought gluttonous and markedly intelligent. his voice was authoritative but bland, and frequently capable of a sympathetic interest which was almost musical. his love of letters was deep and genuine, his taste catholic and excellent, while many an author found real inspiration and intense pleasure in his personal praise. this was the cultured and human side of him, and he had another--the shrewd business man of hanover square. he was not, to use the slang of the literary agent, a "knifer." he paid die market price without being generous and he was perfectly honest in all his dealings. but his business in life was to sell books, and he permitted himself no experiments in failure. a writer--whether he produced good work or popular trash--must generally have his definite market and his more or less assured position, before ince and amberley would take him up. it was distinctly something for a member of the upper rank and files to say in the course of conversation, "ince and amberley are doing my new book, you know." to-night amberley, as he sat at the head of his table towards the close of dinner, was in high good humour, and very pleasant with himself and his guests. the ladies had not yet gone away, coffee was being served at the table, and almost every one was smoking a cigarette. the party was quite a small one. there were only five guests, who, with mr. and mrs. amberley and their only daughter muriel, made up eight people in all. there was nothing ceremonious about it, and, though three of the guests were well known in the literary world, none of these were great, while the remaining couple were merely promising beginners. there was, therefore, considerable animation and gaiety round this hospitable table, with its squat candlesticks, of dark-green serpentine and silver, the topaz-coloured shades, its gleaming surface of dark mahogany (mrs. amberley had eagerly adopted the new habit of having no white table-cloth), its really interesting old silver, and the square mats of pure white egyptian linen in front of each person. in age, with the exception of mr. amberley and his wife, every one was young, while both host and hostess showed in perfection that modern grace of perfect correspondence with environment which seems to have quite banished the evidences of time's progress among the folk of to-day who know every one, appreciate everything and are extremely well-to-do. on amberley's right hand sat mrs. herbert toftrees, while her husband was at the other end of the table at the right hand of his hostess--gilbert lothian, the guest of the evening, being on mrs. amberley's left. mr. and mrs. toftrees were novelists whose combined names were household words all over england. their books were signed by both of them--"enid and herbert toftrees" and they were quite at the head of their own peculiar line of business. they knew exactly what they were doing--"selling bacon" they called it to their intimate friends--and were two of the most successful trades-people in london. unlike other eminent purveyors of literary trash they were far too clever not to know that neither of them had a trace of the real fire, and if their constant and cynical disclaimer of any real talent sometimes seemed to betray a hidden sore, it was at least admirably truthful. they were shallow, clever, amusing people whom it was always pleasant to meet. they entertained a good deal and the majority of their guests were literary men and women of talent who fluttered like moths round the candle of their success. the talented writers who ate their dinners found a bitter joy in cursing a public taste which provided the toftrees with several thousands a year, but they returned again and again, in the effort to find out how it was done. they also had visions of just such another delightful house in lancaster gate, an automobile identical in its horse-power and appointments, and were certain that if they could only learn the recipe and trick, wrest the magic formula from these wizards of the typewriter, all these things might be theirs also! the herbert toftrees themselves always appeared--in the frankest and kindest way--to be in thorough sympathy with such aspirations. their candour was almost effusive. "any one can do what we do" was their attitude. herbert toftrees himself, a young man with a rather carefully-cultivated, elderly manner, was particularly impressive. he had a deep voice and slow enunciation, which, when he was upon his own hearthrug almost convinced himself. "there is absolutely no reason," he would say, in tones which carried absolute conviction to his hearer at the moment, "why you shouldn't be making fifteen hundred a year in six months." but that was as far as it went. that was the voice of the genial host dispensing wines, entrées and advice, easy upon his own hearth, the centre of the one picture where he was certain of supremacy. but let eager and hungry genius call next day for definite particulars, instructions as to the preparations of a "popular" plot, hints as to the shop-girl's taste in heroines,--with hopes of introductory letters to the great firms who buy serials--and the greyest of grey dawns succeeded the rosy-coloured night. it was all vague and cloudy now. general principles were alone vouchsafed--indeed who shall blame the tradesman for an adroit refusal to give away the secrets of the shop? genius retired--it happened over and over again--cursing successful mediocrity for its evasive cleverness, and with a deep hidden shame that it should have stooped so low, and so ineffectually! . . . "that's very true. what toftrees says is absolutely true," mr. amberley said genially, turning to young dickson ingworth, who was sitting by his daughter muriel. he nodded to the eager youth with a little private encouragement and hint of understanding which was very flattering. it was as who should say, "here you are at my house. for the first time you have been admitted to the dining room. i have taken you up, i am going to publish a book of yours and see what you are made of. gather honey while you may, young dickson ingworth!" ingworth blushed slightly as the great man's encouraging admonitions fell upon him. he was not down from oxford more than a year. he had written very little, gilbert lothian was backing him and introducing him to literary circles in town, he was abnormally conscious of his own good fortune, all nervous anxiety to be adequate--all ears. "yes, sir," he said, with the pleasant boyish deference of an undergraduate to the provost of his college--it sat gracefully upon his youth and was gracefully said. then he looked reverentially at toftrees and waited to hear more. herbert toftrees' face was large and clean shaven. his sleek hair was smoothly brushed over a somewhat protruding forehead. there was the coarse determined vigour about his brow that the bull-dog jaw is supposed to indicate in another type of face, and the eyes below were grey and steadfast. toftrees stared at people with tremendous gravity. only those who realised the shrewd emptiness behind them were able to discern what some one had once called their flickering "r.s.v.p. expression"--that latent hope that his vis-à-vis might not be finding him out after all! "i mean it," toftrees said in his resonant, and yet quiet voice. "there really is no reason, mr. ingworth, why you should not be making an income of at least eight or nine hundred a year in twelve months' time." "herbert has helped such a lot of boys," said mrs. toftrees, confidentially, to her host, although there was a slight weariness in her voice, the suggestion of a set phrase. "but who is mr. dickson ingworth? what has he done?--he is quite good-looking, don't you think?" "oh, a boy, a mere boy!" the big red-faced publisher purred in an undertone. "lothian brought him to me first in hanover square. in fact, lothian asked if he might bring him here to-night. we are doing a little book of his--the first novel he will have had published." mrs. toftrees pricked up her ears, so to say. she was really the business head of the toftrees combination. her husband did the ornamental part and provided the red-hot plots, but it was she who had invented and carried out the "note," and it was she who supervised the contracts. as mr. amberley was well aware, what this keen, pretty and well-dressed little woman didn't know about publishing was worth nothing whatever. "oh, really," she said, in genuine surprise. "rather unusual for you, isn't it? is the boy a genius then?" amberley shook his head. he hated everything the worthy toftrees wrote--he had never been able to read more than ten lines of any of the half-dozen books he had published for them. but the hanover square side of him had a vast respect for the large sums the couple charmed from the pockets of the public no less than the handsome percentage they put into his own. and a confidential word on business matters with a pretty and pleasant little woman was not without allurement even under the waggon-roof itself. "not at all. not at all," he murmured into a pretty ear. "we are not paying the lad any advance upon royalties!" he laughed a well-fed laugh. "ince and amberley's list," he continued, "is accepted for itself!" mrs. toftrees smiled back at him. "_of course_," she murmured. "but i wasn't thinking of the financial side of it. why? . . . why are you departing from your usual traditions and throwing the shadow of your cloak over this fortunate boy?--if i may ask, of course!" "well," amberley answered, and her keen ear detected--or thought that she detected--a slight reluctance in his voice. . . . "well, lothian brought him to me, you know." mrs. toftrees' face changed and amberley saw it. she was looking down the table to where lothian was sitting. her face was a little flushed, and the expression upon it--though not allowed to be explicit--was by no means agreeable. "lothian's work is very wonderful," she said--and there was a question in her voice "--you think so, mr. amberley?" bryanstone square, the dining room, asserted itself. truth to tell, amberley felt a little uncomfortable and displeased with himself. the fun of the dinner table--the cigarette moment--had rather escaped him. he had got young people round him to-night. he wanted them to be jolly. he had meant to be a good host, to forget his dignities, to unbend and be jolly with them--this fiction-mongering woman was becoming annoying. "i certainly do, mrs. toftrees," he replied, with dignity, and a distinct tone of reproof in his voice. mrs. toftrees, the cool tradeswoman, gave the great man a soothing smile of complete understanding and agreement. mr. amberley turned to a girl upon his left who had been taken in by dickson ingworth and who had been carrying on a laughing conversation with him during dinner. she was a pretty girl, a friend of his daughter muriel. he liked pretty girls, and he smiled half paternally, half gallantly at her. "won't you have another cigarette, miss wallace?" he said, pushing a silver box towards her. "they are supposed to be rather wonderful. my cousin eustace amberley is in the egyptian army and an aide-de-camp to the khedive. the khedive receives the officers every month and every one takes away a box of five hundred when they leave the palace--his highness' own peculiar brand. these are some of them, which eustace sent me." "may i?" she answered, a rounded, white arm stretched out to the box. "they certainly are wonderful. i have to be content with virginian at home. i buy fifty at a time, and a tin costs one and threepence." she lit it delicately from the little methyl lamp he passed her, and the big man's kind eyes rested on her with appreciation. she was, he thought, very like a madonna of donatello, which he had seen and liked in florence. the abundant hair was a dark nut-brown, almost chocolate in certain lights. the eyes were brown also, the complexion the true italian morbidezza, pale, but not pallid, like a furled magnolia bud. and the girl's mouth was charming--"delicious" was the word in the mind of this connoisseur. it was as clear-cut as that of a girl's face in a grecian frieze of honey-coloured travertine, there was a serene sweetness about it. but when she smiled the whole face was changed. the young brown eyes lit up and visited others with their own, as a bee visits flowers. the smile was radiant and had a conscious provocation in it. the paleness of the cheeks showed such tints of pearl and rose that they seemed carved from the under surface of a sea-shell. and, as amberley looked, wishing that he had talked more to her during dinner, startled suddenly to discover such loveliness, he saw her lips suddenly glow out into colour in an extraordinary way. it wasn't scarlet--unpainted lips are never really that--but of the veiled blood-colour that is warm and throbs with life; a colour that hardly any of the names we give to pigment can properly describe or fix. what did he know about her? he asked himself as she was lighting her second cigarette. hardly anything! she was a girl friend of his daughter's--they had been to the same school together at bath--an orphan he thought, without any people. she earned her own living--assistant librarian, he remembered, at old podley's library. yes, podley the millionaire nonconformist who was always endowing and inventing fads! and muriel had told him that she wrote a little, short stories in some of the women's papers. . . . "at any rate," he said, while these thoughts were flashing through his mind "you smoke as if you liked it! all the girls smoke now, muriel is inveterate, but i often have a suspicion that many of them do it because it's the fashion." rita wallace gave a wise little shake of her head. "oh, no," she answered. "men know so little about girls! you think we're so different from you in lots of things, but we aren't really. muriel and i always used to smoke at school--it doesn't matter about telling now, does it?" mr. amberley made a mock expression of horror. "good heavens!" he said, "what appalling revelations for a father to endure! i wish i had had an inkling of it at the time!" "you couldn't have, mr. amberley," she answered, and her smile was more provocative than ever, and delightfully naughty. "we used to do it in the bathroom. the hot vapour from the bath took all the smell of tobacco away. i discovered that!" "tell me some more, my dear. what other iniquities did you all perpetrate--and i thought muriel such a pattern girl." "oh, we did lots of things, mr. amberley, but it wouldn't be fair to give them away. we were little devils, nearly all of us!" she gave him a little parisian salute from the ends of her eyelids, instinct with a kind of impish innocence, the sort of thing that has an irresistible appeal to a middle-aged man of the world. "muriel!" mr. amberley said to his daughter, "miss wallace has been telling me dreadful things about your schooldays. i am grieved and pained!" muriel amberley was a slim girl with dark smouldering eyes and a faint enigmatic smile. her voice was very clear and fresh and there was a vibrant note in it like the clash of silver bells. she had been talking to mrs. toftrees, but she looked up as her father spoke. "don't be a wretch, cupid!" she said, to rita wallace over the table. "cupid? why cupid?" herbert toftrees asked, in his deep voice. "oh, it's a name we gave her at school," muriel answered, looking at her friend, and both girls began to laugh. mr. amberley re-engaged the girl in talk. "you have done some literary work, have you not?" he asked kindly, and in a lower voice. again her face changed. its first virginal demureness, the sudden flashing splendour of her smile, had gone alike. it became eager and wistful too. "you can't call it _that_, mr. amberley," she replied in a voice pitched to his own key. "i've written a few stories which have been published and i've had three articles in the saturday edition of the _westminster_--that's nearly everything. but i can't say how i love it all! it is delightful to have my work among books--at the podley library you know. i learned typewriting and shorthand and was afraid that i should have to go into a city office--and then this turned up." she hesitated for a moment, and then stopped shyly. he could see that the girl was afraid of boring him. a moment before, she had been perfectly collected and aware--a girl in his own rank of life responsive to his chaff. now she realised that she was speaking of things very near and dear to her--and speaking of them to a high-priest of those mysteries she loved--one holding keys to unlock all doors. he took her in a moment, understood the change of mood and expression, and it was subtle flattery. like all intelligent and successful men, recognition was not the least of his rewards. that this engaging child, even, knew him for what he was gave him an added interest in her. all muriel's girl friends adored him. he was the nicest and most generous of unofficial papas!--but this was different. "don't say that, my dear. never depreciate yourself or belittle what you have done. i suppose you are about muriel's age, twenty-one or two--yes?--then let me tell you that you have done excellently well." "that is kind of you." "no, it is sincere. no man knows how hard--or how easy--it is to succeed by writing to-day." she understood him in a moment. "only the other day, mr. amberley," she said, "i read stevenson's 'letter to a young gentleman who proposes to embrace the career of art.' and if i _could_ write feeble things to tickle feeble minds i wouldn't even try. it seems so, so low!" quite unconsciously her eye had fallen upon mrs. toftrees opposite, who was again chattering away to muriel amberley. he saw it, but gave no sign that he had done so. "keep such an ideal, my dear. whether you do small or great things, it will bring you peace of mind and dignity of conscience. but don't despise or condemn merely popular writers. in the kingdom of art there are many mansions you know." the girl made a slight movement of the head. he saw that she was touched and grateful at his interest in her small affairs, but that she wanted to dismiss them from his mind no less than from her own. "but i _am_ mad, crazy," she said, "about _other_ peoples' work, the big peoples' work, the work one simply can't help reverencing!" she had turned from him again and was looking down the table to where gilbert lothian was sitting. "yes," he answered, following the direction of her glance, "you are quite right _there_!" she flushed with enthusiasm. "i did so want to see him," she said. "i've hardly ever met any literary people at all before, certainly never any one who mattered. muriel told me that mr. lothian was coming; she loves his poems as much as i do. and when she wrote and asked me i was terribly excited. it's so good of you to have me, mr. amberley." her voice was touching in its gratitude, and he was touched at this damsel, so pretty, courageous and forlorn. "i hope, my dear," he said, "that you will give us all the pleasure of seeing you here very often." at that moment mrs. amberley looked up and her fine, shrewd eyes swept round the table. she was a handsome, hook-nosed dame, with a lavish coronet of grey hair, stately and kindly in expression, obviously capable of many tolerances, but with moments when "ne louche pas à la reine" could be very plainly written on her face. as she gathered up the three women and rose, mr. amberley knew in a moment that all was not quite well. no one else could have even guessed at it, but he knew. the years that had dealt so prosperously with him; fate which had linked arms and was ever debonnair, had greatly blessed him in this also. he worshipped this stately madam, as she him, and always watched her face as some poor fisherman strives to read the western sky. the door of the dining room was towards mrs. amberley's end of the table, and, as the ladies rose and moved towards it, gilbert lothian had gone to it and held it open. his table-napkin was in his right hand, his left was on the handle of the door, and as the women swept out, he bowed. herbert toftrees thought that there was something rather theatrical, a little over-emphasised, in the bow--as he regarded the poet, whom he had met for the first time that night, from beneath watchful eye-lids. and _did_ one bow? wasn't it rather like a scene upon the stage? toftrees, a quite well-bred man, was a little puzzled by gilbert lothian. then he concluded--and his whole thoughts upon the matter passed idly through his mind within the duration of a single second--that the poet was an intimate friend of the house. lothian was closing the door, and toftrees was sinking back into his chair, when the latter happened to glance at his host. amberley, still standing, was _watching_ lothian--there was no other word which would correctly describe the big man's attitude--and toftrees felt strangely uneasy. something seemed tapping nervously at the door of his mind. he heard the furtive knocking, half realised the name of the thought that timidly essayed an entrance, and then resolutely crushed it. such a thing was quite impossible, of course. the four men sat down, more closely grouped together than before. the coffee, which had been served by a footman, before the ladies had disappeared, was a pretence in cups no bigger than plovers' eggs. amberley liked the modern affectation of his women guests remaining at the table and sharing the joys of the after-dinner-hour. but now, the butler entered with larger cups and a tray of liqueurs, while the host himself poured out a glass of port and handed the old-fashioned cradle in which the bottle lay to young dickson ingworth on his right. that curly-headed youth, who was a pembroke man and knew the ritual of the johnsonian common room at oxford, gravely filled his own glass and pushed the bottle to herbert toftrees, who was in the vacated seat of his hostess, and pouring a little perrier water into a tumbler. the butler lifted the wicker-work cradle with care, passed behind toftrees, and set it before gilbert lothian. lothian looked at it for a moment and then made a decisive movement of his head. "thank you, no," he said, after a second's consideration, and in a voice that was slightly high-pitched but instinct with personality--it could never have been mistaken for any one else's voice, for instance--"i think i will have a whiskey and soda." toftrees, at the end of the table, within two feet of lothian, gave a mental start. the popular novelist was rather confused. a year ago no one had heard of gilbert lothian--that was not a name that counted in any way. he had been a sort of semi-obscure journalist who signed what he wrote in such papers as would print him. there were a couple of novels to his name which had obtained a sort of cult among minor people, and, certainly, some really eminent weeklies had published very occasional but signed reviews. as far as herbert toftrees could remember--and his jealous memory was good--lothian had always been rather small beer until a year or so back. and then "surgit amari"--the first book of poems had been published. in a single month lothian had become famous. for the ringing splendour of his words echoed in every heart. in this book, and in a subsequent volume, he had touched the very springs of tears. not with sentiment--with the very highest and most electric literary art--he had tried and succeeded in irradiating the happenings of domestic life in the light that streamed from the cross. ". . . thank you, no. i think i will have a whiskey and soda." chapter ii gravely unfortunate occurrence in mrs. amberley's drawing room "[greek: misô mnêmona sumpotên], procille." --_martial._ --"one should not always take after-dinner amenities au pied de la lettre." --_free translation._ toftrees, at the head of the table, shifted his chair a little so that he was almost facing gilbert lothian. lothian's arresting voice was quite clear as he spoke to the butler. "that's not the voice of a man who's done himself too well," the novelist thought. but he was puzzled, nevertheless. people like lothian behaved pretty much as they liked, of course. convention didn't restrain them. but the sudden request was odd. and there was that flourishing bow as the women left the room, and certainly amberley had seemed to look rather strangely at his guest. toftrees disposed himself to watch events. he had wanted to meet the poet for some time. there was a certain reason. no one knew much about him in london. he lived in the country and was not seen in the usual places despite his celebrity. there had been a good deal of surmise about this new star. lothian was like the photographs which had appeared of him in the newspapers, but with a great deal more "personality" than these were able to suggest. certainly no one looked less like a poet, though this did not surprise the popular novelist, in an age when literary men looked exactly like every one else. but there was not the slightest trace of idealism, of the "thoughts high and hard" that were ever the clear watchwords of his song. "a man who wears a mask," thought herbert toftrees with interest and a certain half-conscious fellow-feeling. the poet was of medium height and about thirty-five years of age. he was fat, with a broad-shouldered corpulence which would have been far less noticeable in a man who was a few inches taller. the clean-shaven face was fattish also, but there was, nevertheless, a curious suggestion of contour about it. it should have been a pure oval, and in certain lights it almost seemed that, while the fatness appeared to dissolve and fall away from it. it was a contour veiled by something that was, but ought not to have been, there. the eyes were grey and capable of infinite expression--a fact which always became apparent to any one who had been half an hour in his company. but this feature also was enigmatic. for the most part the eyes seemed to be working at half-power, not quite doing or being what one would have expected of them. the upper lip was short, and the mouth by far the most real and significant part of the face. it was small, but not too small, clearly and delicately cut though without a trace of effeminacy. in its mobility, its sensitive life, its approach to beauty, it said everything in the face. thick-growing hair of dark brown was allowed to come rather low over a high and finely modelled brow, hair which--despite a natural luxuriance--was cut close to the sides and back of the head. such was toftrees' view of gilbert lothian, and it both had insight and was fair. no one can be a toftrees and the literary idol of thousands and thousands of people without being infinitely the intellectual superior of those people. the novelist had a fine brain and if he could have put a tenth of his observation and knowledge upon paper, he might have been an artistic as well as a commercial success. but he was hopelessly inarticulate, and æsthetic achievement was denied him. there was considerable consolation in the large income which provided so many pleasures and comforts, but it was bitter to know--when he met any one like lothian--that if he could appreciate lothian thoroughly he could never emulate him. and it was still more bitter to be aware that men like lothian often regarded his own work as a mischief and dishonour. toftrees, therefore, watched the man at his side with a kind of critical envy, mingled with a perfectly sincere admiration at the bottom of it all. he very soon became certain that something was wrong. his first half-thought was a certainty now. something that some one had said to him a week ago at a savage club dinner--one of those irresponsible but dangerous and damaging remarks which begin, "d'you know, i'm told that so and so--" flashed through his mind. "are you in town for long, mr. lothian?" he asked. "you don't come to town often, do you?" "no, i don't," lothian answered. "i hate london. a damnable place i always think." the other, so thorough a londoner, always getting so much--in every way--out of his life in london, looked at the speaker curiously, not quite knowing how to take him. lothian seemed to see it. he had made the remark with emphasis, with a superior note in his voice, but he corrected himself quickly. it was almost as though toftrees' glance had made him uneasy. his face became rather ingratiating, and there was a propitiatory note in his voice when he spoke again. he drew his chair a little nearer to the other's. "i knew too much of london when i was a young man," he went on with an unnecessarily confidential and intimate manner. "when i came down from oxford first, i was caught up into the 'new' movement. it all seemed very wonderful to me then. it did to all of us. we divorced art from morals, we lived extraordinary lives, we sipped honey from every flower. most of the men of that period are dead. one or two are insane, others have gone quite under and are living dreadful larva-like lives in obscene hells of the body and soul, of which you can have no conception. but, thank god, i got out of it in time--just in time! if it hadn't been for my dear wife . . ." he paused. the sensitive lips smiled, with an almost painful tenderness, a quivering, momentary effect which seemed grotesquely out of place in a face which had become flushed and suddenly seemed much fatter. there was a horrible insincerity about that self-conscious smile--the more horrible because, at the moment, toftrees saw that lothian believed absolutely in his own emotion, was pleased with himself sub-consciously, too, and was perfectly certain that he was making a fine impression--pulling aside the curtain that hung before a beautiful and holy place! the smile lingered for a moment. the light in the curious eyes seemed turned inward complacently surveying a sanctuary. then there was an abrupt change of manner. lothian laughed. there was a snap in his laughter, which, toftrees was sure, was meant to convey the shutting down of a lid. "i like you," lothian was trying to say to him--the acquaintance of ten minutes!--"i can open my heart to you. you've had a peep at the poet's holy of holies. but we're men of the world--you and i!--enough of this. we're in society. we're dining at the amberleys'. our confidences are over!" "so you see," the _actual_ voice said, "i don't like london. it's no place for a gentleman!" lothian's laugh as he said this was quite vague and silly. his hand strayed out towards the decanter of whiskey. his face was half anxious, half pleased, wholly pitiable and weak. his laugh ended in a sort of bleat, which he realised in a moment and coughed to obscure. there was a splash and gurgle as he pressed the trigger of the syphon. intense disgust and contempt succeeded toftrees' first amazement. so this, after all the fuss, was gilbert lothian! the man had talked like a provincial yokel, and then fawned upon him with his sickly, uninvited confidences. he was drunk. there was no doubt about that. he must have come there drunk, or nearly so. the last half hour had depressed the balance, brought out what was hidden, revealed the fellow's state. "if it hadn't been for my dear wife!"--the tout! how utterly disgusting it was! toftrees had never been drunk in his life except at a bump-supper at b.n.c.--his college--nearly fifteen years ago.--the shocking form of coming to the amberleys' like this!--he was horribly upset and a little frightened, too. he remembered where he was--such a thing was an incredible profanation _here_! . . . he heard a quiet vibrant voice speaking. he looked up. gilbert lothian was leaning back in his chair, holding a newly-lighted cigarette in a steady hand. his face was absolutely composed. there was not the slightest hint that it had been bloated and unsteady the minute before. intellect and strength--strength! that was the incredible thing--lay calmly over it. the skin, surely it _had_ been oddly blotched? was of an even, healthy-seeming tint. a conversation between the poet and his host had obviously been in progress for several minutes. toftrees realised that he had been lost in his own thoughts for some time--if indeed this scene was real at all and he himself were sober! ". . . i don't think," lothian was saying with precision, and a certain high air which sat well upon him--"i don't think that you quite see it in all its bearings. there must be a rough and ready standard for ordinary work-a-day life--that i grant. but when you penetrate to the springs of action----" "when you do that," amberley interrupted, "naturally, rough and ready standards fall to pieces. still we have to live by them. few of us are competent to manipulate the more delicate machinery! but your conclusion is--?" "--that hypocrisy is the most misunderstood and distorted word in our mother tongue. the man whom fools call hypocrite may yet be entirely sincere. lofty assertions, the proclamation of high ideals and noble thoughts may at the same time be allied with startling moral failure!" amberley shook his head. "it's specious," he replied, "and it's doubtless highly comforting for the startling moral failure. but i find a difficulty in adjusting my obstinate mind to the point of view." "it _is_ difficult," lothian said, "but that's because so few people are psychologists, and so few people--the priests often seem to me less than any one--understand the meaning of christianity. but because david was a murderer and an adulterer will you tell me that the psalms are insincere? surely, if all that is good in a man or woman is to be invalidated by the presence of contradictory evil, then beelzebub must sit enthroned and be potent over the affairs of men!" mr. amberley rose from his chair. his face had quite lost its watchful expression. it was genial and pleased as before. "king david has a great deal to answer for," he said. "i don't know what the unorthodox and the 'live-your-own-life' school would do without him. but let us go into the drawing room." with his rich, hearty laugh echoing under the waggon roof, the big man thrust his arm through lothian's. "there are two girls dying to talk to the poet!" he said. "that i happen to know! my daughter muriel reads your books in bed, i believe! and her friend miss wallace was saying all sorts of nice things about you at dinner. come along, come along, my dear boy." the two men left the dining room, and their voices could be heard in the hall beyond. toftrees lingered behind for a moment with young dickson ingworth. the boy's face was flushed. his eyes sparkled with excitement and the three glasses of champagne he had drunk at dinner were having their influence with him. he was quite young, ingenuous, and filled with conceit at being where he was--dining with the amberleys, brought there under the ægis of gilbert lothian, chatting confidentially to the great herbert toftrees himself! his immature heart was bursting with pride, pol roger, and satisfaction. he hadn't the least idea of what he was saying--that he was saying something frightfully dangerous and treacherous at least. "i say, mr. toftrees, isn't gilbert splendid? i could listen to him all night. he talks like that to me sometimes, when he's in the mood. it's like walter pater and dr. johnson rolled into one. and then he sort of punctuates it with something dry and brown and freakish--like heine in the 'florentine nights'!" with all his eagerness to hear more--the quiet malice in him welling up to understand and pin down this gilbert lothian--toftrees was forced to pause for a moment. he knew that he could never have expressed himself as this enthusiastic and excited boy was able to do. ingworth was a pupil then! lothian could inspire, and was already founding a school . . . "you know mr. lothian very well, i suppose?" "oh, yes. i go and stay with gilbert in the country a lot. i'm nearly always there! i am like a brother to him--he was an only child, you know. but isn't he wonderful?" "marvellous!" toftrees chuckled as he said the word. he couldn't help it. misunderstood as his chuckle was, it did the trick and brought confidence in full flood from the careless and excited boy. "yes, and i know him so well! hardly any one knows him so well as i do. every one in town is crying out to find out all about him, and i'm really the only one who knows . . ." he looked towards the door. thoughts of the two pretty girls beyond flushed the wayward, wine-heated mind. "i'm going to have a liqueur brandy," toftrees said hastily--he had taken nothing the whole evening--"won't you, too?" "now you'd never think," ingworth said, sipping from his tiny glass, "that at seven o'clock this evening prince and i--prince is the valet at gilbert's club--could hardly wake him up and get him to dress?" "no!" "it's a fact though, mr. toftrees. we had the devil of a time. he'd been out all day--it was bovril with lots of salt in it that put him right. as a matter of fact--of course, this is quite between you and me--i was in a bit of a funk that it was coming over him again at dinner. stale drunk. you know! i saw he was paying a lot of compliments to mrs. amberley. at first she didn't seem to understand, and then she didn't quite seem to like it. but i was glad when i heard him ask the man for a whiskey and soda just now. i know his programme so well. i was sure that it would pull him together all right--or at least that number two would. i suppose you saw he was rather off when the ladies had gone and you were talking to him?" "well, i wasn't sure of course." "i was, i know him so well. gilbert's father was my father's solicitor--one of the old three bottle men. but when gilbert collared number two just now i realised that it would be quite all right. you heard him with mr. amberley just now? splendid!" "yes. and now suppose we go and see how he's getting on in the drawing room," said herbert toftrees with a curious note in his voice. the boy mistook it for anxiety. "oh, he'll be as right as rain, you'll find. it comes off and on in waves, you know," he said. toftrees looked at the youth with frank wonder. he spoke in the way of use and wont, as if he were saying nothing extraordinary--merely stating a fact. the novelist was really shocked. personally, he was the most temperate of men. he was _homme du monde_, of course. he touched upon life at other points than the decorous and above-board. he had known men, friends of his own, go down, down, down, through drink. but here, with these people, it was not the same. in bohemia, in raffish literary clubs and the reprobate purlieus of fleet street, one expected this sort of thing and accepted it as part of the _milieu_. under the waggon roof, at amberley's house, where there were charming women, it was shocking; it was an outrage! and the frankness of this well-dressed and well-spoken youth was disgusting in its very simplicity and non-moral attitude. toftrees had gathered something of the young man's past during dinner. was this, then, what one learnt at eton? the novelist was himself the son of a clergyman, a man of some family but bitter poor. he had been educated at a country grammar school. his wife was the youngest daughter of a gloucestershire baronet, impoverished also. neither of them had enjoyed all that should have been theirs by virtue of their birth, and the fact had left a blank, a slight residuum of bitterness and envy which success and wealth could never quite smooth away. "well, it doesn't seem to trouble you much," he said. ingworth laughed. he was unconscious of his great indiscretion, frothy and young, entirely unaware that he was giving his friend and patron into possibly hostile hands and providing an opportunity for a dissection of which half london might hear. "gilbert's quite different from any one else," he said lightly. "he is a genius. keats taking pepper before claret, don't you know! one must not measure him by ordinary standards." "i suppose not," toftrees answered drily, reflecting that among the disciples of a great man it was generally the judas who wrote the biography--"let's go to the drawing room." as they went out, the mind of the novelist was working with excitement and heat. he himself was conscious of it and was surprised. his was an intellect rather like dry ice. very little perturbed it as a rule, yet to-night he was stirred. wonder was predominant. physically, to begin with, it was extraordinary that more drink should sober a man who a moment before had been making exaggerated and half-maudlin confidences to a stranger--in common with most decent living people, toftrees knew nothing of the pathology of poisoned men. and, then, that sobriety had been so profound! clearly reasoned thought, an arresting but perfectly sane point of view, had been enunciated with lucidity and force of phrase. disgust, the keener since it was more than tinged by envy, mingled with the wonder. so the high harmonies of "surgit amari" came out of the bottle after all! toftrees himself had been deeply moved by the poems, and yet, he now imagined, the author was probably drunk when he wrote them! if only the world knew!--it _ought_ to know. blackguards who, for some reason or other, had been given angel voices should be put in the pillory for every one to see. hypocrite! . . . ingworth opened the door of the drawing room very quietly. music had begun, and as he and toftrees entered, muriel amberley was already half way through one of the preludes of chopin. mrs. amberley and mrs. toftrees were sitting close together and carrying on a vigorous, whispered conversation, despite the music. mr. amberley was by himself in a big arm-chair near the piano, and lothian sat upon a settee of blue linen with rita wallace. as he sank into a chair toftrees glanced at lothian. the poet's face was unpleasant. when he had been talking to amberley it had lighted up and had more than a hint of fineness. now it was heavy again, veiled and coarsened. lothian's head was nodding in time to the music. one well-shaped but rather red hand moved restlessly upon his knee. the man was struggling--toftrees was certain of it--to appear as if the music was giving him intense pleasure. he was thinking about himself and how he looked to the other people in the room. drip, drip, drip!--it was the sad, graceful prelude in which the fall of rain is supposed to be suggested, the hot steady rain of the mediterranean which had fallen at majorca ever so many years ago and was falling now in sound, though he that caught its beauty was long since dust. drip, drip!--and then the soft repetition which announced that the delicate and lovely vision had reached its close, that the august grey harmonies were over. for a moment, there was silence in the drawing room. muriel's white fingers rested on the keys of the piano, the candles threw their light upwards upon the enigmatic maiden face. her father sighed quietly--happily also as he looked at her--and the low buzz of mrs. amberley's and mrs. toftrees' talk became much more distinct. suddenly gilbert lothian jumped up from the settee. he hurried to the piano, his face flushed, his eyes liquid and bright. it was consciously and theatrically done, an exaggeration of his bow in the dining room--not the right thing in the very least! "oh, thank you! _thank you!_" he said in a high, fervent voice. "how wonderful that is! and you played it as crouchmann plays it--the _only_ interpretation! i know him quite well. we had supper together the other night after his concert, and he told me--no, that won't interest you. i'll tell you another time, remind me! now, _do_ play something else!" he fumbled with the music upon the piano with tremulous and unsteady hands. "ah! here we are!" he cried, and there was an insistent note of familiarity in his voice. "the book of valses! you know the twelfth of course? tempo giusto! it goes like this . . ." he began to hum, quite musically, and to wave his hands. muriel amberley glanced quickly at her father and there was distress in her eyes. amberley was standing by the piano in a moment. he seemed very much master of himself, serene and dominant, by the side of gilbert lothian. his face was coldly civil and there was disgust in his eyes. "i don't think my daughter will play any more, mr. lothian," he said. an ugly look flashed out upon the poet's face, suspicion and realisation showed there for a second and passed. he became nervous, embarrassed, almost pitiably apologetic. the savoir-faire which would have helped some men to take the rebuke entirely deserted him. there was something assiduous, almost vulgar, a frightened acceptance of the lash indeed, which immensely accentuated the sudden _défaillance_ and break-down. in the big drawing room no one spoke at all. then there was a sudden movement and stir. gilbert lothian was saying good-night. he had remembered that he really had some work to do before going to bed, some letters to write, as a matter of fact. he was shaking hands with every one. "i do hope that i shall have the pleasure of hearing you play some more chopin before long, miss amberley! thank you so much mrs. amberley--i'm going to write a poem about your beautiful dining room. i suppose we shall meet at the authors' club dinner on saturday, mr. toftrees?--so interested to have met you at last." . . . the people in the drawing room heard him chattering vivaciously to mr. amberley, who had accompanied his departing guest into the hall. no one said a single word. they heard the front door close, and the steps of the master of the house as he returned to them. they were all waiting. when amberley came in he made a courtly attempt at ignoring what had just occurred. the calm surface of the evening had been rudely disturbed--yes! for once even an amberley party had gone wrong--there was to be no fun from this meeting of young folk to-night. but it was mrs. amberley who spoke. she really could not help it. mrs. toftrees had been telling her of various rumours concerning gilbert lothian some time before the episode at the piano, and with all her tolerance mrs. amberley was thoroughly angry. that such a thing should have happened in her house, before muriel and her girl friend--oh! it was unthinkable! "so mr. gilbert lothian has gone," she said with considerable emphasis. "yes, dear," mr. amberley answered as he sat down again, willing enough that nothing more should be said. but it was not to be so. "we can never have him here again," said the angry lady. amberley shook his head. "very unfortunate, extremely unfortunate," he murmured. "i cannot understand it. such a thing has never happened here before. now i understand why mr. lothian hides himself in the country and never goes about. _il y avait raison!_" "i don't say that genius is any _excuse_ for this sort of thing," amberley replied uneasily, "and lothian has genius--but one must take more than one thing into consideration . . ." he paused, not quite knowing how to continue the sentence, and genuinely sorry and upset. his glance fell upon herbert toftrees, and he had a sort of feeling that the novelist might help him out. "don't you think so, toftrees?" he asked. the novelist surveyed the room with his steady grey eyes, marshalling his hearers as it were. "but let us put his talent aside," he said. "think of him as an ordinary person in our own rank of life--mrs. amberley's guest. certainly he could not have taken anything here to have made him in the strange state he is in. surely he must have known that he was not fit to come to a decent house." "i shall give his poems away," muriel amberley said with a little shudder. "i can never read them again. and i did love them so! i wish you hadn't asked mr. lothian to come here, father." "there is one consolation," said mrs. toftrees in a hard voice; "the man must be realising what he has done. he was not too far gone for that!" a new voice broke into the talk. it came from young dickson ingworth who had slid into the seat by rita wallace when lothian went to the piano. he blushed and stammered as he spoke, but there was a fine loyalty in his voice. "it seems rather dreadful, mrs. amberley," he said, quite thinking that he was committing literary suicide as he did so. "it is dreadful of course. but gilbert _is_ such a fine chap when he's--when he's, all right! you can't think! and then, 'surgit amari'! don't let's forget he wrote 'the loom'--'delicate threads! o fairest in life's tissue,'" he quoted from the celebrated verse. then rita wallace spoke. "he is great," she said. "he is manifesting himself in his own way. that is all. to me, at any rate, the meeting with mr. lothian has been wonderful." mrs. toftrees stared with undisguised dislike of such assertions on the part of a young girl. but mrs. amberley, always kind and generous-hearted, had been pleased and touched by dickson ingworth's defence of his friend and master. she quite realised what the lad stood to lose by doing it, and what courage on his part it showed. and when rita wallace chimed in, mrs. amberley dismissed the whole occurrence from her mind as she beamed benevolently at the two young people on the sofa. "let's forget all about it," she said. "mrs. toftrees, help me to make my husband sing. he can only sing one song but he sings it excellently--'in cellar cool'--just the thing for a hot night. joseph! do as i tell you!" the little group of people rearranged themselves, as muriel sat down at the piano to accompany her father. "le metier de poëte laisse a désirer," toftrees murmured to his wife with a sneer which almost disguised the atrocious accent of his french. chapter iii shame in "the roaring gallant town" --"is it for this i have given away mine ancient wisdom and austere control?" "'très volontiers' repartit le démon. 'vous aimez les tableaux changeants; je veux vous contenter.'" --_le sage._ when the door of the house had closed after him, and with mr. amberley's courteous but grave good-night ringing in his ears, gilbert lothian walked briskly away across the square. it was very hot. the july sun, that tempest of fire which had passed over the town during the day, had sucked up all the sweetness from the air and it was sickly, like air under a blanket which has been breathed many times. as it often is in july, london had been delightfully fresh at dawn, when the country waggons were bringing the sweet-peas and the roses to market, and although his mind had not been fresh as the sun rose over st. james' where he was staying, lothian had enjoyed the early morning from the window of his bedroom. it had been clear and scentless, like a field with the dew upon it, in the country from which he had come five days ago. now his mind was like a field in the full sun of noon, parched and full of hot odours. he was perfectly aware that he had made a _faux pas_. how far it went, whether he was not exaggerating it, he did not know. the semi-intoxicated person--more especially when speech and gait are more or less normal, as in his case--is quite incapable of gauging the impression he makes on others. in lax and tolerant circles where no outward indication is given him of his state, he goes on his way pleased and confident that he has made an excellent impression, sure that no one has found him out. but his cunning and self-congratulation quite desert him when he is openly snubbed or reproved. "was i very far gone?" he afterwards asks some confidential friend who may have been present at his discomfiture. and whatever form the answer may take, the drunkard is abnormally interested in all the details of the event. born of the toxic influences in his blood, there is a gaunt and greedy vanity which insists upon the whole scene being re-enacted and commented upon. lothian had no one to tell him how far he had gone, precisely what impression he had made upon his hosts and their guests. he felt with a sense of injury that dickson ingworth ought to have come away with him. the young man owed so much to him in the literary life! it was a treachery not to have come away with him. as he got into a cab and told the man to drive him as far as piccadilly circus, he was still pursuing this train of thought. he had taken ingworth to the amberleys', and now the cub was sitting in the drawing room there, with those charming girls! quite happy and at ease. he, gilbert lothian himself! was out of it all, shut out from that gracious house and those cultured people whom he had been so glad to meet. . . . again he heard the soft closing of the big front door behind him, and his skin grew hot at the thought. the remembrance of amberley's quiet courtesy, but entire change of manner in the hall, was horrible. he felt as if he had been whipped. the dread of a slight, the fear of a quarrel, which is a marked symptom of the alcoholic--is indeed his torment and curse through life--was heavy upon lothian now. the sense of impotence was sickening. what a weak fool he had been to break down and fly like that. to run away! what faltering and trembling incapacity for self-assertion he had shown. he had felt uneasy with the very servant who gave him his opera hat! and what had he done after all? very little, surely. that prelude of chopin always appealed to him strongly. he had written about it; crouchmann had played it privately for him and pointed out new beauties. certainly he had only met miss amberley for the first time that night and he may have been a little over-excited and effusive. his thoughts--a poet's thoughts after all--had come too quickly for ordered expression. he was too celtic in manner, too artistic for these staid cold folk. he tried to depreciate the amberleys in his thoughts. amberley was only a glorified trades-man after all! lothian tried to call up within him that bitter joy which comes from despising that which we really respect or desire. "yes! damn the fellow! he _lived_ on poets and men of letters--privileged people, the salt of the earth, the real forces of life!" and yet he ought to have stayed on and corrected his mistake. he had made himself ridiculous in front of four women--he didn't care about the men so much--and that was horribly galling. as the cab swung down regent street, lothian was sure that if his nerves had not weakened for a moment he would never have given himself away. it was, he felt, very unfortunate. he knew, as he could not help knowing, that not only had he a mind and power of a rare, high quality, but that he possessed great personal charm. what he did not realise was how utterly all these things fled from him when he was not quite sober. certainly at this moment he was unable to comprehend it in the slightest. realisation would come later, at the inevitable punishment hour. he over-paid his cabman absurdly. the man's quick and eager deference pleased him. he was incapable of any sense of proportion, and he felt somehow or other reinstated in his own opinion by this trivial and bought servility. he looked at his watch. it was not very much after ten, and he became conscious of how ridiculously early he had fled from the amberleys'. but as he stood on the pavement--in the very centre of the pleasure-web of london with its roar and glare--he pushed such thoughts resolutely from him and turned into a luxurious "lounge," celebrated among fast youths and pleasure-seekers, known by an affectionate nick-name at the universities, in every regimental mess or naval ward-room in great britain. as he went down a carpeted passage he saw himself in the long mirror that lined it. he looked quite himself, well-dressed, prosperous, his face under full control and just like any other smart man about town. at this hour, there were not many people in the place. it would become crowded and noisy later on. the white and green tiles of the walls gleamed softly in the shaded lights, electric fans and a huge block of ice upon a pedestal kept the air cool. there were palms which refreshed the eye and upon the porphyry counter at which he was served there was a mass of mauve hydrangea in a copper bowl. he drank a whiskey and soda very quickly--that was to remove the marked physical exhaustion which had begun to creep over him--ordered another and lit a cigarette. his nerves responded with magical quickness to the spirit. all day long he had been feeding them with the accustomed poison. the strain of the last half hour had used up more vitality than he had been aware. for the second time that night--a night so infinitely more eventful than he knew--he became master of himself, calm, happy, even, in the sense of power returned, and complete correspondence with his environment. the barmaid who served him was--like most of these slaves of the still in this part of london--an extremely handsome girl. her face was painted--all these girls paint their faces--but it was done merely to conceal the pallor and ravages wrought upon it by a hard and feverish life. lothian felt an immense pity for her, symbolic as she was of all the others, and the few remarks he made were uttered with an instinctive deference and courtesy. he had been married seven years before this time, and had at once retired into the country with his wife where, by slow degrees, he had felt his way to the work which had at last made him celebrated. but in the past he had known the under side of london well and had chosen it deliberately as his _milieu_. it had in no way been forced upon him. struggling journalist and author as he was, good houses had been open to him, for he was a member of a well-known family and had made many friends at oxford. but the other life was so much easier! if its pleasures were coarse, they were hot and strong! for years, as many a poet has done before him, he lived a bad life, tolerant of vice in himself and others, kind, generous often, but tossed and worn by his passions--rivetting the chains link by link upon his soul--until he had met and married mary. and no one knew better than he the horrors of life behind the counters of a bar. he turned away, as two fresh-faced lads came noisily up to the counter, turned away with a sigh of pity. he was quite unconscious--though he would have been interested at the psychological fact--that the girl had wondered at his manner and thought him affected and dull. she would much rather have been complimented and chaffed. she understood that. life is full of anodynes. mercifully enough the rank and file of the oppressed are not too frequently conscious of their miseries. there is a half-truth in the philosophy of dr. pangloss, and if fettered limbs go lame, the chains are not always clanking. the poor barmaid went to bed that night in an excellent humour, for the two lads lothian had seen brought her some pairs of gloves. and if she had known of lothian's pity she would have resented it bitterly. "like the fellow's cheek," she would have said. lothian, as he believed, had absolutely recovered his own normal personality. he admitted now, as he left the "lounge," that he had not been his true self at the amberleys'. "at this moment, as i stand here," he said to himself, "'i am the captain of my soul,'" not in the least understanding that when he spoke of his own "soul" he meant nothing more than his five senses. the man thought he was normal. he was not. on the morrow, when partially recovering from the excesses of to-day, there was a possibility that he might become normal--for a brief period, and until he began to drink again. for him to become really himself, perfectly clean from the stigmata of the inebriate mind, would have taken him at least six months of total abstinence from alcohol. lothian's health, though impaired, had by no means broken down. a strong constitution, immense vitality, had preserved it, up to this point. at this period, though a poisoned man, an alcoholised body, there were frequent times of absolute normality--when he was, for certain definite spaces of time by the clock, exactly as he would have been had he never become a slave to alcohol at all. as he stood upon the pavement of piccadilly circus, he felt and believed that such a time had come now. he was mistaken. all that was happening was that there was a temporary lull in the ebb and flow of alcohol in his veins. the brain cells were charged up to a certain point with poison. at this point they gave a false impression of security. it must be remembered, and it cannot be too strongly insisted on, that the mental processes of the inebriate are _definite_, and are _induced_. the ordinary person says of an inebriate simply that "he is a drunkard" or "he drinks." whether he or she says it with sympathetic sorrow, or abhorrence, the bald statement rarely leads to any further train of thought. it is very difficult for the ordinary person to realise that the mental processes are _sui generis_ a kingdom--though with a debased coinage--which requires considerable experience before it can always be recognised from the ring of true metal. alcoholism so changes the mental life of any one that it results in an ego which has _special_ external and internal characteristics. and so, in order to appreciate fully this history of gilbert lothian--to note the difference between the man as he was known and as he really was--it must always be kept in mind under what influence he moves through life, and that his steps have strayed into a dreadful kingdom unknown and unrealised by happier men. he had passed out of one great palace of drink. had he been as he supposed himself to be, he would have sought rest at once. he would have hurried joyously from temptation in this freedom from his chains. instead of that, the question he asked himself was, "what shall i do now?" the glutton crams himself at certain stated periods. but when repletion comes he stops eating. the habit is rhythmic and periodically certain. but the drunkard--his far more sorrowful and lamentable brother--has not even this half-saving grace. in common with the inordinate smoker--whose harm is physical and not mental--the inebriate drinks as long as he is able to, until he is incapacitated. "where shall i go now?" if god does indeed give human souls to his good angels, as gardens to weed and tend, that thought must have brought tears of pity to the eyes of the august beings who were battling for gilbert lothian. their hour was not yet. they were to see the temple of the paraclete fall into greater ruin and disaster than ever before. the splendid spires and pinnacles, the whole serene beauty of soul and body which had made this temple a high landmark when god first built it, were crumbling to decay. deep down among the strong foundations the enemy was at work. the spire--the "central-one"--which sprang up towards heaven was deeply undermined. still--save to the eyes of experts--its glory rose unimpaired. but it was but a lovely shell with no longer any grip upon its base of weakened will. and the bells in the wind-swept height of the tower no longer rang truly. on red dawns or on pearl-grey evenings the message they sent over the country-side was beginning to be false. there was no peace when they tolled the angelus. in oriel or great rose-window the colour of the painted glass was growing dim. the clear colour was fading, though here and there it was shot with baleful fire which the artist had never painted there,--like the blood-shot eyes of the man who drinks. a miasmic mist had crept into the noble spaces of the aisles. the vast supporting pillars grew insubstantial and seemed to tremble as the vapour eddied round them. a black veil was quickly falling before the figure above the altar, and the seven dim lamps of the sanctuary burned with green and flickering light. the bells of a great mind's message, which had been cast with so much silver in them, rang an increasing dissonance. the trumpets of the organ echoed with a harsh note in the far clerestory; the flutes were false, the _dolce_ stop no longer sweet. the great pipes of the pedal organ muttered and stammered in their massive voices, as if dark advisers whispered in the ear of the musician who controlled them. lothian had passed from one great palace of drink. "where shall i go?" he asked himself again, and immediately his eye fell upon another, the brilliant illumination upon the façade of a well-known "theatre of varieties." his hot eye-balls drank in the flaring signs, and telegraphed both an impulse and a memory to his brain. "yes!" he said. "i will revisit the 'kingdom.' there is still two thirds of an hour before the performance will be over. how well i used to know it! what a nightly haunt it used to be. surely, even now, there will be some people i know there? . . . i'll go in and see!" as lothian turned in at the principal doors of the most celebrated music hall in the world, his pulses began to quicken. --the huge foyer, the purple carpets, with their wreaths of laurel in a purple which was darker yet, the gleaming marble stairway, with its wide and noble sweep, how familiar all this dignified splendour was, he thought as he entered the second palace of drink which flung wide its doors to him this night. a palace of drink and lust, vast and beautiful! for those who brought poisoned blood and vicious desires within its portals! here, banished from the pagan groves and the sunlit temples of their ancient glory--banished also from the german pine-woods where heine saw them in pallid life under the full moon--venus, bacchus and silenus held their unholy court. for all the world--save only for a few wise men to whom they were but symbols--venus and bacchus were deities once. when the acropolis cut into the blue sky of hellas with its white splendour these were the chiefest to whom men prayed, and they ruled the lives of all. and, day by day, new temples rise in their honour. once they were worshipped with blythe body and blinded soul. now the tired body and the besotted brain alone pay them reverence. but great are their temples still. such were the thoughts of lothian--lothian the christian poet--and he was pleased that they should come to him. it showed how detached he was, what real command he had of himself. in the old wild days, before his marriage and celebrity, he had come to this place, and other places like it, to seize greedily upon pleasure, as a monkey seizes upon a nut. he came to survey it all now, to revisit the feverish theatre of his young follies with a bland olympian attitude. the poison was flattering him now, placing him upon a swaying pedestal for a moment. he was sucking in the best honey that worthless withering flowers could exude, and it was hot and sweet upon his tongue. --were any of the old set there after all? he hoped so. not conscious of himself as a rule, without a trace of "side" and detesting ostentation or any display of his fame, he wanted to show off now. he wanted to console himself for his rebuff at the house in bryanstone square. vulgar and envious adulation, interested praise from those who were still in the pit of obscurity from which his finer brain had helped him to escape, would be perfectly adequate to-night. after the episode at the amberleys', coarse flattery heaped on with a spade would be as ice in the desert. and he found what he desired. he passed slowly through the promenade, towards the door which led to the stalls, and the great lounge where, if anywhere, he would find people who knew him and whom he knew. in a slowly-moving tide, like a weed-clogged wave, the women of the town ebbed and flowed from horn to horn of the moon-shaped crescent where they walk. against the background of sea-purple and white, their dresses and the nodding plumes in their great hats moved languorously. sickly perfumes, as from the fan of an odalisque, swept over them. many beautiful painted masks floated through the scented aisle of the theatre, as they had floated up and down the bronze corridors of the temple of diana at ephesus in the far off days of st. paul. a mourning thrill shivered up from the violins of the orchestra below; the 'cellos made their plaint, the cymbals rattled, the kettledrums spoke with deep vibrating voices. . . . so had the sistra clanked and droned in the old temple of bronze and silver before the altars of artemis,--the old music, the eternal faces, ever the same! a chill came to lothian as he passed among these "estranged sad spectres of the night." he thought suddenly of his pure and gracious wife, alone in their little house in the country, he thought of the canaanitish harlot whose soul was the first that christ redeemed. for a moment or two his mind was like a darkened room in which a magic lantern is being operated and fantastic, unexpected pictures flit across the screen. and then he was in the big lounge. yes, some of them were there!--a little older, perhaps, to his now much more critical eye, somewhat more bloated and coarsened, but the same still. "good heavens!" said a huge man with a blood red face, startling in its menace, like a bully looking into an empty room, "why, here's old lothian! where in the world have _you_ sprung from, my dear boy?" lothian's face lit up with pleasure and recognition. the big evil-faced man was paradil, the painter of pastels, a wayward drunken creature who never had money in his pocket, but that he gave it away to every one. he was a man spoken of as a genius by those who knew. his rare pictures fetched large prices, but he hardly ever worked. he was soaked, dissolved and pickled in brandy. a little elderly man like a diseased doll, came up and began to twitter. he was the husband of a famous dancer who performed at the theatre, a wit in his way, an adroit manager of his wife's affairs with other men, a man with a mind as hollow and bitter as a dried lemon. he was a well-known figure in upper bohemia. his name was constantly mentioned in the newspapers as an entrepreneur of all sorts of things, a popular, evil little man. "ah, lothian," he said, as one or two other people came up and some one gave a copious order for drinks, "still alternating between the prayer book and the decanter? i must congratulate you on 'surgit amari.' i read it, and it made me green with envy to think how many thousand copies you had sold of it." "you've kept the colour, edgar," he said, looking into the little creature's face, but the words stabbed through him, nevertheless. how true they were--superficially--how they expressed--and must express--the view of his old disreputable companions. they envied him his cunning--as they thought it--they would have given their ears to have possessed the same power of profitable hypocrisy--as they thought it. meanwhile they spoke virtuously to each other about him. "gilbert lothian the author of 'surgit amari'!--it would make a cat laugh!" one can't throw off one's past like a dirty shirt--gilbert began to wish he had not come here. "i ought never to be seen in these places," he thought, forgetting that it was only the sting of the little man's malice that provoked the truth. but paradil, kindly paradil with the bully's face and a heart bursting with dropsical good nature, speedily intervened. other men joined the circle; "rounds of drinks" were paid for by each person according to the ritual of such an occasion as this. in half an hour, when the theatre began to empty, lothian was really, definitely drunk. hot circles expanded and contracted within his head. his face became pale and very grave in expression, as he walked out into leicester square upon paradil's supporting arm. there was a portentous dignity in his voice as he gave the address of his club to the cabman. as he shook hands with paradil out of the window, tears came into his eyes, as he thought of the other's drunken, wasted life. "if i can only help you in any way, old chap--" he tried to say, and then sank back in oblivion upon the cushions. he was quite unconscious of anything during the short drive to st. james's street, and when the experienced cabman pulled down the flag of the taximeter and opened the door, he sat there like a log. the x club was not fashionable, but it was reputable and of old establishment. it was fairly easy to get into--for the people whom the election committee wanted there--exceedingly difficult for the wrong set of people. very many country gentlemen--county people, but of moderate means--belonged to it; the major-general and the admiral were not infrequent visitors; several judges were on the members' list and looked in now and again. as far as the arts went, they were but poorly represented. there was no sparkle, no night-life about the place. the painters, actors and writers preferred a club that began to brighten up about eleven o'clock at night--just when the x became dreary. not more than a dozen suppers were served at the staid building in st. james' on any night of the week. nevertheless, it was not an "old fogies'" club. there was a younger leaven working there. a good many younger men who also belonged to much more lively establishments found refreshment, quiet, and just the proper kind of atmosphere at the x. for young men of good families who were starting life in london, there was a certain sense of being at home there. the building had, in the past, been the house of a celebrated duke and something of comely and decent order clung to every room now. and, more than anything, the servants suggested a country or london house of name. mullion, the grey-haired head-porter who sat in his glass box in the hall was a kind and assiduous friend to every one. he was reported to be worth ten thousand pounds and his manners were perfection. he was one of the most celebrated servants in london. his deference was never tinged by servility. his interest in your affairs and wants was delicately intimate and quite genuine. great people had tried to lure this good and shrewd person from the x club, but without success. for seventeen years he had sat there in the hall, and, if fate was kind, he meant to sit there for seventeen years more. all the servants of the x were like that. the youngest waiter in the smoking-rooms, library or dining room wore the face of a considerate friend, and prince, the head bed-room valet was beloved by every one. members of other clubs talked about him and mullion, the head-porter, with sighs of regret. when gilbert lothian's taxi-cab stopped at the doors of the x club, he was expected. dickson ingworth, who was a member also, had been there for a few moments, expectant of his friend. old mullion had gone for the night, and an under-porter sat in the quiet hall, but prince, the valet, stood talking to ingworth at the bottom of the stair-case. "it will be perfectly all right," said prince. "i haven't done for mr. lothian for all these years without understanding his ways. drunk or sober, sir, mr. gilbert is always a gentleman. he's the most pleasant country member in the club, sir! i understand his habits thoroughly, and he would bear me out in that at any time. i'm sure of that! his bowl of soup is being kept hot in the kitchens now. the small flask of cognac and the bottle of worcester sauce are waiting on his dressing table. and there's a half bottle of champagne, which he takes to put him right when i call him in the morning, already on the ice!" "i know he appreciates it, prince. he can't say enough about how you look after him when he's in london." "i thoroughly believe it, sir," said the valet, "but it gives me great pleasure to hear it from you, who are such a friend of mr. gilbert's. i may say, sir--if i may tell you without offence--that i'm not really on duty to-night. but when i see how mr. gilbert was when he was dressing for dinner, i made up my mind to stay. james begged me to go, but i would not. james is a good lad, but he's no memory for detail. he'd have forgot the bi-carbonate of soda for mr. gilbert's heart-burn, or something like that--i think that's him, sir!" ingworth and the valet hurried over the hall as the inner doors swung open and lothian entered. his shirt-front was crumpled. his face was white and set, his eyes fixed and sombre. it was as though the master of the house had returned, when the poet entered. the under-porter hurried out of his box, prince had the coat and opera hat whisked away in a moment. in a moment more, like some trick of the theatre and surrounded by satellites, lothian was mounting the stairs towards his bedroom. they put him in an arm-chair--these eager servitors! the electric lights in the comfortable bed-room were all switched on. the servant who loved him, not for his generosity, but for himself, vied with the young gentleman who loved him for somewhat different reasons. both of them had been dominated by this personality for so long, that there was no sorrow nor pity in their minds. the faithful man of the people who had served gentlemen so long that any other life would have been impossible to him, the boy of position, united in their efforts of resuscitation. the master's mind must be called back! the master's body must be succoured and provided for. the two were there to do it, and it seemed quite an ordinary and natural thing. "you take off his boots, prince, and i'll manage his collar." "yes, sir." "managed it?" "a little difficulty with the left boot, sir. the instep is a trifle swelled." "good heavens! i do hope he's not going to have another attack of gout!" "i hope not, sir. but you can't ever tell. it comes very sudden. like a thief in the night, as you may say." "there! i've broken the stud, but that doesn't matter. his neck's free." "and his boots are off. there's some one knocking. it's his soup. would you mind putting his bed-room slippers on, sir? i don't like the cold for his feet." prince hurried to the door, whispered a word or two to whoever stood outside, and returned with a tray. "another few minutes," said prince, as he poured the brandy and measured the worcester sauce into the silver-plated tureen; "another few minutes and he'll be beautiful! mr. gilbert responds to anything wonderful quick. i've had him worse than this at half past twelve, and at quarter to one he's been talking like an archdeacon. you persuade him, sir." "here's your soup, gilbert!" "_it's all nothing, there's nobody, all nothing--dark--_," the voice was clogged and drowsy--if a blanket could speak, the voice might have been so. the boy looked hopelessly at the valet. prince, an alert little man with a yellow vivacious countenance and heavy, black eye-brows, smiled superior. "when mr. gilbert really have copped the brewer--excuse the expression, sir--he generally says a few words without much meaning. leave him to me if you please." he wheeled a little table up to the arm-chair, and caught hold of lothian's shoulder, shaking him. "what? what? my soup?" "yessir, your soup." the man's recuperative power was marvellous. his eyes were bleared, his face white, the wavy hair fell in disorder over his forehead. but he was awake and conscious. "thank you, prince," he said, in his clear and sweet voice, "just what i wanted. hullo, dicker! you here?--i'll just have my soup. . . ." he grasped the large ladle-spoon with curious eagerness. it was as though he found salvation in the hot liquid--pungent as it was with cognac and burning spices. he lapped it eagerly, coughing now and again, "gluck-gluck" and then a groan of satisfaction. the other two watched him with quiet eagerness. there was nothing horrible to them in this. neither the valet nor the boy understood that they were "lacqueys in the house of shame." as they saw their muddy magic beginning to succeed, satisfaction swelled within them. gilbert lothian's mind was coming back. they were blind to the hideous necessity of their summons, untouched by disgust at the physical processes involved. "will you require me any more, sir?" "no, thank you, prince." "very good, sir. i have made the morning arrangements." "good-night, prince." the bedroom door closed. lothian heaved himself out of his chair. he seemed fifteen years older. his head was sunk forward upon his shoulders, his stomach seemed to protrude, his face was pale, blotchy, debauched, and appeared to be much larger than it ordinarily did. with a slow movement, as if every joint in his body creaked and gave him pain, he began to pace slowly up and down the room. dickson ingworth sat on the bed and watched him. yet as the man moved slowly up and down the room, collecting the threads of his poisoned consciousness, slowly recapturing his mind, there was something big about him. each heavy, semi-drunken movement had force and personality. the lowering, considering face spelt power, even now. he stopped in front of the bed. "well, dicker?" he said--and suddenly his whole face was transformed. ten years fell away. the smile was sweet and simple, there was a freakish humour in the eyes,--"well, dicker?" the boy gave a great gasp of pleasure and relief. the "gude-man" had come home, the powerful mind-machine had started once more, the house was itself again! "how are you, gilbert?" "very tired. horrible indigestion and heartburn, legs like lumps of brass and a nasty feeling as if an imprisoned black-bird were fluttering at the base of my spine! but quite sober, dicker, now!" "nor were you ever anything else, in bryanstone square," the young man said hotly. "it _was_ such a mistake for you to go away, gilbert. so unnecessary!" "i had my reasons. was there much comment? now tell me honestly, was it very noticeable?--what did they say?" "no one said anything at all," ingworth answered, lying bravely. "the evening didn't last long after you went. every one left together--i say you ought to have seen the toftrees' motor!--and i drove miss wallace home, and then came on here." "a beautiful girl," lothian said sleepily. "i only talked to her for a minute or two and she seemed clever and sympathetic. certainly she is lovely." ingworth rose from the bed. he pointed to the table in the centre of the room. "well, i'm off, old chap," he said. "as far as miss wallace goes, she's absolutely gone on you! she was quoting your verses all the way in the cab. she lives in a tiny flat with another girl, and i had to wait outside while she did up that parcel there! it's 'surgit amari,' she wants you to sign it for her, and there's a note as well, i believe. good-night." "good-night, dicker. i can't talk now. i'm beautifully drunk to-night . . . look me up in the morning. then we'll talk." the door had hardly closed upon the departing youth, when lothian sank into a heap upon his chair. his body felt like a quivering jelly, a leaden depression, as if hell itself weighed him down. mechanically, and with cold, trembling hands, he opened the brown paper parcel. his book, in its cover of sage-green and gold, fell out upon the table. he began to read the note--the hand-writing was firm, clear and full of youth--so he thought. the heading of the note paper was embossed-- "the podley pure literature institute. _dear mr. lothian_: i am so proud and happy to have met you to-night. i am so sorry that i had not the chance of telling you what your poems have been to me--though of course you must always be hearing that sort of thing. so i will say nothing more, but ask you, only, to put your name in my copy of "surgit amari" and thus make it more precious--if that is possible--than before. mr. ingworth has kindly promised to give you this note and the book. yours sincerely, rita wallace." the letter dropped unheeded upon the carpet. thick tears began to roll down lothian's swollen face. "mary! mary!" he said aloud, "i want you, i want you!" . . . "darling! there is no one else in the world but you." he was calling for his wife, always so good and kind to him, his dear and loving wife. at the end of his long foul day, lived without a thought of her, he was calling for her help and comfort like a sick child. poisoned, abject, he whined for her in the empty room. --she was sleeping now, in the quiet house by the sea. the horn of a motor-car tooted in st. james' street below--she was sleeping now in her quiet chamber. tired lids covered the frank, blue eyes, the thick masses of yellow hair were straying over the linen pillow. she was dreaming of him as the night wind moaned about the house. he threw himself upon his knees by the bedside, in dreadful drunken surrender and appeal. --"father help me! jesus help me!--forgive me!"--he dare not invoke the holy ghost. he shrank from that. the father had made everything and had made him. he was a beneficent, all-pervading force--he would understand. the lord jesus was a familiar figure. he was human; man as well as god. one could visualise him. he had cared for harlots and drunkards! . . . far down in his sub-conscious brain lothian was aware of what he was doing. he was whining not to be hurt. his prayers were no more than superstitious garrulity and fear. something--a small despairing part of himself, had climbed upon the roof of the dishonoured temple and was stretching trembling hands out into the overwhelming darkness of the night. "father, help me! help me _now_. let me go to bed without phantoms and torturing ghosts round me! do not look into the temple to-night. i will cleanse it to-morrow. i swear it! father! help me!" he began to gabble the lord's prayer--that would adjust things in a sort of way--wouldn't it? there was a promise--yes--one said it, and it charmed away disaster. half-way through the prayer he stopped. the words would not come to him. he had forgotten. but that no longer distressed him. the black curtain of stupor was descending once more. "'thy will be done'--what _did_ come after? well! never mind!" god was good. he'd understand. after all, intention was everything! he scrambled into bed and instantly fell asleep, while the lovely face of rita wallace was the first thing that swam into his disordered brain. in a remote village of norfolk, not a quarter of a mile from gilbert lothian's own house, a keen-faced man with a pointed beard, a slim, alert figure like an osier wand and steely brown eyes was reading a thin green-covered book of poems. now and then he made a pencil note in the margin. his face was alive with interest, almost with excitement. it was as though he were tracing something, hunting for some secret hidden in the pages. more than once he gave a subdued exclamation of excitement. "it's there!" he said at last to himself. "yes, it is there! i'm sure of it, quite apart from what i've heard in the village since i came." he rose, put the book carefully away in a drawer, locked it, blew out the lamp and went to bed. three hundred miles away in cornwall, a crippled spinster was lying on her bed of pain in a cottage by the sea. the windows of her room were open and the moon-rays touched a white crucifix upon the wall to glory. the atlantic groundswell upon the distant beaches made a sound as of fairy drums. the light of a shaded candle fell upon the white coverlet of her bed, and upon a book bound in sage-green and gold which lay there. the woman's face shone. she had just read for the fifth time, the poem in "surgit amari" which closes the first book. the lovely lines had fused with the holy rapture of the night, and her patient soul was caught up into commune with jesus. "soon! oh, soon! dear lord," she gasped, "i shall be with thee for ever. if it seemeth good to thee, let me be taken up on some such tranquil night as this. and i thank thee, dear saviour, that thou hast poured thy grace into the soul of gilbert lothian, the poet. through the white soul of this poet, which thou hast chosen to be a conduit of comfort to me, my night pain has gone. i am drawn nearer to thee, jesus who hast died for me! "lord, bless the poet. pour down thy grace upon him. guard him, shield him and his for ever more. and, sweet lord, if it be thy will, let me meet him in heaven and tell him of this night--this fair night of summer when i lay dying and happy and thinking kindly and with gratitude of him. "jesus!" chapter iv lothian goes to the library of pure literature "i only knew one poet in my life: and this, or something like it, was his way." --_browning._ the podley library in west kensington was a fad of its creator. mr. john podley was a millionaire, or nearly so, and the head of a great pin-making firm. he was a public man of name and often preached or lectured at the species of semi-religious conversations known as "pleasant sunday afternoons." sunday afternoon in england--though mr. podley called it "the sabbath"--represented the pin-maker's mental attitude with some fidelity. all avenues to pleasure of any kind were barred, though possibly amusement is the better word. a heavy meal clogged the intellect, an imperfectly-understood piece of jewish religious politics was made into an idol, erected and bowed down to. mr. podley had always lived with the fear of god, and the love of money constantly before his eyes. "sabbath observance" and total abstinence were his watchwords, and he also took a great interest in "literature" and had pronounced views upon the subject. these views, like everything else about him, were confined and narrow, but were the sincere convictions of an ignorant, pompous and highly successful man. he had, accordingly, established the podley free library in kensington in order to enunciate and carry out his ideas in a practical way. what he considered--and not without some truth--the immoral tendency of modern writers, was to be sternly prohibited in his model house of books. nothing should repose upon those shelves which might bring a blush to the cheeks of the youngest girl or unsettle the minds of any one at all. "very unsettling" was a great phrase of this good, wealthy and stupid old man. he really was good, vulgar and limited as were all his tastes, and he had founded the library to the glory of god. he found it impossible--when he became confronted by the task--to choose the books himself, as he had hoped to do. he had sat down one day in his elegant private sanctum at tulse hill with sheets of foolscap before him, to make a first list. the "pilgrim's progress" was written down immediately in his flowing clerkly hand. then came the novels of mrs. henry wood. "get all of this line" was the pencilled note in the margin. memories of his youth reasserted themselves, so "jessica's first prayer," "ministering children" and "a peep behind the scenes" were quickly added, and then there had been a pause. "milton, shakespeare and the bible?" said mrs. podley, when consulted. "they're pure enough, i'm sure!" and the pin-maker who had never been to a theatre, nor read a line of the great poets, wrote them down at once. as for the bible, it was god's word, and so "would never bring a blush" etc. it was mr. podley's favourite reading--the old testament more than the new--and if any one had scoffed at the idea that the almighty had written it himself, in english and with a pen, podley would have thought him infidel. the millionaire was quite out of date. the modern expansions of thought among the non-conformists puzzled him when he was (rarely) brought into any contact with them. his grim, uncultured beliefs were such as exist only in the remote granite meeting houses of the cornish moors to-day. "i see that bunyan wrote another book, the 'holy war,'" said mr. podley to his wife. "i never heard of it and i'm a bit doubtful. i don't like the name, shall i enter it up or not?" the good lady shook her head. "not knowing, can't say," she remarked. "but if it is the same man who wrote 'pilgrim's progress' then it's sure to be pure." "it's the 'holy' that puzzles me," he answered, "that's a papist word--'holy church' 'holy mary' and that." "then i should leave it out. but i tell you what, my dear, choosing these books'll take up a lot of your valuable time, especially if each one's got to be chose separate. you might have to read a lot of them yourself, there's no knowing! and why should you?" "why, indeed?" said mr. podley. "but i don't see how----" "well, i do then, john. it's as simple as a. b. c. you want to establish a library in which there shan't be any wicked books." "that is so?" "yes, my dear. pure, absolutely pure!" "well, then, have them bought for you by an expert--like you do the metal for the pins. you don't buy metal yourself any more. you pay high wages to your buyers to do it. treat the books the same!" "there's a good deal in that, dear. but i want to take a _personal_ interest in the thing." "now don't you worry, john. 'tis right that we should all be conscientious in what we do, but them as has risen to the head of great businesses haven't any further call to trouble about minor details. i've heard you say it many a time. and so with this library. you're putting down the money for it. you've bought the land and the building is being erected. you've got to pay, and if that isn't taking a personal interest then i'm sure i don't know what is!" "you advise me?--" "to go to the best book shop in london--there's that place opposite the royal academy that is the king's booksellers. see one of the partners. explain that you want the library furnished with pure books, state the number you want, and get an estimate of the cost. it's their business to know what books are pure and what aren't--and, besides, at a shop like that, they wouldn't sell any wicked books. it would be beneath them." podley had taken his wife's advice. he had "placed an order" for an initial ten thousand pure volumes with the firm in question, and the thing was done. the shop in piccadilly was a very famous shop indeed. it had all the _cachet_ of a library of distinction. its director was a man of letters and an anthologist of repute. the men who actually sold the books were gentlemen of knowledge and taste, invaluable to many celebrated authors, mines of information, and all of them trained bibliophiles. "now look here, lewis," the director said, to one of his assistants, an oxford man who translated flaubert and wrote introductions to english editions of gautier in his spare time, "you've got to fill a library with books." mr. lewis smiled. "funny thing they should come to us," he said; "i should have thought they would have bought them by the yard, in the strand. what is it, american millionaire? question of bindings and wall-space?" "no, not quite," said the director. "it's mr. podley, the pin millionaire and philanthropist. he's founding a public library of 'pure literature' in kensington. the only books he has ever read, apparently, are the books of the old testament. he was with me for an hour this morning. take a week and make a list. he wants ten thousand volumes for a start." the eyes of mr. lewis gleamed. "certainly!" he said. "it will be quite delightful. it seems almost too good to be true. but will the list be scrutinised before the books are actually bought? won't this podley man take another opinion?" the director shook his head. "he doesn't know any one who could give him one," he answered. "it would only mean engaging another expert, and he's quite satisfied with our credentials. 'pure books'! good lord! i wonder what he thinks he means. i should like to get inside that man's head and poke about for an hour. it would be interesting." mr. lewis provided for the kensington institute exactly the library he would have acquired for himself, if he could have afforded it. the result, for all real lovers of books, would have been delightful if any of them had known of it but the name frightened them away, and they never went there. members of the general public were also deterred by the name of the institute--though for quite different reasons--and folk of mr. podley's own mental attitude were too illiterate (like him), to want books--"pure" or otherwise--at all. podley, again after consultation with his wife, appointed a clerk from the birmingham pin works as chief librarian. "it won't matter," that shrewd woman had pointed out, "if he knows anything about literature or not! his duties will be to supervise the lending of the books, and a soft job he'll have too!" a mr. hands had been elected, a limpet-like adherent to podley's particular shibboleth, and a person as anæmic in mind and body as could have been met with in a month of search. an old naval pensioner and his wife were appointed care-takers, and a lady-typist and sub-librarian was advertised for, at thirty-five shillings a week. rita wallace had obtained the post. hardly any one ever came to the library. in the surge and swell of london life it became as remote as an island in the hebrides. podley had endowed it--it was the public excuse for the knighthood he purchased in a year from the liberal party--and there it was! rita wallace had early taken entire charge and command of her nominal superior--the whiskered and despondent mr. hands. the girl frightened and dazzled him. as he might have done at the foot of etna or stromboli, he admired, kept at a distance, and accepted the fact that she was there. the girl was absolute mistress of the solitary building full of beautiful books. sometimes hands, whose wife was dying of cancer, and who had no stated times of attendance, stayed away for several days. snell and his wife--the care-takers--adored her, and she lunched every day with them in the basement. mrs. snell often spoke to her husband about "miss rita." "if that there hands could be got rid of," she would say, "then it would be ever so much better. poor silly thing that he is, with his face like the underside of a dover sole! and two hundred a year for doing nothing more than what miss rita tells him! he calls her 'miss'--as i'm sure he should, her being a commander's daughter and him just a dirty birmingham clerk! miss rita ought to have his two hundred a year, and him her thirty-five shillings a week. thirty-five shillings! what is it for an officer's daughter, that was born at malta too! i'd like to give that old podley a piece of my mind, i would!" "in the first place he never comes here. in the second place he's not a gentleman himself, so that don't mean nothing to him," snell would say on such occasion of talk. he had been at the bombardment of alexandria and could not quite forget it. . . . "now if it was lord charles what had started this--'--magneta--' library, then _'e_ could 'a' been spoke to--podley!" it was four o'clock on the afternoon of the day after the amberleys' dinner-party. hands was away, staying beside his sick wife, and rita wallace proposed to close the library. she had just got rid of the curate from a neighbouring church, who had discovered the deserted place--and her. snubbed with skill the boy had departed, and as no one else would come--or if they did what would it matter?--rita was about to press the button of the electric bell upon her table and summon snell. the afternoon sunlight poured in upon the books from the window in the dome. the place was cool and absolutely silent, save for the note a straying drone-bee made as his diapason swept this way and that. even here, as the sunlight fell upon the dusty gold and crimson of the books, summer was calling. the bee came close to rita and settled for a moment upon the sulphur-coloured rose that stood in a specimen-glass upon her writing-table. he was a big fellow, and like an alderman in a robe of black fur, bearing a gold chain. "oh, you darling!" rita said, thinking of summer and the outside world. she would go to kensington palace gardens where there were trees, green grass and flowers. "oh, you darling! you're a little jewel with a voice, a bit of the real country! i believe you've actually been droning over the hop-fields of kent!" she looked up suddenly, her eyes startled, the perfect mouth parted in vexation. some one was coming, she might be kept any length of time--for the rare visitors to the podley library were generally bores. . . . that silly curate might have returned! the outer swing doors thudded in the hall, there was the click of a latch as the inner door was pushed open and gilbert lothian entered. the girl recognised him at once, as he made his way under the dome towards her, and her eyes grew wide with wonder. lothian was wearing a suit of grey flannel, his hair as he took off his straw hat was a little tumbled, his face fresh and clear. "how do you do," he said, with the half-shy deference that came into his voice when he spoke to women. "it was such a lovely afternoon that i thought i might venture to bring back your copy of 'surgit amari' myself." rita wallace flashed her quick, humorous smile at him--the connection between the weather and his wish was not too obvious. but her smile had pleasure of another kind in it also--he had wanted to see her again. lothian laughed boyishly. "i wanted to see you again," he said, in the very words of her thought. the girl was flattered and delighted. there was not the slightest hint of self-consciousness in her manner, and the flush that came into her cheeks was one of pure friendliness. "it is very kind of you to take so much trouble," she said in a voice as sweet as singing. "i was so disappointed when you had to go away so early from the amberleys' last night." she did not say the conventional thing about how much his poems had meant to her. girls that he met--and they were not many--nearly always did, and he always disliked it. such things meant nothing when they came as part of ordinary greetings. they jarred upon the poet's sensitive taste and he was pleased and interested to find that this girl said nothing of the sort. "well, here's the book," he said, putting it down upon rita's table. "and i've written in it as you asked. do you collect autographs then?" she shook her head. "oh, dear me no," she answered. "i think it's silly to collect anything that isn't beautiful. but, in a book one values, and with which one has been happy, the author's autograph seems to add to the book's personality. but i hate crazes. there are lots of girls that wait outside stage doors to make popular actors write in their books. did you know that, mr. lothian?" "no, i didn't! little donkeys! hard lines on the actors. even i get a few albums now and then, and it's a fearful nuisance. i put off writing in them and they lie about my study until they get quite a battered and dissipated look." "and then?" "oh, i write in them. it would be impolite not to, you know. i have an invaluable formula. i write, 'dear madam, i am very sorry to say that i cannot accede to your kind request for an autograph. the practice is one with which i am not in sympathy. yours very truly, gilbert lothian!'" "that's splendid, mr. lothian, better than sending a telegram, as some one did the other day to an importunate girl. they were talking about it last night at the amberleys' after you left. i suppose that's really what gave me courage to send 'surgit amari' by mr. dickson ingworth. mr. and mrs. toftrees said that they always write passages from their novels when they are asked." "perhaps that's a good plan," lothian answered, listening to the "viols in her voice" and not much interested in the minor advertising arts of the toftrees. what rare maiden was this with whom he was chatting? what had made him come to see her after all?--a mere whim doubtless--but was he not about to reap a very delightful harvest? for he was conscious of immense pleasure as he stood there talking to her, and there was excitement mingled with the pleasure. it was as though he was advancing upon a landscape, and at every step something fresh and interesting came into view. "i _did_ so dislike mr. toftrees and his wife," rita said with a mischievous little gleam in her eyes. "did you?" he asked in surprise. "they seemed very pleasant people i thought." "i expect that was because you thought nothing whatever about them, mr. lothian," she replied. he realised the absolute truth of the remark in a flash. the novelists had in no way interested him. he had not thought about these people at all--this maiden was a psychologist then! there was something subtly flattering in what she had said. his point of view had interested the girl, she had discovered it, small and unimportant though it was. "but why did you dislike poor mr. toftrees?" he said, with an eminently friendly smile--already an unconscious note of intimacy had been sounded, he was interested to hear why she disliked the man, not the woman. "he is pompous and insincere," she replied. "he tries to draw attention to his great success, or rather his notoriety, by pretending to despise it. surely, it would be far more manly to accept the fact frankly, and not to hint that he could be a great artist if he could bring himself to do without a lot of money!" lothian wondered what had provoked this little outburst. it was quiveringly sincere, that he saw. his eyes questioned hers. "it's such dreadful appalling treacle they write! i saw a little flapper in the tube two days ago, with the toftrees' latest book--'milly mine.' her expression was ecstatic!" "for my part i think that's something to have done, do you know, to have taken that flapper out of the daily tube of her life into romance. heaven with electric lights and plush fittings is better than none at all. i couldn't grudge the flapper her ecstasy, nor mr. toftrees his big cheques. i should very much like to see the people in tubes reading my books--it would be good for them--and to pouch enormous cheques myself--would be good for me! but there must be toftrees sort of persons now that every one knows how to read!" "well, i'll let his work alone," she answered, "but i certainly do dislike him. he was trying to run your work down last night--though we wouldn't let him." so the secret was out now! lothian smiled and the quick, enthusiastic girl understood. a little ripple of laughter came from her. "yes, that's it," she cried. "he did all he could." "did he? confound him! i wonder why?" lothian asked the question with entire simplicity. subtle-minded and complex as he was, he was incapable of mean thoughts and muddy envy when he was not under the influence of drink. poisoned, alas, he was entirely different. all the evil in him rose to the surface. as yet it by no means obscured or overpowered the good, but it became manifest and active. in the case of this fine intellect and splendid artist, no less than in the worker in the slum or the labourer in the field, drink seemed an actual key to unlock the dark and secret doors of wickedness which are in every heart. some coiled and sleeping serpent within him, no less than in them, raised its head into baleful life and sudden enmity of good. a few nights ago, half intoxicated in a club--intoxicated in mind that is, for he was holding forth with a caustic bitterness and sharp brilliancy that had drawn a crowd around him--he had abused the work of herbert toftrees and his wife with contemptuous and venomous words. he was quite unconscious that he had ever done so. he knew nothing about the couple and had never read a line of their works. the subject had just cropped up somehow, like a bird from a stubble, and he had let fly. it was pure coincidence that he had met the novelists at the amberleys' and lothian had entirely forgotten that he had ever mentioned their work at the club. but the husband and wife had heard of it the next day, as people concerned always do hear these things, and neither of them were likely to forget that their books had been called "as flat as champagne in decanters," their heroines "stuffy" and that compared to even "--" and "--" they had been stigmatised as being as pawn-brokers are to bankers. lothian had made two bitter enemies and he had not the slightest suspicion of it. "i wonder why?" he said again. "i don't know the man. i've never done him any harm that i know of. but of course he has a right to his own opinions, and no doubt he really thinks----" "he knows nothing whatever about it," rita answered. "if a man like that reads poetry at all he has to do it in a prose translation! but i can tell you why--addison puts it far better than i can. i found the passage the other day. i'll show you." she was all innocent eagerness and fire, astonishingly sweet and enthusiastic as she hurried to a bookshelf and came back with a volume. following her slim finger, he read:-- "there are many passions and tempers of mankind, which naturally dispose us to depress and vilify the merit of one rising in the esteem of mankind. all those who made their entrance into the world with the same advantages, and were once looked on as his equals, are apt to think the fame of his merits a reflection on their own deserts. those, who were once his equals, envy and defame him, because they now see him their superior; and those who were once his superiors, because they look upon him as their equal." the girl was gazing at him in breathless attention, wondering whether she had done the right thing, hoping, indeed, that lothian would be pleased. he was both pleased and touched by this lovely eager little champion, so unexpectedly raised up to defend him. "thank you very much," he said. "how kind of you! my bruised vanity is now at rest. i am healed of my grievous wound! but this seems quite a good library. are you here all alone, does nobody ever come here? i always heard that the podley library was where the bad books went when they died. tell me all about it." his hand had mechanically slipped into his waistcoat and half withdrawn his cigarette case. he could never be long without smoking and he wanted a cigarette now more than ever. during a whole hour he had not had a drink. a slight suspicion of headache floated at the back of his head, he was conscious of something heavy at his right side. "do smoke," she said. "no one minds--there never is any one to mind, and i smoke here myself. mr. hands, the head librarian, didn't like it at first but he does what i tell him now. i'm the assistant librarian." she announced her status with genuine pride and pleasure, being obviously certain that she occupied a far from unimportant position in public affairs. lothian was touched at her simplicity. what a child she was really, with all her cleverness and quickness. he smoked and made her smoke also--"delicious!" she exclaimed with pretty greediness. "how perfectly sweet to be a man and able to afford ben ezra's number ." "how perfectly sweet!"--it was a favourite expression of rita's. he soon got to know it very well. he soon got to know all about the library and about her also, as she showed him round. she was twenty-one, only twenty-one. her father, a captain in the navy, had left her just sufficient money for her education, which had been at a first-class school. then she had had to be dependent entirely upon her own exertions. she seemed to have no relations and not many friends of importance, and she lived in a tiny three-roomed flat with another girl who was a typist in the city. she chattered away to him just as if he were a girl friend as they moved among the books, and it was nearly an hour before they left the library together. "and now what are you going to do?" "i must go home, mr. lothian," she said with a little sigh. "it has been so kind of you to come and see me. i was going to sit in kensington palace gardens for a little while, but i think i shall go back to the flat now. how hot it is! oh, for the sea, now, just think of it!" there was a flat sound in her voice. it lost its animation and timbre. he knew she was sorry to say good-bye to him, rather forlorn now that the stimulus and excitement of their talk was over. she was lonely, of course. her pleasures could be but few and far between, and at twenty-one, when the currents of the blood run fast and free, even books cannot provide everything. thirty-five shillings a week! he had been poor himself in his early journalistic days. it was harder for a girl. he thought of her sitting in kensington gardens--the pathetic and solitary pleasure the child had mapped out for herself! he could see the little three-roomed flat in imagination, with its girlish decorations and lack of any real comfort, and some appalling meal presently to be eaten, bread and jam, a lettuce! the idea came into his mind in a flash, but he hesitated before speaking. wouldn't she be angry if he asked her? he'd only met her twice, she was a lady. then he decided to risk it. "i wonder," he said slowly. "what are you wondering, mr. lothian?" --"if you realise how easy it is to be by the sea. i know it's cheek to ask you--or at least i suppose it is, but let's go!" "how do you mean, mr. lothian?" "let's motor down to brighton now, at once. let's dine at the metropole, and go and sit on the pier afterwards, and then rush home under the stars whenever we feel inclined. will you!" "how splendid!" she cried, "now! at once? get out of everything?" "yes, now. i am to be the fairy godmother. you have only to say the magic word, and i will wave my wand. the blue heat mists of evening will be over the ripe sussex cornfields, and we shall see the poppies drinking in the blood of the sinking sun with their burnt red mouths. and then, when we have dined, the moon will wash the sea with silver, the stars will come out like golden rain and the queen moon will be upon her throne! we shall see the long, lit front of brighton like a horned crescent of topaz against the black velvet of the downs. and while we watch it under the moon, the breeze shall bring us faint echoes of the fairy flutes from prospero's enchanted island--'but doth suffer a sea-change into something rich and strange--' and then the sea will take up the burthen 'ding-dong, ding-dong bell.' now say the magic word!" "there is magic in the magician's voice already, and i needs must answer. yes! and oh, yes, yes a thousand times!" "the commandments of convention mean nothing to you?" "they are the upper ten commandments, not mine." "then i will go and command my dragon. i know where you live. be ready in an hour!" "how perfectly, _perfectly_ sweet! and may we, oh, may we have a lobster mayonnaise for dinner?" chapter v "for the first time, he was going to have a girl friend" "across the hills, and far away beyond their utmost purple rim, and deep into the dying day the happy princess followed him." --_tennyson._ lothian went back to his club in a taxi-cab, telling the man to drive at top speed. on the way he ordered a motor-car to go to brighton and to call for him within twenty minutes. he was in a state of great exhilaration. he had not had such an adventure as this for years--if ever before. a girl so lovely, so clever, so young--and particularly of his own social rank--he had never met, save for a short space of time and under the usual social conditions which forbade any real intimacy. even in the days before his marriage, flirtations, or indeed any companionship, with girls who were not of his class had not attracted him. he had never, unlike other men no less brilliant and gifted than himself, much cared for even the innocent side of bohemian camaraderie with girls. and to have a girl friend--and such a girl as rita wallace--was a delightful prospect. he saw himself responding to all sorts of simple feminine confidences, exploring reverently the unknown country of the maiden mind, helping, protecting; unfolding new beauties for the young girl's delight. yes! he would have a girl friend! the thing should be ideal, pure and without a thought of harm. she understood him, she trusted herself to him at once and she should be repaid richly from the stores of his mind. none knew better than he what jewels he had to give to one who could recognise jewels when she saw them. he changed his hat for a cap and had a coat brought down from his bedroom. should he write a note to mary at home? he had not sent her more than two telegrams of the "all going splendidly, too busy to write," kind, during the five days he had been in london. he decided that he would write a long letter to-morrow morning. not to-night. to-night was to be one of pure, fresh pleasure. every prospect pleased. nothing whatever would jar. he was not in the mood to write home now--to compose details of his time in town, to edit and alter the true record for the inspection of loving eyes. "my darling!" he said to himself as he drank the second whiskey and soda which had been brought to him since he had come in, but there was an uncomfortable feeling in the back of his mind that the words did not ring true. more than ever exhilarated, as excited as a boy, he jumped into the motor-car when it arrived, and glided swiftly westwards, congratulating himself a dozen times on the idle impulse which had sent him to kensington. he began to wonder how it had come. the impulse to bring the book himself had been with him all day. it had taken him till lunch time at least to put himself in any way right--to _appear_ right even. with a sick and bitter mind he had gone through the complex physical ritual necessary after the night before--the champagne at eight, the turkish bath, the hair-dresser's in regent street where fast men slunk with hot and shaking hands to have the marks of their vices ironed out of their faces with vibrating hammers worked by electricity. all through the morning, the bitter, naked, grinning truth about himself had been horribly present--no new visitor, but the same leering ghost he knew so well. escape was impossible until the bestial sequence of his morning cure had run its course. coming down the bedroom stairs into the club there was the disgusting and anxious consciousness that his movements were automatic and jerky, the real fear of meeting any one--the longing to bolt upstairs again and hide. then a tremendous effort of will had forced him to go on. facial control was--as ever--the most difficult thing. when he passed the waiters in the smoking room he must screw his face into the appearance of absorbed thought, freeze the twitching mouth and the flickering eyes into immobility. he had hummed a little tune as he had sat down at a table and ordered a brandy and soda, starting as if from a reverie when it was brought him, and making a remark about the weather in a voice of effusive geniality which embarrassed the well-trained servant. by lunch time the convulsive glances in the mirror, the nervous straying of the hand to the hair, the see-saw of the voice had all gone. black depression, fear, self-pity, had vanished. the events of the night before became like a landscape seen through the wrong end of a telescope, far away, and as if they concerned some one quite other than himself. he had not exactly forgotten the shame of his behaviour at the amberleys' house. but, as he always did after events of this sort, and they were becoming far more general than he realised, he had pushed the thought away in some attic of the brain and closed the door. he would have these memories out some day--soon. it would not be pleasant, but it must of course be done. then he would put everything right with himself, destroy all these corpses, and emerge into the free sunlight for ever more. but not to-day. he must put himself _quite_ right to-day. when he _was_ right then he wouldn't have another drink all day. yes! then by to-morrow, after a quiet, pensive night, he would throw off all his habits as if he were throwing an old pair of gloves over a wall. he knew well what he could do! he knew himself better than any one else knew him. but not to-day. "inshallah bukra!"--"please god, to-morrow!" it had all seemed perfectly natural, though it happened over and over again, and to-morrow never came. he did not know that this was but one more definite symptom of his poisoned state, as definite as the shaking hand, the maudlin midnight invocations of god, the frequent physical nausea of the morning, even. and if the man is to be understood and his history to become real in all its phases, then these things must be set down truly and without a veil. it was a joy to watch her pleasure as they swung out of london in the twenty-horse power ford he had hired. she did not say much but leant back on the luxurious cushions by his side. there was a dream of happiness upon her face, and lothian also felt that he was living in a dream, that it was all part of the painted scenes of sleep. the early evening was still and quiet. the western sky, a faint copper-green with friths and locks of purple, was as yet unfired. in the long lights the landscape still retained its colour unaltered by the dying splendours of sunset. the engines of the car were running sweetly in a monotonous and drowsy hum, the driver sat motionless in front as they droned through the quiet villages and up and down the long white ribands of the road. it was an hour of unutterable content. once they stopped in a village and drew up before the inn. it was a lovely place. a bell was tolling for evensong in the grey church and they saw the vicar pass under the lych-gate with slow footsteps. one of the long, painted windows was caught by the sun and gleamed like a red diamond. the road fell to a pond where green water-flags were growing and waxen-white water-lilies floated. beyond it was a willow wood. the driver sat on a bench before the inn and drank his beer, but gilbert and rita passed through it into a garden that there was. the flowers were just beginning to cense the still air and the faint sound of a water-wheel down the river came to them--_tic, tac, lorelei!_ she would have milk, "milk that one cannot get in london," and even he asked for no poison in this tranquil garden. clematis hung the gables like tapestry of tyrian purple. there were beds of red crocketed hollyhock and a hedge of honeysuckle with a hundred yellow trumpet mouths. at their feet were the flowers of belamour. "men have died, trying to find this place which we have found," he said. a red-admiral floated by upon its fans of vermilion and black as gilbert quoted, and a faint echo from the water-mill answered him. _tic--tac--lorelei!_ "magician! half an hour ago we were in london!" "you are happy?" "i can't find anything to say--yet. it is perfect." she leant back with a deep sigh and closed her eyes, and he was well content to say nothing, for in all the garden she seemed to him the most perfect thing, rosa-amorosa, the queen of all the roses! it was as a flower he looked at her, no more. it was all a dream, of course. it had come in dream-fashion, it would go in the fashion of a dream. at that moment she was not a warm human girl with a lovely face. she was not the clever, lonely, subtle-simple maiden in the house of books. she was a flower he had met. his mind began to weave words, the shuttle to glide in the loom of the poet, but words came to him that were not his own. "come hither, child! and rest; this is the end of day, behold the weary west! "now are the flowers confest of slumber; sleep as they! come hither, child! and rest." and then he sighed, for he thought of the other poet who had written those lines and of what had brought him to his dreadful death. why did thoughts like these come into the flower garden? how true--even here--were the words he had put upon the title-page of the book which had made him famous-- "_say, brother, have you not full oft found, even as the roman did, that in life's most delicious cup surgit amari aliquid!_" the girl heard him sigh and turned quickly. she saw that her friend's face was overcast. it was so much to her, this moment, she was so happy since she had stepped from the hot streets of the city into fairyland with the magician, that there must be no single shadow. "come!" she said gaily, "this is perfect but there are other perfect things waiting. wave your wand again, prospero, and change the magic scene." lothian jumped up from his seat. "yes! on into the sunset. you are right. we must go before we are satisfied. that's the whole art of living--miranda!" her eyes twinkled with mischief. "how old you have grown all of a sudden," she said, but as they passed through the inn once more he thought with wonder that if six years were added to his age he might have been her father in very fact. many a man of forty-one or two had girls as old as she. he sent her to the motor, on pretence of stopping to pay for the milk, but in the little bar-parlour he hurriedly ordered whiskey--"a large one, yes, only half the soda." the landlord poured it out with great speed, understanding immediately. he must have been used to this furtive taking in of the fuel, here was another accustomed acolyte of alcohol. "next stop brighton, sir," he said with a genial wink. lothian's melancholy passed away like a stone falling through water as the car started once more. he said something wildly foolish and discovered, with a throb of amazement and recognition, that she could play! he had never met a girl before who could play, as he liked to play. there was a strain of impish, freakish humour in lothian which few people understood, which few _sensible_ people ever can understand. it is hardly to be defined, it seems incredibly childish and mad to the majority of folk, but it sweetens life to those who have it. and such people are very rare, so that when one meets another there is a surprised and delighted welcome, a freemason's greeting, a shout of joy in laughter land! "good heavens!" he said, "and you can play then!" there was no need to mention the name of the game--it has none indeed--but rita understood. her sweet face wrinkled into impish mischief and she nodded. "didn't you know?" "how could i possibly?" "no, you couldn't of course, but i never thought it of _you_." "nor i of you," he answered. "i'll test you. 'the cow is in the garden.'" "'the cat is in the lake,'" she answered instantly. "'the pig is in the hammock?'" "'what difference _does_ it make?'" she shouted triumphantly. for the rest of the drive to brighton their laughter never stopped. nothing draws a man and a woman together as laughter does--when it is intimate to themselves, a mutual language not to be understood of others. they became extraordinary friends, as if they had known each other from childhood, and the sunset fires in all their glory passed unheeded. although he could hear nothing of what they said, there was a sympathetic grin upon the chauffeur's face at the ringing mirth behind him. "it's your turn to suppose now, mr. lothian." "well--wait a minute--oh, let's suppose that mr. podley once wrote a moral poem--you to play!" rita thought for a minute or two, her lips rippling with merriment, her young eyes shining. a little chuckle escaped her, her shoulders began to shake and then she shrieked with joy. "i've got it, splendid! listen! it's to inculcate kindness to animals. "i am only a whelk, sir, though if you but knew, although i'm a whelk, sir, the lord made me too!" "magnificent!--your turn." "well, what will the title of the toftrees' next novel be?" "'cats' meat!'--i say, do you know that i have invented the one _quite_ perfect opening for a short story. you'll realise when you hear it that it stands alone. it's perfect, like giotto's campanile or 'the hound of heaven.'" "tell me quickly!" "mr. florimond awoke from a deep sleep. there was nobody there but the dog trust." "you are wonderful. i see it, of course. it's style itself! and how would you end the story? have you studied the end yet?" "yes. i worked at it all the time i was in italy last year. you shall hear that too. mr. florimond sank into a deep sleep. there was nobody there but the dog trust." . . . he told her of his younger days in london when he shared a flat with a brother journalist named passhe. "we lived the most delightful freakish lives you can imagine," he said. "when we came into breakfast from our respective bedrooms we had a ritual which never varied. we neither looked at each other nor spoke, but sat down opposite at the table. we each had our newspaper put in our place by the man who looked after us. we opened the papers and pretended to read for a moment. then basil looked over the top of his at me, very gravely. 'we live in stirring times, mr. lothian!' he would say, and i used to answer, 'indeed, mr. passhe, we do!' then we became as usual." "how perfectly sweet! i must do that with ethel--that's the girl i live with, you know--only we don't have the papers. it runs up so!" she concluded, with a wise little air that sent a momentary throb of pain through a man who had never understood (even in his poorest days) what money meant; and probably never would understand. poor, dear little girl! why couldn't he give her-- "we're here, mr. lothian! look at the lights! brighton at last!" rita had been whisked away by a chambermaid and he was waiting for her in the great hall of the metropole. he had washed, reserved a table, and swallowed a gin and bitters. he felt rather tired physically, and a little depressed also. his limbs had suddenly felt cramped as he left the motor car, the wild exhilaration of their fun had made him tired and nervous now. his bad state of health asserted itself unpleasantly, his forehead was clammy and the palms of his hands wet. no champagne for him! rita should have champagne if she liked, but whiskey, whiskey! that was the only thing. "i can soon pull myself together," he thought. "she won't know. i'll tell the fellow to bring it in a decanter." presently she came to him among the people who moved or sat about under the lights of the big, luxurious vestibule. she was a little shy and nervous, slightly flushed and anxious, for she had never been in such a splendid public place before. he gathered that from her whispered remarks, as with a curious and pleasant air of proprietorship he took her to the dining rooms. there was a bunch of amber-coloured roses upon her plate as she sat down at their table, which he had sent there a few minutes before. she pressed them to her face with a shy look of pleasure as he conferred with the head waiter, who himself came hurrying up to them. lothian was not known at the hotel, but it was always the same wherever he went. his wife often chaffed him about it. she said that he had a "tipping face." whether that was so or not, the result was the same, he received immediate and marked attention. rita noticed it with pride. he had been, from the first moment he entered the library in his simple flannel suit, just a charming and deferential companion. there had been no preliminaries. the thing had just happened, that was all. in all her life she had never met any one so delightful, and in her excitement and pleasure she had quite forgotten that he was gilbert lothian. but it came back to her very vividly now. how calmly he ordered the dinner and conferred with the wine-man, who had a great silver chain hanging on his shirt front! what an accustomed man-of-the-world air there was about him, how they all ran to serve him. she blushed mentally as she thought of her simple confidences and girlish chatter--and yet he hadn't seemed to mind. she looked round her. "it is difficult to realise," she said, as much to herself as to her host, "that there are people who dine in places like this every day." lothian looked round him. "yes," he said a trifle bitterly, as his eye fell upon a party of jews who had motored down from london,--"people who rule over three-quarters of the world--and an entire eclipse of the intellect! you can see it here, unimportant as it is, compared to the great places in london and paris--'the feasting and the folly and the fun, the lying and the lusting and the drink'!" rita looked at him wonderingly, following the direction of his eyes. "those people seem happy," she said, not understanding his sudden mood, "they are all laughing and they all seem amused." "yes, but people don't always laugh because they are amused. slow-witted, obese brained people--like those israelites there--laugh very often on the chance that there is something funny which eludes them. they don't want to betray themselves. when i see people like that i feel as if my mind ought to be sprinkled with some disinfecting fluid." as a matter of fact, the party at the other table with their handsome oriental faces and alert, vivacious manner did not seem in the least slow-witted, nor were they. one of them was a peer and great newspaper proprietor, another a musician of world celebrity. lothian's cynicism jarred on the pleasure of the moment. for the first time the girl did not feel quite _en rapport_, and was a little uneasy. he struck too harsh a note. but at that moment waiters bustled up with soup, champagne in an ice pail, and a decanter of some bright amber liquid for lothian. he poured and drank quickly, with an involuntary sigh of satisfaction. "how i wanted that!" he said with a frank smile. "i was talking nonsense, miranda, but i was tired. and i'm afraid that when i get tired i'm cross. i've been working very hard lately and am a little run down," he added, anxious that she should not think that their talk had tired him, and feeling the necessity of some explanation. it satisfied her immediately. his change of voice and face reassured her, the little shadow passed. "oh, i _am_ enjoying myself!" she said with a sigh of pleasure, "but what's this? how strange! the soup is _cold_!" "yes, didn't you know? it's iced consommé, awfully good in hot weather." she shook her head. "no, i didn't," she said. "i've never been anywhere or seen anything, you know. when ethel and i feel frightfully rich, we have dinner at lyons, but i've never been to a swagger restaurant before." "and you like it?" "it's heavenly! how good this soup is. but what a waste it seems to put all that ice round the champagne. ice is so dreadfully expensive. you get hardly any for fourpence at our fishmongers." but it was the mayonnaise with its elaborate decoration that intrigued her most. words failed at the luscious sight and it was a sheer joy to watch her. "oh, what a pig i am!" she said, after her second helping, with her flashing, radiant smile, "but it was too perfectly sweet for anything." the champagne and excitement had tinted her cheeks exquisitely, it was as though a few drops of red wine had been poured into a glass of clear crystal water. with little appetite himself, lothian watched her eat with intense pleasure in her youth and health. his depression had gone, he seemed to draw vitality from her, to be informed with something of her own pulsing youth. he became quite at his best, and how good that was, not very many people knew. it was his hour, his moment, every sense was flattered and satisfied. he was dining with the prettiest girl in the room, people turned to look at her. she hung on his words and was instantly appreciative. a full flask of poison was by his side, he could help himself without let or hindrance. her innocence of what he was doing--of what it was necessary for him to do to remain at concert-pitch--was supreme. no one else knew or would have cared twopence if they did. he was witty, in a high courtly way. the hour of freakish fun was over, and his shrewd insight into life, his poetic and illuminating method of statement, the grace and kindliness of it all held the girl spellbound. and well it might. his nerves, cleared and tempered, telegraphed each message to his brilliant, lambent brain with absolute precision. there was an entire co-ordination of all the reflexes. and rita knew well that she was hearing what many people would have given much to hear, knew that lothian was exerting himself to a manifestation of the highest power of his brain--for her. for her! it was an incredible triumph, wonderfully sweet. the dominant sex-instinct awoke. unconsciously she was now responding to him as woman to man. her eyes, her lips showed it, everything was quite different from what it had been before. in all that happened afterwards, neither of them ever forgot that night. for the girl it was illumination. . . . she had mentioned a writer of beautiful prose whom she had recently discovered in the library and who had come as a revelation to her. "nothing else i have ever read produces the same impression," she said. "there are very few writers in prose that can." "it is magic." "but to be understood. you see, some of his chapters--the passages on leonardo da vinci for instance, are intended to be musical compositions as it were, in which words have to take the place and perform the functions of notes. it has been pointed out that they are impassioned, not so much in the sense of expressing any very definite sentiment, but because, from the combination and structure of the sentences, they harmonise with certain phases of emotion." she understood. the whole mechanism and intention of the writer were revealed to her in those lucent words. and then a statement of his philosophy. "in telling me of your reading just now, you spoke of that progress of the soul that each new horizon in literature seems to stimulate and ensure for you. and you quoted some hackneyed and beautiful lines of longfellow. cling always to that idea of progress, but remember that we don't really rise to higher things upon the stepping stones of our dead selves so much as on the stepping stones of our dead opinions. that is progress. _progress means the capability of seeing new forms of beauty._" "but there are places where one wants to linger." "i know, but it's dangerous. you were splendidly right when you bade me move from that garden just now. the road was waiting. it is so with states of the soul. the limpet is the lowest of organisms. movement is everything. one life may seem to be like sunlight moving over sombre ground and another like the shadow of a cloud traversing a sunlit space. but both have meaning and value. never strike an average and imagine you have found content. the average life is nothing but a pudding in a fog!" lothian had been talking very earnestly, his eyes full of light, fixed on her eyes. and now, in a moment, he saw what had been there for many minutes, he saw what he had roused. he was startled. during this delightful evening that side of their intercourse had not been very present in his mind. she was a delightful flower, a flower with a mind. it is summed up very simply. _he had never once wanted to touch her._ his face changed and grew troubled. a new presence was there, a problem rose where there had been none before. the realisation of her physical loveliness and desirability came to him in a flood of new sensation. the strong male impulse was alive and burning for the first time that night. a waiter had brought a silver dish of big peaches, and as she ate the fruit there was that in her eyes which he recognised, though he knew her mind was unconscious of it. in the sudden stir and tumult of his thoughts, one became dominant. it was an evil thought, perhaps the most subtle and the most evil that can come to a man. the pride of intellect in its most gross and devilish manifestation awoke. he was not a vain man. he did not usually think much about his personal appearance and charm. but he knew how changed in outward aspect he was becoming. his glass told him that every morning at shaving time. his vice was marking him. he was not what he was, not what he should and might be, in a physical regard. and girls, he knew, were generally attracted by physical good-looks in a man. young dickson ingworth, for instance, seemed able to pick and choose. lothian had often laughed at the boyish and conceited narratives of his prowess. and now, to the older man came the realisation that his age, his growing corpulence, need mean nothing at all--if he willed it so. a girl like this, a pearl among maidens, could be dominated by his intellect. he knew that he was not mistaken. over a fool, however lovely and attractive by reason of her sex, he would have no power. but here . . . an allurement more dazzling than he had thought life held was suddenly shown him. there was an honest horror, a shudder and recoil of all the good in him from this monstrous revelation, so sudden, so unexpected. he shuddered and then found an instant compromise. it could not concern _himself_, it never should. but it might be regarded--just for a few brief moments!--from a detached point of view, as if it had to do with some one else, some creation of a fiction or a poem. and even that was unutterably sweet. it should be so, only for this night. there would be no harm done. and it was for the sake of his art, the psychological experience to be gathered. . . . there is no time in thought. the second hand of his watch had hardly moved when he leant towards her a little and spoke. "cupid!" he said. "i think i know why they used to call you cupid at your school!" just as she had been a dear, clever and deferential school-girl in the library, a girl-poet in the garden, a freakish companion-wit after that, so now she became a woman. he had fallen. she knew and tasted consciousness of power. another side of the girl's complex personality appeared. she led him on and tried to draw back. she became provocative at moments when he did not respond at once. she flirted with a finished art. as he lit a cigarette for her, she tested the "power of the hour" to its limit, showing without possibility of mistake how aware she was. "what would mrs. lothian think of your bringing me here to dinner?" she said very suddenly. for a moment he did not know what to answer, the attack was so direct, the little feline thrust revealing so surely where he stood. "she would be delighted that i was having such a jolly evening," he answered, but neither his smile nor his voice was quite true. she smiled at him in girlish mockery, rejoicing! "you little devil!" he thought with an embarrassed mental grin. "how dare you." she should pay for that. "would you mind if my wife did care," he asked, looking her straight in the eyes. "i ought to, but--i shouldn't!" she answered recklessly, and all his blood became fired. yet at that, he leant back in his chair and laughed a frank laugh of amusement. the tension was over, the dangerous moment passed, and soon afterwards they wandered out into the night, to go upon the pier "just for half an hour" before starting for london. and neither of them saw that upon one of the lounges in the great hall, sipping coffee and talking to the newspaper-peer herbert toftrees was sitting. he saw them at once and started, while an ugly look came into his eyes. "look," he said. "there's gilbert lothian, the christian poet!" "so that's the man!" said lord morston, "deuced pretty wife he's got. and very fine work he does too, by the way." "oh, that's not his wife," toftrees answered with contempt. "i know who that is quite well. lothian keeps his wife somewhere down in the country and no one ever sees her." and he proceeded to pour the history of the amberleys' dinner-party into a quietly amused and cynical ear. the swift rush back to london under the stars was quiet and dreamy. repose fell over gilbert and rita as they sat side by side, repose "from the cool cisterns of the midnight air." they felt much drawn to each other. laughter and all feverish thoughts were swept away by the breezes of their passage through the night. they were old friends now! an affection had sprung up between them which was to be a real and enduring thing. they were to be dear friends always, and that would be "perfectly sweet." rita had been so lonely. she had wanted a friend so. he was going home on the morrow. he had been too long away. but he would be up in town again quite soon, and meanwhile they would correspond. "dear little rita," he said, as he held her hand outside the door of the block of flats in kensington. "dear child, i'm so glad." it was a clear night and the clocks were striking twelve. "and i'm glad, too," she answered,--"gilbert!" he was soon at his club, had paid the chauffeur and dismissed him. there was no one he wanted to talk to in either of the smoking rooms, and so, after a final peg he went upstairs to bed. he was quite peaceful and calm in mind, very placidly happy and pleased. to-morrow he would go home to mary. he said his prayers, begging god to make this strange and sweet friendship that had come into his life of value to him and to his little friend, might it always be fine and pure! so he got into bed and a pleasant drowsiness stole over him; he had a sense of great virtue and peace. all was well with his soul. "dear little rita," were the words he murmured as he fell asleep and lay tranquil in yet another phase of his poisoned life. no dreams disturbed his sleep. no premonition came to tell him whither he had set his steps or whither they would lead him. a mile or two away there was a nameless grave of shame, within a citadel where "pale anguish keeps the gate and the warder is despair." but no spectre rose from that grave to warn him. end of the first book book two lothian in norfolk "not with fine gold for a payment, but with coin of sighs, but with rending of raiment and with weeping of eyes, but with shame of stricken faces and with strewing of dust, for the sin of stately places and lordship of lust." chapter i vignette of early morning. "gilbert is coming home!" "elle se repand dans ma vie comme un air imprégné de sel, et dans mon âme inassouvie verse le goût de l'éternel." --_baudelaire._ the white magic of morning was at work over the village of mortland royal. from a distant steading came the thin brazen cry of a cock, thin as a bugle, and round the lothians' sleeping house the bubble of bird-song began. in the orchard before the house, which ran down to the trout stream, trust, the brown spaniel dog, came out of a barrel in his little fenced enclosure, sniffed the morning air, yawned, and went back again into his barrel. white mist was rising from the water-meadows, billowed into delicate eddies and spirals by the first breeze of day, and already touched by the rosy fingers of dawn. in the wood beyond the meadows an old cock-pheasant made a sound like high hysteric laughter. the house, with its gravel-sweep giving directly on to the unfenced orchard, was long and low. the stones were mellowed by time, and orange, olive, and ash-coloured lichens clung to them. the roof was of tiles, warm red and green with age, the windows mullioned, the chimney-stack, which cut deep into the roof, high and with the grace of tudor times. the place was called the "old house" in the village and was a veritable sixteenth century cottage, rather spoilt by repairs and minor extensions, but still, in the silent summer morning, with something of the grace and fragrance of an elizabethan song. it was quite small, really, a large cottage and nothing more, but it had a personality of its own and it was always very tranquil. on such a summer dawn as this with the rabbits frisking in the pearl-hung grass, on autumn days of brown and purple, or keen spring mornings when the wind fifed a tune among the bare branches of the apple-trees; on dead winter days when sea-birds from the marshes flitted against the grey sky like sudden drifts of snow, a deep peace ever brooded over the house. the air began to grow fresher and the mists to disperse as the breeze came over the great marshes a mile beyond the village. out on the mud-flats with their sullen tidal creeks the sun was rising like a red host from the far sea which tolled like a mass bell. the curlews with their melancholy voices were beginning to fly inland from the marshes, high up in the still sky. the plovers were calling, the red-shanks piping in the marrum grass, and a sedge of herons shouted their hoarse "frank, frank" as they clanged away over the saltings. only the birds were awake in this remote norfolk village, the cows in the meadows had but just turned in their sleep, and not even the bees were yet a-wing. peace, profound and brooding, lay over the poet's house. dawn blossomed into perfect morning, all gold and blue. it began, early as it was, to grow hot. trust came out of his barrel and began to pad round his little yard with bright brown eyes. there was a sound of some one stirring in the silent house, and presently the back door, in the recess near the entrance gates, was flung wide open and a housemaid with untidy hair and eyes still heavy with sleep, stood yawning upon the step. there was a rattle of cinders and the cracking of sticks as the fire was lit in the kitchen beyond. trust, in the orchard, heard the sound. he could smell the wood-smoke from the chimney. presently one of the great ones, the beloved ones, would let him out for a scamper in the dew. then there would be biscuits for the dog trust. and now brisk footsteps were heard upon the road outside the entrance gates. in a moment more these were pushed open with a rattle, and tumpany swung in humming a little tune. tumpany was a shortish thick-set man of fifty, with a red clean-shaven face. he walked with his body bent forward, his arms hanging at his sides, and always seemed about to break into a short run. it was five years since he had retired even from the coast-guard, but royal navy was written large all over him, and would be until he tossed off his last pint of beer and sailed away to fidler's green--"nine miles to windward of hell," as he loved to explain to the housemaid and the cook. tumpany's wife kept a small shop in the village, and he himself did the boots and knives, cleaned gilbert's guns and went wild-fowling with him in the winter, was the more immediate providence of the dog trust, and generally a most important and trusted person in the little household of the poet. there was an almost exaggerated briskness in tumpany's walk and manner as he turned into the kitchen. blanche, the housemaid, was now "doing" the dining-room, in the interior of the house, but phoebe, the cook--a stalwart lass of three and twenty--had just got the fire to her liking and was giving a finishing touch of polish to the range. "morning, my girl!" said tumpany in a bluff, cheery voice. phoebe did not answer, but went on polishing the handle of the oven door. he repeated the salutation, a shade less confidently. the girl gave a final leisurely twist of the leather, surveyed her work critically for a moment, and then rose to her feet. "there are them knives," she said shortly, pointing to a basket upon the table, "and the boots is in the back kitchen." "you needn't be so short with a man, phoebe." "you needn't have been so beastly drunk last night. then them knives wouldn't want doing this morning. if it hadn't been for me the dog wouldn't have had no food. if the mistress knew she would have given you what for, as i expect your missis have already if the truth were known." "damn the mistress!" said tumpany. he adored mary lothian, as phoebe very well knew, but his head burned and he was in the uncertain temper of the "morning after." the need of self-assertion was paramount. "now, no beastly language in my kitchen," said the girl. "you go and do your damning--and them knives--in the outhouse. i wonder you've the face to come here at all, master being away too. get out, do!" with a very red and sulky face, tumpany gathered up the knives and shambled away to his own particular sanctum. the ex-sailor was confused in his mind. there was a buzzing in his head like that of bees in a hive. he had a faint recollection of being turned out of the mortland arms just before ten o'clock the night before. his muddy memories showed him the stern judicial face of the rather grim old lady who kept the inn. he seemed to feel her firm hands upon his shoulders yet. but had he come back to the old house? he was burning to ask the cook. one thing was satisfactory. his mistress had not seen him or else phoebe's threat would have meant nothing. yet what had happened in his own house? he had woke up in the little parlour behind the shop. some one had covered him with an overcoat. he had not dared to go upstairs to his wife. he hoped--here he began to rub a knife up and down the board with great vigour--he did hope that he hadn't set about her. there was a sick fear in the man's heart as he polished his knives. in many ways a better fellow never breathed. he was extremely popular in the village, gilbert lothian swore by him, mary lothian liked him very well. he was a person of some consequence in the village community where labourers worked early and late for a wage of thirteen shillings a week. his pension was a good one, the little shop kept by his wife was not unprosperous, lothian was generous. he only got drunk now and then--generally at the time when he drew his pension--but when he did his wife suffered. he would strike her, not knowing what he did. the dreadful marks would be on her face in the morning and he would suffer an agony of dull and inarticulate remorse. so, even in the pretty cottage of this prosperous and popular man--so envied by his poorer neighbours--_surgit amari aliquid_! . . . if only things had been all right last night! tumpany put down his knife with a bang. he slipped from his little outhouse, and slunk across the orchard. then he opened the iron gate of the dog's kennel. the dog trust exploded over tumpany like a shell of brown fur. he leapt at him in an ecstasy of love and greeting and then, unable to express his feelings in any other way, rolled over on his back with his long pink tongue hanging out, and his eyes blinking in the sun. "goodorg," said tumpany, a little comforted, and then both he and trust slunk back to the outhouse. there was a sympathetic furtiveness in the animal also. it was as though the dog trust quite understood. tumpany resumed his work. two rabbits which he had shot the day before were hanging from the roof, and trust looked up at them with eager eyes. a rabbit represented the unattainable to trust. he was a hard-working and highly-trained sporting dog, a wild-fowling dog especially, and he was never allowed to retrieve a rabbit for fear of spoiling the tenderness of his mouth. when one of the delicious little creatures bolted under his very nose, he must take no notice of it at all. trust held the (wholly erroneous) belief that if only he had the chance he could run down a rabbit in the open field. he did not realise that a dog who will swim over a creek with a snipe or tiny ring-plover in his mouth and drop it without a bone being broken must never touch fur. his own greatness forbade these baser joys, but like the prince in the story who wanted to make mud pies with the beggar children, he was unconscious of his position, and for him too--on this sweet morning--surgit amari aliquid. but life has many compensations. the open door of the brick shed was darkened suddenly. phoebe, who in reality had a deep admiration for mr. tumpany, had relented, and in her hand was a mug of beer. "there!" she said with a grin, "and take care it don't hiss as it goes down. pipes red hot i expect! lord what fools men are!" tumpany said nothing, but the deep "gluck gluck" of satisfaction as he drank was far more eloquent than words. phoebe watched him with a pitying and almost maternal wonder in her simple mind. "a good thing you've come early, and mistress ain't up yet," she said. "i went into the cellar as quiet as a cat, and i held a dish-cloth over the spigot when i knocked it in again so as to deaden the sound. you can hear the knock all over the house else!" "thank ye, phoebe, my dear. that there beer's in lovely condition; and i don't mind saying i wanted it bad." "well, take care, as you don't want it another day so early. i see your wife last night!" she paused, maliciously enjoying the anxiety which immediately clouded the man's round, red face. "it's all right," she said at length. "she was out when you come home from the public, and she found you snoring in the parlour. there was no words passed. i must get to work." she hurried back to her kitchen. tumpany began to whistle. the growing warmth of the morning had melted the congealed blood which hung from the noses of the rabbits. one or two drops fell upon the flags of the floor and the dog trust licked them up with immense relish. thus day began for the humbler members of the poet's household. at a few minutes before eight o'clock, the mistress of the house came down stairs, crossed the hall and went into the dining room. mary lothian was a woman of thirty-eight. she was tall, of good figure, and carried herself well. she was erect, without producing any impression of stiffness. she walked firmly, but with grace. her abundant hair was pale gold in colour and worn in a simple greek knot. the nose, slightly aquiline, was in exact proportion to the face. this was of an oval contour, though not markedly so, and was just a little thin. the eyes under finely drawn brows, were a clear and steadfast blue. in almost every face the mouth is the most expressive feature. if the eyes are the windows of the soul, the mouth is its revelation. it is the true indication of what is within. the history of a man or woman's life lies there. for those who can read, its subtle changing curves at some time or another, betray all secrets of evil or of good. it is the first feature that sensual vices coarsen or self-control refines. the sin of pride moulds it into shapes that cannot be hidden. envy, hatred and malice must needs write their superscription there, and the blood stirs about our hearts when we read of an angelic smile. the greeks knew this, and when their actors trod the marble stage of dionysius at athens, or the theatre of olympian zeus by the hill kronian, their faces were masked. the lips of hecuba were always frozen into horror. the mouths of the heralds of the lysistrata were set in one curve of comedy throughout the play. voices of gladness or sorrow came from lips of wax or clay, which never changed as the living lips beneath them needs must do. a certain sharpness and reality, as of life suddenly arrested at one moment of passion, was aimed at. men's real mouths were too mobile and might betray things alien to the words they chanted. the mouth of mary lothian was beautiful. it was rather large, well-shaped without possessing any purely æsthetic appeal, and only a very great painter could have realised it upon canvas. in a photograph it was nothing, unless a pure accident of the camera had once in a way caught its expression. the mouth of this woman was absolutely frank and kind. its womanly dignity was overlaid with serene tenderness, a firm sweetness which never left it. in repose or in laughter--it was a mouth that could really laugh--this kindness and simplicity was always there. always it seemed to say "here is a good woman and one without guile." the whole face was capable without being clever. no freakish wit lurked in the calm, open eyes, there was nothing of the fantastic, little of the original in the quiet comely face. all kind and simple people loved mary lothian and her-- "sweet lips, whereon perpetually did reign the summer calm of golden charity." men with feverish minds and hectic natures could see but little in her--a quiet woman moving about a tranquil house. there was nothing showy in her grave distinction. she never thought about attracting people, only of being kind to them. not as a companion for their lighter hours nor as a sharer in their merriment, did people come to her. it was when trouble of mind, body or estate assailed them that they came and found a "most silver flow of subtle-paced counsel in distress." since the passing of victoria and the high-noon of her reign, the purely english ideal of womanhood has disappeared curiously from contemporary art and has not the firm hold upon the general mind that it had thirty years ago. the heroines of poems and fictions are complex people to-day, world-weary, tempestuous and without peace of heart or mind. the two great voices of the immediate past have lost much of their meaning for modern ears. "so just a type of womankind, that god sees fit to trust her with the holy task of giving life in turn." --not many pens nor brushes are busy with such ladies now. "crown'd isabel, thro' all her placid life, the queen of marriage, a most perfect wife." --who sings such isabels to-day? it is calypso of the magic island of whom the modern world loves to hear, and few poets sing penelope faithful by the hearth any more. but when deep peace broods over a dwelling, it is from the mary lothians of england that it comes. mary was very simply dressed, but there was an indescribable air of distinction about her. the skirt of white piqué hung perfectly, the cream-coloured blouse with drawn-thread work at the neck and wrists was fresh and dainty. on her head was a panama hat with a scarf of mauve silk tied loosely round it and hanging down her back in two long ends. in one hand she held a silver-headed walking cane, in the other a small prayer-book, for she was going to matins before breakfast. she spoke a word to the cook and went out of the back door, calling a good-morning to tumpany as she passed his shed, and then went through the entrance-gate into the village street. by this hour the labourers were all at work in the fields and farmyards--the hay harvest was over and the corn cutting about to begin--but the cottage doors were open and the children were gathering in little groups, ready to proceed to school. there was a fresh smell of wood-smoke in the air and the gardens of the cottages were brilliant with flowers. mary lothian, however, was thinking very little about the village--to which she was lady bountiful. she hardly noticed the sweet day springing over the country side. she was thinking of gilbert. he had been away for a week now and she had heard no news of him except for a couple of brief telegrams. for several days before he went to london, she had seen the signs of restlessness and ennui approaching. she knew them well. he had been irritable and moody by fits and starts. after lunch he had slept away the afternoons, and at dinner he had been feverishly gay. once or twice he had driven into wordingham--the local town--during the afternoon, and had returned late at night, very angry on one of these occasions to find her sitting up for him. "i wish to goodness you would go to bed, mary," he had said with a sullen look in his eyes. "i do hate being fussed over as if i were a child. i hate my comings and goings spied upon in this ridiculous way. i must have freedom! kindly try and remember that you have married a poet--an artist!--and not some beef-brained ordinary fool!" the servants had gone to bed, but she had lit candles in old silver holders, and spread a dainty supper for him in case he should be hungry, taking especial care over the egg sandwiches and the salad which he said she made so perfectly. she had gone to bed without a word, for she knew well what made him speak to her like that. she lay awake listening, her room was over the dining room, and heard the clink of a glass and the gurgle of a syphon. he was having more drink then. when he came upstairs he went into the dressing room where he sometimes slept, and before long she heard him breathing heavily in sleep. he always came to her room when he was himself. then she had gone downstairs noiselessly to find her little supper untouched, a smear of cigarette ash upon the tablecloth, and that he had forgotten to extinguish the candles. there came a day when he was especially kind and sweet. his recent irritation and restlessness seemed to have quite gone. he smoked pipes instead of cigarettes, always a good sign in him, and in the afternoon they had gone for a long tramp together over the marshes. she was very happy. for the last year, particularly since his name had become well-known and he was seriously counted among the celebrities of the hour, he had not cared to be with her so much as in the past. he only wanted to be with her when he was depressed and despondent about the future. then he came for comfort and clung to her like a boy with his mother. "it's for the sake of my art," he would say often enough, though she never reproached him with neglect. "i _must_ be a great deal alone now. things come to me when i am alone. i love being with you, sweetheart, but we must both make a sacrifice for my work. it means the future. it means everything for both of us!" he used not to be like this, she sometimes reflected. in the earlier days, when he was actually doing the work which had brought him fame, he had never wanted to be away from her. he used to read her everything, ask her opinion about all his work. life had been more simple. she had known every detail of his. he had not drunk much in those days. in those days there had been no question of that at all. after the success it was different. she had gone to his study in the morning, after nights when he had been working late, and had been struck with fear when she had looked at the tantalus. but, then, he had been spruce and cheerful at breakfast and had made a hearty meal. her remonstrances had been easily swept away. he had laughed. "darling, don't be an old goose! you don't understand a bit. what?--oh, yes, i suppose i did have rather a lot of whiskey last night. but i did splendid work. and it is only once in a way. i'm as fit this morning as i ever was in my life. but i'm working double tides now. you know what an immense strain it is. just let me consolidate my reputation, become absolutely secure, and--well, then you'll see!" but for months now things had not improved, and on this particular day, a week ago now, the sudden change in gilbert, when the placidity of the old time seemed to have returned, was like cool water to a wound. they had been such friends again! in the evening they had got out all her music and while he played, she had sung the dear old songs of their courtship and early married life. they had the "keys of heaven," "the rain is on the river," "my dear soul" and the "be my dear and dearest!" of cotsford dick. on the next morning the post had brought letters calling gilbert to london. he had to arrange with messrs. ince and amberley about his new book. mr. amberley had asked him to dine--"you don't perhaps quite understand, dear, but when amberley asks one, one _must_ go"--there were other important things to see after. gilbert had not asked her to come with him. she would have liked to have gone to london very much. it was a long time since she had been to a theatre, ages since she had heard a good concert. and shopping too! it seemed such a good opportunity, while the sales were on. she had hinted as much, but he had shaken his head with decision: "no, dear, not now. i am going strictly on business. i couldn't give you the time i should want to, and i should hate that. it wouldn't be fair to you. we'll go up in the autumn, just you and i together and have a really good time. that will be far jollier. for heaven's sake, don't let's try to mix up business with pleasure. it's fatal to both." had he known that he was to be called to london? had he arranged it beforehand, itching to be free of her gentle yoke, her wise, restraining hand? was that the reason that he had been so affectionate the day before he went away? his conscience was uneasy perhaps . . . ? and why had he not written--was there a sordid, horrible reason for his silence; when was he coming back . . . ? these were the sad, disturbing thoughts stirring in mary's mind as the near tolling of the bell smote upon her ears and she entered the churchyard. the church at mortland royal was large and noble. it would have held the total population of the village three times over. relic of tudor times when norfolk was the rich and prosperous centre of the wool industry of england, it was only one of the many pious monuments of a vanished past which still keep watch and ward over the remote, forgotten villages of the north east coast. stately still the fane, in its noble masses, its fairness, majesty and strength, the slender intricacy and rich meshes of its tracery in which no single cusp or finial is in vain, no stroke of the chisel useless. stately the grey towers also, foursquare for centuries to the winds of the wash. dust the man who made it, but uncrumbled stone the body of his dream. he had thought in light and shadow. he had seen these immemorial stones when the sun of july mornings was hot upon them, or the early dusks of december left them to the dark. out of the spaces of light and darkness in the vision of his mind this strong tower had been built. inviolate, it was standing now. but as mary passed through the great porch with its worn and weathered saints into the church itself, the breath of the morning was damp and there was a chill within. the gallant chirrup of the swallows flying round the tower, sank to a faint "cheep, cheep," the voice of the tolling bell became muffled and funereal, and mildew lay upon the air. "non sum qualis eram," the lorn interior seemed to echo to her steps, "bonae sub regno ecclesiæ." there was a little american organ in the chancel. no more would the rich plainsong of gregory echo under these ancient roofs like a flowing tide in some cavern of the sea. the stone altar was covered with a decaying web of crimson upon which was embroidered a symbol of sickly, faded yellow. perhaps never again would a priest raise the monstrance there, while the ceremonial candle-flames were pallid in the morning light and hushed voices hymned the lamb of god. these, all these, were in the olden time and long ago. but the presence of god, the peace of god, were in the church still, soul-saving, and as real as when the gracious ceremonies of the past symbolised them for those who were there to worship. mr. medley, the old priest who was curate to a rector who was generally away, walked in from the vestry with the patient footsteps of age and began the office. . . . _almighty and most merciful father; we have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep._ the old and worthy man with his tremulous voice, the sweet matron with her grave beauty just matured to that st. martin's summer of youth which is the youth of perfect wifehood, said the sacred words together. his cultured and appealing voice, her warm contralto echoed under the high roof in ebb and flow and antiphon of sound. it was the twenty-sixth day of the month. . . . "trouble and heaviness have laid hold upon me: yet is my delight in thy commandments." "the righteousness of thy testimonies is everlasting: o grant me understanding and i shall live." the morning was lighter than ever when mary came out of church, and its smile was reflected on her face. in the village street an old labourer leading a team of horses, touched his cap and grinned a welcome while his wistful eyes plainly said, "god bless you, ma'am," as mary went by. a merry "ting-tang clank" came from the blacksmith's shop, ringing out brightly in the bright air, and as she drew near the gate of the old house, whom should she see but the postman! "no. there ain't no letter for you," said the postman--a sly old crab-apple of a man who always knew far too much--"but what should you say," he dangled it before her as a sweetmeat before a child, "what should you say if as how i had a telegram for 'ee?" --"that you were talking nonsense, william. there can't be a telegram. it's far too early!" "well, then, there _is_!" said william triumphantly, "'anded in at the st. james' street office, london, at eight-two! either mr. lothian's up early or he ain't been to bed. it come over the telephone from wordingham while i was a sorting the letters. mrs. casley took'n down. so there! mr. lothian's a coming home by the nine-ten to-night." mary tore open the orange envelope:-- "_arrive nine-ten to-night all my love gilbert_" was what she read. then, with quick footsteps, she hurried through the gates. her eyes sparkled, her lips had grown red, and as she smiled her beautiful, white teeth flashed in the sunlight. she looked like a girl. tumpany was propped against the lintel of the back door. phoebe was talking to him, the dog trust basked at his feet, and he had a short briar pipe in his mouth. "master is coming home this evening, tumpany!" mary said. tumpany snatched the pipe from his mouth and stood to attention. the cook vanished into the kitchen. "can i see you then, mum?" tumpany asked, anxiously. "after breakfast. i've not had breakfast yet. then we'll go into everything." she vanished. "them peas," said tumpany to himself, "he'll want to know about them peas--goodorg!"--accompanied by trust, tumpany disappeared in the direction of the kitchen garden. but mary sat long over breakfast that morning. the sunlight painted oblongs of gold upon the jade-green carpet. a bee visited the copper bowl of honeysuckle upon the sideboard, a wasp became hopelessly captured by the marmalade, and from the bedrooms the voice of blanche, the housemaid, floated down--tunefully convinced that every nice girl loves a sailor. and of all these homely sounds mary lothian's ear had little heed. sound, light, colour, the scent of the flowers in the garden--a thing almost musical in itself--were as nothing. one happy fact had closed each avenue of sense. gilbert was coming home! gilbert was coming home! chapter ii an exhibition of doctor morton sims and mr. medley, with an account of how lothian returned to mortland royal "seest thou a man diligent in his business: he shall stand before kings. he shall not stand before mean men." --_the bible._ about eleven-thirty in the morning, mr. medley, the curate, came out of the rectory where he lived, and went into the village. mortland royal was a rich living, worth, with the great and lesser tythe, some eight or nine hundred a year. the rector, the hon. leonard o'donnell, was the son of an irish peer who owned considerable property in norfolk and in whose gift the living was. mr. o'donnell was a man of many activities, a bachelor, much in request in london, and very little inclined to waste his energies in a small country village. he was a courtly, polished little man who found his true _milieu_ among people of his own class, and neither understood, nor particularly cared to understand, a peasant community. his work, as he said, lay elsewhere, and he did a great deal of good in his own way with considerable satisfaction to himself. possessed of some private means, mortland royal supplemented his income and provided him with a convenient _pied à terre_ where he could retire in odd moments to a fashionable county in which a number of great people came to shoot in the season. the rectory itself was a large old-fashioned house with some pretensions to be called a country mansion, and for convenience sake, mr. medley was housed there, and became de facto, if not de jure, the rector of the village. mr. o'donnell gave his colleague two hundred a year, house room, and an absolutely free hand. the two men liked one another, if they had not much in common, and the arrangement was mutually convenient. medley was a pious priest of the old-fashioned type. his flock claimed all the interest of his life. he had certain fixed and comely habits belonging to his type and generation. he read his horace still and took a glass of port at dinner. something of a scholar, he occasionally reviewed some new edition of a latin classic for the _spectator_, though he was without literary ambitions. he had a little money of his own, and three times a year he dined at the high table in merton college hall, where every one was very pleased to see him. a vanishing type to-day, but admirably suited to his environment. the right man in the right place. the real rector was regarded with awe and some pride in the village. his name was often in the newspapers. he was an eloquent speaker upon temperance questions at important congresses. he went to garden parties at windsor and theatricals at sandringham. when he was in residence and preached in his own church, it was fuller than at other times. he was a draw. his distinguished face and high, well-bred voice were a pleasant variation of monotony. and the theology which had made him so welcome in mayfair was not without a pleasing titillation for even the rustic mind. mr. o'donnel was convinced, and preached melodiously, the theory that the divine mercy extends to all human beings. he asserted that, in the event, all people would enter paradise--unless, indeed, there was no paradise, which in his heart of hearts he thought exceedingly likely. but he did good work in the world, though probably less than he imagined. it was as an advocate of temperance that leonard o'donnell was particularly known, and it was as that he was welcomed by society. he was a sort of spiritual karlsbad and was nicknamed the dean of vichy. the fact was one that had a direct bearing on gilbert lothian's life. the rector of mortland royal was a "managing" man. his forte was to be a sort of earthly providence to all sorts of people within his sphere, and his motive was one of genuine good nature and a wish to help. as a woman he would have been an inveterate matchmaker. did old marchioness, who liked to keep an eye upon her household affairs, bewail the quality of london milk--then she must have it from mr. samuel, the tenant of the glebe farm at mortland royal! did a brother clergyman ask to be recommended a school for his son, the rector knew the very place and was quite prepared to take the boy down himself and commend him specially to the headmaster. with equal eagerness, mr. o'donnell would urge a confessor or a pill, and the odd thing about it was, that he was nearly always right, and all sorts of people made use of the restless, kindly little man. one day, dr. morton sims, the bacteriologist and famous expert upon inebriety, had walked from a meeting of the royal commissioners upon alcoholism to the junior carlton with mr. o'donnell. both were members and they had dined there together. "i am run down," said morton sims, during the meal. "i have been too much in london lately. i've got a lot of important research work to do. i'm going to take a house in the country for a few months, only i don't know where." the mind of the man occupied with big things was impatient of detail; the mind of the man occupied with small ones responded instantly. "i know of the very place, sims. in my own village. how fortunate! the 'haven.' old admiral custance used to have it, but he's dead recently. there are six months of the lease still to run. mrs. custance has gone to live at lugano. she wants to let the place furnished until the lease is up." "it sounds as if it might do." "but, my dear fellow, it's the very place you want! exactly the thing! i can manage it for you in no time. pashwhip and moger--the house agents in our nearest town--have the letting. do let me be of use!" "it's very kind of you, o'donnell." "delighted. it will be so jolly to have you in the village. i'm not there as much as i could wish, of course. my other work keeps me so much in london. but medley, my colleague, is an excellent fellow. he'll look after you in every way." "who lives round about?" "well, as far as society is concerned, we are a little distance from anywhere. lord fakenham's is the nearest house----" "not in that way, o'donnell. i mean interesting people. lord fakenham is a bore--a twelve-bore one might say. i hate the big shooting houses in east england." the rector was rather at a loss. "well," he said, reluctantly, "i don't know about what you'd probably call _interesting_ people. sir ambrose mckee, the big scotch distiller--ambrosia whiskey, you know--has the shooting and comes down to the manor house in september. oh, and gilbert lothian, the poet, has a cottage in the place. i've met him twice, but i can't say that i know much about him. medley swears by his wife, though. she does everything in the village i'm told. she was a fielding, the younger branch." the doctor's face became strangely interested. it was alert and watchful in a moment. "gilbert lothian! he lives there does he! now you tempt me. i've heard a good deal about gilbert lothian." the rector was genuinely surprised. "well, most people have," he answered. "but i should hardly have thought that a modern poet was much in your line." morton sims smiled, rather oddly. "perhaps not," he said, "but i'm interested all the same. i have my own reasons. put me into communication with the house agents, will you, o'donnell?" the affair had been quickly arranged. the house proved satisfactory, and dr. morton sims had taken it. on the morning when mary lothian had heard from gilbert that he was returning that evening, mr. medley, reminded of his duty by a postcard from the rector at cowes, set out to pay a call and offer his services to the distinguished newcomer. the "haven" was a pleasant gabled house standing in grounds of about three acres, not far from the church and rectory. the late admiral custance had kept it in beautiful order. the green, pneumatic lawns suggested those of a college quadrangle, the privet hedges were clipped with care, the whole place was taut and trim. mr. medley found dr. morton sims smoking a morning pipe in the library, dressed in a suit of grey flannel and with a holiday air about him. the two men liked each other at once. there was no doubt about that in the minds of either of them. there was a certain dryness and mellow humour in mr. medley--a ripe flavour about him, as of an old english fruit crushed upon the palate. "here is a rare bird," the doctor thought. and morton sims interested the clerygman no less. the doctor's great achievements and the fact that he was a definite feature in english life were quite familiar. when, on fugitive occasions any one of this sort strayed into the placid domains of his interest medley was capable of welcoming him with eagerness. he did so now, and warmed himself in the steady glow from the celebrated man with whom he was sitting. that they were both oxford men, more or less of the same period, was an additional link between them. . . . "two or three times a year i go up," medley said, "and dine in hall at merton. i'm a little out of it, of course. the old, remembered faces become fewer and fewer each year. but there are friends left still, and though i can't quite get at their point of view, the younger fellows are very kind to me. directly i turn into oriel street; i breathe the old atmosphere, and i confess that my heart beats a little quicker, as merton tower comes into view." "i know," the doctor said. "i was at balliol you know--a little different, even in our day. but when i go up i'm always dreadfully busy, at the museum or in the medical school. it's the younger folk, the scientific dons and undergraduates who are reading science that i have to do with. i have not much time for the sentiments and caresses of the past. life is so short and i have so much yet that i hope to do in it, that i simply refuse my mind the pleasures of retrospection. you'll call me a philistine, but when i go to lecture at cambridge--as i sometimes do--it stimulates me far more than oxford." "detestable place!" said mr. medley, with a smile. "a nephew of mine is a tutor there, peterhouse. he has quite a name in his way, they tell me. he writes little leprous books in which he conducts the christian faith to the frontier of modern thought with a consolatory cheque for its professional services in the past. and, besides, the river at cambridge is a ditch." the doctor's eyes leapt up at this. "yes, isn't it marvellous that they can row as they do!" he said with the eagerness of a boy. "you rowed then?" "oh, yes. i was in the crew of-- --our year it was." "really! really!--i had no idea, dr. morton sims! i was in the trials of-- , when merton was head of the river, but we were the losing boat and i never got into the eight. how different it all was then!" both men were silent for a minute. the priest's words had struck an unaccustomed chord of memory in the doctor's mind. "those times will never come again," morton sims said, and puffed rather more quickly than usual at his pipe. he had spoken truly enough when he had said that he had not time in his strenuous life for memories of his youth, that he shut his eyes to the immemorial appeal of oxford when he went there. but he responded now, instinctively, for there is a freemasonry, greater than all the ritual of king solomon, among those who have rowed upon the isis, in the happy, thrice-happy days of youth! to weary clergymen absorbed in the _va_ and _vient_ of sordid parishes, to grave justices upon the bench, the strenuous cynics of the bar, plodding masters of schools, the suave solicitor, the banker, the painter, or the poet, these vivid memories of the loving mother, must always come now and again in life. the bells of youth ring once more. the faint echo of the shouts from river or from playing field, make themselves heard with ghostly voices. in the chapels of wayneflete, or of laud, some soprano choir is singing yet. in the tower of the cardinal, big tom tolls out of the past, bidding the college porters close their doors. white and fretted spires shoot upwards into skies that will never be so blue again. again the snap-dragon blooms over the grey walls of trinity, the crimson creeper stains the porch of cranmer, and autumn leaves of bronze, purple and yellow carpet all the magdalen walks. these things can never be quite forgotten by those who have loved them and been of them. the duration of a reverie is purely accidental. there is no time in thought. the pictures of a lifetime may glow in the brain, while a second passes by the clock, a single episode may inform the retrospection of an hour. these two grey-headed men, upon this delightful summer morning, were not long lost in thought. "and now," said the clergyman, "have you seen anything of the village yet?" "not yet. for the three days that i have been here i have been arranging my books and instruments, and turning that big room over the barn into a laboratory." "oh, yes. where the admiral used to keep his trafalgar models. an excellent room! now what do you say, dr. morton sims, to a little progress through the village with me? i'm quite certain that every one is agog to see you, and to sum you up. natural village curiosity! you might as well make your appearance under my wing." "teucro auspice, auspice teucro?" "precisely," said medley, with a smile of pleasure at the quotation from his beloved poet, and the two men left the house together in high glee, laughing like boys. they visited the church, in which morton sims took a polite interest, and then the clergyman took his guest over the rectory. it was a fine house, standing in the midst of fair lawns upon which great beech trees grew here and there, giving the extensive grounds something of the aspect of a park. the rooms were large and lofty, with fine ceilings of the adams' school, florid braveries of stucco that were quite at home in a house like this. there were portraits everywhere, chiefly members of the o'donnell family, and the faces in their fresh irish comeliness were gay and ingenuous, as of privileged young people who could never grow old. "really, this is a delightful house," the doctor said as he stood in the library. "i wonder o'donnell doesn't spend more time in mortland royal. few parsons are housed like this." "it's not his _metier_, doctor. he hasn't the faculty of really understanding peasants, and i think he is quite right in what he is doing. and, of course, from a selfish point of view, i am glad. i have refused two college livings to stay on here. in all probability i shall stay here till i die. o'donnell does a great work for temperance all over england--though doubtless you know more about that than i do." "er, yes," morton sims replied, though without any marked enthusiasm. "o'donnell is very eloquent, and no doubt does good. my dear old friend, bishop moultrie, in norfolk here is most enthusiastic about his work. i like o'donnell, he's sincere. but i belong to the scientific party, and while i welcome anything that really tends to stem inebriety, i believe that o'donnell and moultrie and all of them are on the wrong tack entirely." "i know very little about the modern temperance movement in any direction," said mr. medley with a certain dryness. "blue ribbons and bands of hope are all very well, i suppose, but there is such a tendency nowadays among non-conformists and the extreme evangelical party to exalt abstinence from alcohol into the one thing necessary to salvation, that i keep out of it all as much as i can. i like my glass of port, and i don't mean to give it up!" morton sims laughed. "it doesn't do you the least good really," he said, laughing. "i could prove to you in five minutes, and with entire certainty, that your single glass of port is bad, even for you! but i quite agree with your attitude towards all the religious emotionalism that is worked up. the drunkard who turns to religion simply manifests the class of ideas, which is one of the features of the epileptic temperament. it is a confession of ineptitude, and a recourse to a means of salvation from a condition which is too hard for him to bear. that is to say, fear is at the bottom of his new convictions!" certainly medley was not particularly sympathetic to the modern temperance movement among religious people. perhaps mr. o'donnell's somewhat vociferous enthusiasm had something to do with it. but on the other hand, he was very far from accepting such a cold scientific doctrine as this. he knew that the holy spirit does not always work through fear. but like the wise and quiet-minded man that he was, he forbore argument and listened with intellectual pleasure to the views of his new friend. "i know," he said, with a courtly hint of deference in his voice, that became him very well, "of your position in the ranks of those who are fighting intemperance. but, and you must pardon the ignorance of a country priest who is quite out of all 'movements,' i don't know anything of your standpoint. what is your remedy, dr. morton sims?" the great man smiled inwardly. it did really seem extraordinary to him that a cultured professional man of this day should actually know nothing of his hopes, aims and propaganda. and then, ever on the watch for traces of egoism and vain-glory in himself, he accepted the fact with humility. who was he, who was any one in life, to imagine that his views were known to all the world? "well," he said, "what we believe is just this: it is quite impossible to abolish or to prohibit alcohol. it is necessary in a thousand industries. prohibition is futile. it has been tried, and has failed, in the united states. while alcohol exists, the man predisposed to abuse it will get it. you, as a clergyman, know as well as i do, as a doctor, that it is impossible to make people moral by act of parliament." this was entirely in accordance with medley's own view. "of course," he said, "the only thing that can make people moral is an act of god, cooperating with an act of their own." "possibly. i am not concerned to affirm or deny the power of an act of the supreme being. nor am i able to say anything about its operation. science tells me nothing upon this point. about the act of the individual i have a good deal to say." --"i am most interested" . . . "well then, what we want to do is to root out drunkenness by eliminating inebriates from society by a process of artificial selection. it is within the power of science to evolve a sober race. we must forbid inebriates to have children and make it penal for them to do so." medley started. "forbid them to marry?" he asked. "it would be futile. drunkenness often develops after marriage. there is only one way--by preventing drunkards from reproducing their like--by forbidding the procreation of children by them. if drunkards were taken before magistrates sitting in secret session, and, on conviction, were warned that the procreation of children would subject them to this or that penalty, then the birthrate of drunkards would certainly fall immensely." "but innumerable drunkards would inevitably escape the meshes of the law." "yes. but that is an argument against all laws. and this law would be more perfect in its operation than any other, for if the drunken father evaded it in one generation, the drunken son would be taken in the next." the priest said nothing for a moment. the latent distrust and dislike of science which is an inherent part of the life and training of so many priests, was blazing up in him with a fury of antagonism. what impious interference with the laws of god was this? it seemed a profanation, horrible! like all good christians of his temper of mind, he was quite unable to realise that god might be choosing to work in this way, and by the human hands of men. he had not the slightest conception of the great truth that every new discovery of science and each fresh extension of its operations is not in the least antagonistic to christianity when surveyed by the clear, unbiassed mind. mr. medley was a dog-lover. he was a member of the kennel-club, and sent dogs to shows. he knew that, in order to breed a long-tailed variety of dogs, it would be ridiculous to preserve carefully all the short-tailed individuals and pull vigorously at their tails. he exercised the privilege of artificial selection carefully enough in his own kennels, but the mere proposal that such a thing should be done in the case of human beings seemed impious to him. dr. morton sims was also incapable of realising that his scheme for the betterment of the race was perfectly in accordance with the christian philosophy. but morton sims was not a professing christian and was not concerned with the christian aspect. mr. medley was, and although one of his favourite hymns began, "god moves in a mysterious way," he was really chilled to the bone for a minute at the words of the scientist. he remained silent for a moment or so. "but that seems to me quite horrible," he said, at length. "it is opposed to the best instincts of human nature--as horrible as malthusianism, as horrible and as impracticable." his expression as he looked at his guest was wistful. "i don't want to be discourteous," it seemed to say, "but this is really my thought." "perhaps," the other answered with a half-sigh. he was well used to encounter just such a voice, just such a shocked countenance as that of his host--"but by '_best instincts_' people often mean strong prejudices. our scheme is undoubtedly malthusian. i am no believer in malthusianism as a check to what is called 'over-population.' that _does_ seem to me immoral. nature requires no help in that regard. but inebriety is an evil the extent of which no one but an expert can possibly measure. _the ordinary man simply doesn't know!_ but supposing i admit what you say. let us agree that my scheme is horrible, that in a sense it is immoral--or a-moral--that it is possibly impracticable. "the alternative is more horrible and more immoral still. there is absolutely no choice between temperance reform, by the abolition of drink, and temperance reform by the abolition of the drunkard. an ill thing is not rendered worse by being bravely confronted. an unavoidable evil is not made more evil by being turned to good account. it rests with us to extract what good we can from the evil. horrible? immoral? perhaps; but we are confronted by two horrors and two immoralities, and we are compelled to make a choice. which is best; to live safe because strong, or to tremble behind fortifications; to be temperate by nature or sober by law?" . . . they stood in the quiet sunlit library, with its placid books and pictures irradiated by the light of approaching noon. the slim, bearded man in his grey suit, faced the dry, elderly clergyman. his voice rang with challenge, his whole personality was redolent of ardour, conviction, an aroma of the war he spent his life in waging far away from this quiet room of books. for years, this had been medley's home. each night, with his horace and his pipe, he spent the happy, sober hours between dinner and bedtime here. his sermons were written on the old oak table. over the high carved marble of the mantel the engraving of our lord knocking at the weed-grown door of a human heart, had looked down upon all his familiar, quiet evenings. in summer the long windows were open and the moonlight washed the lawns with silver, and the shadows of the trees seemed like pieces of black velvet nailed to the grass. in winter the piled logs glowed upon the hearth and the bitter winds from the marshes, sang like a flight of arrows round the house. what was this that had come into the library, what new disturbing, insistent element? the rector brought no such atmosphere into the house when he arrived. he would sip his coffee and smoke his pipe and linger for a gracious moment with the singer of mantua, or dispute about the true birthplace of him who sent odysseus sailing over wine-coloured and enchanted seas. an insistent voice seemed to be calling to the clergyman--"awake from your slumber--your long slumber! hear the words of truth!" he said nothing. his whole face showed reluctance, bewilderment, misease. the far keener intelligence of the other noted it at once. the mind of the medico-psychologist appreciated the episode at its exact value. he had troubled a still pool, and to no good purpose. words of his--even if they carried an uneasy conviction--would never rouse this man to action. let it be so! why waste time? the clergyman was a delightful survival, a "rare bird" still! "well, that is my theory, at any rate, since you asked for it," morton sims said, the urgency and excitement quite gone from his voice. "and now, some more of the village, please!" mr. medley smiled cheerfully. he became suddenly conscious of the light and comfortable morning again. he felt his feet upon the carpet, he was in a place that he knew. "we'll go through the wicket-gate in the south wall," he said, with alacrity. "it's our nearest way, and there is a good view of the manor house to be got from there. it's a fine old place, empty for most of the year, but always full for the shooting. sir ambrose mckee has it." "the whiskey man?" "yes. the great distiller," medley answered nervously--most anxious to sheer off from any further controversial subjects. they went out into the village. the old red-brick manor house was surveyed from a distance, and morton sims remarked absently upon its picturesqueness. his mind was occupied with other and far alien thoughts. then they went down the white dusty road--the bordering hedges were all pilm-powdered for there had been no rain for many days--to the centre of the village. four roads met there, east, south, west and north, and it was known to the village as "the cross." on one side of the little central green was the post office and general shop. on the other was the mortland royal arms, and on the south, to the right of the old stone bridge, which ran over the narrow river, were the roof and chimneys of gilbert lothian's house nestling among the trees and with a vista of the orchard which stretched down to the stream. "that's a nice little place," the doctor said. "whose is that?" "it's the house of our village celebrity," mr. medley replied--with a rather hostile crackle in his voice, or at least the other thought so. "our local celebrity," medley continued, "mr. gilbert lothian, the poet." neither the face nor the voice of the doctor changed at all. but his mind came to attention. this was a moment he had been waiting for. "oh, i know," he said, with an assumed indifference which he was well aware would have its effect of provocation upon the simple mind of the priest. "the name is quite familiar to me. bishop moultrie sent me a book of lothian's poems last winter. and now that i come to think of it, o'donnell told me that mr. lothian lived here. what sort of a man is he?" medley hesitated. "well," he said at length, "the truth is that i don't like him much personally, and i don't understand him in any way. i speak with prejudice i'm afraid, and i do not wish that any words of mine should make you share it." "oh, we all have our likes and dislikes. every one has his private dr. fell and it can't be helped. but tell me about lothian. i will remember your very honest warning! don't you like his work?" "i confess i see very little in it, doctor. but then, my taste is old-fashioned and not in accord with modern literary movements. my 'christian year' supplies all the religious verse i need." "keble wrote some fine verse," said the doctor tentatively. "exactly. sound prosody and restrained style! there is fervour and feeling in lothian's work. it is impossible to deny it. but it's too passionate and feverish. there is a savage, almost despairing, clutching at spiritual emotion which strikes me as thoroughly unhealthy. the love of jesus, the mysterious operations of the holy ghost--these seem to me no proper vehicles for words which are tortured into a wild and sensuous music. as i read the poems of gilbert lothian i am reminded of the wicked and yet beautiful verses of swinburne, and of others who have turned their lyre to the praise of lust. the sentiment is different, but the method is the same. and i confess that it revolts me to see the verbal tricks and polished brilliance of modern pagan writers adapted to a fugitive and delirious ecstasy of christian faith." morton sims understood thoroughly. this was the obstinate and prejudiced voice of an older literary generation, suddenly become vindictively vocal. "i know all that you mean," he said. "i don't agree with you in the least, but i appreciate your point of view. but let me keep myself out of the discussion for a moment. i am not what you would probably be prepared to call a professing christian. but how about moultrie? he sent me lothian's poems first of all. i remember the actual evening last winter when they arrived. a contemporaneous circumstance has etched it into my memory with certainty. moultrie is a deeply convinced christian. he is a man of the widest culture also. yet he savours his palate with every _nuance_, every elusive and delicate melody that the genius of lothian gives us. how about moultrie's attitude?--it is a very general one." mr. medley laughed, half with apology, half with the grim humour which was personal to him. "i quite admit all you say," he replied, "but, as i told you, i belong to another generation and i don't in the least mean to change or listen to the voice of the charmer! i am a prejudiced old fogey, in short! i am still so antiquated and foolish as to have a temperamental dislike for a french-man, for instance. i like a picture to tell a story, and i flatly refused to get into moultrie's abominable automobile when he brought it to the rectory the other day!" morton sims was not in the least deceived by this half real, half mocking apologia. it was not merely a question of style that had roused this heat in the dry elderly man when he spoke of the things which he so greatly disliked in the poet's work. there was something behind this, and the doctor meant to find out what it was. he was in mortland royal, in the first instance, in order to follow up the problem of gilbert lothian. his choice of a country residence had been determined by the poet's locality. every instinct of the scientist and hunter was awake in him. he had dreadful reasons, reasons which he could never quite think of without a mental shudder, for finding out everything about the unknown and elusive genius who had given "surgit amari," to the world. he looked his companion full in the face, and spoke in a compelling, searching voice that the other had not heard before. "what's the real antagonism, mr. medley?" he said. then the clergyman spoke out. "you press me," he said, "very well, i will tell you. i don't believe lothian is a good man. it is a stern and terrible thing to say,--god grant i am mistaken!--but he appears to me to write of supreme things with insincerity. not vulgarly, you'll understand. not with his tongue in his cheek, but without the conviction that imposes conduct, and perhaps even with his heart in his mouth!" "conduct?" ". . . i fear i am saying too much." "hardly to me! then mr. lothian--?" "he drinks," the priest said bluntly, "you're sure to hear of it in some indirect way since you are going to stay in the village for six months. but that's the truth of it!" the face of dr. morton sims suddenly became quite pale. his brown eyes glittered as if with an almost uncontrollable excitement. "ah!" he exclaimed, and there was something so curious in his voice that the clergyman was alarmed at what he had said. he knew, and could know, nothing of what was passing in the other's mind. a scrupulously fair and honest man within his lights, he feared that he had made too harsh a statement--particularly to a man who thought that even an after-dinner glass of port was an error in hygiene! "i don't mean to say that he gets drunk," medley continued hastily, "but he really does excite himself and whip himself up to work by means of spirits." the clergyman hesitated. the doctor spurred him on. "most interesting to the scientific man--please go on." "well, i don't know that there is much to say--i do hope i am not doing the man an injustice, because i am getting on for twice his age and envy the modern brilliance of his brain! but about a fortnight ago i went to see crutwell--a poor fellow who is dying of phthisis--and found lothian there. he was holding crutwell's hand and talking to him about paradise in a monotonous musical voice. he had been drinking. i saw it at once. his eyes were quite wild." "but the patient was made happier?" "yes. he was. happier, i freely confess it, than my long ministrations have ever been able to make him. but that is certainly not the point. it is very distressing to a parish priest to meet with these things in his visitations. do you know," here mr. medley gave a rueful chuckle, "i followed this alcoholic missioner the other day into the house of an old bed-ridden woman whom he helps to support. lothian is extremely generous by the way. he would literally take off his coat and give it away--which really means, of course, that he has no conception of what money means. "at any rate, i went into old sarah's cottage about half an hour after lothian had been there. the old lady in question lived a jolly, wicked life until senile paralysis intervened. she is now quite a connoisseur in religion. i found her, on the occasion of which i speak, lying back upon her pillows with a perfectly rapturous expression on her wicked and wrinkled old face. 'oh, mr. lothian's been, sir!' she said, 'oh, 'twas beautiful! he gave me five shillings and then he knelt down and prayed. i never heard such praying--meaning no disrespect, sir, of course. but it was beautiful. the tears were rolling down mr. lothian's cheeks!' 'mr. lothian is very kind,' i said. 'he's wonnerful,' she replied, 'for he was really as drunk as a lord the whole time, though he didn't see as i saw it. fancy praying so beautiful and him like that. what a brain!'" morton sims burst out laughing, he could not help it. "all the same," he said at length, "it's certainly rather scandalous." medley made a hurried deprecating movement of his hands. "no, no!" he said, "don't think that. i am over-emphasising things. those two instances are quite isolated. in a general way lothian is just like any one else. to speak quite frankly, doctor, i'm not a safe guide when gilbert lothian is discussed." "yes?" "for this reason. i admire and reverence mrs. lothian as i have never reverenced any other woman. now and then i have met saint-like people, and the more saint-like they were--i hope i am not cynical--the less of comely humanity they seemed to have. only once have i met a saint quietly walking this world with sane and happy footsteps. and that is mary lothian." there was a catch and tremble in the voice of the elderly clergyman. morton sims, who had liked him from the first, now felt more drawn to him than at any other time during their morning talk and walk. "now you see why i am a little bitter about gilbert lothian! i don't think that he is worthy of such a perfect wife as he has got! i'll take you to tea with her this afternoon and you will see!" "i should like to meet her very much. lothian is not here then?" "he has been away for a week or so, but he is returning to-night. our old postman, who knows everything, told me so at least." the two men continued their walk through the village until lunch time, when they separated. at three o'clock a maid brought a note from the rectory to the "haven." in the letter medley said that he had been summoned to wordingham by telegram and could not take the doctor to call on mrs. lothian. the doctor spent the afternoon reading in the garden. he took tea among the flowers there, and after dinner, as it was extremely hot, he once more sought his deck chair under the mulberry tree in front of the house. not a breath of air stirred. now and then a cockchafer boomed through the heavy dark, and at his feet some glowworms had lit their elfin lamps. there was thunder in the air too, it was murmuring ten miles away over the wash, and now and again the sky above the marshes was lit with flickering green and violet fires. a definite depression settled down upon the doctor's spirits and something seemed to be like a load upon lungs and brain. he always kept himself physically fit. in london, during his busy life, walking, which was the exercise he loved best, was not possible. so he fenced, and swam a good deal at the bath club, of which he was a member. for three days now, he had taken no exercise whatever. he had been arranging his new household. "liver!" he thought to himself. "that is why i am melancholy and depressed to-night. and then the storm that is hanging about has its effect too. but hardly any one realises that the liver is the seat of the emotions! it should be said--more truly--that such a one died of a broken liver, not a broken heart!" . . . he sighed. his imaginings did not amuse him to-night. his vitality was lowered. that sick ennui which lies behind the thunder was upon him. as the storm grew nearer through the vast spaces of the night, so his psychic organism responded to its approach. some uneasy imp had got into the barracks of his brain and was beating furiously upon the cerebral drum. the vast and level landscape, the wide night, were alike to be dramatised by the storm. and so, also, in the sphere of his thought, upon that secret stage where, after all, everything really happens, there was drama and disturbance. the level-minded scientist in dr. morton sims drooped its head and bowed to the imperious onslaught. the man of letters in him awoke. strange and fantastic influences were abroad this night and would have their way even with this cool sane person. he knew what was happening to him as the night grew hotter, the lightning more frequent. he, the ego of him, was slipping away from the material plane and entering that psychic country which he knew of and dreaded for its strange allurements. imaginative by nature and temperament, with a something of the artist in him, it was his habit to starve and repress that side of him as much as he was able. he knew the unfathomable gulf that separated the psychical from the physiological. it was in the sphere of physiology that his work lay, here he was great, there must be no divided allegiance. there was a menacing stammer of thunder. a certain line of verse came into his mind, a line of lothian's. "_oh dreadful trumpets sounding, pealing and resounding, from the hid battlements of eternity!_" "i will take a ten mile walk to-morrow," he said to himself, and resolutely wrenched his thoughts towards material things. there was, he remembered with a slight shudder, that appalling passage in a recent letter from mrs. daly-- . . . "six weeks ago a tippler was put into an alms-house in this state. within a few days he had devised various expedients to procure rum, but had failed. at length he hit on one that was successful. he went into the wood yard of the establishment, placed one hand upon the block, and with an axe in the other struck it off at a single blow. with the stump raised and streaming he ran into the house and cried, 'get some rum. get some rum. my hand is off.' in the confusion and bustle of the occasion a bowl of rum was brought, into which he plunged the bleeding member of his body, then raising the bowl to his mouth, drank freely and exultantly exclaimed, 'now i am satisfied!'" horrible! why was it possible that men might poison themselves so? would all the efforts of himself and his friends ever make such monstrous happenings cease? oh, that it might be so! they were breaking up stubborn land. the churches were against them, but the home secretary of the day was their friend--in the future the disease might be eradicated from society. oh, that it might be so! for the good of the human race! how absolutely horrible it was that transparent, coloured liquids in bottles of glass--liquids that could be bought everywhere for a few pence--should have the devilish power to transform men, not to beasts, but to monsters. the man of whom mrs. daly had written--hideously alcoholised and insane! hancock, the hackney murderer, poisoned, insane! the doctor had been present at the post-mortem, after the execution. it had all been so pitiably clear to the trained eye! the liver, the heart, told him their tale very plainly. any general practitioner would have known. ordinary cirrhosis, the scar tissue perfectly plain; the lime-salts deposited in the wasting muscles of the heart. but morton sims had found far more than this in that poisoned shell which had held, also, a poisoned soul. he had marked the little swellings upon the long nerve processes that run from the normal cell of the healthy brain. something that looked like a little string of beads under the microscope had told him all he wanted to know. and that little string of beads, the lesions which interfered with the proper passage of nerve impulses, the scraps of tissue which the section-cutter had thinned and given to the lens, had meant torture and death to a good woman. how dreadfully women suffered! their husbands and lovers and brothers became brutes to them. the women who were merely struck or beaten now and then were fortunate. the women whose lives were made one long ingenious torture were legion. dr. morton sims was a bachelor. he was more. he was a man with a virgin mind. devoted always to the line of work he had undertaken he had allowed nothing else to disturb his life. for him passion was explained by pathological and physiological occurrences. that is to say, passion in others. for himself, he had allowed nothing that was sensual to interfere with his progress, or to influence the wise order of his days. therefore, he reverenced women. hidden in his mind was that latent adoration that the catholic feels about the real presence upon an altar. a good knight of science, he was as pure and pellucid in thought upon these matters as any knight who bore the descending dove upon his shield and flung into the _mêlée_ calling upon the name of the paraclete. in his own fashion, and with his own vision of what it was, morton sims, also, was one of those seeking the holy grail. he adored his sister, a sweet woman made for love and motherhood but who had chosen the virgin life of renunciation that she might help the world. women! yes, it was women who suffered. there were tears in his mind as he thought of women. before a good woman he always wished to kneel. how heavy the night was! he identified it with the sorrowful weight and pressure of the fiend alcohol upon the world. and there was a woman, here near him, a woman with a sweet and fragrant nature--so the old clergyman had said. on her, too, the weight must be lying. for mary lothian there must be horror in the days. . . . "one thing i _will_ do," he said to the dark--and that he spoke aloud was sufficient indication of his state of mind--"i'll get hold of gilbert lothian while i am here. i'll save him at any rate, if i can. and it is quite obvious that he cannot be too far gone for salvation. i'll save him from an end no less frightful than that of his brother of whom he has probably never heard. the good woman he seems to have married shall be happy! the man's fine brain shan't be lost. this shall be my special experiment while i am down here. coincidence, no less than good-will, makes that duty perfectly plain for me." as he stood there, glad to have found some definite material thing with which to occupy his mind, a housemaid came through the french windows of the library. she hurried towards him, ghost-like in her white cap and apron. "are you there, sir?" she said, peering this way and that in the thick dark. "yes, here i am, condon, what is it?" "please, sir, there's been an accident. a gentleman has been thrown out of a dog-cart. it's a mr. lothian. his man's here, and the gentleman's wife has heard you're in the village and there's no other doctor nearer than wordingham." "i'll come at once," morton sims said. he hurried through the quiet library with its green-shaded reading lamp and went into the hall. tumpany was standing there, his cap held before him in two hands, naval-fashion. his round red face was streaming with perspiration, his eyes were frightened and he exhaled a strong smell of beer. his hand went up mechanically and his left foot scraped upon the oilcloth of the hall as morton sims entered. "beg your pardon, sir," tumpany began at once, "but i'm mr. gilbert lothian's man. master have had an accident. i was driving him home from the station when the horse stumbled just outside the village. master was pitched out on his head. my mistress would be very grateful if you could come at once." "certainly, i will," sims answered, looking at the man with a keen, experienced eye which made him shift uneasily upon his feet. "wait here for a moment." he hurried back into the library and put lint, cotton-wool and a pair of blunt-nosed scissors into a hand-bag. then, calling for a candle and lighting it, he went out into the stable yard and up to the room above the big barn, emerging in a minute or two with a bottle of antiseptic lotion. these were all the preparations he could make until he knew more. the thing might be serious or it might be little or nothing. fortunately lothian's house was not five minutes' walk from the "haven." if instruments were required he could fetch them in a very short time. as he left the house with tumpany, he noticed that the man lurched upon the step. quite obviously he was half intoxicated. with a cunning born of long experience of inebriate men, the doctor affected a complete unconsciousness of what he had discovered. if he put the man upon his guard he would get nothing out of him, that was quite certain. "he's made a direct statement so far," the doctor thought. "he's only on the border-land of intoxication. for as long as he thinks i have noticed nothing he will be coherent. directly he realises that i have spotted his state he'll become confused and ashamed and he won't be able to tell me anything." "this is very unfortunate," he said in a smooth and confidential voice. "i do hope it is nothing very serious. of course i know your master very well by name." "yessir," tumpany answered thickly, but with a perceptible note of pleasure in his voice. "yessir, i should say master is one of the best shots in norfolk. you'd have heard of him, of course." "but how did it happen?" "this 'ere accident, sir?" said tumpany rather vaguely, his mind obviously running upon his master's achievements among the wild geese of the marshes. "yes, the accident," the doctor answered in his smooth, kindly voice--though it would have given him great relief to have boxed the ears of his beery guide. "i was driving master home, sir. it's not our trap. we don't keep one. we hires in the village, but the man as the trap belongs to couldn't go. so i drove, sir." movement had stirred up the fumes of alcohol in this barrel! oh, the interminable repetitions, the horrid incapacity for getting to the point of men who were drunk! lives of the utmost value had been lost by fools like this--great events in the history of the world had turned upon an extra pot of beer! but patience, patience! "yes, you drove, and the horse stumbled. did the horse come right down?" "i'm not much of a whip, sir, as you may say, though i know about ordinary driving. they say that a sailor-man is no good with a horse. but that isn't true." yet despite the irritation of his mind, the necessity for absolute self-control, the expert found time to make a note of this further instance of the intolerable egotism that alcohol induces in its slaves. "but i expect you drove very well, indeed! then the horse did _not_ come right down!" just at the right moment, carefully calculated to have its effect, the doctor's voice became sharper and had a ring of command in it. there was an instant response. "no, sir. the cob only stumbled. but master was sitting loose like. he fell out like a log, sir. he made a noise like a piece of luggage falling." "oh! did he fall on his head?" "yessir. but he had a stiff felt hat on. i got help and as we carried him into the house he was bleeding awful." "curious that he should fall like that. was he, well, was he quite himself should you think?" it was a bow drawn at a venture, and it provoked a reply that instantly told morton sims what he wanted to know. "oh, yessir! by all means, sir! most cert'nly! master was as sober as a judge, sir!" "of _course_," sims replied in a surprised tone of voice. "i thought that he might have been tired by the journey from london." . . . so it was true then! lothian was drunk. the thing was obvious. but this was a good and loyal fellow, not to give his master away. morton sims liked that. he made a note that poor beery tumpany should have half a sovereign on the morrow, when he was sober. then the two men turned in through the gates of the old house. the front door was wide open to the night. the light which flowed out from the tall lamp upon an oak table in the hall cut into the black velvet of the drive with a sharply defined wedge of orange-yellow. there was something ominous in this wide-set door of a frightened house. the doctor walked straight into the hall, a small old-fashioned place panelled in white. to the right another door stood open. in the doorway stood a maid-servant with a frightened face. beyond her, through the archway of the door, showed the section of a singularly beautiful room. the maid started. "oh, you've come, sir!" she said--"in here please, sir." the doctor followed the girl into the lit room. this is what he saw:-- a room with the walls covered with canvas of a delicate oat-meal colour up to the height of seven feet. above this a moulded beading of wood which had been painted vermilion--the veritable post-box red. above this again a frieze of pure white paper. at set intervals upon the canvas were brilliant colour-prints in thin gold frames. the room was lit with many candles in tall holders of silver. at one side of it was a table spread for supper, gleaming with delicate napery and cut glass, peaches in a bowl of red earthenware, ruby-coloured wine in a jug of german glass with a lid of pewter shaped like a snake's head. at the other side of the room was a huge chesterfield couch, upholstered in broad stripes of black and olive linen. the still figure of a man in a tweed suit lay upon the couch. there was blood upon his face and clotted rust-like stains upon his loosened collar. a washing-bowl of stained water stood upon the green carpet. upon a chair, by the head of the couch a tall woman with shining yellow hair was sitting. she wore a low-cut evening dress of black, pearls were about the white column of her throat, a dragon fly of emeralds set in aluminium sparkled in her hair, and upon her wrists were heavy moorish bracelets of oxydised silver studded with the bird's egg blue of the turquoise stone. for an instant, not of the time but of thought, the doctor was startled. then, as the stately and beautiful woman rose to meet him, he understood. she had decked herself, adorned her fair body with all the braveries she had so that she might be lovely and acceptable to her husband's eyes as he came home to her. came home to her . . . like this! morton sims had shaken the slim hand, murmured some words of condolence, and hastened to the motionless figure upon the couch. his deft fingers were feeling, pressing, touching with a wonderful instinct, the skull beneath the tumbled masses of blood-clotted hair. nothing there, scalp wounds merely. arms, legs--yes, these were uninjured too. the collar-bone was intact under the flesh that cushioned it. the skin of the left wrist was lacerated and bruised--lothian, of course, had been sitting on the left side of the driver when he fell like a log from the gig--but the bones of the hand and arm were normal. there was not a single symptom of brain concussion. the deep gurgling breathing, the alarming snore-like sound that came from between the curiously pure and clear-cut lips, meant one thing only. morton sims stood up. mary lothian was waiting. there was an agony of expectation in her eyes. "not the least reason to be alarmed," said the doctor. "some nasty cuts in the scalp, that is all." she gave a deep sigh, a momentary shudder, and then her face became calm. "it is so kind of you to come, doctor," she said.--"then that deep spasmodic breathing--he has not really hurt his head?" "not in the least as far as i can say, and i am fairly certain. we must get him up to bed. then i can cut away the hair and bandage the wounds. i must take his temperature also. it's possible--just possible that the shock may have unpleasant results, though i really don't think it will. i will give him some bromide though, as soon as he wakes up." "ah!" she said. that was all, but it meant everything. he knew that to this woman, at least, plain-speaking was best. "yes," he continued, "i am sorry to say that he is under the influence of alcohol. he has obviously been drinking heavily of late. i am a specialist in such matters and i can hardly be mistaken. there is just a possibility that this may bring on delirium tremens--only a possibility. he has never suffered from that?" "oh, never. thank god never!" a sob came into her voice. her face glowed with the love and tenderness within, the blue eyes seemed set in a soul rather than in a face, so beautiful had they become. "he's so good," she said with a wistful smile. "you can't think what a sweet boy he is when he doesn't drink any horrible things." "madam, i have read his poems. i know what an intellect and force lies drugged upon that sofa there. but we will soon have the flame burning clearly once more. it has been the work of my life to study these cases." "yes, i know, doctor. i have heard so much of your work." "believe then that i am going to save this foolish young man, to give him back to you and to the world. a free man once more!" "free!" she whispered. "oh, free from his vice!" "_vice_, madam! i thought that all intelligent people understood by this time. for the last ten years i and my colleagues have been trying to make them understand! it is not a _vice_ from which your husband suffers. it is a _disease_!" he saw that she was pleased that he had spoken to her thus--though he was in some doubt if she appreciated what he had actually said. but already the shuttle of an incipient friendship was beginning to dart between them. two high clear souls had met and recognised each other. "well, suppose we get him to bed, doctor," she said. "we can carry him up between us. there are two maids, and tumpany is quite sober enough to help." "quite!" the doctor answered. "i rather like that man upon a first meeting." mary laughed--a low contralto laugh. "she has a sense of humour too!" the doctor thought. "yes," she said, "tumpany is a good fellow at heart. and, like most people who drink, when he is himself he is a quite delightful person." she went out into the hall, tall and beautiful, the jewels in her hair and on her hands sparkling in the candlelight. morton sims took one of the candles from the table and went up to the couch. a shadow flickered over the face of the man who was lying there. it was but momentary, but in that instant the watcher became cold. the silver of the candle-stick stung the palm of a hand which was suddenly wet. this tranquil, lovely room with its soft yellow light, dissolved and shifted like a scene in a dream. . . . . . . it was a raw winter's morning. the walls were the whitewashed walls of a prison mortuary. there was a smell of chloride of lime. . . . and lying upon a long zinc slab, with little grooves and depressions running down to the eye-hole of a drain, was a still figure whose face was a ghastly caricature of this face, hideously, revoltingly alike . . . mary lothian, tumpany, and two maid-servants came into the room, and with some difficulty the poet was carried upstairs. he was hardly laid upon his bed when the rain came, falling in great sheets with a loud noise, cooling and purging the hot air. chapter iii psychology of the inebriate, and the letter of jewelled words "verbosa ac grandis epistola venit a capreis." --_juvenal._ it was three days after the accident. gilbert lay in bed. his head was crossed with bandages, his wrist was wrapped with lint and a wet compress was upon the ankle of his strained left foot. the windows of his bedroom were wide to the sun and air of the morning. there were two pleasant droning sounds. a bee was flying round the room, and down below in the garden tumpany was mowing the strip of lawn before the house. gilbert was very tranquil. he was wrapped round with a delicious peace of mind and body. he seemed to be floating in some warm ether of peace. there was a table by the side of his bed. in a slender vase upon it was a single marguerite daisy with its full green stem, its rays of white--chinese white in a box of colours--round the central gold. close to his hand, upon the white turned down sheet was a copy of "john inglesant." it was a book he loved and could always return to, and he had had his copy bound in most sumptuous purple. mary came into the bedroom. she was carrying a little tray upon which there was a jug of milk and a bottle of soda water. there was a serene happiness upon her face. she had him now--the man she loved! he was hers, her own without possibility of interference. she was his providence, he depended utterly upon her. there are not many women like this in life, but there are some. perhaps they were more frequent in the days of the past. women who have no single thought of self: women whose thoughts are always prayers: women in whose veins love takes the place of blood, whose hearts are cisterns of sweet charity, whose touch means healing, whose voices are like harps that sound forgiveness and devotion alone. she put the tray upon the bedside table and sat down upon the bed, taking his unwounded hand in hers, stroking it with the soft cushions of her fingers, holding up its well-shaped plumpness as if it were a toy. "there is something so comic about your hands, darling!" she said. "they are so nice and fat and jolly. they make me want to laugh!" to gilbert his wife's happy voice seemed but part of the dream-like peace which lay upon him. he was drowsy with incense. how fresh and fragrant she was! he thought idly. he pulled her down to him and kissed her and the gilded threads of her hair brushed his forehead. her lips were cool as violets with the dew upon their petals. she belonged to him. she was part of the pleasant furniture of the room, the hour! "how are you feeling, darling? you're looking so much better!" "my head hurts a little, but not much. but my nerves are ever so much better. look how steady my hand is." he held it out with childish pride. "and you'll see, molly dear, that when i'm shaved, my complexion will be quite nice again! it's a horrid nuisance not to be able to shave. do i look very bad?" "no, you wicked image! you're a vain little wretch, gillie, really!" "i'm quite sure that i'm not. but, molly, it's so nice to be feeling better. master of one's self. not frightened about things." "of course it is, you old stupid! if you were always good how much happier you'd be! take my advice. do what i tell you, and everything will come right. you've got a great big brain, but you're a silly boy, too! think how much more placid you are now. never take any more spirits again!" "no, i won't, darling. i promise you i won't." "that's right, dear. and this nice new doctor will help you. you like him, don't you?" "molly! what a dear simple fool you are! _like_ him? you don't in the least realise who he is. it's morton sims, morton sims himself! he's a fearfully important person. twice, they say, he's refused to take a baronetcy. he's come down here to do research work. it's an enormous condescension on his part to come and plaster up my head. it's really rather like lord rosebery coming to shave one! and he'll send in a bill for about fifty pounds!" "he won't, gillie dear. i'm sure. but if he does, what's the use of worrying? i'll pay it out of my own money, and i've got nearly as much as you--nasty miser!" they laughed together at this. mary had three or four hundreds a year of her own, gilbert a little more, independently of what he earned by writing. mary was mean with her money. that is to say, she saved it up to give to poorer people and debated with herself about a new frock like a chancellor of the exchequer about the advisability of a fresh tax. and lothian didn't care and never thought about money. he had no real sense of personal property. he liked spending money. he was extravagant for other people. if he bought a rare book, a special japanese colour-print, any desirable thing--he generally gave it away to some one at once. he really liked people with whom he came into contact to have delightful things quite as much as he liked to have them himself. nor was this an outcome of the poisoned state of his body, his brain, and--more terrible than all!--of his mind. it was genuine human kindness, an eager longing that others should enjoy things that he himself enjoyed so poignantly. but what he gave must be the things that _he_ liked, though to all _necessity_ he was liberal. a sick poor person without proper nourishment, a child without a toy, some wretched tramp without tobacco for his pipe--to him these were all tragedies, equal in their appeal to his charity. and this was because of his trained power of psychology, his profound insight into the minds of others, though even that was marred by a rousseau-like belief that every one was good and decent at heart! still, the need of the dying village consumptive for milk and calf's-foot jelly, was no more vivid in his mind than the need of the tramp for a smoke. as far as he was able, it was his duty, his happy duty, to satisfy the wants of both. mary was different. the consumptive, yes! stout flannel shirts for old shepherds who must tend the birth of lambs on bitter spring midnights. food for the tramp, too--no dusty wayfarer should go unsatisfied from the lothians' house! but not the subsequent shilling for beer and shag and the humble luxury of the inn kitchen that gilbert would have bestowed. such was her wise penuriousness in its calm economy of the angels! yet, her husband had his economy also. odd as it was, it was part of his temperament. if he had bought a rare and perfect object of art, and then met some one who he saw longed for it, but couldn't afford to have it in the ordinary way, he took a real delight in giving it. but it would have been easier for him to lop off a hand than to present one of the toftrees' novels to any one who was thirsting for something to read. he would have thought it immoral to do so. he had a great row with his wife when she presented a gaudy pair of pink-gilt vases to an ex-housemaid who was about to be married. "but dear, she's _delighted_," mary had said. "you've committed a crime! it's disgraceful. oblige me by never doing anything of the sort again. why didn't you give her a ham?" "molly, may i have a cigarette?" "hadn't you better have a pipe? the doctor said that you smoked far too many cigarettes and that they were bad for you." for three days lothian had had nothing to drink but a glass of burgundy at lunch and dinner. lying in bed, perfectly tranquil, calling upon no physical resources, the sense of nerve-rest within him was grateful and profound. but the inebriate lives almost entirely upon momentary sensation. the slightest recrudescence of health makes him forget the horrors of the past. in the false calm of his quiet room, his tended state, the love and care surrounding him, gilbert had already come to imagine that he was what he hoped to be in his saner moments. he had, at the moment, not the least desire for a drink. in three days he was already complacent and felt himself strong! yet his nerves were still unstable and every impulse was on a hair trigger, so to speak. the fact became evident at once. he knew well enough that when he began to smoke pipes the most pressing desire of the other narcotic, alcohol, became numbed. cigarettes stimulated that desire, or at least accompanied it. he could not live happily without cigarettes. he knew that mary knew this also--experience of him had given her the sad knowledge--and he was quite certain that dr. morton sims must know too. the extraordinary transitions of the drunkard from one mental state to another are more symptomatic than any other thing about him. gilbert's face altered and became sullen. a sharp and acid note tuned his voice. "i see," he said, "you've been talking me over with morton sims. thank you so _very_ much!" he began to brag about himself, a thing he would have been horrified to do to any one but mary. even with her it was a weak weapon, and sometimes in his hands a mean and cruel one too. ". . . you were kind enough to marry me, but you don't in the least seem to understand whom you have married! is my art nothing to you? do you realise who i am at all--in any way? of course you don't! you're too big a fool to do so. but other women know! at any rate, i beg you will not talk over your husband with stray medical men who come along. you might spare me that at least. i should have thought you would have had more sense of personal dignity than that!" she winced at the cruelty of his words, at the wounding bitterness which he knew so well how to throw into his voice. but she showed no sign of it. he was a poisoned man, and she knew it. morton sims had made it plainer than ever to her at their talks downstairs during the last three days. it wasn't gillie who said these hard things, it was the fiend alcohol that lurked within him and who should be driven out. . . . it wasn't her gilbert, really! in her mind she said one word. "jesus!" it was a prayer, hope, comfort and control. the response was instant. that secret help had been discovered long since by her. of her own searching it had come, and then, one day she had picked up one of her husband's favourite books and had read of this very habit she had acquired. "inglesant found that repeating the name of jesus simply in the lonely nights kept his brain quiet when it was on the point of distraction, being of the same mind as sir charles lucas when 'many times calling upon the sacred name of jesus,' he was shot dead at colchester." the spiritual telegraphy that goes on between earth and heaven, from god to his saints is by no means understood by the world. "you old duffer," mary said. "really, you are a perfect blighter--as you so often call me! haven't you just been boasting about feeling so much better? and, fat wretch! am i not doing everything possible for you. _of course_ i've talked you over with the doctor. we're going to make you right! we're going to make you slim and beautiful once more. my dear thing! it's all arranged and settled. don't bubble like a frog! don't look at your poor missis as if she were a nasty smell! it's no use, gillie dear, we've got you now!" no momentary ill-humour could stand against this. he was, after all, quite dependent upon the lady with the golden hair who was sitting upon his bed. and it was with no more oriental complacence, but with a very humble-minded reverence, that the poet drew his wife to him and kissed her once more. ". . . but i may have a cigarette, molly?" "of course you may, if you want one. it was only a general sort of remark that the doctor made. a few cigarettes can't harm any one. don't i have two every day myself--since you got me into the habit? but you've been smoking fifty a day, for _weeks_ before you went to town." "oh, molly! what utter rot! i _never_ have!" "but you _have_, gilbert. you smoke the virginian ones in the tins of fifty. you always have lots of tins, but you never think how they come into the house. i order them from the grocer in wordingham. they're put down in the monthly book--so you see i _know_!" "fifty a day! of course, it's appalling." "well, you're going to be a good boy now, a perfect angel. here you are, here are three cigarettes for you. and you're going to have a sweet-bread for lunch and i'm going to cook it for you myself!" "dear old dear!" "yes, i am. and tumpany wants to see you. will you see him? dr. morton sims won't be here for another half hour." "yes, i'll have tumpany up. best chap i know, tumpany is. but why's the doctor coming? my head's healed up all right now." there was a whimsical note in his voice as he asked the question. "you know, darling! he wants to have a long talk with you." "apropos of the reformation stakes i suppose." "to give you back your wonderful brain in peace, darling!" she answered, bending down, catching him to her breast in her sweet arms. ". . . gillie! gillie! i love you so!" "and now suppose you send up tumpany, dear." "yes, at once." she went away, smiling and kissing her hand, hoping with an intensity of hope which burned within her like a flame, that when the doctor came and talked to gilbert as had been arranged, the past might be wiped out and a new life begun in this quiet village of east england. in a minute there was a knock at the bedroom door. "come in," gilbert called out. tumpany entered. upon the red face of that worthy person there was a grin of sheer delight as he made his bow and scrape. then he held up his right arm. he was grasping a leash of mallard, and the metallic blue-green and white upon the wings of the ducks shone in the sun. gilbert leapt in his bed, and then put his hand to his bandaged head with a half groan.--"good god!" he cried, "how the deuce did you get those?" "first of august, sir. wildfowling begins!" "heavens! so it is. i ought to have been out! i never thought about the date. damn you for pitching me out of the dog-cart, william!" "yessir! you've told me so before," tumpany answered, his face reflecting the smile upon his master's. "what are they, flappers?" "no, sir, mature birds. i was out on the marshes before daylight. the birds were coming off the meils--and north creake flat. first day since february, sir! you know what i was feeling like!" "don't i, oh, don't i, by jove! now tell me. what were you using?" "well, sir, i thought i would fire at nothing but duck on the first day. just to christen the day, sir. so i used five and a half and smokeless diamond. your cartridges." "what gun?" "well, i used my old pigeon gun, sir. it's full choke, both barrels and on the meils it's always a case of long shots." "why didn't you have one of my guns? the long-chambered twelve, or the big greener ten-bore--they're there in the cupboard in the gun room, you've got the key! did a whole sord of mallard come over, or were those three stragglers?" "a sord, sir. the two drakes were right and left shots and this duck came down too. as i said to the mistress just now, 'last year,' i said, 'mr. gilbert and i were out for two mornings after the first of august and we never brought back nothing but a brace of curlew--and now here's a leash of duck, m'm.'" "if you'd had a bigger gun, and a sord came over, you'd have got a bag, william! why the devil didn't you take the ten-bore?" "well, sir, i won't say as i didn't go and have a look at 'im in the gun room--knowing how they're flighting just now and that a big gun would be useful. but with you lying in bed i couldn't do it. so i went out and shot just for the honour of the house, as it were." "well, i shall be up in a day or two, william, and i'll see if i can't wipe your eye!" "i hope you will, sir, i'm sure. there's quite a lot of mallard about, early as it is." "i'll get among them soon, tumpany!" "yessir--the mistress i think, sir, and the doctor." tumpany's ears were keen, like those of most wildfowlers,--he heard voices coming along the passage towards the bedroom. the door opened and morton sims came in with mary. he shook hands with gilbert, admired tumpany's leash of duck, and then, left alone with the poet, sat down upon the bed. the two men regarded each other with interest. they were both "personalities" and both of them made their mark in their several ways. "good heavens!" the doctor was thinking. "what a brilliant brain's hidden behind those lint bandages! this is the man who can make the throat swell with sorrow and the heart leap high with hope! with all my learning and success, i can only bring comfort to people's bowels or cure insomnia. this fellow here can heal souls--like a priest! even for me--now and then--he has unlocked the gates of fairyland." "good lord!" gilbert said to himself. "what wouldn't i give to be a fellow like this fellow. he is great. he can put a drug into one's body and one's soul awakes! he's got a magic wand. he waves it, and sanity returns. he pours out of a bottle and blind eyes once more see god, dull ears hear music! i go and get drunk at amberleys' house and cringe before a toftrees, mon dieu! this man can never go away from a house without leaving a sense of loss behind him." --"well, how are you, mr. lothian?" "much better, thanks, doctor. i'm feeling quite fit, in fact." "yes, but you're not, you know. i made a complete examination of you yesterday, you remember, and now i've tabulated the results." "tell me then." "if you weren't who you are, i wouldn't tell you at all, being who you are, i will." lothian nodded. "fire away!" he said with his sweet smile, his great charm of manner--all the greater for the enforced abstinence of the last three days--"i shan't funk anything you tell me." "very well, then. your liver is beginning--only beginning--to be enlarged. you've got a more or less permanent catarrh of the stomach, and a permanent catarrh of the throat and nasal passages from membranes inflamed by alcohol and constant cigarette smoking. and there is a hint of coming heart trouble, too." lothian laughed, frankly enough. "i know all that," he said. "really, doctor, there's nothing very dreadful in that. i'm as strong as a horse, really!" "yes, you are, in one way. your constitution is a fine one. i was talking to your man-servant yesterday and i know what you are able to go through when you are shooting in the winter. i would not venture upon such risks myself even." "then everything is for the best, in the best of all possible worlds?" gilbert answered lightly, feeling sure that the other would take him. "unfortunately, in your case, it's _not_," morton sims replied. "you seem to forget two things about 'candide'--that dr. pangloss was a failure and a fool, and that one must cultivate one's garden! voltaire was a wise man!" gilbert dropped his jesting note. "you've something to say to me," he answered, "probably a good deal more. say it. say anything you like, and be quite certain that i shan't be offended." "i will. it's this, mr. lothian. your stomach will go on digesting and your heart performing its functions long after your brain has gone." then there was silence in the sunlit bedroom. "you think that?" lothian said at length, in a quiet voice. "i know it. you are on the verge of terrible nervous and mental collapse. i'm going to be brutal, but i'm going to speak the truth. three months more of drinking as you have been of late and, for all effective purposes you go out!" gilbert's face flushed purple with rage. "how dare you say such a thing to me, sir?" he cried. "how dare you tell me, tell _me_, that i have been drinking heavily. you are certainly wise to say it when there is no witness here!" morton sims smiled sadly. he was quite unmoved by lothian's rage. it left him cool. but when he spoke, there was a hypnotic ring in his voice which caught at the weak and tremulous will of the man upon the bed and held it down. "now really, mr. lothian!" he said, "what on earth is the use of talking like that to me? it means nothing. it does not express your real thought. can you suppose that your condition is not an open book to _me_? you know that you wouldn't speak as you're doing if your nerves weren't in a terrible state. you have one of the finest minds in england; don't bring it to irremediable ruin for want of a helping hand." lothian lay back on his pillow breathing quickly. he felt that his hands were trembling and he pushed them under the clothes. his legs were twitching and a spasm of cramp-pain shot into the calf of one of them. "look here, doctor," he said after a moment, "i spoke like a fool, which i'm not. i have been rather overdoing it lately. my work has been worrying me and i've been trying to whip myself up with alcohol." morton sims nodded. "well, we'll soon put you right," he said. mary lothian had told him the true history of the case. for three years, at least, her husband had been drinking steadily, silent, persistent, lonely drinking. for a long time, a period of months to her own fear and horror-quickened knowledge, lothian had been taking a quantity of spirits which she estimated at two-thirds of a bottle a day. without enlightening her, and adding what an inebriate of this type could easily procure in addition, the doctor put the true quantity at about a bottle and a half--say for the last two months certainly. he knew also, that whatever else lothian might do, either now or when he became more confidential, he would lie about the _quantity_ of spirits he was in the habit of consuming. inebriates always do. "of course," he said, talking in a quiet man-of-the-world voice, "_i_ know what a strain such work as yours must be, and there is certainly temptation to stimulate flagging energies with some drug. hundreds of men do it, doctors too!--literary men, actors, legal men!" he noted immediately the slight indication of relief in the patient, who thought he had successfully deceived him, and he saw also that sad and doubting anxiety in the eyes, which says so poignantly, "what must i do to be saved?" could he save this man? everything was against it, his history, his temperament, the length to which he had already gone. the whole stern and horrible statistics of experience were dead against it. but he could, and would, try. there was a chance. a great doctor must think more rapidly than a general upon the field of battle; as quickly indeed as one who faces a deadly antagonist with the naked foil. there was one way in which to treat this man. he must tell him more about the psychology--and even if necessary the pathology--of his own case than he could tell any ordinary patient. "i'll tell you something," he said, "and i expect your personal experience will back me up. you've no 'craving' for alcohol i expect? on the sensual side there's no sense of indulging in a pleasurable self-gratification?" lothian's face lighted up with interest and surprise. "not a _bit_," he said excitedly, "that's exactly where people make a mistake! i don't mind telling you that when i've taken more than i ought, people, my wife and so on, have remonstrated with me. but none of them ever seem to understand. they talk about a 'craving' and so on. religious people, even the cleverest, don't seem to understand. i've heard bishop moultrie preach a temperance sermon and talk about the 'vice' of indulgence, the hideous 'craving' and all that. but it never seemed to explain anything to me, nor did it to all the men who drink too much, i ever met." "there _is_ no craving," the doctor answered quietly--"in the sense these people use the word. and there is no vice. it is a disease. they mean well, they even effect some cures, but they are misinformed." "well, it's very hard to answer them at any rate. one somehow knows within oneself that they're all wrong, but one can't explain." "i can explain to you--i couldn't explain to, well to your man tumpany for instance, _he_ couldn't understand." "tumpany only drinks beer," lothian answered in a tone of voice that a traveller in thibet would use in speaking of some one who had ventured no further from home than boulogne. it was another indication, an unconscious betrayal. his defences were fast breaking down. morton sims felt the keen, almost æsthetic pleasure the artist knows when he is doing good work. already this mind was responsive to the skilled touch and the expected, melancholy music sounding from that injured instrument. "he seems a very good sort, that fellow of yours," the doctor continued indifferently, and then, with a more eager and confidential manner, "but let me explain where the ordinary temperance people are wrong. first, tell me, haven't you at times quarrelled with friends, because you've become suspicious of them, and have imagined some treacherous and concealed motive in the background?" "i don't know that i've quarrelled much." "well, perhaps not. but you've felt suspicious of people a good deal. you've wondered whether people were thinking about you. in all sorts of little ways you've had these thoughts constantly. perhaps if a correspondent who generally signs himself 'yours sincerely' has inadvertently signed 'yours truly' you have worried a good deal and invented all sorts of reasons. if some person of position you know drives past you, and his look or wave of the hand does not appear to be as cordial as usual, don't you invent all kinds of distressing reasons to account for what you imagine?" lothian nodded. his face was flushed again, his eyes--rather yellow and bloodshot still--were markedly startled, a little apprehensive. "if this man knew so much, a wizard who saw into the secret places of the mind, what more might he not know?" but it was impossible for him to realise the vast knowledge and supreme skill of the pleasant man with the cultured voice who sat on the side of the bed. the fear was perfectly plain to morton sims. "may i have a cigarette?" he said, taking his case from his pocket. lothian became more at ease at once. "well,"--puff-puff--"these little suspicions are characteristic of the disease. the man who is suffering from it says that these feelings of resistance cannot arise in himself. therefore, they must be caused by somebody. who more likely then than by those who are in social contact with him?" "i see that and it's very true. perhaps truer than you can know!" lothian said with a rather bitter smile. "but how does all this explain what we were talking about at first. the 'craving' and all that?" "i am coming to it now. i had to make the other postulate first. in this way. we have seen in this suspicion--one of many instances--that an entirely fictitious world is created in the mind of a man by alcohol. it is one in which he _must_ live. it is peopled with unrealities and phantasies. as he goes on drinking, this world becomes more and more complex. then, when a man becomes in a state which we call 'chronic alcoholism' a new ego, a new self is created. _this new personality fails to recognise that it was ever anything else_--mark this well--_and proceeds to harmonise everything with the new state_. and now, as the new consciousness, the new ego, is the compelling mind of the moment, the inebriate is terrified at any weakening in it. _the preservation of this new ego seems to be his only guard against the_ imagined _pitfalls and treacheries_. therefore he does all in his power to strengthen his defences. he continues alcohol, because it is to him the only possible agent by which he can _keep grasp of his identity_. for him it is no poison, no excess. it sustains his very being. his _stomach_ doesn't crave for it, as the ignorant will tell you. it has no _sensual_ appeal. lots of inebriates hate the taste of alcohol. in advanced stages it is quite a matter of indifference to a man what form of alcohol he drinks. if he can't get whiskey, he will drink methylated spirit. he takes the drug simply because of the necessity for the maintenance of a condition the falsity of which he is unable to appreciate." lothian lay thinking. the lucid statement was perfectly clear to him and absorbingly interesting in its psychology. he was a profound psychologist himself, though he did not apply his theories personally, a spectator of others, turning away from the contemplation of himself during the past years in secret terror of what he might find there. how new this was, yet how true. it shed a flood of light upon so much that he had failed to understand! "thank you," he said simply. "i feel certain that what you say is true." morton sims nodded with pleasure. "perhaps nothing is quite true," he said, "but i think we are getting as near truth in these matters as we can. what we have to do, is to let the whole of the public know too. when once it is thoroughly understood what inebriety is, then the remedy will be applied, the only remedy." "and that is?" "i'll tell you our theories at my next visit. you must be quiet now." "but there are a dozen questions i want to ask you--and my own case?" "i am sending you some medicine, and we will talk more next time. and, if you like, i will send you a paper upon the psychology of the alcoholic, which i read the other day before the society for the study of alcoholism. it may interest you. but don't necessarily take it all for gospel! i'm only feeling my way." "i'll compare it with such experiences as i have had--though of course i'm not what you'd call an _inebriate_." there was a lurking undercurrent of suspicion creeping into his voice once more. "of course not! did i ever say so, mr. lothian! but what you propose will be of real value to me, if i may have your conclusions." lothian was flattered. he would show this great scientist how entirely capable he could be of understanding and appreciating his researches. he would collaborate with him. it would be new and exhilarating! "i'll make notes," he replied, "and please use them as you will!" the doctor rose. "thanks," he answered. "it will be a help. but what we really require is an alcoholic de quincey to detail in his graphic manner the memories of his past experiences--a man who has the power and the courage to lay open the cravings and the writhings of his former slavery, and to compare them with his emancipated self." lothian started. when the kindly, keen-faced man had gone, he lay long in thought. in the afternoon mary came to him. "do you mind if i leave you for an hour or two, dear?" she asked. "i have some things to get and i thought i would drive into wordingham." "of course not, i shall be quite all right." "well, be sure and ring for anything you want." "very well. i shall probably sleep. by the way, i thought of asking dickson ingworth down for a few days. there are some duck about, you know, and he can bring his gun." "do, darling, if you would like him." "very well, then. i wonder if you'd write a note for me, explaining that i'm in bed, but shall be up to-morrow. supposing you ask him to come in a couple of days." "yes, i will," she replied, kissing him with her almost maternal, protective air, "and i'll post it in wordingham." when she had left the room he began to smoke slowly. he felt a certain irritation at all this love and regard, a discontent. mary was always the same. with his knowledge of her, he could predict with absolute accuracy what she would do in almost every given moment. she would do the right thing, the kind and wise thing, but the certain, the predicted thing. she lived from a great depth of being and peace personified was hers, the peace of god indeed!--but-- "she has no changes, no surprises," he thought, "all even surface, even depth." he admired all her care and watchfulness of him with deep æsthetic pleasure. it was beautiful and he loved beauty. but now and then, it bored him as applied to himself. after six months of the unchanging gold and blue of italy and greece, he remembered how he had longed for a grey, weeping sky, with ashen cirrus clouds, heaped tumuli of smoke-grey and cold pearl. and sometimes after a lifeless, rotting autumn and an iron-winter, how every fibre cried out for the sun and the south! he remembered that a man of letters, who had got into dreadful trouble and had served a period of imprisonment, had remarked to him that the food of penal servitude was plentiful and good, but that it was its dreadful monotony that made it a contributory torture. and who could live for ever upon honey-comb? not he at any rate. mary was "always her sweet self"--just like a phrase in a girl's novel. there were men who liked that, and preferred it, of course. even when she was angry with him, he knew exactly how the quarrel would go--a tune he had heard many times before. the passion of their early love had faded; as it must always do. she was beautiful and desirable still, but too calm, too peaceful, sometimes! this was one of those times. one must be trained to appreciate heaven properly, paradise must be experienced first--otherwise, would not almost every one want a little holiday sometimes? he thought of a meeting of really good people, men and women--one stumbled in upon such a thing now and then. how appallingly dull they generally were! did they never crave for madder music and stronger wine? . . . he could not read. restless and rebellious thoughts occupied his mind. the fiend alcohol was at work once more, though lothian had no suspicion of it. the new and evil ego, created by alcohol, which the doctor had told him of, was awake within him, asserting itself, stirring uneasily, finding its identity diminishing, its vitality lowered and thus clamant for its rights. and if this, in all its horror, is not true demoniacal possession, what else is? what more does the precise scientific language of those who study the psychology of the inebriate mean than "he was possessed of a devil"? the fiend, the new ego, went on with its work as the poet lay there and the long lights of the summer afternoon filled the room with gold-dust. the house was absolutely still. mary had given orders that there was to be no noise at all, "in order that the master might sleep, if he could." it was a summer's afternoon, the scent of some flowers below in the garden came up to gilbert with a curious familiarity. what _was_ the scent? what memory, which would not come, was it trying to evoke? a motor-car droned through the village beyond the grounds. memory leaped up in a moment. of course! the ride to brighton, the happy afternoon with rita wallace. that was it! he had thought of her a good deal on the journey down from london--until he had sat in the dining car with those shooting men from thetford and had had too many whiskeys and sodas. during the last three days in bed, she had not "occurred" to him vividly. yet all the time there had been something at the back of his mind of which he had been conscious, but was unable to explain to himself. the nasty knock on his head, when he had taken a toss from the dogcart, was the reason, no doubt. yet, there had been a distinct sense of hidden thought-treasure, something to draw upon as it were. and now he knew! and abandoned himself to the luxury of the discovery. he must write to her, of course. he had promised to do so at once. already she would be wondering. he would write her a wonderful letter. such a letter as few men could write, and certainly such as she had never received. he would put all he knew into it. his sweet girl-friend should marvel at the jewelled words. the idea excited him. his pulses began to beat quicker, his eyes grew brighter. but he would not do it now. night was the time for such a present as he would make for her, when all the house was sleeping and mary was in her own room. then, in the night-silence, his brain should be awake, weaving a coloured tapestry of prose with words for threads, this new, delicious impulse of friendship the shuttle to carry them. like some coarser epicure, arranging and gloating over the details of a feast to come, he made his plans. he pressed the electric button at the side of the bed and blanche, the housemaid, answered the summons. "where is tumpany, blanche?" he asked. "in the garden, sir." "well, tell him to come up, please. i want to speak to him." in a minute or two heavy steps resounded down the corridor, accompanied by a curious scuffling noise. there was a knock, the door opened, a yelp of joy, and the dog trust had leapt upon the bed and was rolling over and over upon the counterpane, licking his master's hands, making loving dashes for his face, his faithful little heart bursting with emotions he was quite unable to express. "thought you'd like to see him, sir," said tumpany. "he know'd you'd come back right enough, and he's been terrible restless." lothian captured the dog at last, and held him pressed to his side. "i am very glad to see the old chap again. look here, william, just you go quietly over to the mortland arms, don't look as if you were going on any special errand,--but you know--and get a bottle of whiskey. draw the cork and put it back in the bottle so that i can take it out with my fingers when i want to. then bring it quietly up here." "yessir," said tumpany. "that'll be all right, sir," and departed with a somewhat ludicrous air of secrecy and importance that tickled his master's sense of humour and made him smile. it was by no means the first time that tumpany had carried out these little confidential missions. in ten minutes the man was back again, with the bottle. "shall i leave the dog, sir?" "yes, you may as well. he's quite happy." tumpany went away. gilbert rose from bed, the bottle in his hand, and looked round for a hiding-place. the wardrobe! that would do. he put it in one of the big inside pockets of a shooting-coat which was hanging there and carefully closed the door. as he did so, he caught sight of his face in the panel-mirror. it was sly and unpleasant. something horrible seemed to be peeping out. he shook his head and a slight blush came to his cheeks. the eyes under the bandaged brow, the smirk upon the clear-cut mouth. . . . "beastly!" he said aloud, as if speaking of some one else--as indeed he really was, had he but realised it. now he would sleep, to be fresh for the night. bromide--always a good friend, though not so certain in its action as in the past--ammonium bromide should paralyse his racing brain to sleep. he dissolved five tablets in a little water and drank the mixture. when mary came noiselessly into the room, three hours later, he was sleeping calmly. one arm was round the dog trust, who was sleeping too. her husband looked strangely youthful and innocent. a faint smile hung about his lips and her whole heart went out to him as he slept. * * * * * it was after midnight. deep peace brooded over the poet's household. only he was awake. the dog slumbered in his kennel, the servants in their rooms, the sweet chatelaine of the old house lay in tranquil sleep in her own chamber. . . . on a small oak table by gilbert's bedside, three tall candles were burning in holders of silver. upon it also was an open bottle of whiskey, the carafe of water from the washstand and a bedroom tumbler. the door was locked. gilbert was sitting up in bed. upon his raised knees a pad of white paper was resting. in his hand was a stylographic pen of red vulcanite, and a third of the page was covered with small delicate writing. his face was flushed but quite motionless. his whole body in its white pyjama suit was perfectly still. the only movement was that of the hand travelling over the page, the only sound that of the dull grinding of the stylus, as it went this way and that. there was something sinister about this automaton in the bed with its moving hand. and in our day there is always something a little fantastic and unreal about candlelight. . . . how absolutely still the night was! not a breath of air stirred. the movements, the stir and tumult of the mind of the person so rigid in the bed were not heard. _what_ was it, _who_ was it, that was writing in the bed? who can say? was it gilbert lothian, the young and kindly-natured man who reverenced all things that were pure, beautiful and of good report? or was it that dreadful other self, the being created out of poison, that was laying sure and stealthy fingers upon the soul, that "glorious devil large of heart and brain"? who can tell? the subtle knowledge of the great doctor could not have said, the holy love of the young matron could not have divined. these things are hidden yet, and still will be. the hump of the bed-clothes sank. the pad fell flat. the figure stretched out towards the table, there was the stealthy trickle of liquid, the gurgle of a body, drinking. then the bed-clothes rose once more, the pad went to its place, the figure stiffened; and the red pen moved obedient to that which controlled it, setting down the jewelled words upon the page. --the first of the long series of letters that the girl of the library was destined to receive! not the most beautiful perhaps, not the most wonderful. passion was not born yet, and if love was, there was no concrete word of it here. no one but gilbert lothian ever knew what was born on that fated midnight, when he wrote this first subtle letter, deadly for this girl to receive, perhaps, from such a man, at such a time in her life. a love letter without a word of love. these are passages from the letter:-- . . . "so, rita, i am going to write a great poem for you. will you take it from your friend? i think you will, for it will be made for you in the first place and wrought with all my skill. "i am going to call it 'a lady in a library.' no one will know the innermost inwardness of it but just you and me. will not that be delightful, rita mia amica? when you answer this letter, say that it will be delightful, please! "'a lady in a library!' are not the words wonderful--say it quietly to yourself--'a lady in a library!'" this was the poem which appeared two months afterwards in the _english review_ and definitely established gilbert lothian's claim to stand in the very forefront of the poets of his decade. it is certain to live long. more than one critic of the highest standing has printed his belief that it will be immortal, and many lovers of the poet's work think so too. . . . "the lady and the poet meet in a library upon a golden afternoon. she is the very spirit and genius of the place. she has drawn beauty from many brave books. they have told her their secrets as she moves among them, and lavished all their store upon her. some of the beauty which they hold has passed into her face, and the rosy tints of youth become more glorious. "oh, they have been very generous! "the thin volume of keats gave her eyes their colour, but an old and sober-backed edition of coleridge opened its dun boards and robbed the magic stanzas of 'kubla khan' to give them their mystery and wonder. "milton bestowed the music of her voice, but it came from the second volume in which comus lies hid. her smile was half herrick and half heine, and her hair was spun in a 'wood near athens' by the fairies--tom iii, _opera glmi shakespeare, editio e libris podley!_--upon a night in midsummer." "random thoughts, cupid! random thoughts! they come to me like moths through the still night, and i put them down for you. a grey-fawn _papillon de nuit_ is fluttering round my candles now and sometimes he falls flapping and whirring on my paper like a tiny clock-work toy. but i will not kill him. i am happy in writing to my friend, distilling my friendship for you in the lonely laboratory of self, so he shall go unharmed. his ancestors may have feasted upon royal tapestries and laid their eggs in the purple robes of kings! "what are the moths like in kensington this night, cupid?--but of course you are asleep now. i make a picture for myself of you sleeping. "the whole village is asleep now, save only me, and i am trying to reconstruct our afternoon and evening together, five days ago or was it six? it is more than ever possible to do that at midnight and alone, though every detail is etched upon my memory and i am only adding colour. "how happy we were! it is so strange to me to think how instantly we became friends--as we are agreed we are always to be, you and i. and think of all we still have to find out about each other! there are golden days coming in our friendship, all sorts of revelations and surprises. there are so many enchanted places in the kingdom of thought to which i have the key, so many doors i shall open for you. "ours shall be a perfect friendship--of your bounty i crave again what you have already given!--and i will build it up as an artificer in rare woods or stained marbles, a carver of moon-stones, a builder of temples in honey-coloured travertine, makes beautiful states in which the soul can dwell, out of beautiful perishable things. "how often do two people meet as you and i have met? most rarely. men and women fall in love, sometimes too early, sometimes too late. there is a brief summer, and then a long winter of calm grey days which numb the soul into acquiescence, or stab the dull tranquillity with the lightnings of tragedy and woe. "we have the better part! we are to be friends, rita, you and i--that is the rivulet of repeated melody which runs through my first letter to you. some sad dawn will rise for me, when you tell of something nearer and more poignant than anything i can offer you. it will be a dawn in which, for you the trumpets, the sackbuts and the psalteries of heaven will sound. and your friend will bless you; and retire to the back of the scene with a most graceful bow! "in the last act of the play, when all the players appear as nymphs and graces, and seasons, your friend will be found wearing the rich yet sober liveries of autumn, saluting spring and her partner with a courtly song, and a dance which expresses his sentiments according to the best choreographic traditions. "but, as he retires among the last red leaves of the year, and walks jauntily down the forest rides as the setting sun shows the trees already bare, he will know one thing, even if spring does not know it then--when she turns to her partner. "he will know that in her future life, his voice, his face, can never be quite forgotten. sometimes, at the feast, 'surgit amari aliquid' that he is not present there with the wistful glance, the hands that were ever reverent, the old familiar keys! "for a brief instant of recollection, he will have for you '_l'effet d'un clair-de-lune par une nuit d'été'_. and you will say to yourself, '_ami du temps passés, vos paroles me reviennent comme un écho lointain, comme le son d'un cloche apporté par le vent; et il me semble que vous êtes là quand je lis des passages d'amour dans vos livres_'." a click of glass against glass, the low sound of drinking, a black shadow parodied and repeated upon the ceiling in the candle-glow. the letter is nearly finished now--the bottle is nearly empty. "'tiens!' i hear you say--by the way, rita, where did you learn to speak such perfect french? they tell me in paris and, mon dieu! in tours even! that i speak well. mais, toi! . . . "well 'how stupid!' i hear you say. 'why does gilbert strike this note of the 'cello and the big sobbing flutes at the very beginning of things?' "why, indeed? i hardly know myself. but it is very late now. the curtains of the dark are already shaken by the birth-pangs of the morning. soon the jocund noises of dawn will begin. "let it be so for you and me. there are long and happy days coming in our friendship. the end is not yet! soon, quite soon, i will return to london with a pocket-full of plans for pleasure, and the magician's wand polished like the poker in the best parlour of an evangelical household, and charged with the most superior magic! "meanwhile i shall write you my thoughts as you must send me yours. "i kiss your hand, "gilbert lothian." the figure rose from the bed, gathering the papers together, putting them into a drawer of the dressing-table. it staggered a little. "i'm drunk," came in a tired voice, from lips that were parched and dry. with trembling hands the empty bottle was hidden, the glass washed out and replaced, the door noiselessly unlocked. then lothian lurched to the open window. it was as he had said, dawn was at hand. but a thick grey mist hid everything. phantoms seemed to sway in it, speaking to each other with tiny doll-like squeaks. there were no jocund noises as he crept back into bed and fell into a stupor, snoring loudly. no jocund noises of dawn. chapter iv dickson ingworth under the microscope "on n'est jamais trahi que par ses siens." --_proverb of provence._ lothian and dickson ingworth were driving into wordingham. it was just after lunch and there was a pleasant cold-snap in the air, a hint of autumn which would soon be here. the younger man was driving, sending the cob along at a good pace, quite obviously a skilful and accustomed whip. his host sat by his side and looked up at him with some curiosity, a curiosity which had been growing upon him during the last few days. ingworth was certainly good-looking, in a boyish, rather rakish fashion. there were no indications of dissipation in his face. he was not a dissipated youth. but there was, nevertheless, in the cast of the features, something that suggested rather more than staidness. the hair was dark red and very crisp and curly, the mouth was well-shaped and rather thick in the lips. upon it, more often than not, was the hint of a smile at some inward thought, "rather like some youthful apprentice pirate, not adventured far upon the high seas yet, but with sufficient experience to lick the chops of memory now and then" . . . thus gilbert's half amused, half wondering thought. and the eyes?--yes, there was something a little queer about the eyes. they were dark, not very steady in expression, and the whites--by jove! that was it--had a curious opalescence at times. could it possibly be that his friend had a touch of the tar-brush somewhere? it was faint, elusive, born more of a chance thought than of reality perhaps, and yet as the dog-cart bowled along the straight white road gilbert wondered more and more. he had known the lad, who was some two and twenty years of age, for twelve months or more. where had he met him?--oh, yes, at an exhibition of caricatures in the carfax gallery. cromartie had introduced them. ingworth had made friends at once. in a graceful impulsive way he had taken lothian into a corner, and, blushing a good deal, had told him how much he had wanted to know him. he had just come down from oxford; he told the poet how eagerly he was being read by the younger men there. that was how it had begun. friendship was an immediate result. lothian, quite impervious to flattery and spurning coteries and the "tea-shops," had found this young man's devotion a pleasant thing. he was a gentleman and he didn't bore gilbert by literary talk. he was, in short, like an extremely intelligent fag to a boy in the sixth form of a public school. he spoke the same language of oxford and school that gilbert did--the bond between them was just that, and the elder and well-known man had done all he could for his protégé. from gilbert's point of view, the friendship had occurred by chance, it had presented no jarring elements, and he had drifted into it with good-natured acquiescence. it was a fortnight after mary had sent the invitation to ingworth, who could not come at the moment, being kept in london by "important work." he had now arrived, and this was the eighth day of his visit. "i can't understand tumpany letting this beast down," ingworth said. "he's as sure footed as possible. was tumpany fluffed?" "i suppose he was, a little." "then why didn't you drive, gilbert?" "i? oh, well, i did myself rather well in the train coming down, and so i thought i'd leave it to william!" gilbert smiled as he said this, his absolutely frank and charming smile--it would have disarmed a coroner! ingworth smiled also, but here was something self-conscious and deprecating. he was apologising for his friend's rueful but open statement of fact. the big man had said, in effect, "i was drunk," the small man tried to excuse the plain statement with quite unnecessary sycophancy. "but you couldn't have been very bad?" "oh, no, i wasn't, dicker. but i was half asleep as we got into the village, and as you see this cart is rather high and with a low splashboard. my feet weren't braced against the foot-bar and i simply shot out!" ingworth looked quickly at lothian, and chuckled. then he clicked his tongue and the trap rolled on silently. lothian sat quietly in his place, smoking his cigar. he was conscious of a subtle change in this lad since he had come down. it interested him. he began to analyse as ingworth drove onwards, quite oblivious of the keen, far-seeing brain beside him. --that last little laugh of ingworth's. there was a new note in it, a note that had sounded several times during the last few days. it almost seemed informed with a slight hint of patronage, and also of reservation. it wasn't the admiring response of the past. the young man had been absolutely loyal in the past, though no great strain had been put upon his friendship. it was not difficult to be friends with a benefactor--while the benefactions last. certainly on one occasion--at the amberleys' dinner-party--he had behaved with marked loyalty. gilbert had heard all about it from rita wallace. but that, after all, was an isolated instance. lothian decided to test it. . . . "of course i wasn't tight," he said suddenly and with some sharpness. "my dear old chap," the lad replied hastily--too hastily--"don't i know?" it wasn't sincere! how badly he did it! lothian watched him out of the corner of his eye. there was certainly _something_. dickson was changed. then the big mind brushed these thoughts away impatiently. it had enough to brood over! this small creature which was just now intruding in the great and gathering sweep of his daily thoughts might well be dissected some other time. lothian's head sank forward upon his chest. his eyes lost light and speculation, the mouth set firm. instinctively he crossed his arms upon his breast, and the clean-shaved face with the growing heaviness of contour mingled with its youth, made an almost napoleonic profile against the bright grey arc of sky over the marshes. ingworth saw it and wondered. "one can see he's a big man," he thought with a slight feeling of discomfort. "i wonder if toftrees is right and his reputation is going down and people are beginning to find out about him?" he surveyed the circumstances of the last fortnight--two very important weeks for him. until his arrival in norfolk about a week ago he had not seen lothian since the night of the party at the amberleys', the poet having left town immediately afterwards. but he had met, and seen a good deal of herbert toftrees and his wife. these worthy people liked an audience. their somewhat dubious solar system was incomplete without a whole series of lesser lights. the rewards of their industry and popularity were worth little unless they were constantly able to display them. knowing their own disabilities, however, quite aware that they were in literature by false pretences so to speak, they preferred to be reigning luminaries in a minor constellation rather than become part of the star dust in the milky way. courtier stars must be recruited, little eager parasitic stars who should twinkle pleasantly at their hospitable board. dickson ingworth, much to his own surprise and delight, had been swept in. he thought himself in great good luck, and perhaps indeed he was. nephew of a retired civilian from the malay archipelago, he had been sent to eton and oxford by this gentleman, who had purchased a small estate in wiltshire and settled down as a minor country squire. the lad was destined to succeed to this moderate establishment, but, at the university, he had fallen into one of those small and silly "literary" sets, which are the despair of tutors and simply serve as an excuse for general slackness. the boy had announced his intention of embracing a literary career when he had managed to scrape through his pass schools. he had a hundred a year of his own--always spent before he received it--and the wiltshire squire, quite confident in the ultimate result, had cut off his allowance. "try it," he had said. "no one will be more pleased than i if you make it a success. you won't, though! when you're tired, come back here and take up your place. it will be waiting for you. but meanwhile, my dear boy, not a penny do you get from me!" so dickson ingworth had "embraced a literary career." the caresses had not as yet been returned with any ardour. conceit and a desire to taste "ginger in the mouth while it was hot" had sent him to london. he had hardly ever read a notable book. he had not the slightest glimmerings of what literature meant. but he got a few short stories accepted now and then, did some odd journalism, and lived on his hundred a year, a fair amount of credit, and such friends as he was able to make. in his heart of hearts the boy knew himself for what he was. but his good looks, his youth--most valuable asset of all!--and the fact that he would some day have some sort of settled position, enabled him to rub along pretty well for the time. without much real harm in him--he was too lacking in temperament to be really wicked--he was as cunning as an ape and justified his good opinions of his cleverness by the fact that his laborious little tricks constantly succeeded. he was always achieving infinitesimal successes. he had marked out gilbert lothian, for instance, and had succeeded in making a friend of him easily enough. lothian rarely thought ill of any one and any one could take him in. to do ingworth justice he liked lothian very much, and really admired him. he did not understand him in the least. his poems were rather worse greek to him than the euripidean choruses he had learnt by heart at school. at the same time it was a great thing to be fidus achates to the poet of the moment, and it was extremely convenient--also--to have a delightful country house to retire to when one was hard up, and a patron who not only introduced one to editors, but would lend five pounds as a matter of course. perhaps there was really some eastern taint in the young fellow's blood. at any rate he was sly by nature, had a good deal of undeveloped capability for treachery latent within him, and, encouraged by success, was becoming a marked parasite. lazy by nature, he soon discovered how easy it was--to take one example--to look up the magazines of three years back, steal a situation or a plot, adapt it to the day, and sell it for a guinea or two. his small literary career had hitherto been just that. if he had been put upon the rack he could not have confessed to an original thought. and it was the same in many other aspects of his life. he made himself useful. he was always sympathetic and charming to some wife in bohemia who bewailed the inconstancy of her husband, and earned the title of a "nice, good-hearted boy." on the next evening he would gladly sup with the husband and the chorus girl who was the cause of the trouble, and flatter them both. master dickson ingworth, it will be seen, was by no means a person of fine nature. he was simply very young, without any sort of ideals save the gratification of the moment, and would, no doubt, become a decent member of society in time. in a lower rank of life, and without the comfortable inheritance which awaited him, he would probably have become a sneak-thief or a blackmailer in a small way. in the event, he was destined to live a happy and fairly popular life in the wiltshire grange, and to die a much better man than he was at two and twenty. he was not to repent of, but to forget, all the calculated meannesses of his youth, and at fifty he would have shown any one to the door with horror who suggested a single one of the tricks that he had himself been guilty of in his youth. and, parasite always, he is displayed here because of the part he is destined to take in the drama of gilbert lothian's life. "i've been seeing a good deal of toftrees lately, gilbert," ingworth said with a side glance. lothian looked up from his reverie. "what? oh, yes!--the toftrees. nice chap, toftrees, i thought, when i met him the other night. awfully clever, don't you think, to get hold of such an enormous public? mind you, dicker, i wouldn't give one of his books to any one if i could help it. but that's because i want every one to care for real literature. that's my own personal standpoint. apart from that, i do think that mr. and mrs. toftrees deserve all they get in the way of money and popularity and so on. there must be such people under the modern conditions, and apart from their work they both seem most interesting." this took the wind from the young man's sails. he was sensitive enough to perceive--though not to appreciate--the largeness of such an attitude as this. he felt baffled and rather small. then, something that had been instilled into him by his new and influential friends not only provided an antidote to his momentary discomfiture but became personal to himself. a sense of envy, almost of hate, towards this man who had been so consistently kind to him, bloomed like some poisonous and swift-growing fungus in his unstable mind. "i say," he said maliciously, though there was fear in his voice, too, "herbert toftrees has got his knife into you, gilbert." lothian looked at the young man in surprise. "got his _knife into me_?" he said, genuinely perplexed. "well, yes. he's going about town saying all sorts of unpleasant things about you." lothian laughed. "yes!" he said, "i remember! miss wallace told me so not long ago. how intensely amusing!" ingworth hated him at the moment. there was a disgusting sense of impotence and smallness, in that he could not sting lothian. "toftrees is a very influential man in london," he said sententiously. at that moment all the humour in lothian awoke. he leant back and laughed aloud. "oh, dicker!" he said, "what a babe you are!" ingworth grew red. he was furious, but dared say nothing more. he felt as if he had been trying to bore a tunnel through the alps with a boiled carrot and had wasted a franc in paying some one to hold his shadow while he made the attempt! lothian's laughter was perfectly genuine. he cared absolutely nothing what toftrees said or thought about him. but he did care about the young man at his side. . . . the other self, the new ego, suddenly became awake and dominant. suspicion reared its head. for days and days now he had drunk hardly anything. the anti-alcoholic medicines that morton sims had administered were gradually strengthening the enfeebled will and bringing back the real tenant of his soul. but now . . . here was one whom he had thought his friend. it was not so then! an enemy sat by his side?--he would soon discover. and then, with a skill which made the lad a plaything in his hands, with a cunning a hundred times deeper than ingworth's immature shiftiness, lothian began his work. but it was not the real lothian. it was the adroit devil waked to life that set itself to the task as the dog-cart rattled into the little country town and drew up before the george hotel in the market square. "thanks awfully, old chap," lothian said cheerfully as they turned under the archway into the stable yard. "you're a topping whip, you know, dicker. i can't drive a bit myself. but i like to see you." for a moment ingworth forgot his rancour at the praise. unconscious of the dominant personality and the mental grin behind the words, he swallowed the compliment as a trout gulps a fly. they descended from the trap and the stable-men began to unharness the cob. lothian thrust his arm through the other's. "come along, jehu!" he said. "i want a drink badly, and i'm sure you do, after the drive. i don't care what you say, that cob is _not_ so easy to handle." . . . his voice was lost in the long passage that led from the stable yard to the "saloon-lounge." chapter v a quarrel in the "most select lounge in the county" "i strike quickly, being moved. . . . a dog of the house of montague moves me." --_romeo and juliet._ the george hotel in wordingham was a most important place in the life and economy of the little norfolk town. the town drank there. in the handsome billiard room, any evening after dinner, one might find the solicitor, the lieutenant of the coast-guards, in command of the district, a squire or two, mr. pashwhip and mr. moger the estate agents and auctioneers, mr. reeves the maltster and local j.p.--town, not county--and in fact all the local notabilities up to a certain point, including mr. helzephron, the landlord and worshipful master of the wordingham lodge of freemasons for that year. the doctor, the bank manager and, naturally, the rector, were the only people of consequence who did not "use the house" and make it their club. they were definitely upon the plane of gentlefolk and could not well do so. accordingly they formed a little bridge playing coterie of their own, occasionally assisted by the lieutenant, who preferred the hotel, but made fugitive excursions into the somewhat politer society which was his _milieu_ by birth. who does not know them, these comfortable, respectable hotels in the high streets or market places of small country towns? yet who has pointed the discovering finger at them or drawn attention to the smug and _convenable_ curses that they are? "there was a flaunting gin palace at the corner of the street,"--that is the sort of phrase you may read in half a hundred books. the holes and dens where working people get drunk, and issuing therefrom make night hideous at closing time, stink in the nostrils of every one. they form the texts and illustrations of many earnest lectures, much fervent sermonizing. but nothing is said of the suave and well-conducted establishments where the prosperous inebriates of stagnant county towns meet to take their poison. when the doors of the george closed in wordingham and its little coterie of patrons issued forth, gravely, pompously, a little unsteadily perhaps, to seek their homes, the police inspector touched his cap--"the gentlemen from the george, going home!" but the wives knew all about such places as the george. it is upon the women that the burden falls, gentle or simple, nearly always the women. mrs. gaunt, the naval officer's wife, knew very well why her husband had never got his ship, and why he "went into the coast-guard." she was accustomed to hear unsteady steps upon the gravel sweep a little after eleven, to see the flushed face of the man she loved, to know that he had spent the evening tippling with his social inferiors, to lie sad and uncomplaining by his side while his snores filled the air and the bedroom was pervaded by the odour of spirits--an admiral's daughter she, gently nurtured, gently born, well accustomed to these sordid horrors by now. mrs. reeves, the maltster's wife, was soured in temper and angular of face. she had been a pretty and trusting girl not so long ago as years measure. she "gave as good as she got," and the servants of the big bourgeois house with its rankly splendid furniture only turned in their sleep when, towards midnight and once or twice a month, loud recriminations reached them from the downstairs rooms. the solicitor, a big genial brute with a sense of humour, only frightened to tears the elderly maiden sister who kept his house. he was never unkind, never used bad language, and was merely noisy, but at eight o'clock on the mornings following an audit dinner, a "lodge night," or the evening of petty sessions, a little shrivelled, trembling spinster would creep out of the house before breakfast and kneel in piteous supplication at the altar rails for the big, blond and jovial brother who was "dissolving his soul" in wine--the well-remembered phrase from the poem of longfellow which she had learned at school was always with her and gave a bitter urgency to her prayers. all the company who met almost nightly at the george were prosperous, well-to-do citizens. the government of the little town was in their hands. they administered the laws for drunkards, fined them or sent them to prison at norwich. their prosperity did not suffer. custom flowed to mr. pashwhip and mr. moger, who were always ready to take or stand a drink. the malt of mr. reeves was bought by the great breweries of england and deteriorated nothing in quality, while more money than the pompous and heavy man could spend rolled into his coffers. the solicitor did his routine conveyancing and so on well enough. no one did anything out of the ordinary. there were no scandals, "alarums and excursions." it was all decent and ordered. the doctor could have given some astonishing evidence before a medical commission. but he was a wise and quiet general practitioner who did his work, held his tongue and sent his three boys to cambridge. the rector might have had an illuminating word to say. he was a good but timid man, and saw how impossible it was to make any movement. they were all his own church-wardens, sidesmen, supporters! how could he throw the sleepy, stagnant, comfortable town into a turmoil and disorder in which souls might be definitely lost for ever? he could only pray earnestly as he said the mass each morning during the seasons of the year. it is so all over england. deny it who may. in whitechapel the fiend alcohol is a dishevelled fury shrieking obscenities. in the saloons and theatres of the west end he is a suave mephistopheles in evening dress. in wordingham and the other provincial towns and cities of england, he appears as a plump and prosperous person in broadcloth, the little difficulty about his feet being got over by well-made country shoes, and with a hat pressed down over ears that may be a trifle pointed or may not. but the mothers, the wives, the sisters recognise him anywhere. the number of martyrs is uncounted. their names are unknown, their hidden miseries unsung. who hears the sobs or sees the tears shed by the secret army of slaves to the slaves of alcohol? it is they who must drink the cup to the last dregs of horror and of shame. the unbearable weight is upon them, that is to say, upon tenderness and beauty, on feebleness and love. women endure the blows, or cruel words more agonising. they are the meek victims of the fiend's malice when he enters into those they love. it is womanhood that lies helpless upon the rack for ruthless hands to torture. cujus animam geminentem! --she whose soul groaning, condoling and grieving the sword pierced through! saviours sometimes, sufferers always. * * * * * into the "lounge" of the george hotel came gilbert lothian and dickson ingworth. they were well-dressed men of the upper classes. their clothes proclaimed them--for there will be (unwritten) sumptuary laws for many years in england yet. their voices and intonation stamped them as members of the upper classes. a railway porter, a duke, or the wordingham solicitor would alike have placed them with absolute certainty. they were laughing and talking together with bright, animated faces, and in this masked life that we all lead to-day no single person could have guessed at the forces and tragedies at work beneath. they sat down in a long room with a good carpet upon the floor, dull green walls hung with elaborate pictures advertising whiskeys, in gold frames, and comfortable leather chairs grouped in threes round tables with tops of hammered copper. mr. helzephron did everything in a most up-to-date fashion--as he could well afford. "the most select lounge in the county" was a minor heading upon the hotel note-paper. at one end of the room was a semicircular counter, upon which were innumerable regiments of tumblers and wine-glasses and three or four huge crystal vessels of spirits, tulip-shaped, with gilded inscriptions and shining plated taps. behind the counter was miss molly palmer, the barmaid of the hotel, and, behind her, the alcove was lined with mirrors and glass shelves on which were rows of liqueur flasks, bottles of brandy and dummy boxes of chocolates tied up with scarlet ribands. "now tell me, dicker," lothian said, lighting a cigarette, "how do you mean about toftrees?" the glamour of the past was on the unstable youth now, the same influence which had made him--at some possible risk to himself--defend lothian so warmly in the drawing room at bryanstone square. the splendour of toftrees was far away, dim in lancaster gate. "oh, he's jealous of you because you really can write, gilbert! that must be it. but he really has got his knife into you!" internally, lothian winced. "oh, but i assure you he has not," was all that he said. ingworth finished his whiskey and soda. "well, you know what i mean, old chap," he replied. "he's going about saying that you aren't sincere, that you're really fluffed when you write your poems, don't you know. the other night, at a supper at the savoy, where i was, he said you were making a trade of christianity, that you didn't really believe in what you wrote, and couldn't possibly." lothian laughed. "have another whiskey," he said. "and what did you say, dicker?" there was a sneer in lothian's voice which the other was quite quick to hear and to resent. on that occasion he had not defended his friend, as it happened. "oh, i said you meant well," ingworth answered with quick impertinence, and then, afraid of what he had done hurriedly drained the second glass which the barmaid had just brought him. "well, i do, really," lothian replied, so calmly that the younger man was deceived, and once more angry that his shaft had glanced upon what seemed to be impenetrable armour. yet, below the unruffled surface, the poet's mind was sick with loathing and disgust. he was not angry with ingworth, against toftrees he felt no rancour. he was sick, deadly sick with himself, inasmuch as he had descended so low as to be touched by such paws as these. "i'll get through his damned high-and-mighty attitude yet," ingworth thought to himself. "i say," he remarked, "did you enjoy your trip to brighton with rita wallace? toftrees saw you there, you know. he was dining at the metropole the same night." he had pierced--right through--though he did not know it. "rather dangerous, wasn't it?" he continued. "suppose your wife got to know, gilbert?" something, those letters, near his heart, began to throb like a pulse in lothian's pocket. one of the letters had arrived that very morning. "look here, ingworth," he said, and his face became menacing, "you rather forget yourself, i think, in speaking to me in this way. you're a good sort of boy--at least i've thought so--and i've taken you up rather. but i don't allow impudence from people like you. remember!" the ice-cold voice frightened the other, but he had to the full that ape-like semi-courage which gibbers on till the last moment of a greater animal's patience. the whiskey had affected him also. his brain was becoming heated. "well, i don't know about impudence," he answered pertly and with a red face. "anyhow, rita dined with _me_ last week!" he brought it out with a little note of triumph. lothian nodded. "yes, and you took her to that disgusting little café maréchale in soho. you ought not to take a lady to such a place as that. you've been long enough in london to know. don't be such a babe. if you ever get a nice girl to go out with you again try and think things out a little more." tears of mortified vanity were in the young man's eyes. "she's been writing to you!" he said with a catch in his voice, and suddenly his whole face seemed to change and dissolve into something else. did the lips really grow thicker? did the angry blood which suffused the cheeks give them a dusky tinge which was not of europe? would the tongue loll out soon? "i _beg_ your pardon?" lothian said coolly. "yes, she has!" the young fellow hissed. "you're trying on a game with the girl. she's a lady, and a good girl, and you're a married man. she's been telling you about me, though i've a right to meet her and you've not!--look here, if she realised and knew what i know, and toftrees and mr. amberley know, what every one in london knows, by jove, she'd never speak to you again!" gilbert lifted his glass and sipped slowly. his face was composed. it bore the napoleonic mask it had worn during the last part of their drive to the town. suddenly gilbert rose up in his chair. "you dirty little hanger-on," he said in a low voice, "how dare you mention any woman's name in this way!" without heat, without anger, but merely as a necessary measure of precaution or punishment, he smashed his left fist into ingworth's jaw and laid him flat upon the carpet. the girl behind the bar, who knew who gilbert lothian was very well, had been watching what was going on with experienced eyes. she had seen, or known with the quick intuition of her training, that a row was imminent between the famous mr. lothian--whose occasional presences in the "lounge" were thought to confer a certain lustre upon that too hospitable rendezvous--and the excited young man with the dark red and strangely curly hair. molly palmer had pressed the button of her private bell, which called mr. helzephron himself from his account books in the office. mr. helzephron was a slim, bearded man, black of hair and saffron of visage. he was from cornwall, in the beginning, and combined the inherent melancholy and pessimism of the celt with the celt's shrewd business instincts when he transplants himself. he entered at that moment and caught hold of the wretched ingworth just as the young man had risen, saw red, and was about to leap over the table at lothian, whom, in all probability he would very soon have demolished. helzephron's arms and hands were like vices of steel. his voice droned like a wasp in a jam jar. "now, then," he said, "what's all this? what's all this, sir? i can't have this sort of thing going on. has this gentleman been insulting you, mr. lothian?" ingworth was powerless in the cornishman's grip. for a moment he would have given anything in the world to leap at the throat of the man at the other side of the table, who was still calmly smoking in his chair. but quick prudence asserted itself. lothian was known here, a celebrity. he was a celebrity anywhere, a public brawl with him would be dreadfully scandalous and distressing, while in the end it would assuredly not be the poet who would suffer most. and ingworth was a coward; not a physical coward, for he would have stood up to any one with nothing but glee in his heart, but a moral one. lothian, he knew, wouldn't have minded the scandal a bit, here or anywhere else. but to ingworth, cooled instantly by the lean grip of the landlord, the prospect was horrible. and to be held by another man below one in social rank, landlord of an inn, policeman, or what not, while it rouses the blood of some men to frenzy, in others brings back an instant sanity. ingworth remained perfectly still. for a second or two lothian watched him with a calm, almost judicial air. then he flushed suddenly, with a generous shame at the position. "it's all right, helzephron," he said. "it's a mistake, a damned silly mistake. as a matter of fact i lost my temper. please let mr. ingworth go." mr. helzephron possessed those baser sides of tact which pass for sincerity with many people. "very sorry, i'm sure," he droned, and stood waiting with melancholy interest to see what would happen next. "i'm very sorry, dicker," lothian said impulsively; "you rather riled me, you know. but i behaved badly. it won't do either of us any good to have a rough and tumble here, but of course" . . . he looked significantly at the door. ingworth took him, and admired him for his simplicity. the old public school feeling was uppermost now. he knew that gilbert knew he was no coward. he knew also that he could have knocked the other into a cocked hat in about three minutes. "i was abominably rude, gilbert," he said frankly. "don't let's talk rot. i'm sorry." "it's good of you to take it in that way, dicker. i'm awfully sorry, too." mr. helzephron interposed. "all's well that ends well," he remarked sententiously. "that's the best of gentlemen, they do settle these matters as gentlemen should. now if you'll come with me, sir, i'll take you to the lavatory and you can sponge that blood off your face. you're not marked, really." with a grin and a wink to lothian, both of which were returned, ingworth marched away in the wake of the landlord. the air was cleared. gilbert was deeply sorry for what he had done. he had quite forgotten the provocation that he had received. "good old sportsman, dicker!" he thought; "he's a fine chap. i was a bounder to hit him. it would have served me jolly well right if he'd given me a hiding." and the younger man, as he went to remove the stain of combat, had kindly and generous thoughts of his distinguished friend. but, _che sara sara_, these kindly thoughts were but to bloom for an hour and fade. neither knew that one of them was so soon to be brought to the yawning gates of hell itself, and, at the very last moment, the unconscious action of the other was to snatch him from them. already the threads were being woven in those webs of time, whereof god alone knows the pattern and directs the loom. neither of them knew. the barmaid, a tall, fresh-faced young girl, came down the room and took the empty glasses from the table. "i say, mr. lothian," she remarked, "it's no business of mine, and no offence meant, but you didn't ought to have hit him." "i know," gilbert answered, "but why do you say so?" "he's got such nice curly hair!" she replied with a provocative look from her bright eyes, and whisked away to the shelter of her counter. lothian sighed. during the years he had lived in norfolk he had seen many fresh-faced girls come and go. only a few days before, he had read a statement made by mrs. bramwell booth of the salvation army that the number of immoral women in the west end of london who have been barmaids is one quarter of the whole. . . . at that moment, this miss molly palmer was the _belle des coulisses_ of wordingham. the local bloods quarrelled about her, the elder men gave her gloves on the sly, her pert repartees kept the lounge in a roar from ten to eleven. once, with a sneer and as one man of the world to another, helzephron had shown lothian a trade paper in which these girls are advertised for-- "barmaid wanted, must be attractive." "young lady wanted for select wine-room in the west end, gentlemen only, must be well educated and of good appearance, age not over twenty-five." "required at once, attractive young lady as barmaid--young. photograph." . . . a great depression fell upon the poet. everywhere he turned just now ennui and darkness seemed to confront him. his youth was going. his fame brought no pleasure nor contentment. the easy financial circumstances of his life seemed to roll over him like a weed-clogged wave. his wife's love and care--was not that losing its savour also? the delightful labour of writing, the breathless and strenuous clutching at the waiting harps of poetry, was not he fainting and failing in this high effort, too? his life was a grey, numbed thing. he was reminded of it whichever way he turned. there was a time when the holy mysteries brought him a joy which was priceless and unutterable. yes! when he knelt at the mass with mary by his side, he had felt the breath of paradise upon his brow. emptied of all earthly things his soul had entered into the mystical communion of saints. to husband and wife, in humble supplication side by side, the still small voice had spoken. the rushing wind of the holy ghost had risen around them and the passion of jesus been more near. and now?--the man rose from his chair with a laugh so sad and hollow, a face so contorted with pain, that it startled the silly girl behind the bar. she made a rapid calculation. "he was sober when 'e come," she thought in the vernacular, "and 'e can stand a lot, can mr. lothian. it's nothing. them poets!" "something amusing you?" she said with her best smile. lothian nodded. "oh, just my thoughts," he replied. "give me another whiskey and soda--a fat one, yes, a little more, yes, that'll do." for a moment, a moment of hesitation, he held it out at arm's length. the sunlight of the afternoon blazed into the glass and turned the liquid to molten gold. the light came from a window in the roof, just over the bar itself. the remainder of the room was in quiet shadow. he looked down into the room and shuddered. it was typical of his life now. he looked up at the half open window from which the glory came. "oh, that i had the wings of a dove!" he said, with a sad smile. molly palmer watched him. "juggins!" she thought, "them poets!" but lothian's words seemed to call for some rejoinder and the girl was at a loss. "wish you meant it!" she said at length, wondering if that would meet the occasion--as it often met others. lothian laughed, and drank down the whiskey. the light from above faded almost instantly--perhaps a cloud was passing over the sun. but, _au contraire_, the shadow of the room beyond had invitation now. it no longer seemed sombre. he went into the shadows and sat down in the same chair where he had been before. he smiled as he lit another cigarette. how strange moods were! how powerful for a moment, but how quickly over! the letters in his breast pocket seemed to glow out with material warmth, a warmth that went straight to his heart through the cloth and linen of his clothing. the new ego was fed. rita! yes! at least life had given him this and was it not the treasure of treasures? there was nothing coarse nor earthly in this at least! the music of the venusberg throbbed in all his pulses, calling, calling from the hollow hill. he did not realise from where it came--this magic music--and that there is more than one angelic choir. rita and gilbert. gilbert and rita! the words and music of one song! so we observe that now the masked musicians in the unseen orchestra are in their places. any little trouble with the management is over. opposition players have sorrowfully departed. the audience has willed it so, and the band only awaits its leader. monsieur l'ame du vin, that celebrated conductor, has just slid into his seat. he smirks at his players, gives an intelligent glance at the first violin, and taps upon the desk. three beats of the baton, a raised left hand, and once more the oft repeated overture to the dance of death commences, with the fiend alcohol beating time. ingworth came back soon. there was a slight bruise upon his upper lip, but that was all. the two men--it was to be the last time in lives which had so strangely crossed--were friends in a sense that they had never been before. both of them looked back upon that afternoon during the immediate days to come with regret and sorrow. each remembered it differently, according to the depth of individual temperament. but it was remembered, as an hour when strife and turmoil had ceased; when, trembling on the brink of unforeseen events to come, there was pause and friendship, when the good in both of them rose to the surface for a little space and was observed of both. "now, dicker, you just watch. they'll all be here soon for their afternoon drink--the local bloods, i mean. it's their substitute for afternoon tea, don't you know. they sit here talking about nothing to friends who have devoted their lives to the subject. watch it for your work. you'll learn a lot. that must have been the way in which flaubert got his stuff for 'madame bovary.'" something of the artist's fire animated the lad. he was no artist. he hadn't read "madame bovary," and it wouldn't have interested him if he had. but the plan appealed to him. it fitted in with his method of life. it was getting something for nothing. yet he realised, to give him his due, a little more than this. he was sitting at the feet of his master. but as it happened, on that afternoon the local bloods were otherwise employed, for at any rate they made no appearance. lothian felt at ease. he had one or two more pegs. he had been so comparatively abstemious since his accident and under the regime of dr. morton sims, that what he took now had only a tranquillising and pleasantly narcotic influence. the nervous irritation of an hour before which had made him strike his friend, the depression and hollow misery which succeeded it, the few minutes of lyrical exaltation as he thought of rita wallace, all these were merged in a sense of _bien être_ and drowsiness. he enjoyed an unaccustomed and languid repletion in his mind, as if it had been overfed and wanted to lie down for a time. mr. helzephron sat down at their table after a time and prosed away in his monotonous voice. he was a man of some education, had read, and was a dickens lover. he did not often have the opportunity of conversation with any one like lothian and he made the most of it. like many common men who are anxious to ingratiate themselves with their superiors, he thought that the surest way to do so was to abuse his neighbours, thus, as he imagined, proclaiming himself above them and flattering his hearer. lothian always said of the landlord of the george that he was worth his weight in gall, and for a time he was amused. at five o'clock the two visitors had some tea and toast and at the half hour both were ready to go. "i'll run round to the post office," ingworth said, "and see if there are any late letters." "very well," gilbert answered, "and i'll have the horse put in." the afternoon post for mortland royal left the town at three, and letters which came in by the five o'clock mail were not delivered at the village until the next morning unless--as now--they were specially called for. ingworth ran off. "well, mr. lothian," said the landlord. "i don't often have the pleasure of a talk with you. just one more with me before you go?" they were standing together at the bar counter when a page boy entered the lounge and went up to his master. "please, sir," he said, "the new young lady's come." "oh, very well," helzephron answered. "i'll be out in a minute. where is she?" "in the hall, sir. and shall boots go down for her trunk?" "yes; tell him to go to the station at once with the hand-cart. a new barmaid," he said, turning to gilbert, "for the four ale bar, a woman of about thirty, not much class, you understand, wouldn't do for the lounge, but will keep the working men in order. it's astonishing how glad they are to get a job when they're about thirty! they're no draw then, and they know it. the worst of it is that these older women generally help themselves from the till or the bottle! i've had fifty applications for this job." he led the way out into the hall of the hotel, followed by lothian, who was on his way to the stable yard. a woman was sitting upon a plush-covered bench by the wall. she was a dark gipsy looking creature, coarsely handsome and of an opulent figure. she stood up as helzephron came out into the hall, and there seemed to be a suggestion of great boldness and flaunting assertion about her, oddly restrained and overlaid by a timidity quite at variance with her appearance. the landlord was in front, and for a moment lothian was concealed. then, as he was about to wish helzephron good afternoon and turned for the purpose, he came into view of the new barmaid. she saw him full face and an instant and horrible change came over her own. it faded to dead paper-white. the dark eyes became fixed like lenses. the jaw dropped like the jaw of a ventriloquist's puppet, a strangled gurgle came from the open mouth and then a hoarse scream of terror. the woman's arms jerked up in the air as if they had been pulled by strings, and her hands in shabby black gloves curved into claws and were rigid. then she spun round, caught her boot in the leg of the chair and fell in a swoon upon the floor. the landlord swore in his surprise and alarm. then, keen as a knife, he whipped round and looked at lothian. lothian's face expressed nothing but the most unbounded astonishment. help was summoned and the woman was carried into the landlord's private office, where restoratives were applied. in three or four minutes she opened her eyes and moaned. lothian, helzephron and a chambermaid who was attending on her, were the only other people in the office. "there, there," said the landlord irritably, when he saw that consciousness was returning. "what in heaven's name did you go off like that for? you don't belong to do that sort of thing often i hope. if so i may as well tell you at once that you'll be no good here." "i'm very sorry, sir," said the poor creature, trembling and obviously struggling with rising hysteria. "it took me sudden. i'm very strong, really, sir. it shan't happen again." "i hope not," helzephron answered in a rather more kindly tone. "elsie, go into the lounge and ask miss palmer for a little brandy and water--but what took you like this?" the woman hesitated. her glance fell upon lothian who was standing there, a pitying and perplexed spectator of this strange scene. she could not repress a shudder as she saw him, though both men noticed that the staring horror was going from her eyes and that her face was relieved. "i'm very sorry," she said again, "but the sight of that gentleman coming upon me sudden and unexpected was the cause of it." "this gentleman!" helzephron replied. "this is mr. gilbert lothian, a famous gentleman and one of our country gentleman in norfolk. what can you have to do with him?" "oh, nothing sir, nothing. but there's a very strong resemblance in this gentleman to some one"--she hesitated and shuddered--"to some one i once knew. i thought it was him come back at first. i see now that there's lots of difference. i've had an unhappy life, sir." she began to sob quietly. "now, drink this," said the landlord, handing her the brandy which the chambermaid had just brought. "stop crying and elsie will take you up to your room. your references are all right and i don't want to know nothing of your history. do your duty by me like a good girl and you'll find me a good master. your past's nothing to me." lothian and the landlord went out into the stable yard where the rainbow-throated pigeons were murmuring on the tiled roofs, and the ostler--like mousqueton--was spitting meditatively. they discussed this strange occurrence. "i never saw a woman so frightened!" said mr. helzephron. "you might have been old bogy himself, mr. lothian. i didn't know what to think for a moment! i hope she doesn't drink." "well, i suppose we've all got a double somewhere or other," lothian answered. "i suppose she saw some likeness in me to some one who has ill used her, poor thing." "oh, yes, sir," helzephron replied. "that's it--she said as much. half the plays and novels turn on such likenesses. i used to be a great play-goer when i was in london and i've seen all the best actresses. but i'm damned if i ever see such downright horror as there was in that girl's face. he must have been a bad un whoever he was. real natural tragedy in that face--william, put in mr. lothian's horse." he said good-bye and re-entered the hotel. lothian remained in the centre of the yard. he lit a cigarette and watched the horse being harnessed. his face was clouded with thought. it was very strange! how frightful the poor woman had looked. it was a nightmare face, a face of gustave doré from the inferno engravings! he never saw the woman again, as it happened, and never knew who she was. if he had read of the hackney murder in the papers of the year before he had given it no attention. he knew nothing of the coarse siren for whose sake the poisoned man of hackney had killed the wife who loved him, and who, under an assumed name, was living out her obscure and haunted life in menial toil. dr. morton sims might have thrown some light upon the incident at the george perhaps. but then dr. morton sims never heard of it and it soon passed from the poet's mind. no doubt the fiend alcohol who provided the incidental music at the head of his orchestra was smiling. for the overture to the dance of death is curiously coloured music and there are red threads of melody interwoven with the sable chords. chapter vi an omnes exeunt from mortland royal "wenn menschen auseinandergehn so sagen sie--auf wiedersehn! ja wiederseh'n." --_goethe._ dickson ingworth returned from the post office with several letters. he handed three of them to lothian. one was a business letter from the firm of ince and amberley, the other an invitation to a literary dinner at the trocadero, the third, with foreign stamp and postmark, was for mary lothian. as they drove out of the town, ingworth was in high spirits. his eyes sparkled, he seemed excited. "good news by this post, dicker?" gilbert asked. ingworth had been waiting for the question. he tried to keep the tremulous pleasure out of his voice as he answered. "well, rather. i've just heard from herbert toftrees. when i saw him last, just before i came down here, he hinted that he might be able to influence things for me in a certain quarter." . . . he paused. gilbert saw how it was. the lad was bursting with news but wanted to appear calm, wanted to be coaxed. well, gilbert owed him that! "really! has something come off, dicker, then? do tell me, i should be so glad." "yes, gilbert. it's the damnedst lucky thing! toftrees is a topping chap. the other day he hinted at something he might be able to do for me in his deep-voiced, mysterious way. i didn't pay much attention because they say he's rather like that, and one mustn't put too much trust in it. but, by jove! it's come off. the editor of the _wire_--ommany you know--wants somebody to go to italy with the delegation of english public school masters, as special correspondent for a month. they've offered it to me. it's a big step, gilbert, for me! they will pay awfully well for the job and it means that i shall get in permanently with the _wire_." "i'm awfully glad, dicker. splendid for you! but what is it exactly?" "the new movement in italy, anti-papal and national. it's the schools, you know. the king and the mayor of rome are frightfully keen that all the better class schools, like our public schools, you know--shall be taken out of the hands of the jesuits and the seminary priests. games and a healthy sort of school life are to be organised for the boys. they're going to try and introduce our system if they can. a harrow tutor, a winchester man, undermasters from haileybury, repton and denstone are going out to organise things." "and you're going with them to tell england all about it! i congratulate you, dicker. it's a big chance. you can make some fine articles out of it, if you take care. it should introduce your name." "thanks awfully, i hope so. it's because i got my running blue i expect. but it's jolly decent of the old toffer all the same." "oh, it is. when do you go?" "at once. they start in four days. i shall have to go up to town by the first train to-morrow." "i'm sorry, but of course, if you must" . . . "oh, i must," ingworth said importantly. "i have to see ommany to-morrow night." unconsciously, as he urged the cob onwards, his head sank forward a little, and he imitated the grave pre-occupation of lothian upon the drive out. mary lothian was sitting in a deck chair in front of the house when the two men came through the gate. a little table stood by the side of her chair, and on it was a basket of the thin silk socks her husband wore. she was darning one of the expensive gossamer things with a tiny needle and almost invisible thread. mary looked up quickly as the two men came up to her. there was a swift interrogation in her eyes, instantly suppressed but piteous in its significance. but now, she smiled. gilbert was all right! she knew it at once. he had come back from wordingham quite sober, and in her tender anxious heart she blessed god and dr. morton sims. she was told of dickson's opportunity. gilbert was as anxious to tell, and as excited as his friend. "oh, i _am_ so glad, dicker!" she said over and over again. "my dear boy, i _am_ so glad! now you've got your chance at last. your real chance. never come down here again if you don't make the most of it!" ingworth sat down upon the lawn at her feet. dusk was at hand. the sun was sinking to rest and the flowers of the garden were almost shouting with perfume. rooks winged homeward through the fading light, and the dog trust gambolled in the middle-distance of the lawn as the cock-chafers went booming by. . . . "think i shall be able to do it, mrs. gilbert?" "of course you will, dicker! put your very heart into it, won't you! it's your chance at last, isn't it?" ingworth jumped to his feet. "i shall do it," he said gravely, as who should say that the destinies of kingdoms depended upon his endeavours. "and now i must go in and write some letters. i shall have to be off quite early to-morrow, mrs. gilbert." "i'll arrange all that. go in and do your letters. we're not going to dine till eight to-night." ingworth crossed the lawn and went into the house. gilbert drew his chair up to his wife. she held out her hand. he took it, raised it to his lips and kissed it. he was at home. "i'm glad, dear," mary said, "that dicker has got something definite to do. it will steady him. if he is successful it will give him a new sense of responsibility. i wouldn't say anything to you, gillie, but i have not liked him so much this time as i used to." "why?" "he doesn't seem to have been treating you quite in the way he used to. he's been talking a good deal to me of some people who seem to have taken him up in london. and i can't help knowing that you've done everything for him in the past. really, gillie, i have had to snub him quite severely, for me, once or twice." "yes." "_yes._ he assumed a confidential, semi-superior sort of air and manner. in a clumsy, boyish sort of way he's tried to suggest that i'm not happy with you." lothian laughed bitterly. "i know," he said, "so many people are like that. ingworth has good streaks like all of us. but speaking generally he's unstable. i've found it out lately, too. never mind. he's off to-morrow. oh, by the way, here's a letter for you, dear, i forgot." mary took the letter and rose from her chair. arm in arm they entered the house together and went upstairs to dress for dinner. gilbert had had his bath, had changed, and was tying his tie in front of the dressing table mirror, when the door of his room opened and mary hurried in. her hair was coiled in its masses of pale gold, and a star of emeralds which he had given her was fixed in it. she wore a long dressing robe of green silk fringed with dull red arabesques--he had bought it for her in tunis. a rope of camels' hair gathered it in round her slender waist and the lovely column of her neck, the superb white arms were bare. "what is it, dear?" he said, for his wife's fair face was troubled. "oh, darling," she answered, with a sob in her voice, "i've had bad news from nice." "about dorothy?" "yes, miss dalton, the lady nurse who is with her has written. it's all been no use, gillie, no use at all! she's dying, dear. the doctor from cannes who has been attending her has said so. and sir william larus who is at mentone was called in too. they give her three weeks or a month. they've cabled to india but it's a forlorn hope. harold won't be able to get to her in time--though there's just a chance." she sank down upon the bed and covered her face with her hands. she was speaking of her sister, lady davidson, who was stricken with consumption. sir harold davidson was a major in the indian army, a baronet without much money, and a keen soldier. mary's sister had developed the disease in england, where she had been ordered from simla by the doctors there. she was supposed to be "run down" and no more then. phthisis had been diagnosed in london--incipient only--and she had been sent to the riviera at once. the reports from nice had become much worse during the last few weeks, and now--this letter. gilbert went to his wife and sat down beside her upon the bed, drawing her to him. he was fond of dorothy davidson and also of her husband, but he knew that mary adored her sister. "darling," he said, "don't give way. it may not be so bad after all. and so much depends upon the patient in all illnesses--doesn't it? morton sims was telling us so the other night, you remember? dolly is an awfully sporting sort of girl. she won't give in." mary leant her head upon his shoulder. the strong arms that held her brought consolation. the lips of the husband and wife met. "it's dear of you to say so," mary said at length, "but i know, dear. the doctor and the nurse have been quite explicit. dorothy is dying, gillie, i can't let her die alone, can i?" "no, dear, of course not," he replied rather vaguely, not quite understanding what she meant for a moment. "she must have some one of her own people with her. harold will most likely not arrive in time. i must go--mustn't i?" then gilbert realised. his swift imagination pictured a lonely hotel death-bed among the palms and mimosa of the côte d'azur, a pretty and charming girl fading away from the blue white and gold with no loving hands to tend her, and only the paid services of strangers to speed or assuage the young soul's passage from sunshine and laughter to the unknown. "you must go to her at once, sweetheart," he said gravely. "oh, i _must_! you don't mind my leaving you?" "how can you ask it? but i will come with you. we will both go. you will want a man." mary hesitated for a second, and then she shook her head. "i shall manage quite well by myself," she said. "it will be better so. i'm quite used to travelling alone as you know. and the journey to nice is nothing. i shall be in one carriage all the way from calais. you could come out after, if necessary." "i would come gladly, dear." "i know, gillie, and it's sweet of you. but you couldn't be of use and it would be miserable for you. it is better that i should be alone with dolly. i can always wire if i want you." "as you think best, dear. then i will stay quietly down here." "yes, do. you have that poem to work on, 'a lady in a library.' it is a beautiful fancy and will make you greater than ever! it's quite the best thing you've done so far. and then there's the shooting." "oh, i shall do very well, molly. don't bother about me, dear." she held him closer. her cool white arms were around his neck. "but i always do bother about you, husband," she whispered, "because i love you better than anything else in the world. it is sweet of you to let me go like this. and i feel so much happier about you now, since the doctor has come to the village." he winced with pain and shame at her loving words. a pang went right through him. it passed as swiftly as it had come. sweet and loving women too often provide men with excuses for their own ill conduct. lothian knew that--under the special circumstances of which his wife knew nothing--it was his duty to go with mary. but he didn't want to go. he would have hated going. already a wide vista was opening before him--a freedom, an absolute freedom! wild music! the wine of life! now, if ever, fate, destiny, call it what he would, was preparing the choicest banquet. he had met rita. rita was waiting, he could be with rita! and yet, so subtle and tortuous is the play of egoism upon conscience, he felt pleased with himself for his ready concurrence in his wife's plans. he assumed the rôle she gave him with avidity, and when he answered her she thought him the best and noblest of men. "it will be dreadful without you, darling, but you are quite right to go. send for me if you want me. i'll catch the next boat. but i have my work to do, and i can see a good deal of morton sims"--he knew well, and felt with shame, the cunning of this last statement--"and if i'm dull i can always run up to town for a day or two and stay at the club." "of course you can, dear. you won't feel so lonely then. now about details. i must pack to-night." "yes, dear, and then you can go off with dicker in the morning, and catch the night boat. if you like, that is." "well, i shouldn't gain anything by that, dear. i should only have to wait about in calais until one o'clock the next day when the train de luxe starts. but i should like to go first thing to-morrow. i couldn't wait about here the whole day. dicker will be company of sorts. i shall get to town about two, and go to the charing cross hotel. then i shall do some shopping, go to bed early, and catch the boat train from the station in the morning. i would rather do it like that." both of them were experienced travellers and knew the continental routes well. it was arranged so. mary did not come down to dinner. a tray was sent up to her room. lothian dined alone with ingworth. the voices of the two men were hushed to a lower tone in deference to the grief of the lady above. but there was a subdued undercurrent of high spirits nevertheless. ingworth was wildly excited by the prospect before him; gilbert fell into his mood with no trouble at all. he also had his own thoughts, his own private thoughts. --"i say, dicker, let's have some champagne, shall we?--just to wish your mission success." "yes, do let's. i'm just in the mood for buzz-water to-night." the housemaid went to the cellar and fetched the wine. "here's to you, dicker! may you become a g. w. stevens or a julian ralph!" "thanks, old chap. i'll do my best, now that my chance has come. i say i am awfully sorry about lady davidson. it's such rough luck on mrs. gilbert. you'll be rather at a loose end without your wife, won't you?--or will you write?" he tossed off his second glass of pol roger. "oh, i shall be quite happy," lothian answered, and as he said it a quiet smile came placidly upon his lips. it glowed out from within, as from some comfortable inward knowledge. ingworth saw it, and his mind, quickened by wine and excitement, found the truth unerringly. anger and envy flushed the young man's veins. he hated his host once more. "so that is his game, damned hypocrite!" ingworth thought. "i shall be away, his wife will be out of the way and he will make the running with rita wallace just as he likes." he looked at lothian, and then had a mental vision of himself. "he's fat and bloated," he thought. "surely a young and lovely girl like rita _can't_ care for him?" but even as he endeavoured to comfort his greedy conceit by these imaginings, he felt the shadow of the big mind falling upon them. he knew, as he had known so often of late, the power of that which was cased in its envelope of flesh, and which could not be denied. perhaps there is no hate so bitter, no fear so impotent and distressing, as that which is experienced by the surface for the depth. it is the fury of the brilliant scabbard against the sword within, decoration versus that which cleaves. ingworth wished that he were not going away--leaving the field clear. . . . "have a cigar, dicker. no?--well, here's the very best of luck." "thanks, the same to you!" end of book two book three fruit of the dead sea "let thy fountain be blessed: and rejoice with the wife of thy youth." "let her be as the loving hind and pleasant roe: let her breasts satisfy thee at all times: and be thou ravished always with her love." "and why wilt thou, my son, be ravished with a strange woman, and embrace the bosom of a stranger?" "_his own iniquities shall take the wicked himself, and he shall be holden with the cords of his sins._" chapter i the girls in the fourth story flat "we were two daughters of one race; she was the fairest in the face;" --_tennyson._ in the sitting room of a small forty-five pound flat, upon the fourth floor of a tall red-brick building in west kensington known as queens mansions, ethel harrison, the girl who lived with rita wallace, sat sewing by the window. it was seven o'clock in the evening and though dusk was at hand there was still enough light to sew by. the flat, moreover, was on the west side of the building and caught the last rays of the sun as he sank to rest behind the quivering vapours of london. last week in august as it was, the heat which hung over the metropolis for so long was in no way abated. all the oxygen was gone from the air, and for those who must stay in london--the workers, who could only read in the papers of translucent sunlit seas in cornwall where one bathed from the beaches all day long; of bright northern moors where dew fell upon the heather at dawn--life was become stifling and hard. in the window hung a bird-cage and the canary within it--the pet of these two lonely maidens--drooped upon its perch. it was known as "the lulu bird" and was a recurring incident in their lives. ethel was six and twenty, short, undistinguished of feature and with sandy hair. she was the daughter of a very poor clergyman in lancashire, and she was the principal typist in the busy office of a firm of solicitors in the city. she had ever so many certificates for shorthand, was a quick and accurate machine-writer, understood the routine of an office in all its details, and was invaluable to her employers. they boasted of her, indeed, trusted her in every way, worked her from nine to six on normal days, to any hours of the night at times of pressure, and paid her the highest salary in the market. that is to say, that this girl was at the very top of her profession and received two pounds ten shillings a week. dozens of girls envied her, she was more highly paid than most of the men clerks in the city. she knew herself to be a very fortunate girl. she gave high technical ability, a good intelligence, unceasing, unwearying and most loyal service for fifty shillings a week. each year she had a holiday of fourteen days, when she clubbed with some other girls and they all went to some farmhouse in the country, or even for a cheap excursion abroad, with everything calculated to the last shilling. this girl did all this, dressed like a lady, had a little home of her own with rita, preserved her dignity and independence, and sent many a small postal order to help the poor curate's wife, her mother, with the hungry brood of younger ones. mr. and mrs. harrison in lancashire spoke of their eldest daughter with pride. she had "her flat in town." she was "doing extraordinarily well"; "sister ethel" was a fairy godmother to her little brothers and sisters. she was a good girl, good and happy. the graces were denied her; she had made all sweet virtues her own. no man wooed her, no man looked twice at her. she had no religious ecstasies, and--instead of a theatre where one had to pay--asked no thrills from sensuous ceremonial. she simply went to the nearest church and said her prayers. it is the shame of most of us that when we meet such women as these, we pass them by with a kindly laugh or a patronising word. men and women of the world prefer more decorative folk. they like to watch holiness in a picturesque setting, elizabeth of hungary washing the beggar's feet upon the palace steps. . . . a little worker-bee saint, making a milk pudding for a sick washerwoman on a gas-stove in a flat--that comes rather too close home, does it not? the light was really fading now, and ethel put down her sewing, rose from her basket-work chair, and lit the gas. it was an incandescent burner, hanging from the centre of the ceiling, and the girls' living room was revealed. it was a very simple, comely, makeshift little home. on one side of the fireplace--now filled with a brown and gasping harts-tongue fern in an earthen pot--was ethel's bookshelf. up-to-date she had a hundred and thirty-two books, of the "everyman" and "world's classics" series. she generally managed a book and a half each fortnight, and her horizon was bounded by the two-hundredth volume. dickens she had very much neglected of late, the new ruskin had kept the set at "david copperfield" for weeks, but she was getting on steadily with her thackeries. rita had no books. she was free of that kingdom at the podley institute, but the little black piano was hers. the great luxury of the chesterfield was a joint extravagance. both ends would let down to make a couch when necessary, and though it had cost the girls three pounds ten, it "made all the difference to the room." all the photographs upon the mantel-shelf were ethel's. there was her father in his cassock--staring straight out of the frame like a good and patient mule. . . . her sisters and brothers also, of all ages and sizes, and all clothed with an odd suggestion of masquerading, of attempting the right thing. not but what they were all perfect to poor ethel, whose life was far too busy and limited to understand the tragedy of clothes. rita's photographs were on the piano. there were several of her school-friends--lucky rita had been to a smart school!--and the enigmatic face of muriel amberley with its youthful mona lisa smile looked out from an oval frame of red leather stamped with an occasional fleur-de-lys in gold. there was a portrait of mr. podley, cut from the _graphic_ and framed cheaply, and there were two new photographs. one of them was that of a curly-headed, good-looking young man with rather thick lips and a painful consciousness that he was being photographed investing the whole picture with suspense. ethel had heard rita refer to the original of this portrait once or twice as "dicker" or "curly." but, then, there was another photograph. a large one this time, done in cloudy browns, nearly a foot square and with the name of a very famous artist of the camera stamped into the card. this was a new arrival, also, of the past few weeks, and it was held in a massive frame of thick plain silver. the frame, with the portrait in it, had arrived at the flat some fortnight ago in an elaborate wooden box. ethel had recognised the portrait at once. it was of mr. gilbert lothian, the great poet. rita had met him at a dinner-party, and, if she didn't exaggerate, the great man had almost shown a disposition to be friendly. it was nice of him to send rita his photograph, but the frame was rather too much. all that massive silver!--"it must have cost thirty shillings at least," she had thought in her innocence. when the gas was turned up, for some reason or other her eye had fallen at once upon the photograph upon the top of the piano. she had read some of lothian's poems, but she had found nothing whatever in them that had pleased her. even when her father had written to her and recommended them for her to read the poems meant less than nothing, and the face--no! she didn't like the face. "i hardly think that it's quite a _good_ face," she said to herself, not recognising that--the question of morality quite apart--her hostility rose from the fact that it was a face utterly outside her limited experience, a face that was eloquent of a life, of things, of thoughts that she could never even begin to understand. in the middle of the room the small round table was spread with a fair white cloth and set for a meal. there was a green bowl of bananas, a loaf of brown bread, some sardines in a glass dish. but a place was laid for one person only. rita was in their mutual bedroom dressing. rita was going to dine out. the two girls had lived together for a year now. at the beginning of their association one thing had been agreed between them. their outside lives were to be lived independently of their home life. no confidences were to be expected or demanded as a matter of course. if confidences were made they were to be free and spontaneous, at the wish or whim of each. the contract had been loyally observed. ethel never had any secrets. rita had had several during the year of their association, but they had proved only minor little secrets after all. sooner or later she had told them, and they had been food for virginal laughter for them both. but now, during the last few weeks?--ethel's glance flitted uneasily from the big photograph upon the piano to a little round table of bamboo work in one corner of the sitting room. upon this table lay a huge bunch of dark red roses. the stalks were fitted into a holder of finely-woven white grass--as delicate in texture as a panama hat--and the bouquet was tied with graceful bows and streamers of purple satin--broad, expensive ribbon. a boy messenger, most unusual visitor, had brought them an hour ago. "for miss rita wallace." the quiet mind, the crystal soul of this girl, dimly discerned something alien and disturbing. the door of the sitting-room opened and rita came in. she was radiant. her one evening dress was not an expensive affair, a simple, girl's frock of olive-green _crêpe de chene_ in the empire fashion, but the girl and her clothes were one. the high "waist," coming just under the curve of the breast, was edged with an embroidery of dull silver thread, and the gleam of this upon its olive setting threw up the fair column of the throat the rounded arms, the whiteness of the girlish bosom, with a most striking and arresting lustre. round her neck the girl wore a riband of dark green velvet, and as a pendant from it hung a little star of amethysts and olivines set in a filigree of platinum, no rare nor costly jewel, but a beautiful one. she was pulling her long white gloves up to the elbow as she entered the room. ethel loved rita dearly. rita was her romance, the art and colour of her life. she was always saying or doing astonishing things, she was always beautiful. to-night, though the frock was an old friend, the pendant quite familiar, ethel thought that she had never seen her friend so lovely. the nut-brown hair was shining, the young, brown eyes lit up with excitement and joy, the tints of rose and pearl upon rita's cheeks came and went as her heart beat. "a duke might be glad to marry her," the plain girl thought without a throb of envy. she was perfectly right. if rita had been in society or on the stage she probably would have married a peer--not a duke though, that was ethel's inexperience. there are so few dukes that they have not the same liberty of action as other noblemen. the beauty market is badly organised--curious fact in an age when to purvey cats' meat is a specialised industry. but the fact remains. the prettiest girls in england don't have their pictures in the papers and advertise no dentrifice or musical comedy on the one hand, nor st. peter and st. george, their fashionable west end temples, on the other. buyers of beauty have but a limited choice, and on the whole it is a salutary thing, though doubtless hard upon loveliness that perforce throws itself away upon men without rank or fortune for want of proper opportunity! "how do i look, wog dear?" rita asked. "splendid, darling," ethel answered eagerly--a pretty junior typist in ethel's office, who had been snubbed, had once sent her homely senior a golliwog doll, and since then the good-humoured ethel was "wog" to her friends. "i'm so glad. i want to look my best to-night." "well, then, you do," ethel replied, and with an heroic effort forbore further questioning. she always kept loyally to the compact of silence and non-interference with what went on outside the flat. rita chuckled and darted one of her naughty, provocative glances. "wog! you're dying to know where i'm going!" some girls would have affected indifference immediately. not so the simple wog. "of course i am, cupid," she said. "i'm going to dine with gilbert." "gilbert?" "gilbert lothian i mean, of course. we are absolute friends, wog dear--he and i. i haven't told you before, but i will now. you remember that night i was home so late, nearly a month ago? yes?--well i had been motoring to brighton with gilbert. i met him for the first time at the amberleys'--but that you know. since then we have become friends--such a strange and wonderful friendship it is, ethel! it's made things so different for me." "but how friends? have you seen him often, then? but you can't have?" rita shook her head, impatiently for a moment, and then she smiled gently. how could poor old wog know or understand! "no!" she cried, with a little tap of her shoe upon the carpet. "but there are such things as letters aren't there?" "has he been writing to you, then?" "writing! i have had four of the most beautiful letters that a poet ever wrote. it took him days to write each one. he chose every word, over and over again. every sentence is music, every word a note in a chord!" ethel went up to her friend and kissed her. "dear old cupid," she said, "i'm so glad, so very glad. i don't understand his poems myself, but father simply loves them. i am sure you will be very happy. only i do hope he is a good man--really worthy of my dear! and so"--she continued, with a struggle to get down to commonplace brightness of manner--"and so he's coming for you to-night! now i know why you look so beautiful and are so happy." two tears gathered in the kind green eyes, tears of joy at her dear girl's happiness, but with a tincture of sadness too. with a somewhat unaccustomed flash of imagination, she looked into the future and saw herself lonely in the flat, or with another girl who could never be to her what rita was. she looked up at rita again, trying to smile through her tears. what she saw astounded her. rita's face was flushed. a knot of wrinkles had sprung between her eyebrows. her mouth was mutinous, her brown eyes lit with an angry and puzzled light. "i don't understand you, ethel," she said in a voice which was so cold and unusual that the other girl was dumb.--"what on earth do you mean?" "mean, dear," ethel faltered. "i don't quite understand. i thought you meant--i thought . . ." "what did you think?" "i thought you meant that you were engaged to him, cupid darling!" "engaged!--_why gilbert is married._" ethel glanced quickly at the flowers, at the photograph upon the piano. things seemed going round and round her--the heat, that was it--"but the letters!" she managed to say at length, "and, and--oh, cupid, what _are_ you doing? he can't be a good man. i'm certain of it, dear! i'm older than you are. i know more about things. you don't realise,--but how should you poor darling! he can't be a good man! rita, _does his wife know_?" the girl frowned impatiently. "how limited and narrow you are, ethel," she said. "have you such low ideals that you think friendship between a man and a woman impossible? are you entirely fettered by convention and silly old puritanical nonsense? wouldn't you be glad and proud to have a man with a wonderful mind for your friend--a man who is all chivalry and kindness, who pours out the treasures of his intellect for one?" ethel did not answer. she did not, in truth, know what to say. there _was_ no reason she could adduce why rita should not have a man friend. she knew that many singular and fine natures despised conventionality or ordinary rules and seemed to have the right to do so. and then--_honi soit_! yet, inarticulate as she was, she felt by some instinct that there was something wrong. mr. gilbert lothian was married. that meant everything. a married man, and a poet too! oughtn't to have any secret and very intimate friendships with beautiful, wilful and unprotected girls. . . . "you have nothing to say! of course! there _is_ nothing that any wide-minded person could say. ethel, you're a dear old stupe!"--she crossed the room and kissed her friend. and ethel was so glad to hear the customary affection return to rita's voice, the soft lips upon her cheek set her gentle and loving heart in so warm a glow, that her fears and objections dissolved and she said no more. the electric bell at the front door whirred. rita tore herself from ethel's embrace. there was a mirror over the mantel-shelf. she gazed into it for a few seconds and then hurried away into the little hall. there was the click of the latch as it was drawn back, a moment of silence, and then ethel heard a voice with a peculiar vibration and timbre--an altogether unforgettable voice--say two words. "at last!" then there was a murmur of conversation, the words of which she could not catch, interrupted once by rita's happy laughter. finally she heard rita hurry into the bedroom, no doubt for her cloak, and return with an excited word. then the door closed and there was an instant of footsteps upon the stone stairs outside. ethel was left alone. she went to her bookshelf--she did not seem to want to think just now--and after a moment's hesitation took down "sesame and lilies." then she sat at the table with a sigh and looked without much interest at the bananas, the sardines and the brown bread. ethel was left alone. chapter ii over the rubicon "inside the horsel here the air is hot; right little peace one hath for it, god wot; the scented dusty daylight burns the air, and my heart chokes me till i hear it not." --_swinburne._ gilbert and rita said hardly anything to each other as the motor-cab drove them to the restaurant where they were to dine. there was a sort of constraint between them. it was not awkwardness, it was not shyness. nevertheless, they had little to say to each other--yet. they had become extraordinarily intimate during the last weeks by means of the letters that had passed between them. in all his life lothian had never written anything like these letters. those already written, and those that were to be written before the end, would catch the imagination of europe and america could they ever be published. in prose of a subtle beauty, which was at the same time virile and with the organ-note of a big, revealing mind, he had poured his thoughts upon the girl. she was the inspiration, the _raison d'être_, of these letters. that "friendship" which his heated brain had created and imposed upon hers, he had set up before him like a picture and had woven fervent and critical rhapsodies about it. the joy that he had experienced in the making of these letters was more real and utterly satisfying than any he had ever known. he was filled and exalted by a sense of high power as he wrote the lovely words. he knew how she would read, understand and be thrilled by them. paragraph after paragraph, sentence after sentence, were designed to play upon some part of the girl's mind and temperament--to flatter her own opinion at a definite point, and to flatter it with a flattery so subtle and delicate, so instinct with knowledge, that it came to her as a discovery of herself. he would please her--since she was steeped in books and their appeal, utterly ignorant of life itself--with a pleasure that he alone could give. he would wrap her round with the force and power of his mind, make her his utterly in the bonds of a high intellectual friendship, dominate her, achieve her--through the mind. he had set himself to do this thing and he had done it. her letters to him, in their innocent, unskilful, but real and vivid response had shown him everything. from each one he gathered new material for his reply. he had lived of late in a new world, where, neglecting everything else, he sat jove-like upon the olympus of his own erection and drew a young and supremely beautiful girl nearer and nearer to him by his pen. he had fallen into many mortal sins during his life. until now he had not known the one by which the angels fell, the last sin of pride which burns with a fierce, white consuming flame. all these wonderful letters had been wrought under the influence of alcohol. he would go to his study tired in body and so wearied in brain that he felt as if his skull were literally packed with grey wool. "i must write to rita," he would think, and sit down with the blank sheet before him. there would not be an idea. the books upon the walls called to him to lose himself in noble company. the dog trust gambolling with tumpany in the garden invited him to play. the sight of mary with her basket on her arm setting out upon some errand of mercy in the village, spoke of the pleasant, gracious hours he might spend with her, watching how sweet and wise she was with the poor people and how she was beloved. but no, he must write to rita. he felt chained by the necessity. and then the fat cut-glass bottle from the tantalus would make an appearance, the syphon of soda-water in its holder of silver filigree. the first drink would have little or no effect--a faint stirring of the pulses, a sort of dull opening of tired mental eyes, perhaps. yet even that was enough to create the desire for the moment when the brain should leap up to full power. another drink--the letter begun. another, and images, sentences which rang and chimed, gossamer points of view, mosaics and vignettes glowing with color, merry sunlight laughter, compliments and _devoirs_ of exquisite grace and refinement, all flowed from him with steady, uninterrupted progress. . . . but now, as he sat beside rita, touching her, with the fragrance of her hair athwart his face, all ideas and thoughts had to be readjusted. the dream was over. the dream personality, created and worshipped by his art in those long, drugged reveries, was a thing of the past. he had never realised rita to himself as being quite a human girl. no grossness had ever entered into his thoughts about her. he was not gross. the temper of his mind was refined and high. the steady progress of the fiend alcohol had not progressed thus far as yet. sex was a live fact in this strangely-coloured "friendship" which he had created, but, as yet, in his wildest imaginings it had always been chivalrous, abstract and pure. passion had never soiled it even in thought. it had all been mystical, not swinburnian. and the fact had been as a salve to his conscience. his conscience told him from the first--when, after the excursion to brighton he had taken up his pen to continue the association--that he was doing wrong. he knew it with all the more poignancy because he had never done sweet mary a treachery in allegiance before. she had always been the perfect and utterly satisfying woman to him. his "fountain was blessed; and he rejoiced with the wife of his youth." but the inhabiting devil had found a speedy answer. it had told him that such a man as he was might well have a pure and intellectual friendship with such a girl as rita was. it harmed none, it was of mutual and uplifting benefit. who of the world could point an accusing finger, utter a word of censure upon this delightful meeting of minds and temperaments through the medium of paper and pen? "no one at all," came the satisfactory answer. lothian at the prompting of alcohol was content to entertain and welcome a low material standard of conduct, a debased ideal, which he would have scorned in any other department of life. and as for rita, she hadn't thought about such things at all. she had been content with the music which irradiated everything. it was only now, with a flesh and blood man by her side in the little box of the taxi-cab, that she glanced curiously at the musician and felt--also--that revision and re-statement were at hand. so they said very little until they were seated at the table which had been reserved for them at a celebrated restaurant in the strand. rita looked round her and gave a deep sigh of pleasure. they sat in a long high hall with a painted ceiling. at the side opposite to them and at the end were galleries with gilded latticework. at the other end, in the gilded cage which hid the performers from view, was an orchestra which discoursed sweet music--a little orchestra of artists. the walls of the white and gold hall were covered with brilliantly painted frescoes of scenes in that italy from where the first proprietor had come. the blue seas, the little white towns clustering round the base of some volcanic mountain, the sunlight and gaiety of italy were there, in these paintings so cunningly drawn and coloured by a great scenic artist. a soft, white and bright light pervaded everything. there was not a sound of service as the waiters moved over the thick carpets. the innumerable tables, for two or four, set with finest crystal and silver and fair linen had little electric lamps of silver with red shades upon them. beautiful, radiant women with white arms and shining jewels sat with perfectly dressed men at the tables covered with flowers. it was a succession of little dinner parties; it seemed as if no one could come here without election or choice. the ordinary world did not exist in this kingdom of luxury, ease and wealth. she leant over the little table against the wall. "it's marvellous," she said. "the whole atmosphere is new. i did not think such a place as this existed." "and the metropole at brighton?" "it was like a bathing machine is to buckingham palace, compared to this. how exquisite the band is! oh, i am so happy!" "that makes me happy, cupid. this is the night of your initiation. our wonderful weeks have begun. i have thought out a whole series of delights and contrasts. every night shall be a surprise. you will never know what we are going to do. london is a magic city and you have known nothing of it." "how could the 'girl from podley's' know?--that's what i am, the girl from podley's. i feel like cinderella must have felt when she went to the ball. oh, i am so happy!" he smiled at her. something had taken ten years from his age to-night. youth shone out upon his face, the beauty of his twenties had come back. "lalage!" he murmured, more to himself than to her--"dulce ridentem, dulce loquentem!" "what--gilbert?" "i was quoting some latin to myself, cupid dear." "and it was all greek to me!" she said in a flash. "oh! who _ever_ saw so many hors d'oeuvres all at one time! i love hors d'oeuvres, advise me, don't let me have too many different sorts, gilbert, or i shan't be able to eat anything afterwards." how extraordinarily fresh and innocent she was! she possessed in perfection that light, reckless and freakish humour which was so strong a side of his own temperament. she had stepped from her dingy little flat, from a common cab, straight into the dance of the hours, taking her place with instant grace in the gay and stately minuet. for it was stately. all this quintessence of ordered luxury and splendour had a most powerful influence upon the mind. it might have made caliban outwardly courteous and debonnair. yes, she was marvellously fresh! he had never met any one like her. and it _was_ innocence, it _must_ be. yet she was very conscious of the power of her beauty and her sex--over him at any rate. she obviously knew nothing of the furtive attention she was exciting in a place where so many jaded experts came to look at the flowers. it was the naïve and innocent aspasia in every young girl bubbling up with entire frankness. she was amazed and half frightened at herself--he could see that. well! he was very content to be pericles for a space, to join hands and tread a measure with her and the rosy-bosomed hours in their dance. it was as though they had known each other for ever and a day, ere half the elaborate dinner was over. she had called him "gilbert" at once, as if he were her brother, her lover even. he could have found or forged no words to describe the extraordinary intimacy that had sprung up between them. it almost seemed unreal, he had to wonder if this were not a dream. she became girlishly imperious. when they brought the golden plovers--king and skipper, as good epicures know, of all birds that fly--she leant over the table till her perfect face was close to his. "oh, gilbert dear! what is it now!" he told her how these little birds, with their "trail" upon the toast and their accompaniment of tiny mushrooms stewed in sillery, were said to be the rarest flower in the gourmet's garden, one of the supreme pleasures that the cycle of the seasons bring to those who love and live to eat. "how _perfectly_ sweet! like the little roast pigling was to elia! gilbert, i'm so happy." she chattered away to him, as he sat and watched her, with an entire freedom. she told him all about her life in the flat with ethel harrison. her brown eyes shone with happiness, he heard the silver ripple of her voice in a mist of pleasure. once he caught a man whom he knew watching them furtively. it was a very well-known actor, who at the moment was rehearsing his autumn play. this celebrated person was, as gilbert well knew, a monster. he lived his life with a dreadful callousness which made him capable of every bestial habit and crime, without fear, without pleasure, without horror, and without pity. the poet shuddered as he caught that evil glance, and then, listening anew to rita's joyous confidences, he became painfully aware of the brute that is in every man, in himself too, though as yet he had never allowed it to be clamant. the happy girl went on talking. suddenly gilbert realised that she was telling him something, innocent enough in her mouth, but something that a woman should tell to a woman and not to a man. the decent gentleman in him became wide awake, the sense of comeliness and propriety. he wasn't in the least shocked--indeed there was nothing whatever to be shocked about--but he wanted to save her, in time, from an after-realisation of a frankness that might give her moments of confusion. he did it, as he did everything when he was really sober, really himself, with a supreme grace and delicacy. "cupid dear," he said with his open and boyish smile, "you really oughtn't to tell me that, you know. i mean--well, think!" she looked at him with puzzled eyes for a moment and then she took his meaning. a slight flush came into her cheeks. "oh, i see," she replied thoughtfully, and then, with a radiant smile and the provocative, challenging look--"gilbert dear, you seem just like a girl to me. i quite forgot you were a man. so it doesn't matter, does it?" who was to attempt to preserve _les convenances_ with such a delightful child as this? "here is the dessert," he said gaily, as waiters brought ices, nectarines, and pear-shaped paris bon-bons filled with benedictine and chartreuse. a single bottle of champagne had served them for the meal. gilbert lit a cigarette and said two words to a waiter. in a minute he was brought a carafe of whiskey and a big bottle of perrier in a silver stand. it was a dreadful thing to do, from a gastronomic or from a health point of view. whiskey, now! he saw the look of wonder on the waiter's face, a pained wonder, as who should say, "well, i shouldn't have thought _this_ gentleman would have done such a thing." but lothian didn't care. it was only upon the morning after a debauch, when with moles' eyes he watched every one with suspicion and with fear, that he cared twopence what people thought about anything he did. he was roused to a high pitch of excitement by his beautiful companion. recklessness, an entire abandon to the dance of the hours was mounting up within him. but where there's a conscience, there's a rubicon. the little brook stretched before him still, but now he meant to leap over it into the forbidden, enchanted country beyond. he ordered "jumping powder." he drank deeply, dropped his cigarette into the copper bowl of rose water at his side and lit another. "cupid!" he said suddenly, in a voice that was quite changed, "rita dear, i'm going to show you something!" she heard the change in his voice, recognised it instantly, must have known by instinct, if not by knowledge, what it meant. but there was no confusion, nor consciousness in her face. she only leant over the narrow table and blew a spiral of cigarette smoke from her parted lips. "what, gilbert?" she said, and he seemed to hear a caress in her voice that fired him. "you shall hear," he said in a low and unsteady voice. he drew a calling card from the little curved case of thin gold he carried in his waistcoat pocket, and wrote a sentence or two upon the back in french. a waiter took the card and hurried away. "oh, gilbert dear, what is the surprise?" "music, sweetheart. i've sent up to the band to play something. something special, cupid, just for you and me alone on the first of our arabian nights!" she waited for a minute, following his eyes to the gilded gallery of the musicians which bulged out into the end of the room. there was a white card with a great black " " upon it, hanging to the rail. and then a sallow man with a moustache of ink came to the balcony and removed the card, substituting another for it on which was printed in staring sable letters--"by desire." it was all quite new to rita. she was awed at gilbert's almost magical control of everything! she understood what was imminent, though. "what's it going to be, gilbert?" she whispered. her hand was stretched over the table. he took its cool virginal ivory into his for a moment. "the 'salut d'amour' of elgar," he answered her in a low voice, "just for you and me." the haunting music began. to the end of her life rita wallace never heard the melody without a stab of pain and a dreadful catch of horror at her heart. perhaps the thing had not been played lately, perhaps the hour was ripe for it in the great restaurant. but as the violins and 'cello sobbed out the first movement, a hush fell over the place. it was the after-dinner hour. the smoke from a hundred cigarettes curled upwards in delicate spirals like a drawing of flaxman's. bright eyes were languorous and spoke, voices sank to silence. the very waiters were congregated in little groups round the walls and service tables. salut d'amour! the melody wailed out into the great room with all the exquisite appeal of its rose-leaf sadness, its strange autumnal charm. it was perfectly rendered. and many brazen-beautiful faces softened for a moment, many pleasure-sodden hearts had a diastole of unaccustomed tenderness as the music pulsed to its close. gilbert's acquaintance, the well-known actor, who was personified animal passion clothed in flesh if ever a man was, felt the jews-harp which he called his heart vibrate within him. he was a luxurious pariah-dog in his emotions as in everything else. the last sob of the violins trembled into silence. there was a loud spontaneous burst of applause, and a slim foreign man, grasping his fiddle by the neck, came from behind the gilded screen and looked down into the hall below with patient eyes. lothian rose from his chair and bowed to the distant gallery. the musician's face lighted up and he bowed twice to lothian. monsieur toché had recognised the name upon the card. and the request, written in perfect, idiomatic french, had commenced, "_cher maitre et confrère_." the lasting hunger of the obscure artist for recognition by another and greater one was satisfied. poor toché went to his bed that night in soho feeling as if he had been decorated with the order of merit. and though, during the supper hours from eleven to half past twelve he had to play "selections" from the musical comedy of the moment, he never lost the sense of _bien être_ conferred upon him by gilbert lothian at dinner. gilbert was trembling a little as the music ended. rita sat back in her chair with downcast eyes and lips slightly parted. neither of them spoke. gilbert suddenly experienced a sense of immense sorrow, of infinite regret too deep for speech or tears. "this is the moment of realisation," he thought, "the first real moment in my life, perhaps. _i know what i have missed._ of all women this was the one for me, as i for her. we were made for each other. too late! too late!" he struggled for mastery over his emotion. "how well they play," he said. she made a slight motion with her hand. "don't let's talk for a minute," she answered. he was thrilled through and through. did she also, then, feel and know . . . ? surely that could not be. his youth was so nearly over, the keen æsthetic vision of the poet showed him so remorselessly how changed he was physically from what he had been in years gone by, for ever. mechanically, without thinking, obeying the order given by the new half-self, that spawn of poison which was his master and which he mistook for himself, he filled his glass once more and drank. in forty seconds after, triumph and pride flared up within him like a sheet of thin paper lit suddenly with a match. yes! she was his, part of him--it was true! he, the great poet, had woven his winged words around her. he had bent the power of his mind upon her--utterly desirable, unsoiled and perfect--and she was his. the blaze passed through him and upwards, a thing from below. then it ended and only a curl of grey ash floated in the air. the most poignant and almost physical sorrow returned to him. his heart seemed to ache like a tooth. yet it wasn't dull, hopeless depression. it was, he thought, a high tragic sorrow ennobling in its strength; a sorrow such as only the supreme soul-wounded artists of the world could know--had known. "she was for me!" his heart cried out. "ah, if only i had met her first!" yes! he was fain of all the tragic sorrows of the great ones to whom he was brother, of whose blood he was. in a single flash of time--as the drowning man is said to experience all the events of his life at the penultimate moment of dissolution--he felt that he knew the secrets of all sorrow, the pangs of all tragedy. the inevitable thought of his wife passed like a blur across the fire-lit heights of his false agony. "i cannot love her," he said in his mind. "i have never loved her. i have been blind until this moment." a tear of sentiment welled into his eye at the thought of poor mary, bereft of his love. "how sad life was!" nearly every man, at some time or other, has found a faint reflection of this black thought assail him and has put it from him with a prayer and the "vade retro sathanas." few men would have chosen their present wives if they had met--let us assume--fifty other women before they married. and when the ordinary, normal, decent man meets a woman better, clever, more desirable than the one he has, it is perfectly natural that he should admire her. he would be insensible if he did not. but with the normal man it stops there. he is obliged to be satisfied with his own wife. the chaos that riotous and unbalanced minds desire has not come yet. and if a man says that he _cannot_ love a wife who is virtuous and good, then satan is in him. "i cannot love her," lothian thought of his wife, and in the surveyal of this fine brain and noble mind poisoned by alcohol it is proper to remember that two hours before he could not have thought this thing. it would have been utterly impossible. was it then the few recent administrations of poison that had changed him so terribly, brought him to this? the fiend alcohol has a myriad dominations. a lad from the university gets drunk in honour on boat-race night--for the first time in his life--and tries to fight with a policeman. but he is only temporarily insane, becomes ashamed and wiser in the morning, and never does such a thing again. lothian had been poisoning himself, slowly, gradually, certainly for years. the disease which was latent in his blood, and for which he was in no way personally responsible, had been steadily undermining the forces of his nature. he had injured his health and was coming near to gravely endangering his reputation. his work, rendered more brilliant and appealing at first by the unfair and unnatural stimulus of alcohol, was trembling upon the brink of a débâcle. he had inflicted hundreds of hours of misery and despair upon the woman he had married. this, all this, was grave and disastrous enough. but the awful thing that he was feeding and breeding within him--the "false ego," to use the cold, scientific, and appallingly accurate definition of the doctors--had not achieved supreme power. even during the last year of the three or four years of the poisoning process it had not become all-powerful. it had kept him from church; it had kept him from the eucharist; it had drawn one thick grey blanket after another between the eye of his soul and the vision of god. but kindly human instinct had remained unimpaired, and he had done many things _sub specie crucis_--under the influence of, and for the sake of that cross which was so surely and steadily receding from his days and passing away to a dim and far horizon. but there arrives a time when the pitcher that is filled drop by drop becomes full. the liquid trembles for a moment upon the brim and trickles over. and there comes a sure moment in the life of the alcoholic when the fiend within waxes strong enough finally to strangle the old self, fills all the house and reigns supreme. it is always something of relatively small importance that hastens the end--ensures the final plunge. it was the last few whiskeys that sent honour and conscience flying away with scared faces from this man's soul. but they acted upon the poison of years, now risen to the very brim of the cup. one more drop . . . people were getting up from the tables and leaving the restaurant. the band was resting, there was no more music at the moment, and the remaining diners were leaning over the tables and talking to each other in low, confidential tones. rita looked up suddenly. "what are we going to do now?" she said with her quick bright smile. "when we went to brighton together," gilbert answered, "you told me that you had never been to a music hall. a box at the empire is waiting for us. let us go and see how you like it. if you don't, we can come away and go for a drive round london in a taxi. the air will be cooler now, and in the suburbs we may see the moon. but come and try. the night is yours, and i am yours, also. you are the queen of the dance of the hours and i your court chamberlain." "oh, how perfectly sweet! take me to the empire." as they stood upon the steps of the restaurant and the commissionaire whistled up a cab, gilbert spoke to rita in a low, husky voice. "we ought to get there in time for the ballet," he said, "because it is the most perfect thing to be seen in europe, outside milan or st. petersburg. but we've ten minutes yet, at least. shall i tell him to drive round?" "yes, gilbert." the taxi-meter glided away through the garish lights of the strand, and then, unexpectedly, swerved into craven street towards the embankment. almost immediately the interior of the cab grew dark. gilbert put his arm round rita's waist and caught her hand with his. he drew her closer to him. "oh, my love!" he said with a sob in his voice. "my dear little love; at last, at last!" she did not resist. he caught her closer and closer and kissed her upon the cheeks, the eyes, the low-falling masses of nut-brown, fragrant hair. "turn your face to me, darling." his lips met hers for one long moment. . . . he hardly heard her faint-voiced, "gilbert, you mustn't." he sank back upon the cushions with a strange blankness and emptiness in his mind. he had kissed her, her lovely lips had been pressed to his. and, behold, it was nothing after all. it was just a little girl kissing him. "kiss met kiss me again!" he said savagely. "you must, you must! rita, my darling, _my darling_!" she pressed her cool lips to his once more--how cool they were!--almost dutifully, with no revolt from his embrace, but as she might have kissed some girl friend at parting after a day together. all evil, dominant passions of his nature, hidden and sleeping within him for so long, were awake at last. he had held rita in his arms. yet, whatever she might say or do in her reckless school-girl fashion, she was really absolutely innocent and virgin, untouched by passion, incredibly ignorant of the red flame which burned within him now and which he would fain communicate to her. "are you unhappy, dearest?" he asked suddenly. "unhappy, gilbert? with you? how could i be?" and so daring innocence and wicked desire drove on through the streets of london--innocence a little tarnished, ignorance no longer, but pulsing with youth and the sense of adventure; absolutely unaware that it was playing with a man's soul. the girl had read widely, but ever with the hunger for beauty, colour, music, the sterile, delicate emotions of others. one of the huge facts of life, the central, underlying fact of all the romance, all the poetry on which she was fed, had come to her at last and she did not recognise it. gilbert had held her in his arms and had kissed her. it was pleasant to be kissed and adored. it wasn't right--that she knew very well. ethel would be horrified, if she knew. all sorts of proper, steady, ordinary people would be horrified, if _they_ knew. but they didn't and never would! and gilbert wanted to kiss her so badly. she had known it all the time. why shouldn't he, poor boy, if it made him happy? he was so kind and so charming. he was a magician with the key of fairyland. he made love beautifully! this was the dance of the hours! the cab stopped in front of the empire. led by a little page-boy who sprung up from somewhere, they passed through the slowly-moving tide of men and women in the promenade to their box. for a little space rita said nothing. she settled herself in her chair and leaned upon the cushioned ledge of the box, gazing at the huge crowded theatre and at the shifting maze of colour upon the stage. she had removed the long glove from her right hand and her chin was supported by one white rounded arm. a very fair young sybil she seemed, lost in the vague, empty spaces of maiden thought. gilbert began to tell her about the dancers and to explain the ballet. she had never seen anything like it before, and he pointed out its beauty, what a marvellous poem it really was; music, movement, and colour built up by almost incredible labour into one stupendous whole. a dozen minor geniuses, each one a poet in his or her way, had been at work upon this triumphant shifting beauty, evanescent and lovely as a dream painted upon the sable curtains of sleep. she listened and seemed to understand but made little comment. once she flashed a curious speculative look at him. and, on his part, though he saw her lovelier than ever, he was chilled nevertheless. grey veils seemed to be falling between him and the glow of his desire, falling one by one. "surgit amari aliquid?"--was it that?--but he could not let the moment escape him. it must and should be captured. he made an excuse about cigarettes, and chocolates for her, and left the box, hurrying to the little bar in the promenade, drinking there almost furiously, tasting nothing, waiting, a strange silent figure with a white face, until he felt the old glow re-commencing. it came. the drugged mind answered to the call, and he went back to the box with light footsteps, full of riotous, evil thoughts. rita had withdrawn her chair into the box a little. she looked up with a smile of welcome as he entered and sat down by her side. she began to eat the chocolates he had brought, and he watched her with greedy eyes. suddenly--maid of moods as she was--she pushed the satin-covered box away. he felt a little white arm pushed through his. "gilbert, let's pretend we're married, just for this evening," she said, looking at him with dancing eyes. "what do you mean, rita?" he said in a hoarse whisper. the girl half-smiled, flushed a little, and then patted the black sleeve of his coat. "it's so nice to be together," she whispered. "i am so happy with you. london is so wonderful with you to show it to me. i only wish it could go on always." he caught her wrist with his hot hand. "it can, always, if you wish," he said. she started at the fierce note in his voice. "hush," she said. "you mustn't talk like that." her face became severe and reproving. she turned it towards the stage. the remainder of the evening alternated between wild fits of gaiety and rather moody silences. there was absolutely nothing of the crisp, delightful friendship of the drive to brighton. a new relation was established between them, and yet it was not, as yet, capable of any definition at all. she was baffling, utterly perplexing. at one moment he thought her his, really in love with him, prepared for all that might mean, at another she was a shy and rather dissatisfied school girl. the nervous strain within him, as the fires of his passion burned and crackled, was intense. he fed the flame with alcohol whenever he had an opportunity. all the old reverence and chivalry of that ideal friendship of which he had sung so sweetly vanished utterly. a faint, but growing brutality of thought came to him as he considered her. her innocence did not seem so insistent as before. he could not place her yet. all he knew was that she was certainly not the rita of his dreams. yet with all this, his longing, his subjection to her every whim and mood, grew and grew each moment. he was absolutely pervaded by her. honour, prudence, his keen insight were all thrust away in the gathering storm of desire. they had supper at a glittering palace in the haymarket. in her simple girlish frock, without much adornment of any sort, she was the prettiest girl in the room. she enjoyed everything with wild avidity, and not the least of the exhilarations of the night was the knowledge--ripe and unmistakable now--of her complete power over him. gilbert ate nothing at the carlton, but drank again. distinguished still, an arresting personality in any room, his face had become deeply flushed and rather satyr-like as he watched rita with longing, wonder, and an uneasy suspicion that only added fuel to the flame. it was after midnight when he drove her home and they parted upon the steps of queens mansions. he staggered a little in the fresh air as he stood there, though rita in her excitement did not notice it. he had drunk enough during that day and night to have literally _killed_ two ordinary men. "to-morrow!" he said, trying to put something that he knew was not there into his dull voice. "to-morrow night." "to-morrow!" she replied. "at the same time," and evading his clumsy attempt at an embrace, she swirled into the hall of the flat with a last kiss of her hand. and even prince, at the club, had never seen "mr. gilbert" so brutishly intoxicated as he was that night. chapter iii thirst "_a little, passionately, not at all?_" she casts the snowy petals on the air. . . . --_villanelle of marguerites._ lothian had taken chambers for a short time in st. james' and near his club. prince, the valet, had found the rooms for him and the house, indeed, was kept by the man's brother. gilbert would not stay at the club. rita could not come to him there. he wanted a place where he could be really alone with her. during the first few days, though they met each night and gilbert ransacked london to give her varied pleasure, rita would not come and dine in his chambers. "i couldn't possibly, gilbert dear," she would say, and the refusal threw him into a suppressed fever of anger and irritation. he dare show little or nothing of it, however. always he had a haunting fear that he might lose her. if she was silent or seemed cold he trembled inwardly and redoubled his efforts to please, to gratify her slightest whim, to bring her back to gaiety and a caressing, half lover-like manner. she knew it thoroughly and would play upon him like a piano, striking what chords she wished. he spent money like water, and in hardly any time at all, the girl whose salary was thirty-five shillings a week found a delirious joy in expensive wines and foods, in rare flowers, in what was to her an astounding _vie de luxe_. if they went to a theatre--"gilbert, we simply must have the stage box. i'm not in the mood to sit _anywhere_ else to-night,"--and the stage box it was. there is a shop in bond street where foolish people buy cigarettes which cost three pence or four pence each and a box of a hundred is bought for two guineas or so. rita wouldn't smoke any others. rita knew no more about wine than she did about astronomy, but she would pucker her pretty brows over the _carte des vins_ in this or that luxurious restaurant, and invariably her choice would fall upon the most expensive. once, it was at the ritz, she noticed the word tokay--a costly johannesburger wine--and asked gilbert what it was. he explained, and then, to interest her, went on to tell of the imperial tokay, the priceless wine which is almost unobtainable. "but surely one could get it _here_?" she had said eagerly. "it's not on the card, dear." "_do_ ask, gilbert!" he asked. a very special functionary was called, who hesitated, hummed and hawed. "there _was_ some of the wine in the cellars, a half bin, just as there _was_ some of the famous white hermitage--but, but"--he whispered in gilbert's ear, "the king of spain, um um um--the grand duke alexis--you'll understand, sir, 'm 'm." they were favoured with a bottle at last. rita was triumphant. gilbert didn't touch it. rita drank two glasses and it cost five pounds. lothian did not care twopence. he had been poor after he left oxford. his father, the solicitor, who never seemed to understand him or to care much about him, had made him an infinitesimal allowance during the young man's journalistic days. then, when the old man died he had left his son a comfortable income. mary had money also. the house at mortland royal was their own, they lived in considerable comfort but neither had really expensive tastes and they did not spend their mutual income by a long way. gilbert's poems had sold largely also. he was that rare bird, a poet who actually made money--probably because he could have done very well without it. it did not, therefore, incommode him in the least to satisfy every whim of rita's. if it amused her to have wine at five pounds a bottle, what on earth did it matter? frugal in his tastes and likings himself--save only in a quantity of cheap poison he procured--he was lavish for others. although, thinking it would amuse him, his wife had begged him to buy a motor-car he had always been too lazy or indifferent to do so. so he had plenty of money. if rita wallace had been one of the devouring harpies of paris, who--if pearls really would melt in champagne--would drink nothing else, gilbert could have paid the piper for a few weeks at any rate. but rita was curious. he would have given her anything. over and over again he had pressed her to have things--bracelets, a ring, a necklace. she had refused with absolute decision. she had let him give her a box of gloves, flowers she could not have enough of, the more costly the amusement of the night the better she seemed to like it. but that was all. in his madness, his poisoned madness, he would have sold his house to give her diamonds had she asked for them--she would not even let him make her a present of a trumpery silver case for cigarettes. she was baffling, elusive, he could not understand her. for several days she had refused to dine alone with him in his rooms. one night, when he was driving her home after the dinner at the ritz and a box at the comedy theatre, he had pressed her urgently. she had once more refused. and then, something unveiled and brutal had risen within him. the wave of alcohol submerged all decency and propriety of speech. he was furiously, coarsely angry. "damn you!" he said. "what are you afraid of?--of compromising yourself? if there were half a dozen people in london who knew or cared what you did, you've done that long ago. and for heaven's sake don't play tartuffe with me. haven't i been kissing you as much as ever i wanted to for the last three days? haven't you kissed me? you'll dine with me to-morrow night in st. james' street or i'll get out of town at once and chuck it all. i've been an ass to come at all. i'm beginning to see that now. i've been leaving the substance for the shadow." she answered nothing to this brutal tirade for a minute or two. the facile anger died away from him. he cursed himself for his insane folly in jeopardising everything and felt compunction for his violence. he was just about to explain and apologise when he heard a chuckle from the girl at his side. he turned swiftly to her. her face was alight with pleasure, mingled with an almost tender mischief. she laughed aloud. "of course i'll come, gilbert dear," she said softly--"since you _command_ me!" he realised at once that, like all women, she found joy in abdication when it was forced upon her. the dominant male mind had won in this little contest. he had bullied her roughly. it was a new sensation and she liked it. but when she dined in the rooms and he tried to accomplish artificially what he had achieved spontaneously, she was on her guard and it was quite ineffectual. they sat at a little round table. the dinner was simple, but perfectly served. during the meal, for once,--once again--he had talked like his old self, brilliantly touching upon literary things and illuminating much that had been dark to her before with that splendour of intellect which came back to him to-night for a space; and brought a trace of spirituality to his coarsening face. and after dinner he had made her play to him on the little bord piano against the wall. she was not a good pianist but she was efficient, and certain things that she knew well, and _felt_, she played well. with some technical accomplishment she certainly rendered the "bees' wedding" of mendelssohn with astonishing vivacity that night. the elfin humour of the thing harmonised so much with certain aspects of her own temperament! the swarming bees of fairyland were in the room! and then, with merry malice, and at gilbert's suggestion, she improvised a podley polonaise. then she gave a little melody of dvôrak that she knew--"a mad scarlet thing by dvôrak," he quoted to her, and finally, at gilbert's urgent request, she attempted the troisième ballade of chopin. it reminded him of the first night on which he had met her, at the amberleys' house. she did not play it well but his imagination filled the lacunae; his heated mind rose to a wild ecstasy of longing. he put his arm round her and embraced her with tears in his eyes. "sweetheart," he said, "you are wonderful! see! we are alone here together, perfectly alone, perfectly happy. let us always be for each other. dear, i will sacrifice everything for you. you complete me. you were made for me. come away with me, come with me for ever and ever. my wife will divorce me and we can be married; always to be together." he had declared himself, and his wicked wish at last. he made an open proffer of his shameful love. there was not a single thought in his mind of mary, her deep devotion, her love and trust. he brushed aside the supreme gift that god had allowed him as a man brushes away an insect from his face. all that the girl had said in answer was that he must not talk in such a way. of course it could never be. they must be content as they were, hard as it was. "i am very sorry, gilbert dear, you can never know how sorry i am. but you know i care for you. that must be all." he had sent her home by herself that night, paying the cabman and giving him the address in kensington. then for an hour before going to bed he had walked up and down his sitting room in a welter of hope, fear, regret, desire, wonder and deep perplexity. he had now lost all sense of honour, all measure of proportion. his desire filled him and racked his very bones. sometimes he almost hated rita; always he longed for her to be his, his very own. freed from all possible restraint, lord of himself--"that heritage of woe!"--he was now drinking more deeply, more madly than ever before in his life. he was abnormal in an abnormal world which his insanity created. the savage torture he inflicted on himself shall be only indicated here. there are deeper hells yet, blacknesses more profound in which we shall see this unhappy soul! suffice it to say that for three red weeks he drove the chariot of his ruin more recklessly and furiously than ever towards hell. and the result, as far as his blistering hunger was concerned, was always the same. the girl led him on and repulsed him alternately. he never advanced a step towards his desire. yet the longing grew in intensity and never left him for a moment. he tried hard to fathom rita's character, to get at the springs of her thoughts. he failed utterly, and for two reasons. firstly, he was in no state to see anything steadily. the powers of insight and analysis were alike deserting him. his _mind_ had been affected before. now his _brain_ was becoming affected. one morning, with shaking hand, bloodshot eyes and a bottle of whiskey before him on the table, he sat down to write out what he thought of rita. the accustomed pen and paper, the material implements of his power, might bring him back what he seemed to be losing. this is what he wrote, in large unsteady characters, entirely changed from the neat beautiful caligraphy of the past. "passionate and yet calculating at the same time; eager to rule and capable of ruling, though occasionally responsive to the right control; generous in confidence and trust, though with suspicion never very far away. "merrily false and frankly furtive in many of the actions of life. a dear egoist! yet capable of self-abandoning enthusiasm, a brilliant embryo really wanting the guiding hand and master brain but reluctant to accept them until the last moment." there was more of it, all compact of his hopes and fears, an entirely false conception of her, an emanation of poison which, nevertheless, affords some indication of his mental state. the sheet concluded:-- "a white and graceful yacht seriously setting out into dangerous waters with no more certainty than hangs upon the result of a toss up or the tinkle of a tambourine. deeply desiring a pilot, but unwilling that he should come aboard too soon and spoil the fun of beating up into the wind to see what happens. weak, but not with the charm of dependence and that trusting weakness which stiffens a man's arm." a futile, miserable dissection with only a half-grain of truth in it. gilbert knew it for what it was directly it had been written. he crumpled it up with a curse and flung it into the fireplace. yet the truth about the girl was simple enough. she was only an exceptionally clever and attractive example of a perfectly well-defined and numerous type. lothian was ignorant of the type, had never suspected its existence in his limited experience of young women, that was all. rita wallace was just this. heredity had given her a quick, good brain and an infinite capacity for enjoyment. it was an accident also that she was a very lovely girl. all beautiful people are spoiled. rita was spoiled at school. girls and mistresses alike adored her. with hardly any interregnum she had been plumped into podley's pure literature library and begun to earn her own living. she lived with a good, commonplace girl who worshipped her. except that she could attract them and that on the whole they were silly moths she knew nothing of men. her heart, unawakened as yet save by school-girl affections, was a kind and tender little organ. but, with all her beauty and charm she was essentially shallow, from want of experience rather than from lack of temperament. gilbert lothian had come to her as the most wonderful personality she had ever known. his letters were things that any girl in the world might be proud of receiving. he was giving her, now, a time which, upon each separate evening, was to her like a page out of the "arabian nights." every day he gave her a tablet upon which "sesame" was written. had he been free to ask her honourably, she would have married gilbert within twenty-four hours, had it been possible. he was delightful to be with. she liked him to kiss her and say adoring things to her. even his aberrations--of which of course she had become aware--only excited her interest. the bad boy drank far too many whiskies and sodas. of course! she would cure him of that. if any one had told her that her nightly and delightful companion was an inebriate approaching the last stages of lingering sanity, rita would have laughed in her informant's face. she knew what a drunkard was! it was a horrid wretch who couldn't walk straight and who said, "my dearsh"--like the amusing pictures in "punch." poor dear gilbert's wife would be in a fury if she knew. but fortunately she didn't know, and she wasn't in england. meanwhile, for a short time, life was entrancing, and why worry about the day after to-morrow? it was ridiculous of gilbert to want her to run away with him. that would be really wicked. he might kiss her as much as he liked, and when mrs. lothian came back they could still go on much as before. certainly they would continue being friends and he would write her beautiful letters again. "i'm a wicked little devil," she said to herself once or twice with a naughty inward chuckle, "but dear old gilbert is so perfectly sweet, and i can do just what i like with him!" nearly three weeks had gone by. gilbert and rita had been together every evening, on the saturday afternoons when she was free of podley's library, and for the whole of sunday. gilbert had almost exhausted his invention in thinking out surprises for her night after night. there had been many dull moments and hours when pleasure trembled in the balance. but no night had been quite a failure. the position was this. lothian, almost convinced that rita was unassailable, assailed her still. she was sweet to him, gave her caresses but not herself. they had arrived at a curious sort of understanding. he bewailed with bitter and burning regret that he could not marry her. lightly, only half sincerely, but to please him, she joined in his sorrow. she had been seen about with him, constantly, in all sorts of places, and that london that knew him was beginning to talk. of this rita was perfectly unconscious. he had written to his wife at nice, letters so falsely sympathetic that he felt she must suspect something. he followed up every letter with a long, costly telegram. a telegram is not autograph and the very lesions of the prose conceal the lesions of the sender's dull intention. his physical state was beginning to be so alarming that he was putting himself constantly under the influence of bromide and such-like drugs. he went regularly to the turkish bath in jermyn street, had his face greased and hammered in the haymarket each morning, and fought with a constantly growing terror against an advancing horror which he trembled to think might not be far off now. delirium tremens. but when rita met him at night, drugs, massage and alcohol had had their influence and kept him still upon the brink. in his well-cut evening clothes, with his face a little fatter, a little redder perhaps, he was still her clever, debonnair gilbert. a necessity to her now. chapter iv the chamber of horrors "let us have a quiet hour, let us hob-and-nob with death." --_tennyson._ three weeks passed. there was no change in the relations of rita wallace and gilbert lothian. she was gay, tender, silent by turns, and her thirst for pleasure seemed unquenchable. she yielded nothing. things were as they were. he was married: there was no more to be said, they must "dree their wierd"--endure their lot. often the man smiled bitterly to hear her girlish wisdom, uttered with almost complacent finality. it was not very difficult for _her_ to endure. she had no conception of the dreadful state into which he had come, the torture he suffered. when he was alone--during the long evil day when he could not see her--the perspiration his heated blood sent out upon his face and body seemed like the very night dews of the grave. he was the sensualist of whom ruskin speaks, the sensualist with the shroud about his feet. all day long he fought for sufficient mastery over himself to go through the evening, fought against the feverish disease of parched throat and wandering eyes; senseless, dissolute, merciless. and one dreadful flame burned steadily in the surrounding gloom-- "_love, which is lust, is the lamp in the tomb. love, which is lust, is the call from the gloom._" "je me nourris de flammes" was the proud motto of an ancient ducal house in burgundy. with grimmer meaning lothian might have taken it for his own during these days. he had heard from his wife that she was coming home almost at once. lady davidson had rallied. there was every prospect of her living for a month or two more. sir harold davidson was on his way home from india. he would go to her at once and it was now as certain as such things can be that he would be in time. mary wrote with deep sadness. to bid her beloved sister farewell on this earth was heart-rending. "and yet, darling,"--so the letter had run--"how marvellous it is to know, not to just hope, but to _know_ that i shall meet dorothy again and that we shall see jesus. when i think of that, tears of happiness mingle with the tears of sorrow. sweet little dorothy will be waiting for us when we too go, my dearest, dearest husband. god keep you, beloved. day and night i pray for my dear one." this letter had stabbed the man's soul through and through. it had been forwarded from mortland royal and was brought to him as he lay in bed at breakfast time. his heavy tears had bedewed the pillow upon which he lay. "like bitter wine upon a sponge was the savour of remorse." shuddering and sobbing he had crawled out of bed and seized the whiskey bottle which stood upon the dressing table--his sole comforter, hold-fast and standby now; very blood of his veins. and then, warmth, comfort--remorse and shame fading rapidly away--oblivion and a heavy sleep or stupor till long after midday. he must go home at once. he must be at home to receive mary. and, in the quiet country among familiar sights and sounds, he would have time to think. he could write to rita again. he could say things upon paper with a force and power that escaped him _à vive voix_. he could pull himself together, too, recruit his physical faculties. he realised, with an ever growing dread, in what a shocking state he was. yes, he would go home. there would be peace there, some sort of kindly peace for a day or two. what would happen when mary returned, how he would feel about her, what he would do, he did not ask. sufficient for the day! he longed for a few days' peace. no more late midnights--sleep. no nights of bitter hollow pleasure and longing. he would be among his quiet books again in his pleasant little library. he would talk wildfowling with tumpany and they would go through the guns together. the dog trust who loved him should sleep on his bed. it was saturday. he was going down to norfolk by the five o'clock train from st. pancras. he would be able to dine on board--and have what drinks he wanted en route. the dining-car stewards on that line knew him well. he would arrive at wordingham by a little after nine. by ten he might be in bed in his peaceful old house. the podley library closed at : on saturday. he was to call for rita, when they were to lunch together, and at five she would come to the station to see him off. it was a dull, heavy day. london was chilly, there was a gloom over the metropolis; leaden opaque light fell from a sky that was ashen. it was as though cold thunder lurked somewhere up above, as lothian drove to kensington. he had paid for his rooms and arranged for his luggage to be taken to the station where a man was to meet him with it a little before five. then he had crossed st. james' street and spent a waiting hour at his club. for some reason or other, this morning he had more control over his nerves. there was a lull in his rapid physical progress downwards. perhaps it was that he had at any rate made some decision in his mind. he was going to do something definite. he was going home. that was something to grasp at--a real fact--and it steadied him a little. he had smoked a cigar in the big smoking room of the club. it was rather early yet and there was hardly any one there. two whiskies and sodas had been sufficient for the hour. the big room, however, was so dark that all the electric lamps were turned on and he read the newspapers in an artificial daylight that harmonised curiously with the dull, numbed peace of the nerves which had come to him for a short time. he opened _punch_ and there was a joke about him--a merry little paragraph at the bottom of the column. it was the fourth or fifth time his name had appeared in the paper. he remembered how delighted he and mary had been when it first happened. it meant so definitely that one had "got there." he read it now without the slightest interest. he glanced at the _times_. many important things were happening at home and abroad, but he gazed at all the news with a lack-lustre eye. usually a keen and sympathetic observer of what went on in the world, for three weeks now he hadn't opened a paper. as he closed the broad, crackling sheet on its mahogany holding rod, his glance fell upon the births, deaths and marriages column. a name among the deaths captured his wandering attention. a mr. james bethune dickson ingworth, c.b., was dead at hampton hall in wiltshire. it was dicker's uncle, of course! the boy would come into his estate now. "it's a good thing for him," lothian thought. "i don't suppose he's back from italy yet. the old man must have died quite suddenly. i hope he'll settle down and won't be quite so uppish in the future." he was thinking drowsily, and quite kindly of dickson, when he suddenly remembered something mary had said on the night before she went to nice. he had tried to make mischief between them--so he had! and then there was that scene in the george at wordingham, which lothian had forgotten until now. "what a cock-sparrow beelzebub the lad really is," he said in his mind. "and yet i liked him well enough. even now he's not important enough to dislike. rita likes him. she often talks of him. he took her out to dinner--yes, so he did--to some appalling little place in wardour street. she was speaking of it yesterday. he's written to her from milan and rome, too. she wanted to show me the letters and she was cross because i wasn't interested. she tried to pique me and i wouldn't be! what was it she said, oh, 'he's such nice curly hair.'" he gazed into the empty fireplace before which he was sitting in a huge chair of green leather. the remembered words had struck some chords of memory. he frowned and puzzled over it in his drowsy numbed state, and then it came to him suddenly. of course! the barmaid at wordingham, molly what's-her-name whom all the local bloods were after, had said just the same thing about ingworth. little fools! they were all alike, fluffy little duffers. . . . he looked up at the clock. it was twenty minutes to one. he had to meet rita at the library as the hour struck. he started. the door leading into the outside world shut with a clang. his chains fell into their place once more upon the limbs of his body and soul. he called a waiter, gulped down another peg, and got into a cab for the podley institute. the pleasant numbness had gone from him now. once more he was upon the rack. what he saw with his mental vision was as the wild phantasmagoria of a dream . . . a dark room in which a magic lantern is being worked, and fantastic, unexpected pictures flit across the screen. pictures as disconnected as a pack of cards. rita was waiting upon the steps of the institute. she wore a simple coat and skirt of dark brown tweed with a green line in it. her face was pale. her eyes were without sparkle--she also was exhausted by pleasure, come to the end of the arabian nights. she got into the taxi-cab which was trembling with the power of the unemployed engines below it. tzim, tzim, tzim! "where shall we go, gilbert?" she said, in a languid, uninterested voice. he answered her in tones more cold and bloodless than her own. "i don't know, rita, and i don't care. ce que vous voulez, mademoiselle des livres sans reproche!" she turned her white face on him for a moment, almost savage with impotent petulance. then she thrust her head out of the window and coiled round to the waiting driver. "go to madame tussaud's," she cried. tzim, tzim, bang-bang-bang, and then a long melancholy drone as the rows of houses slid backwards. gilbert turned on her. "why did you say that?" he asked bitterly. "what difference _does_ it make?" she replied. "you didn't seem to care where we went for this last hour or two. i said the first thing that came into my mind. i suppose we can get lunch at madame tussaud's. i've never been there before. at any rate, i expect they can manage a sponge cake for us. i don't want anything more." --"yes, it's better for us both. it's a relief to me to think that the end has come. no, rita dear, i don't want your hand. let us make an end now--a diminuendo. it must be. let it be. you've said it often yourself." she bit her lips for a second. then her eyes flashed. she put her arms round his neck and drew him to her. "you shan't!" she said. "you shan't glide away from me like this." every nerve in his body began to tremble. his skin pricked and grew hot. "what will you give?" he asked in a muffled voice. "i? what i choose to give!" she replied. "gillie, i'll do what i like with you." she shrank back in the corner of the cab with a little cry. lothian's face was red and blazing with anger. "no names like that, rita!" he said roughly. "you shan't call me that." it was a despairing cry of drowning conscience, honour bleeding to death, dissolving dignity and manhood. however much he might long for her: however strongly he was enchained, it was a blot, an indignity, an outrage, that this girl should call him by the familiar home name. that was mary's name for him. mrs. gilbert lothian alone had the right to say that. just then the taxi-metre stopped outside the big red erection in the marylebone road, an unusual and fantastic silhouette against the heavy sky. they went in together, and there was a chill over them both. they felt, on this grey day, as people who have lived for pleasure, sensation, and have fed too long on honeycomb, must ever feel; the bitterness of the fruit with the fair red and yellow rind. ashes were in their mouths, an acrid flavour within their souls. it is always and for ever thus, if men could only realise it. since the cross rose in the sky, the hectic joys of sin have been mingled with bitterness, torture, cold. the frightful "colloque sentimental" of verlaine expresses these two people, at this moment, well enough. written by a temperamental saint turned satyr and nearly always influenced by drink; translated by a young english poet whose wings were always beating in vain against the prison wall he himself had built; you have these sad companions. . . . _into the lonely park all frozen fast, awhile ago there were two forms who passed. lo, are their lips fallen and their eyes dead, hardly shall a man hear the words they said. into the lonely park all frozen fast there came two shadows who recall the past. "dost thou remember our old ecstasy?" "wherefore should i possess that memory?" "doth thy heart beat at my sole name alway? still dost thou see my soul in visions?" "nay!"--_ and on such a day as this, with such a weight as this upon their tired hearts, they entered the halls of waxwork and stood forlorn among that dumb cloistered company. they passed through "room no. . commencing right-hand side" and their steps echoed upon the floor. on this day and at this hour hardly any visitors were there; only a few groups moved from figure to figure and talked in hissing whispers as if they were in some church. all around them they saw lifeless and yet half convincing dolls in rich tarnished habiliments. they walked, as it were, in a mausoleum of dead kings, and the livid light which fell upon them from the glass roof above made the sordid unreality more real. "there's charles the first," rita said drearily. gilbert glanced at the catalogue. "he was fervently pious, a faithful husband, a fond parent, a kind master, and an enthusiastic lover and patron of the fine arts." "how familiar that sort of stuff sounds," she answered. "it's written for the schools which come here to see history in the flesh--or wax rather. every english school girl of the upper middle classes has been brought here once in her life. oh, here's milton! what does it say about him?" --"sold his immortal poem 'paradise lost' for the sum of five pounds," lothian answered grimly. "_much_ better to be a modern poet, gilbert dear! but i'm disappointed. these figures don't thrill one at all. i always thought one was thrilled and astonished here." "so you will be, cupid, soon. don't you see that all these people are only names to us. here they are names dressed up in clothes and with pink faces and glass eyes. they're too remote. neither of us is going to connect that thing"--he flung a contemptuous movement of his thumb at milton--"with 'lycidas.' we shall be interested soon, i'm sure. but won't you have something to eat?" "no. i don't want food. after all, this is strange and fantastic. we've lots more to see yet, and these kings and queens are only for the schools. let's explore and explore. and let's talk about it all as we go, gilbert! talk to me as you do in your letters. talk to me as you did at the beginning, illuminating everything with your mind. that's what i want to hear once again!" she thrust her arm in his, and desire fled away from him. the dead sea fruit, the "colloque sentimental" existed no more, but, humour, the power of keen, incisive phrase awoke in him. yes, this was better!--their two minds with play and interplay. it would have been a thousand times better if it had never been anything else save this. they wandered into the grand saloon, made their bow to sir thomas lipton--"wog and i find his tea really the best and cheapest," rita said--decided that the archbishop of canterbury had a suave, but uninteresting face, admired the late mr. dan leno, who was posed next to sir walter scott, and gazed without much interest at the royal figures in the same room. king george the fifth and his spouse; the duke of connaught and strathearn--prince arthur william patrick albert, k.g., k.t., k.p., g.c.m.c.; princess royal of england--her royal highness princess louise victoria alexandra dagmar; and, next to these august people, little mr. dan leno! "poor little man," rita said, looking at the sad face of the comedian. "why should they put him here with the king and the queen? do they just plant their figures anywhere in this show?" gilbert shook his head. in this abnormal place--one of the strangest and most psychologically interesting places in the world--his freakish humour was to the fore. "what a little stupid you are, rita!" he said. "the man who arranges these groups is one of the greatest philosophers and students of humanity who ever lived. in this particular case the ghost of heine must have animated him. the court jester! the clown of the monarch--i believe he did once perform at sandringham--set cheek by jowl with the great people he amused. it completes the picture, does it not?" "no, gilbert, since you pretend to see a design in the arrangement, i don't think it _does_ complete the picture. why should a mere little comic man be set to intrude--?" he caught her up with whimsical grace. "oh, but you don't see it at all!" he cried, and his vibrating voice, to which the timbre and life had returned, rang through "room no. ." --"this place is designed for the great mass of the population. they all visit it. it is a national institution. people like you and me only come to it out of curiosity or by chance. it's out of our beat. therefore, observe the genius of the plan! the populace has room in its great stupid heart for only a few heroes. the king is always one, and the popular comedian of the music halls is always another. these, with mr. and mrs. herbert toftrees, satisfy all the hunger for symbols to be adored. thus dan leno in this splendid company. room no. is really a subtle and ironic comment upon the psychology of the crowd!" rita laughed happily. "but where are the toftrees?" she said. "in the chamber of horrors, probably, for murdering the public taste. we are sure to find them here, seated before two remingtons and with the actual books with which the crime was committed on show." "oh, i've heard about the 'chamber of horrors.' can we go, gilbert? do let's go. i want to be thrilled. it's such a funereal day." "yes it is, grey as an old nun. i'm sorry i was unkind in the cab, dear. forgive me." "i'll forgive you anything. i'm so unhappy, gilbert. it's dreadful to think of you being gone. all my days and my nights will be grey now. however shall i do without you?" there was genuine desolation in her voice. he believed that she really regretted _his_ departure and not the loss of the pleasures he had been giving her. his blood grew hot once more--for a single moment--and he was about to embrace her, for they were alone in the room. and then listlessness fell upon him before he had time to put his wish into action. his poisoned mind was vibrating too quickly. an impulse was born, only to be strangled in the brain before the nerves could telegraph it to the muscles. his whole machinery was loose and out of control, the engines running erratically and not in tune. they could not do their work upon the fuel with which he fed them. he shuddered. his heart was a coffer of ashes and within it, most evil paramours, dwelt the quenchless flame and the worm that dieth not. . . . they went through other ghostly halls, thronged by a silent company which never moved nor spake. they came to the entrance of that astounding mausoleum of wickedness, the chamber of horrors. there they saw, as in a faint light under the sea, the legion of the lost, the horrible men and women who had gone to swell the red quadrilles of hell. in long rows, sitting or standing, with blood-stained knives and hangmen's ropes in front of them, in their shameful resurrection they inhabited this place of gloom and death. here, was a man in shirt-sleeves, busy at work in a homely kitchen lit by a single candle. alone at midnight and with sweat upon his face he was breaking up the floor; making a deep hole in which to put something covered with a spotted shroud which lay in a bedroom above. there, was the "most extraordinary relic in the world," the knife of the guillotine that decapitated marie antoinette, robespierre, and twenty thousand human beings besides. the strange precision of portraiture, the somewhat ghastly art which had moulded these evil faces was startlingly evident in its effect upon the soul. when a _great_ novelist or poet creates an evil personality it shocks and terrifies us, but it is never wholly evil. we know of the monster's antecedents and environment. however stern we may be in our attitude towards the crime, sweet charity and deep understanding of the motives of human action often give us glimmerings which enable us to pity a lamentable human being who is a brother of ours whatever he may have done. but here? no. all was sordid and horrible. gilbert and rita saw rows upon rows of faces which differed in every way one from the other and were yet dreadfully alike. for these great sinister dolls, so unreal and so real, had all a likeness. the smirk of cruelty and cunning seemed to lie upon the waxen masks. colder than life, far colder than death, they gave forth emanations which struck the very heart with woe and desolation. to many visitors the chamber of horrors is all its name signifies. but it is a place of pleasure nevertheless. the skin creeps but the sensation is pleasant. it provides a thrill like a switchback railway. but it is not a place that artists and imaginative people can enter and easily forget. it epitomises the wages of sin. it ought to be a great educational force. young criminals should be taken there between stern guardians, to learn by concrete evidence which would appeal to them as no books or sermons could ever do, the nemesis that waits upon unrepentant ways. the man and the girl who had just entered were both in a state of nervous tension. they were physically exhausted, one by fierce indulgence in poison, the other by three weeks of light and feverish pleasure. and more than this. each, in several degree, knew that they were doing wrong, that they had progressed far down the primrose path led by the false flute-players. "i couldn't have conceived it was so, so unnerving, gilbert," rita said, shrinking close to him. "it is pretty beastly," lothian answered. "it's simply a dictionary of crime though, that's all--rather too well illustrated." "i don't want to know of these horrors. one sees them in the papers, but it means little or nothing. how dreadful life is though, under the surface!" gilbert felt a sudden pang of pity for her, so young and fair, so frightened now.--ah! _he_ knew well how dreadful life was--under the surface! for a moment, in that tomb-like place a vision came to him, sunlit and splendid, calm and beautiful. he saw his life as it might be--as doubtless god meant it to be, a favoured, fortunate and happy life, for god does not, in his inscrutable wisdom chastise all men. well-to-do, brilliant of mind, with trained capacity to exact every drop of noble joy from life; blessed with a sweet and beautiful woman to watch over him and complement him; did ever a man have a fairer prospect, a luckier chance? his hell was so real. heaven was so near. he had but to say, "i will not," and the sun would rise again upon his life. to the end he would walk dignified, famous, happy, loving and deeply-loved--if only he could say those words. a turn of the hand would banish the fiend alcohol for ever and ever! but even as the exaltation of the thought animated him, the dominant false ego, crushed momentarily by heavenly inspiration, growled and fought for life. immediately the longing for alcohol burned within him. they had been nearly an hour among the figures. lothian longed for drink, to satisfy no mere physical craving, but to keep the fiend within quiescent. he had come to that alternating state--the author of "dr. jekyll and mr. hyde" has etched it upon the plate for all time--when he must drug the devil in order to have a little license in which to speak the words and think the thoughts of a clean man leading a christian life. so the vision of what might be faded and went. the present asserted itself, and asserted itself merely as a brutish desire for poison. all these mental changes and re-adjustments took place in a mere second of time. rita had hardly made an end of speaking before he was ready with an answer. "poor little rita," he said. "it was your choice you know. it _is_ horrible. but i expect that the weather, and the inexorable fact that we have to part this afternoon for a time, has something to do with it. oh, and then we haven't lunched. there's a great influence in lunch. i want a drink badly, too. let's go." rita was always whimsical. she loved to assert herself. she wanted to go at least as ardently as her companion, but she did not immediately agree. "soon," she said. "look here, gilbert, we'll meet at the door. i'm going to flit down this aisle of murderers on the other side. you go down this side. and if you meet the libricides--toftrees et femme i mean, call out!" she vanished with noiseless tread among the stiff ranks of figures. gilbert walked slowly down his own path, looking into each face in turn. . . . this fat matronly woman, a sort of respectable mrs. gamp who probably went regularly to church, was a celebrated baby farmer. she "made angels" by pressing a gimlet into the soft skulls of her charges--there was the actual gimlet--and save for a certain slyness, she had the face of a quite motherly old thing. yet she, too, had dropped through the hole in the floor--like all her companions here. . . . he turned away from all the faces with an impatient shudder. he ought never to have come here. he was a donkey ever to have let rita come here. where was she?--he was to meet her at the end of this horrid avenue. . . . but the place was large. rita had disappeared among the waxen ghosts. the door must be this way. . . . he pressed onwards, walking silently--as one does in a place of the dead--but disregarding with averted eyes, the leers, the smiles, the complacent appeal, of the murderers who had paid their debt to the justice of the courts. he was beginning to be most unpleasantly affected. walking onwards, he suddenly heard rita's voice. it was higher in key than usual--whom was she speaking to? his steps quickened. . . . "gilbert, how silly to try and frighten me! it's not cricket in this horrid place, get down at once--oh!" the girl shrieked. her voice rang through the vault-like place. gilbert ran, turned a corner, and saw rita. she was swaying from side to side. her face was quite white, even the lips were bloodless. she was staring with terrified eyes to where upon the low dais and behind the confining rail a figure was standing--a wax-work figure. gilbert caught the girl by the hands. they were as cold as ice. "dear!" he said in wild agitation. "what is it? i'm here, don't be frightened. what is it, rita?" she gave a great sob of relief and clung to his hands. a trace of colour began to flow into her cheeks. "thank goodness," she said, gasping. "oh, gilbert, i'm a fool. i've been so frightened." "but, dear, what by?" "by that----" she pointed at the big, still puppet immediately opposite her. gilbert turned quickly. for a moment he did not understand the cause of her alarm. "i talked to _it_," she said with an hysterical laugh. "i thought _it_ was you! i thought you'd got inside the railing and were standing there to frighten me." gilbert looked closely at the effigy. he was about to say something and then the words died away upon his lips. it was as though he saw himself in a distorting glass--one of those nasty and reprehensible toys that fools give to children sometimes. there was an undeniable look of him in the staring face of coloured wax. the clear-cut lips were there. the shape of the head was particularly reminiscent, the growing corpulence of body was indicated, the hair of the stiff wig waved as lothian's living hair waved. "good god!" he said. "it _is_ like me! poor little girl--but you know i wouldn't frighten you for anything. but it _is_ like! what an extraordinary thing. we looked for the infamous toftrees! the egregious herbert who has split so many infinitives in his time, and we find--me!" rita was recovering. she laughed, but she held tightly to gilbert's arm at the same time. "let's see who the person is--or was--" gilbert went on, drawing the catalogue from his pocket. "key of the principal gate of the bastille--no, that's not it. number , oh, here we are! hancock, the hackney murderer. a chemist in comfortable circumstances, he----" rita snatched the book from his hand. "i don't want to hear any more," she said. "let's go away, quick!" in half an hour they were lunching at a little italian restaurant which they found in the vicinity. the day was still dark and lowering, but a risotto milanese and something which looked like prawns in _polenta_, but wasn't, restored them to themselves. there was a wine list in this quite snug little place, but the proprietor advanced and explained that he had no license and that money must be paid in advance before the camerière could fetch what was required from an adjacent public house. it was a bottle of whiskey that gilbert ordered, politely placed upon the table by a pathetic little genoese whose face was sallow as spaghetti and who was quite unconscious that for the moment the fiend alcohol had borrowed his poor personality. . . . "you must have a whiskey and soda, rita. i dare not let you attempt any of the wines from the public house at the corner." "i've never tried it in my life. but i will now, out of curiosity. i'll taste what you are so far too fond of." rita did so. "horrible stuff," she said. "it's just like medicine." gilbert had induced the pleasant numbness again. "you've said exactly what it is," he replied in a dreamy voice.--"'medicine for a mind diseased.'" they hardly conversed at all after that. the little restaurant with its red plush seats against the wall, its mirrors and hanging electric lights, was cosy. they lingered long over their coffee and cigarettes. no one else was there and the proprietor sidled up to them and began to talk. he spoke in english at first, and then gilbert answered him in french. gilbert spoke french as it is spoken in tours, quite perfectly. the italian spoke it with the soft, ungrammatical fluency of his race. the interlude pleased the tired, jaded minds of the sad companions, and it was with some fictitious reconstruction of past gaiety and animation that they drove to st. pancras. the train was in. gilbert's dressing-case was already placed in a first-class compartment, his portmanteau snug in the van. when he walked up the long platform with rita, a porter, the guard of the train and the steward of the dining-car, were grouped round the open door. he was well known. all the servants of the line looked out for him and gave him almost ministerial honours. they knew he was a "somebody," but were all rather vague as to the nature of his distinction. he was "mr. gilbert lothian" at least, and his bountiful largesse was generally spoken of. the train was not due to start for six minutes. the acute guard, raising his cap, locked the door of the carriage. gilbert and rita were alone in it for a farewell. he took her in his arms and looked long and earnestly into the young lovely face. he saw the tears gathering in her eyes. "have you been happy, sweetheart, with me?" "perfectly happy." there was a sob in the reply. "you really do care for me?" "yes." his breath came more quickly, he held her closer to him--only a little rose-faced girl now. "do you care for me more than for any other man you have ever met?" she did not answer. "tell me, tell me! do you?" "yes." "rita, my darling, say, if things had been different, if i were free to ask you to be my wife now, would you marry me?" "yes." "would you be my dear, dear love, as i yours, for ever and ever and ever?" she clung to him in floods of tears. he had his answer. each tear was an answer. the guard of the train, looking the other way, opened the door with his key and coughed. "less than a minute more, sir," said the guard. . . . "once more, say it once more! you _would_ be my wife if i were free?" "i'd be your wife, gilbert, and i'd love you--oh, what shall i do without you? how dull and dreadful everything is going to be now!" "but i shall be back soon. and i shall write to you every day!" "you will, won't you, dear? write, write--" the train was almost moving. it began to move. gilbert leaned out of the window and waved his hand for a long time, to a forlorn little girl in a brown coat and skirt who stood upon the platform crying bitterly. the waiter of the dining-car, knowing his man well, brought lothian a large whiskey and soda before the long train was free of the sordid northwest suburbs. lothian drank it, arranged about dinner, and sank back against the cushions. he lit a cigarette and drew the hot smoke deep into his lungs. the train was out of the town area now. there was no more jolting and rattling over points. its progress into the gathering night was a continuous roar. onwards through the gathering night. . . . "_i'd be your wife, gilbert, and i'd love you--if you were free._" chapter v the night journey from nice when mrs. daly speaks words of fire "into a dark tremendous sea of cloud, it is but for a time; i press god's lamp close to my breast: its splendour, soon or late shall pierce the gloom. i shall emerge one day." --_browning._ a carriage was waiting outside a white and gilded hotel on the promenade des anglais at nice. the sun was just dipping behind the esterelle mountains and the mediterranean was the colour of wine. already the palais du jetée was being illuminated and outlined itself in palest gold against the painted sky above the cimiez heights, where the olive-coloured headland hides villefranche and the sea-girt pleasure city of monte carlo. the tall palms in the gardens which front the gleaming palaces of the promenade were bronze gold in the fading light, and their fans clicked and rustled in a cool breeze which was eddying down upon the queen of the mediterranean from the maritime alps. mary lothian came out of the hotel. her face was pale and very sad. she had been crying. with her was a tall, stately woman of middle-age; grey-haired, with a massive calmness and peace of feature recalling the athena of the louvre or one of those noble figures of the erectheum crowning the hill of the acropolis at athens. she was mrs. julia daly, who had been upon the riviera for two months. dr. morton sims had written to her. she had called upon mary and the two had become fast friends. such time as mary could spare from the sickbed of her sister, she spent in the company of this great-souled woman from america, and now mrs. daly, whose stay at nice was over, was returning to london with her friend. the open carriage drove off, by the gardens and jewellers' shops in front of the casino and opera house and down the avenue de la gare. the glittering cafés were full of people taking an apéritif before dinner. there was a sense of relaxation and repose over the pleasure city of the south, poured down upon it in a golden haze from the last level rays of the sun. outside one of the cafés, as the carriage turned to the station, some italians were singing "_o soli mio_" to the accompaniment of guitars and a harp, with mellow, passionate voices. the long green train rolled into the glass-roofed station, the brass-work of the carriage doors covered thick with oily dust from the italian tunnels through which it had passed. the conductor of the sleeping-car portion found the two women their reserved compartment. their luggage was already registered through to charing cross and they had only dressing bags with them. as the train started again mrs. daly pulled the sliding door into its place, the curtains over it and the windows which looked out into the corridor. then she switched on the electric light in the roof and also the lamp which stood on a little table at the other end. "there, my dear," she said, "now we shall be quite comfortable." she sat down by mary, took her hand in hers and kissed her. "i know what you are experiencing now," she said in her low rich voice, "and it is very bitter. but the separation is only for a short, short time. god wants her, and we shall all be in heaven together soon, mrs. lothian. and you're leaving her with her husband. it is a great mercy that he has come at last. they are best alone together. and see how brave and cheery he is!--there's a real man, a christian soldier and gentleman if ever one lived. his wife's death won't kill him. it will make him live more strenuously for others. he will pass the short time between now and meeting her again in a high fever of righteous works and duty. there is no death." mary held the firm white hand. "you comfort me," she said. "i thank god that you came to me in my affliction. otherwise i should have been quite alone till harold came." "i'm real glad that dear good morton sims asked me to call. edith sims and i are like" . . . she broke off abruptly. "like sisters," she was about to say, but would not. mary smiled. her friend's delicacy was easy to understand. "i know," she answered, "like sisters! you needn't have hesitated. i am better now. all you tell me is just what i am _sure_ of and it is everything. but one's heart grows faint at the moment of parting and the reassuring voice of a friend helps very much. i hope it doesn't mean that one's faith is weak, to long for a sympathetic and confirming voice?" "no, it does not. god has made us like that. i know the value of a friend's word well. nothing heartens one so. i have been in deep waters in my time, mary. you must let me call you mary, my dear." "oh, do, do! yes, it is wonderful how words help, human living words." "nothing is more extraordinary in life than the power of the spoken word. how careful and watchful every one ought to be over words. spoken, they always seem to me to have more lasting influence than words in a book. they pass through mind after mind. just think, for instance, how when we meet a man or woman with a sincere intellectual belief which is quite opposed to our own, we are chilled into a momentary doubt of our own opinions--however strongly we may hold them. and when it is the other way about, what strength and comfort we get!" "thank you," mary said simply, "you are very helpful. dr. morton sims"--she hesitated for a moment--"dr. morton sims told me something of your life. and of course i know all about your work, as the whole world knows. i know, dear mrs. daly, how much you have suffered. and it is because of that that you help me so, who am suffering too." there was silence for a space. the train had stopped at cannes and started again. now it was winding and climbing the mountain valleys towards toulon. but neither of the two women knew anything of it. they were alone in the quiet travelling room that money made possible for them. heart was meeting heart in the small luxurious place in which they sat, remote from the outside world as if upon some desert island. "dear morton sims," the american lady said at length. "the utter sane goodness of that man! my dear, he is an angel of light, as near a perfect character as any one alive in the world to-day. and yet he doesn't believe in jesus and thinks the church and the sacraments--i've been a member of the episcopalian church from girlhood--only make-believe and error." "he is the finest natured man i have ever met," mary answered. "i've only known him for a short time, but he has been so good and friendly. what a sad thing it is that he is an infidel. i don't use the word in the popular reprehensible sense, but as just what it means--without faith." "it's a sad thing to us," mrs. daly said briskly, "but i have no fears for him. god hasn't given him the gift of faith. now that's all we can say about it. in the next world he will have to go through a probation and learn his catechism, so to speak, before he steps right into his proper place. but he won't be a catechumen long. his pure heart and noble life will tell where hearts and wills are weighed. there is a place by the throne waiting for him." "oh, i am sure. he is wonderfully good. indeed one seems to feel his goodness more than one does that of our clergyman at home, though mr. medley is a good man too!" "brains, my dear! brains! morton sims, you see, is of the aristocracy. your clergyman probably is not." "aristocracy?" "the only aristocracy, the aristocracy of brain-power. don't forget i'm an american woman, mary! goodness has the same value in heaven however it is manifested upon earth. the question of bimetallism doesn't trouble god and his angels. but a brilliant-minded saint has certainly more influence down here than a fool-saint." mary nodded. such a doctrine as this was quite in accord with what she wished to think. she rejoiced to hear it spoken with such sharp lucidity. she also worshipped at a shrine, that of no saint, certainly, but where a flaming intellect illuminated the happenings of life. in his way, quite a different way, of course, she knew that gilbert had a finer mind than even morton sims. and yet, gilbert wasn't good, as he ought to be. . . . how these speculations and judgments coiled and recoiled upon themselves; puzzled weary minds and, when all was done, were very little good after all! at any rate, she loved gilbert more than anything or anybody in the world. so that was that! but tears came into her eyes as she thought of her husband with deep and yearning love. if he would only give up alcohol! _why_ wouldn't he? to her, such an act seemed so simple and easy. only a refusal, that was all! the young man who came to jesus in the old days was asked to give up so much. even for jesus and immortality he found himself unable to do it. but gilbert had only to give up one thing in order to be good and happy, to make her happy. it was true that dr. morton sims had told her many scientific facts, had explained and explained. he had definitely said that gilbert was in the clutches of a disease; that gilbert couldn't really help himself, that he must be cured as a man is cured of gout. and then, when she had asked the doctor how this was to be done, he had so little comfort to give. he had explained that all the advertised "cures"--even the ones backed up by people of name, bishops, magistrates, and so on, were really worthless. they administered other drugs in order to sober up the patient from alcohol. that was easy and possible--though only with the thorough co-operation of the patient. after a few weeks, when health appeared to be restored, and the will power was certainly strengthened, the "cure" did nothing more. the _pre-disposition_ was not eradicated. that was an affair to be accomplished only by two or three years of abstinence and not always then. --"i'll talk to mrs. daly about it," the sad wife said to herself. "she is a noble, christian woman. she understands more than even the doctor. she _must_ do so. she loves our lord. moreover she has given her life to the cause of temperance." . . . but she must be careful and diplomatic. the natural reticence and delicacy of a well-bred woman shrank from the unveiling, not only of her own sorrow, but of a beloved's shame. the coarse, ill-balanced and bourgeois temperament bawls its sorrow and calls for sympathy from the sweepings of any pentonville omnibus. it writes things upon a street wall and enjoys voluptuous public hysterics. the refined and gracious mind hesitates long before the least avowal. "you said," she began, after a period of sympathetic silence, "that you had been in deep waters." julia daly nodded. "i guess it's pretty well known," she said with a sigh. "that's the worst of a campaign like mine. it's partly because every one knows all about what you've gone through that they give you a hearing. in the states the papers are full of my unhappy story whenever i lecture in a new place. but i'm used to it now and it doesn't hurt me. most of the stories are untrue, though. mr. daly was a pretty considerable ruffian when he was in drink. but he wasn't the monster he's been made out to be, and he couldn't help himself, poor, poisoned man. but which story have you read, mary?" "none at all. only dr. morton sims, when he wrote, told me that you had suffered, that your husband, that----" "that patrick was an alcoholic. yes, that's the main fact. he did a dreadful thing when he became insane through drink. there's no need to speak of it. but i loved him dearly all the same. he might have been such a noble man!" "ah, that's just what i feel about my dear boy. he's not as bad as--as some people. but he does drink quite dreadfully. i hate telling you. it seems a sort of treachery to him. but you may be able to help me." "i knew," mrs. daly said with a sigh. "the doctor has told me in confidence. i'd do anything to help you, dear girl. your husband's poems have been such a help and comfort to me in hours of sadness and depression. oh, what a dreadful scourge it is! this frightful thing that seizes on noble and ignoble minds alike! it is the black horror of the age, the curse of nations, the ruin of thousands upon thousands. if only the world would realise it!" "no one seems to realise the horror except those who have suffered dreadfully from it." "more people do than you think, mary, but, still, they are an insignificant part of the whole. people are such fools! i was reading 'pickwick' the other day, a great english classic and a work of genius, too, in its way, i suppose. the principal characters get drunk on every other page. things are better now, as far as books are concerned, though the comic newspapers keep up their ghastly fun about drunken folk. but the cause of temperance isn't a popular one, here or in my own country." "a teetotaller is so often called a fanatic in england," mary said. "i know it well. but i say this, with entire conviction, absolute bed-rock certainty, my dear, the people who have joined together to go without alcohol themselves and to do all they can to fight it, are in the right whatever people may say of them. and it doesn't matter what people say either. as in all movements, there is a lot of error and mistaken energy. the bands of hope, the blue ribbon army, the rechabites are not always wise. some of them make total abstinence into a religion and think that alcohol is the only fiend to fight against. most of them--as our own new scientific party think--are fighting on wrong lines. that's to say they are not doing a tenth as much good as they might do, because the scientific remedy has not become real to them. that will come though, if we can bring it about. but i tire you?" "please go on." "well, you know our theory. it is a certain remedy. you can't stop alcohol. but by making it a penal offence for drunkards to have children, drunkenness must be almost eliminated in time." "yes," mary said. "of course, i have read all about it. but i know so little of science. but what is the _individual_ cure? is there none, then? oh, surely if it is a disease it can be cured? dr. morton sims tried to be encouraging, but i could see that he didn't think there really _was_ much chance for a man who is a slave to drink. it is splendid, of course, to think that some day it may all be eliminated by science. but meanwhile, when women's hearts are bleeding for men they love . . ." her voice broke and faltered. her heart was too full for further speech. the good woman at her side kissed her tenderly. "do not grieve," she said. "listen. i told you just now that so many of the great temperance organisations err in their rejection of scientific advice and scientific means to a great end. they place their trust in god, forgetting that science only exists by god's will and that every discovery made by men is only god choosing to reveal himself to those who search for him. but the scientists are wrong, too, in their rejection--in so many cases--of god. they do not see that religion and science are not only non-antagonistic, but really complement each other. it is beginning to be seen, though. in time it will be generally recognised. i read the admission of a famous scientist the other day, to this effect. he said, 'it is generally recognised that any form of treatment in which the "occult," the "supernatural," or anything secret or mysterious is allowed to play a dominant part in so neurotic an affection as inebriety, often succeeds.' and he closed a most helpful and able essay on the arrest of alcohol with something like these words: "'the reference to agencies for the uplifting of the drink-victim would be sadly incomplete without a very definite acknowledgment of the incalculable assistance which the wise worker and unprejudiced physician may obtain by bringing to bear upon the whole life of the patient that power, the majesty and mystery, the consolation and inspiration of which it is the mission of religion to reveal.'" "then even the doctors are coming round?" mary said. "and it means exactly, you would say--?" "i would tell you what has been proved without possibility of dispute a thousand times. i would tell you that when all therapeutic agencies have failed, the holy spirit has succeeded. the power which is above every other power can do this. no loving heart need despair. however black the night _that_ influence can enlighten it. ask those who work among the desolate and oppressed; the outcast and forlorn, the drink-victims and criminals. ask, here in england, old general booth or prebendary carlile. ask the clergy of the church in the london docks, ask the nonconformist ministers, ask the priests of the italian mission who work in the slums. "they will tell you of daily miracles of conversion and transformations as marvellous and mystical as ever jesus wrought when he was visible on earth. mary! it goes on to-day, it _does_ go on. there is the only cure, the only salvation. jesus." there was a passionate fervour in her voice, a divine light upon her face. she also prophesied, and the spirit of god was upon her as upon the holy women of old. and mary caught that holy fire also. her lips were parted, her eyes shone. she re-echoed the sacred name. "i would give my life to save gilbert," she said. "i have no dear one to save, now," the other answered. "but i would give a thousand lives if i had them to save america from alcohol. i love my land! there is much about my country that the ordinary english man or woman has no glimmering of. your papers are full of the extravagances and divorces of wealthy vulgarians--champagne corks floating on cess-pools. you read of trusts and political corruption. these are the things that are given prominence by the english newspapers. but of the deep true heart of america little is known here. we are not really a race of money-grubbers and cheap humourists. we are great, we shall be greater. the lamps of freedom burn clearly in the hearts of millions of people of whom europe never hears. god is with us still! the holy spirit broods yet over the forests and the prairies, the mountains and the rivers of my land. read the 'choir invisible' by james lane allen and learn of us who are america." "i will, dear mrs. daly. how you have comforted me to-night! god sent you to me. i feel quite happy now about my darling sister. i feel much happier about my husband. whatever this life has in store, there is always the hereafter. it seems very close to-night, the veil wears thin." "we will rest, mary, while these good thoughts and hopes remain within us. but before we go to bed, listen to this." julia daly felt in her dressing bag and withdrew a small volume bound in vermilion morocco. "it's your best english novel," she said, "far and away the greatest--charles reade's 'the cloister and the hearth,' i mean. i'm reading it for the fifth time. for five years now i have done so each year." "for ever?" she began in her beautiful voice, that voice which had brought hope to so many weary hearts in the great republic of the west. "'for ever? christians live "for ever," and love "for ever" but they never part "for ever." they part, as part the earth and sun, only to meet more brightly in a little while. you and i part here for life. and what is our life? one line in the great story of the church, whose son and daughter we are; one handful in the sand of time, one drop in the ocean of "for ever." adieu--for the little moment called "a life!" we part in trouble, we shall meet in peace; we part in a world of sin and sorrow, we shall meet where all is purity and love divine; where no ill passions are, but christ is, and his saints around him clad in white. there, in the turning of an hour-glass, in the breaking of a bubble, in the passing of a cloud, she, and thou, and i shall meet again; and sit at the feet of angels and archangels, apostles and saints, and beam like them with joy unspeakable, in the light of the shadow of god upon his throne, for ever--and ever--and ever.'" the two women undressed and said their prayers, making humble supplication at the throne of grace for themselves, those they loved and for all those from whom god was hidden. and as the train bore them through nimes and arles, avignon and the old roman cities of southern france, they slept as simple children sleep. chapter vi gilbert lothian's diary "it comes very glibly off the tongue to say, 'put yourself in his position,'--'what would you have done under the circumstances?' but if self-analysis is difficult, how much more so is it to appreciate the 'ego' of another, to penetrate within the veil of the maimed and debased inner temple of the debauched inebriate?"--"_the psychology of the alcoholic_," by t. claye shawe, m.d., f.r.c.p., lecturer on psychological medicine. st. bartholomew's hospital, london. "like one, that on a lonesome road, doth walk in fear and dread, and having once turned round walks on, and turns no more his head; because he knows, a frightful fiend doth close behind him tread." --_coleridge._ when mary lothian returned home to mortland royal she was very unwell. the strain of watching over lady davidson, and the wrench of a parting which in this world was to be a final one, proved more than she was able to endure. she had been out of doors, imprudently, during that dangerous hour on the riviera between sunset and nine o'clock. symptoms of that curious light fever, with its sharp nervous pains, which is easily contracted at such times along the côte d'azur, began to show themselves. dr. morton sims was away in paris for a few weeks upon a scientific engagement he was unable to refuse, and mary was attended by dr. heywood, the general practitioner from wordingham. there was nothing very serious the matter, but the riviera fever brings collapse and great depression of spirits with it. mary remained in bed, lying there in a dreamy, depressed state of both physical and mental faculties. she read but little, preferred to be alone as much as possible, and found it hard to take a lively interest in anything at all. gilbert was attentive enough. he saw that every possible thing was done for her comfort. but his manner was nervous and staccato, though he made great efforts at calm. he was assiduous, eager to help and suggest, but there was no repose about him. in her great longing for rest and solitude--a necessary physical craving resulting upon her illness--mary hardly wanted to see very much even of gilbert. she was too weak and dispirited to remonstrate with him, but it was quite obvious to her experienced eyes that he was drinking heavily again. his quite unasked-for references to the fact that he was taking nothing but a bottle of beer in the middle of the morning, a little claret at meals and a single whiskey and soda before going to bed, betrayed him at once. his tremulous anxiety, his furtive manner, the really horrible arrogation of gaiety and ease made upon a most anxious hope that he was deceiving her, told their own tale. so did the heavy puffed face, yellowish red and with spots appearing upon it. his eyes seemed smaller as the surrounding tissues were dilated, they were yellowish, streaked with little veins of blood at the corners, and dull in expression. his head jerked, his hands trembled and when he touched her they were hot and damp. her depression of mind, her sense of hopelessness, were greatly increased. darkness seemed to be closing round her, and prayer--for it happens thus at times with even the most saintly souls--gave little relief. "i shall be better soon," she kept repeating to herself. "the doctor says so. then, when i am well, i shall be able to take poor gillie really in hand. it won't be long now. then i will save him with god's help." in her present feebleness she knew that it was useless to attempt to do anything in this direction. so she pretended to believe her husband, said nothing at all, and prayed earnestly to recover her health that she might set about the task of succour. she did not know, had not the very slightest idea, of lothian's real state. nobody knew, nobody could know. on his part, freed of all restraint, his mind a cave of horror, a chamber of torture, he drank with lonely and systematic persistence. it was about this time that he began to make these notes in the form of a diary which long afterwards passed into the hands of dr. morton sims. the record of heated horror, the extraordinary glimpse into an inferno incredible to the sane man, has proved of immense value to those who are engaged in studying the psychology of the inebriate. from much that they contain, it is obvious that the author had no intention of letting them be seen by any other eyes than his own, at the time of writing them. dr. morton sims had certainly suggested the idea in the first place, but there can be no doubt whatever that lothian soon abandoned his original plan and wrote for the mere relief of doing so, and doubtless with a sinister fascination at the spectacle of his own mind thus revealed by subtle analysis and the record of a skilled pen. alcoholised and impaired as his mind was, it was nevertheless quite capable of doing this accurately and forcibly, and there are many corroborative instances of such an occurrence. more than one medical man during the progress of a protracted death agony has left minute statements of his sensations for the good of society. such papers as these, for use in a book which has an appeal to all sorts of people, cannot, of course, be printed entire. there are things which it would serve no good purpose for the layman to know, valuable as they are to the patient students of morbid states. and what can be given is horrible enough. the selected passages follow herewith, and with only such comment as is necessary to elucidate the text. . . . last night a letter came from a stranger, one of the many that i get, thanking me for some of the poems in "surgit amari" which he said had greatly solaced and helped him throughout a period of mental distress. when i opened the letter it was after dinner, and i had dined well--my appetite keeps good at any rate, and while that is so there is no fear of it--according to the doctors and the medical books. i opened the letter and read it without much interest. i am not so touched and pleased by these letters as i used to be. then, after i had said good-night to my wife, i went into the library. after two or three whiskies and a lot of cigarettes the usual delusion of greatness and power came over me. i know, of course, that i have great power and am in a way celebrated, but at ordinary times i have no overmastering consciousness and bland, suave pride in this. when i am recovering from the effects of too much alcohol i doubt everything. my own work seems to me trivial and worthless, void of life and imitations of greater work. well, i had the usual quickening, but vague and incoherent sense of greatness, and i picked up the letter again. i walked up and down the room smoking furiously, and then i had some more whiskey. the constant walking up and down the room, by the way, is a well-marked symptom of my state. the nerves refuse me calm. i can't sit down for long, even with the most alluring book. some thought comes into my mind like a stone thrown suddenly into a pool, and before i am aware of it i am marching up and down the room like a forest beast in a cage. when i had read the letter twice more i sat down and wrote a most effusive reply to my correspondent. i almost wept as i read it. i went into high things, i revealed myself and my innermost thoughts with the grave kindness and wish to be of help that a great and good man; intimate with a lesser and struggling man; might use. in the morning i read the letter which i had thought so wonderful. as usual, i tore it up. it was written in a handwriting which might have betrayed drunkenness to a child. long words lacked a syllable, words ending in "ing" were concluded by a single stroke, the letter "l" was the same size as the letter "e" and could not be distinguished from it. but what was worse, was the sickly sentiment, expressed in the most feeble sloppy prose. it was sort of educated chadband or stiggins and there was an appalling lack of reticence. it is a marked symptom of my state, that when i am drunk i always want to write effusive letters to strangers or mere acquaintances. sometimes, if i have been reading a book that i liked, i sit down and turn out pages of gush to the unknown author, hailing him as a brother and a master. thank goodness i always tear the wretched things up next day. it is a good thing i live in the country. in london these wretched letters, which i am impelled to write, would be in some adjacent pillar box before i realised what i had done. oh, to be a sane man, a member of the usual sane army of the world who never do these things! the above passage must have been re-read some time after it was written and been the _raison d'être_ of what follows. the various passages are only occasionally dated, but their chronological order can be determined with some certainty by these few dates, changes of handwriting, and above all by the progress and interplay of thought. it had not occurred to me before, with any strength that is, how very far my inner life diverges now from ordinary paths! it is, i see in a moment such as the present when i am able to contemplate it, utterly abnormal. i am glad to realise this for a time. it is so intensely interesting from the psychologist's point of view. i can so very, very rarely realise it. immediately that i slip back into the abnormal life, long custom and habit reassert themselves and i become quite unaware that it is abnormal. i live mechanically according to the _bizarre_ and fantastic rules imposed upon me by drink. now, for a time, i have a breathing space. i have left the dim green places under the sea and my head is above water. i see the blue sky and feel the winds of the upper world upon my face. i used to belong up there, now i am an inhabitant of the under world, where the krakens and the polyps batten in their sleep and no light comes. i will therefore use my little visit to "glimpse the moon" like the prince of denmark's sepulchral father. i will catalogue the ritual of the under world which has me fast. i will, that is, write as much as i can. before very long my eyes will be tired and little black specks will dance in front of them. the dull pain in my side--cirrhosis of course--which is quiet and feeding now--will begin again. something in my head, at the back of the skull on the left hand side--so it seems--will begin to throb and ache. little shooting pains will come in my knees and round about my ankles and drops of perspiration which taste bitter as brine will roll down my face. and, worse than all, the fear of it will commence. slight "alcoholic tremors" will hint of what might be. after a few minutes i shall feel that it is going to be. i will define all that i mean by "it" another time. well, then i shall send "it" and all the smaller "its" to the right about. i shall have two or three strong pegs. then physical pains, all mental horrors, will disappear at once. but i shall be back again under the sea nevertheless. i shan't realise, as i am realising now, the abnormality of my life. but i should say that i have an hour at least before i need have any more whiskey, before that becomes imperative. so here goes for a revelation more real and minute than de quincey, though, lamentable fact! in most inferior prose! here this passage ends. it is obvious from what follows that the period of expected freedom came to an end long before the author expected. excited by what he proposed to do, he had spent too much of his brief energy in explaining it. mechanically he had taken more drink to preserve himself upon the surface--the poisoned mind entirely forgetting what it had just set down--and with mathematic certainty the alcohol had plunged the poet once more beneath the ruining waters. the next entry, undated, is written in a more precise and firmer handwriting. it recalls the small and beautiful caligraphy of the old days. there is no preamble to the bald and hideous confession of mental torture. i wish that my imagination was not so horribly acute and vivid when it is directed towards horrors--as indeed it always seems to be now. i wish, too, that i had never talked curiously to loquacious medical friends and read so many medical books. i am always making amateur, and probably perfectly ridiculous, tests for locomotor ataxy and general paralysis--always shrinking in nameless fear from what so often seems the inevitable onslaught of "it." meanwhile, with these fears never leaving me for a moment, to what an infinity of mad superstitions i am slave! how i strive, by a bitter, and (really) hideously comic, ritual to stave off the inevitable. oh, i used to love god and trust in him. i used to pray to jesus. now, like any aborigine i only seek to ward off evil, to propitiate the devil and the powers of the air, to drag the holy trinity into a forced compliance with my conjuring tricks. _i can hardly distinguish the devil from god._ both seem my antagonists. hardly able to distinguish light from dark, i employ myself with dirty little conjuring tricks. i well know that all these are the phantasms of a disordered brain! i am not really fool enough to believe that god can be propitiated or satan kept at bay by movements: touchings and charms. but i obey my demon. these things are a foolish network round my every action and thought. i can't get out of the net. touching, i do not so much mind. in me it is a symptom of alcoholism, but greater people have known it as a mere nervous affection quite apart from drink. dr. johnson used to stop and return to touch lamp-posts. in "lavengro," borrow has words to say about this impulse--i think it is in lavengro or it may be in the spanish book. borrow used to "touch wood." i began it a long time ago, in jest at something young ingworth said. i did it as one throws spilt salt over one's shoulder or avoids seeing the new moon through glass. together with the other things i _have_ to do now, it has become an obsession. i carry little stumps of pencil in all my pockets. whenever a thought of coming evil, a radiation from the awful cloud of apprehension comes to me, then i can thrust a finger into the nearest pocket and touch wood. only a fortnight ago i was frightened out of my senses by the thought that i had never been really touching wood at all. the pencil stumps were all varnished. i had been touching varnish! it took me an hour to scrape all the varnish off with a pocket knife. i must have about twenty stumps in constant use. at night i always put one in the pocket of my pyjama coat--one wakes up with some fear--but, half asleep and lying as i do upon my left side, the pocket is often under me and i can't get to the wood quickly. so i keep my arm stretched out all night and my hand can touch the wooden top of a chair by the bed in a second. i made tumpany sand-paper all the varnish off the top of the chair too. he thought i was mad. i suppose i am, as a matter of fact. but though i am perfectly aware of the damnable foolishness of it, these things are more real to me than the money-market to a business man. * * * * * if it were only this compulsion to touch wood i should not mind. but there are other tyrannies coincident which are more urgent and compelling. my whole mind--at times--seems taken up by the necessity for ritual actions. i have no time for quiet thought. everything is broken in upon. there is the sign of the cross. i have linked even _that_ in the chain of my terrors. i touch wood and then i make this sign. i do it so often that i have invented all sorts of methods of doing it secretly in public, and quickly when i am alone. i do it in a sort of imaginary way. for instance, i bend my head and in so doing draw an imaginary line with my right eye upon the nearest wall, or upon the page of the book that i am reading. then i move my head from side to side and make another fictitious line to complete the cross. a propos of making the sign, the imaginary lines nearly always go crooked in my brain. this especially so when i am doing it on a book. i follow two lines of type on both pages and use the seam of the binding between them to make the down strokes. but it hardly ever comes right the first time. i begin to notice people looking at me curiously as i try to get it right and my head moves about. if they only knew! then another and more satisfactory way--for the imaginary method always makes my head ache for a second or two--i accomplish with the thumb of my right hand moving vertically down the first joint of the index finger, and then laterally. i can do this as often as i like and no one can possibly see me. i have a little copper cross too, with "in hoc vinces" graved upon it. but i don't like using this much. it is too concrete. it reminds me of the use i am making of the symbol of salvation. "in hoc vinces"! not i. there are times when i think that i am surely doomed. but i think that the worst of all the foul, senseless, and yet imperative petty lordships i endure, is the dominion of the two numbers. the dominion of the two numbers!--capital letters shall indicate this! for some reason or other i have for years imagined mystical virtue in the number and some maleficent influence in the number . these, of course, are old superstitions, but they, and all the others, ride me to a weariness of spirit which is near death. although i got my first in "lit. hum." at oxford, have read almost everything, and can certainly say that i am a man of wide culture and knowledge, figures always gave me aversion and distaste. i got an open scholarship at my college and was as near as nothing ploughed in the almost formal preliminary exam of responsions by arithmetic. i can't add up my bank-book correctly even now, and i have no sense whatever of financial amounts and affairs. but i am a slave to the good but stern fairy and the hell-hag . i attempt lightness and the picturesque. there is really nothing of the sort about my unreasoning and mad servitude. it's bitter, naked, grinning truth. in my bath i sponge myself seven times--first. then i begin again, but i stop at six in the second series and cross myself upon the breast with the bath sponge. seven and six make thirteen. if i did not cancel out that thirteen by the sign of the cross i should walk in fear of some dreadful thing all day. every time i drink i sip seven times first and then again seven times. when six times comes in the second seven, i make the cross with my head. my right hand is holding the glass so that the thumb and finger joint method won't work. it would be disastrous to make the sign with the left hand. that is another thing. . . . i use my left hand as little as i can. it frightens me. i _always_ raise a glass to my lips with the right hand. if i use the left hand owing to momentary thoughtlessness, i have to go through a lengthy purification of wood-touching, crossing, and counting numbers. all my habits re-act one upon the other and the rules are added to daily until they have become appallingly intricate. a failure in one piece of ritual entails all sorts of protracted mental and physical gestures in order to put it right. i wonder if other men who drink know this heavy, unceasing slavery which makes the commonest actions of life a burden? i suppose so. it must be so. all drugs have specific actions. men don't tell, of course. neither do i! sometimes, though, when i have gone to some place like the café royal, or perhaps one of the clubs which are used by fast men, i have had a disgusting glee when i met men whom i knew drank heavily to think that they had their secrets--must have them--as well as i. on reading through these notes that i have been making now and then, i am, of course, horrified at what they really seem to mean. put down in black and white they convey--or at least they would convey to anyone who saw them--nothing but an assurance of the fact that i am mad. yet i am not really mad. i have two lives. . . . i see that i have referred constantly to "it." i have promised myself to define exactly what i mean by "it." i am writing this immediately after lunch. i didn't get up till eleven o'clock. i am under the influence of twenty-five grains of ammonium bromide. i had a few oysters for lunch and nothing else. i am just about as normal as any man in my state can hope to be. nevertheless when i come to try and define "it" for myself i am conscious of a deep horror and distrust. my head is above water, i am sane, but so powerful is the influence of the continual fear under which i live my days and nights, that even now i am afraid. "it" is a protean thing. more often than not it is a horrible dread of that delirium tremens which i have never had, but ought to have had long ago. i have read up the symptoms until i know each one of them. when i am in a very nervous and excited condition--when, for example, i could not face anybody at all and must be alone in my room with my bottle of whiskey--i stare at the wall to see if rats or serpents are running up it. i peer into the corners of the library to detect sheeted corpses standing there. i do not see anything of the sort. even the imaginings of my fear cannot create them. i am, possibly, personally immune from delirium tremens, some people are. all the same, the fear of it racks me and tears me a hundred times a day. if it really seized me it surely would be almost enjoyable! nothing, at any rate, can be more utterly dreadful than the continual apprehension. then i have another and always constant fear--these fears, i want to insist, are fantastically intermingled with all the crossings, wood-touchings and frantic calculations i have to do each minute of my life. the other fear is that of prison. now i know perfectly well that i have done nothing in my life that could ever bring me near prison. all the same i cannot now hear a strange voice without a start of dread. a knock at the front door of my house unnerves me horribly. i open the door of whatever room i am in and listen with strained, furtive attention, slinking back and closing the door with a sob of relief when i realise that it is nothing more than the postman or the butcher's boy. i can hardly bear to read a novel now, because i so constantly meet with the word "arrest." "he was arrested in the middle of his conversation,"--"she placed an arresting hand upon his arm." . . . these phrases which constantly occur in every book i read fill me with horror. a wild phantasmagoria of pictures passes through my mind. i see myself being led out of my house with gyves upon my wrists like the beastly poem hood made upon "eugene aram." then there is the drive into wordingham in a cab. all the officials at the station who know me so well cluster round. i am put into a third class carriage and the blinds are pulled down. at st. pancras, where i am also known, it is worse. the next day there is the magistrate's court and all the papers full of my affair. i know it is all fantastic nonsense--moonshine, wild dream. but it is so appallingly real to me that i sometimes long to have got the trial over and to be sitting with shaven head, wearing coarse prison clothes, in a lonely cell. then, i think to myself, i should really have peace. the worst would have happened and there would be an end of it all. there would be an end of deadly fear. i remember "----" telling me at bruges, where so many _mauvais sujets_ go to kill themselves with alcohol, that wherever he went, night and day, he was always afraid of a tiger that would suddenly appear. he had never experienced delirium tremens either. he knew how mad and fantastic this apprehension was but he was quite unable to get rid of it. * * * * * at other times i have the folie de grandeur. my reading has told me that this is the sure sign of approaching general paralysis. general paralysis means that one's brain goes, that one loses control of one's limbs and all acts of volition go. one is simply alive, that is all. one is alive and yet one is fed and pushed about, and put into this place or that as the entomologist would use a snail. so, in all my wild imaginings the grisly fear is never far away. the imaginings are, in themselves, not without interest to a student of the dreadful thing i have become. i always start from one point. that is that i have become suddenly enormously rich. i have invented all sorts of ways in which this might happen, but lately, in order to save trouble, and to have a base to start from i have arranged that rockefeller, the american oil person, has been so intrigued by something that i have written that he presents me with two million pounds. i start in the possession of two million pounds. i buy myself a baronetcy at once and i also purchase some historic estate. i live the life of the most sporting and beneficent country gentleman that ever was! i see myself correcting the bucolic errors of my colleagues on the bench at quarter sessions. i am a providence to all the labourers and small farmers. my name is acclaimed throughout the county of which i am almost immediately made lord lieutenant. after about five minutes of this prospect i get heartily sick of it. i buy a yacht then. it is as big as an atlantic liner. i fit it up and make it the most perfect travelling palace the world has ever seen. i go off in it to sail round the globe--to see all the most beautiful things in the world, to suck the last drop of honey that the beauty of unknown seas, fairy continents, fortunate islands can yield. during this progress i am accompanied by charming and beautiful women. some are intellectual, some are artistic--all are beautiful and charming. i, i myself, am the central star around which all this assiduous charm and loveliness revolve. another, and very favourite set of pictures, is the one in which i receive the two millions from mr. rockefeller--or whoever he is--and immediately make a public renunciation of it. with wise fore-thought i found great pensions for underpaid clergy. i inaugurate societies by means of which authors who could do really artistic work, but are forced to pot-boil in order to live, may take a cheque and work out their great thoughts without any worldly embarrassments. i myself reserve one hundred and fifty or two hundred pounds a year and go and work among the poor in an east-end slum. at the same time i am most anxious that this great renunciation should be widely spoken of. i must be interviewed in all the papers. the disdainful nobility of my sacrifice for christ's sake must be well advertised. indeed all my folies de grandeur are nothing else but exaggerated megalomania. i must be in the centre of the picture always. spartan or sybarite i must be glorified. * * * * * another symptom which is very marked is that of spasmodic and superstitious prayer. when my heated brain falls away from its kaleidoscopic pictures of grandeur owing to sheer weariness; when my wire-tight nerves are strained to breaking point by the despotism of "touchings," the tyranny of "thirteen" and "seven," the nervous misery of the sign of the cross, i try to sum up all the ritual and to escape the whole welter of false obligation by spasmodic prayer. i suppose that i say "god-the-father-help-me" about two or three hundred times a day. i shut my eyes and throw the failing consciousness of myself into the back of my head, and then i say it--in a sort of hot feverish horror, "god-the-father-help-me." i vary this, too. when my thoughts or my actions have been more despicable than usual, i jerk up an appeal to god the father. when fluid _sentiment_ is round me it is generally jesus on whom i call. . . . i cannot write any more of this, it is too horrible even to write. but god knows how true it is! * * * * * this morning i went out for a walk. i was feeling wretchedly ill. i had to go to the post office and there i met little o'donnell, the rector, and dear old medley his curate. it was torture to talk to them, to preserve an ordinary appearance. i felt that old medley's eyes were on me the whole time. i like him very much. i know every corner of his good simple mind as if i had lived in it. he is a good man, and i can't help liking him. he dislikes and distrusts me intensely, however. he doesn't know enough--like morton sims for instance--to understand that i want to be good, that i am of his company really. the rector himself was rather too charming. he fussed away about my poems, asked after dorothy davidson at nice, purred out something that the duke of perth had said to him about the verses i had in the "spectator" a month ago. yet o'donnell must know that i drink badly. neither he nor medley know, of course, how absolutely submerged i really am. no one ever realises that about a "man who drinks" until they read of his death in the paper. only doctors, wives, experienced eyes know. i funked medley's keen old eyes in the post office and i couldn't help disgust at o'donnell's humbug, as i thought it, though it may have been meant kindly. curious! to fear one good man because he detects and reprobates one's wickedness, to feel contempt for another because he is civil. i hurried away from them and went into the mortland royal arms. two strong whiskies gave myself back to me. i felt a stupid desire to meet the two clergymen again, with my nerves under proper control--to show them that i was myself. going back home, however, another nerve wave came over me. i knew how automatic and jerky my movements were really. i knew that each movement of my legs was dictated by a _conscious_ exercise of command from the brain. i imagined that everyone i met--a few labourers--must know it and observe it also. i realise, now that i am safe in my study again, that this was nonsense. they couldn't have seen--or _could_ they? --i am sure of nothing now! . . . it is half an hour ago since i wrote the last words. i began to feel quite drunk and giddy for a moment. i concentrated my intelligence upon the "telegraph" until the lines became clear and i was appreciating what i read. now i am fairly "possible" i think. reading a passage in the leading article aloud seems to tell me that my voice is under control. my face twitched a little when i looked in the mirror over the mantel-shelf, but if i have a biscuit, and go to my room and sponge my face, i think that i shall be able to preserve sufficient grip on myself to see mary for ten minutes now. directly my eyes go wrong--i can feel when they are beginning to betray me--i will make an excuse and slip away. then i'll lunch, and sleep till tea-time. after two cups of strong tea and the sleep, i shall be outwardly right for an hour at least. i might have tea taken up to her room and sit by the bed--if she doesn't want candles brought in. i can be quite all right in the dusk. the next entry of these notes dates, from obvious evidence, three or four days afterwards. they are all written on the loose sheets of thick and highly glazed white paper, which lothian, always sumptuous in the tools of his work, invariably used. it will be seen that the last paragraphs have, for a moment, strayed into a reminiscence of the hour. that is to say they have recorded not only continuous sensations, but those which were proper to an actual experience. the notes do so no more. the closing paragraphs that are exhibited here once more fall back into the key of almost terrified interest with which this keen, incisive mind surveys its own ruin. there are no more records of actual happenings. yet, nevertheless, while gilbert lothian was making this accurate diagnosis of his state, it is as well to remember that _there is no prognosis_. he _refuses to look into the future_. he really refuses to give any indication of what is going on in the present. he puts down upon the page the symptoms of his disease. he catalogues the tortures he endures. but in regard to where his state is leading him in his life, what it is all going to result in, he says nothing whatever. psychologically this is absolutely corroborative and true. he studies himself as a diseased subject and obviously takes a horrible pleasure in writing down all that he endures. but there are things and thoughts so terrible that even the most callous and most poisoned mind dare not chronicle them. while the very last of what was gilbert lothian is finding an abnormal pleasure, and perhaps a terrible relief, in the surveyal of his extinguishing personality, the other self, the false ego--the fiend alcohol--was busy with a far more dreadful business. we may regard the excerpts already given, and the concluding ones to come, as really the last of lothian--until his resurrection. sometimes a lamp upon the point of expiration flares up for a final second. then, with a splutter, it goes out. and in the circle of confining glass a dull red glow fades, disappears, and only an ugly, lifeless black circle of exhausted wick is left. i didn't mean in making these notes--confound morton sims that he should have suggested such a thing to me!--well, i didn't mean to bring in any daily happenings. my only idea was, for a sort of pitiful satisfaction to myself, to make a record of what i am going through. it has been a relief to me--that is quite certain. while i have been writing these notes i have had some of the placidity and quiet that i used to know when i was engaged upon purely literary pursuits. i can't write now--that is to say, i can't create. my poetic faculty seems quite to have left me. i write certain letters, to a certain person, but they are no longer the artistic and literary productions that they were in the first stages of my acquaintance with this person. all the music that god gave me is gone out of me now. well, even this relief is passing, i have more in my mind and heart than will allow me to continue this fugitive journal. here, obviously, lothian makes a slight reference to the ghastly obsession which, at this time, must have had him well within its grip. well, i will round it up with a few final words. * * * * * one thing that strikes me with horror and astonishment is that i have become quite unable to understand how what i am doing, the fact of what i have become, hurts, wounds and makes other people unhappy. i try to put myself--sympathetically--in the place of those who are around me and who must necessarily suffer by my behaviour. _i can't do it._ when i try to do it my mind seems full of grey wool. the other people seem a hundred miles away. their sentiments, emotions, wishes--their love for me . . . it is significant that here lothian uses the plural pronoun as if he was afraid of the singular. --dwindle to vanishing point. i used to be able to be sympathetic to the sorrows and troubles of almost everyone i met. i remember once after helping a man in this village to die comfortably, after sitting with him for hours and hours and hours during the progress of a most loathsome disease after closing his eyes, paying for his poor burial and doing all i could to console his widow and his daughters, that the widow and the daughters spoke bitterly about me and my wife--who had been so good to them--because one of our servants had returned the cream they sent to the kitchen because it was of inferior quality. these poor women actually made themselves unpleasant. for a day at least i was quite angry. it seemed so absolutely ungrateful when my wife and i had done everything for them for so long. but, i remember quite well, how i thought out the whole petty little incident one night when i was out with tumpany after the wild geese. we were waiting in a cold midnight when scurrying clouds passed beneath the moon. it was bitter cold and my gun barrels burnt like fire. i thought it out with great care, and on the icy marshes a sort of understanding of narrow brains and unimaginative natures came to me. the next day i told my servants to still continue taking cream from the widow, and i have been friendly and kind to her ever since. but now, i can't possibly get into the mind of anyone else with sympathy. i think only of myself, of my own desires, of my own state. . . . * * * * * although i doubt it in my heart of hearts, i must put it upon record that i still have a curious and ineradicable belief that i can, by a mere effort of volition, get rid of all the horrors that surround me and become good and normal once more. when i descend into the deepest depths of all i am yet conscious of a little jerky, comfortable, confidential nudge from something inside me. "you'll be all right," it says. "when you want to stop you will be able to all right!" this false confidence, though i know it to be utterly false, never deserts me in moments of exhilarated drunkenness. and finally, i add, that when my brain is becoming exhausted the last moment before stupor creeps over it, i constantly make the most supreme and picturesque pronunciations of my wickedness. i could not pray the words aloud--or at least if i did they would be somewhat tumbled and incoherent--but i mentally pray them. i wring my hands, i abase my soul and mind, i say the pater noster and the credo, i stretch out my hot hands, and i give it all up for ever and ever and ever. i tumble into bed with a sigh of unutterable relief. the fiend that stands beside my bed on all ordinary nights assumes the fantastic aspect of an angel. i fall into my drunken sleep, murmuring that "there is joy in heaven when one sinner repenteth." i wake up in the morning full of evil thoughts, blear-eyed, and trembling. i am a mockery of humanity, longing, crying for poison. there is only a dull and almost contemptuous memory of the religious ecstasies of the night before. my dreams, my confession, have not the slightest influence upon me. i don't fall again into ruining habits--i continue them, without restraint, without sorrow. * * * * * i will write no more. i am adding another fear to all the other fears. i have been making a true picture of what i am, and it is so awful that even my blinded eyes cannot bear to look upon it. thus these notes, in varying handwriting, indicating the ebb and flow of poison within the brain, cease and say no more. at the bottom of the last page--which was but half filled by the concluding words of the confession--there is something most terribly significant, most horrible to look at in the light of after events. there is a greenish splash upon the glossy paper, obviously whiskey was spilt there. beginning in the area of the splashed circle, the ink running, a word of four letters is written. two letters are cloudy, the others sharp and clear. the word is "rita." a little lower down, and now right at the bottom of the page, the word is repeated again in large tremulous handwriting, three times. "rita, rita, rita!" the last "rita" sprawls and tumbles towards the bottom right-hand corner of the page. two exclamation marks follow it, and it is heavily underscored three times. chapter vii ingworth redux: toftrees complacens "les absents ont toujours tort." --_proverb._ mr. herbert toftrees was at work in the splendidly furnished library of his luxuriously appointed flat at lancaster gate--or at least that is how he would have put it in one of his stories, while, before _her_ remington in the breakfast room mrs. herbert toftrees would have rapped out a detailed description of the furniture. the morning was dark and foggy. the london pavements had that disgustingly cold-greasy feeling beneath the feet that pedestrians in town know well at this time of year. within the library, with its double windows that shut out all noise, a bright fire of logs burned in the wide tiled hearth. one electric pendant lit the room and another burned in a silver lamp upon the huge writing table covered with crimson leather at which the author sat. the library was a luxurious place. the walls were covered with books--mostly in series. the complete scott, the complete dickens, the complete thackeray reposed in gilded fatness upon the shelves. between the door and one of the windows one saw every known encyclopedia, upon another wall-space were the shelves containing those classical french novels with which "culture" is supposed to have a nodding acquaintance--in translations. toftrees threw away his cigarette and sank into his padded chair. the outside world was raw and cold. here, the fire of logs was red, the lamps threw a soft radiance throughout the room, and the keyboard of the writing-machine had a dapper invitation. "confound it, i _must_ work," toftrees said aloud, and at once proceeded to do so. to his left, upon the table, in something like an exaggerated menu holder was a large piece of white cardboard. at the moment toftrees and his wife were engaged in tossing off "claire" which went into its fifth hundred thousand, at six-pence, within the year. the sheet of cardboard bore the names of the principal characters in the story, and what they looked like, in case the prolific author should forget. there was also marked upon the card, in red ink, exactly how far toftrees had got with the plot--which was copied out in large round hand, for instant reference, by his secretary upon another card. clipped on to the typewriter was a note which ran as follows: chapter vii. book v. love scene between claire and lord quinton. to run, say, , words. find biblical chapter caption. mrs. t. at work on chapter in epilogue--discovery by addie that lord q is really john boone. with experienced eyes, toftrees surveyed the morning's work-menu as arranged by miss jones from painstaking scrutiny and dovetailing of the husband and wife's work on the preceding day. "biblical chapter caption"--that should be done at once. toftrees stretched out his hand and took down a "cruden's concordance." it was nearly two years ago now that he had discovered the bible as an almost unworked mine for chapter headings. "love! hm, hm, hm,--why not 'love one another'--? yes, that would do. it was simple, direct, and expressed the sentiment of chapter vii. if there were any reason against it miss jones would spot it at once. she would find another quotation and so make it right." now then, to work! "claire, i am leaving here the day after to-morrow." "yes?" "have you no idea, cannot you guess what it is that i have come to say to you?" he moved nearer to her and for a moment rested his hand on her arm. "i have no idea," she told him with great gravity of manner. "i have come to ask you to be my wife. ah, wait before you bid me be silent. i love you--you surely cannot have failed to see that?--i love you, claire!" "do not," she interrupted, putting up a warning hand. "i cannot hear you." "but you must. forgive me, you shall. i love you as i never loved any woman in my life, and i am asking you to be my wife." "you do me much honour, lord quinton," she returned--and was it his fancy that made it seem to him that her lips curled a little?--"but the offer you make me i must refuse." "refuse!" there was almost amusing wonder and a good deal of anger in his tone and look. "you force me to repeat the word--refuse." "and why?" "i do not want to marry you." "you do not love me?"--incredulously. "i do not love you,"--colouring slightly. "but i would teach you, claire"--catching her arm firmly in his hold now and drawing her to him,--"i would teach you. i can give you all and more of wealth and luxury than----" "hush! and please let go my arm. if you could give me the world it would make no difference." "claire, reconsider it! during the whole of my life i have never really wanted to marry any other woman. i will own that i have flirted and played at love." "no passport to my favour, i assure you, lord quinton." "pshaw! i tell you women were all alike to me, all to be amusing and amused with, all so many butterflies till i met you. i won't mind admitting"--making his most fatal step--"that even when i first saw you--and it was not easy to do considering warwick howard kept you well in the background--i only thought of your sweet eyes and lovely face. but after--after--oh, claire, i learned to love you!" "enough!" cried the girl-- and enough also said the remington, for the page was at an end. toftrees withdrew it with a satisfied smile and glanced down it. "yes!" he thought to himself, "the short paragraph, the quick conversation, that's what they really want. a paragraph of ten consecutive lines would frighten them out of their lives. their minds wouldn't carry from the beginning to the end. we know!" at that moment there was a knock at the door and the butler entered. smithers was a good servant and he enjoyed an excellent place, but it was the effort of his life to conceal from his master and mistress that he read shakespeare in secret, and, in that household, his sense of guilt induced an almost furtive manner which toftrees could never quite understand. "mr. dickson ingworth has called, sir," said smithers. "ask him to come in," toftrees said in his deep voice, and with a glint of interest in his eye. young dickson ingworth had been back from his journalistic mission to italy for two or three weeks. his articles in the "daily wire" had attracted a good deal of attention. they were exceedingly well done, and herbert toftrees was proud of his protégé. he did not know--no one knew--that the denstone master on the committee was a young man with a vivid and picturesque style who had early realised ingworth's incompetence as mouthpiece of the expedition and representative of the press. the young gentleman in question, anxious only for the success of the mission, had written nearly all ingworth's stuff for him, and that complacent parasite was now reaping the reward. but there was another, and greater, reason for toftrees' welcome. old mr. ingworth had died while his nephew was in rome. the young man was now a squire in wiltshire, owner of a pleasant country house, a personage. "ask mr. dickson ingworth in here," toftrees said again. ingworth came into the library. he wore a morning coat and carried a silk hat--the tweeds and bowler of bohemia discarded now. an unobtrusive watch chain of gold had taken the place of the old silver-buckled lip-strap, and a largish black pearl nestled in the folds of his dark tie. he seemed, in some subtle way, to have expanded and become less boyish. a certain gravity and dignity sat well upon his fresh good looks and the slight hint of alien blood in his features was less noticeable than ever. toftrees shook his young friend warmly by the hand. the worthy author was genuinely pleased to see the youth. he had done him a good service recently, pleased to exercise patronage of course, but out of pure kindness. ingworth would not require any more help now, and toftrees was glad to welcome him in a new relation. toftrees murmured a word or two of sorrow at ingworth's recent bereavement and the bereaved one replied with suitable gravity. his uncle's sudden death had been a great grief to him. he would have given much to have been in england at the time. "and the end?" asked toftrees in a low voice of sympathy. "quite peaceful, i am glad to say, quite peaceful." "that must be a great consolation!" this polite humbug disposed of, both men fell immediately into bright, cheerful talk. the new young squire was bubbling over with exhilaration, plans for the future, the sense of power, the unaccustomed and delightful feeling of solidity and _security_. he told his host, over their cigars, that the estate would bring him in about fifteen or sixteen hundred a year; that the house was a fine old caroline building--who his neighbours were, and so on. "then i suppose you'll give up literature?" toftrees asked. dickson ingworth was about to assent in the most positive fashion to this question, when he remembered in whose presence he was, and his native cunning--"diplomacy" is the better word for a man with a caroline mansion and sixteen hundred a year--came to his aid. "oh, no," he said, "not entirely. i couldn't, you know. but i shall be in a position now only to do my best work!" toftrees assented with pleasure. the trait interested him. "i'm glad of that," he said. "to the artist, life without expression is impossible." toftrees spoke quite sincerely. although his own production was not of a high order he was quite capable of genuine appreciation of greater and more serious writers. it does not follow--as shallow thinkers tell us--that because a man does not follow his ideal that he is without one at all. they smoked cigars and talked. as a matter of form the host offered ingworth a drink, which was refused; they were neither of them men who took alcohol between meals from choice. they chatted upon general matters for a time. "and what of our friend the poet?" toftrees asked at length, with a slight sneer in his voice. ingworth flushed up suddenly and a look of hate came into his curious eyes. the acute man of the world noticed it in a second. before ingworth had left for his mission in italy, he had been obviously changing his views about gilbert lothian. he had talked him over with toftrees in a depreciating way. even while he had been staying at mortland royal he had made confidences about lothian's habits and the life of his house in letters to the popular author--while he was eating the poet's salt. but toftrees saw now that there was something deeper at work. was it, he wondered, the old story of benefits forgot, the natural instinct of the baser type of humanity to bite the hand that feeds? toftrees knew how lavish with help and kindness lothian had been to dickson ingworth. for himself, he detested lothian. the bitter epigrams lothian had made upon him in a moment of drunken unconsciousness were by no means forgotten. the fact that lothian had probably never meant them was nothing. they had some truth in them. they were uttered by a superior mind, they stung still. "oh, he's no friend of mine," ingworth said in a bitter voice. "really? i know, of course, that you have disapproved of much that mr. lothian seems to be doing just now, but i thought you were still friends. it is a pity. whatever he may do, there are elements of greatness in the man." "he is a blackguard, toftrees, a thorough blackguard." "i _am_ sorry to hear that. well, you needn't have any more to do with him, need you? he isn't necessary to your literary career any more. and even if you had not come into your inheritance, your italian work has put you in quite a different position." ingworth nodded. he puffed quickly at his cigar. he was bursting with something, as the elder and shrewder man saw, and if he was not questioned he would come out with it in no time. there was silence for a space, and, as toftrees expected, it was broken by ingworth. "look here, toftrees," he said, "you are discreet and i can trust you." the other made a grave inclination of his head--it was coming now! "very well. i don't want to say anything about a man whom i have liked, and who _has_ been kind to me. but there are times when one really must speak, whatever the past may have been--aren't there?" toftrees saw the last hesitation and removed it. "oh, he'll get over that drinking habit," he said, though he knew well that ingworth was not bursting with that alone. "it's bad, of course, that such a man should drink. i was horribly upset--and so was my wife--at that dinner at the amberleys'. but he'll get over it. and after all you know--poets!" "it isn't that, toftrees. it's a good deal worse than that. in fact i really do want your advice." "my dear fellow you shall have it. we are friends, i hope, though not of long standing. fire away." "well, then, it's just this. lothian's wife is one of the most perfect women i have ever met. she adores him. she does everything for him, she's clever and good looking, sympathetic and kind." toftrees made a slight, very slight, movement of repugnance. he was a man who was temperamentally well-bred, born into a certain class of life. he might make a huge income by writing for housemaids at sixpence, but old training and habit became alive. one did not listen to intimate talk about other men's wives. but the impulse was only momentary, a result of heredity. his interest was too keen for it to last. "yes?" "lothian doesn't care a bit for his wife--he can't. i know all about it, and i've seen it. he's doing a most blackguardly thing. he's running after a girl. not any sort of girl, but a _lady_."-- toftrees grinned mentally, he saw how it was at once with the lad. "no?" he said. "indeed, yes. she's a sweet and innocent girl whom he's getting round somehow or other by his infernal poetry and that. he's compromising her horribly and she can't see it. i've, i've seen something of her lately and i've tried to tell her as well as i could. but she doesn't take me seriously enough. she's not really in love with lothian--i don't see how any young and pretty girl could really be in love with a man who looks like he's beginning to look. but they write--they've been about together in the most dreadfully compromising way. one never knows how far it may go. for the sake of the nicest girl i have ever known it ought to be put a stop to." toftrees smiled grimly. he knew who the girl was now, and he saw how the land lay. young ingworth was in love and frightened to death of his erstwhile friend's influence over the girl. that was natural enough. "suppose any harm were to come to her," ingworth continued with something very like a break in his voice. "she's quite alone and unprotected. she is the daughter of a man who was in the navy, and now she has to earn her own living as an assistant librarian in kensington. a man like lothian who can talk, and write beautiful letters--damned scoundrel and blackguard!" toftrees was not much interested in his young friend's stormy love-affairs. but he _was_ interested in the putting of a spoke into gilbert lothian's wheel. and he had a genuine dislike and disgust of intrigue. a faithful husband to a faithful wife whose interests were identical with his, the fact of a married man of his acquaintance running after some little typewriting girl whose people were not alive to look after her, seemed abominable. nice girls should not be used so. he thought of dodges and furtive meetings, sly telephone calls, and anxious country expeditions with a shudder. and if he thanked god that he was above these things, it was perhaps not a pharisaical gratitude that animated him. "look here," he said suddenly. "you needn't go on, ingworth. i know who it is. it's miss wallace, of the podley library. she was at the amberleys' that night when lothian made such a beast of himself. she writes a little, too. very pretty and charming girl!" ingworth assented eagerly. "yes!" he cried, "that's just it! she's clever. she's intrigued by lothian. she doesn't _love_ him, she told me so yesterday----" he stopped, suddenly, realising what he had said. toftrees covered his confusion in a moment. toftrees wanted to see this to the end. "no, no," he said with assumed impatience. "of course, she knows that lothian is married, and, being a decent girl, she would never let her feelings--whatever they may be--run away with her. she's dazzled. that's what it is, and very natural, too! but it ought to be stopped. as a matter of fact, ingworth, i saw them together at the metropole at brighton one night. they had motored down together. and i've heard that they've been seen about a lot in london at night. most people know lothian by sight, and such a lovely girl as miss wallace everyone looks at. from what i saw, and from what i've heard, they are very much in love with each other." "it's a lie," ingworth answered. "she's not in love with him. i know it! she's been led away to compromise herself, poor dear girl, that's all." now, toftrees arose in his glory, so to speak. "i'll put a stop to it," he said. the emperor of the sixpenny market was once more upon his virtuous throne. his deep voice was rich with promise and power. "i know mr. podley," he said. "i have met him a good many times lately. we are on the committee of the 'pure penny literature movement.' he is a thoroughly good and fatherly man. he's quite without culture, but his instincts are all fine. i will take him aside to-night and tell him of the danger--you are right, ingworth, it is a real and subtle danger for that charming girl--that his young friend is in. podley is her patron. she has no friends, no people, i understand. she is dependent for her livelihood upon her place at the kensington library. he will tell her, and i am sure in the kindest way, that she must not have anything more to do with our christian poet, or she will lose her situation." ingworth thought for a moment. "thanks awfully," he said, almost throwing off all disguise now. then he hesitated--"but that might simply throw her into lothian's arms," he said. toftrees shook his head. "i shall put it to mr. podley," he said, "and he, being receptive of other people's ideas and having few of his own, will repeat me, to point out the horrors of a divorce case, the utter ruin if mrs. lothian were to take action." ingworth rose from his seat. "to-night?" he said. "you're to see this podley to-night?" "yes." "then when do you think he will talk to rit--to miss wallace?" "i think i can ensure that he will do so before lunch to-morrow morning." "you will be doing a kind and charitable thing, toftrees," ingworth answered, making a calculation which brought him to the doors of the podley institute at about four o'clock on the afternoon of the morrow. then he took his leave, congratulating himself that he had moved toftrees to his purpose. it was an achievement! rita would be frightened now, frightened from gilbert for ever. the thing was already half done. "mine!" said mr. dickson ingworth to himself as he got into a taxi-cab outside lancaster gate. "i think i shall cook master lothian's goose very well to-night," herbert toftrees thought to himself. mixed motives on both sides. half bad, perhaps, half good. who shall weigh out the measures but god? ingworth was madly in love with rita wallace, who had become very fond of him. he was young, handsome, was about to offer her advantageous and honourable marriage. ingworth's passion was quite good and pure. here he rose above himself. "all's fair"--treacheries grow small when they assist one's own desire and can be justified upon the score of morality as well. toftrees was outside the fierce burning of flames beyond his comprehension. he was a cog-wheel in the machinery of this so swiftly-weaving loom. but he also paid himself both ways--as he felt instinctively. he and his wife owed this upstart and privately disreputable poet a rap upon the knuckles. he would administer it to-night. and it was a _duty_, no less than a fortunate opportunity, to save a good and charming girl from a scamp. when toftrees told his wife all about it at lunch that morning she quite agreed, and, moreover, gave him valuable feminine advice as to the conduct of the private conversation with podley. chapter viii the amnesic dream-phase "in the drunkenness of the chronic alcoholic the higher brain centres are affected more readily and more profoundly than the rest of the nervous system, with the result that the drinker, despite the derangement of his consciousness, is capable of apparently deliberate and purposeful acts. it is in this dream-state, which may last a considerable time, that the morbid impulses of the alcoholic are most often carried into effect." _the criminology of alcoholism_ by william c. sullivan, m.d., medical officer h.m. prison service. "the confirmed toper, who is as much the victim of drug-habit as the opium eater, may have amnesic dream phases, during which he may commit automatically offensive acts while he is mentally irresponsible." _medico-legal relations of alcoholism_ by stanley b. atkinson, m.a., m.b., b.sc. barrister at law. at nine o'clock one evening lothian went into his wife's room. it was a bitterly cold night and a knife-like wind was coming through the village from the far saltings. there was a high-riding moon but its light was fitful and constantly obscured by hurrying clouds. mary was lying in bed, patiently and still. she was not yet better. dr. heywood was a little puzzled at her continued listlessness and depression. a bright fire glowed upon the hearth and sent red reflections upon the bedroom ceiling. a shaded candle stood upon the bedside table, and there were also a glass of milk, some grapes in a silver dish, and the "imitatio christi" there. lothian was very calm and quiet in demeanour. his wife had noticed that whenever he came to see her during the last two or three days, there had been an unusual and almost drowsy tranquillity in his manner. his hands shook no more. his movements were no longer jerky. they were deliberate, like those of an ordinary and rather ponderous man. and now, too, gilbert's voice had become smooth and level. the quick and pleasant vibration of it at its best, the uneasy rise and fall of it at its worst, had alike given place to a suave, creamy monotone which didn't seem natural. the face, also, enlarged and puffed by recent excesses, had further changed. the redness had gone from the skin. even the eyes were bloodshot no longer. they looked fish-like, though. they had a steady introspective glare about them. the lips were red and moist, in this new and rather horrible face. the clear contour and moulding were preserved, but a quiet dreamy smile lurked about and never left them. . . ."gilbert, have you come to say goodnight?" "yes, dear,"--it _was_ an odd purring sort of voice--"how do you feel?" "not very well, dear. i am going to try very hard to sleep to-night. you're rather early in coming, are you not?" "yes, dear, i am. but the moon and the tides are right to-night and the wild duck are flighting. i am going out after widgeon to-night. i ought to do well." "oh, i see. i hope you'll have good luck, dear." "i hope so. oh, and i forgot, mary, i thought of going off for three days to-morrow, down towards the essex coast. i should take tumpany. i've had a letter from the wild fowlers' association man there to say that the geese are already beginning to come over. would you mind?" mary saw that he had already made up his mind to go--for some reason or other. "yes, go by all means, dear," she said, "the change and the sport will do you good." "you will be all right?"--how soapy and mechanical that voice was. . . . "oh, of course i shall. don't think a _bit_ about me. perhaps--" she hesitated for a moment and then continued with the most winning sweetness--"perhaps, gillie darling, it will buck you up so that you won't want to . . ." the strange voice that was coming from him dried the longing, loving words in her throat. "well, then, dear, i shall say good-bye, now. you see i shall be out most of this night, and if tumpany and i are to catch the early train from wordingham and have all the guns ready, we must leave here before you will be awake. i mean, you sleep into the morning a little now, don't you?" he seemed anxious as he asked. "generally, gillie. then if it is to be good-bye for two days, good-bye my dear, dear husband. come----" she held out her arms, lying there, and he had to bend into her embrace. "i shall pray for you all the time you are away," she whispered. "i shall think of my boy every minute. god bless you and preserve you, my dear husband." she was doubtless about to say more, to murmur other words of sacred wifely love, when her arms slid slowly away from him and lay motionless upon the counterpane. immediately they did so, the man's figure straightened itself and stood upright by the side of the bed. "well, i'll go now," he said. "good-night, dear." he turned his full, palish face upon her, the yellow point of flame, coming through the top of the candle shade, showed it in every detail. fixed, introspective eyes, dreamy painted smile, a suave, uninterested farewell. the door closed gently behind him. it was closed as a bland doctor closes a door. mary lay still as death. the room was perfectly silent, save for the fall of a red coal in the fire or the tiny hiss and spurt of escaping gas in thin pencils of old gold and amethyst. then there came a loud sound into the room. it was a steady rhythmic sound, muffled but alarming. it seemed to fill the room. in a second or two more mary knew that it was only her heart beating. "but i am frightened," she said to herself. "i am really frightened. this is fear!" and fear it was, such as this clear soul had not known. this daughter of good descent, with serene, temperate mind and body, had ever been high poised above gross and elemental fear. to her, as to the royal nature of her friend julia daly, god had early given a soul-guard of angels. now, for the first time in her life, mary knew fear. and she knew an unnameable disgust also. her heart drummed. the back of her throat grew hot--hotter than her fever made it. and, worse, a thousand times more chilling and dreadful, she felt as if she had just been holding something cold and evil in her arms. . . . the voice was unreal and almost incredible. the waxen mask with its set eyes and the small, fine mouth caught into a fixed smile--oh! this was not her husband! she had been speaking with some _thing_. some _thing_, dressed in gilbert's flesh had come smirking into her quiet room. she had held it in her arms and prayed for it. drum, drum!--she put her left hand, the hand with the wedding ring upon it, over the madly throbbing heart. and then, in her mind, she asked for relief, comfort, help. the response was instant. her life had always been so fragrant and pure, her aims so single-hearted, her delight in goodness and her love of jesus so transparently immanent, that she was far nearer the veil than most of us can ever get. she asked, and the amorphous elemental things of darkness dissolved and fled before heavenly radiance. the couriers of the wind of the holy-ghost came to her with the ozone of paradise beating from their wings. doubtless it was now that some priest-angel gave mary lothian that last viaticum which was to be denied to her from the hands of any earthly priest. it was a week ago that mr. medley had brought the blessed sacrament to mary. it was seven days since she had thus met her lord. but he was with her now. already of the saints, although she knew it not, a cloud of witnesses surrounded her. angels and archangels and all the company of heaven were loving her, waiting for her. * * * * * lothian went along the corridor to the library, which was on the first floor of the house. his footsteps made no noise upon the thick carpet. he walked softly, resolutely, as a man that had much to do. the library was not a large room but it was a very charming one. a bright fire burned upon the hearth. two comfortable saddle-back chairs of olive-coloured leather stood on either side of it, and there was a real old "gate-table" of dark oak set by one of the chairs with a silver spirit-stand upon it. along all one side, books rose to the ceiling, his beloved friends of the past, in court-dress of gold and damson colour, in bravery of delicate greens; in leather which had been stained bright orange, some of them; while others showed like crimson aldermen and red lord mayors. let into the wall at the end of the room--opposite to the big tudor window--was the glass-fronted cupboard in which the guns were kept. the black-blue barrels gleamed in rows, the polished stocks caught the light from the candles upon the mantel-shelf. the huge double eight-bore like a shoulder-cannon ranked next to the pair of ten-bores by greener. then came the two powerful twelve-gauge guns by tolley, chambered for three inch shells and to which many geese had fallen upon the marshes. . . . lothian opened the glass door and took down one of the heavy ten-bores from the rack. he placed it upon a table, opened a cupboard, took out a leather cartridge bag and put about twenty "perfect" cases of brass, loaded with "smokeless diamond" and "number four" shot, into the bag. then he rang the bell. "tell tumpany to come up," he said to blanche who answered the summons. presently there was a somewhat heavy lurching noise as the ex-sailor came up the stairs and entered the library with his usual scrape and half-salute. tumpany was not drunk, but he was not quite sober. he was excited by the prospect of the three days' sport in essex and he had been celebrating the coming treat in the mortland royal arms. he had enjoyed beer in the kitchen of the old house--by lothian's orders. "now be here by seven sharp to-morrow, tumpany," lothian said, still in his quiet level voice. "we must catch the nine o'clock from wordingham without fail. i'm going out for an hour or two on the marshes. the widgeon are working over the west meils with this moon and i may get a shot or two." "cert'nly, sir. am i to come, sir?" "no, i think you had better go home and get to bed. you've a long day before you to-morrow. i shan't be out late." "very good, sir. you'll take trust? shall i go and let him out?" lothian seemed to hesitate, while he cast a shrewd glance under his eyelids at the man. "well, what do you think?" he asked. "i ought to be able to pick up any birds i get myself in this light, and on the west meils. i shan't stay out long either. you see, trust has to go with us to-morrow and he's always miserable in the guard's van. he'll have to work within a few hours of our arrival and i thought it best to give him as much rest as possible beforehand. he isn't really necessary to me to-night. but what do you think?" tumpany was flattered--as it was intended that he should be flattered--at his advice being asked in this way. he agreed entirely with his master. "very well then. you'd better go down again to the kitchen. i'll be with you in ten minutes. then you can walk with me to the marsh head and carry the bag." tumpany scrambled away to kitchen regions for more beer. lothian walked slowly up and down the library. his head was falling forward upon his chest. he was thinking, planning. every detail must be gone into. it was always owing to neglect of detail that things fell through, that _things_ were found out. nemesis waited on the failure of fools! a week ago the word "nemesis" would have terrified him and sent him into the labyrinth of self-torture--crossings, touchings, and the like. now it meant nothing. yes: that was all right. tumpany would accompany him to the end of the village--the farthest end of the village from the "haven"--there could be no possible idea. . . . lothian nodded his head and then opened a drawer in the wall below the gun cupboard. he searched in it for a moment and withdrew a small square object wrapped in tissue paper. it was a spare oil-bottle for a gun-case. the usual oil-receptacle in a gun-case is exactly like a small, square ink-bottle, though with this difference; when the metal top is unscrewed, it brings with it an inch long metal rod, about the thickness of a knitting needle but flattened at the end. this is used to take up beads of oil and apply them to the locks, lever, and ejector mechanisms of a gun. lothian slipped the thing into a side pocket of his coat. in a few minutes, dressed in warm wildfowling clothes of grey wool and carrying his gun, he was tramping out of the long village street with tumpany. the wind sang like flying arrows, the dark road was hard beneath their feet. they came to tumpany's cottage and little shop, which were on the outskirts of the village. then lothian stopped. "look here," he said, "you can give me the bag now. there really isn't any need for you to come to the marsh head with me, tumpany.--much better get to bed and be fresh for to-morrow." the man was nothing loth. the lit window of his house invited him. "thank you, sir," he said, sobered now by the keen night wind, "then i'll say good-night." --"night tumpany." "g'night, sir." lothian tramped away into the dark. the sailor stood for a moment with his hand upon the latch of his house door, listening to the receding footsteps. "what's wrong with him?" he asked himself. "he speaks different like. yesterday morning old trust seemed positive afraid of him! never saw such a thing before! and to-night he seems like a stranger somehow. i felt queer, in a manner of speaking, as i walked alongside of him. but what a bloody fool i am!" tumpany concluded, using the richest adjective he knew, as his master's footsteps died away and were lost. in less than ten minutes lothian stood upon the edge of the vast marshes. it was a ghostly place and hour. the wind wailed over the desolate miles like a soul sick for the love it had failed to win in life. the wide creeks with their cliff-like sides of black mud were brimming with sullen tidal water, touched here and there by faint moonbeams--lemon colour on lead. night birds passed high over head with a whistle of wings, heard, but not seen in the gloom. from distant wordingham to far blackney beyond which were the cliffs of sherringham and cromer, for twelve miles or more, perhaps not a dozen human beings were out upon the marshes. a few bold wildfowlers in their frail punts with the long tapering guns in the bows, might be "setting to birds"; enduring the bitter cold, risking grave danger, and pursuing the wildest and most wary of living things with supreme endurance throughout the night. once the wind brought two deep booms to lothian. his trained ear knew and located the sound at once. one of the wordingham fowlers was out upon the flats three miles away, and had fired his double eight-bore, the largest shoulder gun that even a strong man can use. but the saltings were given over to the night and the things of the night. the plovers called, "'tis dark and late." "'tis late and dark." the wind sobbed coldly; wan clouds sped to hood the moon with darkness. brown hares crouched among the coarse marrum grasses, the dun owls were afloat upon the air, sounding their oboe notes, and always the high unseen flight of whistling ducks went on all over the desolate majesty of the marshes. and beyond it all, through it all, could be heard the hollow organs of the sea. lothian was walking rapidly. his breathing was heavy and muffled. he skirted the marsh and did not go upon it, passing along the grass slope of foreshore which even a full marsh tide never conquered; going back upon his own trail, parallel to the village. there were sharp pricking pains in his knees and ankles. hot sweat clotted his clothes to his body and rained down his face. but he was unaware of this. his alarming physical condition was as nothing. he went on through the dark, hurriedly, like a man in ambush. now and then he stumbled at inequalities of the ground or caught his foot in furze roots. obscene words escaped him when this happened. they burst from between the hot cracked lips, mechanical and thin. the weak complaints of some poor filthy-minded ghost! he knew nothing of what he said. but with knife-winds upon his face, thin needles in his joints; sodden flesh quivering with nervous tremors and wet with warm brine, he went onwards with purpose. he was in the amnesic dream-phase. every foul and bestial impulse which is hidden in the nature of man was riotous and awake. the troglodytes showed themselves at last. all the unnameable, unthinkable things that lie deep below the soul, far below the conscience, in the lowest and sealed cellars of personality, had burst from their hidden prisons. the temple of the holy ghost was full of the squeaking, gibbering powers of utmost, nethermost hell. --these are similes which endeavour to hint at the frightful truth. science sums it up in a simple statement. lothian was now in "the amnesic dream-phase." he came to where a grass road bounded by high hedges led down to the foreshore. crouching under the sentinel hedge of the road's end, he lit a match and looked at his watch. it was fifteen minutes past ten o'clock. old phoebe hannett and her daughter, the servants of morton sims at the "haven," would now be fast in slumber. christopher, the doctor's personal servant, was in paris with his master. the person who walked in a dream turned up the unused grass-grown road. he was now at the east end of the village. the path brought him out upon the highroad a hundred yards above the rectory, church, and the schools. from there it was a gentle descent to the very centre of the village, where the "haven" was. there were no lights nor lamp-posts in the village. by now every one would be gone to bed. . . . there came a sudden sharp chuckle into the night. something was congratulating itself with glee that it had put water-boots with india-rubber soles upon its feet; noiseless soles that would make no sound upon the gravelled ways about the familiar house that had belonged to admiral custance. . . . lothian lifted the latch of the gate which led to the short gravel-drive of the "haven" with delicate fingers. an expert handles a blown bird's-egg so. it rose. it fell. not a crack came from the slowly-pushed gate which fell back into its place with no noise, leaving the night-comer inside. the gables of the house rose black and stark against the sky. the attic-windows where old dame hannett and her daughter slept were black. they were fast in sleep now. the night-intruder set his gun carefully against the stone pillar of the gate. then he tripped over the pneumatic lawns before the house with almost a dance in his step. he frisked over the lawns, avoiding the chocolate patches that meant flower-beds, with complacent skill. just then no clouds obscured the moon, which rode high before the advancing figure. a fantastic shadow followed lothian, coquetting with the flower beds, popping this way and that, but ever at his heels. it threw itself about in swimming areas of grey vagueness and then concentrated itself into a black patch with moving outlines. there was an ecstasy about this dancing shadow. and now, the big building which had been a barn and which admiral custance had re-built and put to various uses, cut wedge-like into the lit sky. the shadow crept close to the dream figure and crouched at its heels. it seemed to be spurring that figure on, to be whispering in its ear. . . . we know all about the dream figure. through the long pages of this chronicle we have learned how, and of what, it has been born. and were it not that experts of the middle age--when demonology was a properly recognised science--have stated that a devil has never a shadow, we should doubtless have been sure that it was our old friend, the fiend alcohol, that contracted and expanded with such fantastic measures over the moon-lit grass. lothian knew his way well about this domain. admiral custance had been his good friend. often in the old sailor's house, or in lothian's, the two had tippled together and drank toasts to the supremacy which queen britannia has over the salt seas. the lower floor of the barn had been used as a box-room for trunks and a general store-house, though the central floor-space was made into a court for badminton; when nephews and nieces, small spars of main and mizzen and the co-lateral yardarms, came to play upon a retired quarter-deck. the upper floor had ever been sacred to the admiral and his hobbies. from below, the upper region was reached by a private stairway of wood outside the building. of this entrance the sailor had always kept the key. a little wooden balcony ran round the angle of the building to where, at one end, a large window had been built in the wall. lothian went up the outside stairs noiselessly as a cat, and round the little gallery to the long window. here he was in deep shadow. the two leaves of the window did not quite meet. the wood had shrunk, the whole affair was rickety and old. as he had anticipated, the night-comer had no difficulty in pushing the blade of his shooting knife through the crevice and raising the simple catch. he stepped into the room, long empty and ghostly. first, he closed the window again, and then let down the blue blind over it. a skylight in the sloped roof provided all the other light. through this, now, faint and fleeting moonlights fell. by the gallery door there was a mat. lothian stepped gingerly to it and wiped the india-rubber boots he wore. then he took half a wax candle from a side-pocket and lit it. it was quite impossible that the light could be seen from outside, even if spectators there were, in the remote slumbering village. in the corners of the long room, black-velvet shadows lurked as the yellow candle flame moved. a huge spider with a body as big as sixpence ran up one canvas-covered wall. despite the cold, the air was lifeless and there was a very faint aroma of chemical things in it. on all sides were long deal tables covered with a multiplicity of unusual objects. under a big bell of glass, popped over it to keep the dust away, was a large microscope of intricate mechanism. close by was a section-cutter that could almost make a paring of a soul for scrutiny. leather cases stood here and there full of minute hypodermic syringes, and there was a box of thin glass tubes containing agents for staining the low protoplasmic forms of life which must be observed by those who wish to arm the world against the fiend alcohol. at the far end of the room, on each side of the fireplace were two glass-fronted cupboards, lined with red baize. in one of them admiral custance had kept his guns. these cupboards had been constructed by the village carpenter--who had also made the gun cupboard in lothian's library. they were excellent cupboards and with ordinary locks and keys--the mortland royal carpenter, indeed, buying these accessories of his business of one pattern, and by the gross, from messrs. pashwhip and moger's iron-mongery establishment in wordingham. lothian took the key of his own gun cupboard from his waistcoat pocket. it fitted the hole of the cupboard here--on the right side of the fireplace, exactly as he had expected. the glass doors swung open with a loud crack, and the contents on the shelves were clearly exposed to view. lothian set his candle down upon the edge of an adjacent table and thought for a moment. during their intimate conversations--before lothian's three weeks in london with rita wallace, while his wife was at nice, dr. morton sims had explained many things to him. the great man had been pleased to find in a patient, in an artist also, the capability of appreciating scientific truth and being interested in the methods by which it was sought. lothian knew therefore, that morton sims was patiently following and extending the experiments of professor fraenkel at his laboratory in halle, varying the investigation of deléarde and carrying it much farther. morton sims was introducing alcohol into rabbits and guinea pigs, sub-cutaneously or into the stomach direct, exhibiting the alcohol in well-diluted forms and over long periods. he was then inoculating these alcoholised subjects, and subjects which had not been alcoholised, with the bacilli of consumption--tubercle bacilli--and diphtheria toxin--the poison produced by the diphtheria bacillus. he was endeavouring to obtain indisputable evidence of increased susceptibility to infection in the animal body under alcoholic influences. of all this, lothian was thoroughly aware. he stood now--if indeed it _was_ gilbert lothian the poet who stood there--in front of an open cupboard; the cupboard he had opened by secrecy and fraud. upon those shelves, as he well knew, organic poisons of immeasurable potency were resting. in those half-dozen squat phials of glass, surrounded with felt and with curious stoppers, an immense death was lurking. all the quick-firing guns of the navies of the world were not so powerful as one of these little glass receptacles. the breath came thick and fast from the intruder. it went up in clouds from his heated body; vapourised into steam which looked yellow in the candlelight. after a minute he drew near to the cupboard. a trembling, exploring finger pushed among the phials. it isolated one. upon a label pasted on the glass, were two words in greek characters, "[greek: diphth. toxin.]" here, in this vessel of gelatinous liquid, lurked the destroying army of diphtheria bacilli, millions strong. the man held up the candle and its light fell full upon the neat cursive greek, so plain for him to read. he stared at it with focussed eyes. his head was pushed forward a little and oscillated slowly from side to side. the sweat ran down it and fell with little splashes upon the floor. then his hand began to tremble and the light flickered and danced in the recesses of the cupboard. he turned away, shaking, and set the candle end upon the table. it swayed, toppled over, flared for a moment and went out. but he could not wait to light it again. his attendant devil was straying, he must be called back . . . to help. lothian plunged his hand into his breast pocket and withdrew a flat flask of silver. it was full of undiluted whiskey. he took a long steady pull, and the fire went through him instantly. with firm fingers now, he screwed on the top of the flask and re-lit the candle stump. then he took the marked phial from the cupboard shelf and set it on the table. from a side pocket he took the little oil-bottle belonging to a travelling gun-case and unscrewed the top of that. and now, with cunning knowledge, he takes the thick, grey woollen scarf from his neck and drenches a certain portion of its folds with raw whiskey from his flask. he binds the muffler round the throat and nose in such fashion that the saturated portion confines all the outlets of his breathing. one must risk nothing one's self when one plays and conjures with the spawn and corruptions of death! . . . it is done, done with infinite nicety and care--no trembling fingers now. the vial is unstopped, the tube within has poured a drop or two of its contents into the oil-bottle, the projecting needle of which is damp with death. the cupboard is closed and locked again. ah! there is candle grease upon the table! it is scraped up, to the minutest portion, with the blade of the shooting knife. then he is out upon the balcony again. one last task remains. it is to close the long windows so that the catch will fall into its rusty holder and no trace be left of its ever having been opened. this is not easy. it requires preparation, dexterity and thought. cunning fingers must use the thin end of the knife to bend the little brass bracket which is to receive the falling catch. it must be bent outwards, and in the bending a warning creak suggests that the screws are parting from the rotten wood. but it is done at last, surely dexterously. no gentlemanly burglar of the magazines could have done it better. . . . there is no moon now. it is necessary to feel one's way in silence over the lawn and reach the outer gate. this is done successfully, the fiend is a good quick valet-fiend to-night and aids at every point. the gate is closed with a gentle "click," there is only the "pad, pad" of the night-comer's footsteps passing along the dark village street towards the old house with poison in his pocket and murder in his heart. outside his own gate, lothian's feet assume a brisk and confidential measure. he rattles the latch of the drive gate and tries to whistle in a blithe undertone. bedroom windows may be open, it will be as well that his low, contented whistle--as of one returning from healthy night-sport--may be heard. his lips are too cracked and salt to whistle, however. he tries to hum the burden of a song, but only a faint "croak, croak," sounds in the cold, quiet night--for the wind has fallen now. not far away, behind the palings of his little yard, the dog trust whines mournfully. once he whines, and then with a full-throat and opened muzzle dog trust bays the moon behind its cloud-pall. when he hears the footfall of one he knows and loves, dog trust greets it with low, anxious whines. he is no watch-dog. his simple duties are unvaried from the marsh and field. growl of hostility to night-comers he knows not. his faithful mind has been attuned to no reveillé note. but he howls mournfully now. the step he hears is like no step he knows. perhaps, who can say? the dim, untutored mind discerns dimly something wicked, inimical and hostile approaching the house. so the dog trust howls, stands for a moment upon his cold concrete sniffing the night air, and then with a sort of shudder plunges into the warm straw of his kennel. deep sleep broods over the poet's house. the morning was one of those cold bright autumn days without a breath of wind, which have an extraordinary exhilaration for every one. the soul, which to the majority of folk is like an invisible cloud anchored to the body by a thin thread, is pulled down by such mornings. it reenters flesh and blood, reanimates the body, and sounds like a bugle in the mind. tumpany, his head had been under the pump for a few minutes, arrived fresh and happy at the old house. he was going away with the master upon a wild-fowling expedition. in essex the geese were moving this way and that. there was an edge upon anticipation and the morning. in the kitchen phoebe and blanche partook of the snappy message of the hour. the guns were all in their cases. a pile of pigskin luggage was ready for the four-wheel dogcart. "perhaps when the men are out of the way for a day or two, mistress will have a chance to get right. . . . master said good-bye to mistress last night, didn't he?" the cook said to blanche. "yes, but he may want to go in again and disturb her." "i don't believe he will. she's asleep now. those things dr. heywood give her keep her quiet. but still you'd better go quietly into her room with her morning milk, blanche. if she's asleep, just leave it there, so she'll find it when she wakes up." "very well, cook, i will," the housemaid said--"oh, there's that tumpany!" tumpany came into the kitchen. he wore his best suit. he was quite dictatorial and sober. he spoke in brisk tones. "what are you going to do, my girl?" he said to blanche in an authoritative voice. "hush, you silly. keep quiet, can't you?" phoebe said angrily. "blanche is taking up mistress' milk in case she wakes." "where's master, then?" "master is in the library. he'll be down in a minute." "can i go up to him, cook? . . . there's something about the guns----" "no. you can _not_, tumpany. but blanche will take any message.--blanche, knock at the library door and say tumpany wants to see master. but do it quietly. remember missis is sleeping at the other end of the passage." as blanche went up the stairs with her tray, the library door was open, and she saw her master strapping a suit case. she stopped at the open door. --"please, sir, tumpany wants to speak to you." lothian looked up. it was almost as if he had expected the housemaid. "all right," he said. "he can come up in a moment. what have you got there--oh? the milk for your mistress. well, put it down on the table, and tell tumpany to come up. bring him up yourself, blanche, and make him be quiet. we mustn't risk waking mistress." the housemaid put the tray down upon the writing table and left the room, closing the door after her. it had hardly swung into place when lothian had whipped open a drawer in the table. standing upon a pile of note-paper with its vermilion heading of "the old house, mortland royal" was a square oil bottle with its silver plated top. in a few twists of firm and resolute fingers, the top was loosened. the man took the bottle from the drawer and set it upon the tray, close to the glass of milk. then, with infinite care, he slowly withdrew the top. the flattened needle which depended from it was damp with the dews of death. a tiny bead of crystalline liquid, no bigger than a pin's head, hung from the slanting point. lothian plunged the needle into the glass of milk, moving it this way and that. he heard footsteps on the stairs, and with the same stealthy dexterity he replaced the cap of the bottle and closed the drawer. he was lighting a cigarette when blanche knocked and entered, followed by tumpany. "what is it, tumpany?" he said, as the maid once more took up her tray and left the room with it. "i was thinking, sir, that we haven't got a cleaning rod packed for the ten-bores. i quite forgot it. the twelve-bore rods won't reach through thirty-two-and-a-half barrels. and all the cases are strapped and locked now, sir. you've got the keys." "by jove, no, we never thought of it. but those two special rods i had made at tolley's--where are they?" "here, sir," the man answered going to the gun-cupboard. "oh, very well. unscrew one and stick it in your pocket. we can put it in the case when we're in the train. it's a corridor train, and when we've started you can come along to my carriage and i'll give you the key of the ten-bore case." "very good, sir. the trap's come. i'll just take this suit case down and then i'll get trust. he can sit behind with me." "yes. i'll be down in a minute." tumpany plunged downstairs with the suit case. lothian screwed up the bottle in the drawer and, holding it in his hand, went to his bedroom. he met blanche in the corridor. "mistress is fast asleep, sir," the pleasant-faced girl said, "so i just put her milk on the table and came out quietly." "thank you, blanche. i shall be down in a minute." in his bedroom, lothian poured water into the bowl upon the washstand and shook a few dark red crystals of permanganate of potash into the water, which immediately became a purplish pink. he plunged his hands into this water, with the little bottle, now tightly stoppered again, in one of them. for two minutes he remained thus. then he withdrew his hands and the bottle, drying them on a towel. . . . there was no possible danger of infection now. as for the bottle, he would throw it out of the window of the train when he was a hundred miles from mortland royal. he came out into the corridor once more. his face was florid and too red. close inspection would have disclosed the curiously bruised look of the habitual inebriate. but, in his smart travelling suit of harris tweed, with well-brushed hair, white collar and the "bird's eye" tie that many country gentlemen affect, he was passable enough. a dreamy smile played over his lips. his eyes--not quite so bloodshot this morning--were drowsed with quiet thought. as he was about to descend the stairs he turned and glanced towards a closed door at the end of the passage. it was the door of mary's room and this was his farewell to the wife whose only thought was of him, with whom, in "the blessed bond of board and bed" he had spent the happy years of his first manhood and success. a glance at the closed door; an almost complacent smile; after all those years of holy intimacy this was his farewell. as he descended the stairs, the murderer was humming a little tune. the two maid servants were in the hall to see him go. they were fond of him. he was a kind and generous master. "you're looking much better this morning, sir," said phoebe. she was pretty and privileged. . . . "i'm feeling very well, phoebe. this little trip will do me a lot of good, and i shall bring home lots of birds for you to cook. now mind both you girls look after your mistress well. i shall expect to see her greatly improved when i return. give her my love when she wakes up. don't forward any letters because i am not certain where i shall be. it will be in the blackwater neighbourhood, brightlingsea, or i may make my headquarters at colchester for the three days. but i can't be quite sure. i shall be back in three days." "good morning, sir. i hope you'll have good sport." "thank you, phoebe--that's right, tumpany, put trust on the seat first and then get up yourself--what's the matter with the dog?--never saw him so shy. no, james, you drive--all right?--let her go then." the impatient mare in the shafts of the cart pawed the gravel and was off. the trap rolled out of the drive as lothian lit a cigar. it really was a most perfect early morning, and there was a bloom upon the stubble and mortland royal wood like the bloom upon a plum. the air was keen, the sun bright. the pheasants chuckled in the wood, the mare's feet pounded the hard road merrily. "what a thoroughly delightful morning!" lothian said to the groom at his side and his eyes were still dreamy with subtle content. chapter ix a startling experience for "wog" "the die rang sideways as it fell, rang cracked and thin, like a man's laughter heard in hell. . . ." --_swinburne._ it was nearly seven o'clock in the evening; a dry, acrid, coughing cold lay over london. in the little kensington flat of rita wallace and ethel harrison, the fire was low and almost out. the "lulu bird" drooped on its perch and wog was crying quietly by the fire. how desolate the flat seemed to the faithful wog as she looked round with brimming eyes. the state and arrangement of a familiar room often seem organically related to the human mind. certainly we ourselves give personality to rooms which we have long inhabited; and that personality re-acts upon us at times when event disturbs it. it was so now with the good and tender-hearted clergyman's daughter. the floor of the sitting-room was littered with little pieces of paper and odds and ends of string. upon the piano--it was wog's piano now, a present from rita--was a massive photograph frame of silver. there was no photograph in it, but some charred remains of a photograph which had been burned still lay in the grate. wog had burnt the photograph herself, that morning, early. "you do it, darling," rita had said to her. "i can't do it myself. and take this box. it's locked and sealed. it has the letters in it. i cannot burn them, but i don't want to read them again. i must not, now. but keep it carefully, always. if ever i _should_ ask for it, deliver it to me wherever i am." "you must _never_ ask for it, my darling girl," wog had said quickly. "let me burn the box and its contents." "no, no! you must not, dearest wog, my dear old friend! it would be wrong. rossetti had to open the coffin of his wife to get back the poems which he had buried with her. keep it as i say." wog knew nothing about rossetti, and the inherent value of works of art in manuscript didn't appeal to her. but she had been able to refuse her friend nothing on this morning of mornings. wog was wearing her best frock, a new one, a present also. she had never had so smart a frock before. she held her little handkerchief very carefully that none of the drops that streamed from her eyes should fall upon the dress and stain it. "my bridesmaid dress," she said aloud with a choke of melancholy laughter. "we mustn't spoil it, must we, lulu bird?" but the canary remained motionless upon its perch like a tiny stuffed thing. in one corner of the room was a large corded packing-case. it contained a big and costly epergne of silver, in execrable taste and savouring strongly of the mid-victorian, a period when a choir of great voices sang upon parnassus but the greatest were content to live in surroundings that would drive a minor poet of our era to insanity. this was to be forwarded to wiltshire in a fortnight or so. it was mr. podley's present. wog's eyes fell upon it now. "what a kind good man mr. podley is," she thought. "how anxious he has been to forward everything. and to give dear rita away also!" then this good girl remembered what a happy change in her own life and prospects was imminent. she was to be the head librarian of the podley pure literature institute, vice mr. hands, retired. she was to have two hundred a year and choose her own assistant. mr. and mrs. podley--at whose house ethel had spent some hours--were not exactly what one would call "cultured" people. they were homely; but they were sincere and good. "now you, my dear," mrs. podley had said to her, "are just the lady we want. you are a clergyman's daughter. you have had a business training. the library will be safe in your hands. and we like you! we feel friends to you, miss harrison. 'give it to miss harrison,' i said to my husband, directly i had had a talk with you." "but i know so little about literature," wog had answered. "of course i read, and i have my own little collection of books. but to take charge of a public library--oh, mrs. podley, _do_ you think i shall be able to do it to mr. podley's satisfaction?" mrs. podley had patted the girl upon her arm. "you're a good girl, my dear," she said, "and that is enough for us. we mayn't be literary, my husband and me, but we know a good woman when we meet her. now you just take charge of that library and do exactly as you like. come and have dinner with us every week, dearie. when all's said we're a lonely old couple and a good girl like you, what is clever too, and born a lady, is just what i want. podley shall do something for your dear father. i'll see to that. and your brothers too, just coming from school as they are. leave it to me, my dear!" about rita the good dame had been less enthusiastic. "the evening after podley had to talk to her" (thus mrs. podley) "i asked you both up here. i fell in love with you at once, my dear. her, i didn't like. pretty as a picture; yes! but different somehow! yet sensible enough--really--as p. has told me. when he gave her a talking to, as being an elderly and successful man who employed her he had well a right to do, she saw at once the scandal and wrong of going about with a married man--be he poet or whatnot. it was only her girlish foolishness, of course. poor silly lamb, she didn't know. but what a blessing that all the time she was being courted by that young country squire. i tell you, miss h., that i felt like a mother to them in the church this morning." these kindly memories of this great day passed in reverie through the tear-charged heart of wog. but she was alone now, very much alone. she had adored rita. rita had flown away into another sphere. the lulu bird was a poor consoler! still, wog's sister beatrice was sixteen now. she would have her to live with her and pay her fees for learning secretarial duties at kensington college and mr. munford would find bee a post. . . . wog pulled herself together. she had lost her darling, brilliant, flashing rita. _that was that!_ she must reconstruct her life and press forward without regrets. life had opened out for her, after all. but now, at this immediate moment, there was a necessity for calling all her forces together. she did not know, she had refused to know, how rita had dealt with mr. lothian during the past three weeks. the poet had not written for a fortnight; that she believed she knew, and she had hoped it meant that his passion for her friend was over. rita, in her new-found love, her _legitimate_ love, had never mentioned the poet to wog. ethel knew nothing of love, as far as it could have affected her. yet the girl had discerned--or thought she had--an almost frightened relinquishment and regret on the part of rita. rita had expanded with joyous maiden surrender to the advances and love-making of dickson ingworth. that was her youth, her body. but there had been moments of revolt, moments when the "wizards peeped and muttered," when the intellect of the girl seemed held and captured, as the man who wooed her, and was this day her husband, had never captured it--perhaps never would or could. rita wallace had once said to gilbert lothian that she and ethel did not take a daily paper because of the expense. neither of these girls, therefore, was in the habit of glancing down the births, marriages and deaths column. mr. and mrs. toftrees had run over to nice for a month, ingworth was far too anxious and busy with his appeal to rita--none of the people chiefly concerned had read that the hon. mary lothian, third daughter of the viscount boultone and wife of gilbert lothian, esquire, of the old house, mortland royal, was dead. for a fortnight--this was all ethel harrison knew--rita had received no communication from the poet. ethel imagined that rita had finally sent him about his business, had told him of her quick engagement and imminent marriage. she knew that something had happened with mr. podley--nearly three weeks ago. details she had none. yet, on the mantel-shelf, was a letter in rita's handwriting. it was addressed to gilbert lothian. wog was to forward this to him. the letter was unnerving. it was a letter of farewell, of course, but ethel did not like to handle any message from her dear young bride to a man who was of the past and ought never, _never_! to have been in it. and there was more than this. when ethel had returned from charing cross station, after the early wedding in st. martin's church and the departure of the happy couple for mentone, she had found a telegram pushed through the letter-box of the flat, addressed "miss wallace." she had opened it and read these words: "_arriving to you at : to-night, carissima, to explain all my recent silence if you do not know already. we are coming into our own._ gilbert." wog didn't know what this might mean. she regarded it as one more attempt, on the part of the married man who ought never to have had any connection with rita. she realised that lothian must be absolutely ignorant of rita's marriage. and, knowing nothing of mary lothian's death, she regarded the telegram with disgust and fear. "how dreadful," she thought, in her virgin mind, untroubled always by the lusts of the flesh and the desire of the eyes, "that this great man should run after cupid. he's got his own wife. how angry father would be if he knew. and yet, mr. lothian couldn't help loving cupid, i suppose. every one loves her." "i must be as kind as i can to him when he comes," she said to herself. "he ought to be here almost at once. of course, cupid knows nothing about the telegram saying that he's coming. i can give her letter into his own hands." . . . the bell whirred--ring, ring, ring--was there not something exultant in the shrill purring of the bell? wog looked round the littered room, saw the letter on the mantel, the spread telegram upon the table, breathed heavily and went out into the little hall-passage of the flat. "click," and she opened the door. standing there, wearing a fur coat and a felt hat, was some one she had never met, but whom she knew in an instant. it was gilbert lothian. yet it was not the gilbert lothian she had imagined from his photograph. still less the poet of rita's confidences and the verses of "surgit amari." he looked like a well-dressed doll, just come there, like a quite _convenable_ but rather unreal figure from madame tussaud's! he looked at her for a quick moment and then held out his hand. "i know," he said; "you're wog! i've heard such a lot about you. where's rita? may i come in?--she got my wire?" . . . he was in the little hall before she had time to answer him. mechanically she led the way into the sitting-room. in the full electric light she saw him clearly for the first time. ethel harrison shuddered. she saw a large, white face, with pinkish blotches on it here and there--more particularly at the corners of the mouth and about the nostrils. the face had an impression of immense _power_--of _concentration_. beneath the wavy hair and the straight eyebrows, the eyes gleamed and shot out fire--shifting this way and that. with an extraordinary quickness and comprehension these eyes glanced round the flat and took in its disorder. . . . "she got my wire?" the man said--finding the spread-out pink paper upon the table in an instant. "no, mr. lothian," ethel harrison said gravely. "rita never got your wire. it came too late." the glaring light faded out of the man's eyes. his voice, which had been suave and oily, changed utterly. ethel had wondered at his voice immediately she heard it. it was like that of some shopman selling silks--a fat voice. it had been difficult for her to believe that _this_ was gilbert lothian. rita's great friend, the famous man, her father's favourite modern poet. but she heard a _voice_ now, a real, vibrant voice. "too late?" he questioned. "too late for _what_?" ethel nodded sadly. "i see, mr. lothian," she said, "that you are already beginning to understand that you have to hear things that will distress you." lothian bowed. as he did so, _something_ flashed out upon the great bloated mask his face had become. it was for a second only, but it was sweet and chivalrous. "and will you tell me then, miss harrison?" he said in a voice that was beginning to tremble violently. his whole body was beginning to shake, she saw. with one hand he was opening the button of his fur coat. he looked up at her with a perfectly white, perfectly composed, but dreadfully questioning face. certainly his body _was_ shaking all over--it was as though little ripples were running up and down the flesh of it--but his face was a white mask of attention. "oh, mr. lothian!" the girl cried, "i am so sorry. i am so very sorry for you. you couldn't help loving her perhaps, i am only a girl, i don't pretend to know. but you must be brave. rita is married!" puffed and crinkled lids fell over the staring eyes for a moment--as if automatic pressure had suddenly pushed them down. "_married?_ rita?" "oh, she ought to have told you! it was cruel of her! she ought to have told you. but you have not written to her for two or three weeks--as far as i know. . . ." "_married?_ rita?" "yes, this morning, and mr. podley gave her away. but i have a letter for you, mr. lothian. rita asked me to post it. she gave it me in bed this morning, before i dressed her for her marriage. of course she didn't know that you were going to be in town. i will give it to you now." she gave him the letter. his hands took it with a mechanical gesture, though he made a little bow of thanks. underneath the heavy fur coat, the man's body was absolutely rippling up and down--it was horrible. the eyelids fell again. the voice became sleepy, childish almost. . . . "but _i_ have come to marry rita!" wog became indignant. "mr. lothian," she said, "you ought not to speak like that before me. how could you have married rita. you _are_ married. please don't even hint at such things." "how stupid you are, wog," he said, as if he had known her for years; in much the same sort of voice that rita would have said it. "my wife's dead, dead and buried. . . . i thought you would both have known. . . ." his trembling hands were opening the letter which rita wallace had left for him. he drew the page out of the envelope and then he looked up at ethel harrison again. there was a dreadful yearning in his voice now. "yes, yes, but _whom_ has my little rita married?" real fear fell upon ethel now. she became aware that this man had not realised what had happened in any way. but the whole thing was too painful. it must be got over at once. "mr. ingworth dickson, of course," she answered, with some sharpness in her tones. for a minute lothian looked at her as if she were the horizon. then he nodded. "oh, dicker," he said in a perfectly uninterested voice--"yes, dicker--just her man, of course. . . ." he was reading the letter now. this was rita's farewell letter. "_gilbert dear_: "i shall always read your books and poems, and i shall always think of you. we have been tremendous friends, and though we shall never meet again, we shall always think of each other, shan't we? i am going to marry dicker to-morrow morning, and by the time you see this--wog will send it--i shall be married. of course we mustn't meet or write to each other any more. you are married and i'm going to be to-morrow. but do think of your little friend sometimes, gilbert. she will often think of you and read _all_ you write." lothian folded up the letter and replaced it in its envelope with great precision. then he thrust it in the inner breast pocket of his coat. wog watched him, in deadly fear. she knew now that elemental forces had been at work, that her lovely rita had evoked soul-shaking, sundering strengths. . . . but gilbert lothian came towards her with both hands outstretched. "oh, i thank you, i thank you a thousand times," he said, "for all your goodness to rita--how happy you must have been together--you two girls----" he had taken both her hands in his. now he dropped them suddenly. something, something quite beautiful, which had been upon his face, snapped away. the kindness and welcome in his eyes changed to a horror-struck stare. he began to murmur and burble at the back of his throat. his arms shot stiffly this way and that, like the arms of railway signals. he ran to one wall and slapped a flat palm upon it. "tumpany!" he said with a giggle. "my wild-fowling man! mary used to like him, so i suppose he's all right. but, damn him, looking out of the wall like that with his ugly red face!--" he began to sing. his lips were dark-red and cracked, his eyes fixed and staring. "tiddle-iddle, iddle-tiddle, so the green frog said in the garden!" saliva dropped from the corners of his mouth. his body was jerking like a puppet of a marionette display, actuated by unseen strings. he began to dance. blazing eyes, dropping sweat and saliva, twitching, awful body. . . . she left him dancing clumsily like a performing bear. she fled hurriedly down to the office of the commissionaire. when the man, his assistant and miss harrison returned to the flat, lothian was writhing on the floor in the last stages of delirium tremens. as they carried him, tied and bound, to the nearest hospital, they had to listen to a cryptic, and to them, meaningless mutter that never ceased. ". . . dingworth ickson, rary, mita. sorten mims. ha, ha! ha! tubes of poison--damn them all, blast them all--jesus of the cross! my wife's face as she lay there dead, forgiving me! "--rita you pup of a girl, going off with a boy like dicker. rita! rita! you're mine--don't make such a howling noise, my girl, you'll create a scandal--rita! rita!--damn you, _can't_ you keep quiet? "all right, mary darling. but why have you got on a sheet instead of a nightdress? mary! why have they tied your face up under the chin with that handkerchief? and what's that you're holding out to me on your pale hand? is that the _membrane_? is that really the diphtheria _membrane_ which choked you?--come closer, let me see, old chalk-faced girl. . . ." at the hospital the house-surgeon on duty who admitted him said that death _must_ supervene within twelve or fourteen hours. he had not seen a worse case. but when he realised who the fighting, tied, gibbering and obscene object really was, bells rang in the private rooms of celebrated doctors. the pulsing form was isolated. young doctors came to look with curiosity upon the cursing mass of flesh that quivered beneath the broad bands of webbing which held it down. older doctors stood by the bed with eyes full of anxiety and pain as they regarded what was once gilbert lothian; bared the twitching arms and pressed the hypodermic needles into the loose bunches of skin that skilled, pitiful fingers were pinching and gathering. when they had calmed the twitching figure somewhat, the famous physicians who had been hastily called, stood in a little group some distance from the bed, consulting together. two younger men who sat on each side of the cot looked over the body and grinned. "the christian poet, oh, my eye!" said one. "surgit amari aliquid," the other replied with a disgusted sneer. end of book three epilogue a year later "a broken and a contrite heart, o lord, thou wilt not despise." what occurred at the edward hall in kingsway "ah! happy they whose hearts can break and peace of pardon win! how else may man make straight his plan and cleanse his soul from sin? how else but through a broken heart may lord christ enter in?" --_the ballad of reading gaol._ a great deal of interest in high quarters, both in london and new york was being taken in the meeting of leading workers in the cause of temperance that was to be held in kingsway this afternoon. the new edward hall, that severe building of white stone which was beginning to be the theatre of so many activities and which was so frequently quoted as a monument of good taste and inspiration on the part of frank flemming, the new architect, had been engaged for the occasion. the meeting was to be at three. it was unique in this way--the heads of every party were to be represented and were about to make common cause together. the scientific and the non-scientific workers for the suppression and cure of inebriety had been coming very much together during the last years. never hostile to each other, they had suffered from a mutual lack of understanding in the past. now there was to be an _entente cordiale_ that promised great things. one important fact had contributed to this _rapprochement_. the earnest christian workers and ardent sociologists were now all coming to realise that inebriety is a disease and not, specifically, a vice. the doctors had known this, had been preaching this for years. but the time had arrived when religious workers in the same cause were beginning to find that they could with safety join hands with those who (as they had come to see) _knew_ and could define the springs of action which made people intemperate. the will of the intemperate individual was weakened by a _disease_. the doctors had shown and proved this beyond possibility of doubt. it was a _disease_. its various causes were discovered and put upon record. its pathology was as clearly stated as a proposition in euclid. its psychology was, at last, beginning to be understood. and it was on the basis of psychology that the two parties were meeting. science could take a drunkard--though really only with the drunkard's personal connivance and earnest wish to reform--and in a surprisingly short time, varying with individual cases, restore him to the world sane, and in health. but as far as individual cases went, science professed itself able to do little more than this. it could give a man back his health of mind and body, it could--thus--enable him to recall his soul from the red hells where it had strayed. but it could not enable the man to _retain_ the gifts. religion stepped in here. christianity and those who professed it said that faith in christ, and that only, could preserve the will; that, to put it shortly, a personal love of jesus, a heart that opened itself to the mysterious operations of the holy spirit would be immune from the disease for ever more. christian workers proved their contention by statistics as clear and unmistakable as any other. there was still one great question to be agreed upon. religion and science, working together, _could_, and _did_, cure the _individual_ drunkard. sometimes science had done this without the aid of religion, more often religion had done it without the aid of science--that is to say that while science had really been at work all the time religion had not been aware of it and had not professedly called science in to help. to eradicate the disease from individuals was being done every day by the allied forces. to eradicate the disease from nations, to stamp it out as cholera, yellow fever, and the bubonic plague was being stamped out--that was the question at issue. that was, after all, the supreme question. now, every one was beginning--only beginning--to understand that recent scientific discovery had made this wonderful thing possible. yellow fever had been destroyed upon the isthmus of panama. small-pox which ravaged countries in the past, was no more than a very occasional and restricted epidemic now. soon--in all human probability--tuberculosis and cancer would be conquered. the remedy for the disease of inebriety was at hand. sanitary inspectors and medical officers had enormous power in regard to other diseases. people who disregarded their orders and so spread disease were fined and imprisoned. it was penal to do so. in order that this beneficent state of things should come about, the scientists had fought valiantly against many fetishes. they had fought for years, and with the spread of knowledge they had conquered. now the biggest fetish of all was tottering on its foolish throne. the last idol in the temples of dagon, the houses of rimmon and the sacred groves was attacked. the great "procreation fetish" remained. were drunkards to be allowed to have children without state restriction, or were they not? that was the question which some of the acutest and most altruistic minds of the english speaking races were about to meet and discuss this afternoon. * * * * * dr. morton sims drove down to the edward hall a little after two o'clock. the important conference was to begin at three, but the doctor had various matters to arrange first and he was in a slightly nervous and depressed state. it was a grey day and a sharp east wind was blowing. people in the streets wore furs and heavy coats; london seemed excessively cheerless. it was but rarely that morton sims felt as he did as this moment. but the day, or probably (as he thought) a recent spell of over-work, took the pith out of him. "it is difficult to avoid doing too much--for a man in my position," he thought. "life is so short and there is such an infinity of work. oh, that i could see england in a fair way to become sober before i die! still i must go on hard. 'il faut cultiver notre jardin.'" he went at once to a large and comfortable room adjoining the platform of the big hall and communicating with it by a few steps and two doors, one of red baize. it was used as the artists' room when concerts were given, as a committee room now. a bright fire burned upon the hearth, round which were several padded armchairs, and over the mantel-shelf was an excellent portrait in oils of king edward the seventh. the doctor took up a printed agenda of the meeting from a table. bishop moultrie was to be in the chair and the list of names beneath his was in the highest degree influential and representative. there were two or three peers--not figure heads but men who had done and were doing great work in the world. mr. justice harley--sir edward harley on the programme--would be there. lady harold buckingham, than whose name none was more honoured throughout the empire for her work in the cause of temperance, several leading medical men, and--mrs. julia daly, who had once more crossed the atlantic and had arrived the night before at the savoy. edith morton sims, who was lecturing in the north of england, could not be present to-day, but she was returning to town at the end of the week, when mrs. daly was to leave the hotel and once more take up her residence with morton sims and his sister. in a few minutes there was a knock at the door. the doctor answered, it was opened by a commissionaire, and julia daly came in. morton sims took her two hands and held them, his face alight with pleasure and greeting. "this is good," he said fervently. "i have waited for this hour. i cannot say how glad i am to see you, julia. you have heard from edith?" "the dear girl! yes. there was a letter waiting for me at the savoy when i arrived last night. i am to come to you both on saturday." "yes. it will be so jolly, just like old times. now let me congratulate you a thousand times on your great work in america. every one over here has been reading of your interview with the president. it was a great stroke. and he really is interested?" "immensely. it is genuine. he was most kind and there is no doubt but that he will be heart and soul with us in the future. the campaign is spreading everywhere. and, most significant of all, _we are capturing the prohibitionists_." "ah! that will mean everything." "everything, because they are the most earnest workers of all. but they have seen that prohibition has proved itself an impossibility. they have failed despite their whole-hearted and worthy endeavours. naturally they have become disheartened. but they are beginning to see the truth of our proposal. the scientific method is gaining ground as they realise it more and more. in a year or two those states which legislated prohibition, will legislate in another way and penalise the begetting of children by known drunkards. that seems to me certain. after that the whole land may, i pray god, follow suit." she had taken off her heavy sable coat and was sitting in a chair by the fireside. informed with deep feeling and that continuous spring of hope and confidence which gave her so much of her power, the deep contralto rang like a bell in the room. morton sims leant against the mantel-shelf and looked down on his friend. the face was beautiful and inspired. it represented the very flower of intellect and patriotism, breadth, purity, strength. "ah!" he thought, "the figure of britannia upon our coins and in our symbolic pictures, or the latin dame of liberty with the phrygian cap, is not so much england or france as this woman is america, the soul of the west in all its power and beauty. . . ." his reverie was broken in upon by her voice, not ringing with enthusiasm now, but sad and purely womanly. "tell me," she was saying, "have you heard or found out anything of gilbert lothian, the poet?" morton sims shook his head. "it remains an impenetrable mystery," he said. "no one knows anything." tears came into mrs. daly's eyes. "i loved that woman," she said. "i loved mary lothian. a clearer, more transparent soul never joined the saints in paradise. among the many, many things for which i have to thank you, there is nothing i have valued more than the letter from you which sent me to her at nice. mary lothian was the sweetest woman i have ever met, or ever shall meet. sometimes god puts such women into the world for examples. her death grieved me more than i can say." "it was very sudden." "terribly. we travelled home together. she was leaving her dying sister in the deepest sadness. but she was going home full of holy determination to save her husband. i never met any woman who loved a man more than mary lothian loved gilbert lothian. what a wonderful man he must have been, might have been, if the disease had not ruined him. i think his wife would have saved him had she lived. he is alive, i suppose?" "it is impossible to say. i should say not. all that is known is as follows. a fortnight or so after his wife's funeral, lothian, then in a very dangerous state, travelled to london. he was paying a call at some house in the west end when delirium tremens overtook him at last. he was taken to the kensington hospital. most cases of delirium tremens recover but it was thought that this was beyond hope. however, as soon as it was known who he was, some of the best men in town were called. i understand it was touch and go. the case presented unusual symptoms. there was something behind it which baffled treatment for a time." "but he _was_ cured?" "yes, they pulled him through somehow. then he disappeared. the house in norfolk and its contents were sold through a solicitor. a man that lothian had, a decent enough servant and very much attached to his master, has been pensioned for life--an annuity, i think. he may know something. the general opinion in the village is that he does know something--i have kept on my house in mortland royal, you must know. but this tumpany is as tight as wax. and that's all." "he has published nothing?" "not a line of any sort whatever. i was dining with amberley, the celebrated publisher, the other day. he published the two or three books of poems that made lothian famous. but he has heard nothing. he even told me that there is a considerable sum due to lothian which remains unclaimed. of course lothian is well off in other ways. but stay, though, i did hear a rumour!" "and what was that?" "well, i dined at amberley's house--they have a famous dining-room you must know, where every one has been, and it's an experience. there was a party after dinner, and i was introduced to a man called toftrees--he's a popular novelist and a great person in his own way i believe." julia daly nodded. she was intensely interested. "i know the name," she said. "go on." "well, this fellow toftrees, who seems a decent sort of man, told me that he believed that gilbert lothian was killing himself with absinthe and brandy in paris. some one had seen him in maxim's or some such place, a dreadful sight. this was three or four months ago, so, if it's true, the poor fellow must be dead by now." "requiescat," julia daly said reverently. "but i should have liked to have known that his dear wife's prayers in heaven had saved him here." morton sims did not answer and there was a silence between them for a minute or two. the doctor was remembering a dreadful scene in the north london prison. . . . "if gilbert lothian still lived he must look like that awful figure in the condemned cell had looked--like his insane half-brother, the cunning murderer--" morton sims shuddered and his eyes became fixed in thought. he had told no living soul of what he had learned that night. he never would tell any one. but it all came back to him with extreme vividness as he gazed into the fire. some memory-cell in his brain, long dormant and inactive, was now secreting thought with great rapidity, and, with these dark memories--it was as though some curtain had suddenly been withdrawn from a window unveiling the sombre picture of a storm--something new and more horrible still started into his mind. it passed through and vanished in a flash. his will-power beat it down and strangled it almost ere it was born. but it left his face pale and his throat rather dry. it was now twenty minutes to three, as the square marble clock upon the mantel showed, and immediately, before julia daly and morton sims spoke again, two people came into the room. both were clergymen. first came bishop moultrie. he was a large corpulent man with a big red face. heavy eyebrows of black shaded eyes of a much lighter tint, a kind of blue green. the eyes generally twinkled with good-humour and happiness, the wide, genial mouth was vivid with life and pleasant tolerance, as a rule. a fine strong, forthright man with a kindly personality. morton sims stepped up to him. "my dear william," he said, shaking him warmly by the hand. "so here you are. let me introduce you to mrs. daly. julia, let me introduce the bishop to you. you both know of each other very well. you have both wanted to meet for a long time." the bishop bowed to mrs. daly and both she and the doctor saw at once that something was disturbing him. the face only held the promise and possibility of geniality. it was anxious, and stern with some inward thought; very distressed and anxious. and when a large, fleshy, kindly face wears this expression, it is most marked. "please excuse me," the bishop said to julia daly. "i have indeed looked forward to the moment of meeting you. but something has occurred, mrs. daly, which occupies my thoughts, something very unusual. . . ." both morton sims--who knew his old friend so well--and julia daly--who knew so much of the bishop by repute--looked at him with surprise upon their faces and waited to hear more. the bishop turned round to where the second priest was standing by the door. "this is father joseph edward," he said, "abbot of the monastery upon the lizard promontory in cornwall. he has come with me this afternoon upon a special mission." the newcomer was a slight, dark-visaged man who wore a black cape over his cassock, and a soft clerical hat. he seemed absolutely undistinguished, but the announcement of his name thrilled the man and woman by the fire. the priest bowed slightly. there was little or no expression to be discerned upon his face. but the others in the room knew who he was at once. father joseph edward was a hidden force in the church or england. he was a peer's son who had flashed out at oxford, fifteen years before, as one of the cleverest, wildest, most brilliant and devil-may-care undergraduates who had ever been at "the house." both by reason of wealth and position, but also by considered action, he had escaped authoritative condemnation and had been allowed to take his first in lit. hum. but, as every one knew at his time adrian rathlone had been one of the wildest, wealthiest and wickedest young men of his generation. and then, as all the world heard, adrian rathlone had taken holy orders. he had worked in the east end of london for a time, and had then founded his cornish monastery by permission of the chapter and bishop of truro. from the far west of england, where she stretches out her granite foot to spurn the onslaught of the atlantic, it had become known that broken and contrite hearts might leave london and life, to seek, and find peace upon the purple moors of the west. "but now, john," the bishop said to morton sims, "i want to tell you something. i want to explain a very important alteration in the agenda. . . ." there was no doubt about it whatever, the bishop's usually calm and suave voice was definitely disturbed. he and morton sims bent over the table together looking at the printed paper. the bishop had a fat gold pencil case in his hand and was pointing to names upon the programme. mrs. daly, from her seat by the fire, watched her friend, morton sims, with _his_ friend, william denisthorpe moultrie, father in god, with immense interest. she was interested extremely in the bishop's obvious perturbation, but even more so to see these two celebrated men standing together and calling each other by their christian names like boys. she knew that they had been at harrow and oxford together, she knew that despite their disagreements upon many points they had always been fast friends. "what boys nice men are after all," she thought with a slight sympathetic contraction of her throat. "'william'! 'john'!--our men in america are not very often like that--but what, what is the bishop saying?" her face became almost rigid with attention as she caught a certain name. even as she did so the bishop spoke in an undertone to morton sims, and then glanced slightly in her direction with a hint of a question in his eyes. "mrs. daly, william," morton sims said, "is on the committee. she is one of my greatest friends and, perhaps, the greatest friend edith has in the world. she was also a great friend of mrs. lothian and knew her well. you need not have the slightest hesitation in saying anything you wish before her." julia daly rose from her seat, her heart was beating strangely. "what is this?" she said in her gentle, but almost regal way. "why, my lord, the doctor and i were only talking of gilbert lothian and his saintly wife a moment or two ago. have you news of the poet?" the bishop, still with his troubled, anxious face, turned to her with a faint smile. "i did not know, mrs. daly," he said, "that you took any interest in lothian, but yes, i have news." "then you can solve the mystery?" julia daly said. the bishop sighed. "if you mean," he said, "why mr. lothian has disappeared from the world for a year, i can at least tell you what he has been doing. john here tells me that you have known all about him, so that i am violating no confidences. after his wife's death, poor lothian became very seriously ill in consequence of his excesses. he was cured eventually, but one night--it was late at night in norfolk--some one, quite unlike the gilbert lothian i had known, came to my house. it was like a ghost coming. he told me many strange and terrible things, and hinted that he could have told me more, though i forbade him. with every appearance of contrition, with his face streaming with tears--ah, if ever during my career as a priest i have seen a broken and a contrite heart i saw it then--he wished, he told me, to work out his soul's release, to go away from the world utterly and to fight the fiend alcohol. he would go into no home, would submit to no legal restraint. he wished to fight the devil that possessed him with no other aids than spiritual ones. i sent him to father joseph edward." "and he has cured himself?" the american lady said in a tone which so rang and vibrated through the committee room, with eyes in which such gladness was dawning, that the three men there looked at her as if they had seen a vision. the monkish-looking clergyman replied. "quite cured," he said gravely. "he is saved in body and saved in soul. you say his wife, madam, was a saint: i think, madam, that our friend is not very far from it now." he stopped suddenly, almost jerkily, and his dark, somewhat saturnine face became watchful and with a certain fear in it. what all this might mean john morton sims was at a loss to understand. that it meant something, something very out of the ordinary, he was very well aware. william moultrie was not himself--that was very evident. and he had brought this odd, mediæval parson with him for some special reason. morton sims was not very sympathetic toward the middle age. spoken to-day the word "abbot" or "father"--used ecclesiastically--always affected him with slight disgust. nevertheless, he nodded to the bishop and turned to mrs. daly. "gilbert lothian is coming here during this afternoon," he said. "the bishop has specially asked me to arrange that he shall speak during the conference. it seems he has come specially from mullion in cornwall to be present this afternoon. father joseph edward has brought him. it seems that he has something important to say." for some reason or other, what it was the doctor could not have said, julia daly seemed strangely excited at the news. "such testimony as his," she said, "coming from such a man as that, will be a wonderful experience. in fact i do not know that there will ever have been anything like it." morton sims had not quite realised this aspect of the question. he had wondered, when moultrie had insisted upon putting lothian's name down as the third speaker during the afternoon. moultrie was perfectly within his rights, of course, as chairman, but it seemed rather a drastic thing to do. it was a disturbance of settled order, and the scientific mind unconsciously resented it. now, however, the scientific mind realised the truth of what julia daly had said. of course, if gilbert lothian was really going to make a confession, and obviously that was what he was coming here for under the charge of this dark-visaged "abbot"--then indeed it would be extremely valuable. thousands of people who had been "converted" and cured from drunkenness had "given their experiences" upon temperance platforms, but they had invariably been people of the lower classes. while their evidence as to the reality of their conversion--their change--was valuable and real, they were incapable one and all of giving any details of value to the student and psychologist. "yes!" morton sims said suddenly, "if mr. lothian is going to speak, then we shall gain very much from what he says." but he noticed that the bishop's face did not become less troubled and anxious than before. he saw also that the silent clergyman sitting by the opposite wall showed no sympathetic interest in his point of view. he himself began to experience again that sense of uneasiness and depression which he had experienced all day, and especially during his drive to the edward hall, but which had been temporarily dispelled by the arrival of mrs. daly. in a minute or two, however, great people began to arrive in large numbers. the bishop, morton sims and mrs. daly were shaking hands and talking continuously. as for morton sims, he had no time to think any more about the somewhat untoward incidents in the committee room. the meeting began. the edward hall is a very large building with galleries and boxes. the galleries now, by a clever device, were all hung round with dark curtains. this made the hall appear much smaller and prevented the sparseness of the audience having a depressing effect upon those who addressed it. only some three hundred and fifty people attended this conference. the general public were not asked. admission was by invitation. the three hundred and fifty people who had come were, however, the very pick and élite of those interested in the temperance cause and instrumental in forwarding it from their various standpoints. bishop moultrie made a few introductory remarks. then he introduced sir edward harley, the judge. the judge was a small keen-faced man. without his frame of horse hair and robe of scarlet he at first appeared insignificant and without personality. but that impression was dispelled directly he began to speak. the quiet, keen, incisive voice, so precise and scholarly of phrase, so absolutely germane to the thought, and so illuminating of it, held some of the keenest minds in england as with a spell for twenty minutes. mr. justice harley advocated penal restriction upon the multiplication of drunkards in the most whole-hearted way. he did not go into the arguments for and against the proposed measure, but he gave illustrations from his own experience as to its absolute necessity and value. he mentioned one case in which he had been personally concerned which intensely interested his audience. it was that of a murderer. the man had murdered his wife under circumstances of callous cunning. in all other respects the murderer had lived a hard-working and blameless life. he had become infatuated with another woman, but the crime, which had taken nearly a month in execution, had been committed entirely under the influence of alcohol. "under the influence of that terrible amnesic dream-phase which our medical friends tell us of," the judge said. "as was my duty as an officer of the law i sent that man to his death. under existing conditions of society i think that what i was compelled to do was the best thing that could have been done. but i may say to you, my lord, my lords, ladies and gentlemen that it was not without a bitter personal shrinking that i sent that poor man to pay the penalty of his crime. the mournful bell which dr. archdall reed has tolled is his 'study in heredity' was sounding in my ears as i did so. that is one of the reasons why i am here this afternoon to support the only movement which seems to have within it the germ of public freedom from the devastating disease of alcoholism." the judge concluded and sat down in his seat. bishop moultrie rose and introduced the next speaker with a few prefatory remarks. morton sims who was sitting next sir edward whispered in his ear. "may i ask, sir edward," he said, "if you were referring just now to hancock, the hackney murderer?" the little judge nodded. "yes," he whispered, "but how did you know, sims?" "oh, i knew all about him before his condemnation," the doctor replied. "in fact i took a special interest in him. i was with him the night before his execution and i assisted at the autopsy the next day." the judge gave a keen glance at his friend and nodded. the bishop in the chair now read a few brief statements as to the progress of the work that was being done. lady harold buckingham was down to speak next. she sat on the bishop's left hand, and it was obvious to the audience that she understood his next remark. "you all have the printed programme in your hands," said the bishop, "and from it you will see that lady harold is set down to address you next. but i have--" his voice changed a little and became uncertain and had a curious note of apprehension in it--"i have to ask you to give your attention to another speaker, whose wish to address the meeting has only recently been conveyed to me, but whose right to do so is, in my judgment, indubitable. he has, i understand from father joseph who has brought him here, something to say to us of great importance." there was a low murmur and rustle among the audience, as well as among the semicircle of people on the dais. the name of father joseph edward attracted instant attention. every one knew all about him; the slight uneasiness on the bishop's face had not been unremarked. they all felt that something unusual and stimulating was imminent. "it is mr. gilbert lothian," the bishop went on, "who wishes to address you. his name will be familiar to every one here. i do not know, and have not the least idea, as to what mr. lothian is about to say. all i know is that he is most anxious to speak this afternoon, and, even at this late hour pressure has been put upon me to alter the programme in this regard, which it is impossible for me to resist." now every one in the hall knew that some sensation was impending. people nodded and whispered; people whispered and nodded. there was almost an apprehension in the air. why had this poet risen from the tomb as it were--this poet whose utter disappearance from social and literary life had been a three weeks' wonder--this poet whom everybody thought was dead, who, in his own personality, had become but a faint name to those who still read and were comforted by his poems. very many of that distinguished company had met gilbert lothian. nobody had known him well. his appearances in london society had been fugitive and he had shown no desire to enter into the great world. but still the best people had nearly all met him once or twice, and in the minds of most of them, especially the women, there was a not ungrateful memory of a man who talked well, had quite obviously no axe to grind, no personal effort to further, who was only himself and pleased to be where he was. they were all talking to each other in low voices, wondering what the scandal was, wondering why gilbert lothian had disappeared, waked up to the fact of him, when lothian himself came upon the platform. mr. justice harley vacated his seat and took the next chair, while lothian sat down on the right of the chairman. some people noticed--but those were only a very few--that the dark figure of a clergyman in a monastic cape and cassock came upon the platform at the same time and sat down in the far background. afterwards, everybody said that they had noticed the entrance of father joseph edward and wondered at it. as a matter of fact hardly anybody did. the bishop rose and placed his hands upon the little table before him. he coughed. his voice was not quite as adequate as usual. this is what he said. "mr. gilbert lothian, whose name all of you must know and whose works i am sure most of you, like myself, have in the most grateful remembrance, desires to address you." that was all the bishop said--he made a motion with his hand and gilbert lothian rose from his chair and took two steps to the front of the platform. those present saw a young man of medium height, neither fat nor slim, and with a very beautiful face. it was pale but the contour was perfect. certainly it was very pale, but the eyes were bright and the æsthetic look and personality of the poet fitted in very well with what people had known of him in the past. only morton sims, who was sitting within arm's reach of lothian--and perhaps half a dozen other people who knew rather more than the rest--were startled at what seemed to be a transformation. as lothian began to speak father joseph edward glided from his seat, and leant over the back of dr. morton sims' chair. this was a rather extraordinary proceeding and at any other time it would have been immediately remarked upon. as it was, the first words which gilbert lothian spoke held the audience so immediately that they forgot, or did not see the watchful waiting "abbot of mullion." in the first place gilbert lothian was perfectly self-possessed. he was so self-possessed that his initial sentence created a sensation. his way and manner were absolutely different from the ordinary speaker--however self-possessed he may be. the poet's self-possession had a quality of rigidity and automatism which thrilled every one. yet, it was not an automaton which spoke in the clear, vibrating voice that gilbert lothian used. the voice was terrible in its appeal--even in the first sentence of the memorable speech. it was the sense of a personality standing in bonds, impelled and controlled by something outside it and above it--it was this that hushed all movement and murmur, that focussed all eyes as the poet began. the opening words of the poet were absolutely strange and unconventional, but spoken quite simply and in very short sentences. in the first instance it had been decided that reporters were not to be admitted to this conference. eventually that decision had been altered and a gentleman representing the principal press agency, together with a couple of assistants, sat at a small table just below the platform. it is from the shorthand transcript of the press agent and his colleagues that the few words gilbert lothian spoke have been arranged and set down here. those who were present have read the words over and over again. they have remembered the gusts of emotion, of fear, of gladness--all wafted from the wings of tragedy, and perhaps illuminated by the light of heaven, that passed through the edward hall on this afternoon. . . . he was speaking. "i have only a very few words to say. i want what i say to remain in your minds. i am speaking to you, as i am speaking, for that reason. i beg and pray that this will be of help. you see--" he made an infinitely pathetic gesture of his hands and a wan smile came upon his face--"you see you will be able to use my confession for the sake of others. that is the reason----" here lothian stopped. his face became whiter than ever. his hand went up to his throat as if there was some obstruction there. bishop moultrie handed him a glass of water. he took it, with a hand that trembled exceedingly. he drank a little but spilt more than he drank. the black clothed figure of the priest half rose and took the glass from the poet. all the people there sat very still. some of them saw the priest hold up something before the speaker's face--a little bronze something. a crucifix. the bishop covered his face with his hands and never looked up again. gilbert went on. "you have come here," he said, "to make a combined effort to kill alcoholism. i have come to show you in one single instance what alcoholism means." some one right at the back of the hall gave a loud hysterical sob. the speaker trembled, recovered himself by a great effort and went on. "i had everything;" he said with difficulty, "god gave me everything, almost. i had money to live in comfort; i achieved a certain sort of fame; my life, my private life, was surrounded by the most angelic and loving care." his figure swayed, his voice fainted into a whisper. dr. morton sims had now covered his face with his hands. mrs. julia daly was staring at the speaker. her eyes were just interrogation. there was no horror upon her face. her lips were parted. the man continued. "drink," he said, "began in me, caught me up, twisted me, destroyed me. the terrible false ego, which many of you must know of, entered into my mind, dominated, and destroyed it. "i was possessed of a devil. all decent thoughts, all the natural happinesses of my station, all the gifts and pleasant outlooks upon life which god had given went, not gradually, but swiftly away. something that was not myself came into me and made me move, and walk, and talk as a minion of hell. "i do not know what measure of responsibility remained to me when i did what i did. but this i know, that i have been and am the blackest, most hideous criminal that lives to-day." the man's voice was trembling dreadfully now, quite unconsciously his left hand was gripping the shoulder of the abbot of mullion. his eyes blazed, his voice was so forlorn, so hopeless and poignant that there was not a sound among the several hundreds there. "my lord,--" he turned to the bishop with the very slightest inclination of his head--"ladies and gentlemen, i killed my wife. "my wife--" the bishop had risen from his chair and father joseph edward was supporting the swaying figure with the pale, earnest face.--"my wife loved me, and kept me and held me and watched over me as few men's wives have ever done. i stole poison with which to kill her. i stole poison from, from you, doctor!" he turned to dr. morton sims and the doctor sat in his seat as if frozen to it by fear. "yes! i stole it from you! you were away in paris. you had been making experiments. in the cupboard in the laboratory which you had taken from old admiral custance, i knew that there were phials of organic poisons. my wife died of diphtheria. she died of it because i had robbed your bottles--i did so and took the poison home and arranged that mary. . . ." there was a loud murmur in the body of the hall. a loud murmur stabbed with two or three faint shrieks from women. the bishop again leant over the table with his hands over his face. morton sims was upon his feet. his hands were on lothian's arm, his voice was pleading. "no! no!" he stammered. "you mustn't say these things. you, you----" gilbert lothian looked into the face of his old friend for a second. then he brushed his arm away and came right to the edge of the platform. as he spoke once more he did not seem like any quite human person. his face was dead white, his hands fell at his sides--only his eyes were awake and his voice was vibrant. "i am a murderer. i killed and murdered with cunning, long-continued thought, the most sweet and saintly woman that i have ever known. she was my wife. why i did this i need not say. you can all make in your minds and formulate the picture of a poisoned man lusting after a strange woman. "but i did this. i did this thing--you shall hear it and it shall reverberate in your minds. i am a murderer. i say it quite calmly, waiting for the inevitable result, and i tell you that alcohol, and that alcohol alone has made me what i am. "this, too, i must say. disease, or demoniacal possession, as it may be, i have emerged from both. i have held god's lamp to my breast. "there is only one cure for alcoholism. there is only one influence that can come and catch up and surround and help and comfort the sodden man. "that is the influence of the holy spirit." as he concluded there was a loud uproar in the edward hall. upon the platform the well-known people there were gazing at him, surrounding him, saying, muttering this and that. the people in the body of the hall had risen in horrified groups and were stretching out their hands towards the platform. the meeting which had promised so much in the cause of temperance was now totally dissolved--as far as its agenda went. the people dispersed very gradually, talking among themselves in low and horror-struck voices. it was now a few minutes before five o'clock. in the committee room--where the bright fire was still burning--gilbert lothian remained. the judge, the several peers, had hurried through without a glance at the man sitting by the fireside. lady harold buckingham, as she went through, had stopped, bowed, and held out her hand. she had been astonished that gilbert lothian had risen, taken her hand and spoken to her in quite the ordinary fashion of society. she too had gone. the bishop had shaken gilbert lothian by the hand and nodded at him as who should say, "now we understand each other--good-bye." only morton sims, julia daly and the priest had waited. they had not to wait long. there came a loud and authoritative knock at the door, within an hour of the breaking up of the conference. gilbert lothian rose, as a pleasant-looking man in dark clothes with a heavy moustache entered the room. "mr. gilbert lothian, i think," the pleasant-looking man said, staring immediately at the poet. gilbert made a slight inclination of his head. the pleasant-looking man pulled a paper out of his pocket and read something. gilbert bowed again. "it is only a short distance, mr. lothian," said the pleasant-looking man cheerfully, "and i am sure you will go with me perfectly quietly." as he said it he gave a half jerk of his head towards the corridor where, quite obviously, satellites were waiting. gilbert lothian put out his hands. one wrist was crossed over the other. "i am not at all sure," he said, "that i shall come with you quietly, so please put the manacles upon my wrists." the pleasant gentleman did so. father joseph edward followed the pleasant gentleman and gilbert lothian. as the little cortège turned out of the committee room, julia daly turned to dr. morton sims. her face was radiant. "oh," she said, "at last i know!" "you know?" he said, horror still struggling within him, much as he would have wished to control it, "you know nothing, julia! you do not know that the dreadful power of heredity has repeated itself within a circumscribed pattern. you do not know that this man, lothian, has done--in his own degree and in his own way--just what a bastard brother of his did two years ago. the man who was begotten by gilbert lothian's father killed his wife. gilbert lothian has done so too." the woman put her hands upon the other's shoulders and looked squarely into his face. "oh, john," she said--it was the first time she had ever called him by his christian name--"oh, john, be blind no more. this afternoon our cause has been given an impetus such as it has never had before. "just think how splendidly gilbert lothian is going to his shameful death." "oh, it won't be death. we shall make interest and it will be penal servitude for life." julia daly made a slight motion of her hands. "as you will," she said, "and as you wish. i think he would prefer death. but if he is to endure a longer punishment, that also will bring him nearer, and nearer, and nearer to his mary." * * * * * transcriber's note: inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, and hyphenation have been retained as printed. transcriber's note: every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation. italic text has been marked with _underscores_. bold text has been marked with =equals signs=. [illustration: cover] number one. my mother's gold ring. founded on fact. eighth edition. boston: published by ford and damrell. . entered according to act of congress, in the year , by ford and damrell, in the clerk's office of the district court of massachusetts. to the reader. this is the first of a series of stories, of which it possibly may be the beginning and the end. the incident, which is the foundation of the following tale, was communicated to the writer, by a valued friend, as a fact, with the name of the principal character. another friend, to whom the manuscript was given, perceiving some advantage in its publication, has thought proper to give it to the world, as number one; from which i infer, that i am expected to write a number two. the hint may be worth taking, at some leisure moment. in the mean time, pray read number one: it can do you no harm: there is nothing "_sectarian_" about it. when you have read it, if, among all your connexions and friends, you can think of none, whom its perusal may possibly benefit--and it will be strange if you cannot--do me the favor to present it to the first little boy that you meet. he will, no doubt, take it home to his mother or his father. if you will not do this, throw it in the street, as near to some dram-seller's door, as you ever venture to go: let it take the course of the flying seed, which god is pleased to entrust to the keeping of the winds: it may yet spring up and bear fruit, if such be the will of him, who giveth the increase. the gold ring. i have one of the kindest husbands: he is a carpenter by trade, and our flock of little children has one of the kindest fathers in the county. i was thought the luckiest girl in the parish, when g---- t---- made me his wife: i thought so myself. our wedding-day--and it was a happy one--was but an indifferent sample of those days of rational happiness and uninterrupted harmony, which we were permitted to enjoy together, for the space of six years. and although, for the last three years of our lives, we have been as happy as we were at the beginning, it makes my heart sick to think of those long dark days and sad nights, that came between; for, two years of our union were years of misery. i well recollect the first glass of ardent spirit that my husband ever drank. he had been at the grocery to purchase a little tea and sugar for the family; there were three cents coming to him in change; and, unluckily, the deacon, who keeps the shop, had nothing but silver in the till; and, as it was a sharp, frosty morning, he persuaded my good man to take his money's worth of rum, for it was just the price of a glass. he came home in wonderful spirits, and told me he meant to have me and the children better dressed, and, as neighbor barton talked of selling his horse and chaise, he thought of buying them both; and, when i said to him, "george, we are dressed as well as we can afford, and i hope you will not think of a horse and chaise, till we have paid off the squire's mortgage," he gave me a harsh look and a bitter word. i never shall forget that day, for they were the first he ever gave me in his life. when he saw me shedding tears, and holding my apron to my face, he said he was sorry, and came to kiss me, and i discovered that he had been drinking, and it grieved me to the heart. in a short time after, while i was washing up the breakfast things, i heard our little robert, who was only five years old, crying bitterly; and, going to learn the cause, i met him running towards me with his face covered with blood. he said his father had taken him on his knee, and was playing with him, but had given him a blow in the face, only because he had said, when he kissed him, "dear papa, you smell like old isaac, the drunken fiddler." my husband was very cross to us all through the whole of that day; but the next morning, though he said little, he was evidently ashamed and humbled; and he went about his work very industriously, and was particularly kind to little robert. i prayed constantly for my good man, and that god would be pleased to guide his heart aright; and, more than a week having gone by, without any similar occurrence, i flattered myself, that he would never do so again. but, in a very little time, either the deacon was short of change, as before, or some tempting occasion presented itself which my husband could not resist, and he returned home once more under the influence of liquor. i never shall forget the expression of his countenance, when he came in, that night. we had waited supper a full hour, for his return: the tea-pot was standing at the fire, and the bannocks were untouched upon the hearth; and the smaller children were beginning to murmur for their supper. there was an indescribable expression of defiance on his countenance, as though he were conscious of having done wrong, and resolved to brave it out. we sat down silently to supper, and he scarcely raised his eyes upon any of us, during this unhappy repast. he soon went to bed and fell asleep; and, after i had laid our little ones to rest, i knelt at the foot of the bed, on which my poor misguided husband was sleeping, and poured out my very soul to god, while my eyes were scalded with the bitterest tears i had ever shed. for i then foresaw, that, unless some remedy could be employed, my best earthly friend, the father of my little children, would become a drunkard. the next morning, after breakfast, i ventured to speak with him upon the subject, in a mild way; and, though i could not restrain my tears, neither my words nor my weeping appeared to have any effect, and i saw that he was becoming hardened, and careless of us all. how many winter nights have i waited, weeping alone, at my once happy fireside, listening for the lifting latch, and wishing, yet dreading, to hear his steps at the door! after this state of things had continued, or rather grown worse, for nearly three months, i put on my bonnet one morning, after my husband had gone to his work, and went to the deacon's store; and, finding him alone, i stated my husband's case, and begged him earnestly to sell him no more. he told me it would do no good, for, if he did not sell it, some other person would sell it; and he doubted if my husband took more than was good for him. he quoted scripture to show, that it was a wife's duty to keep at home, and submit herself to her husband, and not meddle with things, which did not belong to her province. at this time, two or three customers called for rum, and the deacon civilly advised me to go home, and look after my children. i went out with a heavy heart. it seemed as if the tide of evil was setting against me. as i was passing farmer johnson's, on my way home, they called me in. i sat down and rested myself for a few minutes, in their neat cottage. farmer johnson was just returning from the field; and when i saw the little ones running to meet him at the stile, and the kind looks, that passed between the good man and his wife; and when i remembered that we were married on the very same day, and compared my own fortune with theirs, my poor heart burst forth in a flood of tears. they all knew what i was weeping for, and farmer johnson, in a kind manner, bade me cheer up, and put my trust in god's mercy, and remember that it was often darkest before daylight. the farmer and his wife were members of the temperance society, and had signed the pledge; and i had often heard him say, that he believed it had saved him from destruction. he had, before his marriage, and for a year after, been in the habit of taking a little spirit every day. he was an industrious, thriving man; but, shortly after his marriage, he became bound for a neighbor, who ran off, and he was obliged to pay the debt. i have heard him declare, that, when the sheriff took away all his property, and stripped his little cottage, and scarcely left him those trifles, which are secured to the poor man by law; and when he considered how ill his poor wife was, at the time, in consequence of the loss of their child, that died only a month before, he was restrained from resorting to the bottle, in his moments of despair, by nothing but a recollection of the pledge he had signed. farmer johnson's minister was in favor of pledges, and had often told him, that affliction might weaken his judgment and his moral sense, and that the pledge might save him at last, as a plank saves the life of a mariner, who is tost upon the waves. our good clergyman was unfortunately of a different opinion. he had often disapproved of pledges: the deacon was of the same opinion: he thought very illy of pledges. month after month passed away, and our happiness was utterly destroyed. my husband neglected his business, and poverty began to stare us in the face. notwithstanding my best exertions, it was hard work to keep my little ones decently clothed and sufficiently fed. if my husband earned a shilling, the dram-seller was as sure of it as if it were already in his till. i sometimes thought i had lost all my affection for one, who had proved so entirely regardless of those, whom it was his duty to protect and sustain; but, when i looked in the faces of our little children, the recollection of our early marriage days, and all his kind words and deeds soon taught me the strength of the principle, that had brought us together. i shall never cease to remember the anguish i felt, when the constable took him to jail, upon the dram-seller's execution. till that moment, i did not believe, that my affection could have survived, under the pressure of that misery, which he had brought upon us all. i put up such things, of the little that remained to us, as i thought might be of use, and turned my back upon a spot, where i had been very happy and very wretched. our five little children followed, weeping bitterly. the jail was situated in the next town. "oh george," said i, "if you had only signed the pledge, it would not have come to this." he sighed, and said nothing; and we walked nearly a mile, in perfect silence. as we were leaving the village, we encountered our clergyman, going forth upon his morning ride. when i reflected, that a few words from him would have induced my poor husband to sign the pledge, and that, if he had done so, he might have been the kind father, and the affectionate husband that he once was, i own, it cost me some considerable effort to suppress my emotions. "whither are you all going?" said the holy man. my husband, who had always appeared extremely humble, in presence of the minister, and replied to all his inquiries in a subdued tone of voice, answered, with unusual firmness, "to jail, reverend sir." "to jail!" said he, "ah, i see how it is; you have wasted your substance in riotous living, and are going to pay for your improvidence and folly. you have had the advantage of my precept and example, and you have turned a deaf ear to the one, and neglected the other." "reverend sir," my husband replied, galled by this reproof, which appeared to him, at that particular moment, an unnecessary aggravation of his misery, "reverend sir, your precept and your example have been my ruin; i have followed them both. you, who had no experience of the temptations to which your weaker brethren are liable, who are already addicted to the temperate and daily use of ardent spirits, advised me never to sign a pledge. i have followed your advice to the letter. you admitted, that extraordinary occasions might justify the use of ardent spirit, and that, on such occasions, you might use it yourself. i followed your example; but it has been my misfortune never to drink spirituous liquors, without finding that my _occasions_ were more _extraordinary_ than ever. had i followed the precept and example of my neighbor johnson, i should not have made a good wife miserable, nor my children beggars." while he uttered these last words, my poor husband looked upon his little ones, and burst into tears; and the minister rode slowly away, without uttering a word. i rejoiced, even in the midst of our misery, to see that the heart of my poor george was tenderly affected; for it is not more needful, that the hardness of wax should be subdued by fire, than that the heart of man should be softened by affliction, before a deep and lasting impression can be made. "dear husband," said i, "we are young; it is not too late; let us trust in god, and all may yet be well." he made no reply, but continued to walk on, and weep in silence. shortly after, the deacon appeared, at some distance, coming towards us on the road; but, as soon as he discovered who we were, he turned away into a private path. even the constable seemed somewhat touched with compassion, at our situation, and urged us to keep up a good heart, for he thought some one might help us, when we least expected it. my husband, whose vein of humor would often display itself, even in hours of sadness, instantly replied, that the good samaritan could not be far off, for the priest and the levite had already passed by on the other side. but he little thought--poor man--that even the conclusion of this beautiful parable was so likely to be verified. a one-horse wagon, at this moment, appeared to be coming down the hill behind us, at an unusually rapid rate, and the constable advised us, as the road was narrow, to stand aside, and let it pass. it was soon up with us; and, when the dust had cleared away, it turned out, as little robert had said, when it first appeared on the top of the hill, to be farmer johnson's gray mare and yellow wagon. the kind-hearted farmer was out in an instant, and, without saying a word, was putting the children into it, one after another. a word from farmer johnson was enough for any constable in the village. it was all the work of a moment. he shook my husband by the hand, and when he began, "neighbor johnson, you are the same kind friend"--"get in," said he, "let's have no words about it; i must be home in a trice, for," turning to me, "your old school-mate, susan, my wife, will sit a crying at the window, till she sees you all safe home again." saying this, he whipped up the gray mare, who, regardless of the additional load, went up the hill faster than she came down, as though she entered into the spirit of the whole transaction. it was not long before we reached the door of our cottage. farmer johnson took out the children; and, while i was trying to find words to thank him for all his kindness, he was up in his wagon and off, before i could utter a syllable. robert screamed after him, to tell little tim johnson to come over, and that he should have all his pinks and marigolds. when we entered the cottage, there were bread, and meat, and milk, upon the table, which susan, the farmer's wife, had brought over, for the children. i could not help sobbing aloud, for my heart was full. "dear george," said i, turning to my husband, "you used to pray, let us thank god for this great deliverance from evil." "dear jenny," said he, "i fear god will scarcely listen to my poor prayers, after all my offences; but i will try." we closed the cottage door, and he prayed with so much humility of heart, and so much earnestness of feeling, that i felt almost sure, that god's grace would be lighted up in the bosom of this unhappy man, if sighs, and tears, and prayers, could win their way to heaven. he was very grave, and said little or nothing that night. the next morning, when i woke up, i was surprised, as the sun had not risen, to find that he had already gone down. at first, i felt alarmed, as such a thing had become unusual with him, of late years; but my anxious feelings were agreeably relieved, when the children told me their father had been hoeing for an hour, in the potato field, and was mending the garden fence. with our scanty materials, i got ready the best breakfast i could, and he sat down to it, with a good appetite, but said little; and, now and then, i saw the tears starting into his eyes. i had many fears, that he would fall back into his former habits, whenever he should meet his old companions, or stop in again at the deacon's store. i was about urging him to move into another village. after breakfast, he took me aside, and asked me if i had not a gold ring. "george," said i, "that ring was my mother's: she took it from her finger, and gave it to me, the day that she died. i would not part with that ring, unless it were to save life. besides, if we are industrious and honest, we shall not be forsaken." "dear jenny," said he, "i know how you prize that gold ring: i never loved you more than when you wept over it, while you first told me the story of your mother's death: it was just a month before we were married, the last sabbath evening in may, jenny, and we were walking by the river. i wish you would bring me that ring." memory hurried me back, in an instant, to the scene, the bank upon the river's side, where we sat together, and agreed upon our wedding-day. i brought down the ring, and he asked me, with such an earnestness of manner, to put it on his little finger, that i did so; not, however, without a trembling hand and a misgiving heart. "and now, jenny," said he, as he rose to go out, "pray that god will support me." my mind was not in a happy state, for i felt some doubt of his intentions. from a little hill, at the back of our cottage, we had a fair view of the deacon's store. i went up to the top of it; and, while i watched my husband's steps, no one can tell how fervently i prayed god to guide them aright. i saw two of his old companions, standing at the store door, with glasses in their hands; and, as my husband came in front of the shop, i saw them beckon him in. it was a sad moment for me. "oh george," said i, though i knew he could not hear me, "go on; remember your poor wife and your starving children!" my heart sunk within me, when i saw him stop and turn towards the door. he shook hands with his old associates: they appeared to offer him their glasses: i saw him shake his head and pass on. "thank god," said i, and ran down the hill, with a light step, and seizing my baby, at the cottage door, i literally covered it with kisses, and bathed it in tears of joy. about ten o'clock, richard lane, the squire's office-boy, brought in a piece of meat and some meal, saying my husband sent word, that he could not be home, till night, as he was at work, on the squire's barn; richard added, that the squire had engaged him for two months. he came home early, and the children ran down the hill to meet him. he was grave, but cheerful. "i have prayed for you, dear husband," said i. "and a merciful god has supported me, jenny," said he. it is not easy to measure the degrees of happiness; but, take it altogether, this, i think, was the happiest evening of my life. if there is great joy in heaven, over a sinner that repenteth, there is no less joy in the heart of a faithful wife, over a husband, that was lost, and is found. in this manner the two months went away. in addition to his common labor, he found time to cultivate the garden, and make and mend a variety of useful articles about the house. it was soon understood, that my husband had reformed, and it was more generally believed, because he was a subject for the gibes and sneers of a large number of the deacon's customers. my husband used to say, let those laugh that are wise and win. he was an excellent workman, and business came in from all quarters. he was soon able to repay neighbor johnson, and our families lived in the closest friendship with each other. one evening, farmer johnson said to my husband, that he thought it would be well for him to sign the temperance pledge; that he did not advise it, when he first began to leave off spirit, for he feared his strength might fail him. "but now," said he, "you have continued five months without touching a drop, and it would be well for the cause, that you should sign the pledge." "friend johnson," said my husband, "when a year has gone safely by, i will sign the pledge. for five months, instead of the pledge, i have in every trial and temptation--and a drinking man knows well the force and meaning of those words--i have relied upon this gold ring, to renew my strength, and remind me of my duty to god, to my wife, to my children, and to society. whenever the struggle of appetite has commenced, i have looked upon this ring: i have remembered that it was given, with the last words and dying counsels of an excellent mother, to my wife, who placed it there; and, under the blessing of almighty god, it has proved, thus far, the life-boat of a drowning man." the year soon passed away; and on the very day twelvemonth, on which i had put the ring upon my husband's finger, farmer johnson brought over the temperance book. we all sat down to the tea-table together. after supper was done, little robert climbed up and kissed his father, and, turning to farmer johnson, "father," said he, "has not smelt like old isaac, the drunken fiddler, once, since we rode home in your yellow wagon." the farmer opened the book: my husband signed the pledge of the society, and, with tears in his eyes, gave me back--ten thousand times more precious than ever--my mother's gold ring. my mother's gold ring. =sold by the publishers, ford and damrell=, at their office, in wilson's lane, near the u.s. branch bank, boston, at cents single, cents per dozen, $ per hundred, $ per thousand. individuals or societies supplied with any number of copies at short notice. n. b. number two may be expected soon. test alcohol shows up in its true nature as a poison, and not a food. alcohol destroys healthy normal action of all the bodily functions, and builds up impure fat, fatty degeneration, instead of strong, firm muscle. dr. parkes, one of the most famous of english students of alcohol, says:-- "these alcoholic degenerations are certainly not confined to the notoriously intemperate. i have seen them in women accustomed to take wine in quantities not excessive, and who would have been shocked at the imputation that they were taking too much, although the result proved that for them it was excess." dr. ezra m. hunt, late secretary of new jersey state board of health, remarks:-- "the question of excess occurs in sickness as well as in health, and all the more because its determination is so difficult and the evil effects so indisputable. the dividing line in medicine, even between use and abuse, is so zigzag and invisible that common mortals, in groping for it, generally stumble beyond it, and the delicate perception of medical art too often fails in the recognition." all non-alcoholic writers assert that the continuous use of alcohol as a medicine is equally injurious to all the bodily functions as the employment of it as a beverage. calling it medicine does not change its deadly nature, nor does the medical attendant possess any magical power by which a destructive poison may be converted into a restorative agent. dr. noble, writing recently to the _london times_, said:-- "the internal use of alcohol in disease is as injurious as in health." since foods induce healthy, normal action of all the bodily functions, and alcohol injures every organ of the body in direct proportion to the amount consumed, by this test it is proved to not be a food. _foods give strength._ alcohol weakens the body. this has been determined again and again by experiments upon gangs of workmen and regiments of soldiers. these experiments always resulted in showing that upon the days when the men were supplied with liquor they could neither use their muscles so powerfully, nor for so long a time, as on the days when they received no alcoholic drink. of the results of such tests sir andrew clark, late physician to queen victoria, said:-- "it is capable of proof beyond all possibility of question that alcohol not only does not help work but is a serious hinderer of work." so satisfied are generals in the british army of the weakening effect of alcohol that its use is now forbidden to soldiers when any considerable call is to be made upon their strength. the latest example of this was in the recent soudan campaign under sir herbert kitchener. an order was issued by the war department that not a drop of intoxicating liquor was to be allowed in camp save for hospital use. the army made phenomenal forced marches through the desert, under a burning sun and in a climate famous for its power to kill the unacclimated. it is said that never before was there a british campaign occasioning so little sickness and showing so much endurance. some greek merchants ran a large consignment of liquors through by the berber-suakim route, but sir herbert had them emptied upon the sand of the desert. a reporter telegraphed to england:-- "the men are in magnificent condition and in great spirits. they are as hard as nails, and in a recent desert march of fifteen miles, with manoeuvring instead of halts, the whole lasting for five continuous hours, not a single man fell out!" this was in decided contrast to the march in the african war some years before when, as they passed through a malarial district, and a dram was served, men fell out by dozens. dr. parkes, one of the medical officers, prevailed upon the commander-in-chief to not allow any more alcoholic drams while the troops were marching to kumassi. experiments in lifting weights have also been tried upon men by careful investigators. in every case it was found that even beer, and very dilute solutions of alcohol, would diminish the height to which the lifted weight could be raised. as an illustration of the deceptive power of alcohol upon people under its influence, it is said that persons experimented upon were under the impression, after the drink, that they could do more work, and do it more easily, although the testing-machine showed exactly the contrary to be true. athletes and their trainers have learned by experience that alcohol does not give strength, but is, in reality, a destroyer of muscular power. no careful trainer will allow a candidate for athletic honors to drink even beer, not to speak of stronger liquors. when sullivan, the once famous pugilist, was defeated by corbett, he said in lamenting his lost championship, "it was the _booze_ did it"; meaning that he had violated training rules, and used liquor. university teams and crews have proved substantially that drinking men are absolutely no good in sports, or upon the water. football and baseball teams, anxious to excel, are beginning to have a cast-iron temperance pledge for their members. so practical experience of those competing in tests of strength and endurance teach eloquently that alcohol does not give strength, but rather weakens the body, by rendering the muscles flabby. sandow, the modern samson, wrote his methods of training in one of the magazines a few years ago, and stated that he used no alcoholic beverages. the ancient samson was not allowed to taste even wine from birth. a question worthy of serious consideration is: how are the sick to be strengthened and "supported" by drinks which athletes are warned to specially shun as weakening to the body? either the sick are mistakenly advised, or the athletes are in error. which seems the more likely? dr. richardson says in _lectures on alcohol_:-- "i would earnestly impress that the systematic administration of alcohol for the purpose of giving and sustaining strength is an entire delusion." in another place he says:-- "never let this be forgotten in thinking of strong drink: that the drink is strong only to destroy; that it never by any possibility adds strength to those who drink it." sir william gull, late physician to the prince of wales, said before a select committee of the house of lords on intemperance:-- "there is a great feeling in society that strong wine and other strong drinks give strength. a large number of people have fallen into that error, and fall into it every day." any unprejudiced person can readily see that experience and experiment unite in testifying that alcohol does not give strength, hence differs radically from most substances commonly classed as foods. yet millions of dollars are spent annually by deluded people upon supposedly strength-giving drinks, and thousands of the sick are ignorantly, or carelessly, advised to take beer or wine to make them strong and to _support_ them when solid food cannot be assimilated. truly, "my people is destroyed for lack of knowledge." _foods give force to the body._ dr. richardson says:-- "we learn in respect to alcohol that the temporary excitement is produced at the expense of the animal matter and animal force, and that the ideas of the necessity of resorting to it as a food, to build up the body or to lift up the forces of the body, are ideas as solemnly false as they are widely disseminated." dr. benjamin brodie says in _physiological inquiries_:-- "stimulants do not create nerve power: they merely enable you, as it were, to use up that which is left." dr. e. smith:-- "there is no evidence that it increases nervous influence, while there is much evidence that it lessens nervous power." dr. wm. hargreaves, of philadelphia:-- "it is sometimes said by the advocates and defenders of alcohol, that by its use force is generated more abundantly. this it certainly cannot do, as it does not furnish anything to feed the blood or to store up nourishment to replenish the expenditure. for by their own theory, the increase of action must cause an increase of wear and tear; hence alcohol instead of sustaining life or vitality, must cause a direct waste or expenditure of _vital force_." dr. auguste forel, of switzerland:-- "all alcoholic liquors are poisons, and especially brain-poisons, and their use shortens life. they cannot therefore be regarded as sources of nourishment or force. they should be resisted as much as opium, morphia, cocaine, hashish and the like." dr. w. f. pechuman, of detroit, in his valuable little treatise, _alcohol--is it a medicine?_ says clearly:-- "when alcohol or any other irritant poison is put into the system, the conservative vital force, recognizing it as an enemy, at once makes an effort through the living matter to rid the system of the offender;--the heart increases in action and new strength seems to appear. now, right here is where the great mass of people and a large number of physicians are deluded. they mistake the extra effort of the vital force to preserve the body against harmful agencies for an actual increase in strength as the result of the agent given; we wonder that they can be so blind as not to see the reaction which invariably occurs soon after the administration of their so-called stimulant." dr. f. r. lees, of england:-- "all poisons lessen vitality and deteriorate the ultimate tissue in which force is reposited. alcohol is an agent, the sole, perpetual and inevitable effects of which are to avert blood development, to retain waste matter, to irritate mucous and other tissues, to thicken normal juices, to impede digestion, to deaden nervous sensibility, to lower animal heat, to kill molecular life, _and to waste, through the excitement it creates in heart and head, the grand controlling forces of the nerves and brain_." if alcohol is a destroyer of bodily force, as any ordinary observer of drinking men can readily see, it is a problem beyond solving, how it is going to give force to, or sustain vitality in, the patient hovering between life and death. too often has it been the means of hastening into eternity those who, but for its mistaken use, might have recovered from the illness affecting them. _food gives heat to the body._ alcohol does not, but really robs the body of its natural warmth. this finding of science was received with the utmost incredulity when first presented to the medical world, but the invention of the clinical thermometer settled it beyond controversy. it is now believed by all but a very few of those who have knowledge of the physiological effects of alcohol. while dr. n. s. davis, of chicago, was the first to demonstrate this fact, it was dr. b. w. richardson, of england, who succeeded in putting it prominently before the attention of physicians. the normal temperature of the human body is a little over degrees by fahrenheit's thermometer. if the temperature is found to be much above or below degrees the person is considered out of health; indeed by this condition alone physicians are able to detect serious forms of disease. by the use of the clinical thermometer, placed under the tongue, it is easy to determine what agents acting upon the body will cause the temperature to vary from the natural standard. when alcohol is swallowed there is at first a decided feeling of warmth induced; if the temperature be taken now it will be found that in a person unaccustomed to alcohol the warmth may be raised half a degree; in one accustomed to alcohol the warmth may be raised a full degree, or even a degree and a half beyond the natural standard. but this warmth is only temporary, and is soon succeeded by chilliness. dr. richardson says in his _temperance lesson book_:-- "the sense of warmth occurs in the following way: when the alcohol enters the body, and by the blood-vessels is conveyed to all parts of the body, it reduces the nervous power of the small blood-vessels which are spread out through the whole of the surface of the skin. in their weakened state these vessels are unable duly to resist the course of blood which is coming into them from the heart under its stroke. the result is that an excess of warm blood fresh from the heart is thrown into these fine vessels, which causes the skin to become flushed and red as it is seen to be after wine or other strong drink has been swallowed and sent through the body. so, as there is now more warm blood in the skin than is natural to it, a sense of increased warmth is felt. the skin of the body is the most sensitive of substances and the sense of warmth through, or over the whole surface of the skin is conveyed from it to the brain and nervous centres of the body, by which we are enabled to feel. "the warmth of surface which seems to be imparted by alcohol, only _seems_ to be imparted. positively the warmth is not imparted by the alcohol, but is set free by it. "in a short time the sense of warmth is succeeded by a feeling of slight chilliness. unless the person is in a very warm room, or has recently partaken of food, the thermometer will now show a decided decrease in temperature, reaching often to a degree. should the person go out into a cold air, and especially should he go into a cold air while badly supplied with food, the fall of temperature may reach to two degrees below the natural standard of bodily heat. in this state he easily takes cold, and in frosty weather readily contracts congestion of the lungs, and that disease which is known as bronchitis. if the person drinks to drunkenness his temperature will be found to be from two and a half to three degrees below the natural standard. it takes from two to three days, under the most favorable circumstances, for the animal warmth to become steadily re-established after a drunken spree. "the excitement of the mind in the early stages of drunkenness is not natural; it is exhaustive of the bodily powers, and exhaustive for no useful purpose whatever. * * * * * "as nothing has been supplied by the alcohol to keep up the supply of heat the vital energy is rapidly exhausted, and if the person is exposed to cold, the exhaustion becomes extreme, sometimes fatal. all great consumers of alcohol are chillier during winter than are abstainers, and as they labor under the delusion that they must take wine or ale or spirits to keep them warm, they keep on making matters worse by constantly resorting to their enemy for relief." dr. newell martin makes this very clear in his physiology, _the human body_. "our feeling of being warm depends on the nerves of the skin. we have no nerves which tell us whether heart or muscles or brain, are warmer or cooler. these inside parts are always hotter than the skin, and if blood which has been made hot in them flows in large quantity to the skin, we feel warmer because the skin is heated. as alcoholic drinks make more blood flow through the skin, they often make a man feel warmer. but their actual effect upon the temperature of the whole body is to lower it. the more blood that flows through the skin, the more heat is given off from the body to the air, and the more blood, so cooled, is sent back to the internal organs. the consequence is that alcohol, in proportion to the amount taken, cools the body as a whole, though it may for a time heat the skin." if other evidence that alcohol is not heat-producing in the body were necessary it could be found in the fact that the products of combustion are decreased when it is present in the body. the quantity of carbonic acid exhaled by the breath is proportionately diminished with the decline of animal heat. arctic explorers learned by experience what science discovered by experiment. dr. hayes, the explorer, says:-- "while fresh animal food, and especially fat, is absolutely essential to the inhabitants and travelers in arctic countries, alcohol, in almost any shape, is not only completely useless, but positively injurious." lieutenant johnson, who accompanied nansen upon his northern expedition, said, when interviewed by a reporter of the london _daily news_:-- "the common opinion that alcohol becomes in some way a necessity in cold countries is entirely a mistaken one. this has been conclusively proved by the expedition. in making up his list of the _fram's_ equipments, nansen did not include any spirits, with the exception of some spirits of wine for lamps and stoves." in the list of stores taken upon the long sledging expedition after leaving the _fram_ no liquors are mentioned. see _farthest north_, by nansen. the omission of spirits was not because of any "temperance fanaticism," but because the experience of former arctic expeditions had shown clearly that men freeze more readily after partaking of alcohol than when they totally abstain from it. that wine is not a fuel-food was shown conclusively in the franco-prussian war during the siege of paris. food was scarce in the french army, and wine was liberally supplied. the men complained bitterly of the extreme chilliness which affected them. dr. klein, a french staff surgeon, was reported in the _medical temperance journal_ of england, october , as saying of this:-- "we found most decidedly that alcohol was no substitute for bread and meat. we also found that it was no substitute for coals. we of the army had to sleep outside paris on the frozen ground. we had plenty of alcohol, but it did not make us warm. let me tell you there is nothing that will make you feel the cold more, nothing which will make you feel the dreadful sense of hunger more, than alcohol." there is no evidence against alcohol stronger than that which shows it to be not heat-producing, as commonly believed, but a reducer of heat in the body. indeed, this question of bodily temperature is used in recent times to decide whether a man who has fallen upon the street is troubled by apoplexy, or influenced by alcoholism. if the clinical thermometer shows the temperature to be above normal, it is apoplexy; if below normal, it is alcoholism. "alcohol is clearly proved to be not a fuel-food, for if it were it would enable the body to resist cold, instead of making it colder; and in the extreme degrees of cold it would go on burning like other fuel-foods, and would maintain, instead of helping to destroy, life."--richardson's _lesson book_. yet because it creates a glow of warmth in the skin immediately after drinking it, thousands of people will discredit all evidence that it is a reducer of bodily heat. clinical thermometers, and after-sensations of chilliness, are unheeded, for "wine is a mocker," and multitudes are willing to be deceived by it. so, also, with the conclusions against it as a strengthening agent; because it dulls the sense of hunger and of fatigue, those who crave it will declare in the face of all scientific testimony that it strengthens them, and takes the place of food. they will cite, too, the cases of people who "lived upon whisky" during an illness of greater or less duration. of the sustaining of life upon alcohol only, dr. n. s. davis has said:-- "the falsity of all such stories is made apparent by the fact that nineteen-twentieths of all the alcoholic drinks given to the sick are given in connection with sugar, milk, eggs or meat-broths, which furnish the nutriment, and would support the patients better if given with the same perseverance without the alcohol than with it. while we have quite a number of examples of men living on nothing but water forty or fifty days, i have never seen or learned of a well-authenticated case of a man's taking or receiving into his system nothing but alcohol for half of that length of time, without becoming sick with either gastro-duodenitis, nephritis, or delirium tremens." _some of the defenders of the medicinal use of alcohol claim that since it has been shown to reduce tissue waste it should be classed as an indirect food, a conserver of tissue._ of this claim, dr. n. s. davis says in the _bulletin of the a. m. t. a._, november, :-- "a careful study of the conditions and processes necessary for both tissue building or nutrition, and tissue waste or disintegration, in all the higher order of animals, will show that neither process can be materially retarded without retarding or preventing the other. both processes take place only in bioplasm or vitalized matter, supplied with oxygen, water and heat. neither the assimilation of new material food, nor its use in tissue building can be effected without the presence of free oxygen and nuclein, or corpuscular elements of the blood. and without the presence of the same elements we can have no natural tissue disintegration and removal of the waste. the processes of tissue building and tissue disintegration, are therefore, so intimately related, and dependent upon the same materials and forces, that neither can be hastened or retarded from day to day without influencing the other. when alcohol or any other substance, introduced into the blood, retards the tissue waste, as shown by the diminished amount of excretory products, it must do so by either diminishing the amount of free oxygen in the blood, by impairing the vasomotor and trophic nerve functions or by direct impairment of the properties of the nuclein or protogen elements of the blood and tissues. the popular idea, both in and out of the profession is, that the alcohol, by further oxidation in the blood, lessens the amount of oxygen to act on the tissues, and generates heat or 'some kind of force.' those who advocate this theory of saving the tissues by combining the oxygen with alcohol seem to forget that in doing so they are diverting and using up the only agent, oxygen, capable of combining with, and promoting the elimination of, all natural waste products as well as the various toxic elements causing disease. "but the theory that alcohol directly combines with the oxygen of the blood by which it would be converted into carbonic acid and water with evolution of heat is completely refuted by the well-known fact that its presence in the blood diminishes both temperature and elimination of carbonic acid as already stated. physiologists of the present day very generally agree that the capacity of the blood to receive oxygen from the lungs, and convey it to the systemic capillaries and various tissues, depends chiefly on its hemoglobin (red coloring matter), protein, or albuminous and saline elements. "both experimental and clinical facts in abundance show that alcohol at all ordinary temperatures displays a much stronger affinity for these elements of the blood and tissues, than it does for oxygen. and when present in the blood, it rapidly attracts both water and hemoglobin from the corpuscular and albuminoid elements of that fluid, and thereby diminishes its reception and distribution of oxygen. we are thus enabled to see clearly how the alcohol diminishes the oxygenation and decarbonization of the blood, and retards all tissue changes both of nutrition and waste without itself undergoing oxidation with evolution of heat. consequently, instead of acting as a shield or conservator of the tissues by simply combining with the oxygen, the alcohol directly impairs the properties and functions of the most highly vitalized elements of the blood itself, and thereby not only retards tissue waste but also equally retards the highest grades of nutrition, and favors only sclerotic, fatty and molecular degenerations, as we see everywhere resulting from its continued use. can an agent displaying such properties and effects be called a _food_, either direct or indirect, without a total disregard for the proper meaning of words?" in another place he says:-- "this lessening of the elimination of tissue waste is simply an evidence of the accumulation of poisonous substances within the body, through the lessened activity of liver and kidneys and the impairment of the blood." dr. ezra m. hunt says in _alcohol as food and as medicine_, page :-- "it sounds conservative of health to say of a substance that it delays the breaking down of tissue, but the physiologist does not allow a substance which occasions such delay, to possess, because of that, either dietetic or remedial value. to increase weight by prolonged constipation is not a physiological process." dalton says:-- "the importance of tissue change to the maintenance of life is readily shown by the injurious effects which follow upon its disturbance. if the discharge of the excrementitious substances be in any way impeded or suspended, these substances accumulate either in the blood or tissues, or both. in consequence of this retention and accumulation they become poisonous, and rapidly produce a derangement of the vital functions. their influence is principally exerted upon the nervous system, through which they produce most frequent irritability, disturbance of the special senses, delirium, insensibility, coma, and finally, death." the power to retard the passage of waste matter from the system is one of the gravest objections to the use of alcohol in sickness, as the germs of disease are thereby caused to remain longer in the body than they would, were no alcohol or drug of similar action, used. thus recovery is delayed, if not effectually hindered. the preponderance of scientific evidence is all against alcohol as possessing food qualities. it contains no elements capable of entering into the composition of any part of the body, hence cannot give strength; it is not a fuel-food as it does not supply heat to the body, but decreases temperature; and its classification as indirect food because it retards the passage of waste matter is shown to be utterly unscientific, as any agent which interferes with the natural processes of assimilation and disintegration is a dangerous agent, a poison rather than a food. the question naturally arises:-- if these drinks are not liquid food, as we have been taught to believe, how is it, since they are made from food, as barley, corn, grapes, potatoes, etc? these drinks are not food, although made from food, because in the process of manufacturing them the food principle is destroyed. the grain is malted to change starch into sugar--loss of food principle begins here--then the malted grain is soaked in water to extract the saccharine matter. when the sugar is all in the water the grain goes to feed cattle or hogs, and the sweetened water is fermented. the fermentation changes the sugar into alcohol. analyses of beer by eminent chemists show an average of per cent. water, per cent. alcohol, and per cent. malt extract. the malt extract consists of gum, sugar, various acids, salts and hop extract. starch and sugar are all of these capable of digestion, and the amount of them would be equal to ounces to the barrel of beer. liebig, the great german chemist, said:-- "if a man drinks daily or quarts of the best bavarian beer, in a year he will have taken into his system the nutritive constituents contained in a pound loaf of bread." eight quarts a day for a year would be , quarts, or a little more than barrels. if sold to the consumer at the low rate of five cents a pint, it would cost him $ ; a high price for as much nourishment as in a pound loaf! analyses of wine by reliable chemists show that the consumer must pay $ for the equivalent in nourishment of a pound loaf of bread, wine being higher priced than beer. wines average per cent. water, about per cent. alcohol, and per cent. residue. this residue is composed of sugar, tartaric, acetic and carbonic acids, salts of potassium and sodium, tannic acid, and traces of an ethereal substance which gives the peculiar or distinguishing flavor. the only one of these ingredients possessing food value is sugar; this exists chiefly in what are called sweet wines. yet how many thousands of people spend money they can ill afford for wines and beers to build up the failing strength of some loved one! a costly delusion, and too often a fatal one! "distilled liquors, if unadulterated, contain literally nothing but water and alcohol, except traces of juniper in gin, and the flavor of the fermented material from which they have been distilled."--_influence of alcohol_, by n. s. davis, m. d. it is the solemn duty of those to whom the people look for instruction in matters of health to undeceive the toiling masses as to the food-value of alcoholic liquids. some of the medical profession are faithful in this regard, but too many others are themselves deceived, or care not for the destruction of the people. is alcohol a stimulant? a lady asked her family physician several years ago what he thought of the views of those medical writers who class alcohol as a narcotic, and not a stimulant. he answered with some heat, "any one who says alcohol is not a stimulant is either a fool or a knave!" he could not have been aware that some of the most distinguished professors in american medical colleges teach that alcohol is not, properly speaking, a stimulant, but a narcotic. the accepted definition of a stimulant in medical literature is some agent capable of exciting or increasing _vital activity_ as a whole, or the natural activity of some one structure or organ. dr. n. s. davis has said repeatedly that both clinical and experimental observations show that alcohol directly diminishes the functional activity of all nerve structures, pre-eminently those of respiration and circulation, thus decreasing the internal distribution of oxygen, which is nature's own special exciter of all vital action. "consequently it is antagonistic to all true stimulants or remedies capable of increasing vital activity. instead, therefore, of meriting the name of _stimulant_, alcohol should be designated and used only as an anæsthetic and sedative, or depressor of vital activity." the following is taken from an editorial article in the _american medical temperance quarterly_ for january, :-- "drs. sidney ringer and h. sainsbury in a carefully executed series of experiments on the isolated heart of the frog, found that all the alcohol when mixed with the blood circulating through the heart, uniformly diminished the action of that organ in direct proportion to the quantity of alcohol used, until complete paralysis was induced. in closing their report in regard to the action of different alcohols, they say that 'by their direct action on the cardiac tissue these drugs are clearly _paralyzant_, and that this appears to be the case from the outset, _no stage of increased force of contraction preceding_.' "professor martin, while in connection with the johns hopkins university, performed an equally careful series of experiments in regard to the action of ethylic, or ordinary alcohol, directly on the cardiac structures of the dog, and with the same results. he makes the following explicit statement of the results obtained by him. 'blood containing one-fourth per cent. by volume, that is two and a half parts per of absolute alcohol, almost invariably diminishes, within a minute, the work done by the heart; blood containing one-half per cent. always diminishes it, and may even bring the amount pumped out by the left ventricle to so small a quantity that it is not sufficient to supply the coronary arteries.' "in , r. dubois, by direct experimenting upon animals, found that the presence of alcohol in the blood much intensified the action of chloroform and thereby rendered a much less dose fatal. "prof. h. c. wood of the university of pennsylvania, in an address upon anæsthesia to the tenth international medical congress, of berlin, in , said: 'in my own experiments with alcohol, an eighty per cent. fluid was used largely diluted with water. the amount injected into the jugular vein varied in the different experiments from to c. c.; and in no case have i been able to detect any increase in the size of the pulse or in the arterial pressure produced by alcohol, when the heart was failing during advanced chloroform anæsthesia. on the other hand, on several occasions, the larger amounts of alcohol apparently greatly increased the rapidity of the fall of arterial pressure, and aided materially in extinguishing the pulse. "sir henry thompson says: 'that alcohol is an anæsthetic and paralyzant is a fact too well established to be questioned or contradicted.' "dr. j. j. ridge, of london, has published elaborate tables, showing that even small doses of alcohol, averaging one tablespoonful of spirits--not quite half a wineglass of claret or champagne, and not quite a quarter of a pint of ale--impair vision, feeling, and sensibility to weight, without the subject's being conscious of any alteration. dr. scougal, of new york, has repeated and confirmed these experiments, and also demonstrated that the hearing was similarly affected. "drs. nichol and mossop, of edinburgh, conducted a series of experiments on each other, examining the eye by means of the ophthalmoscope while the system was under the influence of various drugs. they found that the nerves controlling the delicate blood-vessels of the retina were paralyzed by a dose of about a tablespoonful of brandy. "dr. t. d. crothers, of hartford, conn., has deduced some valuable facts from his experiments with the sphygmograph, upon the action of the heart. he has found by repeated experiments that while alcohol apparently increases the force and volume of the heart's action, the irregular tracings of the sphygmograph show that the real vital force is diminished, and hence its apparent stimulating power is deceptive."--extract from the annual address before the medical temperance association at san francisco, cal., june , , by dr. i. n. quimby, of jersey city, n. j. dr. j. h. kellogg, of battle creek, mich., has made extensive experiments as to the effects of alcohol. in summing up the results of these he says:-- "it would seem that no further evidence could be required that alcohol is a narcotic and an anæsthetic, rather than a stimulant, and that its use as a supporting and tonic remedy is a practice without foundation in either scientific theory or natural clinical experience." sir b. w. richardson at a medical breakfast in london in , stated that though alcohol produced an increase in the motion of the heart it was ultimately weaker in its action, so he resolved to give up using such an agent. dr. a. b. palmer of the university of michigan prepared a "report" upon alcohol in for the michigan state medical society in which he cited experiments showing that the opinion that alcohol stimulates the heart by an increase of real force, is an error. it creates a flutter, but decreases power. "increased frequency of pulsation is often the strongest evidence of diminished power--as the fluttering pulse of extreme weakness." he classes alcohol with chloroform. "if chloroform is a narcotic, alcohol is a narcotic. if chloroform is an anæsthetic, alcohol is an anæsthetic. if one is essentially a depressing agent, so is the other. their strong resemblance no one can question. the chief difference is that the alcoholic narcosis is longer continued, and its secondary effects are more severe." in closing his summary of the changes in scientific knowledge of this drug he says:-- "we said it was a direct heart exciter. we now know it is a direct heart depressor. we said, and nearly all the text-books still say, it is a direct cardiac stimulant. we know from most conclusive experiments it is a direct _cardiac paralyzant_." the following is taken from one of the many excellent papers upon alcohol written by that nestor among physicians, dr. n. s. davis:-- "alcoholics are very generally prescribed in that weakness of the heart sometimes met with in low forms of fever and in the advanced stage of other acute diseases. it is claimed that these agents are capable of strengthening and sustaining the action of the heart under the circumstances just named, and also under the first depressing influence of severe shock. "there is nothing in the ascertained physiological action of alcohol on the human system, as developed by a wide range of experimental investigation, to sustain this claim. i have used the sphygmograph and every other available means for testing experimentally the effects of alcohol upon the action of the heart and blood-vessels generally, but have failed in every instance to get proof of any increased force of cardiac action. "the first and very transient effect is generally increased frequency of beat, followed immediately by dilatation of the peripheral vessels from impaired vasomotor sensibility, and the same unsteady or wavy sphygmographic tracing as is given in typhoid fever, and which is usually regarded as evidence of cardiac debility. turning from the field of experimentation to the sick-room, my search for evidences of the power of alcohol to sustain the force of the heart, or in any way to strengthen the patient has been equally unsuccessful. i was educated and entered upon the practice of medicine at a time when alcoholic drinks were universally regarded as stimulating and beat-producing, and commenced their use without prejudice or preconceived notions. but the first ten years of direct clinical or practical observation satisfied me fully of the incorrectness of those views, and very nearly banished the use of these agents from my list of remedies. while it is true that during the last thirty years i have not prescribed for internal use the aggregate amount of one quart of any kind of fermented or distilled drinks, either in private or hospital practice, yet i have continued to have abundant opportunity for observing the effects of these agents as given by others with whom i have been in council; and simple truth compels me to say that i have never yet seen a case in which the use of alcoholic drinks either increased the force of the heart's action or strengthened the patient beyond the first thirty minutes after it was swallowed. * * * * * "nothing is easier than self-deception in this matter. a patient is suddenly taken with syncope, or nervous weakness, from which abundant experience has shown that a speedy recovery would take place by simple rest and fresh air. but in the alarm of patient and friends something must be done. a little wine or brandy is given, and, as it is not sufficient to positively prevent, the patient in due time revives just as would have been the case if neither wine nor brandy had been used." in the _medical pioneer_ of november, , prof. e. macdowel cosgrave, professor of biology, royal college of surgeons in ireland, says:-- "the result of all recent investigation is to show that the use of alcohol when a stimulant effect is desired, is an error; and that, from first to last alcohol acts as a narcotic." dr. edmunds, of london, said in an address given in manchester:-- "by giving alcohol as a stimulant in exhausting diseases, i believe we always do as we should in giving a dose of opium and brandy and water to comfort a half suffocated patient; i. e., increase his danger. if that be so, we reduce alcohol not only from the position of food medicine, but we reduce it from the position of a goad; and we say that the supposititious stimulating or goading influence of alcohol is a mere delusion; that in fact alcohol always lessens the power of the patients, and always damages their chance of recovery, when it is a question of their getting through exhausting diseases." many more such quotations might be adduced. enough are given to show that the popular use of alcohol, when a stimulant is required, is considered a grave error by those who have most thoroughly studied the effects of this drug. alcohol as a tonic. dr. j. j. ridge, of london, says:-- "the action of alcohol in relaxing unstriped muscular fibre, which entitles it to be called an anti-spasmodic, robs it of all claim to give tone. the sense of exhilaration which follows small doses of alcohol has been mistaken for real strength and increase of vitality. it is well known that relaxation of the blood-vessels throughout the body is one of the first effects of alcohol. the arteries of the retina have been observed to dilate after very small doses of alcohol. the diminution of tone is well seen in the tracings of the pulse under the influence of alcohol. if one needs a tonic, therefore, alcohol is one of the things to be shunned altogether. "but alcoholic beverages contain other things beside alcohol. beer contains infusion of hops, or other bitter stomachics. some wines contain tannin. these ingredients, by creating or stimulating the appetite, increase the strength and vital power in certain cases. but we have a large number of drugs which will do the same without the disadvantages arising from the presence of alcohol, and, if the flavor be objected to, many of them can be taken in the form of coated pills. "the external use of cold, either by a dripping sheet, cold sponging, or a shower-bath, according to the power of reaction, is a valuable means of giving real tone. "wine is frequently prescribed for those young persons who are growing rapidly, and whose strength does not seem to keep pace with their growth. it is important to know that alcohol is not desirable in such circumstances. there is often found in such cases a defective appetite, perhaps even sub-acute gastric catarrh, which may be due to imperfect mastication through bad teeth, or aggravated by it. there are other causes, such as late hours, bad habits, improper food or irregular meals. in such cases those means must be resorted to which are so effectual in improving the condition and strengthening the heart of athletes. regular and regulated meals, exercise in the fresh air, a good amount of rest and sleep--these will do more than anything else to invigorate the bodily health." dr. n. s. davis says:-- "although i was taught, like all others, to use alcohol as a tonic when patients were sick, to hasten their recovery and promote their strength, yet it did not take me very long to find out that here and there was one already a teetotaler who would not take wine long, nor any kind of alcoholic drink unless prescribed, just as castor-oil, dose by dose, but who, when he got beyond the necessity of having it as a medicine, took no more. what was the comparison? my patients who refused, or did not take alcohol, got strong quicker and had less tendency to relapse than those who continued its use. here was the first step in progress, and consequently i came soon to cease the recommending it merely to hasten recovery of strength. as a tonic, i found it of no value." dr. james miller, of edinburgh, says in _alcohol, its place and power_, written many years ago:-- "it may be well here to correct an important error, yet very current, in regard to the medicinal use of alcohol. people regard it as a simple and common tonic; and are ready to accept its supposed help as such in every form of weakness and general disorder of health. but it is ordinarily, no true tonic." dr. ernest hart, editor of the _british medical journal_, stated some years ago at a meeting of the british medical temperance association that "the medical profession were nearly all agreed that alcohol is neither a food nor a tonic." many drunkards have been made, especially among women, by the delusion that alcohol has tonic effect. as a sample of these sad cases the following is given, taken from a recent number of _the national advocate_:-- "there is in the jail at elizabeth, n. j., a woman who was arrested while participating in wild drunken orgies with a gang of tramps in the woods near the town. she appears nothing but a besotted hag, but was only a short time ago a dutiful wife of a respectable man, and the mother of three beautiful children. her father, who is said to be living in a village in new york state, is a highly respected minister of the methodist episcopal church. her children are in an asylum, and her husband is a wanderer in the west. the cause of her ruin was beer, prescribed for her by the family physician as a tonic. at first she refused to take it, having always been a teetotaler, but persuaded to obey the physician, she soon acquired a taste for the drink that speedily developed into the overmastering appetite, which has brought her and hers to this sad condition." alcohol as a sedative. dr. j. j. ridge says in the _medical pioneer_, april, :-- "alcohol, chiefly in the form of spirits, is often given to procure sleep and to relieve pain, such as that of neuralgia, dyspepsia, colic and diarrhoea. it is as a sedative that alcohol is so insidious and seductive in cases of chronic disease, as, if frequently resorted to, the drink craving is almost certainly developed. hence the importance in many cases of rather bearing the ills we have than of flying to others that we know not of. it is clear that other narcotics, such as opium, morphia, chorodyne, chloral, are open to the same objection, and the victims of these drugs are terribly numerous. * * * * * in many instances some form of dyspepsia is the cause of the sleeplessness, palpitation or other uneasy feeling for which a sedative is desired, and when this is cured the symptoms vanish." a prominent minister in a large american city was afflicted with insomnia a few years ago, and, after trying various remedies, was advised by a physician to try whisky "night-caps." he became a hopeless drunkard. a young medical student in new york appealed to one of his professors for aid in overcoming aggravated insomnia. the professor advised whisky and morphine! the advice led to the ruin of the young man. alcohol as an antipyretic. "by the power of alcohol to retard the evolution of heat in retarding molecular changes in the tissues, the liquids containing it may be used as antipyretics when the temperature is too high, and to retard the processes of waste when these are too rapid. but the antipyretic influence of alcohol is so feeble in comparison with the proper application of water to the surface, or with the internal administration of sulphate of quinia, salicylic acid, digitalis, etc. that no one thinks of using it for antipyretic purposes."--dr. n. s. davis in _principles and practice of medicine_. professor atwater's conclusions upon alcohol as a fuel-food. in a decided sensation was caused by the announcement that prof. atwater, of middletown, conn., had proved that alcohol is a fuel-food equal in value to carbohydrates and fats. the study later of prof. atwater's report of his investigations led to prolonged discussions among medical men interested in the alcohol question, and his theory that alcohol is a food because it is oxidized in the body was vigorously opposed by many scientists of high standing. professor abel, of johns hopkins university, baltimore, an investigator of alcohol who worked with the committee of fifty, said on this point:-- "oxidizability cannot be made the measure of usefulness in regard to this substance." professor gruber, president of the royal institute of hygiene, munich, said:-- "does alcohol truly deserve to be called a food substance? obviously, only such substances can be called food material, or be employed for food, as, like albumen, fat, and sugar, exert non-poisonous influence in the amounts in which they reach the blood and must circulate in it in order to nourish * * * * although alcohol contributes energy it diminishes working ability. we are not able to find that its energy is turned to account for nerve and muscle work. very small amounts, whose food value is insignificant, show an injurious effect upon the nervous system." sir victor horsley, the well-known london surgeon, said:-- "we know that alcohol lowers the temperature of the body. it can only do that by diminishing the activity of the vital processes. it also diminishes very greatly the power of the muscles, and it diminishes the intellectual power of the nervous system. to call an agent that causes such diminution of activity throughout the whole body a food is ridiculous." an editorial in the _journal of the american medical association_ said: "the fallacy of the reasoning which would place alcohol among the foods is very apparent when we put it in the form of a syllogism: all foods are oxidized in the body; alcohol is oxidized in the body; therefore alcohol is food. as logically we might say: 'all birds are bilaterally symmetrical; the earthworm is bilaterally symmetrical; therefore the earthworm is a bird.' oxidation within the body is simply one of several important properties of food, as bilateral symmetry is one of several important characteristics of a bird." schafer's physiology says:-- "it cannot be doubted that any small production of energy resulting from the oxidation of alcohol is more than counterbalanced by its deleterious influences as a drug upon the tissue elements, and especially upon those of the nervous system." the _bulletin_ of the a. m. t. a. for july, , contained an article upon prof. atwater by dr. j. h. kellogg, from which the following is taken:-- "starch, sugar and fats become foods or fuels only through their assimilation. abundant physiological evidence attests that no substance can act as a food, or as a true source of energy, unless it has first entered into the composition of the body. it must be assimilated. the forces manifested by the body, the muscular forces, or nervous energy, are the result of the breaking down of organized structure into simpler forms. for example, in the case of nervous energy, material from which nerve energy is derived is stored up in the nerve cell, and can be seen with the microscope in the form of minute granules, which disappear as the cell energy is expended, leaving the cell blank and shriveled when in a state of extreme fatigue from overwork. the same is essentially true of the muscle cell. the source of muscular energy is glycogen, an organized substance which becomes a part of the muscle tissue in a well-nourished muscle in a state of rest. "experiments have clearly shown that fat, sugar and starch must all alike be converted into the form of glycogen and enter into the muscle structure before they can become a source of energy. "professor atwater tells us that alcohol can not form tissue, hence the query is pertinent, how can it be a source of vital energy? the body does not burn food as a stove does fuel. food can be called fuel only in a highly figurative sense. the oxidation of food in the body does not take place directly. food is assimilated, becoming a part of the tissue. oxygen is also assimilated, entering into the composition of the tissue along with the food elements under the action of special organic ferments brought into play by nervous impulses received from the central ganglia. "the molecules of these residual tissues which form the storehouse of energy in the body are rearranged in simpler forms, thereby giving up a portion of the energy which holds them together in the state in which they exist in the tissues, and this energy thus set free appears as muscle force, mental activity, glandular work and various other forms of functional activity." chapter vii. alcohol in pharmacy. in the _journal of the american medical association_ for november , , dr. t. d. crothers, editor of the _journal of inebriety_, says in a paper upon "concealed alcohol in drugs":-- "a very important question has been repeatedly raised, and answered differently by persons who claim to have some expert knowledge. the question is, can strong tinctures of common drugs be given in all cases with safety; tinctures of the various bitters which contain from to per cent. of alcohol, and are used very freely by neurotic and debilitated persons? it is asserted with the most positive convictions that such tinctures are more sought for the narcotic effect of the alcohol than for the drugs themselves. "in my experience a large number of inebriates who are restored, relapse from the use of these tinctures given for their medicinal effects. * * * * * "the question is asked, how much alcohol can be used as a solvent in drugs without adding a new force more potent than that which is brought out by the alcohol? opinions of experts differ. one writer thinks per cent. of alcohol in any drug will, if given any length of time, develop the physiologic effect of alcohol in addition to that of the drug. an english writer says that in some cases a per cent. tincture is dangerous from the alcohol which it contains. "there is some doubt expressed by many authorities as to the potency of a drug which is covered up in a strong tincture. it is clear that the value of a drug is not enhanced, and it is certain that a new force-producing, or exploding agency, has been added to the body. "in experience, any drug which contains alcohol can not be given to persons who have previously used it without rousing up the old desire for drink, or at least producing a degree of irritation and excitement that clearly comes from this source. it is also the experience of persons who are very susceptible to alcohol, that any strong tincture is followed by headache and other symptoms that refer to disturbed nerve centres. "in many studies i have been surprised at the increased action of drugs when given in other forms than the tincture. gum and powdered opium, have far more pronounced narcotic action than the tincture. yet the tincture is followed by a more rapid narcotism, but of shorter duration, and attended with more nerve disturbance at the onset. "i am convinced that a more exact knowledge of the physiologic action of alcohol on the organism will show that its use in drugs as tinctures is dangerous and will be abandoned. "there are many reasons for believing that its use in proprietary drugs will be punished in the future under what is called the poison act." dr. j. j. ridge published in may, , in the _medical pioneer_, the following statement of the pharmacy of the london temperance hospital:-- "when the temperance hospital was first opened, it became a question of practical importance, what should be done with regard to the alcohol so largely employed as a vehicle and drug excipient. not that the principle of the treatment of disease without the ordinary administration of alcoholic beverages precludes the employment of alcoholic tinctures, but it was felt that in such a test case as this it was important to obviate the objection that while withholding alcohol as a beverage, it was given in the medicine. as a matter of fact, it is surprising, when one looks into it, how much alcohol is often given merely as a vehicle for other drugs, and without the special action of alcohol being required or desired. in prescriptions which are to be seen in many text-books, it is not uncommon to find from one to two or three, or even four drachms of rectified spirit in the form of tinctures or spirits. this is very undesirable. if alcohol is needed it should be given in proper measured dose. but if it is not indicated, then it is not well to administer it in this indirect manner. "experiments were therefore made, partly at the hospital and specially by messrs. southall bros. & barclay, of birmingham, with the result that new non-alcoholic tinctures were made replacing the following alcoholic tinctures and wines:-- tinct. aloes. " arnicæ. " aurantii. " belladonnæ. " buchu. " calumbæ. " camph. co. " capsici. " cascarillæ. " catechu. " chiratæ. " cinchonæ co. " " flav. " cinnamomæ. " colchici sem. " conii. " digitalis. " ferri acet. " ferri perchlor. " gentiani co. " hyosciami. " kino. " krameriæ. " limonis. " lobeliæ. " nucis vomicæ. " opii. " quassiæ. " rhei. " scillæ. " serpentariæ. " stramonii. " valerianæ. " " ammon. vin. aloes. " colchici rad. " " sim. " ipecac. " opii. " rhei. "these were made by extracting the principles of the drugs in the usual way except that instead of alcohol a mixture of glycerine and water was used in the proportion of one-fourth to one-third part of glycerine, and about five per cent. of acetic acid. these made very elegant preparations, and in the majority of cases appeared to have just the same, and just as great physiological action. subsequently the ordinary tinctures were distilled, and the extracts thus obtained dissolved in the above menstruum, as far as was possible, in most cases the residuum being found to be inert. "gum resins and essential oils were found to be insoluble in this menstruum, and hence such drugs have been given in the form of pill, powder or mixture. such tinctures are those of assafoetida, benzoin, cannabis indica, cantharides, castor, cubebs, lavender, myrrh, pyrethrum, sumbul, tolu and ginger. out of tinctures it was found that made good preparations, and did not. "these were employed for several years. but for some time past, somewhat more reliable preparations have been made for us which contain _all_ the constituents of the alcoholic tinctures without the alcohol. they are for the most part made by taking standardized tinctures, mixing with them sugar of milk, and distilling off the alcohol. the alcoholic extract remains behind in a finely divided condition mingled with sugar of milk. this is broken up, pulverized and compressed into tabloids of a definite dose, which can be taken either in that form or rubbed up and dissolved or suspended in gum water. "the following have been made up in this form: aconite, belladonna, camph. co., cannabis indica, capsicum, cinchon. co., and cinchon. simpl., digitalis, gelseminum, hyosciamus, nux vomica, opium, strophanthus, ginger and warburg. other tinctures will be gradually added to this list. "as external liniments those commonly used are the linimentum terebinthinæ and the linimentum terebinthinæ aceticum, which do not contain alcohol. a strong solution of iodine is made with iodide of potassium. "the spiritus ammoniæ aromaticus is made without the spirit, the aromatic oils being emulsionized by means of rubbing up with fine sand, but most of these subsequently rise to the surface. the spiritus etheris nitrosi is impossible without alcohol, but nitrite of amyl, and nitrites of potash or soda can be substituted. the spiritus chloroformi is replaced by aqua chloroformi, or as a sweetening agent by solution of saccharin. thus a favorite expectorant mixture contains carbonate of ammonia five grains, acetum ipecac, ten minims, and solution of saccharin in each dose. "as a special stimulant a subcutaneous injection of a drachm of pure ether has been given in a few cases; in others digitalis, or caffeine or ammonia in some form, such as the carbonate dissolved in a cup of hot coffee; or hot solution of liebig's extract, or rectal injections of hot water." it may be objected by some that glycerine belongs to the family of alcohols, hence hospitals using glycerine tinctures are not, strictly speaking, non-alcoholic. to this the answer is, that while glycerine certainly is classed in the family of alcohols, it is of a very different nature from ethyl alcohol, which is used for beverage purposes. ethyl alcohol, the alcohol in all intoxicating beverages in common use, and the alcohol generally used in medicine, creates a fatal craving for itself, and is injurious to the body. glycerine does not create any craving for itself, and has not been demonstrated to have injurious properties, and is not used for beverage purposes. at the annual meeting of the new york state medical society, held in new york city, in october, , a discussion was held upon the use of alcohol as medicine. dr. e. r. squibb, a leading pharmacist of brooklyn, stated that during the last two or three years much had been accomplished in retiring alcohol as a menstruum for exhausting drugs. of the other menstrua experimented with up to the present time, that which had given the best results was acetic acid, in various strengths. it had been discovered that a ten per cent. solution of acetic acid was almost universal in its exhausting powers. there were now in use in veterinary practice, and in some hospitals, extracts made with acetic acid. they were made according to the requirements of the pharmacopoeia, except that acetic acid was substituted for alcohol. acetic acid, when used with alkaloids gives the physician some advantages in prescribing, owing to there being fewer incompatibles. in small doses, the percentage of acetic acid in the extract is so small as to be hardly appreciable, and when larger doses are required, the acetic acid can be neutralized by the addition of potash or soda. dr. noble said, in article to _london times_ before referred to:-- "modern science has shown that those drugs which are soluble in alcohol only, are, in all probability, more hurtful than useful." the following from dr. jas. r. nichols, editor boston _journal of chemistry_, is too good to be omitted, although it should be familiar to temperance students:-- "the facetious dr. holmes has said, that if the contents of our drug-stores were taken out upon the ocean and thrown overboard, it would be better for the human race, but worse for the fishes. this statement may be a little sweeping; but it is true that all the showy bottles in drug-stores which contain alcoholic decoctions and tinctures might be submerged in the ocean, and invalids would suffer no detriment. since the active alkaloidal and resinoidal principles of roots, barks and gums have been isolated and put in better and more convenient forms, there is no longer need of alcoholic tinctures and elixirs. laudanum, which is a tincture of opium, might be banished from the shelves of every apothecary, as it is not needed. it is now known that the valuable narcotic and hypnotic principles of opium are contained in certain crystalline bodies, which can be isolated, and used in minute and convenient forms, and that they can be held in aqueous solutions. alcohol is no longer needed to hold the active principles of opium, peruvian bark or other indispensable drugs. as regards the vegetable tonics so called, the best among them is the columbo (radix columbo) and this readily yields its bitter principle to water, as does quassia, gentian, senna, rhubarb and most other valuable substances. a careful survey of the contents of a well-appointed modern pharmacy leads to the conclusion that there is no one indispensable medicinal preparation which requires alcohol as a free constituent. "the catalogue of modern remedies is almost endless, and many of them hold alcohol in some form; but every intelligent physician knows that per cent. of these alleged remedies have little or no intrinsic value. the nostrums of the quack, the bitters, elixirs, cordials, extracts, etc. nearly all contain alcohol, and this is the ingredient which aids their sale. the whole unclean list might, with advantage to mankind, be thrown to the fishes. "the chemist, more particularly the pharmaceutical chemist, may inquire how he is to conduct his processes without alcohol. it is from the pharmaceutical laboratory we derive some of the most important substances used in medicines and the arts. among them may be named ether, chloroform and chloral hydrate, three of the most indispensable agents known to science, and the employment of alcohol is essential to their production. alcohol is a laboratory product; it is a chemical agent which belongs to the laboratory; it is the handmaid of the chemist, and, so long as it exists, should be retained within the walls of the laboratory. in the manufacture of most of the important products in which alcohol is either directly or indirectly used, its production may be made simultaneous with the production of the agent desired. in the manufacture of ether and chloroform, the apparatus for alcohol may be made a part of the devices from which the ultimate agents, ether and chloroform, result. fermentation and distillation may be conducted at one end, and the anæsthetics received at the other. it is true that in a chemical laboratory alcohol is an agent very convenient in a thousand ways. but, if it were banished utterly, what would result? there are other methods of fabricating the useful products named, and many others, without the use of alcohol, but the processes would be rather inconvenient and more costly. the banishment of alcohol would not deprive us of a single one of the indispensable agents which modern civilization demands, and neither would chemical science be retarded by its loss." "it must be remembered that modern science has given us glycerine, naptha, bisulphide of carbon, pyroligneous products, carbolic acid and a hundred other agents which are capable of taking the place of alcohol in a very large number of appliances and processes." the sale of liquor in drug-stores is beginning to be deplored by the more respectable pharmacists. at the annual meeting of the massachusetts state pharmacists' association in the president said in his address:-- "one thing that every pharmacist, who has the best interests of his calling at heart, must bear in mind is that the liquor part of their business is being, and must be, slowly crowded out. public sentiment has changed greatly in the last few years, and instead of all being classed alike, the line has been sharply drawn, and the stores that sell the least amount of liquor that they possibly can are gaining the confidence and esteem of the public, and consequently their business is growing from year to year, while the others are losing ground and dropping lower and lower." the _evening record_ of boston contained the following in its issue of march , :-- "the number of flagrant offences on the part of druggists in certain no-license towns--offences not only against the liquor laws, but also against the laws of decency and humanity--brought before the board of pharmacy, would appall the public if they were known. the looker-on has seen the record of several of these druggists as transcribed from the police courts and they are very black records. one druggist after selling liquor over and over again to one customer, and several times getting him completely intoxicated, finally deposited him one night in a snowbank, in a state of frozen stupor, where he would have frozen to death had not the wife of the druggist's clerk threatened to complain to the police unless he was rescued. "the story is told of one of the druggists of a neighboring no-license town. a man came in and asked for a pint of whisky. he was asked what he wanted it for. his reply was that he wanted it to soak some roots in. he got it, and as he went out he dryly remarked, 'i should have told you that it was the roots of me tongue that i want to soak.'" chapter viii. diseases, and their treatment without alcohol. the question, "what shall i take instead of wine, beer or brandy?" is frequently asked by those who have been trained to think some form of alcohol really necessary to the cure of disease, but, who, from principle would prefer other agents, if they knew of any equal in effect. this chapter deals somewhat with the answer to that question. alcoholic craving:--the craving for alcohol may be present for a time after a person has commenced to abstain from all beverages containing it. or, it may occur periodically, as a sort of irresistible impulse. for the periodical craving dr. higginbotham, of england, recommends that a half drachm of ipecacuanha be taken so as to produce full vomiting. he says the desire for intoxicating drinks will be immediately removed. the craving is caused by vitiated secretions of the stomach; the vomiting removes these. dr. higginbotham says:-- "if a patient can be persuaded to follow the emetic plan for a few times when the periodical attacks come on, he will be effectually cured." some men in trying to abstain have found the use of fresh fruit, especially apples, very helpful. nourishing and digestible food should be taken somewhat frequently. a cup of hot milk or hot coffee taken at the right moment has saved some. anÃ�mia:--in this complaint there is a deficiency of the red corpuscles of the blood. it may be the result of some fever or exhausting illness; it may accompany dyspepsia, and is then due to imperfect digestion and assimilation of the food. the poverty of the blood produces shortness of breath, and often palpitation of the heart also, especially on a little exertion. there is generally more or less weariness, languor and debility, sometimes also giddiness, sickness, fainting and neuralgia. "in the treatment of anæmia, port wine and other alcoholic liquors are worse than useless."--dr. j. j. ridge, london. "the common prescription of wine or some form of spirits for states of general exhaustion and anæmia, is a serious mistake. it assumes that the temporary increase in the action of the heart is renewed vigor, and that some power is added to the failing energies. this theory rests solely on the statement of the patient that he feels better. in reality the exhaustion is intensified, though covered up."--_medical pioneer._ "deficiency of nutrition, of light and of pure air may be mentioned as common causes of anæmia. * * * * * it is evident that the first step in the treatment of this disease is to remove the cause. if the cause is dyspepsia, this must receive attention; if intestinal parasites, they must be dislodged; if prolonged nursing, nursing must be interdicted; if too little food, a larger quantity of nourishing, wholesome food must be employed. such simple and easily digested foods as eggs, poached or boiled, boiled milk, kumyzoon, good buttermilk, purée of peas, beans or lentils, boiled rice, well-cooked gruels and other preparations of grains are suitable. beef tea and extracts are worthless. * * * * * "a careful course of physical training is essential to securing perfect recovery in cases of chronic anæmia due to indigestion, or any other serious disturbance of the nutritive processes."--dr. j. h. kellogg. appetite, loss of:--"there is often disinclination for food because _it is not required_. many cannot eat much breakfast, because they have had a hearty supper. or having had both a hearty breakfast and luncheon, they feel but little desire for a dinner of four or five courses. generally the stomach is right and the habits wrong. what is to be done then, for such lack of appetite? simply go without food until appetite comes. "when ale or beer is taken regularly with meals the stomach learns to expect them, and the food is not relished without them. the appetizing power of beer and bitter ales is chiefly due to the hop or other bitter ingredients which they contain. when it seems necessary to assist the appetite temporarily, a small quantity of simple infusion of hops may be taken. "sometimes appetite fails because of exhaustion of body and mind. this may be nature's warning against overwork, and cannot be neglected with impunity. life will inevitably be shortened if it is found necessary to rely upon the aid of alcohol in any form in order to do a day's work. "bouillon, or beef soup, at the beginning of a meal are incentives to appetite. change of scene, and life in the open air are the very best aids to appetite, when aids are really required." apoplexy:--"there is a popular idea that whenever a person is taken ill with giddiness, fainting or insensibility, brandy should be at once procured and poured down his throat. nothing can be more dangerous in apoplexy. this disease is due to the bursting of some blood-vessel in the head, and the poured-out blood presses on the brain and leads to more or less insensibility. if fainting occurs, it may possibly save the patient's life, because then the blood-vessels contract, and the flow of blood ceases immediately; time is thus given for the ruptured blood-vessel to became sealed up by a clot, which will prevent further loss of blood. if brandy is given, there is, first, great risk of choking the patient; if that danger is escaped and the brandy is swallowed and absorbed, the vessels become relaxed and the heart recovers its force; hence the ruptured vessel, if not sufficiently sealed by clot, may be started again, and fatal hemorrhage result. "the only _treatment_ which unskilled hands can adopt is to lay the patient on his back on the floor or sofa with the head and shoulders somewhat raised; to loosen all the dress round the neck and body; to apply cold to the head and hot flannels or a hot bottle to the feet and hands, or to soak them in hot mustard and water, and to gently rub the arms and legs."--dr. j. j. ridge. dr. alfred smee, surgeon to the bank of england, says:-- "give nothing by the mouth. apply a stream of cold water to the head. if the feet are cold apply warm cloths. if relief is not soon obtained, apply hot fomentations to the abdomen, keeping the head erect." bed-sores:--some object to using alcohol even as an outward application. dr. ridge recommends that when a patient is confined to bed the parts pressed on be well washed every day with strong salt and water or alum water, and carefully dried. _glycerine of tannin_ may then be applied. if any redness appears, especially if any dusky patch is formed, _collodion_ may be applied with a brush, and all pressure should be taken off the part by a circular air-pillow or by a cushion; or small bran or sand-bags may be made and carefully arranged. if the skin is broken, _zinc_ or _resin ointment_ may be applied. some recommend finely powdered iodoform sprinkled over the surface of the sore. boils and carbuncle:--"in many cases these troubles result from an overloaded condition of the system, which is the result of taking too much food, or some error in diet. the boils are an effort of nature to be rid of offending matter. in some cases they are due to the use of impure water, or the presence of sewer gas in the house. in others, overwork, or other debilitating causes, may have produced the state of the digestive organs which usually causes the boils. carbuncle is, essentially, an extensive boil. "apply iodine early or a piece of belladonna plaster. the diet should be plain and unstimulating, condiments being avoided and plenty of fresh vegetables taken, if possible. fresh-air, exercise and proper rest should be obtained, and late hours avoided. "medical advice is requisite in carbuncle. the popular notion that port wine is absolutely necessary is both erroneous and mischievous."--ridge. catarrh:--among the causes are repeated colds; errors in diet, especially excess in the use of fats and sugar, and an inactive state of the liver. cut off from your bill of fare all salted foods, avoid fats and condiments; drink freely of pure water; live in the open-air and sunshine as much as possible, taking much out-door exercise. take a cold sponge or towel bath every morning, beginning at the face and finishing by plunging the feet into a foot-tub. follow with vigorous rubbing with a crash or turkish towel. those subject to sore throat should hold the head over a basin of cold water and lave the neck with the water for about two minutes. the writer was formerly subject to frequent sore throats, but has had none for over two years, as she believes, because of the adoption of this measure, together with the towel bath every morning, summer and winter. care should be taken to avoid exposure to draughts, or any other means which will produce liability to cold. care in diet, good ventilation and the morning cold bath are essential if a radical cure is desired. local measures, while giving relief, will not remove the predisposing causes. dr. kellogg recommends saline solutions in the form of the nasal douche, a teaspoonful of salt to a pint of soft water, adding twenty to thirty drops of carbolic acid, if there is offensive odor, as a relief measure. sleeping in a poorly ventilated room is said to be one cause of catarrh. _hay fever_ is a form of catarrh. the vapor bath is recommended as very helpful in this trouble. _nature cure_ says that two vapor baths and a two or three days' fast will cure any case of hay fever. the use of pork and other clogging foods should be avoided by those afflicted with this trouble. the bowels should be kept in good condition. if constipated, the use of prunes, figs, grapes, apples and other such fruits will be very beneficial; walking, and massage of the bowels, being added if the fruits are not sufficient. no one able to walk should depend upon drugs to relieve a constipated condition. colds:--"if the bowels are constipated, the skin over-burdened and clogged with bilious matter, and the lungs weak, it is as easy to take cold as to roll off a log. if, on the contrary, the lungs are well developed, and the respiratory power large, providing abundant oxygen to keep bright the internal fires, the colon clean, the skin daily washed, and the system hardened by the cold bath, taking cold is next to impossible. "the first remedial agent for a cold should be a copious enema. then open the pores of the skin by a hot bath; take a glass of hot lemonade and go to bed."--_the new hygiene._ chills:--for chill, take a hot foot and hand bath, with mustard in the water, / pound to a gallon; then go to bed in a well ventilated room. drink freely of hot lemonade or hot water. catarrh, colds and hay fever may all be effectually relieved by hot baths. relief may be gained also from inhaling the vapor from pine needles or hemlock leaves. put them in a bowl, pour boiling water over them, hold the face down over the bowl, the head being covered, and inhale the vapor well up into the nostrils and head. a few drops of hemlock oil in the hot water will do as well. coughs and hoarseness:--boil flaxseed in pint water, strain, add two teaspoons honey, ounce rock candy, and juice lemons. drink hot. also; roast a lemon till hot, cut, and squeeze on ounces powdered sugar. colic:--this may arise from cold, or from error in diet. if the latter it is desirable to induce vomiting. for the pain, apply hot flannels or fomentations; drink hot water. in severe cases, sprinkle a little turpentine on flannel, wrung from hot water, and apply to abdomen. colic resulting from the accumulation of fecal matter should be treated with hot enemas until relieved. a hot hip-bath is sometimes necessary to relief. the colic of children and infants should never be treated with alcoholics. in infants it generally arises from excessive or improper feeding; care should be taken that the milk provided them is not sour. in severe cases the babe should be immersed in warm water, keeping the head above water, of course. this is also the best remedy in convulsions. the hot bath, with a copious enema of warm water, has saved the lives of many babes. for adults, hot water, with a pinch of red pepper added, will do all that brandy can do, and more. cholera:--brandy has been considered by many a really necessary medicine in cholera. the following is a discussion upon alcohol in cholera which was held at the annual meeting of the british medical temperance association, in may, , and is taken from the _medical pioneer_ of june, :-- "dr. richardson opened a discussion on cholera in relation to alcohol. he said he would bring forward five points on the subject. . the negligence among the people at large produced by alcohol in the presence of a cholera epidemic. there was no doubt on the part of any who had seen an epidemic of cholera as to the mischief done by alcohol, apart from its action as a remedy. people rush to the public houses and take it to ward off the danger, or to relieve them when they begin to feel ill, and the result is very bad morally. he had seen this in different epidemics. or people got in spirits to face the danger, and many became intoxicated and less able to resist. . its misuse by those affected. it was often given to cheer them up and remove their fear and nervousness. in his opinion it invariably produced mischief. . he was unable to find any physiological reason for giving it. there was a constant drain of fluid, causing spasms and cramp, both of the muscles and blood-vessels, and difficult circulation through the lungs. spasm may be relaxed by alcohol, but, on the other hand, alcohol is exceedingly greedy of water, and so increases the flux. but it also reduces animal temperature, which is a strong feature of cholera, so much so that he could almost diagnose cholera blindfold in the stage of collapse, by the icy coldness. . its uselessness as a remedy during the acute stage. he had seen a great deal of cholera and never saw alcohol do any good whatever. there was a temporary glow which passed away in a few minutes, and then the evil it does in other ways was brought out. water was far better, even if cold. the college of physicians had given some instructions and ordered great care in the administration of alcohol; this was not far enough, but good as far as it went. the recoveries were best where the treatment was simplest, such as external warmth with plenty of diluents. he had given creasote largely. . its injuriousness during the stage of reaction. the reactive fever following collapse caused a great number of deaths. in this stage alcohol was absolutely poisonous. he could recall many such cases in which he had given alcohol through ignorance, and always with disaster. "brigade-surgeon pringle said that when he went out to india he thought alcohol was something to stand by, but he had soon found out his mistake; he had himself suffered from it. he could confirm what dr. richardson had said as to the demoralization produced by alcohol to which men resort to keep up their spirits, and men seized under these circumstances were in the greatest danger. nature effects a cure in many cases without assistance, and often with wonderful rapidity. people apparently dead and about to be buried, he had known to get up and recover. when alcohol is given during collapse there is often no absorption until reaction occurs, and then the quantity accumulated speedily produces intoxication. it was the same with opium: he had found pills unchanged in the stomach for hours. he recommended hot drinks; he had tried every kind of medicine and had little faith in it. the nursing was very important, and it was important that the nurses should abstain. "dr. morton said it was easy to see that on physiological grounds alone, alcohol, with its strong affinity for water and its tendency to lower temperature, could not be a useful drug in the treatment of cholera collapse, and with its powers of paralyzing vascular inhibition and checking elimination of effete matter, could not be otherwise than harmful in the stage of reaction. as these conclusions were corroborated by practical experience he did not think members would hesitate to banish it from their equipment against cholera. "dr. ridge said it should be remembered that doyen had made experiments on guinea-pigs and had found they were proof against cholera, unless they had previously had a dose of alcohol. this explained why drunkards and hard drinkers were so much more liable to have cholera, and have it badly as all observers declared to be the case. another reason might be that small quantities of alcohol, such as would be found circulating in the blood, favored the growth and multiplication of bacteria, certainly those of decomposition, and probably those of cholera. hence, other things being equal, the abstainer had a great advantage. "dr. norman kerr said that he had observed both in america and glasgow that not only notorious drunkards but free drinkers suffered; abstainers were less liable unless they took contaminated water, and the less liquid taken the less chance of taking cholera; beer-drinkers often took more than abstainers. the alcohol-drinker uses up more water from his blood and so has less to flush out the system. alcohol, given to a patient, disguised his condition so that he might seem better though really worse. hence it is better and safer not to give any. the doctors and nurses ought to be abstainers. a doctor after dinner was more likely to take a roseate view of a case, looking at it through an alcoholic pair of spectacles. alcohol was not really a stimulant, but a depressant, and this is a very depressing disease; it was important to have our vital resisting power as vigorous as possible. hot water both relaxes and stimulates, and the whole cry of the sufferer is for water. many persons who died in cholera did not die of the disease, but of the drugs such as alcohol and opium. acid drinks should be given, as the bacilli could not live in acid mixtures. cholera might come, but he believed we were better prepared to meet it and to treat it. "surgeon-general francis sent a communication which was read by the honorable secretary. he said: 'having had many opportunities of treating cholera in various parts of india and amongst all classes, i have no hesitation in affirming that alcohol in any shape is one of the very worst remedies. life is, so to speak, paralyzed, and we give a remedy which, apparently stimulating, is in reality, a paralyzer and therefore mischievous; the death-rate might be considerably reduced provided alcohol were rigidly excluded.'" dr. norman kerr in a valuable paper upon cholera says:-- "the first thing is to get rid of the poison. how? by assisting it out; but alcohol keeps it in by blocking the doors, just as the doors were blocked in the terrible calamity at sunderland not long ago. the alcohol makes the heart and circulation labor more. alcohol not only retains the cholera poison, but retards the action of the heart. brandy and opium used to be employed, but the records show that if the object had been to make cholera as fatal as possible, that object was achieved by the indiscriminate administration of brandy and opium. better leave the victim alone, and his chances of recovery will be greater than if he have a thousand doctors, and as many nurses, administering to him brandy and opium. alcohol is especially dangerous in the third stage, that of reactive fever, because it adds to the fever. then, alcohol is not only unsafe in the three stages of genuine cholera, but especially unsafe in the premonitory diarrhoea stage, which gives nearly every one warning before they are attacked by genuine cholera. brandy is taken simply because it puts away the pain. if there are only the pain and slight diarrhoea, speaking medically, it is all right, but if there is anything behind the pain, it is all wrong. after the alcohol, the mischief is going on, only the patient does not know it, and valuable time is lost. all the alcohol does is to deaden sensation. * * * * * here i can thoroughly recommend ice and iced water. i have always treated cholera patients with these. let them drink iced water to their hearts' content; they can never drink too much; and this opinion is fortified by that of professor maclean, of netley. there is no need of a substitute for brandy in cholera, because in ordinary circumstances in that disease the action of a stimulant is bad. flushing of the blood is required, and water will do it. milk will not do it, because it is too thick--nothing but pure, cold water, all the better if iced." in dr. ernest hart, editor of the _british medical journal_, read an able paper upon cholera before the american medical association. his argument was that the introduction of such a substance as alcohol, itself being a product of germ action, into a system already suffering from the toxic influence of a ptomaine, could not be otherwise than pernicious. cholera morbus:--dr. kellogg says: "the stomach should be washed by means of the stomach-tube when possible. a large hot enema should be given after each evacuation of the bowels. the addition of tannin, one drachm to a quart of water, is serviceable. when the vomited matter no longer shows signs of food, efforts should be made to stop the vomiting. give the patient bits of ice the size of a bean to swallow every few minutes. at the same time apply hot fomentations over the stomach and bowels. if the patient suffer much from cramp, put him into a warm bath. the first food taken should be farinaceous. oatmeal gruel, well boiled and strained, is useful." cholera infantum:--"iced water may be given in very small quantities every few minutes. give the stomach entire rest for at least twenty-four hours. there will be no suffering for want of food as long as the stomach is in such a condition. withhold milk until nature has had time to rid the alimentary canal of the poison-producing germs. white of egg dissolved in water is an excellent preparation in these cases. egg enemata may also be advantageously used. "warm baths, the hot blanket pack when the surface is cold, and the hot enema are all useful. keep the child wrapped warmly. "great care should be taken in returning to the milk diet. the milk should be thoroughly sterilized by boiling for half an hour, and should be mixed with some barley water so as to avoid the formation of large curds in the stomach. cream, diluted with water, may be used instead of milk." consumption. dr. koch, the celebrated german microscopist, pronounces consumption contagious, because during its progress a very minute bacterium is developed which may be transmitted from one person to another. it is said that a person with healthy lungs might daily breathe millions of tubercle bacilli without any danger, and that the best preventive of this disease is to live much in the open air, or if this is impossible to spend ten or fifteen minutes a day in deep breathing exercises in the open air. "fresh-air and disease-germs are antagonistic." alcohol, chiefly in the form of whisky, was for many years considered of great value in the treatment of consumption of the lungs. indeed, it was looked upon not only as a curative, but also as a prophylactic, or preventive, of great service to those predisposed to this disease by reason of narrow chest and weak lungs. sir benjamin ward richardson was the first medical scientist who showed plainly that alcohol, instead of being a preventive of consumption, is really the sole cause of one type of this disease, the type now classed under the head of "alcoholic phthisis." for this kind of phthisis there is no hope of cure. french physicians some years ago came to the conclusion that alcohol was a prolific cause of tuberculosis and that the administration of alcoholic liquors in tubercular troubles was a great error, and in the international anti-tuberculosis congress held in paris in , about medical scientists being present, they presented the following resolution, which was adopted: "in view of the close connection between alcoholism and tuberculosis, this congress strongly emphasizes the importance of combining the fight against tuberculosis with the struggle against alcoholism." since that time a great crusade against tuberculosis has been carried on by means of exhibits and lectures, and in connection with these, almost invariably the people are warned against intemperance. for example, a pamphlet sent out by the boston association for the relief and control of tuberculosis says: "do not spend money for beer or other liquors, or for quack medicines or 'cures.' self-indulgence and intemperance are very bad. vice which weakens the strong kills the weak." the new york state charities aid association, working with the state board of health, says in a pamphlet: "patent medicines do not cure consumption. they are usually alcoholic drinks in disguise, and the use of alcoholic drinks is dangerous to the consumptive." at the great exhibit in washington in september, , in connection with the international anti-tuberculosis congress different warnings against alcohol were upon the walls. among these was a large poster of white cloth on which was printed the opinions on alcohol, in brief, of some of the best-known authorities on consumption. the opinions as given on that poster are given here, with others, in order to show the great change of sentiment regarding alcohol and consumption which has come about within a few years:-- "alcohol has never cured and never will cure tuberculosis. it will either prevent or retard recovery. it is like a two-edged weapon; on one side it poisons the system, and on the other it ruins the stomach and thus prevents this organ from properly digesting the necessary food."--s. a. knopf, m. d., new york, honorary vice-president of the british congress on tuberculosis. dr. knopf in his prize essay on "tuberculosis and how to combat it," says in several places: "avoid all alcoholic beverages." he says also, "alcohol should never be given to children even in the smallest quantities." "it is a recognized fact in the medical profession that the habitual use of alcoholic drinks predisposes to tubercular infection. it is also recognized, i think, by most physicians that alcohol as a medicine is harmful to the tubercular invalid."--frank billings, m. d., chicago, ill., former president american medical association. "alcoholic liquors are of damage to consumptives because they tend to impair nutrition, disturb the action of the stomach, and give a false strength to the invalid on which he is sure to presume. besides, we know that in countries where drinking prevails most, the ravages of tuberculosis are most marked."--edward l. trudeau, m. d., adirondacks sanitarium for consumptives, saranac lake, n. y. "in my judgment whisky should not be used by people who have consumption, and in my practice i prohibit its use absolutely. at the white haven sanitarium and henry phipps institute we do not use alcohol in any form in the treatment of our patients."--lawrence f. flick, m. d., vice-president of the national association for the study and prevention of tuberculosis, philadelphia, pa. "i do not feel that i can emphasize strongly enough the harm that can be done by the use of alcohol in tuberculosis, and the indiscriminate use of it certainly borders on the criminal. i do not believe that any legitimate reason can be given for the routine employment of alcohol in the treatment of tuberculosis. i furthermore know of no emergency in which it is indispensable. my experience with patients who have been accustomed to the use of alcohol, especially moderately, is very unsatisfactory. they seem to show an abnormally low resisting power to the tubercle bacillus. the fact has been established that alcoholism is a very potent factor in the causation of tuberculosis. i find it not only unnecessary in treatment but believe it to be contraindicated."--f. m. pottenger, m. d., superintendent the pottenger sanitarium for diseases of the lungs and throat, monrovia, california. "i have met with a small class of consumptive patients who could take alcoholic liquors freely for a length of time, without deranging either the stomach or the brain, and with a decided amelioration of the pulmonary symptoms, and an arrest of the emaciation. some of these have actually increased in _embonpoint_, and for three to six months were highly elated with the hope that they were recovering. but truth compels me to say that i have never seen a case in which this apparent improvement under the influence of alcoholic drink was permanent. on the contrary, even in those cases in which the emaciation seems at first arrested, and the general symptoms ameliorated, the physical signs do not undergo a corresponding improvement; and after a few months the digestive function becomes impaired; the emaciation begins to increase rapidly; and in a short time the patient is fatally prostrated."--dr. nathan s. davis, sr., of chicago. "the use of whisky in this disease positively interferes with digestion which must under all circumstances be kept as perfect as possible in order that the patient may assimilate the food which is so necessary to the upbuilding of the system and to gain strength to fight the onslaught of the disease. "its constant use would not only interfere with digestion but would have a tendency to create disease in other organs of the body so that we therefore consider the use of whisky in tuberculosis positively contraindicated. "wishing you success in your laudable campaign."--dr. m. collins, superintendent national jewish hospital for consumptives, denver, colorado. "it is difficult for many people to adapt themselves to a methodical plan of life long enough to establish a permanent cure in consumption. i have known many a young fellow with only a slight trouble in his lungs to die in the adirondacks more from the effects of whisky than from the disease itself."--dr. henry p. loomis, of new york city, in a lecture on consumption. (see page , of handbook, on the prevention of tuberculosis.) "the majority of our patients receive no medication whatsoever. the stomach is rarely in condition to bear excessive medication, and the promiscuous use of creosote and similar preparations is to be condemned. milk and raw eggs are the best articles of diet in addition to a regular diet of simple food."--james alexander miller, m. d., of the vanderbilt clinic, new york. (from medical record.) "in my specialty, the treatment of pulmonary diseases, i rarely prescribe alcohol in any form, and in the sanitaria with which i have been connected it is the exception where alcohol in any form is prescribed. i have advised against its use where such has been the custom, believing that as a rule alcoholic liquors do more harm than good in the treatment of this disease."--prof. vincent y. bowditch, m. d., harvard medical school, boston. "from personal experience in handling pulmonary tuberculosis, not only at the nordrach ranch sanitorium, for the past five years, but in an active practice of thirteen years, i am more than convinced that whisky and liquor, in any form, are absolutely poisonous to the consumptive. "whenever we admit a patient to the nordrach ranch sanitorium, we ascertain whether the individual is an alcoholic or not; and we invariably find that such an individual is lacking in vitality enough to combat the disease. they may look fat and strong, pulmonary tuberculosis usually makes quick work of them. "it is also a noticeable fact, proven by various statistics, that a very large percentage of alcoholics become tubercular; and if we ever stamp out tuberculosis, we will also have to stamp out intemperance. "trying to cure consumption with whisky is like trying to put out a fire with kerosene. this is very easy to understand when we stop to consider the nature of this disease. in the first place, we have a very rapid heart's action, dating from the very earliest manifestations of the disease. the pulse is often in excess of , even in incipient cases, and if the stimulation of alcohol is added, we have what might be called a 'runaway heart'; and if there is one thing needed in the long combat against tuberculosis, it is a good heart."--john e. white, m. d., medical director nordrach ranch sanitorium, colorado springs, colorado. "you ask me my opinion as to the use of whisky in the treatment of consumption. in reply permit me to say that i regard its use in this disease as most universally pernicious."--prof. charles g. stockton, m. d., buffalo medical college, buffalo, n. y. "it was formerly thought that alcohol was in some way antagonistic to tuberculous disease, but the observations of late years indicate clearly that the reverse is the case, and that chronic drinkers are more liable to both acute and pulmonary tuberculosis. it is probably altogether a question of altered tissue soil, the alcohol lowering the vitality and enabling the bacilli more readily to develop and grow."--dr. osler, formerly professor of medicine in johns hopkins university, baltimore, md., now of oxford university, england. "upon investigation i found per cent. of our male tubercular patients were excessive users of alcohol, per cent. moderate users. from my study of the cases i am led to believe that in a vast majority of these cases drink has been a large factor in producing the disease, by exposure, lowering of vitality, etc. i believe that alcohol has no place in the treatment of tuberculosis. many patients are deceived by the false strength it gives them."--o. c. willhite, m. d., superintendent of cook county hospital for consumptives, dunning, ill. "in tuberculosis there is a state of over-stimulation of the circulatory system due to the toxins. the use of alcoholics simply makes the condition worse. it reduces resistance and makes the person more susceptible to the disease."--h. j. blankmeyer, m. d., sanatorium gabriels, in the adirondacks, n. y. "the practice of taking alcoholics of any sort, and in any quantity, over a considerable length of time, is certain to produce more or less injury to a tubercular patient, and their use by tubercular people cannot be too strongly condemned."--h. s. goodall, m. d., lake kushaqua, n. y. most of these opinions were written for the author of this book in response to letters of inquiry. are they not indicative of a day when the medical profession will lay aside alcoholic liquors in the treatment of all diseases? it is acknowledged that the past usage of giving whisky and cod-liver oil to consumptives was an error; some day, it may be not far distant, a larger acknowledgment may be made, and the medical use of alcoholic liquors will be entirely a thing of the past. rev. j. m. buckley, d.d., editor of _the christian advocate_, was in early manhood considered an incurable consumptive. being a man of great will power and indomitable perseverance, he resolved to try the open-air cure, together with the use of an inspirator. the result was perfect restoration to health, so that, as is well known, he can be easily heard by audiences of thousands at chautauqua and other places where he is greatly in request for lectures. he has written a pamphlet giving a full history of his case. it can be obtained from eaton & mains, fifth avenue, new york, for fifty cents, and should be read by all consumptives who have any "grit" in their composition. dr. forrest, a hygienic physician, says:-- "what is to be done if the germs have already obtained lodgement in the lungs? increase the general nutrition of the body in every way, and then the lungs can resist the inroads of the disease. the first thing necessary to improve the nutrition of the body is to stimulate the digestive and absorbent functions of the stomach and intestines. naturally then, you must throw the so-called cough medicines out of the window. the drugs used to stop a cough are sedatives. now, no sedative or nauseant is known that does not lock up the natural secretions and thus lessen the digestive powers. the cough is nature's method of expelling offending matter from the lungs and bronchial tubes. it is infinitely better to have this stuff thrown out of the lungs than retained there." keep the bowels clean is this physician's next recommendation. sweet cream is preferable to cod-liver oil as it is not so likely to derange the stomach. easily digested food is necessary, as the organs of digestion are in weakened condition. again dr. forrest says:-- "the consumptive should live as much as possible in the open air. "dr. trudeau inoculated twelve rabbits with tubercle or consumptive germs. six of these he turned loose on an island where they ran wild. the other six were kept confined in hutches such as rabbits are usually kept in. results--all the six rabbits in the open air recovered from the inoculation and remained well. five of the confined rabbits died of tubercles in the lungs and different parts of the body. the sixth was still lingering, badly diseased, when the experiment was brought to a close. fresh air and exercise enabled the first six to overcome the disease germs. confinement gave full play to the disease in the others. "now, you house lovers, sleepers in close bedrooms, people afraid of cold air, you are the rabbits in the hutches. beware, lest the verdict be in your case, 'died of tubercles in the lungs.' if you are not able to leave your home, live with open windows, day and night, summer and winter. "exercise systematically, especially those exercises, accompanied by deep breathing, that open and strengthen the lungs--exercises without fatigue. "if you are hoping that some wonderful, mysterious drug has been or will be discovered, a drug that will cure consumption without your help, you are hoping against hope. improved nutrition is your salvation, and that must come through exercise, diet and fresh air." dr. j. h. kellogg, in his _home hand-book of hygiene and medicine_, recommends a salt sponge bath upon retiring, to arrest night sweats, or sponging with hot water. he adds:-- "it is important that patients should know that the sweats are greatly aggravated by opium in any form, and hence are increased by cough mixtures of any sort which contain this drug. very simple remedies are often effective to relieve the most distressing cough, such as gargling of water in the throat, holding bits of ice in the mouth, taking occasional sips of strong lemonade, and similar remedies. as a general rule, patients run down and the disease progresses much more rapidly, after beginning the use of opium in any form. sometimes it is best that the cough should be encouraged instead of being repressed. when the patient expectorates very freely, the cough is a necessary means of relieving the chest of matters which would seriously interfere with the functions of the lungs if retained, by filling up the bronchial tubes and air-cells. the kind of cough needing relief is an irritable, ineffective cough, unaccompanied by any considerable degree of expectoration. loaf sugar, honey or a mixture of honey and lemon juice, and other simple, familiar remedies are often effective in relieving such a cough. * * * * * "it is perhaps needless to add that the numerous quack remedies for consumption advertised in the newspapers are wholly without merit. there is no known drug which will cure this disease, or in any certain degree influence its progress. numerous remedies have been recommended as curative, but not one has thus far stood the test of experience." displacements of the uterus:--these conditions are not among those for which alcoholic liquors are likely to be advised by a physician, but women frequently resort to lydia pinkham's compound and other alcoholic preparations in the vain hope of finding the relief so positively promised in the nostrum advertisements. women are sometimes seriously injured by using the nostrums specially advised for uterine weaknesses, for this reason: a drug which may be of service in an anæmic condition of the womb may do much damage in an inflamed or engorged condition, yet the nostrum vendors advise their preparations for all alike, without a word of warning as to possible dangers. ordinary displacements may be recovered from by cleanliness of the parts and by exercises which strengthen the muscles in the pelvic region. the writer has known a considerable number of women who have been restored to health by exercises after months, in some cases, and several years in others, of weakness and misery. one of these women was a close relative of a celebrated specialist in women's diseases. he said he could not do any more for her, and gave permission for her to try the exercises, which were given her by a well-equipped teacher of physical training. there are three kinds of displacements: anteversion, retroversion, and prolapsus. the causes of these troubles are various; lack of proper care in child-bearing, miscarriages, heavy lifting, a hard fall, jumping out of a carriage, straining, too violent exercise in gymnasium work, and tight-lacing, also gradual weakening of the ligaments which sustain the uterus in position. an abdominal supporter should be worn constantly during the day for a year or so, then left off gradually an hour or two at a time. it should be worn during the second year whenever any extra work is to be done. there is a supporter sold by the battle creek sanitarium which is highly recommended, but any physician can get one for a patient. perfect cleanliness is necessary. for this purpose a hot vaginal douche should be taken two or three times a day. this douche should be made astringent by adding to a pint of water a quarter ounce of alum or tannin. the hot astringent injections tone up the lower supports of the uterus, and cleanse the passage. the patient should remain in a recumbent position for some hours after the douche if possible. considerable rest hastens a cure. take the rest in the fresh air when weather permits. persistent use of sitz baths will be found helpful. for prolapsus the simplest form of internal supporter is a small roll of cotton. after the organ is carefully put into position this supporter should be pressed up against the mouth of the womb, the patient meanwhile lying upon her back. the ball of absorbent cotton should be large enough to be retained in position, and should be saturated with a weak solution of glycerine and alum or glycerine and tannin before being applied. a piece of white cord should be tied firmly around the centre of this tampon by which it may be removed. remove before taking the douche. persons who feel unable to purchase an elastic or other abdominal supporter can make a substitute (not so good, but of considerable service) from unbleached muslin made in the shape of the letter t, and having the cloth double. it should go up to the waist and be made to fit over the hips, then should be fastened firmly in front with safety-pins, and the cross-piece be drawn up from the back and fastened securely in front. the daily exercises are the most important part of the treatment. they must be begun gradually, and taken at greater length as strength is gained. those for prolapsus will be given first:-- the patient should lie upon a rug, or on a firm long sofa or couch. the feet should be drawn up as close to the body as possible. now lift the lower part of the body so that the hips and lower portion of the trunk will have no support but what comes from the feet and shoulders. hold this position for a minute or two (longer when able without much fatigue). after a few minutes' rest repeat. this exercise may be continued from twenty to thirty minutes, according to patient's strength. the elevation of the hips in this exercise aids in the restoration of the organ to its natural position. this exercise should be continued daily, the number of times being increased as strength increases. a second exercise which is very helpful in prolapsus is to support the body on the toes and elbows with the face downward, and the hips raised as high as possible. another exercise may be taken with an assistant; the patient should lie face downward, supporting the body by the chest, and keeping the limbs rigid while the assistant lifts the feet as high as possible without hurting. these movements strengthen the abdominal muscles and draw fresh blood to the weakened parts, and cause quickened circulation in addition to restoring the displaced organ to natural position. they should be taken at night just before retiring after a hot douche. the bowels should be kept open by the free use of fruit. the patient should sleep with the hips elevated as much as can be endured without real discomfort and sit with the feet on a stool. when strength sufficient is acquired the exercises for anteversion will be found useful, and any other exercises which strengthen the abdominal muscles, such as bending backward and forward, and sideways. kneading and percussing the abdomen by an osteopath or masseur strengthens, and also relieves constipation. rest during the day should be taken with the feet higher than the head. prolapsus due to laceration in child-birth may require a surgical operation. in case of antiflexions the first exercise given for prolapsus should be taken daily. (the advice for the prolapsus treatment and the exercises are taken from the writings of dr. j. h. kellogg, superintendent of the battle creek sanitarium.). anteversion:--persons suffering from anteversion or retroversion should sleep without pillows under the head, and lie flat upon the back; they should sit with the feet as high as convenient and avoid high seats which hinder the feet from touching the floor. they should discard corsets and tight stocking supporters which push or hold down the organs which need to be replaced. stocking supporters should be fastened over the hips and comfort waists can be bought in place of corsets. it is well to have an attendant to prepare weak patients for first exercises in all uterine troubles by the use of towels wrung from hot water applied to the back and abdomen for a few minutes to relax the muscles, or a hot water bottle, or hot salt bag may be used. then, with the patient lying with head low, the attendant should give the abdomen and small of the back a thorough rubbing or kneading for ten minutes or less according to strength of patient. olive oil can be used on the hand in the rubbing. first exercise for anteversion:--lie on bed or rug; fold arms on chest; hold trunk of body still; stretch legs, and hold the position about half a minute, then relax at the knee and ankle. then point the toes down and stretch upper leg muscles; relax; then stretch under leg muscles by stretching heel out. the patient will feel the exercise as far as the shoulders, and should be careful not to lift the body from the floor at first. when patient can hold stretching exercise for a minute then lift first the right, then the left leg, and take same exercise until the person can give a quick little kick for, say, twelve times, as the leg is straightened. second exercise:--lying on the back, stretch to full length; move the left leg out at the side, then up and back to position, forming a semi-circle, keeping muscles tense throughout. then move right leg out at the side--left--stretch toes long--relax--stretch heel--, lift a little higher and bring back to place in a circle and rest. same with left leg and then both together. few people can do this easily at first, the weight of the legs is too much for the weak muscles at the back; but some one can hold the foot at first. when the patient can do this easily without bringing on any pain or ache, she may sit in a low chair and take arm lifting exercises. raise both arms out at the sides, then slowly raise them up close to the head and consciously lift all the organs of the body up, relax, and lower arms down front and repeat slowly, six or ten times at first, until for five minutes the patient can do this sitting. then take it standing for ten minutes or more. stand with feet wide apart. dr. anderson says, "a woman who will do this twenty times each day can never have anteversion, if she dresses properly, for it lifts the organs in place each time." it lifts the chest and abdomen up, and brings a feeling of exhilaration if done in the open air. after the patient has taken exercises for five or six weeks she may lie flat on the back, fold arms and raise body up to sitting position without unfolding arms. then turn on right side and do the same, then on left side and do the same. this is fine for back and abdomen muscles. anteversion needs the rest cure, and resting with the body in a position in which nature can right things is an important thing to remember. rest always after exercise, either with a pillow under the knees or with the legs hanging over a low foot-board, or lying on a couch with the feet higher than the head. exercise will relax the muscles and call for blood which will revitalize and stimulate the weakened conditions. a woman with this trouble should be careful about bending quickly over, or climbing stairs, until she gains strength. retroversion:--place the patient with face downward on bed or mat and with a small pillow under the lower part of the abdomen. relax the muscles by applying a hot towel, hot salt bag or hot water-bottle just below the small of the back, and lower part of the abdomen for ten or fifteen minutes. (hot salt bags are most effective and are easy to handle.) then rub the back briskly with a circular movement; if tender in front, do not rub the abdomen. the circulation will gradually carry away any inflammation as soon as the muscles reach a normal condition, though kneading of back and abdomen, using sweet oil on the hand, is helpful if the patient can bear it. the patient must remember that these conditions have been months in coming and only painstaking work and time can restore the weakened organs. the manner of dress is very important; loose, comfortable clothing must be worn. sleep with the face down as much as possible; nature will correct itself, if allowed, many times. first exercise:--fold arms under forehead and draw right knee up close to body and hold two minutes (unless painful) and slowly straighten, and stretch very slowly. do the same with the left leg until the patient can repeat the exercise twelve times with each leg and hold five minutes instead of two, with the knee close to the body. it will probably take two weeks to gain strength for this. after that time raise the body up on hands, and move legs just as a baby does when creeping, except that the patient only follows the movement and does not move along. second exercise:--patient take sitting position on floor and clasp hands under knees, and bring knees up, so that chin and knees meet and hold. then straighten legs, slide hands toward the heels as far as hands can reach, (stretch hands toward heels); make a continuous movement of this. third exercise:--sit on floor. place the hands on floor at sides, legs straight out in front, lift the body from the floor with the arms, up and down. this is a fine exercise for raising up the misplaced organs. fourth exercise:--place the patient flat on back and push the body up to sitting position with hands quite far back and palms down, recline again, up and down until arms and back are very tired. then sit up, legs straight in front, raise the body from the floor, (an inch) and move backward, resting weight on hands, then move over on knees as at first exercise and creep, then sit up and move backward again. these will take a month to perfect. begin by exercising five minutes and gradually work up to half an hour, rest between, always. the patient must have the right mental attitude, must think that she is trying to replace the uterus by lifting it to its natural position. the exercises must not be lazily done. sitting in a tub of hot water is most helpful where there is much tenderness, or inflammation. witch-hazel in hot water douches or a weak solution of hot salt water is a wonderful tonic in some cases. exercise for replacing uterus to be taken just before retiring:--kneel on the bed; bend forward until the chest is touching the bed and the hips are elevated as high as possible. the inlet of the vagina should then be opened so as to admit air. as soon as the air enters the womb falls into position. lie down at once and give nature a chance to regain strength while you sleep. the tampon soaked in glycerine and alum, and the douches of hot water, in which a little alum is dissolved, are both of great service in controlling the flooding which so frequently accompanies change of life and miscarriages. (exercises for anteversion and retroversion supplied by a successful teacher of such work.) the writer of this book asked a well-known medical writer why physicians do not advise exercises for the cure of displacements instead of operations. he said it is because women are not willing to do anything to help themselves. they expect the physician to cure them, and the only way a physician can "cure" is to operate. sensible women, however, will be glad to practice helpful exercises. debility:--"the debility of convalescence requires fresh air, easily digested food, the avoidance of over-exertion, with a gradually increasing amount of exercise. such debility is only aggravated by alcohol, though it may for a time be partially masked thereby. milk, eggs, fresh fruit and farinaceous articles are the best foods. general debility without obvious cause, may be treated by cold or tepid bathing. salt added to the bath is helpful. change of air is a good tonic. port wine and other alcoholics while giving a false sensation of increased vigor, really _reduce the tone of the pulse_, and therefore tend to enfeeble the system. alcohol is a relaxant, _not a tonic_." depression of spirits:--"learn the delsarte exercise for the 'blues,' and practice them daily. hot air baths. avoid rich food. take out-door exercise." diarrhoea:--"this is a symptom of the presence of an irritant of which the stomach is trying to be rid. do not arrest it prematurely, but assist it. if it persists, arrowroot, or corn starch, or flour, mixed with cold water to the consistency of cream may be taken, a tablespoonful at a time. . bread charcoal with cold milk. . a tablespoonful of cinnamon water with a teaspoonful of lime water, mixed, every one, two or three hours. smaller dose for a child. diet should be confined to toast, milk toast, milk, cold or boiled. tea, broth, meat, etc., are sure to renew the trouble. diarrhoea in infants is generally due to errors in feeding, either over-feeding or the use of improper kinds of food. boiled milk thickened with flour is a simple remedy in light cases. alcoholics are utterly unnecessary in diarrhoea, and to order them for young children is quite wrong. a full enema of water, as hot as can be borne, will remove offending substances from the bowels. "beware of diarrhoea medicines containing opium in any form. they are unnecessary and dangerous, particularly for young children." dysentery:--"at the beginning of the disease the stomach should be relieved by the use of a large warm-water emetic. the quantity of food should be restricted to the smallest amount compatible with comfort. ripe fruits, especially grapes, and most stewed fruits, may be used in abundance to keep the bowels regular. salads, spices and other condiments, fats and fried foods should be strictly avoided, together with tea, coffee, alcoholics and all other narcotics. "the diet should consist chiefly of simple soups, well boiled oatmeal gruel, egg beaten with water or milk, and similar foods. in many cases regulation of the diet is sufficient. either the hot or the cold enema may be employed. "the use of opium, which is exceedingly common in this disease, is not advisable, as it produces a feverish condition of the system, decidedly prejudicial to recovery. herroner, an eminent german physician, very strongly discourages the use of opium in this disease."--dr. j. h. kellogg. dyspepsia:--"it is commonly supposed that a little good whisky or brandy aids digestion, while on the contrary it has been proved conclusively by observing the processes of digestion upon persons who have fistula of the stomach, or by evacuating the contents of the stomach by means of a stomach-pump about an hour after taking a meal--in one instance after taking an ounce of alcohol, and in another where no alcohol was taken--that alcohol coagulates the albuminoids, throws down the pepsin, decreases the acidity (the combined chlorin and free hydrochloric acid), and increases the fixed chlorids. any one can make the observation upon himself, that a meal taken without alcohol is more quickly followed by hunger than one with it. "blumenau says: 'on the whole, alcohol manifests a decidedly unfavorable influence on the course of normal digestion even when ingested in relatively small quantities, and impairs the normal digestive functions.' "dr. chittenden, professor of physiologic chemistry in yale college, as a result of some investigations made by himself and dr. mendel, states in the _american journal of medical sciences_, that he finds that as small a quantity as three per cent. of sherry, porter, or beer lessens the activity of the digestive powers."--_bulletin of a. m. t. a._ "it should be observed that doses of alcohol which have no appreciable effect in delaying digestion, are so small as to be practically useless for any beneficial action."--_medical pioneer._ one doctor writes:-- "what makes dyspepsia so hard to cure? this very alcohol taking. the best cure is to refuse all alcoholic drinks, at meals and all other times, and drink nothing but water." the causes of dyspepsia are various; errors of diet being the most common. others are mental worry, care and anxiety, and the use of drugs. an eminent writer upon this disease says: "my main object in the treatment is to prevent the sufferers from resorting to drugs, which in such cases, not only produce their own morbid conditions, but also confirm those already existing. "the extensive and often habitual use of alkalies for acidity, of purgatives for constipation, nervines and opiates for sleeplessness, and after-dinner pills to goad into action the lagging stomach, has been a potent factor in the production of a large class of most inveterate dyspepsias." underdone bread, cake, and pie, are unfit for any stomach, yet are seen upon many tables. "breakfast foods," cooked for ten or twenty minutes, are also dyspepsia producers. all breads, cakes, pies and cereals, require thorough cooking to fit them for digestion. most cereals are better for supper than for breakfast, as they should be cooked in a double boiler for several hours. a young man, troubled with dyspepsia, learned to his amazement that the oatmeal, which he supposed was his best food, had much to do with the giddiness which often overcame him. he was advised to use dry foods, such as toast, zwieback and shredded wheat. this diet, together with the abandonment of nostrums, led to a cure. zwieback is bread sliced, and dried in a moderate oven until light brown. whole wheat bread is best. it is very delicious and is quite easily digested. in the case of the young man, it is probable that the difficulty with the oatmeal was the lack of sufficient cooking. oatmeal made into gruel, well cooked, and diluted with a large quantity of scalded milk is easy of digestion. eating between meals, and excess in eating, lead to stomach derangement. "the best remedy for acidity of the stomach is hot-water drinking. two or three glasses should be taken as hot as can be sipped, one hour before each meal, and half an hour before going to bed. the effect of the hot water is to wash out the stomach, and so remove any fermenting remains of the previous meal. heartburn may be treated the same as acidity." persons troubled with slow digestion are better to eat only two meals a day. the writer has personal knowledge of a goodly number of women who have been benefited wonderfully by adopting the two meal a day plan. some persons, much troubled with dyspepsia, have adopted the plan of prolonged fasting advocated by dr. dewey, and testify to a cure by this method. while heroic, it is certainly more rational than drug treatment. for acute dyspepsia a fast is requisite. all that alcoholics can do for dyspepsia is to allay the uneasy sensations for a time, while adding to the trouble. it has been abundantly proved that alcohol must pass from the stomach before digestion can begin. dr. ridge says:-- "many cases which seem to be relieved by the use of beer are really benefited by the hop, or other bitter, which the ale or beer contains. _hop tea_ is a useful stomachic, and a quarter of a pint, or half that quantity, may be taken cold. it is made in the same way as tea, using a handful of hops to a pint of boiling water. make fresh every day." dr. kellogg says:-- "in cases of chronic dyspepsia the use of alcohol seems to be particularly deleterious, although not infrequently prescribed, if not in the form of alcohol or ordinary alcoholic liquors, in the form of some so-called 'bitters,' 'elixir' or 'cordial.' nothing could be further removed from the truth than the popular notion that alcohol, at least in the form of certain wines, is helpful to digestion. roberts showed, years ago, that alcohol even in small doses, diminishes the activity of the stomach in the digestion of proteids. gluzinski showed, ten years ago, that alcohol causes an arrest in the secretion of pepsin, and also of its action upon food. wolff showed that the habitual use of alcohol produces disorder of the stomach to such a degree as to render it incapable of responding to the normal excitation of the food. hugounencq found that all wines, without exception, prevent the action of pepsin upon proteids. the most harmful are those which contain large quantities of alcohol, cream of tartar or coloring matter. wines often contain coloring matters which at once completely arrest digestion, such as methylin blue and fuchsin. "a few years ago i made a series of experiments in which i administered alcohol in various forms with a test meal, noting the effect upon the stomach fluid as determined by the accurate chemic examination of the method of hayem and winter. the result of these experiments i reported at the meeting of the american medical temperance association. the subject of experiment was a healthy young man whose stomach was doing a slight excess of work, the amount of combined chlorin being nearly fifty per cent. above normal, although the amount of free hydrochloric acid was normal in quantity. four ounces of claret with the ordinary test meal reduced the free hydrochloric acid from milligrams per c. c. of stomach fluid to zero, and the combined chlorin from . to . . in the same case the administration of two ounces of brandy with the ordinary test meal reduced the combined chlorin to . , scarcely more than one eighth of the original amount, the free hydrochloric acid remaining at zero. thus it appears that four ounces of claret produced marked hypopepsia in a case of moderate hyperpepsia, whereas two ounces of brandy produced practically apepsia." fainting or syncope:--the following letter from the late sir b. w. richardson was addressed to a lady who had sought the great physician's advice on the subject:-- " manchester square, w., july , . "dear madam: there is no substance which acts as a substitute for alcohol, nor is anything like it wanted. the human body is a water engine, as i have often described it, and alcohol plays no part in its natural motion. the idea that when it begins to fail, a stimulant has to be called for, springs merely from habit, and if, whenever any of the symptoms of fainting you speak of occur, the person merely lies down on the side or back and drinks a glass of hot water, or hot milk and water, all that can be done is done. in the london temperance hospital i have been treating the sick for diseases of all kinds and during all stages, and have never administered a minim of alcohol, or any substitute for it, and we have got on better than when i--feeling it at all times at command--made use of it in the ordinary way. "i am, dear madam, faithfully yours, "b. w. richardson." treatment:--"lay the patient down in a current of air with the feet raised higher than the head, preferably on one side in case of sickness occurring, or bend the head down to the knees, to restore the flow of blood to the brain. loosen all clothing. rub the limbs, chest and over the heart with the hand or a rough towel. sprinkle cold water on the head and face. smell ammonia, strong vinegar, smelling salts or any pungent odor. put hot bottles to the feet, and in severe cases a mustard plaster over the heart. sip hot milk, hot water, hot tea, hot black coffee, beef tea or a meat essence. crowding round the patient and all excitement should be avoided. in cases out of , , no medicine is necessary. "faintness often proceeds from indigestion, flatulence inducing pressure on the heart." faintness, weakness, exhaustion, fatigue:--"the truth is that for simple weakness, faintness, exhaustion, fatigue, cold or wet, the best remedies are simple fresh air, pure water, digestible food and rest. these are nature's restoratives, and the sooner both physicians and people learn to rely upon them instead of upon drugs the better it will be for all parties. and as the effect of alcoholic liquors are directly depressing to the strength and activity of all the natural functions and processes of life, as shown by the most varied and scientific investigations, it is important that this fact be taught to both doctors and people everywhere."--dr. n. s. davis. fits:--"whether the fit be apoplexy or epilepsy all alcoholics are extremely bad, both at the time and afterwards. alcohol, the 'genius of degeneration,' is the chief cause of apoplexy, and also a cause of epilepsy, especially when taken in the form of beer. it diminishes the tone of the arteries and blood-vessels, and thus tends to cause, aggravate and maintain a congested state of the capillaries throughout the whole body. in the treatment of epilepsy, therefore, neither alcohol nor any so-called substitute should be given. * * * * * "in the convulsions of children alcohol is equally injurious."--dr. ridge. flatulence:--"many uneasy sensations or pains, even in distant parts of the body, are due to wind in the bowels, resulting from indigestion. asthma, cramps, depression of spirits, faintness, giddiness, hiccough, prostration, sinking sensations and sleeplessness, are all frequently due to the same cause. the diet needs careful attention where there is much flatulence; tea is often a cause. charcoal biscuits are useful in some cases; lemon juice in others. fluid magnesia may be taken. watch for the cause and remove it." headache:--_the new hygiene_ says: "this is the manifestation of a deeper-seated trouble, usually in the stomach. the use of stimulants is a sure promoter of headache. all users of alcoholic liquors are, i believe, subject to headache, and it is also a sure result of overindulgence in tea and coffee. "to prevent the attacks, live regularly, avoid late hours and excessive brain work; avoid tea, coffee and alcoholic beverages, also sweets of all kinds, including sauces and pastries, and anything fried in fat. eat plenty of good, plain food, including fruit, especially oranges. eat none late at night. exercise regularly in such a way as to bring all the muscles into play, at least once a day. "to relieve an attack flush the colon. "headaches, which so largely result from the retention of impure matter in the body, will be cured if a good quantity, say two or three glasses, of hot water be drank in the morning or at night, and then the next regular meal omitted, so that an interval of house-cleaning can be had before other material is moved in."--_life and health._ "avoid pills and powders. persons suffering from headache need to be warned against taking remedies that contain opium and alcohol, and also against the use of a recent popular remedy, usually called a 'white powder' or 'white tablet.' they take the latter readily because the druggist or physician says it contains no opium. this is true, but it is one of the lately discovered coal tar preparations (anti-febrine, acetanilid, etc.) and is very depressing to the human system. headache is usually a symptom of trouble somewhere else, often in the alimentary canal, an overloaded stomach, constipation, or tight clothing. learn the cause and remove that, and the headache will disappear."--dr. h. j. hall, franklin, ind. "gentle massage is helpful and the use of cold compresses. lack of sufficient sleep will cause headache. women often bring on nervous headache by overwork and worry." hemorrhage:--"never give alcohol in a case of profuse hemorrhage. the faint feeling, or irresistible inclination to lie down is nature's own method of circumventing the danger, by quieting the circulation and lessening the expulsive force of the heart, thus favoring the formation of clot at the site of the injury."--_clinique._ "for uterine hemorrhage an emetic to induce vomiting is the best cure."--dr. higginbotham in _british medical journal_. "if the faint is dispelled too quickly, and the blood-vessels are relaxed by alcohol, or the heart aroused to energetic action by any remedy, the hemorrhage may recommence, and may prove fatal. quiet, the application of cold, pressure, the elevation of the wound where possible, and the absence of stimulants, are the cardinal points of treatment in most cases."--dr. ridge. "if then, it seems absolutely necessary to rouse a person out of a dead faint, what can be done? swallowing is out of the question, lest the patient choke. the head must be laid low, and the face and chest flapped with a cold wet cloth, or alternately with hot wet cloths; smelling salts (not too strong) may be applied to the nose. "when the faint has been recovered from, but the hemorrhage continues so much that it is feared another faint may occur, and, perhaps, be fatal, it may be warded off by drinking any hot liquid; if liebig's extract of meat, or strong beef tea, is at hand and can be given hot, there is nothing better." heart disease:--dr. ridge says: "i trench here on a delicate subject, because, when there is real disease of the heart, medical advice will of course have been obtained, and very probably a doctor may have said that some alcoholic liquor is essential. there are, also, several different forms of heart disease which require altogether different treatment, and only a physician can tell the difference, or appreciate the necessity for the particular treatment required. but it may be pointed out that alcohol is utterly unable to 'strengthen' the heart, or give tone to the blood-vessels, or to the system at large. "the alteration in the pulse due to alcohol is chiefly owing to its paralyzing action on the blood-vessels, and when they are too contracted, and thereby cause the weakened heart to labor too much, the alcohol will give relief for the time. but we have in nitrite of amyl, a fluid which will act more quickly and more powerfully; but this must not be employed without medical direction. it is very useful in cases of _angina pectoris_, or _breast pang_, but is rarely required in the majority of cases in which the valves of the heart are diseased. the paralyzing action of alcohol is not generally produced by less than half a wine-glassful of brandy or whisky, or twice that quantity of wine, and often much more is required. the relief to uneasy sensations which much smaller quantities sometimes produce is due to their anæsthetic or benumbing action, by which the nerves of the patient are rendered less sensible, although the danger is by no means diminished. * * * * "the only sensible way to avert the evil consequences of heart disease is to strengthen the heart, and that is to be done by strengthening the body generally. the amount of exercise, the kind of baths, etc., which should be taken, have to be modified in accordance with the nature of the case. if these natural health-giving measures cannot be employed nothing is an effectual substitute. "_weak_ or _feeble heart_ is a common complaint, and is as ordinary an excuse for resorting to alcoholic liquors as 'timothy's stomach.' if there is no organic disease; if the valves of the heart are healthy and act properly, all anxiety on this point may be entirely banished. the slow pulse, the feeble pulse, the cold feet, the want of energy, these are not to be got rid of by such a mere temporary agent as alcohol, even if relief can be thus obtained from day to day. the constant application of alcohol to the tissues of the body alters them gradually by its chemical action. in addition to this, the balance of the nervous system is altered, an unnatural condition is produced, and the unhappy patient becomes more liable to disease and more easily succumbs when attacked. "many of these 'feeble hearts' mean too little exercise, very often also, too much or improper food and drink. "the best remedies are cold sponging (according to the season); avoidance of coddling; plain, wholesome food; abstinence from tea, hot drinks and condiments; regular out-of-doors exercise and all similar true _tonic_ measures." dr. kellogg says:-- "persons subject to attacks of _angina pectoris_ should carry with them a small bottle containing a sponge saturated with nitrite of amyl, and place it to the nose when necessary. "sympathetic palpitation may be relieved by bending the head downward, allowing the arms to hang down. the effect of this measure is increased by holding the breath a few seconds while bending over. another ready means of relief is to press strongly upon the large arteries on either side of the neck. "palpitation of the heart is often mistaken for real organic disease of the organ. * * * * * a careful regulation of the diet is in most cases all that is necessary to effect a cure." dr. edmunds, of london, was asked during a medical discussion what he thought of the use of alcohol in heart disease. his answer is embodied in the following:-- "with regard to the use of brandy in cases of heart disease, he was convinced it was a mistake to use it in such cases. there were many forms of heart disease, but the most common kind arose from the heart being too fat. excess of fat debilitated the heart and injured its working, just as a piece of wax attached to a tuning fork would impair its usefulness. in such cases he dieted his patients in order to reduce their weight. every dose of brandy taken for heart disease increased the evil. the moment brandy was taken for heart disease, or any other chronic complaint of a similar kind, the disease was increased. if doctors recommended alcohol to their patients, he had been asked what abstainers should do. in such cases, as had been suggested, he thought the patients might ask what the alcohol was to do for them, and if the reply was not satisfactory, they should get another doctor." dr. t. d. crothers, of hartford, conn., has deduced some valuable facts from his experiments with the sphygmograph, upon the action of the heart. he has found by repeated experiments that while alcohol apparently increases the force and volume of the heart's action, the irregular tracings of the sphygmograph show that the real vital force is diminished, and hence its apparent stimulating power is deceptive. dr. c. w. chapman, of the national hospital for diseases of the heart, wrote in the _lancet_:-- "the very thing (alcohol) which they supposed had kept their heart going was responsible for many of its difficulties." of cases of palpitation and irregularity caused by business anxieties or indigestion, he said:-- "to give alcohol is only to add fuel to the fire." heart failure:--"in cases of cardiac weakness, the thing needed is not simply an increased rate of movement of the heart, or an increased volume of the pulse, but an increased movement of the blood current throughout the entire system. in the application of any agent for the purpose of affording relief in a condition of this kind, the peripheral heart as well as the central organ must be taken into consideration. in fact, the whole circulatory system must be regarded as one. the heart and the arteries are composed of essentially the same kind of tissue, and have practically the same functions. the arteries as well as the heart are capable of contracting. "both the heart and the arteries are controlled by excitory and inhibitory nerves. these two classes of nerves are kindred in structure and in origin, the vagus and the vasodilators being medullated, while the accelerators of the heart and the vasoconstrictors of the arteries are non-medullated and pass through the sympathetic ganglia on the way to their distribution. "winternitz and other therapeutists have frequently called attention to the value of cold as a cardiac stimulant or tonic. the tonic effect of this agent is greater than that of any medicinal agent which can be administered. the cold compress applied over the cardiac area of the chest may well replace alcohol as a heart tonic. the thing necessary to encourage the heart's action is not merely relaxation of the peripheral vessels, but, as winternitz has shown, increased activity of the peripheral circulation in the skin, muscles and elsewhere. alcohol paralyzes the vasoconstrictors, and so dilates the small vessels and lessens the resistance of the heart action; but at the same time it lessens the activity of the nerve centres which control the heart, diminishes the power of the heart muscle, and lessens that rhythmical activity of the small vessels whereby the circulation is so efficiently aided at that portion of the blood circuit most remote from the heart. a continuous cold application applied to that portion of the chest overlying the heart stimulates the nerves controlling the walls of the vessels, and at the same time energizes the corresponding cardiac nerves. it is wise to remember that the vasoconstrictor nerves are one in kind with the excitor nerves of the heart, while the vasodilators are in like manner associated with the vagus. with this in mind, it is clear that while alcohol paralyzes the vasoconstrictors, it at the same time weakens the nerves which initiate and maintain the activity of the heart; while, on the other hand, cold excites to activity those nerves which produce the opposite effect. "the apparent increase of strength which follows the administration of alcohol in cases of cardiac weakness is delusive. there is increased volume of the pulse for the reason that the small arteries and capillaries are dilated, but this apparent improvement in cardiac action is very evanescent. this is a natural result of the fact that while the heart is relieved momentarily by sudden dilation of the peripheral vessels, the accumulation of the blood in the venous system, through the loss of the normal activity of the peripheral heart, gradually raises the resistance by increasing the amount of blood which has to be pushed along in the venous system. this loss of the action of the peripheral heart more than counterbalances the temporary relief secured by the paralysis of the vasoconstrictors. "thermic applications, general and local, may safely be affirmed to be the true physiological heart tonic. in the employment of the cold pericardial compress as a heart tonic, the application should generally be continued not more than half an hour at a time, and its use may be alternated with general cold applications to the surface. a cold towel rub, or the cold trunk pack is the best form for application if the patient is very feeble. "the cold towel rub is applied thus: wring a towel as dry as possible out of very cold water, and spread it quickly and evenly over the surface; rub vigorously outside until the skin begins to feel warm; then remove, dry the moistened surface, rub until it glows, and make the same application to another part; and so on until the whole surface of the body has been gone over. the procedure should be rapid and vigorous. "if the cold trunk pack is employed, a sheet of not more than one thickness should be wrung as dry as possible out of very cold water, and wrapped quickly about the body, after first dipping the hands in water, and rubbing the trunk vigorously. in cases of extreme cardiac weakness, very cold and very hot applications may be alternately applied over the region of the heart. the duration of the hot and cold applications should be about fifteen seconds each. "any one who has ever witnessed the marvelous effects of applications of this sort in reviving a flagging heart will never doubt their efficacy, and will have no occasion to resort to alcohol, or any other intoxicant, to stimulate a flagging heart. the writer has employed these measures for stimulating the heart for more than twenty years, and might cite hundreds of instances in which their efficiency has been demonstrated. they are applicable not only to the cardiac depression encountered in the adynamic stage of typhoid and other fevers, but in cases of heart failure from hemorrhage, of surgical shock, collapse under chloroform or ether, opium poisoning, coal gas asphyxia, drowning, etc."--dr. j. h. kellogg, in _bulletin of the a. m. t. a._, jan., . dr. n. s. davis tells of a case of threatened collapse where he was called in consultation. patient was in a small, unventilated room. "it was easy to see that what she needed was fresh air in her lungs. instead of giving alcohol in any form she was moved into a large, well-ventilated room. all symptoms of 'heart failure' disappeared. had she begun to take whisky or brandy, physician and friends would have attributed her recovery to that, when in fact it would have retarded recovery by hindering oxygenation of the blood." "it would also be a very great mistake to suppose that when reaction follows collapse, in cases in which alcohol has been given, this result is always due to the alcohol. i have seen so many cases of severe collapse recover without alcohol that i cannot but be skeptical as to its necessity, and even as to its value. i was much struck many years ago by a case of post partum hemorrhage which was so severe that convulsions set in. i should then have given brandy if there had been any to give, but there was none in the house and none to be got. i administered teaspoonfuls of hot water and the patient revived and recovered; next day, except for anæmia, she was as well as ever, with no reactionary fever or other disturbance, as would almost certainly have been the case if brandy had been given. "in collapse from hemorrhage, we have learned the value of injections of warm saline water, either into the veins, the skin or the rectum, and the same treatment is available in other cases of collapse with contracted vessels. "another measure which has proved most efficacious is the _inhalation of oxygen_ gas. this is especially useful in cases in which alcohol is decidedly injurious, namely, those in which there is increasing congestion of the lungs, which the heart, though doing its utmost, is unable to overcome. alcohol only increases the congestion, and the heart is already over-exerted and nearly exhausted. the effect of the oxygen is apparent in a few seconds, and cases have been rescued in which death appeared to be inevitable and imminent."--dr. ridge. heart stimulants:--"the advantage of beef extract over alcohol as a stimulant was demonstrated on a large scale in the ashantee war."--dr. ridge, london. for those who must have a drug: aqua ammonia, drops to / cup of hot water, or grains carbonate ammonia to / cup water. hot water alone is a useful stimulant; also water, hot or cold, with a few grains of cayenne pepper added. the latter is good, not only to start the heart's action in collapse, but also to relieve violent pain. hot milk is a most valuable stimulant. many persons to whom hot milk has been given during the extreme weakness of acute disease have testified afterward to its good effects in comparison with the wine formerly administered. the wine caused an after-feeling of chilliness and weakness, while the milk gave warmth and added strength. insomnia or sleeplessness:--"a person who suffers from sleeplessness should avoid the use of tea and coffee, tobacco, alcoholic liquors and all other disturbers of the nervous system. eating immediately before retiring has been recommended, but the ultimate result may be an aggravation of the difficulty instead of relief. if a person suffers from 'all gone feelings' so that he cannot sleep, he should take a few sips of cold water or a glass of lemonade. as complete relief will generally be obtained as from eating, and the stomach will be saved work when it should be resting. a warm bath just before retiring, a wet-hand rub, a cool sponge bath, gentle rubbing of the body with the dry hand, a moist bandage worn about the abdomen during the night, are all useful measures. when the feet are cold, they should be thoroughly warmed by a hot foot or leg bath, and thorough rubbing. when the head is congested, these measures should be supplemented by the application of cold to the head, as the cold compress or the ice-cap." a walk in the evening, or gentle calisthenics, may help those of sedentary habits. bicycle riding and horse-back riding in the evening have helped many. the practice of long deep breathing will often put persons to sleep when all other devices fail. the lungs should be filled to their utmost capacity, and then emptied with equal slowness, repeating the respiration about ten times a minute, instead of eighteen or twenty, the natural rate. those who fall asleep upon first going to bed, and after a few hours awake, and are unable to sleep again, may find relief by getting out of bed, and rubbing the surface of the body with the dry hand. or walk about the room a few minutes, exposing the skin to the air, go back to bed and try the deep breathing. "the use of drugs for the purpose of inducing sleep should be avoided as much as possible. opium is especially harmful. sleep obtained by the use of opiates is not a substitute for natural sleep. the condition is one of insensibility, but not of natural refreshing recuperation. three or four hours of natural sleep will be more than equivalent to double that amount of sleep obtained by the use of narcotics. when a person once becomes dependent upon drugs of any kind for producing sleep, it is almost impossible for him to dispense with them. it is often dangerous to resort to their temporary use, on account of the great tendency to the formation of the habit of continuous use. the use of opiates for securing sleep is one of the most prolific means by which the great army of opium-eaters is annually recruited. chloral, bromide of potash, whisky and other drugs are to be condemned almost as strongly as opium."--dr. kellogg. dr. furer, of heidelberg, germany, in a paper before the international congress against alcohol, held in basle, switzerland, in sept., , said:-- "the sleep from alcohol does not act as a mental tonic, but leaves the mind weaker next day." some noble specimens of manhood have become wrecks through accepting the advice to try "whisky night-caps." edison recommends manual labor, instead of going to rest, for aggravated insomnia. he says sleep will soon come naturally. la grippe:--"alcohol has no place in the treatment of _la grippe_; on the contrary it is because of the too frequent use of this, and other narcotics, that epidemics make such fearful headway in our land, and such must be the rule until the people study the laws of health and obey them. profuse sweating, followed by a careful bathing of the body in tepid water, gradually cooling it to a normal temperature, and avoiding unnecessary exposure, will relieve. the patient should sleep in pure air and eat as little as possible, and that only when hungry. * * * * * quinine is essentially a nerve poison, and capable of producing a profound disturbance of the nervous centres. a drug of such potency for evil should be employed with the greatest care, and never when a milder agency will secure the result. exceedingly pernicious is the habit of dosing children with this drug."--dr. charles h. shepard, brooklyn, n. y. "a late surgeon of the gold coast of africa wrote the following to the london _lancet_ of jan. , : 'some of the worst cases of this disease, the grippe, remind me of an epidemic i saw among the natives of the swamps of the niger. * * * * * irrespective of disinfectants and inhalations there is a simple, effective and ready remedy, the juice of oranges in large quantities, not of two or three, but of dozens. the first unpleasant symptoms disappear, and the acid citrate of potash of the juice, by a simple chemic action decreases the amount of fibrine in the blood to an extent which prevents the development of pneumonia.'" the syracuse (n. y.) _post-standard_ contained the following during the epidemic of :-- "dr. george d. whedon declared to a _post-standard_ reporter yesterday that there is practically no subsiding of the grippe in this city. dr. whedon said that the weather conditions have little, if anything, to do with the disease, and that it is impossible to define the conditions which produce it. it is some morbific agency, the influence of which, dr. whedon said, is exerted upon the pneumogastric nerve. "_dr. whedon was emphatic in denouncing treatment by means of alcoholic stimulants, and coal tar derivatives._ in discussing the subject at some length he said:-- 'i find that infants and young children are practically exempt from the disease, and the liability increases with age. in my own experience, which has since amounted to an aggregate of , cases, alcoholic stimulants have appeared to be usually of little or no value; their usual stimulating effect does not seem to be realized in this condition. unless malarial complications exist quinine appears of no benefit, and then should not be used in larger than two grain doses. large doses depress the weakened heart, and in all cases increase the terrible confusion and headache constantly present in severe cases. 'from the views i entertain of its pathology, and from the terrible fatality which has attended the extensive use of the coal tar derivatives in treatment of _la grippe_, i argue that the manner in which they have been prescribed in the beginning of the disease, to reduce fever, and relieve the often intense suffering, lowers the heart's action, which is already sufficiently incapacitated by the toxic agent producing the disease. 'the intention is usually to stimulate later, but later is in many cases unfortunately too late. the heart being overwhelmed by the poison, and by the added depression of all coal tar preparations, cannot keep up the pulmonary circulation. the swelling of the lungs increases, and the result is fatal. 'i am aware of the weight of authority for their administration and of the relief they afford, but am just as well assured that were their use discontinued, the greatly increased death-rate from _la grippe_ would cease to appear. 'these coal tar remedies are being used everywhere, and the medical journals recommend them despite the fatal results. they are being used every hour in the day in syracuse, and, as a result, are knocking out good people. among the most popular coal tar derivatives i might mention anti-kamnia, salol-phenacetine, anti-pyrine and salicylate of soda. 'prognosis is favorable at all ages. patients should be kept warm, and perfectly quiet in bed, and supplied with such nutritious and easily digested food, at frequent intervals, as the partially paralyzed stomach can take care of. all nourishment must be fluid and warm rather than cold.'" the _journal of inebriety_ for april, , says:-- "the present epidemic of influenza has proved to be very fatal in cases of moderate and excessive alcoholic drinkers. "pneumonia is the most common sequel, breaking out suddenly, and terminating fatally in a few days. heart failure and profound exhaustion, is another fatal termination. one case was reported to me of an inebriate, who, after a full outbreak of all the usual symptoms, drank freely of whisky and became stupid and died. it was uncertain whether cerebral hemorrhage had taken place, or the narcotism of the alcohol had combined with the disease and caused death. "a physician appeared to have unusual fatality in the cases of this class under his care. "it was found that he gave some form of alcohol freely, on the old theory of stimulation. another physician gave all drinking cases with this disease alcohol, on the same theory, and had equally fatal results. it has been asserted that alcohol, as an antiseptic, was useful in these bacterial epidemics, but its use has been followed by greater depression, and many new and complex symptoms. the frequent half domestic and professional remedy, hot rum and whisky, has been followed by more serious symptoms, and a protracted convalescence. many facts have been reported showing the danger of alcohol as a remedy, also the fatality in cases of inebriates who were affected with this disease. "the first most common symptom seems to be heart exhaustion and feebleness, then from the catarrhal and bronchial irritation, pneumonia often follows." the vapor or turkish bath is the best means of "breaking up" this disease, together with hot lemonade and rest in bed for a day or two. the inhalation of hot steam should be tried when there is much bronchial irritation. life-saving stations, the use of alcohol in:--"there is no possible useful place for alcoholic liquors in connection with a life-saving station. applied externally the rapid evaporation of alcohol reduces the temperature; taken internally it diminishes the efficiency of both respiration and circulation, and by increasing congestion of the kidneys it directly increases the danger of secondary bad effects from exposures of any kind. to restore warmth and circulation to the surface, light, rapid friction and the wrapping with dry flannel is the safest, cheapest and most efficient, while free breathing of fresh air, and frequent small doses of milk, beef-tea, ordinary tea or coffee, or even simple water, will afford the greatest amount of strength and endurance, and leave the least secondary bad consequences. it is just as easy to keep at hand a jug or flask of any one of the articles named as it is to keep a flask of whisky or brandy. there is no need of keeping them hot, as they act well at any temperature at which they can be drunk."--dr. n. s. davis, chicago. measles:--"in mild cases, very little treatment is required, except such as is necessary to make the patient comfortable. good nursing is much more important than medical attendance. if the eruption is slow in making its appearance, or is repelled after having appeared, the patient should be given a warm blanket pack. "the old-fashioned plan of keeping the patient smothered beneath heavy blankets, and constantly in a state of perspiration is wholly unnecessary. the irritation of the skin, as well as the sensitiveness to cold, may be relieved by rubbing the skin gently two or three times a day with vaseline or sweet oil. there is no danger from the application of cold water to the surface except in the last stages of the disease, after the eruption has disappeared. "the patient should be allowed cooling drinks as much as desired. during the disease a simple but nutritious diet should be allowed, but _stimulants of all kinds should be prohibited_." "it is wholly unnecessary, and dangerous as well, to give whisky to bring out the eruption."--dr. i. n. quimby, jersey city. "any hot drink, such as ginger tea or hot lemonade, may be used to hasten the eruption, if delayed." malaria:--observers of this disease in such regions as the gold coast of africa have noted the fact that malarial attacks are generally preceded by impaired digestion. the disease is said to be due to animal parasites. these parasites are supposed to generate in the soil of certain regions, and thence, through the drinking water, or otherwise, find entrance to the human body. "a healthy stomach is able to destroy germs of all sorts, hence the best protection from malaria is the boiling of all drinking water, and the maintenance of sound digestion and purity of blood by an aseptic dietary." dr. j. h. kellogg says in _the voice_:-- "it must be understood, however, that fruit in malarial regions, especially watermelons, may be thickly covered with malarial parasites and the parasites may sometimes find entrance to the fruit when it becomes over-ripe, so that the skin is broken. it is evident, then, that care must be taken to disinfect such fruit by thorough washing, or by dipping in hot water, which is the safer plan. the same remark applies to cucumbers, lettuce, celery, cabbage and other green vegetables which are commonly served without cooking. not only malarial parasites but small insects of various kinds are often found clinging to such food substances, their development being encouraged by the free use of top dressing on the soil, a process common with market gardeners. "the treatment of malarial disease is too large and intricate a subject for proper treatment in these columns. we will say briefly, however, at the risk of being considered very unorthodox, that the majority of cases of malarial poisoning can be cured without the use of drugs of any sort. in fact, in the most obstinate cases of chronic malarial poisoning, drugs are of almost no use whatever. quinine, however, is certainly of value as a curative agent in these cases, either in destroying the parasites, or in preventing their development; but as it does not remove the cause, its curative effect is likely to be very transient. the practice of habitually taking quinine as a preventive of malarial disease is a most injurious one, as quinine is itself a non-usable substance in the system, and therefore must be looked upon as a mild poison, to be dealt with by the liver and kidneys the same as other poisons. by habitual use it may itself become a cause of disease. one or two periodical doses of quinine often prove of great service in interrupting the paroxysms of an intermittent fever, but other treatment must also be employed to develop the bodily resistance, and fortify the system against disease. the morning cold bath, followed by vigorous rubbing, is a most excellent measure for this purpose, but the old-fashioned german wet-sheet pack is one of the best remedies known. the paroxysm itself can generally be avoided by means of the dry pack, begun before the chill makes its appearance; but this requires the services of an expert nurse. in not a few cases it is wise for a person who suffers frequently from malarial disease to seek a change of climate to some non-malarial region. "col. t. w. higginson of the first south carolina volunteers, in , said of dr. seth rogers, an eminent southern physician, who was surgeon of the regiment: 'fortunately for us, he was one of that minority of army surgeons who did not believe in whisky, so that we never had it issued in the regiment while he was with us, and got on better, in a highly malarial district, than those regiments which used it.'" maternity:--dr. ridge says:--"it is one of the greatest mistakes to make use of alcoholic beverages to 'keep up the strength' during labor. it is, of course, impossible to predict at the commencement how long the labor will last; if then brandy, or other similar drink, is resorted to early, it acts most injuriously. the desire for food is often entirely removed; the demand of the system being therefore unperceived, and so not supplied, a state of weakness and prostration is in time produced, if the labor should be protracted, which may be really serious. the nervous system becomes exhausted by the repeated action of the alcohol. if a fatal result is not occasioned, yet the prostration of body and mind after delivery is aggravated, and convalescence thereby retarded. alcoholic drinks produce paralysis and congestion of the blood-vessels, and in this way largely increase the liability to flooding after the labor is over. alcohol also increases the liability to a feverish condition. "it is necessary to take small quantities of plain, nourishing food at regular intervals, and nothing is of greater value than well-cooked oatmeal: other farinaceous food may be substituted, if preferred. if there is much prostration, meat extracts or beef tea are of great value. tea tends to produce flatulence and to prevent sleep. "after the labor is over, the best restorative is a cup of hot beef tea or an egg beaten up in warm milk or a cup of warm gruel. rest, and absence of excitement and worry are essential and alcohol is specially injurious." menstruation, painful:--young girls often resort to the use of brandy during the monthly period, and parents ask anxiously, "what can they use instead of the brandy?" the very best thing that can be done is to go to bed, wrapped in flannels, with a hot-water bottle or other hot application to the abdomen, and to the feet. take hot ginger tea, or pepper tea. a warm hip-bath taken at the beginning may give relief, or a large hot enema retained for half an hour or so. rest is necessary. for those who must go to work, dr. ridge recommends five drops of oil of juniper, to be taken on sugar. neuralgia:--"the principal cause of neuralgia is defective nutrition of the nerves. disorders of digestion are very often accompanied by neuralgia in various parts of the body. it may also result from taking cold, from loss of sleep, from dissipation, and also from the use of tobacco, alcohol, tea and coffee. "the patient's general health must be improved by a wholesome, simple diet, and the employment of tonic baths, as a daily sponge bath, and massage in feeble cases. sun-baths and exercise in the open air are of first importance. ordinary neuralgia may almost always be relieved by either moist or dry heat. in some cases, cold applications give more relief than hot. as a rule, abnormal heat requires cold, and unnatural cold requires hot applications. in many cases it is necessary to give the patient a warm bath of some kind. electricity often succeeds when all other remedies fail. "for facial neuralgia apply hot fomentations, together with the use of sitz baths, or hot foot baths. the head may be steamed by holding it over hot water, adding pieces of hot brick occasionally to keep water steaming, head being covered. "there is no complaint, perhaps, in the treatment of which the use of port wine will be more strongly urged by kind friends, with the assurance that it is impossible to get well without it. this is quite untrue, as thousands can testify."--dr. ridge. "avoid opiates of all sorts. 'it is better to bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.' the pangs of neuralgia are as nothing to endure compared with the sufferings of an opium wreck. build up the general health, and the neuralgia will disappear." nausea.--"a feeling of sickness is not uncommonly due to indigestion. if it is caused by rich food take a pinch of bicarbonate of soda in a little water, or a teaspoonful of fluid magnesia. the acidity of the food will thus be neutralized, and this course is far preferable to benumbing the stomach with brandy. if indigestion is the cause, it is often salutary to miss one or two meals, so as to allow the stomach to recover. "when due to pregnancy, a little aërated water, or soda water is useful; sometimes a small wafer or a crust, eaten before rising in the morning, will check it. an early morning walk, if the weather is pleasant, is helpful. "the moist abdominal bandage is a very excellent means of relieving nausea during pregnancy. it should be worn constantly for a week or two, and then omitted during the night. daily sitz baths are also of great advantage. in many cases electricity relieves this symptom very promptly. in very urgent cases in which the vomiting cannot be repressed, and the life of the patient is threatened, the stomach should be given entire rest, the patient being nourished by nutritive injections. fomentations over the stomach, and swallowing small bits of ice, are sometimes effective when other measures fail."--dr. j. h. kellogg. outgrowing the strength:--"there is sometimes debility or weakness in rapidly growing boys and girls which is attributed to this cause. it is popularly supposed that port wine or beer, is the great remedy; but nothing can be worse. it is true that gin given continuously to puppies will keep them small, but no one would advocate the amount of spirit required in proportion by a lad or girl to produce the same effect. if the growth could be checked by chemicals it would be most injurious to do so. "in the treatment of such cases fresh air by day and night is essential; cold sponging, followed by friction with a rough towel, and exercise are desirable." pneumonia. dr. julius poheman says in _medical news_:-- "the effect of alcohol upon nearly all the organs of the body has been carefully investigated. but, strange to say, literature contains only a few straggling hints upon the action of alcohol on the pulmonary tissue. it has long been known that the abuse of alcohol is a predisposing cause of death when the drinker is attacked with pneumonia. no experimental evidence has been published of the action of alcohol in producing pathological conditions in the lungs. in order to determine this action, a series of experiments was made upon dogs in the winters of - and - . the dogs were a mixed lot of mongrels gathered in by the city dog catchers. they varied in weight from fifteen to twenty-five pounds, and were apparently in good health. in all, thirty animals were experimented on. "the experiments were performed as follows:--a carefully etherized animal had injected into his trachea just below the larynx a quantity of commercial alcohol varying from one dram to one ounce in amount. the effects of equal amounts of alcohol upon animals of the same weight varies greatly. two dogs, weighing twenty-five pounds each, were injected with two drams of alcohol. one died in one hour, and the other in six hours after the injection. four other dogs, two weighing twenty-four pounds each, another eighteen pounds, and the fourth fifteen pounds, were all injected with the same amount, two drams. all four survived, and were as well as usual in four weeks. another dog of eighteen pounds died five minutes after an injection of two drams, while another of fifteen pounds took one ounce and recovered. "the symptoms in the dogs were all alike, dyspnea, increasing as the inflammation increased, until the accessory muscles of respiration were called into play. the stethoscope showed that air had great difficulty in entering the bronchi and air vesicles, and showed also the tumultuous beating of the heart in pumping blood through the lung. it was impossible to take the temperatures. post-mortem examinations showed the lungs dark, congested and solid in some places. the air passages were filled with frothy, bloody mucus, even in the dog that died in five minutes. on section, the lungs were dark, congested, and full of bloody mucus. this shows how acutely sensitive the respiratory passages are to the action of alcohol. on microscopic examination of the lungs, the air tubes and vesicles were found filled with immense numbers of red and white corpuscles and much mucus. the same picture was presented as in a slide from the lungs of a broncho-pneumonic child. "the striking similarity between the two is enough to prove that the pathological condition is the same, and that alcohol has produced a lesion very closely resembling, if not absolutely like, that of broncho-pneumonia in the human subject. this to some extent explains why drunkards attacked by pneumonia succumb more readily than the temperate. the sensitive lung tissue is enveloped in alcohol--flowing through the capillaries of the lung on one side, and exhaled, filling the air vesicles and tubes on the other. the condition must create a state of semi-engorgement or of mild inflammation, similar to the drunkard's red nose, or his engorged gastric mucous membrane. such a state will reduce the vitality of the pulmonary tissue, and its power of resistance to external influences. add to this an inflammation such as a pneumonia, and the lungs find themselves unable to stand the pressure." as previous chapters contain much showing the reasons why alcohol is dangerous in pneumonia, space need not be taken here to do more than indicate briefly some points of non-alcoholic treatment. pneumonia is generally supposed to result from a cold; it is ushered in by the symptoms of a chill, followed by fever, headache, shortness of breath, pain in chest, etc. it sometimes occurs as a complication of typhoid fever and other acute diseases. "it is not a very fatal disease in young and healthy subjects, but in weak children, old persons and habitual drinkers, it is a very fatal malady." _nature cure_ recommends a vapor bath immediately upon the appearance of the first symptoms, together with copious drinking of hot lemonade, and a good supply of pure fresh air in the room, together with the application of alternating hot and cold compresses, _and no drugs_. dr. kellogg says:-- "cool compresses or ice-bags, alternated every three hours by hot fomentations for ten minutes, should be applied to the chest, particularly to the affected side, the seat of pain. the hot fomentations relieve the pain, and the cold compresses check the diseased process. the compresses should be wrung out of cold water, and changed every five to eight minutes, or as often as they become warm. although the cool compresses are not usually liked by the patient, they will soon give relief if their use is continued, and they do much towards shortening the course of the disease. care should be taken to keep the patient's body from being wet except where the treatment is applied. the cold compress is much used in the large hospitals of germany. when the pulse becomes as rapid as to or more, cool sponging, the wet-sheet pack, the cool full bath or the cool enema should be employed. when much chilliness is produced by the contact of water with the skin, the cold enema is a most admirably useful measure. the amount of water required is from half a pint to a pint. the temperature may be to degrees. the apartment should be kept as cool as possible without discomfort, and an abundance of fresh air should be continually supplied. "the diet of the patient should consist of milk, oatmeal gruel, ripe fruit, and similar easily digested food. no meat, eggs or other stimulating food should be allowed. "discontinue the cold treatment after the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours. if the surface is cold, apply hot sponging or a hot pack. avoid causing chilliness." pre-natal influence of alcohol:--"the use of beer as a medicine during pregnancy is without doubt perilous to the health and vigor of the offspring. children born under such conditions are sickly and feeble, and suffer from disease more severely than others, or die early. alcoholic prescriptions to pregnant women are, from all present knowledge of the facts, both dangerous and reprehensible in the highest degree."--dr. t. d. crothers, hartford, conn. "m. fere, an eminent french physician, recently reported to the biological society of paris the results of experiments which he had been conducting for the purpose of throwing light upon this question. these experiments demonstrate that the exposure of hen's eggs to the influence of the vapor of alcohol, previous to incubation, retards the development of the embryo, and favors the production of malformations. it is evident from these experiments that alcohol may act directly upon the embryo when there is no marked influence of alcoholism in the parent." pain after food:--"this may occur in acute or chronic gastric catarrh, or in a neuralgic or oversensitive condition of the stomach, or in ulcer or cancer of that organ. in all these it comes on soon after food has been swallowed; but, if occurring a long time after a meal, it is probably due to atonic dyspepsia. alcohol will undoubtedly sometimes relieve this kind of pain by deadening the nerves of the stomach so that the pain is not felt so much; but this effect soon passes off, and if the cause of the malady is not removed by other means, increasing quantities of alcohol will be required to give relief. many cases of drink-craving have originated in this way. medical aid will generally be required. a small mustard poultice over the pit of the stomach is often useful, especially in inflammatory cases, or any other outward application of heat. food should be fluid, or semi-fluid, and digestible. ginger tea, or peppermint water, may serve to disperse gas." poison, animal. the following by dr. chas. h. shepard, of brooklyn, who introduced the turkish bath into america, is taken from the _journal of the a. m. a._, for nov. , :-- "animal poison is by no means uncommon, and so quick and mysterious is its action that a prompt remedy is a vital necessity. there is good reason to believe that the numerous remedies that have been recommended from earliest times as antidotes for animal poison are worthless, as they have not the properties commonly ascribed to them. the paucity of remedies is so great that alcohol is the one which comes most quickly to the mind of those who have been taught in the traditions of the past, and who are not fully aware of its action on the human system. we shall endeavor to show that the action of alcohol is not helpful, but on the contrary is really detrimental; and also that there is a better way out of the difficulty. "if we get a splinter in the body, vital energy is aroused to get rid of the offending substance, inflammation is set up, and sloughing goes on until the splinter is voided. if the splinter is covered with acrid material, the same process is intensified, and nature endeavors to eliminate the offending substance through the natural excretions. upon the peculiarity of the material depends the direction of this elimination. "it is well known that some poisons are thrown off by the kidneys, some by the lungs, while others again are attacked by all the emunctories. the difference in the power of the system to absorb different substances, appropriate whatever can be utilized, and throw off whatever can not be used, is sometimes called idiosyncrasy, but more properly it may be called vital resistance, and upon the integrity of this power rests the ability to combat disease in all its forms, whether it be the absorption of any animal virus or the poison resulting from undigested food. this ability is in proportion to the integrity and soundness of every tissue and organ of the body. this may be illustrated by the fact that with a person suffering from kidney disease, which necessarily impedes elimination, the ordinary effects of a poison are intensified; therefore whatever aids in the promotion of good health, or in other words, the normal action of all the functions, will contribute to the safety of the individual in any and every emergency. "when a person dies from the effect of poisoning, it is simply because the system was unable to eliminate the offending substance and was exhausted in the effort. there is a tolerance of some substances which frequently results in chronic disease, and again it is shown in what is called the cumulative effect or acute disease. "those who would hold that a substance is at one time a medicament, and at another time a poison, have much trouble in drawing the line between the beneficial and the poisonous effect. the idea that poisonous substances act on the system is responsible for many grave mistakes, whereas always, and under all circumstances, it is the system that does all the action. "there might be some excuse for the idea that disease is an entity, from the facts that have been brought to light by the germ theory, but this theory is of recent date, while the entity theory is as old as superstition. "snake poison, which may be cited as a type of other animal poisons, takes effect through the circulation, and acts by paralyzing the nerve centres, and by altering the condition of the blood. in ordinary cases death seems to take place by arrest of respiration, from paralysis of the nerves of motion. the poison also acts septically, producing at a later period sloughing and hemorrhage. "dr. calmette, a noted french scientist, claims that what is poisonous in the snake's bite, is not the venom absorbed into the blood, but a principle which the blood itself has developed out of the poison. this would necessitate very quick action when the poison is inserted in one of the large veins, as that is followed by instant death. "the following cases fairly represent some of the tragedies that are occurring in our everyday life. "a man years old falls and dislocates his finger, he goes to the hospital, where in a short time he dies from blood poisoning. * * * * * another man years old, many years a wine merchant, whose great toe was severely crushed by a heavy man stepping on it, was taken with blood-poisoning and in spite of all treatment, even to the amputation of the leg, he soon succumbed to the disease. * * * * * a young woman years old, picks a pimple on her chin and at once her face begins to swell. in vain was all medical treatment, for in a few days she died in terrible agony. * * * * * about a year ago there died in brooklyn, n. y., a physician in his th year, who six days previously received a slight scratch in his hand while performing a post-mortem examination. all that medical science could suggest was done to no avail. * * * * * in the summer of a young woman years of age was bitten on the leg by an insect. several physicians were called in but their treatment gave no relief; blood-poisoning set in; it was decided to amputate the leg, but before it could be done she died. * * * * * in july, , a veterinary surgeon years of age, while removing a cancer from a horse pricked his finger with his knife. the wound was so slight that he forgot all about it. a few days later blood-poisoning set in and in a short time his end came. * * * * * some forty years ago a man named whitney was teasing a rattlesnake in a broadway barroom, was bitten by it, and, though whisky was poured down his throat by the quart, he soon died. "such results seem entirely unnecessary were the proper course pursued, and at the same time they are a fearful commentary on the medical resources of the day. "the latest researches in regard to alcohol reveal it as a poison to the human system in whatever way it may be diluted or disguised. its effect is always the same in proportion to the amount taken. it is impossible to habitually use it in any form, even in small quantities, without disease and degeneration resulting therefrom. when taken into the stomach the action is the same as with any other narcotic; the meaning of this word is _to become torpid_. it benumbs the nerves of sensation, and thus the vital resistance to any offending material is reduced, and while the patient _feels_ less of any disturbance the real harm goes on with accumulated force because of the lack of vitality and non-resistance of the nervous system. "when the body is in the throes of a vital struggle with a virulent poison it would seem, to any unprejudiced mind, the height of folly to further weaken the vital resistance by the administration of any narcotic, and especially alcohol. "the eminent german, professor bunge, says: 'all the results which on superficial observation appear to show that alcohol possesses stimulant properties, can be explained on the ground that they were due to paralysis.' * * * * * professors s. weir mitchell and e. t. reichert, in _researches on serpent poison_, make this notable statement: 'despite the popular creed, it is now pretty sure that many men have been killed by the alcohol given to relieve them from the effects of snake bite, and it is a matter of record that men dead drunk with whiskey and then bitten, have died of the bite.' "as a great contrast to the weakness of the mass of our people who are drug-takers and alcohol-consumers, and who are liable to almost any epidemic that comes along, and quickly succumb to a serious injury, may be mentioned the turkish soldiers of to-day, who know nothing of drugs as we use them and never use alcohol in any form. during the late controversy with the greeks, one of them who was reported as having been shot in the stomach, remained in the ranks, and afterward walked ten miles. another one who was wounded twice in the legs and once in the shoulder, continued attending to his duties for twenty-four hours, until an officer noticed his condition and ordered him to the hospital. the heat was tremendous, but the troops endured it without complaint, and the doctors were astonished at the wonderful vitality of the wounded turks, who recovered with remarkable rapidity. this, with good reason, is attributed to their abstemious lives. "it has been stated that the moqui indians handle the rattlesnake with impunity, and are not inconvenienced by its occasional bite. "the rational treatment of animal poison is to endeavor to prevent the entry of the virus into the circulation and to neutralize it in the wound before it is absorbed; but when it has entered the system everything should be done for its elimination. "the most powerful aid to the human system, and the most perfect eliminator known to man is heat. it is used with much advantage, and great success by means of water, both internally and externally, but above all is its use by hot air, as in the turkish bath, which works in harmony with every natural function, promoting the action of all the secretions, and more particularly the excretions. by this means will the system unload itself of an accumulation of impurities in an incredibly short space of time, while the heat aids in destroying whatever there may be of virus therein. "calmette, whom we have previously quoted, has shown that whatever be the source of snake venom, its active principle is destroyed by being submitted to a temperature of about degrees for a variable length of time. "in the not remote future thousands of human beings will owe to the turkish bath not only an immunity from disease in general, but also an escape from the horrors of a premature death from hydrophobia, the poison of snake bite, or the slower action of infectious disease. "the mass of testimony that has been accumulating for over thirty years past is more than sufficient to convince any reasonable mind that is willing to examine the facts. "the medical profession has searched the world over and under for the means of controlling disease, while within the human body itself lies the vital power which needs only to be cultivated and exalted to its true function to banish the mass of disease from the land." dr. shepard states in another article that turkish baths are now used in london and paris for the cure of hydrophobia. dr. j. h. kellogg says:-- "a great number of remedies have acquired the reputation of being cures for snake bites. the partisans of each one of these have been able to produce a large number of cases, which apparently supported their claims; the uniform testimony of all scientific authorities upon this subject, however, is that all these so-called antidotes are worthless. prof. w. watson cheyne, m. b., f. r. c. s., surgeon of kings college hospital, london, england, states, in the _international encyclopedia of surgery_, that 'there is no known antidote by which the venom can be neutralized, nor any prophylactic.' this eminent authority also remarks further: 'hence medication with this view is to be avoided altogether, and the aim of treatment should be to prevent the poison from gaining access to the general circulation, and to avoid its prostrating effects if its entrance has already taken place.' the same writer asserts that the only aim of the constitutional treatment should be 'to sustain the strength until the poison shall have been eliminated.' the idea that the saturation of the body with whisky to the point of intoxication, if possible, is beneficial in these cases, is in the highest degree erroneous. whisky intoxication, according to dr. cheyne, actually 'favors the injurious effect of the poison. what is required is to keep the patient alive until the poison has been eliminated.' whisky will not do this, but actually aids the poison in its fatal work by lessening the resistance of the patient, and hence lessening his chances for recovery. "the reputation of whisky as a remedy in these cases is due to the fact that on an average only one person in eight who is bitten by a rattlesnake is really poisoned; the reasons for this were fully explained in an interesting paper on 'rattlesnakes,' by the eminent dr. s. weir mitchell, and published in the smithsonian contributions to _knowledge_ for . if the snake strikes several times before inflicting a wound, the sacs containing the venom may be emptied, so that the succeeding bite will introduce only the most minute quantity of poison--not enough to produce serious, or fatal results. if the part bitten is covered by clothing, the poison may be absorbed by the clothing, so that but very little enters the circulation. in various other ways the snake is prevented from inflicting a fatal wound. the popular idea, that every bite of a rattlesnake is necessarily poisonous, is thus shown to be erroneous. it is not at all probable that the administration of whisky has ever in any case contributed to the long life of a person bitten by a rattlesnake. "whisky is often recommended by physicians with the idea that it will sustain the energies of the patient, or will stimulate the heart, etc.; but it has been clearly shown that alcohol in all forms is not only useless for these purposes, but does actual damage, since it lessens the resistance of the patient, weakens the heart, and helps along the prostration which is the characteristic effect of the rattlesnake venom. alcohol has, for many years, been used as an antidote for collapse under an anæsthetic administered for surgical purposes, but no intelligent physician nowadays thinks of using alcohol for such a purpose; instead, alcohol is given before the anæsthetic for the purpose of facilitating its effect. errors of this sort which have once become established are very hard to uproot. probably some physicians will continue to use alcohol for shock, exhaustion, general debility and similar conditions as well as for rattlesnake poisoning for another quarter of a century, but such use of alcohol does not belong to the domain of rational medicine and is not supported by scientific facts." "under the pasteur method, a man who did not take alcohol was much more likely to recover from the bite of a mad dog than one bitten under the same conditions, who used that drug; while in lock-jaw there was absolute failure to secure immunity if the patient had taken alcohol. in india it used to be given in large quantities for snake bite, but it was found that it had a direct effect in interfering with the processes of repair, and so is being abandoned."--dr. sims woodhead, of the royal college of physicians and surgeons, london, eng. "nothing could be more irrational and dangerous than the popular notion concerning the antagonism of whisky and snake-bites, and willson reports that several of the fatalities in his series were directly due to alcohol rather than to the bite."--_editorial, journal of the american medical ass'n._ rheumatism:--"unquestionably, the most active cause of rheumatism, as well as of migraine, sick-headache, bright's disease, neurasthenia and a number of other kindred diseases, is the general use of flesh food, tea and coffee, and alcoholic liquors. as regards remedies, there are no medicinal agents which are of any permanent value in the treatment of chronic rheumatism. the disease can be remedied only by regimen,--that is, by diet and training. a simple dietary, consisting of fruits, grains, and nuts, and particularly the free use of fruits, must be placed in the first rank among the radical curative measures. water, if taken in abundance, is also a means of washing out the accumulated poisons. "an individual afflicted with rheumatism in any form should live, so far as possible, an out-of-door life, taking daily a sufficient amount of exercise to induce vigorous perspiration. a cool morning sponge bath, followed by vigorous rubbing, and a moist pack to the joints most seriously affected, at night, are measures which are worthy of a faithful trial. every person who is suffering from this disease should give the matter immediate attention, as it is a malady which is progressive, and is one of the most potent causes of premature old age, and general physical deterioration. american nervousness is probably more often due to uric acid, or to the poisons which it represents, than to any other one cause."--_good health._ "alcohol favors the development of rheumatism. it does this by preventing waste matter from leaving the system. beer and wine, because they contain lime and salts, are said to cause rheumatism, or at least to aid in its development. these salts are absorbed into the system, unite with the uric acid, and form an insoluble urate of lime, which is deposited around the joints, thus causing them to become enlarged and stiff. * * * * * "the success of the turkish bath treatment has been phenomenal. of over , cases treated here at least per cent. have been entirely relieved, or greatly helped. some who were treated over twenty years ago have stated that they have not had a twinge of rheumatism since. very few have persevered in the use of the bath without experiencing permanent relief."--dr. charles h. shepard, brooklyn. "those having a bath cabinet can have a good substitute at home for the turkish bath. remember that if tobacco and alcohol are indulged in, there can be no permanent relief." _the new hygiene_ says:-- "under no circumstances take any of the thousand and one nostrums advertised as sure cures for this disease. pure unadulterated blood is the only remedy. this can only be produced by cleansing the system of impurities, and giving it the right kind of material out of which to make it. keep out the poisonous physic, clean out the colon, strengthen the lungs, and feed the system with proper food, and this disease will vanish like a fog before the rising sun." the same book in advocating the use of the turkish bath for rheumatism, says:-- "the fact, which is well attested, that when a person enters the bath the urine may be strongly acid, but, on leaving the bath, after half an hour, it is markedly alkaline, shows that the bath has a strong effect upon the system." dr. ridge says of _rheumatic fever_:-- "i would urge most strongly the desirability of avoiding every form of alcoholic liquor, from the very commencement of the disease, as affording the best chance for a speedy and safe recovery. the highest authorities are agreed on this point, but there is a lingering practice which makes reference necessary in order to confirm the wavering." in mt. sinai hospital, new york, the hot blanket pack is used in acute rheumatism, almost to the exclusion of other methods. the pack should be continued two to four hours at least, and may be repeated two or three times within the twenty-four hours with advantage. _nature cure_ says that thorough massage, and half a dozen cups of hot lemonade will cure a severe case of sciatica:-- "the massage should be commenced moderately, and increased as the patient can bear it. rubbing and slapping of the muscles with bare hands will hasten a cure, and be agreeable to the patient. one to two hours treatment, if _vigorous_, will effect a cure." sea-sickness:--brandy is a common resort in this trouble, many taking it under such circumstances who would under no other. yet it frequently adds to the sickness, instead of relieving it. "be sparing in diet for two or three days before the expected voyage. if very sensitive, take to your berth as soon as you go on board, or lie down on deck; get near the centre of the vessel, and lie with your feet to the stern. go to sleep if possible. iced water may be sipped, but nothing solid should be taken at first; after a while a cracker or wafer may be taken." it is said upon good authority that if two or three apples are eaten shortly before going on board, or before rough water is encountered, sea-sickness is entirely averted. it will be well to partake of no other food for some hours previous to the voyage when trying this. _good health_ says:-- "if any of our readers have occasion to cross the ocean in the stormy season, we recommend three things; keep horizontal, with the head low; put an ice-bag to the back of the neck, keep the stomach clean, free from greasy foods and meats, and eat nothing till there is an appetite for food. a habitually clean dietary before going on board is doubtless a good preparation for such a voyage, as well as for any other nerve strain, or test of endurance. it pays to be good--to your stomach, as well as in other ways." the following is guaranteed by a russian physician to be an effective cure and a means of avoiding sea-sickness when the symptoms first make their appearance. take long and deep inspirations. about twenty breaths should be taken every minute, and they should be as deep as possible. after thirty or forty inspirations the symptoms will be found to abate. this is recommended for dyspepsia also. sore nipples:--"alum water, or tannin, used for several months in advance will harden as effectually as brandy. if there is soreness on commencing to nurse, put a pinch of alum into milk, and apply the curd to the nipple." spasms:--"these are caused by flatulence, as a result of indigestion. a little hot ginger tea, or capsicum tea, may do all that is required. if these are not at hand, loosen every tight band, rub well the region of the heart and stomach, slap the face with the corner of a wet towel, and give sips of cold water." shock:--"in shock, or collapse, the state is similar in some respects to that which is present in fainting. every function is almost at a standstill; absorption from the stomach and elsewhere is at its lowest point, because the circulation of the blood is so much interfered with. hence much of the brandy which is so often given, and to such a wonderful amount, with very little apparent effect of intoxication, is really not absorbed at all, and is very often rejected from the stomach by vomiting, when reaction does occur, if not before. "the patient should be wrapped up warmly, and put to bed as soon as possible. the limbs may be rubbed with hot flannels, and hot water bottles put to hands and feet. in some cases, also, towels wrung out of hot water may be wrapped around the head. hot milk and water, hot water slightly sweetened, or with a little peppermint water in it, should be given as soon as the patient can swallow. hot beverages will warm the skin more rapidly and powerfully than any alcoholic liquor. "if the patient cannot swallow, an enema of hot water, or hot, thin gruel, should be administered, and may be of use in addition to hot drinks. beef extract may be added to the hot water with advantage. "in the vast majority of cases there need be no anxiety so far as the shock is concerned; reaction will occur in due time if ordinary care be taken, and will be more natural and steady if the system is not embarrassed by the presence of the narcotic alcohol. in the state of collapse the voluntary nervous system is depressed; alcohol diminishes the power and activity of the nervous centres of the brain, hence its action is undesirable in shock or collapse."--dr. j. j. ridge, london. "no procedure could be more senseless than the administering alcohol in shock. a stimulant of some kind is necessary in such cases, and alcohol, instead of being a stimulant is a narcotic. * * * * * alcohol causes a decrease of temperature, the very thing to be avoided in cases of shock."--dr. j. h. kellogg. "i am perfectly sure that a large dose of alcohol in shock puts a nail in the coffin of the patient."--dr. h. c. wood of the university of pennsylvania. sinking sensations:--many women have a feeling of weakness or "goneness" at about eleven o'clock in the morning, and are led by it to the injurious practice of eating between meals. it is often due to indigestion, or to the use of beer or wine. a few sips of hot milk, of fruit juice, or even of cold water will often relieve it, especially if total abstinence is persevered in. sudden illness:--"those taken suddenly ill are likely to fare best if placed in a recumbent position, with head slightly elevated, all tightness of garments about the neck or waist relieved, and a little cold water given in case of ability to swallow. a mustard plaster on the back of the neck, or over the stomach, and hot water or hot bottles to the feet, are never out of place, while vinegar, or smelling salts, or dilute ammonia to the nostrils is reviving."--ezra m. hunt, m. d., late secretary of new jersey state board of health. "both the popular and professional beliefs in the efficacy of alcoholic liquids for relieving exhaustion, faintness, shock, etc. are equally fallacious. all these conditions are temporary, and rapidly recovered from by simply the recumbent position, and free access to fresh air. ninety-nine out of every hundred of such cases pass the crisis before the attendants have time to apply any remedies, and when they do, the sprinkling of cold water on the face, and the vapor of camphor or carbonate of ammonia to the nostrils, are the most efficacious remedies, and leave none of the secondary evil effects of brandy, whisky or wine."--dr. n. s. davis. sunstroke:--"there has lately been a correspondence in the _morning post_ on the subject of 'sunstroke and alcohol.' we quite agree with the statement that 'nothing predisposes people to sunstroke so much as this pernicious habit of taking stimulants (so-called) during the hot weather.' as far as this country is concerned, nearly every case of sunstroke might be more appropriately designated 'beerstroke.' one effect of alcohol is to paralyze the heat-regulating mechanism; the blood becomes overloaded with waste material, and the narcotism, and vasomotor paralysis, produced by the alcohol, is added to that produced by the heat. abstainers, other things being equal, can always endure extremes of temperature better than consumers of alcohol."--_medical pioneer_, england. "during the month of january, , there occurred over three hundred deaths from sunstroke in australia. when called upon to offer suggestions relative to its prevention, the medical board promptly informed the colonial government that, of all the predisposing causes, none were so potent as indulgence in intoxicating liquors, and in its treatment nothing seemed to have a more disastrous effect than the administration of alcoholic stimulants."--_medical news._ the _bulletin of the a. m. t. a._ for august, , contained the following:-- "recently a leading medical man, a teacher in a college, warned his student audience against the anti-alcoholic theories urged by extremists and persons whose zeal was greater than their intelligence. he affirmed positively that the value of alcohol was well known in medicine, and established by long years of experience. "not long afterward a man was brought into his office in a state of collapse from sunstroke, and this physician and teacher ordered large quantities of brandy to be administered; the patient died soon after." dr. t. d. crothers tells of a case where alcohol was administered to a child for partial sunstroke, and says, "there were many reasons for believing that the profound poisoning from alcohol gave a permanent bias and tendency that developed into inebriety later." "when a person falls with sunstroke (or heatstroke) he should at once be carried to a cool, shady place. his clothing should be removed, and cold applications made to the head, and over the whole body. pieces of ice may be packed around the head, or cold water may be poured upon the body. cold enema may also be employed. in case the face is pale, hot applications should be made to the head and over the heart and the body should be rubbed vigorously."--dr. j. h. kellogg. typhoid fever. as many lives are lost by this disease, its treatment must ever be one of intense interest, not only to physicians, but also to all humanity. since non-alcoholic treatment has reduced the death-rate in typhoid to five per cent., the views regarding such treatment expressed by leading practitioners will doubtless be read with eagerness. the following is a paper by dr. n. s. davis taken from the _medical temperance quarterly_. "alleged indications for the use of alcohol in the treatment of typhoid fever:--on the first page of the first number of a new medical journal bearing date july, , may be found the following statement: 'the question of administering alcohol comes up in every case of typhoid fever. in mild cases, especially when the patient is young, healthy and temperate, stimulants are not needed so long as the disease follows the typical course. here, as elsewhere, alcohol should be avoided when not absolutely demanded. there is, however, generally such a dangerous tendency toward nervous exhaustion, that in a majority of cases more or less alcohol is required. the indication which calls for its use is an inability to administer enough food. * * * * * again, the existence of high temperature nearly always makes it necessary to stimulate the patient, as does threatened nervous exhaustion and heart failure, for immediate effect; likewise a weak, small, compressible, rapid pulse, with impaired cardiac impulse and systolic sound, is a frequent indication; other remedies may be required, but alcohol cannot be dispensed with.' the next paragraph continues: 'it is necessary to give alcohol in serious complications of typhoid fever, such as pneumonia, pleurisy, hemorrhage and severe bronchitis or diarrhoea. it is best to begin giving it early and in small quantities: two to six ounces is a moderate amount, eight to twelve ounces daily is not too much for adynamic or complicated cases.' "the foregoing quotations purport to have been condensed from one of our recent authoritative works on practical medicine, and doubtless fairly represent the prevailing opinions concerning the use of alcohol in the treatment of typhoid and other fevers, both in and out of the profession. a careful reading will show that the whole is founded on the following four assumptions: " . that alcohol when taken into the living body acts as a general stimulant, and especially so to the cardiac and vasomotor functions. . that in mild, uncomplicated cases of typhoid fever in young and previously healthy subjects, stimulants are not required and no alcohol should be given. . that in a 'majority of cases' the tendency toward dangerous 'nervous exhaustion' and 'heart failure' is so great that the giving of 'more or less alcohol is required.' . the amount required may vary from two to twelve or more ounces per day. "in the two preceding numbers of this journal, i have endeavored to show that the chief causes of nervous exhaustion and heart failure, in typhoid and other fevers were impairment of the hemoglobin and corpuscular elements of the blood, deficient reception and internal distribution of oxygen, and molecular degeneration of the muscular structures of the heart itself. these important pathological conditions are doubtless caused by the specific toxic agent or agents giving rise to the fever. consequently the rational objects of treatment are to stop the further action of the specific cause, either by neutralization, or elimination, or both; to stop the further impairment of the hemoglobin and other elements of the blood; and to increase the reception and internal distribution of oxygen, by which we will most effectually prevent further fatty or granular degeneration of cardiac and other structures. the language of the paragraphs i have quoted, fairly assumes that alcohol is a _stimulant_ capable of relieving nervous exhaustion and cardiac failures, regardless of the causes producing those pathological conditions, and consequently its use is necessary in the 'majority of cases' of typhoid fever. "can such an assumption be sustained by either established facts, or correct reasoning? can nervous and cardiac exhaustion, induced by the presence of toxic agents in the blood, with deficiency of both hemoglobin and oxygen, be relieved by a simple _stimulant_, that neither neutralizes nor eliminates the toxic agents, nor increases either the hemoglobin or oxygen? that alcohol does not neutralize or destroy toxic ptomaines, or tox-albumins, is proved by abundant clinical experience, and also by the fact that chemists use it freely in the processes for separating these substances from other organic matters for experimental purposes. that its presence in the living body retards metabolic changes generally, and thereby aids in retaining instead of eliminating toxic agents of all kinds, has been so fully shown in the pages of preceding numbers of the _medical temperance quarterly_, that the leading facts need not be repeated here. that its presence does not increase the hemoglobin, or favor oxy-hemoglobin or increased internal distribution of oxygen, but decidedly the reverse, has been equally well demonstrated by numerous and reliable experimental researches in this and other countries. "then it must be conceded that alcohol is not capable of fulfilling either of the important indications presented in the treatment of typhoid fever as stated above. nevertheless, the advocates of its use apparently recognize but two ideas or factors in these cases, namely, the popularly inherited assumption that alcohol is a _stimulant_, and as the patient is in danger from nervous and cardiac weakness, therefore the alcohol must be given, _pro re nata_ without the slightest regard to the existing causes of the weakness, or the _modus operandi_ of the so-called stimulant. "this is proved by the fact that they group together as stimulants, and give to the same patient in alternate doses, remedies of directly antagonistic action, as alcohol and strychnine, or digitalis, etc. "the accepted definition of a stimulant in medical literature, is some agent capable of exciting or increasing _vital activity_ as a whole, or the natural activity of some one structure or organ. "for instance, both clinical and experimental observations show that strychnine directly increases the functional activity of the respiratory, cardiac and vasomotor nervous systems, and thereby increases the internal distribution of oxygen, which is nature's own special exciter of all vital action. therefore it is properly a direct respiratory, cardiac and vasomotor stimulant and indirectly a stimulator of all vital processes. but the same kind of clinical and experimental observations show that alcohol directly diminishes the functional activity of all nerve structures, pre-eminently those of respiration and circulation, and also of all metabolic processes, whether respirative, disintegrative or secretory. consequently it not only acts as directly antagonistic to strychnine, but equally so to all true stimulants or remedies capable of increasing vital activity. instead, therefore, of meriting the name of _stimulant_, alcohol should be designated and used only as an anæsthetic and sedative, or depressor of vital activity. "and a thorough and impartial investigation will show that its use in the treatment of typhoid and other fevers, while deceiving both physician and patient, by its anæsthetic effect in diminishing restlessness, both prolongs the duration and increases the ratio of mortality of the disease, by its impairment of vital activity in the organizable elements of both blood and tissues." equally interesting is the following outline of treatment pursued by dr. w. h. riley, of the battle creek sanitarium. "the purpose of the present paper is to give briefly an outline of the method of treatment of typhoid fever as used by the writer in a considerable number of cases. "a consideration of the pathology of this disease does not properly come under this head, but we wish simply to call attention to the well-known fact that typhoid fever is a germ disease. the germ which causes this fever has generally been supposed to be the bacillus of eberth. more recent bacteriological studies rather indicate that the bacillus coli may also cause the disease. these germs are usually carried into the body in food or drink, and, lodging in the small intestines, begin to grow and multiply, and by their life produce poisonous ptomaines which are absorbed and carried by the circulation to all the organs and tissues of the body. "it is these ptomaines, thus carried to all parts of the body, that are largely the immediate cause of the pyrexia and attending symptoms. the organisms which produce these poisons for the most part remain in the intestines, although they have been found in the spleen. "the indications for treatment are:-- " . to remove or destroy the cause (to eliminate the germs and ptomaines from the body). " . to sustain the vital and resisting powers of the patient. "if the patient is seen early in the disease, it has been my practice to immediately put him to bed and give a free dose of magnesium sulphate. this is preferably given in the morning or forenoon, and may be repeated once or twice on successive days. besides this the patient should have a large enema of water at a temperature of from ° to ° f.; and this may be repeated daily or even oftener, for some time, if necessary, to keep the bowels empty of the poisonous substances. "the salines and enemas thus used carry out bodily a large number of germs and ptomaines that are present in the intestines; and further, the salines, by producing an increased secretion of the mucous membrane of the intestines, tend to disentangle and set free many of the germs that have found a lodging place in the walls of the intestines. "for the elimination of the ptomaines which have been absorbed into the circulation and carried to the tissues, nothing is better than the internal use of water. from three to five pints should be drunk during every twenty-four hours. it should be taken in small quantities--six to eight ounces every hour or two during waking hours, except when food is taken. i will refer to this point more in detail later. "a consideration of the general care of the patient properly comes under the second head of the indications for treatment as given above. the patient should be put to bed in a large, light, well-ventilated room. at least two sides of the room should communicate directly by windows with out-of-doors, in order that the room may be properly ventilated. "all unnecessary articles of furniture, such as carpets, couches, upholstered chairs, pictures, etc. should be removed. "the room should be thoroughly cleaned before the patient is put into it. "there should be two beds in the room for the use of the patient. these should be, preferably, narrow and so placed in the room that there is a free approach to both sides of the bed, for the convenience of the nurse in giving treatment. iron bedsteads are preferable to wooden. the bedding should be firm, yet soft and smoothly drawn. there should be just sufficient covering to protect the body. the patient should be changed from one bed to the other daily. this may be done by placing the two beds side by side and carefully moving the patient from one to the other. the sheets on the bed from which the patient has been taken should be washed and disinfected at each change of the beds, and all other bedding should be thoroughly aired and exposed to the sunlight daily. "the patient should have the care of a thoroughly educated, careful and competent nurse, one who understands perfectly the various methods of using water in the treatment of fevers. "there is no other single remedy that i consider so valuable in the treatment of fever as the internal use of water. as above stated, the patient should drink six or eight ounces every hour during the waking hours, except for about two hours after food is taken. the water should be thoroughly sterilized, and as a rule may be taken either cool or hot. ice water is objectionable. hot water is often preferable. this is a simple remedy, but nevertheless is efficacious. it should be given to the patient whether he calls for it or not, and it should be considered an important part of his treatment. when water is taken into the stomach and absorbed into the circulation, it throws into solution the ptomaines which have been absorbed from the intestines and are present in the circulation and tissues, and thereby puts them in a favorable condition for elimination. it increases the activity of the kidneys, and thus hastens and increases the elimination of the poisons in the system. "in the early stage of the fever, when the pulse is full, and the action of the heart increased, it is best to give the patient cool water. later in the disease, when the action of the heart is weak, and the patient feeble, it is best to give the water hot. "winternitz, many years ago, demonstrated that hot water taken into the stomach acts as a cardiac stimulant, and the increased heart's action is immediate, or at least before the water has time to absorb, which indicates that the water in the stomach acts reflexly as a cardiac stimulant. the water after absorption also increases the circulation by filling the blood-vessels, and increasing arterial pressure. the writer has frequently noticed a decided increase in the fullness, and rapidity of the pulse, after a patient has drunk a glassful of hot water. "the external use of water also forms an important part of the treatment. the patient should be sponged off with tepid water every hour or two when the temperature is °, or above. when the temperature is less than this, it is not necessary to sponge the body so frequently. sometimes a hot sponge bath is more efficacious in reducing the temperature than the tepid or cool bath. the sponge bath reduces the temperature, relieves many of the distressing nervous symptoms, is refreshing to the patient, and promotes sleep. the temperature of the body may also be reduced by the use of cool compresses placed over the abdomen, and changed frequently. "the matter of diet is an important factor in the treatment of typhoid fever. the diet should be aseptic, easily digested, and should contain the necessary food elements. probably no one article of diet meets all these requirements as well as sterilized milk. the patient should take from two to three pints daily. the milk is best taken four times during the day at intervals of four hours, taking eight to ten ounces at a time. should the patient become tired of the milk, gluten gruel may be substituted for the milk. "the diarrhoea and bowel symptoms, when present, may be relieved by the application of hot fomentations to the abdomen, warm or hot enemas and twenty grains of subnitrate of bismuth given every four hours. "the patient should be kept as quiet as possible, and should be turned in bed at intervals, to prevent hypostatic congestion and the formation of bed-sores. the bony prominences which are apt to become eroded should be sponged frequently with a solution of tannic acid in equal parts of alcohol and water; a dram of the tannic acid to a pint of alcohol and water, is about the proper strength to use. "by the methods briefly outlined above--that is by the free use of water internally and externally, by keeping the intestines thoroughly emptied of poisonous material by the free and frequent use of enemas, by proper feeding and the careful attention of a good nurse to the patient and his surroundings--the duration of the fever may be shortened and the severity of the disease lessened; heart failure, and other complications will seldom occur, and the patient will in nearly every instance make a good recovery. the best method to pursue to prevent heart failure is to keep the poisons which are generated in the bowels and absorbed into the body, and which are the direct cause of the heart failure, eliminated from the body. should the heart become weak, it may be effectually stimulated by giving hot water to drink, applying heat to the heart in the form of a fomentation, and the application of fomentations to the upper spine. "in the treatment of a large number of cases of typhoid fever, extending over several years' practice, the writer has never made use of alcohol internally to support the action of the heart, or for any other purpose. "the number of cases of death from typhoid fever coming under the writer's observation, where the method of treatment pursued has been similar to that briefly indicated above, have been very few, a much smaller per cent. than in practice where alcohol has been used as a 'cardiac stimulant.' i believe that the use of alcohol in the treatment of typhoid fever is not only useless, but absolutely harmful." dr. kate lindsay, of battle creek sanitarium and hospital, contributed an article upon typhoid fever to the _bulletin of the a. m. t. a._ for january, , from which a few notes are here taken:-- "the chief toxic centre is evidently the intestinal tract, especially the termination of the ileum. the ulcerations, necroses, perforations and hemorrhages are most frequently found in the last twelve inches of the small intestine, and may extend into the large intestine. the ulcerated surface and open vessels increase the facility with which the poison finds entrance into the circulation. the microbes, blood clots, necrosed tissue and pus, furnish abundant supplies of toxic matter, which, saturating the system, over-power and stop the activity of the functions of all the organs of the body, causing degeneration of tissues. death is said to take place from heart, lung or brain failure, but the failure involves every other organ as well. "regarding the intestinal tract as any other abscess at this time, the physician should seek for methods of treatment or remedies which will remove the morbid matters, and destroy, or at least inhibit their action, thus decreasing the fever and stimulating the circulation. secondary toxic centres often develop in the course of this disease, notably in the glands, lungs and dependent organs, the hypostatic congestion resulting from lying in one position, causing stasis of blood, death and necrosis of tissue, both of the external and internal organs. all vessels connected with the dying tissues carry toxins to other parts of the body. suppurating glands, and phlebitis of the femoral veins are examples of this secondary infection, and are accountable for the heart failure and collapse so often fatal during the second, third and fourth weeks of typhoid fever. * * * * * "the old idea that in peristaltic action lay the great danger of increase of the hemorrhage and perforation of the bowels, is giving way to the more rational view that gaseous distention and septic absorption, are what bring about fatal results from these complications, and that the moderate peristalsis of the intestinal walls lessens these dangers by closing the gaping ends of the injured vessels, and expelling the septic matter and foul gases. to meet these indications i have found lavage of the bowels, even during hemorrhage, with water of ° to ° f. or even hotter, given in moderate quantity of from one pint to three, to give great relief by freeing the large intestines of blood clots, fecal matter and other morbid matter. it also increases peristaltic action in the small intestines, thus favoring the expulsion of gas. the heat stimulates the circulation in the peripheral vessels of the intestines, and overcomes the tendency to blood stasis. "in the cases cited, ice-bags, alternated with fomentations, were used over the abdomen externally, and heat, or hot and cold, to spine. the extremities were kept warm. from ten to thirty minims of turpentine, in an ounce of gum acacia or starch water, increased the efficiency of the enemata, and aided in expelling the gas and checking hemorrhage. "the tendency to hypostatic congestion and bed-sores, was prevented by frequent change of position, and the use of hot and cold to the spine by fomentations and compresses, or better still, hot fine spraying, or the alternate hot and cold spray. in one grave case, spraying was kept up for about twelve hours, with only short intermissions. the heart was stimulated by heat applied over it, whenever depression and collapse threatened, and by hot and cold sponging of the spine." dr. noble said some time ago in the _london times_:-- "although it is true that alcohol is an antipyretic, yet its exhibition neither shortens nor modifies (favorably) the diseases of which the fever is but a symptom. the paralysis of the brain which is so frequent a cause of death in typhoid fever, is more often brought about by alcohol than any other cause, and more than one woman suffering from puerperal fever has been done to death by the administration of this substance, which, not being _convenienter naturæ, is contra naturam_." j. s. cain, m. d., in an able paper, read at the nashville academy of medicine, on "rational suggestions in the treatment of typhoid fever," dissents from the practice, which still obtains largely in the medical profession, of administering alcoholic liquors, in the belief that they are "stimulants, conservators of force and even nutrients," and says:-- "after a careful and thoughtful study of this subject, i have reluctantly, and against firm early convictions, been forced to the conclusion that these theories with regard to the beneficial effects of alcohol in disease are wholly fallacious. the only rational conclusion at which i can arrive is that the agent is ever, and under all circumstances, a depressor of temperature; that it arrests the physiological interchange of carbonic acid gas and oxygen in the tissues, as well as in the air vesicles of the lungs; that it impedes the elimination of tissue waste, and causes the accumulation of this refuse in the system; that it is lethal anæsthetic in all quantities; that it is not stimulant in the true sense, and never exerts that influence; and that it supplies no element to the diseased and vitiated system calculated to antagonize disease, repair waste, or invigorate lowered vital forces, and therefore for these purposes is not called for in the rational treatment of typhoid fever." at the annual meeting of the american medical association held in atlanta, georgia, in , dr. g. b. garber, of dunkirk, ind., read a paper upon "alcohol in typhoid fever" from which a few points are here taken:-- "the fact that the mortality from typhoid fever seems to be gradually lowering is no doubt due in great measure to the non-use of alcohol in the treatment of the disease. hardly a week passes that some of our journals do not report a series of cases treated without the aid of alcohol in any form. i used alcohol in the treatment of the disease until two years ago, when i became alarmed at the mortality; so i changed my plan, and in i treated thirty-seven well marked cases of varying degrees of intensity. i had two fatal cases, and in both of them i had used alcohol. in i treated thirty cases of about the same type, with no death. i only used alcohol in one of them, and it caused me more trouble than any of the others. as this case was in the family of a saloon-keeper, i could not control the matter, as they would give it during my absence. on my return i would find the face flushed, the temperature high, the pulse rapid and the patient nervous. by close inquiry i would find that some of the family had given 'just a little good whisky' which had been in the house for twenty years. "in closing, i wish to state that i am well convinced that in the treatment of typhoid fever our patients will do better and stand a greater chance of recovery, if we abstain entirely from the use of alcohol in the treatment of the disease." prof. j. burney yeo, of london, in a paper read before the international medical congress held at rome, italy, said:-- "in order to maintain the intestinal antisepsis which forms an essential part of this method of treatment, i insist on the necessity of scrupulous attention and caution in feeding patients suffering from enteric fever, great danger arising from a failure to note the extremely limited digestive and absorptive capacity exhibited by such patients. "in conclusion, the use of alcoholic stimulants, and the common employment of depressing antipyretic agents, must be condemned." in a report of the treatment of typhoid fever by seventy-two physicians of connecticut, thirty-eight declared that they did not use alcohol in any stage of this disease. the remainder used it sparingly in the last stages, and only two considered it valuable from the beginning of the disease. in a discussion of typhoid fever by a medical society meeting in rochester, n. y., recently, sixty physicians being present, only three spoke in favor of using alcohol in this disease. hygienic physicians all insist upon a rigid fast as long as the high temperature continues, or until the patient is sufficiently hungry to eat a piece of plain, stale, graham bread, "dry upon the tongue." dr. charles e. page of boston says there would be very few relapses if this plan were carefully carried out. he contends that the whisky and milk diet, together with the not over-fresh air of the average sick room is enough to produce fever in a healthy person, hence is not likely to be conducive to recovery in one already infected with the disease. in an article in the _arena_ of september, , dr. page says:-- "in my fever practice i have frequently observed the effect of fasts of six, eight, ten and twelve days to be in the highest degree productive of the health and comfort of patients, as, on the other hand i have, during the past twenty years observed the deplorable effects of the almost universal plan of constant feeding. in some of the most distressing cases that have happened to be thrown in my way, when all hope in the minds of friends had been abandoned, i have found that withdrawal of food, drugs and stimulants, and the substitution of simple, fresh, soft water, has produced results that seemed almost miraculous." fruit juices are now permitted by many physicians in fever, a few drops of lemon or orange juice, being a grateful addition to the water. grape juice, unfermented, is highly recommended by some. a young minister of great promise died recently of typhoid fever. his young wife, only one year married, is in settled melancholy, because she cannot understand why "god took her husband." inquiry developed the fact that the physician in attendance was a believer in alcohol as a remedy, and used it in this case. in view of the better chances of recovery under non-alcoholic treatment shown by comparative death-rates, may it not be that the alcohol was responsible for the young man's death, instead of its being "god's will to take him?" the author of all good has too frequently been held responsible for the errors of physicians, and the carelessness of nurses. vomiting:--"if the vomiting is due to undigested food, and the sickness can be traced to excess, or to improper diet, draughts of hot water should be taken in order to be rid of offending matter in the stomach. after the stomach is empty bits of ice may be sucked, or cold water sipped. a quarter of a seidlitz powder may be taken. a flannel, folded to four thicknesses, dipped in hot water, and wrung dry in a towel, may be applied to the pit of the stomach. cover the flannel with a hot plate, being careful to have the flannel large enough to prevent the plate's burning the skin. pin a dry towel over all, around the body. this may be renewed every half-hour or hour, as required. sometimes a cold wet compress on the pit of the stomach, covered with a dry towel is more efficacious, heat developing by reaction. fluid magnesia is often helpful."--dr. ridge. chapter ix. alcohol and nursing mothers. it frequently happens that the nursing mother is unable by reason of defective digestive apparatus, or imperfect assimilative powers, to supply sufficient nourishment for her babe. in such case she is often advised to drink ale or beer. it is true that these liquors will excite the secretions of the mammary gland, but it is increase in quantity, not in quality, for the milk is impoverished by the added water and alcohol, taken in the beer. milkmen sometimes salt cows heavily so that they will drink largely of water, and thus give more milk, but one quart of good, rich milk is worth three quarts of the poor, thin stuff resulting from such method. it is proper feeding, and care, that ensure good milk. when women complain that they are unable to nurse their babies the cause is often an error in diet. too great reliance is put upon meat as strength-giving. while meat, used in moderation, may be valuable to many persons, the nursing mother should not depend upon it to any great extent. she will find farinaceous foods, with plenty of warm milk, what she most requires. at bedtime she should have a bowl of well-cooked oatmeal gruel, diluted with rich milk, and sweetened, if she prefer it so. the milk should be added to the gruel while it is boiling, as it digests more readily if scalded. people who cannot, or think they cannot, take milk of itself, often find it easy to digest it, after it is scalded in the gruel. anything that a mother can do in the way of nourishing her babe will be done upon such a diet, that is, farinaceous foods and milk. sweet fruits are of course valuable also, as tending to keep the system in good order. it is well to bear in mind that it is not the quantity of food eaten, but that which is digested, and assimilated, that goes to build up the tissues of the body. so the habit of eating between meals is pernicious, as it disturbs the digestive processes, and robs the stomach of much-needed rest. this habit is the cause, in many cases, of the falling off in the milk after the first month or two. as nourishment for both mother and babe can come from food only, good appetite, and good digestion are essential to health and strength. the very best help towards gaining a good appetite is exercise in the open air. all mothers recognize the need of keeping their little ones out of doors a while every day, but all do not see the necessity of the same mode of life for themselves. dr. nathan s. davis has said: "i have persuaded thousands of mothers to try fresh air, instead of wine or beer, with gratifying results." the mother who takes her babe out, herself, for its daily airing, is laying up stores of health and vitality, to aid her in providing for the needs of the little one, dependent upon her. good digestion is as essential as good appetite. alcohol, whether in beer, wine, whisky, or any other form, is injurious to the stomach, and a hinderer of digestion, hence must do harm, rather than good, to the mother in search of added nourishment for her babe. dr. condi says:-- "the only drink of the nurse should be water or milk. all fermented and distilled liquors, as well as strong tea and coffee, she should strictly abstain from. never was there a more absurd or pernicious notion than that wine, ale or porter is necessary to a nursing mother in order to keep up her strength, or to increase the quantity, and improve the properties of her milk. so far from producing these effects, such drinks, when taken in any quantity, invariably disturb more or less the health of the stomach, and tend to impair the quality, and diminish the quantity, of nourishment furnished by her to her infant." dr. william hargreaves says:-- "every farmer knows that all a healthy cow requires to give good milk and butter is, to give her good feed, and pure water; and he also knows that the way to make a cow give poor watery milk, which they might churn until doomsday without obtaining butter, is to feed her on distillery slops, or grains from the brewery. it is also well known that cheese cannot be made from such milk, it being deficient in curd, or casein. "alcohol is not only useless but injurious; for children whose mothers try to keep themselves upon beer, etc., very frequently suffer from vomiting and diarrhoea, and often from convulsions. sometimes a single glass of whisky, taken by the mother, will produce sickness and indigestion in the child, for twenty-four hours after. "in the milk of a healthy woman the water ranges from to parts in , . the oily substance ranges from to ; casein from to ; sugar of milk from to , and the salts from to parts in , . "alcoholic drinks materially alter these proportions, for, on the analysis of the milk of the same woman, a few hours before and after the use of a pint of beer, it was found that the alcohol increases the proportion of the water, and diminishes that of casein; and that alcohol is very perceptible in it." "the only rational way to be adopted by mothers to increase the supply of nutrition for their infants, is to secure plenty of suitable nutritious food, prepared in the way that will most fit it for digestion, while they at the same time, avoid as far as possible all fatigue, and mental excitement. it is impossible that alcoholic beverages can add anything to the nutrition of either the infant or mother."--dr. bussey, in _stimulants for nursing mothers_. dr. e. g. figg, in _the physiological operation of alcohol_, gives the analyses of the milk of a temperate woman in good health, and of a drinking woman as follows:-- milk of temperate mother. milk of drinking mother. salts, " " . salts, " " . casein, " " . casein, " " . oil, " " . oil, " " . water, " " . water, " " . alcohol, " " . ------ ------ . . dr. edward smith says in his _practical dietary_:-- "alcoholics are largely used by many women in the belief that they support the system, and maintain the supply of milk for the infant; but i am convinced that this is a serious error, and is not an infrequent cause of fits and emaciation in the child." dr. james edmunds, of the lying-in hospital, london, eng., says in _diet for nursing mothers_:-- "the nursing mother is peculiarly placed, in that she has to provide a supply of nutriment for the child which is dependent upon her, as well as for the ordinary requirements of her own system. the nutrition of the child is to be provided for upon the same principles, and by the same food-elements, as is the nutrition of the mother, the only difference being that the young child is possessed of less perfect masticatory and digestive powers, and therefore requires food to be presented to it in a state more simple, uniform, and readily assimilable than the adult, who is furnished with strong teeth, and possessed of a fully-grown stomach. the mastication, digestion, and primary assimilation of the nursing infant's food is thrown upon the mother's organs; but the tissues of the child are nourished precisely as are the tissues of the mother, and a nursing mother requires simply to digest a larger supply of wholesome, and appropriate food. as a matter of course mothers with imperfect teeth, or weak stomachs, cannot perform the digestion of extra food for the infant so well as those mothers who have an abundance of reserve power in their digestive apparatus; and with such patients, the question arises, how are they to make up for the deficiency which they soon experience in the supply of milk? such mothers appeal to their medical advisers to prescribe some stimulant which will enable them to overcome the difficulty which they experience, and often are greatly dissatisfied if informed that there is no drug in the _materia medica_ which will make up for structural weakness in the organs which masticate, digest or assimilate the food. the proper course for such women to adopt is a simple and rational one. they should assist their digestive apparatus as much as possible by securing an abundance of suitable and nutritious food, prepared in the best way, and as is most digestible, while they should lessen the demands of their own system by the avoidance of bodily fatigue, and mental excitement. these means, aided by that philosophical hygiene which is at all times essential to the preservation of pure and perfect health, will enable them to supply a maximum quantity of pure and wholesome milk; and further calls by the child require proper artificial food. unfortunately such advice fails to satisfy many anxious mothers who refuse to admit, or believe, that they are less robust, or less capable, than other ladies of their acquaintance, and such mothers fall easy victims to circulars vaunting the nourishing properties of 'hoare's stout,' 'tanqueray's gin,' or gilbey's 'strengthening port,' circulars which are always backed up by the example, and advice, of lady friends, who themselves have acquired the habit of using these liquors, and who view as a reproach to themselves the practice of any other lady who may not keep them in countenance, as the perfection of all moral and physical propriety. unfortunately the pressure of such lady friends is often so persistent as to paralyse the influence of a conscientious and thoughtful medical adviser, while the appetites and beliefs of such friends often throw them into active antagonism to any medical adviser, who may not endorse the habits in which, as they believe, and no doubt conscientiously, duty to their child requires them to indulge. the only course that a medical practitioner, whose family is dependent upon his practice, can safely take with veteran mothers on this question, is to let them have their own way without reiterated admonition. when once they have acquired the habit of depending upon large quantities of beer for nursing their children, they become perfectly infatuated, and are practically incapable of passing through the probationary fortnight which takes place before the digestive apparatus can work under its natural, but to them strange, conditions, while the temporary longing for beer, and the sudden lessening of the quantity of milk afforded by their strained and impoverished systems, are at once set down as clear proofs that their medical adviser is a crochetty, and dangerous person, who must be superseded at the first convenient opportunity. facts and arguments have no more influence on such mothers than they have upon opium-eaters, drunkards, or inveterate consumers of tobacco; while the extreme propriety of conduct which these ladies manifest, and the encouragement they receive from other medical men, make the convictions based upon their own personal sensations incontrovertible, and their position practically unassailable. i think i might fairly say that among the comfortable middle classes of society the views at present held on this question are so deplorable that a large proportion of children are never sober from the first moment of their existence until they have been weaned; while often after a few years the use of alcohol is again introduced to the children as a 'medical comfort,' as a part of their regular diet, or as an invariable accompaniment of all their juvenile visitation, and company-keeping. under such circumstances, it is not surprising that temperance reformers appeal in vain on this question, and that their facts and arguments are viewed with plausible indifference, or insidious opposition, by persons whose appetites and instincts have been undergoing debasement, and perversion from the very dawn of their lives. my own deliberate conviction is that nothing but harm comes to nursing mothers, and to the infants who are dependent upon them, by the ordinary use of alcoholic beverages of any kind. "infants nursed by mothers who drink much beer also become fatter than usual, and to an untrained eye sometimes appear as 'magnificent children.' but the fatness of such children is not a recommendation to the more knowing observer; they are extremely prone to die of inflammation of the chest (bronchitis) after a few days' illness from an ordinary cold. they die, very much more frequently than other children, of convulsions and diarrhoea, while cutting their teeth, and they are very liable to die of scrofulous inflammation of the membranes of the brain, commonly called 'water on the brain,' while their childhood often presents a painful contrast--in the way of crooked legs, and stunted or ill-shapen figure--to the 'magnificent,' and promising appearance of their infancy. "those ladies who adopt the general views i have thus expressed in relation to the nursing of their children, will want to know what is the 'proper artificial food' with which to supplement their milk when it is deficient in quantity. with some patients the milk will fall off in quantity at the end of two or three months. with others, although the quantity may not fall off, the child seems unsatisfied; and there is a third class with whom a profusion of milk is supplied, and the child thrives exceedingly, but the mother gets flabby, weak, nervous, pale and exhausted. in the last case, the mother is simply goaded on by susceptibility of her nervous system, or by inordinate activity of the breasts to yield an amount of milk which her digestive powers are not equal to providing for. the treatment of such cases should be simply repressive. the mother should separate herself somewhat more from the child, and make a rule of only nursing it from five to eight times in the twenty-four hours, while the neck of the mother should be kept cool in regard to dress, and cold sponging may be practiced carefully night and morning. her attention should be diverted by outdoor exercise on foot, and additionally in a carriage if necessary. when the mother's milk, though apparently not deficient in quantity, proves unsatisfying to the child, great attention should be paid to varying the diet of the mother, while such staple foods should be taken as are most easily and thoroughly assimilated into milk. the unsatisfying quality of the milk will generally be remedied by taking a more varied diet, together with three or four half pints of milk in the course of the day, accompanied with farinaceous matter, as in the shape of well-made milk gruel; and in case these measures fail, the only alternative is to supplement the mother's milk by obtaining a wet-nurse to suckle the child three or four times a day alternately with the mother, or by feeding the child with proper artificial food. the same measures may be resorted to where the milk, though satisfying in character, is deficient in quantity; and in preparing artificial food for the child it must always be remembered that the food requires to be adapted to the stage of development which is manifested by a young infant's digestive organs. the infant's digestive apparatus is, in fact, designed to digest milk, and to digest nothing else, but when the teeth are cut farinaceous matter of a more or less solid character should be gradually mixed with the milk. almost all the illnesses of infants under twelve months of age are caused by some gross impropriety of diet, or otherwise, on the part of the mother, for which the child suffers through the medium of the milk, or they are caused by feeding the child with improper artificial food. thick sop, and many other articles often given as food are as indigestible to an infant of three months old as beefsteaks would be to a horse; and, until the child has cut its teeth, it should have nothing but food resembling the mother's milk as closely as possible. "the proper way to feed an infant of three months old, whose mother is only able to partially support it, is as follows: when the child wakes in the morning it should not go to the mother, but should be taken away by the nurse, and immediately fed from the bottle, sucking its milk through a suitable teat. after the mother has breakfasted the child may go to the breast, and during the day it should be alternately fed from the bottle, and nursed by the mother. at six o'clock the baby should invariably be placed in its crib, by the side of the mother's bed, and fed just before going to sleep, and the habit of going to bed at six o'clock should be strictly and invariably enforced. if once the child be allowed to come down to the family circle after dark, the habit of going to sleep will be broken, and the child will continuously cry to come down. in the course of the evening the mother may nurse the child once, and at ten or eleven o'clock, when the mother goes to bed, the child should be again fed from the bottle, and the mother should have a basin of well-made milk-gruel; and by her bedside should be placed, at the last moment, as much gruel as she is likely to drink with relish during the night. whenever the child is restless it should be taken out of its crib, gently, by the mother, and nursed, say two or three times during the night, and put back again into its crib, the child never being allowed to sleep with the mother. when the night is fairly over, and the child awakens, it should be fetched by the nurse, and have its first morning meal from the bottle. this plan of feeding should be persisted in continuously until the child has cut its teeth; and it is only when every means have been taken to ensure the sweetness, freshness and niceness, not only of the milk and water, but of the bottle and of the teat, and the child still fails to get on, that, in rare cases, i advise the admixture of a little farinaceous matter, in the way of food containing one part milk, and two parts of properly sweetened barley-water. as the milk teeth come through, other farinaceous matter may be gradually blended with the milk, and there is nothing better than to begin at about eight months with a teaspoonful of baked flour, well boiled in a pint of milk and water, or in the water, to be afterwards cooled with milk. oftentimes a little salt, as well as sugar, will materially help its digestion. the child will do well on that food--the quantity being duly increased--until it has cut almost all its milk teeth, when it may eat bread and butter, rice, and egg puddings, and occasionally eat a boiled egg once a day. i believe that it is a great mistake to give red flesh meat to children in their early years, unless there be some very special reason for it, and then it should only be temporarily used; but nice potatoes, flavored with fresh gravy from a joint, may be given at dinner, as the child becomes able to feed itself. * * * * * "bear in mind that when you take wine, beer or brandy, you are distilling that wine, beer or brandy into your child's body. probably nothing could be worse than to have the very fabric of the child's tissues laid down from alcoholized blood." another english physician deplores "the pernicious habit of drinking large quantities of ale or stout by nursing mothers, under the idea that they thereby increase and improve the secretion of milk, whereas they are in reality deteriorating the quality of that upon which the infant must depend for health and life." dr. edis says:-- "infant mortality is mainly due to two causes, the substitution of farinaceous food for milk, and the delusion that ale or beer is necessary as an article of diet for nursing mothers. * * * * * countless disorders among infants are due simply and solely to the popular fallacy, that the nursing mother cannot properly fulfil her duties, unless she resorts to the aid of alcoholics." dr. n. s. davis says:-- "the opinion prevails quite extensively among certain classes of people, and with some physicians, that a liberal use of beer is beneficial to women while nursing their children. they drink it under the impression that it will both strengthen them and make their milk more abundant. but i have never seen a case in which it had been used regularly for any considerable period of time, where it did not result in more or less indigestion from gastric irritation and disordered secretions, and an early failure in the secretion of milk. it probably never increases the flow of milk any more than would the drinking of the same quantity of pure water; while the alcohol it contains, by daily repetition, induces congestion of the gastric mucous membrane, with disordered gastric and hepatic secretions. "a case strikingly illustrating these results was examined by me to-day. the patient was a young married woman who was nursing her first child, now nine months old. at the time of her confinement she was in fair health, rather nervous temperament, weight pounds. during the first few days her milk did not flow very freely, and she says her physician advised her to drink beer. consequently she commenced to drink a glass of beer at each mealtime, and a bottle during the night. during the first six months she had sufficient milk for her baby; but before the end of that time she had begun to suffer from flatulency, constipation, gaseous and acid eructations, what she calls 'heart-burn,' and sometimes vomiting. during the last three months she has suffered, in addition to the preceding symptoms, one or two attacks each week of extreme pain, from the lower point of the sternum to the back between the scapula, accompanied by retching, or severe efforts to vomit. to relieve these attacks she has taken liberal doses of gin, in addition to her regular supply of beer. now at the end of nine months, her milk has nearly ceased to flow, her bowels are costive, her stomach tolerates only small quantities of the simplest nourishment, her flesh and strength are very much reduced, her weight being only pounds; and yet she thinks both the beer and gin make her feel better every time she takes them. such is the delusive power of the anæsthetic effect of alcohol. a persistence in the same management would probably terminate fatally in from six to twelve months more, from chronic gastritis, and inanition. but if she will rigidly abstain from all alcoholic remedies, and take only the most bland, unirritating nourishment, aided by mildly soothing and antiseptic remedies, and fresh air, she will slowly recover." in a clinical lecture delivered before the senior class in the northwestern university medical school, dr. davis told of a case similar to the preceding:-- "the flow of milk in her breasts has also diminished to such a degree that she does not have half enough for her baby. yet she says the _beer_ makes her feel better after each drink, and that the _gin_ helps to relieve the severe attacks of pain, and consequently she thinks she could not do without them. it is undoubtedly true that the patient feels temporary relief from the anæsthetic effect of the alcohol in her beer and gin, just as she would from any anæsthetic or narcotic. and it is equally true that so long as the alcohol is present in her blood it so modifies the hemoglobin and albuminous constituents, as to diminish the reception and internal distribution of oxygen, and thereby retards metabolic changes. but the combined influence of the alcohol in retarding the internal distribution of oxygen and the drain upon the nutritive elements of her blood, in furnishing milk for her baby, led to rapid impoverishment of the blood and tissues, and the early establishment of a sufficient grade of gastritis to cause indigestion, frequent vomiting, and, later, paroxysms of severe gastralgia, with general emaciation, and loss of strength. "in accordance with the present popular ideas, both in and out of the profession, this patient tells me she has tried a great variety of foods, peptonized, sterilized, and predigested, but all to no purpose. and why?--simply because her troubles are not in the kind of food she takes, but in the morbid condition of her blood, and of the mucous membrane and nerves of her stomach. consequently the rational indications for treatment are: (_a_) to get her stomach and blood free from the alcohol of beer and gin; (_b_) to encourage the reception and internal distribution of oxygen by plenty of fresh air; (_c_) to give her the most bland, or unirritating food in small, and frequently repeated doses, of which good milk with lime-water, and milk and wheat-flour gruel are the best; (_d_) such medicines as possess sufficient antiseptic, and anodyne properties to allay the irritability of the gastric mucous membrane, and lessen fermentation." chapter x. comparative death-rates with and without the use of alcohol as a remedy. a study of statistics relating to the difference in results of the treatment of disease with and without the use of alcohol, cannot but be of great interest to all students of the alcohol question. the appended statistics are culled mainly from the _medical pioneer_ of england, now, _medical temperance review_, the journal of the british medical temperance association, and from the _bulletin of the american medical temperance association_. a paragraph in the _british medical journal_, for dec. , , says:-- "an interesting fact has been noted by dr. claye shaw, at the london county asylum, banstead, for the insane. since the withdrawal of _beer_ from the dietary, the rate of recovery has gone up. during the past year, for example, the recoveries reached . per cent. nearly one half of the patients had thus recovered during the period stated. the inmates take their food better without the liquor, and they are thus taught that intoxicants are not a necessity of ordinary health." in the _medical pioneer_ for january, , dr. john mois, medical superintendent of west haven infectious diseases hospital, states that prior to he had treated , cases of smallpox "in the usual routine method, with the use of alcohol when the heart's action seemed to indicate it;" resulting in a mortality of per cent. but since he has treated additional cases under similar circumstances except that the use of alcoholic preparations was entirely omitted, and the resulting mortality was only per cent. in the same journal, dr. j. j. ridge states that he had treated the cases of scarlet fever admitted into the enfield isolation hospital during the years and , without alcohol in any form, with a mortality of only . per cent.; while the mortality in the hospitals under the metropolitan asylums board in , in which alcohol was used in accordance with the usual practice in scarlet fever, was . per cent. dr. j. j. ridge says later:-- "in january, , i published the result of the treatment of the first cases of scarlatina admitted into the temporary wards of the enfield isolation hospital during and . i stated that there had been five fatal cases, but that one was dying when admitted and only lived a few hours. the mortality was per cent., or . if the later case is included. "since then more cases have been admitted and discharged and among these there have been fatal. hence there have been deaths in consecutive cases extending over a period of a little more than four years. one of these ought to be excluded, no time having been given for treatment. hence the mortality has been just . per cent. this, i think it will be admitted, is a low mortality, although it is possible it may be even lower when the cases are treated in a permanent hospital about to be erected. "it may be interesting to state that of the cases died on the third day after admission; on the fourth; on the sixth; on the tenth, with pneumonia; on the thirteenth; on the fifteenth; on the sixteenth; on the eighteenth; on the thirty-sixth, with nephritis and pleuropneumonia; and on the forty-sixth, with otitis and meningitis. "all the cases have been treated without alcohol either as food or drug, although many have been of great severity with various complications. it is certain that the absence of alcohol has not been detrimental, since the mortality is less than three-fourths of that of the mortality among all notified cases in england and wales. i am bound to say that it is my firm conviction that had alcohol been given in the usual fashion, the death-rate would have been higher. cases have been admitted to which alcohol has been given previous to admission, apparently with harm, as they have improved without it. one case was particularly noticeable in this respect. a child, aged , had had a good deal of whisky, and was supposed to be dying when admitted on the fourth day of the disease, so that the doctor who had seen it was surprised, when he called the following day to inquire, to find it was still alive. without a drop of alcohol it began to improve and made a good recovery. i may say that delirium is very rare, even in the worst cases treated non-alcoholically." dr. norman kerr says:-- "in my paper on 'the medical administration of alcohol,' read to the section of medicine at the sheffield meeting in , i cited several medical testimonies in favor of non-alcoholic treatment of fevers, notably that of my friend, the late dr. simon nicolls, who had a mortality of less than per cent. in cases. "the record of the results of a greatly lessened administration of alcohol in the treatment of smallpox in the london hospital ships, is of deep interest. having been requested to inquire into the effects of this diminished alcoholic stimulation on mortality and convalescence, dr. birdwood stated that though the gravity of the cases had increased, with a mortality of per in the metropolis, the ship's death-rate had remained at less than per . convalescence had been more rapid, and there had been fewer and less serious complications from abscesses and inflammatory boils. other causes had contributed to this improvement, but the medical officers attributed a considerable share in the amelioration to a greatly diminished prescription of alcohol." the _medical pioneer_ says:-- "in there appeared in the _saturday review_ an article in which the medical practitioners of this country were accused of inciting their patients to free drinking, and in the discussion which this article called forth, dr. gairdner, of glasgow, said that fever patients in that city, when treated with milk and without alcohol, did much better than those reported as having been treated by dr. todd with large doses of alcohol; the latter resulting in a mortality of about per cent., while those treated by dr. gairdner with milk had had a death-rate of only per cent. about this time the british medical temperance association was founded, owing to the exertions of dr. ridge, of enfield, and in it was enrolled, under the presidency of sir b. w. richardson. it now contains members in england and wales, in scotland and in ireland, or more than altogether, all professional men and women. this, i think, is but a sign of the change of opinion on the use of alcoholic fluids in medical practice, for all who remember what medical practice was in london thirty years ago know that the use of wine and brandy in hospital practice was so common that it was quite a rarity in some hospitals to find a patient who was not ordered, by some of the staff, from three to four ounces of brandy or six to eight fluid ounces of wine. the expense caused to the hospitals by this practice was, of course, great, and increased notably between and , owing to the prevalence of the views of liebig and his follower, dr. todd. the writings of parkes, gairdner, dr. norman kerr and of sir b. ward richardson, dr. morton and others, gradually lessened this predilection for treating diseases by alcohol, and accordingly between and a great change came over the practice of london hospitals. thus the sum paid for milk in in saint bartholomew's hospital was £ , and in it was £ , ; whilst alcohol in that hospital cost in , £ ; in , £ , ; in , £ , ; and in only £ . westminster hospital in spent £ on alcohol and £ on milk. one hospital, st. george's, long continued to use large quantities of alcohol. that hospital in had the high mortality among its typhoid fever patients of per cent., which was twice as high as that noted by dr. gairdner as occurring in glasgow, when alcohol was abandoned and milk used instead. dr. meyer, who reported these cases of typhoid treated in saint george's hospital at that time, mentioned that alcohol in large doses was given to per cent. of the patients. three-fifths of these patients took daily eight ounces of brandy when there was danger of sinking from failure of the heart's action. one-fourth of the number took sixteen fluid ounces of brandy in the hours." "in typhoid cases in st. mary's hospital, dr. chambers reduced the ratio of deaths from in with alcohol to in without it. dr. perry, of glasgow, found that of cases treated with alcohol, died, while of treated without alcohol, only died." in a recent text-book on medicine occurs the following:-- "english physicians use spirits in fevers, and all experience sustains the conviction that no substitute has been found for them." in a late number of the _temperance record_, dr. smith gives a different view of the experience of english physicians:-- "when bentley todd was at king's college, and leading his profession, brandy was the rule in febrile cases. then the mortality varied from twenty-five to thirty-five per cent. that the treatment was as fatal as the disease, experience demonstrates:-- " . professor w. t. gairdner, of glasgow, writing to the lancet ( ), gave his experience as follows:-- fever cases average of treated. wine and spirits. mortality. , oz. to each . per cent. - / oz. to each . per cent. none death only. (young lives) "these were mostly typhus cases, but the rationale, so far as alcohol is concerned, is the same as in typhoid. " . at the british medical association in , professor h. macnaughton jones gave particulars of cases of typhus, typhoid and simple fever. i append a summary:-- cases. deaths. mortality per cent. given brandy . given claret . given no alcohol . " . dr. j. c. pearson writes to the _lancet_ (dec. and , ), giving his experience of typhoid. he had treated several hundreds of cases without a single death, and never prescribed stimulants in any shape or form in the disease. " . dr. knox bond writes to the _lancet_ (nov. , ), giving his experience of typhoid at the liverpool fever hospital. he says: 'as a resident for some years in the fever hospitals, my views of the value of alcohol in fever underwent, solely as a result of the experience there gained, entire modification. the conviction became forced upon my mind that in no case in which it was used did benefit to the patient ensue; that in a proportion of cases its use was distinctly hurtful; and that in a small but appreciable number of cases the resultant harm was sufficient to tilt the balance as against the recovery of the patient.' "in plain terms, alcohol tended to the destruction of the patients. dr. bond's figures are:-- no. of cases. no. of deaths. given alcohol given no alcohol --- --- in may, , dr. nathan s. davis, read a paper before the american medical association upon the use of certain drugs in disease. among the drugs mentioned was alcohol, and comparative death-rates were given in typhoid fever and pneumonia, between mercy hospital, chicago, during a term of years when no alcohol was used in the medical wards, dr. davis being in charge of them, and some of the large metropolitan hospitals using alcohol. in mercy hospital without alcohol, the death-rate in typhoid fever was only five per cent.; in pneumonia only twelve per cent. "of cases of typhoid fever treated in cook county hospital during , died, or one in six--nearly per cent. "according to the annual report of the cincinnati hospital for , cases of typhoid fever were treated during that year, with seven deaths, a mortality rate of per cent. "the garfield memorial hospital, at washington, reported for the year , cases of typhoid fever, with deaths--or per cent. "in the pennsylvania hospital the mortality rate in pneumonia for the years - , was per cent. "the mortality of pneumonia in the massachusetts general hospital, between the years and , comprising , cases, was per cent.; but a gradual increase in mortality had been noted from per cent. in the first decade of the seventy years represented by this report, to per cent. in the last decade. "according to the report of the supervising surgeon general of the u.s. marine hospital service for , the number of cases of pneumonia treated between and was , , with deaths--nearly per cent. "the cincinnati hospital reported for a mortality rate in pneumonia of per cent. "the mortality rate in the cook county hospital, chicago, for , according to dr. heltoin, relating to cases of pneumonia, was per cent." only a five per cent. death-rate in typhoid fever without alcohol, and from sixteen to twenty-two per cent. with alcohol; only a twelve per cent. death-rate in pneumonia without alcohol, and from to as high as per cent. with alcohol. such are the comparative death-rates given by dr. davis. they should be committed to memory by every opposer of the use of alcohol, as they show clearly that people have many more chances for recovery, other things being equal, in the diseases mentioned, if alcohol is not used than if it is. it is worthy of mention in this connection that cook county hospital contains in its report for the following items: number of patients , ; cost of liquors $ . ; per cent. of deaths from all causes, . . the cost of liquors is only . for each patient. this shows a decided advance in the disuse of alcohol, when so very little is used in a great hospital, with so large a number of patients. dr. a. l. loomis, in the treatment of typhus fever cases on blackwell's island in , excluded alcoholics, with the result of reducing the mortality rate to only six per cent. whereas it had previously been twenty-two per cent., in bellevue hospital from which the patients had been removed. in battle creek sanitarium no alcohol is used in any disease, simply because the management believe better results are obtained by the use of other agencies. in the october, ( ) number of the _american medical temperance quarterly_ now _bulletin of the a. m. t. a._, dr. j. h. kellogg gives statistics of deaths from various diseases in the battle creek sanitarium. the total of these statistics is as follows: la grippe, cases, deaths--or two per cent.; scarlet fever, cases, deaths--less than three per cent.; cases of typhoid fever, deaths--or . per cent.; cases of pneumonia, deaths--or . per cent. these exceptional results are not attributed solely to the non-use of alcohol. the nursing and surroundings were of the best. but these results certainly show that the use of alcohol as a remedy in acute diseases is not necessary, and that patients have a much better chance for life, other things being equal, where alcohol is not used than where it is. dr. kellogg says of the surgical cases:-- "in a hospital of beds, connected with the institution, more than , surgical cases have been treated, to whom alcohol has never been administered except in connection with chloroform anæsthesia; my uniform custom being to administer an ounce of brandy or whisky five minutes before beginning the administration of the anæsthetic, when chloroform is used. "the surgical cases include more than cases of ovariotomy, and over other cases involving the peritoneal cavity, such as operations for strangulated hernia, the radical cure of hernia, etc. the statistics of death and recoveries are certainly as good as can be produced by any hospital in the world, dealing with the same class of cases. the total mortality from the operation of ovariotomy, including nearly cases, is less than three per cent., and for the last few years, in which the antiseptic measures have been perfected, the record is still better, showing a succession of cases of laparotomy for the removal of ovarian tumors, or diseased uterus and ovaries, without a death. these cases include a number of hysterectomies, and many cases so desperate that those who trust in alcohol as a heart stimulant, and as a means of supporting the vital energies, would certainly have considered it necessary to resort to the use of this drug. nevertheless, it was not administered in a single case, and i have seen no reason to regret its non-use in a single instance." dr. t. d. crothers, of hartford, conn., tells the following:-- "in a large hospital a study of the mortality of pneumonia indicated a greater fatality at intervals of six months. there were five per cent. more deaths during periods of two months at a time, twice during the year. this extended back for two years, and was finally narrowed down to the service of an eminent physician who gave spirits freely in all cases of pneumonia from their entrance to the hospital. the other visiting physicians gave very little spirits, and only in the later stages. the physician was skeptical of these statistics, but finally consented to test them by giving up spirits practically in all cases of pneumonia. this was continued for a year, and the mortality went back to the average statistics. that physician has abandoned alcohol as a food and a medicine, only in very limited degree. he writes, 'my stupidity in accepting theories and statements of others, concerning spirits, which i could have tested personally, is a source of deep sorrow, and i do not know but it could be called criminal. i certainly feel that punishment would be just.'" brandy has been considered the great necessity in cholera, yet the use of it and other alcoholics are known to expose people to greater danger when this disease prevails. the _bulletin of the a. m. t. a._ is authority for the following:-- "during the epidemic of , dr. bronson said: 'in montreal , persons have died of cholera, only two of whom were teetotalers.' a montreal paper said: 'not a drunkard who has been attacked has recovered from the disease, and almost all the victims have been at least moderate drinkers.' "in albany, n. y., the same year, cholera carried off persons above sixteen years of age, all but four of whom belonged to the drinking classes. packer, prentice & co., large furriers in albany, employed persons, none of whom used ardent spirits, and there were only two cases of cholera among them. mr. delevan, a contractor, said: 'i was engaged at the time in erecting a large block of buildings. the laborers were much alarmed, and were on the point of abandoning the work. they were advised to stay and give up strong drink. they all remained, and all quit the use of strong drink except one, and he fell a victim to the disease.' he says also: 'i had a gang of diggers in a clay bank, to whom the same proposition was made; they all agreed to it, and not one died. on the opposite side of the same clay bank were other diggers who continued their regular rations of whisky, and one third of them died.' "in new york city there were cases in the park, only six of whom were temperate, and these recovered, while of the others died. in many parts of the city the saloon keepers saw and acknowledged the terrible connection between their business and the spread of the disease, and, becoming alarmed for their own safety, shut up their saloons and fled, saying: 'the way from the saloon to hell is too short.' "in washington the board of health was so impressed with the terrible facts that they declared the grog shops nuisances, ordered them closed, and they remained closed for three months. "a prominent physician of glasgow reported: 'only nineteen per cent. of the temperate perished, while ninety-one and two-tenths per cent. of the intemperate died.' one extensive liquor dealer of glasgow, said, 'cholera has carried off half of my customers.' "in warsaw ninety per cent. of those who died from cholera were wine drinkers. "at tifels, prussia, a town of , inhabitants, every drunkard died of cholera." the _st. paul medical journal_, of september, , gives the following report of a railway surgeon, dr. kane:-- "from june , , to june , , the author performed a few more than four hundred operations. forty-nine abdominal sections, fifty odd more operations of a graver sort, one hundred miscellaneous of less gravity than above, over one hundred operations upon female perineum and uterus. of the four hundred, more than three hundred demanded anæsthesia. there were but three deaths, making the mortality a little less than one per cent. "the author does not claim a phenomenally low mortality, nor does he claim specially brilliant results. he has to contend with unreasoning fear on the part of the patients for hospital surgeons, and also most of his cases had been in the hands of quacks, and had subjected themselves to remedies prescribed by old women. many cases came after the family physician had exhausted his resources. he thinks his results are considerably better than the average in hospitals and in country districts. alcohol medication was dispensed with entirely after the patients came under his care, and to this he attributes much of his success. he does not believe that alcohol is a stimulant, or a tonic. on the contrary, he believes that it retards digestion, arrests secretion, and hinders excretion. the courage and fortitude of his patients were lessened instead of increased by the use of alcoholic medication. "pain is better borne, endured longer and more patiently when alcohol is not used. "he urges the practical surgeon to carefully weigh the subject of alcohol, and verify for himself the expediency of its use." dr. b. w. richardson in the report of his practice for in the london temperance hospital refers to non-alcoholic treatment of rheumatism. he said:-- "out of seventy-one cases of acute or subacute rheumatism--the large majority acute, and attended with temperatures moving up to ° f.--sixty-nine recovered, and two, although they were discharged without being put on the recovery list, were so far relieved that a few days' change in country air seemed all that was required to induce full restoration. comparing the experience of the treatment of acute rheumatic disease without alcohol with that which i have previously observed with alcohol, i can have no hesitation in declaring that it is of the greatest advantage to follow total abstinence absolutely in this disease. the pain and swelling of joints is more quickly relieved under abstinence, the fever falls more rapidly, there is less frequent relapse, and there is quicker recovery. in brief, the experience of treatment of rheumatic fever minus alcohol, presents to me as much novelty as it does pleasure, and i am convinced that if any candid member of the profession could have witnessed what i have witnessed in this matter, he would agree with me that alcohol in rheumatic fever, however acute, is altogether out of place. i am also under the conviction, though i express it with great reserve, that in acute rheumatism, treated without alcohol, the cardiac complications, endocardial and pericardial, are much less frequently developed than where alcohol is supplied." dr. pechuman in _alcohol--is it a medicine_, published in , says:-- "there is no disputing that many deaths occur each day as the result of the administration of alcohol in acute diseases, to say nothing of the deaths caused by its habitual use; and those who give it ignore the very fundamental principles of physiology and the many published statistics. the boston hospital report tells a sad story in this connection; it shows that out of , cases treated with alcoholics died, while out of the same number treated without alcohol only died. using plain english were actually killed by it." dr. t. d. crothers, in the january, , _bulletin of the american medical temperance association_, gave the following hospital statistics, showing a decline in the use of spirits in hospitals:-- "evidently a great change is going on in the use of alcohol as a remedy in large hospitals. the annual reports of ten hospitals in the new england and the middle states show the following widely varying figures. the spirits used include beers, wines, whiskies and brandies, and vary from eleven to sixty-one cents a person for all the cases treated. these hospitals treat from eighty to seven hundred cases a year, both surgical and medical, and the medical staff are the leading physicians of the towns and cities where they are located. the hospital where the largest amount of spirits was used is not different from others, nor is the one where the lowest amount is reported. the conclusion is that this difference is due entirely to the judgment of the medical men. the lowest rate (eleven cents each) was in a hospital where one hundred and twenty-one cases had been under treatment. the highest rate (sixty-one cents) was in a hospital of five hundred and forty cases. the mortality from typhoid fever and pneumonia was eight per cent. higher in this hospital than in the one where only eleven cents a head had been expended for spirits. the general mortality did not vary greatly in any of these hospitals, and the records of one year could not be expected to show this. in the remaining hospitals the mortality of the fever and the septic cases was about the same. the free use of spirits did not show any improvement, but rather an increase of the death-rate, while the same amount of spirits used showed but little change, and that in the line of improvement of death-rate. these are only the figures of one year, but they indicate a change of practice, and show the passing of alcohol as a remedy." chapter xi. reasons why alcohol is dangerous as medicine. in the chapter upon "the effects of alcohol upon the human body" are cited some of the reasons assigned by scientific investigators for their disuse of alcohol as a remedy in disease. in this chapter the same may be briefly hinted at, while others, some the results of quite recent research, will be added. in the _bulletin of the a. m. t. a._, for january , dr. n. s. davis says:-- "the supposed effects of alcohol as a medicine were originally based solely on the sensations and actions of the patients taking it. the first appreciable effect of the alcohol after entering the blood is that of an anæsthetic; that is, it diminishes the sensibility of the brain and nerve structures, in the same direction as ether and chloroform. and, as the brain is the material seat of man's consciousness, the alcohol renders him less conscious of cold or heat, of weariness or pain, and less conscious of his own weight or of any external resistance. consequently, when under the influence of small doses, he feels lighter and less conscious of any external impressions, and thinks he could do more than without it. it was these effects that led both the patient and his physician to regard the alcohol as a general stimulant or tonic, notwithstanding the fact that by simply increasing the doses of alcohol the sensibility soon became entirely suspended, and the patient helpless and altogether unconscious. * * * * * "simple increased frequency of the heart action is no evidence of either increased force or efficiency in promoting the circulation of the blood. indeed, it may be stated as a physiological law, that the more frequent the heart action above the normal standard, the less efficiently does it promote the circulation and strength of the living system. but the effect of a moderate dose of alcohol in increasing the frequency of the heart-beat and of blood pressure is so temporary that the doses must be repeated so often that the alcohol accumulates in the blood and tissues, and extends its paralyzing effects to all the vasomotor, cardiac and respiratory nerves. indeed, all the investigators agree that alcohol in any dose capable of producing an appreciable effect, diminishes the function of the lungs in direct proportion to the quantity taken; and as the lungs are the only channel through which free oxygen reaches the blood, and such oxygen is the natural exciter of all vital activities in the living body, it is not possible to explain how alcohol, or any other drug that diminishes the function of the lungs can, at the same time, act as a cardiac, or any other kind of tonic. "the truth is that all intelligent physicians and writers on therapeutics of the present day agree in stating that alcohol in large doses directly diminishes all the vital processes in the living body, and in still larger doses suspends the life of the individual by paralyzing the cerebral, vasomotor, respiratory and cardiac functions, generally in the order named. if large doses produce such effects, we must logically claim that small doses act in the same direction, but in less degree. in other words, alcohol is as truly and exclusively an anæsthetic as is ether or chloroform, and, like them, is to be used as a medicine only temporarily to relieve pain, or suspend nerve sensibility. but as for these purposes it is less efficient than either ether or chloroform, and other narcotics, there is no necessity for using it as a remedy in the treatment of disease. and in health its use in any dose can be productive of nothing but injury. the only legitimate fields for the uses of alcohol are in chemistry, pharmacy and the arts." in another issue of the same magazine, dr. davis writes of the investigations pursued by m. robin of france in regard to the chemistry of respiration. these investigations, he says, afford conclusive proof that the acts of oxidation are defensive processes of the organism in its struggle with bacteria, and therefore that the physician should favor in every possible way the absorption of oxygen in every infection, especially when there are typhoid complications. he then speaks of the researches of other scientists in the same line, concluding thus:-- "if we add to the foregoing investigations the results obtained by dr. a. c. abbott, demonstrating that the presence of alcohol directly diminished the vital resistance to infections, we cannot fail to see that the administration of alcohol in diphtheria, typhoid fever, pneumonia and other infectious diseases, is directly contraindicated. if, as shown by m. robin, 'the acts of oxidation are defensive processes' against bacterial infections, then certainly the administration of alcohol to patients with such infections is in the highest degree illogical and injurious. the oxygen being obtained for oxidation purposes in the blood and tissues, through the respiratory process, it would be equally absurd to administer alcohol in all cases in which it is desirable to increase the processes of oxidation, as a long series of experiments has shown that the presence of alcohol diminishes the efficiency of the respiratory process in direct proportion to the quantity used. "how much longer will practical writers continue to recommend for the same patient on the same day, fresh air, sponge baths, and vasomotor and respiratory tonics to increase the absorption of oxygen and oxidation processes, and alcohol in the form of wine, whisky and brandy to directly diminish the respiratory function and all the oxidations of the living system?" in his address before the medical congress for the study of alcohol, held at prohibition park, staten island, july , , dr. davis said:-- "if the foregoing views regarding the effects of alcoholic liquids on the human system in health, are correct, what can we say concerning their value as remedies for the treatment of disease? if it be true that the alcohol they contain acts directly upon the corpuscular elements of the blood, and so far diminishes the metabolic processes of nutrition and disintegration as to lessen nerve sensibility and heat production, and favor tissue degenerations, their rational application in the treatment of any form of disease must be very limited. and yet the same errors and delusions concerning their use in the treatment of diseases and accidents are entertained and daily acted upon by a large majority of medical men as are entertained by the non-professional part of the public. throughout the greater part of our medical literature they are represented as stimulating and restorative, capable of increasing the force and efficiency of the circulation, and of conserving the normal living tissues by diminishing their waste; and hence they are the first to be resorted to in all cases of sudden exhaustion, faintness or shock; the last to be given to the dying; and the most constant remedies through the most important and protracted acute general diseases. indeed, it is this position and practice of the profession that constitutes, at the present time, the strongest influence in support of all the popular though erroneous and destructive drinking customs of the people. "the same anæsthetic properties of the alcohol that render the laboring man less _conscious_ of the cold or heat or weariness, also render the sick man less conscious of suffering, either mental or physical, and thereby deceive both him and his physician by the appearance, temporarily, of more comfort. but if administered during the progress of fevers or acute general disease, while it thus quiets the patient's restlessness and lessens his consciousness of suffering, it also directly diminishes the vasomotor and excito-motor nerve forces with slight reduction of temperature, and steadily diminishes both the tissue metabolism and the excretory products, thereby favoring the retention in the system of both the specific causes of disease and the natural excretory materials which should have been eliminated through the skin, lungs, kidneys and other glandular organs. although the immediate effect of the remedy is thus to give the patient an appearance of more comfort, the continued dulling or anæsthetic effect on the nervous centres, the diminished oxygenation of the blood, and the continued retention of morbitic and excretory products, all serve to protract the disease, increase molecular degeneration, and add to the number of fatal results. "i am well aware that the foregoing views, founded on the results of numerous and varied experimental researches and well-known physiological laws, and corroborated by a wide clinical experience, are in direct conflict with the very generally accepted doctrine that alcohol is a cardiac tonic, capable of increasing the force and efficiency of the circulation, and therefore of great value in the treatment of the lower grades of general fevers. but there have been many generally accepted doctrines in the history of medicine that have been proved fallacious. and the more recent experiments of professors martin, sidney ringer, and sainsbury, reichert, h. c. wood and others, have clearly demonstrated that the presence of alcohol in the blood as certainly diminishes the sensibility of the vasomotor and cardiac nerves in proportion to its quantity until the heart stops, paralyzed, as that two and two make four. "after an ample clinical field of observation in both hospital and private practice for more than fifty years, and a continuous study of our medical literature, i am prepared to maintain the position that the ratio of mortality from all the acute general diseases has increased in direct proportion to the quantity of alcoholic remedies administered during their treatment. how can we reasonably expect any other result from the use of an agent that so directly and uniformly diminishes the cerebral respiratory, cardiac and metabolic functions of the living human body?" the _medical pioneer_ of january, , contained a very interesting article by dr. j. h. kellogg upon "the influence of alcohol upon urinary toxicity, and its relation to the medical use of alcohol." he gives the results of many of his own experiments to determine the effects of alcohol in hindering the elimination of poisonous matter by the kidneys. the subject of one experiment was a healthy man of years, weighing kilos. for fifty days prior to the experiment he had taken a carefully regulated diet, and the urotoxic coefficient had remained very nearly uniform. the urine carefully collected for the first eight hours after the administration of ounces of brandy diluted with water, showed an enormous diminution in the urotoxic coefficient, which was, in fact, scarcely more than half the normal coefficient for the individual in question. the urine collected for the second period of eight hours showed an increase of toxicity, and that for the third period of eight hours showed still further increase of toxicity, the coefficient having nearly returned to its normal standard. of this dr. kellogg says:-- "the bearing of this experiment upon the use of alcohol in pneumonia, typhoid fever, erysipelas, cholera and other infectious diseases, will be clearly seen. in all the maladies named, and in nearly all other infectious diseases, which include the greater number of acute maladies, the symptoms which give the patient the greatest inconvenience, and those which have a fatal termination, when such is the result, are directly attributable to the influence of the toxic substances generated within the system of the patient as the result of the specific microbes to which the disease owes its origin. the activity of the liver in destroying these poisons, and of the kidneys in eliminating them, are the physiologic processes which stand between the patient and death. in a very grave case of infectious disease, without this destructive and eliminative activity the accumulation of poison within the system would quickly reach a fatal point. the symptoms of the patient vary for better or worse in relation to the augmentation or diminution of the quantity of toxic substances within the body. "in view of these facts, is it not a pertinent question to ask how alcohol can be of service in the treatment of such disorders as pneumonia, typhoid fever, cholera, erysipelas and other infections, since it acts in such a decided and powerful manner in diminishing urinary toxicity--in other words, in lessening the ability of the kidney to eliminate toxic substances? in infectious diseases of every sort, the body is struggling under the influence of toxic agents, the result of the action of microbes. alcohol is another toxic agent of precisely the same origin. like other toxins resulting from like processes of bacterial growth, its influence upon the human organism is unfriendly; it disturbs the vital processes; it disturbs every vital function, and, as we have shown, in a most marked degree diminishes the efficiency of the kidneys in the removal of the toxins which constitute the most active factor in the diseases named, and in others of analogous character. if a patient is struggling under the influence of the pneumococcus, eberth's bacillus, koch's cholera microbe or the pus-producing germs which give rise to erysipelatous inflammation, his kidneys laboring to undo, so far as possible, the mischief done by the invading parasites, by eliminating the poisons formed by them, what good could possibly be accomplished by the administration of a drug, one of the characteristic effects of which is to diminish renal activity, thereby diminishing also the quantity of poisons eliminated through this channel? is not such a course in the highest degree calculated to add fuel to the flame? is it not placing obstacles in the way of the vital forces which are already hampered in their work by the powerfully toxic agents to the influence of which they are subjected? "in his address before the american medical association at milwaukee, dr. ernest hart, editor of the _british medical journal_, very aptly suggested in relation to the treatment of cholera, the inutility of alcohol, basing his suggestion upon the fact that in a case of cholera, the system of the patient is combating the specific poison which is the product of the microbe of this disease, and hence is not likely to be aided by the introduction of a poison produced by another microbe; namely, alcohol. this logic seems very sound, and the facts in relation to the influence of alcohol upon urinary toxicity or renal activity, which are elucidated by our experiment, fully sustain this observation of mr. hart. "in a recent number of the _british medical journal_, dr. lauder brunton, the eminent english physiologist and neurologist, in mentioning the fact that death from chloroform anæsthesia rarely occurs in india, but is not infrequent in england, attributed the fact to the meat-eating habits of the english people, the natives of india being almost strictly vegetarian in diet, partly from force of circumstances doubtless, but largely also, no doubt, as the result of their religious belief, the larger proportion of the population being more or less strict adherents to the doctrines of buddha, which strictly prohibit the use of flesh foods. "the theory advanced by dr. lauder brunton in relation to death from chloroform poisoning, is that the patient does not die directly from the influence of chloroform upon the nerve centres, but that death is due to the influence of chloroform upon the kidneys, whereby the elimination of the ptomaines and leucomaines naturally produced within the body, ceases, their destruction by the liver also ceasing, so that the system is suddenly overwhelmed by a great quantity of poison, and succumbs to its influence, its power of resistance being lessened by the inhalation of the chloroform. "the affinity between alcohol and chloroform is very great. both are anæsthetics. both chloroform and alcohol are simply different compounds of the same radical, and the results of our experiment certainly suggest the same thought as that expressed by dr. brunton. how absurd, then, is the administration of alcohol in conditions in which the highest degree of kidney activity is required for the elimination of toxic agents! "in a certain proportion of chronic cases there is a tendency to tissue degeneration. modern investigations have given good ground for the belief that these degenerations are the result of the influence of ptomaines, leucomaines and other poisons produced within the body, upon the tissues. it is well known that many of these toxic agents, even in very small quantity give rise to degenerations of the kidney. it is this fact which explains the occurrence of nephritis in connection with diphtheria, scarlet fever and other infectious maladies. dana has called attention to the probable role played by ptomaines produced in the alimentary canal in the development of organic disease of the central nervous system. "it is thus apparent that the integrity of the renal functions is a matter of as great importance in chronic as in acute disease, hence any agent which diminishes the efficiency of these organs in ridding the system of poisons, either those normally and regularly produced, or those of an accidental or unusual character, must be pernicious and dangerous in use." among the more recent findings of science in regard to the effects of alcohol are the action of this drug upon the leucocytes or "guardian cells" of the body. leucocytes are defined to be "minute, nucleated, colorless masses of protoplasm, capable of ameboid movements, found swimming freely in blood and lymph, in the reticulum of lymphatic glands, and in bone-marrow and other connective tissue." the white corpuscles of the blood are leucocytes. "the work of these cells is to prey upon and take into their substance bacteria and other micro-organisms within the blood and tissues. this destruction of bacteria, and other noxious organisms, has the biological name of phagocytosis." dr. alonzo brown in _physician and surgeon_ says of phagocytosis:-- "recently a brilliant theory has been projected into the histological world. it is the principle of phagocytosis. the beauty of it is so great that we are attracted by it, and its reasonings have riveted general attention. it is said that certain cells have the power to absorb and so destroy other cells. this is phagocytosis. it is said that 'the cells which are known to possess phagocytocic properties are the leucocytes, mucous corpuscles, connective tissue cells, endothelia of blood vessels and lymphatic vessels, alveolar eypithelium of the lungs, and the cells of the spleen, bone, marrow and lymphatic glands.' (senn). this is a very significant array of colloid matter; and it has been repeatedly affirmed by the highest authorities that alcohol is poisonous to the colloid element. "now, among the most important of the phagocytes just enumerated are the leucocytes. they embrace and enfold the pathogenic germs with which they come in contact by what is known as an ameboid force. they enclose, disintegrate and absorb the enemy. it is well known that the moment the leucocytes are submitted to an alcoholic solution, their ameboid movements cease, and their function is arrested. it is plain that their phagocytocic power is immediately destroyed. it is possible, also, that the fixed tissue-cells are likewise impaired or killed by alcoholic imbibition. how deleterious, and even deadly, must the internal administration of alcoholic liquors then be in the treatment of diphtheria, and of other diseases having a germinal origin? it therefore follows, to my mind, that all the diseases which are the result of germinal infection, are most badly treated when alcohol is used in their therapy. "with extreme brevity i advert to another view in the field. it is that of adynamic disease. it has been conclusively proven that alcohol decreases the muscular power. it decreases (from the minimum dose to the maximum) the power of the heart as well as that of all other muscles. i say this has been absolutely demonstrated by richardson and others. in death from adynamia it is through failure of muscle, that is, of the heart, of the scaleni and intercostals, of the diaphragm, and of the laryngeal muscles, et cetera. all of the muscles may gradually fail, become wearied unto death. how pernicious then must alcohol be in adding its influence to bring about the tragic end! "it is my belief that it is in diphtheria that the most dire results are to be observed. in that disease the vast majority of cases die by asthenia, or else by sudden failure of the heart. to what is this sudden cardiac paralysis due? the elucidation is as follows. in the grave cases there is almost invariably a subnormal temperature, together with great muscular prostration. also it is a physiological fact that a decrease of the temperature slows nervous conduction. as the system is made colder, the nervous force flows slower and slower. in diphtheria the heart muscle is very weak, the temperature falls, the lessened nervous energy but feebly animates the muscular fibres, and so actual paralysis ensues, death closing the scene almost instantaneously. now, in such a state of imminent danger, brought about by such causes, what could be worse than to administer an agent which notably reduces temperature, and at the same time enfeebles muscular power? may i add, what could be the remedy in such a condition? and i answer, _external heat freely applied to the whole surface of the body_. this will prevent the cardiac paralysis whenever it is preventable." the _medical pioneer_ of dec., , contained an editorial article upon "the toxine alcohol," which deals with leucocytes and their functions. the following is the article:-- "dr. broadbent's introductory address at the opening of the session at owen's college, manchester, deserves more attention than most of these formal deliveries. he dwelt on the intellectual interest which attaches to the study of medical science, and illustrated it, among other ways, by the interest excited by recent observations on the action of bacilli and the combat which goes on between these invading hosts and the guardian cells or leucocytes of the living body. inflammation surrounding a wound is regarded as caused by the influx and multiplication of leucocytes to engulf and destroy septic bacilli which have gained entrance from the air, a 'local war' of defence. the issue of this pitched battle will depend on the relative number and activity of the respective hosts. inflammation round a poisoned wound is an evidence of vital power and a means of protecting the system at large from invasion and devastation. if this first line of defence is broken through, the bacilli pass through the lymphatic spaces and ducts to the glands, and another battle ensues which produces glandular swelling and inflammation and possibly abscess. this second line of defence may be insufficient and then we get general septicæmia. it is now well proven that the injury is done, not by the bacilli themselves but by the toxines which they secrete or excrete. dr. broadbent very properly points out that the action of the bacilli of fever in the body is strictly comparable to the action of yeast in a fermentable liquid. the yeast cells grow and multiply at the expense of the sugar, in destroying which they produce alcohol, carbonic dioxide and other substances. when the alcohol amounts to some per cent. of the liquid the process is stopped by the poisonous action of the alcohol on the yeast cells. in just the same way the toxines produced by the bacilli at length stop their further multiplication and put an end to the disease. alcohol is in fact, the toxine produced by yeast, and, like many other toxines, it is not only poisonous to cells which produce it, but to any animal into whose veins it may happen to get. "there can be little doubt that the state of immunity which one attack of certain fevers confers against future attacks depends partly upon what is called the phagocytic action of leucocytes. these have been actually observed to draw into their interior and destroy bacilli which would otherwise have multiplied and produced their special effects. there can be little doubt, either, that we are continually taking into our systems bacilli of all sorts, and that, again, disease is averted by the activity of the germ-devouring leucocytes. dr. broadbent describes an experiment which proves that power of resisting disease is largely dependent on the activity of these cells. a rabbit, having had a certain quantity of bacilli injected under its skin, suffers from inflammation at the spot, and perhaps abscess, but recovers. at the same time, another rabbit is treated in precisely the same way, but, simultaneously, a dose of chloral is injected into another part of the body. the chloral, circulating in the blood, is known to paralyze leucocytes, and, as a result of this, they do not collect and wage war on the bacilli injected under the skin; there is very little local reaction, the bacilli get free course into the lymph and blood, and the animal dies. but, in the words of dr. broadbent, 'alcohol in excess has a similar action on the leucocytes, and this, as well as the deteriorating influence of chronic alcoholism on the tissues, predisposes to septic infection. a single debauch, therefore, may open the door to fever or erysipelas.' a similar experiment of doyen confirms this. he found that guinea pigs can be killed by the cholera microbe, when introduced by the mouth, if a dose of alcohol has been previously administered. it has been the general testimony of observers in cholera epidemics that those addicted to much alcohol are far more liable to fatal attacks. but while large doses of alcohol are, of course, more obviously injurious, it would be absurd to imagine that lesser quantities are entirely without influence in the same direction. it has, indeed, been shown by dr. ridge, that even infinitesimal quantities of alcohol, such as one part in , , cause a more rapid multiplication of the _bacillus subtilis_ and other bacilli of decomposition, while, by the same quantities, the growth of both animal and vegetable protoplasm is retarded. hence there can be no longer any question that alcohol renders the body more liable to conquest by invading microbes, less able to resist and destroy them. alcohol, a toxine injurious to living cells, is destroyed or removed from the body as fast as nature can effect it, but while it remains, and while able to affect the cells at all, its action is detrimental to healthy growth and healthy life, and the less we take of such an agent the better for us. this is a dictum which it becomes the profession to enunciate far and wide. 'the less, the better' is a watchword which all may use, and the wise will interpret it in a way which will infallibly preserve them altogether from all possible danger from such a source." on the sixteenth of december, , dr. sims woodhead, president of the british medical temperance association, gave a masterly address in london upon "recent researches on the action of alcohol." the lecture was illustrated by lantern slides. from the report given in _the medical temperance review_ of jan., , the following is culled:-- "in a series of drawings of kidney you will notice first that there is a condition known as cloudy swelling; this is one of the first changes that can be observed. notice the characteristic features of this cloudy swelling in the cells of all these specimens. the large swollen cells are granular, and very frequently there is a granular mass in the lumen of the tubule. in some cases the cells are so much swollen that the lumen of the tubule is represented merely by a 'star-shaped' radiating chink. the nucleus is usually somewhat obscured, that this alcoholic cloudy swelling (similar to that met with as the result of the administration of certain poisons) is the first change observed in the parenchymatous cells of the organs of animals that have died of acute alcoholic poisoning. this condition, unless the cause is removed, goes on to a condition of fatty-degeneration, as shown in the next specimen in which we have, in addition to the granular appearance of the protoplasm of the cell, a deposition of masses of fat in and at the expense of this protoplasm. "there is another series of changes to which i wish to draw your attention. in the tubules of the kidney we have, in addition to the granular appearance of the protoplasm of the cells, an increase in the number of leucocytes, and connective tissue cells between the tubules around the glomeruli and along the course of the blood-vessels. this condition of small cell infiltration, we know, is constantly associated with inflammatory conditions of the kidney as in other organs. here then are the changes in the epithelium plus increase in the number of leucocytes. "i show you too a specimen of heart muscle, in which the granular degeneration, or cloudy swelling is well marked whilst here and there the process is going on to fatty degeneration, similar to that seen in the kidney. here again, then, the active elements of the organ are becoming broken down, or, at any rate, losing their normal structure and affording evidence of fundamental changes in these cells. such changes are set up, not by any one poison alone, or by any single disease toxin, but by members of many groups of poisons, by alcohols, ethers, etc. indeed by very various poisons--animal, vegetable and mineral. "now, it is a peculiar fact, as shown by massart, bordet and others, in researches on chemiotaxis, that nearly all these poisons have the power of repelling leucocytes, and of seriously interfering with them in the performance of their functions, and this power assumes a special significance in connection with our subject this afternoon. "now, two of the great functions of leucocytes under ordinary conditions are those of policing and scavenging. massart and bordet showed, under the action of certain substances, alcohol amongst others, these functions are lost, but following up metchnikoff and others they observed that after a time these same leucocytes became accustomed to the presence of these poisons, gradually becoming 'acclimatized' as it were. at first paralyzed or repelled, they after a time pluck up courage to attack the invading substances and carry on or renew their accustomed work of scavenging; they try to get rid of both poisons and poison-producers, and even acquire the power of forming substances (anti-toxins) which can neutralize the poison and allow the cells to devote their energy to doing their own proper work. "here are drawings of minute abscesses that have formed in the wall of the heart. we see at once the part that the leucocytes play in attacking micro-organisms, and of localizing their action. look at the blood-vessel in the wall of the heart with its plug of micro-organism (staphylococci) in the centre of a clear space; here the leucocytes are not numerous, indeed they are very sparsely scattered, and appear to have been driven back by the organisms or their toxics. then a little distance away from the toxin and toxin-forming organisms, the leucocytes are coming up in large numbers, forming a sort of protecting army, as it were. this is known as leucocytosis. in the small patent vessels around this commencing abscess numerous leucocytes, far in excess of the usual proportion, may be seen--the nearer the abscess, the more numerous they become. thus the leucocytes make their way to what is to become the wall of the abscess, and form a layer around a mass of micro-organisms, localizing, or attempting to localize, such mass. so long as the leucocytes can make their way to this mass, and shut it off from the surrounding tissue, so long we shall have no extension of the abscess. "now, if you add something--alcohol in the case we are considering--which not only exerts a negative chemiotaxic action--i. e., which drives the leucocyte away--but which, as we have seen, also causes degeneration of nerve, muscle and epithelial cells, shall we not injure the infected patient both directly and indirectly by interfering with the return of the leucocytes driven away, by diminishing or altering the functional activity of these cells, and indirectly by interfering with the excretion of the poisons (owing, as we have seen, to a degenerated condition of the secretory epithelium)? have we not, in fact, a cumulative action of two substances, either of which alone would do damage, but not in the same proportion as do the two when acting together. "now let us see what we may learn from a series of experiments carried out by dr. abbott, working in the laboratory of hygiene of the university of pennsylvania, under the auspices of the committee of fifty, to investigate the alcohol question. "these are his conclusions:-- . "that the normal vital resistance of rabbits to infection by streptococcus pyogenes is markedly diminished through the influence of alcohol when given daily to the stage of acute intoxication. . that a similar, though by no means so conspicuous, diminution of resistance to infection and intoxication by the bacillus coli communis also occurs in rabbits subjected to the same influences. "throughout these experiments, with few exceptions, it will be seen that the alcoholized animals not only showed the effects of the inoculations earlier than did the non-alcoholized rabbits, but in the case of the streptococcus inoculations, the lesions produced (formation of miliary abscesses) were much more pronounced than are those that usually follow inoculations with this organism. "with regard to the predisposing influence of the alcohol, one is constrained to believe that it is in most cases the result of structural alterations consequent upon its direct action on the tissues, though in a number of animals no such alterations could be made out by microscopic examinations. i am inclined, however, to the belief, in the light of the work of berkley and friedenwald, done under the direction of professor welch, in the pathological laboratory of the johns hopkins university, that a closer study of the tissues of these animals would have revealed in all of them structural changes of such a nature as to indicate disturbances of important vital functions of sufficient gravity fully to account for the loss of normal resistance. "following up dr. abbott's experiments, dr. deléarde, working in calmette's laboratory in the _institut pasteur_ at lille, made a series of observations which are, from many points of view, of very great interest and importance as he attacks it from an entirely new standpoint, one that will, i hope, ere long, be taken up by those working in this country. it has already been demonstrated that 'alcoholics' suffer far more seriously from microbic affections than do those of sober life, and it is now accepted that amongst them the mortality from this class of disease is higher than amongst those who are not accustomed to take alcohol regularly or to excess. "it is pointed out, as most of us have from time to time had the opportunity of observing, that, taking pneumonia as an example of this class of disease, there can be no doubt that the alcoholic patient has not merely an appreciably smaller chance for recovery, but an apparently slight attack becomes one in which the chances of recovery come to be against the patient rather than in his favor. i well remember when i was house physician in the royal infirmary at edinburgh that dr. muirhead, who almost invariably treated his pneumonic patients without alcohol, used to say that an ordinary case of acute pneumonia should always recover under careful treatment, but that cases of pneumonia in 'alcoholics' were always most anxious cases and in every way unsatisfactory. (slides were shown on screen to illustrate the changes taking place in pneumonia, the conditions of leucocytosis, and the very important part which leucocytes play in the process of 'clearing up' during the course of the patient's recovery). dr. deléarde in an admirable summary gives the principal features of pneumonia in alcoholics. he describes it as running a comparatively prolonged course, as being often accompanied by a violent delirium, following which is a period of prostration or of coma; even in those who recover, abscesses frequently occur in the liver, or in other organs. he also points out that there may be a similar chain of events in other infective conditions such as erysipelas and typhoid fever, but as he insists that, until abbott's experiments on the streptococcus,[a] staphylococcus[a] and bacterium coli,[a] in alcoholized and non-alcoholized animals, little attempt has been made to indicate the mechanism, or, at any rate, the process by which alcoholized individuals are rendered more susceptible to the invasion and action of micro-organisms. [footnote a: microbes or bacteria of different kinds.] "as we have already seen, abbott's experiments prove beyond doubt that attenuated disease-producing organisms, which in healthy animals do not kill immediately, bring about a fatal result when the animal has previously been treated with alcohol. in order to determine which was the most important factor in the destruction or weakening of the resisting agents in the body, dr. deléarde conceived the idea of experimenting with those diseases in which it has been found possible to produce, artificially, as it were, and under controlled conditions, an immunity or insusceptibility in healthy animals. he carried out a series of experiments on rabbits, immunizing against and infecting with the virus of hydrophobia, tetanus and anthrax.[b] to these rabbits he first administered a quantity of alcohol, from to c.c. at first, and gradually rises to c.c. doses per diem. [footnote b: carbuncle.] "there is in the first instance a slight falling off in weight of the animal, but after a time this ceases, and the animal may again become heavier, until the original weight is reached. he then took a series of animals and vaccinated them against hydrophobia. in one set the animals were afterwards alcoholized and then injected with a considerable quantity of virulent rabic cord. it was here found that immunity against rabies had not been lost. "in a second set the vaccination and alcoholization were carried on simultaneously, a fatal dose (as proved by control experiment) of rabic cord was then injected, when it was found that little or no immunity had been acquired. in a third series the alcohol was stopped before the immunizing process was commenced. in this case marked immunity was acquired. "as regards rabies, then, acute alcoholism, especially when continued for comparatively short periods, simply has the effect of preventing the acquisition of immunity when alcohol is administered during the period when the immunizing process ought to be going on. this indicates that the action of the alcohol in acute alcoholism is direct, and that although its administration prevents the acquisition of immunity it does not alter the cells so materially that they cannot regain some of their original powers, whilst once the immunity has been gained by the cells, alcohol cannot, immediately, so fundamentally alter them that they lose the immunity they have already acquired. when we come to the consideration of the case of tetanus, however, we are carried a step further. dr. deléarde repeating his immunizing and alcoholizing experiments, but now working with tetanus virus in place of rabic virus, found--and, perhaps, here it may be as well to give his own words:-- ( ) "'that animals vaccinated against tetanus and afterwards alcoholized lose their immunity against tetanus; ( ) "'that animals vaccinated against tetanus and at the same time alcoholized do not readily acquire immunity; ( ) "'that animals first alcoholized and then vaccinated may acquire immunity against tetanus if alcohol is suppressed from the commencement of the process of vaccination.' "in the case of anthrax too, as we gather from another series of experiments, it is almost impossible to confer immunity, if the animal is alcoholized during the time that it is being vaccinated, and although the animals, first alcoholized and then vaccinated, may acquire a certain amount of immunity, they rapidly lose condition and are certainly more ill than non-alcoholized animals vaccinated simultaneously. "we have already mentioned that massart and bordet some years ago pointed out that alcohol, even in very dilute solutions, exerts a very active negative chemiotaxis, i. e., it appears to have properties by which leucocytes are repelled or driven away from its neighborhood and actions. alcohol thus prevents the cells from attacking invading bodies or of reacting in the presence of the toxins which also, as is well known, exert a more or less marked negative chemiotaxis, i.e., the cells appear to be paralyzed. in all diseases, then, in which the leucocytes help to remove an invading organism or in which they have the power of reacting or of carrying on their functions in the presence of a toxin, we should expect that alcohol would to a certain extent deprive them of this power or interfere with their capacity for acquiring a greater resisting power or of reinforcing the powers of resistance. it appears indeed to reinforce the poison formed by pathogenic organisms. dr. deléarde maintains moreover that chronic alcoholism increases enormously the difficulty of rendering an animal immune to anthrax, whilst as those who have had any experience of cases of anthrax know full well alcoholics, whether acute or chronic, manifest a remarkable susceptibility both as regards attacks of anthrax and the fatality of the disease when once contracted. further as clinical proof of the correctness of another of these sets of experiments, dr. deléarde instances two cases of rabies which have come under observation in the institut pasteur--one, a man of years of age, of intemperate habits who after a complete treatment of days after a bite in the hand died of hydrophobia; the other, a child of years who was bitten on the face by the same dog that had attacked the other patient, and on the same day--who underwent the same treatment remained perfectly well. in this case the more severe bite (the face being the most serious position in which a person can be bitten) was received by the child; indeed the intemperate habits of the man, who even took alcohol during treatment, appear to have been the only more serious factor in his case as compared with that of the child. "from all this dr. deléarde draws the practical conclusion that patients who have been bitten by a mad dog should as far as possible abstain from the use of alcohol not only during the process of treatment, but also for some time afterwards, even for a period of eight months, during which period, apparently, increase of immunity may be going on. beyond this he maintains that doctors often commit a grave error in administering strong doses of alcohol to patients suffering from certain infectious diseases such as pneumonia, or from certain intoxications such as those produced by snake-bite, during which an increase in the number of leucocytes appear to be a necessary part of any process that leads to the cure of the patient. finally, he points out how necessary it is that we should respect the integrity of the leucocytes in the presence of microbic infections or intoxications. we may accept these statements all the more readily as dr. deléarde states that 'although we must recognize that small doses of dilute alcoholic beverages are indicated in certain cases where it is necessary to stimulate the nervous system, one must guard oneself against an abuse which may certainly be prejudicial to the putting into operation of the mechanism of defence against the organisms of disease.' "in so far as these conclusions rest on a series of exact experiments we are justified in accepting them as being a most valuable contribution to the question; where there is no experimental basis, we must exercise our own judgment. to show the very strong impression that exists that there is some connection between severe cases of pneumonia and alcohol i may mention that the other day i heard a gentleman (not a medical man) say, 'it is well known that most men (of a certain profession) die from alcoholism.' when asked to explain he said, 'they all die from cirrhosis or pneumonia, and if those conditions are not due to alcoholism, what is?' "there can be no doubt that in addition to its specific action, alcohol has a general action--the mal-nutrition, which is usually associated with the use of alcohol, especially as a result of its action on the mucous membranes of the stomach, etc." that the "guardian cells" of the body play a part in a considerable number of diseases was illustrated by dr. woodhead by drawings and photographs, shown on the lantern screen. the photographs included cells containing anthrax, typhoid and tubercle bacilli, the spirilla of relapsing fever, specimens from cases of anthrax. specimens were shown in which the cells were actually ingesting and digesting the specific micro-organisms. in a case of typhoid, showing large masses of typhoid bacilli in one of peyer's patches, there were seen certain of the cells which contained the typhoid bacilli, some of them undergoing degenerative changes, and showing unequal standing. of the researches made by dr. abbott referred to in the foregoing lecture dr. n. s. davis says:-- "thus we have another and direct positive demonstration of the fact that the presence of alcohol in living bodies not only impairs all the physiological processes, but also impairs their vital resistance to the effects of all other poisons. it was hardly necessary, however, to trouble the rabbits to obtain proof of this; for such evidence may be found in abundance by examining the vital statistics of every civilized country. the late frank h. hamilton, in his valuable work on military hygiene, gives an interesting account of an experiment executed, not on a few rabbits, but on whole regiments of human beings, who were being exposed to the inhibition, not of the streptococcus pyogenes, but to the infections of malarial and typho-malaria fever. and, as many were attacked with sickness, it was thought by some of those in authority that if the soldiers were given a specified ration of alcoholic liquor two or three times a day, it might enable them to resist the morbid influences to which they were exposed. the proposed ration was accordingly ordered, and dr. hamilton informs us that the soldiers taking the liquor ration succumbed to the morbific influences surrounding them so much more rapidly than before, that in less than sixty days the order was countermanded, and the liquor ration stopped. and that eminent surgeon and sanitarian added, with peculiar emphasis, that he wished never to see the same experiment tried again." dr. j. j. ridge, of london, has learned through his experiments that alcohol not only hinders the leucocytes in their war upon disease germs, but also tends to the multiplication of germs. of this he says:-- "the antagonism of alcohol to the fundamental functions of life is further exhibited by its action on the cellular elements of living tissues and the free cells or leucocytes of the blood. dr. lionel beale long ago pointed out how it affected the protoplasm of cells, and diminished the movements of amoebae, to which leucocytes are apparently analogous. "but while alcohol is thus injurious to living protoplasm, or _constructive protoplasm_ as it may be called, that which builds up, and forms all kinds of structures, and living beings of all higher types, i accidentally discovered that in minute quantities, under about one per cent., and even in such almost incredible amounts as part in , , ( / millilitre in litres) it favors the growth and multiplication of many microbes whose function is antagonistic to the protoplasm of organized beings, and which may therefore be called _destructive protoplasm_. we know that these microbes are kept at bay by the vitality of the tissues; if this vitality is lowered they may prevail: as soon as life departs they set to work, and decomposition is the result. it is, therefore, not very surprising that an agent, like alcohol, which, we have seen, lowers the vitality of constructive protoplasm, should, on the other hand increase the vitality of destructive protoplasm. at any rate such is the fact. in the presence of these minute quantities of alcohol, decomposition goes on more rapidly, and the micrococci and bacilli, thrive and swarm more abundantly. this is easily demonstrable by the more rapid, and thicker, cloudiness of any clear decomposable liquor in the course of a day or two, or in a few days, according to circumstances. but i have demonstrated the more rapid multiplication of some forms by means of plate cultivations, of which i show specimens. it is true of the bacteria of decomposition, of the streptococci, and staphylococci of pus, and of diphtheria. time alone has been wanting to demonstrate this in other cases, which i hope to do." the _medical week_ some time ago contained this paragraph:-- "dr. viala, in collaboration with dr. charrin, says: 'i have carried out a series of researches on the toxicity of various alcoholic beverages in common use, such as wines and brandies of all brands, from those which are reputed the best to those of very inferior quality. all these products have been analyzed with the greatest care. our experiments were carried out on fifty animals. intravenous injections confirm dr. daremberg's statement that liquors considered as the best are the most toxic, more particularly as regards their immediate effects.'" although the foregoing statement directs the reader's attention to the comparative effects of different alcoholic liquors, it also plainly implies several facts of great importance. the first is, that all alcoholic liquors, fermented or distilled, are toxic or poisonous; and the more pure alcohol they contain, the more poisonous are they, the qualities of liquor differing only in the rapidity of their injurious effects. in the same number of the _medical week_, professor gréhant states that after injecting a quantity of alcohol into the venous circulation of a dog equal to one twenty-fifth, or four per cent., of the estimated weight of the blood of the animal, he found by several analyses at different times that it required "a little over twenty-three hours for complete elimination of the alcohol from the blood." if we consider these results obtained by viala, charrin, daremberg and gréhant, with those obtained by dr. a. c. abbott, showing the direct effect of alcohol in diminishing the normal vital resistance of the living body to infection, we see excellent reasons why the liberal use of alcohol in the treatment of such infectious diseases as diphtheria, typhoid fever and pneumonia, under the supposition that it was a cardiac tonic, has resulted in so great a mortality as from thirty to sixty per cent. dr. a. pearce gould, a london hospital surgeon of the first rank, has made special study of the surgery of the blood-vessels, and of the chest. he was one of the earliest to practice and advocate the careful removal of the axillary glands in all operations for cancer of the breast. he is a strong believer in the value of total abstinence as promoting robust health of body and mind. he regards the value of alcohol in disease as exceedingly small, and prescribes it only very rarely. he thinks that alcohol increases the activity of cancer and other malignant growths, an opinion which is of great importance from one with such exceptional opportunities for observation in these complaints. dr. n. s. davis in the _american medical temperance quarterly_ of january, , gives reports of cases which came under his observation as a consulting physician, where the use of alcoholics throughout an extended illness favored the continuance of delirium, or mild mental disorder, after convalescence was established. in each case the withdrawal of the alcohol was followed by a cessation of the mental delusion. one of these cases may be taken as an example:-- "the third case was that of a woman over sixty years of age, who had suffered from a mild grade of fever and protracted diarrhoea, somewhat resembling a mild grade of enteric typhoid fever. "as she became much reduced in strength during the latter part of her diarrhoea, her friends began to give her wine, and sometimes stronger alcoholic drink, under the popular delusion that these could strengthen her. her mind soon became wandering, and she was troubled with illusions, which were attributed to her weakness, and the so-called stimulants were increased. but the mental disorder increased also, and continued after the fever and diarrhoea had ceased, until the question was raised concerning the propriety of her removal to an asylum for the insane. "being consulted at that time, and listening to an accurate history of the case, i suggested that the anæsthetic effect of the alcohol on the cerebral hemispheres, in connection with its effect on the hemoglobin, and other elements of the blood, in lessening the reception and internal distribution of oxygen, might be the cause of both the perpetuation of her weakness, and her mental disorder. i advised a trial of its entire omission, and the giving of only simple nourishment, and moderate doses of strychnine and digitalis, as nerve tonics. my advice was followed, though not without much hesitation on the part of her friends. the result, however, was entire recovery from the mental disorder, and some improvement in her general health." puerperal mania resulted in one case cited, from the use of a moderate amount of wine at mealtimes; when the wine was abandoned the mania subsided. chapter xii. why doctors still prescribe alcoholics. workers in the department of medical temperance of the woman's christian temperance union are told repeatedly by the better class of physicians that they would be glad often not to prescribe alcohol if patients and their friends would not insist upon its use. there is a deep-rooted prejudice in favor of alcohol as a remedy in the minds of the great multitude of people, and they are ready to distrust as fanatical, or incompetent, any physician who does not use it. dr. norman kerr, a well-known physician of england, says, that during a ten years' residence in america, he found people unwilling to pay him as much for his services as they were willing to pay one who prescribed alcoholics. even those who were abstainers from liquors as beverages distrusted him for not using these things as medicines. indeed, this prejudice goes so far with many that they will refuse to employ a non-alcoholic physician, if they know him to be such. in consequence of this latter fact, there are great numbers of skilful physicians who say nothing about alcohol lest they be considered "faddists," and lose practice, but who never prescribe it unless it is asked for by the patient or his friends. again, consulting physicians will sometimes insist upon the use of alcohol, and thus seeds of distrust of the non-alcoholic physician will be sown. dr. j. j. ridge says of medical prescriptions:-- "hundreds of medical men order alcoholic liquors from habit, from ignorance of their real effect, from fashion, or from a desire to please, or not to offend, their patients. port-wine is constantly being ordered when persons are recovering from various diseases; day by day they regain their strength, and the port-wine gets all the credit of it, especially since each glass seems to diffuse a comfortable glow over the whole body. they forget that the process of recovery would have gone on without the port, and that hundreds and thousands of people do get well without it. they often ignore the fact that they are taking real tonics in addition. they are misled by the sensations which the alcohol causes; they do not know that it relaxes the blood-vessels instead of improving their tone; that it exhausts the heart by making it beat away more rapidly to no profit. hence the convalescence is actually more prolonged than it would otherwise be. gentle exercise, regulated baths, good food, balmy sleep, these are the true restoratives of the exhausted system, and no jugglery with sedatives, such as alcohol, can produce the desired result. "it is by its sedative action that alcohol has obtained its position in public opinion. it will render persons insensible to various uneasy sensations, and the majority prefer to continue the bad habits which produce the uneasy sensations, and then to take them away by a dose or two of some alcoholic liquor, or, indeed, to take this before the uneasy sensations come on. in this way they do themselves injury and make themselves unconscious of it. dr. beaumont, who had the opportunity of examining the interior of alexis st. martin's stomach, and of seeing how digestion went on, was astonished to see how inflamed the mucous membrane could be without any consciousness of it. he observed, as a matter of fact, that alcoholic drinks of all kinds hindered the process of digestion, and produced this morbid condition of the mucous membrane. the relief, therefore, which can be obtained by alcohol is delusive and dangerous. "but some persons say they are afraid to abandon the use of alcohol because they have been in the habit of taking it for a long period. this fear is entirely groundless. the alcohol will be missed for a time, just as a person who has been using crutches would miss them if thrown away; but they will do better without both after a little while. there is no kind of constitution which renders a person unable to do without alcohol. the prisoners in all our jails have to leave off their drink at once, and altogether, on entering there, and no harm ever ensues in consequence. but some say that this is because their diet is so carefully arranged, and the hygienic condition of the prison so perfect. quite so. this shows us clearly that when total abstainers become ill outside the prison, their illness is to be attributed to some error in diet or hygiene, or to some accidental circumstance. it is absurd to think that the infraction of one law of health can be nullified by breaking another; that if you eat too much, or too fast, or too often, or what is not good for you, you can escape the consequences by injuring yourself with alcohol." dr. n. s. davis was for many years openly sneered at by many of his professional brethren as "a cold-water fanatic." since his views are now being rapidly adopted by progressive medical men all over the civilized world, it may be that soon those physicians who cling to alcohol will deserve the soubriquet of "alcohol fanatics." dr. davis said:-- "if i am asked why the profession continues to prescribe these drinks, i answer; simply from the force of habit and traditional education, coupled with a reluctance to risk the experiment of omitting them while the general popular notions sanction their use. nothing is easier than self-deception in this matter. a patient is suddenly taken with syncope, or nervous weakness, from which abundant experience has shown that a speedy recovery would take place by simple rest and fresh air. but in the alarm of friends something must be done. a little wine or brandy is given, and as it is not sufficient to positively prevent, the patient in due time revives just as would have been the case if neither wine nor brandy had been used. "of course both doctor and friends will regard the so-called stimulant as the cause of the recovery. so, too, when patients are getting weak, in the advanced stage of fever, or some other self-limited disease, an abundance of nourishment is regularly administered, in the greater part of which is mixed some kind of alcoholic drink. the latter will always occupy the chief attention, and if, after a severe run, the fever, or disease, finally disappears, it will be said that the patient was sustained or 'kept alive' for over two or three weeks, as the case may be, 'solely by the stimulants,' when, in fact, if the same nourishment and care had been given without a drop of alcohol, he would have convalesced sooner, and more perfectly, as i have seen demonstrated a thousand times in my experience." dr. casgrau, of dublin, says that physicians who make personal use of alcohol are not able to give an unbiased opinion about its action, as one of its most marked effects is that of a narcotic to the mental powers; such physicians are not so acute to observe the action of this, or any drug. sir b. w. richardson, m. d., in an address upon the reasons why physicians still prescribe alcoholics, says that the magnetism of public opinion has great weight with professional men. "all professions are under that subtle influence. all professions whatever their duties, whatever their learning may be, are sensitive and obedient to that influence. in their pride they think they lead public opinion; it is a mistake, they always follow it on every question in which the people, at large, have a voice. they can assist in influencing the public voice, and sometimes, to quote the words of abbé purcelle, spoken in the dawn of the great french revolution, they may prove that 'respect for sovereign power sometimes consists in transgressing its orders,' but as a general rule not merely the orders but the inclinations are obeyed. we have to wait on, and for, public opinion, and in nothing so much as on the subject of alcohol. the use of alcoholic beverages rests not on argument but on habit, custom. to those whom it affects personally it is an absolute monarch. it makes its own empire. by the very action which it has upon the body of those who receive it into themselves it rules and governs. the joke of the inebriate man that when he had taken his potation he was quite another man and that then he felt it his duty to treat that other man, is literally true, a terse and faithful expression of a natural fact. the man or woman born and bred under the influence of alcohol is of the race of alcohol, and as distinct a person as any racial peculiarity can supply. the reason, the judgment, the temper, the senses are attuned by it. it is loved by its lovers like life. the grape to them is no longer a luscious fruit; it is 'the mother of mighty wine,' and he who is bold enough to disown that motherhood must stand apart. how can a profession however strong, march all at once against such an overwhelming influence? itself born, perchance, under the influence bred under it, how shall it immediately be transformed? why disobey the influence? it is in the _interest_ of the doctor to obey, in a worldly sense of view; but more--it is in his _nature_ to obey. the strong bands of nature and interest go hand in hand. is it wonderful that the genius of a professional man so situated should, according to the quality of his genius, uphold, root and branch, the rôle of his nativity? on the contrary the wonder is that he has ever done anything else. it is most natural that he should be amongst the last to take up what revolutionizes all the manners, and customs, and faiths, of society. a lady will ask her physician the question, may i take wine, sir? as much as you like madam; it is very bad for you and i take none, but that is your business entirely. henceforth that gentleman is said to be one who prescribes alcohol in any quantity. in fact, he never prescribes it, for although when forbidding is hopeless, there is all the difference in the world between prescribing and permitting, permitting goes down as if it were prescribing. often a patient will try to compromise. on an ocean of whisky and water, brandy and soda, or other poisonous mixture, he is floating into fatal paralysis. you tell him so faithfully, and he says he knows it and will drop down to claret. if you assent, he tells his friends you have changed his brandy or whisky to wine; if you dissent, he says you have left your duty as a doctor undone, in order to become an advocate for abstaining temperance, about which he is as competent a judge as you are, and he won't pay fees for that advice. he pays to be cured of his disease, not to be dragooned into a system peculiar in its tenets. in an alcoholic world there is a strong argument in this decision. it rolls splendidly, especially down hill." after speaking of non-alcoholic physicians, and their opinions of the harmfulness of alcohol, he adds:-- "on the other side, there are practitioners who, under the magnetism of public opinion, as earnestly believe the opposite in relation to alcohol, who declare they could not, conscientiously, practice their profession if they were debarred the use of alcohol, and who look on the advance and the growth of scientific abstaining principles--which they cannot avoid recognizing--with positive dread. the extremists on this side are indeed extreme in their fanaticism. they shut their eyes to the most obvious facts, and do not hesitate in their blindness to misrepresent the most obvious truths. they affirm that under the influence of total abstinence and, by inference, because of total abstinence, the yearly decreasing death-rate of the population is accompanied by reduction of vitality; that people who live long are more enfeebled than those who live short lives and merry; that under abstinence from alcohol fearful diseases are being developed; that the total abstainers have less power for resisting disease than the moderate temperate; and that under the current system of advance towards total abstinence, a very small advance yet by the way, diseases of a low type have developed and extended their ravages." it is only physicians of large conscientiousness, or of great independence of character, who will dare to go counter to the prejudices of the people. consequently, it is necessary to educate _the people_ in the teachings of those physicians, whose eminence in the profession has permitted them, or whose conscientiousness has driven them, to expose the delusions concerning the medical value of alcoholic beverages. when the people cease to believe in alcoholic remedies, physicians will no longer prescribe them. but while the majority desire the "physicians' prescription" as a cover for indulgence, there will be found physicians willing to give such prescriptions. that the prescription of alcohol by physicians is largely a matter of routine may be seen from the following two cases, reported to the writer by county superintendents of the department of medical temperance. in the first case, the physician said to the nurse, "if the patient's heart becomes weak, you might give a little brandy or whisky." seeing reluctance expressed upon the nurse's countenance, he added hastily, "or coffee, strong coffee will do just as well." the nurse in reporting this to the writer, said, "why couldn't he have ordered coffee in the first place if he thought it equally good?" the second case was that of an aged woman whose physician ordered whisky as a tonic. her granddaughter ventured to ask, "would not whisky have a narcotic rather than a tonic effect?" he replied thoughtfully, "well, tell the truth, i suppose it would." chapter xiii. alcoholic proprietary or 'patent' medicines. america has been called the paradise of quacks, and with good reason. for years patent medicine manufacturers had such complete control of the american press, both secular and religious, that it was almost impossible to reach the public with information as to the real nature of these concoctions. consequently the people accepted with amazing credulity the startling claims to miraculous cures of various pills and potions as set forth under glaring headlines in the daily papers. the publicity of the last few years has hurt the traffic seriously, but it still has a great hold upon the ignorant and credulous part of the population, and there is still a very large number of these preparations upon the market. many persons think that the pure food law guarantees every drug preparation now sold to be perfectly safe for use. this is a great error. the guarantee means simply that the manufacturer guarantees that his preparation is as he states upon the label; the government guarantees nothing concerning the matter. that the guarantee of the manufacturer is not always truthful has been shown by analyses of some preparations made by state and national chemists. all the advantage that the public has through the pure food law, so far as drug preparations are concerned, is that the percentage of alcohol must be printed upon the label, and the presence of certain dangerous drugs, such as morphine, cocaine, and acetanilid must be indicated. thus persons intelligent as to the nature of these drugs will avoid medicines which the label says contains them. the ignorant are not protected. it was difficult to secure even this small restriction upon the sale of proprietary medicines because of the opposition of a large number of newspaper publishers who were sharing the ill-gotten gains of the medical fakirs. a careful compilation of manufacturers' announcements list , so-called patent medicines sold in open markets, in which alcohol, opium or other toxic drugs form constituent parts. of the preparations are known as "bitters," stomachics, or cordials, and alcohol enters into their composition in quantities varying from fifteen to fifty per cent.; are recommended for coughs and colds, nearly all of which contain opium. sixty remedies are sold for the relief of pain, and no other purpose. are for nervous troubles, and of this number, sixty-five have entering into their composition coca leaves, or kola nut, or both, or are represented by their respective active principles, cocaine or caffeine. are offered for headaches, and kindred ailments, and usually with a guarantee to give immediate relief. in these are generally compounded phenacetine, caffeine, antipyrine, acetanilid, or morphine, diluted with soda, or sugar of milk. dysentery, diarrhoea, cholera morbus, cramp in bowels, etc., have quick reliefs or "cures" to their credit, nearly all of which contain opium, many of them in addition, alcohol, ginger, capsicum or myrrh in various combinations, and there are numerous cases on record where children and adults have been narcotized by their excessive use. some manufacturers print on the labels covering these goods, words of caution limiting the amount to be taken. forty-eight compounds for asthma contain caffeine and morphine. sufferers from toothache have their choice from thirty-eight remedies, and thirty-six soothing, or teething, syrups are provided for infants. many people have ignorantly and innocently formed an alcohol, morphine, or cocaine habit through the use of patent medicines. many deaths have occurred from headache powders of which acetanilid is the chief ingredient. dr. harvey w. wiley, chief of the bureau of chemistry, says of these headache powders:-- "a woman has a headache and she uses one of these remedies. it relieves the pain. when she has another attack she uses it again and again with the same result. after a while she finds the usual amount of the remedy does not cure the pain. she uses two portions, and so the habit is formed until absolute danger is confronted. for one thing must not be forgotten: these remedies are powerful, for if they were not they would be of no effect. they are in certain doses deadly; they depress the nervous system; they disturb the digestion; they interfere with natural sleep; they require to be used in increasingly larger quantities as the system becomes accustomed to their use; they are almost without exception excreted by the kidneys, thus adding an additional burden to organs already badly overworked. they produce a habit of gaining relief which becomes an obsession and incapable of being resisted." it may be asked, "how is it if these mixtures are harmful only, that so many people profess to have received benefit from them?" there are different reasons for this. . the nature of such drugs as alcohol, opium and cocaine is to benumb sensation, so that pain is stilled, and the pain, or functional disturbance forgotten for the time, because the nerves are drugged into insensibility. the person _feels_ better while under the influence of the drug, so thinks it is benefiting him. . there are people who imagine they have diseases which they do not have; since trained physicians occasionally err in diagnosis, it is not strange if the laity should do likewise. such persons are always ready to aver that a certain medicine "cured" them. a ludicrous example of this is a woman out west, whose picture graces the advertisements of a certain nostrum, accompanied by a testimonial that said nostrum cured her of a "polypus"! upon being written to as to how such a preparation could effect such a cure, she answered that, after giving the testimonial, she found that she had not had a polypus! . some of the cures attributed to drugs, are doubtless due to nature. it is estimated that from to per cent. of ailments are cured by nature, unassisted, and often in spite of, the drugs swallowed. many of the books advertising these remedies (?) give excellent rules of health, which, if followed, would restore persons to vigor more speedily without the accompanying medicine, than they can be restored while the system has the poisonous drugs to throw off. it may be reasonably assumed that a goodly number of recoveries ascribed to drug treatments are due, in reality, to the resisting force of a good constitution, or to obedience to the laws of health given in the circular. . it is not uncommon for people suffering from certain diseases to have temporary remissions in the course of the disease. no doubt, some of the cases reported as cures are such spontaneous remissions, which are followed, after the testimonials have been written, by relapse. the majority of people are ignorant of the natural course of diseases--of what happens when no treatment is taken. they do not know that a great many affections are characterized by periods of apparent recovery. for instance in some varieties of paralysis, as well as in consumption, the sufferer may to appearance recover completely for a few months or longer; if a remedy was being used at the time, it would naturally get the credit of causing the favorable change. however, all of the glowing testimonials of wonderful benefits accruing from patent medicines are not what they seem to be. dr. j. h. kellogg says in his _monitor of health_:-- "the average manufacturer of patent medicines regularly employs a person of some literary attainment whose duty it is to invent vigorous testimonials of sufferings relieved by dr. charlatan's universal panacea. in many instances persons are hired to give testimonials, and answer letters of inquiry in such a way as to encourage business. the shameless dishonesty and ingenious villainy exhibited are beyond description." recently an advertisement of one of these nostrums stated in the headlines that said nostrum was used in the frances willard temperance hospital, chicago. the testimonial appended purported to be from a nurse in that hospital, _but the testimonial did not state, as did the headlines_, that the preparation was ever used in that hospital. the president of the hospital board of trustees states that the nurse positively denies having given any testimonial to the company thus advertising. she did give one to another patent medicine concern, but not to this, and never said either was used in the hospital, nor have they been. suit could be brought for damages, but unfortunately the patent medicine people have unlimited money, and the hospital has not. early in the present year there appeared in many daily papers a large advertising picture of a man whose name was appended as a professional nurse of a western city. the following testimonial accompanied the picture:-- "mr. ---- of ----, who is a professional nurse of experience, writes,--'my friend is improving, thanks to ----, and you. i am called on to nurse the sick of all classes. i recommend ---- to such an extent that i am nicknamed ---- (giving name of nostrum) by nearly everybody.'" as the writer of this book was acquainted with a physician residing in the small city mentioned in the advertisement, she wrote to him, requesting that he investigate this testimonial. he replied that he found the chief part of the advertisement, namely, that mr. ---- was a professional nurse, false; "first, by his own statement as he told me this morning that he never claimed to be a professional nurse. and my personal acquaintance with him, as well as that of a number of other physicians in our little city, and reliable men and women of this community who are acquainted with him, all testify to the same thing, namely; that he is not a professional nurse, neither is he a nurse, or even a reliable man. he is an innocent, ignorant man, very close to the pauper class. he told me when i read the commendation to which his name is affixed, that it was all true except the professional nurse part, and that was entirely false, as stated above." as the picture was of a fine-looking, intelligent-appearing man it probably was as _genuine_ as the testimonial. the following was clipped from a copy of _merck's report_, april, , a druggists' paper published in new york city:-- many druggists indignant. a patent-medicine advertisement contains unauthorized endorsements. "fully a score of east-side druggists are up in arms over the unauthorized use of their names in a full-page newspaper advertisement of a widely-known specific. this advertisement appeared recently in certain new york daily papers, and retail druggists who have made it a rule of their business never to recommend any particular proprietary article, found themselves quoted in unqualified laudation of the article so liberally advertised. the names and addresses of the druggists were given in full, and when several of the men quoted conferred together they found that the most barefaced misrepresentation had been resorted to. "one of the pharmacists thus misrepresented, happened to be sidney faber, the secretary of the board of pharmacy. he was not selling this particular specific, and had never said a word for or against it, nevertheless, six or eight lines of endorsement of the article were directly attributed to him. he called on some of his druggist neighbors whose names he saw in the advertisement, and ascertained that they, too, had been falsely and unwarrantably quoted. mr. faber promptly wrote to the proprietors of the specific in question, and denounced the published endorsements bearing his name, as a forgery. his indignation was by no means appeased when he received a letter from the proprietary concern, couched in the following language: 'we regret to learn that you have been annoyed by any statements that have appeared in new york city papers. we will forward your letter to them.' "within the past few days several of the druggists whose names were used in this advertisement without authority, have been considering the advisability of taking legal proceedings in order to ascertain their rights in the matter. it is contrary to pharmaceutical ethics for a pharmacist to specially endorse any proprietary article, or patent medicine. some of the offended druggists propose to contribute to a fund for the purpose of publicly, and widely, advertising this unwarranted use of their names." when patent medicine advertisers would dare to resort to such a wholesale fraud as this, what may they be expected to refrain from? as an illustration of how commendations from notable persons are sometimes obtained, the following is cited: in the winter of , appeared an advertising picture of the lovely christian lady from denmark, the countess schimmelmann, who was spending some time in chicago. below her picture were the words:-- "adeline, countess schimmelmann, whose portrait is here given, in a recent letter to the ---- company, (mentioning proprietors of nostrum) speaks of friends of hers who have been benefited by ---- (mentioning nostrum), and who first advised her to recommend it to her sick friends. "the countess, as is well known, is a prominent member of the danish court. her coming to this country has been much talked of. her real object is one of charity. she is stopping in chicago, _and from there writes her straightforward endorsement of_ ---- (mentioning nostrum)." the italics are the writer's. the picture and the testimonial were cut from the paper, and sent to the countess, asking if she had so spoken of this medicine, and, if so, did she, a strong total abstinence woman, know that this mixture contains a large percentage of alcohol. she responded as follows:-- "thank you for asking me about the enclosed. a white-ribbon lady came and asked me if i would do her the great kindness to recommend ---- compound (made up of the juice of celery). i said i could not personally recommend it as i neither use, nor want, medicine. but some very reliable friends of mine (_temperance people_, and _true christians_) told me i would do a good thing in recommending it as they used it, and found it excellent. then i wrote the following: 'i myself cannot recommend ---- compound as i do not suffer from any of the ailments it is said to be good for, but reliable friends of mine tell me that it is excellent, and i would do a good thing in recommending it to my friends. adeline, countess schimmelmann.' "i will only consent to the publishing of this letter if you publish the _whole_ letter, and no extract from it, as the white-ribbon lady did for the ---- compound." if a white-ribboner played this mean trick upon this distinguished christian worker she is unworthy of membership in the woman's christian temperance union. it is more than likely that the "white-ribbon lady," was a paid advertising agent of the patent medicine manufacturer, and wore a white-ribbon to gain the confidence of the countess. whether patent medicine manufacturers know how to doctor all ills to which human flesh is heir may be doubted, but that their advertising agents are skilful "doctors" of testimonials is very evident to any one acquainted with the facts. the department of public charities of new york city in a "report on the use of so-called proprietary medicines as therapeutic agents," says:-- "in connection with this subject it might be mentioned that, for years past, the name of bellevue hospital has been taken in vain by a number of persons and firms, without any authority whatever. it is a common occurrence that samples of proprietary medicines, foods, mineral waters, plasters, etc., etc. are sent to the hospital, or to members of the house-staff for 'trial,' whereupon the subsequent advertisements of the articles in question often assert that the latter are 'used in bellevue hospital,' leaving the impression upon the mind of the reader that the article, or articles, have been used with the sanction of some member of the medical board. it is probably impossible to find a remedy for this evil, from which many other institutions of repute likewise suffer. to publish a denial of such false assertions would only aggravate the evil. the utmost that can be done appears to be, to caution the medical staff against any entanglements with, or encouragement of, the agents of the interested parties." this report, which was adopted by the medical board of bellevue hospital, classifies proprietary preparations as "objectionable" or "unobjectionable" according to the following rules:-- "unobjectionable preparations are those, the origin and composition of which is not kept secret, and which are known to serve a useful and legitimate purpose. malted milk is an example. objectionable proprietary preparations, by far the largest group of the whole class, comprise all those which are aimed at under the medical code of ethics under the term 'secret nostrum,' which term may be more closely defined thus: "a secret nostrum is a preparation, the origin or composition of which is kept secret, the therapeutic claims for which are unreasonable or unscientific, or which is not intended for a legitimate purpose. "examples: the various 'soothing syrups,' 'female regulators,' 'blood purifiers,' and thousands of others." dr. a. emil hiss, ph. g., says of the secrecy of these preparations:-- "a secret compound with a meaningless title is presumptively a fraud. why a secret if not to permit extravagant, or fraudulent, claims as to therapeutic merit? * * * * * the ruling motive of the secret being essentially false and dishonest, its employment in the interest of any remedy is clearly a sufficient cause for its condemnation and ostracism." mothers sometimes wonder why their boys take so readily to cigarettes, or their daughters to cocaine, never thinking that the soothing syrup, or cough mixture given freely by themselves to their children developed a craving for something stronger later on. mrs. winslow's soothing syrup, advertised for years in church as well as secular papers as "invaluable for children," is cited in the report for of the massachusetts state board of health as containing opium; also ayer's cherry pectoral, dr. bull's cough syrup, jayne's expectorant, hooker's cough and croup syrup, moore's essence of life, mother bailey's quieting syrup, and others too numerous to mention. the report says:-- "the sale of soothing syrups, and all medicines designed for the use of children, which contain opium and its preparations should be prohibited. many would be deterred from using a preparation known to contain opium, who would use without question a soothing syrup recommended for teething children." again, on page the following is quoted from a prominent physician:-- "among infants, and in the early years of life, soothing syrups are the cause of untold misery; for seeds are doubtlessly sown in infancy only to bear the most pernicious fruit in adult life. it is said that one of the best known soothing syrups contains from one to three grains of morphia to the ounce of syrup. i believe that stringent legal measures should immediately be taken to stop the sale of so-called soothing syrups containing opium, morphia or codeine." the writer has known mothers so ignorant of the nature of these soothing syrups as to deliberately put the baby to sleep upon them in order to insure relief from care for some hours. prof. j. redding, m. d., says on this point:-- "while it may be true that an adult, of his own free will, and without incentive, or predisposing causes, does occasionally become a drunkard, i am convinced that nine hundred and ninety-nine out of every one thousand individuals who become drunkards are made so in embryo, infancy, or childhood, by the use of alcoholic decoctions, soothing syrups, opiates, calomel, etc. which are given as medicines to allay pain, obtund nerve sensibility, to cure the little sufferer of his _vital manifestations_, of his _mental discomforts_, but leave the actual disease and its, perhaps, putrid causation to time and debilitated vitality to remove." of the danger and harmfulness of patent cough mixtures _the american therapist_ says:-- "cough mixtures as a rule, do more harm than good. nine times out of ten the principal ingredient is opium. it is true that opium may lessen the tendency to cough, but it does great damage by arresting the normal secretions, and the system becomes affected by the poisons from the kidneys, skin, stomach, intestines and the mucous membrane lining the upper air passages. not only do these mixtures arrest every secretion in the body, but they also show their deteriorating and degrading effect through the stomach. they contain substances which tend to disorder and derange digestion." several years ago the post-office department at washington was led to take an interest in the question of fraudulent "patent" medicines, and an examination of many of these nostrums was undertaken by government chemists. fraud orders were issued against some of the most flagrant offenders, forbidding them the use of the mails. this has not done away with the evil, however, for they usually move to another city, and begin business again under another name. the examinations made for the post office department revealed the fact that a great many of the so-called medicines on the market were intoxicating beverages in disguise. the internal revenue department then took up the matter and a long list of these beverage medicines was sent out to internal revenue agents with instructions that these must not be sold henceforth unless by persons paying a special tax for the sale of alcoholic beverages. some of the manufacturers of these nostrums availed themselves of opportunity given to add a recognized medicinal agent to their flavored alcohol and water and such preparations were stricken from the list of those requiring a whisky license for their sale. peruna and hostetter's bitters were the best-known of these. peruna had been up to this time what government chemists called "a cheap cocktail." the report of the pure food commissioner of north dakota for gives on page an analysis of it as now upon the market: "alcohol by volume, . per cent.; total solids, . per cent.; ash, . per cent." the report says:-- "the only thing of a medicinal nature that we could find in this preparation appeared to be a small amount of senna combined with a bitters of some kind." proprietary "foods" have not escaped attention from chemists. dr. charles harrington, for several years secretary of massachusetts board of health, was the first to publish an analysis of these preparations showing their alcoholic strength and their small nutritive content. he lists "foods" examined by him as follows:-- "liquid peptonoids . alcohol; maximum amount recommended will yield less than one ounce of nutriment per day, and the equivalent of . oz. of whisky. hemapeptone . alcohol; hemaboloids . alcohol; the maximum dose recommended yields about / oz. of nutriment, and the equivalent of about - / oz. of whisky daily. tonic beef . alcohol; doses recommended yield about / oz. nutriment daily, and the equivalent of one ounce of whiskey. mulford's predigested beef . alcohol; doses recommended yield about - / oz. nutriment daily, and the alcoholic equivalent of about oz. of whisky. there were "foods" for the sick examined which were non-alcoholic, but their nutritive value was about nothing in comparison to their cost." the committee on pharmacy of the american medical association reports on the following foods thus:-- carpanutrine . alcohol; liquid peptones (lilly & co.) . ; nutrient wine of beef peptone (armour) . ; nutritive liquid peptone . ; panopepton . ; peptonic elixir . ; tonic beef . . the report on these says: "there are no fatty substances present in these products; their food value from this point of view is, therefore, _nil_." a prominent physician of philadelphia said of these "foods" in the journal of the a. m. a.:-- "i have long been convinced that many a patient has suffered severely when preparations such as these were being used, and that not a few of them have died, chiefly of starvation. * * * a very important disadvantage of these foods is their alcoholic content. even in the small doses customarily used, the quantity of alcohol is often irritating to the stomach, and may be disadvantageous in other ways." the committee on pharmacy also reported on cod-liver oil preparations. they said: "a preparation claiming to represent cod-liver oil which does not contain oil in some form is fraudulent. waterbury's metabolized cod-liver oil and hagee's cordial of cod-liver oil are cited as examples. it is claimed by the manufacturers that the latter represents per cent. of pure norwegian cod-liver oil, but in neither of these preparations did the tests made by the committee show any oil. analysis revealed sugar, alcohol, and glycerine, none of which is contained in cod-liver oil." vinol is advertised as wine of cod-liver oil, but is admittedly without oil, and according to analysis contains . per cent. alcohol. wampole's tasteless preparation of cod-liver oil showed . per cent. of alcohol. cod-liver oil is considerably out of date now as a prescribed remedy because physicians have found that it impairs appetite. cream and fresh butter and olive oil are advised instead. australia has been such a harvest field for patent medicine manufacturers that a government commission was appointed to study the subject. this commission presented a voluminous report to the parliament of . this report gives an analysis of most of the extensively advertised medicines. doan's backache kidney pills are said to be made of oil of juniper drop, hemlock pitch grains, potassium nitrate grains, powdered fenugreek (greek hay) grains, wheat flour grains, maize starch grains. the report says: "the stuff is the cheapest kind of skin-plaster made up into pills." the seeds of fenugreek are used mainly for poultices. doan's dinner pills contain two drastic purgatives, podophyllin and aloin. both of these are dangerous drugs. aloin frequently produces hemorrhoids (piles). the _british medical journal_ says that the material in forty of the kidney pills and four dinner pills would cost one english halfpenny (one cent). vitae-ore is given as consisting of ordinary sulphate of iron (green vitriol) to which a little epsom salts has been added. munyon's kidney cure, which claims to cure bright's disease, gravel, and all urinary diseases, is given as composed entirely of sugar. dr. williams' pink pills are said to be an iron pill much the same as the ordinary blaud's pills which are sold in drug-stores for half, or less than half, the price of the proprietary article. (iron is said by recent investigators to be very injurious to the stomach.) the committee on pharmacy of the american medical association has analyzed many proprietary medicines; from their reports the following analyses are taken. "health grains," which are claimed to be a remedy for "dyspepsia, indigestion, nervousness, etc.," were found to consist of . per cent. of coarse quartz sand, and . per cent. of rock candy and syrup. "hoff's consumption cure consists essentially of sodium cinnamate and extract of opium, a mixture at one time suggested for the treatment of tuberculosis, but which has been discarded by physicians. a medicine which depends on opium for whatever therapeutic effect it may have is, when sold indiscriminately to the laity, inherently vicious." sartoin skin food for "sunburn, and all skin blemishes" was made of epsom salts colored with a pink dye. the government prosecuted the company sending out epsom salts as a "food," and they were fined $ for thus seeking to dupe silly women. malt extracts are very extensively used at the present time, under the popular notion that they are an aid to starch digestion. that they are a product of the brewery has caused them to be looked upon with suspicion by cautious people, but the multitude has apparently given no thought, or care, as to whether or not they may be alcoholic. dr. charles harrington presented the results of an examination of these preparations at a meeting of the boston society of medical sciences, held nov. , . the following is quoted from the journal of the society for november, :-- "twenty-one different brands of liquid malt extract were obtained and analyzed. that they were not true malt extracts is shown by the fact that in no one was there the slightest diastatic power; all were alcoholic, some being stronger than beer, ale, or even porter. in a number of specimens a large amount of salicylic acid was detected." dr. j. h. kellogg, in commenting upon this report, said in the dec., , _bulletin of the a. m. t. a._:-- "in the light of these facts, it is apparent that ale or lager beer might as well be prescribed for a patient as these so-called malt extracts, which are practically nothing more than concentrated ale or lager." there are malt extracts, made up like honey, or syrup, in consistency, which are valuable. the following list of malt extracts, with accompanying letter from prof. sharples, is taken from a paper published by hon. henry h. faxon, of quincy, mass.:-- "boston, mass., march , . "i enclose a list of the malt extracts examined in this office during the past year or two. these samples were all in original packages, obtained by officers in various parts of eastern massachusetts. they probably very fairly represent the various malt extracts on the market. i have added two samples of porter and one of old brown stout for purposes of comparison. "yours respectfully, "s. p. sharples. "state assayer." name. solids. alcohol. english malt extract . . old grist mill malt extract . . old grist mill malt extract . . old grist mill malt extract . . old grist mill malt extract . . liquid food, a malt extract . . pure malt, a liquid food, a tonic . . pure malt, a liquid food, a tonic . . king's pure malt[c] . . [footnote c: the label on king's malt states that for a strong, healthy person, with a good appetite, a pint with each meal and another on retiring at night will not be too much.] a nutritious tonic, pure malt extract . . noris' extract of malt . . noris' extract of malt . . noris' extract of malt . . noris' extract of malt . . noris' extract of malt . . pabst malt extract, the best tonic . . hoff's malt extract (tarrant's) . . hoff's malt extract (tarrant's) . . johann hoff'sches malz-extract, gesundheit's beir . . johann hoff'sches malz-extract, gesundheit's beir . . johann hoff'sches malz-extract, gesundheit's beir . . johann hoff'sches malz-extract, gesundheit's beir . . haffenreffer & co. malt wine . . haffenreffer & co. malt wine . . liquid bread, a pure extract of malt . . durgin's malt, liquid extract of malt . . durgin's liquid extract of malt . . wyeth's liquid malt extract . . wyeth's liquid malt extract . . wyeth's liquid malt extract . . wampole's concentrated extract of malt . . anheuser-busch's malt nutrine . . anheuser-busch's malt nutrine . . malt extract (sterilized), john l. gleeson . . malt extract (sterilized), charles c. hearn . . burkhart brewing co.'s malt extract . . menzel's extract of malt . . menzel's extract of malt . . king of malt tonics, lion tonic . . teutonic, "a concentrated extract of malt and hops" . . van nostrand's old stout porter, "a pure malt extract" . . philadelphia porter . . burke's guiness stout . . the alcohol in the above table represents the cubic centimeters of alcohol in a cubic centimeters of the liquid. the solids are the number of grams of solid extract in each centimeters of the liquid. s. p. sharples. the _british medical journal_, and the _british medical temperance review_ have been calling attention to the danger in coca wines. intemperance among invalids is said to be greatly on the increase from the use of these wines. in every case the basis of these preparations is strongly alcoholic wine, ranging from to per cent. the coca added is either the leaves, or liquid extract of coca, or hydrochlorate of cocaine. dr. frederic coley says in the _british medical journal_:-- "coca, and its chief alkaloid, cocaine, are drugs which possess some power of removing the sense of fatigue, just as analgesics remove the consciousness of pain. but they no more remove the physical condition of muscles, and nerve centres, of which the sense of pain gives us warning, than a dose of morphine, which removes the pain of toothache, removes the offending tooth, or even arrests the caries in it. the truth of this will be obvious to any one who remembers enough of physiology to know what fatigue really means. a muscle which is tired out is different chemically from the same muscle in its more normal condition, when it is ready to respond vigorously to ordinary stimuli. it has lost something, and is, besides, overcharged (poisoned, in fact) with the products of its own activity, and it can only be restored by a fresh supply of the material which it requires, and the carrying away of the poisonous waste products. fatigue of nerve centres is no doubt strictly analogous to fatigue of muscles. "it is practically impossible for us, by voluntary exertion, to reach the degree of absolute fatigue, which the physiologist produces by electric stimulation of a nerve-muscle preparation. the sense of fatigue becomes so intense that voluntary effort cannot overcome it. so no man can produce asphyxia by simply holding his breath, because the _besoin de respirer_ becomes irresistible; but it is quite possible for a narcotic to so dull the sensory part of the respiratory reflex mechanism as to permit asphyxia to take place. "the sense of fatigue, and the _besoin de respirer_ are both nature's danger signals. drugs which hide such signals from us are a more than doubtful benefit. if it were possible for us to suppose that a fraction of a grain of cocaine could afford to exhausted nerve centres, and muscles, the nutriment which they require for their restoration, and at the same time eliminate the poisonous waste products, then it would be reasonable to prescribe the drug for use by all who are overworked, and perhaps suffering from the malnutrition consequent upon, 'nervous dyspepsia,' as well as mere want of rest. "in this go-ahead century it is no wonder that many are but too ready to experiment with a drug which professes to be able to remove fatigue, and to enable a man to go on working when, without its aid, weariness had become unendurable. cocaine claims all this; and it is most dangerous just because, for a time, it seems able to keep its promise. that is how victims to cocainism are made. let us be honest with our overworked patients, who want us to help them with drugs; let us tell them that rest is the only safe remedy for weariness. "to combine such a drug as coca, or cocaine, with an alcoholic stimulant, is to multiply the dangers of cocainism by those of alcoholism. it would be impossible to find terms sufficiently severe in which to condemn the recklessness of those who promiscuously recommend such a compound for all who are overworked or debilitated. one firm actually has the assurance to advertise a preparation of this kind as a remedy for dipsomania. truly this is casting out devils by beelzebub, with a vengeance. invoking beelzebub for such a purpose has never been a success. and i suspect that any form of coca wine will make a great many more dipsomaniacs than it will cure." dr. walter n. edwards, f. c. s., says of coca wines:-- "these wines are sold as being useful in an immense variety of ailments. the following are a few of the many that are named upon the bottles or in the circulars accompanying them:-- "weakness after illness, "nervous disorders, "sleeplessness, "influenza, "whooping cough, "exhaustion of mind and body, "allays thirst, "restores digestive function, "enables great physical toil to be undergone, "great value in excesses of all kinds, "general debility, "prevents colds and chills, "makes pure, rich blood, "anæmia, "invaluable after pleurisy, pneumonia, etc., "aid to the vocal organs. "this is a fairly respectable list of complaints, and the very fact that these preparations of coca wine are put forward as a cure for so wide a range of various complaints is in itself a condemnation of them. "when any particular remedy is said to be of universal application for a large number of different complaints it may be looked upon with great suspicion. "it must always be remembered that there is the commercial side to this question. the proprietors have no particular regard for the welfare of the people; their business is to make a profit, and many of them gain enormous fortunes. by skilful and lavish advertisements, and by carefully worded testimonials, they appeal to the credulity of the public, and often deceive even those who regard themselves as belonging to the thinking classes. "there are two specific dangers in regard to these wines. they are ordinary wines, either port or sherry for the most part, and therefore strongly alcoholic. the user of them is in considerable danger of cultivating a taste for alcohol, and certainly, there is the greatest possible danger to any one having had the appetite, of reviving it. "the dose is an elastic one, it can be repeated with considerable frequency three or four times a day. "what would be said of growing girls or youths having recourse three or four times a day to the wine bottle? this is exactly what they are doing when coca, and the so-called food wines are placed in their hands as medicine. they like the pleasant taste, there is the call of habit and appetite, and so there arises the greatest possible danger of a general liking for alcoholic liquors being set up. the ailing man or woman of set years is in similar danger, for they are having recourse to alcohol when their powers of mind and body are to some extent exhausted, and they are thus less able to resist the fascination for alcohol that may so quickly be brought into existence. "another element of danger is that the recourse to coca and kola is an attempt to get more out of the body, and the mind, than nature intended. overwork, overstrain, worry, all produce exhaustion of physical and nervous power. nature pulls us up by asserting herself, and we feel run down and seedy, and, perhaps, quite unwell. what is wanted is rest, proper diet, and change. these would quickly be restorative, and once again we should be fit for the duties of life. "in a busy age there is the strongest possible temptation to seek a restorative by some occult method, rather than to give the rest and refreshment that nature demands. it is upon this that the whole trade in these so-called restoratives depends. "there is no food quality in alcohol, cocaine or kola, but there is in them all a narcotizing influence that in its lesser stages is hurtful, and in its greater stages disastrous. "the cocaine habit may be cultivated as easily as the alcohol habit, and the two forms of disease, alcoholism and cocainism, are by no means rare. the great factor in each of them is the loss of will power, and when that is accomplished the descent to complete moral and physical ruin is quite easy. "a pure and simple life, in accord with the laws of health and hygiene, is the panacea both for the maintenance, and the restoration of health, and that is what we should strive to aim at, rather than having recourse to drugs that are not only ineffective, but positively dangerous."--_united temperance gazette._ in dr. milner fothergill's _practioners' hand-book of treatment_, fourth edition, the following statement is made:-- "coca wine, and other medicated wines are largely sold to people who are considered, and consider themselves, to be total abstainers. it is not uncommon to hear the mother of a family say, 'i never allow my girls to touch stimulants of any kind, but i give them each a glass of coca wine at in the morning, and again at bedtime.' originally coca wine was made from coca leaves, but it is now commonly a solution of the alkaloid, in a sweet and strongly alcoholic wine. this is really the gist of the whole matter; coca wine is largely consumed by people who fondly believe themselves to be total abstainers, and who are active enough in denouncing those who take a little wine, or a glass of beer at their meals. the sooner their delusion is dispelled the better for themselves, and for the unfortunate children over whom they exercise supervision." another physician tells of seeing a distinguished ecclesiastical dignitary, a sworn foe of alcohol and its congeners, giving his young child a generous daily allowance of one of these wines. the user of coca wines runs a double risk--an alcohol craving may be revived, or created; and, at the same time, cocainism may be set up, and nothing but physical, mental and moral ruin follow. the _british medical journal_ of january rd, , says:-- "there can be no doubt that in many parts of the world cocaine inebriety is largely on the increase. the greatest number of victims is to be found among society women, and among women who have adopted literature as a profession; and there is no doubt that a considerable proportion of chronic cocainists have fallen under the dominion of the drug from a desire to stimulate their powers of imagination. others have acquired that habit quite innocently from taking coca wines. the symptoms experienced by the victims of the cocaine habit are illusions of sight and hearing, neuromuscular irritability, and localized anæsthesia. after a time insomnia supervenes, and the patient displays a curious hesitancy, and an inability to arrive at a decision on even the most trivial subjects." dr. f. coley says later on in the article before referred to:-- "there is another combination which, though utterly absurd from a therapeutical point of view, is not in itself quite so dangerous as coca wine. it will probably do a larger amount of mischief, however, because more people take it. i refer to the various preparations, so largely advertised, which profess to be compounded of port wine, extract of malt, and extract of meat. to the medically uneducated public this doubtless seems a most promising combination: extract of meat for food, extract of malt to aid digestion, port wine to make blood. surely the very thing to strengthen all who are weak, and to hasten the restoration of convalescents. unfortunately what the advertisements say--that this stuff is largely prescribed by medical men--is not wholly untrue. "i do not suppose that any physician of anything like front rank would make such a mistake. but busy general practitioners may be excused if they prove to be a bit oblivious of physiology, and so become attracted by a formula which is more plausible than sound. in the first place, we all know that extract of meat is not food at all. from the manner of its production, it cannot contain an appreciable quantity of proteid material. it consists mainly of creatin, and creatinin, and salts. these are, it is needless to say, incapable of acting as food. extract of meat, and similar preparations, have their uses however; made into 'beef-tea,' their meaty flavor often enables patients to take a quantity of bread, which would otherwise be refused; or lentil flour, or some other matter may be added. in this way, though not food itself, it becomes a most useful aid to feeding. it is besides, a harmless stimulant, especially when taken, as it always should be, hot. it should be needless to add that to combine extract of meat with port wine is simply to ignore its real use. the only intelligible basis for such an invention must be the wholly erroneous notion that extract of meat is a food." the prices asked for "secret nostrums" are said by chemists to be ofttimes far beyond the value of the materials. of one article the _new idea_, a druggists' paper, says:-- "it retails at $ . per bottle. such an article could be put up for less than fifteen cents, including bottle, leaving by no means a small margin for the profit of its manufacturers." the same paper says of a cure for catarrh, neuralgia, etc. sold in the form of a small ball:-- "this cure costs $ . per ball. a handsome profit could be made upon it at cents a ball." some proprietary preparations are not harmful, but are positively inert. the mass. state board of health in report of gives _kaskine_ as an example of these. although sold at a dollar an ounce it was found to consist of nothing but granulated sugar of the fine grade used in homeopathic pharmacy, without any medication or flavoring whatever. dr. edward von adelung in an article in _life and health_, dec., , tells of a well advertised cure for consumption, the analysis of which showed it to be composed of water, slightly colored by the addition of a very small quantity of red wine, and two mineral acids, muriatic and impure sulphuric, in quantities just sufficient to lend it a taste! he says:-- "fortuitously i had the opportunity of observing the influence of this remedy on a consumptive who took it regularly, and who was so enamored of its favorable action that he gave up his business to conduct an agency for its sale. it was not long after he had entered upon his new vocation that i received word of his death, due to pulmonary hemorrhage." the "returned missionary" fraud has been exposed by different druggists' papers, among them the _new idea_. the "missionary" would advertise a "free cure," if people would send to him. the "cure" would be in the form of a prescription. there being no drugs in any drugstore bearing the names given in the prescription, the dupe was expected to pay an exorbitant price for them to the philanthropic "missionary." in one case of this kind the "medicinal plants brought from south america, the only place where they grew," were upon examination by chemists of the _new idea_ found to be ordinary drugs, not one of which comes from south america. the same paper tells of another "south american" fraud, , bottles of which were said to be sold in detroit in a few weeks, by an itinerating vendor. a certain liver, and kidney, and constipation cure, sold in the form of herbs, is said by _new idea_ to be chiefly couch grass, and senna leaves. yet it sells for cents for a small package. to this paper the public is also indebted for the information that a kind of wafer advertised to "cure in a few days all coughs, colds, irritation of the uvula and tonsils, influenza, bronchitis, asthma, sore throat, consumption, and all diseases of the lungs and chest" was found to consist wholly of sugar and corn starch! _medical world_ recently told of the investigation of "h----" by prof. john uri lloyd of cincinnati. it was advertised as a plant discovered by a doctor traveling in florida. its juices were said to be antidotal to snake poisoning, and would also cure the opium habit. prof. lloyd found it to be a liquid consisting of a solution of sulphate of morphine and salicylic acid, in alcohol and glycerine, with suitable coloring matter. another fraud exposed by _new idea_ was a "cure" for the peculiar ills of women. the cure is put up in the form of little oblong blocks about a half inch in length. "a circular accompanies them, and is well calculated to produce alarm in the young. it is another sample of the demoralizing documents which unscrupulous quacks are continually circulating among the laity, in order to create alarm, and profit by this alarm." after giving a description of the diseases peculiar to the sex it is stated that all of these are curable by using eight dollars worth of this wonderful medicine. _new idea_ continues:-- "the _cure_ consists, according to our examination, of nothing but flour, made into a paste and allowed to harden in the form of small oblong blocks. evidently the quack relied upon the faith-cure principle, and his auxiliary treatment, as set forth in the rules of living given in the circular." while these inert preparations are of the nature of frauds, they will not injure the health, nor make drunkards, or opium fiends, as the disguised preparations of whisky and morphine are likely to do. that the use of patent medicines has made many drunkards is a fact well attested. the american association for the study of inebriety appointed a committee several years ago to investigate the various nostrums advertised especially for the benefit of alcohol and opium inebriates. the report of this committee, prepared by dr. n. roe bradner, late of the pennsylvania hospital for the insane, in speaking of the marvelous cures advertised in connection with the use of these mixtures, calls them "volumes of gilded falsehood, designed for an innocent, unsuspecting public," and adds:-- "the use of such nostrums would do more toward confirming than eradicating the habit, if it existed, and would invite and create addiction to an almost hopeless fatality, where the habit had not previously existed. insanity, palsy, idiocy, and many forms of physical, moral and mental ruin have followed the sale of these nostrums throughout our land." dr. e. a. craighill, president of the virginia state pharmaceutical association, is quoted in the july ( ) _journal of inebriety_, as saying:-- "in my experience i have known of men filling drunkards' graves who learned to drink taking some advertised bitters as legitimate medicine. it would be hard to estimate the number of young brains ruined, and the maturer opium wrecks from nostrums of this nature. i could write a volume on the mischief that is being done every day to body, mind and soul, all over the land, by the thousands of miserable frauds that are being poured down the throats of not only ignorant people, but, alas, intelligent ones, too." a lady informed the writer recently that her brother had taken forty bottles of one of these preparations, and had become a drunkard through it. many seem unaware that the ethics of the medical profession restrain reputable physicians from advertising themselves or their remedies, so that these much-lauded patent medicines are put upon the market by quacks, never by physicians of good standing. it is purely a money-making enterprise, without consideration of the health or destruction of the people. it is popularly supposed that physicians decry these things from fear that their sale will injure regular practice. this is another error as they increase work for the doctor by aggravating existing trouble, as well as causing disease where there was only slight disturbance. dr. f. e. stewart, ph. g., of detroit, mich., says in the october, , _life and health_:-- "taking all these facts into consideration, it is apparent that the patent, trade-mark and copyright laws should be so interpreted and administered by the court that they will secure the greatest good to the greatest number, and aid in attaining the end of government, viz., 'moral, intellectual and physical perfection.' it is not the object of these laws to create odious monopolies, to throw a mantle of protection over fraud, to enable quacks and charlatans to encroach on the domain of legitimate medical and pharmacal practice, or to support an advertising business designed to mislead the public in regard to the nature and value of medicines as curative agents. the morals of the community are injured by some of this advertising, intellectual vigor is impaired by the use of many things advertised, and physical, as well as moral, degradation frequently results. crime is often inculcated--even the crime of murder, that the nostrum manufacturer may profit thereby. cures for incurable diseases are promised, and guaranteed. every scheme that human and devilish ingenuity can devise to wring money from its victim is resorted to, which can be employed without actually bringing the advertisers into court. all this wicked quackery parades under the guise of 'patent' medicines, and asks the protection of our courts. it is time for the medical and pharmaceutic professions to unite, and unmask this monster, and show the public its true nature. and this can be accomplished in no better way than through a study of the object of the laws which the secret nostrum manufacturers are now endeavoring to prostitute for their own advantage, and the teaching of the public what these laws were enacted for. "the secret nostrum business in some of its phases has assiduously found its way into the medical arts, and physicians, pharmacists, and manufacturing houses, seem to have forgotten, to a certain extent, the obligations which they owe to the public. medicine, in all its departments, must be practiced in accord with scientific, and professional requirement, or it will sink to the level of a commercial business. _the end of medical practice is service to suffering humanity, not the acquisition of money._ money making is a necessary part of the practice of medical arts, not, however, its chief object. this fact must be kept in view always. once lost sight of, and trade competition substituted for competition in serving the interests of the sick, medical and pharmacal practice will become an ignoble scrabble for wealth, in which the sick become victims of avarice and greed. better set free a pack of ravening wolves in a community than to change the end of medical practice to a commercial one, for physicians and pharmacists would soon degenerate into quacks and charlatans, and take shameful advantage of the community for gain." where dr. stewart speaks of murder he probably refers to the sale of _abortofacients_. dr. roe bradner, of philadelphia, in his report upon alleged cures for drunkenness before the society for the study of inebriety several years ago, said:-- "there is a certain other class of so-called remedies, prepared sometimes by physicians and pharmacists, that do a great deal of harm. i allude to the 'non-secret proprietaries' that claim to publish their formulas, _but do not_. one in particular has made thousands, and likely tens of thousands, of _chloral drunkards_, dethroned the reason of as many more, besides having killed outright very many. it is impossible for any one to estimate the mischief that is being done by such remedies, and the physicians who recommend them." advertising is still the great hindrance in protecting the people from medical imposters. professor e. w. ladd, pure food commissioner of north dakota, says on this point:-- "these patent medicines, some of which are of merit, and others are only 'dopes,' or preparations intended to defraud the public, have been altogether too generally advertised and sold to the public. in many ways it seems a deplorable fact that by an unfair method of advertising the american people have come to be consumers to such an extent of a class of medicines, which, at times, are positively detrimental to health. in other instances the continued use of the product is liable to result in the formation of a drug habit which may lead to serious consequences. "it should not be understood that this department condemns the use of legitimate proprietary or patent medicines, but it insists that there is a need for wiping out of existence about half of the products now generally sold, and with regard to the others the public have a right to know what is contained in them, and not be misled by false statements, or by statements so cunningly worded as to positively mislead the unwary reader. * * * in view of the fact that about per cent. of the nostrums on the market are sold by newspaper and magazine advertising and not by the customer seeing the package, it would seem advisable to amend the law so as to cover this point." there is no doubt that it is the advertising which makes the patent medicine business so tremendously profitable. one firm boasted, prior to the exposure of the fraud nature of their preparation, that they spent $ , a day in advertising. what must have been made on the nostrum to allow such expenditure? it is said on good authority that the cost of these nostrums does not exceed fifteen to sixteen cents a bottle, and they sell for a dollar a bottle. such profits make it easy to buy up newspapers that are conscienceless as to the robbery of the unfortunate sick. the only effectual way of putting an end to the sale of nostrums is to make illegal the advertising of such preparations in the public press. norway has safeguarded her people thus. the difficulty in gaining such a law in america will be the opposition of the newspapers, the large majority of which still cling to this selfish method of adding to their gains. even the so-called religious press is not all clean yet in this respect. once they could be excused because of lack of knowledge. now there is no excuse. during the debate in congress upon the patent-medicine clause of the pure food bill, senator heyburn said:-- "i have always been aggressively against the advertisements of nostrums. some time ago a friend of mine, a very old fellow, that i had taken a special interest in securing a pension for, had reached the age and condition of dependency. i succeeded in getting him a comfortable pension that would pay his bills for household provisions. once, when i found he was very poor, i said to his wife, 'what are you doing with your pension?' she said, 'don't you know, mr. heyburn, that it takes at least one-half of that pension for patent medicine?' then she enumerated the patent medicines they were taking. it was being suggested to them through advertisements that they were the victims of ills that they were not troubled with, and that they could find relief through these different medicines. "i am in favor of stopping the advertisements of these nostrums in every paper in the country." it may well be asked, would any one of these well-to-do newspaper owners entrust himself, or any of his family, in time of sickness to the cure-all imposters whose nostrums they advertise? if one of their children had anæmia would they rely on pink pills for a cure? if they had a genuine catarrh would they expect it to be cured by peruna? never! they would seek the very best medical advice obtainable. yet, for the ignorant, credulous, sick and suffering poor they allow traps to be laid to rob of both money and such chances of recovery as might come from proper medical attendance. chapter xiv. "drugging." the main reason why so many people use patent medicines is the popular supposition that drugs cure disease. this is a great error. _drugs never cure disease._ nature alone has power to heal. there are agents, which in the hands of a trained and painstaking physician may assist nature, but the physician needs to understand something of the idiosyncrasies of his patient's system, or the use of these agents may do great harm instead of good. those medical men who have made the most diligent study of health and disease assert as their deliberate opinion that excessive professional drugging has been decidedly destructive of human life. dr. jacob bigelow, professor in the medical department of harvard university, in a work published a few years ago stated as his belief that the unbiased opinion of most medical men of sound judgment, and long experience, is that the amount of death and disaster in the world would be less, if all diseases were left to themselves, than it now is under the multiform, reckless, and contradictory modes of practice, with which practitioners of diverse denominations carry on their differences, at the expense of the patient. sir john forbes, m. d., f. r. s., said:-- "some patients get well with the aid of medicine, more without it, and still more in spite of it." dr. bostwick, author of _the history of medicine_, said:-- "every dose of medicine given is a blind experiment upon the vitality of the patient." dr. james johnson, editor of the _medico-chirurgical review_, says:-- "i declare as my conscientious conviction founded on long experience and reflection, that if there were not a single physician, surgeon, man-midwife, chemist, apothecary, druggist nor drug on the face of the earth, there would be less sickness and less mortality than now prevail." prof. j. w. carson, of the new york college of physicians and surgeons, says:-- "we do not know whether our patients recover because we give them medicine, or because nature cures them. perhaps bread-pills would cure as many as medicine." prof. alonzo clark, of the same college, has said:-- "in their zeal to do good physicians have done much harm; they have hurried many to the grave who would have recovered if left to nature." prof. martin paine, of the new york university medical college, said:-- "drug medicines do but cure one disease by producing another." dr. marshall hall, f. r. s.:-- "thousands are annually slaughtered in the quiet sick-room." dr. adam smith:-- "the chief cause of quackery _outside_ the profession is the _real_ quackery _in_ the profession." prof. gilman:-- "the things that are administered for the cure of _scarlet fever_ and _measles_ kill far more than those diseases kill." prof. barker, of new york medical college:-- "the drugs that are administered for the cure of _scarlet fever_ kill far more patients than the disease does." prof. parker:-- "as we place more confidence in nature, and less in preparations of the apothecary, mortality diminishes." the examining physician of a large insurance company in new york said to a _mercury_ reporter:-- "the primary cause of so many cases of _la grippe_ in this and other cities is the almost universal habit of drug taking from the milder tonics to patent medicines. whenever the average man or woman feels depressed or slightly ill, resort is made at once to medicine, more or less strong. if they would try to find out the cause of the trouble, and seek to obviate it by regulating their mode of living, the general health of the community would be better. the drug habit tends continually to lower the tone of the system. the more it is indulged in the more apparent becomes the necessity of continuing the downhill course. the majority of persons do not look beyond the fact that they seem to feel better after the use of a stimulating drug, or patent medicine. this feeling comes from a benumbing action of the drug, because it has no uplifting action. with the system in such a weakened state, the microbes of the disease find excellent ground to grow." dr. j. h. kellogg says in the april, , _bulletin of the a. m. t. a._:-- "every drug capable of producing an artificial exhilaration of spirits, a pleasure which is not the result of the natural play of the vital functions, is necessarily mischievous in its tendencies, and its use is intemperance, whether its name be alcohol, tobacco, opium, cocaine, coca, kola, hashish, siberian mushroom, caffeine, betel-nuts, maté or any other of the score or more enslaving drugs known to pharmacology. as the result of the depression which follows the unnatural elevation of sensation resulting from the use of one of these drugs, the second application finds the subject on a little lower level than the first, so that an increased dose is necessary to produce the same intensity of pleasure or the same degree of artificial felicity as the first. the larger dose is followed by still greater depression which demands a still larger dose as its antidote, and thus there is started a series of ever-increasing doses, and ever-increasing baneful after-affects, which work the ultimate ruin of the drug victim. all drugs which enslave are alike in this regard, however much they may differ otherwise in their physiological effects. alcohol is universally recognized as only one member of a large family of intoxicating drugs, each of which is capable of producing specific functional and organic mischief, besides the vital deterioration common to the use of so-called felicity-producing drugs. "is it not evident, then, that in combating the use of alcohol we are attacking only one member of a numerous family of enemies to human life and happiness, every one of which must be exterminated before the evil of intemperance will be up-rooted?" among the most popular drugs for self-prescription at the present time are the coal-tar products. of these dr. n. s. davis has said:-- "only a few years since, the profession were taught to regard the degree of pyrexia, or heat, as the chief element of danger in all the acute general diseases. consequently, to control the pyrexia became the leading object of treatment; and whatever would do this promptly, and at the same time allay pain and promote rest, found favor at the bedside of the patient. "it was soon ascertained that antipyrin, antifebrin, phenacetin and other analogous products, if given in sufficient doses, would reduce the heat, and allay the pains with great certainty and promptness, not only in continued fevers, but also in rheumatism, influenza, or la grippe, etc.; and thus their use soon became popular with both the profession and the public. no one, however, undertook to first ascertain by strictly scientific appliances the actual pathological processes causing the pyrexia in each form of disease, or even to determine whether in any given case the increased heat was the result of increased heat production, or diminished heat dissipation. neither were any of the remedies subjected to such experimental investigation as to determine their influence on the elements of the blood, the internal distribution of oxygen, the metabolism of the tissues, or on the activity of the eliminations. consequently their exhibition was wholly empirical, and the one that subdued the pyrexia most promptly was given the preference. yet we all know that the pyrexia invariably returned as soon as the effects of each dose were exhausted, and in a few years the results showed that while the antipyretics served to keep down the pyrexia, and give each case the appearance of doing well, the average duration of the cases, and their mortality, were both increased. "step by step experimental therapeutic investigations have proved that the whole class of coal-tar antipyretics reduce animal heat by impairing the capacity of the hemoglobin and corpuscular elements of the blood to receive and distribute free oxygen, and thereby reduce temperature by diminishing heat production, nerve sensibility and tissue metabolism. therefore, while each dose temporarily reduces the fever, it retards the most important physiological processes on which the living system depends for resisting the effects of toxic agents; namely, oxidation and elimination. this not only encourages the retention of toxic agents and natural excretory materials by which specific fevers are protracted, but it greatly increases the number of cases of pneumonia that complicate the epidemic influenza, or la grippe, as it has occurred since - . "the bad work that people make in dosing themselves with patent medicines, without a physician's prescription is not unfrequently punctuated with a sudden death from overdosing with antipyrin, sulphonal, or some other coal-tar preparation." dr. c. h. shepard, brooklyn, n. y., says:-- "quinine is a most fatal drug. of course, it is the orthodox treatment for malarial conditions, but quinine never did nor never can cure malaria or any other disease. the action brought about by its use is simply to benumb the nervous activity and interfere with the natural action of the system to throw off the poison, which is expressed by the chill. because of this interference with the manifestation or symptom of the disease, many imagine that the disease is being cured, but there never was a greater mistake. a drug disease is added to the original disease. this is shown by the invariable depression that follows the administration of the drug, and the length of time required to recuperate, which imperils restoration, and sometimes hastens the final results. this is ordinarily met by the use of what are called stimulants, that is, more drugs, and the last state is worst than the first; the poor patient is thus made the victim of a triple wrong, which only a most vigorous constitution can pass through and live, and even then he is crippled and made more liable to whatever disease may come along ever afterward. "disease is not entity to be killed by a shot from a professional gun, but a condition, an effort of outraged nature to free itself from an incumbrance, and should be aided rather than hindered by the administration of any nerve irritant. there never will come a time when the laws of health can be evaded. nor is there any vicarious atonement. the full penalty of disobedience will invariably be exacted. the hunt for a panacea is as sure to be disappointing in the future as it has been in the past." a writer in the _brooklyn citizen_ says:-- "few people are aware of the extent of a peculiar kind of dissipation known as ginger-drinking. the article used is the essence of ginger, such as is put up in the several proprietary preparations known to the trade, or the alcohol extract ordinarily sold over the druggist's counter. having once acquired a liking for it, the victim becomes as much a slave to his appetite as the opium eater or the votary of cocaine. in its effect it is much the most injurious of all such practices, for in the course of time it destroys the coating of the stomach, and dooms its victim to a slow and agonizing death. "the druggist who told me about the thing says that as ginger essence contains about one hundred per cent. alcohol, and whisky less than fifty per cent., the former is therefore twice as intoxicating. in fact, this is the reason why it is used by hardened old topers whose stomachs are no longer capable of intoxicating stimulation from whisky. they need the more powerful agency of the pure alcohol in the ginger extract. he told me that he had two regular customers, one a woman, who had ginger on several occasions for stomachic pains. the relief it afforded her was so grateful that she took it upon any recurrence of her trouble. she found, too, that the slight exhilaration of the alcohol banished mental depression. in this way she got to using it regularly, and finally to such excess that she was often grossly intoxicated. large doses produce a quiet stupor; additional doses induce a profound lethargic slumber, which lasts in some cases for twenty-four hours. his other customer was a peddler, who came at a certain hour every morning, bought a four-ounce bottle and drank its contents by noon. the man craved the stuff so ardently that he was unable to go about his business until he set the machinery of his stomach in operation, and started the circulation of the blood by means of the fiery draught. he says that the habit is well known to the drug trade." "the morphia habit, the cocaine habit, the chloral habit, and other poison habits which are prevalent in this and other countries, are only different manifestations of a wide-spread and apparently increasing love for drugs which benumb or excite the nerves, which seems to characterize our modern civilization. indeed, there appears to be, at the present time, almost a mania for the discovery of some new nerve-tickle, or some novel means of fuddling the senses. it is indeed high time that the medical profession raised, with one accord, its voice in solemn protest against the use of all nerve-obtunding and felicity-producing drugs, which are all, without exception, toxic agents, working mischief and only mischief in the human body."--dr. j. h. kellogg. much discussion upon careless drug-taking has resulted from remarks made recently in london by sir frederick treves, the king's surgeon, at the opening of a hospital. he said that the time is fast approaching when physicians will give very little medicine, but will instead teach the people right methods of living so that sickness may be avoided. although there are some physicians who appear to enjoy the old routine of giving heroic doses of ill-tasting liquids, there are others who agree with sir frederick, and admit that they would often be glad to give no medicine if their patients would be satisfied without it. but the great mass of people are unwilling to take a physician's advice as to proper clothing, suitable diet, and regular habits of living. they do not seek his advice upon those points; what they want is a drug that will benumb uneasy sensations while they live as they please. not long ago a business man of intelligence was heard to complain because he had tried several physicians and all had failed to cure his sciatica. he said they all told him he must live differently; several said he must quit smoking and lay aside wine and beer or he could not be cured. with scorn he said, "what are physicians good for if they don't know a drug that will cure as simple a thing as rheumatism?" he could not and would not believe that rheumatism might be the result of his wrong habits. akin to him in thought is a woman, much above the average in intelligence, who a few months ago had an operation performed upon her stomach. the stomach was enlarged so that the food did not pass through the pylorus, the opening into the intestines. the operation consisted in making a new opening and connecting it with an intestine. this bright woman now complains that the operation was not a success, because she still has times of great distress with indigestion. upon being asked what she eats, she laughed and said, "everything, peanuts, mince-pie, sauer-kraut, frankforts; whatever is going. i have a vigorous appetite, and keep peanuts and figs in my room, for i often have to eat in the night." until multitudes of people like that business man, and that bright woman, are educated in matters of health, it will not be easy for physicians to bring sir frederick's prediction to fulfilment. the popular supposition is that drugs _cure_ disease, and all that the medical adviser is for is to choose the drug that will produce the desired effect with the greatest speed. consequently the physician is in many cases driven to prescribe drugs that simply allay pain without removing the cause of the pain. he cannot remove the cause without the patient's co-operation, and as that would require the abandonment of wrong habits few are willing to accept health at such a price. what man will abandon beer to escape rheumatism, or smoking to save his eyesight if he has weakness there? or, what woman will cease tea-drinking if she has neuralgia? the _journal of the american medical association_ for november , , contained an editorial article in which, after reference to drugs necessary in the practice of a physician or surgeon, this is said:-- "the remark of holmes years ago that it would be better for the patients, but worse for the fish, if most of the drugs were thrown into the sea, is probably even more true to-day. the vast majority of these drugs have not the slightest excuse for existence." dr. t. d. crothers, in his valuable book upon morphinism and other drug addictions, reports a case of murder where it was shown that the assailant was delirious from large doses of quinine. he says assaults are often clearly traced to the drug taking of the assailant. a surgeon from a new york hospital, in speaking of drug habits before an audience at chautauqua, new york, said that some of the ovarian difficulties which demand operations are the result of over-dosing with quinine. there are people who keep morphine in the house all the time lest some little pain or ache should find them unprepared. dr. crothers, who has perhaps made more of a study of the evil results of drug taking than any other man in america, says of this:-- "morphine as a common remedy, taken for pains and aches, may suddenly develop into an incurable craze for its continuous use. * * * the early relief which morphine brings to the sufferer is often the beginning of an unknown journey ending in disease and death." cases are on record where morphine given to mothers soon after the birth of children to allay pain, has resulted in the death of the infant, the morphine having poisoned the milk. cocaine is possibly the most insidious of all drugs yet known. few of those who become enslaved to it ever are able to lay it aside. it leads to hallucinations of sight and hearing. many persons have become enslaved to cocaine unwittingly through its use in catarrh snuffs, asthma "cures," and other proprietary preparations, the composition of which was secret. some states now have strict laws regulating the sale of this dangerous drug. it is not only the enslaving drugs which are injurious to the body, but even such apparently simple agents as liver pills and pills for the relief of constipation may do more harm than good if resorted to frequently. some of the ingredients used in the pills for the relief of constipation are said to be injurious to the liver. dr. nathan s. davis, late dean of the northwestern university medical school, chicago, said of the coal-tar remedies, such as phenacetin and antipyrin, in the treatment of influenza and _la grippe_:--"while each dose temporarily reduces the fever it retards the most important physiological processes on which the living system depends for resisting the effects of toxic agents, namely, oxidation and elimination. this not only encourages the retention of poisonous agents by which fevers are protracted, but it greatly increases the number of cases of pneumonia that complicate _la grippe_. the bad work that people make in dosing themselves with patent medicines is not infrequently punctuated with a sudden death from overdosing with antipyrin, sulphonal, or some other coal-tar preparation." deaths from acetanilid are becoming more and more frequent. the presence of acetanilid in headache powders "guaranteed to be harmless" and thrown upon the door-steps as samples has led many persons into grave danger, and not a few to death. bromo-seltzer, orangeine, antikamnia, taylor's headache powders, and various other preparations have all contained this drug. the use of cocaine is advancing rapidly in this country.[tn: see errata at end of text] the following article is taken from _the banner of gold_, of feb., :-- "value of cocaine leaves imported at the port of new york in $ , imported in , indicated value of imports for , "in these simple figures are contained the elements of a warning sermon that would startle all america. we seem to be rapidly becoming a nation of cocaine fiends. if the number of those addicted to the use of the dreadful drug continues to increase at the present rate, the importation of what was originally regarded as a blessed alleviation of pain, will have to be classed with opium, and its use prohibited by law, except for medicinal purposes. "at present the cocaine fiend can purchase the drug without trouble, and the ease with which it is taken is a fatal recommendation to those who crave a nerve-deadener. no laborious cooking of pills over a lamp, cleaning of implements, or troublesome necessity for secrecy, as with the use of opium. cocaine can be taken at any time, with scarcely any trouble, and without a soul besides the user being aware of his being in the toils. "at first, that is. it will not be long before every intimate friend will observe a change, a gradual and scarcely perceptible change, come over the appearance and general conduct of the cocaine fiend. "begun in many cases in a legitimate way, as an anæsthetic, the surprisingly pleasant effect is sought for again by the one who has had a glimpse at the portals of the elysium. this is the beginning of the terrible habit. the effect is a sense of exhilaration followed by a quiet, dreamy state that causes the worried man to forget his troubles, and the sufferer his pain. once this freedom from physical and mental sickness has been experienced, the cocaine fiend will rob or kill to get the drug. enforced non-use of it will not cure the victim. sentence him to a term of imprisonment, and he will go straight from the jail door to the nearest drug store to secure cocaine before he eats or sleeps. "from an occasional use of the drug to insatiable craving is the rational course of the cocaine fiend. from thence to the insane asylum and the grave is a swift and easy descent. "in his fall from health to physical and mental disintegration, the cocaine fiend undergoes a terrible experience. when not in the temporary heaven that the drug provides, the victim is in the lowest depths of an _inferno_. he suffers from insomnia, anorexia, and gastralgic pains, dyspepsia, chronic palpitations, and will-paresis. he is a terror both to himself and others. the life of the man is a living death. he knows it, and with this knowledge staring him in the face, he rushes for the drug, and is happy for a brief period under its influence. "it is time something was done to keep from this high-strung nation a drug so deadly. clear-minded medical men have recommended its exclusion from the country, believing that its use medicinally should be foregone rather than that such a cursed temptation should be placed in the way of weak humanity. "what the real action of the drug is, and how to counteract its influence, are at present puzzling questions to the medical fraternity. a leading member of the profession to whom these questions were put replied after careful consideration as follows: 'its physiological action is practically unknown. as an analgesic, it is uniform in its action, and this is due to the suspension of the physiological functions of the sensory cells which it comes in contact with. beyond this, it is an excitant of the cerebro-spinal axis, later it has a peculiar action on the encephalon, manifest in a wide range of psychical phenomena. beyond this a great variety of widely variable symptoms appear. in some cases all the intellectual faculties are excited to the highest degree. in others a profound lowering of the senses and functional activities occur. morphine-takers can use large quantities of cocaine without any bad symptoms. alcoholics are also able to bear large doses. not unfrequently the excitement caused by cocaine goes on to convulsions, and death. sometimes its action is localized to one part of the cerebro-spinal axis, and then to another. in some cases well-marked cerebral anæmia appears, and for a time is alarming, but soon passes away. "small doses frequently given are more readily absorbed than large doses. habitues always use weak solutions, the effects being more pleasing with less excitation. morphine and alcoholic inebriates very soon acquire certain tolerance to large doses taken at once. the cocaine user takes large quantities, but in small doses frequently repeated. he becomes frightened at the effects of large doses, and when he cannot get the effects from small (to him safe) doses, he resorts to alcohol, morphine, or chloral. in many cases memories of the delusions and hallucinations are so vivid and distressing that other narcotics are used to prevent their recurrence. in other cases the recollection is very confused and vague, and strong suspicions fill the mind that the real condition is grossly exaggerated by the friends for some deterring effect. in common with opium and alcoholics, there is moral paralysis, untruthfulness, and low cunning in order to conceal and explain the condition by other than the real causes." hoffman drops are used considerably as a heart stimulant. they are much more intoxicating than whisky, and, used as a beverage, make the drinker crazy while under their influence. according to dr. f. e. jones, of mass. board of health, they consist of parts ether, parts alcohol, and parts ether oil. they are said to have a very bad effect upon the kidneys. _the banner of gold_ for oct., , contained a lengthy article upon the dangers of drugging, from which an extract is given here:-- "philanthropists, when trying to stay the hand of rum, do not overlook the victims of drugs. if you will go, under the protecting ægis of an officer, to an opium den, such as are to be found in every large city, and as a visitor view for yourself the degradation of hopeless opium users, then train your batteries towards removal of the cause. do not depend upon preaching, or the writing of essays, or the delivery of an address before some society whose mission ends in telling others what to do, but put on the armor of earnestness, go into the nursery, and demand of the mother to know why, when little lumps of human clay are placed in her keeping for the sacred purpose of moulding them into men and women, she deliberately feeds the prattling babe with soothing syrups, sleeping drops, paregoric, and opiates in various other forms, rather than with the healthful food, and simple remedies, that nature only requires. with such commercial nostrums the thoughtless mother too often paves the way for her offspring to a life of toxic-slavery by creating a systemic condition, which, in maturer years, develops an abnormal craving, or appetite, for narcotics and stimulants. follow this little victim of nursery malpractice through the imitative age, and you will discover in him the cigarette smoker, the tippler, the self-abased youth, and later, the man whose life is shadowed with the curse of baneful appetite. "ask the druggist, and the saloon keeper, why they dispense deadly poisons so freely to old and young, and they will tell you the law permits it; a sad commentary! "converted men relapse into evil ways through coquetting with sin; and cured inebriates relapse to drink, and drugs, through the use of proprietary medicines, with which the domestic market is flooded. tonics, compounds, nerve remedies, bitters, vitalizers, appetizers, balsams, pectorals and kindred nostrums contain, with few exceptions, from to per cent. of alcohol, or opium in varying quantities, each preponderating in kind, as the effect is designed to be stimulating, or sedative. the active principle of some of the best known catarrh remedies is cocaine, and a few manufacturers are honest enough to so announce on the labels covering their goods; more do not, and leave the victims to discover the truth after they have paid the penalty of ignorance, and developed the cocaine habit. wholesale legislation, as well as vigorous education, is needed along these lines, and while considering means of betterment, the reputable citizen, the clergyman, and others of good moral repute, whose names are so generally used to herald the efficacy of so-called remedial inventions, should not be overlooked for ethical attention. "for the information of those of our readers, who are not familiar with the nature and use of toxic drugs, we here refer briefly to the prominent characteristics of a few most dangerously potent for evil, and seductive in kind. opium and morphine:--"gum opium, the dried milky exudate from the green capsules of the white poppy, and its product--morphine--are the most reliable drugs known for the relief of pain. the dose of gum opium in medicine is from / to grain. it contains from to per cent. of morphine, which is its principal alkaloid. opium is a much more stable, and stronger, sedative than morphine. the cumulative effect of repeated medicinal doses is frequently observed, and is followed by dangerous symptoms. it is both a sedative and hypnotic, and, if given in large doses, quiets the brain, and excites the spinal cord. small doses have little perceptible effect upon the circulation, but, under the influence of large doses, the pulse is retarded, and the respiration becomes fuller, deeper, and slower. in poisonous doses the pulse may become rapid, and great depression follow, the respiratory centres are paralyzed, thus causing death. if taken in from to grain doses it produces deep comatose sleep, full breathing, full pulse, dry skin, and contracted pupils. if the dose is sufficiently large, the sleep will be more profound, the patient can hardly be roused, and if awakened quickly, he sinks back into slumber. the face may be swollen, and reddened, and the lips deeply tinged with blue. at this stage the breathing may be characterized as puffing. respiration may be from to per minute, perhaps be reduced to , or , and as the toxic effect is more marked, it becomes shallow, the pupils are contracted, and the patient is so thoroughly narcotized that nothing will arouse him, the heart ceases to beat, and he dies by respiratory failure, or paralysis of the pneumogastric nerve. "morphine, extracted from gum opium by a slow and expensive process, is used much less in proprietary medicines than is tincture of opium, which is more easily manufactured. "a medicinal dose of sulphate of morphine is from / to / of a grain. one grain is a dangerous dose, and grains are liable to prove fatal. morphine is a true narcotic. it is a sedative, lessens tissue change, and weakens every function of the body. tincture of opium, or laudanum:--"laudanum, or the tincture of opium, is a mixture of gum opium with alcohol and water, the solution consisting of equal parts of alcohol and water. each ounce contains - / grains of powdered gum opium and half an ounce of alcohol, and is equal in alcoholic strength to one ounce of strong whisky. the ordinary medical dose is from to minims, or from to drops. it is much used as a domestic remedy for pain from any cause, such as ear or toothache, indigestion, insomnia, summer complaints with children or adults, and is often used in poultices over painful sores or swellings. it is also used in many medicines for throat and lung troubles, in nearly all medicines for painful chronic diseases, and in many of the well advertised spring tonics, as well as in nearly all the compounds that are offered for sale for blood troubles, or as alteratives. the opium in laudanum acts the same as morphine, or any other of the thirty preparations of opium, officially recognized by the medical profession. paregoric:--"paregoric of standard grade is half alcohol, which is as strong of alcohol as high proof whisky. it contains a little opium, some benzoic acid, oil of anise, and camphor. the dose is from to drops. cocaine:--"cocaine is an alkaloid of coca leaves, and is used in medicine in the form of hydro-chlorate. it is used locally in powder or solution to relieve pain. it is a strong local anæsthetic. the ordinary dose when used as medicine is from / to / grain, and is very unstable and treacherous in its effects. some patients will tolerate large doses while in others small doses produce unpleasant effects. deaths are recorded from the use of - to grain. chloroform:--"chloroform is an anæsthetic, and death is often caused by a few inhalations. the dose internally is from to minims. it is not much used in medicine, except to control pain, and produce sleep. it is inhaled to produce mild slumber, or complete insensibility in surgical operations. death may come suddenly, and without warning, at any time during its administration. chloral:--"chloral, or hydrate of chloral, is an hypnotic. it is of but little value in medicine, except to control nervousness, and produce sleep. the dose is from to grains. it should be administered with caution, and only by the physician. it is made by passing chlorine gas through pure alcohol, and gets its name from the first syllables of the two words, chlorine and alcohol. it produces death by inhibition of the heart's action, and by paralyzing the pneumogastric nerve. bromidia:--"bromidia is the trademark of an hypnotic, the manufacturers of which give out to the public that each fluid drachm contains grains of chloral hydrate, or ounce to every ounces of bromidia. sulphonal:--"sulphonal is a coal tar preparation, and is valuable in medicine as an hypnotic only. an ordinary dose to produce sleep is from to grains. if it is given in these doses for several days in succession it produces great weariness, an unsteady gait, and may involve paralysis of the lower limbs, with great disturbance of digestion, and scanty secretion of urine of about the color of port wine. there are a number of cases of death reported as resulting from acute, or chronic poisoning, by sulphonal. phenacetine:--"phenacetine is a product of coal tar, and an antipyretic, a drug that lessens the temperature in high fevers, and rapidly disintegrates the blood. antifebrin:--"antifebrin, another of the coal tar preparations, is the registered name for acetanelid. its effects are very similar to the effects of phenacetine, and it is used in fevers for lessening the temperature, and for neuralgic pains. the medicinal dose is from to grains. unpleasant effects follow its continued use, such as great exhaustion, blueness of the lips, and a slow, labored pulse. headache remedies:--"the indiscriminate use of the many coal tar products and other hypnotics, such as sulphonal, phenacetine, antifebrin, chloral, bromidia, etc., under the guise of headache remedies is productive of much disaster, all being nerve paralyzants." the public owe a debt of gratitude to those physicians, and chemists, who give freely such valuable information as to the real nature and effects of dangerous drugs. while it is true that the popular belief in drugging is due to professional practice, yet it is also true that what the people know of the preservation of health, and of the danger of alcohol and other drugs is largely owing to the medical profession. there is as much difference among the members of the medical profession as there is among the members of any profession; some are careless, selfish, unprincipled, unobservant of the effects of various medicines; while others are anxious to teach the people how to avoid sickness, and gain strength. it is the latter class who warn against the self prescription of drugs, especially those of the dangerously seductive, narcotic class. yet, with all the warnings, few pay heed. even highly educated, intelligent people seem possessed of a blind faith in the power of drugs. every little ache or pain must have its sedative, be the future penalty what it may. were people to quit drugging themselves, avoid indigestible viands, eat at regular hours, chew well, stop eating when they have had enough, take a sufficiency of exercise, sleep and fresh air, with a hot bath once a week, and a cold "towel bath" each morning, laying aside all alcoholic beverages, tea and coffee, and tobacco, there would be very little sickness in the world. over-eating leads to the drug habit for relief from uneasy sensations, so does improper food, or poorly cooked food. it should be remembered that it is not possible to violate the laws which relate to the physical well-being, and then escape the natural penalty of transgression by swallowing a few doses of medicine. remedies may postpone the results of physical transgression, and may even seem to prevent them altogether, but careful observation will show that the escape from punishment is only apparent. sometimes a parent escapes, while his child pays the penalty of his transgression, in a weakly nervous system, which may lead to insanity, or other trouble. chapter xv. testimonies of physicians against alcoholic medication. "in abandoning the use of alcohol it should be clearly understood that we abandon an injurious influence, and escape from a source of disease, as we do when we get into a purer atmosphere. _there is not the slightest occasion to do anything, or to take anything to make up for the loss of a strengthening or supporting agent._ no loss has been incurred save the loss of a cause of disease and death."--dr. j. j. ridge, of london temperance hospital. sir. b. w. richardson, m. d., said of the london temperance hospital:-- "no alcohol is administered, and no substitute for it. any drug with similar action would be bad; warmth and suitable nourishment are relied on to keep up the system. we know that people who take alcohol often feel better; this is from the narcotic action. the pain may be stilled, and the disease forgotten, but it has not been removed; its symptom has been narcotized." another writer says:-- "i am asked for a substitute for brandy, and frankly and gladly i tell you there is no substitute, for i have no knowledge of any agent equally pleasing to the palate, and yet so destructive of life." dr. norman kerr, president of the society for the study of inebriety, england, says:-- "my own experience of thirty-four years in the practice of my profession has taught me that in nearly all cases and kinds of disease the medical use of alcohol is unnecessary, and in a large number of instances is prejudicial and even dangerous. having given an intoxicant, in strictly definite and guarded doses, probably on the whole only about once in , cases (then usually when nothing else was available in an emergency), and having had most varieties of disease to contend with, my death-rate and duration of illness have been quite as low as my neighbors. the experience of the london temperance hospital and other similar institutions, the current reports of that hospital being now reliable scientific records, amply support this experience. "the chief peril of narcotic drugs has always appeared to me to lie in their disguising the real state of the patient from himself as well as from his doctor and his friends. if there is any serious ailment, such as cholera or fever, the sufferer may seem to be and may feel better. he is not better. he is actually worse--made worse by the alcohol, and not unseldom, after the evanescent alcoholic disguise and deceptive improvement has faded, it is found that the malady itself has been progressing, unseen and unsuspected from the delusive aspect of the alcohol, steadily toward a fatal termination, which might, in many cases, have been averted but for the true state of the patient having been completely masked. "wherever the blame really has lain, one thing is now clear, that alcoholic intoxicants are very rarely useful as a medicine; are at the best dangerous remedies; and that, other things being equal, the less they are resorted to the better for the chances of the patient's recovery, the better for body and brain, the better for physical, intellectual and moral well-being. alcohol does not nourish, but pulls down; does not stimulate, but depresses; does not strengthen, but excites and exhausts. alcohol is the pathological fraud of frauds, degenerating while it claims to be reconstructing, enfeebling while it appears to be invigorating, destroying vitality while it professes to infuse new life." a medical writer in the toledo, o., _blade_ holds up in clear light the relation of the _materia medica_ and alcohol, and the opportunity of the physician to become a benefactor, and active temperance worker. his remarks follow:-- "one of the signs of the times in the temperance movement is the steady growth among physicians of a sentiment against the administration of liquor of any kind as a medicine. the accepted scientific view of alcohol is that it is a poison, and its administration should be as guarded as that of any other poison used as a medicine. perhaps the hardest thing a physician finds in his effort to restore his patients to health without the use of liquors is the common, but erroneous, belief that they are 'strengthening,' and that the convalescent, by their use, reaches recovery more quickly. the error is in supposing that any alcoholic liquor is nourishing, or strengthening. they are neither. alcohol does not nourish, but it pulls down; it does not strengthen, but excites and exhausts, for every stimulation is necessarily followed by a period of depression, and this is inevitably unfavorable to the patient. "there is a grave responsibility resting on the physician who prescribes alcoholic liquor. it may arouse in a susceptible patient a dormant, inherited tendency to drink. he may, by authorizing its use during the period of convalescence, fix a habit upon a patient of feeble will, which the latter will never be able to shake off. no physician who realizes this great moral responsibility will be willing to accept it habitually. he certainly knows that the best medical authorities agree that alcoholic intoxicants are rarely useful as a medicine; that at best they are dangerous remedies, and that the less they are resorted to, the better for both brain and body. "in point of fact the physician who does his duty to his patient teaches him the error of the prevalent belief in the virtues of liquor in restoring the sick to health. he becomes an active temperance worker in effect. and he can do a noble and useful work in the rescue of those who are under the control of the drink habit. * * * * * "furthermore, every physician owes it to his profession to teach his patients the utter fallacy of the common belief that alcohol is an article of food value. it has no such value. the use of intoxicants in any quantity whatever, or at any time, is entirely useless and unnecessary. the continued use of them gradually induces structural degradations and functional derangements of the great bodily organs, thus leading to the gravest physical disorders." "i have demonstrated by actual experience that no form of alcoholic drink is necessary, or desirable, for internal use, either in health, or any of the varied forms of disease; but that health can be better preserved, and disease more successfully treated, without the use of such drinks.* * * * * simple truth compels me to say that i have never yet seen a case in which the use of alcoholic drinks either increased the force of the heart's action, or strengthened the patient. but i could detail very many cases in which the administration of alcoholics was quieting the patient's restlessness, enfeebling the capillary circulation, and steadily favoring increased engorgement of the lungs and other internal viscera, and thereby hastening a fatal result, where both attending physician and friends thought they were the only agents that were keeping the patient alive. "i have found no case of disease and no emergency arising from accident, that i could not treat more successfully without any form of fermented or distilled liquors than with. it is easy to see that the anæsthetic properties of alcohol can be made available by an intelligent and skillful physician to meet a very limited number of indications in the treatment of some cases that will come before him. but the same intelligence and skill will enable him to select other remedies capable of meeting the same indications more perfectly, and, with less tendency to secondary bad effects. i have no hesitation, therefore, in stating that for the attainment of the highest degree of success in the management of all forms of disease, whether acute or chronic, we need no form of fermented, or distilled, alcoholic drinks. and whoever will boldly make the trial, will find that his patients, of every kind, will make better progress, on good air and simple nourishment, without any admixture of alcoholic liquids, than they will with such addition. in other words he will find that the supposed benefits of this class of agents in medicine, are as illusory as they are in general society, and that the words of the wise man are worthy of careful consideration when he says: 'wine is a mocker and strong drink is raging, and whosoever is _deceived_ thereby is not wise.'"--dr. n. s. davis, chicago, ill. "dr. hirschfeld, a well-known physician of magdeburg, germany, was recently arrested on a charge of malpractice. the specific charge was that he had refused to give alcohol to one of his patients who was supposed to need it. the doctor, like the more advanced german physicians, is discarding liquor from his practice, and made such a hot defence to the charge that the court not only discharged the physician, but assessed the cost of the defense against the prosecution."--_bulletin of a. m. t. a._ dr. greene, of boston, when addressing his brethren and sisters of the medical association in that city, upon alcohol, said in closing:-- "it needs no argument to convince you that it is upon the medical profession, to a very great extent, that the rum-seller depends to maintain the respectability of the traffic. it requires only your own experience, and observations, to convince you that it is upon the medical profession, upon their prescriptions and recommendations for its use upon many occasions, that the habitual dram-drinker depends for the seeming respectability of his drinking habits. it is upon the members of the medical profession, and the exceptional laws which it has always demanded, that the whole liquor fraternity depends, more than upon anything else, to screen it from opprobrium, and just punishment for the evils which the traffic entails upon society; and it is because the rum-seller, and the rum-drinker, hide under this cloak of seeming respectability that they are so difficult to reach either by moral suasion, or by law. physicians generally have only to overcome the force of habit, and the prevailing fashion in medicine, to find an excellent way, when they will all look back with wonder and surprise, that they, as individuals, and members of an honored profession, should have been so far compromised." "it will be asked, _was there no evidence of any good service rendered by the agent in the midst of so much obvious bad service?_ i answer to that question that there was no such evidence whatever, and is none."--sir b. w. richardson. "a prominent general practitioner expressed surprise that any one could do without alcohol in general medicine. he was persuaded to make a trial, by abandoning the internal use of spirits as medicine. a year afterward he wrote that his success in the treatment of disease had been equal to that of any year in the past, and that his cases recovered as well without alcohol as with it. in a recent medical meeting he remarked, 'i thought for many years that i could not do without spirits as medicine. i was mistaken. i am constantly treating cases of all degrees of severity without alcohol, and my success is fully equal to the average.'"--_quarterly of a. m. t. a._ "happily, the belief in alcohol is passing away."--dr. c. r. francis, late professor of medicine, calcutta medical college. dr. moor, the distinguished editor of the _pacific record_, says:-- "while the use of alcohol is always injudicious and injurious, it is particularly so in summer, when the system is predisposed to disturbances of the gastro-intestinal tract. "alcohol flushes the capillaries of the mucous membranes just as it does the capillaries of the skin, and where there is already a smouldering congestion, it will take but little to light the fire of acute inflammation, which will rage with greatly increased intensity. "it is wiser to habitually avoid even the medicinal use of alcohol, as there are plenty of other stimulants which will give the desired results without entailing any disastrous after effects." "all the pleasant sensations of increased mental and physical power, which the use of alcohol produces, are deceptive and arise from the paralysis of the judgment and the momentary benumbing of the sense of fatigue which afterwards returns so imperiously with perhaps even greater intensity."--prof. adolf fick, of wurzburg. dr. frank payne, vice-president of the london pathological society, says:-- "alcohol is a functional and tissue poison, and there is no proper or necessary use for it as a medicine." "when i first heard that there was going to be a total abstinence hospital, i thought it would be a complete failure. that was because i had been taught as a student to regard alcohol as absolutely necessary in the treatment of disease. nevertheless i was an abstainer myself. when i was asked to join as physician, i did not consent without a good deal of consideration, and then only on the understanding that if i thought a person needed it, i should be allowed to administer alcohol. i remember the first case of severe typhoid fever i had. he was hovering between life and death, and i was anxiously watching to see whether it would be necessary to give alcohol, but the man made a good recovery without it. after watching many cases to whom i should have given alcohol if i had been treating them elsewhere, i came to the conclusion that i had been completely deluded. i gave it at one time to a woman in the hospital who was in a dying condition, but it did not save her. i do not think i am likely to administer alcohol again. we have had progress and efficiency in the hospital. it has been like an experiment for the profession, and our success shows that this giving of alcohol is certainly a matter for re-consideration for the medical profession. i believe that they are mistaken. there is no doubt that the amount of alcohol used in other hospitals has diminished greatly, compared with what was used in the past. to the outside public also this hospital is an example. i believe that an immense number of the public have been teetotalers some time in their lives, but a great many of them have gone back to the drink in time of illness, because they have been advised to do so. this hospital is a standing witness that disease and surgical injuries can be treated without alcoholic liquors."--dr. j. j. ridge, of london temperance hospital. "i find very little use for alcohol in the practice of medicine. where there is one element of good in alcohol there are thousands that are bad."--dr. alfred mercer, syracuse, n. y., professor of medicine in syracuse medical school. "alcohol is rarely necessary. other remedies are much more efficacious. in my department of the university of buffalo i follow cushny, who claims that alcohol is a poison, a depressant in direct proportion to the amount ingested, and a so-called false food."--dr. de witt h. sherman, adjunct professor of therapeutics, university of buffalo medical department. "i believe that alcohol is the greatest foe to the human race to-day. i feel that it would not be a serious harm if its use as a medicine were totally discontinued."--dr. walter e. fernald, professor in tufts medical school, boston, mass. "i rarely or never prescribe alcohol as a medicament or a food, or sanction its use as a beverage. physiologically i look upon alcohol as a narcotic, with perhaps a primary stimulating effect, but i believe that such desired action as it is capable of producing can be equally well brought about by other agents. as a beverage the use of alcohol, particularly in excess, is attended with definite and well-known dangers."--dr. a. a. eshner, professor of clinical medicine, philadelphia polyclinic and college for graduates in medicine. "i agree with you altogether in your agitation against the use of alcohol in any form. i believe that wine is a mocker, and belief in wine as a benefit, mockery."--dr. matthew woods, philadelphia, pa. "it is extremely seldom that i ever advise the use of alcohol in any form for my patients."--elliott p. joslin, m. d., professor in harvard medical school, boston, mass. "my belief is that there is very little need of the medical use of alcohol. i almost never use it in my practice, and think that its use by practitioners generally is far less than it was a few years ago."--dr. e. g. cutler, professor in harvard medical school, boston, mass. "i believe that the trend of teaching in the harvard medical school has been growing less favorable, of late years, to the use of alcohol in the treatment of disease, and in fact it is far less used than it was a generation ago."--dr. james j. putnam, professor in harvard medical school. "my personal opinion in regard to the use of alcoholic drinks is very decidedly averse to such use. i have long been of the opinion that while the use of alcohol may restrain tissue metamorphosis, it cannot legitimately be considered a food."--dr. william o. stillman, albany medical college, albany, n. y. "i do not think you will meet with very many physicians who favor alcohol and its use. i believe the trend of the teaching in the albany medical college is that alcohol is not a food or stimulant."--dr. a. vander veer, albany, n. y., medical school. "i think the medical profession could get along perfectly well without the use of alcohol, except as it is needed in the manufacture of drugs. as a therapeutic agent, it has very little value. i do not suppose i have used a pint of alcohol in the last ten years. i think the tendency of the medical profession throughout the country is to give up alcohol in the treatment of disease."--dr. matthew d. mann, dean of the medical department of the university of buffalo, n. y. "i very seldom prescribe alcohol as a medicine, and think its effects are positively harmful in the vast majority of medical cases."--dr. allen a. jones, adjunct professor of medicine, buffalo, n. y. "at the baptist hospital i have not ordered alcohol for a patient in several years. at the massachusetts general hospital, in the out-patient department, i never prescribe it."--dr. richard badger, of harvard medical school, boston. "alcohol is used much too freely in the treatment of the sick, especially in such conditions as mild typhoid fever, neurasthenia and early tuberculosis. it should be prescribed only when there is definite indication for it, and then in definite dose for a limited period in the same manner as any other powerful and potentially harmful drug."--dr. s. s. cohen, jefferson medical college, philadelphia. "it is seldom necessary to prescribe alcohol as a medicine."--dr. james b. herrick, professor of medicine in rush medical college, chicago. "as i have said but little about the use of medicine in the treatment of typhoid fever, save for one symptom, i may add, for the purpose of definiteness, that i use none except for special symptoms. the rare exceptions are stimulants such as strychnia, in less marked indications coffee. alcohol as a routine drug i have entirely abandoned, having found that the doses formerly given before or after the bath are altogether unnecessary. hot milk internally, or hot water bags externally, more than replace spirits according to my experience."--dr. george dock, new orleans. "i have no use for alcohol, either personally, or in my practice. yet i cannot say that i have entirely abolished it. alcohol is used in compounding most of our tinctures, but in remedies proper my experience has been that other stimulants, such as ammonia, strychnine, caffeine, kolafra, etc., answer the same purpose without alcohol's dangerous effects. in my practice, which is confined to surgery, i find very, very little use for it. during the past year, in extreme cases, i used it in hypodermic injections, and afterwards felt that ether, or ammonia would have answered the same purpose. i think, in general practice, physicians are dispensing with alcohol more and more, but perhaps unconsciously."--d. w. b. de garmo, professor of surgery in post-graduate hospital, new york city. "medicine, to-day, would be in a more satisfactory condition if the use of alcohol as a medicine had been interdicted a hundred years ago, and the interdict had remained to the present day. the benefits derived from its use are so small (even when they can be proved, which is much more rarely the case than most people imagine), and the advantages gained are so slight, that they are completely outweighed when we set against them the evil that has been wrought by the abuse of alcohol, and that has arisen out of the loose methods of prescription that have obtained, and even still obtain, in regard to this drug."--dr. g. sims woodhead, f. r. c. p., f. r. s., director of the research laboratories of the royal college of physicians and surgeons, london. "the effect of continually dosing with this drug is too apparent wherever it is used, benumbing the senses, and rendering more difficult every natural function. alcohol never sustains the powers of life. it sometimes changes the symptoms of disease, but at the expense of the vitality of the body. what is called its supporting action, is a fever induced by the poison, which finally prostrates the patient. the secret of its action is found in the laws of vitality. the man who takes alcohol to help digest his food, must first throw off the alcohol, before his stomach can act healthfully. "there is one encouraging fact to be noted in this connection, that the use of alcohol in medicine has very much diminished during the past twenty-five years, and the present tendency is constantly in that direction. right here is an important point which i wish to make: when the physician ceases to prescribe alcohol as a medicine, the drink problem will have reached the final stage of its solution. mankind will eventually learn that safety lies not so much in skillful doctors, or in some wonderful 'new remedy,' as in daily obedience to the laws of health. a small amount of prevention is of more worth than all the power of cure."--dr. c. h. shepard, brooklyn, n. y. "my observation has been that there is a decided tendency among educated physicians to give less alcohol than formerly in the treatment of disease. of late years i have given but very little alcohol in my own practice. the tendency is due, in my opinion, to the study of the physiological action of drugs, and to the better understanding of the causation of disease and pathological processes. modern investigators now know that we have therapeutic agents that meet the requirements of disease processes with more scientific accuracy than is obtained by the exhibition of alcohol."--dr. donnelly, secretary of minnesota state medical society, st. paul, minn. "dr. pearce gould recently made a speech to the national temperance league on alcohol and the advantage of doing without it, both in health and in the treatment of disease. it takes a strong man to say the strong things which mr. gould said on the subject, especially if he happens to be a medical man. no doubt, as dr. gould says, the use of alcohol in medical practice is nothing now compared to what it was twenty years ago, much more forty years ago, when dr. todd's influence, and the reaction from the so-called antiphlogistic treatment were at their height. public opinion has been enlightened by the evidence of leaders in medicine, such as dr. parkes, sir william gull, dr. gairdner, dr. sanderson, and others, and medical men have dared to treat disease without alcohol, or with only small quantities of it. there are physicians and surgeons of reputation and success, who are so strong in their convictions that alcohol is of little use in the treatment of disease, that it destroys tissues, lessens the resistance to microbes, deranges functions, spoils temper, and shortens life, that they are ready to testify to this effect in public, in company with redoubtable champions of the temperance cause like the archbishop of canterbury, sir william white (chief constructor of the navy), and the bishop of derry, who have as much prejudice to contend against in their spheres as the medical man has in his. we recognize with pleasure the good done by such testimony as dr. gould's. men whose record and authority in the profession are such as his have the courage of their opinions, and their honest testimony will be respected even by those who do not go quite so far in discarding alcohol as an element of diet, or as a medicine."--_the lancet_, london, may , . "the light of exact investigation has shown that the therapeutic value of alcohol rests on an insecure basis, and it is constantly being made clearer that after all alcohol is a sort of poison to be handled with the same care and circumspection as other agents capable of producing noxious and deadly effect upon the organism. it has been shown by abbott and others that alcoholic animals are more susceptible to infections than normal animals. and laitinen, after having studied the influence of alcohol upon infections with anthrax, tubercle and diphtheria bacilli in dogs, rabbits, guinea-pigs and pigeons, reaches the same general results with certainty and directness. under all circumstances alcohol causes a marked increase in susceptibility no matter whether given before or after infections, no matter whether the doses were few and massive or numerous and small, and no matter whether the infection was acute or chronic. the alcoholic animals either die while the controls remain alive, or in case both die, death is earlier in the alcoholic. the facts brought out by the researches of abbott and laitinen and others do not furnish the slightest support for the use of alcohol in the treatment of infectious diseases in man."--_journal american medical association, editorial, september , ._ "step by step the progress of science has nullified every theory on which the physician administers alcohol. every position taken has been disapproved. alcohol is not a food and does not nourish, but impairs nutrition. it is not a stimulant in the proper acceptation of the term; on the contrary it is a depressant. hence its former universal use in cases of shock was, to say the least, a grave mistake. it has been proved by recent experiments that alcohol retards, perverts, and is destructive either in large or small doses to normal cell growth and development."--nathan s. davis, sr., m.d., former dean of northwestern university medical school, chicago, illinois. (deceased.) "it seems to me that the field of usefulness of alcohol in therapeutics is extremely limited and possibly does not exist at all. probably every supposed indication for its use can be met better and more safely by other drugs. the recent work on the so-called food value of alcohol is the subject of much misunderstanding. while it is true that under some circumstances, for example, after a person has acquired a certain degree of tolerance to its poisonous effects, alcohol seems to act as a food in the sense that fats and carbohydrates do, i believe this to be at present a matter of little more than theoretical importance."--dr. reid hunt, chief of the department of pharmacology, public health and marine hospital service, washington, d.c. "the physician should have blazoned before him, 'if you can do no good, do no harm.' if this rule is adhered to, in ninety-nine cases out of one hundred the physician will give no alcohol. in the medical wards of the pennsylvania hospital i have found that in acute as well as chronic disease we can do without alcohol. it does harm rather than good. alcohol masks the symptoms of disease, so that we cannot know the patient's real condition."--j. h. musser, m. d., philadelphia, pa., ex-president american medical association. "it is time alcohol was banished from the medical armamentarium; whisky has killed thousands where it cured one."--j. h. mccormack, m. d., secretary kentucky board of health, and organizer for the american medical association. "i very rarely use alcohol in my practice. i think that its use is never essential. physicians are using it less and less in the treatment of disease owing to the recognition that it is a narcotic, not a stimulant, and that other narcotics are usually better when a narcotic is required."--richard c. cabot, m. d., professor of clinical medicine, harvard medical school, boston, mass. "my position has been that alcohol should be prescribed with as much care as to indications and circumspection as to dose and method as in the use of any other drug that in health would prove harmful, as morphine, belladonna, aconite, quinine, etc. i believe strongly that in pneumonia, typhoid fever, and tuberculosis especially, the indiscriminate use of alcohol in the past has caused an incalculable amount of distress and needless disaster to suffering humanity."--howard s. anders, m. d., professor of physical diagnosis, medico-chirurgical college, philadelphia, pa. "i do not think alcohol of any value in the treatment of disease; formerly it was used a great deal in the hospital wards, and 'liquor slips' were daily signed. now, i never order liquor in any quantity, and at times for weeks i have not signed a single slip ordering liquor."--henry jackson, m. d., professor in harvard medical school. "in the overwhelming majority of cases i am in entire sympathy with the movement to abolish the routine use of alcoholics from medicine, and i rarely advise such in my practice."--edward r. baldwin, m. d., saranac lake sanitarium, new york. "i seldom prescribe alcohol."--george blumer, m. d., yale medical school, new haven, conn. "whereas, the study of alcohol from a scientific standpoint has demonstrated that its action is deceptive, and that it does not have the medical properties that we once claimed for it; now, therefore, be it "_resolved_, by the west virginia state medical association, that we deplore the fact that our profession has been quoted so long as claiming for it virtues which it does not possess, and that we earnestly pledge ourselves to discourage the use of it, both in and out of the sick room."--_resolution passed at annual meeting may, ._ "i have been actively engaged in the practice of medicine for nearly twenty-five years, in the early portion of which i prescribed alcoholics moderately but yet with considerable frequency. for the past ten years i have been finding professionally less place for alcoholics of any sort in my practise, and for perhaps three years i have scarcely ever prescribed them. i am satisfied that my cases of pneumonia and typhoid come through in better condition without anything alcoholic, even wines, and i no longer prescribe these at all in cases of tuberculosis. i have noted also that among my professional associates of the thinking rather than of the automatic type, the medicinal use of alcohol is rapidly lessening."--c. g. hickey, m. d., lecturer on medicine, denver and gross college of medicine, denver, colorado. "in the thirteen years i have taught in michigan i have not used alcohol in the treatment of disease in a routine way. even alcoholic preparations, such as tinctures, have been used in very rare instances. i have occasion to speak on this subject every year to about two hundred students. my reasons for taking this stand are chiefly medical, though i am heartily in sympathy with the ethical and moral phases of the temperance movement."--dr. george dock, formerly professor of medicine, university of michigan medical college, now of tulane university, new orleans. "alcohol is distinctly a poison, and the limitation of its use should be as strict as that of any other kind of poison. it is not an appetizer, and even in small quantities it hinders digestion. the use of alcohol is emphatically diminishing in hospital practise."--sir frederick treves, surgeon to king edward. "if during the last quarter of a century i have prescribed almost no alcohol in the treatment of disease, it is because i have found very little reason for its use, and it seemed to me that my patients got on better without it."--sir james barr, dean of the medical school of liverpool university. "with the increase of medical knowledge and with the increase of medical observation, it is shown every year that the value of alcohol as a drug has been enormously overestimated. it is a very poor agent, and only in common use because it is so easily obtained. the medical profession is using it less and less, because they appreciate it now at its true value. personally i never order it, because i believe patients recover better without it."--sir victor horsley, surgeon to london hospital. "the same care and discrimination should be given to the prescribing of alcohol as to the most deadly drug with which we have to deal. in looking at the report of radcliffe infirmary for the past month i see that in dealing with twenty-five cases i ordered alcohol costing exactly - / pence."--dr. william collier, president british medical association, . "in england at present the use of large doses of alcohol seems to have greatly gone out of hospital practise, and opinion is certainly growing that not even small doses are required. diseases of the stomach, liver, heart, and kidneys have appeared to me, in my practise, to be much more satisfactorily treated without beer, wines, or spirits."--dr. c. r. drysdale, consulting physician to the metropolitan hospital, london. "alcohol is a functional and tissue poison, and there is no proper or necessary use for it as medicine."--dr. frank payne, vice-president london pathological society. "of scarlet fever i have treated some , cases. i have never seen a case in which, in my opinion, alcohol was necessary; no case in which its administration was beneficial; but i have seen more than one case in which its action was directly injurious. * * * alcohol in no case averts a fatal issue where such is impending. * * * the facts are dead against alcohol. in hospitals there has been an increase of per cent. in the use of milk, and a decline of per cent. in the use of alcohol. progress in treatment of disease has gone hand in hand with disuse of alcohol. the use of alcohol formerly was the outcome of ignorance, a confession of weakness and defeat; to-day it is the expression of inability to discard the fetters of an outworn routine."--dr. c. knox bond, in medical times. "for many years i have dispensed almost entirely with alcohol as an aid in surgical treatment. as a student i saw it used, almost as a matter of routine, for every kind of surgical malady except head injuries, and in my early years i naturally followed the practise of my teachers; but as soon as i made trial for myself of the effect of withholding alcohol, i found how entirely overrated its value was, and how gravely mistaken had been the teaching. it is commonly held, i believe, that alcoholic stimulants are of especial value in all forms of septic inflammation, such as erysipelas, pyæmia, septicæmia, and hectic fever. i believe that this belief is founded solely upon tradition unsupported by any trustworthy evidence, and untested by experiment or experience."--dr. a. pearce gould, f. r. c. s., surgeon to the middlesex hospital, london. "i have not prescribed alcohol to my patients for more than ten years, and can affirm positively that they have fared well under this change of treatment. since i formerly followed the universal practice, i am competent to make comparisons, and these speak unconditionally in favor of treatment without alcohol. as a preventive of waste i use among fever patients nothing but real foods; in addition to milk, particularly sugar, which can be administered to any fever patient in ample quantity in the form of fruit juices, stewed fruit, sweet lemonade, fruit ices, sugared tea, etc., concerning which hundreds of investigations have demonstrated positively that it prevents the waste of both albumen and fat. as a stimulant i employ, besides hydriatic methods, which at the same time abstract heat, almost nothing but camphor, and i can affirm that it is unconditionally preferable to alcohol for its prompt results and the absence of disagreeable after-effects (intoxication, benumbing). pneumonia, especially, subsides without alcohol to perfect satisfaction, and i rejoice to agree in this respect with aufrecht, one of the best authorities on this disease, who in his monograph in nothnagle's manual, acknowledges himself hostile to the use of alcohol in the treatment of pneumonia, and hopes that its use may be speedily abolished. for the reasons previously specified, i should like to see that extended to all use of alcohol in therapeutics. however, that can come to pass only when all thinking physicians clearly appreciate the fact that no substance is able to undertake the double role of a food and a poison, and, also, that for alcohol no nutritive, but only toxic properties can be claimed."--max kassowitz, m. d., professor in the university of vienna, austria. "besides its deleterious influence on the nervous system and other important parts of our body, alcohol has a harmful action on the phagocytes, the agents of natural defense against infective microbes."--prof. metchnikoff, pasteur institute, paris, france. "alcoholic liquors are, to my mind, not only not valuable, but distinctly disadvantageous, in the treatment of disease, except in rare instances, as for example in the initial chill of some acute infectious disease. however, i have almost given up the use of alcohol in the treatment of disease."--dr. d. l. edsall, professor of therapeutics in the university of pennsylvania medical school. "as a rule which might well be regarded as universal in the practice of medicine, alcohol in the treatment of disease is an evil. in ordinary doses and in continuous use the sum of its reactions increases exhaustion, which may terminate fatally."--dr. john van duyn, professor of medicine in syracuse, n. y., university medical school. "in sixteen years of active practice i have not used alcoholics at all. i am medical director of the scranton sanitarium, and i have considerable trouble in trying to cure those who use alcohol, and to undo some of the work my fellow practitioners have unwittingly made."--d. webster evans, m. d., scranton, pa. "i am opposed to the use of alcoholic liquors as a beverage, and with rare exceptions, to their use in the treatment of diseases."--dr. eugene kerr, physician to phipps dispensary, johns hopkins hospital, baltimore, md. "in my professional work i do not advise or permit the use of alcohol as a beverage or medicine in any form whatever. no alcohol is used medicinally in my hospital wards. beer or wine is not permitted to convalescents. children are never given tinctures. cases of delirium tremens receive no alcohol. the hypodermic use of alcohol is not permitted in cases of shock. there are other much more effective and less depressing diffusable stimulants. "among my colleagues the employment of alcohol as a medicine has diminished at least seventy-five per cent. in the past fifteen years. "i have cast it out entirely."--j. p. warbasse, m. d., chief surgeon german hospital, brooklyn, n. y. "the habitual use of alcohol in any disease is worse than harmful."--robert b. preble, m. d., chicago, ill. "the last few years i find i have used less and less alcohol in prescribing for my patients until at the present time i use very little. i think my typhoid cases do better without alcohol than with it."--h. h. healy, m. d., former sec'y north dakota board of health. "alcohol is a poison. it is claimed by some that alcohol is a food. if so, it is a poisoned food."--frederick peterson, m. d., professor of psychiatry, columbia university, n. y. "few physicians now credit alcohol as a food (that is, as a tissue builder) or as having any valuable medicinal qualities. in fact, it is considered by many to have a destructive rather than a constructive quality. i believe it should never be put into the human body."--eugene hubbell, m. d., st. paul, minn. "the medical profession is learning that alcohol has been much abused in the treatment of the sick, and is largely discarding it. i hardly find occasion to prescribe it once a year."--w. a. plecker, m. d., sec'y state board of health, hampton, va. "the use of alcohol as a beverage or therapeutically, is in either case a habit of the user. the stimulation is but temporary, the reaction leaving the nerve cells of the individual with less resisting power than before the ingestion of alcohol. * * * never permit a verbal or written prescription of yours to give rise to the use of a habit forming drug."--_from a lecture to students in omaha medical college by j. m. aiken, m. d., clinical instructor and lecturer upon nervous and mental diseases._ "the use of spirits as a stimulant in diseases, except in a very limited circle, is a mere empiricism for which no good reasons can be given. the teachings of medical men are no more to be followed blindly and without question. the tests of alcohol as a tonic, as a food, as a stimulant, as a retarder of waste, are all negative. there is no reliable evidence to support these claims, but a constant accumulation of facts to indicate the danger from the use of spirits. to give alcohol or any other drug without some rational theory in accord with the scientific researches of to-day is unpardonable."--dr. t. d. crothers, hartford, conn., editor of the journal of inebriety. "many physicians prescribe alcohol only because it is the desire of the patient, and because patients refuse medicine which the physicians would rather use."--everett hooper, m. d. boston, mass. "you are right in indicting alcohol for its insidious wrongs to humanity. it is an old and sly offender and very much the 'mocker' in medical practise that it has been pronounced in holy writ. it exhausts the latent energy of the organism often when that power is most needed to conserve the failing strength of the body in the battle with disease."--dr. c. h. hughes, st. louis, missouri. "the best class of thinkers, men of the best intellectual gauge, are those who are doing away with this miserable, unscientific practise of giving liquor."--dr. boynton, clifton springs, n. y. "i believe that in the scientific light of the present era alcohol should be classed among the anæsthetics and poisons, and that the human family would be benefited by its entire exclusion from the field of remedial agents."--dr. j. s. cain, dean of the faculty, medical department, university of the south, sewanee, tenn. "let me cite my experience in surgery for the last three years in proof of the uselessness of alcohol, and the benefit of abstinence from its administration. during that time i have performed more than one thousand operations, a large portion upon cases of railroad injuries, one hundred for appendicitis, and in none of these was alcohol administered in any form, either before, during, or after operations. i defy any one who still adheres to alcohol to show as good results. equally gratifying results have been obtained with my medical cases, and i fail to understand how any observing and thinking physician can still cling to so prejudicial a drug as alcohol, when he has within his reach a multitude of valuable, exact, and reliable methods for combating, governing, and controlling disease."--dr. evan c. kane, surgeon pennsylvania railroad, kane, pa. "in my neurological practice i emphatically forbid my patients the use of alcohol. this poison has a special predilection for the nervous system which it influences sometimes to an alarming extent."--alfred gordon, m. d., jefferson medical college, philadelphia, pa. "alcohol finds no place in my remedial list. it has been banished, not from sentiment, but from knowledge secured by scientific investigation."--t. alexander macnicholl, m. d., new york city, one of the founders of the red cross hospital, new york. "no sound, scientific argument can be offered for the medical use of alcohol, either internally or externally. it is a toxic substance which ought to be retired from the _materia medica_, and placed in the catalog of obsolete drugs along with tobacco, lobelia, and like useless but highly toxic drug substances."--dr. j. h. kellogg, superintendent battle creek sanitarium, battle creek, michigan. "the majority of medical men, without making any searching investigation into the abundant recent literature upon the subject of alcohol, are disposed to regard it with less and less favor as the years go by, while those who have closely followed the thorough investigations into the physiological action of alcohol recently made by scientists, have repudiated it altogether. * * * it is a lack of information upon this subject--together with the fact that alcohol has been used as a therapeutic agent for hundreds of years, during which it has formed the basis of all tonic or stimulating treatment--that gives alcohol its present hold upon a part of the medical profession."--john madden, m. d., portland, oregon, formerly professor in milwaukee medical college. "alcohol may fill an emergency when better means are not at hand, but, apart from this, i know of no use in the practise of medicine and surgery for which we have not better weapons at our command. there is but one reason for the continued use of alcohol--men use it because they love it." dr. w. f. waugh, chicago, editor journal of clinical medicine. "if alcohol had become a candidate for recognition years ago instead of centuries ago it is safe to say that its application in medicine would have been very much more limited than we find it at the present time. its wide therapeutic use is to be attributed in part to fallacies and misconception regarding its pharmacology, and in part to a disinclination on the part of the average practitioner of medicine to depart from old and well-beaten lines."--winfield s. hall, m. d., professor of physiology, northwestern university medical school, chicago. "in its relation to the human system, alcohol is never constructive and always destructive."--prof. frank woodbury, m. d., philadelphia, pa. "the clinicians who decide for the deleterious action of alcohol in infectious conditions have what evidence of an experimental nature we possess at the present time to support their impressions. the advocates of the continuous use of the drug have this evidence against them."--henry f. hewes, m. d., harvard medical school, boston, mass. "i am very glad that you are undertaking so important a work as this in connection with the terrible problem of alcoholism. physicians need awakening in this matter; they need reform. the evil results of alcohol are unfortunately brought to my notice each day of my life as i pursue my vocation and my public duties as health officer, and a reform in prescribing so as to eliminate alcohol would undoubtedly have far-reaching beneficent effects."--edward von adelung, m. d., health officer, oakland, cal. "i am forwarding you a report of cases of typhoid fever treated without alcohol, and my reasons for not using it. i believe the results will not suffer by comparison with those obtained in other hospitals where alcohol is used. wishing you lasting success in your war upon the greatest evil of the times."--j. h. landis, m. d., cincinnati, o. "only precise evidence that it (alcohol) is able to protect albumen from destruction can warrant its employment and establish its value as a food in the sick diet. and this evidence which is of determinative importance must be looked upon as having failed, according to the recent investigations of stammreich and miura (who both worked under von noorden's direction), as well as by schmidt, schöneseiffen and roseman. the uniform result of all these experiments, arrived at by altogether different methods, is that _alcohol does not possess albumen sparing power_; that it even brings about an undoubted breaking down of albumen, and consequently it is entirely unequal to carbohydrates and fat."--dr. julian marcuse, a contributing editor of _die heilkunde_, a german medical magazine. see issue of july, . "thirty years ago the general principle of practice was stimulation. alcohol was supposed to rouse up and support vital forces in disease. twenty-three years ago the first practical denial was put into a permanent position in a public hospital in london, where alcohol was seldom or never used. * * * doctor richardson's researches showing the anæsthetic nature of alcohol have had a great influence in changing medical practice in england. * * * on the continent a number of scientific workers have published researches confirming doctor richardson's conclusions, and bringing out other facts as to the action of alcohol on the brain and nervous system. these papers and the discussions which followed have been slowly working their way into the laboratory and hospital, and have been tested and found correct, materially changing current opinions, and creating great doubts of the value of alcohol. "in , the prosecution of doctor hirschfeld, a magdeburg physician, in the german courts, for not using alcohol in a case of septicemia, seemed to be the central point for a new demonstration of the danger of the use of alcohol in medicine. doctor hirschfeld was acquitted on the testimony of a large number of leading physicians from the large hospitals and universities of europe. it was proved that alcohol was not a remedy which was specifically required in any disease; also that its value was most seriously questioned as a general remedy by many able men, and its substitution was practical and literal in most cases. statistics were presented proving that alcohol was dangerous, and never a safe remedy, and laboratory investigations confirming and explaining its action were given. since then a sharp reaction has been going on in europe, and alcohol is rapidly declining and passing away as a common remedy. "doctor frick, an eminent teacher of medicine in zurich, switzerland, and doctor von speyer, of the university of berne, have made statistical studies of cases treated with and without alcohol, and have analyzed the effects of spirits as medicinal agents to check and antagonize disease, and assert very positively, that alcohol is a dangerous and exceedingly doubtful remedy. doctor meyer, of the university of gottenburg, doctor möbius, of leipsic, and doctor wehberg, of dusseldorf, are equally prominent physicians who have taken the same position, and are equally emphatic in their denunciations of the current beliefs concerning alcohol in medicine."--_journal a. m. a._, january , . dr. h. d. didama, dean of the medical college of syracuse university, syracuse, n. y., said in january, , in the _voice_:-- "for many years after my graduation at albany, in , i prescribed alcohol, and for twenty years, while occupying the chair of professor of the science and art of medicine in the college of medicine of syracuse university. i followed in my lectures--often reluctantly and usually afar off, but still i followed--the almost unanimous teaching of authors, ancient and modern, and the professors in the medical schools. "convinced that a great number of the diseases i was called to treat owed their existence or aggravation to the use, in alleged moderation, of alcoholic beverages, and that not in a few instances this use was commenced and even continued by the advice of the medical attendants; convinced also by the published experiments of many acute observers at home and abroad, and by my own observations, that almost all diseases could be managed as well if not better by the non-use of alcohol, and satisfied from the communications of some brother practitioners that the fatality in certain specified diseases was not delayed, to say the least, by the employment of increasing and enormous doses of wine, whisky and brandy, and influenced also, i must admit--overwhelmed, indeed--by what i know and what i read daily of the pauperism, domestic wretchedness, crime, insanity and incurable maladies transmitted to innocent offspring, i abandoned entirely, more than three years ago, the use of alcoholic remedies. "i have endeavored by personal example and earnest council to dissuade my patients from the use of intoxicating beverages and medicines. "the outcome of this practice, medically and morally, has been satisfactory to myself, and, i have reason to believe, to my patients also. "whatever regrets i may feel for my former teaching and practice, i have no apology to offer for my inconsistency except that once given by gerrit smith:--'i know more to-day than i did yesterday; the only persons who never change their minds are god and a fool.' "permit me to add that while there may be an honest difference of opinion regarding the efficacy of legislative enactments in overcoming or restraining the drink habit, there should be little doubt that a whole-hearted, persistent, precept-and-example effort of the medical profession exerted as individuals on their patients and the families of their patients, and as associations on the community at large, would do immeasurable good. "and the newspapers might aid materially in this beneficent work if, while they continue to spread before our households every day the details of the brawls and fights of drunken men and the horrible murders which they commit, they would discontinue advertising, without warning or dissent, side by side with the atrocities, the 'innocuous beers,' the pure malt whiskies, the genuine brandies, guaranteed to prevent and cure all manner of diseases." the following testimony from an english physician is significant:-- "although i know beforehand that their united testimony must be in favor of the practice of total abstinence from all intoxicating drinks, being most conducive to health and longevity of their patients, but very inimical to the pocket interests of themselves, my own experience is, that my teetotal patients are seldom ill, and that they get well very soon again, if they are attacked by disease. a higher principle than that of gain must influence a medical man's mind, or he will never advocate the doctrine of total abstinence."--j. j. ritchie, m. r. c. s., leek. "one of the most dangerous phases of the use of alcohol is the production of a feeling of well being in weakly, dyspeptic, irritable, nervous or anæmic patients. in consequence of the temporary relief so obtained, the patient develops a craving for alcohol, which in many cases can end only in one way, and, as i felt compelled to tell an assembly of ladies a short time ago, the very symptoms for the alleviation of which alcohol is usually taken are those, the presence of which renders it exceedingly desirable that alcohol should not be taken."--dr. g. sims woodhead, of london. in an address upon the london temperance hospital delivered shortly before his death, sir b. w. richardson gave a brief review of the influences which led him to abandon the medical use of alcohol. the following is taken from that address as reported in the _medical pioneer_:-- "i was a member of the vestry of st. marylebone, and we had in our parish a very serious outbreak of small-pox, attended with a considerable mortality. in his report to us dr. whitmore stated that in his treatment of earlier cases of the confluent and hemorrhagic, and malignant forms of disease, stimulants of wine and brandy were freely administered without any apparent benefit; and, that after consultation with mr. cross, the resident surgeon, they resolved to substitute simple nutriments, such as milk, eggs and beef-tea, at frequent intervals, with discontinuance of stimulants altogether. the result of the change was most satisfactory, and many bad cases did well, which under the stimulant plan they believed would have terminated fatally. again i was struck very much by a report made by mr. cadbury, in which that gentleman showed the course that was going on in various hospitals. the amount of alcohol in twelve hospitals in london, taken by the inpatients, varied in ounces from , in one establishment to , in another during the year . i also found, from the same author, that the whole cost in st. george's union infirmary for the year was £ . s. d., amongst , patients, while the cost of the same number at the average of the twelve hospitals was £ . about this same time i also remarked that in many of the public institutions of england there was a reduction something similar in kind, if not to the same extent, and that the number of persons who suffered seemed to make better recoveries than those who were taking the free amount of stimulant. the effect of these observations chimed in very remarkably with the physiological experiments it had been my duty to carry out, and which tended to show in a most striking manner that the action of alcohol in the body very much differed from the ordinary opinion that had been held upon it, and thereupon, in my own practice, i abandoned the use of alcohol, and began to give instead small quantities of simple, nourishing, dietic food, a course i pursued up to the present time with the most satisfactory results, results i have never felt any occasion to regret. by these steps, learned in the first place from the study of alcohol in its action on man, i was led to become a believer that alcohol is of no more service in disease than it is in health, and a lengthened experience in this matter has really confirmed the correctness of the idea." in his last report as physician to the temperance hospital dr. richardson made some remarkable statements upon the fallacy of the general ideas of stimulation. so interesting are his views that they are incorporated here:-- "sir b. w. richardson, m. d., who was unable to be present, communicated (through the secretary) his annual report as physician to the hospital. after twelve months further trial of the treatment of all kinds of disease in this institution without the assistance of alcohol, either as a diet or a medicine, he (sir b. w. richardson) was fully sustained in the belief that the plan pursued had been attended with every possible advantage. about cases had come under his observation and treatment as in previous years, and these cases had been of the most varied kind, including all patients who were not directly suffering from contagious disease. in not one instance had alcohol been administered, nor had anything like it been used in the way of a substitute, and there had not been a single case in which he could conceive that it was ever called for, while the success which had attended the treatment generally had been superior to anything he had ever seen following upon the administration of alcoholic stimulants. one great truth which had forced itself upon him had reference to the doctrine of stimulation generally. it had been one of the grand ideas in medicine that there came times when sick people were benefited by being stimulated. it was argued that they were low, and in order that they might be raised and brought nearer to the natural life they required something like alcohol to quicken the circulation, quicken the secretion, and help to preserve the vitality. but the experience which was learned here tended to show in the most distinct manner that that very old and apparently rational idea was fallacious. such stimulation only tended ultimately to wear out the powers of the body, as well as change the physical conditions under which the body worked. true lowness meant practical over-fatigue, and when the body was spurred on, or stimulated, over-fatigue was simply intensified and increased. what, therefore, was wanted was not stimulation, but repose. the sufferer was placed in the best position to gain entire rest, and all the surroundings or environments were employed which tended to prevent waste. the air was kept at the proper temperature, the body of the patient kept warm, and the simplest and most easily digested foods were used; the patient's condition then swung round to a natural state, and he began to get well. in other cases where the sick were brought under observation suffering already from excitable condition of the senses, with congestions here and there of the circulatory or nervous systems, with imperfect condition of the brain, and with the elements of what was usually denominated inflammatory or febrile state--the stimulant was already present (was, indeed the cause of the symptoms) and did not want in any degree to be enforced further by the acts of treatment. here, therefore, they were on the safest grounds as regarded methods of administration, for they calmed as well as they possibly could both mind and body and left nature to do the rest, which she did with the best and most tranquilizing effect. on both sides, therefore, in the treatment of disease, they did good, and that was the reason, he believed, why their returns were so satisfactory. it often happened in an institution where some particular plan was carried out that the old ideas in which they had been bred were without intention refined or suppressed. for example, he had been taught, and believed for a number of years, that some medicament of a particular kind was needful for some particular train of symptoms, be the surrounding conditions what they might. there was no doubt that this same feeling had given rise to the persistent use of alcohol; but, greatly to his own surprise, he discovered that when the surroundings were all good, the rule that applied to alcohol constantly applied to other substances that were called remedies, with the result that recovery was often just as good without the particular remedies as with them, so that a revision came quite simply with regard to stimulating agents and their properties, and also with regard to every medicine that might at earlier times have been employed. he had seen many cases in this hospital recover without any other aid than that of the environments, which cases he would have said could not possibly have gone on well, or towards complete recovery, unless some special recipe had been followed. he believed the day would come when others, learning this same truth as he had been obliged to learn it, would act on such simple principles that the books of remedies would have to be vastly curtailed. it would be seen that there was such a tendency of disease to get well of itself, or by virtue of natural processes, of which people had at present but a very poor idea, that the art of physic would pass into directions how to live rather than into dogmatic assertions that particular means must be employed in addition to the common details of life for the process of cure. if therefore they learned in this hospital by their reduced death-rates the true lesson, the institution would have performed a double duty, and become one of the test objects in medicine, and in the field of disease. they made no attempt by selection, or by any side action, to exaggerate their results. the cases were taken indiscriminately, except that they gave admission to the worst cases first; that was to say, they never caused patients to come under their treatment if they saw they were only slightly affected, and were bound to get well."--_medical pioneer._ dr. landmann, of boppard-on-the-rhine, germany, says:-- "the members of the association of abstaining physicians, reject the use of spirituous liquors in every form, and particularly declare the use of alcohol at the sick-bed a scientific error of the saddest kind. in order to war against this abuse, they earnestly appeal to the officers having charge of funds for the sick, henceforth, under no circumstances, any longer to permit the prescription of wine, whisky and brandy for sick members; but to resist to the utmost, according to the right given them by the laws insuring the sick, the taking of spirituous liquors, under the false pretext that they have a curative and strengthening effect." dr. bleuler, rheineau, switzerland, says:-- "the treatment of chronic diseases with alcohol is contrary to our knowledge of the physiological effects of alcohol. there is no probability that its use will be beneficial, certainly its benefits have not been established. often an injurious result is proved. "it is not implied that there may not be some benefit in the use of alcohol in cases of sudden weakness with or without fever. but even in such cases the benefit is not demonstrated. at any rate, other remedies can with advantage be substituted for alcohol. "the essential thing in the treatment of all alcoholic diseases, delirium tremens included, is total abstinence. "the physiological effect of alcohol is that of a poison, whose use is to be limited to the utmost. even the moderate use as now practiced is injurious. "the customary beneficial results unquestionably depend chiefly on suggestion, and by making the patient believe falsely that the momentary subjective better feeling means actual improvement. "physicians share the blame of the present flood of alcoholism. they are, therefore, morally bound to remedy the evil. only by means of personal abstinence can this be done." dr. a. frick, professor in zurich, is a careful student and an influential writer on alcohol. his statements are weighty. this is his testimony:-- "in larger doses, alcohol is absolutely injurious in the treatment of acute fevers, especially in case of pneumonia, typhus and erysipelas. they first of all injure the general state of the patient, they cause delirium, or increase it if already existing, and, secondly, they injure most seriously the organs of digestion and interfere with proper nourishment; thus they have a weakening effect, instead of preventing weakness, which they are usually supposed to do. in case no alcohol is used, the convalescence is much more rapid. in no case has the benefit of treatment with alcohol been established. according to the view of the most eminent pharmacologists, the stimulating effect of alcohol consists simply in a local irritation of the mucous membrane of the stomach, similar to that produced by a mustard plaster." the following selection from the excellent address of dr. harvey, president of the virginia state medical society, at a recent meeting, is a most timely caution:-- "our prisons, asylums and homes are filled with the victims of the careless and indiscriminate use by the medical profession of those twin demons, alcohol and opium, which, save tuberculosis, are doing more to debase and destroy the human race than all the other diseases together. i most earnestly beseech you, young men, who are just starting out in life, to stay your hand in the use of these agents in your own persons, and in your daily work, and to beware of the seductive needle, and the cup that inebriates. make it an invariable rule, never to prescribe alcohol, nor one of the solinaceus or narcotic drugs, if you can possibly avoid it. the use of alcohol and opium debases the minds and morals of habitués, predisposes especially to bright's disease and insanity, and lays the foundation in the offspring for the majority of the neuroses and degenerations of modern civilized life. the physical fatigue of long working hours, loss of sleep, mental strain, worry and hunger, invite the tired physician, especially, to their seductive use. to totally abstain from them is always business, and very often character, and even life itself. i feel free to speak to you on this subject very earnestly, my younger brothers, for, having prescribed alcohol for over thirty years, i am familiar with its tendencies and its dangers." dr. t. d. crothers of hartford, conn., in an article upon "the decline of alcohol as a medicine," says:-- "thoughtful observers recognize that alcohol as a medicine is rapidly becoming a thing of the past. ten years ago leading medical men and text-books spoke of stimulants as essentials of many diseases, and defended their use with warmth and positiveness. to-day this is changed. medical men seldom refer to spirits as remedies, and when they do, express great conservatism and caution. the text-books show the same changes, although some dogmatic authors refuse to recognize the change of practice, and still cling to the idea of the food value of spirits. "druggists who supply spirits to the profession recognize a tremendous dropping off in the demand. a distiller who, ten years ago, sold many thousand gallons of choice whiskies, almost exclusively to medical men, has lost his trade altogether, and gone out of business. wine men, too, recognize this change, and are making every effort to have wine used in the place of spirits in the sick-room. proprietary medicine dealers are putting all sorts of compounds of wine with iron, bark, etc., on the market with the same idea. it is doubtful if any of these will be able to secure any permanent place in therapeutics. "the fact is, alcohol is passing out of practical therapeutics because its real action is becoming known. facts are accumulating in the laboratory, in the autopsy room, at the bedside, and in the work of experimental psychologists, which show that alcohol is a depressant and a narcotic; that it cannot build up tissue, but always acts as a degenerative power; and that its apparent effects of raising the heart's action and quickening functional activities are misleading and erroneous. "french and german specialists have denounced spirits both as a beverage and a medicine, and shown by actual demonstration that alcohol is a poison and a depressant, and that any therapeutic action it is assumed to have is open to question. "all this is not the result of agitation and wild condemnation by persons who feel deeply the sad consequences of the abuse of spirits. it is simply the outcome of the gradual accumulation of facts that have been proven within the observation of every thoughtful person. the exact or approximate facts relating to alcohol can now be tested by instruments of precision. we can weigh and measure the effects, and it is not essential to theorize or speculate; we can test and prove with reasonable certainty what was before a matter of doubt. "medical men who doubt the value of spirits are no more considered fanatics or extremists, but as leaders along new and wider lines of research. alcohol in medicine, except as a narcotic and anæsthetic, is rapidly falling into disfavor, and will soon be put aside and forgotten." chapter xvi. recent researches upon alcohol. in the year prof. taav laitinen, of the university of helsingfors, finland, published an account of experiments made upon animals--dogs, rabbits, guinea pigs, fowls and pigeons--to determine the effects of alcohol upon the resistance of the body to infectious diseases. he used as infecting agents, anthrax bacilli, tubercle bacilli, and diphtheria bacilli. the doses of alcohol given varied with the animal. for his "small dose" experiments he used the quantity of alcohol given as a food or as a medicine, or both, in a neighboring sanitorium. the alcohol employed was, as a rule, a per cent. solution of ethyl alcohol in water. it was given either by esophageal catheter, or by dropping it into the mouth from a pipette. it was administered in several ways, and for varying times; sometimes in single large doses, at others in gradually increasing doses for months at a time, in order to produce here an acute, and there a chronic poisoning; in fact, he produced the conditions consequent upon steady, moderate drinking. his first conclusion from these experiments, most carefully carried out, is that alcohol, however given, induces in the animal body a markedly increased susceptibility to infectious diseases; and he maintains that his experiments indicate that the use of alcohol, at least in the treatment of anthrax, tuberculosis, and diphtheria, is not only useless but probably injurious. from a number of other experiments carried out with scrupulous care he comes to the same conclusion as abbott, welch, and others that the predisposing to disease of alcohol must be explained by its action in producing abnormal conditions--pathological changes in the alimentary canal, liver, kidneys, heart, and nervous system. he found that the alkalinity of the blood was slightly diminished, and the number of leucocytes somewhat decreased. he also draws attention to the fact that his experiments prove that pregnant animals and their offspring are markedly affected by the continued use of small doses of alcohol. he shows, too, that the temporary lowering of the body temperature by alcohol produces the most favorable condition for the invasion of disease germs. since the publication of these experiments, and of others similar to them, the use of alcohol in diphtheria and tuberculosis has very largely ceased. boards of health and charity organizations unite in warning against indulgence in alcoholic drinks as conducive to tuberculosis. at the international congress on alcoholism, held in london in july, , professor laitinen delivered two lectures. the first was upon "the influence of alcohol on immunity." the following is taken from this lecture:-- "modern researches have done much to explain the extent and nature of the protective powers by which the organism endeavors to defend itself against the attacks of all kinds of injurious agencies, and especially against invasion by the germs of infective diseases. it is now a well-established fact that alcohol weakens the normal resisting power of the body against the above-named disease-producing influences. in the hope of contributing something to the explanation of the way in which alcohol weakens the organism, i have made a number of experiments bearing upon the question of the influence of alcohol on immunity. "early in this century careful experiments went to show that alcohol certainly had some influence upon immunity. two americans, abbott and bergey, were the first to discover that this agent produces a diminution of the hæmolytic complement in the blood-serum of certain animals which were tested. they showed also that the formation of specific hæmolytic receptors (immune bodies) may be retarded by the action of alcohol. "the extent of the evil effects upon the human body resulting from the consumption of alcoholic liquors is as yet far from being fully known, and stands in need of scientific verification. many other injurious influences such as unsanitary dwellings, bad feeding, excessive toil, and toxic agents like nicotine, etc., may produce somewhat similar morbid effects. it is therefore necessary, in the scientific study of the question, to take these possibilities into consideration. in my investigations, the results of which i am now to lay before you, i have endeavored to select as subjects for my experiments both abstainers from alcohol, and those who indulge more or less in its use, in such a way that their conditions of life and their habits in other respects should be as nearly as possible the same. all persons, for instance, suffering from any acute or chronic disease were rejected, and very few of the persons selected were smokers. the subject of this research has been human blood, and especially its two principal components, namely, red blood-corpuscles and blood-serum, both of which up to the present time have been very little studied in relation to the question under discussion. i have gone into these matters chiefly because the modern theoretical study of immunity during the last few years has, in general, attracted greater attention to the blood, and shown the important role which the different parts, properties, and capacities of the blood play in defending the organism against internal and external injurious agencies. further, the subtle methods employed in the study of immunity (such as organic reactions, and reactions between greatly attenuated organic liquids) would also seem to be available for our purpose, as they allow of the detection of the minutest differences which alcohol may produce in any part of the organism in question. "during the course of this research, which has lasted over a period of three years, i sought to investigate the action of alcohol on the resistive power of human red blood-corpuscles. i wished to ascertain whether the resistivity of the red blood-corpuscles in a healthy man could be lowered by the consumption of alcohol. * * * "it may be well for me here to explain that in this lecture i mean by the term 'drinker' a person who has taken alcohol in any quantity whatever. many of these 'drinkers,' therefore, were in fact most moderate consumers of alcohol. by the term 'abstainer' i mean a person who has never taken alcohol in any quantity worth mentioning. in the course of my investigations i have examined blood from two hundred and twenty-three persons. they were of different classes and ages. there were professors of medicine and other physicians, university fellows, students of both sexes, hospital nurses, school-teachers, waiters, and other men and women belonging to the working-classes." the rest of the lecture as given here is an abstract made by professor laitinen:-- "my studies have been directed to an investigation of the following points: " . i sought to ascertain whether the resistance of human red blood-corpuscles against a heterogeneous normal serum, or an immune serum, can be diminished by the use of alcohol. " . i have studied the action of alcohol in drinking and abstaining persons on the hæmolytic power of blood-serum over heterogeneous red blood-corpuscles (rabbits). i have studied not only the hæmolytic power of the human blood-serum, but also its power of precipitation in the presence of rabbit-serum, with a view to ascertain if the reaction between a known dilution of rabbit-serum and a certain dilution of serum of alcohol-users and non-drinking persons is different or not, and if the reaction is more apparent with the former or with the latter. " . the resisting power of serum obtained both from alcohol-drinking and from non-drinking persons was further tested by human blood, with the object of discovering whether any difference in reaction existed between the same immune serum and the two kinds of human sera above mentioned. " . i have studied the problem as to whether the hæmolytic complement in the blood-serum of alcohol-drinking and non-drinking persons is altered in any way by alcohol. " . the bactericidal power of blood-serum from both alcohol-drinking and non-drinking persons was determined by some experiments. "the above experiments have given the following results: " . the normal resistance of human red blood-corpuscles appears to be somewhat diminished against a heterogeneous normal serum or an immune serum by the consumption of alcohol, provided that tolerably large equal, or nearly equal, numbers of drinkers and abstainers of both sexes be examined, and the average of resistance be taken on both sides: this last-named precaution being necessary because the resistance of red blood-corpuscles from different human beings varies largely. the difference is often greater when using weaker solutions than when using stronger dilutions of lysin. " . these experiments have shown the normal hæmolytic power of human blood-serum to be less in the case of alcohol-drinkers than in that of abstainers. " . the precipitating reaction between a solution of per cent. human blood-serum and different dilutions of immune serum was greater in the case of drinkers than in that of abstainers. " . these experiments have also shown that the bactericidal power of blood-serum against typhoid bacteria was less in the case of drinkers than in that of abstainers. "it seems clear, therefore, that alcohol, even in comparatively small doses, exercises a prejudicial effect on the protective mechanism of the human body." the lecturer made his points clear by a carefully prepared series of charts. at its close sir victor horsley, professor sims woodhead, a. pearce gould, and several other distinguished physicians spoke in high terms of the painstaking care exhibited in the experiments. professor laitinen's second lecture was upon "the influence of alcohol upon human offspring." he sent out , circulars to his countrymen, asking many questions relative to themselves and their infant children, and received , replies relative to , children. he also studied personally a large number of drinking and abstaining families. from these studies he shows by careful tables that the drinking of alcohol by parents, even in small quantities, has an injurious influence upon human offspring. his studies in former years showed the same unfavorable influence upon the offspring of animals. one of his tables gives percentages of deaths of children in the homes of abstaining parents, moderate drinkers, and harder drinkers. children of abstainers dying in the first year, . per cent.; of moderates, . per cent.; of harder drinkers, . per cent. other tables show that abstainers' children gain in weight more steadily in the first year than drinkers' children, and have their teeth earlier, as a rule. at the international medical congress of , held in budapest, professor laitinen lectured again upon his researches, and summarized his conclusions thus:-- " . the importance of alcohol as an article of food is rendered very questionable by recent researches. . these researches prove that alcohol diminishes the natural power of the tissues to resist injury, promotes degeneration, and has a disastrous effect on future generations. . the questions of relation of alcoholic liquor to crime and of the manufacture and sale of such beverages deserve the serious consideration of the legislature. . it is the duty of medical men to direct more attention than formerly to the alcohol question, and by careful study to decide whether recent researches are justified or not in regarding alcohol and alcoholic beverages as a poison and one of the principal causes of degeneration in the human family; they ought also to consider whether it would not be advisable in medical practice, and especially in hospitals, either to banish it altogether or at least to prescribe it with the same care as other poisonous drugs. in this matter the attitude taken by medical men as representatives of public hygiene was of quite exceptional importance." metchnikoff, the illustrious russian scientist, who has for some years been connected with the pasteur institute in paris, was the discoverer of the work assigned by nature to the white corpuscles of the blood. these blood-cells are the "guardian-cells" of the body, and their duty is to destroy disease germs which may gain an entrance. they actually devour disease germs. metchnikoff has been studying the effect of alcohol upon these protective cells, and he asserts that alcohol, even in small doses, has a harmful action on these agents of defence against disease. alcohol seems to paralyze them more or less so that they are unable to do their full duty in destroying the infective microbes. thus disease germs can multiply more rapidly when alcohol is in the blood. in his book called "the new hygiene," metchnikoff suggests that the administration of alcoholic liquors in infectious disease appears to be attended with danger to the patient. the researches of kraepelin, ach, aschaffenberg and other german scientists have become so well known through the articles by henry smith williams in _mcclure's magazine_ that only brief reference need be made to them here. kraepelin used very small doses of alcohol for some of his experiments. he found that after / to / ounce of alcohol had been taken the time occupied in making response to a signal was slightly shortened, but in a few minutes, in most cases, this quickening action passed and a slowing process began, and continued until the body was free from the influence of the alcohol, which was sometimes four or five hours. the ability to add figures was tested, and this decreased very rapidly under minute doses of alcohol. memory tests showed that only figures could be remembered from numbers written in columns after alcohol had been taken, while figures could be remembered correctly when the mind was free from the alcoholic influence. type-setters were tested, and the average number of errors they made and the amount of work they did in a given time was carefully recorded. after a small dose of alcohol none of the men could in the same time do as much work, or as accurate work. yet every one of the men experimented upon thought he was doing better work after his drink. this proves the narcotic effect of alcohol. the economic loss to a people from beer and wine drinking is worthy of serious consideration since a bottle of wine or its equivalent in beer could diminish by ten to fifteen per cent. the amount of work done by these type-setters experimented upon by professor aschaffenberg. professor kraepelin says:-- "i must admit that my experiments, extending over more than ten years, have made me an opponent of alcohol." he says again:-- "the laborer who wins his livelihood by the working power of his arm strikes at the very foundation of his power by the use of alcohol." professor aschaffenberg says of moderate doses:-- "any quantity of alcohol must be regarded as considerable which causes a disturbance, even if only transitory, of bodily and mental efficiency." dr. reid hunt, chief of the division of pharmacology, hygienic laboratory, united states public health and marine hospital service, made some very interesting experiments to determine the physiological changes upon animals which would result from the strictly moderate use of alcohol. these are described in bulletin no. of the hygienic laboratory, published in . mice and guinea-pigs were used. the food, usually oats, was soaked in diluted alcohol, at first of five per cent. strength, then gradually increased to forty or fifty per cent. by carefully observing the weight of the mice, and not increasing the strength of the alcohol too rapidly, it was possible to keep the animals for months on this diet without any material loss of weight. after the lapse of weeks, in some cases, and months in other cases, these alcohol fed animals were given small doses of a poison known as acetonitrile. other mice to whom no alcohol was fed were given similar doses of this poison. in the first series the mice which had received alcohol died from about one-half the quantity of acetonitrile required to kill those which had not received alcohol. in the second series with a somewhat stronger dilution the alcohol mice succumbed to one-half to one-third the dose necessary to kill the non-alcoholized animals. in no case was enough alcohol given for any symptoms of intoxication to appear, nor was there any outward indication of any injury being done by the alcohol. in another experiment a mouse was kept for four months on a diet of oats soaked in water, then . milligram of acetonitrile per gram body weight was injected. the mouse recovered. it was then fed on oats soaked in an alcoholic solution which was gradually increased to per cent. after a little more than a month of this diet . milligram acetonitrile per gram body weight proved fatal. the weight of the mouse had remained about the same throughout. alcohol increased the susceptibility of the guinea pigs also. dr. hunt says on page of the bulletin:-- "these experiments with alcohol and acetonitrile are of interest in another connection. the greatest advance in recent years in our knowledge of the physiological action of alcohol has been the clear demonstration that alcohol is oxidized in the body, and may replace fats and carbohydrates and to a certain extent, the proteids of an ordinary diet. so clear has been this demonstration that the view that alcohol, in moderate amounts, should be regarded as a food is almost universally accepted by physiologists, and the drift of opinion is certainly toward the view that it is in all respects strictly analogous to sugar and fats, provided always that the amount used does not exceed that easily oxidized by the body. under these premises it would be expected that alcohol in a diet would have the same effect upon an animal's susceptibility to acetonitrile as has dextrose, for example. this is by no means the case, however; on the contrary, the action of these substances in this regard is entirely different. mice fed upon oats soaked in a solution of dextrose or upon cakes containing considerable dextrose, or upon rice, show a very distinct increase in their resistance to acetonitrile; such mice may recover from two or three times the dose fatal to controls. (controls are the animals fed in the ordinary way without alcohol or in this case dextrose.--ed.) while these facts are not sufficient to justify the conclusion that in many cases alcohol has not a true food value, yet they are sufficient to indicate caution in applying, without further consideration, the brilliant and very exact results on the proteid sparing power of alcohol to practical dietaries." various other experiments were made, but there is not room here for a record of them. in the summary dr. hunt says:-- "it is believed that these experiments afford clear experimental evidence for the view that extremely moderate amounts of alcohol may cause distinct changes in certain physiological functions, and that these changes may, under certain circumstances, be injurious to the body. the results also afford further evidence that in some respects the action of alcohol as a food is different from that of carbohydrates, and finally that in all probability certain physiological processes in 'moderate drinkers' are distinctly different from those in abstainers." professor chittenden, of yale university, has made extensive researches upon alcohol and digestion. a full report of these may be found in the "physiological aspects of the liquor problem." in the _medical news_, vol. , page , professor chittenden says of the theory that alcohol is a food similar to sugar and fats:-- "it is, i think, quite plain that while alcohol in moderate amounts can be burned in the body, thus serving as food in the sense that it may be a source of energy, it is quite misleading to attempt a classification or even comparison of alcohol with carbohydrates and fats, since, unlike the latter, alcohol has a most disturbing effect upon the metabolism or oxidation of the purin compounds of our daily food. alcohol, therefore, presents a dangerous side wholly wanting in carbohydrates and fats. the latter are simply burned up to carbonic acid and water, or are transformed into glycogen and fat, but alcohol, though more easily oxidizable, is at all times liable to obstruct, in some measure at least, the oxidative processes of the liver, and probably of other tissues also, thereby throwing into the circulation bodies such as uric acid, which are inimical to health; a fact which at once tends to draw a distinct line of demarcation between alcohol and the two non-nitrogeneous foods--fat and carbohydrate." dr. s. p. beebe, now of the cornell medical college laboratory, new york city, has made some very valuable experiments with alcohol. it is well known that impairment of the functions of certain organs results in the appearance in the urine of nitrogeneous compounds which do not normally occur there. in certain diseases of the liver the same quantity of nitrogen may be excreted as in health, but a portion of it is in the form of acids never found in the urine during health. dr. beebe, with this knowledge in mind, sought to discover the effects of alcohol upon the excretion of uric acid in man. most of the experiments were made on the same person, a young man in good health, of regular habits, unaccustomed to the use of alcohol in any form. absolute alcohol, diluted with water, whisky, ale, and port wine were used at different times. dr. beebe reported his experiments in the _american journal of physiology_, vol. , no. . his conclusions are given as follows:-- "after a consideration of these experiments, it hardly seems possible to doubt that alcohol, even in what is considered by the most conservative as a moderate amount, causes an increase in the excretion of uric acid, and this effect is seen almost immediately after taking the alcohol. the following points indicate that the effect is due to a toxic effect on the liver, thereby interfering with the oxidation of the uric acid derived from its precursors in the food: alcohol taken without food causes no increase. the maximum increase occurs at the same time after a meal as it does when purin food but no alcohol is taken. alcohol is rapidly absorbed and passes at once to the liver, the organ which has most to do with the metabolism of proteid cleavage products. "there is no evidence that the alcohol has merely hastened the excretion of urates normally present in the blood; the increased excretion means that a larger quantity has been in circulation, and although it is classed by van noorden among the substances easily excreted, still most physiologists would consider the presence in the blood of this larger quantity as undesirable. certainly in pathological conditions it might be harmful. "if we accept the origin of the increased quantity of uric acid to be in the impaired oxidative powers of the liver, the results of these experiments will have greater significance than can be attributed to uric acid alone. for the impaired function would affect other processes which are normally accomplished by that organ, and the possibilities for entrance into the general circulation of toxic substances, of intestinal putrefaction, for instance, would be increased. the liver performs a large number of oxidations and syntheses designed to keep toxic substances from reaching the body tissues, and if alcohol, in the moderate quantity which caused the increase in uric acid excretion, impairs its power in this respect, the prevalent ideas regarding the harmlessness of moderate drinking need revision." dr. winfield s. hall, professor of physiology at the northwestern university medical school, chicago, has interpreted these researches of beebe and hunt in a very striking way. he says that they prove that the oxidation of alcohol in the body is a protective oxidation, the same as the oxidation of any other poisonous substance by the liver. his views have such an important bearing upon the commonly accepted theory that alcohol is in some sense a food that they are given here, somewhat abbreviated, as a fitting finish to this chapter. dr. hall says:-- "the fact that alcohol is oxidized in the body has been generally misunderstood. the first impression naturally was: 'foods are oxidized; alcohol is oxidized; therefore alcohol is a food.' but many difficulties appeared. a real food promotes muscular, glandular and nerve activity, and its oxidation maintains body temperature. but alcohol disturbs muscular, glandular, and nervous activity, and its oxidation does not maintain body temperature. when one eats a real food it is assimilated largely by muscle tissue and is oxidized for the purpose of liberating the life energy. when one ingests alcohol it is carried by the blood to the tissues, mostly to the liver, where it is oxidized, as any toxine would be, for the purpose of making it harmless. its oxidation liberates heat energy but this energy cannot be utilized by the body even for the maintenance of body temperature. if a food is defined as a substance which, taken into the body, is assimilated and used either to build or repair body structure, or to be oxidized in the tissues to liberate the energy used by the tissue in its normal activity, then alcohol is not a real food. "but, if alcohol is not a real food, what is the significance of its oxidation? it has been long known that the liver produces oxidases and that it is the site of active oxidation of mid-products of katabolism of toxins and of other toxic substances. alcohol, usually formed as an excretion of the yeast plant, is also found as a mid-product of tissue katabolism. on a priori grounds we should expect alcohol to be oxidized in the liver along with leucin, tyrosin, uric acid, xanthin bodies, and various amido bodies. there have recently appeared two most important papers based upon extended researches upon man and lower animals. these researches practically clear up this knotty question." dr. hall then reviews the work of dr. reid hunt and dr. s. p. beebe, and continues:-- "the value of this work can hardly be over-estimated. in the first place the rapid oxidation of the alcohol in the liver is explained. _alcohol itself being one of the toxic substances which reach the liver from the alimentary canal is at once attacked by the liver, and if the oncoming tide of alcohol is not too great it will practically all be oxidized._ "but the liver oxidation of other toxic substances is impaired in the meantime so that they get past the liver to the tissues, where they may do injury. some of these toxins are excreted unoxidized by the kidneys. there are three ways of accounting for this condition: ( .) the oxidation capacity of the liver is limited. the physiological limit of alcohol ingestion is that amount which taxes the oxidation capacity of the liver to its limit. when thus taxed all other toxic substances including uric acid and the xanthin bodies pass through the liver unoxidized to appear in the urine. ( .) the presence of alcohol in the blood, through its toxic action upon the liver cells, impairs the hepatic oxidation capacity and thus permits toxic substances to pass unoxidized. ( .) a combination of these conditions may represent the real situation. it is hardly conceivable that the relation of alcohol to the liver activity is not covered in the hypotheses above formulated. "we may therefore accept it as practically demonstrated by the researches of beebe, hunt, and others that the oxidation of alcohol in the liver is simply one of the defensive activities of that organ, _i. e._, it is a protective oxidation and belongs strictly in the same category with the oxidation of uric acid, xanthin bodies, leucin, tyrosins, and the amido acids. "the next question which arises is, why does the liver select alcohol first and oxidize that substance to the exclusion of other toxic substances up to the oxidation capacity? the answer is probably to be found in the chemical composition of alcohol. "it oxidizes very easily, much more so than any of the other toxic substances which gain access to the liver. its early oxidation may be due to this fact alone, or in part to an actual selection on the part of the liver. another question of importance: is the energy liberated in the oxidation of alcohol in the liver available for the use of the muscles, nervous system, or glands? "if this question is answered affirmatively, then alcohol is a food. if negatively then alcohol is not a food. let us reason together. all body oxidations may be classified in two groups: ( .) _active oxidations_ which take place in the active tissues--muscles, nervous system, or glands--and take place incident to action. it is under the perfect control of the nervous system and is proportional to normal activity. ( .) _protective oxidations_ which take place in the liver. this class of oxidation processes is wholly independent of the usual tissue activity and is proportional to the ingestion of toxic substances and quite independent of muscle action, brain action, or gland action, other than liver action. "if the oxidation of alcohol in the liver belongs to class , the following consequences should be found: ( .) the ingestion of alcohol would lead to an increase in muscular power and in the working capacity of the brain or glands. ( .) the ingestion of alcohol would serve to maintain body temperature in the healthy individual subjected to low external temperature. ( .) the accession of muscle, brain, or gland activity would be proportional to the amount of alcohol ingested, but laboratory observations and general experience show that none of these things are true; _i. e._, the ingestion of alcohol decreases muscle, brain, and gland work, and depresses body temperature when external temperature is low. "in the nature of the case there can be no proportional relation. the oxidation of alcohol does not therefore belong to class . if the oxidation of alcohol in the liver belongs to class , the following consequences would be found: ( .) the ingestion of alcohol would be followed by its early oxidation in the organs in question. ( .) if the oxidation capacity of the liver is limited this capacity may be overloaded by exceeding the physiological limit of alcohol. ( .) if the oxidation capacity of the liver is taxed nearly to its limit in the oxidation of uric acid, xanthins, and other toxic substances, the introduction of alcohol may seriously interfere with this protective oxidation by overtaxing the capacity. ( .) if the oxidation capacity is overtaxed, an excess of uric acid, xanthin bodies, and other toxic substances will get by this portal and reach the active tissues or the kidneys. now all of these things take place, so we are forced to the conclusion that the oxidation of alcohol is a protective oxidation. in the light of this presentation the significance of dr. hunt's work becomes very clear. the alcohol given to the animals taxed the oxidation capacity of the liver to the limit and left the organism defenseless against bacterial or other toxic substances." chapter xvii. miscellaneous. alcohol baths:--the action of alcohol upon the surface of the body is that of a refrigerant. alcohol baths for debility, weakness, and states of exhaustion are opposed by non-alcoholic physicians. the old custom of bathing a new-born babe with whisky was simply a superstition, and a dangerous one, because the infant should not have a refrigerant applied to its body so soon after leaving the warm nest where it had been sheltered so long. warm water is the proper liquid for a baby's bath until it becomes hardy. there is nothing of strength imparted by an alcohol rub; the 'rub' is good, but vinegar, or water, or olive oil can be used according to what is desired. alcohol is not necessary internally nor externally. its proper use is for mechanical purposes and to give light and heat. wilhelmina lemonade:--take four or five rough-skinned oranges (according to size) and two pounds of sugar, in big lumps. after having cleaned the oranges, rub the sugar with them, till the oranges are quite white--the sugar yellow. place the sugar in a big earthernware pan or jar, and add three pints of _cold_ water. then cover it up and let it stand two days, stirring it occasionally to help the melting. now take two ounces of citric acid, dissolved in a little boiling water, and add it to the syrup, stirring the whole. then strain the whole through a fine sieve, covered with muslin, so that it becomes perfectly clear. in well-corked bottles it will keep for more than a year. mix one-third of the lemonade with two-thirds water. [instead of the oranges five or six lemons may be used.] beverages for the sick:--unfermented grapejuice. hot milk. egg cream, made as follows: beat the white and yolk separately, add milk and sugar, and stir well, flavor to suit taste. egg lemonade--beat yolk and sugar thoroughly, add lemon and water, shake well, then add white, beaten stiff. barley water, made by boiling pearl barley five or six hours, and straining the water from it; add milk or cream if wished. these are used in the national temperance hospital of chicago. baths:--"if all people understood the value of water to cool, cleanse, invigorate and sustain life, and how to use it, _and would use it_, one-half of all the afflictions from disease would be removed; and the other half might be banished if all the people understood how and what to eat, how to breathe, and the necessity of daily vigorous exercise. a daily towel bath will do more to counteract disease, and restore the body to its normal health condition, than any other method or remedy yet discovered. after the bath, the body should be thoroughly rubbed with a crash or turkish towel. rub until a warm glow is produced. this bath is a fine tonic if taken upon rising in the morning." hot water as a medicine:--"one is never," says a physician, "far from a pretty good medicine chest with hot water at hand. it is a most useful assistant to the mother of a family of small children, who is frightened often to find herself confronted by a sudden illness of one of her flock, without her usual dependence--the family doctor. if the baby has croup, fold a strip of flannel or a soft napkin lengthwise, dip into very hot water, and apply to the child's throat. repeat and continue the application till relief is had, which will be almost at once. for toothache, or colic, or a threatened lung congestion, the hot-water treatment will be found promptly efficacious if resorted to. nature needs only a little assistance at the first sign of trouble to rally quickly in the average healthy child, and often hot water is all that is wanted." alcohol injurious to the insane:--dr. richard maurice bucke, whose valuable paper on "the evolution of the mind" appeared in the december number of the _journal of hygiene_, in a recent report of the asylum for the insane in london, canada, makes the following statement concerning the use of alcohol in the institution over which he presides:-- "as we have given up the use of alcohol, we have needed and used less opium and chloral; and as we have discontinued the use of alcohol, opium and chloral, we have needed and used less seclusion and restraint. i have, during the year just closed, carefully watched the effect of the alcohol given, and the progress of cases where, in former years, it would have been given, and i am morally certain that the alcohol used during the past year did no good. with humiliation i am forced to admit that in the recent past my noble profession has been to an alarming extent, and is still too much so, guilty of producing many drunkards in the land, directly or indirectly, by the reckless and wholesale manner in which so many of its members have prescribed alcoholic stimulants in their daily practice for all the aches and pains, coughs and colds, inflammations and consumptions, fevers and chills, at the hour of birth and at the time of death, and all intermediate points of life, to induce sleep and to promote wakefulness, and for all real or imaginary ills." tobacco and the eyesight:--"prof. craddock says that tobacco has a bad effect upon the sight, and a distinct disease of the eye is attributed to its immoderate use. many cases in which complete loss of sight has occurred, and which were formerly regarded as hopeless, are now known to be curable by making the patient abstain from tobacco. these patients almost invariably at first have color blindness, taking red to be brown or black, and green to be light blue or orange. in nearly every case, the pupils are much contracted, in some cases to such an extent that the patient is unable to move about without assistance. one such man admitted that he had usually smoked from twenty to thirty cigars a day. he consented to give up smoking altogether, and his sight was fully restored in three and a half months. it has been found that chewing is much worse than smoking in its effects upon the eyesight, probably for the simple reason that more of the poison is thereby absorbed. the condition found in the eye in the early stages is that of extreme congestion only; but this, unless remedied at once, leads to gradually increasing disease of the optic nerve, and then, of course, blindness is absolute and beyond remedy. it is, therefore, evident that, to be of any value, the treatment of disease of the eye due to excessive smoking must be immediate, or it will probably be useless."--_journal of inebriety._ "dr. isaac fellows was for many years a prominent physician in los angeles. a temperance man, he was persuaded by an old physician whom he loved to try for a year substituting alcohol in drop doses in water for such patients as demanded alcoholic stimulants. he was delighted with the result. when his patients found they could not have wine, beer or brandy under the guise of medicine, but must take it in drop doses in water, as they did their other medicines, they speedily learned to do without 'a stimulant.'"--_pacific ensign._ advertised "cures" for drunkenness. "_poudre coza_, an english product, is sold at $ . for thirty powders. on analysis these powders were found to contain an impure form of sodium bicarbonate, together with a little aromatic vegetable matter. gloria tonic was examined by the massachusetts board of health, and found to consist of sugar of milk and cornstarch, with a small quantity of ground leaves resembling those of senna. white ribbon remedy was found to be made of milk sugar and ammonium chloride. of course such things are clearly frauds, as they can have no power to destroy a craving for liquor. the infallible drink cure was per cent. sugar and per cent. common table salt. another 'cure' was made of chlorate of potash and sugar. cases of poisoning by chlorate of potash are on record. another 'cure' contained tartar emetic, a dangerous poison. most of the liquid 'cures' for drunkenness sold prior to the passage of the national pure food law contained large quantities of cheap alcohol. it is safe to say that practically all of the secret cures for drunkenness are fraudulent, and some are dangerous. "if a man wants to quit drinking, he can be helped by a proper diet, and by frequent use of the turkish bath, or even of the ordinary hot bath at home, with a quick cold sponge or shower bath each morning as a tonic. the hot bath is to draw out impurities from the system. the diet should consist of plenty of fruit, nuts, grains and vegetables. it is better to eat no meat. it has been fully demonstrated in lady henry somerset's work with women drunkards that a vegetarian diet is a great help in allaying the alcohol crave. the salvation army, in england, have also found by experience that a meat-free diet is a great aid in overcoming the drink habit. "dr. t. d. crothers, who has for years conducted a large sanitarium for the cure of inebriety, at hartford, connecticut, says that a valuable remedy to break up the impulsive craze for spirits is a strong infusion of quassia given in two-ounce doses every hour. as desire for liquor abates the quassia can be given less frequently, until it is no longer needed. "dr. alexander lambert, of bellevue hospital, new york, has been treating drunkards and other drug habitues successfully of late. a description of his treatment may be found in _success_ for november, ." medical puffs of whisky and other alcoholics:--"every medical man knows how he is pestered with advertising circulars of so-and-so's genuine whisky, and what-do-you-call-em's extra stout, to say nothing of the tempting offers of wines and spirits on sale with special discounts to medical men. other enterprising firms send samples or offer to send them with the implied understanding that a testimonial is to be given, or that at least the wares in question will be recommended to patients. even our medical papers have not always been incorruptible. we have little expectation ourselves of being favored with an offer of full-page advertisements of extraordinary wines and spirits. we are not prepared to recommend them except as vermin killers. nor are we prepared to remain silent as to their alleged virtues. the whole system of testimonials is a huge imposture. granted that the sample is all that it is described as being, who can guarantee that what is served to the public in the face of severe competition will be up to the sample? "but there is another and a sadder view of the case. we cannot believe that all the eulogies of all the medical trumpeters of the wines and the spirits are wilfully false or even exaggerated. it is a lamentable fact that a vast number of doctors have a genuine faith in the value and virtue of these pernicious drinks. it is not simply a question of medicinal use, though even on that we should join issue. these things are vaunted as valuable for the promotion of health in spite of all the accumulating evidence to the contrary. we wish that these doctors would carefully study this evidence. the pity of it is that the very worst offenders are the least likely to study it. we suppose they must die out, and be replaced by men less prejudiced and bound by the chain of alcoholic habit. we can only regret that they should be doing so much harm in fastening the fetters of drink on other people, and hindering their emancipation from the evil customs which play havoc amongst us."--_medical pioneer._ alcohol and children:--"parents often labor under the delusion that alcoholic drinks are good for children and act as tonics. mothers will put drops of brandy into the milk with which their children are fed, increasing the quantity with the age of the recipient. in the illness of children the same is given to meet disturbances of the stomach or to increase growth and development, without taking the advice of any medical man as to the wisdom of the practice. this is all erroneous. the excitement of the central nervous system under alcohol, excitement which seems to be a relief to weariness and to give strength, is nothing more than temporary at best, and injurious, causing in fact symptoms of alcoholic poisoning, abnormal excitement, ending, in extreme cases, in convulsions succeeded by exhaustion of body and mind, and inducing a kind of paralysis. many cases of stomach and gastric catarrh in children followed by emaciation and debility are due to the early administration of alcoholic drinks; and impediment of growth from the same cause is thereby produced. the most serious derangement is that of the nervous system, and the development in the young, under the influence of alcohol, of what is known as nervousness, to which is added the moral paralysis with which the habit of alcoholic drinking smites its victims in the very spring-time of life."--prof. demme, of berne, switzerland. "the action of the new york board of health, in recommending to tenement house parents, that on the hottest days of summer a few drops of whisky be added to the water or food of their infants, has received a strong protest and rebuke in a meeting at prohibition park, where the opinions of eminent physicians, collected by the _voice_, were read, condemning such a course. a resolution of protest was also adopted."--_sel._ "for nineteen years we lived with a physician whose success may be estimated from this one item: he had between , and , labor cases, and never once lost the mother, and only twice the child, and what seems still more remarkable never used instruments. when other physicians, as often happened, would come to him to know how he did it, he always answered, 'a woman will do anything if you only encourage her.' nor was obstetrics his specialty--he had none. "in a fifteen years' practice in chicago and new york, where these diseases are so very fatal, and he was much sought after to treat them, he did not lose a case of scarlet fever, diphtheria or cholera infantum which he managed himself, and saved many a one where he was called in consultation, or after some other physician. now when such a man after an experience more than fifty years long and as wide as the continent, gives it as his unqualified opinion that wines, beers, liquors of every kind, alcohol itself, are not medicines and should never be used as such, for scientific reasons, not to mention moral, is not his opinion entitled to a hearing? isn't it probable it weighs more than the doctor's you were just quoting? is it too great a risk to act upon it?"--_pacific ensign._ "a lady, mrs. a., tenderly nurtured, refined, cultured, moving in an influential position, belonged to a family in whom the tendency to intemperance existed. realizing the danger, she, for seven years of her married life, adhered to total abstinence. illness came, and the doctor ordered wine; and her husband, deaf to her arguments, insisted on her taking it. she fell into habits of intemperance. her husband died, and for a time she pulled up and trained as a hospital nurse; but temptation prevailed, and she fell from bad to worse. loving hands received her time after time, and at last placed her in an inebriate home. for a short time she did well, but soon became unmanageable. after another desperate period she entered a second home, but after leaving she yielded again, was twice in prison, and fell into the lowest degradation and utter ruin, surely deserving our deepest pity. her doctor and her husband had persisted in working her fall in spite of her own strongest convictions."--_selected._ they did not die.--"dr. lord of pasadena suffered from rheumatism of the heart for more than half of a long lifetime. no doctor ever felt his pulse (which intermitted) without exclaiming, 'why, doctor, you have no business to be alive with such a pulse,'--or something similar. for nineteen years his wife never retired without having at least one medicine she could put her hand on in the dark, the ammonia bottle within reach, the electric battery ready to start like a fire-engine, and preparations for heating water in less than no time. his acute attacks usually came in the night--an uninterrupted night's sleep was something unknown to either the doctor or his wife in all these years. "they lived in sight of an open grave, and seldom a week passed when it did not seem as if death had actually occurred. if ever a case called for alcoholic stimulants this one did. but none were ever administered, none were ever kept in the house. the doctor's standing orders were: 'if all the doctors in the country order you to give me liquor, and say my life depends upon it, don't do it. tell them i know more about it than they do. it won't save my life; it will only lessen what little chance i have.' all who knew about this case, and hundreds did, were driven to the conclusion that if these two people, one in this condition and the other feeble, could live all alone as they did, miles from a doctor, and neighbors not near, and could get along without alcoholics of any kind, everybody can do the same everywhere. and the doctor finally wore out his heart trouble and died of another disease."--_pacific ensign._ an english weekly journal is responsible for the following anecdote:-- "a birmingham physician has had an amusing experience. the other day a somewhat distracted mother brought her daughter to see him. the girl was suffering from what is known among people as 'general lowness.' there was nothing much the matter with her, but she was pale and listless and did not care about eating or doing anything. the doctor, after due consultation, prescribed for her a glass of claret three times a day with her meals. the mother was somewhat deaf, but apparently heard all he said and bore off her daughter, determined to carry out the prescription to the very letter. in ten days' time they were back again, and the girl looked a different creature. she was rosy-cheeked, smiling and the picture of health. the doctor congratulated himself on his diagnosis of the case. 'i am glad to see that your daughter is so much better,' he said. 'yes,' exclaimed the excited and grateful mother. 'thanks to you, doctor! she has had just what you ordered. she has eaten carrots three times a day since we were here, and sometimes oftener--and once or twice uncooked--and now look at her!'" the rest cure:--"after all, the veneer of civilization is quite thin. scratch most people, and very near the surface you come on the savage. this is specially true when they are sick. they at once want charms and miracles to restore them to health, and come to the doctor or 'medicine man,' as they look upon him--with this demand: 'i want something, doctor, to fix me up.' but he, unhappy man, has not wherewith to satisfy them, unless he is a quack. "he knows that in most cases all he can do is to give advice as to how best nature may be allowed to effect a cure; for nature is the great physician, and the doctor's main duty is to stand by and see that she gets fair play. nature's chief cure, in a large number of the diseases to which flesh is heir, is rest. the tired man needs rest. the tired brain, the tired stomach, the tired liver and kidneys, need the same rest. "so, when the patient turns up with an overworked and exhausted organ of some sort within him--be it what it may--heart, brain or stomach--the true physician prescribes, first and chiefly, not drugs, but rest. "now, this is generally the advice the patient doesn't want. his desire is for a bottle of something, no matter how nasty it may be, which shall 'fix him up,' and let him go on doing what he has been doing previously. common-sense is always at a discount, and never more so than in this case. the tired brain-worker doesn't want to stop. give him something to whip up his brain and his body, something to drive the spurs into them. 'what i want,' he says, 'is a really strong tonic'; though, if he knew that before, what was the use of coming to the doctor? or he would like to be told to take a glass of whisky-and-water when he is tired, which is the maddest and most disastrous advice that could be given. "the man who has been ill-treating his stomach, eating too much or too well, also demands a tonic--something to give him an appetite so that he may eat more. and his poor overwrought stomach is all the time crying out for rest. "so it is all along the line. the possessor of an inflamed and swollen knee prays for a liniment to rub into it which will cure it straight away, and is highly disgusted when told that he will have to lie up for a week or two. "again, for the tired stomach the cure is starvation. let the person live on his own fat, and a little milk-and-water for a few days, and his stomach will take courage again and return to work with renewed zest. but it is the most difficult thing in the world to persuade the patient or his kind relatives of the truth of this. there are many diseases in which, for a short time at least, the less food the sick person has the better. but the relatives are always much wiser than the doctor. they insist 'that the strength must be kept up,' and would like to force the patient to eat more than he does when well. 'you will let his strength down, doctor,' is a common complaint, and one of the difficulties hospital authorities have to face is to prevent kind friends from smuggling in food to the inmates, who, in their opinion, are being brutally starved. "i myself have cured people by making them rest--lie in bed and starve. but the next time they were sick, _i wasn't the doctor_."--"physician" in _our federation_. "the blessings of sunlight and fresh air should be more appreciated. the sun is the godfather of us all. the source of all light, heat, electricity and energy, what wonder that it was once worshipped as the creator. the future will recognize it not only as the best disinfectant, an all powerful preventive of disease, but also as a wonderful healer of disease. the more people can be taught to live in pure air out of doors, and bask in the rays of the sun, the less of disease there will be to prevent."--dr. c. h. shepard, brooklyn, n. y. alcohol tested. "some years ago dr. beddoes, a physician of eminence, was very anxious to put to the test the disputed question as to the power of alcoholic liquors to give strength to the system. he discovered that those who had most calls upon their physical endurance were the smiths who were engaged in forging ship's anchors, for at one moment they would be exposed to a heat so fierce that one marveled that any human organization could endure exposure to it, and then their work would call them away to a temperature that was chilly and cold, added to which all the time their work lasted they were bathed in a profuse perspiration, the demands upon their physical energy were so great. to counteract this perpetual drain upon their system they were in the habit of drinking unlimited quantities of beer, which their masters provided for them as a matter of course, and a _sine qua non_. one day, as they were resting from their work at midday, dr. beddoes made his appearance amongst some of these men who were employed in a certain foundry, and submitted a formal proposition to them, to this effect, that twelve of their number, the strongest and stanchest, should be selected for an experiment, and they should work for a week, six of them drinking only water, and the other six taking their beer as usual. his proposition was laughed to scorn. the men would not hear of it. 'look here, mate,' said their spokesman, 'do you want us to be all dead men; you don't know what our work is, and how it takes all a man's strength to weld an anchor. why, if we did not have our beer and plenty of it, it would be all up with us in a brace of shakes.' "the doctor said: 'i should be very sorry for any harm to come to you. you know i am a doctor, and i will be constantly at hand to see if any of you are going wrong, and i promise that if i see any of you breaking down i will at once stop my experiment.' and then taking out of his pocket ten crisp five-pound notes, he displayed them to the anchor smiths. 'i will put down these notes, £ in all; six of you shall try water for one week honestly and fairly; if you pull through without giving in, the £ shall be yours; if not, i'll take the £ back again. is it a bargain?' "this clenched the matter, and very soon the doctor's offer was accepted, and a gang of six men volunteered to begin their work on the monday without beer. the beer drinkers did their best to chaff the water drinkers, and aggravated them by taking good care to show them how very nice it was to have recourse to unlimited beer. the water drinkers kept firm, and the first day, to their astonishment, found that they could do just as much work as the rest of their mates. on tuesday the water drinkers began to crow over the beer drinkers, for they found that, while the latter complained and grumbled at the heat, they were enabled to take the work in a philosophical kind of way. wednesday, thursday and friday wore away, and the teetotal band became more and more triumphant, the laugh was all on their side, for not only did they feel more comfortable than their beer-loving companions, but the £ came nearer and nearer, and at last, on saturday, when the time for finishing work came, they threw down their tools and their hammers, and crowded up to the doctor to claim the prize, and to give a faithful record of their experiences; and one and all declared that they had done their hard work with more ease and comfort to themselves than ever it had been done before, and, instead of feeling tired and jaded, as they often did on the saturday afternoon, they were quite ready to begin work again, and if the doctor had another £ to dispose of, they would most gladly give him a chance of protracting his experiment for another week. the doctor expressed himself perfectly satisfied with the trial which had already taken place, and left the place amidst three hearty cheers, while the men proceeded to discuss the ins and outs of the matter among themselves."--_national advocate._ beer-drinking injures health. "i think there is no doubt that beer-drinking is deleterious to health, and personally i have never seen any case of disease where i thought it useful. i believe it is more deleterious to health than the stronger spirits, and this opinion is derived from the report of the actuaries' investigations for our insurance companies a few years ago."--dr. john m. dodson, dean of the medical department of the university of chicago. "my connection with large medical institutions for many years past has given me, i think, an excellent opportunity to observe the effect of beer-drinking and the use of other alcoholic liquors in many cases. i can say as a result of my own observation that beer-drinking has a very pernicious effect upon nearly every organ of the body. it produces disease of the stomach and digestive tract, of the heart and circulating system, of the kidneys and liver, and of the nervous system. in addition to this it lessens the vigor and vital resistance of the whole body, makes the beer drinker very much more susceptible to infection such as pneumonia, and other acute infections, and also lessens his ability to recover from illnesses of any kind. an untold amount of misery and disease would be avoided if the use of beer and other intoxicating liquors could be wiped off the face of the earth."--dr. w. h. riley, battle creek sanitarium, battle creek, mich. in the report of bellevue hospital, new york city, for , dr. alexander lambert, in speaking of delirium tremens, says: "the delirium tremens from beer does not come on so readily as that from whisky, but is slower in clearing up." page of report. "apart from its toxic effect it is seldom realized how harmful beer may be by promoting obesity, and, in susceptible persons, favoring dilatation of the stomach."--dr. e. p. joslin, professor in harvard medical school. "it is not the concentrated alcoholic liquors alone that cause heart and kidney trouble but pre-eminently the continued immoderate use of beer. nothing is more false than the belief that the progressive dislodgement of other alcoholic drinks by beer will diminish the destructive influences of alcoholism. * * * it has been conclusively established by thousandfold experiments that soldiers in all climates, in heat, cold and rain, endure best the most fatiguing marches when they are absolutely deprived of alcoholic drinks."--prof. g. von bunge, m. d., basle, switzerland. "beer, wine and spirits furnish no element capable of entering into the composition of blood, muscular fibre, or anything which is the seat of vital principle. if a man drinks daily or quarts of the best bavarian beer in a year he will have taken into his system as much nourishment as is contained in a five-pound loaf of bread."--_liebig, the great german chemist._ "beer-drinker's heart is a term well-known to the physicians of our large hospitals, and indicates a special condition of unhealthy enlargement of the heart due to dilatation, accompanied by some increase of tissue and of fat. doctors bauer and bollinger found that in munich one in every sixteen of the hospital patients died from this disorder. it is common in germany--the land of beer-drinking--and proves incontestably that the habit of drinking even such a mild alcoholic beverage as lager-beer is one that is undesirable and unwise."--_from "alcohol and the human body," by sir victor horsley, m. d., london._ "nothing is more erroneous from the physician's standpoint, than to think of diminishing the destructive effects of alcoholism by substituting beer for other alcoholic drinks, or that the victims of drink are found only in those countries where whisky helps the people of a low grade of culture to forget their poverty and misery."--prof. strumpel, breslau, germany. "the result of extolling beer as the mightiest enemy of whisky and brandy has been that the consumption of the distilled liquors has changed very little, while to these liquors has been added beer, the use of which has led to a great and still increasing beer alcoholism. * * * "the beer drinker who is not at all a drunkard in the popular sense, is very frequently the victim of chronic inflammation of the kidneys. * * * an enlarged and fatty condition of the liver, marked by a dull pain in the region of the organ, often follows from the habitual use of beer. the death-rate from liver diseases among brewers of beer in england is more than double that in all other occupations. * * * beer-drinkers have a marked tendency to enlargement of the stomach, and to chronic diarrhoea. beer causes also inflammation of the nerves. this is often announced by 'rheumatic' pains in the legs. * * * beer alcoholism, as well as alcoholism in general, lowers the resistance of the body to all diseases by injuring most of the organs. and herein lies the chief danger in the general wide-spread use of beer. the drinker is especially open to attacks of infectious disease. * * * the brutalizing effect of beer-alcoholism is shown most clearly by the fact that in germany crimes of personal violence, particularly dangerous bodily injuries, occur most frequently in bavaria where there is the highest consumption of beer."--dr. hugo hoppe, nerve specialist, konigsberg, germany. "the life insurance companies make a business of estimating men's lives, and can only make money by making correct estimates of whatever influences life. now they expect a man otherwise healthy, who is addicted to beer-drinking, will have his life shortened from to per cent. for instance if he is twenty years old and does not drink beer he may reasonably expect to live until he is . if he is a beer-drinker he will probably not live to be over . if he is years old when he begins to drink beer he will probably drop off somewhere between and instead of living to as he should. there is no sentiment, prejudice or assertion about these figures. they are simply cold-blooded business facts, derived from experience, and the companies invest their money on them just the same as a man pays so many dollars for so many feet of ground or bushels of wheat."--dr. s. s. thorn, toledo, ohio, in u. s. senate document, published in . "fatty degeneration of various organs is frequently witnessed in beer-drinkers. diabetes mellitus is frequently due to beer-drinking, and is made much worse by its continuance. in germany more than half of the cases in the inebriate asylums enter from beer-drinking. in bavaria, the women are not able properly to suckle their children because of the universal consumption of their favorite national drink. indeed, so grave are the evils caused by beer-drinking that the fight against beer should now be conducted as strenuously as that against stronger liquors."--dr. legrain, paris, france. drug drinks. in the report of the president's homes commission, senate document , may be found a list of soft drinks examined by the bureau of chemistry. the report says:-- "attention is directed to the danger of soft drinks containing caffeine, and extract of coca leaf, the active principle of the latter being cocaine. * * * we have seen how the opium habit may be acquired by the use of the various proprietary or secret preparations, and so the cocaine habit may be developed by the use of these much lauded soft drinks. * * * no wonder that insanity and diseases of the nervous system are on the increase." the following is a list of drinks examined by the bureau of chemistry. investigation showed that these contained both caffeine and extract of coca leaf: afri cola, ala cola, cafe coca, carre cola, celery cola, chan ola, chera cola, coca beta, coca cola, pilsbury's coke, cola coke, cream cola, dope, four kola, hayo kola, heck's cola, kaye ola, koca nola, koke, kola ade, kola kola, kola phos, koloko, kos kola, lime cola, lima ola, mellow nip, nerv ola, revive ola, rocola, rye ola, standard cola, toka tona, tokola, vim-o, french wine of coca, wise ola. the manufacturers of some of those listed claim that their coca extract is prepared from a decocainized coca leaf, the refuse product discarded in the manufacture of cocaine. the coca cola company claims that their coca extract is now without cocaine, and most of the recent analyses show this to be true, yet the pure food commissioner of north dakota says in his report for that coca cola as examined by him, "gave a reaction for cocaine." it is easy to see that so long as even refuse coca leaves are used some cocaine may at times be in the product. as cocaine is the most destructive drug known to humanity its presence in any of the so-called temperance drinks is a frightful evil calling for speedy legislation. it is practically impossible to cure a person of the cocaine habit. this drug causes insomnia, dyspepsia, chronic palpitations, and complete paralysis of will-power, with a tendency to criminal acts. when a person becomes habituated to its use he suffers torments when not under its influence. the real cocaine fiend will rob or kill to get the drug. what can be thought of men, who knowing the deadly nature of this drug, will hide it away in a drink sold as harmless to children and women who would never touch beer or wines? it is placed in the drink to form a craving for that drink and thus create a demand that will enrich the conscienceless manufacturers. the following preparations were found to contain caffeine, but there was no evidence to the effect that coca leaf in any form had been used in their manufacture: calcycine, celery cocoa, citro cola, deep rock ginger ale, fosko, heck's star pepsin, koke, koke ola, kalafra, kumfort, lime juice and kola, lon kola, meg-o, mexicola, pau pau cola, pedro, pepsi cola, speed ball, to-ko, vril. the report says that the following list were not examined but from their names, and from the evidence submitted, they contain either caffeine or coca leaf extract, or both: charcola, cherry kola, cola soda, cola ginger, field's coca, imported french cola, jacob's kola, koko ale, kola cream, kola pepsin celery wine tonic, kola vena, loco kola, mintola, mate, pikmeup, ro-cola, schelhorn's coca, vine cola, viz. dr. harvey w. wiley, chief of the bureau of chemistry, says that the sale of all such drinks should be prohibited. caffeine is a drug much used in headache remedies. it is derived from the kola nut, and from tea and coffee. it is also made artificially from uric acid occurring in the guano or bird manure deposits of south america. this bird manure product is said to be used in some of the drinks while in others caffeine obtained from refuse tea sweepings is used. the sales-manager of the coca cola company says the caffeine in their product is made from tea. it is claimed by the manufacturers of caffeine drinks that they are as harmless as tea or coffee. but physicians advise against the use of tea and coffee for children and for delicate, nervous people, and every intelligent person knows that these drinks should not be indulged in immoderately. the secret caffeine drinks at the soda-fountain are not warned against because few people know of what they are made. so it frequently happens that children whose parents do not permit them to drink tea and coffee are taking caffeine in a much more injurious form at the drug stores. dr. harvey w. wiley, chief of the bureau of chemistry, says: "when caffeine is separated from tea and coffee, and used as a separate drug, it exerts a much more specific action upon the system than when in natural combination. its general effect is to induce that unhappy state described as nervousness, with deranged digestion and impaired health." dr. h. h. rusby, dean of the college of pharmacy, of columbia university, new york city, a high authority, says: "caffeine is a genuine poison, both acute and chronic. taken in the form of a beverage it tends to the formation of a drug habit, quite as characteristic, though not so effective, as ordinary narcotics. permanent disorders of the cardiac function, and of the cerebral circulation, result from its continued use." the _druggists circular_, for may, , contained a query from a druggist as to a good formula for a kola nut soda syrup. the answer was in part as follows: "there are two kinds of druggists. one kind puts any and every kind of stuff into stock, and passes it out to his customers, young and old, ignorant or learned, foolish or wise, his only desire being to get a profit. the other kind of druggist refuses to stock some things at all. kola drinks owe their vogue to the caffeine which they contain. caffeine is a poison which is cumulative in its effects, and an excess of which has not infrequently caused death. we believe you would better be on record as discouraging rather than encouraging the growth of the caffeine habit, especially among young people, who constitute a large part of the soda-water trade." the _london lancet_ of january , , reports the results of experiments made in paris with kola given to horses to determine its action in relieving fatigue. it apparently diminished fatigue, but the horses receiving it lost more weight than those to whom it was not given. the experimenter said this showed that kola (caffeine) like alcohol, can give the tissues a lash with a whip, but that such energy, artificially produced, is at the expense of the organism. so, when people see the alluring advertisements of caffeine drinks which "relieve fatigue," let them beware of the relief which carries with it injury to the body. of the most widely advertised of these caffeine drinks the government report says: "the prevalence of the 'coca cola fiend' is becoming a matter of great importance and concern." (see volume on social betterment of senate document , page .) m. m. a. special medical directions for women. "in the treatment of diseases of women, alcohol has been considered a very important remedy. because it affords relief from pain, many resort to its use during painful menstruation. each month either whisky, or some medicine containing a liberal supply of alcohol, is considered a necessity. "the alcohol habit is not infrequently formed in this way. i have in my mind several cases of inebriety which were traceable to the habit of taking something to relieve pain at these periods. a woman whose husband held a high official position, thus acquired a craving for alcohol and became a confirmed drinker. he was finally compelled to place her in an institution for treatment. "alcohol affords relief, not by lessening the internal congestion which causes the pain, but by paralyzing or benumbing the nervous system. in fact, alcohol, instead of relieving, aggravates the internal congestion. it is a deceiver, for it makes the patient believe she is benefited when in fact the condition is made worse. the uterus has become more congested by its use, and when the paralyzing effect of the alcohol has worn off the pain will be found more severe, and the demand for alcohol increased correspondingly. the only safe and wise plan when suffering from pain due to internal congestion is to remove the cause. if uterine misplacement exists suitable treatment must be taken to correct this. almost immediate relief from pain due to congestion of the pelvic organs may be obtained by taking a hot full bath. a hot foot or leg bath is also a good treatment since the warming of the extremities quickens the circulation in the limbs and relieves congestion in the pelvic region. "there are various forms of dysmenorrhea or painful menstruation and each form has a treatment by itself. the congestive type which is due to taking cold is better relieved by a hot sitz bath before the date expected, the temperature of the water should be °- ° with the feet in water a degree or two hotter. if at the time of the period the pain still continues, an enema or vaginal douche will usually give the necessary relief unless the patient should be exposed to cold by allowing the hands, arms, feet or legs to become chilled. "many women do not dress their limbs warmly enough at any time. just before the menstrual period the tendency is for the pelvic organs to become congested; there is a greater tendency to cold feet then, than at any other time. i would therefore advise warmer clothing on the limbs at such times. the drinking of hot pepper tea, ginger tea, etc., is a pernicious practice, for these irritants inflame the mucous membrane of the stomach and intestines. hot lemonade or hot water will afford the same relief without leaving an inflamed surface behind to be irritated by the next meal. "there are some cases of great constriction of the uterine canal which have reflex irritability in the stomach. those having the stomach affected cannot take food, the least thing is rejected. it is best for such to remain quiet in bed, applying heat to the stomach and abdomen and to the feet until relief is experienced. those suffering from headache should also remain quiet in bed. some resort to anodynes and form the habit of using codeine, morphine. all these are bad and should be avoided. i have never found it necessary to give one dose of either to relieve pain at such times. hot applications with the enema, vaginal douche, or foot bath, has usually been all that was required. "i recall many cases of severe pain where the extremities were cold and clammy and the entire body was in a hysterical contraction that were immediately relieved by a hot vaginal douche. the muscles relaxed, the patient warmed up and recovered nicely. "for securing sleep in insomnia, a hot toddy is often used, but a quicker and better effect can be gained by a hot, or neutral bath. the latter given at ° or ° for twenty minutes will produce sleep and refreshment, as it equalizes the circulation by bringing the blood to the surface. "it is safer under all circumstances to do without alcohol or other dangerous drugs in treatment of these diseases."--dr. lauretta e. kress, washington, d. c. note--an experienced nurse says that prompt relief in painful menstruation may often be found by sitting upon a toilet water-jar half full or more of hot water. the steam rises and the heat relieves. total abstinence and life insurance. nothing shows more clearly and convincingly that alcoholic liquors have a tendency to shorten life than the figures published by life insurance companies. a most interesting and valuable paper upon this theme was read before the actuarial society of america, in , by mr. joel g. van cise, actuary of the equitable life assurance society of the united states. in it he gives the experience of different life insurance companies which have separate sections for total abstainers and non-abstainers. the mutual life insurance company of new york, one of the large companies, showed after a few years' experience with the two sections a death-rate per cent. higher among the drinkers than among the abstainers. the sceptre life for the years from to , inclusive, gave the following: expected deaths of abstainers, , ; actual deaths, , being per cent. of the expected. expected deaths of non-abstainers, , ; actual deaths, , , or per cent. of the expected. the scottish temperance life from to gave the following: abstainers, expected deaths, ; actual deaths, , or per cent. of the expected. non-abstainers, expected deaths, ; actual deaths, , or per cent. of the expected. mr. van cise goes on to show that the statistics which have been published from time to time, giving the percentages of mortality in the various occupations of life, invariably show a higher death-rate among those engaged in the liquor business than among those engaged in other lines of work, except such as are specially hazardous. he says: 'the higher death-rate among liquor dealers is so universally recognized by life assurance companies that a number of them will not issue policies, even on the lives of the richest brewers, upon any terms, and not one of the companies, to my knowledge, admits liquor dealers upon as advantageous terms as those engaged in other ordinary occupations.' he then quotes from a circular sent to the agency force of a prominent united states company, in which attention is called to a rule which forbids the taking of any risks on bartenders: 'saloonkeepers, generally, not taken, but best of this class may be accepted on or year endowments only.' others connected more remotely with the liquor business might be taken with a charge of $ . per thousand extra. the circular of instructions adds that the limitations of liquor dealers are made necessary 'by the very excessive rate of mortality found to exist among persons so employed.' mr. van cise closed his address before the actuaries' society by saying: 'i contend that the facts given in this paper show conclusively that the effect of total abstinence is to lower the death-rate, and increase the average duration of human life.' the equitable company had a section for total abstainers for a few years which was discontinued on account of the new insurance laws which came into effect in . the actuary writes in response to inquiry: 'we are very careful in our selection of risks, and only those who drink in moderation will be accepted. i think it safe to say that, other things being equal, all american life insurance companies would consider a total abstainer a more desirable risk than a moderate drinker.' the united kingdom temperance and general provident institution, of london, is a large and successful company which was organized in , expressly for total abstainers, because at that time larger premiums were asked from abstainers than from drinkers, the common opinion then being that alcoholic liquors were necessary to health. in , this company added a general section, in which carefully selected moderate drinkers were accepted, but each section was kept entirely separate from the other. this separation has continued to the present time, both classes paying the same premiums, but sharing in profits according to the earnings of the section to which the members belong. from to , for every deaths in the temperance section there were deaths in the moderate drinking section, based on a corresponding number of lives at risk. the dividends for a recent five years average $ to the temperance members, and $ to the drinking members. the actuary of this english company, mr. roderick mackenzie moore, read a paper before the institute of actuaries, in , in which he reviewed the work of this company during its history of sixty years' experience with abstainers and over fifty with non-abstainers. he showed that there has been no marked difference in the number of policies in force in the two sections, and the average amount of the policies in each section has been about the same, so that the comparison is as fair as could possibly be made. he gives these figures: 'non-abstainers, male, expected deaths, , ; actual deaths, , ; per cent. of actual to expected, . . abstainers, male, expected deaths, , ; actual deaths, , ; per cent. of actual to expected, . .' this shows a difference of . per cent. between the actual and expected deaths of abstainers and moderate drinkers, and the full figures show the death rate among the drinkers to be per cent. higher than among the abstainers. the american temperance life insurance association was organized in . it gives a lower premium rate to members of the abstainers' section than to those in the general section. the circulars sent out by this company state that the average life of moderate drinkers is thirty-five and a half years; tipplers, fifty-one years; total abstainers, sixty-four and one-fifth years. very interesting is the result of an inquiry made of various insurance companies not long ago as to whether they consider the habitual user of intoxicating beverages as good an insurance risk as the total abstainer; 'if not, why not?' all but two out of forty-one companies answered, 'no.' the two answered, 'depends on quantity used.' in answer to the 'why not?' the etna said, 'drink diseases the system and shortens life'; hartford life, 'moderate use lays foundation for disease'; knights of the maccabees, 'drink tends to destroy life'; knights templar and masons' life indemnity, 'drink lessens ability to overcome disease'; sun life, 'drink injures constitution. habit apt to grow'; massachusetts mutual life, 'drink causes organic changes. reduces expectation of life nearly two-thirds.' the rest of the answers are much the same as these.--_m. m. a._ index abbott, dr. a. c., , , , , abdominal bandage, abel, prof. j. j., abernethy, dr., acetanilid, , , acetic acid in pharmacy, , acid drinks kill bacilli, adelung, dr. edward von, , adynamic disease, aiken, dr. j. m., alabama law and alcoholic prescriptions, albumen, , , , , alcohol, food claims, - , a mocker, , a narcotic, , a poison, , , , , , , injurious to living cells, advance in study of, affinity for blood and tissues, affinity for water, , and foods, action contrasted, and empty stomach, mental work, anti-spasmodic, apparent benefits; deceptive warmth from evanescent, anæsthetic and paralyzant, , anæsthetic effect deceptive, , , antipyretic, as medicine, - as medicine, causes waste of force, as medicine, diminished use, , - as medicine, need of popular education regarding, as medicine, opposition to by w. c. t. u., - causes disease, - as sedative, as tonic, , beginning of scientific study, a cause of bright's disease, , causes malnutrition, craving, delusion that it "supports", depressant, , dangerous in pneumonia, difference in action from carbohydrates and fats, diminishes arterial pressure, , effect on respiration, , experiments, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , alcoholic diseases ascribed to other causes, drink, no danger in sudden stopping, drinks, stories of life sustained on, dyspepsia, proprietary medicines, - alcohol, medical use bulwark of liquor-traffic, , , , medical use causes death, medical use delays recovery, medical use evidence against, - medical use result of habit and tradition, , , , , medical use, toledo blade on, medical use, mortality increased by, - , ammonia, , anæsthesia, , anæmia, anders, dr. howard s., angina pectoris, , animal poison, - anthrax, , alcoholism, , ale, , , alkalies for stomach, alum, , , , american association for study of inebriety, american druggist and patent medicine agitation, american medical association, declaration on alcohol, antikamnia, , anti-tuberculosis congress resolution, apoplexy, , , , appetite, loss of, aschaffenberg, prof., association of abstaining physicians, germany, asthma, , athletes and alcohol, atwater, prof., - australian government commission on patent medicines, baldwin, dr. edward r., barton, miss clara, baths, , , , , , , , , , , , battle creek sanitarium, - , , bavaria, beer-drinking effects, beale, dr. lionel, , beaumont, dr., , beddoes, dr., , beebe, dr. s. p., , beef-tea, , , bacteria, badger, dr. richard, baer, dr., barker, prof., barr, sir james, beer, , , , , , , , , , - , , - bellevue hospital, , , berkley and friedenwald, beverages for the sick, bigelow, dr. jacob, billings, dr. frank, bitters, , blankmeyer, dr. h. j., bleuler, dr., blood, - , , , , , , , blood purifiers, blood vessels, , , , , , , , blumenau, alcohol and digestion, boils and carbuncles, bond, dr. knox, on fevers, , bostwick, dr., bowditch, prof. vincent y., boynton, dr., bradner, dr. roe, , brain, , brandy, , , , , , , , , , brewers, , bright's disease, , , british army, experiences with alcohol, , british medical journal, , , , , , british medical temperance association, - , broadbent, dr., brodie, dr. benj., bromidia, bromo seltzer, brown, dr. alonzo, - brunton, dr. lauder, , bucke, dr. r. m., alcohol and the insane, buckley, rev. j. m., d.d., cured of consumption, bunge, prof. g. von, , bureau of chemistry, , burnett, dr. mary weeks, - burt, mrs. mary t., bussey, dr., butter, substitute for cod-liver oil, cabot, dr. richard c., , caffeine, , , , - cain, dr. j. s., , calmette, dr., snake-bite - camphor, , cancer and alcohol, carbolic acid, , carbon dioxide, - carbonic acid in wine, cardiac paralysis in diphtheria, , carpanutrine, carpenter, dr. alfred, carson, prof. j. w., casgrau, dr., doctors who personally use alcohol less observant of its effects, catarrh, , , cells, - , , , , chapman, dr. c. w., charcoal, charrin, dr., cheese, cannot be made from milk of cows fed on distillery slops, cheyne, prof. w. w., snake-poison, , children, danger of alcohol for, children of beer-drinking mothers, , children, per cent. of deaths of those of abstaining and drinking parents, , chills, chittenden, prof., , chloral, , , , , , chlorodyne, chloroform, , , , , cholera, , - , , infantum, , morbus, christian advocates, the, and patent medicines, christison, prof., cincinnati hospital, circulation, , , - claret, , , clark, dr. alonzo, sir andrew, , clinique, the, coal-tar drugs, , , , , coca wines, - coca cola, cocaine, , - , - , cod-liver oil, fraudulent preparations, coffee, , , , cohen, dr. s. s., cold, as a heart stimulant, - as tonic, pack, treatment for pneumonia, colds, cause and treatment, colic, collier, dr. wm., collier's weekly and nostrums, collins, dr., coloring matter in wines arrests digestion, coma from waste retention, committee of fifty, , , on pharmacy, , , condi, dr., nursing mothers, constipation, consumption, - , convalescence and alcohol, , convulsions, , cook county hospital, , , cordials in dyspepsia, cough medicines, - simple remedies, , , cramps, cream, substitute for cod-liver oil, , crothers, dr. t. d., , , , , , cures for inebriety, , deaths from alcohol, , , from alcoholic diseases ascribed to other causes, - death-rates, comparative, , , - , lowered by non-alcoholic treatment, , , debility, , davis, dr. nathan s., sr., , , - , , , , - , - , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - de garmo, prof., deléarde, dr., pasteur institute, , delirium tremens, depression of spirits, , diabetes, , diarrhoea, digestion, , - digestive organs, injured, digitalis, , diphtheria, , , diseases of women, non-alcohol treatment, , distilled liquors, composition, doan's pills, dodson, dr. john m., dogbite, dock, dr. george, , douches, , drowning, , "drugging", - drug habits formed by patent medicines, drugs, medical opinions of, - druggists' resolutions against whiskey drug-stores, druggist's circular, , druggists, liquor selling by, drunkards made in infancy, drunkards, , drysdale, dr., dubois, experiments, dysentery, , dysmenorrhea, dyspepsia, , , - edmunds, dr., , , , - edsall, dr. david l., epilepsy, , , erysipelas, , eshner, dr. a. a., exhaustion, fainting and faintness, , , , fatigue, , , fatty degeneration, - , - , fats digested in small intestines, fere, dr., fermentation, , fevers, , , - , fibrine, , fits, flatulence, flick, dr. lawrence, fomentations, , , food, alcohol as indirect, - , , - , - foods, proprietary, forel, dr. a., , forrest, dr., , foster, dr., franco-prussian war, wine, , francis, surgeon gen'l, cholera, frick, dr. a., , fruit, , , juice, , , gairdner, dr., fevers, , garber, dr., typhoid, garfield memorial hospital, , gastric juice, , gastritis from beer and gin, georgia law and alcohol prescriptions, germs, , , , , , giddiness, gilman, prof., treatment leads to death, gin, , , , ginger drinking, gloria tonic, gluzinski and digestion, , glycerine in pharmacy, , , glycogen, , gordon, dr. a., gould, a. pearce, , , gout, , grape juice, gréhant, gruber, prof., , guardian cells, see leucocytes gull, sir wm., , gum resins, non-alcoholic preparation, hagee's cordial of cod-liver oil, hall, dr. w. s., , - hamilton, dr. frank h., , hammond, dr. w. a., , hargreaves, dr. w., , , , , , harley, dr., alcohol and diabetes, , harrington. dr. chas., , hart, dr. ernest, , , harvey, dr., counsel to young physicians, hay fever, , hayes, dr., arctic work, headaches, , headache remedies, , health, how to preserve, health grains, healy, dr. h. h., heart abscesses, , and alcohol, , - , beer-drinkers, disease, , failure, , , , - , , force diminished, stimulants, weak, hemaboloids, hemapeptone, hemaglobin, , , , hemorrhage, , , heredity of alcoholic diseases, herrick, dr. james b., hewes, dr. henry f., heyburn, senator, nostrums, hiccough, higginbotham, , , higginson, col. t. w., hirschfeld, dr., , hiss, dr. a. emil, , history of study of alcohol, - hob-nailed liver, hoffman drops, hoff's consumption cure, holmes, dr. oliver w., on drugs, , hop tea, , , hoppe, dr. hugo, beer, horsley, sir victor, , , , hospitals, temperance, - death-rates, - decreased use of alcoholic liquors, - hugounencq, alcohol and pepsin, hunt, mrs. mary h., temperance education, hunt, dr. reid, , hydrochloric acid, , hydrophobia, - internal rev, dep't. and nostrums, , international congress on alcoholism, london, , , encyclopedia of surgery, medical congress , and national w. c. t. u., , immunity, influence of alcohol on, , , - indigestion and alcohol, infant feeding, , infection, liability to increased, , infectious diseases, , , , inflammation in wounds, influenza and drinkers, , iron, injurious to stomach, jackson, dr. henry, jaundice, alcohol prejudicial, jayne's expectorant, johnson, lieut., arctic work, joslin, dr. e. p., , journal amer. med. ass'n., , - , , , journal of inebriety, , , , kansas prohibits whiskey drug-stores kassowitz, prof. max, , kellogg, dr. j. h., , , , , , , , , , , , , , kerr, dr. norman, , kidneys, , - , , koch, dr., consumption, knopf, dr. s. a., kola, see caffeine. kraepelin, , kress, dr. lauretta, - la grippe, - , ladd, prof., , ladies' home journal, laitinen, prof. t., , , - lambert, dr. alex., , lancet, the london, , , , , landis, dr. j. h., and typhoid, laudanum, , laxative pills often harmful, lees, dr. f. r., legrain, dr., liebig, , , lemon, , , , , lesser, dr. a. monæ, success in treating fevers in cuban war, leucocytes, , , , , , , , , life insurance and total abstinence, , , , - life saving stations and alcohol, liniments, non-alcoholic, , liquid peptones, liver, , , - , - , lloyd, prof. j. u., london temperance hospital, - , - , loomis, dr. a. l., dr. henry p., lungs, , lying-in-hospital, london, , martin, dr. newell, , , , , , , , massage, , , , mass. state board of health, , massart and bordet, leucocytes, mcnicholl, dr. t. a., , madden, dr. john, magnesia, malaria[d], , [footnote d: of late years malaria is attributed to the bite of a certain kind of mosquito. in preparing this edition that item was overlooked.] malt extracts, - manassein's clinic, alcohol and kidneys, , mann, dr. matthew d., martin, alexis st., , mccormack, dr. j. h., measles, meat extracts, valueless, , medical temperance department of w. c. t. u., - menstruation, painful, mercer, dr. alfred, metchnikoff, , milk, , , , , , , miller, dr. james alex., mitchell, dr. s. weir, , miura, investigations, morphine, , , , mossop, dr., experiments, mother bailey's quieting syrup, munyon's kidney cure, mulford's predigested beef, muscles and alcohol, , , musser, dr. john h., , mussey, prof. r. d., nansen and polar expedition, narcotic drug dangers, , , - , nausea, nerves, , , , , , , , nervous system affected by retention of waste, neuralgia, new york state board of health, , newspapers and whiskey ads., and patent medicine ads, nichol, dr., experiments, nichols, dr. jas. r., , nitrite of amyl, , , non-alcoholic treatment, , , - , - , nurses, abstinence in cholera, nursing mothers and beer, , nutrition retarded by alcohol, oatmeal, , oils, essential, non-alcoholic preparation, opium, , , , , , , , , , , , , orangeine, osler, dr., oxidations, oxidation checked by coal-tar drugs, , , hindered by alcohol, oxidative powers of liver effected by alcohol, oxygen, , , , , , , , , , , page, dr. c. e., on typhoid, pain after food, , palmer, dr. a. b., , - pepper, cayenne, , pepsin, , , , peptonic elixir, peruna, peterson, dr. frederick, phagocytes, , , pharmacy, non-alcoholic, - phenacetine, , , , , physicians need awakening as to evils of alcohol, responsibility for prescribing alcoholic liquor, , , why they prescribe alcoholics, - pneumonia, , , , , - , , , , , , , , poheman, dr. julius, , poisons, , - , , port wine, , , , , porter, pregnancy, danger of alcohol in, vomiting in, packs, hot , , panopepton, paralysis, caused by alcohol, , paregoric, parkes, - , , patent medicines, , , - , preble, dr. robert b., proprietary "foods", , prostration, protoplasm and alcohol, , , , psychical treatment, cabot, ptomaine poisoning, , puerperal fever, , pulse and alcohol, , pure food law, , putnam, dr. j. j., quackery, cause, quinine, , , , , rattlesnakes, bite of, recent researches on alcohol, - , - reichert, alcohol and snake-bite, retina, blood-vessels and alcohol, , rheumatism, - , , , richardson, sir b. w., , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , - ridge, dr. j. j., , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , riley, dr. w. h., - , ringer and sainsbury, , ritchie, dr. j. j., roberts, sir w., robin, rusby, dr. h. h., salicylic acid, saline injections, solutions, sartoin skin food, scarlet fever, , , , schafer's physiology on alcohol, scientific temperance education, , sedatives, dangers of, shock, , sight impaired by alcohol, sleeplessness, small-pox, - smith. dr. e., , snake-bite, , soft drinks, dangerous, soldiers, , , soothing syrups, sore nipples, sore throat, sphygmograph, , , stammreich, investigations, starch, , , stimulant, definition, , stimulants, , , , , , , , , stimulation, fallacy of theory,, stockton, dr. c. g., stomach, , , , , , strychnia, , strumpel, prof., on beer, sudden illness, sugar, - , , , , , sulphonal, , sunstroke, , switzerland and alcohol deaths, syncope, tannin, , , taylor's headache powders, tea, temperance hospitals, - tonic beef, toxins, - , - treves, sir frederick, , trudeau, dr. edward, , tuberculosis, , - tetanus, , thompson, sir henry, tinctures, - tissue changes, - waste retarded, tobacco and alcohol, , , todd, dr. b., , turkish baths, , , , type-setters and alcohol, typhoid fever, - , , , , , , , typhus, , , uric acid, , , urine and alcohol, , , , , uterine displacements, - hemorrhage, van duyn, dr. john, vasomotor nerves, , , vegetarian diet for drink crave, vinol, vita-ore, vomiting, , water, , , , , , , , - , , , , , , , , weakness in growing youth, , w. va. medical society resolutions, whisky, , , , , , , , , , , , , , willhite, dr. o. c., wine, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , wampole's cod-liver oil, warbasse, dr. j. p., waste, retention invites disease, welch, dr. w. h., white, dr. john e., white haven sanitarium, white ribbon remedy, wiley, dr. h. w., , , willard, miss frances e., , - williams, henry smith, pink pills, willson, alcohol and snake-bite, winternitz, , , wolff, wollowicz, - , woodhead, dr. g. sims, , - , , woods, dr. matthew, wood, dr. h. c., zwieback, errata page , third line from bottom omitted: the use of cocaine is advancing rapidly in this [transcriber's note: the text was emended to include the above correction.] * * * * * transcriber's note: every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including obsolete and variant spellings. obvious typographical errors in punctuation (misplaced quotes and the like) have been fixed. note that the index has _not_ been resorted alphabetically.corrections [in brackets] in the text are noted below: page v: typo corrected sims woodhead on immunity--delearde's[deléarde's] experiments page vi: typo corrected dr. knox bond on scarlet fever--metchinkoff[metchnikoff] on white blood-cells--kassowitz describes his page vii: typo corrected to quit drinking--dr. t. d. crother's[crothers'] remedy page : typo corrected the woman[']s christian temperance union in opposition to alcohol as medicine. page : typo corrected department of the hospital was commissoned[commissioned] to treat diseases without the use of alcoholic liquids. page : typo corrected treatment for seven weeks for metorrhagia[metrorrhagia], nietortes[tn: unsure what this word is] and peritonitis page : typo corrected who, but for its mistaken use, might have recovered from the illness affecting then[them]. page : typo corrected or influenced by alcoholism. if the clinical thermometor[thermometer] shows the temperature to be above page : typo corrected an editorial in the journal of the amercian[american] medical association said: page : typo corrected e. white, m. d., medical director nordrach ranch sanatorium[sanitorium], colorado springs, colorado. page : typo corrected irritant of which the stomach is trying to be rid. do not arrest it permaturely[prematurely], but assist it. page is usually a symptom of trouble somewhere else, often in the alimentary canal, and[an] overloaded stomach, page : duplicate word removed which they soon experience in the [the] supply of milk? page : typo corrected dr. a. l. loomis, in the treatmemt[treatment] of typhus fever cases on blackwell's island in , excluded page : typo corrected these cases include a number of hyterectomies[hysterectomies], and many cases so desperate that those who trust in alcohol page : aded missing single quote be called criminal. i certainly feel that punishment would be just.[']" page : typo corrected there is less frequent relapse, and there is quicker recovery. in brief, the experience of treament[treatment] of rheumatic page : typo corrected therefore, may open the door to fever or erysipelas.' a similiar[similar] experiment of doyen confirms this. page : added missing quote a habit of gaining relief which becomes an obsession and incapable of being resisted.["] page : added missing quote harmful only, that so many people profess to have received benefit from them?["] there are different page : added missing quote no fatty substances present in these products; their food value from this point of view is, therefore, _nil_."] page : added missing quote show any oil. analysis revealed sugar, alcohol, and glycerine, none of which is contained in cod-liver oil.["] page : added missing quote ["]hoff's consumption cure consists essentially of sodium cinnamate and extract of opium, a mixture at one time suggested page : typo corrected philadephia[philadelphia] porter page : end of quote ambiguous questions were put replied after careful consideration as follows: '[could not find ending single quote]its physiological action is practically unknown. page : typo corrected "dr. hirschfield[hirschfeld], a well-known physician of magdeburg, germany, was recently arrested on a charge page : typo corrected more than upon anything else, to screen it from opprobium[opprobrium], and just punishment for the evils which the traffic entails upon page : added missing quote in their denunciations of the current beliefs concerning alcohol in medicine.["]--_journal a. m. a._, january , . page : typo corrected recent researches upon alcolol.[alcohol] page : typo corrected strictly analagous[analogous] to sugar and fats, provided always that the amount used does not exceed that easily oxidized page : added missing quote and starve. but the next time they were sick, _i wasn't the doctor_.["]--"physician" in our federation_. throughout the index, typos corrected: berkley and friendenwald[friedenwald], delearde[deléarde], dr., pasteur institute, , fére[fere], dr., grehaut[gréhant], hirschfield[hirschfeld], dr., , international congress on alcoholism, london, , , " encyclopædia[encyclopedia] of surgery, lesser, dr. a. monae[monæ], success in treating fevers in cuban war, massert[massart] and bordet, leucocytes, panopeptone[panopepton], phenacetin[phenacetine], , , , , rushy[rusby], dr. h. h., stamreich[stammreich], investigations, whiskey[whisky], , , , , , , , , , , , , , zweiback[zwieback], charles franks, and the online distributed proofreaders team brought home. by hesba stretton. contents. chapter i. upton rectory chapter ii. ann holland chapter iii. what was her duty? chapter iv. a baby's grave chapter v. town's talk chapter vi. the rector's return chapter vii. worse than dead chapter viii. husband and wife chapter ix. sad days chapter x. a sin and a shame chapter xi. lost chapter xii. a colonial curacy chapter xiii. self-sacrifice chapter xiv. farewells chapter xv. in despair chapter xvi. a long voyage chapter xvii. almost shipwrecked chapter xviii. saved chapter i. upton rectory so quiet is the small market town of upton, that it is difficult to believe in the stir and din of london, which is little more than an hour's journey from it. it is the terminus of the single line of rails branching off from the main line eight miles away, and along it three trains only travel each way daily. the sleepy streets have old-fashioned houses straggling along each side, with trees growing amongst them; and here and there, down the roads leading into the the country, which are half street, half lane, green plots of daisied grass are still to be found, where there were once open fields that have left a little legacy to the birds and children of coming generations. half the houses are still largely built of wood from the forest of olden times that has now disappeared; and ancient bow-windows jut out over the side causeways. some of the old exclusive mansions continue to boast in a breastwork of stone pillars linked together by chains of iron, intended as a defence against impertinent intruders, but more often serving as safe swinging-places for the young children sent to play in the streets. perhaps of all times of the year the little town looks its best on a sunny autumn morning, with its fine film of mist, when the chestnut leaves are golden, and slender threads of gossamer are floating in the air, and heavy dews, white as the hoar-frost, glisten in the sunshine. but at any season upton seems a tranquil, peaceful, out-of-the-world spot, having no connection with busier and more wretched places. there were not many real gentry, as the townsfolk called them, living near. a few retired londoners, weary of the great city, and finding rents and living cheaper at upton, had settled in trim villas, built beyond the boundaries of the town. but for the most part the population consisted of substantial trades-people and professional men, whose families had been represented there for several generations. as usual the society was broken up into very small cliques; no one household feeling itself exactly on the same social equality as another; even as far down as the laundresses and charwomen, who could tell whose husband or son had been before the justices, and which families had escaped that disgrace. the nearest approach to that equality and fraternity of which we all hear so much and see so little, was unfortunately to be found in the bar-parlor and billiard-room of the upton arms; but even this was lost as soon as the threshold was recrossed, and the boon-companions of the interior breathed the air of the outer world. there were several religious sects of considerable strength, and of very decided antagonistic views; any one of whose members was always ready to give the reason of the special creed that was in him. so, what with a variety of domestic circumstances, and a diversity of religious opinions, it is not to be wondered at that the society of upton was broken up into very small circles indeed. there was one point, however, on which all the townspeople were united. there could be no doubt whatever as to the beauty of the old norman church, lying just beyond the eastern boundary of the town; not mingling with its business, but standing in a solemn quiet of its own, as if to guard the repose of the sleepers under its shadow. the churchyard too, was beautiful, with its grand and dusky old yew-trees, spreading their broad sweeping branches like cedars, and with many a bright colored flower-bed lying amongst the dark green of the graves. the townspeople loved to stroll down to it in the twilight, with half-stirred idle thoughts of better things soothing away the worries and cares of the day. a narrow meadow of glebe-land separated the churchyard from the rectory garden, a bank of flowers and turf sloping up to the house. nowhere could a more pleasant, home-like dwelling be found, lightly covered with sweet-scented creeping plants, which climbed up to the highest gable, and flung down long sprays of blossom-laden branches to toss to and fro in the air. many a weary, bedinned londoner had felt heart-sick at the sight of its tranquillity and peace. the people of upton, great and small, conformist or nonconformist, were proud of their rector. it was no unusual sight for a dozen or more carriages from a distance to be seen waiting at the church door for the close of the service, not only on a sunday morning, when custom demands the observance, but even in the afternoon, when public worship is usually left to servant-maids. there was not a seat to be had for love or money, either by gentle or simple, after the reading of the psalms had begun. the dissenters themselves were accustomed to attend church occasionally, with a half-guilty sense, not altogether unpleasant, of acting against their principles. but then the rector was always on friendly terms with them: and made no distinction, in distributing christmas charities, between the poor old folks who went to church or to chapel, or, as it was said regretfully, to no place at all. he had his failings; but the one point on which all upton agreed was, that their church and rector were the best between that town and london. it was a hard struggle with david chantrey, this beloved rector of upton, to resolve upon leaving his parish, though only for a time, when his physicians strenuously urged him to spend two winters, and the intervening summer, in madeira. very definitely they assured him that such an absence was his only chance of assuring a fair share of the ordinary term of human life. but it was a difficult thing to do, apart from the hardness of the struggle; and the difficulty just verged upon an impossibility. the living was not a rich one, its whole income being a little under l a year. now, when he had provided a salary for the curate who must take his duty, and decided upon the smallest sum necessary for his own expenses, the remainder, in whatever way the sum was worked, was clearly quite insufficient for the maintenance of his young wife and child. they could not go with him; that was impossible. but how were they to live whilst he was away? no doubt, if his difficulty had been known, there were many wealthy people among his friends who would gladly have removed it; but not one of them even guessed at it. was not mrs. bolton, the widow of the late archdeacon, and the richest woman in upton, own aunt to the rector, david chantrey? next to mr. chantrey himself, mrs. bolton was the most eminent personage in upton. she had settled there upon the archdeacon's death, which happened immediately after he had obtained the living for his wife's favorite nephew. for some years she had been the only lady connected with the rector, and had acted as his female representative. there was neither mansion nor cottage which she had not visited. the high were her associates; the low her proteges, for whose souls she labored. she was at the head of all charitable agencies and benevolent societies. nothing could be set on foot in upton under any other patronage. she was active, untiring, and not very susceptible. so early and so completely had she obtained the little sovereignty she had assumed, that when the rightful queen came there was no room for her. the rector's wife was only known as a pretty and pleasant-spoken young lady, who left all the parish affairs in mrs. bolton's hands. it is not to be wondered at, then, that no one guessed at david chantrey's difficulty, though everybody knew the exact amount of his income. neither he nor his wife hinted at it. sophy chantrey would have freely given the world, had it been hers, to accompany her husband; but there was no chance of that. a friend was going out on the same doleful search for health; and the two were to take charge of each other. but how to live at all while david was away? she urged that she could manage very well on seventy or eighty pounds a year, if she and her boy went to some cheap lodgings in a strange neighborhood, where nobody knew them; but her husband would not listen to such a plan. the worry and fret of his brain had grown almost to fever-height, when his aunt made a proposal, which he accepted in impatient haste. this was that sophy should make her home at bolton villa for the full time of his absence; on condition that charlie, a boy of seven years old, full of life and spirits, should be sent to school for the same term. sophy rebelled for a little while, but in vain. in thinking of the eighteen long and dreary months her husband would be away, she had counted upon having the consolation of her child's companionship. but no other scheme presented itself; and she felt the sacrifice must be made for david's sake. a suitable school was found for charlie; and he was placed in it a day or two before she had to journey down to southampton with her husband. no soul on deck that day was more sorrowful than hers. david's hollow cheeks, and thin, stooping frame, and the feeble hand that clasped hers till the last moment, made the hope of ever seeing him again seem a mad folly. her sick heart refused to be comforted. he was sanguine, and spoke almost gayly of his return; but she was filled with anguish. a strong persuasion seized upon her that she should see his face no more; and when the bitter moment of parting was over, she travelled back alone, heart-stricken and crushed in spirit, to her new home under mrs. bolton's roof. chapter ii. ann holland bolton villa was not more than a stone's throw from the rectory and the church. sophy could hear the same shrieks of the martins wheeling about the tower, and the same wintry chant of the robins amid the ivy creeping up it. the familiar striking of the church clock and the chime of the bells rang alike through the windows of both houses. but there was no sound of her husband's voice and no merry shout of charlie's, and the difference was appalling to her. she could not endure it. mrs. bolton was exceedingly proud of her villa. it had been bought expressly to please her by the late archdeacon, and altered under her own superintendence. her tastes and wishes had been studied throughout. the interior was something like a diary of her life. the broad oak staircase was decorated with flags and banners from all the countries she had travelled through; souvenirs labelled with the names of every town she had visited, and the date of that event, lay scattered about. the entrance-hall, darkened by the heavy banners on the staircase, was a museum of curiosities collected by herself. the corners and niches were filled with plaster casts of famous statuary, which were supposed to look as fine as their marble originals in the gloom surrounding them. every room was crowded with ornaments and knick-knacks, all of which had some association with herself. even those apartments not seen by guests were no less encumbered with mementoes that had been discarded from time to time in favor of newer treasures. mrs. bolton never dared to change her servants, and it cannot be wondered at, that while offering a home to her nephew's wife, she could not extend her invitation to a mischievous boy of seven. but however interesting bolton villa might be to its mistress, it was not altogether a home favorable for the recovery of a bowed-down spirit, though mrs. bolton could not understand why sophy, surrounded with so many blessings and with so much to be thankful for, should fall into a low, nervous fever shortly after she had parted with her husband and child. the house was quiet, fearfully quiet to sophy. there was a depressing hush about it altogether different from the cheerful tranquillity of her own home. very few visitors broke through its monotony, for mrs. bolton's social pinnacle was too high above her immediate neighbors for them to climb up to it; whilst those whose station was somewhat on a level with hers lived too faraway, or were too young and frivolous for friendly intercourse. there were formal dinner-parties at stated intervals, and occasionally a neighboring clergyman to be entertained. but these came few and far between, and sophy chantrey found herself very much alone amid the banners and souvenirs that banished her boy from the house. mrs. bolton herself was very often away. there was always something to be done in the parish which should by right have been sophy's work, but her aunt had always discouraged any interference and david had been quite content to keep her to himself, as there was so able a substitute for her in the ordinary duties of a clergyman's wife. she had made but few acquaintances, and it was generally understood that mrs. chantrey was quite a cipher. no one ever expected her to become prominent in upton. about half-way down the high street of upton stood a small old-fashioned saddler's shop, the door of which was divided across the middle, so as to form two parts, the upper one always thrown open. above the doorway, under a low-gabled roof, hung a cracked and mouldering sign-board, bearing the words "ann holland, saddler." all the letters were faded, yet a keen eye might detect that the name "ann" was more distinct than the others, as if painted at a later date. within the shop an old journeyman was always to be seen, busy at his trade, and taking no heed of any customer coming in, unless the ringing of a bell on the lower half of the door remained unnoticed, when he would shamble away to call his mistress. in an evening after the twilight had set in, and it was too dark for her own ornamental stitching of the saddlery. ann holland was often to be found leaning over the half-door of her shop, and ready to exchange a friendly good-night, or a more lengthy conversation, with her townsfolk as they passed to and fro. she was a rosy, cheery-looking woman, still under fifty, with a pleasant voice and a friendly word for every one, and it was well known that she had refused several offers of marriage, some of them very eligible for a person of her station. there was not one of the townspeople she had not known from their earliest appearance in upton, and she had the pedigree of all the families, high and low, at her finger-ends. new-comers she could only tolerate until they had lived respectably and paid their debts punctually for a good number of years. she had a kindly love of gossip, a simple real interest in the fortunes of all about her. there was little else for her to think of, for books and newspapers came seldom in her way, and were often far above her comprehension when they did, upton news that would bring tears to her eyes or a laugh to her lips was the food her mind lived upon. ann holland was almost as general a favorite as the rector himself. it was some months after david chantrey had gone to madeira that ann holland was lingering late one evening over her door, watching the little street subside into the quietness of night. the wife of one of her best customers was passing by, and stopped to speak to her. "have you happened to hear any talk of mrs. chantrey?" she asked. her voice fell into a low and mysterious tone, and she glanced up and down the street lest any one should chance to be within hearing. ann holland quickly guessed there was something important to be told, and she opened the half door to her neighbor. "come in, mrs. brown," she said; "richard's not at home yet." she led the way into the room behind the shop, as pleasant a place as any in all upton, except for the scent of the leather, which she had grown so used to that its absence would have seemed a loss. it was a kitchen spotlessly clean, with an old-fashioned polished dresser and shelves above it filled with pewter plates and dishes, upon which every gleam of firelight twinkled. a tall mahogany clock, with its head against the ceiling, and the round, good-humored face of a full moon beaming above its dial-plate, stood in one corner; while in the opposite one there was a corner cupboard with glass doors, filled with antique china cups and tea-pots, and a chinese mandarin that never ceased to roll its head to and fro helplessly. bean-pots of flowers, as ann holland called them, covered the broad window-sill; and a screen, adorned with fragments of old ballads, and with newspaper announcements of births, deaths, and marriages among upton people, was drawn across the outer door, which opened into a little garden at the back of the house. there was a miniature parlor behind the kitchen, filled with furniture worked in tent stitch by ann holland's mother, and carefully covered with white dimity; but it was only entered on most important occasions. even mr. chantrey had never yet been invited into it; for any event short of a solemn crisis the kitchen was considered good enough. "you haven't heard anything of mrs. chantrey, then?" repeated mrs. brown, still in low and important tones, as she seated herself in a three-cornered chair, a seat of honor rather than of ease, as one could not get a comfortable position without sitting sideways. "no, nothing," answered. ann holland; "nothing bad about mr. chantrey, i hope. have they had any bad news of him?" mrs. brown was first cousin to mrs. bolton's butler, and was naturally regarded as an oracle with regard to all that went on at bolton villa. "oh no, he's all right: not him, but her," she answered, almost in a whisper; "i can't say for certain it's true, for cousin james purses up his mouth ever so when it's spoken, of; but cook swears to it, and he doesn't deny it, you know. i shouldn't like it to go any farther; but i can depend on yon, miss holland. a trusted woman like you must be choked up with secrets, i'm sure. i often and often say, ann holland knows some things, and could tell them, too, if she'd only open her lips." "you're right, mrs. brown," said ann holland, with a gratified smile; "you may trust me with any secret." "well, then, they say," continued mrs. brown, "that mrs. chantrey takes more than is good for her. she's getting fond of it, you know; anything that'll excite her; and ladies, can get all sorts of things, worse for them a dozen times than what poor folks take. they say she doesn't know what she's saying often." "dear, dear!" cried ann holland, in a sorrowful voice; "it can't be true, and mr. chantrey away! she's such a sweet pleasant-spoken young lady; i could never think it of her. he brought her here the very first week after they came to upton, and she sat in that very chair you're set on, mrs. brown, and i thought her the prettiest picture i'd seen for many a year; and so did he, i'm sure. it can't be true, and him such a good man, and such a preacher as he is, with all the gentry round coming in their carnages to church." "well, it mayn't be true," answered mrs. brown, slowly, as if the arguments used by ann holland were almost weighty enough to outbalance the cook's evidence; "i hope it isn't true, i'm sure. but they say at bolton villa it's a awful lonely life she do lead without master charlie, and mrs. bolton away so much. it 'ud give me the horrors, i know, to live in that house with all those white plaster men and women as big as life, standing everywhere about staring at you with blind eyes. i should want something to keep up my spirits. but i'm sure nobody could be sorrier than me if it turned out to be true." "sorry!" exclaimed ann holland, "why, i'd cut my right hand off to prevent it being true. no words can tell how good mr. chantrey's been to me. everybody knows what my poor brother is, and how he'll drink and drink for weeks together. well, mr. chantrey's turned in here of an evening, and if richard was away at the upton arms, he's gone after him into the very bar-room itself, and brought him home, just guiding him and handling him like a baby, poor fellow! often and often he's promised to take the pledge with richard, but he never could get him to say yes. no, no! i'd go through fire and water before that should be true." "nobody could be sorrier than me," persisted mrs. brown, somewhat offended at ann holland's vehemence; "i've only told you hearsay, but it comes direct from the cook, and cousin james only pursed up his mouth. i don't say it's true or it's not true, but nobody in upton could be sorrier than me if my words come correct. it can't be hidden under a bushel very long, miss holland; but i hope as much as you do that it isn't true." yet there was an undertone of conviction in mrs. brown's manner of speaking that grieved ann holland sorely. she accompanied her departing guest to the door, and long after she was out of sight stood looking vacantly down the darkened street. there was little light or sound there now, except in the upton arms, where the windows glistened brightly, and the merry tinkling of a violin sounded through the open door. her brother was there, she knew, and would not be home before midnight. he had been less manageable since mr. chantrey went away. she could not bear to think of mrs. chantrey falling into the same sin. the delicate, pretty, refined young lady degrading herself to the level of the poor drunken wretch she called her brother! ann holland could not and would not believe it; it seemed too monstrous a scandal to deserve a moment's anxiety. yet when she went back into her lonely kitchen, her eyes were dim with tears, partly for her brother and partly for sophy chantrey. chapter iii. what was her duty? ann holland was a great favorite with mrs. bolton. the elderly, old-fashioned woman held firmly to all old-fashioned ways; knew her duty to god and her duty to her neighbor, as taught by the church catechism, and faithfully fulfilled them to the best of her power. she ordered herself lowly and reverently to all her betters, especially to the widow of an archdeacon. no new-fangled, radical notions, such as her drunken brother picked up, could find any encouragement from her. mrs. bolton always enjoyed an interview with her, so marked was her deference. she had occasionally condescended to visit ann holland in her kitchen, and sit on the projecting angle of the three-cornered chair, a favor duly appreciated by her delighted hostess. mr. chantrey ran in often, as he was passing by, partly because he felt a real friendship, for the true-hearted, struggling old maid, and partly to see after her good-for-nothing brother. as ann holland had said herself, she was ready to go through fire and water for the sake of these friends and patrons of hers, whose kindness was the brightest element in her life. after much tearful deliberation, she received upon the daring step of going to bolton villa, on an errand to mrs. bolton, with a vague hope that she might discover how false this cruel scandal was. there was a bridle of mrs. bolton's in the shop, which had been sent for a new curb, and she would take it home herself. early the next afternoon, therefore. she clad herself in her best sunday clothes, and made her way slowly along the streets toward the church. it was but slowly for she rarely went out on a week day, when her neighbors' shops were open; and there were too many attractions in the windows for even her anxiety and consciousness of a solemn mission to resist altogether. the church and the rectory looked so peaceful amid the trees, just tinged with the hues of autumn, that ann holland's spirits insensibly revived. there was little sign of life about the rectory, for no one was living in it at present but mr. warden, the clergyman who had taken mr. chantrey's duty. ann holland opened the church-yard gate and strolled pensively up among the graves to the porch, that she might rest a little and ponder over what she should say to mrs. bolton. there was not a grave there that she did not know; those lying under many of the grassy sods were as familiar to her as the men and women now in full life in the neighboring town. just within sight, near the vestry window was a little mound covered with flowers, where she had seen a little child of david and sophy chantrey's laid to rest. a narrow path was worn up to it; more bare and trodden than before mr. chantrey had gone away. ann holland knew as well as if she had seen her, that the poor solitary mother had worn the grass away. the church door was open; for mr. warden had chosen to make the vestry his study, and had intimated to all the parish that there he might generally be found if any one among them wished to see him in any difficulty or sorrow. though this was well known, no one of mr. chantrey's parishioners had gone to him for counsel; for he was a grave, stern, silent man, whose opinion it was difficult to guess at and impossible to fathom. he was unmarried, and kept no servant, except the housekeeper who had been left in charge of the rectory. all society he avoided, especially that of women. his abruptness and shyness in their presence was painful both to himself and them. to mrs. bolton, however, he was studiously civil, and to sophy, his friend's wife, he would gladly have shown kindness and sympathy, if he had only known how. he often watched her tracing the narrow footworn track to her baby's grave, and he longed to speak some friendly words of comfort to her, but none came to his mind when they encountered each other. no one in upton, except ann holland, had seen, as he had, how thin and wan her face grew; nor had any one noticed as soon as he had done the strangeness of her manner at times, the unsteadiness of her step, and the flush upon her face, as she now and then passed to and fro under the yew-trees. but he had never had the courage to speak to her at such moments; and there was only a mournful suspicion and dread in his heart, which he did his best to hide from himself. this afternoon mrs. bolton had sought him in the vestry, where he had been silently brooding over his parish and its sins and sorrows, in the dim, green light shining through the lattice window, which was thickly overgrown with ivy. mrs. bolton was a handsome woman still, always handsomely dressed, as became a wealthy archdeacon's widow. her presence seemed to fill up the little vestry; and as she occupied his old, high-backed chair, mr. warden stood opposite to her, looking down painfully and shyly at the floor on which he stood, rather than at the distinguished personage who was visiting him. "i come to you," she said, in a decisive, emphatic voice, "as a clergyman, as well as my nephew's confidential friend. what i say to you must go no farther than ourselves. we have no confessional in our church, thank heaven! but that which is confided to a clergyman, even to a curate, ought to be as sacred as a confession." "certainly," answered mr. warden, with painful abruptness. "sacred as a confession!" repeated mrs. bolton. "i must tell you, then, that i am in the greatest trouble about my nephew's wife. you know how ill she was last winter, after he went away. a low, nervous fever, which hung over her for months. she would not listen to my telling david about it, and, indeed, i was reluctant to distress and disturb him about a matter that he could not help. but she is very strange now; very strange and flighty. possibly you may have observed some change in her?" "yes," he replied, still looking down on the floor, but seeing a vision of sophy pacing the beaten track to the little grave under the vestry window. "when she was at the worst," pursued mrs. bolton, "and i had the best advice in london for her, she was ordered to take the best wine we could get. i told brown to bring out for her use some very choice port, purchased by the archdeacon years ago. she must have perished without it; but unfortunately--i speak to you as her pastor, in confidence--she has grown fond of it." "fond of it?" repeated mr. warden. "yes," she answered, emphatically; "i leave the cellar entirely in brown's charge; a very trusty servant; and i find that mrs. chantrey has lately been in the habit of getting a great deal too much from him. but she will take anything she can get that will either stupefy or excite her. she never writes to david until her spirits are raised by stimulants of one kind or another. it is a temptation i cannot understand. i take a proper quantity, just as when the archdeacon was alive, and i never think of exceeding that. i need no more, and i desire no more. but mrs. chantrey grows quite excited, almost violent at times. it makes me more anxious than words can express." there was a long pause, mr. warden neither lifting his head nor opening his mouth. his pale face flushed a little, and his lips quivered. david chantrey was his dearest friend, and an almost intolerable sense of shame and dread kept him silent. his wife, of whom he always spoke so tenderly in all his letters to him! the very spot where he was listening to this charge against her, david's vestry, seemed to deepen the shame of it, and the unutterable sorrow, if it should be true. "what would you counsel me to do?" asked mrs. bolton, after a time. "must i write to my nephew and tell him?" "do!" he cried, with sudden eagerness and emphasis; "do! take the temptation out of her way at once. let everything of the kind be removed from the house. let no one touch it, or mention it in her presence. guard her as you would guard a child from taking deadly poison." "impossible!" exclaimed mrs. bolton. "have no wine in my house? you forget my station and its duties, mr. warden, i must give dinner parties occasionally; i must allow beer to my servants. it is absurd. nobody could expect me to take such a step as that." "listen to me," he said, earnestly, and with an authority quite at variance with his ordinary shyness. "i do not venture to hope for any other remedy. i have known men, ay, and women, who have not dared to pass close by the doors of a tavern for fear lest they should catch but the smell of it, and become brutes again in spite of themselves. others have not dared even to think of it. if mrs. chantrey be falling into this sin, there is no other course for you to pursue than to banish it from your table, and, if possible, from your house. it is better for her to die, if needs be, than to live a drunkard." "a drunkard!" echoed mrs. bolton. "i am sure i never used such a word about sophy. i cannot believe it possible that my nephew's wife, a clergyman's wife, could become a drunkard, like a woman of the lowest classes! and i cannot understand how you, a clergyman, could seriously propose so extraordinary a step. why, there is no danger to me; nobody could ever suspect me of being fond of wine. i have taken it in moderation all my life, and i cannot believe it is my duty to give it up altogether at my age." "very possibly it has never been your duty before," answered mr. warden, "and now i urge it, not for your own sake, but for hers. she has fallen into the snare blindfolded, and you can extricate her, though at some cost to yourself. i feel persuaded you can induce her to abstain, if you will do so yourself. you call yourself a christian--" "i should think there can be no doubt about that," she interrupted, indignantly; "the archdeacon never expressed any doubt about it, and surely i may depend upon his judgment." "forgive me," said mr. warden. "i ought to have said you are a christian, and a christian is one who follows his lord's example." "who drank wine himself, and blessed it," interposed mrs. bolton, in a tone of triumph. "the great law of whose life was self-sacrifice," he pursued. "if one of his brethren or sisters had been a drunkard, can you think of him filling up his own cup with wine and drinking it, as they sat side by side at the same table?" "i should be shocked at imagining anything so presumptuous, not to call it blasphemous," she said. "we can only go by the plain words of scripture, which tell us that he turned water into wine, and that he drank wine himself. i am not afraid of going by the plain words of scripture." "but we have only fragments of his history," replied mr. warden, "and only a few verses of his teachings. would you say that paul had more of the spirit of self-sacrifice than christ? yet he said, 'it is good neither to eat flesh, nor to drink wine, nor anything whereby thy brother stumbleth.' and again, 'if meat make my brother to offend, i will eat no flesh while the world standeth.' if the servant spoke so, what do you think the master would have answered if any one had asked him, 'lord, what shall i do to save my brother from drunkenness?' it will be a self-denial to you; people will wonder at it, and talk about you; yet i say, if you would truly follow your lord and saviour, there is no choice for you. you can save a soul for whom christ died; and is it possible that you can refuse to do it?" "i thought," said mrs. bolton, "that you would expostulate with her, and warn her as her pastor; and i cannot but believe that, now i have made it known to you, you are responsible for her--at least more responsible than i am. you must use your influence with her; and if she is deaf to reason, we have done all we could." "i cannot accept the responsibility," he answered, in a tone of pain. "if she were dwelling under my roof, it would be mine; but i cannot take your share of it. as your pastor, i place your duty before you, and you cannot neglect it without peril. as a snare to her soul it has become an accursed thing in your household; and i warn you of it most earnestly, beseeching you to hear in time to save yourself, and her, and david from misery!" "mr. warden," exclaimed mrs. bolton, "i am astonished at your fanaticism!" she had risen from her chair, and was about to sail out of the vestry with an air of outraged dignity, when mr. warden said, in a low tone, and with a heavy sigh, "see, there she is!" mrs. bolton paused and turned toward the window, which overlooked the little grave of her nephew's child, who had been very dear to herself. sophy had just sunk down beside it. there was a slight strangeness and disorder about her appearance, which no stranger might have noticed, but which could not fail to strike both of them. she looked dejected and unhappy, and hid her face in her hands, as though she felt their gaze upon her. the clergyman laid his hand upon mrs. bolton's arm with an unconscious pressure, and looked earnestly into her clouded face. "look!" he said. "in christ's name, i implore you to save her." "i will do what i can," she answered impatiently, "but i cannot take your way to do it; it is irrational." "there is no other way," he said mournfully, "and i warn you of it." chapter iv. a baby's grave sophy chantrey had strayed absently down to the churchyard in one of those fits of restlessness and nervous despondency which made it impossible to her to remain in the overcrowded rooms of bolton villa or in the trim flower-garden surrounding it. there was a continual vague sense of misery in her lot, which she had not strength enough to cast off; but at this moment she was not consciously mourning either for her lost little one or for the absence of her husband and boy. the sharpness and bitterness of her trouble were dulled, and her brain was confused. even this was a relief from the heavy-heartedness that oppressed her at other times, and she felt a comparative comfort in sitting half-asleep by her child's grave, dreaming confusedly of happier days. she started almost fretfully when ann holland's voice broke in upon her drowsy languor. "begging your pardon, mrs. chantrey," she said, "but i thought i might make bold to ask what news you've had from mr. chantrey in madeira?" "david!" she answered absently; "david! oh yes, i see. you are miss holland, and he was always fond of you. do you remember him bringing me to see you just after our marriage? he is getting quite well very fast, thank you. it is only eight months now till he comes home; but that is a long time." the tears had gathered in her blue eyes, and fell one after another down her cheeks as she looked up pitifully into ann holland's kindly face. "ah! it is a long time, my dear," she replied, sitting down beside her, though she had some dread of the damp grass; "but we must all of us have patience, you know, and hope on, hope ever. dear, dear! to think how overjoyed he'll be, and how happy all the folks in upton will be, when he comes back! it was hard to part with him; but when we see him again, strong and hearty, all that'll be forgot." "oh, i've missed him so!" cried sophy, with a burst of tears; "i've been so solitary without him or charlie. you cannot think what it is. sometimes i feel as if they were both dead, and i was doomed to live here without them for ever and ever. everything seems ended. it is a dreadful feeling." "and then, dear love," said ann holland, in her quietest tones, "i know you just fall down on your knees, and tell god all about it. that's how i do when my poor brother behaves so bad, taking every penny, and pawning or selling all he can lay hands on, to spend in drink. but you know better than me, with all your learning, and music, and painting, and pretty manners, let alone being a clergyman's wife; and when you are that lonesome and sorrowful, you kneel down and tell god all about it." "no, no," sobbed sophy, hiding her face again in her hands; "i am so miserable--too miserable to be good, as i used to be when david was at home." the almost pleasant drowsiness was over now, and a swift tide of thought and memory swept through her brain. the gulf on whose verge she stood seemed to open before her, and she looked down into it shudderingly. she could recollect the temptation assailing her once before, when her baby died; but then her husband was beside her, and his presence had saved her, though not even he had guessed at her danger. what could save her now, alone, with a perpetual weariness of spirit, and a feeling of physical weakness amounting to positive pain? yet if she went but a few steps forward, she would sink into the gloomy depths, which for the moment her quickened conscience could so clearly perceive. if david could but be at home now! if she could but have her little son to occupy her time and thoughts! "dear, dear!" said ann holland's low and tender voice; "nobody's too miserable for god not to love them. why, a poor thing like me can love my brother when he's as bad as bad can be with drink. i could do anything for him out of pity; and it's hard to think less of him that made us. sure he knows how difficult it is to be good when we are miserable; and we can't tire him out. he'll help us out of our misery if we keep stretching out our hands to him. nobody knows but him what we've all got to go through. it's because you're lonesome, and fretting after old days. but they'll come back again, dear love and we'll all be as happy as happy can be. i know how you miss mr. chantrey, for i miss him badly, and what must it be for you?" sophy lifted up her face, wet with tears, yet with a smile breaking through them. ann holland's simple words of comfort and hope had gone direct to her heart, and it seemed possible for her to wait patiently now until david came home. "you've done me good," she said, "and i shall tell david next time i write to him." "dear, dear!" said ann holland, with a tone of surprise and pleasure in her voice, "couldn't i do something better for you? couldn't i just go over to master charlie's school, and take him a cake and a little whip out of the shop? it would do me good, worlds of good; and he'd be glad, poor little fellow! mr. chantrey's so good to my poor brother; he'd save him from drink if he'd be saved, i know. i'd do anything for your sake or mr. chantrey's. but there's mrs. bolton coming out of the church, and i've a little business with her; so i'll say good-day to you now, mrs. chantrey." if at this point of her life sophy chantrey could have been removed from the daily temptations which beset her, most probably she would not have fallen lower into the degrading sin, which was quickly becoming a habit. until her husband's enforced absence, she had been so carefully hedged in by the numberless small barriers of a girl's sphere, so guided and managed for by those about her, that it had been hardly possible for any sore temptation to come near her. but now suddenly cut adrift from her quiet moorings, she found herself powerless to keep out of the rapid current which must plunge her into deep misery and vice. there had not been a doubt in her mind that she was not a real christian, for she had freely given a sentimental faith to the christian dogmas propounded to her by persons whom she held to be wiser and better than herself. in the same manner she had taken the customs and usages of modern life, always feeling satisfied to do what others of her own class and rank did. even now, though she was conscious that there was some danger for herself, she could not realize the half of the peril in which she stood. after ann holland left her she lingered still beside the little grave in a tranquil but somewhat purposeless reverie. there could be no harm, she thought, in taking just enough to deliver her from her very worst moments of depression, or when she had to write cheerfully to her husband. that was a duty, and she must keep a stricter guard over herself than she had done lately. she would take exactly what her aunt bolton drank, and then she could not go wrong. with this resolution she gathered a flower from the little grave beside her, and, turning away, hastened out of the churchyard. mr. warden had scarcely glanced through the vestry window since mrs. bolton had gone away in anger, but he was well aware of sophy's lingering beside the grave. he felt crushed and unhappy. his friend chantrey had solemnly committed the parish to his care, and he to the utmost of his power had strenuously fulfilled his duties. but what was he to do with this new case? except under strong excitement his constitutional shyness kept him dumb, and how was he to venture to expostulate with his friend's wife upon such a subject? it seemed to be his duty to do something to prevent this lonely and sorrowful girl from drifting into a commonplace and degrading phase of sin. but how was he to begin? how could he even hint at such a suspicion? besides, he could do nothing to remove her out of temptation. so long as mrs. bolton persisted in her angry refusal to follow his advice, she must be exposed daily to indulge an appetite which she had not the firmness to resist. chapter v. town's talk perhaps no two persons, outside that nearest circle of kinship which surrounds us all, ever suffered more grief and anxiety in witnessing the slow but sure downfall of a fellow-being, than did mr. warden and ann holland while watching the gradual working of the curse that was destroying david chantrey's wife. it was a miserable time for mr. warden. now and then he accepted mrs. bolton's formal invitations to dine with her, and those few acquaintances who were considered worthy to visit at bolton villa. on the first occasion he had gone with a faint hope that she had thought over his advice, and resolved to act upon it. but there had been no such result of his solemn warning, which had been so painful to him to deliver. he abstained from taking wine himself, as he believed christ would have done for the sake of any one so tempted to sin; but his example had no weight. there was a pleasant jest or two at his asceticism, and that was all, sophy chantrey took wine as the others did; and, in spite of her resolution, more than the others did; whilst mrs. bolton raised her eyebrows, and drew down the corners of her lips, with an air of rebuke. no one knew the meaning of that look except mr. warden. the other guests were only entertained by mrs. chantrey's fine flow of merry humor, and remarked how well she bore her husband's absence. "you saw her, mr. warden?" said mrs. bolton to him, in a low voice, when they reassembled in the drawing-room. "yes," he answered, sorrowfully. "you saw how i looked at her as much as to warn her," pursued mrs. bolton. "i am sure she understood me, yet she allowed brown to fill her glass again and again. what could i do more? i have spoken to her in private; i could not speak to her before our friends." "i have told you before," he answered, "there is only one thing you can do, and you refuse to do it." "it would be ridiculous to do it," she said, sharply. "i am not going to make myself a laughing-stock to all the world; and i cannot shut her up in her room, and send her meals to her like a naughty child. you ought to remonstrate with her." "i will," he replied, "but it will be of little use, so long as the temptation is there. have you seriously and prayerfully thought of your own duty as a christian, in this case? are you quite sure you are acting as christ himself would have done?" "none of us can act as he would have, done," she answered, moving from away him. yet her conscience was uneasy. there was, of a truth, no doubt in her mind as to what the lord would have done. yet she could not break through the habits of a lifetime; no, not even to save the wife of her favorite nephew. she did not like to give up the hospitable custom. her wines were good, bought from the archdeacon's own wine-merchant, and she enjoyed them herself, and liked to hear her guests praise them. no question as to the lawfulness of such an enjoyment had ever arisen before now; but now it troubled her secretly, though she was resolved not to give way. if sophy chantrey could not keep within proper limits, it was no fault of hers, and no one could blame her for preserving a harmless custom. it was not long before mr. warden found an opportunity of speaking to sophy, though it was an agony to him to do it. a few words only were spoken before she knew what he meant to say, and she interrupted him passionately. "oh! if david was but here!" she cried, "i could keep right then. but i cannot bear it; indeed, i cannot bear it. the house is so dreary, and there is nothing for me to think of; and then i begin to go down, down into such a misery you do not know anything of. i think i should go mad without it; and after i have taken it, i feel mad with shame. aunt bolton has told me what she said to you; and i can hardly bear to look either of you in the face. what shall i do?" "you must break yourself of the habit," he said pitifully; "god will help you, if you only keep him in your thoughts. promise me you will neither taste it, nor look at it again, and i will take the same solemn pledge with you now, before god." "it would be of no use," she answered, in a hopeless tone, "the instant i see it, i long for it; and i cannot resist the longing. i've vowed on my knees not to take any for a day only; and the moment i have sat down to dinner, i could hardly bear to wait till brown comes around. if i wake in the night--and i wake so often!--i think of it the first thing. if i could get right away from it, perhaps there might be a chance; but how can i get away?" "have you ever thought of what it must lead to?" he asked, wondering at the power the terrible sin had already gained over her. "thought!" she cried, "i think of it constantly. david will hate me when he comes home, if i cannot conquer it before then. but what am i to do? i cannot write to him unless i take it. no; i cannot even pray to god, when i am so utterly miserable. it would be better for me to be some poor man's wife, and drudge for my husband and children, than to have nothing to do, and be so much alone. there must be some way of escaping from it; but i cannot find it." this way of escape--how could he find it for her? it was a question that occupied his thoughts day and night. there was one way, but mrs. bolton firmly persisted in closing it, and no other seemed open to her. he could not make known this difficulty to his friend, david chantrey; for it would be a death-blow to him literally. he would hasten home from madeira, at the very worst season of the year, as it was now late in october, the risk for him would be too great. there was no other home open to sophy; and it did not seem possible to make any change in the conditions of that home. she must still be lonely and miserable, and still be exposed to daily temptations. all he could do was so little, that he did it without hope in the results. if possible, ann holland was yet more troubled than he was. by and by it became common town's-talk, and many a neighbor visited her with the purpose of gossiping about poor mrs. chantrey. but they found her averse to dwell upon the subject, as if gossip had suddenly grown distasteful to her. many an hour when she was waiting for her drunken brother to come in from the upton arms, she pondered over what she could do to save the wife of her beloved mr. chantrey. she knew better than mr. warden, who had never been in close domestic contact with the sin, how terrible and repulsive was the degradation of it; and she was heart-sick for sophy and her husband. "there's one thing i've done," she said one day to mrs. bolton, speaking to her of her brother's drunkenness; "he's never seen me drink a drop of it since he came home drunk the first time. i hate the very sight of it, or to hear people talk of the good it's done them! why, if it did me worlds of good, and made my poor richard the miserable wretch he is, i couldn't touch it. and he knows it; he knows i do it for his sake, and maybe he'll turn some day. but if he doesn't turn, i couldn't touch what is ruining him." "that's very well in your station, ann," answered mrs. bolton, "but it is quite different with us. we owe a duty to society, which must be discharged." "very likely, ma'am," she replied meekly; "it's my feelings i was speaking of, not exactly my duty. i hate the name of it; and to think of the thousands and thousands of folks it ruins! when you've seen anybody belonging to you ruined by it you'll hate it, i know. but pray god that may never be!" "ann," said mrs. bolton, cautiously, "do you suppose any one belonging to me could ever drink more than is right?" "it's the town's-talk," answered ann holland, bursting into tears; "everybody knows it. oh! mrs. bolton, if you can do anything to help her, now is the time to do it. it will get too hard to be rooted up by and by. i know that by my poor brother. he'll never leave it off till he's on his deathbed and can't get it. james brown, your butler, ma'am, is always talking to him, and exciting him about what he's got charge of in your cellars; and they sit here talking about it for an hour at a time, till they go off to the upton arms. i hate the very sound of it." "but i must have cellars, and i must have a butler," said mrs. bolton, somewhat angrily. she was fond of ann holland, and liked the reverence she had always paid to her. but this ridiculous notion of mr. warden's seemed to have taken possession of the poor, uneducated woman's brain, and threatened to undermine her influence over her. she cut short her visit to her at this point, and returned home uncomfortable and disturbed, wishing she had never offered the shelter of her roof to her nephew's unhappy and weak-minded wife. presently, as the dreary winter wore away, mr. warden began to shun the sight of sophy chantrey. all his efforts to save her, or even to check her rapid downfall, had proved vain; and he turned from her sin with a resentment tinged with disgust. but ann holland could feel no resentment or disgust. if it had been in her power she would have watched over her and cared for her night and day with unwearied tenderness. as far as she could she sought to keep alive within her all kinds of softening and pleasant influences. she went often to see charlie at school, sometimes persuading sophy to go with her, though more often the unhappy mother shrank from meeting her little son's innocent greetings and caresses. the terrible fits of depression which followed every indulgence of her craving frequently unfitted her for any exertion. she clung to ann holland's faithful friendship; but it was not near enough or strong enough to keep her from yielding when she was tempted. but sophy chantrey had not yet fallen to the lowest depths--perhaps never would fall. her husband's return would save her. ann holland looked forward to it as the only hope. chapter vi. the rector's return david chantrey's term of exile was over, and the spring had brought release to him. he was returning to england in stronger health and vigor than he had enjoyed for some years before his absence. it seemed to himself that he had completely regained the strength that had been his as a young man. he was a young man yet, he told himself--not six and thirty, with long years of happy work lying before him. the last eighteen months had been weary ones, though he could not count them as lost time, since they had restored him to health. the voyage home was a succession of almost perfectly happy days, as he dwelt beforehand upon the joy that awaited him. he had a packet of letters, those which had reached him from home during his absence; and he read them through once more in the long leisure hours of the voyage. those from his friend warden and his aunt which bore a recent date had certainly a rather unsatisfactory tone; but all of sophy's had been brighter and more cheerful than he had anticipated. every one of them longed for his return, that was evident. even warden, who did not know where his fate would take him to next, expressed an almost extravagant anxiety for his speedy presence in his own parish. he loved his parish and his people with a peculiar pride and affection. it was twelve years since he had gone to upton--a young man just in orders, and in the full glow of a fresh enthusiasm as to his duties. he believed no office to be equal to that of a minister of christ. and though this glow had somewhat passed away, the enthusiasm had deepened rather than faded with the lapse of years, his long illness and exclusion from his office had imparted to it a graver tone. in former days, perhaps, he had been too much set upon the outer ceremonials of religion. he had been proud of his church and the overflowing congregation which assembled in it week after week testifying to his popularity. to pass along the streets of his little town, and receive everywhere the tokens of respect that greeted him, had been exceedingly pleasant. he had bent himself to win golden opinions, after quoting the words of paul, "i am made all things to all men, that by all means i might save some." and he had succeeded in gaining the esteem of almost every class of his parishioners. but during the long and lonely months of absence he had learned to love his people after a different fashion. there were some pleasant vices in his parish to which he had shut his eyes; some respectable delinquents with whom he had been on friendly terms, without using his privilege as a friend to point out their misdeeds. there was not a high tone of morality in his parish. possibly he had been too anxious to please his people. he was going back to them with a deeper and stronger glow of enthusiasm concerning his duties and work among them; but with a graver sense of his own weakness, and a more humble knowledge of the divine father for whom he was an ambassador. his vessel reached southampton the day before its arrival could have been expected, and neither sophy nor his friend warden was there to welcome him. but this was an additional pleasure; he would take them all by surprise in the midst of their preparations for his return. warden had warned him that there would be quite a public reception of him, with a great concourse of his parishioners, and every demonstration of rejoicing. it was in his nature to enjoy this; but still he would like a few quiet hours with sophy first, and these he could secure by hastening home by the first train. he would reach upton early in the evening. it was an hour of intense happiness, and he felt it to his inmost soul. all the route was familiar to him after he had started from london; the streets and suburbs rushing past him swiftly, and the meadows, in the bright green and gold of spring, which followed them. he knew the populous villages, with their churches, where he was himself well known. every station seemed almost like a home to him. as he drew nearer to upton he leaned through, the window to catch the first glimpse of his own church, and the blue smoke rising from his own house; and a minute or two afterward, with a gladness that was half a pain, he found himself once more on the platform at upton station. "i am back again," he said, shaking hands with the station-master with a hearty grasp that spoke something of his gladness. "is all going on well among you?" "yes, mr. chantrey; yes, sir," he answered. "you're welcome home, sir. god bless you! you've been missed more than any of us thought of when you went away. you're needed here, sir, more than you think of." "nothing has gone very wrong, i hope," said the rector, smiling. he had faithfully done his best to provide a good substitute in "warden, but it was not in human nature not to feel pleased that no one could manage his parish as well as himself. "no, no, sir," replied the station-master, "nothing but what you'll put right again at once by being at home yourself. no, there's nothing very wrong, i may say. upton meant to give you a welcome home to-morrow, with arches of flowers and music. they'll be disappointed you arrived to-day, i know." david chantrey laughed, thinking of the welcome they had given him when he brought sophy home as his young wife. his heart felt a new tenderness for her, and a throb of impatience to find her. he bade a hasty good-evening to the station-master, and walked off buoyantly toward the high street, along which his path lay. the station-master and the ticket-clerk watched him, and shook their heads significantly; but he was quite unconscious of their scrutiny. never had the quiet little town seemed so lovely to him. the quaint irregular houses stood one-half of them in shadow, and the rest in the level rays of the may sunset; the chestnut-trees, with their young green leaves and their white blossoms lighting up each branch to the very summit of them; the hawthorn bushes here and there covered with snowy bloom; the children playing, and the swallows darting to and fro overhead; the distant shout of the cuckoo, and the deep low tone of the church clock just striking the hour--this was the threshold of home to him; the outer court, which was dearer to him and more completely his own than any other place in the wide world could ever be. no one was quick to recognize him in his somewhat foreign aspect; the children at their play took no notice of him. all the tradespeople were busy getting their shops a little in order before the shutters were put up. he might perhaps pass through the street as far as bolton villa without being observed, and so be sure of a perfectly quiet evening. but as he thought so his heart gave a great bound, for there before him was sophy herself hurrying along the uneven causeway, now lost behind some jutting building, and then seen once more, still hastening with quick, unsteady steps, as if bent on some pressing errand. he did not try to overtake her, though he could have done so easily. he felt that their first meeting must not be in the street, for the tears that smarted under his eyelids and dimmed his sight, and the quicker throbbing of his pulses, warned him that such a meeting would be no common incident in their lives. she had been his wife for nine years, and she was far dearer to him now than she had been when he married her. eighteen months of their life together had been lost--a great price to pay for his restored health. but now a long, happy union lay before them. he had not followed her for more than a minute or two when she suddenly turned and entered ann holland's little shop. well, he could not take her by surprise better in any other house in upton. perhaps it might even be better than at bolton villa, amid its cumbrous surroundings; he always thought of his aunt's house with a sort of shudder. if sophy had fortunately fixed upon this quiet house for paying the good old maid a kindly visit, there was not another place except their own home where he would rather receive her first greeting--that is if the drunken old saddler did not happen to be in. he paused to inquire from the journeyman, still at work in the shop; learning that richard holland was not at home, he passed impatiently to the kitchen beyond. ann holland was just closing the door of her little parlor, and david chantrey approached her, hardly able to control the agitation he felt. "i saw my wife step in here," he said, holding out his hand to her, but attempting to pass her and to open the door before which she still stood. she could not speak for a moment, but she kept her post firmly in opposition to him. "my wife is here?" he asked, in a sharp impetuous tone. "yes; oh yes!" cried ann holland; "but wait a moment, mr. chantrey. oh, wait a little while. don't go in and see her yet." "why not?" he asked again, a sudden terror taking hold of him. "sit down a minute or two, sir," she answered. "mrs. chantrey's ill, just ailing a little. she is not prepared to meet you just yet. you were not expected before to-morrow, and she's excited; she hardly knows what she's saying or doing. you'd better not speak to her or see her till she's recovered herself a little." "poor sophy!" cried david chantrey, with a tremor in his voice; "did she see me coming, then? go back to her, miss holland; she will want you. is there nothing i can do for her? it has been a hard time for her, poor girl!" ann holland went back into the parlor, and he smiled as he heard her take the precaution of turning the key in the lock. he threw himself into the three-cornered chair, and sat listening to the murmur of voices on the other side of the door. it seemed a very peaceful home. the quaintness and antiqueness of the homely kitchen chimed in with his present feeling; he wanted no display or grandeur. this was no common every-day world he was in; there was a strange flavor about every circumstance. impatient as he was to see sophy, and hold her once more in his arms, he could not but feel a sense of comfort and tranquillity mingling with his more unquiet happiness. there was a fire burning cheerily on the hearth, though it was a may evening. coming from a warmer climate, he felt chilly, and he bent over the fire, stretching over it his long thin hands, which told plainly their story of mere scholarly work and of health never very vigorous, smiling all the time, with the glow of the flame on his face, with its expression of tranquil gladness, as of one who had long been buffeted about, but had reached home at last, he sat listening till the voices ceased. a profound silence followed, which lasted some time, before ann holland returned to him saying softly, "she is asleep." chapter vii. worse than dead ann holland sat down on the other side of the hearth, opposite her rector; but she could not lift up her eyes to his face. there was no on in the world whom she loved so well. his forbearance and kindness toward her unfortunate brother, who was the plague and shame of her life, had completely won for him an affection that would have astonished him if he could have known its devotion. this moment would have been one of unalloyed delight to her had there been no trouble lurking for him, of which he was altogether unaware. so rejoiced she was at his return that it seemed as if no event in her monotonous life hitherto had been so happy; yet she was terrified at the very thought of his coming wretchedness. when sophy had fled to her with the cry that her husband was come, and she dared not meet him as she was, she had seen in an instant that she must prevent it by some means or other. the hope that mr. chantrey's return would bring about a reformation in his wife had grown faint in her heart, for during the last few months the sin had taken deeper and deeper root; and now, the day only before she expected him, she had not had strength to resist the temptation to it. sophy had been crying hysterically, and trembling at the thought of meeting him as she was; and she had made ann promise to break to him gently the confession she would otherwise be compelled to make herself. ann holland sat opposite to him, with downcast eyes, and a face almost heart-broken by the shame and sorrow she foresaw for him. "she is asleep," he said, repeating her words in a lowered voice, as if he was afraid of disturbing her. "yes," she answered. "it is strange," he said, after a short pause; "strange she can sleep now. has she been ill? sophy always assured me she was quite well and strong. it is strange she can sleep when she knows i am here." "she was very ill and low after you went, sir," she replied; "it was like as if her heart was broken, parting with you and master charlie both together. dear, dear! it might have been better for her if you'd been poor folks, and she'd had to work hard for you both. she'd just nothing to do, and nobody to turn to for comfort, poor thing. mrs. bolton meant to be kind, and was kind in her way: but she fell into a low fever, and the doctors all ordered her as much wine and support as ever she could take." "i never heard of it," said mr. chantrey; "they never told me." "no; they were fearful of your coming back too soon," she went, on; "and, thank god, you are looking quite yourself again, sir. all upton will be as glad as glad can be, and the old church'll be crammed again. mr. warden's done all a man could do; but everybody said he wasn't you and we longed for you back again, but not too soon--no, no, not too soon." "but my wife," he said; "has she been ill all the time?" for a minute or two she could not find words to answer his question. she knew that it could not be long before he learned the truth, if not from her or his wife, then from mrs. bolton or his friend mr. warden. it was too much the common talk of the neighborhood for him to escape hearing of it, even if she could hope that mrs. chantrey would have strength of mind enough to cast off the sin at once. now was the time to break it to him gently, with quiet and friendly hints rather than with hard words. but how was she to do it? how could she best soften the sorrow and disgrace? "is my wife ill yet?" he demanded again, in a more agitated voice. "not ill now," she answered, "but she's not quite herself yet. you'll help her, sir. you'll know how to treat her kindly and softly, and bring her round again. there's a deal in being mild and patient with folks. you know my poor brother, as fierce as a tiger, and that obstinate, tortures would not move him; but he's like a lamb with you, mr. chantrey. i think sometimes if he could live in the same house with you, if he'd been your brother, poor fellow you'd save him; for he'll do anything for you, short of keeping away from drink. you'll bring mrs. chantrey round, i'm sure." mr. chantrey smiled again, as the comparison between the drunken old saddler and his own fair, sweet young wife, flitted across his brain. ann holland, in her voluble flow of words, hit upon curious combinations. still she had not removed his anxiety about his wife. "was sophy suffering from the effects of the low, nervous fever yet? "yes; i'll take care of my wife," he said, glancing toward the parlor door; "it has been a sore trial, this long separation of ours. but it's over now; and she is dearer to me than ever she was." "ay! love will do almost everything," she answered, sadly, "and i know you will never get tired or worn out, if it's for years and years. a thing like this doesn't come right all at once; but if it comes right at last, we have cause to be thankful. mr. warden has not had full patience; and mrs. bolton lost hers too soon. neither of them knows it as i know it. you can't storm it away; and it's no use raving at it. only love and patience can do it; and not that always. but we are bound to bear with them, poor things! even to death. we cannot measure god's patience with our measure." ann holland's voice trembled, and her eyes filled with tears, which glistened in the firelight. she could not bear to speak more plainly to her rector, whom she loved and reverenced so greatly. she could not think of him as being brought down on a level with herself, the sister of a known drunkard. it seemed a horrible thing to her; this sorrow hanging over him, of which he was so utterly unconscious. mr. chantrey had fastened his eyes upon her as if he would read her inmost thoughts. his voice trembled a little too, when he spoke. "what has this to do with my wife?" he asked, "for what reason have my aunt and mr. warden lost patience with her?" "oh! it's best for me to tell you, not them," she said, the tears streaming down her cheeks; "it will be very hard for you to hear, whoever says it. everybody knows it; and it could never be kept from you. but you can save her, mr. chantrey, if anybody can. it's best for me to tell you at once. she was so ill, and low, and miserable; and the doctors kept on ordering her wine, and things like that; and it was the only thing that comforted her, and kept her up; and she got to depend upon it to save her from loneliness and wretchedness, and now she can't break herself of taking it--of taking too much." "oh! my god!" cried mr. chantrey. it was a cry from the very depths of his spirit, as by a sudden flash he saw the full meaning of ann holland's faltered words. sophy had fled from him, conscious that she was in no fit state to meet him after their long separation. she was sleeping now the heavy sleep of excess. was it possible that this was true? could it be anything but a feverish dream that he was sitting there, and ann holland was telling him such an utterly incredible story? sophy, his wife, the mother of his child! but ann holland's tearful face, with its expression of profound grief and pity, was too real for her story to be a dream. he, david chantrey, the rector of upton, whom all men looked up to and esteemed, had a wife, who was whispered about among them all as a victim to a vile and degrading sin. a strong shock of revulsion ran through his veins, which had been thrilling with an unquiet happiness all the day. there was an inexplicable, mysterious misery in it. if he had come home to find her dead, he could have borne to look upon her lying in her coffin, knowing that life could never be bright again for him; but he would have held up his head among his fellow-men. it would have been no shame or degradation either for him or her to have laid her in the tranquil churchyard, beside their little child, where he could have seen her grave through his vestry window, and gone from it to his pulpit, facing his congregation, sorrowful but not disgraced. he was just coming back to his people with higher aims, and greater resolves, determined to fight more strenuously against every form of evil among them; and this was the first gigantic sin, which met him on his own threshold and his own hearth. "she's so young," pleaded ann holland, frightened at the ashy hue that had spread over his face, "and she's been so lonesome. then it was always easy to get it, when she felt low; for mrs. bolton's servants rule the house, and there's the best of everything in her cellars. james brown says he could never refuse mrs. chantrey, she was so miserable, poor thing! but now you will take her home; and she'll have you, and master charlie. you'll save her, sir, sooner or later; never fear." "let me go and see her," he said, in a choking voice. ann holland opened the door so carefully that the latch did not click or the hinges creak; and, shading the light with her hand, she stood beside him for a minute or two, as he looked down upon his sleeping wife. she did not dare to lift her eyes to his face; but she knew that all the light and glow of gladness had fled from it, and a gray look of terror had crept across it. he was a very different man from the one who had been seated on her hearth a short half-hour ago. he bade her leave him alone, and without a light, and she obeyed him, though reluctantly, and with an undefined fear of him in his wretchedness. it seemed to mr. chantrey as if an age had passed over him. as persons who are drowning see in one brief moment all the course of their past lives, with its most trivial circumstances, so he seemed to have looked into his own future, stretching before him in gloom and darkness, and foreseen a thousand miserable results springing from this fatal source. she was his wife, dearer to him than any other object in the world; but after she had repented and reformed, as surely she would repent and reform, she could never be to him again what she had been. there was a faint gleam of moonlight stealing into the familiar room, and he could just distinguish her form lying on the white-covered sofa. with an overwhelming sense of wretchedness and bewilderment he fell upon his knees beside her, and burying his face in his hands, cried again, "oh! my god!" chapter viii. husband and wife how long he knelt there, mr. chantrey did not know. he felt cramped and stiff, for he did not stir from his first position; and he had uttered no other word of prayer. but at last sophy moved and turned her head; and he lifted up his face at the sound. the moon was shining full into the room, and they could see one another, but not distinctly, as in daylight. she looked at him in dreamy silence for a few moments, and then she timidly stretched out her hand, and whispered, "david!" "my wife!" he answered, laying his own cold hand upon hers. for some few minutes neither of them spoke again. they gazed at one another as though some great gulf had opened between them, and neither of them could cross it. in the dim light they could only see the pallid, outline of each other's face, as though they had met in some strange, sad world. but presently he leaned over her, and kissed her. "oh!" she cried, with a sudden loudness that rang through the quiet room, "you know all! you know how wicked i am. but you don't know how lonely and wretched i have been. i tried to break myself of it i did try to keep from it; but it was always there on the table when i sat down to my meals with aunt bolton; and i could always find comfort in it. oh! help me! don't cast me off; don't hate me. help me." "i will help you," he answered, earnestly; but he could say no more. the mere sound of the words she spoke unnerved him. "and i have made you miserable just as you are coming home!" she went on. "i never meant to do that. but i was so restless, looking forward to to-morrow; and aunt's maid advised me to take a little, for fear i should be quite ill when you came. i should have been all right to-morrow; and i was so resolved never to touch it again, after you had come home. you are come back quite strong, are you? there is no more fear for you? oh! i will conquer myself; i must conquer myself. if it had not always been in my sight, and the doctors had not ordered it, i should never have been so wicked. do you forgive me? do you think god will forgive me?" "can you give it up?" he asked. "oh! i must, i will give it up," she sobbed; "but if i do, and if you forgive me, it can never be the same again. you will not think the same of me--and people have seen me--they all talk about it--and i shall always be ashamed before them. i am a disgrace to you; aunt bolton has said so again and again. then there's charlie; i'm not fit to be his mother. that is quite true. however long i live, people in upton will remember it, and gossip about, it. if they had let me die it would have been better for us all. you could have loved me then." "but i love you still," he answered, in a voice of tenderness and pity; "you are very dear to me. how can i ever cease to love you?" yet as he spoke a terrible thought flashed through his mind that his wife might some day become to him an object of unutterable disgust. an image of a besotted, drunken woman always in his house, and bearing his name, stood out for a moment sharply and distinctly before his imagination. he shuddered, and paused; but almost before she could notice it, he went on in low and solemn tones. "your sin does not separate you from me; you are my wife. i must help you and save you at whatever cost. your soul is nearer to mine than any other; and what one human being can do for the soul of another, it is my lot to do. do not be afraid of me, sophy. you cannot estrange yourself from me; and yon cannot wear out the patience of god. he is ever waiting to receive back those who have wandered farthest from him. can i refuse love and pity, when he freely gives them in full measure to you? will christ forsake you--he who saved mary magdalen? he will cast out this demon that has possession of you." he was replying to some of the questions which had troubled him, while he was kneeling at her side, before she was awake. there was no separation possible of their lives. if she broke away from him, or if he sent her away from his home, they would still be bound together by ties that could never be broken. whatever depth she sank to, she was his wife, and he must tread step by step with her the path that ran through all the future. but if any one could help her, and lead her back out of her present bondage, it was he; and he must not fail her in any extremity for lack of pity and tenderness. he was about to speak again, when a loud, rough noise broke in upon the quiet of the house. it was nearly midnight; and ann holland's drunken brother was stumbling and staggering through his shop into the peaceful little kitchen, sophy sat up and listened. they could hear his thick, coarse voice shouting out snatches of vulgar songs, mingled with oaths at his sister, who was doing her utmost to persuade him to go quietly to bed. his shambling step, dragging across the floor, seemed about to enter the darkened room where they were sitting; and sophy caught her husband's arm, clinging to it with fright. it was a more bitter moment for mr. chantrey than even for her. the comparison thrust upon him was too terrible. his delicate, tender, beloved wife, and this coarse, brutal, degraded man! was it possible that both were bound by the chains of the same sin? but ann holland succeeded before long in getting her brother out of the way, and releasing them from their painful imprisonment. the streets of upton were hushed in utter solitude and silence as they walked through them, speechless and heavy-hearted; those streets which, on the morrow, were to have been crowded with groups of his people, eager to welcome him home. they passed the church, lit up with the moonlight, clear enough to make every grave visible; a lovely light, in which all the dead seemed to be sleeping restfully. he sighed heavily as he passed by. sophy was clinging to him, sobbing now and then; for her agitation had subsided into a weak dejection, which found no relief but in tears. every step they trod along the too familiar road brought a fresh pang to him. for thousands of memories of happy days haunted him; and a thousand vague fears dogged him. he dared not open his heart either to the memories or the fears. nothing was possible to him, except a silent, continuous cry to god for help. "it is a melancholy coming home," sophy murmured, as they stood together on the threshold of their aunt's house. he had not time to answer, for the door was opened quickly, and mrs. bolton hurried forward to welcome him. she had been expecting him for some time, for ann holland had sent word that both he and mrs. chantrey were at her house. one glance at his anxious and sorrowful face revealed to her the anguish of the last few hours. sophy crept away guiltily up stairs; and she put her arm through his, and led him into the dining-room, where a luxurious supper was spread for him. "you know all about it, then?" said mrs. bolton, as he threw himself into a chair by the fireside, looking utterly bowed down and wretched. "yes," he answered. "oh! aunt, could you do nothing for her? could you not prevent it? it is a miserable thing for a man to come back to." "i have done all i could," she replied, hesitatingly. "i have been quite wretched about it myself; but what could i do? i told your friend mr. warden there was nothing in reason i would refuse to do; but his ideas were so impracticable they could not be carried out." "what were they?" he asked. "positively that i should abstain altogether myself," she said; "and not only that, but i must refuse it to my guests, and have nothing of the kind in my house; not even those choice wines your uncle bought, neither wine for myself nor ale for my servants! it was quite out of the question, you know. mr. warden was meddlesome to the very verge of impertinence about it, until i was compelled to give up inviting him to my house. he went so far as to doubt my being a christian! and it was of no use telling him i followed our lord's example more strictly by drinking wine than he did by abstaining from it. he used his influence with sophy to persuade her to suggest the same thing, that i would keep it altogether out of her sight at all times; but she soon saw how impossible it was for a person of my station and responsibility to do such a thing. i told her it was putting total abstinence above religion." "did sophy think that would save her?" asked mr. chantrey. "she had a fancy it would," answered mrs. bolton, "but only because mr. warden put it into her head. she was quite reasonable about it, poor girl! i proved to her that our lord did not do it, nor some of the best christians that ever lived; and she was quite convinced. even ann holland was troublesome about it, begging me to do all kinds of extraordinary things--to have charlie here was one of them, as if that could cure her--but i soon made her understand her position and mine. i am sure nobody can be more anxious than i am to do what is right. i am afraid it is the development of an hereditary taste in your wife, david, and nothing will cure it; for i have made many inquiries about her family, and i hear several of her relations were given to excess; so you may depend upon it, it is hereditary and incurable." there was little comfort for him in this speech, which was delivered in a satisfied and judicial tone. sophy's sin had been present to mrs. bolton for so many months, and she had grown so accustomed to analyze it, and argue about it, that she could not enter into the sudden and direful shock the discovery had been to her nephew. an antagonism had risen in her mind about it, not only against mr. warden, but against some faint, suppressed reproaches of conscience, which made her secretly cleave to the idea that this vice was hereditary, and consequently incurable. she was afraid also of david reproaching her. but he did not. he was too crushed to reason yet about his wife's fall, or what measures might have been taken to prevent it. long after his aunt had left him, and not a sound was to be heard in the house, he sat alone, scarcely thinking, but with one deep, poignant, bitter sense of anguish weighing upon his soul. now and then he cried to god inarticulately; that dumb, incoherent cry of the stricken spirit to the only saviour. chapter ix. sad days there was no doubt in upton, when the people saw their rector again, that he knew full well the calamity that had befallen him. no one ventured to speak to him of it; but their very silence was a measure of the gravity of his trouble. his friend warden told him more accurately than any one else could have done, how it had gradually come about, and what remonstrances he had made both to mrs. bolton and sophy. mr. chantrey was impatient to get into his own house, where he could do what his aunt had refused to do, and where he could shield his wife from all temptation to yield to the craving for stimulants in any form. when they were at home once more, with their little son with them, filling up her time and thoughts, all would be well again. but he did not know the force of the habit she had fallen into. at first there were a few gleams of hope and thankfulness during the pleasant days of summer, while it was a new thing for sophy to have her husband and child with her. but he could not keep her altogether from temptation, while they visited constantly at bolton villa, and the houses of other friends. it was in vain that he abstained himself; that he made himself a fanatic on the question, as all his acquaintances said; sophy could not go out without being exposed to temptation, and she was not strong enough to resist it. before the next spring came, the people of upton spoke of her as confirmed in her miserable failing. there was no one but herself who could now break off this fatal habit; and her will had grown wretchedly feeble. the sin domineered over her, and she felt herself a helpless slave to it. there had been no want of firmness or tenderness on the part of her husband; but it had taken too strong a hold upon her before he came to her aid. the intolerable sense of humiliation which she suffered only drove her to seek to forget it by sinking lower into the depth of her degradation and his. a great change came over the rector of upton. he went about among his parishioners, no longer gladly taking the leadership among them, and claiming the pre-eminence as his by right. it had been one of his most pleasant thoughts in former days that he was the rector of the parish, chosen of god, and appointed by men, to teach them truths good for himself and them, and to go before them, seeking out the path in which they should walk. but his own feet were now stumbling upon dark mountains. he was quickly losing his popularity among them; for whereas, while he was himself happy and honored, he had not seen clearly all the evils, and wrongs, and excesses of his parish, now he was growing, as they said, more fanatical and ascetic than mr. warden had been, who had won the name of a puritan among them. why could he not leave the upton arms and the numerous smaller taverns alone, so long as the landladies and their daughters attended church, as they had been need to do? his presence at the dinner-parties of his friends was a check upon all hilarity; and by and by they ceased to invite him, and then, half ashamed to see his face, ceased to go to his church, where his sermons had not the smooth and flowery eloquence of former days. probably mr. chantrey knew better now what was good for his people; he had clearer views of the snares and dangers that beset them, and the sorrows that lie lurking on every man's path. he saw more distinctly what christ came to do; and how he did it by complete self-abnegation, and by descending to the level of the lowest. but he had no delight in standing up in his pulpit in full face of his dwindling congregation. language seemed poor to him; and it had grown difficult to him to put his burning thoughts into words. as the bitter experience of daily life seared his very soul, he found that no smooth, fit expressions of his self-communing rose to his lips. it pained him to face his people, and speak to them in old, trite forms of speech, while his heart was burning within him; and they knew it, as they sat quiet in their pews, looking up to him with inquisitive or indifferent eyes. mrs. bolton could not escape her share of these troubles; though she never accused herself for a moment as having had any part in causing them. it was the archdeacon who had obtained the living of upton for her favorite nephew; and she had settled there to be the patroness of every good thing in the parish. mr. chantrey's popularity had been a source of great satisfaction and self-applause to her. she had foreseen how useful he would be; what a shining light in this somewhat dark corner of the church. the increasing congregations, and the number of carriages at the church-door, had given her much pleasure. she had delighted in taking the lead, side by side with her nephew, and in being looked up to in upton, as one who set an example in every good thing. but this unfortunate failing in her nephew's wife, developed under her roof and during his absence, had been a severe blow. no one directly blamed her for it, except the late curate, mr. warden, and a few extravagant, visionary persons, who deemed it best to abstain totally from the source of so much misery and poverty among their fellow-beings, and to take care, as far as in them lay, to place no stumbling-block in the way of feeble feet. but, strange to say, all the estimable people in upton regarded her with less veneration since her niece had gone astray. even ann holland was plainly less impressed and swayed by the idea of her goodness; and there were many others like ann holland. as for her nephew, he was gradually falling away from her in his trouble. he would seldom go to dine with her without sophy; and he had urgent reasons to decline every invitation for her. their conversations upon religious subjects, which had always tended to make her comfortably assured of her own state of grace, had quite ceased. david never talked to her now about his sermons, past or future. he was in the "wasteful wilderness" himself, and could not walk with her through trim alleys of the vineyards. now and then there fell from him, as from his friend, unpractical notions of a christian's duty; as if christianity consisted more in acts of self-denial than in an accurate creed concerning fundamental doctrines. it was an uneasy time for mrs. bolton; and her chief consolation was found in a volume of sermons, published by the archdeacon, which made her feel sure that all must be right with the widow of such a dignitary. chapter x. a sin and a shame it was may again; a soft, sunny day, with spring showers falling, or gathering in glistening clouds in the blue sky. the bells chimed for morning service, as the people came up to church from the old-fashioned streets. they greeted one another as they met in the churchyard, whispering that it had been a very bad week for poor mr. chantrey. every one knew how uncontrollable his wife had been for some time past, except a few strangers, who still drove in from a distance. the congregation, some curiously, some wistfully, gazed earnestly at him, as with a worn and weary face, and with bowed-down head already streaked with gray, he took his place in the reading-desk. ann holland wiped away her tears stealthily, lest he should see she was weeping, and guess the reason. in the rectory pew the young, fair-haired boy sat alone, as he had often done of late; for his mother was to unfit to appear in church. mr. chantrey read the service in a clear, steady voice, but with a tone of trouble in it which only a very dull ear could have missed. when he ascended his pulpit, and looked down with sad and sunken eyes upon his people, every face was lifted up to him attentively, as he gave out the text, "am i my brother's keeper?" mrs. bolton moved uneasily in her pew, for she knew he was going to preach a disagreeable sermon. it was not as eloquent as many of his old ones; but it had a hundredfold more power. his hearers had often been pleased and touched before; now they were stirred, and made uncomfortable. their responsibilities, as each one the keeper of his brother's soul, were solemnly laid before them. the listless, contented indifference to the sins and sorrows of their fellow-men was rudely shaken. their satisfaction in their own safety was attacked. as clearly as words could put it, they were told that not one of them could go to heaven alone; that there was no solitary path of salvation for any foot to tread. as long as any fell because of temptation, they were bound, as far as in them lay, to remove every kind of temptation. if each one was not careful to be his brother's keeper, then the voice of their brother's blood would cry unto god against them. there was scarcely a person present who could listen to their rector's sermon with feelings of self-satisfaction. he left his pulpit at the close of it, troubled and exhausted. his little son followed him into the vestry to wait until the congregation, that loved to linger a little about the porch, should have dispersed. but hardly had he entered, than, looking out, as it was his wont to do, upon the grave of his other child, he saw a figure stretched across it, asleep. could it possibly be his wife? large drops of rain were beginning to fall upon her upturned face, but they did not rouse her from her heavy slumber; nor did the noise of many feet passing by along the churchyard path. it was a moment of unutterable shame and agony to him. his people saw her; they had heard of his trouble before, but now they saw it; and they were lingering to look at her. he must go out in the midst of them all, and they must see him take his miserable wife home. those who were there that day will never forget the sight. his people made way for him, as he passed among them, still in the gown he had worn while preaching, with a rigid and wan face, and eyes that seemed blind to every object except the unhappy woman he could not save. his little boy was pressing close behind him, but he bade him go back into the church, and wait until he came for him. then he knelt down beside his wife in the falling rain, and lifted her gently, calling her by her name, "sophy! sophy!" but her heavy head fell back again upon the grave, and he was not strong enough to raise her from it. he burst into tears, a passion of tears; such as men only weep in hours of extreme anguish of mind. slowly his people melted away, helpless to do anything for him; except two or three of his most familiar friends, who stayed to assist him in taking the wretched wife back to her home. ann holland lingered unseen in the porch until all were out of sight. the child she loved so fondly was standing with the great door ajar, holding it with his small hand, and peeping out now and then. she called to him when all were gone, and he came out of the church gladly, yet with an air of concern on his round, rosy face. "my mother is ill, very ill," he said, putting his hand into hers. "i saw her lying on baby's grave. couldn't anything be done for her to make her well? isn't there any doctor clever enough to cure her?" "i don't know, dear," answered ann holland. "my father never lets me go to see her when she's worst," he went on, "only sarah goes into her room, and him. she talks and laughs often, and yet my father says she is ill. when i am a man i shall be a doctor, and learn how to make her well. but it will be a long time before i am clever enough for that, i'm afraid. my father says she's too ill for anybody to come to see us; isn't it a pity?" "yes, my dear," she answered. "she can never hear me say my hymns now," he said; "and when she's not so ill that my father won't let me see her, she sits crying, crying ever so; and if i want to play with her, or read to her, she can't bear it, she says. i should think there ought to be somebody to cure her, if we could only find out. my father scarcely ever laughs now, because she's so ill; and when he plays with me he only looks sad, and he speaks in a quiet voice as if it would make her worse. do try, miss holland, and ask everybody that comes to your house if they don't know of some very, very clever doctor for my mother." "i will try," she said. "i'll do all i can. but you may run home now, master charlie, see! there's your father coming back for you." "i know i sha'n't see my mother again to-day," he answered; "good-by, and remember, please." she watched him running across the little meadow to his father; and then she turned away, and walked slowly through the street homeward. little knots of the towns-people lingered still about the doorways, discussing their rector's troubles. though most of them greeted her, anxious to hear her opinion as one who was considered on friendly terms with the rector's family, she evaded their questionings, and passed on to the solitude of her own dwelling. it had been solitary now for some days, for her brother had disappeared early in the week; having stripped the house of money, and set off on one of his vagrant tramps, of which she knew nothing except that he always returned penniless, and generally with the good clothes she provided for him exchanged for worthless rags. how many years it was that her life had been embittered by his drunkenness she could hardly reckon, so many had they been. these strange absences of his had at first been a severe trial to her; but of late years they had been a holiday time of rest, except for the continual anxiety she felt on his behalf. her quaint and quiet kitchen, as she unlocked the door and entered it, seemed a haven of refuge, where she could indulge in the tears she had kept under control till now. the love she felt for mr. chantrey was so deep and true, that any sorrow of his must have grieved her. but she knew so well what this sorrow was! she knew through what long years it might last; and how hopeless it might grow before the end came. looking back upon her own blighted life, she could foresee for him only a weary, miserable, ever-deepening wretchedness. the sunday afternoon passed by slowly, and the evening came, the soft sunshine and spring showers of the morning were gone; and a sullen sweep of rain, driven by the east wind, was beating through the streets. a neighbor looked in to say she had seen the curate from the next parish pass through the town toward the church; and she thought mr. chantrey would very likely not be there. but ann holland had already decided not to go. at any moment she might hear her brother's shambling step draw near the door, and his fingers fumbling at the latch. she could not bear the neighbors to see him when he came off one of his vagabond tramps, dirty and ragged as he usually was. she must stay at home again for him; again, as she had done hundreds of times, mourning pitifully over him, and ready to receive him patiently, impenitent as he was. she went up stairs to make his bed quite ready for him; and to put out of his way everything that could by any chance hurt him, if he should stumble and fall in his drunken weakness. when she returned to the kitchen, she lighted a candle, and opened the old family bible, with its large type, which seemed to her a more sacred book than the little one she used daily. but she could not read; the words passed vaguely and without meaning beneath her eyes. her mind was full of the thought of her unhappy brother, and mr. chantrey's miserable wife. it was past her usual hour of going to bed before she made up the kitchen fire to be in readiness, lest her brother should knock her up at any hour during the night. at the last moment she opened the street-door, and stood listening for a little while, as she always did when he was not at home. the rain was still sweeping through the street, which was as silent as if the town had been deserted. the gas-lights in the lamps flickered with the wind, and lit up the pools and channels of water running down the pavements. but just as she turned to go in, her quick ear caught the sound of distant footsteps, growing louder as they came in her direction. it was the tramp of several feet, marching slowly like those of persons bearing a heavy burden. she waited to see who and what it could be so late this sunday night; and soon, under the flickering lamps, she caught sight of several men, carrying among them a hurdle, with a shapeless heap upon it. a sudden, vague panic seized her, and she hastily retreated inside her house, shutting and barring the door. she said to herself she did not wish to see what they were carrying past. but were they going past? she heard them still, tramping slowly on toward her house; would they pass by with their burden? she put down the light, for her hand trembled too much to hold it; and she stood listening, her ears quickened for every sound, and her white face turned toward the closed and fastened door. a knock came upon it, which almost caused her to shriek aloud. yet it was a quiet rap, and a neighbor's voice answered as she asked tremulously who was there. she hastened to open the door, so welcome was the sound of the well-known voice; but there, opposite to her, in the driving rain, rested the hurdle, with the confused mass lying huddled together upon it. the men who bore it were silent, standing with their faces turned toward her; all of them strangers, except the one neighbor, who was on her threshold. "they found him lying out in the fields near the woodhouse farm," said her neighbor, in a loud whisper; "he'd strayed there, we reckon." "is he dead?" she asked, mechanically. "not dead, bless your heart! no!" was the answer; "we'll carry him in. there now! don't take on. there's a special providence over folks like him; they never come to much harm, you know. show us where to lay him." ann holland made way for the men to pass her, as they carried their burden into the quiet, pleasant kitchen. she followed with the light, and looked down upon him; her brother, who had played with her, and learned the same lessons, when they were innocent little children together. his gray hair was matted, and his bloated face smeared with dust and damp. he was barefooted and bareheaded. but as she gazed down upon him, and listened to his heavy struggle for breath, she cried in a tone of terror. "he is dying." chapter xi. lost an hour later the house was comparatively quiet again. a doctor had been, and said nothing could be done for richard holland, except to let him die where he was undisturbed. the men who had carried him home had dispersed, or had adjourned to the upton arms, to drink, and to talk over this close of a drunkard's life. the news had in some way reached the rectory; and now only mr. chantrey and ann holland watched beside him. they had laid him, as he was, on the little white-covered sofa in the parlor, never so soiled before. mr. chantrey sat gazing at the degraded, dying man. no deeper debasement could come to any human being; almost the likeness of a human being had been lost. the mire and slough of the ditch into which he had fallen still clung to him; for only his face had been hastily washed clean by his sister's hand; a face that had forfeited all intelligence and seemliness; a coarse, squalid, disfigured face. yet ann was not repulsed by it; her tears fell upon it; and once she had bent over it, and kissed it gently. now and then she put her mouth close to the deafened ear, and spoke to him, calling him by fond names, and imploring him to give some sign that he heard, and knew her. but there was no sign. the heavy breathing grew more thick and labored, yet feebler as the time passed slowly on. david chantrey marvelled at the poor sister's patience and tenderness. "don't trouble to stay with me, sir," she said, at last, "i thought perhaps he'd come to himself, and you'd say a word to him. but there's no hope of that now." "no," he answered, "i will not go, ann," and his-voice trembled with dread. "do you think my wife could ever be as bad as this?" "god forbid!" she cried, earnestly. "god keep her from it! oh! if she could but see; if she could but know! but he wasn't always like this. he was a kind, good-natured, clever man once. it's drinking that's ruined him." "i will stay with you to the end," said mr. chantrey; "it is fit for me. you are teaching me a lesson of patience, ann. all this day i have been thinking if it would be possible for me to give up my wife, and send her away from me, to end her days apart from mine. i have been in despair; in the very deeps. but now; why! even if i knew she would die thus, i cannot forsake her." "ay! we must have patience," she answered. "i always hoped to win him back again, but it was too strong for him and me. god knows how he's been tempted on all hands; even those that call themselves religious, and go to church regular as can be. he used to cry to me sometimes, and promise to turn over a new leaf; and then somebody perhaps that he looked up to would treat him at the upton arms. he might have been a good man, if he'd been left alone." "let us pray together for him and ourselves," said mr. chantrey, kneeling down once again by the little couch, as he had knelt the night of his return home. ann still held her brother's head upon her arm, and her bowed face nearly rested upon it. but all words failed david chantrey. "father!" he cried, "father!" there was nothing more that he could say. it was the single, despairing call of a soul that was full of trouble; that was "laid in the lowest pit, in darkness, in the deeps." but the bewildered brain of the dying man caught the cry, and he muttered it over to himself; "father! father! where is he?" "it's god, our father who art in heaven," said ann holland, uttering the words very slowly and distinctly in his ear; "try to think of him, and pray to him. he'll hear you, even now." "father!" he muttered again, "why! he'd be ashamed of his boy." "it's god," she said, keeping down her sobs, "you've no other father. think of him: god, who loves you." "he'd be ashamed of me," repeated the dying man. for a minute or two he kept on whispering to himself words they could not hear, except the one word "shame." then all was still. the miserable end had come; and neither love nor patience could avail him anything on this side the grave. he had gone as a drunkard into the presence of his judge. chapter xii. a colonial curacy the death of richard holland might have had a salutary effect upon sophy chantrey, if it had not been for the shock of learning how deeply she had disgraced herself and her husband in the sight of his people. she felt that she could never again face those who had seen her on that sunday morning. she shut herself up in her room, refusing to admit any one, except the servant who waited upon her, and steadily set herself against any communication with the world outside. even her husband she would hardly speak to; and her child she would not see. the strain and stress of her remorse was more than she could bear. before the week was gone, she had fled for forgetfulness to the vice which bound her in so heavy a chain. all the cunning of her nature, so strangely perverted, was put into action to procure a supply of the stimulants she craved; and she escaped from her misery for a little while by losing herself in suicidal lethargy and stupefaction. mr. chantrey himself felt it to be impossible to meet the gaze of his usual congregation; he shrank even from walking through the streets of his own town, while his shame was fresh upon him. he exchanged duties with fellow-clergymen, and so evaded the immediate difficulty. but he knew that this could not go on for long. he could not conscientiously retain a position such as he held, if he had not the moral and mental strength necessary for the discharge of its obligations. strength of all kinds seemed to fail him. his physical vitality was low; the health he had gained in madeira had been too severely taxed since his return. he had fought bravely against the mental feebleness that was creeping gradually over him with a paralyzing languor; but he knew he could not bear the conflict much longer. everything was telling against him. he would fain have proved to his people that a man can live out a noble, useful, christ-like life, under crushing sorrows, and shame that was worse than sorrow. but it was not in him to do it. he found himself feeble and crippled, in the very thick of life's battle; and it appeared to him that his position as rector of the parish rendered his feebleness tenfold disastrous. but this decay of power came slowly, though surely. by the close of his second winter in england he felt within himself that he must quit his country again, if he wished to live only a few years longer. there had been no bright sunny spot of gladness for him, no gleam of hope throughout the whole winter. he had been compelled to send his boy away again to school, to shield him from seeing the disgrace of his mother. his friends had almost ceased to come to his house, and he had no heart to go to theirs. it was only now and then that he accepted his aunt's invitations to dine alone with her. "aunt," he said one evening, when they two were alone together in her fantastic drawing-room, "i have resigned my living." "resigned your living!" she repeated, in utter amazement, "resigned upton rectory!" she could hardly pronounce the words; and she gazed at him with an air of bewilderment which brought a smile to his careworn face. "yes," he answered, "life has grown intolerable to me here." "and what do you mean to do?" she asked. "i am going out to my friend warden," he replied, "who has a charge in new zealand; he promises me a curacy under him, if i can get nothing better. but i am sure of a charge of my own very soon." "a curate to warden! a curate in new zealand!" ejaculated mrs. bolton. "david, are you mad?" "not mad, but in most sober sadness," he said. "life is impossible to me here, and under my circumstances; and i wish to live a few years longer for sophy's sake, and my boy's. new zealand is the very place for me." "but you can go away again for a year or two," said his aunt, "and come back when your health is restored. the bishop will give you permission readily. you must not give up your living because your health fails." "the bishop has my resignation, and my reasons for it," answered mr. chantrey, "and ho has accepted it kindly and regretfully, he says; but he fully approves of it. all there is to be done now is to sell our household goods, and sail for a new home, in a new world." "and sophy?" gasped mrs. bolton; "what do you mean to do with her? where shall you leave her?" "she must come with me," he said; "i shall never leave her again. it will be a new chance for her: and with god's help she may yet conquer. even if she cannot, it will be easier for me to bear my burden among strangers than here, where every one knows all about us. a missionary curate in new zealand will be a very different personage from the rector of upton." he looked at his aunt with a smile, and an expression of hope, such as had not lit up his gray face for many a month. this new life opening before him, with all its social disadvantages, and many privations, would give his wife such an opportunity for recovery as the conventionalities of society at home could not furnish. hope had visited him again, and he cherished it as a most welcome visitant. "good heavens!" cried mrs. bolton, lost in astonishment, "david, you must not throw yourself away in this manner! i will see the bishop myself, and recall to his memory his old friendship for the archdeacon. he cannot have promised the living yet to any one. what would become of me, here in upton, settled as i am, with a stranger in the rectory? why did you not ask my advice before taking such a rash step?" "because i should not have followed your advice," he answered. "i settled the whole matter in my own mind before i broached it even to warden. it is the only chance for us both. i am a broken, defeated man." "oh, my boy!" she exclaimed, with tears in her eyes, "i cannot consent to your going away. you have always been my favorite nephew; and i could not endure to see a stranger in your place. it is all sophy's fault. and why should you sacrifice your life, and charlie's, for her? let some place at a distance be found for her; no one will blame you, and you will not suffer so much from the disgrace, if you do not witness it. only stay in upton, and all i have shall be yours. it will be a happy place to you again, if you will only wait patiently for brighter days." "no," he said, sorrowfully; "it has been a pleasant place to me, but it can never be so again. i must go for sophy's sake. there is no hope for her here; there is hope for her among new scenes and fresh influences. i have spoken to her about it, and she is eager to go; she feels that there would be a chance for her. to turn away from my purpose now would be to doom her to her sin without hope of deliverance. it would be impossible for me to do that." it was a terrible blow to mrs. bolton. she foresaw endless mortifications and heartburnings for herself in the presence, and under the rule, of a strange rector at upton, over whom she would have no more authority or influence than any other parishioner. besides, she was really fond of her nephew, and anxious to make his life smooth and agreeable to him. no one could be blind to the fact that his health was giving way again, and she thought with some apprehension of the life of hardship and poverty he was choosing. that he should throw away all that was desirable and advantageous for the sake of his wife, who was merely a trouble and dishonor to him, was an infatuation that she could not understand. he pointed out to her that he was also losing his influence over his people, and she maintained that even this was no reason why he should give up a suitable living and a pleasant rectory. at last, angry with him, and apprehensive for her future position in the parish, she refused to listen any longer to his representations, and spent the few weeks that intervened before their departure in a state of offended estrangement. chapter xiii. self-sacrifice all upton was thrown into a ferment by the unexpected news that their rector had resigned his living, and was about to emigrate to new zealand. at first it was declared too strange to be true. then in a few of the lower class taverns it was said to be too good to be true; but in the upton arms, where the landlady considered it her duty to be regular at church, and even the landlord thought it the thing to go there pretty often, a civil amount of regret was expressed. it was the fault of his wife, said most of the respectable parishioners, who unfortunately did not know when she had had enough of a good thing. even those who were in the same plight with herself threw a stone at poor sophy when they heard that their pleasant-spoken, affable, popular rector, as he used to be, was about to flee his country. very few sympathized with him. he was taking an unheard-of, preposterous, fanatical course. how could a man in his senses give up a living of l a year, with a pretty rectory and glebe-land, for a colonial curacy? but there was one person who heard the news, and brooded over it silently, with very different feelings. the last few months had been very tranquil ones for ann holland. the one anxiety of her quiet life had been removed, and after the first sorrow was passed she had found her home a very peaceful place without her brother. her old neighbors could come in now to take tea with her without any dread of being rudely disturbed. the business did not suffer; it was rather increasing, and she had had some thoughts of employing a second journeyman. but to hear that mr. chantrey was going to leave upton, and that very soon she should see neither him nor charlie, who made her house so merry whenever he ran in, was as great a blow to her as to mrs. bolton. ann holland had been born in the house she lived in, and had never dwelt anywhere else. all her world lay within the compass of a few miles from it, among the farm-houses where her business or her early friendships had made her acquainted with the inhabitants. the people of upton only were her fellow-countrymen; all others were foreigners, and to her, lawful objects of mistrust. every other land save her own seemed a strange and perilous place. of new zealand she had not even any vague ideas, for it was nothing but a name to her. she had far clearer views of heaven, of that other world into which she had seen so many of her childhood's friends pass away. to lie down upon her bed and die would have been a familiar journey to her compared with that strange voyage across boundless seas to a country of which she knew nothing but the name. yet they were going--mr. chantrey, with his failing health; mrs. chantrey, a victim to a miserable vice; and charlie, the young, inexperienced boy. what a helpless set! she tried to picture them passing through the discomforts and dangers of a savage life, as she supposed it to be; mr. chantrey ill, poor, friendless, and homeless. upon her screen were the announcements of his coming to the living, of his marriage, the birth of both children, and the death of one. she read them over word for word, with eyes fast filling and growing dim with tears. very soon there would be another column in the newspaper telling of his resignation and departure--perhaps shortly afterward of his death. he would die in that far-off country, with no one to care for him or nurse him except his unhappy wife. she could not bear to think of it. she must go with them. but how could she ever bear to quit upton? all her own people were buried in the churchyard there, and she kept their graves green with turf, and their headstones free from moss. she had no memories or associations anywhere else, and she clung to all such memories and cherished them fondly. there was no one in upton who knew the pedigrees of every family as she did. even her household goods, old and quaint as they were, had a halo from the light of other days about them. how many persons, dead and gone now, had she seen sit opposite to her in that old arm-chair! how often had childish faces looked laughingly at themselves in her pewter plates? her mother's chairs and sofa, worked in tent-stitch, which only saw the daylight twice a year--what would become of them, and what common uses would they be put to in any other house? her heart failed her when she thought of leaving these things. it was not, moreover, simply leaving them, as she would have to do when she died, but she must see them sold and scattered before her eyes, and behold the vacant places empty and forlorn, without their old belongings. could she bear to be so uprooted? "sir," she said one evening, when mr. chantrey, worn out with the conflict of his own parting with his people, was sitting depressed and silent by her fireside, "mr. chantrey, are you thinking of taking out a servant with you?" "no," he answered; "the cost would be too much. you forget we are going to be poor folks out yonder, ann. don't you remember telling me it might have been better for my wife if she had had to work hard for charlie and me?" "that was long ago," she replied; "it's different now. who's to mind you if you are ill? and who's to see master charlie kept nice, like a gentleman's son? i've been thinking it would break my heart to sit at home thinking of you all. there is nothing to keep me here, now my poor brother's gone. take me with you, sir." "no, no!" he exclaimed, vehemently--so vehemently that she knew how his heart leaped at the thought of it; "you must not sacrifice yourself for us. what! give up this pleasant home of yours, and all your old friends?! no; it cannot be." "there'd be trouble in it," she said; "but it would be a harder trouble to think of you in foreign parts, with none but savages about you, and no roof over your head, and wild beasts marauding about." "not so bad as that," he interrupted, smiling so cheerfully that her own face brightened. "there are no wild beasts, and not many natives, and i shall have a home of my own somewhere." "i could never sleep at nights," she went on, "or eat my bread in comfort, for wondering about you. i don't want to be a cost to you; and when i've sold all, i shall have a little sum of money in hand that will keep me a year or two after my passage is paid. i'm not too old for work yet. if it's too bad a place for me to go to, what must it be for you? and you're not as strong as you ought to be, sir. if anything should happen to you out there, you'd like to know i was with them you love, taking care of them." "it would be a greater comfort than i can tell," said mr. chantrey, in a tremulous voice. "now and then the thought crosses my mind that i might die yonder; and what would become of sophy and charlie, left so desolate? there's warden; but he is too austere and harsh, good as he is. but, ann, i ought not to let you come." "there's no duty to keep me at home," she answered. "if my poor brother was alive, i could never forsake him, you know; but that is all over now. and i could have patience with her, poor lady! aye, i'd have patience for her own sake as well as yours. she could never try me as i've been tried. and i've great hopes of her. maybe if james, poor fellow, could have broken off all his old ways, and begun again fresh, turning over a new leaf where folks hadn't seen the old one, he might have been saved. i've great hopes of mrs. chantrey; and nobody could help her as i could. it seems almost as if our blessed lord laid this thing before me, and asked me to do it for his sake. sure if he asked me to go all round the world for him, i couldn't say no. to go to new zealand with folks i love will be nothing to him leaving heaven, with his father and the holy angels there, to live and work like a poor man in this world, and to die on the cross at the end of all." her voice fell into its lowest and tenderest key as she spoke these last words, and the tears stood in her eyes, as if the thought of christ's life, so long familiar, had started into a new meaning for her. the opportunity for copying him more literally than she had ever done before was granted to her, and her spirit sprang forward eagerly to seize it. mr. chantrey sat silent, yet with a lighter heart than he had had for months. he felt that if ann holland went out with them half his load would be gone. there was a brighter hope for sophy, and there would be a sure friend for his boy, whatever his own fate might be. yet he shrank from accepting such a sacrifice, and could only see the selfishness of doing so at the first moment. "you must take another week to think of it," he said. but when the week was ended ann holland was more confirmed in her wish than before. the news that she was going out with mr. chantrey's family caused as great a stir in the town as that of the rector's resignation. the hollands had always been saddlers in upton, and all the true old upton people had faithfully adhered to them, never being tempted away by interlopers from london or other places, who professed to do better work at lower prices. to be sure the last male holland was gone, but every one knew that his only share in the business for many years had been the spending of the money it brought in. that ann holland should give up her good trade and go out as servant to the chantreys--for so it was represented by the news-bearers--was an unheard-of, incredible thing. many were the remonstrances she had to listen to, and to answer as best she could. it was a bitter day for ann holland when she saw her treasured household furniture sold by auction and scattered to the four winds. many of her old neighbors bought for themselves some mementoes of the place they knew so well, but the bulk of the larger articles were sold without sentiment or feeling. it was a pang to part with each one of them, as they were carried off to some strange or hostile house to be put to common uses. the bare walls and empty rooms that were left, which she had never seen bare and empty before, seemed terribly new, yet familiar to her. she wandered through them for a few minutes, loitering in each one as she thought of all that had happened to her during her monotonous life; and then, with a sorrowful yet brave heart, she walked along the street to the rectory, which was already dismantled and bare like the home she had just left. chapter xiv. farewells during these busy weeks mrs. bolton had looked on in almost sullen silence, except when now and then she had broken out into a passionate invective of her nephew's madness. he had never been indifferent to the luxuries and refinements that give a charm to life, and her nature could not comprehend how all these were poisoned at their source for him. he was eager to exchange them for a chance of a true home, however lowly that home might be. he would willingly have gone to the wilds of siberia, if by so doing he could secure his wife's reformation an almost feverish haste possessed him. to carry her away from upton, from england, and to enter upon a quite new career in a strange place, and to accomplish this plan quickly, absorbed him nearly to the exclusion of any other thought. mrs. bolton felt herself very much neglected and greatly aggrieved. her plans were frustrated and her comforts threatened, yet her nephew hardly seemed to think of her--he for whom she had done so much, who would not have been even rector of upton but for the late archdeacon. yet she relented a little from her displeasure as the day for parting came. she was as fond of him and his boy as her nature would allow. sophy had never been otherwise than an object of her jealousy, and now she positively detested her. but when mr. chantrey came on the last evening to sit an hour or two with her, and she saw, as with newly-opened eyes, his care-worn face and wearied, feeble frame, her heart quite melted toward him. "remember," she said, eagerly, "you can come back again whenever yon choose, as soon as you grow sure how useless this mad scheme is. i wish i could have persuaded you to keep on your living, but yon are too wilful. you are welcome to draw upon me for funds to return at any time, and i shall supply them gladly, and give you a home here. if yon find your expectations fail, promise me to come back." "and bring sophy with me?" he asked, with almost a smile. "no, no," she answered, shrinking involuntarily from the idea of having her in her house. "oh, my poor boy! what can yon do?" "i can only bear the burden sin lays upon me," he said. "it is not permitted to us to shake off the iniquities of others. all of us, more or less, must share in the sufferings of christ, bearing our portion of the sins of the world, which he bore, even unto death. i am ready to die, if that will save my poor sophy from her sin. "but all that makes a christian life so miserable!" exclaimed mrs. bolton. "if in this life only we have hope in christ, then are we of all men most miserable," he answered. "and you would teach that we must give up everything," she cried, "all advantages, and blessings, and innocent indulgences, and pleasures of every kind?" "if the sins or temptations of those about call for such a sacrifice, we must give them up, every one," he replied; "they are no longer blessings or innocent indulgences. if god calls upon us to make some sacrifice, and we refuse to do it, do you think he will yield like some weak parent, who will suffer his child to run the risk of serious injury rather than give him present pain? the whole law of our life is sacrifice, as it was the law of christ's life. it is possible that some small self-denial at the right moment may spare us some costly expiation later on. christianity must perish if it loses sight of this law." mrs. bolton did not answer him. was he thinking of her own refusal to remove temptation out of the way of his wife when she first began to fall into her fatal habit? he was not in reality thinking of her at all, but her conscience pricked her, though her pride kept her silent. it was such an unheard-of course for a person in her station, that none but fanatics could expect her to take it. quixotic, irrational, eccentric, visionary, were words that flitted incoherently through her brain; but her tongue refused to utter them. was christ then so prudent, so cautious, so anxious to secure innocent indulgences and to grasp worldly advantages? could she think of him making life easy and comfortable to himself while hundreds of thousands, nay, millions of unhappy souls were hurrying each year into misery and ruin? there was not much conversation between her and her nephew; for as a parting draws very near, our memories refuse to serve us, and we forget to say the many, many things we may perhaps never again have any season for saying. they bade one another farewell tenderly and sorrowfully; and he went out, under the tranquil, starry sky, to wander once more beside the grave of his little child, and under the old gray walls of his church. he had not known till now how hard the trial would be. up to this time he had been kept incessantly occupied with the numberless arrangements necessary for so great a change; but these were all completed. he had said farewell to his people; but the aching of his own great personal grief and shame had prevented him from feeling that separation too forcibly. but the stir and excitement were over for the hour. here there were no cold, curious eyes fastened upon him; no fear of any harsh voice putting into words of untimely lamentation the unacknowledged reason of his departure. the beloved familiar places, so quiet yet so full of associations to him, had full power over his spirit; and he could not resist them. the very ivy-leaves rustling against the tower, and the low, sleepy chirp of the little birds disturbed by his tread, were dear to him. what, then, was the church itself, every lineament of which he knew as well as if they were the features of a friend? it was a beautiful old church; but if it had been the homeliest and barest building ever erected, he must still have mourned over the pulpit, where he had taught his people; the pews, where their listening faces were lifted up to him; the little vestry, where he had spent so many peaceful hours. and the small mound, blooming with flowers, under which his child slept, how much power had that over him! he paced restlessly up and down beneath the solemn yew-trees, his heart breaking over them all. to-morrow by this time he would have left them far behind him; and never more would his eyes behold them, or his feet tread the path he had so often trod. they seemed to cry to him like living, sentient things. to and fro he wandered, while the silent stars and the waning moon, lying low in the sky above the church, looked down upon him with a pale and mournful light. at last the morning came; and he remembered that to-day he must quit them all, and sail for a far-off country. the vessel mr. chantrey had chosen for the long voyage was a merchant ship, sailing for melbourne, under a captain who had been an early friend of his own, and who knew the reason for his leaving england. no other cabin passengers had taken berths on board her, though there were a few emigrants in the steerage. captain scott, himself a water-drinker, had arranged that no intoxicating beverages, in any form, should appear in the saloon. the steward was strictly forbidden to supply them to any person except mr. chantrey himself. this enforced abstinence, the complete change of scene, and the fresh sea-breezes during the protracted voyage, he reckoned upon as the best means of restoring his wife to health of body and mind. ann holland, too, would watch over her as vigilantly and patiently as himself; and charlie would be always at hand to amuse her with his boyish chatter. a bright hope was already dawning upon him. chapter xv. in despair it was early in june when they set sail; and as the vessel floated down the channel somewhat slowly against the western wind ann holland spent most of her time on deck, watching, often with dim eyes, the coasts of england, as they glided past her. she could still hardly realize the change that had torn her so completely away from her old life. it made her brain swim to think of upton, and the old neighbors going about the streets on their daily business, and the church-clock striking out the hours; and the sun rising and setting, and the days passing by, and she not there. it felt all a dream to her; an odd, inexplicable, endless dream, which never could become as real as the old days had been. her thoughts were all busy with the past, recalling faces and events long ago forgotten; she scarcely ever looked on to the end of the voyage. the sea was calm, and the soft wind sang low among the rigging, while point after point along the shores stole by, and were lost to sight almost unheeded, though she could not turn her steadfast, sorrowful gaze from them till she could see them no more. yet when mr. chantrey, reproaching himself for bringing her, asked her if she repented, she was always ready to say heartily that she would not go back, and leave them, for the world. charlie alone of them all was quite happy in the change. for the last nine months he had been constantly at school; seldom going home, and then but for a day or two, when his mother was at her best. the boy found himself all at once set free from school restraints, restored to his father and mother, who had no one else to interest them; and with all the delights of a ship and a voyage added to his other joys. he was wild with happiness. there was not one thing left him to wish for; for even his mother's nervous state of health could not cast any gloom upon his gladness. he had grown accustomed to think of her as a confirmed invalid; and when she came on deck he would sit quietly beside her for a little while, and lower his clear young voice in speaking to her, without feeling that his short-lived self-control damped his pleasure. but she was not often there long enough to test his devotion too greatly. sophy chantrey was passing through a season of intense misery, both of mind and body; more bitter even than the wretchedness she had felt when she could indulge the craving that had taken so deep a hold upon her. there was nothing voluntary in her abstinence, and consequently neither pleasure nor pride in being able to exercise self-command. her health was greatly enfeebled; and her mind had been weakened almost to childishness. she felt as if her husband was treating her cruelly; yet she could see keenly that it was she who had brought ruin upon his future prospects, as well as those of her boy. she had never been able to sink into utter indifference; and she could not forget, strive as she would, all the happy past, and the unutterably wretched present. here, on board ship, there was no chance for her to procure the narcotics, with which she had lulled her self-reproaches formerly. her longing for such stimulants amounted almost to delirium. she could not sleep for want of them; and all day long she thought of them, and cried for them, until her husband and ann holland could scarcely persevere in refusing them to her. it seemed to them at times as if she must lose her reason, the little that remained to her, and become insane, unless they yielded to her vehement entreaties. even when, after the first week was gone, and the craving was in some measure deadened, her spirits did not rally. she would lie still on deck when her husband carried her there, or on the narrow berth in their cabin, with eyes closed, and hands listlessly folded, an image of despair. "sophy!" he cried one day, when she had not stirred, or raised her eyelids for hours; "sophy, do you wish to kill me?" "i have killed you," she muttered, still without moving, or looking at him. "sophy," he answered, "you are dreaming look up, and see me here alive, beside you life lies before us yet; for you and me together." "no," she said, "don't i know it is death to you to be tied to me as you are? i am a curse to you, and you hate and loathe me, as i do myself. but we cannot get rid of each other, you and me. oh! if i could but die, and set you free!" "i do not hate you," he answered, tenderly; "you are still very dear to me. i do not wish to be free from you." "then you ought," she cried, with sudden passion; "you ought to hate that which degrades and shames you. i am dragging you down to ruin; you and charlie. do you think i do not know it? oh! if i could but die. perhaps i may live for many, many years yet; live to be an old woman, a drunken old wretch! think what it will be to live for years and years with a lost creature like me. it is death, and worse than death, for you." "but why should you be lost?" he asked; "have you never thought of one who came to seek and to save that which is lost?" "yes; he found me once," she said, in tones of despair, "he found me once; but i strayed away again, wilfully, in spite of his love, and all he had done for me. i knew what he had done, and how he loved me; yet i went away from him wilfully. i chose ruin; and now he leaves me to my choice." "this is the delusion of a sick brain," he answered; "you have no power to think rightly of our lord. listen to what i can tell you about him, and his love for you." "no," she interrupted; "none of you others know, you people who have never fallen like me. you do not know what it is to feel yourselves given up and sold to sin. you and ann holland think you can save me by keeping temptation out of my way; but i know that as soon as it comes again i shall be as weak as water against it." "have you no wish to be saved, then?" he asked, his heart sinking within him at her hopeless words. "wish to be saved!" she repeated; "did the rich man in torments wish to be saved? he only asked for one drop of water to cool his tongue but for a moment. he knew he could not be saved, and he did not pray for it." "do you think that i have no wish for your salvation?" he asked. "am i leaving you in your sin? have i done nothing, given up nothing, to secure it? has ann holland given up nothing?" "oh! you have," she cried. "you are doing all you can for me, but it is useless." "christ has done more," he said. "his love for you passes ours infinitely. then if you have not wearied out ours, can you possibly exhaust his? he can stoop to you in all your misery and sinfulness, if you will but stretch out your hand toward him. there is no sin he will not forgive, and none he cannot conquer, if you will but rouse yourself to work with him. against your own will he cannot save you." "i will try," she murmured. yet time after time the same subject, almost in the same words, was renewed. sophy's enfeebled brain could not long retain the thought of a divine love and power, which was ceaselessly though secretly striving to reclaim her. there was no opportunity for her to exert her own will, for she could not be tempted in her present circumstances, and the strength gained by such an exertion was impossible to her. again and again, with untiring patience, did mr. chantrey give ear to her despairing utterances, and meet them with soothing arguments. but often he felt himself on the verge of despair, doubtful of the truths he was trying so earnestly to implant again in her heart. in the smooth happy days of old, both of them had believed them. but now he asked himself, does god indeed care? does he see and know? is he near at hand, and not afar off? their vessel had entered the tropical seas, and a profound unbroken monotony reigned around them. they had not sighted land since the shores of england had sunk below the horizon. a waste of waters encircled them, and a dead calm prevailed. through the sultry and hazy atmosphere no rain fell in cooling showers. day after day the sea was of perfect stillness, and an oppressive silence, as of death, brooded over the low, regular heaving of the waters. the dry torrid heat was exhausting, and the ship with its idle sails made but little way across the quiet sea. mr. chantrey's weakened frame suffered greatly, and even ann holland's brave and cheery spirit almost sank into despondency. "if it hadn't been for mrs. chantrey," she thought mournfully, "we should all have been at upton now, as happy as the day's long. the summer's at its height there, and the harvest is being gathered in. how cool it would be under the chestnut-trees, or under the church walls! mr. chantrey's sinking, plain enough, and what is to become of us if he should die before we get to that foreign land? dear, dear! whoever would go to sea if they could get only a place to lay their heads on land?" chapter xvi. a long voyage it was a dreary and monotonous time. after the sun had gone down, red and sullen, through the haze, and when the ship left a long track of phosphorescent light sparkling behind it, mr. chantrey would pace up and down the deck, as he had often walked to and fro in the churchyard paths in the starlight. he had many things to think of. for his wife his hope was strengthening; a dim star shone before him in the future. her brain was gradually regaining clearness, and her mind strength. something of the old buoyancy and elasticity was returning to her, for she would play sometimes with her child merrily, and her laugh was like music to him. but how would it be in the hour of temptation, which must come? she said her craving for stimulants was passing away; but how would she bear being again able to procure them? he would watch over her and guard her as long as he lived, but what would become of her if he should die? this last question was becoming every day more and more urgent. the exhausting oppressive heat and the protracted voyage were sapping his strength, and he knew it. the fresh sweet sea-breezes on which he had reckoned had failed him, and he was consciously nearer death than when he left england. he longed eagerly for life and health, that he might see his wife and child in happier circumstances before he died. to leave them thus seemed intolerable to him. what was he to do with his boy? he could not leave him in the care of a mother not yet delivered from the bondage of such a fatal sin. yet to separate him harshly from her would almost certainly doom her to continue in it. if life might be spared to him only a few years longer, he would probably see her once more a fitting guardian for their child. the growing hope for her, the dim dread for himself--these two held alternate sway over him as he paced to and fro under the southern skies. captain scott, his friend, urged upon him that there was one remedy open to him, and only one on board the ship. the long stress and strain upon his physical as well as his mental health had weakened him until his strength was slowly ebbing away; his heart beat feebly, and his whole system had fallen under a nervous depression. now was the time when, as a medicine, the alcohol, which was poison and death to his wife, would prove restoration to him. could he but keep up his vital powers until the voyage was ended, all would be well with him. his life might be prolonged for those few years he so ardently desired. he could still watch over his wife, and protect his child during boyhood, and die in peace--young perhaps, but having accomplished what he had set his mind upon. but sophy? how could she bear this unexpected temptation? he did not suppose he could effectually conceal it from her, for of late she had clung to him like a child, following him about humbly and meekly, with a touching dependence upon him, striving to catch his eye and to smile faintly when he looked at her, as a child might do who was seeking to win forgiveness. she was very feeble and delicate still, her appetite was as dainty as his own, and the heat oppressed her almost as much as himself. yet that which might save him would certainly destroy her. day after day the debate with captain scott was resumed. but there was no real debate in his own mind. he would gladly take the remedy if he could do so with safety to his wife, but not for a thousand lives would he endanger her soul. not for the certainty of prolonging his own years would he take from her the merest chance of overcoming her sin. to do it for an uncertainty was impossible. there was hope for him still, if the vessel could but get past these sultry seas into a cooler climate. one good fresh sea-breeze would do him more good than any stimulant, and they were slowly gliding to latitudes where they might meet them at any hour. once out of the tropics, and around the cape of good hope, there would be no fear of exhausting heat in the air they breathed. all his languor would be gone and the rest of the voyage would bring health and vigor to his fevered frame. only let them double the cape, and a new life in a new world lay before them. his brain felt confused and delirious at times, but he knew it so well that he grew used to sit down silently in the bow of the ship, and let the dizzy dreams pass over him, careful not to alarm his wife or ann holland. cool visions of the pleasant english home he had quitted for ever; the shadows and the calm of his church, where the sunshine slanted in through narrow windows made green with ivy-leaves; the rustling of leaves in the elm-trees on his lawn in the soft low wind of a summer's evening; the deep grassy glades of thick woods, where he had loved to walk; the murmuring and tinkling of hidden brooks--all these flitted across his clouded mind as he sat speechless, with his throbbing head resting upon his hands. often his wife crouched beside him, herself silent, thinking sadly how he was brooding over all the wrong and injury she had done him, yet fearing in her humiliation to ask him if it were so. her repentance was very deep and real, her love for him very true. yet she dreaded the hour when she must face temptation again. she could not even bear to think of it. but shortly after they had passed the southern tropic, as they neared the cape, the climate changed suddenly, with so swift an alteration that from sultry heat of a torrid summer they plunged almost directly into the biting cold of winter. as they doubled the cape a strong north-west gale met them, with icy cold in its blast. the ropes were frozen, and the sails grew stiff with hoar-frost. rough seas rolled about them, tossing the vessel like a toy upon their waves. the change was too sudden and too great. all the passengers were ill, and david chantrey lay down in his low, narrow berth, knowing well that no hope was left to him. chapter xvii. almost shipwrecked sophy chantrey was left alone to nurse her dying husband, for ann holland was lying ill in her own cabin, ignorant of his extremity. captain scott came down for a minute or two, but he could not stay beside him. his presence was sorely needed on deck, yet he lingered awhile, looking sorrowfully at his friend. sophy watched him with a clearer and keener glance in her blue eyes than he had ever yet seen in them. "what is the matter with him?" she asked, following him to the cabin door. "as near dying as possible," he answered, gruffly. he believed that a good life had been sacrificed to a bad one, and he could not bring himself to speak softly to the woman who was the cause of it. "dying!" she cried. there was no color to fade from her face, but the light died from her eyes, and the word faltered on her lips. "yes," he answered, "dying." "sophy, come to me," called her husband, in feeble tones. she left the captain, and returned at once to his side. the low berth was almost on the floor, and she had to kneel to bring her face nearer to his. it was night, and the only light was the dim glimmer of an oil-lamp, which the captain had hung to the ceiling, and which swung to and fro with the lurching of the ship. the wind was whistling shrilly among the rigging, and every plank and board in the vessel groaned and creaked under the beating of the waves. now and then her feet were ankle-deep in water, and she dreaded to see it sweep over the low berth. in the rare intervals of the storm she could hear the hurried movements overhead, and the shouts of the sailors as they called to one another from the rigging. but vaguely she heard, and saw, and felt. her husband's face, white and haggard and thin, with his gray hair and his eyes sunken with unshed tears, was all that she could distinctly realize. "sophy," he said, "do not leave me again." he held out his hand, and she laid hers into it, shuddering as she felt its chilly grasp. her head fell on to the pillow beside his, and her lips, close to his ear, spoke to him through sobs. "is there nothing that can be done?" she cried. "it is i who have killed you. must you really die for my sin, and leave us?" "i think i must die," he said, touching her head softly with his feeble hand. "i would live for you if i could--for you and my poor boy. sophy, promise me while i can hear you, while you can speak to me, promise me you will never fall into this sin again." "how can i?" she cried. "i have killed you, and now who will care?" "god will care," he said, faintly, "and i shall care; wherever i may be i shall care. promise me, my darling, my poor girl!" "i promise you," she answered, with a deep sob. "you will never let yourself enter into temptation?" "never!" she cried. "never taste it; never look at it; never think of it, if possible. promise," he whispered again. "never!" she sobbed; "never! oh, live, and you shall see me conquer. god will help me to conquer, and you will help me. do not leave us. o god, do not let him die!" but he did not hear her. a faintness and numbness that seemed like death, which had been creeping languidly through his veins for some time, darkened his eyes and sealed his lips. he could not see her, and her voice sounded far away. she called again and again upon him, but there was no answer. the deep roar of the storm on the other side of the frail wooden walls thundered continuously, and the groan of the straining planks grated upon her ear as she listened intently for one or more word from him. was she then alone with him, dying? was there no help, nothing that could be at least attempted for his help? through the uproar and tumult she caught the sound of some one stirring in the saloon. she sprang to the door, and met captain scott on the point of opening it. "come," said she frantic with terror; "he is dead already." the captain bent over the dying man, and with the promptitude of one to whom time was of the utmost value passed his hand rapidly over his benumbed and paralyzed body. "no, not dead," he exclaimed; "but he's sinking fast, and there's only one remedy. you can leave him to die, or you can save him, mrs. chantrey. there is no one else to nurse him, and every moment is precious to me. here's a brandy-flask. give him some at once; force a few drops through his teeth, and watch the effect it has upon him. as he swallows it give him a little more every few minutes. watch him carefully; it will be life or death with him. if i can get down again i'll come in to see you, but i am badly wanted on deck this moment. there's enough there, but not too much, remember. get him warm, if possible. god bless you, mrs. chantrey." he had been busily heaping rugs and blankets upon his friend's insensible form; and now, with a hearty grasp of the hand, and an earnest glance into her face, he hurried away, leaving sophy alone once more. a shudder of terror ran through her, and she called to him not to leave her; but he did not hear. she stood in the middle of the cabin, looking around as if for help, but there was none. the craving, which had been starved within her by the forced abstinence of the last few weeks, awoke again with insufferable fierceness. she was cold herself, chilled to the very heart; her misery of body and soul were extreme. the dim light and the ceaseless roar of the storm oppressed her. the very scent of the brandy seemed to intoxicate her, and steal away her resolution. if she took but a very little of it, she reasoned with herself, she would be better fitted for the long, exhausting task of watching her husband. how would she have strength to stand over him through the cold, dark hours of the night, feeble and worn out as she already felt herself? for his sake, then, she must taste it; she would take but a very little. the captain had said there was not more than enough; but surely he would give her more, to save her husband's life. only a little, just to stay the intolerable craving. sophy poured out a small, portion into the little horn belonging to the flask. the strong spirituous scent excited her. how warm, and strong, and useful it would make her to her husband in his extremity! yet still she hesitated. suppose she could not resist the temptation to take more, and yet more, until she lost her consciousness, and left him to perish with cold and faintness? she knew how often she had resolved to take but a taste, enough to drive away the painful dejection of the passing hour; and how fatally her resolution had failed her, when once she had yielded. if she should fail now, if the temptation conquered her, there was no shadow of a hope for him. when she came to her senses again he would be dead. why did not somebody come to her help? where was ann holland, that she should be away just at the very moment when her presence was most desirable and most necessary? how could captain scott think of trusting her with poison? how could she do battle with so close and subtle a tempter? so long a battle, too; though all the dreary hours of the storm! only a little while ago she had made a solemn promise never to fall into this sin, never to enter into temptation. but she had been thrust into temptation unawares, in an instant, with no one to help her, and no time to gather strength for resistance. even david himself could not blame her if she broke her promise. it should be only a taste; it could not be more than that, for the flask was not full; and now she came to think of it she could not get on deck to ask the captain for more, because the hatches were closed. that would save her from taking too much. she would keep the thought before her that every drop she swallowed was taken from her dying husband, for whom there was barely enough. she could only taste it, and she did it for his sake, not her own. she lifted the little horn to her lips; but before tasting the stimulant, she glanced round, as she had often done before, to see if any one was looking at her; a stealthy cunning movement, born of the sense of shame she had never quite lost. every nerve was quivering with excitement, and her heart was beating quickly. but her glance fell upon her husband's face turned toward her, yet with no watchful, reproachful eyes fastened upon her. the eyelids half closed; the pallid, hollow cheeks; the head fallen back upon the pillow, looked like death. was he then gone from her already? had she suffered his flickering life to die out altogether, while she had been dallying with temptation? with a wild and very bitter cry sophy chantrey sprang to his side, and forced a few drops of the eau-de-vie between his clenched teeth. again and again, patiently, she repeated her efforts, watching eagerly for the least sign of returning animation. every thought of herself was gone now; she became absorbed between alternate hope and dread. he was alive still; slowly the death-like pallor was passing away, faint tokens of returning circulation tingled through his benumbed veins. the beating of his heart was stronger, and his hands seemed less icily cold. but so slowly, and with so many intermissions, did the change creep on, that she did not dare to assure herself that he was reviving. now and then the scent made her feel sick with terror; for she knew that his life depended upon her unceasing attention, and the tempter was still beside her, though thrust back for the time by her newly-awakened will. "i will not let him die!" she cried to herself; yet she was inwardly fearful of failing in her resolution, and leaving him to die. would the daylight never come? would the storm never cease? it was raging more wildly than ever; and captain scott found it impossible to go below, even though his friend was probably dying. sophy was left absolutely alone. it seemed to her like an eternity, as she knelt beside her husband, desperately, fighting against sin, and intently watching for some sure sign of life in him. he was not dead, that was almost all she knew. the night was dark still, and very lonely. there was no one who saw her, none to care for her; and her misery was very great. was there none who cared? a still small voice in her own soul, long unheard, but speaking clearly through the din of the storm around and within her, asked, "does not christ care? he who came to seek and to save that which was lost? he whom god sent into the world to be the captain of salvation, and to suffer being tempted, that he might be able to succor all those who are tempted?" for a moment she listened breathlessly as if some new thing had been said to her. christ really cared for her; really knew her extremity in this dire temptation; was ready with his help, if she would but have it. could it be true? if he were beside her, witnessing her temptation and her struggling, seeing and entering into all the bitterness of the passing hours, why! then such a presence and such a sympathy were a thousand times greater and better than if all the world beside had been by to cheer her. why had she never realized this before? he knew; god knew; she was not alone, because the father himself was with her. she had no time to pray consciously, in so many words of set speech; but her whole heart was full of prayer and hope. the terror of temptation was gone; nay, for the time, the temptation itself was gone, for she was lifted up far above it. she could use the powerful remedy on which her husband's life depended with no danger to herself. her thoughts ran busily forward into a blissful future. how happy they would all be again! how diligently she would guard herself! her life henceforth should be spent as under the eye of god. at last the morning dawned, and a gray light stole even through the darkened portholes--a faint light, but sufficient for her to see her husband's face more clearly. his heart beat under her hand with more vigor, and the color had come back to his lips. she could see now how every drop he swallowed brought, a more healthy hue to his face. he had attempted to speak more than once, but she laid her hand on his mouth to enforce silence until his strength was more equal to the effort. at last he whispered earnestly that she could not refuse to listen. "sophy," he said, "is it safe for you?" "yes," she answered; "god has made it safe for me." chapter xviii. saved the gale off the cape of good hope was weathered at last, and the vessel sailed into smoother seas. the bitterness of the cold was over, and only fresh invigorating breezes swept across the water. nothing could have been more helpful toward mr. chantrey's recovery, except his new freedom from sorrow. his trouble had passed away like the storm. he could not but trust that the same strength which had been given to his wife in her hour of fiercest temptation would be still granted to her in ordinary trials, from which he could not always shield her. sophy herself was full of hope. she felt her will, so long enslaved, regaining its former freedom, and her brain recovering its old clearness. the pleasures and duties of life had once more a charm for her. it was as though some madness and delusion had passed away, and she was once more in her right mind. the voyage between australia and new zealand, taken in a crowded and comfortless steamer, was a severe testing time for her. it lasted for several days, and she could not be kept from the influence of the drinking customs of those on board. but she never quitted the side either of her husband or ann holland. in new zealand, where no one knew the story of her past life, except mr. warden, it was more easy to face the future, and to carry out the reformation begun in her. they were poor, far poorer than she had ever expected to be, and she had harder work than she had been accustomed to do; but such exertions were beneficial to her. ann holland, as a matter of course, lived with them in their little home, from which mr. chantrey was often absent while visiting the distant portions of his large parish, which extended over many miles. but ann was not left to do all the drudgery of the household unaided. sophy chantrey would take her share in her every duty, and seldom sat down to sew or write unless ann was ready to rest also. the old want of something to do could never revisit her; the old sense of loneliness could not come back. there was her boy to teach, and her simple, homely neighbors to associate with. the customs and conventionalities of english life had no force here, and she was free to act as she pleased. as the years passed by, david chantrey lost forever a secret lurking dread lest his wife's sin should be only biding its time. he could go away in peace, and return home gladly, having almost forgotten the reason of his exchanging the pleasant rectory of upton for the hard work of a colonial living. from time to time letters reached them from mrs. bolton, complaining bitterly of the changes introduced by the new rector, whose customs and opinions constantly clashed with her own. she found herself put on one side, and quietly neglected in all questions concerning the parish; while her influence gradually died away. again and again she urged her nephew to return to england, promising that she would make him her heir, and procure for him a living as valuable as the one he had resigned. she could not understand that to a man like david chantrey the calm happy consciousness of days well spent, and the grateful remembrance of a terrible sorrow having been removed, were better than anything earth could give. the old pride he had once felt in his social position and personal popularity could never lift up its crest again. he had gone down to the valley of humiliation, and there, to his surprise, he found "that the air was pleasant, and that here a man shall be free from the noise and hurryings of this life, and shall not be let and hindered in his contemplation, as in other places he is apt to be." his laborious simple life suited him, and no entreaties or promises of mrs. bolton could recall him to england. eight tranquil years had passed by when sophy chantrey detected in her husband a degree of preoccupation and reticence that had long been unusual to him. for a few days he kept the secret; but at last, just as she began to feel she could bear his reserve no longer he spoke out. "sophy," he said, "i have had some letters from england." "from aunt bolton?" she asked, with a faint undertone of vexation in her voice, for mrs. bolton's letters always revived bitter memories in her mind. "no," he answered, holding out to her a large bulky packet; "they are from the bishop--our english bishop, you know--just a few lines; and from the upton people. it seems that the living is about to be vacant again, for seymour has had a very good one presented to him in the north; and the parishioners have petitioned the bishop, and petitioned me to accept the charge again. see, here are hundreds of signatures, and the churchwardens tell me every man and woman in the parish would have signed if there had been room. the bishop speaks very kindly about it, too, and they want my answer by the mail going out next week." "and what will you say?" asked sophy breathlessly. "it is for you to say," he answered; "you must decide. could you go back happily, sophy? as for me, i never loved, or shall love, any place like upton. i dream of it often. yet i could not return to it at any great cost to you, be sure of that. you must answer the question. we have been very happy together here, all of us; and you and i have been truer christians than perhaps we could ever have been if we had stayed at home. if you decide to settle here, i for one will never regret it." "would it be safe for me to go back?" she faltered. "as safe for you as for me," he answered emphatically; "do not be afraid of that. a sin conquered and uprooted, as yours has been, is less likely to overcome us than some new temptation. i have no fear of that." for the next few days sophy chantrey went through her daily work as in a dream. there were many things to weigh and consider, and her husband left her to herself, acting as if he had dismissed the subject altogether from his mind. for herself she shrank from returning among the people who had known her in her worst days, and whose curious suspicious eyes would be always watching her, and bringing to her mind sad recollections. she knew well that all her life long there would be the memory of her sin kept alive in the hearts of her husband's parishioners if he went back as rector of upton. yet she could not resolve to banish him from the place he loved so well, and the people who were so eager to have him with them again as their pastor. there was nothing to be dreaded on account of his health, which was fully reestablished. there was her boy, too, who was growing old enough to require better teaching than they could secure for him in the colony. ann holland would be overjoyed to think of seeing upton again, and to return to her old friends and townsfolk. no; they must not be doomed to continual exile for her sake. she must take up the cross that lay before her, from which she had so long escaped, and be willing to bear the penalty of her transgressions, learning that no sins, though forgiven, can be blotted out as far as their consequences are concerned--can never be, through endless years, as though they had never been. "we must go home to upton," she said to her husband the evening before the mail left for england. "i have considered everything, and we must go." "willingly, sophy? gladly?" he asked, looking keenly into her face, so changed from when he had seen it first. what lines there were upon it which ought not to have been there so early, he knew well. how different it was from the fair fresh face of his young wife when they first went home to upton rectory. yet he loved her better now than then. "willingly, though not gladly yet," she answered; "but do not argue with me. do not try to persuade me against my own decision. you all came out for my sake, and i am bent upon returning for yours. in time i shall be as glad that i returned as you are that you came out, though i am not glad now. i shall be a standing lesson to the people of upton." "but i do not wish my wife to be a lesson," he said fondly. yet he could not urge her to alter her decision. the old home and the old church, which he had diligently tried to forget, thrust themselves as freshly and imperiously upon his memory as if he had left them but yesterday. he had not known how great his sacrifice had been when he had given them up in his misery. ann holland and his boy shared his delight, and before they sailed for home sophy herself found that she could take very real pleasure in their new prospects. mrs. bolton did not live to welcome them back to upton. the last few years had been years of vexation and loneliness to her, and there had been no one to care for her and to help her to bear her troubles. she had been ailing for some time, and the trying changes of the spring hastened her death before her favorite nephew could reach england. the hired nurses who attended her through her last illness heard her often muttering to herself, as if her enfeebled brain was possessed by one idea, "if any will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow me." the words haunted her, and once she said, in an awed voice and with a look of pain, "he that taketh not up his cross and followeth after me, is not worthy of me." "not worthy of me!" she repeated, mournfully, "not worthy of me!" the rector of upton and his wife have dwelt among their own people again for some years. though the story is still sometimes told of mrs. chantrey's sin, the life she leads among them is a better lesson than perhaps it could have been had she never fallen. they see in her one who has not merely been tempted, but who has conquered and escaped from the tyranny of a vice shamefully common among us. there is hope for the feeblest and the most degraded when they hear of her, or when they learn the story from her own lips. for if by the sorrowful confession she can help any one, she does not shrink from making it, with tears often, but with a profound thankfulness for the deliverance wrought out for her by those who made themselves "fellow-workers with god." ann holland found her shop and pleasant kitchen transformed into a fashionable draper's establishment, with plate glass windows down to the pavement. but she did not need a home. david and sophy chantrey would not have parted from her if the old house had not been gone. a few of her old-fashioned goods she managed to gather together again, to furnish her own room at the rectory, and among them was the screen containing the newspaper records of events at upton. one long column gives a high-flown description of the rector's return to his old parish, and ann feels a glow of pleasant pride at seeing her own name there in print. [illustration] an old man's prayer. by george m. baker. [illustration] _illustrated by hammatt billings._ boston: lee and shepard. . entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by george m. baker, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. boston: stereotyped and printed by geo. c. rand & avery. to my wife. this simple story will be recognized by many throughout new england to whom the author has had the pleasure of reciting it. frequent requests that he would place it in shape for preservation have emboldened him to issue it in its present dress. painfully conscious of its defects as a literary work, he sends it forth in search of old acquaintances, trusting it may receive a share of that kindly favor bestowed upon it as it fell from his lips. illustrations. designed by hammatt billings. engraved by s. s. kilburn. page. "high raises his goblet" _frontispiece._ "into the light an old man steps" "i had wealth and plenty" "ruined and bankrupt" "the curse of the wine-cup was in his way" "hurled from his hold my darling boy" "my boy stepped down from the preacher's stand" "with a pure, deep feeling of heartfelt bliss" "bright gleams his sword as he moves along" an old man's prayer. in the loftiest room, of princely state, of a modern palace grand and great,-- whose marble front is a symbol true of the inner splendors hid from view,-- on an autumn night, when wild without the bold winds held their revel rout, rudely assailing the passing throng, through churchyards creeping with mournful song, a group was gathered around a board heaped with all that wealth could afford, or taste could suggest: dishes costly and rare, fruits of all climes and all seasons, were there. the pendent lights in brilliance danced on the gleaming plate their rays enhanced; the massive mirrors thrice displayed the stately banquet there arrayed. furniture carved by an artist hand, carpets which only great wealth could command, curtains of damask, of lace, and of gold, spoke of the splendors wealth could unfold, and filled with a joy and a pleasure rare the youthful hearts that were gathered there. slender each form, and fair each face, of the twelve gay lads which that table grace, as with genial talk and pleasant jest they banter each other, and cheer their guest. for one guest is there, as youthful as they, with a heart as light, and a voice as gay, who laughs at their jests with ready glee, and whose quick returns speak a spirit free, an honored guest; for, on the morrow, they must part with him in pain and sorrow. the glittering emblems his shoulders bear bid him for strife and for peril prepare; bid him go forth at his country's call, with her banner to triumph, or on it to fall. a moment's pause, as with ready hand the waiter hurries, at command, to clear the table, and, instead of the rich, choice viands thickly spread, ranges dark bottles and cruses, which show marks of long years in damp vaults below. the richest juices age can display are quickly spread in tempting array. wines of bordeaux and seville are there, with liquors and cordials sparkling and rare; and bottles are opened, and glasses are filled. when all in a moment the tumult is stilled, as he who presides with dignified grace high raises his goblet, and stands in his place:-- "i give you, friends, no warrior's name your hearts to thrill, your blood to flame; no toast to beauty shall my lips repeat, where we to-night in sacred friendship meet to part with one, who, in our boyhood's days, earnest and true, won all our love and praise; who, on the morrow, plays the hero's part, and seeks the battle with a loyal heart. his health i give with an earnest prayer, that, while on his mission of peril and care, success may be his, and, by deeds renowned, he may meet us again with laurels crowned." all glasses are raised, when a gentle hand is heard at the door--all silent stand as it slowly opens, and into the light an old man steps, his features bright: the long white hairs o'er his shoulders stream; like silver threads in the warm rays beam. wrinkled his brow, and pale his face, wasted his form, and tottering his pace, shrunken his cheek; but the eye above tells of gentleness, kindliness, love. and silent stand all as he slowly seeks a place near the table, and gently speaks:-- [illustration] "young men, but a moment i check your mirth, and bring you back to the common earth. unbidden i come with an old man's prayer: may it seek your hearts, and gain entrance there! look on my face, seamed, not with crime, but with marks of age before their time: these long white hairs should not have shown till ten more years had by me flown. age is upon me; not age by years, but age by sorrow and care and tears; not age that cheers as it draweth near yon heaven which seemeth more bright and clear, but age which causes the heart to lag in its onward course, and the spirit to flag; that prays for death as but a release from earthly care, and finds no peace in that sweet belief that at last i hail,-- 'there is rest for the weary beyond the vale.' for to me has come a spirit of light, bringing the morning, and chasing the night; causing my heart with joy to swell to my maker, 'who doeth all things well.' you shall hear my story: 'twill not be long, and may guard you all from sin and from wrong. i had wealth and plenty in goodly lands, in houses and cattle; and from my hands many were fed; and many were they who partook of my charity day by day. my house was open to stranger and friend; and my gold did i lavishly, freely spend. but one bitter curse did my wealth uprear to poison my life,--the tempter here, the sparkling demon, which now i see from all your glasses glaring on me,-- a monster who steals on its prey so slow, that it has your life before you know or dream of its power: this was the curse that sat at my fire-side, robbed my purse, poisoned my life, and left me to be a drifting log on the world's wide sea, ruined and bankrupt, lost and bereft; no kindred, no fortune, no treasure, left. treasure!--yes; for i had three sons, the hope of my life,--three noble ones. you shall hear their fate, and then i'll away, nor longer your hour of pleasure delay. [illustration] one sought as a merchant hopeful to clear our tarnished name, to again uprear our shattered house; but, sad to say, the curse of the wine-cup was in his way. he seized on it madly, drank deep and fast, and sank to the drunkard's grave at last. i stood by his side as with frenzy wild he cursed himself and his wife and child; he cursed me too, as the one who had led his feet in the path that drunkards tread; and then--it was worse than all beside-- he cursed his maker; and then--he died! [illustration] another, with spirit that loved to brave, sought a bold, free life on the ocean-wave. he left my side full of life and health, in a good stanch ship, in search of wealth. a twelvemonth passed, and day by day i scanned for his sail the distant bay. at last i saw it, and eagerly flew to welcome my boy so manly and true. but, alas! he was gone: no son to greet my waiting heart came with eager feet. but they told me there,--one stormy night, when the heavens were filled with angry light, the waves rolled high, and the winds beat wild, that out on a frail yard went my child; he had drunk deep, and 'twas fearful to sweep on that slender spar o'er the seething deep; that one heavy sea tossed the ship like a toy, and hurled from his hold my darling boy. then i sank me down in agony wild, and glared on the waves that rolled over my child: i gazed until in the waters blue i saw reflected the brilliant hue of one lone star, which, high above, seemed to speak to my heart of faith and love; and i thought, as i turned my eyes to its light. it beckoned me on to the heavens so bright, where i know, whenever this life shall cease, i shall meet my boy in eternal peace. [illustration] i had but one left; and him i taught to shun each sinful word and thought; to beware of the wine-cup's demon lure, that would steel his heart, and his soul obscure. he took the way of life that leads to the sacred desk where the preacher pleads, and placed his foot on the pulpit stair, the gospel--banner of life--to bear. when the cannon's boom o'er sumter broke, and the air was filled with traitorous smoke; when brave men sprang with willing hearts to their country's flag to repel the darts which treason had hurled with malice wild at the life of the mother, so good and mild,-- my boy stepped down from the preacher's stand, and started forth, with life in hand, to sell it dear, but to battle strong with the loyal north against fearful wrong. i know that he carries a magic spell 'gainst the curse of our race to guard him well; and i know, should he fall, his death will be in the foremost ranks of loyalty. and now, young men, an old man's prayer:-- leave the bright wine in your glasses there; shun its allurements; for in its deep red is the blood of its victims dying and dead. fill up your glasses, and pledge your friend in the crystal stream that heaven doth send." [illustration] with a lowly bow, and the same meek air, he has passed the door, and adown the stair; while those he has left to their leader turn with downcast eyes, and cheeks that burn. silent he stands as his glass he takes, when the guest of the evening the silence breaks. "friends of my boyhood, the old man's prayer shall meet a response in the heart i wear. i come to-night from a mother's side: she watches my life with a parent's pride; and i know 'tis the dearest wish of her heart, in camp and in battle to keep me apart from sin and temptation; unceasing will pray heaven's blessing to guard on my perilous way. and this pledge will i leave her,--never again my lips with the wine-cup's poison to stain. so, friends, let's drink to our meeting again: my drink is the water, free from all stain." [illustration] he stood with his upraised glass, and the light full on his fair young brow beamed bright,-- that brow which an anxious mother would kiss with a pure, deep feeling of heartfelt bliss; and along the line of his comrades young, to honor his toast, each hand upsprung: in not one glass did the red wine gleam; but all were filled from the crystal stream. [illustration] on the morrow, adown the street, with trumpet's blast and war-drum's beat, firm and erect, with martial tread, the flag of their country overhead, with brave, stout hearts, and patriot-song, the nation's heroes go marching along. and our soldier is there, marching forth to join the bands of the loyal north; to strike a blow for his country dear, and her trailing flag to again uprear. light is his heart; his faith is strong; bright gleams his sword as he moves along: but the armor he wears shall serve him best is the shield of temperance guarding his breast. [illustration] transcriber's note: minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed. words printed in italics are noted with underscores: _italics_. the cover of this ebook was created by the transcriber and is hereby placed in the public domain. tobacco and alcohol _i. it does pay to smoke._ _ii. the coming man will drink wine._ by john fiske, m.a., ll.b. --"_quæres a me lector amabilis quod plerique sciscitantur laudemne an vero damnem tabaci usum? respondeo tabacum optimum esse. tu mi lector tabaco utere non abutere._"--magnenus exercitationes de tabaco, _ticino_, . new york: leypoldt & holt. . entered according to act of congress, in the year , by leypoldt & holt, in the clerk's office of the district court for the southern district of new york. stereotyped by little, rennie & co., broome st., new york. preface. five weeks ago to-day the idea of writing an essay upon the physiological effects of tobacco and alcohol had never occurred to us. nevertheless, the study of physiology and pathology--especially as relating to the action of narcotic-stimulants upon nutrition--has for several years afforded us, from time to time, agreeable recreation. and being called upon, in the discharge of a regularly-recurring duty, to review mr. parton's book entitled "smoking and drinking," it seemed worth while, in justice to the subject, to go on writing,--until the present volume was the result. this essay is therefore to be regarded as a review article, rewritten and separately published. it is nothing more, as regards either the time and thought directly bestowed upon it, or the completeness with which it treats the subject. bearing this in mind, the reader will understand the somewhat fantastic sub-titles of the book, and the presence of a number of citations and comments which would ordinarily be neither essential nor desirable in a serious discussion. had we been writing a systematic treatise, with the object of stating exhaustively our theory of the action of tobacco and alcohol, we should have found it needful to be far more abstruse and technical; and we should certainly have had no occasion whatever to mention mr. parton's name. as it is, the ideal requirements of a complete statement have been subordinated--though by no means sacrificed--to the obvious desideratum of making a summary at once generally intelligible and briefly conclusive. the materials used especially in the preparation of this volume were the following: anstie: stimulants and narcotics. philadelphia, . lallemand, duroy, et perrin: du rôle de l'alcool et des anesthésiques. paris, . baudot: de la destruction de l'alcool dans l'organisme. union médicale, nov. et déc., . bouchardat et sandras: de la digestion des boissons alcooliques. annales de chimie et de physique, , tom. xxi. duchek: ueber das verhalten des alkohols im thierischen organismus. vierteljahrschrift für die praktische heilkunde. prague, . von bibra: die narkotischen genussmittel und der mensch. nürnberg, . and the works of taylor, orfila, christison, and pereira, on materia medica and poisons; of flint, dalton, dunglison, draper, carpenter, liebig, lehmann, and moleschott, on general physiology; several of the special works on tobacco mentioned in the appendix; and the current medical journals. oxford street, cambridge, _november , _. tobacco and alcohol i. it does pay to smoke. mr. james parton having abandoned the habit of smoking, has lately entered upon the task of persuading the rest of mankind to abandon it also.[ ] his "victory over himself"--to use the favourite expression--would be incomplete unless followed up by a victory over others; and he therefore desists for a season from his congenial labours in panegyrizing aaron burr, b. +f. butler, and other popular heroes, in order that he may briefly descant upon the evil characters of tobacco and its kindred stimulants. some of the sophisms and exaggerations which he has brought into play while doing so, invite attention before we attempt what he did not attempt at all--to state squarely and honestly the latest conclusions of science on the subject. [ ] smoking and drinking. by james parton. boston, ticknor & fields, . mo, pp. . according to mr. parton, tobacco is responsible for nearly all the ills which in modern times have afflicted humanity. as will be seen, he makes no half-way work of the matter. he must have the whole loaf, or he will not touch a crumb. he scorns all carefully-limited, compromising, philosophical statements of the case. whatever the verdict of science may turn out to be, he _knows_ that no good ever did come, ever does come, or ever will come, from the use of tobacco. all bad things which tobacco can do, as well as all bad things which it cannot do--all probable, possible, improbable, impossible, inconceivable, and nonsensical evil results--are by mr. parton indiscriminately lumped together and laid at its door. it is simply a diabolical poison which, since he has happily eschewed the use of it, had better be at once extirpated from the face of the earth. of all this, mr. parton is so very sure that he evidently thinks any reasoning on the subject quite superfluous and out of place. the paucity of his arguments is, however, compensated by the multitude and hardihood of his assertions. a sailor, he says, should not smoke; for "why should he go round this beautiful world drugged?" note the _petitio principii_ in the use of the word "drugged." that the smoker is, in the bad sense of the word, drugging himself, is the very point to be determined; but mr. parton feels so sure that he substitutes a sly question-begging participle for a conscientious course of investigation. with nine readers out of ten this takes just as well; and then it is so much easier and safer, you know. neither should soldiers smoke, for the glare of their pipes may enable some hostile picket to take deadly aim at them. moreover, a "forward car," in which a crowd of smoking veterans are returning from the seat of war, is a disgusting place. and "that two and two make four is not a truth more unquestionably certain than that smoking does diminish a soldier's power of endurance, and does make him more susceptible to imaginary dangers." (p. .) this statement, by the way, is an excellent specimen of mr. parton's favourite style of assertion. he does not say that his private opinion on this complex question in nervous physiology is well supported by observation, experiment and deduction. he does not say that there is at least a preponderance of evidence in its favour. he does not call it as probable as any opinion on such an intricate matter can ever be. but he says "it is as unquestionably certain as that two and two make four." nothing less will satisfy him. let it no longer be said that, in the difficult science of physiology, absolute certainty is not attainable! then again, the soldier should not smoke, because he ought always to be in training; and no harvard oarsman needs to be told "that smoking reduces the tone of the system and diminishes all the forces of the body--he _knows_ it." the profound physiological knowledge of the average harvard under-graduate it would perhaps seem ungracious to question; but upon this point, be it said with due reverence, doctors disagree. we have known athletes who told a different story. waiving argument for the present, however, we go on presenting mr. parton's "certainties." one of these is that every man should be kept all his life in what prizefighters call "condition," which term mr. parton supposes to mean "the natural state of the body, uncontaminated by poison, and unimpaired by indolence or excess." awhile ago we had "drugs," now we have "poison," but not a syllable of argument to show that either term is properly applicable to tobacco. but mr. parton's romantic idea of the state of the body which accompanies training is one which is likely to amuse, if it does not edify, the physiologist. so far from "condition" being the "natural (i.e. healthy) state of the body," it is an extremely unnatural state. it is a condition which generally exhausts a man by the time he is thirty-five years old, rendering him what prizefighters call "stale." it is not "natural," or normal, for the powers either of the muscular or of the nervous system to be kept constantly at the maximum. what our minds and bodies need is intermittent, rhythmical activity. "in books and work and healthful play," not "in work and work and work alway," should our earlier and later years be passed; and a man who is always training for a boatrace is no more likely to hold out in the plenitude of his powers than a man who is always studying sixteen hours a day. the only reason why our boys at yale and harvard are sometimes permanently benefited by their extravagant athleticism is that they usually leave off before it is too late, and begin to live more normally. for the blood to be continually determined toward the muscles, and for the stomach to be continually digesting none but concentrated food, is a state of things by no means favourable to a normal rate and distribution of nutritive action; and it is upon this normal rate and distribution of nutrition that life, health and strength depend. it is as assisting this process that we shall presently show the temperate use of tobacco to be beneficial. mr. parton's idea well illustrates the spirit of that species of "radical" philosophy which holds its own opinions as absolutely and universally, not as relatively and partially, true; which, consequently, is incapable of seeing that one man's meat may be another man's poison, and which is unable to steer safely by scylla without turning the helm so far as to pitch head foremost into charybdis. mr. parton sees that athletic exercise is healthful, and he jumps at once to the conclusion that every man should always and in all circumstances keep himself in training. such was not the theory of the ancient athenians: [greek: mêdhen agan] was their principle of life,--the principle by virtue of which they made themselves competent to instruct mankind. having thus said his say about muscular men, mr. parton goes on to declare that smoking is a barbarism. "there is something in the practice that allies a man with barbarians, and constantly tends to make him think and talk like a barbarian." we suppose mr. parton must _know_ this; for he does not attempt to prove it, unless indeed he considers a rather stupid anecdote to be proof. he tells us how he listened for an hour or so to half a dozen yale students in one of the public rooms of a new-haven hotel, talking with a stable-keeper about boat-racing. they swore horribly; and of course mr. parton believes that if they had not been smokers they would neither have used profane language nor have condescended to talk with stable-keepers. _sancta simplicitas!_ "we must admit, too, i think, that smoking dulls a man's sense of the rights of others. horace greeley is accustomed to sum up his opinions upon this branch of the subject by saying: 'when a man begins to smoke, he immediately becomes a hog.'" our keen enjoyment of mr. greeley's lightness of touch and refined delicacy of expression should not be allowed to blind us to the possible incompleteness of his generalization. what! milton a hog? locke, addison, scott, thackeray, robert hall, christopher north--hogs? and then smoking is an expensive habit. if a man smoke ten cigars daily, at twenty cents each, his smoking will cost him from seven to eight hundred dollars a year. this dark view of the case needs to be enlivened by a little contrast. "while at cambridge the other day, looking about among the ancient barracks in which the students live, i had the curiosity to ask concerning the salaries of the professors in harvard college." probably he inquired of a _goody_, or of one of the _pocos_ who are to be found earning bread by the sweat of their brows in the neighbourhood of these venerable shanties, for it seems they told him that the professors were paid fifteen or eighteen hundred dollars a year. had he taken the trouble to step into the steward's office, he might have learned that they are paid three thousand dollars a year. such is the truly artistic way in which mr. parton makes contrasts--$ _per annum_ for a professor, $ for cigars! therefore, it does not pay to smoke. smoking, moreover, makes men slaves. the turks and persians are great smokers, and they live under a despotic form of government. q.e.d. the extreme liberality of oriental institutions _before_ the introduction of tobacco mr. parton probably thinks so well known as not to require mention. but still worse, the turks and persians are great despisers of women; and this is evidently because they smoke. for woman and tobacco are natural enemies. the most perfect of men, the "highly-groomed" goethe--as mr. parton elegantly calls him--loved women and hated tobacco. this aspect of the question is really a serious one. tobacco, says our reformer, is woman's rival,--and her successful rival; therefore she hates it. for as mr. parton, with profound insight into the mysteries of the feminine character, gravely observes, "women do not disapprove their rivals; they hate them." this "ridiculous brown leaf," then, is not only in general the cause of all evil, but in particular it is the foe of woman. "it takes off the edge of virility"!![ ] it makes us regard woman from the black crook point of view. if it had not been for tobacco, that wretched phantasmagoria would not have had a run of a dozen nights. "science" justifies this conjecture, and even if it did not, mr. parton intimates that he should make it. doubtless! [ ] when we first read this remark, we took it for a mere burst of impassioned rhetoric; but on second thoughts, it appears to have a meaning. another knight-errant in physiology charges tobacco with producing "giddiness, sickness, vomiting, vitiated taste of the mouth, loose bowels, diseased liver, congestion of the brain, apoplexy, palsy, mania, loss of memory, amaurosis, deafness, nervousness, _emasculation_, and cowardice." lizars, _on tobacco_, p. . a goodly array of bugbears, quite aptly illustrating the remark of one of our medical professors, that hygienic reformers, in the length of their lists of imaginary diseases, are excelled only by the itinerant charlatans who vend panaceas. there is, however, no scientific foundation for the statement that tobacco "takes off the edge of virility." the reader who is interested in this question may consult orfila, _toxicologie_, tom. ii. p. ; _annales d'hygiène_, tom. xxxviii.; and a memoir by laycock in the _london medical gazette_, , tom. iii. one bit of mr. parton's philosophy still calls for brief comment. he wishes to speak of the general tendency of the poor man's pipe; and he means to say "that it tends to make him satisfied with a lot which it is his chief and immediate duty to alleviate,--he ought to hate and loathe his tenement-house home." a fine specimen of the dyspeptic philosophy of radicalism! despise all you have got, because you cannot have something better. we believe it is sometimes described as the philosophy of progress. there can of course be no doubt that mr. parton's hod-carrier will work all the better next day, if he only spends the night in fretting and getting peevish over his "tenement-house home." such then, in sum and substance, is our reformer's indictment against tobacco. it lowers the tone of our systems, and it makes us contented; it wastes money, it allies us with barbarians, and it transforms us--_mira quadam metamorphosi_--into swine. goethe, therefore, did not smoke, the coming man will not smoke, and general grant, with tardy repentance, "has reduced his daily allowance of cigars." and as for mr. buckle, the author of an able book which mr. parton rather too enthusiastically calls "the most valuable work of this century,"--if mr. buckle had but lived, he would doubtless have inserted a chapter in his "history," in which tobacco would have been ranked with theology, as one of the obstacles to civilization. throughout mr. parton's rhapsody, the main question, the question chiefly interesting to every one who smokes or wishes to smoke, is uniformly slurred over. upon the question whether it is unhealthy to smoke, the encyclopædias which mr. parton has consulted do not appear to have helped him to an answer. yet this is a point which, in making up our minds about the profitableness of smoking, must not be taken for granted, but scientifically tested. what, then, does physiology say about this notion--rather widespread in countries over which puritanism has passed--that the use of tobacco is necessarily or usually injurious to health? simply that it is a popular delusion--a delusion which even a moderate acquaintance with the first principles of modern physiology cannot fail to dissipate. nay, more; if our interpretation shall prove to be correct, it goes still further. it says that smoking, so far from being detrimental to health, is, in the great majority of cases, where excess is avoided, beneficial to health; in short, that the careful and temperate smoker is, other things equal, likely to be more vigorous, more cheerful, and more capable of prolonged effort than the man who never smokes. we do not pretend to _know_ all this, nor are we "as certain of it as that two and two make four." such certainty, though desirable, is not to be had in complex physiological questions. but we set down these propositions as being, so far as we can make out, in the present state of science, the verdict of physiology in the matter. future inquiry may reverse that verdict; but as the physiologic evidence now stands, there is a quite appreciable preponderance in favor of the practice of smoking. such was our own conclusion long before we had ever known, or cared to know, the taste of a cigar or pipe; and such it remains after eight years' experience in smoking. we shall endeavor concisely to present the _rationale_ of the matter, dealing with some general doctrines likely to assist us both now and later, when we come to speak of alcohol. we do not suppose it necessary to overhaul and quote all that the illustrious pereira, in his "materia medica,"[ ] and messrs. johnston and lewes, in their deservedly popular books, have said about the physiologic action of tobacco. their works may easily be consulted by any one who is interested in the subject; and their verdict is in the main confined to the general proposition that, from the temperate use of tobacco in smoking, no deleterious results have ever been proved to follow. more modern and far more elaborate data for forming an opinion are to be found in the great treatise of dr. anstie, on "stimulants and narcotics," which we shall make the basis of the following argument.[ ] [ ] "i am not acquainted with any well-ascertained ill effects resulting from the habitual practice of smoking."--pereira, _materia medica_, vol. ii., p. . tobacco "is used in immense quantities over the whole world as an article of luxury, without any bad effect having ever been clearly traced to it."--christison on _poisons_, p. . these two short sentences, from such consummate masters of their science as christison and pereira, should far more than outweigh all the volumes of ignorant denunciation which have been written by crammers, smatterers, and puritanical reformers, from king james down. [ ] only a basis, however. the argument as applied to tobacco, though a necessary corollary from dr. anstie's doctrines, is in no sense dr. anstie's argument. we are ourselves solely responsible for it. in the first place, we want some precise definition of the quite vaguely understood word, "narcotic." what is a narcotic? _a narcotic is any poison which, when taken in sufficient quantities into the system, produces death by paralysis._ the tyro in physiology knows that death must start either from the lungs, the heart, or the nervous system. now a narcotic is anything which, in due quantity, kills by killing the nervous system. when death is caused by too great a proportion of carbonic acid in the air, it begins at the lungs; but when it is caused by a dose of prussic acid, it begins at the medulla oblongata, the death of which causes the heart and lungs to stop acting. prussic acid is, therefore, a narcotic; and so are strychnine, belladonna, aconite, nicotine, sulphuric ether, chloroform, alcohol, opium, thorn-apple, betel, hop, lettuce, tea, coffee, coca, hemp, chocolate, and many other substances. all these, taken in requisite doses, will kill by paralysis; and all of them, taken in lesser but considerable doses, will induce a state of the nerves known as narcosis, which is nothing more nor less than incipient paralysis. every man who smokes tobacco, or drinks tea or coffee, until his hands are tremulous and his stomach-nerves slightly depressed, has just started on the road to paralysis: he may never travel farther on it, but he has at least turned the corner. every man who drinks ale, wine, or spirit until his face is flushed and his forehead moist, has slightly paralyzed himself. alcoholic drunkenness is paralysis. the mental and emotional excitement, falsely called exaltation, is due, not to stimulation, but to paralysis of the cerebrum. the unsteady gait and groping motion of the hands are due to paralysis of the cerebellum. the feverish pulse and irregular respiration are due to paralysis of the medulla oblongata. the flushed face and tremulous, distressed stomach, are due to paralysis of the sympathetic ganglia. and when a person is "dead-drunk," his inability to perform the ordinary reflex acts of locomotion and grasping is due in part to paralysis of the spinal centres. the coma, or so-called sleep of drunkenness, is perfectly distinct from true reparative sleep, being the result of serious paralysis of the cerebrum, and closely allied to delirium.[ ] now, what we have stated in detail concerning alcohol is also true of tobacco. a fatal dose of nicotine kills, just like prussic acid, by paralyzing the medulla, and thus stopping the heart's beating. the ordinary narcotic dose does not produce such notable effects as the dose of alcohol, because it is hardly possible to take enough of it. excessive smoking does not make a man maudlin, but it causes restless wakefulness, which is a symptom of cerebral paralysis, and is liable, in rare cases, to end in coma. its action on the cerebellum and spinal cord cannot be readily stated; but its effect on the medulla and sympathetic is most notable, being seen in depression or feeble acceleration of the pulse, trembling, nausea of the stomach, and torpidity of the liver and intestines. nearly or quite all of these effects producible by tobacco, are producible also, in even a heightened degree, by narcotic doses of tea and coffee. a concentrated dose of tea will produce a paralytic shock; and a single cup of very strong coffee is sometimes enough to cause alarming disorder in the heart's action. all these narcotic effects, we repeat, are instances of paralytic depression. _in no case are they instances of stimulus followed by reaction; but whenever a narcotic dose is taken, the depressive paralytic action begins as soon as the dose is absorbed by the blood-vessels_. the cheerful and maudlin drunkard is not under the action of stimulus. his rapid, irregular, excited mental action is no more entitled to be called "exaltation" than is the delirium of typhoid fever. in the one case and in the other, we have not stimulation but depression of the vitality of the cerebrum; in both cases, the nutrition is seriously impaired; in both cases, molecular disorganization of the nerve-material is predominant. [ ] sleep is caused by a diminution of blood in the cerebrum; stupor and delirium, as well as _insomnia_, or nocturnal wakefulness, are probably caused by excess of blood in the cerebrum. we feel sleepy after a heavy meal, because the stomach, intestines and liver appropriate blood which would ordinarily be sent to the brain. but after a drunken debauch, a man sinks in stupor because the brain is partially congested. the blood rushes to the paralyzed part, just as it rushes to an inflamed part; and in the paralysis, as in the inflammation, nutrition and the products of nutrition are lowered. the habitual drunkard lowers the quality of his nervous system, and impairs its sensitiveness,--hence the necessity of increasing the dose. it will be seen, therefore, that it is not the function of a narcotic, as such, to induce sleep, though in a vast number of cases it may induce stupor. the headache felt on awaking from stupor, is the index of impaired nutrition, quite the reverse of the vigor felt on arising from sleep. so much concerning narcotics has been established, with vast and profound learning, by dr. anstie. no doubt, by this time, the reader is beginning to rub his eyes and ask, is this the way in which you are going to show that smoking is beneficial? you define tobacco as a poison which causes paralysis, and then assure us that it pays to smoke! it is true, this has at first sight a paradoxical look; but as the reader proceeds further, he will see that we are not indulging either in paradoxes or in sophisms. we wish him to take nothing for granted, but merely to follow attentively our exposition of the case. we have indeed called tobacco a poison,--and so it is, if taken in narcotic doses. we have accused it of producing paralysis,--and so it does, when taken in adequate narcotic doses. we would now call attention to a property of narcotics, which is well enough known to all physiologists, but is usually quite misapprehended or ignored by popular writers on alcohol and tobacco.[ ] we allude to the fact that narcotics, when taken in certain small quantities, do not behave as narcotics, but as _stimulants_; and that they will in such cases produce the exact reverse of a narcotic effect. instead of lowering nutrition, they will raise it; instead of paralyzing, they will invigorate. taken in a stimulant dose, tobacco is not only not a producer, it is an averter, of paralysis. it is not only not a poison, but it is a healthful, reparatory stimulus. [ ] mr. lizars (on _tobacco_, p. ) has the impudence to cite pereira (vol. ii. p. ) as an opponent of smoking, because he calls nicotine a deadly poison! and on p. he similarly misrepresents johnston. this is the way in which popular writers contrive to marshal an array of scientific authorities on their side. in the case of tobacco, however, it is difficult to find physiologists who will justify the popular clamour. they have a way of taking the opposite view; and when mr. lizars cannot get rid of them in any other way, he insinuates that all writings in favour of tobacco "have been _got up_ from more than questionable motives." (p. .) this is in the richest vein of what, for want of a better word, we have called radicalism; and may be compared with mr. parton's belief that physicians recommend alcoholic drinks because they like to fatten on human suffering! (_smoking and drinking_, p. .) it is desirable that this point should be thoroughly understood before we advance a step farther. here is the _pons asinorum_ in the study of narcotics, but it must be crossed if we would get at the truth concerning alcohol and tobacco. alcohol is a poison, says the teetotaler, who means well, but has not studied the human organism; alcohol is a poison, and once a poison always a poison. nothing can seem more logical or reasonable, so long as one knows nothing about the subject. a quart of brandy is admitted to be poison; is not, therefore, a spoonful of brandy also poison? we reply, by no means. physiological questions are not to be settled by formal logic. here the quantity is the all-essential element to be taken into the account. common salt, in large doses, is a virulent poison; in lesser doses it is a powerful emetic; in small doses it is a gentle stimulant, and an article of food absolutely essential to the maintenance of life. in the spirit of the teetotaler's logic, then, it may be asked, if a pound of salt is a poison, is not a grain of salt also a poison? we reply, call it what you please, you cannot support life without it. so from the poisonous character of the quart of brandy, the poisonous character of the spoonful is by no means a legitimate inference. the evil effects of the small dose are to be ascertained by experiment, not to be taken for granted. logic is useful in the hands of those who understand the subject they reason about; but in other hands it sometimes leads to queer results. it was logic that used up the one-hoss shay. the general principle to guide us here is that of claude bernard, that whatever substance or action, in due amount, tends to improve nutrition, may, in excessive amount, tend to damage nutrition. in the vast majority of cases the difference between food and poison, between beneficent and malignant action, is only a difference of quantity. oxygen is the all-important stimulus, without which nutrition could not be carried on for a moment. it constitutes about one-fifth of our atmospheric air. let us now step into an atmosphere of pure oxygen, and we shall speedily rue such a radical proceeding. we shall live so fast that waste will soon get ahead of repair, and our strength will be utterly exhausted. the effect of sunlight on the optic nerve is to stimulate the medulla, and increase thereby the vigor of the circulation. but too intense a glare produces blindness and dizziness. the carpenter's thumb, by friction against the tools he uses, becomes over-nourished and tough; but if the friction be too continuous, there is lowered nutrition and inflammation. moderate exercise enlarges the muscles; exercise carried beyond the point of fatigue wastes them. the stale prize-fighter and the overworked farmer are, from a physical point of view, pitiable specimens of manhood. a due amount of rich food strengthens the system and renders it superior to disease; an excessive amount of rich food weakens the system, and opens the door for all manner of aches and ailments. a pinch of mustard, eaten with meat, stimulates the lining of the stomach, and probably aids digestion; but a mustard poultice lowers the vitality of any part to which it is applied. moderate emotional excitement is a healthful stimulus, both to mind and body; but intense and prolonged excitement is liable to produce delirium, mania, or paralysis. _ne quid nimis_, therefore, the maxim of the wise epicurean, is also the golden rule of hygiene. if you would keep a sound mind in a sound body, do not rush to extremes. steer cautiously between scylla and charybdis, and do not get wrecked upon the one or swallowed up in the other. few persons who have not been specially educated in science have ever learned this great lesson of materia medica, "that everything depends on the size of the dose." it is not merely that a small dose will often produce effects differing in degree from those produced by a large dose; nor is it merely that the small dose will often produce an effect differing in kind from that of the large dose; but it is that the small dose will often produce effects diametrically opposite and antagonistic to those of the large dose. the small dose may even serve as a partial antidote to the large dose. the adage concerning the hair of the dog that has bitten us, embodies the empirical wisdom of our ancestors on this subject. especially is this true of all the substances classed as narcotics. in doses of a certain size, they, one and all, produce effects exactly the reverse of narcotic. if anything is entitled to be called a deadly narcotic poison, it is strychnia, which, by paralyzing the spinal cord, induces tetanic convulsions: yet minute doses of strychnia have been used with signal success in the cure of hemiplegic paralysis. in teething children, the pressure upon the dental branches of the trigeminal nerve sometimes causes an irritation so great as partly to paralyze the medulla, inducing clonic convulsions, and perhaps death by interference with the heart's action.[ ] in these cases, alcohol has been frequently used with notable efficacy, averting as it does the paralysis of the medulla. epileptic fits, choreic convulsions, and muscular spasms--such as colic, and spasmodic asthma--are also often relieved by the tonic or anti-paralytic action of alcohol. and how often has the temperate smoker, after some occasion of distressing excitement, his limbs and viscera trembling, his nerves "all unstrung," or incipiently paralyzed,--how often has the temperate smoker found his whole system soothed and quieted, and the steadiness of his nerves restored, by a single pipe of tobacco! that this is due to its action as a counteracter of paralysis is shown by the fact that tobacco has been successfully used in tetanus,[ ] in spasm of _rima glottidis_,[ ] in spasmodic asthma,[ ] and in epilepsy.[ ] for these phenomena physiology has but one explanation. they are due to the fact that narcotics, in small doses, either nourish, or facilitate the normal nutrition of the nervous system. they restore its equilibrium, enabling it, with diminished effort, to discharge its natural functions. and anything which performs this office is, in modern physiology, called a _stimulant_. [ ] clendon, _on the causes of the evils of infant dentition_. [ ] curling, _on tetanus_, p. ; earle, in _med. chir. trans._, vol. vi., p. ; and o'beirne, in _dublin hospital reports_, vols. i. and ii. [ ] wood, _u.s. dispensatory_. [ ] sigmond, in _lancet_, vol. ii., p. . [ ] currie, _med. rep._, vol. i., p. . here then we have obtained an important amendment of our notion of a narcotic. a narcotic is a substance which, taken in the requisite dose, causes paralysis. but we have seen that by diminishing the dose we at last reach a point where the narcotic entirely ceases to act as a narcotic and becomes a stimulant. what then is a stimulant? there is a prejudice afloat which interferes with the proper apprehension of this word. people call alcohol, indiscriminately, a stimulant; and when a man gets drunk, he is incorrectly said to be stimulating himself; stimulants are therefore looked at askance, as things which demoralize. the reader is already in a position to know better than this. he sees already that it is not stimulus but narcosis which is ruining the drunkard. nevertheless, that he may understand thoroughly what a stimulant is, we must give further explanation and illustration. food and stimulus are the two great, equally essential factors or co-efficients in the process of nutrition. we mean by this, that in order to nourish your system and make good its daily waste, you need both food and stimulus. you must have both, or you cannot support life. day by day, in every act of life, be it in the acts of working and thinking which go on consciously, or be it in the acts of digestion and respiration which go on unconsciously, in the mere keeping ourselves alive, we are continually using up and rendering worthless the materials of which our bodies are composed. we use up tissue as an engine uses up fuel; and we therefore need constant coaling. tissue once used is no better than ashes; it must be excreted, and food must be taken to form new tissue. now the wonderful process by which digested food is taken up from the blood by the tissues--each tissue taking just what will serve it and no more, muscle-making stuff to muscle, bone-making stuff to bone, nerve-making stuff to nerve--is called assimilation, nutrition, or repair. it is according as waste or repair predominates that we are feeble or strong, useless or efficient. when repair is greatly in excess, as it usually is in childhood and youth, we grow. when waste is greatly in excess, we die of consumption, gangrene, or starvation. when the daily repair slightly outweighs the daily waste, we are healthy and vigorous. when the daily repair is not quite enough to replace the daily waste, we are feeble, easily wearied, and liable to be assailed by some illness. now, in order to carry on this great process of nutrition, we have said that food and stimulus are equally indispensable. we must have food or we can have nothing to assimilate; but we must also have stimulus, or no assimilation will take place. _the unstimulated tissue will not assimilate food._ the nutritive material rushes by it, unsought for and unappropriated, and no repair takes place. there are some people whom no amount of eating will build up: what they need is not more food, but more nerve stimulus; they doubtless eat already more than their tissues are able to assimilate. in pulmonary consumption, the chief monster which we have to fight against is impaired nutrition, the tubercles being only a secondary and derivative symptom.[ ] the problem before us, in dealing with consumption, is to improve nutrition, to make the tissues assimilate food. and to this end we prescribe, for example, whisky and milk--a food which easily reaches the tissues, and a stimulant which urges them to take up the food sent to them. we define, therefore, a stimulant as _any substance which, brought to bear in proper quantities upon the nervous system, facilitates nutrition_. [ ] indeed, there are many fatal cases in which tubercles never appear. see niemeyer on _pulmonary phthïsis_. at the head of all stimulants stands oxygen, concerning which, for further illustration, we shall quote the following passage from dr. anstie: "it needs but a glance at the vital condition of different populations in any country to arrive at a tolerably correct idea of the virtues of oxygen as a promoter of health and a curer of disease. if we compare the physical condition of the inhabitants of a london alley, an agricultural village, and a breezy sea-side hamlet, we shall recognize the truth of the description which assigns to it the same therapeutic action as is exercised by drugs, to which the name of stimulant seems more naturally applicable than to such a familiar agent as one which we are constantly breathing in the common air. a child that has been bred in a london cellar may be taken to possess a constitution which is a type of all the evil tendencies which our stimulants are intended to obviate.... it is highly suggestive to find that that very same quiet and perfect action of the vital functions, without undue waste, without pain, and without excessive material growth, is precisely what we produce, when we produce any useful effect, by the administration of stimulants, though, as might be expected, our artificial means are weak and uncertain in their operation, compared with the great natural stimulus of life."[ ] [ ] _stimulants and narcotics_, p. . stimulus implies no undue exaltation of the activity of any part of the organism. in complete health all parts of the body should work together in unhindered co-operation. any undue exaltation of a particular function--excessive brain-action, excessive muscular-nutrition, excessive deposit of fat--is a symptom of lowered life, in which the co-ordinating control of the whole system over its several parts is diminished. stimulus, on the other hand, implies an increase of the co-ordinating and controlling power. dr. anstie therefore recommends that the word "overstimulation" be disused, as unphilosophical and self-contradictory. in yet one further particular, current notions need to be rectified before we can proceed. _in no case is the action of a stimulant followed by a depressive reaction._ this seems at first like a paradox. physiologists have in times past maintained the contrary; and some have even ventured to apply to the phænomena of stimulation the dynamic law that "action and reaction are equal and opposite." but in physiology we shall not be helped much by the theorems of mechanics. in no case is the stimulus followed by any other "recoil" than that which is implied in the mere gradual cessation of its action, just as in the case of food which has been eaten, assimilated, and used up. we quote the following from dr. anstie:--"we often hear the effects of strong irritation of the skin, or the mucous surfaces, quoted as an example of the way in which action and reaction follow each other. the immediate effect of such treatment (it is said) is to quicken the circulation and improve the vital condition of the part, but its _ultimate_ result is a complete stagnation of the vital activities in the irritated tissues. the real explanation of the matter is, however, very different. mild stimulation of the skin (as by friction, warm liniments, &c.) has no tendency to produce subsequent depression; nor has mild stimulation of the mucous membranes (as by the mustard we eat with our roast beef). but the application of an irritant strong enough to produce a morbid depression at all, produces it _from the first_. thus the cantharidine of a blister has no sooner become absorbed through the epidermis than it _at once_ deprives a certain area of tissue of its vitality to a considerable extent, as is explained by the researches of mr. lister.... here is no stimulation first and depressive recoil afterward, but unmitigated depression from the first."[ ] "what has been commonly spoken of as the _recoil_ from the stimulant action of a true narcotic is, in fact, simply the advent of narcosis owing to a large impregnation of the blood with the agent after the occurrence of stimulation, owing to a small one. thus a man drinking four ounces or six ounces of brandy gradually, has not in reality taken a truly narcotic dose till perhaps half the evening has worn away; previously to that he has not been 'indulging in narcotism' at all; nor, had he stopped then, would any after depression have followed, for he might have taken no more than two ounces of brandy, equal perhaps to one ounce of alcohol. but he chose to swallow the extra two ounces or four ounces, thus impregnating his blood with a narcotic mixture capable of acting upon nervous tissue so as to render it incapable of performing its proper functions. _the narcosis has no relation to the stimulation but one of accidental sequence. this is proved by the fact that in cases where a narcotic dose is absorbed with great rapidity, no signs of preliminary stimulation occur._"[ ] [ ] _stimulants and narcotics_, p. . [ ] id. p. . this disposes of the popular objection to stimulants--based upon the long-exploded theories of vitalistic physiology[ ]--that every stimulus is followed by a reaction. it is seen that when a man feels ill and depressed after the use of alcohol or tobacco, it is because he has not stimulated but narcotized himself. we challenge any person, not hopelessly dyspeptic, to produce from his own experience any genuine instance of physical or mental depression as the result of a half-pint of pure wine taken with his dinner,[ ] or of one or two pipes of mild tobacco smoked after it. [ ] "the origin of the belief that stimulation is necessarily followed by a depressive recoil is obviously to be found in the old vitalistic ideas. it is our old acquaintance, the archæus, whose exhaustion, after his violent efforts in resentment of the goadings which he has endured, is represented in modern phraseology by the term 'depressive reaction.' this idea once being firmly established in the medical mind, the change from professed vitalism to dynamical explanations of physiology has not materially shaken its hold." id. p. . an interesting example of the way in which quite obsolete and forgotten theories will continue clandestinely to influence men's conclusions. the subject is well treated by lemoine, _le vitalisme et l'animisme de stahl_. paris, . [ ] "from good wine, in moderate quantities, there is no reaction whatever."--brinton, _treatise on food and digestion_. let us not, however, indulge in sweeping statements. we have expressed ourselves with caution, but a still further limitation needs to be made. there are a few persons who are never stimulated, but always poisonously depressed, by certain particular narcotics. there are a few persons--ourselves among the number--in whom a very temperate dose of coffee will often give rise to well-defined symptoms of narcosis. there are others in whom even the smallest quantity of alcoholic liquor will produce giddiness and flushing of the face. and there are still others upon whom tobacco, no matter how minute the dose, acts as a narcotic poison. but such cases are extremely rare; and it is needless to urge that such persons should conscientiously refrain, once and always, from the use of the narcotic which thus injuriously affects them. our friendly challenge, above given, is addressed to the vast majority of people; and thus limited, it may be allowed to stand. we have now defined a narcotic; we have seen that narcotics, in certain doses, will act as stimulants, and we have defined a stimulant. until one's ideas upon these points are rendered precise, there is little hope of understanding the ordinary healthy action either of tobacco or of alcohol. but the reader who has followed us thus far will find himself sufficiently prepared for the special inquiry into the stimulant effects of these substances. confining ourselves, for the present, to tobacco, we shall find that by assisting the nutritive reparatory process, it conforms throughout to the definition of a true stimulant. what do we do to ourselves when we smoke a cigar or pipe? in the first place, we stimulate, or increase the normal molecular activity of, the sympathetic system of nerves. by so doing we slightly increase the secretion of saliva, and of the gastric,[ ] pancreatic, and intestinal juices. we accomplish these all-important secretory actions with a smaller discharge of nerve force: we economize nerve force in digestion. and by this we mean to say that we perform the work of digesting food just as well as before, and still have more of the co-ordinating and controlling nerve-power left with which to perform the other functions of life. thus at the outset tobacco exhibits itself as an _economizer of life_. such is the inevitable inference from its stimulant action on the sympathetic. from the distribution of the sympathetic fibres, we deem it a fair inference that the bile-secreting function of the liver is also facilitated; but of this there is less direct evidence.[ ] we can now understand why a pipe or cigar dissipates the feeling of heaviness ensuing upon a dinner, or other hearty meal; and when we recollect how instant is the relief, we can form some notion of the amount of nerve-force which is thus liberated from the task of digestion. we are thus also reminded of the hygienic rule that smoking must be done after eating, and not, in ordinary cases, upon an empty stomach. if we smoke when the stomach is empty and quiescent, the stimulated secretion of the alimentary juices is physiologically wasteful; and, moreover, the much more rapid absorption of nicotine by the blood-vessels increases the liability to narcotic effects. it is upon this very principle that the same amount of wine may stimulate at dinner, but narcotize when taken in the forenoon. [ ] "it is a positive fact that the gastric secretion can at any time be produced by simply stimulating the salivary glands with tobacco."--lewes, _physiology of common life_, vol. i. p. . the gastric secretion is also stimulated by the action of tobacco on the pneumogastric or eighth pair of nerves. [ ] a possible means of testing this inference would be the judicious employment of smoking as a dietetic measure in cases of jaundice. this distressing disease occurs when the torpid liver secretes too little bile. the biliverdine, which would ordinarily be taken up to make bile, remains in the blood until, seeking egress through the sweat-glands, it colours the skin yellow. in the case of novices, however, great care would need to be taken; as unskilful smoking is very likely to induce narcosis. thus far we find tobacco to be a friend and not an enemy. now, in the second place, when we smoke, we stimulate the medulla oblongata, and through this we send a wave of stimulus down the pneumogastric nerve, and this makes the heart's action easier. one of the earliest stimulant effects of tobacco to be noted is the slightly increased frequency and strength of the pulse.[ ] a narcotic dose produces quite the opposite effect. it begins by greatly increasing the frequency while diminishing the strength, so as to make a feeble, fluttering pulse; and it ends by reducing the frequency likewise. after some years of temperate smoking we accidentally felt, for the first time, the narcotic effects of tobacco. eight or nine cigars (large twenty-cent ones, such as mr. parton delights in the recollection of) smoked consecutively while taking a cold midnight drive, were followed by unmistakable symptoms of narcosis. along with the muscular tremour of the stomach, much more acute than that of ordinary nausea, it was observed that the pulse, normally strong and regular at , had been reduced to , and was feeble and flickering. similar, no doubt, are the symptoms which ordinarily worry the novice, in whom acute narcosis is liable to result from the lack of skill with which he draws in too large a quantity of the narcotic constituents of his cigar. the effects of tobacco, through the medulla and pneumogastric, upon the heart, are among its most notable effects. a dose of pure nicotine stops the heart instantly, a narcotic dose interferes with its action, but a stimulant dose facilitates it. the same results are attainable by means of electricity.[ ] a powerful current through the pneumogastric of a frog or rabbit will stop the heart, a less powerful current will slacken it, a slight current will somewhat accelerate it. emotional effects are precisely similar. sudden overwhelming joy or sorrow may operate as a true narcotic, arresting the heart's contractions, while steady diffusive pleasure always facilitates them. [ ] see a paper by dr. e. smith, read before the british association in . [ ] see an admirable paper by lewes in the _fortnightly review_, may th, . the stimulant action of tobacco upon the heart is precisely the same as that of sunlight, which, by inciting the nervous expanse of the retina, indirectly strengthens and accelerates the pulse. so far as the circulation is concerned, there is no difference between the two. the one stimulus may indeed be popularly called "natural," while the other is called "artificial," but such a distinction is physiologically meaningless. the molecular action is the same and the consequences to the organism are the same in both cases. the heart's normal action being facilitated, the blood is poured more vigorously through every artery, every vein, and every network of capillaries. every tissue receives with greater promptness its quota of assimilable nutriment. and, the web-like plexuses of nerve-fibres distributed throughout the tissues being simultaneously stimulated, the work of nutrition goes on with enhanced vigour and efficacy. nor is it possible for the excreting organs to escape the influence. lungs, skin, and kidneys must be alike incited; and the removal from the blood of noxious disintegrated matters, the products of organic waste, is thus hastened. so much is to be inferred from the stimulant action of tobacco upon the medulla. of all this complicated benefit, the brain receives perhaps the largest share. the brain receives one-fifth, or according to some authorities one-third, of all the blood that is pumped from the heart. more than any other organ it demands for its due nutrition a prompt supply of arterial blood; and more than any other organ it partakes of the advantages resulting from vigorous circulation. the stimulant action of tobacco upon the spinal cord and the cerebral hemispheres is less conspicuous. yet even here its familiar influence in stilling nervous tremour and allaying nocturnal wakefulness is good testimony to its essentially beneficent character. wakefulness and tremour are alike symptoms of diminished vitality; and the agent which removes them is not to be called, as mr. parton in his mediæval language calls it, "hostile to the vital principle." so much for the net results of the stimulant action of tobacco. so far we have travelled on firm ground, and we have not found much to countenance mr. parton's view of the subject. but now some curious inquirer may ask, what _is_ this stimulant action? what is the physiological expression for it, reduced to its lowest terms? here we must keep still, or else venture upon ground that is very unfamiliar and somewhat hypothetical. there is no help for it; for we cannot yet give the physiological expression for unstimulated nervous action, reduced to its lowest terms. we know what kind of work nerves perform, but how they perform it we can as yet only guess. nor, as far as the practical bearings of our subject are concerned, does it matter whether this abstruse point be settled or not. still, even upon this dark subject recent research has thrown some gleams of light. a nerve-centre is a place where force is liberated by the lapse of the chemically-unstable nerve-molecules into a state of relative stability.[ ] to raise them to their previous unstable state, thereby enabling them to fall again and liberate more force, is the function of food. now our own hypothesis is, that tobacco and other narcotic stimulants enable force to be liberated by the isomeric transformation of the highly complex nerve-molecules, which retain in the process their state of relative instability, and are thus left competent to send forth a second discharge of force without the aid of food. [ ] we fear that this explanation will be rather unintelligible to the general reader. but it is hardly practicable for us to insert here a disquisition on physiological chemistry. those who are familiar with modern physiology will readily catch our meaning. those who are not may skip, if they choose, this parenthetical paragraph. in support of this hypothesis we have the well-known fact that tobacco, like tea, coffee, alcohol and coca, universally retards organic waste. these substances effect this result in all the tissues, and more especially may they be expected to accomplish it in nervous tissue, where their action is so conspicuously manifest. thus is explained the familiar action of narcotic-stimulants in relieving weariness. weariness, in its origin, is either muscular or nervous. it implies a diminution--owing to failing nutrition--of the total amount of contractile or of nervous force in the organism; and it shows that the weary person must either go to sleep or eat something. now every one knows how a cup of tea, a glass of wine, or a cigar, dispels weariness. of the three agents, tobacco is perhaps the most efficacious, and it can produce its effect in only one way--namely, by economizing nervous force, and arresting the disintegration of tissue. thus also is explained the marvellous food-action of these substances. tea and coffee enable a man to live on less beefsteak. the peruvian mountaineer, chewing his coca-leaf, accomplishes incredibly long tramps without stopping to eat. and every hardy soldier, in spite of mr. parton, has that within him which tells him that he can better endure severe marches and wearisome picket-service if he now and then lights his pipe. the personal experience of any one man is, we are aware, not always conclusive; but our own, so far as it goes, bears out the general conclusion. it was when we were engaged in severe daily mental labour, that we first conceived the idea of employing tobacco as a means of husbanding our resources. narcosis being steadily avoided, the experiment was completely, even unexpectedly, successful. not only was the daily fatigue sensibly diminished, but the recurrent periods of headache, gloom, and nervous depression were absolutely and finally done away with. that this result was due to improved nutrition was shown by the fact that, during the first three months after the habit of smoking was adopted, the average weight of the body was increased by twenty-four pounds--an increase which has been permanent. no other dietetic or hygienic change was made at the time, by which the direct effects of the tobacco might have been complicated and obscured. the statement that smoking increases the average weight of the body[ ] is not, however, universally true. we have here an excellent illustration of the impracticability of laying down sweeping rules in physiology. many persons find their weight notably diminished by the use of tobacco; and we frequently hear it said that smoking will not do for thin people, although for those who are fleshy it may not be injurious. in this there is a very natural but very gross confusion of ideas, which a little reflection upon the subject will readily clear up. it is true that moderate smoking sometimes increases and sometimes diminishes the weight; and it is no less true that in each case the result is the index of heightened nutrition! this seems, of course, paradoxical. but physiology, quite as much as astronomy, is a science which is constantly obliging us to reconsider and rectify our crude off-hand conceptions. [ ] "tobacco, when the food is sufficient to preserve the weight of the body, increases that weight, and when the food is not sufficient, and the body in consequence loses weight, tobacco restrains that loss." hammond, _physiological effects of alcohol and tobacco_, am. journal of medical sciences, tom. xxxii. n.s., p. . it is by no means true that increase of the tissues in bulk and density is always a sign of improved health. we are accustomed to congratulate each other upon looking plump and rosy. but too much rosiness may be a symptom of ill-health; and, similarly with plumpness, there is a point beyond which obesity is a mere weariness to the spirit. nor does a person need to become as rotund as wouter van twiller in order to reach and pass this point. many persons, who are not actually corpulent, would lose weight if their nutrition could be improved. and the explanation is quite simple. normal nutrition is not merely the repair of tissue: it is the repair of all the tissues in the body _in due proportion_. this is a very essential qualification. fibrous and areolar tissue, muscle, nerve, and fat are daily and hourly wasting in various degrees; and the repair, whether great or small, must be nicely proportioned to the waste in each tissue. if a pound is added to the weight of the body, it makes all the difference in the world whether one ounce is muscle, another ounce nerve, a third ounce fat, and so on, or whether the whole pound is fat. when one tissue gets more than its fair share, the chances are that all the others must go a-begging. the co-ordinating, controlling power of the organism over its several parts is diminished,--which is the same as saying that nutrition is impaired. evidence of this soon appears in the circumstance that the deposit of adipose tissue is no longer confined to the proper places. fat begins to accumulate all over the body, in localities where little or no fat is wanted, and notably about the stomach and diaphragm, causing laborious movement of the thorax and wheezing respiration. when a man gets into this state, it is a sign that the ratio between the waste and the repair of his tissues has become seriously dislocated. you can relieve him of his fat only by improving his nutrition. the german who drinks his forty glasses of lager bier _per diem_ is said to be bloated; and we have heard it gravely surmised that the ale, getting into his system, swells him up--as if the human body were a sort of bladder or balloon! the explanation is not quite so simple. but it is easy to see how this immense quantity of liquid, continually loading the stomach and intestines, and entailing extra labour upon all the excreting organs, should so damage the assimilative powers as to occasion an excessive deposit of coarse fat and of flabby, imperfectly-elaborated connective tissue, over the entire surface of the body. and the state of chronic, though mild, narcosis in which the guzzler keeps himself, by still further injuring his reparative powers, contributes to the general result. there are consequently four ways in which tobacco may exhibit its effects upon the nutrition of the body. i. in stimulant doses, by improving nutrition, it may increase the normal weight. ii. in stimulant doses, by improving nutrition, it may cause a diminution of weight abnormally produced. iii. in narcotic doses, by impairing nutrition, it may cause emaciation. iv. in narcotic doses, by impairing nutrition, it may aggravate obesity instead of relieving it.[ ] [ ] in this exposition we have assumed that the tobacco is smoked and the saliva retained. if the saliva be frequently ejected, the case is entirely altered. habitual spitting incites the salivary glands to excessive secretion, thereby weakening the system to a surprising extent, and probably lowering nutrition. many temperate smokers, who think themselves hurt by tobacco, are probably hurt only because, though in all other respects gentlemen, they will persist in the filthy habit of spitting. there is no excuse for the habit, for with very little practice the desire to get rid of the saliva entirely ceases, and is never again felt. in chewing, the saliva is so impregnated with the nicotinous constituents of the leaf, that the choice lies far more narrowly between spitting and narcosis. of the two evils we shall not venture to say which is the least. in snuffing, too, the question is complicated by the acute local irritation caused by the contact of the stimulant with the nasal membranes. this, no doubt, has its medicinal virtues. but for a healthy man it is probable that smoking is the only rational, as it is certainly the only decent, way in which to use tobacco. we may see, by this example, how much room is always left for fallacy in the empirical tracing of physiological effects to their causes. the phænomena are so complex that induction is of but little avail, unless supported and confirmed by deduction.[ ] in the case of tobacco, our conclusions are so confirmed. deduction, supported by cautious induction, shows the stimulant action of tobacco to be of permanent benefit to the system; and hence the statements of those smokers who believe themselves injured by the habit must be received with due qualifications. yielding unsuspiciously to the influence of a prejudice which originated in an absurd puritanical notion of "morality,"[ ] many smokers are in the habit of reviling the practice which they nevertheless will not abandon. having once begun to smoke, they persist in laying to the account of tobacco sundry aches and ails which in the hurry and turmoil of modern life no one can expect wholly to escape, and many of which are such as tobacco could not possibly give rise to. if their teeth, for instance, begin to decay, tobacco gets the blame, although it is notorious to dentists that tobacco preserves the enamel of the teeth as hardly anything else will. we have seen teeth which had been kept for months in a preparation of nicotine and were in excellent condition. then the headache, due perhaps to an overdose of hot risen biscuit or viands cooked in pork-fat, is quite likely to be laid to the charge of the general scape-goat; although to produce a headache directly by means of tobacco requires a powerful narcotic dose.[ ] one of the chief causes of ordinary headache is doubtless the use of the execrable anthracite which pennsylvania protectionists force upon us by means of their unrighteous prohibitory tariff upon english coal.[ ] we have even heard it alleged that smoking impairs the eyesight. students smoke much, and are nearsighted, is the complacent argument--it being apparently forgotten that sailors smoke much and are far-sighted, and that in each case the result is due to the way in which the eyes are used. [ ] mill's _system of logic_, th ed. vol. i. pp. - . [ ] "the puritans, from the earliest days of their 'plantation' among us, abhorred the fume of the pipe." fairholt, _tobacco, its history, etc._, p. . [ ] smoking has also been charged with acting as a predisposing, or even as an exciting, cause of insanity,--a notion effectually disposed of by dr. bucknill, in the _lancet_, feb. th, . before leaving this subject, it may be well to allude to mr. parton's remarks (p. ) about "pallid," "yellow," "sickly," and "cadaverous," tobacco-manufacturers. he evidently means to convey the impression that workers in tobacco are more unhealthy than other workmen. upon this point we shall content ourselves with transcribing the following passage from christison, _on poisons_, p. :--"writers on the diseases of artisans have made many vague statements on the supposed baneful effects of the manufacture of snuff on the workmen. it is said they are liable to bronchitis, dysentery, ophthalmia, carbuncles, and furuncles. at a meeting of the royal medical society of paris, however, before which a memoir to this purport was lately read, the facts were contradicted by reference to the state of the workmen at the royal snuff manufactory of gros-caillou, where people are constantly employed without detriment to their health. (_revue médicale_, , tom. iii. p. .) this subject has been since investigated with great care by messrs. parent-duchatelet and d'arcet, who inquired minutely into the state of the workmen employed at all the great tobacco-manufactories of france, comprising a population of above persons; and the results at which they have arrived are,--that the workmen very easily become habituated to the atmosphere of the manufactory,--that they are not particularly subject either to special diseases, or to disease generally,--and that they live on an average quite as long as other tradesmen. these facts are derived from very accurate statistical returns. (_annales d'hygiène_, , tom. i. p. .)" the reader may also consult an instructive notice in hammond's _journal of psychological medicine_, oct. , vol. ii. p. . [ ] see dr. derby's pamphlet on _anthracite and health_, boston, ; and an article by the present writer, in the _world_, april th, . these examples show with what well-meaning recklessness people find fault with anything which they are at all events bound to condemn. it is not to be denied, however, that many persons are continually hurting themselves by the flagrant abuse of tobacco. many men are doubtless in a state of chronic tobacco-narcosis; just as many men and women keep themselves in a state of chronic narcosis from the abuse of tea and coffee. probably three-fourths of the ill-health which afflicts the community is due to barbarous neglect of the plainest principles of dietetics. when a thing tickles the palate, or refreshes the nervous system, people do not seem to be as yet sufficiently civilized to let it go until they have made themselves miserable with it. half the inhabitants of the united states, says mr. parton, violate the laws of nature every time they go to the dinner-table. he might safely have put the figure higher. owing to the shortcomings of our present methods of education, we rarely get taught physiology at school or college, we never thoroughly learn the principles of hygiene, or if we acquire some of them by hearsay, we seldom realize them in such a way as to shape our behaviour accordingly. it is not to be wondered at, therefore, that people eat imprudently and smoke imprudently. they smoke just before dinner, they smoke rank, badly-cured tobacco, they smoke much, and they smoke fast, thus narcotizing instead of stimulating their nervous systems. a plum-pudding is good and nourishing, but it would hardly be wise to eat it before meat, or to eat it to the verge of nausea. this lesson of _dosage_ is one which cannot be learned too thoroughly. the would-be reformer says, "touch not the unclean thing;" but the reply is, "no hurt has ever yet come to me from smoking: i will therefore smoke all the more, to confute these idle crotchets." this is the very crudity of undisciplined inference. in physiology we cannot go by the rule of three. doctors can tell us how they prescribe brandy for epilepsy: exulting in his signal relief, the patient persists in taking a second dose, and--brings on another fit! stimulation gives way to narcosis. in delirium tremens the stimulus of opium is often found to be of great service. but sometimes the unscientific physician, wishing to increase the beneficial effect, keeps on until he has administered a narcotic dose; when lo! all is undone, the enfeebled nerves, needing nothing but stimulus, have received the final shock, the medulla is paralyzed, and the heart ceases to beat. let no one imagine, then, that this distinction between large and small quantities is trivial or wire-drawn. in therapeutics it is often the one all-important distinction. in dealing with narcotics, it is the root of the whole matter. and now the question arises, what _is_ a stimulant dose? how much tobacco can a man take daily with benefit to himself? the reply is obvious, that no universal rule can be given. in dealing with the science of life, to indulge in sweeping statements and glittering generalities is the surest mark of a charlatan. mr. parton says, with reference to alcohol, that he devoutly wishes the thing could be proved to be, always, everywhere, under any circumstances, and in any quantities, injurious, (p. .) if this could be proved, alcohol would be shown to be a substance all but unique in nature. so much as this cannot be said of arsenic, prussic acid, or strychnine. science cannot be made to harmonize with the exaggerations of radicalism. with regard to tobacco, every man, moderately endowed with common sense, can soon tell how much he ought to take. the muscular tremour of narcosis is unmistakable, and a depressed or fluttering pulse is easily detected. when a man has smoked until these symptoms are awakened, let him stop short,--he has gone too far already. let him take good care never to repeat the dose. the true epicurean, to whom [greek: mêden agan] has become second nature, who knows how to live, and who is instinctively disgusted by vulgar excess, will not be likely to oversmoke himself more than once. so much we say, in view of the impossibility of laying down universal rules. but it is well for the smoker to bear in mind that the more gradually the nicotine is absorbed into his circulating system, the better. for this reason a pipe, with porous bowl and long porous stem, is better than a cigar,[ ] which is besides liable by direct contact to irritate the tongue and lips. and, likewise, it is better to smoke mild tobacco for an hour than strong tobacco for half an hour. probably four or five pipes daily are enough for most healthy persons; but no such rule can be quoted as inflexible or infallible. some persons, as we have said, are never stimulated by tobacco, and therefore ought never to smoke at all. others can take relatively large quantities with little risk of narcosis. dr. parr would smoke twenty pipes in a single evening. the illustrious hobbes sat always wrapped in a dense cloud of smoke, while he wrote his immortal works; yet he lived, hale and hearty, to the age of ninety-two. [ ] the cigar is, however, usually made of milder tobacco. and an old pipe, saturated with nicotinous oil, may become far stronger than any ordinary cigar. we have spoken of persons who are incapable of deriving stimulus from the use of tobacco, but are always narcotized by it. we doubt if perfectly healthy persons are ever affected in this way. in a considerable number of cases we have observed that this incapacity occurs in people who are troubled with some chronic abnormal action or inaction of the liver; but we have as yet been unable to make any generalization which might serve to connect the two phænomena. in the great majority of cases, however, the incapacity has been probably induced by chronic narcosis resulting from the long-continued abuse of tobacco. recent researches have shown that confirmed drunkards have after a while modified the molecular structure of their nervous systems to such an extent that they can never for the rest of their lives touch an alcoholic drink with safety. for such poor creatures, teetotalism is the only hygienic rule. it is fair to suppose that under the continuous influence of tobacco-narcosis the nervous system becomes metamorphosed in some analogous manner, so that after a while tobacco ceases to be of any use and becomes simply noxious. this is likely to be the case with those who begin to chew or smoke when they are half-grown boys, and keep on taking enormous doses of the narcotic until they have arrived at middle age. as mr. parton seems to find a difficulty in realizing that any one who smokes at all can smoke less than from ten to twenty large cigars daily, (for he always uses these figures when he has occasion to allude to the subject), we presume this to be about the ration which he used to allow himself. if so, no wonder that he found it did not pay to smoke. he probably did the wisest thing he could do when he gave up the habit; and his mistake has been in endeavouring to erect the limitations of his own experience into objective laws of the universe. to sum up the physiological argument: we have endeavoured, as precisely as possible in the present state of knowledge, to answer the question, does it pay to smoke? from the outset we have found it necessary to a clear understanding of the problem to keep steadily in mind the generic difference between the effects of tobacco when taken in narcotic quantities and its effects when taken in stimulant quantities. the first class of effects we have seen to be always and necessarily bad; though not so extremely and variously bad as hygienic reformers appear to believe.[ ] with regard to the second class of effects, we have seen reason to believe that they are almost always good. we have seen reason to believe that, in the first place, the stimulant dose of tobacco retards waste; and, in the second place, that it facilitates repair:-- i. by its action on the sympathetic ganglia, aiding digestion,-- ii. by its action on the medulla oblongata, aiding the circulation,-- iii. by its action on the interstitial nerve-fibres, aiding the general assimilation of prepared material. [ ] tobacco, as we have said, may, in an adequate dose, produce well-developed paralysis. whether the ordinary excessive use of it ever does cause paralysis, is, to say the least, extremely doubtful. dr. d. w. cheever says, "the minor, rarely the graver, affections of the nervous system do follow the use of tobacco in excess.... numerous cases of paralysis among tobacco-takers in france were traced to the lead in which the preparation was enveloped." _atlantic monthly_, aug. . another instance of the great care needful in correctly tracing the causes of any disease or ailment. lead-poisoning, when chronic, brings about structural degeneration of the nerve-centres. and lastly, we have witnessed the evidence of its effect upon the increased nutrition of the brain and spinal cord, in its alleviation of abnormal wakefulness and tremour. these are legitimate scientific inferences; and if they are to be overturned, it must be by scientific argument. they are not to be shaken by all of mr. parton's clamour about the coming man, and people who keep themselves "well-groomed," and ladies who write for the press. so far as our present knowledge of physiology goes for anything, it thus goes to exhibit tobacco, rightly used, as the great economizer of vital force, the aider of nervous co-ordination, and one of the ablest co-workers in normal and vigorous nutrition. and, as we have said before, it is the difference in the rate of nutrition which is probably the most fundamental difference between strength and feebleness, vigour and sluggishness, health and disease. it was because of rapid nutrition that napoleon and humboldt performed their prodigious tasks, and yet needed almost incredibly little sleep. it is the difference between fast and slow nutrition which makes one soldier's wound heal, while another's gangrenes; which enables one young girl to throw off a chest-cold with ease, while another is dragged into the grave by it. waste and repair--these are the essential correlatives; and the agent which checks the former while hastening the latter can hardly be other than a friend to health, long life, and vigour. we conclude with an inductive argument which an eminent physician has recently in conversation urged upon our attention. throughout the whole world, probably nine men out of every ten use tobacco.[ ] throughout the civilized world, women, as a general rule, abstain from the use of tobacco. here we have an experiment, on an immense scale, ready-made for us. these three hundred million civilized men and women are subjected to the same varieties of climatic, dietetic, and social influences; their environments are the same; their inherited organic proclivities will average about the same; but the men smoke and the women do not. now, if all that our hygienic reformers say about tobacco were true, the men in civilized countries should be afflicted with numerous constitutional diseases which do not afflict the women; or should be more liable to the diseases common to the two sexes; or, finally, should be shorter lived than the women. but statistics show that men are, on the whole, just as healthy and long-lived as women. in point of the average number of diseases[ ] to which they are subject; in point of liability to disease; and in point of longevity; the two sexes are in all civilized countries, exactly on a par with each other. during the two hundred years in which tobacco has been in common use, it has made no appreciable difference in the health or longevity of those who have used it. this is a rough experiment, in which no account is taken of dosage, and in which the results are only general averages. but to our mind, it is very significant. taken alone, it shows conclusively that since tobacco first began to be used, its bad effects must have been at least fully balanced by its good effects. taken in connection with our physiological argument, it shows quite conclusively that the current notion about the banefulness of tobacco is, as we remarked above, simply a popular delusion. [ ] paraguay tea is used by , , of people; coca by , , ; chicory by , , ; cocoa by , , ; coffee by , , ; betel by , , ; haschisch by , , ; opium by , , ; chinese tea by , , ; tobacco by , , ; the population of the world being probably not much over one thousand million. see von bibra, _die narkotischen genussmittel und der mensch_, preface. [ ] omitting, of course, from the comparison, the class of diseases to which woman is peculiarly subject, as a child-bearer. to prove that tobacco, rightly used, is harmless, is to prove that it does pay to smoke. every smoker, who has not vitiated his nervous system by raw excess, knows that there is no physical pleasure in the long run comparable with that which is afforded by tobacco. if such pleasure is to be obtained without detriment to the organism, who but the grimmest ascetic can say that here is not a gain? but, if, as we have every reason to believe, the stimulant action of tobacco upon the human system is not only harmless but very decidedly beneficial, then it is doubly proved that _it does pay to smoke_. ii. the coming man will drink wine. mr. parton treats alcohol much more respectfully than he treats tobacco. though equally hostile to it, he apparently considers it a more formidable enemy. instead of taking for granted from the outset that which it is his business to prove, he now condescends to employ something which to the unpractised eye may look like scientific argument. he has taken pains to collect such evidence as may be made to support his view of the case. and he frequently endeavours to assume an attitude of apparent impartiality by alluding to himself as a drinker of "these seductive liquids,"--although, in point of fact, his whole essay is conceived in the narrowest spirit of radical teetotalism. as for tobacco, it does not seem to occur to him that any one can be found, so obstinate or so deluded as seriously to maintain that there is any good in it; and he therefore writes upon that subject with all the exaggeration of unterrified confidence. but in dealing with alcohol, his violence of statement is evidently due to an uneasy consciousness that there is a vast body of current opinion and of scientific doctrine which may be arrayed in the lists against him. he brushes away, with a contemptuous sneer, (p. ) the opinions of the medical profession; but he is, nevertheless, unable wholly to ignore them. propositions of the sort which he formerly alluded to as if no one could think of doubting them, he now thinks it necessary to state at length. the poisonous nature of tobacco could be taken for granted in a subordinate clause; but the poisonous nature of alcohol needs to be asserted in an independent sentence. "pure alcohol, though a product of highly nutritive substances, is a mere poison,--an absolute poison,--the mortal foe of life in every one of its forms, animal and vegetable." (p. .) this is the way in which the advocates of total abstinence like to begin. a good round assertion about "poison" is calculated to demoralize the inexperienced reader, and to scare him into half giving up the case at once. but it is not all barking dogs that bite. morphia is a deadly poison; but opium, which contains it, is not "the mortal foe of life in all its forms,"--it is sometimes the only thing which will keep soul and body together.[ ] theine is no doubt a deadly poison, but we manage to drink it with tolerable safety in our tea and coffee. lactucin is probably a poison, yet people may eat a lettuce-salad and live. chlorine is eminently a poison, yet we are all the time taking it into our systems, combined with sodium, in the shape of table-salt. therefore over the verbal question whether a teaspoonful of pure alcohol is a poison, we do not care to wrangle. people do not drink pure alcohol, as a general thing. and as for the beverages into the composition of which alcohol enters, the reader will have no difficulty in understanding that they are poisons in just the same sense in which common salt and oxygen are poisons; _i.e._, if you take enough of them, they will kill you. this point was sufficiently cleared up in our first chapter. [ ] opium, as used in moderation by orientals, has not been proved to exercise any deleterious effects. very likely it is a healthful stimulant; but it does not appear to agree with the constitutions of the western races. see pharmaceutical journal, vol. xi. p. . probably tea, tobacco and alcohol are the only stimulants adapted alike to all races, and to nearly all kinds of people. mr. parton's hostility to this "mortal foe of life in all its forms" has taken shape in six definite propositions. concerning alcoholic liquor of any kind and in any quantity, he asserts, and attempts to prove, that it does not nourish, that it does not aid digestion, that it does not warm, that it does not strengthen, that it undergoes no chemical change in the system, and that it always injuriously affects the brain. beginning with the last of these propositions, let us first see what mr. parton has to say for it. "if i, at this ten a.m., full of interest in this subject, and eager to get my view of it upon paper, were to drink a glass of the best port, madeira, or sherry, or even a glass of lager-bier, i should lose the power to continue in three minutes; or, if i persisted in going on, i should be pretty sure to utter paradox and spurts of extravagance, which would not bear the cold review of to-morrow morning. any one can try this experiment. take two glasses of wine, and then immediately apply yourself to the hardest task your mind ever has to perform, and you will find you cannot do it. let any student, just before he sits down to his mathematics, drink a pint of the purest beer, and he will be painfully conscious of loss of power." did it ever dimly occur to mr. parton that all men may not be constructed on exactly the same plan with himself? we wonder how many drops of "seductive fluid," unwisely taken at the wrong time of day, are to be held responsible for the following "spurt" of extravagance: "the time, i hope, is at hand, when an audience in a theatre, who catch a manager cheating them out of their fair allowance of fresh air, will not sit and gasp, and inhale destruction till eleven p.m., and then rush wildly to the street for relief. they will stop the play; they will tear up the benches, if necessary; they will throw things on the stage; they will knock a hole in the wall; they will _have_ the means of breathing, or perish in the struggle." is this the way in which "well-groomed" people are expected to behave? fancy an audience following this precious bit of advice. when mlle. janauschek, for instance, is finishing the third act of "medea" or the second act of "deborah," amid the tragic solemnity of the scene, fancy the audience, because of bad air in the theatre, getting up and flinging their canes and opera-glasses on the stage, in the heroic struggle for oxygen or death! fancy four or five hundred grown-up, educated people behaving in this way! if these are to be the manners of the coming man, we trust it will be long before he comes. such is one of the "spurts of extravagance" which mr. parton apparently thinks _will_ "bear the cold review of to-morrow morning." having survived this, we may philosophically resign ourselves to the infliction of another, more nearly akin to our subject. "how we all wondered that england should _think_ so erroneously, and adhere to its errors so obstinately, during our late war! mr. gladstone has in part explained the mystery. the adults of england, he said, in his famous wine-speech, drink, on an average, three hundred quarts of beer each per annum!" another choice bit of radical philosophy: if your neighbour happens not to agree with your most cherished opinions, he must be idiotic, immoral, or _drugged_! the english failed to sympathize with us, because they are such beer-drinkers! what a rare faculty of disentangling causal relations! we believe that the working people, who drink the most beer, were just those who, as a class, were most ready to sympathize with us in the time of need. but mr. parton has "grounds" for his opinion. "it is physically impossible for a human brain, muddled every day with a quart of beer, to correctly hold correct opinions, or appropriate pure knowledge." "the receptive, the curious, the candid, the trustworthy brains,--those that do not take things for granted, and yet are ever open to conviction,--such heads are to be found on the shoulders of men who drink little or none of these seductive fluids." mr. parton has doubtless forgotten that the head of "the nearest approach to the complete human being that has yet appeared," the head of the "highly-groomed" goethe--rested upon the shoulders of a man who drank his two or three bottles of wine daily.[ ] but we are now rapidly getting into the æthereal region of certainties. "taking together all that science and observation teach and indicate, we have one certainty: that, to a person in good health and of good life, alcoholic liquors are not necessary, but are always in some degree hurtful." so it is not an open question, after all! certainty has been arrived at,--by mr. parton, at least. and it is so difficult to suppose that any sane mind, after due investigation, can come to a different opinion, that all persons who mean to keep on using alcohol are advised in pathetic language never to look into the facts: "if ignorance is bliss, 't is folly to be wise." [ ] lewes, _life of goethe_, vol. ii. p. . the candid reader must admit that mr. parton has not, so far, made out a very overwhelming case in support of his opinion that alcohol always injures the brain. a personal experience, a "spurt of extravagance," a "physical impossibility," and a "certainty," are, on the whole, not very rocky foundations upon which to build a scientific conclusion. but this is all mr. parton has to offer. in attempting to describe the influence of alcohol upon the brain and nervous system, it will be well for us to keep steadily in mind the fundamental difference between stimulant and narcotic doses, which was described at some length in our chapter on tobacco. it is hardly necessary to state that mr. parton neither recognizes, nor appears dimly to suspect, the existence of any such distinction. his is one of those minds in which there are no half-way stations. with him, to rise above zero is inevitably to fly to the boiling-water point. but without keeping in mind this all-important distinction, any inquiry into the physiological effects of alcohol must end in confusion and paradox. remembering this, let us examine first the narcotic, and then the stimulant effects of alcohol upon the nervous system. the narcotic effects of alcohol upon the entire human organism are so bad that even the teetotaler does not need to exaggerate them. the stomach is not only damaged, and the cerebrum ruined, but a slow molecular change takes place throughout the nervous system, which ends by destroying the power of self-control and utterly demoralizing the character. far be it from us, therefore, to palliate the consequences which sooner or later are sure to follow the wretched habit of drinking narcotic quantities of alcohol; or to look without genuine sympathy upon the philanthropic, though usually misguided attempts which radical aquarians are continually making to diminish the evil. their feelings are often as right as their science is wrong. but because we believe that for a book to be of any value whatever, it must be _true_, and that false science can never, in the long run, be of practical benefit, we are not therefore to be set down as lukewarm in our abhorrence of alcoholic intemperance. those who keep their hearts in subjection to their heads are often supposed to have no hearts at all. those who do not forthwith get angry and utter "spurts of extravagance" whenever any social evil is mentioned, are often thought to be in secret sympathy with it. but how could we, by writing reams of fervid declamation, more forcibly express our disapproval of drunkenness than by recording the cold scientific statement that the first narcotic symptom produced by alcohol is a symptom of incipient paralysis? we allude to the flushing of the face, which is caused by paralysis of the cervical branch of the sympathetic. this symptom usually occurs some time before the conspicuous manifestation of the ordinary signs of intoxication, which result from paralysis of the cerebrum. of these signs the most prominent is the weakening of the ordinary power of self-control. the ruling faculty of judgment is suspended, volition becomes less steady, and imagination, no longer guided by the higher faculties, runs riot in such a way as to appear to be stimulated. but it is not stimulated; it is simply let loose. there is no stimulation in drunkenness; there is only disorganization. one acquired or organic power of the mind no longer holds the others in check. hence the uncalled-for friendliness, the fitful anger, the extravagant or misplaced generosity, the ludicrous dignity, the disgusting amorousness, or the garrulous vanity, of the drunken man. wine is said to exhibit a man as he really is, with the conventionalities of society laid aside. this is only half true, but it suggests the true statement. wine exhibits a man as he is when the organized effects of ancestral and contemporary civilization upon his character are temporarily obliterated. we need no better illustration of the truth that drunkenness is not stimulation but paralysis of the cerebrum, than the order in which, under the influence of alcohol, the powers of the mind become progressively suspended. as a general rule those are first suspended which are the most recent products of civilization, and which have consequently been developed by inheritance through the least number of generations. these are of course the mind's highest organic acquisitions. the sense of responsibility, for instance, is a product of a highly complicated state of civilization, and, when fully developed, is perhaps chief among the moral acquirements which distinguish the civilized man from the savage. in progressing intoxication, the feeling of responsibility is the first to be put in abeyance. a man need be but slightly tipsy in order to become quite careless as to the consequences of his actions.[ ] on the other hand, those qualities of the mind are the last to be overcome, which are the earliest inheritance of savagery, and which the civilized man possesses in common with savages and beasts. then the animal nature of the man, no longer restrained by his higher faculties, manifests itself with a violence which causes it to seem abnormally stimulated in vigour. and in the stage immediately preceding stupor, it sometimes happens that the pupils are contracted,[ ] and the whites of the eyes enlarged, giving to the face a horrible brute-like expression. [ ] in illustration it may be noted that as soon as a man has just transgressed the physiological limit which divides stimulation from narcosis, he is liable to throw overboard all prudential considerations and drink until he is completely drunk. this is one of the chief dangers of convivial after-dinner drinking. [ ] for the physiology of this pupil-change, not uncommon in various kinds of acute narcosis, see the appendix to anstie. one apparent exception to this generalization needs only to be explained in order to confirm the rule. memory, which usually figures as a high intellectual faculty, is often, even in deep drunkenness, capable of performing marvellous feats. while in college we once heard a tipsy fellow-student repeat _verbatim_ the whole of that satire of horace which begins "unde et quo, catius?"--which he had read over the same day before going to recitation, but which, as we felt sure, he could never designedly have committed to memory. it appeared, however, that, in the literal though not in the idiomatic sense of the phrase, he had "committed it to memory" to some purpose, for as we, struck with amazement, took down our horace and followed him, we found that he made not the slightest verbal error. this performance on his part was almost immediately followed by heavy comatose slumber. on afterward questioning him, it appeared that he remembered nothing either of the satire or of his remarkable feat. several analogous cases are cited by dr. anstie.[ ] [ ] _stimulants and narcotics_, pp. - . this certainly looks like stimulation, but on comparing it with other instances of abnormal reminiscence differently caused, we shall find reason for believing that it is nothing of the kind. there is no doubt that insanity may in the most general way be described as a species of cerebral paralysis, yet in many kinds of insanity there is an abnormal quickening of memory. likewise in idiocy, which differs from insanity as being due to arrested development rather than to degradation of the cerebrum, the same phænomenon is sometimes witnessed. we remember seeing a child who, though generally considered quite "foolish," could, as we were assured, accurately repeat large portions of each sunday's sermon. dr. anstie mentions a boy, absolutely idiotic, who nevertheless "had a perfect memory for the history of all the farm animals in the neighbourhood, and could tell with unerring precision that this was so-and-so's sheep or pig among any number of other animals of the same kind." similar phænomena have been observed in epileptic delirium, and in the delirium of fevers. every one has heard coleridge's story of the sick servant-girl who repeated passages from latin, greek and hebrew authors which she had years before heard recited by a clergyman in whose house she worked. a gentleman in india, after a sunstroke, utterly lost his command of the hindustani language, recovering it only during the recurrent paroxysms of epileptic delirium to which he was afterward subject. equally interesting is the case of the countess de laval, who in the ravings of puerperal delirium was heard by her breton nurse talking baby-talk to herself in the breton language,--a language which she had known in early infancy, but had since so entirely forgotten as not to distinguish it from gibberish when spoken before her.[ ] a similar exaltation of memory not unfrequently precedes the coma produced by chloroform; and it has been known to occur in cases of acute poisoning by opium and haschisch. finally it may be observed that drowning men are said to recall, as in a panoramic vision, all the events of their lives, even the most trivial. [ ] for this and parallel cases see hamilton, _lectures on metaphysics_, lect. xviii. we may conclude therefore that the extraordinary memory sometimes observed in drunken persons, however obscure the interpretation of it may at present be, is at all events a symptom, not of mental exaltation, but of mental disorganization consequent upon cerebral disease. we may search in vain among the phænomena of intoxication for any genuine evidences of that heightened mental activity which is said to be followed by a depressive recoil. there is no recoil; there is no stimulation; there is nothing but paralytic disorder from the moment that narcosis begins. from the outset the whole nervous system is lowered in tone, the even course of its nutrition disturbed, and the rhythmic discharge of its functions interfered with. another remarkable effect of alcoholic narcotism--the most hopelessly demoralizing of all--yet remains to be treated. we refer to the perpetual craving of the drinker for the repetition, and usually for the increase, of his dose. it is a familiar fact that the drunkard is urged to the gratification of his appetite by such an irresistible physical craving that his power of self-control becomes after a while completely destroyed. and it is often observed that those who begin drinking moderately go on, as if by a kind of fatality, drinking oftener and drinking larger quantities, until they have become confirmed inebriates. but in the current interpretation of these facts there is, as might be expected, a great deal of confusion. on the one hand, the teetotalers declare that the use of alcohol in any amount creates a physical craving and necessitates a progressive increase of the dose. on the other hand, the common sense of mankind, perceiving that nine persons out of ten are all their lives in the habit of using alcoholic drinks, while hardly one person out of ten ever becomes a drunkard,[ ] declares that this physical craving is not produced save in peculiarly organized constitutions. we believe that neither of these opinions is correct. in all probability, the demand for an increased narcotic effect is due to a gradual alteration in the molecular structure of the nervous system caused by frequently repeated narcosis; and if narcosis be invariably avoided, _in systems which are free from its inherited structural effects_, the craving is never awakened. this point is so interesting and important as to call for some further elucidation. [ ] it has been asserted by teetotalers that the mortality from intemperance is , a year in the united states alone!! it is to be regretted that friends of temperance are to be found who will persist in injuring the cause by such wanton exaggerations. in the united states, in , the whole number of deaths from all causes was a trifle less than , : the whole number of deaths from intemperance was ,--that is to say, less than one in . see the admirable pamphlet by the late gov. andrew, on _the errors of prohibition_, p. . in view of these facts, it appears to us many leagues within the bounds of probability to say that hardly one person in ten is a drunkard. frequent intoxication with alcohol, opium, coca, or haschisch, brings about a structural degeneration of the nerve-material; the consequences of which are to be seen in delirium, softening of the brain, and other forms of general paralysis. "by degrees the nervous centres, especially those on which the particular narcotic used has the most powerful influence, become degraded in structure." a permanent pathological state is thus induced, in which the production of a given narcotic effect is not so easy as in the healthy organism. "a certain quantity of nervous tissue has in fact ceased to fill the _rôle_ of nervous tissue, and there is less of impressible matter upon which the narcotic may operate, and hence it is that the confirmed drunkard, opium-eater, or _coquero_, requires more and more of his accustomed narcotic to produce the intoxication which he delights in. it is necessary now to saturate his blood to a high degree with the poison, and thus to insure an extensive contact of it with the nervous matter, if he is to enjoy once more the transition from the realities of life to the dreamland, or the pleasant vacuity of mind, which this or the other form of narcotism has hitherto afforded him."[ ] it is easy to see how this structural degeneration may be produced. it takes a certain time for the nervous system to recover from the effects of each separate narcotic dose; and if a fresh dose is taken before recovery is completed, it is obvious that the diseased condition will by and by be rendered permanent. the entire process of nutrition will adapt itself gradually to this new state of things; and no efficiency of repair will afterward make the nervous system what it was before. it is in this way that the narcotic craving for continually increased doses is originated and kept alive. [ ] see anstie, op. cit. pp. , , . in the case of the milder narcotics--tea, coffee and tobacco--this craving, though the symptom of a depraved state of the organism, does not directly demoralize the character. but the moral injury wrought by alcohol, opium and haschisch is known to every one, and the effects of coca-drunkenness are said to be no less frightful. this is because the milder narcotics affect chiefly the medulla, the spinal cord and the sympathetic, while the fiercer ones chiefly affect the cerebrum. tobacco may paralyze the brain sufficiently to cause nocturnal wakefulness; but it cannot impair one's self-control or one's sense of responsibility. it never transforms a man into a selfish brute, who will beat his wife, neglect his business, and allow his children to starve. here then we arrive at a supremely interesting distinction. the craving for tobacco is principally a craving of those inferior nerve-centres which exert comparatively little direct influence upon the mental and moral life. but the craving for alcohol is a cerebral craving. the habitual indulgence of it involves a continual suppression of those loftier guiding qualities which, as we have seen, are the later effects of civilization upon the individual character; while the attributes of savagery, the lower sensual passions--our common inheritance from pre-social times--are allowed full play in supplying material for the imagination and in shaping the purposes of life. mr. parton's remark, therefore, which is absurd as applied to tobacco, is a profound physiological verity as applied to the narcotic action of alcohol,--it tends to make us think and act like barbarians, for it allies us psychologically with barbarians. these considerations throw some light upon the way in which chronic narcosis, like other diseases entailing structural derangements, may be transmitted from father to son. as a matter of observation it is known that drunkenness may run through whole families, no less than gout or consumption. or, like other diseases, it may skip one or two generations and then reappear. it is evident that the children of a drunkard, _born after_ the establishment of nervous degeneration in the father's system, may inherit structural narcosis attended by a latent craving for alcohol. some unfortunate persons thus seem to be born sots, as others are born lunatics or consumptives. the hygienic rule in all cases of structural narcosis, whether acquired or inherited, is total abstinence once and always. these unfortunate creatures cannot be temperate, they must therefore be abstinent. as sainte-beuve profoundly remarks concerning that ferocious duke of burgundy for whom fénelon wrote his "télémaque," he was such a wretch that they could not make a _man_ of him, they could only make him a _saint_: that is, he was got up on such wrong principles that, whether bad or good, he must be somewhat morally lop-sided and abnormal. just so with those whose nervous systems are impaired by alcohol: we cannot make them healthy men who can take a stimulant glass and want no more,--we can only make them teetotalers. those too who have not got themselves into this predicament will do well to remember that there is extreme danger in the common practice of drinking as much as one likes, provided one does not get drunk. "getting drunk" means paralysis of the cerebral hemispheres; but, as we have seen, paralysis of the cervical sympathetic, shown in flushed face and moist forehead, occurs some time before the more conspicuous symptom. _it is a narcotic effect, and must be always avoided, if the narcotic craving is to be kept clear of._ therefore a man who wishes to enjoy alcohol, and reap benefit from it, and be ready at any time to do without it, like any other wholesome aliment, must always keep a long way this side of intoxication. if ten glasses of sherry will make him garrulous, he will do well never to drink more than four. before leaving this part of the subject, it may be well to note certain cases, collected by theodore parker, of consumptive families, in which those members who were topers did not die of consumption. it appeared that, in certain families whose histories he gave, nearly all those who did not die of consumption were rum-drinkers! and from these data mr. parker drew the inference that "intemperate habits (where the man drinks a pure, though coarse and fiery liquor like new england rum) tend to check the consumptive tendency, though the drunkard, who himself escapes the consequences, may transmit the fatal seed to his children." mr. parton, who quotes this, thinks it poor comfort for topers. we doubt if there is any "comfort" to be found in it. it is contrary to all our present science to suppose that consumption can be prevented by narcosis. the prime cause of consumption is defective assimilation: the tissues, _from lack of sufficient nerve-stimulus_, are incapable of appropriating food. how absurd, therefore, to suppose that narcosis, which impairs the stimulating energy of the nerves, can check an existing tendency to consumption! what the consumptive person needs is stimulus, not paralysis. but it is easy to believe that the same impaired nutrition of the nerves which may in one person end in consumption, may in another person act as a predisposing cause of narcosis. insanity, consumption, and drunkenness, are diseases which appear to go hand in hand. dr. maudsley, in his great work on the "pathology of mind," gives instructive tables which show that these three diseases may alternate with each other in the same family for several generations, culminating finally in epilepsy, idiocy, paralysis and impotence, when the family becomes happily extinct. this consanguinity of diseases appears more marked when we extend our view over a certain extensive locality. the figures cited by gov. andrew appear to show that both drunkenness and insanity are far more common in new england than in other parts of the union; and consumption is proverbially the new england disease. we are inclined to suspect, therefore, that in the families mentioned by mr. parker, the children inherited structurally defective nervous systems, the consequent symptoms being in one case pulmonary and in another case cerebral. this, we believe, is all that we need contribute at present to the subject of alcoholic narcosis. it will be seen that in maintaining that the coming man will drink wine, we are not recommending that the coming man should go to bed drunk. an argument drawn from purely scientific data, when once thoroughly mastered, is likely to be of more avail in checking intemperance than all the "spurts of extravagance" which teetotalers can emit between now and doomsday. mr. parton asks, why have the teetotalers failed? they have failed because they have exaggerated. they have failed because they have not been content with the simple truth. they want the truth, the whole truth, and twice as much as the truth. if they would only hoard up the nervous energy which they expend in making a vain clamour, in order to use it in quietly investigating the character, causes, and conditions of alcoholic drunkenness, they might make out a statement which the world would believe, and by and by act upon. at present the world does not follow them, because it does not believe them. when the zealous aquarian anathematizes a rum-shop, we sympathize with him; but when he rolls up his eyes in holy horror at a glass of lager-bier, we laugh at him. when he says that a quart of raw gin taken at a couple of gulps will kill a man stone-dead, we cheerfully acquiesce. but when he says that the gill of sherry taken at dinner will impair our digestion, render us susceptible to cold, steal away some of our vigour, and muddle our head so that we cannot write an article in the evening,--we can but good-naturedly smile, and try another gill to-morrow. the stimulant effects of alcohol upon the nervous system are very similar to those of tobacco. like tobacco, alcohol stimulates the alimentary secretions, slightly quickens and strengthens the pulse, diminishes weariness, cures sleeplessness, puts an end to trembling, calms nervous excitement, retards waste, and facilitates repair. by its antiparalytic action, it checks epilepsy, quiets delirium, and alleviates spasms and clonic convulsions; and in typhoid fever, where excessive waste of the nervous system is supposed to be one of the chief sources of danger, it is used, as we shall presently see, with most signal success. it thus appears, like tobacco, to be in general an economizer of vital energy and an aid to effective nutrition. it also directly assists digestion; but as mr. parton thinks it does not do this, we will first quote his opinion, and then see how much it is worth. "several experiments have been made with a view to ascertain whether mixing alcohol with the gastric juice increases or lessens its power to decompose food, and the results of all of them point to the conclusion that the alcohol retards the process of decomposition. a little alcohol retards it a little, and much alcohol retards it much. it has been proved by repeated experiment that _any_ portion of alcohol, however small, diminishes the power of the gastric juice to decompose. the digestive fluid has been mixed with wine, beer, whisky, brandy, and alcohol diluted with water, and kept at the temperature of the living body, and the motions of the body imitated during the experiment; but, in every instance, the pure gastric juice was found to be the true and sole digester, and the alcohol a retarder of digestion. this fact, however, required little proof. we are all familiar with alcohol as a _preserver_, and scarcely need to be reminded that, if alcohol assists digestion at all, it cannot be by assisting decomposition." (p. .) we would give something to know how many readers, outside of the medical profession, may have detected at the first glance the fatal fallacy lurking in this argument. of its existence mr. parton himself is blissfully unconscious. the experiment, no doubt, seems quite complete and conclusive. we have the gastric juice mixed with alcoholic liquor, we have the suitable temperature, and we have an imitation of the motions of the stomach. what more can be desired? we reply, the most important element in the problem is entirely overlooked. it is the old story,--the play of hamlet with the part of hamlet left out; and nothing can better illustrate the extreme danger of reasoning confidently from what goes on outside the body to what must go on inside the body. for in order to have made their experiment complete, mr. parton's authorities _should have manufactured an entire nervous system_, as well as a network of blood-vessels through which the alcohol might impart to that nervous system its stimulus. in short, before we can make an artificial digestive apparatus which will work at all like the natural one, we must know how to construct a living human body! in the case before us, _the nervous stimulus_, ignored by mr. parton, is the most essential factor in the whole process. there is no doubt that a given quantity of undiluted gastric juice will usually perform the chemical process of food-transformation more rapidly than an equal quantity of gastric juice which is diluted.[ ] but there is also no doubt that when we take a small quantity of alcohol into the stomach, _the amount of gastric juice is instantly increased_. this results from the stimulant action of alcohol both upon the pneumogastric nerves and upon the great splanchnic or visceral branches of the sympathetic. just as when tobacco is smoked, though probably to a less extent, the gastric secretion is increased; and the motions of the stomach are also increased. this increase in the quantity of the digestive fluid, due to nervous stimulus, is undoubtedly more than sufficient to make up for the alleged impairment of its quality caused by mixing it with a foreign substance. the action of saliva and carbonate of soda supply us with a further illustration. in artificial experiments, like those upon which mr. parton relies, alkaline substances are found to retard digestion by neutralizing a portion of the acid of the gastric juice. yet the alkaline saliva, swallowed with food, does not retard digestion; and claude bernard has shown that carbonate of soda actually hastens, to a notable degree, the digestive process. why is this? it is because these alkalies act as local stimulants upon the lining of the stomach, and thus increase the quantity of gastric juice. it is in this way that common salt, eaten with other food, also facilitates digestion; although salt is a _preserver_, as well as alcohol. [ ] this is not always true, however: it is well to look sharp before making a sweeping statement. the digesting power of gastric juice is _increased_ by diluting it with a certain amount of water. see lehmann, _physiologische chemie_, ii. . here we come upon mr. parton's second blunder. he talks about the "decomposition" of food, and appears to think that digestion is a kind of _putrefaction_, so that alcohol, which arrests the latter, must also arrest the former. he says: we do not need to experiment, for we _know_ that alcohol, which is a _preserver_, cannot digest food by decomposing it. this unlucky remark illustrates the danger of writing on a subject, the rudiments of which you have not taken time to get acquainted with. before attempting to lay down the law upon an abstruse point connected with the subject of digestion, common prudence would appear to dictate that one should first acquire some dim notion of what digestion is. the veriest tyro in physiology should know that the gastric juice is itself a preventer of putrefaction. it will not only keep off organic decay, but it will stop it after it has begun.[ ] in this sense of the word, it is as much a _preserver_ as alcohol. [ ] dunglison, _human physiology_, vol. i. p. ; lewes, _physiology of common life_, vol. i. p. . as it takes time to expose all the fallacies which mr. parton can crowd into one short paragraph, we have thus far admitted that alcohol impairs the quality of the gastric juice by diluting it: as a matter of fact, it does not so impair it. if it is a _preserver_, it is also a _coagulator_. it coagulates the albuminous portions of the food, thus enabling them to be more easily acted upon by the gastric secretion.[ ] so that, on looking into the matter, we find the stimulant dose of alcohol doing everything to quicken, and nothing whatever to slacken, digestion. it coaxes out more digestive fluid, and it lightens the task which that fluid has to perform. [ ] dunglison, op. cit. i. . daily experience tells us that the glass of wine taken with our dinner, or the thimble-full of _liqueur_ taken after dessert, diminishes the feeling of heaviness, and enables us sooner to go to work. of indigestion and its accompanying sensations, we are unable to speak from experience; but mr. parton feelingly describes the effects of alcohol as follows. "when we have taken too much shad for breakfast, we find that a wineglass of whisky instantly mitigates the horrors of indigestion, and enables us again to contemplate the future without dismay." now, if mr. parton's ideas on this subject were correct, his dose of whisky ought to exasperate his torment. the fact that it comforts him shows that it serves to quicken the too sluggish stomach to its normal activity. it is a very good clinical experiment indeed. alcohol, however, aids digestion only when taken in moderate quantities. a narcotic dose, by paralyzing the medulla and the sympathetic, interferes with the flow of gastric juice. here, as in most cases, the large quantity does just the reverse of what the small quantity will do. the same is true of food. digestible food, in moderate amount, stimulates the gastric secretion; in excessive amount, it arrests its action. "another curious fact is, that although the addition of organic acids increases the digestive power of this fluid, there is a limit at which this increase ceases, and beyond it, excess of acid suspends the whole digestive power."[ ] it is therefore a wise thing to eat heartily, but a silly thing to eat voraciously; it is wise to eat pickles, but silly to make one's dinner of them; it is wise to drink a glass of sherry, but silly to empty the bottle. the happy mean is the thing to be maintained, in digestion as in every thing else. [ ] lewes, loc. cit. mr. parton next proceeds to deny that alcohol is a heat-producing substance. "on the contrary," he says, "it appears in all cases to diminish the efficiency of the heat-producing process." and he cites the testimony of arctic voyagers, new york car-drivers, russian corporals, and rocky mountain hunters, in support of the statement that alcohol diminishes the power of the system to resist cold. he thinks he could fill a whole magazine with the evidence on this point. nevertheless, so far as we have examined the reports of arctic travellers,[ ] they appear by no means decisive. they do not keep in mind the distinction between stimulation and intoxication. we do not doubt that "men who start under the influence of liquor are the first to succumb to the cold, and the likeliest to be frost-bitten," if the phrase "under the influence of liquor" be understood, as it usually is, to mean "partly drunk." on the other hand, it is a familiar fact that a glass of whisky, taken on coming into the house after exposure to cold, will in many cases prevent sore throat or inflammation of the nasal passages. in our own experience, we know of no more efficient agent for removing the effects of a chill from the system. before this question can be settled, however, we must ascertain whether alcohol is, or is not, a true food. if the food-action of alcohol is, as liebig maintains, to be ranked with that of fat, starch and sugar, its heat-producing power will follow as an inevitable inference. to this point we shall presently come; and meanwhile we may content ourselves with citing the excellent authority of johnston in support of the opinion that ardent spirits "directly warm the body."[ ] [ ] a good summary will be found in the _american journal of medical sciences_, july, . [ ] _chemistry of common life_, vol. i., p. . mr. parton next indicts alcohol on the ground that it is not a strength-giver. "on this branch of the subject," he observes, "_all_ the testimony is against alcoholic drinks."[ ] yet in his own statement of the case may be found contradictions enough. on the one hand he cites tom sayers, richard cobden and benjamin franklin in support of his opinion;[ ] and he tells us how horace greeley, teetotaler, coming home the other day, and finding terrible arrears of work piled up before him, sat down and wrote steadily, without leaving his room, from ten a.m. till eleven p.m.--no very wonderful feat for a healthy man. but on the other hand, it appears from some of his own facts that when a supreme exertion of strength is requisite, then we must take alcohol. "during the war i knew of a party of cavalry who, for three days and three nights, were not out of the saddle fifteen minutes at a time. the men consumed two quarts of whisky each, and all of them came in alive. it is a custom in england to extract the last possible five miles from a tired horse, when those miles _must_ be had from him, by forcing down his most unwilling throat a quart of beer." (p. .) from these unwelcome facts mr. parton draws the sage inference that alcohol, like tobacco, supports us in doing wrong! "it enables us to violate the laws of nature without immediate suffering and speedy destruction." now there is one much abused faculty of mankind, which nevertheless will sometimes refuse to be insulted,--that faculty is common sense. and in the present case, common sense declares that when we are taxing our strength, no matter whether "laws" are violated or not, we do not keep ourselves up by drinking a substance which can only weaken us. it may be unfortunate that alcohol is a strength-giver; but the fact that we can travel farther with it than without it shows that, unfortunate or not, the thing is so. but mr. parton believes that nature is even with us afterward. "in a few instances of intermittent disease, a small quantity of wine may sometimes enable a patient who is at the low tide of vitality to anticipate the turn of the tide, and borrow at four o'clock enough of five o'clock strength to enable him to reach five o'clock." this is sheer nonsense. there is no such thing as borrowing at four o'clock the strength of five o'clock. the thing is a physiological absurdity. the strength of to-morrow is non-existent until to-morrow comes; it is not a reserved fund from which we can borrow to-day. if mr. parton's notion were correct, his patient ought to be weaker at five o'clock by just the same amount that he is stronger at four o'clock. if the strength has been borrowed, it cannot be used over again. you cannot eat your cake and save it. in an hour's time, therefore, the patient should be weaker than if he had contrived to get along without the wine. but this is not found to be the case: he is stronger at four and he is stronger at five, he is stronger next day, and he convalesces more rapidly than if he had not taken alcohol. this is a clinical fact which there is no blinking.[ ] it shows that the only source from which the strength can possibly come is the alcohol. whether it be food or not, the action of alcohol in these cases is precisely similar to that of food. it calms delirium and promotes refreshing sleep, exactly like a meat broth, except that it is often more rapidly efficient. it can produce these effects only by acting as a genuine stimulant, by either nourishing, or facilitating the normal nutrition of, the nervous system.[ ] [ ] except that of contemporary physiologists. among these there are few greater names than that of moleschott; whose testimony to the strengthening properties of alcohol may be found in his _lehre der nahrungsmitiel_, p. . [ ] we presume mr. parton thinks these three unprofessional opinions enough to outweigh the all but unanimous testimony of physicians to the tonic effects of beer, wine and brandy. [ ] anstie, op. cit. pp. -- . [ ] in view of these and similar facts, dr. anstie remarks that "the effect of nutritious food, where it can be digested, is undistinguishable from that of alcohol upon the abnormal conditions of the nervous system which prevail in febrile diseases." p. . for the use of wine or brandy in infantile typhoid and typhus, see hillier on _diseases of children_, a most admirable work. when therefore lawyer heavy-fee and the other allegorical personages mentioned by mr. parton sit up working all night, and then quiet their nerves by a glass of wine or a cigar, they are no doubt shortening their lives and committing "respectable suicide." but it is because they sit up all night and waste vital force, not because they resort to an obvious and effective means of repairing the loss. it is well to keep early hours and avoid over-work. but on rare occasions, when the circumstances of life absolutely require it, he who cannot sit up all night for a week together, without inflicting permanent injury upon himself, is rightly considered deficient in recuperative vigour. when such occasions come, most persons instinctively seek aid from alcohol; and it helps them because it is an imparter, or at least an economizer, of nervous force. the fact that it is resorted to, when supreme exertion is demanded, shows that it is recognized as a strength-saver, if not as a strength-giver. our inquiry into its food-action will show that it is both the one and the other. thus far we have considered alcohol only as an agent which affects the nutrition of the nerves. whether it be also a food or not does not essentially alter the question of its evil or beneficent influence upon the system. as we saw in our chapter on tobacco, the human organism needs, for its proper nutrition, stimulus as well as food,--force as well as material. no conclusion in physiology is better established than that narcotic-stimulants increase the supply of force while they diminish the waste of material;[ ] and it is by virtue of this peculiarity that they will often sustain the organism in the absence of food. tobacco is not food, but if you give a starving man a pipe to smoke it will take him much longer to die. opium and coca are not foods; but they will sometimes support life when no true aliment can be procured. the action of alcohol is similar to that of these substances, but immeasurably more effective. none of the inferior narcotic-stimulants is at all comparable with alcohol in the degree of its food-replacing power. we read that tobacco and coca will enable a man to go several days without anything to eat; and we interpret this result as due to the waste-retarding action of these substances. but when we find that alcohol will support life for weeks and months, we can no longer be content with such an explanation. when we recollect that cornaro lived healthily for fifty-eight years upon twelve ounces of light food and fourteen ounces of wine _per diem_,[ ] and reflect upon the large proportion of alcoholic drink in this diet, the suspicion is forced upon us that alcohol is not only a true stimulant but also a true food. [ ] see chambers, _digestion and its derangements_, p. ; and in general, johnston, von bibra, and the paper of dr. hammond above referred to. [ ] carpenter, _human physiology_, p. . mr. parton of course asserts that alcoholic drinks do not nourish the body, and denies to them the title of foods. he begins by quoting liebig's assertion "that as much flour or meal as can lie on the point of a table-knife is more nutritious than nine quarts of the best bavarian beer." whereupon the reader, who is perhaps not familiar with the history of physiological controversy, thinks at once that liebig's great authority is opposed to the opinion that alcohol is food. nothing could be further from the truth. perhaps nothing in mr. parton's book shows more forcibly the danger of "cramming" a subject instead of studying it. when liebig wrote the above sentence, he believed that foods might be sharply divided into two classes,--those which nourish, and those which keep up the heat of the body. he believed that no foods except those which contain nitrogen can nourish the tissues; and he therefore excluded not only alcohol, _but fat, starch and sugar also_, from the class of nutritious substances. but liebig was far from believing that alcohol is not food. on the contrary he distinctly classed it with fat, starch and sugar, as a _heat-producing food_,--a fact which mr. parton, if he knows it, takes good care not to quote! but this twofold classification of foods has for several years been known to be unsound. it has been shown that all true foods are more or less nutritious, and that all are more or less heat-producing. starch and sugar have maintained their places in the class of nutritive materials from which liebig tried to exclude them, and we have now to see whether the same can be said of the closely kindred substance, alcohol. mr. parton thinks he has proved that alcohol cannot be food, when he has asserted that it is not chemically transformed within the body. as soon as it is taken, he tells us, lungs, skin and kidneys all set busily to work to expel it, and they send it out just as it came in: _therefore_ it is an enemy. now all this may be said of water. water is not chemically changed within the body; as soon as we drink it, lungs, skin and kidneys begin busily to expel it; and it goes out just as good water as it came in. nevertheless, water is one of the most essential elements of nutrition. but it is by no means certain that alcohol is not transformed within the body. it is neither certain nor probable. mr. parton relies upon the experiments of messrs. lallemand, duroy, and perrin, who in thought they had demonstrated that _all_ the alcohol taken into the system comes out again, _as_ alcohol, through the lungs, skin and kidneys. by applying the very delicate chromic acid test, these gentlemen appeared to prove that appreciable quantities of alcohol always begin to be excreted very soon after the dose has been received by the stomach, and continue to pass off for many hours. "they failed, after repeated attempts, to discover the intermediate compounds into which alcohol had been represented as transforming itself before its final change; and, on the other hand, they detected _unchanged_ alcohol everywhere in the body hours after it had been taken; they found the substance in the blood, and in all the tissues, but especially in the brain and the nervous centres generally, and in the liver."[ ] mr. parton has, it would appear, read their book, and he is fully persuaded by it that "if you take into your system an ounce of alcohol, the whole ounce leaves the system within forty-eight hours, just as good alcohol as it went in." these experiments, moreover, "produced the remarkable effect of causing the editor of a leading periodical to confess to the public that he was not infallible." the _westminster review_, it seems, in , retracted the opinions which it had expressed in , "concerning the _rôle_ of alcohol in the animal body." the _westminster review_ has now an opportunity to retract its recantations; for in , these experiments were subjected to a searching criticism by m. baudot, which resulted in thoroughly invalidating the conclusions supposed to flow from them.[ ] the case is an interesting one, as showing afresh the utter impossibility of getting at the truth concerning alcohol, without paying attention to the difference in the behaviour of large and small quantities. [ ] anstie, op. cit., p. . [ ] baudot, _de la destruction de l'alcool dans l'organisme, union médicale_, nov. et déc., . see also the elaborate criticism in anstie, op. cit., pp. - . the researches of bouchardat and sandras,[ ] and of duchek,[ ] have rendered it probable that, if alcohol undergoes any digestive transformation, it is first changed into aldehyde, from which are successively formed acetic acid, oxalic acid and water, and carbonic acid.[ ] but this transformation, like any other digestive process, cannot go on unless the nervous system is in good working order. now when a narcotic dose of alcohol is taken, the flow of gastric juice is prevented by local paralysis of the nerve-fibres distributed to the stomach. what then must happen? solid food may remain undigested, in the stomach;[ ] but liquid alcohol is easily absorbable, and has two ways of exit,--one through the portal system into the liver, the other through the lacteals into the general circulation, by which it will be carried chiefly to the organ which receives most blood,--namely, the brain. _it is thus probable that no alcohol can be transformed after narcosis begins._ but the absorbed alcohol, loading the circulation, begins at once to be excreted. paralysis of the renal plexus of the sympathetic sets up a rapid diuresis, and considerable amounts of the volatile liquid escape through the lungs and skin. in examining, therefore, a drunken man or dog, we need not, on any theory, expect to find the intermediate products of alcoholic transformation; we must expect to find large quantities of undigested alcohol in the circulation, and notably in the brain and liver; and we need not be surprised if we detect unchanged alcohol in the excretions. _our experiment will not show that alcohol cannot be assimilated; it will only show how serious is the damage inflicted by a narcotic dose, in checking assimilation._ now all this applies with force to the experiments of messrs. lallemand, duroy and perrin. in their experiments, these gentlemen always tried intoxicating doses; thus paralyzing at the outset the whole digestive tract, _and preventing the formation of those transformed products which they afterward vainly tried to discover_. as so often happens in experimenting upon the enormously complex human organism, they began by creating abnormal conditions which rendered their conclusions inapplicable to the healthy body. [ ] _de la digestion des boissons alcooliques_, in _annales de chimie et de physique_, , tom. xxi. [ ] _ueber das verhalten des alkohols im thierischen organismus_, in _vierteljahrsschrift für die praktische heilkunde_, prague, . [ ] see moleschott, _circulation de la vie_, tom. ii. p. . [ ] so decisive is the paralyzing power of a narcotic dose of alcohol upon the stomach in some cases, that we have seen a drunken man vomit scarcely altered food which, it appeared, had been eaten fourteen hours before. the sum and substance of the above argument is that, as the narcotic dose of alcohol prevents the digestion of other food, it will also prevent the digestion of itself. a further criticism by m. baudot, supported by renewed experiments, is still more decisive. m. baudot justly observes that in order to substantiate their conclusions, messrs. lallemand, duroy and perrin should have at least been able, with their excessively delicate tests, to discover in the excretions _a large part_ of the alcohol which had been taken into the system. this, however, they never did. in all cases, the amount of alcohol recovered was very small, and bore but a trifling proportion to the amount which had been taken. according to these physiologists, the elimination always takes place chiefly through the kidneys. but m. baudot, in a series of elaborate experiments, has proved that, unless the dose has been excessive, _no sensible amount of alcohol reappears in the kidney-excretions for more than twenty-four hours_. the quantity is so minute that the alcoometer is not in the least affected by it, and it requires the chromic acid test even to reveal its presence. similar results have been obtained by experiments upon the breath. finally, the gravest doubts have been thrown upon the trustworthiness of the chromic acid test relied on by messrs. lallemand, duroy and perrin. it is considered possible, by good chemical authority, that the reactions in the test-apparatus, which they attributed to the escaping alcohol, may equally well have been caused by some of the results of alcoholic transformation. for reasons above given, however, it is probable that in cases of narcosis some alcohol always escapes. when we reflect upon its absorbability and its ready solubility in water, it seems likely beforehand that a considerable quantity must escape. but all that these able frenchmen can be said to have accomplished, is the demonstration of the fact that when you take into your system a greater quantity of alcohol than the system can manage, a part of it is expelled in the same state in which it entered. and this may be said of other kinds of food. these experiments have, therefore, instead of settling the question, left it substantially just where it was before. but we have now a more remarkable set of facts to contemplate. in many cases of typhoid fever, acute bronchitis, pneumonia, erysipelas, and diphtheria, occurring in dr. anstie's practice, it was found that the stomach could be made to retain nothing but wine or brandy. upon these alcoholic drinks, therefore, the patients were entirely sustained for periods sometimes reaching a month in duration.[ ] in nearly every case convalescence was rapid, and the emaciation was much slighter than usual: the quality of the flesh was also observed to be remarkably good. dr. slack, of liverpool, had two female patients who, loathing ordinary food, maintained life and tolerable vigour for more than three months upon alcoholic drinks alone. mr. nisbet reports "the case of a child affected with marasmus, who subsisted for three months on sweet whisky and water alone, and then recovered; and that of another child, who lived entirely upon scotch ale for a fortnight, and then recovered his appetite for common things." many similar examples might be cited. [ ] in typhoid and typhus the "poison-line" of alcohol is shifted, so that large quantities may be taken without risk of narcosis. women, in this condition, have been known to consume oz. of brandy (containing oz. of alcohol) _per diem_. it may be said that alcohol maintained these persons by retarding the waste of the tissues. this is no doubt an admissible supposition. there is no doubt that alcohol, by its waste-retarding action, will postpone for some time the day of death from starvation.[ ] but to this action there must be some limit. though the waste is retarded, it is not wholly stopped. though there is relatively less waste, there is still absolutely large waste. the mere act of keeping up respiration necessitates a considerable destruction of tissue. then the temperature of the body must be kept very near ° fahrenheit, or life will suddenly cease; and the maintenance of this heat involves a great consumption of tissue. now this waste, under the most favourable circumstances, will soon destroy life, unless it is balanced by actual repair. you may diminish the draught on your furnace as much as you please,--the fire will shortly go out unless fresh coal is added. upon these points the data are more or less precise. the amount of waste material daily excreted from the body, under ordinary circumstances, is a little more than seven pounds.[ ] of this the greater part is water, the quantity of carbon being about twelve ounces, and the quantity of nitrogenous matter about five ounces.[ ] to make up for this waste we usually require at least two and a half pounds of solid, and three pints of liquid, food.[ ] in dr. hammond's experiments, the weight-sustaining power of the alcohol taken seems to have amounted to four or five ounces.[ ] it will be seen, therefore, that in spite of any stimulant effect of alcohol upon nutrition, unless at least ten or twelve ounces of nitrogenous or carbonaceous matter be eaten daily, the weight of the body must rapidly diminish. [ ] it is not certain, however, that alcoholic drinks, as usually taken, materially retard the waste of tissue. these drinks contain but from to per cent of alcohol; the remainder being chiefly water, which is a great accelerator of waste. the weight-sustaining power of brandy, or especially of wine and ale, can, therefore, perhaps be hardly accounted for without admitting a true food-action. [ ] dalton, _human physiology_, p. . [ ] payen, _substances alimentaires_, p. . [ ] the liquid food may be taken in the shape of free water, or of water contained in the tissues of succulent vegetables. see pereira, _treatise on food and diet_, p. . [ ] _physiological memoirs_, philadelphia, , p. . now the experiments of chossat have demonstrated that no animal can suddenly lose more than two-fifths of its normal weight without dying of starvation. if a man, therefore, weigh lbs., for him lbs. is the starvation-point; as soon as he reaches that weight he dies. usually, indeed, death occurs before this degree of emaciation can have been attained,--in most cases, on the fifth or sixth day; though there are a few authentic instances of persons who have lived for twelve, and even sixteen, days before finally succumbing. in view of these facts, we are willing to grant that people may in rare cases live for three months on their own tissues, if waste be duly retarded. we are willing to grant it, though we do not believe it. but we are not prepared to admit that this process can go on for six months or a year; and we believe that the cases now to be cited can in nowise be got rid of by such an interpretation. mr. nisbet mentions the case of a man who lived for seven months entirely on spirit and water. at wavertree, a young man afflicted with heart-disease lived for five years principally, and for two years solely, on brandy. his allowance was at first six ounces, afterward a pint, _per diem_. his weight was not materially decreased, when, at the end of the five years, he died of his disease. but the next case is still more remarkable. dr. inman had a lady-patient, about twenty-five years old, plump, active and florid, but somewhat deficient in power of endurance. "this lady had two large and healthy children in succession, whom she successfully nursed. on each occasion she became much exhausted, the appetite wholly failed, and she was compelled to live solely on bitter ale and brandy and water; on this regimen she kept up her good looks, her activity and her nursing, and went on this way for about twelve months; the nervous system was by this time thoroughly exhausted, _yet there was no emaciation_, nor was there entire prostration of muscular power."[ ] [ ] anstie, op. cit. p. . for the accuracy of this statement there is to be had the testimony of dr. inman, the attendant physician, as well as that "of the lady's husband, of mutual friends occasionally residing in the house with her, of her mother, of her sisters, and of her nurse." we have apparently no alternative but to believe it; and if it is true, it is certainly decisive. it is nothing less than an _experimentum crucis_. the suggestion that this lady might have kept up her normal activity while nursing children, for a whole year, with no aliment except her own tissues and the water and vegetable matter contained in her ale and brandy, is too absurd to need refutation. the thing is an utter impossibility. moreover, not being emaciated at the end of the year, she had probably been consuming her own tissues but very little. her weight, her muscular activity, and the natural heat of her body, could have been sustained by nothing but the alcohol; which thus appears as a true food, at once nourishing, strength-giving, and heat-producing. this conclusion is further re-enforced by the numerous cases on record of persons who have lived actively for many years upon a diet of alcoholic liquor accompanied by a quantity of solid food notoriously inadequate to support life. the case of cornaro is outdone by some of those quoted by dr. anstie, as having occurred under his own observation. of twelve cases which are described in detail, the most remarkable is that of a man aged , whose diet for twenty years had consisted of one bottle of gin and one small fragment of toasted bread daily. this old fellow, says dr. anstie, "would have been of little service as a practical illustration of the bodily harm wrought by drinking, being in truth rather an unusually active and vigorous person for his time of life." probably the old man was not narcotized by his daily bottle of gin; or he would, long before the twenty years had elapsed, have shown symptoms of nervous disease. in most of these cases of abnormal diet, there occurs after a while a general breaking down of the nerve-centres, shown in delirium tremens, epileptic fits, or a sudden stroke of paralysis. they are not quoted, therefore, as examples to be followed, but as very important items of evidence in favour of the opinion that alcohol is food. taking all these considerations together, we believe it to be tolerably well made out that alcohol, whether changed within the body or not, is a true food, which nourishes, warms and strengthens. and dr. brinton, in the following passage, declares it to be, in many cases, a necessary food. "that teetotalism is compatible with health, it needs no elaborate facts to establish; but if we take the customary life of those constituting the masses of our inhabitants of towns, we shall find reason to wait before we assume that this result will extend to our population at large. and, in respect to experience, it is singular how few healthy teetotalers are to be met with in our ordinary inhabitants of cities. glancing back over the many years during which this question has been forced upon the author by his professional duties, he may estimate that he has sedulously examined not less than , to , persons, including many thousands in perfect health. wishing, and even expecting to find it otherwise, he is obliged to confess that he has hitherto met with but very few perfectly healthy middle-aged persons, successfully pursuing any arduous metropolitan calling under teetotal habits. on the other hand, he has known many total abstainers, whose apparently sound constitutions have given way with unusual and frightful rapidity when attacked by a casual sickness." "this," says an english reviewer of the french experiments, "is quite in accordance with what i have myself observed, and with what i can gather from other medical men; and it speaks volumes concerning the way in which we ought to regard alcohol. if, indeed, it be a fact that in a certain high state of civilization men require to take alcohol every day, in some shape or other, under penalty of breaking down prematurely in their work, it is idle to appeal to a set of imperfect chemical or physiological experiments, and to decide, on their evidence, that we ought to call alcohol a medicine or a poison, but not a food. i am obliged to declare that the chemical evidence is as yet insufficient to give any complete explanation of its exact manner of action upon the system; but that the practical facts are as striking as they could well be, and that there can be no mistake about them. and i have thought it proper that, while highly-coloured statements of the results of the new french researches are being somewhat disingenuously placed before the lay public, there should not be a total silence on the part of those members of the profession who do not see themselves called upon to yield to the mere force of agitation."[ ] if this view of the case, which so strongly recommends itself to the mind of the practical physician, be the true one, we are forced to regard teetotalism, considered not in its moral but in its physiological aspects, as a dietetic heresy nearly akin to vegetarianism. man can do without wine, as he can do without meat; but the rational course is to adopt that diet from which we can obtain the greatest amount of available vital power. [ ] brinton, _treatise on food and digestion_; and _letters on chemistry_, sept. ; cited in the pamphlet of gov. andrew, above-mentioned. but even if we were to give up the doctrine that alcohol is a true food, the great indisputed and indisputable fact of its stimulant value would still remain. tobacco neither nourishes the body nor warms it; yet it enables us to earn our daily bread with less fatigue, and to support the incessant trials of life with a more even spirit. the value of alcohol as a stimulant is inferior only to that of tobacco; or perhaps, for general purposes, it is quite unsurpassed. it compensates for the occasionally inevitable incapacity of ordinary food to maintain due nutrition; and in this way enables us to work longer, and with a lighter heart, and with less fear of ultimate depression. it bridges over the pitfalls which the complicated exigencies of modern life are constantly digging for us. warm-hearted but weak-headed radicalism may imagine a utopian state of things in which money will grow on bushes and every one mind the moral law, and digestion be always easy, and vexation infrequent, and "artificial" stimulus unnecessary; but this is not the state of things amid which we live. a modern man cannot, if he does his duty, secure to himself the enjoyment of such a state. there are times when he must sacrifice a little of his own round perfection, if it be only to lend a helping hand to his neighbour. a kind of valetudinarian philosophy is now afloat, which says, look out, above all things, for your own physical welfare. this philosophy contains a truth, but as usually manifested it is nothing but the result of a morbid self-consciousness. duty sometimes requires that we should cease coddling ourselves, and go to work, unless we would see some cause suffer which interests other men, living and to come, besides ourselves. we must sometimes run to put the fire out, even if we do thereby lose our dinner, and interfere with the stomach's requirements. it is useless, then, to talk about agents which "support us in doing wrong," when, from the very constitution of the world and of society, we can no more go exactly "right" than we can draw a line which shall be mathematically straight. it is useless to speculate about an ideal society in which men can dispense with the agents which economize their nervous strength, when we find as a historical fact that no nation has ever existed which has been able to dispense with those agents. as long as there are inequalities in the daily ratio of waste and repair to be rectified, so long we shall get along better with wine than without it. for this, looked at from the widest possible point of view, is the legitimate function of alcohol,--_to diminish the necessary friction of living_. this too is the view of liebig: "as a restorative, a means of refreshment when the powers of life are exhausted, of giving animation and energy where man has to struggle with days of sorrow, as a means of correction and compensation where misproportion occurs in nutrition, wine is surpassed by no product of nature or of art.... in no part of germany do the apothecaries' establishments bring so low a price as in the rich cities on the rhine; for there wine is the universal medicine of the healthy as well as the sick. it is considered as milk for the aged."[ ] [ ] liebig, _letters on chemistry_, p. . this is also the view of dr. anstie. comparing the action of alcohol upon the organism with that of chloroform and sulphuric ether, he observes: "it seems as if the former were intended to be the medicine of those ailments which are engendered of the _necessary_ everyday evils of civilized life, and has therefore been made attractive to the senses, and easily retained in the tissues, and in various ways approving itself to our judgment as _a food_; while the others, which are more rarely needed for their stimulant properties, and are chiefly valuable for their beneficent temporary poisonous action, by the help of which painful operations are sustained with impunity, are in great measure deprived of these attractions, and of their facilities for entering and remaining in the system."[ ] apart from its implied teleology, this passage contains the gist of the whole matter. [ ] anstie, op. cit. p. . as for the coming man, whom mr. parton appears to regard as a sort of pugilist or olympic athlete, we suppose he will undoubtedly have to exercise his brain sometimes, he will have to study, think and plan, he will have responsibilities to shoulder, his digestion will not always be preserved at its maximum of efficiency, his powers of endurance will sometimes be tried to the utmost. the period in the future when "we shall have changed all this" is altogether too remote to affect our present conclusion; which is that the coming man, so long as he is a member of a complex, civilized society, will continue to use, with profit as well as pleasure, the two universal stimulants, alcohol and tobacco. appendix. bibliography of tobacco. for the benefit of those readers who may feel interested in this subject, the following list is added, of the principal works which have been written on the effects of tobacco. the older ones have, of course, little scientific value, yet they are often interesting and suggestive. they usually made the best use of the science of their time, which is more than can be said of some of the later treatises. baumann: dissertatio de tabaci virtutibus. basil, . everart: de herba panacea. antwerp, . ziegler: taback von dem gar heilsamen wundkraute nicotiana. zurich, . marradon: dialogo del uso del tabaco. seville, . de castro: historia de las virtudes y propriedades de tabacco. cordova, . thorius: hymnus tabaci. leyden, . neander: tabacologia. leyden, . scriverius: saturnalia, seu de usu et abusu tabaci. haarlem, . braun: quæstio medica de fumo tabaci. marburg, . aguilar: contra il mal uso del tabaco. cordova, . frankenius: dissertatio de virtutibus nicotianæ. upsal, . ostendorf: traité de l'usage et de l'abus du tabac. paris, . venner: via recta ad vitam longam. london, . (see p. , for an entertaining discourse on tobacco.) ferrant: traité du tabac en sternutatoire. bourges, . cuffari: i biasimi del tabacco. palermo, . vitaliani: de abusu tabaci. rome, . tapp: oratio de tabaco. helmstadt, . balde: satyra contra abusum tabaci. munich, . magnenus: exercitationes xiv. de tabaco. ticino, . rumsey: organum salutis. london, . paulli: commentarius de abusu tabaci americanorum veteri. argentorat. . baillard: discours du tabac. paris, . de prade: histoire du tabac. paris, . van bontekoe: korte verhandeling van t' menschenleven gezondheit, ziekte en dood, etc. s' gravenhagen, . worp beintema: tabacologia, ofle korte verhandelinge over de toback. s' gravenhagen, . fagon: dissertatio an ex tabaci usu frequenti vita brevior. paris, . brunet: le bon usage du tabac en poudre. paris, . della fabra: dissertatio de animi affectibus, etc. ferrara, . manara: de moderando tabaci usu in europæis. madrid, . nicolicchia: uso ed abuso del tabacco. palermo, . keyl: dissertatio num nicotianæ herbæ usu levis notæ maculam contrahat. leipsic, . cohausen: pica nasi, seu de tabaci sternutatorii abusu et noxa. amsterdam, . meier: tabacomania. nordhaus, . ----: a dissertation on the use and abuse of tobacco in relation to smoaking, chewing, and taking of snuff. london, . plaz: de tabaco sternutatorio. leipsic, . stahl: dissertatio de tabaci effectibus salutaribus et nocivis. erfurt, . maloet: dissertatio an a tabaco, naribus assumpto, peculiaris quædam cephalalgiæ species, aliique effectus. paris, . alberti: de tabaci fumum sugente theologo. halle, . garbenfeld: dissertatio de tabaci usu et abusu. argent. . beck: de suctione fumi tabaci. altdorf, . büchner: de genuinis viribus tabaci. halle, . herment: dissertatio an post cibum fumus tabaci, etc. paris, . de la sone: dissertatio an tabacum homini sit lentum venenum. paris, . ferrein: dissertatio an ex tabaci usu frequenti vitæ summa brevior. paris, . petitmaitre: de usu et abusu nicotianæ. basil, . triller: disputatio de tabaci ptarmici abusu, affectus ventriculi causa. wittenberg, . cuntira: de viribus medicis nicotianæ ejusque usu et abusu. vienna, . hamilton: de nicotianæ viribus in medicina et de ejus malis effectibus in usu communi et domestico. edinburgh, . clarke: a dissertation on the use and abuse of tobacco. london, . szerlecki: monographie über den tabak. stuttgart, . stahmann: cigarre, pfeife, und dose. quedlinburg, . baldwin: evils of tobacco. new york, . trall: tobacco, its history, etc. new york, . ----: discours contre l'usage du tabac. nantes, . ----: discours en faveur du tabac. nantes, . tiedemann: geschichte des tabaks. frankfort, . vlaanderen: over den tabak, bijzonder over zijne on bewerktuigde bestanddeelen. utrecht, . felip: el tabaco. madrid, . hortmann: der tabaksbau. emmerich, . von bibra: die narkotischen genussmittel und der mensch. nürnberg, . tognola: riflessioni intorno all' uso igenico del tabacco. padua, . ----: a commentary on the influence which the use of tobacco exerts on the human constitution. sydney, . jarnatowsky: de nicotiana ejusque abusu. berlin, . asencio: reflexiones sobre la renta del tabaco. madrid, . hammond: the physiological action of alcohol and tobacco upon the human organism. american journal of medical sciences. october, . budgett: the tobacco question, morally, socially, and physically. london, . cavendish: a few words in defence of tobacco. london, . jeumont: du tabac, de son usage, de ses effets, etc. paris, . lizars: on the use and abuse of tobacco. london, . steinmetz: tobacco. london, . alexandre: contre l'abus du tabac. amiens, . fermond: monographie du tabac. paris, . koller: der tabac. augsburg, . prescott: tobacco and its adulterations. london, . schmid: der tabak als wichtige culturpflanze. weimar, . demoor: du tabac. brussels, . mourgues: traité de la culture du tabac. paris, . morand: essai sur l'hygiène du tabac. epinal, . fairholt: tobacco, its history and associations. london, . cheever: on tobacco. atlantic monthly, august, . _works in preparation._ the only authorized translation of berthold auerbach's new novel-- the villa on the rhine, complete, both in library and cheap edition, will be published several weeks before any other complete translation can be issued, either in periodical or book form. also, by copyright arrangement with the author, the works of friederich spielhagen. spielhagen's "problematic characters." (_in press._) herman schmid's "habermeister." cherbuliez' "comte kostia." taine's "italy (florence and venice)." "once and again." by mrs. c. jenkin, author of "madame de beaupré," "a psyche of to-day," etc. "cousin stella." by mrs. c. jenkin. leypoldt & holt, new york. recent publications of leypoldt & holt. broome st., n.y. (_copies sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of the price._) taine's italy. (rome, and naples.) translated by john durand. a new edition, with corrections and an index. vo. vellum cloth. $ . . 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"written with "the insight of colonel tod and the research of mr. duff, in prose almost as good as that of mr. froude." * * * if mr. hunter does not ultimately compel recognition from the world as an historian of the very first class, of the class to which not a score of englishmen have ever belonged, we entirely mistake our trade. * * * he has executed with admirable industry and rare power of expression a task, which, so far as we know, has never yet been attempted--he has given life and reality and interest to the internal history of an indian province under british rule, to a history, that is, without battles or sieges or martial deeds of any sort. * * we have given but a faint sketch of the mass of matter in this volume, the rare merit of which will sometimes only be perceptible to anglo-indians unaccustomed to see their dry annals made as interesting as a novel. we most cordially counsel mr. hunter, of whom, it is needful to repeat, the writer never heard before, to continue the career he has chalked out for himself."--_spectator._ "mr. hunter has given us a book that not only possesses sterling historical value, but is thoroughly readable. * * the picture of the great famine of , which did so much toward ruining the native bengal aristocracy, is worthy of thucydides; and the two chapters about the indian aborigines, especially about the santals, who astonished us so much in , form a pleasing monograph from which the reader may learn more about the origin of caste and the relations of the aryan and turanian languages, and the connection between buddhism and hinduism, than from a score of the old-fashioned 'authorities.'"--_imperial review._ "mr. hunter's style is charming; though not faultless, it is clear, direct, thoughtful, and often eloquent; and his matter is so full of varied interest, that, despite a few pages of somewhat technical discussion on a question of language, his book as a whole is fascinating to the general reader."--_n.y. evening post._ the ideal in art. by h. taine, author of "italy," etc. cloth. $ . . "it is a classic upon its subject, and ought to be not merely read, but mastered and made familiar by all who wish to have the right to form opinions of their own on the productions of the arts of design."--_n.y. evening post._ (_see notices of_ taine's italy _on another page_.) the nation. published thursdays, in new york. established july, . _one year, five dollars; clergymen, four dollars._ e. l. godkin & co., publishers, no. park place, new york. 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"i like the nation thoroughly, not only for its ability, but its tone. i have particularly liked many of its critical articles, which have seemed to me in every way superior, and level with the best culture of the time. they have thought in them and demand it of the reader--a very rare quality in most of the criticism of the day."--_prof. jas. russell lowell._ "i have been a reader of the nation since its first publication, and hope to continue to be till it dies, or i do.... it is a clear, sound paper. i wish it had a million subscribers."--_rev. henry ward beecher._ "allow me to express my great satisfaction at the course of the nation, and to wish you success."--_judge hugh l. bond, baltimore._ "thanks for the discrimination and courtesy which usually mark your columns, and which permit us to hope that it will be possible for an american newspaper to discuss principles without violating proprieties."--_gail hamilton._ "i wish it success from the bottom of my heart."--_rev. h. w. bellows._ "peculiarly suitable to the wants of educators and teachers; and hence i omit no opportunity to recommend it among my educational friends. if i could have but one american periodical, i should take the nation."--_j. d. philbrick, esq., superintendent of public schools, boston._ "i am glad to know of the pre-eminent success of your journal. it has a high rank amongst the newspapers and reviews of the day for the firm, bold stand it has taken for the rights of man, white or black."--_maj.-gen. o. o. howard._ "the nation newspaper is an honor to the american press, and a blessing to the american people."--_rev. calvin e. stowe._ "i recommend your paper to all i meet with, and whenever an opportunity presents itself."--_jas. e. yeatman, esq., pres. west. sanitary com., st. louis._ "its independence, manly candor, and real ability so entirely command my respect that i read perhaps with most interest those articles which controvert my own notions."--_hon. j. d. cox, governor of ohio._ "amidst the hackneyed dogmatism that prevails in american politics, the critical analyses of opinions and systems contained in the nation, are very grateful to any man at all accustomed to political thoughts."--_hon. thomas c. fletcher, gov. of missouri._ "i feel sure when i read it, that it is not written in the interest of any man or clique, but in the interest of what the editors believe to be sound doctrine, good learning and good taste."--_hon. richard h. dana, jr., boston._ [illustration: on the missouri steamer. page .] onward and upward series plane and plank field & forest-plane & plank-desk & debit cringle & cross-tree-bivouac & battle-sea & shore illustrated lee & shepard boston _the upward and onward series._ plane and plank; or, the mishaps of a mechanic. by oliver optic, author of "young america abroad," "the army and navy stories," "the woodville stories," "the boat-club stories," "the starry flag stories," "the lake-shore series," etc. with fourteen illustrations. boston: lee and shepard. new york: charles t. dillingham. entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by william t. adams, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington. electrotyped at the boston stereotype foundry, spring lane. to my young friend _george w. hills_ this book is affectionately dedicated. preface. "plane and plank" is the second of the upward and onward series, in which the hero, phil farringford, appears as a mechanic. the events of the story are located on the missouri river and in the city of st. louis. phil learns the trade of a carpenter, and the contrast between a young mechanic of an inquiring mind, earnestly laboring to master his business, and one who feels above his calling, and overvalues his own skill, is presented to the young reader, with the hope that he will accept the lesson. incidentally, in the person and history of phil's father the terrible evils of intemperance are depicted, and the value of christian love and earnest prayer in the reformation of the unfortunate inebriate is exhibited. though the incidents of the hero's career are quite stirring, and some of the situations rather surprising, yet phil is always true to himself; and those who find themselves in sympathy with him cannot possibly be led astray, while they respect his christian principles, reverence the bible, and strive with him to do their whole duty to god and man. harrison square, boston, _june , ._ contents. chapter i. page in which phil makes the acquaintance of mr. leonidas lynchpinne. chapter ii. in which phil meets with his first mishap. chapter iii. in which phil slips off his coat, and retreats in good order. chapter iv. in which phil endeavors to remedy his first mishap. chapter v. in which phil vainly searches for the gracewoods. chapter vi. in which phil wanders about st. louis and has a gleam of hope. chapter vii. in which phil hears from his friends and visits mr. clinch. chapter viii. in which phil goes to work, and meets an old acquaintance. chapter ix. in which phil meets a seedy gentleman by the name of farringford. chapter x. in which phil listens to a very impressive temperance lecture. chapter xi. in which phil takes his father to his new home. chapter xii. in which phil listens to a discussion, and takes part in a struggle. chapter xiii. in which phil has another mishap, and is taken to a police station. chapter xiv. in which phil recovers his money. chapter xv. in which phil produces the relics of his childhood. chapter xvi. in which phil struggles earnestly to reform his father. chapter xvii. in which phil meets the last of the rockwoods. chapter xviii. in which phil calls upon mr. lamar, and does not find him. chapter xix. in which phil finds himself a prisoner in the gamblers' room. chapter xx. in which phil is startled by the sight of a familiar face. chapter xxi. in which phil finds himself sixty-five dollars out. chapter xxii. in which phil returns to the den of the enemy. chapter xxiii. in which phil's meets a pale gentleman with one arm in a sling. chapter xxiv. in which phil meets an old friend, and mr. leonidas lynchpinne comes to grief. chapter xxv. in which phil finds the prospect growing brighter. chapter xxvi. in which phil listens to the confession of his persecutor, and ends plane and plank. plane and plank; or, the mishaps of a mechanic. chapter i. in which phil makes the acquaintance of mr. leonidas lynchpinne. "what do you think you shall do for a living, phil farringford, when you arrive at st. louis?" asked mr. gracewood, as we sat on the hurricane deck of a missouri river steamer. "i don't care much what i do, if i can only get into some mechanical business," i replied. "i want to learn a trade. i don't think i'm very vain when i say that i have about half learned one now." "perhaps you have half learned several," added my excellent friend, with a smile. "i have no doubt you will make a good mechanic, for you are handy in the use of tools; and you have been thrown so much upon your own resources that you are full of expedients." "i am always delighted when i have a difficult job to do. nothing pleases me so much as to study up the means of overcoming an obstacle," i added. "the first qualification for any pursuit is to have a taste for it. you will make a good mechanic." "i am only afraid that after i have learned a trade, i shall not care to work at it." "that won't do," protested mr. gracewood. "you mustn't keep jumping from one thing to another. frequent change is the enemy of progress. you must not be fickle." "but, after i have learned my trade, or rather finished learning it, there will be no more difficulties to overcome." "yes, there will. what trade do you mean to learn?" "the carpenter's, i think." "there may be an infinite variety in the trade." "i know there may be, but there is not. one house must be very much like every other one, i don't think i could be contented to keep doing the same thing over and over again." "if you wish to succeed, you must stick to your trade, phil farringford." "should i stick to it if i can do better at something else?" "you must, at least, be very sure that you can do better at something else." "of course i shall; but, if i learn my trade, i shall always have it to fall back upon." "that is very true; but i wish to impress it upon your mind that fickleness of purpose is fatal to any real success in morals, in science, and in business." our conversation was interrupted by the stopping of the steamer at a wood-yard; for i never lost an opportunity, on those occasions, to take a walk on shore. i was nervously anxious to see everything there was to be seen. all was new and strange; and every day, as the settlements on the banks of the great river increased in number and extent, afforded me a new sensation. as i had been brought up far away from the haunts of civilization, even a house was a curiosity to me; and i gazed with astonishment at the busy scenes which were presented to me in some of the larger towns. at st. joseph we had taken on board quite a number of passengers, and the scene in the cabin had become much livelier than before. the addition was not wholly an improvement, for among the new arrivals were not a few gamblers. from this time the tables were occupied by these blacklegs, and such of the passengers as they could induce to join them in the hazardous sport, from early in the morning until late at night. the parties thus engaged were surrounded by a crowd of curious observers, watching the turnings of the game, and perhaps calculating their own chances if they engaged in the wretched business. i had looked on myself with interest, and when i saw a man put five dollars into his pocket on the turn of a card, i thought it was an easy way to make money; but then i had an opportunity to see that it was just as easy a way to lose it. mr. gracewood had called me away from my position near the table, after the gamblers had commenced their operations, and cautioned me never to play for money at any game. he explained to me the nature of the business, and assured me that the gamblers who had come on board at st. joseph were of the vilest class of men. after his lecture i was not tempted to try my hand with the party at the table. the talk about making and losing money at games of chance introduced the subject of my own finances. i had paid my passage to st. louis, and had besides nearly one hundred dollars in gold in a shot-bag in my pocket. while we were talking, i took out the bag, and counted the pieces, as i had done several times on the passage, to assure myself that my funds were all right. my excellent friend told me i must learn prudence, and that i ought not to exhibit my money, especially while we had so many suspicious characters on board. i was alarmed, and looked around to discover who had observed me. one of the passengers, who had come on board at "st. joe," was promenading the deck, and i had noticed that he passed quite near me several times. he was a young man flashily dressed, but he did not look like a bad man. i put my shot-bag into my pocket, resolved not to show it again, and we continued to discuss the financial question till it led us to the consideration of my future occupation. the wood-yard where the boat stopped was in a lonely region, and it was just sunset when she touched the shore. its location was at the mouth of a stream down which the wood was brought in flatboats, though a young forest was growing in the region around the landing. as it was too damp for his wife and daughter to walk, mr. gracewood would not go on shore, and i went alone. it was a great luxury to stretch one's legs for an hour on the hard ground after living for weeks on the steamer. "how long before you leave?" i asked of the captain, as i went over the plank. "perhaps not till morning," he replied. "do you stay here all night?" "it's going to be foggy, and i don't think we can run down to leavenworth, which is not more than seven miles from here. we should have to lie there till morning if we went on." i was sorry for this, because mrs. gracewood had a friend in the place, where we intended to spend the evening, and i was anxious to see the inside of a civilized house. however, we could make the visit the next day, for the boat was to stay several hours at the town. i went on shore, and several of the passengers did the same. "it's quite smoky on the river," said a young man, coming up to me as we landed. "yes; the captain says he shall probably have to lie here till morning," i replied. "that's too bad," added my companion, the st. joe passenger whom i had observed on the hurricane deck when i was counting my money. "i meant to go to a prayer-meeting in leavenworth this evening." "a prayer-meeting!" i repeated, my interest awakened; for i had heard mr. gracewood speak of such gatherings, though i had never attended one. "when i came up the river three days ago, they were holding them every evening in the chapel; and i am anxious to attend." "i should like to go very much." "i think i shall go as it is," continued the young man, looking at his watch. "how can you go if the boat remains here?" "i can walk. it is not more than three or four miles across the bend of the river." "i should like to go with you very much," i answered. "i should be very glad of your company." "if you will wait a few moments, i will speak to mr. gracewood." he consented to wait, and i hastened to the saloon. when i had stated my desire, mr. gracewood rather objected. "you don't know the person with whom you are going," said he. "i think i can take care of myself, sir. but i don't think there can be any danger in going with a young man who is willing to walk four miles to attend a prayer-meeting." "perhaps not. i should really like to go to one myself." "i don't think there can be any danger," interposed mrs. gracewood. "if we could get a vehicle here, we would all go." "there is the captain. i will ask him if one cannot be obtained," said mr. gracewood. the captain said there was no vehicle suitable to convey a lady, but he would send a party of three in the steamer's boat, if they would pay the expenses of the two oarsmen in leavenworth for the night. "but can't you send five as well as three?" asked mr. gracewood, who did not object to the expense. "the boat is hardly large enough to carry them besides the two oarsmen. i lost my boat going up the river, and i had to take such a one as i could find," replied the captain. "but i would rather walk," i added. "i will meet you in the town." "very well, phil farringford. go to the landing when you arrive, and wait for us." i promised to do so, and joined the young man on the shore. we started immediately for our destination, and passing through the grove of young trees, we reached the open prairie, over which there was a wagon track. "i don't happen to know your name," said my companion. "philip farringford; but my friends call me phil." "farringford; i know a man of that name in st. louis," replied he. "he used to be a large steamboat owner, but he has gone to ruin now." "gone to ruin?" "yes, drank hard, and lost all his property. he is a poor, miserable fellow now." "had he a family?" "he had a wife, but she left him years ago. she was a very pretty woman, they say, though i never saw her." "did you ever hear that he and his wife were on board a steamer which was burned on the upper missouri?" "never did." very likely this man was the owner of the steamer after which i had been named; but it was not probable that he was in any manner related to me. my curiosity was satisfied, or rather my new friend could give me no further information in regard to him. "there was a steamer of that name burned on the missouri about eleven years ago," i added. "well, i was a boy then, and did not come to st. louis till years after." "i should like to ascertain something about that boat, mr.--you didn't tell me your name." "just so; i did not. my name is--my name is lynchpinne," he replied, with some hesitation, so that i wondered whether he had not forgotten his name--"leonidas lynchpinne." i thought it was a queer name, but an instinct of politeness prevented me from saying so. "what do you wish to know in regard to that steamer, phil?" he asked. "some of my relations were on board of her, and i should like to ascertain whether they were saved or not." "farringford will know all about it, if you can catch him when he is sober, which is not very often. i will help you out with it when we get to st. louis." "thank you, mr. lynchpinne. i shall be under very great obligations to you if you can help me." i thought my new friend was a very obliging young man, and i was glad to know him, especially as he was in the habit of attending prayer-meetings. chapter ii. in which phil meets with his first mishap. four miles was a short walk to me, and when we reached leavenworth, i was as fresh as when we started. the town, then in the third year of its existence, had a population of two thousand, and some substantial buildings had already been erected. "where is the landing-place?" i asked, as we entered the town. "it is not far from here," replied mr. lynchpinne. "but that boat won't be here for an hour or two yet." "but i would rather go there at once." "there is no hurry; but we will go down in a few minutes. i want to inquire at what time the prayer-meeting commences." "i will go directly to the landing, if you will tell me the way. i won't keep you waiting, and i will see you at the meeting." "don't be in a hurry. it is only a little past six, and the boat won't arrive for an hour, certainly. i will go down with you in five minutes," persisted my companion. "i would not have my friends wait for me a moment," i added. "we shall have to wait an hour for them. we will go up to the hotel, and engage a room, for we may not find one after the meeting." he conducted me through the principal street of the town, and i gazed with interest at the shops, houses, and people. "how much farther have we to go?" i asked, when i judged that the five minutes had expired. "only a short distance; but we are going towards the river all the time." "we passed a hotel just now." "that is not the one i stop at when i am here. the prices are too high for me. i have money enough, but you know a young man ought to be economical on principle." i thought this was very good logic, and i fully subscribed to it; for, though i had almost a hundred dollars in my pocket, i wished to save as much as possible of it. mr. lynchpinne turned down a cross street, and presently stopped before a large two-story frame house, the lower part of which was a shop of some kind; but it was closed. on the outside of the building there was a flight of stairs leading to the second story. "we will go up here and inquire about the prayer-meeting," said my new friend. "it won't take but a moment." "very well; but don't be long. i will wait here till you come down." "no; come up." "i had just as lief wait here." "but this is the place where we shall sleep. a friend of mine lets out some rooms here to lodgers. we can sleep here for fifty cents each, and it would cost a dollar at the hotel." "all right; you engage a room for both of us." "but come up. if you should want to go to bed before i am ready to come in, you won't be able to find your room, if you don't go and look at it now." i thought we were wasting more time in debating the matter than it would take for me to look at the chamber, and i followed him up the stairs. we entered the building, which was of considerable dimensions. i groped my way, after my friend, through long entries, which were not lighted, until, after turning two corners, he halted and knocked. "who's there?" called a voice from within. "lynch," replied my guide. "lynch is the short of lynchpinne," he added to me. "come in!" i heard the springing of a bolt on the door before it was opened. "go in, phil," said my companion, placing himself behind me, and gently forcing me into the apartment. the room was not more than twelve feet square. the only furniture it contained was a chair and a small toilet-table. the former was placed in one corner, and the latter directly in front of it. "is there to be a prayer-meeting this evening?" asked mr. lynchpinne of the man who sat behind the table. "of course." "at what time?" "half past seven. what have you there?" continued the man behind the table. "a dove who has the yellow." "right; we will begin the meeting now then," added the man, producing a little silver box, open on one side, so that i could see it contained a pack of cards. this was the first intimation i had that anything was wrong. the sight of the cards roused my suspicions, as well they might. i had heard the snap of the bolt as the man locked the door when we entered. i looked about me, and discovered that there were no windows in the room, though there was another door besides that by which we had entered. "put that up," said mr. lynchpinne. "you know that i never gamble." "i thought you wanted to open the meeting." "i don't know what you mean," added my companion, who certainly looked very innocent. "o, you don't!" "of course i don't. my young friend and i must stay in town over night, and we want a room. have you any left, redwood?" "not a room." "can't you find one?" persisted my friend. "everything on this floor is let by the week." "there's the corner room in the attic," said the man who had opened the door when we entered. "show it to them, glynn," added redwood, who appeared to be the proprietor of the establishment. "i know where it is. give me a light, and i won't trouble you," said lynchpinne. glynn opened a door which led to another room, and soon appeared with a rusty iron candlestick, and the stump of a candle, which he lighted. "come, phil, we will see the room," said lynchpinne, when we were in the entry. "what sort of a place is this?" i demanded. "i don't like the looks of it." "nor i," he replied. "i should judge by the looks that redwood gambles." "i think i won't stay here. i don't want to be in a gambling-house." "humph! it will be just the same if you go to the hotel. let us look at the room, at any rate." "you have seen it before." "but i wish you to see it; then, if you don't like to stay here, we will go to the hotel." i followed him up the narrow flight of stairs, and at the end of an entry, which extended the whole length of the building, we entered a chamber. it contained a rude bed, a chair, and a wash-stand. "not very elegant accommodations," said lynchpinne, as we surveyed the room; "but when i can save half a dollar without any real sacrifice of comfort, i do so." "i had as lief sleep here as anywhere," i replied. "wouldn't it have been more economical to stay on board the steamer?" "doubtless it would; but i wanted to come, and so did you. we will do it as cheap as we can--that's all." "i'm satisfied." "then i will put this candle on the chair, with a couple of matches by the side of it, so that we can come in without any assistance." "let us be in a hurry, for i am afraid that boat will get to the landing before we do," i added, impatiently. "you need not concern yourself about her. we shall have to wait half an hour when we get to the river. but i am all ready." "so am i." "i hope you haven't much money about you, phil," said my companion, as he placed the candle on the chair. "i have a little. but why do you say that?" "because there are a great many bad men about these new towns; and some of them would not scruple to rap you over the head for your money. besides, there will be a crowd on the steamboat levee, and we may have our pockets picked. i think i shall hide my money in the bed." suiting the action to the word, he took his wallet from his pocket, and thrust his arm into the bed up to the shoulder. "no one will think of looking there for it," he added, as if thoroughly satisfied with what he had done. "i advise you to do the same." "i don't mean to leave my money here," i replied. "i don't like the looks of the people in this house." "nor i: but they will not think of such a thing as looking into the bed for money. take my advice, phil." "no; i think i can take care of what money i have," i answered. "you haven't been about this region so much as i have, or you wouldn't run any risks," he continued; and i thought he was very persistent about the care of my funds. "that may be, though i think my money will be safer in my pocket than in that bed. but come, mr. lynchpinne. we are wasting our time, and we had better hurry down to the river." "how much money have you, phil?" asked my companion. "i have enough to pay my way for a few days longer," i replied, moving towards the door. "i hate to see a fellow come into a place like this and lose all his money." "you needn't trouble yourself at all about it. if i lose it, i won't blame you, for you have certainly given me abundant warning." "at least put your money in a safe place on your person before we go out." "it's all right," i answered, placing my hand upon my pocket, where the shot-bag which held my funds was deposited. "but hurry up, and let us go to the landing." "is that where you keep your money?" he added. "you are certain to lose it all if you carry it in that pocket. put it inside your vest, and then button your coat." "there is no pocket inside of my vest." "no matter for that. tie it up in your handkerchief, and fasten it to your suspender. do anything with it, except to leave it in that pocket." i rather liked his suggestion, though i was not quite satisfied with the degree of interest he manifested in the safety of my money. i took out the shot-bag, and wrapped it in the handkerchief, and was about to deposit it in the place he had indicated, when, with a sudden spring, he snatched the bag from me, kicked over the chair on which the candle had been placed, and fled from the room. i was in total darkness; but i leaped forward to grapple with the assailant, for i was determined not to lose my money without a struggle to recover it. i was taken wholly by surprise, for i had not suspected that a young man who was in the habit of attending prayer-meetings would be capable of any dishonest act. as i leaped forward to the door, it was closed before me. the villain had made his calculations beforehand, and moved with greater facility than i could. i heard him lock the door upon me, and i immediately realized that i was a prisoner in the strange house. then i understood the nature of my kind friend's solicitude about my funds. he had been laboring all this time to induce me to produce my shot-bag, so that he could snatch it from me. i heard his footsteps in the long entry, as he retreated from the scene of his crime. i took hold of the door, and tried to pull it open; but though it was a sham affair, i did not succeed. if i shouted, i should doubtless call up redwood, or his assistant; and i came to the conclusion that the house was a den of robbers and gamblers. i decided to exercise my skill still further upon the door. chapter iii. in which phil slips off his coat, and retreats in good order. it is scarcely necessary for me to say that i was exceedingly indignant at the trick played upon me by mr. leonidas lynchpinne; and i was not at all comforted by the reflection that he had used the cloak of religion to cover his designs. he had seen me counting my gold on board of the steamer; and the wisdom of mr. gracewood's advice on that occasion had already been demonstrated. if i had not carelessly exhibited the contents of my shot-bag, the unpleasant event which had happened to me could not have occurred. i went to work upon the lock of the door. i have said that i am fond of encountering a difficulty; but i must say that the difficulty of opening that door was an exception to the general rule. i did not enjoy it at all. i fingered over it a while in the dark, with no success, and with no prospect of any, till it occurred to me that the candle and the matches which my companion had placed in the chair were available. i felt about the floor till i found them, and soon had a little light on the subject. the partition was a very superficial piece of work, and i saw that, if i could not spring the bolt of the lock, i could pull the door open. the door did not come within half an inch of the threshold, and there was a space equally wide at the top. i pulled the bottom out with my fingers till i could thrust the handle of my knife in at the side. the door was thin, and sprang easily under the pressure. when i got a fair hold, i pulled it open, tearing out the fastening from the frame of the door. the creaking and cracking produced by the operation amounted to a considerable noise; but i made haste to use the advantage i had gained before any of the villanous occupants of the house discovered me. taking the candle in my hand, i walked through the long entry towards the stairs by which i had come up. but i had gone but half the distance before i discovered the man glynn hastening in the opposite direction. he was a burly fellow, and i suddenly experienced a feeling of regret that i was not on the other side of him, for i was satisfied that any conquest i might gain over him would be by the use of my legs rather than my fists. "what's that noise here?" demanded glynn, halting in the middle of the passage. "i made some noise in opening the door of the room." "lynch says some one is breaking into the rooms. are you the one?" "no; i didn't break in; i broke out. but if you will excuse me, i will go, for i am in a hurry to get to the river." "never saw a rogue yet that was not in a hurry." "what do you mean by that?" i demanded. "some one has been breaking into our rooms, and i only want to catch the fellow that did it." "i am not the fellow." "lynch says you are." "where is lynch?" "gone out; i don't know where. what have you been doing up here?" "i have been robbed of my money by the fellow you call lynch; and i only want to get hold of him," i replied. "that won't go down here," said glynn, shaking his head. "well, i shall go down, any how." "not yet, till i see what you have been about here," added he, as he took me by the wrist, and walked in the direction from which i had just come. fully persuaded that i should make nothing by resistance, i determined to await my opportunity, rather than spend my strength in a useless battle, in which i was liable to have my head broken. he led me to the room i had just left, the door of which was open. the splintered door-frame betrayed my operations at once. "did you do that?" demanded glynn, savagely. "i did." "then you are the chap i've been looking for," said he, squeezing my wrist till the bones crackled. "lynch snatched my money, and then locked me into the room, while he ran away. that's the whole story." "i tell you that won't go down," added glynn, giving me a rude shake. "isn't this the room to which you sent him and me, and didn't you give him the key?" "and didn't you break down this door? that's what i want to know." "i have said that i did; and i have explained the reason of it." "redwood may settle the business to suit himself. come down to the office." he walked me through the long entry, and down the stairs to a room adjoining that we had entered before. glynn explained to the man i had seen with the silver box in his hand, and who was doubtless the proprietor of the house, what had occurred in the attic. "i see," said redwood. "this is a very pretty story; and this boy wants to hurt the reputation of the house by declaring that he has been robbed here. as you say, glynn, that won't go down." "but it is true," i protested. "you know it isn't true. how old are you, boy?" "thirteen." "how much money did you lose?" asked redwood, with an obvious sneer. "nearly a hundred dollars." "in wildcat bank notes, i dare say." "no, sir, in gold." "that's a likely story! boys of thirteen don't travel round much in these times with a hundred dollars in gold in their trousers' pockets." "but i had the money, and i have been robbed in this house." "i don't believe a word of it. but you have been breaking down my doors, and trying to get into my rooms. there isn't much law here, but you shall try on what little there is." "i can prove all i say by my friends on board of the steamer." "it's too late to do anything to-night, glynn. you must keep him till morning. lock him up in no. ." "i'm not going to be locked up in no. ," i protested, my indignation getting the better of my discretion, for i could not help thinking of mr. gracewood and his family fretting and worrying about me all night; and a sense of the injustice to which i was subjected stung me to the soul. "perhaps you are not; but we'll see," replied redwood, with his hand on the knob of the door which opened into the room i had first entered with lynchpinne, and in which i heard voices. "is the man i came with in there?" i asked, pointing to the door. "no; take him round to no. , glynn." "come along, youngster," said the man, as he seized me by the collar of my coat, and dragged me out into the entry. i was powerless in the grasp of the stout fellow, and he led me along the entry till we had almost reached the door by which we had entered the building. at a door on the right, marked no. , in red chalk, my custodian halted. setting his candlestick upon the floor, he applied the key to the door, for he still held me by the collar with one hand. i had no taste whatever for being locked up in no. , which i saw was an inner chamber, like the gambling apartment i had first visited. while glynn was unlocking the door, a piece of strategy occurred to me, which i instantly adopted. like the prudent shipmaster, who is sometimes compelled to cut away a mast to save the ship, i was obliged to sacrifice my coat to obtain my liberty. throwing my arms behind me, i slipped out of the garment, and sprang to the outside door, leaving the coat in the hands of glynn. fortunately the door was ajar, and throwing it open, i fled down the stairs with a celerity which doubtless astonished my burly jailer. "stop, you rascal!" shouted glynn; but, without pausing to consider the polite invitation, i promptly declined it. "the next instant the iron candlestick struck me in the back, but inflicted no damage upon me. it was followed by another missile, which i did not identify, and then by my coat. i do not think the fellow meant to return the garment i needed so much on a cool night; but, having it in his hand, he threw it at me, as he had everything else within his reach. i grasped the coat, and ran down the street, closely pursued by glynn. finding i was attracting the attention of people in the street, two or three of whom attempted to stop me when they saw a man was pursuing me, i turned into a cross street. i ran with my coat on my arm, and soon distanced my clumsy pursuer. i turned several times, but i had no idea where i was or whither i was going, and i soon found myself out on the prairie. [illustration: phil escapes from glynn. page .] no one was near me, and i was satisfied that glynn had abandoned the chase. i put on my coat, and walked leisurely in the direction which i thought would lead me to the river. i was vexed and discouraged at the loss of my money. my first mishap gave me some experience of the disadvantages of civilization, for in the field and forest from which i had come, we had no gamblers, or thieves, except the indians. it would be a very pretty story to tell mr. gracewood, that i had not been smart enough to take care of myself, in spite of my boast to that effect, and that i had lost all my money, except a little change in silver, which i carried in my vest pocket. it was exceedingly awkward and annoying, and i was almost ashamed to meet my excellent friend. i continued to walk, keeping the houses of the town on my left, expecting soon to see the river. but it seemed to me that the longer i walked, the more i did not see it, and the less became the probability that i should see it. in a word, i could not find any river, and i concluded that i was journeying away from it, instead of towards it. the houses on my left diminished in number, and i saw that all the lights were behind me. i thought that, by this time, glynn had given up the chase, and was probably busy in attending to the wants of the gamblers in redwood's den. turning to the left, i walked towards the centre of the town, and soon struck a broad street, which had been laid out, and on which an occasional house had been erected. this course brought me to the middle of the place, and in front of the hotel. i ventured to inquire the way to the river. taking the direction pointed out to me, i reached the landing-place without further difficulty. i found the place where the steamers stopped, but there was no boat to be seen. i visited every point above and below the landing; i inquired in shops and offices, and of everybody i met; but i could not discover the steamer's boat, and no one had seen it or heard of it. it was very strange, and i was perplexed, but not alarmed. a trip of seven miles in a boat, even in the evening, was not a very perilous undertaking, and i was not willing to believe that any accident had happened to my friends. i had seen a clock in one of the stores where i had called, and i knew it was half past eight. the boat must have arrived at least an hour before, if it had come at all; but i had almost reached the conclusion that my friends had abandoned the excursion. but if they had come, mr. gracewood would go to the prayer-meeting, expecting to find me there, and i went in search of such a gathering. chapter iv. in which phil endeavors to remedy his first mishap. i went up to the centre of the town, where i had seen a church; but it was closed, and all its windows were dark. i inquired for the other churches, and visited the rest of them; but i could find no prayer-meeting. those whom i asked had not heard of any meetings. by this time i concluded that i was an idiot to believe that the prayer-meeting was anything but a ruse on the part of mr. leonidas lynchpinne, otherwise lynch, which was probably his true name, and which he had doubtless extended for my especial benefit. i was disgusted, and heartily wished i had not left the steamer. i made up my mind that it was not safe to trust any stranger, even if he said he was in the habit of attending prayer-meetings; but i ought to add that i have always found it safe to trust those who really attend them, and really take an interest in them. i had been duped, deceived, robbed. i wanted my money back, and i was quite as anxious to see lynch as i was mr. gracewood. i walked up to the hotel, and looked at every body i saw in the public rooms, hoping that my fellow-passenger had concluded to pay a dollar for his lodging, instead of fifty cents at the gambling den, which i thought he now could afford to do, with his funds replenished with the contents of my shot-bag. he was not there, and i went over towards the house where i had been robbed. i approached the locality very cautiously, for i was not anxious to confront the burly glynn. i examined the building at a respectful distance, and tried to fix the location of the attic chamber where lynch had plundered me; but i had twisted about so many times in the long entries that i was unable to do so. occasionally a man, or a party of men, went up the steps, and i supposed them to be the lodgers in the house. i watched those who went in and those who came out, in the hope that i might see lynch. i did not see him, and perhaps it was just as well for me that i did not, for, as i felt then, i should certainly have "pitched into him." i could not do anything to help myself. i was tempted to arm myself with a club and go into the lodging-house in search of the rascal who had robbed me; but this would have been very imprudent. it was possible that lynch was still in the house, and that he would occupy the room in the attic. i could not help thinking that redwood was his confederate, and that my money would be shared between them. they seemed to understand each other perfectly, and i recalled the remark of my companion, incomprehensible to me when it was uttered, that i was "a dove with the yellows." a dove is the emblem of innocence, and the yellows i took to be a metaphor, based upon the color of the pieces in my shot-bag. it was clearly more prudent for me to wait till the next morning before i attempted to do anything; and, having satisfied myself of the correctness of my conclusion, i decided to wait, with what patience i could, for the assistance of my friends the next day. the night was advancing, and i had no place to sleep. i had not money enough left to pay even for a cheap lodging; and it was rather cool to camp on the ground without a blanket. but i had a berth on board of the steamer, if i could find my way back to her. i was not so tired that i could not walk four miles. i started for the wood-yard, and, with less difficulty than i expected, i found the road over the prairie. as i trudged along in the darkness, i thought of all the events of the evening. it was a pity that the world contained any such rascals as "mr. leonidas lynchpinne;" but i was confident that the next time i met one of his class i should be a match for him, and would not even go to a prayer-meeting with him. it was possible that this worthy had returned to the steamer, relying upon redwood to retain me till after the steamer had left the town; but i did not depend much upon finding him in his state-room. reaching the wood-yard, i went on board of the steamer. though it was nearly midnight, the gamblers on board were still plying their infamous vocation. i went to the table, and satisfied myself that lynch was not among them. i visited the state-room which mr. gracewood had occupied with me since we left council bluffs, where the number of passengers increased so that i could no longer have a room to myself. he was not there; and there was no light in the room occupied by his wife and daughter. i was not willing to believe they had left the boat till i obtained this evidence. the bar of the steamer was still open, for wherever the gamblers were whiskey was in demand. i asked the bar-keeper where the captain was, and learned that he had retired; but the clerk was still up, and i soon found him, for i wished to ascertain where lynch's room was. "well, phil, you are up late," said the clerk, as i walked up to him; and in the long trip i had become well acquainted with him. "i have been down to leavenworth," i replied. "why did you come back? we shall be there early in the morning." "i had to come back. do you take the names of all the passengers?" "yes; we have to put all the names on the berth list." "is there one by the name of leonidas lynchpinne?" i asked. "certainly not," he replied, laughing. "or any name like it?" "i will look, if you wish." "do, if you please, and i will tell you why i ask." we went to the office, and he examined his list. "lyndon lynch--" "that's the man," i interposed. "lynch. which is his room?" "no. ." "i should like to know whether he is in it, or not," i added. "he came on board at st. joe," said the clerk, as we walked to no. . lynch was not there, and the other occupant of the room was playing cards at the table. i sat down with the clerk, and related to him all the events of the evening. occasionally he smiled, and even laughed when i spoke of going to a prayer-meeting. i felt cheap to think i had been duped so easily, and was a subject for the merriment of the clerk. "you will never see your money again, phil," said he, when i had concluded. "why not? don't they have any law in these civilized regions." "you can have all the law you want when you find your man. this lynch is probably one of these blacklegs. they are miserable scoundrels, who float about everywhere." "but the man who kept the lodging-house was in league with him." "very likely; but it don't appear from your story that he had anything to do with the robbery. your own evidence would acquit him." i did not derive much comfort from the clerk's remarks, though i could not help acknowledging the truth of what he said. however, the loss of a hundred dollars would not ruin me, uncomfortable and inconvenient as it was. i could draw upon mr. gracewood, who had fifteen hundred dollars of my funds in his possession. but i intended to make an effort the next day, while the boat lay at leavenworth, to find lynch, and have him lynched, if possible. "but why did you come back, phil?" continued the clerk. "mr. gracewood and his family went down in the boat." "i couldn't find them, or the boat. i was almost sure they had not started." "they went." "it's very strange i could not find the boat. i inquired of twenty persons, and no one had seen or heard of it. do you suppose anything could have happened to them?" "it is not probable, though of course it is possible. the current of the river is very swift, and the shores are rocky. but they had two of our deck hands with them, and i should say that any accident was next to impossible." i was of his opinion, though i could not help worrying about them. i went to my room and retired. i was very weary; but, though disposed to consider still further the events of the evening, i fell asleep in spite of myself. when i awoke the next morning, the boat was lying at the landing in leavenworth. it was only a little after sunrise, but the hands were busy loading and discharging freight. i hastily dressed myself, wondering how i could have slept so long; but i had walked not less than fifteen miles the preceding evening, and perhaps it was more strange that i waked so early. "have you found the boat, captain?" i asked, with breathless interest, as i hastened to the main deck, where i found the master of the steamer. "no, phil; and i am a good deal worried about your friends," he replied. "why, where are they?" "i have no idea; but i have been up and down the levee from one end of the town to the other, and i can't find the boat. i don't understand it." "i could not find it last night. i asked twenty persons, but no one had seen such a party as i described," i added. "do you know the name of the person they intended to visit?" "i do not. i may have heard it, but i don't remember anything about it." "the boat will not start before noon, and we may hear of them before that time," said the captain. "did you look along the shore as you came down?" i asked. "not particularly; but if they had been on the shore the pilot would have seen them. the clerk told me you lost your money last night, phil." "yes, sir;" and i repeated my story to him. "we will take an officer and visit the house," added the captain. "the sooner we go, the more likely we shall be to find lynch," i suggested. "we will go at once, then." captain davis and i landed, and walked up to the hotel. an officer was procured, and i led the way to the lodging-house. we entered without announcing our visit, and proceeded to the office, as glynn had called the room in front of the gambling den. "so you have come back, youngster," said the burly assistant. "where is the man that calls himself lynch?" demanded the officer. "no such man here," replied glynn. "don't know him." "i suppose not," said the officer, ironically. "what room did you take with him, young man?" he added, turning to me. "i don't know the number, but i can lead you to it." "what's the matter?" asked glynn, innocently. "this young man was robbed in your house last night." "was he really, though?" added the assistant. "you know that he was." "he told me he was, but i didn't believe it. the youngster went to a room with a man, and i heard some one breaking down doors. i caught this youngster up there alone. but if he was robbed, that's another thing," continued glynn, who seemed to have a very proper and wholesome respect for the officer. "i will go up to that room, and see if lynch is there." "you needn't trouble yourself," said the prudent official. "i will go myself." "i'll go up and show you the way." "where is redwood?" "not up yet. i will call him." "no; i will call him myself when i want him." glynn led the way up to the attic, and i was tolerably confident, from his manner, that we should find lynch in the room. we found the door locked, in spite of the damage i had done to it. chapter v. in which phil vainly searches for the gracewoods. "of course you know whether the man we are looking for is in this room or not, glynn," said the officer, when he found that the door was locked. "'pon my word i do not," protested the assistant. "did you let the room to any other person?" "i did; but lynch may occupy it with him, for aught i know. these fellows all run together, and i don't know who are in the rooms. we let them for a dollar a night, and don't care who sleeps in them." the officer knocked at the door, and was promptly answered by a person whose voice did not sound at all like lynch's. my hopes were failing, and i would have taken half my money, and given a receipt in full for the whole, if i could have made such a trade. "open the door," said the officer. even this request was promptly complied with, and we found the bed occupied by only one person. glynn protested that he had not seen lynch since he gave him the key and the light early in the evening; and, whether we believed him or not, we were forced to accept his explanation. we saw redwood afterwards, and he appeared to be as innocent as his immaculate assistant. both of them apologized to me for the rude treatment to which i had been subjected, and declared that they had made a bad mistake in taking me for a house-breaker, since i was now vouched for by no excellent a person as captain davis, of the steamer fawn. if they ever saw lynch again, they would hand him over to the officers of the law. it was for their interest to do so, because the reputation of the house was greatly injured by having a person robbed within it. they would do what they could to recover my money; and if they succeeded, where should they send it? captain davis could not help laughing at this speech, and told me i need not trouble myself to leave any address. both protested that they were in earnest; and certainty their logic was correct, whether they were sincere or not. if the local newspaper stated that a person had been robbed of a hundred dollars at redwood's lodging-house, the fact would deter others from going there, for even gamblers and other fast men would object to having their money stolen. we left the house, and i gave up my money as lost; but i was willing to believe that i had purchased a hundred dollars' worth of wisdom and experience with it, and so i had a fair equivalent. in the street i found the officer was not disposed to abandon the case. he had a reputation to make in that new land; and perhaps it was worth more to him than to me to find the money. i was entirely willing that he should increase his credit as a thief-taker by restoring my property, and i warmly seconded his endeavors. we watched the lodging-house till dinner time, but without seeing any one who looked like lynch. in short, the officer made no progress in establishing a title to the position of chief of police when the office should be created in the new and growing city. i returned to the steamer at the landing, and of course my first inquiries were for mr. gracewood and his family. to my astonishment and grief, not a word had been heard of them. captain davis had caused a thorough search to be made in the town, without obtaining the slightest clew to them. i was amazed, and so were others who were interested in the fate of the absent ones. it was incredible that any calamity had overtaken them by which the whole party had been lost. if the boat had been upset, the deck hands at least could have saved themselves. i forgot all about my money in my anxiety for my friends. i could not believe that they had been lost; it was too sad and too improbable to be considered, and i rejected the supposition. but the mystery weighed heavily upon me. the steamer was ready to proceed on her voyage, and the passengers were grumbling at the delay; but captain davis was unwilling to proceed without the absentees. in the middle of the afternoon he cast off his fasts, when a portion of his passengers, who had not paid their fare, threatened to leave the boat, and take another which was in sight above the town. but, instead of continuing on his way down the river, he headed her up the stream, in order to examine the shores for any signs of the lost family. i was deeply interested in the fate of mr. gracewood, his wife and daughter, for they were really the only friends i had in the world. i had been saved from a burning steamer by old matt rockwood, and was brought up by him in his cabin. i knew nothing of my parents, but old matt had been a father to me, and the coming of mr. gracewood furnished me with a competent instructor in manners, morals, and the various branches of learning. after the death of old matt, my good friend had been strangely joined by his wife and daughter, and i had lived one season with the family. as the winter approached, we had left our home in the wilds of the far west, and were now on our way to st. louis. these events all passed in review through my mind, as i thought of the gracewoods who had so strangely disappeared. old matt rockwood had left a considerable sum of money in his chest, which, with the profits of our farm and wood-yard, amounted to over sixteen hundred dollars, when the accounts were finally settled. fifteen hundred of this sum was in the keeping of mr. gracewood, though i held his note for it, and was in no danger of losing it, though he should never appear again. but i had no selfish thoughts. i was interested only in the safety of my friend and his family. the daughter, pretty ella gracewood, had been my constant friend and companion at the settlement. i had rescued her from the indians who had captured her, and it would have broken my heart to know that any calamity had overtaken her. the fawn went up the river in spite of the grumbling of the passengers. we passed the steamer coming down the stream; but captain davis declared that he should be on his way to st. louis before the other boat could get away from leavenworth. like all other western steamboat masters, he said and did all he could to get and keep his passengers. extending from the mouth of the stream, where our steamer had passed the night, there was a cut-off, through which the boat, with mr. gracewood, had come. the water rushed through it like a sluice, and probably by this time it is the main channel of the river. "stop her!" shouted captain davis to the pilot, as the boat was passing the outlet of this cut-off. "what is it, captain?" i asked, startled by the order, and fearful that he had discovered some evidence of a disaster. "there is an oar," said he, pointing to the shore. i saw the oar, which had washed up on the bank of the river. the boat was run up to the point, and it was identified as one belonging to the missing boat. "that is something towards it," said the captain, as the oar was examined on board. "if they didn't lose the other one they could get along well enough." "perhaps they did lose the other," suggested the mate. "it is not very likely they lost both oars," added captain davis. "do you suppose the boat upset?" i asked, with my heart in my mouth. "certainly not. if it did we should have found the boat, or heard from the men. the whole party could not have been drowned in a narrow place like that," replied the captain, confidently. "what do you think has become of them?" i continued. "nothing worse than being carried down the river could have happened to them. i'm sure of that. it's absurd to think that three men should be lost in a stream not a hundred feet wide. go ahead, pilot!" shouted the captain. "down stream?" asked the man at the wheel. "yes; we shall pick up the party somewhere below." the fawn came about, and to the great satisfaction of the growling portion of her passengers, resumed her voyage down the river. i did the best i could to convince myself that no catastrophe had overtaken my friends. when we came to leavenworth, we found that the steamer we had passed--whose name was the daylight--was not there. if she had stopped at all, she had not remained there more than a few minutes. captain davis was annoyed at this circumstance, for she would take the passengers and freight that were waiting at the various points on the river below, which would otherwise have been taken by the fawn. i saw him go down to the main deck, where the furnaces and boilers were located, and in a short time i was conscious that they were crowding the boat up to her highest speed. a race had commenced, not so much to ascertain which of the two boats was the fastest, as to obtain the freight and passengers that were awaiting transportation at the towns below us. i felt no interest in the trial of speed, which at another time might have afforded me a pleasant excitement. from the hurricane deck i watched the shores, to obtain any tidings of the missing boat or her passengers. at delaware city the daylight made a landing; but the fawn, to my surprise and chagrin, did not stop. it was possible that the gracewoods had been carried down to this point in their unmanageable boat, and had landed here. "why don't you make a landing here? captain davis?" i inquired. "because the daylight has gone in ahead of me, and i shall get no freight or passengers if i don't keep ahead of her." "but mr. gracewood and his family may be here." "it is not improbable. i feel that i have done all i could for them." "you might stop." "i can't sacrifice the interest of my owners, phil. if the gracewoods are there, they can take passage in the daylight. they will not suffer any great hardship, while my boat may lose hundreds of dollars by the delay." "i shall be in misery till i hear from them." "you need not be. i am sure no serious accident has happened to them. i want the two men i sent in the boat, but i couldn't stop to get them, even if i knew they were at delaware city. but we shall hear from your friends before long. the daylight will drive her wheels hard to keep up with us. i see she hasn't much freight, and she will stop at every place of any size." "but if you keep ahead of her all the time, how shall we get any news from her?" "the fawn is faster than the daylight, and i can afford to let her pass me at any place where i can obtain freight enough to make it an object. if the gracewoods are on board of her, they will make themselves known as she goes by. there will be a good deal of freight at kansas city, where we shall arrive to-night. you will probably find the daylight there in the morning." i was satisfied with the captain's explanation, and i hoped the morning would justify his expectations. we made no landings till we reached kansas city, about eight o'clock in the evening. there was a crowd of passengers there, who rushed on board as soon as the plank was laid down. the freight was immediately taken on board. i was very tired after the exertions and excitement of the day and of the preceding evening, and i went to bed, hoping and expecting to see the daylight at the landing when i awoke in the morning. i slept very soundly, in spite of the grief and anxiety that weighed upon me; and it is fortunate that nature will assert her claim, or we might sometimes wear ourselves out with fruitless repinings. when i came to my consciousness in the morning, i discovered that the boat was in motion. the monotonous puff of the steam-escape pipes saluted my ears. half dressed, i went out upon the gallery of the boat, but i could see nothing that looked like kansas city, or the daylight. the deck hands had been taking in freight when i went to sleep; but how long the boat had been in motion i could not tell. chapter vi. in which phil wanders about st. louis, and has a gleam of hope. when i had completed my toilet, i hastened to find captain davis. i was indignant at his course in leaving kansas city, and i felt that he had been guilty of treachery to me and to the gracewoods. i went all over the boat, from the wheel-house to the main deck; but the captain was not to be seen. the engineer, in answer to my inquiry, told me captain davis had been up till after midnight, and probably had not yet turned out. "what time did the boat leave kansas city?" i asked. "about eleven o'clock; possibly it was half past eleven." "did you see anything of the daylight?" "not a thing; and you won't see her till we have been in st. louis two or three days," replied the engineer. "she can't keep up with the fawn. besides, we are full of freight and passengers now, and shall make no long stops anywhere." "that's mean," i growled, as i left the engineer. i wanted to cry with vexation; but i had made up my mind that it was not manly to shed tears. i walked up and down the hurricane deck till breakfast time. this exercise had a tendency to cool my hot blood, and i considered the situation in a calmer state of mind. i could be of no service to the gracewoods, and the father of the family was abundantly able to take care of them. if i could only have been assured of their safety i should have been satisfied. i went to breakfast; but captain davis did not appear till most of the passengers had left the table. i suspected that he did not wish to see me; but that did not prevent me from taking a seat at his side, even at the risk of spoiling his appetite. "you told me you should not leave kansas city till the daylight arrived, captain davis," i began. "not exactly, phil. i told you she would probably be there in the morning, or something of that kind." "why did you leave, then, before morning?" "because my passengers were indignant at the delay i had already made for your friends." "it was mean." "steady, phil." "it was mean to serve me such a trick." "you seem to think, phil, that we run this boat simply for your accommodation. you are slightly mistaken. i have done more now than most captains would have done. however, i suppose you feel bad, and i won't blame you for being a little cross." "i didn't mean to be cross," i added, rather vexed that i had spoken so hastily. "i do feel bad. i have lost my money, and lost my friends." "and i have done the best i could to help you find both." "you have, captain davis. excuse me for speaking so hastily." "all right, phil; but it's a poor way to blame your friends when things go wrong." "i know it is. mr. gracewood had all my money except what i lost, and i haven't a dollar left." "well, your passage is paid to st. louis, and, when the fawn arrives there, we will see what can be done for you." "thank you, sir. you have been very kind to me, and i am sorry i said anything out of the way." "that's all right now. i have no doubt your friends will come down in the daylight, and then all will be well with you. keep cool, and don't fret about anything." i tried to follow this advice, but i found it very hard work. i talked over all the possibilities and probabilities with the captain, and i was almost convinced that i was worrying myself for nothing. we should arrive at st. louis in a couple of days more, and the daylight would soon follow us. i watched the ever-changing scene on the shores of the river with far less delight than when ella gracewood sat at my side. we passed large towns and small ones, and i saw the capital of missouri, with its state house and other public buildings. early on the morning of the third day after leaving kansas city we passed into the mississippi. a little later in the day we were approaching the great city of st. louis. i gazed, with wonder and astonishment, at the vast piles of buildings. i saw the crowds of people hurrying to and fro on front street, which borders the river; and i could not help feeling what an insignificant mite i was in the mass of humanity. at the castle, where i was brought up, i was a person of no little consequence; but here, if i were to figure at all, it must be as a zero. the people on board of the fawn seemed to catch the infection of bustling activity, for they began to hurry back and forth, collecting their baggage, and making preparations to land. the boat ran up to the levee, and another lively scene ensued. hackmen struggled for the passengers, and porters and draymen added their share to the din. i was bewildered, and gazed with my mouth wide open at the bustling life before me. in about an hour the passengers had all disappeared, and i was almost alone on the boiler deck, from which i viewed the panorama of civilization, so new and strange, which was passing before me. the drays were carting off the freight which we had brought, some of it from the vicinity of the rocky mountains. the captain had told me i might occupy my state-room, and take my meals with him in the cabin, till the arrival of my friends. i had nothing to do but wait, and when the scene in the vicinity of the fawn became rather tame, i went on shore. the levee for half a mile was flanked with steamboats, and in several places the excitement i had just witnessed was repeated. leaving front street, i walked up market street, till i came to the court house. following fourth street, i halted, absolutely bewildered by the magnificent proportions of the planters' hotel, which i believe has since been destroyed by fire. but there was no end to my amazement, and i will not attempt to paint the impressions of a green boy as he gazed for the first time upon the elegant public buildings of st. louis, and at the splendid private residences. all day long i wandered about the city, with my mouth, as well as my eyes and ears, wide open. i gazed at the rich displays of dry goods in the shop windows, and concluded that the people of the city were made of money if they could afford to buy such gorgeous apparel. i looked for hours at the pictures at the print-sellers', and stared at the costly equipages in which elegantly-dressed ladies were riding. i only returned to the steamer when my legs ached so that they would hardly sustain the weight of my body. in the cabin, at supper, i astonished the captain with a glowing account of what i had seen, just as though the scene was as new and strange to him as to me. the next day i repeated my explorations; but at dinner time i examined all the steamers at the levee to satisfy myself that the daylight had not yet arrived. i ventured inside of the planters' hotel, and some of the public buildings, and the interior of them was even more wonderful to me than the exterior had been. two days familiarized me in some degree with the wonders of the great city, and after that i was able to walk through the streets with my mouth shut. i felt that i ought to be at work. it was time for me to commence my new career of existence. in my walks through the city, i had stopped frequently to observe the work where new buildings were in process of erection. after examining the work for a while, i came to the conclusion that i had a great deal to learn before i could be a carpenter. however, i intended to make a beginning as soon as i could. [illustration: phil and captain davis. page .] "the daylight is just coming in, phil," said captain davis, as i came in to supper after the tramps of the second day in the city. "i am so glad!" i exclaimed. "eat your supper, phil, and i will go with you then to the place where she lies." "do you suppose the gracewoods are on board of her?" "i have no doubt they are; but i should not be at all alarmed even if they were not." "why not?" "they may have missed the boat; but we won't guess at anything again. the daylight passed us just as you came on board, and will make a landing below." i bolted my supper, and was so excited i could not have told whether i was eating bread or shavings. when the captain had finished his meal, we hastened down the levee, and were soon on board of the daylight. the passengers were just going on shore, and i watched the stairs by which they were descending to the main deck to catch the first glimpse of any familiar face. but i was disappointed; and when the last one came down, my heart sank within me. captain davis ascended to the cabin, and i followed, actually trembling with anxiety. we found the clerk in his office, at work upon the manifest. "did you take on any passengers at delaware city?" asked captain davis. "yes; a dozen of them." "any by the name of gracewood?" "no," replied the clerk, after he had consulted the list. "are you sure, sir?" i asked, unwilling to believe the unpleasant statement. "very sure." "please to look again," said i. "you must excuse me; i am very busy. there is the list; you can examine it for yourself." i looked over the names, but that of gracewood did not occur. "they are not here, phil," said captain davis. "no, they are not," i replied, gloomily. "we will wait a little while, till the hurry is over, and then we may ascertain something about your friends." we went out upon the boiler deck, where we could overlook everything that transpired. the deck hands were landing freight and baggage, and everybody was hurrying as though his life depended upon his celerity. "i shall believe they were all drowned if i don't hear something from them soon," i said. "that is not at all probable, and i shall not believe anything of that kind till i have positive evidence of it. it is just as easy, and a great deal more pleasant, to think everything is right with them, instead of wrong, until we get the facts." "you haven't the same interest in the matter that i have, captain." "that may be; but i don't believe in making myself miserable about anything on mere guesswork. i think it is all right with your friends. but i must say, if you don't hear from them to-day, we must make different arrangements for you, for my owners intend to send the fawn down to new orleans with a freight which we take on at alton. we shall go up there to-morrow." "what will you do with mr. gracewood's goods and baggage?" "send them to the storehouse. there!" exclaimed he, suddenly, as he pointed to a man who was wheeling a box on shore. "that is one of the hands who went with the gracewoods in the small boat. and there is the other. we shall soon know what has become of your friends." the fact that these two men had come down in the daylight was hopeful, at least, and captain davis and i hastened down to question them; but the master of the steamer would not release them from their work, and we were obliged to wait till the hurry was over before we obtained the coveted information. chapter vii. in which phil hears from his friends, and visits mr. clinch. the two deck hands, who had worked their passage down on the daylight, were relieved from duty as soon as the baggage of the passengers had been put on shore. they followed captain davis to the fawn, where we drew from them all the information they had in regard to the gracewoods. "where are the passengers who went with you?" was the first question which the captain asked, when we started up the levee. "at delaware city, sir. the lady was sick, and not quite able to come down in the daylight," replied one of the men. "sick!" i exclaimed. "sick; but not very bad, i believe. she caught a cold coming down the river," answered the spokesman. "where is she?" "at a house in the town; i don't know whose it is." "was the young lady sick?" i inquired, anxiously. "no; she was first rate." "but how came you at delaware city?" "we couldn't help going there, captain davis," replied the spokesman of the two, who was evidently embarrassed. "you couldn't help it?" said the captain. "no, sir; we could not. the current was very swift." "explain yourself, man. i didn't suppose i had sent a couple of hands in the boat with those passengers who couldn't handle a pair of oars." "i didn't think so, either. we did as well as any men could; the gentleman will tell you so when you see him." "well, what did you do? what was the matter?" demanded the captain, impatiently. "there was a line stretched across that cut-off. i suppose the man that owned the island used it to haul his bateau across by; for it was a seven-mile current in the place." "it was all of that," added the other man, by way of fortifying the statement of his companion. "go on," said the captain. "well, sir, the boat ran on to that line, and it carried her bow clear out of water," continued the spokesman. "in fact, the water came in over the stern, and wet the lady who sat farthest aft. i sprang forward to trim the boat, for i did not know what the matter was then. in my hurry i lost my oar overboard. i couldn't help it, for i was thinking only of saving the ladies from drowning, for both of them were screaming with fright." "that's so," said the other man. "they were scared out of their wits." "when i went to the bow, i couldn't tell what the matter was. i took the other oar, and sounded with it, to see if we were aground, and then i felt the rope. it was caught just under the bow, where there was a break in the iron shoe. i put the end of the oar on the line, and crowded it down so that the boat could slide over it. but the blade of the oar was split, and the line was jammed into the crack. the boat went over, and when i tried to pull in the oar, it was fast. the current took the boat, and gave me such a jerk that i had to let go, or go overboard." "and you left the oar fast to the line?" "yes, sir; i couldn't help it." "perhaps you couldn't; but go on." "we went on in spite of ourselves. the current carried the boat through the cut-off into the river. i tried to pull up one of the thwarts, to use as a paddle, but we couldn't start them. it was very dark and foggy, as you know, captain, and we couldn't see where we were. we watched our chances as well as we could, and tried to get hold of something." "why didn't you sing out?" "that's what we did. but the current carried us over the other side of the river from leavenworth, and i suppose no one heard us; at any rate no one came to help us. the poor lady who had got wet in the cut-off was shivering with cold, and we tried everything we could think of to stop the boat; but still we kept going down stream, whirling round now and then." "well, how did you stop her at last?" demanded the captain, finding that the spokesman was disposed to be rather diffuse in his narrative. "after we had been going about two hours--wasn't it two hours, dick?" "it wasn't less than that." "no matter how long it was. go on," interposed the captain, who did not care to listen to a discussion on this point. "well, sir, we almost run into a man who was crossing the river in a bateau, with a lot of groceries. we shouted to him, and he run his boat alongside of us. we made fast to him, and he pulled us to the shore. he told us we were on the other side of the river from delaware city. mr. gracewood made a trade with him to take us over to that place, and i helped him row over, towing the boat astern of us. i reckon the gentleman paid him well for his trouble." "where did they go then?" asked the captain. "they went to a house in the town. the lady was all used up, and had chills and fever that night; but they thought she was better in the morning. they sent up to leavenworth for a doctor." "then she was very sick," i added. "no; the doctor didn't say so. he thought she would be out in a week." "where did you go then?" asked the captain. "we found a place to sleep on the levee. mr. gracewood gave us five dollars apiece, and--" "and you got drunk," suggested the captain. "no, sir; we did not. i won't say we didn't take something, for we were cold." "why didn't you go up to leavenworth, where you knew the boat would be in the morning?" "we meant to do that in the morning, as soon as it was daylight; but dick was afraid the fawn might get there and start down the river before we could tramp up to the place. besides, we wanted to know how the lady was, so as to let you know; and we didn't like to go to the house so early in the morning," added the spokesman, glancing at his companion. "i thought it was safer to wait on the levee till the fawn came down," said dick. "we supposed, of course, she would stop there." "i was of the same mind myself," continued the spokesman. "we waited till most night, when the daylight made a landing; and then we saw the fawn coming; but she stood off from the levee, and went down the river at full speed. i hailed her as loud as i could, but she took no notice of me. the captain of the daylight let us work our passage down." "where is the boat?" "on board the daylight." "how was mrs. gracewood when you left delaware city?" i inquired. "she was too sick to leave in the daylight; but the doctor thought she might be able to take a boat in two or three days," replied dick. "now go and get the boat," added the captain. "they may not come for a week," said i, as they departed. "perhaps not; but you can't tell much about it from the story of these men." "don't you think they told the truth?" "in the main, they did; but in my opinion they got drunk. if not, they would have returned to leavenworth. probably they have stretched the story a little. at any rate, you can't tell how sick the lady is from anything they said." "she got wet in the boat, and took cold, i suppose." "i suppose so." the news from my friends was not very cheering, but it was a relief to be assured that no calamity had overtaken them. i would have gone to them at once if i had had the money to pay my passage; and i said as much to captain davis. "that would be a useless step, phil," he replied. "if the lady is sick, you can do them no good. it would be a waste of money for you to do so." "if i had it, i should be willing to waste it in that way," i added. "then it is fortunate that you haven't it, phil. what do you mean to do here in st. louis? does mr. gracewood intend to support you?" "i don't intend to be supported by any one," i answered, perhaps with a little indignation; "i mean to support myself." "what do you intend to do?" "i am going to learn the carpenter's trade, if i can find a place." "all right, phil. that's a sensible idea. i didn't know but you expected to be a gentleman, as most of the boys do who come from the country," said the captain. "come with me, my boy, and we will see about a place." "that's just what i want, captain--a chance to learn the carpenter's trade. i know something about it now." i followed the captain on shore, and we went to a quiet street in one of the humbler sections of the city, where he rang the bell at a house. "is mr. clinch at home?" asked captain davis of the woman who answered the summons. "yes, sir; he has just come in from his work. won't you walk in?" we entered the house, and were shown to a very plainly furnished parlor, where mr. clinch soon appeared. he was clothed in coarse garments, but he had a very intelligent countenance, and i liked the looks of him. "o, captain davis," exclaimed the carpenter, grasping the hand of my companion, "i am glad to see you." "it always does me good to take your honest hand, clinch. this young man is phil farringford, and he comes from the upper missouri. he is a smart boy, and wants to learn your trade." mr. clinch took me by the hand, and gave me a cordial greeting. "i don't take any apprentices, now," he added. "i find it don't pay. as soon as we get a boy so that he can drive a nail without pounding his fingers, he wants a man's wages, or runs away as soon as he is worth anything to me." "if i make a trade, sir, i shall stick to it," i ventured to say. "you look like an honest young man, but i can't take apprentices, as we used to in former years." "phil knows something about the business now," interposed the captain. "he is handy with tools, and is as tough as an oak knot. he knows what hard work is, and has just come out of the woods." "but i can't take a boy into my family," continued mr. clinch; "i haven't room, and it makes the work too hard for my wife." "he might board somewhere else," said the captain. "that indeed. i like the looks of the boy." "if you can do anything for him, i shall regard it as a favor to me," added my friend. "i should be very glad to serve you, captain davis. i want more help, but a boy isn't of much use. how old are you, phil?" "thirteen, sir." "you look older. what can you do?" i told him what i could do; that i could handle a saw, axe, hammer, and auger; that i had built a bateau, made boxes, and done similar work. he seemed to be very sceptical, but finally agreed to give me three dollars a week, which he thought would board and clothe me, if, upon trial, i proved to be worth that. he told me where he was at work, and wished me to be on hand the next morning. chapter viii. in which phil goes to work, and meets an old acquaintance. "everything depends upon yourself now, phil," said captain davis, as we walked back to the steamer. "when clinch finds that you are worth more than three dollars a week, he will give you more." "i didn't expect any more than that," i replied. "if it will pay my board for a time, i shall be satisfied. i will do the best i can, and i hope my wages will be increased very soon." "now you want a boarding-house," continued the captain. "i don't know where to look for one, but i suppose you will not think of living at the planters' hotel?" "not exactly, sir." we entered a grocery store, near the house of mr. clinch, where the captain was acquainted, and he inquired for a suitable boarding-place for a boy like me. "if he's a good boy, i know just the place for him," replied the grocer. "he is as good a boy as there is in the world," answered the captain, with a zeal that caused me to blush. "mrs. greenough, who lives over my store, spoke to me, a few days ago, about a boy. she is an elderly woman, whose husband died about a year ago, leaving her this house. she has no other property except her furniture, and the rent of this store about pays her expenses. she is a little timid, and does not like to be alone in the house at night. she is a nice woman, and perhaps she will take your young man to board. she wanted one of my young men to occupy a room up stairs, but both of them live at home." "we will go up and see her. this boy is going to work for clinch to-morrow, and this will be a good locality for him." "just the place," added the grocer, as he conducted us up stairs to the rooms of mrs. greenough. the house was a small one, and the store occupied the whole of the ground floor, except a small entry. it was three stories high, with a flat roof, and i judged that the tenement could not contain more than four rooms. we were taken up stairs, and found the lady in her little parlor. she was about fifty years old, and did not appear to be in good health. the grocer explained our business, and having vouched for the good character of captain davis, he left us. "i didn't think of taking a boy to board," said mrs. greenough. "i thought if i could get one of the young men in the store to sleep in the house, i should feel safer. but i don't know but i might take him, if he is a very steady boy." "steady as a judge, mrs. greenough," replied captain davis. "he's going to be a carpenter." "is he? my poor husband was a carpenter," added the lady, wiping a tear from her eye. "i am a lone woman now." "phil will be good company for you. he knows more than most boys of his age. he has fought through one campaign against the indians, and is a dead shot with his rifle." "not always, captain," i remonstrated. "he has brought down his man, at any rate. he speaks french, and--" "o, no, i don't, captain. i have studied it, and can read it a little." "i don't talk any french," added the old lady, with a smile; so that won't make any difference. i thought, at one time, i would take a boy who would help me, and work a little for his board, but i concluded i couldn't afford to do that; for i don't have anything but the rent of the store to live on." "well, mrs. greenough, you can split the difference. phil can't afford to pay much for his board. he can help you a little in the morning and at night." "i haven't much to do, except to bring up the wood and water from the cellar, which is down two flights, and it's rather hard work for me, for i'm not very strong." "i shall be very glad to help you, mrs. greenough," i added. "how much can you take him for, madam?" said the captain, beginning to be a little impatient. the old lady had not made up her mind on this important subject, and the captain suggested two dollars a week as a fair price, if i helped about the house when i had time. she was satisfied with this amount, and i am sure i was; so the bargain was closed. mrs. greenough wanted to know more about me, and the captain spoke so handsomely of me, that my modesty will not permit me to quote his testimony. i walked back to the steamer with captain davis, and after thanking him, from the depths of my heart, for all his kindness and care, i took my leave of him. he told me he should send all the effects of mr. gracewood to the storehouse of his owners, where they could be obtained on his arrival. he advised me to write to my friends at once, and i promised to do so that night. taking the box, which contained the few articles of value i possessed, under my arm, and the rifle i had brought from my forest home, i hastened to my new boarding-house. before i did anything else, i wrote the letter to mr. gracewood, and carried it to the post-office. on my return, mrs. greenough showed me my room. it was on the third floor, in the rear of her own apartment. i must say that it looked like a boudoir in a palace to me. it was plainly but very neatly furnished. she told me i could put my clothes in the drawers of the bureau; but i answered that i had none to put there, except a single woollen shirt, and a pair of socks, which i had washed myself on board of the steamer. i wore a suit of "civilized clothes," as we called them at the settlement; and i had a pair of woollen shirts, and two pairs of socks. my landlady thought my wardrobe was rather scanty, but i considered it all-sufficient, and did not worry because i could not follow the fashion. i opened my box, and took from it the little dress and other garments which i had worn when old matt rockwood picked me up, on the missouri river. mrs. greenough's curiosity was excited, and i told her all i knew about my past history. she was deeply interested in the narrative, and asked me a great many questions about the gracewoods, which i answered to the best of my ability. i was well pleased with my new home. my landlady was very kind and motherly, and when i retired that night, i thanked god for his kindness in directing my steps to such a pleasant abode. when i awoke the next morning, i heard a church clock striking five. i rose and made my simple toilet in less time than i could have done it even a year later. i went down into the kitchen, which was the room mrs. greenough occupied most of the time, and made a fire in the stove. i had done everything i could find to do when the landlady came down. "you are quite handy about house, phil," said she, with a cheerful smile. "i ought to be. i used to keep house at the clearing. i can cook and wash." "what can you cook?" "i can boil potatoes, bake or roast them; i can fry and boil bacon, and i can bake bread. we didn't have so many things to work with as you do here." "can you make pies and cake?" "no; we never had those things at the clearing until mrs. gracewood came there." "they were rich folks, you said." "yes; they have plenty of money; but it did not do them much good out in the woods. i should like to hear how mrs. gracewood is." "i hope she is better. when they come you will have some strong friends." "yes; but i intend to take care of myself. they will go among big folks, where i cannot go; but i hope i shall see miss ella sometimes." "of course you will." "she is a beautiful young lady," i added, warmly. "but you may find your father and mother one of these days." "i hardly expect to do that; i doubt whether they are living." "from what you say, i should think you might find out who they are. of course they had some relations somewhere, and perhaps they will be willing to take care of you." "i don't want any one to take care of me; i mean to take care of myself. mr. gracewood has fifteen hundred dollars belonging to me." "well, that's comfortable. if you should be sick, you will not want for anything." we talked over the past and the present till breakfast was ready. the fried bacon and potatoes looked like old friends, and i did ample justice to the fare. i am not sure that my landlady was not alarmed when she realized my eating capacity, as compared with the price i was to pay for my board. at half past six i started for the building which mr. clinch was putting up. it was a large storehouse, near the levee. "good, phil! i'm glad to see you on hand in season," said my employer. "i mean to be on time always, sir." "i'm paying my best men two dollars a day now," added mr. clinch. "does that young man get two dollars a day?" i asked, pointing to a boy of eighteen or nineteen, who was putting on his overalls in front of the building. "no; that's morgan blair. he came down from illinois last spring. i give him a dollar a day. he doesn't know the business, and that is more than he is worth. you will work with conant." calling one of the workmen who answered to this name, he directed him to take me under his charge. the frame of the building was up, and we were to be engaged in boarding it. "come along, my boy; we will take the stiffening out of you in about two hours," said conant, as he led the way to the stage. "all right; when i break down i will give you leave to bury me." "do you think you can lift your end of a board?" "i can; and lift both ends, if need be." "you have got the pluck, but it's hard work for a boy." "i will keep my side up." mr. clinch had given me a hammer and a bag of nails, which i tied around my body, as i saw the other men do. i was strong and tough, and could easily handle any lumber used on the work. i carried my end of each board up to the frame, and i am sure i drove as many nails as conant. but i will not describe the process by which the building was erected. i did my full share of the work until noon. "don't you want to go to bed now?" asked conant, when we knocked off. "go to bed! no. why should i?" "ain't you tuckered out?" "no, not at all; i don't feel quite so fresh as i did this morning, but i shall be all right again when i get my dinner." "you are a tough 'un, then." "well, conant, how does phil get along?" asked mr. clinch, as we came down from the stage. "tip-top; he has done a man's work--twice as much as morgan," replied conant, with more magnanimity than i had given him credit for. "all right. phil, i am glad you are getting along well. it will be easier work when we get the building covered." in going home to dinner, i went pretty near the steamboat levee. a boat had just come in, and i wanted to know if it had come from the missouri, for i was very anxious to hear from the gracewoods. i hastened towards the landing. i met the passengers as they came up, and on inquiry of one of them learned that the steamer was from st. joe, but she had not stopped at delaware city; so of course the gracewoods could not have come in her. i was about to leave, when i perceived mr. leonidas lynchpinne coming across the levee. i thought that i had business with him, and i hastened to resume the relations with him which had been interrupted at leavenworth. chapter ix. in which phil meets a seedy gentleman by the name of farringford. mr. leonidas lynchpinne, otherwise lynch, had a small valise in his hand, and was sauntering leisurely along, as though earth had no sorrow for him, and he was not responsible in st. louis for an infamous act done in leavenworth. i wanted my money; in fact, i needed it. for mrs. greenough's remarks had assured me that my wardrobe was entirely inadequate to the requirements of civilized life. "how do you do, mr. leonidas lynchpinne?" i began, making towards him. he glanced at me very contemptuously, and continued on his way. i had expected to astonish and confound him, but the result did not realize my anticipations. it was decidedly a look of disdain that he bestowed upon me, which i thought was adding insult to injury. so far i was disgusted with his conduct; but i had no idea of abandoning the purpose i had in view. "i want to see you, mr. lynchpinne," i continued, following him, and taking position at his side. "who are you?" he demanded, halting, and giving me another contemptuous look. "don't you know me, mr. lynchpinne?" "my name is not lynchpinne." "lynch, then. don't you know me?" "no." "yes, you do." "you impertinent puppy!" "o, yes! all that's very pretty, but i want my money." "what money? what do you mean, you saucy young cub?" "perhaps i am saucy; so was nathan when he said to david,'thou art the man!' and that's just what i say to you." "go about your business," said he, angrily, as he resumed his walk. "my business, just now, is to get back the money you stole from me; and i'm going to stick to it, too." "stole! how dare you use that word to me?" "because i believe in speaking the truth, even when it is not pleasant to do so." "clear out, and don't come near me again." "hand over my money, and i shall be glad to do so." "if you don't leave, i'll call a policeman." "i wish you would. i should like to tell him my story. if you don't call one, i shall, as soon as i see him. i'll follow you till your legs or mine give out." "you evidently take me for some other person, boy," said he, halting on front street, perhaps afraid that we might meet a policeman--a thing which has been known to happen. "no, i don't; i take you for lynch, the man that stole my money, and i want a policeman to take you for that, too." "see here, boy; i can't be annoyed in this manner in the public street," he replied, in a kind of confidential tone. "what do you want of me?" "i told you what i wanted--my money." "i know nothing about your money. if you want to see me, come to the planters' hotel at eight o'clock this evening, and i will meet you." "i think not. i don't mean to lose sight of you, lynch." "if you don't clear out, i'll chastise you on the ground for an impudent puppy." "well, sir, when you get ready to chastise, you begin," i replied, as i glanced at his slender form. "if i don't keep up my end, you can have the money you stole." "how dare you--" but he checked himself, for two or three persons had already stopped; and their example was so contagious, in a populous city, that there was danger of collecting a crowd, to which my sensitive friend seemed to have very strong constitutional objections. he moved on, and i followed him into market street. i was anxious to meet a policeman, that i might state my case to him, and invoke his aid; but the officers, justifying all the traditions of their craft, were somewhere else, because they were wanted in market street. lynch quickened his pace, and turned into fourth street; but i kept close to his heels till we were near the planters' hotel. i concluded that he was going to this grand establishment, and that he expected to shake me off within its sumptuous walls. i did not believe he would, though the want of an officer was a sore inconvenience to me. just as he was about to cross the street, a shabby genteel and very seedy gentleman confronted him. "how are you, lynch?" exclaimed the dilapidated individual, extending his hand. "how do you do, farringford?" replied lynch. farringford! this must be the decayed steamboat owner of whom lynch had before spoken to me. he was apparently about forty-five years of age, and he looked as though the world had used him very roughly. "i'm glad to see you, lynch," said farringford. "i'm always glad to see an old friend. i'm hard up, and i want to borrow a dollar." lynch took two half dollars in silver from his pocket. perhaps the present generation of young people never saw a half dollar; but it is true that there was a time when such a coin was in general use! he handed the money to the seedy gentleman, and then said something to him in a whisper, which i could not hear, though i had planked myself close by the side of the villain. lynch then turned to cross the street, and i started to follow him. [illustration: phil meets leonidas lynchpinne. page .] "see here, my lad," said farringford, grasping me by the arm. "let me alone!" i cried, struggling to escape, fearful that i should lose sight of lynch. "hold still, my lad. i only want to speak to you," replied farringford, in cheerful tones, though he did not relax his grasp. "don't be afraid. i won't hurt you. i've known you ever since you were a baby." "known me?" i was startled by his words, for they seemed to have some relation to the mystery of my being. "certainly i have, phil." "do you know me?" i demanded, forgetting, for the moment, all about lynch and my hard money. "known you from your babyhood, my lad," said he, glancing towards the hotel. this act reminded me of my business again. i turned my face towards the hotel. lynch had disappeared. "that's all, phil; you can go now," said farringford, laughing. "what do you mean, sir?" "that's all, my lad. i only stopped you to prevent you from following my friend." "you said you knew me." "never saw you or heard of you before in my life," chuckled he, evidently pleased at the trick he had played upon me. i left him, and rushed into the hotel. i looked for lynch in all the public rooms, but i could not find him. i inquired at the office for him, and the clerks answered me, very curtly, that no such person was in the house. i asked a porter, who sat near the entrance, describing lynch. he had seen the gentleman, but did not know where he was; he had not taken a room or registered his name, and had probably gone away again. it seemed to me that everything was going against me. i had to go home to dinner, as i could spend no more time in looking for him then; but i determined to renew the search in the evening. as i walked down fourth street, i overtook farringford, who had evidently spent a portion of the dollar borrowed of lynch for liquor. i accosted him, for i thought that i might recover my money through his agency, as he evidently knew lynch. "ah, my lad! you didn't find him," chuckled the toper. "i did not. i have heard of you, mr. farringford, and i can put you in the way of making some money." "can you? then i'm your man. most distinctly, i'm _your_ man," he replied with emphasis. "there's only two things in this world that i want, and those are money and whiskey. if i get the whiskey, i don't care for the money; and if i have the money, i can always get the whiskey." "i should like to meet you somewhere this evening, for i am in a hurry now." "i will be in the bar-room of the planters' hotel at seven o'clock this evening, if you have any money for me. but what's it all about? can't you tell me now?" "i haven't time now." "very well. planters' hotel--bar-room--seven o'clock. i'll be there if they don't turn me out before that time. if they do, you will find me in the street." although i was not very confident he would keep his appointment, it was the best i could do. if he failed to be there, he was evidently a character so noted, that i could easily find him. i hastened to my dinner, and reached mrs. greenough's rather late. i explained the reason of my tardiness, which was quite satisfactory. my landlady hoped that i should recover my money, and i hoped so too--a degree of unanimity which does not always exist between landlady and boarder. i was on the work as the clock struck one, but i had to do some running that noon, in order to protect my reputation. conant did not drive business in the afternoon as he had in the forenoon, when i think he intended to wear me out. we worked steadily, and i kept my end of the board up. i was not sorry to hear the clock strike six, for i was tired, though perhaps not more so than conant himself. i went home, ate my supper, did my chores in the house, and at seven o'clock i was in the bar-room of the planters' hotel. it was no place for a boy, or a man either, for that matter. no one was what could be called, in good society, disreputably drunk, unless it was the seedy gentleman whom i met by appointment; and even he was able to handle himself tolerably well. no doubt he would have been more intoxicated if he had not drank up the dollar he had borrowed; but his wits were not wholly stupefied. "well, my lad, you have come, and so have i," said farringford, when i entered the room. "both come, and that makes two of us, all told." "yes. i wanted to see you about--" "stop a minute, my lad," interposed he, putting his trembling hand upon my shoulder. "let us go to work right. when i used to run steamboats, we had to put in wood and water before we could get up steam." "when did you run steamboats?" i asked. "ten or fifteen years ago. i was a rich man then; but now i'm as poor as a church mouse with his hair all singed off. i am; but i'm jolly; yes, i am jolly. let's proceed to business." "did you own a steamboat--" "stop, my lad; i owned half a dozen of them. but that's no matter now. do you happen to have a dollar in your pocket--one dollar, my lad." "no, sir; i have not." "not a dollar?" "no, i have not." "do you happen to have half a dollar in your pocket, my lad?" "not even half a dollar, sir." "your name is--somebody told me your name," said he, musing. "phil, sir." "phil, do you always speak the truth?" "i always endeavor to do so," i replied. "i hope so. truth is mighty, and must prevail. you should always speak the truth." "as you did, to-day, when you said you had known me from my babyhood." "boys must speak the truth, whether men do or not. did you speak the truth when you said you had not even half a dollar?" "i did." "have you any money?" "i have thirty cents." "then lend me a quarter." "it's all i have." "we can't do any business till this little matter is attended to," said he, with tipsy solemnity. "you shall be paid, my lad; you shall be paid--when i pay the rest of my creditors." finding it impossible to proceed any farther without complying with his request, i reluctantly gave him the quarter; but i felt guilty in doing so. he went to the bar, drank, and returned to the corner where he had left me. chapter x. in which phil listens to a very impressive temperance lecture. farringford was very chipper when he returned to me. he had drank half a tumbler of whiskey, and appeared to be prepared, to his own satisfaction, for any business which might be presented to him. "now, my lad, i'm ready. i'm refreshed. i'm invigorated. i'm inspired. in a word, i'm prepared for the consideration of the important matter you proposed to bring before me," said he. "i am very glad to hear it, sir; i wish to tell you--" "stop a moment, my lad. you have a name, doubtless. do you happen to remember what it is?" "very distinctly, mr. farringford. you may call me phil." [illustration: phil meets a seedy individual named farringford. page .] "phil; that is very good as far as it goes. phil may stand for philip, phillimore, philippians, philosophy." "it stands for philip with me, sir." "philip; i had a brother once of that name, but he is no longer living. if he were, he would blush to own his brother. but no matter; that is all past and gone. you can proceed with your business, philip." placing his elbows upon the little table between us, he rested his chin upon his trembling hands, and fixed his gaze upon me. he was a singular man, and, tipsy as he was, i was deeply interested in him. "you know lynch, the person you met opposite the planters' hotel to-day noon." "i know him, philip; but, in a word, i don't know any good of him. go on." "that man robbed me of all the money i had, except thirty cents--nearly a hundred dollars." "philip, you told me you were in the habit of speaking the truth; or rather that you endeavored to speak the truth." "yes, sir; i do endeavor to speak the truth. i am willing to go a point farther, and say that i have thus far been very successful." "the statement that lynch robbed you of nearly a hundred dollars implies the statement that you had nearly a hundred dollars," said he, with his tipsy solemnity, which was amusing. "it is self-evident that he could not have robbed you of this money, if you had not had it." "certainly not sir. i did have it." "where and by what means should a boy of your tender years obtain nearly a hundred dollars? in a word, philip, where did you get your money?" "it was a part of what was left me by my foster-father, who died last spring. i had it with me to pay my expenses till i could get into business and pay my way. i expect my friends will be in st. louis in a few days, and then i shall be able to prove all i say. in the mean time i refer to captain davis, of the steamer fawn." "that's all straightforward, philip, and for the present i accept your statement as true. you were robbed of nearly a hundred dollars by this man, lynch, of whom i know no good thing, except that he lent me a dollar to-day, which i shall return to him when i pay the rest of my creditors." "could you find this man, mr. farringford?" i asked. "doubtless i could. he may be seen, almost any night, at the gambling-houses." "will you help me get my money back?" "wherefore should i soil the dignity of a gentleman by becoming a thief-taker?" "because you will do me a favor, and promote the ends of justice by doing so." "very true, philip; you rightly apprehend the character of the gentleman you address. whatever i may seem to be, no man can say that edward farringford ever soiled his soul by a dishonorable or a dishonest act." "if you can induce lynch to give me back my money, i will pay you twenty-five dollars." "twenty-five dollars!" exclaimed he. "two hundred and fifty drinks! philip, i will do the best i can for you; not for the sake of the money, but to subserve the ends of justice, and to save a deserving young man from want and hardship. the cause is a good one." "it is, sir. if you do not succeed, i shall call upon the police as soon as my friends arrive." "it is well, philip. lynch will return the money rather than be driven from st. louis." "you understand that he must pay the money to me," i added, as it occurred to me that i should never see it if it came into the hands of the dilapidated gentleman before me. "wouldn't it be just as well that he should pay it over to me, and i will pass it to you?" "just as well, sir; but he will want some assurance from me that this is the end of the matter. i prefer that he should pay it to me." "you are right, philip. it shall be paid to you. stop!" exclaimed he, with a sudden start. "what is the matter, mr. farringford?" "this business is wrong." "wrong?" "wrong! no living man has been, or shall ever be, able to say that edward farringford stained his soul with a foul, dishonorable act." "do you think it would be wrong, sir?" "it would be compounding a felony," he added, solemnly. i did not know what he meant by this technical phrase, but i could not see that it was wrong for me to get my money if i could. mr. farringford asked me when, where, and in what manner i had been robbed; and i related my adventure on the night i was at leavenworth. "you are the only witness, philip, and it would be difficult to prove the crime. i will see lynch. i will charge him with the base deed, and be governed, in my further proceedings, by the circumstances of the case. where do you live, philip?" i gave him the address of mrs. greenough, and told him where i was at work. i was satisfied that the promised reward would stimulate him to great activity in the pursuit of lynch, and i had some hope that he would be successful. having disposed of the important part of my business with my seedy companion, i was rather curious to know more about him. i almost dared to believe that he could give me some information in regard to the steamer which had been burned on the upper missouri, and from which i had been saved by my foster-father. that steamer had borne the name of this man, and he had been her owner. of course he knew all about her, and it was possible, even probable, that he knew who had lost a little child in the fearful calamity. i actually trembled when i thought of it, when i considered that, at the opening of this singular man's lips, i might be told who and what my father was, and whether my parents had perished or not. it was an anxious moment, and my heart was in my throat. i had not the courage to ask the momentous question, and farringford rose unsteadily from his chair, to leave me. "stop a moment, mr. farringford, if you please," i interposed; and he dropped back into his chair. "isn't our business finished, philip?" "yes, sir; but i have been told that you were formerly a large steamboat owner." "who told you so?" "you did, for one. if you don't object, i should like to ask you something about those steamers," i continued, with much embarrassment. "do you wish to go into the steamboat business, philip? if you do, some of my old captains are still on the river, and i can get you a situation. but i must have one more drink before i say anything." "i wouldn't take any more, sir," i ventured to say. "it is a necessity of my being, philip." he rose from his chair, and went to the bar. i saw him drink another half tumbler of whiskey. he tottered back to the table where i sat. such a wreck of a man i had never seen. though his step was unsteady, he was not overcome by the potions he had taken. his nerves, rather than his brain, seemed to be affected. "i haven't drank much to-day, philip. i wasted half the dollar i borrowed in getting something to eat," said he, dropping into his chair. "it is a bad habit, my boy. never take any whiskey, philip: in a word, never begin to drink liquor, and you will never have to leave off; for it is a great deal harder to leave off than it is to begin. this is disinterested advice: in a word, it is the counsel of one who knows all about drinking." "i would stop it if i were you, mr. farringford." "if you were edward farringford, you could no more leave off drinking liquor, and drinking all you could get, than you could leave off eating. i can live without eating much, but i can't live without drinking." "i think you can leave off, sir; i hope you will try." "you speak like a boy. you never drank any whiskey. you don't know what a fiend it is. you don't know what a horrible necessity it is to a man whose nerves are shaken, only to be steadied by this liquid fire; whose stomach, chilled and frozen, can only be warmed by this blast from tartarus. you don't know anything about it. i hope you never will. philip, i hope you never will." he covered his face with his hands, and when he raised his head, i saw that he had been weeping. his eyes were filled with tears, and i pitied him from the deepest depths of my heart. "beware, philip! beware!" said he, solemnly. "never touch a drop of whiskey, wine, or even ale,--not the tenth part of a drop,--if you are dying for the want of it. die, but don't touch it." "i hope i never shall." "hope! don't hope! sign the pledge; swear on the holy bible; go down on your knees, every morning and every night, and pray that almighty god will help you, and save you from the curse. don't trifle with it, philip. be in earnest, and when you feel weak, commend yourself to god, and think of edward farringford." he covered his face with his hands again, and wept so bitterly, that the little table danced under the convulsive agony which shook his frame. "look at me, philip!" said he, raising his head again. "behold the wreck of a man! if there had been no whiskey in the world, or if i had never tasted it, i could have welcomed you to the most elegant mansion in st. louis. i could have pointed you to a dozen steamers, on the missouri and mississippi, which were all mine. i could have presented you to my wife, the most beautiful and accomplished woman in the city, now driven out from my presence. more than this, philip, i could have pointed you to my boy, my son, my only child, who perished in the cold waters of the missouri, because i was too drunk to save him!" i need not say how startled, how thrilled i was by this agonizing narrative. the bar-room was crowded, and noisy with the violent debates of excited politicians, and the gabble of men warmed by their cups into unusual hilarity, so that no one appeared to notice farringford, though he uttered his impressive warnings in a loud tone. but i was too much moved and thrilled myself to heed what others said or did. the toper wept, and then tried to shake off the remembrance of the past. "where was your son lost, mr. farringford?" i asked, choking with emotion. "on the upper missouri. he was a child under three. his name was philip, like yours. he was named after my brother, who died ten years ago. enough of this. i am almost crazy when i think of it." the broken-down toper was my father! chapter xi. in which phil takes his father to his new home. my father! i had found him; but the finding of him in such a miserable, degraded, besotted being as he who was before me seemed to be the greatest mishap, the most overwhelming misfortune, that could possibly have overtaken me. he was the first white man i had ever seen really intoxicated. i was mortified and disheartened as i looked at his pale, thin face, and regarded his trembling limbs. what should i do? i could not tell him that i was his son. i could not throw myself into his arms and weep tears of joy, as i had imagined the impressive scene, in case i should ever find either of my parents. i wanted to weep; i wanted to give myself up to a transport of grief, if not despair, as i realized the terrible truth that the degraded being before me was my father. "philip, i've told you more than i ever uttered before. you looked into my face, and seemed so interested that i was tempted to tell more than i intended," said he, wiping away with his coat sleeve the tears that stained his sunken cheeks. "no matter; we will be jolly now. i can get another drink in a cheap grog-shop for the half dime i have in my pocket." to my surprise he laughed as easily as he had wept, and shook off, with astonishing facility, the burden which had weighed him down. he rose from his chair, and tottered towards the door. i followed him out into the street. "where are you going now?" i asked. "going to get a cheap drink," he replied, with a kind of chuckle. "i shall be all right then; and we'll go and look for lynch." "don't drink any more to-night, mr. farringford," i pleaded, taking his arm. "i must!" said he, vehemently. "i might as well tell you not to eat after you had been without food for a week, as you tell me not to drink. i must have whiskey, or die." "then die!" i added, using his own words. "die?" "that's what you said to me." "i might do that, philip," he replied, stopping suddenly in the street, as if the idea impressed him favorably. "of course i did not mean that, sir," i interposed. "but it would be better to die than live as i live. i have only one cheap drink left--one glass of camphene whiskey, which seems to burn my very soul. in a word, it is better to die than to live, for such as i am." "no; there is hope for you," i pleaded, leading him along through the street. "hope? no more than for a man who is already dead, philip. i shall take my cheap drink, and then i shall be penniless again. it may be twenty-four hours, perhaps forty-eight, before i can raise another dollar or another drink. then i shall suffer with horrors i cannot describe, till i can get more whiskey." "where do you live?" "nowhere." "where do you board?" "i don't board," he replied, with his usual chuckle. "where do you sleep?" "wherever i happen to drop. in the police station; on board a steamboat; in a shed; anywhere or nowhere." "but where were you going to-night?" i asked, shocked at this revelation of misery, so horrible and strange to me. "i was going to the gambling-houses to find lynch." "but after that?" "anywhere that my fancy leads me." "come with me," said i, unwilling to abandon him. "where?" "to my house--where i board." "no, philip." "you shall sleep with me to-night." i knew that mrs. greenough would not wish such a lodger as he, but i was determined to do what i could for him; and, if she would not permit him to sleep with me, i would go out with my miserable parent. i wanted to see him when he was sober. he had told me that his wife had deserted him, and i wished to learn more about her. i could not allude to a theme so sacred while he was in his present condition. hopeless as the task seemed to be, i intended to use all the powers which god had given me in reforming him. i led him in the direction of my boarding-house, and he seemed to be as willing to go one way as another. after he had delivered himself of the emotions which crowded upon him at the bar-room, he spoke lightly of his misfortunes, and chuckled whenever he alluded to any circumstance which was particularly degrading in his condition. "where do you obtain your meals, mr. farringford?" i asked, as much to keep his attention occupied as to gratify my own curiosity. "i don't obtain many," he replied, lightly. "but you must eat." "not when i can drink. i don't average more than one meal a day. i can't afford to waste my money, when i have any, in eating." "do you live on one meal a day?" "i don't get that always." "where do you get that one?" "anywhere i can. they have meals on board the steamers lying at the levee and waiting to start. they never turn me off when i sit down to the table. if i'm very drunk, they give me my meal at a side-table; but that don't happen often, for i don't want to eat when i can get plenty to drink." how insufferably miserable and degrading was the life he led! and he was my father! "how long have you led such a life?" i inquired, with a shudder. "not long, philip. do you know, my lad, that i'm telling you all this to save you from whiskey? i'm not drunk now. i know what i'm about; and i would go ten miles to-night to save any fellow-creature, even if it was a nigger, from being as bad as i am. i would, philip; upon my honor and conscience i would." "that proves that you have a kind heart," i replied; and even as he revelled in his shame and misery, i was glad often to observe these touches of fine feeling, for they assured me that, in his better days, he had been a noble and generous man. [illustration: phil introduces the elder farringford to his landlady. page .] "my heart is right, my boy. like all drunkards--yes, philip, i'm a drunkard. i know it; and i call things by their right names. like all drunkards, i've been growing worse and worse; but it's only a few months since i went into the street, and had no home, no place to lay my head at night." i led him to mrs. greenough's house. he said nothing more about the "cheap drink," for i had kept his mind busy on the way. i had a night key, and i admitted him to the entry, where i asked him to wait until i spoke with my landlady. in as few words as possible i informed her of the discovery i had made, and distinctly added that my father was intoxicated. "will you allow me to take care of him in my room, mrs. greenough?" i asked. "yes, indeed!" she replied, with unexpected readiness. "bring him into the kitchen, and i will do everything i can for him." "thank you, mrs. greenough. you are very kind. i had no right to expect this of you." "i know how to pity such poor people, phil," said she, shaking her head sadly; and i afterwards learned that her late husband had been a drunkard for a number of years, and had been saved by the great washingtonian movement. "my father does not yet suspect that i am his son. will you be so kind as not to mention the fact to him?" i continued. "just as you wish, phil," she answered, as i hastened down stairs. mrs. greenough held the lamp in the entry while i conducted my tottering companion up the stairs. i introduced him in due form to her. "madam, i am your very obedient servant," said he. "i am happy to make your acquaintance--more happy than you can be to make mine." "i'm very glad to see you; come in," she added, placing her rocking-chair before the fire for him. he seated himself, and glanced around the room. mrs. greenough asked if he had been to supper. he had not, and he did not wish for any; but the good lady insisted that he should have a cup of tea. in spite of his answer, he ate heartily of the food set before him, and seemed to be refreshed by it. for an hour he talked about indifferent subjects, and then i took him to my room. mrs. greenough gave me some clean clothes for him, which had belonged to her husband, declaring that she was glad to have them put to so good use. he intimated, as he glanced at the neat bed, that he should like to wash himself. i carried up a pail of warm water, and leaving him to make his ablutions, i went down to the kitchen again. "i hope you will excuse me for bringing him here, mrs. greenough," said i, feeling that i had been imposing upon her good nature. "you did just exactly right, phil. you had no other place to take him to; and you didn't want to leave the poor creature in the street. i will do everything i can for him." "i am very much obliged to you, and as soon as mr. gracewood comes, i will have something done for him." "are you sure he is your father?" "i have no doubt of it, mrs. greenough. what he said assured me of the fact; but he thinks i am dead." "where is your mother? was she lost?" "no; he says she was driven away from him by his bad conduct. i don't know where she is." my landlady was willing to take care of the sufferer for a few days, if he could be induced to stay at the house; and we talked about the matter till i thought he had gone to bed, when i went to my room. by this time the effects of the liquor he had drank were hardly perceptible; but his nerves were terribly shaken. mrs. greenough had given me a dose of valerian, which she said would do him good. he drank it without an objection, and soon went to sleep. i was tired enough to follow his example, after i had put the room in order. when i awoke in the morning, my father had dressed himself, and was pacing the room, in the gloom of the early morning. he was entirely sober now, and his frame shook as though he had been struck with palsy. i was alarmed at his condition. he told me he must have whiskey, or he should shake himself to pieces. "don't take any more, sir," i pleaded. "nothing but whiskey will quiet my nerves," said he, in trembling tones. "you shall have some strong tea or coffee; or perhaps mrs. greenough can give you something better." "i don't want to drink, philip; no, i don't," he replied, in piteous tones; "but you cannot understand the misery of my present condition. it is worse than death." "but you will be better soon if you let liquor alone." "i can't let it alone. every instant is an hour of agony. have you any money?" "only five cents." "i have five cents. i will get a cheap drink." "no, don't!" i pleaded. "wait here a little while. i will make a fire, and see what can be done for you." i went down stairs, and by the time i had made the fire mrs. greenough appeared. i told her how much my poor father was suffering. she seemed to understand the case exactly; and as soon as the tea-kettle boiled, she made some strong wormwood tea, which i gave to our patient. i had some hope when he declared that it had helped him. he ate a very light breakfast, and appeared to have no appetite. my good landlady spoke words of hope to him, and said she had taken care of one who was precisely in his condition. if he would only be patient, and trust her, she would cure him. he promised to stay in the house during the forenoon; and i went to my work, hoping, but hardly expecting, to find him there when i came home to dinner. chapter xii. in which phil listens to a discussion, and takes part in a struggle. my work on the building was no lighter than it had been the day before; but i had done so much hard labor in the field and forest that it did not wear upon me. i observed everything that was done by the skilled workmen, and endeavored to profit by what i saw. i felt that i was learning something every hour, and i was pleased to know that mr. clinch was entirely satisfied with me. at noon i hastened home, anxious to know the condition of my father. "how is your patient, mrs. greenough?" i asked, as i entered the kitchen where she was cooking the dinner. "i am sorry to tell you, phil, that he is gone." "gone!" "yes; i had to go over to the provision store for something for dinner. mr. farringford promised faithfully to remain in the house; but when i came back he had left. i was not absent more than fifteen minutes." "i am very sorry for it; but it can't be helped," i replied, sadly. "i am to blame, phil. i ought to have locked the door, and taken the key with me." "don't blame yourself at all, mrs. greenough," i interposed. "you have been very kind to him and to me, and i am greatly obliged to you." "perhaps you will be able to find him again." "i will try this evening. i'm sorry i have not more time to take care of him." "if you will get him back again i will do the best i can, and when i go out i will lock the door." "perhaps it is no use to try to do anything for him," i added. "he is your father, phil; and you must do and keep doing for him. let us hope and pray that he may be saved." after dinner i went to my work again; and that afternoon we finished boarding the building. "can you lay shingles, phil?" asked mr. clinch. "i never did lay any, but i know i can after i have seen how it is done." "conant shall show you how," he added. i went upon the roof with my fellow-workman. as, in the short time i had worked with him, i had carefully observed all his instructions, and been obliging and respectful to him, conant was very willing to show me how to work. but the operation of laying shingles is very simple, though it requires considerable care and skill in breaking joints, so that the water shall not work through. i saw how it was done, and, though i worked rather slowly at first, i was soon able to lay the shingles to the satisfaction of my instructor. as i got the "hang of the thing" i worked more rapidly, and before night i could lay as many as conant. we lined the length of the roof, and while he began at one end, i began at the other. at first we came together pretty near my end, but i gradually increased the distance until we met in the middle, showing that i did as much work as my instructor. "well, phil, how did you get along shingling?" asked mr. clinch, when i went down the ladder at six o'clock. "pretty well, i think, sir," i replied. "i shall learn how in time." "learn how!" added conant; "he can lay as many shingles in a day as i can." "if i can it is all because conant showed me so well that i couldn't help doing it," said i, wishing to acknowledge my obligations to my kind instructor. i saw that he was pleased with the compliment; and i have always found that a pleasant word, even from a boy, helps things along amazingly in this world. it was better and fairer to attribute a portion of my success to conant's careful and patient teaching than to claim all the credit of it myself. it was doing justice to him without injuring me, and was a cheap way to make a strong friend. "i'm glad to have a fellow like you to work with, phil," said conant, as we walked up the street together. "clinch put that morgan blair into my charge to show him how to work; but he knew so much more than i did that i couldn't teach him anything. his head is made of wood." "i'm always very thankful to any one who will show me how to do anything." "i see you are, phil, and it's a real pleasure to teach you anything." "thank you; i think we shall agree together first rate." "so do i; but i don't like these boys who know more than the law allows." we parted at the corner of the next street, and i went home to supper. my father had not returned to the house, and i did not expect he would do so. i was sorry i had not inquired about my mother when he was with me; but i had no good opportunity, and was confident that i should see him again. after supper i left the house, and went to the planters' hotel, where i expected to find him; but it was only when he had a dollar or two that he went there. "have you seen mr. farringford to-day?" i timidly asked one of the bar-tenders, who was disengaged. "he has been here two or three times to-day," replied the man. "do you know where he is now?" "i haven't the least idea. he hangs round forstellar's, i think." "where is that?" "it is a gambling-house," he added, giving me the street and number. "what does mr. farringford do?" i asked, rather startled at being directed to a gambling-house. "do? nothing," said the man, contemptuously. "he used to be a runner for a gambling-house, and followed this business as long as he could keep sober enough to do it." "what is a runner?" "one that ropes in customers to a gambling-saloon," laughed the bar-tender. "farringford used to make money enough to pay for his liquor at it; but lately he keeps so drunk that no one will go with him. what do you want of him?" "i wanted to see him." "do you know him?" "i did not know him till yesterday. he knows a man who has some money that belongs to me," i replied. but i was thankful that a customer came to prevent him from asking me any more questions. i was shocked to hear that my father had been connected with a gambling-house. he evidently did not think that the business of a "runner" was disreputable, when he assured me that no one could accuse him of a dishonest or a dishonorable deed. but he was only the wreck of a man, and it would have been strange indeed if his moral perception had not been impaired by his long course of dissipation. i hastened to the place which had been described to me by the bar-tender. the establishment had a bar-room on the lower floor, with a private staircase to the apartments above, where games of chance were played. i went into the bar-room, and saw well-dressed gentlemen passing through the private door to the stairs. i looked about the place a short time. if my father was in the building, he was up stairs, and i decided to attempt the passage. at the foot of the stairs a man stopped me, and told me that no boys were allowed in the rooms above. i was willing to believe that, considering the character of the house, this was a very wholesome regulation; but i wished to find my father. i asked the sentinel if mr. farringford was up stairs. he did not know; if he was i couldn't see him. i inquired for lynch then, but could obtain no satisfaction. i insisted upon seeing one or both of these men with so much zeal that the inside sentinel ordered me to leave the premises. i gently and respectfully remonstrated; but the fellow took me by the arm, and walked me out into the street. as i had no rights there, i did not resist. i was rather indignant at this treatment, though i ought not to have expected decent conduct on the part of the officials of such an establishment. i decided not to abandon my purpose, though any satisfactory result was rather hopeless just then. i planted myself on the opposite side of the street, and watched the house, taking note of every one who went in or came out. i meant to stay there till midnight if necessary, for i judged from the answers of the inside sentinel that the persons for whom i had inquired were there. my patience held out till the clock struck eight, when a policeman, by some strange fatality, happened to pass the place. he was on the other side of the street, and glanced into the bar-room as he passed. i determined to walk at his side, and tell him my story, so far as it related to the loss of my money. i crossed over for the purpose of joining him, hoping to induce him to enter the gambling-house with me. as i reached the front of the establishment, two men came out, both of them making use of rather sharp language. their voices attracted my attention. one of them was lynch, and the other was farringford. "i will not have my steps dogged by such a fellow as you are?" exclaimed the former, angrily. "don't make a noise, lynch," said farringford. "if you do, i'll refer the matter to a policeman, and send for the boy." "nonsense! i've told you i know nothing about the boy or his money," added lynch, moving down the street in the direction of the river. deeply interested in the discussion, i followed the parties closely enough to hear every word they spoke. from what lynch said i learned that they had already discussed the subject at the gambling-house; and i judged that the robber had fled in order to escape the importunity of the other. "the boy speaks the truth, and if you don't give his money back i will make st. louis too warm for your comfort," retorted farringford, warmly. "i don't want to be bored with this matter any more," said lynch. "if you will clear out i will give you a dollar to get drunk upon." "i ask no man to give me anything. that won't do; i want the money for the boy." "why should you bother your head about the boy?" "he's my boy, and i won't see him wronged by any one." "your boy!" "yes, my boy! he's my son," persisted farringford. "nonsense! you have lost your wits." i thought i had lost mine too. i could not believe that farringford intended to speak the truth when he said i was his son. he could not possibly have known that i was his son. but my heart leaped up into my throat when it flashed upon my mind that my father had opened the bureau drawer in my room, where i had placed the locket and the little clothes i had worn when i was picked up on the missouri river. yet this was not probable, for i had locked the drawer, and put the key in a safe place. i was more inclined to think that farringford called me his son in order to explain his interest in my affairs. i followed the two men to the levee, where they suddenly halted near a street lamp. i dodged out of their sight, and kept walking back and forth near them; but, as i was a boy, they did not seem to notice me, or at least to consider my presence of any importance. "i am willing to get rid of you, farringford, at any reasonable price," said lynch. "i will not be dogged another foot farther." "then give me back the ninety-seven dollars and a half you stole from my boy," added farringford. "don't say that thing again to me. i will give you five dollars if you will bore me no more." "no; i want the whole." "once for all, then, will you clear out, or not?" "once for all, i will not till you give up the money you stole from my boy." "then take the consequences," said lynch, as he sprang upon the tottling farringford. my blood boiled then, and leaping upon lynch, i bore him to the ground. he released his hold upon my father when he felt my grasp upon him. "police!" i shouted, as i lay upon my victim. he struggled to shake me off; but i held on, for i knew that i must keep the advantage or lose my man. chapter xiii. in which phil has another mishap, and is taken to a police station. i had measured the form and estimated the muscle of lynch before i paid my respects to him. he had threatened me when i met him on the preceding day, and i came to the conclusion that, after passing through one indian campaign, i should not run away from such a puny fellow as he was. as a boy i was strong, as a man he was weak, and having him under me i had all the advantage. he struggled but a moment, and then changed his tone. "don't make a row, phil," said he, panting under the exhaustion of his efforts. "you do know me, then," i replied, puffing not less than he. "i do. let me up, phil, and i will give you your money." "i don't think i shall take your word again," i added, with a candor becoming the exciting occasion. "let me up, phil; there will be a crowd around us in a moment." "no matter; i won't let you up till you give me some security for your good behavior." "better let him up as quick as possible," interposed mr. farringford. "there are some men coming down the street." "i will hold on to him till he makes it safe for me to let him go," i replied. "put your hand into my breast pocket, and take out my pocket-book. it contains over two hundred dollars," said lynch. i followed his directions; but i was not satisfied in regard to the contents of the pocket-book. it might be stuffed with brown paper for aught i knew, for i had read about some of the tricks of swindlers in great cities, in the newspapers, since i came to st. louis. "take it, mr. farringford, and see what is in it," i added, handing it to my father. "let me up, phil," pleaded lynch. "not yet, mr. lynchpinne." "if you are not satisfied, take the purse out of my side pocket. it contains fifty or sixty dollars in gold." i took the purse from his pocket, and it was heavy enough to be filled with gold. "now let me up, phil. don't get up a row here." i was not quite satisfied that we had a sufficient security for the money i had lost, and i wished my father to examine the purse after he had reported on the contents of the pocket-book. "what's the row?" demanded a couple of men coming out of the street by which we had reached our present position. "let me up, phil," said lynch, in a low tone. "let him up," said my father, in a tone so earnest that i could not disregard it. lynch sprang to his feet, and began to brush the dirt from his clothes. "what's the trouble?" repeated the two strangers. "no trouble," replied lynch. "come, we will go up to forstellar's and settle the matter." without waiting to have the matter discussed, lynch started at a rapid pace, and my father and i followed him. the two strangers, who manifested a strong interest in the proceedings, again demanded an explanation; and as they received none, they came up the street after us. "i'm not going to any gambling-house to settle the matter," said i, placing myself at the side of lynch. "where will you go?" demanded he, impatiently. "come to my boarding-house." "no; i am not going to be led into any trap." "there is no trap about it. you will see no one but a woman." "i don't care about going to a private house." "and i don't care about going to a gambling-saloon." "you have all my money. do you mean to keep the whole of it?" "if i should it would be serving you right; but i don't intend to take any more than belongs to me. will you go to the planters' hotel?" i asked. "why not go to forstellar's? it is nearer, and i am in a hurry." "i won't go into such a place if i can help it." "you need not go up stairs--only into the bar-room." "no; i won't go where you can call in the aid of your friends." "very well; i will go to the planters' hotel," he replied. as we were walking up the street we passed a policeman. i had come to feel a peculiar interest in this class of men; and from the fact that i had met two of them in the same evening, i concluded that the traditions stored up against them were false. it is not quite possible for a police officer to be everywhere at the same instant; and, as there are a thousand places within his beat where he cannot be, to the one where he is, the chances are altogether against his being always where he happens to be wanted. i say that, having seen two policemen in the same evening, i felt a renewed respect and regard for the order, and i naturally looked behind me as i passed the second one, in order to obtain a good view of the man. i was not exactly pleased to notice that the two men who had followed us from front street stopped him, or rather induced him to join them; and the three followed us. i had no doubt the inquisitive strangers made our little party the subject of a familiar conversation with the policeman, as they walked up the street. however, i did not feel much concerned about the circumstance; for, having been brought up beyond the practicable reach of the law, i had no suspicion that i had done anything wrong; and a new mishap was necessary in order to convince me of the error of taking the law into my own hands. i mentioned the fact to lynch that a policeman was following us. he did not take the matter so coolly as i did, and i am not sure he did not regret that he had taken the trouble to relieve me of my shot-bag. i was very well pleased with myself, and thought i had managed my case remarkably well. i had full security for the money i had lost, and ten minutes in the hotel would enable me to recover possession of my funds. the next day was saturday, and i intended to purchase some new clothes, so that i could go to sunday school, to church, and to the prayer-meeting on the evening of the holy day. all these things were new to me, and the anticipation of them was very pleasant. i meant, with my money, to put my wardrobe in a condition that would satisfy mrs. greenough, who had promised to go with me to the sunday school, and to all the meetings. [illustration: phil gets lynch at a disadvantage. page .] "come, hurry up," said lynch, while i was passing these pleasant reflections through my mind. "that policeman will make trouble for us." "i'm not afraid of him." "but i am," replied my companion, sharply. "if you get me into a scrape, it will go harder with you than with me." i did not see how that could be, but i was willing to meet the views of lynch as long as no treachery was apparent in his conduct. if he wished to leave us, he could do so, for we had all his money. we reached the planters' hotel, closely followed by the policeman and the two strangers. when we were about to enter the bar-room, the officer stepped in front of us, and stopped our further progress. "i learn that an assault was committed, under suspicious circumstances, near the levee," said the officer. "i should like to know about it." "i was robbed of my purse and pocket-book," replied lynch, promptly. "who did it?" demanded the officer, with energy. "this man and this boy," answered lynch. "it is no such thing!" i protested, startled at the charge of my unprincipled companion. "but that young fellow was holding him down," interposed one of the strangers. "he let him up just as gray and i came out of plum street." "that's so," added lynch, in the tone and manner of a martyr. "they took from me all my money, and were going to take my watch when they were interrupted." "it is a false and groundless accusation," said mr. farringford, vehemently. "ah, farringford, are you in the scrape?" exclaimed mr. gray. "i am not in the scrape. there is no scrape," replied my father, very much agitated, for he probably realized better than i did the nature of our proceedings. "i will conduct you all to the police office, and we will look into the matter," said the official, as he took me upon one arm, and my father upon the other. lynch walked with the two gentlemen, one of whom, it appeared, was connected with the metropolitan police department, which explained his interest in the affair. i heard him telling his story to them, and i had no doubt they were greatly edified by it. we arrived at the station, and were presented to a sergeant of police, who imposed upon himself the task of investigating the affair. mr. gray stated that he had found me holding lynch upon the ground, while farringford was looking into a pocket-book under the street lamp. "what have you to say?" said the sergeant to lynch. "i was going across the levee to a steamboat, when this man and boy sprang upon me and knocked me down before i knew what they were about," replied lynch. "they took from me my pocket-book, which contains over two hundred dollars, and my purse, with fifty or sixty dollars in it, mostly in gold." "do you know either of these parties?" asked the sergeant. "i know farringford--everybody knows him," replied lynch. "i don't know the boy." "i am sorry to see that farringford has been reduced to anything of this sort," added mr. gray, glancing at the trembling inebriate. "gentlemen, i am willing to wait till this transaction can be investigated for the vindication of my character," replied farringford, straightening himself up as much as his tottering limbs would permit. "give me your name, if you please," said the sergeant to lynch. "my name is lynch." "full name, if you please." "samuel lynch." "_alias_ leonidas lynchpinne," i added; "the name he called himself by when i first saw him." "your business, if you please?" continued the official, as he wrote down the name. "i have no regular business at the present time." "that's so!" exclaimed farringford. "his business is very irregular. in other words, he is a blackleg, at forstellar's or on the river." "no matter what he is; you can't knock him down and rob him in the streets of st. louis," said the sergeant. "have you either the pocket-book or the purse, farringford?" "i have the pocket-book," replied my father, producing it. "did you take this from mr. lynch?" asked the officer, as the pocket-book was handed to him. "i did not." "his son did," said lynch, with a sneer. "what do you mean by his son?" demanded mr. gray, with a smile. "he told me the boy was his son." "when did he tell you so?" asked the sergeant, quietly. "after he had knocked me down," replied lynch, wincing under the question, which was evidently put for a purpose. "then you talked over their relationship while the boy held you on the ground?" suggested mr. gray. "no; farringford only called the boy his son." "what did he say to him?" "he called him his son, and told him to hold me fast." "before he took your pocket-book from you?" "no; afterwards, while he was looking to see what was in it." "this is not the way robberies are usually committed," added the sergeant. "i never heard of one robber holding a man down while the other looked to see what the pocket-book contained." "did farringford call you his son?" asked mr. gray, turning to me. "yes, sir, he did; but not while i held lynch down. it was while we were in plum street," i replied. "what trick were you engaged in?" demanded mr. gray, rather sternly. "why did he call you his son?" "i am his son. he is my father," i answered. farringford looked at me with an expression of disapproval, as if to reproach me for the falsehood he believed i had uttered. chapter xiv. in which phil recovers his money. "you don't mean to say that farringford here, whom everybody in st. louis knows, is your father--do you?" continued mr. gray, apparently amazed at the absurdity of the proposition, while his friend and the sergeant laughed heartily. "that is precisely what i mean to say," i replied, in the most determined tone. farringford shook his head, and was apparently sorry that i had turned out to be such an abominable liar. "what is your name?" inquired the sergeant. "philip farringford." i had taken especial pains not to give my full name to my father when he questioned me, and he doubtless supposed that i had invented the name for the occasion. he looked at me, and shook his head. very likely, by this time, he was willing to believe i had deceived him, and that i had lost no money, for if i could lie about one thing i could about another. "do you justify this young man in calling you his father, farringford?" said mr. gray. "i am sorry to say i cannot. gentlemen, i have endeavored to act in good faith," replied my father. "i have always found that the truth would serve me better than falsehood." "did you call him your son?" "i did, but used the expression as a kind of harmless fib to carry my purpose with this lynch, who had robbed the boy of nearly a hundred dollars." "it is false!" exclaimed lynch. "keep cool, if you please, sir," interposed the sergeant. "we have heard your story, and now we will hear the other side." "philip may have deceived me, but i believed that he had been robbed, and i did the best i could to get his money back, after he had pointed out to me the man who took it from him. certainly he is not my son. i never saw him till yesterday; and i am sorry he has thought it necessary to repeat my fib, or falsehood, if you please," continued farringford. "nevertheless, i hope i shall be able to prove in due time that he is my father," i added. "but, my lad, everybody knows that farringford has no children," said mr. gray. "never mind that now. i want to know whether any robbery has been committed," interposed the sergeant, impatiently. "let the boy tell his own story," replied mr. gray. "here is lynch's purse," i began, handing it to the sergeant. "then you did take these things from him?" "i did; but he told me to put my hand in his pocket and take out the pocket-book and the purse." "very probable!" sneered lynch. "it's all true," said farringford. "well, go on, young man." "i was coming down the missouri river in the steamer fawn--" "she arrived last tuesday morning," interposed mr. lamar, the gentleman with mr. gray. "yes, sir. i was with mr. gracewood and his family." "what gracewood?" "henry." "is he a brother of robert gracewood of glencoe?" "i don't know. he had a brother in st. louis," said mr. lamar, who was an elderly gentleman, and appeared to know everybody and everything. "he bought a place at glencoe a year ago." "his wife's brother was a mr. sparkley." "it's the same man. but he separated from his wife years ago, cleared out, and has not been heard from since." i explained that the family had been reunited, and were on their way to st. louis. i had endeavored to find mr. gracewood's brother, but without success, in order to inform him of what had occurred up the river. the fact that he had moved from the city explained why i had not found his name in the directory. i continued my story, with frequent interruptions, much to the disgust of the sergeant, who was interested only in the criminal aspect of the case. i told how lynch had robbed me at leavenworth, how i had identified him in st. louis, and followed him and farringford from forstellar's to front street. "every word of that story is true so far as it relates to me," said farringford. "i watched lynch and farringford, the former trying to get rid of the latter all the time, until at last he laid violent hands upon him," i continued. "i couldn't stand it any longer; i went up behind lynch, threw my hands around his neck, and stuck my knees into his back till he went down. he begged me to let him up, and promised to restore my money if i would. then, when i was not willing to let him up without some security, he told me to take his pocket-book and purse. that was just what was going on when these gentlemen came out of plum street." "then you did not knock him down till he laid hands upon farringford?" added the sergeant. "no, sir; i did not till he took hold of my father." "your father!" exclaimed mr. gray. "the rest of your story is so straightforward that i hoped you would abandon that fiction." "it is no fiction." "it matters not to me whether it is fact or fiction," interposed the sergeant. "i only wish to know whether or not a crime has been committed in st. louis. if the boy knocked this lynch down in order to save farringford from injury, it is no crime, whether father or not." "i cried, 'police!' as loud as i could, as soon as we struck the ground," i added. "can you identify your money?" asked the sergeant. "not every piece of it; but there was a five-dollar gold coin, with a hole through the middle, dated . the clerk of the fawn would not take it for my passage for five dollars." the officer poured the gold from the purse upon the table, and instantly picked out the coin i had described, which lynch had perhaps found it as difficult to pass as i had. he looked at the date, and declared it was . "that is very good evidence, my boy," said the officer, bestowing a smile of approval upon me. "can you give me any more." "if you can find captain davis, of the fawn, he will say that i left the boat with lynch." "where is he?" "he has gone up to alton with the fawn. when mr. gracewood comes, he will tell you the same thing." "your witnesses are not at hand. in what boat did you come down the river." "in the fawn." "and you, mr. lynch?" "in the daylight." "where from?" "st. joe." the sergeant continued to question and cross-question lynch for half an hour. his statements were confused and contradictory, and being based upon falsehoods, they could not well be otherwise. it appeared that the daylight, in which he had arrived, came down the river immediately after the fawn, which made my story the more probable. "i do not see that any crime has been committed in st. louis," said the officer, after his long and patient investigation. "then you don't call it a crime to knock a man down, and take his purse and pocket-book from him?" added lynch, in deep disgust. "i believe the young man's story," replied the officer. "if your money had been taken from you by force, you would not have walked quietly through the streets with those who robbed you, passing an officer on your way without hinting at what had happened. the young man's story is straightforward and consistent, except as to his relations with farringford, which is not material. i am of the opinion that you commenced the assault upon farringford." "not so." "both farringford and the young man agree in all essential points." lynch growled and protested, but finally declared that he was satisfied to let the matter drop where it was. he had recovered his money, and he could not complain. "but i have not recovered mine, and i am not satisfied," i added, feeling that the discharge of lynch was total defeat to me. "you were robbed in the territory of kansas, and not in the city of st. louis," replied the officer. "must i lose my money for that reason?" "certainly not; but the complaint against lynch must be made at leavenworth, and a requisition from the governor of the territory must be sent here." the case was full of difficulties, and lynch, in charge of a policeman, was sent out of the room to enable us to consider the best means of proceeding. i could not go back to leavenworth very conveniently, and it would cost me more than the amount of money i had lost. we decided to let the matter rest till the next day, and lynch was called in again. "i propose to detain you till to-morrow, when farringford will complain of you for an assault," said the officer. "i would rather give a hundred dollars than be detained," said lynch. "we don't settle cases in that way. of course we intend to reach the robbery matter in some manner." "i will give the boy the money he claims to have lost," added the culprit. "if you wish to restore the money, you can," replied the sergeant. "i do not admit the truth of his story." "then you shall not give him any money. you shall not be swindled here." "if i admit the--" "don't commit yourself unless you choose to do so. whatever you say may be used as evidence to convict you." "you put me in a tight place," said lynch. "if i commit myself, you will prosecute me. if i don't commit myself, i cannot give the boy the money." "i did not say i should prosecute you. the crime, if any, was committed beyond the limits of this state. i cannot enter a complaint. the young man may do so if he thinks best." "can i make phil a present of a hundred dollars?" demanded lynch, desperately. "you can do as you please with your own money," answered the officer. the robber counted a hundred dollars from his pocket-book, and handed it to mr. lamar, who declared that the amount was right, and the bills were good. it was passed to me; but i declined to receive any more than i had lost, and changing a bill, i returned two dollars and a half. "i will make no complaint for assault now," said farringford. "then i cannot detain him. if the young man chooses to complain of lynch in leavenworth, he is still liable to prosecution." "i will risk that," said lynch, more cheerfully. "you can leave," added the officer. the rascal promptly availed himself of this permission, and left the office. "i am sorry to have a case settled in that manner. i know that man as a notorious blackleg," continued the officer. "i don't see that it could be settled in any other way now," replied mr. gray. "we have done nothing to prejudice the interests of justice. the young man can prosecute now." "i can't afford to go to kansas to do so," i replied. "we will keep watch of him," said the sergeant. we all left the office together. the two gentlemen who had manifested so much interest in the affair were unwilling to part with farringford and me. mr. gray asked me what had induced me to say that farringford was my father. "it's a long story, gentlemen; and i have to convince him as well as you of the truth of what i say. if you will go to my boarding-house i will do so." i told them where it was, and they consented to accompany me. when we reached the house, mrs. greenough was astonished at the number of my visitors, but i conducted them all to my chamber. chapter xv. in which phil produces the relics of his childhood. having seated my party in my chamber, i told the last part of my story first. i began by saying that i had been brought up on the upper missouri, by matt rockwood, relating all my experience down to the present moment, including the history of the gracewoods. "that's all very well, phil; but where were you born?" asked mr. gray. "you left that part out, and told us everything except that which we wished to know." "i don't know where i was born. you must ask my father?" "do you still persist in saying that farringford is your father?" "i still persist." "but he has no children." "i had one child," interposed farringford, trembling with emotion, as well as from the effects of inebriation. "i remember," said mr. lamar. "you lost that child when the farringford was burned." "yes," replied my father, with a shudder. "will you state precisely how that child was lost, sir?" i continued. "i would not ask you to do so if it were not necessary, for i know the narrative is painful." "i suppose you claim to be this child, which, if i remember rightly, was a girl," added mr. lamar. "no; it was a boy," responded mr. farringford. "gentlemen, i shall leave you to draw your own conclusions, after you have heard the rest of the story." "can it be possible that you are my lost child, philip?" said my father. "let us see the evidence before we decide," i replied. "now, how was the child lost?" "my wife's brother, lieutenant collingsby, was stationed at a fort on the upper missouri. my wife was anxious to see him, and we started in one of the steamers i owned then, with our little boy two years old," mr. farringford began. "the boat had our family name, and was the finest one i owned. we enjoyed the trip very much. i didn't drink very hard at that time, gentlemen, though i occasionally took too much in the evening, or on a festive occasion. on the night the steamer was burned, we were within thirty miles of the fort to which we were going, and where we intended to remain till the farringford returned from her trip to the mouth of the yellowstone. i know my wife did not undress the child, because we hoped to reach the fort, and spend the night at the barracks. "expecting to part with the passengers that evening, we had a merry time; and i drank till i was, in a word, intoxicated. i supplied whiskey and champagne for everybody on board, not excepting the officers, crew, and firemen, who would drink them. even the two or three ladies who were on board partook of the sparkling beverage. wishing to reach the fort as early as possible, i told the firemen and engineers to hurry up when i gave them their whiskey. they obeyed me to the letter, and the furnaces were heated red hot. i do not know to this day how the boat took fire; but i do know that a barrel of camphene, belonging to some army stores on board, was stove, and its contents ran all over the forward deck. "all hands worked hard to save the boat; but they worked in vain. the pilot finally ran her ashore. i pulled down a door, and carried it to the main deck aft, while my wife conveyed the child to the same point. the fire was forward, so that we could not leave the boat by the bow, which had been run on shore. i placed my little one upon the door, wrapped in a shawl, with a pillow on each side to keep it from rolling into the water. the captain was to help my wife, while i swam behind the door, holding it with my hands. in this position, partially supported by the raft, i expected to be able to propel it to the shore. my plan was good, and would have been successful, without a doubt, if i had not been intoxicated. "when i was about to drop into the water, the stern of the boat suddenly swung around, and i lost my hold upon the raft. i had been lying upon the edge of the deck, with my leg around a stanchion, my head hanging over the water; and i think my position, in addition to the fumes of the liquor i had drank, made me dizzy. i lost the door, and i think i partially lost my senses at the same time. the steamer, as she swung around, slipped from the abrupt shore which held her. this movement created a tremendous excitement, amounting to almost despair, among the passengers and crew. the door was carried away from the steamer, and i lost sight of it. when i was able again to realize my situation, i tried to discover the door, but in vain. i threw a box, which the captain had prepared to support my wife, into the water, and leaped in myself. "the current swept the steamer down the river. i paddled my box to the shore, and landed." "on which side did you land?" i asked. "on the north side. i ran on the bank of the river, looking for my child. the glare from the burning steamer lighted up the water, but i could see nothing floating on the surface. i was the only person who had left the boat so far, and i followed her till, two or three miles below the point where i had landed, one of her boilers exploded, and she became a wreck. about one half of the passengers and crew were saved on boxes, barrels, and doors. by the aid of the captain my wife was brought to the shore. i shall never forget her agony when i told her that our child was lost. she sank senseless upon the ground; but she came to herself after a time. i wished that i had perished in the flood when i realized the anguish of losing my only child. i could not comfort her; i needed comfort myself. i spent the long night in walking up and down the banks of the river, looking for my lost little boy. below the place where most of the passengers landed i found many doors and other parts of the boat; but i could not find my child. "i reasoned that the current would carry the raft which bore up my child to the same points where other floating articles were found, and i was forced to the conclusion that my darling had rolled from the door and perished in the cold waters. i shuddered to think of it. before daylight in the morning another steamer appeared, coming down the river. we hailed her, and were taken on board. she proved to be one of my boats, and i caused the most diligent search to be made for my lost little one. about a mile below the point where the farringford had been run ashore we found a door, with one pillow upon it, aground on the upper end of an island. this discovery was the knell of my last hope. of course the child had rolled from the door and perished. i wept bitterly, and my wife fainted, though we only realized what seemed inevitable from the first. we discovered this door about daylight, and it was useless to prolong the search. the evidence that my child was lost was too painfully conclusive. "my wife wished to return home. we were going on a pleasure excursion, but it had terminated in a burden of woe which can never be lifted from my wife or from me. i drank whiskey to drown my misery. i was seldom sober after this, and i lost all my property in reckless speculations. i became what i am now. my wife never would taste even champagne after that terrible night. she in some measure recovered her spirits, though she can never be what she was before. after i had lost everything, and could no longer provide a home for her, she returned to her father. i have not seen her for five years; but i do not blame her. she was a beautiful woman, and worthy of a better husband than i was. you know the whole story now, philip. these gentlemen knew it before." "not all of it," added mr. lamar. "and now we can pity and sympathize with you as we could not before." "no; i deserve neither pity nor sympathy," groaned my poor father, trembling violently. "if i had not been drunk i should have saved my child." "perhaps it is all for the best, since the child was saved," said i. "it is impossible!" exclaimed farringford. "i cannot believe it. there was no one in that lonely region; and, if my child had reached the shore, it must have perished more miserably of starvation than in the water." "you say your wife did not undress the child, because you expected to reach the fort that evening," i continued. "do you know what clothes it had on?" "i ought to know, for i have tearfully recalled the occasion when i last pressed it to my heart, after supper that awful night. it wore a little white cambric dress, with bracelets of coral on the shoulders." "anything on the neck?" "yes; a coral necklace, to which was attached a locket containing a miniature of my wife." "in what kind of a shawl was it wrapped when you placed it on the door?" i asked, as i unlocked the bureau drawer in which i had placed the precious relics of my childhood. while he was describing it i took the shawl from the drawer. "is this it?" farringford trembled in every fibre of his frame as he glanced at the article. "it looks like it. i do not know whether it is the same one or not." i trembled almost as much as the poor inebriate in the excitement of the moment. "i should hardly consider that sufficient evidence," said mr. gray. "there are thousands of shawls just like that." "i intend to furnish more evidence," i replied, producing the stained and mildewed dress i had brought from the settlement. "do you know that dress, mr. farringford?" "it certainly looks like the one my child wore." it was examined by the gentlemen; but they thought the evidence was not yet conclusive, and i took the bracelets from the drawer. "did you ever see these before?" i asked, handing them to the palsied drunkard. "you will see the initials p.f. on the clasps." "i have seen these, and i know them well. they were given to my child by my brother philip," replied he, with increasing emotion. "there may be some mistake," suggested mr. lamar. "hundreds and thousands of just such trinkets have been sold in st. louis." "but these have the initials of my child upon them." "p.f. may stand for peter fungus, or a dozen other names," replied mr. gray. "the evidence is certainly good as far as it goes, but not conclusive." "what should you regard as conclusive, sir?" i asked, rather annoyed at his scepticism, which i regarded as slightly unreasonable. "evidence, to be entirely conclusive, must be susceptible of only one meaning," added mr. lamar. "the articles you have produced may have belonged to some other person, though it is not probable." "i don't know that i shall be able to satisfy you, but i will try once more," i replied, taking the locket from the drawer. i handed the locket to farringford. he grasped it with his shaking hands, and turned it over and over. he examined the necklace with great care, and then tried to open the locket. he trembled so that he could not succeed, and i opened it for him. he glanced at the beautiful face upon which i had so often gazed by the hour together. "my wife!" exclaimed he, sinking into his chair, and covering his face with his hands, sobbing convulsively like a child. "you are my son!" "perhaps not," interposed mr. lamar, very much to my disgust. but my poor father was satisfied, and sprang forward to embrace me. the excitement was too much for his shattered nerves, and he dropped fainting into my arms. we placed him upon the bed, and i went for mrs. greenough. chapter xvi. in which phil struggles earnestly to reform his father. the skilful ministrations of mrs. greenough soon restored my father to himself. he had probably eaten nothing since he took his breakfast with me early in the morning, and his frame was not in condition to bear the pressure of the strong emotions which had agitated him. "my son!" exclaimed he, as the incidents which had just transpired came back to his mind. "my father!" i replied. he extended his trembling hand to me, and i took it. it would have been a blessed moment to me if i could have forgotten what he was, or if i could have lifted him up from the abyss of disgrace and shame into which he had sunk. i hoped, with the blessing of god, that i should be able to do this in some measure. i determined to labor without ceasing, with zeal and prayer, to accomplish this end. "i pity you, my son," said my father, covering his eyes with his hands. it can be no joy to you to find such a father." "i should not be sincere, father, if i did not say i wished you were different." "philip,--if that is really your name,--i will reform, or i will die," said he, with new emotion. "i have something to hope for now. the good god, who, i believed, had deserted me years ago, has been kinder to me than i deserved." "he is that to all of us, father." "where did you get this locket, young man?" asked mr. lamar, who evidently believed there was still a possibility that a mistake had been made. i replied that i had found it in the chest of matt rockwood, who had taken me from the door in the river; and i repeated that part of my narrative which i had omitted before. "you need not cavil, gentlemen," interposed my father. "i am satisfied. i can distinguish the features of my lost son. if you knew my wife, you can see that he resembles her. look at the portrait, and then look at him." "i have seen mrs. farringford, but i do not exactly remember her looks," added mr. lamar. "matt rockwood is dead; but there is a living witness who saw the child he found only a day or two after it was picked up," i continued. "who is he?" "kit cruncher; he is at the settlement now, and has known me for eleven years. mr. gracewood, whom i expect in st. louis soon, has known me for six years, and has heard matt rockwood tell the story of finding the child." "if i am satisfied, no one else need complain," said my father. "there are no estates, no property, nor a dollar left, to which any claim is to be established. i am a beggar and a wretch, and an inheritance of shame and misery is all i have for him." "but you forget that your wife is still living, farringford," added mr. lamar. "her father is a wealthy man, and his large property, at no very distant day, will be divided among his three children." "very true; i did not think of that. i have so long been accustomed to regard her as lost to me that i did not think my boy still had a mother," answered my father, bitterly. "but when she sees him, she will not ask that any one should swear to his identity. she will know him, though eleven years have elapsed since she saw him." "but where is she?" i asked, anxiously. "i do not know, philip." "when did you see her last?" "it is four or five years since we met." "but haven't you heard from her?" "once, and only once. after she left me, and went back to her father, i tried to see her occasionally, for i have never lost my affection and respect for her. i annoyed mr. collingsby, her father, trying to obtain money of him. three years ago the family moved away from st. louis, partly, if not wholly, i know, to avoid me, and to take my wife away from the scene of all her misery." "where did they go?" "to chicago, where mr. collingsby was largely interested in railroad enterprises." "is the family still there?" "i do not know." "they are," added mr. gray. "but my wife is not there," said my father. "some one told me, a year ago, he had met her in europe, where she intended to travel for three years with her brother and his wife. really, philip, i know nothing more about her. i wish i could lead you to her." i was indeed very sad when i thought that years might elapse before i could see her who had given me being. "i will make some inquiries, phil, in regard to the collingsbys," said mr. lamar. "are you satisfied, sir, that i am what i say i am?" i asked. "i have no doubt you are, though perhaps your case is not absolutely beyond cavil. the old man who died might have found the body of the child, and taken the clothes and trinkets from it; but that is not probable." "but i can produce a man who has known me from my childhood," i replied. "you can, but you have not," added he, with a smile. "i will produce him if necessary. i hope you will see mr. gracewood when he arrives." "i will, if possible. but, farringford, was there no mark or scar of any kind on the child which will enable you to identify him?" "i know of none. perhaps his mother does," answered my father. "but i tell you i am satisfied. i ask for no proof. i know his face now. it all comes back to me like a forgotten dream." "very well; but, farringford, you have something to live for now," added mr. lamar. "i have, indeed," replied the trembling sufferer, as he glanced fondly at me. "i will try to do better." "when you feel able to do anything, we shall be glad to help you to a situation where you can do something to support your boy," said mr. gray. "i can take care of myself, gentlemen. i am getting three dollars a week now, and i hope soon to obtain more," i interposed. "three dollars a week will hardly support you." "i shall be able to get along upon that sum for the present. mrs. greenough is very kind to me." the two gentleman said all they could to inspire my poor father with hope and strength, and then departed. i was very much obliged to them for the interest and sympathy they had manifested, and promised to call upon them when i needed any assistance. "i am amazed, philip," said my father, when our friends had gone. "i knew that you were my father when we met in the evening at the planters' hotel," i replied. "you remember that you told me you had lost a child on the upper missouri." "i did; i was thinking then what a terrible curse whiskey had been to me. you looked like a bright, active boy, and i desired to warn you, by my own sad experience, never to follow in the path i had trodden. i did not suspect that i was talking to my own son; but all the more would i warn you now." "you thrilled my very soul, father, with your words, and i shall never forget them. i shall pray to god to save both you and me from the horrors of intemperance." "philip, i have resolved most solemnly, a hundred times, to drink no more; but i did not keep my promise even twenty-four hours." "is your mind so weak as that?" "mind! i have no mind, my son. i haven't a particle of strength, either of body or mind." "you must look to god for strength," said mrs. greenough, who had listened in silence to our conversation. "i have, madam; but he does not hear the prayer of such a wretch as i am." "you wrong him, mr. farringford," replied the widow, solemnly. "he hears the prayers of the weakest and the humblest. you have no strength of your own; seek strength of him. my husband was reduced as low as you are. for ten years of his life he was a miserable drunkard; but he was always kind to me. hundreds of times he promised to drink no more, but as often broke his promise. i became interested in religion, and then i understood why he had always failed. i prayed with my husband, and for him. he was moved, and wept like a child. then he prayed with me, and the strength of purpose he needed came from god. he was saved, but he never ceased to pray. he redeemed himself, and never drank another drop. before he died, he had paid for this house, besides supporting us very handsomely for ten years." "that is hopeful, madam; but i am afraid i am too far gone. i have no wife to pray with me," said my father, gloomily. "i will pray with you." throwing herself upon her knees before a chair, she poured forth her petition for the salvation of the drunkard with an unction that moved both him and me. i heard my father sob, in his weakness and imbecility. he was as a little child, and was moved and influenced like one. "you must pray yourself, mr. farringford," said she, when she had finished. "you must feel the need of help, and then seek it earnestly and devoutly." "i thank you, madam, for all your kindness. i will try to do better. i will try to pray," said he. "could you give me some more of the medicine i took last night and this morning? it helped me very much." "certainly i can. i will do everything in the world for you, if you will only stay here and try to get well." she left the room, and went into the kitchen to prepare the soothing drinks which the excited nerves of the patient demanded. "i will reform, philip. i will follow this good lady's advice. give me your hand, my son," said my father. "o, if you only would, father! this world would be full of happiness for us then. we could find my mother, and be reunited forever." "god helping me, i will never drink another drop of liquor," said he, solemnly lifting up his eyes, as i held his trembling hand. mrs. greenough opportunely returned with the medicines, and with a folded paper in her hand. as my father took his potion, she opened the paper, which was a temperance pledge, on which was subscribed the name of "amos greenough." "this is the pledge my husband signed, with trembling hand, ten years before his death. it was salvation to him here--and hereafter. will you add your name to it, mr. farringford?" said mrs. greenough. "i will." "not unless you are solemnly resolved, with the help of god, to keep your promise," she added. "not unless you are willing to work, and struggle, and pray for your own salvation." [illustration: phils father signs the pledge. page .] "i am willing; and i feel a hope, even now, madam, that god has heard your prayer for a poor wretch like me." "sign, then; and god bless you, and enable you to keep this solemn covenant with him." she took the writing materials from the bureau, and my father, with trembling hand, wrote his name upon the pledge. "may god enable me to keep it!" said he, fervently, as he completed the flourish beneath the signature. "amen!" ejaculated mrs. greenough. "may you be as faithful as he was whose name is on the paper with you." "stimulated by his example, and by your kindness, i trust i shall be," said my father. mrs. greenough then provided a light supper for him, of which he partook, and very soon retired. i told my kind landlady that i had recovered my money, and should now be able to pay my father's board for a time. she had not thought of that matter, and would be glad to take care of him for nothing if she could only save him. as i went to bed i could not but congratulate myself upon finding such a kind and devoted friend as she had proved to be. chapter xvii. in which phil meets the last of the rockwoods. the next day my father was quite sick; but mrs. greenough was an angel at his bedside, and i went to my work as usual. i was filled with hope that the wanderer might yet be reclaimed. though i longed intensely to see my mother, i think if i had known she was in the city i should not have sought to find her, for i desired to carry to her the joyful news of the salvation of my father. when i could say that he was no longer a drunkard, i should be glad to meet her with this intelligence upon my lips. but she was wandering in distant lands. plenty and luxury surrounded her, while i was struggling to earn my daily bread, and to take care of my father. the fact that she was in affluence was consoling to me, and i was the more willing to cling to my father in his infirmities. when i went to work that morning i was introduced to a plane and a plank--to test my ability, i supposed, for the men had not yet finished shingling the roof. a plank partition was to be put up in order to make a counting-room in one corner of the storehouse. i had never in my life seen a plane till i came to st. louis; but i had carefully observed the instrument and its uses. conant told me how to handle it with ease and effect, and instructed me in setting the iron, so as to make it cut more or less deeply, according to the work to be done. it was hard work, harder than boarding or shingling; but i made it unnecessarily severe for the first hour, and though it was a cool day, the sweat poured off me in big drops. i had not yet got the hang of the thing; but when conant came from the roof for a bundle of shingles, he looked in to see how i succeeded. a little more instruction from him put me on the right track, and i worked much easier; in a word, i learned to use the plane. after removing the rough side from the plank, it was a relief to handle the smoothing-plane, and i polished off the wood to my own satisfaction and that of my employer. in the afternoon i was sent upon the roof again to lay shingles, and we finished that part of the job before night. at six o'clock all the hands were paid off for their week's work. i felt considerable interest in this performance. i had worked three days, and at the price agreed upon i was entitled to a dollar and a half. "i shall not want you any longer, blair," said mr. clinch to the young fellow of whom conant had spoken so disparagingly to me. "i owe you six dollars; here is the amount." "you don't want me any longer?" replied blair, as he took his wages. "no." "why not?" "you don't suit me. i can't afford to pay you six dollars a week for what you do," answered the employer, bluntly. "you don't understand the business, and you don't try to learn it. that boy there does twice as much work in a day as you do." i did not think it right to hear any more of this conversation, and moved away. though i was pleased with the compliment, i was sorry to have it bestowed upon me at the expense or to the disparagement of another. i walked around the building, but i was soon sent for to receive my wages. "phil, you have done remarkably well," said mr. clinch; "and i want to use you well. you handle a plane well for one who never saw one before, and i think you were born to be a carpenter." "thank you, sir," i replied. "you give me all the credit i deserve." "and i give you a dollar a day for your work, for you have done twice as much as i expected of you," he added, handing me three dollars. "i supposed you would be in the way at first, and i only took you to oblige captain davis." "i have done the best i knew how, and shall always do so; but i don't ask any more than you agreed to give me. i am entitled to only half of this." "yes, you are. i agreed to give you more if you were worth it. conant says you have done a man's work most of the time. of course you can't do that on the average. but you will be worth about a dollar a day to me, now that i have discharged morgan blair." "thank you, sir; you are very kind." "kind! nonsense! i am only doing the fair thing by you. when i think you are worth more than a dollar a day, i shall give it to you. on the other hand, i shall discharge you when i don't want you, or when you are lazy or clumsy. i always speak my mind." i saw that he did, to blair as well as to me, and i was very thankful for having obtained so good an employer. i was determined to merit his good will by doing my duty faithfully to him. i went home, and found my father more comfortable than in the morning; but he was still very sick, and unable to leave his bed. in the evening i went out to purchase a suit of clothes, which i so much needed. i obtained a complete outfit, which would enable me to attend church the next day, looking like other young men of my age, in the humbler walks of life. mrs. greenough had been very particular in urging me to be prepared for church and sunday school, and had even offered to lend me money to purchase the needed articles. i told her i had never been to church in my life, and i was very glad of the opportunity. when my bundle was ready i turned to leave the store. a young man, whose form and dress looked familiar to me,--though i did not see his face, for he was looking at the goods in a glass case,--followed me into the street. "phil," said he; and i recognized the voice of morgan blair, the young man who had been discharged that afternoon by mr. clinch. i paused to see what he wanted, though i was not very anxious to make his acquaintance after what i knew of him. "what is it?" i asked. "i want to see you about a matter that interests me," he added. "what is that?" "they say you came from way up the missouri river. is that so?" "that's so." "conant said you did. i want to know something about the country up there, and i suppose you can tell me." "what do you want to know?" "i have an uncle up there somewhere, and i want to find him if i can." "do you know in what region he is located?" i inquired. "i do not; that is what i want to ascertain. conant told me you came from that country, and i meant to talk with you about it; but you put my pipe out, and i was discharged to-day. i saw you go into that store, and i thought i would wait for you." "what do you mean by putting your pipe out?" "didn't you put my pipe out?" "i didn't even know that you smoked." "you are rather green, but you have just come from the country. i meant that you caused me to be discharged." "i did?" "you heard clinch say that i did not do half as much work as you did?" "yes; i heard that; but it was not my fault." "i didn't do any more than i could help, and you put in all you knew how. if you hadn't come, clinch never would have suspected that i wasn't doing enough for a boy. i don't believe in breaking your back for six dollars a week. but never mind that now. when can i see you and talk over this other matter with you?" "i can tell you now all i know," i replied. "i think i shall go up the missouri, if i have any chance of finding my uncle." "you can't go up this season. no steamers leave so late as this. when did you see your uncle?" "i never saw him, and i shouldn't know him if i met him to-night. he has been up in the woods for twenty years, i believe." "what is his name?" "rockwood." "rockwood!" i exclaimed, startled by his answer. "yes; my mother was his sister." "what was his other name?" "matthew. he left illinois before i was born; but my mother heard from him about ten years ago. somebody--i don't know who it was--saw him at a wood-yard, and he sent word by this person that he was alive and well, but did not think he should ever come back to illinois. his name was matthew rockwood. did you ever hear of such a man?" "i have, and i knew him well." "you don't say so!" replied he, astonished in his turn. "where is the place?" "on the missouri, between bear and fish creeks." "well, i don't know any better now than i did before. what was the old man doing?" "he has been hunting, trapping, and selling wood; but he is not living now." "dead--is he?" "yes; he died last spring." "you don't say it!" "there was some trouble with the indians in that region, and he was shot in a skirmish with them." "the last of them is gone, then," added blair. "matt rockwood had a brother--did he not?" "he did have--but he is dead; and my mother died two years ago. and so uncle matt is dead too?" "yes." "the man that told my mother about him thought he must be making money out there, for he sold a great deal of wood to the steamers. do you know anything about it?" "i know all about it." "you lived near him, then?" "i lived with him. to tell the whole story in a few words, i was brought up by matt rockwood, and i was at his side when he was killed by the indians. but here is my boarding-house, and i don't care about going any farther." "but i want to know more about my uncle." "come in, then." i conducted him up stairs to mrs. greenough's kitchen; and, after ascertaining that my father was still very comfortable, i seated myself with morgan blair. "it is a little odd that i should stumble upon you," said he. "rather," i replied; and it seemed to be another of my mishaps, for in him had appeared an heir to matt rockwood's little property, which had come into my possession. i told him all about his uncle; how he had lived and how he had died. "did he have any property?" asked blair. "why do you ask?" "why do i ask? well, that's a good one! my father and mother are both dead, and i suppose i am the last of the rockwoods. i am now out of business, with less than ten dollars in the world; and why do i ask whether my uncle had any property?" "he had his farm--a quarter section of land," i added. "how much is it worth?" "perhaps it is worth as much as it would cost you to go up there and back." "that's hopeful." "there were a couple of horses, a lot of hogs, a log house and barn, and the farming tools." "well, what are they worth?" "they are worth considerable to a person who wishes to live up there." "but i don't wish to live up there." "then they are worth whatever you can sell them for. kit cruncher has the farm; but i think you will find that squatter sovereignty prevails up there; and a man in possession, without any claim, is better off than a man with a title, but not in possession." "then i have no chance, you think?" "on the contrary, i know that kit cruncher is an honest man, and if you prove your claim, he will either pay you the fair value of the place, or give it up to you." "but didn't my uncle have any money?" "yes; he left about nine hundred dollars in gold," i replied. "whew!" exclaimed blair, opening his eyes. chapter xviii. in which phil calls upon mr. lamar, and does not find him. i had heard nothing from mr. gracewood since my arrival in st. louis. he had in his possession all the moneyed property which had come to me from the estate of matt rockwood. i had placed no little dependence upon the fifteen hundred in gold, which i regarded as my inheritance; and now an heir appeared, who certainly had a better legal claim than i had. "nine hundred dollars!" exclaimed morgan blair again, and with as much satisfaction as though this large sum was already in his own hands. "and after his death we sold off wood and produce enough to amount to over seven hundred dollars more." "better and better," added blair. "go on, phil; perhaps you can make it up to two thousand." "i can't very easily make it any more," i replied. "well, i'm satisfied as it is. now, can you tell me where this money is?" "a friend of mine has fifteen hundred dollars in gold, and i have his note for it." "exactly so; and perhaps you won't object to handing the note over to me, and telling me where i can find your friend." "i must say that i do object." "you do?" "certainly i do." "but i am the last of the rockwoods. don't you think i look like my uncle matt?" "i don't see it." "nor i; but my mother said i did. be that as it may, you must see that this money belongs to me, and not to you." "i don't even see that." "don't be mean about it, phil." "i don't intend to be. i have told you the whole truth, and now i don't care about talking any more on the subject." "that's rather cool. you have my money, and you won't give it to me." "certainly not; i don't know anything about you. i never even heard old matt say he had a sister." "that's nothing to do with me. he did have one, and i am her son." "it's no use to say anything more about it. when mr. gracewood, who has the money, arrives, i will speak to him about it." "but i can't wait." "you must wait." "couldn't you let me have a little of it?" persisted he. "no, i could not. you haven't proved your claim yet." "i will prove it." "when you have done so, the money shall be paid." "but i must go to vandalia to obtain the proof; and i haven't money enough to pay my expenses." "i can't help that." "haven't you any money?" "i have, and i intend to keep it for my own use." "but the money is mine. i am the last of the rockwoods. i know you have nearly a hundred dollars; or you had before you went into that shop. that money is mine, and when you spend a dollar of it you steal it. that's what's the matter." "i think you have said enough about it, and we will end up the matter here," i replied, disgusted with his impudence, and wondering how he knew that i had nearly a hundred dollars. i refused to say anything more, and he threatened me with the terrors of the law, and even with his individual vengeance. he teased me to let him have fifty dollars on account, and declared he would have me arrested if i did not comply. finally i put on my cap, and he followed me into the street, for i found i could get rid of him in no other way. as soon as he was outside of the door, i made a flank movement upon him, and returned to the house, shutting him out as i entered. he did not trouble me any more that night, but i expected to see him again soon. i was inclined to believe that he was what he represented himself to be, for i did not see how he could know anything about matt rockwood. it was very singular that he had stumbled upon me so blindly, and i regarded my fortune as already lost. i was sorry that matt's heir had appeared, for i had considered how convenient this large sum of money would be when i began to look for my mother. i had thought, as soon as my father's reformation was in a measure assured, of going to chicago to see my grandfather, mr. collingsby. my wages, even at six dollars a week, would no more than pay my father's and my own board. but i was fully determined to be honest; and, if the fifteen hundred dollars belonged to morgan blair, he should have it, as soon as he satisfied me that he was the "last of the rockwoods," even without any legal forms. the next day my father was a little better, and sat up a portion of the time. mrs. greenough nursed him most tenderly, and insisted that i should go to sunday school and to church in the forenoon. i dressed myself in my new clothes, and when my father saw me he smiled, and seemed to be proud of his boy. i went to sunday school at the church which my landlady attended; and i realized all my pleasant anticipations of the occasion. i was put into a class of boys of my own age, and listened attentively to the instructions of my teacher, who, i afterwards learned to my surprise, was one of the wealthiest merchants in the city, though he was very plain in his manners and in his dress. what was so new and strange, and withal so exceedingly pleasant to me, is familiar to all my readers, and i need not describe it. mr. phillips, my teacher, had an attentive scholar in me, and immediately took an interest in me. he promised to call and see me some evening, and presented me a class book for use in the school and at home. i was astonished at his kindness and condescension, when mrs. greenough told me who and what he was. the services in the church were not less novel and interesting to me; and i am sure that i was deeply impressed by the prayers, the singing, and the sermon. in the afternoon i staid at home with my father, and mrs. greenough went to church. i read the bible and the library book i had obtained at the sunday school to him, and he was as much interested as i was. in the evening i went to the prayer-meeting; and when i retired i felt more like being good and true than ever before. on monday i was at the plane and plank again, and when night came i was never so tired in my life, not even when i had tramped through the woods for a day and a night. i did not go out; but mr. lamar and mr. gray called to inquire for my father. as i had told them all about my relations with matt rockwood, and that i had the money he had left, i ventured to ask their advice in regard to the claimant who had appeared in the person of morgan blair. "don't pay him a dollar," said mr. lamar, who was a very prudent man, as i had learned before. "i have no doubt he is the nephew of matt rockwood," i replied. "if he is, he must prove his claim. do nothing, phil, without the advice of your friends, especially mr. gracewood." "as he has the money, i shall not be likely to do anything." "the fellow may be an impostor," suggested mr. gray. "i think that is impossible. he came to me simply to inquire about the country on the upper missouri, and said he had an uncle up there. then he gave me the name of matthew rockwood. if he were an impostor, he could not have done that." "perhaps it is all right as you say; but don't pay him anything till we have the evidence," added mr. lamar. my friends left me, and the door had hardly closed behind them before morgan blair called to see me. he pressed me to let him have fifty dollars to enable him to go to vandalia; but i continued to refuse, and as before he waxed angry and threatened me. "it's no use, blair. i shall not let you have a dollar. i have consulted mr. lamar and mr. gray, and i act under their advice. if you want to do anything about it, go and see them." "i don't know them, and don't want to know them. my business is with you, and i will follow you till you give me that money. it belongs to me, and i ought to have it." "you can do as you think best; but following me won't do any good. if you will wait till mr. gracewood comes, he will be able to settle the question. he was with us when your uncle was killed. perhaps matt spoke to him about his sister." "do you doubt my word?" "no; but if i should pay this money to you, matt's brother might come after it." "i tell you he is dead." "that must be proved." "i suppose i shall have to prove that i'm not dead myself, by and by." "if you can prove the rest as easily, as you can prove that, you will be all right. when i hear from mr. gracewood i will let you know." "i can't wait." "very well; then go to work at once in the right way." "what's that?" "go to the territory where your uncle lived and died, have an administrator appointed, and he can legally claim the effects of matt rockwood," i replied, rehearsing the information imparted to me by mr. lamar. "i can't go up there." "go to a lawyer, then, and he will advise you what to do." "i haven't any money to pay a lawyer. i haven't a dollar left. i lost nearly all i had." "lost it? where?" "at forstellar's," he replied. "gambling?" "well, i played a little. i wanted to make a little money somehow." "but you didn't make any?" "made it out of pocket." "i should go to work if i were you." his confession gave me a new revelation in regard to his character, and i was the more determined not to let him have a dollar. he pleaded, begged, and threatened; but i was firm, and he left me. when i came home to dinner the next day, i found a letter from mr. gracewood in reply to mine. with trembling hands i opened it. the writer began by saying that he was very glad to hear from me, and that he had worried a great deal about me. mrs. gracewood had been very sick, but was now slowly improving. he did not think he should be able to leave for st. louis for two or three weeks. ella was well, and sent her regards to me. this was favorable news, and i was very much rejoiced to receive the letter. i wrote immediately, giving him a full account of what had happened to me since we parted, and sent the letter by the next mail. [illustration: phil reading the bible to his father. page .] my father improved very slowly, but i was not sure that his illness was not a blessing to him, for he was unable to go out of the house, and the process of weaning him from whiskey was thus assisted very materially. on saturday night, after i had been paid off, i found a letter at the house. i opened it, and looked first at the signature, which was pierre lamar. he wrote that he wished to see me about the money matter of which i had spoken to him, and desired me to call at a place in fourth street which he designated. in a postscript he requested me to bring the note which mr. gracewood had given for the money. after supper, with the note in my pocket, i hastened to the place indicated. it appeared to be a dwelling-house, and i rang the bell at the front door, which was presently opened by a man in a white jacket. i asked for mr. lamar, and was assured that he was in his room. i was conducted up three flights of stairs, and the man knocked at a door. i thought mr. lamar ought to be able to afford better accommodations for himself; but the door opened, and i entered the room. i looked for my friend; but instead of him, i saw only mr. leonidas lynchpinne and morgan blair. chapter xix. in which phil finds himself a prisoner in the gamblers' room. i was not suspicious; i had no idea that any one intended to wrong me. i was even willing to believe that morgan blair was sincere, and really thought that i ought to advance him money from the estate of his uncle, even before he had proved his claim. after all, it is pleasant to believe that no one intends to injure you; it is even better to be occasionally deceived than to be always suspicious. i went up the stairs in the house to which the note from mr. lamar had given me the address without a suspicion that anything was, or could be, wrong. i had never before seen the handwriting of my correspondent, and had no reason to suppose that the note was a fraud upon me. though i had had a sharp experience of the villany of men since i came from my home in the wilderness, i was still a child in the ways of the great world. i entered the room to which i had been conducted by the man in a white jacket, and the door was instantly closed behind me and locked. the apartment was an attic chamber, on the fourth floor of the house, and contained the ordinary furniture of a bedroom. mr. leonidas lynchpinne, otherwise lynch, sat in a rocking-chair, smoking a cigar. blair had slipped in behind me when i entered in order to secure the door; and having done this, he took a chair near the blackleg. on a small table, over which hung the gas-light, was a silver box, such as i had seen in the hands of redwood at leavenworth. it contained a pack of cards, and another lay upon the table. there was also a dice-box, and some other gambling implements, of which i do not even know the names. i concluded, from the position of the parties and the articles on the table between them, that lynch had been giving the young man a lesson in the art of winning money. "how are you, phil farringford?" said lynch, with a sort of triumphant smile, which indicated the pleasure he felt at the success of his trick. "how are you, mr. leonidas lynchpinne?" i replied, cheerfully; for i felt it to be my duty to demonstrate that i was not alarmed at my situation. the demonstration was not a feint, either. i felt an utter contempt for lynch, and, now that i realized his rascality, for morgan blair. i had fought the savage indians in the forest, which had developed my courage, if nothing more. i glanced around the room, and saw at the grate an iron poker, with which i thought i might neutralize the odds against me, in case the interview resulted in anything more dangerous to life and health than mere words. the letter, in its postscript, as though it had been an afterthought, requested me to bring mr. gracewood's note. blair had asked me to give it up to him. i was inclined to think that the parties before me wanted this note, though i could not imagine what earthly use it could be to them. "you need not call me by that name any longer," added lynch, biting his lip, and evidently vexed to find that i was not intimidated by my situation. "as you gave me the name of leonidas lynchpinne, i shall consult my own inclination, rather than yours, in the use of it." "you will change your tune before you are an hour older, phil." "if i do i shall take the pitch from you." "you are here at my summons, my lad." "i see now that i am; brought here by a lie and a swindle, which seem be your stock in trade." "don't be impudent, phil." "if you speak to me like a gentleman, i will answer you in the same way. you need not put on airs." "i have business with you, phil." "i have no business with you; and i respectfully decline having anything whatever to do with you." "your declination is not accepted. i want to tell you that i never forget a friend or forgive an enemy." "i have fought indians before, and though i don't like the business, i can do it again." "do you call that talking like a gentleman, phil?" "no gentleman ever utters an indian sentiment." "you are in my power, phil, and you had better come down from that high horse." "i'm not in your power, and never shall be till i become a thief, a blackleg, and a swindler," i replied, calmly, as i glanced at morgan blair, who, i thought, was completely in his power. "what!" exclaimed lynch, springing to his feet, his face red with anger. i fell back two or three steps, and quietly took up the poker, which rested against the bracket at the side of the grate. "what are you going to do with that?" demanded he. "that will depend upon circumstances." "drop that poker!" "for the present i shall regard this poker as a part of myself; and i hope you will so regard it." "you impudent puppy!" "foul words are cheap, defiling only him who utters them," i added, quoting a sentence from the instructions of mr. gracewood. "i'm not to be trifled with, phil," said lynch, taking a small derringer pistol from his pocket. "that's just my case," i answered, elevating the poker. "look here, lynch," interrupted morgan blair, rising from his chair in evident alarm, "if you are going to use pistols and such things, i won't have anything to do with the scrape." "shut up, blair!" replied lynch. "i won't!" "you are a fool!" exclaimed the older villain, dropping into his rocking-chair with an expression of utter disgust upon his face. i felt that i was fighting my battle very well indeed, and i was encouraged in the course i had chosen. "i don't want any shooting where i am," said blair. "i'm willing to lick him within an inch of his life, if he don't play fair, but i don't want him shot." [illustration: phil defies lynch. page .] "i don't intend to shoot him, unless he attacks me with that poker. i want to show him that two can play at his game," added lynch. "will you drop that poker, phil?" "i will not." "if you undertake to use it, i want you to understand that pistol balls travel faster than pokers." "very true; and if you are satisfied with your pistol, i am with my poker. i am ready to end this meeting at any time." "i am not ready to end it. i have business with you. i don't forgive an enemy." "i do, when he deserves to be forgiven." "none of your cant! i'm not going to a prayer-meeting with you now." "it would do you good to go to one; and i know of no one who needs to go any more than you." "if you can hold your tongue long enough, we will proceed to business, phil." "i have no business to proceed to; and i'm going to speak as i feel inclined," i replied, resting the poker in a chair near me. "i have business with you, if you have not with me. as i told you, i never forgive an enemy." "as i told you before, that is an indian sentiment." "will you hold your tongue?" "no, sir, i will not." "you knocked me down in the street, and took my money from me." "at your request i took it; and you were kind enough to pay me the balance in my favor when we parted at the police station," i replied. "you must give me back that money, phil." "not if i know it. let me remind you that the money belonged to me, and that i did not charge you any interest upon it for the time you had it." "the money wasn't yours. it belonged to matt rockwood. you stole it; and i intended to get all i could for my friend here, morgan blair, to whom all of it belongs." "you and your friend seem to understand each other very well, except so far as the pistol is concerned." "i act for him. he is a young fellow, and don't know much about the ways of the world." "he appears to be learning very rapidly." "he is the rightful heir of the man up the river, whose money you have. i expect you to give it up to him." "and i expect to do so myself, just as soon as he proves the claim. though i think i have a better right to the money than he has, i will give it up whenever he satisfies me that he is the nephew of matt rockwood. if this is your business with me, you can't get ahead any farther with it to-night." "have you the note with you--the note of mr.--what's his name?" "mr. gracewood," added blair. "i respectfully decline to answer," i replied. "but you must give it up before you leave this house." "then i shall stay here longer than you will want to board me." "i don't intend to board you," sneered lynch. "you will neither eat nor drink till you give up this note, and the hundred dollars you got out of me at the police station." "so far as the money is concerned, i spent a part of it, and the rest i left at my boarding-house." "you can give me an order on your landlady for what you have left, and blair will go and get it." "i will not give him that trouble." "you prefer to stay here--do you?" "i do; this isn't a bad place to stay, and i can stand it here a while." "consider well your situation, phil. this is my room. i board here when i am in town, and--" "it's good enough for me, if it is for you." "it is a gambling-house, and the people who live here are my friends. i can bring in half a dozen men to help me." "bring them in," i replied, laughing, though i confess that i was not very much amused. "it's no joke." "it will not be for you when you are done with it. when my father misses me, he will be very likely to send for our friends, mr. lamar and mr. gray." "in a word, phil, will you give me that note." "in a word, i will not; and in another word, i will fight just as long as i have a breath in my body, if you or anybody else attempts to meddle with me." "phil, you go to prayer-meetings, and claim to be honest," continued lynch, changing his tone when he found that he did not terrify me. "i do go to prayer-meetings when i can, and i try to be honest." "i hope you will keep on trying. by the merest accident blair stumbled upon you, and turns out to be the heir of the man whose money you have. he is the last of the rockwoods. do you think it is honest to keep him out of his money?" "i'm not so sure now that he stumbled upon me." "didn't he ask you something about the upper missouri, and tell you he had an uncle there? and didn't he tell you the name of his uncle before you had mentioned it?" "he certainly did; but since i have found out what company he keeps, i begin to think you posted him up, and sent him to stumble upon me." "that's absurd." "not at all. didn't you hear me tell the whole story in the police station, mr. leonidas lynchpinne?" "i never saw him till after that," replied lynch, angrily, as he picked up the pistol, which he had laid upon the table. "it is useless to reason with you. come, blair, we will leave him here to think about it till morning." the villain moved towards the door, pointing his pistol at me. it was capped, and i supposed it was loaded. blair unlocked the door, and retreated into the entry. lynch followed his example, and as it was possible that he might fire at me, i did not deem it prudent to be the aggressor. i heard the door locked upon me. chapter xx. in which phil is startled by the sight of a familiar face. i actually laughed when i heard the bolt of the lock snapped upon me; partly because i thought it was better to laugh over my mishaps than to cry, and partly because the trick of which i had been made the victim was simply ridiculous. perhaps, if i had been a boy brought up in the city, and had never been thrown upon my own resources in times of peril, i might have taken a different view of the matter. i can easily believe that many boys would have been intimidated, and given up the money and the note. lynch ought to have known me better, though i had been a lamb at leavenworth. i seated myself in the rocking-chair, and looked around the room. there was a luthern window in it, which opened upon the roof. a cheerful coal fire burned in the grate, and the room was quite comfortable. i examined the silver card box on the table, and the other articles there; but i was not much interested in them, and soon gave myself up to a consideration of the situation. of course the whole trick was intended to intimidate me; but i positively refused to be intimidated. i supposed my persecutors would soon return, and renew the onslaught. for my own part, i could not see what they intended to gain, even if they obtained the note against mr. gracewood. it was stupid of them to imagine that he would give up the money to total strangers. still they must have believed he would let them have the gold, for they could not have taken all this trouble for the seventy dollars which i had. but it was no use to speculate upon their intentions. the note was safe in my pocket, and the money at my boarding-house. if i had supposed there was any possibility of the villains obtaining the former, i would have burned it on the spot, for i knew that mr. gracewood would pay the money whether there was any legal document to show for it or not. i rose from my chair, and walked to the door, in order to examine it. this same lynch had once before locked me into a room, and it was possible that i might break this door open, as i had done on the former occasion. but i found this was a different piece of work from that at leavenworth. it fitted well in the frame. i tried the handle, and found that it was securely locked. "no use, phil," said a voice in the entry, which i recognized as that of morgan blair. it appeared that my late fellow-workman was stationed as a sentinel at the door to prevent my escape. "where's lynch?" i asked, placing my mouth at the key-hole. "down stairs. are you ready to give up the note?" "no." "when you are, let me know." i made no reply, but walked to the window to see what the prospect was in that direction. i did not wish to stay in my prison a great while, for i knew that my father would worry about me if i did not return soon. i was in the hands of the enemy, and i was afraid that lynch would keep me in the room till the middle of the night, and then, with the aid of others, overcome me, and rob me of the note. i was not so well satisfied with the situation as at first, when i could realize the possibilities of the occasion. the window opened upon a steep roof. i raised the sash very carefully, so that blair might not know what i was about. but, then, i had hardly a hope of being able to escape in this direction; for i did not see how it was possible for me to descend to the street. however, i should be out of the reach of my inquisitors, even if i passed the night on the cold slates of the roof. i climbed out of the window, and my head swam when i looked down the fearful depth below me. i was on the rear slope of the roof, and beneath me was the back yard of the house. the darkness rather favored me, for i could not so readily measure distances, and in a short time i became accustomed to the giddy height, though i thought it best not to look down. holding on with one hand at the side of the luthern window, i closed the lower sash, and dropped the upper one. grasping the inside of the window-frame for support, i climbed up till my feet were placed upon the top of the two sashes. i could then reach the roof of the luthern window. a ledge on the top of it afforded me a good hold, and i drew myself up, though with considerable difficulty, and my breath was all gone when i reached the point, exhausted by the violence of my exertions. i lay where i was a few moments to recover my wind and my strength. i had placed the poker on the roof before i ascended, for i was afraid that i might yet have to fight a battle. i had worked very carefully, so as not to disturb the sentinel at the door of the room; and, so far as i could judge, i had been successful, for i heard nothing of him. i was on the top of the luthern window; and, so far as the inquisitors were concerned, i was safe. i preferred to stay there, though the night was quite chilly, rather than in the chamber of lynch. but if i could have my choice, it would suit me better to go home, and sleep in my own bed. about half way between the luthern window and the ridge-pole of the house there was a skylight. the light shone up through it, and i concluded from its position that it was used to light the entry where blair was keeping guard over the door. lying down on the slated roof, with my feet resting upon the luthern window, i found i could reach the upper end of the skylight with my hands. i looked through the glass into the entry below, and saw a gas-light burning there. under me was the door of the gambling-chamber, but blair was not there. i tried to raise the skylight; but it was secure, and could not be moved. it was at least fourteen feet above the floor, and the space between the glass and the ceiling of the entry was boxed in, forming a ventiduct for the passage of the air. if i could have opened the skylight, it would have been hardly prudent for me to drop down fourteen feet upon a hard floor, with the additional peril of encountering my enemies in going down the stairs. i could not see blair, and i concluded that he had heard me, in spite of all my precautions, and had gone to procure the aid of lynch. whether this view was correct or not, i decided to act upon it, and increase the distance between myself and my persecutors. grasping the upper part of the skylight, i dragged myself up to the point where i had placed my hands. here i paused to breathe again. while i was waiting i heard voices through the skylight. looking through the glass, i saw lynch and blair, the latter unlocking the chamber door. i immediately concluded not to rest any longer, and laying hold of the ridge-pole, i drew myself up, and took a seat astride the saddle-boards. the block extended as far as i could see in the gloom of the night. with my hands upon the saddle-boards, i hopped along like a frog till i was satisfied that i was out of the reach of any pursuers. but i began to be very anxious to reach _terra firma_ once more, and i continued to hop till i came to a four-story block with a flat roof. this was hopeful, and passing from the steep slope i found myself in a very comfortable position. i could discover no signs of any pursuers behind me; and i concluded that the inquisitors were not enterprising enough to follow me in the perilous track i had chosen. pleasant as was my present location compared with the slippery sides of the slated roof, i was not disposed to spend the night there. but i did not think it safe to jump down into the street, for i knew that the pavement could stand the shock of such a descent better than i could. on one of the roofs there were planks laid down, and places for lines, and i concluded that it was used for drying clothes. at every house i found a scuttle, and some of them were not fastened; but i did not like the idea of being captured as a burglar, and sent to the station-house to remain over sunday. i walked to the end of the block, where a cross-street interrupted my further progress in that direction. between the several tenements which composed the block there were brick walls rising about a foot above the flat roof. they were the dividing lines between the houses. i observed that the house at the corner of the cross-street occupied as much space as three of the others, and was planked all over, with stanchions for clothes-lines. i concluded that the building was used for a purpose different from the others. i went to the front, and looked down into the street. there were a couple of gas-lamps before the door, and people were constantly arriving and departing. i satisfied myself that the house was a hotel. in the rear of the roof there was a kind of crane, with a couple of ropes reaching to the ground. i reasoned that the apparatus was used for hoisting up baskets of clothes. i also found a scuttle door, which was not fastened, and i began to consider whether i should go down by the rope or by the stairs. i did not like the idea of dangling in the air fifty feet from the ground on the one hand, or of being captured as a thief on the other. if i went down the rope, it might drop me in some back yard, where i might be liable to suspicion if discovered. on the whole, i concluded that the stairs were the safer expedient, and i carefully opened the scuttle door. the steps led down to a well-lighted entry; and, having satisfied myself that no one was there, i descended, taking the precaution to hook the door behind me, which some careless servant had neglected to do, though i was not disposed to blame her for the neglect. passing down the steps, i came to a long entry, from which opened on each side the sleeping-rooms. the stairs were at the other end, and i walked as lightly as my thick boots would permit through the hall. at the stairs i heard the sound of voices on the floor below, and i paused. i concluded that the upper floors were used for sleeping-rooms, and that no one would remain long in the entry. presently i heard a door open, and then the sound of footsteps on the stairs below. as all was still again, i ventured to descend the steps to the next hall. i had hardly reached this floor before a gentleman came out of one of the rooms; but he passed me, and went down stairs without taking any notice of me. i was now on the third story, and must descend two more flights in order to reach the street. i was not a thief, and there was no stolen property upon me. but men in white jackets were always whisking about in hotels, as i had observed at the planters'. i determined to be ready with an answer if any of these fellows challenged me, and to tell the whole truth if i was detained. i had hardly reached this conclusion before a waiter in a white jacket confronted me, looked at me suspiciously, and demanded my business. "where is mr. rockwood?" i asked, using the name most familiar to me. "that's his room over there, where the door is open," said he, pointing towards the other end of the hall, and then continuing on his way up stairs. i walked in the direction indicated, intending to rush down stairs as soon as the waiter was out of hearing. i went as far as the open door, and looked into the apartment. a gentleman sat in an arm-chair, reading a newspaper. a glance at him startled me more than anything that had ever occurred to me before. that gentleman was matt rockwood, it seemed to me, dressed in his best clothes. he glanced from his paper into the entry, as i paused there. the face, the expression, the white beard,--everything about him was matt rockwood. chapter xxi. in which phil finds himself sixty-five dollars out. i repeat that i was startled when i saw the gentleman in the room with the open door. he was the very image of matt rockwood, who had taken me from the cold waters of the upper missouri, and brought me up in his log cabin. of course i could not believe it was old matt, for i had seen him fall before the rifle-shot of the indian, and had wept bitterly over his grave when his remains were committed to the earth. the gentleman before me was dressed better than old matt ever clothed himself; but his face was as brown from exposure, and his brow as deeply indented with wrinkles. if i had not known that my foster-father was dead, i should have been willing to declare, at the first glance, that this gentleman was he. "what do you want, young man?" said he, as i paused rather longer that politeness would tolerate before his door. his voice was that of matt rockwood; and, as i do not care to prolong a sensation, i at once jumped to the conclusion that the person before me was the brother of my foster-father, though morgan blair had assured me that he also was in his grave. "if you please, sir, i would like to speak to you," i replied to his question. "come in," he added, laying aside his newspaper. "what is your business with me?" i entered the room, which was a parlor, and from it a bedroom opened on one side. the apartments were very handsomely furnished, and as the gentleman before me was very well dressed, i concluded that fortune had dealt more kindly with him than with matt. "are you mr. rockwood?" i asked, gazing earnestly at him. "i am." "mr. mark rockwood?" "yes." "you had a brother, sir?" "i had." "and a sister?" "no; or rather i had two, but both of them died in their childhood," he replied, evidently astonished at my line of questions. he had no sister, and morgan blair's story, as i had suspected after i found him in the company of lynch, was all a fiction. "have you heard from your brother within a few years?" i inquired. "not for twenty years. but who are you, young man?" he demanded, evidently supposing that i had known his brother. at this moment the waiter of whom i had inquired for mr. rockwood appeared before the door and looked in. "what do you want, john?" asked the old gentleman. "nothing, sir; the young man with you inquired for your room, and i came to see if he found you," replied the servant, retiring. "who are you, young man, and why do you ask me these questions?" "i have seen your brother matthew since you have, and i did not know but you might wish to hear about him, though i haven't any good news for you." "you knew matthew, then?" "yes, sir; i lived with him about ten years. in fact, he brought me up." "but the last i heard of him, he had gone up the missouri river." "yes, sir; and it was there that i lived with him." "where is he now?" asked mr. rockwood; and i saw that he was considerably moved. "i am sorry to say i have no good news to tell you." "is he living?" "no, sir; he died last spring. but i want to tell you, before i say anything more, that no better man than your brother ever lived." mr. rockwood was silent for a few moments. doubtless the intelligence i communicated revived the memories of the past, when they had been children together. "i am glad to hear you speak well of him, young man, for really you could not say anything more pleasant of him," said mr. rockwood, at last. "since he is dead, nothing can be more comforting than to know that he was a good man. matt was always honest and straightforward; but he was almost always unfortunate, he failed in business, and left this part of the country discouraged and disheartened. i hope he was never in want, or anything of that kind." "no, sir; he always had plenty; and when he died he left some property." "i'm very glad to hear it, for i have had times when i worried a great deal about it. i tried to find out where he was, but i never succeeded. were you with him when he died?" "i was, sir," i replied, not a little embarrassed; for i did not like to reveal the manner of his death. "was he sick long?" "no, sir; he had been troubled with the rheumatism for two or three months; but he was able to be about on crutches at the time he died." "did he die of rheumatism?" "no, sir; he did not die of any disease, nor suffer any pain." "what do you mean, young man?" "he was shot, and instantly killed, in a fight with the indians." "poor matt!" exclaimed mr. rockwood, averting his gaze from me. "i was as near to him as i am to you now when he fell. he never moved or breathed after he went down," i added. "well, he had lived his threescore and ten, and perhaps one could not pass away any easier; but it is grating to one's feelings to know that his brother was shot." i related to him very minutely the history of matt rockwood; and he listened, as may well be supposed, with the deepest interest. "and so you found your father?" said he, as i concluded the narrative. "yes, sir; and i hope yet to save him from himself." "i hope so; and i am willing to do all i can for you and for him." "thank you, sir. as i said before, sir, your brother left about a thousand dollars in gold, and by selling wood and produce we made the amount up to about sixteen hundred dollars. a young man, by the name of morgan blair, says he is the son of matt's sister, and claims this money." [illustration: phil before the door of the southern planter. page .] "matt had no sister," replied mr. rockwood, smiling. i told him what had happened to me that night; but, as i related the story in a good-natured vein, he was rather amused at it. "then you did not come to this hotel to see me?" "no, sir; i blundered upon you;" and i explained how i had happened to be before his door when he discovered me, and why i had paused there longer than i intended. he laughed heartily at my story, but i noticed that he suddenly became sad whenever i alluded, directly or indirectly, to his brother. "we will take care of mr. morgan blair in due time," said mr. rockwood. "now, phil, what do you do?" "i am a carpenter." "where do you live?" i gave him mrs. greenough's address, and he wrote it down in his memorandum book. "but i must go home, sir; i ought to have gone long ago. i am afraid my father will think something has happened to me," i continued. "well i think something has happened to you. but i will not keep you any longer. i will go home with you, if you have no objection." "i should be very glad to have you, sir." "i should like to see your father." while he was putting on his overcoat, i took mr. gracewood's note from my pocket, and tendered it to him. "what's that, phil?" he asked. "it's a note for fifteen hundred dollars--the money your brother left and the proceeds of the sale of some of his property." "this is the note that those ruffians wanted?" he replied, taking the paper and reading it. "i think a little of it belongs to me, for i earned it after the death of your brother." "o, my boy, you shall have the whole of it! i will never touch a penny of it." "but it does not all belong to me." "every mill of it," said he, earnestly. "you took care of my brother when he was sick, and he brought you up. you have a better claim to his property than i have, or should have if i needed it, which i do not." "you are very kind, sir." "only just." we went down stairs, and i saw that all the people in the hotel treated mr. rockwood with "distinguished consideration." at his request, the landlord called a carriage, and i went home in state. i had never been in a carriage before, and i regarded it as a very pleasant mode of conveyance. "i am sorry i did not see you before, phil, for i must leave for the south in a day or two," said mr. rockwood, as the carriage drove off. "do you live at the south?" "yes; i have been in mississippi almost twenty years. i have a large plantation there. i made my fortune down there; but i don't think i shall remain there much longer. the climate don't agree with my wife as well as st. louis. i have been investing money in this city for several years, and when i can sell my plantation i shall come here to live. i own that hotel and the block of buildings with the flat roof over which you passed. i have to come here two or three times a year to look after the property; and my family generally spend the summer here. i hope i shall see more of you, phil." "thank you, sir." "if you were a little older, i could give you something better to do than carpentering." "i like that business, sir, and don't care about leaving it at present." the carriage stopped at mrs. greenough's, and we went up stairs. i was obliged to show my wealthy friend into the kitchen, for there was no fire in the parlor. however, there was not much difference between the two rooms. "i am so glad you have come home, phil!" said my landlady, descending the stairs when she heard me. "we have been really worried about you." "i am all right," i replied; and then i introduced mr. rockwood. mrs. greenough apologized for meeting him in the kitchen. she was obliged to stay with mr. farringford so much of the time that she did not keep a fire in the parlor. she would make one, if he would excuse her; but the distinguished gentleman declined to excuse her, and thought the kitchen was very comfortable and very pleasant. "and so you got out, phil," she added, turning to me. "out? how did you know anything about it?" i inquired, very much surprised to find that the intelligence of my adventure had preceded me. "why, a policeman has been here with your note." "my note! what note?" "didn't you write a billet to me?" she continued, bustling about to find the important document. "i am not aware that i did," i replied. "why, yes, you did, phil. where is it? i must have left it up stairs. i will go up after it." "but i haven't written any billet," i protested. "i will show it to you," said she, hastening up stairs to find the note. "your friends appear to have doubled on you, after all," laughed mr. rockwood. "i don't understand it, though i remember that in order to save the rascals the trouble of attempting to get any money out of me, i told them i had left my balance at home." mrs. greenough returned with the note, and handed it to me. i read it with astonishment and indignation. my name was signed at the end of it; but, of course, no part of the contents was written by me. in the note i was represented as informing the good lady that i had been arrested, and conveyed to the station-house; but i could be bailed out till monday by depositing sixty-five dollars with the sergeant of police. "who brought this?" i asked. "a man who said he was a policeman." "did you know him?" "no; but after consulting a long time with your father, we sent the money." "you did!" i exclaimed. i concluded that i was sixty-five dollars out. chapter xxii. in which phil returns to the den of the enemy. i felt that i could afford to lose sixty-five dollars better than ever before; but i did not like the idea of being swindled. it was especially repugnant to be overreached by such scoundrels as lynch and blair, though the latter appeared to be only the tool of the former. "i did not like to give the man the money, but your father thought that, as he was a policeman, it was all right," mrs. greenough explained. "your father was very much worried when he heard you were arrested." "i have not been arrested," i replied. "your father wishes to see you," added the landlady. "i will go up with you, if you please," said mr. rockwood. we went up to my father's room, where i introduced my new friend to him. it required some time, of course, to explain who and what the planter was, and how i had made his acquaintance. "then you have not been arrested," said my father. "no; but i was kept a prisoner by these scoundrels." "we must attend to them," added mr. rockwood, consulting his watch. "dear me! there is the door-bell again!" exclaimed mrs. greenough. "who can it be at this time of night!" "it is only half past nine," added the planter, as i took a light to answer the bell. "i think mrs. greenough had better go to the door, for i don't believe these scoundrels will be satisfied with sixty-five dollars." at this suggestion mrs. greenough answered the summons, and soon returned with another note--from me! i opened it, and read that i had been arrested in connection with the claim of morgan blair, and that when the police sergeant heard there was a note, which represented the property claimed, in my possession, he thought it was better to have it deposited with the chief of police for safe keeping. "these fellows evidently think you have not yet returned to your home, phil," said mr. rockwood. "i don't blame them much for thinking so, for i expected to stay on those roofs all night; and i think i should if you had not been so wise as to put a hotel in the block," i replied. "the man asked if phil was at home before he gave me the note," said the landlady, "and i evaded the question." "what shall we do?" asked my father, raising himself in the bed. "phil and i will pay a visit to these rascals," answered the planter. "have you an envelope?" "yes," i replied, producing one, with some paper. he folded up a sheet of paper, put it in the envelope, and requested the landlady to direct it to the chief of police. "where is this messenger?" asked mr. rockwood. "he is waiting in the kitchen." "very well, mrs. greenough. if you will close the door, so that we can get into the street without his knowledge, we will follow him up and attend to this business." the landlady went down stairs, and when she had closed the kitchen door, the planter and myself crept softly down stairs, and went into the street. we placed ourselves where we could identify the messenger when he came out of the house. he was evidently satisfied that the envelope contained the document for which he had been sent, for he immediately followed us out of the house. he was a well-dressed man, as we saw by the light of the corner street lamp. he wore a light-colored overcoat, so that we could easily follow him as he passed through the streets. mr. rockwood went behind him, while i walked on the other side of the street, and kept up with him. he went, as i supposed he would, to the house to which i had been enticed earlier in the evening. he went in by the aid of a night-key, and doubtless believed that he had fully accomplished the mission upon which he had been sent. "you are younger and more active than i am, phil," said mr. rockwood, when the man had entered the house and closed the door behind him. "if you will stay here, and follow any of the rascals if they come out again, i will get an officer." "very well, sir." the planter hastened to his hotel, and i stationed myself where i could see who left the house. my friend was not absent more than a quarter of an hour, and returned with two officers, whom the landlord of the hotel had procured for him. one of them was in uniform, and the other a detective in plain clothes. i concluded that mr. rockwood meant business, and instead of my spending sunday as a prisoner, this would be the fate of those who were trying to swindle me. "that's a gambling-house," said the policeman in uniform, when i pointed out the door where the man entered. "undoubtedly it is a gambling-house," replied the detective, gazing inquiringly at me, as though he was not quite satisfied with the story related to him by mr. rockwood; "but even a gambling-house has certain rights, which may not be disturbed without proper cause." "proper cause!" exclaimed mr. rockwood. "don't i tell you that this young man has been robbed and abused by the villains in this house?" "you will excuse me, sir, but it is possible to be mistaken. if i understand you, mr. rockwood, you met this boy for the first time about two hours ago." "but i have entire confidence in him. he is the son of edward farringford." "perhaps he is, though i do not believe it; but that is nothing to recommend him. his story is absurd on the face of it." "my story is true, sir, every word of it," i interposed, indignantly. mr. bogart, the detective, asked me a few questions in regard to my escape from the building, and i repeated all the particulars. he shook his head, and declared that he was unwilling to enter the house upon the strength of such a story. it would damage his reputation as an officer, and his superiors would not justify the measure. "i'll tell you what i will do," he continued. "well, what will you do?" demanded mr. rockwood, impatiently. "i will go with this young man to the top of the house, where he left the chamber of the gambler. i will follow him into the house by the window through which he came out." "i don't think you can get in at the window." "i suppose not," said mr. bogart, with a palpable sneer. "but i will go with you, and show you the window," i added. "i wish you would," replied the officer, who evidently believed that i should give him the slip before i verified my position. mr. rockwood and the policeman were to remain in the street and keep watch of the house during our absence. if the gambler's messenger who had gone to the house of mrs. greenough appeared, he was to be arrested. mr. bogart and myself went to the hotel, where, after my companion had spoken to the landlord, we ascended to the roof. "now, young man, if you will go ahead, i will follow you," said the detective. "i hope you are used to climbing," i replied. "don't borrow any trouble on my account; i will follow anywhere that you will lead." "all right, sir; i hope i shall soon be able to prove all that i have stated." "i hope so," replied he, in a tone which assured me that he did not expect anything of the kind. i led the way across the flat roof, and at the next block we mounted the ridge-pole of the pitch roof. mr. bogart cautioned me to move with care, so as not to disturb the inmates of the houses beneath us. i was soon in position to see the bright light streaming up from the tenement to which i had been decoyed by the villains. "that's the house," said i, pointing to the light. "did you come up through that scuttle?" he asked. "no, i came up over the top of the luthern window." "impossible!" exclaimed he, glancing at the window. "it is true; and i suppose i shall have to go in that way," i continued; and i explained minutely how i had made my exit from the chamber. "lead on. we will examine the house," said mr. bogart. on a nearer approach to the roof of the gambling-house, i discovered that the glass scuttle was open, and i concluded that lynch and blair had been upon the roof in search of me. when i reached the opening i found a ladder conveniently placed for my descent, if i chose to avail myself of its aid. i looked down into the entry, where the gas-light still blazed cheerfully. the door of lynch's room was open, and i could distinctly hear the voices of my late captors. "they took me into that front room," i whispered to my doubting companion. "this looks a little as though your story was true," said mr. bogart. "will you follow me down this ladder?" "no, not yet. i wish to get a little better idea of what these fellows mean. are you afraid of them?" "no; not a bit," i answered, raising the poker which i had picked up where i left it on the roof. "will you go down alone?" he asked. "yes, if you desire it." "i will keep the run of you, and see what is done. if you get into trouble with them, just whistle as loud as you can, and i will join you." "but suppose they take away the ladder?" "then i will go down as i came up, and enter the house by the front door. don't be afraid of anything." "i'm not afraid." "i will be near you. i want to know what these fellows mean to do. if they close the door, i will go down the ladder into the entry." suddenly my companion appeared to have become very enthusiastic in the business upon which we were engaged. though he did not say so, i was satisfied that he was convinced of the truth of my statement. "what shall i do?" i asked, rather puzzled by the tactics of the detective. "do whatever they wish you to do; but don't let them know that you have been off the roof since you escaped. "why not?" "i cannot stop to explain now; only i don't think these rascals have taken all this trouble with you for fifty or a hundred dollars; and they mean to use you as a cat's paw for something else." "i know they do," i replied, in a whisper. "they want the fifteen hundred dollars in gold, for which i hold a note signed by mr. gracewood." "no matter now," said he, impatiently. "go down, and give them all the rope they want." "shall i give them the note, which i have in my pocket?" "i haven't heard about the note. if you had told me the whole story before now, i should have known better what to do." we retreated a few paces from the skylight, and i told him all about the note and the object of lynch. i assured him that mr. rockwood was the legal heir of the property. "the note is of no consequence then," said mr. bogart. "give it to them, but don't indorse it, and i will see that it is returned to you. we have them now. they can't escape us. now, go down, and let them have their own way, but with some show of opposition." i descended the ladder, and stood before the open door of the chamber, when i saw lynch, with his feet on the table, smoking. morgan blair sat opposite him. they discovered me as soon as i landed in the hall, and made haste to place themselves between me and the stairs, in order to cut off my escape. as i did not wish to escape, i gave them no trouble in this direction, but entered the chamber. chapter xxiii. in which phil meets a pale gentleman with one arm in a sling. "i thought you would come back, my dear phil," said mr. leonidas lynchpinne, as he placed himself in the doorway before me. "i knew you had so much respect and regard for us that you would not break our hearts by being long absent. by the way, phil, how is the weather on the roof?" "it is rather cool," i replied, seating myself in the vacant chair, "but not quite so cool as you are, mr. leonidas lynchpinne." "phil, be virtuous, and you will always be happy; that is the secret of my uninterrupted cheerfulness; that enables me always and everywhere to be perfectly calm and collected. be honest, just, and upright, phil; and then the man don't live that can make you tremble, or, in other words, shake in your boots. but besides being all these, phil, you should be charitable and humane, especially the latter. i am humane, phil, and that adds to the sum total of my bliss on earth." "you must be an exceedingly happy man, mr. leonidas lynchpinne," i added; and i saw that he had been drinking some exhilarating beverage since i left him. "o, i am--happy as the day is long, and the night too. you were so very imprudent, phil, as to make your exit--in other words, your departure--from this room by the way of that front window. you might have fallen upon the hard pavement in the street below; and then how i should have wept over your brief but wasted life!" "you are very affectionate." "affection is the staple fodder of my existence, phil. by a process of reasoning which i need not attempt to develop to your unpractised understanding, i arrived at the conclusion that you would be compelled to remain all night on the roof of this and the adjacent houses, unless something was done for you. dreading lest, benumbed with cold, you should attempt the fearful feat of returning to this humble apartment by the same means you used in leaving it, i placed that ladder at the skylight for your use. after all the wrongs, injuries, and insults you have heaped upon me, i took this means to prevent you from sacrificing yourself on the hard pavement below. that is what i call humanity, and i offer it to you as an exemplification of that noble attribute." "thank you; and i will endeavor to profit by your example, at least so far as it illustrates the attribute of humanity. if you have nothing more to say to me, i will take my leave of you." "stay, phil; i have more to say to you," he interposed. "be honest, and you will be eccentric--i mean, you will be happy." "i am glad to hear such lessons of practical wisdom from you, mr. leonidas lynchpinne," i replied, hoping he would soon come to the point, if he had any point, as mr. bogart had suggested. "you appreciate true wisdom, phil. good! then you will give that note to this honest young man." "certainly i will give it to him when he proves his claim." i concluded that he was not satisfied with the blank paper sent in the envelope. "i knew you would be just, phil, after the good advice i have given you; for you are not a bad boy at heart, though you have been led away by evil influences. if you stay with me a while, you will be reformed, and then you will lead a good and true life, and then you will be eccentric--happy, i mean. won't you smoke a cigar, phil?" "no, i thank you; i never smoke." "that's right, phil. it's a filthy practice, besides leading to other vices more to be condemned," said he, lighting a fresh cigar. "now, phil, about that note, which justly and rightly belongs to my good friend morgan blair. do you happen to have it about you?" "yes; i have it in my pocket," i replied, acting upon the advice of mr. bogart. "capital! things always work right for those who are faithful and humane. i'm faithful and humane. now, we are going to bring you two good and true witnesses, who will convince you that morgan blair is the son of matt rockwood's sister. we have taken a great deal of pains to send to vandalia for them, and they will be here to-night--this very night, phil. that's all we want to see you for." "very well; i should like to hear what they have to say." "you shall hear them. i will go down and bring them up," he added, rising from the chair. he had hardly got up before the door was darkened by what to me seemed to be an apparition. it was a gentleman with an overcoat thrown loosely over his shoulders. he wore no other coat, and no vest. i saw that his left arm was suspended in a sling. his face was very pale, and he looked very much like my excellent friend mr. gracewood, though a second glance assured me it was not he. when he discovered me, he started back, and was disposed to retreat. "you have company, mr. lynch," said the pale gentleman. "i will come another time." "come in, mr. gracewood. come in!" replied lynch, placing the rocking-chair for the visitor, who was evidently an invalid. mr. gracewood! it certainly was not my kind friend; but the resemblance was strong enough to assure me that he was a relative, if not a brother. "is this the way you keep my secret?" said the pale gentleman, reproachfully, as he retreated a pace into the entry. "o, it's all right here. this is phil farringford, of whom i spoke to you," added lynch. "so much the worse!" exclaimed the invalid, impatiently. "but he is the very essence of discretion and reserve. your secret is as safe with him as with me," protested the gambler. "the mischief is done, whatever it may be. you have called me by my name." "may i ask if you are a relative of henry gracewood?" i inquired, so much interested in the pale gentleman that i forgot everything else. "his own brother, and his only brother," replied mr. gracewood, bitterly. "i would not have him know that i am here for his fortune and mine, though i am guilty of no crime against him." "mind that, phil," interposed lynch; "and remember that discretion is the better part of valor, and sometimes the better part of virtue. this honest gentleman has been unfortunate, but not guilty." i could not understand how a person in his situation, apparently an invalid, should happen to be in a gambling-house, and it seemed to me that the secrecy he coveted was an indication of something evil. he declared that he was guilty of no crime against his brother. respect and regard for the good friend of my early years prompted me not to betray him, at least before i knew more about him. then it occurred to me that the detective on the roof, or perhaps in the entry by this time, might discover more than it was desirable for him to know. "do you know where my brother is now, young man?" asked the invalid. "he is at delaware city, where his wife is sick," i replied, giving him the details of the illness of mrs. gracewood. "you can talk it over between you," interposed lynch. "i have an engagement with the governor of missouri and half a dozen congressmen; and i hope you will excuse me for half an hour." mr. gracewood nodded, and lynch and blair left the room. i had no doubt mr. bogart, in the entry, would attend to their movements, and i did not trouble myself about them. i told my companion all i knew about his brother. "i had a letter from him this autumn, saying he expected to return to st. louis before winter. he spoke about you, and about his wife and daughter. i have heard nothing from them since." "he would have been here a fortnight ago if his wife had not been sick." "young man, do you know the character of this house?" said mr. gracewood, looking at me very sharply. "i do, sir, very well indeed; and the character of the man who has just left us." "how do you happen to be in such a place, then?" "i was enticed here by lynch, who wanted to plunder me of certain property in my possession; but i understand him, and he won't make anything out of me." "perhaps you wonder that i am here," he added, looking upon the floor, as though he considered his own position more equivocal than mine. "i confess that i do, sir, especially as you look like an invalid, and i see you have your arm in a sling." "i would not have my brother know that i am here for all the world, for i judge from the tone of his letter that a great change has come over him. he talks to me of the mercies of god, which i feel that i need more than all else on earth. i am overwhelmed with shame at my situation." mr. gracewood covered his face with his hand, and i heard him groan in bitterness of spirit. i pitied him, for whatever he had done, he was a penitent, and i was sure that god's mercy could reach and comfort him. "if you wish, i will tell you how i happen to be here," i added, intending, if possible, to divert his mind from the woe that overwhelmed him. "no, young man; i do not care to know. as you may see my brother before i do, i had better tell you how i happen to be here," he added. "i have been gambling, and i have lost thousands and tens of thousands of dollars. i have even impaired my fortune; and if this calamity had not overtaken me,"--and he pointed to his wounded arm,--"i might even have spent my brother's fortune, which, perhaps you know, he placed in my keeping. i sold stocks and bonds in which i had invested his money, and lost the proceeds at the gambling table. "in my home at glencoe, i cursed my own folly and wickedness in wasting my substance in games of chance; but i hoped to redeem my heavy losses. i was fully resolved, when i had done so, never to play again. but the judgment comes when we least expect it. i found, when i looked over my accounts in the quiet of my chamber at glencoe, that i had lost about twenty thousand dollars' worth of stocks and bonds belonging to my brother. i was appalled, for both his property and mine was largely invested in real estate, and i had not the ready money to make good the deficiency. a few days before, an offer was made me for a piece of property in this city. i proposed to sell it for thirty thousand, and was offered twenty-five. under the pressure of this need to repair my brother's fortune, i hastened to the city, and closed the bargain at the lower price. "the purchaser came to me with the money in his hand as soon as i could have the papers prepared. it was four o'clock in the afternoon when the business was completed, and i had twenty-five thousand dollars in my pocket. it was too late to deposit it in the bank that day, and meeting one whose acquaintance i had made at forstellar's, i came here. i lost a thousand dollars before i fully realized what i was doing. then i refused to play any more. the one with whom i had come was angry with me. in a word, we had a quarrel, and in his wrath he attempted to stab me; but i warded off the blow with my arm, which was severely wounded. "the ruffian escaped; but i was taken to a chamber, and a surgeon sent for. then i thought of the large sum of money in my possession, and the character of the place, and--" mr. gracewood suddenly placed his hand against his breast, and, without another word, fled from the room. chapter xxiv. in which phil meets an old friend, and mr. leonidas lynchpinne comes to grief. i could not imagine what had so suddenly driven mr. gracewood from the room. he left as though he had been shot from a gun, and did not utter a word in explanation of his conduct. on the impulse of the moment i followed him. in the entry i looked for mr. bogart, in order to report progress to him; but i did not see him. the ladder was still standing at the skylight, but the detective was not in sight upon the roof, and though i called his name as loud as i dared to speak he did not respond. i descended the stairs to the next floor, where i had understood the room of the invalid was located. the door of his apartment was open, and i discovered mr. gracewood in the act of ransacking his bed. he was very nervous and excited, and i saw that the hand he was able to use trembled violently. [illustration: the lost money. page .] "what is the matter, mr. gracewood?" i asked, as he continued to tumble over the mattress and the pillows. "all is lost!" exclaimed he, in the tones of despair. "what is lost?" "my money!" he gasped, in a hoarse whisper. "do you mean to say that it is gone!" i asked, startled at the suggestion. "all gone!" groaned he. "twenty-four thousand dollars!" "but where did you put it, sir?" "between the two beds, when lynch sent for me to come up into his room." "did he send for you, sir?" i interposed. "he did." "then it was a plot to rob you, sir." "i fear that it was; but i was careless. i had hardly been out of my room before; but when i did leave it, i took my money with me. i had become accustomed to its possession, and i did not think of it. i did not believe lynch was a bad man. he was very kind to me, and attended to my wants after i was hurt." "did he know you had this money?" "i did not tell him, but i think he did. he must have stolen it." "don't be alarmed, sir. i don't think you will lose it," i added. "it is gone already, and i shall never see it again." "perhaps you will, sir." "no, never! the men in this house are all villains," said he, bitterly, as he dropped into a chair, apparently from sheer exhaustion, and in utter despair. "no, sir; i happen to know that the eyes of a detective were upon him at the very moment when he left the room above. i have no doubt he has been arrested by this time." "detective?" "yes, sir;" and i gave a brief account of the manner in which lynch had swindled me, and stated the purpose for which i had returned to the house. "but i shall be exposed!" exclaimed mr. gracewood, bitterly. "i would rather lose my money than have my wife and children know that i have been gambling, and that i frequent such places as this. i wrote them a miserable lie--that i was obliged to go to memphis--to explain my absence. if god will forgive and spare me this time, never will i be guilty again!" "calm yourself, sir. i am sorry you have done wrong; but seeing and repenting the wrong half undoes it--so your brother taught me." "i shall never be at peace again in this world," groaned the sufferer. "but let the money go; i can sell another estate, though a third of all i had is gone already." "the money is not gone, mr. gracewood. i am satisfied that lynch is arrested by this time." "so much the worse! i shall be exposed." "perhaps not. let us look the matter over. why did lynch send for you to go up into his room?" "he sent me a note by the young man who was with him. here it is," he added, rising and taking a piece of paper from the table. i took the paper, which contained a few lines, as follows: "i have seen the young fellow, phil farringford, who was with your brother. if you will come up to my room, i will tell you what he says." "you seem to have known about me before," i added, when i had read the note. "as i said, this lynch took care of me when i was hurt. i did not intend that any one here should know my name, but i think he read it where the tailor had written it on the inside of my coat; at any rate, he called me by name. i think he must have seen me take the package of bank notes from my pocket and put it under the pillow, before the surgeon came. when the doctor left, and i was more comfortable, he told me that he had met my brother on board of a steamer up the missouri, and said there was a boy with him whom he had since seen in the city. i was very anxious to know when my brother was coming, so that i might be prepared to see him. "lynch did not know where my brother was, and i asked him if he knew where to find you. he thought he should be able to see you, and to-night i was very glad to learn that he had succeeded, and i hastened up stairs to obtain the intelligence of the absent one." the plan of the villain appeared to me to be past finding out. i concluded that i had been sent for to assist in some manner in the plundering of the unhappy gentleman. but they had done the job, so far as i could see, without any help from me, unless my presence was intended to lure the victim from his room, and thus enable them to do the work. why they had skirmished by robbing me of sixty-five dollars was not at all clear to me. i explained to mr. gracewood that i had left mr. rockwood and an officer outside of the house. "i will go down and see if they are there now," i added. "perhaps i shall be able to tell you something about lynch." "don't leave me, young man. i am miserable." "but i want to know what has become of lynch." "no matter; let him go. do not allow them to expose me." i did not wonder that this man's conscience stung him, and that he dreaded to have his name in the newspapers in connection with his presence at the gambling-house. the only safety for men, young or old, is to keep away from evil haunts. those who enter gambling-houses from curiosity may be impelled to repeat the visit from stronger motives. while i was discussing the question with the miserable man, i heard footsteps in the entry. i opened the door, and found mr. rockwood and the detective, who had come to look for me. "we have nabbed them both, phil," said mr. rockwood. "they are in irons at the next station-house. and a big haul it was, too." "whose room is that you came out of just now?" asked mr. bogart. "it is occupied by a gentleman who is stopping here," i replied. "do you know what lynch stole from that room?" "i do--a package containing twenty-four thousand dollars. did you see him take it?" "i did," answered mr. bogart. "but i don't understand this business." "neither do i." "where is the gentleman? i want to see him." "i wouldn't see him to-night. he is quite sick, and suffering terribly." "i want to tell him that his money is safe." "i will tell him that." "and that the thief is in custody. when he is able, he must appear, and claim his money." fortunately mr. bogart was in a great hurry; and when i assured him i had no fears in regard to my own safety, he left me in the house, with mr. rockwood. before he went he took the occasion to apologize to me for doubting my story, earlier in the evening. leaving mr. rockwood in the entry, i went in to see mr. gracewood again. he was exceedingly nervous and uneasy when i told him that his money was safe. "and the whole story will be out in the newspapers on monday morning," said he, gloomily. "i don't know much about these things. i am willing to do anything that is right for you," i replied. "i deserved to be exposed, but i have not the courage to meet the ordeal." "mr. rockwood is waiting for me in the entry. he is a wealthy and influential gentleman. his brother and your brother were neighbors and intimate friends on the upper missouri. if you will see him, i think he could serve you." at first he was very unwilling to meet any one, but at last he consented. i stated the case to mr. rockwood in the entry, and then introduced him to the sufferer. "don't distress yourself, my dear sir," said mr. rockwood, when the misery of the other was manifested. "the best of men have their misfortunes." "i cannot call that a misfortune which is brought upon me by my own folly and wickedness," replied mr. gracewood. "but the best of men have their failings. your secret is safe with me, and i shall only hope that you may be stronger in the future than in the past." "with the help of god, this will be a lesson to me that shall make me a better man than ever before," added mr. gracewood, fervently. "but you shall not stay another night in such a place as this, my dear sir," continued mr. rockwood, earnestly. "the very atmosphere of the den is poison." "i dare not leave it." "my hotel is only a few steps from here. you shall have my rooms, and no one need ever know that you are there." "you are very kind. i had no right to expect such generous treatment from an entire stranger." "your brother and my brother were the best of friends for many years; we will imitate their example, and be friends for their sake." mr. rockwood insisted upon his arrangement, paid the invalid's bill, and sent for a carriage to convey him to his new quarters. we dressed the miserable man, and helped him into the vehicle. the driver was directed to stop at the private door on the cross-street, and mr. gracewood was conducted to the rooms of his new friend without attracting any attention. "i used to stay at this hotel myself," said mr. gracewood, when he was seated in the planter's great arm-chair. "it is a good house, and you shall have every care you need." having seen the invalid so comfortably provided for, i thought it was about time for me to go home. i promised to call the next day, and left the room. i felt as though a mighty secret had been confided to me; but i could not see how mr. gracewood could escape the exposure he so much dreaded. i could not understand how he had thus far escaped it, if he frequented gambling-houses. certainly he was thoroughly conscious of the sin of which he had been guilty, and peace would follow penitence and reform. i descended the stairs to the lower floor of the hotel, and was hastening by the office when i discovered my excellent friend mr. henry gracewood walking up and down the hall, smoking his pipe. my heart thrilled with emotion as i hastened to greet him. he grasped my hand with a warmth that assured me he had lost none of his old regard for me. "i am glad to see you, phil farringford," said he. "come right up stairs, and see mrs. gracewood and ella." he led the way to a suit of rooms adjoining those of mr. rockwood, and it seemed to me that the catastrophe which the invalid so much dreaded could not long be postponed. chapter xxv. in which phil finds the prospect growing brighter. the meeting with the family of mr. gracewood was none the less pleasant because it was entirely unexpected. i had been expecting and hoping to see them, till i was afraid the winter would set in and compel them to remain where they were till spring, for mrs. gracewood was too ill to bear the fatigues of the long journey by land. i thought that ella looked prettier than ever, and the welcome she gave me was worth all the patient waiting i had bestowed upon it. the lady looked very pale and sick; indeed, a great change had come over her since we parted, only a few weeks before. i saw that she had been very sick, and that she was still very far from being in her usual health. though she had been brought up tenderly and delicately, she had done the house-work, with the assistance of ella and myself, at the settlement during the summer. for my own part, i felt quite alarmed about her, she looked so pale and sick. she was reclining upon the lounge when i entered, but she rose to greet me. "i am glad to see you, phil farringford, for i have thought a great deal about you since we parted so strangely," said mr. gracewood. "your letter afforded me a great deal of satisfaction." "i have worried a great deal about you and your family, sir," i replied; "and it gives me new life to see you again. when did you arrive?" "we did not get ashore till after nine o'clock, too late to go out to glencoe, where my brother lives at the present time." i wanted to tell him that his brother was in the very next room; but i did not think that i had the right to complicate the affairs of others, and i said nothing. "what have you been doing, phil?" asked mr. gracewood. "i am a carpenter now; i work at the plane and plank, and am doing first rate," i replied. "i have a long story to tell you, but i suppose it is rather late to begin it to-night." "i am afraid it would be rather trying to the nerves of mrs. gracewood, and we will postpone it," he replied, glancing at his wife. "do let me hear it, phil," interposed ella. "i shall be very glad to tell you all about it, ella; but it is too late to-night; i must go home now." "where is your home, phil?" "i board with a widow lady, who is one of the best women in the world. she has acted like a mother to me. i will come in the morning and see you again." i took my leave of the family; but as mr. gracewood followed me down stairs, i had no opportunity to see mr. rockwood, as i had intended, to inform him of the new arrival. i hastened home, and found my father and mrs. greenough very much worried at my prolonged absence: but i had a story that was worth telling to relate, and it was midnight before we retired. after breakfast the next morning i dressed myself in my best clothes; and i could not help thinking that ella would be willing to believe i was not a bad-looking young fellow. my father was very feeble, but it was a satisfaction to know that he was improving. mrs. greenough was unwearied in her efforts to restore him to moral and physical health. probably his illness in a measure spared him from the cravings of his appetite for drink. he sat in his easy chair a large portion of the day reading the bible, and such good books as our kind landlady provided for his needs. i hastened to the hotel to see my friends as soon as i could get away from home. i called upon mr. rockwood first, and he assured me that his patient was doing very well, but had not yet left his bed. "i am afraid things are getting a little tangled here, sir," i suggested. "what do you mean, phil? does anything go wrong?" asked mr. rockwood. "there was an arrival last night at this hotel," i continued, in a low tone. "who?" "mr. gracewood, from the upper missouri," i replied, in a whisper. "is it possible!" at this moment the invalid tottered through the open door, and stood before us. "i knew it!" said he; "i knew it!" "what?" inquired mr. rockwood. "that my brother had come. you need not attempt to conceal it from me. i heard his voice all night long. he is in the next room." the planter looked at me, and i looked at him. it was not probable that the invalid had heard his brother's voice all night long; and it was possible that, whatever the fact might be, he was laboring under a delusion. "be calm, mr. gracewood," said the planter. "calm? i am as calm as the surface of a summer lake. don't you see that i am calm? i fear nothing now. i will not be a knave, and i will not be a hypocrite. i heard my brother's voice last evening before i went to sleep, and the sound of it haunted me all night. i will tell him the whole story, for i will not let him believe that i am better than i am. if god will forgive me, i know my brother will." mr. gracewood explained the course of his thoughts during the long and weary night he had passed. it was but the old story, that he who sins must suffer; and his experience made me resolve anew to be always true and faithful to the truth and the right; for if the conscience can sting here, in the midst of the allurements of the world, what will it not do in the hereafter? [illustration: reunion of phil and his friends. page .] mr. gracewood declared that he was ready to see his brother, and the sooner the better. i was sent to prepare my excellent friend for the interview. i found the family in their parlor, and was cordially greeted by all of them. i told mr. gracewood that i had made the acquaintance of old matt's brother, and that he was a planter. i then asked him to go with me and see him. he consented, but in the entry i paused to tell him more. "there is another brother here," i added, as he closed the door of the parlor behind him. "another of matt's brothers?" "no, your brother." "my brother!" "yes, sir; i am sorry to say he is in rather poor health." "where is he?" "in the next room to yours. he is with mr. rockwood, who owns this hotel." "let me see him at once. i hope he is not dangerously sick." "no; but he is more troubled in mind than in body." "is he insane?" "no, sir; he blames himself very much for something he has done." "what has he done?" asked my friend, very much troubled. "he has been gambling; but he regrets it so sincerely, that i am sure he will be a better man than he ever was before. you shall see him now, and i know you will be very gentle with him." "it is not for me to condemn him; i can only condemn my own errors," said my christian friend, as i led him into mr. rockwood's rooms. the invalid rose as he entered, and extended his hand to his brother, while the great tears rolled down his pale, wan cheek. "i am glad to see you, robert," said henry. "i am sorry you are sick." "i am sick at heart." but i did not stay to hear the confession of the penitent. ella went to church and to sunday school with me; and after the latter i conducted her back to the hotel; for, besides the pleasure her company afforded me, i wished to know the condition of affairs between the brothers. as i had expected, they were easily reconciled. my excellent friend had no malice in his heart; and though his brother's error must have given him a severe shock, he was willing to cover the past with the repentance that succeeded. i dined with the family, and went to church in the afternoon; but i spent the evening with my father. he was more cheerful than he had been for several days, and assured me he had found a peace in the truths of the gospel which he had never realized before. he was really happy; and if there was ever a changed man in the world, he was the one. "philip, i am well enough to think of the future," said he. "it worries me, too." "it need not." "i may not be able to do anything for some time, for i am very weak. i suppose i must be made over anew." "don't disturb yourself at all about that," i replied. "i am getting six dollars a week, and that will pay our board." "i cannot live on your hard earnings, philip," he added, shaking his head. "i feel guilty even now; and i should not have come here to be a burden to you, if i had not been a wreck of what i was once." "i assure you, father, it will be the greatest pleasure on earth for me to do what i can for you. i may not get a dollar a day all the time, but i have fifteen hundred dollars, sure, now." "i hope i shall soon be able to do something for myself, philip. for the last week i have dared to hope that your mother might come back, and that we might be as happy as we were before i dashed down all my earthly hopes." "i hope so, father; nothing could make me so happy as to live with my father and mother." "perhaps i may get a situation as a clerk, and earn enough to support me; though it is hard, at my time of life, to go back and commence where i began twenty years ago. but i deserve all that can befall me, and i will be as humble as my circumstances are. god has been merciful to me; he has spared and redeemed me." "do you know where my mother is?" i asked, burning with the old desire to see and know her. "i do not. they have taken pains to keep all knowledge of her from me. i was told that she was in europe, and i have no doubt such is the case. i should like to let her know that our lost little one has been mercifully restored, but i cannot do even that; and i will not ask her to live with me again until i have made myself worthy to do so." somehow god always sends good angels to those who, in trust and faith, are trying to help themselves. the door bell rang, and mrs. greenough admitted mr. rockwood. "i am glad to see you again, phil," said he. "i wished to see your father, and i wanted to tell you to be at the police station to-morrow forenoon at ten o'clock." "i will be there, sir, if mr. clinch will let me off." "he must let you off. if he won't, i shall send an officer to summon you." "i have no doubt he will let me go." "your evidence is necessary to convict lynch. i am told that the young fellow wants to make a confession." "i should like very much to hear it, for i don't know even yet why those fellows followed me up so closely." "we shall know to-morrow.--how do you feel, mr. farringford?" added mr. rockwood, turning to my father. "better, sir; i hope to be out in a few days." "you were once a very able business man, and i have no doubt you know as much now as you ever did. i have been looking for a man who is competent to take charge of my property in st. louis. you are the right man, if--" "if i keep sober," added my father, when the planter paused. "i have no claim whatever upon your confidence; but i assure you i believe it is quite impossible for me ever to drink another drop of liquor." this important matter was discussed for some time, but it ended in the appointment of my father as agent of the planter. when our visitor had departed, the future looked bright and pleasant; and it seemed to me that the day was drawing nearer when our family should be reunited under one roof. chapter xxvi. in which phil listens to the confession of his persecutor, and ends plane and plank. i went to my work on monday morning, and plane and plank were to employ me for the day. certainly i never went to work so cheerfully in my life, for somehow all my mishaps seemed to have been turned into blessings. when i found my father a miserable drunkard and outcast, that seemed to me the greatest mishap which could possibly befall me. but now he was a new man, through the blessed ministrations of mrs. greenough; and through him i hoped to find the highest of earthly bliss in our reunited family. my mishaps with the villains who had stolen my money, and who had probably intended to force me into a course of crime, had given me such a powerful friend as mr. rockwood. my father had been appointed his agent, with a salary at the rate of twelve hundred dollars a year for the first three months, with a promise of an increase, if he was faithful and steady. i fully believed that my father was sincere, and that, as he said, it would be quite impossible for him to drink another drop of liquor. i believed it, because i knew that he prayed to god morning, noon, and night for strength; and i was sure that he whom god helps cannot fail. mr. clinch gave me permission, at nine o'clock, to be absent the rest of the day, if necessary. he was curious to know what business i had at the courts, and i told him enough of the story to enable him to understand the situation. "i was sure that morgan blair was getting into bad ways," said mr. clinch. "i tell you, phil, when a young fellow is lazy, and don't take any interest in his business, he is getting into a bad way. all i want to know about a boy is, whether he feels an interest in his business or not. then i can tell pretty well about his morals." "i think he fell into bad company, sir." "of course he did; idlers always fall into bad company. a young fellow must have a taste for bad company before he can be led a great ways out of the right track. the first bad company a young fellow keeps is himself. if he don't begin there, he won't begin anywhere else. those are my sentiments." mr. clinch talked to me while i was preparing to go to the station-house; and when i was ready i hastened to the place appointed. i found mr. rockwood and both the gracewoods there, with lynch and blair in irons. they looked pitiable enough now. they had been arrested at the very moment when they considered themselves entirely successful in their wicked enterprise, and of course the shock of disaster was very heavy. "you are an old one, phil farringford," said lynch, with a sickly smile. "you have brought me to grief finally. if i can get out of this scrape, i don't know but i should be willing to go to a prayer-meeting with you." "it would do you good," i replied. "why were you so determined to rob me, lynch?" "because i thought you were a great deal fatter pullet than you turned out to be. i heard you and that gentleman," he added, pointing to mr. henry gracewood, "talking pretty large about your money. as you exhibited some of it, i was satisfied that you really had the gold, and i thought it would do me more good than it would you. however, you were so full of fight that i gave it up till you vexed me so here in the city. after i had given you back your hundred dollars, i was determined to be even with you. then i followed, and made the acquaintance of my good friend morgan blair." "yes; and i wish you had been at the bottom of the mississippi before i had ever seen you," blubbered blair, his eyes filling with tears. "after listening to that highly interesting story about the rockwoods, i decided that my friend blair should be the last of the rockwoods. you were very obstinate, phil; very. after that affair at the station-house, i made the acquaintance of mr. gracewood. i supposed, at first, that he was the one who had signed that note of yours, phil. i wanted the note then, but i soon found that i was mistaken. about the same time i found the wounded man had a large sum of money upon him, and i was more anxious to get this. i told mr. gracewood that i knew a young man who had seen his brother, and then i got the whole story." "what did you want of me?" i asked. "that's the point; i wanted you, because you knew mr. gracewood's brother. he would trust you, for you go to prayer-meetings. he told me all about his brother; and i thought if i could get that note, he would pay it; but that was to be blair's perquisite--what he could get of it. the sick man told me he had the care of his brother's property, and would pay anything on his account that was right." "but did you mean to have me help you steal the twenty-four thousand dollars?" i demanded. "that was what i wanted you for; and when we left you in the room, i went down to see mr. gracewood. i intended to tell him, as a friend, that it was not safe to keep such a sum in such a house. i meant to advise him to send it to the bank by you." "and then to rob me?" "well, you needn't call it by such a hard name; but you never would have got out of the house with the money. i have played and lost, and now i make the best of it. when you left the room, we heard you on the roof; but i expected you back very soon, for i knew you could not escape in that direction. i was humane too, for i was afraid you would break your neck, and spoil all my plans; i placed the ladder at the skylight, so that you could return without danger." "why did you send to my boarding-house for my money?" "simply to ascertain whether you were there. when you came back, i sent a note down to mr gracewood, and thus brought you together. while you were talking together, i went down into mr. gracewood's room, in order to ascertain, if i could, where he kept the package of money. of course i did not suppose he had left it there; but, to my surprise, i found it between the two beds. i took possession, and blair and i left then. i intended to be a hundred miles from st. louis before daylight the next morning. instead of that, we were nabbed by this excellent gentleman as soon as we stepped upon the sidewalk." "i was watching you all the time," added the detective. "and the game is up, and lost," said lynch. "a very stupid game it was, too." "it may look so now; it did not then. it would not have been a hard job to persuade a sick man in a gambling-house to send his money to the bank for safe keeping." "i don't think it would," said the invalid. "did you expect him to trust phil at sight?" asked the detective. "not at all. phil goes to prayer-meetings, and i thought he would be willing to spend most of the time, from saturday night till monday morning, with the sick brother of his best friend. by monday noon he would have been willing to trust him with all he had in the world." "i think he would," added henry gracewood. "if he had sent me to the bank with the money, it would have gone there," i said, confidently. "perhaps not," replied lynch. "there would have been a big fight, at any rate," i continued. "i would not have given up the money while i had an arm left." "well, gentlemen, it is time to take the prisoners before the court," said mr. bogart. they were taken to the court; lynch pleaded guilty, and blair, after telling a pitiful story of the manner in which he had been led away, put in the same plea. in due time the older villain was sentenced to ten years' imprisonment, and the novice to one year. mr. gracewood recovered his money, and i did mine. thus the wretch who had been persecuting me since he came on board the steamer on the missouri to the present time, was disposed of. the brothers gracewood remained at the hotel a week. the case of the penitent was known to the public, and to his own family. those who loved him forgave him; and he could afford to be independent, in a measure, of the opinions of others. his fortune was still ample for his support in elegance and luxury, and his brother lost nothing by his misdeeds. mr. henry gracewood paid me the fifteen hundred dollars, which, by the kindness of mr. rockwood, became my property. it was deposited in three savings banks. the health of mrs. gracewood was very much impaired by her illness, and the most skilful physician in the city recommended a change of climate, advising her to live in the south of france during the winter. this was a heavy blow to me, for i had counted upon the society of the gracewoods, especially of ella. the season was advancing, and the family were obliged to hasten away. with a heavy heart i bade good by to them, and it was years before i saw them again. i attended to my work diligently and faithfully, and gave entire satisfaction to my employer. but i found that plane and plank was hard work, and city life did not agree with me as well as that in the wilds of the upper missouri. still, i was very happy, though i was troubled with a longing desire to see my mother. with the money restored to me after the arrest of the robbers, i purchased a suit of nice black clothes for my father; and when he was dressed in them, he looked like the new man that he was. he was paler and thinner than when i had first seen him, but i was proud of his appearance. though not in robust health, he was able to enter at once upon the duties of his position as the agent of mr. rockwood. we continued to live at mrs. greenough's, who felt quite as much interest in both of us as though we had been her nearest relatives. a smaller room over the entry was fitted up for me, and my father took my chamber. here he kept his account-books, and did all his writing. i suppose that he was often tempted to drink, but i am certain that he never yielded. he always attended every service at the church. mrs. greenough had both reformed and converted him, though i think my presence had some influence with him. i had work at my trade all winter; but my father insisted upon paying my board as well as his own, and i saved nearly all my money. i went to an evening school, and studied book-keeping. in fact i spent most of my leisure hours in study. i reviewed my old branches. my father was a very well educated man, and assisted me in my efforts to improve my mind. he instructed me in the usages of business, and helped me with my accounts. in the spring, mr. lamar offered my father a much larger salary than he was receiving; but his employer promptly doubled his present pay, so well was he satisfied with his services. during the summer season, besides taking charge of the rents and repairs of the tenements, he built several new houses for mr. rockwood, which were leased to good tenants. his position was, therefore, one of great responsibility, but he was competent to fill it. he did his employer's business as though it had been his own. we were both doing exceedingly well, and were in the main contented and happy, though i could not be entirely satisfied while my mother was separated from us. i said so much about this subject, that my father wrote to mr. collingsby, in chicago, informing him that "the long-lost son" had been found. no answer was received; and another letter was written, which, however, produced no better result. evidently mr. collingsby did not believe the statements contained in the letters, and he took no notice of them. foiled in this manner, we were compelled to drop the matter for the time. i worked at my trade for two years; and at the end of that time, although i was only fifteen, i did not think there was much more for me to learn in that business. probably i should have continued to work at it, however, if mr. clinch had not abandoned his trade to go into the lumber business in michigan. i had learned book-keeping pretty thoroughly, and i did not care to find a new place as a carpenter. i was rather desirous of practising what i had learned on the subject of accounts, and, with the advice of my father, i concluded to abandon, for the present, the plane and plank. lee & shepard's list of juvenile publications. oliver optic's books. each set in a neat box with illuminated titles. =army and navy stories.= a library for young and old, in volumes. mo. illustrated. per vol. $ the soldier boy. the yankee middy. the sailor boy. fighting joe. the young lieutenant. brave old salt. =famous "boat-club" series.= a library for young people. handsomely illustrated. six volumes, in neat box. per vol. the boat club; or, the bunkers of rippleton. all aboard; or, life on the lake. now or never; or, the adventures of bobby bright. try again; or, the trials and triumphs of harry west. poor and proud; or, the fortunes of katy redburn. little by little; or, the cruise of the flyaway. =lake shore series, the.= six volumes. illustrated. in neat box. per vol. through by daylight; or, the young engineer of the lake shore railroad. lightning express; or, the rival academies. on time; or, the young captain of the ucayga steamer. switch off; or, the war of the students. break up; or, the young peacemakers. bear and forbear; or, the young skipper of lake ucayga. =yacht club series.= uniform with the ever popular "boat club" series. completed in six vols. illustrated. per vol. mo little bobtail; or, the wreck of the penobscot. the yacht club; or, the young boat builders. money maker; or, the victory of the basilisk. the coming wave; or, the treasure of high rock. the dorcas club; or, our girls afloat. ocean born; or, the cruise of the clubs. =onward and upward series, the.= complete in six volumes. illustrated. in neat box. per vol. field and forest; or, the fortunes of a farmer. plane and plank; or, the mishaps of a mechanic. desk and debit; or, the catastrophes of a clerk. cringle and cross-tree; or, the sea swashes of a sailor. bivouac and battle; or, the struggles of a soldier. sea and shore; or, the tramps of a traveller. =young america abroad series.= a library of travel and adventure in foreign lands. illustrated by nast, stevens, perkins, and others. per vol. mo _first series._ outward bound; or, young america afloat. shamrock and thistle; or, young america in ireland and scotland. red cross; or, young america in england and wales. dikes and ditches; or, young america in holland and belgium. palace and cottage; or, young america in france and switzerland. down the rhine; or, young america in germany. _second series._ up the baltic; or, young america in norway, sweden, and denmark. northern lands; or, young america in russia and prussia. cross and crescent; or, young america in turkey and greece. sunny shores; or, young america in italy and austria. vine and olive; or, young america in spain and portugal. isles of the sea; or, young america homeward bound. =riverdale stories.= twelve volumes. a new edition. profusely illustrated from neat designs by billings. in neat box. per vol. little merchant. proud and lazy. young voyagers. careless kate. robinson crusoe, jr. christmas gift. dolly and i. the picnic party. uncle ben. the gold thimble. birthday party. the do-somethings. =riverdale story books.= six volumes, in neat box cloth. per vol. little merchant proud and lazy. young voyagers. careless kate. dolly and i. robinson crusoe. jr. =flora lee story books.= six volumes in neat box. cloth. per vol christmas gift. the picnic party. uncle ben. the gold thimble. birthday party. the do-somethings. =great western series, the.= six volumes. illustrated. per vol. going west; or, the perils of a poor boy. out west; or, roughing it on the great lakes. lake breezes. =our boys' and girls' offering.= containing oliver optic's popular story, ocean born; or, the cruise of the clubs; stories of the seas, tales of wonder, records of travel, &c. edited by oliver optic. profusely illustrated. covers printed in colors. vo. =our boys' and girls' souvenir.= containing oliver optic's popular story, going west; or, the perils of a poor boy; stories of the sea, tales of wonder, records of travel, &c. edited by oliver optic. with numerous full-page and letter-press engravings. covers printed in colors. vo. =soldier boy series, the.= three volumes, in neat box. illustrated. per vol. the soldier boy; or, tom somers in the army. the young lieutenant; or, the adventures of an army officer. fighting joe; or, the fortunes of a staff officer. =sailor boy series, the.= three volumes in neat box. illustrated. per vol. the sailor boy; or, jack somers in the navy. the yankee middy; or, adventures of a naval officer. brave old salt; or, life on the quarter-deck. =starry flag series, the.= six volumes. illustrated. per vol. the starry flag; or, the young fisherman of cape ann. breaking away; or, the fortunes of a student. seek and find; or, the adventures of a smart boy. freaks of fortune; or, half round the world. make or break; or, the rich man's daughter. down the river; or, buck bradford and the tyrants. =the household library.= volumes. illustrated. per volume living too fast. in doors and out. the way of the world. =way of the world, the.= by william t. adams (oliver optic) mo =woodville stories.= uniform with library for young people. six volumes. illustrated. per vol. mo rich and humble; or, the mission of bertha grant. in school and out; or, the conquest of richard grant. watch and wait; or, the young fugitives. work and win; or, noddy newman on a cruise. hope and have; or, fanny grant among the indians. haste and waste; or, the young pilot of lake champlain. transcriber's note: the punctuation and spelling are as printed in the original publication with the exception of the following: page oocasion is now occasion. page transportion is now transportation. page cheerfuly is now cheerfully. new temperance tales. no. . the son of my friend. by t. s. arthur the author of "ten nights in a bar-room." philadelphia: t. s. arthur & son. the son of my friend. "_i've_ been thinking," said i, speaking to my husband, who stood drawing on his gloves. "have you?" he answered; "then give me the benefit of your thoughts." "that we shall have to give a party. you know we've accepted a number of invitations this winter, and it's but right that we should contribute our share of social entertainment." "i have thought as much myself," was his reply. "and so far we stand agreed. but, as i am very busy just now, the heaviest part of the burden will fall on you." "there is a way of making it light, you know," i returned. "how?" he queried. "by employing a professional caterer. he will supply everything for the table, and furnish writers. we will have nothing to do but receive our guests." my husband shrugged his shoulders and smiled, as he said, "what will it cost?" "almost anything we please. but the size of the company will have the most to do with that." "say we invite one hundred." "then we can make the cost range anywhere between three hundred dollars and a thousand." "a large sum to throw away on a single evening's entertainment of our friends. i am very sure i could put it to a better use." "very likely," i answered. "still, we cannot well help ourselves. unless we give a party, we shall have to decline invitations in future. but there is no obligation resting on us to make it sensational. let the hardings and the marygolds emulate extravagance in this line; we must be content with a fair entertainment; and no friend worth the name will have any the less respect for us." "all that is a question of money and good fame," said my husband, his voice falling into a more serious tone. "i can make it three, five, or ten hundred dollars, and forget all about the cost in a week. but the wine and the brandy will not set so easily on my conscience." a slight but sudden chill went through my nerves. "if we could only throw them out?" "there is no substitute," replied my husband, "that people in our circle would accept. if we served coffee, tea, and chocolate instead, we would be laughed at." "not by the fathers and mothers, i think. at least not by those who have grown-up-sons," i returned. "only last week i heard mrs. gordon say that cards for a party always gave her a fit of low spirits. she has three sons, you know." "rather fast young men, as the phrase is. i've noticed them in supper-rooms, this winter, several times. a little too free with the wine." we both stood silent for the space of nearly a minute. "well, agnes," said my husband, breaking the silence, "how are we to decide this matter?" "we must give a party, or decline invitations in future," i replied. "which shall it be?" his eyes looked steadily into mine. i saw that the thing troubled him. "turn it in your thought during the day, and we'll talk it over this evening," said i. after tea my husband said, laying down the newspaper he had been reading and looking at me across the centre-table, "what about the party, agnes?" "we shall have to give it, i suppose." we must drop out of the fashionable circle in which i desired to remain; or do our part in it. i had thought it all over--looking at the dark side and at the bright side--and settled the question. i had my weaknesses as well as others. there was social eclat in a party, and i wanted my share. "wine, and brandy, and all?" said my husband. "we cannot help ourselves. it is the custom of society; and society is responsible, not we." "there is such a thing as individual responsibility," returned my husband. "as to social responsibility, it is an intangible thing; very well to talk about, but reached by no law, either of conscience or the statute-book. you and i, and every other living soul, must answer to god for what we do. no custom or law of society will save us from the consequences of our own acts. so far we stand alone." "but if society bind us to a certain line of action, what are we to do? ignore society?" "if we must ignore society or conscience, what then?" his calm eyes were on my face. "i'm afraid," said i, "that you are magnifying this thing into an undue importance." he sighed heavily, and dropped his eyes away from mine. i watched his countenance, and saw the shadows of uneasy thought gathering about his lips and forehead. "it is always best," he remarked, "to consider the probable consequences of what we intend doing. if we give this party, one thing is certain." "what?" "that boys and young men, some of them already in the ways that lead to drunkenness and ruin, will be enticed to drink. we will put temptation to their lips and smilingly invite them to taste its dangerous sweets. by our example we will make drinking respectable. if we serve wine and brandy to our guests, young and old, male and female, what do we less than any dram-seller in the town? shall we condemn him, and ourselves be blameless? do we call his trade a social evil of the direst character, and yet ply our guests with the same tempting stimulants that his wretched customers crowd his bar-room to obtain?" i was borne down by the weight of what my husband said. i saw the evil that was involved in this social use of wines and liquors which he so strongly condemned. but, alas that i must say it! neither principle nor conscience were strong enough to overcome my weak desire to keep in good standing with my fashionable friends. i wanted to give a party--i felt that i must give a party. gladly would i have dispensed with liquor; but i had not the courage to depart from the regular order of things. so i decided to give the party. "very well, agnes," said my husband, when the final decision was made. "if the thing has to be done, let it be well and liberally done." i had a very dear friend--a mrs. martindale. as school-girls, we were warmly attached to each other, and as we grew older our friendship became closer and tenderer. marriage, that separates so many, did not separate us. our lots were cast in the same city, and in the same social circle. she had an only son, a young man of fine intellect and much promise, in whom her life seemed bound up. he went into the army at an early period of the war, and held the rank of second lieutenant; conducting himself bravely. a slight, but disabling wound sent him home a short time previous to the surrender of lee, and before he was well enough to join his regiment, it was mustered out of service. albert martindale left his home, as did thousands of other young men, with his blood untouched by the fire of alcohol, and returned from the war, as thousands of other young men returned, with its subtle poison in all his veins. the dread of this very thing had haunted his mother during all the years of his absence in the army. "oh, agnes," she had often said to me, with eyes full of tears, "it is not the dread of his death that troubles me most. i have tried to adjust that sad event between myself and god. in our fearful crisis he belongs to his country. i could not withhold him, though my heart seemed breaking when i let him go. i live in the daily anticipation of a telegram announcing death or a terrible wound. yet that is not the thing of fear i dread; but something worse--his moral defection. i would rather he fell in battle than come home to me with manhood wrecked. what i most dread is intemperance. there is so much drinking among officers. it is the curse of our army. i pray that he may escape; yet weep, and tremble, and fear while i pray. oh, my friend i think his fall into this terrible vice would kill me." alas for my friend! her son came home to her with tainted breath and fevered blood. it did not kill her. love held her above despair, and gave her heart a new vitality. she must be a savior; not a weak mourner over wrecked hopes. with what a loving care and wise discretion did she set herself to work to withdraw her son from the dangerous path in which his feet were walking! and she would have been successful, but for one thing. the customs of society were against her. she could not keep him away from the parties and evening entertainments of her friends; and here all the good resolutions she had led him to make were as flax fibres in the flame of a candle. he had no strength to resist when wine sparkled and flashed all around him, and bright eyes and ruby lips invited him to drink. it takes more than ordinary firmness of principle to abstain in a fashionable company of ladies and gentlemen, where wine and brandy flow as water. in the case of albert martindale, two things were against him. he was not strong enough to set himself against any tide of custom, in the first place; and in the second, he had the allurement of appetite. i knew all this, when, with my own hand, i wrote on one of our cards of invitation, "mr. and mrs. martindale and family;" but did not think of it, until the card was written. as i laid it aside with the rest, the truth flashed on me and sent a thrill of pain along every nerve. my heart grew sick and my head faint, as thoughts of the evil that might come to the son of my friend, in consequence of the temptation i was about to throw in his way, rushed through my mind. my first idea was to recall the card, and i lifted it from the table with a half-formed resolution to destroy it. but a moment's reflection changed this purpose. i could not give a large entertainment and leave out my nearest friend and her family. the pain and wild agitation of that moment were dreadful. i think all good spirits and angels that could get near my conscious life strove with me, for the sake of a soul in peril, to hold me back from taking another step in the way i was going; for it was not yet too late to abandon the party. when, after a long struggle with right convictions, i resumed my work of filling up the cards of invitation, i had such a blinding headache that i could scarcely see the letters my pen was forming; and when the task was done, i went to bed, unable to bear up against the double burden of intense bodily and mental anguish. the cards went out, and the question of the party was settled beyond recall. but that did not soothe the disquietude of my spirit. i felt the perpetual burden of a great and troubling responsibility. do what i would, there was for me no ease of mind. waking or sleeping, the thought of albert martindale and his mother haunted me continually. at last the evening came, and our guests began to arrive, in party dresses and party faces, richly attired, smiling and gracious. among the earliest were mr. and mrs. martindale, their son and daughter. the light in my friend's eyes, as we clasped hands and looked into each other's faces, did not conceal the shadows of anxious fear that rested on them. as i held albert's hand, and gazed at him for a moment, a pang shot through my heart. would he go out as pure and manly as he had come in? alas, no! for i had made provision for his fall. the company was large and fashionable. i shall not attempt a description of the dresses, nor venture an estimate touching the value of diamonds. i have no heart for this. no doubt the guests enjoyed themselves to the degree usual on such occasions. i cannot say as much for at, least one of the hosts. in the supper-room stood a table, the sight of which had smitten my eyes with pain. its image was perpetually before me. all the evening, while my outward eyes looked into happy faces, my inward gaze rested gloomily on decanters of brandy and bottles of wine crowding the supper-table, to which i was soon to invite the young men--mere boys, some of them--and maidens, whose glad voices filled the air of my drawing-rooms. i tried to console myself by the argument that i was only doing as the rest did--following a social custom; and that society was responsible--not the individual. but this did not lift the weight of concern and self-condemnation that so heavily oppressed me. at last word came that all was ready in the supper-room. the hour was eleven. our guests passed in to where smoking viands, rich confectionery and exhilarating draughts awaited them. we had prepared a liberal entertainment, a costly feast of all available delicacies. almost the first sound that greeted my ears after entering the supper-room was the "pop" of a champagne cork. i looked in the direction from whence it came, and saw a bottle in the hands of albert martindale. a little back from the young man stood his mother. our eyes met. oh, the pain and reproach in the glance of my friend! i could not bear it, but turned my face away. i neither ate nor drank anything. the most tempting dish had no allurement for my palate, and i shivered at the thought of tasting wine. i was strangely and unnaturally disturbed; yet forced to commend myself and be affable and smiling to our guests. "observe mrs. gordon," i heard a lady near me say in a low voice to her companion. "what of her?" was returned. "follow the direction of her eyes." i did so, as well as the ladies near me, and saw that mrs. gordon was looking anxiously at one of her sons, who was filling his glass for, it might be, the second or third time. "it is no place for that young man," one of them remarked. "i pity his mother. tom is a fine fellow at heart, and has a bright mind; but he is falling into habits that will, i fear, destroy him. i think he has too much self-respect to visit bar-rooms frequently; but an occasion like this gives him a liberty that is freely used to his hurt. it is all very respectable; and the best people set an example he is too ready to follow." i heard no more, but that was quite enough to give my nerves a new shock and fill my heart with a new disquietude. a few minutes afterwards i found myself at the side of mrs. gordon. to a remark that i made she answered in an absent kind of way, as though the meaning of what i said did not reach her thought. she looked past me; i followed her eyes with mine, and saw her youngest boy, not yet eighteen, with a glass of champagne to his lips. he was drinking with a too apparent sense of enjoyment. the sigh that passed the mother's lips smote my ears with accusation. "mrs. carleton!" a frank, cheery voice dropped into my ear. it was that of albert martindale, the son of my friend. he was handsome, and had a free, winning manner. i saw by the flush in his cheeks, and the gleam in his eyes, that wine had already quickened the flow of blood in his veins. "you are enjoying yourself," i said. "oh, splendidly!" then bending to my ear, he added.--"you've given the finest entertainment of the season." "hush!" i whispered, raising my finger. then added, in a warning tone--"enjoy it in moderation, albert." his brows knit slightly. the crowd parted us, and we did not meet again during the evening. by twelve o'clock, most of the ladies had withdrawn from the supper-room; but the enticement of wine held too many of the men there--young and old. bursts of coarse laughter, loud exclamations, and snatches of song rang out from the company in strange confusion. it was difficult to realize that the actors in this scene of revelry were gentlemen, and gentlemen's sons, so called, and not the coarse frequenters of a corner tavern. guests now began to withdraw quietly. it was about half-past twelve when mrs. martindale came down from the dressing-room, with her daughter, and joined mr. martindale in the hall, where he had been waiting for them. "where is albert?" i heard the mother ask. "in the supper-room, i presume; i've looked for him in the parlors," mr. martindale answered. "i will call him for you," i said, coming forward. "oh, do if you please," my friend replied. there was a husky tremor in her voice. i went to the supper-room. all the ladies had retired, and the door was shut. what a scene for a gentleman's house presented itself! cigars had been lighted, and the air was thick with smoke. as i pushed open the door, my ear was fairly stunned by the confusion of sounds. there was a hush of voices, and i saw bottles from many hands set quickly upon the table, and glasses removed from lips already too deeply stained with wine. with three or four exceptions, all of this company were young men and boys. near the door was the person i sought. "albert!" i called; and the young man came forward. his face was darkly flushed, and his eyes red and glittering. "albert, your mother is going," i said. "give her my compliments," he answered, with an air of mock courtesy, "and tell her that she has my gracious permission." "come!" i urged; "she is waiting for you." he shook his head resolutely. "i'm not going for an hour, mrs. carleton. tell mother not to trouble herself. i'll be home in good time." i urged him, but in vain. "tell him that he _must_ come!" mrs. martindale turned on her husband an appealing look of distress, when i gave her albert's reply. but the father did not care to assert an authority which might not be heeded, and answered, "let him enjoy himself with the rest. young blood beats quicker than old." the flush of excited feeling went out of mrs. martindale's face. i saw it but for an instant after this reply from her husband; but like a sun-painting, its whole expression was transferred to a leaf of memory, where it is as painfully vivid now as on that never-to-be-forgotten evening. it was pale and convulsed, and the eyes full of despair. a dark presentiment of something terrible had fallen upon her--the shadow of an approaching woe that was to burden all her life. my friend passed out from my door, and left me so wretched that i could with difficulty rally my feelings to give other parting guests a pleasant word. mrs. gordon had to leave in her carriage without her sons, who gave no heed to the repeated messages she sent to them. at last, all the ladies were gone; but there still remained a dozen young men in the supper-room, from whence came to my ears a sickening sound of carousal. i sought my chamber, and partly disrobing threw myself on a bed. here i remained in a state of wretchedness impossible to describe for over an hour, when my husband came in. "are they all gone?" i asked, rising. "all, thank god!" he answered, with a sigh of relief. then, after a moment's pause, he said--"if i live a thousand years, agnes, the scene of to-night shall never be repeated in my house! i feel not only a sense of disgrace, but worse--a sense of guilt! what have we been doing? giving our influence and our money to help in the works of elevating and refining society? or in the work of corrupting and debasing it? are the young men who left our house a little while ago, as strong for good as when they came in? alas! alas! that we must answer, no! what if albert martindale were our son?" this last sentence pierced me as if it had been a knife. "he went out just now," continued mr. carleton, "so much intoxicated that he walked straight only by an effort." "why did you let him go?" i asked, fear laying suddenly its cold hand on my heart. "what if harm should come to him?" "the worst harm will be a night at the station house, should he happen to get into a drunken brawl on his way home," my husband replied. i shivered as i murmured, "his poor mother!" "i thought of her," replied mr. carleton, "as i saw him depart just now, and said to myself bitterly, 'to think of sending home from my house to his mother a son in that condition!' and he was not the only one!" we were silent after that. our hearts were so heavy that we could not talk. it was near daylight before i slept, and then my dreams were of so wild and strange a character that slumber was brief and unrefreshing. the light came dimly in through half-drawn curtains on the next morning when a servant knocked at my door. "what is wanted?" i asked. "did mr. albert martindale sleep here last night?" i sprang from my bed, strangely agitated, and partly opening the chamber door, said, in a voice whose unsteadiness i could not control, "why do you ask, katy? who wants to know?" "mrs. martindale has sent to inquire. the girl says he didn't come home last night." "tell her that he left our house about two o'clock," i replied; and shutting the chamber door, staggered back to the bed and fell across it, all my strength gone for the moment. "send her word to inquire at one of the police stations," said my husband, bitterly. i did not answer, but lay in a half stupor, under the influence of benumbing mental pain. after a while i arose, and, looking out, saw everything clothed in a white mantle, and the snow falling in large flakes, heavily but silently, through the still air. how the sight chilled me. that the air was piercing cold, i knew by the delicate frost-pencilings all over the window panes. after breakfast, i sent to mrs. martindale a note of inquiry about albert. a verbal answer came from the distracted mother, saying that he was still absent, and that inquiry of the police had failed to bring any intelligence in regard to him. it was still hoped that he had gone home with some friend, and would return during the day. steadily the snow continued to fall, and as the wind had risen since morning, it drifted heavily. by ten o'clock it was many inches deep, and there was no sign of abatement. my suspense and fear were so oppressive that, in spite of the storm, i dressed myself and went out to call on my friend. i found her in her chamber, looking very pale, and calmer than i had hoped to find her. but the calmness i soon saw to be a congelation of feeling. fear of the worst had frozen the wild waves into stillness. "god knows best," she said, in a voice so sad that its tones ached through my heart. "we are all in his hands. pray for me, agnes, that i may have strength. if he does not give me strength, i shall die." i shivered; for both in voice and look were signs of wavering reason. i tried to comfort her with suggestions as to where albert might be. "no doubt," i said, "he went home with a friend, and we may look any moment for his return. why should the absence of a few hours so alarm you?" there was a stony glare in her eyes as she shook her head silently. she arose, and walking to the window, stood for several minutes looking out upon the snow. i watched her closely. she was motionless as marble. after awhile i saw a quick shudder run through her frame. then she turned and came slowly back to the lounge from which she had risen, and lay down quietly, shutting her eyes. oh, the still anguish of that pale, pinched face! shall i ever be able to draw a veil over its image in my mind? suddenly she started up. her ear had caught the sound of the street bell which had just been rung. she went hurriedly to the chamber door, opened it, and stood out in the upper hall, listening. "who is it?" she asked, in a hoarse, eager under tone, as a servant came up after answering the bell. "mrs. gordon's man. he called to ask if we'd heard anything from mr. albert yet." mrs. martindale came back into her chamber with a whiter face and unsteady steps, not replying. the servant stood looking after her with a countenance in which doubt and pity were mingled; then turned and went down stairs. i did not go home until evening. all day the snow fell drearily, and the wind sighed and moaned along the streets, or shrieked painfully across sharp angles, or rattled with wild, impatience the loose shutters that obstructed its way. every hour had its breathless suspense or nervous excitement. messengers came and went perpetually. as the news of albert's prolonged absence spread among his friends and the friends of the family, the circle of search and inquiry became larger and the suspense greater. to prevent the almost continual ringing of the bell, it was muffled, and a servant stationed by the door to receive or answer all who came. night dropped down, shutting in with a strange suddenness, as some heavier clouds darkened the west. up to this period not a single item of intelligence from the absent one had been gained since, as related by one of the young gordons, he parted from him between two and three o'clock in the morning, and saw him take his way down one of the streets, not far from his home, leading to the river. it was snowing fast at the time, and the ground was already well covered. closer questioning of the young man revealed the fact that albert martindale was, at the time, so much intoxicated that he could not walk steadily. "i looked after him," said gordon, "as he left me, and saw him stagger from side to side; but in a few moments the snow and darkness hid him from sight. he was not far from home, and would, i had no doubt, find his way there." nothing beyond this was ascertained on the first day of his absence. i went home soon after dark, leaving mrs. martindale with other friends. the anguish i was suffering no words can tell. not such anguish as pierced the mother's heart; but, in one degree sharper, in that guilt and responsibility were on my conscience. three days went by. he had vanished and left no sign! the whole police of the city sought for him, but in vain. their theory was that he had missed his home, and wandered on towards the docks, where he had been robbed and murdered and his body cast into the river. he had on his person a valuable gold watch, and a diamond pin worth over two hundred dollars--sufficient temptation for robbery and murder if his unsteady feet had chanced to bear him into that part of the city lying near the river. all hope of finding albert alive was abandoned after a week's agonizing suspense, and mr. martindale offered a reward of five hundred dollars for the recovery of his son's body. stimulated by this offer, hundreds of boatmen began the search up and down the rivers and along the shores of the bay, leaving no point unvisited where the body might have been borne by the tides. but over large portions of this field ice had formed on the surface, closing up many small bays and indentations of the land. there were hundreds of places into any one of which the body might have floated, and where it must remain until the warm airs of spring set the water free again. the search was fruitless. mrs. martindale, meantime, had lapsed into a state of dull indifference to everything but her great sorrow. that absorbed her whole mental life. it was the house in which her soul dwelt, the chamber of affliction wherein she lived, and moved, and had her being--so darkly draped that no light came in through the windows. very still and passionless she sat here, refusing to be comforted. forced by duty, yet dreading always to look into her face, that seemed full of accusations, i went often to see my friend. it was very plain that, in her mind, i was an accessory to her son's death. not after the first few days did i venture to offer a word of comfort; for such words from my lips seemed as mockery. they faltered on my tongue. one day i called and the servant took up my name. on returning to the parlor, she said that mrs. martindale did not feel very well, and wished to be excused. the servant's manner confirmed my instant suspicion. i had looked for this; yet was not the pang it gave me less acute for the anticipation? was i not the instrumental cause of a great calamity that had wrecked her dearest hope in life? and how could she bear to see my face? i went home very heavy-hearted. my husband tried to comfort me with words that had no balm for either his troubled heart or mine. the great fact of our having put the cup of confusion to that young man's lips, and sent him forth at midnight in no condition to find his way home, stood out too sharply defined for any self-delusion. i did not venture to the house of my friend again. she had dropped a curtain between us, and i said, "it shall be a wall of separation." not until spring opened was the body of albert martindale recovered. it was found floating in the dock, at the end of the street down which young gordon saw him go with unsteady steps in the darkness and storm on that night of sorrow. his watch was in his pocket, the hands pointing to half-past two, the time, in all probability, when he fell into the water. the diamond pin was in his scarf, and his pocket-book in his pocket, unrifled. he had not been robbed and murdered. so much was certain. to all it was plain that the bewildered young man, left to himself, had plunged on blindly through the storm, going he knew not whither, until he reached the wharf. the white sheet of snow lying over everything hid from eyes like his the treacherous margin, and he stepped, unheeding, to his death! it was conjectured that his body had floated, by an incoming tide, under the wharf, and that his clothes had caught in the logs and held it there for so long a time. certainty is always better than doubt. on the sunday after the saddest funeral it has ever been my lot to attend, mrs. martindale appeared for the first time in church. i did not see her face, for she kept her heavy black veil closely drawn. on the following sunday she was in the family pew again, but still kept her face hidden. from friends who visited her (i did not call again after my first denial) i learned that she had become calm and resigned. to one of these friends she said, "it is better that he should have died than live to be what i too sadly fear our good society would have made him--a social burden and disgrace. but custom and example were all against him. it was at the house of one of my oldest and dearest friends that wine enticed him. the sister of my heart put madness in his brain, and then sent him forth to meet a death he had no skill left to avoid." oh, how these sentences cut and bruised and pained my heart, already too sore to bear my own thoughts without agony! what more shall i write? is not this unadorned story sad enough, and full enough of counsel and warning? far sooner would i let it sleep, and go farther and farther away into the oblivion of past events; but the times demand a startling cry of warning. and so, out of the dark depths of the saddest experience of my life, i have brought this grief, and shame, and agony to the light, and let it stand shivering in the face of all men. [transcriber's note: bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and italic text is surrounded by _underscores_.] the pansy books. =each volume mo, cloth, $ . = chautauqua girls at home. christie's christmas. divers women. echoing and re-echoing. eighty-seven. endless chain (an). ester ried. ester ried yet speaking. four girls at chautauqua. from different standpoints. hall in the grove (the). household puzzles. interrupted. judge burnham's daughters. julia ried. king's daughter (the). little fishers and their nets. links in rebecca's life. mrs. solomon smith looking on. modern prophets. man of the house. new graft on the family tree (a). one commonplace day. pocket measure (the). profiles. ruth erskine's crosses. randolphs (the). sevenfold trouble (a). sidney martin's christmas. spun from fact. those boys. three people. tip lewis and his lamp. wise and otherwise. =each volume mo, cloth. $ . .= cunning workmen. dr. deane's way. grandpa's darlings. miss priscilla hunter. mrs. deane's way. what she said. =each volume mo, cloth, $ . .= at home and abroad. bobby's wolf and other stories. five friends. in the woods and out. young folks worth knowing. mrs. harry harper's awakening. new years tangles. next things. pansy scrap book. some young heroines. =each volume mo, cloth, cts.= couldn't be bought. getting ahead. mary burton abroad. pansies. six little girls. stories from the life of jesus. that boy bob. two boys. =each volume mo, cloth, cts.= bernie's white chicken. docia's journal. helen lester. jessie wells. monteagle. =each volume mo, cloth, cts.= browning boys. dozen of them (a). gertrude's diary. hedge fence (a). side by side. six o'clock in the evening. stories of remarkable women. stories of great men. story of puff. "we twelve girls." world of little people (a). [illustration: norman was a handsome boy when she married mr. decker.] little fishers: and their nets by pansy author of "christie's christmas," "a hedge fence," "gertrude's diary," "the man of the house," "interrupted," "the hall in the grove," "an endless chain," "mrs. solomon smith looking on," "four girls at chautauqua," "ruth erskine's crosses," "spun from fact," etc., etc. _illustrated_ boston d lothrop company franklin and hawley streets copyright by d lothrop company contents. page. chapter i. the deckers' home chapter ii. beginning her life chapter iii. the truth is told chapter iv. new friends chapter v. a great undertaking chapter vi. how it succeeded chapter vii. long stories to tell chapter viii. a sabbath to remember chapter ix. a bargain and a promise chapter x. pleasure and disappointment chapter xi. a complete success chapter xii. an unexpected helper chapter xiii. the little picture makers chapter xiv. the concert chapter xv. a will and a way chapter xvi. an ordeal chapter xvii. the flower party chapter xviii. a satisfactory evening chapter xix. ready to try chapter xx. the way made plain chapter xxi. the new enterprise chapter xxii. too good to be true chapter xxiii. the crowning wonder chapter xxiv. the past and present little fishers: and their nets. chapter i. the deckers' home. joe decker gave his chair a noisy shove backward from the table, over the uneven floor, shambled across the space between it and the kitchen door, a look of intense disgust on his face, then stopped for his good-morning speech: "you may as well know, first as last, that i've sent for nan. i've stood this kind of thing just exactly as long as i'm going to. there ain't many men, i can tell you, who would have stood it so long. such a meal as that! ain't fit for a decent dog! "nan is coming in the afternoon stage. there must be some place fixed up for her to sleep in. understand, now, that has _got_ to be done, and i won't have no words about it." then he slammed the door, and went away. yes, he was talking to his wife! she could remember the time when he used to linger in the door, talking to her, so many last words to say, and when at last he would turn away with a kind "well, good-by, mary! don't work too hard." but that seemed ages ago to the poor woman who was left this morning in the wretched little room with the door slammed between her and her husband. she did not look as though she had life enough left to make words about anything. she sat in a limp heap in one of the broken chairs, her bared arms lying between the folds of a soiled and ragged apron. not an old woman, yet her hair was gray, and her cheeks were faded, and her eyes looked as though they had not closed in quiet restful sleep for months. she had not combed her hair that morning; and thin and faded as it was, it hung in straggling locks about her face. i don't suppose you ever saw a kitchen just like that one! it was heated, not only by the fierce sun which streamed in at the two uncurtained eastern windows, but by the big old stove, which could smoke, not only, and throw out an almost unendurable heat on a warm morning like this, when heat was not wanted, but had a way at all times of refusing to heat the oven, and indeed had fits of sullenness when it would not "draw" at all. this was one of the mornings when the fire had chosen to burn; it had swallowed the legs and back of a rickety chair which the mistress in desperation had stuffed in, when she was waiting for the teakettle to boil, and now that there was nothing to boil, or fry, and no need for heat, the stump of wood, wet by yesterday's rain, had dried itself and chosen to burn. the west windows opened into a side yard, and the sound of children's voices in angry dispute, and the smell of a pigsty, came in together, and seemed equally discouraging to the wilted woman in the chair. the sun was already pretty high in the sky, yet the breakfast-table still stood in the middle of the room. i don't know as i can describe that table to you. it was a square one, unpainted, and stained with something red, and something green, and spotted with grease, and spotted with black, rubbed from endless hot kettles set on it, or else from one kettle set on it endless times; it must have been that way, for now that i think of it, there was but one kettle in that house. no tablecloth covered the stains; there was a cracked plate which held a few crusts of very stale bread, and a teacup about a third full of molasses, in which several flies were struggling. more flies covered the bread crusts, and swam in a little mess of what had been butter, but was now oil, and these were the only signs of food. it was from this breakfast-table that the man had risen in disgust. you don't wonder? you think it was enough to disgust anybody? that is certainly true, but if the man had only stopped to think that the reason it presented such an appearance was because he had steadily drank up all that ought to have gone on it during the months past, perhaps he would have turned his disgust where it belonged--on himself. the woman had not tried to eat anything. she had given the best she had to the husband and son, and had left it for them. she was very willing to do so. it seemed to her as though she never could eat another mouthful of anything. can you think of her, sitting in that broken chair midway between the table and the stove, the heat from the stove puffing into her face; the heat from the sun pouring full on her back, her straggling hair silvery in the sunlight, her short, faded calico dress frayed about the ankles, her feet showing plainly from the holes of the slippers into which they were thrust, her hands folded about the soiled apron, and such a look of utter hopeless sorrow on her face as cannot be described? no, i hope you cannot imagine a woman like her, and will never see one to help you paint the picture. and yet i don't know; since there are such women--scores of them, thousands of them--why should you not know about them, and begin now to plan ways of helping them out of these kitchens, and out of these sorrows? mrs. decker rose up presently, and staggered toward the table; a dim idea of trying to clear it off, and put things in something like order, struggled with the faintness she felt. she picked up two plates, sticky with molasses, and having a piece of pork rind on one, and set them into each other. she poured a slop of weak tea from one cracked cup into another cracked cup, her face growing paler the while. suddenly she clutched at the table, and but for its help, would have fallen. there was just strength enough left to help her back to the rickety chair. once there, she dropped into the same utterly hopeless position, and though there was no one to listen, spoke her sorrowful thoughts. "it's no use; i must just give up. i'm done for, and that's the truth! i've been expecting it all along, and now it's come. i couldn't clear up here and get them any dinner, not if he should kill me, and i don't know but that will be the next thing. i've slaved and slaved; if anybody ever tried to do something with nothing, i'm the one; and now i'm done. i've just got to lie down, and stay there, till i die. i wish i _could_ die. if i could do it quick, and be done with it, i wouldn't care how soon; but it would be awful to lie there and see things go on; oh, dear!" she lifted up her poor bony hands and covered her face with them and shook as though she was crying. but she shed no tears. the truth is, her poor eyes were tired of crying. it was a good while since any tears had come. after a few minutes she went on with her story. "it isn't enough that we are naked, and half-starved, and things growing worse every day, but now that nan mast come and make one more torment. 'fix a place for her to sleep!' where, i wonder, and what with? it is too much! flesh and blood can't bear any more. if ever a woman did her best i have, and done it with nothing, and got no thanks for it; now i've got to the end of my rope. if i have strength enough to crawl back into bed, it is all there is left of me." but for all that, she tried to do something else. three times she made an effort to clear away the few dirty things on that dirty table, and each time felt the deadly faintness creeping over her, which sent her back frightened to the chair. the children came in, crying, and she tried to untie a string for one, and find a pin for the other; but her fingers trembled so that the knot grew harder, and not even a pin was left for her to give them, and she finally lost all patience with their cross little ways and gave each a slap and an order not to come in the house again that forenoon. the door was ajar into the most discouraged looking bedroom that you can think of. it was not simply that the bed was unmade; the truth is, the clothes were so ragged that you would have thought they could not be touched without falling to pieces; and they were badly stained and soiled, the print of grimy little hands being all over them. partly pushed under, out of sight, was a trundle-bed, that, if anything, looked more repulsive than the large one. there was an old barrel in the corner, with a rough board over it, and a chair more rickety than either of those in the kitchen, and this was the only furniture there was in that room. the only bright thing there was in it was the sunshine, for there was an east window in this room, and the curtain was stretched as high as it could be. to the eyes of the poor tired woman who presently dragged herself into this room, the light and the heat from the sun seemed more than she could bear, and she tugged at the brown paper curtain so fiercely that it tore half across, but she got it down, and then she fell forward among the rags of the bed with a groan. poor mrs. decker! i wonder if you have not imagined all her sorrowful story without another word from me! it is such an old story; and it has been told over so many times, that all the children in america know it by heart. yes; she was the wife of a drunkard. not that joe decker called himself a drunkard; the most that he ever admitted was that he sometimes took a drop too much! i don't think he had the least idea how many times in a month he reeled home, unable to talk straight, unable to help himself to his wretched bed. i don't suppose he knew that his brain was never free from the effects of alcohol; but his wife knew it only too well. she knew that he was always cross and sullen now, when he was not fierce, and she knew that this was not his natural disposition. no one need explain to her how alcohol would effect a man's nature; she had watched her husband change from month to month, and she knew that he was growing worse every day. there was another sorrow in this sad woman's heart. she had one boy who was nearly ten years old, when she married mr. decker; and people had said to her often and often, "what a handsome boy you have, mrs. lloyd; he ought to have been a girl." and the first time she had felt any particular interest in joe decker was when he made her boy a kite, and showed him how to fly it, and gave him one bright evening, such as fathers give their boys. this boy's father had died when he was a baby, and the widow lloyd had struggled on alone; caring for him, keeping him neatly dressed, sending him to school as soon as he was old enough, bringing him up in such a way that it was often and often said in the village, "what a nice boy that norman lloyd is! a credit to his mother!" and the mother had sat and sewed, in the evenings when norman was in bed, and thought over the things that fathers could do for boys which mothers could not; and then thought that there were things which mothers could do for girls that fathers could not, and mr. joseph decker, the carpenter, had a little girl, she had been told, only a few years younger than her norman. and so, when mr. decker had made kites, not only, but little sail boats, and once, a little table for norman to put his school books on, with a drawer in it for his writing-book and pencil, and when he had in many kind and manly ways won her heart, this respectable widow who had for ten years earned her own and her boy's living, married him, and went to keep his home for him, and planned as to the kind and motherly things which she would do for his little girl when she came home. alas for plans! she knew, this foolish woman, that mr. decker sometimes took a drink of beer with his noon meal, and again at night, perhaps; but she said to herself, "no wonder, poor man; always having to eat his dinner out of a pail! no home, and no woman to see that he had things nice and comfortable. she would risk but what he would stay at home, when he had one to stay in, and like a bit of beefsteak better than the beer, any day." she had not calculated as to the place which the beer held in his heart. neither had he. he was astonished to find that it was not easy to give it up, even when mary wanted him to. he was astonished at first to discover how often he was thirsty with a thirst that nothing but beer would satisfy. i have not time for all the story. the beer was not given up, the habit grew stronger and stronger, and steadily, though at first slowly, the deckers went down. from being one of the best workmen in town, mr. decker dropped down to the level of "old joe decker," whom people would not employ if they could get anybody else. the little girl had never come home save for a short visit; at first the new mother was sorry, then she was glad. as the days passed, her heart grew heavier and heavier; a horrible fear which was almost a certainty, had now gotten hold of her--that her handsome, manly norman was going to copy the father she had given him! poor mother! i would not, if i could, describe to you all the miseries of that long day! how the mother lay and tossed on that miserable bed, and burned with fever and groaned with pain. how the children quarreled and cried, and ran into mother, and cried again because she could give them no attention, and made up, and ran out again to play, and quarreled again. how the father came home at noon, more under the influence of liquor than he had been in the morning; and swore at the table still standing as he had left it at breakfast time, and swore at his wife for "lying in bed and sulking, instead of doing her work like a decent woman," and swore at his children for crying with hunger; and finally divided what remained of the bread between them, and went off himself to a saloon, where he spent twenty-five cents for his dinner, and fifty cents for liquor. how norman came home, and looked about the deserted kitchen and empty cupboard, and looked in at his mother, and said he was sorry she had a headache, and sighed, and wished that he had a decent home like other fellows, and wished that a doctor could be found, who didn't want more money than he was worth, to pay him for coming to see a sick woman, and then went to a bakery and bought a loaf of bread, and a piece of cheese, and having munched these, washed them down with several glasses of beer, went back to his work. meantime, the playing and the quarreling, and the crying, went on outside, and mrs. decker continued to sleep her heavy, feverish sleep. several times she wakened in a bewilderment of fever and pain, and groaned, and tried to get up, and fell back and groaned again, and lost her misery in another unnaturally heavy sleep, and the day wore away until it was three o'clock in the afternoon. the stages would be due in a few minutes--the one that brought passengers over from the railroad junction a mile away. the children in the yard did not know that one of them was expected to stop at their house; and the father when he came home at noon had been drinking too much liquor to remember it; and norman had not heard of it, and for his mother's sake would have been too angry to have met it if he had; so nan was coming home with nobody to welcome her. if you had seen her sitting at that moment, a trim little maiden in the stage, her face all flushed over the prospect of seeing father, and the rest, in a few minutes, you would not have thought it possible that she could belong to the decker family. she had not seen her home in seven years. she had been a little thing of six when she went away with the marshall family. it had all come about naturally. mrs. marshall was their neighbor, and had known her mother from childhood; and when she died had carried the motherless little girl home with her to stay until mr. decker decided what to do; and he was slow in deciding, and mrs. marshall had a family of boys, but no little girl, and held the motherless one tenderly for her mother's sake; and when the marshalls suddenly had an offer of business which made it necessary for them to move to the city, they clung to the little girl, and proposed to mr. decker that she should go with them and stay until he had a place for her again. apparently he had not found a place for her in all these seven years, for she had never been sent for to come home. the new wife had wanted her at first, to be mother to her, as she fancied mr. decker was going to be father to her boy. but it did not take her very many months to get her eyes open to the thought that perhaps the girl would be better off away from her father; and of late years she had looked on the possible home-coming with positive terror. her own little ones had nothing to eat, sometimes, save what norman provided; and if "he"--and by this mrs. decker meant her husband; he had ceased to be "mr. decker" to her, or "joseph," or even joe--if "he" should take a notion to turn against the girl, life would be more terrible to them in every way; and on the other hand, if he should fancy her, and because of her, turn more against the wife, or norman, what would become of them then? so the years had passed, and beyond an occasional threat when joe decker was at his worst, to "send for nan right straight off," nothing had been said of her home-coming. the threat had come oftener of late, for joe decker had discovered that there was just now nothing that his wife dreaded more than the presence of this step-daughter; and his present manly mood was to do all he could for the discomfort of his wife! that was one of the elevating thoughts which liquor had given him! three o'clock. the stages came rattling down the stony road. few people who lived on this street had much to do with the stage; they could not afford to ride, and they did not belong to the class who had much company. so when the heavy carriages kept straight on, instead of turning the corner below, it brought a swarm of children from the various dooryards to see who was coming, and where. "it's stopped at decker's, as true as i live!" said mrs. job smith, peeping out of her clean pantry window to get a view. "i heard that joe had sent for little nan, but i hoped it wasn't true. poor nan! if the marshalls have treated her with any kind of decency, it'll be a dreadful change, and i'm sorry enough for her. yes, that must be nan getting out. she's got the very same bright eyes, but she has grown a sight, to be sure!" which need not have seemed strange to mrs. smith, if she had stopped to remember that seven years had passed since nan went away. the little woman got down with a brisk step from the stage, and watched her trunk set in the doorway, and got out her red pocket-book, and paid the fare, and then looked about her doubtfully. could this be home! chapter ii. beginning her life. she did not remember anything, but the yard was very dirty, and the fence was tumbling down, and there were lights of glass out of the windows, and a general air of discomfort prevailed. it did not look like a home. besides, where were father and mother? there must be some mistake. the two little deckers who had played and quarreled together all day had left their work to come and stare at the new comer out of astonished eyes. certainly they did not seem to have been expecting her. the new comer turned to the elder of the two children, and spoke in a gentle winning voice: "little girl, do you live here--in this house?" the child with her forefinger placed meditatively on her lip, and her bright eyes staring intensely, decided to nod that she did. "and can you tell me what your name is?" to this question there was no answer for several seconds, then she thought better of it and gravely said: "i could." this seemed so funny, that poor nan, though by this time carrying a very sad heart, could not help smiling. "well, will you?" she asked. but at this the tangled yellow head was shaken violently. no, she wouldn't. "it can't be," said nan, talking to herself, since there was no one who would talk with her, looking with troubled eyes at the two uncombed, unwashed children, with their dresses half torn from them, and dirtier than any dresses that this trim little maiden had ever seen before, "this really cannot be the place! and yet father said this street and number; and the driver said this was right." then she stooped to the little one. "won't you tell me if your name is satie decker?" but this one was shy, and hid her dirty face in her dirty hands, and stepped back behind her sister who at once came to the rescue. "yes, 'tis," she said, "and you let her alone." a shadow fell over nan's face, but she said quickly, "then you must be susie decker, and this place is really home!" but you cannot think how strangely it sounded to her to call such a looking spot as this home. there was no use in standing on the doorstep. she could feel that curious eyes were peeping at her from neighbors' windows. she stepped quickly inside the half-open door, into the kitchen where that breakfast-table still stood, with the flies so thick around the molasses cup, from which the children had long since drained the molasses, that it was difficult to tell whether there was a cup behind it, or whether this really was a pyramid of flies. the children followed her in. susie had a dark frown on her face, and a determined air, as one who meant to stand up for her rights and protect the little sister who still tried to hide behind her. i think it was well they were there; had they not been, i feel almost sure that the stranger would have sat down in the first chair and cried. poor little woman! it was such a sorrowful home-coming to her. so different from what she had been planning all day. i wish i could give you a real true picture of her as she stood in the middle of that dreadful room, trying to choke back the tears while she convinced herself that she was really nettie decker. a trim little figure in a brown and white gingham dress, a brown straw hat trimmed with broad bands and ends of satin ribbon, with brown gloves on her hands, and a ruffle in her neck. this was nettie decker; neat and orderly, from ruffle to buttoned boots. i wonder if you can think what a strange contrast she was to everything around her? what was to be done? she could not stand there, gazing about her; and there seemed no place to sit down, and nowhere to go. where could father be? why had he not stayed at home to welcome his little girl? or if too busy for that, surely the mother could have stayed, and he must have left a message for her. if the little girls would only be good and try to tell her what all this strangeness meant! she made another effort to get into their confidence. she bent toward susie, smiling as brightly as she could, and said: "didn't you know, little girlie, that i was your sister nettie? i have come home to play with you and help you have a nice time." even while she said it, she felt ten years older than she ever had before, and she wondered if she should ever play anything again; and if it could be possible for people to have nice times who lived in such a house as this. but susie was in no sense won, and scowled harder than ever, as she said in a suspicious tone: "i ain't got no sister nettie, only sate, and nan." hot as the room was, the neat little girl shivered. there was something dreadful to her in the sound of that name. she had forgotten that she ever used to hear it; she remembered her father as having called her 'nannie'; that would do very well, though it was not so pleasant to her as the 'nettie' to which she had been answering for seven years. but how strange and sad it was that these little sisters should have been taught to call her nan! could there be a more hateful name than that, she wondered. did it mean that her step-mother hated her, and had taught the children to do so? she swallowed at the lump in her throat. what if she should cry! what would those children say or do, and what would happen next? she must try to explain. "i am nannie," she couldn't make her lips say the word nan. "i have come home to live, and to help you!" she did not feel like saying "play with you," now. "will you be a good girl, and let me love you?" how susie scowled at her then! "no," she said, firmly, "i won't." there seemed to be no truthful answer to make to this, for in the bottom of her heart, nannie did not believe that she could. still, she must make the best of it, and she began slowly to draw off her gloves. clearly she must do something towards getting herself settled. "won't you tell me where father is? or mother?" her voice faltered a little over that word; "maybe you can show me where to put my trunk; do you know which is to be my room?" there were pauses made between each of these questions. the poor little stranger seemed to be trying first one form and then another, to see if it was possible to get any help. susie decided at last to do something besides scowl. "mother's sick. she lies in bed and groans all the time. she ain't got us no dinner to-day; sate and me called her, and called her, and she wouldn't say anything to us. there ain't no room only this and that," nodding her head toward the bedroom door, "and the room over the shed where norm sleeps. norm is hateful. he didn't bring home no bread this noon for sate and me; and he said maybe he would; we're awful hungry." "perhaps he couldn't," said poor startled nettie. she hardly knew what she said, only it seemed natural to try to excuse norm. but what dreadful story was this! if there was really a sick mother, why was not the father bending over her, and the house hushed and darkened, and somebody tiptoeing about, planning comforts for the night? she had seen something of sickness, and this was the way it was managed. then what was this about there being no room for her? then what in the world was she to do? oh, what did it all mean! she felt as though she must run right back to the depot, and get on the cars and go to her own dear home. to be sure she knew that her father was poor; what of that? so were the marshalls; she had heard mrs. marshall say many a time that "poor folks can't have such things," in answer to some of the children's coaxings. but poverty such as this which seemed to surround this home was utterly strange to nettie. still, though she felt such a child, she was also a woman; in some things at least. she knew there was no going home for her to-night. if she had the money to go with, and if there had been a train to go on, she would still have been stayed, because it would be wrong to go. her father had sent for her, had said that they wanted her, needed her, and her father certainly had a right to her; and she had come away with a full heart, and a firm resolve to be as good and as helpful and as happy in her old home as she possibly could. and now that nothing anywhere was as she had expected it, was no reason why she should not still do right. only, what was there for her to do, and how should she begin? she stood there still in the middle of the room, the children staring. presently she crossed on tiptoe to the bedroom door which was partly open and peeped in, catching her first glimpse of the woman whom she must call "mother." also she caught a glimpse of that dreadful bed; and the horrors of that sight almost took away the thought of the woman lying on it. how could she help being sick if she had to sleep in such a place as that? poor nettie decker! she stood and looked, and looked. then seeing that the woman did not stir, but seemed to be in a heavy sleep, she shut the door softly and came away. i don't suppose that nettie decker will ever forget the next three hours of her life, even if she lives to be an old woman. not that anything wonderful happened; only that, for years and years afterwards, it seemed to her that she grew suddenly, that afternoon, from a happy-hearted little girl of thirteen, into a care-taking, sorrowful woman. while she stood in that bedroom door, a perfect whirl of thoughts rushed through her brain, and when she shut the door, she had come to this conclusion: "i can't help it; i am nettie decker; he is my father, and i belong to him, and i ought to be here if he wants me; and she is my mother; and if it is dreadful, i can't help it; there is everything to do; and i must do it." it was then that she shut the door softly and went back and began her life. there was that trunk out on the stoop. it ought to go somewhere. at least she could drag it into the kitchen so that the troops of children gathering about the door need not have it to wonder at any longer. putting all her strength to it she drew it in and shut the door. by this time, sate, who was getting used to her as she had gotten used to many a new thing in her little life, began to wail that she was hungry, and wanted some bread and some molasses. "poor little girlie!" nettie said, "don't cry; i'll see if i can find you something to eat. did she really have no dinner, susie? oh, darling, don't cry so; you will trouble poor mother." but susie had gone back to the scowling mood. "she _shall_ cry, if she wants to; you can't stop her; and you needn't try; i'll cry too, just as loud as i can." and susie decker who had strong lungs and always did as she said she would, immediately set up such a howl as put sate's milder crying quite in the shade. nettie looked over at the bedroom door in dismay; but no sound came from there. yet this roaring was fearful. how could it be stopped? suddenly she plunged her hand into the depths of a small travelling bag which still hung on her arm, and brought forth a lovely red-cheeked peach. she held it before the eyes of the naughty couple and spoke in a determined tone: "this is for the one who stops crying this instant." both children stopped as suddenly as though they had been wound up, and the machinery had run down. nettie smiled, and went back into the travelling bag. "there must be two of them, it seems," she said, and brought out another peach. "now you are to sit down on the steps and eat them, while i see what can be found for our supper." down sat the children. there had been quiet determination in this new-comer's tone, and peaches were not to be trifled with. their mouths had watered for a taste ever since the dear woolly things began to appear in the grocery windows, and not one had they had! now began work indeed. nettie opened her trunk and drew out a work apron which covered her dress from throat to shoes, and made her look if anything, prettier than before. where was the broom? the children busy with their peaches, neither knew nor cared; however, a vigorous search among the rubbish in the shed brought one to light. and then there was such a cloud of dust as the decker kitchen had not seen in a long time. then came a visit to the back yard in search of chips; both children following close at her heels, saying nothing, but watching every movement with wide-open wondering eyes. back again to the kitchen and the fire was made up. then an old kettle was dragged out from a hole in the corner, which poor mrs. decker called a closet. it was to hold water, while the fire heated it, but first it must be washed; everything must be washed that was touched. where was the dishcloth? the children being asked, stared and shook their heads. nettie searched. she found at last a rag so black and ill-smelling that without giving the matter much thought she opened the stove door and thrust it in. this brought a rebuke from the fierce susie. "you better look out how you burn up my mother's things. my mother will take your head right off." "it wasn't good for anything, dear," nettie said soothingly, "it was too dirty." and she stooped down and turned over the contents of the trunk. neat little piles of clothing, carefully marked with her full name; a pretty green box which susie dived for, and pushing off the cover disclosed little white ruffles, some of lace, and some of fine lawn, lying cosily together; but nettie was not searching for such as these. quite at the bottom of the trunk was a pile of towels, all neatly hemmed and marked. two of these she selected; looked thoughtfully at one of them for a moment, and then with a grave shake of her head, got out her scissors and snipped it in two. now she had a dishcloth, and a towel for drying. but what a pity to soil the nice white cloth by washing out that iron kettle! nettie had grave suspicions that after such a proceeding it would not be fit for the dishes. still, the kettle must be washed, and to have used the black rag which she had burned, was out of the question. there was no help for it, the other neat dishcloth must be sacrificed. so taking the precaution to wipe out the iron kettle with a piece of paper, and then to heat it quite hot, and apply soap freely, the cloth escaped without very serious injury; and in less time than it takes me to tell it, the water was getting itself into bubbles over the stove, and a tin pan was being cleaned, ready for the dishes. then they were gathered, and placed in the hot and soapy water, and washed and rinsed and polished with the white towel until they shone; and the little girls looked on, growing more amazed each moment. it did not take long to wash every dish there was in that house. i suppose you would have been very much astonished if you could have seen how few there were! nettie was very much astonished. she wondered how people could get supper with so few dishes, to say nothing of breakfasts and dinner. but you see she did not know how little there was to put on them. the next question was, where to put them? one glance at the upper part of the closet where she had found some of them, convinced nettie that her clean dishes could not be happy resting on those shelves. there was no help for it; they must be scrubbed, though she had not intended to begin housecleaning the first afternoon. more water and more soap, and the few shelves were soon cleared of rubbish, and washed. nettie piled all the rubbish on a lower shelf and left it for a future day. she did not dare to burn any more property. "don't they look pretty?" she said to the children, when at last the dishes were neatly arranged on the shelf. one held them all, nicely. susie nodded with a grave face that said she had not yet decided whether to be pleased or indignant. "what did you do it for?" she asked, after a moment's silent survey. "why, to make them clean and shining. you and i are going to clear up the house and make it look ever so nice for mother when she wakes up." "did you come home to help mother?" "yes, indeed. and you two little sisters must show me how to help her; poor sick mother! i am afraid she has too much to do." "she cries," said susie gravely, as though she were stating not a surprising but simply a settled fact; "she cried every day: not out loud like sate and me, but softly. father says she is always sniveling." if you had been watching nettie decker just then you would have noticed that the blood flamed into her cheeks, and her eyes had a flash of wonder, and terror, and anger in them. what did it all mean? where had the children learned such words? was it possible that her father talked in this way to his wife? "hush!" she said unguardedly, "you must not talk so." but this made the fierce little susie stamp her foot. "i _shall_ talk so!" she said angrily; "i shall talk just what i please, and you sha'n't stop me." and then the queer little mimic beside her stamped her foot, and said, "you sha'n't stop me." said nettie, "there was a little girl on the cars to-day that i knew. she had a little gray kitty with three white feet, and a white spot on one ear, and it had a blue ribbon around its neck. what if you had such a kitty. would you be real good to it?" "i will have a _black_ kitty," said susie, "all black; as black as that stove." nettie glancing at the stove, could not help thinking that it was more gray than black; but she kept her thoughts to herself, and susie went on. "and it should have a red ribbon around its neck; as red as janie martin's dress; her dress is as red as fire, and has ruffles on, and ribbons. but what would it eat?" she did not mean the dress but the kitten. nettie laughed, but hastened to explain that the kitten would need a saucer of milk quite often, and bits of various things. this made wise susie gravely shake her head. "we don't have no milk," she said, "only once in awhile when norm buys it; sate, she often cries for milk, but she don't get none. it don't do no good to cry for milk; i ain't cried for any in a long time." poor little philosopher! poor, pitiful childhood without any milk! hardly anything could have told the story of poverty to nettie's young ears more surely than this. why, she was a big girl thirteen years old, and had lived in a city where milk was scarce, and yet her glass had been filled every evening. nettie did not know what to make of it. how came her father to be so poor? she was sure that the house did not look like this when she went away; and her clothes had been neat and good. she had the little red dress now which she wore away. she thought of it when susie was talking, and wondered if with a little fixing it could not be made to fit the black-eyed child who seemed to admire red so much. finding the kitty a troublesome subject, at least so far as the finding of milk for it was concerned, she turned the conversation to the little girls who had been on the cars; the one with the kitty, and her little sister, whom she called "pet." "she was about as old as you, susie, and pet was about satie's age. and she was very kind to pet; she always spoke to her so gently, and took such care of her everybody seemed to love her for her kindness." "i take care of sate," said susie. "i never let anybody hurt her. i would scratch their eyes out if they did; and they know it." "you slap me sometimes," little sate said, her voice slightly reproachful. "yes," said susie loftily, "but that is when you are bad and need it; i don't let anybody else slap you." "the oldest little girl had curly hair," said nettie, "but it wasn't so long as yours, and did not curl so nicely as i think yours would. and pet's hair was a pretty brown, like sate's, and looked very pretty. it was combed so neatly. one wore a blue dress, and one a white dress; but i think they would have looked prettier if they had been dressed both alike." "i don't like white dresses," said susie; "i like fiery red ones." so nettie resolved that the red dress should be made to fit her. meantime, the scrubbing had gone on rapidly; the table was as clean as soap and water could make it. now if those children would only let her wash their faces and put their hair in order, how different they would look. should she venture to suggest it? it all depended on how the idea happened to strike susie. chapter iii. the truth is told. in the bottom of that wonderful little trunk lay side by side two little blue and white plaid dresses, made gabrielle fashion, with ruffles around the bottom and around the neck. never were dresses made with more patient care. all the stitches were small and very neat. and they represented hours and hours of steady work. every stitch in them had been taken by nettie decker. long before she had thought of such a thing as coming home, they had been commenced. birthday presents they were to be to the little sisters whom she had never seen. she had earned the money to buy them. she had borrowed two little neighbors of the same age, to fit them to, and with much advice and now and then a little skilful handling from mrs. marshall, they were finally finished to nettie's great satisfaction. it was the day the last stitch was set in them that she learned she was to come herself and bring them. she thought of them this afternoon. if the little girls would only let her comb their hair and wash their faces and hands, she would put on the new dresses. she had not intended to present them in that way, but dresses as soiled and faded and worn as those the little sisters had on, nettie decker had never worn. she opened the trunk, with both children beside her, watching, and drew out the dresses. "aren't these almost as pretty as red ones?" she asked, as she unfolded them, and displayed the dainty ruffles. "no," said susie, "not near so pretty as red ones. but then they are pretty. they aren't dresses at all; they are aprons. are they for you to wear?" "no," said nettie, "they are for two little girls to wear, who have their hair combed beautifully, and their hands and faces very clean." "do you mean us?" "i do if the description fits. i can think just how nice you would look if your faces were clean and your hair was combed." "we will put on the aprons," said susie firmly, "but we won't have our hair combed, nor our faces washed, and you need not try it." but miss susie found that this new sister had as strong a will as she. the trunk lid went down with a click, and nettie rose up. "very well," she said, "then we will not waste time over them. i brought them for you, and meant to put them on you this afternoon to surprise mamma, but if you don't want them, they can lie in the trunk." "i told you we did want them," said susie, looking horribly cross. "i said we would put them on." "yes, but you said some more which spoiled it. _i_ say that they cannot go on until your faces and hands are so clean that they shine, and your hair is combed beautifully." "you can't make us have our hair combed." "i shall not try," said nettie, as though it was a matter of very small importance to her. "i was willing to dress you all up prettily, but if you don't choose to look like the little girls i saw on the cars, why you can go dirty, of course. but you can't have the clean new dresses." "till when?" "not ever. unless you are clean and neat." "it hurts to have hair combed." "i know it. yours would hurt a good deal, because you don't have it combed every day; if you kept it smooth and nice it would hardly hurt at all. but i didn't suppose you were a cowardly little girl who was afraid of a few pulls. if the dresses are not worth those, we had better let them lie in the trunk." nettie was already beginning to understand her queer fierce little sister. she had no idea of being thought a coward. "well," she said, after a thoughtful pause, "comb my hair if you like; i don't care. sate, you are going to have your hair combed, and you needn't cry; because it won't do any good." it was certainly a trial to all parties; and poor little sate in spite of this warning, did shed several tears; but susie, though she frowned, and choked, and once jerked the comb away and threw it across the floor, did not let a single tear appear on her cheeks. and at last the terrible tangles slipped out, and left silky folds of beautiful hair that was willing to do whatever nettie's skilful fingers told it. when the faces and hands were clean, and the lovely blue dresses had been arranged, nettie stood back to look at them in genuine delight. what pretty little girls they were! she sighed in two minutes after she thought this. what did it mean that they looked so neglected and dirty? "these must go in the wash," she said, as she gathered up the rags which had been kicked off. "will we put these on in the morning?" asked susie, in quite a mild tone. she was looking down at herself and was very much pleased with her changed appearance. "oh, no," nettie said, "they are too light to play in. they are dress-up clothes. you must have dark dresses on in the morning." "we ain't got no dresses only them," and susie pointed contemptuously at the rags in nettie's hand. this made poor nettie sigh again. what did it all mean? however, there was no time for sighing. there was still a great deal to be done. "now we must get tea," she said, bustling about. "where does mother keep the bread, and other things?" "she don't keep them nowhere. we don't have no things. i go to the bakery sometimes for bread, and for potatoes, and sometimes for milk. i would go now; i just want to show that hateful little girl in there my new dress, and my curls, but it isn't a bit of use to go. he won't let us have another single thing without the money. he said so yesterday, and he looked so cross he scared sate; but i made faces at him." this called forth several questions as to where the bakery was, and nettie, finding that it was but a few steps away, and that the little girls really bought most of the things which came from there, counted out the required number of pennies from her poor little purse for a loaf of bread and a pint of milk. in the cupboard was what had once been butter, set on the upper shelf in a teacup. it was almost oil, now. "if i had a lump of ice for this," nettie murmured, "it might do. butter costs so much." "they keep ice at the bakery," said that wise young woman, susie, "but we never buy it." this brought two more pennies from the pocketbook; for to nettie it seemed quite impossible that butter in such a condition could be eaten. so the ice was ordered, and two very neat, and very vain little bits of girls started on their mission. tablecloths? where would the new housekeeper find them? where indeed! hunt through the room as she would, no trace of one was to be found. she did not know that the deckers had not used such an article in months. she thought of the cupboard drawer at home, and of the neat pile which was always waiting there, and at about this hour it had been her duty to set the table and make everything ready for tea. it would not do to think about it. there were sharper contrasts than these. her proposed present to her mother had been a tablecloth, not very large nor very fine, but beautifully smooth and clean, and hemmed by her own patient fingers. she must get it out to-night, as no other appeared; and of course she could not set the table without one. so it was spread on the clean table, and the few dishes arranged as well as she could. there was a drawing of tea set up in another teacup, and there was a sticky little tin teapot. nettie, as she washed it, told it that to-morrow she would scour it until it shone; then she made tea. meantime the little errand girls had returned with their purchases, the butter was resting on a generous lump of ice, the bread which was found to be stale, was toasted, a plate of cookies from the wonderful trunk was added, and at last there was ready such a supper as had not been eaten in that house for weeks. to be sure it looked to nettie as though there was very little to eat; but then she had not been used to living at the deckers. she began to be very nervous about the people who were going to sit down at this neat table. why did not some of them come? the wise housekeeper knew that neither tea nor toast improved greatly by standing, but she drew the teapot to the very edge of the stove, covered the toast, and set it in the oven. then she went softly to the bedroom door and opened it. this time a pair of heavy eyes turned, as the door creaked, and were fixed on her with a kind of bewildered stare. she went softly in. "how do you feel now?" she asked gently. "i have made a cup of tea and a bit of toast for you. shall i bring them now? the children said you did not eat any dinner." "who are you?" asked the astonished woman, still regarding her with that bewildered stare. nettie swallowed at the lump in her throat. it would be dreadful if she should burst out crying and run away, as she felt exactly like doing. "i am nettie decker," she said, and her lips quivered a little. "father sent for me, you know. didn't you think i would be here to-day, ma'am?" "you can't be nan!" i cannot begin to describe to you the astonishment there was in mrs. decker's voice. "yes'm, i am. at least that is what father used to call me once in a while, just for fun. my name is nanette; but auntie marshall where i live, or where i used to live"--she corrected herself, "always called me nettie. may i bring you the tea, ma'am? i think it will make you feel better." but the two children had stayed in the background as long as they intended. they pushed forward, susie eager-voiced: "look at us! see my curls, and see my new apron, only she says it is a dress, but it ain't; it is made just like jennie brown's apron, ain't it? but we ain't got no dresses on. she's got a white cloth on the table, and cookies, and a lump of ice, and everything; and we had two peaches. old jock gave us the bread. she sent the money, and i told him to take his old money and give me some bread right straight." how fast susie could talk! there was scarcely room for the slow sweet satie to get in her gentle, "and me too." meaning look at my dress and hair. the bewildered mother raised herself on her elbow and stared--from nan to the little girls, and then back to nan. she was sufficiently astonished to satisfy even susie. "well, i never!" she said at last. "i didn't know, i mean i didn't think"--then she stopped and pressed her hand to her head, and pushed back the straggling hair behind her ears. "i took dizzy this morning," she said at last, addressing nettie as though she were a grown-up neighbor who had stepped in to see her, "and i staggered to the bed, and didn't know nothing for a long while. i had a dreadful pain in my head, and then i must have dropped to sleep. here i've been all day, if the day is gone. it must be after three o'clock if you've got here. i meant to try to do something towards making things a little more decent; though the land knows what it would have been; i don't. there's nothing to do with. i didn't know till this morning that he had the least notion of sending for you--though he's threatened it times enough. i've been ailing all the spring, and this morning i just give out. i don't know what is the matter with me. the bed goes round now, and things get into a kind of a blur." "let me bring you a cup of tea and something to eat," said nettie; "i think you are faint." then she vanished, the children following. she was back in a few minutes, under her arm a white towel from her trunk; this she spread on the barrel head which you will remember did duty as a table. she spread it with one hand, little sate carefully smoothing out the other end. in her left hand she carried a cup of tea smoking hot, and poor mrs. decker noticed that the cup shone. susie followed behind, an air of grave importance on her face, and in her hands a plate, covered by a smaller one, which being taken off disclosed a delicately browned slice of bread with a bit of butter spread carefully over it. "well, i never!" said mrs. decker again, but she drank the tea with feverish haste, stopping long enough to feel of the cup with a curious look on her face. it was so smooth. there was a sound of heavy feet outside, and the children appeared at the door and announced that father and norm had come. nettie took the emptied cup, promising to fill it again, urged the eating of the toast while it was hot, and went with trembling heart to meet the father whom she had not seen in so many years that she remembered very little about him. a great rough-faced, unshaven man, with uncombed hair, ragged and dirty shirt sleeves, ragged and dirty pants, a red face and eyes that seemed but half open, and watery. nothing less like what nettie had imagined a father, could well be described. however, if she had but known it, this was a great improvement on the man who often came home to supper. he was nearly sober, and greeted her with a rough sort of kindness, giving her a kiss, which made her shrink and tremble. it was perfumed with odors which she did not like. "well, nan, my girl, you have grown into a fine young lady, have you? tall for your years, too. and smart, i'll be bound; you wouldn't be your mother's girl if you wasn't. is it you that has fixed up things so? it is a good thing you have come to take care of us. we haven't had anything decent here in so long, we've most forgot how to treat it. come on, norm. this table looks something like living again." and "norm" shambled in. rough, and uncombed, and unwashed, except a dab at his hands which left long streaks of brown at the wrists. a hard-looking boy, harder than nettie had ever spoken to before. she could not help thinking of jim daker who lived in a saloon not far from her old home, and whom she had always passed with a hurried step, and with eyes on the ground, and of whom she thought as of one who lived in a different world from hers, and wondered how it felt to be down there in the slum. now here was a boy whom it was her duty to think of as a brother; and he reminded her of jim daker! still there was something about norm that she could not help half liking. he had great brown, wistful-looking eyes, and an honest face. she had not much chance, it is true, to observe the eyes; for he did not look at her, nor speak, until his father said: "why don't you shake hands with nan? you ought to be glad to see her. you ain't used to such a looking supper as this." the boy laughed, in an embarrassed way, and said he was sure he did not know whether he was glad to see her or not: depended on what she had come for. he gave her just a gleam then from the brown eyes, and she smiled and held out her hand. he took it awkwardly enough, and dropped it as suddenly as though it had been hot; then sat down in haste at the table, where his step-father was already making havoc with the toast. it was not a very substantial meal for people who had dined on bread and cheese, and were hungering at that moment for beer; but the man had spoken the truth, it was better than they generally found. there was one part of the story, however, that he failed to tell: which was, that he did not furnish money to get anything better. as for susie and sate, they had become suddenly silent. they sat close together and devoured their toast, like hungry children indeed, but also like scared children. they gave occasional frightened glances at their father which puzzled and pained nettie. no suspicion of the truth had yet come to her. oh, yes, she had smelled the liquor when her father kissed her; but she thought it was something which had to do with the machinery around which he worked. "where is the old woman?" he asked suddenly, setting down his empty cup which nettie had filled for the third time. she looked up at him with a startled air. to whom was he speaking and what old woman could he mean? her look seemed to make him cross. "what are you staring at?" he said sharply. "can't you answer a question? where's your mother?" nettie hurried to answer; she was sick, had been real sick all day, but was better now, and was trying to get up. "she is everlastingly sick," the father said with a sneer; "you will get used to that story if you live here long. i hope you ain't one of the sickly kind, because we have heard enough of that." this sentence and the tone in which it was spoken, brought the blood in great waves to nettie's face. it was the first time she had ever heard a man speak of his wife in such a way. norm looked up from his cookie, and flashed angry eyes on his step-father for a moment, and said "he didn't know as that was any wonder. she had enough to make any woman sick." "you shut up," said the father in increasing irritability; and the children slipped out of their seats and moved toward the door, keeping careful eyes on the father until they were fairly outside. nettie felt her limbs trembling so that her knees knocked together under the table. but at last every crumb of toast was eaten, and every drop of tea swallowed, and mr. decker pushed himself back from the table, and spoke in a somewhat gentler tone: "well, my girl, make yourself as comfortable as you can. i'm glad to see you. we need your help, you'll find, in more ways than one. you've been working for other folks long enough. it is a poor place you've come to, and that's a fact. i ain't what i used to be; i've been unfortunate. no fellow ever had worse luck. everything has gone wrong with me ever since your mother died. a sick wife, and young ones to look after, and nobody to do a thing. it is a hard life, but you might as well rough it with the rest of us. you'll get along somehow, i s'pose. the rest of us always have. i've got to go out for awhile. you tell the old woman to fix up some place for you to sleep, and we'll do the best we can." and he lounged away; norm having left the table and the room some minutes before. and this was the father to whom nettie decker had come home! she swallowed at the lump which seemed growing larger every minute in her throat. she had choked back a great many tears that afternoon. there was no time to cry. some place must be fixed for her to sleep. in the home that she had left, there was a little room with matting on the floor, and a little white bed in the corner, and a pretty toilet set that the carpenter's son had made her at odd times, and a wash bowl and pitcher that had been her present on her eleventh birthday, and a green rocking-chair that aunt kate had sent her: not her own aunt kate, but mrs. marshall's sister who had adopted her as a niece, and these things and many another little knickknack were all her own. the room was empty to-night; but then nettie must not cry! she began to gather the dishes and get them ready for washing. just as she plunged her hands into the dishwater, the bedroom door opened, and her mother came out, stepping feebly, like one just recovering from severe illness. "i'm dreadful weak," she said in answer to nettie's inquiries, "but i guess i'm better than i have been in a good while. i've had a rest to-day; the first one i have had in three years. i don't know what made me give out so, all of a sudden. i tried to keep on my feet, but i couldn't do it no more than i could fly. you oughtn't to have to wash them dishes, child, with your pretty hands and your pretty dress. oh, dear! i don't know what is to become of any of us." "this is my work apron," said nettie, trying to speak cheerily, "and i am used to this work: i always helped with the tea dishes at home." then she plunged into the midst of the subject which was troubling her. "father said i was to ask you where i was to sleep." "he better ask himself!" said the wilted woman, rousing to sudden energy and indignation. "how does he think i know? there isn't the first rag to make a bed of, nor a spot to put it, if there was. i say it was a sin and a shame for him to send for you, and that's the truth! if he had one decent child who had a place to stay, where she would be took care of, he ought to have let you alone. you have come to an awful home, child. you have got to know the truth, and you might as well know it first as last. it is enough sight worse than you have seen to-night, though i dare say you think this is bad enough. you don't look nor act like what i was afraid of, and you must have had good friends who took care of you; and he ought to have let you alone. this is no place for a decent girl. it is bad enough for an old woman who has given up, and never expects to have anything decent any more. he won't provide any place for you, nor any clothes, and what we are to do with one more mouth to feed is more than i can see. i wouldn't grudge it to you, child, if we had it; but we are starved, half the time, and that's the living truth." "i won't eat much," said poor nettie, trembling and quivering, "and i will try very hard to help; but if you please, what makes things so? can't father get work?" "work! of course he can; as much as he can do. he is as good a machinist to-day as there is in the shops; when they have a particular job they want him to do it. he works hard enough by spells; why, child, it's the drink. you didn't know it, did you? well, you may as well know it first as last. he was nearer sober to-night than he has been in a week; but he wasn't so very sober or he wouldn't have been cross. he used to be good and kind as the best of them, and we had things decent. i never thought it would come to this, but it has, and it grows worse every day. yes, you may well turn pale, and cry out. turning pale won't do any good. and you may cry tears of blood, and them that sells the rum to poor foolish men will go right on selling it as long as they have money to pay, and kick them out when they haven't. that is the way it is done, and it keeps going on here year after year, homes ruined, and children made beggars, and them that have the making of the laws, go right on and let it be done. i've watched it. and i've tried, too. you needn't think i gave up and sat down to it without trying as hard as ever woman could to struggle against the curse; but i've give up now. nothing is of any use. and the worst of it is my norm is going the same road." chapter iv. new friends. and then the poor woman who thought she had no more tears to shed, buried her face in her hands and shed some of the bitterest ones she ever did in her life. poor nettie! she tried to turn comforter; tried to think of one cheering word to say; but what was there to cheer the wife of a drunkard? or the daughter of a drunkard? could it be possible that she, nettie decker, was that! oh, dear! how often she had stood in the door, and with a kind of terrified fascination watched jane daker stealing home in the darkness, afraid to go in at the front door, lest her drunken father should see her and vent his wrath on her. could she ever creep around in the dark and hide away from her own _father_? wouldn't it be possible for her to go back home? she had not money enough to get there, but couldn't she work somehow, and earn money? she could write a letter to the folks at home and tell them the dreadful story, and they would surely find a way of sending for her. but then, money was not plenty in that home, and she began to understand that they had done a great deal for her, and that it had cost a good deal to pay her fare to this place. she had wondered, at the time, that her father did not send the money for her to come home, but she said to herself: "i suppose he did not know how much it would cost, and he will give it to me to send in my first letter. perhaps he will give me a little bit more than it costs, too, for a little present for jamie." oh, poor little girl! building hopes on a father like hers. she had not been at home half a day, but she knew now that no money would ever go back to the marshalls in return for all they had done for her. worse than that, she might not be able to get back to them herself. would her father be likely to let her go? he had sent for her, and had told her during this first hour of their meeting, that she had worked for other people long enough. this made her heart swell with indignation. done enough for others, indeed! what had they not done for her? she never realized it half so plainly as she did to-night. "i will go back!" she muttered, setting the little bowl she was drying on the table with a determined thump. "i can't stay in such a place as this. i will write to auntie marshall this very night if i can get a chance, and she will contrive some way." certainly, nettie in that mood could have no comfort for a weeping mother, and attempted none, after the first murmured word of pity. but meantime she knew very well that she could not go back home that night, and the present terror was, where was she to sleep? her mother went back into the bedroom after a few minutes of bitter weeping, and nettie finished the work, then stood drearily in the doorway, wondering what she could do next, when a good, homely, motherly face looked out of the side window of the small house next their own, and a cheery voice spoke: "are you joe decker's little nannie?" "yes'm," said nettie, sadly, wondering drearily, even then, if it could be possible that this was so. "well," said the voice, "i calculated that you must be; though i never should have known you in the world, if i hadn't heard you was coming, you was such a mite of a thing when you went away. what a tall nice girl you've got to be. your ma is sick, the children said. i've been away ironing all day, or i would have been in to see if i could help the poor thing any. i don't know her very much, but she is sickly, and has hard times now and then, and i'm sorry for her. now what i was wondering is, where are they going to put you to sleep? the upper part of that house ain't finished off, is it? it is one big attic, ain't it, where norm sleeps? i thought so. i suppose there could be quite a nice room made up there with a little work and a few dollars laid out, but your pa ain't done it, i'll be bound. and i knew there wasn't but one bedroom down-stairs, and i couldn't think how they would manage it." "it isn't managed at all, ma'am," said nettie, seeing that she seemed to wait for an answer, and there was nothing to say but the simple truth. "there is no place for me to sleep." "you don't say! now that's a shame. well, now, what i was thinking was, that maybe you would like to sleep in the woodhouse chamber; it is a nice little room as ever was, and it opens right out of my sarah ann's room; so you wouldn't be lonesome. i haven't any manner of use for it, now my boy's gone away, and i just as soon you would sleep there as not until your folks get things fixed. you're a dreadful clean-looking little girl, and i like that. i'm a master hand to have clean things around me; job says he believes i catch the flies and dust their wings before i let them go into my front room. job is my husband, and that is his little joke at me, you know." and she laughed such a jolly little roly-poly sort of laugh that poor nettie could not keep a smile from her troubled face. a refuge in the woodhouse chamber of this neat, good-natured-looking woman seemed like a bit of heaven to the homesick child. "i am very much obliged to you, ma'am," she said respectfully; "i will tell my mother how kind you are, and i think she will be glad to accept the kindness for a few days. i--" and then nettie suddenly stopped. it might not be well to say to this new friend that she would not need to trouble the woodhouse chamber long, for she meant to start for home as soon as a letter could travel there, and another travel back. something might come in the way of this resolve, though it made her feel hot all over to think of such a possibility. "bless my heart!" said mrs. job smith as nettie vanished to consult her mother. "if that ain't as polite and pretty-spoken a child as ever i see in my life. she makes me think of our jerry. to think of that child being joe decker's girl and coming back to such a home as he keeps! it is too bad! i am sure i hope they will let her sleep in the woodhouse chamber. it is the only spot where she will get any peace." mrs. decker was only too glad to avail herself of her neighbor's kind offer. "it is good of her," she said gratefully to nettie. "i wish to the land you could have such a comfortable room all the time; they are real clean-looking folks. you wouldn't suppose from the looks of this house that i cared for clean things, but i do, and i used to have them about me, too. i was as neat once as the best of them; but it takes clothes and soap and strength to be clean, and i have had none of 'em in so long that i have most forgot how to do anything decent." "soap?" said nettie, wonderingly. she was beating up the poor rags which composed the bed in her mother's room, trying to get a little freshness into them. "yes, soap; i don't suppose you can imagine how it would seem not to have all the soap you wanted; i couldn't, either, once, but i tell you i save the pennies nowadays for bread, so that i need not see my children starve before my eyes. i would rather do without soap than bread; especially when our clothes are so worn out that there is nothing much to change with. oh, i tell you when you get into a house where the men folks spend all they can get on beer or whiskey, there are not many pennies left. mrs. smith has been real kind; she sent the children in a bowl of soup one day when their father had gone off and not left a thing in the house, nor a cent to get anything with. "and she has done two or three things like that lately; i'm grateful to her, but i'm ashamed to say so. i never expected to sink so low that i should be glad of the scraps which a poor neighbor like her could send in. oh, no; they are not very poor. why, they are rich as kings, come to compare them with us; but they are not grand folks at all; he is a teamster, and works hard every day; so does she; but he doesn't drink a drop, and they have a good many comfortable things. their boy is away at school, and their girl, sarah ann, is learning a dressmaker's trade. you will have a comfortable bed in there, and i'm glad of it." and now it was eight o'clock. susie and sate were asleep in their trundle bed, the tired nettie having coaxed them to let her give them a splendid bath first, making the idea pleasant to them by producing from her trunk a cunning little cake of perfumed soap. they looked "as pretty as pictures," the sad-eyed mother said, as she bent over them when they were asleep, with their moist hair in loose waves, and their clean faces flushed with health. "they are real pretty little girls," she added earnestly, as she turned away. "he might be proud of them. and he used to be, too. when sate was a baby, he said she had eyes like you, and he used to kiss her and tell her she was pretty, until i was afraid he would spoil her; but there isn't the least danger of that now. he never notices either of them except to slap them or growl at them." "how came father to begin to drink?" nettie asked the question timidly, hesitating over the last word; it seemed such a dreadful word to add to a father's name. "don't ask me, child; i don't know. they say he always drank a little; a glass of beer now and then. i knew he did when i married him, but i thought it was no more than all hard-working men did. i never thought much about it. i know it never entered my head that he could be a drunkard. i'd have been too afraid for norm if i had dreamed of such a thing as that. "he kept increasing the drinks, little by little--it grows on them, it seems, the habit does; they say that is the way with all the drinks; i didn't know it. i never was taught about these things. if i had been, i think sometimes my life would have been very different. i know i wouldn't have walked right into the fire with my one boy, anyhow. i'm talking to you, child, as though you were a woman grown, and you seem most like a woman to me, you are so handy, and quiet, and nice-looking. i was sorry you were coming, because i thought you would just be an added plague; and now i am sorry for your own sake." nettie hesitated greatly over the next question. it was a very hard one to ask this sick and discouraged mother, but she must know the whole of the misery by which she was surrounded. "does norman drink too?" "norm," said mrs. decker, dropping into the one chair, and putting her hand to her heart as though there was something stabbing her there, "norm has been led away by your father. he was a bright little fellow, and your father took to him amazingly. i used to tell him his own little girls would have reason to be jealous of his step-son. he took norm with him everywhere, from the first. and taught him to do odd things, for a little fellow, and was proud of his singing, and his speaking, and all that. and when susie there, was a baby, and i was kept close at home with her, and norm would tear around in the evening and wake her up, i slipped into the way of letting him go out with your father to spend the evenings; i didn't know they spent them in bar-rooms, or groceries where they sold beer. i never _dreamed_ of such a thing. your father talked about meeting the men, and i thought they met at some of the houses where there wasn't a baby to cry, and talked their work over, or the news, you know. and there he was teaching norm to drink. he was a pretty little fellow, and he would sing comic songs, and then they would treat him to the sugar in their glasses! when i found it out, he had got to liking the stuff, and i don't suppose a day goes by without his taking more or less of it now. he never gets as bad as your father; but he will. he is never cross and ugly to me, nor to the children, but he will be. it grows on him. it grows on them all. and to think that i led him into the trap! if i had stayed in the country where i was brought up, or if i had left him with his grandfather, as he wanted me to, he might have been saved. the grandfather is gone now, and so is the farm. your father got hold of my share of that, and lost it somehow. he didn't mean to, and that soured him, and he drank the harder and we are going down to the very bottom of everything as fast as we can." it seemed to poor nettie that they must have reached the bottom now. she could not imagine any lower depths than these. she made up the poor bed as well as she could, and then went back to the kitchen to see what could be done about breakfast. her new mother was evidently too weak and sick to be troubled with the thought of it, and while she stayed, nettie resolved that she would help the poor woman all she could. she went out into the yard to examine, and discovered to her satisfaction that there must be a cooper's shop just around the corner, for the chips lay thick. she gathered some for the morning fire, determined in her mind that she would buy a few potatoes at the grocery in the morning! in the cupboard she had found a cup of sour milk; this she had carefully treasured with an eye to breakfast, and she now looked into her purse to see if she could spare pennies for a quart of flour. if she could, then some excellent cakes would be the result. and now everything that she knew how to do towards the next day's needs was attended to, and she went out in the moonlight, and sat down on the lowest step of the back stoop, and did what she had been longing to do all the afternoon--cried as though her poor young heart was breaking. astride a saw-horse in the yard which belonged to job smith, and which was separated from the stoop where she sat only by a low fence, was a curly-headed boy, who had come there apparently to whittle and whistle and watch her. he was not there when she sat down and buried her head in her apron. she did not notice his whistling, though he made it loud and shrill on purpose to attract her attention, he knew quite a little about her by this time. he had come upon the boys of the grammar school in the midst of their afternoon recess and heard harry stuart interrupt little ted barrows who was the youngest one in the class and wrote the best compositions. they were gathered under a tree listening to ted, while he read them "the story of an hour," which was especially interesting because it had some of their own experiences skilfully woven in. "hold on," harry was saying, just as the whistling boy appeared within hearing. "you didn't make that thing up; you got it from the deckers; that is what is just going to happen there. old joe's nan is coming home this very day, and she is about as old as the girl you've got in your story, and is freckled, i dare say; most girls are." "i didn't even know old joe decker had a girl to come home!" said little ted, looking injured. "i made every word of it out of my own mind." but the boys did not hear him; their interest had been called in another direction. "is that so? is nan decker coming home? my! what a house to come to. mother said only yesterday that she hoped the folks who had her would keep her forever. what is she coming for? who told you?" "why, she is coming because joe thinks that will be another way to plague the old lady. at least that is what my mother thinks. mrs. decker told her once that when joe had been drinking more than usual he always threatened to send for nan; but she didn't think he would. and now it seems he has. i heard it from the old fellow himself. he was telling norm about it, while i stood waiting for father's saw. he said she was coming in the stage this afternoon; that she had worked for other folks long enough and it was time he had some good of her himself. i pity her, i tell you." then the whistler had come out from behind the trees, and said good-afternoon, and asked a few questions. the boys had answered him civilly enough, but in a way which showed that they did not count him as one of them. the fact was, he was a good deal of a stranger. he had been in town only a few weeks, and he did not go to school, and he boarded with or lived with, the smiths, who lived next door to the deckers, and were nice enough people, but did not have much to do with the fathers and mothers of these boys, and--well, the fact was, the boys did not know whether to take this new comer in, and make him welcome, or not. they sort of liked him; he was good-natured, and accommodating so far as they knew, but they knew very little about him. he asked a good many questions about the expected nan decker. he had never heard of her before. since he was to live next door to her, it might be pleasant to know what sort of a person she was. but the boys could tell him very little. seven years, at their time of life, blots out a good many memories. they only knew that she was nan decker who went away when her mother died, and who had lived with the marshalls ever since; and all agreed in being sorry for her that she was obliged at last to come home. the whistling boy walked away, after having cross-questioned first one, and then another, and learned that they knew nothing. he was on his way to the woods for one of his long summer rambles. he felt a trifle lonely, and wished that the boys had asked him to sit down under the trees and have a good time with them. [illustration: jerry on one of his summer rambles.] he would have liked to hear ted's composition, he said to himself; the boy had a sweet face, and a head that looked as though he might be going to make a smart man, one of these days. what was the matter with those fellows, he wondered, that they were not more cordial? he thought about it quite awhile, then plunged into the mosses and ferns and gathered some lovely specimens, which he arranged in the box he carried slung over his shoulder, and forgot all about the boys, and poor little nan decker. on the way home, in the glow of the setting sun, he thought of her again, and wondered if she had come, and if she would be a sorrowful and homesick little girl. it seemed queer to think of being homesick when one came home! but then, it was only a home in name; he had not lived next door to it for five weeks without discovering that, and the little girl's mother was dead! poor nan decker! a shadow came over his bright face for a moment as he thought of this. his mother was dead. he resolved to speak a kind word to the little girl the very first time that he had a chance. and here in the moonlight was his chance. he stopped whistling at last and spoke: "if it is anything about which i can help, i shall be very glad to do it." a kind, cheerful voice. nettie looked up quickly and choked back her tears. she was not one to cry, if there were to be any lookers-on. "i guess you are homesick," said the boy from, his horse's back; "and that isn't any wonder. i'm homesick myself, nearly every night, especially if it is moonlight. i don't know what there is about the moon that chokes a fellow up so, but i've noticed it often; but then i feel all right in the morning." "are you away from your home?" "i should say i was! or rather home has gone away from me. i haven't any home in particular, only my father, and he is away out in california. i couldn't go there with him, and since my school closed i am waiting here for him to come back. it is home, you know, wherever he is. he doesn't expect to be back yet for months. so you and i ought to be pretty good friends, we are such near neighbors. i live right next door to you. we ought to be introduced. you are nannie decker, i suppose, and i am jerry mack at your service. i don't wonder you are homesick; folks always are, the first night." "my name is nanette," said nettie, gently, "but people who like me most always say nettie: and it isn't being homesick that makes me feel so badly--though i am homesick; but it is being scared, and astonished, and, oh! everything. nothing is as i thought it would be; and there are things about it that i did not understand at all, or maybe i wouldn't have come; and now i am here, i don't know what to do." she was very near crying again, in spite of a watcher. "i know," he said, nodding his head, and speaking in a grave, sympathetic voice. "job smith--that is the man i am staying with--has told me how it used to be with your father. he says he was a very nice father indeed. i am as sorry for you as i can be. but after all, i wouldn't give up if i were you; and i should be real glad that i had come home to help him. he needs a great deal of help. folks reform, you know. why, people who are a great deal worse than your father has ever been yet, have turned right around and become splendid men. if i were you i would go right to work to have him reform. then there's norm--he needs help, too; and he ought to have it before he gets any older, because it would be so much easier for him to get started right now." "i don't know the least thing to do," said nettie; but she dried her eyes on her neat little handkerchief as she spoke, and sat up straight, and looked with earnest eyes at the boy on the other side the fence. this sort of talk interested and helped her. "no; of course you don't. you haven't studied these things up, i suppose. but there is a great deal to do. my father is a temperance man, and i have heard him talk. i know a hundred things i would like to do, and a few that i can do. i'll tell you what it is, nettie, say we start a society, you and i, and fight this whole thing? "we can begin with little bits of plans which we can carry out now, and let them grow as fast as we can follow them and see what we can do. is it a bargain?" "there is nothing i would like so well, if you will only show me how," said nettie, and her eyes were shining. it was wonderful what a weight these few words seemed to lift from her troubled heart. the boy's face had grown more thoughtful. he seemed in doubt just how to express what he wanted to say next. "i don't know how you feel about it," he said as last, "but i know somebody who would be sure to help in anything of this kind that we tried to do--show us how, you know, and make ways for us to get money, and all that." "who is it?" nettie spoke quickly now, for her heart was beating loud and fast. was there somebody in this town who could be asked to come to the rescue, and who was willing to give such hearty help as that? if such were the case, she could see that a great deal might be accomplished. she waited for her new friend's answer, but he looked down on the stick he was whittling and gravely sharpened the end to a very fine point, before he spoke again. "i don't know what you think about such things, but i mean--god. i _know_ he is on our side in this business, don't you?" "yes," said nettie, thoughtfully, and her manner changed. her voice which had been only eager before, became soft and gentle, and she looked over at the boy in the moonlight and smiled. "i know him," she said, "and i am his servant. it is strange i forgot for a little while that he knew all about this home, and father, and everything! maybe he wants me to help father. i mean to begin right away. i will do every single thing i can think of, to keep father, and norm, and everybody else from drinking liquor any more forever." there was a sudden spring from the saw-horse, a long step taken over the low fence, and the boy stood beside her. "there are two of us," he said gravely. "there is my hand on it. i am a christian, too. and father gave me a verse once, which always helps me when i think of the rumsellers: 'if god be for us, who _can_ be against us!' i know he is for us, and so, though the rumsellers are against us, and think they are going to beat, one of these days he will show them! what you and i want to do is to keep working at it all we can, so as to show that we believe in him." "now we are partners--nettie decker and jerry mack, who knows what we can do? anyhow, we are friends, and will stand by each other through thick and thin, won't we?" "yes," said nettie, "we will." and she rose up from the doorstep, and they shook hands. chapter v. a great undertaking. jerry turned away whistling. did you ever notice how apt boys are to whistle when something has stirred their feelings very much, and they don't intend that anybody but themselves shall know it? nettie went back into the little brown house to see if her mother was comfortable for the night. her heart was lighter than she had thought it ever would be again. everything was quiet within the house. the children with their arms tossed about one another, and their cheeks flushed with sleep, looked sweeter than they often did awake. the heartsick mother had forgotten her sorrow again for a little while, in sleep. where father and norm were, nettie did not know. it seemed strange to go away and leave the light burning, and the door unfastened. at home, they always gathered at about this hour, in the neat sitting-room, and sang a hymn and repeated each a bible verse, and then mr. marshall prayed, and after that she kissed auntie marshall and the others, and tripped away to her pretty room. the contrast was very sharp. if it had not been for that new friend whose voice she heard at this moment softly singing a cheery tune, i think the tears would have come again. as it was, she slipped into mrs. job smith's neat kitchen. what a contrast that was to the kitchen next door! the first thing she saw was the tall old clock in the corner. "tick-tock, tick-tock." she had never seen so large a clock before; she had never heard one speak in such a slow and patronizing tone, as though it were managing all the world. she looked up into its face and smiled. it seemed like a great strong friend. there was nothing very remarkable about that kitchen. at least i suppose you would not have thought so, unless you had just spent an afternoon in the decker kitchen. then you might have felt the difference. the floor was painted a bright yellow, and had gay rugs spread here and there. the stove shone brilliantly, and the two chairs under the window were painted green, with dazzling white seats. a high, old-fashioned, wooden-backed rocker occupied a cosey corner near the clock. a table set against the wall had a bright spread on it, and newspapers, and a book or two, and a pair of spectacles lay on it. the lamp was in the centre, and was clear and beautifully trimmed. simple enough things, all of them, but they spoke to nettie's heart of home. there was a brisk step on the stair; the door opened, and mrs. smith's strong, homely face appeared in sight. "here you are," she said cheerily, "tired enough to go to sleep, i dare say. well, the room is all ready for you. i guess you won't be lonesome, for it is right out of sarah ann's room, and my boy jerry is across the hall. you've got acquainted with jerry, i guess? i saw you and him talking, out in the moonlight. i'm glad of it. jerry is good at chirking a body up; and there never was a better boy made than he is. "now you get right to sleep as goon as you can, and dream of all the nice things you can think of. it is good luck to have nice dreams in a new room, you know." "poor little soul!" she said to herself as the door closed after nettie. "i hope she will be so sound asleep that she won't hear her father and norm come stumbling home. isn't it a mean thing, now, that the father of such a little girl as that should go and disgrace her?" mrs. smith was talking to nobody, and so of course nobody answered her; and in a little while that house was still for the night. nettie, in the clean, sweet-smelling woodhouse chamber, was soon on her knees; not sobbing out a homesick cry, as she thought she would, as soon as ever she had a chance, but actually thanking god for these new friends; and asking him to be one in this new society, and show them just what and how to do. then she went into sound sleep; and heard no stumbling, nor grumbling, though both father and brother did much of it when at last they shambled home. the new plans came up for consideration early the next morning. before nettie had opened her eyes to the neatly whitewashed walls in the woodhouse chamber, she heard the sound of merry whistling, keeping time to the swift blows of an axe. jerry was preparing kindlings. in a very short time after that, he looked up to say good-morning, as nettie was making her way across the yard to the other house. "don't you want some of these nice chips? they will make your kettle boil in a jiffy." this was his good-morning; he held out both hands to her, full of broad smooth chips. "aunt jerusha likes them better than any other kind; i keep her supplied. wait, i'll carry them in." "oh, you needn't," nettie said in haste, and blushing. what would he think of the decker kitchen after being used to mrs. smith's! but he took long springs across the walk, vaulted the fence and stood at the kitchen door waiting for her. it looked even more desolate, in contrast with the sunny morning, than it had the night before. nettie resolved to blacken the stove that very day. "do you know how to make a fire?" jerry asked. "i do. i made aunt jerusha's for her, two mornings, but it is hard work to get ahead of her." yes, nettie knew how. she had made the fire for the supper, in mrs. marshall's boarding house, many a time. she proceeded to show her skill at once; jerry, looking on admiringly, admitted that she knew more about it than he did. "you see, father and i board," he said apologetically, "and there isn't much chance to learn things. i'll tell you what i can do--get you a fresh pail of water." before she could speak, he darted away. there was a sound of feet coming down the unfinished stairs, and norm lounged into the room, rubbing sleepy eyes, and looking as though he had not combed his hair in a week. he stared at nettie as though he had never seen her before, and answered her good-morning, with: "i'll be bound if i didn't forget you! where have you been all night?" "asleep," said nettie, brightly. "now i want to have breakfast ready by the time mother comes out, to surprise her. will you tell me whether you have tea or coffee?" norm laughed slightly. "we have what we can get, as a rule. i heard mother say there wasn't any tea in the house. and i don't believe we have had any coffee for a month. i'd like some, though; i know that. i've got a quarter; i'll go and get some, if you will make us a first-rate cup of coffee." "well," said nettie, "i'll do my best." she spoke a little doubtfully, having a shrewd suspicion that the quarter ought to be saved for more important things than coffee; but she did not like to object to norm's first expressed idea of partnership; so he went away, and when the fresh water came, the teakettle was filled, the table set, the potatoes washed and put in the oven; by the time mrs. decker appeared, nettie, with a very flushed face, was bending over her hot griddle, testing the cake she had baked. "well, i do say!" said mrs. decker, and the tone expressed not only surprise, but gratitude. there was a pleasant odor of coffee in the room, and the potatoes were already beginning to hint that they would soon be done. the cake that nettie had baked was as puffy and sweet as her heart could desire. "i believe you're a witch," said mrs. decker. "i couldn't think of a thing for breakfast. where did you get them cakes?" "made them," said nettie; "i found a cup of sour milk; auntie marshall used to let me make them often for breakfast. norm went after the coffee; and i guess it is good. i saved my egg shell from the cakes to settle it." "you're a regular little housekeeper," said mrs. decker. "and so norm went after coffee! did you ask him to? went of his own accord! that's something wonderful for norm. he used to think of things for me but he don't any more." altogether, it was really almost a comfortable breakfast, though it seemed to nettie that she would never get it ready. she was not used to managing with so few dishes. her father drank three cups of coffee, said it was something like living, and gave nettie twenty-five cents, with the direction that he hoped there would be something decent to eat when they came home at noon. nettie's cheeks were red with more than the baking of cakes, then. she was ashamed of her father. how could he speak in a way to insult his wife! they went off hurriedly at last, norm and the father; and the children who had been silent, began to chatter the moment the door closed after them. mrs. decker, too, began to talk. "he thinks twenty-five cents will buy a dinner for us all, and keep us in clothes, and get new furniture, and dishes! he will have it that it is because things are wasted that we have such poor meals. as if i had anything to waste! i don't know what to do, nor which way to turn. we need everything." "don't you think we had better clean house to-day?" nettie asked a little timidly, as they rose from the table and she began to gather the dishes. "clean house!" repeated the dazed mother. "why, yes, child, i suppose so. it needs it badly enough. oh, we can wash up the floor, and the shelf. it doesn't take long; there are not many things in the way. no furniture to move. but it doesn't stay clean long, i can tell you. just one room in which to do everything! i might have kept it looking better, though, if i had not been sick. i have just had to let everything go, child. lying awake nights, and worrying, have used me up." she took the broom as she spoke and began to sweep vigorously, scurrying the children out of her way. it was a long day, and a busy one. and at night, the room certainly looked better. the floor had been scrubbed with hot lye to get off the grease, and the stove had been blackened until the children shouted that it would do for a looking-glass. several other improvements had been made. but after all, to nettie's eyes it was dreadfully bare and comfortless. not a cushioned chair, nor a rocker, nor anything that to her seemed like home. all day she had been casting glances at a closed door which opened from the kitchen, and thinking her thoughts about the room in there. a large square room, perfectly empty. why wasn't it used? if for nothing else, why didn't norm sleep in it, instead of in that dreadful unfinished attic where the rats must certainly have full sweep? or why did not her mother move in there with the trundle bed, instead of being cooped up in that small bedroom? or why had they not prepared it for her to sleep in, if they really did not want it for anything else? she gathered courage at last, to ask questions. "oh, that room," her mother said with bitterness, "when i first came here to live, we pleased ourselves nights, after the children were in bed, telling what we would have in it. we meant to furnish it for a parlor. we were going to have it carpeted; he wanted a red carpet, and i wanted a brown one with a little bit of pink in, but land! i would have taken one that was all yellow, just to please him. and we were going to have a lounge, and two rocking chairs, and i don't know what not. and there it is, shut up. i might have had it for a bedroom at first, but i wouldn't. i wanted to save it. and then, when i gave that all up, there was nothing to fix it with. norm couldn't sleep there without curtains to the windows; no more could we; it is right on the street, almost. "and things keep getting worse and worse, so i just shut the door and locked it and let it go. if i had had a spare chair to put in, i might have gone in there and cried, now and then, but i hadn't even that. i tried to rent it; but the woman who was hunting rooms heard that your father drank, and was afraid to come. oh, we have a splendid name in the place, you'll find. we are just going to ruin as fast as a family can; that's the whole story." in the middle of the afternoon, when nettie had done everything she could think of, unless some money could be raised, and some clothes made, so that the children could have the ones washed which they were wearing, she stood in the back door, wondering how that could be brought about, when jerry appeared in his favorite seat on the sawhorse. "everything done up for the day?" he asked. nettie laughed. "everything has stopped for the want of things to do with," she said. "i don't see but that will be the trouble with what we want to do. why, you can't do a single thing without money; and where is it to come from?" "that is one of the things we must think up," jerry said gravely. "i have thought about it some. this temperance business needs money. one of the troubles with boys like norm is that they have no nice places to go to. boys like to meet together and talk things over, you know, and have a good time, and how are some of them going to do it? the church isn't the place, nor the schoolhouse, and those fellows haven't pleasant homes; the only spot for them is the saloons. i don't much wonder that they get in the habit of going there. i have heard my father say that saloons were the only places that were fixed up, and lighted, where folks without any pleasant homes were made welcome. why, just look at it in this town. there's your norm. there are two fellows who go with him a great deal. if you meet one, you may be sure that the other two are not far away. their names are alf barnes and rick walker. neither of them have as decent a home as norm's, oh! not by a good deal. and he doesn't feel like inviting them into your kitchen to spend the evening. should you think he would?" warm as the day was, nettie shivered. "i should think they would rather stay out in the street than to come there," she said. "well, now you see how it is. they don't stay in the streets, such fellows don't. not all the time. they get tired, and sometimes it rains, and in winter it is cold, and they look about them for somewhere to go. there's a saloon, bright and clean; comfortable chairs, and good-natured people. it is the only place that says come in! to such fellows. why shouldn't they go in? "i've heard my father talk about this by the hour. in big cities they have rooms warmed and lighted, and nicely furnished, on purpose for such young men; only father is always saying that they don't begin to have enough of them; but in such a town as this, i would like to know what the boys who haven't nice homes to stay in, are expected to do with themselves evenings? one of these days, when i am a man, that is the way i am going to use all my extra money. i'll hunt out towns where the fellows have just been left to stay in the streets, or else go to the rum-holes, and i'll fit up the nicest kind of a room for them. bright as gas can make it, and elegant, you know, like a parlor; and i'll have cakes, and coffee, and lemonades, and all those things, cheaper than beer, and serve them in fine style. wouldn't that be a fine thing to do?" "then the first thing," said nettie, "is a room." jerry turned round on his horse and looked full at her and laughed. "you talk as though it was to be done now," he said. "i was telling what i would do in that dim future, when i become a man." "we might begin pieces of it now. norm will be too old when you are a man; and so will those others. there is our front room. if we only had some furniture to put in it. my auntie marshall made some real pretty seats once, out of old boxes; she padded them with cotton, and covered them with pretty calico, and you can't think how nice they were. i could make some, if i had the boxes and the calico." "i could get the boxes," said jerry. "i know a man in the blacksmith shop who has a brother in the grocery down at the corner, and he could get boxes for us of him, i'm pretty sure. he is a nice man, that blacksmith. i like him better than any man in town, i believe. i could fix covers on the boxes myself, and do several other things. i have a box of tools, and i often make little things. i say, nettie, let's fix up the front room. i've often wondered what there was in there. would your mother let us have it?" "she would let us have most everything, i guess," nettie said thoughtfully, "if she thought it would do any good." "all right. we'll make it do some good. let's set to work right away. the first thing as you say, is a room. no, we have the room; the first thing is furniture. i'll go and see mr. collins this very evening. he is the blacksmith." in less than half an hour from that time jerry stood beside mr. collins. that gentleman had on his big leather apron, and was busy about his work as usual. "boxes?" he said to jerry. "why, yes, there are piles of them in his cellar, and out by his back door. i should think he would be glad to get rid of some. but what do you want of them? furniture? how are you going to make furniture out of boxes? what put such a notion as that into your head, and what do you want of furniture, anyhow?" so jerry sat down on a box and told the whole story. mr. collins listened, and nodded, and shook his head, and smiled grimly, occasionally, and sighed, and in every possible way showed his interest and appreciation. "and so you two are going to take hold and reform the town?" he said at last. "humph! well, it needs it bad enough! if old boxes will help, it stands to reason that you ought to have as many as you want. i'll engage to see that you get them." when mr. collins told his brother-in-law, the grocer, the two laughed a good deal, but the blacksmith finished his story with, "well, now i tell you what it is--something is better than nothing, any day; there's been nothing done here for so long that i think it is kind of wonderful that those two young things should start up and try to do something." "so do i, so do i," assented the grocer, heartily, "and if old boxes will help 'em, why, land, they're welcome to as many as they can use. tell the chap to step around here and select his lumber, and i'll have it delivered." this message jerry was not slow to obey; so it happened that the very next afternoon mrs. job smith stood in her back door and watched with curious eyes the unloading of the grocer's wagon. six, seven, eight empty boxes! "for the land's sake, what be you going to do with them?" she asked jerry. mrs. job smith had a great warm heart, but no education to speak of; and no mother had, in her childhood, begged her a dozen times a day not to use such expressions as "for the land's sake!" she knew no better than to suppose they added emphasis to her words; jerry laughed. "it is for the room's sake, auntie," he said. "we are going to have a cabinet shop in the barn loft. mr. smith said i might. i shall make some nice things, auntie, see if i don't. come up in the loft, will you, and see my tool chest?" this last sentence was addressed to nettie who had appeared in her back door to admire the boxes. so the two climbed the ladder stairs, nettie a little timidly as one unused to ladders, and jerry with quick springs, holding out his hand to her at the top, to help her in making the final leap. then he took from his pocket a curious little key which he explained to nettie would open that tool chest provided you knew how to use it; but he supposed that a man who had stolen it might try for a week, and yet not get into the chest. a skilful touch, and the handsome chest was open before her, displaying its wonders to her pleased eyes. it was a well-stocked chest. chisels, and saws, and hammers, and augers, and sharp, wicked-looking little things for which nettie had no name, gleamed before her. "how nice!" she said at last. "how splendid! it looks as though somebody who knew how, could make splendid things with them." "and i know how," said jerry. "at least, i know some things. i spent a summer down in a little country town where father had some business; and the man we boarded with kept a small shop, where all sorts of things were made. not a great factory, you know, where they make a thousand chairs of one kind, and a thousand of another, and never make anything but chairs. this was just a little country shop, where they made a table one day, and a chair the next, and a bedstead the next; and you could watch the men at work, and ask questions and learn ever so much. i got so i could use tools, as well as the next one, mr. braisted said, whatever he meant by that. father liked to have me learn. he said tools were the cleanest sharp things that he knew anything about. i can make ever so many things. i like to do it. i wonder i have not been about it since i came here. now what shall we go at first? what does your mother say about the room?" "she is willing," said nettie, "only she doesn't see how much of anything can be done. she is most discouraged, you see, and nothing looks possible to her, i suppose." "that's all right. she can't be expected to know we can do things until we show her. if she will let us try, that is all we need ask." "she says the room ought to have some kind of a carpet; they always have carpets in home-like rooms, she says; and i guess that is so. except in kitchens, of course." nettie hastened to say this, apologetically, thinking of mrs. job smith's bright yellow floor. jerry whistled. "that is so, i suppose," he said thoughtfully; "and they don't make carpets out of boxes, nor with saws and hammers, do they? i don't know how we would manage that. there must be a way to do it, though. let's put that one side among the things that have got to be thought about." "and prayed about," said nettie. "yes," he said, flashing a very bright look at her, "i thought that, but somehow i did not like to say it out, in so many words." "i wonder why?" said nettie thoughtfully; "i mean, i wonder why it is so much harder to say things of that kind than it is to speak about anything else?" "father used to say it was because people didn't get in the habit of talking about religion in a common sense way. they don't, you know; hardly anybody. at least hardly anybody that i know; around here, anyway. now my father speaks of those things just as easy as he does of anything." "so does auntie marshall; but i used to notice that not many people did. your father must be a good man." "there never was a better one!" notwithstanding jerry said all this with tremendous energy, his voice trembled a little, and there came one of those dashes of feeling over him which made him think that he must drop everything and go to that dear father right away. "when he comes after you and takes you away, what will i do?" nettie's mournful tone restored the boy's courage. he laughed a little. "no use in borrowing trouble about that. he is afraid he cannot come back before winter, if he does then. i'm going to get him to let me stay here until he does come, though. and now we must attend to business. what will you have first in my line? chairs, tables, sofas--why, anything you say, ma'am." and both faces were sunny again. chapter vi. how it succeeded. mrs. job smith leaned against the table in her bright kitchen, caught up the edge of her apron in one hand, then leaned both hands on her sides, and thought. jerry had been consulting her. was there any way of planning so that the front room in the decker house could have a carpet? he repeated all mrs. decker said about a room not being home-like without one, and mrs. smith, at first inclined to combat the idea, finally admitted that in winter a room where you sat down to visit, did look kind of desolate without a carpet, unless it was a kitchen, and had a good-sized cook stove to brighten it up. there was no denying that that square front room would be the better for a carpet. at the same time there was no denying that the deckers needed a hundred other things worse than they did a carpet. but the hearts of the boy and girl were bent on having one; and what the boy was bent on, mrs. job smith liked to have accomplished, and believed sooner or later that it would be. the question was, how could she help to bring it about? "there's that roll of rag carpeting, bran-new," she said aloud; mrs. smith had spent a good deal of her time alone and had learned to hold long conversations with herself, arguing out questions as well, sometimes she thought better, than a second party could have done. at this point she put her hands on her sides. "there's enough of it, and more than enough. i had it made for the front room the year poor hannah died, and sent me that boughten carpet which just exactly fitted, and is good for ten years' wear. that rag carpeting has been rolled up and done up in tobacco and things ever since--most two years. sarah jane doesn't need it, and i don't know as i shall ever put it on the kitchen. i don't like a great heavy carpet in a kitchen, much, anyway; rugs, and square pieces that a body can take up and shake, are enough sight neater, to my way of thinking. but i can't afford to give away bran-new carpeting. to be sure it only cost me the warp and the weaving; and i got the warp at a bargain, and old mother turner never did ask me as much for weaving as she did other folks. the rags was every one of them saved up. poor hannah used to send me a lot of rags, and sarah jane and i sewed them at odd spells when we wouldn't have been doing anything. it is a good deal of bother to take care of it, and i'm always afraid the moths will get ahead of me, and eat it up. i might sell it to her for what the warp and the weaving cost me. but land! what would she pay with? i might give her a chance to do ironing. i have to turn away fine ironing every week of my life because i can't do more than accommodate my old customers. who knows but she is a pretty good ironer? i might give her the coarse parts to iron, and watch her, and find out. job is always at me to have somebody help with the big ironings, and i have always said i wouldn't have a girl bothering around, i would rather take less to do. but then, she is a decent quiet body, and that nettie is just a little woman. she will have to do something to help along if they ever get started in being decent; perhaps ironing is the thing for her, and i can start her if she knows how to do it. for the matter of that, i might teach her how, if she wanted to learn. to be sure they need other things more than carpets, but it wouldn't take her long to pay for this, if i just charge for the weaving. i might throw in the warp, maybe, seeing i got it at a bargain. the two are so bent on having a carpet for that room; and jerry, he said he had prayed about it, and while he was on his knees, it kind of seemed to him as though i was the one to get to think it out. that's queer now! jerry don't know anything about the carpet rolled up in tobacco in the box in the garret; why should he think that i could help? i feel almost bound to, somehow, after that. i don't like to have jerry disappointed, nor the little girl either, now that's a fact. i take to that little nettie amazingly. well, i know what i'll do. i'll talk with job about it, and if he is agreed, maybe we will see what she says to it." this last was a kind of "make believe," and the good woman knew it; job smith thought that his wife was the wisest, most prudent, most capable woman in the world, and besides being sure to agree to whatever she had to propose, he was himself of such a nature that he would have given away unhesitatingly the very clothes he wore, if he thought somebody else needed them more than he. there was little need to fear that job smith would ever put a stumbling-block in the way of any benevolence. but who shall undertake to tell you how astonished mrs. decker was when mrs. smith, having duly considered, and talked with sarah jane, and talked with job, and unrolled the tobacco-smelling carpet, and examined it carefully, did finally come over to the decker home with her startling proposition. it is true that a carpet had taken perhaps undue proportions in this poor woman's eyes. her best room during all the years of her past life had never been without a neat bright carpet; it had been the pleasant dream of her second married-life, so long as any pleasantness had been left to allow of dreaming; and she could not get away from the feeling that people who had not a scrap of carpeting for their best room, were very low down. she opened her eyes very wide while listening to mrs. smith's rapidly told story. what kind of a carpet could it be that was offered to her for simply the price of the weaving? for job and his wife after some figuring with pencil and paper, had agreed together heartily to throw in the warp. she went over to the neat kitchen and examined the carpet. it was bright and pretty. there was a good deal of red in it, and there was a good deal of brown; a blending of the two colors which had been the subject of much discussion between herself and husband in the days when mr. decker talked anything about the comforts of his home. how well it would look in the square room which had two windows, and was really the only pleasant room in the house. surely she could iron enough to pay for that. "i am not very strong," she said with a sigh. "i used to be, but of late i've been failing. but nannie is so handy, and so willing, that she saves me a great deal, and she has a notion that she would like to fix up the front room and try to get hold of my norm. it would be worth trying, maybe, but i don't know. we are very low down, mrs. smith." and then mrs. decker sank into one of the green painted chairs and cried. "of course it is worth trying," mrs. smith said, bustling about, as though she must find some more windows to raise; tears always made her feel as though she was choking. "if i were you i would have a carpet, and curtains to the windows, and lots of nice things, and make a home fit for that boy of yours to have a good time in. there is nothing like a nice pleasant home to keep a boy from going wrong." before mrs. decker went home, she had promised to try the ironing the very next week, and if she could do it well enough to suit mrs. smith, the carpet should be bought. "poor thing!" said mrs. smith, looking after her, and rubbing her eyes with the corner of her apron. "the ironing shall suit; if she irons wrinkles into the collars and creases in the cuffs, i won't say a word; only i guess maybe i won't give her collars and cuffs to iron; not till she learns how. i ought to have done something to kind of help her along before; only i don't know what it would have been. it takes that boy of mine to set folks to work." meantime, "that boy" sat in the kitchen door, studying. not from a book, but from his own puzzled thoughts. he did not see his way clear. under nettie's direction he had planned a very satisfactory sofa with a back to it, and two chairs, but how to get the material needed to finish them, and also for curtains for the new room, had sent nettie home in bewilderment, and stranded him on the doorstep in the middle of the afternoon to think it out. "how much stuff does it take for curtains, anyhow?" "for curtains?" said mrs. smith, coming back with a start from her ironing table and the plan she had for teaching mrs. decker to iron shirts. "why, that depends on what kind of stuff it is, and how many curtains you want, and how big the windows are." "well, what do they use for curtains?" mrs. smith still looked bewildered. "a great many things, jerry. they have lace curtains, and linen ones, and muslin ones, and in some of the rooms up at mrs. barlow's, on the hill, you know, when i helped her do up curtains that time, they had great heavy silk things, or maybe velvet, though the stuff didn't look much like either. i don't rightly know what it was, but it was heavy, and soft, and satiny, and shone like gold, in some places." jerry turned around on the doorstep and looked full at mrs. smith, and laughed. "i know," he said, "i have seen such curtains. they are damask. i am not thinking about lace, and damask, and all that sort of thing. i mean for mrs. decker's front room. what could be used that would do, and how much would they cost?" "surely!" said mrs. smith, coming down to everyday life. "what a goose i was. i might have known what you were thinking about. why, let me see. cheese cloth makes real pretty curtains; if you have a bit of bright calico to put over the top, and a nice hem in, or maybe some bright calico at the bottom to help them hang straight, i don't know as there is anything much prettier. though to be sure they aren't good for much to keep people from looking in; and they aren't quite suitable for winter. i suppose you want to plan for winter, too? i'll tell you what it is, i believe that unbleached muslin makes about as pretty a curtain as a body could have; put bright red at the top and bottom, and they look real nice." "what is unbleached muslin? i mean, how much does it cost?" "why," said mrs. smith, dropping into her rocking-chair, and folding her hands on her lap to give her mind fully to the important question, "as to that, i should have to think; i'm not very good at figures. unbleached muslin costs about eight cents a yard, or maybe ten; we'll say ten, because i've always noticed that was easier to calculate. ten cents a yard, and two windows, say two yards to each, and no, two yards to each half, four yards to each, and twice four is eight, eight yards at ten cents a yard. how much would that be, jerry? you can tell in a minute, i dare say." "eighty cents," said jerry with a sigh. "i am afraid she will think that is a great deal. and then there's the red to put on them. what does that cost?" "why, that ought to be oil calico, because the other kind ain't fast colors. i don't much believe you could get those curtains up short of fifty cents apiece; and that is a good deal for curtains, that's a fact. paper ones don't cost so much, but then there's the rollers and the fastenings, i don't know but they do cost just as much. and then they tear." "i don't want her to have paper ones," said jerry decisively. "a dollar for the curtains, and i don't know how much more for the furniture. she can't imagine where the money is to come from." "i could tell where it ought to come from," said mrs. smith, nodding her head and looking severe. "it ought to come out of joe decker's pocket. he makes his dollar a day, even now, when he doesn't half work; job said so only last night. but furniture is dreadful dear stuff, jerry, worse than curtains. and they need about everything. i never did see such a desolate house! and those little girls need clothes." "nettie is going to make them some clothes," said jerry; "she has some that she has outgrown; a great roll in her trunk; she is going to make them over to fit the little girls. she is at work at some of them to-day. and you know, auntie, i am making the furniture." "making it!" "well, making its skeleton. if we had some clothes to put on it, i guess it would be furniture. i've made a sofa, and two chairs, and i'm at work at a table. only i would like to see how the things were going to look, before i went any farther." "making furniture!" repeated dazed mrs. smith; and she shook her head. "i don't see how you can! you can do a great many things that no other boy ever thought of; but i'm afraid that's beyond you." "why, you see, auntie, she has seen some made, and she showed me what to do with hammer and nails. you make a frame, just the size you want for a sofa, and put a back to it, then it is padded with cotton, and covered with something bright, cretonne, i think she said they called it, only it wasn't real cretonne, but a cheap imitation, and they tack a skirt to the thing in puckers, so," and he caught up a bit of mrs. smith's apron to illustrate. "i see," she said, nodding her head and speaking in an admiring tone. "what a contriving little thing she is! and what about the chairs?" "the chairs are served in very much the same way. the table is just two flat boards and a post between them, nailed firmly, then they tack red calico, or blue, or whatever they want, around it, and cover it with thin white cheese cloth or some lacey stuff, she had the name of it, but i've forgotten; it doesn't cost much, she said, and tie a sash around it, and it looks like an hour glass. the question is, where are the cotton and calico to come from?" "well," said mrs. smith, "you two do beat all! it can't take much stuff for a little table; and i can see that they might be real pretty. i want a table myself, to stand under the glass in my front room. what if you was to make two, and i'd get cloth enough for two, and she would do mine and hers, to pay for the cloth?" jerry sprang up from his doorstep, and came over and put both arms around mrs. smith's trim waist. "hurrah!" he said; "you are the contriver. that will do splendidly. i'll go this minute and set up the skeleton of another table. i have two boards there which will just do it. then we'll think out a way to get the rest of the stuff." now nettie, busy with her fingers in the house next door, had not left the others to do all the thinking. she knew the price of "oil calico," and imitation cretonne, and unbleached muslin; she knew to a fraction how many yards of each would be needed, and the sum total appalled her. yet she too knew that her father earned at least a dollar a day, and did not give them two a week to live on. this her mother had told her. also she knew that on this saturday evening at about six o'clock, he would probably be paid for his week's work. couldn't she contrive to coax some of the money from his keeping into hers? she had hinted the possibility of her mother's getting hold of it, and mrs. decker had said that the bare thought of trying made her feel faint and sick; that if she had ever seen her father in a passion such as he could get into when things did not go just to suit him, she would know what it was to ask him for anything. nettie, who had not yet been at home a week, had some faint idea of what her father might do and say if he were very angry. nevertheless, she was trying to plan a way to meet him before he left the shop, and secure some of that money if she could. with this thought in view, she presently laid aside the neat little petticoat on which she had been sewing, brushed her hair, put on her brown ribboned hat, and her brown gloves, watched her chance while the children were quarreling over an apple that jerry had given them, and stole out in the direction of the shop where her father worked. she would not ask jerry to go with her, though he looked after her from the barn window and wished she had; if her father was to grow angry and swear, and possibly strike, no one should know it but herself, if she could help it. i must not forget to tell you of one thing that she did before starting. she went into her mother's little tucked-up bedroom, put a nail over the door, which she had herself arranged for a fastening, and knelt there so long by the barrel which did duty as a table, that her mother, had she seen her, would have been frightened. but nettie felt that she needed courage for this undertaking; and she knew where to get it. then she had to walk pretty fast; it was later than she thought, for just as she turned the corner by the shop where her father worked, the six o'clock bell began to ring. "halloo!" said one of the men, standing in the door while he untied his leather apron. "what party is this coming down the street? the neatest little woman i've seen for many a day. a stranger in this part of the world, i reckon. doesn't fit in, somehow. do you know who it is, decker?" and mr. decker, thus appealed to, came to the door in time to receive nettie's bow and smile. "that's my girl," he said, and a look of pride stole into his face. she was a trim little creature; it was rather pleasant to own her as his daughter. "your girl!" and the astonishment which the man felt was expressed by a slight whistle. "i want to know now if that is the little one who went away six, seven years ago, was it? she's as pretty a girl as i've seen in a year. looks smart, too. i say, decker, you better take good care of her. she is a girl to be proud of." at just that moment nettie sprang up the steps. "may i come in, father?" she said; "i wanted to see where you worked." her voice was clear and sweet. all the men in the shop turned to look. the foreman who was paying mr. decker, and who had begun severely with the sentence: "two half-days off again, decker; that sort of thing won't"--stopped short at the sound of nettie's voice, and gave him the two two dollar bills, and two ones, without further words. six dollars! if only she could get part of it! how should the delicate matter be managed? suddenly nettie acted on the thought which came to her. what more natural than for a child to ask for money just then and there? she needed it, and why not say it? perhaps he would not like to refuse her entirely before all the men. and poor nettie had a very disagreeable fear that he would certainly refuse her if she waited until the men were gone; even if she found a chance to ask him before he reached the saloon just next door, where he spent so much of his money. or at least where his wife thought he spent it. "may i have some of that, father? i want some money. that was one of the things i came after." this was certainly the truth. why not treat it as a matter of course? "why should i take it for granted that he is going to waste all his money?" said poor nettie to herself. all the same she knew she had good reason for supposing that he would. "money!" he said, as he seized the bills. "what do you know about money, or want with it?" "oh, i want things. the little girls must have some shoes. i promised to see about it as soon as i could. and then i want to buy your sunday dinner; a real nice one." the tone was a winning, coaxing one. nettie did not know how to coax; was not very well acquainted with her father; did not know how he would endure coaxing of any sort, but some way must be tried, and this was the best one she knew of. "divide with her, decker," said the man who had first called his attention to nettie. "she looks as though she could buy a dinner, and cook it too. if i had a trim little girl like that to look out for my comfort, hang me if i wouldn't take pleasure in keeping her well supplied." he sighed as he spoke, and nobody laughed; for most of them remembered that the man's home was desolate. wife and daughter both buried only a few months before. this man sometimes spent his earnings on beer, but he was accustomed to say that there was nobody left to care; and that while he had them, he took care of them; which was true. nettie looked up at the man with a curious pitiful interest. his tone was very sad. she was grateful to him for his words. was there possibly something sometime that she could do for him? she would remember his face. all the men were looking now, and there was nettie's outstretched hand. her face a good deal flushed; but it wore an expectant look. she was going to believe in her father as long as she could. "go ahead, joe, divide with the girl. such a handsome one as that. you ought to be proud of the chance." "you have something worth taking care of, it seems, decker." it was the foreman who said this, as he passed on his way to the other side of the room where the men were waiting. whether it was a father's pride, or a father's shame, or both these motives which moved mr. decker, i cannot say, but he actually took a two and a one and placed them in her hands as he said hastily, "there, my girl, i've given you half; you can't complain of that." chapter vii. long stories to tell. if only i had a good picture of nettie, so that you might see the radiant look in her eyes just then! she had hoped for the money, she had tried to trust her father, but she was, nevertheless, wonderfully surprised when her hand closed over three dollars. "o father!" she said, "how nice." and then her courage rose. "will you go with me, father, to buy the shoes? the little girls are so eager for them. i promised to take them with me to sunday-school to-morrow, if i could get shoes, but i don't know how to buy them very well. could you go?" the shoe shop was farther down the street, in an opposite direction from the one where mr. decker generally got his liquor, and wily nettie remembered that there was a street leading from it which would take them home without passing the saloon. of course it was true that she needed his help to select the shoes, but it was also true that she was very glad she did. mr. decker was untying his apron, and rolling down his sleeves; he felt very thirsty--the sight of the money seemed to make him thirsty. he had meant to go directly to the saloon, give them one dollar on the old bill, and spend what he needed, only a very little, on beer. with the rest of the money he honestly meant to pay his rent. yet no one ought to have understood better than he that he would not be likely to get away from that saloon with a cent of money in his pocket. for all that, he wanted to go. he wished nettie would go away and let him alone. but the men were watching. "you can't fit the children to shoes without having them along," he said gruffly. but nettie was ready for him: "oh!" she said, swiftly unrolling a newspaper, "i brought their feet along." and with a bright little laugh she plumped down two badly worn shoes on the work table. "that left-footed one is satie's. the other was so dreadfully worn out, i was afraid the shoemaker couldn't measure it. this is the best one of susie's." it was plain to any reasonable eyes that two pairs of shoes were badly needed. "i guess they need other things besides shoes." it was the father who said this, and they were out on the street, and he was actually being drawn by nettie's eager hand in the opposite direction from the saloon. "o no," she said; "i had some clothes which i had outgrown; i have been at work at them all day, and they make nice little suits. auntie marshall sent them each a cunning little white sunbonnet. when we get the shoes, they will look just as nice as can be. you don't know how pleased they are about going to sunday-school. i am so glad they will not be disappointed to-morrow." the shoes were bought, good, strong-looking little ones, and wonderfully cheap, perhaps because nettie did the bargaining, and the man who knew how scarce her money must be, was sorry for the little woman. it did seem a great deal to pay out--two whole dollars--for shoes when everything was needed. it was warm weather, perhaps she ought to have let the little girls go barefoot for awhile, but then she could not take them to sunday-school very well; at least, it seemed to her that she couldn't; and father was willing to have them bought now. who could tell when he would be willing again? he stood in the door and waited for her, wondering why he did so, why he could not leave her and go back to that saloon and get his drink. one reason was, that she gave him no chance. she appealed to him every minute for advice. "father, can we go to market now? i want to get just a splendid piece of meat for your sunday dinner. i know just how to cook it in a way that you will like." "i guess you can do that without me; i have an errand in another direction." they were on the street again. she caught his hand eagerly. "o, father, do please come with me to the market, there are so many men there i don't like to go alone; and it is so nice to take a walk with you. i haven't had one since i came. won't you please come, father?" joe decker hardly knew what to think of himself. there was something in her soft coaxing voice which seemed to take him back a dozen years into the past, and which led him along in spite of himself. the meat was bought, nettie looking wise over the different pieces, and insisting on a neck piece, which the boy told her was not fit to eat. "i know how to make it fit," she said, with a little nod of her head. "i want three pounds of it. and then, father, i want two carrots and two onions; i'm going to make something nice." only sixty-eight cents of her precious money left! "i did need some butter," she said mournfully, "and that in the tub looks nice, but i guess i can't afford it this time." "how much is butter?" asked mr. decker, suddenly rising to the needs of the moment. "twenty-five," said the grocer, shortly. he did not know the trim little woman who had paid for her carrots and onions, and held them in a paper bag at this moment, but he did know joe decker and had an account against him. he had no desire to sell him any butter. "then give me two pounds, and be quick about it." and mr. decker put down a dollar bill on the counter. the man seized it promptly and began to arrange the butter in a neat wooden dish, while he said, "by the way, mr. decker, when will it be convenient to settle that little account?" "i'll do it as soon as i can," said mr. decker, speaking low, for nettie turned toward him startled; this was worse than she thought. she had not known of any accounts. mr. decker himself had forgotten it until he stood in the very door. it was months since he had bought groceries. "is it much, father?" nettie asked, and he replied pettishly: "much? no. it is only a miserable little three dollars. i mean to pay it; he needn't be scared." yet why he shouldn't be "scared," when he had asked for those three dollars perhaps fifty times, mr. decker did not say. "father," said nettie, in a very low voice, "couldn't you let the man keep the fifty cents, on the account, and that would be a beginning?" but this was too much. "no," said mr. decker; "i will pay my bills when i get ready and not before; and it is none of your business when i do it. you must not meddle with what does not belong to you." "no, sir;" said nettie, though it was hard work to speak just then; there was a queer little lump in her throat. she was not in the habit of being spoken to in this way. the butter was ready, and the man handed back the change. mr. decker pocketed it, saying as he did so, "i'll have some money for you next week, i guess." and then they went away. "if it hadn't been for the girl i'd have kept the fifty cents and got so much out of the old drunkard; but someway i couldn't bring myself to doing it with her looking on." this was what the grocer muttered as they walked away. but they did not hear him. nettie was bent now on tolling her father down the cross street to go home. "father," she said, "we are going to have milk toast for supper. mother said she would have it ready, and toast spoils, you know, if it stands long. couldn't we go home this way and make it shorter?" he was a good deal astonished that he did it. he was still very thirsty, but there really came to him no decent excuse for deserting his little girl and going back to the saloon. and they walked into the house together, so astonishing mrs. decker that she almost dropped the teapot which she was filling with hot water. whatever other night, mr. decker contrived to get home to supper, he was always late on saturday, and in a worse condition than at any other time. that was really a nice little suppertime. mrs. decker had done her part well, not for the husband whom she did not expect, but in gratitude to the little girl who had worked so hard all the week for herself and her neglected babies. the toast was well made, and the tea was good. besides, there was a treat; not ten minutes before, mrs. job smith had sent in a plate of ginger cookies; "for the children," she said, and the children each had one. so did the father and mother. mr. decker washed his hands before he sat down to the table, for the tablecloth had been freshly washed and ironed that day, and his wife had on a clean calico apron and a strip of white cloth about her neck, and her hair was smooth. "there!" said nettie, displaying her meat, "now, mother, we can have that stew for to-morrow, just as we planned. father got the meat, and the carrots, and everything. and what do you think, little girlies, father bought you each a pair of shoes!" mrs. decker set down the teapot again. she was just in the act of giving her husband a cup of tea, and the color came and went on her face so queerly that nettie for a moment was frightened. as for the father, he felt very queer. scared and silent as his little girls generally were in his presence, they could not keep back a little squeal of delight over this wonderful piece of news. altogether, mr. decker could not help feeling that it really was a nice thing to be able to buy shoes and meat for his family. "come," he said, "give us your tea if you're going to; i'm as dry as a fish." and the tea was poured. the toast was good, and there was plenty of it, and someway it took longer to eat it than this family usually spent at the supper-table; and then, after supper, the shoes had to be tried on, and nettie called the little girls to their father to see if the shoes fitted, and he took sate up on his lap to examine them, which was a thing that had not happened to sate in so long that susie scowled and expected that she would be frightened, but sate seemed to like it, and actually stole an arm around her father's neck and patted his cheek, while he was feeling of the shoe. then mrs. decker had a happy thought. she winked and motioned nettie into the bedroom and whispered: "don't you believe he might like to see the children in their nice clothes? i ain't seen him notice them so much in a year; and he hasn't been drinking a mite, has he?" "not a drop," said nettie; "i'll dress susie." and she flew out to the kitchen. "father, just you wait until susie is ready to show you something. come here, susie, quick." and almost in less time than it takes me to tell it, susie was whisked into the pretty petticoats and dress which had been shortened and tightened for her that day. the dress was a plain, not over-fine white one; but it was beautifully ironed, and the white sunbonnet perched on the trim head completed the picture and made a pretty creature of susie. i am sure i don't wonder that the child felt a trifle vain as she squeaked out in her new shoes to show herself to her father. she had not been neatly dressed long enough to consider it as a matter of course. "upon my word!" said mr. decker, and there he stopped. this was certainly a wonderful change. he looked at his little daughter from head to foot, and could hardly believe his eyes. what a pretty child she was. and to think that she was his! certainly she ought to have new shoes, and new clothes. sate's arm was still about his neck, and sate's sweet full lips were suddenly touched to his rough cheek. "i've got new clothes too," she said sweetly, "only i doesn't want to get down from here to put them on." the father turned at that and kissed her. then he sat her down hastily and got up. something made his eyes dim. he really did not know what was the matter with him, only it all seemed to come to him suddenly that he had some very nice children, and that they ought to have clothes and food and chances like others, and that it was his own fault they hadn't. nettie hated tobacco, but she went herself in haste and lighted her father's pipe and brought it to him; if he must smoke, it would be so much better to have him sit in the door and do it rather than to go off down to that saloon. she hated the saloon worse than the tobacco. as she brought the pipe, she said within her hopeful little heart: "maybe sometime he won't want either to drink or smoke. i most know we can coax him to give them both up; and then won't that be nice?" one thing was troubling her; as soon as she could, she followed her mother into the yard and questioned, "do you know where norm is?" yes, mrs. decker knew. he came home just after nettie had gone out, and said he had an hour's holiday; their room had closed early for saturday, and he was going to wash up and go down street before supper. "my heart was in my mouth," said the poor mother; "because when there is a holiday he gets into worse scrapes than he does any other time; he goes with a set that don't do anything but have holidays, and they always have some mischief hatched up to get norm into. i never see the like of the boys in this town for getting others into scrapes; but i didn't dare to say a word, because norm thinks he is getting too big for me to give him any words, and just as he was going out, that boy next door--jerry, you said his name was, didn't you?--he came out and called norm, real friendly, and they stood talking together; he appeared to be arguing something, and norm holding off, and at last norm came in and wanted the tin pail and said he had changed his mind and was going fishing; and they went off together, them two." and mrs. decker finished the sentence with a rare smile. she was grateful to jerry for carrying off her boy, and grateful to nettie for thinking about him and being anxious. "good!" said nettie with a happy little laugh, "then we will have some fried fish to-morrow for breakfast. what a nice day to-morrow is going to be." mr. decker was a good deal surprised at himself, but he did not go down town again that night. after he had smoked, he felt thirsty, it is true, and at that very minute nettie came in with the one glass which they had in the house, and it was full of lemonade. "did he want a nice cool drink?" she had two lemons which she bought with her own money, and she knew how to make good lemonade, auntie marshall used to say. the father drank the cool liquid off almost at a swallow, said it was good, and that he guessed she knew how to do most things. by this time the little girls had been tucked away to bed, and just as mr. decker rose up to say he guessed he would go down street awhile, norm appeared with a string of fish. they were beauties; he declared that he never had such luck in his life; that fellow just bewitched the fish, he believed, so they would rather be caught than not. then came a talk about dressing them. norm said he was sure he did not know how; and mr. decker said, a great fellow like him ought to know how. when he was a boy of fourteen he used to catch fish for his mother almost every day of his life, and dress them too; his mother never had to touch them until they were ready to cook. then nettie, flushed and eager, said: "o father, then you can show me how to do it, can't you? i would like to learn just the right way." and the father laughed, and looked at his wife with something like the old look on his face, and said he seemed to be fairly caught. and together they went to the box outside, and in the soft summer night, with the moon looking down on them, nettie took her lesson in fish dressing. when the work was all done, norm having hovered around through it all, and watched, and helped a little, mr. decker went back to the kitchen and yawned, and wondered how late it was. no clock in this house to give any idea of time. there used to be, but one day it got out of order and mr. decker carried it down street to be fixed, and never brought it back. mrs. decker asked about it a good many times, then went herself in search of it, and found it in the saloon at the corner. "he took it for debt," the owner told her, and a poor bargain it was; it never came to time, any better than her husband did. however, just as mr. decker made his wonderment, the old clock over at mrs. smith's rose up to its duty, and dignifiedly struck nine. "well, i declare," said mr. decker, "i did not think it was as late as that. there ain't any evenings now days. well, i guess, after all, i'll go to bed. i'm most uncommon tired to-night somehow." norm had already gone up to his room; and mrs. decker when she heard her husband's words, hurried into the bedroom to hide two happy tears. "i declare for it, i believe you have bewitched him," she said to nettie, who followed her to ask about the breakfast; "i ain't known him to do such a thing not in two years, as to go to bed at nine o'clock without ever going down street again. he don't act like himself; not a mite. i was most scared when i saw him take sate in his arms; that child don't remember his doing it before, i don't believe. did he really buy the things, child, and pay for them? well, now, it does beat all! and saturday night, too; that has always been his worst night. child, if you get hold of your father, and of my norm, there ain't anything in this world too good for you. i'd work my fingers to the bone any time to help along, and be glad to." it was all very sweet. nettie ran away before the sentence was fairly finished, waiting only to say, "good-night, mother!" she had done this every night since she came, but to-night she reached up and touched her lips to the tall woman's thin cheek. poor nettie had been used to kissing somebody every night when she went to bed. it had made her homesick not to do it. but she had not wanted to kiss anybody in this house, except the little girls. to-night, she wanted to kiss this mother. she reached the back door, then stopped and looked back; her father sat in his shirt sleeves, in the act of pulling off one boot. should she tell him good-night? he had not been there for her to do it a single evening since she came home. should she kiss him? why not? wasn't he her father? yet he might not like it. she could not be sure. he was not like the fathers she had known. however, she came back on tiptoe and stooped over him, her voice low and sweet: "good-night, father! i am going now." and then she put a kiss on the rough cheek, just where little sate had left her velvet touch. mr. decker started almost as though somebody had struck him. but it was not anger which filled his face. "good-night, my girl," he said, but his voice was husky; and nettie ran as fast as she could across the yard to the next house. "i did not get the things," she said to jerry, who stood in the doorway waiting for her; "i couldn't; but, jerry, i had such a wonderful time! father gave me money, and we went to market, and bought shoes and he bought butter; and since we came home almost everything has happened. i can't begin to tell you. i can get some of the things on monday. father gave me money." "all right," said jerry; "i didn't get the skeletons ready, either; i meant to work after tea, but instead of that i went fishing." and he gave her a bright smile. "oh! i know it," said nettie, breathless almost with eagerness. "that is part of my nice time. jerry, i am so glad you went fishing to-night, and i am so glad you caught your fish; not the ones which we are to eat for our sunday breakfast, you know, but the other one. do you understand?" and jerry laughed. "i understand," he said, "i had a nice time, too. we shall have some long stories to tell each other, i guess. we must go in now." chapter viii. a sabbath to remember. sunday was a successful day at the deckers. the sun shone brilliantly; a trifle too warm, you might have thought it, for comfort; but the little deckers did not notice it. the fish was beautifully browned and the coffee was delicious. mr. decker had a clean shirt which his wife had contrived to wash and mend, the day before, and all things were harmonious. some time before nine o'clock. sate and susie were arrayed in their new white suits, and with their trim new shoes, and hair beautifully neat, they were as pretty little girls as one need want to see. nettie surveyed them with unqualified satisfaction, and then seated them, each with a picture primer, while she made her own toilet. she put on the dress which had been her best for sunday, all summer. it was a gingham, a trifle finer and a good deal lighter than the brown one in which she had travelled. it was neatly made, and fitted her well; and the brown hat and ribbons looked well with it. on the whole, when they set off for sabbath-school, jerry accompanying them, arrayed in a fresh brown linen suit, mrs. decker watching them from the side window, admitted that she never saw a nicer-looking set in her life! she even had the courage to call mr. decker to see how nice the two little girls looked, and he came and watched them out of sight. and when he said that his nan was about as nice a looking girl as he wanted to see, she answered heartily that nannie was the very best girl she ever saw in her life. fairly in the sabbath-school, a fit of extreme shyness came over the two little deckers. with susie, as usual, it took the form of fierceness; she planted her two stout feet in the doorway and resolutely shook her head to all coaxings to go any farther; keeping firm hold of sate's hand, and giving her arm a jerk now and then, to indicate to her that she was not to stir from her protector's side. the situation was becoming embarrassing. nettie could not leave them, and jerry would not; though some of the boys were giggling, those of his class were motioning him to leave the group and join them. the superintendent came forward and cordially invited the children in, but susie scowled at him and shook her head. then jerry went around to sate's side and held out his hand. "sate," he said in a winning tone, "come with me over where all those pretty little girls sit, and i will get you a picture paper with a bird on it." to susie's utter dismay, sate who had meekly obeyed her slightest whim during all her little life, suddenly dropped the hand that held hers, and gave the other to jerry, with a firm: "i'm going in, susie; we came to go in, and nettie wants us to." poor, astonished, deserted susie! she had been so sure of sate that she had neglected to keep firm hold, and now she had slid away. there was nothing left for susie but to follow her with what grace she could. they were seated at last. seven little girls of nearly nettie's size and age. as she took a seat among them, i wish i could give you an idea of how she felt. up to this hour, it had not occurred to her that she was not as well dressed as others of her age. not quite that, either; being a wise little woman of business, she was well aware that her clothes were plain, and cheap, and that some girls wore clothes which cost a great deal of money. but i mean that this was the first time she had taken in the thought of the difference, so that it gave her a sting. the sabbath-school which she had been attending, was a mission, in the lower part of the city; the scholars, nearly all of them, coming from homes where there was not much to spare on dress; and the girls of her class had all of them dressed like herself, neatly and plainly. it was very different with these seven girls. she felt at once, as she seated herself, as though she had come into the midst of a flower garden where choice blossoms were glowing on every side, and she might be a poor little weed. summer silk dresses, broad-brimmed hats aglow with flowers, kid gloves, dainty lace-trimmed parasols--what a beautiful world it was into which this poor little weed had moved? nettie knew that her hat was coarse, and the ribbon narrow and cheap, and her gloves cotton, but these things had never troubled her before. why should they now? the truth is, it was not the pretty things, but the curious glances that their owners gave at the small brown thrush which had come in among them. they seemed to poor nettie to be making a memoranda of everything she had on, from the narrow blue ribbon on her hair to the strong neat boots in which her plump feet were encased. the look in their eyes said, "how queerly she is dressed!" it was impossible to get away from the thought of their thoughts, and from the fact that the girl next to her drew her blue silk dress closer about her, and placed her pink-lined parasol on the other side, even though the pretty lady who sat before them in the teacher's seat, welcomed her kindly, and hoped she would be happy among them. nettie hoped so, too; but she could hardly believe that it could be possible. she looked over at jerry. he seemed to be having a good time; there was not so much difference in boys' clothes as in girls. she did not see but he looked as well as any of them. she looked forward at the little girls. susie had allowed herself to be led in search of sate, and the two were at this moment side by side in a seat full of bobbing heads; they had taken off their sunbonnets, and their pretty heads bobbed about with the rest, and the white dresses of the two looked as well at a distance as the others, though nettie could see that there were ruffles, and tucks, and embroidery and lace. but some were plain; and none of the wee ones seemed to notice or to care. it was only nettie who had gotten among those who made her care, by the glance of their eyes, and the rustle of their finery. she tried to get away from it all; tried hard. she listened to the words read, and joined as well as she could, in the hymn sung, and answered quietly and correctly, the questions put to her; but all the while there was a queer lump in her throat, which kept her swallowing, and swallowing, and a wish in her heart that she could go back to auntie marshall's. [illustration: lorena barstow.] when the service was over, she stood waiting, feeling shy and alone. jerry was talking with the boys in his class, and the little girls were being kissed by their pretty teacher. her classmates stood and looked at her. at last the teacher who had been talking with one of the secretaries turned to her with a pleasant voice: "well, nettie, we are glad to have you with us. can you come every sabbath, do you think? are you acquainted with these girls? no? then you must be introduced. this is irene lewis, and this is cecelia lester," and in this way she named the seven girls, each one making in turn what seemed to poor nettie the stiffest little bow she had ever seen. at last, irene lewis, who stood next to her, and wore an elegant fawn-colored silk dress trimmed with lace, tried to think of something to say. "you haven't begun school yet, have you? i haven't seen anything of you. what grade are you in?" nettie explained that she had not been in a regular school; that she went afternoons to a private school which had no grades, and that now she did not expect to go at all; because mother could not spare her. "a private school!" said miss irene, "and held only in the afternoon! what a queer idea! i should think morning was the time to study. what was it for?" then it became necessary to further explain that the girls who attended this afternoon school, had all of them work to do in the mornings, and could not be spared. "i have heard of them," said lorena barstow. "they are sort of charity schools, are they not?" lorena was dressed in white, and looked almost weighed down with rich embroidery; but she had a disagreeable smile on her face, and a look in her eyes that made nettie's face crimson. "i don't know," she said, quietly, "i never heard it called by that name. my auntie thought very well of it, and was glad to have me go." then she turned away, and hoped that none of the girls would ask her any more questions, or try to be friendly with her. just now, she could be glad of only one thing, and that was, that she need not go to school with these disagreeable people. she stepped quite out of sight behind the screen which shielded the next class, and waited impatiently for the little girls. they seemed to be having a very nice time, and were in no haste to come to her. standing there, waiting, she had the pleasure of hearing herself talked about. "isn't she a queer little object?" said lorena barstow. and when one of the others was kind enough to say that she did not see anything very queer about her, lorena proceeded to explain. "you don't! well, i should think you might. did you ever see a girl in our class before, with a gingham dress on? of course she wore her very best for the first sunday; and her hat is of very coarse straw, just the commonest kind, and last year's shape at that; then look at her cotton gloves! i'm sure i think she is as funny a little object as ever came into this room." "what of it? i am sure she looks neat and clean, and she spoke very prettily, and knew her lesson better than any of us." "i didn't say she didn't. i was only talking about her clothes." "clothes are not of much consequence." "o miss ermina! when you dress better than any of us. why don't you wear gingham dresses, and cheap ribbons, and cotton gloves, if you think they look as well as nice ones?" "i did not say that; i wear the clothes my mother gets for me; but i truly don't think they are the most important things in the world." "neither do i. you needn't take a person up in that way, as though you were better than anybody else. i am sure i am willing she should wear what she likes." then cecelia lester took up the conversation: "she could not be expected to dress very well, of course. don't you know she is old joe decker's daughter?" "who is joe decker? i never heard of him." "well, he is just a drunkard; they live over on hamlin street. mrs. decker washes for my auntie once in awhile, when they have extra company, and i have seen her there, with both the little girls. i heard that joe's daughter who has been living out, for years, was coming home." "living out! that little thing! no wonder she hasn't better clothes. she has a pretty face, i think. but it seems sort of queer to have her come into our class, doesn't it? we sha'n't know what to do with her! she can't go in our set, of course." "o, i don't know. perhaps ermina farley will invite her to her party." at this point, all the others laughed, as though a funny thing had been said, but ermina spoke quietly: "so far as her gingham dress is concerned, i am sure i would just as soon. i don't choose my friends on account of the clothes they wear; and i suppose the poor thing cannot help her father being a drunkard; but then, i shouldn't like to invite her, for fear you girls would not treat her well." nettie could see the toss of lorena barstow's yellow curls as she answered: "well, i must say i like to be careful with whom i associate; and mother likes to have me careful. i am sorry for the girl; but i don't know that i need make her my most intimate friend on that account. say, girls, did you ever notice what fine eyes that boy has who came in with her? some think he is a real handsome fellow." "he seems to be a particular friend of this girl; i saw them on the street together yesterday, and they were talking and laughing, as though they enjoyed each other ever so much. who is that boy?" lorena seemed to be prepared to answer all questions. "he isn't much," she said, with another toss of her yellow curls. "his name is jerry mack; a regular irish name, and he is irish in face; i think he is coarse-looking; dreadful red cheeks! the girls over on the west side say he is smart, and handsome, and all that. i don't see where they find it." "o, he is smart," said cecelia lester. "my brother knows him, and he says there isn't a more intelligent boy in town. i used to think he was splendid; i have talked with him some, and he is real pleasant; but i must say i don't understand why he goes with that decker girl all the time." "i don't see why he shouldn't," declared lorena. "for my part, i think they are well matched; he works for his board at job smith's the carman's, and she is a drunkard's daughter; they ought to be able to have nice times together." "does he work for his board?" chimed in two or three voices at once. "why, i suppose so, or gets it without working for it. he lives there, anyway. they say his father has deserted him, run away to california, or somewhere; jerry will have to learn the carman's trade, and support himself, and nettie, too, maybe." whereupon there was a chorus of giggles. something about this seemed to be thought funny. ermina seemed to have left the group, so they took her up next. "ermina farley meant to invite him to her party, but i hardly think she will, when she finds out how all we girls feel about it. she tries to do things different from everybody else, though; so perhaps that will be the very reason why she will ask them both. i'll tell you what it is, girls, we must stand up for our rights, and not let her have everything her own way. let's say squarely that we will not go to her party if she invites out of our set. i could endure the boy if i had to, because he is very polite, and merry; and so few of the boys around here know how to behave themselves; but if he has chosen that decker girl for his friend, we must just let them both alone. this class isn't the place for that girl; i wonder who invited her in? i think it was real mean in miss wheeler to ask her to come again, without knowing how we felt about it." all this time was poor nettie behind that screen. not daring to stir, because there was no place for her to go. the little girls were still engaged with their teacher, who had sate on her lap, and susie by her side, and was showing them some picture cards, and apparently telling them a story about the pictures. jerry had sat down beside a boy who was copying something which jerry seemed to be reading to him, and various groups stood about, chatting. they were waiting for the bell to toll before they went into church. nettie could not go without the little girls, and she could not stir without being brought into full view. and just then she felt as though it would not be possible for her to meet the eyes of anybody. if only she could run away and hide, where she need never see any of those dreadful girls again! or, for that matter, see anybody. it was true, she was a drunkard's daughter, and would go down lower and lower, until her neat dress would be in rags, and her hat, coarse as it was, would grow frayed, and be many years behind the fashion. what a cruel, wicked world it was! who could have imagined that those pretty, beautifully dressed girls could have such cruel tongues, and say such hateful words! didn't they know she was within hearing? couldn't they have waited until she got out of the way, so that she need not have known how dreadful they were? so far as that was concerned, they did not know it. to do them justice, i think none of them would have wounded her so, quite to her face. they might have been cold, but they would not have been cruel in her presence. they thought she went out of the room, instead of behind the screen. the bell tolled, at last, and jerry finished his reading, and came over to her, his face bright. the girls in their beautiful plumage fluttered away like gay birds, the teacher of the little girls came toward her holding a hand of each, and saying brightly: "are these your little sisters? what dear little treasures they are! we have had such a pleasant time together. i hope you have enjoyed your first day at sabbath-school?" "thank you, ma'am," said nettie. she was in great doubt as to whether this was a correct answer, for the sentence had the tone of a question in it, but truthful nettie could not say that she enjoyed it very much, and did not want to say that she had never had a more miserable time in her life. jerry was harder to answer. "was it nice?" he asked her, as soon as they were fairly outside. "did you have a good time? those girls looked a trifle like peacocks, didn't they? i thought you were the best dressed one among them." o, ignorant boy! if there hadn't been such a lump in nettie's throat, she would have laughed at this bit of folly. as it was, she contrived to give him a very little shadow of a smile, and was glad that the church door was near at hand, and that there was no more time for closer questions. all through the morning service she was trying to forget. it was not easy to do, for there sat three of the girls in a seat on which she could look down all the time; and try as she would, it seemed impossible to keep eyes or thoughts from turning that way. the girls did not behave very well. they whispered a good deal, during the bible reading, and giggled over a book that fell while the hymn was being sung; and though nettie covered her eyes during prayer, she could not help hearing a soft little buzz of whispering voices, even then. jerry looked straight before him, with bright, untroubled face, and seemed to be having a good time. susie and sate, who had never been in church before in their lives, behaved remarkably well. in the course of the morning sate leaned her little brown head trustingly against nettie and dropped asleep, and nettie put her arm around her, arranged her pretty head comfortably, and looked lovingly down upon her, and was glad that she had a little sister to love. two of them, indeed, for susie sat bolt upright and looked straight before her, and took in everything with wide-open eyes, and looked so handsome with her glowing cheeks and her lovely curls, that it was almost impossible not to feel proud of the womanly little face. nettie contrived to keep herself occupied with the prattle of the children during the walk home. she was not yet ready for jerry's questions. she did not know what to say. of one thing she felt sure; that was, that she never meant to go to that sabbath-school again. dinner was nearly ready when they reached home; such an appetizing smell of soup as had never filled the decker kitchen before. mrs. decker had followed the directions of her young daughter with great care; and presently a very comfortable family sat down to the table. there were no soup plates, but there were two bowls for the father and mother, and a deep saucer for norm; and the little girls were made happy with tin cups, two of which nettie had found and scoured, the day before. it was certainly a very pleasant time. after dinner, as nettie was preparing to wash the dishes, her mother came out with a troubled face, and whispered: "norm says he guesses he will go out for a walk; and i know what that means; he gets with a mean set every sunday, and they carouse dreadful; it is the worst day in the week for boys. i was thinking, what if you could get that boy next door to go a-fishing again; norm enjoyed it last night first-rate; and he said that boy was as jolly company as he should ever want. if he could keep him away from that set, he would be doing a good deed." "but, mother," she said, "it is sunday." "yes," said mrs. decker, "that's just what i've been saying; sunday is the day when he gets into the worst kind of scrapes. do you think jerry would help us?" "i know he would if he could; but he could not go fishing on sunday, you know." "why not? i should think it was enough sight better than for norm to go off with a set of loafers, who do all sorts of wicked things." poor nettie was not skilled in argument; she did not know how to explain to her mother that jerry must not do one wrong thing, to keep norm from doing another wrong thing, even though the thing he chose might be the worse of the two. there was only a simple statement which she could make. "this is god's day, mother, and he says we must not do our own work, or our own pleasure on his day; and i know jerry will try to obey him, because he is his soldier." mrs. decker looked at the red-cheeked young girl a moment, then drew a long sigh. "well," she said, "i know that is the way good folks talk; i used to hear plenty of it when i was young; and i was brought up to keep the sabbath as strict as anybody; i would do it now if i could; but i'm free to confess that i would rather have norm go a-fishing, ten times over, than to go with those fellows and get drunk." "yes'm," said nettie, respectfully. "but then, god says we must obey him; and he has told us just how to keep the sabbath day. he couldn't help us to do things for other people, if we begin by disobeying him." mrs. decker went away, the trouble still on her face, and nettie began to wash the dishes. suddenly, she dropped her dish towel and rushed after norman as he lounged out of the door. "norman," she called, just as he was moving down the street, "won't you take the little girls and me over to that green place, that i see, the other side of the pond? there is such a pretty tree there, and it looks so pleasant on the bank. i have some story papers that i promised to read to the little girls, and that would be such a nice place for reading. won't you?" norm stopped and looked down at her in astonishment, and some embarrassment. "you can go over there without me," he said, at last; "it isn't such a dreadful ways off; there's a plank across the stream down there a ways, where it is narrow. lots of girls go there." nettie looked over at it timidly. she was honestly afraid of the water, and nothing short of keeping norm out of harm's way would have tempted her to cross a plank, with the little girls for companions. she spoke in genuine timidity. "i wouldn't like to go over there alone, with just the children. i am not used to going about alone. couldn't you go with us, for just a little while? it will seem so nice to have a big brother to take care of me." something about it all seemed suddenly rather nice to norm. he had never been asked to take care of anybody before. he stood irresolutely for a moment, then said lazily, "well, i don't know as i care; bring on your babies, then, and we'll go." nettie sped back to the kitchen, dashed after the little girls and their sunbonnets, saying to mrs. decker as she went: "mother, would you mind finishing the dishes? norman is going to take the little girls and me over to the big tree, and we are going to stay there awhile, and read." "i'll finish,'em," said mrs. decker, comfort in her tone, and she murmured, as she watched them away, sate with her hand slipped inside of norm's, "i declare, i never see the beat of that girl in all my life." chapter ix. a bargain and a promise. during the next few days work went on rapidly in the decker home: or, more properly speaking, in the room over job smith's barn. jerry developed such taste in the manufacture of furniture, or of "skeletons," that nettie grew alarmed lest there should never be found clothing enough to cover them. however, matters in that respect began to look brighter. mrs. job smith, as she grew into an understanding of the plan, dragged out certain old trunks from her woodhouse chamber and looked them over. there were treasures in those trunks, which even mrs. job herself had forgotten. a gay chintz dress of job's mother's, which had been saved by her daughter-in-law "she couldn't rightly tell for what, only job set store by it because it was his old mother's." nettie fairly clapped her hands in delight over it, and then blushed crimson when she remembered it was not hers. "well, now," said mrs. job, "i'll just tell you what it is. if you see anything in life to do with these rolls of things, here is a bundle of old muslin curtains, embroidered, you know, and dreadful pretty once, i suppose, but they are all to pieces now. mrs. percival, a lady i used to clear starch and iron for, gave them to me; paid me in that kind of trash, you know, though what in the world she thought i could ever do with them is more than i could imagine. but i was younger then than i am now, and was kind of meek, and i lugged home the great roll and said nothing; only i remember when i got home i just sat down on a corner of the table and cried, i was so disappointed. i had expected to be paid in money, and i had planned two or three things to surprise job, and they had to be given up. well, as i was saying," she added, in a brisker tone, having roused from her little dream of the past to watch nettie's fingers linger lovingly and wistfully among the rolls of soft muslin, "they have never been the least mite of good to me. i have just kept them because it didn't seem quite the thing to throw such pretty soft stuff into the rag-bag, and they were dreadful poor trash to give away; and sarah jane, she is tired of having them in the attic taking up room, and if there is anything in life can be done with these things in this trunk, i wish you would just go shares, and make some things for me too. sarah jane would like it, first-rate." this sentence fairly made nettie catch her breath. the treasures in that trunk were so wonderful to her. "i could make such lovely things!" she said, almost gasping out the words; "but, o mrs. smith, you can't mean it! i'm afraid i oughtn't to." "why, bless your heart, child, i tell you i don't know of a single useful thing in that trunk; not one; it is just a pack of rubbish, now, that's the truth; and if sarah jane has begged me once to let her sell it to the rag pedlers, i believe she has twenty times." the bare thought of such a sacrifice as this almost made nettie pale. also it settled her resolution and her conscience. she reached forward and plunged into the delights of the despised trunk with a satisfied air. "i will make you some of the prettiest things you ever saw in your life," she said, with the air of one who knew she could do it. and mrs. smith laughed, and watched her with admiring eyes, and told sarah jane that she believed the child could do some things that other folks couldn't. it was after the day's work was done, and the little girls were asleep, and nettie sat in the back door waiting for father and norm, and wishing that they had not gone down town again, that she had a chance to say the few little words which she had made up her mind to say to jerry. while her hands had been busy over long seams of rag carpeting, and over the wonderful trunk full of treasures, her thoughts had, much of the time, been busy with other matters. yesterday at noon she had been sure that she should never go to that sabbath-school again. by night, after the quiet talk under the trees with norm and the little girls, she had not been so sure of it. the little girls could not go without her, and they had learned sweet lessons that very day, which had filled their young heads full of wondering thoughts, and they had asked questions which had at least amused norm, and which might set him to thinking. in any case, ought she, because she had not been happy in her class, to deprive the little girls of the help which the sabbath-school might be to them? then how badly it would look to norm, and to her mother, if she went no more. and what would jerry think? on the whole, the longer she thought about it, the more she felt inclined to believe that her decision might have been a hasty one, and it was her duty to continue in that sabbath-school, and even in that class, at least until the superintendent placed her in some other. it was a good deal of a trial to her to decide the question in this way, but she could not make any other seem right. there had also been another question to decide, which had been harder, and cost her more tears than the other. she was a very lonely little girl, and it seemed hard to give up a friend. but this, too, seemed to be the only right thing to do, so she made it known to jerry in the moonlight. "do you know, jerry, i have been thinking all day of something that i ought to say to you?" "all right," said jerry, whittling away at the stick which he was fashioning into a proper shape to do duty as a towel rack for mrs. job smith's kitchen towel. "go ahead, this is a good time to say it." and he held the stick up and took a scientific squint at it in the moonlight. "this thing would work better if the wood were a little softer. i am going to make one for your mother if it is a success, and it will be. now what is your news?" "it isn't news," said nettie, "it is only something that i have made up my mind i ought to say. jerry, i think, that is, i don't think, i mean"-- and there she stopped. "just so," said jerry, nodding his head gravely, "that is plain, i am sure, and interesting; i agree with you entirely." after that, both of them had to laugh a little, and the story did not get on. "but i truly mean it," nettie said at last, her face growing grave again, "and i ought to say it. what i want to tell you is, that i have made up my mind that you and i must not be friends any more." jerry did not laugh now, he did not even whistle. his knife suddenly stopped, and he squared around to get a full view of her face. "what!" he said at last, as though he did not think it possible that he could have understood her. "yes," she said firmly, "i mean it, jerry, and it is real hard to say; you and i ought not to be friends, or, i mean we must not let folks know that we are friends. we mustn't take walks together, nor work together. i don't mean that i shall not like you all the same; but we mustn't have anything to do with each other." "why not, pray? have i done anything to make you ashamed of me? i'll try to behave myself, i'm sure." this was so ridiculous that nettie could not help smiling a little. "o, jerry!" she said, "you know better than to talk in that way. it sounds strange, i know, and it is real hard to do, but i am sure it is right, and we must do it." "but what in the world is the trouble? can't you give a fellow a reason for things? is it your brother who doesn't like it?" "o no! norm likes you; and mother is as much obliged to you as she can be, for getting him to go a-fishing. but, you see, it is bad for you to be my friend." "oh-ho! i don't believe your influence is very hard on me; i don't feel as though you had led me very far astray!" "it isn't fun, jerry, it is sober earnest. i have heard things said that set me to thinking. i overheard the girls talk! those girls in the class, you know, yesterday. i guess they did not know i was there. they talked about me a good deal. they said i had a last year's hat on, and that is true, and my dress was only gingham, and washed at that." "washed!" interrupted jerry in bewilderment; "well, what of that? would they have had you wear it dirty?" but nettie hastened on; she did not feel equal to explaining to him the subtle distinction between a brand-new dress and one that had been "done up." "they said a good deal more than that, jerry, and it was all true. they said i was nothing but a drunkard's daughter," and here nettie found it hard work to control the sob in her throat. "that is not true," said jerry, indignantly. "your father has not drank a drop in three days." "oh! but, jerry, you know he does drink; and he has gone down town to-night, and mother is sure that he will not come home sober. it is all true, jerry. i don't mean that i am going to give up. i shall try for father all the time; and i think maybe he will reform, after a while. and i won't forget our promise, and i know you won't; but it is best for us not to act like friends. they talked about you, too; they said you were handsome, and they used to like you; they thought you were smart. but now you had begun to go with me, so you couldn't be much. one of them said you were an irish boy, that you had a real irish name. are you irish, jerry?" "not much! or, hold on, i don't know but i am. why, yes, my great-grandmother came from the north of ireland. father is proud of it, i remember." "well, i don't care where you came from, you know. nor whether you are irish, or dutch, or what; i am only telling you what they said. they told how you worked at job smith's for your board; and one of them said your father had run away and left you." "well, he has; run three thousand miles away, and left me, as sure as time. but he means to run back again, when he gets ready." "i knew that wasn't true, jerry; and i only tell you because i thought you might want to speak about your father in a way that would show them it wasn't so. but what i want to say is, that i know they will get all over those feelings when they come to know you; and they will like you, and invite you to places, if you don't go with me; but they won't any of them have anything to do with me, on account of my father. and, jerry, i want you not to go with me, or talk with me any more." "just so," said jerry, in an unconcerned voice. "do you think i am making this stick too long for the frame? our kitchen towels are pretty wide. well, now, see here, miss nettie decker, you would not make a very honest business woman if you went back on a square bargain in that fashion. you and i settled it to be partners in a very important business; and partners can't get along very well without speaking to each other. there is no use in talking. you are several days too late. the mischief is done. i'm your friend and fellow-laborer and partner in the cabinet business, and the upholstery line, and all the other lines. you will find me the hardest fellow to get rid of that ever was. i don't shake off worth a cent. i shall take walks with you every chance i can get; and shout to you from the woodshed window when you are over home, and wait for you to come out when i think it is about time you should appear, and be on hand in all imaginable places. now i hope you understand what sort of a fellow i am." if the boy had looked in nettie's face just then, he would have seen a sudden light flash over it which carried away a good deal of the look of patient endurance which it had worn for the last few hours. still her voice was full of earnestness. "but, jerry, they will not have anything to do with you if you act so. by and by they will not even speak to you. and they won't invite you to their parties, nor anywhere. there is going to be a party next week, and i think you would have been invited if you hadn't gone with me sunday; now i am afraid you won't be." and now jerry whistled a few rollicking notes. "all right," he said in a cheery tone. "if there is any one thing more than another that i don't like to go to, it is a girls' party where they make believe act like silly, grown-up men and women. i know just about what kind of a party those girls in that class would get up. if you have been the means of saving me from an invitation, it is just another thing to thank you for. look here, nettie, let us make another bargain, sober earnest, not to be broken. i don't care a red cent for the girls, nor their invitations, nor their bows; i would just as soon they did not know me when they met me as not. if that is their game, i shall like nothing better than to meet them half-way; girls who would know no better than to talk the way they did about you, are not to my liking. if because you wear clothes that are neat and nice and the best you can afford, and because i am an irish boy and work for my board, are good reasons for not having anything to do with us, why, we will return the favor and not have anything to do with them, for better reasons than they have shown. let's drop them. i thought some of them would be good friends to you, maybe, and help you to have a nice time; but they are not of the right sort, it seems. you and i will have just as good times as we can get up. and we will bow to them if they bow to us; if they don't we will let them pass. what is settled is, that we are bound to work out this thing together. understand?" "yes," said nettie, with a little soft laugh, "i understand, and i don't believe i ought to let you do it. but you don't know how nice it is; and i can't tell you how lonesome i felt when i thought i ought not to talk with you any more." "i should like to see you help yourself," said jerry, in a complacent tone. "you would find it the hardest work you ever did in your life not to talk to me, when i should keep up a regular fire of questions of all sorts and sizes." then nettie laughed outright, but added, after a moment of silence, "but, jerry, i think the worst of it is about father; and that is true, you know. they might not think so much about the clothes, if it were not for him." "that has nothing to do with it," said jerry sturdily. "you are not to blame for your father's drinking liquor. wouldn't you stop it quick enough if you could? it is only another reason why they ought to be friends to you. besides, there wouldn't be so much of the stuff for folks to drink, if lorena barstow's father did not make it." "o jerry! does he?" "yes, he does. owns one of the largest distilleries in the country." "jerry, i think i would rather have my father drink liquor than make it for other folks. at least he doesn't make money out of other people's troubles." "so would i, enough sight," said jerry with emphasis. then he lifted up his voice in answer to mrs. job smith who appeared in the adjoining door. "all right, auntie, we are coming." and he carefully gathered the chips he had whittled, into his handkerchief, and rose up. "going over now, nettie? i guess auntie thinks it is time to lock up." nettie darted within for a few minutes, then appeared, and they crossed the yard together. as they stepped on the lower step of mrs. smith's porch, jerry said: "remember this is a bargain forever and aye, nettie; there is to be no backing out, and no caring for what folks say, or for what happens, either now or afterwards. do you promise?" "i promise," said nettie with a smile. and they went into the clean kitchen. before jerry went to bed that night he took out of the fly leaf of his bible the picture of a tall man, and kissed it, as he said aloud: "so you have run away and left your poor little irish boy, have you? but when you run back again, won't they all be glad to see you, though!" chapter x. pleasure and disappointment. the day came at last when the front room at the deckers was put in order. i don't suppose you have any idea how pretty that room looked when the last tack was driven, and the last fold in the curtain twitched into place! the rag carpet was very bright. "i put a good many red and yellows in it," said mrs. smith, "and now i know why i did it. it is just bright enough for this room. i don't see how you two could have got it down as firm as you have." "nettie managed it," said mrs. decker, "she is a master hand at putting down carpets." the furniture was done and in place, and certainly did justice to the manufacturers. there were two "sofas" with backs which were so nicely padded that they were very comfortable things to lean against, and the gay-flowered goods that had looked "so horrid" in a dress that mrs. smith could never bring herself to wear it, proved to be just the thing for a sofa-cover. between the windows was a very marvel of a table. nobody certainly to look at it, draped in the whitest of muslin, with a pink cambric band around its waist, covered with the muslin, and looking as much like pink ribbon as possible, would have imagined that a square post, about six inches in diameter, and two feet long, with a barrel head securely nailed to each end, was the "skeleton" out of which all this prettiness was evolved. "and mine is as like it as two peas," said mrs. smith, "only mine is tied with blue ribbon. who would have thought such things could be made out of what they had to work with! i declare them two young things beat all!" this time she meant nettie and jerry, not the two tables. the curtains for which, after much consideration, cheap unbleached muslin had been chosen, when their pinkish lambrequins of the same gay-flowered goods as the sofas, had been cut and scalloped, and put in place, were almost pretty enough to justify the extravagant admiration which they called forth. but the crowning glory was, after all, a chair which occupied the broad space between the window and the door. it was cushioned, back, and sides, and arms; it was dressed in a robe which had belonged to job smith's grandmother. it was delightful to look at, and delightful to sit in. mrs. decker declared that the first time she sat down in it, she felt more rested than she had in three years. those two barrel chairs were triumphs of art. jerry had been a week over the first one, planning, trying, failing, trying again; nettie had seen one once, in the room of a house where she used to go sometimes to carry flowers to a sick woman. she had admired it very much, and the lady herself had told her how it was made, and that her nephew, a boy of sixteen, made it for her. now, although jerry was not a boy of sixteen, he had no idea there lived one of that age who could accomplish anything which he could not; so he persevered, and i must say his success was complete. mrs. smith believed there never was such a wonderful chair made, before. jerry who had been missing for the last half-hour, now appeared, and with long strides reached the nice little mantel and set thereon a lamp, not very large, but new and bright. "that belongs to the firm," he said, in answer to nettie's look. "i saw a lamp the other day that i knew would just fit nicely on that mantel, and i couldn't rest until i had tried it." nettie's cheeks were red. she glanced over at her mother to see how she would like this. nettie did not know whether a poor boy's money ought to be taken to provide a lamp for the new room; she much doubted the propriety of it. "the first money i earn, or father gives me, i can pay him back," she thought, then gave herself up to the enjoyment of her new treasure. none of them had planned to give a reception that evening, yet i do not know but such an unusual state of things as was found at the deckers about eight o'clock, is worthy of so dignified a name. mr. decker and norm came in to supper together, and both a little late. nettie had trembled over what kept them, and her heart gave a great bound of relief and thanksgiving, when they appeared at last, none the worse for liquor. indeed, she did not think either of them had taken even a glass of beer. they were in good humor; a bit of what mr. decker called "extra good luck" had fallen to him in the shape of a piece of work which it was found he could manage better than any other hand in the shop, and for which extra wages were to be paid. and norm had been told that he was quite a success in a certain line of work. "he kept me after hours to give the new boy a lift," said norm, good-naturedly; "he said i knew how to do the work, and how to tell others better than the other fellows." it was a good time for mrs. decker to tell what had been going on in the square room, or rather to hint at it, and tell them when supper was over, they should go in and see. "nannie and i haven't been folding our hands while you have been working," she said with a complacent air, and a smile for nettie as warmed that little girl's heart, making her feel it would not be a hard thing to love this new mother a great deal. so after supper they went in. i suppose you can hardly understand or imagine their surprise; because, you see, you have been used all your life to nicely arranged rooms. for mr. decker it stirred old memories. there had been a time when his best room if not so fine as this, was neat and clean, with many comforts in it. "well, i never," he began, and then his voice choked, and he stopped. however, norm could talk, and expressed his surprise and pleasure in eager words. "where did you get the table, and the gimcracks around that chair? _is_ that a chair, or a sofa, or what? halloo! here's a new lamp. let's have it lighted and see how it works. i tell you what it is, nannie decker, i guess you're a brick and no mistake." then father was coaxed to sit down in the barrel chair, and try its strength and its softness, and guess what it was made of. and the little girls stood at his knee and put in eager words as to the effect that they helped, and altogether, there was such a time as that family had not known before. just as nettie was explaining that it was dark enough to try the lamp, and norm went for a match, mrs. smith made her way across the yard, and who should march solemnly behind her but job smith himself! "come right along," said mrs. decker heartily, as the new lamp threw a silvery light across the room. "come and try the new sofa. here, mr. smith, is a chair for you, if that is too low. decker, he's got the seat of honor; nettie said her pa must have the first chance in it." the name "nettie" seemed to slip naturally from mrs. decker's tongue; she had heard jerry use it so often during the past few days, that it was beginning to seem like the proper name of that young woman. mr. smith sat down, slowly, solemnly, in much doubt what to do or say next. "well, neighbor decker, these young folks of ours are busy people, ain't they, and seem to be getting the upper hand of us?" then he laughed, a slow, pleasant laugh. mrs. smith laughed a round, admiring satisfied laugh; she was _very_ proud of job for saying that. then they fell into conversation, the two men, about the signs of the times as regarded business, and prices, and various interests. mr. decker was a good talker, and here lay some of his temptations; there was always somebody in the saloons to talk with; there was never anybody in his home. jerry came, presently, to admire the room and the lamp, and to have a little aside talk with nettie. norm was trying one of the lounges near them. "how did you make this thing?" he asked jerry, and jerry explained, and norm listened and asked a question now and then, until presently he said, "i know a thing that would improve it; the next time you make one, try it and see." "what is that?" asked jerry. "why, look here, in this corner where you put the crossbar, if you should take a narrower piece, so, and fit it in here so," and the sofa was unceremoniously turned upside down and inside out, and planned over, jerry in his turn becoming listener until at last he said: "i understand; i mean to fix this one, some day." nettie nodded, her eyes bright; it was not about the sofa that they shone; it gave her such intense pleasure as perhaps you cannot understand, to see her father sitting beside mr. smith, talking eagerly, and her mother and mrs. smith having a good time together, and jerry and norm interested in each other. "it is exactly like other folks!" she said to jerry, later, "and i don't believe either father or norm will go down street to-night." and they didn't. it was a very happy girl who went over to mrs. smith's woodhouse chamber to sleep that night. she sang softly, while she was getting ready for rest; and as often as she looked out of the window towards the square room in the next house, she smiled. it looked so much better than she had ever hoped to make it; and father and norm had seemed so pleased, and they had all spent such a pleasant evening. alas for nettie! all the next day her happiness lasted. she sang over her work; she charmed the little girls with stories. she made an apple pudding for dinner, she baked some choice potatoes for supper; but they were not eaten, at least only by the little girls. they waited until seven o'clock, and half-past seven, and eight o'clock for the father and brother who did not come. jerry, who stopped at the door and learned of the anxiety, slipped away to try to find out what kept them; but he came back in a little while with a grave face and shook his head. both had left their shops at the usual time; nobody knew what had become of them. jerry could guess, so also could mrs. decker. the poor woman was too used to it to be very much astonished; but nettie was overwhelmed. she ate no supper; she did not sing at all over the dishwashing. she watched every step on the street, and turned pale at the sound of passing voices. she put the little girls to bed, and cried over their gay chatter. she coaxed her sad-faced mother to go to bed at last, and drew a long sigh of relief when she went into her bedroom and shut the door. it had been so dreadful to hear her say: "i told you so; i knew just how it would be. they will both come staggering home. it's of no use." nettie did not believe it. she believed that work somewhere was holding them; people often had extra work to do, or were sent on errands, but she went at last over to the woodhouse chamber; it would not do to keep the smiths up longer. instead of making ready for bed, she kneeled down before the little window which gave her a view of the next house, and watched and waited. they came at last; father and son; not together. norm came first, and stumbled, and shuffled, and growled; his voice was thick, and the few words she could catch had no connection or sense. he had too surely been drinking. but he was not so far gone as the father. _he_ had to be helped along the street by some of his companions; he could not hold himself upright while they opened the door. and when the gentle wind blew it shut again, he swore a succession of oaths which made nettie shudder and bury her face in her hands. but she did not cry. it was the first time in her young life that her heart was too heavy for tears. she drew great deep sighs as she went about, at last, preparing for bed; she wished that the tears would come, for the choking feeling might be relieved by them; but the tears seemed dried. she tossed about on her neat little bed, in a sorrow very unlike childhood. poor, disappointed nettie! the sun shone brightly the next morning, but there was no brightness in the little girl's heart. she was early down stairs, and stole away to the next house without seeing anybody. mrs. decker was up, with a face as wan as nettie's. "well," she said, in a hopeless tone, "it's all over. did you hear them come in last night? both of 'em. if it had been one at a time, we could have stood it better; but both of 'em! i _did_ have a little hope, as sure as you live. your pa seemed so different by spells, and norm, he seemed to like you, and to stay at home more, and i kind of chirked up and thought may be, after all, good times was coming to me; but it's all of no use; i've give up; and it seems to me it would have been easier to have stayed down, than to have crept up, to tumble back. "not that i'm blaming you, child," she said, "you did your best, and you did wonders; and i think sometimes, maybe if i had made such a brave shift as that in the beginning, things wouldn't have got where they have. but i didn't, and it's too late now." not a word had nettie to say. it was a sad breakfast-time. mr. decker shambled down late, and had barely time to swallow his coffee very hot, and take a piece of bread in his hand, for the seven o'clock bells were ringing, and punctuality was something that was insisted on by his foreman. norm came later, and ate very little breakfast, and looked miserable enough to be sent back to bed again. nettie only saw him through a crack in the door; she stayed out in the little back yard, pretending to put it in order. he made his stay very short, and went away without a word to mother or sister; and the heavy burden of life went on. mrs. decker prepared to do the big ironing which yesterday she had been glad over, because it would give them a chance to have an extra comfort added to the table; but which to-day seemed of very little importance. nettie washed the dishes, and wished she was at auntie marshall's, and tried to plan a way for getting there. what was the use of staying here? hadn't she tried her very best and failed? didn't the mother say it was harder for her than though they hadn't tried at all? in the course of the morning, mrs. smith sent in a basket of corn. sarah jane brought it. "some folks on a farm that mother ironed for, when they lived in town, sent her a great basket full; heaps more than we can use, and mother said it would be just the thing for your men folks; they always like corn, you know." mrs. decker took the basket without a smile on her face. "your mother is a very kind woman," she said, "the kindest one i ever knew; in fact, i haven't known many kind people, and that's the truth. she has done all she could to help us, but i don't know as we can be helped; it seems as though some people couldn't." sarah jane went back and told her mother that mrs. decker seemed dreadful downhearted and discouraged; and mrs. smith replied with a sigh that she didn't know as she wondered at it; poor thing! nettie made the dinner as nice as she could. mr. decker ate with a relish, and said the corn was good, and he had sometimes thought that the bit of ground back of the house might be made to raise corn; and nettie brightened a little, and looked over at norm and was just going to say, "let's have a garden next summer," when he spoiled it by declaring that he wouldn't slave in a garden for anybody. it was hard enough to work ten hours a day. then his father told him that he guessed he did not hurt himself with work; and he retorted that he guessed they neither of them would die with over-work; and his father told him to hold his tongue. in short, nothing was plainer than that these two were ashamed of themselves, and of each other, and were much move irritable than they had been for several days. the afternoon work was all done, and nettie had just hung up her apron, and wondered whether she should offer to iron for awhile, or run away to the woodhouse chamber, and write to auntie marshall, when jerry appeared in the door. she had not seen him since the sorrow of the night before had come upon them; nettie thought he avoided coming in, because he too was discouraged. her face flushed when she heard his step, and she wished something would happen so that she need not turn around to him. she felt so ashamed of her own people, and of his efforts to help them. his voice, however, sounded just as usual. "through, nettie? then come out on the back step; i want to talk with you." "there is no use in talking," she said, sadly. but she followed him out, and sat down listlessly on the broad low step, which the jog in mr. smith's house shaded from the afternoon sun. jerry took no notice of the words if indeed he heard them. "i heard some news this morning," he began. "two of the older boys at the corner, that one in peck's store, you know, and the one next door told me that a lot of fellows were going off to-night on what he called a lark. they have hired a boat, and are going to row across to duck island, and catch some fish and have a supper in that mean little hole which is kept on the island; they mean to make an all-night of it. i don't know what is to be done next; play cards, i suppose; they do, whenever they get together, and lots of drinking. it is a dreadful place. well, i heard, by a kind of accident, that they thought of asking norm to join 'em. at first they said they wouldn't, because he wouldn't be likely to have any money to help pay the bills; but then they remembered that he was a good rower, and thought they would get his share out of him in that way; and i say, nettie, let's spoil their plans for them." "how?" asked nettie, drearily. jerry talked on eagerly. "i have a plan; i rented a boat for this afternoon, and was going to ask mrs. decker to let me take you and the chicks for a ride, and i meant to catch some fish for our supper; but this will be better. i propose to invite norm and two fellows that he goes with some, to go out with me, fishing. i have a splendid fishing rig, you know, and i'll lend it to them, and help them to have a good time, and then if you will plan a kind of treat when we get back--coffee, you know, and fish, and bread and butter, we could have a picnic of our own and as much fun as they would get with that set on the island. i believe norm would go; he is just after a good time, you see, and if he gets it in this way, he will like it as well, maybe better, than though he spent the night at it and got the worst of his bargain. anyhow, it is worth trying; if we can save him from this night's work it will be worth a good deal. don't you think so?" instead of the hearty, "yes, indeed," which he expected, nettie said not a word; and when he turned and looked at her, to learn what was the matter, her face was red and the tears were gathering in her eyes. "don't you know what has happened?" she asked at last. "i thought i heard you in your room last night when he came home." "yes," said jerry, speaking gravely, "i was up. what of it?" "what of it? o jerry!" and here the tears which had been choking poor nettie all day had it their own way for a few minutes. she had not meant to cry; but she felt at once how quickly the tears relieved the lump in her throat. "i don't mean that, exactly," jerry said, after waiting a minute for the sobs to grow less deep, "of course it was a great trouble, and i have been so sorry for mrs. decker all day that i wanted to stay away, because i could not think of the right thing to say; but it's only another reason why we should work and plan in all ways to get ahead of them and save norm." "o jerry! don't you think it is too late?" "too late! what in the world can you mean? has anything happened to-day that i haven't heard of? where is norm? has he gone away anywhere?" "o, no," said nettie, "he has gone to work; but i mean--i meant--doesn't it all seem to you of no use at all? after we worked so hard and got everything nice, and he seemed so pleased, and stayed at home all the evening and talked with us, and then the very next night to come home like that!" jerry stared in blank astonishment. "i don't believe i understand," he said at last. "you did not think that norm was going to reform the very minute you did anything pleasant for him, did you?" "n-no," said nettie slowly, "i don't suppose i did; but it all seemed so dreadful! i expected something, i hardly know what, and i could not help feeling disappointed and miserable." nettie's face was growing red; she began to suspect she might be a very foolish girl. "why, that is queer," said jerry. "now i am not disappointed a bit. i am sorry, of course, but i expected just that thing. why, nettie, they go after men sometimes for months and years before they get real hold and are sure of them. there is a lawyer in new york that father says kept three men busy for five years trying to save him. they didn't succeed, either, but they got him to go to the one who could save him. he is a grand man now. suppose they had given up during those five years!" "do you think it may take five years to get hold of norm?" there were tears in nettie's eyes, but there was a little suggestion of a smile on her face, and she waited eagerly for jerry's answer. "i'm sure i hope not," he said, "but if it does, we are not to give him up at the end of five years; nor _before_ five years, that is certain." nettie wiped the tears away, and smiled outright; then sat still in deep thought for several minutes. then she arose, decision and energy on her face. "thank you, jerry; i wish you had come in this morning. i have been a goose, i guess, and i almost spoiled what we tried to do. we'll get up a nice supper if you can get norm and the others to come. i don't believe they will, but we can try. we have coffee enough to make a nice pot of it, and mrs. smith sent us some milk out of that pail from the country that is almost cream. i will make some baked potato balls, they are beautiful with fish; all brown, you know; and i was going to make a johnny-cake if i could get up interest enough in it. i'm interested now, and i shouldn't wonder if i staid so," and she blushed and laughed. "you see," said jerry, "you must not expect things to be done in a minute. why, even god doesn't do things quickly, when he could, as well as not. and he doesn't get tired of people, either; and that i think is queer. have you ever thought that if you were god, you would wipe most all the people out of this world in a second, and make some new ones who could behave better?" "why, no," said nettie, wonderment and bewilderment struggling together in her face, this strange thought sounded almost wicked to her. "well, i do," said jerry sturdily; "i have often thought of it; i believe almost any _man_ would get out of patience with this old world, full of rum saloons, and gambling saloons and tobacco. i think it is such a good thing that men don't have the management of it. "i'll tell you what it is, nettie, we shall have a pretty busy afternoon if we carry out our plans, won't we? suppose you go and talk the thing up with your mother, and i will go and see what norm says. or, hold on, suppose we go together and call on him; i'll ask him to go fishing, and you ask him to bring his friends home to eat the fish. how would that do?" it was finally agreed that that would do beautifully, and jerry went to see whether his long flat stick fitted, while nettie ran to her mother. mrs. decker was ironing, her worn face looking older and more worn, nettie thought, than she had ever seen it before. poor mother! why had not she helped her to bear her heavy burden, instead of almost sulking over failure? "o, mother," she began, "jerry has a plan, and we want to know what you think of it; he has heard of things that are to be done this evening." and she hurried through the story of the intended frolic on the island, and the fishing party that was, if possible, to be pushed in ahead. mrs. decker listened in silence, and at first with an uninterested face; presently, when she took in the largeness of the plan, she stayed her iron long enough to look up and say: "what's the use, child? i thought you and jerry had given up." "o, mother," and the cheeks were rosy red now, "i'm ashamed that i felt so discouraged; jerry isn't at all; and he thinks it is the strangest thing that i should have been! he says they have to work for years, sometimes, to get hold of people. he knew a man that they kept working after for five years, and now he is a grand man. he says we must hold on to norm if it is five years, though i don't believe it will be. i'm going to begin over again, mother, and not get discouraged at anything. it is true, as jerry says, that we can't expect norm to reform all in a minute. he says the boys that norm goes with the most are not bad fellows, only they haven't any homes, and they keep getting into mischief, because they have nowhere to go to have any pleasant times. don't you think norm would like it to have them asked home with him to supper, and show them how to have a real good time? jerry says the two boys that he means board at a horrid place, where they have old bread and weak tea for supper, and where people are smoking and drinking in the back end of the room while they are eating. i am sure i don't know as it is any wonder that they go to the saloons sometimes." mrs. decker still held her iron poised in air, on her face a look that was worth studying. "norm hasn't ever had a decent place to ask anybody to, nor a decent time of any kind since he was old enough to care much about it," she said slowly. "i thought i had done about my best, but it may be i'll find myself mistaken. well, child, let's try it, for mercy's sake, or anything else that that boy thinks of. you and him together are the only ones that's done any thinking for norm in years; and if i don't go half-way and more too for anybody that wants to do anything, it will be a wonder." in a very few minutes nettie was in her neat street dress, and the two were walking down the shady side of the main street, toward norm's shop. they passed lorena barstow, and though jerry, without thinking, took off his cap to her, she tossed her head and looked the other way. jerry laughed. "i did not know she was so nearsighted as all that, did you?" he asked, and then continued the sentence which the sight of her had interrupted. nettie could not laugh; she was sore over the thought that she had so spoiled jerry's life for him that his old acquaintances would not bow to him on the street. norm was at work, and worked with energy; they stood and looked at him through the window for a few minutes. "he works fast," said jerry, "and he works as though he would rather do it than not; mr. smith says there isn't a lazy streak in him. he ought to make a smart man, nettie; and i shouldn't wonder if he would." then they went in. to say that norm was astonished at sight of them, would be to tell only half the story. he stood in doubt what to say, but jerry was equal to the occasion; nothing could have been more matter-of-course than the way in which he told about his plans for going fishing, declaring that the afternoon was prime for such work, and that he was tired of going alone. "wouldn't norm and his two friends go too?" now a ride in a boat was something that norm rarely had. in the first place, boats cost money, and in the second place they took time. to be sure, after working hours, there was time enough for rowing, but boats were sure to be scarce then, even if money had been plenty. norm wiped his face with a corner of his work-apron, and admitted that he would like to go, first-rate, but did not know as he could get away. they were not over busy it was true, neither was the foreman troubled with good nature; he would be next to certain to say no, if norm asked to be let off at five o'clock. "let's try him," said jerry, and he walked boldly to the other side of the room where the foreman stood. chapter xi. a complete success. this man was a friend of jerry's; it was only two weeks ago that he had done him a good turn, in finding and bringing home his stray cow. he was perfectly good-natured, and found no fault at all with norm's leaving the shop at five; in fact he said he was glad to have the boy leave in such good company. "would the others go?" nettie questioned eagerly, and norm, laughing, said he reckoned they would go quick enough if they got a chance; invitations to take boat rides were not so plenty that they could afford to lose them. then was time for nettie's great surprise. "and, norm, will you bring them all home to supper with you? i'll have everything ready to cook the fish in a hurry as soon as you get into the house, and you can visit in the new room until they are ready." now indeed, i wish you could have seen norm! it never happened to him before to have a chance to invite anybody home to supper with him. he looked at nettie in silent bewilderment for a minute; he even rubbed his eyes as though possibly he might be dreaming; but she looked so real and so trim, and so sure of herself standing there quietly waiting his answer, that at last he stammered out: "what do you mean, nannie? you aren't in dead earnest?" "why, of course," said nettie, deciding in a flash upon her plan of action; she would do as jerry had, and take all this as a matter of course. "i'm going to make a lovely johnny-cake for supper, and some new-fashioned potatoes, and we have cream for the coffee. you shall have an elegant supper; only be sure you catch lots of fish." it was all arranged at last to their satisfaction, and the two conspirators turned away to get ready for their part of the business. "norm liked it," said jerry. "couldn't you see by his face that he did? i believe we can get hold of him after awhile, by doing things of this kind; things that make him remember he has a home, and pleasant times, like other boys." if jerry had waited fifteen minutes he might have been surer of that even than he was. norm's second invitation followed hard on the first; and norm, who felt a little sore over certain meannesses of the night before, and who knew his foreman was within hearing and would be sure to object to this young fellow who had come to ask him to go to the island, answered loftily: "can't do it; i've promised to go out fishing with a party; and besides, our folks are going to have company to tea." company to tea! he almost laughed when he said it. how very strange the sentence sounded. "o, indeed," said jim noxen from the saloon. "seems to me you are getting big." "it sounds like it," said norman. "i wonder if i am?" but this he said to himself; for answer to the remark, he only laughed. "if i had a chance to keep company with a young fellow like jerry, and a trim little woman like that sister of yours, i guess i wouldn't often be found with the other set." this the foreman said, with a significant nod of his head toward the young fellow who represented the other set. and this, too, had its influence. jerry and nettie had a glimpse of one of norm's friends as they passed his shop on their homeward way. "he has a good face," said nettie. "poor fellow! hasn't he any home at all? don't you wish we could get hold of him so close that he would help us? he looks as though he might." then she stepped into the boat and floated idly around, while jerry ran for the oars; and while she floated, she thought and planned. there was a great deal to be done, both then and afterwards. "i wish you could go with us and catch a fish," said jerry, as he saw how she enjoyed the water, "but maybe it wouldn't be just the thing." "i know it wouldn't," said nettie; "besides, who would make the johnny-cake, and the potato balls? there is a great deal to be done to make things match, when you are catching fish." the fishing party was a complete success. jerry said afterwards that the very fish acted as though they were in the secret and were bound to help. he had never seen them bite so readily. by seven o'clock, the boat was headed homeward, with more fish than even four hungry boys could possibly eat. "now for supper," said norm, who with secret delight had thought constantly of the surprise in store for alf and rick. "boys, i'm going to take you home with me and show you what a prime cook my little sister is. we'll have these fish sizzling in a pan quicker than you have any notion of; and she knows how to sizzle them just right; doesn't she, jerry?" but jerry was spared the trouble of a reply, for alf with incredulous stare said, "you're gassing now." "no, i'm not gassing. you can come home with me, honor bright, and you shall have such a supper as would make old ma'am turner wild." old ma'am turner, poor soul, was the woman who kept the wretched boarding house where these homeless boys boarded, and she really did know how to make things taste a little worse, probably, than any one you know of. "what'll your mother say to your bringing folks home to supper?" questioned rick, looking as incredulous as his friend. "she'll give us a hint of broomstick, i reckon, if we try it." "well," said norm, unconcernedly, dipping the oar into the water, "try it and see, if you are a mind to, that's all i've got to say. i ain't going to force you to eat fish; but i promise you a first-class meal of them if you choose to come." "oh! we'll go," said alf, with a giggle; "if we are broomed out the next second, we'll try it, just to see what will come of it. things is queerer in this world than folks think, often; now i didn't believe a word of it, when you said we was going out in a boat to-night; i thought it was some of your nonsense; and here the little fellow has treated us prime." the "little fellow" was jerry, who smiled and nodded in honor of his compliment, but said nothing; he resolved to let norm do the honors alone. they went with long strides to the decker home, jerry waiting to fasten the boat and pay his bill. each boy carried a fine string of fish of his own catching; and appeared at the back door just as nettie came out to look. "o, what beauties!" she said, gleefully; "and such a nice lot of them! i'm all ready and waiting. you go in, norm, with your friends, and we'll have them cooking as soon as we can." "not much," said norm, coming around to the board which she had evidently gotten ready for cleaning the fish, and diving his hand in his pocket in search of his jack-knife. "let's fall to, boys, and clean these fellows. i know how, and i think likely you do, and they'll taste the better, like enough." "just so," said rick walker, who owned the face that nettie had decided was a good one. "i'm agreeable; i know how to clean fish as well as the next one; used to do it for mother, when i was a little shaver." did the sentence end in a sigh, or did nettie imagine it? all three went to work with strong skilful hands, and nettie hopped back and forth bringing fresh water, and fresh plates, and feeling in her secret heart very grateful to the boys for doing this, which she had dreaded. they were all done in a very short time, and each boy in turn had washed his hands in the basin which shone, and then, the shining, or the smoothness and beautiful cleanness of the great brown towel, or something, prompted rick to take fresh water and dip his brown face into it, and toss the water about like a great newfoundland dog. "i declare, that feels good!" he said. "try it, alf." and alf tried it. then norm led the way to the new room. it would have done nettie's heart good if she had known how many times he had thought of that room during the last hour. he knew it would be a surprise to the boys. they had never seen anything but the decker kitchen, and not much of that, standing at the door to wait a minute for norm, but the few glimpses they had had of it, had not led them to suppose that there was any such place in the house as this in which he was now going to usher them. their surprise was equal to the occasion. they stopped in the doorway, and looked around upon the prettiness, the bright carpet, the delicate curtains, the gay chairs! nothing like this was to be found at ma'am turner's, nor in any other room with which they were familiar. "whew!" said rick, closing the word with a shrill whistle; "i think as much!" said alf. "who'd have dreamed it. i say, norm, you're a sly one; why didn't you ever let on that you had this kind of thing?" how they entertained one another during that next hour, nettie did not know. eyes and brain were occupied in the kitchen. jerry came, presently, but reported that they were getting on all right in the front room, and he believed he could do better service in the kitchen; so he set the table with a delicate regard for nicety which nettie had been taught at auntie marshall's, and which she knew he had not learned at mrs. job smith's. sarah jane was rigidly clean, but never what nettie called "nice." "we'll take the table in the front room," decreed nettie as she surveyed it thoughtfully for a few minutes. "it is very warm out here, and they will like it better to be quite alone; we can put all the dishes on, with the leaves down, and set them in their places in a twinkling, after we have lifted it in there. won't that be the way, mother?" "land!" said mrs. decker, withdrawing her head from the oven, whither it had gone to see after the new-fashioned potato balls, "i should think they could eat out here; you may depend they never saw so clean a kitchen at old ma'am turner's. but it is hot here, and no mistake; and i should not know what to do with myself while they was eating. please yourself, child, and then i'll be pleased. i'm going to save one of these potatoes for your pa; i never see anything in my life look prettier than they do." mrs. decker's tones told much plainer than her words, that she liked nettie's idea of putting the table in the front room for norm's company. she would not have owned it, but her mother-heart was glad over a "fuss" being made for her norm. so the table went in; jerry at one end, and nettie at the other. they hushed a loud laugh by their entrance, but jerry went immediately over to rick walker to show a new-fashioned knife, and nettie's fingers flew over the table, so by the time the knife had been exhausted, she was ready to vanish. confess now that you would like to have had a seat at that table when it was ready. a platter of smoking fish, done to the nicest brown, without drying or burning; a bowl of lovely little brown balls, each of them about the size of an egg, a plate of very light and puffy-looking johnny-cake, and to crown all, coffee that filled the room with such an aroma as ma'am turner perhaps dreamed of, but never certainly in these days smelled. mrs. job smith at the last minute had sent in a pat of genuine country butter, and sate had flown to the grocery for a piece of ice with which to keep it in countenance. jerry set the chairs, and nettie poured the coffee, and creamed and sugared it, and then slipped away. she knew by the looks on the faces of the guests, that they were astonished beyond words, and she knew that norm was both astonished and pleased. there was another supper being made ready in the kitchen. mrs. decker had herself tugged in the box which had been lately set up as a washbench, and spread the largest towel over it, and was serving three lovely fish, and a bowl of potato balls for "decker" and herself. "i guess i'm going to have company too," she said to nettie, her face beaming. "your pa has gone to wash up, and i thought seeing there was only two chairs, and two plates left, you wouldn't mind having him and me sit down together, for a meal, first." "yes, i do mind," said nettie; "i think it is a lovely plan; i'm so glad you thought of it, and jerry and i will keep watch that they have everything in the other room, while you eat." if you are wondering in your hearts where those important beings, sate and susie, were at this moment, i should have told you before, that sarah jane had a brilliant thought, but an hour before, and carried them out to tea. so all the decker family were visiting that evening, save nettie, and i think perhaps she was the happiest among them all. every time she heard a burst of fresh fun from the front room, she laughed, too; it was so nice to think that norm was having a good time in his own home, and nothing to worry over. it is almost a pity that, for her encouragement, she could not have heard some of the conversation in that room. "i say, norm," said his friend alf, his tones muffled by reason of a large piece of johnny-cake, "what an awful sly fellow you are! you never let on that you had these kind of doings in your house. who'd have thought that you had a stunning room like this for folks, and potatoes done up in brown satin, to eat, and coffee such as they get up at the hotels! it beats all creation!" "that's so," said rick, taking in a quarter of a fish at one mouthful, "i never dreamed of such a thing; what beats me, is, why a fellow who has such nice doings at home, wants to loaf around, and spend evenings at beck's, or at steen's. hang me if i don't think the contrast a little too great. 'pears to me if i had this kind of thing, i should like to enjoy it oftener than norm seems to." norman smiled loftily on them. do you think he was going to own that "this kind of thing" had never been enjoyed in his home before, during all the years of his recollection? not he; he only said that folks liked a change once in awhile, of course, and he only laughed when rick and alf both declared that if they knew themselves, and they thought they did, they would be content never to change back from this kind of thing to ma'am turner's supper table so long as they lived. how those boys did eat! nettie owned to herself that she was astonished; and privately rejoiced that she had made four johnny-cakes instead of three, though it had seemed almost extravagant until she remembered that it would warm up nicely for breakfast. not a crumb would there be for breakfast. she had one regret and she told it to jerry as she went out to him on the back stoop, having poured the third cup of coffee around, for the three in the front room. "jerry, i am just afraid there won't be a speck of johnny-cake left for you to taste. those boys do eat so!" "never mind," laughed jerry. "we will eat the tail of a fish, if any of them have a tail left, and rejoice over our success; this thing is going to work, i believe, if we can keep it going." "that's the trouble," said nettie, an anxious look in her eyes. "how can we? fish won't do every time; and there are no other things that you can catch. besides, even this has cost a great deal. i paid eight cents for lard to fry the fish, and the butter and milk and things would have cost as much as fifteen cents certainly. mrs. smith furnished them this time, but of course such things won't happen again." "a great many things happen," said jerry, wisely. "more than you can calculate on. 'never cross a bridge until you come to it, my boy.' didn't i tell you that was what my father was always saying to me? i have found it a good plan, too, to follow his advice. many a time i've worried over troubles that never came. look here, don't you believe that if we are to do this thing and good is to come from it, we shall be able to manage it somehow?" "why, y-e-s," said nettie, slowly, as though she were waiting to see whether her faith could climb so high; "i suppose that is so." "well, if good isn't going to come of it, do we want to do it?" "of course not." "all right, then," with a little laugh. "what are we talking about?" and nettie laughed, and ran in to give her father his last cup of coffee, and to hear him say that he hadn't had so good a meal in six years. it was a curious fact that susie and sate were the chief movers in the next thing that these young fishers did to interest the particular fish whom they were after. it began the next sabbath morning in sabbath-school. there, the little girls heard with deep interest that on the following sabbath there was to be a service especially for the children. a special feature of the day was to be the decoration of the church with flowers, which the children were to bring on the previous saturday. susie and sate promised with the rest, that they would bring flowers. promised in the confident expectation of childhood that some way they could join the others and do as they did; though both little girls knew that not a flower grew in or about them. during the early part of the week they forgot it, but on saturday morning they stood in the little front yard and saw a sight which recalled all the delights of the coming sunday in which they seemed to be having no share. the little girls from the orphanage on the hill were bringing their treasures. even fat little karl who was only five, had a potted plant in full bloom, which he was proudly carrying. little dutch maggie, in her queer long apron, carried a plant with lovely satiny leaves which were prettier than any bloom, and behind her was robert the scotch gardener with his arms full; then young rob severn, miss wheeler's nephew, had a lovely fuchsia just aglow with blossoms, and miss wheeler herself, who was the matron at the orphanage, was carrying a choice plant. all these the hungry eyes of sate and susie took in, as the procession passed the house, then they ran wailing to nettie who had already become the long suffering person to whom they must pour out their woes. "we promised, we did," explained sate, her earnest eyes fixed on nettie, while her arms clasped that young lady just as she was in the act of throwing out her dishwater. "we did promise, and they will 'spect them, and they won't be there." "well, but, darling, what made you promise, when you knew we had no flowers? mrs. smith would give you some in a minute if hers were in bloom. why didn't they wait a little later, i wonder? then mrs. smith could have given us such lovely china-asters." "we must have some to-morrow," said the emphatic susie, and she fastened her black eyes on nettie in a way that said: "now you understand what must be, i hope you will at once set about bringing it to pass." nettie could not help laughing. "if you were a fairy queen," she said, "and could wave your wand and say, 'flowers, bloom,' and they would obey you, we should certainly have some; as it is, i don't quite see how they are to be had. we have no friends to ask." "i can't help it," said susie, positively, "we _promised_ to bring some, and of course we must. you said, nettie decker, that we must always keep our promises." "now, miss nettie decker, you are condemned!" said jerry, with grave face but laughing eyes; "something must evidently be done about this business. dandelions are gone, except the whiteheads, and they would blow away before they got themselves settled in church, i am afraid. hold on, i have a thought, just a splendid one if can manage it; wait a bit, susie, and we will see what we can do." susie, who was beginning to have full faith in this wise friend of theirs, told sate in confidence that they were going to have some flowers to take to church, as well as the rest of them; she did not know what jerry was going to make them out of, but she knew he would _make_ some. after that, jerry was not seen again for several hours. in fact it was just as the dinner dishes were washed, that he appeared with a triumphant face. "have you made some?" asked sate, springing up from her dolly and going toward him expectantly. "made some what, curly?" "flowers," said sate, gravely. "susie said she knew you would." jerry laughed. "susie has boundless faith in impossibilities," he said. "no, i haven't made the flowers, but i have the boat. that old thing that leaked so, you know, nettie; well, i've put it in prime order, and got permission to use it, and if you and the chicks will come, we will sail away to where they make flowers, and pick all we want; unless some wicked fairy has whispered my bright thought to somebody else, and i don't believe it, for i have seen no one out on the pond to-day." then sate, her eyes very large, went in search of susie to tell her that this wonderful boy had come to take them where flowers were made, and to let them gather for themselves. "i suppose it is heaven," said sate, gravely, "because the real truly flowers, you know, god makes, and he has his things all up in heaven to work with, i guess." "what a little goosie you are!" said susie, curling her wise lip; "as if jerry mack could take us to heaven!" however, she went at once to see about it, and was almost as much astonished to think that they were really going out in a boat, as she would have been if they were going to heaven. "i s'pose it's safe?" said mrs. decker doubtfully, watching the light in the little girls' eyes, and remembering how few pleasures had been offered them. "o, yes'm," said jerry, "as safe as the road. i could row a boat, ma'am, very well indeed, father said, when i was six years old; and you couldn't coax that clumsy old thing to tip over, if you wanted it to; and if it should, the water isn't up to my waist anywhere in the pond." mrs. decker laughed, and said it sounded safe enough; and went back to her ironing, and the four happy people sailed away. if not to where the pond lilies were made, at least to where they grew in all their wild sweet beauty. "how very strange," said nettie, as they leaned over the great rude, flat-bottomed boat and pulled the beauties in; "how very strange that no one has gathered these for to-morrow. why, nothing could be more lovely!" "well," said jerry, "only a few people row this way, because it isn't the pleasantest part of the pond, you know, for rowing; and i guess no one has remembered that the lilies were out; there don't many people, only fishermen, go out on this pond, you know, because the boats are so ugly; and fishermen don't care for flowers, i guess. anyhow, they haven't been here, for the buds are all on hand, just as i thought they would be by this time, when i was here on tuesday. but i never thought of the church; so you see how little thinking is done." well, they gathered great loads of the beauties, and rowed home in triumph, and put the lilies in a tub of water, and sat down to consider how best to arrange them. it was curious that mrs. job smith should have been the next one with an idea. "i should think," she said, standing in the doorway of her kitchen, her hands on her sides, "i should think a great big salver of them laid around in their own leaves, would be the prettiest thing in the world." "so it would," said nettie, "the very thing, if we only had the salver." "well, i've got that. mrs. sims, she gave me an old battered and bruised one, when they were moving. it is big enough to put all the cups and saucers on in town, almost; when i lugged it home, job, he wanted to know what on _earth_ i wanted of that, and says i, i don't know, but she give it to me, and most everything in this world comes good, if you keep it long enough. sarah ann, you run up to the corner in the back garret and get that thing, and see what they'll make of it." so sarah ann ran. chapter xii. an unexpected helper. perhaps you do not see how the pond lilies, lovely as they were, arranged on that salver, helped jerry and nettie in their plans for norm and his friends. but there is another part to that story. after the salver had been filled with sand, and covered with moss, and soaked until it would absorb no more water, and the lilies had been laid in so thickly that they looked like a great white bank of bloom, the whole was lovely, as i said, but heavy. the walk to the church was long, and nettie, thinking of it, surveyed her finished work with a grave face. how was it ever to be gotten to the church? she tried to lift one end of it, and shook her head. there was no hope that she could even _help_ carry it for so long a distance. mrs. smith saw the trouble in her eyes, and guessed at its cause. "it is an awful heavy thing, that's a fact," she said, "hefting" it in her strong arms; "i don't know how you are going to manage it; sarah jane would help in a minute, but there's her back; she ain't got no back to speak of, sarah jane hasn't. and there's job, he ain't at home; he went this morning before it was light, away over the other side of the clip hill with a load, and the last words he says to me was: 'don't you be scairt if i don't get round very early; them roads over there is dreadful heavy, and i shall have to rest the team in the heat of the day,' and like enough he won't get back till nigh ten o'clock." certainly no help could be expected from the smith family. "we shall have to take some of the sand out," said nettie, surveying the mound regretfully; "i'm real sorry; it does look so pretty heaped up! but jerry can never carry it away down there alone." then came jerry's bright idea. "i'll get norman to help me." "norm!" said nettie, stopping astonished in the very act of picking out some of the lilies. it had not once occurred to her that norm could be asked to go to the church on an errand. she couldn't have told why, but norm and the church seemed too far apart to have anything in common. "yes," said jerry, positively. "why not? i know he'll help; and he and i can carry it like a daisy. don't take out one of them, nettie. i know you will spoil it if you touch it again; it is just perfect. halloo, norm, come this way." sure enough at that moment norm appeared from the attic where he slept; he had washed his face and combed his hair, and made himself as decent looking as he could, and was starting for somewhere; and nettie remembered with a sinking heart that it was saturday night; norm's worst night except sunday. he stopped at jerry's call, and stood waiting. "you are just the individual i wanted to see at this moment," said jerry with a confident air. "this meadow here has got to be dug up and carried bodily down to the church; and it is as heavy as though its roots were struck deep in the soil. will you shoulder an end with me?" "to the church!" repeated norm with an incredulous stare. "what do they want of that thing at the church?" "they are our flowers," said sate with a positive little nod of her head. "we promised to bring them, and they are so big and heavy we can't. will you help?" now norm had really a very warm feeling in his heart for this small sister; susie he considered a nuisance, and a vixen, but sate with her slow sweet voice, and shy ways, had several times slipped behind his chair to escape a slap from her angry father, thus appealing to his protection, and once when he lifted her over the fence, she kissed him; he was rather willing to please sate. then there was jerry who was a good fellow as ever lived, and nettie who was a prime girl; why shouldn't he help tote the thing down to the church if that was what they wanted? to be sure he wanted to go in the other direction, and the fellows would be waiting, he supposed; but he could go there, afterwards, let them wait until he came. "well," he said at last, "come on, i'll help; though what they want of all this rubbish at the church is more than i can imagine." and nettie and the little girls stood with satisfied faces watching the two move off under their heavy burden. it was something to have norm go to church if it was only to carry flowers. arrived at the door, norm was seized with a fit of shyness; the doors were thrown wide open, and ladies and children were flitting about, and many tongues were going, and flowers and vines were being festooned around the gas lights, and the pillars, and wherever there was a spot for them. "hold on," said norm, jerking back, thus putting the great salver in eminent peril, "i ain't going in there; all the village is there; you better pitch this rubbish out, they've got flowers enough." "there isn't a lily among them," said jerry. "and besides they have to go in, anyhow, we can't afford to disappoint sate. come on, norm, i can't carry the thing alone, any more than i could the stove; it is unaccountably heavy." this was true, but jerry was very glad that it was. he had his reasons for wanting to get norm down the aisle to the front of the pulpit. with very reluctant feet norm followed, bearing his share of the burden, his face flushing over the exclamations with which they were at last greeted. "oh, oh! pond lilies! i did not know there were any this year. where did you get them? girls, look! did you ever see anything more lovely?" and a group of faces were gathered about the tray, and one brown head went down among the lilies and caressed them. "where did you get them?" she repeated; "i asked my cousin if there were any about here, and she said she thought not; and last night when i was out on the pond i looked and could not find any." "they hide," said jerry. "the only place on the pond where they can be found is down behind the old mill; and most people don't go there at all, because the channel is so narrow, and the water so shallow." "well, we are so glad you brought them! girls, aren't they too lovely for anything? who arranged them?" "my sister," said norm, to whom jerry promptly turned with an air which said as plainly as words could have done: "you are the one to answer; she belongs to you." "and who is that?" asked the owner of the pretty brown head, as she made way for them to pass to the table with their burden. "i am sure i would like to know her; for she certainly knows how to put flowers into lovely shapes." then came from behind the desk a man whom jerry knew and whom he had seen while he stood at the door. "good evening, jerry," he said, holding out his hand in a cordial way. "what a wonderful bank of beauty you have brought! introduce me to your helper, please." "mr. sherrill, mr. norman decker," said jerry, exactly as though he had been used to introducing people all his life; and norm, his face very red, knew that he was shaking hands with the new minister. a very cordial hand-shake, certainly, and then the minister turning to her of the brown head, said, "eva, come here; let me introduce you to mr. norman decker. my sister, mr. decker." norm, hardly knowing what he was about, contrived another bow, and then miss eva said, "decker, why, that is the name of my two little darlings about whom i have been telling you for two sabbaths. are they your little sisters, mr. decker? little sate and susie?" and as norm managed to nod an answer, she continued: "they have stolen my heart utterly; that little sate is the dearest little thing. by the way, i wonder if these are her flowers? she promised me she would certainly get some; she said they had none in their garden, but god would make some grow for her somewhere she guessed." "yes'm," said jerry, seeing that norm would not speak, "they are her flowers, hers and susie's, they coaxed us to go for them." "decker," said the minister, suddenly, "you are pretty tall, i wonder if you are not just the one to help me get this wreath fastened back of the pulpit? i have been working at it for some time, and failed for the want of an arm long enough and strong enough to help me." and the two disappeared behind the desk up the pulpit stairs to the immense satisfaction of jerry. the ladies went on with their work; miss eva calling to him to help her move the table, and then to help arrange the salver on it, and then to bring more vines from the lecture room to cover the base of the floral cross; and indeed, before they knew it, both jerry and norm were in the thick of the engagement; jerry flitting hither and thither at the call of the girls, and norm following the minister from point to point, and using his long limbs to good advantage. "well," he said, wiping his face with his coat sleeve, as, more than an hour after their entrance, he and jerry made their way down the churchyard walk, "that is the greatest snarl i ever got into. how that fellow can work! but he would never have got them things up in the world, if i had not been there to help him." "no," said jerry "i don't believe he would. how glad they were to get the lilies! they do look prettier than anything there. i did not know who that lady was who taught the little folks. she has only been there a few weeks. she is pretty, isn't she?" "i s'pose so," said norm, "her voice is, anyhow. they say she's a singer. i heard the fellows down at the corner talking about her one night; dick welsh says she can mimic a bird so you couldn't tell which was which. i wouldn't mind hearing her sing. i like good singing." "i suppose they will have her sing in the church," said jerry in a significant tone. but to this, norm made no reply. "what was it mr. sherrill wanted of you just as we were coming out?" asked jerry, after reflecting whether he had better ask the question or not. "wanted me to come and see how the things looked in the daytime," said norm with an awkward laugh that ended in a half sneer; "i'll be likely to i think!" "going up home, i s'pose?" said jerry, trying to speak indifferently, and slipping his hand through norm's arm as they reached the corner, and norm half halted. "well, i suppose i might as well," norm said, allowing himself to be drawn on by never so slight a pressure from jerry's arm. "i was going down street, and the boys were to wait for me; but they have never waited all this while; it must be considerable after nine o'clock." "yes," said jerry, "it is." and they went home. nettie, sitting on the doorstep, waiting, will never forget that night, nor the sinking of heart with which she waited. her father had been kept at home, first by his employer who came to give directions about work to be attended to the first thing on monday morning, and then by job smith getting home before he was expected and asking a little friendly help with the load he brought; and he had at last decided that it was too late to go out again, and had gone to bed. mrs. decker in her kitchen, hovered between the door and the window, peering out into the lovely night, saying nothing, but her heart throbbing so with anxiety about her boy that she could not lay her tired body away. mrs. job smith in her kitchen, looked from her door and then her window, many misgivings in her heart; if that bad boy norm should lead her good boy jerry into mischief what should she say to his father? how could she ever forgive herself for having encouraged the intimacy between him and the deckers? presently, far down the quiet street came the sound of cheery whistling; nettie knew the voice: nothing so very bad could have happened when jerry was whistling like that; or was he perhaps doing it to keep his courage up? the whistle turned the corner, and in the dim starlight she could distinguish two figures; they came on briskly, jerry and norm. "a nice job you set us at," began jerry, gayly, "we have just this minute got through; and here it is toward morning somewhere, isn't it?" then all that happy company went to their beds. after dinner the next day, nettie studied if there were not ways in which she might coax norm to go to church that evening. jerry had told her of the minister's invitation. norm had slept later than usual that morning, and lounged at home until after dinner; now he was preparing to go out. how could she keep him? how could she coax him to go with her? before she could decide what to do to try to hold him, susie took matters into her own hands by pitching head foremost out of the kitchen window, hitting her head on the stones. then there was hurry and confusion in the decker kitchen! then did mrs. smith, and job smith, and sarah jane fly to the rescue. though after all, norm was the one who stooped over poor silent susie and brought her limp and apparently lifeless into the kitchen. jerry ran with all speed for the doctor. it was hours before they settled down again, having discovered that susie was not dead, but had fainted; was not even badly hurt, save for a bump or two. but it took the little lady only a short time, after recovering from her fright, to discover that she was a person of importance, and to like the situation. it happened that norm had, by the doctor's directions, carried her from her mother's bed to the cooler atmosphere of the front room. susie had enjoyed the ride, and now announced with the air of a conqueror, "i want norm to carry me." so norm, frightened into love and tenderness, lifted the little girl in his strong arms, laid the pretty head on his shoulder, and willingly tramped up and down the room. was susie a witch, or a selfish little girl? certain it was that during that walk she took an unaccountable and ever increasing fancy for norm. he must wet the brown paper on her head as often is the vinegar with which it was saturated dried away; he must hold the cup while she took a drink of water; he must push the marvel of a barrel chair in which she for a time sat in state, closer to the window; he must carry her from the chair to the table when supper was finally ready, and carry her back again when it was eaten. nettie looked on amused and puzzled. certainly susie had kept norm at home all the afternoon; but was she also likely to accomplish it for the evening? for norm, to her great surprise, seemed to like the new order of things. he blushed awkwardly when susie gently pushed her mother aside and demanded norm, but he came at once, with a good-natured laugh, and held her in his arms with as much gentleness and more strength than the mother could have given; and seemed to like the touch of the curly head on his shoulder. but while nettie was putting away the dishes and puzzling over all the strange events of the afternoon, susie was undressed, partly by norm, according to her decree, and fell asleep in his arms and was laid on her mother's bed, and norm slipped away! poor nettie! she ran to the door to try to call him, but he was out of sight. "i tried to think of something to keep him till you came in," explained the disappointed mother, "but i couldn't do it; he laid susie down as quick as he could, and shot away as though he was afraid you would get hold of him." so nettie, her face sad, prepared to go with jerry and the smiths down to evening meeting, and told jerry on the way, that it did seem strange to her, so long as susie had kept norm busy all the afternoon, that they must let him slip away from them at last. chapter xiii. the little picture makers. after susie decker pitched out of the window that sabbath afternoon she became such an object of importance that you would hardly have supposed anything else could have happened worth mentioning; but after the excitement was quite over, and susie had been cuddled and petted and cared for more than it seemed to her she had ever been in her life before, mr. decker, finding nothing better to do, went out and sat down on the doorstep. little sate dried her eyes and slipped away very soon after she discovered that susie could move, and speak, and was therefore not dead. she had wandered in search of entertainment to the yard just around the corner, where had come but a few days before, a small boy on a visit. this boy, bobby by name, finding sunday a hard day, had finally, after getting into all sorts of mischief within doors, been established by an indulgent auntie in the back yard, with her apron tied around his chubby neck, to protect his new suit, with a few pieces of charcoal, and permission to draw some nice sunday pictures on the white boards of the house. this business interested sate, and in spite of her shyness, drew her the other side of the high board fence which separated the neighbor's back yard from mr. decker's side one. just as that gentleman took his seat on the doorstep, he heard the voices of the two children; first, bobby's confident one, the words he used conveying all assurance of unlimited power at his command-- "now, what shall i make?" "make," said sate, her sweet face thrown upward in earnest thought, "make the angel who would have come for susie if she had died just now." "how do you know any angel would have come for her?" asked sturdy bobby. "why, 'cause i _know_ there would. miss sherrill said so to-day; she told us about that little baby that died last night; she said an angel came after it and took it right straight up to heaven." "maybe she don't know," said skeptical bobby. then did sate's eyes flash. "i guess she does know, bobby burns, and you will be real mean, and bad if you say so any more. she knows all about heaven, and angels, and everything." "does angels come after all folks that dies?" "i dunno; i guess so; no, i guess not. only good folks." "is susie good?" "sometimes she is," said truthful sate, in slow, thoughtful tones, a touch of mournfulness in them that might have gone to susie's heart had she heard and understood; "she gave me the biggest half of a cookie the other night. it was a _good deal_ the biggest; and she takes care of me most always; one day she took off her shoes and put them on me, because the stones and the rough ground hurt my feet. they hurt her feet too; they bleeded, oh! just awful, but she wouldn't let _me_ be hurt." "why didn't you wear your own shoes?" "i didn't have any; mine all went to holes; just great big holes that wouldn't stay on; it was before my papa got good, and he didn't buy me any shoes at all." "has your papa got good?" "yes," said sate confidently, "i guess he has. my sister nettie thinks so; and susie does too. he don't drink bad stuff any more. it was some kind of stuff he drank that made him cross; mamma said so; and the stuff made him feel so bad that he couldn't buy shoes, nor nothing; why, sometimes, before nettie came home, we didn't have any bread! he isn't cross to-day, and he wasn't last night; and he bought me some new shoes--real pretty ones, and he kissed me. i love my papa when he is good. do you love your papa when he is good?" "my papa is always good," said bobby, with that air of immense superiority. "is he?" asked sate, wonder and admiration in her tone. happy bobby, to possess a father who was always good! "doesn't he ever drink any of that bad stuff?" "i guess he doesn't!" said indignant bobby. "you wouldn't catch him taking a drop of it for anything. if he was sick and was going to die if he didn't, he says he wouldn't take it. i know all about that; the name of it is whiskey, and things; it has lots of names, but that is one of them. my father is a temperance." "what is that?" "it is a man who promises that he won't ever taste it nor touch it, nor nothing, forever and ever. and he won't." "oh my!" said sate. "then of course you love him all the time. i mean to love my papa, all the time too. i'm most sure i can. what makes you make such a big angel? susie isn't big; a little angel could carry her." "this angel isn't the one who was coming for susie; it is the one who is going to come for my papa when he dies." "oh! then will you make the one who will come for my papa? make him very big and strong, for my papa is a strong man, and i don't want the angel to drop him." mr. decker arose suddenly and went round to the back part of the house, and cleared his throat, and coughed, two or three times, and rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. had he peeped through the fence and caught a glimpse of the angel whom bobby made, he might not have been so strangely touched; but the words of his little girl seemed to choke him, and his eyes, just then, were too dim to see angels. he was very still all the rest of the afternoon. at the tea table he scarcely spoke, and afterwards, while mrs. decker and nettie were mourning over norm's escape, he too put on his coat, and went away down the street. mrs. decker came to the door when she discovered it, and looked after him. he was still in sight, but she did not dare to call. as she looked, she gathered up a corner of her apron and wiped her eyes. presently she sat down on the step where he had been sitting so short a time before, leaned her elbows on her knees, and her cheeks on her hands, and thought sad thoughts. she felt very much discouraged. on this first sunday, after the new room had been made, and new hopes excited, they had slipped away, both norm and her husband, to lounge in the saloon as usual, and to come home, late at night, the worse for liquor. she knew all about it! hadn't she been through it many times? the little gleam of hope which had started again, under nettie and jerry's encouraging words and ways, died quite out. sitting there, mrs. decker made up her mind once more, that there was no kind of use in working, and struggling, and trying to be somebody. she was the wife of a drunkard; and the mother of a drunkard; norm would be that, before long. and her little girls would grow up beggars. it was almost a pity that susie had not been killed when she fell. why should she want to live to be a drunkard's daughter, and a drunkard's sister? if the heaven she used to hear about when she was a little girl, was all so, why should she not long for susie and sate to go there? then if she could go away herself and leave all this misery! she had hurried with her dishes, she had hoped that when she was ready to sit down in the neat room with the new lamp burning brightly, he would sit with her as he used to do on sunday evenings long ago. but here she was alone, as usual. more than once that big apron which she had not cared to take off after she found herself deserted, was made to do duty as a handkerchief and wipe away bitter tears. meantime, nettie sat in the pretty church and looked at the lovely flowers, and listened to the wonderful singing. miss sherrill sang the solo of something more beautiful than nettie had ever even imagined. "consider the lilies how they grow." what wonderful words were these to be sung while looking down at a great bank of lilies! it is possible that the singing may have been more beautiful to nettie because her own fingers had arranged the lilies, but it was in itself enough for any reasonable mortal's ear, and as it rolled through the church, there was more than one listener who thought of the angels, and wondered if their voices could be sweeter. nettie's small handkerchief went to her eyes several times during the anthem; she could not have told why she cried, but the music moved her strangely. before the anthem was fairly concluded there was something else to take her attention. mrs. job smith in whose seat she sat, gave her arm a vigorous poke with a sharp elbow, and whispered in a voice which seemed to nettie must have been heard all over the church, "for the land's sake, if there ain't your pa sitting down there under the gallery!" as soon as she dared do so, nettie turned her head for one swift look. mrs. smith _must_ be mistaken, but she would take one glance to assure herself. certainly that was her father, sitting in almost the last seat, leaning his head against one of the pillars, the shabbiness of his coat showing plainly in the bright gaslight. but nettie did not think of his coat. her cheeks grew red, and her eyes filled again with tears. it was not the music, now; it was a strange thrill of satisfaction, and of hope. how pleasant she had thought it would be to go to church with her father. it was one of the things she had planned at auntie marshall's; how she would perhaps take her father's arm, being tall for her years, and auntie marshall said he was not a tall man, and walk to church by his side, and find the hymns for him, and receive his fatherly smile, and when she handed him his hat after service, perhaps he would say, "thank you, my daughter," as she had heard doctor porter say to his little girl in the seat just ahead of theirs. nettie's hungry little heart had wanted to hear that word applied to herself. now all these sweet dreams of hers seemed to have been ages ago; actually it felt like years since she had hoped for such a thing, or dreamed of seeing her father in church, so swiftly had the reality crowded out her pretty dreams. yet there he sat, listening to the reading. what nettie would have done or thought had she known that norm and two friends were at that moment seated in the gallery just over her father's head, i cannot say. on the whole, i am glad she did not know it until church was out. especially i am glad she did not know that norm giggled a good deal, and whispered more or less, and in various ways so annoyed the minister that he found it difficult to keep from speaking to the young men in the gallery. the fact is, he would have done so, had he not recognized in one of them his helper of the evening before, and resolved to bear his troubles patiently, in the hope that something good would grow out of this unusual appearance at church. it would perhaps be hard work to explain what had brought norm to church. a fancy perhaps for seeing how the flowers looked by this time. a queer feeling that he was slightly connected with the church service for once in his life; a lingering desire to know whether in the hanging of that tallest wreath, he or the minister had been right; they had differed as to the distance from one arch to the other; from the gallery he was sure he could tell which had possessed the truer eye. all these motives pressed him a little. then they were singing when he reached the door, and rick had said, "hallo! that voice sounds as though it lived up in the sky. who is that, do you s'pose?" then norm proud of his knowledge in the matter, explained that she was the minister's sister, and they said she could mimic a bird so you couldn't tell which was which. "poh!" alf had said; he didn't believe a word of that; he should like to see a woman who could fool him into thinking that she was a bird! but he had added, "let's go in and hear her." and as this was what norm had been half intending to do ever since he started from the house, he agreed to do it at once. in they slipped and half-hid themselves behind the posts in the gallery, and behaved disreputably all the evening, more because they felt shamefaced about being there at all, and wanted to keep each other in countenance, than because they really desired to disturb the service. however, they heard a great deal. what do you think was the minister's text on that evening? "no drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of heaven." i shall have to tell you that when he caught sight of mr. decker half-hidden behind his post and recognized him as the man who was so fast growing into a drunkard, and as the man who had never been inside the church since he had been the pastor, he was sorry that his text and subject were what they were that evening. he told himself that it was very unfortunate. that if he had dreamed of such a thing as having that man for a listener, he would have told him the story of jesus as simply and as earnestly as he could; and not have preached a sermon that would seem to the man as a fling at himself. however, there was no help for it now; he did not recognize mr. decker until he had announced his text, and fairly commenced his sermon. it was a sermon for young people; it was intended to warn them against the first beginnings of this great sin which shut heaven away from the sinner. he need not have been troubled about not telling the story of jesus; there was a great deal about jesus in the sermon, as well as a great deal about the heaven prepared for those who were willing to go. i do not know that anywhere in the church you could have found a more attentive listener than mr. decker. at least one who seemed to listen more earnestly; from the moment that the text was repeated until the great bible was closed, he did not take his eyes from the minister's face. yet some of his words he did not hear. some of the time mr. decker was hearing a little voice, very sweet, saying: "make a very big strong angel to come for my papa when he dies; my papa is a strong man and i don't want the angel to drop him." poor papa! as he thought of it, he had to look straight before him and wink hard and fast to keep the tears from dropping; he had no handkerchief to wipe them away. think of an angel coming for him! "i love my papa when he is good!" the sweet voice had said. was he ever good? then he listened awhile to the sermon; heard the vivid description of some of the possible glories and joys of heaven. would he be likely ever to go there? little sate thought so; she had planned for it that very afternoon. dear little sate who did not want the angel to drop him. now it is possible that if the sermon had been about drunkards, mr. decker would have been vexed and would not have listened. he did not call himself a drunkard; it is a sad and at the same time a curious fact that he did not realize how nearly he had reached the point where the name would apply to him. that he drank beer, much, and often, and that he was growing more and more fond of it, and that it kept him miserably poor, was certainly true, and there were times when he realized it; but that he was ever going to be a common drunkard and roll in the gutter, and kick his wife, and seize his children by the hair, he did not for a moment believe. but the sermon was by no means addressed to people who were even so far on this road as he. it was addressed to boys, who were just beginning to like the taste of hard cider, and spruce beer, and hop bitters, and all those harmless (?) drinks which so many boys were using. it was a plain story of the rapid, certain, downward journey of those who began in these simple ways. it was illustrated by certain facts which mr. sherrill had personally known. and mr. decker, as he listened, owned to himself that he knew facts which would have proved the same truth. then he gave a little start and shrank farther into the shadow of the pillar. the moment he admitted that, he also admitted that he was himself in danger. what nonsense that was! couldn't he stop drinking the stuff whenever he liked? "there is a time," said the minister, "when this matter is in your own hands. you have no very great taste for the dangerous liquors, you are only using them because those with whom you associate do so. you could give them up without much effort; but i tell you, my friends, the time comes, and to many it comes very early in life, when they are like slaves bound hand and foot in a habit that they cannot break, and cannot control." mr. decker heard this, and something, what was it? pressed the thought home to him just then, that, if he did not belong to this last-mentioned class, neither did he to the former. he knew it would take a good deal of effort for him to give up his beer; of course it would; else he should not be such a fool as to keep himself and his family in poverty for the sake of indulging it. what if he were already a slave, bound hand and foot! what if the "stuff" which sate said made him "cross" had already made him a drunkard! perhaps the boys on the street called him so; though they rarely saw him stagger; his staggering was nearly always done under cover of the night. still, now that he was dealing honestly with himself, he must own that it was less easy to go without his beer than it used to be. since nettie had come home he had drank less of it than usual, and by that very means he had discovered how much it meant to him. "no drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of heaven!" the minister's earnest voice repeated his text just then. was he a drunkard? then what about the strong angel? little sate was to be disappointed, after all! oh! i am not going to try to tell you all the thoughts which passed through joe decker's mind that evening. i don't think he could tell you himself, though he remembers the evening vividly. he stood up, during the closing hymn, and waited until the benediction was pronounced, and then he slipped away, swiftly; nettie tried to get to him, but she did not succeed, and she sorrowed over it. he stumbled along in the darkness, moving almost as unsteadily as though he had been drinking. the sky was thick with clouds, and he jostled against a lady and gentleman as he crossed the street; the lady shrank away. "who is that?" he heard her ask; and the answer came to him distinctly: "oh! it is old joe decker; he is drunk, i suppose. he generally is at this time of night." yes, there it was! he was already counted on the streets as a drunkard. "no drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of heaven." it was not the minister's voice this time; yet it seemed to the poor man's excited brain that some one repeated those words in his ears. then he heard again the sweet soft voice: "make him very big and strong, for i don't want the angel to drop him." chapter xiv. the concert. within the church wonderful things were going on. jerry had caught sight of norm as he slipped up the gallery stairs, and laid his plans accordingly. he whispered to nettie during the singing of the closing hymn, thereby shocking her a little. jerry did not often whisper in church. this was what he said: "don't you need those lilies to help trim the room to-morrow night? let's take them home." the moment the "amen" was spoken, he dashed out, and was at the stair door as norm came down. "norm," he said, "won't you help me carry home that tray? we want the flowers for something special to-morrow." said norm, "o bother! i can't help tote that heavy thing through the streets." "what's that?" asked rick; and when the explanation was briefly made, he added the little word of advice which so often turns the scales. "ho! that isn't much to do when you are going that very road. i'd do as much as that, any day, for the little chap who gave us such a tall row." this last was in undertone. "well," said norm, "i don't care; i'll help; but how are we going to get the things out here?" "come inside," answered jerry; "we can wait in the back seat. they will all be gone in a few minutes, then we can step up and get the salver." once inside the church, the rest followed easily. mr. sherrill who had eyes for all that was going on, came forward swiftly and held a cordial hand to norm. "good-evening," he said; "i am glad to see you accepted my invitation. how did our work look by gaslight?" "it looked," said norm, a roguish twinkle in his eye, "it looked just as i expected it would; crooked. that there arch at the left of the pulpit wants to be hung as much as two inches lower to match the other." "you don't say so!" said the minister, in good-humored surprise. "does it appear so from the gallery? are my eyes as crooked as that? let us go up gallery and see if i can discover it." so to the gallery they went, norm clearing the space with a few bounds, and taking a triumphant station where he could point out the defect to the minister. "that is true," mr. sherrill said, with hearty frankness. "you are right and i was wrong. if i had taken your word last night the wreaths would have looked better, wouldn't they? well, perhaps wreaths are not the only things which show crooked when we get higher up and look down on them. eh, my friend?" norm laughed a good-humored, rather embarrassed laugh. it was remarkable that he should be up here holding a chatty, almost gay, conversation with the minister. there came over him the wish that he had behaved himself better during the service. that he had not whispered so much, nor nudged rick's elbow to make him laugh, just at the moment that the minister's eye was fixed on them. he had a half-fancy that if the evening were to be lived over again, he would go down below and sit up straight and show this man that he could behave as well as anybody if he were a mind to. not a word about the laughing and whispering said the minister. but he said a thing which startled norm. "my sister has a fancy for having the church adorned with wreaths or strings of asters in contrasting colors for next sabbath; will you make an appointment with me to help hang them on saturday evening? i'll promise to follow your eye to the half-inch." norm started, flushed, looked into the frank face and laughed a little, then seeing that the answer was waited for said: "why, i don't care if i do, if you honestly want it." "i honestly want it," said the minister in great satisfaction. then they went downstairs. job smith and his wife were gone. "i will wait for my brother," said nettie, and her heart swelled with pride as she said it. how nice to have a brother to wait for, just as miss sherrill was doing. at that moment the "beautiful lady" as sate and susie called her, came to nettie's side. "good-evening," she said pleasantly. "i hope the little girls are well; i met your brother last night; he helped my brother to hang the flowers. i see they are upstairs together now, admiring their work. my brother said he was a very intelligent helper. you do not know how much i thank you for those flowers. they helped me to sing to-night." "i thought," said nettie, raising her great truthful eyes to the lady's face and speaking with an earnestness that showed she felt what she said, "i thought you sang as though the angels were helping you. i don't think they can sing any sweeter." "thank you," said miss sherrill; she smiled as she spoke, yet there were tears in her eyes; the honest, earnest tribute seemed very unlike a little girl, and very unlike the usual way of complimenting her wonderful voice. "i saw that you liked music," she said, "i noticed you while i was singing. will you let me give you a couple of tickets for the concert to-morrow evening; and will you and your brother come to hear me sing? i am going to sing something that i think you will like." nettie went home behind the lilies and the boys, her heart all in a flutter of delight. what a wonderful thing had come to her! the concert for which the best singers in town had been so long practising, and for which the tickets were fifty cents apiece, and which she had no more expected to attend than she had expected to hear the real angels sing that week, was to take place to-morrow evening, and she had two tickets in her pocket! mrs. decker was waiting for them, her nose pressed against the glass; she started forward to open the door for the boys, before nettie could reach it. there was such a look of relief on her face when she saw norm as ought to have gone to his very heart; but he did not see it; he was busy settling the salver in a safe place. "has father come in?" nettie asked, as she followed her mother to the back step, where she went for the dipper at norm's call. "yes, child, he has, and went straight to bed. he didn't say two words; but he wasn't cross; and he hadn't drank a drop, i believe." "mother," said nettie, standing on tiptoe to reach the tall woman's ear, and speaking in an awe-stricken whisper, "father was in church!" "for the land of pity!" said mrs. decker, speaking low and solemnly. and all through the next morning's meal, which was an unusually quiet one, she waited on her husband with a kind of respectful reverence, which if he had noticed, might have bewildered him. it seemed to her that the event of the evening before had lifted him into a higher world than hers, and that she could not tell now, what might happen. the event of the day was the concert; all other plans were set aside for that. at first norm scoffed and declared that his ticket might be used to light the fire with, for all he cared; he didn't want to go to one of their "swell" concerts. but this talk nettie laughed over good-naturedly, as though it were intended for a joke, and continued her planning as to when to have supper, and just when she and norm must start. in the course of the day, that young man discovered it to be a fine thing to own tickets for this special concert. before noon tickets were at a premium, and several of norm's fellow-workmen gayly advised him to make an honest penny by selling his. during the early morning it had been delicately hinted by one young fellow that norm decker's tickets were made of tissue paper, which was his way of saying, that he did not believe that norm had any; but, thanks to nettie's thoughtful tact, the tickets were at that very moment reposing in her brother's pocket, and he drew them forth in triumph, wanting to know if anybody saw any tissue paper about those. good stiff green pasteboard with the magic words on them which would admit two people to what was considered on all sides the finest entertainment of the sort the town had ever enjoyed. "where did you get 'em, norm? come, tell us, that's a good fellow. you was never so green as to go and pay a dollar for two pieces of pasteboard." "they are complimentaries," said norm, tossing off a shaving with a careless air, as though complimentary tickets to first-class concerts were every-day affairs with him. "complimentary? my eyes, aren't we big!" (i am very sorry that the boys in norm's shop used these slang phrases; but i want to say this for them: it was because they had never been taught better. not one of them had mother or father who were grieved by such words; some of them were so truly good-hearted that i believe if such had been the case, they would never have used them again; and i wish the same might be said of all boys with cultured and careful mothers.) "how did you get 'em? been selling tickets for the show, or piling chairs, or what?" "i haven't done a living thing for one of them," said norm composedly; and ben halleck came to his rescue. "that's so, boys; or, at least if he had, it wouldn't done him no good. they don't pay for this show in any such way. the fellows that carried around bills were paid in money because they said they expected seats would be scarce; and they didn't sell no tickets around the streets. them that wanted them had to go to the book-store and buy them. oh, i tell you, it's a big thing. i wouldn't mind going myself if i could be complimented through. you see that sherrill girl who lives at the new minister's is a most amazing singer, and they say everybody wants to hear her." by this time norm's mind was fully made up that he would go to the concert. it is a pity nettie could not have known it. for despite the cheerful courage with which she received norm's disagreeable statements in the morning, she was secretly very much afraid that he would not go. this would have been a great trial to her, for her little soul was as full of music as possible; and the thought of hearing that wonderful voice so soon again filled her with delight; but she was a timid little girl so far as appearing among strangers was concerned, and the idea of going alone to a concert was not to be thought of. her mother proposed jerry for company, but he had gone with job smith into the country and was not likely to return until too late. so nettie made her little preparations with a troubled heart. there was something more to it than simply hearing fine music; it would be so like other girls whom she knew, so like the dreams of home she had indulged in while at auntie marshall's--this going out in the evening attended and cared for by her brother. norm ate his dinner in haste, and was silent and almost gruff; nobody knows why. i have often wondered why even well brought up boys, seem sometimes to like to appear more disagreeable than at heart they are. but by six o'clock the much-thought-about brother appeared, his face pleasant enough. "well, nannie," he said, "got your fusses and fixings all ready?" and nettie with beating heart and laughing eyes assured him that she would be all ready in good time, and that she had laid his clean shirt on his bed, and a clean handkerchief, and brushed his coat. "yes; and she ironed your shirt with her own hands," explained his mother, "and the bosom shines like a glass bottle." "o bother!" said norm. "i don't want a clean shirt." but he went to his attic directly after supper and put on the shirt, and combed his hair, and rubbed his boots with jerry's brush which he went around the back way and borrowed of mrs. job smith before he came in to supper. he had noticed how very neat and pretty nettie looked as she walked down the church isle beside him the night before; and he had also noticed jerry's shining boots. his mother noticed his the moment he came down stairs. "how nice you two do look!" she said admiringly; and then the two walked away well pleased. it was a wonderful concert. norm had not known that he was particularly fond of music, but he owned to rick the next day, that there was something in that sherrill girl's voice which almost lifted a fellow out of his boots. they had excellent seats! nettie learned to her intense surprise that their tickets called for reserved seats. she had studied over certain mysterious numbers on the tickets, but had not understood them. it appeared also that the usher was surprised. "can't give you any seats," was his greeting as they presented their tickets. "everything is full now except the reserves; you'll have to stand in the aisle; there's a good place under the gallery. halloo! what's this? reserved! why, bless us, i didn't see these numbers. come down this way; you have as nice seats as there are in the hall." it was all delightful. lorena barstow and two others of the sabbath-school class were a few seats behind them; nettie could hear them whispering and giggling, and for a few minutes she had an uncomfortable feeling that they were laughing at her; as i am sorry to say they were. but neither this nor anything else troubled her long, for norm's unusual toilet having taken much longer than was planned for, they were really among the late comers; and in a very little while the music began. oh! how wonderful it was. neither nettie nor norm had ever heard really fine concert music before, and even norm who did not know that he cared for music, felt his nerves thrill to his fingers' ends. then, when after the first two or three pieces miss sherrill appeared, she was so beautiful and her voice was so wonderful that nettie, try as hard as she did, could not keep the tears from her foolish happy eyes. i will not venture to say how much the beautiful silk dress with its long train, and the mass of soft white lace at her throat had to do with miss sherrill's loveliness, though i daresay if she had appeared in a twelve-cent gingham like nettie's, she might have sang just as sweetly. norm, however, did not believe that. "half of it is the fuss and feathers," he declared to rick, next day, looking wise. and rick made a wise answer. "well, when you add the handsome voice to the fuss and feathers, i s'pose they help, but i don't believe folks would go and rave so much just over a blue silk dress, and some gloves, and things. they all had to match, you see." so rick, without knowing it, became a philosopher. as for nettie, she told her mother that the dress was just lovely, and her voice was as sweet as any angel's could possibly be; but there was a look in her eyes which was better than all the rest; and that when she sang, "oh that i had wings, had wings like a dove!" she, nettie, could not help feeling that they were hidden about her somewhere, and that before the song was over, she might unfold them and soar away. chapter xv. a will and a way. "the next thing we want to do is to earn some money." this, jerry said, as he sat on the side step with nettie, after sunset. they had been having a long talk, planning the campaign against the enemy, which they had made up their minds should be carried on with vigor. at least, they had been trying to plan; but that obstacle which seems to delight to step into the midst of so many plans and overturn them, viz. money, met them at every point. so when jerry made that emphatic announcement, nettie was prepared to agree with him fully; but none the less did she turn anxious eyes on him as she said: "how can we?" "i don't know yet," jerry said, whistling a few bars of oh, do not be discouraged, and stopping in the middle of the line to answer, "but of course there is a way. there was an old man who worked for my father, who used to say so often: 'where there's a will there's a way,' that after awhile we boys got to calling him 'will and way' for short, you know; his name was john," and here jerry stopped to laugh a little over that method of shortening a name; "but it was wonderful to see how true it proved; he would make out to do the most surprising things that even my father thought sometimes could not be done. we must _make_ a way to earn some money." nettie laughed a little. "well, i am sure," she said, "there is a will in this case; in fact, there are two wills; for you seem to have a large one, and i know if ever i was determined to do a thing i am now; but for all that i can't think of a possible way to earn a cent." now sarah ann smith was at this moment standing by the kitchen window, looking out on the two schemers. her sleeves were rolled above her elbow, for she was about to set the sponge for bread; she had her large neat work apron tied over her neat dress-up calico; and on her head was perched the frame out of which, with nettie's skilful help, and some pieces of lace from her mother's old treasure bag, she meant to make herself a bonnet every bit as pretty as the one worn by miss sherrill the sabbath before. "talk of keeping things seven years and they'll come good," said mrs. smith, watching with satisfaction while nettie tumbled over the contents of the bag in eager haste and exclaimed over this and that piece which would be "just lovely." "i've kept the rubbish in that bag going on to twenty years, just because the pretty girls where i used to do clear-starching, gave them to me. i had no kind of notion what i should ever do with them; but they looked bright and pretty, and i always was a master hand for bright colors, and so whenever they would hand out a bit of ribbon or lace, and say, 'cerinthy, do you want that?' i was sure to say i did; and chuck it into this bag; and now to think after keeping of them for more than twenty years, my girl should be planning to make a bonnet out of them! things is queer! i don't ever mean to throw away _anything_. i never was much at throwing away; now that's a fact." now the truth was that sarah ann, left to herself, would as soon have thought of making a _house_ out of the contents of that bag, as a bonnet; but nettie decker's deft fingers had a natural tact for all cunning contrivances in lace and silk, and her skill in copying what she saw, was something before which sarah ann stood in silent admiration; when, therefore, she offered to construct for sarah ann, out of the treasures of that bag, a bonnet which should be both becoming and economical, sarah ann's gratitude knew no bounds. she went that very afternoon to the milliner's to select her frame, and had it perched at that moment as i said, on her head, while she listened to the clear young voices under the window. she had a great desire to be helpful; but money was far from plenty at job smith's. what was it which made her at that moment think of a bit of news which she had heard while at the milliner's? why, nothing more remarkable than that the color of nettie decker's hair in the fading light was just the same as mantie horton's. but what made her suddenly speak her bit of news, interrupting the young planners? ah, that sarah ann does not know; she only knows she felt just like saying it, so she said it. "mantie horton's folks are all going to move to the city; they are selling off lots of things; i saw her this afternoon when i was at the milliner's, and she says about the only thing now that they don't know what to do with is her old hen and chickens; a nice lot of chicks as ever she saw, but of course they can't take them to the city. my! i should think they would feel dreadful lonesome without chickens, nor pigs, nor nothing! _we_ might have some chickens as well as not, if we only had a place to keep 'em; enough scrapings come from the table every day, to feed 'em, most." before this sentence was concluded, jerry had turned and given nettie a sudden look as if to ask if she saw what he did; then he whistled a low strain which had in it a note of triumph; and the moment sarah ann paused for breath he asked: "where do the hortons live?" "why, out on the pike about a mile; that nice white house set back from the road a piece; don't you know? it is just a pleasant walk out there." then sarah ann turned away to attend to her bread, and as she did so her somewhat homely face was lighted by a smile; for an idea had just dawned upon her, and she chuckled over it: "i shouldn't wonder if those young things would go into business; he's got contrivance enough to make a coop, any day, and mother would let them have the scrapings, and welcome." sarah ann was right; though nettie, unused to country ways and plans, did not think of such a thing, jerry did. the next morning he was up, even before the sun; in fact that luminary peeped at him just as he was turning into the long carriage drive which led finally to the horton barnyard. there a beautiful sight met his eyes; a white and yellow topknot mother, and eight or ten fluffy chickens scampering about her. "they are nice and plump," said jerry to himself; "i'm afraid i haven't money enough to buy them; but then, there is a great deal of risk in raising a brood of chickens like these; perhaps he will sell them cheap." farmer horton was an early riser, and was busy about his stables when jerry reached there. he was anxious to get rid of all his live stock, and be away as soon as possible, and here was a customer anxious to buy; so in much less time than jerry had supposed it would take, the hen and chickens changed owners and much whistling was done by the new owner as he walked rapidly back to town to build a house for his family. mrs. smith had been taken into confidence; so indeed had job, before the purchase was made; but the whole thing was to be a profound surprise to nettie. therefore, she saw little of him that day, and i will not deny was a trifle hurt because he kept himself so busy about something which he did not share with her. but i want you to imagine, if you can, her surprise the next morning when just as she was ready to set the potatoes to frying, she heard jerry's eager voice calling her to come and see his house. "see what?" asked nettie, appearing in the doorway, coffee pot in hand. "a new house. i built it yesterday, and rented it; the family moved in last night. that is the reason i was so busy. i had to go out and help move them; and i must say they were as ill-behaved a set as i ever had anything to do with. the mother is the crossest party i ever saw; and she has no government whatever; her children scurry around just where they please." "what are you talking about?" said astonished nettie, her face growing more and more bewildered as he continued his merry description. "come out and see. it is a new house, i tell you; i built it yesterday; that is the reason i did not come to help you about the bonnet. didn't you miss me? sarah ann thinks it is actually nicer than the one miss sherrill wore." and he broke into a merry laugh, checking himself to urge nettie once more to come out and see his treasures. "well," said nettie, "wait until i cover the potatoes, and set the teakettle off." this done she went in haste and eagerness to discover what was taking place behind job smith's barn. a hen and chickens! beautiful little yellow darlings, racing about as though they were crazy; and a speckled mother clucking after them in a dignified way, pretending to have authority over them, when one could see at a glance that they did exactly as they pleased. then came a storm of questions. "where? and when? and why?" "it is a stock company concern," exclaimed jerry, his merry eyes dancing with pleasure. nettie was fully as astonished and pleased as he had hoped. "don't you know i told you yesterday we must plan a way to earn money? this is one way, planned for us. _we_ own mrs. biddy; every feather on her knot, of which she is so proud, belongs to us, and she must not only earn her own living and that of her children, but bring us in a nice profit besides. those are plump little fellows; i can imagine them making lovely pot pies for some one who is willing to pay a good price for them. cannot you?" "poor little chickens," said nettie in such a mournful tone that jerry went off into shouts of laughter. he was a humane boy, but he could not help thinking it very funny that anybody should sigh over the thought of a chicken pot pie. "oh, i know they are to eat," nettie said, smiling in answer to his laughter, "and i know how to make nice crust for pot pie; but for all that, i cannot help feeling sort of sorry for the pretty fluffy chickens. are you going to fat them all, to eat; or raise some of them to lay eggs?" "i don't know what _we_ are going to do, yet," jerry said with pointed emphasis on the we. "you see, we have not had time to consult; this is a company concern, i told you. what do you think about it?" nettie's cheeks began to grow a deep pink; she looked down at the hurrying chickens with a grave face for a moment, then said gently: "you know, jerry, i haven't any money to help buy the chickens, and i cannot help own what i do not help buy; they are your chickens, but i shall like to watch them and help you plan about them." jerry sat down on an old nail keg, crossed one foot over the other, and clasped his hands over his knees, as job smith was fond of doing, and prepared for argument: "now, see here, nettie decker, let us understand each other once for all; i thought we had gone into partnership in this whole business; that we were to fight that old fiend rum, in every possible way we could; and were to help each other plan, and work all the time, and in all ways we possibly could. now if you are tired of me and want to work alone, why, i mustn't force myself upon you." "o, jerry!" came in a reproachful murmur from nettie, whose cheeks were now flaming. "well, what is a fellow to do? you see you hurt my feelings worse than old mother topknot did this morning when she pecked me; i want to belong, and i mean to; but all that kind of talk about helping to buy these half-dozen little puff-balls is all nonsense, and a girl of your sense ought to be ashamed of it." said nettie, "o, jerry, i smell the potatoes; they are scorching!" and she ran away. jerry looked after her a moment, as though astonished at the sudden change of subject, then laughed, and rising slowly from the nail-keg addressed himself to the hen. "now, mother topknot, i want you to understand that you belong to the firm; that little woman who was just here is your mistress, and if you peck her and scratch her as you did me, this morning, it will be the worse for you. you are just like some people i have seen; haven't sense enough to know who is your best friend; why, there is no end to the nice little bits she will contrive for you and your children, if you behave yourself; for that matter, i suspect she would do it whether you behaved yourself or not; but that part it is quite as well you should not understand. i want you to bring these children up to take care of themselves, just as soon as you can; and then you are to give your attention to laying a nice fresh egg every morning; and the sooner you begin, the better we shall like it." then he went in to breakfast. there was no need to say anything more about the partnership. nettie seemed to come to the conclusion that she must be ashamed of herself or her pride in the matter; and after a very short time grew accustomed to hearing jerry talk about "our chicks," and dropped into the fashion of caring for and planning about them. none the less was she resolved to find some way of earning a little money for her share of the stock company. curiously enough it was susie and little sate who helped again. they came in one morning, with their hands full of the lovely field daisies. the moment nettie looked at the two little faces, she knew that a dispute of some sort was in progress. susie's lips were curved with that air of superior wisdom, not to say scorn, which she knew how to assume; and little sate's eyes were full of the half-grieved but wholly positive look which they could wear on occasion. "what is it?" nettie asked, stopping on her way to the cellar with a nice little pat of batter which she was saving for her father's supper. butter was a luxury which she had decided the children at least, herself included, must not expect every day. "why," said susie, her eyes flashing her contempt of the whole thing, "she says these are folks; old women with caps, and eyes, and noses, and everything; she says they look at her, and some of them are pleasant, and some are cross. she is too silly for anything. they don't look the least bit in the word like old women. i told her so, fifty-eleven times, and she keeps saying it!" nettie held out her hand for the bunch of daisies, looked at them carefully, and laughed. "can't you see them?" was little sate's eager question. "they are just as plain! don't you see them a little bit of a speck, nannie?" "of course she doesn't!" said scornful susie. "nobody but a silly baby like you would think of such a thing." "i don't know," said nettie, still smiling, "i don't think i see them as plain as sate does, but maybe we can, after awhile; wait till i get my butter put away, and i'll put on my spectacles and see what i can find." so the two waited, susie incredulous and disgusted, sate with a hopeful light in her eyes, which made nettie very anxious to find the old ladies. on her way up stairs she felt in her pocket for the pencil jerry had sharpened with such care the evening before; yes, it was there, and the point was safe. jerry had made a neat little tube of soft wood for it to slip into, and so protect itself. "now, let us look for the old lady," she said, taking a daisy in hand and retiring to the closet window for inspection; it was the work of a moment for her fingers which often ached for such work, to fashion a pair of eyes, a nose, and a mouth; and then to turn down the white petals for a cap border, leaving two under the chin for strings! "does your old lady look anything like that?" she questioned, as she came out from her hiding place. little sate looked, and clasped her hands in an ecstacy of delight: "look, susie, look, quick! there she is, just as plain! o nannie! i'm _so_ glad you found her." "humph!" said susie, "she made her with a pencil; she wasn't there at all; and there couldn't nobody have found her. so!" and to this day, i suppose it would not be possible to make susie decker believe that the spirits of beautiful old ladies hid in the daisies! some people cannot see things, you know, show them as much as you may. but nettie was charmed with the little old woman. she left the potatoes waiting to be washed, and sat down on the steps with eager little sate, and made old lady after old lady. some with spectacles, and some without. some with smooth hair drawn quietly back from quiet foreheads, some with the old-fashioned puffs and curls which she had seen in old, old pictures of "truly" grandmothers. what fun they had! the potatoes came near being forgotten entirely. it was the faithful old clock in mrs. smith's kitchen which finally clanged out the hour and made nettie rise in haste, scattering old ladies right and left. but little sate gathered them, every one, holding them with as careful hand as though she feared a rough touch would really hurt their feelings, and went out to hunt susie and soothe her ruffled dignity. she did not find susie; that young woman was helping jerry nail laths on the chicken coop; but she found her sweet-faced sabbath-school teacher, who was sure to stop and kiss the child, whenever she passed. to her, sate at once showed the sweet old women. "nannie found them," she explained; "susie could not see them at all, and she kept saying they were not there; but nannie said she would make them look plainer so susie could see, and now susie thinks she made them out of a pencil; but they were there, before, i saw them." "oh, you quaint little darling!" said miss sherrill, kissing her again. "and so your sister nettie made them plainer for you. i must say she has done it with a skilful hand. sate dear, would you give one little old woman to me? just one; this dear old face with puffs, i want her very much." so sate gazed at her with wistful, tender eyes, kissed her tenderly, and let miss sherrill carry her away. she carried her straight to the minister's study, and laid her on the open page of a great black commentary which he was studying. "did you ever see anything so cunning? that little darling of a sate says nannie 'found' her; she doesn't seem to think it was made, but simply developed, you know, so that commoner eyes than hers could see it; that child was born for a poet, or an artist, i don't know which. tremayne, i'm going to take this down to the flower committee, and get them to invite nettie to make some bouquets of dear old grandmothers, and let little sate come to the flower party and sell them. won't that be lovely? every gentleman there will want a bouquet of the nice old ladies in caps, and spectacles; we will make it the fashion; then they will sell beautifully, and the little merchant shall go shares on the proceeds, for the sake of her artist sister." "it is a good idea," said the minister. "i infer from what that handsome boy jerry has told me, that they have some scheme on hand which requires money. i am very much interested in those young people, my dear. i wish you would keep a watch on them, and lend a helping hand when you can." chapter xvi. an ordeal. that was the way it came about that little sate not only, but susie and nettie, went to the flower party. they had not expected to do any such thing. the little girls, who were not used to going any where, had paid no attention to the announcements on sunday, and nettie had heard as one with whom such things had nothing in common. her treatment in the sabbath-school was not such as to make her long for the companionship of the girls of her age, and by this time she knew that her dress at the flower party would be sure to command more attention than was pleasant; so she had planned as a matter of course to stay away. but the little old ladies in their caps and spectacles springing into active life, put a new face on the matter. certainly no more astonished young person can be imagined than nettie decker was, the morning miss sherrill called on her, the one daisy she had begged still carefully preserved, and proposed her plan of partnership in the flower party. "it will add ever so much to the fun," she explained, "besides bringing you a nice little sum for your spending money." did miss sherrill have any idea how far that argument would reach just now, nettie wondered. "we can dress the little girls in daisies," continued their teacher. "little sate will look like a flower herself, with daisies wreathed about her dress and hair." "little sate will be afraid, i think," nettie objected. "she is very timid, and not used to seeing many people." "but with susie she will not mind, will she? susie has assurance enough to take her through anything. oh, i wonder if little sate would not recite a verse about the daisy grandmothers? i have such a cunning one for her. may i teach her, mrs. decker, and see if i can get her to learn it?" mrs. decker's consent was very easy to gain; indeed it had been freely given in mrs. decker's heart before it was asked. for miss sherrill had not been in the room five minutes before she had said: "your son, norman, i believe his name is, has promised to help my brother with the church flowers this evening. my brother says he is an excellent helper; his eye is so true; they had quite a laugh together, last week. it seems one of the wreaths was not hung plumb; your son and my brother had an argument about it, and it was finally left as my brother had placed it, but was out of line several inches. he was obliged to admit that if he had followed norman's direction it would have looked much better." after that, it would have been hard for miss sherrill to have asked a favor which mrs. decker would not grant if she could. _she_ saw through it all; these people were in league with nettie, to try to save her boy. what wasn't she ready to do at their bidding! there was but one thing about which she was positive. the little girls could not go without nettie; they talked it over in the evening, after miss sherrill was gone. nettie looked distressed. she liked to please miss sherrill; she was willing to make many grandmothers; she would help to put the little girls in as dainty attire as possible, but she did _not_ want to go to the flower festival. she planned various ways; jerry would take them down, or norm; perhaps even _he_ would go with them; surely mother would be willing to have them go with norm. miss sherrill would look after them carefully, and they would come home at eight o'clock; before they began to grow very sleepy. but no, mrs. decker was resolved; she could not let them go unless nettie would go with them and bring them home. "i let one child run the streets," she said with a heavy sigh, "and i have lived to most wish he had died when he was a baby, before i did it; and i said then i would never let another one go out of my sight as long as i had control; i can't go; but i would just as soon they would be with you as with me; and unless you go, they can't stir a step, and that's the whole of it." mrs. decker was a very determined woman when she set out to be; and nettie looked the picture of dismay. it did not seem possible to her to go to a flower party; and on the other hand it seemed really dreadful to thwart miss sherrill. jerry sat listening, saying little, but the word he put in now and then, was on mrs. decker's side; he owned to himself that he never so entirely approved of her as at that moment. he wanted nettie to go to the flower party. "but i have nothing to wear?" said nettie, blushing, and almost weeping. "nothing to wear!" repeated mrs. decker in honest astonishment. "why, what do you wear on sundays, i should like to know? i'm sure you look as neat and nice as any girl i ever saw, in your gingham. i was watching you last sunday and thinking how pretty it was." "yes; but, mother, they all wear white at such places; and i cut up my white dress, you know, for the little girls; it was rather short for me anyway; but i should feel queer in any other color." "o, well," said mrs. decker in some irritation, "if they go to such places to show their clothes, why, i suppose you must stay at home, if you have none that you want to show. i thought, being it was a church, it didn't matter, so you were neat and clean; but churches are like everything else, it seems, places for show." jerry looked grave disapproval at nettie, but she felt injured and could have cried. was it fair to accuse her of going to church to show her clothes, or of being over-particular, when she went every sunday in a blue and white gingham such as no other girl in her class would wear even to school? this was not church, it was a party. it was hard that she must be blamed for pride, when she was only too glad to stay at home from it. "i can't go in my blue dress, and that is the whole of it," she said at last, a good deal of decision in her voice. "very well," said mrs decker. "then we'll say no more about it; as for the little girls going without you, they sha'n't do it. when i set my foot down, it's _down_." jerry instinctively looked down at her foot as she spoke. it was a good-sized one, and looked as though it could set firmly on any question on which it was put. his heart began to fail him; the flower party and certain things which he hoped to accomplish thereby, were fading. he took refuge with mrs. smith to hide his disappointment, and also to learn wisdom about this matter of dress. "do clothes make such a very great difference to girls?" was his first question. "difference?" said mrs. smith rubbing a little more flour on her hands, and plunging them again into the sticky mass she was kneading. "yes'm. they seem to think of clothes the first thing, when there is any place to go to; boys aren't that way. i don't believe a boy knows whether his coat ought to be brown or green. what makes the difference?" mrs. smith laughed a little. "well," she said reflectively, "there is a difference, now that's a fact. i noticed it time and again when i was living with mrs. jennison. dick would go off with whatever he happened to have on; and florence was always in a flutter as to whether she looked as well as the rest. i've heard folks say that it is the fault of the mothers, because they make such a fuss over the girls' clothes, and keep rigging them up in something bright, just to make 'em look pretty, till they succeed in making them think there isn't anything quite so important in life as what they wear on their backs. it's all wrong, i believe. but then, nettie ain't one of that kind. she hasn't had any mother to perk her up and make her vain. i shouldn't think she would be one to care about clothes much." "she doesn't," said jerry firmly. "i don't think she would care if other folks didn't. the girls in her class act hatefully to her; they don't speak, if they can help it. i suppose it's clothes; i don't know what else; they are always rigged out like hollyhocks or tulips; they make fun of her, i guess; and that isn't very pleasant." "is that the reason she won't go to the flower show next week?" "yes'm, that's the reason. all the girls are going to dress in white; i suppose she thinks she will look queerly, and be talked about. but i don't understand it. seems to me if all the boys were going to wear blue coats, and i knew it, i'd just as soon wear my gray one if gray was respectable." "she ought to have a white dress, now that's a fact," said mrs. smith with energy, patting her brown loaf, and tucking it down into the tin in a skilful way. "it isn't much for a girl like her to want; if her father was the kind of man he ought to be, she might have a white dress for best, as well as not; i've no patience with him." "her father hasn't drank a drop this week," said jerry. "hasn't; well, i'm glad of it; but i'm thinking of what he has done, and what he will go and do, as likely as not, next week; they might be as forehanded as any folks i know of, if he was what he ought to be; there isn't a better workman in the town. well, you don't care much about the flower party, i suppose?" "i don't now," said jerry, wearily. "when i thought the little girls were going, i had a plan. sate is such a little thing, she would be sure to be half-asleep by eight o'clock; and i was going to coax norm to come for her, and we carry her home between us. norm won't go to a flower party, out and out; but he is good-natured, and was beginning to think a great deal of sate; then i thought mr. sherrill would speak to him. the more we can get norm to feeling he belongs in such places, the less he will feel like belonging to the corner groceries, and the streets." "i see," said mrs. smith admiringly. "well, i do say i didn't think nettie was the kind of girl to put a white dress between her chances of helping folks. sarah ann thinks she's a real true christian; but satan does seem to be into the clothes business from beginning to end." "i don't suppose it is any easier for a christian to be laughed at and slighted, than it is for other people," said jerry, inclined to resent the idea that nettie was not showing the right spirit; although in his heart he was disappointed in her for caring so much about the color of her dress. "well, i don't know about that," said mrs. smith, stopping in the act of tucking her bread under the blankets, to look full at jerry, "why, they even made fun of the lord jesus christ; dressed him up in purple, like a king, and mocked at him! when it comes to remembering that, it would seem as if any common christian might be almost glad of a chance to be made fun of, just to stand in the same lot with him." this was a new thought to jerry. he studied it for awhile in silence. now it so happened that neither mrs. smith nor jerry remembered certain facts; one was that mrs. smith's kitchen window was in a line with mrs. decker's bedroom window, where nettie had gone to sit while she mended norm's shirt; the other was that a gentle breeze was blowing, which brought their words distinctly to nettie's ears. at first she had not noticed the talk, busy with her own thoughts, then she heard her name, and paused needle in hand, to wonder what was being said about her. then, coming to her senses, she determined to leave the room; but her mother, for convenience, had pushed her ironing table against the bedroom door, and then had gone to the yard in search of chips; nettie was a prisoner; she tried to push the table by pushing against the door, but the floor was uneven, and the table would not move; meantime the conversation going on across the alleyway, came distinctly to her. no use to cough, they were too much interested to hear her. by and by she grew so interested as to forget that the words were not intended for her to hear. there were more questions involved in this matter of dress than she had thought about. her cheeks began to burn a little with the thought that her neighbor had been planning help for norm, which she was blocking because she had no white dress! this was an astonishment! she had not known she was proud. in fact, she had thought herself very humble, and worthy of commendation because she went sabbath after sabbath to the school in the same blue and white dress, not so fresh now by a great deal as when she first came home. when mrs. smith reached the sentence which told of the lord jesus being robed in purple, and crowned with thorns, and mocked, two great tears fell on norm's shirt sleeve. it was a very gentle little girl who moved about the kitchen getting early tea; mrs. decker glanced at her from time to time in a bewildered way. the sort of girl with whom she was best acquainted would have slammed things about a little; both because she had not clothes to wear like other children, and because she had been blamed for not wanting to do what was expected of her. but nettie's face had no trace of anger, her movements were gentleness itself; her voice when she spoke was low and sweet: "mother, i will take the little girls, if you will let them go." mrs. decker drew a relieved sigh. "i'd like them to go because _she_ asked to have them; and i can see plain enough she is trying to get hold of norm; so is _he_; that's what helping with the flowers means; and there ain't anything i ain't willing to do to help, only i couldn't let the little girls go without you; they'd be scared to death, and it wouldn't look right. i'm sorry enough you ain't got suitable clothes; if i could help it, you should have as good as the best of them." "never mind," said nettie, "i don't think i care anything about the dress now." she was thinking of that crown of thorns. so when miss sherrill called the way was plain and little sate ready to be taught anything she would teach her. they went away down to the pond under the clump of trees which formed such a pretty shade; and there sate's slow sweet voice said over the lines as they were told to her, putting in many questions which the words suggested. "he makes the flowers blow," she repeated with thoughtful face, then: "what did he make them for?" "i think it was because he loved them; and he likes to give you and me sweet and pleasant things to look at." "does he love flowers?" "i think so, darling." "and birds? see the birds!" for at that moment two beauties standing on the edge of their nest, looked down into the clear water, and seeing themselves reflected in its smoothness began to talk in low sweet chirps to their shadows. "oh, yes, he loves the birds, i am sure; think how many different kinds he has made, and how beautiful they are. then he has given them sweet voices, and they are thanking him as well as they know how, for all his goodness. listen." sure enough, one of the little birds hopped back a trifle, balanced himself well on the nest, and, putting up his little throat, trilled a lovely song. "what does he say?" asked sate, watching him intently. "oh, i don't know," said miss sherrill, with a little laugh. sate was taxing her powers rather too much. "but god understands, you know; and i am sure the words are very sweet to him." sate reflected over this for a minute, then went back to the flowers. "what made him put the colors on them? does he like to see pretty colors, do you sink? which color does he like just the very bestest of all?" "o you darling! i don't know that, either. perhaps, crimson; or, no, i think he must like pure white ones a little the best. but he likes little human flowers the best of all. little white flowers with souls. do you know what i mean, darling? white hearts are given to the little children who try all the time to do right, because they love jesus, and want to please him." "sate wants to," said the little girl earnestly. "sate loves jesus; and she would like to kiss him." "i do not know but you shall, some day. now shall we take another line of the hymn?" continued her teacher. "i tried to teach her," explained miss sherrill to her brother. "but i think, after all, she taught me the most. she is the dearest little thing, and asks the strangest questions! when i look at her grave, sweet face, and hear her slow, sweet voice making wise answers, and asking wise questions, a sort of baby wisdom, you know, i can only repeat over and over the words: "'of such is the kingdom of heaven.' "to-day i told her the story of jesus taking the little children up in his arms and blessing them. she listened with that thoughtful look in her eyes which is so wonderful, then suddenly she held up her pretty arms and said in the most coaxing tones: "'take little sate to him, and let him bless her, yight away.' "tremaine, i could hardly keep back the tears. do you think he can be going to call her soon?" "not necessarily at all. there is no reason why a little child should not live very close to him on earth. i hope that little girl has a great work to do for christ in this world. she has a very sweet face." chapter xvii. the flower party. i dare say some of you think nettie decker was a very silly girl to care so much because her dress was a blue and white gingham instead of being all white. you have told your friend katie about the story and asked her if she didn't think it was real silly to make such an ado over _clothes_; you have said you were sure you would just as soon wear a blue gingham as not if it was clean and neat. but now let me venture a hint. i shouldn't be surprised if that was because you never do have to go to places differently dressed from all the others. because if you did, you would know that it was something of a trial. oh! i don't say it is the hardest thing in the world; or that one is all ready to die as a martyr who does it; but what i _do_ say is, that it takes a little moral courage; and, for one, i am not surprised that nettie looked very sober about it when the afternoon came. it took her a good while to dress; not that there was so much to be done, but she stopped to think. with her hair in her neck, still unbraided, she pinned a lovely pink rose at her breast just to see how pretty it would look for a minute. miss sherrill had left it for her to wear; but she did not intend to wear it, because she thought it would not match well with her gingham dress. just here, i don't mind owning that i think her silly; because i believe that sweet flowers go with sweet pure young faces, whether the dress is of gingham or silk. but nettie looked grave, as i said, and wished it was over; and tried to plan for the hundredth time, how it would all be. the girls, cecelia lester and lorena barstow and the rest of them, would be out in their elegant toilets, and would look at her so! that ermina farley would be there; she had seen her but once, on the first sunday, and liked her face and her ways a little better than the others; but she had been away since then. jerry said she was back, however, and mrs. smith said they were the richest folks in town; and of course ermina would be elegantly dressed at the flower party. well, she did not care. she was willing to have them all dressed beautifully; she was not mean enough to want them to wear gingham dresses, if only they would not make fun of hers. oh! if she could _only_ stay at home, and help iron, and get supper, and fry some potatoes nicely for father, how happy she would be. then she sighed again, and set about braiding her hair. she meant to go, but she could not help being sorry for herself to think it must be done; and she spent a great deal of trouble in trying to plan just how hateful it would all be; how the girls would look, and whisper, and giggle; and how her cheeks would burn. oh dear! then she found it was late, and had to make her fingers fly, and to rush about the little woodhouse chamber which was still her room, in a way which made sarah ann say to her mother with a significant nod, "i guess she's woke up and gone at it, poor thing!" yes, she had; and was down in fifteen minutes more. oh! but didn't the little girls look pretty! nettie forgot her trouble for a few minutes, in admiring them when she had put the last touches to their toilet. susie was to be in a tableau where she would need a dolly, and miss sherrill had furnished one for the occasion. a lovely dolly with real hair, and blue eyes, and a bright blue sash to match them; and when susie got it in her arms, there came such a sweet, softened look over her face that nettie hardly knew her. the sturdy voice, too, which was so apt to be fierce, softened and took a motherly tone; the dolly was certainly educating susie. little sate looked on, interested, pleased, but without the slightest shade of envy. she wanted no dolly; or, if she did, there was a little black-faced, worn, rag one reposing at this moment in the trundle bed where little sate's own head would rest at night; kissed, and caressed, and petted, and told to be good until mamma came back; this dolly had all of sate's warm heart. for the rest, the grave little old women in caps and spectacles, which wound about her dress, crept up in bunches on her shoulders, lay in nestling heaps at her breast, filled all sate's thoughts. she seemed to have become a little old woman herself, so serious and womanly was her face. nettie took a hand of each, and they went to the flower festival. there was to be a five o'clock tea for all the elderly people of the church, and the tables, some of them, were set in mr. eastman's grounds, which adjoined the church. when nettie entered these grounds she found a company of girls several years younger than herself, helping to decorate the tables with flowers; at least that was their work, but as nettie appeared at the south gate, a queer little object pushed in at the west side. a child not more than six years old, with a clean face, and carefully combed hair, but dressed in a plain dark calico; and her pretty pink toes were without shoes or stockings. [illustration: at the flower party.] i am not sure that if a little wolf had suddenly appeared before them, it could have caused more exclamations of astonishment and dismay. "only look at that child!" "the idea!" "just to think of such a thing!" were a few of the exclamations with which the air was thick. at last, one bolder than the rest, stepped towards her: "little girl, where did you come from? what in the world do you want here?" startled by the many eyes and the sharp tones, the small new-comer hid her face behind an immense bunch of glowing hollyhocks, which she held in her hand, and said not a word. then the chorus of voices became more eager: "do look at her hollyhocks! did ever anybody see such a queer little fright! girls, i do believe she has come to the party." then the one who had spoken before, tried again: "see here, child, whoever you are, you must go right straight home; this is no place for you. i wonder what your mother was about--if you have one--to let you run away barefooted, and looking like a fright." now the barefooted maiden was thoroughly frightened, and sobbed outright. it was precisely what nettie decker needed to give her courage. when she came in at the gate, she had felt like shrinking away from all eyes; now she darted an indignant glance at the speaker, and moved quickly toward the crying child, susie and sate following close behind. "don't cry, little girl," she said in the gentlest tones, stooping and putting an arm tenderly around the trembling form; "you haven't done anything wrong; miss sherrill will be here soon, and she will make it all right." thus comforted, the tears ceased, and the small new-comer allowed her hand to be taken; while susie came around to her other side, and scowled fiercely, as though to say: "i'll protect this girl myself; let's see you touch her now!" a burst of laughter greeted nettie as soon as she had time to give heed to it. others had joined the groups, among them lorena barstow and irene lewis. "what's all this?" asked irene. "o, nothing," said one; "only that decker girl's sister, or cousin, or something has just arrived from cork, and come in search of her. lorena barstow, did you ever see such a queer-looking fright?" "i don't see but they look a good deal alike," said lorena, tossing her curls; "i'm sure their dresses correspond; is she a sister?" "why, no," answered one of the smaller girls; "those two cunning little things in white are nettie decker's sisters; i think they are real sweet." "oh!" said lorena, giving them a disagreeable stare, "in white, are they? the unselfish older sister has evidently cut up her nightgowns to make them white dresses for this occasion." "lorena," said the younger girl, "if i were you i would be ashamed; mother would not like you to talk in that way." "well, you see miss nanie, you are not me, therefore you cannot tell what you would be, or do; and i want to inform you it is not your business to tell me what mother would like." imagine nettie decker standing quietly, with the barefooted child's small hand closely clasped in hers, listening to all this! there was a pretense of lowered voices, yet every word was distinct to her ears. her heart beat fast and she began to feel as though she really was paying quite a high price for the possibility of getting norm into the church parlor for a few minutes that evening. at that moment, through the main gateway, came ermina parley, a colored man with her, bearing a basket full of such wonderful roses, that for a minute the group could only exclaim over them. ermina was in white, but her dress was simply made, and looked as though she might not be afraid to tumble about on the grass in it; her shoes were thick, and the blue sash she wore, though broad and handsome, had some way a quiet air of fitness for the occasion, which did not seem to belong to most of the others. she watched the disposal of her roses, then gave an inquiring glance about the grounds as she said, "what are you all doing here?" "we are having a tableau," said lorena barstow. "look behind you, and you will see the misses bridget and margaret mulrooney, who have just arrived from ould ireland shure." most of the thoughtless girls laughed, mistaking this rudeness for wit, but ermina turned quickly and caught her first glimpse of nettie's burning face; then she hastened toward her. "why, here is little prudy, after all," she said eagerly; "i coaxed her mother to let her come, but i didn't think she would. has miss sherrill seen her? i think she will make such a cunning roman flower-girl, in that tableau, you know. her face is precisely the shape and style of the little girls we saw in rome last winter. poor little girlie, was she frightened? how kind you were to take care of her. she is a real bright little thing. i want to coax her into sunday-school if i can. let us go and ask miss sherrill what she thinks about the flower-girl." how fast ermina farley could talk! she did not wait for replies. the truth was, nettie's glowing cheeks, and susie's fierce looks, told her the story of trial for somebody else besides the roman flower-girl; she could guess at things which might have been said before she came. she wound her arm familiarly about nettie's waist as she spoke, and drew her, almost against her will, across the lawn. "my!" said irene lewis. "how good we are!" "birds of a feather flock together," quoted lorena barstow. "i think that barefooted child and her protector look alike." "still," said irene, "you must remember that ermina farley has joined that flock; and her feathers are very different." "oh! that is only for effect," was the naughty reply, with another toss of the rich curls. now what was the matter with all these disagreeable young people? did they really attach so much importance to the clothes they wore as to think no one was respectable who was not dressed like them? had they really no hearts, so that it made no difference to them how deeply they wounded poor nettie decker? i do not think it was quite either of these things. they had been, so far in their lives, unfortunate, in that they had heard a great deal about dress, and style, until they had done what young people and a few older ones are apt to do, attached too much importance to these things. they were neither old enough, nor wise enough, to know that it is a mark of a shallow nature to judge of people by the clothes they wear; then, in regard to the ill-natured things said, i tell you truly, that even lorena barstow was ashamed of herself. when her younger sister reproved her, the flush which came on her cheek was not all anger, much of it was shame. but she had taught her tongue to say so many disagreeable words, and to pride itself on its independence in saying what she pleased, that the habit asserted itself, and she could not seem to control it. the contrast between her own conduct and ermina farley's struck her so sharply and disagreeably it served only to make her worse than before; precisely the effect which follows when people of uncontrolled tempers find themselves rebuked. half-way down the lawn the party in search of miss sherrill met her face to face. her greeting was warm. "oh! here is my dear little grandmother. thank you, nettie, for coming; i look to you for a great deal of help. why, ermina, what wee mousie have you here?" "she is a little roman flower-girl, miss sherrill; they live on parker street. her mother is a nice woman; my mother has her to run the machine. i coaxed her to let trudie wear her red dress and come barefoot, until you would see if she would do for the roman flower-girl. papa says her face is very roman in style, and she always makes us think of the flower-girls we saw there. i brought my roman sash to dress her in, if you thought well of it; she is real bright, and will do just as she is told." "it is the very thing," said miss sherrill with a pleased face; "i am so glad you thought of it. and the hollyhocks are just red enough to go in the basket. did you think of them too?" "no, ma'am; mamma did. she said the more red flowers we could mass about her, the better for a roman peasant." "it will be a lovely thing," said miss sherrill. then she stooped and kissed the small brown face, which was now smiling through its tears. "you have found good friends, little one. she is very small to be here alone. ermina, will you and nettie take care of her this afternoon, and see that she is happy?" "yes'm," said ermina promptly. "nettie was taking care of her when i came. she was afraid at first, i think." "they were ugly to her," volunteered susie, "they were just as ugly to her as they could be; they made her cry. if they'd done it to sate i would have scratched them and bit them." "oh," said miss sherrill sorrowfully. "how sorry i am to hear it; then susie would have been naughty too, and it wouldn't have made the others any better; in fact, it would have made them worse." "i don't care," said susie, but she did care. she said that, just as you do sometimes, when you mean you care a great deal, and don't want to let anybody know it. for the first time, susie reflected whether it was a good plan to scratch and bite people who did not, in her judgment, behave well. it had not been a perfect success in her experience, she was willing to admit that; and if it made miss sherrill sorry, it was worth thinking about. well, that afternoon which began so dismally, blossomed out into a better time than nettie had imagined it possible for her to have. to be sure those particular girls who had been the cause of her sorrow, would have nothing to do with her; and whispered, and sent disdainful glances her way when they had an opportunity; but nettie went in their direction as little as possible, and when she did was in such a hurry that she sometimes forgot all about them. miss sherrill, who was chairman of the committee of entertainment, kept her as busy as a bee the entire afternoon; running hither and thither, carrying messages to this one, and pins to that one, setting this vase of flowers at one end, and that lovely basket at another, and, a great deal of the time, standing right beside miss sherrill herself, handing her, at call, just what she needed when she dressed the girls with their special flowers. she could hear the bright pleasant talk which passed between miss sherrill and the other young ladies. she was often appealed too with a pleasant word. her own teacher smiled on her more than once, and said she was the handiest little body who had ever helped them; and all the time that lovely ermina farley with her beautiful hair, and her pretty ways, and her sweet low voice, was near at hand, joining in everything which she had to do. to be sure she heard, in one of her rapid scampers across the lawn, this question asked in a loud tone by lorena barstow: "i wonder how much they pay that girl for running errands? maybe she will earn enough to get herself a new white nightgown to wear to parties;" but at that particular minute, ermina farley running from another direction on an errand precisely like her own, bumped up against her with such force that their noses ached; then both stopped to laugh merrily, and some way, what with the bump, and the laughter, nettie forgot to cry, when she had a chance, over the unkind words. then, later in the afternoon, came jerry; and in less than five minutes he joined their group, and made himself so useful that when mr. sherrill came presently for boys to go with him to the chapel to arrange the tables, miss sherrill said in low tones, "don't take jerry please, we need him here." nettie heard it, and beamed her satisfaction. also she heard irene lewis say, "now they've taken that irish boy into their crowd--shouldn't you think ermina farley would be ashamed!" then nettie's face fairly paled. it is one thing to be insulted yourself; it is another to stand quietly by and see your friends insulted. she was almost ready to appeal to miss sherrill for protection from tongues. but jerry heard the same remark, and laughed; not in a forced way, but actually as though it was very amusing to him. and almost immediately he called out something to ermina, using an unmistakable irish brogue. what was the use in trying to protect a boy who was so indifferent as that? chapter xviii. a satisfactory evening. the little old grandmothers with their queer caps were perhaps the feature of the evening. everybody wanted a bouquet of them. in fact, long before eight o'clock, jerry had been hurried away for a fresh supply, and nettie had been established behind a curtain to "make more grandmothers." in her excitement she made them even prettier than before; and sweet, grave little sate had no trouble in selling every one. the pretty roman flower girl was so much admired, that her father, a fine-looking young mechanic who came after her bringing red stockings and neat shoes, carried her off at last in triumph on his shoulder, saying he was afraid her head would be turned with so much praise, but thanking everybody with bright smiling eyes for giving his little girl such a pleasant afternoon. "she isn't irish, after all," said irene lewis, watching them. "and mr. sherrill shook hands with him as familiarly as though he was an old friend; i wish we hadn't made such simpletons of ourselves. lorena barstow, what did you want to go and say she was an irish girl for?" "i didn't say any such thing," said lorena in a shrill voice; and then these two who had been friends in ill humor all the afternoon quarreled, and went home more unhappy than before. and still i tell you they were not the worst girls in the world; and were very much ashamed of themselves. before eight o'clock, norm came. to be sure he stoutly refused, at first, to step beyond the doorway, and ordered nettie in a somewhat surly tone to "bring that young one out," if she wanted her carried home. that, of course, was the little grandmother; but her eyes looked as though they had not thought of being sleepy, and the ladies were not ready to let her go. then the minister, who seemed to understand things without having them explained, said, "where is decker? we'll make it all right; come, little grandmother, let us go and see about it." so he took sate on his shoulder and made his way through the crowd; and nettie who watched anxiously, presently saw norm coming back with them, not looking surly at all; his clothes had been brushed, and he had on a clean collar, and his hair was combed, quite as though he had meant to come in, after all. soon after norm's coming, something happened which gave nettie a glimpse of her brother in a new light. young ernest belmont was there with his violin. during the afternoon, nettie had heard whispers of what a lovely player he was, and at last saw with delight that a space was being cleared for him to play. crowds of people gathered about the platform to listen, but among them all norm's face was marked; at least it was to nettie. she had never seen him look like that. he seemed to forget the crowds, and the lights, and everything but the sounds which came from that violin. he stood perfectly still, his eyes never once turning from their earnest gaze of the fingers which were producing such wonderful tones. nettie, looking, and wondering, almost forgot the music in her astonishment that her brother should be so absorbed. jerry with some difficulty elbowed his way towards her, his face beaming, and said, "isn't it splendid?" for answer she said, "look at norm." and jerry looked. "that's so," he said at last, heartily, speaking as though he was answering a remark from somebody; "norm is a musician. did you know he liked it so much?" "i didn't know anything about it," nettie said, hardly able to keep back the tears, though she did not understand why her eyes should fill; but there was such a look of intense enjoyment in norm's face, mingled with such a wistful longing for something, as made the tears start in spite of her. "i didn't know he liked _anything_ so much as that." "he likes _that_," said jerry heartily, "and i am glad." "i don't know. what makes you glad? i am almost sorry; because he may never have a chance to hear it again." "he must make his chances; he is going to be a man. i'm glad, because it gives us a hint as to what his tastes are; don't you see?" "why, yes," said nettie, "i see he likes it; but what is the use in knowing people's tastes if you cannot possibly do anything for them?" "there's no such thing as it not being possible to do most anything," jerry said good humoredly. "maybe we will some of us own a violin some day, and norm will play it for us. who knows? stranger things than that have happened." but this thing looked to nettie so improbable that she merely laughed. the music suddenly ceased, and norm came back from dreamland and looked about him, and blushed, and felt awkward. he saw the people now, and the lights, and the flowers; he remembered his hands and did not know what to do with them; and his feet felt too large for the space they must occupy. jerry plunged through the crowd and stood beside him. "how did you like it?" he asked, and norm cleared his voice before replying; he could not understand why his throat should feel so husky. "i like a fiddle," he said. "there is a fellow comes into the corner grocery down there by crossman's and plays, sometimes; i always go down there, when i hear of it." if jerry could have caught nettie's eye just then he would have made a significant gesture; the store by crossman's made tobacco and liquor its chief trade. so a fiddle was one of the things used to draw the boys into it! "is a fiddle the only kind of music you like?" jerry had been accustomed to calling it a violin, but the instinct of true politeness which was marked in him, made him say fiddle just now as norm had done. "oh! i like anything that whistles a tune!" said norm. "i've gone a rod out of my way to hear a jew's-harp many a time; even an old hand-organ sounds nice to me. i don't know why, but i never hear one without stopping and listening as long as i can." he laughed a little, as though ashamed of the taste, and looked at jerry suspiciously. but there was not the slightest hint of a smile on the boy's face, only hearty interest and approval. "i like music, too, almost any sort; but i don't believe i like it as well as you. your face looked while you were listening as though you could make some yourself if you tried." the smile went out quickly from norm's face, and jerry thought he heard a little sigh with the reply: "i never had a chance to try; and never expect to have." "well, now, i should like to know why not? i never could understand why a boy with brains, and hands, and feet, shouldn't have a try at almost anything which was worth trying, sometime in his life." it was not jerry who said this, but the minister who had come up in time to hear the last words from both sides. he stopped before norm, smiling as he spoke. "try the music, my friend, by all means, if you like it. it is a noble taste, worth cultivating." norm looked sullen. "it's easy to talk," he said severely, "but when a fellow has to work like a dog to get enough to eat and wear, to keep him from starving or freezing, i'd like to see him get a chance to try at music, or anything else of that kind!" "so should i. he is the very fellow who ought to have the chance; and more than that, in nine cases out of ten he is the fellow who gets it. a boy who is willing and able to work, is pretty sure, in this country, to have opportunity to gratify his tastes in the end. he may have to wait awhile, but that only sharpens the appetite of a genuine taste; if it is a worthy taste, as music certainly is, it will grow with his growth, and will help him to plan, and save, and contrive, until one of these days he will show you! by the way, you would like organ music, i fancy; the sort which is sometimes played on parlor organs. if you will come to the parsonage to-morrow night at eight o'clock, i think i can promise you something which you will enjoy. my sister is going to try some new music for a few friends, at that time; suppose you come and pick out your favorite?" all jerry's satisfaction and interest shone in his face; to-morrow night at eight o'clock! all day he had been trying to arrange something which would keep norm at that hour away from the aforesaid corner grocery, where he happened to know some doubtful plans were to be arranged for future mischief, by the set who gathered there. if only norm would go to the parsonage it would be the very thing. but norm flushed and hesitated. "bring a friend with you," said the minister. "bring jerry, here; you like music, don't you, jerry?" "yes, sir," said jerry promptly; "i like music very much, and i would like to go if norm is willing." "bring jerry with you." that sentence had a pleasant sound. up to this moment it was the younger boy who had patronized the elder. norm called him the "little chap," but for all that looked up to him with a curious sort of respect such as he felt for none of the "fellows" who were his daily companions; the idea of bringing him to a place of entertainment had its charms. "may i expect you?" asked the minister, reading his thoughts almost as plainly as though they had been printed on his face, and judging that this was the time to press an acceptance. "why, yes," said norm, "i suppose so." one of these days norman decker will not think of accepting an invitation with such words, but his intentions are good, now, and the minister thanks him as though he had received a favor, and departs well pleased. and now it is really growing late and little sate must be carried home. it was an evening to remember. they talked it over by inches the next morning. nettie finishing the breakfast dishes, and jerry sitting on the doorstep fashioning a bracket for the kitchen lamp. nettie talked much about ermina farley. "she is just as lovely and sweet as she can be. it was beautiful in her to come over to me as she did when she came into that yard; part of it was for little trudie's sake, and a great deal of it was for my sake. i saw that at the time; and i saw it plainer all the afternoon. she didn't give me a chance to feel alone once; and she didn't stay near me as though she felt she ought to, but didn't want to, either; she just took hold and helped do everything miss sherrill gave me to do, and was as bright and sweet as she could be. i shall never forget it of her. but for all that," she added as she wrung out her dishcloth with an energy which the small white rag hardly needed, "i know it was pretty hard for her to do it, and i shall not give her a chance to do it again." "i want to know what there was hard about it?" said jerry, looking up in astonishment. "i thought ermina farley seemed to be having as good a time as anybody there." "oh, well now, i know, you are not a girl; boys are different from girls. they are not so kind-of-mean! at least, some of them are not," she added quickly, having at that moment a vivid recollection of some mean things which she had endured from boys. "really i don't think they are," she said, after a moment's thoughtful pause, and replying to the quizzical look on his face. "they don't think about dresses, and hats, and gloves, and all those sorts of things as girls do, and they don't say such hateful things. oh! i _know_ there is a great difference; and i know just how ermina farley will be talked about because she went with me, and stood up for me so; and i think it will be very hard for her. i used to think so about you, but you--are real different from girls!" "it amounts to about this," said jerry, whittling gravely. "good boys are different from bad girls, and bad boys are different from good girls." nettie laughed merrily. "no," she said, "i do know what i am talking about, though you don't think so; i know real splendid girls who couldn't have done as ermina farley did yesterday, and as you do all the time; and what i say is, i don't mean to put myself where she will _have_ to do it, much. i don't want to go to their parties; i don't expect a chance to go, but if i had it, i wouldn't go; and just for her sake, i don't mean to be always around for her to have to take care of me as she did yesterday. i have something else to do." said jerry, "where do you think norm is to take me this evening?" "norm going to take you!" great wonderment in the tone. "why, where could he take you? i don't know, i am sure." "he is to take me to the parsonage at eight o'clock to hear some wonderful music on the organ. he has been invited, and has had permission to bring me with him if he wants to. don't you talk about not putting yourself where other people will have to take care of you! i advise you to cultivate the acquaintance of your brother. it isn't everybody who gets invited to the parsonage to hear such music as miss sherrill can make." the dishcloth was hung away now, and every bit of work was done. nettie stood looking at the whittling boy in the doorway for a minute in blank astonishment, then she clasped her hands and said: "o jerry! did they do it? aren't they the very splendidest people you ever knew in your life?" "they are pretty good," said jerry, "that's a fact; they are most as good as my father. i'll tell you what it is, if you knew my father you would know a man who would be worth remembering. i had a letter from him last night, and he sent a message to my friend nettie." "what?" asked nettie, her eyes very bright. "it was that you were to take good care of his boy; for in his opinion the boy was worth taking care of. on the strength of that i want you to come out and look at mother speckle; she is in a very important frame of mind, and has been scolding her children all the morning. i don't know what is the trouble; there are two of her daughters who seem to have gone astray in some way; at least she is very much displeased with them. twice she has boxed fluffie's ears, and once she pulled a feather out of poor buff. see how forlorn she seems!" by this time they were making their way to the little house where the hen lived, nettie agreeing to go for a very few minutes, declaring that if norm was going out every evening there was work to do. he would need a clean collar and she must do it up; for mother had gone out to iron for the day. "mother is so grateful to mrs. smith for getting her a chance to work," she said, as they paused before the two disgraced chickens; "she says she would never have thought of it if it had not been for her; you know she always used to sew. why, how funny those chickens look! only see, jerry, they are studying that eggshell as though they thought they could make one. now don't they look exactly as though they were planning something?" "they are," said jerry. "they are planning going to housekeeping, i believe; you see they have quarreled with their mother. they consider that they have been unjustly punished, and i am in sympathy with them; and they believe they could make a house to live in out of that eggshell if they could only think of a way to stick it together again. i wish _we_ could build a house out of eggshells; or even one room, and we'd have one before the month was over." "why?" said nettie, stooping down to see why buff kept her foot under her. "do you want a room, jerry?" "somewhat," said jerry. "at least i see a number of things we could do if we had a room, that i don't know how to do without one. come over here, nettie, and sit down; leave those chickens to sulk it out, and let us talk a little. i have a plan so large that there is no place to put it." chapter xix. ready to try. "you see," said jerry, as nettie came, protesting as she walked that she could stay but a few minutes, because there was norm's collar, and she had four nice apples out of which she was going to make some splendid apple dumplings for dinner, "you see we must contrive something to keep a young fellow like norm busy, if we are going to hold him after he is caught. it doesn't do to catch a fish and leave him on the edge of the bank near enough to flounce back into the water. norm ought to be set to work to help along the plans, and kept so busy he wouldn't have time to get tired of them." "but how could that be done?" nettie said in wondering tones, which nevertheless had a note of admiration in them. jerry went so deeply into things, it almost took her breath away to follow him. "just so; that's the problem which ought to be thought out. i can think of things enough; but the room, and the tools to begin with, are the trouble." "what have you thought of? what would you do if you could?" "o my!" said jerry, with a little laugh; "don't ask me that question, or your folks will have no apple dumplings to-day. i don't believe there is any end to the things which i would do if i could. but the first beginnings of them are like this: suppose we had a few dollars capital, and a room." "you might as well suppose we had a palace, and a million dollars," said nettie, with a long-drawn sigh. "no, because i don't expect either of those things; but i do mean to have a room and a few dollars in capital for this thing some day; only, you see, i don't want to wait for them." "well, go on; what then?" "why, then we would start an eating-house, you and i, on a little bit of a scale, you know. we would have bread with some kind of meat between, and coffee, in cold weather, and lemonade in hot, and a few apples, and now and then some nuts, and a good deal of gingerbread--soft, like what auntie smith makes--and some ginger-snaps like those mrs. dix sent us from the country, and, well, you know the names of things better than i do. real good things, i mean, but which don't cost much. such as you, and sarah ann, and a good many bright girls learn how to make, without using a great deal of money. those things are all rather cheap, which i have mentioned, because we have them at our house quite often, and the smiths are poor, you know. but they are made so nice that they are just capital. well, i would have them for sale, just as cheap as could possibly be afforded; a great deal cheaper than beer, or cigars, and i would have the room bright and cheery; warm in winter, and as cool as i could make it in summer; then i would have slips of paper scattered about the town, inviting young folks to come in and get a lunch; then when they came, i would have picture papers if i could, for them to look at, and games to play, real nice jolly games, and some kind of music going on now and then. i'd run opposition to that old grocery around the corner from crossman's, with its fiddle and its whiskey. that's the beginning of what i would do. just what i told you about, that first night we talked it over. the fellows, lots of them, have nowhere to go; it keeps growing in my mind, the need for doing something of the sort. i never pass that mean grocery without thinking of it." you should have seen nettie's eyes! the little touch of discouragement was gone out of them, and they were full of intense thought. "i can see," she said at last, "just how splendid it might grow to be. but what did you mean about norm? there isn't any work for him in such a plan. at least, i mean, not until he was interested to help for the sake of others." "yes, there is, plenty of business for him. don't you see? i would have this room, open evenings, after the work was done, and i would have norm head manager. he should wait on customers, and keep accounts. when the thing got going he would be as busy as a bee; and he is just the sort of fellow to do that kind of thing well, and like it too," he added. "o jerry," said nettie, and her hands were clasped so closely that the blood flowed back into her wrists, "was there ever a nicer thought than that in the world! i know it would succeed; and norm would like it so much. norm likes to do things for others, if he only had the chance." "i know it; and he likes to do things in a business way, and keep everything straight. oh! he would be just the one. if we only had a room, there is nothing to hinder our beginning in a very small way. those chickens are growing as fast as they can, and by thanksgiving there will be a couple of them ready to broil; then the little old grandmothers did so well." "i know it; who would have supposed that almost four dollars could be made out of some daisy grandmothers! miss sherrill gave me one dollar and ninety-five cents which she said was just half of what they had earned. i do think it was so nice in her to give us that chance! she couldn't have known how much we wanted the money. jerry, why couldn't we begin, just with that? it would start us, and then if the things sold, why, the money from them would keep us started until we found a way to earn more. why can't we?" "room," said jerry, with commendable brevity. "why, we have a room; there's the front one that we just put in such nice order. why not? it is large enough for now, and maybe when our business grew we could get another one somehow." jerry stopped fitting the toe of his boot to a hole which he had made in the ground, and looked at the eager young woman of business before him. "do you mean your mother would let us have the room, and the chance in the kitchen, to go into such business?" "mother would do _anything_," said nettie emphatically, "anything in the world which might possibly keep norm in the house evenings; you don't know how dreadfully she feels about norm. she thinks father," and there nettie stopped. how could a daughter put it into words that her mother was afraid her father would lead his son astray? "i know," said jerry. "see here, nettie, what is the matter with your father? i never saw him look so still, and--well, queer, in some way. mr. smith says he doesn't think he is drinking a drop; but he looks unlike himself, somehow, and i can't decide how." "i don't know," said nettie, in a low voice. "we don't know what to think of him. he hasn't been so long without drinking, mother says, in four years. but he doesn't act right; or, i mean, natural. he isn't cross, as drinking beer makes him, but he isn't pleasant, as he was for a day or two. he is real sober; hardly speaks at all, nor notices the things i make; and i try just as hard to please him! he eats everything, but he does it as though he didn't know he was eating. mother thinks he is in some trouble, but she can't tell what. he can't be afraid of losing his place--because mother says he was threatened that two or three times when he was drinking so hard, and he didn't seem to mind it at all; and why should he be discharged now, when he works hard every day? last saturday night he brought home more money than he has in years. mother cried when she saw what there was, but she had debts to pay, so we didn't get much start out of it after all. then we spend a good deal in coffee; we have it three times a day, hot and strong; i can see father seems to need it; and i have heard that it helped men who were trying not to drink. when i told mother that, she said he should have it if she had to beg for it on her knees. but i don't know what is the matter with father now. sometimes mother is afraid there is a disease coming on him such as men have who drink; she says he doesn't sleep very well nights, and he groans some, when he is asleep. mother tries hard," said nettie, in a closing burst of confidence, "and she _does_ have such a hard time! if we could only save norm for her." "i'll tell you who your mother looks like, or would look like if she were dressed up, you know. did you ever see mrs. burt?" "the woman who lives in the cottage where the vines climb all around the front, and who has birds, and a baby? i saw her yesterday. you don't think mother looks like her!" "she would," said jerry, positively, "if she had on a pink and white dress and a white fold about her neck. i passed there last night, while mrs. burt was sitting out by that window garden of hers, with her baby in her arms; mr. burt sat on one of the steps, and they were talking and laughing together. i could not help noticing how much like your mother she looked when she turned her side face. oh! she is younger, of course; she looks almost as though she might be your mother's daughter. i was thinking what fun it would be if she were, and we could go and visit her, and get her to help us about all sorts of things. mr. burt knows how to do every kind of work about building a house, or fixing up a room." "he is a nice man, isn't he?" "why, yes, nice enough; he is steady and works hard. mr. smith thinks he is quite a pattern; he has bought that little house where he lives, and fixed it all up with vines and things; but i should like him better if he didn't puff tobacco smoke into his wife's face when he talked with her. he doesn't begin to be so good a workman as your father, nor to know so much in a hundred ways. i think your father is a very nice-looking man when he is dressed up. he looks smart, and he is smart. mr. smith says there isn't a man in town who can do the sort of work that he can at the shop, and that he could get very high wages and be promoted and all that, if"-- jerry stopped suddenly, and nettie finished the sentence with a sigh. she too had passed the burt cottage and admired its beauty and neatness. to think that mr. burt owned it, and was a younger man by fifteen years at least than her father--and was not so good a workman! then see how well he dressed his wife; and little bobby burt looked as neat and pretty in sunday-school as the best of them. it was very hard that there must be such a difference in homes. if she could only live in a house like the burt cottage, and have things nice about her as they did, and have her father and mother sit together and talk, as mr. and mrs. burt did, she should be perfectly happy, nettie told herself. then she sprang up from the log and declared that she must not waste another minute of time; but that jerry's plan was the best one she had ever heard, and she believed they could begin it. with this thought still in mind, after the dinner dishes were carefully cleared away, and her mother, returned from the day's ironing, had been treated to a piece of the apple dumpling warmed over for her, and had said it was as nice a bit as she ever tasted, nettie began on the subject which had been in her thoughts all day: "what would you think of us young folks going into business?" "going into business!" "yes'm. jerry and norm and me. jerry has a plan; he has been telling me about it this morning. it is nice if we can only carry it out; and i shouldn't wonder if we could. that is, if you think well of it." "i begin to think there isn't much that you and jerry can't do, with norm, or with anybody else, if you try; and you both appear to be ready to try to do all you can for everybody." mrs. decker's tone was so hearty and pleased, that you would not have known her for the same woman who looked forward dismally but a few weeks ago to nettie's home-coming. her heart had so warmed to the girl in her efforts for father and brother, that she was almost ready to agree to anything which she could have to propose. so nettie, well pleased with this beginning, unfolded with great clearness and detail, jerry's wonderful plan for not only catching norm, but setting him up in business. mrs. decker listened, and questioned and cross-questioned, sewing swiftly the while on norm's jacket which had been torn, and which was being skilfully darned in view of the evening to be spent at the parsonage. "well," she said at last, "it looks wild to me, i own; i should as soon try to fly as of making anything like that work in this town; but then, you've made things work, you two, that i'd no notion could be done, and between you, you seem to kind of bewitch norm. he's done things for you that i would no sooner have thought of asking of him than i would have asked him to fly up to the moon; and this may be another of them. anyhow, if you've a mind to try it, i won't be the one to stop you. i've been that scared for norm, that i'm ready for anything. oh! the _room_, of course you may use it. if you wanted to have a circus in there, i think i'd agree, wild animals and all; i've had worse than wild animals in my day. no, your father won't object; he thinks what you do is about right, i guess. and for the matter of that, he doesn't object to anything nowadays; i don't know what to make of him." the sentence ended with a long-drawn, troubled sigh. just what this strange change in her husband meant, mrs. decker could not decide; and each theory which she started in her mind about it, looked worse than the last. norm's collar was ready for him, so was his jacket. he was somewhat surly; the truth was, he had received what he called a "bid" to the merry-making which was to take place in the back room of the grocery, around the corner from crossman's, and he was a good deal tried to think he had cut himself off by what he called a "spooney" promise, from enjoying the evening there. at the same time there was a certain sense of largeness in saying he could not come because he had received an invitation elsewhere, which gave him a momentary pleasure. to be sure the boys coaxed until they had discovered the place of his engagement, and joked him the rest of the time, until he was half-inclined to wish he had never heard of the parsonage; but for all that, a certain something in norman which marked him as different from some boys, held him to his word when it was passed; and he had no thought of breaking from his engagement. it was an evening such as norman had reason to remember. for the first time in his life he sat in a pleasantly furnished home, among ladies and gentlemen, and heard himself spoken to as one who "belonged." three ladies were there from the city, and two gentlemen whom norman had never seen before; all friends of the sherrills come out to spend a day with them. they were not only unlike any people whom he had ever seen before, but, if he had known it, unlike a great many ladies and gentlemen, in that their chief aim in life was to be found in their master's service; and a boy about whom they knew nothing, save that he was poor, and surrounded by temptations, and satan desired to have him, was in their eyes so much stray material which they were bound to bring back to the rightful owner if they could. to this end they talked to norman. not in the form of a lecture, but with bright, winning words, on topics which he could understand, not only, but actually on certain topics about which he knew more than they. for instance, there was a cave about two miles from the town, of which they had heard, but had never seen and norm had explored every crevice in it many a time. he knew on which side of the river it was located, whether the entrance was from the east or the south; just how far one could walk through it, just how far one could creep in it, after walking had become impossible, and a dozen other things which it had not occurred to him were of interest to anybody else. in fact, norm discovered in the course of the hour that there was such a thing as conversation. not that he made use of that word, in thinking it over; his thoughts, if they could have been seen, would have been something like this: "these are swell folks, but i can understand what they say, and they seem to understand what i say, and don't stare as though i was a wild animal escaped from the woods. i wonder what makes the difference between them and other folks?" but when the music began! i have no words to describe to you what it was to norm to sit close to an organ and hear its softest notes, and feel the thrill of its heavy bass tones, and be appealed to occasionally as to whether he liked this or that the best, and to have a piece sung because the player thought it would please him; she selected it that morning, she told him, with this thought in view. "decker, you ought to learn to play," said one of the guests who had watched him through the last piece. "you _look_ music, right out of your eyes. miss sherrill, here is a pupil for you who might do you credit. have you ever had any instrument, decker?" then norm came back to every-day life, and flushed and stammered. "no, he hadn't, and was not likely to;" and wondered what they would think if they were to see the corner grocery where he spent most of his leisure time. the questioner laughed pleasantly. "oh, i'm not so sure of that. i have a friend who plays the violin in a way to bring tears to people's eyes, and he never touched one until he was thirty years old; hadn't time until then. he was an apprentice, and had his trade to master, and himself to get well started in it before he had time for music; but when he came to leisure, he made music a delight to himself and to others." "a great deal can be done with leisure time," said another of the guests. "mr. sherrill, you remember myers, your college classmate? he did not learn to read, you know, until he was seventeen." "what?" said norm, astonished out of his diffidence; "didn't know how to read!" "no," repeated the gentleman, "not until he was seventeen. he had a hard childhood--was kicked about in the world, with no leisure and no help, had to work evenings as well as days, but when he was seventeen he fell into kinder hands, and had a couple of hours each evening all to himself, and he mastered reading, not only, but all the common studies, and graduated from college with honor when he was twenty-six." now norm had all his evenings to lounge about in, and had not known what to do with them; and he could read quite well. chapter xx. the way made plain. it was a beautiful sabbath afternoon; just warm enough to make people feel still and pleasant. the soft summer sunshine lay smiling on all the world, and the soft summer breeze rustled the leaves of the trees, and stole gently in at open windows. in the front room of the deckers, the family was gathered, all save mr. decker. he could be heard in his bedroom stepping about occasionally, and great was his wife's fear lest he was preparing to go down town and put himself in the place of temptation at his old lounging place. sunday could not be said to be a day of rest to mrs. decker. it had been the day of her greatest trials, so far. norm was in his clean shirt and collar, which had been done up again by nettie's careful hands and which shone beautifully. he was also in his shirt sleeves; that the mother was glad to see; _he_ was not going out just yet, anyway. mrs. decker had honored the day with a clean calico dress, and had shyly and with an almost shamefaced air, pinned into it a little cambric ruffle which nettie had presented her, with the remark that it was just like the one mrs. burt wore, and that jerry said she looked like mrs. burt a little, only he thought she was the best-looking of the two. mrs. decker had laughed, and then sighed; and said it made dreadful little difference to her how she looked. but the sigh meant that the days were not so very far distant when mr. decker used to tell her she was a handsome woman; and she used to smile over it, and call him a foolish man without any taste; but nevertheless used to like it very much, and make herself look as well as she could for his sake. she hadn't done it lately, but whose fault was that, she should like to know? however, she pinned the ruffle in, and whether mr. decker noticed it or not, she certainly looked wonderfully better. norm noticed it, but of course he would not have said so for the world. nettie in her blue and white gingham which had been washed and ironed since the flower party, and which had faded a little and shrunken a little, still looked neat and trim, and had the little girls one on either side of her, telling them a story in low tones; not so low but that the words floated over to the window where norm was pretending not to listen: "and so," said the voice, "daniel let himself be put into a den of dreadful fierce lions, rather than give up praying." "did they frow him in?" this question from little sate, horror in every letter of the words. "yes, they did; and shut the door tight." "i wouldn't have been," said fierce susie; "i would have bitten, and scratched and kicked just awful!" "why didn't daniel shut up the window just as _tight_, and not let anybody know it when he said his prayers?" oh little sate! how many older and wiser ones than you have tried to slip around conscience corners in some such way. "i don't know all the reasons," said nettie, after a thoughtful pause, "but i suppose one was, because he wouldn't act in a way to make people believe he had given up praying. he wanted to show them that he meant to pray, whether they forbade it or not." "go on," said susie, sharply, "i want to know how he felt when the lions bit him." "they didn't bite him; god wouldn't let them touch him. they crouched down and kept as _still_, all night; and in the morning when the king came to look, there was daniel, safe!" "oh my!" said sate, drawing a long, quivering sigh of relief; "wasn't that just splendid!" "how do you know it is true?" said skeptical susie, looking as though she was prepared not to believe anything. "i know it because god said it, susie; he put it in the bible." "i didn't ever hear him say it," said susie with a frown. a laugh from norm at that moment gave nettie her first knowledge of him as a listener. her cheeks grew red, and she would have liked to slip away into a more quiet corner but sate was in haste to hear just what the king said, and what daniel said, and all about it, and the story went on steadily, daniel's character for true bravery shining out all the more strongly, perhaps, because nettie suspected herself of being a coward, and not liking norm to laugh at her bible stories. as for norm, he knew he was a coward; he knew he had done in his life dozens of things to make his mother cry; not because he was so anxious to do them, nor because he feared a den of lions if he refused, but simply because some of the fellows would laugh at him if he did. that sabbath day had been a memorable one to the decker family in some respects; at least to part of it. nettie had taken the little girls with her to sabbath-school, and then to church. mrs. smith had given her a cordial invitation to sit in their seat, but it was not a very large seat, and when job and his wife, and sarah ann and jerry were all there, as they were apt to be, there was just room for nettie without the little girls; so she went with them to the seat directly under the choir gallery where very few sat. it was comfortable enough; she could see the minister distinctly, and though she had to stretch out her neck to see the choir, she could hear their sweet voices; and surely that was enough. all went smoothly until the sermon was concluded. sate sat quite still, and if she did not listen to the sermon, listened to her own thoughts and troubled no one. but when the anthem began, sate roused herself. that wonderful voice which seemed to fill every corner of the church! she knew the voice; it belonged to her dear teacher. she stretched out her little neck, and could catch a glimpse of her, standing alone, the rest of the choir sitting back, out of sight. and what was that she was saying, over and over? "come unto me, unto me, unto me"--the words were repeated in the softest of cadences--"all ye who are weary and heavy laden and i will give you rest." sate did not understand those words, certainly her little feet were not weary, but there was a sweetness about the word "rest" as it floated out on the still air, which made her seem to want to go, she knew not whither. then came the refrain: "come unto me, unto me," swelling and rolling until it filled all the aisles, and dying away at last in the tenderest of pleading sounds. sate's heart beat fast, and the color came and went on her baby face in a way which would have startled nettie had she not been too intent on her own exquisite delight in the music, to remember the motionless little girl at her left. "take my yoke upon you, and learn of me, learn of me," called the sweet voice, and sate, understanding the last of it felt that she wanted to learn, and of that one above all others. "for i am meek and lowly of heart"--she did not know what the words meant, but she was drawn, drawn. then, listening, breathless, half resolved, came again that wondrous pleading, "come unto me, unto me, unto me." softly the little feet slid down to the carpeted floor, softly they stepped on the green and gray mosses which gave back no sound; softly they moved down the aisle as though they carried a spirit with them, and when nettie, hearing no sound, yet turned suddenly as people will, to look after her charge, little sate was gone! where? nettie did not know, could not conjecture. no sight of her in the aisle, not under the seat, not in the great church anywhere. the door was open into the hall, and poor little tired sate must have slipped away into the sunshine outside. well, no harm could come to her there; she would surely wait for them, or, failing in that, the road home was direct enough, and nothing to trouble her; but how strange in little sate to do it! if it had been susie, resolute, independent susie always sufficient to herself and a little more ready to do as she pleased than any other way! but susie sat up prim and dignified on nettie's right; not very conscious of the music, and willing enough to have the service over, but conscious that she had on her new shoes, and a white dress, and a white bonnet, and looked very well indeed. meantime, little sate was not out in the sunshine. she had not thought of sunshine; she had been called; it was not possible for her sweet little heart to get away from the feeling that some one was calling her, and that she wanted to go. what better was there to do than follow the voice? so she followed it, out into the hall, up the gallery stairs, still softly--the new shoes made no sound on the carpet--through the door which stood ajar, quite to the singer's side, there slipped this quiet little woman who had left her white bonnet by nettie, and stood with her golden head rippling with the sunlight which fell upon it. there was a rustle in the choir gallery, a soft stir over the church, the sort of sound which people make when they are moved by some deep feeling which they hardly understand; there was a smile on some faces, but it was the kind of smile which might be given to a baby angel if it had strayed away from heaven to look at something bright down here. the tenor singer would have drawn away the small form from the soloist, but she put forth a protecting hand and circled the child, and sang on, her voice taking sweeter tone, if possible, and dying away in such tenderness as made the smiles on some faces turn to tears, and made the echo linger with them of that last tremulous "come unto me." [illustration: little sate in the choir gallery.] but little sate, when she reached the choir gallery, saw something which startled her out of her sweet resolute calm. away on the side, up there, where few people were, sat her own father; and rolling down his cheeks were tears. sate had never seen her father cry before. what was the matter? had she been naughty, and was it making him feel bad? she stole a startled glance at the face of her teacher, whose arm was still around her and had drawn her toward the seat into which she dropped, when the song was over. no, _her_ face was quiet and sweet; not grieved, as sate was sure it would be, if she had been naughty. neither did the people look cross at her; many of them had bowed their heads in prayer, but some were sitting erect, looking at her and smiling; surely she had made no noise. why should her father cry? she looked at him; he had shaded his face with his hand. was he crying still? little sate thought it over, all in a moment of time, then suddenly she slipped away from the encircling arm, moved softly across the intervening space, into the side gallery, and was at her father's side, with her small hand on his sleeve. he stooped and took her in his arms, and the tears were still in his eyes; but he kissed her, and _kissed_ her, as little sate had never been kissed before; she nestled in his arms and felt safe and comforted. the prayer was over, the benediction given, and the worshipers moved down the aisles. sate rode comfortably in her father's arms, down stairs, out into the hall, outside, in the sunshine, waiting for nettie and for her white sunbonnet. presently nettie came, hurried, flushed, despite her judgment, anxious as to where the bonnetless little girl could have vanished. "why, sate," she began, but the rest of the sentence died in astonished silence on her lips, for sate held her father's hand and looked content. they walked home together, the father and his youngest baby, saying nothing, for sate was one of those wise-eyed little children who have spells of sweet silence come over them, and nettie, with susie, walked behind, the elder sister speculating: "where did little sate find father? did he pick her up on the street somewhere, and would he be angry, and not let nettie take her to church any more? or did he, passing, spy her in the churchyard and come in for her?" nettie did not know, and sate did not tell; principally because she did not understand that there was anything to tell. so while the people in their homes talked and laughed about the small white waif who had slipped into the choir, the people in this home were entirely silent about it, and the mother did not know that anything strange had happened. it is true, susie began to inquire reprovingly, but was hushed by nettie's warning whisper; certainly nettie was gaining a wonderful control over the self-sufficient susie. the child respected her almost enough to follow her lead unquestioningly, which was a great deal for susie to do. so they sat together that sweet sabbath afternoon, nettie telling her bible stories, and wondering how she should plan. what did norm intend to do a little later in the day? what was there she could do to keep him from lounging down street? why was her father staying so long in the choked-up bedroom? what was the matter with her father these days, and how long was anything going to last? why did she feel, someway, as though she stood on the very edge of something which startled and almost frightened her? was it because she was afraid her father would not let her take sate and susie to church any more? with all these thoughts floating through her mind, it was rather hard to keep herself closely confined to daniel and his experiences. suddenly the bedroom door opened and her father came out. everybody glanced up, though perhaps nobody could have told why. there was a peculiar look on his face. mrs. decker noticed it and did not understand it, and felt her heart beat in great thuds against the back of her chair. little sate noticed it, and went over to him and slipped her hand inside his. he sat down in the state chair which nettie and her mother had both contrived to have left vacant, and took sate in his arms. this of itself was unusual, but after that, there was silence, sate nestling safely in the protective arms and seeming satisfied with all the world. nettie felt her face flush, and her bosom heave as if the tears were coming, but she could not have told why she wanted to cry norm seemed oppressed with the stillness, and broke it by whistling softly; also he had a small stick and was whittling; it was the only thing he could think of to do just now. it was too early to go out; the boys would not be through with their boarding-house dinners yet. suddenly mr. decker broke in on the almost silence. "hannah," he said, then he cleared his voice, and was still again, "and you children," he added, after a moment, "i've got something to tell you if i knew how. something that i guess you will be glad to hear. i've turned over a new leaf at last. i've turned it, off and on, in my mind a good many times lately, though i don't know as any of you knew it. i've been thinking about this thing, well, as soon as nannie there came home, at least; but i haven't understood it very well, and i s'pose i don't now; but i understand it enough to have made up my mind; and that's more than half the battle. the long and short of it is, i have given myself to the lord, or he has got hold of me, somehow; it isn't much of a gift, that's a fact, but the queer thing about it is, he seems to think it worth taking. i told him last night that if he would show a poor stick like me how to do it, why, i'd do my part without fail; and this morning he not only showed the way plain enough, but he sent my little girl to help me along." the father's voice broke then, and a tear trembled in his eye. sate had held her little head erect and looked steadily at him as soon as he began to talk, wonder and interest, and some sort of still excitement in her face as she listened. at his first pause she broke forth: "did he mean you, papa, when he said 'come unto me'? was he calling you, all the time? and did you tell him you would?" "yes," he said, bending and kissing the earnest face, "he meant me, and he's been calling me loud, this good while; but i never got started till to-day. now i'm going along with him the rest of the way." "i'm so glad," said little sate, nestling contentedly back, "i'm so glad, papa; i'm going too." chapter xxi. the new enterprise. one bright and never-to-be-forgotten day, nettie and jerry stood together in the "new" room and surveyed with intense satisfaction all its appointments. they were ready to begin business. on that very evening the room was to be "open to the public!" they looked at each other as they repeated that large-sounding phrase, and laughed gleefully. there had been a great deal to do to get ready. hours and even days had been spent in planning. it astonished both these young people to discover how many things there were to think of, and get ready for, and guard against, before one could go into business. there was a time when with each new day, new perplexities arose. during those days jerry had spent a good deal of his leisure in fishing; both because at the smiths, and also at the deckers, fish were highly prized, and also because, as he confided to nettie, "a fellow could somehow think a great deal better when his fingers were at work, and when it was still everywhere about him." there were times, however, when his solitude was disturbed. there had been one day in particular when something happened about which he did not tell nettie. he was in his fishing suit, which though clean and whole was not exactly the style of dress which a boy would wear to a party, and he stood leaning against a rail fence, rod in hand, trying to decide whether he should try his luck on that side, or jump across the logs to a shadier spot; trying also to decide just how they could manage to get another lamp to stand on the reading table, when he heard voices under the trees just back of him. they were whispering in that sort of penetrating whisper that floats so far in the open air, and which some, girls, particularly, do not seem to know can be heard a few feet away. jerry could hear distinctly; in fact unless he stopped his ears with his hands he could not help hearing. and the old rule, that listeners never hear any good of themselves, applied here. "there's that jerry who lives at the smiths'," said whisperer number one, "do look what a fright; i guess he has borrowed a pair of job smith's overalls! isn't it a shame that such a nice-looking boy is deserted in that way, and left to run with all sorts of people?" "i heard that he wasn't deserted; that his father was only staying out west, or down south, or somewhere for awhile." "oh! that's a likely story," said whisperer number one, her voice unconsciously growing louder. "just as if any father who was anybody, would leave a boy at job smith's for months, and never come near him. i think it is real mean; they say the smiths keep him at work all the while, fishing; he about supports them, and the deckers too, with fish and things." at this point the amused listener nearly forgot himself and whistled. "oh well, that's as good a way as any to spend his time; he knows enough to catch fish and do such things, and when he is old enough, i suppose he will learn a trade; but i must say i think he is a nice-looking fellow." "he would be, if he dressed decently. the boys like him real well; they say he is smart; and i shouldn't wonder if he was; big eyes twinkle as though he might be. if he wouldn't keep running with that decker girl all the time, he might be noticed now and then." at this point came up a third young miss who spoke louder. jerry recognized her voice at once as belonging to lorena barstow. "girls, what are you doing here? why, there is that irish boy; i wonder if he wouldn't sell us some fish? they say he is very anxious to earn money; i should think he would be, to get himself some decent clothes. or maybe he wants to make his dear nan a present." then followed a laugh which was quickly hushed, lest the victim might hear. but the victim had heard, and looked more than amused; his eyes flashed with a new idea. "much obliged, miss lorena," he said softly, nodding his head. "if i don't act on your hint, it will be because i am not so bright as you give me credit for being." then the first whisperer took up the story: "say, girls, i heard that ermina did really mean to invite him to her candy pull, and the decker girl too; she says they both belong to the sunday-school, and she is going to invite all the boys and girls of that age in the school, and her mother thinks it would not be nice to leave them out. you know the farleys are real queer about some things." lorena barstow flamed into a voice which was almost loud. "then i say let's just not speak a word to either of them the whole evening. ermina farley need not think that because she lives in a grand house, and her father has so much money, she can rule us all. i for one, don't mean to associate with a drunkard's daughter, and i won't be made to, by the farleys or anybody else." "her father isn't a drunkard now. why, don't you know he has joined the church? and last wednesday night they say he was in prayer meeting." "oh, yes, and what does that amount to? my father says it won't last six weeks; he says drunkards are not to be trusted; they never reform. and what if he does? that doesn't make nan decker anything but a dowdy, not fit for us girls to go with; and as for that irish boy! why doesn't ermina go down on paddy lane and invite the whole tribe of irish if she is so fond of them?" "hush, lora, ermina will hear you." sure enough at that moment came ermina, springing briskly over logs and underbrush. "have i kept you waiting?" she asked gayly. "the moss was so lovely back there; i wanted to carry the whole of it home to mother. why, girls, there is that boy who sits across from us in sabbath-school. "how do you do?" she said pleasantly, for at that moment jerry turned and came toward them, lifting his hat as politely as though it was in the latest shape and style. "have you had good luck in fishing?" "very good for this side; the fish are not so plenty here generally as they are further up. i heard you speaking of fish, miss barstow, and wondering whether i would not supply your people? i should be very glad to do so, occasionally; i am a pretty successful fellow so far as fishing goes." you should have seen the cheeks of the whisperers then! ermina looked at them, perplexed for a moment, then seeing they answered only with blushes and silence _she_ spoke: "mamma would be very glad to get some; she was saying yesterday she wished she knew some one of whom she could get fish as soon as they were caught. have you some to-day for sale?" "three beauties which i would like nothing better than to sell, for i am in special need of the money just now." "very well," said ermina promptly, "i am sure mamma will like them; could you carry them down now? i am on my way home and could show you where to go." "ermina farley!" remonstrated lorena barstow in a low shocked tone, but ermina only said: "good-by, girls, i shall expect you early on thursday evening," and walked briskly down the path toward the road, with jerry beside her, swinging his fish. if the girls could have seen his eyes just then, they would have been sure that they twinkled. they had a pleasant walk, and ermina did actually invite him to her candy-pull on thursday evening; not only that, but she asked if he would take an invitation from her to nettie decker. "she lives next door to you, i think," said ermina, "i would like very much to have her come; i think she is so pleasant and unselfish. it is just a few boys and girls of our age, in the sunday-school." how glad jerry was that she had invited them! he had been so afraid that her courage would not be equal to it. glad was he also to be able to say, frankly, that both he and nettie had an engagement for thursday evening; he would be sure to give nettie the invitation, but he knew she could not come. of course she could not, he said to himself; "isn't that our opening evening?" but all the same it was very nice in ermina farley to have invited them. "here is another lamp for the table," said jerry gayly, as he rushed into the new room an hour later and tossed down a shining silver dollar. he had exchanged the fish for it. then he sat down and told part of their story to nettie. about the whisperers, however, he kept silent. what was the use in telling that? but from them he had gotten another idea. "look here, nettie, some evening we'll have a candy-pull, early, with just a few to help, and sell it cheap to customers." so now they stood together in the room to see if there was another thing to be done before the opening. a row of shelves planed and fitted by norm were ranged two thirds of the way up the room and on them were displayed tempting pans of ginger cookies, doughnuts, molasses cookies, and soft gingerbread. sandwiches made of good bread, and nice slices of ham, were shut into the corner cupboard to keep from drying; there was also a plate of cheese which was a present from mrs. smith. she had sent it in with the explanation that it would be a blessing to her if that cheese could get eaten by somebody; she bought it once, a purpose, as a treat for job, and it seemed it wasn't the kind he liked, and none of the rest of them liked any kind, so there it had stood on the shelf eying her for days. there was to be coffee; nettie had planned for that. "because," she explained, "they _all_ drink beer; and things to eat, can never take the place of things to drink." it had been a difficult matter to get the materials together for this beginning. all the money which came in from the "little old grandmothers," as well as that which jerry contributed, had been spent in flour, and sugar, and eggs and milk. nettie was amazed and dismayed to find how much even soft gingerbread cost, when every pan of it had to be counted in money. a good deal of arithmetic had been spent on the question: how low can we possibly sell this, and not actually lose money by it? of course some allowance had to be made for waste. "we'll have to name it waste," explained nettie with an anxious face, "because it won't bring in any money; but of course not a scrap of it will be wasted; but what is left over and gets too dry to sell, we shall have to eat." jerry shook his head. "we must sell it," he said with the air of a financier. then he went away thoughtfully to consult mrs. job, and came back triumphant. she would take for a week at half price, all the stale cake they might have left. "that means gingercake," he explained, "she says the cookies and things will keep for weeks, without getting too old." "sure enough!" said radiant nettie, "i did not think of that." there were other things to think of; some of them greatly perplexed jerry; he had to catch many fish before they were thought out. then he came with his views to nettie. "see here, do you understand about this firm business; it must be you and me, you know?" nettie's bright face clouded. "why, i thought," she said, speaking slowly, "i thought you said, or you meant--i mean i thought it was to help norm; and that he would be a partner." jerry shook his head. "can't do it," he said decidedly. "look here, nettie, we'll get into trouble right away if we take in a partner. he believes in drinking beer, and smoking cigarettes, and doing things of that sort; now if he as a partner introduces anything of the kind, what are we to do?" "sure enough!" the tone expressed conviction, but not relief. "then what are we to do, jerry? i don't see how we are going to help norm any." "i do; quite as well as though he was a partner. norm is a good-natured fellow; he likes to help people. i think he likes to do things for others better than for himself. if we explain to him that we want to go into this business, and that you can't wait on customers, because you are a girl, and it wouldn't be the thing, and i can't, because it is in your house, and i promised my father i would spend my evenings at home, and write a piece of a letter to him every evening; and ask him to come to the rescue and keep the room open, and sell the things for us, don't you believe he will be twice as likely to do it as though we made him as young as ourselves, and tried to be his equals?" then nettie's face was bright. "what a contriver you are!" she said admiringly. "i think that will do just splendidly." she was right, it did. norm might have curled his lip and said "pooh" to the scheme, had he been placed on an equality; for he was getting to the age when to be considered young, or childish, is a crime in a boy's eyes. but to be appealed to as one who could help the "young fry" out of their dilemma, and at the same time provide himself with a very pleasant place to stay, and very congenial employment while he stayed, was quite to norm's mind. and as it was an affair of the children's, he made no suggestions about beer or cigars; it is true he thought of them, but he thought at once that neither nettie or jerry would probably have anything to do with them, and as he had no dignity to sustain, he decided to not even mention the matter. these two planned really better than they knew in appealing to norm for help. his curious pride would never have allowed him to say to a boy, "we keep cakes and coffee for sale at our house; come in and try them." but it was entirely within the line of his ideas of respectability to say: "what do you think those two young ones over at our house have thought up next? they have opened an eating-house, cakes and things such as my sister can make, and coffee, dirt cheap. i've promised to run the thing for them in the evening awhile; i suppose you'll patronize them?" and the boys, who would have sneered at _his_ setting himself up in business, answered: "what, the little chap who lives at smith's? and your little sister! ho! what a notion! i don't know but it is a bright one, though, as sure as you live. there isn't a spot in this town where a fellow can get a decent bite unless he pays his week's wages for it; boys, let's go around and see what the little chaps are about." the very first evening was a success. nettie had assured herself that she must not be disappointed if no one came, at first. "you see, it is a new thing," she explained to her mother, "of course it will take them a little while to get acquainted with it; if nobody at all comes to-night, i shall not be disappointed. shall you, jerry?" "why, yes," said jerry, "i should; because i know of one boy who is coming, and is going to have a ginger-snap and a glass of milk. and that is little ted locker who lives down the lane; they about starve that boy. i shall like to see him get something good. he has three cents and i assured him he could get a brimming glass of milk and a ginger-snap for that. he was as delighted as possible." "poor fellow!" said nettie, "i mean to tell norm to let him have two snaps, wouldn't you?" and jerry agreed, not stopping to explain that he had furnished the three cents with which ted was to treat his poor little stomach. so the work began in benevolence. still nettie was anxious, not to say nervous. "you will have to eat soft gingerbread at your house, for breakfast, dinner and supper, i am afraid," she said to jerry with a half laugh, as they stood looking at it. "i don't know why i made four tins of it; i seemed to get in a gale when i was making it." "never you fear," said jerry, cheerily. "i'll be willing to eat such gingerbread as that three times a day for a week. between you and me," lowering his voice, "sarah ann can't make very good gingerbread; when we get such a run of custom that we have none left over to sell, i wish you'd teach her how." i do not know that any member of the two households could be said to be more interested in the new enterprise than mr. decker. he helped set up the shelves, and he made a little corner shelf on purpose for the lamp, and he watched the entire preparations with an interest which warmed nettie's heart. i haven't said anything about mr. decker during these days, because i found it hard to say. you are acquainted with him as a sour-faced, unreasonable, beer-drinking man; when suddenly he became a man who said "good morning" when he came into the room, and who sat down smooth shaven, and with quiet eyes and smile to his breakfast, and spoke gently to susie when she tipped her cup of water over, and kissed little sate when he lifted her to her seat, and waited for mrs. decker to bring the coffee pot, then bowed his head and in clear tones asked a blessing on the food, how am i to describe him to you? the change was something which even mrs. decker who watched him every minute he was in the house and thought of him all day long, could not get accustomed to. it astonished her so to think that she, mrs. decker, lived in a house where there was a prayer made every night and morning, and where each evening after supper nettie read a few verses in the bible, and her father prayed; that every time she passed her own mother's bible which had been brought out of its hiding-place in an old trunk, she said, under her breath, "thank the lord." no, she did not understand it, the marvelous change which had come over her husband. she had known him as a kind man; he had been that when she married him, and for a few months afterwards. she had heard him speak pleasantly to norm, and show him much attention; he had done it before they were married, and for awhile afterwards; but there was a look in his face, and a sound in his voice now, such as she had never seen nor heard before. "it isn't decker," she said in a burst of confidence to nettie. "he is just as good as he can be; and i don't know anything in the world he ain't willing to do for me, or for any of us; and it is beautiful, the whole of it; but it is all new. i used to think if the man i married could only come back to me i should be perfectly happy; but i don't know this man at all; he seems to me sometimes most like an angel." probably you would have laughed at this. joe decker did not look in the least like the picture you have in your mind of an angel; but perhaps if you had known him only a few weeks before, as mrs. decker did, and could have seen the wonderful change in him which she saw, the contrast might even have suggested angels. nettie understood it. she struggled with her timidity and her ignorance of just what ought to be said; then she made her earnest reply: "mother, i'll tell you the difference. father prays, and when people pray, you know, and mean it, as he does, they get to looking very different." but mrs. decker did not pray. chapter xxii. too good to be true. as a matter of fact there wasn't a cake left. neither doughnut nor gingersnap; hardly a crumb to tell the successful tale. nettie surveyed the empty shelves the next morning in astonishment. she had been too busy the night before to realize how fast things were going. naturally the number and variety of dishes in the decker household was limited and the evening to nettie was a confused murmur of, "hand us some more cups." "can't you raise a few more teaspoons somewhere?" "give us another plate," or, "more doughnuts needed;" and nettie flew hither and thither, washed cups, rinsed spoons, said, "what did i do with that towel?" or, "where in the world is the bread knife?" or, "oh! i smell the coffee! maybe it is boiling over," and was conscious of nothing but weariness and relief when the last cup of coffee was drank, and the last teaspoon washed. but with the next morning's sunshine she knew the opening was a success. she counted the gains with eager joy, assuring jerry that they could have twice as much gingerbread next time. "and you'll need it," said norm. "i had to tell half a dozen boys that there wasn't a crumb left. i felt sorry for 'em, too; they were boarding-house fellows who never get anything decent to eat." already norm had apparently forgotten that he was one who used frequently to make a similar complaint. there was a rarely sweet smile on nettie's face, not born of the chink in the factory bag which she had made for the money; it grew from the thought that she need not hide the bag now, and tremble lest it should be taken to the saloon to pay for whiskey. what a little time ago it was that she had feared that! what a changed world it was! "but there won't be such a crowd again," she said as they were putting the room in order, "that was the first night." "humph!" said that wise woman susie with a significant toss of her head; "last night you said we mustn't expect anybody because it was the first night." then "the firm" had a hearty laugh at nettie's expense and set to work preparing for evening. i am not going to tell you the story of that summer and fall. it was beautiful; as any of the deckers will tell you with eager eyes and voluble voice if you call on them, and start the subject. the business grew and grew, and exceeded their most sanguine expectations. mr. decker interested himself in it most heartily, and brought often an old acquaintance to get a cup of coffee. "make it good and strong," he would say to nettie in an earnest whisper. "he's thirsty, and i brought him here instead of going for beer. i wish the room was larger, and i'd get others to come." in time, and indeed in a very short space of time, this grew to be the crying need of the firm: "if we only had more room, and more dishes!" there was a certain long, low building which had once been used as a boarding-house for the factory hands, before that institution grew large and moved into new quarters, and which was not now in use. at this building jerry and nettie, and for that matter, norm, looked with longing eyes. they named it "our rooms," and hardly ever passed that they did not suggest some improvement in it which could be easily made, and which would make it just the thing for their business. they knew just what sort of curtains they would have at the windows, just what furnishings in front and back rooms, just how many lamps would be needed. "we will have a hanging lamp over the centre table," said jerry. "one of those new-fashioned things which shine and give a bright light, almost like gas; and lots of books and papers for the boys to read." "but where would we get the books and papers?" would nettie say, with an anxious business face, as though the room, and the table, and the hanging lamp, were arranged for, and the last-mentioned articles all that were needed to complete the list. "oh! they would gather, little by little. i know some people who would donate great piles of them if we had a place to put them. for that matter, as it is, father is going to send us some picture-papers, a great bundle of them; send them by express, and we must have a table to put them on." so the plans grew, but constantly they looked at the long, low building and said what a nice place it would be. one morning jerry came across the yard with a grave face. "what do you think?" he said, the moment he caught sight of nettie. "they have gone and rented our rooms for a horrid old saloon; whiskey in front, and gambling in the back part! isn't it a shame that they have got ahead of us in that kind of way?" "oh dear me!" said nettie, drawing out each word to twice its usual length, and sitting down on a corner of the woodbox with hands clasped over the dish towel, and for the moment a look on her face as though all was lost. but it was the very same day that jerry appeared again, his face beaming. this time it was hard to make nettie hear, for mrs. decker was washing, and mingling with the rapid rub-a-dub of the clothes was the sizzle of ham in the spider, and the bubble of a kettle which was bent on boiling over, and making the half-distracted housekeeper all the trouble it could. yet his news was too good to keep; and he shouted above the din: "i say, nettie, the man has backed out! our rooms are not rented, after all." "goody!" said nettie, and she smiled on the kettle in a way to make it think she did not care if everything in it boiled over on the floor; whereupon it calmed down, of course, and behaved itself. so the weeks passed, and the enterprise grew and flourished. i hope you remember mrs. speckle? very early in the autumn she sent every one of her chicks out into the world to toil for themselves and began business. each morning a good-sized, yellow-tinted, warm, beautiful egg lay in the nest waiting for jerry; and when he came, mrs. speckle cackled the news to him in the most interested way. "she couldn't do better if she were a regularly constituted member of the firm with a share in the profits," said jerry. the egg was daily carried to mrs. farley's, where there was an invalid daughter, who had a fancy for that warm, plump egg which came to her each morning, done up daintily in pink cotton, and laid in a box just large enough for it. but there came a morning which was a proud one to nettie. jerry had returned from mrs. farley's with news. "the sick daughter is going south; she has an auntie who is to spend the winter in florida, so they have decided to send her. they start to-morrow morning. mrs. farley said they would take our eggs all the same, and she wished miss helen could have them; but somebody else would have to eat them for her." then nettie, beaming with pleasure, "jerry, i wish you would tell mrs. farley that we can't spare them any more at present; i would have told you before, but i didn't want to take the egg from miss helen; i want to buy them now, every other morning, for mother and father; mother thinks there is nothing nicer than a fresh egg, and i know father will be pleased." what satisfaction was in nettie's voice, what joy in her heart! oh! they were poor, very poor, "miserably poor" lorena barstow called them, but they had already reached the point where nettie felt justified in planning for a fresh egg apiece for father and mother, and knew that it could be paid for. so mrs. speckle began from that day to keep the results of her industry in the home circle, and grew more important because of that. almost every day now brought surprises. one of the largest of them was connected with susie decker. that young woman from the very first had shown a commendable interest in everything pertaining to the business. she patiently did errands for it, in all sorts of weather, and was always ready to dust shelves, arrange cookies without eating so much as a bite, and even wipe teaspoons, a task which she used to think beneath her. "if you can't trust me with things that would smash," she used to say with scornful gravity, to nettie, "then you can't expect me to be willing to wipe those tough spoons." but in these days, spoons were taken uncomplainingly. susie had a business head, and was already learning to count pennies and add them to the five and ten cent pieces; and when jerry said approvingly: "one of these days, she will be our treasurer," the faintest shadow of a blush would appear on susie's face, but she always went on counting gravely, with an air of one who had not heard a word. on a certain stormy, windy day, one of november's worst, it was discovered late in the afternoon that the molasses jug was empty, and the boys had been promised some molasses candy that very evening. "what shall we do?" asked nettie, looking perplexed, and standing jug in hand in the middle of the room. "jerry won't be home in time to get it, and i can't leave those cakes to bake themselves; mother, you don't think you could see to them a little while till i run to the grocery, do you?" mrs. decker shook her head, but spoke sympathetically: "i'd do it in a minute, child, or i'd go for the molasses, but these shirts are very particular; i never had such fine ones to iron before, and the irons are just right, and if i should have to leave the bosoms at the wrong minute to look at the cakes, why, it would spoil the bosoms; and on the other hand, if i left the cakes and saved the bosoms, why, they would be spoiled." this seemed logical reasoning. susie, perched on a high chair in front of the table, was counting a large pile of pennies, putting them in heaps of twenty-five cents each. she waited until her fourth heap was complete, then looked up. "why don't you ask me to go?" "sure enough!" said nettie, laughing, "i'd 'ask' you in a minute if it didn't rain so hard; but it seems a pretty stormy day to send out a little chicken like you." "i'm not a chicken, and i'm not the leastest bit afraid of rain; i can go as well as not if you only think so." "i don't believe it will hurt her!" said mrs. decker, glancing doubtfully out at the sullen sky. "it doesn't rain so hard as it did, and she has such a nice thick sack now." it was nice, made of heavy waterproof cloth, with a lovely woolly trimming going all around it. susie liked that sack almost better than anything else in the world. her mother had bought it second-hand of a woman whose little girl had outgrown it; the mother had washed all day and ironed another day to pay for it, and felt the liveliest delight in seeing susie in the pretty garment. the rain seemed to be quieting a little, so presently the young woman was robed in sack and waterproof bonnet with a cape, and started on her way. half-way to the grocery she met jerry hastening home from school with a bag of books slung across his shoulder. "is it so late as that?" asked susie in dismay. "nettie thought you wouldn't be at home in a good while; the candy won't get done." "no, it is as early as this," he answered laughing; "we were dismissed an hour earlier than usual this afternoon. where are you going? after molasses? see here, suppose you give me the jug and you take my books and scud home. there is a big storm coming on; i think the wind is going to blow, and i'm afraid it will twist you all up and pour the molasses over you. then you'd be ever so sticky!" susie laughed and exchanged not unwillingly the heavy jug for the books. there had been quite wind enough since she started, and if there was to be more, she had no mind to brave it. "if you hurry," called jerry, "i think you'll get home before the next squall comes." so she hurried; but jerry was mistaken. the squall came with all its force, and poor small susie was twisted and whirled and lost her breath almost, and panted and struggled on, and was only too thankful that she hadn't the molasses jug. nearly opposite the farley home, their side door suddenly opened and a pleasant voice called: "little girl, come in here, and wait until the shower is over; you will be wet to the skin." it is true susie did not believe that her waterproof sack _could_ be wet through, but that dreadful wind so frightened her, twisting the trees as it did, that she was glad to obey the kind voice and rush into shelter. "why, it is nettie's sister, i do believe!" said ermina farley, helping her off with the dripping hood. "you dear little mouse, what sent you out in such a storm?" miss susie not liking the idea of being a mouse much more than she did being a chicken, answered with dignity, and becoming brevity. "molasses candy!" said mrs. farley, laughing, yet with an undertone of disapproval in her voice which keen-minded susie heard and felt, "i shouldn't think that was a necessity of life on such a day as this." "it is if you have promised it to some boys who don't ever have anything nice only what they get at our house; and who save their pennies that they spend on beer, and cider, and cigars to get it." wise susie, indignation in every word, yet well controlled, and aware before she finished her sentence that she was deeply interesting her audience! how they questioned her! what was this? who did it? who thought of it? when did they begin it? who came? how did they get the money to buy their things? susie, thoroughly posted, thoroughly in sympathy with the entire movement, calm, collected, keen far beyond her years, answered clearly and well. plainly she saw that this lady in a silken gown was interested. "well, if this isn't a revelation!" said mrs. farley at last. "a young men's christian association not only, but an eating-house flourishing right in our midst and we knowing nothing about it. did you know anything of it, daughter?" "no, ma'am," said ermina. "but i knew that splendid nettie was trying to do something for her brother; and that nice boy who used to bring eggs was helping her; it is just like them both. i don't believe there is a nicer girl in town than nettie decker." mrs. farley seemed unable to give up the subject. she asked many questions as to how long the boys stayed, and what they did all the time. susie explained: "well, they eat, you know; and norm doesn't hurry them; he says they have to pitch the things down fast where they board, to keep them from freezing; and our room is warm, because we keep the kitchen door open, and the heat goes in; but we don't know what we shall do when the weather gets real cold; and after they have eaten all the things they can pay for, they look at the pictures. jerry's father sends him picture papers, and mr. sherrill brings some, most every day. miss sherrill is coming thanksgiving night to sing for them; and nettie says if we only had an organ she would play beautiful music. we want to give them a treat for thanksgiving; we mean to do it without any pay at all if we can; and father thinks we can, because he is working nights this week, and getting extra pay; and jerry thinks there will be two chickens ready; and nettie wishes we could have an organ for a little while, just for norm, because he loves music so, but of course we can't." long before this sentence was finished, ermina and her mother had exchanged glances which susie, being intent on her story, did not see. she was a wise little woman of business; what if mrs. farley should say: "well, i will give you a chicken myself for the thanksgiving time, and a whole peck of apples!" then indeed, susie believed that their joy would be complete; for nettie had said, if they could only afford three chickens she believed that with a lot of crust she could make chicken pie enough for them each to have a large piece, hot; not all the boys, of course, but the seven or eight who worked in norm's shop and boarded at the dreary boarding-house; they would so like to give norm a surprise for his birthday, and have a treat say at six o'clock for all of these; for this year thanksgiving fell on norm's birthday. the storm held up after a little, and susie, trudging home, a trifle disgusted with mrs. farley because she said not a word about the peck of apples or the other chicken, was met by jerry coming in search of her. the molasses was boiling over, he told her, and so was her mother, with anxiety lest the wind had taken her, susie, up in a tree, and had forgotten to bring her down again. he hurried her home between the squalls, and susie quietly resolved to say not a word about all the things she had told at the farley home. what if nettie should think she hadn't been womanly to talk so much about what they were doing! if there was one thing that this young woman had a horror of during these days, it was that nettie would think she was not womanly. the desire, nay, the determination to be so, at all costs had well nigh cured her of her fits of rage and screaming, because in one of her calm moments nettie had pointed out to her the fact that she never in her life heard a _woman_ scream like that. susie being a logical person, argued the rest of the matter out for herself, and resolved to scream and stamp her foot no more. great was the astonishment of the decker family, next morning. mrs. farley herself came to call on them. she wanted some plain ironing done that afternoon. yes, mrs. decker would do it and be glad to; it was a leisure afternoon with her. mrs. farley wanted something more! she wanted to know about the business in which nettie and her young friend next door were engaged; and susie listened breathlessly, for fear it would appear that she had told more than she ought. but mrs. farley kept her own counsel, only questioning nettie closely, and at last she made a proposition that had well nigh been the ruin of the tin of cookies which nettie was taking from the oven. she dropped the tin! "did you burn you, child?" asked mrs. decker, rushing forward. "no, ma'am," said nettie, laughing, and trying not to laugh, and wanting to cry, and being too amazed to do so. "but i was so surprised and so almost scared, that they dropped. "o mrs. farley, we have wanted that more than anything else in the world; ever since mr. sherrill saw how my brother norman loved music, and said it might be the saving of him; jerry and i have planned and planned, but we never thought of being able to do it for a long, long time." yet all this joy was over an old, somewhat wheezy little house organ which stood in the second-story unused room of mrs. farley's house, and which she had threatened to send to the city auction rooms to get out of the way. she offered to lend it to nettie for her "rooms," and nettie's gratitude was so great that the blood seemed inclined to leave her face entirely for a minute, then thought better of it and rolled over it in waves. chapter xxiii. the crowning wonder. and they did have the thanksgiving supper! it seemed wonderful to nettie, even then, and long afterwards the wonder grew, that so many things occurred about that time to help the scheme along. at first it was to be a very simple little affair; two of the boys, rick for instance, and alf, invited to come in an hour or so before the room was open for the evening, and have a little supper by themselves--a chicken, and possibly some cranberry sauce if she could compass it, though cranberries were very expensive at that season, and besides, they ate sugar in a way which was perfectly alarming! a pie of some sort she had quite set her heart on, but whether it would be pumpkin or not, depended on how they succeeded in saving up for extra milk. the circumstances of the deckers were changing steadily, but when a man has tumbled to the foot of a hill, and lain there quite awhile, it is generally a slow process to get up and climb back to where he was before. mr. decker's wages were good, and in time he expected to be able to support his family in at least ordinary comfort; but when he came fully to his senses, he stood for awhile appalled before the number of things which had been sold to pay his bill at the saloon, and the number of things which in the meantime had worn out, and not been replaced by new ones; then the rent was two months back, and job smith had been all that stood between him and a home. there was a great deal to do if the deckers were to get back to the place from which they began to roll down hill; so extra expenses for cranberries, or even milk, were not to be thought of, if they must be drawn from the family funds. the business of the firm was flourishing; but you must remember that the central feature of the enterprise was to keep prices very low, lower than beer and bad cigars, and the enterprise of the dealers in these things is so great, that if you are willing to put up with the meanest sorts you can always get them very low indeed. to compete with them, jerry and nettie had to study the most rigid economy to keep their shelves supplied, and even to sometimes "shut their eyes and make a reckless dash at apples or peanuts, regardless of expense." this was the way in which jerry occasionally apologized for an extra quantity of these luxuries. still, in the most interesting ways the thanksgiving supper grew. mrs. decker secured within a week of the time, an unexpected ironing which she could do in two evenings, and she it was who proposed the wild scheme of having two chickens and having them hot, and stuffing them with bread crumbs as she used to do years ago, and having gravy and some baked potatoes. she agreed to furnish the extra potatoes, and a few turnips, just to make it feel like thanksgiving. nettie was astonished, but pleased. it would be more work, but what of that? think of being able to make a real supper for norm's birthday! then mrs. smith at just the right moment had a present of two pumpkins from her country friends; as they could never make away with two pumpkins before they would spoil, of course the deckers must take part of one, at least. about that time the minister bought a cow, and what did he do but come himself one night to know if mrs. decker had any use for skimmed milk; they were very fond of cream at their house, and skimmed milk gathered faster than they knew what to do with it. "any use for skim milk!" mrs. decker could only repeat the words in a kind of ecstasy at her good luck, and she almost wondered that the yellow pumpkin standing behind the door in the closet did not laugh outright. but the crowning wonder came, after all, on the morning before the eventful day. jake, the farleys' man of all work, brought it in a basket which was large and closely covered, and very heavy looking. it was left at the door with susie, who went to answer the knock, "for miss nettie." susie repeated the name with a lingering tone as though she liked the sound of the unusual prefix. then they gathered about the basket. a great solemn-looking turkey with a note in his mouth, which said: "a thanksgiving token for nettie, from her friend ermina farley." a turkey in the decker oven! mr. decker surveyed the great fellow in silence for a few minutes, then said impressively, "if we don't have a new cook stove before another thanksgiving day comes around, my name is not decker." mrs. job smith left her pies half-made, and ran in, in a friendly way, to see the wonder; and at once remarked that he would exactly fit into their oven, and she wasn't going to cook their turkey till the day afterwards, because they had got to go to job's uncle's for thanksgiving; so that matter was settled. it was then that the deckers decided to make a reckless plunge into society and invite every boy in norm's shop to a three o'clock dinner, with turkey and cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie and turnip, and all the rest. what a day it was! they grew nearly wild in their efforts to keep all the secrets from norm, and act as though nothing unusual was happening. especially was this the case after the morning express brought a package for nettie from her dear old home, with two mince pies, and a box of auntie marshall's doughnuts, and a bag of nuts, and as much as two pounds of the loveliest candy she ever saw; sent by the young man of the home who was clerk in a wholesale confectioner's. it took mrs. decker and nettie not five minutes to resolve, looking curiously into each other's faces the while to see if they really had become insane, that they would have a regular dessert following the dinner! "it is only once a year," said nettie apologetically. "it is only once in five years!" said mrs. decker solemnly. "i haven't had a thanksgiving in five years, child; and i never expected to have another." everybody was busy all day long. mrs. smith was in and out, helping as faithfully as though norm was her boy, and sarah ann just gave herself up to the importance of the occasion, and did not go to her uncle's at all. "i can go there any time," she said good naturedly, "or no time; they always forget that we are alive till thanksgiving day, and then they ask us because they kind of think they've got to. uncle jed is a clerk, and his wife makes dresses for the folks on belmont street, and they feel stuck up four feet above us; i'd rather eat cold pork and potatoes at home than to go there any day. i'm dreadful glad of an excuse that father thinks is worth giving." susie was a young woman of importance that day. nettie, who had discovered exactly how to manage her, gave her work to do which suited her ideas of what a grown person like herself ought to be about; and when she wanted the table cleared from the picture papers of the night before, instead of telling miss susie to fold them away, said, "what do you think, susie, would it be best for us to fold these papers away in the closet for to-day, and have this table left clear for the nuts and the candies?" "yes," said susie, with her grown-up air, "i think it would; i'll attend to it." and she did it beautifully. "it is well we have no little bits of folks around," said nettie, when the nuts were being cracked, "they would be tempted to eat some, and then i'm afraid we would not have enough to go around." and susie, gravely assenting to this theory, arranged the nuts in mrs. smith's blue saucers, an equal number in each, and ate not one! little sate went with jerry to give the invitations to the boys, and to charge them to keep the whole thing a profound secret from norm; they came home by way of the farley woods, and little sate appeared at the door with her arms laden with such lovely branches of autumn leaves, that nettie exclaimed in wild delight, and left her turnips half-peeled to help adorn the walls of the front room. this suggested the idea, and by three o'clock that room was a bower of beauty. red and golden and lovely brown leaves mixed in with the evergreen tassels of the pines, with here and there pine cones, and red berries peeping out from everywhere. "you little darling," said nettie, kissing sate, "you have made a picture of it, like what they paint on canvas, only a thousand times lovelier." and sate, looking on, with her wide sweet eyes aglow with feeling, fitted the picture well. so the feast was spread, and the astonished and hungry boys came, and feasted. and norm, too astonished at first to take it in, began presently to understand that all this preparation and delight were in honor of his birthday! and though he said not a word, aloud, he kept up in his soul a steady line of thought; the centre of which was this: "i don't deserve it, that's a fact; there's mother doing everything for me, and nettie working like a slave, and the children going without things to give me a treat. i'll be in a better fix to keep a birthday before it gets around again, see if i'm not!" his was not the only thinking which was done that day. rick, merry enough all the afternoon, and enjoying his dinner as well as it was possible for a hungry fellow to do, nevertheless had a sober look on his face more than once, and said as he shook hands with norm at night: "i'll tell you what it is, my boy, if i had your kind of a home, and folks, i'd be worth something in the world; i would, so. i ain't sure, between you and me, but i shall, anyhow; just for the sake of getting into such thanksgiving houses once in awhile. by and by a fellow will have to carry himself pretty straight, or that sister of yours won't have nothing to do with him; i can see that in her eyes." then he went home. and cold though his room was he sat down, even after he had pulled off his coat, as a memory of some thoughtful word of nettie's came over him, and went all over it again; then he brought his hard hand down with a thud on the rickety table, on which he leaned and said: "as sure as you live, and breathe the breath of life, old fellow, you've got to turn over a new leaf; and you've got to begin to-night." it was less than a week after the thanksgiving excitements that the town got itself roused over something which reached even to the children. jerry came home from school with it, and came directly to nettie, his cheeks aglow with the news. "there's to be the biggest kind of a time here next thursday, nettie; don't you think general mcclintock is coming, to give a lecture, and they are going to give him a reception at judge bentley's and i don't know what all, and the schools are all going to dismiss and go down to the train in procession to meet him, and they are going to sing, _hail to the chief_, and the band is to play, _see, the conquering hero comes_, and i don't know what isn't going to be done." "who is general mcclintock?" said ignorant nettie, composedly drying her plate as though all the generals in the world were nothing to her. then did jerry come the nearest impatience that nettie had ever seen in him; and he launched forth in such a wild praise of general mcclintock and such an excited account of the things which he had done and said, and prevented, and pushed, that nettie was half bewildered and delightfully excited when he paused for breath. henceforth the talk of the town was general mcclintock. "it is a wonder they asked him to speak on temperance," said nettie, disdain in her voice; she had not a high opinion of the temperance enthusiasm of the town in which she lived. "they didn't," said jerry. "he asked himself; they wanted him to talk about the war, or the tariff, or the great west, or some other stupid thing, but he said, 'no, sir! the great question of the day is temperance, and i shall speak on that, or nothing!'" "how do you happen to know so much about him?" nettie questioned one day when jerry was at his highest pitch of excitement. "ho!" he said, almost in scorn, "i have known about him ever since i was born; everybody knows general mcclintock." then nettie felt meek and ignorant. nothing had ever so excited jerry as the coming of the hero; and indeed the town generally seemed to have caught fire. general mcclintock seemed to be the theme of every tongue. connected with these days, nettie had her perplexities and her sorrows. in the first place, jerry was obstinately determined that she should join the procession with him to meet general mcclintock. in vain she protested that she did not belong to the public schools. he did, he said, and that was enough. then when nettie urged and almost cried, he had another plan: "well, then, we won't go as scholars. we'll go ahead, as private individuals; i'm only a kind of a scholar, anyhow, just holding on for a few weeks till my father comes; we'll go up there early and get a good place before the procession forms and see the whole of it. i know the marshal real well; he's a good friend of mine, and i know he will give us a place." it was of no use for nettie to protest; to remind him that the girls would think she was putting herself forward, to say that she had nothing to wear to such a gathering. she might as well have talked to a stone for all the impression she made. she had never seen him so resolute to have his own way. he did not care what she wore, it made not the slightest difference to him what the girls said, and he _did_ ask it of her as a kindness to him, and he should be hurt so that he could never get over it if she refused to go; he had never wanted anything so much in his life, and he _could_ not give it up. so nettie, reluctant, sorrowful, promised, and cried over it in her room that night. she wanted to please jerry, for his father was coming now in a few weeks perhaps, and jerry would go away with him, and she should never see him again; and what in the world would she do without him? and here she cried harder than ever. then came up that dreadful question of clothes; her one winter dress was too short and too narrow and a good deal worn. auntie marshall had thought last winter that it would hardly do for a church dress, and here it was still her best. there was no such thing as a new one for the present; for mother had not had anything in so long, she must be clothed, and nettie was willing to wait; but she was not willing to take a conspicuous place on a public day and be stared at and talked about. however, jerry continued merciless to the very last; nothing else would satisfy him. he hurried her in a breathless state down the hill to the platform, smiled and nodded to his friend the marshal, who nodded back in the most confidential manner, and perched them on the corner of the temporary platform, right behind the reception committee! it was every whit as disagreeable as nettie had planned that it should be. of course lorena barstow was among the leaders in the young people's procession, and of course she contrived to get enough to be heard, and to say in a most unnecessarily loud voice: "do look at that decker girl perched up there on the platform. if she doesn't contrive to make herself a laughing stock everywhere! girls, look at her hat; she must have worn it ever since they came out of the ark. what business is she here, anyway? she doesn't belong to the schools?" there was much more in the same vein; much pushing and crowding, and laughing and hateful speeches about folks who crowded in where they didn't belong, and poor nettie, the tears only kept back by force of will, looked in vain for sympathy into jerry's fairly dancing eyes. what ailed the boy? she had never seen him so almost wild with eager excitement before. judge barstow and dr. lewis were both on the reception committee, of course, and under cover of this, their daughters wedged their way to the front, and whispered to the fathers. loud whispers: "papa, that ridiculous decker girl and the little irish boy with her ought not to be perched up there in that conspicuous place. she doesn't belong here, anyway; she isn't a scholar." then judge barstow in good-humored tones to jerry: "my boy, don't you think you would find it quite as pleasant down there among the others? this little girl doesn't want to be up here, i am sure; suppose you both go down and fall behind the procession? you can see the general when the carriage passes; it is to be thrown open so every one can see." then the marshal: "if you please, judge barstow, it won't do for them to try to get through now. the crowd is so great they might be hurt; there is plenty of room where they stand. they will do no harm." _now_ the tears must come from the indignant eyes. no, they shall not. jerry doesn't even wink. he only laughs, in the highest good humor. has jerry gone wild with excitement? "it will all be over in two minutes," explains judge barstow. "he wished to drive directly to his hotel, and have perfect quiet for two hours. he declined to be entertained at a private house, or to say a word at the depot. i suppose he is fatigued, and doesn't like to trust his voice to speak in the open air; so the committee are to shake hands with him as rapidly as possible, and show him to his carriage, and not wait on him for two hours. he has ordered a private dinner at the keppler house." suddenly there is the whistle of the train, the band plays _see, the conquering hero comes!_ with the second strain the train comes to a halt, and a tall, broad-shouldered man with iron gray hair and a military air all about him steps from the platform amid the cheers of thousands. now indeed there was some excuse for lorena barstow's loud exclamations of disapproval! there was jerry, pushing his way among the throng, holding so firmly all the while to nettie's hand that escape was impossible--pushing even past the reception committee, notwithstanding the detaining hand of judge barstow, who says, "see here, my boy, you are impudent, did you know it?" "i beg pardon," says jerry respectfully, but he slips past him, just as general mcclintock with courteous words is thanking the committee of reception, declining their pressing personal invitations, his eyes meantime roving over the crowd in search of something or somebody. suddenly they melt with a tenderness which does not belong to the soldier, and the firm lips quiver as his voice says: "o my boy!" and jerry the irish boy flings himself into general mcclintock's arms, and the world stands agape! just a second, and his hand holds firmly to the sack which covers nettie's startled frightened form, then he releases himself and turns to her: "father, this is nettie!" "sure enough!" said the general, and his tall head bends and the mustached lips of the old soldier touch nettie's cheek, and the cheering, hushed for a second, breaks forth afresh! it is a moment of the wildest excitement. even then nettie tries to break away and is held fast. and an officer of the day advances with the military salute and assures the general that his carriage is in waiting. and the general himself hands the bewildered nettie in, with a friendly smile and an assuring: "of course you must go. my boy planned this whole thing three months ago; and you and i must carry out his programme to the letter." then jerry springs like a cat into the carriage, and the scholars sing, _hail to the chief_, and the carriage, drawn by four horses, rolls down the road made wide for it by the homeguard in full uniform, and the general lifts his hat and bows right and left, and smiles on nettie decker sitting by his side, and almost devours with his hungry, fatherly eyes, her friend the irish boy on the opposite seat. and the scholars almost forget to sing, in their great and ever-increasing amazement. chapter xxiv. the past and present. nettie decker sat by the window of her father's house, looking out into the beautiful world; taking one last look at the flowers, and the trees, and the lawn, and all the beautiful and familiar things. saying good-by to them, for in a brief two hours she was to leave them, and the old home. [illustration: nettie decker has a suitable dress at last.] she is nettie decker still, but you will not be able to say that of her in another hour. she has changed somewhat since you last saw her in her blue gingham dress a trifle faded, or in her brown merino much the worse for time. to-day she is twenty years old. a lovely summer day, and her birthday is to be celebrated by making it her wedding day. the blue gingham has been long gone; so has the brown merino. the dress she wears to-day looks unlike either of them. it is white, all white; she has a suitable dress at last for a gala day. soft, rich, quiet white silk. long and full and pure; not a touch of trimming about it anywhere. not even a flower yet, though she holds one in her hand in doubt whether she will add it to the whiteness. i think it will probably be pushed among the folds of soft lace which lie across her bosom; for that would please little sate's artist eye, and nettie likes to please sate. while she sits there, watching the birds, and the flowers, and thinking of the strange sweet past, and the strange sweet present, there pass by almost underneath the window two young ladies; moving slowly, glancing up curiously at the open casement, from which nettie draws a little back, that she may not be seen. "that is nettie's room where the window is open," says one of the ladies. "it is a lovely room; i was in it once when the circle met there; it is furnished in blue, with creamy tints on the walls and furniture. i don't think i ever saw a prettier room. nettie has excellent taste." "do you say her brother is to be at the wedding?" "o, yes indeed! he came day before yesterday; he is a splendid-looking fellow, and smart; they say he is the finest student yale has had for years. he graduated with the very highest honors, and now he is studying medicine. i heard dr. hobart say that he would be an honor to the profession. you ought to hear him play; i thought he would be a musician, he is so fond of music, and really he plays exquisitely on the organ. last spring when he was home he played in church all day, and i heard ever so many people say they had never heard anything finer in any church." "i don't remember him. was he in our set?" "o no! he wasn't in any set when you were here. why, irene lewis, you must remember the deckers! they weren't in any set." "oh! i remember them, of course; don't you know what fun we used to make of nettie? didn't we call her nan? i remember she always wore an old blue and white gingham to sunday-school." "that was years ago; she dresses beautifully now, and in exquisite taste. she must make a lovely bride. i should like to get a glimpse of her." "the mcclintocks are very rich, i have been told." "oh! immensely so; and they say general mcclintock just idolizes nettie. i don't wonder at that; she is a perfectly lovely girl." "seems to me, lorena, my dear, about the time i left this part of the world you did not think so much of her as you do now. i remember you used to make all sorts of fun of her, and real hateful speeches, as schoolgirls will, you know. i have a distinct recollection of a flower party where she was, and my conscience, i remember, troubled me at the time for saying so many disagreeable things about her that afternoon; but i recollect i comforted myself with the thought that you were much worse than i. you used to lead off, in those days, you know." "oh! i remember; i was a perfect little idiot in those days. yes, i was disagreeable enough to nettie decker; if she hadn't been a real sweet girl she would never have forgotten it; but i don't believe she ever thinks of it, and really she is so utterly changed, and all the family are, that i hardly ever remember her as the same girl." "what became of that little irish boy she used to be so fond of--jerry, his name was?" "now, irene lewis! you don't mean to tell me you have never heard about him! well, you have been out of the world, sure enough." "i have never heard a word of him from the time i went with uncle lawrence out west. father moved in the spring, you know, so instead of my coming back early in the spring as i expected, i never came until now? what about jerry? did he distinguish himself in any way? i always thought him a fine-looking boy." "that is too funny that you shouldn't know! why, the irish boy, jerry, as you call him, is the gerald mcclintock whom nettie decker is to marry at twelve o'clock to-day." "gerald mcclintock! how can that be? that boy's name was jerry mack." "indeed it wasn't. we were all deceived in that boy. it does seem so strange that you have never heard the story! why, you see, he was general mcclintock's son all the time." "why did he pretend he was somebody else?" "he didn't pretend; or at least i heard he said he didn't begin it. it seems that mrs. smith, the car-man's wife, you know, used to live in general mcclintock's family before his wife died; and job smith lived there as coachman. when they married, general mcclintock broke up housekeeping, and went south with his family. then mrs. mcclintock died, and the general and this one boy boarded in new york, and gerald attended school. in the spring the general was called to california on some important law business--you know he is a celebrated lawyer, and they say his son is going to be even more brilliant than his father--well, the father had to go, and the boy made him promise that he might spend the summer vacation with mrs. smith out here. the mcclintocks had been very fond of her and her husband and trusted them both; so the general agreed to it, thinking he would be back long before the vacation closed. "but he was delayed by one thing and another, and the boy coaxed to stay on, and study in the public school here; he was a pupil in whately institute at home. imagine him taking up with our common schools! so he stayed until the first of december, and then his father came. "such a time as that was! you see we all knew of general mcclintock, of course, and when it was found we could get him to lecture, the people nearly went wild over it. we couldn't understand why we should have such good fortune, when we knew ever so many places--large cities--had been refused; but it was all explained after he came. "it was a beautiful day when he came; all the schools were closed, and we formed a procession and marched to the depot, and the band was there, and great crowds. i remember as though it were yesterday how astonished we were to see nettie decker and that boy in a conspicuous place on the corner of the platform. nettie had on her old brown merino, and looked so queer and seemed so out of place, that i went and spoke to father about it, and he advised them to go down and join the procession; but it seems the marshal knew what he was about, and objected to their moving. then the train came, and there was a great excitement, and in the midst of it, the general almost took that boy jerry in his arms, and kissed and kissed him! then he kissed nettie decker, and while we stood wondering what on earth it all meant, they all three entered an elegant carriage drawn by four horses, and were carried to the keppler house. "they had an elegant private dinner, they three; and in fact all the time the general was here, he kept nettie decker with them; he treated her more like a daughter than a stranger. i don't think there was ever such an excitement in this town about anything as we had at that time; the circumstances were so peculiar, you know." "but i don't understand it, yet. why did he call himself jerry mack? what was his object in deceiving us all?" "he hadn't the slightest intention of doing so. i heard he said such a thought never entered his mind until we began it. it seems when he was a little bit of a fellow he tried to speak his name, gerald mcclintock, and the nearest he could approach to it, was, jerry mack. of course they thought that was cunning, and it grew to be his pet name; so before they knew it, the servants and all his boy friends called him so, all the time. when he came here mrs. smith and her husband naturally used the old name; then somebody, i'm sure i don't know who, started the story that he was an irish boy working at the smiths for his board; and it seems he heard of it, and it amused him so much he decided to let people think so if they wanted to; he coaxed the smiths not to tell who he was, or why he was here; and they so nearly worshipped him, that if he had asked them to say he was a north american indian i believe they would have done it. it seems he liked nettie decker from the first, and was annoyed because she wasn't invited in our set. but i am sure i don't know how we were to blame; she had nothing to wear, and how were we to know that she was a very smart girl, and real sweet and good? the deckers were very poor, and mr. decker drank, you know, and norm was sort of a loafer, and we thought they were real low people." "i remember ermina farley was friendly with nettie, and with the boy, too." "o yes, ermina was always peculiar; she is yet. i have always thought that perhaps ermina knew something about the mcclintocks, but she says she didn't. i heard her say the other day that somebody told her he was an irish boy, whose father had run away and left him; and the smiths gave him a home out of pity; and she supposed of course it was so, and was sorry for him. then she always thought he was handsome, and smart; well, so did i, i must say." "i wonder who started that absurd story about his father deserting him?" "i don't know, i'm sure; somebody imagined it was so, i suppose, and spoke of it; such things spread, you know, nobody seems to understand quite how." "well, as i remember things, jerry--i shall always call him that name, i don't believe i could remember to say mr. mcclintock if i should meet him now--as i remember him, he seemed to be as poor as nettie; he dressed very well, but not as a gentleman's son, and he seemed to be contriving ways to earn little bits of money. don't you remember that old hen and chickens he bought? and he used to go to the farleys every morning with a fresh egg for helen; sold it, you know, for i was there one morning when mrs. farley paid him." "i know it; he was always contriving ways to earn money; why, irene, don't you remember his selling fish to ermina farley that day when we were talking down by the pond? i have always thought he heard more than we imagined he did, that day; i don't clearly remember what we said, but i know we were running on about nettie decker and about jerry; i used to sort of dislike them both, because ermina farley was always trying to push them forward. "i would give something to know exactly what we did say that day. for awhile i did not like to meet any of the mcclintocks; it always seemed to me as though they were thinking about that time. but they have been perfectly polite and cordial to me, always; and nettie decker is a perfect lady. but i know all about the poverty. it seems the boy jerry had been very fond of giving away money, and books, and all sorts of things to people whom he thought needed them; and his father began to be afraid he would have no knowledge of the value of money, and would give carelessly, you know, just because he felt like it. so the general had a long talk with him, and made an arrangement that while he was gone west, jerry should have nothing to give away but what he earned. he might earn as much as he liked, or could, and give it all away if he chose; but not a penny besides, and he was not to appeal to his father to help anybody in any way whatever. of course the father was to pay all his bills for necessary things--they say he paid a splendid price to the smiths for taking care of him. poor mrs. smith cried when he went away, as though he had been her own child. well, of course that crippled him, in his pocket money, but they say his father was very much pleased to find how many schemes he had started for earning money. that plan about the business was his from beginning to end, and just see what it has grown to!" "what? i don't know; remember, i only came night before last, and haven't heard anything about the town since the day i left it." "why, the norman house, the most elegant hotel in town, is the outgrowth of that enterprise begun in the decker's front room! mr. decker owns the whole thing, now, and manages it splendidly. his wife is a perfect genius, they say, about managing. she oversees the housekeeping herself, and the cooking is perfect they say. general mcclintock was so pleased with the beginning, that he bought that long low building on smith street that first time he was here, and fitted it up for norman and nettie to run. he carried his son away with him, of course, but they stayed long enough to see that matter fairly under way. the norman house is managed on the same general principles; strictly temperance, of course. the general is as great a fanatic about that as the deckers are, and the prices are very low--lower than other first-class houses, while the table is better, and the rooms are beautifully furnished. they say it is because mrs. decker is such an excellent manager that they can afford things at such low prices. then, besides, there is a lunch room for young men, where they can get excellent things for just what they cost; that is a sort of benevolence. general mcclintock devotes a certain amount to it each year; and there is a splendid young man in charge of the room; you saw him once, rick walker, his name is. he used to be considered a sort of hard boy, but there isn't a more respected young man in town than he. he is book-keeper at the norman house, and has the oversight of this home dining room. you ought to go in there; it is very nicely furnished, and they have flowers, plants, you know, and birds, and a fountain, and pictures on the walls, and for fifteen cents you can get an excellent dinner. everybody likes rick walker; they say he has a great influence over the boys in town, almost as great as norman decker; _he_ used to be in charge of it all, before he went to college." "still, i shouldn't think the mcclintocks would have liked nettie decker to be in quite so public a place," interrupted her listener. "oh! she wasn't public; why, she went to new york to a private school the very next winter after the general came home. she boarded with them; the general's sister came east with him, and was the lady of the house; then he sent her to wellesley, you know. didn't you know that? she graduated at wellesley a year ago. yes, the mcclintocks educated her, or began it; her father has done so well that i suppose he hasn't needed their help lately. he is a master builder, you know, and keeps at his business, and owns and manages this hotel, besides. oh! they are well off; you ought to see mrs. decker. she is a very pretty woman, and a real lady; they say nettie and norman are so proud of her! what was i telling you? oh! about the room; they have a library connected with it, and a reading room, and everything complete; it is such a nice thing for our young men. a great many wealthy gentlemen contribute to the library. there is a little alcove at the further end of the reading room, where they keep cake and lemonade, and nuts and little things of all sorts. they are very cheap, but the boys can't get any cigars there; i'm so glad of that. the norman house is in very great favor--quite the fashion, and it makes such a difference with the boys who are just beginning to imagine themselves young men, and who want to be manly, to have an elegant place like that frown on all such things. my brother dick, you remember him? he was a little fellow when you lived here--he went into the norman house one day and called for a cigar; he was just beginning to smoke, and i suppose he did it because he thought it would sound manly. it was in the spring when norman was at home on vacation, and it seems he expressed so much astonishment that dick was quite ashamed; i don't think he has smoked a cigar since." "the deckers seem to be quite a centre of interest in town." "well, they are. they are a sort of exceptional family someway; their experience has been so romantic. mr. decker has become such a nice man; deacon decker, he is, a prominent man in the church, and everywhere. oh! do you remember those two cunning little girls? i always thought they were sweet. susie is a perfect lady; she is going with nettie and her husband to washington; but little sate is a beauty. they say she is going to be a poet and an artist, and she looks almost like an angel. general mcclintock admires her very much; he says she shall have the finest art teachers in europe. i never saw a family come up as they did, from nothing, you may say. but then it was all owing to that fortunate accident of being friends with gerald mcclintock, and having the farleys interested in them. did i tell you norman was engaged to ermina farley? o yes! they will marry as soon as he graduates from the medical college, and then he will take her abroad and take a post graduate course in medicine there. i suppose they will take sate with them then. they say that is the plan. no, i certainly never saw anything like their success in life. mrs. smith doesn't believe in luck, you know, nor much in money, though since her job has a position in the norman house that pays better than carting, they have built an addition to their house, and, sarah ann says, "live like folks." she is housekeeper at the norman house--mrs. decker's right-hand woman. mrs. smith says the lord had a great deal to do with the decker family; that nettie came home resolved to be faithful to him, and to trust him to save her father and brother, and so he did it, of course. it seems she and jerry promised each other to work for norman and the father in every possible way until they were converted; and they did. i must say i think they are real wonderful christians, all of them. i like to hear mr. decker pray better than almost any other man in our meeting; and as for norman, he leads a meeting beautifully. they say mr. sherrill thought at first that he ought to preach; but now he says he is reconciled; there is greater need for christian physicians than for ministers. mr. sherrill has always been great friends with all the deckers; you remember he was, from the first. norman studied with him all the time he was managing that first little bit of a restaurant in the square room of the old decker house. they tore down that house last month, to make room for a carriage drive around the back of their new house, and they say nettie cried when the square room was torn up. "she has some of the quaintest furniture! sofas, she calls them, made out of boxes; and a queer old-fashioned hour-glass stand, and a barrel chair, which have been sent on with all her elegant things, to new york; she is going to furnish a room for gerald and her with them; he made them, it seems, when they began that queer scheme. who would have supposed it could grow as it did? it really seems as though the lord must have had a good deal to do with it, doesn't it? i tell you, irene, it is wonderful how many young men they have helped save, those two. it seems a pity sometimes that they could not have told us girls what they were about and let us help; but then, i don't know as we would have helped if we had understood; i used to be such a perfect little idiot then! well, it was nettie decker got hold of me at last. norman signed the pledge that night when general mcclintock lectured here, and during the winter he was converted; but it was two years after that before i made up my mind. i was miserable all that time, too; because i knew i was doing wrong. and i didn't treat nettie wonderfully well any of the time; but when she came to me with her eyes shining with tears, and said she had been praying for me ever since that day of the flower party, i just broke down. "o irene, there's the carriage with the bride and groom and norman and ermina. doesn't the bride look lovely! i wish they had had a public wedding and let us all see her! but they say general mcclintock thinks weddings ought to be very private. never mind, we will see her at the reception next week; but then, she won't be nettie decker; we shall have to say good-by to her." and miss lorena barstow stood still in the street, and shaded her eyes from the sunlight to watch the bridal party as the carriage wound around the square, looking her last with tender, loving eyes, upon nettie decker. choice books for readers of all ages pansy books. =the pansy= for . with colored frontispiece. edited by pansy. more than pages of reading and pictures for children of eight to fifteen years in various lines of interest. quarto, boards, . . =pansy sunday book= for . with colored frontispiece. edited by pansy. quarto, boards, . . just the thing for children on sunday afternoon, when the whole family are gathered in the home to exchange helpful thought and gain new courage for future work and study which the tone and excellence of these tales impart. =pansy's story book.= by pansy. quarto, boards, . . made up largely of pansy's charming stories with an occasional sketch or poem by some other well-known children's author to give variety. =mother's boys and girls.= by pansy. quarto, boards, . . a book full of stories for boys and girls, most of them short, so all the more of them. easy words and plenty of pictures. =pansy token= (a); or an hour with miss streator. for sunday school teachers. mo, paper, cts. =young folks stories of american history and home life.= edited by pansy. quarto, cover in colors, cts. sketches, tales and pictures on new-world subjects. =young folks stories of foreign lands.= edited by pansy. first series, quarto, cover in colors, cts. sketches, tales and pictures on old-world subjects. =stories and pictures from the life of jesus.= by pansy. mo, boards, cts. the life of jesus as recorded in the four gospels simplified and unified for children. =a christmas time.= by pansy, mo, boards, cts. a christmas story full of christmas trees and sleigh-rides. its lesson is the joy to be got in helping others. travel and history for young folks. =story of the american indian (the).= by elbridge s. brooks. vo, cloth, . . "a thorough compendium of the archæology, history, present standing and outlook of our nation's wards.... we commend it as the best and most comprehensive book on the indian for general reading known to us."--_literary world._ =story of the american sailor (the).= by elbridge s. brooks. octavo, cloth, . . the first consecutive narrative yet attempted, sketching the rise and development of the american seaman on board merchant vessel and man-of-war. =ned harwood's visit to jerusalem.= by mrs. s. g. knight. quarto, . . travel in the holy land. the manuscript was approved by rev. selah merrill, for many years u. s. consul at jerusalem. the strictest accuracy has thus been secured without impairing the interest of the story. =out and about.= by kate tannatt woods. quarto, boards, . . cape cod to the golden gate with a lot of young folks along, and plenty of yarns by the way. =sights worth seeing.= by those who saw them. quarto, cloth, . . eleven descriptive articles by such writers as margaret sidney, amanda b. harris, annie sawyer downs, frank t. merrill and rose kingsley. copiously and beautifully illustrated. =adventures of the early discoverers.= by frances a. humphrey. to, cloth, . . real history written and pictured for readers both sides of ten years old. it begins with the mythology of discovery and comes down to the sixteenth and seventeenth century. =the golden west=: as seen by the ridgway club. by margaret sidney. quarto, boards, . . description of a trip through southern california taken by mr. and mrs. ridgway and their children. the careful observations and the fine illustrations make it a treasure for boys and girls. =days and nights in the tropics.= by felix l. oswald. quarto, boards, . . the collector of curiosities for the brazilian museum goes on his quest with his eyes open. a book of adventures and hunters' yarns. illustrated stories for young folks. =young folks' cyclopedia of stories.= quarto, cloth, . . contains in one large book the following stories with many illustrations: five little peppers, two young homesteaders, royal lowrie's last year at st. olaves, the dogberry bunch, young rick, nan the new-fashioned girl, good-for-nothing polly and the cooking club of tu-whit hollow. =what the seven did=; or, the doings of the wordsworth club. by margaret sidney. quarto, boards, . . the seven are little girl neighbors who meet once a week at their several homes. they helped others and improved themselves. =me and my dolls.= by l. t. meade. quarto, cts. a family history. some of the dolls have had queer adventures. twelve full-page illustrations by margaret johnson. =little wanderers in bo-peep's world.= quarto, boards, double lithograph covers, cts. =polly and the children.= by margaret sidney. boards, quarto, cts. the story of a funny parrot and two charming children. the parrot has surprising adventures at the children's party and wears a medal after the fire. =five little peppers.= by margaret sidney. mo, . . story of five little children of a fond, faithful and capable "mamsie." full of young life and family talk. =seal series.= vols., boards, double lithographed covers, quarto. rocky fork, old caravan days, the dogberry bunch, by mary h. catherwood; the story of honor bright and royal lowrie's last year at st. olaves, by charles r. talbot; their club and ours, by john preston true; from the hudson to the neva, by david ker; the silver city, by fred a. ober; two young homesteaders, by theodora jenness; the cooking club of tu-whit hollow, by ella farman. =cats' arabian nights.= by abby morton diaz. quarto, cloth, . ; boards, . . the wonderful cat story of cat stories told by pussyanita that saved the lives of all the cats. natural history. =stories and pictures of wild animals.= by anna f. burnham. quarto, boards, cts. big letters, big pictures and easy stories of elephants, lions, tigers, lynxes, jaguars, bears and many others. =life and habits of wild animals.= quarto, cloth, . . the very best book young folks can have if they are at all interested in natural history. if they are not yet interested it will make them so. illustrated from designs by joseph wolf. =children's out-door neighbors.= by mrs. a. e. andersen-maskell. volumes, mo, cloth, each . . three instructive and interesting books: children with animals, children with birds, children with fishes. the author has the happy faculty of interesting boys and girls in the wonderful neighbors around them and that without introducing anything which is not borne out by the knowledge of learned men. =some animal pets.= by mrs. oliver howard. quarto, boards, cts. the experiences of a colorado family with young, wild and tame animals. it is one of the pleasantest animal books we have met in many a day. well thought, well written, well pictured, the book itself, apart from its contents, is attractive. full page pictures. =tiny folk in red and black.= quarto, boards, cts. the tiny folk are ants and they make as interesting a study as human folk--perhaps more interesting in the opinion of some. the book gives a full and graphic description of their many wise and curious ways--how they work, how they harvest their grain, how they milk their cows, etc. it will teach the children to keep eyes and ears open. =my land and water friends.= by mary e. bamford. seventy illustrations by bridgman. quarto, cloth, . . the frog opens the book with a "talk" about himself, in the course of which he tells us all about the changes through which he passes before he arrives at perfect froghood. then the grasshopper talks and is followed by others, each giving his view of life from his own individual standpoint. young folks' illustrated quartos. =wide awake volume z.= quarto, boards, . . good literature and art have been put into this volume. henry bacon's paper about rosa bonheur, the great painter of horses and lions, and steffeck's painting of queen louise with kaiser william would do credit to any art publication. =chit chat for boys and girls.= quarto, boards, cts. a volume of selected pieces upon every conceivable subject. as a distinctive feature it devotes considerable space to home life and sports and pastimes. =good cheer for boys and girls.= short stories, sketches, poems, bits of history, biography and natural history. =our little men and women for .= quarto, boards, . . no boys and girls who have this book can be ignorant beyond their years of history, natural history, foreign sights or the good times of other boys and girls. =babyland for .= quarto, boards, cts. finger-plays, cricket stories, tales told by a cat and scores of jingles and pictures. large print and easy words. colored frontispiece. =kings and queens at home.= by frances a. humphrey. quarto, boards, cts. short-story accounts of living royal personages. =queen victoria at home.= by frances a. humphrey. quarto, boards, cts. pen picture of a noble woman. it will aid in educating the heart by presenting the domestic side of the queen's character. =stories about favorite authors.= by frances a. humphrey. quarto boards, cts. little literature lessons for little boys and girls. =child lore.= edited by clara doty bates. quarto, cloth, tinted edges, . ; boards, . . more than , copies sold. the most successful quarto for children. helpful books for young folks. =danger signals.= by rev. f. e. clark, president of the united society of christian endeavor. mo, cloth, cts. the enemies of youth from the business man's standpoint. the substance of a series of addresses delivered two or three years ago in one of the boston churches. =marion harland's cookery for beginners.= mo, vellum cloth, cts. the untrained housekeeper needs such directions as will not confuse and discourage her. marion harland makes her book simple and practical enough to meet this demand. =bible stories.= by laurie loring. to, boards, cts. very short stories with pictures. the creation, noah and the dove, samuel, joseph, elijah, the christ child, the good shepherd, peter, etc. =the magic pear.= oblong, vo, boards, cts. twelve outline drawing lessons with directions for the amusement of little folks. they are genuine pencil puzzles for untaught fingers. a pear gives shape to a dozen animal pictures. =what o'clock jingles.= by margaret johnson. oblong, vo, boards, cts. twelve little counting lessons. pretty rhymes for small children. twenty-seven artistic illustrations by the author. =ways for boys to make and do things.= cts. eight papers by as many different authors, on subjects that interest boys. a book to delight active boys and to inspire lazy ones. =our young folks at home.= to, boards, . . a collection of illustrated prose stories by american authors and artists. it is sure to make friends among children of all ages. colored frontispiece. =peep of day series.= vols., . each. peep of day, line upon line, precept upon precept. sermonettes for the children, so cleverly preached that the children will not grow sleepy. =home primer.= boards, square, vo, cts. a book for the little ones to learn to read in before they are old enough to be sent off to school. illustrations. monteagle. by pansy. boston: d. lothrop company. price cents. both girls and boys will find this story of pansy's pleasant and profitable reading. dilly west is a character whom the first will find it an excellent thing to intimate, and boys will find in hart hammond a noble, manly, fellow who walks for a time dangerously near temptation, but escapes through providential influences, not the least of which is the steady devotion to duty of the young girl, who becomes an unconscious power of good. a dozen of them. by pansy. boston: d. lothrop company. price cents. a sunday-school story, written in pansy's best vein, and having for its hero a twelve-year-old boy who has been thrown upon the world by the death of his parents, and who has no one left to look after him but a sister a little older, whose time is fully occupied in the milliner's shop where she is employed. joe, for that is the boy's name, finds a place to work at a farmhouse where there is a small private school. his sister makes him promise to learn by heart a verse of scripture every month. it is a task at first, but he is a boy of his word, and he fulfills his promise, with what results the reader of the story will find out. it is an excellent book for the sunday-school. at home and abroad. stories from _the pansy_ boston: d. lothrop company. price, $ . . a score of short stories which originally appeared in the delightful magazine, _the pansy_, have been here brought together in collected form with the illustrations which originally accompanied them. they are from the pens of various authors, and are bright, instructive and entertaining. about giants. by isabel smithson. boston: d. lothrop company. price cents. in this little volume miss smithson has gathered together many curious and interesting facts relating to real giants, or people who have grown to an extraordinary size. she does not believe that there was ever a race of giants, but that those who are so-called are exceptional cases, due to some freak of nature. among those described are cutter, the irish giant, who was eight feet tall, tony payne, whose height exceeded seven feet, and chang, the chinese giant, who was on exhibition in this country a few years ago. the volume contains not only accounts of giants, but also of dwarfs, and is illustrated. american authors. by amanda b. harris. boston: d. lothrop company. price $ . . this is one of the books we can heartily commend to young readers, not only for its interest, but for the information it contains. all lovers of books have a natural curiosity to know something about their writers, and the better the books, the keener the curiosity. miss harris has written the various chapters of the volume with a full appreciation of this fact. she tells us about the earlier group of american writers, irving, cooper, prescott, emerson, and hawthorne, all of whom are gone, and also of some of those who came later, among them the cary sisters, thoreau, lowell, helen hunt, donald g. mitchell and others. miss harris has a happy way of imparting information, and the boys and girls into whose hands this little book may fall will find it pleasant reading. tilting at windmills: a story of the blue grass country. by emma m. connelly. boston: d. lothrop company. mo, $ . . not since the days of "a fool's errand" has so strong and so characteristic a "border novel" been brought to the attention of the public as is now presented by miss connelly in this book which she so aptly terms "tilting at windmills." indeed, it is questionable whether judge tourgee's famous book touched so deftly and yet so practically the real phases of the reconstruction period and the interminable antagonisms of race and section. the self-sufficient boston man, a capital fellow at heart, but tinged with the traditions and environments of his puritan ancestry and conditions, coming into his strange heritage in kentucky at the close of the civil war, seeks to change by instant manipulation all the equally strong and deep-rooted traditions and environments of blue grass society. his ruthless conscience will allow of no compromise, and the people whom he seeks to proselyte alike misunderstand his motives and spurn his proffered assistance. presumed errors are materialized and partial evils are magnified. allerton tilts at windmills and with the customary quixotic results. he is, seemingly, unhorsed in every encounter. miss connelly's work in this, her first novel, will make readers anxious to hear from her again and it will certainly create, both in her own and other states, a strong desire to see her next forthcoming work announced by the same publishers in one of their new series--her "story of the state of kentucky." the art of living. from the writings of samuel smiles. with introduction by the venerable dr. peabody of harvard university, and biographical sketch by the editor, carrie adelaide cooke. boston: d. lothrop company. price $ . . samuel smiles is the benjamin franklin of england. his sayings have a similar terseness, aptness and force; they are directed to practical ends, like franklin's; they have the advantage of being nearer our time and therefore more directly related to subjects upon which practical wisdom is of practical use. success in life is his subject all through, the art of living; and he confesses on the very first page that "happiness consists in the enjoyment of little pleasures scattered along the common path of life, which in the eager search for some great and exciting joy we are apt to overlook. it finds delight in the performance of common duties faithfully and honorably fulfilled." let the reader go back to that quotation again and consider how contrary it is to the spirit that underlies the businesses that are nowadays tempting men to sudden fortune, torturing with disappointments nearly all who yield, and burdening the successful beyond their endurance, shortening lives and making them weary and most of them empty. is it worth while to join the mad rush for the lottery; or to take the old road to slow success? this book of the chosen thoughts of a rare philosopher leads to contentment as well as wisdom; for, when we choose the less brilliant course because we are sure it is the best one, we have the most complete and lasting repose from anxiety. * * * * * transcriber's notes: punctuation errors repaired. first book list page, "eaoh" changed to "each" (each volume mo) page , " " changed to " " to reflect actual first page of chapter xii. page , " " changed to " " to reflect actual first page of chapter xvii. page and , each page number reference increased by two to match actual location of remaining chapters. (_i.e._ is now to reflect location of chapter xviii) page , "botton" changed to "bottom" (for in the bottom of) page , "nowdays" changed to "nowadays" (the pennies nowadays) page , "keees" changed to "knees" (soon on her knees) page , "think" changed to "thing" (thing that i should) page , "interruped" changed to "interrupted" (of her had interrupted) page , "sat" changed to "set" (he set the table) page , "unsual" changed to "unusual" (unusual toilet having) page , extra word "the" removed from text. original read (have at the the windows) page , "pealed" changed to "peeled" (turnips half-peeled) page , "esson" changed to "lesson" (lesson is the joy) generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) sober by act of parliament by fred a. mckenzie london swan sonnenschein & co., ltd. new york: charles scribner's sons to the memory of my father, who, though passed from human ken, has left behind a precious remembrance of loving kindness and unfailing sympathy, this book is dedicated. preface. it is a truism that men of all shades of opinion are desirous to promote sobriety. it is the _raison d'être_ of the teetotaler and the declared aim of the publican. the advocate of prohibition and the man who would make the trade in drink as free as the sale of bread both profess to be actuated by a desire to extirpate inebriety. can legislation aid us in accomplishing this end, and if so in what way and to what extent? this volume is an attempt to partly answer the question, not by means of elaborate theories or finely drawn inferences, but by a statement of the actual results obtained from liquor laws in various parts of the world. whatever shortcomings may be found in the following pages, i have done my best to ensure their honesty and fairness. i have written with a brief for no particular policy, but with a sincere desire to learn, free from the blinding mists of partisan prejudice, the truth about all. my conclusions may appear to some mistaken, and my treatment inadequate, but i have never suppressed facts that told against my own opinions, arranged statistics to suit myself, or consciously placed incidents in a disproportionate light. the subject is altogether too serious, and involves issues too grave, to allow one to indulge in one-sided statements, garbled facts, or lying statistics. as far as possible, the facts and figures given are taken from official sources. i must acknowledge my indebtedness to many correspondents in america, in australia, and on the continent of europe, as well as at home, who have helped me by collecting statistics and supplying information. without their aid my investigations would have been far more difficult than they have proved. i am also greatly obliged to the editor of the _pall mall gazette_ for permission to reproduce portions of several articles of mine on "liquor laws," which appeared in his journal and in a _pall mall gazette_ "extra" during . fred a. mckenzie. oxberry avenue, fulham. contents. part i.--america. chapter page i. the state as saloon keeper ii. rum and politics iii. forty years of prohibition iv. prohibition in kansas v. the law that failed vi. high licence in pennsylvania part ii.--greater britain. i. prohibition and local option in canada ii. local control in new zealand iii. licensing in australia part iii.--the continent of europe. i. the state as distiller ii. the gothenburg system part iv.--england. i. the growth of the licensing system ii. proposed reforms iii. the problems of reform iv. the path of progress appendices. i. the condition of working men in maine ii. the gin act, sober by act of parliament. part i. america. chapter i. the state as saloon keeper. during the last few months south carolina has been the scene of a remarkable experiment in liquor legislation, which has attracted considerable attention from social reformers everywhere. though professedly based on the gothenburg system, the dispensaries act differs from its prototype in many important respects. as in sweden, the element of individual profit is eliminated, and the control of the trade is taken out of the hands of private persons; but in place of the drink shops being conducted by the municipalities, they are placed under the direct supervision of the state government. the saloon has been abolished, and its place taken by dispensaries, where liquor can only be obtained in bottles for consumption off the premises. all public inducements to tippling have been removed at a sweep; and while it is possible for any sober adult to obtain what liquor he wishes, no one is pecuniarily interested in forcing intoxicants on him. the act was in operation for too short a time to allow anything definite to be said as to its success or failure. it received the fiercest opposition from an influential body of politicians, and from the more lawless section of the community; and the dispossessed saloon keepers, with all the following they could command, naturally did their best to cause it to fail. in the election of the prohibition party showed great activity, and succeeded in obtaining a majority at the polls. the question of the control of the liquor traffic occupied a foremost place at the meeting of the new legislature. many members were in favour of out-and-out prohibition, and a bill was introduced to make the manufacture or sale of drink illegal. but, after considerable debate on the subject, a new measure was hastily brought before the senate, at the instigation of the governor, the hon. benjamin r. tillman, as a compromise between the views of the extreme prohibitionists and those who held that, in the present condition of public opinion, prohibition would be largely inoperative, and consequently injurious to the temperance cause. the measure was rushed through the legislature with little or no debate, and at once received the sanction of the governor. governor tillman is undoubtedly a remarkable man, of bold initiative and great force of character; and it is impossible to understand the situation in south carolina without knowing something about him. within the last decade he has risen from obscurity to the supreme power in the state, and to-day he is "boss" of south carolina. he first came to the front in , by his bitter denunciations of the local democratic rulers. he is himself a democrat, but this did not prevent him from bringing the most serious charges against the members of the aristocratic ring that held the reins of government. he charged them with being the enemies of the poor and oppressors of the people, whose one aim was to conduct public affairs so as to benefit themselves. at first the high-class politicians treated him with a half-amused, half-contemptuous scorn, sneered at what they were pleased to call his ignorant talk, and held his language up to ridicule. and in truth, if reports may be believed, his vigour of speech gave his enemies abundant cause to blaspheme. he was not particular in his choice of phrases, and he did not hesitate to pile up the most picturesque and sanguinary expressions in describing his opponents. but the people rallied around him. "i am rough and uncouth, but before almighty god i am honest," he said to them; and they believed him. the poorer country folks were his first followers, then the farmers' alliance came to his support, and before the old politicians had ceased to wonder at the audacity of the young man, they began to learn that their days of power were over. in he stood for the governorship in opposition to the regular democratic candidate. he stumped the state, and met with a most enthusiastic reception. he was elected by a large majority, and the power of the old ring was, for a time at least, broken. two years later he was once more elected to the same post, and until he tried to carry out the dispensaries act his authority was supreme in the state. one thing is certain: if governor tillman cannot secure obedience to the law, it will be difficult to find any one else who can. the chief provisions of the original dispensary law are as follows. no persons or associations of persons were allowed to make, bring into the state, buy or sell any intoxicating liquors, except as provided for by the act. districts that were previously under prohibition continued so, but in other parts the traffic was conducted by state-appointed officials. the governor appointed a commissioner, whom he must believe to be an abstainer from intoxicants; and this official, under the supervision of the state board of control, purchased all strong drink to be sold in the state, and generally acted as head of the dispensaries. the state board appointed in each county a local board of control, composed of three persons believed not to be addicted to the use of intoxicants. these county boards made the rules for the sale of drink in their own districts, subject to the approval of the state board; and they also appointed dispensers who had the sole power of selling liquors in the districts where they were placed. there are many minute restrictions which had to be observed by the dispensers in vending their wares. a would-be buyer must make a request in writing, stating the date, his age and residence, and the quantity and kind of liquor required. if the applicant was intoxicated, or if the dispenser knew him to be a minor or in the habit of using strong drink to excess, then he must refuse to supply him. if the dispenser did not know the applicant personally, then a guarantee must be given by some person known to both buyer and seller that the former was neither under age nor a habitual drunkard. sales were only to be made during daytime, and the liquor was not to be drunk on the premises. the penalties for breaches of the law were very severe, ranging as high as imprisonment for not under one year or over two years for repeated illegal sales. all profits obtained by the work of the dispensary were divided in three parts,--one half for the state, one quarter for the municipality, and one quarter for the county. the hope of obtaining a considerable revenue was undoubtedly one of the main reasons for passing the act, and governor tillman anticipated a profit of half a million dollars a year for the state. the dispensers were paid, not according to the quantity of their sales, but at a fixed salary named by the board, and not allowed to exceed a certain amount. it was provided in the original act that dispensaries could only be opened in cities and towns, and then not unless the majority of the citizens of a place signed a petition requesting to have them. the new measure came into force on st july, . for many weeks previously there had been great excitement in the state, and as june drew to an end the saloon keepers put forth strenuous efforts to do the utmost possible business in the short time that was left to them. "the situation all over south carolina to-night," said a despatch from charleston on th june, "is peculiar. in charleston there has been in progress all day a huge whisky fair. the air is filled with the tintinnabulation of the auction bells and with the cries of the auctioneer; in dozens of liquor stores are crowds of free-born american citizens buying whisky, wine and beer to lay in a stock against the dry spell, which sets in to-night. in the fashionable groceries extra forces of clerks have been at work day and night for a week, putting up demi-johns and kegs of whisky, brandy, rum, gin, and wine; and battalions of drays and delivery waggons have been employed carting the goods to the railroad depots and to the various residences. it is no exaggeration to say that there are not out of the , houses of white people in the city that are not provided with a supply of liquors to last six months at least." six counties in the state are under statutory prohibition, and consequently no dispensaries could be opened in them. in many other parts the people refused to come under the act, and in towns especially there was a spirit of undisguised opposition to the measure. it is in the towns that the old-line democrats, whom tillman drove from office, have always been the strongest. with the passing of the act they saw their opportunity to have vengeance on him, and possibly to regain their old majority; and they resolved to do their best to wreck his bill. in charleston the word went forth that the law was to be ignored, and, as far as the city authorities could accomplish that end, it has been set at defiance. when the state constables have arrested liquor sellers, the constables have been mobbed and ill-treated; the sheriff has packed the juries; the justices who have tried liquor cases have been notoriously opposed to the law; and, as an inevitable consequence, the clearest evidence of illegal liquor selling has been insufficient to convict any offender there. what is true of charleston is almost equally true of several other places. this, it must be understood, is not because of any fault of the act; but because eager partisans are willing to perjure themselves, to break through the most sacred obligations of office, and to descend to any tricks in order to ruin the tillmanites. the prohibitionists have been divided in their attitude. some of them warmly support the law, but others have united with the old-line democrats in opposing it. they are mostly willing to admit that the tillmanite dispensaries are a vast improvement over the former reign of the saloon; but they are fearful lest the fact that the state conducts the traffic may give it a semblance of respectability, encourage people to drink, and so do more harm than good. "the absolute boss of the state, governor tillman," sneered one, "expects to turn the great commonwealth into one great drinking saloon, such as might carry a signboard, reaching from sea to the mountains, announcing 'benjamin ryan tillman, monopolist of grog'." in his annual message to the legislature, in november, , the governor gave a long and detailed account of the working of the law. according to this statement, there were then fifty dispensaries open, and the total sales in the four months had amounted to , dollars, c., yielding a profit to the state of , dollars, c. this was considerably less than had been anticipated; and the smallness of the profit is no doubt due to the facts that so many people had got in their supplies of drink before the act came in force, and that in many parts the law was very imperfectly enforced. since the governor issued his report there was a very considerable proportionate increase in the gains. in order to ascertain the results of the law on intemperance a circular was sent out to seventy-five cities and towns, asking them to state the number of arrests for drunkenness and disorder arising from liquor drinking for a like period before and since the passing of the act. only thirty-three places replied; and in the whole of these the arrests from st july to th sept., , under the old licence laws, were ; during the same period in , under the dispensaries act, the arrests were only . in september, , arrests were made; in september, , the arrests were . the governor admitted that the amount of illegal liquor-selling going on in the state was considerable, and for this he blamed the local authorities and the railway companies. "there is hardly a train entering the state," he declared, "day or night, passenger or freight, which does not haul contraband liquor. some of the railroads are yielding a measure of obedience to the law; but most of them openly defy it, or lend their line to smuggling liquor into the state.... the police in the cities, as a rule, stand by and see the ordinances broken every day, are _particeps criminis_ in the offence, or active aiders and abettors of the men who break it." in order to stop these things, and to more efficiently enforce the law, the governor demanded fresh legislation. in answer to this demand, the state legislature passed a new measure in december, giving considerably increased powers to the executive. the state board of control was authorised to deprive any city or town refusing to actively co-operate in the enforcement of the law, of its share of the dispensary profits. in place of the board being unable to open a dispensary anywhere except when a majority of the people petitioned for it, the law was made that the board could establish its shops wherever it pleased, unless a majority of the people petitioned against them. it was also found advisable to modify several minor points, such as giving hotel keepers permission to serve their guests with liquor. governor tillman at once made full use of the new powers. he announced that several new dispensaries would be opened in different parts, and he sent a circular to all the mayors, asking if they intended to assist the state officials or not. to those who answered in the negative, he at once sent notice that the share of the profits for their towns would be withheld from them, and used for the purpose of employing special constables to see that the law was carried out there. in march, , the troubles created by the opponents of the dispensaries act came to a head. some state constables were searching for contraband liquors at darlington when the people rose in arms against them. two constables and two townsmen were killed, and the police hastily retired to a swamp. here they were pursued by an infuriated body of citizens; and, had they been found, they would unquestionably have been killed. for a day or two, matters wore a serious look. in one place a dispensary was gutted, and several bodies of the state militia, when ordered by the governor to proceed against the rioters, refused to obey. governor tillman is not a man to be easily intimidated. he promptly seized the telegraphs and the railways, prevented as far as possible the rioters communicating with sympathisers in other parts, and called together the troops he could rely upon. "as governor i have sworn that the laws shall be respected until they are repealed," he said, addressing the militia. "so help me god, i will exert all my power to enforce them. although some of the militia have refused to obey orders, there are still enough to obey. the opponents of the law must submit to the rule of the majority. my life has been threatened; but i have no fear, and i will convoke the legislature if further power is necessary." the soldiers received his message with enthusiasm. at the same time the federal authorities offered to send a large body of national troops, should they be required, to quell the rioting, and in a few hours the powers of the law and order were once more supreme. but had tillman been a ruler of another stamp, had he shown the least sign of yielding to the disaffected, or of eagerness to compromise, then the outbreak at darlington would probably have been only the beginning of serious trouble in the palmetto state. hardly, however, had the riot been suppressed before the state supreme court declared the act unconstitutional. the court, which consists of two conservative judges and one tillmanite, based its decision on the grounds that the measure was not a prohibitory law and was not a police regulation, but was solely a plan for giving the profits of a trade to the state, and therefore it conflicted with the lawful rights of the old saloon keepers. justice pope, the tillmanite, dissented from this view, and pronounced in favour of its being legal, but he was out-voted by his brother judges. the result of this decision is, that all the state dispensaries have been closed, and the saloons are now again openly conducting their business. it is hard to say what the final outcome will be; for the people in the country parts declare themselves resolutely determined not to have the saloon system revived. it is said that as soon as possible one of the old judges will be removed, and his place taken by a tillmanite. the measure will again be carried through the legislature, and once more come before the supreme court. the court will then uphold it, and the state will give the act another trial. but, even if this is so, the prospects of the scheme cannot be said to be bright. there are now enlisted against it a powerful political faction and the authorities of several municipalities. it can count on the unceasing opposition of many whose support is almost absolutely necessary to its success; and hence it will be more than a wonder if, while thus handicapped, it can be anything but a failure. chapter ii. rum and politics. america is pre-eminently the land of legislative experiments; and it has unequalled facilities for giving trial, with comparatively little risk, to many of the professed solutions of those problems which the artificial life of civilised society has produced. on nothing has it made more numerous or varied experiments than on efforts to promote sobriety by law. each state in the union is free, within certain limits, to regulate or suppress the liquor traffic within its own borders, without interference from the federal government. the latter body, however, maintains freedom of inter-state traffic, and has the power to tax liquor, and to impose internal revenue fees on brewers and saloon keepers. these fees are most strictly enforced; and the first thing a man does who contemplates entering the drink trade, whether legally or illegally, is to take out his internal revenue licence. even the individual who surreptitiously sells half a dozen bottles of whisky a month in the lowest "speak-easy" rarely thinks of attempting to evade the federal revenue law; for conviction is so sure, and the penalties are so heavy, that it does not pay. in seeking to learn what lessons can be taught to old-world politicians from the new-world experiments, it must be borne in mind that, although the americans are mostly of one blood with ourselves, the conditions of their social and political life are yet very different. the liquor problem occupies a far more prominent place there than at home, and the saloon keeper is an influential force in state, union, and city politics. the temperance element is strong and active, and exercises a social influence not easy to estimate. a solid public sentiment has been created against even the moderate use of intoxicants; personal abstinence is advocated as part of the routine in nearly all the public elementary schools; it is regarded as disreputable for a man to frequent saloons; and, except under very extraordinary circumstances, no respectable woman would think of crossing their doorsteps. many employers of labour, especially railway companies, go so far as to insist that their hands shall be abstainers. but while the work of the teetotalers has been productive of much socially, their political work has been far more spasmodic, and less effective. they are split into cliques; and whatever proposal may be brought forward, there is almost certain to be a body of irreconcilables who fight against it. in america, as in other countries, the greatest opponents of temperance legislation are always temperance reformers: if a law is moderate, then it incurs the enmity of those who believe that any other plan than the utter and immediate destruction of the saloon is sin; if it satisfies the extremists, it is opposed by those who declare that such uncompromising legislation will produce a reaction, and so in the end do more harm than good. a still greater cause of weakness than even their internal divisions is the temporary character of much of their work. the respectable people of a city or state will rouse themselves to a fever-heat of emotion over some social reform, and will carry it into law with a rush. then the excitement will gradually die away, and in a shorter or a longer time the new law will be left to enforce itself; affairs will soon drop back into their old groove, until, possibly, some time after, a specially flagrant case of law-breaking again arouses the public conscience, and the same thing is gone through once more. the brewers and saloon keepers work differently. they are efficiently organised, and have behind them an almost unlimited supply of money and a considerable voting power. their work is not the unselfish advancement of some general benefit, but the protection of their own pecuniary interests. they have shown themselves willing to sink all partisan preferences in order to prevent their trade being extinguished, and they have attempted to save themselves by securing control of the political machinery. they have too largely succeeded. america, in spite of its unceasing boasts of liberty, is especially the land where the few dominate over the many. in industry, the rings and monopolies rule; in politics, the "bosses" are supreme. the people are allowed to retain in their hands all the paraphernalia of political authority; but in many parts they are ruled by autocratic political organisations, with saloon keepers and plunderers of the public at their head. it would not be just to pronounce the same sweeping condemnation on politicians in all parts of the union alike. in most country parts and in some cities the government is all that could be desired; and, usually, the more native-born americans and english and scottish settlers there are, the more free are the officials from corruption. but in many cities the administration is absolutely rotten: the courts dole out injustice, the municipal officers solely study their own interests, and obtain office for the one purpose of dishonestly acquiring public money; laws are enforced or set at defiance as may be most profitable; and perjury and plunder are the every-day business of mayors, aldermen, policemen, and justices alike. the plunderers are elected to office mainly by the saloon vote, a large proportion are or have been drink sellers themselves, and for these things the saloons are largely responsible. it is the realisation of this that has induced many men, by no means ardent abstainers, to advocate prohibition, not so much because it prevents intemperance, but because it breaks the power of the saloon in politics. the source of the power of the saloon lies mainly in three things: ( ) the absorption of respectable citizens in their private concerns, and their indifference to politics; ( ) the political machines; ( ) manhood suffrage. on the first cause but little need be said. in america the race for wealth is keener than anywhere else; the almighty dollar is worshipped, and most men are in a hurry to make their piles before the end of next week. a large proportion of the business men allow themselves time for nothing but money making, and those who have leisure regard politics as disreputable. in england our best citizens are glad to serve the commonwealth at their own cost; in america, a rich and cultured man would in many cities be looked upon by his friends as either a crank or a boodler if he announced his intention of adopting a political career. on the subject of manhood suffrage generally and its desirability or otherwise, i have no intention of entering in this place. but coming to the result of manhood suffrage on american politics, few can doubt that it has exercised in some ways a most evil effect. if all the citizens to whom the ballot has been given were intelligent and educated, and knew anything of the politics of the country which they are helping to rule, then suffrage would be robbed of much of its evil effects. but at present the peasant who has been picked from the wilds of connemara, the lazzaroni from naples and rome, the offscourings of the slums of the cities of central europe, are able to out-vote in many towns the genuine americans. they are brought under the influence of ambitious and unscrupulous political organisers almost as soon as they land at new york, and too often their ballot papers are cast solid for the maintenance of fraud, falsehood and robbery. the results of machine voting, the rule of the "bosses" and saloon politics can perhaps best be seen in one well-known instance. the city of new york, the metropolis of america, has actually been controlled for some years, not by its inhabitants, but by an ex-drink seller, richard croker, and his subordinates. this man was originally a young rough, in due course he developed into a saloon keeper, and after a time he resigned his bar for the more profitable employment of politician. he now holds no office under government, he has no ostensible means of earning a living; yet he is able to maintain a magnificent country mansion and a town palace; he owns as fine a team of trotting horses as most men in the state; and he is well known to be enormously wealthy. his horses are said to be worth seventy-four thousand dollars, and he owns a half interest in a stud farm valued at a quarter of a million. when he travels the railway companies provide specially luxuriant cars for his special accommodation, and he receives such homage and abject worship as exceed the subservience shown by the poorest-spirited courtiers to any petty princeling. over his long-distance telephone he controls local politicians and the state legislature, and he can wreck bills or bring them into law almost as he pleases. the secret of croker's power is the fact that he is the head of tammany hall, the most powerful political machine in the union. under this body, new york is mapped out into about eleven hundred electoral districts, each containing a few hundred voters, with a "captain," who is usually a saloon keeper, over each. it is the duty of the "captain" to get as many people as possible in his district to join tammany, and to vote on the tammany ticket; and woe to him if he lets the hall lose power there! he has innumerable methods of attracting voters to himself. any man who has a little local influence is instantly noticed, and has tempting visions of place and power held out before him if he will only consent to throw his lot in with the party. the tammanyite who is in trouble with the police knows that he can obtain the friendly services of the "captain" to speak a kind word for him to the justice; and it is wonderful how far these kind words go with the politically-appointed justices. the tammanyite who is out of work will naturally look to the "captain" to help him to something, whether it is a clerkship in the municipal offices, a street-sweepership, or a higher and better paid post. the "captain" may or may not be paid openly for his services; but he receives plenty of either direct or indirect emolument. if he is a saloon keeper, numbers of people naturally flock about his place, and deal of him. he is a man of weight, to be respected as such! no party organisation like this could be held together without powerful motive forces. to some of the tammany "captains" need not be denied purity and honesty of aims; but it is to be feared that such are in the minority. tammany as it is conducted to-day rests on bribery, swindling and corruption. those whom it can buy, and who are worth buying, it buys, whether they are senators or street-sweepers; those who are not to be bought, it often terrifies into passiveness. if a public-spirited citizen shows himself inclined to kick hard against his lawful rulers, and if he is a person who can be safely annoyed, then the municipality lets him feel the weight of its wrath. it does not use the old-time methods of casting him into prison, cutting off his head, or the like; for such crude expedients might attract an unpleasant amount of public attention. the recalcitrant citizen to-day has the assessment of his property for the purpose of taxation increased to perhaps double its former amount; city officials suddenly discover that his house transgresses some local ordinance, and order him to make costly structural alterations. if he is a saloon keeper the power of the "boss" over him is almost unlimited, and the unlucky wight can be hauled up before the justices almost every week, and fined or imprisoned continually. hence few saloon keepers dare to offend. there are a thousand and one ways in which tammany can punish its opponents. but if tammany is cruel to its foes, it can be very kind to its friends. the happy man who does it service finds money, place, and power waiting him. the saloon keeper can defy the sunday closing law with impunity, and the business man has his house assessed very moderately. the young fellow of talent who throws his lot in with the party knows that in due course (when he has earned his reward) he can be almost certain of a comfortable competence in a municipal or government post. tammany has no less than twenty-seven thousand rewards, in the shape of municipal offices, to distribute among its friends. on first hearing of these things it seems inexplicable to an englishman why the honest people of the american metropolis do not rise up and destroy such an institution. the reasons are manifold. it must be remembered that even tammany is not all bad. among those who blindly follow its ticket are many who believe that they show their patriotism by doing so. the "boss" is backed by a political party; he is a democrat, and many upright democrats think that this fact alone compels them to throw all their influence on the side of the man who carries their party colours. moreover any party of reform has to reckon with the thirty thousand votes of the city drink sellers and their men, which are cast solid for tammany so long as it helps them. without the saloon and its help, tammany would not keep together for twelve months; but with its influence on its side, it is no easy task to overcome it. to-day the churches are struggling, the newspapers are denouncing, leagues and societies are being formed against the common enemy; yet tammany still rules. last autumn a majority was elected to the state legislature against croker's party, and it was confidently expected that at last its power would be curtailed. by the peculiar system of controlling new york city, the state legislature has considerable power of interfering with its affairs. accordingly, this year measures have been brought forward that would have done great damage to croker's friends. but even this session sufficient senators have been found willing to break through their solemn electoral pledges, to vote against their own party, and to wreck bill after bill directed against the municipal ring. the tammany men openly proclaim that they can kill every other reform in the same way. no secret is made of the reason for the senators' change of face. it is openly said in conversation, and plainly printed in the papers, that they were bribed by croker's agents. it may be asked where croker and his men get the necessary money from to carry on their work. the answer lies in one word--blackmail! business men are politely requested to contribute to the funds of the hall, and if they refuse they are looked upon as enemies, and treated accordingly. every man who is allowed to break the law, whether he is a saloon keeper who keeps a side door open on sunday, the owner of a gambling hell, or a more respectable sinner, is expected to allow a solid cash consideration for the privilege. if any one or any corporation wants a favour of the local authorities, the only way of obtaining it is to grease the itching palms of the aldermen, and to make friends with the politicians. even those who want perfectly legitimate permits granted to them from the city can only get what they need by paying heavily for them. "all the laws good and bad," said mr. kelly of new york recently, "are so misexecuted by tammany as to give it a clutch upon business men and especially the liquor dealers.... the power of the ring seems to depend upon its power to play upon the hopes and fears of our citizens." the result of tammany rule on new york city has been indescribably bad. notorious law-breakers have been appointed to the most responsible posts, either because they had done some service to tammany, or because they were willing to pay the highest price for the appointments. justices have been put in office, not because of their learning or integrity, but because they are willing to twist the laws to suit tammany. even the electoral returns have been fraudulently altered to place the nominees of the hall in office. it is impossible in one short chapter to give any elaborate details of the extent to which corruption prevails in american cities; but enough has been said to show that the conditions under which temperance reformers have to work there are very different to those that prevail at home. the difficulties are greater, the means for enforcement are less effective, and the powers of lawlessness are more potent. chapter iii. forty years of prohibition. from the time of the earliest english settlers in america the drink traffic has been looked upon as a business requiring special regulation. the influence of puritan immigrants in the middle of the seventeenth century led to the framing of many severe liquor laws. ludlow's connecticut code in dealt with the subject on the basis that "while there is a need for houses of common entertainment ... yet because there are so many abuses of that lawful liberty ... there is also need of strict laws to regulate such an employment"; and it was enacted "that no drink seller should suffer any person to consume more than half a pint at a time, or to tipple more than half an hour at a stretch, or after nine o'clock at night". the first american prohibitory law was passed by the english parliament in , when "the importation of rum or brandies" in georgia was forbidden. this was done at the instance of james oglethorpe, then head of the colony, who declared that the excessive sickness there was solely due to the over-consumption of rum punch. while oglethorpe remained at savannah the law was strictly enforced, and all spirits found were destroyed; but after he left it was allowed to fall into abeyance, and in it was formally repealed by parliament. the modern legislative movement took its rise between and , when the whole of new england was convulsed by an uncompromising campaign against intemperance. almost the entire community seemed for a time carried away by the crusade against intoxicants. in nearly every place powerful temperance societies were formed; many gin merchants closed their distilleries, and saloon keepers put up their shutters and bade the people come and spill the contents of their rum barrels down the gutters. at first, teetotalers relied solely on moral suasion; but soon the more advanced section in massachusetts and maine demanded that the law should aid them by putting a stop to the legalised sale of drink. as early as a committee of the maine legislature on licensing laws reported that "the traffic (in strong drink) is attended with the most appalling evils to the community.... it is an unmitigated evil.... your committee are not only of opinion that the law giving the right to sell ardent spirits should be repealed, but that a law should be passed to _prohibit_ the traffic in them, except so far as the arts or the practice of medicine may be concerned." at that time the traffic in intoxicants in maine was considerable; but the saloon keepers were without any efficient organisation, and consequently could not offer any united opposition to the new movement. there were seven distilleries, and between three and four hundred rum shops in portland alone. according to the hon. woodbury davis, ex-judge of the supreme court of the united states, "nearly every tavern in country and in city had its bar; at almost every village and 'corner' was a grog shop, and in most places of that kind more than one.... men helplessly drunk in the streets and by the wayside was a common sight; and at elections and other public gatherings there were scenes of debauchery and riot enough to make one ashamed of his race." it is often stated that before the passing of prohibitory legislation maine was one of the poorest and most deeply indebted states in the union. this is true, but it is not the whole truth. maine had not long been separated from massachusetts, and its legislature, maybe partly intoxicated by its newly acquired powers, ventured on some expensive undertakings. a few costly public buildings were erected, and a premium of eight cents a bushel was offered to farmers on all wheat or corn over fifty bushels that they raised in a year. the consequence was that the heavy taxes proved altogether insufficient to meet the expenditure, and by early in the forties a state debt had been incurred, equal to three dollars a head of the population. money was very scarce, and both the local government and private individuals were glad to borrow wherever they could. but in spite of the scarcity of money, maine was not generally regarded as poor. it took the first place in the union as a shipbuilding state, and the second in the coasting and fishery trades. "the prosperity of maine," wrote a skilled financial observer in , "was never greater than at this moment.... she will become one of the first states of the union." ten years earlier, in his annual address to the legislature, the governor said: "it affords me great pleasure on this occasion to be able to speak of the prosperous condition of the state.... the state, as well as our citizens individually, are rich in lands, in timber, in granite and lime quarries, in water power for manufacturing purposes, and, to an equal extent at least, with any other state in the union, in all the essentials of profitable industry except monied capital." neal dow, the son of a rich quaker farmer, travelled from village to village in maine, urging the people to rise up against the legalised sale of the drink; and, largely in consequence of his agitation, a tentative prohibition act was passed in . the first act was a complete failure; it only dealt with ardent spirits, and did not provide adequate means for suppressing the traffic in them. five years later, mr. dow, then mayor of portland, framed a more comprehensive measure, and had it rushed through the state legislature in a couple of days. when the people understood what the new bill meant, its provisions excited a great deal of opposition. rioting took place in several towns, and was only put down by calling out the militia. in one of these riots a lad was killed, and this so strengthened the pro-liquor party that in the act was repealed; but it was re-carried the following year, and it has ever since been in force. a final step was taken in , when an amendment to the constitution was submitted to direct popular vote, providing that the sale of liquors be for ever prohibited. seventy thousand electors voted for it and only , against, so the alteration was made. the consequence of this is that the sale of drink can now only become legalised in maine by two-thirds of the electors voting directly for it. for many years the one aim of the temperance party has been to make the prohibition law as effective as possible, and to secure its enforcement throughout the state. wherever any clause in it has been found unworkable it has been quickly altered, and every possible legal device has been used to ensure the destruction of the drink traffic. the manufacture, sale, or keeping for sale of intoxicating liquors as a beverage is absolutely prohibited. any person illegally selling, attempting to sell or assisting to sell is liable, on a first conviction, to a fine of fifty dollars, and imprisonment for thirty days, and to increasing penalties for subsequent convictions, the maximum imprisonment being two years. it is considered sufficient to convict if a person pays the united states internal revenue liquor tax, issues a notice offering to sell, or delivers to another any liquor. liberal powers of search are given to the authorities, and all liquor found by them is destroyed by spilling on the ground. municipal officers are compelled to take action on having their attention drawn to any cases of supposed law breaking; and thirty taxpayers in any county can, on petition, obtain the appointment of special constables to secure the better enforcement of the law. the necessary sale of spirits for medical, mechanical and manufacturing purposes is made by specially nominated agents, who are supposed to obtain no profit by such sales, but to be paid a reasonable remuneration by the municipalities appointing them. in considering the working of this law, it must be remembered that maine presents almost as favourable a situation as could be asked in order to give prohibition a fair trial. it is isolated, and has no towns of any size. its citizens are mostly native born americans, farmers and fishermen, innately religious and law-abiding. the foreign element, which presents so disturbing a factor in many parts, is almost a negligable quantity here. in there was a population of , , of whom only , were foreigners. nearly three-quarters of the people were engaged in agriculture, about one-tenth were mariners, and another tenth found employment in connection with the trade in timber. apart from saw-mills, all the factories together did not employ above two or three thousand men. since then factories have greatly increased, and a number of french canadians and irish have settled in the state. but maine is still principally an agricultural district, and its largest city to-day contains less than forty thousand people. after a trial of forty years, has prohibition proved a success or a failure in maine? the answer to this question entirely depends on the point of view from which one looks at the subject. in so far as it has not entirely destroyed the drink traffic, prohibition is not a success; but it has succeeded in diminishing crime, pauperism and drunkenness, and in greatly in-creasing the wealth of the people. in , a few years after the law came into force, there were only eleven savings banks in the state, with depositors, and a total of deposits and accrued profits of about a million dollars. in there were fifty-five savings banks, with , depositors; and the hon. j. g. blaine estimated the aggregate deposits and accrued profits at , , dollars or more. pauperism has shown a steady decrease. from to , in spite of an increase in most of the neighbouring states, the number of recipients of official charity was diminished by · per cent.; from to , there was a further diminution of · per cent.; and from to , notwithstanding the fact that the increase for the whole of the states was per cent., there was still further reduction in maine of over per cent. in the number of paupers was , or only about one-sixth per cent, of the population. the significance of these figures is increased when it is remembered that maine is an old settled state, and in such the number of pensioners of public charity is usually far greater than in newly opened up districts. insanity, on the other hand, has spread during the last thirty years by leaps and bounds. from to the number of insane in the state increased by · per cent.; from to , the increase was · per cent.; and although the complete figures for the last decade are not yet published, there is every reason to believe that they will be no more favourable. at first this seems to show that there must be some mysterious connection between teetotalism and madness; but further investigation reveals the fact that this increase has not been confined to maine alone. in seven other north atlantic states, where liquor selling is permitted, the increase has been far greater: during the first period it was · per cent., and during the latter · per cent. the voluminous statistics on divorce supplied by the government bureau on labour[ ] do not tell conclusively either one way or another as to the influence of the law on married life; for divorce laws differ so greatly in various states as to make comparisons practically valueless. in maine there are abundant facilities for undoing the marriage tie; consequently, the number of divorces granted is decidedly over the average for the whole of the country: though in some states, where divorce is even easier than in maine, such as illinois, the proportion is far greater than there. crime is steadily on the decrease, and the average number of criminals in maine is lower than in any other state in the union. the number of convicts in the state prison is now less than in any time for twenty-seven years; in there were convicts; in , ; in , . the total number of commitments to the county gaols for all crimes (including offences against the drink laws) is also on the decrease, as is shown by the fact that in there were ; in , ; and in , commitments. the official returns of the value of property cannot be altogether relied upon; for it is a notorious fact that real estate is systematically under-estimated for the purpose of taxation. but while giving no accurate idea of the value of the holdings in the state, they do show that the material prosperity of maine has greatly increased. in the valuation of property was about a hundred million dollars; according to the annual report of the state board of assessors for the valuation was , , dollars. the census department estimated the true valuation of real estate in maine in at , , dollars. it is admitted on all sides that the prohibition law has not succeeded in entirely extirpating drinking, and liquor can still be obtained in most of the larger cities by those who seek for it. but the open bar has been almost everywhere swept away; and those who wish for liquor have either to order their supplies from other states or else go to work secretly to obtain them. the prohibitionists claim rightly that they have put the traffic outside the sanction of the law, and have made it "a sneaking fugitive, like counterfeiting--not dead, but disgraced, and so shorn of power". the returns of the department of internal revenue show that there are still a considerable number of drink sellers in maine. in there were retail dealers in liquors of all kinds, and retail dealers in malt liquors. during the fiscal year ending th june, , there were retail and wholesale liquor dealers, and retail and wholesale dealers in malt liquors. there were no brewers or rectifiers. it must be remembered that every person licensed under the maine law to sell drink for "medicinal, manufacturing, or mechanical purposes" is reckoned in the government returns as a liquor dealer; and that the individual who at any time sells a single glass of rum is at once made to pay the tax by the revenue officials, and tabulated by them as a licensed liquor dealer for that year. so although there are nominally retail dealers, it would be a mistake to suppose that there are saloons doing business in maine. considerably over half the total criminal convictions are connected with breaches of prohibition acts. the number of committals for liquor selling and drunkenness in was ; in , ; and in , .[ ] the divorce statistics also show that drunkenness has not been entirely suppressed; for in the twenty years ending in , divorces were granted for habitual intoxication, either alone or coupled with neglect to provide. yet, there has undoubtedly been an immense reduction in the consumption of drink. one who should be a most excellent authority on the question, the revenue superintendent of a portion of the north atlantic states, said early in : "i have become thoroughly acquainted with the state and the extent of liquor traffic in maine, and i have no hesitation in saying that the beer trade is not more than one per cent. of what i remember it to have been, and the trade in distilled liquors is not more than ten per cent. of what it was formerly". the latest available revenue returns show that the drink trade has been further reduced to about one-eighth of what it was at the time this was said. the same revenue returns give the most conclusive proof possible of the great reductions in the traffic. in , when prohibition was only very partly enforced, maine paid , , dollars in internal revenue, chiefly on drink and tobacco; in the amount paid was only , dollars, or less than two per cent. of its former amount.[ ] the drinking that now goes on may be divided into three classes,--( ) open violations of the law, ( ) secret drinking, and ( ) obtaining liquor from the authorised city agencies. the open violations prevail now to a very slight extent; but for a long time three or four cities, especially portland, lewiston and bangor, practically set the law at defiance. the authorities let it be understood that they would not take action, and juries refused to convict even on the clearest evidence. this was partly due to personal feeling, partly to political considerations, and chiefly to the fact that the rum sellers were strong enough to turn out of office either republicans or democrats, did they attempt to proceed against them. most of the drinking that goes on is done either secretly or through the licensed vendors. of the secret drinking it is not necessary to say much; for it no more proves the uselessness of prohibition than the existence of illicit stills in scotland and ireland proves the impracticableness of our licensing system. the selling by the city agencies is a far more serious matter. these places are supposed only to sell drink for the purposes allowed by law; but, as a matter of fact, they are often little better than saloons licensed to supply spirits to be consumed off the premises. people who are well known to require liquor solely as a beverage can obtain it with ease on simply stating that they want it as medicine or for trade purposes. judging from the amount of whisky sold as medicine in portland, a considerable proportion of the inhabitants of that place must be chronic invalids. yet in spite of its failings, the people of maine regard their law as a success, and mean to maintain it. as a correspondent, himself a state official, and in a good position to gauge public opinion on the question, recently wrote to me: "in the discharge of my official duties i frequently visit all the cities of maine, and in no parts of the country do i see fewer cases of intoxication than in maine cities and towns. in our country towns a rum shop or a drunken man can rarely be found, where formerly liquors were sold at every store. our people are prosperous, and an overwhelming majority of them are perfectly satisfied with our maine liquor laws." chapter iv. prohibition in kansas. all things considered, kansas is one of the most successful instances of state prohibition in the union. the conditions of life there are very different to those that prevail in maine, and the liquor law has had to be enforced under many disadvantageous conditions. kansas is a western state, nearly half as large again as england and wales, and with a population of less than a million and a half. like many other parts of the far west, it was for some time the refuge of disorderly elements of europe and the eastern states; and even now there is a very considerable "cowboy" class which makes the carrying out of restrictive legislation extra difficult. none of its cities contain over forty thousand people, and the number of foreigners in the state (excepting english families) is comparatively small. it has a large boundary line, and is bordered on three sides by states in which the drink traffic is legalised. in a prohibitory amendment to the constitution was proposed and carried by a very small majority; and the following year saw the passage through the legislature of a measure to give enforcement to the amendment. this was only done after a very fierce fight, and for a time the opposition was so strong that it was found practically impossible to give effect to the law in many parts. in the friends of prohibition were heavily defeated in the state elections, and it seemed as though the act would certainly be repealed. but there came a reaction in favour of temperance; and in place of repeal, the original statutes were in considerably strengthened. since then public feeling has been growing stronger yearly in favour of the perpetual ostracism of the liquor traffic. according to the law as it at present stands, the penalty for keeping a saloon is a fine of from one hundred to three hundred dollars and imprisonment from thirty to ninety days. if the person who obtains the liquor is intoxicated by it, then the seller will be held responsible for any harm he may do while in that state; and his wife, child, parent, guardian or employer may bring an action against the seller for injury done to them through being deprived of means of support, etc., and obtain exemplary damages. the chief difference between the kansas law and that of maine is that the sale of drink for purposes other than tippling is made through licensed druggists, instead of through city agencies. the regulations to prevent the druggists from selling drink for other than medical, manufacturing and mechanical purposes are very strict. no druggist can trade in alcohol without a permit; and he can then supply only on an affidavit of the customer, declaring the kind and quantity of liquor required, the purpose for which it is wanted, that it is not intended to be used as a beverage, and that the purchaser is over twenty-one years old. any person making a false affidavit for liquor is counted guilty of perjury, and is liable to imprisonment from six months to two years. the affidavits have to be made on properly printed and numbered forms, supplied by the county clerk, and have to be sent in once a month by the druggist to the probate judge, with a sworn declaration that such liquor as stated has been supplied in due accordance with the law. the druggist has also to keep a daily record, in a book open for inspection, of all drink sold. for breaking these regulations he is liable to a fine of from to dollars, and imprisonment from thirty to ninety days, besides losing his permit. there are still further checks and affidavits required, in the hope of making drug store tippling impossible. but these have by no means succeeded in their purpose. they have led to a considerable amount of perjury; and both druggists and customers have developed such elastic consciences that most of them will now swear affidavits to any extent required. in kansas the prohibition question has been made a partisan one. the amendment was carried irrespective of politics; but when the legislature had to frame the laws the republicans declared themselves strongly in favour of active enforcement; and, after the usual manner of politicians, the democrats took up the other side. up to a few months ago, to use the local parlance, "in the platform of the republican party there was always a stout prohibition plank," and the party never met without making a declaration in favour of thorough enforcement. every republican was a defender of the law; and it was repeatedly said that much of the drinking in cities was mainly due to the wilful slackness of the democrats who had control of them. but at the last state election there came a change. the republicans have for some time been supreme in the state, but recently there has arisen a new party, the populists, which has attracted great numbers of the farmers from the older political bodies. in kansas the populist movement is specially strong, and in the last election, by a combination of populists and democrats, a populist governor was elected, and the republicans driven from office. the present populist majority, while not so pronounced on prohibition as were the republicans, still expresses its firm intention of maintaining the law. the republicans now, somewhat disheartened by their defeat, are inclined to hedge on the question. their leaders declare that they will no longer bring forward a resolution in favour of enforcement at their conventions, but will instead state in their programme that "the republican party is, as it always has been, the party of law, and in favour of enforcing all laws on the statute book". they say they will do this because it is now wholly unnecessary to specially declare in favour of one law more than another; but there is no doubt that the real reason is the hope of being able to draw to their side a number of hesitating pro-liquor voters, and so win back their old position. one of the leading republicans of the state, the hon. john r. burton, frankly explained the state of affairs when he said: "it is high time the republican party of kansas quits its foolishness, and if it expects to succeed it must go before the people on strictly political issues. it is time to quit riding a hobby, and next year we must make up our platform without any relation to the isms." but while the party leaders, sore after their defeat at the polls, may talk like this, there is very little likelihood of their proposing or supporting any retrograde movement; for to do so would be to court certain disaster at the elections. the great body of the people are enthusiastically in favour of the law, and even many of those who grumble at it would join together to prevent the re-enactment of licence in the state. religious and temperance organisations abound, and are active in compelling the officials to resolutely enforce the law. prohibition is now fairly carried out in the whole of the state, with the exception of wichita, leavenworth, atchison, kansas city, and fort scott. in these places the law is almost a dead letter, and drink can easily be obtained, though the saloons do not openly advertise their business. yet, even after allowing for them, it cannot be denied that the law has led to a very considerable diminution in the consumption of liquor, and, with it, a decrease in the rowdyism which was once rampant. the number of persons paying the inland revenue tax has, it is true, increased within the last few years, but this is no test of the amount of the intoxicants used. the returns, prepared by the united states brewers themselves for trade purposes, of the number of barrels of beer consumed within the state in six recent years are as follows:-- , , , , , , the amount derived by the central government from inland revenue taxes has also shown a considerable decrease, though not nearly so great as the above. innumerable statistics have been brought forward by those favourable to the law, to prove that it has had a most beneficial effect on the social and moral condition of the people. but it is an open question how far the small amount of poverty in the state and the reduction of crime are due to prohibition. i have no wish to minimise the actual good accomplished by the law, but it can serve no useful end to claim for it benefits that are produced by other causes. kansas is a new settlement, and its surroundings and circumstances are such that we might naturally expect its people to be comparatively free from poverty and its allied evils. the problems that menace the older civilisation of the east, over-crowding, starvation wages, and lack of employment, are hardly felt there, and it is not fair to claim as the outcome of one law the results that are due to many causes. the greatest benefits of prohibition in kansas are of another kind, impossible to show by arrays of figures, but none the less real for that. the rising generation is free from those temptations which wreck so many of our own youth. the man who is a wilful drunkard can, no doubt, find out where to obtain liquor; but he who is weak rather than wicked does not have alcohol flaunted in his face wherever he goes. a strong public sentiment against excess is created; and those who are doing battle with the liquor traffic naturally find themselves opposed to the allied evils of gambling and impurity. hence, in the greater part of kansas, the social evil is kept under, gambling dens are unknown, and the whisky ring is banished from politics. one charge has repeatedly been brought against the law in this state--that it has checked the inflow of population. "the hour that ushered in prohibition," said the hon. david overmyer, democratic candidate for the governorship, in a speech at salina last december, "closed our gates to the hardy immigrant, the home-seeker, the strong and sturdy class that develops a country.... it has driven law-abiding and enterprising citizens from the state." statistics certainly show a decrease in the population within the last few years. there was a great inflow of immigrants from to , and from to there was a further increase of the population of from less than a million to over a million and a half. but from to there was a decrease of about ninety thousand, thus reducing the increase in the ten years to about per cent. since the number of inhabitants has probably been stationary. the decrease in recent years, however, has been due, not to any state law, but principally to the fact that great tracts of indian territory immediately below kansas have been opened up to white men, and there has been a rush to them. when the reduction is allowed for, kansas showed a greater increase in population from to than many of the principal western states in which drinking is licensed. chapter v. the law that failed. the commonplace truth that, under representative government, restrictive legislation can only succeed so far as it is backed up by the hearty support of the great majority of the people, has recently received a striking illustration in iowa. twelve years ago the people of this state voted, by a majority of , out of , votes, in favour of an amendment to the constitution making the sale of intoxicants for ever illegal. owing to some flaw in the method of taking the vote, the amendment was subsequently declared by the courts invalid; but in the state legislature carried, and for a long time the authorities in most parts have tried to enforce, what is probably the most drastic measure of prohibition known. everything possible has been done to make the conviction of liquor sellers sure; the law has been so drawn, even in the opinion of many in favour of restriction, as almost to refuse those suspected of trafficking in drink a fair trial; imprisonment, hard labour and disgrace have followed conviction; yet the one result of it all has been--failure! iowa is a thinly populated, somewhat newly settled state, almost in the centre of the union, with about , , inhabitants, of whom one-sixth are foreigners, chiefly germans. it must be remembered, in attempting to form any true estimate of the causes of the failure of the law, that iowa suffers from the usual weaknesses of youth, whether youth of nations or of individuals,--venturesomeness and fickleness. its people are excitable, inclined to experimentalise, and apt to rush to extremes. the spirit of respect for the law because it is law, so universal in england, is very little known there. if the law suits the people of a city or a county they will observe it; if not, then so much the worse for the law! in one town the inhabitants will be endowed with remarkable virtue: boys caught smoking will be liable to have the stick of the policeman across their backs; the sale of cigarettes, even to adults, will be forbidden; ballet dancers, if permitted at all, will be ordered to wear long skirts; saloons will be unknown; men as well as women found in houses of ill-fame will be summarily arrested and punished; and, in short, the municipality will devise sumptuary laws about almost everything belonging to the public and private life of the people. in the next town, possibly only a few miles off, the other extreme will prevail: gambling dens and saloons, although both illegal by the laws of the state, will be allowed to carry on their business unmolested by the police, on the payment of regular monthly fines; there will be a quarter of legalised ill-fame, as in any japanese city, and public women will be inspected and certificated as in paris. the people of iowa have not yet definitely made up their minds whether they shall make their state (by order of the legislature and with the approval of the governor) into a paradise on earth, or whether they shall permit one another to go to the bad, and shall make the road that way as smooth as possible. meanwhile they are experimenting both ways; and in course of time, when the disorderly elements have been controlled, and the effervescent stage of state life is passed, iowa will probably settle down to a great and glorious future. the prohibitory law here, as enacted in and revised in the following years, bears in its general regulations forbidding the sale of intoxicants as a beverage a family resemblance to those of maine and kansas already described. necessary sales for medicinal purposes are made through duly licensed chemists; but a chemist is not allowed to sell to any one unless the applicant is known personally to him, or bears a letter of recommendation from some reliable person of his acquaintance. the would-be purchaser has to fill up the following form:-- "i hereby make request for the purchase of the following intoxicating liquors (quantity and kind). my true name is ... i am not a minor, and i reside in ... township, in the county of ... state of ... the actual purpose for which this request is made is to obtain the liquor for (myself, wife, child, or name of the person it is intended for) for medicinal use, and neither myself nor the said (wife, child, etc.) habitually uses intoxicating liquors as a beverage." if the applicant is not known to the chemist, the following form has to be filled in by some other person:-- "i hereby certify that i am acquainted with ... the applicant for the purchase of the foregoing described liquors, and that said ... is not a minor, and is not in the habit of using intoxicating liquors as beverage, and is worthy of credit as to the truthfulness of statements in the foregoing request, and my residence is ..." at the end of each two months the chemist has to send in to the county auditor all application forms received by him, with a sworn statement attached, "that no liquors have been sold or dispensed under colour of my permit during said months, except as shown by the requests herewith returned, and that i have faithfully complied with the conditions of my oath". the penalties for selling liquor without a permit, or for keeping for the purpose of unlawful sale, are, for the first offence, dollars to dollars fine; for subsequent convictions, dollars to dollars fine, and imprisonment for not more than six months. but there is a more severe method of proceeding against offenders. an injunction may be obtained for the closing of any premises where liquors are unlawfully sold, on the plea of their being a nuisance. if they are again opened after this, the offender is liable to a fine of up to dollars, and imprisonment for six months or a year. courts and juries are required to so construe the law as to prevent any evasion, and even the general repute of a house may be brought as evidence against it. when the injunction method is used, there is no trial by jury, and thus a conviction can be secured in localities where public opinion is most opposed to the law. police officers are bound to inform on offenders, under pain of loss of office and heavy fines. drunken persons are liable to a month's imprisonment, unless they give information as to who supplied them with liquor; any one who buys liquor unlawfully can compel the seller to return him the money paid for it; and when a person gets drunk the seller can not only be compelled to pay all costs incurred by any one in attending to his customer, but is also liable to an action for civil damages from any relative or connection of the drunken man who is injured in person, property or means of support by such intoxication. it will be noticed that the law directs its penalties against the seller rather than the purchaser. the act was carried by a republican majority, and has been fiercely opposed by the democrats. at first the new provisions were observed in about eighty-five out of ninety-nine counties in the state, the parts refusing obedience being mostly those along the banks of the mississippi and most thickly populated. in these latter it was found impossible, in spite of the strictest provisions, to secure even an outward show of observance. rum-sellers, police, justices, and the newspapers all combined to ignore the law. temperance men sought to secure convictions, but in vain. when there seemed any likelihood of a specially active reformer making trouble, the saloon element did not hesitate to use force to put him down. the most notable case of this was that of dr. g. c. haddock, a warm prohibitionist, who lived at sioux city, where the law was ignored. he spoke and wrote, started prosecutions, and used every means in his power against the drink interest. one night, as he was returning home, he was surrounded in the open street by a crowd of roughs, and one man deliberately shot him in the face, killing him immediately. a prominent liquor man was arrested for the offence, and it is said that the evidence against him was overwhelming. nevertheless, the local authorities delayed bringing him to trial for as long as possible, and then he was acquitted. it was openly alleged that the jury had been specially selected to secure this result, and had been heavily bribed. yet, in spite of these serious drawbacks, the law at first had some measure of success. governor larrabee, in retiring from office in , referred at some length to the results obtained from it, in his message to the legislature. though his words cannot be said to be free from prejudice, they yet must carry weight as being the official verdict of the leading officer of the state. "the benefits which have resulted," he declared, "from the enforcement of this law are far-reaching indeed. it is a well-recognised fact that crime is on the increase in the united states, but iowa does not contribute to that increase. while the number of convicts in the country at large rose from in every of population in to in every in , the ratio in iowa at present is only in every . the gaols of many counties are now empty during a good portion of the year, and the number of convicts in our penitentiaries has been reduced from in march, , to on st july, . it is the testimony of the judges of our courts that criminal business has been reduced from to per cent., and that criminal expenses have diminished in like proportion. "there is a remarkable decrease in the business and fees of sheriffs and criminal lawyers, as well as in the number of requisitions and extradition warrants issued. we have less paupers and less tramps in the state in proportion to our population than ever before. breweries have been converted into oatmeal mills and canning factories, and are operated as such by their owners.... the poorer classes have better fare, better clothing, better schooling, and better houses.... it is safe to say that not one-tenth, and probably not one-twentieth, as much liquor is consumed in the state now as was five years ago." but even while governor larrabee wrote these words the knell of the new movement had been already sounded, and from the cause he advocated has been steadily losing ground in the state. his successor, governor boies, was notoriously opposed to prohibition, and threw the whole weight of his authority against efficient enforcement. he declared the suppression of the drink traffic to be an impossibility, and that to attempt it is "a cruel violation of one of the most valued of human rights". as though to make his own assertions come true, he pardoned by the wholesale persons convicted of unlawful selling. the result was what might be expected. in all communities where the authorities had been not over-warm about enforcement they now became slack, and everywhere the police said that it was useless to secure convictions merely for the governor to make out pardons. in more than one town and county where the trade had long been kept under, it now again made its appearance, and soon the last state of iowa was worse than the first. most of the teetotalers seemed to lose heart and do nothing; while for the few who were active the dynamiter's bomb, the incendiary's torch and the murderer's revolver were ready to silence them into submission. but all the blame must not be laid on governor boies. he could not have assumed the attitude he did had he not been supported by a large proportion of the people. his conduct was approved by the state in general, as may be seen by the fact that in he was re-elected for the governorship by a majority twice as large as that he had previously secured. iowa had tired of its anti-liquor crusade. the condition of affairs in many parts in was a disgrace to the whole state. at council bluffs, a town of slightly over , inhabitants, no attempt was made to secure enforcement, and about seventy saloons were wide open. the city had made regulations of its own to deal with this and similar evils. drink shops were allowed to do business undisturbed on paying the city treasury dollars cents a month; gambling hells were required to pay dollars a month; houses of ill-fame dollars cents a month, and the inmates of such places dollars cents each. in carroll, a town of inhabitants, a similar plan was adopted, and seventeen saloons and four wholesale dealers were allowed to go free on paying dollars each monthly, as a town licence. in the whole of carroll county the law was ignored. at des moines, with a population of , , the amount of drunkenness had been rapidly increasing ever since boies took office. in , out of total arrests, were for drunkenness; in , out of the number of drink cases was ; in , out of a total of were for drunkenness. in davenport, with inhabitants, largely germans, there were beer gardens and saloons running open week days and sundays, as free from concealment as though they were in the fatherland. the houses of ill-fame have been licensed here, confined to a certain quarter of the city, and their inmates inspected weekly and given certificates of health. the keepers of such houses are made to pay monthly fees of dollars, and the inmates dollars. a fee of dollars a year was required from saloon keepers, and those who refused to pay were subjected to all manner of annoyances from the municipality.[ ] it would be wearisome to go on further. hardly a town in the state, besides many country parts, but had abandoned prohibition, not for licence and control, but for a lawless free trade, tempered by the levying of municipal blackmail. it was manifest that this condition of affairs could not last; and the republican party, that had for many years remained steadfast to the cause, at last determined to abandon it. a purposely vague clause was chosen for the party platform in , stating that "prohibition is no test of republicanism. the general assembly has given to the state a prohibitory law as strong as any that has ever been enacted by any country. like any other criminal statute, its retention, modification, or repeal must be determined by the general assembly, elected by and in sympathy with the people; and to them is relegated the subject to take such action as they may deem just and best in the matter, maintaining the law in those portions of the state where it is now or can be made efficient, and giving the localities such methods of controlling and regulating the liquor traffic as will best serve the cause of temperance and morality." it was fully understood at this election that the republicans would now advocate some modification of the law, and on this understanding their candidate for governorship was returned to office by a large majority. the newly elected governor, the hon. f. d. jackson, dealt with the question at some length in his inaugural address. "a trial of ten years has demonstrated," he said, "that in many counties it (prohibition) has fully met the expectation of its friends, having successfully driven the saloon system out of existence in those counties. while this is true, there are other localities where open saloons have existed during this period of time in spite of the law, and in spite of the most determined efforts to close them. in such localities the open saloon exists without restraint or control, a constant menace to the peace and safety of the public. from these localities there is an earnest demand for relief--a demand not from the law-defying saloon sympathiser, but from the best business element--from the best moral sentiment of such communities--from the churches and from the pulpit. while the present prohibitive principle, which is so satisfactory to many counties and communities of our state, should remain in force, wisdom, justice and the interests of temperance and morality demand that a modification of this law should be made applicable to those communities where the saloon exists, to the end of reducing the evils of the liquor traffic to the minimum." a measure for the semi-legislation of saloons had been brought forward in . the malcontents did not ask for the total repeal of the law, but they demanded that, in localities where prohibition had notoriously failed, some other measures should be tried. at the end of march, , a "mulct-tax" bill was carried in the house of representatives, and sent on at once to the senate, where it was "railroaded" through without debate. early in april it received the sanction of the governor and became law. this measure is not a licensing law, and does not (nominally) license the saloon; but it provides that, on the payment by a saloon-keeper of a special tax, and on the observance of certain conditions, he shall not be liable to punishment for breaking the prohibitory law. this sounds somewhat strange to those of us who still retain old-fashioned opinions about the necessity for enforcing all laws or repealing them. clause of the "mulct" act is surely a curiosity among illogical compromises: "nothing in this act contained shall in any way be construed to mean that the business of the sale of intoxicating liquors is in any way legalised, nor is the same to be construed in any manner or form as a licence, nor shall the assessment or payment of any tax for the sale of liquors as aforesaid protect the wrong-doer from any penalties now provided by law, except that on conditions hereinafter provided certain penalties may be suspended". the tax required from liquor-sellers is dollars a year, besides a bond for dollars. if, in a town of inhabitants, a majority of the electors who voted at the last poll sign a written statement consenting to the establishment of saloons; or if, in a place with less than inhabitants, sixty-five per cent. of the electors sign a similar statement, then, in such places the fact that a liquor-seller has paid his tax shall be a bar to any proceedings under the prohibitory acts. each saloon is to consist of a single room, with only one exit and entrance, with the bar in plain view from the street, and with no chairs or furniture except such as are necessary for the attendants. the attendants must all be males, and no liquor is to be sold to minors, drunkards, persons who have taken "drink cures," or to any person "whose wife, husband, parent, child, brother, sister, guardian, ward over fourteen years of age, or employer shall by written notice forbid such sales". it is too early yet to say what the result of the "mulct" act will be. the latest news from iowa reports that the necessary proportion of signatures for the opening of saloons has been obtained in a number of moderate-sized towns, which were formerly thought to be favourably inclined to prohibition. in des moines signatures have been secured, and the drink-sellers boast that they can obtain one or two thousand more if required. it is yet a matter of doubt whether the saloon-keepers in several border towns will submit to the new law or will continue their old plan; but it seems certain, that for a large part of the state the days of even nominal prohibition are over. the state legislature has agreed to re-submit to popular vote the prohibitory amendment to the constitution; but this is done rather as a sop to the advocates of temperance than with the expectation that it will lead to any change. chapter vi. high licence. high licence in its present form is comparatively a new development of american drink legislation. during the early part of the latter half of this century reformers would hear of nothing but the most uncompromising prohibition. then came a reaction, and even the stoutest opponents of the liquor traffic were forced to admit that in towns of any size prohibition has never yet been a success. as a leading reformer put it: "prohibition has not yet touched the question where it presents the gravest difficulties, except to fail. after an existence of more than fifty years it has yet to grapple with this problem in any great centre of population. a law unenforced in its essential particulars debauches the public conscience." the question at last had to be faced--how, as men will have drink, the traffic in it can be conducted so as to do the least harm to the community. this led to high licence, a policy which includes the limiting the number of saloons, placing them under strict regulations, and fixing the licence fee at such a high rate as will keep all but responsible men out of the business. this plan would, it was hoped, meet the legitimate demand for drink, exterminate low saloons, and at the same time bring in a very considerable revenue, thus applying emerson's maxim, and "making the backs of our vices bear the burden of our taxes". as a general rule the high licence movement has been supported by the church and the roman catholic temperance societies, but has received bitter opposition from more extreme abstainers. "high licence is a fraud and a failure," said neal dow not long since; "and the greatest hindrance to the temperance movement in america is the church temperance society, which supports it." liquor-sellers look on it with mingled feelings. where there is a likelihood of prohibition becoming law they openly support high licence. thus the maine hotel keepers' association recently passed a resolution that "local option and high licence is the best means of dealing with the liquor question". but, where temperance sentiment is weak, the saloon-keepers not unnaturally do their best to maintain the old lax low-licence regulations. the new method first came to the front at nebraska in , by the passing there of the "slocumb law," which fixed the state licensing fees at dollars for saloons in small towns, and double that amount where the population exceeded , . from nebraska the idea spread rapidly, and was soon adopted by many other states. the most conspicuous instance of its working is to be found in pennsylvania, where the brooks licensing act passed through the legislature in , and came into force on st june, . the leading provisions of the brooks act are, that the granting of licences shall be left in the hands of the courts of quarter sessions, which shall issue whatever number they deem necessary, with full power to revoke any or all at the end of each twelve months; that each licensee shall pay a fee of from dollars downwards, according to the size of the town or city in which he carries on his trade; and, furthermore, besides his giving a personal bond for dollars, two owners of real estate living in the immediate neighbourhood shall also become bondsmen to the same amount each, as sureties for his strictly keeping the law. to these clauses are added the prohibitions, usual in most of the states, against selling on sundays or election days, or to minors or intoxicated persons. as an immediate result of the passing of the act, the number of licensed houses in philadelphia was reduced from to about , and in other parts of the state even greater reductions were made. the judges used their discretionary powers to a considerable extent, and for every successful applicant for a licence there were two others willing to find sureties and to pay the fees, but whose applications were refused. yet, notwithstanding the reduced number of saloons, the revenue showed a most decided increase. before the passing of the act the licensing fees in philadelphia came to , dollars; now, with less than a quarter of the former number of houses, they amounted to , dollars, and the whole state derived an annual drink revenue of close on , , dollars. it is worth noting in this connection that the total amount of criminal and charitable expenses in philadelphia alone caused through excessive drinking comes to over , , dollars annually. the law had an immediate and most remarkable effect on crime. the number of committals to philadelphia county prison for the twelve months before the passing of the act was , ; for the twelve months afterwards it was only , . the number of sunday arrests and committals for intoxication during the same two periods was--before, ; after, ; showing a reduction of about per cent. the number of women arrested sank to less than one-third, from to . these good results cannot, however, be solely attributed to the fact that the licence fees are heavy. "the real virtue of an act such as we have in this state," said a local journal in , "lies not in the high fee, but in the restrictions put upon the issuance of licences.... the fee is the least important feature of the brooks act." in philadelphia there is a strong public opinion to back up the act; and the police are, on the whole, active in searching for evasions. the great obstacles in the way of the total suppression of unlicensed houses lie in the two facts that juries are not always willing to convict, and that the courts have a way of letting the cases run on for an unconscionable time, until it is almost impossible to bring witnesses to secure proof of the offences. for instance, it was reported by the police department in november, , that since june in that year there had been arrests for unlawful sale, etc.; of these were returned to court; in cases were true bills found, only cases had been fully tried (out of which convictions were secured), and there were no less than cases awaiting trial, and more awaiting the action of the grand jury. since the first year, the licensing judges in philadelphia have gone in for increasing the number of saloons, and proportionately with the increase of liquor shops the total of arrests for intoxication has risen. there were , persons taken up by the police for intoxication and disorderly conduct the year before the passing of the act, while for the year afterwards there were only , . for the twelve months from june , , the number of saloons was increased to about , and the committals at once rose to over , . in the next licensing year the number of houses was again reduced, and once more the number of arrests showed a reduction, though not proportionately large. last year the judges decided to increase the number; and it is to be feared that if they do not stop this course the amount of drunkenness will soon be as great as it was before the passing of the act. thoughtful citizens are widely awake to the evils of this course, and great pressure has been brought to bear on the judges to abandon their present policy. in september, , the local law and order league sent a letter round to many of the leading inhabitants on this matter; and through the courtesy of its secretary i am able to reproduce parts of it here. "persistent efforts have been and are still being made," the committee stated, "to induce the court to increase the number of liquor licences.... we have reason to believe that a large number of applications have been and will be made in the interests of a few individuals who manage to evade the law, which does not allow an applicant to be interested in more than one licensed place--thus you will see that the greatest vigilance has to be exercised in dealing with this subject. "there were more licences granted from st june, , than for the previous year; and the number of arrests for intoxication in the last three months, ending st september, as compared with the same period of time in the previous year, shows the following result:-- year. no. of licences. no. of arrests. june to september " " --an increase of over the previous year." in some cities, the brooks law has, for a time at least, apparently led to an increase of the very evils it was framed to check. thus, in pittsburg the number of saloons was cut down from to , and finally to less than , yet the arrests for intoxication went up by per cent. but further investigation shows that this result has been brought about by the open, unchecked setting the act at defiance. "speak-easies" (that is, unlicensed saloons) have been allowed to spring up in such numbers that five years ago there were probably seven to each licensed house. these places were permitted to exist because of the political power of their owners, and the police did not dare proceed against them. the agent of the local law and order league opened prosecutions against about such houses in a couple of years; but in nearly every instance the juries refused to convict. it has been openly stated time after time that both the police and juries are under the control of the liquor ring, though just now there is admittedly a great improvement in this respect. at ordinary times the "speak-easies" are conducted with at least a show of secrecy, getting their liquor in at night, and thinly disguising themselves as cigar shops, drug stores, or eating houses; but during elections they sometimes throw off even the appearance of concealment, knowing that no one will venture to attack them. at the election of january, , the local _commercial gazette_ reported: "on sunday not a few of the select seven hundred were running wide open. they were not 'speak-easies,' but 'yell-louds,' as they disturbed their neighbourhoods with their hideous conduct. what inducements have regularly-licensed saloons to observe the law and renew their licences in the spring if saloons that pay no licence are permitted to sell not only throughout the week but on sundays, when of all days they should be kept shut? the 'speak-easies' have, or imagine they have, a 'pull' on the political parties, that they thus dare to impudently disregard the law." a partial failure of the act has been caused in other places besides pittsburg by the presence of such houses; and even where the police do their utmost it is no easy matter to exterminate them. the chief of police in lancaster county reported in that there was a considerable amount of drunkenness among women and young people; and that the drink was obtained, not in licensed houses, "but in hell-holes known as beer-clubs, or in houses where beer is delivered in quantities". from other parts come similar reports. unquestionably, high licence, when properly enforced, is a check to intemperance; with an unbiassed executive, an uncorrupted police and a law-abiding community, it does much to rob the liquor traffic of many of its evils. but, unfortunately, these conditions are not to be found in many american cities. all who have studied the working of the law admit that the mere fact that a licence fee is high is not enough in itself; this must go along, as it does in most places, with a large measure of local control and with wise restrictive legislation. the great fault of the high-licence plan is that it leaves the saloon almost as great a power in politics as ever. but how this is to be prevented, short of sweeping the drink-sellers away altogether, does not appear. part ii. greater britain. chapter i. prohibition and local option in canada. while great britain has been content, for many years, to do little more than talk about proposed temperance legislation, greater britain has been active in framing laws, testing them by actual practice, and revising, strengthening or abandoning them as the results have shown to be advisable. our colonial cousins, free from the prejudices and cast-iron traditions of english political life, have displayed far more willingness to adopt strong remedies for a grave disease than have we ourselves at home. in canada the drink question has been, for over a quarter of a century, one of the most pressing problems in dominion politics; and the results of efforts made to solve it there should prove of real value to law-makers on both sides of the atlantic. compared with england, canada is decidedly a sober country. in some parts total abstinence is the rule rather than the exception; the average consumption of liquor is comparatively small; and the liquor traffic has been for years under strict regulation. though the licensing laws differ in the various provinces, they are everywhere much in advance of our own. sunday closing is universal, no drink can be sold on election days, and in most districts the taverns have to be shut up on saturdays at six or seven in the evening. high licence prevails in many of the cities, the penalties for serving minors or drunken persons are very heavy, and a limited form of local option gives communities power to sweep away almost all of the drink shops in their borders. the result of these measures may be seen in the fact that while in england the annual consumption of drink is thirty-four gallons per head, in canada it is only four. early in the seventies, the temperance party started an agitation to obtain out-and-out prohibition. petitions poured in on parliament, and such pressure was brought to bear on individual members that the dominion government finally decided to introduce an act which would give the people in every city and county the right to interdict the traffic there. the framing of the measure was left in the hands of the hon. robert scott, a well-known lawyer and a member of the government, and he drew up a bill which seemed at the time as stringent and as workable as possible. the "scott act," as it was at once universally called, provided that on one-quarter of the electors of any city or town petitioning the governor-general, he should cause a direct vote to be taken as to whether the place was to come under the act or not. a bare majority would decide either way; and once the election was held, the question could not be re-opened for three years. at the end of three years, the defeated party might demand another poll. if the people decided to come under the act, all licences in their district would lapse at the end of the year, without any compensation being paid to the licence holders, and then the ordinary manufacture or sale of intoxicating liquors as a beverage would be absolutely prohibited. the penalties provided for attempting to evade the law were-- dollars for the first offence, dollars for the second, and not more than two months' imprisonment for each subsequent conviction. everything was done to make the recovery of the penalties as simple as possible; there was no power of appeal, and, while it was the special duty of the collectors of inland revenue to see that the law was enforced, any private individual had the power to institute a prosecution. the scott act was received with almost universal approbation; macdonald and mackenzie, the two leading canadian statesmen, supported it; and in may, , it was read for a second time in the dominion house of commons without a division. it received the royal assent the same month, and became law. within the next seven years it was submitted to seventy-seven electoral districts, and was accepted by sixty-one. the majorities for it were usually overwhelmingly large. in york, electors voted for the act, and only against; in prince the figures stood, for, against; and in many other places the proportion was about the same. but the hot enthusiasm for prohibition did not last very long. communities that had voted to go under the act became first lukewarm and then hostile; and soon a repeal movement set in, almost as strong as the demand for prohibition that had preceded it. the revenue returns showed, it is true, a most decided diminution in the consumption of liquor. comparing the statistics for the ten years ending with those for the ten ending in , the _per capita_ reduction was per cent. in spirits, per cent. in beer, and per cent. in wine. but this apparent reduction was almost altogether neutralised by the great increase in smuggling. the coast line of the seaboard provinces is so extensive that even the utmost vigilance of the revenue authorities cannot altogether put this down. the extent to which it prevailed may be shown by the estimate of lieutenant-colonel forsythe, chief of the police at quebec, that in a single year barrels of liquor were landed by smugglers at one place, st. pierre miquelon.[ ] what was the cause of this change of sentiment? perhaps the principal reason was an unfortunate dispute which arose between the dominion and the provincial authorities as to whether the right to pass laws dealing with the drink traffic lay with the former or the latter. the provincial authorities declared that the central parliament was exceeding its powers in passing such a measure, and the point was fought out before the courts. after various decisions by the lower courts, the judicial committee of the privy council declared, in june, , that the scott act was constitutional. then the provincial and local authorities practically refused to take steps to ensure the active enforcement of the act. they said that as it was a dominion, and not a provincial measure, the dominion parliament must see to it. political issues became mixed up with the question of enforcement, and in many parts law-breakers well understood that the local authorities would take no active steps to bring them to justice, if they could avoid doing so. senator scott, the framer of the law, himself admits that this is the true explanation. in a recent interview he said: "the provisions for enforcing the law were full and complete. but there is no act in the statute books that was more bitterly opposed; some of the judges in the maritime provinces even refused to give effect to it. the law was fought out in every court in the land; and until the judicial committee of the privy council sustained it, the attempt at enforcement was hopeless. neither governments nor courts regarded it with favour. the onus of enforcing the law was cast upon the federal government, yet that government could not be charged with showing any disposition to enforce the law.... the temperance element in very many localities either condemned the omission of the executive to put the law into operation, or became indifferent on the subject. wherever there was a strong temperance sentiment, as in many counties in the maritime provinces, the law was enforced by the people, and it has borne good fruit."[ ] the case of ontario, which has excited special interest in england, may be taken as in many respects a typical one. the temperance party is very strong here, and the act was adopted in and by about two-thirds of the province. a vigorous attempt was made to enforce it, and at first with some show of success. the consumption of liquor was for a time diminished, the saloons put up their shutters or sold only temperance drinks, and illegal traders were quickly brought to book. mr. w. j. thomas, a toronto brewer, has given the following as the experience of his firm with the scott act: "i found my output to decrease during the scott act years, and to change in character. it was sneaked into scott act towns by night, and in all sorts of boxes, barrels, and other packages. there was also a large increase in the bottle trade, as well as more bought for private families." but soon trouble came. legal authorities raised difficulties in the way of maintaining the law, and convictions were often quashed on appeal on the slightest grounds. the pro-liquor party showed fight, and persons who attempted to give evidence against drink-sellers would have their windows broken, would suffer personal violence, and would be publicly denounced as "sneaks" and "spies". a system of intimidation was organised, magistrates who convicted were openly insulted and threatened, notable temperance workers had their houses blown up or their ricks fired, and informers went in danger of their lives. after a time, moreover, the commitments for drunkenness showed a considerable increase; in , they were : in , when the act was in force, they had mounted to ; and in , after the repeal of the act, they were only . this increase of drunkenness under prohibition was probably due to the fact that people became addicted to whisky, owing to its being portable, rather than beer, which they could not so easily smuggle or hide. the story of a publican, given before the royal commission, is of interest, as showing how drink-sellers evaded the law. "i had two years' experience of the scott act at port huron, a town of inhabitants," said mr. j. c. miller. "i complied with the scott act at my hotel there for three months, but the receipts would not justify perpetuity. on the th july i made a drink called 'conundrum drink,' composed of water, lemons and whisky. this was supplemented by lager, called for the day 'blue ribbon beer'. the temperance men sent up two detectives from kincardine, who were low characters, and would swear to anything. when they came to give evidence, i gave them forty dollars to clear me, and they did so. "dr. mcleod (a commissioner).--you paid them the money to perjure themselves? "mr. miller.--well, i gave them forty dollars, and do not know whether they got liquor in my place or not. they were prepared to swear that they did, and they swore that they didn't. i then tried the experiment of keeping the liquor to give away, and it was entirely successful. then i sold cider, and gave the liquor away. that was also successful; and after the temperance men sought several times to secure a conviction without success, they let me alone, and i sold freely until the act was repealed." it must not be supposed that the temperance people were passive spectators of these attempts to defy the law. on the contrary, they were active in prosecuting. the number of prosecutions for breaches of the law in the six months ending in july, , was ; for the six months ending in october, , the number of prosecutions was . the number of convictions in the first period was , and in the second period . the electors of ontario had enough of the law, and at the earliest possible opportunity the act was repealed in every county in the province. mr. f. s. spence, the secretary of the dominion alliance, gave the following as the reasons why (in the opinion of prohibitionists) the law was repealed:-- "( ) because the people were disappointed in finding that it did not give them a fuller measure of prohibition. "( ) because of the hard feeling engendered among neighbours by the forcing of evidence. "( ) because of the annoyance caused by the hotel-keepers closing their houses, and of the terrorism practised. "( ) because of the inefficiency of the machinery for the enforcing of the act. "( ) because the vote for repeal was often brought on prematurely during a time of local irritation over the effects of the act. "( ) because of antagonistic personal influence." the temperance party did not take its defeat quietly. it maintained that the failure was due, not to any mistake in the principle of prohibition, but to erroneous legislation and weakness of administration; and a fresh agitation was soon started for a more perfect measure. but for some time action was delayed. the great stumbling-block in the way of the authorities doing anything is the doubt whether the right to legislate lies with the federal or the provincial authorities. the decision of the privy council in , while settling the legality of the scott act, by no means made clear the exact line of demarcation between the powers of the greater and lesser legislatures on this matter. in order to settle this, the ontario government has submitted to the supreme court a constitutional case which will clear up the matter. as soon as this is decided there, it will be taken on to the privy council, and it is expected that by early next year the matter may be finally settled. this doubt has given dominion politicians a very good excuse for doing nothing. "when we get a prohibition law in ontario," said sir oliver mowatt, the ontario premier, in answer to a deputation ( th april, ), "we will want one that is enforced. there is no use in a nominal prohibition, no use in putting a prohibition law on the statute book, unless we can, and do, enforce it. you all know that a prohibition law is difficult of enforcement, as there are too many people interested in its not being enforced. if a law is not enforced to any extent, it is a thousand times worse than if there was no such law on the statute book. any prohibition law under the present condition of public sentiment is difficult of enforcement; and if there were any reasonable doubt as to whether that law is valid or not, it would be hopeless to attempt to enforce it. we may be sorry for that, and unwilling to believe it; but if we endeavour to enforce in this country a prohibition law, when there is not a reasonable certainty of its being valid, it will be a hopeless task." year by year, since their defeats in and , the prohibitionists have been gaining greater political power, and they now command so many votes that neither party can afford to ignore them. in order to make a show of satisfying their demand, and at the same time, perhaps, to shelve the question for a year or two, the dominion government appointed, in , a royal commission to inquire into the whole subject. since then the commissioners have been moving from place to place, collecting a considerable amount of useful, and a still larger quantity of irrelevant and next to valueless information. the commission has given a great many no doubt worthy persons the opportunity of airing in public their individual opinions on the folly or wisdom of total abstinence, on the exact number of ounces of alcohol it is wise to consume in a day, and on other equally absorbing themes. but if the commissioners print _verbatim_ all the evidence that has been tendered before them, their report will almost rival in bulk the holy books of the buddhists, or the report of the sweating commission. in and , in order to accurately ascertain the real opinion of the people on the liquor question, the greater number of the provincial governments took plébiscites on prohibition. the plan was adopted from the well-known swiss referendum; but with the great difference that, whereas in switzerland a sufficient majority obtained by the direct vote alters the law, the plébiscites in canada have no legislative effect whatever, but are purely expressions of opinion, taken as test of the popular will. at first the extreme left wing of the temperance party looked with some disfavour on them, and declared that they were nothing but pretexts to delay legislation. a plébiscite was first taken in manitoba, on the same day as the general election, at the end of . two-thirds of this province are said to be already under prohibition, by means of local option laws, and out of the forty members of the legislature twenty-two are reputed total abstainers. the vote was taken on the single question: "do you think the prohibition of the manufacture and sale of intoxicating liquor desirable? yes or no." the number of votes recorded was fairly large, being only a little over five per cent, less than that cast for the candidates for the legislature. the result was a complete victory for the prohibitionists. even winnipeg, the largest city, which was reckoned a very doubtful place, gave a majority of for prohibition. the result in the whole province was:-- total votes for candidates, , total votes on prohibition, , for prohibition, , against prohibition, , majority for prohibition, , the provincial assembly has since requested the dominion parliament to give effect to the popular vote by legislative enactment. in prince edward island a plébiscite has shown a majority of in favour of prohibition; and in nova scotia, where a poll has just been taken, the result has been a majority of , for prohibition. but the most surprising result of all has come from ontario. it was generally anticipated by those not on the spot that this province, with its former unfortunate experience, would hardly again support a proposal for the suppression of the drink traffic. a vote was taken on new year's day, ; and all persons having votes at municipal elections, and all unmarried women and widows who exercise the franchise, were allowed to take part. no elector had more than one vote. the question submitted was: "are you in favour of the immediate prohibition by law of the importation, manufacture and sale of intoxicating liquors as a beverage?" the temperance party made great preparations for the election. innumerable meetings were held, committees of ladies canvassed the voters, ministers urged on their congregations the duty of rightly using their electoral powers, and all that was possible to ensure success was done. the teetotalers in ontario undoubtedly anticipated a victory, but even the most sanguine among them had hardly dared to anticipate such a majority as was obtained. , voted for prohibition, , against, leaving a majority in favour of , votes. the most discouraging thing about the plébiscite is the fact that only about per cent. of the electors in the province took the trouble to record their votes. the women constituted per cent. of the total electors, and while the ballot forms for the men were printed on yellow paper, those for women were on blue, in order that it might be ascertained how they voted. it was found that the women were six to one for prohibition. so if the votes of the women had been taken away, the majority in favour would have been reduced to a few thousands. but after allowing for these things, the victory was unquestionably a notable one. the chief strength of the liquor party lay, as usual, among the foreign portion of the community, and those towns in which the germans predominated declared by large majorities against prohibition. in toronto the prohibitionists obtained a majority, but so many electors abstained from voting as to make this apparent victory little better than a defeat. but many places that had been confidently expected to declare for licence decided the other way. even several districts that a few years ago almost unanimously repealed the scott act, had come round again in favour of prohibition. the temperance party in ontario is now somewhat divided. there is a noisy, if not very influential section, that is in favour of the provincial legislature at once passing a provincial prohibitory law, taking for granted that the privy council will decide in favour of the state right to do so. happily, this section is in a minority, for no course could be more harmful to the temperance cause. if a provincial prohibitory law were passed now, magistrates would fear to enforce it fully until they knew whether it was really legal or not; cases of conviction would be the subject of unceasing appeals from court to court; and every cause that made the scott act a failure would, in an accentuated degree, prevent the efficient carrying out of the new law. many members of the temperance party recognise this, and have determined to work for prohibition under the local option laws, and for the creation of a still stronger public sentiment against drinking, until the decision of the courts is known. then, if it is found that the province has the right to prohibit, a prohibition bill will be introduced. the government has adopted this latter plan, and the premier, sir oliver mowatt, has given the following pledge for himself and his colleagues: "if the decision of the privy council should be that the province has the jurisdiction to pass a prohibitory liquor law as to sale, i will introduce such a bill in the following session, if i am then at the head of the government. if the decision of the privy council is that the province has jurisdiction only to pass a partial prohibitory liquor law, i will introduce such a prohibitory bill as the decision will warrant, unless the partial prohibitory power is so limited as to be ineffective from a temperance standpoint." prohibitionists in ontario will only do themselves harm if they imagine that the battle for the suppression of the liquor traffic there is already won, or will be won on the passing of a suitable act. on the contrary, it is certain that any prohibitory bill, when passed, will meet with the greatest opposition from a considerable portion of the community. innumerable efforts will be put forth to make it a dead letter, or to break it down in any way whatever. there is a large and controlling section of electors on whom the continuance of the law depends. it is now willing to give prohibition a trial, and if it is anything like a success it will maintain it. but, if it should prove unworkable or unsuccessful, then the great body of the people will soon send it on the same road as the scott act. so far as plébiscites have been taken throughout the dominion, they have been in every province in favour of prohibition. there are three provinces in which there has been no voting,--new brunswick, british columbia, and quebec. the last named is admitted to be, on account of the large proportion of settlers of french descent in its borders, the province least friendly to the suppression of the traffic; but the other two are generally regarded as strongholds of temperance. the opinion of new brunswick may be seen by the following resolution passed by its legislative assembly on the th april, : "whereas, in the opinion of this legislative assembly, the enactment of a prohibitory liquor law would conduce to the general benefit of the people of the province, and meet with the approval of a majority of the electorate; and whereas legislative power in respect of the enactment of such law rests in the parliament of canada; therefore, resolved that this assembly hereby expresses its desire that the parliament of canada shall, with all convenient speed, enact a law prohibiting the importation, manufacture, and sale of intoxicating liquors as a beverage, into or from the dominion of canada." many demands have been made that the dominion parliament, under the powers it was declared to possess by the privy council decision of , shall immediately enact a dominion prohibitory law. this, however, it refuses to do; and sir john thompson, the dominion premier, recently stated he can do nothing this session, owing to the tariff reductions; and he does not think it would be a proper course to announce a policy until after the report of the royal commission on the question has been presented. chapter ii. local control in new zealand. in no british colony is the temperance sentiment stronger, or is there more likelihood of the agitation for prohibition being brought to a successful issue, than in new zealand. its statesmen have shown during the last few years great political venturesomeness; the parliamentary suffrage has been given to women; social, it may be said socialistic, legislation of a most pronounced character has been encouraged, and the dreams of english radicals have turned to blossom and fruit under the southern cross. the danger at present seems to be, not that the changes will be too slow, but that politicians, eager to anticipate the public wishes, may adopt and carry advanced legislation for which the colony is not prepared. this danger has been greatly increased since the passing of female suffrage. whatever merits women may have as politicians, moderation is not one of them; and in the last election they plainly showed that they intend to select for power the men of most outspoken views and extreme policy. new zealand is a country of to-day, and knows but little of the social difficulties that are taxing all the energies of politicians in lands with a longer history. the rougher and poorer emigrants have mostly chosen the other australian colonies in preference to it, and it is peopled to-day by a picked body of prosperous englishmen and scotchmen. as regards the consumption of liquor, it takes almost the lowest place among those lands that fly the union jack. the average expenditure per head comes to only a little over three pounds a year, and the amount of proof spirits consumed per head in the same time is a little over two gallons, or only about half of the quantity drunk in england. the prohibitionist party is very strong in the colony, and is led by sir robert stout, the liberal ex-premier. the prohibitionists do not attempt just now to secure a measure forbidding the sale of liquor throughout the colony, for they regard that as at present impracticable. their demands for the time are local option of prohibition by a simple majority, and no compensation. this latter point they have secured; and the question of pecuniary compensation to dispossessed publicans is no longer within the range of practical politics in new zealand. in a licensed victuallers' compensation bill was brought before the house of representatives; but it aroused such general opposition that its proposers did not venture to ask for a division on it. the tendency of legislation has been for some years steadily in the direction of giving increased direct power of control to the people. for some time the supervision of the drink trade was left in the hands of the various provincial councils, but in sir william fox, then premier, carried a measure through parliament which granted to two-thirds of the adult residents in any neighbourhood the right of preventing the issue of new licences there, on notifying their desire in that respect by signing a petition. eight years later, a new act repealed this veto law, and provided a more complicated machinery for dealing with the question. according to this, a licensing board was chosen annually by the electors in each district, and once in every three years the ratepayers voted on the question whether any licences should be issued in their neighbourhood. if they decided in the negative, the board had to abide by their decision; but should they wish for an increase, the matter was then brought before the board, though this body was by no means obliged to grant new licences, even when the popular vote had given it power to do so. in many ways this act proved a practicable, workable measure. the inland revenue returns showed each year, from the passing of the act up to , a steady diminution in the consumption of drink, amounting altogether in the seven years to twenty-five per cent.; and though this reduction has not been quite maintained during subsequent years, the trade is still considerably less than it formerly was. the act stopped the increase of public-houses, though very few of the old hotels were deprived of their licences under it. out of licensed houses in the colony, only twenty-five were closed under the act during the first seven years. since that time the advanced temperance party showed considerably more activity in this direction, and succeeded in obtaining a withdrawal of most of the licences in more than one district. but a doubtful legal point cropped up, as to how far local boards have the power to take away old licences, that prevented very much being done. in a certain licensing district the temperance party aroused itself and succeeded in electing a board pledged to close the hotels. the board kept its promise, and thereupon the liquor-sellers brought a case before the courts, on the grounds that the members of the board had publicly pledged themselves as to their line of action before election, and therefore they were biassed and did not deal with the licences in a judicial manner. the court upheld the publicans and declared that the deprival of the licences was illegal. this decision, of course, practically took from the electors the greater part of their local control. another point in which the system proved unsatisfactory was in the supervision of licensed houses. there seems to be a general opinion among moderate men that the boards were not nearly strict enough in bringing offending licence-holders to book. the act of was not sufficiently drastic to satisfy the temperance party; and last year mr. seddon, the liberal premier, brought before the legislature and carried a liquor law which he said would meet with the approval of all parties. the measure is called "an act to give the people greater control over the granting and refusing of licences". the licensing authority is still left in the hands of locally elected bodies: though no member of any such body can be disqualified from sitting or acting because he has at any time expressed his views or given any pledge as to the liquor traffic. the whole of the colony is now divided into sixty districts, and each of these has its own board, consisting of the resident magistrate, and eight other residents in the district. any elector living in a district shall be qualified to become a candidate for election to the board there, unless he is a paid colonial or local official, or is directly or indirectly pecuniarily interested in the liquor traffic. when, once in three years, the licensing committee is elected, each voter has submitted to him at the same time three alternatives: and he must scratch out two of these, thus voting for the one he leaves untouched, or his paper will be void. the three choices are:-- ( ) i vote that the number of publicans' licences continue as at present. ( ) i vote that the number of publicans' licences be reduced. ( ) i vote that no publicans' licences be granted. no vote for a committee-man will be counted unless the elector also chooses one of these things at the same time as he votes for the members of the committee. on the result of the direct vote the committee must act. no election is valid unless at least one-half of the voters on the register take part in it. an absolute majority of the votes recorded in any district carries either of the first two propositions, for no alteration or for reduction; but the proposal for no licences at all can only be carried on a majority of three-fifths of those voting deciding in favour of it. if the votes for no licence are under three-fifths, they are added to those for reduction, and counted as part of such. where the proposal for reduction is successful, the committee shall carry out such reduction as it may think fit, provided that it does not exceed one-quarter of the total number of public-houses. such licences as have been endorsed for breaches of the law since the passing of the act are first to be taken away, and then those held in respect of premises which provide little or no accommodation for travellers beyond the bar. the temperance party is seriously dissatisfied with this measure. "this bill, i believe," said sir robert stout in the house of representatives, "is a bill more in favour of the liquor traffic than if i had met the licensed victuallers' association, and asked them to come to some compromise. i believe the association would have given a more reasonable bill to the temperance party than this measure. that is my opinion, and i believe i am speaking what is correct, from what i have heard." the chief objections of the local optionists are to the clauses that provide for a three-fifths majority for prohibition, and for a per cent. poll before an election is valid; they also say that the licensing areas are too large, and that the act practically gives the publicans three years' licences. at the parliamentary elections that took place since the measure was passed, the question of a bare majority sufficing to carry the proposal for no licences has been made a test one everywhere; and the teetotalers, aided by the women's vote, have carried their point in so many places that there seems every prospect of the law being altered in this respect almost immediately. the first licensing election under the new act took place at the end of march, . a fresh and somewhat disturbing factor was introduced in it by the voting power of the newly enfranchised women. the women were (as they had been in the parliamentary elections) by an overwhelming majority in favour of either no licences or reduction, usually the former. sometimes they allowed their zeal to slightly outrun the bounds of womanliness. thus, at one meeting at christchurch, called by the leading clergy for the consideration of the question, they took possession of the hall, voted down the proposals for reduction, and refused to listen to the speakers. the chairman would not allow them to put their amendment for no licence, so they would not let the meeting continue. they were as rowdy (if reports in various local papers can be trusted) as an excited meeting at a fiercely contested election in england. finally they determined to there and then convert one of their leading opponents. "pastor birch," reports the _christchurch weekly press_, "says that when he came out of a meeting the ladies were hatching a conspiracy against him. they intended, when he left the meeting, to surround him in the middle of the road. a compact ring of female enthusiasts was to be formed round him, and, when they had him fairly wedged in, they intended to kneel down and pray for him. the worthy pastor, it appears, declined this delicate attention, but was at a loss how to escape. ultimately, i believe, he hit on the device of leaving the hall supported on one side by his lordship the bishop, and on the other by father bell. this saved him, the women found it impossible to surround pastor birch without including his companions, and so let him escape." full reports of the results have not yet reached england, but sufficient is known to make it certain that the temperance party has gained a great victory. had it not been for the three-fifths clause, the greater part of the country would have gone under prohibition. at the time the last mail left new zealand, the results were known in twenty-six out of the sixty licensing divisions; and the total votes there showed that , were for prohibition, for reduction, and , for no alteration. at wellington, where the contest excited great interest, and was looked upon as a fair test for the whole colony, the results were: for prohibition , for reduction , for no alteration . in only one place was the necessary majority obtained for no licences, and in another place the people have decided for no bottle licences. there were quite a number of districts where the prohibitionists were only a few dozen short of the required majority. the results have amply borne out the objection to its being necessary for per cent. of the electors to vote before the election is valid. in several places the publicans gave orders for their supporters to abstain from voting, and thus prevented public opinion being tested. at auckland the temperance people made no attempt to prohibit or reduce, for they knew that it would be hopeless to think of securing a sufficient poll by themselves. the _new zealand herald_ ( th march, ) says: "we think it will be found, when the whole of the returns come to hand, that in more than half the districts the whole proceedings are void, because half the names on the roll did not vote. the law may be defeated because one party may, previous to the elections, place a crowd of names on the roll, either merely bogus names, or the names of persons whom they know will not take the trouble to go to the poll. and as the matter stands, the ballot is practically defeated in many instances. where there are no candidates to be voted for those acting in the interest of the hotels know, when they see a man going to the polling booth, that he is going to vote either for reduction or prohibition, and they appeal to him: 'you are surely not going to give a vote against us?'" from what seems to be a mistaken policy, the advanced temperance party refused to take any part in the choice of committee-men; consequently, while nearly every place has chosen reduction, the amount of reduction will now be decided by men elected largely by the liquor interest. it is hard to see what benefits the prohibitionists hope to obtain from this course, unless, as many aver, they want the public-houses made as disreputable as possible, so that the people will be more eager to get rid of them. the opinion of various classes in the colony as to the outcome of the election can, perhaps, be best seen by extracts from their own journals. the _lyttelton times_ (anti-prohibitionist) says: "the first really genuine local option poll has shown the people to be determined upon further reducing the number of licensed houses. the polling, which was everywhere conducted with the most perfect decorum and good feeling, has served several useful purposes. it has demonstrated the strength, and weakness, of the prohibition party; it has elicited a very decided expression of public opinion that the existing number of licences is in excess of public requirements; it has shown that the people can be safely trusted with full executive and judicial powers in a manner affecting their interests; and it has, we hope, settled the vexed licensing question for three years to come." the (wellington) _new zealand times_ says: "the present interest centres in the large prohibition vote. the weight of that vote is a surprise and a warning. few were prepared for it, but most people frankly confessed their inability to gauge the new power. now that this power has declared itself, few will be prepared to deny that prohibition has come appreciably nearer than a year ago any one thought it would come in this generation.... the decided prohibitionist leaning of the body of electors is a warning that nothing but strict regulation, worthy of the name, will serve to stem the advancing tide." on the other hand, the _otago witness_, although a strongly temperance paper, is inclined to explain away the prohibitionist vote. "numbers of temperance people, properly so called, are working with prohibitionists," it says. "they say to themselves, 'whatever results may be obtained from this agitation of the prohibitionists, they are sure to fall so far short of their aim that by helping them we can accomplish our own'.... we may yet find the bulk of the people advocating prohibition, not because it will prohibit, but because it will restrict." the _manawatu daily standard_ considers: "if the present state of the public mind be any criterion, the day would seem to be dawning when prohibition will come upon us; but the feelings of many would revolt against such a revolutionary procedure being entered upon at the present time". the _christchurch press_ says: "the polling was nowhere so heavy as we were led to suppose by a great many enthusiasts it would be.... a great many abstentions may be accounted for by the fact that those whose desire was for a reduction felt pretty confident that with the votes of the no licence people it would be carried, and consequently they did not take the trouble to vote.... the great lesson which we learn from these elections as to the feeling of the public of new zealand on this licensing question is that a vast majority are not prepared to go to the extreme length of closing all the houses, but that a great majority do desire that there shall be a reduction of something like per cent.; and that those which remain must be made to understand that they retain their licences only on condition that their houses are well conducted in all respects--that is to say, that they only sell good liquor to sober people within legal hours." chapter iii. licensing in australia. a year or two ago mr. david christie murray stirred up the wrath of the australians by charging them, in effect, with being the most drunken people under the sun. this statement, like most other sweeping denunciations, requires to be taken with a considerable amount of reserve; but it certainly is true that our antipodean cousins are, to judge from the evidence afforded by their revenue returns, afflicted with a chronic and incurable thirst. the average consumption of proof alcohol in several of the colonies is almost as great as in england. the liquor laws of australia are now in much the same condition as many are striving to make ours at home. local option is in force over the greater part of the continent. sunday closing is generally compulsory, and the licensed victualler is bound by many restrictions unknown to his brother here. as each colony is entirely independent of the others, their laws differ, and must be described separately. for the purposes of this volume it will be sufficient to deal with victoria, new south wales and queensland, as the laws of the remaining australian colonies present no particular features which call for comment. _victoria._--in victoria, in spite of the fact that the control of the liquor traffic is almost wholly in the hands of the people themselves, the annual consumption of drink costs nearly £ per head. this, however, is a mere trifle to what it once was, for during the gold rush in the fifties the cost was nearly £ a head yearly for every man, woman, and child in the colony. it is misleading, however, to compare the expenditure in england and victoria, and judge the amount consumed by it; for in the antipodes things generally are much dearer, and money is cheaper than at home. the victorians consume about per cent. more spirits, between four and five times as much wine, and not much more than half the beer, per head of population, than we do. from the time when victoria separated from new south wales down to , a decidedly retrograde policy was adopted; licence fees were reduced, grocers' licences introduced, and beer shops legalised. but in the last-named year the liquor laws were amended by a measure giving limited local control over the traffic; and in a further act was passed by which the local powers were considerably increased. under the present law one-fifth of the electorate in any district can petition the governor in council to hold an election to settle the number of public-houses to be permitted there, and he is then obliged to cause a popular vote to be taken on the question. each elector states on a ballot paper how many hotels he wishes to be licensed, and the number named by him must be the number then existing, the statutory number, or some number between. the statutory number has been fixed at one for every inhabitants up to the first thousand, and one for every full beyond. where the number is greater than this it can be reduced by a poll to that limit; where it is less, it can be raised in a similar way up to it. but in no case can the number be reduced below or increased above the statutory limit. in arriving at the decision of the electors, if a majority vote for any particular number then that number is carried. where, however, the votes are so scattered that no particular number commands a majority over all the others the following plan is adopted. "suppose a district with hotels, and as the statutory number. suppose, further, that votes be recorded, of which are for , for , for , for , for , for , and for . the votes given for the higher numbers would be added to those given for until they made a majority of votes recorded. in this case by the time the number is reached, there would be a total of votes, making a majority of the , and the determination would be that the hotels be reduced to ."[ ] where the electors decide in favour of a reduction, a licensing court sits and decides what houses are to be closed. the licensing inspector has to summon all the hotel-keepers before the court, and the court selects the houses which are worst conducted, or which provide least accommodation, as the ones to lose their licences. the houses which are thus closed are given a monetary compensation on account of the annual value of the premises being lowered: the exact amount of the compensation is fixed by two arbitrators, appointed one by the owner and another by the minister. in case these cannot agree a county court judge or police magistrate is nominated by them as umpire. the whole of the compensation money is raised from the "trade" itself, by means of increased licensing fees and penalties for breaches of the liquor law. if these amounts are not sufficient, a special tax is imposed on liquor in order to meet the deficiency. the amounts awarded as compensation have been, in the opinion of many, absurdly high. thus at ballarat east, where forty hotels were closed, the compensation awarded was, to owners, £ , s. d.; to licensees, £ , s. d. at ballarat west, where twenty-six hotels were closed, the compensation came to, for owners, £ , ; for licensees, £ . at broadford the total cost of closing four places was £ . the fact that compensation is paid makes many voters far less keen than they otherwise would be for reduction, even though the money so paid does not in any way cost them anything. in many parts considerable use has been made of the powers of reduction. thus in fourteen local option polls that took place in twelve months the people decided either for reduction or against increase, according as the purpose for which the poll was taken. the victorian licensing laws have certainly prevented any considerable increase of hotels, though they have had but little effect in reducing the drink traffic itself. the following communication from mr. john vale, secretary of the victorian alliance, shows how temperance men regard the present law. "the local option law of the colony," he writes, "first came into force in ; some polls were then taken, but for the most part were rendered void by the condition that one-third of the electors must record their votes in order to constitute a poll. the publican party adopted the policy of not voting, and letting it be known that all who were seen entering the polling booth would be marked men, to be injured in every possible way. thus, the secrecy of the ballot was destroyed. only the temperance stalwarts faced the ordeal, and we were generally just a few short of the required number. in this condition was repealed, in so far as it related to the reduction of hotels. in the following year other polls were taken with success; but then, with brewery money, a process was begun known as 'stonewalling' in the law courts. the publicans would appeal on some technical point. being defeated on that they raised another point; and so on, until after a time they hit upon one which had something in it, or the government got tired of the process. as a result most of the victories of were made of non-effect. we then secured a provision doing away with the power of appeal in connection with local option polls. since then, victories have been secured in a number of important centres, and the condemned hotels have been or are now being closed. the victorian alliance, however, has come to the determination to promote no more polls under the present law. it is believed that polls for prohibition could be carried with no more effort than is required to win victories for reduction. the antagonism to compensation has grown with experience. and in certain cases the licensing courts have used the power which they possess to issue colonial wine licences for public-houses closed by the popular vote, and in respect of which compensation had been paid. wine shops are generally the worst class of drink shops; so that the last state of these houses has become worse than the first: for these, and other reasons, the above-mentioned resolution has been adopted. "in future we shall concentrate our efforts on securing the direct veto without compensation. to this end we are about to secure the introduction of a bill in parliament. it will provide for a vote in each electoral district in conjunction with a general election, which takes place at least every three years, on the simple issue of prohibition. each electoral district to decide the matter for itself. the prohibition would apply to the manufacture as well as the sale of intoxicants. a distinctive feature of the bill is that it will provide for all women voting upon this question equally with all men. it, of course, provides for the repeal of compensation." _queensland._--queensland has the most simple and thorough-going local option act of any of the southern colonies. by this act, which was carried in , one-sixth of the electors in a place can cause a direct vote to be taken on one or all of three propositions: ( ) that the sale of intoxicating liquors shall be prohibited; ( ) that the number of licences shall be reduced to a certain number, not being less than two-thirds of the existing number; ( ) that no new licences shall be granted. the act requires a two-thirds majority to carry the first proposition, but the second and third are carried by a simple majority. in over eighty per cent. of the elections held for the purpose of voting new licences, the temperance party has won. very few attempts have been made to secure prohibition, and none of them have been successful: in a few cases, however, the people have decided in favour of reduction. the experience of queensland seems to point to the conclusion that in a community where prohibitionists are not very strong (as in england) a provision giving the people power of preventing the issuance of new licences will do more good than placing in their hands the option of prohibition which they will not use. in queensland children under fourteen may not be served with liquor even to take away, and persons under eighteen may not be served for consumption on the premises. _new south wales._--the present liquor law of new south wales was carried by sir henry parkes in , and came into force at the beginning of . the power of granting licences is placed in the hands of stipendiary magistrates specially appointed by the government, and several restrictions are placed around the trade. the people are given a limited local option as to whether they will have new licensed houses or not. polls take place on this question once every three years, at the same time as the municipal elections. the popular veto only applies to small houses however, and hotels with over twenty rooms can be licensed whether the people wish it or not. there has been a strong movement throughout the colony for a more complete measure of local option, and several times within the last few years it has seemed as though this would be carried. the one difficulty in the way is the question of compensation; and if the temperance party would only consent to recompensing dispossessed publicans, local option could be passed into law almost at once. the temperance party itself in new south wales has recently become divided. one section, consisting principally of the good templars, has wearied of seeking for local option, and declares that it will accept nothing less than state prohibition. many of these irreconcilables are loud in their declarations that the great mass of teetotalers who are content to work for local option are little better than enemies of the cause. the only outcome of this split is likely to be the delay of temperance legislation of any kind there. part iii. the continent of europe. chapter i. the state as distiller. why should the trade in intoxicants be placed under special restraints? is the question sometimes asked; and the querists are hardly satisfied with the answer that it has continually been proved necessary, by the experience of all civilised governments, to place limits on every business that is shown to be injurious to the well-being of the people. the drink traffic is admittedly such; therefore it has to be dealt with in a way quite different from the trades of the grocer or the baker. there are those who would have us believe that these very restrictions promote intemperance; and visionaries have more than once stated that the best way to encourage sobriety and to restrain excess would be to make the traffic absolutely free. the whole theory of government is against such an idea. it is an axiom of statesmanship that to check any trade by legislation is to injure it; and that, within certain limits, the more severe the restrictions imposed on it, the less likely is a trade to thrive. but for answer to free-trade theorists we need not appeal to axioms of government. the universal experience of nations goes to show that to allow the free manufacture and sale of intoxicants is to use the surest means of promoting all manner of excess. the official returns of france, belgium and germany within the last few years, all show that free trade in drink in these countries has proved an utter failure; and that under it, poverty, insanity and crime are increasing with terrible rapidity. another remarkable illustration of this is to be found in the recent experience of switzerland. by article thirty-one of the swiss constitution of freedom of trade is specially guaranteed. the same year as the new constitution was approved, the canton of argovie wanted to know if this clause would prevent it limiting the number of drink shops in its borders. the federal council replied that "the limitation of the number of drink shops is no longer possible, on account of the principle of liberty of commerce and of industry imposed by article thirty-one of the constitution". the result was an immediate and considerable increase in the number of cabarets in nearly every canton. from to the total of these establishments was raised by per cent., and in geneva there was a wine shop for every people, the average for the whole country being one drink shop for every inhabitants. the effects of this on the condition of the people were immediately apparent. the french have a saying "to smoke and to drink like a swiss, and to get tipsy like a pole"; but now the swiss, never the most temperate nation, showed signs of rapid deterioration through intemperance. at the recruitment of the medical commission reported that the number of young men found fit for military service was from to per cent. less than in , and in some parts the number of men fit for service was as low as · per cent. the principal medical officer declared that the physical degeneration of the candidates was due to the evil effects of spirit drinking and drunkenness. the director of the central bureau of charity stated that per cent. of the applications of mothers and children for relief were brought about by the tippling of the father of the family. sociologists pointed out that the nation was rapidly being destroyed by this one curse; and in order to obtain fuller details the federal assembly requested the federal council to make an inquiry into the matter. the report of the latter body, when issued, more than bore out the gloomy prognostications of the alarmists. from to , patients were admitted to the public lunatic asylums, and of these were brought there by alcoholism. there were deaths annually directly caused by excessive drinking. out of prisoners in cantonal penitentiaries, were found to be drunkards; and in eight reformatories per cent. of the boys and per cent. of the girls were found to be the children of parents one or both of whom were given to intoxication. in switzerland there are a larger proportion of suicides than in any other civilised country, and the commission found that this was caused mainly by alcoholism. the federal council attributed the state of affairs to two reasons: ( ) to the change in the economic condition of switzerland owing to the introduction of railways; ( ) partly to the fact that wine had become costly and inaccessible to the workmen, while at the same time spirits had become cheaper. brandy was not only imported in great quantities from germany, but was also manufactured on a large scale in industrial and domestic distilleries in switzerland. the product of these small distilleries was specially dangerous, not only because of the alcohol it contained, but because of the crude and imperfect state of most of it. there was said to be between five and ten thousand domestic distilleries in the canton of berne alone. to these causes, rather than to the increase of the shops for the sale of liquor, the council attributed the increased alcoholism; but the popular opinion was against it on this point, and power was almost immediately afterwards given to the cantons to limit the number of public-houses. the chief recommendation of the council was that steps should be taken to cheapen the price of beer and wine and to make spirits dearer. in order to accomplish this latter aim the government caused a popular vote to be taken on the question whether the constitution should be so altered as to permit the traffic in intoxicants to be subject to control. there was a two-thirds majority in favour of control, and soon afterwards a scheme was formulated for making the manufacture of spirits entirely a state monopoly. this plan was started partly in the hope of checking drunkenness and providing the people with pure drink; but undoubtedly a cause that was very largely responsible for its initiation was the hope of securing an abundant revenue. has the monopoly law been a success? financially, yes; so far as ensuring the purity of the spirits sold, also yes; but for checking the consumption of strong drink it has been almost if not quite a failure. in saying this i am well aware that i express an opinion different from that of nearly every english writer on the subject, official and otherwise. some at least of the data on which english writers have founded favourable opinions is partly unreliable and partly misleading. thus in the (english) foreign office report on switzerland (no. ) it was stated that the consumption of spirits in , before the passing of the measure, amounted to · litres per head, and that this has been reduced by the monopoly to a little over litres. now it is impossible to say exactly what was the average consumption in ; but the monopoly itself, in its official returns, places the amount drunk per head that year, not at · litres, but at · . the difference is enormous, and it must be remembered that it is rather to the interest of the monopoly to overstate than to understate the quantity drunk before it took over control. moreover, from the figures for a by no means negligable amount must be deducted for that which, though reckoned in the swiss drink bill, was not consumed there but was smuggled to neighbouring countries. for the first year there was a great decrease. the total spirit drinking, including that illegally obtained, was officially estimated at · litres per head, or less by one-quarter than in . this was due principally to the rise in price of brandy. but since that year the total spirit bill has been steadily increasing. in it was · litres a head, in , · litres, and in (the last year for which returns are available), · litres. these figures include only the amount sold through the monopoly. to them must be added three unknown quantities,--first, the spirits made by the people at their own homes from fruit; secondly, a proportion of the amount sold by the monopoly for use in manufactures, etc., and mixed with special preparations to render it undrinkable, which is admittedly often so doctored by people of depraved tastes as to be made potable again; and, thirdly, the amount smuggled. formerly, as was said, swiss spirits used to be smuggled into neighbouring countries; but now, owing to the rise in prices through the monopoly, drink from other countries is smuggled into switzerland. those who claim for the state distilleries that they are potent forces in reducing the traffic in distilled liquors seem to mistake altogether their methods of working. the check to drunkenness has been produced, not by the state manufacturing drink, but by the prohibition of home manufacture and the increase in the price of spirits. it is no longer possible now for the peasant woman to manufacture her fiery draught from potatoes, and to feed her little one on it in place of milk. the distilleries are not managed so as to check drinking (for with that they have nothing to do), but to supply the dealers with pure liquors. in fact, it is to be expected that people who can afford it will now drink more spirits than they once would. before the monopoly, much of the brandy was crude, of bad quality, and most injurious. now it is purified and excellent; and, while i cannot claim to be an authority on this point myself, i am informed by persons who do drink that they can consume much more of properly prepared spirits than they can of those that contain any quantity of fusel oil and other harmful substances. there were distilleries (besides the domestic stills) at the time the new plan was started; but these were all closed, with the exception of about three, compensation being paid to the owners. the establishments permitted to continue business are compelled to sell all their raw spirit to the régie at a fixed rate; and in order to protect home trade the régie is obliged to buy at least one-fourth of its spirits from native producers. no spirits can be imported by private individuals from foreign countries, except under strict conditions, and after a special tax has been paid on them. the monopoly minutely examines all liquor purchased by it; its purity is carefully ascertained, and then it is resold to retail dealers, either in the form of raw spirit or refined and prepared with a bouquet to suit the public taste. the prices fixed by the régie are by no means high, but they are a decided increase on what were formerly charged. with this system of regulating the supply of spirits another was adopted at the same time of encouraging the consumption of beer and wine. the taxes on these drinks were remitted, and their sale made as free as possible from restriction. it was hoped that this would cause the people to use lighter drinks more; and though it has made little difference to the wine trade, it has greatly helped to increase the popularity of beer. turning to the financial side of the business, the figures are almost enough to make any chancellor of the exchequer whose budget shows a balance on the wrong side, become his own distiller. from june, (when the monopoly was started), till the end of , the income was £ , , the expenditure £ , , and the profit remaining £ , . in the income had reached £ , , while the expenditure was £ , , and the profit £ , . for there was a still further all-round increase. the income was £ , , the expenditure £ , , and the profit £ , . a portion of the profits has to be put on one side each year to repay the preliminary outlay of purchasing plant and compensating the old distillers. this cost £ , , and it will be all paid off by . a further sum has for a few years to be paid to several cantons in place of former revenues stopped by the creation of the monopoly; and what remains is used for public purposes. although the régie is entirely under the control of the federal government, the latter does not take any of these profits, but they are distributed among the cantons in proportion to their population, and used by them as ordinary cantonal revenue. one curious provision in the monopoly law is the stipulation that each canton shall devote one-tenth of the alcohol revenue for the purpose of promoting temperance. this vague provision has been interpreted by different bodies in various ways. in some parts the money is used for the relief of the poor, the maintenance of lunatic asylums, and the like; but there is growing up a strong conviction that it ought to be expended in more strictly temperance work, such as the financing of temperance societies, the cure and care of drunkards, and the instruction of children in the physiological effects of alcohol. by "temperance" the swiss do not mean teetotalism, for total abstinence societies are almost unknown among them, the only one of any size being that of la croix bleue, which numbers some members and adherents. the monopoly is in many ways useful; and, if people must drink spirits, there seems no reason why the state should not profit from their folly by itself securing the immense gain that accrues to the manufacturer. but it is a misnomer to call it a temperance agency; for it is no such thing. if switzerland is ever to shake off the curse of intemperance which is still on it, its people must take some more active steps against it. many of them are already realising this; and total abstinence societies, such as that of la croix bleue, are gradually spreading among its more thoughtful people. strange to say, the first advocates of total abstinence in switzerland were not so much the moral reformers who have adopted this as their own in other lands, as scientific men, who were led by their investigations to a firm conviction of the harmfulness and uselessness of alcohol. religious and social reformers are now taking it up; but they are as yet a very small band, and they will need to do much before their cause makes much progress in helvetia. chapter ii. the gothenburg system. the scandinavian licensing system has, during the last few years, received considerable attention from reformers in many lands; and rightly so. whatever may be its faults, there is probably no other plan of liquor legislation of which it can be said that it has, in a comparatively short time, reduced the traffic in spirits by about three-quarters, without seriously discommoding the moderate drinkers, and without creating any illegal trade worth mentioning. there seems every likelihood that the system will, in a few years, spread far beyond the land of its inception. it satisfies the demand for increased state control, promises abundant revenue, and yet discourages the sale of liquor. a small body of public men in england are eager to have it adopted here; and acute observers in america declare that (provided no clauses in the state constitutions are held to render it unlawful) it is almost certain to be tried there before long. a bill has already been brought before the massachusetts legislature for the purpose of permitting such a trial, and has met with the approval of a considerable section of the people. less than half a century ago, sweden was the most drunken civilised country in the world. its laws permitted almost free trade in the manufacture and sale of spirits, and even the poorest peasants could obtain as much brandy as they wanted. all the horrors that ever follow habitual intemperance were to be seen throughout the land. the poverty of the people was great; social and moral degradation were prevalent; insanity and crime were dangerously on the increase; and there was a general air of hopeless desolation over the country. the average consumption of spirits has been variously estimated at from a little under six to ten gallons per head yearly; and the stuff, being home-manufactured, was of the crudest and most injurious quality. patriotic swedes soon began to look about for a remedy for the national curse. dr. weiselgren commenced a crusade against spirit-drinking with most remarkable results; and before long a hundred thousand persons had enlisted themselves under his banner in a league voluntarily abstaining from spirits. a still more general movement shortly afterwards took place, when people from all parts of the country petitioned parliament to take some steps to check intemperance. in response, a law was passed in abolishing domestic and small stills, and giving rural localities the control of the traffic, and the option of either having drink shops, or sweeping them away altogether. where it was decided to still permit the sale of drink, the local authorities were authorised to limit the hours of sale, and the number of public-houses. the people at once made considerable use of their newly acquired powers. there had been over , distilleries in ; the same year as the act passed they were reduced to between and . the greater number of country districts elected to go under complete prohibition; and whereas formerly spirits could be bought in nearly every peasant's house, there were now in the country districts less than retail licences. the wholesale trade was not dealt with by the law. there were no two opinions as to the beneficial effects of the new measure in the country; but it was found that the towns did not share equally in these benefits. it had been considered inadvisable to extend the option of prohibition to towns, and before long the great mass of public-houses became centred in urban districts. in , though the towns contained only twelve per cent. of the people, three-quarters of the total public-houses were to be found in them, and eight townsmen were convicted of drunkenness to every one countryman. the knowledge of these facts stirred the authorities up to see if nothing more could be done. in the municipal council of gothenburg appointed a committee to inquire into the causes of pauperism. the committee reported that, "the worst enemy of the morals and well-being of the working classes in this community is brandy. yet it is not the intoxicating liquor only and its moderate consumption which cause demoralisation and poverty; it is the disorder, evil example, temptations, and opportunities for every kind of iniquity with which public-house life abounds, that contribute mainly to this unhappy state of things. neither local enactments nor police surveillance can do much so long as public-houses are in the hands of private individuals, who find their profit in encouraging intemperance, without regard for age or youth, rich or poor."[ ] the committee recommended that the trade should be taken out of the control of the publicans, and managed by a company for the good of the community. a philanthropic company was formed, in consequence of this report, by a score of the leading inhabitants of the place, for the purpose of taking over the trade. it was specially stipulated that neither shareholders nor managers should be pecuniarily interested in pushing the sales, and the company was to receive no profits except per cent. on the paid-up capital, all receipts beyond this going to the town treasury. the amount of paid-up capital required has been under £ . the company commenced its work on st october, ; and the way it has since fulfilled its obligations is worthy of the highest praise. it has shown an honest desire to carry out the sale of spirits in such a way as, while meeting the legitimate wants of the moderate drinkers, shall discourage excess in every possible way. it has consistently attempted to restrict rather than to encourage the trade in liquor. the magistrates have granted it sixty-one licences, but of these it only uses nineteen (although the population of the place is considerably over a hundred thousand) and allows the remainder to lie in abeyance. the law permits public-houses to be open till at night, but the company closes its establishments at from : to o'clock, according to the season of the year. it has opened five coffee-houses and reading-rooms, where no spirits are sold, and four eating-houses, where none are obtainable except the customary dram at meals. generally it has shown a wise and patriotic disregard of that policy which would sacrifice everything for a favourable balance sheet. each public-house is placed under the charge of a manager, who is expressly ordered not to encourage drinking in any way, and is warned that if he does so he will be dismissed. the company at first employed several of the old licensed victuallers and barmen; but before long it had to get rid of all of them, for they were so accustomed to encouraging tippling among their customers that they could not understand a system which forbade their doing it. the managers derive no direct or indirect profits from the sale of spirits beyond their stated salaries; and they have directions not to supply strong drink to young people, to those who show any signs of intoxication, or to those who require several drams in succession, or who pay repeated visits to the public-houses at short intervals for the purpose of drinking. they are not allowed to give any credit for liquor. besides selling drink, each house has to keep a supply of good hot and cold food, temperance drinks, cigars, and the like. inspectors are appointed whose sole duty is to see that the managers conduct the trade properly. the four eating-houses at which spirits are sold only with meals are large, well conducted, and very popular. they cater almost exclusively for working men, and sell food at rates which put to shame even our own lockharts and pearces. a dinner of a large slice of pork, a sausage, four potatoes and gravy, costs under twopence halfpenny. when these houses were first opened nearly every customer took a dram with his meals, but now not more than half of them do so. the eating-houses do not quite pay their way, but are run at a loss of a little over £ a year. the company regards the money as well spent, for the places have a most beneficial effect in promoting temperance. the five free reading-rooms maintained by the company, in which no intoxicants (except small beer) are sold, cost between £ and £ a year to maintain. they are well supplied with papers and books, and visitors can obtain light refreshments of various kinds. in considering the effects of the gothenburg system on the lives of the people, these two things must be borne in mind: first, the system only touches the trade in spirits, and has nothing to do with the sale of beer. this latter is almost free, and has been rather encouraged by the authorities than otherwise, under the mistaken notion that it would lessen the demand for stronger drink. of wine and beer shops, licensed for consumption on the premises, there are , besides an unlimited number for consumption off the premises, requiring no licences. a large amount of the drunkenness in gothenburg is caused by these beer shops. the police there ascertain, when a person is arrested for drunkenness, where he obtained his liquor; and from their returns it can be seen that the intoxication produced by beer is steadily increasing. in the number of persons arrested who drank last at beer saloons was ; by the number had increased to ; and in the number was . a second important consideration in estimating the results of the system is the fact that even the whole trade in spirits is not in the hands of the company. there are seventeen restaurants, licensed by permission of the company, and managed by private individuals, which sell intoxicants. there are also five public-houses whose owners have the ancient right of carrying on the business, and with whom the company cannot interfere. last of all, there are twenty-three wine merchants, who take out expensive licences from the company, for the sale of spirits off the premises. whatever deductions are drawn from the condition of the town as to the results of the system, considerable allowance must be made for the fact that the whole of the liquor traffic is not conducted by the company. perhaps the most outstanding evidence in favour of the system is this, that, not only are the people of the place well satisfied with it, but seventy-six other towns in sweden have been led by it to adopt the same plan, and only thirteen places still retain the old method of selling the licences to private bidders. in norway, too, the spirit trade is now conducted in nearly every town in substantially a similar way. in discussing the effects of any liquor law it is never an easy task to decide how far social changes or effects are the cause of it, or how far they are due to other and entirely different economic causes. immediately after the establishment of the company there was a great decrease in the consumption of drink and its attendant evils in gothenburg; but this was due quite as much to the depression of trade as to anything else. afterwards there was an increase of drinking, for trade greatly improved. it would be inaccurate either to wholly lay the cause of the decrease to the credit of the company or to blame it for the increase. the following returns show the amount of drunkenness in gothenburg during a few selected years:-- arrests for drunkenness. year. population. total. percentage. , · , · , · , · , · , · it is not possible to give any reliable returns as to the amount of spirits consumed in gothenburg. the sales of the company only represent part of the total quantity sold in the place, and all that the company sells is not consumed there. much of it is bought by country people, who take it back with them to their own homes. the returns of the company show a fairly steady decrease. thus in - the total sales amounted to quarts per head; in - , · quarts; and in - , only · quarts. financially, the company has from the first been a great success. it need not have ever called up a penny of its capital, had not the law required this to be done; and every year it has been able to hand over a very large surplus to the town, to be used for public purposes. in (the last year for which, at the time of writing, returns are available) the amounts paid to the city treasury were: ( ) fixed fee for bar trade and retail licences, £ , ; ( ) surplus profits, after paying all expenses, £ , , or a total of £ , . this amounted to the equivalent of over s. a head for every man, woman and child in the place. formerly the city retained the whole of the surplus profits for its own benefit; but this created considerable dissatisfaction, and at last an alteration was made by which the municipality now only receives seven-tenths, the national treasury appropriating two-tenths, and the remaining tenth going to the country districts. in gothenburg the whole of the amount received by the municipality goes for the relief of local taxation. this has been felt by many to embody a dangerous principle, as giving the city authorities a direct interest in the encouragement of drinking. to avoid this, the plan has been adopted in norway of devoting the surplus, not to relieving the rates, but to helping charitable and philanthropic non-rate-aided enterprises. the most notable example of the norwegian plan is the town of bergen. a liquor company was formed here in , at the suggestion of the local magistracy, and it commenced business at the beginning of . not only is the distribution of profits here different, but the management of the houses varies too. in gothenburg the aim has been to make the dram shops comfortable and attractive; in bergen, on the contrary, the aim has apparently been to render them as uncomfortable and as repulsive as possible. each house consists solely of a bar for the sale of liquor; nothing but liquor is sold, and when a person has consumed what he ordered he must go. no seats are provided, and customers are forbidden to loiter about the premises. this sternly repressive policy does not seem to have had a remarkable effect on the consumption of spirits; for whereas in the average sales per head came to · quarts, they were only reduced to · quarts in ; and this notwithstanding the fact that the average consumption for the whole of the country had been reduced in the same time from · quarts to · quarts. the number of arrests for drunkenness in bergen in and was about the same; but a largely increased population in the latter year makes this show that the proportionate intoxication was really less. from the time of its commencement up to , the bergen company was able to distribute £ , among local philanthropic societies, and the recipients of its bounty have included all kinds of works for the common weal, museums, training ships, hospitals, a rescue society, orphanages, a tree-planting society, a fund for sea baths for the poor, temperance organisations, and the like. the profits which would otherwise have gone to enrich a few have thus been scattered about doing good to the many. part iv. england. chapter i. the growth of the licensing system. the english are often said to be the most drunken among civilised nations; but, like many other constantly repeated statements, this is not correct. denmark, belgium and russia certainly take the precedence of us in this matter; and it is an open question if alcoholism is not doing at least as much harm in northern and central france and switzerland, as in the british isles. the casual visitor to our lively neighbour sees but little open intoxication, and consequently assumes that france is a sober country. but those who have gone beneath the surface, and examined the results as recorded in the statistics of prisons and asylums, know that intemperance is rapidly becoming a national plague there. while we may not be the worst offenders in this respect, it is yet undoubted that alcoholism is the greatest source of social misery in our land. theorists may quarrel among themselves as to the exact proportion of poverty and crime produced by intemperance; but no thinking man who is not altogether shut out from association with his fellows can doubt the awful ravages it is producing. we do not require to have it proved to us by figures; we only need to open our eyes and to use such brain power as we may possess to have the proof forced on us. among the fashionable rich, among the idle women of upper middle-class families, as well as in our slum population, intemperance is doing a work of destruction before which the results of the most fatal diseases seem hardly worth notice. most of us would gladly be optimists on this subject, if hard facts would only let us; but it is useless to indulge in an idle optimism, which suffers us to do nothing when the need of our services is greatest. it is accepted by many as an undeniable fact that we are steadily becoming a more sober people; but, unfortunately, statistics do not bear out this view. in some ways temperance has made great advances. drunkenness is no longer looked upon as an amiable weakness, but as a serious offence against society and against oneself. the days of the three-bottle men are over, let us hope never to return; and the incessant drinking among friends that was common not many years ago is now little seen. over one-sixth of the people have entirely abandoned the use of strong drink; everywhere active temperance societies are working hard to promote sobriety; the conditions of life have become infinitely brighter and easier for the great mass of wage earners; education has become universal, and the sale of alcohol has been placed under greater restrictions. yet, notwithstanding all this, the drink trade was never so strong as it is to-day. within fifty years the amount spent on liquor has almost doubled; though the police rarely arrest a drunken person except when outrageously disorderly, nearly , men and women are brought before the magistrates each year for intoxication;[ ] and the number of deaths caused through inebriety cannot be estimated at a lower figure than , a year. the saxon chronicles tell how edgar the peaceable, acting on the advice of archbishop dunstan, determined to do something to check that drunkenness which was, the same a thousand years ago as to-day, all too prevalent on this island. he reduced the number of ale houses to one in each village, and had pegs put in the drinking cup to mark the amount that any person might consume at one draught. these drinking cups held about a couple of quarts each; and, if tradition speaks truly, it was no uncommon thing for men to finish up the whole of this quantity without once taking their lips from the vessel. by the law of edgar, eight pegs were placed in each cup, and heavy penalties were provided for any person who dared to drink further than from one peg to another at a time. edgar's efforts were not crowned with much success. the law restricting the number of public-houses was not long observed; and the draught limit led, in the end, to an increase in the evil it was designed to check. after this attempt the trade was allowed to go on almost without restriction till the end of the fifteenth century; but then the evils caused by it became too apparent to be longer passively borne. in the year , power was given to any two justices of the peace to stop the common selling of ale; and fifty-eight years later, in the reign of edward vi., a serious attempt was made to grapple with the trade. parliament complained that "intolerable hurts and troubles to the commonwealth of this realm doth daily grow and increase through such abuses and disorders as are had and used in common ale houses or other houses called 'tippling houses';" and in order to check these evils it passed various laws for the regulation of public-houses. this act is the foundation of our present licensing laws, and the three main lines which it laid down for the limitation of the business have continued to be observed ever since. these are: ( ) that the retail trade in intoxicants is an exceptional business, which the state can only permit to be carried on by duly licensed persons; ( ) that the power of granting licences lies with the justices of the peace; and ( ) that the magistrates have power, when they think fit, to take away such licences. notwithstanding this act, the national drunkenness showed no signs of decreasing; and when james i. came to the throne fresh efforts were put forth to check it. for many years past the inns had been steadily changing their character; and from being places of rest and refreshment for travellers they had become principally tippling houses. so a measure was passed "to restrain the inordinate haunting and tippling in inns". according to the preamble of the act, "the ancient, true and principal use of inns was for the receipt and relief and lodging of wayfaring people travelling from place to place; and for the supply of the wants of such people as are not able by greater quantities to make their provision of victuals; and not meant for the entertainments and harbouring of lewd and idle people, to spend and consume their time in lewd and drunken manner". to prevent this improper use of the taverns, various stringent regulations were made. no resident in the district or city where any inn was situated was allowed to remain drinking in it unless ( ) he was invited by and accompanied some traveller staying at the inn; ( ) he was a labourer, in which case he would be allowed to stay at the inn for an hour at dinner time; ( ) he was a lodger; or ( ) unless he was there for some other urgent and necessary cause, allowed to be such by two magistrates. a ten-shilling fine, to go to the poor, was the punishment for breaking this law. two years later, a further act was passed for the prevention of drunkenness. according to the preamble, "the loathsome and odious sin of drunkenness is of late grown into common use, being the root and foundation of many other enormous sins, as bloodshed, stabbing, murder, fornication, adultery, and such like, to the great dishonour of god and of our nation, the overthrow of many good arts and manual trades, the disabling of divers workmen, and the general impoverishing of many good subjects, abusively wasting the good creatures of god". this time it was provided that any person found drunk should be fined five shillings, or confined in the stocks for six hours. in a further act was passed dealing with the matter, in which it was admitted that no success had attended the former attempts. "notwithstanding all laws and provisions already made, the inordinate vice of excessive drinking and drunkenness doth more and more prevail." in order to more effectually suppress it, heavier penalties were provided, the landlord who permitted tippling was to lose his licence, and less evidence was required to secure a conviction. not long afterwards the penalties were again increased. it is notorious that all these measures failed to effect their purpose. but the country was soon to learn that difficult as it may be to promote sobriety by law, it is easy enough for parliament to encourage and promote drunkenness. soon after william and mary came to the throne, the nominal policy of previous reigns was altered, with immediate and overwhelming results. formerly almost all the spirits used in england had been imported from the continent, and the conditions under which their manufacture could be carried on at home were such as to keep the business very small. but in parliament changed this. the government was in great need of money to meet the plots of traitors at home and carry on its campaigns abroad; and it was thought that a considerable revenue might be obtained by encouraging the home spirit trade. accordingly, the importation of distilled waters from foreign countries was prohibited, and the right to manufacture them was thrown open to all, subject merely to the payment of certain excise dues. the natural consequence was that the price of spirits fell so greatly as to place them within the reach of all classes. before long dram drinking had, to use the expression of lecky, "spread with the rapidity and the virulence of an epidemic". the results of free trade in drink were visible all over the land. gin shops arose in all directions in every large town; and in london there were, outside the city and the borough, over spirit dealers to a population of , . in less than fifty years the consumption of british spirits rose sevenfold; and everywhere the same tale was heard of the ruin it was bringing on all classes. it was at this time that the gin dealers hung out signs announcing that customers could get drunk for a penny, dead drunk for twopence, and have straw to lie on for nothing. nor was this a mere boast; for many of the innkeepers actually provided rooms whose floors were covered with straw on which the intoxicated customers could lie until they recovered consciousness. such a condition of affairs could not be long permitted to continue. parliament, alarmed at the results proceeding from its own action, set about for a remedy. as a first step, dealers in spirits were compelled to obtain licences, like ale house keepers; an annual charge of £ was placed on the spirit licence, and the principle was introduced of having the licences renewed annually. but the change was made too suddenly, and the licence fee was too high; and this resulted in an extensive illicit trade springing up. in order to stop this, parliament repealed the act and passed another, forbidding the sale of spirits except in a dwelling-house, under a penalty of £ . that is to say, every householder was given leave to sell drink in his own home. the last state was worse than the first. in the magistrates of middlesex petitioned parliament, stating forcibly the terrible results from the state of the law. a parliamentary committee was appointed to consider the whole matter; and it reported that the low price of spirituous liquors was the principal inducement to their excessive use; and that, in order to prevent this, a duty should be placed on strong drink, and the right to vend it should be restricted. the same year the government passed the famous gin act, a measure so stringent as to practically prohibit the sale of spirits. no person was allowed to dispose of them unless he had paid an annual licensing fee of £ ; and the penalty for breaking the law was a fine of £ . a tax of twenty shillings a gallon was also placed on all spirits manufactured. the gin act came too late. the passion for spirits had become firmly rooted among the people, and they would not consent to have their supplies cut off. they rose against the officers appointed to carry out the act, and in many of the larger towns there was for some time danger of rebellion. the legal sale of proof spirits dropped in a year to two-thirds of its former proportions; but an immense illicit trade was carried on, which far more than balanced the reduction. all the power at the back of the government was not enough to obtain the enforcement of this measure, though the magistrates made strenuous efforts to carry it out. in two years , persons were convicted of breaking the law, but all the prisons of the country would have failed to hold a tithe of those who openly set it at defiance. the excise officers were held in general detestation, and informers or any who dared to appear in excise prosecutions went in danger of their lives. at last the government had to give way, and in the act was repealed. in the various acts relating to the licensing of public-houses were consolidated, and the control of them was made more stringent. two years later a new and most unfortunate departure was taken. with the hope of causing people to abandon the drinking of spirits, parliament determined to encourage the sale of beer; and an act was passed permitting any householder to open a beer shop on paying an excise fee of two guineas. the consumption of beer rose twenty-eight per cent. in consequence; but it was soon found that this, in place of checking the rush to spirits, aided it; and the increase in the spirit trade was even greater than that in beer. the number of houses for the sale of intoxicating liquors rose from , to , ; and many old inns, that formerly had been respectably conducted, were now driven by the stress of competition to very doubtful means for the promotion of their trade. at the same time crime showed a great increase, and, to quote from a report of a committee of the house of lords, "the commitments for trial in england and wales in the years - were, in the proportion to those of - , the two first years after the enactment of the beer act, of to ; that this is not a mere casual coincidence the committee have the strongest reasons to believe from the general evidence submitted to them, but more especially from that of the chief constables of police and the chaplains of gaols, who have the best opportunities, the one of watching the character of the beer shops and of those who frequent them, the other of tracing the causes of crime and the career of criminals". the report of a committee of the house of commons in was still more emphatic. "the beer shop system," it said truly, "has proved a failure." _off licences._--through legislation introduced by mr. gladstone early in the "sixties," persons are now permitted to sell spirits, wine or beer in bottles, for consumption off the premises, on payment of a small licence fee. previous to then it was illegal for any spirit merchant to supply less than two gallons at a time. the new law has led to a considerable trade in strong drink through grocers, and it has been estimated that the off licence holders supply about five per cent. of spirits sold. this departure has been the object of very considerable opposition from both publicans and temperance advocates. the publicans naturally object to having a large part of what was their monopoly thrown open to almost free competition; and temperance advocates declare that the off licences are very largely responsible for the rapid increase of intemperance among women. it is said that many who would not venture to go to a public-house to order what they want, quietly and secretly obtain their supplies through the grocer, and are able to indulge at home without restraint. innumerable clergymen and doctors declare that, to their personal knowledge, these facilities have largely promoted female intemperance. but in the very nature of the thing, these statements, while worthy of all attention, are not capable of ordinary proof. the only way they could be shown to be true would be by naming a large number of cases, with names and addresses, and submitting them for examination. naturally neither clergymen nor doctors can do this; for it would be impossible for them to make public the secrets of persons whose inner histories they learn in their professional administrations. it was this that caused the failure of the temperance party to convince the committee of the house of lords, in , as to the harmfulness of the off licences. in its report, the lords' committee made this statement about the matter:-- "the question which the committee have had to consider is, not whether some cases of intemperance may be traced to the purchase of spirits at grocers' shops, but whether any general increase of intemperance can be attributed to grocers' licences. after the examination of many witnesses on the point, and after the best inquiries they could make, the committee have obtained very little direct evidence in support of this view; and the conclusion they have come to is, that upon the whole there have been no sufficient grounds shown for specially connecting intemperance with the retail of spirits at shops as contrasted with their retail at other licensed houses." _sunday closing._--sunday closing now prevails over almost the whole of the empire, with the exception of england itself. it is in force in nearly every colony, and in scotland, wales and ireland. for the latter country an act was passed in , granting this measure to the whole island, except dublin, cork, belfast, limerick and waterford, for the space of four years. the act was looked upon as purely experimental; but it operated so successfully that it has since been renewed, year by year, as an annual measure. many efforts have been made to place it on a permanent basis, and to include the five exempted cities in its scope. both protestants and catholics are agreed as to its necessity, and leading statesmen of both parties have testified to its beneficial effects. in , when mr. t. w. russell brought before the house a bill to make sunday closing permanent and general in ireland, the opponents of the measure obtained the appointment of a committee to inquire into the results of the act. after a most exhaustive inquiry this committee reported in favour of it, and recommended-- (_a_) that all drink shops in ireland close at nine p.m. on saturdays. (_b_) that the present irish sunday closing act be made permanent, and include the five hitherto exempted towns. (_c_) that the distance requisite for a person to travel to qualify as a _bonâ-fide_ traveller entitled to purchase refreshments be increased from three miles to six. this was a great triumph for the sunday closers. in the words of mr. a. j. balfour, "it was not unfair to say that the whole weight of evidence, with comparatively insignificant exceptions, was in favour of the continuance of sunday closing in ireland, and of the adoption of saturday closing after nine o'clock. the people who gave evidence were not drawn from one class of the community, but they represented every class and every section of opinion." since then acts have been brought in year after year embodying these recommendations; but although supported by the government it has never been found possible to carry them, chiefly on account of the congested condition of business in the commons. in scotland sunday closing has been in force under the "forbes-mackenzie act" since . it works on the whole very successfully, as might be expected from the fact that in all things scotland is strongly a sabbath-observing country. in wales this law has also been in force since . it is admitted to be a fair success in the interior of wales; but great difficulty has been found in enforcing it in cardiff, and along the border line between england and wales. in cardiff a very large shebeen trade has sprung up, and a number of clubs have been established for the avowed purpose of supplying their members with liquor on sundays. in , in consequence of many statements that were in circulation declaring sunday closing in wales to be a failure, the government appointed a royal commission, presided over by lord balfour of burleigh, to inquire into the matter. to the great surprise of many, the commission reported in favour of the act, and declined to recommend either modification or repeal of it, stating that "a change in this direction would be unwelcome to a vast majority of the population". chapter ii. licensing reform. plans for the reform of the licensing laws are legion, and more bills are brought before the house of commons year by year dealing with this matter than with any other. to describe every one of these plans would be wearisome and useless. it will answer every purpose to confine this chapter to the chief measures proposed within this last quarter of a century. mr. bruce's bill.--no more careful or more thorough attempt has been made to change the licensing laws than that introduced by mr. bruce (now lord aberdare), who, as home secretary to the liberal government, framed a bill on the subject in . in bringing it before the house of commons he laid down five propositions, as leading principles which he thought might be expected to receive the assent of all the members. they were:-- . that under the existing system of licensing, far more licences have been issued than are required by public convenience, there being one to every people. . that the present mode of issuing licences is unsatisfactory, no guidance being given to the magistrates either as to the number to be issued or the respectability and the responsibility of the persons seeking to be licensed. . that no sufficient guarantees are taken as to the orderly management of public-houses or their supervision. . that the laws against adulteration are insufficient, and, such as they are, are imperfectly enforced. . that the hours during which public-houses are allowed to be open admit of reduction without interfering with the liberty or the material convenience of the people generally. to these he added two other propositions, on which he did not expect such unanimous agreement. ( ) that the public have a right to be supplied with places of refreshment sufficient in number, convenient, and respectably conducted. ( ) that all existing interests, however qualified the interests may be, are entitled to just and fair consideration. on the basis of these propositions he built up a plan which still deserves the careful attention of all licensing reformers. the leading principles of it were as follows: the licensing powers were to still be retained by the magistrates, and no liquor licences were to be issued without their certificates. all old licences were to remain in force for ten years from the passing of the act, as of right, and then they were to absolutely lapse. new licences were to be granted on a novel plan. the justices would meet together before the licensing day, and would decide on the number of new licences to be issued, altogether apart from the question of to whom they were to be given. if the number of public-houses in the neighbourhood, when the proposed new establishments had been added, did not exceed a certain fixed scale, then the decision of the magistrates would be final. if, however, the new licences would bring the total above that proportion, then it would be necessary to take a vote of the ratepayers as to whether the increase should be permitted or not, and the majority of those voting would decide. the scale was, in towns, one licensed house for people and under, two houses for up to people, and one more for every additional ; in the country, one licensed house for people and under, two for up to , three for up to , and one more for every additional inhabitants. when the number of new licences to be issued had been fixed, they were to be put up to public auction, and sold to the highest bidders, one person having power to buy any number or all of them. the purchaser would be allowed to select his own house for carrying on the business, provided it was within the limits of the district; but before receiving his licence he would have to obtain a certificate from the magistrates that the premises chosen were suitable for the purpose, and that the proposed manager was a proper person. it would not be necessary for the licence-holder to be his own manager. all licences so purchased were to be renewed annually, as of right, for ten years after the passing of the act, except when forfeited by misconduct. at the end of ten years, when all licences, old and new, were about to lapse, the magistrates would decide anew what the number of public-houses in their neighbourhood should be. if they decided to exceed the statutory limits, then it would be necessary to poll the ratepayers and obtain their sanction to the proposal; but if the number proposed by them was not in excess of those limits, then this need not be done. the licences would again be put up for sale for another ten years, and the same process would be repeated at the end of each decade. in the case of eating-houses and beer and wine licences for refreshment-rooms these regulations would not apply, but the magistrates might grant licences at their discretion. nor would they apply to houses selling drink for consumption off the premises only; for these, the justices would grant certificates, on certain conditions being observed by the applicants. the control of drink shops was to be made much stricter. a second conviction for serious breaches of the law would lead to forfeiture of the licences, without choice on the part of the magistrates. every conviction must be recorded on the back of the licensing certificates; and on the police penalties for offences under the act amounting in three consecutive years to £ , or in five years to £ , the licence would be taken away. in order to secure the better enforcement of the law an entirely new body of inspectors was to be created. these should be quite independent of the local authorities, and their sole duty would consist of supervising the liquor sellers. there was to be one inspector-in-chief; england and wales would be divided into counties with an inspector for each, and every large town and district would have a superintendent, under whom there would be a carefully selected and well-paid body of men. "the police cannot properly and ought not to be entrusted within the walls of a public-house," mr. bruce said. "it is utterly impracticable to have a proper system of inspection if steps are not taken to make the inspection more efficacious; and efficient inspection can in my opinion be conducted only by a body of men altogether independent of the police.... they will be ... specially charged with the duty of seeing that no offence is committed in a public-house which is prohibited by law." the cost of this inspection was to be defrayed from the licence fees. finally, the bill contained clauses specially directed against adulteration. samples of the liquors sold were to be frequently taken and analysed at somerset house laboratory. when it was found that any injurious ingredients had been mixed with them, the seller would be liable, for a first offence, to a fine of £ or imprisonment for one month, with or without hard labour; and, for a second offence, to a fine of £ or three months' hard labour, and forfeiture of licence. mr. bruce's proposals fell like a bomb among the brewers and publicans. they realised that the time had now come when they must fight for their very existence; and fight they did. temperance meetings were broken up all over the country, every tap-room became the centre of a campaign against the government, and all the liquor sellers and their adherents became unswerving tories in a day. intense pressure was brought to bear on individual members, and the government became the object of most intense hostility. there was not, at that time, the strong sentiment throughout the country in favour of restrictive legislation which is to be found now; and every bar parlour was used as the headquarters and meeting house of a propaganda to convince working men that the bill was a measure aimed against the liberty of the people. the _times_, to the surprise of many, gave mr. bruce its warmest support, and day by day did its best to strengthen the hands of the government. the great body of middle-class people, too, were inclined to approve of the measure. but the forces against it were too strong; and after a few weeks the ministry gave way, and it was announced that, owing to the time that had been wasted over the budget, there would be no opportunity of proceeding with the measure that session. what were the teetotalers doing all this time? where was the united kingdom alliance? where were the hundred and one other bodies that had been clamouring for years for reform? here was a ministry that had been bold enough to risk office in order to promote temperance; surely it had a right to look to the temperance party for cordial support! if it looked, however, it looked in vain, for the influence of the teetotalers was worse than thrown away in this struggle. the united kingdom alliance was so busy promoting petitions in favour of a permissive bill which every one knew had no chance of success, that it had no energy to spare for helping on the government. it officially announced that its attitude was one of "friendly neutrality"; and when the secretary of the alliance was urged by the _leeds mercury_ to support the bill, he replied that "it (the drink trade) ought not to be sanctioned by law, nor tolerated within the range of christian civilisation". no more suicidal policy, no course more fatal to the promotion of temperance in our land, could possibly have been taken. at a time when every publican and every brewer was seeking the destruction of the government on account of its attitude to the drink question, the alliance was content to be "friendly neutral"! by their almost inexplicable conduct, the leaders of that body helped to delay temperance legislation for a quarter of a century, and created a deep distrust of teetotalers in the minds of most politicians. if they had actively thrown themselves into the breach, had used all their forces to support the ministry, had been content to drop for a few months the plan of bringing forward a measure which they knew parliament would certainly reject,--then mr. bruce and his colleagues might have been encouraged to proceed, and the liquor traffic in england would by this time have been cut down to a fraction of its old proportions. mr. caine recently claimed that the temperance party rather supported than opposed the government at this crisis; and that, in fact, "practically, their only friends and supporters in the constituencies were the teetotalers". no one denies that many individual abstainers, as, for instance, mr. caine himself, were active in helping on the measure; but the temperance party as a whole was not. the month after the bill was abandoned, mr. bruce publicly charged sir wilfrid lawson, in the house of commons, with having hindered and greatly diminished its chance of success by the course he had taken. while the bill was still before the country, and while its fate was trembling in the balance, many prominent abstainers opposed it bitterly, and spoke and wrote against it. professor newman, in answer to a request from mr. s. morley, that he and his friends of the alliance would not refuse an instalment because they did not get all they wanted, replied: "the united kingdom alliance cannot postpone its action for ten years.... its (the bill's) good points will not help us; they are not things which we asked; its evil points will damage us extremely. hence if we fail to induce mr. bruce to withdraw his astonishing innovations of principle, i certainly do not guarantee that our friends will refrain from total opposition." mr. raper, a leading temperance speaker, at a meeting in the manchester town hall, held under the auspices of the united kingdom alliance, said: "it is strange that a man of such a powerful intellect as the home secretary should be so remarkably defective in observation of a logical kind. i have not seen a greater wonder this quarter of a century than i did when i saw this able man standing for two hours and ten minutes giving forth grand principles and then cutting them to pieces--making statements which he followed up with nothing." to judge from the speeches of dr. f. r. lees, who is considered by many the premier writer on total abstinence, one would think that the bill had been framed by a committee of burton brewers. "give no unwise and blind support to the proposition of the government," he said. "i do not think that the bill, as a practical bill, is worth discussing in detail.... it is a wholesome and righteous principle, that of public control over the liquor traffic; but you are denied your claim, it is postponed for ten years, while the existing generation of victims shall perish, and a new generation shall take their place." why rake up all these old mistakes? it may be asked. why not forget the past? the answer is plain. the old matter must be borne in mind, not in order to belittle and denounce the men who made the mistakes, but so that the reformers of the present may learn from the blunders of their predecessors, and not again wreck the ship because it is only sailing towards port with a couple of sails instead of a full rig. mr. chamberlain's plan.--in some stir was made by mr. chamberlain advocating an adoption of the gothenburg system in england. the birmingham town council expressed its approval of the plan; and on th march, , mr. chamberlain brought forward a resolution in the house of commons: "that it is desirable to empower the town councils of boroughs, under the municipal corporation acts, to acquire compulsorily, on payment of fair compensation, the existing interests in the retail sale of intoxicating drinks within their respective boroughs; and thereafter, if they see fit, to carry on the trade for the convenience of the inhabitants, but so that no individual shall have any interest in nor derive any profit from the sale". this motion was supported by sir wilfrid lawson and his allies; but was rejected by a large majority, voting against and only in its favour. mr. ritchie's local government bill.--in , when the local government bill was introduced by the unionist government, it contained clauses providing that the whole of the licensing of public-houses should be handed over to the county councils; and that, in addition to the powers now held by the magistrates, the councils should have authority to close the houses on sunday, good friday and christmas day, either altogether or for part of the day, to alter the hour of closing at night, and to increase the licensing fees not more than per cent. there were two great limits to the proposed power of the councils. the first gave the magistrates power to prevent the renewal of a licence on proof that the holder was guilty of illegal conduct. the second limit was the provision that when the councils refused the renewal of a licence for any other cause than the fault of the holder, the latter should be entitled to compensation. such compensation was to be assessed on "the basis of the difference (if any) between the value of the licensed premises immediately before the passing of this act and the value which such premises would have then borne if the licence had then determined". the compensation was to be divided between the persons interested in the premises, either by agreement among themselves, by arbitration, or, finally, by the county court. the cost of the compensation was to be borne ordinarily by the licensing division of the county in which the house was situated; or sometimes, under exceptional circumstances, by the whole county. the temperance party, although on the whole preferring _ad hoc_ boards, would gladly have accepted the proposals, but for the compensation clauses. over these a hot fight was made, and innumerable meetings were held all over the country against them. the licensed victuallers were at first also inclined to oppose the measure; but they soon realised that it would be on the whole a great gain to them. as mr. ritchie, the father of the bill, pointed out to a deputation, "we practically give you a vested interest by the bill". but the opposition to the objectionable clauses was too strong; and in june mr. w. h. smith announced, for the government, that the whole of the licensing section would be withdrawn. mr. goschen's compensation plan.--two years later a second attempt was made by the same government to legalise compensation. in the _local taxation (customs and excise) bill_ a scheme was formulated for the gradual reduction of public-houses. the main idea of this scheme was that each year the sum of £ , , raised by increased taxes of d. a barrel on malt liquors and d. a gallon on spirits, should be used for the buying up of licences for the purpose of extinction. of this sum, £ , was to go to england, £ , to scotland and £ , to ireland. in england and scotland the money was to be apportioned among the county councils, which would be permitted to buy up such licensed premises as they thought proper; in ireland the authority to be appointed was the national debt commissioners. no compulsory powers of purchase were given; but all purchases would have to be made by agreement with the owners of the houses, at prices and under conditions fixed by mutual arrangement. after the passing of the act, no new licences, except for eating-houses and refreshment-rooms, were to be granted unless the consent of the county councils had first been obtained, and even when new licences were granted, it was to be on the express understanding that their renewal might "at any time be refused at the free and unqualified discretion of the licensing authority". in bringing the bill before the house of commons mr. ritchie said: "i assure the house that the sole object which the government has in view is to promote temperance, and to help those who are endeavouring and who have so long endeavoured to battle against intemperance.... i have not the least intention of interfering with any powers now possessed by licensing magistrates.... our sole object has been to help temperance reformers, and to promote the cause of temperance." but temperance reformers did not see the matter quite in the same light as mr. ritchie; and the opposition to the proposals of was even stronger than to those of . the main objections were that the measure created a vested interest where none previously existed, and that the proposals for extinction were utterly and ridiculously inadequate. mr. caine, a prominent liberal unionist supporter of the government, resigned his seat in parliament as a protest against the scheme; and before many weeks had passed, the second attempt was sent the same way as the first. the money intended for the compensation of the publicans was devoted instead to technical education. lord randolph churchill's bill.--in the same month as the local taxation bill was introduced, lord randolph brought before the house of commons his scheme for amending the licensing laws. this plan was admittedly partly based on mr. bruce's bill of . the licensing authority was to be vested in the municipal authorities for boroughs and the county council for counties. these bodies were not only to have the right to license, but also to regulate the hours of closing on sundays and week-days. the power of direct veto was to be placed in the hands of the people, and in a parish where two-thirds of the ratepayers on the municipal rate book voted for prohibition, no licences were to be granted. beer shops were to be swept away, and the kinds of licences were to be reduced to two,--the full publican's licence and the refreshment-house wine and beer licence; and the rating qualification for a building used as a public-house was also to be considerably increased. clubs in which drink was consumed were to be registered and to pay fees ranging from s. a year for a working men's club to from £ to £ for the great west-end clubs. the noble lord was strongly in favour of compensation, and declared: "i hold that compensation for vested interests is an indispensable accompaniment to any scheme of licensing reform. any such reform not accompanied by compensation for vested interests would be sheer confiscation and robbery." but he did not deal with this detail in his bill, on the ground that it would entail taxation in some form or another; and it is not in the power of a private member of parliament to propose to the house taxation of any form or kind. lord randolph's measure met with a very favourable reception when introduced, but he did not proceed even to the second reading with it. the bishop of chester's bill.--in , dr. jayne, bishop of chester, brought before the public a modification of the gothenburg system that has since attracted a considerable amount of attention. he recognises that intemperance is far too common, and that our public-house system stands urgently in need of reform; but he believes that the use of alcoholic beverages must be accepted as inevitable, and that the best plan to adopt is not to seek to abolish the drink trade altogether, but to reform it. one of the great evils of the present system is that those who conduct public-houses have a direct pecuniary interest in selling the largest amount of drink possible; the bishop desires to change the object of the sellers from private profit to the public welfare. to do this he would have philanthropic companies formed, which should buy up all the public-houses in a district, have a monopoly of sale, and conduct the traffic for the public welfare. the companies would derive no profit from the sale, except a certain fixed amount of interest on the capital invested. in their houses (to quote dr. jayne's own description) "alcoholic beverages, though frankly recognised, will be disposed from their aggressive supremacy, and supplied under less seductive conditions. these conditions would, for example, be comfortable, spacious, well-ventilated accommodation; temperance drinks brought well to the front, invested with prestige, and supplied in the most convenient, attractive and inexpensive way; the pecuniary interests of the managers (_e.g._, in the form of bonus) made to depend entirely on the sale of eatables and non-alcoholic beverages; alcoholic liquors secured against adulteration; newspapers, indoor games, and, where practicable, outdoor games and music, provided; while the mere drink shop, the gin palace, and 'the bar'--that pernicious incentive to drinking for drinking's sake--would be utterly abolished." dr. jayne's first thought was that such houses might be managed by the county councils, but he soon saw that it would be better to place them in the hands of private companies. the methods by which he proposes that the companies should set to work may be best seen from an account given by him in the _daily graphic_ for th october, : "we are prepared to undertake the licensed victualling of your locality, paying to the dispossessed publicans such compensation as law and equity may require. we will at once reduce our houses to such number as the licensing authority may deem necessary; we will re-engage respectable publicans as managers on terms far more favourable to themselves, their families and the community, than managers now enjoy under the tied-house system. they will receive a fixed salary, with a bonus on the sale of eatables and non-alcoholic drinkables, but with absolutely no benefit from the sale of intoxicants. they will thus have no inducement to push the sale of alcohol, to drink with their customers, or to adulterate their liquors. as regards hours of closing and details of management we shall, within legal limits, be guided by local experience and opinion. our surplus profits will be applied to public, non-rate-aided objects, including the establishment of bright and attractive temperance houses, to which those who wish to keep quite clear of the temptations of alcohol in any shape may safely resort." in he incorporated these proposals in a bill which he brought before the house of lords. the measure was defeated on the second reading; but dr. jayne is still hopeful that parliament will grant the necessary powers for the attempt to be made where desired. would it not be better for some town to definitely decide to adopt the gothenburg system, and then go to parliament with a request for an authorisation to do so? such a demand is far more likely to be granted than a proposal that may be adopted anywhere or nowhere. if the method proved a success when first tried, there would be little difficulty in obtaining permission for other places to follow suit. the bishop of london's bill.--_the licensing boards bill_ may be taken as representing the plans of a moderate school of reformers. it was framed under the supervision of the church of england temperance society, and introduced into the house of lords in by dr. temple, bishop of london. the church of england temperance society differs in many ways from most temperance organisations. its social work is worthy of all praise, and its magnificent agencies for the rescue of criminals and inebriates are so well known as hardly to require mention. but in the matter of legislative action, this society does not take up the extreme attitude of such organisations as the united kingdom alliance. its membership contains a very large, if not a predominating conservative element; and hence its proposals deserve attention as being those of the members of a party usually not foremost in legislation of this kind. the bill brought forward by the bishop of london in proposed to transfer the power of granting all drink, billiard, music and dancing licences from the justices in each district to a specially elected licensing board. the board was to be elected triennially by persons on the local government register of electors, and the cost of such elections and other expenses of management were to be borne by the borough or county council. the board would have power to alter the hour of closing on week-days, and all licensed houses would be closed on sunday unless by special order of the board. even when the board sanctioned sunday opening, the houses would only be permitted to remain open for two hours, and could only sell drink for consumption off the premises. all clubs would have to be registered, fees being payable for such registration; and power would be given to the police to enter any club which they had reason to believe was carried on simply as a drinking club, and to charge the members found on the premises and the owner of the house before a magistrate. the principal provisions of the bill, however, would not come into effect until five years after the passing of the bill, when a large reduction of licences would take place compulsorily. this five years' term of grace was provided for as a kind of compensation. at the end of five years from the passing of the bill into law the following provisions would come into operation:-- (_a_) the only licences that are to be granted are (i.) a full publican's licence; (ii.) a wine and beer on licence for a refreshment house; (iii.) a wine and beer off licence; (iv.) a licence for an hotel; and (v.) a licence for a railway refreshment room, the two last being special forms of the publican's licence. after , therefore, the following kinds of licence will cease to be obtainable: (i.) the beer dealer's additional licence (off); (ii.) the beer retailer's on and off licences; (iii.) the cider and perry on and off licence; (iv.) the table beer retailer's licence (off); (v.) the wine retailer's on and off licences; and (vi.) the sweets retailer's on and off licences. none of these licences are required by a person holding a superior licence. (_b_) the board is to have full discretion to grant or not to grant any licence. after this provision comes into effect the present restrictions on the power to refuse certain licences, except on certain grounds, will cease. (_c_) licences, exclusive of hotels and railway refreshment rooms, are not to be granted in excess of a fixed proportion to the population of each district--one per in towns, one per in country--but proper notice is to be given to a licence holder before discontinuing his licence under this clause. (_d_) the value qualification of premises is raised. (_e_) a licensed person is not to carry on any other retail business on the licensed premises. the measure came before the house of lords for its second reading on the th may, . it met with a very unfavourable reception, and lord salisbury opposed it hotly as being "the wrong remedy for the evil we all deplore". at last dr. temple, seeing that it was perfectly evident the measure would be rejected by a considerable majority, consented to allow the motion to be negatived without a division. it is the intention of the church of england temperance society, however, to keep its bill as far as possible to the front, and to make persistent efforts to have it carried into law. local option.--few schemes of reform have been so unceasingly pushed as that for giving to localities the option of prohibition. forty years ago, when it was first brought before the british public, it was laughed at, and hardly deemed worthy of the serious notice of politicians; in it was introduced by the government to the house of commons; and to-day it has all the weight of one of the two great political parties behind it. whatever may be thought of the practical usefulness of such an option in the present state of public opinion, it is hardly possible to deny to the men who demand it a tribute of admiration for their persistency and pluck. on the st june, , the united kingdom alliance was founded for the purpose of securing "the total and immediate legislative suppression of the liquor traffic". its plan of operations was to secure for any locality that wishes it the right to prohibit the traffic in intoxicants there. eleven years after the formation of the alliance sir w. lawson introduced his famous permissive bill, embodying the demands of the alliance, to the house of commons. it was defeated by a majority of over seven to one; but in the majority against it was reduced to a little over two to one. in sir wilfrid changed his tactics; and instead of incurring the cost of introducing a bill year by year, he brought forward a resolution in favour of "some efficient measure of local option". in , before a full house, the resolution was at last carried by a majority of ; voting for, and against. it was expected that the liberal government then in force would do something to carry the resolution into effect; but nothing was done until , when sir william harcourt's much-debated local option bill was introduced. the provisions of this bill are very simple, and include two things,--the option of prohibition, and the option of sunday closing. it provided that on one-tenth of the local government electors in any division making the request in writing, a poll shall be taken as to whether all public-houses be closed there, or whether there shall be sunday closing. the latter proposal can be carried by a simple majority of those voting; but to secure entire prohibition there must be a majority of two-thirds. whatever way the electors decide would remain in force for three years; but at the end of that time the question might be re-opened by a similar petition, and a fresh poll held. but when prohibition had been carried it could only be repealed by a two-third vote against it. the electoral areas were very small, each ward in a borough divided into wards being a separate district. no compensation was provided; but the clauses for prohibition were not to come into effect until three years after the passing of the act. the prohibition was not to affect railway refreshment-rooms, hotels, or eating-houses. the bill caused considerable excitement; but there was a noticeable difference in its reception and in that accorded to mr. bruce's bill of . in the working men were on the whole opposed to restriction; in they were largely in favour of it. a demonstration called by "the trade" at trafalgar square against the bill was swamped by friends of it, who carried resolutions by overwhelming majorities in its favour. the change of attitude of the working classes is very likely partly due to political partisanship; but still it is a notable fact, and makes the way for temperance reform much smoother than it otherwise would have been. owing to the time taken up by the debate on the home rule bill, the government found it impossible to do more than introduce its local option measure in . it promised to proceed with it this session ( ); but at the time of writing it seems very improbable that this will be done. chapter iii. the problems of reform. four main problems have to be faced before any adequate scheme of licensing reform can be formulated. they are: ( ) compensation; ( ) of whom shall the licensing bodies consist? ( ) what is to be done with the clubs? ( ) shall "tied houses" be permitted? compensation.--this has been for many years the main block to reform. are publicans, when deprived of their licences through no fault of their own, entitled to compensation or not? for long there was considerable doubt as to the legal aspects of the matter. one party argued that as the publican has his licence granted for one year alone, and as the magistrates have power to refuse to renew such a licence, therefore the drink seller has no vested interest in its continuance, nor the slightest claim to compensation if its renewal is refused. on the other hand, it was said that while the justices have nominally the power of refusing the renewal of old licences, it is a strictly limited power that they never put into force except for wrong-doing on the part of the licensees; and that the custom has so long prevailed of regularly renewing the certificates of all publicans who behave properly, that an expectation of renewal has become universal; and that by virtue of custom they have a vested interest, and are entitled to compensation if renewal is refused. the legal aspects of the matter were finally cleared up in by the decision of the house of lords in the well-known case of "sharp _v._ wakefield". the magistrates of the kendal division of westmoreland refused, in september, , to renew the licence of an inn at kentmere on the grounds of the remoteness of the premises from police supervision, and the character and necessities of the locality. the owner of the house, susannah sharp, appealed to the quarter sessions, but that body upheld the magistrates. it was resolved by the drink interest to make this case a test one. their argument was that for the renewal of an existing licence the justices are not entitled to inquire into the character and wants of the neighbourhood, or to refuse a licence on the grounds that there is no longer a necessity for a licensed house there. the case was taken from court to court, and everywhere the decision of the magistrates was upheld. finally it came before the house of lords in january, ; and the judgment of their lordships was given in the following march. the five law-lords were unanimously of opinion that justices have the right to refuse the renewal of a licence if the circumstances of the neighbourhood or any other sufficient cause render it desirable. the legislature, their lordships stated, gave the magistrates an absolute discretion both for granting and renewing licences: and such discretion is to be exercised (to quote the lord chancellor) "according to the rules of reason and justice, within the limits to which an honest man, competent to the discharge of his office, ought to confine himself". this decision was a serious blow to the owners of licensed premises. it at once and for ever swept away all claims of a legal right to compensation, and showed that vested interests in licences are absolutely nonexistent. but the question still remains whether, although the publican has no legal claim to compensation, he is not morally entitled (under ordinary circumstances) to some consideration, if suddenly and through no fault of his own he is deprived of what he was for long encouraged to look upon as his right. it is felt by many that it would be a hardship to take from a well-behaved licensed victualler his means of livelihood without some consideration. whether this sentiment is right or not the writer of this book does not propose to discuss; but it undoubtedly exists, and the temperance party will gain nothing by shutting its eyes to it. on the one hand we have the claim of prohibitionists that no publican should have a penny from public funds as recompense for dispossession; on the other hand, there is the plea of the "trade" advocates, that he ought to have the full difference between the "trade" value of his house and its value as ordinary premises. the first of these seems rather harsh, and the second is certainly unreasonable. is there no _via media_? the unreasonableness of the second proposition may best be seen from the fact that in many towns a very large proportion of the public-houses do not pay their way. yet every one of these places is valued at a price far above its value as an ordinary business house; consequently, if the authorities were to pay the terms asked by the owners on closing them, they would actually be giving considerable sums for losing concerns. it may be asked why, if such houses do not clear their expenses, their proprietors keep them open year after year. the reasons are twofold: first, the houses are usually owned by brewers, who fear that if they abandon the licences, rival brewers may persuade the magistrates to grant additional licences in other parts of the place. secondly, the establishments are often used as traps for depriving the inexperienced of their stock of money. the process is very simple. a house owned by a brewer goes to the bad, custom falls off, and the receipts fail to cover the outgoings. thereupon the tenant is given notice to quit; and a salaried manager, skilled in the art of drawing custom, is placed in charge of it. this manager is usually a man well known in the neighbourhood, and with plenty of friends. he belongs to nearly all the friendly societies in the place, buffaloes, oddfellows, and the rest; he can give a tip on the coming race with any man, and he is "hail fellow, well met" with every tom, dick and harry. all his friends, of course, flock to patronise him; the brewer is careful to supply specially good drink; a pull over is given for every one's measure; and soon the takings of the house are increased enormously. then the place is advertised, and a novice is attracted by it. the brewer's agent shows him the books, and is able to prove that the business is going up by leaps and bounds; and so the novice is persuaded to pay, say £ in cash for the good-will, and take over the house. the manager who has drawn all the custom leaves; and his friends leave with him. the poor new publican soon finds that he is losing money every week, and before long he begins to get in debt to the brewer. this goes on until his debt amounts to the price he paid for the good-will. then the agent visits him, explains that as he is evidently not suited for the trade he had better go. the brewer will kindly allow the £ paid as good-will to go to cancel the debt; and the tenant must leave as quickly as possible. the house is then used for the fleecing of another novice; and so on. if any reader doubts the truth of this, let him consult some experienced publican who is not afraid to speak the truth, or let him notice in any moderate-sized town how often many of the smaller licensed houses are advertised as being "under new management". now, it cannot be said that the owners of such houses as these mentioned have the slightest equitable claim to any consideration. the only way to avoid paying money to such would be to base any scheme of pecuniary compensation _not on the artificial trade value of the house, but on the actual profits gained_, as shown by the books and vouchers of the place and by the publican's income-tax returns. a second limit to any scheme of compensation should be that no one, save the licence holder himself, should be entitled to any consideration. big brewing firms that have bought up large numbers of licences are well acquainted with the risks attaching to them. the british public may be anxious to treat the poor licensed victualler generously; but it will hardly sanction the appropriation by wealthy wholesale firms, that thrive by fostering public misery, of large sums of public money. this is the opinion of many by no means opposed to any compensation. mr. gladstone, in the house of commons ( th may, ), in speaking of this matter, declared: "this i must say, i cannot conceive any state of things in which the state authority would have the smallest duty or the smallest warrant for looking to anybody in these transactions, except the man with whom it deals--that is to say, the man to whom the licence is issued, and on whom it imposes its responsibility". in any plan of compensation the money should be raised from the publicans themselves. those remaining benefit by the closing of other houses; for there are fewer shops selling drink, and therefore those left get more custom. this has already been done successfully in victoria by means of increased licence fees, etc. as the publicans have no legal claim to consideration it cannot be expected that any scheme for their compensation will be permanent. it will rather provide for a softening to them of a time of transition. within these limits, surely some practicable scheme can be formulated. the following, while dealing liberally with the keepers of licensed houses, would yet be an advance on the present position. let it be arranged that for ten years the men at present holding licences shall be allowed to retain them; and if during those years the authorities wish to close any public-houses they shall pay the holders compensation based on the following scale: during the first two years, five years' purchase, reckoned on the average profits of the previous three years; during the third and fourth years, four years' profits; during the fifth and sixth years, three years' profits, and so on till at the end of the tenth year no compensation would be payable. the funds for such payments to be raised by increased licensing fees and an extra tax on liquor. no money to be paid to any person but the licence holder himself. at the end of the ten years the number of houses could be reduced to a fixed scale, say one for every or of population. the principal objectors to such a compromise would probably be the teetotalers. but they would do well to consider whether it will not hasten forward the coming of that sober england for which we all long if some method can be found of breaking through the present intolerable deadlock. there is nothing opposed to temperance in granting compensation. it is merely a matter of policy, not of principle: though, to hear some reformers talk, it might be imagined that the idea of partly recompensing licence holders for their loss involves some terrible wrong. both sir wilfrid lawson and mr. caine have in the past admitted that a compromise about compensation might be worth considering. in the house of commons ( th march, ) sir w. lawson said: "honourable members tell me that there ought to be something about compensation in my resolution. if i would only do that they would find it in their hearts to vote for me. now i do not want to condemn compensation, but this is not the question which is before the house. the question is, whether it is right to force these houses upon an unwilling neighbourhood; and if it cannot be done without compensation, let us have compensation. i am very sure that if ever my resolution is crystallised into an act of parliament this house will never refuse a fair demand from any body of men." mr. caine, in talking to a _pall mall gazette_ interviewer, said, when dealing with the compensation proposals of the church temperance society: "the time plan would work in this way: you might give to all old licences a definite lease of life, ten years being the utmost limit conceivable.... at the close of the ten years' term licences would be granted for one year only, and no compensation whatever would be granted in case of extinction.... (it) would present to temperance reformers the attractive and important feature of finality. it certainly demands most careful consideration on all hands." mr. chamberlain, in , proposed terms very similar to these. his idea, when discussing the buying up of licensed premises in order to commence municipal public-houses, was that compensation should be paid to the licence holder alone at the rate of five years' profit, based on the average profits of the previous three years. truth compels the admission, however, that mr. chamberlain's views on this point have greatly altered in recent years. in writing to me in april, , he said:--"further consideration has convinced me that the method of compensation proposed by me in would not be the best guide to a fair settlement, and that it would be impossible to ignore the interests of other persons besides the licensed holder. i think now that the best way would be to submit all claims to an official arbitrator, who would be instructed to give for the property such sum as would be given by a willing buyer to a willing seller in the open market--in other words, the fair market price." licensing bodies.--of whom should the licensing bodies consist? there are three different kinds of bodies proposed: (_a_) the magistrates, as at present; (_b_) county and town councils; (_c_) elective boards _ad hoc_. the magistrates have for long carried out the necessary duties; and in the country parts they have done as well as could be expected. in towns, more particularly in small boroughs, their rule has not worked quite so satisfactorily. occasional charges of being influenced by pecuniary considerations in the performance of their duties have been brought against them; but such charges are so very rare that direct bribery may be said to be practically unknown. but magistrates in small boroughs are often influenced by some very extra-judicial considerations. many of them are small tradesmen, appointed for political reasons. they are well acquainted with the brewer who is at the back of the application for a licence, and possibly have business transactions with him: naturally they do not care to offend him, and so a licence is often granted when it ought not to be. the licensing authority is altogether outside the usual province of the magistrate's duties, which should be purely judicial. it has never been found satisfactory to unite judicial and executive functions in one body; and jurists are agreed that this should be avoided; yet while they are the licensing authority the magistrates are both administrators and judges. but the principal objection to magistrates is that they are not in the least representative, and can do as they please entirely irrespective of the public. a proposal favoured by many statesmen is that of taking the duty of issuing licences from the magistrates and placing it in the hands of county and borough councils. a representative body would thus be secured; but the result of this would simply be to ruin many of the councils. the liquor question would swallow up every other in public estimation, like a veritable joseph's rod. men would be elected solely because of their views on licensing reform. the publicans would appoint their candidates, and the teetotalers theirs; and both parties would have a pitched battle at almost every election. many good administrators, rather than face such contests, would remain outside, and the whole tone of the councils would be lowered. the most practicable plan of securing a popular licensing authority seems to be the election of boards specially for this one purpose, as school boards are elected for the management of elementary schools. the area which such boards control should not be too small and particular care would have to be taken to prevent those pecuniarily interested in the traffic getting on them. but it must be remembered that no change in the _personnel_ of the licensing authority will effect much, and it is possible that any change may do harm. a representative body will be more liable to be influenced by outside consideration than are the justices; and the boards in some places will favour the drink sellers more than the magistrates do now. this consideration has induced some reformers to advocate leaving the administration in the hands of the present authorities, but limiting their power by a direct popular control over the issuance of new licences. clubs.--no licensing reform, however complete the restraints it places on public-houses, will accomplish much unless at the same time it deals with the club evil. in the ordinary drinking club we have something far more dangerous to society than the worst-conducted public-house. reformers were for long so absorbed in fighting the open drink shop, that they had no time for attending to anything else; and statesmen of all parties dreaded arousing against themselves the opposition which they knew would follow the curtailing of any of the privileges of club-land. the result is that there is to-day in every large town a considerable and rapidly increasing number of drinking dens, subject to no control, paying no fees, requiring no licences, and allowed to keep open all day and every day, sunday and week-day alike. with the genuine club no one wishes to meddle; but the majority of places which go under this name are nothing but drinking and gambling hells, and are usually financed by, and run for the profit of, some brewer. within ten years their number has increased almost tenfold, and from all parts of the land comes the same tale of the mischief they are doing. some months ago, the dublin corporation sent a petition to the government in which it said: "we view with alarm and dismay the rapid increase of bogus drinking clubs in all parts of the city; in our opinion these clubs are a prolific source of poverty, crime, and disorder; they are instrumental in depreciating the ratable value of property wherever they are established; and the laws which allow, without let or hindrance, their degrading operations at all hours of the night and of the day, are a disgrace to civilisation." the corporation urged the government to introduce a measure "that will be effective in grappling with this degrading and pestiferous evil". at cardiff the notorious "field clubs," formed solely and avowedly for the purpose of supplying their members with ale on sundays, and so setting the sunday closing act at defiance, were able to carry on business for some time without any hindrance from the police. a case which shows even more clearly than this how our licensing system is being reduced to little better than a mere farce, was mentioned last year in the house of commons. the licence of a certain village public-house had been taken away because of the misconduct of the publican, and because the place was not required. thereupon the brewer who owned the building opened it as a club, making the former publican manager. the rules were carefully drawn up, with the aid of counsel, to keep the house open to as many as possible; an entrance fee of a few pence was fixed; and the club was in a position to accommodate almost all its old customers. it had not to observe any of the regulations imposed on the regular drink shops, and consequently did twice as much business as before its licence was taken away. such instances might be multiplied indefinitely, but there is no need; for to all who know anything of the inner life of our great cities these things are commonplaces. how to deal with these bogus establishments, and yet not at the same time to unduly interfere with genuine clubs, has become an urgent and serious question. the royal commission on the sunday closing (wales) act recommended that all clubs where intoxicating liquors are sold should be registered with the local authority, and that the register should be open for the inspection of the police. the commission was also strongly of opinion that "clubs which exist only for the purpose of supplying drink, or only colourably for some other purpose, should be declared absolutely illegal". when lord randolph churchill brought his licensing scheme before the house of commons, he incorporated with it clauses for the registration and taxation of clubs, as has already been described in the previous chapter. the bishop of london's bill in contained similar clauses, but neither measure ever got beyond the initial stages. _the clubs registration bill_, as amended by a select committee of the house of commons last year, provided ( ) that every club (with certain strictly defined exceptions) selling intoxicating liquors on unlicensed premises must be registered; ( ) that it shall only be managed in accordance with its registered constitution; and ( ) that an annual return shall be made of the members of the club. there were further provisions forbidding the sale of any drink to be taken from the club premises, preventing any person under eighteen years old becoming a member of the club, and limiting the number of honorary members to one for every twenty ordinary members. the bill applied only to england, and was admitted by its supporters to be miserably inadequate; but it would have been a great improvement, had it passed into law, on the present state of affairs. however, it went the usual way of bills in that barren session. happily our colonies can teach us something on this matter. during the last nine years there has been an extremely simple yet very practical clause in the victorian licensing law dealing with clubs. it provides that every _bonâ-fide_ association that was formed before the passing of the act should be regarded as a club; but that any club established afterwards must, in order to obtain the right to supply its members with intoxicants, consist of "not less than fifty members, united for the purpose of providing accommodation for and conferring privileges and advantages upon the members thereof". such accommodation has to be provided from the funds of the club, and no person is allowed to get any benefit from the club which may not be shared equally by every member. all clubs have to be registered, and their certificates may be withdrawn at any time by the licensing board. in the licensed victuallers' amendment act, brought before the south australian parliament in , more elaborate provisions were made for meeting the club difficulty. clubs numbering not less than fifty members in adelaide, or not less than twenty-five in other parts, are exempt from the ordinary licensing act, so far as selling to their own members goes, provided the following conditions exist:-- . the club must be established upon premises of which such association or company are the _bonâ-fide_ occupiers, and maintained from the joint funds of the club; and no persons must be entitled under its rules to derive any benefit or profit from the club or for the sale of liquors which is not shared equally by every other member. . it must have been proved to the satisfaction of the licensing bench at an annual or quarterly meeting that the club is such an association or company as in this section is defined, and that the premises of the club are suitable for the purpose. . it must be proved to the satisfaction of the licensing bench that such club has a committee of management, and that some person has been appointed by them steward or manager. the club is obliged to pay an annual registration fee of £ , and to obtain a certificate from the clerk of the licensing district; such certificate being withdrawable if any of the conditions under which it is issued are broken. on some such lines as these we must look for the solution of the club problem in england. any measure to be really effective must provide, first, that proprietary clubs and clubs financed by those interested in the sale of drink shall be treated exactly the same as public-houses. the various regulations given in _the clubs registration bill_ should be retained, but the certificate of registration should only be obtainable after the licensing justices are satisfied as to the genuine character of the association, and have ascertained that it is established primarily for some other purpose than the supply of intoxicants. as clubs cause a decided diminution in the revenue obtained from licensed houses, it seems reasonable that they should be subject to a special excise tax, graduated somewhat after the manner provided in lord randolph churchill's bill. tied houses.--during recent years it has become more and more common for brewers to own public-houses, and to make the holders of the licences nominees of their own, dismissable at will. in many towns over four-fifths of the drink shops are either owned or controlled by brewers or wholesale spirit merchants. year by year the wholesale firms are driven by competition to purchase more and more houses; and soon it will be difficult to find establishments in which the nominal publican is master of his own business. it was manifestly the intention of parliament, in passing the various licensing acts, to make the managers of licensed houses responsible persons, who would have some stake in the business, and to whose interest it would be to strictly observe the law; but by the "tied-house" system all this is changed. through it the licensee is but little better than a man of straw, and the real controller is the brewer. there are two principal ways in which the wholesale firms "tie" a house. the first is as follows: a man with a small amount of capital wishes to take a public-house. the price of the good-will, stock and fittings of the place is, say, £ . the would-be publican has only £ , but a brewer agrees to lend him £ , and a spirit merchant £ , on condition that he binds himself to deal solely off them for his liquors. this is the least objectionable method. the other way is for the brewer to be the owner of the public-house, and the publican his tenant. the latter pays a certain amount, varying according to the value of the house, as good-will; and it is stipulated that he shall deal off the brewer for all his malt liquors. he is usually liable to dismissal at a very short notice; and it is an understood thing that if the trade of the house drops at all he will have to leave. he must push his business at any cost and by any means. most of the breaches of the law committed by publicans are due to this; for the unhappy licensed victualler has often no choice except between fostering his trade by illegal methods or getting notice to quit. it might be thought that it is hardly to the interest of the brewers to risk losing the licences in order to do a somewhat larger trade; but those who argue thus are not acquainted with the working of the law. let us suppose a case typical of many. a publican is convicted before the magistrates on some very serious charge, say that of harbouring improper characters; and his licence is endorsed. it may be mentioned, in passing, that most magistrates refuse to endorse a licence except an offence is very grave or frequently repeated. at the next licensing sessions the case comes on, and the justices demur at renewing the certificate. the lawyer for the owners then addresses them somewhat in this way. "the house in question," he says, "is owned by the well-known firm of messrs. grey & black. they had not the slightest idea that their tenant was guilty of such conduct as was unhappily proved, and they greatly regret it. it is their wish to keep their houses respectable, and they do all in their power to accomplish this. in this case, immediately the licence holder was convicted they gave him notice to quit. the good-will of the house has been sold to mr. tom brown for a substantial consideration, and the old tenant who was convicted has no longer any interest in the place. mr. brown is a _most_ respectable man; and i can bring forward unimpeachable witnesses, gentlemen well known to you, who will testify to this fact. now, gentlemen, i cannot deny that you have the power to refuse the licence if you wish; but i would venture to point out to you that by doing so you would punish, not the man whose wrongdoing we all condemn, but messrs. grey & black who own the premises, and mr. tom brown who has bought the good-will. mr. brown, though he has done nothing wrong, will be the loser of a very considerable sum by such a refusal. you will, perhaps, permit me to say, gentlemen, with all deference to your judgment, that such a course would not be in accordance with justice, nor with the honourable traditions that have always distinguished this bench." in nineteen cases out of twenty the magistrates agree that it would be rather hard on brown to refuse; and accordingly they grant the renewal. the risks of losing a licence are so small that they are hardly worth taking into consideration. first of all, there is very little probability of the police proceeding against a house, except when compelled by outside pressure. then, when the police do proceed and secure a conviction, the licence is not usually endorsed. even after endorsement, a judicious change of tenants can be made; and so the licence retained. the system of "tied houses" is bad for every one except the brewer. it is bad for the publican, for it reduces him from master of his own house to a servant of the wholesale firms. he has to take such liquor as they please, and pay the price they demand for it. it is a recognised custom in the trade for some if not all of the brewers to charge their "tied" customers more than they do the free. the plan is bad for the public. in place of the main business of the publican being to satisfy his customers, it is to retain the good-will of the owner of the house. in a district where one firm controls all the houses, there is no longer competition between the different publicans as to which shall sell the best drink, for all sell the same; and the brewer is able to palm off his worst brews on the people there. last, but chief of all, it is bad for good order and for the general well-being. the licensed victualler, being placed in such a position, is too often willing to adopt risky methods for attracting custom, which he would not venture to employ had he a substantial stake in the house. by this he not only injures the character of his own premises, but compels his rivals, who own free houses, to imitate him in order that they may not lose their trade. and so the whole method of conducting business in the neighbourhood is lowered. the _times_ cannot be accused of teetotal bias; and an utterance by it on this matter will command weight. "the natural tendency of a brewer is simply to push the sale of his beer," said that journal in a leading article on th september, . "provided no forfeiture of the licence be incurred, the especial manner in which the business is conducted does not matter much to him. his main desire is that the neighbourhood shall drink as much as possible. his servant, the publican, who has little or no property invested in the premises, has no strong personal motive for caution. he wishes to ingratiate himself with his employer by promoting a liberal consumption. the fear of risking the licence affects him far less than if it meant for him positive commercial ruin. from the point of view even of the customers, it has been felt that a spread of the monopoly of brewers is inconvenient. when a brewer is absolute master of a house he can, unchallenged, supply it with bad or unwholesome liquors.... practical experience, at all events, has created a keen jealousy of the system of tied houses, and a determination to make a stand against its unlimited predominance.... where the function of a court is the commission to certain persons to conduct a trade under its supervision, its manifest duty is to see that its delegates are free agents. a publican who can be ejected at once, or be subjected to ruinous penalties, if he exercise the least liberty of choice of his stock, and unless he accept any trash a brewer consigns to him, is a cipher." a remedy lies all ready in the hands of the licensing justices, if they would only use it. nothing would be easier than for them to demand the production of all agreements under which the publicans are occupiers of their houses, and to refuse (after due notice) to grant the renewal of the licence of any house in which the tenant is not a _bonâ-fide_ free agent. but there is little prospect of the licensing justices doing this until they are compelled. the most practicable remedy seems to be a short act of parliament, providing that in no case is a licensed victualler to enter into any contracts which will make him responsible to any but the licensing authority for the conduct of his house; and that it shall be illegal for him to bind himself to purchase his stock in whole or part from any particular firm or firms. it should be forbidden for brewers or wholesale spirit merchants to own all or part of any public-houses. it might be further provided that the licensing authority is to satisfy itself that the publican is genuinely a free agent before granting or renewing his licence. such an act would no doubt receive considerable opposition from many brewers, though even to some of them it would not be unwelcome. the present method compels them to sink a vast amount of capital in buying up licences, and gives the small brewer (who possibly produces better drink than his wealthier rivals) little chance of competing against the great firms. to the majority of publicans such a law would be acceptable, for it would raise their position and increase their profits. and the gain to public order would be greater than that which is likely to result from many more ambitious schemes. chapter iv. the path of progress. the problem of licensing reform, as every one who has given it even the most cursory attention will readily admit, is by no means an easy one. whatever step may be proposed is certain to excite the opposition of many. it is impossible for even the most astute statesman to formulate a plan that will receive the assent and approval of extremists of either school. almost every one, liberal or conservative, admits that the present state of affairs is wholly unsatisfactory, and that it demands immediate treatment. under it we have a vastly excessive number of public-houses, a weak system of supervision, and an entire lack of local control. the publican who wishes to carry on his business decently and respectably often finds it impossible to do so without heavy pecuniary sacrifice, on account of his more unscrupulous licensed rivals, who are willing to descend to any tricks to increase their trade. the whole system of licensing is based on the personal caprices of individual magistrates rather than on any uniform plan. for many years all these things have been admitted and deplored. for at least a quarter of a century statesmen have declared that the present state of the law is disgraceful, and cannot be permitted to longer continue. yet it still remains the same. can nothing be done? are the imagined interests of a small body of rich men to over-ride the welfare of the whole nation? it almost seems as though our legislators had resigned themselves to this. one thing at least is certain. no sweeping change has any hope, at least for the present, of coming into law. a drastic licensing bill, into which one of the great political parties put all its strength, might pass the house of commons, but would inevitably be defeated by the lords. the body which rejected without a division the bishop of london's bill, and which mutilated the non-partisan irish sale of intoxicating liquors bill, will show but little consideration for any thorough-going schemes. reformers of one school reply: "then let us abolish the house of lords". this is very easy to say; but if we have to wait for licensing reform until the lords are abolished, then there is not much hope for improvement in this generation. a more politic course would seem to be the carrying of temperance legislation by piecemeal. little by little the law may be changed; glaring anomalies may be removed, manifest injustices altered, until at last, while our liquor laws will not be theoretically perfect, they may at least be made reasonably workable. the following suggestions as to the lines which such alterations might take contain nothing that has not been approved by many members of parliament of both parties. . it is generally admitted that there are far too many public-houses. no doubt it would be found very difficult to reduce the number of those already licensed, but there should be little trouble in preventing the issuance of new licences. let it be enacted that in no case shall a person be permitted to apply for a public-house licence unless he has previously obtained the signatures of one half of the resident electors in the immediate neighbourhood to a petition requesting such a licence. even when such signatures have been obtained, the magistrates would still retain their option of refusal. . the second reform has already been before the house of commons. let every district have the option of sunday closing, as provided in the _liquor traffic (local control) bill_, . to this might well be added the choice of keeping the houses open on sundays for two hours only. . let the appeal to quarter sessions in case of the refusal of the renewal of licences be abolished, except for manifest illegality on the part of the local licensing session. at present the licensing magistrates in many parts will not use their unquestioned power of refusing unnecessary licences, because they are aware that their decision is almost certain to be reversed at the quarter sessions. the county magistrates, knowing nothing of local needs, continually over-ride the deliberate judgment of the local justices. . have a system of supervision of public-houses entirely independent of local control, as proposed by mr. bruce in . those who have carefully watched the working of the present laws know that the police do no part of their work so inefficiently as the control of public-houses. this is due to two causes--bribery, and the power of the drink sellers in local government. the bribes received by the police are usually very small, and no doubt many constables look upon them as their regular perquisites. the man on the beat knows where he will find a pot of beer left out for him on a hot day; and he would be more than human if he did not look on the doings of the publican with a kindly eye after quenching his thirst with the publican's liquor. but this securing the good-will of the police is comparatively unimportant, and is practically incapable of legal proof. a far more serious thing is the influence steadily brought to bear on the police in many small municipalities, to cause them to refrain from proceeding against certain public-houses. the municipal police are solely dependent for pay and promotion on the local watch committee and the town council. the council is often largely controlled by the men who own the public-houses. now the most obtuse policeman well understands that if he were to lay information against the manager of a house owned by a town councillor, or by the head of one of the local political associations, it would make his prospects of advancement no brighter. he might be praised by the papers for his zeal; but when a chance of promotion came up, he would be passed over for some one else. this is no imaginary danger. many who have tried to secure the better enforcement of licensing laws in towns know well that too often the police will not move further than they are compelled, and then they will do as little as is compatible with appearances. if there were public-house inspectors entirely independent of local influence, and frequently moved from place to place, a great improvement in the management of many licensed premises would at once be apparent. the law-abiding publican would have a better chance of success, and would not be handicapped in the way he is at present. . let all public-houses be closed on municipal and parliamentary election days. other urgently needed reforms, such as the control of clubs, and the abolition of tied houses, have been described in preceding chapters, and need not be recapitulated here. * * * * * i feel that i would be untrue to my own convictions if i closed this volume without a final word to those who have followed me so far. i have tried to treat the subject calmly and dispassionately; and zealous reformers may possibly complain (as some have already complained of those parts published in periodical form) that my tone is cold and unsympathetic. i can only assure them that it is from no lack of earnest desire to promote true temperance. but the cause of reform will not be advanced by special pleading, or by that impetuous enthusiasm which leads men to overlook facts in order to give a reasonable air to their theories. the first work of a reformer should be to master his facts, and to discover what lessons the experiments and the mistakes of those who have preceded him can teach. we are often told that it is impossible to make men sober by act of parliament; and no doubt all legislation that seeks to suppress evil has to fight against strong opposition. but do those who so lightly quote this empty aphorism ever seriously resolve to persuade men to be sober by other means? or are they content to let a smart phrase run glibly from their lips as an excuse for doing nothing? to-day we are face to face with a gigantic evil that is destroying much that is brightest and fairest in our national life. to all who have any notion of patriotism, to all who have any real desire for the welfare of the people, and especially to all to whom the commands of the carpenter of nazareth are something more than mere words,--the call comes to take their part in the battle for its suppression. how are we to work, each man must decide for himself; but none of us can shirk the manifest duty of doing something, and of doing our best, without wrong. it is admitted that acts of parliament can help in promoting sobriety only so far as they are backed up by a strong public sentiment, and by the earnest endeavours of the people. legislation can remove temptation, it can make virtue easier; but it cannot do everything. along with it must go steady work for the brightening of every-day life, for the easing of conditions of labour, for improving the dwellings of the poor, for raising the moral tone, for the realisation by all of the sacredness of this life, and the need to make the most of its opportunities. as we survey the forces against us in this fight, we may sometimes be inclined to despair of its issue. on the side of intemperance and self-indulgence are great resources of wealth, power, self-interest, and unscrupulousness. shall we conquer, or is the wrong to triumph over us? the words of a great thinker, written on another subject, best give the answer: "the ultimate issue of the struggle is certain. if any one doubts the general preponderance of good over evil in human nature, he has only to study the history of moral crusades. the enthusiastic energy and self-devotion with which a great moral cause inspires its soldiers always have prevailed, and always will prevail, over any amount of self-interest or material power arrayed on the other side."[ ] appendix i. the condition of working men in maine. the _fifth annual report of the bureau of industrial and labour statistics for maine_ (augusta, ) gives a set of very full returns from which it is possible to ascertain the exact position of working men under prohibition. a personal canvass was made of working men of all classes, the unskilled and lower paid, as well as the best and highest paid. space will not permit me to quote more than a brief _résumé_. "the following is a general summary of some of the more important statistics derived from the reports of working men. whole number of reports, ; number american born, ; number foreign born, ; number owning homes, ; value of homes, , dollars; number of homes mortgaged, ; amount of mortgages, , dollars; number renting, ; number having savings bank accounts, ; number who have accumulated savings in former years, ; during past year, ; run into debt during past year, ; neither gained nor lost during past year, ." of men with families, the average annual income was dollars cent per family yearly. the average annual income of single working men was dollars cent, and of single working women, dollars cents. the amounts saved from income averaged, men with families, per cent., single men, per cent., and single women, per cent. appendix ii. the gin act, . whereas the excessive drinking of spirituous liquors by the common people tends not only to the destruction of their health, and the debauching of their morals, but to public ruin: for remedy thereof-- be it enacted, that from the th september no person shall presume, by themselves or any others employed by them, to sell or retail any brandy, rum, arrack, usquebaugh, geneva, aqua vitæ, or any other distilled spirituous liquors, mixed or unmixed, in any less quantity than two gallons, without first taking out a licence for that purpose within ten days at least before they sell or retail the same; for which they shall pay down £ , to be renewed ten days before the year expires, paying the like sum; and in case of neglect to forfeit £ ; such licences to be taken out within the limits of the penny post at the chief office of excise, london, and at the next chief office of excise for the country. and be it enacted, that for all such spirituous liquors as any retailers shall be possessed of on or after the th september, , there shall be paid a duty of s. per gallon, and so on in proportion for a greater or lesser quantity above all other duties charged on the same. the collecting the rates by this act imposed to be under the management of the commissioners and officers of excise by all the excise laws now in force (except otherwise provided by this act); and all monies arising by the said duties or licences for sale thereof shall be paid into the receipt of his majesty's exchequer, distinctly from other branches of the public revenue; one moiety of the fines, penalties and forfeitures to be paid to his majesty and successors, the other to the person who shall inform on any one for the same. footnotes: [ ] _a report on marriage and divorce in the united states_, by carroll d. wright, commission of labour. revised edition, washington, . [ ] mr. c. w. jones, inspector of prisons and gaols, maine, to whom i am indebted for these figures, adds that the increase in commitments in recent years "is not because those crimes are on the increase, but because of the better enforcement of our laws relating to those crimes". [ ] _the report of commissioner of internal revenue_, pp. - . washington, . there are no returns available for any year after , as since then maine has ceased to be reckoned as a separate district for revenue purposes. [ ] for many of these particulars about the condition of affairs in iowa in i am indebted to the _toronto globe_ for november and december, . this journal, with enterprise that is deserving of all commendation, sent two representatives, one an avowed prohibitionist and the other opposed to prohibition, to iowa and kansas, in order to gather full particulars of the results obtained from the liquor laws there. the two commissioners, messrs. j. e. atkinson and j. a. ewan, performed their mission excellently, and their reports are of more than temporary value. i may, however, add that i have by no means solely depended on the reports of these gentlemen in ascertaining the condition of iowa. other accounts, from varied sources, all tend to show the disgraceful and deplorable condition of this state under the law that failed. [ ] this statement was made before the royal commission on the liquor traffic. at the time of writing this, the official reports of the evidence given before the commission are not yet issued; consequently, i am obliged to rely on the somewhat abridged accounts given in the canadian daily papers. [ ] _montreal daily star_, th december, . [ ] _victorian alliance annual_ for , melbourne. [ ] this translation is taken from the special report of the united states commissioner of labour on _the gothenburg system of liquor traffic_, washington, . i would here acknowledge my very deep indebtedness to this volume for many of the statistics contained in this chapter. dr. gould's work is unquestionably the fullest and most accurate book on the subject in the english language, or, as far as i am aware, in any other. [ ] it is well known that the number of arrests for drunkenness is no adequate guide to the amount of intoxication. speaking in the house of commons, th march, , on this point, mr. chamberlain said: "i have come to the conclusion that for our purpose police statistics are no good at all. as an evidence of this i will mention something with which i am acquainted in birmingham. on a certain saturday the number of persons arrested for drunkenness and brought before the magistrates was said to be --that was the total number of drunken cases credited, or rather, as i should say, debited to the town, according to the police statistics. during three hours of that same saturday night, thirty-five houses in different parts of the town, beer houses, spirit shops and shops of other descriptions, were watched by different persons appointed for the purpose; and these persons reported that during those three hours males and females came out of those shops; and, out of these numbers, of the male persons there were drunk, and females in the same state. there is a total of drunken persons, alleged to have been seen coming out of houses in three hours; while the police returns only reported for the day." 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"a study by a competent observer of the industrial movement."--_times._ . handbook of socialism. w. d. p. bliss. swan sonnenschein & co., london. new york: charles scribner's sons. the dialogues of plato charmides by plato translated into english with analyses and introductions by b. jowett, m.a. master of balliol college regius professor of greek in the university of oxford doctor in theology of the university of leyden to my former pupils in balliol college and in the university of oxford who during fifty years have been the best of friends to me these volumes are inscribed in grateful recognition of their never failing attachment. the additions and alterations which have been made, both in the introductions and in the text of this edition, affect at least a third of the work. having regard to the extent of these alterations, and to the annoyance which is naturally felt by the owner of a book at the possession of it in an inferior form, and still more keenly by the writer himself, who must always desire to be read as he is at his best, i have thought that the possessor of either of the former editions ( and ) might wish to exchange it for the present one. i have therefore arranged that those who would like to make this exchange, on depositing a perfect and undamaged copy of the first or second edition with any agent of the clarendon press, shall be entitled to receive a copy of a new edition at half-price. preface to the first edition. the text which has been mostly followed in this translation of plato is the latest vo. edition of stallbaum; the principal deviations are noted at the bottom of the page. i have to acknowledge many obligations to old friends and pupils. these are:--mr. john purves, fellow of balliol college, with whom i have revised about half of the entire translation; the rev. professor campbell, of st. andrews, who has helped me in the revision of several parts of the work, especially of the theaetetus, sophist, and politicus; mr. robinson ellis, fellow of trinity college, and mr. alfred robinson, fellow of new college, who read with me the cratylus and the gorgias; mr. paravicini, student of christ church, who assisted me in the symposium; mr. raper, fellow of queen's college, mr. monro, fellow of oriel college, and mr. shadwell, student of christ church, who gave me similar assistance in the laws. dr. greenhill, of hastings, has also kindly sent me remarks on the physiological part of the timaeus, which i have inserted as corrections under the head of errata at the end of the introduction. the degree of accuracy which i have been enabled to attain is in great measure due to these gentlemen, and i heartily thank them for the pains and time which they have bestowed on my work. i have further to explain how far i have received help from other labourers in the same field. the books which i have found of most use are steinhart and muller's german translation of plato with introductions; zeller's 'philosophie der griechen,' and 'platonische studien;' susemihl's 'genetische entwickelung der paltonischen philosophie;' hermann's 'geschichte der platonischen philosophie;' bonitz, 'platonische studien;' stallbaum's notes and introductions; professor campbell's editions of the 'theaetetus,' the 'sophist,' and the 'politicus;' professor thompson's 'phaedrus;' th. martin's 'etudes sur le timee;' mr. poste's edition and translation of the 'philebus;' the translation of the 'republic,' by messrs. davies and vaughan, and the translation of the 'gorgias,' by mr. cope. i have also derived much assistance from the great work of mr. grote, which contains excellent analyses of the dialogues, and is rich in original thoughts and observations. i agree with him in rejecting as futile the attempt of schleiermacher and others to arrange the dialogues of plato into a harmonious whole. any such arrangement appears to me not only to be unsupported by evidence, but to involve an anachronism in the history of philosophy. there is a common spirit in the writings of plato, but not a unity of design in the whole, nor perhaps a perfect unity in any single dialogue. the hypothesis of a general plan which is worked out in the successive dialogues is an after-thought of the critics who have attributed a system to writings belonging to an age when system had not as yet taken possession of philosophy. if mr. grote should do me the honour to read any portion of this work he will probably remark that i have endeavoured to approach plato from a point of view which is opposed to his own. the aim of the introductions in these volumes has been to represent plato as the father of idealism, who is not to be measured by the standard of utilitarianism or any other modern philosophical system. he is the poet or maker of ideas, satisfying the wants of his own age, providing the instruments of thought for future generations. he is no dreamer, but a great philosophical genius struggling with the unequal conditions of light and knowledge under which he is living. he may be illustrated by the writings of moderns, but he must be interpreted by his own, and by his place in the history of philosophy. we are not concerned to determine what is the residuum of truth which remains for ourselves. his truth may not be our truth, and nevertheless may have an extraordinary value and interest for us. i cannot agree with mr. grote in admitting as genuine all the writings commonly attributed to plato in antiquity, any more than with schaarschmidt and some other german critics who reject nearly half of them. the german critics, to whom i refer, proceed chiefly on grounds of internal evidence; they appear to me to lay too much stress on the variety of doctrine and style, which must be equally acknowledged as a fact, even in the dialogues regarded by schaarschmidt as genuine, e.g. in the phaedrus, or symposium, when compared with the laws. he who admits works so different in style and matter to have been the composition of the same author, need have no difficulty in admitting the sophist or the politicus. (the negative argument adduced by the same school of critics, which is based on the silence of aristotle, is not worthy of much consideration. for why should aristotle, because he has quoted several dialogues of plato, have quoted them all? something must be allowed to chance, and to the nature of the subjects treated of in them.) on the other hand, mr. grote trusts mainly to the alexandrian canon. but i hardly think that we are justified in attributing much weight to the authority of the alexandrian librarians in an age when there was no regular publication of books, and every temptation to forge them; and in which the writings of a school were naturally attributed to the founder of the school. and even without intentional fraud, there was an inclination to believe rather than to enquire. would mr. grote accept as genuine all the writings which he finds in the lists of learned ancients attributed to hippocrates, to xenophon, to aristotle? the alexandrian canon of the platonic writings is deprived of credit by the admission of the epistles, which are not only unworthy of plato, and in several passages plagiarized from him, but flagrantly at variance with historical fact. it will be seen also that i do not agree with mr. grote's views about the sophists; nor with the low estimate which he has formed of plato's laws; nor with his opinion respecting plato's doctrine of the rotation of the earth. but i 'am not going to lay hands on my father parmenides' (soph.), who will, i hope, forgive me for differing from him on these points. i cannot close this preface without expressing my deep respect for his noble and gentle character, and the great services which he has rendered to greek literature. balliol college, january, . preface to the second and third editions. in publishing a second edition ( ) of the dialogues of plato in english, i had to acknowledge the assistance of several friends: of the rev. g.g. bradley, master of university college, now dean of westminster, who sent me some valuable remarks on the phaedo; of dr. greenhill, who had again revised a portion of the timaeus; of mr. r.l. nettleship, fellow and tutor of balliol college, to whom i was indebted for an excellent criticism of the parmenides; and, above all, of the rev. professor campbell of st. andrews, and mr. paravicini, late student of christ church and tutor of balliol college, with whom i had read over the greater part of the translation. i was also indebted to mr. evelyn abbott, fellow and tutor of balliol college, for a complete and accurate index. in this, the third edition, i am under very great obligations to mr. matthew knight, who has not only favoured me with valuable suggestions throughout the work, but has largely extended the index (from to pages) and translated the eryxias and second alcibiades; and to mr frank fletcher, of balliol college, my secretary. i am also considerably indebted to mr. j.w. mackail, late fellow of balliol college, who read over the republic in the second edition and noted several inaccuracies. in both editions the introductions to the dialogues have been enlarged, and essays on subjects having an affinity to the platonic dialogues have been introduced into several of them. the analyses have been corrected, and innumerable alterations have been made in the text. there have been added also, in the third edition, headings to the pages and a marginal analysis to the text of each dialogue. at the end of a long task, the translator may without impropriety point out the difficulties which he has had to encounter. these have been far greater than he would have anticipated; nor is he at all sanguine that he has succeeded in overcoming them. experience has made him feel that a translation, like a picture, is dependent for its effect on very minute touches; and that it is a work of infinite pains, to be returned to in many moods and viewed in different lights. i. an english translation ought to be idiomatic and interesting, not only to the scholar, but to the unlearned reader. its object should not simply be to render the words of one language into the words of another or to preserve the construction and order of the original;--this is the ambition of a schoolboy, who wishes to show that he has made a good use of his dictionary and grammar; but is quite unworthy of the translator, who seeks to produce on his reader an impression similar or nearly similar to that produced by the original. to him the feeling should be more important than the exact word. he should remember dryden's quaint admonition not to 'lacquey by the side of his author, but to mount up behind him.' (dedication to the aeneis.) he must carry in his mind a comprehensive view of the whole work, of what has preceded and of what is to follow,--as well as of the meaning of particular passages. his version should be based, in the first instance, on an intimate knowledge of the text; but the precise order and arrangement of the words may be left to fade out of sight, when the translation begins to take shape. he must form a general idea of the two languages, and reduce the one to the terms of the other. his work should be rhythmical and varied, the right admixture of words and syllables, and even of letters, should be carefully attended to; above all, it should be equable in style. there must also be quantity, which is necessary in prose as well as in verse: clauses, sentences, paragraphs, must be in due proportion. metre and even rhyme may be rarely admitted; though neither is a legitimate element of prose writing, they may help to lighten a cumbrous expression (symp.). the translation should retain as far as possible the characteristic qualities of the ancient writer--his freedom, grace, simplicity, stateliness, weight, precision; or the best part of him will be lost to the english reader. it should read as an original work, and should also be the most faithful transcript which can be made of the language from which the translation is taken, consistently with the first requirement of all, that it be english. further, the translation being english, it should also be perfectly intelligible in itself without reference to the greek, the english being really the more lucid and exact of the two languages. in some respects it may be maintained that ordinary english writing, such as the newspaper article, is superior to plato: at any rate it is couched in language which is very rarely obscure. on the other hand, the greatest writers of greece, thucydides, plato, aeschylus, sophocles, pindar, demosthenes, are generally those which are found to be most difficult and to diverge most widely from the english idiom. the translator will often have to convert the more abstract greek into the more concrete english, or vice versa, and he ought not to force upon one language the character of another. in some cases, where the order is confused, the expression feeble, the emphasis misplaced, or the sense somewhat faulty, he will not strive in his rendering to reproduce these characteristics, but will re-write the passage as his author would have written it at first, had he not been 'nodding'; and he will not hesitate to supply anything which, owing to the genius of the language or some accident of composition, is omitted in the greek, but is necessary to make the english clear and consecutive. it is difficult to harmonize all these conflicting elements. in a translation of plato what may be termed the interests of the greek and english are often at war with one another. in framing the english sentence we are insensibly diverted from the exact meaning of the greek; when we return to the greek we are apt to cramp and overlay the english. we substitute, we compromise, we give and take, we add a little here and leave out a little there. the translator may sometimes be allowed to sacrifice minute accuracy for the sake of clearness and sense. but he is not therefore at liberty to omit words and turns of expression which the english language is quite capable of supplying. he must be patient and self-controlled; he must not be easily run away with. let him never allow the attraction of a favourite expression, or a sonorous cadence, to overpower his better judgment, or think much of an ornament which is out of keeping with the general character of his work. he must ever be casting his eyes upwards from the copy to the original, and down again from the original to the copy (rep.). his calling is not held in much honour by the world of scholars; yet he himself may be excused for thinking it a kind of glory to have lived so many years in the companionship of one of the greatest of human intelligences, and in some degree, more perhaps than others, to have had the privilege of understanding him (sir joshua reynolds' lectures: disc. xv.). there are fundamental differences in greek and english, of which some may be managed while others remain intractable. ( ). the structure of the greek language is partly adversative and alternative, and partly inferential; that is to say, the members of a sentence are either opposed to one another, or one of them expresses the cause or effect or condition or reason of another. the two tendencies may be called the horizontal and perpendicular lines of the language; and the opposition or inference is often much more one of words than of ideas. but modern languages have rubbed off this adversative and inferential form: they have fewer links of connection, there is less mortar in the interstices, and they are content to place sentences side by side, leaving their relation to one another to be gathered from their position or from the context. the difficulty of preserving the effect of the greek is increased by the want of adversative and inferential particles in english, and by the nice sense of tautology which characterizes all modern languages. we cannot have two 'buts' or two 'fors' in the same sentence where the greek repeats (greek). there is a similar want of particles expressing the various gradations of objective and subjective thought--(greek) and the like, which are so thickly scattered over the greek page. further, we can only realize to a very imperfect degree the common distinction between (greek), and the combination of the two suggests a subtle shade of negation which cannot be expressed in english. and while english is more dependent than greek upon the apposition of clauses and sentences, yet there is a difficulty in using this form of construction owing to the want of case endings. for the same reason there cannot be an equal variety in the order of words or an equal nicety of emphasis in english as in greek. ( ) the formation of the sentence and of the paragraph greatly differs in greek and english. the lines by which they are divided are generally much more marked in modern languages than in ancient. both sentences and paragraphs are more precise and definite--they do not run into one another. they are also more regularly developed from within. the sentence marks another step in an argument or a narrative or a statement; in reading a paragraph we silently turn over the page and arrive at some new view or aspect of the subject. whereas in plato we are not always certain where a sentence begins and ends; and paragraphs are few and far between. the language is distributed in a different way, and less articulated than in english. for it was long before the true use of the period was attained by the classical writers both in poetry or prose; it was (greek). the balance of sentences and the introduction of paragraphs at suitable intervals must not be neglected if the harmony of the english language is to be preserved. and still a caution has to be added on the other side, that we must avoid giving it a numerical or mechanical character. ( ) this, however, is not one of the greatest difficulties of the translator; much greater is that which arises from the restriction of the use of the genders. men and women in english are masculine and feminine, and there is a similar distinction of sex in the words denoting animals; but all things else, whether outward objects or abstract ideas, are relegated to the class of neuters. hardly in some flight of poetry do we ever endue any of them with the characteristics of a sentient being, and then only by speaking of them in the feminine gender. the virtues may be pictured in female forms, but they are not so described in language; a ship is humorously supposed to be the sailor's bride; more doubtful are the personifications of church and country as females. now the genius of the greek language is the opposite of this. the same tendency to personification which is seen in the greek mythology is common also in the language; and genders are attributed to things as well as persons according to their various degrees of strength and weakness; or from fanciful resemblances to the male or female form, or some analogy too subtle to be discovered. when the gender of any object was once fixed, a similar gender was naturally assigned to similar objects, or to words of similar formation. this use of genders in the denotation of objects or ideas not only affects the words to which genders are attributed, but the words with which they are construed or connected, and passes into the general character of the style. hence arises a difficulty in translating greek into english which cannot altogether be overcome. shall we speak of the soul and its qualities, of virtue, power, wisdom, and the like, as feminine or neuter? the usage of the english language does not admit of the former, and yet the life and beauty of the style are impaired by the latter. often the translator will have recourse to the repetition of the word, or to the ambiguous 'they,' 'their,' etc.; for fear of spoiling the effect of the sentence by introducing 'it.' collective nouns in greek and english create a similar but lesser awkwardness. ( ) to use of relation is far more extended in greek than in english. partly the greater variety of genders and cases makes the connexion of relative and antecedent less ambiguous: partly also the greater number of demonstrative and relative pronouns, and the use of the article, make the correlation of ideas simpler and more natural. the greek appears to have had an ear or intelligence for a long and complicated sentence which is rarely to be found in modern nations; and in order to bring the greek down to the level of the modern, we must break up the long sentence into two or more short ones. neither is the same precision required in greek as in latin or english, nor in earlier greek as in later; there was nothing shocking to the contemporary of thucydides and plato in anacolutha and repetitions. in such cases the genius of the english language requires that the translation should be more intelligible than the greek. the want of more distinctions between the demonstrative pronouns is also greatly felt. two genitives dependent on one another, unless familiarised by idiom, have an awkward effect in english. frequently the noun has to take the place of the pronoun. 'this' and 'that' are found repeating themselves to weariness in the rough draft of a translation. as in the previous case, while the feeling of the modern language is more opposed to tautology, there is also a greater difficulty in avoiding it. ( ) though no precise rule can be laid down about the repetition of words, there seems to be a kind of impertinence in presenting to the reader the same thought in the same words, repeated twice over in the same passage without any new aspect or modification of it. and the evasion of tautology--that is, the substitution of one word of precisely the same meaning for another--is resented by us equally with the repetition of words. yet on the other hand the least difference of meaning or the least change of form from a substantive to an adjective, or from a participle to a verb, will often remedy the unpleasant effect. rarely and only for the sake of emphasis or clearness can we allow an important word to be used twice over in two successive sentences or even in the same paragraph. the particles and pronouns, as they are of most frequent occurrence, are also the most troublesome. strictly speaking, except a few of the commonest of them, 'and,' 'the,' etc., they ought not to occur twice in the same sentence. but the greek has no such precise rules; and hence any literal translation of a greek author is full of tautology. the tendency of modern languages is to become more correct as well as more perspicuous than ancient. and, therefore, while the english translator is limited in the power of expressing relation or connexion, by the law of his own language increased precision and also increased clearness are required of him. the familiar use of logic, and the progress of science, have in these two respects raised the standard. but modern languages, while they have become more exacting in their demands, are in many ways not so well furnished with powers of expression as the ancient classical ones. such are a few of the difficulties which have to be overcome in the work of translation; and we are far from having exhausted the list. ( ) the excellence of a translation will consist, not merely in the faithful rendering of words, or in the composition of a sentence only, or yet of a single paragraph, but in the colour and style of the whole work. equability of tone is best attained by the exclusive use of familiar and idiomatic words. but great care must be taken; for an idiomatic phrase, if an exception to the general style, is of itself a disturbing element. no word, however expressive and exact, should be employed, which makes the reader stop to think, or unduly attracts attention by difficulty and peculiarity, or disturbs the effect of the surrounding language. in general the style of one author is not appropriate to another; as in society, so in letters, we expect every man to have 'a good coat of his own,' and not to dress himself out in the rags of another. (a) archaic expressions are therefore to be avoided. equivalents may be occasionally drawn from shakspere, who is the common property of us all; but they must be used sparingly. for, like some other men of genius of the elizabethan and jacobean age, he outdid the capabilities of the language, and many of the expressions which he introduced have been laid aside and have dropped out of use. (b) a similar principle should be observed in the employment of scripture. having a greater force and beauty than other language, and a religious association, it disturbs the even flow of the style. it may be used to reproduce in the translation the quaint effect of some antique phrase in the original, but rarely; and when adopted, it should have a certain freshness and a suitable 'entourage.' it is strange to observe that the most effective use of scripture phraseology arises out of the application of it in a sense not intended by the author. (c) another caution: metaphors differ in different languages, and the translator will often be compelled to substitute one for another, or to paraphrase them, not giving word for word, but diffusing over several words the more concentrated thought of the original. the greek of plato often goes beyond the english in its imagery: compare laws, (greek); rep.; etc. or again the modern word, which in substance is the nearest equivalent to the greek, may be found to include associations alien to greek life: e.g. (greek), 'jurymen,' (greek), 'the bourgeoisie.' (d) the translator has also to provide expressions for philosophical terms of very indefinite meaning in the more definite language of modern philosophy. and he must not allow discordant elements to enter into the work. for example, in translating plato, it would equally be an anachronism to intrude on him the feeling and spirit of the jewish or christian scriptures or the technical terms of the hegelian or darwinian philosophy. ( ) as no two words are precise equivalents (just as no two leaves of the forest are exactly similar), it is a mistaken attempt at precision always to translate the same greek word by the same english word. there is no reason why in the new testament (greek) should always be rendered 'righteousness,' or (greek) 'covenant.' in such cases the translator may be allowed to employ two words--sometimes when the two meanings occur in the same passage, varying them by an 'or'--e.g. (greek), 'science' or 'knowledge,' (greek), 'idea' or 'class,' (greek), 'temperance' or 'prudence,'--at the point where the change of meaning occurs. if translations are intended not for the greek scholar but for the general reader, their worst fault will be that they sacrifice the general effect and meaning to the over-precise rendering of words and forms of speech. ( ) there is no kind of literature in english which corresponds to the greek dialogue; nor is the english language easily adapted to it. the rapidity and abruptness of question and answer, the constant repetition of (greek), etc., which cicero avoided in latin (de amicit), the frequent occurrence of expletives, would, if reproduced in a translation, give offence to the reader. greek has a freer and more frequent use of the interrogative, and is of a more passionate and emotional character, and therefore lends itself with greater readiness to the dialogue form. most of the so-called english dialogues are but poor imitations of plato, which fall very far short of the original. the breath of conversation, the subtle adjustment of question and answer, the lively play of fancy, the power of drawing characters, are wanting in them. but the platonic dialogue is a drama as well as a dialogue, of which socrates is the central figure, and there are lesser performers as well:--the insolence of thrasymachus, the anger of callicles and anytus, the patronizing style of protagoras, the self-consciousness of prodicus and hippias, are all part of the entertainment. to reproduce this living image the same sort of effort is required as in translating poetry. the language, too, is of a finer quality; the mere prose english is slow in lending itself to the form of question and answer, and so the ease of conversation is lost, and at the same time the dialectical precision with which the steps of the argument are drawn out is apt to be impaired. ii. in the introductions to the dialogues there have been added some essays on modern philosophy, and on political and social life. the chief subjects discussed in these are utility, communism, the kantian and hegelian philosophies, psychology, and the origin of language. (there have been added also in the third edition remarks on other subjects. a list of the most important of these additions is given at the end of this preface.) ancient and modern philosophy throw a light upon one another: but they should be compared, not confounded. although the connexion between them is sometimes accidental, it is often real. the same questions are discussed by them under different conditions of language and civilization; but in some cases a mere word has survived, while nothing or hardly anything of the pre-socratic, platonic, or aristotelian meaning is retained. there are other questions familiar to the moderns, which have no place in ancient philosophy. the world has grown older in two thousand years, and has enlarged its stock of ideas and methods of reasoning. yet the germ of modern thought is found in ancient, and we may claim to have inherited, notwithstanding many accidents of time and place, the spirit of greek philosophy. there is, however, no continuous growth of the one into the other, but a new beginning, partly artificial, partly arising out of the questionings of the mind itself, and also receiving a stimulus from the study of ancient writings. considering the great and fundamental differences which exist in ancient and modern philosophy, it seems best that we should at first study them separately, and seek for the interpretation of either, especially of the ancient, from itself only, comparing the same author with himself and with his contemporaries, and with the general state of thought and feeling prevalent in his age. afterwards comes the remoter light which they cast on one another. we begin to feel that the ancients had the same thoughts as ourselves, the same difficulties which characterize all periods of transition, almost the same opposition between science and religion. although we cannot maintain that ancient and modern philosophy are one and continuous (as has been affirmed with more truth respecting ancient and modern history), for they are separated by an interval of a thousand years, yet they seem to recur in a sort of cycle, and we are surprised to find that the new is ever old, and that the teaching of the past has still a meaning for us. iii. in the preface to the first edition i expressed a strong opinion at variance with mr. grote's, that the so-called epistles of plato were spurious. his friend and editor, professor bain, thinks that i ought to give the reasons why i differ from so eminent an authority. reserving the fuller discussion of the question for another place, i will shortly defend my opinion by the following arguments:-- (a) because almost all epistles purporting to be of the classical age of greek literature are forgeries. (compare bentley's works (dyce's edition).) of all documents this class are the least likely to be preserved and the most likely to be invented. the ancient world swarmed with them; the great libraries stimulated the demand for them; and at a time when there was no regular publication of books, they easily crept into the world. (b) when one epistle out of a number is spurious, the remainder of the series cannot be admitted to be genuine, unless there be some independent ground for thinking them so: when all but one are spurious, overwhelming evidence is required of the genuineness of the one: when they are all similar in style or motive, like witnesses who agree in the same tale, they stand or fall together. but no one, not even mr. grote, would maintain that all the epistles of plato are genuine, and very few critics think that more than one of them is so. and they are clearly all written from the same motive, whether serious or only literary. nor is there an example in greek antiquity of a series of epistles, continuous and yet coinciding with a succession of events extending over a great number of years. the external probability therefore against them is enormous, and the internal probability is not less: for they are trivial and unmeaning, devoid of delicacy and subtlety, wanting in a single fine expression. and even if this be matter of dispute, there can be no dispute that there are found in them many plagiarisms, inappropriately borrowed, which is a common note of forgery. they imitate plato, who never imitates either himself or any one else; reminiscences of the republic and the laws are continually recurring in them; they are too like him and also too unlike him, to be genuine (see especially karsten, commentio critica de platonis quae feruntur epistolis). they are full of egotism, self-assertion, affectation, faults which of all writers plato was most careful to avoid, and into which he was least likely to fall. they abound in obscurities, irrelevancies, solecisms, pleonasms, inconsistencies, awkwardnesses of construction, wrong uses of words. they also contain historical blunders, such as the statement respecting hipparinus and nysaeus, the nephews of dion, who are said to 'have been well inclined to philosophy, and well able to dispose the mind of their brother dionysius in the same course,' at a time when they could not have been more than six or seven years of age--also foolish allusions, such as the comparison of the athenian empire to the empire of darius, which show a spirit very different from that of plato; and mistakes of fact, as e.g. about the thirty tyrants, whom the writer of the letters seems to have confused with certain inferior magistrates, making them in all fifty-one. these palpable errors and absurdities are absolutely irreconcilable with their genuineness. and as they appear to have a common parentage, the more they are studied, the more they will be found to furnish evidence against themselves. the seventh, which is thought to be the most important of these epistles, has affinities with the third and the eighth, and is quite as impossible and inconsistent as the rest. it is therefore involved in the same condemnation.--the final conclusion is that neither the seventh nor any other of them, when carefully analyzed, can be imagined to have proceeded from the hand or mind of plato. the other testimonies to the voyages of plato to sicily and the court of dionysius are all of them later by several centuries than the events to which they refer. no extant writer mentions them older than cicero and cornelius nepos. it does not seem impossible that so attractive a theme as the meeting of a philosopher and a tyrant, once imagined by the genius of a sophist, may have passed into a romance which became famous in hellas and the world. it may have created one of the mists of history, like the trojan war or the legend of arthur, which we are unable to penetrate. in the age of cicero, and still more in that of diogenes laertius and appuleius, many other legends had gathered around the personality of plato,--more voyages, more journeys to visit tyrants and pythagorean philosophers. but if, as we agree with karsten in supposing, they are the forgery of some rhetorician or sophist, we cannot agree with him in also supposing that they are of any historical value, the rather as there is no early independent testimony by which they are supported or with which they can be compared. iv. there is another subject to which i must briefly call attention, lest i should seem to have overlooked it. dr. henry jackson, of trinity college, cambridge, in a series of articles which he has contributed to the journal of philology, has put forward an entirely new explanation of the platonic 'ideas.' he supposes that in the mind of plato they took, at different times in his life, two essentially different forms:--an earlier one which is found chiefly in the republic and the phaedo, and a later, which appears in the theaetetus, philebus, sophist, politicus, parmenides, timaeus. in the first stage of his philosophy plato attributed ideas to all things, at any rate to all things which have classes or common notions: these he supposed to exist only by participation in them. in the later dialogues he no longer included in them manufactured articles and ideas of relation, but restricted them to 'types of nature,' and having become convinced that the many cannot be parts of the one, for the idea of participation in them he substituted imitation of them. to quote dr. jackson's own expressions,--'whereas in the period of the republic and the phaedo, it was proposed to pass through ontology to the sciences, in the period of the parmenides and the philebus, it is proposed to pass through the sciences to ontology': or, as he repeats in nearly the same words,--'whereas in the republic and in the phaedo he had dreamt of passing through ontology to the sciences, he is now content to pass through the sciences to ontology.' this theory is supposed to be based on aristotle's metaphysics, a passage containing an account of the ideas, which hitherto scholars have found impossible to reconcile with the statements of plato himself. the preparations for the new departure are discovered in the parmenides and in the theaetetus; and it is said to be expressed under a different form by the (greek) and the (greek) of the philebus. the (greek) of the philebus is the principle which gives form and measure to the (greek); and in the 'later theory' is held to be the (greek) or (greek) which converts the infinite or indefinite into ideas. they are neither (greek) nor (greek), but belong to the (greek) which partakes of both. with great respect for the learning and ability of dr. jackson, i find myself unable to agree in this newly fashioned doctrine of the ideas, which he ascribes to plato. i have not the space to go into the question fully; but i will briefly state some objections which are, i think, fatal to it. ( ) first, the foundation of his argument is laid in the metaphysics of aristotle. but we cannot argue, either from the metaphysics, or from any other of the philosophical treatises of aristotle, to the dialogues of plato until we have ascertained the relation in which his so-called works stand to the philosopher himself. there is of course no doubt of the great influence exercised upon greece and upon the world by aristotle and his philosophy. but on the other hand almost every one who is capable of understanding the subject acknowledges that his writings have not come down to us in an authentic form like most of the dialogues of plato. how much of them is to be ascribed to aristotle's own hand, how much is due to his successors in the peripatetic school, is a question which has never been determined, and probably never can be, because the solution of it depends upon internal evidence only. to 'the height of this great argument' i do not propose to ascend. but one little fact, not irrelevant to the present discussion, will show how hopeless is the attempt to explain plato out of the writings of aristotle. in the chapter of the metaphysics quoted by dr. jackson, about two octavo pages in length, there occur no less than seven or eight references to plato, although nothing really corresponding to them can be found in his extant writings:--a small matter truly; but what a light does it throw on the character of the entire book in which they occur! we can hardly escape from the conclusion that they are not statements of aristotle respecting plato, but of a later generation of aristotelians respecting a later generation of platonists. (compare the striking remark of the great scaliger respecting the magna moralia:--haec non sunt aristotelis, tamen utitur auctor aristotelis nomine tanquam suo.) ( ) there is no hint in plato's own writings that he was conscious of having made any change in the doctrine of ideas such as dr. jackson attributes to him, although in the republic the platonic socrates speaks of 'a longer and a shorter way', and of a way in which his disciple glaucon 'will be unable to follow him'; also of a way of ideas, to which he still holds fast, although it has often deserted him (philebus, phaedo), and although in the later dialogues and in the laws the reference to ideas disappears, and mind claims her own (phil.; laws). no hint is given of what plato meant by the 'longer way' (rep.), or 'the way in which glaucon was unable to follow'; or of the relation of mind to the ideas. it might be said with truth that the conception of the idea predominates in the first half of the dialogues, which, according to the order adopted in this work, ends with the republic, the 'conception of mind' and a way of speaking more in agreement with modern terminology, in the latter half. but there is no reason to suppose that plato's theory, or, rather, his various theories, of the ideas underwent any definite change during his period of authorship. they are substantially the same in the twelfth book of the laws as in the meno and phaedo; and since the laws were written in the last decade of his life, there is no time to which this change of opinions can be ascribed. it is true that the theory of ideas takes several different forms, not merely an earlier and a later one, in the various dialogues. they are personal and impersonal, ideals and ideas, existing by participation or by imitation, one and many, in different parts of his writings or even in the same passage. they are the universal definitions of socrates, and at the same time 'of more than mortal knowledge' (rep.). but they are always the negations of sense, of matter, of generation, of the particular: they are always the subjects of knowledge and not of opinion; and they tend, not to diversity, but to unity. other entities or intelligences are akin to them, but not the same with them, such as mind, measure, limit, eternity, essence (philebus; timaeus): these and similar terms appear to express the same truths from a different point of view, and to belong to the same sphere with them. but we are not justified, therefore, in attempting to identify them, any more than in wholly opposing them. the great oppositions of the sensible and intellectual, the unchangeable and the transient, in whatever form of words expressed, are always maintained in plato. but the lesser logical distinctions, as we should call them, whether of ontology or predication, which troubled the pre-socratic philosophy and came to the front in aristotle, are variously discussed and explained. thus far we admit inconsistency in plato, but no further. he lived in an age before logic and system had wholly permeated language, and therefore we must not always expect to find in him systematic arrangement or logical precision:--'poema magis putandum.' but he is always true to his own context, the careful study of which is of more value to the interpreter than all the commentators and scholiasts put together. ( ) the conclusions at which dr. jackson has arrived are such as might be expected to follow from his method of procedure. for he takes words without regard to their connection, and pieces together different parts of dialogues in a purely arbitrary manner, although there is no indication that the author intended the two passages to be so combined, or that when he appears to be experimenting on the different points of view from which a subject of philosophy may be regarded, he is secretly elaborating a system. by such a use of language any premises may be made to lead to any conclusion. i am not one of those who believe plato to have been a mystic or to have had hidden meanings; nor do i agree with dr. jackson in thinking that 'when he is precise and dogmatic, he generally contrives to introduce an element of obscurity into the expostion' (j. of philol.). the great master of language wrote as clearly as he could in an age when the minds of men were clouded by controversy, and philosophical terms had not yet acquired a fixed meaning. i have just said that plato is to be interpreted by his context; and i do not deny that in some passages, especially in the republic and laws, the context is at a greater distance than would be allowable in a modern writer. but we are not therefore justified in connecting passages from different parts of his writings, or even from the same work, which he has not himself joined. we cannot argue from the parmenides to the philebus, or from either to the sophist, or assume that the parmenides, the philebus, and the timaeus were 'written simultaneously,' or 'were intended to be studied in the order in which they are here named (j. of philol.) we have no right to connect statements which are only accidentally similar. nor is it safe for the author of a theory about ancient philosophy to argue from what will happen if his statements are rejected. for those consequences may never have entered into the mind of the ancient writer himself; and they are very likely to be modern consequences which would not have been understood by him. 'i cannot think,' says dr. jackson, 'that plato would have changed his opinions, but have nowhere explained the nature of the change.' but is it not much more improbable that he should have changed his opinions, and not stated in an unmistakable manner that the most essential principle of his philosophy had been reversed? it is true that a few of the dialogues, such as the republic and the timaeus, or the theaetetus and the sophist, or the meno and the apology, contain allusions to one another. but these allusions are superficial and, except in the case of the republic and the laws, have no philosophical importance. they do not affect the substance of the work. it may be remarked further that several of the dialogues, such as the phaedrus, the sophist, and the parmenides, have more than one subject. but it does not therefore follow that plato intended one dialogue to succeed another, or that he begins anew in one dialogue a subject which he has left unfinished in another, or that even in the same dialogue he always intended the two parts to be connected with each other. we cannot argue from a casual statement found in the parmenides to other statements which occur in the philebus. much more truly is his own manner described by himself when he says that 'words are more plastic than wax' (rep.), and 'whither the wind blows, the argument follows'. the dialogues of plato are like poems, isolated and separate works, except where they are indicated by the author himself to have an intentional sequence. it is this method of taking passages out of their context and placing them in a new connexion when they seem to confirm a preconceived theory, which is the defect of dr. jackson's procedure. it may be compared, though not wholly the same with it, to that method which the fathers practised, sometimes called 'the mystical interpretation of scripture,' in which isolated words are separated from their context, and receive any sense which the fancy of the interpreter may suggest. it is akin to the method employed by schleiermacher of arranging the dialogues of plato in chronological order according to what he deems the true arrangement of the ideas contained in them. (dr. jackson is also inclined, having constructed a theory, to make the chronology of plato's writings dependent upon it (see j. of philol. and elsewhere.) it may likewise be illustrated by the ingenuity of those who employ symbols to find in shakespeare a hidden meaning. in the three cases the error is nearly the same:--words are taken out of their natural context, and thus become destitute of any real meaning. ( ) according to dr. jackson's 'later theory,' plato's ideas, which were once regarded as the summa genera of all things, are now to be explained as forms or types of some things only,--that is to say, of natural objects: these we conceive imperfectly, but are always seeking in vain to have a more perfect notion of them. he says (j. of philol.) that 'plato hoped by the study of a series of hypothetical or provisional classifications to arrive at one in which nature's distribution of kinds is approximately represented, and so to attain approximately to the knowledge of the ideas. but whereas in the republic, and even in the phaedo, though less hopefully, he had sought to convert his provisional definitions into final ones by tracing their connexion with the summum genus, the (greek), in the parmenides his aspirations are less ambitious,' and so on. but where does dr. jackson find any such notion as this in plato or anywhere in ancient philosophy? is it not an anachronism, gracious to the modern physical philosopher, and the more acceptable because it seems to form a link between ancient and modern philosophy, and between physical and metaphysical science; but really unmeaning? ( ) to this 'later theory' of plato's ideas i oppose the authority of professor zeller, who affirms that none of the passages to which dr. jackson appeals (theaet.; phil.; tim.; parm.) 'in the smallest degree prove his point'; and that in the second class of dialogues, in which the 'later theory of ideas' is supposed to be found, quite as clearly as in the first, are admitted ideas, not only of natural objects, but of properties, relations, works of art, negative notions (theaet.; parm.; soph.); and that what dr. jackson distinguishes as the first class of dialogues from the second equally assert or imply that the relation of things to the ideas, is one of participation in them as well as of imitation of them (prof. zeller's summary of his own review of dr. jackson, archiv fur geschichte der philosophie.) in conclusion i may remark that in plato's writings there is both unity, and also growth and development; but that we must not intrude upon him either a system or a technical language. balliol college, october, . note the chief additions to the introductions in the third edition consist of essays on the following subjects:-- . language. . the decline of greek literature. . the 'ideas' of plato and modern philosophy. . the myths of plato. . the relation of the republic, statesman and laws. . the legend of atlantis. . psychology. . comparison of the laws of plato with spartan and athenian laws and institutions. charmides. introduction. the subject of the charmides is temperance or (greek), a peculiarly greek notion, which may also be rendered moderation (compare cic. tusc. '(greek), quam soleo equidem tum temperantiam, tum moderationem appellare, nonnunquam etiam modestiam.'), modesty, discretion, wisdom, without completely exhausting by all these terms the various associations of the word. it may be described as 'mens sana in corpore sano,' the harmony or due proportion of the higher and lower elements of human nature which 'makes a man his own master,' according to the definition of the republic. in the accompanying translation the word has been rendered in different places either temperance or wisdom, as the connection seemed to require: for in the philosophy of plato (greek) still retains an intellectual element (as socrates is also said to have identified (greek) with (greek): xen. mem.) and is not yet relegated to the sphere of moral virtue, as in the nicomachean ethics of aristotle. the beautiful youth, charmides, who is also the most temperate of human beings, is asked by socrates, 'what is temperance?' he answers characteristically, ( ) 'quietness.' 'but temperance is a fine and noble thing; and quietness in many or most cases is not so fine a thing as quickness.' he tries again and says ( ) that temperance is modesty. but this again is set aside by a sophistical application of homer: for temperance is good as well as noble, and homer has declared that 'modesty is not good for a needy man.' ( ) once more charmides makes the attempt. this time he gives a definition which he has heard, and of which socrates conjectures that critias must be the author: 'temperance is doing one's own business.' but the artisan who makes another man's shoes may be temperate, and yet he is not doing his own business; and temperance defined thus would be opposed to the division of labour which exists in every temperate or well-ordered state. how is this riddle to be explained? critias, who takes the place of charmides, distinguishes in his answer between 'making' and 'doing,' and with the help of a misapplied quotation from hesiod assigns to the words 'doing' and 'work' an exclusively good sense: temperance is doing one's own business;--( ) is doing good. still an element of knowledge is wanting which critias is readily induced to admit at the suggestion of socrates; and, in the spirit of socrates and of greek life generally, proposes as a fifth definition, ( ) temperance is self-knowledge. but all sciences have a subject: number is the subject of arithmetic, health of medicine--what is the subject of temperance or wisdom? the answer is that ( ) temperance is the knowledge of what a man knows and of what he does not know. but this is contrary to analogy; there is no vision of vision, but only of visible things; no love of loves, but only of beautiful things; how then can there be a knowledge of knowledge? that which is older, heavier, lighter, is older, heavier, and lighter than something else, not than itself, and this seems to be true of all relative notions--the object of relation is outside of them; at any rate they can only have relation to themselves in the form of that object. whether there are any such cases of reflex relation or not, and whether that sort of knowledge which we term temperance is of this reflex nature, has yet to be determined by the great metaphysician. but even if knowledge can know itself, how does the knowledge of what we know imply the knowledge of what we do not know? besides, knowledge is an abstraction only, and will not inform us of any particular subject, such as medicine, building, and the like. it may tell us that we or other men know something, but can never tell us what we know. admitting that there is a knowledge of what we know and of what we do not know, which would supply a rule and measure of all things, still there would be no good in this; and the knowledge which temperance gives must be of a kind which will do us good; for temperance is a good. but this universal knowledge does not tend to our happiness and good: the only kind of knowledge which brings happiness is the knowledge of good and evil. to this critias replies that the science or knowledge of good and evil, and all the other sciences, are regulated by the higher science or knowledge of knowledge. socrates replies by again dividing the abstract from the concrete, and asks how this knowledge conduces to happiness in the same definite way in which medicine conduces to health. and now, after making all these concessions, which are really inadmissible, we are still as far as ever from ascertaining the nature of temperance, which charmides has already discovered, and had therefore better rest in the knowledge that the more temperate he is the happier he will be, and not trouble himself with the speculations of socrates. in this dialogue may be noted ( ) the greek ideal of beauty and goodness, the vision of the fair soul in the fair body, realised in the beautiful charmides; ( ) the true conception of medicine as a science of the whole as well as the parts, and of the mind as well as the body, which is playfully intimated in the story of the thracian; ( ) the tendency of the age to verbal distinctions, which here, as in the protagoras and cratylus, are ascribed to the ingenuity of prodicus; and to interpretations or rather parodies of homer or hesiod, which are eminently characteristic of plato and his contemporaries; ( ) the germ of an ethical principle contained in the notion that temperance is 'doing one's own business,' which in the republic (such is the shifting character of the platonic philosophy) is given as the definition, not of temperance, but of justice; ( ) the impatience which is exhibited by socrates of any definition of temperance in which an element of science or knowledge is not included; ( ) the beginning of metaphysics and logic implied in the two questions: whether there can be a science of science, and whether the knowledge of what you know is the same as the knowledge of what you do not know; and also in the distinction between 'what you know' and 'that you know,' (greek;) here too is the first conception of an absolute self-determined science (the claims of which, however, are disputed by socrates, who asks cui bono?) as well as the first suggestion of the difficulty of the abstract and concrete, and one of the earliest anticipations of the relation of subject and object, and of the subjective element in knowledge--a 'rich banquet' of metaphysical questions in which we 'taste of many things.' ( ) and still the mind of plato, having snatched for a moment at these shadows of the future, quickly rejects them: thus early has he reached the conclusion that there can be no science which is a 'science of nothing' (parmen.). ( ) the conception of a science of good and evil also first occurs here, an anticipation of the philebus and republic as well as of moral philosophy in later ages. the dramatic interest of the dialogue chiefly centres in the youth charmides, with whom socrates talks in the kindly spirit of an elder. his childlike simplicity and ingenuousness are contrasted with the dialectical and rhetorical arts of critias, who is the grown-up man of the world, having a tincture of philosophy. no hint is given, either here or in the timaeus, of the infamy which attaches to the name of the latter in athenian history. he is simply a cultivated person who, like his kinsman plato, is ennobled by the connection of his family with solon (tim.), and had been the follower, if not the disciple, both of socrates and of the sophists. in the argument he is not unfair, if allowance is made for a slight rhetorical tendency, and for a natural desire to save his reputation with the company; he is sometimes nearer the truth than socrates. nothing in his language or behaviour is unbecoming the guardian of the beautiful charmides. his love of reputation is characteristically greek, and contrasts with the humility of socrates. nor in charmides himself do we find any resemblance to the charmides of history, except, perhaps, the modest and retiring nature which, according to xenophon, at one time of his life prevented him from speaking in the assembly (mem.); and we are surprised to hear that, like critias, he afterwards became one of the thirty tyrants. in the dialogue he is a pattern of virtue, and is therefore in no need of the charm which socrates is unable to apply. with youthful naivete, keeping his secret and entering into the spirit of socrates, he enjoys the detection of his elder and guardian critias, who is easily seen to be the author of the definition which he has so great an interest in maintaining. the preceding definition, 'temperance is doing one's own business,' is assumed to have been borrowed by charmides from another; and when the enquiry becomes more abstract he is superseded by critias (theaet.; euthyd.). socrates preserves his accustomed irony to the end; he is in the neighbourhood of several great truths, which he views in various lights, but always either by bringing them to the test of common sense, or by demanding too great exactness in the use of words, turns aside from them and comes at last to no conclusion. the definitions of temperance proceed in regular order from the popular to the philosophical. the first two are simple enough and partially true, like the first thoughts of an intelligent youth; the third, which is a real contribution to ethical philosophy, is perverted by the ingenuity of socrates, and hardly rescued by an equal perversion on the part of critias. the remaining definitions have a higher aim, which is to introduce the element of knowledge, and at last to unite good and truth in a single science. but the time has not yet arrived for the realization of this vision of metaphysical philosophy; and such a science when brought nearer to us in the philebus and the republic will not be called by the name of (greek). hence we see with surprise that plato, who in his other writings identifies good and knowledge, here opposes them, and asks, almost in the spirit of aristotle, how can there be a knowledge of knowledge, and even if attainable, how can such a knowledge be of any use? the difficulty of the charmides arises chiefly from the two senses of the word (greek), or temperance. from the ethical notion of temperance, which is variously defined to be quietness, modesty, doing our own business, the doing of good actions, the dialogue passes onto the intellectual conception of (greek), which is declared also to be the science of self-knowledge, or of the knowledge of what we know and do not know, or of the knowledge of good and evil. the dialogue represents a stage in the history of philosophy in which knowledge and action were not yet distinguished. hence the confusion between them, and the easy transition from one to the other. the definitions which are offered are all rejected, but it is to be observed that they all tend to throw a light on the nature of temperance, and that, unlike the distinction of critias between (greek), none of them are merely verbal quibbles, it is implied that this question, although it has not yet received a solution in theory, has been already answered by charmides himself, who has learned to practise the virtue of self-knowledge which philosophers are vainly trying to define in words. in a similar spirit we might say to a young man who is disturbed by theological difficulties, 'do not trouble yourself about such matters, but only lead a good life;' and yet in either case it is not to be denied that right ideas of truth may contribute greatly to the improvement of character. the reasons why the charmides, lysis, laches have been placed together and first in the series of platonic dialogues, are: (i) their shortness and simplicity. the charmides and the lysis, if not the laches, are of the same 'quality' as the phaedrus and symposium: and it is probable, though far from certain, that the slighter effort preceded the greater one. (ii) their eristic, or rather socratic character; they belong to the class called dialogues of search (greek), which have no conclusion. (iii) the absence in them of certain favourite notions of plato, such as the doctrine of recollection and of the platonic ideas; the questions, whether virtue can be taught; whether the virtues are one or many. (iv) they have a want of depth, when compared with the dialogues of the middle and later period; and a youthful beauty and grace which is wanting in the later ones. (v) their resemblance to one another; in all the three boyhood has a great part. these reasons have various degrees of weight in determining their place in the catalogue of the platonic writings, though they are not conclusive. no arrangement of the platonic dialogues can be strictly chronological. the order which has been adopted is intended mainly for the convenience of the reader; at the same time, indications of the date supplied either by plato himself or allusions found in the dialogues have not been lost sight of. much may be said about this subject, but the results can only be probable; there are no materials which would enable us to attain to anything like certainty. the relations of knowledge and virtue are again brought forward in the companion dialogues of the lysis and laches; and also in the protagoras and euthydemus. the opposition of abstract and particular knowledge in this dialogue may be compared with a similar opposition of ideas and phenomena which occurs in the prologues to the parmenides, but seems rather to belong to a later stage of the philosophy of plato. charmides, or temperance persons of the dialogue: socrates, who is the narrator, charmides, chaerephon, critias. scene: the palaestra of taureas, which is near the porch of the king archon. yesterday evening i returned from the army at potidaea, and having been a good while away, i thought that i should like to go and look at my old haunts. so i went into the palaestra of taureas, which is over against the temple adjoining the porch of the king archon, and there i found a number of persons, most of whom i knew, but not all. my visit was unexpected, and no sooner did they see me entering than they saluted me from afar on all sides; and chaerephon, who is a kind of madman, started up and ran to me, seizing my hand, and saying, how did you escape, socrates?--(i should explain that an engagement had taken place at potidaea not long before we came away, of which the news had only just reached athens.) you see, i replied, that here i am. there was a report, he said, that the engagement was very severe, and that many of our acquaintance had fallen. that, i replied, was not far from the truth. i suppose, he said, that you were present. i was. then sit down, and tell us the whole story, which as yet we have only heard imperfectly. i took the place which he assigned to me, by the side of critias the son of callaeschrus, and when i had saluted him and the rest of the company, i told them the news from the army, and answered their several enquiries. then, when there had been enough of this, i, in my turn, began to make enquiries about matters at home--about the present state of philosophy, and about the youth. i asked whether any of them were remarkable for wisdom or beauty, or both. critias, glancing at the door, invited my attention to some youths who were coming in, and talking noisily to one another, followed by a crowd. of the beauties, socrates, he said, i fancy that you will soon be able to form a judgment. for those who are just entering are the advanced guard of the great beauty, as he is thought to be, of the day, and he is likely to be not far off himself. who is he, i said; and who is his father? charmides, he replied, is his name; he is my cousin, and the son of my uncle glaucon: i rather think that you know him too, although he was not grown up at the time of your departure. certainly, i know him, i said, for he was remarkable even then when he was still a child, and i should imagine that by this time he must be almost a young man. you will see, he said, in a moment what progress he has made and what he is like. he had scarcely said the word, when charmides entered. now you know, my friend, that i cannot measure anything, and of the beautiful, i am simply such a measure as a white line is of chalk; for almost all young persons appear to be beautiful in my eyes. but at that moment, when i saw him coming in, i confess that i was quite astonished at his beauty and stature; all the world seemed to be enamoured of him; amazement and confusion reigned when he entered; and a troop of lovers followed him. that grown-up men like ourselves should have been affected in this way was not surprising, but i observed that there was the same feeling among the boys; all of them, down to the very least child, turned and looked at him, as if he had been a statue. chaerephon called me and said: what do you think of him, socrates? has he not a beautiful face? most beautiful, i said. but you would think nothing of his face, he replied, if you could see his naked form: he is absolutely perfect. and to this they all agreed. by heracles, i said, there never was such a paragon, if he has only one other slight addition. what is that? said critias. if he has a noble soul; and being of your house, critias, he may be expected to have this. he is as fair and good within, as he is without, replied critias. then, before we see his body, should we not ask him to show us his soul, naked and undisguised? he is just of an age at which he will like to talk. that he will, said critias, and i can tell you that he is a philosopher already, and also a considerable poet, not in his own opinion only, but in that of others. that, my dear critias, i replied, is a distinction which has long been in your family, and is inherited by you from solon. but why do you not call him, and show him to us? for even if he were younger than he is, there could be no impropriety in his talking to us in the presence of you, who are his guardian and cousin. very well, he said; then i will call him; and turning to the attendant, he said, call charmides, and tell him that i want him to come and see a physician about the illness of which he spoke to me the day before yesterday. then again addressing me, he added: he has been complaining lately of having a headache when he rises in the morning: now why should you not make him believe that you know a cure for the headache? why not, i said; but will he come? he will be sure to come, he replied. he came as he was bidden, and sat down between critias and me. great amusement was occasioned by every one pushing with might and main at his neighbour in order to make a place for him next to themselves, until at the two ends of the row one had to get up and the other was rolled over sideways. now i, my friend, was beginning to feel awkward; my former bold belief in my powers of conversing with him had vanished. and when critias told him that i was the person who had the cure, he looked at me in such an indescribable manner, and was just going to ask a question. and at that moment all the people in the palaestra crowded about us, and, o rare! i caught a sight of the inwards of his garment, and took the flame. then i could no longer contain myself. i thought how well cydias understood the nature of love, when, in speaking of a fair youth, he warns some one 'not to bring the fawn in the sight of the lion to be devoured by him,' for i felt that i had been overcome by a sort of wild-beast appetite. but i controlled myself, and when he asked me if i knew the cure of the headache, i answered, but with an effort, that i did know. and what is it? he said. i replied that it was a kind of leaf, which required to be accompanied by a charm, and if a person would repeat the charm at the same time that he used the cure, he would be made whole; but that without the charm the leaf would be of no avail. then i will write out the charm from your dictation, he said. with my consent? i said, or without my consent? with your consent, socrates, he said, laughing. very good, i said; and are you quite sure that you know my name? i ought to know you, he replied, for there is a great deal said about you among my companions; and i remember when i was a child seeing you in company with my cousin critias. i am glad to find that you remember me, i said; for i shall now be more at home with you and shall be better able to explain the nature of the charm, about which i felt a difficulty before. for the charm will do more, charmides, than only cure the headache. i dare say that you have heard eminent physicians say to a patient who comes to them with bad eyes, that they cannot cure his eyes by themselves, but that if his eyes are to be cured, his head must be treated; and then again they say that to think of curing the head alone, and not the rest of the body also, is the height of folly. and arguing in this way they apply their methods to the whole body, and try to treat and heal the whole and the part together. did you ever observe that this is what they say? yes, he said. and they are right, and you would agree with them? yes, he said, certainly i should. his approving answers reassured me, and i began by degrees to regain confidence, and the vital heat returned. such, charmides, i said, is the nature of the charm, which i learned when serving with the army from one of the physicians of the thracian king zamolxis, who are said to be so skilful that they can even give immortality. this thracian told me that in these notions of theirs, which i was just now mentioning, the greek physicians are quite right as far as they go; but zamolxis, he added, our king, who is also a god, says further, 'that as you ought not to attempt to cure the eyes without the head, or the head without the body, so neither ought you to attempt to cure the body without the soul; and this,' he said, 'is the reason why the cure of many diseases is unknown to the physicians of hellas, because they are ignorant of the whole, which ought to be studied also; for the part can never be well unless the whole is well.' for all good and evil, whether in the body or in human nature, originates, as he declared, in the soul, and overflows from thence, as if from the head into the eyes. and therefore if the head and body are to be well, you must begin by curing the soul; that is the first thing. and the cure, my dear youth, has to be effected by the use of certain charms, and these charms are fair words; and by them temperance is implanted in the soul, and where temperance is, there health is speedily imparted, not only to the head, but to the whole body. and he who taught me the cure and the charm at the same time added a special direction: 'let no one,' he said, 'persuade you to cure the head, until he has first given you his soul to be cured by the charm. for this,' he said, 'is the great error of our day in the treatment of the human body, that physicians separate the soul from the body.' and he added with emphasis, at the same time making me swear to his words, 'let no one, however rich, or noble, or fair, persuade you to give him the cure, without the charm.' now i have sworn, and i must keep my oath, and therefore if you will allow me to apply the thracian charm first to your soul, as the stranger directed, i will afterwards proceed to apply the cure to your head. but if not, i do not know what i am to do with you, my dear charmides. critias, when he heard this, said: the headache will be an unexpected gain to my young relation, if the pain in his head compels him to improve his mind: and i can tell you, socrates, that charmides is not only pre-eminent in beauty among his equals, but also in that quality which is given by the charm; and this, as you say, is temperance? yes, i said. then let me tell you that he is the most temperate of human beings, and for his age inferior to none in any quality. yes, i said, charmides; and indeed i think that you ought to excel others in all good qualities; for if i am not mistaken there is no one present who could easily point out two athenian houses, whose union would be likely to produce a better or nobler scion than the two from which you are sprung. there is your father's house, which is descended from critias the son of dropidas, whose family has been commemorated in the panegyrical verses of anacreon, solon, and many other poets, as famous for beauty and virtue and all other high fortune: and your mother's house is equally distinguished; for your maternal uncle, pyrilampes, is reputed never to have found his equal, in persia at the court of the great king, or on the continent of asia, in all the places to which he went as ambassador, for stature and beauty; that whole family is not a whit inferior to the other. having such ancestors you ought to be first in all things, and, sweet son of glaucon, your outward form is no dishonour to any of them. if to beauty you add temperance, and if in other respects you are what critias declares you to be, then, dear charmides, blessed art thou, in being the son of thy mother. and here lies the point; for if, as he declares, you have this gift of temperance already, and are temperate enough, in that case you have no need of any charms, whether of zamolxis or of abaris the hyperborean, and i may as well let you have the cure of the head at once; but if you have not yet acquired this quality, i must use the charm before i give you the medicine. please, therefore, to inform me whether you admit the truth of what critias has been saying;--have you or have you not this quality of temperance? charmides blushed, and the blush heightened his beauty, for modesty is becoming in youth; he then said very ingenuously, that he really could not at once answer, either yes, or no, to the question which i had asked: for, said he, if i affirm that i am not temperate, that would be a strange thing for me to say of myself, and also i should give the lie to critias, and many others who think as he tells you, that i am temperate: but, on the other hand, if i say that i am, i shall have to praise myself, which would be ill manners; and therefore i do not know how to answer you. i said to him: that is a natural reply, charmides, and i think that you and i ought together to enquire whether you have this quality about which i am asking or not; and then you will not be compelled to say what you do not like; neither shall i be a rash practitioner of medicine: therefore, if you please, i will share the enquiry with you, but i will not press you if you would rather not. there is nothing which i should like better, he said; and as far as i am concerned you may proceed in the way which you think best. i think, i said, that i had better begin by asking you a question; for if temperance abides in you, you must have an opinion about her; she must give some intimation of her nature and qualities, which may enable you to form a notion of her. is not that true? yes, he said, that i think is true. you know your native language, i said, and therefore you must be able to tell what you feel about this. certainly, he said. in order, then, that i may form a conjecture whether you have temperance abiding in you or not, tell me, i said, what, in your opinion, is temperance? at first he hesitated, and was very unwilling to answer: then he said that he thought temperance was doing things orderly and quietly, such things for example as walking in the streets, and talking, or anything else of that nature. in a word, he said, i should answer that, in my opinion, temperance is quietness. are you right, charmides? i said. no doubt some would affirm that the quiet are the temperate; but let us see whether these words have any meaning; and first tell me whether you would not acknowledge temperance to be of the class of the noble and good? yes. but which is best when you are at the writing-master's, to write the same letters quickly or quietly? quickly. and to read quickly or slowly? quickly again. and in playing the lyre, or wrestling, quickness or sharpness are far better than quietness and slowness? yes. and the same holds in boxing and in the pancratium? certainly. and in leaping and running and in bodily exercises generally, quickness and agility are good; slowness, and inactivity, and quietness, are bad? that is evident. then, i said, in all bodily actions, not quietness, but the greatest agility and quickness, is noblest and best? yes, certainly. and is temperance a good? yes. then, in reference to the body, not quietness, but quickness will be the higher degree of temperance, if temperance is a good? true, he said. and which, i said, is better--facility in learning, or difficulty in learning? facility. yes, i said; and facility in learning is learning quickly, and difficulty in learning is learning quietly and slowly? true. and is it not better to teach another quickly and energetically, rather than quietly and slowly? yes. and which is better, to call to mind, and to remember, quickly and readily, or quietly and slowly? the former. and is not shrewdness a quickness or cleverness of the soul, and not a quietness? true. and is it not best to understand what is said, whether at the writing-master's or the music-master's, or anywhere else, not as quietly as possible, but as quickly as possible? yes. and in the searchings or deliberations of the soul, not the quietest, as i imagine, and he who with difficulty deliberates and discovers, is thought worthy of praise, but he who does so most easily and quickly? quite true, he said. and in all that concerns either body or soul, swiftness and activity are clearly better than slowness and quietness? clearly they are. then temperance is not quietness, nor is the temperate life quiet,--certainly not upon this view; for the life which is temperate is supposed to be the good. and of two things, one is true,--either never, or very seldom, do the quiet actions in life appear to be better than the quick and energetic ones; or supposing that of the nobler actions, there are as many quiet, as quick and vehement: still, even if we grant this, temperance will not be acting quietly any more than acting quickly and energetically, either in walking or talking or in anything else; nor will the quiet life be more temperate than the unquiet, seeing that temperance is admitted by us to be a good and noble thing, and the quick have been shown to be as good as the quiet. i think, he said, socrates, that you are right. then once more, charmides, i said, fix your attention, and look within; consider the effect which temperance has upon yourself, and the nature of that which has the effect. think over all this, and, like a brave youth, tell me--what is temperance? after a moment's pause, in which he made a real manly effort to think, he said: my opinion is, socrates, that temperance makes a man ashamed or modest, and that temperance is the same as modesty. very good, i said; and did you not admit, just now, that temperance is noble? yes, certainly, he said. and the temperate are also good? yes. and can that be good which does not make men good? certainly not. and you would infer that temperance is not only noble, but also good? that is my opinion. well, i said; but surely you would agree with homer when he says, 'modesty is not good for a needy man'? yes, he said; i agree. then i suppose that modesty is and is not good? clearly. but temperance, whose presence makes men only good, and not bad, is always good? that appears to me to be as you say. and the inference is that temperance cannot be modesty--if temperance is a good, and if modesty is as much an evil as a good? all that, socrates, appears to me to be true; but i should like to know what you think about another definition of temperance, which i just now remember to have heard from some one, who said, 'that temperance is doing our own business.' was he right who affirmed that? you monster! i said; this is what critias, or some philosopher has told you. some one else, then, said critias; for certainly i have not. but what matter, said charmides, from whom i heard this? no matter at all, i replied; for the point is not who said the words, but whether they are true or not. there you are in the right, socrates, he replied. to be sure, i said; yet i doubt whether we shall ever be able to discover their truth or falsehood; for they are a kind of riddle. what makes you think so? he said. because, i said, he who uttered them seems to me to have meant one thing, and said another. is the scribe, for example, to be regarded as doing nothing when he reads or writes? i should rather think that he was doing something. and does the scribe write or read, or teach you boys to write or read, your own names only, or did you write your enemies' names as well as your own and your friends'? as much one as the other. and was there anything meddling or intemperate in this? certainly not. and yet if reading and writing are the same as doing, you were doing what was not your own business? but they are the same as doing. and the healing art, my friend, and building, and weaving, and doing anything whatever which is done by art,--these all clearly come under the head of doing? certainly. and do you think that a state would be well ordered by a law which compelled every man to weave and wash his own coat, and make his own shoes, and his own flask and strigil, and other implements, on this principle of every one doing and performing his own, and abstaining from what is not his own? i think not, he said. but, i said, a temperate state will be a well-ordered state. of course, he replied. then temperance, i said, will not be doing one's own business; not at least in this way, or doing things of this sort? clearly not. then, as i was just now saying, he who declared that temperance is a man doing his own business had another and a hidden meaning; for i do not think that he could have been such a fool as to mean this. was he a fool who told you, charmides? nay, he replied, i certainly thought him a very wise man. then i am quite certain that he put forth his definition as a riddle, thinking that no one would know the meaning of the words 'doing his own business.' i dare say, he replied. and what is the meaning of a man doing his own business? can you tell me? indeed, i cannot; and i should not wonder if the man himself who used this phrase did not understand what he was saying. whereupon he laughed slyly, and looked at critias. critias had long been showing uneasiness, for he felt that he had a reputation to maintain with charmides and the rest of the company. he had, however, hitherto managed to restrain himself; but now he could no longer forbear, and i am convinced of the truth of the suspicion which i entertained at the time, that charmides had heard this answer about temperance from critias. and charmides, who did not want to answer himself, but to make critias answer, tried to stir him up. he went on pointing out that he had been refuted, at which critias grew angry, and appeared, as i thought, inclined to quarrel with him; just as a poet might quarrel with an actor who spoiled his poems in repeating them; so he looked hard at him and said-- do you imagine, charmides, that the author of this definition of temperance did not understand the meaning of his own words, because you do not understand them? why, at his age, i said, most excellent critias, he can hardly be expected to understand; but you, who are older, and have studied, may well be assumed to know the meaning of them; and therefore, if you agree with him, and accept his definition of temperance, i would much rather argue with you than with him about the truth or falsehood of the definition. i entirely agree, said critias, and accept the definition. very good, i said; and now let me repeat my question--do you admit, as i was just now saying, that all craftsmen make or do something? i do. and do they make or do their own business only, or that of others also? they make or do that of others also. and are they temperate, seeing that they make not for themselves or their own business only? why not? he said. no objection on my part, i said, but there may be a difficulty on his who proposes as a definition of temperance, 'doing one's own business,' and then says that there is no reason why those who do the business of others should not be temperate. nay (the english reader has to observe that the word 'make' (greek), in greek, has also the sense of 'do' (greek).), said he; did i ever acknowledge that those who do the business of others are temperate? i said, those who make, not those who do. what! i asked; do you mean to say that doing and making are not the same? no more, he replied, than making or working are the same; thus much i have learned from hesiod, who says that 'work is no disgrace.' now do you imagine that if he had meant by working and doing such things as you were describing, he would have said that there was no disgrace in them--for example, in the manufacture of shoes, or in selling pickles, or sitting for hire in a house of ill-fame? that, socrates, is not to be supposed: but i conceive him to have distinguished making from doing and work; and, while admitting that the making anything might sometimes become a disgrace, when the employment was not honourable, to have thought that work was never any disgrace at all. for things nobly and usefully made he called works; and such makings he called workings, and doings; and he must be supposed to have called such things only man's proper business, and what is hurtful, not his business: and in that sense hesiod, and any other wise man, may be reasonably supposed to call him wise who does his own work. o critias, i said, no sooner had you opened your mouth, than i pretty well knew that you would call that which is proper to a man, and that which is his own, good; and that the makings (greek) of the good you would call doings (greek), for i am no stranger to the endless distinctions which prodicus draws about names. now i have no objection to your giving names any signification which you please, if you will only tell me what you mean by them. please then to begin again, and be a little plainer. do you mean that this doing or making, or whatever is the word which you would use, of good actions, is temperance? i do, he said. then not he who does evil, but he who does good, is temperate? yes, he said; and you, friend, would agree. no matter whether i should or not; just now, not what i think, but what you are saying, is the point at issue. well, he answered; i mean to say, that he who does evil, and not good, is not temperate; and that he is temperate who does good, and not evil: for temperance i define in plain words to be the doing of good actions. and you may be very likely right in what you are saying; but i am curious to know whether you imagine that temperate men are ignorant of their own temperance? i do not think so, he said. and yet were you not saying, just now, that craftsmen might be temperate in doing another's work, as well as in doing their own? i was, he replied; but what is your drift? i have no particular drift, but i wish that you would tell me whether a physician who cures a patient may do good to himself and good to another also? i think that he may. and he who does so does his duty? yes. and does not he who does his duty act temperately or wisely? yes, he acts wisely. but must the physician necessarily know when his treatment is likely to prove beneficial, and when not? or must the craftsman necessarily know when he is likely to be benefited, and when not to be benefited, by the work which he is doing? i suppose not. then, i said, he may sometimes do good or harm, and not know what he is himself doing, and yet, in doing good, as you say, he has done temperately or wisely. was not that your statement? yes. then, as would seem, in doing good, he may act wisely or temperately, and be wise or temperate, but not know his own wisdom or temperance? but that, socrates, he said, is impossible; and therefore if this is, as you imply, the necessary consequence of any of my previous admissions, i will withdraw them, rather than admit that a man can be temperate or wise who does not know himself; and i am not ashamed to confess that i was in error. for self-knowledge would certainly be maintained by me to be the very essence of knowledge, and in this i agree with him who dedicated the inscription, 'know thyself!' at delphi. that word, if i am not mistaken, is put there as a sort of salutation which the god addresses to those who enter the temple; as much as to say that the ordinary salutation of 'hail!' is not right, and that the exhortation 'be temperate!' would be a far better way of saluting one another. the notion of him who dedicated the inscription was, as i believe, that the god speaks to those who enter his temple, not as men speak; but, when a worshipper enters, the first word which he hears is 'be temperate!' this, however, like a prophet he expresses in a sort of riddle, for 'know thyself!' and 'be temperate!' are the same, as i maintain, and as the letters imply (greek), and yet they may be easily misunderstood; and succeeding sages who added 'never too much,' or, 'give a pledge, and evil is nigh at hand,' would appear to have so misunderstood them; for they imagined that 'know thyself!' was a piece of advice which the god gave, and not his salutation of the worshippers at their first coming in; and they dedicated their own inscription under the idea that they too would give equally useful pieces of advice. shall i tell you, socrates, why i say all this? my object is to leave the previous discussion (in which i know not whether you or i are more right, but, at any rate, no clear result was attained), and to raise a new one in which i will attempt to prove, if you deny, that temperance is self-knowledge. yes, i said, critias; but you come to me as though i professed to know about the questions which i ask, and as though i could, if i only would, agree with you. whereas the fact is that i enquire with you into the truth of that which is advanced from time to time, just because i do not know; and when i have enquired, i will say whether i agree with you or not. please then to allow me time to reflect. reflect, he said. i am reflecting, i replied, and discover that temperance, or wisdom, if implying a knowledge of anything, must be a science, and a science of something. yes, he said; the science of itself. is not medicine, i said, the science of health? true. and suppose, i said, that i were asked by you what is the use or effect of medicine, which is this science of health, i should answer that medicine is of very great use in producing health, which, as you will admit, is an excellent effect. granted. and if you were to ask me, what is the result or effect of architecture, which is the science of building, i should say houses, and so of other arts, which all have their different results. now i want you, critias, to answer a similar question about temperance, or wisdom, which, according to you, is the science of itself. admitting this view, i ask of you, what good work, worthy of the name wise, does temperance or wisdom, which is the science of itself, effect? answer me. that is not the true way of pursuing the enquiry, socrates, he said; for wisdom is not like the other sciences, any more than they are like one another: but you proceed as if they were alike. for tell me, he said, what result is there of computation or geometry, in the same sense as a house is the result of building, or a garment of weaving, or any other work of any other art? can you show me any such result of them? you cannot. that is true, i said; but still each of these sciences has a subject which is different from the science. i can show you that the art of computation has to do with odd and even numbers in their numerical relations to themselves and to each other. is not that true? yes, he said. and the odd and even numbers are not the same with the art of computation? they are not. the art of weighing, again, has to do with lighter and heavier; but the art of weighing is one thing, and the heavy and the light another. do you admit that? yes. now, i want to know, what is that which is not wisdom, and of which wisdom is the science? you are just falling into the old error, socrates, he said. you come asking in what wisdom or temperance differs from the other sciences, and then you try to discover some respect in which they are alike; but they are not, for all the other sciences are of something else, and not of themselves; wisdom alone is a science of other sciences, and of itself. and of this, as i believe, you are very well aware: and that you are only doing what you denied that you were doing just now, trying to refute me, instead of pursuing the argument. and what if i am? how can you think that i have any other motive in refuting you but what i should have in examining into myself? which motive would be just a fear of my unconsciously fancying that i knew something of which i was ignorant. and at this moment i pursue the argument chiefly for my own sake, and perhaps in some degree also for the sake of my other friends. for is not the discovery of things as they truly are, a good common to all mankind? yes, certainly, socrates, he said. then, i said, be cheerful, sweet sir, and give your opinion in answer to the question which i asked, never minding whether critias or socrates is the person refuted; attend only to the argument, and see what will come of the refutation. i think that you are right, he replied; and i will do as you say. tell me, then, i said, what you mean to affirm about wisdom. i mean to say that wisdom is the only science which is the science of itself as well as of the other sciences. but the science of science, i said, will also be the science of the absence of science. very true, he said. then the wise or temperate man, and he only, will know himself, and be able to examine what he knows or does not know, and to see what others know and think that they know and do really know; and what they do not know, and fancy that they know, when they do not. no other person will be able to do this. and this is wisdom and temperance and self-knowledge--for a man to know what he knows, and what he does not know. that is your meaning? yes, he said. now then, i said, making an offering of the third or last argument to zeus the saviour, let us begin again, and ask, in the first place, whether it is or is not possible for a person to know that he knows and does not know what he knows and does not know; and in the second place, whether, if perfectly possible, such knowledge is of any use. that is what we have to consider, he said. and here, critias, i said, i hope that you will find a way out of a difficulty into which i have got myself. shall i tell you the nature of the difficulty? by all means, he replied. does not what you have been saying, if true, amount to this: that there must be a single science which is wholly a science of itself and of other sciences, and that the same is also the science of the absence of science? yes. but consider how monstrous this proposition is, my friend: in any parallel case, the impossibility will be transparent to you. how is that? and in what cases do you mean? in such cases as this: suppose that there is a kind of vision which is not like ordinary vision, but a vision of itself and of other sorts of vision, and of the defect of them, which in seeing sees no colour, but only itself and other sorts of vision: do you think that there is such a kind of vision? certainly not. or is there a kind of hearing which hears no sound at all, but only itself and other sorts of hearing, or the defects of them? there is not. or take all the senses: can you imagine that there is any sense of itself and of other senses, but which is incapable of perceiving the objects of the senses? i think not. could there be any desire which is not the desire of any pleasure, but of itself, and of all other desires? certainly not. or can you imagine a wish which wishes for no good, but only for itself and all other wishes? i should answer, no. or would you say that there is a love which is not the love of beauty, but of itself and of other loves? i should not. or did you ever know of a fear which fears itself or other fears, but has no object of fear? i never did, he said. or of an opinion which is an opinion of itself and of other opinions, and which has no opinion on the subjects of opinion in general? certainly not. but surely we are assuming a science of this kind, which, having no subject-matter, is a science of itself and of the other sciences? yes, that is what is affirmed. but how strange is this, if it be indeed true: we must not however as yet absolutely deny the possibility of such a science; let us rather consider the matter. you are quite right. well then, this science of which we are speaking is a science of something, and is of a nature to be a science of something? yes. just as that which is greater is of a nature to be greater than something else? (socrates is intending to show that science differs from the object of science, as any other relative differs from the object of relation. but where there is comparison--greater, less, heavier, lighter, and the like--a relation to self as well as to other things involves an absolute contradiction; and in other cases, as in the case of the senses, is hardly conceivable. the use of the genitive after the comparative in greek, (greek), creates an unavoidable obscurity in the translation.) yes. which is less, if the other is conceived to be greater? to be sure. and if we could find something which is at once greater than itself, and greater than other great things, but not greater than those things in comparison of which the others are greater, then that thing would have the property of being greater and also less than itself? that, socrates, he said, is the inevitable inference. or if there be a double which is double of itself and of other doubles, these will be halves; for the double is relative to the half? that is true. and that which is greater than itself will also be less, and that which is heavier will also be lighter, and that which is older will also be younger: and the same of other things; that which has a nature relative to self will retain also the nature of its object: i mean to say, for example, that hearing is, as we say, of sound or voice. is that true? yes. then if hearing hears itself, it must hear a voice; for there is no other way of hearing. certainly. and sight also, my excellent friend, if it sees itself must see a colour, for sight cannot see that which has no colour. no. do you remark, critias, that in several of the examples which have been recited the notion of a relation to self is altogether inadmissible, and in other cases hardly credible--inadmissible, for example, in the case of magnitudes, numbers, and the like? very true. but in the case of hearing and sight, or in the power of self-motion, and the power of heat to burn, this relation to self will be regarded as incredible by some, but perhaps not by others. and some great man, my friend, is wanted, who will satisfactorily determine for us, whether there is nothing which has an inherent property of relation to self, or some things only and not others; and whether in this class of self-related things, if there be such a class, that science which is called wisdom or temperance is included. i altogether distrust my own power of determining these matters: i am not certain whether there is such a science of science at all; and even if there be, i should not acknowledge this to be wisdom or temperance, until i can also see whether such a science would or would not do us any good; for i have an impression that temperance is a benefit and a good. and therefore, o son of callaeschrus, as you maintain that temperance or wisdom is a science of science, and also of the absence of science, i will request you to show in the first place, as i was saying before, the possibility, and in the second place, the advantage, of such a science; and then perhaps you may satisfy me that you are right in your view of temperance. critias heard me say this, and saw that i was in a difficulty; and as one person when another yawns in his presence catches the infection of yawning from him, so did he seem to be driven into a difficulty by my difficulty. but as he had a reputation to maintain, he was ashamed to admit before the company that he could not answer my challenge or determine the question at issue; and he made an unintelligible attempt to hide his perplexity. in order that the argument might proceed, i said to him, well then critias, if you like, let us assume that there is this science of science; whether the assumption is right or wrong may hereafter be investigated. admitting the existence of it, will you tell me how such a science enables us to distinguish what we know or do not know, which, as we were saying, is self-knowledge or wisdom: so we were saying? yes, socrates, he said; and that i think is certainly true: for he who has this science or knowledge which knows itself will become like the knowledge which he has, in the same way that he who has swiftness will be swift, and he who has beauty will be beautiful, and he who has knowledge will know. in the same way he who has that knowledge which is self-knowing, will know himself. i do not doubt, i said, that a man will know himself, when he possesses that which has self-knowledge: but what necessity is there that, having this, he should know what he knows and what he does not know? because, socrates, they are the same. very likely, i said; but i remain as stupid as ever; for still i fail to comprehend how this knowing what you know and do not know is the same as the knowledge of self. what do you mean? he said. this is what i mean, i replied: i will admit that there is a science of science;--can this do more than determine that of two things one is and the other is not science or knowledge? no, just that. but is knowledge or want of knowledge of health the same as knowledge or want of knowledge of justice? certainly not. the one is medicine, and the other is politics; whereas that of which we are speaking is knowledge pure and simple. very true. and if a man knows only, and has only knowledge of knowledge, and has no further knowledge of health and justice, the probability is that he will only know that he knows something, and has a certain knowledge, whether concerning himself or other men. true. then how will this knowledge or science teach him to know what he knows? say that he knows health;--not wisdom or temperance, but the art of medicine has taught it to him;--and he has learned harmony from the art of music, and building from the art of building,--neither, from wisdom or temperance: and the same of other things. that is evident. how will wisdom, regarded only as a knowledge of knowledge or science of science, ever teach him that he knows health, or that he knows building? it is impossible. then he who is ignorant of these things will only know that he knows, but not what he knows? true. then wisdom or being wise appears to be not the knowledge of the things which we do or do not know, but only the knowledge that we know or do not know? that is the inference. then he who has this knowledge will not be able to examine whether a pretender knows or does not know that which he says that he knows: he will only know that he has a knowledge of some kind; but wisdom will not show him of what the knowledge is? plainly not. neither will he be able to distinguish the pretender in medicine from the true physician, nor between any other true and false professor of knowledge. let us consider the matter in this way: if the wise man or any other man wants to distinguish the true physician from the false, how will he proceed? he will not talk to him about medicine; and that, as we were saying, is the only thing which the physician understands. true. and, on the other hand, the physician knows nothing of science, for this has been assumed to be the province of wisdom. true. and further, since medicine is science, we must infer that he does not know anything of medicine. exactly. then the wise man may indeed know that the physician has some kind of science or knowledge; but when he wants to discover the nature of this he will ask, what is the subject-matter? for the several sciences are distinguished not by the mere fact that they are sciences, but by the nature of their subjects. is not that true? quite true. and medicine is distinguished from other sciences as having the subject-matter of health and disease? yes. and he who would enquire into the nature of medicine must pursue the enquiry into health and disease, and not into what is extraneous? true. and he who judges rightly will judge of the physician as a physician in what relates to these? he will. he will consider whether what he says is true, and whether what he does is right, in relation to health and disease? he will. but can any one attain the knowledge of either unless he have a knowledge of medicine? he cannot. no one at all, it would seem, except the physician can have this knowledge; and therefore not the wise man; he would have to be a physician as well as a wise man. very true. then, assuredly, wisdom or temperance, if only a science of science, and of the absence of science or knowledge, will not be able to distinguish the physician who knows from one who does not know but pretends or thinks that he knows, or any other professor of anything at all; like any other artist, he will only know his fellow in art or wisdom, and no one else. that is evident, he said. but then what profit, critias, i said, is there any longer in wisdom or temperance which yet remains, if this is wisdom? if, indeed, as we were supposing at first, the wise man had been able to distinguish what he knew and did not know, and that he knew the one and did not know the other, and to recognize a similar faculty of discernment in others, there would certainly have been a great advantage in being wise; for then we should never have made a mistake, but have passed through life the unerring guides of ourselves and of those who are under us; and we should not have attempted to do what we did not know, but we should have found out those who knew, and have handed the business over to them and trusted in them; nor should we have allowed those who were under us to do anything which they were not likely to do well; and they would be likely to do well just that of which they had knowledge; and the house or state which was ordered or administered under the guidance of wisdom, and everything else of which wisdom was the lord, would have been well ordered; for truth guiding, and error having been eliminated, in all their doings, men would have done well, and would have been happy. was not this, critias, what we spoke of as the great advantage of wisdom--to know what is known and what is unknown to us? very true, he said. and now you perceive, i said, that no such science is to be found anywhere. i perceive, he said. may we assume then, i said, that wisdom, viewed in this new light merely as a knowledge of knowledge and ignorance, has this advantage:--that he who possesses such knowledge will more easily learn anything which he learns; and that everything will be clearer to him, because, in addition to the knowledge of individuals, he sees the science, and this also will better enable him to test the knowledge which others have of what he knows himself; whereas the enquirer who is without this knowledge may be supposed to have a feebler and weaker insight? are not these, my friend, the real advantages which are to be gained from wisdom? and are not we looking and seeking after something more than is to be found in her? that is very likely, he said. that is very likely, i said; and very likely, too, we have been enquiring to no purpose; as i am led to infer, because i observe that if this is wisdom, some strange consequences would follow. let us, if you please, assume the possibility of this science of sciences, and further admit and allow, as was originally suggested, that wisdom is the knowledge of what we know and do not know. assuming all this, still, upon further consideration, i am doubtful, critias, whether wisdom, such as this, would do us much good. for we were wrong, i think, in supposing, as we were saying just now, that such wisdom ordering the government of house or state would be a great benefit. how so? he said. why, i said, we were far too ready to admit the great benefits which mankind would obtain from their severally doing the things which they knew, and committing the things of which they are ignorant to those who were better acquainted with them. were we not right in making that admission? i think not. how very strange, socrates! by the dog of egypt, i said, there i agree with you; and i was thinking as much just now when i said that strange consequences would follow, and that i was afraid we were on the wrong track; for however ready we may be to admit that this is wisdom, i certainly cannot make out what good this sort of thing does to us. what do you mean? he said; i wish that you could make me understand what you mean. i dare say that what i am saying is nonsense, i replied; and yet if a man has any feeling of what is due to himself, he cannot let the thought which comes into his mind pass away unheeded and unexamined. i like that, he said. hear, then, i said, my own dream; whether coming through the horn or the ivory gate, i cannot tell. the dream is this: let us suppose that wisdom is such as we are now defining, and that she has absolute sway over us; then each action will be done according to the arts or sciences, and no one professing to be a pilot when he is not, or any physician or general, or any one else pretending to know matters of which he is ignorant, will deceive or elude us; our health will be improved; our safety at sea, and also in battle, will be assured; our coats and shoes, and all other instruments and implements will be skilfully made, because the workmen will be good and true. aye, and if you please, you may suppose that prophecy, which is the knowledge of the future, will be under the control of wisdom, and that she will deter deceivers and set up the true prophets in their place as the revealers of the future. now i quite agree that mankind, thus provided, would live and act according to knowledge, for wisdom would watch and prevent ignorance from intruding on us. but whether by acting according to knowledge we shall act well and be happy, my dear critias,--this is a point which we have not yet been able to determine. yet i think, he replied, that if you discard knowledge, you will hardly find the crown of happiness in anything else. but of what is this knowledge? i said. just answer me that small question. do you mean a knowledge of shoemaking? god forbid. or of working in brass? certainly not. or in wool, or wood, or anything of that sort? no, i do not. then, i said, we are giving up the doctrine that he who lives according to knowledge is happy, for these live according to knowledge, and yet they are not allowed by you to be happy; but i think that you mean to confine happiness to particular individuals who live according to knowledge, such for example as the prophet, who, as i was saying, knows the future. is it of him you are speaking or of some one else? yes, i mean him, but there are others as well. yes, i said, some one who knows the past and present as well as the future, and is ignorant of nothing. let us suppose that there is such a person, and if there is, you will allow that he is the most knowing of all living men. certainly he is. yet i should like to know one thing more: which of the different kinds of knowledge makes him happy? or do all equally make him happy? not all equally, he replied. but which most tends to make him happy? the knowledge of what past, present, or future thing? may i infer this to be the knowledge of the game of draughts? nonsense about the game of draughts. or of computation? no. or of health? that is nearer the truth, he said. and that knowledge which is nearest of all, i said, is the knowledge of what? the knowledge with which he discerns good and evil. monster! i said; you have been carrying me round in a circle, and all this time hiding from me the fact that the life according to knowledge is not that which makes men act rightly and be happy, not even if knowledge include all the sciences, but one science only, that of good and evil. for, let me ask you, critias, whether, if you take away this, medicine will not equally give health, and shoemaking equally produce shoes, and the art of the weaver clothes?--whether the art of the pilot will not equally save our lives at sea, and the art of the general in war? quite so. and yet, my dear critias, none of these things will be well or beneficially done, if the science of the good be wanting. true. but that science is not wisdom or temperance, but a science of human advantage; not a science of other sciences, or of ignorance, but of good and evil: and if this be of use, then wisdom or temperance will not be of use. and why, he replied, will not wisdom be of use? for, however much we assume that wisdom is a science of sciences, and has a sway over other sciences, surely she will have this particular science of the good under her control, and in this way will benefit us. and will wisdom give health? i said; is not this rather the effect of medicine? or does wisdom do the work of any of the other arts,--do they not each of them do their own work? have we not long ago asseverated that wisdom is only the knowledge of knowledge and of ignorance, and of nothing else? that is obvious. then wisdom will not be the producer of health. certainly not. the art of health is different. yes, different. nor does wisdom give advantage, my good friend; for that again we have just now been attributing to another art. very true. how then can wisdom be advantageous, when giving no advantage? that, socrates, is certainly inconceivable. you see then, critias, that i was not far wrong in fearing that i could have no sound notion about wisdom; i was quite right in depreciating myself; for that which is admitted to be the best of all things would never have seemed to us useless, if i had been good for anything at an enquiry. but now i have been utterly defeated, and have failed to discover what that is to which the imposer of names gave this name of temperance or wisdom. and yet many more admissions were made by us than could be fairly granted; for we admitted that there was a science of science, although the argument said no, and protested against us; and we admitted further, that this science knew the works of the other sciences (although this too was denied by the argument), because we wanted to show that the wise man had knowledge of what he knew and did not know; also we nobly disregarded, and never even considered, the impossibility of a man knowing in a sort of way that which he does not know at all; for our assumption was, that he knows that which he does not know; than which nothing, as i think, can be more irrational. and yet, after finding us so easy and good-natured, the enquiry is still unable to discover the truth; but mocks us to a degree, and has gone out of its way to prove the inutility of that which we admitted only by a sort of supposition and fiction to be the true definition of temperance or wisdom: which result, as far as i am concerned, is not so much to be lamented, i said. but for your sake, charmides, i am very sorry--that you, having such beauty and such wisdom and temperance of soul, should have no profit or good in life from your wisdom and temperance. and still more am i grieved about the charm which i learned with so much pain, and to so little profit, from the thracian, for the sake of a thing which is nothing worth. i think indeed that there is a mistake, and that i must be a bad enquirer, for wisdom or temperance i believe to be really a great good; and happy are you, charmides, if you certainly possess it. wherefore examine yourself, and see whether you have this gift and can do without the charm; for if you can, i would rather advise you to regard me simply as a fool who is never able to reason out anything; and to rest assured that the more wise and temperate you are, the happier you will be. charmides said: i am sure that i do not know, socrates, whether i have or have not this gift of wisdom and temperance; for how can i know whether i have a thing, of which even you and critias are, as you say, unable to discover the nature?--(not that i believe you.) and further, i am sure, socrates, that i do need the charm, and as far as i am concerned, i shall be willing to be charmed by you daily, until you say that i have had enough. very good, charmides, said critias; if you do this i shall have a proof of your temperance, that is, if you allow yourself to be charmed by socrates, and never desert him at all. you may depend on my following and not deserting him, said charmides: if you who are my guardian command me, i should be very wrong not to obey you. and i do command you, he said. then i will do as you say, and begin this very day. you sirs, i said, what are you conspiring about? we are not conspiring, said charmides, we have conspired already. and are you about to use violence, without even going through the forms of justice? yes, i shall use violence, he replied, since he orders me; and therefore you had better consider well. but the time for consideration has passed, i said, when violence is employed; and you, when you are determined on anything, and in the mood of violence, are irresistible. do not you resist me then, he said. i will not resist you, i replied. the young trawler, by r.m. ballantyne. chapter one. introduces deep-sea fishermen and their families. on a certain breezy morning in october--not many years ago--a wilderness of foam rioted wildly over those dangerous sands which lie off the port of yarmouth, where the _evening star_, fishing-smack, was getting ready for sea. in one of the narrow lanes or "rows" peculiar to that town, the skipper of the smack stood at his own door, grumbling. he was a broad burly man, a little past the prime of life, but prematurely aged by hard work and hard living. "he's always out o' the way when he's wanted, an' always in the way when he's not wanted," said the skipper angrily to his wife, of whom he was at the moment taking, as one of his mates remarked, a tender farewell. "don't be hard on him, david," pleaded the wife, tearfully, as she looked up in her husband's face. "he's only a bit thoughtless; and i shouldn't wonder if he was already down at the smack." "if he's not," returned the fisherman with a frown, as he clenched his huge right hand--and a hard and horny hand it was, from constant grappling with ropes, oars, hand-spikes, and the like--"if he's not, i'll--" he stopped abruptly, as he looked down at his wife's eyes, and the frown faded. no wonder, for that wife's eyes were soft and gentle, and her face was fair and very attractive as well as refined in expression, though not particularly pretty. "well, old girl, come, i won't be hard on 'im. now i'm off,--good-day." and with that the fisherman stooped to kiss his wife, who returned the salute with interest. at the same time she thrust a packet into his hand. "what's this, nell?" "a testament, david--from me. it will do your soul good if you will read it. and the tract wrapped round it is from a lady." the frown returned to the man's face as he growled--"what lady?" "the lady with the curious name, who was down here last summer for sea-bathing; don't you remember miss ruth dotropy? it is a temperance tract." david bright made a motion as though he were about to fling the parcel away, but he thought better of it, and thrust it into the capacious pocket of his rough coat. the brow cleared again as he left his wife, who called after him, "don't be hard on billy, david; remember he's our only one--and he's not bad, just a little thoughtless." "never fear, nell, i'll make a man of him." lighting a large pipe as he spoke, the skipper of the _evening star_ nodded farewell, and sauntered away. in another of the narrow lanes of yarmouth another fisherman stood at his own door, also taking leave of his wife. this man was the mate-- just engaged--of david bright's vessel, and very different in some respects from the skipper, being tall, handsome, fresh and young--not more than twenty-four--as well as powerful of build. his wife, a good-looking young woman, with their first-born in her arms, had bidden him good-bye. we will not trouble the reader with more of their parting conversation than the last few words. "now, maggie, dear, whatever you do, take care o' that blessed babby." "trust me for that, joe," said maggie, imprinting a kiss of considerable violence and fervour on the said baby, which gazed at its mother--as it gazed at everything--in blank amazement. "an' don't forget to see miss ruth, if you can, or send a message to her, about that matter." "i'll not forget, joe." the mate of the _evening star_ bestowed a parting kiss of extreme gentleness on the wondering infant, and hastened away. he had not proceeded far when he encountered a creature which filled his heart with laughter. indeed joe davidson's heart was easily filled with emotions of every kind, for he was an unusually sympathetic fellow, and rather fond of a joke. the creature referred to was a small boy of thirteen years of age or thereabouts, with a pretty little face, a grecian little nose, a rose-bud of a mouth, curly fair hair, bright blue eyes, and a light handsome frame, which, however, was a smart, active, and wiry frame. he was made to look as large and solid as possible by means of the rough costume of a fisherman, and there was a bold look in the blue eyes which told of a strong will. what amused joe davidson most, however, was the tremendous swagger in the creature's gait, and the imperturbable gravity with which he smoked a cigar! the little fellow was so deeply absorbed in thought as he passed the mate that he did not raise his eyes from the ground. an irresistible impulse seized on joe. he stooped, and gently plucked the cigar from the boy's mouth. instantly the creature doubled his little fists, and, without taking the trouble to look so high as his adversary's face, rushed at his legs, which he began to kick and pommel furiously. as the legs were cased in heavy sea-boots he failed to make any impression on them, and, after a few moments of exhausting effort, he stepped back so as to get a full look at his foe. "what d'ee mean by that, joe davidson, you fathom of impudence?" he demanded, with flushed face and flashing eyes. "only that i wants a light," answered the mate, pulling out his pipe, and applying the cigar to it. "humph!" returned the boy, mollified, and at the same time tickled, by the obvious pretence; "you might have axed leave first, i think." "so i might. i ax parding _now_," returned joe, handing back the cigar; "good-day, billy." the little boy, gazed after the fisherman in speechless admiration, for the cool quiet manner in which the thing had been done had, as he said, taken the wind completely out of his sails, and prevented his usually ready reply. replacing the cigar in the rose-bud, he went puffing along till he reached the house of david bright, which he entered. "your father's gone, billy," said mrs bright. "haste ye after him, else you'll catch it. oh! do give up smokin', dear boy. good-bye. god keep you, my darling." she caught the little fellow in a hasty embrace. "hold on, mother, you'll bust me!" cried billy, returning the embrace, however, with affectionate vigour. "an' if i'm late, daddy will sail without me. let go!" he shouted the last words as if the reference had been to the anchor of the _evening star_. his mother laughed as she released him, and he ran down to the quay with none of his late dignity remaining. he knew his father's temper well, and was fearful of being left behind. he was just in time. the little smack was almost under weigh as he tumbled, rather than jumped, on board. ere long she was out beyond the breakers that marked the shoals, and running to the eastward under a stiff breeze. this was little billy's first trip to sea in his father's fishing-smack, and he went not as a passenger but as a "hand." it is probable that there never sailed out of yarmouth a lad who was prouder of his position than little billy of the _evening star_. he was rigged from top to toe in a brand-new suit, of what we may style nautical garments. his thin little body was made to appear of twice its natural bulk by a broad-shouldered pilot-cloth coat, under which was a thick guernsey. he was almost extinguished by a large yellow sou'-wester, and all but swallowed up by a pair of sea-boots that reached to his hips. these boots, indeed, seemed so capacious as to induce the belief that if he did not take care the part of his body that still remained outside of them might fall inside and disappear. altogether--what between pride of position, vanity in regard to the new suit, glee at being fairly at sea and doing for himself, and a certain humorous perception that he was ridiculously small--little billy presented a very remarkable appearance as he stood that day on the deck of his father's vessel, with his little legs straddling wide apart, after the fashion of nautical men, and his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his sea-going coat. for some time he was so engrossed with the novelty of his situation, and the roll of the crested waves, that his eyes did not rise much higher than the legs of his comparatively gigantic associates; but when curiosity at last prompted him to scan their faces, great was his surprise to observe among them joe davidson, the young man who had plucked the cigar from his lips in yarmouth. "what! are _you_ one o' the hands, joe?" he asked, going towards the man with an abortive attempt to walk steadily on the pitching deck. "ay, lad, i'm your father's mate," replied joe. "but surely _you_ are not goin' as a hand?" "that's just what i am," returned billy, with a look of dignity which was somewhat marred by a heavy lurch causing him to stagger. "i'm part owner, d'ee see, an' ready to take command when the old man retires, so you'd better mind your helm, young man, an' steer clear of impudence in future, if you don't want to lead the life of a dog aboard of this here smack." "i'll try, sir," said joe davidson, touching his forelock, while a humorous twinkle lit up his bright eyes. "hallo! billy!" shouted the skipper, who was steering; "come here, boy. you didn't come aboard to idle, you know; i've let you have a good look at the sea all for nothin'. it's time now that you went to work to larn your duties. zulu!" the last word caused a woolly head to protrude from the after hatchway, revealing a youth about twice the size of billy. having some drops of black blood in him this lad had been styled zulu--and, being a handy fellow, had been made cook. "here, take this boy below," said the skipper, "and teach him something--anything you like, so long as you keep him at work. no idlers allowed on board, you know." "yes, sar," said zulu. billy was delighted to obey. he was naturally a smart, active fellow, and not only willing, but proud, to submit to discipline. he descended a short ladder into the little cabin with which he had become acquainted, as a visitor, when the smack was in port on former occasions. with zulu he was also acquainted, that youth having been for some time in his father's service. "kin you do cookin'?" asked zulu with a grin that revealed an unusually large cavern full of glistening teeth, mingled with more than an average allowance of tongue and gums. "oh! i say," remonstrated billy, "it's growed bigger than ever!" zulu expanded his mouth to its utmost, and shut his eyes in enjoyment of the complimentary joke. "oh course it hab," he said on recovering; "i's 'bliged to eat so much at sea dat de mout gits wider ebery trip. dat leetle hole what you've got in your face 'll git so big as mine fore long, billy. den you be like some ob de leetle fishes we catch--all mout and no body worth mentioning. but you no tell me yit: kin you do cookin'?" "oh yes, i can manage a yarmouth bloater," replied billy. "but," said zulu, "kin you cook a 'tater widout makin' him's outside all of a mush, an' him's inside same so as a stone?" instead of answering, billy sat down on the settle which ran round the cabin and looked up at his dark friend very solemnly. "hallo!" exclaimed zulu. "there--there's something wrong wi' me," said billy, with a faint attempt to smile as he became rather pale. seeing this, his friend quietly put a bucket beside him. "i say, zulu," observed the poor boy with a desperate attempt at pleasantry, "i wonder what's up." "des nuffin' up yit but he won't be long," replied the young cook with a look full of sympathy. it would be unjust to our little hero to proceed further. this being, as we have said, his first trip to sea, he naturally found himself, after an hour or two, stretched out in one of the bunks which surrounded the little cabin. there he was permitted to lie and think longingly of his mother, surrounded by dense tobacco smoke, hot vapours, and greasy fumes, until he blushed to find himself wishing, with all his heart, that he had never left home! there we will leave him to meditate and form useless resolves, which he never carried out, while we introduce to the reader some of the other actors in our tale. chapter two. a contrast to chapter i. from that heaving grey wilderness of water called the north sea we pass now to that lively wilderness of bricks and mortar called london. west-end mansions are not naturally picturesque or interesting subjects either for the brush or the pen, and we would not willingly drag our readers into one of them, did not circumstances--over which we have not a shadow of control--compel us to do so. the particular mansion to which we now direct attention belonged to a certain mrs dotropy, whose husband's ancestors, by the way, were said to have come over with the conqueror--whether in his own ship or in one of the bumboats that followed is not certain. they were de tropys at that time, but, having sunk in the social scale in the course of centuries, and then risen again in succeeding centuries through the medium of trade, they reappeared on the surface with their patronymic transformed as now presented. "mother," said ruth dotropy to a magnificent duchess-like woman, "i've come to ask you about the poor--" "ruth, dear," interrupted the mother, "i wish you would not worry me about the poor! they're a troublesome, ill-doing set; always grumbling, dirty, ill-natured, suspicious, and envious of the rich--as if it was our fault that we are rich! i don't want to hear anything more about the poor." ruth, who was a soft-cheeked, soft-handed, and soft-hearted girl of eighteen, stood, hat in hand, before her mother with a slight smile on her rosy lips. "you are not quite just to the poor, mother," returned ruth, scarce able to restrain a laugh at her parent's vehemence. "some of them are all that you say, no doubt, but there are many, even among the poorest of the poor, who are good-natured, well-doing, unsuspicious, and respectful, not only to the rich but also to each other and to everybody. there is mrs wolsey, for instance, she--" "oh! but she's an exception, you know," said mrs dotropy, "there are not many like mrs wolsey." "and there is mrs gladman," continued ruth. "yes, but she's another exception." "and mrs robbie." "why, ruth, what's the use of picking out all the exceptions to prove your point? of course the exception proves the rule--at least so the proverb says--but a great many exceptions prove nothing that i know of, except--that is--but what's the use of arguing, child, you'll never be convinced. come, how much do you want me to give?" easy-going mrs dotropy's mind, we need scarcely point out, was of a confused type, and she "hated argument." perhaps, on the whole, it was to the advantage of her friends and kindred that she did so. "i only want you to give a little time, mother," replied ruth, swinging her hat to and fro, while she looked archly into mrs dotropy's large, dignified, and sternly-kind countenance, if we may venture on such an expression,--"i want you to go with me and see--" "yes, yes, i know what you're going to say, child, you want me to go and `see for myself,' which means that i'm to soil my boots in filthy places, subject my ears to profanity, my eyes to horrible sights, and my nose to intolerable smells. no, ruth, i cannot oblige you. of what use would it be? if my doing this would relieve the miseries of the poor, you might reasonably ask me to go among them, but it would not. i give them as much money as i can afford to give, and, as far as i can see, it does them no good. they never seem better off, and they always want more. they are not even grateful for it. just look at lady openhand. what good does she accomplish by her liberality, and her tearful eyes, and sympathetic heart, even though her feelings are undoubtedly genuine? only the other day i chanced to walk behind her along several streets and saw her stop and give money to seven or eight beggars who accosted her. she never _can_ refuse any one who asks with a pitiful look and a pathetic cock-and-bull story. several of them were young and strong, and quite undeserving of charity. three, i observed, went straight to a public-house with what she had given them, and the last, a small street boy, went into fits of suppressed laughter after she had passed, and made faces at her--finishing off by putting the thumb of his left hand to his nose, and spreading out his fingers as wide as possible. i do not understand the exact significance of that action, but there is something in it so intensely insolent that it is quite incompatible with the idea of gratitude." "yes, mother, i saw him too," said ruth, with a demure look; "it curiously enough happened that i was following you at the time. you afterwards passed the same boy with a refusal, i suppose?" "yes, child, of course--and a reproof." "i thought so. well, after you had passed, he not only applied his left thumb to his nose and spread his fingers, but also put the thumb of his right hand against the little finger of his left, and spread out the other five fingers at _you_. so, whatever he meant lady openhand to receive, he meant you to have twice as much. but lady openhand makes a mistake, i think, she does not _consider_ the poor; she only feels deeply for them and gives to them." "_only_ feels and gives!" repeated mrs dotropy, with a look of solemn amazement. being quite incapable of disentangling or expressing the flood of ideas that overwhelmed her, the good lady relieved herself after a few broken sentences, with the assertion that it was of no use arguing with ruth, for ruth would never be convinced. she was so far right, in that her daughter could not change her mind on the strength of mere dogmatic assertion, even although she was a pliant and teachable little creature. so, at least, mr lewis, her pastor, had found her when he tried to impress on her a few important lessons--such as, that it is better to give than to receive; that man _is_ his brother's keeper; that we are commanded to walk in the footsteps of jesus, who came to save the lost, to rescue the perishing, and who fed the hungry. "but, mother," resumed ruth, "i want you to go with me to-day to visit some poor people who are _not_ troublesome, who are perfectly clean, are never ill-natured, suspect nothing, and envy nobody." "they must indeed be wonderful people," said mrs dotropy, with a laugh at ruth's enthusiasm, "quite angelic." "they are as nearly so as mortals ever become, i think," returned ruth, putting on her hat; "won't you come, mother?" now, mrs dotropy had the faculty of giving in gracefully, although she could not argue. rising with an amused smile, she kissed ruth's forehead and went to prepare for a visit to the poor. let us now turn to a small street scarcely ten minutes' walk from the mansion where the above conversation took place. it was what may be styled a lilliputian street. almost everything in it was small. the houses were small; the shops were small; the rents-- well, they were certainly not so small as they should have been, the doors and windows were small; and the very children that played in the gutter, with an exceedingly small amount of clothing on them, were rather diminutive. some of the doors stood open, revealing the fact that it had been thought wise by the builders of the houses to waste no space in lobbies or entrance halls. one or two, however, displayed entries, or passages--dark and narrow--the doors to which were blistered and severely battered, because, being the public property of several families, they had no particular owner to protect them. there was a small flat over a green-grocer's shop to which one of the cleanest of those entries led. it consisted of two rooms, a light-closet and a kitchen, and was low-ceilinged and poorly furnished, but there was a distinct air of cleanliness about it, with a consequent tendency to comfort. the carpet of the chief room was very old, but it had been miraculously darned and patched. the table was little larger than that of a gigantic doll's-house, but it was covered with a clean, though threadbare, cloth, that had seen better days, and on it lay several old and well-thumbed books, besides two work-baskets. in an old--a very old--easy-chair at one side of the fire sat a lady rather beyond middle age, with her hands clasped on her lap, and her eyes gazing dreamily at the fire. perhaps she was speculating on the question how long two small lumps of coal and a little dross would last. the grate in which that amount of fuel burned was a miniature specimen of simplicity,--a mere hollow in the wall with two bars across. the fire itself was so small that nothing but constant solicitude saved it from extinction. there was much of grey mingled with the fair tresses of the lady, and the remains of beauty were very distinct on a countenance, the lines of which suggested suffering, gentleness, submission, and humility. perchance the little sigh that escaped her as she gazed at the preposterously small fire had reference to days gone by when health revelled in her veins; when wealth was lavished in her father's house; when food and fun were plentiful; when grief and care were scarce. whatever her thoughts might have been, they were interrupted by the entrance of another lady, who sat down beside her, laid a penny on the table, and looked at the lady in the easy-chair with a peculiar, half-comical expression. "it is our _last_, jessie," she said, and as she said it the expression intensified, yet it seemed a little forced. there needed no magician to tell that these two were sisters. the indescribable similarity was strong, yet the difference was great. jessie was evidently, though not much, the elder. "it's almost absurd, kate," she said, "to think that we should actually have--come--at last--to--" she stopped, and kate looked earnestly at her. there was a tremulous motion about the corners of both their mouths. jessie laid her head on kate's shoulder, and both wept--gently. they did not "burst into tears," for they were not by nature demonstrative. their position made it easy to slide down on their knees and bury their heads side by side in the great old easy-chair that had been carefully kept when all the rest was sold, because it had belonged to their father. we may not record the scarce audible prayer. those who have suffered know what it was. those who have not suffered could not understand it. after the prayer they sat down in a somewhat tranquil mood to "talk it over." poor things--they had often talked it over, without much result, except that blessed one of evolving mutual sympathy. "if i were only a little younger and stronger," said kate, who had been, and still was of a lively disposition, "i would offer myself as a housemaid, but that is out of the question now; besides, i could not leave you, jessie, the invalid of the family--that once was." "come, kate, let us have no reference to the invalid of the family any more. i am getting quite strong. do you know i do believe that poverty is doing my health good; my appetite is improving. i really feel quite hungry now." "we will have tea, then," said kate, getting up briskly; "the things that we got will make one good meal, at all events, though the cost of them has reduced our funds to the low ebb of one penny; so, let us enjoy ourselves while it lasts!" kate seized the poker as she spoke, and gave the fire a thrust that almost extinguished it. then she heaped on a few ounces of coal with reckless indifference to the future, and put on a little kettle to boil. soon the small table was spread with a white cloth, a silver teapot, and two beautiful cups that had been allowed them out of the family wreck; a loaf of bread, a very small quantity of brown sugar, a smaller quantity of skim-milk, and the smallest conceivable pat of salt butter. "and this took all the money except one penny?" asked jessie, regarding the table with a look of mingled sadness and amazement. "all--every farthing," replied kate, "and i consider the result a triumph of domestic economy." the sisters were about to sit down to enjoy their triumph when a bounding step was heard on the stair. "that's ruth," exclaimed kate, rising and hurrying to the door; "quick, get out the other cup, jessie. oh! ruth, darling, this is good of you. we were sure you would come this week, as--" she stopped abruptly, for a large presence loomed on the stair behind ruth. "i have brought mamma to see you, kate--the misses seaward, mamma; you have often heard me speak of them." "yes, dear, and i have much pleasure in making the misses seaward's acquaintance. my daughter is very fond of you, ladies, i know, and the little puss has brought me here by way of a surprise, i suppose, for we came out to pay a very different kind of visit. she--" "oh! but mamma," hastily exclaimed ruth, who saw that her mother, whom she had hitherto kept in ignorance of the circumstances of the poor ladies, was approaching dangerous ground, "our visit here _has_ to do with--with the people we were speaking about. i have come," she added, turning quickly to miss jessie, "to transact a little business with you--about those poor people, you remember, whom you were so sorry for. mamma will be glad to hear what we have to say about them. won't you, mamma?" "of course, of course, dear," replied mrs dotropy, who, however, experienced a slight feeling of annoyance at being thus dragged into a preliminary consideration of the affairs of poor people before paying a personal visit to them. being good-natured, however, and kind, she submitted gracefully and took note, while chairs were placed round the table for this amateur board, that ladies with moderate means--obviously _very_ moderate--appeared to enjoy their afternoon tea quite as much as rich people. you see, it never entered into mrs dotropy's mind--how could it?--that what she imagined to be "afternoon tea" was dinner, tea, and supper combined in one meal, beyond which there lay no prospective meal, except what one penny might purchase. with a mysterious look, and a gleam of delight in her eyes, ruth drew forth a well-filled purse, the contents of which, in shillings, sixpences, and coppers, she poured out upon the tea-table. "there," she said triumphantly, "i have collected all that myself, and i've come to consult you how much of it should be given to each, and how we are to get them to take it." "how kind of you, ruth!" exclaimed kate and jessie seaward, gazing on the coin with intense, almost miserly satisfaction. "nonsense! it's not kind a bit," responded ruth; "if you knew the pleasure i've had in gathering it, and telling the sad story of the poor people; and then, the thought of the comfort it will bring to them, though it _is_ so little after all." "it won't appear little in their eyes, ruth," said kate, "for you can't think how badly off some of them are. i assure you when jessie and i think of it, as we often do, it makes us quite miserable." poor misses seaward! in their sympathy with the distress of others they had quite forgotten, for the moment, their own extreme poverty. they had even failed to observe that their own last penny had been inadvertently but hopelessly mingled with the coin which ruth had so triumphantly showered upon the table. "i've got a paper here with the name of each," continued the excited girl, "so that we may divide the money in the proportions you think best. that, however, will be easy, but i confess i have puzzled my brain in vain to hit on a way to get poor bella tilly to accept charity." "that will be no difficulty," said jessie, "because we won't offer her charity. she has been knitting socks for sale lately, so we can buy these." "oh! how stupid i am," cried ruth, "the idea of buying something from her never once occurred to me. we'll buy all her socks--yes, and put our own price on them too; capital!" "who is bella tilly?" asked mrs dotropy. "a young governess," replied jessie, "whose health has given way. she is an orphan--has not, i believe, a relative in the whole world--and has been obliged to give up her last situation, not only because of her health, but because she was badly treated." "but how about poor mr garnet the musician?" resumed ruth, "has _he_ anything to sell?" "i think not," answered kate; "the sweet sounds in which he deals can now be no longer made since the paralytic stroke rendered his left arm powerless. his flute was the last thing he had to sell, and he did not part with it until hunger compelled him; and even then only after the doctors had told him that recovery was impossible. but i daresay we shall find some means of overcoming his scruples. he has relatives, but they are all either poor or heartless, and between the two he is starving." thus, one by one, the cases of those poor ones were considered until all ruth's money was apportioned, and mrs dotropy had become so much interested, that she added a sovereign to the fund, for the express benefit of bella tilly. thereafter, ruth and her mother departed, leaving the list and the pile of money on the table, for the sisters had undertaken to distribute the fund. before leaving, however, ruth placed a letter in kate's hand, saying that it had reference to an institution which would interest them. "now isn't that nice?" said kate, sitting down with a beaming smile, when their visitors had gone, "so like ruth. ah! if she only knew how much we need a little of that money. well, well, we--" "the tea is quite cold," interrupted jessie, "and the fire has gone out!" "jessie!" exclaimed kate with a sudden look of solemnity--"the _penny_!" jessie looked blankly at the table, and said--"gone!" "no, it is _there_," said kate. "yes, but ruth, you know, didn't count the money till she came here, and so did not detect the extra penny, and we forgot it. every farthing there has been apportioned on that list and must be accounted for. i couldn't bear to take a penny out of the sum, and have to tell ruth that we kept it off because it was ours. it would seem so mean, for she cannot know how much we need it. besides, from which of the poor people's little stores could we deduct it?" this last argument had more weight with kate than the others, so, with a little sigh, she proceeded to open ruth's letter, while jessie poured out a cup of cold tea, gazing pathetically the while at the pile of money which still lay glittering on the table. ruth's letter contained two pounds bank of england notes, and ran as follows:-- "dearest jessie and kate,--i sent your screen to the institution for the sale of needlework, where it was greatly admired. one gentleman said it was quite a work of genius! a lady, who seemed to estimate genius more highly than the gentleman, bought it for pounds, which i now enclose. in my opinion it was worth far more. however, it is gratifying that your first attempt in this way has been successful. "your loving ruth." "loving indeed!" exclaimed kate in a tremulous voice. jessie appeared to have choked on the cold tea, for, after some ineffectual attempts at speech, she retired to the window and coughed. the first act of the sisters, on recovering, was to double the amount on ruth's list of poor people, and to work out another sum in short division on the back of an old letter. "why did you deceive me, dear?" said mrs dotropy, on reaching the street after her visit. "you said you were going with me to see poor people, in place of which you have taken me to hear a consultation _about_ poor people with two ladies, and now you propose to return home." "the two ladies are themselves _very_ poor." "no doubt they are, child, but you cannot for a moment class them with those whom we usually style `the poor.'" "no, mother, i cannot, for they are far worse off than these. having been reared in affluence, with tenderer feelings and weaker muscles, as well as more delicate health, they are much less able to fight the battle of adversity than the lower poor, and i happen to know that the dear misses seaward are reduced just now to the very last extreme of poverty. but you have relieved them, mother." "i, child! how?" "the nursery screen that you bought yesterday by my advice was decorated by jessie and kate seaward, so i thought it would be nice to let you see for yourself how sweet and `deserving' are the poor people whom you have befriended!" chapter three. introduces consternation to a delicate household. the day following that on which mrs dotropy and ruth had gone out to visit "the poor," jessie and kate seaward received a visit from a man who caused them no little anxiety--we might almost say alarm. he was a sea-captain of the name of bream. as this gentleman was rather eccentric, it may interest the reader to follow him, from the commencement of the day on which we introduce him. but first let it be stated that captain bream was a fine-looking man, though large and rugged. his upper lip and chin were bare, for he was in the habit of mowing those regions every morning with a blunt razor. to see captain bream go through this operation of mowing when at sea in a gale of wind was a sight that might have charmed the humorous, and horrified the nervous. the captain's shoulders were broad, and his bones big; his waistcoat, also, was large, his height six feet two, his voice a profound bass, and his manner boisterous but hearty. he was apt to roar in conversation, but it was in a gale of wind that you should have heard him! in such circumstances, the celebrated bull of bashan would have been constrained to retire from his presence with its tail between its legs. when we say that captain bream's eyes were kind eyes, and that the smile of his large mouth was a winning smile, we have sketched a full-length portrait of him,--or, as painters might put it, an "extra-full-length." well, when captain bream, having mown his chin, presented himself in public, on the morning of the particular day of which we write, he appeared to be in a meditative mood, and sauntered slowly, with the professional gait of a sailor, through several narrow streets near london bridge. his hands were thrust into his coat-pockets, and a half humorous, half perplexed expression rested on his face. evidently something troubled him, and he gave vent to a little of that something in deep tones, being apt to think aloud as he went along in disjointed sentences. "very odd," he murmured, "but that girl is always after some queer-- well, no matter. it's my business to--but it does puzzle me to guess why she should want me to live in such an out-o'-the-way--however, i suppose _she_ knows, and that's enough for me." "shine yer boots, sir?" said a small voice cutting short these broken remarks. "what?" "shine yer boots, sir, an' p'raps i can 'elp yer to clear up yer mind w'en i'm a doin' of it." it was the voice of a small shoeblack, whose eyes looked wistful. the captain glanced at his boots; they wanted "shining" sadly, for the nautical valet who should have attended to such matters had neglected his duty that morning. "where d'ee live, my lad?" asked the captain, who, being large-hearted and having spent most of his life at sea, felt unusual interest in all things terrestrial when he chanced to be on shore. "i live nowheres in par-tickler," answered the boy. "but where d'ee sleep of a night?" "vell, that depends. mostly anywheres." "got any father?" "no, sir, i hain't; nor yet no mother--never had no fathers nor mothers, as i knows on, an' wot's more, i don't want any. they're a chancey lot, is fathers an' mothers--most of 'em. better without 'em altogether, to my mind. tother foot, sir." looking down with a benignant smile at this independent specimen of humanity, the captain obeyed orders. "d'ee make much at this work now, my lad?" asked the captain. "not wery much, sir. just about enough to keep soul an' body together, an' not always that. it was on'y last veek as i was starvin' to that extent that my soul very nigh broke out an' made his escape, but the doctor he got 'old of it by the tail an' 'eld on till 'e indooced it to stay on a bit longer. there you are, sir; might shave in 'em!" "how much to pay?" "vell, gen'lemen usually gives me a penny, but that's in or'nary cases. ven i has to shine boots like a pair o' ships' boats i looks for suthin' hextra--though i don't always get it!" "there you are, my lad," said the captain, giving the boy something "hextra," which appeared to satisfy him. thereafter he proceeded to the bridge, and, embarking on one of the river steamers, was soon deposited at pimlico. thence, traversing st. george's square, he soon found himself in the little street in which dwelt the misses seaward. he looked about him for some minutes and then entered a green-grocer's shop, crushing his hat against the top of the door-way. wishing the green-grocer good-morning he asked if lodgings were to be had in that neighbourhood. "well, yes, sir," he replied, "but i fear that you'd find most of 'em rather small for a man of your size." "no fear o' that," replied the captain with a loud guffaw, which roused the grocer's cat a little, "i'm used to small cabins, an' smaller bunks, d'ee see, an' can stow myself away easy in any sort of hole. why, i've managed to snooze in a bunk only five foot four, by clewin' up my legs-- though it wasn't comfortable. but it's not the size i care about so much as the character o' the landlady. i like tidy respectable people, you see--havin' bin always used to a well-kept ship." "ah! i know one who'll just suit you. up at the other end o' the street. two rooms kept by a young widow who--" "hold hard there," interrupted the captain; "none o' your young widows for me. they're dangerous. besides, big as i am, i don't want _two_ rooms to sleep in. if you know of any old maid, now, with _one_ room-- that's what would suit me to a tee; an easy-going sort o' woman, who--" "i know of two elderly _ladies_," interrupted the green-grocer, thoughtfully; "they're sisters, and have got a small room to let; but-- but--they're delicate sort o' creeters, you know; have seen better days, an' are raither timid, an' might want a female lodger, or a man who-- who--" "out with it," interrupted the captain, "a man who is soft-spoken and well-mannered--not a big noisy old sea-horse like me! is that what you would say?" "just so," answered the green-grocer with an amiable nod. "what's the name of the sisters?" "seaward." "seaward! eh!" exclaimed the captain in surprise. "that's odd, now, that a seafarin' man should be sent to seaward for his lodgin's, even when he gets on shore. ha! ha! i've always had a leanin' to seaward. i'll try the sisters. they can only tell me to 'bout ship, you know, and be off on the other tack." and again the captain gave such boisterous vent to his mirth that the green-grocer's cat got up and walked indignantly away, for, albeit well used to the assaults of small boys, it apparently could not stand the noise of this new and bass disturber of the peace. having ascertained that the misses seaward dwelt above the shop in which he stood, captain bream went straight up-stairs and rapped heavily at their door. now, although the sisters had been gradually reduced to the extreme of poverty, they had hitherto struggled successfully against the necessity of performing what is known as the "dirty work" of a house. by stinting themselves in food, working hard at anything they succeeded in getting to do, and mending and re-mending their garments until it became miraculous, even to themselves, how these managed to hang together, they had, up to that period in their history, managed to pay to a slender little girl, out of their slender means, a still more slender salary for coming night and morning to clean their grate, light their fire, carry out their ashes, brush their boots, wash their door-steps, and otherwise perform work for which the sisters were peculiarly unfitted by age, training, and taste. this girl's name was liffie lee. she was good as far as she went but she did not go far. her goodness was not the result of principle. she had no principle; did not know what the word meant, but she had a nature, and that nature was soft, unselfish, self-oblivious,--the last a blessing of incalculable price! it was liffie lee who responded to captain bream's knock. she was at the time about to leave the house in undisturbed possession of its owners--or rather, occupiers. "does a miss seaward live here?" it was a dark passage, and liffie lee almost quaked at the depth and metallic solemnity of the voice, as she glanced up at the spot where it appeared to come from. "yes, sir." "may i see her?" "i--i'll see, sir, if you'll wait outside, sir." she gently yet quickly shut the door in the captain's face, and next moment appeared in the little parlour with a flushed face and widely open eyes. the biggest man she had ever seen, or _heard_, she said, wanted to see miss seaward. why did he want to see her and what was his name? she didn't know, and had omitted to ask his name, having been so frightened that she had left him at the door, which she had shut against him. "an', please, miss," continued liffie, in a tone of suppressed eagerness, "if i was you i'd lock the parlour door in case he bu'sts in the outer one. you might open the winder an' screech for the pleece." "oh! liffie, what a frightened thing you are," remonstrated jessie, "go and show the man in at once." "oh! no, miss," pleaded liffie, "you'd better 'ave 'im took up at once. you've no notion what dreadful men that sort are. _i_ know 'em well. we've got some of 'em where _we_ live, and--and they're _awful_!" another knock at this point cut the conversation short, and kate herself went to open the door. "may i have a word with miss seaward?" asked the captain respectfully. "ye'es, certainly," answered kate, with some hesitation, for, although reassured by the visitor's manner, his appearance and voice alarmed her too. she ushered him into the parlour, however, which was suddenly reduced to a mere bandbox by contrast with him. being politely asked to take a chair, he bowed and took hold of one, but on regarding its very slender proportions--it was a cane chair--he smiled and shook his head. the smile did much for him. "pray take this one," said jessie, pointing to the old arm-chair, which was strong enough even for him, "our visitors are not usually such-- such--" "thumping walruses! out with it, miss seaward," said the captain, seating himself--gently, for he had suffered in this matter more than once during his life--"i'm used to being found fault with for my size." "pray do not imagine," said jessie, hastening to exculpate herself, "that i could be so very impolite as--as to--" "yes, yes, i know that," interrupted the captain, blowing his nose--and the familiar operation was in itself something awful in such a small room--"and i _am_ too big, there's no doubt about that however, it can't be helped. i must just grin and bear it. but i came here on business, so we'll have business first, and pleasure, if you like, afterwards." "you may go now," said kate at this point to liffie lee, who was still standing transfixed in open-mouthed amazement gazing at the visitor. with native obedience and humility the child left the room, though anxious to see and hear more. "you have a furnished room to let i believe, ladies," said the captain, coming at once to the point. jessie and kate glanced at each other. the latter felt a strong tendency to laugh, and the former replied:-- "we have, indeed, one small room--a very small room, in fact a mere closet with a window in the roof,--which we are very anxious to let if possible to a lady--a--female. it is very poorly furnished, but it is comfortable, and we would make it very cheap. is it about the hiring of such a room that you come?" "yes, madam, it is," said the captain, decisively. "but is the lady for whom you act," said jessie, "prepared for a particularly small room, and _very_ poorly furnished?" "yes, she is," replied the captain with a loud guffaw that made the very windows vibrate; "in fact _i_ am the lady who wants the room. it's true i'm not very lady-like, but i can say for myself that i'll give you less trouble than many a lady would, an' i don't mind the cost." "impossible!" exclaimed miss seaward with a mingled look of amusement and perplexity which she did not attempt to conceal, while kate laughed outright; "why, sir, the room is not much, if at all, longer than yourself." "no matter," returned the captain, "i'm nowise particular, an' i've been recommended to come to you; so here i am, ready to strike a bargain if you're agreeable." "pray, may i ask who recommended you?" said jessie. the seaman looked perplexed for a moment. "well, i didn't observe his name over the door," he said, "but the man in the shop below recommended me." "oh? the green-grocer!" exclaimed both ladies together, but they did not add what they thought, namely, that the green-grocer was a very impertinent fellow to play off upon them what looked very much like a practical joke. "perhaps the best way to settle the matter," said kate, "will be to show the gentleman our room. he will then understand the impossibility." "that's right," exclaimed the captain; rising--and in doing so he seemed about to damage the ceiling--"let's go below, by all means, and see the cabin." "it is not down-stairs," remarked jessie, leading the way; "we are at the top of the house here, and the room is on a level with this one." "so much the better. i like a deck-cabin. in fact i've bin used to it aboard my last ship." on being ushered into the room which he wished to hire, the sailor found himself in an apartment so very unsuited to his size and character that even he felt slightly troubled. "it's not so much the size that bothers me," he said, stroking his chin gently, "as the fittings." there was some ground for the seaman's perplexity, for the closet in which he stood, apart from the fact of its being only ten feet long by six broad, had been arranged by the tasteful sisters after the manner of a lady's boudoir, with a view to captivate some poor sister of very limited means, or, perhaps, some humble-minded and possibly undersized young clerk from the country. the bed, besides being rather small, and covered with a snow-white counterpane, was canopied with white muslin curtains lined with pink calico. the wash-hand stand was low, fragile, and diminutive. the little deal table, which occupied an inconveniently large proportion of the space, was clothed in a garment similar to that of the bed. the one solitary chair was of that cheap construction which is meant to creak warningly when sat upon by light people, and to resolve itself into match-wood when the desecrator is heavy. two pictures graced the walls--one the infant samuel in a rosewood frame, the other an oil painting--of probably the first century, for its subject was quite undistinguishable--in a gold slip. the latter was a relic of better days--a spared relic, which the public had refused to buy at any price, though the auctioneer had described it as a rare specimen of one of the old--the very old--masters, with rembrandtesque proclivities. no chest of drawers obtruded itself in that small chamber, but instead thereof the economical yet provident sisters, foreseeing the importance of a retreat for garments, had supplied a deal box, of which they stuffed the lid and then covered the whole with green baize, thus causing it to serve the double purpose of a wardrobe and a small sofa. "however," said captain bream, after a brief but careful look round, "it'll do. with a little cuttin' and carvin' here an' there, we'll manage to squeeze in, for you must know, ladies, that we sea-farin' men have a wonderful knack o' stuffin' a good deal into small space." the sisters made no reply. indeed they were speechless, and horrified at the bare idea of the entrance of so huge a lodger into their quiet home. "look ye here, now," he continued in a comfortable, self-satisfied tone, as he expanded his great arms along the length of the bed to measure it, "the bunk's about five foot eight inches long. well, i'm about six foot two in my socks--six inches short; that's a difficulty no doubt, but it's get-over-able this way, we'll splice the green box to it." he grasped the sofa-wardrobe as he spoke, and placed it to the foot of the bed, then embracing the entire mass of mattresses and bedding at the lower end, raised it up, thrust the green box under with his foot, and laid the bedding down on it--thus adding about eighteen inches to the length. "there you are, d'ee see--quite long enough, an' a foot to spare." "but it does not fit," urged kate, who, becoming desperate, resolved to throw every possible obstruction in the way. "that's true, madam," returned the captain with an approving nod. "i see you've got a mechanical eye--there's a difference of elevation 'tween the box and the bed of three inches or more, but bless you, that's nothin' to speak of. if you'd ever been in a gale o' wind at sea you'd know that we seadogs are used to considerable difference of elevation between our heads an' feet. my top-coat stuffed in'll put that to rights. but you'll have to furl the flummery tops'ls--to lower 'em altogether would be safer." he took hold of the muslin curtains with great tenderness as he spoke, fearing, apparently, to damage them. "you see," he continued, apologetically, "i'm not used to this sort o' thing. moreover, i've a tendency to nightmare. don't alarm yourselves, ladies, i never do anything worse to disturb folk than give a shout or a yell or two, but occasionally i do let fly with a leg or an arm when the fit's on me, an' if i should get entangled with this flummery, you know i'd be apt to damage it. yes, the safest way will be to douse the tops'ls altogether. as to the chair--well, i'll supply a noo one that'll stand rough weather. if you'll also clear away the petticoats from the table it'll do well enough. in regard to the lookin'-glass, i know pretty well what i'm like, an' don't have any desire to study my portrait. as for shavin', i've got a bull's-eye sort of glass in the lid o' my soap-box that serves all my purpose, and i shave wi' cold water, so i won't be botherin' you in the mornin's for hot. i've got a paintin' of my last ship--the daisy--done in water-colours--it's a pretty big 'un, but by hangin' samuel on the other bulk-head, an' stickin' that black thing over the door, we can make room for it." as captain bream ran on in this fashion, smoothing down all difficulties, and making everything comfortable, the poor sisters grew more and more desperate, and kate felt a tendency to recklessness coming on. suddenly a happy thought occurred to her. "but sir," she interposed with much firmness of tone and manner, "there is one great difficulty in the way of our letting the room to you which i fear cannot be overcome." the captain looked at her inquiringly, and jessie regarded her with admiration and wonder, for she could not conceive what this insurmountable difficulty could be. "my sister and i," continued kate, "have both an _unconquerable_ dislike to tobacco--" "oh! _that's_ no objection," cried the captain with a light laugh--which in him, however, was an ear-splitting guffaw--"for i don't smoke!" "don't smoke?" repeated both sisters in tones of incredulity, for in their imagination a seaman who did not smoke seemed as great an impossibility as a street boy who did not whistle. "an' what's more," continued the captain, "i don't drink. i'm a tee-total abstainer. i leave smokin' to steam-funnels, an' drinkin' to the fish." "but," persisted kate, on whom another happy thought had descended, "my sister and i keep very early hours, and a latch-key we could never--" "pooh! that's no difficulty," again interrupted this unconquerable man of the sea; "i hate late hours myself, when i'm ashore, havin' more than enough of 'em when afloat. i'll go to bed regularly at nine o'clock, an' won't want a latch-key." the idea of such a man going to bed at all was awesome enough, but the notion of his doing so in that small room, and in that delicately arranged little bed under that roof-tree, was so perplexing, that the sisters anxiously rummaged their minds for a new objection, but could find none until their visitor asked the rent of the room. then kate was assailed by another happy thought, and promptly named double the amount which she and jessie had previously fixed as its value--which amount she felt sure would prove prohibitory. her dismay, then, may be imagined when the captain exclaimed with a sigh--perhaps it were better to say a breeze--of relief:-- "well, then, that's all comfortably settled. i consider the rent quite moderate. i'll send up my chest to-morrow mornin', an' will turn up myself in the evenin'. i'll bid ye good-day now, ladies, an' beg your pardon for keepin' you so long about this little matter." he held out his hand. one after another the crushed sisters put their delicate little hands into the seaman's enormous paw, and meekly bade him good-bye, after which the nautical giant strode noisily out of the house, shut the door with an inadvertent bang, stumbled heavily down the dark stair and passage, and finally vanished from the scene. then jessie and kate seaward returned to their little parlour, sat down at opposite sides of the miniature grate, and gazed at each other for some minutes in solemn silence--both strongly impressed with the feeling that they had passed through a tremendous storm, and got suddenly into a profoundly dead calm. chapter four. billy bright the fisher-boy visits london--has a fight--enlarges his mind, and undertakes business. we must now return to the _evening star_ fishing-smack, but only for a few minutes at present. later on we shall have occasion to visit her under stirring circumstances. we saw her last heading eastward to her fishing-ground in the north sea. we present her now, after a two months' trip, sailing to the west, homeward bound. eight weeks at sea; nine days on shore, is the unvarying routine of the north sea smacksman's life, summer and winter, all the year round. two months of toil and exposure of the severest kind, fair-weather or foul, and little more than one week of repose in the bosom of his family-- varied by visits more or less frequent to the tap-room of the public-house. it is a rugged life to body and soul. severest toil and little rest for the one; strong temptation and little refreshment to the other. "strong temptation!" you exclaim, "what! out on the heaving billows and among the howling gales of winter on the north sea?" ay, stronger temptation than you might suppose, as, in the sequel, you shall see. but we are homeward bound just now. one of the gales above referred to is blowing itself out and the _evening star_ is threading her way among the shoals to her brief repose in yarmouth. the crew are standing about the deck looking eagerly towards the land, and little billy is steering. [see frontispiece.] yes, that ridiculous atom of humanity, with a rope, or "steering lanyard," round the tiller to prevent its knocking him down or sweeping him overboard, stands there guiding the plunging smack on her course through the dangerous shoals. of course billy's father has an eye on him, but he does not require to say more than an occasional word at long intervals. need we observe that our little hero is no longer subject to the demon which felled him at starting, and made his rosy face so pale? one glance at the healthy brown cheeks will settle that question. another glance at his costume will suffice to explain, without words, much of billy's life during the past eight weeks. the sou'-wester is crushed and soiled, the coat is limp, rent, mended, button-bereaved more or less, and bespattered, and the boots wear the aspect of having seen service. the little hands too, which even while ashore were not particularly white, now bear traces of having had much to do with tar, and grease, and fishy substances, besides being red with cold, swelled with sundry bruises, and seamed with several scars--for billy is reckless by nature, and it takes time and much experience of suffering to teach a man how to take care of his hands in the fisheries of the north sea! an hour or two more sufficed to carry our smack into port, and then the various members of the crew hurried home. billy swaggered beside his father and tried to look manly until he reached his own door, where all thought of personal appearance suddenly vanished, and he leaped with an unmanly squeal of delight into his mother's arms. you may be sure that those arms did not spare him! "you'll not go down to-night, david?" said mrs bright, when, having half choked her son, she turned to her husband. "no, lass,--i won't," said the skipper in a tone of decision. mrs bright was much gratified by the promise, for well did she know, from bitter experience, that if her david went down to meet his comrades at the public-house on his arrival, his brief holidays would probably be spent in a state of semi-intoxication. indeed, even with this promise she knew that much of his time, and a good deal of his hardly earned money, would be devoted to the publican. "we'll not have much of billy's company this week, i fear," said mrs bright, with a glance of pride at her son, who returned it with a look of surprise. "why so, nell?" asked her husband. "because he has got to go to london." "to lun'on!" exclaimed the father. "lun'on!" echoed the son. "yes; it seems that miss ruth--that dear young lady, miss ruth dotropy-- you remember her, billy?" "remember her! i should think i does," said the boy, emphatically, "if i was to live as long as meethusilim i'd never forget miss dotropy." "well," continued mrs bright, "she wrote and asked joe davidson's wife to send her a fisher-boy to london for a day or two, and she'd pay his railway fare up an' back, and all his expenses. what ever miss ruth wants to do with him i don't know, nor any one else. mrs davidson couldn't find a boy that was fit to send, so she said she'd wait till you came back, billy, and send _you_ up." "well, wonders ain't a-goin' to cease yet a while," exclaimed billy, with a look of gratified pride. "hows'ever, i'm game for anythink--from pitch an' toss up'ards. when am i to start, mother?" "to-morrow, by the first train." "all right--an' what sort o' rig? i couldn't go in them 'ere slops, you know. it wouldn't give 'em a k'rect idear o' yarmouth boys, would it?" "of course not sonny, an i've got ready your old sunday coat, it ain't too small for you yet--an' some other things." accordingly, rigged out, as he expressed it, in a well-mended and brushed pilot-cloth coat; a round blue-cloth cap; a pair of trousers to match, and a pair of new shoes, billy found himself speeding towards the great city with what he styled "a stiff breakfast under hatches, four or five shillings in the locker, an' a bu'stin' heart beneath his veskit." in a few hours he found himself in the bewildering streets, inquiring his way to the great square in the west end where mrs dotropy dwelt. the first person of whom he made inquiry was a street boy, and, while he was speaking, the city arab regarded the provincial boy's innocent face--for it was a peculiarly innocent face when in repose--with a look of mingled curiosity and cunning. "now look 'ee here, young 'un," said the arab, "i don't know nothink about the vest end squares, an' what's more i don't want to, but i do know a lot about the east end streets, an' if you'll come with me, i'll--" "thank 'ee, no," interrupted billy, with unlooked-for decision, "i've got business to look arter at the _west_ end." "yell, cooriously enough," returned the arab, "i've got business at the _east_ end. by the vay, you don't 'appen to 'ave any browns--any coppers--about you--eh?" "of course i has. you don't suppose a man goes cruisin' about lun'on without any shot in the locker, do you?" "to be sure not," responded the street boy; "i might 'ave know'd that a man like you wouldn't, anyhow. now, it so 'appens that i'm wery much in want o' change. you couldn't give me browns for a sixpence, could you?" the arab said this so earnestly--at the same time producing a sixpence, or something that looked like one, from his pockets--that the provincial boy's rising suspicions were quite disarmed. "let me see," he said, plunging his hand into his trousers pocket--"one, two, three--no, i've only got fourpence, but--" he was cut short by the arab making a sudden grasp at the coins, which sent most of them spinning on the pavement. like lightning little billy sprang forward and planted his right fist on the point of the arab's nose with such vigour that the blow caused him to stagger backwards. before he could recover billy followed him up with a left-hander on the forehead and a right-hander on the chest, which last sent him over on his back. so sudden was the onset that the passers-by scarcely understood what was occurring before it was all over. a grave policeman stepped forward at the moment. the arab rose, glided into a whirl of wheels and horses' legs, and disappeared, while billy stood still with doubled fists glaring defiance. "now then, my boy, what's all this about?" said the man in blue, placing a large hand gently on the small shoulder. "he's bin and knocked my coppers about," said our little hero indignantly, as he looked up, but the stern yet kindly smile on the policeman's face restored him, and he condescended on a fuller explanation as he proceeded to pick up his pence. having been cautioned about the danger of entering into conversation with strangers in london--especially with street boys--billy was directed to a pimlico omnibus, and deposited not far from his destination. inquiring his way thereafter of several policemen--who were, as he afterwards related to admiring friends, as thick in london as bloaters in yarmouth--he found himself in front of the dotropy residence. "yes, my little man," said the footman who opened the door of the west end mansion, "miss ruth is at 'ome, and 'as been expecting you. come this way." that footman lost ground in billy's estimation because of using the word _little_. if he had said "my boy," it would have been all right; "my man" would have been gratifying; but "my little man" was repulsive. a smart servant girl who chanced to see him on his way to the library also caused him much pain by whispering to her fellow something about a sweet innocent-faced darling, and he put on a savage frown, as he was ushered into the room, by way of counteracting the sweet innocence. a glass opposite suddenly revealed to its owner the smooth rosy-brown visage, screwed up in a compound expression. that expression changed so swiftly to sheer surprise, that a burst of involuntary laughter was the result. a deep flush, and silence, followed, as the urchin looked with some confusion round the room to see if he had been observed or overheard, and a sense of relief came as he found that he was alone. no one had seen or heard him except some of the dotropy ancestors who had "come over" with the conqueror, and who gazed sternly from the walls. for, you see, being a family of note, the dining-room could not hold all the ancestors, so that some of them had to be accommodated in the library. that glance round had a powerful effect on the mind of the fisher-boy, so powerful indeed that all thought of self vanished, for he found himself for the first time, in a room the like of which he had never seen, or heard, or dreamed of. he knew, of course, that there were libraries in yarmouth, and was aware that they had something to do with books, but he had never seen a collection on a large scale, and, up to that time, had no particular curiosity about books. indeed, if truth must be told, billy hated books, because the only point in regard to which he and his mother had ever differed was a book! a tattered, ragged, much-soiled book it was, with big letters at the beginning, simple arrangements of letters in the middle, and maddening compounds of them towards the end. earnestly, patiently, lovingly, yet perseveringly, had mrs bright tried to drill the contents of that book into billy's unwilling brain, but with little success, for, albeit a willing and obliging child, there was a limit to his powers of comprehension, and a tendency in his young mind to hold in contempt what he did not understand. one day a somewhat pedantic visitor told billy that he would never be a great man if he did not try to understand the book in question--to thoroughly digest it. "you hear what the gentleman says, billy, you dirty little gurnet," said david bright on that occasion, "you've got to di-gest it, my lad, to di-gest it." "yes, father," said billy, with a finger in his mouth and his eyes on the visitor. the boy's mind was inquisitive and ingenious. he pestered his father, after the visitor had gone, for an explanation as to what he meant by digesting the book. "why, sonny," returned david, knitting his brows very hard, for the question was somewhat of a puzzler, "he means that you've got to stow away in your brain the knowledge that's in the book, an' work away at it--di-gest it, d'ee see--same as you stow grub into yer stummick an' digest that." billy pondered this a long time till a happy thought occurred to him. "_i'll_ digest it," said he, slapping his thigh one day when he was left alone in the house. "we'll all di-gest it together!" he jumped up, took the lid off a pot of pea-soup that was boiling on the fire, and dropped the hated book into it. "what's this i' the soup, nell?" said david that day at dinner, as he fished a mass of curious substance out of the pot. "many a queer thing have i fished up i' the trawl from the bottom o' the north sea, but ne'er afore did i make such a haul as this in a pot o' pea-soup. what is't?" "why, david," replied the wife, examining the substance with a puzzled expression, "i do believe it's the primer!" they both turned their eyes inquiringly on the boy, who sat gravely watching them. "all right, father," he said, "i put 'im in. we're a-goin' to di-gest it, you know." "dirty boy!" exclaimed his mother, flinging the remains of the boiled book under the grate. "you've ruined the soup." "never a bit, nell," said the skipper, who was in no wise particular as to his food, "clean paper an' print can't do no damage to the soup. an' after all, i don't see why a man shouldn't take in knowledge as well through the stummick as through the brain. it don't matter a roker's tail whether you ship cargo through the main-hatch or through the fore-hatch, so long as it gits inside somehow. come, let's have a bowl of it. i never was good at letters myself, an' i'll be bound to say that billy and i will di-gest the book better this way than the right way." thus was the finishing touch put to billy bright's education at that time, and we have described the incident in order that the reader may fully understand the condition of the boy's mind as he stood gazing round the library of the west end mansion. "books!" exclaimed billy, afterwards, when questioned by a yarmouth friend, "i should just think there _was_ books. oh! it's o' no manner o' use tryin' to tell 'ee about it. there was books from the floor to the ceilin' all round the room--books in red covers, an' blue covers, an' green, an' yellow, an' pink, an' white--all the colours in the rainbow, and all of 'em more or less kivered wi' gold--w'y--i don't know what their insides was worth, but sartin sure am i that they couldn't come up to their outsides. mints of money must 'ave bin spent in kiverin' of 'em. an' there was ladders to git at 'em--a short un to git at the books below, an' a long un to go aloft for 'em in the top rows. what people finds to write about beats me to understand; but who ever buys and reads it all beats me wuss." while new and puzzling thoughts were thus chasing each other through the fisher-boy's brain ruth dotropy entered. "what! billy bright," she exclaimed in a tone of great satisfaction, hurrying forward and holding out her hand. "i'm so glad they have sent _you_. i would have asked them to send you, when i wrote, but thought you were at sea." "yes, miss, but i've got back again," said billy, grasping the offered hand timidly, fearing to soil it. for the same reason he sat down carefully on the edge of a chair, when ruth said heartily, "come, sit down and let's have a talk together," for, you see, he had become so accustomed to fishy clothes and tarred hands that he had a tendency to forget that he was now "clean" and "in a split-new rig." ruth's manner and reception put the poor boy at once at his ease. for some time she plied him with questions about the fisher-folk of yarmouth and gorleston, in whom she had taken great interest during a summer spent at the former town,--at which time she had made the acquaintance of little billy. then she began to talk of the sea and the fishery, and the smacks with their crews. of course the boy was in his element on these subjects, and not only answered his fair questioner fully, but volunteered a number of anecdotes, and a vast amount of interesting information about fishing, which quite charmed ruth, inducing her to encourage him to go on. "oh! yes, miss," he said, "it's quite true what you've bin told. there's hundreds and hundreds of smacks a-fishin' out there on the north sea all the year round, summer an' winter. in course i can't say whether there's a popilation, as you calls it, of over twelve thousand, always afloat, never havin' counted 'em myself, but i know there must be a-many thousand men an' boys there." "billy was right. there is really a population of over , men and boys afloat all the year round on the north sea, engaged in the arduous work of daily supplying the london and other markets with fresh fish." "and what port do they run for when a storm comes on?" asked ruth. "what port, miss? why, they don't run for no port at all, cos why? there's no port near enough to run for." "do you mean to say, that they remain at sea during all the storms--even the worst?" "that's just what we does, miss. blow high, blow low, it's all the same; we must weather it the best way we can. an' you should see how it blows in winter! that's the time we catches it wust. it's so cold too! i've not bin out in winter yet myself, but father says it's cold enough to freeze the nose off your face, an' it blows 'ard enough a'most to blow you inside out. you wouldn't like to face that sort o' thing-- would you, miss?" with a light laugh ruth admitted that she disliked the idea of such north sea experiences. "oh! you've no idea, miss, how it do blow sometimes," continued billy, who was a naturally communicative boy, and felt that he had got hold of a sympathetic ear. "have you ever heard of the gale that blew so 'ard that they had to station two men an' a boy to hold on to the captain's hair for fear it should be blowed right off his 'ead?" "yes," answered ruth, with a silvery laugh. "i've heard of that gale." "have you, miss?" said billy with a slightly surprised look. "that's queer, now. i thought nobody know'd o' that gale 'cept us o' the north sea, an', p'raps, some o' the people o' yarmouth an' gorleston." "i rather think that i must have read of it somewhere," said ruth. billy glanced reproachfully at the surrounding books, under the impression that it must have been one of these which had taken the wind out of his sails. "well, miss," he continued, "i don't mean for to say i ever was in a gale that obliged us to be careful of the skipper's hair, but i do say that father's seed somethink like it, for many a time our smack has bin blowed over on her beam-ends--that means laid a'most flat, miss, with 'er sails on the sea. one night father's smack was sailin' along close-hauled when a heavy sea struck 'er abaft the channels, and filled the bag o' the mains'l. she was just risin' to clear herself when another sea follared, filled the mains'l again, an' sent 'er on 'er beam-ends. the sea was makin' a clean breach over 'er from stem to stern, an' cleared the deck o' the boat an' gear an' everythink. down went all hands below an' shut the companion, to prevent 'er being swamped. meanwhile the weight o' water bu'st the mains'l, so that the vessel partly righted, an' let the hands come on deck agin. then, after the gale had eased a bit, two or three o' their comrades bore down on 'em and towed 'em round, so as the wind got under 'er an' lifted 'er a bit, but the ballast had bin shot from the bilge into the side, so they couldn't right her altogether, but had to tow 'er into port that way-- over two hundred miles--the snow an' hail blowin', too, like one o'clock!" "really, they must have had a terrible time of it," returned ruth, "though i don't know exactly how dreadful `one o'clock' may be. but tell me, billy, do the fishermen like the worsted mitts and helmets and comforters that were sent to them from this house last year?" "oh! don't they, just! i've heard them blessin' the ladies as sent 'em, many a time. you see, miss, the oil-skins chafe our wrists most awful when we're workin' of the gear--" "what is the gear, billy?" "the nets, miss, an' all the tackle as belongs to 'em. an' then the salt water makes the sores wuss--it used to be quite awful, but the cuffs keeps us all right. an' the books an' tracts, too, miss--the hands are wery fond o' them, an'--" "we will talk about the books and tracts another time," said ruth, interrupting, "but just now we must proceed to business. of course you understand that i must have some object in view in sending for a fisher-boy from yarmouth." "well, miss, it did occur to me that i wasn't axed to come here for nuffin'." "just so, my boy. now i want your help, so i will explain. we are to have what is called a drawing-room meeting here in a few days, in behalf of the mission to deep-sea fishermen, and one of your fisher captains is to be present to give an account of the work carried on among the men of the fleet by the mission vessels. so i want you to be there as one of the boys--" "not to speak to 'em, miss, i hope?" said billy, with a look of affected modesty. "no, not to speak," replied ruth, laughing, "only to represent the boys of the fleet. but that's not the main thing i want you for. it is this, and remember, billy, that i am now taking you into my confidence, so you must not tell what i shall speak to you about to any living soul." "not even to mother?" asked the boy. "no, not even--well, you _may_ tell it to your mother, for boys ought to have no secrets from their mothers; besides, _your_ mother is a discreet woman, and lives a long way off from london. you must know, then, billy, that i have two very dear friends--two ladies--who are in deep poverty, and i want to give them money--" "well, why don't you give it 'em, miss?" said billy, seeing that ruth hesitated. "you must have lots of it to give away," he added, looking contemplatively round. "yes, thank god, who gave it to me, i have, as you say, lots of it, but i cannot give it to the dear ladies i speak of because--because--" "they're too proud to take it, p'raps," suggested billy. "no; they are not proud--very far from it; but they are sensitive." "what's that, miss?" ruth was puzzled for a reply. "it--it means," she said, "that they have delicate feelings, which cannot bear the idea of accepting money without working for it, when there are so many millions of poor people without money who _cannot_ work for it. they once said to me, indeed, that if they were to accept money in charity they would feel as if they were robbing the really poor." "why don't they work, then?" asked billy in some surprise. "why don't they go to sea as stooardesses or somethink o' that sort?" "because they have never been trained to such work, or, indeed, to any particular work," returned ruth; "moreover, they are in rather delicate health, and are not young. their father was rich, and meant to leave them plenty to live on, but he failed, and left them in broken health without a penny. wasn't it sad?" "indeed it was, miss," replied the boy, whose ready sympathy was easily enlisted. "well, now, billy, i want you to go to see these ladies. tell them that you are a fisher-boy belonging to the north sea trawling fleet, and that you have called from a house which wants a job undertaken. you will then explain about the fishery, and how the wrists of the men are chafed, and break out into painful sores, and how worsted mitts serve the purpose at once of prevention and cure. say that the house by which you have been sent has many hands at work--and so i have, billy, for many ladies send the cuffs and things made by them for the fleet to _me_ to be forwarded, only they work gratuitously, and i want the work done by my two friends to be paid for, you understand? tell them that still more hands are wanted, and ask them if they are open to an engagement. you must be very matter-of-fact, grave, and businesslike, you know. ask them how many pairs they think they will be able to make in a week, and say that the price to be paid will be fixed on receipt of the first sample. but, remember, on no account are you to mention the name of the house that sent you; you will also leave with them this bag of worsted. now, do you fully understand?" billy replied by a decided wink, coupled with an intelligent nod. after a good deal of further advice and explanation, ruth gave billy the name and address of her friends, and sent him forth on his mission. chapter five. how billy conducts the business--how captain bream overcomes the sisters, and how jessie seaward sees mystery in everything. "i wonder," said billy to himself on reaching the street as he looked down at the legs of his trousers, "i wonder if they're any shorter. yes, they don't seem to be quite so far down on the shoes as when i left yarmouth. i _must_ have grow'd an inch or two since i came up to lun'on!" under this gratifying impression the fisher-boy drew himself up to his full height, his little chest swelling with new sensations, and his whole body rolling along with a nautical swagger that drew on him the admiration of some, the contempt of others, and caused several street boys to ask "if his mother knowed 'e was hout," and other insolent questions. but billy cared for none of these things. the provincial boy was quite equal to the occasion, though his return "chaff" smacked much of salt water. arrived at the poverty-stricken street in which the misses seaward dwelt, billy mounted the narrow staircase and knocked at the door. it was opened by liffie lee, who had remained on that day to accomplish some extra work. "is your missis at home, my dear?" "there ain't no missis here, an' i ain't _your_ dear," was the prompt reply. billy was taken aback. he had not anticipated so ready and caustic a response, in one so small and child-like. "come now--no offence meant," he said, "but you're not a-goin' to deny that the miss seawards does live here." "i ain't a-goin' to deny nothink," replied liffie, a little softened by the boy's apologetic tone, "only when i'm expected to give a civil answer, i expects a civil question." "that's all fair an' aboveboard. now, will you tell the miss seawards i wants to see 'em, on a matter of business--of importance." another minute and billy stood in the presence of the ladies he wished to see. prepared beforehand to like them, his affections were at once fixed for ever by the first glimpse of their kindly faces. with a matter-of-fact gravity, that greatly amused the sisters--though they carefully concealed their feelings--little billy stated his business, and, in so doing, threw his auditors into a flutter of hope and gratitude, surprise and perplexity. "but what is the name of the house that sends you?" asked miss jessie. "that i am not allowed for to tell," said the boy-of-business, firmly. "a mercantile house in the city, i suppose," said kate. "what sort o' house it may be is more than a sea-farin' man like me knows, an' of course it's in the city. you wouldn't expect a business-house to be in the country, would you? all i know is that they want mitts made--hundreds of 'em--no end o' mitts--an' they hain't got hands enough to make 'em, so they sent me to ask if you'll undertake to help in the work, or if they're to git some one else to do it. now, will you, or will you not? that's the pint." "of course we shall be only too happy," answered jessie, "though the application is strange. how did you come to know that we were in want of--that is, who sent you to us?" "the house sent me, as i said afore, miss." "yes, but how did the house come to know of our existence, and how is it that a house of any sort should send a sailor-boy as its messenger?" "how the house came to know of you is more than i can say. they don't tell me all the outs-an'-ins of their affairs, you know. as to a house sendin' a sailor-boy as its messenger--did you ever hear of the great house of messrs. hewett and company, what supplies billin'sgate with fish?" "i'm not sure--well, yes, i think i have heard of that house," said kate, "though we are not in the way of hearing much about the commercial houses of london." "well," continued billy, "that house sends hundreds of fisher-boys as messengers. it sends 'em to the deep-sea with a message to the fish, an the message is--`come out o' the water you skulkin' critters, an' be sent up to billin'sgate to be sold an' eaten!' the fish don't come willin'ly, i'm bound for to say that, but we make 'em come all the same, willin' or not, for we've wonderful powers o' persuasion. so you see, houses _do_ send fisher-boys as messengers sometimes; now, what am i to say to the partikler house as sends _me_? will you go in for mitts? you may take comforters if you prefer it, or helmets." "what do you mean by helmets, my boy?" "worsted ones, of course. things made to kiver up a man's head and neck and come down to his shoulders, with a hole in front just big enough to let his eyes, nose, and cheek-bones come through. with a sou'-wester on top, and a comforter round the neck, they're not so bad in a stiff nor'-wester in janoowairy. now's your chance, ladies, now, or niver!" there was something so ludicrous in the manly tone and decided manner of the smooth-faced little creature before them, that the sisters burst into a hearty fit of laughter. "forgive us, dear boy, but the idea of our being asked in this sudden way to make innumerable mitts and comforters and worsted helmets seems so odd that we can't help laughing. what is your name? that is not a secret, i hope?" "by no means. my name is billy bright. if you're very partikler, you may call me willum." "i prefer billy," said kate. "now, billy, it is near our dinner hour. will you stay and dine with us? if you do, you'll meet such a nice man--such a big man too--and somewhat in your own line of life; a sea-captain. we expect him every--" "no, thank 'ee, miss," interrupted the boy, rising abruptly. "i sees more than enough o' big sea-captings when i'm afloat. besides, i've got more business on hand, so i'll bid 'ee good-day." pulling his forelock he left the room. "the ladies has undertook some work for me, my dear," said billy to liffie lee, as he stood at the door buttoning up his little coat, "so p'raps i may see you again." "it won't break my 'art if you don't," replied liffie; "no, nor yet yours." "speak for yourself, young 'ooman. you don't know nothing about _my_ 'art." as he spoke, a heavy foot was heard at the bottom of the stair. "that's our lodger," said liffie; "no foot but his can bang the stair or make it creak like that." "well, i'm off," cried billy, descending two steps at a time. half-way down he encountered what seemed to him a giant with a chest on his shoulder. it was the darkest part of the stair where they met. "look out ahead! hard a starboard!" growled captain bream, who seemed to be heavily weighted. "ay, ay, sir!" cried billy, as he brushed past, bounded into the street, and swaggered away. "what boy was that, liffie?" asked the captain, letting down the chest he carried with a shock that caused the frail tenement to quiver from cellar to roof-tree. "i don't know, sir." "he must be a sailor-boy, from his answer," rejoined the captain. "open the door o' my cabin, lass, and i'll carry it right in. it's somewhat heavy." he lifted the chest, which was within an eighth of an inch of being too large to pass through the little door-way, and put it in a corner, after which he entered the parlour, and sat down in a solid wooden chair which he had supplied to the establishment for his own special use. "you see," he had said, on the day when he introduced it, "i've come to grief so often in the matter of chairs that i've become chary as to how i use 'em. if all the chairs that i've had go crash under me was put together they'd furnish a good-sized house. look before you leap is a well-known proverb, but, look before you sit down, has become a more familiar experience to me through life. it's an awkward thing bein' so heavy, and i hope you'll never know what it is, ladies." judging from their appearance just then there did not seem much prospect of that! "now," continued the captain, rubbing his hands and looking benignantly at jessie, "i have settled the matter at last; fairly said good-bye to old ocean, an' fixed to cast anchor for good on the land." "have you indeed, captain?" said jessie, "i should fancy that you must feel rather sorry to bid farewell to so old a friend." "that's true, miss seaward. an old and good friend the sea has been to me, thank god. but i'm gettin' too old myself to be much of a friend to _it_, so i've fixed to say good-bye. and the question is, am i to stop on here, or am i to look out for another lodgin'? you see i've been a good many weeks with you now, an' you've had a fair taste of me, so to speak. i know i'm a rough sort o' fish for the like o' you to have to do with, and, like some o' the hermit crabs, rather too big for my shell, so if you find me awkward or uncomfortable don't hesitate to say so. i won't be surprised, though i confess i should be sorry to leave you." "well, captain bream," said kate, who was generally the speaker when delicate, difficult or unpleasant subjects had to be dealt with, "since you have been so candid with us we will be equally candid with you. when you first came to us, i confess that we were much alarmed; you seemed--so very big," (the captain tried to shrink a little--without success--and smiled in a deprecating manner), "and our rooms and furniture seemed so very small and delicate, so to speak; and then your voice was so fearfully deep and gruff," (the captain cleared his throat softly--in b natural of the bass clef--and smiled again), "that we were almost frightened to receive you; but, now that we have had experience of you, we are quite willing that you should continue with us--on one condition, however." "and that is?" asked the captain anxiously. "that you pay us a lower rent." "a--a higher rent you mean, i suppose?" "no; i mean a lower." captain bream's benign visage became grave and elongated. "you see, captain," continued kate, flushing a little, "when you first came, we tried--excuse me--to get rid of you, to shake you off, and we almost doubled the rent of our little room, hoping that--" "quite right, quite right," interrupted the captain, "and according to strict justice, for ain't i almost double the size of or'nary men, an' don't i give more than double the trouble?" "not so," returned kate, firmly, "you don't give half the trouble that other men do." "excuse me, miss kate," said the captain with a twinkle in his grey eye, "you told me i was your first lodger, so how can you know how much trouble other men would give?" "no matter," persisted kate, a little confused, "you don't give _half_ the trouble that other lodgers would have given if we had had them." "ah! h'm--well," returned the captain softly, in the profoundest possible bass, "looking at the matter in that light, perhaps you are not far wrong. but, go on." "well, i have only to add," continued kate, "that you have been so kind to us, and so considerate, and have given us so little--so _very_ little trouble, that it will give us both great pleasure to have you continue to lodge with us, if you agree to the reduction of the rent." "very well," said captain bream, pulling out an immense gold chronometer--the gift, in days gone by, of a band of highly grateful and appreciative passengers. "i've got business in the city an hour hence. we shall have dinner first. two hours afterwards i will return with a cab and take away my boxes. that will give you plenty of time to make out your little bill and--" "what _do_ you mean, captain?" interrupted kate, in much surprise. "i mean, dear ladies, that you and i entered into an agreement to rent your little cabin for so much. now it has been my rule in life to stick to agreements, and i mean to stick to this one or throw up my situation. besides, i'm not goin' to submit to have the half of my rent cut off. i can't stand it. like old shylock, i mean to stick to the letter of the bond. now, _is_ it `to be, or not to be?' as hamlet said to the ass." "i was not aware that hamlet said that to an ass," remarked jessie, with a little laugh. "oh yes! he did," returned the captain quite confidently; "he said it to himself, you know, an' that was the same thing. but what about the agreement?" "well, since you are so determined, i suppose we must give in," said kate. "we can't resist you, captain," said jessie, "but there is one thing that we must positively insist on, namely, that you come and sit in this room of an evening. i suppose you read or write a great deal, for we see your light burning very late sometimes, and as you have no fire you must often feel very cold." "cold!" shouted the captain, with a laugh that caused the very window-frames to vibrate. "my dear ladies, i'm never cold. got so used to it, i suppose, that it has no power over me. why, when a man o' my size gets heated right through, it takes three or four hours to cool him even a little. besides, if it do come a very sharp frost, i've got a bear-skin coat that our ship-carpenter made for me one voyage in the arctic regions. it is hot enough inside almost to cook you. did i ever show it you? i'll fetch it." captain bream rose with such energy that he unintentionally spurned his chair--his own solid peculiar chair--and caused it to pirouette on one leg before tumbling backward with a crash. next minute he returned enveloped from head to foot in what might be termed a white-bear ulster, with an enormous hood at the back of his neck. accustomed as the sisters were to their lodger's bulk, they were not prepared for the marvellous increase caused by the monstrous hairy garment. "it would puzzle the cold to get at me through this, wouldn't it?" said its owner, surveying it with complacency. "it was my own invention too--at least the carpenter and i concocted it between us. "the sleeves are closed up at the ends, you see, and a thumb attached to each, so as to make sleeves and mittens all of a piece, with a slit near the wrists to let you shove your hands out when you want to use them naked, an' a flap to cover the slit and keep the wind out when you don't want to shove out your hands. then the hood, you see, is large and easy, so that it can be pulled well for'ard--so--and this broad band behind it unbuttons and comes round in front of the face and buttons, so--to keep all snug when you lay down to sleep." "wonderful!" exclaimed the sisters as the captain stood before them like a great pillar of white fur, with nothing of him visible save the eyes and feet. "but that's not all," continued the ancient mariner, turning his back to the sisters. "you see that great flap hooked up behind?" "yes," answered jessie and kate in the same breath. "well, then, notice what i do." he sat down on the floor, and unhooking the flap, drew it round in front, where he re-hooked it to another row of eyes in such a manner that it completely covered his feet and lower limbs. "there, you see, i'm in a regular fur-bag now, all ready for a night in the snow." by way of illustration he extended himself on the floor at full-length, and, by reason of that length being so great, and the room so narrow, his feet went into the window-recess, while his head lay near the door. all ignorant of this illustration of arctic life going on, liffie lee, intent on dinner purposes, opened the door and drove it violently against the captain's head. "avast there!" he shouted, rising promptly. "come in, lass. come in-- no damage done." "oh! sir," exclaimed the horrified liffie, "i ax your parding." "don't put yourself about my girl. i'm used to collisions, and it's not in the power o' your small carcass to do me damage." disrobing himself as he spoke, the lodger retired to his cabin to lay aside his curious garment, and liffie, assisted by kate, took advantage of his absence to spread their little board. "i never saw such a man," said kate in a low voice as she bustled about. "saw!" exclaimed jessie under her breath, "i never even conceived of such a man. he is so violent in his actions that i constantly feel as if i should be run over and killed. it feels like living in the same house with a runaway mail coach. how fortunate that his spirit is so gentle and kind!" a tremendous crash at that moment caused jessie to stop with a gasp. "hallo! fetch a swab--a dish-clout or somethin', liffie," came thundering from the captain's room. "don't be alarmed, ladies, it's only the wash-hand basin. knocked it over in hangin' up the coat. nothin' smashed. it's a tin basin, you know. look alive, lass, else the water'll git down below, for the caulkin' of these planks ain't much to boast of, an' you'll have the green-grocer up in a towering rage!" a few minutes later this curious trio sat down to dinner, and the captain, according to a custom established from the commencement of his sojourn, asked a blessing on the meat in few words, but with a deeply reverent manner, his great hands being clasped before him, and with his eyes shut like a little child. "well now, before beginning," he said, looking up, "let me understand; is this matter of the lodging and rent settled?" "yes, it is settled," answered jessie. "we've got used to you, captain, and should be very, very sorry to lose you." "come, that's all right. let's shake hands on it over the leg of mutton." he extended his long arm over the small table, and spread out his enormous palm in front of jessie seaward. with an amused laugh she laid her little hand in it--to grasp it was out of the question--and the mighty palm closed for a moment with an affectionate squeeze. the same ceremony having been gone through with kate, he proceeded to carve. and what a difference between the dinners that once graced--perhaps we should say disgraced--that board, and those that smoked upon it now! then, tea and toast, with sometimes an egg, and occasionally a bit of bacon, were the light viands; now, beef, mutton, peas, greens, potatoes, and other things, constituted the heavy fare. the sisters had already begun to get stronger on it. the captain would have got stronger, no doubt, had that been possible. and what a satisfactory thing it was to watch captain bream at his meals! there was something grand--absolutely majestic--in his action. being a profoundly modest and unselfish man it was not possible to associate the idea of gluttony with him, though he possessed the digestion of an ostrich, and the appetite of a shark. there was nothing hurried, or eager, or careless, in his mode of eating. his motions were rather slow than otherwise; his proceedings deliberate. he would even at times check a tempting morsel on its way to his mouth that he might more thoroughly understand and appreciate something that jessie or kate chanced to be telling him. yet with all that, he compelled you, while looking at him, to whisper to yourself--"how he does shovel it in!" "i declare to you, kate," said jessie, on one occasion after the captain had left the room, "i saw him take one bite to-day which ought to have choked him, but it didn't. he stuck his fork into a piece of mutton as big--oh! i'm afraid to say how big; it really seemed to me the size of your hand, and he piled quite a little mound of green peas on it, with a great mass of broken fragments and gravy, and put it all into his mouth at once, though that mouth was already pretty well-filled with the larger half of an enormous potato. i thought he would never get it in, but something you said caused him to laugh at the time, and before the laugh was over the bite had disappeared. before it was properly swallowed he was helping himself to another slice from the leg of mutton! i declare to you, kate, that many a time i have dined altogether on less than that one bite!" poor miss seaward had stated a simple truth in regard to herself, but that truth was founded on want of food, not on want of appetite or capacity for more. at first it had been arranged that an account-book should be kept, and that the captain should pay for one-third of the food that was consumed in the house, but he had consumed so much, and the sisters so ridiculously little, that he refused to fall in with such an arrangement and insisted on paying for all the food consumed, with the exception of the cup of coffee, cream, and sugar, with which he regaled himself every day after dinner. of course they had had a battle over this matter also, but the captain had carried the day, as he usually did, for he had marvellous powers of suasion. he had indeed so argued, and talked, and bamboozled the meek sisters--sometimes seriously, oftener jocularly,-- that they had almost been brought to the belief that somehow or other their lodger was only doing what was just! after all, they were not so far wrong, for all that they ate of the captain's provisions amounted to a mere drop in the bucket, while the intellectual food with which they plied their lodger in return, and the wealth of sympathy with which they surrounded him, was far beyond the power of gold to purchase. "no," said captain bream, sipping his coffee and shaking his head, when jessie again pressed on him the propriety of sitting in the parlour of an evening, "i can't do it. the fact is that i'm studying--though you may think i'm rather an oldish student--and i can't study except when i'm alone." "what are you studying?" asked kate, and then, observing that the captain looked slightly confused, and feeling that she ought not to have put the question, she quickly changed the subject by adding--"for whatever it is, you will be quite free from interruption here. my sister and i often sit for hours without talking, and--" "no, no, dear miss kate. say no more," interrupted the captain; "i must stick to my own cabin except at meal-times, and, of course, when we want a bit of a talk together. there is one thing, however, that i would like. i know you have family worship with your little lass. may i join you?" "oh! it would give us such pleasure," exclaimed kate, eagerly, "if you would come and conduct worship for us." the captain protested that he would not do that, but finally gave in, and afterwards acted the part of chaplain in the family. "by the way," he said, when about to quit the parlour, "i've brought another chest to the house." "yes," said kate, "we felt the shock when you put it down." "well, it is a bit heavy. i've fairly given up my connection with my last ship, and as the new commander took possession this morning i was obliged to bring away my last box. now, i don't want liffie to move it about when putting things to rights, or to meddle with it in any way. when we want to sweep behind or under it i'll shift it myself. but, after all, you're safe not to move it, for the three of you together couldn't if you were to try ever so much. so, good-day. i'll be back to tea." "kate," said jessie, after he was gone, "i am quite sure that there is some mystery connected with that box." "of course you are," replied kate, with a laugh, "you always see mystery in things that you don't understand! you saw mystery too, didn't you, in the late sitting up and studies of captain bream." "indeed i did, and i am quite sure that there _is_ some mystery about that, too." "just so, and i have no doubt that you observe mystery of some sort," added kate, with a humorous glance, "in the order for worsted work that we have just received." "undoubtedly i do," replied jessie, with decision. "the whole affair is mysterious--ridiculously so. in truth it seems to me that we are surrounded by mystery." "well, well, sister mine," said the matter-of-fact kate, going to a small cupboard and producing an ample work-box that served for both, "whatever mysteries may surround us, it is our business to fulfil our engagements, so we will at once begin our knitting of cuffs and comforters for the fishermen of the north sea." chapter six. the curse of the north sea; and the trawls at work. there are few objects in nature, we think, more soothing to the feelings and at the same time more heart-stirring to the soul than the wide ocean in a profound calm, when sky and temperature, health, hour, and other surrounding conditions combine to produce unison of the entire being. such were the conditions, one lovely morning about the end of summer, which gladdened the heart of little billy bright as he leaned over the side of the _evening star_, and made faces at his own reflected image in the sea, while he softly whistled a slow melody to which the gentle swell beat time. the _evening star_ was at that time the centre of a constellation--if we may so call it--of fishing-smacks, which floated in hundreds around her. it was the "short blue" fleet of deep-sea trawlers; so named because of the short square flag of blue, by which it was distinguished from other deep-sea fleets--such as the grimsby fleet, the columbia fleet, the great northern, yarmouth, red cross, and other fleets--which do our fishing business from year's end to year's end on the north sea. but billy was thoughtless and apt to enjoy what was agreeable, without reference to its being profitable. some of the conditions which rejoiced his heart had the reverse effect on his father. that gruff-spirited fisherman did not want oily seas, or serene blue skies, or reflected clouds and sunshine--no, what he wanted was fish, and before the _evening star_ could drag her ponderous "gear" along the bottom of the sea, so as to capture fish, it was necessary that a stiffish breeze should not only ruffle but rouse the billows of the north sea--all the better if it should fringe their crests with foam. "my usual luck," growled david bright, as he came on deck after a hearty breakfast, and sat down on the bulwarks to fill his pipe and do what in him lay to spoil his digestion--though, to do david justice, his powers in that line were so strong that he appeared to be invulnerable to tobacco and spirits. we use the word "appeared" advisedly, for in reality the undermining process was going on surely, though in his case slowly. his "hands," having enjoyed an equally good breakfast, were moving quietly about, paying similar attention to their digestions! there was our tall friend joe davidson, the mate; and ned spivin, a man of enormous chest and shoulders, though short in the legs; and luke trevor, a handsome young fellow of middle size, but great strength and activity, and john gunter, a big sour-faced man with a low brow, rough black hair, and a surly spirit. billy was supposed to be minding the tiller, but, in the circumstances, the tiller was left to mind itself. zulu was the only active member on board, to judge from the clatter of his pots and pans below. "my usual luck," said the skipper a second time, in a deeper growl. "seems to me," said gunter, in a growl that was even more deep and discontented than that of the skipper, "that luck is always down on us." "'tis the same luck that the rest o' the fleet has got, anyhow," observed joe davidson, who was the most cheerful spirit in the smack; but, indeed, all on board, with the exception of the skipper and gunter, were men of a hearty, honest, cheerful nature, more or less careless about life and limb. to the mate's remark the skipper said "humph," and gunter said that he was the unluckiest fellow that ever went to sea. "you're always growling, jack," said ned spivin, who was fond of chaffing his mates; "they should have named you grunter when they were at it." "i only wish the coper was alon'side," said the skipper, "but she's always out of the way when she's wanted. who saw her last?" "i did," said luke trevor, "just after we had crossed the silver pits; and i wish we might never see her again." "why so, mate?" asked gunter. "because she's the greatest curse that floats on the north sea," returned luke in a tone of indignation. "ah!--you hate her because you've jined the teetotallers," returned gunter with something of a sneer. "no, mate, i don't hate her because i've jined the teetotallers, but i've jined the teetotallers because i hate her." "pretty much the same thing, ain't it?" "no more the same thing," retorted luke, "than it is the same thing to put the cart before the horse or the horse before the cart. it wasn't total-abstainin' that made me hate the coper, but it was hatred of the coper that made me take to total-abstainin'--don't you see?" "not he," said billy bright, who had joined the group; "gunter never sees nothing unless you stick it on to the end of his nose, an' even then you've got to tear his eyes open an' force him to look." gunter seized a rope's-end and made a demonstration of an intention to apply it, but billy was too active; he leaped aside with a laugh, and then, getting behind the mast, invited the man to come on "an' do his wust." gunter laid down the rope's-end with a grim smile and turned to luke trevor. "but i'm sure you've got no occasion," he said, "to blackguard the coper, for you haven't bin to visit her much." "no, thank god, i have not," said luke earnestly, "yet i've bin aboard often enough to wish i had never bin there at all. it's not that, mates, that makes me so hard on the coper, but it was through the accursed drink got aboard o' that floatin' grog-shop that i lost my best friend." "how was that, luke? we never heerd on it." the young fisherman paused a few moments as if unwilling to talk on a distasteful subject. "well, it ain't surprisin' you didn't hear of it," he said, "because i was in the morgan fleet at the time, an' it's more than a year past. the way of it was this. we was all becalmed, on a mornin' much like this, not far off the borkum reef, when our skipper jumped into the boat, ordered my friend sterlin' an' me into it, an' went off cruisin'. we visited one or two smacks, the skippers o' which were great chums of our skipper, an' he got drunk there. soon after, a stiff breeze sprang up, an' the admiral signalled to bear away to the nor'-west'ard. we bundled into our boat an' made for our smack, but by ill luck we had to pass the coper, an' nothin' would please the skipper but to go aboard and have a glass. sterlin' tried to prevent him, but he grew savage an' told him to mind his own business. well, he had more than one glass, and by that time it was blowin' so 'ard we began to think we'd have some trouble to get back again. at last he consented to leave, an' a difficult job it was to get him into the boat wi' the sea that was runnin'. when we got alongside of our smack, he laid hold of sterlin's oar an' told him to throw the painter aboard. my friend jumped up an' threw the end o' the painter to one of the hands. he was just about to lay hold o' the side an' spring over when the skipper stumbled against him, caused him to miss his grip, an' sent him clean overboard. poor sterlin' had on his long boots an' a heavy jacket. he went down like a stone. we never saw him again." "did none o' you try to save him?" asked joe quickly. "we couldn't," replied luke. "i made a dash at him, but he was out o' sight by that time. he went down so quick that i can't help thinkin' he must have struck his head on the side in goin' over." luke trevor did not say, as he might have truly said, that he dived after his friend, being himself a good swimmer, and nearly lost his own life in the attempt to save that of sterling. "d'ye think the skipper did it a' purpose, mate?" asked david. "sartinly not," answered luke. "the skipper had no ill-will at him, but he was so drunk he couldn't take care of himself, an' didn't know what he was about." "that wasn't the fault o' the coper," growled gunter. "you say he got half-screwed afore he went there, an' he might have got dead-drunk without goin' aboard of her at all." "so he might," retorted luke; "nevertheless it _was_ the coper that finished him off at that time--as it has finished off many a man before, and will, no doubt, be the death o' many more in time to come." the copers, which luke trevor complained of so bitterly, are dutch vessels which provide spirits and tobacco, the former of a cheap, bad, and peculiarly fiery nature. they follow the fleets everywhere, and are a continual source of mischief to the fishermen, many of whom, like men on shore, find it hard to resist a temptation which is continually presented to them. "there goes the admiral," sang out little billy, who, while listening to the conversation, had kept his sharp little eyes moving about. the admiral of the fleet, among north sea fishermen, is a very important personage. there is an "admiral" to each fleet, though we write just now about the admiral of the "short blue." he is chosen for steadiness and capacity, and has to direct the whole fleet as to the course it shall steer, the letting down of its "gear" or trawls, etcetera, and his orders are obeyed by all. one powerful reason for such obedience is that if they do not follow the admiral they will find themselves at last far away from the steamers which come out from the thames daily to receive the fish; for it is a rule that those steamers make straight for the admiral's vessel. by day the admiral is distinguished by a flag half way up the maintop-mast stay. by night signals are made with rockets. while the crew of the _evening star_ were thus conversing, a slight breeze had sprung up, and billy had observed that the admiral's smack was heading to windward in an easterly direction. as the breeze came down on the various vessels of the fleet, they all steered the same course, so that in a few minutes nearly two hundred smacks were following him like a shoal of herring. the glassy surface of the sea was effectually broken, and a field of rippling indigo took the place of the ethereal sheet of blue. thus the whole fleet passed steadily to windward, the object being to get to such a position on the "fishing-grounds" before night-fall, that they could put about and sail before the wind during the night, dragging their ponderous trawls over the banks where fish were known to lie. night is considered the best time to fish, though they also fish by day, the reason being, it is conjectured, that the fish do not see the net so well at night; it may be, also, that they are addicted to slumber at that period! be the reason what it may, the fact is well-known. accordingly, about ten o'clock the admiral hove-to for a few minutes. so did the fleet. on board the _evening star_ they took soundings, and found twenty-five fathoms. then the admiral called attention by showing a "flare." "look out now, billy," said david bright to his son, who was standing close by the capstan. billy needed no caution. his sharp eyes were already on the watch. "a green rocket! there she goes, father." the green rocket signified that the gear was to be put down on the starboard side, and the fleet to steer to the southward. bustling activity and tremendous vigour now characterised the crew of the _evening star_ as they proceeded to obey the order. a clear starry sky and a bright moon enabled them to see clearly what they were about, and they were further enlightened by a lantern in the rigging. the trawl which they had to put down was, as we have said, a huge and ponderous affair, and could only be moved by means of powerful blocks and tackle aided by the capstan. it consisted of a thick spar called the "beam", about forty-eight feet long, and nearly a foot thick, supported on a massive iron hoop, or runner, at each end. these irons were meant to drag over the bottom of the sea and keep the beam from touching it. attached to this beam was the bag-net--a very powerful one, as may be supposed, with a small mesh. it was seventy feet long, and about sixteen feet of the outermost end was much stronger than the rest, and formed the bag, named the cod-end, in which the fish were ultimately collected. besides being stronger, the cod-end was covered by flounces of old netting, to prevent the rough bottom from chafing it too much. the cost of such a net alone is about pounds. to the beam, attached at the two ends, was a very powerful rope called the bridle. it was twenty fathoms long. to this was fastened the warp--a rope made of best manilla and hemp, always of great strength. the amount of this paid out depended much on the weather; if very rough it might be about fathoms, if moderate about . sometimes such net and gear is carried away, and this involves a loss of about pounds sterling. we may dismiss these statistics by saying that a good night's fishing may be worth from pounds to pounds, and a good trip--of eight weeks-- may produce from to pounds. soon the gear was down in the twenty-five fathom water, and the trawl-warp became as rigid almost as an iron bar, while the speed of the smack through the water was greatly reduced--perhaps to three miles an hour--by the heavy drag behind her, a drag that ever increased as fish of all sorts and sizes were scraped into the net. why the fish are such idiots as to remain in the net when they could swim out of it at the rate of thirty miles an hour is best known to themselves. besides the luminaries which glittered in the sky that night the sea was alive with the mast-head lights of the fishing smacks, but these lower lights, unlike the serenely steady lights above, were ever changing in position, as well as dancing on the crested waves, giving life to the dark waters, and creating, at least in the little breast of billy bright, a feeling of companionship which was highly gratifying. "now, lad, go below and see if zulu has got something for us to eat," said david to his son. "here, luke trevor, mind the helm." the young fisherman, who had been labouring with the others at the gear like a hercules, stepped forward and took the tiller, while the skipper and his son descended to the cabin, where the rest of the men were already assembled in anticipation of supper. the cabin was remarkably snug, but it was also pre-eminently simple. so, also, was the meal. the arts of upholstery and cookery had not been brought to bear in either case. the apartment was about twelve feet long by ten broad, and barely high enough to let joe davidson stand upright. two wooden lockers ran along either side of it. behind these were the bunks of the men. at the inner end were some more lockers, and aft, there was an open stove, or fireplace, alongside of the companion-ladder. a clock and a barometer were the chief ornaments of the place. the atmosphere of it was not fresh by any means, and volumes of tobacco smoke rendered it hazy. but what cared these heavy-booted, rough-handed, big-framed, iron-sinewed, strong-hearted men for fresh air? they got enough of that, during their long hours on deck, to counteract the stifling odours of the regions below! "now, then, boys, dar you is," said zulu, placing a huge pot on the floor, containing some sort of nautical soup. "i's cook you soup an' tea, an' dar's sugar an' butter, an' lots o' fish and biskit, so you fire away till you bu'st yourselves." the jovial zulu bestowed on the company a broad and genial grin as he set the example by filling a bowl with the soup. the others did not require a second bidding. what they lacked in quality was more than made up in quantity, and rendered delicious by appetite. conversation flagged, of course, while these hardy sons of toil were busy with their teeth, balancing themselves and their cups and bowls carefully, while the little vessel rolled heavily over the heaving waves. by degrees the teeth became less active and the tongues began to wag. "i wish that feller would knock off psalm-singin'," said gunter with an oath, as he laid down his knife and wiped his mouth. he referred to luke trevor, who possessed a sweet mellow voice, and was cheering himself, as he stood at the helm, by humming a hymn, or something like one, for the words were not distinguishable in the cabin. "i think that luke, if he was here, would wish some other feller to knock off cursin' an' swearin'," said joe. "come, joe," said the skipper, "don't you pretend to be one o' the religious sort, for you know you're not." "that's true," returned joe, "and i don't pretend to be; but surely a man may object to cursin' without bein' religious. i've heard men say that they don't mean nothin' by their swearin'. p'raps the psalm-singin' men might say the same; but for my part if they both mean nothin' by it, i'd rather be blessed than cursed by my mates any day." "the admiral's signallin', sir," sung out luke, putting his head down the companion at that moment. the men went on deck instantly; nevertheless each found time to light the inevitable pipe before devoting himself entirely to duty. the signal was to haul up the trawl, and accordingly all the fleet set to work at their capstans, the nets having by that time been down about three or four hours. it was hard work and slow, that heaving at the capstans hour after hour, with the turbulent sea tossing about the little smacks, few of which were much above seventy tons burden. one or two in the fleet worked their capstans by steam-power--an immense relief to the men, besides a saving of time. "it's hard on the wrists," said gunter during a brief pause in the labour, as he turned up the cuffs of his oiled frock and displayed a pair of wrists that might well have caused him to growl. the constant chafing of the hard cuffs had produced painful sores and swellings, which were further irritated by salt water. "my blessin's on de sweet ladies what takes so much trouble for us," said zulu, pulling up his sleeves and regarding with much satisfaction a pair of worsted cuffs; "nebber had no sore wrists since i put on dese. w'y you no use him, gunter?" "'cause i've lost 'em, you black baboon," was gunter's polite reply. "nebber mind, you long-nosed white gorilla," was zulu's civil rejoinder, "you kin git another pair when nixt we goes aboard de mission-ship. till den you kin grin an enjoy you'self." "heave away, lads," said the skipper, and away went the capstan again as the men grasped the handles and bent their strong backs, sometimes heaving in a few turns of the great rope with a run, as the trawl probably passed over a smooth bit of sand; sometimes drawing it in with difficulty, inch by inch, as the net was drawn over some rough or rocky place, and occasionally coming for a time to a dead lock, when--as is not unfrequently the case--they caught hold of a bit of old wreck, or, worse still, were caught by the fluke of a lost anchor. thus painfully but steadily they toiled, until the bridle or rope next to the beam appeared above the waves, and then they knew that the end of all their labour was at hand. chapter seven. a haul and its consequences--mysterious news from the land. "now billy, you shrimp," cried david bright, seizing his son by the collar and giving him a friendly shake that would have been thought severe handling by any but a fisher-boy, "don't go excitin' of yourself. you'll never make a man worth speakin' of if you can't keep down your feelin's." but billy could not keep down his feelings. they were too strong for him. he was naturally of an excitable--what we may call a jovial-- jumping--disposition, and, although he had now been some months at sea, he had not yet succeeded in crushing down that burst of delight with which he viewed the cod-end of the great deep-sea net as it was hoisted over the side by the power of block and tackle. "you never trouble yourself about my feelin's, father, so long's i do my dooty," said the boy with native insolence, as he looked eagerly over the side at the mass of fish which gleamed faintly white as it neared the surface, while he helped with all his little might to draw in the net. "but i want to teach you more than dooty, my boy," returned the skipper. "i've got to make a man of you. i promised that to your mother, you know. if you want to be a man, you must foller my example--be cool an' steady." "if i'm to foller your example, father, why don't you let me foller it all round, an' smoke an' drink as well?" "shut up, you agrawatin' sinner," growled the skipper. "heave away, lads. here, hand me the rope, an' send aft the tackle." by this time the heavy beam had been secured to the side of the vessel, most of the net hauled in, and the bag, or cod-end, was above the surface filled almost to bursting with upwards of a ton of turbots, soles, haddocks, plaice, dabs, whitings, etcetera, besides several hundredweight of mud, weeds, stones, and oysters. sometimes, indeed, this bag does burst, and in one moment all the profit and toil of a night's fishing is lost. when the skipper had secured a strong rope round the bag and hooked it on to a block and tackle made fast to the rigging, the order was given to heave away, and gradually the ponderous mass rose like an oval balloon, or buoy, over the vessel's side. when it cleared the rail it was swung inwards and secured in a hanging position, with the lower end sweeping the deck as the smack rolled from side to side. in all these operations, from the prolonged heaving at the capstan to the hauling in of the net, hand over hand, the men were exerting their great physical powers to the uttermost--almost without a moment's relaxation--besides being deluged at times by spray, which, however, their oiled frocks, long boots, and sou'-westers prevented from quite drenching them. but now all danger of loss was over, and they proceeded to liberate the fish. the cod-end had its lower part secured by a strong rope. all that had to be done, therefore, was to untie the rope and open the bottom of the net. it fell to luke trevor to do this. billy was standing by in eager expectation. ned spivin stood behind him. now, we have said that spivin was fond of chaffing his mates and of practical jokes. so was billy, and between these two, therefore, there was a species of rivalry. when spivin observed that luke was about to pull out the last loop that held the bag, he shouted in a loud voice of alarm-- "hallo! billy, catch hold of this rope, quick!" billy turned like a flash of light and seized the rope held out to him. the momentary distraction was enough. before he could understand the joke the bottom of the bag opened, the ton-and-a-half, more or less, of fish burst forth, spread itself over the deck like an avalanche, swept billy off his little legs, and almost overwhelmed him, to the immense delight of spivin, who impudently bent down and offered to help him to rise. "come here, billy, and i'll help you up," he said, kindly, as the tail of a skate flipped across the boy's nose, and almost slid into his mouth. billy made no reply, but, clearing himself of fish, jumped up, seized a gaping cod by the gills, and sent it all alive and kicking straight into spivin's face. the aim was true. the man was blinded for a few moments by the fish, and his mates were well-nigh choked with laughter. "come, come--no sky-larking!" growled the skipper. "play when your work is done, boys." thus reproved, the crew began to clear away the mass of weeds and refuse, after which all hands prepared the trawl to be ready for going down again, and then they set to work to clean and sort the fish. this was comparatively easy work at that season of the year, but when winter gales and winter frosts sweep over the north sea, only those who suffer it know what it is to stand on the slimy pitching deck with naked and benumbed hands, disembowelling fish and packing them in small oblong boxes called "trunks," for the london market. and little do londoners think, perhaps, when eating their turbot, sole, plaice, cod, haddock, whiting, or other fish, by what severe night-work, amid bitter cold, and too often tremendous risks, the food has been provided for them. it is not, however, our purpose to moralise just now, though we might do so with great propriety, but to tell our story, on which some of the seemingly trifling incidents of that night had a special bearing. one of those incidents was the cutting of a finger. ned spivin, whose tendency towards fun and frolic at all times rendered him rather slap-dash and careless, was engaged in the rather ignoble work of cutting off skates' tails--these appendages not being deemed marketable. this operation he performed with a hatchet, but some one borrowed the hatchet for a few minutes, and spivin continued the operation with his knife. one of the tails being tough, and the knife blunt, the impatient man used violence. impatience and violence not unfrequently result in damage. the tail gave way unexpectedly, and spivin cut a deep gash in his left hand. cuts, gashes, and bruises are the frequent experience of smacksmen. spivin bound up the gash with a handkerchief, and went on with his work. before their work was quite done, however, a gale, which had been threatening from the nor'-west, set in with considerable force, and rapidly increased, so that the packing of the last few trunks, and stowing them into the hold, became a matter not only of difficulty but of danger. by that time the sky had clouded over, and the lantern in the rigging alone gave light. "it will blow harder," said trevor to billy as they stood under shelter of the weather bulwarks holding on to the shrouds. "does it never come into your mind to think where we would all go to if the _evening star_ went down?" "no, luke. i can't say as it does. somehow i never think of father's smack goin' down." "and yet," returned luke in a meditative tone, "it may happen, you know, any night. it's not six months since the _raven_ went down, with all hands, though she was as tight a craft as any in the fleet, and her captain was a first-rate seaman, besides bein' steady." "ay, but then, you see," said billy, "she was took by three heavy seas one arter the other, and no vessel, you know, could stand that." "no, not even the _evening star_ if she was took that fashion, an' we never know when it's goin' to happen. i suspect, billy, that the psalm-singers, as gunter calls 'em, has the best of it. they work as well as any men in the fleet--sometimes i think better--an' then they're always in such a jolly state o' mind! if good luck comes, they praise god for it, an' if bad luck comes they praise god that it's no worse. whatever turns up they appear to be in a thankful state o' mind, and that seems to me a deal better than growlin', swearin', and grumblin', as so many of us do at what we can't change. what d'ee think, billy?" "well, to tell 'ee the truth, luke, i don't think about it at all-- anyhow, i've never thought about it till to-night." "but it's worth thinkin' about, billy?" "that's true," returned the boy, who was of a naturally straightforward disposition, and never feared to express his opinions freely. just then a sea rose on the weather quarter, threatening, apparently, to fall inboard. so many waves had done the same thing before, that no one seemed to regard it much; but the experienced eye of the skipper noticed a difference, and he had barely time to give a warning shout when the wave rushed over the side like a mighty river, and swept the deck from stem to stern. many loose articles were swept away and lost, and the boat which lay on the deck alongside of the mast, had a narrow escape. billy and his friend luke, being well under the lee of the bulwarks, escaped the full force of the deluge, but ned spivin, who steered, was all but torn from his position, though he clung with all his strength to the tiller and the rope that held it fast. the skipper was under the partial shelter of the mizzenmast, and clung to the belaying-pins. john gunter was the only one who came to grief. he was dashed with great violence to leeward, but held on to the shrouds for his life. the mate was below at the moment and so was zulu, whose howl coming from the cabin, coupled with a hiss of water in the fire, told that he had suffered from the shock. the immense body of water that filled the main-sail threw the vessel for a short time nearly on her beam-ends--a position that may be better understood when we say that it converts one of the sides of the vessel into the floor, the other side into the ceiling, and the floor and deck respectively into upright walls! fortunately the little smack got rid of the water in a few seconds, arose slowly, and appeared to shake herself like a duck rising out of the sea. sail had already been reduced to the utmost; nevertheless, the wind was so strong that for three hours afterwards the crew never caught sight of the lee-bulwarks, so buried were they in foam as the _evening star_ leaned over and rushed madly on her course. towards morning the wind moderated a little, and then the crew gazed anxiously around on the heaving grey waves, for well did they know that such a squall could not pass over the north sea without claiming its victims. "it blowed that 'ard at one time," said ned spivin to joe davidson, "that i expected to see the main-mast tore out of 'er." "i'm afeard for the _rainbow_," said joe. "she's nothin' better than a old bunch o' boards." "sometimes them old things hold out longer than we expect," returned ned. he was right. when the losses of that night came to be reckoned up, several good vessels were discovered to be missing, but the rotten old _rainbow_ still remained undestroyed though not unscathed, and a sad sight met the eyes of the men of the fleet when daylight revealed the fact that some of the smacks had their flags flying half-mast, indicating that many men had been washed overboard and lost during the night. as the day advanced, the weather improved, and the fishermen began to look anxiously out for the steamer which was to convey their fish to market, but none was to be seen. although a number of steamers run between billingsgate and the short blue fleet, it sometimes happens that they do not manage to find the fleet at once, and occasionally a day or more is lost in searching for it--to the damage of the fish if the weather be warm. it seemed as if a delay of this kind, had happened on the occasion of which we write; the admiral therefore signalled to let down the nets for a day haul. while this was being done, a vessel was seen to join the fleet from the westward. "that's singin' peter," said david bright to his mate. "i'd know his rig at any distance." "so it is. p'raps he's got letters for us." singing peter was one of the many fishermen who had been brought to a knowledge of jesus christ and saved from his sins. wild and careless before conversion, he afterwards became an enthusiastic follower of the lamb of god, and was so fond of singing hymns in his praise that he became known in the fleet by the sobriquet of singing peter. his beaming face and wholly changed life bore testimony to what the holy spirit had wrought in him. peter had been home to gorleston on his week of holiday, and had now returned to the fleet for his eight weeks' fishing-cruise, carrying a flag to show that he had just arrived, bringing letters and clothes, etcetera, for some of the crews. "i used to think peter warn't a bad feller," said david bright, as the new arrival drew near; "he was always good company, an' ready for his glass, but now he's taken to singin' psalms, i can make nothin' of 'im." "there's them in the fleet that like him better since he took to that," said luke trevor. "it may be so, lad, but that's not accordin' to _my_ taste," retorted the skipper. david was, however, by no means a surly fellow. when peter's vessel came within hail, he held up his hand and shouted-- "what cheer! what cheer, peter!" as heartily as possible. singing peter held up his hand in reply, and waved it as he shouted back-- "what cheer! all well, praise the lord!" "d'ye hear that billy?" said luke, in a low voice. "_he_ never forgets to praise the lord." when the vessels drew nearer, peter again waved his hand, and shouted-- "i've got letters for 'ee." "all right my hearty! i'll send for 'em." in less than five minutes the boat of the _evening star_ was launched over the side, stern-foremost, and she had scarce got fairly afloat on the dancing waves when joe and luke "swarmed" into her, had the oars out and were sweeping off so as to intercept peter's vessel they soon reached her, received a packet wrapped up in a bit of newspaper, and quickly returned. the packet contained two letters--one for the skipper, the other for the mate--from their respective wives. "joe," said the skipper, when he had perused his letter, "come down below. i want to speak to 'ee." "that's just what i was goin' to say to yourself, for the letter from my missis says somethin' that consarns you." when master and mate were alone together in the cabin, each read to the other his letter. "my missis," said the skipper, unfolding his letter and regarding it with a puzzled expression, "although she's had a pretty good edication, has paid little attention to her pot-hooks--but this is how it runs-- pretty near. `dear old man,' (she's always been an affectionate woman, joe, though i do treat her badly when i'm in liquor), `i hope you are having a good time of it and that darling billy likes the sea, and is a good boy. my reason for writing just now is to tell you about that dear sweet creature, miss ruth dotropy. she has been down at yarmouth again on a visit, and of course she has been over to see me and mrs davidson, in _such_ a lovely blue--' (ah! well, joe, there's no need to read you that bit; it's all about dress--as if dress could make miss ruth better or worse! but women's minds will run on ribbons an' suchlike. well, after yawin' about for a bit, she comes back to the pint, an' steers a straight course again. she goes on, after a blot or two that i can't make nothin' of), `you'll be surprised to hear, david, that she's been making some particular inquiries about you and me; which i don't understand at all, and looking as if she knew a deal more than she cared to tell. she's been asking mrs davidson too about it, and what puzzles me most is--' there's another aggrawatin' blot here, joe, so that i can't make out what puzzles her. look here. can you spell it out?" joe tried, but shook his head. "it's a puzzler to _her_," he said, "an' she's took good care to make it a puzzler to everybody else, but go on." "there's nothin' else to go on wi', joe, for after steerin' past the blot, she runs foul o' miss ruth's dress again, and the only thing worth mentionin' is a post-script, where she says, `i think there's something wrong, dear david, and i wish you was here.' that's all." "now, that is strange, for my missis writes about the wery same thing," said joe, "only she seems to have gone in for a little more confusion an' blots than your missis, an' that blessed little babby of ours is always gittin' in the way, so she can't help runnin' foul of it, but that same puzzler crops up every now an' then. see, here's what she writes:-- "`darlin' joe,' (a touch more affectionate than yours--eh! skipper?) `if our dear darlin' babby will let me, i'm a-goin' to write you a letter-- there, i know'd she wouldn't. she's bin and capsized the wash-tub, though, as you know, she can't walk yet, but she rolls about most awful, joe, just what you say the _evening star_ does in a gale on the north sea. an' she's got most dreadful heels--oh! you've no idear! whativer they comes down upon goes--' there's a big blot here," said joe, with a puzzled look, "`goes--whativer they comes down upon goes--' no, i can't make it out." "`goes to sticks an' stivers,' p'raps," said the skipper. "no, my maggie never uses words like that," said joe with decision. "`goes all to smash,' then," suggested the skipper. "no, nor it ain't that; my maggie's too soft-tongued for that." "well, you know, things must go somewhere, or somehow, joe, when such a pair o' heels comes down on 'em--but steer clear o' the blot and the babby, an' see what comes next." "`well,'" continued joe, reading on, "`i was goin' to tell you, when babby made that last smash, ("i _told_ you it was a smash," said david, softly), that dear miss ruth has bin worritin' herself--if babby would only keep quiet for two minutes--worritin' herself about mrs bright in a way that none of us can understand. she's anxious to make inquiries about her and her affairs in a secret sort o' way, but the dear young lady is so honest--there's babby again! now, i've got her all right. it was the milk-can this time, but there warn't much in it, an' the cat's got the benefit. well, darlin' joe, where was i--oh, the dear young lady's so honest an' straitfor'ard, that even a child could see through her, though none of us can make out what she's drivin' at. yesterday she went to see mrs bright, an' took a liar with her--'" "hallo! joe, surely she'd niver do that," said the skipper in a remonstrative tone. "she means a lawyer," returned joe, apologetically, "but maggie niver could spell that word, though i've often tried to teach 'er--`maggie,' says i, `you mustn't write _liar_, but _law-yer_.' "`la! yer jokin',' says she. "`no,' says i, `i'm not, that's the way to spell it,' an' as maggie's a biddable lass, she got to do it all right, but her memory ain't over strong, so, you see, she's got back to the old story. howsever, she don't really mean it, you know." "just so," returned the skipper, "heave ahead wi' the letter, joe." knitting his brows, and applying himself to the much-soiled and crumpled sheet, the mate continued to read:-- "`an' the liar he puzzled her with all sorts o' questions, just as if he was a schoolmaster and she a school-girl. he bothered her to that extent she began to lose temper, ("he better take care," muttered the skipper, chuckling), but miss ruth she sees that, an' putt a stop to it in her own sweet way, ("lucky for the liar," muttered the skipper), an' so they went away without explainin'. we've all had a great talk over it, an' we're most of us inclined to think--oh! that babby, she's bin an rammed her darlin' futt into the tar-bucket! but it ain't much the worse, though it's cost about half-a-pound o' butter to take it off, an' that ain't a joke wi' butter at shilling, pence a pound, an' times so bad--well, as i was goin' to say, if that blessed babby would only let me, we're all inclined to think it must have somethin' to do wi' that man as david owes money to, who said last year that he'd sell his smack an' turn him an' his family out o' house an' home if he didn't pay up, though what miss ruth has to do wi' that, or how she come for to know it we can't make out at all.'" "the blackguard!" growled the skipper, fiercely, referring to `that man,' "if i only had his long nose within three futt o' my fist, i'd let him feel what my knuckles is made of!" "steamer in sight, father," sang out billy at that moment down the companion-hatch. the conference being thus abruptly terminated, the skipper and mate of the _evening star_ went on deck to give orders for the immediate hauling up of the trawl and to "have a squint" at the steamer, which was seen at that moment like a little cloud on the horizon. chapter eight. dangers, difficulties, and excitements of the traffic; loading the steamer. bustling activity of the most vigorous kind was now the order of the day in the short blue fleet, for the arrival of the carrying-steamer, and the fact that she was making towards the admiral, indicated that she meant to return to london in a few hours, and necessitated the hauling of the trawls, cleaning the fish, and packing them; getting up the "trunks" that had been packed during the night, launching the boats, and trans-shipping them in spite of the yet heavy sea. as every one may understand, such perishable food as fish must be conveyed to market with the utmost possible despatch. this is accomplished by the constant running of fast steamers between the fleets and the thames. the fish when put on board are further preserved by means of ice, and no delay is permitted in trans-shipment. as we have said, the steamers are bound to make straight for the admiral's smack. knowing this, the other vessels keep as near to the admiral as they conveniently can, so that when the steamer is preparing to return, they may be ready to rush at her like a fleet of nautical locusts, and put their fish on board. hot haste and cool precision mark the action of the fishermen in all that is done, for they know well that only a limited time will be allowed them, and if any careless or wilful stragglers from the fleet come up when the time is nearly past, they stand a chance of seeing the carrier steam off without their fish, which are thus left to be shipped the following day, and to be sold at last as an inferior article, or, perhaps, condemned and thrown away as unfit for human food. the _evening star_ chanced to be not far from the admiral when the steamer appeared. it was one of the fleet of steam-carriers owned by the well-known fish firm of messrs. hewett and company of london. when it passed david bright's smack the crew had got in the trawl and were cleaning and packing the catch--which was a good one--as if their very lives depended on their speed. they immediately followed in the wake of the carrier toward the admiral. as all the smacks were heading towards the same centre, they came in on every tack, and from all points of the compass. "look sharp, boys," said david bright, who was steering, "we must git every fish aboard. it's now eight o'clock, an' she won't wait beyond eleven or twelve, you may be sure." there was no need for the caution. every man and boy was already doing his utmost. it fell to billy's lot to help in packing the trunks, and deftly he did it,--keeping soles, turbot, and halibut separate, to form boxes, or "trunks of prime," and packing other fish as much as possible according to their kind, until he came to roker, dabs, gurnets, etcetera, which he packed together under the name of "offal." this does not mean refuse, but only inferior fish, which are bought by hawkers, and sold to the poor. the trunks were partly open on top, but secured by cords which kept the fish from slipping out, and each trunk was labelled with the name of the smack, to which it belonged, and the party to whom it was consigned. as the fleet converged to the centre, the vessels began to crowd together and friends to recognise and hail each other, so that the scene became very animated, while the risk of collision was considerable. indeed, it was only by consummate skill, judgment and coolness that, in many cases, collisions were avoided. "there's the _sparrow_," said billy to trevor, eagerly, as he pointed to a smack, whose master, jim frost, he knew and was fond of. it bore down in such a direction as to pass close under the stern of the _evening star_. "what cheer! what cheer!" cried billy, holding one of his little hands high above his head. "what cheer!" came back in strong, hearty tones from the _sparrow's_ deck. "what luck, jim?" asked david bright, as the vessel flew past. "we fouled an old wreck this mornin', an' tore the net all to pieces, but we got a good haul last night--praise the lord." "which piece o' luck d'ye praise the lord for?" demanded david, in a scoffing tone. "for both," shouted frost, promptly. "it might have bin worse. we might have lost the gear, you know--or one o' the hands." when this reply was finished, the vessels were too far apart for further intercourse. "humph!" ejaculated gunter, "one o' the psalm-singin' lot, i suppose." "if it's the psalm-singin'," said spivin, "as makes jim frost bear his troubles wi' good temper, an' thank god for foul weather an' fair, the sooner you take to it the better for yourself." "ay, an' for his mates," added zulu, with a broad grin. "shove out the boat now, lads," said the skipper. at this order the capacious and rather clumsy boat, which had hitherto lain on the deck of the _evening star_ like a ponderous fixture, was seized by the crew. a vigorous pull at a block and tackle sent it up on the side of the smack. a still more vigorous shove by the men--some with backs applied, some with arms, and all with a will--sent it stern-foremost into the sea. it took in a few gallons of water by the plunge, but was none the worse for that. at the same moment zulu literally tumbled into it. no stepping or jumping into it was possible with the sea that was running. indeed the fishermen of the north sea are acrobats by necessity, and their tumbling is quite as wonderful, though not quite so neat, as that of professionals. perchance if the arena in which the latter perform were to pitch about as heavily as the _evening star_ did on that occasion, they might be beaten at their own work by the fishermen! zulu was followed by ned spivin, while gunter, taking a quick turn of the long and strong painter round a belaying-pin, held on. the _evening star_ was now lying-to, not far from the steam-carrier. her boat danced on the waves like a cork, pitching heavily from side to side, with now the stern and now the bow pointing to the sky; at one moment leaping with its gunwale above the level of the smack's bulwarks; at the next moment eight or ten feet down in the trough of the waves; never at rest for an instant, always tugging madly at its tether, and often surging against the vessel's side, from actual contact with which it was protected by strong rope fenders. but indeed the boat's great strength of build seemed its best guarantee against damage. to one unaccustomed to such work it might have seemed utterly impossible to put anything whatever on board of such a pitching boat. tying a mule-pack on the back of a bouncing wild horse may suggest an equivalent difficulty to a landsman. nevertheless the crew of the _evening star_ did it with as much quiet determination and almost as much speed as if there was no sea on at all. billy and trevor slid the trunks to the vessel's side; the mate and gunter lifted them, rested them a moment on the edge; zulu and spivin stood in the surging boat with outstretched arms and glaring eyes. a mighty swing of the boat suggested that the little craft meant to run the big one down. they closed, two trunks were grappled, let go, deposited, and before the next wave swung them alongside again, spivin and zulu were glaring up--ready for more--while joe and gunter were gazing down--ready to deliver. when the boat was loaded the painter was cast off and she dropped astern. the oars were shipped, and they made for the steamer. from the low deck of the smack they could be seen, now pictured against the sky on a wave's crest, and then lost to view altogether for a few seconds in the watery valley beyond. by that time quite a crowd of little boats had reached the steamer, and were holding on to her, while their respective smacks lay-to close by, or sailed slowly round the carrier, so that recognitions, salutations, and friendly chaff were going on all round--the confusion of masts, and sails, and voices ever increasing as the outlying portions of the fleet came scudding in to the rendezvous. "there goes the _boy jim_," said luke trevor, pointing towards a smart craft that was going swiftly past them. "who's the _boy jim_?" growled gunter, whose temper, at no time a good one, had been much damaged by the blows he had received in the fall of the previous night. "he's nobody--it's the name o' that smack," answered luke. "an' her master, john johnston, is one o' my best friends," said billy, raising his fist on high in salutation. "what cheer, john! what cheer, my hearty!" the master of the _boy jim_ was seen to raise his hand in reply to the salutation, and his voice came strong and cheerily over the sea, but he was too far off to be heard distinctly, so billy raised his hand again by way of saying, "all right, my boy!" at the same time a hail was heard at the other side of the vessel. the crew turned round and crossed the deck. "it's our namesake--or nearly so--the _morning star_," said trevor to gunter, for the latter being a new hand knew little of the names of either smacks or masters. "is her skipper a friend o' yours too?" asked gunter of billy. "yes, bowers _is_ a friend o' mine--an' a first-rate fellow too; which is more than you will ever be," retorted billy, again stretching up the ready arm and hand. "what cheer, joseph, what cheer!" "what cheer! billy--why, i didn't know you, you've grow'd so much," shouted the master of the _morning star_, whose middle-sized, but broad and powerful frame was surmounted by a massive countenance, with good humour in the twinkling eyes, and kindly chaff often in the goodly-sized mouth. "yes, i've grow'd," retorted billy, "an' i mean to go on growin' till i'm big enough to wallop _you_." "your cheek has been growin' too, billy." "so it has, but nothin' like to your jaw, joseph." "what luck?" shouted david as the _morning star_ was passing on. "fifteen trunks. what have _you_ got?" the skipper held up his hand to acknowledge the information, and shouted "nineteen," in reply. "you seem to have a lot o' friends among the skippers, billy," said gunter, with a sneer, for he was fond of teasing the boy, who, to do him justice, could take chaff well, except when thrown at him by ill-natured fellows. "yes, i have a good lot," retorted billy. "i met 'em all first in yarmouth, when ashore for their week's holiday. there's joseph white, master of the mission smack _cholmondeley_, a splendid feller he is; an' bogers of the _cephas_, an' snell of the _ruth_, an' kiddell of the _celerity_, an' moore of the m.a.a., an' roberts of the _magnet_, an' goodchild and brown, an' a lot more, all first-rate fellers, whose little fingers are worth the whole o' your big body." "well, well, what a lucky fellow you are!" said gunter, with affected surprise; "an' have you no bad fellers at all among your acquaintance?" "oh yes," returned the boy quickly, "i knows a good lot o' them too. there's dick the swab, of the _white cloud_, who drinks like a fish, an' pimply brock, who could swear you out o' your oiled frock in five minutes, an' a lot of others more or less wicked, but not one of 'em so bad as a big ugly feller i knows named john gunter, who--" billy was interrupted by gunter making a rush at him, but the boy was too nimble for the man, besides which, gunter's bruises, to which we have before referred, were too painful to be trifled with. soon afterwards the boat returned for another cargo of trunks, and the crew of the _evening star_ went to work again. meanwhile the "power of littles" began to tell on the capacious hold of the steamer. let us go on board of her for a few minutes and mount the bridge. the fleet had now closed in and swarmed around her so thickly, that it seemed a miracle that the vessels did not come into collision. from the smacks, boat after boat had run alongside and made fast, until an absolute flotilla was formed on either side. as each boat came up it thrust itself into the mass, the man who had pulled the bow-oar taking the end of the long painter in his hand ready for a leap. some boats' crews, having trans-shipped their trunks, were backing out; others were in the midst of that arduous and even dangerous operation; while still more came pouring in, seeking a place of entrance through the heaving mass. the boat of the _evening star_ was ere long among the latter with her second load--zulu grinning in the bow and spivin in the stern. zulu was of that cheery temperament that cannot help grinning. if he had been suddenly called on to face death himself, we believe he would have met him with a grin. and, truly, we may say without jesting, that zulu had often so faced the king of terrors, for it is a sad fact that many a bold and brave young fellow meets his death in this operation of trans-shipping the fish--a fall overboard is so very easy, and, hampered as these men are with huge sea-boots and heavy garments, it too often happens that when they chance to fall into the sea they go down like a stone. they never seem to think of that, however. certainly zulu did not as he crouched there with glittering eyes and glistening teeth, like a dark tiger ready for a spring. there was strict discipline, but not much interference with the work, on board the steamer. no boat was permitted to put its trunks aboard abaft a certain part of the vessel, but in front of that the fishermen were left to do the work as best they could. they were not, however, assisted--not even to the extent of fastening their painters--the crew of the steamer being employed below in stowing and iceing the fish. when the _evening star's_ boat, therefore, had forced itself alongside, zulu found himself heaving against the steamer's side, now looking up at an iron wall about fifteen feet high, anon pitching high on the billows till he could see right down on the deck. he watched his opportunity, threw himself over the iron wall, with the painter in one hand, (while spivin and the boat seemed to sink in the depths below), rolled over on the deck, scrambled to his feet, made the painter fast to the foremast shrouds, and ran to look over the side. spivin was there ready for him, looking up, with a trunk on the boat's gunwale. next moment he was looking down, for a wave had lifted the boat's gunwale absolutely above the vessel's bulwark for an instant. no words were needed. each knew what to do. zulu made a powerful grab, spivin let go, the trunk was on the steamer's rail, whence it was hurled to the deck, narrowly missing the legs and toes of half-a-dozen reckless men who seized it and sent it below. almost before zulu could turn round spivin was up again with another trunk, another wild grab was made, but not successfully, and spivin sank to rise again. a second effort proved successful--and thus they went on, now and then missing the mark, but more frequently hitting it, until the boat was empty. you have only to multiply this little scene by forty or fifty, and you have an idea of the loading of that steamer on the high seas. of course you must diversify the picture a little, for in one place you have a man hanging over the side with a trunk in mid-air, barely caught when in its descent, and almost too heavy for him by reason of his position. in another place you have a man glaring up at a trunk, in another glaring down;--in all cases action the most violent and most diversified, coupled with cool contempt of crushed fingers and bruised shins and toes. at last the furore began to subside. by degrees the latest boats arrived, and in about three hours from the time of commencing, the crew of the steamer began to batten down the hatches. just then, like the "late passenger," the late trawler came up. the captain of the steamer had seen it long before on the horizon doing its best to save the market, and good-naturedly delayed a little to take its fish on board, but another smack that came up a quarter of an hour or so after that, found the hatches closed, and heard the crushing reply to his hail--"too late!" then the carrying-steamer turned her sharp bow to the sou'-west, put on full steam, and made for the thames--distant nearly miles--with over trunks of fresh fish on board, for the breakfast, luncheon and dinner tables of the great city. thus, if the steamer were to leave early on a monday, it would arrive on tuesday night and the fish be sold in the market on wednesday morning about five o'clock. with little variation this scene is enacted every day, all the year round, on the north sea. it may not be uninteresting to add, that on the arrival of the steamer at billingsgate, the whole of her cargo would probably be landed and sold in less than one hour and a half. chapter nine. another drag-net hauled--the mission smack. when the steamer left the fleet the wind was beginning to moderate, and all eyes were turned as usual towards the admiral's smack to observe his movements. the fishing vessels were still crowded together, running to and fro, out and in, without definite purpose, plunging over the heaving swells--some of them visible on the crests, others half hidden in the hollows--and behaving generally like living creatures that were impatiently awaiting the signal to begin a race. while in this position two smacks came so near to the _evening star_, on opposite sides, that they seemed bent on running her down. david bright did not concern himself, however. he knew they were well able to take care of themselves. they both sheered off to avoid him, but after doing so, ran rather near to each other. "one o' them b'longs to the swab," said billy. "ay," said joe, "if he hadn't swabbed up too much liquor this morning, he wouldn't steer like that. why, he _will_ foul her!" as he spoke the swab's bowsprit passed just inside one of the ropes of the other vessel, and was snapped off as if it had been a pipe-stem. "sarves him right," growled gunter. "it's a pity all the same," said trevor. "if we all got what we deserve, we'd be in a worse case than we are to-day mayhap." "come, now, gunter," said joe, "don't look so cross. we'll have a chance this arternoon, i see, to bear away for the mission-ship, an' git somethin' for your shins, and a bandage for spivin's cut, as well as some cuffs for them that wants 'em." captain bright did not like visiting the mission-ship, having no sympathy with her work, but as she happened to be not far distant at the time, and he was in want of surgical assistance, he had no reasonable ground for objecting. by this time the admiral had signalled to steer to the nor'-east, and the fleet was soon racing to windward, all on the same tack. gradually the _evening star_ overhauled the mission-ship, but before she had quite overtaken her, the wind, which had been failing, fell to a dead calm. the distance between the two vessels, however, not being great, the boat was launched, and the skipper, luke trevor, gunter and billy went off in her. the mission vessel, to which reference has more than once been made, is a fishing-smack in the service of the mission to deep-sea fishermen, and serves the purpose of a floating church, a dispensary, a temperance halt and a library to a portion of the north sea fleet. it fills a peculiar as well as a very important position, which requires explanation. only a few years ago a visitor to the north sea fleet observed, with much concern, that hundreds of the men and boys who manned it were living godless as well as toilsome lives, with no one--at least in winter--to care for their souls. at the same time he noted that the dutch _copers_, or floating grog-shops, were regularly appointed to supply the fleets with cheap and bad spirits, and stuck to them through fair-weather and foul, in summer and winter, enduring hardship and encountering danger and great risk in pursuit of their evil calling. up to that time a few lay missionaries and bible-readers had occasionally gone to visit the fleets in the summer-time, [see appendix], but the visitor of whom we write felt that there was a screw loose here, and reasoned with himself somewhat thus:-- "shall the devil have his mission-ships, whose crews are not afraid to face the winter gales, and shall the servants of the lord be mere fair-weather christians, carrying their blessed and all-important message of love and peace to these hard-working and almost forsaken men only during a summer-trip to the north sea? if fish _must_ be caught, and the lives of fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons be not only risked but lost for the purpose, has not the master got men who are ready to say, `the glorious gospel _must_ be carried to these men, and we will hoist our flag on the north sea summer and winter, so as to be a constant witness there for our god and his christ?'" for thirty years before, it has been said, a very few earnest christians among the fishermen of the fleet had been praying that some such thoughts might be put into the hearts of men who had the power to render help. we venture to observe in passing that, perchance, those praying fishermen were not so "few" as appearances might lead us to suppose, for god has his "hidden ones" everywhere, and some of these may have been at the throne of grace long prior to the "thirty years" here mentioned. let not the reader object to turn aside a few minutes to consider how greatly help was needed--forty-six weeks or so on the sea in all weathers all the year round, broken by a week at a time--or about six or seven weeks altogether--on shore with wife and family; the rest, hard unvarying toil and exposure, with nothing to do during the brief intervals of leisure--nothing to read, nothing new to think of, no church to raise the mind to the creator, and distinguish the sabbath from the week-day, and no social intercourse of a natural kind, (for a society of men only is not natural), to elevate them above the lower animals, and with only drinking and gambling left to degrade them below these creatures; and this for forty or fifty years of their lives, with, in too many cases, neither hope nor thought beyond! at last the fishermen's prayers were answered, the thoughts of the visitor bore fruit, and, convinced that he was being led by god, he began to move in the matter with prayer and energy. the result was that in the year he received the unsolicited offer of a smack which should be at his entire disposal for mission purposes, but should endeavour to sustain herself, if possible, by fishing like the rest of the fleet. the vessel was accepted. a christian skipper and fisherman, named budd, and a like-minded crew, were put into her; she was fitted out with an extra cabin, with cupboards for a library and other conveniences. the hold was arranged with a view to being converted into a chapel on sundays, and it was decided that, in order to keep it clear on such days, the trawl should not be let down on saturday nights; a large medicine-chest--which was afterwards reported to be "one of the greatest blessings in the fleet,"--was put on board; the captain made a colporteur of the bible society, agent for the shipwrecked mariners' society and of the church of england temperance society. the religious tract society, and various publishers, made a grant of books to form the nucleus of a free lending library; the national lifeboat institution presented an aneroid barometer, and messrs. hewett and company made a present of the insurance premium of pounds. thus furnished and armed, as aforesaid, as a mission church, temperance hall, circulating library, and dispensary, the little craft one day sailed in amongst the smacks of the "short blue" fleet, amid the boisterous greetings of the crews, and took up her position under the name of the _ensign_, with a great twenty-feet mission-flag flying at the main-mast-head. this, then was the style of vessel towards which the boat of the _evening star_ was now being pulled over a superficially smooth but still heaving sea. the boat was not alone. other smacks, the masters of which as well as some of the men were professed christians, had availed themselves of the opportunity to visit the mission smack, while not a few had come, like the master of the _evening star_, to procure medicine and books, so that when david bright drew near he observed the deck to be pretty well crowded, while a long tail of boats floated astern, and more were seen coming over the waves to the rendezvous. it was no solemn meeting that. shore-going folk, who are too apt to connect religious gatherings with sunday clothes, subdued voices, and long faces, would have had their ideas changed if they had seen it. men of the roughest cast, mentally and physically, were there, in heavy boots and dirty garments, laughing and chatting, and greeting one another; some of the younger among them sky-larking in a mild way--that is, giving an occasional poke in the ribs that would have been an average blow to a "land-lubber," or a tip to a hat which sent it on the deck, or a slap on the back like a pistol-shot. there seemed to be "no humbug," as the saying goes, among these men; no pretence, and all was kindly good-fellowship, for those who were on the lord's side showed it--if need were, said it--while those who were not, felt perhaps, that they were in a minority and kept quiet. "come along, joe, what cheer!" "here you are, bill--how goes it, my hearty!" "all well, praise the lord." "ay, hasn't he sent us fine weather at the right time? just to let us have a comfortable meetin'!" "that's so, dick, the master does all things well." "what cheer! johnson, i'm glad to see _you_ here. the boy has got some cocoa for'ard--have some?" "thank 'ee, i will." such were some of the expressions heartily uttered, which flew about as friend met friend on the mission deck. "i say, harry," cried one, "was it you that lost your bowsprit this mornin'?" "no, it was the swab," said harry, "but we lost our net and all the gear last night." "that was unfort'nit," remarked a friend in a tone of sympathy, which attracted the attention of some of those who stood near. "ah! lads," said the master of the mission-ship, "that was a small matter compared with the loss suffered by poor daniel rodger. did you hear of it?" "yes, yes," said some. "no," said another. "i thought i saw his flag half-mast this mornin', but was too fur off to make sure." most of the men crowded round the master of the smack, while, in deep sad tones, he told how the son of daniel rodger had, during the night, been swept overboard by a heavy sea and drowned before the boat could be launched to rescue him. "but," continued the speaker in a cheerful voice, "the dear boy was a follower of jesus, and he is now with him." when this was said, "praise the lord!" and "thank god!" broke from several of the men in tones of unmistakable sincerity. it was at this point that the boat of the _evening star_ ranged alongside. the master of the mission smack went to the side and held out his hand, which david bright grasped with his right, grappling the smack's rail at the same time with his left, and vaulted inboard with a hearty salutation. as heartily was it returned, especially by the unbelievers on board, who, perchance, regarded him as a welcome accession to their numbers! billy, gunter, and the others tumbled on to the deck in the usual indescribable manner, and the former, making fast the long painter, added the _evening star's_ boat to the lengthening flotilla astern. "your man seems to be hurt," said the master of the mission smack--whom we may well style the missionary--"not badly, i hope. you're limpin' a bit." "oh! nothin' to speak of," growled gunter, "on'y a bit o' skin knocked off." "we'll put that all right soon," returned the missionary, shaking hands with the other members of the crew. "but p'r'aps you'd like to go below with us, first. we're goin' to hold a little service. it'll be more comfortable under hatches than on deck." "no, thank 'ee," replied gunter with decision. "i'll wait till yer done." "p'r'aps _you_ would like to come?" said the missionary to the captain. "well, i--i may as well as not," said david with some hesitation. "come along then, lads," and the genial sailor-missionary led the way to the capacious hold, which had been swept clean, and some dozens of fish-boxes set up on end in rows. these, besides being handy, formed excellent seats to men who were not much used to arm-chairs. in a few seconds the little church on the ocean wilderness was nearly full of earnest, thoughtful men, for these fishermen were charmingly natural as well as enthusiastic. they did not assume solemn expressions, but all thought of sky-larking or levity seemed to have vanished as they entered the hold, and earnestness almost necessarily involves gravity. with eager expectation they gazed at their leader while he gave out a hymn. "you'll find little books on the table here, those of you who haven't got 'em," he said, pointing to a little pile of red-covered booklets at his side. "we'll sing the nd. "`sing them over again to me, wonderful words of life!'" really, reader, it is not easy to convey in words the effect of the singing of that congregation! nothing that we on land are accustomed to can compare with it. in the first place, the volume of sound was tremendous, for these men seemed to have been gifted with leathern lungs and brazen throats. many of the voices were tuneful as well as powerful. one or two, indeed, were little better than cracked tea-kettles, but the good voices effectually drowned the cracked kettles. moreover, there was deep enthusiasm in many of the hearts present, and the hold was small. we leave the rest to the reader's imagination, but we are bound to say that it had a thrilling effect. and they were sorry, too, when the hymn was finished. this was obvious, for when one of the singers began the last verse over again the others joined him with alacrity and sang it straight through. even gunter and those like-minded men who had remained on deck were moved by the fervour of the singing. then the sailor-missionary offered a prayer, as simple as it was straightforward and short, after which a chapter was read, and another hymn sung. then came the discourse, founded on the words, "whosoever will." "there you have it, lads--clear as the sun at noonday--free as the rolling sea. the worst drunkard and swearer in the short blue comes under that `whosoever'--ay, the worst man in the world, for jesus is able and willing to save to the uttermost." ("praise god!" ejaculated one of the earnest listeners fervently.) but fear not, reader, we have no intention of treating you to a semi-nautical sermon. whether you be christian or not, our desire is simply to paint for you a true picture of life on the north sea as we have seen it, and, as it were unwise to omit the deepest shadows from a picture, so would it be inexcusable to leave out the highest lights-- even although you should fail to recognise them as such. the discourse was not long, but the earnestness of the preacher was very real. the effect on his audience was varied. most of them sympathised deeply, and seemed to listen as much with eyes as ears. a few, who had not come there for religious purposes, wore somewhat cynical, even scornful, expressions at first, but these were partially subdued by the manner of the speaker as he reasoned of spiritual things and the world to come. on deck, gunter and those who had stayed with him became curious to know what the "preachin' skipper" was saying, and drew near to the fore-hatch, up which the tones of his strong voice travelled. gradually they bent their heads down and lay at full-length on the deck listening intently to every word. they noted, also, the frequent ejaculations of assent, and the aspirations of hope that escaped from the audience. not one, but two or three hymns were sung after the discourse was over, and one after another of the fishermen prayed. they were very loath to break up, but, a breeze having arisen, it became necessary that they should depart, so they came on deck at last, and an animated scene of receiving and exchanging books, magazines, tracts, and pamphlets ensued. then, also, gunter got some salve for his shins, ned spivin had his cut hand dressed and plastered. cuffs were supplied to those whose wrists had been damaged, and gratuitous advice was given generally to all to give up drink. "an' don't let the moderate drinkers deceive you lads," said the skipper, "as they're apt to do--an' no wonder, for they deceive themselves. moderate drinkin' may be good, for all i know, for old folk an' sick folk, but it's _not_ good for young and healthy men. they don't need stimulants, an' if they take what they don't need they're sure to suffer for it. there's a terrible _line_ in drinkin', an' if you once cross that line, your case is all but hopeless. i once knew a man who crossed it, and when that man began to drink he used to say that he did it in `moderation,' an' he went on in `moderation,' an' the evil was so slow in workin' that he never yet knew when he crossed the line, an' he died at last of what he called moderate drinkin'. they all begin in moderation, but some of 'em go on to the ruin of body, soul, an' spirit, rather than give up their moderation! come now, lads, i want one or two o' you young fellows to sign the temperance pledge. it can't cost you much to do it just now, but if you grow up drinkers you may reach a point--i don't know where that point lies--to come back from which will cost you something like the tearing of your souls out o' your bodies. you'll come, won't you?" "yes, i'll go," said a bright young fisherman with a frame like hercules and a face almost as soft as that of a girl. "that's right! come down." "and i've brought two o' my boys," said a burly man with a cast-iron sort of face, who had been himself an abstainer for many years. while the master of the mission smack was producing the materials for signing the pledge in the cabin, he took occasion to explain that the signing was only a help towards the great end of temperance; that nothing but conversion to god, and constant trust in the living saviour, could make man or woman safe. "it's not hard to understand," he said, looking the youths earnestly in the eyes. "see here, suppose an unbeliever determines to get the better of his besettin' sin. he's man enough to strive well for a time. at last he begins to grow a little weary o' the battle--it _is_ so awful hard. better almost to die an' be done with it, he sometimes thinks. then comes a day when his temptation is ten times more than he is able to bear. he throws up the sponge; he has done his best an' failed, so away he goes like the sow that was washed to his wallowing in the mire. but he has _not_ done his best. he has _not_ gone to his maker; an' surely the maker of a machine is the best judge o' how to mend it. now, when a believer in jesus comes to the same point o' temptation he falls on his knees an' cries for help; an' he gets it too, for faithful is he that has promised to help those who call upon him in trouble. many a man has fallen on his knees as weak as a baby, and risen up as strong as a giant." "here," said a voice close to the speaker's elbow, "here, hand me the pen, an' i'll sign the pledge." "what, _you_, billy bright!" said the missionary, smiling at the precocious manliness of the little fellow. "does your father want you to do it?" "oh! you never mind what my father wants. he leaves me pretty much to do as i please--except smoke, and as he won't let me do that. i mean to spite him by refusin' to drink when he wants me to." "but i'm afraid, billy," returned the missionary, laughing, "that that's not quite the spirit in which to sign the pledge." "did i say it was, old boy!" retorted billy, seizing the pen, dabbing it into the ink, and signing his name in a wild straggling sort of way, ending with a huge round blot. "there, that'll do instead of a full stop," he said, thrusting his little hands into his pockets as he swaggered out of the cabin and went on deck. "he'll make a rare good man, or an awful bad 'un, that," said the missionary skipper, casting a kindly look after the boy. soon afterwards the boats left the mission smack, and her crew began to bustle about, making preparation to let down the gear whenever the admiral should give the signal. "we carry two sorts of trawl-nets, andrew," said the captain to his mate, who was like-minded in all respects, "and i think we have caught some men to-day with one of 'em--praise the lord!" "yes, praise the lord!" said the mate, and apparently deeming this, as it was, a sufficient reply, he went about his work in silence. the breeze freshened. the shades of night gathered; the admiral gave his signal; the nets were shot and the short blue fleet sailed away into the deepening darkness of the wild north sea. note. since that day additional vessels have been attached to the mission-fleet, which now, , consists of five smacks--and will probably, ere long, number many more--all earning their own maintenance while serving the mission cause. but these do by no means meet the requirements of the various north sea fleets. there are still in those fleets thousands of men and boys who derive no benefit from the mission vessels already sent out, because they belong to fleets to which mission-ships have not yet been attached; and it is the earnest prayer of those engaged in the good work that liberal-minded christians may send funds to enable them not only to carry on, but to extend, their operations in this interesting field of labour. chapter ten. a strong contrast--a victim of the coper. birds of a feather flock together, undoubtedly--at sea as well as on land. as surely as johnston, and moore, and jim frost, and such men, hung about the mission-ship--ready to go aboard and to have a little meeting when suitable calms occurred, so surely did david bright, the swab, and other like-minded men, find themselves in the neighbourhood of the coper when there was nothing to be done in the way of fishing. two days after the events narrated in the last chapter, the swab--whose proper name was dick herring, and who sailed his own smack, the _white cloud_--found himself in the neighbourhood of the floating grog-shop. "get out the boat, brock," said herring to his mate--who has already been introduced to the reader as pimply brock, and whose nose rendered any explanation of that name unnecessary; "take some fish, an' get as much as you can for 'em." the swab did not name what his mate was to procure in barter with the fish, neither did brock ask. it was an old-established order, well understood. soon brock and two hands were on their way to the floating "poison-shop," as one of the men had named it. he was affectionately received there, and, ere long, returned to the _white cloud_ with a supply of fire-water. "you're good at a bargain, brock," said his master, with an approving nod, tossing off a glass of the demon that held him as if in chains of steel--chains that no man could break. "i wish," he added, looking round on the sea wistfully, "that some of our friends would come to join us in a spree." "so do i," said brock, slightly inflaming his nasal pimples, by pouring a glass of spirits down his throat. there must be some strange, subtle sympathy between drunkards, for, at the very time these two men expressed their wish, the master of the _evening star_ said to gunter, "get out the boat. i'll go cruisin'." it must not be supposed that by this he meant to declare his intention of going off on a lengthened voyage in his little boat. david bright only meant that, having observed through his telescope the little transaction between the _white cloud_ and the coper, his intention was to pay that vessel a visit--to go carousing, or, as the north sea smacksmen have it, "cruisin'." gunter obeyed the order with satisfaction and alacrity. "jump in, spivin, and you come too, billy." "i say, father," said the boy in a low voice, "are ye goin' to drink wi' the swab after what ye heard aboard the mission smack?" "you clap a stopper on your jaw an' obey orders," replied the skipper angrily. although full of light-hearted insolence, which his mates called cheek, billy was by no means a rebellious boy. he knew, from sad experience, that when his father made up his mind to "go in for a drinking-bout," the consequences were often deplorable, and fain would he have dissuaded him, but he also knew that to persist in opposing him would only make matters worse, and probably bring severe chastisement on himself. with an air of quiet gravity, therefore, that seemed very unnatural to him, he leaped into the boat and took an oar. "what cheer, david?" said the swab, offering his rugged hand when the former jumped on the deck of the _white cloud_. "i thought you'd come." "you was right, dick," returned david, shaking the proffered hand. "come below, an' wet your whistle. bring your men too," said dick. "this is a new hand?" pointing to ned. "ay, he's noo, is ned spivin, but he can drink." "come down, then, all of 'ee." now, ned spivin was one of those yielding good-natured youths who find it impossible to resist what may be styled good-fellowship. if you had tried to force ned spivin, to order him, or to frighten him into any course, he would have laughed in your face and fought you if necessary; but if you tempted ned to do evil by kindly tones and looks, he was powerless to resist. "you're right, skipper, i can drink--sometimes." they all went below, leaving billy on deck "to look after the boat," as his father said, though, being made fast, the boat required no looking after. immediately the party in the little cabin had a glass round. ere long it occurred to them that they might have another glass. of course they did not require to be reminded of their pipes, and as nearly all the crew was in the little cabin, besides the visitors, the fumes from pipes and glasses soon brought the atmosphere to a condition that would have failed to support any but the strongest kind of human life. it supported these men well enough, however, for they soon began to use their tongues and brains in a manner that might have surprised a dispassionate observer. it is, perhaps, needless to say that they interlarded their conversation with fearful oaths, to which of course we can do no more than make passing reference. by degrees the conversation degenerated into disputation, for it is the manner of some men, when "in liquor," to become intensely pugnacious as well as owlishly philosophical. the subject-matter of dispute may be varied, but the result is nearly always the same--a series of amazing convolutions of the brain, which is supposed to be profound reasoning, waxing hotter and hotter as the utterances grow thicker and thicker, and the tones louder and louder, until the culminating point is reached when the point which could not be proved by the mind is hammered home with the fist. to little billy, who had been left in sole charge of the deck, and whose little mind had been strangely impressed on board the mission-ship, the words and sounds, to say nothing of the fumes, which proceeded from the cabin furnished much food for meditation. the babel of tongues soon became incessant, for three, if not four or five, of the speakers had become so impressed with the importance of their opinions, and so anxious to give their mates the benefit, that they all spoke at once. this of course necessitated much loud talking and gesticulation by all of them, which greatly helped, no doubt, to make their meaning clear. at least it did not render it less clear. as the din and riot increased so did the tendency to add fuel to the fire by deeper drinking, which resulted in fiercer quarrelling. at last one of the contending voices shouted so loud that the others for a few moments gave way, and the words became audible to the little listener on deck. the voice belonged to gunter. "you said," he shouted fiercely, "that i--" "no, i didn't," retorted brock, breaking in with a rather premature contradiction. "hear him out. n-nothin' like fair play in ar-argiment," said an extremely drunken voice. "right you are," cried another; "fire away, gunter." "you said," resumed gunter with a little more of argument in his tone, though still vehemently, "that i said--that--that--well, whativer it was i said, i'll take my davy that i niver said anything o' the sort." "that's a lie," cried brock. "you're another," shouted gunter, and waved his hand contemptuously. whether it was accident or design we know not, but gunter's hand knocked the pipe out of brook's mouth. to billy's ear the well-known sound of a blow followed, and he ran to look down into the cabin, where all was instantly in an uproar. "choke him off," cried david bright. "knock his brains out," suggested herring. billy could not see well through the dense smoke, but apparently the more humane advice was followed, for, after a good deal of gasping, a heavy body was flung upon the floor. "all right, shove him into a bunk," cried the swab. at the same moment ned spivin sprang on deck, and, stretching himself with his arms extended upwards, drew a long breath of fresh air. "there, billy," he said, "i've had enough of it." "of grog, d'ye mean?" asked the boy. "no, but of the hell-upon-earth down there," replied the young man. "well, ned, i should just think you _have_ had enough o' that," said billy, "an' of grog too--though you don't seem much screwed after all." "i'm not screwed at all, billy--not even half-seas-over. it's more the smoke an' fumes that have choked me than the grog. come, lad, let's go for'ard an' git as far from it as we can." the man and boy went to the bow of the vessel, and seated themselves near the heel of the bowsprit, where the sounds from the cabin reached them only as a faint murmur, and did not disturb the stillness of the night. and a day of quiet splendour it certainly was--the sea as calm as glass, insomuch that it reflected all the fleecy clouds that hung in the bright sky. even the ocean-swell had gone to rest with just motion enough left to prove that the calm was not a "dead" one, but a slumber. all round, the numerous vessels of the short blue fleet floated in peaceful idleness. at every distance they lay, from a hundred yards to the far-off horizon. we say that they floated peacefully, but we speak only as to appearance, for there were other hells in the fleet, similar to that which we have described, and the soft sound of distant oars could be distinguished now and then as boats plied to and fro between their smacks and the coper, fetching the deadly liquid with which these hells were set on fire. other sounds there were, however, which fell pleasantly on the ears of the two listeners. "psalm-singers," said billy. "they might be worse," replied ned. "what smack does it come from, think 'ee?" "the _boy jim_, or the _cephas_--not sure which, for i can't make out the voices. it might be from the _sparrow_, but that's it close to us, and there could be no mistake about jim frost's voice if he was to strike up." "what! has jim frost hoisted the bethel-flag?" "ay, didn't you see it flyin' last sunday for the first time?" "no, i didn't," returned ned, "but i'm glad to hear it, for, though i'm not one o' that set myself. i do like to see a man not ashamed to show his colours." the flag to which they referred is supplied at half cost to the fleet by the mission to deep-sea fishermen--and is hoisted every sabbath-day by those skippers in the fleet who, having made up their minds boldly to accept all the consequences of the step, have come out decidedly on the lord's side. while the two shipmates were conversing thus in low tones, enjoying the fresh air and the calm influences around them, the notes of an accordion came over the water in tones that were sweetened and mellowed by distance. "ha! that's jim frost now," said billy, in subdued excitement, while pleasure glittered in his eyes. "oh! ned, i _does_ like music. it makes my heart fit to bu'st sometimes, it does. an' jim plays that-- that what's 'is name--so beautiful!" "his accordion," said ned. "yes--his accordium--" "no, billy, not accordium, but accordion." "well, well--no matter. i don't care a button what you calls it, so long as jim plays it. why, he'd make his fortin' if he was to play that thing about the streets o' lun'on. listen." jim frost deserved all the praise that the enthusiastic boy bestowed on him, for, besides possessing a fine ear and taste for music, and having taught himself to play well, he had a magnificent tenor voice, and took great delight in singing the beautiful hymns which at that time had been introduced to the fleet. on this particular day he was joined by his crew, whose voices--more or less tuneful--came rolling over the water in a great volume of melody. "he's got singin' peter a-visitin' him," said billy. "don't you hear him?" "ay, i hear him, boy. there's no mistakin' singin' peter's voice. i'd know it among a thousand." "if it's hell here," remarked billy, with a great sigh of satisfaction, after the hymn was done, "it do seem like heaven over there. i only wish we had jim frost on board of us instead of that brute gunter." "don't be hard on gunter, billy," said ned. "we don't know what he's got to bear. some men are born, you see, wi' narves that are for ever screwin' at 'em, an' ticklin' of 'em up; an' other men have narves that always keep smoothin' of 'em down. the last are the pleasantest to have to do with, no doubt, but the others ain't quite so bad as they look sometimes. their bark is worse than their bite." "hush!" exclaimed the boy, holding up a finger at the moment, for jim frost's accordion again sent forth its rich tones in the prelude to a hymn. a few moments later and the tuneful voices came rolling towards them in that beautiful hymn, the chorus of which ends:-- "we shall know each other better when the mists are rolled away." when the last verse was sung little billy found a tear struggling to get out of each eye, and a lump sticking in his throat, so he turned his head away to conceal them. "ain't it beautiful?" he said, when the lump had disappeared. "and ain't it curious," answered ned, "that it should touch on what we was talkin' about afore they began? p'r'aps we shall know john gunter better `when the mists are rolled away.'" billy shook his head dubiously. "i'm not so sure o' that," he said. "anyhow, there's a deal o' mist to be rolled away before we can know _him_ better." "there's a breeze comin' up from the south'ard," remarked ned, who, to say truth, did not seem to care very much about getting to know his surly shipmate better; "we'll have to get your father aboard soon." "that won't be an easy matter," said billy, and he was right, for when david bright was set down with a friend, and a glass, and a pack of cards, it was very difficult to move him. he was, indeed, as fond of gambling as of drinking, and lost much of his hardly earned gains in that way. billy, therefore, received little but abuse when he tried to induce him to return to his own vessel, but the freshing of the breeze, and a sudden lurch of the smack, which overturned his glass of grog into gunter's lap, induced him at last to go on deck. there the appearance of things had changed considerably. clouds were beginning to obscure the bright sky, the breeze had effectually shattered the clear mirror of the sea, and a swell was beginning to roll the _white cloud_, so that legs which would have found it difficult to steady their owners on solid land made sad work of their office on the heaving deck. "haul up the boat," cried brock in a drivelling voice as he came on deck; "where are you steerin' to? let me take the helm." he staggered toward the tiller as he spoke, but dick herring and one of his mates, seeing that he was quite unable to steer, tried to prevent him. brock, however, had reached that stage of drunkenness in which men are apt to become particularly obstinate, and, being a powerful man, struggled violently to accomplish his purpose. "let him have it," said herring at last. "he can't do much damage." when set free, the miserable man grasped the tiller and tried to steady himself. a lurch of the vessel, however, rendered his effort abortive. the tiller fell to leeward. brock went headlong with it, stumbled over the side, and, before any one could stretch out a hand to prevent it, fell into the sea and sank. his comrades were apparently sobered in an instant. there was no need for the hurried order to jump into the boat alongside. ned spivin and billy were in it with the painter cast off and the oars out in a couple of seconds. the boat of the _white cloud_ was also launched with a speed, that only north sea fishermen, perhaps, can accomplish, and both crews rowed about eagerly while the smack lay-to. but all without success. the unfortunate man was never more seen, and the visitors left the vessel in sobered silence, and rowed, without exchanging a word, to their own smack, which lay about a quarter of a mile distant on the port quarter. chapter eleven. ruth and captain bream take to scheming. returning to london, we will follow captain bream, who, one fine morning, walked up to mrs dotropy's mansion at the west end, and applied the knocker vigorously. "is miss ruth at home?" yes, miss ruth was at home, and would he walk in. he was ushered into the library of the mansion; that room in which the dotropy ancestors, who could not find space among their kindred in the dining-room, held, so to speak, an overflow meeting to themselves. ruth soon joined him. "i'm so glad to see you, captain bream," she said, shaking with much fervency the hand held out to her. "sit down. it is so kind of you to come at once to help me in my little schemes--though i have not seen you to explain why i asked you--but there, i was almost off on another subject before i had begun the one i wish to consult you about. and, do you know, captain," added ruth, with a slightly perplexed look, "i find scheming a very troublesome business!" "i should think you did, miss ruth, and it seems to me that it's always better to go straight at what you've got to do without scheming--all fair an' aboveboard. excuse me, my dear, but an old man who has sailed your lamented father's ships for over thirty years, and known you since you were a baby, may be allowed to say he's surprised that _you_ should take to scheming." "an old man who has not only sailed my dear father's ships for over thirty years," said ruth, "but has brought me toys from all parts of the world, and has, besides, been as true to the family as the needle to the pole--or truer, if all be true that is said of needles--may say to my father's daughter exactly what he pleases without the smallest chance of giving offence. but, let me tell you, sir, that you are a foolish old man, and much too quick in forming your opinions. scheming is both justifiable and honourable at times--as i shall soon convince you." a beaming smile overspread the captain's visage as he said-- "very well, miss ruth. go on." "but before i go on tell me how are the miss seawards?" "quite well, i believe. at least i have no reason to think otherwise. rather thinnish if anything, but filled out wonderfully since i first saw 'em." "that's good," said ruth, laughing. "and now, do you know why i asked you to go and lodge with them?" "well, i always thought it was because you knew i wanted a lodgin', though i confess it has puzzled me to make out why you wanted me to come to such an out-o'-the-way part o' the city; and, to tell you the truth, it _is_ rather inconvenient, but your letter was so urgent, miss ruth, that i knew you must have some good reason, and as your dear father's daughter has a right to command me, i obeyed, as you know, without question." "you are a good old man," returned ruth, laying her hand on the brown fist of the captain and looking up in his face with the same loving girlish look that she had bestowed on him many a time in years past on his frequent visits with foreign toys, "and i shall test your goodness a good deal before i have done with you." "test away, miss ruth. you'll find i can stand a good deal of testin'. i haven't sailed the salt sea for forty years for nothing." "well then," said ruth, looking slightly perplexed again. "what would you do, captain bream, if you knew of two ladies who were unable to work, or to find suitable work, and so poor as to be literally starving--what would you do?" "give 'em money, of course." "but suppose that, owing to some delicacy of feeling, or, perhaps, some sort of mistaken pride, they would not accept money, and flushed very much and felt hurt, if you ventured to offer it to them?" "why, then, i'd send 'em victuals." "but suppose," continued ruth, "that there were great difficulties in the way of doing that, and they felt as much objection to receive gratuitous victuals as money, what would you do then? you would not let them starve, would you?" "of course not," returned the captain, promptly. "if it fairly came to that i'd be apt to treat 'em as nurses do obstinate infants and castor oil. i'd take 'em on my knee, force open their mouths, and shove the victuals down their throats." ruth burst into a merry little laugh at this. "but," said she, "don't you think that before proceeding to such forcible treatment you might scheme a little to get them to take it willingly, as nurses sometimes disguise the taste of the oil with coffee or milk?" "well, you _might_ scheme a little on that sort of principle, miss ruth; but in ordinary cases i prefer straightforward plans myself." "then why, let me ask," said ruth with some severity in her look, "do you dare to scheme with the wind as you and all sailors do when it is dead against you?" "you're becomin' too deep for me now, my dear; what d'ee mean?" "when the wind blows dead against you, say from the north," replied ruth, "don't you begin your naughty--at least your nautical--scheming at once? don't you lay your course to the nor'-west and pretend you are going in that direction, and then don't you soon tack about--isn't that what you call it--and steer nor'-east, pretending that you are going _that_ way, when all the time you are wanting to go due north? what do you call that, sir, if it is not scheming to circumvent the wind?" while she was speaking, captain bream's smile expanded and broke forth at last in one of his bass broadsides of laughter, which gave ruth great delight for she had, as a little girl, enjoyed these thunderous laughs excessively, and her taste for them had not departed. "well, my dear," said her visitor, "i admit that there are some sorts o' fair-an'-above-board schemin' which ain't dishonourable, or unworthy of a british sailor." "very good," returned ruth; "then listen while i reveal some of my recent scheming. some time ago i found out that two very dear friends of mine--who were in delicate health and quite unable to work hard, as well as being unable to find any kind of work whatever--were on the point of starvation. they would not accept money. i schemed a little to get them to earn money, but it was not easy, and the result was not a sufficiently permanent income. at last i thought i would try to get them a boarder--a somewhat rich boarder, whose powerful appetite and large meals might leave some crumbs for--" "you don't mean to tell me, miss ruth," interrupted the captain, in amazement, "that the miss seawards were in a state of starvation when i went to 'em!" "indeed i do," replied ruth; "at least as nearly in that state as was compatible with existence." "well, well," said the captain, "no wonder they looked so thin; and no wonder they're beginnin' to be a little better in flesh now, wi' the legs o' mutton an' chops an' such like things that i get in to take the edge off my appetite--which, as you justly observe, miss ruth, is not a bad one. i'm glad you've told me this, however, for i'll go in for extra heavy feedin' now." "that's right. but stay, captain bream, i have not nearly done with my scheming yet. and i shall still want you to help me." "go ahead, my dear. i'm your man, for, to tell 'ee the downright truth, i've taken a great fancy to these two sisters, an' would steer a long way out o' my course to help 'em." "i knew you would," returned ruth with a little look of triumph. "whoever comes in contact with these dear friends of mine thinks exactly as you do. now, their health is not nearly as good as it ought to be, so i want them to have a change of air. you see, the poor little street in which they live is not the freshest in london." "exactly so. they want a trip to brighton or broadstairs or ramsgate, and a whiff of fresh sea-air, eh?" said the captain with a look of satisfaction. "no not to these places," said ruth; "i thought of yarmouth." "well, yarmouth--just as good. any part o' the coast will do to blow the london cobwebs out o' their brains--say yarmouth." "very good, captain, but my difficulty is, how to manage it." "nothing easier, miss ruth. i will take an afternoon train, run down, hire a lodgin', come up to-morrow, an' carry the miss seawards off wi' me." "but suppose they won't go?" "but they must go. i'm quite able to take up one under each arm an' carry 'em off by force if they won't." "i would highly approve of that method, captain, if it were possible, but i'm afraid such things are not permitted in this free country. no, if done at all, the thing must be gone about with a little more care and delicacy." "well then, i'll go down an' take a lodgin', an' write up and ask them to pay me a visit for the benefit of their health." ruth shook her pretty little head and frowned. "won't do," she said. "i know them too well. they're so unselfish that they won't budge a step to benefit themselves." "h'm! i see, miss ruth, we want a little scheming here--eh? well, i'll manage it. you leave this little matter in my hands, and see if i don't get 'em to visit yarmouth, by hook or by crook. by the way, miss ruth, was it one o' your little schemes, givin' 'em these mitts and comforters to make?" "of course it was," ruth replied with a laugh and a blush. "you see these things are really very much wanted by the north sea fishermen, and a great many benevolent women spend much time in knitting for them--and not only women, but also boys." "boys!" echoed the captain in surprise--"boys knit mitts and comforters?" "yes. i assure you that the telegraph boys of the notting hill branch of the post-office have actually spent some of their spare time in doing this work." "i'll look upon telegraph boys with more respect ever after this," said the captain with emphasis. "well, as i was saying," continued ruth, "mamma bought far more worsted for me than i could ever find time to work up into mitts or comforters, so i have employed the miss seawards to do it for me--at so much a pair. but they don't know it's for me, so be careful not to--" "yes, yes, i see--more scheming. well, i'll take care not to blab." "and i sent the worsted and arranged the transaction through such a dear pretty little fisher-boy from yarmouth. but perhaps you have seen him at your lodging." "no, i haven't seen him, but i've heard a good deal about him. the ladies seem to be as much impressed with his sweetness and prettiness as yourself, miss ruth. for my part, i'm not over fond o' sweet pretty boys. i prefer 'em rough-cast or even ugly, so long's they're smart an' willin'." "oh! but you have no idea what a smart and willing boy he is," said ruth, firing up in defence of her little friend. "i assure you he is most willing and intelligent, and i do believe he would scratch his face and twist his little nose into a screw if by so doing he could make himself ugly, for i have observed that he is terribly annoyed when people call him pretty--as they often foolishly do." "well, i'll be off now on this little business," said the captain, rising and smoothing his hat with his cuff. "but--but--miss ruth-- excuse me, you said something about sending the miss seawards a _rich_ lodger when you sent me. how d'ee know i'm rich?" "well, i only guessed it," returned ruth with a laugh, "and, you know, more than once you have hinted to me that you had got on very well--that god had prospered you--i think these were the words you have sometimes used." "these are the words i would always use," returned the captain. "the prosperity that has attended me through life i distinctly recognise at being the result of god's will, not of my wisdom. don't we see that the cleverest of men sometimes fail, and, on the other hand, the most stupid fellows sometimes succeed? it is god that setteth up one and putteth down another." "i'm glad to hear that you think so clearly on this point, captain, though i did not know it before. it is another bond between us. however, if i have been wrong in supposing you to be rich, i--" "nay, i did not deny it, miss ruth, but it does not follow that a man means to say he is rich when he says that he has got on very well. however, my dear, i don't mind tellin' you, as a secret that i _am_ rich--as rich, that is, as there's any use to be, an' far richer than i deserve to be. you must know," continued the captain, sinking his voice to a hoarse whisper, "that your dear father used to allow me to put my savin's into his hands for investment, and the investments succeeded so well that at last i found myself in possession of five hundred a year!" captain bream said this with much deliberation and an emphatic nod for each word, while he gazed solemnly in ruth's face. "not a bad fortune for an old bachelor, eh? then," he continued, after a moment's pause, "when i was wrecked, two years ago in australia, i took a fancy to have a look at the gold diggin's, so off i went to bendigo, and i set to work diggin' for the mere fun o' the thing, and the very first day i turned up a nugget as big as my fist and two of the same sort the day after, an' then a lot o' little ones; in fact i had got hold of a first-rate claim, an' when i had dug away for a month or so i put it all in a big chest, sold the claim, and came straight home, bringin' the chest with me. i have it now, up in my cabin yonder. it well-nigh broke my back gittin' it up the stair, though my back ain't a weak one." "and how much is the gold worth?" eagerly asked ruth, who had listened with a sympathetic expression on her face. "that's more than i can tell. i scarce know how to go about convertin' it into cash; but i'm in no hurry. now mind, miss ruth, not a word o' this to any livin' soul. not even to your own mother, for she ain't _my_ mother, d'ee see, an' has no right to know it. in fact i've never told it to any one till this day, for i have no one in the wide world to care about it. once, indeed, i had--" he stopped short. "ah! you are thinking of your sister?" said the sympathetic ruth; "the sister whom you once told me about long ago." "yes, miss ruth, i _was_ thinkin' o' her; but--" he stopped again. "do tell me about her," said ruth, earnestly. "has she been long dead?" "dead! my dear. i didn't say she was dead, an' yet it ain't unlikely she is, for it's long, long since i heard of her. there's not much to tell about her after all," said the captain, sadly. "but she was a dear sweet little girl at the time--just turned eighteen--an' very fond o' me. we had no parents living, an' no kindred except one old aunt, with whom my sister lived. i was away at the time on a long voyage, and had to take a cargo from the east indies to china before returnin' home. at hongkong i fell ill, an' was laid up there for months. altogether a good many troubles came on me at that time--though they were blessed troubles to me, for they ended in the saving o' my soul through my eyes bein' opened to see my sins and jesus christ as my saviour. it was three years before i set foot in england again, and when i got back i found that my old aunt was dead, and that my dear sister had married a seaman and gone away--no one knew where." "and you've never heard of her since?" asked ruth. "never." "and don't know who she married?" "know nothin' more about her, my dear, than i've told 'ee. good-bye now, miss ruth. i must look sharp about this business of yours." he showed such evident disinclination to continue the painful subject, that ruth forbore to press it, and they parted to prosecute their respective schemes. chapter twelve. captain bream develops a capacity for scheming. at dinner that day captain bream paused in the act of conveying a whole potato to his mouth on the end of his fork, and said-- "miss seaward, i'm going to leave you--" "leave us!" cried kate, interrupting him with a look of consternation, for she and jessie had both become so fond of the amiable seaman, with the frame of goliath and the heart of samuel, that they were now as much afraid of losing, as they had formerly been of possessing him. "leave us, captain!" "only for a time, miss kate--only for a time," he replied, hastily, as he checked the power of further utterance with the potato. "only for a time," he repeated, on recovering the power. "you see, i've got a little bit of business to transact down at yarmouth, and it will take me a good while to do it. some weeks at the least--perhaps some months-- but there's no help for it, for the thing _must_ be done." the captain said this with so much decision, that kate could scarcely forbear laughing as she said-- "dear me, it must be very important business since you seem so determined about it. is there anything or any one likely to oppose you in transacting the business?" "well, not exactly at present," returned the captain blandly, "but there are two obstinate friends of mine who, i have been told, would oppose me pretty stoutly if i was to tell 'em all the truth about it." "is there any necessity," asked jessie, "for telling these obstinate friends anything about the business at all?" "well, yes," replied the captain with a chuckle that almost brought on a choking fit; "i can't well avoid tellin' them somethin' about it, for they've a right to know, but--" "wouldn't it save you all trouble, then," broke in kate, seeing his hesitation, "to tell them just as much of the business as they were entitled to know, and no more." "that's just the very thing i mean to do," replied the captain, bursting into a laugh so deep and thunderous that the small domestic, liffie lee, entered the room abruptly to ask if anything was wanted, but in reality to find out what all the fun was about. having been dismissed with a caution not to intrude again till rung for, the captain helped himself to an enormous slice of beef; earnestly, but unsuccessfully, pressed the sisters to "go in for more and grow fat," and then continued his discourse. "you must know, ladies, that i have taken to studyin' a good deal in my old age. another potato--thank 'ee." "yes, we have observed that," said kate. "may i ask what is the nature of your studies--navigation?" "navigation!" shouted the captain with another laugh so rich and racy that poor liffie lee almost entered in defiance of orders; "no, miss kate, it ain't navigation! i've bin pretty well grounded in that subject for the last forty years. no, my study _now_ is theology." "theology!" exclaimed the sisters in surprise. "yes, theology. is it so strange, then, that a man drawin' near the close of life should wish to be more particular than when he was young in tryin' to find out all he can about his maker?" returned the captain gravely. "forgive us," said jessie, hastening to explain; "it is not that. if you had said you had taken to reading the bible carefully and systematically, we would not have been surprised, but it--it was--your talking so quietly about theology that made us--" "yes, yes, i see," interrupted the good-natured seaman; "well, it _is_ reading the word of god that i mean. you see, i regard the bible as my class-book, my book o' logarithms, chart compass, rudder, etcetera, all rolled into one. now, i don't mind tellin' you a secret. when i first went to sea i was a very wild harum-scarum young fellow, an' havin' some sort of influence over my mates, i did 'em a deal of damage and led 'em astray. well, when the lord in his great mercy saved my soul, i could not forget this, and although i knew i was forgiven, my heart was grieved to think of the mischief i had done. i felt as if i would give anything in life to undo it if i could. as this was not possible, however, i bethought me that the next best thing would be to do as much good as i could to the class that i had damaged, so, when i came home and left the sea for good, i used to go down about the docks and give away bibles and testaments to the sailors. then i got to say a word or two to 'em now and then about their souls but i soon found that there are professed unbelievers among the tars, an' they put questions that puzzled me at times, so i took to readin' the bible with a view to answering objectors an' bein' able to give a reason of the hope that is in me--to studyin', in fact, what i call theology. but i ain't above takin' help," continued the captain with a modest look, "from ordinary good books when i come across 'em--my chief difficulty bein', to find out what are the best books to consult, and this has led me sometimes to think of buyin' up all the theological books i can lay hands on, an' glancin' 'em all through so as to make notes of such as seemed worth readin' with care. the labour however seems so great, that up to now i've bin kept back, but i've had a talk with a friend to-day which has decided me, so i'll go off to yarmouth to-morrow an' buy a whole lot o' theological books--a regular library in fact--and set to work to read up. but there's one thing i would like, which would save me an enormous amount o' labour, if i could get it." "what is that?" asked the sisters, eagerly, and in the same breath, for they had become quite interested in their friend's aspirations. "i would like," said the captain, slowly, and fixing his eyes on his plate, for he was now beginning to scheme, "i would like to find some one--a clever boy perhaps, though a girl would be preferable--who would take the trouble off my hands of glancin' through the books first, an' makin' notes of their contents for me, so as to prevent my wastin' time on those that are worthless." "i fear," said jessie, "that few boys or girls would be capable of such work, for it would require not only intelligence but a considerable amount of scriptural knowledge." the captain heaved a deep sigh. "yes," he said, shaking his head slowly, "you're right, and i'm afraid i'll have to get some grown-up person to help me, but that won't be easy. and then, d'ee know, i don't feel as if i could git on in such investigations with a stranger." "what a pity," said kate, "that you could not bring the books here, and then _i_ could help you, for although i do not pretend to be deeply learned in scriptural knowledge, i daresay i know enough for your purpose; but why not get the books in london? is there any necessity for buying them in yarmouth?" poor captain bream was so unused to scheming, that he had made no preparation for such a question, and felt much confused. he could give no good reason for making his purchase in yarmouth, and nothing would have induced him to tell a falsehood. "well, really," he said, after a few moments' hesitation, "there are circumstances sometimes in a man's life which render it difficult for him to explain things, but--but i _have_ a reason for wishin' to buy this library in yarmouth, an' it seems to me a good one. besides, i've got a likin' for sea-air, bein' my native air, so to speak, and i've no doubt that theology would come more easy to me if i was in a snug little room facin' the sea, where i could see the blue waters dancin', an' the shipping go by, an' the youngsters playin' on the sands. yes, it _must_ be done at yarmouth. london would never do; it's too hot an' stuffy. not that i care for that, but then you might--ah--that is--i mean to say--you might agree with me on this point if you were there. but why," he added with fresh animation as he saw the way opening up before him, "why, miss kate, since you are so kind as to say you'd like to help me, why might you not take a run down to yarmouth with me, an' help me there?" "because," answered kate, laughing, "i could not very well leave my sister alone." "of course not--quite right, but there's no need for that; she could come too, and it would do you both much good, not to speak o' the _immense_ advantage to me! i do assure you i'd feel well-nigh as helpless as an infant, if left to tackle this business alone." from this point there began a regular skirmish between the captain and the sisters; the one trying to convince the others that it would be doing him a favour for which he could never find words to thank them, and the others endeavouring to show by every sort of argument that the thing was utterly unpossible, that the captain little knew what a burden he proposed to take on his shoulders, and that there was no use whatever in talking about it. but captain bream was a man of resolution. he stuck to his point and pleaded his own cause so powerfully that the sisters began to waver. "but think," urged kate, who did the most of the fighting, "you forget liffie lee. she is no longer a mere visitor for an hour or two of a morning, as she used to be, but a regular hired servant and we could not leave her behind." "i know that. it was my coming that made you hire her; and, now i think of it, i've a right to claim at least part of her, so she can come too, an' we'll lock up the house an' get mr green-grocer to look after it-- air it now and then. come, just make up your minds. only think, how beautiful the blue sea will be just now, an' the sunny skies, an' the yellow sands--i declare it makes me long to go. an' then you'll see that pretty boy you've taken such a fancy to--what's 'is name?" "billy bright," said kate. "just so--billy bright--though i can't say that i'm over fond o' pretty little boys. they're too often soft an'--" "but i tell you he's as bold as a lion, and wise as a man, and tough as--as--" "as a beefsteak," said the captain; "yes, yes, i know all that, and i'm quite prepared to believe that he is an exception. well, now, it's agreed to--is it?" but the sisters did not at once give in. they fought on with true feminine courage until the captain tried the effect of deep dejection and innocent submission, when their tender hearts could stand out no longer, and, hauling down their colours, they finally agreed to become librarians and accompany their lodger to yarmouth. then the captain left them to report the victory to his commodore, ruth dotropy. "i never had such a battle in my life!" he said to that scheming young creature. "they didn't give in till they'd fired off every shot in their locker. trafalgar and the nile were nothin' to it." "but do you really mean to say," asked ruth, who could hardly speak at first for laughing, "that you intend to buy all these theological books and set the sisters to work?" "to be sure i do. you didn't suppose that i was goin' to tell a parcel o' lies to help out your schemes, my dear? it has been for some months past simmerin' in my brain that i ought to go through a small course of education in that line. and all you have done for me is to make me go in for it somewhat sooner, and a little heavier than i had intended in the way of books. and there's no doubt i'll study better at the sea-side than in london. besides, i shall have the fishermen to try the effects of my studies on, and you may be sure i won't let the poor things work too hard at the books." "i'll trust you for that," said ruth. now, while these little plans were being arranged, an event was pending in the north sea fleet which merits particular notice. chapter thirteen. run down in a fog--captain bream acts surprisingly. one day a fishing-smack was on the eve of quitting the short blue fleet for its little holiday of a week in port. it was the _sparrow_, of which jim frost was master. a flag was flying to indicate its intention, and invite letters, etcetera, for home, if any of the crews should feel disposed to send them. several boats put off from their respective smacks in reply to the signal. one of these belonged to singing peter. "glad to see you, peter," said jim frost as the former leaped on the _sparrow's_ deck. "same to you, lad. i wish you a pleasant spell ashore, and may the master be with you," returned peter. "the master is sure to be with me," replied frost, "for has he not said, `i will never leave thee?' isn't it a fine thing, peter, to think that, whatever happens, the lord is here to guard us from evil?" "ay, jim, an' to take us home when the time comes." "`which is far better,'" responded jim. "you'll not get away to-night," remarked peter as he gazed out upon the sea. "it's goin' to fall calm." "no matter. i can wait." "what say ye, lad, to a hymn?" said peter. "i'm your man," replied jim, with a laugh, "i thought it wouldn't be long before singin' peter would want to raise his pipe." "he can't help it, d'ee see," returned peter, answering the laugh with a smile; "if i didn't sing i'd blow up. it's my safety-valve, jim, an' i like to blow off steam when i gets alongside o' like-minded men." "we're all like-minded here. fetch my accordion," said jim, turning to one of his men. in a few minutes a lively hymn was raised in lusty tones which rolled far and wide over the slumbering sea. then these like-minded men offered up several prayers, and it was observed that jim frost was peculiarly earnest that night. of course they had some more hymns, for as the calm was by that time complete, and it was not possible for any sailing vessel to quit the fleet, there was no occasion to hurry. indeed there is no saying how long these iron-framed fishermen would have kept it up, if it had not been for a slight fog which warned the visitors to depart. as the night advanced the fog thickened, so that it was not possible to see more than fifty yards around any of the fishing-smacks. now it is probably known to most people that the greatest danger to which those who do business on the sea are exposed is during fog. when all around is calm and peaceful; when the sound of voices comes with muffled sound over the smooth water; when the eye sees nothing save a ghostly white horizon all round close at hand; when almost the only sound that breaks on the ear is the gentle lapping of the sea, or the quiet creak of plank and spar, as the vessel slowly lifts and falls on the gentle swell, and when landsmen perchance feel most secure--then it is that the dark cloud of danger lowers most heavily, though perhaps unrecognised, over the mariner, and stirs him to anxious watchfulness, when apparently in profoundest repose. jim frost knew well the dangers of the situation, but he had been long accustomed to face all the dangers peculiar to his calling on the deep without flinching--strong in the confidence of his well-tried courage and seamanship, and stronger still in his trust in him who holds the water in the hollow of his hand. many a time had he been becalmed in fog on the north sea. he knew what to do, kept the fog-horn blowing, and took all the steps for safety that were possible in the circumstances. but, somehow, the young fisherman did not feel his usual easy-going indifference on that particular night, though his trust in god was not less strong. he felt no fear, indeed, but a solemn sobriety of spirit had taken the place of his wonted cheery temperament, and, instead of singing in lively tones as he paced the deck, he hummed airs of a slow pathetic kind in a soft undertone. it is often said that men receive mysterious intimations, sometimes, of impending disaster. it may be so. we cannot tell. certainly it seemed as if jim frost had received some such intimation that night. "i can't understand it, evan," he said to his mate when the latter came on deck a little after midnight to relieve him. "a feeling as if something was going to happen has taken possession of me, and i can't shake it off. you know i'm not the man to fancy danger when there's none." evan--a youth whom he had been the means of rescuing when about to fall, under great temptation--replied that perhaps want of sleep was the cause. "you know," he said, "men become little better than babbies when they goes long without sleep, an' you've not had much of late. what with that tearin' o' the net an' the gale that's just gone, an' that book, you know--" "ah!" interrupted jim, "you mustn't lay the blame on the book, evan. i haven't bin sittin' up _very_ late at it; though i confess i'm uncommon fond o' readin'. besides, it's a good book, more likely to quiet a man's mind than to rouse it. how we ever got on without readin' before that mission-ship came to us, is more than i can understand! why, it seems to have lifted me into a new world." "that's so. i'm fond o' readin' myself," said evan, who, although not quite so enthusiastic or intellectual as his friend, appreciated very highly the library-bags which had been recently sent to the fleet. "but the strange thing is," said jim, returning to the subject of his impressions--"the strange thing is, that my mind is not runnin' on danger or damaged gear, or books, or gales, but on my dear wife at home. i've bin thinkin' of nancy in a way that i don't remember to have done before, an' the face of my darlin' lucy, wi' her black eyes an' rosy cheeks so like her mother, is never absent from my eyes for a moment." "want o' sleep," said the practical evan. "you'd better turn in an' have a good spell as long as the calm lasts." "you remember the patch o' green in front o' my cottage in gorleston?" asked jim, paying no attention to his mate's advice. "yes," answered evan. "well, when i was sittin' for'ard there, not half-an-hour since, i seed my nancy a-sittin' on that green as plain as i see you, sewin' away at somethin', an' lucy playin' at her knee. they was so real-like that i couldn't help sayin' `nancy!' an' i do assure you that she stopped sewin' an' turned her head a-one side for a moment as if she was listenin'. an' it was all so real-like too." "you was dreamin'; that was all," said the unromantic evan. "no, mate. i wasn't dreamin'," returned jim. "i was as wide awake as i am at this moment for i was lookin' out all round just as keen as if i had not bin thinkin' about home at all." "well, you'd as well go below an' dream about 'em now if you can," suggested evan, "an' i'll keep a sharp look-out." "no, lad, i can't. i'm not a bit sleepy." as jim said this he turned and went to the bow of the smack. at that moment the muffled sound of a steamer's paddles was heard. probably the fog had something to do with the peculiarity of the sound, for next moment a fog-whistle sounded its harsh tone close at hand, and a dark towering shadow seemed to rush down upon the _sparrow_. even if there had been a breeze there would have been no time to steer clear of the danger. as it was, the little vessel lay quite helpless on the sea, evan shouted down the companion for the men to turn out for their lives. the man at the bow sounded the fog-horn loud and long. at the same instant jim frost's voice rang out strong and clear a warning cry. it was answered from above. there were sudden screams and cries. the fog-whistle shrieked. engines were reversed. "hard a-port!" was shouted. steam was blown off, and, amid confusion and turmoil indescribable, an ocean steamer struck the little _sparrow_ amidships, and fairly rammed her into the sea. it could scarcely be said that there was a crash. the one was too heavy and the other too light for that. the smack lay over almost gracefully, as if submitting humbly to her inevitable doom. there was one great cry, and next moment she was rolling beneath the keel of the monster that had so ruthlessly run her down. not far off--so near indeed that those on board almost saw the catastrophe--lay the _evening star_. they of course heard the cries and the confusion, and knew only too well what had occurred. to order out the boat was the work of an instant. with powerful strokes joe, spivin, trevor, and gunter, caused it to leap to the rescue. on reaching the spot they discovered and saved the mate. he was found clinging to an oar, but all the others had disappeared. the steamer which had done the deed had lowered a boat, and diligent search was made in all directions round the spot where the fatal collision had occurred. no other living soul, however, was found. only a few broken spars and the upturned boat of the smack remained to tell where jim frost, and the rest of his like-minded men, had exchanged the garb of toil for the garments of glory! as a matter of course this event made a profound impression for a time on board of the _evening star_ and of such vessels as were near enough next morning to be informed of the sad news. a large portion of the fleet, however, was for some time unaware of what had taken place, and some of the masters and crews, who were averse to what they styled "psalm-singin' and prayin'," did not seem to be much affected by the loss. whether grieved or indifferent however, the work of the fleet had to be done. whether fishermen live or die, sink or swim, the inexorable demand of billingsgate for fish must be met! accordingly, next day about noon, a fresh breeze having sprung up, and a carrier-steamer being there ready for her load, the same lively scene which we have described in a previous chapter was re-enacted, and after the smacks were discharged they all went off as formerly in the same direction, like a shoal of herrings, to new fishing-grounds. when they had got well away to the eastward and were beating up against a stiff northerly breeze, david bright who stood near the helm of the _evening star_, said to his son in a peculiarly low voice-- "now, billy, you go below an' fetch me a glass of grog." billy went below as desired, but very unwillingly, for he well knew his father's varying moods, and recognised in the peculiar tone in which the order was given, a species of despondency--almost amounting to despair-- which not unfrequently ushered in some of his worst fits of intemperance. "your fadder's in de blues to-day," said zulu, as he toiled over his cooking apparatus in the little cabin; "when he spok like dat, he goes in for heavy drink." "i know that well enough," returned billy, almost angrily. "why you no try him wid a 'speriment?" asked the cook, wrinkling up his nose and displaying his tremendous gums. "for any sake don't open your mouth like that, zulu, but tell me what you mean by a 'speriment," said the boy. "how kin i tell what's a 'speriment if i'm not to open my mout'?" "shut up, you nigger! an' talk sense." "der you go agin, billy. how kin i talk sense if i'm to shut up? don't you know what a 'speriment is? why it's--it's--just a 'speriment you know--a dodge." "if you mean a dodge, why don't you say a dodge?" retorted billy; "well, what is your dodge? look alive, for daddy'll be shoutin' for his grog in a minute." "you jus' listen," said the cook, in a hoarse whisper, as he opened his enormous eyes to their widest, "you jus' take a wine-glass--de big 'un as your fadder be fond of--an' put in 'im two teaspoonfuls o' vinegar, one tablespoonful o' parafine hoil, one leetle pinch o' pepper, an' one big pinch ob salt with a leetle mustard, an' give 'im dat. your fadder never take time to smell him's grog--always toss 'im off quick." "yes, an' then he'd toss the wine-glass into my face an' kick me round the deck afterwards, if not overboard," said billy, with a look of contempt. "no, zulu, i don't like your 'speriment, but you've put a notion into my head, for even when a fool speaks a wise man may learn--" "yes, i often tink dat," said the cook, interrupting, with a look of innocence. "you quite right, so speak away, billy, an' i'll learn." "you fetch me the wine-glass," said the boy, sharply. zulu obeyed. "now, fill it up with water--so, an' put in a little brown sugar to give it colour. that's enough, stir him up. not bad rum--to _look_ at. i'll try father wi' that." accordingly, our little hero went on deck and handed the glass to his father--retreating a step or two, promptly yet quietly, after doing so. as zulu had said, david bright did not waste time in smelling his liquor. he emptied the glass at one gulp, and then gazed at his son with closed lips and gradually widening eyes. "it's only sugar and water, daddy," said billy, uncertain whether to laugh or look grave. for a few moments the skipper was speechless. then his face flushed, and he said in a voice of thunder, "go below an' fetch up the keg." there was no disobeying _that_ order! the poor boy leaped down the ladder and seized the rum-keg. "your 'speriment might have been better after all, zulu," he whispered as he passed up again, and stood before his father. what may have passed in the mind of that father during the brief interval we cannot tell, but he still stood with the empty wine-glass in his hand and a fierce expression on his face. to billy's surprise, however, instead of seizing the keg and filling out a bumper, he said sternly--"see here," and tossed the wine-glass into the sea. "now lad," he added, in a quiet voice, "throw that keg after it." the poor boy looked at his sire with wondering eyes, and hesitated. "overboard with it!" said david bright in a voice of decision. with a mingling of wild amazement, glee, and good-will, billy, exerting all his strength, hurled the rum-keg into the air, and it fell with a heavy splash upon the sea. "there, billy," said david, placing his hand gently on the boy's head, "you go below and say your prayers, an' if ye don't know how to pray, get luke trevor to teach you, an' don't forget to thank god that your old father's bin an' done it at last." we are not informed how far billy complied with these remarkable orders, but certain we are that david bright did not taste a drop of strong drink during the remainder of that voyage. whether he tasted it afterwards at all must be left for this chronicle to tell at the proper time and place. at present it is necessary that we should return to yarmouth, where captain bream, in pursuance of his deep-laid schemes, entered a bookseller's shop and made a sweeping demand for theological literature. "what particular work do you require, sir?" asked the surprised and somewhat amused bookseller. "i don't know that i want any one in particular," said the captain, "i want pretty well all that have bin published up to this date. you know the names of 'em all, i suppose?" "indeed no, sir," answered the man with a look of uncertainty. "theological works are very numerous, and some of them very expensive. perhaps if--" "now, look here. i've got neither time nor inclination to get upon the subject just now," said the captain. "you just set your clerk to work to make out a list o' the principal works o' the kind you've got on hand, an' i'll come back in the evenin' to see about it. never mind the price. i won't stick at that--nor yet the quality. anything that throws light on religion will do." "but, sir," said the shopman, "some of the theological works of the present day are supposed--at least by the orthodox--to throw darkness instead of light on religion." "all right," returned the captain, "throw 'em all in. i don't expect divines to agree any more than doctors. besides, i've got a chart to steer by, called the bible, that'll keep me clear o' rocks an' shoals. you make your mind easy, an' do as i bid you. get the books together by six o'clock this evening, an' the account made out, for i always pay cash down. good-day." leaving the bookseller to employ himself with this astounding "order," captain bream next went to that part of the town which faces the sea-beach, and knocked at the door of a house in the window of which was a ticket with "lodgings" inscribed on it. "let me see your rooms, my good girl," said the captain to the little maid who opened the door. the little maid looked up at the captain with some surprise and no little hesitancy. she evidently feared either that the rooms would not be suitable for the applicant or that the applicant would not be suitable for the rooms. she admitted him, however, and, leading him up-stairs, ushered him into the parlour of the establishment. "splendid!" exclaimed the captain on beholding the large window, from which there was seen a glorious view of the sea, so near that the ships passing through the deep water close to the beach seemed as if they were trying which of them could sail nearest to land without grounding. "splendid!" he repeated with immense satisfaction as he turned from the view to the room itself; "now this is what i call fortunate. the very thing--sofa for miss jessie--easy-chair for miss kate--rocking chair for both of 'em. nothin' quite suitable for me, (looking round), but that's not difficult to remedy. glass over the chimney to see their pretty faces in, and what have we here--a press?" "no, sir," said the little maid, pushing open the door, "a small room off this one, sir." "glorious!" shouted the captain, entering and striking the top of the door-way with his head in doing so. "nothing could be better. this is the theological library! just the thing--good-sized window, same view, small table, and--well, i declare! if there ain't _empty_ bookshelves!" "very sorry, sir," said the little maid, hastening to apologise; "we have no books, but they'll be handy for any books you may bring to the sea-side with you, sir, or for any little knick-knacks and odds and ends." "yes, yes, my good girl. i'll fetch a few theological odds and ends to-night that'll p'r'aps fill 'em up. by the way, you've a bedroom, i hope?" he looked anxious, and the maid, who seemed inclined to laugh, said that of course they had, a nice airy bedroom on the same floor on the other side of the passage--also commanding the sea. the captain's face beamed again. "and now, my girl--but, by the way, i shall want another bedroom. have you--" "i'm sorry to say that we have not. the rest of the house is quite full." captain bream's face again became anxious. "that's bad," he said; "of course i can get one out o' the house, but it would be inconvenient." "there _is_ a hattic, sir," said the maid, "but it is 'igh up, and so very small, that i fear--" "let me see the attic," said the captain, promptly. the maid conducted him up another flight of steps to a room, or rather closet, which did not appear to be more than five feet broad and barely six feet long; including the storm-window, it might have been perhaps seven feet long. it was situated in a sort of angle, so that from the window you could have a view of a piece of slate roof, and two crooked chimney pots with a slice of the sea between them. as there was much traffic on the sea off that coast, the slice referred to frequently exhibited a ship or a boat for a few seconds. "my study!" murmured the captain, looking round on the bare walls, and the wooden chair, and a low bedstead which constituted the furniture. "not much room for the intellect to expand here. however, i've seen worse." "we consider it a very good hattic, sir," said the little maid, somewhat hurt by the last remark. "i meant no offence, my dear," said the captain, with one of his blandest smiles, "only the berth _is_ rather small, d'ee see, for a man of my size. it is first-rate as far as it goes, but if it went a little further--in the direction of the sea, you know--it might give me a little more room to kick about my legs. but it'll do. it'll do. i'll take all the rooms, so you'll consider them engaged." "but you haven't asked the price of 'em yet sir," said the little maid. "i don't care tuppence about the price, my dear. are you the landlady?" "la! no, sir," replied the girl, laughing outright as they returned to the parlour. "well then, you send the landlady to me, and i'll soon settle matters." when the landlady appeared, the captain was as good as his word. he at once agreed to her terms, as well as her stipulations, and paid the first week's rent in advance on the spot. "now," said he, on leaving, "i'll come back this evening with a lot of books. to-morrow forenoon, the ladies for whom the rooms are taken will arrive, please god, and you will have everything ready and in apple-pie order for 'em. i'll see about grub afterwards, but in the meantime you may give orders to have sent in to-morrow a lot o' fresh eggs and milk and cream--lots of cream--and fresh butter and tea and coffee an' suchlike. but i needn't do more than give a wink to a lady of your experience." with this last gallant remark captain bream left the lodging and strolled down to the sea-beach. chapter fourteen. ruth's hopes as to her plot brighten a little. "mother," said ruth one day to her dignified parent, "shall you be soon free of engagements?" "yes, probably by the end of next week. why do you ask?" "because i am longing to get away to yarmouth. i had a letter from dear kate seaward to-day. they have been a week in their lodging now, and are enjoying it immensely. here is the letter. let me read a bit of it to you. she says: `you have no idea how much we are charmed with this place. it is a perfect paradise! perhaps part of our feeling of delight is due to the great change from our smoky little residence in london, but you would not wonder at my enthusiasm if you saw the sweet little window beside which i am writing, and the splendid sea--like a great field of clear glass, which spreads away on all sides to the horizon. oh! i do love the sea--to look at, i mean. you must not suppose, dear, that i have any love left when i am _on_ it. oh no! the memory of my last crossing of the channel--that dreadful british channel--is as fresh as if it had happened yesterday--the heaving of the steamer and the howling of the wind, the staggering of the passengers, and the expression of their faces, to say nothing of their colour. and then the sensations! appalling is a mild word. it is not appropriate. if i might coin a word, horrific seems more suitable. but words utterly fail when deep and powerful sensations are concerned. i do assure you, ruth, that i was absolutely indifferent as to what should become of me that dreadful day as i lay extended flat on my back on one of the saloon sofas. and when that nurse with the baby was forced by a lurch of the ship to sit down on me, i do believe that i could have thanked her if she had crushed me out of existence. yes, i hate the sea as a place of residence, but i love it as an object to be looked at, especially when it is calm and glittering, as it now is, in the early morning sun. "talking of the early morning reminds me of good captain bream, who is one of the most singular and incomprehensible creatures i ever met with. he is an early riser--not that that makes him singular--but instead of going out to walk he remains up in his pigeon-hole of a room studying theology! and such a miscellaneous collection of books he has got on all sorts of religious controversy! he say he wants to be able to meet the objections of unbelievers whom he sometimes encounters when preaching to sailors. jessie and i have heard him preach to a number of sailors and fishermen assembled in an old boat-shed, and you have no idea, ruth, how delightful it is to hear him. _so_ different from what one expected, and so very unlike the preaching of many men. i have often wondered why it is that some men--sensible men, too, in other matters--should think it necessary to talk in a sing-song, or whiny voice, with a pathetic drawl, or through their noses, when they have to speak on religious subjects! i once heard an indignant clergyman say that he thought it was a device of the devil to turn sacred things into ridicule, but i cannot agree with that. it seems to me that men are often too ready to saddle satan with evil devices which they ought to fix on their own stupid shoulders. captain bream simply _talks_ when he preaches; just as if he were talking on any business matter of great importance, and he does it so nicely, too, and so earnestly, like a father talking to his children. many of the rough-looking fishermen were quite melted, and after the meeting a good many of them remained behind to talk with him privately. jessie and i are convinced that he is doing a great and good work here. but he is a most eccentric man, and seems a good deal perplexed by his theological studies. the other day jessie ventured to question him about these, and he became quite energetic as he said:-- "`i tell 'ee what it is, ladies, when i go cruisin' out and in among these theological volumes until i lose my reckoning altogether an' git among shoals an' quicksands that i never so much as heard of before, i just lay hold o' the cable that's made fast to my sheet-anchor, and i haul in on that. here is the sheet-anchor, he said, pulling his little bible from his pocket, the word of god. that's it. when i feel how ignorant an' stoopid an' unlearned i am, i just keep haulin' on the cable till i come to some such word as this, "not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit, saith the lord," an' so i'm comforted, an' my mind's made easy, for, after all we may think and say and read, it _must_ come to this--"let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind." every man must work out his own theology for himself, accordin' to that word, and i've worked it out so far by god's blessin', that jesus christ--the god--man--is my foundation, the holy spirit is my guide, and salvation from sin is my aim and end--not only for myself but for my fellow-sinners. "`but i must not go on quoting the captain's sayings and eccentric doings, else i shall never stop. "`when are you and your mother coming down? i cannot tell how much we long to have you with us to share in our enjoyment of this charming place. and the fisher-people are so interesting too. i don't wonder you took such a fancy to them. of course we have not had time to make acquaintance with many of them yet. and jessie has become so engrossed with the captain's theological books that i can't tear her away from them. at first she began to inspect their contents with a view to tabulate them and help the captain, but she gets so deep in them that she forgets time altogether, and i have often found her, after having been several hours in the library, sitting there poring over a huge volume without having made a single note or jotting! the captain is quite facetious about it, and said yesterday that if she didn't work a little harder he'd have to dismiss her from the service an' ship a new hand. then he dragged us both out for a long walk on the beach. we cannot resist him. nobody can. and _such_ cream as we have!--more like thin butter than cream. and such quantities of it too, for he declares he is very fond of it, and must always have plenty on hand. but i cannot help thinking it is for our sakes he has it, for although he talks much about it and makes great demonstration and noise when he drinks it, he does not really consume much--and you know it must be drunk by somebody, else it would spoil. oh! we are having, as the captain himself says, a remarkably jolly time of it here, and only want you to make our happiness complete. but with all his fun and energy and cheerfulness, i cannot avoid noticing that dear captain bream is frequently very pensive and absent. i cannot help thinking sometimes that he is the victim of some secret sorrow.'" at this point ruth looked up in her mother's face and burst into a fit of hilarious laughter. "only think, mother," she said, "of great big, stout, jolly old captain bream having a secret sorrow!" "my dear," said mrs dotropy in a reproachful tone, "you are too flippant in your references to stout old people. you should remember that even the stoutest of them may once have been thin. and it is not impossible that captain bream may still be suffering from unrequited affection, or--" again ruth burst into silvery laughter, but checked it and apologised. "i can't help it mother. it does seem so funny to think of captain bream having ever been thin, or with hair on his head, or suffering from disappointed love. i wonder that it does not occur to kate that the good man is perhaps suffering because of the sorrows of others. it would be much more like his generous and unselfish nature. but now, mother, may i write to kate and tell her to expect us next week?" "yes, i think you may. but why are you in such haste, child?" "because i'm burning to clear up that little mystery that i told you of--if indeed it is a mystery, and not a mere fancy." ruth sighed as if her spirit were slightly troubled. "really, child, you have quite raised my curiosity about that mystery as you call it. why will you not confide in me?" "because i may be all wrong, and when i find out that i'm right--if i find out that i'm right--then you shall know all about it." "and there's that chest, too, that the captain sent here for us to take care of when he left town," continued mrs dotropy, "you make quite a mystery about that too, for i see that you know something about it. if i had not perfect confidence in your heart, child, i should feel quite anxious, for it is the first time in your life that you have concealed anything from me." "thank you, mother, for trusting my heart," said ruth, putting an arm round the dignified lady's neck and kissing her. "that's all very well, ruth, but i do not put so much trust in your head." "i'm sorry for that, mother, but meantime my head says that while it would be wrong in me to keep any secret about myself from you, i have no right to reveal the secrets of others. but about this chest--has the banker sent for it yet?" "no, not yet but i expect some one from the bank every minute, (she consulted a small jewelled watch), and it is probable that our young friend mr dalton himself may come." "mr dalton!" exclaimed ruth, with a sudden flush that might have indicated pleasure or annoyance. mrs dotropy, however, did not observe the flush, but continued-- "the chest seems miraculously heavy. i told james to put it into the store-room, but he could not lift it, although he is a strong man, and had to get the butler's assistance." at that moment the conversation was interrupted by the door being thrown open, and mr dalton was announced. he was a young man of handsome face and figure, with dark eyes, short curly hair, and a pleasing address. apologising for not being more punctual in calling for the chest, he explained that pressing-business had detained him. "of course, of course," said mrs dotropy, with the familiarity of an old friend--for such she was to the youth--"you men of business always carry about that cloak of pressing-business to cover your sins and shortcomings with." "nay, you are unjust," said the young man, "i appeal to miss ruth. did i not say to captain bream that i might perhaps have difficulty in getting away at the hour named, as it was a business hour, and, the transaction being of a friendly and private nature--" "my dear sir," interrupted mrs dotropy, "if it is private, pray do not make it public." "has not miss ruth, then, told you--" he stopped and looked from one lady to the other. "miss ruth," said that young lady, flushing deeply, "is supposed to know nothing whatever about your transactions with captain bream. shall i go and tell james to carry the box down-stairs, mother?" mrs dotropy gave permission, and ruth retired. a few minutes later, young dalton drove away with the captain's chest of gold. a week after that the mother and daughter drove away from the same door to the railway station, and in process of time found themselves one pleasant afternoon at yarmouth, in the little parlour with the window that commanded the gorgeous view of the sea, taking tea with the captain himself and his friends jessie and kate seaward. a lodging had been secured quite close to their own by the dotropys. "now," said ruth to jessie that evening in private, with flushed cheeks and eager eyes, "i shall be able to carry out my little plot, and see whether i am right, now that i have at last got captain bream down to yarmouth." "what little plot?" asked jessie. "i may not tell you yet," said ruth with a laugh. "i shall let you know all about it soon." but ruth was wrong. there was destined to be a slip 'twixt the cup and her sweet lip just then, for that same evening captain bream received a telegram from london, which induced him to leave yarmouth hastily to see a friend, he said, and keep an old-standing engagement. he promised, however, to be back in two or three days at furthest. chapter fifteen. a cloud comes over ruth's hopes, and dims their brightness. to prevent the reader supposing that there is any deep-laid scheme or profound mystery, with which we mean to torment him during the course of our tale, we may as well say at once that the little plot, which ruth had in view, and which began to grow quite into a romance the longer she pondered it, was neither more nor less than to bring captain bream and mrs david bright face to face. ruth had what we may style a constructive mind. give her a few rough materials, and straight-way she would build a castle with them. if she had not enough of material, she immediately invented more, and thus continued her castle-building. being highly imaginative and romantic, her structures were sometimes amazing edifices, at which orthodox architects might have turned up their noses--and with some reason, too, for poor little ruth's castles were built frequently on bad foundations, and sometimes even in the air, so that they too often fell in splendid ruins at her feet! it would not be just however, to say that none of ruth's buildings stood firm. occasionally she built upon a good foundation. now and then she made a straight shot and hit the mark. for instance, the little edifice of cuffs and comforters to the north sea trawlers survived, and remains to the present day a monument of usefulness, (which few monuments are), and of well-placed philanthropy. it may not, perhaps, be just to say that ruth actually laid the foundation--conceived the first idea--of that good work, but she was at all events among the first builders, became an active overseer, and did much of the work with her own hands. still, as we have said, too many of ruth's castles came to the ground, and the poor thing was so well used to the sight of falling material that she had at last begun to be quite expert in detecting the first symptoms of dissolution, and often regarded them with despairing anxiety. it was so with her when captain bream was summoned so suddenly away from yarmouth. eagerly, anxiously, had she planned to get him down to that town for the purpose of confronting him with mrs david bright--the reason being that, from various things the captain had said to her at different times, and from various remarks that mrs bright had made on sundry occasions, she felt convinced that the north sea fisherman's wife was none other than captain bream's long-lost sister! it would be well-nigh impossible, as well as useless, to investigate the process of reasoning and the chain of investigation, by which she came to this conclusion, but having once laid the foundation, she began to build on it with her wonted enthusiasm, and with a hopefulness that partial failure could not destroy. the captain's departure, just when she hoped to put the copestone on her little edifice was a severe blow, for it compelled her to shut up her hopes and fears in her own breast, and, being of a sympathetic nature, that was difficult. but ruth was a wise little woman as well as sympathetic. she had sense enough to know that it might be a tremendous disappointment to captain bream, if, after having had his hopes raised, it were discovered that mrs bright was _not_ his sister. ruth had therefore made up her mind not to give the slightest hint to him, or to any one else, about her hopes, until the matter could be settled by bringing the two together, when, of course, they would at once recognise each other. although damped somewhat by this unlooked-for interruption to her little schemes, she did not allow her efforts to flag. "i see," she said one day, on entering the theological library, where jessie, having laid down a worsted cuff which she had been knitting, was deep in leslie's _short and easy method with the deists_, and kate, having dropped a worsted comforter, had lost herself in chalmers's _astronomical discourses_. "i see you are both busy, so i won't disturb you. i only looked in to say that i'm going out for an hour or two." "we are never too busy, darling," said jessie, "to count _your_ visits an interruption. would you like us to walk with you?" "n-no. not just now. the fact is, i am going out on a little private expedition," said ruth, pursing her mouth till it resembled a cherry. "oh! about that little plot?" asked jessie, laughing. ruth nodded and joined in the laugh, but would not commit herself in words. "now, don't work too hard, kate," she cried with an arch look as she turned to leave. "it is harder work than you suppose, miss impudence," said kate; "what with cuffs and contradictions, comforters and confusion, worsted helmets and worse theology, my brain seems to be getting into what the captain calls a sort of semi-theological lop-scowse that quite unfits me for anything. go away, you naughty girl, and carry out your dark plots, whatever they are." ruth ran off laughing, and soon found herself at the door of mrs bright's humble dwelling. now, mrs bright, although very fond of her fair young visitor, had begun, as we have seen, to grow rather puzzled and suspicious as to her frequent inquiries into her past history. "you told me, i think, that your maiden name was bream," said ruth, after a few remarks about the weather and the prospects of the _short blue_ fleet, etcetera. "yes, miss ruth," answered mrs bright; but the answer was so short and her tone so peculiar that poor scheming little ruth was quelled at once. she did not even dare to say another word on the subject nearest her heart at the time, and hastily, if not awkwardly, changed the subject to little billy. here indeed she had touched a theme in regard to which mrs bright was always ready to respond. "ah! he _is_ a good boy, is billy," she said, "an uncommonly good boy-- though he is not perfect by any means. and he's a little too fond of fighting. but, after all, it's not for its own sake he likes it, dear boy! it's only when there's a good reason for it that he takes to it. did i ever tell you about his kicking a boy bigger than himself into the sea off the end of the pier?" "no, you never told me that." "well, this is how it was. there's a small girl named lilly brass--a sweet little tot of four years old or thereabouts, and billy's very fond of her. lilly has a brother named tommy, who's as full of mischief as an egg is full of meat, and he has a trick of getting on the edge of the pier, near where they live, and tryin' to walk on it and encouraging lilly to follow him. the boy had been often warned not to do it, but he didn't mind, and my billy grew very angry about it. "`i don't care about little brass himself mother,' said billy to me one day; `he may tumble in an' be drownded if he likes, but i'm afeared for little lilly, for she likes to do what he does.' "so, one day billy saw tommy brass at his old tricks, with lilly looking on, quite delighted, and what did my boy do, think ye? he went up to brass, who was bigger and older than himself, and gave him such a hearty kick that it sent him right off into the sea. the poor boy could not swim a stroke, and the water was deep, so my billy, who can swim like a fish, jumped in after him and helped to get him safe ashore. tommy brass was none the worse; so, after wringing the water out of his clothes, he went up to billy and gave him a slap in the face. billy is not a boastful boy. he does not speak much when he's roused; but he pulled off his coat and gave brass such a thump on the nose that he knocked him flat on the sand. up he jumped, however, in a moment and went at billy furiously, but he had no chance. my boy was too active for him. he jumped a' one side, struck out his leg, and let him tumble over it, giving him a punch on the head as he went past that helped to send his nose deeper into the sand. at last he beat him entirely, and then, as he was puttin' on his jacket again, he said--`tommy brass, it ain't so much on account o' that slap you gave me, that i've licked you, but because you 'ticed lilly into danger. and, you mark what i say: every time i catch you walkin' on that there pier-edge, or _hear_ of you doin' of it, i'll give you a lickin'.' "tommy brass has never walked on that pier-edge since," concluded mrs bright, "but i'm sorry to say that ever since that day lilly brass has refused to have a word to say to billy, and when asked why, she says, `'cause he sowsed an' whacked my brudder tommy!'" thus did mrs bright entertain her visitor with comment and anecdote about billy until she felt at last constrained to leave without having recovered courage to broach again the subject which had brought her to the fisherman's home. that same afternoon mrs bright paid a friendly visit to the wife of her husband's mate. "i can't think whatever miss ruth dotropy is so curious about me for, she's bin at me again," said mrs bright to mrs davidson, who was busy with her needle on some part of the costume of her "blessed babby," which lay, like an angel, in its little crib behind the door. "p'r'aps it's all along of her bein' so interested in you," replied pretty mrs davidson. "she asks me many odd questions at times about myself, and my dear joe, and the babby--though i admit she don't inquire much about my past life." "well, that's not surprising," said mrs bright with a laugh, as she sat down on a stool to have a chat. "you see, maggie, you haven't got much of a past life to inquire about, and joe is such a good man that you've no call to be suspecting anything; but it wasn't always so with my dear david. i wouldn't say it even to you, maggie, if it wasn't that everybody in yarmouth knows it--my david drinks hard sometimes, and although i know he's as true as gold to me, an' never broke the laws of the land, everybody won't believe that, you know, and the dear man _might_ fall under suspicion." "but you don't suppose, if he did," said mrs davidson, with a look of surprise, "that miss ruth would go about actin' the part of a detective, do you?" "well, no, i don't," replied her friend, looking somewhat puzzled. "all the same it _is_ mysterious why she should go on as she's bin doin', asking me what my maiden name was, and who my relations were, and if i ever had any brothers, and when and where i first met wi' david. but whatever her reasons may be i'm resolved that she'll get nothing more out of me." "of course," returned maggie, "you must do as you think right in that matter. all i can say is, i would tell miss ruth all that was in _my_ mind without any fear that she'd abuse my confidence." "ah! maggie, i might say that too if my mind and conscience were as clear as yours. but they're not. it is true i have long ago brought my sins to jesus and had them washed away in his precious blood. and i never cease to pray for my dear david, but--but--" "don't you fear, nell," said mrs davidson, earnestly, and in a tone of encouragement. "your prayer is sure to be answered." "oh! maggie, i try to believe it--indeed i do. but when i see david go down to that--that public-house, and come up the worse o' liquor, an' sometimes little billy with him with a cigar in his sweet little mouth an' the smell o' drink on him, my heart fails me, for you know what an _awful_ snare that drink is, once it gets the upper hand--and--" poor mrs bright fairly broke down at this point for a few seconds; and no wonder, for, not even to her most confidential and sympathetic friend could she tell of the terrible change for the worse that came over her husband when the accursed fire-water burned in his veins. "nell," said maggie, laying her work in her lap and taking her friend's hand. "don't give way like that. god would never ask us to pray for one another, if he didn't mean to answer us. would he, now?" "that's true, maggie, that's true," said mrs bright, much comforted. "i never thought of that before. you're young, but you're wise, dear. of course, the good lord will never mock us, and if there's anything i have asked for of late, it has been the salvation of david and billy. what was it, maggie, that made your joe first turn his thoughts to the lord?" "it was one of his mates. you remember when he sailed wi' that good man, singin' peter? well, peter used often to speak to him about his soul to no purpose; but that fine man, luke trevor, who also sailed wi' singin' peter at the time, had a long talk with joe one night, an' the holy spirit made use of his words, for joe broke down an' gave in. they're both wi' your david and billy now, so you may be sure they won't throw away the chance they have of speakin' to 'em." "god grant them success!" murmured mrs bright, earnestly. "amen!" responded the younger woman. "but, nell, you haven't told me yet what you think o' the miss seawards." "think? i think that next to miss ruth they are the sweetest ladies i ever met," returned mrs bright with enthusiasm. "they are so modest and humble, that when they are putting themselves about to serve you, they almost make you feel that you're doing them a favour. don't you remember only last week when they came to see poor jake's boy that was nearly drowned, and insisted on sitting up with him all night--first one and then the other taking her turn till daylight, because mrs jake was dead-drunk and not able for anything." "remember it?" exclaimed maggie, "i should think i does, and the awful way mrs jake swore at them afore she rightly understood what was wrong." "well, did you hear what mrs jake said in the afternoon of that same day?" "no--except that she was more civil to 'em, so i was told." "civil! yes, she was more civil indeed. she'd got quite sober by the afternoon, and the neighbours told her how near the boy was to death, and that the doctor said if it hadn't been for the wise and prompt measures taken by the miss seawards before he arrived, he didn't believe the boy would have lived--when they told her that, she said nothing. when the miss seawards came back in the afternoon, they tapped so gently at the door that you would have thought they were beggars who expected a scolding, an' when mrs jake cried out gruffly in her man-like voice, `who's that?' they replied as softly as if they had been doing some mischief, `may we come in?' `may you come in?' shouted mrs jake, so that you might have heard her half way down the street, as she flung the door wide open, `may angels from heaven come in? yes, you _may_ come in!' an' with that she seized the younger one round the neck an' fairly hugged her, for you see mrs jake has strong feelin's, an' is very fond of her boy, an' then she went flop down on a chair, threw her apron over her head, and howled. i can call it by no other name." "the poor ladies were almost scared, and didn't seem rightly to know how to take it, and miss kate--the younger one you know--had her pretty new summer dress awfully crushed by the squeeze, as well as dirtied, for mrs jake had been washin', besides cleaning up a bit just before they arrived." "well, i never!" exclaimed maggie in great admiration. "i always thought there was a soft spot in mrs jake's heart, if only a body could find it out." "my dear," said mrs bright, impressively, "there's a soft spot i believe in everybody's heart, though in some hearts it's pretty well choked up an' overlaid--" at that moment a bursting yell from the crib behind the door went straight to the soft spot in mrs davidson's heart, and sank deeply into it. "that blessed babby!" she cried, leaping up in such haste that her work went into the grate, in which, however, there was happily no fire. "oh! my darling! you're joe to the back-bone--though you _are_ a girl-- all bounce, an' bang, an' tenderness!" seizing the infant in her strong arms she gave it a hug which ought to have produced another yell, but the little one was tough, besides which, she was used to it, and said nothing. the calm did not last long, however. little mag, as she was called, felt that her interior somewhere was somehow in want of something, and took the usual way to publish the fact. after that, conversation became impossible. a storm had burst upon the friends which increased rapidly, so mrs bright rose to say good-bye in the midst of a squall which ought to have blown her through the door-way or out at the window into the street. she was not irritated, however. as she left the house followed by the squall, which was soon moderated to a stiffish breeze by distance, the sound called up reminiscences of little billy, and she smiled as she thought of the unvarying continuity of human affairs--the gush of infant memories, and the squalls of other days. chapter sixteen. temptation on the deep. let us return once more to the north sea. it was drawing towards the close of another fishing period, and the crew of the _evening star_ were beginning to think of the pleasures of their week on shore when, one afternoon, their vessel found herself becalmed near to the dutch man-trap--the vessel laden with that greatest of the world's curses--strong drink. it is usual, we believe, in ordinary warfare, that, on the eve of a great battle, there should be preparations and indications, more or less obvious, of the coming fight; but it is not always so in spiritual warfare. sometimes the hardest and most important battles of the great war are fought on unselected ground, the assault having been delivered unexpectedly and when the soul was off its guard, or, perchance, when it was presuming on fancied security, and relying on its own might instead of the strength of the lord. so it was at this time with david bright, skipper of the _evening star_. who would have thought, as he sat that day on the rail of his little vessel, calmly looking out to the horizon in anticipation of a good fishing-breeze, that the mighty forces of good and evil were mustering unseen for a tremendous conflict, on which, perchance, the angels were permitted to look down with interest, and that the battle-field was to be the soul of that rugged fisherman of the north sea! he knew not, little dreamed of, what was pending; but the captain of his salvation knew it all. there was but one entrance to that battle-field--the gate of man's free-will. through that portal the powers of darkness must enter if they gained admittance at all. elsewhere the walls were high as heaven, deeper than hell, for, except at this point, the fortress was impregnable. yet, although david bright knew not the power nor the number of the mighty forces that were marshalling, he was not entirely ignorant of the war that was going on. there had been some skirmishing already, in front of the gate, in which he had come off victorious. the demon habit had assaulted him more than once, and had pressed him sore; for a terrible thirst--such, it is said, as only confirmed drunkards understand--had more than once tormented him. when the first attack was made, the sturdy fisherman stood quietly on his deck with hands in pockets and eyes on the horizon, looking as if nothing were going on, and he smiled grimly as he muttered to himself rather than to the demon: "lucky for me that i made billy heave it overboard!" "oh! but," said the demon, "you were a weak fool when you did that. there's the coper alongside now; go, get another keg. it is cheap, and you can just take a little drop to relieve that desperate craving. come, now, be a man, and show that you have powers of self-restraint. you have always boasted of the strength of your will, haven't you? show it now." "ay, an' prove the strength of my will," replied david, with another grim smile, "by givin' in to _your_ will. no, devil! i _am_ a fool, but not quite such a fool as that comes to." the demon fell back at that and left him. on the next attack the skipper was worn-out with fatigue and watching. they had had a long spell of dirty weather. work of the hardest kind-- even for a hardy frame--had been done, and there was still work to do, and david's great physical powers were well-nigh used up. the gear was down, and a stiff nor'-west breeze not only drove the smack over the surging waves, but caused her to plunge into them like a wild horse bridled and held back. "you can't hold out much longer at this rate," whispered the demon. "take a drop just by way of a medicine to keep you awake and tide you over this bout; and, by good luck, your man gunter has some grog left in that bottle he got yesterday from the coper." "billy," said david, in a quiet voice, without deigning a reply to his foe, "billy, my lad, you fetch me a pot o' coffee or tea--whatever's ready, an' let it be hot." "yes, father," said billy, hastening smartly to obey, for he had a very slight suspicion of the conflict that was raging, though his conceptions were far, far short of the reality. the demon received a staggering blow that time, and he slunk away scowling when he noted the gleam of satisfaction on the victor's face as he handed back the empty pot to his son. warfare! yes, little do those who are "dead in trespasses and sins," and those who swim gaily with the current of self-indulgence, know of the ferocious fights, the raging storms, that are going on all round them on battle-grounds which, to all outward appearance, are calm and undisturbed. but we have said that this was merely skirmishing outside the gate. it was not till the afternoon referred to at the beginning of this chapter that the grand assault was made. on that day the skipper of the _evening star_ had been subjected to more than ordinary troubles. in the first place, he had brought up a dead man in his net along with the fish--a by no means unknown incident in trawl-fishing experience, for bodies of men who have been washed out of vessels in gales, or drowned in other ways, are sometimes entangled in the gear and brought to the surface. at other times bales and boxes-- goods that have been cast away or wrecked--are fished up in this way. being in a depressed state of mind, the sight of the dead man made david uncomfortable for a time, but, having thrown the corpse overboard again, he soon forgot it. the next thing that happened was the fishing up of an enormous mass of wreckage, which tore the net almost to pieces, and compelled him to bend on a new one. this was not only a heavy loss of itself, but entailed the loss of the fish that would otherwise have been in the net and poor david bright, already at zero in his spirits, sank considerably below that point. but the final disaster was reserved for a later hour. the new net had been shot, and one of the best banks of the fishing-ground had been gone over. the breeze which had carried the fleet along was just beginning to die down when the admiral made the signal to haul up. to work they went, therefore--all through the fleet--to hoist in the harvest of the deep. it was slow and weary work, as well as hard, that hauling in of the great cable with its gear. between two or three hours they laboured and toiled at it, while the thick veins stood out like cords on the men's necks, and beads of perspiration trickled down their brows. "it's goin' to be a big haul, father," said billy, as the crew stopped for a few moments to rest. "p'r'aps another lump of wreck," replied the skipper, somewhat bitterly. "i hope not," returned billy, in a cheery voice, resuming his work of passing the warp down below as it came off the capstan. at last the end of the bridle came inboard, and the fishermen knew that their toil, for that time at least, was drawing to a close. excitement of a mild type began to arise in the enthusiastic and hopeful among them. "now, boys, heave away," said joe davidson, setting the example. "it seems unwillin' to come, don't it," growled gunter. "dat's 'cause him full ob fishes," said zulu; "heave away, boys-- altogidder!" he strained with all his might. so did the rest of the crew. round went the capstan, and in a few minutes the great forty-eight feet beam appeared. this was soon hoisted up by means of tackle, and made fast to the side, and then began the hauling in--we might almost say clawing in--of the net, hand over hand, until the cod-end was visible near the surface. it now became evident that a grand haul had indeed been made, and that it had been the mere weight of the fish that had delayed them so long. great was the anxiety of course to secure the prize, and energetic the action displayed. zulu, being the most active and cat-like, was ordered to pass a rope round the net to which a powerful double block was applied. "haul away now, boys," said the skipper, whose spirits were somewhat revived by the sight. soon the great balloon-shaped cod-end with its solid mass of fish rose slowly into the air, and some of the men laid hold to be ready to swing it inboard and deposit it on the deck, when, suddenly, the stout rope that bound the lower end of the bag gave way. the entire mass of fish dropped back into the sea, and sank to the bottom! for a few seconds dead silence ensued, while the men glanced at the empty cod-end, and at each other. then a terrible oath burst from john gunter, and a sort of sigh broke from some of the others, as if words were incapable of expressing their feelings--as, indeed, they were! the skipper was standing by the companion-hatch at the moment with a handspike in his grasp. a deep-toned curse issued from his lips when the fish went down, and he dashed the handspike to the deck with fearful violence. once again, at this critical moment, the demon ventured to raise his head. "the coper's close on the port bow!" he whispered; "go, drown it all in grog, man, and be jolly!" jolly! how many men have cast away their souls, for the sake of what is implied in that little word! and now, alas! the gate of man's free-will was creaking on its hinges. no created power above or below could have moved that gate save the power of david bright himself. "shove out the boat!" shouted the miserable man, with a fierceness of expression and tone that there was no misunderstanding. poor billy understood it well enough. "oh! no, father! don't do it father!" he cried in an entreating voice; but already the little boat was dancing on the waves alongside, with john gunter in her. "jump in, luke," said joe davidson, hastily, for he was anxious that at least one trusty man should be of the party. luke jumped in at once, and was instantly followed by billy. the painter was cast off, and they pulled towards the floating grog-shop. the tempter received them with a hearty salute. "cheap spirits an' cheap baccy!" said john gunter, as he sat on the rail of the coper drinking the one and smoking the other, "that's what i likes, an' plenty of both." "that's so, john," returned david bright, who sat beside him, and, having already drained several bumpers of the fiery fluid, had quite got over his troubles. "you an' i are of the same mind, john; nevertheless you're a great sulky-faced humbug for all that!" "what d'ee mean by that?" demanded gunter, who was becoming rapidly drunk and quarrelsome. "what do i mean? why, i mean that you're the best man in the smack, out o' sight, an' it's a rare pity that your mother hasn't got half-a-dozen more like you. if she had i'd man the _evening star_ with your whole family. here, give us a hold o' your grapplin'-iron, old man." he seized gunter's fist as he spoke, and gave it a shake so hearty and powerful, that he almost hurled that lover of cheap grog and baccy overboard. "hold on, skipper!" growled the fisherman, who was for a moment uncertain whether to return the friendly grasp or fight; but the fierce, wild, contemptuous laugh with which david bright concluded the speech decided him. "y'you--you're a jolly good fellow," he stammered; "here, fill up again." the poor skipper filled up again, and again, until his speech began to grow thick and unsteady. "yesh," continued gunter, doubling his fist and smiting his knee, "i do like sheap grog an' sheap baccy, an' the coper's the place to get 'em both. ain't it?" he looked up sharply at the owner of the coper, who stood in front of him, and who of course assented cheerfully to the question. "ain't it?" he repeated still more sharply, turning to luke trevor, who sat close to him with a grave, anxious look. "why don't you drink?" he added. "because i don't want to," returned luke, quietly. "d-do-don't want to," returned gunter, angrily--for it takes little to make some drunk men angry--"you don't want to spend your money, you young miser--that's what you m-mean. an' yet it's sheap enough, i'm sure. you'll not git anything in the fleet so sheap as you will in the coper." "there you are wrong," returned luke, decidedly. "you'll get things cheaper aboard the mission-ship, for they'll give you physic, an' books, an good advice, and help as far as they can, all for nothing--which is cheaper than the coper's wares." "right you are, luke. pitch into him," cried david bright who was fast drinking himself into a state of madness. "father," whispered billy, with an anxious look, "don't you think you've had enough?" the reply to this was a tremendous cuff on the ear which sent the poor boy staggering backwards, so that he nearly fell. recovering himself he retired behind the coper's boat and tried to crush down the sobs that rose in his throat. he was to some extent successful, but a few tears that could not be restrained hopped over his sunburnt cheeks. it was not pain, nor even the indignity, that drew forth those tears and choking sobs, but the thought that the father he was so fond of had dealt the blow. meanwhile luke trevor, who felt that matters had reached a dangerous point, rose and went to the place where the boat's painter had been tied. david bright was sitting close to the spot. "don't you think it is time we were going, skipper?" he said, respectfully, as he laid his hand on the rope. "no, i don't," replied the skipper, sharply. "leave go that rope." luke hesitated. instantly the enraged skipper leaped up and struck him a blow on the chest which knocked him down. at the same moment, observing that gunter looked on with a leer of drunken amusement, he transferred his wrath to him, flung the remains of the spirits he had been drinking in the man's face, and made a rush at him. fortunately gunter, who had risen, staggered and fell, so that the skipper missed his aim and tumbled over him. in a moment gunter had regained his feet and prepared for combat, but his adversary's head had struck on the side of the vessel, and he lay stunned and helpless on the deck. luke, who had recovered almost immediately, now assisted gunter and billy to raise the prostrate man. it was not an easy matter to handle one whose frame was so heavy, but with the assistance of the owner of the coper they managed it. "it's only a slight cut," said billy, looking anxiously round at trevor. "ay, lad, it ain't the cut or the blow as keeps him down, but the grog. come, we must git him aboard sharp. haul up the boat gunter, while i stop the leak in his skull." with a kerchief, luke soon bound up the slight wound that the wretched man had received, and then they tried to rouse him, but the effort was in vain. david did indeed recover sufficient intelligence to be able to bellow once or twice for more grog, but he could not be brought to the condition of helping himself in any way. "what'll we do, luke?" asked billy, in a tone and with a look of deep distress, as the huge form of his father lay, a scarcely animate mass, on the deck at his feet. "we _must_ get him aboard somehow." "never fear, billy, my boy," said luke, cheerfully, "we'll get him aboard somehow. it's not the first time i've had to do it. come along, gunter, lend a hand." "not i!" said gunter, with a drunken swagger. "_i'm_ not goin' for an hour or more." "oh yes, you are," returned luke, dipping one of the coper's buckets over the side and pulling it up full of water. "no, i ain't. who'll make me?" "i will," said luke, and he sent the contents of the bucket straight into his comrade's face. "hooray!" shouted billy, convulsed at once with delight and surprise at the suddenness of the act to say nothing of its violence. "give it 'im, luke--polish 'im off!" luke did not however, take the pugnacious boy's advice; instead of awaiting the attack of the enraged gunter, he ran laughing round the capstan and defied him to catch him. gunter soon found, after bruising his shins and elbows, and stumbling over ropes, etcetera, that the effort was hopeless, and gave it up. "but i'll pay you off w'en i gits a hold of 'ee, luke. you make sure o' that," he growled as he gave up the chase. "all right, gunter; i'll give you a chance to-morrow, lad, if you'll only bear a hand wi' the skipper just now." without another word gunter, who was somewhat sobered by the cold bath, went to where the skipper lay, and attempted to raise him. being joined by the others the skipper was rolled to the side of the vessel, and then lifted in a half-sitting position on to the rail, where he was held in the grasp of gunter and the coper's skipper, while luke and billy, jumping into the boat, hauled it close under the spot. there was what billy called a "nasty jobble of a sea on," so that many difficulties met in the job they had in hand. these may be best stated by the actors themselves. "now then, boy, haul up a bit--ever so little, there; too much; ease off a bit. hold on!" "all right luke, but she pitches about so, that a feller can't hit the exact spot." "look out now, gunter," said luke; "let 'im go so as he'll come plump into my arms. not too soon, else you'll stand a chance o' sendin' us both through the bottom of the boat." "no, nor yet too late," cried the anxious billy, "else he'll go flop into the sea!" it was nervous work, for if he should go flop into the sea he would have been certain to go down like a stone. one or two attempts were made. the boat, rising up from a hollow in the sea to a height of several feet, surged close to where the men with their drunken burden stood. "look out!" cried luke, with arms extended and ten fingers in a claw-like position. "now then," growled gunter. but the treacherous wave fell short, and david bright was on the point of being dropt into the sea when his friends' fingers clawed him back to safety. "better make fast a rope to him," suggested billy, in breathless anxiety. the skipper of the coper acted on the advice at once, and made the end of a rope fast round bright's waist. again the boat rose, surged seaward, then swooped towards the coper, against which it would have been dashed but for the strong arms of luke. it rose so high that the drunk man was for a moment on a level with the gunwale. it was too good a chance to be missed. "shove!" roared gunter. over went the skipper into the arms of luke, who lost his balance, and both rolled into the bottom of the boat as it sank into the succeeding hollow. the danger being past, poor billy signalised the event, and at the same time relieved his feelings, with a lusty cheer. in a very short time joe davidson steered the _evening star_ close to their tossing boat. billy stood ready with the painter, and the instant the sides touched, he was over the rail like a monkey and made fast. the taking of the drunk man out of the boat was by no means so difficult as getting him into it had been. joe, luke, spivin, and zulu, as well as billy, leaned over the side of the smack, with their ten arms extended and their fifty fingers curled like crabs' claws or grappling-irons, ready to hook on and hold on. david bright's extended and helpless form was held in position by gunter. when it came within reach the fifty fingers closed; the boat surged away, and david was safe, though still held in suspense over the deep. but that was only for a moment. a good heave placed him on the vessel's rail, and another laid him on the deck. "brought on board his own smack like a dead pig!" muttered gunter, whose anger at the skipper rekindled when he saw him once more in safety. "he's fifty times better than you, even as he lies, you surly old grampus," cried billy, with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. "come, billy," said joe davidson, kindly, "lend a hand, boy, to carry him below. it's a sad break-down, but remember--he's not past redemption. come." four of the fishermen raised the skipper in their strong arms, and conveyed him to his own bunk, where they left him to sleep off the effects of his debauch. chapter seventeen. converse in the cabin--the tempter again--an accident. one night, some days after the incident just recorded, the _evening star_ shot her gear, in obedience to orders, on the port hand, and proceeded, with the rest of the fleet, to give a pressing invitation to those fish which inhabited that particular shoal in the north sea known to fishermen by the name of skimlico. the name, when properly spelt, runs thus: schiermonik-oog. but our fishermen, with a happy disregard of orthography, and, perhaps, with an eye to that brevity which is said to be the soul of wit, prefer to call it skimlico. when the gear was down the men retired to their little cabin to refresh themselves with a meal and a pipe. the skipper, who had recovered neither his spirits nor his self-respect since his recent fall, preferred to remain on deck. billy, who had never lost either, joined the revellers below--with all the more satisfaction that evan, the rescued mate of the _sparrow_, was with them. "out o' the road, zulu," cried ned spivin, pushing the cook aside, and sitting down close to the fire, "i'll have a bit o' fish." he stuck on the end of his knife a piece of sole, out of which the life had barely departed, and held it up before the fire to roast. "hand me a mug o' tea, an' a biscuit, zulu," said joe davidson; "fill it up, boy. i like good measure." "are them taters ready?" asked luke trevor. "an' the plum-duff? you haven't got any for us to-day, have 'ee?" "shut up!" cried zulu. "how many hands you tink i've got?" "eight at the very least," said spivin, "an' i can prove it." "how you do dat?" asked zulu, opening up his great eyes. "easy. hold out your paws. isn't that one hand?" (pointing to his left.) "yes." "an' doesn't that make two hands?" (pointing to his right.) "yes." "well, ain't one hand and two hands equal to three hands, you booby? an' don't you know that monkeys have hands instead o' feet? so as you're a monkey, that's six hands. and haven't you a handsome face, an' a handsome figgur, which is eight, you grampus! come, use one o' your many hands an' pass the biscuits." "sartinly!" said zulu, at once kicking a small bit of biscuit which spivin still held in his hand to the other end of the cabin, where it fell into the lap of trevor, who thanked zulu kindly, and ate it up. "oh! forgib me, massa," cried zulu, in mock repentance. "i's nebber nebber do it again! but you know you ax me to use one o' my hands to pass de biskit. well, i 'bey orders. i use 'im, an' pass de biskit on to luke." "come, ned, zulu's more than a match for you there. let him alone," cried joe davidson, "and don't be so stingy with your sugar, zulu. here, fill up again." the conversation at this point became what is sometimes styled general, but was interrupted now and then, as one and another of the men dropped into the anecdotal tone, and thus secured undivided attention for a longer or shorter space according to his powers in story-telling. "what a appetite you've got, luke," said joe, as he helped his comrade to a second large plateful of salt beef, potatoes, and duff. "hold on, joe! i've a pretty fair appetite, but am not quite up to that." "nonsense, luke, you've only got to try. a man has no notion what 'e can do till 'e tries." "ah, that's true," said ned spivin, checking a lump of salt beef on the end of his clasp-knife half way to his mouth; "did i ever tell 'ee, lads, that little hanecdote about a man we called glutton, he was such an awful eater?" "no, never heard on it," said several voices. "well, then, this is 'ow it was," said spivin, clearing his voice. "you must know, i was once in callyforny, where all the goold comes from. me an' most o' my mates had runned away from our ship to the diggin's, you see, which of course none on us would have thought of doin'--oh dear no--if it hadn't bin that the skipper runned away too; so it was no use for us to stop behind, d'ee see? well, we was diggin' one day, in a place where there was a lot o' red injins--not steam engines, you know, but the sort o' niggers what lives out there. one o' them injins was named glutton--he was such an awful eater--and one o' my mates, whose name was samson, bet a bag o' goold-dust, that he'd make the glutton eat till he bu'sted. i'm afeard that samson was groggy at the time. howiver, we took him up, an' invited glutton to a feast next day. he was a great thin savage, over six futt high, with plenty breadth of beam about the shoulders, and a mouth that seemed made a' purpus for shovellin' wittles into. we laid in lots of grub because we was all more or less given to feedin'--an' some of us not bad hands at it. before we began the feast samson, who seemed to be repentin' of his bet, took us a-one side an' says, `now mind,' says he, `i can't say exactly _how_ he'll bu'st, or _when_ he'll bu'st, or what sort of a bu'st he'll make of it.' `oh, never mind that,' says we, laughin'. `we won't be par-tickler how he does it. if he bu'sts at all, in any fashion, we'll be satisfied, and admit that you've won.' "well, we went to work, an' the way that injin went in for grub was quite awful. you wouldn't have believed it if you'd seen it." "p'r'aps not," said zulu, with a grin. "an' when we'd all finished we sat glarin' at him, some of us half believin' that he'd really go off, but he took no notice. on he went until he'd finished a small leg o' pork, two wild-ducks, six plover, eight mugs o' tea, an' fifteen hard-boiled eggs. but there was no sign o' bu'stin'. glutton was as slim to look at as before he began. at this pint samson got up an' went out o' the hut. in a minute or so he came back with a bark basket quite shallow, but about fourteen inches square, an' full of all kinds of eggs--for the wild-birds was breedin' at the time. `what's that for?' says we. `for glutton, when he's ready for 'em,' says he. `there's six dozen here, an' if that don't do it, i've got another basket ready outside.' with that he sets the basket down in front o' the injin, who just gave a glance at it over a goose drumstick he was tearin' away at. well, samson turned round to sit down in his place again, when somethin' or other caught hold of his foot tripped him up, an' down he sat squash! into the basket of eggs. you niver did see sich a mess! there was sich a lot, an' samson was so heavy, that the yolks squirted up all round him, an' a lot of it went slap into some of our faces. for one moment we sat glarin', we was so took by surprise, and glutton was so tickled that he gave a great roar of laughter, an' swayed himself from side to side, an' fore an' aft like a dutchman in a cross sea. of course we joined him. we couldn't help it, but we was brought up in the middle by samson sayin', while he scraped himself, `well, boys, i've won.' `won!' says i, `how so? he ain't bu'sted yet.' `hasn't he?' cried samson. `hasn't he gone on eatin' till he bu'sted out larfin?' we was real mad at 'im, for a' course that wasn't the kind o' bu'stin we meant; and the end of it was, that we spent the most o' that night disputin' the pint whether samson had lost or won. we continued the dispute every night for a month, an' sometimes had a free fight over it by way of a change, but i don't think it was ever settled. leastways it wasn't up to the time when i left the country." "here, zulu, hand me a mug o' tea," said billy bright; "the biggest one you've got." "what's make you turn so greedy?" asked zulu. "it's not greed," returned billy, "but ned's little story is so hard an' tough, that i can't get it down dry." "i should think not. it would take the glutton himself to swallow it with a bucket of tea to wash it down," said luke trevor. at this point the conversation was interrupted by an order from the skipper to go on deck and "jibe" the smack, an operation which it would be difficult, as well as unprofitable, to explain to landsmen. when it was completed the men returned to the little cabin, where conversation was resumed. "who'll spin us a _yarn_ now, something more believable than the last?" asked billy, as they began to refill pipes. "do it yourself, boy," said joe. "not i. never was a good hand at it," returned billy, "but i know that the mate o' the _sparrow_ there can spin a good yarn. come, evan, tell us about that dead man what came up to point out his own murderer." "i'm not sure," said evan, "that the story is a true one, though there's truth at the bottom of it, for we all know well enough that we sometimes pick up a corpse in our nets." "know it!" exclaimed joe, "i should think we do. why, it's not so long ago that i picked one up myself. but what were ye goin' to say, mate?" "i was goin' to say that this yarn tells of what happened long before you an' me was born; so we can't be wery sure on it you know." "why not?" interrupted ned spivin. "the battle o' trafalgar happened long before you an' me was born; so did the battle o' waterloo, yet we're sure enough about them, ain't we?" "right you are, ned," returned evan; "it would be a bad look-out for the world if we couldn't believe or prove the truth of things that happened before we was born!" "come, shut up your argiments," growled gunter, "an' let evan go on wi' his yarn." "well, as i was a-goin' to say," resumed evan, "the story may or may not be true, but it's possible, an' it was told to me when i was a boy by the old fisherman as said he saw the dead man his-self. one stormy night the fleet was out--for you must know the fishin' was carried on in the old days in the same way pretty much, though they hadn't steamers to help 'em like we has now. they was goin' along close-hauled, with a heavy sea on, not far, it must have been, from the silver pits--though they wasn't discovered at that time." we may interrupt evan here, to explain that the silver pits is a name given to a particular part of the north sea which is frequented by immense numbers of soles. the man who by chance discovered the spot kept his secret, it is said, long enough to enable him to make a considerable amount of money. it was observed, however, that he was in the habit of falling behind the fleet frequently, and turning up with splendid hauls of "prime" fish. this led to the discovery of his haunt, and the spot named the silver pits, is still a prolific fishing-ground. "well," continued evan, "there was a sort of half furriner aboard. he wasn't a reg'lar fisherman--never served his apprenticeship to it, you know,--an' was named zola. the skipper, whose name was john dewks, couldn't abide him, an' they often used to quarrel, specially when they was in liquor. there was nobody on deck that night except the skipper and zola, but my old friend--dawson was his name--was in his bunk lyin' wide awake. he heard that zola an' the skipper was disputin' about somethin', but couldn't make out what was said--only he know'd they was both very angry. at last he heard the skipper say sharply--`ha! would you dare?' "`yes, i vill dare,' cries zola, in his broken english, `i vill cut your throat.' with that there seemed to be a kind of scuffle. then there was a loud cry, and dawson with the other men rushed on deck. "`oh!' cried zola, lookin' wild, `de skipper! him fall into de sea! quick, out wid de boat!' "some ran to the boat but the mate stopped 'em. `it's no use, boys. she couldn't live in such a sea, an' our poor skipper is fathoms down by this time. it would only sacrifice more lives to try.' `this was true,' dawson said, `for the night was as dark as pitch, an' a heavy sea on.' "dawson went to the man an' whispered in his ear. `you know you are lying, zola; you cut the skipper's throat.' "`no, i didn't; he felled overboard,' answered the man in such an earnest tone that dawson's opinion was shook. but next day when they was at breakfast, he noticed that the point of zola's clasp-knife was broken off. "`hallo! zola,' says he, `what's broke the point of your knife?' "the man was much confused, but replied quickly enough that he broke it when cleaning fish--it had dropped on the deck an' broke. "this brought back all dawson's suspicion, but as he could prove nothing he thought it best to hold his tongue. that afternoon, however, it fell calm, an' they found themselves close aboard of one of the smacks which had sailed astern of them on the port quarter durin' the night. she appeared to be signallin', so the mate hove-to till he came up. "`we've got the body o' your skipper aboard,' they said, when near enough to hail. "dawson looked at zola. his lips were compressed, and he was very stern, but said nothin'. nobody spoke except the mate, who told them to shove out the boat and fetch the body. this was done, and it was found that the poor man had been wounded in the breast. `murdered!' the men whispered, as they looked at zola. "`why you looks at me so?' he says, fiercely; `skipper falls over an' sink; git among wrecks at de bottom, an' a nail scratch him.' "nobody answered, but when the corpse was put down in the hold the mate examined it and found the broken point of zola's knife stickin' in the breast-bone. "that night at supper, while they were all eatin' an' talkin' in low tones, the mate said in an easy off-hand tone, `hand me your knife, zola, for a moment.' now, his askin' that was so natural-like that the man at once did what he was asked, though next moment he saw the mistake. his greatest mistake, however, was that he did not fling the knife away when he found it was broken; but they do say that `murder will out.' the mate at once fitted the point to the broken knife. zola leaped up and tried to snatch another knife from one o' the men, but they was too quick for him. he was seized, and his hands tied, and they were leadin' him along the deck to put him in the hold when he burst from them and jumped overboard. they hove-to at once, an' out with the boat, but never saw zola again; he must have gone down like a stone." "that was a terrible end," said joe, "and him all unprepared to die." "true, joe, but are _we_ all prepared to die?" rejoined evan, looking around, earnestly. "it is said that there's a day comin' when the sea shall give up _all_ its dead, and the secrets of men, whatever they are, shall be revealed." from this point evan, whose earnest spirit was always hungering after the souls of men, led the conversation to religious subjects, and got his audience into a serious, attentive state of mind. we have said that david bright had remained that light on deck, but he did not on that account lose all that went on in the little cabin. he heard indeed the light conversation and chaff of the earlier part of the night but paid no heed to it. when, however, evan began the foregoing anecdote, his attention was aroused, and as the speaker sat close to the foot of the companion every word he uttered was audible on deck. at the time, our fallen skipper was giving way to despair. he had been so thoroughly determined to give up drink; had been so confident of the power of his really strong will, and had begun the struggle so well and also continued for a time so successfully, that this fall had quite overwhelmed him. it was such a thorough fall, too, accompanied by such violence to his poor boy, and to one of his best men, that he had no heart for another effort. and once again the demon tempter came to him, as he stood alone there, and helpless on the deserted deck. a faint gleam of light, shooting up the companion, illuminated his pale but stern features which had an unusual expression on them, but no eye was there to look upon those features, save the all-searching eye of god. "it was soon over with _him_!" he muttered, as he listened to evan telling of zola's leap into the sea. "an' a good riddance to myself as well as to the world it would be if i followed his example. i could drop quietly over, an' they'd never find it out till--but--" "come, don't hesitate," whispered the demon. "i thought you were a man once, but now you seem to be a coward after all!" it was at this critical point that evan, the mate of the _sparrow_, all ignorant of the eager listener overhead, began to urge repentance on his unbelieving comrades, and pointed to the crucified one--showing that no sinner was beyond hope, that peter had denied his master with oaths and curses, and that even the thief on the cross had life enough left for a saving look. "we have nothing to _do_, lads, only to _submit_," he said, earnestly. "nothing to do!" thought david bright in surprise, not unmingled with contempt as he thought of the terrible fight he had gone through before his fall. "nothing to do!" exclaimed john gunter in the cabin, echoing, as it were, the skipper's thought, with much of his surprise and much more of his contempt. "why, mate, i thought that you religious folk felt bound to pray, an' sing, an' preach, an' work!" "no, lad--no--not for _salvation_," returned evan; "we have only to _accept_ salvation--to cease from refusing it and scorning it. after we have got it from and in jesus, we will pray, and sing, and work, ay, an' preach too, if we can, for the love of the master who `loved us and gave himself for us.'" light began to break in on the dark mind of david bright, as he listened to these words, and earnestly did he ponder them, long after the speaker and the rest of the crew had turned in. daylight began to flow softly over the sea, like a mellow influence from the better land, when the net was hauled. soon the light intensified and showed the rest of the fleet floating around in all directions, and busily engaged in the same work--two of the nearest vessels being the mission smack and that of singing peter. ere long the fish were cleaned, packed, put on board the steamer and off to market. by that time a dead calm prevailed, compelling the fishermen to "take things easy." "billy," said david bright, "fetch me that bit of wood and a hatchet." billy obeyed. "now then, let's see how well you'll cut that down to the size o' this trunk--to fit on where that bit has bin tore off." the skipper was seated on a pile of boxes; he flung his left hand with a careless swing, on the fish-box on which billy was about to cut the piece of wood, and pointed to the trunk which needed repair. billy raised the axe and brought it down with the precision and vigour peculiar to him. instead of slicing off a lamp of wood, however, the hatchet struck a hard knot, glanced off, and came down on his father's open palm, into which it cut deeply. "oh! father," exclaimed the poor boy, dropping the axe and standing as if petrified with horror as the blood spouted from the gaping wound, flowed over the fish-box, and bespattered the deck. he could say no more. "shove out the boat, boys," said the skipper promptly, as he shut up the wounded hand and bound it tightly in that position with his pocket-handkerchief to stop the bleeding. joe davidson, who had seen the accident, and at once understood what was wanted, sprang to the boat at the same moment with luke and spivin. a good heave, at the tackle; a hearty shove with strong shoulders, and the stern was over the rail. another shove and it was in the sea. "lucky we are so close to her," said joe, as he jumped into the boat followed by luke and gunter. "lucky indeed," responded luke. somehow david bright managed to roll or jump or scramble into his boat as smartly with one hand as with two. it is a rare school out there on the north sea for the practice of free-hand gymnastics! "bear away for the mission smack, joe." no need to give joe that order. ere the words had well passed the skipper's lips he and luke trevor were bending their powerful backs, and, with little billy at the steering oar, the boat of the _evening star_ went bounding over the waves towards the fisherman's floating refuge for wounded bodies and souls. chapter eighteen. a day of calm followed by a night of storm. a fine-toned manly voice was heard, as the boat approached the mission smack, singing one of the popular hymns which are now pretty well-known throughout the fishing fleets. "no mistaking that voice," said david bright turning an amused look on billy; "singin' peter won't knock off till he's under the sod or under the sea." "then he'll never knock off at all," returned billy, "for luke there has bin tellin' me that we only begin to sing rightly a song of praise that will never end when we git into the next world." "that depends, lad, on whether we goes up or down." "well, i s'pose it does. but tell me, daddy, ain't the hand very bad? i'm so awful sorry, you know." "it might ha' bin worse, billy, but don't you take on so, my boy. we'll be all right an' ship-shape when we gets it spliced or fixed up somehow, on board the mission-ship." the hand was not however, so easily fixed up as david bright seemed to expect. "come down an' let's have a look at it, david," said the skipper, when the vessel's deck was gained. by that time singing peter had stopped his tune, or, rather, he had changed it into a note of earnest sympathy, for he was a very tender-hearted man, and on terms of warm friendship with the master of the _evening star_. "it's a bad cut," said peter, when the gaping gash in the poor man's palm was laid bare, and the blood began to flow afresh. "we'll have to try a little o' the surgeon's business here. you can take a stitch in human flesh i daresay, skipper? if you can't, i'll try." the mission skipper was, however, equal to the occasion. he sponged the wound clean; put a couple of stitches in it with sailor-like neatness-- whether with surgeon-like exactness we cannot tell--drew the edges of the wound still more closely together by means of strips of sticking plaster; applied lint and bandages, and, finally, did up our skipper's fist in a manner that seemed quite artistic to the observant men around him. "a regular boxin'-glove," exclaimed david, hitting the operator a gentle tap on the nose with it. "thank 'ee, friend," said the amateur surgeon, as he proceeded to re-stow his materials in the medicine chest; "you know that the fishermen's mission never asks a rap for its services, but neither does it expect to receive a rap without asking. come, david, you mustn't flourish it about like that. we all know you're a plucky fellow, but it'll never splice properly if you go on so." "hold on, mr missionary!" cried gunter, as the lid of the chest was being closed, "don't shut up yet. i wants some o' your doctor's stuff." "all right my hearty! what do _you_ want?" "he wants a pair o' eye-glasses," cried billy, whose heart was comforted, and whose spirits were raised by the success of the operation on his father's hand; "you see he's so short-sighted that he can't see no good in nobody but his-self." "shut up, you young catfish! see here," said gunter, stretching out his wrists, which were red and much swollen. "oh! i can give you something for that;" so saying the skipper supplied the fisherman with a little ointment, and then, going to a cupboard, produced a pair of worsted cuffs. "you rub 'em well with that first," he said, "an' then wear the cuffs." "he'll want more cuffs than that," said billy. "i think not my boy," said the skipper, with a benignant look, as he stooped to lock the chest. "when these are worn-out he can have more." "well, if you'd take my advice," returned billy, "you'd give him another pair. a cuff on each side of his head would do him a world of good." gunter turned sharply to make a grasp at his young tormentor, but the lad had taken care to have the cabin table between them, and at once sprang laughing up the companion. "he's a smart boy, that," remarked the mission skipper. "rather too smart," growled gunter, as he pocketed his salve and cuffs, and went on deck. "smart enough!" remarked david bright with a low chuckle of satisfaction. "come now," said the missionary, "you'll stop and have some coffee or cocoa with us. you can't work wi' that hand, you know. besides, there'll be no fishin' till this calm's over. so we mean to have a little meetin' in the afternoon. we're in luck too, just now," he added in a lower voice, "for we've got a real parson aboard. that's him talkin' to my mate. he's here on a visit--partly for his health, i believe--a regular clergyman of the church of england and a splendid preacher, let me tell you. you'll stop, now, won't you?" david bright's countenance grew sad. the memory of his recent failure and fall came over him. "what's the use o' _me_ attendin' your meetin's?" he said, almost angrily; "my soul's past recovery, for i don't believe in your prayin' an' psalm-singin'." "you trusted me freely wi' your hand, david, though i'm no surgeon. why won't you trust me a little wi' your soul, though i'm no parson-- especially as it seems to be in a very bad way by your own account? have a talk wi' the parson. he's got such a way with him that he's sure to do you good." it was not so much the words thus spoken as the grave, kind, sensible tones and looks which accompanied them, that won the despairing fisherman. "well, i'll stop," he said, with a short laugh; "the cocoa may do me good, even though the meetin' don't." "now you're becoming soft and unmanly--a regular old wife," whispered the demon, who had watched him anxiously throughout the whole morning. "the boat's alongside, father," billy called out, at that moment down the open skylight. "that's right," replied the father in a strong hearty voice. "you go aboard wi' the rest, my boy, an' come back in the arternoon when you see 'em hoist the mission-flag. i'm goin' to stop aboard, an we'll all attend the meetin' together. an' look you, billy, fetch my noo testament with 'ee--the one your mother gave me." "praise the lord for these words!" said the mission skipper. he did not say it very loud, for he was not by nature a demonstrative man; neither did he whisper it, for he was not ashamed to thank his god for mercies received. at the same moment the demon fled away for that time--according to the true word, "resist the devil, and he will flee from you." david bright did not talk much that afternoon. his injured hand gave him considerable pain, but it was not that which silenced him. thoughts too deep for utterance were passing through his brain. it was the turning-point of his life; and, while his mind was busy with the great issues that must be faced sooner or later by all mankind, he listened with mingled surprise, hope, fear, and pleasure, to the free and hearty converse of the godly crew of the gospel-ship, as they discoursed pleasantly, now of the homes in yarmouth or gorleston, now of the home above; or sang, with stentorian voices, some of the lively hymns that are happily current in the present day, or prayed in the ungrammatical language, and with the intense fervour, of untutored but thoroughly earnest men. they thought that david was suffering from his injury, and wisely let him alone, though they occasionally gave him a cheering word, and frequently plied him with hot cocoa, which he preferred much, he said, to coffee. this may seem to some a rather incongruous way of presenting religious and secular things. it may be so, but we are not careful to preserve congruity, or to dilute our dish to please the palate of the fastidious. this world is full of incongruities, and we are endeavouring to present that portion of it now under consideration as it actually is at the present time. the heartiest, the most genial, and perhaps the noisiest fisherman there that day was the man whom we have referred to more than once as singing peter. it seemed as if he were intoxicated with joy, and could not refrain from bursting into song in praise of redeeming love. but peter was by no means exclusive in his ideas. he could descend to the simple matters of this life when needful. like david bright he was a temporary visitor to the mission-ship, and waited for the afternoon meeting. peter possessed: "a heart at leisure from itself, to soothe and sympathise," and found time to have a private talk with david, whom he drew out so tenderly, yet powerfully, that he wormed from him the whole story of his spiritual as well as spirituous warfare. he even got him down into the cabin alone, and, when there, proposed that they should pray together. to this david at once agreed, and the good man prayed with such simple fervour that david found himself ere long weeping like a child. that the prayer of singing peter was in harmony with his spirit was evident from the deep "amen!" which he uttered at its conclusion. "many a time, peter," he said, grasping his friend's hand, as they rose from their knees, "many a time has my face bin washed wi' salt water from the sea, but it's not often bin dabbled wi' salt water from my eyes!" in the afternoon the weather became unusually sultry, and as the calm continued, many of the fishing-smacks closed by imperceptible degrees around the mission-ship, whose flag flying at the mizzen told that the worship of god was soon to begin. several of the other smacks also flew bethel-flags. these belonged to the whole-hearted ones who had fairly and boldly come out on the lord's side. others drew near, although they did not fly the flag. some of these belonged to the half-hearted, who wanted medicines or books, and were rather indifferent about the meeting, though willing enough, perhaps, to remain to it. one way or another there was soon a long tail of boats floating astern of the gospel-ship, and a goodly congregation on her deck. her skipper was very busy. books were being actively exchanged. one or two men wanted to sign the pledge. salves, and plasters, and pills, were slightly in demand, for even north sea fishermen, tough though they be, are subject to physical disturbance. at last the hour arrived, and the heavy-booted, rough-jacketed, sou'-westered, burly congregation adjourned to the hold, where, appropriately seated on fish-trunks, they opened their hymn-books and began to sing. they had a harmonium--provided, of course, by the mission--and it chanced that the mission skipper had music enough in him to play a simple accompaniment on it, but the strong-lunged congregation drowned it out in the first five minutes. then the invalid clergyman stood up and prayed, and read a chapter of god's word, after which he preached--ay, preached in a way that drew tears from some, and hearty exclamations of thankfulness from others. it was not the power of rhetoric or of eloquence though he possessed both, so much as that mighty power, which consists in being thoroughly and intensely earnest in what one says, and in using a natural, conversational tone. there were more signings of the temperance pledge after the service, and one or two whose minds had been wavering before, now came forward and offered to purchase bethel-flags. others wanted to purchase testaments, prayer-books, and gospel compasses--the latter being the invention of an ingenious christian. it consisted of a mariner's compass drawn on card-board, with appropriate texts of god's word printed on the various "points." the same ingenious gentleman has more recently constructed a spiritual chart so to speak, on which are presented to the eye the various shoals, and quicksands, and rocks of sin, and danger, and temptation, that beset the christian pilgrim, as well as the streams, rivers, and channels, that conduct him from the regions of darkness into the realms of light. all this took up so much time that it was getting dark when our fishermen began to go over the side, and proceed to their several vessels. soon after that the aspect of nature entirely changed. the sultry calm gave place to a fast increasing breeze, which raised white crests on the darkening waves. "a dirty night we're going to have of it," remarked david bright to singing peter, as he got into his tossing boat with some difficulty. "it's all in the master's hands," replied peter, looking up with a glad expression on his weatherworn face. with these words he left the mission smack and returned to his own vessel. the fishermen of the north sea had cause to remember that night, for one of the worst gales of the season burst upon them. fishing was impossible. it was all that they could do to weather the gale. sails were split and torn, rigging was damaged, and spars were sprung or carried away. the wind howled as if millions of wicked spirits were yelling in the blast. the sea rose in wild commotion, tossing the little smacks as if they had been corks, and causing the straining timbers to groan and creak. many a deck was washed that night from stem to stern, and when grey morning broke cold and dreary over the foaming sea, not a few flags, half-mast high, told that some souls had gone to their account. disaster had also befallen many of the smacks. while some were greatly damaged, a few were lost entirely with all their crews. singing peter's vessel was among the lost. the brightening day revealed the fact that the well-known craft had disappeared. it had sunk with all hands, and the genial fisherman's strong and tuneful voice had ceased for ever to reverberate over the north sea in order that it might for ever raise a louder and still more tuneful strain of deep-toned happiness among the harmonies of heaven. chapter nineteen. ruth finds that everything seems to go against her. anxiously did ruth dotropy await the return of captain bream to yarmouth, and patiently did she refrain, in the meantime, from questioning mrs bright as to her history before marriage, for that good woman's objection to be so questioned was quite sufficient to check her sensitive spirit. but poor ruth's enthusiastic hopes were doomed to disappointment at that time, for, only a few days after the captain's departure, she received a letter from him, part of which ran as follows:-- "dear miss ruth,--i am exceedingly sorry and almost ashamed, to be obliged to say that i am unable to return to yarmouth for some weeks at least. the fact is that i have for a long time been engaged in a piece of business--a sort of search--which has caused me much anxiety and frequent disappointment. my lawyer, however, now thinks he has hit on the right clue, so that i have good hope of being successful. in the meantime will you do your best to comfort the miss seawards in my absence, and explain to them that nothing but necessity could make me leave them in the lurch in this fashion," etcetera. "how _very_ provoking!" exclaimed ruth, with a pretty little frown on her innocent face after reading the letter to her stately mother. "why provoking, dear?" asked mrs dotropy. "surely we can enjoy the fine air of yarmouth without captain bream, and although the dear miss seawards are very fond of him, they will not pine or lose their health because of his absence for a short time. besides, have they not that wonderful theological library to divert them?" "yes, mother--it's not that, but i was _so_ anxious to find out--" she stopped short. "find out what, child?" "well now, mother, i can _not_ keep it from you any longer. i will tell you my little secret if you promise not to reveal it to any living soul." "how absurd you are, ruth! do you suppose that i shall go about the streets proclaiming your secret, whatever it is, to tom, dick, and harry, even if it were worth telling, much less when it is probably not worth remembering? of course i might let it slip, you know, by accident and when a thing slips there is no possibility of recovery, as i said once to your dear father that time when he slipped off the end of the pier into the water and had to be fished up by the waist-band of his trousers with grappling-irons, i think they called them--at all events they were very dangerous-looking things, and i've often argued with him--though i hate argument--that they might have gone into his body and killed him, yet he would insist that, being blunt, the thing was out of the question, though, as i carefully explained to him, the question had nothing to do with it--but it is useless arguing with you, ruth--i mean, it was useless arguing with your father, dear man, for although he was as good as gold, he had a very confused mind, you know. what was it we were talking about?--oh yes!--your secret. well, what is it?" with a flushed face and eager look, ruth said, "mother, i _cannot_ help being convinced that mrs bright the fisherman's wife, is no other than captain bream's lost sister!" "if you cannot help being convinced, child, it is of no use my attempting to reason with you. but why think of such nonsense? if she is what you suppose, she must have been a miss bream before marriage." "so she was!" exclaimed ruth, with a look of triumph. i have found that out--only i fear that is not proof positive, because, you know, although not a common name, bream is by no means singular. "well, but she would have been a lady--or--or would have had different manners if she had been captain bream's sister," objected mrs dotropy. "that does not follow," said ruth, quickly. "the captain may have risen from the ranks; we cannot tell; besides, mrs bright _is_ very refined, both in manner and speech, compared with those around her. i was on the point one day of asking if she had a brother, when she seemed to draw up and cut the matter short; so i have had to fall back on my original plan of trying to bring the two face to face, which would at once settle the question, for of course they'd know each other." "dear child, why make such a mystery about it?" said mrs dotropy; "why not tell the captain of your suspicion, and ask him to go and see the woman?" "because it would be so cruel to raise his expectations, mother, and then perhaps find that i was wrong. it would disappoint him so terribly. but this reference to a `search' in his letter makes me feel almost sure he is searching for this lost sister." "foolish child! it is a wild fancy of your romantic brain. who ever heard," said the mother, "of a lawyer being employed to search for a sister? depend upon it, this captain is in search of some deed,--a lost will, or a--an old parchment or a document of some sort, perhaps referring to a mismanaged property, or estate, or fortune, for things of that kind are often seen in the newspapers; though how the newspapers come to find out about them all is more than i can understand. i've often wondered at it. ah! your dear father used to say in his facetious way that he was "lost in the _times_," when he wanted to be let alone. i don't mean advertised for as lost, of course, though he might have been, for i have seen him lose his head frequently; indeed i have been almost forced to the conclusion more than once that the _times_ had a good deal to do with your father's mental confusion; it told such awful lies sometimes, and then a month or two afterwards would flatly contradict them all by telling the truth--at least it was probably the truth since it was the opposite of the lies; but it's of no use talking, i always find that. what were you saying, child?" "well, mother, i was going to say," answered ruth, with a sigh, "that i must just have patience and be content to wait." "now you talk like the dear, good, sensible little thing that you are," said mrs dotropy, rising; "run, put on your hat and i'll walk with you by the sea, or go visit the fisher-folk if you like--or the miss seawards." in this amiable frame of mind the mother and daughter set off to the shore. ruth's patience was indeed tried more severely than she had anticipated, for, whatever the search was in which captain bream had engaged, it compelled him to remain in town much longer than he had intended. meanwhile the _evening star_ returned to port, and david bright, with billy, joe, and the rest of the crew, went to enjoy themselves in their various ways during their brief holiday. mrs bright chanced to be spending the afternoon with mrs joe davidson and her wonderful "babby" when the skipper and mate walked in upon them. there were two little shrieks of joy; then the two wives were enfolded, and for a few seconds lost to view, in the stupendous embrace of the two fishermen, while the babby was, for the moment, absolutely forgotten! but she took care not to be forgotten long. on recovering from her first surprise she gave utterance to a howl worthy of a seaman's daughter. joe immediately seized her in his arms, and half smothered her in a fond embrace, to which, apparently, she did not object. meanwhile little billy stood looking on approvingly, with his hands in his pockets and his booted legs wide apart. "i wonder when somebody's a-goin' to pay some sort of attention to _me_," he said after a minute or two. "why, billy, i didn't see ye," cried mrs joe, holding out her hand; "how are ye, puss in boots?" "if it was any other female but yourself, maggie, as said that, i'd scorn to notice you," returned billy, half indignant. "my darling boy!" cried mrs bright, turning to her son and enfolding him in her arms. "ah! that's the way to do it," responded billy, submitting to the embrace. "you're the old ooman as knows how to give a feller a good hearty squeeze. but don't come it too strong, mother, else you'll put me all out o' shape. see, daddy's a-goin' to show his-self off." this last remark had reference to a small bundle which david bright was hastily untying. "see here, nell," he said, with a strange mixture of eagerness and modesty, "i've joined 'em at last old girl. look at that." he unrolled a m.d.s.f. flag, which he had purchased from the skipper of the mission smack. "an' i've signed the pledge too, lass." "oh! david," she exclaimed, grasping her husband's right hand in both of hers. but her heart was too full for more. "yes, nell, i've had grace given me to hoist the lord's colours in the short blue, an' it was your little book as done it. i'd ha' bin lost by now, if it hadn't bin for the blessed word of god." again nell essayed to speak, but the words refused to come. she laid her head on her husband's shoulder and wept for joy. we have said that david bright was not by nature given to the melting mood, but his eyes grew dim and his voice faltered at this point and it is not improbable that there would have been a regular break-down, if joe's blessed babby had not suddenly come to the rescue in the nick of time with one of her unexpected howls. as temporary neglect was the cause of her complaint it was of course easily cured. when quiet had been restored mrs bright turned to her son--"now, billy, my boy, i must send you off immediately." "but what if i won't go off--like a bad sky-rocket?" said the boy with a doubtful expression on his face. "but you'll have to go--and you'll be willing enough, too, when i tell you that it's to see miss ruth dotropy you are going." "what!--the angel?" "yes, she's here just now, and wants to see you very much, and made me promise to send you to her the moment you came home. so, off you go! she lives with her mother in the old place, you know." "all right, _i_ know. farewell, mother." in a few minutes billy was out of sight and hearing--which last implies a considerable distance, for billy's whistle was peculiarly loud and shrill. he fortunately had not to undergo the operation of being "cleaned" for this visit, having already subjected himself to that process just before getting into port. the only portions of costume which he might have changed with propriety on reaching shore were his long boots, but he was so fond of these that he meant to stick to them, he said, through thick and thin, and had cleaned them up for the occasion. at the moment he turned into the street where his friends and admirers dwelt, ruth chanced to be at the window, while the miss seawards, then on a visit to her mother, were seated in the room. "oh! the _darling_!" exclaimed ruth, with something almost like a little shriek of delight. "which darling--you've got so many?" asked her mother. "oh! billy bright, the sweet innocent--look at him; quick!" thus adjured the sisters ran laughing to the window, but the stately mother sat still. "d'you mean the boy with the boots on?" asked jessie, who was short-sighted. "yes, yes, that's him!" "if you had said the boots with the boy in them, jessie," observed kate, "you would have been nearer the mark!" in a few minutes, billy, fully alive to his importance in the ladies' eyes, sat gravely in the midst of them answering rapid questions. "you've not had tea, billy, i hope," said ruth, rising and ringing the bell. "no, miss, i haven't, an' if i had, i'm always game for two teas." soon billy was engaged with bread, butter, cakes, and jam, besides other luxuries, some of which he had never even dreamed of before. "what an excellent appetite you have!" said jessie seaward, scarcely able to restrain her admiration. "yes, ma'am," said billy, accepting another bun with much satisfaction, "we usually does pretty well in the short blue in that way, though we don't have sich grub as this to tickle our gums with. you see, we has a lot o' fresh air out on the north sea, an' it's pretty strong air too-- specially when it blows 'ard. w'y, i've seed it blow that 'ard that it was fit to tear the masts out of us; an' once it throw'd us right over on our beam-ends." "on what ends, boy?" asked mrs dotropy, who was beginning to feel interested in the self-sufficient little fisherman. "our beam-ends, ma'am. the beams as lie across under the deck, so that w'en we gits upon _their_ ends, you know, we're pretty well flat on the water." "how dreadful!" exclaimed jessie; "but when that happens how can you walk the deck?" "we can't walk the deck, ma'am. we has to scramble along the best way we can, holdin' on by hands and teeth and eyelids. thank 'ee, miss, but i really do think i'd better not try to eat any more. i feels chock-full already, an' it might be dangerous. there's severe laws now against overloadin', you know." "no such laws in this house, billy," said ruth, with a laugh. "but now, if you have quite done, i should like to put a few questions to you." "fire away, then, miss," said the boy, looking exceedingly grave and wise. "well, billy," began ruth, with an eager look, "i want to know something about your dear mother." she hesitated at this point as if uncertain how to begin, and the boy sought to encourage her with--"wery good, miss, i knows all about _her_. what d'ee want to ax me?" "i want to ask," said ruth, slowly, "if you know what your mother's name was before she was married?" ruth did not as the reader knows, require to ask this question, but she put it as a sort of feeler to ascertain how far billy might be inclined to assist her. "well, now, that _is_ a stumper!" exclaimed the boy, smiting his little thigh. "i didn't know as she had a name afore she was married. leastwise i never thought of it or heerd on it, not havin' bin acquainted with her at that time." with a short laugh ruth said, "well, never mind; but perhaps you can tell me, billy, if your mother ever had a brother connected with the sea--a sailor, i mean." "stumped again!" exclaimed the boy; "who'd have thought i was so ignorant about my own mother? if she ever had sich a brother, he must have bin drownded, for i never heerd tell of 'im." "then you never heard either your father or mother mention any other name than bright--i mean in connection with yourselves?" said ruth in a disappointed tone. "never, miss, as i can reck'lect on. i would willin'ly say yes, to please you, but i'd raither not tell no lies." "that's right my good boy," said mrs dotropy, with a stately but approving nod, "for you know where all liars go to." "yes, ma'am, an' i knows where liars _don't_ go to," returned billy, looking up with pious resignation, whereat the miss seawards and ruth burst into a laugh. it must not be supposed that billy meant to be profane, but he had taken a dislike to mrs dotropy, and did not choose to be patronised by her. as poor ruth found that it was useless to pursue her investigations in this direction further, she changed the subject to the north sea fishery, with the details of which her little friend was of course quite conversant. then she proposed to accompany billy home. "i want to make the acquaintance of your father," she said. "ah! he's a true blue _now_, he is," said billy. "was your father not always a true blue?" asked ruth, as they went along the street together. "well, it ain't right for me to say ought agin my father--but--he's true blue _now_, anyhow." and ruth found that the reformed drunkard was indeed "true blue," and very glad to see her; nevertheless she obtained no information from him on the subject she was so anxious about--not because he was uncommunicative, but because ruth, being very timid, had not courage to open her lips upon it. the shades of evening were beginning to descend when she rose to leave. both father and son offered to escort her home, but she declined the offer with many thanks, and went off alone. chapter twenty. details two robberies and an awful situation. the attainment of felicity is said to be the aim of all mankind. in order to this end, men in all ages have voluntarily submitted themselves to prolonged infelicity. they have toiled in daily pain and sorrow throughout a long life to attain at last, if possible, to the coveted condition. some have pursued it in eager intensity, dancing and singing as they went. others have rushed after it in mad determination, cursing and grumbling as they ran. many have sought it in rapt contemplation of the sublime and beautiful. thousands have grubbed and grovelled for it in the gratification or the drowning of the senses, while not a few have sought and found it in simple, loving submission to their maker's will, as made known by conscience and revelation. of all the varied methods, john gunter, the fisherman, preferred the grub-and-grovelling method, and the favourite scene of his grovelling was a low grog-shop in one of the lower parts of yarmouth. it must be said, at this point, that gunter was not considered by his mates as a regular out-and-out fisherman. he had never served his apprenticeship, but, being a powerful and sufficiently active seaman, was tolerated among them. it is said that adversity makes strange bed-fellows. it is not less true that strong drink makes strange companions. gunter's shipmates having had more than enough of him on the sea were only too glad to get clear of him when on land. he therefore found himself obliged to look out for new companionships, for it is certain that man yearns after sympathy of some sort, and is not, under ordinary circumstances, content to be alone. the new friends he sought were not difficult to find. in one of the darkest corners of the public-house referred to he found them--an accidental, group--consisting of an ex-clerk, an ex-parson, and a burglar, not "ex" as yet! they had met for the first time, yet, though widely separated as regards their training in life, they had found the sympathetic level of drink in that dingy corner. of course, it need hardly be said that the first two had swung far out of their proper orbits before coming into harmonious contact with the last. of course, also, no one of the three desired that his antecedents should be known. there was not much chance, indeed, that the former occupations of the clerk or the parson would be guessed at, for every scrap of respectability had long ago been washed out of them by drink, and their greasy coats, battered hats, dirty and ragged linen, were, if possible, lower in the scale of disreputability than the rough garments of the burglar. the subject of their conversation was suitable to all ages and countries, to all kinds and conditions of men, for it was politics! a fine, healthy, flexible subject, so utterly incomprehensible to fuddled brains that it could be distended, contracted, inflated, elongated, and twisted to suit any circumstances or states of mind. and such grand scope too, for difference, or agreement of opinion. oh! it was pitiful to see the idiotic expressions of these fallen men as they sat bound together by a mutual thirst which each abhorred, yet loved, and which none could shake off. and there was something outrageously absurd too--yes, it is of no use attempting to shirk the fact--something intolerably funny in some of the gestures and tones, with which they discussed the affairs of the nation. "hail fellow well met," was the generous tendency of gunter's soul when ashore. accosting the three in gruff off-hand tones with some such sentiment, he sat down beside them. "same to you, pal," said the burglar, with a sinister glance at the new-comer from under his heavy brows. "how do? ol' salt!" exclaimed the clerk, who was by far the most tipsy of the three. "come 'ere. we'll make you r'free--umpire--to shettle zish d'shpute. queshn is, whether it's the dooty of the poor to help the rish--no, zhat's not it. w-w'ether it's dooty of rish to help the poor--what's it--by sharin' all they have with 'em or--" "that's not the question at all," cried gunter, gruffly--"the question is, what'll you have to drink!" "bravo!" exclaimed the parson, "that _is_ the question!" "you're a trump!" said the burglar. "well," exclaimed the clerk, with a tremendous assumption of winking-dignity, "ishn't zhat zactly what i was goin' to shay, if you'd on'y listen. `what'll you 'ave to drink!' jus' so. now, if you want to argue it out properly, you'll--" he was checked and almost floored by a tremendous though facetious slap on the back from gunter, who said that they wouldn't argue it out; that they would drink it out first and argue it out afterwards. in pursuance of this plan he called the landlord, and, ordering spirits and water, treated the assembled company all round--including a few bloated and wretched women, some of whom carried children in their arms. whatever of the ludicrous might have struck an observer of the scene, while listening to the above conversation, it would have been all put to flight by the sight of these poor women, and perchance by the thought that they had been brought up to that life; had never known better, and would never have a chance of knowing better, unless some exceptional rays of heavenly light, should penetrate the dark region in which they lived. praise be to god! such rays do visit such haunts at times, and brands are often plucked from the fire, but with these we have nothing to do at present. our object just now is to trace the course of john gunter. you may be sure that one who spent his money so freely, and at the same time drank heavily, was not likely to escape the special attention of his new friend, the burglar. that worthy, besides being an expert in the heavier branches of his art, was not unacquainted with its lighter work. he watched the fisherman narrowly, observed in which pocket he kept his money, waited until he was sufficiently drunk for his purpose, and then picked his pockets at an engrossing moment, when the clerk was unfolding a perfect scheme of national reform to the parson, who, with eyes shut, and supposed to be listening intently, was in reality fast asleep. his object accomplished, the burglar said he would go out, and have a look at the weather, which he did, and having quietly hidden his spoils he returned to report the weather "all right," and to make quite sure that he had left nothing whatever in any of gunter's pockets. having satisfied himself on this point he was about to retire to take a final look at the weather when gunter said--"hold on, mate; 'ave another glass." he felt in his pocket for the wherewith to pay for the drink, and missed his money. he was by no means as drunk as he appeared to be, and at once suspected his comrade. "you've stole my blunt!" he shouted, without a moment's hesitation. "you're a liar," returned the burglar, promptly. gunter was fierce by nature. he made no rejoinder, but struck a blow at the other which would have felled him had it taken effect. the burglar, however, was a pugilist. he evaded the blow, and returned it with such force that the fisherman staggered, but recovered himself, and grappled with his adversary. in a moment all was uproar and confusion; benches were upset, spittoons kicked about, and pipes smashed, as the two powerful men swayed about, and tried fiercely to strangle each other. the women rushed screaming from the place; the landlord and his assistants interfered, but it was not until the police were called in that the combatants were separated. then there occurred a violent scene of explanation, allegation, recrimination, and retort, during which the guardians of the peace attempted to throw oil on the troubled waters, for it is always their aim, we believe, to quiet down drunken uproars when possible rather than to take up the rioters. as the burglar, with an injured, innocent look, denied the charge made against him, and turned all his pockets inside out in proof of his veracity, gunter was fain to content himself with the supposition that he had lost his money in some incomprehensible manner. in a very sulky mood he flung out of the public-house and sauntered away. he knew not where to go, for he had no friends in yarmouth--at least none who would have welcomed him--and he had not wherewith to pay for a bed, even in the poorest lodging. as he walked along, conscience began to smite him, but he was in no mood to listen to conscience. he silenced it, and at the same time called himself, with an oath, a big fool. there is no question that he was right, yet he would have denied the fact and fought any one else who should have ventured so to address him. the evening was beginning to grow dark as he turned down one of the narrow and lonely rows. now, it so happened that this was one of the rows through which ruth dotropy had to pass on her way home. ruth was not naturally timid, but when she suddenly beheld a half-drunken man coming towards her, and observed that no one else was near, something like a flutter of anxiety agitated her breast. at the same moment something like a sledge-hammer blow smote the concave side of john gunter's bosom. "she's got more than she needs," he growled between his teeth, "an' i've got nothin'!" as his conscience had been silenced this was a sufficient argument for john. "i'll thank you for a shillin', miss," he said, confronting the now frightened girl after a hasty glance round. "oh! yes, yes--willingly," gasped poor ruth, fumbling in her pocket for her purse. the purse, however, chanced to have been left at home. "oh, _how_ provoking! i have not my purse with me, but if these few pence will--" "never mind the pence, miss," said gunter,--accepting the pence; however, as he spoke--"that nice little watch will do jist as well." he snatched the watch which hung at ruth's waist-belt, snapped the slender guard that held it, and made off. when sufficiently out of danger of pursuit, he paused under a lamp to examine his prize. to his intense disgust he found that the little watch, instead of being a gold one, as he had expected, was only a silver one, of comparatively little value. "well, your first haul in this line ain't worth much," he grumbled. "hows'ever, i've got coppers enough for a night's lodgin' an' grub." saying which he pocketed the watch, and went on his way. meanwhile ruth, having given vent to a sob of relief when the man left her, ran towards home as fast as she could, never pausing till she reached the miss seawards' door, which chanced to be a little nearer than her own. against this she plunged with wonderful violence for one so gentle and tender, and then hammered it with her knuckles in a way that would have done credit to a lightweight prize-fighter. the door was opened hastily by liffie lee, who, being a much lighter weight than her assailant, went down before her rush. "lawk! miss ruth," she exclaimed, on recovering her feet, "w'at's a-'appened?" but she asked the question of the empty air, for ruth was already half sobbing, half laughing on the sofa, with a highly agitated sister on either side trying to calm her. "oh! what a little donkey i am," she exclaimed, flinging off her bonnet and attempting to laugh. "what _has_ happened?" gasped jessie. "_do_ tell us, dear," cried kate. "i--i've been robbed, by a--dreadful man--so awfully gruff, a sailor i think, and--oh!" ruth became suddenly much calmer. "it did not occur to me till this moment--it is _the_ watch--papa's little silver watch that captain bream brought him as a sort of curiosity from abroad long ago. oh! i _am_ so sorry! it was such a favourite with dear papa, and he told me to take such care of it when he gave it to me, for there was a romantic little history connected with it." "what was it, dear?" asked jessie, glad to find that the sudden diversion of her thoughts to the lost watch had done more to calm ruth than all their demonstrative comfort. ruth at once proceeded to relate the story of the watch, but we will not inflict it on the reader, as it has no particular bearing on our tale. it had something to do, however, with detaining ruth far later than she had intended to remain, so that she jumped up hastily at last, saying she must really go home. "are you sure the robber was a sailor?" asked kate; "sailors are such dear nice men that i can hardly believe it." "i'm almost quite sure," returned ruth; "at all events he was dressed like one--and, oh! he _was_ so gruff!" from this point ruth diverged into further and more minute details of the robbery, over which the three gloated with a species of fascination which is more frequently associated with ghost stories than true tales. indeed we may say that _four_ gloated over it, for liffie lee, unable to restrain her curiosity, put her head in at the door--at first with the more or less honest intention of asking if "hany think was wanted," and afterwards let her head remain from sheer inability to withdraw it. at one point in the thrilling narrative she became intensely excited, and when ruth tried in sepulchral tones to imitate john gunter's gruff voice, she exclaimed, "oh! lawks!" in such a gasp that the three ladies leaped up with three shrieks like three conscience-smitten kittens caught in a guilty act! liffie was rebuked, but from pity, or perhaps sympathy, was allowed to remain to hear the end. when that point was reached, it was found to be so late that the streets were almost deserted, and the particular part in which their lodging stood was dreadfully silent. "how am i ever to get home?" asked ruth. "it is not more than twenty doors off," said kate, "and liffie will go with you." "lawks, ma'am," said liffie, "what could the likes o' me do if we was attacked? an' then--i should 'ave to return _alone_!" "that is true," said the tender-hearted jessie; "what _is_ to be done? our landlady goes to bed early. it would never do to rouse her--and then, she may perhaps be as great a coward as we are. oh! if there was only a _man_ in the house. even a boy would do." "ah! i jist think 'e would," said liffie. "if little billy was 'ere, i wouldn't ax for no man." "i'll tell you what," said kate with a bright look of decision, "we'll all go together. get on your bonnet, jessie." there was no resisting kate when once she had made up her mind. she put on her own bonnet, and her sister quickly returned ready, "with a heart," as byron says, "for any fate?" "now don't speak, any of you," whispered kate. "if we are attacked, let us give a united shriek. that will raise some one to our aid." "i should think it would, ma'am. it would a'most raise the dead," said liffie, who also prepared herself for the ordeal. dark and deserted streets at late hours, with dangerous characters known to be abroad, have terrors to some small extent, even for the averagely brave; what must they have, then, for those tender ones of the weaker sex whose spirits are gentle, perhaps timid, and whose nerves have been highly strung by much converse on subjects relating to violence? the first shock experienced by our quartette was caused by the door. from some inscrutable impulse liffie lee had locked it after ruth had rushed in. "open it gently," whispered jessie, for the party had now got to the condition of feeling very much as if they were themselves burglars, engaged in some unholy enterprise, and feared to arouse sleepers. but they need not have feared, for their landlady was one of the "seven sleepers" of yarmouth. liffie exerted her little strength with caution, but the lock was stiff; it would not move. she screwed up her mouth, and put-to more strength; still it would not move. screwing up her eyebrows as well as her mouth, she tried again. it would not budge. she even screwed up her nose in a stupendous effort, but all in vain. if there had been no need for caution, the thing would have been easy, but jessie kept whispering, "softly, liffie, softly!" and ruth echoed "softly!" at last liffie screwed herself up entirely, body and soul, in one supreme effort; she agonised with the key. it yielded, and the bolt flew back with a crack like a pistol-shot. "oh!" burst in four different keys--not door-keys--from the party--under their breath however. "open," whispered jessie. liffie obeyed, and when the half-opened door revealed intense darkness outside, a feeling of horror caused their very flesh to creep. "how i _wish_ i hadn't stayed! i'll _never_ do it again!" whispered poor ruth in the tones of a child about to be punished. "what's that!" exclaimed jessie, with a start that caused ruth almost to shriek. "cats!" said liffie lee. "impossible!" said kate. but it was not impossible, for there, in a corner not far off, were dimly seen two intensely black objects, with backs and tails arranged on the moorish-arch principle, and a species of low thunder issuing from them, suggestive of dynamite in the stomach. relieved to find it was nothing worse, the party emerged into the street. the cats were too much enraged and engaged with each other to observe them. they, like the ladies, were evidently cowards, for they continued to threaten without attacking. liffie was left on guard with strict injunctions to stand inside, hold tight to the door-handle, let in the returning sisters, and then slam the door in the face of all the world beside. a run was now made for the dotropy residence. we could not call it a rush, for the three ladies were too light and elegant in form to proceed in such a manner. they tripped it--if we may say so--on light fantastic toe, though with something of unseemly haste. ruth being young and active reached the door first, and, as before, went with a rebounding bang against it. the anxious mrs dotropy had been for some time on the watch. she opened the door. "ruth!" "mamma!" "your daughter!" exclaimed the miss seawards in needless explanation, as they pushed her in, and then, turning round, fled homeward with so much noise that the attention of a night watchman was naturally attracted. the sisters heard his approaching foot-falls. they put on, in sporting language, a spurt. just as the door was reached the two cats, becoming suddenly brave, filled the night-air with yells as of infants in agony. an irrepressible shriek burst from the sisters as they tripped over each other into the passage, and the faithful liffie slammed the door in the face of the discomfited policeman. it was a crucial test of friendship, and the miss seawards came to the conclusion that night, before retiring to rest, that nothing on earth would ever induce them to do it again. chapter twenty one. a hopeful club discovered. when captain bream, as before mentioned, was obliged to hurry off to london, and forsake the miss seawards, as well as his theological studies, he hastened to that portion of the city where merchants and brokers, and money-lenders, and men of the law do love to congregate. turning down cheapside the captain sought for one of the many labyrinths of narrow streets and lanes that blush unseen in that busy part of the great hive. "only a penny, sir, _only_ a penny." the speaker was an ill-conditioned man, and the object offered for sale was a climbing monkey of easily deranged mechanism. "do you suppose," said the captain, who, being full of anxious thought was for the moment irascible, "do you suppose that i am a baby?" "oh! dear no, sir. from appearances i should say you've bin weaned some little time--only a penny, sir. a nice little gift for the missus, sir, if you ain't got no child'n." "can you direct me," said the captain with a bland look--for his tempers were short-lived--"to brockley court?" "first to the left, sir, second to the right, straight on an' ask again--only a penny, sir, climbs like all alive, sir." dropping a penny into the man's hand with a hope that it might help the monkeys to climb, captain bream turned into the labyrinth, and soon after found himself in a dark little room which was surrounded by piles of japanned tin boxes, and littered with bundles of documents, betokening the daily haunt of a man-of-law. the lawyer himself--a bland man with a rugged head, a roman nose and a sharp eye--sat on a hard-bottomed chair in front of a square desk. why should business men, by the way, subject themselves to voluntary martyrdom by using polished seats of hard-wood? is it with a view to doing penance, for the sins of the class to which they belong? "have you found her, mr saker?" asked captain bream, eagerly, on entering. "no, not got quite so far as that yet--pray sit down; but we have reason to believe that we have got a clue--a slight one, indeed, but then, the information we have to go upon in our profession is frequently very slight--very slight indeed." "true, too true," assented the captain. "i sometimes wonder how, with so little to work on at times, you ever begin to go about an investigation." the lawyer smiled modestly in acknowledgment of the implied compliment. "we do, indeed, proceed on our investigations occasionally with exceeding little information to go upon, but then, my dear sir, investigation may be said to be a branch of our profession, for which we are in a manner specially trained. let me see, now." he took up a paper, and, opening it, began to read with a running commentary:-- "fair hair, slightly grey; delicate features, complexion rather pale, brown eyes, gentle manners." "that's her--that's her!" from the captain. "age apparently a little over thirty. you said, i think, that your sister was--" "yes, yes," interrupted the captain in some excitement, "she was considerably younger than me, poor girl!" "let me, however, caution you, my dear sir, not to be too sanguine," said the man-of-law, looking over his spectacles at his client; "you have no idea how deceptive descriptions are. people are so prone to receive them according to their desires rather than according to fact." "well, but," returned the captain, with some asperity, "you tell me that this woman has fair hair slightly grey, delicate features, pale complexion, brown eyes, and gentle manners, all of which are _facts_!" "true, my dear sir, but they are facts applicable to many women," replied the solicitor. "still, i confess i have some hope that we have hit upon the right scent at last. if you could only have given us the name of her husband, our difficulty would have been comparatively slight. i suppose you have no means of hunting that up now. no distant relative or--" "no, none whatever. all my relations are dead. she lived with an old aunt at the time, who died soon after the poor girl's foolish elopement, leaving no reference to the matter behind her. it is now fifteen years since then. i was away on a long voyage at the time. on my return, the old lady, as i have said, was dead, and her neighbours knew nothing except that my sister was reported to have run away with a seafaring man. some who had seen him about the place said he seemed to be beneath her in station but none knew his name." "is it not strange," asked the solicitor, "that she has never in all these years made inquiries about you at the mercantile house which employed you?" "well, not so strange as it would seem, for my sister's memory for names was a bad one. she used constantly to forget the name of the ship i commanded, and, as far as i can remember, did not trouble herself about the owners. i have no doubt she must have made many efforts to discover me--unless she was ashamed of having made a low match. at all events," added the captain, with a weary sigh, "i have never ceased to make inquiries about her, although i have not until now made the attempt through a lawyer. but where is this person you have heard of to be found?" "on board of an emigrant ship," said the solicitor. "where bound for?" demanded the captain in peat surprise. "for australia, and she sails the day after to-morrow, i am told." "her name!" cried the captain, starting up. "calm yourself, my dear sir. i have made all needful arrangements for your going off to-morrow. it is too late to-day. sit down and let me explain; and, above all, bear in mind that this may turn out to be a wrong scent after all. of course you may surmise that we lawyers obtain our information from many and various sources. the source whence the information concerning your matter has come is peculiar, namely, a lay-missionary who is going to visit the ship to-morrow--having some friends on board. happening to meet the man the other day, i mentioned your matter to him. he is a very sharp-witted man, and one whose accuracy of observation i should trust implicitly, even if his own interests were involved. well, he said that on board of the steam-ship _talisman_, now lying off gravesend, he saw that very day a woman among the steerage emigrants who answered to my description exactly, and added that he had heard her spoken of as the wife of a somewhat dissipated man, who had all the appearance of a seafaring person, named richards. of course i attach no importance to the name, as you say you never knew it, but his being a sailor-like man, and the fact that he was probably beneath his wife in station, coupled with the correct description of the wife, while it does not justify our being too sanguine, raises our hopes, you see--" "i see, i see--yes. i beg that you will give me the agent's name and address," cried the captain, whose hopes, despite the guarded and cautious statements of the solicitor, had been raised to the highest point. "here is his name, with the part of the river where you are to meet him," said the calm man of law, handing his client a slip of paper; "but let me, my dear sir, impress on you the advisability of not allowing yourself to become too sanguine. disappointments are invariably more severe in cases where expectations have been too high; and i fear that you may be already building too trustfully upon the very slender foundation supplied by this information." admitting the force of this truism, and putting the slip of paper in his purse, captain bream bade his solicitor good-bye, with many protestations of undying gratitude, and left the room with the highest possible hopes of success. chapter twenty two. in the mission boat on the thames--the damping of the body cannot damp the ardent spirit. next morning captain bream accompanied the lay-missionary to gravesend, where they took a boat and put off to the emigrant ship. great was the captain's satisfaction to find that his companion had been a sailor, and could talk to him--in nautical language too--about seafaring matters and distant climes. "it is a good work in which you are engaged," he said; "are you going to preach to 'em?" "no, only to distribute testaments, tracts, and good books--though i may preach if i get the chance. my work lies chiefly among emigrants and boat and barge men, but i also do a good deal among regular sailors." "ah! that's the work that _i'm_ fond of," said the captain, with enthusiasm. "of course i don't mean to say that the soul of a sailor is of more value than that of any other man, but i lean to sailors naturally, havin' been among 'em the greater part of my life. i've done a little myself in the way of preachin' to 'em." "have you?" exclaimed the missionary, with a pleased look. and from this point the two men went off into a confidential and animated talk about their varied experiences on the sea of spiritual work, on which they had both been launched, while the boatman--an old and evidently sympathetic man--pulled them to the vessel which lay at some distance from the place of embarkation. while the two friends--for such they had become by that time--were chatting thus with each other, a little accident was in store for captain bream, which not only disarranged his plans, but afterwards considerably affected his career. having reached the age of sixty years, our captain was not quite as active in body as he had once been. he was, however, quite as active in heart and mind, besides having much of the fire of youth still burning in him. hence he was apt at times to forget his body in the impulsive buoyancy of his spirit. an instance of this forgetfulness occurred that day. the missionary paid a passing visit to a vessel on their way to the emigrant ship. having run alongside, captain bream put his foot on the first step of the ladder, with intent to mount the vessel's side. "have a care, sir," said the old boatman, who was assisting him with some anxiety. it may be that the captain's too youthful spirit spurned assistance, or that he had miscalculated the powers of his too ancient body, for at the moment his foot slipped while as yet his hold of the man-ropes was not secure, and he fell with a lion-like roar that might have shamed the stoutest king of the african forests. it was not a cry of fear, still less was it a shout for help. it seemed rather like an effervescing roar of indignant surprise. the boatman held up his arms to catch the unfortunate man, but his strength availed nothing against such a weight. he was hurled into the bottom of the boat for his pains, and the captain went into the water feet first as deep as the waist. here, however, the disaster was checked, for his strong arms caught the boat and held on. the missionary, meanwhile, sprang forward and laid hold of him, while his man rose with wonderful agility and lent his aid. "heave--ahoy!" cried the missionary, grasping a waist-band. "yo, heave, ho!" shouted the boatman, seizing a leg. another moment and the captain was safe in the bottom of the boat, which by that time was floating quietly down the thames! great was the regret expressed by the missionary at this unfortunate event, and loud was the laughter with which it was treated by the captain himself, on being re-seated in the stern sheets. "we must go ashore and get a change of dry clothes for you, sir." "not a bit of it," cried the captain. "row back to the ship; i'll mount that ladder yet. if i didn't i'd keep dreaming of my discomfiture for a twelve-month to come." they ran alongside the vessel a second time, and went up the side in safety. but, arrived on deck, the skipper, who happened to be a hospitable man and friendly to the missionary, insisted on having captain bream down into his cabin. "now you'll put on a suit of my clothes," he said, "till your own are dry." the captain would not hear of it. "just let me wring my own out," he said, "and i'll be all right." "have a glass of wine then, or brandy?" "impossible; thank'ee, i'm an abstainer." "but you need it to prevent catching cold, you know. take it as physic." "physic!" exclaimed the captain. "i never took physic in my life, and i won't begin wi' the nasty stuff now. thank'ee all the same." "some coffee, then? i've got it all ready." "ay--that's better--if you're sure you've got it handy." while the captain and the skipper were discussing the coffee, the wet garments were sent to the galley and partially dried. meanwhile the missionary made the most of his opportunity among the men. by the time he had finished his visit, the captain's nether garments were partially dried, so they continued their voyage to the emigrant ship. when they reached her the poor captain's interest in other people's affairs had begun to fail, for his anxiety about his long-lost sister increased, as the probability of finding her at last became greater. chapter twenty three. how captain bream fared in his search, and what came of it. the finding of an individual in a large emigrant ship may not inaptly be compared to the finding of a needle in a haystack. foreseeing the difficulty, the missionary asked captain bream how he proposed to set about it. "you say that you do not know the married name of your sister?" he said, as they drew near to the towering sides of the great vessel. "no; i do not." "and you have not seen her for many years?" "not for many years." "nevertheless, you are quite sure that you will recognise her when you do see her?" "ay, as sure as i am that i'd know my own face in a lookin'-glass, for she had points about her that i'm quite sure time could never alter." "you are involved in a great difficulty, i fear," continued his friend, "for, in the first place, the time at your disposal is not long; you cannot ask for the number of her berth, not having her name, and there is little probability of your being able to see every individual in a vessel like this while they keep moving about on deck and below." the captain admitted that the difficulties were great and his countenance grew longer, for, being as we have said a remarkably sympathetic man, the emotions of his heart were quickly telegraphed to his features. "it strikes me," continued the missionary, in a comforting tone, "that your best chance of success will be to enter my service for the occasion, and go about with me distributing new testaments and tracts. you will thus, as it were, have a reason for going actively about looking into people's faces, and even into their berths. excuse me for asking--what do you think of doing if you find your sister, for the vessel starts in a few hours?" "oh, i'll get her--and--and her husband to give up the voyage and return ashore with me. i'm well enough off to make it worth their while." the missionary did not appear to think the plan very hopeful, but as they ran alongside at the moment them was no time for reply. it was indeed a bewildering scene to which they were introduced on reaching the deck. the confusion of parting friends; of pushing porters with trunks and boxes; perplexed individuals searching for lost luggage; distracted creatures looking for lost relatives; calm yet energetic officers in merchant-service uniform moving about giving directions; active seamen pushing through the crowds in obedience to orders; children of all sizes playing and getting in people's way; infants of many kinds yelling hideously or uttering squalls of final despair. there was pathos and comicality too, intermingled. behold, on one side, an urchin sitting astonished--up to his armpits in a bandbox through which he has just crashed--and an irate parent trying to drag him out; while, on your other side, stands a grief-stricken mother trying to say farewell to a son whose hollow cheeks, glittering eyes, and short cough give little hope of a meeting again on this side the grave. above all the din, as if to render things more maddening, the tug alongside keeps up intermittent shrieks of its steam-whistle, for the first bell has rung to warn those who are not passengers to prepare for quitting the steamer. soon the second bell rings, and the bustle increases while in the excitement of partings the last farewells culminate. "we don't need to mind that bell, having our boat alongside," said the missionary to captain bream, as they stood a little to one side silently contemplating the scene. "you see that smart young officer in uniform, close to the cabin skylight?" "yes." "that's the captain." "indeed. he seems to me very young to have charge of such a vessel." "not so young as he looks," returned the other. "i shall have to get his permission before attempting anything on board, so we must wait here for a few minutes. you see, he has gone into his cabin with the owners to have a few parting words. while we are standing you'll have one of the best opportunities of seeing the passengers, for most of them will come on deck to bid relatives and friends farewell, and wave handkerchiefs as the tug steams away, so keep your eyes open. meanwhile, i will amuse you with a little chit-chat about emigrants. this vessel is one of the largest that runs to australia." "indeed," responded the captain, with an absent look and tone that would probably have been the same if his friend had said that it ran to the moon. the missionary did not observe that his companion was hopelessly sunk in the sea of abstraction. "yes," he continued, "and, do you know, it is absolutely amazing what an amount of emigration goes on from this port continually, now-a-days. you would scarcely believe it unless brought as i am into close contact with it almost daily. why, there were no fewer than , emigrants who sailed from the thames in the course of last year." "how many hogsheads, did you say?" asked the captain, still deeply sunk in abstraction. a laugh from his friend brought him to the surface, however, in some confusion. "excuse me," he said, with a deprecatory look; "the truth is, my mind is apt to wander a bit in such a scene, and my eyes chanced to light at the moment you spoke on that hogshead over there. how many emigrants, did you say?" "no fewer than , ," repeated the missionary good-naturedly, and went on to relate some interesting incidents, but the captain was soon again lost in the contemplation of a poor young girl who had wept to such an extent at parting from a female friend, then in the tug, that her attempts to smile through the weeping had descended from the sublime to the ridiculous. she and her friend continued to wave their kerchiefs and smile and cry at each other notwithstanding, quite regardless of public opinion, until the tug left. then the poor young thing hid her sodden face in her moist handkerchief and descended with a moan of woe to her berth. despite the comical element in this incident, a tear was forced out of captain bream's eye, and we rather think that the missionary was similarly affected. but, to say truth, the public at large cared little for such matters. each was too much taken up with the pressing urgency of his or her own sorrows to give much heed to the woes of strangers. "people in such frames of mind are easily touched by kind words and influences," said the missionary in a low voice. "true, the ground is well prepared for you," returned the captain softly, for another group had absorbed his attention. "and i distribute among them testaments, gospels, and tracts, besides bags filled with books and magazines." "was there much powder in 'em?" asked the captain, struggling to the surface at the last word. "i don't know about that," replied his friend with a laugh, "but i may venture to say that there was a good deal of fire in some of them." "fire!" exclaimed the captain in surprise. explanation was prevented by the commander of the vessel issuing at that moment from the cabin with the owners. hearty shakings of hands and wishes for a good voyage followed. the officers stood at the gangway; the last of the weeping laggards was kindly but firmly led away; the tug steamed off, and the emigrant vessel was left to make her final preparations for an immediate start on her long voyage to the antipodes, with none but her own inhabitants on board, save a few who had private means of quitting. "now is our time," said the missionary, hastening towards the captain of the vessel. for one moment the latter gave him a stern look, as if he suspected him of being a man forgotten by the tug, but a bland smile of good-will overspread his features when the former explained his wishes. "certainly, my good sir, go where you like, and do what you please." armed with this permission, he and captain bream went to work to distribute their gifts. most of the people received these gladly, some politely, a few with suspicion, as if they feared that payment was expected, and one or two refused them flatly. the distributers, meanwhile, had many an opportunity afforded, when asked questions, of dropping here and there "a word in season." as this was the first time captain bream had ever been asked to act as an amateur distributer of testaments and tracts, he waited a few minutes, with one of his arms well-filled, to observe how his companion proceeded, and then himself went to work. of course, during all this time, he had not for an instant forgotten the main object of his journey. on the contrary, much of the absence of mind to which we have referred was caused by the intense manner, in which he scanned the innumerable faces that passed to and fro before him. he now went round eagerly distributing his gifts, though not so much impressed with the importance of the work as he would certainly have been had his mind been less pre-occupied. it was observed, however, that the captain offered his parcels and testaments only to women, a circumstance which caused a wag from erin to exclaim-- "hallo! old gentleman, don't ye think the boys has got sowls as well as the faimales?" this was of course taken in good part by the captain, who at once corrected the mistake. but after going twice round the deck, and drawing forth many humorous as well as caustic remarks as to his size and general appearance, he was forced to the conclusion that his sister was not there. the lower regions still remained, however. descending to these with some hope and a dozen testaments, he found that the place was so littered with luggage, passengers, and children, that it was extremely difficult to move. to make the confusion worse, nearly the whole space between decks had been fitted up with extra berths--here for the married, there for the unmarried--so that very little room indeed was left for passage, and exceedingly little light entered. but captain bream was not affected by such matters. he was accustomed to them, and his eyesight was good. he was bent on one object, which he pursued with quiet, unflagging perseverance--namely, that of gazing earnestly into the face of every woman in the ship. so eager was the poor man about it that he forgot to offer the last armful of testaments which he had undertaken to distribute, and simply went from berth to berth staring at the females. he would undoubtedly have been considered mad if it had not been that the women were too much taken up with their own affairs, to think much about any one with whom they had nothing to do. one distracting, and also disheartening, part of the process was, that, owing to the general activity on board, he came again and again to the same faces in different parts of the vessel, but he so frequently missed seeing others that hope was kept alive by the constant turning up of new faces. alas! none of them bore any resemblance to that for which he sought so earnestly! at last he returned to the place where his friend was preaching. by that time, however, the crowd was so great that he could not enter. turning aside, therefore, into an open berth, with a feeling of weariness and depression creeping over his mind and body, he was about to sit down on a box, when a female voice at the other end of the berth demanded to know what he wanted. hope was a powerful element in captain bream's nature. he rose quickly and stopped to gaze attentively into a female face, but it was so dark where she sat on a low box that he could hardly see her, and took a step forward. "well, mr imprence, i hope as you'll know me again," said the woman, whose face was fiery red, and whose nature was furious. "what _do_ you want here?" the captain sighed profoundly. _that_ was obviously not his sister! then a confused feeling of incapacity to give a good reason for being there came over him. suddenly he recollected the testaments. "have one?" he said eagerly, as he offered one of the little black books. "have what?" "a testament." "no, i won't have a testament, i'm a catholic," said the woman as she looked sternly up. captain bream was considering how he might best suggest that the word of god was addressed to all mankind, when a thought seemed to strike the woman. "are you the cap'n?" she asked. "yes," he replied absently, and with some degree of truth. "then it's my opinion, cap'n, an' i tell it you to your face, that you ought to be ashamed of yourself to put honest men an' wimen in places like this--neither light, nor hair, nor nothink in the way of hornament to--" "captain bream! are you there, sir?" cried the voice of his friend the missionary at that moment down the companion-hatch. "ay, ay, i'm here." "i've found her at last, sir." the captain incontinently dropped the dozen testaments into the woman's lap and went up the companion-ladder like a tree-squirrel. "this way, sir. she's sittin' abaft the funnel." in a few seconds captain bream and his companion stood before a pretty-faced, fair-haired woman with soft gentle eyes, which suddenly opened with surprise as the two men hurried forward and came to a halt in front of her. the captain looked anxiously at his friend. "is this the--" he stopped. "yes, that's her," said the missionary with a nod. the captain turned slowly on his heel, and an irrepressible groan burst from him as he walked away. there was no need for the disappointed missionary to ask if he had been mistaken. one look had sufficed for the captain. sadly they returned to the shore, and there the missionary, being near his house, invited captain bream to go home with him and have a cup of tea. "it will revive you, my dear sir," he said, as the captain stood in silence at his side with his head bowed down. "the disappointment must indeed be great. don't give up hope, however. but your clothes are wet still. no wonder you shiver, having gone about so long in damp garments. come away." captain bream yielded in silence. he not only went and had a cup of his hospitable friends's tea, but he afterwards accepted the offer of one of his beds, where he went into a high fever, from which he did not recover for many weary weeks. chapter twenty four. the wreck of the evening star. about the time that captain bream was slowly recovering from the fever by which he had been stricken down, a disaster occurred out on the north sea, in connection with the short blue, which told powerfully on some of the men of that fleet. this was nothing less than the wreck of the _evening star_. the weather looked very unsettled the morning on which david bright's turn came about to quit the fleet and sail for port. he had flown the usual flag to intimate his readiness to convey letters, etcetera, on shore, and had also, with a new feeling of pride, run up his bethel-flag to show his true colours, as he said, and to intimate his willingness to join with christian friends in a parting hymn and prayer. some had availed themselves of the opportunity, and, just before starting, the _evening star_ ran close to the mission smack. "lower the boat, billy," said the skipper to his son as they sat in the cabin. "ay, ay, daddy." there was a kindliness now in the tone of david bright's voice when he spoke to billy that drew out the heart of that urchin as it had never been drawn out before, save by his mother's soft voice, and which produced a corresponding sweetness in the tones of the boy--for "love begets love." the mission skipper received his visitor with unwonted heartiness. "i pray the lord to give you a good time on shore, david," he said, as they went down to the cabin, where some of the other skippers were having a chat and a cup of coffee. "he'll do that," said david. "he did it last time. my dear missis could scarce believe her ears when i told her i was converted, or her eyes when she saw the bethel-flag and the temperance pledge." "praise the lord!" exclaimed two or three of those present, with deep sincerity, as david thus referred to his changed condition. "i can't bide with 'ee, lads," said david, "for time's up, but before startin' i _would_ like to have a little prayer with 'ee, an' a hymn to the master's praise." we need not say that they were all ready to comply. after concluding, they saw him into his boat, and bade him god-speed in many a homely but hearty phrase. "good-bye, skipper; fare ye well, billy; the lord be with 'ee, joe." john gunter was not omitted in the salutations, and his surly spirit was a little, though not much, softened as he replied. "fare ye well, mates," shouted david, as he once more stood on his own deck, and let his vessel fall away. a toss of the hand followed the salutation. little billy echoed the sentiment and the toss, and in a few minutes the _evening star_ was making her way out of the fleet and heading westward. the night which followed was wild, and the wind variable. next day the sun did not show itself at all till evening, and the wind blew dead against them. at sunset, red and lurid gleams in the west, and leaden darkness in the east, betokened at the best unsteady weather. little did these bold mariners, however, regard such signs--not that they were reckless, but years of experience had accustomed them to think lightly of danger--to face and overcome it with equanimity. in addition to his native coolness, david bright had now the mighty _power_ of humble trust in god to sustain him. it still blew hard when they drew near to land, but the wind had changed its direction, blowing more on the shore, and increasing at last to a gale which lined the whole coast with breakers. before the _evening star_ could find refuge in port, night had again descended. unfortunately it was one of the darkest nights of the season, accompanied with such blinding sleet that it became a difficult matter to distinguish the guiding lights. "a dirty night, billy," said david bright, who himself held the tiller. "ay, father, it'll be all the pleasanter when we get home." "true, lad; the same may be said of the heavenly home when the gales of life are over. d'ee see the light, boy?" "no, father, not quite sure. either it's not very clear, or the sleet an' spray blinds me." "`let the lower lights be burning,'" murmured the skipper, as a tremendous wave, which seemed about to burst over them, rushed beneath the stern, raising it high in the air. "you see the meanin' o' that line o' the hymn now, billy, though you didn't when your dear mother taught it you. bless her heart, her patience and prayers ha' done it all." for some minutes after this there was silence. the men of the _evening star_ were holding on to shroud or belaying-pin, finding shelter as best they could, and looking out anxiously for the "lower lights." "there'll be some hands missin', i doubt, in the short blue fleet to-morrow, father," remarked billy, with a solemn look. "likely enough; god have mercy on 'em," returned bright. "it wasn't a much stiffer gale than this, not many years gone by, when twenty-seven smacks foundered, and a hundred and eighty souls were called to stand before their maker." as david spoke a sullen roar of breaking water was heard on the port bow. they had been slightly misled, either by their uncertainty as to the position of the true lights, or by some false lights on shore. at all events, whatever the cause, they were at that moment driving towards one of the dangerous sand-banks in the neighbourhood of yarmouth. the course of the smack was instantly changed, but it was too late. almost before an order could be given she struck heavily, her main-mast went over the side, carrying part of the mizzen along with it. at the same time a wave broke just astern, and rushed over the deck, though happily not with its full force. even in that moment of disaster the bold fishermen did not quail. with their utmost energy indeed, but without confusion, they sprang to the boat which, although lifted, had not been washed away. accustomed to launch it in all weathers, they got it into the water, and, almost mechanically, ned spivin and gunter tumbled into it, while joe davidson held on to the painter. billy bright was about to follow, but looking back shouted, "come along, father!" david, however, paid no attention to him. he still stood firmly at the tiller guiding the wreck, which having been lifted off, or over the part of the sand on which she had struck, was again plunging madly onward. a few moments and one of those overwhelming seas which even the inexperienced perceive to be irresistible, roared after the disabled vessel. as it reached her she struck again. the billow made a clean sweep over her. everything was carried away. the boat was overturned, the stout painter snapped, and the crew left struggling in the water. but what of the people on shore when this terrible scene was being enacted? they were not entirely ignorant of it. through driving sleet and spray they had seen in the thick darkness something that looked like a vessel in distress. soon the spectral object was seen to advance more distinctly out of the gloom. well did the fishermen know what that meant, and, procuring ropes, they hastened to the rescue, while spray, foam, sand, and even small pebbles, were swept up by the wild hurricane and dashed in their faces. among the fishermen was a young man whose long ulster and cap told that he was a landsman, yet his strength, and his energy, were apparently equal to that of the men with whom he ran. he carried a coil of thin rope in his left hand. with the right he partly shielded his eyes. "they'll be certain to strike here," cried one of the fishermen, whose voice was drowned in the gale, but whose action caused the others to halt. he was right. the vessel was seen to strike quite close, for the water was comparatively deep. "she's gone," exclaimed the young man already referred to, as the vessel was seen to be overwhelmed. he flung off his top-coat as he spoke, and, making one end of the small line fast round his waist, ran knee-deep into the water. some of the fishermen acted in a somewhat similar fashion, for they knew well that struggling men would soon be on the shore. they had not to wait long, for the crew of the _evening star_ were young and strong, and struggled powerfully for their lives. in a few minutes the glaring eyes of zulu appeared, and the young man of the ulster made a dash, caught him by the hair, and held on. it seemed as if the angry sea would drag both men back into its maw, but the men on the beach held on to the rope, and they were dragged safely to land. a cheer on right and left told that others were being rescued. then it became known who the wrecked ones were. "it's the _evening star_!" exclaimed one. "poor david!" said another. then the cry was raised, "have 'ee got little billy?" "ay, here he comes!" shouted a strange voice. it was that of the youth of the ulster, who now stood waist-deep eagerly stretching out his hands, towards an object with which the wild waves seemed to sport lovingly. it was indeed little billy, his eyes closed, his face white, and his curly yellow hair tossing in the foam, but he made no effort to save himself; evidently the force of the sea and perhaps the cold had been too much for his slight frame to bear. twice did the young man make a grasp and miss him. to go deeper in would have perhaps insured his own destruction. the third time he succeeded in catching the boy's hair; the men on shore hauled them in, and soon little billy lay on the beach surrounded by anxious fishermen. "come, mates," said one, in a deep voice, "let's carry him to his mother." "not so," said the young man who had rescued billy, and who had only lain still for a moment where he had fallen to recover breath. "let him lie. undo his necktie, one of you." while he spoke he was busy making a tight roll of his own coat which he immediately placed under the shoulders of billy, and proceeded at once to attempt to restore breathing by one of the methods of resuscitating the drowned. the fishermen assisted him, some hopefully, some doubtfully, a few with looks of disbelief in the process. the youth persevered, however, with unflagging patience, well knowing that half-drowned people have been restored after nearly an hour of labour. "who is he?" inquired one fisherman of another, referring to the stranger. "don't you know him, mate?" asked the other in surprise. "no, i've just come ashore, you know." "that's mr dalton, the young banker, as takes such a lift o' the temp'rance coffee-taverns an' blue-ribbon movement." "he's comin'-to, sir!" exclaimed a voice eagerly. this had reference to little billy, whose eyelids had been seen to quiver, and who presently heaved a sigh. "fetch my coat," said dalton. "he will indeed be restored, thank god." the big ulster was brought. billy was carefully wrapped up in it, and one of the stoutest among his fisher friends lifted him in his arms and bore him off to his mother. "have all the others been rescued?" inquired dalton, eagerly, when billy had been carried away. no one could answer the question. all knew that some of the _evening star's_ crew had been saved, but they could not say how many. "they've bin taken to the sailor's home, sir," said one man. "then run up like a good fellow and ask if _all_ are safe," said dalton. "meanwhile i will remain here and search the beach lest there should be more to rescue." turning again to the foaming sea the young banker proceeded slowly along the shore some distance, when he observed the body of a man being rolled up on the sand and dragged back by each returning wave. rushing forward he caught it, and, with the aid of the fishermen, carried it beyond the reach of the hungry waves. but these waves had already done their worst. dalton applied the proper means for restoration, but without success, and again the fishermen began to look gravely at each other and shake their heads. "poor woman!" they murmured, but said no more. their feelings were too deep for speech as they mourned for one who was by that time a widow, though she knew it not. at that moment some of the men came running down from the town--one, a tall, strong figure, ahead of them. it was joe davidson. he had been more exhausted than some of the others on being rescued, and had been led to the sailor's home in a scarcely conscious condition. when they began to reckon up the saved, and found that only one was missing, joe's life seemed to return with a bound. breaking from those who sought to restrain him he ran down to the beach. he knelt beside the drowned fisherman with a wild expression in his eyes as he laid hold of something that partly covered the drowned man. it was his own bethel-flag which david bright had twisted round his body! joe sprang up and clasped his hands as if to restrain them from violent action. "oh, david!" he said, and stopped suddenly, while the wild look left his eyes and something like a smile crossed his features. "can it be true that ye've gone so soon to the better land?" the words gathered in force as they were uttered, and it was with a great cry of grief that he shouted, "oh, david, david! my brother!" and fell back heavily on the sand. chapter twenty five. billy and his father return home. who can describe the strange mingling of grateful joy with bitter anguish that almost burst the heart of david bright's widow on that terrible night! she was singing one of the "songs of zion," and busy with household cares, preparing for the expected return of her husband and her son, when they carried billy in. it might be supposed that she would be anxious on such a stormy night but if the wives of north sea fishermen were to give way to fears with every gale that blew, they would be filled with overwhelming anxiety nearly all the year round. when the knock at the door came at last the song ceased, and when the stout fisherman entered with his burden, and a fair curl, escaping from the folds of the ulster, told what that burden was, the colour fled from the poor woman's cheeks, and a sinking of the heart under a great dread almost overcame her. "he's all right, missus," said the man, quickly. "thank god?" gasped mrs bright. "are--are the rest safe?" "i b'lieve they are. some of 'em are, i know." obliged to be content, for the moment, with the amount of relief conveyed by these words, she had billy laid on a bed, and bustled about actively rubbing him dry, wrapping him in blankets, applying hot bottles and otherwise restoring him; for as yet the poor boy showed only slight symptoms of returning vitality. while thus engaged the door burst open, and maggie davidson rushed in. "oh, nell!" she exclaimed, "what has happened--is it true--billy!--dead? no; thank god for that, but--but--the _evening star_ must be wrecked! are the rest safe? is joe--" the excited young wife stopped and gasped with anxiety. "the lord has been merciful in sending me my billy," returned mrs bright, with forced calmness, "but i know nothing more." turning at once, maggie rushed wildly from the house intending to make straight for the shore. but she had not gone far when a crowd of men appeared coming towards her. foremost among these was her own husband! with a sharp cry of joy she rushed forward and threw herself into his ready arms. "oh! praise the lord," she said; but as she spoke the appearance of her husband's face alarmed her. glancing hastily at the crowd behind, she cast a frightened look up at joe's face. "who is it?" she asked in a whisper, as four men advanced with slow measured tread bearing between them the form of a man. "david," he said, while an irrepressible sob convulsed him. for one moment the comely face of maggie wore an expression of horror; then she broke from joe, ran quickly back, and, seizing mrs bright in her arms, attempted in vain to speak. "what--what's wrong, maggie?" the poor sympathetic young wife could not utter a word. she could only throw her arms round her friend's neck, and burst into a passion of tears. but there was no need for words. mrs bright knew full well what the tears meant, and her heart stood still while a horror of darkness seemed to sink down upon her. at that moment she heard the tread of those who approached. another minute, and all that remained of david bright was laid on his bed, and his poor wife fell with a low wail upon his inanimate form, while billy sat up on his couch and gazed in speechless despair. in that moment of terrible agony god did not leave the widow utterly comfortless, for even in the first keen glance at her dead husband she had noted the bethel-flag, which he had shown to her with such pride on his last holiday. afterwards she found in his pocket the testament which she had given to him that year, and thus was reminded that the parting was not to be--for ever! we will not dwell on the painful scene. in the midst of it, ruth dotropy glided in like an angel of light, and, kneeling quietly by the widow's side, sobbed as if the loss had been her own. poor ruth! she did not know how to set about comforting one in such overwhelming grief. perhaps it was as well that she did not "try," for certainly, in time, she succeeded. how ruth came to hear of the wreck and its consequences was not very apparent, but she had a peculiar faculty for discovering the locality of human grief, a sort of instinctive tendency to gravitate towards it, and, like her namesake of old, to cling to the sufferer. returning to her own lodging, she found her mother, and told her all that had happened. "and now, mother," she said, "i must go at once to london, and tell captain bream of my suspicions about mrs bright, and get him to come down here, so as to bring them face to face without further delay." "my dear child, you will do nothing of the sort," said mrs dotropy, with unwonted decision. "you know well enough that captain bream has had a long and severe illness, and could not stand anything in the nature of a shock in his present state." "yes, mother, but they say that joy never kills, and if--" "who says?" interrupted mrs dotropy; "who are `they' who say so many stupid things that every one seems bound to believe? joy _does_ kill, sometimes. besides, what if you turned out to be wrong, and raised hopes that were only destined to be crushed? don't you think that the joy of anticipation might--might be neutralised by the expectation,--i mean the sorrow of--of--but it's of no use arguing. i set my face firmly against anything of the sort." "well, perhaps you are right, mother," said ruth, with a little sigh; "indeed, now i think of it i feel sure you are; for it might turn out to be a mistake, as you say, which would be an awful blow to poor captain bream in his present weak state. so i must just wait patiently till he is better." "which he will very soon be, my love," said mrs dotropy, "for he is sure to be splendidly nursed, now he has got back to his old quarters with these admirable miss seawards. but tell me more about this sad wreck. you say that the fisherman named joe davidson is safe?" "yes, i know he is, for i have just seen him." "i'm glad of that, for i have a great regard for him, and am quite taken with his good little wife. indeed i feel almost envious of them, they do harmonise and agree so well together--not of course, that your excellent father and i did not agree--far from it. i don't think that in all the course of our happy wedded life he ever once contradicted me; but somehow, he didn't seem quite to understand things--even when things were so plain that they might have been seen with a magnifying-glass--i mean a micro--that is--no matter. i fear you would not understand much better, ruth, darling, for you are not unlike your poor father. but who told you about the wreck?" "a policeman, mother. he said it was the _evening star_, and the moment i heard that i hurried straight to mrs bright, getting the policeman to escort me there and back. he has quite as great an admiration of joe as you have, mother, and gave me such an interesting account of the change for the better that has come over the fishermen generally since the mission vessels carried the gospel among them. he said he could hardly believe his eyes when he saw some men whom he had known to be dreadful characters changed into absolute lambs. and you know, mother, that the opinion of policemen is of much weight, for they are by no means a soft or sentimental race of men." "true, ruth," returned her mother with a laugh. "after the scene enacted in front of our windows the other day, when one of them had so much trouble, and suffered such awful pommelling from the drunken ruffian he took up, i am quite prepared to admit that policemen are neither soft nor sentimental." "now, mother, i cannot rest," said ruth, rising, "i will go and try to quiet my feelings by writing an account of the whole affair to the miss seawards." "but you have not told me, child, who is the young man who behaved so gallantly in rescuing little billy and others?" a deep blush overspread the girl's face as she looked down, and in a low voice said, "it was our old friend mr dalton." "ruth!" exclaimed mrs dotropy, sharply, with a keen gaze into her daughter's countenance, "you are in love with mr dalton!" "no, mother, i am not," replied ruth, with a decision of tone, and a sudden flash of the mild sweet eyes, that revealed a little of the old spirit of the de tropys. "surely i may be permitted to admire a brave man without the charge of being in love with him!" "quite true, quite true, my love," replied the mother, sinking back into her easy-chair. "you had better go now, as you suggest, and calm yourself by writing to your friends." ruth hurried from the room; sought the seclusion of her own chamber; flung herself into a chair, and put the question to herself, "_am_ i in love with mr dalton?" it was a puzzling question; one that has been put full many a time in this world's history without receiving a very definite or satisfactory answer. in this particular case it seemed to be not less puzzling than usual, for ruth repeated it aloud more than once, "_am_ i in love with mr dalton?" without drawing from herself an audible reply. she remained in the same attitude for a considerable time, with her sweet little head on one side, and her tiny hands clasped loosely on her lap--absorbed in meditation. from this condition she at last roused herself to sit down before a table with pen, ink, and paper. then she went to work on a graphic description of the wreck of the _evening star_,--in which, of course, mr dalton unavoidably played a very prominent part. human nature is strangely and swiftly adaptable. ruth's heart fluttered with pleasure as she described the heroism of the young man, and next moment it throbbed with deepest sadness as she told of mrs bright's woe, and the paper on which she wrote became blotted with her tears. chapter twenty six. the house of mourning. we have it on the highest authority that it is better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting. this fallen world does not readily believe that, but then the world is notoriously slow to believe the truth, and also rather apt to believe what is false. it was long before even the learned world could be got to believe that the world itself moves round the sun. indeed it is more than probable that more than half the world does not believe that yet. on the other hand, much of it very likely believes still that the world is flat. a savage of the prairie would almost certainly entertain that fallacy, while a savage of the mountains would perhaps laugh him to scorn, yet neither would admit that it was a globe. so, mankind is very unwilling to accept the truth that it is better to give than to receive, though such is certainly the case if there be truth in holy writ. john gunter had been much impressed, and not a little softened, by the recent catastrophe of the shipwreck and of his skipper's death, but he had not yet been subdued to the point of believing that it would be better to spend an hour with widow bright than to spend it in the public-house, even though his shipmate joe davidson did his best to persuade him of that truth. "come," said joe, as a last appeal, "come, john, what'll our shipmates think of 'ee if you never go near the poor thing to offer her a word o' comfort?" "_i_ can't comfort nobody," replied gunter with a surly heave of his shoulder. "yes, you can," said joe, earnestly; "why, the very sight o' you bein' there, out o' respect to david, would do her poor heart good." the idea of anybody deriving comfort from a sight of _him_ so tickled gunter that he only replied with a sarcastic laugh, nevertheless he followed his mate sulkily and, as it were, under protest. on entering the humble dwelling they found spivin, trevor, and zulu already there. mrs bright arose with tearful eyes to welcome the new guests. billy rose with her. he had scarcely left his mother's side for more than a few minutes since the dark night of the wreck, though several days had elapsed. it was a great era in the life of the fisher-boy--a new departure. it had brought him for the first time in his young life into personal contact as it were, with the dark side of life, and had made an indelible impression on his soul. it did not indeed abate the sprightly activity of his mind or body, but it sobered his spirit and, in one day, made him more of a man than several years of ordinary life could have accomplished. the most visible result was a manly consideration of, and a womanly tenderness towards, his mother, which went a long way to calm mrs bright's first outbreak of sorrow. these rough fishermen--rough only in outward appearance--had their own method of comforting the widow. they did not attempt anything like direct consolation, however, but they sat beside her and chatted in quiet undertones--through which there ran an unmistakable sound of sympathy. their talk was about incidents and events of a pleasant or cheering kind in their several experiences. and occasionally, though not often, they referred to the absent david when anything particularly favourable to him could be said. "we've got good news, joe," said billy, when the former was seated. "ay, billy, i'm glad o' that. what may the good news be?" "another `_evening star_' has been raised up to us by the lord," said mrs bright, "but oh! it will never shine like the first one to _me_!" the poor woman could go no further, so billy again took up the story. "you know," he said, "that our kind friend miss ruth dotropy has been greatly taken up about us since father went--went home, and it seems that she's bin writin' to lun'on about us, tellin' all about the wreck, an' about our mistake in goin' to sea, last trip, without bein' inspected, which lost us the insurance-money. an' there's a rich friend o' hers as has sent her a thousand pound to buy mother another smack!" "you _don't_ say that's true, billy!" exclaimed joe, with a look of surprise. "that's just what i do say, joe. the smack is already bought, and is to be fitted out at once, an' mother has made _you_ her skipper, joe, an' the rest have all agreed to go--zulu as cook--and gunter too. won't you, john?" the boy, who was somewhat excited by the news he had to tell, frankly held out his hand to gunter, and that worthy, grasping it with an unwonted display of frankness on his part growled--"i'm with 'ee, lad." "yes, it's all arranged," resumed billy, "and we'll not be long o' being ready for sea, so you won't be left to starve, mother--" up to this point the poor boy had held on with his wonted vivacity, but he stopped suddenly. the corners of his mouth began to twitch, and, laying his head on his mother's bosom, he sobbed aloud. it did the widow good to comfort him. the fishermen had an instinctive perception that their wisest course lay in taking no notice, and continuing their low-voiced intercourse. "well, now," said joe, "i have read in story-books of folk bein' as lib'ral sometimes as to give a thousand pounds, but i never thought i'd live to see 'em do it." "why, joe, where have your eyes and ears bin?" said luke trevor. "don't you know it was a lib'ral gentleman, if not two, or p'raps three, as lent the _ensign_, our first gospel-ship, to the mission?" "that's true, luke; i forgot that when i spoke, an' there's more gospel-smacks comin', i'm told, presented in the same way by lib'ral folk." "it's my belief," said luke, with emphasis, at the same time striking his right knee with his hand, "it's my belief that afore long we'll have a gospel-ship for every fleet on the north sea." "right you are, boy," said joe, "an' the sooner the better. moreover, i've heard say that there's a talk about sellin' baccy on board of the mission-ships _cheaper_ than what they do aboard o' the copers. did any of 'ee hear o' that?" "i heard somethin' about it," answered luke, "but it's too good news to be true. if they do, it'll drive the copers off the sea." "of course it will. that's just what they're a-goin' to do it for, i suppose." reader, the mode of dealing with the abominable "coper" traffic referred to by these men has at last happily been adopted, and the final blow has been dealt by the simple expedient of underselling the floating grog-shops in the article of tobacco. very considerable trouble and expense have to be incurred by the mission, however, for the tobacco has to be fetched from a foreign port; but the result amply repays the cost for the men naturally prefer paying only shilling per pound on board the mission-ship, to paying shilling pence on board the "coper." the smacksman's advantages in this respect may be better understood when we say that on shore he has to pay shillings per pound for tobacco. but his greatest advantage of all--that for which the plan has been adopted--is his being kept away from the vessel where, while purchasing tobacco, he is tempted to buy poisonous spirits. of course the anti-smoker is entitled to say "it were better that the smacksman should be saved from tobacco as well as drink!" but of two evils it is wise to choose the less. tobacco at shilling pence procured in the "coper," with, to some, its irresistible temptation to get drunk on vile spirits, is a greater evil than the procuring of the same weed at shilling in a vessel all whose surroundings and internal arrangements are conducive to the benefit of soul and body. "d'ye mind the old _swan_, boys?" asked an elderly man--a former friend of david bright who had dropped in with his mite of genuine sympathy. "what, the first gospel-ship as was sent afloat some thirty years ago? it would be hard to remember what existed before i was born!" "well, you've heard of her, anyhow. she was lent by the admiralty for the work in the year eighteen hundred and something, not to go out like the _ensign_ to the north sea fleets, but to cruise about an' visit in the thames. i was in the _swan_ myself for a few months when i was a young fellow, and we had grand times aboard of that wessel. it seemed to me like a sort o' home to the sailors that they'd make for arter their woyages was over. once, i reklect, we had a evenin' service, an' as several ships had come in from furrin parts that mornin' we had the _swan_ chock-full o' noo hands; but bless you, though they was noo to us they warn't noo to each other. they had many of 'em met aboard the _swan_ years before. some of 'em hadn't met for seven and ten year, and sich a shakin' o' hands there was, an' recognisin' of each other!--i thought we'd never get the service begun. many of 'em was christian men, and felt like brothers, you see." "did many of the masters an' mates come to the services in those days?" asked joe davidson. "ay, a-many of 'em. w'y, i've seed lots o' both masters an' mates wolunteerin' to indoose their men to come w'en some of 'em warn't willin'--takin' their own boats, too, to the neighbourin' ships an' bringin' off the men as wanted to, w'en the _swan's_ bell was a-ringin' for service. i heard one man say he hadn't bin to a place o' worship for ten year, an' if he'd know'd what the _swan_ was like he'd ha' bin to her sooner. "i mind meetin' wery unexpected with a friend at that time," continued the old fisherman, who saw that his audience was interested in his talk, and that the mind of poor mrs bright was being drawn from her great sorrow for a little. "i hadn't met 'im for eight or ten years. "`hallo! abel,' says i, `is that you?' "`that's me,' says he, ketchin' hold o' my grapnel, an' givin' it a shake that a'most unshipped the shoulder. `leastwise it's all that's left o' me.' "`what d'ee mean?' says i. "`i mean,' says he, `that i've just lost my wessel on the gunfleet sands, but, thank god, i haven't lost my life, nor none o' my men, though it was a close shave.' "`how did it happen, abel?' says i. "says he, `it happened pretty much in the usual way. a gale, wi' sleet that thick we could hardly see the end o' the jib-boom. the moment we struck i know'd it was all over wi' the old wessel, but i didn't see my way to go under without a struggle, so we made a desp'rit attemp' to git out the boats, but a sea saved us the trouble, for it swept 'em all away before we got at 'em, as if they'd bin on'y chips o' wood. then, as if to mock us, another sea pitched us higher on the sands, so as the decks wasn't washed by every wave quite so bad, but we knew that wouldn't last for the tide was makin' fast, so i calls the crew together, an' says i, "now, lads, i've often prayed with you an' for you. in a few minutes we'll have to take to the riggin', an' you know what the end o' that's likely to be. before doin' so, i'll pray again, for nothin' is impossible to the lord, an' it may be his will to spare us yet a while." well, i prayed. then we took to the riggin' to wait for death--or rescue. an' sure enough, after we had bin six hours there, an' was all but frozen, a fishin'-smack came past and took us off.'" "now, mates," said joe davidson, after they had chatted thus in subdued tones for some time, "it do seem to me that as most of us are of one mind here, and we are, so to speak, of one fisher-family, it might do mrs bright good if we was to have a bit of the word together, and a prayer or two." as every one agreed to this either heartily or by silence, a bible was produced, and joe,--being mate of the late _evening star_, and therefore a sort of natural head of the family--read the portion where god promises to be a husband to the widow, and a father to the fatherless. then they all knelt while he prayed in simple language for comfort and a blessing to the mourning household. he was followed with a very few but intensely earnest words by luke. even john gunter put up an unpremeditated prayer in the words, "god help us!" uttered in a choking voice, and the old fisherman followed them all with a deep "amen." after that they shook hands tenderly with the widow and billy, and went out silently from the house of mourning. chapter twenty seven. the captain's appetite restored, and ruth in a new light. captain bream reclined one day on a sofa in the sitting-room of the house where he had first made the acquaintance of the miss seawards. both ladies were seated by his side, the one working worsted cuffs and the other comforters, and both found the utmost difficulty in repressing tears when they looked at their kind nautical friend, for a great change had come over him since we last saw him. we will not venture to state what was the illness that had laid the captain, as he himself expressed it on his beam-ends, but whatever it might have been, it had reduced him to a mere shadow. his once round cheeks were hollow; his eyes were so sunken that they appeared to have retired into the interior of his head, out of which, as out of two deep caverns, they gleamed solemnly. his voice, having been originally pitched so low that it could not well get lower, had become reduced to the sound of a big drum muffled; it had also a faint resemblance to a bassoon with a bad cold. his beard and moustache, having been allowed to grow, bore a striking likeness to a worn-out clothes-brush, and his garments appeared to hang upon a living skeleton of large proportions. it is right however, to add that this was the worst that could be said of him. the spirit within was as cheery and loving and tender as ever it had been--indeed more so--and the only wonder was that it did not break a hole in the once tough but now thin shell of its prison-house, and soar upwards to its native regions in the sky! "you must _not_ work so hard at these cuffs, miss jessie," he said, with a pleasant though languid smile. "if you do i'll reduce my board." "but that would only render it necessary that i should work harder," returned jessie, without checking the pace of the needles. "it is hard," resumed the captain, "that i should be disobeyed at every turn now that i'm on my beam-ends, with little more strength in me than a new-born kitten. but never mind, i'm beginnin' to feel stronger, and i'll pay you off, my dear, when i'm able to move about." "do you really feel a little stronger?" asked kate, who, although more lively--even mischievous in a small way--than her sister, had been more deeply affected by the captain's long illness, and could not shake off the impression that he was going to die. "feel stronger!" exclaimed the wrecked giant. "give me your hand. d'ee feel _that_?" "that" which kate was to feel was a squeeze as a test of strength. "there. doesn't it hurt you? i believe i could make you cry if i was to try." and the captain did make her cry even without trying, for kate was so deeply touched with the weakness of the trembling squeeze, coupled with the hearty kindness and little touches of fun in the prostrate man, that she could not keep it down. rising hurriedly, therefore, she flung her unfinished comforter into jessie's lap, left the room, and, retiring to her chamber, wept quietly there. those tears were not now, however, as they had often been, tears of anxious sorrow, but of thankful joy. having accomplished this little matter, and relieved her feelings, she returned to the parlour. "i've been just trying to persuade him, kate," said jessie, as the former entered, "that in a week or two a trip to yarmouth will do him _so_ much good, but he does not seem to think he will be equal to it." "come, now, miss jessie, that's not a fair way to put it. i have no doubt that i shall be able enough--thanks to the good lord who has spared me--but what i think is that yarmouth, pleasant though it be, is not exactly what i want just now." "what then, do you think would be better for you?" asked kate. "`the sea! the sea! the open sea! the blue, the fresh, the ever free!'" answered the captain, with a gleam in the sunken eyes such as had not been seen there for many days. "horrible thought!" said jessie, with a pretended shudder. "you know the proverb, `what's one man's meat is another man's poison,'" returned the captain. "ah! ladies, only those who have been cradled on the deep for three quarters of a lifetime, and who love the whistling winds, and the surging waves, and the bounding bark, know what it is to long, as i do, for another rest upon my mother's breast:-- "`and a mother she was and is to me, for i was born--was born on the open sea.'" "i had no idea you were so poetical," said jessie, much surprised at the invalid's enthusiasm. "sickness has a tendency to make people poetical. i suppose," returned the captain. "but how are you to manage it? you can scarcely walk yet. then excuse me, you haven't got a ship, and i fear that not many owners would intrust one to you till you are stronger. so, what will you do?" "go as a passenger, my dear. see here; it's all arranged," said the captain, holding up a letter. "i got this by the post this morning, and want to consult with you about it. knowing my condition and desires, that excellent man the chaplain, who took me out in his steam-launch the day i got the first shot of this illness, had made known my case to the director of the mission to deep-sea fishermen, and he has kindly agreed to let me go a trip to the north sea in one of the mission-ships, on the understanding that i shall do as much of a missionary's work as i am fit for when there." "but you're not fit for work of any kind!" exclaimed kate with a flush of indignation which was partly roused by the idea of her friend being taken away from her at a time when he required so much nursing, and partly by the impropriety of so sick a man being expected to work at all. "true, my dear, but i shall be fit enough in a week or two. why, i feel strength coming back like a torrent. even now i'm so hungry that i could devour my--my--" "your dinner!" cried kate, as, at that opportune moment the door opened and liffie lee appeared with a tray in her hand. there could be no doubt as to the captain's appetite. not only did his eyes glare, in quite a wolfish manner, at the food while it was being set before him, but the enormous quantity he took of that food became quite a source of alarm to the sisters, who watched and helped him. "now, captain," said jessie, laying her hand at last on his thin arm, as it was stretched out to help himself to more, "you really must not. you know the doctor said that it would never do, at first, to--" "my dear," interrupted the invalid, "hang the doctor!" "well, i have no objection to his being hanged, if you don't ask me to do it," returned jessie, "but really--" "oh! let him alone," said kate, who, being very healthy, shared the captain's unreasonable contempt for medical men, and was more than pleased at the ravenous tendencies of her old friend. "now for the sponge-cakes," said the captain, wiping his mouth and rubbing his hands on finishing the first course. "you are to have none," said kate, firmly. the captain's face elongated into a look of woe. "because you are to have rice-pudding and thick cream instead!" continued kate. the captain's face shortened again into a beaming smile. liffie lee appeared at the moment with the viands named. "i never saw anything like it!" exclaimed jessie with a short laugh, and a look of resignation. "i enjoy it _so_ much!" said kate, pouring out the cream with liberal hand. liffie said nothing, but if the widest extension of her lips, and the exposing of her bright little teeth from ear to ear, meant anything, it meant that her sympathies were entirely with kate. the captain was helped to pudding in a soup plate, that being relatively a rather small dessert plate for him. he was about to plunge the dessert spoon into it, but stopped suddenly and gazed at it. then he turned his awful gaze on the small servant who almost shrank before it. "liffie, my dear." "y-yes, sir." "bring me a _table-spoon_, the biggest one you have." "yes, sir," she said,--and vanished. presently she returned with an enormous gravy spoon. "ha! ha!" shouted the captain, with much of his old fire; "that's better than i had hoped for! hand it here, liffie; it'll do." he seized the weapon, and liffie uttered an involuntary squeal of delight as she saw him sweep up nearly the whole of his first helping, and make one bite of it! he then attempted to smile at liffie's expression of joy, but did it awkwardly in the circumstances. just as he had finished his little repast, and was tranquilly stirring a breakfast cup of coffee, the door bell rang. a minute later liffie appeared with her mouth and eyes like three round o's. "if you please, ma'am, here's mister and missis dalton, as wants to know if they may come in." "mr and mrs who?" exclaimed both sisters. "mister an' missis dalton," repeated liffie. "show them in--at once, child. some ridiculous mistake," said jessie, glancing at kate. "but, stay, liffie;--you have no objection, captain?" "none in the least." another moment and ruth appeared blushing in the door-way, with a handsome young man looming in the background. "mr and mrs dalton!" said the two sisters with a dazed look as they sank into two chairs. "oh _no_! darling jessie," cried ruth, rushing forward and throwing her arms round her friend; "not--not quite that yet, but--but--engaged. and we determined that the _very first_ call we made should be to you, darling." "well, now, this _is_ capital! quite a picture," growled the captain; "does more good to my digestion than--" "come," interrupted jessie, taking ruth by the hand. "come to our room!" regardless of all propriety, the sisters hurried ruth off to their bedroom to have it out with her there, leaving young dalton to face the captain. "i congratulate you, my lad," said the captain, frankly extending his hand. "sit down." dalton as frankly shook the hand and thanked the captain, as he took a seat beside him. "i'm deeply grieved, captain bream, to see you so much reduced, yet rejoiced to find that you are fairly convalescent." "humph! i wouldn't give much for the depth of either your grief or joy on my account seein' that you've managed to get hooked on to an angel." "well, i confess," said the youth, with a laugh, "that the joy connected with that fact pretty much overwhelms all other feelings at present." "the admission does you credit boy, for she is an angel. i'm not usin' figures o' speech. she's a real darlin', a at lloyd's. true blue through and through. and let me tell you, young fellow, that i know her better than you do, for i saw her before you were bor--, no, that couldn't well be, but i knew her father before you were born, and herself ever since she saw the light." "i'm delighted to have your good opinion of her, though, of course, it cannot increase my estimation of her character. nothing can do that!" "which means that _my_ opinion goes for nothing. well, the conceit of the rising generation is only equalled by--by that o' the one that went before it. but, now, isn't it strange that you are the very man i want to see?" "it is indeed," replied dalton with a slightly incredulous look. "yes, the very man. look ye here. have you got a note-book?" "i have." "pull it out, then. i want you to draw out my will." "your will, captain bream!" "my will," repeated the captain. "last will an' testament." "but i'm not lawyer enough to--" "i know that, man! i only want you to sketch it out. listen. i'm going in a week or two to the north sea in a fishing-smack. well, there's no sayin' what may happen there. i'm not infallible--or invulnerable--or waterproof, though i _am_ an old salt. now, you are acquainted with all my money matters, so i want you to jot down who the cash is to be divided among if i should go to the bottom; then, take the sketch to my lawyer--you know where he lives--and tell him to draw it out all ship-shape, an' bring it to me to sign. now, are you ready?" "but, my dear sir, this may take a long time, and the ladies will probably return before we--" "_you_ don't bother your head about the ladies, my lad, but do as i tell 'ee. miss ruth has got hold of two pair of ears and two hearts that won't be satisfied in five minutes. besides, my will won't be a long one. are you ready?" "yes," said dalton, spreading his note-book on his knee. "well," resumed the captain, "after makin' all the usual arrangements for all expenses--funeral, etcetera, (of which there'll be none if i go to the bottom), an' some legacies of which i'll tell the lawyer when i see him, i leave all that remains to miss jessie and miss kate seaward, share an' share alike, to do with it as they please, an' to leave it after them to whomsoever they like. there!" "is that all?" "yes, that's all," returned the captain, sadly. "i once had a dear sister, but every effort i have made to find her out has failed. of course if i do come across her before it pleases the lord to take me home, i'll alter the will. in the meantime let it be drawn out so." soon after this important transaction was finished the ladies returned, much flushed and excited, and full of apologies for their rude behaviour to their male friends. chapter twenty eight. out with the short blue again. pleasant and heart-stirring is the sensation of returning health to one who has sailed for many weeks in the "doldrums" of disease, weathered point danger, crossed the line of weakness, and begun to steer with favouring gales over the smooth sea of convalescence. so thought captain bream one lovely summer day, some time after the events just narrated, as he sat on the bridge of a swift steamer which cut like a fish through the glassy waves of the north sea. it was one of hewett and company's carriers, bound for the short blue fleet. over three hundred miles was the total run; she had already made the greater part of it. the exact position of the ever-moving fleet was uncertain. nevertheless, her experienced captain was almost certain--as if by a sort of instinct--to hit the spot where the smacks lay ready with their trunks of fish to feed the insatiable maw of billingsgate. captain bream's cheeks were not so hollow as they had been when we last saw him. neither were they so pale. his eyes, too, had come a considerable way out of the caves into which they had retreated, and the wolfish glare in the presence of food was exchanged for a look of calm serenity. his coat, instead of hanging on him like a shirt on a handspike, had begun to show indications of muscle covering the bones, and his vest no longer flapped against him like the topsail of a dutchman in a dead calm. altogether, there was a healthy look about the old man which gave the impression that he had been into dock, and had a thorough overhaul. enough of weakness remained, however, to induce a feeling of blessed restfulness in his entire being. the once strong and energetic man had been brought to the novel condition of being quite willing to leave the responsibility of the world on other shoulders, and to enjoy the hitherto unknown luxury of doing nothing at all. so thoroughly had he abandoned himself in this respect, that he did not even care to speak, but was satisfied to listen to others, or to gaze at the horizon in happy contemplation, or to pour on all around looks of calm benignity. "how do you feel to-day, sir?" asked the mate of the steamer, as he came on the bridge. "my strongest feeling," said captain bream, "is one of thankfulness to god that i am so well." "a good feelin' that doesn't always come as strong as it ought to, or as one would wish; does it, sir?" said the mate. "that's true," answered the captain, "but when a man, after bein' so low that he seems to be bound for the next world, finds the tide risin' again, the feelin' is apt to come stronger, d'ee see? d'you expect to make the fleet to-day?" "yes, sir, we should make it in the evenin' if the admiral has stuck to his plans." the captain became silent again, but after a few minutes, fearing that the mate might think him unsociable, he said-- "i suppose the admiral is always chosen as being one of the best men of the fleet?" "that's the idea, sir, and the one chosen usually _is_ one of the best, though of course mistakes are sometimes made. the present admiral is a first-rate man--a thorough-going fisherman, well acquainted with all the shoals, and a christian into the bargain." "ah, i suppose that is an advantage to the fleet in many respects," said the captain, brightening up, on finding the mate sympathetic on that point. "it is for the advantage of the fleet in _all_ respects, sir. i have known an ungodly admiral, on a sunday, when they couldn't fish, an' the weather was just right for heavin'-to an' going aboard the mission smack for service--i've known him keep the fleet movin' the whole day, for nothin' at all but spite. of course that didn't put any one in a good humour, an' you know, sir, men always work better when they're in good spirits." "ay, well do i know that," said the captain, "for i've had a good deal to do wi' men in my time, and i have always found that christian sailors as a rule are worth more than unbelievers, just because they work with a will--as the bible puts it, `unto the lord and not unto men.' you've heard of general havelock, no doubt?" "oh yes, sir, you mean the indian general who used to look after the souls of his men?" "that's the man," returned the captain. "well, i've been told that on one occasion when the commander-in-chief sent for some soldiers for special duty, and found that most of 'em were drunk, he turned an' said, `send me some of havelock's saints: they can be depended on!' i'm not sure if i've got the story rightly, but, anyhow, that's what he said." "ay, sir, i sometimes think it wonderful," said the mate, "that unbelievers don't themselves see that the love of god in a man's heart makes him a better and safer servant in all respects--according to the word, `godliness is profitable to the life that now is, as well as that which is to come.' there's the fleet at last, sir!" while speaking, the mate had been scanning the horizon with his glass, which he immediately handed to the captain, who rose at once and saw the line of the short blue like little dots on the horizon. the dots soon grew larger; then they assumed the form of vessels, and in a short time the carrying-steamer was amongst them, making straight for the admiral, whose smack was distinguishable by his flag. "what is the admiral's name?" asked the captain as they advanced. "davidson--joe davidson; one of the brightest young fellows i ever knew," answered the captain of the steamer, who came on the bridge at that moment, "and a true christian. he is master of the _evening star_." "why, i thought that was the name of a smack that was wrecked some time ago near yarmouth--at least so my friends there wrote me," said captain bream with sudden interest; and well might he feel interest in the new _evening star_, for it was himself who had given the thousand pounds to purchase her, at ruth dotropy's request, but he had not been told that her skipper, joe davidson, had been made admiral of the fleet. "so it _was_ the _evening star_, sir, that was wrecked, but some open-handed gentleman in london bought a new smack for widow bright and she called it by the same name, an' the young man, who had been mate with her husband, she has made skipper till her son billy is old enough to take charge of her. the strangest thing is, that all the old crew have stuck together, and the smack is now one of the best managed in the fleet. joe wouldn't have been made admiral if that wasn't so." to this, and a great deal more, the captain listened with great joy and thankfulness, without, however, giving a hint as to his own part in the matter. originally he had given the thousand pounds to please ruth, and he had been at that time glad to think that the gift was to benefit a deserving and unfortunate widow. it was not a little satisfactory, therefore, to hear that his gift had been so well bestowed; that it had even become the admiral's vessel, and that he was about to have the opportunity of boarding the new _evening star_ and himself inspecting its crew. "tell me a little more about this _evening star_," he said to the captain of the steamer. "i have sometimes heard of her from a lady friend of mine, who takes a great interest in her owner, but i was so ill at the time she wrote that i couldn't pay much attention to anything." thus invited the captain proceeded to tell all he knew about david bright and his wife, and billy, and luke trevor, spivin, gunter, zulu, the wreck, the launch of the new smack, etcetera,--much of which was quite new to captain bream, and all of which was of course deeply interesting to him. while these two were conversing the fleet gradually thickened around them, for a light breeze, which seemed to have sprung up for the very purpose, enabled them to close in. some of the smacks were close at hand; others more distant. to those within hail, the captain and mate of the steamer gave the customary salute and toss of the fist in the air as they passed. "there's the admiral," said the captain, "two points off the port bow." "an' the gospel-ship close alongside," said the mate. "don't you see the m.d.s.f. flag? trust joe for bein' near to her when he can manage it. here they come, fast an' thick. there's the _fern_, i'd know her a mile off, an' the _martin_, an' _rover_, _coquette_, _truant_! what cheer, boys!" "is that the _cherub_ or the _andax_ abeam of us?" asked the captain. "it's neither. it's the _guide_, or the _boy jim_, or the _retriever_-- not quite sure which." "now, captain bream, shall we put you on board the mission-ship at once, or will you wait to see us boarded for empty trunks?" "i'll wait," returned captain bream. soon the steamer hove-to, not far from the admiral's vessel. the smacks came crowding round like bees round a hive, each one lowering a boat when near enough. and once again was enacted a scene similar in many respects to that which we have described in a previous chapter, with this difference, that the scramble now was partly for the purpose of obtaining empty boxes. another steamer had taken off most of their fish early that day, and the one just arrived meant to wait for the fish of the next morning. it chanced that a good many of the rougher men of the fleet came on board that evening, so that captain bream, whose recent experiences had led him half to expect that all the north sea fishermen were amiable lions, had his mind sadly but effectively disabused of that false idea. the steamer's deck soon swarmed with some four hundred of the roughest and most boisterous men he had ever seen, and the air was filled with coarse and profane language, while a tendency to fight was exhibited by several of them. "they're a rough lot, sir," said the mate as he leant on the rail of the bridge, gazing down on the animated scene, "but they were a rougher lot before the gospel-ship came out to stay among them, and some of the brightest christians now in the fleet were as bad as the worst you see down there." "ay, jesus came to save the _lost_, and the worst," said the captain in a low tone--"praise to his name!" as soon as the trunks had been received, the admiral bore away to windward, and the fleet began to follow and make preparation for the night's fishing; for the fish which were destined so soon to smoke on london tables were at that moment gambolling at the bottom of the sea! "we must run down to the mission smack, and put you aboard at once, sir," said the mate, "for she follows the admiral--though she does not fish on saturday nights, so that the hold may be clear of fish and ready for service on sundays." captain bream was ready. "they know you are coming, i suppose?" "yes, they expect me." in a few minutes the steamer was close to the mission-ship, and soon after, the powerful arms of its hospitable skipper and mate were extended to help the expected invalid out of the boat which had been sent for him. "we're makin' things all snug for the night," said the skipper, as he led his guest into the little cabin, "an' when we're done we shall have tea; but if you'd like it sooner--" "no, no, skipper, i'll wait. though i'm just come from the shore, you don't take me for an impatient land-lubber, do you? go, finish your work, and i'll rest a bit. i've been ill, you see, an' can't stand as much as i used to," he added apologetically. when left alone, captain bream's mode of resting himself was to go down on his knees and thank god for having brought him to so congenial a resting-place on the world of waters, and to pray that he might be made use of to his glory while there. how that prayer was answered we shall see. chapter twenty nine. another fight and--victory! it is interesting to observe the curious, and oftentimes unlikely, ways in which the guilt of man is brought to light, and the truth of that word demonstrated--"be sure your sin shall find you out." although john gunter's heart was softened at the time of his old skipper's death, it was by no means changed, so that, after a brief space, it became harder than ever, and the man who had been melted--to some extent washed--returned, ere long, with increased devotion to his wallowing in the mire. this made him so disagreeable to his old comrades, that they became anxious to get rid of him, but joe davidson, whose disposition was very hopeful, hesitated; and the widow, having a kindly feeling towards the man because he had sailed with her husband, did not wish him to be dismissed. thus it came to pass that when captain bream joined the short blue fleet he was still a member of the crew of the new _evening star_. the day following that on which the captain arrived was sunday, and, as usual, the smacks whose skippers had become followers of the lord jesus began to draw towards the mission-ship with their bethel-flags flying. among them was the new admiral--joe of the _evening star_. his vessel was pointed out, of course, to the captain as she approached. we need scarcely say that he looked at her with unusual interest, and was glad when her boat was lowered to row part of her crew to the service about to be held in the hold of the gospel-ship. it was natural that captain bream should be much taken with the simple cheery manners of the admiral, as he stepped aboard and shook hands all round. it was equally natural that he should take some interest, also, in john gunter, for was it not obvious that that worthy was a fine specimen of the gruff, half-savage, raw material which he had gone out there to work upon? "why did you not bring billy, joe?" asked the skipper of the mission vessel. "well, you know, we had to leave some one to look after the smack, an' i left luke trevor, as he said he'd prefer to come to evenin' service, an' billy said he'd like to stay with luke." by this time a number of boats had put their rough-clad crews on the deck, and already a fair congregation was mustered. shaking of hands, salutations, question and reply, were going briskly on all round, with here and there a little mild chaffing, and occasionally a hearty laugh, while now and then the fervent "thank god" and "praise the lord" revealed the spirits of the speakers. "you mentioned the name of billy just now," said captain bream, drawing joe davidson aside. "is he a man or a boy?" "he's a boy, sir, though he don't like to be reminded o' the fact," said joe with a laugh. "he's the son of our skipper who was drowned--an' a good boy he is, though larky a bit. but that don't do him no harm, bless ye." "i wonder," returned the captain, "if he is the boy some lady friends of mine are so fond of, who was sent up to london some time ago to--" "that's him, sir," interrupted joe; "it was billy as was sent to lun'on; by the wish of a miss ruth pont-rap-me, or some such name. i never can remember it rightly, but she's awful fond o' the fisher-folks." "ah, i know miss ruth dotropy also," said the captain. "strange that i should find this billy that they're all so fond of in the new _evening star_. i must pay your smack a visit soon, davidson, for i have a particular interest in her." "i'll be proud to see you aboard her, sir," returned joe. "won't you come after service? the calm will last a good while, i think." "well, perhaps i may." the conversation was interrupted here by a general move to the vessel's hold, where the usual arrangements had been made--a table for a pulpit and fish-boxes for seats. "do you feel well enough to speak to us to-day, captain bream?" asked the skipper of the mission-ship. "oh yes, i'll be happy to do so. the trip out has begun to work wonders already," said the captain. now, the truth of that proverb, "one man may take a horse to the water, but ten men can't make him drink," is very often illustrated in the course of human affairs. you may even treat a donkey in the same way, and the result will be similar. joe davidson had brought john gunter to the mission-ship in the earnest hope that he would drink at the gospel fountain, but, after having got him there, joe found that, so far from drinking, gunter would not even go down to the services at all. on this occasion he said that he preferred to remain on deck, and smoke his pipe. unknown to all the world, save himself, john gunter was at that time in a peculiarly unhappy state of mind. his condition was outwardly manifested in the form of additional surliness. "you're like a bear with a sore head," spivin had said to him when in the boat on the way to the service. "more like a black-face baboon wid de cholera," said zulu. invulnerable alike to chaff and to earnest advice, gunter sat on the fore-hatch smoking, while psalms of praise were rising from the hold. now, it was the little silver watch which caused all this trouble to gunter. bad as the man was, he had never been an absolute thief, until the night on which he had robbed ruth dotropy. the horror depicted in her pretty, innocent face when he stopped her had left an impression on his mind which neither recklessness nor drink could remove, and thankfully would he have returned the watch if he had known the young lady's name or residence. moreover, he was so inexperienced and timid in this new line of life, that he did not know how to turn the watch into cash with safety, and had no place in which to conceal it. on the very day about which we write, seeing the coper not far off, the unhappy man had thrust the watch into his trousers pocket with the intention of bartering it with the dutchman for rum, if he should get the chance. small chance indeed, with joe davidson for his skipper! but there is no accounting for the freaks of the guilty. the watch was now metaphorically burning a hole in gunter's pocket, and, that pocket being somewhat similar in many respects to the pockets of average schoolboys, ruth's pretty little watch lay in company with a few coppers, a bit of twine, a broken clasp-knife, two buttons, a short pipe, a crumpled tract of the mission to deep-sea fishermen, and a half-finished quid of tobacco. but although john gunter would not drink of his own free-will, he could not easily avoid the water of life that came rushing to him up the hatchway and filled his ears. it came to him first, as we have said, in song; and the words of the hymn, "sinner, list to the loving call," passed not only his outer and inner ear, but dropped into his soul and disturbed him. then he got a surprise when captain bream's voice resounded through the hold,--there was something so very deep and metallic about it, yet so tender and musical. but the greatest surprise of all came when the captain, without a word of preface or statement as to where his text was to be found, looked his expectant audience earnestly in the face, and said slowly, "thou shalt not steal." poor captain bream! nothing was further from his thoughts than the idea that any one listening to him was actually a thief! but he had made up his mind to press home, with the spirit's blessing, the great truth that the man who refuses to accept salvation in jesus christ robs god of the love and honour that are his due; robs his wife and children and fellow-men of the good example and christian service which he was fitted and intended to exert, and robs himself, so to speak, of eternal life. the captain's arguments had much weight in the hold, but they had no weight on deck. many of his shafts of reason were permitted to pierce the tough frames of the rugged men before him, and lodge with good influence in tender hearts, but they all fell pointless on the deck above. it was the pure unadulterated word of god, "without note or comment," that was destined that day to penetrate the iron heart of john gunter, and sink down into his soul. "_thou shalt not steal_!" that was all of the sermon that gunter heard; the rest fell on deaf ears, for these words continued to burn into his very soul. influenced by the new and deep feelings that had been aroused in him, he pulled the watch from his pocket with the intention of hurling it into the sea, but the thought that he would still deserve to be called a _thief_ caused him to hesitate. "hallo! gunter, what pretty little thing is that you've got?" the words were uttered by dick herring of the _white cloud_, who, being like-minded with john, had remained on deck like him to smoke and lounge. "you've got no business wi' that," growled gunter, as he closed his hand on the watch, and thrust it back into his pocket. "i didn't say i had, mate," retorted herring, with a puff of contempt, which at the same time emptied his mouth and his spirit. herring said no more; but when the service was over, and the men were chatting about the deck, he quietly mentioned what he had seen, and some of the waggish among the crew came up to gunter and asked him, with significant looks and laughs, what time o' day it was. at first gunter replied in his wonted surly manner; but at last, feeling that the best way would be to put a bold face on the matter, he said with an off-hand laugh-- "herring thinks he's made a wonderful discovery, but surely there's nothing very strange in a man buyin' a little watch for his sweetheart." "you don't mean to say that _you_ have a sweetheart do you?" said a youth of about seventeen, who had a tendency to be what is styled cheeky. gunter turned on him with contempt. "well, now," he replied, "if i had a smooth baby-face like yours i would _not_ say as i had, but bein' a man, you see, i may ventur' to say that i have." "come, gunter, you're too hard on 'im," cried spivin; "i don't believe you've bought a watch for her at all; at least if you have, it must be a pewter one." thus taunted, gunter resolved to carry out the bold line of action. "what d'ee call that?" he cried, pulling out the watch and holding it up to view. captain bream chanced to be an amused witness of this little scene, but his expression changed to one of amazement when he beheld the peculiar and unmistakable watch which, years before, he had given to ruth dotropy's father. recovering himself quickly he stepped forward. "a very pretty little thing," he said, "and looks uncommonly like silver. let me see it." he held out his hand, and gunter gave it to him without the slightest suspicion, of course, that he knew anything about it. "yes, undoubtedly it is silver, and a very curious style of article too," continued the captain in a low off-hand tone. "you've no objection to my taking it to the cabin to look at it more carefully?" of course gunter had no objection, though a sensation of uneasiness arose within him, especially when captain bream asked him to go below with him, and whispered to joe davidson in a low tone, as he passed him, to shut the cabin skylight. no sooner were they below, with the cabin-door shut, than the captain looked steadily in the man's face, and said-- "gunter, you stole this watch from a young lady in yarmouth." an electric shock could not have more effectually stunned the convicted fisherman. he gazed at the captain in speechless surprise. then his fists clenched, a rush of blood came to his face, and a fierce oath rose to his white lips as he prepared to deny the charge. "stop!" said the captain, impressively, and there was nothing of severity or indignation in his voice or look. "don't commit yourself, gunter. see, i place the watch on this table. if you bought it to give to your sweetheart, take it up. if you stole it from a pretty young lady in one of the rows of yarmouth some months ago, and would now wish me to restore it to her--for i know her and the watch well--let it lie." gunter looked at the captain, then at the watch, and hesitated. then his head drooped, and in a low voice he said-- "i am guilty, sir." without a word more, captain bream laid his hand on the poor man's shoulder and pressed it. gunter knew well what was meant. he went down on his knees. the captain kneeled beside him, and in a deep, intensely earnest voice, claimed forgiveness of the sin that had been confessed, and prayed that the sinner's soul might be there and then cleansed in the precious blood of jesus. john gunter was completely broken down; tears rolled over his cheeks, and it required all his great physical strength to enable him to keep down the sobs that well-nigh choked him. fishermen of the north sea are tough. their eyes are not easily made to swell or look red by salt water, whether it come from the ocean without or the mightier ocean within. when gunter had risen from his knees and wiped his eyes with the end of a comforter, which had probably been worked under the superintendence of ruth herself; there were no signs of emotion left--only a subdued look in his weatherworn face. "i give myself up, sir," he said, "to suffer what punishment is due." "no punishment is due, my man. jesus has borne all the punishment due to you and me. in regard to man, you have restored that which you took away, and well do i know that the young lady--like her master--forgives freely. i will return the watch to her. you can go back to your comrades--nobody shall ever hear more about this. if they chaff you, or question you, just say nothing, and smile at them." "but--but, sir," said gunter, moving uneasily. "i ain't used to smilin'. i--i've bin so used to look gruff that--" "look gruff, then, my man," interrupted the captain, himself unable to repress a smile. "if you're not gruff in your heart, it won't matter much what you look like. just look gruff, an' keep your mouth shut, and they'll soon let you alone." acting on this advice, john gunter returned to his mates looking gruffer, if possible, and more taciturn than ever, but radically changed, from that hour, in soul and spirit. chapter thirty. the climax reached at last. as the calm weather continued in the afternoon, joe davidson tried to persuade captain bream to pay the _evening star_ a visit, but the latter felt that the excitement and exertion of preaching to such earnest and thirsting men had been more severe than he had expected. he therefore excused himself, saying that he would lie down in his bunk for a short time, so as to be ready for the evening service. it was arranged that the skipper of the mission smack should conduct that service, and he was to call the captain when they were ready to begin. when the time came, however, it was found that the exhausted invalid was so sound asleep that they did not like to disturb him. but although captain bream was a heavy sleeper and addicted to sonorous snoring, there were some things in nature through which even he could not slumber; and one of these things proved to be a hymn as sung by the fishermen of the north sea! when, therefore, the lifeboat hymn burst forth in tones that no cathedral organ ever equalled, and shook the timbers of the mission-ship from stem to stern, the captain turned round, yawned, and opened his eyes wide, and when the singers came to-- "leave the poor old stranded wreck, and pull for the shore," he leaped out of his bunk with tremendous energy. pulling his garments into order, running his fingers through his hair, and trying to look as if he had not been asleep, he slipped quietly into the hold and sat down on a box behind the speaker, where he could see the earnest faces of the rugged congregation brought into strong relief by the light that streamed down the open hatchway. what the preacher said, or what his subject was, captain bream never knew, for, before he could bring his mind to bear on it, his eyes fell on an object which seemed to stop the very pulsations of his heart, while his face grew pale. fortunately he was himself in the deep shadow of the deck, and could not be easily observed. yet the object which created such a powerful sensation in the captain's breast was not in itself calculated to cause amazement or alarm, for it was nothing more than a pretty-faced, curly-haired fisher-boy, who, with lips parted and his bright eyes gazing intently, was listening to the preacher with all his powers. need we say that it was our friend billy bright, and that in his fair face captain bream thought, or rather felt, that he recognised the features of his long-lost sister? with a strong effort the captain restrained his feelings and tried to listen, but in vain. not only were his eyes riveted on the young face before him, but his whole being seemed to be absorbed by it. the necessity of keeping still, however, gave him time to make up his mind as to how he should act, so that when the service was brought to a close, he appeared on deck without a trace of his late excitement visible. "what lad is this?" he asked, going up to joe, who was standing close to billy. "this," said joe, laying his hand kindly on the boy's shoulder, "is billy bright, son of the late owner of the old _evenin' star_." "what!" exclaimed the captain, unable to repress his surprise, "son of the widow who owns the new _evening star_? then that proves that your mother _must_ be alive?" "in _course_ she is!" returned billy, with a look of astonishment. "come down to the cabin with me, billy," said the captain, with increasing excitement. "i want to have a chat with you about your mother." our little hero, although surprised, at once complied with the invitation, taking the opportunity, however, to wink at zulu in passing, and whisper his belief that the old gen'l'man was mad. setting billy on a locker in front of him, captain bream began at once. "is your mother alive, billy,--tut, of course she's alive; i mean, is she well--in good health?" billy became still more convinced that captain bream was mad, but answered that his mother was well, and that she had never been ill in her life to the best of his knowledge. while speaking, billy glanced round the cabin in some anxiety as to how he should escape if the madman should proceed to violence. he made up his mind that if the worst should come to the worst, he would dive under the table, get between the old gentleman's legs, trip him up, and bolt up the companion before he could regain his feet. relieved by the feeling that his mind was made up, he waited for more. "billy," resumed the captain, after a long gaze at the boy's features, "is your mother like you?" "i should think not," replied billy with some indignation. "she's a woman, you know, an' i'm a--a--man." "yes--of course," murmured the captain to himself, "there can be no doubt about it--none whatever--every gesture--every look!" then aloud: "what was her name, my boy?" "her name, sir? why, her name's bright, of course." "yes, yes, but i mean her maiden name." billy was puzzled. "if you mean the name my father used to call 'er," he said, "it was nell." "ah! that's it--nearly, at least. nellie she used to be known by. yes, yes, but that's not what i want to know. can you tell me what her name was before she was married?" "well now, that _is_ odd," answered billy, "i've bin pumped somethink in this way before, though nuffin' good came of it as i knows on. no, i _don't_ know what she was called afore she was married." "did you ever hear of the name of bream?" asked the captain anxiously. "oh yes, i've heerd o' that name," said the boy, promptly. "there's a fish called bream, you know." it soon became evident to poor captain bream that nothing of importance was to be learned from billy, he therefore made up his mind at once as to how he should act. feeling that, with such a possibility unsettled, he would be utterly unfit for his duties with the fleet, he resolved to go straight to yarmouth. "what is your mother's address?" he asked. billy gave it him. "now my boy, i happen to be much interested in your mother, so i'm goin' to yarmouth on purpose to see her." "it's wery good o' you, sir, an' if you takes your turn ashore afore we do, just give mother my respec's an' say i'm all alive and kickin'." "i will, my boy," said the captain, patting billy on the head and actually stooping to kiss his forehead affectionately, after which he gave him leave to return on deck. "i don' know how it is," said billy to zulu afterwards, "but i've took a likin' for that old man, an' at the same time a queer sort o' fear of 'im; i can't git it out o' my noddle that he's goin' to yarmouth to inweigle my mother to marry him!" zulu showed all his teeth and gums, shut his eyes, gave way to a burst of laughter, and said, "nonsense!" "it may be nonsense," retorted billy, "but if i thought he really meant it, i would run my head butt into his breadbasket, an' drive 'im overboard." explaining to the surprised and rather disappointed skipper of the mission vessel that an unexpected turn of affairs required his immediate presence in yarmouth, the captain asked what means there were of getting to land. "one of our fleet, the _rainbow_, starts to-morrow morning, sir," was the reply; "so you can go without loss of time. but i hope we shall see you again." "oh yes, please god, i shall come off again--you may depend on that, for i've taken a great fancy to the men of the short blue, although i've been so short a time with them--moreover, i owe service as well as gratitude to the mission for sending me here." accordingly next morning he set sail with a fair wind, and in due course found himself on shore. he went straight to the old abode of mrs dotropy, and, to his great satisfaction, found ruth there. he also found young dalton, which was not quite so much to his satisfaction, but ruth soon put his mind at rest by saying-- "oh! captain bream, i'm _so_ glad to have this unexpected visit, because, for months and months past i have wanted you to go with me to visit a particular place in yarmouth, and you have always slipped through my fingers; but i'm determined that you shan't escape again." "that's odd, my dear," returned the captain, "because my object in coming here is to take _you_ to a certain place in yarmouth, and, although i have not had the opportunity of letting you slip through my fingers, i've no doubt you'd do so if you were tempted away by a bait that begins with a d." "how dare you, sir!" said ruth, blushing, laughing, and frowning all at once--"but no. even d will fail in this instance--for my business is urgent." "well, miss ruth, my business is urgent also. the question therefore remains, which piece of business is to be gone about _first_." "how can you be so ungallant? are not a lady's wishes to be considered before those of a gentleman? come, sir, are you ready to go? _i_ am quite ready, and fortunately d, to whom you dared to refer just now, has gone to the post with a letter." although extremely anxious to have his mind set at rest, captain bream gave in with his accustomed good-nature, and went out with ruth to settle _her_ business first. rejoiced to have her little schemes at last so nearly brought to an issue, the eager girl hurried through the town till she came to one of its narrow rows. "well, my dear," said the captain, "it is at all events a piece of good luck that so far you have led _me_ in the very direction i desired to lead you." "indeed? well, that is odd. but after all," returned ruth with a sudden feeling of depression, "it _may_ turn out to be a wild-goose chase." "_what_ may turn out to be a wild-goose chase?" "this--this fancy--this hope of mine, but you shall know directly-- come." ruth was almost running by this time, and the captain, being still far from strong, found it difficult to keep up with her. "this way, down here," she cried, turning a corner. "what, _this_ way?" exclaimed the captain in amazement. "yes, why not?" said ruth, reflecting some of his surprise as she looked up in his face. "why--why, because this is the very row i wanted to bring you to!" "that _is_ strange--but--but never mind just now; you'll explain afterwards. come along." poor ruth was too much excited to attend to any other business but that on which her heart was set just then; and fear lest her latest castle should prove to have no foundations and should fall like so many others in ruins at her feet, caused her to tremble. "here is the door," she said at last, coming to a sudden halt before widow bright's dwelling, and pressing both hands on her palpitating heart to keep it still. "wonders will never cease!" exclaimed the captain. "this is the very door to which i intended to bring _you_." ruth turned her large blue eyes on her friend with a look that made them larger and, if possible, bluer than ever. she suddenly began to feel as deep an interest in the captain's business as in her own. "_this_ door?" she said, pointing to it emphatically. "yes, _that_ door. widow bright lives there, don't she?" "yes--oh! yes," said ruth, squeezing her heart tighter. "well, i've come here to search for a long-lost sister." "oh!" gasped ruth. but she got no time to gasp anything more, for the impatient captain had pushed the door open without knocking, and stood in the middle of the widow's kitchen. mrs bright was up to the elbows in soap-suds at the moment, busy with some of the absent billy's garments. beside her sat mrs joe davidson, endeavouring to remove, with butter, a quantity of tar with which the "blessed babby" had recently besmeared herself. they all looked up at the visitors, but all remained speechless, as if suddenly paralysed, for the expression on our big captain's face was wonderful, as well as indescribable. mrs bright opened her eyes to their widest, also her mouth, and dropped the billy-garments. mrs davidson's buttery hands became motionless; so did the "babby's" tarry visage. for three seconds this lasted. then the captain said, in the deepest bass notes he ever reached-- "sister nellie!" a wild scream from mrs bright was the reply, as she sprang at captain bream, seized him in her arms, and covered the back of his neck with soap-suds. the castle was destined to stand, after all! ruth's joy overflowed. she glanced hurriedly round for some object on which to expend it. there was nothing but the "blessed babby"--and that was covered with tar; but genuine feeling does not stick at trifles. ruth caught up the filthy little creature, pressed it to her bounding heart, wept and laughed, and covered it with passionate kisses to such an extent that her own fair face became thoroughly besmeared, and it cost mrs joe an additional half hour's labour to get her clean, besides an enormous expenditure of butter--though that was selling at the time at the high figure of shilling pence a pound! chapter thirty one. the last. there came a day, not very long after the events narrated in the previous chapter, when a grand wedding took place in yarmouth. but it was not meant to be a grand one, by any means. quite the contrary. the parties principally concerned were modest, retiring, and courted privacy. but the more they courted privacy, the more did that condition--like a coy maiden--fly away from them. the name of the bride was ruth, and the name of the bridegroom began,-- as captain bream was fond of saying--with a dee. neither bride nor groom had anything particular to do with the sea, yet that wedding might have easily been mistaken for a fisherman's wedding-- as well as a semi-public one, so numerous were the salts--young and old--who attended it; some with invitation, and others without. you see, the ceremony being performed in the old parish church, any one who chose had a right to be there and look on. the reason of this nautical character of the wedding was not far to seek, for had not the bridegroom--whose name began with a dee--risked his life in rescuing from the deep a bright--we might almost say the brightest--young life belonging to the fishing fleets of the north sea? and was not the lovely bride one of the best and staunchest friends of the fisherman? and was she not mixed up, somehow, with the history of that good old sea-captain--if not actually a relation of his--who preached so powerfully, and who laboured so earnestly to turn seamen from darkness to light? and had not the wedding been expressly delayed until the period of one of the smacks' return to port, so that six fishermen--namely, joe davidson, ned spivin, luke trevor, john gunter, billy bright, and zulu--might be invited guests? besides these, there were the skipper and crew of the gospel-ship which was also in port at that time; and other fishermen guests there were, known by such names as mann, white, snow, johnston, goodchild, brown, bowers, tooke, rogers, snell, moore, roberts, and many more--all good men and true--who formed part of that great population of , which is always afloat on the north sea. besides these guests, and a host of others who were attracted by the unusual interest displayed in this wedding, there were several people with whom we may claim some slight acquaintance,--such as miss jessie seaward and her sister, who wept much with joy, and laughed not a little at being so foolish as to cry, and liffie lee, who was roused with excitement to the condition of a half-tamed wildcat, but was so dressed up and brushed down and washed out that her best friend might have failed to recognise her. but if we go on, we shall never have done--for the whole of yarmouth seemed to be there--high and low, rich and poor! of course mrs dotropy was also there, grand, confused, sententious as ever, amiable, and unable to command her feelings--in a state, so to speak, of melting magnificence. and a great many "swell" people--as billy styled them--came down from london, for mrs dotropy, to their disgust, had positively refused to have the wedding in the west end mansion, for reasons best known to herself. you should have heard the cheer that followed the happy couple when they finally left the church and drove away! we do not refer to the cheering of the multitude; that, though very well in its way, was a mere mosquito-squeak to the deep-toned deafening, reverberating shout of an enthusiasm--born upon the sea, fed on the bread and water of life, strengthened alike by the breezes of success and the gales of adversity--which burst in hurricane violence from the leathern lungs and throats of the north sea fishermen! we leave it, reader, to your imagination. there was no wedding breakfast proper, for the happy pair left yarmouth immediately after the knot was tied, but there was a small select party which drove off in a series of cabs to a feast prepared in a certain cottage not far from the town. this party was composed chiefly of fishermen and their wives and children. it was headed by captain bream and his sister mrs bright. in the same carriage were mrs dotropy, the miss seawards, and mrs joe davidson and her baby. it was a big old-fashioned carriage capable of holding six inside, and billy bright "swarmed" upon the dickey. arrived at the cottage, which had a fine lawn in front and commanded a splendid view of the sea, captain bream got down, took up a position at the garden-gate, and, shaking hands with each guest as he or she entered, bade him or her welcome to "short blue cottage!" "'tis a pleasant anchorage," he said to the sisters seaward as they passed in, "very pleasant at the end of life's voyage. praise the lord who gave it me! show them the way, nellie; they'll know it better before long. you'll find gooseberry bushes in the back garden, an' the theological library in the starboard attic. their own berths are on the ground-floor." you may be sure that with such a host the guests were not long in making themselves at home. captain bream had not invited the party merely to a wedding feast. it was the season of fruits and flowers, and he had set his heart on his friends making a day of it. accordingly, he had made elaborate preparations for enjoyment. with that practical sagacity which frequently distinguishes the nautical mind, he had provided bowls and quoits for the men; battledore and shuttlecock for the younger women; football and cricket and hoops, with some incomprehensible eastern games for the children, and a large field at the side of the cottage afforded room for all without much chance of collision. the feast was, of course, a strictly temperance one, and we need scarcely say it was all the more enjoyable on that account. "you see, my friends," said the host, referring to this in one of his brief speeches, "as long as it may please god to leave me at anchor in this snug port, i'll never let a drop o' strong drink enter my doors, except in the form of physic, and even then i'll have the bottle labelled `poison--to be taken under doctor's prescription.' so, my lads--my friends, i mean, beggin' the ladies' pardon--you'll have to drink this toast, and all the other toasts, in lemonade, ginger beer, soda water, seltzer, zoedone, tea, coffee, or cold water, all of which wholesome beverages have been supplied in overflowing abundance to this fallen world, and are to be found represented on this table." "hear! hear!" from john gunter, and it was wonderful to hear the improvement in the tone of gunter's voice since he had left off strong drink. his old foe, but now fast friend, luke trevor, who sat beside him, echoed the "hear! hear!" with such enthusiasm that all the others burst into a laugh, and ended in a hearty cheer. "now, fill up--fill up, lads," continued the captain. "let it be a bumper, whatever tipple you may choose. if our drink is better than it used to be, our cups ought not to be less full--and my toast is worthy of all honour. i drink to the success and prosperity, temporal and spiritual, of the north sea trawlers,"--there was a symptom of a gathering cheer at this point, but the captain checked it with a raised finger, "especially to that particular fleet which goes by the name of the `_short blue_!'" the pent-up storm burst forth now with unrestrained vehemence, insomuch that three little ragged boys who had climbed on the low garden wall to watch proceedings, fell off backwards as if shot by the mere sound! observing this, and being near them, mrs bright rose, quietly leaned over the wall, and emptied a basket of strawberries on their heads by way of consolation. we cannot afford space for the captain's speech in full. suffice it to say that he renewed his former promise to re-visit the fleet and spend some time among the fishermen as often as he could manage to do so, and wound up by coupling the name of joe davidson, skipper of the _evening star_, with the toast. whereupon, up started joe with flashing eyes; (intense enthusiasm overcoming sailor-like modesty;) and delivered a speech in which words seemed to tumble out of him anyhow and everyhow--longwise, shortwise, askew, and upside-down--without much reference to grammar, but with a powerful tendency in the direction of common sense. we have not space for this speech either, but we give the concluding words: "i tell 'ee wot it is, boys. cap'n bream has drunk prosperity to the _short blue_, an' so have we, for we love it, but there's another _short blue_--" a perfect storm of cheering broke forth at this point and drowned joe altogether. it would probably have blown over the three ragged boys a second time, but they were getting used to such fire, and, besides, were engaged with strawberries. "there's another _short blue_," resumed joe, when the squall was over, "which my missis an' me was talkin' about this very day, when our blessed babby fell slap out o' bed an' set up such a howl--" joe could get no further, because of the terrific peals of laughter which his words, coupled with the pathetic sincerity of his expression, drew forth. again and again he tried to speak, but his innocent look and his mighty shoulders, and tender voice, with the thoughts of that "blessed babby," were too much for his mates, so that he was obliged to finish off by shouting in a voice of thunder--"let's drink success to short blue cottage!" and, with a toss of his hand in the true north sea-salute style, sat down in a tempest of applause. "yes," as an irish fisherman remarked, "it was a great day intoirely," that day at _short blue cottage_, and as no description can do it full justice, we will turn to other matters--remarking, however, before quitting the subject, that we do not tell the reader the exact spot where the cottage is situated, as publicity on this point might subject our modest captain to much inconvenience! "billy," said captain bream one day, a few months after the wedding-day just described, "come with me to the theological library; i want to have a chat with 'ee, lad." billy followed his new-found uncle, and sat down opposite to him. "now, lad, the time has come when you and i must have it out. you're fond o' hard work, i'm told." "well, uncle, i won't say as i'm exactly fond of it, but i don't object to it." "so far good," returned the captain. "well, you know i'm your uncle, an' i've got a goodish lot of tin, an' i'm goin' to leave the most of it to your mother--for she's the only relation i have on earth,--but you needn't expect that i'm goin' to leave it to _you_ after her." "i never said as i _did_ expect that, uncle," said billy with such a straightforward look of simplicity that the captain burst into one of his thundering laughs. "good, my boy," he said, in a more confidential tone. "well, then, this is how the matter stands. i've long held the opinion that those who _can_ work _should_ work, and that all or nearly all the cash that people have to spare should be given or left to those who _can't_ work-- such as poor invalids--specially women--and those who have come to grief one way or another, and lost the use o' their limbs." "right you are, uncle," said billy with strong emphasis. "glad you agree so heartily, boy. well, that bein' so, i mean to leave the interest of all that i have to your dear mother as long as she lives--except a legacy to the miss seawards and some other poor folk that i know of. meanwhile, they have agreed, as long as i live, to stay wi' me here in this cottage, as my librarians and assistants in the matter of theology. i had a tough job to get 'em to agree, but i managed it at last. so you see, billy, i don't mean to leave you a sixpence." "well, uncle," said billy with a quiet look, "i don't care a brass farden!" again the captain laughed. "but," he continued, "i'm very fond o' you, billy, an' there's no reason why i shouldn't help you, to help yourself. so, if you're willin', i'll send you to the best of schools, and after that to college, an' give you the best of education,--in short, make a man of you, an' put you in the way of makin' your fortune." captain bream looked steadily into the fair boy's handsome face as he made this glowing statement; but, somewhat to his disappointment, he got no responsive glance from billy. on the contrary, the boy became graver and graver, and at last his mind seemed lost in meditation while his gaze was fixed on the floor. "what think ye, lad?" demanded the captain. billy seemed to awake as from a dream, and then, looking and speaking more like a man than he had ever done before, he said-- "it is kind of you, uncle--very kind--but my dear dad once said _he_ would make a man of me, and he _did_! i'll do my best to larn as much as ever i can o' this world's larnin', but i'll never leave the sea." "now, my boy," said the captain, "think well before you decide. you could do far more good if you were a highly educated man, you know." "right you _may_ be, uncle, an' i don't despise edication, by no means, but some folk are born to it, and others ain't. besides, good of the best kind can be done without _much_ edication, when the heart's right an' the will strong, as i've seed before now on the north sea." "i'm sorry you look at it this way, billy, for i don't see that i can do much for you if you determine to remain a fisherman." "oh! yes, you can, uncle," cried billy, rising up in his eagerness and shaking back his curly hair. "you can do this. you can take the money you intended to waste on my schoolin', an' send out books an' tracts and medicines, an' all sorts o' things to the fishin' fleets. an' if you're awful rich--as you seem to be by the way you talk--you can give some thousands o' pounds an' fit out two or three more smacks as you did the noo _evenin' star_, an' hand 'em over to the mission to become gospel-ships to the fleets that have got none yet. that's the way to do good wi' your coppers. as for me--my daddy was a fisherman and my mother was a fisherman's wife, and i'm a fisherman to the back-bone. what my father was before me, i mean to be after him, so, god permittin', i'll sail wi' joe davidson till i'm old enough to take command o' the _evenin' star_; and then i'll stick through thick an' thin to the north sea, and live and die a fisherman of the _short blue_!" billy bright's determination was unalterable, so captain bream fell in with it, and heartily set about that part of the work which his nephew had recommended to him. whether he and billy will remain of the same mind to the end, the future alone can show--we cannot tell; but this we--you and i, reader--can do if we will--we can sympathise with our enthusiastic young trawler, and do what in us lies to soften the hard lot of the fisherman, by aiding those whose life-work it is to fish for souls of men, and to toil summer and winter, in the midst of life and death, tempest and cold, to rescue the perishing on the north sea. transcriber's note: minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed. words printed in italics are noted with underscores: _italics_. the cover of this ebook was created by the transcriber and is hereby placed in the public domain. smoking and drinking. by james parton. boston: ticknor and fields. . entered according to act of congress, in the year , by ticknor and fields, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. university press: welch, bigelow, & co., cambridge. preface. the next very important thing that man has to attend to is his health. in some other respects, progress has been made during the last hundred years, and several considerable obstacles to the acquisition of a stable happiness have been removed or diminished. in the best parts of the best countries, so much knowledge is now freely offered to all the young as suffices to place within their reach all existing knowledge. we may say with confidence that the time is not distant when, in the united states, no child will live farther than four miles from a school-house, kept open four months in the year, and when there will be the beginning of a self-sustaining public library in every town and village of a thousand inhabitants. this great business of making knowledge universally accessible is well in hand; it has gone so far that it must go on till the work is complete. in this country, too, if nowhere else, there is so near an approach to perfect freedom of thinking, that scarcely any one, whose conduct is good, suffers inconvenience from professing any extreme or eccentricity of mere opinion. i constantly meet, in new england villages, men who differ as widely as possible from their neighbors on the most dividing of all subjects; but if they are good citizens and good neighbors, i have never observed that they were the less esteemed on that account. their peculiarities of opinion become as familiar as the color of their hair, or the shape of their every-day hat, and as inoffensive. this is a grand triumph of good sense and good nature; or, as matthew arnold would say, of the metropolitan over the provincial spirit. it is also recent. it was not the case fifty years ago. it was not the case twenty years ago. the steam-engine, and the wondrous machinery which the steam-engine moves, have so cheapened manufactured articles, that a mechanic, in a village, may have so sufficient a share of the comforts, conveniences, and decencies of life, that it is sometimes hard to say what real advantage his rich neighbor has over him. the rich man used to have one truly enviable advantage over others: his family was safer, in case of his sudden death. but a mechanic, who has his home paid for, his life insured, and a year's subsistence accumulated, is as secure in this respect as, perhaps, the nature of human affairs admits. now, an american workingman, anywhere out of a few largest cities, can easily have all these safeguards around his family by the time he is forty; and few persons can be rich before they are forty. we may say, perhaps, speaking generally, that, in the united states, there are no formidable obstacles to the attainment of substantial welfare, except such as exist in the nature of things and in ourselves. but in the midst of so many triumphs of man over material and immaterial things, man himself seems to dwindle and grow pale. not here only, but in all the countries that have lately become rich enough to buy great quantities of the popular means of self-destruction, and in which women cease to labor as soon as their husbands and parents acquire a little property, and in which children sit in school and out of school from five to nine hours a day, and in which immense numbers of people breathe impure air twenty-two hours out of every twenty-four. in the regions of the united states otherwise most highly favored, nearly every woman, under forty, is sick or sickly; and hardly any young man has attained a proper growth, and measures the proper size around the chest. as to the young girls and school-children, if, in a school or party of two hundred, you can pick out thirty well-developed, well-proportioned, robust, ruddy children, you will do better than i have sometimes been able to do. this begins to alarm and puzzle all but the least reflective persons. people begin to wonder why every creature, whether of native or foreign origin, should flourish in america, except man. not that there is anything mysterious with regard to the immediate causes of this obvious decline in the health and robustness of the race. miss nightingale tells us that more than half of all the sickness in the world comes of breathing bad air. she speaks feelingly of the time, not long passed, when the winds of heaven played freely through every house, from windsor castle to the laborer's cottage, and when every lady put forth muscular effort in the polishing of surfaces. that was the time when bread was an article of diet, and the devil had not invented hot biscuit. the agreeable means of self-destruction, now so cheap and universal, were unknown, or very costly; and the great mass of the people subsisted, necessarily, upon the plain fare which affords abundant nourishment, without overtasking the digestive powers. terrible epidemics, against which the medical science of the time vainly contended, swept off weakly persons, shortened the average duration of life, and raised the standard of health. but now we can all pervert and poison ourselves if we will, and yet not incur much danger of prompt extinction. indeed, it is hard for the most careful and resolute person to avoid being a party to the universal violation of natural law. children, of course, are quite helpless. how could i help, at eight years of age, being confined six hours a day in a school, where the word "ventilation" was only known as an object of spelling? how could i help, on sunday, being entombed in a sunday-school room, eight or nine feet high, crowded with children, all breathing their utmost? i hated it. i loathed it. i protested against it. i played truant from it. but i was thirteen years old before i could escape that detested basement, where i was poisoned with pernicious air, and where well-intentioned ignorance made virtue disgusting, contemptible, and ridiculous, by turns. as all our virtues support one another, so all the vices of modern life are allies. smoking and drinking are effects, as well as causes. we waste our vital force; we make larger demands upon ourselves than the nature of the human constitution warrants, and then we crave the momentary, delusive, pernicious aid which tobacco and alcohol afford. i suppose the use of these things will increase or decrease, as man degenerates or improves. this subject, i repeat, is the next great matter upon which we have to throw ourselves. the republication of these essays is only to be justified on the ground that every little helps. i think, too, that the next new sensation enjoyed by the self-indulgent, self-destroying inhabitants of the wealthy nations will be the practice of virtue. i mean, of course, the real thing, now nearly forgotten, the beginning of which is self-control, and which leads people to be temperate and pure, and enables them to go contrary to custom and fashion, without being eccentric or violent about it. that kind of virtue, i mean, which enables us to accept hard duties, and perform them with cheerful steadfastness; which enables us to make the most of our own lives, and to rear glorious offspring, superior to ourselves. it is surprising what a new interest is given to life by denying ourselves one vicious indulgence. what luxury so luxurious as just self-denial! who has ever seen any happy people that were not voluntarily carrying a heavy burden? human nature is so formed to endure and to deny itself, that those mistaken souls who forsake the world, and create for themselves artificial woes, and impose upon themselves unnecessary tasks, and deny themselves rational and beneficial pleasures, are a thousand times happier than those self-indulgent and aimless men, whom we see every afternoon, gazing listlessly out of club-windows, wondering why it is so long to six o'clock. i heard a young man say, the other day, that smoking had been the bane of his life, but that after abstaining for seven months, during which he made no progress in overcoming the desire to smoke, he had come to the conclusion that he was past cure, and must needs go on, as long as he lived. he _was_ going on, when he made the remark, smoking a pipe half as big and twice as yellow as himself. it was a great pity. that daily longing to smoke, with the daily triumphant struggle against it, was enough of itself to make his life both respectable and interesting. during those seven months, he was a man. he could claim fellowship with all the noble millions of our race, who have waged a secret warfare with desire, all the days of their lives. if he had kept on, if he had not lapsed under the domination of his tyrant, he would probably have ascertained what there was in his way of life which kept alive in him the craving for stimulation. in all probability, he would have conquered the desire at last. and such a victory is usually followed by others similar. the cigar and the bottle are often replaced by something not sensual. the brain, freed from the dulling, lowering influence, regains a portion of its natural vivacity; and that vivacity frequently finds worthy objects upon which to expend itself. new york, september, . smoking. does it pay to smoke? by an old smoker. i have sometimes thought that there are people whom it does pay to smoke: those hod-carriers on the other side of the street, for example. it cannot be a very pleasant thing to be a hod-carrier at this season of the year, when a man who means to be at work at seven a.m. must wake an hour before the first streak of dawn. there is an aged sire over there, who lives in vandewater street, which is two miles and a quarter from the building he is now assisting to erect. he must be astir by half past five, in order to begin his breakfast at six; and at half past six he is in the car, with his dinner-kettle in his hand, on his way up town. about the time when the more active and industrious readers of this magazine begin to think it is nearly time to get up, this father of a family makes his first ascent of the ladder with a load of mortar on his shoulder. at twelve, the first stroke of the bell of st. george's church (it is new york where these interesting events occur) sets him at liberty, and he goes in quest of his kettle. on very cold days, the dinner-kettle is wrapped in its proprietor's overcoat to keep the cold dinner from freezing stiff. but we will imagine a milder day, when the group of hod-carriers take their kettles to some sunny, sheltered spot about the building, where they sit upon soft, commodious boards, and enjoy their repast of cold meat and bread. the homely meal being concluded, our venerable friend takes out his short black pipe for his noontide smoke. how he enjoys it! how it seems to rest him! it is a kind of conscious sleep, ending, perhaps, in a brief unconscious sleep, from which he wakes refreshed for another five hours of the heavy hod. who could wish to deny a poor man a luxury so cheap, and so dear? it does not cost him more than ten cents a week; but so long as he has his pipe, he has a sort of refuge to which he can fly from trouble. especially consoling to him is it in the evening, when he is in his own crowded and most uninviting room. the smoke that is supposed to "poison the air" of some apartments seems to correct the foulness of this; and the smoker appears to be a benefactor to all its inmates, as well as to those who pass its door. besides, this single luxury of smoke, at a cost of one cent and three sevenths per diem, is the full equivalent of all the luxuries which wealth can buy! none but a smoker, or one who has been a smoker, can realize this truth; but it is a truth. that short black pipe does actually place the hod-carrier, so far as mere luxury goes, on a par with commodore vanderbilt or the prince of wales. tokay, champagne, turtle, game, and all the other luxurious commodities are not, taken altogether, so much to those who can daily enjoy them, as poor paddy's pipe is to him. indeed, the few rich people with whose habits i chance to be acquainted seldom touch such things, and never touch them except to please others. they all appear to go upon the system of the late lord palmerston, who used to say to his new butler, "provide for my guests whatever the season affords; but for _me_ there must be always a leg of mutton and an apple-pie." let the prince of wales (or any other smoker) be taken to a banqueting-hall, the tables of which should be spread with all the dainties which persons of wealth are erroneously supposed to be continually consuming, but over the door let there be written the terrible words, "no smoking." then show him an adjoining room, with a table exhibiting lord palmerston's leg of mutton and apple-pie, plus a bundle of cigars. if any one doubts which of these two feasts the prince of wales would choose, we tell that doubting individual he has never been a smoker. now the short pipe of the hod-carrier is just as good to him as the regalias could be that cost two hundred dollars a thousand in havana, and sixty cents each in new york. if you were to give him one of those regalias, he would prefer to cut it up and smoke it in his pipe, and then he would not find it as good as the tobacco he usually smokes. the poor laborer's pipe, therefore, is a potent equalizer. to the enjoyment of pleasures purely luxurious there is a limit which is soon reached; and i maintain that a poor man gets as much of this _kind_ of pleasure out of his pipe as a prince or a railroad king can extract from all the costly wines and viands of the table. if there is a man in the world who ought to smoke, that ancient hod-carrier is the man. a stronger case for smoking cannot be selected from ordinary life. does it pay him? after an attentive and sympathetic consideration of his case, i am compelled reluctantly to conclude that it does not. the very fact that it tends to make him contented with his lot is a point against his pipe. it is a shame to him to be contented. to a young man the carrying of the hod is no dishonor, for it is fit that young men should bear burdens and perform lowly tasks. but the hod is not for gray hairs. whenever, in this free and spacious america, we see a man past fifty carrying heavy loads upon his shoulders, or performing any hired labor that requires little skill or thought, we know that there must have been some great defect or waste in that man's life. the first dollar that george law ever earned, after leaving his father's house, was earned by carrying the hod at albany. but with that dollar he bought an arithmetic and spelling-book; which, when winter closed in and put a stop to hod-carrying, he mastered, and thus began to prepare to build the "high bridge" over the harlem river, where he made a million dollars by using steam hod-carriers instead of irish ones. the pipe is one of the points of difference between the hod-carrier content with his lot and the hod-carrier who means to get into bricklaying next spring. yonder is one of the latter class reading his "sun" after dinner, instead of steeping his senses in forgetfulness over a pipe. he, perhaps, will be taking a contract to build a bridge over the east river, about the time when his elderly comrade is buried in a corporation coffin. of course, there are vigorous and triumphant men who smoke, and there are dull, contented men who do not. it is only of the general tendency of the poor man's pipe that i wish to speak. i mean to say that it tends to make him satisfied with a lot which it is his chief and immediate duty to alleviate. he ought to hate and loathe his tenement-house home; and when he goes to that home in the evening, instead of sitting down in stolid selfishness to smoke, he should be active in giving his wife (who usually has the worst of it) the assistance she needs and deserves. better the merry song, the cheerful talk, the pleasant stroll, than this dulling of the senses and the brain in smoke. nobler the conscious misery of such a home, than the artificial lethargy of the pipe. it is an unhandsome thing in this husband to steal out of his vile surroundings into cloudland, and leave his wife and children alone to their noisome desolation. if it does not pay this hod-carrier to smoke, it pays no man. if this man cannot smoke without injustice to others, no man can. ladies, the natural enemies of tobacco, relented so far during the war as to send tobacco and pipes to the soldiers, and worked with their own fair hands many a pouch. indeed, the pouch industry continues, though we will do the ladies the justice to say that, as their pouches usually have every excellent quality except fitness for the purpose intended, few of them ever hold tobacco. does the lady who presented general sheridan the other evening, in new york, with those superb and highly decorated tobacco-pouches suppose the gallant general has had, or will ever have, the heart to profane such beautiful objects with the noxious weed? it is evident from these gracious concessions on the part of the ladies, that they suppose the soldier is a man whose circumstances call imperatively for the solace of smoke; and really, when the wearied men after a long day's march gathered round the camp-fire for the evening pipe, the most infuriate hater of the weed must have sometimes paused and questioned the science which forbids the indulgence. but, reader, did you ever travel in one of the forward cars of a train returning from the seat of war, when the soldiers were coming home to re-enlist? we need not attempt to describe the indescribable scene. most readers can imagine it. we allude to it merely as a set-off to the pleasant and picturesque spectacle of the tired soldiers smoking round the camp-fire. in truth, the soldier is the last man in the world who should smoke; for the simple reason, that while he, more than any other man, has need of all his strength, smoking robs him of part of it. it is not science alone which establishes this truth. the winning boat of harvard university, and the losing boat of yale, were not rowed by smokers. one of the first things demanded of a young man who is going into training for a boat-race is, _stop smoking!_ and he himself, long before his body has reached its highest point of purity and development, will become conscious of the lowering and disturbing effect of smoking one inch of a mild cigar. no smoker who has ever trained severely for a race, or a game, or a fight, needs to be told that smoking reduces the tone of the system and diminishes all the forces of the body. he _knows_ it. he has been as conscious of it as a boy is conscious of the effects of his first cigar. let the harvard crew smoke during the last two months of their training, and let the yale men abstain, and there is one individual prepared to risk a small sum upon yale's winning back her laurels. a soldier should be in training always. compelled to spend nine tenths of his time in laboriously doing nothing, he is called upon occasionally, for a few hours or days or weeks, to put forth exertions which task human endurance to the uttermost. the soldier, too, of all men, should have quiet nerves; for the phantoms of war scare more men than its real dangers, and men's bodies can shake when their souls are firm. that two and two make four is not a truth more unquestionably certain than that smoking does diminish a soldier's power of endurance, and does make him more susceptible to imaginary dangers. if a regiment were to be raised for the hardest service of which men can ever be capable, and that service were to be performed for a series of campaigns, it would be necessary to exclude from the commissariat, not tobacco only, but coffee and tea. each man, in short, would have to be kept in what prize-fighters call "condition"; by which term they simply mean the natural state of the body, uncontaminated by poison, and unimpaired by indolence or excess. every man is in duty bound to be "in condition" at all times; but the soldier,--it is part of his profession to be "in condition." when remote posterity comes to read of the millions and millions of dollars expended during the late war in curing soldiers untouched by bayonet or bullet, the enthusiasm of readers will not be excited by the generosity displayed in bestowing those millions. people will lay down the book and exclaim: "how ignorant were our poor ancestors of the laws of life! a soldier in hospital without a wound! how extremely absurd!" to this weighty and decisive objection minor ones may be added. the bother and vexation arising from the pipe were very great during the campaigns of the late war. half the time the smokers, being deprived of their accustomed stimulant, were in that state of uneasy longing which smokers and other stimulators know. men were shot during the war merely because they _would_ strike a light and smoke. the desire sometimes overcame all considerations of prudence and soldierly duty. a man out on picket, of a chilly night, knowing perfectly well that lighting his pipe would have the twofold effect of revealing his presence and inviting a bullet, was often unable to resist the temptation. many men, too, risked capture in seeking what smokers call "a little fire." a fine, stalwart officer of a minnesota regiment, whose natural forces, if he had given nature a fair chance, would have been abundantly sufficient for him without the aid of any stimulant, has told me there were nights when he would have gladly given a month's pay for a light. readers probably remember the incident related in the newspapers of one of our smoking generals, who, after being defeated by the enemy, heard of the arrival of gunboats which assured his safety, and promised to restore his fortunes. the _first_ thing he did was to send an aid on board a gunboat to ask if they had any cigars. he was right in so doing. it was a piece of strategy necessitated by the circumstances. let any man who has been in the habit of smoking ten to twenty cigars a day be suddenly deprived of them at a time when there is a great strain upon body and mind, and he will find himself reduced to a state bordering upon imbecility. knowing what i know of the smoking habits of some officers of high rank, i should tremble for the success of any difficult operation, to be conducted by them in presence of an enemy, if their cigars had given out the evening before; nor could a spy do his employers a better service than to creep into the tents of some generals the night before an engagement, and throw all their cigars and tobacco into a pail of water. of all men, therefore, the soldier is the very last man who could find his account in a practice which lowers the tone of his health, reduces his power of endurance, litters his knapsack, pesters him with a system of flints and tinder, and endangers his efficiency in critical moments. if all the world smoked, still the soldier should abstain. sailors and other prisoners experience so many dull hours, and possess so many unused faculties, that some cordial haters of tobacco have thought that such persons might be justified in a habit which only lessens what they have in superfluity. in other words, sailors, being in a situation extremely unfavorable to spiritual life, ought not merely to yield to the lowering influence of the forecastle, but add to it one more benumbing circumstance. on the contrary, they ought to strive mightily against the paralyzing effects of monotony,--not give up to them, still less aggravate them. there is no reason, in the nature of things, why a sailor, after a three years' voyage, should not step on shore a man more alert in body and mind than when he sailed, and all alive to communicate the new knowledge he has acquired and the wonders he has seen. why should he go round this beautiful world drugged? we must, therefore, add the sailor to the hod-carrier and the soldier, and respectfully take away his pipe. i select these classes, because they are supposed most to need artificial solace, and to be most capable of enduring the wear and tear of a vicious habit. each of these classes also can smoke without much offending others, and each is provided with an "expectoratoon" which disgusts no one. the hod-carrier and the soldier have the earth and the sailor the ocean. but, for all that, the pipe is an injury to them. every man of them would be better without it. but if we must deny _them_ the false solace of their pipe, what can be said of the all-but-universal smoking of persons supposed to be more refined than they, and whose occupations furnish them no pretence of an excuse? we now see painters in their studios smoking while they paint, and sculptors pegging away at the marble with a pipe in their mouths. clergymen hurry out of church to find momentary relief for their tired throats in an ecstatic smoke, and carry into the apartment of fair invalids the odor of ex-cigars. how it may be in other cities i know not, but in new york a parishioner who wishes to confer upon his clergyman a _real_ pleasure can hardly do a safer thing than send him a thousand cigars of a good clerical brand. it is particularly agreeable to a clergyman to receive a present which supplies him with a luxury he loves, but in which he knows in his inmost soul he ought not to indulge. no matter for all his fine arguments, there is not one clergyman in ten that succeeds in this short life in reducing his conscience to such a degree of obtuseness that he can buy a box of cigars (at present prices) without a qualm of self-reproach. editors, writers for the press, reporters, and others who haunt the places where newspapers are made, are smokers, except a few controlling men, and a few more who are on the way to become such. most of the authors whose names are familiar to the public smoke steadily; even the poets most beloved do so. philosophers have taken to the pipe of late years. mr. dickens, they say, toys with a cigar occasionally, but can hardly be reckoned among the smokers, and never touches a cigar when he has a serious task on hand. mr. prescott smoked, and o, how he loved his cigar! it was he who, when his physician had limited him to one cigar a day, ran all over paris in quest of the largest cigars that europe could furnish. in my smoking days i should have done the same. thackeray smoked; he was very particular in his smoking; the scent of a bad cigar was an abomination to him. that byron smoked, and loved "the naked beauties" of tobacco, he has told us in the most alluring verses the weed has ever inspired. milton, locke, raleigh, ben jonson, izaak walton, addison, steele, bolingbroke, burns, campbell, scott, talfourd, christopher north, lamb, were all smokers at some part of their lives. among our presidents, john adams, john quincy adams, general jackson, and probably many others, were smokers. daniel webster once smoked. henry clay, down to a late period of his life, chewed, smoked, and took snuff, but never approved of either practice, and stopped two of them. general grant smokes, but regrets that he does, and has reduced his daily allowance of cigars. edwin booth smokes, as do most of the gentlemen of his arduous profession. probably a majority of the physicians and surgeons in the united states, under forty years of age, are smokers; and who ever knew a medical student that did not smoke furiously? this, perhaps, is not to be wondered at, since doctors live upon the bodily sins of mankind. the question is, does it pay these gentlemen to smoke? _they_ know it does not. it would be gross arrogance in any individual to lift up his voice in rebuke of so many illustrious persons, but for the fact that there is scarcely one of them who does not feel that the practice is wrong, or, at least, absurd. almost all confirmed smokers will go so far as to admit that they wish they had never acquired the habit. few of them desire their boys to acquire it. none recommend it to other men. almost all smokers, who are not turks, chinamen, or indians, appreciate at once the wisdom of sir isaac newton's reply to one who asked him why he never smoked a pipe. "because," said he "i am unwilling to make to myself any necessities." nor can any intelligent smoker doubt that the fumes of tobacco are hostile to the vital principle. we smokers and ex-smokers all remember how our first cigar sickened us; we have all experienced various ill effects from what smokers call "smoking too much"; and very many smokers have, once or twice in their lives, risen in revolt against their tyrant, given away their pipes, and lived free men long enough to become conscious that their whole being had been torpid, and was alive again. no, no! let who will deny that smoking is unfriendly to life, and friendly to all that wars upon life, smokers will not question it, unless they are very ignorant indeed, or very young. it will be of no avail to talk to them of the man who lived to be a hundred years old and had smoked to excess for half a century. smokers have that within which keeps them well in mind that smoking is pernicious. if there are any smokers who doubt it, it is the few whom smoke is rapidly killing; such, for example, as the interesting professional men who smoke an excellent quality of cigars and "break down" before they are thirty-five. it is not honest, legitimate hard work that breaks so many people down in the prime of life. it is bad habits. smoking is a barbarism. this is the main argument against what is termed moderate smoking. there is something in the practice that allies a man with barbarians, and constantly tends to make him think and talk like a barbarian. being at new haven last september, a day or two before the opening of the term at yale college, i sat in one of the public rooms of the hotel late one evening, hoping some students would come in, that i might see what sort of people college students are in these times. yale college hath a pleasant seat. who can stroll about upon that beautiful college green, under those majestic elms, without envying the youth who are able to spend four long years of this troublesome life in the tranquil acquisition of knowledge amid scenes so refined and engaging? the visitor is bewitched with a wild desire to give the college two or three million dollars immediately, to enable it to become, in all respects, what it desires, aims, and intends to become. visions of the noble athenian youth thronging about the sages of eld, and learning wisdom from their lips, flit through his mind, as he wanders among the buildings of the college, and dodges the colored men who are beating carpets and carrying furniture. in this exalted frame of mind, suppose the stranger seated in the room of the hotel just mentioned. in the middle of the small apartment sat one fat, good-humored, uneducated man of fifty, smoking a cigar,--about such a man as we expect to find in the "office" of a large livery stable. at half past ten a young man strolled in, smoking, who addressed the elder by a military title, and began a slangy conversation with him upon the great new haven subject,--boat-racing. about eleven, three or four other young men came in, to whom cigars were furnished by the military chieftain. all together they blew a very respectable cloud, and the conversation, being so strongly reinforced, became more animated. boating was still the principal theme. the singular merits of pittsburg oars were discussed. a warm dispute arose as to who was the builder of a certain boat that had won a race three years ago. much admiration was expressed for the muscle, the nerve, and, above all, for the style and method, of the crew of the harvard boat, which had beaten the yale boat a few weeks before. nevertheless, it did not occur to me that these smoking and damning gentlemen could be members of the college. i supposed they were young loafers of the town, who took an interest in the pleasures of the students, and were exchanging opinions thereon with their natural chief, the lord of the stable. at length one said to another, "will jones be here this week?" the reply was: "no, i wrote to the fellow; but, damn him, he says he can't get here till next thursday." "why, what's the matter with the cuss?" "o, he's had the fever and ague, and he says there's no pull in him." this led me to suspect that these young fellows were the envied youths of whom i had been dreaming under the elms,--a suspicion which the subsequent conversation soon confirmed. there was nothing wrong or harmful in the subject of their talk. the remarkable circumstance was, that all the difference which naturally exists, and naturally appears, between an educated and an uneducated person was obliterated; and it seemed, too, that the smoke was the "common element" in which the two were blended. it was the cigar that kept the students there talking boat till midnight with an elderly ignoramus, and it was the _cigar_ that was always drawing them down to his level. if he had not handed round his cigar-case, they would have exhausted all the natural interest of the subject in a few minutes, and gone home to bed. all of them, too, as it happened, confessed that smoking lessens the power of a man to row a boat, and lamented that a certain student would be lost to the crack crew from his unwillingness to give up his pipe. smoking lures and detains men from the society of ladies. this herding of men into clubs, these dinners to which men only are invited, the late sitting at the table after the ladies have withdrawn, the gathering of male guests into some smoking-room, apart from the ladies of the party,--is not the cigar chiefly responsible for these atrocities? men are not society; women are not society: society is the mingling of the two sexes in such a way that each restrains and inspires the other. that community is already far gone in degeneracy in which men prefer to band together by themselves, in which men do not crave the society of ladies, and value it as the chief charm of existence. "what is the real attraction of these gorgeous establishments?" i asked, the other evening, of an acquaintance who was about to enter one of the new club-houses on fifth avenue. his reply was: "no women can enter them! once within these sacred walls, we are safe from everything that wears a petticoat!" are we getting to be turks? the turks shut women in; we shut them out. the turks build harems for their women; but we find it necessary to abandon to women our abodes, and construct harems for ourselves. humiliating as the truth is, it must be confessed, tobacco is woman's rival, her successful rival. it is the cigar and the pipe (it used to be wine and punch) that enable men to endure one another during the whole of a long evening. remove from every club-house all the means of intoxication,--i.e. all the wine and tobacco,--and seven out of every ten of them would cease to exist in one year. men would come together for a few evenings, as usual, talk over the evening papers, yawn and go away, perhaps go home,--a place which our confirmed clubbists only know as a convenience for sleeping and breakfasting. one of the worst effects of smoking is that it deadens our susceptibility to tedium, and enables us to keep on enduring what we ought to war against and overcome. it is drunken people who "won't go home till morning." tyrants and oppressors are wrong in drawing so much revenue from tobacco; they ought rather to give it away, for it tends to enable people to sit down content under every kind of oppression. men say, in reply to those who object to their clubs, their men's dinner-parties, and their smoking-rooms: "women overwhelm society with superfluous dry goods. the moment ladies are invited, the whole affair becomes a mere question of costume. a party at which ladies assist is little more than an exhibition of wearing apparel. they dress, too, not for the purpose of giving pleasure to men, but for the purpose of inflicting pain on one another. besides, a lady who is carrying a considerable estate upon her person must devote a great part of her attention to the management of that estate. she may be talking to mr. smith about shakespeare and the musical-glasses, but the thing her mind is really intent upon is crushing mrs. smith with her new lace. even dancing is nothing but an exceedingly laborious and anxious wielding of yards of silk trailing out behind!" etc. smoky diners-out will recognize this line of remark. when ladies have left the table, and are amusing themselves in the drawing-room in ways which may sometimes be trivial, but are never sensual, men frequently fall into discourse, over their cigars, upon the foibles of the sex, and often succeed in delivering themselves of one or more of the observations just quoted. as these noble critics sit boozing and smoking, they can sometimes hear the brilliant run upon the piano, or the notes of a finely trained voice, or the joyous laughter of a group of girls,--all inviting them to a higher and purer enjoyment than steeping their senses in barbarous smoke. but they stick to their cigars, and assume a lofty moral superiority over the lovely beings, the evidence of whose better civilization is sounding in their ears. now, one of the subtle, mysterious effects of tobacco upon "the male of our species" is to disenchant him with regard to the female. it makes us read the poem entitled woman as though it were only a piece of prose. it takes off the edge of virility. if it does not make a man less masculine, it keeps his masculinity in a state of partial torpor, which causes him to look upon women, not indeed without a certain curiosity, but without enthusiasm, without romantic elevation of mind, without any feeling of awe and veneration for the august mothers of our race. it tends to make us regard women from what we may style the black crook point of view. the young man who boasted that he had seen the black crook forty-seven times in three months must have been an irreclaimable smoker. nothing but the dulled, sensualized masculinity caused by this peculiar poison could have blinded men to the ghastly and haggard ugliness of that exhibition. the pinched and painted vacancy of those poor girls' faces; the bony horrors of some of their necks, and the flabby redundancy of others; the cheap and tawdry splendors; the stale, rejected tricks of london pantomimes; three or four tons of unhappy girls suspended in the air in various agonizing attitudes,--to think that such a show could have run for seventeen months! even if science did not justify the conjecture, i should be disposed, for the honor of human nature, to lay the blame of all this upon tobacco. to a man who is uncorrupt and properly constituted, woman remains always something of a mystery and a romance. he never interprets her quite literally. she, on her part, is always striving to remain a poem, and is never weary of bringing out new editions of herself in novel bindings. not till she has been utterly conquered and crushed by hopeless misery or a false religion does she give up the dream of still being a pleasant enchantment. to this end, without precisely knowing why, she turns the old dress, retrims it, or arrays herself in the freshness of a new one, ever striving to present herself in recreated loveliness. uncontaminated man sympathizes with this intention, and easily lends himself to the renewed charm. have you not felt something of this, old smokers, when, after indulging in the stock jests and sneers at womankind, you lay aside your cigars, and "join the ladies," arrayed in bright colors and bewitching novelties of dress, moving gracefully in the brilliant gas-light, or arranged in glowing groups about the room? has not the truth flashed upon you, at such moments, that you had been talking prose upon a subject essentially poetical? have you never felt how mean and low a thing it was to linger in sensual stupefaction, rather than take your proper place in such a scene as this? it is true, that a few women in commercial cities,--a few bankers' and brokers' wives, and others,--bewildered by the possession of new wealth, do go to ridiculous excess in dressing, and thus bring reproach upon the art. it were well if their husbands did no worse. now and then, too, is presented the melancholy spectacle of an extravagant hussy marring, perhaps spoiling, the career of her husband by tasteless and unprincipled expenditures in the decoration of her person. but is it wholly her fault? is he not the purse-holder? is it not a husband's duty to prevent his wife from dishonoring herself in that manner? when men are sensual, women will be frivolous. when men abandon their homes and all the noble pleasures of society in order to herd together in clubs and smoking-rooms, what right have they to object if the ladies amuse themselves in the only innocent way accessible to them? the wonder is that they confine themselves to the innocent delights of the toilet. a husband who spends one day and seven evenings of every week at his club ought to expect that his wife will provide herself both with fine clothes and some one who will admire them. besides, for one woman who shocks us by wasting upon her person an undue part of the family resources, there are ten who astonish us by the delightful results which their taste and ingenuity contrive out of next to nothing. it would be absurd to say that smoking is the cause of evils which originate in the weakness and imperfection of human nature. the point is simply this: tobacco, by disturbing and impairing virility, tends to vitiate the relations between the sexes, tends to lessen man's interest in women and his enjoyment of their society, and enables him to endure and be contented with, and finally even to prefer, the companionship of men. and this is the true reason why almost every lady of spirit is the irreconcilable foe of tobacco. it is not merely that she dislikes the stale odor of the smoke in her curtains, nor merely that her quick eye discerns its hostility to health and life. these things would make her disapprove the weed. but instinct causes her dimly to perceive that this ridiculous brown leaf is the rival of her sex. women do not disapprove their rivals; they hate them. smoking certainly does blunt a man's sense of cleanliness. it certainly is an unclean habit. does the reader remember the fine scene in "shirley," in which the lover soliloquizes in shirley's own boudoir, just after that "stainless virgin" has gone out? she had gone away suddenly, it appears, and left disorder behind her; but every object bore upon it the legible inscription, _i belong to a lady!_ "nothing sordid, nothing soiled," says louis moore. "look at the pure kid of this little glove, at the fresh, unsullied satin of the bag." this is one of those happy touches of the great artist which convey more meaning than whole paint-pots of common coloring. what a pleasing sense it gives us of the sweet cleanness of the high-bred maiden! if smokers were to be judged by the places they have _left_,--by the smoking-car after a long day's use, by the dinner-table at which they have sat late, by the bachelor's quarters when the bachelor has gone down town,--they must be rated very low in the scale of civilization. we must admit, too, i think, that smoking dulls a man's sense of the rights of others. horace greeley is accustomed to sum up his opinion upon this branch of the subject by saying: "when a man begins to smoke, he immediately becomes a hog." he probably uses the word "hog" in two senses: namely, _hog_, an unclean creature; and _hog_, a creature devoid of a correct sense of what is due to other creatures. "go into a public gathering," he has written, "where a speaker of delicate lungs, with an invincible repulsion to tobacco, is trying to discuss some important topic so that a thousand men can hear and understand him, yet whereinto ten or twenty smokers have introduced themselves, a long-nine projecting horizontally from beneath the nose of each, a fire at one end and a fool at the other, and mark how the puff, puffing gradually transforms the atmosphere (none too pure at best) into that of some foul and pestilential cavern, choking the utterance of the speaker, and distracting (by annoyance) the attention of the hearers, until the argument is arrested or its effect utterly destroyed." if these men, he adds, are not blackguards, who are blackguards? he mitigates the severity of this conclusion, however, by telling an anecdote: "brethren," said parson strong, of hartford, preaching a connecticut election sermon, in high party times, some fifty years ago, "it has been charged that i have said every democrat is a horse-thief; i never did. what i _did_ say was only that every horse-thief is a democrat, and _that_ i can prove." mr. greeley challenges the universe to produce a genuine blackguard who is not a lover of the weed in some of its forms, and promises to reward the finder with the gift of two white blackbirds. mr. greeley exaggerates. some of the best gentlemen alive smoke, and some of the dirtiest blackguards do not; but most intelligent smokers are conscious that the practice, besides being in itself unclean, dulls the smoker's sense of cleanliness, and, what is still worse, dulls his sense of what is due to others, and especially of what is due to the presence of ladies. the cost of tobacco ought perhaps to be considered before we conclude whether or not it pays to smoke; since every man who smokes, not only pays his share of the whole expense of the weed to mankind, but he also supports and justifies mankind in incurring that expense. the statistics of tobacco are tremendous, even to the point of being incredible. it is gravely asserted, in messrs. ripley and dana's excellent and most trustworthy cyclopædia, that the consumption of cigars in cuba--the mere consumption--amounts to ten cigars per day for every man, woman, and child on the island. besides this, cuba exports two billions of cigars a year, which vary in price from twenty cents each (in gold) to two cents. in the manufacture of manilla cheroots,--a small item in the trade,--the labor of seven thousand men and twelve hundred women is absorbed. holland, where much of the tobacco used in smoky germany is manufactured, employs, it is said, one million pale people in the business. in bremen there are four thousand pallid or yellow cigar-makers. in the united states the weed exhausts four hundred thousand acres of excellent land, and employs forty thousand sickly and cadaverous cigar and tobacco makers. in england, where there is a duty upon tobacco of seventy-five cents a pound, and upon cigars of nearly four dollars a pound, the government derives about six million pounds sterling every year from tobacco. the french government gets from its monopoly of the tobacco trade nearly two hundred million francs per annum, and austria over eighty million francs. it is computed that the world is now producing one thousand million pounds of tobacco every year, at a _total_ cost of five hundred millions of dollars. to this must be added the cost of pipes, and a long catalogue of smoking conveniences and accessories. in the london exhibition there were four amber mouth-pieces, valued at two hundred and fifty guineas each. a plain, small, serviceable meerschaum pipe now costs in new york seven dollars, and the prices rise from that sum to a thousand dollars; but where is the young man who does not possess one? we have in new york two (perhaps more) extensive manufactories of these pipes; and very interesting it is to look in at the windows and inspect the novelties in this branch of art? in vienna men earn their living (and their dying too) by smoking meerschaums for the purpose of starting the process of "coloring." happily, the high price of labor has hitherto prevented the introduction of this industry into america. an inhabitant of the united states who smokes a pipe only, and good tobacco in that pipe, can now get his smoking for twenty-five dollars a year. one who smokes good cigars freely (say ten a day at twenty cents each) must expend between seven and eight hundred dollars a year. almost every one whose eye may chance to fall upon these lines will be able to mention at least one man whose smoking costs him several hundred dollars per annum,--from three hundred to twelve hundred. on the other hand, our friend the hod-carrier can smoke a whole week upon ten cents' worth of tobacco, and buy a pipe for two cents which he can smoke till it is black with years. all this inconceivable expenditure--this five hundred millions per annum--comes out of the world's surplus, that precious fund which must pay all the cost, both of improving and extending civilization. knowledge, art, literature, have to be supported out of what is left after food, clothes, fire, shelter, and defence have all been paid for. if the surest test of civilization, whether of an individual or of a community, is the use made of surplus revenue, what can we say of the civilization of a race that expends five hundred millions of dollars every year for an indulgence which is nearly an unmitigated injury? the surplus revenue, too, of every community is very small; for nearly the whole force of human nature is expended necessarily in the unending struggle for life. the most prosperous, industrious, economical, and civilized community that now exists in the world, or that ever existed, is, perhaps, the commonwealth of massachusetts. yes, take it for all in all, massachusetts, imperfect as it is, is about the best thing man has yet done in the way of a commonwealth. and yet the surplus revenue of massachusetts is set down at only three cents a day for each inhabitant; and out of this the community has to pay for its knowledge, decoration, and luxury. man, it must be confessed, after having been in business for so many thousands of years, is still in very narrow circumstances, and most assuredly cannot afford to spend five hundred millions a year in an injurious physical indulgence. it is melancholy to observe what a small, mean, precarious, grudging support we give to the best things, if they are of the kind which must be sustained out of our surplus. at cambridge the other day, while looking about among the ancient barracks in which the students live, i had the curiosity to ask concerning the salaries of the professors in harvard college,--supposing, of course, that such learned and eminent persons received a compensation proportioned to the dignity of their offices, the importance of their labors, and the celebrity of their names. alas! it is not so. a good reporter on the new york press gets just about as much money as the president of the college, and the professors receive such salaries as fifteen and eighteen hundred dollars a year. the very gifts of inconsiderate benefactors have impoverished the college, few of whom, it seems, have been able to give money to the institution; most of them have merely bought distinction from it. thus professorships in plenty have been endowed and named; but the college is hampered, and its resources have become insufficient, by being divided among a multitude of objects. i beg the reader, the next time he gives harvard university a hundred thousand dollars, or leaves it a million in his will, to make the sum a gift,--a gift to the trustees,--to be expended as they deem best for the general and permanent good of the institution, and not to neutralize the benefit of the donation by conditions dictated by vanity. yale, i have since learned, is no better off. at all our colleges, it seems, the professors either starve upon twelve or fifteen hundred dollars a year, or eke out a subsistence by taking pupils, or by some other arduous extra labor. but what wonder that learning pines, when we every year waste millions upon millions of the fund out of which alone learning can be supported! it is so with all high and spiritual things. how the theatre languishes! there are but four cities in the united states where a good and complete theatre could be sustained. in the great and wealthy city of new york there has never been more than one at a time, nor always one. how small, too, the sale of good books, even those of a popular cast! one of the most interesting works ever published in the united states is the "life of josiah quincy," by his son edmund quincy. it is not an abstruse production. the narrative is easy and flowing, interspersed with well-told anecdotes of celebrated men,--washington, lafayette, john adams, john randolph, hancock, jefferson, and many others. above all, the book exhibits and interprets, in the most agreeable manner, a triumphant human life; showing how it came to pass that josiah quincy, in this perplexing and perilous world, was able to live happily, healthily, honorably, and usefully for ninety-three years! splendid triumph of civilization! ninety-three years of joyous, dignified, and beneficial existence! one would have thought that many thousands of people in the united states would have hurried to their several bookstores to bear away, rejoicing, a volume recounting such a marvel, the explanation of which so nearly concerns us all. the book has now been published three months or more, and has not yet sold more than three thousand copies! young men cannot waste their hard-earned money upon a three-dollar book. it is the price of a bundle of cigars! mr. henry ward beecher has recently told us, in one of his "ledger" articles, how he earned his first ten dollars, and what he did with it. while he was a student in amherst he was invited to deliver a fourth-of-july temperance address in brattleboro', forty miles distant. his travelling expenses were to be paid; but the brilliant scheme occurred to him to walk the eighty miles, and earn the stage fare by saving it. he did so, and received by mail after his return a ten-dollar bill,--the first ten dollars he had ever possessed, and the first money he had ever earned. he instantly gave a proof that the test of a person's civilization is the use he makes of his surplus money. he spent the whole of it upon an edition of the works of edmund burke, and carried the volumes to his room, a happy youth. it was not the best choice, in literature, perhaps; but it was one that marked the civilized being, and indicated the future instructor of his species. suppose he had invested the sum (and we all know students who would make just that use of an unexpected ten-dollar bill) in a new meerschaum and a bag of lone-jack tobacco! at the end of his college course he would have had, probably, a finely colored pipe,--perhaps the prettiest pipe of his year; but he would not have had that little "library of fifty volumes," the solace of his coming years of poverty and fever and ague, always doing their part toward expanding him from a sectarian into a man of the world, and lifting him from the slavery of a mean country parish toward the mastership of a metropolitan congregation. his was the very nature to have been quenched by tobacco. if he had bought a pipe that day, instead of books, he might be at this moment a petty d.d., preaching safe inanity or silly eccentricity in some obscure corner of the world, and going to europe every five years for his health. we all perceive that smoking has made bold and rapid encroachments of late years. it is said that the absurdly situated young man who passes in the world by the undescriptive name of the prince of wales smokes in drawing-rooms in the presence of ladies. this tale is probably false; scandalous tales respecting conspicuous persons are so generally false, that it is always safest and fairest to reject them as a matter of course, unless they rest upon testimony that ought to convince a jury. nevertheless, it is true that smoke is creeping toward the drawing-room, and rolls in clouds where once it would not have dared to send a whiff. one reason of this is, that the cigar, and the pipe too, have "got into literature," where they shed abroad a most alluring odor. that passage, for example, in "jane eyre," where the timid, anxious jane, returning after an absence, scents rochester's cigar before she catches sight of his person, is enough to make any old smoker feel for his cigar-case; and all through the book smoke plays a dignified and attractive part. mr. rochester's cigars, we feel, must be of excellent quality (thirty cents each, at least); we see how freely they burn; we smell their delicious fragrance. charlotte brontë was, perhaps, one of the few women who have a morbid love of the odor of tobacco, who crave its stimulating aid as men do; and therefore her rochester has a fragrance of the weed about him at all times, with which many readers have been captivated. "jane eyre" is the book of recent years which has been most frequently imitated, and consequently the circulating libraries are populous with smoking heroes. byron, thackeray, and many other popular authors have written passages in which the smoke of tobacco insinuates itself most agreeably into the reader's gentle senses. many smokers, too, have been made such by the unexplained rigor with which the practice is sometimes forbidden. forbidden it must be in all schools; but merely forbidding it and making it a dire offence will not suffice in these times. some of the most pitiable slaves of smoke i have ever known were brought up in families and schools where smoking was invested with the irresistible charm of being the worst thing a boy could do, except running away. deep in the heart of the woods, high up in rocky hills, far from the haunts of men and schoolmasters (not to speak of places less salubrious), boys assemble on holiday afternoons to sicken themselves with furtive smoke, returning at the close of the day to relate the dazzling exploit to their companions. in this way the habit sometimes becomes so tyrannical, that, if the victims of it should give a sincere definition of "vacation," it would be this, "the time when boys can get a chance to smoke every day." i can also state, that the only school i ever knew or heard of in which young men who had formed the habit were induced to break themselves of it was the only school i ever knew or heard of in which all students above the age of sixteen were allowed to smoke. still, it must be forbidden. professor charlier, of new york, will not have in his school a boy who smokes even at home in his father's presence, or in the street; and he is right; but it requires all his talents as a disciplinarian and all his influence as a member of society to enforce the rule. nor would even his vigilance avail if he confined himself to the cold enunciation of the law: thou shalt not smoke. to forbid young men to smoke, without making an honest and earnest and skilful attempt to convince their understandings that the practice is pernicious, is sometimes followed by deplorable consequences. at the naval academy at annapolis, not only is smoking forbidden, but the prohibition is effectual. there are four hundred young men confined within walls, and subjected to such discipline that it is impossible for a rule to be broken, the breaking of which betrays itself. the result is, that nearly all the students chew tobacco,--many of them to very great excess, and to their most serious and manifest injury. that great national institution teems with abuses, but, perhaps, all the other deleterious influences of the place united do less harm than this one abomination. on looking over the articles upon tobacco in the encyclopædias, we occasionally find writers declaring or conjecturing that, as smoking has become a habit almost universal, there must be, in the nature of things, a reason which accounts for and justifies it. accounts for it, _yes_; justifies it, _no_. so long as man lives the life of a pure savage, he has good health without ever bestowing a thought upon the matter. nature, like a good farmer, saves the best for seed. the mightiest bull becomes the father of the herd; the great warrior, the great hunter, has the most wives and children. the sickly children are destroyed by the hardships of savage life, and those who survive are compelled to put forth such exertions in procuring food and defending their wigwams that they are always "in training." the pure savage has not the skill nor the time to extract from the wilds in which he lives the poisons that could deprave his taste and impair his vigor. your indian sleeps, with scanty covering, in a wigwam that freely admits the air. in his own way, he is an exquisite cook. neither delmonico nor parker nor professor blot ever cooked a salmon or a partridge as well as a rocky mountain indian cooks them; and when he has cooked his fish or his bird, he eats with it some perfectly simple preparation of indian corn. he is an absolutely _unstimulated_ animal. the natural working of his internal machinery generates all the vital force he wants. he is as healthy as a buffalo, as a prize-fighter, as the stroke-oar of a university boat. but in our civilized, sedentary life, he who would have good health must fight for it. many people have the insolence to become parents who have no right to aspire to that dignity; children are born who have no right to exist; and skill preserves many whom nature is eager to destroy. civilized man, too, has learned the trick of heading off some of the diseases that used to sweep over whole regions of the earth, and lay low the weakliest tenth of the population. consequently, while the average duration of human life has been increased, the average tone of human health has been lowered. fewer die, and fewer are quite well. very many of us breathe vitiated air, and keep nine tenths of the body quiescent for twenty-two or twenty-three hours out of every twenty-four. immense numbers cherish gloomy, depressing opinions, and convert the day set apart for rest and recreation into one which aggravates some of the worst tendencies of the week, and counteracts none of them. half the population of the united states violate the laws of nature every time they take sustenance; and the children go, crammed with indigestion, to sit six hours in hot, ill-ventilated or unventilated school-rooms. except in a few large towns, the bread and meat are almost universally inferior or bad; and the only viands that are good are those which ought not to be eaten at all. at most family tables, after a course of meat which has the curious property of being both soft and tough, a wild profusion of ingenious puddings, pies, cakes, and other abominable trash, beguiles the young, disgusts the mature, and injures all. from bodies thus imperfectly nourished, we demand excessive exertions of all kinds. hence, the universal craving for artificial aids to digestion. hence, the universal use of stimulants,--whiskey, worcestershire sauce, beer, wine, coffee, tea, tobacco. this is the only reason i can discover in the nature of things here for the widespread, increasing propensity to smoke. as all the virtues are akin, and give loyal aid to one another, so are all the vices in alliance, and play into one another's hands. many a smoker will discover, when at last he breaks the bond of his servitude, that his pipe, trifling a matter as it may seem to him now, was really the power that kept down his whole nature, and vulgarized his whole existence. in many instances the single act of self-control involved in giving up the habit would necessitate and include a complete regeneration, first physical, then moral. whether the coming man will drink wine or be a teetotaller has not yet, perhaps, been positively ascertained; but it is certain he will not smoke. nothing can be surer than that. the coming man will be as healthy as tecumseh, as clean as shirley, and as well groomed as dexter. he will not fly the female of his species, nor wall himself in from her approach, nor give her cause to prefer his absence. we are not left to infer or conjecture this; we can ascertain it from what we know of the messengers who have announced the coming of the coming man. the most distinguished of these was goethe,--perhaps the nearest approach to the complete human being that has yet appeared. the mere fact that this admirable person lived always unpolluted by this seductive poison is a fact of some significance; but the important fact is, that he _could not_ have smoked and remained goethe. when we get close to the man, and live intimately with him, we perceive the impossibility of his ever having been a smoker. we can as easily fancy desdemona smoking a cigarette as the highly groomed, alert, refined, imperial goethe with a cigar in his mouth. in america, the best gentleman and most variously learned and accomplished man we have had--the man, too, who had in him most of what will constitute the glory of the future--was thomas jefferson, democrat, of virginia. he was versed in six languages; he danced, rode, and hunted as well as general washington; he played the violin well, wrote admirably, farmed skilfully, and was a most generous, affectionate, humane, and great-souled human being. it was the destiny of this ornament and consolation of his species to raise tobacco, and live by tobacco all his life. but he knew too much to use it himself; or, to speak more correctly, his fine feminine senses, his fine masculine instincts, revolted from the use of it, without any assistance from his understanding. there is no trace of the pipe in the writings of washington or franklin; probably they never smoked; so that we may rank the three great men of america--washington, franklin, and jefferson--among the exempts. washington irving, who was the first literary man of the united states to achieve a universal reputation, and who is still regarded as standing at the head of our literature, was no smoker. two noted americans, dr. nott and john quincy adams, after having been slaves of the weed for many years, escaped from bondage and smoked no more. these distinguished names may serve as a set-off to the list of illustrious smokers previously given. among the nations of the earth most universally addicted to smoking are the turks, the persians, the chinese, the spanish,--all slaves of tradition, submissive to tyrants, unenterprising, averse to improvement, despisers of women. next to these, perhaps, we must place the germans, a noble race, renowned for two thousand years for the masculine vigor of the men and the motherly dignity of the women. smoking is a blight upon this valuable breed of men; it steals away from their minds much of the alertness and decision that naturally belong to such minds as they have, and it impairs their bodily health. go, on some festive day, to "jones's woods," where you may sometimes see five thousand germans--men, women, and children--amusing themselves in their simple and rational way. not one face in ten has the clear, bright look of health. nearly all the faces have a certain tallowy aspect,--yellowish in color, with a dull shine upon them. you perceive plainly that it is not well with these good people; they are not conforming to nature's requirements; they are not the germans of tacitus,--ruddy, tough, happy, and indomitable. to lay the whole blame of this decline upon smoking, which is only one of many bad habits of theirs, would be absurd. what i insist upon is this: smoking, besides doing its part toward lowering the tone of the bodily health, deadens our sense of other physical evils, and makes us submit to them more patiently. if our excellent german fellow-citizens were to throw away their pipes, they would speedily toss their cast-iron sausages after them, and become more fastidious in the choice of air for their own and their children's breathing, and reduce their daily allowance of lager-bier. their first step toward physical regeneration will be, must be, the suppression of the pipe. one hopeful sign for the future is, that this great subject of the physical aids and the physical obstacles to virtue is attracting attention and rising into importance. our philanthropists have stopped giving tracts to hungry people; at least they give bread first. it is now a recognized truth, that it takes a certain number of cubic yards for a person to be virtuous in; and that, consequently, in that square mile of new york in which two hundred and ninety thousand people live, there must be--absolutely _must_ be--an immense number of unvirtuous persons. no human virtue or civilization can long exist where four families live in a room, some of whom take boarders. the way to regenerate this new york mile is simply to widen manhattan island by building three bridges over the east river, and to shorten the island by making three lines of underground or overground railroad to the upper end of it. we may say, too, there are circles--not many, it is true, but some--in which a man's religion would not be considered a very valuable acquisition, if, when he had "got" it, he kept on chewing tobacco. such a flagrant and abominable violation of the creator's laws, by a person distinctly professing a special veneration for them, would be ludicrous, if it were not so pernicious. the time is at hand when these simple and fundamental matters will have their proper place in all our schemes for the improvement of one another. the impulse in this direction given by the publication of the most valuable work of this century--buckle's "history of civilization in england"--will not expend itself in vain. if that author had but lived, he would not have disdained, in recounting the obstacles to civilization, to consider the effects upon the best modern brains of a poison that lulls their noblest faculties to torpor, and enables them languidly to endure what they ought constantly to fight. it is not difficult to stop smoking, except for one class of smokers,--those whom it has radically injured, and whose lives it is shortening. for all such the discontinuance of the practice will be almost as difficult as it is desirable. no rule can be given which will apply to all or to many such cases; but each man must fight it out on the line he finds best, and must not be surprised if it takes him a great deal longer than "all summer." if one of this class of smokers should gain deliverance from his bondage after a two years' struggle, he would be doing well. a man who had been smoking twenty cigars a day for several years, and should suddenly stop, would be almost certain either to relapse or fall into some worse habit,--chewing, whiskey, or opium. perhaps his best way would be to put himself upon half allowance for a year, and devote the second year to completing his cure,--always taking care to live in other respects more wisely and temperately, and thus lessen the craving for a stimulant. the more smoke is hurting a man, the harder it is for him to stop smoking; and almost all whom the practice is destroying rest under the delusion that they could stop without the least effort, if they liked. the vast majority of smokers--seven out of every ten, at least--can, without the least danger or much inconvenience, cease smoking at once, totally and forever. as i have now given a trial to both sides of the question, i beg respectfully to assure the brotherhood of smokers that it does _not_ pay to smoke. it really does not. i can work better and longer than before. i have less headache. i have a better opinion of myself. i enjoy exercise more, and step out much more vigorously. my room is cleaner. the bad air of our theatres and other public places disgusts and infuriates me more, but exhausts me less. i think i am rather better tempered, as well as more cheerful and satisfied. i endure the inevitable ills of life with more fortitude, and look forward more hopefully to the coming years. it did not pay to smoke, but, most decidedly, it pays to stop smoking. drinking. will the coming man drink wine? the teetotalers confess their failure. after forty-five years of zealous and well-meant effort in the "cause," they agree that people are drinking more than ever. dr. r. t. trall of new york, the most thoroughgoing teetotaler extant, exclaims: "where are we to-day? defeated on all sides. the enemy victorious and rampant everywhere. more intoxicating liquors manufactured and drunk than ever before. why is this?" why, indeed! when the teetotalers can answer that question correctly, they will be in a fair way to gain upon the "enemy" that is now so "rampant." they are not the first people who have mistaken a symptom of disease for the disease itself, and striven to cure a cancer by applying salve and plaster and cooling washes to the sore. they are not the first travellers through this wilderness who have tried to extinguish a smouldering fire, and discovered, at last, that they had been pouring water into the crater of a volcano. dr. trall thinks we should all become teetotalers very soon, if only the doctors would stop prescribing wine, beer, and whiskey to their patients. but the doctors will not. they like a glass of wine themselves. dr. trall tells us that, during the medical convention held at st. louis a few years ago, the doctors dined together, and upon the table were "forty kinds of alcoholic liquors." the most enormous feed ever accomplished under a roof in america, i suppose, was the great dinner of the doctors, given in new york, fifteen years ago, at the metropolitan hall. i had the pleasure on that occasion of seeing half an acre of doctors all eating and drinking at once, and i can testify that very few of them--indeed, none that i could discover--neglected the bottle. it was an occasion which united all the established barbarisms of a public dinner,--absence of ladies, indigestible food in most indigestible quantities, profuse and miscellaneous drinking, clouds of smoke, late sitting, and wild speaking. why not? do not these men live and thrive upon such practices? why should they not set an example of the follies which enrich them? it is only heroes who offend, deny, and rebuke the people upon whose favor their fortune depends; and there are never many heroes in the world at one time. no, no, dr. trall! the doctors are good fellows; but their affair is to cure disease, not to preserve health. one man, it seems, and only one, has had much success in dissuading people from drinking, and that was father mathew. a considerable proportion of his converts in ireland, it is said, remain faithful to their pledge; and most of the catholic parishes in the united states have a father mathew society connected with them, which is both a teetotal and a mutual-benefit organization. in new york and adjacent cities the number of persons belonging to such societies is about twenty-seven thousand. on the anniversary of father mathew's birth they walk in procession, wearing aprons, carrying large banners (when the wind permits), and heaping up gayly dressed children into pyramids and mountains drawn by six and eight horses. at their weekly or monthly meetings they sing songs, recite poetry, perform plays and farces, enact comic characters, and, in other innocent ways, endeavor to convince on-lookers that people can be happy and merry, uproariously merry, without putting a headache between their teeth. these societies seem to be a great and unmingled good. they do actually help poor men to withstand their only american enemy. they have, also, the approval of the most inveterate drinkers, both catholic and protestant. jones complacently remarks, as he gracefully sips his claret (six dollars per dozen) that this total abstinence, you know, is an excellent thing for emigrants; to which brown and robinson invariably assent. father mathew used to administer his pledge to people who _knelt_ before him, and when they had taken it he made over them the sign of the cross. he did not usually deliver addresses; he did not relate amusing anecdotes; he did not argue the matter; he merely pronounced the pledge, and gave to it the sanction of religion, and something of the solemnity of a sacrament. the present father mathew societies are also closely connected with the church, and the pledge is regarded by the members as of religious obligation. hence, these societies are successful, in a respectable degree; and we may look, with the utmost confidence, to see them extend and flourish until a great multitude of catholics are teetotalers. catholic priests, i am informed, generally drink wine, and very many of them smoke; but _they_ are able to induce men to take the pledge without setting them an example of abstinence, just as parents sometimes deny their children pernicious viands of which they freely partake themselves. but _we_ cannot proceed in that way. our religion has not power to control a physical craving by its mere fiat, nor do we all yet perceive what a deadly and shameful sin it is to vitiate our own bodies. the catholic church is antiquity. the catholic church is childhood. _we_ are living in modern times; _we_ have grown a little past childhood; and when we are asked to relinquish a pleasure, we demand to be convinced that it is best we should. by and by we shall all comprehend that, when a person means to reform his life, the very first thing for him to do--the thing preliminary and most indispensable--will be to cease violating physical laws. the time, i hope, is at hand, when an audience in a theatre, who catch a manager cheating them out of their fair allowance of fresh air, will not sit and gasp, and inhale destruction till eleven p.m., and then rush wildly to the street for relief. they will stop the play; they will tear up the benches, if necessary; they will throw things on the stage; they will knock a hole in the wall; they will _have_ the means of breathing, or perish in the struggle. but at present people do not know what they are doing when they inhale poison. they do not know that more than one half of all the diseases that plague us most--scarlet fever, small-pox, measles, and all the worst fevers--come of breathing bad air. not a child last winter would have had the scarlet fever, if all the children in the world had slept with a window open, and had had pure air to breathe all day. this is miss nightingale's opinion, and there is no better authority. people are ignorant of these things, and they are therefore indifferent to them. they will remain indifferent till they are enlightened. our teetotal friends have not neglected the scientific questions involved in their subject; nor have they settled them. instead of insulting the public intelligence by asserting that the wines mentioned in the bible were some kind of unintoxicating slop, and exasperating the public temper by premature prohibitory laws, they had better expend their strength upon the science of the matter, and prove to mankind, if they can, that these agreeable drinks which they denounce are really hurtful. we all know that excess is hurtful. we also know that adulterated liquors may be. but is the thing in itself pernicious?--pure wine taken in moderation? good beer? genuine old bourbon? for one, i wish it could be demonstrated that these things are hurtful. sweeping, universal truths are as convenient as they are rare. the evils resulting from excess in drinking are so enormous and so terrible, that it would be a relief to know that alcoholic liquors are in themselves evil, and to be always avoided. what are the romantic woes of a desdemona, or the brief picturesque sorrows of a lear, compared with the thirty years' horror and desolation caused by a drunken parent? we laugh when we read lamb's funny description of his waking up in the morning, and learning in what condition he had come home the night before by seeing all his clothes carefully folded. but his sister mary did not laugh at it. he was all she had; it was tragedy to her,--this self-destruction of her sole stay and consolation. goethe did not find it a laughing matter to have a drunken wife in his house for fifteen years, nor a jest to have his son brought in drunk from the tavern, and to see him dead in his coffin, the early victim of champagne. who would not _like_ to have a clear conviction, that what we have to do with regard to all such fluids is to let them alone? i am sure i should. it is a great advantage to have your enemy in plain sight, and to be sure he _is_ an enemy. what is wine? chemists tell us they do not know. three fifths of a glass of wine is water. one fifth is alcohol. of the remaining fifth, about one half is sugar. one tenth of the whole quantity remains to be accounted for. a small part of that tenth is the acid which makes vinegar sour. water, alcohol, sugar, acid,--these make very nearly the whole body of the wine; but if we mix these things in the proportions in which they are found in madeira, the liquid is a disgusting mess, nothing like madeira. the great chemists confess they do not know what that last small fraction of the glass of wine is, upon which its flavor, its odor, its fascination, depend. they do not know what it is that makes the difference between port and sherry, but are obliged to content themselves with giving it a hard name. similar things are admitted concerning the various kinds of spirituous and malt liquors. chemistry seems to agree with the temperance society, that wine, beer, brandy, gin, whiskey, and rum are alcohol and water, mixed in different proportions, and with some slight differences of flavoring and coloring matter. in all these drinks, teetotalers maintain, _alcohol is power_, the other ingredients being mere dilution and flavoring. wine, they assure us, is alcohol and water flavored with grapes; beer is alcohol and water flavored with malt and hops; bourbon whiskey is alcohol and water flavored with corn. these things they assert, and the great chemists do not enable us drinkers of those seductive liquids to deny it. on the contrary, chemical analysis, so far as it has gone, supports the teetotal view of the matter. what does a glass of wine do to us when we have swallowed it? we should naturally look to physicians for an answer to such a question; but the great lights of the profession--men of the rank of astley cooper, brodie, abernethy, holmes--all assure the public, that no man of them knows, and no man has ever known, how medicinal substances work in the system, and why they produce the effects they do. even of a substance so common as peruvian bark, no one knows why and how it acts as a tonic; nor is there any certainty of its being a benefit to mankind. there is no science of medicine. the "red lane" of the children leads to a region which is still mysterious and unknown; for when the eye can explore its recesses, a change has occurred in it, which is also mysterious and unknown: it is dead. quacks tell us, in every newspaper, that they can cure and prevent disease by pouring or dropping something down our throats, and we have heard this so often, that, when a man is sick, the first thing that occurs to him is to "take physic." but physicians who are honest, intelligent, and in an independent position, appear to be coming over to the opinion that this is generally a delusion. we see eminent physicians prescribing for the most malignant fevers little but open windows, plenty of blankets, nightingale nursing, and beef tea. many young physicians, too, have gladly availed themselves of the ingenuity of hahnemann, and satisfy at once their consciences and their patients by prescribing doses of medicine that are next to no medicine at all. the higher we go among the doctors, the more sweeping and emphatic is the assurance we receive that the profession does not understand the operation of medicines in the living body, and does not really approve their employment. if something more is known of the operation of alcohol than of any other chemical fluid,--if there is any approach to certainty respecting it,--we owe it chiefly to the teetotalers, because it is they who have provoked contradiction, excited inquiry, and suggested experiment. they have not done much themselves in the way of investigation, but they started the topic, and have kept it alive. they have also published a few pages which throw light upon the points in dispute. after going over the ground pretty thoroughly, i can tell the reader in a few words the substance of what has been ascertained, and plausibly inferred, concerning the effects of wine, beer, and spirits upon the human constitution. they cannot be _nourishment_, in the ordinary acceptation of that word, because the quantity of nutritive matter in them is so small. liebig, no enemy of beer, says this: "we can prove, with mathematical certainty, that as much flour or meal as can lie on the point of a table-knife is more nutritious than nine quarts of the best bavarian beer; that a man who is able daily to consume that amount of beer obtains from it, in a whole year, in the most favorable case, exactly the amount of nutritive constituents which is contained in a five-pound loaf of bread, or in three pounds of flesh." so of wine; when we have taken from a glass of wine the ingredients known to be innutritious, there is scarcely anything left but a grain or two of sugar. pure alcohol, though a product of highly nutritive substances, is a mere poison,--an absolute poison,--the mortal foe of life in every one of its forms, animal and vegetable. if, therefore, these beverages do us good, it is not by supplying the body with nourishment. nor can they aid digestion by assisting to decompose food. when we have taken too much shad for breakfast, we find that a wineglass of whiskey instantly mitigates the horrors of indigestion, and enables us again to contemplate the future without dismay. but if we catch a curious fish or reptile, and want to keep him from decomposing, and bring him home as a contribution to the museum of professor agassiz, we put him in a bottle of whiskey. several experiments have been made with a view to ascertain whether mixing alcohol with the gastric juice increases or lessens its power to decompose food, and the results of all of them point to the conclusion that the alcohol retards the process of decomposition. a little alcohol retards it a little, and much alcohol retards it much. it has been proved by repeated experiment, that any portion of alcohol, however small, diminishes the power of the gastric juice to decompose. the digestive fluid has been mixed with wine, beer, whiskey, brandy, and alcohol diluted with water, and kept at the temperature of the living body, and the motions of the body imitated during the experiment; but, in every instance, the pure gastric juice was found to be the true and sole digester, and the alcohol a retarder of digestion. this fact, however, required little proof. we are all familiar with alcohol as a _preserver_, and scarcely need to be reminded, that, if alcohol assists digestion at all, it cannot be by assisting decomposition. nor is it a heat-producing fluid. on the contrary, it appears, in all cases, to diminish the efficiency of the heat-producing process. most of us who live here in the north, and who are occasionally subjected to extreme cold for hours at a time, know this by personal experience; and all the arctic voyagers attest it. brandy is destruction when men have to face a temperature of sixty below zero; they want lamp-oil then, and the rich blubber of the whale and walrus. dr. rae, who made two or three pedestrian tours of the polar regions, and whose powers of endurance were put to as severe a test as man's ever were, is clear and emphatic upon this point. brandy, he says, stimulates but for a few minutes, and greatly lessens a man's power to endure cold and fatigue. occasionally we have in new york a cool breeze from the north which reduces the temperature below zero,--to the sore discomfort of omnibus-drivers and car-drivers, who have to face it on their way up town. on a certain monday night, two or three winters ago, twenty-three drivers on one line were disabled by the cold, many of whom had to be lifted from the cars and carried in. it is a fact familiar to persons in this business, that men who drink freely are more likely to be benumbed and overcome by the cold than those who abstain. it seems strange to us, when we first hear it, that a meagre teetotaller should be safer on such a night than a bluff, red-faced imbiber of beer and whiskey, who takes something at each end of the line to keep himself warm. it nevertheless appears to be true. a traveller relates, that, when russian troops are about to start upon a march in a very cold region, no grog is allowed to be served to them; and when the men are drawn up, ready to move, the corporals smell the breath of every man, and send back to quarters all who have been drinking. the reason is, that men who start under the influence of liquor are the first to succumb to the cold, and the likeliest to be frost-bitten. it is the uniform experience of the hunters and trappers in the northern provinces of north america, and of the rocky mountains, that alcohol diminishes their power to resist cold. a whole magazine could be filled with testimony on this point. still less is alcohol a strength-giver. every man that ever trained for a supreme exertion of strength knows that tom sayers spoke the truth when he said: "i'm no teetotaller: but when i've any business to do, there's nothing like water and the dumb-bells." richard cobden, whose powers were subjected to a far severer trial than a pugilist ever dreamed of, whose labors by night and day, during the corn-law struggle, were excessive and continuous beyond those of any other member of the house of commons, bears similar testimony: "the more work i have to do, the more i have resorted to the pump and the teapot." on this branch of the subject, _all_ the testimony is against alcoholic drinks. whenever the point has been tested,--and it has often been tested,--the truth has been confirmed, that he who would do his _very_ best and most, whether in rowing, lifting, running, watching, mowing, climbing, fighting, speaking, or writing, must not admit into his system one drop of alcohol. trainers used to allow their men a pint of beer per day, and severe trainers half a pint; but now the knowing ones have cut off even that moderate allowance, and brought their men down to cold water, and not too much of that, the soundest digesters requiring little liquid of any kind. mr. bigelow, by his happy publication lately of the correct version of franklin's autobiography, has called to mind the famous beer passage in that immortal work: "i drank only water; the other workmen, near fifty in number, were great guzzlers[ ] of beer. on occasion i carried up and down stairs a large form of types in each hand, when others carried but one in both hands." i have a long list of references on this point; but, in these cricketing, boat-racing, prize-fighting days, the fact has become too familiar to require proof. the other morning, horace greeley, teetotaler, came to his office after an absence of several days, and found letters and arrears of work that would have been appalling to any man but him. he shut himself in at ten a.m., and wrote steadily, without leaving his room, till eleven, p.m.,--thirteen hours. when he had finished, he had some little difficulty in getting down stairs, owing to the stiffness of his joints, caused by the long inaction; but he was as fresh and smiling the next morning as though he had done nothing extraordinary. are any of us drinkers of beer and wine capable of such a feat? then, during the war, when he was writing his history, he performed every day, for two years, two days' work,--one from nine to four, on his book; the other from seven to eleven, upon the tribune; and, in addition, he did more than would tire an ordinary man in the way of correspondence and public speaking. i may also remind the reader, that the clergyman who, of all others in the united states, expends most vitality, both with tongue and pen, and who does his work with least fatigue and most gayety of heart, is another of franklin's "water americans." [ ] we owe to mr. bigelow the restoration of this strong franklinian word. the common editions have it "drinkers." if, then, wine does not nourish us, does not assist the decomposition of food, does not warm, does not strengthen, what does it do? we all know that, when we drink alcoholic liquor, it affects the brain immediately. most of us are aware, too, that it affects the brain injuriously, lessening at once its power to discern and discriminate. if i, at this ten, a.m., full of interest in this subject, and eager to get my view of it upon paper, were to drink a glass of the best port, madeira, or sherry, or even a glass of lager-bier, i should lose the power to continue in three minutes; or, if i persisted in going on, i should be pretty sure to utter paradox and spurts of extravagance, which would not bear the cold review of to-morrow morning. any one can try this experiment. take two glasses of wine, and then immediately apply yourself to the hardest task your mind ever has to perform, and you will find you cannot do it. let any student, just before he sits down to his mathematics, drink a pint of the purest beer, and he will be painfully conscious of loss of power. or, let any salesman, before beginning with a difficult but important customer, perform the idiotic action of "taking a drink," and he will soon discover that his ascendency over his customer is impaired. in some way this alcohol, of which we are so fond, gets to the brain and injures it. we are conscious of this, and we can observe it. it is among the wine-drinking classes of our fellow-beings, that absurd, incomplete, and reactionary ideas prevail. the receptive, the curious, the candid, the trustworthy brains,--those that do not take things for granted, and yet are ever open to conviction,--such heads are to be found on the shoulders of men who drink little or none of these seductive fluids. how we all wondered that england should _think_ so erroneously, and adhere to its errors so obstinately, during our late war! mr. gladstone has in part explained the mystery. the adults of england, he said, in his famous wine speech, drink, on an average, three hundred quarts of beer each per annum! now, it is physically impossible for a human brain, muddled every day with a quart of beer, to correctly hold correct opinions, or appropriate pure knowledge. compare the conversation of a group of vermont farmers, gathered on the stoop of a country store on a rainy afternoon, with that which you may hear in the farmers' room of a market-town inn in england! the advantage is not wholly with the vermonters; by no means, for there is much in human nature besides the brain and the things of the brain. but in this one particular--in the topics of conversation, in the interest manifested in large and important subjects--the water-drinking vermonters are to the beer-drinking englishmen what franklin was to the london printers. it is beyond the capacity of a well-beered brain even to read the pamphlet on liberty and necessity which franklin wrote in those times. the few experiments which have been made, with a view to trace the course of alcohol in the living system, all confirm what all drinkers feel, that it is to the brain alcohol hurries when it has passed the lips. some innocent dogs have suffered and died in this investigation. dr. percy, a british physician, records, that he injected two ounces and a half of alcohol into the stomach of a dog, which caused its almost instant death. the dog dropped very much as he would if he had been struck upon the head with a club. the experimenter, without a moment's unnecessary delay, removed the animal's brain, subjected it to distillation, and extracted from it a surprising quantity of alcohol,--a larger proportion than he could distil from the blood or liver. the alcohol seemed to have rushed to the brain: it was a blow upon the head which killed the dog. dr. percy introduced into the stomachs of other dogs smaller quantities of alcohol, not sufficient to cause death; but upon killing the dogs, and subjecting the brain, the blood, the bile, the liver, and other portions of the body, to distillation, he invariably found more alcohol in the brain than in the same weight of other organs. he injected alcohol into the blood of dogs, which caused death; but the deadly effect was produced, not upon the substance of the blood, but upon the brain. his experiments go far toward explaining why the drinking of alcoholic liquors does not sensibly retard digestion. it seems that, when we take wine at dinner, the alcohol does not remain in the stomach, but is immediately absorbed into the blood, and swiftly conveyed to the brain and other organs. if one of those "four-bottle men" of the last generation had fallen down dead, after boozing till past midnight, and he had been treated as dr. percy treated the dogs, his brain, his liver, and all the other centres of power, would have yielded alcohol in abundance; his blood would have smelt of it; his flesh would have contained it; but there would have been very little in the stomach. those men were able to drink four, six, and seven bottles of wine at a sitting, because the sitting lasted four, six, and seven hours, which gave time for the alcohol to be distributed over the system. but instances have occurred of laboring men who have kept themselves steadily drunk for forty-eight hours, and then died. the bodies of two such were dissected some years ago in england, and the food which they had eaten at the beginning of the debauch was undigested. it had been preserved in alcohol as we preserve snakes. once, and only once, in the lifetime of man, an intelligent human eye has been able to look into the living stomach, and watch the process of digestion. in , at the united states military post of michilimackinac, alexis st. martin, a canadian of french extraction, received accidentally a heavy charge of duck-shot in his side, while he was standing one yard from the muzzle of the gun. the wound was frightful. one of the lungs protruded, and from an enormous aperture in the stomach the food recently eaten was oozing. dr. william beaumont, u.s.a., the surgeon of the post, was notified, and dressed the wound. in exactly one year from that day the young man was well enough to get out of doors, and walk about the fort; and he continued to improve in health and strength, until he was as strong and hardy as most of his race. he married, became the father of a large family, and performed for many years the laborious duties appertaining to an officer's servant at a frontier post. but the aperture into the stomach never closed, and the patient would not submit to the painful operation by which such wounds are sometimes closed artificially. he wore a compress arranged by the doctor, without which his dinner was not safe after he had eaten it. by a most blessed chance it happened that this dr. william beaumont, stationed there on the outskirts of creation, was an intelligent, inquisitive human being, who perceived all the value of the opportunity afforded him by this unique event. he set about improving that opportunity. he took the young man into his service, and, at intervals, for eight years, he experimented upon him. he alone among the sons of men has seen liquid flowing into the stomach of a living person while yet the vessel was at the drinker's lips. through the aperture (which remained two and a half inches in circumference) he could watch the entire operation of digestion, and he did so hundreds of times. if the man's stomach ached, he could look into it and see what was the matter; and, having found out, he would drop a rectifying pill into the aperture. he ascertained the time it takes to digest each of the articles of food commonly eaten, and the effects of all the usual errors in eating and drinking. in , he published a thin volume, at plattsburg on lake champlain, in which the results of thousands of experiments and observations were only too briefly stated. he appears not to have heard of teetotalism, and hence all that he says upon the effects of alcoholic liquors is free from the suspicion which the arrogance and extravagance of some teetotalers have thrown over much that has been published on this subject. with a mind unbiassed, dr. beaumont, peering into the stomach of this stout canadian, notices that a glass of brandy causes the coats of that organ to assume the same inflamed appearance as when he had been very angry, or much frightened, or had overeaten, or had had the flow of perspiration suddenly checked. in other words, brandy played the part of a _foe_ in his system, not that of a friend; it produced effects which were morbid, not healthy. nor did it make any material difference whether st. martin drank brandy, whiskey, wine, cider, or beer, except so far as one was stronger than the other. "simple water," says dr. beaumont, "is perhaps the only fluid that is called for by the wants of the economy. the artificial drinks are probably _all_ more or less injurious; some more so than others, but none can claim exemption from the general charge. even tea and coffee, the common beverages of all classes of people, have a tendency to debilitate the digestive organs.... the whole class of alcoholic liquors may be considered as narcotics, producing very little difference in their ultimate effects upon the system." he ascertained too (not guessed, or inferred, but _ascertained_, watch in hand) that such things as mustard, horse-radish, and pepper retard digestion. at the close of his invaluable work dr. beaumont appends a long list of "inferences," among which are the following: "that solid food of a certain texture is easier of digestion than fluid; that stimulating condiments are injurious to the healthy system; that the use of ardent spirits _always_ produces disease of the stomach if persisted in; that water, ardent spirits, and most other fluids, are not affected by the gastric juice, but pass from the stomach soon after they have been received." one thing appears to have much surprised dr. beaumont, and that was, the degree to which st. martin's system could be disordered without his being much inconvenienced by it. after drinking hard every day for eight or ten days, the stomach would show alarming appearances of disease; and yet the man would only feel a slight headache, and a general dulness and languor. if there is no comfort for drinkers in dr. beaumont's precious little volume, it must be also confessed, that neither the dissecting-knife nor the microscope afford us the least countenance. all that has yet been ascertained of the effects of alcohol by the dissection of the body favors the extreme position of the extreme teetotalers. a brain alcoholized the microscope proves to be a brain diseased. blood which has absorbed alcohol is unhealthy blood,--the microscope shows it. the liver, the heart, and other organs, which have been accustomed to absorb alcohol, all give testimony under the microscope which produces discomfort in the mind of one who likes a glass of wine, and hopes to be able to continue the enjoyment of it. the dissecting-knife and the microscope so far have nothing to say for us,--nothing at all: they are dead against us. of all the experiments which have yet been undertaken with a view to trace the course of alcohol through the human system, the most important were those made in paris a few years ago by professors lallemand, perrin, and duroy, distinguished physicians and chemists. frenchmen have a way of co-operating with one another, both in the investigation of scientific questions and in the production of literature, which is creditable to their civilization and beneficial to the world. the experiments conducted by these gentlemen produced the remarkable effect of causing the editor of a leading periodical to confess to the public that he was not infallible. in the westminster review contained an article by mr. lewes, in which the teetotal side of these questions was effectively ridiculed; but, in , the same periodical reviewed the work of the french professors just named, and honored itself by appending a note in which it said: "since the date of our former article, scientific research has brought to light important facts which necessarily modify the opinions we then expressed concerning the _rôle_ of alcohol in the animal body." those facts were revealed or indicated in the experiments of messrs. lallemand, perrin, and duroy. ether and chloroform,--their mode of operation; why and how they render the living body insensible to pain under the surgeon's knife; what becomes of them after they have performed that office,--these were the points which engaged their attention, and in the investigation of which they spent several years. they were rewarded, at length, with the success due to patience and ingenuity. by the aid of ingenious apparatus, after experiments almost numberless, they felt themselves in a position to demonstrate, that, when ether is inhaled, it is immediately absorbed by the blood, and by the blood is conveyed to the brain. if a surgeon were to commit such a breach of professional etiquette as to cut off a patient's head at the moment of complete insensibility, he would be able to distil from the brain a great quantity of ether. but it is not usual to take that liberty except with dogs. the inhalation, therefore, proceeds until the surgical operation is finished, when the handkerchief is withdrawn from the patient's face, and he is left to regain his senses. what happens then? what becomes of the ether? these learned frenchmen discovered that most of it goes out of the body by the road it came in at,--the lungs. it was breathed in; it is breathed out. the rest escapes by other channels of egress; it all escapes, and it escapes unchanged! that is the point: it escapes without having _left_ anything in the system. all that can be said of it is, that it entered the body, created morbid conditions in the body, and then left the body. it cost these patient men years to arrive at this result; but any one who has ever had charge of a patient that has been rendered insensible by ether will find little difficulty in believing it. having reached this demonstration, the experimenters naturally thought of applying the same method and similar apparatus to the investigation of the effects of alcohol, which is the fluid nearest resembling ether and chloroform. dogs and men suffered in the cause. in the moisture exhaled from the pores of a drunken dog's skin, these cunning frenchmen detected the alcohol which had made him drunk. they proved it to exist in the breath of a man, at six o'clock in the evening, who had drunk a bottle of claret for breakfast at half past ten in the morning. they also proved that, at midnight, the alcohol of that bottle of wine was still availing itself of other avenues of escape. they proved that when alcohol is taken into the system in any of its dilutions,--wine, cider, spirits, or beer,--the whole animal economy speedily busies itself with its expulsion, and continues to do so until it has expelled it. the lungs exhale it; the pores of the skin let out a little of it; the kidneys do their part; and by whatever other road an enemy can escape it seeks the outer air. like ether, alcohol enters the body, makes a disturbance there, and goes out of the body, leaving it no richer than it found it. it is a guest that departs, after giving a great deal of trouble, without paying his bill or "remembering" the servants. now, to make the demonstration complete, it would be necessary to take some unfortunate man or dog, give him a certain quantity of alcohol,--say one ounce,--and afterwards distil from his breath, perspiration, &c., the whole quantity that he had swallowed. this has not been done; it never will be done; it is obviously impossible. enough has been done to justify these conscientious and indefatigable inquirers in announcing, as a thing susceptible of all but demonstration, that alcohol contributes to the human system nothing whatever, but leaves it undigested and wholly unchanged. they are fully persuaded (and so will you be, reader, if you read their book) that, if you take into your system an ounce of alcohol, the whole ounce leaves the system within forty-eight hours, just as good alcohol as it went in. there is a boy in pickwick who swallowed a farthing. "out with it," said the father; and it is to be presumed--though mr. weller does not mention the fact--that the boy complied with a request so reasonable. just as much nutrition as that small copper coin left in the system of that boy, plus a small lump of sugar, did the claret which we drank yesterday deposit in ours; so, at least, we must infer from the experiments of messrs. lallemand, perrin, and duroy. to evidence of this purely scientific nature might be added, if space could be afforded, a long list of persons who, having indulged in wine for many years, have found benefit from discontinuing the use of it. most of us have known such instances. i have known several, and i can most truly say, that i have never known an individual in tolerable health who discontinued the use of any stimulant whatever without benefit. we all remember sydney smith's strong sentences on this point, scattered through the volume which contains the correspondence of that delicious humorist and wit. "i like london better than ever i liked it before," he writes in the prime of his prime (forty-three years old) to lady holland, "and simply, i believe, from water-drinking. without this, london is stupefaction and inflammation." so has new york become. again, in , when he was fifty-seven, to the same lady: "i not only was never better, but never half so well; indeed, i find i have been very ill all my life without knowing it. let me state some of the goods arising from abstaining from all fermented liquors. first, sweet sleep; having never known what sweet sleep was, i sleep like a baby or a plough-boy. if i wake, no needless terrors, no black visions of life, but pleasing hopes and pleasing recollections: holland house past and to come! if i dream, it is not of lions and tigers, but of easter dues and tithes. secondly, i can take longer walks and make greater exertions without fatigue. my understanding is improved, and i comprehend political economy. i see better without wine and spectacles than when i used both. only one evil ensues from it; i am in such extravagant spirits that i must lose blood, or look out for some one who will bore or depress me. pray leave off wine: the stomach is quite at rest; no heartburn, no pain, no distention." i have also a short catalogue of persons who, having long lived innocent of these agreeable drinks, began at length to use them. dr. franklin's case is striking. that "water american," as he was styled by the london printers, whose ceaseless guzzling of beer he ridiculed in his twentieth year, drank wine in his sixtieth with the freedom usual at that period among persons of good estate. "at parting," he writes in , when he was sixty-two, "after we had drank a bottle and a half of claret each, lord clare hugged and kissed me, protesting he never in his life met with a man he was so much in love with." the consequence of this departure from the customs of his earlier life was ten years of occasional acute torture from the stone and gravel. perhaps, if franklin had remained a "water american," he would have annexed canada to the united states at the peace of . an agonizing attack of stone laid him on his back for three months, just as the negotiation was becoming interesting; and by the time he was well again the threads were gone out of his hands into those of the worst diplomatists that ever threw a golden chance away. what are we to conclude from all this? are we to knock the heads out of all our wine-casks, join the temperance society, and denounce all men who do not follow our example? taking together all that science and observation teach and indicate, we have one certainty: that, to a person in good health and of good life, alcoholic liquors are not necessary, but are always in some degree hurtful. this truth becomes so clear, after a few weeks' investigation, that i advise every person who means to keep on drinking such liquors not to look into the facts; for if he does, he will never again be able to lift a glass of wine to his lips, nor contemplate a foaming tankard, nor mix his evening toddy, nor hear the pop and melodious gurgle of champagne, with that fine complacency which irradiates his countenance now, and renders it so pleasing a study to those who sit on the other side of the table. no; never again! even the flavor of those fluids will lose something of their charm. the conviction will obtrude itself upon his mind at most inopportune moments, that this drinking of wine, beer, and whiskey, to which we are so much addicted, is an enormous delusion. if the teetotalers would induce some rational being--say that public benefactor, dr. willard parker of new york--to collect into one small volume the substance of all the investigations alluded to in this article,--the substance of dr. beaumont's precious little book, the substance of the french professors' work, and the others,--adding no comment except such as might be necessary to elucidate the investigators' meaning, it could not but carry conviction to every candid and intelligent reader that spirituous drinks are to the healthy system an injury necessarily, and in all cases. the coming man, then, so long as he enjoys good health,--which he usually will from infancy to hoary age,--will _not_ drink wine, nor, of course, any of the coarser alcoholic dilutions. to that unclouded and fearless intelligence, science will be the supreme law; it will be to him more than the koran is to a mohammedan, and more than the infallible church is to a roman catholic. science, or, in other words, the law of god as revealed in nature, life, and history, and as ascertained by experiment, observation, and thought,--this will be the teacher and guide of the coming man. a single certainty in a matter of so much importance is not to be despised. i can now say to young fellows who order a bottle of wine, and flatter themselves that, in so doing, they approve themselves "jolly dogs": no, my lads, it is because you are dull dogs that you want the wine. you are forced to borrow excitement because you have squandered your natural gayety. the ordering of the wine is a confession of insolvency. when we feel it necessary to "take something" at certain times during the day, we are in a condition similar to that of a merchant who every day, about the anxious hour of half past two, has to run around among his neighbors borrowing credit. it is something disgraceful or suspicious. nature does not supply enough of inward force. we are in arrears. our condition is absurd; and, if we ought not to be alarmed, we ought at least to be ashamed. nor does the borrowed credit increase our store; it leaves nothing behind to enrich _us_, but takes something from our already insufficient stock; and the more pressing our need the more it costs us to borrow. but the coming man, blooming, robust, alert, and light-hearted as he will be, may not be always well. if, as he springs up a mountain-side, his foot slips, the law of gravitation will respect nature's darling too much to keep him from tumbling down the precipice; and, as he wanders in strange regions, an unperceived malaria may poison his pure and vivid blood. some generous errors, too, he may commit (although it is not probable), and expend a portion of his own life in warding off evil from the lives of others. fever may blaze even in his clear eyes; poison may rack his magnificent frame, and a long convalescence may severely try his admirable patience. will the coming man drink wine when he is sick? the question is not easily answered. one valuable witness on this branch of the inquiry is the late theodore parker. a year or two before his lamented death, when he was already struggling with the disease that terminated his existence, he wrote for his friend, dr. bowditch, "the consumptive history" of his family from , when his stalwart english ancestor settled in new england. the son of that ancestor built a house, in , upon the slope of a hill which terminated in "a great fresh meadow of spongy peat," which was "always wet all the year through," and from which "fogs could be seen gathering towards night of a clear day."[ ] in the third generation of the occupants of this house consumption was developed, and carried off eight children out of eleven, all between the ages of sixteen and nineteen. from that time consumption was the bane of the race, and spared not the offspring of parents who had removed from the family seat into localities free from malaria. one of the daughters of the house, who married a man of giant stature and great strength, became the mother of four sons. three of these sons, though settled in a healthy place and in an innoxious business, died of consumption between twenty and twenty-five. but the fourth son became intemperate,--drank great quantities of new england rum. he did _not_ die of the disease, but was fifty-five years of age when the account was written, and then exhibited no consumptive tendency! to this fact mr. parker added others:-- " . i know a consumptive family living in a situation like that i have mentioned for, perhaps, the same length of time, who had four sons. two of them were often drunk, and always intemperate,--one of them as long as i can remember; both consumptive in early life, but now both hearty men from sixty to seventy. the two others were temperate, one drinking moderately, the other but occasionally. they both died of consumption, the eldest not over forty-five. [ ] life and correspondence of theodore parker. by john weiss. vol. ii. p. . " . another consumptive family in such a situation as has been already described had many sons and several daughters. the daughters were all temperate, married, settled elsewhere, had children, died of consumption, bequeathing it also to their posterity. but five of the sons, whom i knew, were drunkards,--some, of the extremest description; they all had the consumptive build, and in early life showed signs of the disease, but none of them died of it; some of them are still burning in rum. there was one brother temperate, a farmer, living in the healthiest situation. but i was told he died some years ago of consumption." to these facts must be added one more woful than a thousand such,--that theodore parker himself, one of the most valuable lives upon the western continent, died of consumption in his fiftieth year. the inference which mr. parker drew from the family histories given was the following: "intemperate habits (where the man drinks a pure, though coarse and fiery, liquor, like new england rum) tend to check the consumptive tendency, though the drunkard, who himself escapes the consequences, may transmit the fatal seed to his children." there is not much comfort in this for topers; but the facts are interesting, and have their value. a similar instance is related by mr. charles knight; although in this case the poisoned air was more deadly, and more swift to destroy. mr. knight speaks, in his popular history of england, of the "careless and avaricious employers" of london, among whom, he says, the master-tailors were the most notorious. some of them would "huddle sixty or eighty workmen close together, nearly knee to knee, in a room fifty feet long by twenty feet broad, lighted from above, where the temperature in summer was thirty degrees higher than the temperature outside. young men from the country fainted when they were first confined in such a life-destroying prison; the maturer ones _sustained themselves by gin_, till they perished of consumption, or typhus, or delirium tremens." to a long list of such facts as these could be added instances in which the deadly agent was other than poisoned air,--excessive exertion, very bad food, gluttony, deprivation. during the war i knew of a party of cavalry who, for three days and three nights, were not out of the saddle fifteen minutes at a time. the men consumed two quarts of whiskey each, and all of them came in alive. it is a custom in england to extract the last possible five miles from a tired horse, when those miles _must_ be had from him, by forcing down his most unwilling throat a quart of beer. it is known, too, that life can be sustained for many years in considerable vigor, upon a remarkably short allowance of food, provided the victim keeps his system well saturated with alcohol. travellers across the plains to california tell us that, soon after getting past st. louis, they strike a region where the principal articles of diet are saleratus and grease, to which a little flour and pork are added; upon which, they say, human life cannot be sustained unless the natural waste of the system is retarded by "preserving" the tissues in whiskey. mr. greeley, however, got through alive without resorting to this expedient, but he confesses in one of his letters that he suffered pangs and horrors of indigestion. all such facts as these--and they could be collected in great numbers--indicate the real office of alcohol in our modern life: _it enables us to violate the laws of nature without immediate suffering and speedy destruction_. this appears to be its chief office, in conjunction with its ally, tobacco. those tailors would have soon died or escaped but for the gin; and those horsemen would have given up and perished but for the whiskey. nature commanded those soldiers to rest, but they were enabled, for the moment, to disobey her. doubtless nature was even with them afterwards; but, for the time, they could _defy_ their mother great and wise. alcohol supported them in doing wrong. alcohol and tobacco support half the modern world in doing wrong. that is their part--their _rôle_, as the french investigators term it--in the present life of the human race. dr. great practice would naturally go to bed at ten o'clock, when he comes in from his evening visits. it is his cigar that keeps him up till half past twelve, writing those treatises which make him famous, and shorten his life. lawyer heavy fee takes home his papers, pores over them till past one, and then depends upon whiskey to quiet his brain and put him to sleep. young bohemian gets away from the office of the morning paper which enjoys the benefit of his fine talents at three o'clock. it is two mugs of lager-bier which enable him to endure the immediate consequences of eating a supper before going home. this is mad work, my masters; it is respectable suicide, nothing better. there is a paragraph now making the grand tour of the newspapers, which informs the public that there was a dinner given the other evening in new york consisting of twelve courses, and keeping the guests five hours at the table. for five hours, men and women sat consuming food, occupying half an hour at each viand. what could sustain human nature in such an amazing effort? what could enable them to look into one another's faces without blushing scarlet at the infamy of such a waste of time, food, and digestive force? what concealed from them the iniquity and deep vulgarity of what they were doing? the explanation of this mystery is given in the paragraph that records the crime: "there was a different kind of wine for each course." even an ordinary dinner-party,--what mortal could eat it through, or sit it out, without a constant sipping of wine to keep his brain muddied, and lash his stomach to unnatural exertion. the joke of it is, that we all know and confess to one another how absurd such banquets are, and yet few have the courage and humanity to feed their friends in a way which they can enjoy, and feel the better for the next morning. when i saw mr. dickens eating and drinking his way through the elegantly bound book which mr. delmonico substituted for the usual bill of fare at the dinner given by the press last april to the great artist,--a task of three hours' duration,--when, i say, i saw mr. dickens thus engaged, i wondered which banquet was the furthest from being the right thing,--the one to which he was then vainly trying to do justice, or the one of which martin chuzzlewit partook, on the day he landed in new york, at mrs. pawkins's boarding-house. the poultry, on the latter occasion, "disappeared as if every bird had had the use of its wings, and had flown in desperation down a human throat. the oysters, stewed and pickled, leaped from their capacious reservoirs, and slid by scores into the mouths of the assembly. the sharpest pickles vanished, whole cucumbers at once, like sugar-plums, and no man winked his eye. great heaps of indigestible matter melted away as ice before the sun. it was a solemn and an awful thing to see." of course, the company adjourned from the dining-room to "the bar-room in the next block," where they imbibed strong drink enough to keep their dinner from prostrating them. the delmonico banquet was a very different affair. our public dinners are all arranged on the english system; for we have not yet taken up with the fine, sweeping principle, that whatever is right for england is wrong for america. hence, not a lady was present! within a day's journey of new york there are about thirty ladies who write regularly for the periodical press, besides as many more, perhaps, who contribute to it occasionally. many editors, too, derive constant and important assistance, in the exercise of their profession, from their wives and daughters, who read books for them, suggest topics, correct errors, and keep busy editors in mind of the great truth that more than one half the human race is female. mrs. kemble, who had a treble claim to a seat at that table, was not many miles distant. why were none of these gifted ladies present to grace and enliven the scene? the true answer is: _wine and smoke_! not _our_ wine and smoke, but those of our british ancestors who invented public dinners. the hospitable young gentlemen who had the affair in charge would have been delighted, no doubt, to depart from the established system, but hardly liked to risk so tremendous an innovation on an occasion of so much interest. if it had been put to the vote (by ballot), when the company had assembled, shall we have ladies or not? all the hard drinkers, all the old smokers, would have furtively written "not" upon their ballots. those who drink little wine, and do not depend upon that little; those who do not smoke or can easily dispense with smoke,--would have voted for the ladies; and the ladies would have carried the day by the majority which is so hard to get,--two thirds. it was a wise man who discovered that a small quantity of excellent soup is a good thing to begin a dinner with. he deserves well of his species. the soup allays the hungry savage within us, and restores us to civilization and to one another. nor is he to be reckoned a traitor to his kind who first proclaimed that a little very nice and dainty fish, hot and crisp from the fire, is a pleasing introduction to more substantial viands. six oysters upon their native shell, fresh from their ocean home, and freshly opened, small in size, intense in flavor, cool, but not too cold, radiating from a central quarter of a lemon,--this, too, was a fine conception, worthy of the age in which we live. but in what language can we characterize aright the abandoned man who first presumed to tempt christians to begin a repast by partaking of _all_ three of these,--oysters, soup, _and_ fish? the object is defeated. the true purpose of these introductory trifles is to appease the appetite in a slight degree, so as to enable us to take sustenance with composure and dignity, and dispose the company to conversation. when a properly constituted person has eaten six oysters, a plate of soup, and the usual portion of fish, with the proper quantity of potatoes and bread, he has taken as much sustenance as nature requires. all the rest of the banquet is excess; and being excess, it is also mistake; it is a diminution of the sum-total of pleasure which the repast was capable of affording. but when mr. delmonico had brought us successfully so far on our way through his book; when we had consumed our oysters, our cream of asparagus in the dumas style, our kettle-drums in the manner of charles dickens, and our trout cooked so as to do honor to queen victoria, we had only picked up a few pebbles on the shore of the banquet, while the great ocean of food still stretched out before us illimitable. the fillet of beef after the manner of lucullus, the stuffed lamb in the style of sir walter scott, the cutlets à la fenimore cooper, the historic pâtés, the sighs of mantalini, and a dozen other efforts of mr. delmonico's genius, remained to be attempted. no man would willingly eat or sit through such a dinner without plenty of wine, which here plays its natural part,--supporting us in doing wrong. it is the wine which enables people to keep on eating for three hours, and to cram themselves with highly concentrated food, without rolling on the floor in agony. it is the wine which puts it within our power to consume, in digesting one dinner, the force that would suffice for the digestion of three. on that occasion mr. dickens was invited to visit us every twenty-five years "for the rest of his life," to see how we are getting on. the coming man may be a guest at the farewell banquet which the press will give to the venerable author in . that banquet will consist of three courses; and, instead of seven kinds of wine and various brands of cigars, there will be at every table its due proportion of ladies, the ornaments of their own sex, the instructors of ours, the boast and glory of the future press of america. wine, ale, and liquors, administered strictly as medicine,--what of them? doctors differ on the subject, and known facts point to different conclusions. distinguished physicians in england are of the opinion that prince albert would be alive at this moment if _no_ wine had been given him during his last sickness; but there were formerly those who thought that the princess charlotte would have been saved, if, at the crisis of her malady, she could have _had_ the glass of port wine which she craved and asked for. the biographers of william pitt--lord macaulay among them--tell us, that at fourteen that precocious youth was tormented by inherited gout, and that the doctors prescribed a hair of the same dog which had bitten his ancestor from whom the gout was derived. the boy, we are told, used to consume two bottles of port a day; and, after keeping up this regimen for several months, he recovered his health, and retained it until, at the age of forty-seven, the news of ulm and austerlitz struck him mortal blows. professor james miller, of the university of edinburgh, a decided teetotaler, declares _for_ wine in bad cases of fever; but dr. r. t. trall, another teetotaler, says that during the last twenty years he has treated hundreds of cases of fevers on the cold-water system, and "not yet lost the first one"; although, during the first ten years of his practice, when he gave wine and other stimulants, he lost "about the usual proportion of cases." the truth appears to be that, in a few instances of intermittent disease, a small quantity of wine may sometimes enable a patient who is at the low tide of vitality to anticipate the turn of the tide, and borrow at four o'clock enough of five o'clock strength to enable him to reach five o'clock. with regard to this daily drinking of wine and whiskey, by ladies and others, for mere debility, it is a delusion. in such cases wine is, in the most literal sense of the word, a mocker. it seems to nourish, but does not; it seems to warm, but does not; it seems to strengthen, but does not. it is an arrant cheat, and perpetuates the evils it is supposed to alleviate. the coming man, as before remarked, will not drink wine when he is well. it will be also an article of his religion not to commit any of those sins against his body the consequences of which can be postponed by drinking wine. he will hold his body in veneration. he will feel all the turpitude and shame of violating it. he will not acquire the greatest intellectual good by the smallest bodily loss. he will know that mental acquisitions gained at the expense of physical power or prowess are not culture, but effeminacy. he will honor a rosy and stalwart ignoramus, who is also an honest man, faithfully standing at his post; but he will start back with affright and indignation at the spectacle of a pallid philosopher. the coming man, i am firmly persuaded, will not drink wine, nor any other stimulating fluid. if by chance he should be sick, he will place himself in the hands of the coming doctor, and take whatever is prescribed. the impression is strong upon my mind, after reading almost all there is in print on the subject, and conversing with many physicians, that the coming doctor will give his patients alcoholic mixtures about as often as he will give them laudanum, and in doses of about the same magnitude, reckoned by drops. we drinkers have been in the habit, for many years, of playing off the wine countries against the teetotalers; but even this argument fails us when we question the men who really know the wine countries. alcohol appears to be as pernicious to man in italy, france, and southern germany, where little is taken except in the form of wine, as it is in sweden, scotland, russia, england, and the united states, where more fiery and powerful dilutions are usual. fenimore cooper wrote: "i came to europe under the impression that there was more drunkenness among us than in any other country,--england, perhaps, excepted. a residence of six months in paris changed my views entirely; i have taken unbelievers with me into the streets, and have never failed to convince them of their mistake in the course of an hour.... on one occasion a party of four went out with this object; we passed thirteen drunken men within a walk of an hour,--many of them were so far gone as to be totally unable to walk.... in passing between paris and london, i have been more struck by drunkenness in the streets of the former than in those of the latter." horatio greenough gives similar testimony respecting italy: "many of the more thinking and prudent italians abstain from the use of wine; several of the most eminent of the medical men are notoriously opposed to its use, and declare it a poison. one fifth, and sometimes one fourth, of the earnings of the laborers are expended in wine." i have been surprised at the quantity, the emphasis, and the uniformity of the testimony on this point. close observers of the famous beer countries, such as saxony and bavaria, where the beer is pure and excellent, speak of this delicious liquid as the chief enemy of the nobler faculties and tastes of human nature. the surplus wealth, the surplus time, the surplus force of those nations, are chiefly expended in fuddling the brain with beer. now, no reader needs to be informed that the progress of man, of nations, and of men depends upon the use they make of their little surplus. it is not a small matter, but a great and weighty consideration,--the cost of these drinks in mere money. we drinkers must make out a very clear case in order to justify such a country as france in producing a _billion and a half of dollars'_ worth of wine and brandy per annum. the teetotalers, then, are right in their leading positions, and yet they stand aghast, wondering at their failure to convince mankind. mr. e. g. delavan writes from paris within these few weeks: "when i was here thirty years since, louis philippe told me that wine was the curse of france; that he wished every grapevine was destroyed, except for the production of food; that total abstinence was the only true temperance; but he did not believe there were fifteen persons in paris who understood it as it was understood by his family and myself; but he hoped from the labors in america, in time, an influence would flow back upon france that would be beneficial. i am here again after the lapse of so many years, and in place of witnessing any abatement of the evil, i think it is on the increase, especially in the use of distilled spirits." the teetotalers have underrated the difficulty of the task they have undertaken, and misconceived its nature. it is not the great toe that most requires treatment when a man has the gout, although it is the great toe that makes him roar. when we look about us, and consider the present physical life of man, we are obliged to conclude that the whole head is sick and the whole heart is faint. drinking is but a symptom which reveals the malady. perhaps, if we were all to stop our guzzling suddenly, _without_ discontinuing our other bad habits, we should rather lose by it than gain. alcohol supports us in doing wrong! it prevents our immediate destruction. the thing for us to do is, to strike at the causes of drinking, to cease the bad breathing, the bad eating, the bad reading, the bad feeling and bad thinking, which, in a sense, necessitate bad drinking. for some of the teetotal organizations might be substituted physical welfare societies. the human race is now on trial for its life! one hundred and three years ago last april, james watt, a poor scotch mechanic, while taking his walk on sunday afternoon on glasgow green, conceived the idea which has made steam man's submissive and untiring slave. steam enables the fifteen millions of adults in great britain and ireland to produce more commodities than the whole population of the earth could produce without its assistance. steam, plus the virgin soil of two new continents, has placed the means of self-destruction within the reach of hundreds of millions of human beings whose ancestors were almost as safe in their ignorance and poverty as the beasts they attended. at the same time, the steam-engine is an infuriate propagator; and myriad creatures of its producing--creatures of eager desires, thin brains, excessive vanity, and small self-control--seem formed to bend the neck to the destructive tyranny of fashion, and yield helplessly to the more destructive tyranny of habit. the steam-engine gives them a great variety of the means of self-extirpation,--air-tight houses, labor-saving machines, luxurious food, stimulating drinks, highly wrought novels, and many others. let _all_ women for the next century but wear such restraining clothes as are now usual, and it is doubtful if the race could ever recover from the effects; it is doubtful if there could ever again be a full-orbed, bouncing baby. wherever we look, we see the human race dwindling. the english aristocracy used to be thought an exception, but miss nightingale says not. she tells us that the great houses of england, like the small houses of america, contain great-grandmothers possessing constitutions without a flaw, grandmothers but slightly impaired, mothers who are often ailing and never strong, daughters who are miserable and hopeless invalids. and the steam-engine has placed efficient means of self-destruction within reach of the kitchen, the stable, the farm, and the shop; and those means of self-destruction are all but universally used. perhaps man has nearly run his course in this world, and is about to disappear, like the mammoth, and give place to some nobler kind of creature who will manage the estate better than the present occupant. certainly we cannot boast of having done very well with it, nor could we complain if we should receive notice to leave. perhaps james watt came into the world to extinguish his species. if so, it is well. let us go on eating, drinking, smoking, over-working, idling, men killing themselves to buy clothes for their wives, wives killing themselves by wearing them, children petted and candied into imbecility and diphtheria. in that case, of course, there will be no coming man, and we need not take the trouble to inquire what he will do. but probably the instinct of self-preservation will assert itself in time, and an antidote to the steam-engine will be found before it has impaired the whole race beyond recovery. to have discovered the truth with regard to the effects of alcohol upon the system was of itself no slight triumph of the self-preserving principle. it is probable that the truly helpful men of the next hundred years will occupy themselves very much with the physical welfare of the race, without which no other welfare is possible. inebriate asylums, and a visit to one. there are two kinds of drunkards,--the regular and the occasional. of each of these two classes there are several varieties, and, indeed, there are no two cases precisely alike; but every drunkard in the world is either a person who has lost the power to refrain from drinking a certain large quantity of alcoholic liquor every day, or he is one who has lost the power to refrain from drinking an uncertain enormous quantity now and then. few get drunk habitually who can refrain. if they could refrain, they would; for to no creatures is drunkenness so loathsome and temperance so engaging as to seven tenths of the drunkards. there are a few very coarse men, of heavy, stolid, animal organization, who almost seem formed by nature to absorb alcohol, and in whom there is not enough of manhood to be ashamed of its degradation. these dr. albert day, the superintendent of the new york state inebriate asylum, sometimes calls natural drunkards. they like strong drink for its own sake; they have a kind of sulky enjoyment of its muddling effect upon such brains as they happen to have; and when once the habit is fixed, nothing can deliver them except stone walls and iron bars. there are also a few drunkards of very light calibre, trifling persons, incapable of serious reflection or of a serious purpose, their very terrors being trivial and transitory, who do not care for the ruin in which they are involved. generally speaking, however, drunkards hate the servitude into which they have had the misfortune to fall; they long to escape from it, have often tried to escape, and if they have given up, it is only after having so many times slidden back into the abyss, that they feel it would be of no use to climb again. as mrs. h. b. stowe remarks, with that excellent charity of hers, which is but another name for refined justice, "many a drunkard has expended more virtue in vain endeavors to break his chain than suffices to carry an ordinary christian to heaven." the daily life of one of the steady drunkards is like this: upon getting up in the morning, after a heavy, restless, drunkard's sleep, he is miserable beyond expression, and almost helpless. in very bad cases, he will see double, and his hands will tremble so that he cannot lift to his lips the glass for which he has a desire amounting to mania. two or three stiff glasses of spirituous liquor will restore him so far that he can control his muscles, and get about without betraying his condition. after being up an hour, and drinking every ten or fifteen minutes, he will usually be able to eat a pretty good breakfast, which, with the aid of coffee, tobacco, and a comparatively small quantity of liquor, he will be able to digest. after breakfast, for some hours he will generally be able to transact routine business, and associate with his fellows without exciting their pity or contempt. as dinner-time draws near he feels the necessity of creating an appetite; which he often accomplishes by drinking some of those infernal compounds which are advertised on the eternal rocks and mountain-sides as bitters,--a mixture of bad drugs with worse spirits. these bitters do lash the torpid powers into a momentary, morbid, fierce activity, which enables the victim to eat even a superabundant dinner. the false excitement subsides, but the dinner remains, and it has to be digested. this calls for an occasional drink for three or four hours, after which the system is exhausted, and the man feels dull and languid. he is exhausted, but he is not tranquil; he craves a continuation of the stimulant with a craving which human nature, so abused and perverted, never resists. by this time it is evening, when all the apparatus of temptation is in the fullest activity, and all the loose population of the town is abroad. he now begins his evening debauch, and keeps up a steady drinking until he can drink no more, when he stumbles home to sleep off the stupefying fumes, and awake to the horror and decrepitude of a drunkard's morning. the quantity of spirituous liquor required to keep one of these unhappy men in this degrading slavery varies from a pint a day to two quarts. many drunkards consume a quart of whiskey every day for years. the regular allowance of one gentleman of the highest position, both social and official, who made his way to the inebriate asylum, had been two quarts of brandy a day for about five years. the most remarkable known case is that of a hoary-headed man of education and fortune, residing in the city of new york, who confesses to taking "fifty drinks a day" of whiskey,--ten drinks to a bottle, and five bottles to a gallon. one gallon of liquor, he _says_, goes down his old throat every day of the year. before he is fit to eat his breakfast in the morning he has to drink twelve glasses of whiskey, or one bottle and one fifth. nevertheless, even this poor man is able, for some hours of the morning, to transact what people of property and leisure call business, and, during a part of the evening, to converse in such a way as to amuse persons who can look on and see a human being in such bondage without stopping to think what a tragedy it is. this old boy never has to be carried home, i believe. he is one of those most hopeless drunkards who never get drunk, never wallow in the gutter, never do anything to scare or startle them into an attempt to reform. he is like a certain german "puddler" who was pointed out to me in a pittsburg iron-works, who consumes exactly seven dollars' worth of lager-bier every seven days,--twenty glasses a day, at five cents each. he is also like the men employed in the dismal work of the brewery, who are allowed as much beer as they can drink, and who generally do drink as much as they can. such persons are always fuddled and stupid, but seldom drunk enough to alarm their neighbors or themselves. perhaps they are the only persons in all the world who are in any degree justified in passing their lives in a state of suspended intelligence; those of them at least whose duty it is to get inside of enormous beer barrels, and there, in darkness and solitude, in an atmosphere reeking and heavy with stale ale, scrape and mop them out before they are refilled. when you see their dirty, pale faces at the "man-hole" of the barrel, down in the rumbling bowels of the earth, in one of those vast caves of beer in cincinnati, you catch yourself saying, "drink, poor devils, drink! soak what brains you have in beer!" what can a man want with brains in a beer-barrel? but then, you think again, even these poor men need their brains when they get home; and _we_ need that they should have brains on the first tuesday in november. it is that _going home_ which makes drunkenness so dire a tragedy. if the drunkard could only shut himself up with a whiskey-barrel, or a pipe of madeira, and quietly guzzle himself to death, it would be a pity, but it could be borne. he never does this; he goes home to make that home perdition to some good souls that love him, or depend upon him, and cannot give him up. there are men at the asylum near binghamton, who have admirable wives, beautiful and accomplished daughters, venerable parents, whose portraits are there in the patient's trunks, and who write daily letters to cheer the absent one, whose absence now, for the firsts time in years, does not terrify them. _they_ are the victims of drunkenness,--they who never taste strong drink. for _their_ deliverance, this asylum stands upon its hill justified in existing. the men themselves are interesting, valuable, precious, worth every rational effort that can be made to save them; but it is those whom they left at home anxious and desolate that have the first claim upon our consideration. with regard to these steady, regular drunkards, the point to be noted is this: very few of them can stop drinking while they continue to perform their daily labor; they absolutely _depend_ upon the alcohol to rouse their torpid energies to activity. their jaded constitutions will not budge without the spur. everything within them gapes and hungers for the accustomed stimulant. this is the case, even in a literal sense; for it seems, from dr. day's dissections, that the general effect of excessive drinking is to enlarge the globules of which the brain, the blood, the liver, and other organs are composed, so that those globules, as it were, stand open-mouthed, empty, athirst, inflamed, and most eager to be filled. a man whose every organ is thus diseased cannot usually take the first step toward cure without ceasing for a while to make any other demands upon himself. this is the great fact of his condition. if he is a true drunkard, i.e. if he has lost the power to do his work without excessive alcoholic stimulation, then there is no cure possible for him without rest. here we have the simple explanation of mrs. stowe's fine remark just quoted. this is why so many thousand wives spend their days in torment between hope and despair,--hope kindled by the husband's efforts to regain possession of himself, and despair caused by his repeated, his inevitable relapses. the unfortunate man tries to do two things at once, the easiest of which is as much as he can accomplish; while the hardest is a task which, even with the advantage of perfect rest, few can perform without assistance. the occasional drunkard is a man who is a teetotaler for a week, two weeks, a month, three months, six months, and who, at the end of his period, is tempted to drink one glass of alcoholic liquor. that one glass has upon him two effects; it rouses the slumbering demon of desire, and it perverts his moral judgment. all at once his honor and good name, the happiness and dignity of his family, his success in business, all that he held dearest a moment before, seem small to him, and he thinks he has been a fool of late to concern himself so much about them. or else he thinks he can drink without being found out, and without its doing him the harm it did the last time. whatever may be the particular delusion that seizes him, the effect is the same; he drinks, and drinks, and drinks, keeping it up sometimes for ten days, or even for several weeks, until the long debauch ends in utter exhaustion or in delirium tremens. he is then compelled to submit to treatment; he must needs go to the inebriate asylum of his own bed-room. there, whether he raves or droops, he is the most miserable wretch on earth; for, besides the bodily tortures which he surfers, he has to endure the most desolating pang that a decent human being ever knows,--the loss of his self-respect. he abhors himself and is ashamed; he remembers past relapses and despairs; he cannot look his own children in the face; he wishes he had never been born, or had died in the cursed hour, vividly remembered, when this appetite mastered him first. as his health is restored, his hopes revive; he renews his resolution and he resumes his ordinary routine, subdued, distrustful of himself, and on the watch against temptation. why he again relapses he can hardly tell, but he always does. sometimes a snarl in business perplexes him, and he drinks for elucidation. sometimes melancholy oppresses him, and he drinks to drive dull care away. sometimes good fortune overtakes him, or an enchanting day in june or october attunes his heart to joy, and he is taken captive by the strong delusion that now is the time to drink and be glad. often it is lovely woman who offers the wine, and offers it in such a way that he thinks he cannot refuse without incivility or confession. from conversation with the inmates of the inebriate asylum, i am confident that mr. greeley's assertion with regard to the wine given at the communion is correct. that sip might be enough to awaken the desire. the mere odor of the wine filling the church might be too much for some men. there appears to be a physical cause for this extreme susceptibility. dr. day has once had the opportunity to examine the brain of a man who, after having been a drunkard, reformed, and lived for some years a teetotaler. he found, to his surprise, that the globules of the brain had not shrunk to their natural size. they did not exhibit the inflammation of the drunkard's brain, but they were still enlarged, and seemed ready on the instant to absorb the fumes of alcohol, and resume their former condition. he thought he saw in this morbid state of the brain the physical part of the reason why a man who has once been a drunkard can never again, as long as he lives, safely take one drop of any alcoholic liquor. he thought he saw why a glass of wine puts the man back instantly to where he was when he drank all the time. he saw the citadel free from the enemy, swept and clean, but undefended, incapable of defence, and its doors opened wide to the enemy's return; so that there was no safety, except in keeping the foe at a distance, away beyond the outermost wall. there are many varieties of these occasional drunkards, and, as a class, they are perhaps the hardest to cure. edgar poe was one of them; half a glass of wine would set him off upon a wild, reckless debauch, that would last for days. all such persons as artists, writers, and actors used to be particularly subject to this malady, before they had any recognized place in the world, or any acknowledged right to exist at all. men whose labors are intense, but irregular, whose gains are small and uncertain, who would gladly be gentlemen, but are compelled to content themselves with being loafers, are in special danger; and so are men whose toil is extremely monotonous. printers, especially those who work at night upon newspapers, are, perhaps, of all men the most liable to fall under the dominion of drink. some of them have persuaded themselves that they rest under a kind of necessity to "go on a tear" now and then, as a relief from such grinding work as theirs. on the contrary, one "tear" creates the temptation to another; for the man goes back to his work weak, depressed, and irritable; the monotony of his labor is aggravated by the incorrectness with which he does it, and the longing to break loose and renew the oblivion of drink strengthens rapidly, until it masters him once more. of these periodical drunkards it is as true as it is of their regular brethren, that they cannot conquer the habit without being relieved for a while of their daily labor. this malady is so frequent among us, that hardly an individual will cast his eyes over these pages who cannot call to mind at least one person who has struggled with it for many years, and struggled in vain. they attempt too much. their periodical "sprees," "benders," or "tears" are a connected series, each a cause and an effect, an heir and a progenitor. after each debauch, the man returns to his routine in just the state of health, in just the state of mind, to be irritated, disgusted, and exhausted by that routine; and, at every moment of weakness, there is always present the temptation to seek the deadly respite of alcohol. the moment arrives when the desire becomes too strong for him, and the victim yields to it by a law as sure, as irresistible, as that which makes the apple seek the earth's centre when it is disengaged from the tree. it is amazing to see how helpless men can be against such a habit, while they are compelled to continue their daily round of duties. not ignorant men only, nor bad men, nor weak men, but men of good understanding, of rare gifts, of the loftiest aspirations, of characters the most amiable, engaging, and estimable, and of will sufficient for every purpose but this. they _know_ the ruin that awaits them, or in which they are already involved, better than we other sinners know it; they hate their bondage worse than the most uncharitable of their friends can despise it; they look with unutterable envy upon those who still have dominion over themselves; many, very many of them would give all they have for deliverance; and yet self-deliverance is impossible. there are men among them who have been trying for thirty years to abstain, and still they drink. some of them have succeeded in lengthening the sober interval, and they will live with strictest correctness for six months or more, and then, taking that first fatal glass, will immediately lose their self-control, and drink furiously for days and nights; drink until they are obliged to use drunken artifice to get the liquid into their mouths,--their hands refusing their office. whether they take a large quantity of liquor every day, or an immense quantity periodically, makes no great difference, the disease is essentially the same; the difficulties in the way of cure are the same; the remedial measures must be the same. a drunkard, in short, is a person so diseased by alcohol, that he cannot get through his work without keeping his system saturated with it, or without such weariness and irritation as furnish irresistible temptation to a debauch. he is, in other words, a fallen brother, who cannot get upon his feet without help, and who can generally get upon his feet with help. upon this truth inebriate asylums are founded; their object being to afford the help needed. there are now four such institutions in the united states: one in boston, opened in , called the washingtonian home; one in media, near philadelphia, opened in , called the sanitarium; one at chicago, opened in ; and one at binghamton, new york, called the new york inebriate asylum. the one last named was founded in , if the laying of the corner-stone with grand ceremonial can be called founding it; and it has been opened some years for the reception of patients; but it had no real existence as an asylum for the cure of inebriates until the year , when the present superintendent, dr. albert day, assumed control. the history of the institution previous to that time ought to be related fully for the warning of a preoccupied and subscribing public, but space cannot be afforded for it here. the substance of it, as developed in sundry reports of trials and pamphlets of testimony, is this: fifteen or twenty years ago, an english adventurer living in the city of new york, calling himself a doctor, and professing to treat unnamable diseases, thought he saw in this notion of an inebriate asylum (then much spoken of) a chance for feathering his nest. he entered upon the enterprise without delay, and he displayed a good deal of nervous energy in getting the charter, collecting money, and erecting the building. the people of binghamton, misled by his representations, gave a farm of two hundred and fifty-two acres for the future inmates to cultivate, which was two hundred acres too much; and to this tract farms still more superfluous have been added, until the asylum estate contains more than five hundred acres. an edifice was begun on the scale of an imperial palace, which will have cost, by the time it is finished and furnished, a million dollars. the restless man pervaded the state raising money, and creating public opinion in favor of the institution. for several years he was regarded as one of the great originating philanthropists of the age; and this the more because he always gave out that he was laboring in the cause from pure love of the inebriate, and received no compensation. but the time came when his real object and true character were revealed. in he carried his disinterestedness so far as to offer to _give_ to the institution, as part of its permanent fund, the entire amount to which he said he was entitled for services rendered and expenses incurred. this amount was two hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars, which would certainly have been a handsome gift. when he was asked for the items of his account, he said he had charged for eighteen years' services in founding the institution, at thirty-five hundred dollars a year, and the rest was travelling-expenses, clerk hire, and salaries paid to agents. the trustees were puzzled to know how a man who, at the beginning of the enterprise, had no visible property, could have expended so much out of his private resources, while exercising an unremunerated employment. leaving that conundrum unsolved, they were able at length to conjecture the object of the donation. one of the articles of the charter provided that any person giving ten dollars to the institution should be a stockholder, and entitled to a vote at the election of trustees. every gift of ten dollars was a vote! if, therefore, this astounding claim had been allowed, and the _gift_ accepted, the audacious villain would have been constituted owner of four fifths of the governing stock, and the absolute controller of the entire property of the institution! it was a bold game, and the strangest part of the story is, that it came near succeeding. it required the most arduous exertions of a public-spirited board of trustees, headed by dr. willard parker, to oust the man who, even after the discovery of his scheme, played his few last cards so well that he had to be bought off by a considerable sum cash down. an incident of the disastrous reign of this individual was the burning of one of the wings of the building, after he had had it well insured. the insurance was paid him ($ , ); and there was a trial for arson,--a crime which is easy to commit, and hard to prove. binghamton convicted the prisoner, but the jury was obliged to acquit him.[ ] [ ] the man and his confederates must have carried off an enormous booty. the local trustees say, in their report for :-- "less than two years ago the asylum received about $ , from insurance companies for damage done by fire to the north wing. about $ , have since been received from the counties; making from these two sources about $ , ; and, although the buildings and grounds remain in the same unfinished state as when the fire occurred, except a small amount of work done in one or two wards in the south wing, the $ , have nearly disappeared.... aside from the payment of interest and insurance, this money has been expended by dr. ----, and in just such ways as he thought proper to use it. "it may well be asked why this is so. the answer is, that dr. ---- assumes and exercises supreme control, and allows no interference, at least on the part of the resident trustees.... "his control and management of everything connected with the institution has been as absolute in fact, if not in form, as if he were its sole proprietor. he goes to albany to obtain legislation giving him extraordinary police powers, without as much as even informing the trustees of his intentions. when the iron grates for the windows of the lower ward were obtained, the resident trustees knew nothing of the matter, until they were informed that the patients were looking through barred windows. everything has been done in the same way. he is not known to have had any other official relation to the institution by regular appointment than that of corresponding secretary, and yet he has exercised a power over its affairs which has defied all restraint. he lives there with his family, without a salary, and without individual resources, and dispenses hospitality or charity to his kindred with as much freedom and unreserve as if he owned everything and had unlimited means at his command. in fact, incredible as it may seem, he claims that he is virtually the owner of the institution. and his claim might have challenged contradiction, had his plans succeeded." such things may be done in a community where almost every one is benevolent enough to give money towards an object that promises to mitigate human woe, but where scarcely any one has leisure to watch the expenditure of that sacred treasure! the institution, after it was open, remained for two years under the blight of this person's control. everything he did was wrong. ignorant, obstinate, passionate, fussy, and false,--plausible and obsequious at albany, a violent despot at the asylum,--he was, of all the people in the world, the precisely worst man to conduct an experiment so novel and so abounding in difficulties. if he had a theory, it was that an inebriate is something between a criminal and a lunatic, who is to be punished like the one and restrained like the other. his real object seemed to be, after having received payment for a patient six months in advance, to starve and madden him into a sudden departure. the very name chosen by him for the institution proves his hopeless incompetency. "inebriate asylum!" that name to-day is, perhaps, the greatest single obstacle to its growth. he began by affixing a stigma to the unfortunate men who had honored themselves by making so gallant an effort at self-recovery. but let the man and his doings pass into oblivion. there never yet was a bad man who was not, upon the whole, a very stupid ass. all the genuine intelligence in the world resides in virtuous minds. when, therefore, i have said that this individual was an unprincipled adventurer, i have also said that he was signally incapable of conducting an institution like this. while we, in the state of new york, were blundering on in this way, permitting a million dollars of public and private money to be lavished in the attempt to found an asylum, a few quiet people in boston, aided by a small annual grant from the legislature, had actually established one, and kept it going for nine years, during which three thousand inebriates had been received, and two thousand of them cured! the thing was accomplished in the simplest way. they hired the best house for the purpose that chanced to be vacant, fitted it up at the least possible expense, installed in it as superintendent an honest man whose heart was in the business, and opened its doors for the reception of patients. by and by, when they had results to show, they asked the legislature for a little help, which was granted, and has been renewed from year to year ever since. the sum voted has never exceeded five thousand dollars in any year, and there are three men in boston at this moment reclaimed from drunkenness by the washingtonian home who pay taxes enough to support it. in an enterprise for the management of which no precedents exist, everything of course depends upon the chief. when you have got the right man at the head, you have got everything; and until you have got the right man there, you have got nothing. albert day, the superintendent for nine years of the washingtonian home at boston, and during the last year and a half the superintendent of the asylum at binghamton, has originated nearly all that is known of the art of curing the mania for alcohol. he struck into the right path at once, guided by instinct and sympathy, rather than by science or reflection. he was not a professional person; he was simply a business man of good new england education, who had two special qualifications for his new position,--first, a singular pity for drunkards; and, secondly, a firm belief that, with timely and right assistance, a majority of them could be restored to self-control. this pity and this faith he had possessed for many years, and they had both grown strong by exercise. when he was a child upon his father's farm in maine, he saw in his own home and all around him the evils resulting from the general use of alcoholic liquors, so that when the orators of teetotalism came along he was ready to receive their message. he is one of the very few persons now living in the world who never partook of an alcoholic beverage,--so early was he convinced of their preposterous inutility. losing his father at thirteen, he at once took hold of life in the true yankee way. he tied up his few worldly effects into a bundle, and, slinging it over his shoulder, walked to a farmer's house not many miles away, and addressed to him a plain question, "do you want to hire a boy?" to which the farmer with equal directness replied, "yes." from hoeing corn and chopping wood the lad advanced to an apprenticeship, and learned a mechanical trade; and so made his way to early marriage, decent prosperity, and a seat in the legislature of massachusetts. from the age of sixteen he was known, wherever he lived, as a stanch teetotaler, and also as one who would befriend a drunkard after others had abandoned him to his fate. i once heard dr. day relate the occurrence which produced in his mind the conviction that drunkards could be rescued from the domination of their morbid appetite. one evening, when he came home from his work, he heard that a certain jack watts, the sot of the neighborhood, was starving with his wife and three young children. after tea he went to see him. in treating this first patient, albert day hit upon the very method he has ever since pursued, and so i beg the reader will note the manner in which he proceeded. on entering his cottage he was as polite to him, as considerate of his dignity as head of a household, as he could have been to the first man of the village. "mr. watts," said he, after the usual salutations, "i hear you are in straitened circumstances." the man, who was then quite sober, replied: "i am; my two youngest children went to bed crying for food, and i had none to give them. i spent my last three cents over there," pointing to a grog-shop opposite, "and the bar-keeper said to me, as he took the money, says he, 'jack watts, you're a fool'; and so i am." here was a chance for a fine moral lecture. albert day indulged in nothing of the kind. he said, "mr. watts, excuse me for a few minutes"; and he went out, returning soon with a basket containing some flour, pork, and other materials for a supper. "now, mrs. watts, cook something, and wake your children up, and give them something to eat. i'll call again early in the morning. good night." perfect civility, no reproaches, no lecture, practical help of the kind needed and at the time needed. observe, too, that the man was in the condition of mind in which patients usually are when they make the _confession_ implied in entering an asylum. he was at the end of his tether. he was--to use the language of the bar-room--"dead beat." when mr. day called the next morning, the family had had their breakfast, and jack watts smiled benedictions on the man whom he had been wont to regard as his enemy, because he was the declared enemy of jack watts's enemy. now the time had come for a little talk. jack watts explained his circumstances; he had been out of work for a long time, and he had consumed all his substance in drink. mr. day listened with respectful attention, spoke to him of various plans for the future, and said that for that day he could give him a dollar's worth of wood-chopping to do. then they got upon the liquor question. in the softened, receptive mind of jack watts, albert day deposited the substance of a rational temperance lecture. he spoke to him kindly, respectfully, hopefully, strongly. jack watts's mind was convinced; he said he had done with drink forever. he meant it too; and thus he was brought to the second stage on the road to deliverance. in this particular case, resting from labor was out of the question and unnecessary, for the man had been resting too long already, and must needs go to work. the wood was chopped. the dollar to be paid for the work at the close of the day was a fearful ordeal for poor jack, living fifteen yards from a bar-room. mr. day called round in the evening, paid him the dollar without remark, fell into ordinary conversation with the family, and took leave. john stood the test; not a cent of the money found its way into the till of the bar-keeper. next morning mr. day was there again, and, seeing that the patient was going on well, spoke to him further about the future, and glided again into the main topic, dwelling much upon the absolute necessity of total and eternal abstinence. he got the man a place, visited him, held him up, fortified his mind, and so helped him to complete and lasting recovery. jack watts never drank again. he died a year or two ago in maine at a good age, having brought up his family respectably. this was an extreme case, for the man had been a drunkard many years; it was a difficult case, for he was poor and ignorant; and it made upon the mind of albert day an impression that nothing could efface. he was living in boston in , exercising his trade, when the washingtonian home was opened. he was indeed one of the originators of the movement, and took the post of superintendent because no one else seemed capable of conducting the experiment. having now to deal with the diseased bodies of men, he joined the medical department of harvard university, and went through the usual course, making a particular study of the malady he was attempting to cure. after nine years' service he was transferred to the asylum at binghamton, where he pursues the system practised with success at boston. i visited the binghamton asylum in june of the present year. the situation combines many advantages. of the younger cities that have sprung into importance along the line of leading railroads there is not one of more vigorous growth or more inviting appearance than binghamton. indications of spirit and civilization meet the eye at every turn. there are long streets of elegant cottages and villas, surrounded by nicely kept gardens and lawns, and containing churches in the construction of which the established barbarisms have been avoided. there is a general tidiness and attention to appearances that we notice in the beautiful towns and villages of new england; such as picturesque northampton, romantic brattleboro', and enchanting stockbridge, peerless among villages. the chenango river unites here with the susquehanna; so that the people who have not a river within sight of their front doors are likely to have one flowing peacefully along at the back of their gardens. it is a town, the existence of which in a state governed as new york is governed shows how powerless a government is to corrupt a virtuous and intelligent people, and speaks of the time when governments will be reduced to their natural and proper insignificance. such communities require little of the central power; and it is a great pity that that little is indispensable, and that albany cannot be simply wiped out. two miles from binghamton, on a high hill rising from the bank of the susquehanna, and commanding an extensive view of the beautiful valleys of both rivers, stands the castellated palace which an adventurer had the impudence to build with money intrusted to him for a better purpose. the erie railroad coils itself about the base of this eminence, from the summit of which the white puffs of the locomotive can be descried in one direction nine miles, and in the other fifteen miles. on reaching this summit about nine o'clock on a fine morning in june, i found myself in front of a building of light-colored stone, presenting a front of three hundred and sixty-five feet, in a style of architecture that unites well the useful and the pleasing. those numerous towers which relieve the monotony of so extensive a front serve an excellent purpose in providing small apartments for various purposes, which, but for them, could not be contrived without wasting space. at present the first view of the building is not inviting, for the burnt wing remains roofless and void,--the insurance money not having been applied to refitting it,--and the main edifice is still unfinished. not a tree has yet been planted, and the grounds about the building are little more pleasing to the eye than fifty acres of desert. on a level space in front of the edifice a number of young men were playing a game of base-ball, and playing it badly. their intentions were excellent, but their skill was small. sitting on the steps and upon the blocks of stone scattered about were fifty or sixty well-dressed, well-looking gentlemen of various ages, watching the game. in general appearance and bearing these persons were so decidedly superior to the average of mortals, that few visitors fail to remark the fact. living up there in that keen, pure air, and living in a rational manner, amusing themselves with games of ball, rowing, sailing, gardening, bowling, billiards, and gymnastic exercises, they are as brown and robust as david copperfield was when he came home from the continent and visited his friend traddles. take any hundred men from the educated classes, and give them a few months of such a life as this, and the improvement in their appearance will be striking. among these on-lookers of the game were a few men with gray hairs, but the majority were under thirty, perhaps thirty-two or thirty-five was about the average age. when i looked upon this most unexpected scene, it did not for a moment occur to me that these serene and healthy-looking men could be the inmates of the asylum. the insensate name of the institution prepares the visitor to see the patients lying about in various stages of intoxication. the question has sometimes been asked of the superintendent by visitors looking about them and peering into remote corners, "but, doctor, where do you _keep_ your drunkards?" the astonishment of such inquirers is great indeed when they are informed that the polite and well-dressed gentlemen standing about, and in whose hearing the question was uttered, are the inmates of the institution; every individual of whom was till very recently, not merely a drunkard, but a drunkard of the most advanced character, for whose deliverance from that miserable bondage almost every one had ceased to hope. a large majority of the present inmates are persons of education and respectable position, who pay for their residence here at rates varying from ten to twenty dollars a week, and who are co-operating ardently with the superintendent for their recovery. more than half of them were officers of the army or navy during the late war, and lost control of themselves then. one in ten must be by law a free patient; and whenever an inebriate really desires to break his chain, he is met half-way by the trustees, and his board is fixed at a rate that accords with his circumstances. a few patients have been taken as low as five dollars a week. when once the building has been completed, the grounds laid out, and the farms disposed of, the trustees hope never to turn from the door of the institution any proper applicant who desires to avail himself of its assistance. the present number of patients is something less than one hundred, which is about fifty less than can be accommodated. when the burnt wing is restored, there will be room for four hundred. upon entering the building, we find ourselves in a spacious, handsome, well-arranged, and well-furnished hotel. the musical click of billiard-balls, and the distant thunder of the bowling-alley, salute the ear; one of the inmates may be performing brilliantly on the piano, or trying over a new piece for next sunday on the cabinet organ in the temporary chapel. the billiard-room, we soon discover, contains three tables. there is a reading-room always open, in which the principal periodicals of both continents, and plenty of newspapers, are accessible to all the patients. a small library, which ought to be a larger one, is open at a certain hour every day. a conservatory is near completion, and there is a garden of ten acres near by in which a number of the inmates may usually be seen at work. a croquet-ground is not wanting, and the apparatus of cricket is visible in one of the halls. the chapel is still far from being finished, but enough is done to show that it will be elegant and inviting soon after the next instalment of excise-money comes in. the dining-room is lofty and large, as indeed are all the public rooms. the private rooms are equal, both in size and furniture, to those of good city hotels. the arrangements for warming, lighting, washing, bathing, cooking, are such as we should expect to find in so stately an edifice. we have not yet reached the point when housework will do itself; but in great establishments like this, where one man, working ten minutes an hour, warms two or three hundred rooms, menial labor is hopefully reduced. in walking about the wide halls and airy public apartments, the visitor sees nothing to destroy the impression that the building is a very liberally arranged summer hotel. to complete the illusion, he will perhaps see toddling about a lovely child with its beautiful mother, and in the large parlor some ladies visiting inmates or officers of the institution. the table also is good and well served. a stranger, not knowing the nature of the institution, might, however, be puzzled to decide whether it is a hotel or a college. no one, it is true, ever saw a college so handsomely arranged and provided; but the tone of the thing is college-like, especially when you get about among the rooms of the inmates, and see them cramming for next monday's debate, or writing a lecture for the asylum course. this institution is in fact, as in appearance, a rationally conducted hotel or temporary home and resting-place for men diseased by the excessive use of alcoholic drinks. it is a place where they can pause and reflect, and gather strength and knowledge for the final victorious struggle with themselves. temptation is not so remote that their resolution is not in continual exercise, nor so near that it is tasked beyond its strength. there lies binghamton in its valley below them in plain sight, among its rivers and its trees, with its thousand pretty homes and its dozen nasty bar-rooms. they can go down there and drink, if they can get any one to risk the fifty dollars' fine imposed by the law of the state upon any one who sells liquor to an inmate of the asylum. generally there is some poor mercenary wretch who will do it. until it has been proved that the sight of binghamton is too much for a patient, the only restraint upon his liberty is, that he must not enter the town without the consent of the superintendent. this consent is not regarded in the light of a permission, but in that of a physician's opinion. the patient is supposed to mean: "dr. day, would you, as my medical adviser, recommend me to go to binghamton this morning to be measured for a pair of shoes? do you think it would be salutary? am i far enough advanced in convalescence to trust myself to breathe the air of the valley for an hour?" the doctor gives his opinion on the point, and it is etiquette to accept that opinion without remark. not one patient has yet visited the town, with the consent of the superintendent, who has proved unequal to the temptation. if an inmate steals away and yields to his craving, he is placed in confinement for a day or two, or longer if necessary. it occasionally happens that a patient, conscious of the coming on of a paroxysm of desire, asks to have the key of his room turned upon him till it is over. it is desired that this turning of the key, and those few barred rooms in one of the wards, shall be regarded as mere remedial appliances, as much so as the bottles of medicine in the medicine-chest. it is, however, understood that no one is to be released from confinement who does not manifest a renewed purpose to refrain. such a purpose is sometimes indicated by a note addressed to the superintendent like the following, which i happened to see placed in his hands:-- "dr. day:-- "dear sir: i cannot let the circumstance which happened yesterday pass by without assuring you that i am truly sorry for the disgrace i have brought on the institution, as well as myself. i certainly appreciate your efforts to guide us all in the right direction, and more especially the interest that you have taken in my own welfare. let me assure you now, that hereafter, as long as i remain with you, i shall use every endeavor to conduct myself as i should, and cause you no further trouble." lapses of this kind are not frequent, and they are regarded by the superintendent as part of the means of restoration which the institution affords; since they aid him in destroying a fatal self-confidence, and in inculcating the idea that a patient who lapses must never think of giving up the struggle, but renew it the instant he can gain the least foothold of self-control. the system of treatment pursued here is founded on the expectation that the patient and the institution will co-operate. if a man does not desire to be reclaimed, and such a desire cannot be awakened within him, the institution can do no more than keep him sober while he remains an inmate of it. there will, perhaps, one day be in every state an asylum for incurable drunkards, wherein they will be permanently detained, and compelled to live temperately, and earn their subsistence by suitable labor. but this is not such an institution. here all is voluntary. the co-operation of the patient is assumed; and when no desire to be restored can be roused, the experiment is not continued longer than a few months. the two grand objects aimed at by the superintendent are, to raise the tone of the bodily health, and to fortify the weakened will. the means employed vary somewhat in each case. the superintendent designs to make a particular study of each individual; he endeavors to win his confidence, to adapt the treatment to his peculiar disposition, and to give him just the aid he needs. as the number of patients increases, this will become more difficult, if it does not become impossible. the more general features of the system are all that can be communicated to others, and these i will endeavor briefly to indicate. it is interesting to observe the applicants for admission, when they enter the office of the asylum, accompanied generally by a relative or friend. some reach the building far gone in intoxication, having indulged in one last farewell debauch; or having drunk a bottle of whiskey for the purpose of screwing their courage to the sticking-point of entering the asylum. a clergyman whom this institution restored told me that he reached binghamton in the evening, and went to bed drunk; and before going to the asylum the next morning he had to fortify his system and his resolve by twelve glasses of brandy. sometimes the accompanying friend, out of an absurd kind of pity for a poor fellow about to be deprived of his solace, will rather encourage him to drink; and often the relatives of an inebriate can only get him into the institution by keeping him intoxicated until he is safe under its roof. frequently men arrive emaciated and worn out from weeks or months of hard drinking; and occasionally a man will be brought in suffering from delirium tremens, who will require restraint and watching for several days. some enter the office in terror, expecting to be immediately led away by a turnkey and locked up. all come with bodies diseased and minds demoralized; for the presence of alcohol in the system lowers the tone of the whole man, body and soul, strengthening every evil tendency, and weakening every good one. and this is the reason why men who are brought here against their will are not to be despaired of. alcohol may only have suspended the activity of their better nature, which a few weeks of total abstinence may rouse to new life. as the health improves, ambition often revives, the native delicacy of the soul reappears, and the man becomes polite, docile, interested, agreeable, who on entering seemed coarse, stupid, obstinate, and malign. the new-comer subscribes to the rules, pays his board three months in advance, and surrenders all the rest of his money. the paying in advance is a good thing; it is like paying your passage on going on board ship; the voyager has no care, and nothing to think of, but the proposed object. it is also one more inducement to remain until other motives gain strength. many hard drinkers live under the conviction that if they should cease drinking alcoholic liquors suddenly, they would die in a few days. this is a complete error. no "tapering off" is allowed here. dr. day discovered years ago that a man who has been drinking a quart of whiskey a day for a long time suffers more if his allowance is reduced to a pint than if he is put at once upon the system of total abstinence. he not only suffers less, but for a shorter time. the clergyman before referred to informed me that, for two years and a half before entering the asylum, he drank a quart of brandy daily, and he felt confident that he would die if he should suddenly cease. he reached binghamton drunk; he went to bed that evening drunk; he drank twelve glasses of brandy the next morning before eleven o'clock; he went up to the asylum saturated with brandy, expecting to make the preliminary arrangements for his admission, then return to the hotel, and finish the day drinking. but precisely at that point albert day laid his hand upon him, and marked him for his own. dr. day quietly objected to his return to the town, sent for his trunk, caused the tavern bill to be paid, and cut off his brandy at once and totally. for forty-eight hours the patient craved the accustomed stimulant intensely, and he was only enabled to sleep by the assistance of bromide of potassium. on the third day the craving ceased, and he assured me that he never felt it again. other morbid experiences he had, but not that; and now, after two years of abstinence, he enjoys good health, has no desire for drink, and is capable of extraordinary exertions. other patients, however, informed me that they suffered a morbid craving for two or three weeks. but all agreed that the sudden discontinuance of the stimulant gave them less inconvenience than they had anticipated, and was in no degree dangerous. it is, indeed, most surprising to see how soon the system begins to rally when once it is relieved of the inimical influence. complete recovery, of course, is a slow and long effort of nature; but the improvement in the health, feelings, and appearance of patients, after only a month's residence upon that breezy hill, is very remarkable. there is an impression in the country that the inmates of such asylums as this undergo some mysterious process, and take unknown medicines, which have power to destroy the desire for strong drink. among the quack medicines of the day is a bottled humbug, pretending to have such power. it is also supposed by some that the plan which captain marryat mentions is efficacious,--that of confining a drunken sailor for several days to a diet of beef and brandy. accounts have gone the rounds of the papers, of another system that consists in saturating with brandy every article of food of which the inebriate partakes. patients occasionally arrive at the asylum who expect to be treated in some such way; and when a day or two passes without anything extraordinary or disagreeable happening, they inquire, with visible apprehension, "when the treatment is going to begin." in this sense of the word, there is no treatment here. in all nature there is no substance that destroys or lessens a drunkard's desire for intoxicating liquors; and there is no such thing as permanently disgusting him with brandy by giving him more brandy than he wants. a drunkard's drinking is not a thing of mere appetite; his whole system craves stimulation; and he would drink himself into perdition while loathing the taste of the liquor. this asylum simply gives its inmates rest, regimen, amusement, society, information. it tries to restore the health and renew the will, and both by rational means. merely entering an establishment like this is a long step toward deliverance. it is a confession! it is a confession to the patient's family and friends, to the inmates of the asylum, and, above all, to himself, that he has lost his self-control, and cannot get it back without assistance. he comes here for that assistance. every one knows he comes for that. they are all in the same boat. the pot cannot call the kettle black. false pride, and all the thin disguises of self-love, are laid aside. the mere fact of a man's being an inmate of an inebriate asylum is a declaration to all about him that he has been a drunkard, and even a very bad drunkard; for the people here know, from their own bitter experience, that a person cannot bring himself to make such a confession until, by many a lapse, he has been brought to despair of self-recovery. many of these men were thinking of the asylum for years before they could summon courage to own that they had lost the power to resist a physical craving. but when once they have made the agonizing avowal by entering the asylum, it costs them no great effort to reveal the details of their case to hearers who cannot reproach them; and, besides relating their own experience without reserve, they are relieved, encouraged, and instructed by hearing the similar experience of others. all have the same object, the same peril, the same dread, the same hope, and each aids the rest as students aid one another in the same college. in a community like this, public opinion is the controlling force. that subtle, resistless power is always aiding or frustrating the object for which the community exists. public opinion sides with a competent superintendent, and serves him as an assiduous, omnipresent police. under the coercive system once attempted here, the public opinion of the asylum applauded a man who smuggled a bottle of whiskey into the building, and invited his friends into his room to drink it. an inmate who should now attempt such a crime would be shunned by the best two thirds of the whole institution. one of their number, suddenly overcome by temptation, who should return to the asylum drunk, they would all receive as cordially as before; but they would regard with horror or contempt a man who should bring temptation into the building, and place it within reach of those who had fled hither to avoid it. the french have a verb,--_se dépayser_,--to uncountry one's self, to get out of the groove, to drop undesirable companions and forsake haunts that are too alluring, by going away for a while, and, in returning, not resuming the old friends and habits. how necessary this is to some of the slaves of alcohol every one knows. to many of them restoration is impossible without it, and not difficult with it. to all such, what a refuge is a well-conducted asylum like this! merely being here, out of the coil of old habits, haunts, pleasures, comrades, temptations, which had proved too much for them a thousand times,--merely being away for a time, so that they can calmly survey the scenes they have left and the life they have led,--is itself half the victory. every wednesday evening, after prayers, a kind of temperance meeting is held in the chapel. it is the intention of the superintendent, that every inmate of the asylum shall become acquainted with the nature of alcohol, and with the precise effects of alcoholic drinks upon the human system. he means that they shall comprehend the absurdity of drinking as clearly as they know its ruinous consequences. he accordingly opens this meeting with a short lecture upon some one branch of the subject, and then invites the patients to illustrate the point from their own experience. at the meeting which i happened to attend the subject of dr. day's remarks was suggested (as it often is) by an occurrence which had just taken place at the institution, and had been the leading topic of conversation all that day. at the last meeting, a young man from a distant state, who had been in the asylum for some months and was about to return home, delivered an eloquent farewell address to his companions, urging them to adhere to their resolution, and protesting his unalterable resolve never, never, never again to yield to their alluring and treacherous foe. he spoke with unusual animation and in a very loud voice. he took his departure in the morning, by the erie road, and twelve hours after he was brought back to the asylum drunk. upon his recovery he related to the superintendent and to his friends the story of his lamentable fall. when the train had gone three hours on its way, there was a detention of three hours at a station that offered little entertainment to impatient travellers. the returning prodigal paced the platform; found it dull work; heard at a distance the sound of billiard-balls; went and played two games, losing both; returned to the platform and resumed his walk; and there fell into the train of thought that led to the catastrophe. his reflections were like these: "how perfect is my cure! i have not once _thought_ of taking a drink. not even when i saw men drinking at the bar did it cross my mind to follow their example. i have not the least desire for whiskey, and i have no doubt i could take that 'one glass' which dr. day keeps talking about, without a wish for a second. in fact, no man is perfectly cured till he can do that i have a great mind to put it to the test. it almost seems as if this opportunity of trying myself had been created on purpose. here goes, then, for the last glass of whiskey i shall take as long as i live, and i take it purely as a scientific experiment." one hour after, his friend, who was accompanying him home, found him lying in a corner of a bar-room, dead drunk. he had him picked up, and placed in the next train bound for binghamton. this was the text of dr. day's discourse, and he employed it in enforcing anew his three cardinal points: . no hope for an inebriate until he thoroughly distrusts the strength of his own resolution; . no hope for an inebriate except in total abstinence as long as he lives, both in sickness and in health; . little hope for an inebriate unless he avoids, on system and on principle, the occasions of temptation, the places where liquor is sold, and the persons who will urge it upon him. physicians, he said, were the inebriate's worst enemies; and he advised his hearers to avoid the tinctures prepared with alcohol, which had often awakened the long-dormant appetite. during my stay at binghamton, a clergyman resident in the town, and recently an inmate of the asylum, had a slight indisposition resulting from riding home from a meeting ten miles in the rain. one of the physicians of the place, who knew his history, knew that he had been an inebriate of the most pronounced type (quart of liquor a day), prescribed a powerful dose of brandy and laudanum. "i dare not take it, doctor," he said, and put the damnable temptation behind him. "if i _had_ taken it," said he to me, "i should have been drunk to-day." the case, too, required nothing but rest, rice, and an easy book. no medicine was necessary. dr. day has had under his care a man who, after being a confirmed drunkard, had been a teetotaler for eighteen years, and had then been advised to take wine for the purpose of hastening a slow convalescence. his appetite resumed its old ascendency, and, after drinking furiously for a year, he was brought to the asylum in delirium tremens. dr. day expressed a strong hope and belief that the returned inmate mentioned above had _now_ actually taken his last glass of whiskey; for he had discovered his weakness, and was in a much more hopeful condition than he had been before his lapse. the doctor scouted the idea that a man who has the misfortune to break his resolution should give up the struggle. some men, he said, _must_ fall, at least once, before the last rag of self-confidence is torn from them; and he had had patients who, after coming back to him in boston four times, had conquered, and had lived soberly for years, and were still living soberly. when the superintendent had finished his remarks, he called upon his hearers to speak. several of them did so. one young gentleman, an officer of the army during the war, made his farewell speech. he thanked his companions for the forbearance they had shown him during the first weeks of his residence among them, when he was peevish, discontented, rebellious, and had no hope of ever being able to conquer his propensity, so often had he tried and failed. he would have left the asylum in those days, if he had had the money to pay his fare on the cars. he felt the importance of what dr. day had advanced respecting the occasions of temptation, and especially what he had said about physicians' prescriptions, which he knew had led men to drink. "if," he added, "i cannot live without alcohol, i would rather die. for my part, i expect to have a struggle all my life; i don't think the time will ever come when it will be safe for me to dally with temptation, and i feel the necessity of following dr. day's advice on this point." he spoke in a simple, earnest, and manly manner. he was followed by another inmate, a robust, capable-looking man of thirty-five, who also spoke with directness and simplicity. he hoped that fear would help him to abstain. if he could only keep sober, he had the best possible prospects; but if he again gave way he saw nothing before him but infamy and destruction. he spoke modestly and anxiously, evidently feeling that it was more than a matter of life and death to him. when he had concluded, a young gentleman rose, and delivered a fluent, flower address upon temperance; just such a discourse as might precede a lapse into drinking. on monday evening of every week, the literary society of the institution holds its meeting, when essays are read and lectures delivered. the course of lectures delivered last winter are highly spoken of by those who heard them, and they were all written by inmates of the asylum. among the subjects treated were: columbus, a study of character: goldsmith; the telegraph, by an operator; resources of missouri; early english novelists; the age, and the men for the age; geology; the passions, with poetical illustrations; the inebriate asylum, under the régime of coercion. it occasionally happens, that distinguished visitors contribute something to the pleasure of the evening. mrs. stowe, the newspapers inform us, was kind enough some time since to give them a reading from uncle tom's cabin; and the copy of the book from which she read was a cheap double-columned pamphlet brought from the south by a freedman, now the porter of the asylum. he bought it and read it while he was still a slave, little thinking when he scrawled his name across the dingy title-page that he should ever have the honor of lending it to the authoress. nearly twelve years have now elapsed since dr. day began to accumulate experience in the treatment of inebriates, during which time he has had nearly four thousand patients under his care. what proportion of these were permanently cured it is impossible to say, because nothing is heard of many patients after they leave; but it is reasonably conjectured that two thirds of the whole number were restored. it is a custom with many of them to write an annual letter to dr. day on the anniversary of their entering the home under his management, and the reading of such letters is a highly interesting and beneficial feature of the wednesday evening temperance meetings. the alcoholic mania is no respecter of persons. dr. day has had under treatment twenty-one clergymen, one of whom was a catholic priest (who had delirium tremens), and one a jewish rabbi. he has had one old man past seventy, and one boy of sixteen. he has had a philadelphia "killer" and a judge of a supreme court. he has had steady two-quarts-a-day men, and men who were subject only to semiannual debauches. he has had men whose "tears" lasted but forty-eight hours, and one man who came in of his own accord after what he styled "a general spree" of three months' continuance. he has had drunkards of two years' standing, and those who have been slaves of strong drink for thirty years. some of his successes have been striking and memorable. there was dr. x---- of tennessee, at thirty-five a physician of large practice, professor in a medical college, happy in an excellent wife and seven children. falling into drink, he lost at length his practice, his professorship, his property, his home; his family abandoned him to his fate, and went to his wife's father's in another state; and he became at last a helpless gutter sot. his brother, who heard by chance of the home in boston, picked him up one day from the street, where he lay insensible, and got him upon the train for the east. before he roused from his drunken stupor, he was half-way across virginia. "where am i?" he asked. "in virginia, on your way to boston." "all right," said he, in a drunkard's drunkenest manner,--"all right! give me some whiskey." he was carried into the home in the arms of men, and lay for some weeks miserably sick. his health improved, and the _man_ revived. he clutched at this unexpected chance of escape, and co-operated with all his heart with the system. dr. day wrote a hopeful letter to his wife. "speak not to me of a husband," she replied; "i have no husband; i buried my husband long ago." after four months' stay in the institution, the patient returned home, and resumed his practice. a year after, his family rejoined him. he recovered all his former standing, which to this day, after nine years of sobriety, he retains. his ninth annual letter to his deliverer i have read. "by the way," he says in a postscript, "did you receive my letters each year of the war?" yes, they reached dr. day months after they were written; but they always reached him. the secret of this cure, as the patient has often asserted, was total abstinence. he had attempted to reduce his daily quantity a hundred times; but never, until he entered the home, was he aware of the physical _impossibility_ of a drunkard's becoming a moderate drinker. from the moment when he had a clear, intellectual comprehension of that truth, the spell was broken: abstinence was easy; he was himself again. then there was y----, a philadelphia street savage,--one of those firemen who used to sleep in the engine-house, and lie in wait for rival companies, and make night and day hideous with slaughter. fearful beings were those philadelphia firemen of twenty years ago! some of them made a nearer approach to total depravity than any creatures i have ever seen that wore the form of man,--revelling in blood, exulting in murder, and glorying in hellish blows with iron implements, given and received. it was difficult to say whether it gave them keener delight to wound or to be wounded. in all communities where external observances and decorums become tyrannical, and where the innocent pleasures of youth are placed under a ban, there is sure to be a class which revolts against the invisible despot, and goes to a horrid extreme of violence and vice. this y---- was one of the revolters. once in many weeks he would return to his decent home, ragged and penniless, to be reclothed. it is only alcohol that supports men in a life of _wanton_ violence like this; and he, accordingly, was a deep and reckless drinker. his sister prevailed upon him, after many months of persuasion, to go to the home in boston, and he presented himself there one morning, black all over with coal-dust. he explained his appearance by saying that he had come from philadelphia in a coal-vessel. dr. day, who had been notified of his coming, received him with that emphatic politeness which produces such magical effects upon men who have long been accustomed to see an enemy in every one who behaves decently and uses the english language in its simplicity. he was exceedingly astonished to be treated with consideration, and to discover that he was not to be subjected to any disagreeable process. he proved to be a good, simple soul, very ignorant, not naturally intelligent, and more capable, therefore, of faith than of knowledge. the doctor won his confidence; then his good-will; then his affection. something that was read in the bible attracted his attention one day, and he asked to be shown the passage; and this was the beginning of his reading the bible regularly. it was all new to him; he found it highly interesting; and, this daily reading being associated in his mind with his reform, the book became a kind of talisman to him, and he felt safe as long as he continued the practice. after a six months' residence, he went to work in boston, but always returned to spend the evening at the home. at the beginning of the war he enlisted. he was in colonel baker's regiment on the bloody day of ball's bluff, and was one of the gallant handful of men who rescued from the enemy the body of their slain commander. he was one of the multitude who swam the potomac amid a pattering rain of bullets, and walked barefoot seven miles to camp, the first man that met him there offered him whiskey, mistaken kindness! senseless offer! a man who is sinking with fatigue wants rest, not stimulation; sleep, not excitement. "don't offer me _that_," he gasped, shuddering. "i dread that more than bullets." instead of the whiskey, he took twelve hours' sleep, and consequently awoke refreshed, and ready for another day's hard service. at antietam he had the glory and high privilege of giving life for mankind. a bullet through the brain sent him to heaven, and stretched his body on the field in painless and eternal sleep. it lies now in a cemetery near his native city; a monument covers it; and all who were connected with him are proud to point to his grave and claim him for their own. what a contrast between dying so, and being killed in a motiveless street-fight by a savage blow on the head with a speaking-trumpet! perhaps, long as this article already is, i may venture to give, with the utmost possible brevity, one more of the many remarkable cases with which i became acquainted at the asylum. one sunday morning, a loud ringing of the front-door bell of the home in boston induced dr. day himself to answer the summons. he found a man at the door who was in the most complete state of dilapidation that can be imagined,--ragged, dirty, his hat awry, torn and bent, spectacles with one eye gone and the other cocked out of place, the perfect picture of a drunken sot who had slept among the barrels and cotton-bales for six months. he was such a person as we thoughtless fools roar at in the theatre sometimes, about . p.m., and who makes the lives of sundry children and one woman a long and hopeless tragedy up in some dismal garret, or down in some pestilential cellar. "what can i do for you?" inquired the superintendent. "my name is a. b----; will you take me in?" "have you a letter of introduction from any one?" "no." "we must have something of the kind; do you know any one in boston?" "yes; there is dr. kirk; _i've preached in his church_; he ought to know me; i'll see if he does." in a few minutes he returned, bearing a note from that distinguished clergyman, saying that he thought he knew the man; and upon this he was admitted. he was as complete, though not as hopeless a wreck as he appeared. he had been a clergyman in good standing and of ability respectable; but had insensibly fallen under the dominion of a mania for drink. for ten years he had been a downright sot. he had not seen his family in that time. a benevolent man who chanced to meet him in new york described to him the washingtonian home, made him promise to go to it, and gave him money for the purpose. he immediately spent the money for drink; but yet, in some forgotten way, he smuggled himself to boston, and made his appearance at the home on that sunday morning. such cases as this, hopeless as they seem, are among the easiest to cure, because there are knowledge, conscience, and pride latent in the man, which begin to assert themselves as soon as the system is free from the presence of alcohol. this man was easily made to see the truth respecting his case. he soon came to understand alcohol; and this alone is a surprising assistance to a man at the instant of temptation. he remained at the home six months, always improving in health, and regaining his former character. he left boston twenty-two months ago, and has since lived with perfect sobriety, and has been restored to his family and to his profession. inebriate asylums, rationally conducted, cannot fail to be worth their cost. they are probably destined to become as generally recognized a necessity of our diseased modern life as asylums for lunatics and hospitals for the sick. it is not necessary to begin with a million-dollar palace, though it is desirable that the building should be attractive, airy, and large enough to accommodate a considerable number of patients. when the building has been paid for, the institution may be self-sustaining, or even yield a profit. it is possible that the cure of inebriates may become a specialty of medical practice, to which men, gifted with the requisite talent, will devote their lives. the science of the thing is still most incomplete, and only one individual has had much success in the practice. albert day is a good superintendent chiefly because he is a good yankee, not because he is a great scientific healer. it seems instinctive in good yankees to respect the rights and feelings of others; and they are accustomed to persuade and convince, not drive, not compel. albert day has treated these unfortunate and amiable men as he would have treated younger brothers taken captive by a power stronger than themselves. his polite and respectful manner to his patients on all occasions must be balm to men accustomed to the averted look and taunting epithet, and accustomed, too, to something far harder to bear,--distrust and abhorrence of themselves. others, of course, will originate improved methods, and we shall have, at length, a fine art of assisting men to overcome bad habits; but _this_ characteristic of dr. day will never be wanting to an asylum that answers the end of its establishment. the disease which such institutions are designed to cure must be very common; for where is the family that has not a drunkard in its circle of connections? it is true that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure; but not on that account must the pound of cure be withheld. the railroad which connects new york and binghamton is the erie, which is another way of saying that i was detained some hours on the journey home; and this afforded me the novel experience of working my way up town in a new york street-car an hour or two before daylight. the car started from the city hall at half past two a.m., and received, during the first three miles of its course, twenty-seven persons. it so happened that nearly every individual of them, including the person coming home from the asylum, was out of bed at that hour through alcohol. there were three drunken vagabonds asleep, who were probably taking a cheap lodging in the car by riding to harlem and back,--two hours and forty minutes' ride for fourteen cents. in one corner was coiled away a pale, dirty, german jew of the fagin type, very drunk, singing snatches of drinking choruses in broken english. next to him was his pal, a thick-set _old_ charley bates, also drunk, and occasionally joining in the festive songs. a mile of the ride was enlivened by an argument between c. bates and the conductor, on the subject of a cigar, which mr. bates insisted on smoking, in violation of the rule. the controversy was carried on in "the english language." then there were five german musicians, perfectly sober and very sleepy, with their instruments in their hand, returning, i suppose, from some late saloon or dance-house. one woman was in the car, a girl of twenty, who appeared to be a performer in a saloon, and was now, after having shed her spangles and her ribbons, going home in dirty calico drawn tight over a large and obvious hoop, under the protecting care of a nice young man. there were several young and youngish men, well-dressed, in various stages of intoxication, who had probably been at the lawless "late houses," singing and drinking all night, and were now going home to scare and horrify mothers, sisters, or wives, who may have been waiting five hours to hear the scratch of their latch-key against the front door. what a picture did the inside of that car present, when it was filled upon both sides with sleepy, bobbing drunkards and servants of drunkards, the girl leaning sleepily upon her neighbor's shoulder, the german musicians crouching over their instruments half dead with sleep, old fagin bawling a line of a beery song, and the conductor, struggling down through the midst, vainly endeavoring to extract from boozy passengers, whether they were going "through," or desired to be dropped on the way. it was a fit ending to a week at the inebriate asylum. the end. cambridge: electrotyped and printed by welch, bigelow, & co. alcohol and the human brain. by rev. joseph cook. new york: national temperance society and publication house, reade street. . alcohol and the human brain. by rev. joseph cook. cassio's language in othello is to-day adopted by cool physiological science: "o god, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! that we should, with joy, revel, pleasure and applause, transform ourselves into beasts! to be now a sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently a beast! o strange! every inordinate cup is unbless'd, and the ingredient is the devil."--shakespeare, _othello_, act ii., scene iii. central in all the discussion of the influence of intoxicating drink upon the human brain is the fact that albuminous substances are hardened by alcohol. i take the white of an egg, and, as you see, turn it out in a fluid condition into a goblet. the liquid is a viscous, glue-like substance, largely composed of albumen. it is made up of pretty nearly the same chemical ingredients that constitute a large part of the brain and the nervous system, and of many other tissues of the body. forty per cent of the matter in the corpuscles of the blood is albumen. i am about to drench this white of an egg with alcohol. i have never performed this experiment before, and it may not succeed, but so certain am i that it will, that i purpose never to put the bottle to my lips and introduce into my system a fiend to steal away my brain. edmund burke, when he heard william pitt say in parliament that england would stand till the day of judgment, rose and replied; "what i fear is the day of _no_ judgment." when booth was about to assassinate lincoln, his courage failed him, and he rushed away from the theater for an instant into the nearest restaurant and called for brandy. harden the brain by drenching it in alcohol and you harden the moral nature. if you will fasten your attention on the single fact, that alcohol hardens this albuminous substance with which i place it in contact, you will have in that single strategic circumstance an explanation of most of its ravages upon the blood and nerves and brain. i beg you to notice that the white of an egg in the goblet does not become hardened by exposure to the air. i have allowed it to remain exposed for a time, in order that you may see that there is no legerdemain in this experiment. [laughter.] i now pour alcohol upon this albuminous fluid, and if the result here is what it has been in other cases, i shall pretty soon be able to show you a very good example of what coagulated albumen is in the nervous system and blood corpuscles. you will find this white of an egg gradually so hardened that you can take it out without a fork. i notice already that a mysterious change in it has begun. a strange thickening shoots through the fluid mass. this is your moderate drunkard that i am stirring up now. there is your tippler, a piece of him, [holding up a portion of the coagulated mass upon the glass pestle]. the coagulation of the substance of the brain and of the nervous system goes on. i am stirring up a hard drinker now. the infinitely subtle laws of chemistry take their course. here is a man [holding up a part of the coagulated mass] whose brain is so leathery that he is a beast, and kicks his wife to death. i am stirring up in this goblet now the brain of a hardened sot. on this prongless glass rod, i hold up the large part of the white of an egg which you saw poured into this glass as a fluid. here is your man [holding up a larger mass] who has benumbed his conscience and his reason both, and has begun to be dangerous to society from the effects of a diseased brain. wherever alcohol touches this albuminous substance, it hardens it, and it does so by absorbing and fixing the water it contains. i dip out of the goblet now your man in delirium tremens. here is what was once a fluid, rolling easily to right and left, and now you have the leathery brain and the hard heart. distortions of blood discs taken from the veins of drunkards have been shown to you here by the stereopticon and the best microscope in the united states. all the amazing alterations you saw in the shape, color, and contents of the blood discs are produced by the affinity of alcohol for the water in the albuminous portion of the globules. i am speaking here in the presence of expert chemists. you say i have no business to know anything about these topics. well, the new professor in andover on the relations between religion and science has no business to know them. the new professor at edinburgh university and in princeton has no business to know them. the lectureship at the union theological seminary in new york has no right to teach on these themes. there is getting to be a tolerably large company of us who are intending to look into these matters at the point of the microscope and the scalpel. in a wiser generation than ours the haughty men who will not speak themselves of the relations of religion and science, and will not allow others to speak--veritable dogs in the manger--will be turned as dogs out of the manger. i speak very strongly, for i have an indignation that can not be expressed when it is said that men who join hands with physicians, and are surrounded by experts to teach them the facts, have no right to make inferences. men educated and put into professorships to discuss as a specialty the relation of religion and science have no right to discuss these themes! we have a right as lawyers to discuss such topics before juries, when we bring experts in to help us. i bring experts before you as a jury. i assert the right of andover, and princeton, and new haven, and edinburgh, and even of this humble platform to tell you what god does in the brain, and to exhibit to you the freshest discoveries there of both his mercy and wrath. my support of temperance reform i would base upon the following propositions: . scars in the flesh do not wash out nor grow out, but, in spite of the change of all the particles of the body, are accurately reproduced without alteration by the flux of its particles. let us begin with an incontrovertible proposition. everybody knows that the scars of childhood are retained through life, and that we are buried with them. but we carry into the grave no particle of the flesh that we had in youth. all the particles of the body are in flux and are changed every few years. there is, however, something in us that persists. i am i; and therefore i am praiseworthy or blameworthy for things i did a score of years since, although there is not a particle of my body here now that was here then. the sense of the identity persisting in all the flux of the particles of the system, proves there is something else in man besides matter. this is a very unsubstantial consideration, you say; but the acute and profound german finds in this one fact of the persistence of the sense of identity in spite of the flux of the particles of the body, the proof of the separateness of matter and mind. something reproduces these scars as the system throws off and changes its particles. that something must have been affected by the scarring. there is a strange connection between scars and the immaterial portion of us. it is a mysterious fact, right before us daily, and absolutely incontrovertible, that something in that part of us which does not change reproduces these scars. newton, when the apple fell on his head--according to the fable, for i suppose that story is not history--found in it the law of the universe; and so in the simple fact that scars will not wash out or grow out, although the particles of the flesh are all changed, we find two colossal propositions; the one is that there is somewhat in us that does not change, and is not matter; the other is, that this somewhat is connected mysteriously with the inerasability of scars, which, therefore, may be said to exist in some sense in the spiritual as well as in the material substance of which we are made. . it is as true of scars on the brain and nervous system as of those on any less important parts of the body, that they will not wash out, nor grow out. . scars on the brain or nervous system may be made by physical or mental habits, and are the basis of the self-propagative power of habits. . when the scars or grooves in which a habit runs are made deep, the habit becomes automatic or self-acting and perhaps involuntary. . the grooves worn or scars made by good and bad habits may be inherited. physical identity of parent and offspring, spiritual identity of parent and offspring--these mysteries we have discussed here; and this two-fold identity is concerned in the transmission of the thirst for drink. when the drunkard who has had an inflamed stomach, is the father of a child that brings into the world with it an inflamed stomach, you have a case of the transmission of alcoholic scars. . while self-control lasts, a bad habit is a vice; when self-control is lost, a bad habit is a disease. . when a bad habit becomes a disease, the treatment of it belongs to physicians; while it is a vice, the treatment of it belongs to the church. . in probably nine cases out of ten, among the physical difficulties produced by the use of alcohol, and not inherited, the trouble is a vice and not a disease. . alcohol, by its affinity for water, hardens all the albuminous or glue-like substances in the body. . it thus paralyzes the small nerves, produces arterial relaxation, and deranges the circulation of the blood. . it produces thus an increased quickness in the beating of the heart, and ruddiness of countenance which are not signs of health, but of disease. pardon me if i dwell a moment on this proposition, which was not made clear by science until a a few years ago. you say that moderate drinking quickens the pulse and adds ruddiness to the countenance, and that, therefore, you have some reason to believe that it is a source of health. i can hardly pardon myself for not having here a set of the chemical substances that partially paralyze the small nerves. i have a list of them before me, and it includes ether and the whole series of nitrites, and especially the nitrite of amyl. if i had the latter substance here, i might, by lifting it to the nostrils, produce this flushing of the face that you call a sign of health in moderate drinking. there are five or six chemical agents that produce paralysis of the vessels of the minute circulation, and among them is alcohol. a blush is produced by a slight paralysis of the small nerves in the interlacing ends of the arteries and veins. if i had ether here, and could turn it on the back of my hand and evaporate it, i could partially freeze the skin, and then, removing the ether, you would see a blush come to the back of the hand. that is because the little nerves that help constrict and keep up the proper tone of the circulating organs, are temporarily paralyzed. a permanent blush in the face of a drunkard indicates a permanent injury to the blood vessels by alcohol. the varicose vein is often produced in this way by the paralysis of some of the nerves that are connected with the fine parts of the circulatory organs. when the face blushes permanently in the drunkard the injury revealed is not a local one, but is inflicted on every organ throughout the whole system. after moderate drinking you feel the heart beating faster, to be sure, but it beats more rapidly because of the paralysis of the delicate nerves connected with the arteries, and because of the consequent arterial relaxation. the blood meets with less resistance in passing through the relaxed circulatory organs, and so, with no additional force in the heart, that organ beats more rapidly. it beats faster simply because it has less force to overcome. the quickened pulse is a proof of disease and not of health. (_see_ dr. richardson, cantor lectures on alcohol.) . alcohol injures the blood by changing the color and chemical composition of its corpuscles. in the stereopticon illustrations, you saw that the red discs of blood are distorted in shape by the action of alcohol. you saw that the arrangement of the coloring matter in the red discs is changed. you saw that various adulterations appeared to come into the blood, or at least into visibility there, under the influence of alcohol. lastly, you saw, most terrible of all, an absolutely new growth occurring there--a sprout protruding itself from the side of the red corpuscle in the vital stream. last year i showed you what some of the diseases of leprosy did for the blood, and you see how closely alcoholism in the blood resembles in physical effects the most terrific diseases known to man. here are the diseases that are the great red seal of god almighty's wrath against sensuality; and when we apply the microscope to them, we find in the blood discs these sprouts, that greatly resemble each other in the inebriate and in the leper. dr. harriman has explained, with the authority of an expert, these ghastly growths. these sprouts shoot out of the red discs, and he tells you that, after having been called before jury after jury as an expert, sometimes in cases where life was at stake, he has studied alcoholized blood, and that a certain kind of spore, a peculiar kind of sprout, which you have seen here, he never saw except in the veins of a confirmed drunkard. i think the day is coming when, by microscopic examination of the blood discs, we can tell what disease a man has inherited or acquired--if it be one of that kind which takes hold of the circulatory fluid. this alcohol, with its affinity for water, changes the composition of every substance in the body into which water enters, and there are seven hundred and ninety parts of water in every thousand of blood. the reason alcohol changed this white of an egg into hardness, that if it had been put in whole i could have rolled it across the platform, was that the fierce spirit took the water out of the albumen. if i had a plate of glass here, and could put upon it a solution of the white of an egg, and could sprinkle upon it a little finely-powdered caustic soda, i could very soon pick up the sheet of gelatinous substance and should find it leathery, elastic, tough. just so this marvelous white matter folded in sheets in the brain is drenched with a substance that takes out the water, and the effect on the brain is to destroy its capacity to perform some of its most delicate actions. the results of that physical incapacity are illustrated in all the proverbial effects of intemperance. . the deteriorations produced in the blood by alcohol are peculiarly injurious to the brain on account of the great quantity of blood sent to that organ. the brain weighs only about one twenty-eighth of the rest of the body, and yet into it, according to most authorities, is sent from a tenth to a sixth of all the blood. if you adopt fiat money, where will the most harm be done? what part of this land shows first of all the effect of a debased condition of the currency? wall street? why? because there the circulation is most vigorous. the blood of the land, to speak of money under that title, is thrown into wall street as the blood of the body is thrown into the head, and so in wall street, we have our men on the watch to tell us whether the currency is in a healthy or unhealthy state. the slightest alteration is felt there, because the currency there is accumulated, and so in the brain the slightest injury of the blood is felt first, because here is accumulated the currency of the system. . most poisons and medicines act in the human system according to a law of local affinity, by which their chief force is expended on particular organs, and sometimes on particular spots of particular organs. . all science is agreed that the local affinity of alcohol, like that of opium, prussic acid, hashish, belladonna, etc., is for the brain. . the brain is the organ of the mind, and the temple and instrument of conduct and character. . what disorganizes brain disorganizes mind and character, and whatever disorganizes mind and character disorganizes society. . the local affinity of alcohol for the brain, therefore, exempts it, in its relations to government, from the list of articles that have no such affinity, and gives to government the right, in self-defence, to interfere by the prohibitory regulation of its sale as a beverage. . it is not sufficient to prove that alcohol is not a poison to overthrow the scientific basis of its prohibitory laws. . intemperance and cerebral injury are so related that even moderate indulgence is inseparably connected with intellectual and moral disintonement. . in this circumstance, and in the inerasibility of the scars produced by the local affinity of alcohol for the brain, the principle of total abstinence finds its justification by science. nothing in science is less questioned than the law of local affinities, by which different substances taken into the system exert their chief effect at particular localities. lead, for example, fastens first upon the muscles of the wrist, producing what is known among painters and white-lead manufacturers as a wrist-drop. manganese seizes upon the liver, iodine upon the lymphatic glands, chromate of potash upon the lining membrane of the eyelids, mercury upon the salivary glands and mouth. oil of tobacco paralyzes the heart. arsenic inflames the mucous membranes of the alimentary passages. strychnine takes effect upon the spinal cord. now, as all chemists admit, the local affinity of alcohol is for the brain. dr. lewis describes a case in which the alcohol could not be detected in the fluid of the brain cavities, nor, indeed, in any part of the body, but was obtained by distillation from the substance of the brain itself. dr. percy distilled alcohol in large quantities from the substance of the brains of animals killed by it, when only small quantities could be found in the blood or other parts of the systems of the same animals. dr. kirk mentions a case in which the brain liquid of a man who died in intoxication smelt very strongly of whisky, and when some of it was taken in a spoon, and a candle put beneath it, the flame burned with a lambent blue flame. but brain is the organ of the mind. dr. bucknell (habitual drinking) quotes forbes winslow as having testified before a committee of parliament that the liquid dipped from the brain of an habitual inebriate can thus be burned. whatever is a disorganizer of the brain is a disorganizer of mind, and whatever is a disorganizer of mind is a disorganizer of society. it is from this point of view that the right of government to prevent the manufacture of madmen and paupers can be best seen. i care not what men make of the famous recent experiments of lallemand, perrin, and duroy, of france, by which half of the medical profession, including dr. carpenter, has been carried over to the support of the propositions that alcohol is eliminated from the system in totality and in nature; is never transformed and never destroyed in the organism; is not food; and is essentially a poison. i care not, on the other hand, what men make of the proposition mr. lewes defends, that alcohol may be a negative food. the local affinity of alcohol for the brain! this is a great fact. it is a fact uncontroverted. it is a fact sufficient. it is a fact to be heeded even in legislation. among the well known authorities on the influence of alcohol on the human brain, dr. w. b. carpenter and dr. b. w. richardson, of england, are now in entire accord with prof. youmans and dr. w. e. greenfield, of the united states, in recommending total abstinence. dr. richardson's cantor lectures have been followed by a volume on "total abstinence," and he gives to dr. carpenter's views on this subject his full assent and final adhesion, having learned at last, he says, "how solemnly right they are." in dr. richardson began to abstain from wine, by limiting his use of it to festal occasions, but still more recently he has abandoned its use altogether. the graduates of amherst college met at the parker house, in boston, some years ago, and, although a wine glass was placed at the side of each plate, not one of them was filled. niagara itself, a recent traveler in the united states says, is not as worthy of description to englishmen as the pure array of goblets with ice-water at the usual dinners at hotels. mrs. hayes has expelled intoxicating beverages from the presidential mansion. the latest investigators of the influence of alcohol on the brain are schulinus, anstie, dupré, labottin, and binz. the latter in a series of remarkable articles published in the _practitioner_, in , maintains that a portion of every dose of alcohol is burned in the system, and yet he considers the use of alcohol in health as entirely superfluous. the experimenters agree with the majority of physicians that, in the army and navy, and for use among healthy persons, alcohol, even as a ration strictly limited to a moderate quantity, is physiologically useless and generally harmful. upon different portions of the brain the action of alcohol can be distinctly traced by medical science and even by common observation. the brain, it will be remembered, is divided into three parts. the upper, which comprises the larger part, and which is supposed to be the seat of the intellectual and moral faculties, is called the _cerebrum_. below that, in the back part of the organ, is another mass, called the _cerebellum_, parts of which are believed to control the contractions of the muscles in portions of the body. still lower is the _medulla oblongata_, which presides over the nerves of respiration. now the action of alcohol can be distinctly marked upon the different parts of the brain. the moral and intellectual faculties are first jarred out of order in the progress of intoxication. the tippler laughs and sings, is talkative and jocose, coarse or eloquent to almost any degree according to his temperament. the cerebrum is first affected. his judgment becomes weak; he is incapable of making a good bargain, or of defending his own rights intelligently, but he does not yet stagger; he is as yet only a moderate drinker. the effect of moderate drinking, however, is to weaken the judgment and to destroy the best powers of the will and intellect. but he takes another glass, and the cerebellum which governs several of the motions of the body is affected, and now he begins to stagger. he loses all control of his muscles, and plunges headlong against post and pavement. one more glass and the _medulla oblongata_ is poisoned. this organ controls the nerves which order the movements of the lungs, and now occurs that hard breathing and snoring which is seen in dead drunkenness. this stoppage is caused by impure blood so poisoning the _medulla oblongata_ that it can no longer perform its duties. the cerebrum and cerebellum now seem to have their action entirely suspended, and sometimes the respiratory movements stop forever, and the man dies by asphyxia in the same manner as by drowning, strangling, or narcotic poisoning by any other substance. (_see_ prof. ferrier. the localization of cerebral disease. london, .) who shall say where end the consequences of alcoholic injury of the blood and of the substance of the brain? here within the cranium, in this narrow chamber, so small that a man's hand may span it, and upon this sheet of cerebral matter, which, if dilated out, would not cover a surface of over six hundred square inches, is the point of union between spirit and matter. inversions of right judgment and every distortion of moral sense legitimately follow from the intoxicating cup. it is here that we should speak decidedly of the evil effects of moderate drinking. men may theorize as they please, but practically there is in average experience no such thing as a moderate dose of alcohol. people drink it to produce an effect. they take enough to "fire up," as they say, and unless that effect is produced they are not satisfied. they will have enough to raise their spirits, or dissipate gloom. and this is enough to impair judgment, and in the course of years perhaps to ruin fortune, body, and soul. the compass is out of line in life's dangerous sea, and a few storms may bring the ship upon breakers. it is to be remembered that, by the law of local affinity, the dose of alcohol is not diffused throughout the system, but is concentrated in its chief effects upon a single organ. when a man drinks moderately, though the effects might be minute if dispersed through the whole body, yet they may be powerful when most of them are gathered upon the brain. they may be dangerous when turned upon the intellect, and even fatal when concentrated upon the primal guiding powers of mind--reason, and moral sense. it is not to the whole body that a moderate glass goes; it is chiefly to its most important part--the brain; and not to the whole brain, but to its most important part--the seat of the higher mental and moral powers; and not to these powers at large, but to their helmsman and captain--reason and conscience. "ship ahoy! all aboard! let your one shot come," shouts the sailor to the pirate craft. now, one shot will not shiver a brig's timbers much, but suppose that this one ball were to strike the captain through the heart, and the helmsman through the skull, and that there are none to fill their posts, it would be a terrible shot indeed. moderate drinking is a charmed ball from a pirate craft. it does not lodge in the beams' ends. it cuts no masts. it shivers no plank between wind and water. it strikes no sailor or under-officer, but with magic course it seeks the heart of the captain and the arms of the helmsman, and it always hits. their leaders dead, and none to take their place, the crew are powerless against the enemy. thunders another broadside from pirate alcohol, and what is the effect? every ball is charmed; not one of the crew is killed, but every one becomes mad and raises mutiny. commanders dead, they are free. thunders another broadside from the pirate, and the charmed balls complete their work. the mutinous crew rage with insanity. captain conscience and steersman reason are picked up, and, lest their corpses should offend the crazy sailors, pitched overboard. then ranges jack lust from one end of the ship to the other. that brave tar, midshipman courage, who, in his right mind, was the bravest defender of the ship, now wheels the cannon against his own friends and rakes the deck with red-hot grape until every mast totters with shot-holes. the careful stewards, seamen friendship and parental love, whose exertions have always heretofore provided the crew seasonably with food and drink, now refuse to cook, furnish no meals, unhead the water-casks, waste the provisions, and break the ship's crockery. the vessel has wheeled into the trough of the sea; a black shadow approaches swiftly over the waters, and the compass and helm are deserted. that speculating mate, love of money, who, if sober, would see the danger, and order every rag down from jib to mainsail, and make the ship scud under bare poles before the black squall, now, on the contrary, orders up every sail and spreads every thread of canvas. the rising storm whistles in the rigging, but he does not hear it. that black shadow on the water is swiftly nearing. he does not see it. in the trough of the sea the ship rocks like a cockle shell. he does not feel it. yonder, before the dense rush of the coming blow of air rises a huge wave, foaming, and gnawing, and groaning on high. he does not hear it. with a shock like the opening of an earthquake it strikes the broadside; with a roar it washes over the deck; three snaps like cannon, and the heavily-rigged masts are gone; a lurch and sucking in of waves, and the hold is full of water, and the sinking ship just survives the first heavy sea. then comes out mirthfulness, and sits astride the broken bowsprit, and ogles a dancing tune. the crew dance! it were possible, even yet, to so man the pumps and right the helm as to ride over the swells and drive into port, but all action for the right government of the ship is ended. trumpeter language mounts the shattered beams of the forecastle, and makes an oration; it is not necessary to work, he tells the crew, but to hear him sputter yarns. it is fearful now to look upon the raging of the black sea. every moment the storm increases in fury. as a giant would toss about a straw, so the waves handle the wrecked timbers. night gathers her black mists into the rifted clouds, and the strong moaning sound of the storm is heard on the dark ocean. by that glare of lightning i saw a sail and a life-boat! men from another ship are risking their lives to save the insane crew whose masts are gone. they come nearer, but the boat bounds and quivers, and is nearly swamped upon the top of a wave. jack courage and independence see the boat coming. "ship ahoy," shout the deliverers. "life-boat from the ship temperance! quit your wreck and be saved." no reply. independence grinds his teeth and growls to jack courage that the offer of help is an insult. "i will tell you how to answer," says jack, stern and bloody. there is one cannon left with a dry charge. they wheel that upon the approaching boat, and independence holds the linstock over the fuse-hole. "life-boat for sailors on the wreck," shouts philanthropy from the approaching boat. "what answer, ship immortal?" then shoots from the ringing gun a tongue of flame, and ten pounds of iron are on their way. the temperance boat rocks lower from the wave-top, and the deadly reply just grazes the heads of the astounded philanthropists and buries itself heavily in their own ship beyond. it was an accident, they think, and keep on board the ship and stand upon its deck. then flash from their scabbards a dozen swords; then click the locks of a dozen muskets; then double the palms of a dozen fists; then shake the clubs of a dozen maniac arms, and the unsuspecting deliverers are murdered on the deck they came to save. as the lightning glares i see them thrown into the sea, while thunders are the dirge of the dead and the damnation of the murderers. the drunken ship is fast filling with water. not a man at the pumps, not an arm at the helm. having destroyed their friends, the crew fall upon each other. close under their bow rave the breakers of a rocky shore, but they hear it not. at intervals they seem to realize their condition, and their power even yet to save themselves, but they make no effort. gloom, and storm, and foam shut them up against hell with many thunders. in this terrible extremity independence is heard to refuse help, and boasts of his strength. friendship and parental love rail at thoughts of affection. language trumpets his easy yarns and grows garrulous as the timbers crack one after another. rage and revenge are now the true names of firmness and courage. silly mirth yet giggles a dance, and i saw him astride the last timber as the ship went down, tossing foam at the lightning. then came a sigh of the storm, a groaning of waves, a booming of blackness, and a red, crooked thunderbolt shot wrathfully blue into the suck of the sea where the ship went down. and i asked the names of those rocks, and was told: "god's stern and immutable laws." and i asked the name of that ship, and they said: "immortal soul." and i asked why its crew brought it there, and they said: "their captain, conscience, and helmsman, reason, were dead." and i asked how they died, and they said: "by one single shot from the pirate alcohol; by one charmed ball of moderate drinking!" on this topic, over which we sleep, we shall some day cease to dream. advertisements _the beer question._ the national temperance society has published the following books, tracts, and pamphlets upon the beer question, which should have a wide circulation. the following are adapted to sunday-school libraries, as well as for family reading and general distribution. +brewer's fortune, the.+ by mary dwinell chellis. mo, pp +$ . + this takes up and discusses the entire beer question; the writer having carefully studied the subject from every point of view, and it is worthy of the widest circulation. it is one of the best volumes ever written by this popular author, and shows that wealth can not compensate for evil-doing, and that the sins of the fathers are often visited upon the children. +brewery at taylorville, the.+ by mary dwinell chellis. mo, pp + . + this book shows how much evil was wrought by the establishment of a brewery in a hitherto prosperous town, and how it brought ruin and disgrace upon those who indulged in what are called the lighter drinks. it is one of the strongest books in favor of total abstinence from everything that can intoxicate. +firebrands; a temperance tale.+ by mrs. j. mcnair wright. mo, pp + . + it is the story of an orphaned boy, adopted by a distant relative, and subsequently the inheritor of a small fortune from an uncle, which he is then induced to invest in brewing in a country village, with an unhappy sequel alike to himself and the community. the lesson against tampering with beer or strong drink, either the drinking, making, or vending of it, is of a most impressive character, and is admirably adapted to win and hold the reader's interest, and to create and strengthen good resolutions. +beer as a beverage.+ an address by g. w. hughey. mo, pp + + a very able reply to the assumptions by the brewers at their late congress at st. louis, that beer is a harmless, wholesome, "temperance" beverage. it deals very effectively and conclusively with the sophistries and falsehoods of the brewers, and is a most valuable document for general circulation by the friends of temperance in all parts of the country. +history and mystery of a glass of ale.+ by j. w. kirton. mo, pp + + showing what ale is, and what it does, and why it should be let alone. eight-page tracts, $ . per , . +the evils of beer legislation.+ by j. b. dunn, d.d. +malt liquors, their nature and effects.+ by wm. hargreaves, m.d. four-page tracts, $ . per , . +why i did not become a brewer.+ by j. b. dunn, d.d. +that glass of ale.+ by rev. e. h. pratt. +the sabbath and the beer question.+ by geo. lansing taylor, d.d. +shall we use wines and beer?+ by mrs. sarah k. bolton. +a glass of ale.+ by t. s. arthur. +not poverty, but beer.+ by mary dwinell chellis. union hand-bills, $ . per , . +a crusade against beer.+ +what is malt liquor?+ +what brewers think about beer.+ +what! deprive a poor man of his beer?+ +what beer costs.+ +what have you to show for it?+ address j. n. stearns, publishing agent, _ reade street, new york_. _science and temperance._ by benjamin w. richardson, m.a., m.d., f.r.s., _fellow of the royal college of physicians, london; etc._ the national temperance society has published the following new and valuable works on alcohol, from a scientific stand-point, written by dr. richardson, one of the foremost scientists of the age. +on alcohol.+ with an introduction by dr. willard parker, of new york. mo, pages. paper covers, cents; cloth +$ . + this book contains the "cantor lectures" recently delivered before the society of arts. these justly celebrated lectures, six in number, embrace a historical sketch of alcoholic distillation, and the results of an exhaustive scientific inquiry concerning the nature of alcohol and its effects upon the human body and mind. they have attracted much attention throughout great britain, both among physicians and general readers, and are the latest and best scientific expositions of alcohol and its effects extant. +the temperance lesson-book.+ a series of short lessons on alcohol and its action on the body. adapted for public and private schools, and supplies a great educational need. mo, pages. school edition, per dozen, $ . ; singly + + it is the mature result of most careful and extended research on the part of its gifted author, whose attainments place him in the front rank of the ablest scientists of the world. there are fifty-two lessons, each followed by a series of questions for examination and review. they are free from labored and wearisome details, cover a wide range of physiological and hygienic information, and in style are simple and attractive, admirably adapted to win and retain to the end the interest of students. their practical value, as a means of prevention and a safeguard for the young against the drink peril, it would be impossible to compute. +moderate drinking+: for and against, from scientific points of view. mo, pages. paper + + it is a thoroughly scientific and impartial discussion of the subject of the moderate use of alcoholic beverages, by one who stands in the front rank of the most distinguished scientists in great britain, and as such possesses a rare value for circulation among the young, and all who may not yet have arrived at mature convictions as to total abstinence. it is one of the most valuable contributions its gifted author has yet made to temperance literature. it ought to be in the hands of all college students, and of young men, ministers, teachers, and intelligent people everywhere. +action of alcohol on the body and on the mind, the.+ mo, pages. paper + + two able and important lectures, the result of careful and extended researches as to the results of alcohol from a scientific stand-point, and are among the ablest contributions to this branch of the subject. +the medical profession and alcohol.+ an address before the british medical association. mo, pages. paper + + it is a scientific plea for total abstinence, of great power. it embodies also a very earnest appeal to members of the medical profession to join in the pending vitally important warfare against alcoholic beverages. it is a most valuable publication to place in the hands of the physicians of this country, among whom it should have the widest possible circulation. address j. n. stearns, publishing agent, _ reade street, new york_. the ethics of drink and other social questions _or_ _joints in our social armour_ by james runciman _author of "a dream of the north sea," "skippers and shellbacks," etc_ london hodder and stoughton , paternoster row mdcccxcii [ ] _the ethics of the drink question_. all the statistics and formal statements published about drink are no doubt impressive enough to those who have the eye for that kind of thing; but, to most of us, the word "million" means nothing at all, and thus when we look at figures, and find that a terrific number of gallons are swallowed, and that an equally terrific amount in millions sterling is spent, we feel no emotion. it is as though you told us that a thousand chinamen were killed yesterday; for we should think more about the ailments of a pet terrier than about the death of the chinese, and we think absolutely nothing definite concerning the "millions" which appear with such an imposing intention when reformers want to stir the public. no man's imagination was ever vitally impressed by figures, and i am a little afraid that the statistical gentlemen repel people instead of attracting them. the persons who screech and abuse the drink sellers are even less effective than the men of figures; their opponents laugh at them, and their friends grow deaf and apathetic in the storm of whirling words, while cool outsiders think that we should be better employed if we found fault with ourselves and sat in sackcloth and ashes instead of gnashing teeth at tradesmen who obey a human instinct. the publican is considered, among platform folk in the temperance body, as even worse than a criminal, if we take all things seriously that they choose to say, and i have over and over again heard vague blather about confiscating the drink-sellers' property and reducing them to the state to which they have brought others. then there is the rant regarding brewers. why forget essential business only in order to attack a class of plutocrats whom we have made, and whom our society worships with odious grovellings? the brewers and distillers earn their money by concocting poisons which cause nearly all the crime and misery in broad britain; there is not a soul living in these islands who does not know the effect of the afore-named poisons; there is not a soul living who does not very well know that there never was a pestilence crawling over the earth which could match the alcoholic poisons in murderous power. there is a demand for these poisons; the brewer and distiller supply the demand and gain thereby large profits; society beholds the profits and adores the brewer. when a gentleman has sold enough alcoholic poison to give him the vast regulation fortune which is the drink-maker's inevitable portion, then the world receives him with welcome and reverence; the rulers of the nation search out honours and meekly bestow them upon him, for can he not command seats, and do not seats mean power, and does not power enable talkative gentry to feed themselves fat out of the parliamentary trough? no wonder the brewer is a personage. honours which used to be reserved for men who did brave deeds, or thought brave thoughts, are reserved for persons who have done nothing but sell so many buckets of alcoholized fluid. observe what happens when some brewer's wife chooses to spend £ on a ball. i remember one excellent lady carefully boasting (for the benefit of the press) that the flowers alone that were in her house on one evening cost in all £ . well, the mob of society folk fairly yearn for invitations to such a show, and there is no meanness too despicable to be perpetrated by women who desire admission. so through life the drink-maker and his family fare in dignity and splendour; adulation surrounds them; powerful men bow to the superior force of money; wealth accumulates until the amount in the brewer's possession baffles the mind that tries to conceive it--and the big majority of our interesting race say that all this is good. considering, then, how the english people directly and indirectly force the man of drink onward until he must of necessity fancy there is something of the moral demi-god about him; considering how he is wildly implored to aid in ruling us from westminster; considering that his aid at an election may procure him the same honour which fell to the share of william pitt, earl of chatham--may we not say that the community makes the brewer, and that if the brewer's stuff mars the community we have no business to howl at him. we are answerable for his living, and moving, and having his being--the few impulsive people who gird at him should rather turn in shame and try to make some impression on the huge, cringing, slavering crowd who make the plutocrat's pompous reign possible. but for myself, i cannot be bothered with bare figures and vague abuse nowadays; abstractions are nothing, and neat arguments are less than nothing, because the dullest quack that ever quacked can always clench an argument in a fashion. every turn that talk can take on the drink question brings the image of some man or woman, or company of men and women, before me, and that image is alive to my mind. if you pelt me with tabular forms, and tell me that each adult in britain drank so many pints last year, you might just as well recite a mathematical proof. i fix on some one human figure that your words may suggest and the image of the bright lad whom i saw become a dirty, loafing, thievish sot is more instructive and more woeful than all your columns of numerals. before me passes a tremendous procession of the lost: i can stop its march when i choose and fix on any given individual in the ranks, so that you can hardly name a single fact concerning drink, which does not recall to me a fellow-creature who has passed into the place of wrecked lives and slain souls. the more i think about it the more plainly i see that, if we are to make any useful fight against drink, we must drop the preachee-preachee; we must drop loud execrations of the people whose existence the state fosters; we must get hold of men who _know_ what drinking means, and let them come heart to heart with the victims who are blindly tramping on to ruin for want of a guide and friend. my hideous procession of the damned is always there to importune me; i gathered the dolorous recruits who form the procession when i was dwelling in strange, darkened ways, and i know that only the magnetism of the human soul could ever have saved one of them. if anybody fancies that gothenburg systems, or lectures, or little tiresome tracts, or sloppy yarns about "joe tomkins's temperance turkey," or effusive harangues by half-educated buffoons, will ever do any good, he must run along the ranks of my procession with me, and i reckon he may learn something. the comic personages who deal with the subject are cruelly useless; the very notion of making jokes in presence of such a mighty living terror seems desolating to the mind; i could not joke over the pest of drink, for i had as lief dance a hornpipe to the blare of the last trumpet. i said you must have men who _know_, if you care to rescue any tempted creature. you must also have men who address the individual and get fast hold of his imagination; abstractions must be completely left alone, and your workers must know so much of the minute details of the horror against which they are fighting that each one who comes under their influence shall feel as if the story of his life were known and his soul laid bare. i do not believe that you will ever stop one man from drinking by means of legislation; you may level every tavern over twenty square miles, but you will not thereby prevent a fellow who has the _bite_ of drink from boozing himself mad whenever he likes. as for stopping a woman by such merely mechanical means as the closing of public-houses, the idea is ridiculous to anybody who knows the foxy cunning, the fixed determination of a female soaker. it is a great moral and physical problem that we want to solve, and bills and clauses are only so much ink and paper which are ineffective as a schoolboy's copybook. if a man has the desire for alcohol there is no power known that can stop him from gratifying himself; the end to be aimed at is to remove the desire--to get the drinker past that stage when the craving presses hardly on him, and you can never bring that about by rules and regulations. i grant that the clusters of drink-shops which are stuck together in the slums of our big towns are a disgrace to all of us, but if we closed per cent. of them by statute we should have the same drunken crew left. while wandering far and wide over england, nothing has struck me more than the steady resolution with which men will obtain drink during prohibited hours; the cleverest administrator in the world could not frame a network of clauses that could stop them; one might close every drink-selling place in britain, and yet those folks that had a mind would get drink when they wanted it. you may ply bolts and bars; you may stop the working of beer-engines and taps; but all will be futile, for i repeat, that only by asserting power over hearts, souls, imaginations, can you make any sort of definite resistance to the awe-striking plague that envenoms the world. with every humility i am obliged to say that many of the good people who aim at reform do not know sufficiently well the central facts regarding drink and drinkers. it is beautiful to watch some placid man who stands up and talks gently to a gathering of sympathizers. the reposeful face, the reposeful voice, the refinement, the assured faith of the speaker are comforting; but when he explains that he has always been an abstainer, i am inclined to wonder how he can possibly exchange ideas with an alcoholized man. how _can_ he know where to aim his persuasions with most effect? can he really sympathize with the fallen? he has never lived with drunkards or wastrels; he is apart, like a star, and i half think that he only has a blurred vision of the things about which he talks so sweetly. he would be more poignant, and more likely to draw people after him, if he had living images burned into his consciousness. my own set of pictures all stand out with ghastly plainness as if they were lit up by streaks of fire from the pit. i have come through the valley of the shadow into which i ventured with a light heart, and those who know me might point and say what was said of a giant: "there is the man who has been in hell." it was true. through the dim and sordid inferno, i moved as in a trance for awhile, and that is what makes me so keen to warn those who fancy they are safe; that is what makes me so discontented with the peculiar ethical conceptions of a society which bows down before the concocter of drink and spurns the lost one whom drink seizes. i have learned to look with yearning pity and pardon on all who have been blasted in life by their own weakness, and gripped by the trap into which so many weakly creatures stumble. looking at brutal life, catching the rotting soul in the very fact, have made me feel the most careless contempt for statute-mongers, because i know now that you must conquer the evil of evils by a straight appeal to one individual after another and not by any screed of throttling jargon. one father mathew would be worth ten parliaments, even if the parliaments were all reeling off curative measures with unexampled velocity. you must not talk to a county or a province and expect to be heard to any purpose; you must address john, and tom, and mary. i am sure that dead-lift individual effort will eventually reduce the ills arising from alcohol to a minimum, and i am equally sure that the blind groping of half-informed men who chatter at st. stephen's will never do more good than the chatter of the same number of jackdaws. it is impossible to help admiring sir wilfrid lawson's smiling courage, but i really do not believe that he sees more than the faint shadows of the evils against which he struggles; he does not know the true nature of the task which he has attacked, and he fancies that securing temperance is an affair of bolts, and bars, and police, and cackling local councils. i wish he had lived with me for a year. if you talk with strong emotion about the dark horror of drink you always earn plenty of jibes, and it is true that you do give your hand away, as the fighting men say. it is easy to turn off a light paragraph like this: "because a chooses to make a beast of himself, is that any reason why b, and c, and d should be deprived of a wholesome article of liquid food?"--and so on. now, i do not want to trouble b, and c, and d at all; a is my man, and i want to get at him, not by means of a policeman, or a municipal officer of any kind, but by bringing my soul and sympathy close to him. moreover, i believe that if everybody had definite knowledge of the wide ruin which is being wrought by drink there would be a general movement which would end in the gradual disappearance of drinking habits. at this present, however, our state is truly awful, and i see a bad end to it all, and a very bad end to england herself, unless a great emotional impulse travels over the country. the same middle class which is envenomed by the gambling madness is also the heir of all the more vile habits which the aristocrats have abandoned. drinking--conviviality i think they call it--is not merely an excrescence on the life of the middle class--it _is_ the life; and work, thought, study, seemly conduct, are now the excrescences. drink first, gambling second, lubricity third--those are the chief interests of the young men, and i cannot say that the interests of mature and elderly men differ very much from those of the fledglings. ladies and gentlemen who dwell in quiet refinement can hardly know the scenes amid which our middle-class lad passes the span of his most impressionable days. i have watched the men at all times and in all kinds of places; every town of importance is very well known to me, and the same abomination is steadily destroying the higher life in all. the chancellors of the exchequer gaily repeat the significant figures which give the revenue from alcohol; the optimist says that times are mending; the comfortable gentry who mount the pulpits do not generally care to ruffle the fine dames by talking about unpleasant things--and all the while the curse is gaining, and the betting, scoffing, degraded crew of drinkers are sliding merrily to destruction. some are able to keep on the slide longer than others, but i have seen scores--hundreds--stop miserably, and the very faces of the condemned men, with the last embruted look on them, are before me. my subject has so many thousands of facets that i am compelled to select a few of the most striking. take one scene through which i sat not very long ago, and then you may understand how far the coming regenerator will have to go. a great room was filled by about men and lads, all of the middle class; a concert was going on, and i was a little curious to know the kind of entertainment which the well-dressed company liked. of course there was drink in plenty, and the staff of waiters had a busy time; a loud crash of talk went on between the songs, and, as the drink gathered power on excited brains, this crash grew more and more discordant. nice lads, with smooth, pleasant faces, grew flushed and excited, and i am afraid that i occupied myself in marking out possible careers for a good many of them as i studied their faces. there was not much fun of the healthy kind; fat, comfortable, middle-aged men laughed so heartily at the faintest indecent allusion that the singers grew broader and broader, and the hateful music-hall songs grew more and more risky as the night grew onward. by the way, can anything be more loathsomely idiotic than the average music-hall ditty, with its refrain and its quaint stringing together of casual filthiness? if i had not wanted to fix a new picture on my mind i should have liked better to be in a tap-room among honestly brutal costers and scavengers than with that sniggering, winking gang. the drink got hold, glasses began to be broken here and there, the time was beaten with glass crushers, spoons, pipes, and walking-sticks; and then the bolder spirits felt that the time for good, rank, unblushing blackguardism had come. a being stepped up and faced a roaring audience of enthusiasts who knew the quality of his dirtiness; he launched out into an unclean stave, and he reduced his admirers to mere convulsions. he was encored, and he went a trifle further, until he reached a depth of bestiality below which a gaff in shoreditch could net descend. ah! those bonny lads, how they roared with laughter, and how they exchanged winks with grinning elders! not a single obscure allusion to filth was lost upon them, and they took more and more drink under pressure of the secret excitement until many of them were unsteady and incoherent. i think i should shoot a boy of mine if i found him enjoying such a foul entertainment. it was léze-humanity. the orgie rattled on, to the joy of all the steaming, soddened company, and i am not able to guess where some of the songs and recitations came from. there are deeps below deeps, and i suppose that there are skilled literary workmen who have sunk so far that they are ready to supply the unspeakable dirt which i heard. there was a merry crowd at the bar when this astounding function ceased, and the lively lads jostled, and laughed, and quoted some of the more spicy specimens of nastiness which they had just heard. now, i should not have mentioned such an unsavoury business as this, but that it illustrates in a curious way the fact that one is met and countered by the power of drink at every turn in this country. among that unholy audience were one or two worthies who ought by rights to have called the police, and forced the promoters of the fun to appear before the bench in the morning. but then these magistrates had an interest in beer, and brewery shares were pretty well represented in the odious room, and thus a flagrant scandal was gently passed aside. the worst of it is that, after a rouse like this, the young men do not care to go to bed, so they adjourn to some one's rooms and play cards till any hour. in the train next morning there are blotchy faces, dull eyes, tongues with a bitter taste, and there is a general rush for "liveners" before the men go to office or warehouse; and the day drags on until the joyous evening comes, when some new form of debauch drowns the memory of the morning's headache. should you listen to a set of these men when the roar of a long bar is at its height at night, you will find that the life of the intellect has passed away from their midst. the fellows may be sharp in a small way at business, and i am sure i hope they are; but their conversation is painful in the extreme to any one who wishes to retain a shred of respect for his own species. if you listen long, and then fix your mind so that you can pick out the exact significance of what you have heard, you become confounded. take the scraps of "bar" gabble. "so i says, 'lay me fours.' and he winks and says, 'i'll give you seven to two, if you like.' well, you know, the horse won, and i stood him a bottle out of the three pound ten, so i wasn't much in." "'what!' says i; 'step outside along o' me, and bring your pal with you, and i'll spread your bloomin' nose over your face.'" "_that_ corked him." "i tell you flyaway's a dead cert. i know a bloke that goes to newmarket regular, and he's acquainted with reilly of the greyhound, and reilly told him that he heard teddy martin's cousin say that flyaway was tried within seven pounds of peacock. can you have a better tip than that?" "i'll give you the break, and we'll play for a bob and the games." "thanks, deah boy, i'll jest have one with you. lor! wasn't i chippy this morning? i felt as if the pavement was making rushes at me, and my hat seemed to want a shoehorn to get it on or off for that matter. bill's whisky's too good." "i'm going out with a judy on sunday, or else you'd have me with you. the girls won't leave me alone, and the blessed dears can't be denied." so the talk goes steadily forward. what can a bright lad learn there? many of the assembly are very young, and their features have not lost the freshness and purity of skin which give such a charm to a healthy lad's appearance. would any mother like to see her favourite among that hateful crowd? i do not think that mothers rightly know the sort of places which their darlings enter; i do not think they guess the kind of language which the youths hear when the chimes sound at midnight; they do not know the intricacies of a society which half encourages callow beings to drink, and then kicks them into the gutter if the drink takes hold effectually. the kindly, seemly woman remains at home in her drawing-room, papa slumbers if he is one of the stay-at-home sort; but gerald, and sidney, and alfred are out in the drink-shop hearing talk fit to make rabelais turn queasy, or they are in the billiard-room learning to spell "ruin" with all convenient speed, or perhaps they have "copped it"--that is the correct phrase--rather early, and they are swaggering along, shadowed by some creature--half girl, half tiger-cat--who will bring them up in good time. if the women knew enough, i sometimes think they would make a combined, nightly raid on the boozing-bars, and bring their lads out. some hard-headed fellows may think that there is something grandmotherly in the regrets which i utter over the cesspool in which so many of our middle-class seem able to wallow without suffering asphyxia; but i am only mournful because i have seen the plight of so many and many after their dip in the sinister depths of the pool. i envy those stolid people who can talk so contemptuously of frailty--i mean i envy them their self-mastery; i quite understand the temperament of those who can be content with a slight exhilaration, and who fiercely contemn the crackbrain who does not know when to stop. no doubt it is a sad thing for a man to part with his self-control, but i happen to hold a brief for the crackbrain, and i say that there is not any man living who can afford to be too contemptuous, for no one knows when his turn may come to make a disastrous slip. most strange it is that a vice which brings instant punishment on him who harbours it should be first of all encouraged by the very people who are most merciless in condemning it. the drunkard has not to wait long for his punishment; it follows hard on his sin, and he is not left to the justice of another world. and yet, as we have said, this vice, which entails such scathing disgrace and suffering, is encouraged in many seductive ways. the talk in good company often runs on wine; the man who has the deadly taint in his blood is delicately pressed to take that which brings the taint once more into ill-omened activity; but, so long as his tissues show no sign of that flabbiness and general unwholesomeness which mark the excessive drinker, he is left unnoticed. then the literary men nearly always make the subject of drink attractive in one way or other. we laugh at mr. pickwick and all his gay set of brandy-bibbers; we laugh at john ridd, with his few odd gallons of ale per day; but let any man be seen often in the condition which led to mr. pickwick's little accident, and see what becomes of him. he is soon shunned like a scabbed sheep. one had better incur penal servitude than fall into that vice from which the government derives a huge revenue--the vice which is ironically associated with friendliness, good temper, merriment, and all goodly things. there are times when one is minded to laugh for very bitterness. and this sin, which begins in kindness and ends always in utter selfishness--this sin, which pours accursed money into the exchequer--this sin, which consigns him who is guilty of it to a doom worse than servitude or death--this sin is to be fought by act of parliament! on the one hand, there are gentry who say, "drink is a dreadful curse, but look at the revenue." on the other hand, there are those who say, "drink is a dreadful thing; let us stamp it out by means of foolscap and printers' ink." then the neutrals say, "bother both your parties. drink is a capital thing in its place. why don't you leave it alone?" meantime the flower of the earth are being bitterly blighted. it is the special examples that i like to bring out, so that the jolly lads who are tempted into such places as the concert-room which i described may perhaps receive a timely check. it is no use talking to me about culture, and refinement, and learning, and serious pursuits saving a man from the devouring fiend; for it happens that the fiend nearly always clutches the best and brightest and most promising. intellect alone is not worth anything as a defensive means against alcohol, and i can convince anybody of that if he will go with me to a common lodging-house which we can choose at random. yes, it is the bright and powerful intellects that catch the rot first in too many cases, and that is why i smile at the notion of mere book-learning making us any better. if i were to make out a list of the scholars whom i have met starving and in rags, i should make people gape. i once shared a pot of fourpenny ale with a man who used to earn £ a year by coaching at oxford. he was in a low house near the waterloo road, and he died of cold and hunger there. he had been the friend and counsellor of statesmen, but the vice from which statesmen squeeze revenue had him by the throat before he knew where he was, and he drifted toward death in a kind of constant dream from which no one ever saw him wake. these once bright and splendid intellectual beings swarm in the houses of poverty: if you pick up with a peculiarly degraded one you may always be sure that he was one of the best men of his time, and it seems as if the very rich quality of his intelligence had enabled corruption to rankle through him so much the more quickly. i have seen a tramp on the road--a queer, long-nosed, short-sighted animal--who would read greek with the book upside-down. he was a very fine latin scholar, and we tried him with virgil; he could go off at score when he had a single line given him, and he scarcely made a slip, for the poetry seemed ingrained. i have shared a pennyworth of sausage with the brother of a chief justice, and i have played a piccolo while an ex-incumbent performed a dance which he described, i think, as pyrrhic. he fell in the fire and used hideous language in latin and french, but i do not know whether that was pyrrhic also. drink is the dainty harvester; no puny ears for him, no faint and bending stalks: he reaps the rathe corn, and there is only the choicest of the choice in his sheaves. that is what i want to fix on the minds of young people--and others; the more sense of power you have, the more pride of strength you have, the more you are likely to be marked and shorn down by the grim reaper; and there is little hope for you when the reaper once approaches, because the very friends who followed the national craze, and upheld the harmlessness of drink, will shoot out their lips at you and run away when your bad moment comes. the last person who ever suspects that a wife drinks is always the husband; the last person who ever suspects that any given man is bitten with drink is that man himself. so stealthily, so softly does the evil wind itself around a man's being, that he very often goes on fancying himself a rather admirable and temperate customer--until the crash comes. it is all so easy, that the deluded dupe never thinks that anything is far wrong until he finds that his friends are somehow beginning to fight shy of him. no one will tell him what ails him, and i may say that such a course would be quite useless, for the person warned would surely fly into a passion, declare himself insulted, and probably perform some mad trick while his nerves were on edge. well, there comes a time when the doomed man is disinclined for exertion, and he knows that something is wrong. he has become sly almost without knowing it, and, although he is pining for some stimulus, he pretends to go without, and tries by the flimsiest of devices, to deceive those around him. now that is a funny symptom; the master vice, the vice that is the pillar of the revenue, always, without any exception known to me, turns a man into a sneak, and it generally turns him into a liar as well. so sure as the habit of concealment sets in, so surely we may be certain that the dry-rot of the soul has begun. the drinker is tremulous; he finds that light beverages are useless to him, and he tries something that burns: his nerve recovers tone; he laughs at himself for his early morning fears, and he gets over another day. but the dry-rot is spreading; body and soul react on each other, and the forlorn one soon begins to be fatally false and weak in morals, and dirty and slovenly in person. then in the dead, unhappy nights he suffers all the torments that can be endured if he wakes up while his day's supply of alcohol lies stagnant in his system. no imagination is so retrospective as the drunkard's, and the drunkard's remorse is the most terrible torture known. the wind cries in the dark and the trees moan; the agonized man who lies waiting the morning thinks of the times when the whistle of the wind was the gladdest of sounds to him; his old ambitions wake from their trance and come to gaze on him reproachfully; he sees that fortune (and mayhap fame) have passed him by, and all through his own fault; he may whine about imaginary wrongs during the day when he is maudlin, but the night fairly throttles him if he attempts to turn away from the stark truth, and he remains pinned face to face with his beautiful, dead self. then, with a start, he remembers that he has no friends. when he crawls out in the morning to steady his hand he will be greeted with filthy public-house cordiality by the animals to whose level he has dragged himself, but of friends he has none. now, is it not marvellous? drink is so jolly; prosperous persons talk with such a droll wink about vagaries which they or their friends committed the night before; it is all so very, very lightsome! the brewers and distillers who put the mirth-inspiring beverages into the market receive more consideration, and a great deal more money, than an average european prince;--and yet the poor dry-rotted unfortunate whose decadence we are tracing is like a leper in the scattering effects which he produces during his shaky promenade. he is indeed alone in the world, and brandy or gin is his only counsellor and comforter. as to character, the last rag of that goes when the first sign of indolence is seen; the watchers have eyes like cats, and the self-restrained men among them have usually seen so many fellows depart to perdition that every stage in the process of degradation is known to them. no! there is not a friend, and dry, clever gentlemen say, "yes. good chap enough once on a day, but can't afford to be seen with him now." the soaker is amazed to find that women are afraid of him a little, and shrink from him--in fact, the only people who are cordial with him are the landlords, among whom he is treated as a sort of irresponsible baby. "i may as well have his money as anybody else. he shan't get outrageously drunk here, but he may as well moisten his clay and keep himself from being miserable. if he gets the jumps in the night that's his look-out." that is the soaker's friend. the man is not unkind; he is merely hardened, and his morals, like those of nearly all who are connected with the great trade, have suffered a twist. when the soaker's last penny has gone, he will receive from the landlord many a contemptuously good-natured gift--pity it is that the lost wastrel cannot be saved before that weariful last penny huddles in the corner of his pocket. while the harrowing descent goes on our suffering wretch is gradually changing in appearance: the piggish element that is latent in most of us comes out in him; his morality is sapped; he will beg, borrow, lie, and steal; and, worst of all, he is a butt for thoughtless young fellows. the last is the worst cut of all, for the battered, bloodless, sunken ne'er-do-well can remember only too vividly his own gallant youth, and the thought of what he was drives him crazed. there is only one end; if the doomed one escapes _delirium tremens_ he is likely to have cirrhosis, and if he misses both of these, then dropsy or bright's disease claims him. those who once loved him pray for his death, and greet his last breath with an echoing sigh of thankfulness and relief: he might have been cheered in his last hour by the graceful sympathy of troops of friends; but the state-protected vice has such a withering effect that it scorches up friendship as a fiery breath from a furnace might scorch a grass blade. if one of my joyous, delightful lads could just watch the shambling, dirty figure of such a failure as i have described; if he could see the sneers of amused passers-by, the timid glances of women, the contemptuous off-hand speech of the children--"oh! him! that's old, boozy blank;" then the youths might well tremble, for the woebegone beggar that snivels out thanks for a mouthful of gin was once a brave lad--clever, handsome, generous, the delight of friends, the joy of his parents, the most brilliantly promising of all his circle. he began by being jolly; he was well encouraged and abetted; he found that respectable men drank, and that society made no demur. but he forgot that there are drinkers and drinkers, he forgot that the cool-headed men were not tainted by heredity, nor were their brains so delicately poised that the least grain of foreign matter introduced in the form of vapour could cause semi-insanity. and thus the sacrifice of society--and the exchequer--goes to the tomb amid contempt, and hissing, and scorn; while the saddest thing of all is that those who loved him most passionately are most glad to hear the clods thump on his coffin. i believe, if you let me keep a youngster for an hour in a room with me, i could tell him enough stories from my own shuddery experience to frighten him off drink for life. i should cause him to be haunted. there is none of the rage of the convert in all this; i knew what i was doing when i went into the base and sordid homes of ruin during years, and i want to know how any justification _not_ fitted for the libretto of an extravaganza can be given by certain parliamentary gentlemen in order that we may be satisfied with their conduct. my wanderings and freaks do not count; i was a bohemian, with the tastes of a romany and the curiosity of a philosopher; i went into the most abominable company because it amused me and i had only myself to please, and i saw what a fearfully tense grip the monster, drink, has taken of this nation; and let me say that you cannot understand that one little bit, if you are content to knock about with a policeman and squint at signboards. well, i want to know how these legislators can go to church and repeat certain prayers, while they continue to make profit by retailing death at so much a gallon; and i want to know how some scores of other godly men go out of their way to back up a traffic which is very well able to take care of itself. a wild, night-roaming gipsy like me is not expected to be a model, but one might certainly expect better things from folks who are so insultingly, aggressively righteous. one sombre and thoughtful romany of my acquaintance said, "my brother, there are many things that i try to fight, and they knock me out of time in the first round." that is my own case exactly when i observe comfortable personages who deplore vice, and fill their pockets to bursting by shoving the vice right in the way of the folks most likely to be stricken with deadly precision by it. it is not easy to be bad-tempered over this saddening business; one has to be pitiful. as my memory travels over england, and follows the tracks that i trod, i seem to see a line of dead faces, that start into life if i linger by them, and mop and mow at me in bitterness because i put out no saving hand. so many and many i saw tramping over the path of destruction, and i do not think that ever i gave one of them a manly word of caution. it was not my place, i thought, and thus their bones are bleaching, and the memory of their names has flown away like a mephitic vapour that was better dispersed. are there many like me, i wonder, who have not only done nothing to battle with the mightiest modern evil, but have half encouraged it through cynical recklessness and pessimism? we entrap the poor and the base and the wretched to their deaths, and then we cry out about their vicious tendencies, and their improvidence, and all the rest. heaven knows i have no right to sermonize; but, at least, i never shammed anything. when i saw some spectacle of piercing misery caused by drink (as nearly all english misery is) i simply choked down the tendency to groan, and grimly resolved to see all i could and remember it. but now that i have had time to reflect instead of gazing and moaning, i have a sharp conception of the thing that is biting at england's vitals. people fish out all sorts of wondrous and obscure causes for crime. as far as england is concerned i should lump the influences provocative of crime and productive of misery into one--i say drink is the root of almost all evil. it is heartbreaking to know what is going on at our own doors, for, however we may shuffle and blink, we cannot disguise the fact that many millions of human beings who might be saved pass their lives in an obscene hell--and they live so in merry england. durst any one describe a lane in sandgate, newcastle-on-tyne, a court off orange street or lancaster street, london, an alley in manchester, a four-storey tenement in the irish quarter of liverpool? i think not, and it is perhaps best that no description should be done; for, if it were well done it would make harmless people unhappy, and if it were ill done it would drive away sympathy. i only say that all the horrors of those places are due to alcohol alone. do not say that idleness is answerable for the gruesome state of things; that would be putting cause for effect. a man finds the pains of the world too much for him; he takes alcohol to bring on forgetfulness; he forgets, and he pays for his pleasure by losing alike the desire and capacity for work. the man of the slums fares exactly like the gentleman: both sacrifice their moral sense, both become idle; the bad in both is ripened into rankness, and makes itself villainously manifest at all seasons; the good is atrophied, and finally dies. goodness may take an unconscionable time a-dying, but it is sentenced to death by the fates from the moment when alcoholism sets in, and the execution is only a matter of time. england, then, is a country of grief. i never yet knew one family which had not lost a cherished member through the national curse; and thus at all times we are like the wailing nation whereof the first-born in every house was stricken. it is an awful sight, and as i sit here alone i can send my mind over the sad england which i know, and see the army of the mourners. they say that the calling of the wounded on the field of boródino was like the roar of the sea: on my battle-field, where drink has been the only slayer, there are many dead; and i can imagine that i hear the full volume of cries from those who are stricken but still living. the vision would unsettle my reason if i had not a trifle of hope remaining. the philosophic individual who talks in correctly frigid phrases about the evils of the liquor trade may keep his reason balanced daintily and his nerve unhurt. but i have images for company--images of wild fearsomeness. there is the puffy and tawdry woman who rolls along the street goggling at the passengers with boiled eye. the little pretty child says, "oh! mother, what a strange woman. i didn't understand what she said." my pretty, that was drink, and you may be like that one of these days, for as little as your mother thinks it, if you ever let yourself touch the curse carelessly. bless you, i know scores who were once as sweet as you who can now drink any costermonger of them all under the stools in the haymarket bar. the young men grin and wink as that staggering portent lurches past: i do not smile; my heart is too sad for even a show of sadness. then there are the children--the children of drink they should be called, for they suck it from the breast, and the venomous molecules become one with their flesh and blood, and they soon learn to like the poison as if it were pure mother's milk. how they hunger--those little children! what obscure complications of agony they endure and how very dark their odd convulsive species of existence is made, only that one man may buy forgetfulness by the glass. if i let my imagination loose, i can hear the immense army of the young crying to the dumb and impotent sky, and they all cry for bread. mercy! how the little children suffer! and i have seen them by the hundred--by the thousand--and only helped from caprice; i could do no other. the iron winter is nearing us, and soon the dull agony of cold will swoop down and bear the gnawing hunger company while the two dire agencies inflict torture on the little ones. were it not for drink the sufferers might be clad and nourished; but then drink is the support of the state, and a few thousand of raw-skinned, hunger-bitten children perhaps do not matter. then i can see all the ruined gentlemen, and all the fine fellows whose glittering promise was so easily tarnished; they have crossed my track, and i remember every one of them, but i never could haul back one from the fate toward which he shambled so blindly; what could i do when drink was driving him? if i could not shake off the memories of squalor, hunger, poverty--well-deserved poverty--despair, crime, abject wretchedness, then life could not be borne. i can always call to mind the wrung hands and drawn faces of well-nurtured and sweet ladies who saw the dull mask of loathsome degradation sliding downward over their loved one's face. of all the mental trials that are cruel, that must be the worst--to see the light of a beloved soul guttering gradually down into stench and uncleanness. the woman sees the decadence day by day, while the blinded and lulled man who causes all the indescribable trouble thinks that everything is as it should be. the drink mask is a very scaring thing; once you watch it being slowly fitted on to a beautiful and spiritual face you do not care over-much about the revenue. and now the famous russian's question comes up: what shall we do? well, so far as the wastrel poor are concerned, i should say, "catch them when young, and send them out of england so long as there is any place abroad where their labour is sought." i should say so, because there is not a shadow of a chance for them in this country: they will go in their turn to drink as surely as they go to death. as to the vagabond poor whom we have with us now i have no hope for them; we must wait until death weeds them out, for we can do nothing with them nor for them. among the classes who are better off from the worldly point of view, we shall have sacrifices offered to the fiend from time to time. drink has wound like some ubiquitous fungus round and round the tissues of the national body, and we are sure to have a nasty growth striking out at intervals. it tears the heart-strings when we see the brave, the brilliant, the merry, the wise, sinking under the evil clement in our appalling dual nature, and we feel, with something like despair, that we cannot be altogether delivered from the scourge yet awhile. i have stabs of conscience when i call to mind all i have seen and remember how little i have done, and i can only hope, in a shame-faced way, that the use of intoxicants may be quietly dropped, just as the practice of gambling, and the habit of drinking heavy, sweet wines, have passed away from the exclusive society in which cards used to form the main diversion. frankly speaking, i have seen the degradation, the abomination, and the measureless force of drink so near at hand that i am not sanguine. i can take care of myself, but i am never really sure about many other people, and i had good reason for not being sure of myself. one thing is certain, and that is that the creeping enemy is sure to attack the very last man or woman whom you would expect to see attacked. when the first symptoms are seen, the stricken one should be delivered from _ennui_ as much as possible, and then some friend should tell, in dull, dry style, the slow horror of the drop to the pit. fear will be effective when nothing else will. many are stronger than i am and can help more. by the memory of broken hearts, by the fruitless prayers of mothers and sorrowing wives, for the sake of the children who are forced to stay on earth in a living death, i ask the strong to help us all. blighted lives, wrecked intellects, wasted brilliancy, poisoned morality, rotted will--all these mark the road that the king of evils takes in his darksome progress. out of the depths i have called for aid and received it, and now i ask aid for others, and i shall not be denied. _october, ._ _voyaging at sea_ a philosopher has described the active life of man as a continuous effort to forget the facts of his own existence. it is vain to pin such philosophers to a definite meaning; but i think the writer meant vaguely to hint in a lofty way that the human mind incessantly longs for change. we all crave to be something that we are not; we all wish to know the facts concerning states of existence other than our own; and it is this craving curiosity that produces every form of social and spiritual activity. yet, with all this restless desire, this uneasy yearning, only a few of us are ever able to pass beyond one piteously narrow sphere, and we rest in blank ignorance of the existence that goes on without the bounds of our tiny domain. how many people know that by simply going on board a ship and sailing for a couple of days they would pass practically into another moral world, and change their mental as well as their bodily habits? i have been moved to these reflections by observing the vast amount of nautical literature which appears during the holiday season, and by seeing the complete ignorance and misconception which are palmed off upon the public. it is a fact that only a few english people know anything about the mightiest of god's works. to them life on the ocean is represented by a series of phrases which seem to have been transplanted from copy-books. they speak of "the bounding main," "the raging billows," "seas mountains high," "the breath of the gale," "the seething breakers," and so on; but regarding the commonplace, quiet everyday life at sea they know nothing. strangely enough, only mr. clark russell has attempted to give in literary form a vivid, veracious account of sea-life, and his thrice-noble books are far too little known, so that the strongest maritime nation in the whole world is ignorant of vital facts concerning the men who make her prosperity. let any one who is well informed enter a theatre when a nautical drama is presented; he will find the most ridiculous spectacle that the mind of man can conceive. on one occasion, when a cat came on to the stage at drury lane and ran across the heaving billows of the canvas ocean, the audience roared with laughter; but to the judicious critic the real cause for mirth was the behaviour of the nautical persons who figured in the drama. the same ignorance holds everywhere. seamen scarcely ever think of describing their life to people on shore, and the majority of landsmen regard a sea-voyage as a dull affair, to be begun with regret and ended with joy. dull! alas, it is dull for people who have dim eyes and commonplace minds; but for the man who has learned to gaze aright at the creator's works there is not a heavy minute from the time when the dawn trembles in the gray sky until the hour when, with stars and sea-winds in her raiment, night sinks on the sea. dull! as well describe the rush of the turbulent strand or the populous splendour of regent street by that word! i have always held that a man cannot be considered as educated if he is unable to wait an hour in a railway-station for a train without _ennui_. what is education good for if it does not give us resources which may enable us to gather delight or instruction from every sight and sound that may fall on our nerves? the most melancholy spectacle in the world is presented by the stolid citizen who yawns over his _bradshaw_ while the swift panoramas of charing cross or euston are gliding by him. men who are rightly constituted find delight in the very quietude and isolation of sea-life; they know how to derive pure entertainment from the pageant of the sky and the music of winds and waters, and they experience a piquant delight by reason of the contrast between the loneliness of the sea and the eager struggling life of the city. proceeding, as is my custom, by examples, i shall give precise descriptions of specimen days which anybody may spend on the wandering wastes of the ocean. "all things pertaining to the life of man are of interest to me," said the roman; and he showed his wisdom by that saying. dawn. along the water-line a pale leaden streak appears, and little tremulous ripples of gray run gently upwards, until a broad band of mingled white and scarlet shines with cold radiance. the mystery of the sea is suddenly removed, and we can watch the strange serpentine belts that twine and glitter all round from our vessel to the horizon. the light is strong before the sun appears; and perhaps that brooding hour, when nature seems to be turning in her sleep, is the best of the whole day. the dew lies thickly on deck, and the chill of the night hangs in the air; but soon a red arc looms up gorgeously at the sea-line; long rays spread out like a sheaf of splendid swords on the blue; there is, as it were, a wild dance of colour in the noble vault, where cold green and pink and crimson wind and flush and softly glide in mystic mazes; and then--the sun! the great flaming disc seems to poise for a little, and all around it--pierced here and there by the steely rays--the clouds hang like tossing scarlet plumes. like a warrior-angel sped on a mighty mission, light and life about him shed-- a transcendent vision! mailed in gold and fire he stands, and, with splendours shaken, bids the slumbering seas and lands quicken and awaken. day is on us. dreams are dumb, thought has light for neighbour; room! the rival giants come-- lo, the sun and labour! after witnessing that lordly spectacle, who can wonder at zoroaster? as the lights from east and west meet and mingle, and the sky rears its blue immensity, it is hard to look on for very gladness. i shall suppose that we are on a small vessel--for, if we sail in a liner, or even in an ordinary big steamer, it is somewhat like moving about on a floating factory. the busy life of a sailor begins, for jack rarely has an idle minute while he is on deck. landsmen can call in help when their house needs repairing, but sailors must be able to keep every part of _their_ house in perfect order; and there is always something to be done. but we are lazy; we toil not, neither do we tar ropes, and our main business is to get up a thoroughly good appetite while we watch the deft sailor-men going about their business. it is my belief that a landsman might spend a month without a tedious hour, if he would only take the trouble to watch everything that the men do and find out why it is done. ages on ages of storm and stress are answerable for the most trifling device that the sailor employs. how many and many lives were lost before the norsemen learned to support the masts of their winged dragons by means of bull's-hide ropes! how many shiploads of men were laid at the mercy of the travelling seas before the scandinavians learned to use a fixed rudder instead of a huge oar! not a bolt or rope or pulley or eyelet-hole has been fixed in our vessel save through the bitter experience of centuries; one might write a volume about that mainsail, showing how its rigid, slanting beauty and its tremendous power were gradually attained by evolution from the ugly square lump of matting which swung from the masthead of mediterranean craft. but we must not philosophise; we must enjoy. the fresh morning breeze runs merrily over the ripples and plucks off their crests; our vessel leans prettily, and you hear a tinkling hiss as she shears through the lovely green hillocks. sometimes she thrusts away a burst of spray, and in the midst of the white spurt there shines a rainbow. it may happen that the rainbows come thickly for half an hour at a time, and then we seem to be passing through a fairy scene. go under the main-yard and look away to leeward. the wind roars out of the mainsail and streams over you in a cold flood; but you do not mind that, for there is the joyous expanse of emerald and snow dancing under the glad sun. there is something unspeakably delightful in the rushing never-ending procession of waves that passes away, away in merry ranks to the shining horizon; and all true lovers of the sea are exhilarated by the sweet tumult. remember i am talking about a fine day; i shall come to the bad weather in good time. on this ineffable morning a lady may come up and walk briskly in the crisp air; but indeed women are the best and coolest of sailors in any weather when once their preliminary troubles are over. the hours fly past, and we hail the announcement of breakfast with a sudden joy which tells of gross materialism. i may say, by-the-way, that our lower nature, or what sentimental persons call our lower nature, comes out powerfully at sea, and men of the most refined sort catch themselves in the act of wondering time after time when meals will be ready. for me i think that it is no more gross to delight in flavours than it is to delight in colours or harmonies, and one of my main reasons for dwelling on the delights of the sea lies in the fact that the voyager learns to take an exquisite, but quite rational, delight in the mere act of eating. i know that i ought to speak as though dinner were an ignoble institution; i know that the young lady who said, "thanks--i rarely eat," represented a class who pretend to devote themselves to higher joys; but i decline to talk cant on any terms, and i say that the healthy, hearty hunger bestowed by the open sea is one of god's good gifts. the sweet morning passes away, and somehow our thoughts run in bright grooves. that is the strange thing about the sea--its moods have an instant effect on the mind; and, as it changes with wild and swift caprice, the seafarer finds that his views of life alter with tantalizing but pleasant suddenness. just now i am speaking only of content and exhilaration; but i may soon see another side of the picture. the afternoon glides by like the morning; no churlish houses and chimney-pots hide the sun, and we see him describe his magnificent curve, while, with mysterious potency, he influences the wind. dull! why, on shore we should gaze out on the same streets or fields or trees; but here our residence is driven along like a flying cloud, and we gain a fresh view with every mile! i confess that i like sailing in populous waters, for indeed the lonely tropical seas and the brassy skies are not by any means to be regarded as delightful; but for the present we are supposing ourselves to be in the track of vessels, and there is some new and poignant interest for every hour. watch this vast pallid cloud that looms up far away; the sun strikes on the cloud, and straightway the snowy mass gleams like silver; on it comes, and soon we see a superb four-masted clipper broadside on to us. a royal fabric she is; every snowy sail is drawing, and she moves with resistless force and matchless grace through the water, while a boiling wreath of milky foam rushes away from her bows, and swathes of white dapple the green river that seems to pour past her majestic sides. the emigrants lean over the rail, and gaze wistfully at us. ah, how many thousands of miles they must travel ere they reach their new home! strange and pitiful it is to think that so few of them will ever see the old home again; and yet there is something bright and hopeful in the spectacle, if we think not of individuals, but of the world's future. under the southern cross a mighty state is rising; the inevitable movement of populations is irresistible as the tides of mid-ocean; and those wistful emigrants who quietly wave their handkerchiefs to us are about to assist in working out the destiny of a new world. dull! the passing of that great vessel gives matter for grave thought. she swings away, and we may perhaps try to run alongside for a while, but the immense drag of her four towers of canvas soon draws her clear, and she speedily looms once more like a cloud on the horizon. good-bye! the squat collier lumbers along, and her leisurely grimy skipper salutes as we near him. it is marvellous to reflect that the whole of our coal-trade was carried on in those queer tubs only sixty years ago. they are passing away, and the gallant, ignorant, comical race of sailors who manned them has all but disappeared; the ugly sordid iron box that goes snorting past us, belching out jets of water from her dirty side--that is the agency that destroyed the colliers, and, alas, destroyed the finest breed of seamen that ever the world saw! so rapidly do new sights and sounds greet us that the night steals down almost before we are aware of its approach. the day is for joy; but, ah, the night is for subtle overmastering rapture, for pregnant gloom, for thoughts that lie too deep for tears! if a wind springs up when the last ray of the sun shoots over the shoulder of the earth, then the ship roars through an inky sea, and the mysterious blending of terror and ecstasy cannot be restrained. hoarsely the breeze shrieks in the cordage, savagely the water roars as it darts away astern like a broad fierce white flame. the vessel seems to spring forward and shake herself with passion as the sea retards her, and the whole wild symphony of humming ropes, roaring water, screaming wind, sets every pulse bounding. should the moon shine out from the charging clouds, then earth has not anything to show more fair; the broad track of light looks like an immeasurable river peopled by fiery serpents that dart and writhe and interwind, until the eye aches with gazing on them. sleep seems impossible at first, and yet by degrees the poppied touch lulls our nerves, and we slumber without heeding the harrowing groans of the timbers or the confused cries of the wind. so much for the glad weather; but, when the sky droops low, and leaping waves of mournful hue seem to rear themselves and mingle with the clouds, then the gladness is not so apparent. still the exulting rush of the ship through the gray seas and her contemptuous shudder as she shakes off the masses of water that thunder down on her are fine to witness. even a storm, when cataracts of hissing water plunge over the vessel and force every one to "hang on anywhere," is by no means without its delights; but i must candidly say that a ship is hardly the place for a woman when the wild winds try their strength against the works of man. on the whole, if we reckon up the pains and pleasures of life on board ship, the balance is all in favour of pleasure. the sailors have a toilsome life, and must endure much; but they have health. it is the sense of physical well-being that makes the mind so easy when one is on the sea; and refined men who have lived in the forecastle readily declare that they were happy but for the invariable dirt. instead of trooping to stuffy lodgings, those of my readers who have the nerve should, if not this year, then next summer, go right away and take a cheap and charming holiday on the open sea. _october, ._ _war._ the brisk pressmen are usually exceedingly busy in calculating the chances of a huge fight--indeed they spend a good part of each year in that pleasing employment. smug diplomatists talk glibly about "war clearing the air;" and the crowd--the rank and file--chatter as though war were a pageant quite divorced from wounds and death, or a mere harmless hurly-burly where certain battalions receive thrashings of a trifling nature. it is saddening to notice the levity with which the most awful of topics is treated, and especially is it sad to see how completely the women and children are thrust out of mind by belligerent persons. we who have gazed on the monster of war, we who have looked in the whites--or rather the reds--of his loathsome eyes, cannot let this burst of frivolity work mischief without one temperate word of warning and protest. pleasant it is to watch the soldiers as they march along the streets, or form in their superb lines on parade. no man or woman of any sensibility can help feeling proudly stirred when a cavalry regiment goes by. the clean, alert, upright men, with their sure seat; the massive war-horses champing their bits and shaking their accoutrements: the rhythmic thud of hoofs, the keen glitter of steel, and the general air of power, all combine to form a spectacle that sets the pulses beating faster. then, again, observe the strange elastic rhythm of the march as a battalion of tall highlanders moves past. the fifes and drums cease, there is a silence broken only by that sinuous beautiful onward movement of lines of splendid men, until the thrilling scream of the pipes shatters the air, and the mad tumult of warlike sound makes even a southron's nerves quiver. then, once more, watch the deadly, steady march of a regiment of guards. the stalwart men step together, and, as the red ranks sway on, it seems as though no earthly power could stand against them. the gloomy bearskins are like a brooding dark cloud, and the glitter of the rifle-barrels carries with it certain sinister terrible suggestions. the gaiety and splendour of cavalry and infantry all gain increased power over the imagination since we know that each of those gaily clad fellows would march to his doom without a tremor or a murmur if he received the word. poor tommy atkins is surrounded by a sort of halo in the popular imagination, simply because it is known that he may one day have to deal forth death to an enemy, or take his own doom, according to the chances of combat. i need say little about the field-days and reviews which have caused so many martially-minded young men to take the shilling. the crash of the small-arm firing, the wild galloping of hasty aides-de-camp, the measured movement of serried lines, the rapid flight of flocks of bedizened staff-officers, all make up a very exciting and confusing picture, and many a youngster has fancied that war must be a glorious game. let us leave the picturesque and theatrical business and come to the dry prose. so far from being an affair of glitter, excitement, fierce joy, fierce triumph, war is but a round of hideous hours which bring memories of squalor, filth, hunger, wretchedness, dull toil, unspeakable misery. take it at its best, and consider what a modern engagement really means. recollect, moreover, that i am about to use sentences accurate as a photograph. the sportive pressman says, "vernon began to find the enemy's cloud of sharp-shooters troublesome, so the th sought better cover on the right, leaving brown free to develop his artillery fire." "troublesome!" translate that word, and it means this: private brown and private jones are lying behind the same low bank. jones raises his head; there comes a sound like "roo-o-osh--pht!"--then a horrible thud. jones glares, grasps at nothing with convulsed hands, and rolls sideways with a long shudder. the ball took him in the temple. serjeant morrison says, "now, men, try for that felled log! double!" a few men make a short rush, and gain the solid cover; but one throws up his hands when half way, gives a choking yell, springs in the air, and falls down limp. the same thing is going on over a mile of country, while the shell-fire is gradually gaining power--and we may be sure that the enemy are suffering at the hands of our marksmen. and now suppose that an infantry brigade receives orders to charge. "charge!" the word carries magnificent poetic associations, but, alas, it is a very prosaic affair nowadays! the lines move onward in short rushes, and it seems as if a swarm of ants were migrating warily. the strident voices of the officers ring here and there: the men edge their way onward: it seems as if there were no method in the advance; but somehow the loose wavy ranks are kept well in hand, and the main movement proceeds like machinery. "i feel a bit queer," says bill williams to a veteran friend. "never mind--'taint every one durst say that," says the friend. "whoo-o-sh!" a muffled thump, and the veteran falls forward, dropping his rifle. he struggles up on hands and knees, but a rush of blood chokes him, and he drops with a groan. he will lie there for a long time before his burning throat is moistened by a cup of water, and he knows only too well that the surgeon will merely shake his head when he sees him. the brigade still advances; gradually the sputtering crackle in their front grows into a low steady roar; a stream of lead whistles in the air, and the long lurid line of flame glows with the sustained glare of a fire among furze. men fall at every yard, but the hoarse murmur of the dogged advance never ceases. at last the time comes for the rush. the ranks are trimmed up by imperceptible degrees; the men set their teeth, and a strange eager look comes over many a face. the eyes of the youngsters stare glassily; they can see the wood from which the enemy must be dislodged at any price, but they can form no definite ideas; they merely grip their rifles and go on mechanically. the word is given--the dark lines dash forward; the firing from the wood breaks out in a crash of fury--there is a long harsh rattle, then a chance crack like a thunder-clap, and then a whirring like the spinning of some demoniac mill. curses ring out amid a low sound of hard breathing; the ranks are gapped here and there as a man wriggles away like a wounded rabbit, or another bounds upward with a frantic ejaculation. then comes the fighting at close quarters. perhaps kind women who are misled by the newspaper-writer's brisk babblement may like to know what that means, so i give the words of the best eyewitness that ever gazed on warfare. he took down his notes by the light of burning wood, and he had no time to think of grammar. all his words were written like mere convulsive cries, but their main effect is too vivid to be altered. notice that he rarely concludes a sentence, for he wanted to save time, and the bullets were cutting up the ground and the trees all round him. "patches of the wood take fire, and several of the wounded, unable to move, are consumed. quite large spaces are swept over, burning the dead also; some of the men have their hair and beards singed, some burns on their faces and hands, others holes burnt in their clothing. the flashes of fire from the cannon, the quick glaring flames and smoke, and the immense roar--the musketry so general; the light nearly bright enough for each side to see the other; the crashing, tramping of men--the yelling--close quarters--hand-to-hand conflicts. each side stands up to it, brave, determined as demons; and still the wood's on fire--still many are not only scorched--too many, unable to move, are burned to death. who knows the conflict, hand-to-hand--the many conflicts in the dark--those shadowy, tangled, flashing, moon-beamed woods--the writhing groups and squads--the cries, the din, the cracking guns and pistols, the distant cannon--the cheers and calls and threats and awful music of the oaths, the indescribable mix, the officers' orders, persuasions, encouragements--the devils fully roused in human hearts--the strong shout, 'charge, men--charge!'--the flash of the naked swords, and rolling flame and smoke? and still the broken, clear, and clouded heaven; and still again the moonlight pouring silvery soft its radiant patches over all." there is a description vivid as lightning, though there is not a properly-constructed sentence in it. gruesome, cruel, horrible! is it not enough to make the women of our sober sensible race declare for ever against the flaunting stay-at-homes who would egg us on to war? by all means let us hold to the old-fashioned dogged ways, but let us beware of rushing into the squalid vortex of war. and now let us see what follows the brilliant charge and bayonet fight. how many ladies consider what the curt word "wounded" means? it conveys no idea to them, and they are too apt to stray off into the dashing details that tell of a great wrestle of armies. one eminent man--whom i believe to have uttered a libel--has declared that women like war, and that they are usually the means of urging men on. he is a very sedate and learned philosopher who wrote that statement, and yet i cannot believe it. ah, no! our ladies can give their dearest up to death when the state calls on them, but they will never be like the odious viragoes of the roman circus. at any rate, if any woman acts according to the dictum of the philosopher after reading my bitterly true words, we shall hold that our influence is departed. therefore with ruthless composure i follow my observer--a man whose pure and holy spirit upheld him as he ministered to sufferers for year after year. "then the camps of the wounded. oh, heavens, what scene is this? is this indeed humanity--these butchers' shambles? there are several of them. there they lie, in the largest, in an open space in the woods--from two to three hundred poor fellows. the groans and screams, the odour of blood mixed with the fresh scent of the night, the grass, the trees--that slaughter-house! oh, well is it their mothers, their sisters, cannot see them, cannot conceive, and never conceived such things! one man is shot by a shell both in the arm and leg; both are amputated--there lie the rejected members. some have their legs blown off, some bullets through the breast, some indescribably horrid wounds in the head--all mutilated, sickening, torn, gouged out, some in the abdomen, some mere boys." alas, i have quoted enough--and may never such a task come before me again! the picture is sharp as an etching; it is drawn with a shudder of the soul. is that grim sedate man right when he says that women are the moving influence that drives men to such carnage? would you wantonly advocate war? never! i reject the solemn philosopher's saying, in spite of his logic and his sententiousness. who shall speak of the awful monotony of the hospital camps, where men die like flies, and where regret, sympathy, kindness are blotted from the hardened soldier's breast? people are not cruel by nature, but the vague picturesque language of historians and other general writers prevents men and women from forming just opinions. i believe that, if one hundred wounded men could be transported from a battle-field and laid down in the public square of any town or city for the population to see, then the gazers would say among themselves, "so this is war, is it? well, for our parts, we shall be very cautious before we raise any agitation that might force our government into any conflict. we can die if our liberties are threatened, for there are circumstances in which it would be shameful to live, but we shall never do anything which may bring about results such as those before us." that would be a fair and temperate mode of talking--far different from the airy babble of the warlike scribe. an argumentative person may stop us here and ask, "are you of opinion that it is possible to abolish warfare?" unfortunately, we can cherish no such pleasing hope. i do emphatically believe that in time men will come to see the wild folly of engaging in sanguinary struggles; but the growth of their wisdom will be slow. action and reaction are equal; the fighting instinct has been impressed on our nature by hereditary transmission for countless generations, and we cannot hope suddenly to make man a peaceful animal any more than we can hope to breed setters from south african wild dogs. but the conditions of life are gradually changing, and the very madness which has made europe into a huge barrack may work its own cure. the burden will probably grow so intolerable that the most embruted of citizens will ask themselves why they bear it, and a rapid revolution may undo the growth of centuries. the scientific men point to the huge warfare that goes on from the summit of the himalayas to the depths of the ocean slime, and they ask how men can be exempt from the universal struggle for existence. but it is by no means certain that the pressure of population in the case of man will always force on struggles--at any rate, struggles that can be decided only by death and agony. little by little we are learning something of the laws that govern our hitherto mysterious existence, and we have good hopes that by and by our race may learn to be mutually helpful, so that our span of life may be passed with as much happiness as possible. men will strive against each other, but the striving will not be carried on to an accompaniment of slaughter and torture. there are keen forms of competition which, so far from being painful, give positive pleasure to those who engage in them; there are triumphs which satisfy the victor without mortifying the vanquished; and, in spite of the indiscreet writers who have called forth this essay, i hold that such harmless forms of competition will take the place of the brutal strife that adds senselessly to the sum of human woe. our race has outgrown so many forms of brutality, so many deliberate changes have taken place in the course of even two thousand years, that the final change which shall abolish war is almost certain to come. we find that about one thousand nine hundred years ago a polished gentleman like julius caesar gravely congratulates himself on the fact that his troops destroyed in cold blood forty thousand people--men, women, and children. no man in the civilized world dare do such a deed now, even if he had the mind for the carnage. the feeling with which we read caesar's frigid recital measures the arc of improvement through which we have passed. may the improvement go on! we can continue to progress only through knowledge; if our people--our women especially--are wantonly warlike, then our action will be wantonly warlike; knowledge alone can save us from the guilt of blood, and that knowledge i have tried to set forth briefly. by wondrous ways does our master work out his ends. let us pray that he may hasten the time when nation shall not rise up against nation, neither shall they draw the sword any more. _december, ._ _drink_. i have no intention of imitating those intemperate advocates of temperance who frighten people by their thunderous and extravagant denunciations; i leave high moral considerations on one side for the present, and our discussion will be purely practical, and, if possible, helpful. the duty of helpful men and women is not to rave about horrors and failures and misfortunes, but to aim coolly at remedial measures; and i am firmly convinced that such remedial measures can be employed only by private effort. state interference is always to be deprecated; individual action alone has power to better the condition of our sorely-tempted race. with sorrow too keen for words, i hear of blighted homes, intellects abased, children starved, careers wrecked, wives made wretched, crime fostered; and i fully sympathize with the men and women who are stung into wild speech by the sight of a curse that seems all-powerful in britain. but i prefer to cultivate a sedate and scientific attitude of mind; i do not want to repeat catalogues of evils; i want to point out ways whereby the intemperate may be cured. above all, i wish to abate the panic which paralyzes the minds of some afflicted people, and which causes them to regard a drunkard or even a tippler as a hopeless victim. "hopeless" is a word used by ignorant persons, by cowards, and by fools. when i hear some mourner say, "alas! we can do nothing with him--he is a slave!" i feel impelled to reply, "what do you know about it? have you given yourself the trouble to do more than preach? listen, and follow the simple directions which i lay down for you." first, i deal with the unhappy beings who are called periodical drinkers. these are generally men who possess great ability and a capacity for severe stretches of labour. they may be artists, writers, men of business, mechanicians--anything; but in nearly every case some special faculty of brain is developed to an extraordinary degree, and the man is able to put forth the most strenuous exertions at a pinch. let us name some typical examples. turner was a man of phenomenal industry, but at intervals his temperament craved for some excitement more violent and distracting than any that he could get from the steady strain of daily work. he used to go away to wapping, and spend weeks in the filthiest debauch with the lowest characters in london. none of his companions guessed who he was; they only knew that he had more money than they had, and that he behaved in a more bestial manner than any of those who frequented the "fox under the hill" and other pleasing hostelries. turner pursued his reckless career, till his money was gone, and then he returned to his gruesome den and proceeded to turn out artistic prodigies until the fit came upon him once more. benvenuto cellini was subject to similar paroxysms, during which he behaved like a maniac. our own novelist bulwer lytton disappeared at times, and plunged into the wildest excesses among wretches whom he would have loathed when he was in his normal state of mind. he used to dress himself as a navvy, or as a sailor, and no one would have recognized the weird intellectual face when the great writer was clad in rags, and when the brutal mask of intoxication had fallen over his face. it was during his recovery from one of these terrible visitations that he drove the woman whom he most loved from his house, and brought on that breach which resulted in irreparable misery. poor george morland, the painter, had wild spells of debauch, during which he spent his time in boxing-saloons among ruffianly prize-fighters and jockeys. his vice grew upon him, his mad fits became more and more frequent, and at last his exquisite work could be produced only when his nerve was temporarily steadied by copious doses of brandy. keats, who "worshipped beauty," was afflicted by seizures like those of turner and morland. on one occasion he remained in a state of drunkenness for six weeks; and it is a wonder that his marvellous mind retained its freshness at all after the poison had passed from amid the delicate tissues of the brain. he conquered himself at last; but i fear that his health was impaired by his few mad outbursts. charles lamb, who is dear to us all, reduced himself to a pitiable state by giving way to outbreaks of alcoholic craving. when carlyle saw him, the unhappy essayist was semi-imbecile from the effects of drink; and the savage scotsman wrote some cruel words which will unfortunately cleave to lamb's cherished memory for long. lamb fought against his failing; he suffered agonies of remorse; he bitterly blamed himself for "buying days of misery by nights of madness;" but the sweet soul was enchained, and no struggles availed to work a blessed transformation. read his "confessions of a drunkard." it is the most awful chapter in english literature, for it is written out of the agony of a pure and well-meaning mind, and its tortured phrases seem to cry out from the page that holds their misery. we are placed face to face with a dread aspect of life, and the remorseless artist paints his own pitiable case as though he longed to save his fellow-creatures even at the expense of his own self-abasement. all these afflicted creatures sought the wrong remedy for the exhaustion and the nameless craving that beset them when they were spent with toil. the periodic drinker takes his dive into the sensual mud-bath just at the times when eager exertion has brought on lassitude of body and mind. he begins by timidly drinking a little of the deleterious stuff, and he finds that his mental images grow bright and pleasant. a moment comes to him when he would not change places with the princes of the earth, and he endeavours to make that moment last long. he fails, and only succeeds in dropping into drunkenness. on the morning after his first day he feels depressed; but his biliary processes are undisturbed, and he is able to begin again without any sense of nausea. his quantity is increased until he gradually reaches the point when glasses of spirits are poured down with feverish rapidity. his appetite is sometimes voracious, sometimes capricious, sometimes absent altogether. his stomach becomes ulcerated, and he can obtain release from the grinding uneasiness only by feeding the inflamed organ with more and more alcohol. the liver ceases to act healthily, the blood becomes charged with bile, and one morning the wretch awakes feeling that life is not worth having. he has slept like a log; but all night through his outraged brain has avenged itself by calling up crowds of hideous dreams. the blood-vessels of the eye are charged with bilious particles, and these intruding specks give rise to fearful, exaggerated images of things that never yet were seen on sea or land. grim faces leer at the dreamer and make mock of him; frightful animals pass in procession before him; and hosts of incoherent words are jabbered in his ear by unholy voices. he wakes, limp, exhausted, trembling, nauseated, and he feels as if he must choose between suicide and--more drink. if he drinks at this stage, he is lost; and then is the time to fix upon him and draw him by main force from the slough. now some practitioners say, "let him drop it gradually;" and they proceed to stir every molecule of alcohol in the system into vile activity by adding small doses of wine or spirit to the deadly accumulation. the man's brain is impoverished, and the mistaken doctors proceed to impoverish it more, so that a patient who should be cured in forty-eight hours is kept in dragging misery for a month or more. the proper mode of treatment is widely different. you want to nourish the brain speedily, and at any cost, ere the ghastly depression drives the agonized wretch to the arms of circe once more. first, then, give him milk. if you try milk alone, the stomach will not retain it long, so you must mix the nourishing fluid with soda-water. half an hour afterwards administer a spoonful of meat-essence. beware of giving the patient any hot fluid, for that will damage him almost as much as alcohol. continue with alternate half-hourly instalments of milk and meat-essence; supply no solid food whatever; and do not be tempted by the growing good spirits of your charge to let him go out of doors amid temptation. at night, after some eight hours of this rapid feeding, you must take a risky step. make sure that the drinker is calm, and then prepare him for sleep. that preparation is accomplished thus. get a draught of hydrate of chloral made up, and be sure that you describe your man's physique--this is most important--to the apothecary who serves you. a very light dose will suffice, and, when it is swallowed, the drugged man should be left in quietude. he will sleep heavily, perhaps for as much as twelve hours, and no noise must be allowed to come near him. if he is waked suddenly, the consequences may be bad, so that those who go to look at him must use precautions to ensure silence. in the morning he will awake with his brain invigorated, his muscles unagitated, and his craving utterly gone. it is like magic; for a man who was prostrate on sunday morning is brisk and eager for work on monday at noon. whenever the cured man feels his craving arise after a spell of labour, he should at once recuperate his brain by rapidly-repeated doses of the easily-assimilated meat-essence, and this, with a little strong black coffee taken at short intervals, will tide him over the evil time. he saves money, he keeps his working power, and he gives no shock to his health. since a beneficent doctor first described this cure to the british medical association, hundreds have been restored and ultimately reclaimed. and now as to the persons who are called "soakers." scattered over the country are thousands of men and women who do not go to bestial excesses, but who steadily undermine their constitutions by persistent tippling. such a man as a commercial traveller imbibes twenty or thirty nips in the course of the day; he eats well in the evening, though he is usually repelled by the sight of food in the morning, and he preserves an outward appearance of ruddy health. then there are the female soakers, whom doctors find to be the most troublesome of all their patients. there is not a medical man in large practice who has not a shocking percentage of lady inebriates on his list, and the cases are hard to manage. an ill-starred woman, whose well-to-do husband is engaged in business all day, finds that a dull life-weariness overtakes her. if she has many children, her enforced activity preserves her from danger; but, if she is childless, the subtle temptation is apt to overcome her. she seeks unnatural exaltation, and the very secrecy which is necessary lends a strange zest to the pursuit of a numbing vice. then we have such busy men as auctioneers, ship-brokers, water-clerks, ship-captains, buyers for great firms--all of whom are more or less a prey to the custom of "standing liquors." the soaker goes on without meeting any startling check for a good while; but, by slow degrees, the main organs of the body suffer, and a chronic state of alcoholic irritation is set up. a man becomes suspected by his employers and slighted by his abstemious friends; he loses health, character, prospects; and yet he is invariably ready to declare that no one ever saw him the worse for drink. the tippling goes on till the resultant irritation reaches an acute stage, and the faintest disturbing cause brings on _delirium tremens_. there is only one way with people thus afflicted. they must be made to loathe alcohol, and their nerves must at the same time be artificially stimulated. the cure is not precisely easy, but it is certain. if my directions are followed out, then a man who is in the last stage of alcoholic debility will not only regain a certain measure of health, but he will turn with horror from the stuff that fascinated him. in the case of the soaker a little wine may be given at meal-times during the first stages of the cure; but he (or she) will soon reject even wine. strong black coffee, or tea, should be given as often as possible--the oftener the better--and iced soda-water should be administered after a heavy meal. take this prescription and let it be made up--rx acid. acet. eight ounces. sponge down the patient's spine with this fluid until the parts moistened tingle smartly; and let this be done night and morning. also get the following from your chemist--rx ext. cinch. rub. liq. four ounces--and give one teaspoonful in water after each meal. in a week the drinker will cease to desire alcohol, and in a month he will refuse it with disgust. his nerves will resume their healthy action, and, if he has not reached the stage of cirrhosis of the liver, he will become well and clear-headed. recollect that this remedy is almost infallible, and then even the most greedy of literary students will hardly reproach me for placing a kind of medical chapter in the quarter usually devoted to disquisitions of another kind. from every side rises the bitter cry of those who see their loved ones falling victims to the seductive scourge; from all quarters the voices of earnest men are raised in passionate pleading; and in every great city there are noble workers who strive to rescue their fellow-creatures from drink as from a gulf of doom. my words are not addressed to the happy beings who can rejoice in the cheerfulness bestowed by wine; i have before me only the fortunes of those to whom wine is a mocker. far be it from me to find fault with the good and sound-hearted men and women who are never scathed by their innocent potations; my attempt is directed toward saving the wreckages of civilization who perish in the grasp of the destroyer. _march, ._ _concerning people who know they are going wrong_. some five years ago a mere accident gave to the world one of the most gruesome and remarkable pieces of literature that has ever perhaps been seen. a convict named fury confessed to having committed a murder of an atrocious character. he was brought from prison, put on his trial at durham, and condemned to death. every chance was given him to escape his doom; but he persisted in providing the authorities with the most minutely accurate chain of evidence against himself; and, in the end, there was nothing for it but to cast him for death. even when the police blundered, he carefully set them right--and he could not have proved his own guilt more clearly had he been the ablest prosecuting counsel in britain. he held in his hand a voluminous statement which, as it seems, he wished to read before sentence of death was passed. the court could not permit the nation's time to be thus expended; so the convict handed his manuscript to a reporter--and we thus have possibly the most absolutely curious of all extant thieves' literature. somewhere in the recesses of fury's wild heart there must have been good concealed; for he confessed his worst crime in the interests of justice, and he went to the scaffold with a serious and serene courage which almost made of him a dignified person. but, on his own confession, he must have been all his life long an unmitigated rascal--a predatory beast of the most dangerous kind. from his youth upward he had lived as a professional thief, and his pilferings were various and extensive. the glimpses of sordid villainy which he frankly gives are so poignantly effective that they put into the shade the most dreadful phases in the life of villon. he was a mean sneaking wretch who supported a miserable existence on the fruits of other people's industry, and he closed his list of crimes by brutally stabbing an unhappy woman who had never harmed him. the fellow had genuine literary skill and a good deal of culture; his confession is very different from any of those contained in the _newgate calendar_--infinitely different from the crude horror of the statement which george borrow quotes as a masterpiece of simple and direct writing. here is borrow's specimen, by-the-way--"so i went with them to a music-booth, where they made me almost drunk with gin and began to talk their flash language, which i did not understand"--and so on. but this dry simplicity is not in fury's line. he has studied philosophy; he has reasoned keenly; and, as one goes on through his terrible narrative, one finds that he has mental capacity of a high order. he was as mean a rascal as noah claypole: and yet he had a fine clear-seeing intellect. now what does this gallows-bird tell us? why, his whole argument is intended to prove that he was an ill-used victim of society! such a perversion has probably never been quite equalled; but it remains there to show us how firmly my theory stands--that the real scoundrel never knows himself to be a scoundrel. had fury settled down in a back street and employed his genius in writing stories, he could have earned a livelihood, for people would have eagerly read his experiences; but he preferred thieving--and then he turned round and blamed other people for hounding him on to theft. there are wrong-doers and wrong-doers; there are men who do ill in the world because they are entirely harmful by nature, and they seek to hurt their fellows--there are others who err only from weakness of will. i make no excuse for the weaklings; a man or woman who is weak may do more harm than the vilest criminal, and, when i hear any one talk about that nice man who is nobody's enemy but his own, i am instantly forced to remember a score or thereabouts of beings whom i know to have been the deadliest foes of those whom they should have cherished. let us help those who err; but let us have no maudlin pity. moralists in general have made a somewhat serious error in supposing that one has only to show a man the true aspect of any given evil in order to make sure of his avoiding it. of late so many sad things have been witnessed in public and private life that one is tempted to doubt whether abstract morality is of any use whatever in the world. one may tell a man that a certain course is dangerous or fatal; one may show by every device of logic and illustration that he should avoid the said course, and he will fully admit the truth of one's contentions; yet he is not deterred from his folly, and he goes on toward ruin with a sort of blind abandonment. "blind," i say. that is but a formal phrase; for it happens that the very men and women who wreck their lives by doing foolish things are those who are keenest in detecting folly and wisest in giving advice to others. "educate the people, and you will find that a steady diminution of vice, debauchery, and criminality must set in." i am not talking about criminality at present; but i am bound to say that no amount of enlightenment seems to diminish the tendency toward forms of folly which approach criminality. it is almost confounding to see how lucid of mind and how sane in theoretical judgment are the men who sometimes steep themselves in folly and even in vice. a wicked man boasted much of his own wickedness to some fellow-travellers during a brief sea-voyage. he said, "i like doing wrong for the sake of doing it. when you know you are outraging the senses of decent people there is a kind of excitement about it." this contemptible cynic told with glee stories of his own vileness which made good men look at him with scorn; but he fancied himself the cleverest of men. with the grave nearly ready for him, he could chuckle over things which he had done--things which proved him base, although none of them brought him within measurable distance of the dock. but such instances are quite rare. the man whose vision is lucid, but who nevertheless goes wrong, is usually a prey to constant misery or to downright remorse. look at burns's epitaph, composed by himself for himself. it is a dreadful thing. it is more than verse; it is a sermon, a prophecy, a word of doom; and it tells with matchless terseness the story of many men who are at this hour passing to grim ruin either of body or soul or both. burns had such magnificent common sense that in his last two lines he sums up almost everything that is worth saying on the subject; and yet that fatal lack of will which i have so often lamented made all his theoretical good sense as naught he could give one every essential of morality and conduct--in theory--and he was one of the most convincing and wise preachers who ever lived; but that mournful epitaph summarises the results of all his mighty gifts; and i think that it should be learned by all young men, on the chance that some few might possibly be warned and convinced. advice is of scanty use to men of keen reason who are capable of composing precepts for themselves; but to the duller sort i certainly think that the flash of a sudden revelation given in concise words is beneficial. here is poor burns's saying-- is there a man whose judgment clear can others teach the course to steer, yet runs himself life's mad career wild as the wave? here pause, and through the starting tear survey this grave. the poor inhabitant below was quick to learn and wise to know, and keenly felt the kindly glow and softer flame; but thoughtless follies laid him low and stained his name. reader, attend! whether thy soul soars fancy's flights beyond the pole; or, darkling, grubs this earthly hole in low pursuit, know--prudent cautious self-control is wisdom's root. when i ponder that forlorn masterpiece, i cannot help a tendency to despair; for i know, by multifarious experience of men, that the curt lines hint at profundities so vast as to baffle the best powers of comprehension. as i think of the hundreds of men who are minor copies of burns, i have a passionate wish to call on the power that sways us all and pray for pity and guidance. a most wise--should i say "wise"?--and brilliant man had brought himself very low through drink, and was dying solely through the effects of a debauch which had lasted for years with scarcely an interval of pure sanity. he was beloved by all; he had a most sweet nature; he was so shrewd and witty that it seemed impossible for him to be wrong about anything. on his deathbed he talked with lovely serenity, and he seemed rather like some thrice-noble disciple of socrates than like one who had cast away all that the world has worth holding. he knew every folly that he had committed, and he knew its exact proportions; he was consulted during his last days by young and old, who recognized the well-nigh superhuman character of his wisdom; and yet he had abundantly proved himself to be one of the most unwise men living. how strange! how infinitely pathetic! few men of clearer vision ever came on this earth; but, with his flashing eyes open, he walked into snare after snare, and the last of the devil's traps caught him fatally. even when he was too weak to stir, he said that, if he could move, he would be sure to take the old path again. well may the warning devotees cry, "have mercy upon us!" well may they bow themselves and wail for the weakness of man! well may they cast themselves humbly on the bosom of the infinite pity! for, of a truth, we are a feeble folk, and, if we depended only on ourselves, it would be well that george eliot's ghastly thought of simultaneous universal suicide should be put into practice speedily. hark to the appalling words of wisdom uttered by the good man whose name i never miss mentioning because i wish all gentle souls to refresh themselves with his ineffable sweetness and tender fun! "could the youth to whom the flavour of his first wine is delicious as the opening scenes of life or the entering upon some newly-discovered paradise look upon my desolation, and be made to understand what a dreary thing it is when a man shall feel himself going down a precipice with open eyes and a passive will--to see his destruction and have no power to stop it, and yet to feel it all the way emanating from himself--to perceive all goodness emptied out of him, and yet not be able to forget a time when it was otherwise--to hear about the piteous spectacle of his own self-ruin--could he see my fevered eye, feverish with last night's drinking and feverishly looking for this night's repetition of the folly--could he feel the body of the death out of which i cry hourly, with feebler and feebler outcry, to be delivered--it were enough to make him dash the sparkling beverage to the earth in all the pride of its mantling temptation, to make him clasp his teeth, and not undo 'em to suffer wet damnation to run thro' 'em." can that be beaten for utter lucidity and directness? not by any master of prose known to us--not by any man who ever wrote in prose or in verse. the vision is so completely convincing, the sense of actuality given by the words is so haunting, that, not even dickens could have equalled it. the man who wrote those searing words is to this day remembered and spoken of with caressing gentleness by all men of intellect, refinement, quick fancy, genial humour; the editing of his works has occupied a great part of the lifetime of a most distinguished ecclesiastic. could he avoid the fell horror against which he warned others? no. with all his dread knowledge, he went on his sorrowful way--and he remained the victim of his vice until the bitter end. it was charles lamb. a gambler is usually the most prodigal of men in the matter of promises. if he is clever, he is nearly always quite ready to smile mournfully at his own infatuation, and he will warn inexperienced youngsters--unless he wants to rob them. in sum, intellect, wit, keenness, lucidity of vision, perfect reasoning power, are all useless in restraining a man from proceeding to ruin unless some steadying agency is allied with them. after much sad brooding, i cannot but conclude that a fervent religious faith is the only thing that will give complete security; and it will be a bitter day for england and the world if ever flippancy and irreligion become general. _june, ._ _the social influence of the "bar."_ a great american writer has lately given a terrible account of "the social influence of the saloon" in his country. the article is very grave, and every word is weighed, but the cold precision of the paper attracts the reader with a horrible fascination. the author does not so much regret the enormous waste of money, though he allows that about two hundred millions of pounds sterling are spent yearly in the states on strong drink; but he mourns most because of the steady ruin which he sees overtaking the social happiness of his country. the saloon is subtly corrupting the men of america, and the ghastly plagues of selfishness, brutality, and immorality are spreading with cruel swiftness. the great author's conclusion is more than startling, and i confess to having caught my breath when i read it. he says in effect, "we sacrificed a million men in order to do away with slavery, but we now have working in our midst a curse which is infinitely worse than slavery. one day we shall be obliged to save ourselves from ruin, even if we have to stamp out the trade in alcohol entirely, and that by means of a civil war." strong words--and yet the man speaks with intense conviction: and his very quietude only serves to emphasise the awful nature of his disclosures. as i read on i saw with horror that the description of the state of things in america accurately fits our own country. we do not talk of a "saloon" here, but "bar" means the same thing; and the "bar" is crushing out the higher life of the english middle-class as surely as the saloon is destroying american manhood. amid all our material prosperity, amid all the complexities of our amazing community, an evil is at work which gathers power daily and which is actually assassinating, as it were, every moral quality that has made england strong and beneficent. begin with a picture. the long curved counter glistens under the flare of the gas; the lines of gaudy bottles gleam like vulgar, sham jewelry; the glare, the glitter, the garish refulgence of the place dazzle the eye, and the sharp acrid whiffs of vile odour fall on the senses with a kind of mephitic influence. the evening is wearing away, and the broad space in front of the bar is crowded. a hoarse crashing babble goes steadily on, forming the ground-bass of an odious symphony; shrill and discordant laughter rises by fits and starts above the low tumult; a coarse joke sets one group sniggering; a vile oath rings out from some foul-mouthed roysterer; and at intervals some flushed and bleared creature breaks into a slavering laugh which has a sickly resemblance to weeping. at one of the side-tables a sodden brute leans forward and wags his head to and fro with ignoble solemnity; another has fallen asleep and snores at intervals with a nauseous rattle; smart young men, dressed fashionably, fling chance witticisms at the busy barmaids, and the nymphs answer with glib readiness. this is the home of jollity and good-fellowship; this is the place from which care is banished; this is the happy corner where the social glass is dispensed. alas for the jollity and the sociability and all the rest of it! force yourself to study the vile spectacle, and you will soon harbour a brood of aching reflections. the whole of that chattering, swilling mob are employing their muddled minds on frivolity or obscenity, or worse things still. you will hear hardly an intelligent word; you will not catch a sound of sensible discussion; the scraps of conversation that reach you alternate between low banter, low squabbling, objectionable narrative, and histories of fights or swindles or former debauches. middle-aged men tell interminable stories about money or smart strokes of business; youngsters wink and look unspeakably wise as they talk on the subject of the spring handicaps; wild spirits tell of their experiences at a glove-fight in some foul east-end tavern; amorous exploits are detailed with a fulness and freedom which would extremely amaze the ladies who form the subject of the conversation. in all the nasty confusion you never hear a word that can be called manly, unless you are prepared to allow the manliness of pugilism. each quarter-hour sees the company grow more and more incoherent; the laughter gradually becomes senseless, and loses the last indication of pure merriment; the reek thickens; the dense air is permeated with queasy smells which rise from the fusel oil and the sugared beer; the shrewd landlord looks on with affected jollity, and hails casual friends with effusive imitation of joy; and last of all "time" is called, and the host of men pour into the street. they are ready for any folly or mischief, and they are all more or less unfitted for the next day's work. strangely enough, many of those wretched fellows who thus waste time amid sordid surroundings come from refined homes; but music and books and the quiet pleasant talk of mothers and sisters are tame after the delirious rattle of the bar, and thus bright lads go home with-their wits dulled and with a complete incapacity for coherent speech. now let it be remembered that no real friendships are contracted in those odious drinking-shops--something in the very atmosphere of the place seems to induce selfishness, and a drinker who goes wrong is never pitied; when evil days come, the smart landlord shuns the failure, the barmaids sneer at him, and his boon companions shrink away as though the doomed man were tainted. monstrous it is to hear the remarks made about a lost soul who is plunging with accelerated speed down the steep road to ruin. his companions compare notes about him, and all his bodily symptoms are described with truculent glee in the filthy slang of the bar. so long as the wretch has money he is received with boisterous cordiality, and encouraged to rush yet faster on the way to perdition; his wildest feats in the way of mawkish generosity are applauded; and the very men who drink at his expense go on plucking him and laughing at him until the inevitable crash comes. i once heard with a kind of chilled horror a narrative about a fine young man who had died of _delirium tremens_. the narrator giggled so much that his story was often interrupted; but it ran thus--"he was very shaky in the morning, and he began on brandy; he took about six before his hand was steady, and i saw him looking over his shoulder every now and again. in the afternoon a lot of fellows came in, and he stood champagne like water to the whole gang. at six o'clock i wanted him to have a cup of tea, but he said, 'i've had nothing but booze for three days.' then he got on to the floor, and said he was catching rats--so we knew he'd got 'em on.[ ] at night he came out and cleared the street with his sword-bayonet; and it's a wonder he didn't murder somebody. it took two to hold him down all night, and he had his last fit at six in the morning. died screaming!" a burst of laughter hailed the climax, and then one appreciative friend remarked, "he was a fool--i suppose he was drunk eleven months out of the last twelve." this was the epitaph of a bright young athlete who had been possessed of health, riches, and all fair prospects. no one warned him; none of those who swilled expensive poisons for which he paid ever refused to accept his mad generosity; he was cheered down the road to the gulf by the inane plaudits of the lowest of men; and one who was evidently his companion in many a frantic drinking-bout could find nothing to say but "he was a fool!" at this moment there are thousands of youths in our great towns and cities who are leading the heartless, senseless, semi-delirious life of the bar, and every possible temptation is put in their way to draw them from home, from refinement, from high thoughts, from chaste and temperate modes of life. horrible it is to hear fine lads talking familiarly about the "jumpy" sensations which they feel in the morning. the "jumps" are those involuntary twitchings which sometimes precede and sometimes accompany _delirium tremens_; the frightful twitching of the limbs is accompanied by a kind of depression that takes the very heart and courage out of a man; and yet no one who travels over these islands can avoid hearing jokes on the dismal subject made by boys who have hardly reached their twenty-fifth year. the bar encourages levity, and the levity is unrelieved by any real gaiety--it is the hysterical feigned merriment of lost souls. [footnote : this is the elegant public-house mode of describing _delirium tremens_.] there are bars of a quieter sort, and there are rooms where middle-aged topers meet, but these are, if possible, more repulsive than the clattering dens frequented by dissipated youths. stout staid-looking men--fathers of families--gather night after night to sodden themselves quietly, and they make believe that they are enjoying the pleasures of good-fellowship. curious it is to see how the fictitious assertion of goodwill seems to flourish in the atmosphere of the bar and the parlour. those elderly men who sit and smoke in the places described as "cosy" are woeful examples of the effects of our national curse. they are not riotous; they are only dull, coarse, and silly. their talk is confused, dogmatic, and generally senseless; and, when they break out into downright foulness of speech, their comparatively silent enjoyment of detestable stories is a thing to make one shiver. here again good-fellowship is absent. comfortable tradesmen, prosperous dealers, sharp men who hold good commercial situations, meet to gossip and exchange dubious stories. they laugh a good deal in a restrained way, and they are apparently genial; but the hard selfishness of all is plain to a cool observer. the habit of self-indigence has grown upon them until it pervades their being, and the corruption of the bar subtly envenoms their declining years. if good women could only once hear an evening's conversation that passes among these elderly citizens, they would be a little surprised. thoughtful ladies complain that women are not reverenced in england, and americans in particular notice with shame the attitude which middle-class englishmen adopt towards ladies. if the people who complain could only hear how women are spoken of in the homes of jollity, they would feel no more amazement at a distressing social phenomenon. the talk which is chuckled over by men who have daughters of their own is something to make an inexperienced individual redden. reverence, nobility, high chivalry, common cleanliness, cannot flourish in the precincts of the bar, and there is not an honest man who has studied with adequate opportunities who will deny that the social glass is too often taken to an accompaniment of sheer uncleanness. why have not our moral novelists spoken the plain truth about these things? we have many hideous pictures of the east-end drinking-bars, and much reproachful pity is expended on the "residuum;" but the evil that is eating at the very heart of the nation, the evil that is destroying our once noble middle-class, finds no assailant and no chronicler. were it not for the athletic sports which happily engage the energies of thousands of young men, our middle-class would degenerate with appalling rapidity. but, in spite of athletics, the bar claims its holocaust of manhood year by year, and the professional moralists keep silence on the matter. some of them say that they cannot risk hurting the sensibilities of innocent maidens. what nonsense! those maidens all have a chance of becoming the wives of men who have suffered deterioration in the reek and glare of the bar. how many sorrowing wives are now hiding their heart-break and striving to lure their loved ones away from the curse of curses! if the moralists could only look on the mortal pathos of the letters which i receive, they would see that the maidens about whom they are so nervous are the very people who should be summoned as allies in our fight against a universal enemy. if our brave sweet english girls once learn the nature of the temptations to which their brothers and lovers are exposed, they will use every force of their pure souls to save the men whom they can influence from a doom which is death in life. _may, ._ _friendship_. the memoirs that are now poured into the book-market certainly tend to breed cynicism in the minds of susceptible persons, for it appears that to many eminent men and women of our generation friendship was almost an unknown sentiment. as we read one spiteful paragraph after another, we begin to wonder whether the living men around us resemble the dead purveyors of scandal. the fashionable mode of proceeding nowadays is to leave diaries crammed with sarcasm, give some unhappy friend orders to wait until you are settled in the grave, and then confound your friends and foes by attacks which come to the light long after your ears are deaf to praise and blame. samuel wilberforce went into the choicest society that britain could show; he was the confidant of many people, and he contrived to charm all but a few cross-grained critics. his good humour seemed inexhaustible; and those who saw his cherubic face beaming sweetly on the company at banquets or assemblies fancied that so delightful a man was never known before. but this suave, unctuous gentleman, who fascinated every one, from queen to cottager, spent a pretty fair share of his life in writing vicious witticisms and scandals concerning the folk with whom he seemed to be on affectionate terms. at nights, after spending his days in working and bowing and smiling and winning the hearts of men, he went home and poured out all the venom that was in his heart. when his memoirs appeared, all the most select social circles in the country were driven into a serious flutter. no one was spared; and, as some of the statements made by wilberforce were, to say the least, a little sweeping, a violent paper warfare began, which has hardly ceased raging even now. happy and contented men who believed that the bishop loved and admired them were surprised to find that he had disliked and despised them. moreover, the naughty diarist had an ugly habit of recording men's private conversations; and thus a good many sayings which should have been kept secret became public property. a very irreverent wag wrote-- how blest was he who'd ne'er consent with wilberforce to walk, nor dined with soapy sam, nor let the bishop hear him talk! and this crude epigram expressed the feelings of numbers of enraged and scandalized individuals. the wretched book gave us an ugly picture of a hollow society where kindness seemed non-existent, and where every man walked with his head in a cloud of poisonous flies. as more memoirs appeared, it was most funny to observe that, while wilberforce was occupied in scarifying his dear friends, some of his dear friends were occupied in scarifying him. thus we find abraham hayward, a polished leader of society, writing in the following way of wilberforce, with whom ostensibly his relations were of the most affectionate description--"wilberforce is really a low fellow. again and again the committee of the athenaeum club have been obliged to reprove him for his vulgar selfishness." this is dreadful! no wonder that petty cynics snarl and rejoice; they say, "look at your great men, and see what mean backbiters they are!" alas! thomas carlyle's memoirs are a kind of graveyard of reputations; and we can well understand the rage and horror with which many individuals protested against the fierce scotchman's strictures. in the hearts of thousands of noble young people carlyle's memory was cherished like that of some dear saint; and it was terrible to find that the strong prophet had been penetrated by such a virus of malice. carlyle met all the best men and women in england; but the only ones whom he did not disparage were tennyson, the duke of wellington, mr. froude, and emerson. he could not talk even of charles darwin without calling him an imbecile; and his all-round hitting at his closest intimates is simply merciless. the same perversity which made him talk of keats's "maudlin weak-eyed sensibility" caused him to describe his loyal, generous, high-bred friend lord houghton as a "nice little robin-redbreast of a man;" while mrs. basil montagu, who cheered him and spared no pains to aid him in the darkest times, is now immortalized by one masterly venomous paragraph. carlyle was great--very great--but really the cultivation of loyal friendships seems hardly to have been in his line. men who know his works by heart, and who derived their noblest inspiration from him, cannot bear to read his memoirs twice over, for it sadly appears as though the titan had defiled the very altar of friendship. what shall we say of the cunning cat-like charles greville, who crept on tiptoe through the world, observing and recording the littleness of men? his stealthy eye missed nothing; and the men whom he flattered and used little thought that the wizened dandy who pleased them with his old-world courtesy was chronicling their weakness and baseness for all time. a nobly patriotic ministry came before the world with a flourish of trumpets, and declared that england must fight russia in defence of public law, freedom, and other holy things. but the wicked diarist had watched the secret proceedings of his dear friends; and he informs us that those beloved intimates were all sound asleep when a single minister decided on the movement which cost us forty thousand men and one hundred millions of treasure. that close sly being used--to worm out the secrets of men's innermost hearts; and his impassive mask never showed a sign of emotion. to illustrate his mode of extracting the information of which he made such terrible use, i may tell one trivial anecdote which has never before been made public. when greville was very old, he went to see a spiritualistic "medium" who was attracting fashionable london. the charlatan looked at the gray worn old man and thought himself safe; four other visitors attended the _séance_, but the "medium" bestowed all his attention on greville. with much emotion he cried, "there is an aged lady behind your chair!" greville remarked sweetly, "how interesting!" "she is very, very like you!" "who can it be?" murmured greville. "she lifts her hands to bless you. her hands are now resting over your head!" shouted the medium; and the pallid emotionless man said, with a slight tremor in his voice, "pray tell me who this mysterious visitant may be!" "it is your mother." "oh," said greville, "i am delighted to hear that!" "she says she is perfectly happy, and she watches you constantly." "dear soul!" muttered the imperturbable one. "she tells me you will join her soon, and be happy with her." then greville said gravely, in dulcet tones, "that is extremely likely, for i am going to take tea with her at five o'clock!" he had led on the poor swindler in his usual fashion; and he never hinted at the fact that his mother was nearly a century old. his friends were "pumped" in the same subtle manner; and the immortally notorious memoirs are strewn with assassinated characters. as we study the phenomena indicated by these memoirs, we begin to wonder whether friendship is or is not extinct. men are gregarious, and flocks of them meet together at all hours of the day and night. they exchange conventional words of greeting, they wear happy smiles, they are apparently cordial and charming' one with another; and yet a rigidly accurate observer may look mournfully for signs of real friendship. how can it exist? the men and women who pass through the whirl of a london season cannot help regarding their fellow-creatures rather as lay figures than as human beings. they go to crowded balls and seething "receptions," not to hold any wise human converse, but only to be able to say that they were in such and such a room on a certain night. the glittering crowds fleet by like shadows, and no man has much chance of knowing his neighbour's heart. how fast the flitting figures come-- the mild, the fierce, the stony face; some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some where secret tears have left their trace! ah, it is only the faces that the tired pleasure-seeker sees and knows; the real comrade, the human soul, is hidden away behind the mask! genuine heroic friendship cannot flourish in an artificial society; and that perhaps accounts for the fact that the curled darlings of our modern community spend much of their leisure in reading papers devoted to tattle and scandal. it seems as though the search after pleasure poisoned the very sources of nobleness in the nature of men. in our monstrous city a man may live without a quarrel for forty years; he may be popular, he may be received with genial greetings wherever he goes--and yet he has no friend. he lingers through his little day; and, when he passes away, the change is less heeded than would be the removal of a chair from a club smoking-room. when i see the callous indifference with which illness, misfortune, and death are regarded by the dainty classes, i can scarcely wonder when irate philosophers denounce polite society as a pestilent and demoralizing nuisance. among the people airily and impudently called "the lower orders" noble friendships are by no means uncommon. "i can't bear that look on your face, bill. i'm coming to save you or go with you!" said a rough sailor as he sprang into a raging sea to help his shipmate. "i'm coming, old fellow!" shouted the mate of a merchant-vessel; and he dived overboard among the mountainous seas that were rolling south of cape horn one january. for an hour this hero fought with the blinding water, and he saved his comrade at last. strange to say, the lounging impassive dandies who regard the universe with a yawn, and who sneer at the very notion of friendship, develop the kindly and manly virtues when they are removed from the enervating atmosphere of society and forced to lead a hard life. a man to whom emotion, passion, self-sacrifice, are things to be mentioned with a curl of the lip, departs on a campaign, and amid squalor, peril, and grim horrors he becomes totally unselfish. men who have watched our splendid military officers in the field are apt to think that a society which converts such generous souls into self-seeking fribbles must be merely poisonous. the more we study the subject the more clearly we can see that where luxury flourishes friendship withers. in the vast suffering russian nation friendships are at this very moment cherished to the heroic pitch. a mighty people are awakening, as it were, from sleep; the wicked and corrupt still sit in high places, but among the weltering masses of the populace purity and nobleness are spreading, and such friendships are fostered as never have been shadowed forth in story or song. sophie peroffsky mounts the scaffold with four other doomed mortals; she never thinks of her own approaching agony--she only longs to comfort her friends and she kisses them and greets them with cheering words until the last dread moment arrives. poor little marie soubotine--sweetest of perverted children, noblest of rebels--refuses to purchase her own safety by uttering a word to betray her sworn friend. for three years she lingers on in an underground dungeon, and then she is sent on the wild road to siberia; she dies amid gloom and deep suffering, but no torture can unseal her lips; she gladly gives her life to save another's. antonoff endures the torture, but no agony can make him prove false to his friends. when his captors give him a respite from the thumbscrews and the red-hot wires that are thrust under his nails, he forgets his own torment, and scratches on his plate his cipher signals to his comrades. those men and women in that awful country are lawless and dangerous, but they are heroic, and they are true friends one to another. how far we proud islanders must have forsaken for a time the road to nobleness when we are able to exalt the saying "a full purse is the only true friend" into a representative english proverb! we do not rage and foam as timon did--that would be ill-bred and ludicrous; we simply smile and utter delicate mockeries. in the plays that best please our golden youth nothing is so certain to win applause and laughter as a sentence about the treachery or greed of friends. do those grinning, superlatively insolent cynics really represent the mighty mother of nations? ah, no! if even the worst of them were thrust away into some region where life was hard for him, he would show something like nobility and manliness; it is the mephitic airs of ease and luxury that breed selfishness and scorn in his soul. at any rate, those effeminate people are not typical specimens of our steadfast friendly race. when the folk in the colliery village hear that deadly thud and feel the shudder of the earth which tell of disaster, jack the hewer rushes to the pit's mouth and joins the search-party. he knows that the gas may grip him by the throat, and that the heavy current of dissolution may creep through his veins; but his mate is down there in the workings, and he must needs save him or die in the attempt. greater love hath no man than this. ah, yes--the poor collier is indeed ready to lay down his life for his friend! the fiery soldier, william beresford, sees a comrade in peril; a horde of infuriated savages are rushing up, and there is only one pony to carry the two englishmen. beresford calls, "jump up behind me!" but the friend answers, "no; save yourself! i can die, and i won't risk your life." then the undignified but decidedly gallant beresford observes, "if you don't come, i'll punch your head!" the pony canters heavily off; one stumble would mean death, but the dauntless fighting man brings in his friend safely, though only by the skin of his teeth. it is absolutely necessary for the saving of our moral health that we should turn away from the dreary flippancy of an effete society to such scenes as those. if we regarded only the pampered classes, then we might well think that true human fellowship had perished, and a starless darkness--worse almost than atheism--would fall on the soul. but we are not all corrupt, and the strong brave heart of our people still beats true. young men cherish manly affection for friends, and are not ashamed to show it; sweet girls form friendships that hold until the maidens become matrons and till the shining locks have turned to silver white. wherever men are massed together the struggle for existence grows keen, and selfishness and cynicism thrust up their rank growths. "pleasure" blunts the moral sense and converts the natural man into a noxious being; but happily our people are sound at the core, and it will be long ere cynicism and corruption are universal. the great healthy middle-class is made up of folk who would regard a writer of spiteful memoirs as a mere bravo; they have not perhaps the sweetness and light which mr. arnold wished to bestow on them, but at any rate they have a certain rough generosity, and they have also a share of that self-forgetfulness which alone forms the basis of friendship. having that, they can do without carlyle's learning and wilberforce's polish, and they can certainly do without the sour malice of the historian and the prelate. _july, ._ _disasters at sea_. during last year the register of slaughter on the ocean was worse than any ever before seen since the _royal charter_ took her crew to destruction; and it seems as though matters were growing worse and worse. one dismal old story is being repeated week in, week out. in thick weather or clear weather--it does not seem to matter which--two vessels approach each other, and the presiding officers on board of each are quite satisfied and calm; then, on a sudden, one vessel shifts her course, there are a few hurried and maddened ejaculations, and then comes a crash. after that, the ugly tale may be continued in the same terms over and over again; the boats cannot be cleared away, the vessels drift apart, and both founder, or one is left crippled. i shall have something to say about the actual effects of a collision presently, but i may first go on to name some other kinds of disaster. a heavy sea is rolling, and occasionally breaking, and a vessel is lumbering along from crest to hollow of the rushing seas; a big wall of water looms over her for a second, and then comes crashing down; the deck gives way--there are no water-tight compartments--and the ship becomes suddenly as unmanageable as a mere cask in a seaway. again, a plate is wrenched, and some villainously-made rivets jump out of their places like buttons from an over-tight bodice; in ten minutes the vessel is wallowing, ready for her last plunge; and very likely the crew have not even the forlorn chance of taking to the boats. once more--on a clear night in the tropics an emigrant ship is stealing softly through the water; the merry crowd on deck has broken up, the women, poor creatures, are all locked up in their quarters, and only a few men remain to lounge and gossip. the great stars hang like lamps from the solemn dome of the sky, and the ripples are painted with exquisite serpentine streaks; the wind hums softly from the courses of the sails, and some of the men like to let the cool breeze blow over them. everything seems so delightfully placid and clear that the thought of danger vanishes; no one would imagine that even a sea-bird could come up unobserved over that starlit expanse of water. but the ocean is treacherous in light and shade. the loungers tell their little stories and laugh merrily; the officer of the watch carelessly stumps forward from abreast of the wheel, looks knowingly aloft, twirls round like a teetotum, and stumps back again; and the sweet night passes in splendour, until all save one or two home-sick lingerers are happy. it never occurs to any of these passengers to glance forward and see whether a streak of green fire seems to strike out from the starboard--the right-hand side of the vessel--or whether a shaft of red shoots from the other side. as a matter of fact, the vessel is going on like a dark cloud over the flying furrows of the sea; but there is very little of the cloud about her great hull, for she would knock a house down if she hit it when travelling at her present rate. the captain is a thrifty man, and the owners are thrifty persons; they consider the cost of oil; and thus, as it is a nice clear night, the side-lights are not lit, and the judgment of the tramping look-out man on the forecastle-head is trusted. parenthetically i may say that, without being in any way disposed to harbour exaggerated sentiment, i feel almost inclined to advocate death for any sailor who runs in mid-ocean without carrying his proper lights out. i once saw a big iron barque go grinding right from the bulge of the bow to the stern of an ocean steamer--and that wretched barque had no lights. half a yard's difference, and both vessels would have sunk. three hundred and fifty people were sleeping peacefully on board the steamer, and the majority of them must have gone down, while those who were saved would have had a hard time in the boats. strange to say, that very same steamer was crossed by another vessel which carried no lights: but this time the result was bad, for the steamer went clean through the other ship and sank her instantly. to return to the emigrant vessel. the officer continues his tramp like one of the caged animals of a menagerie; the spare man of the watch leans against the rail and hums-- we'll go no more by the light of the moon; the song is done, and we've lost the tune, so i'll go no more a-roving with you, fair maid-- a-roving, a-roving, &c. --the pipes glow in the clear air, and the flying water bubbles and moans. oh, yes, all is well--beautifully well--and we need no lights whatever! then the look-out man whistles "hist!"--which is quite an unusual mode of signalling; the officer ceases his monotonous tramp and runs forward. "luff a little!" "he's still bearing up. why doesn't he keep away?" "luff a little more! stand by your lee-braces. oh, he'll go clear!" so the low clear talk goes, till at last with a savage yell of rage a voice comes from the other vessel--"where you coming to?" "hard down with it!" "he's into us!" "clear away your boats!" then there is a sound like "smack." then comes a long scraunch, and a thunderous rattle of blocks; a sail goes with a report like a gun; the vessels bump a few times, and then one draws away, leaving the other with bows staved in. a wild clamour surges up from below, but there is no time to heed that; the men toil like titans, and the hideous music of prayers and curses disturbs the night. then the vessel that was hit amidships rolls a little, and there is a gurgle like that of an enormous, weir: a mast goes with a sharp report; a man's figure appears on the taffrail and bounds far into the sea--it is an experienced hand who wants to escape the down-draught; the hull shudders, grows steady, and then with one lurch the ship swashes down and the bellowing vortex throws up huge spirts of boiling spray. a few stray swimmers are picked up, but the rest of the company will be seen nevermore. fancy those women in that darkened steerage! think of it, and then say what should be done to an owner who stints his officers in the matter of lamp-oil; or to a captain who does not use what the owner provides! the huddled victims wake from confused slumbers; some scream--some become insane on the instant; the children add their shrill clamour to the mad rout; and the water roars in. then the darkness grows thick, and the agonized crowd tear and throttle each other in fierce terror; and then approaches the slowly-coming end. oh, how often--how wearily often--have such scenes been enacted on the face of this fair world! and all to save a little lamp-oil! yet again--a great vessel plunges away to sea bearing a precious freight of some one thousand souls. perhaps the owners reckon the cargo in the hold as being worth more than the human burden; but of course opinions differ. the wild rush from one border of the ocean to the other goes on for a few days and nights, and the tremendous structure of steel cleaves the hugest waves as though they were but clouds. down below the luxurious passengers live in their fine hotel, and the luckier ones are quite happy and ineffably comfortable. if a sunny day breaks, then the pallid battalions in the steerage come up to the air, and the ship's deck is like a long animated street. a thousand souls, we said? true! now let some quiet observant man of the sailorly sort go round at night and count the boats. twelve, and the gig aft makes thirteen! allowing a tremendously large average, this set of boats might actually carry six hundred persons; but the six hundred would need to sit very carefully even in smooth water, and a rush might capsize any one boat. the vast floating hotel spins on at twenty miles an hour--a speed that might possibly shame some of the railways that run from london suburbs--and the officers want to save every yard. no care is omitted; three men are on the bridge at night, there is a starboard look-out, a port look-out, and the quartermaster patrols amidships and sees that the masthead light is all right the officer and the look-out men pass the word every half-hour, and nothing escapes notice. if some unlucky steerage passenger happens to strike a light forward, he stands a very good chance of being put in irons; and, if there is a patient in the deck-house, the windows must be darkened with thick cloths. each officer, on hazy nights, improvises a sort of hood for himself; and he peers forward as if life depended on his eyesight--as indeed it does. but there comes a bright evening, and the monster liner's journey is all but over; three hours more of steaming and she will be safe. a little schooner comes skimming up on the port side--and the schooner is to the liner as a chip is to a tree-trunk. the schooner holds on her course, for she is not bound to give way at all; but the officer on the bridge of the steamer thinks, "i shall lose a quarter of an hour if i edge away to starboard and let him fall astern of us. i shall keep right on and shave his bows." the liner is going at nineteen knots, the schooner is romping along at eight--yet the liner cannot clear the little vessel. there comes a fresh gust of wind; the sailing vessel lies over to it, and just touches the floating hotel amidships--but the touch is enough to open a breach big enough for a coach and four to go through. the steamer's head is laid for the land and every ounce of steam is put on, but she settles and settles more and more. and now what about the thirteen boats for a thousand people? there is a wild scuffling, wild outcry. women bite their lips and-try, with divine patience, to crush down all appearance of fear, and to keep their limbs from trembling; some unruly fellows are kept in check only by terror of the revolver; and the officers remember that their fair name and their hope of earthly redemption are at stake. in one case of this sort it took three mortal hours to ferry the passengers and crew over smooth water to the rescuing vessel; and those rescued folk may think themselves the most fortunate of all created souls, for, if the liner had been hit with an impetus of a few more tons, very few on board of her would have lived to tell the tale. unless passengers, at the risk of being snubbed and threatened, criticise the boat accommodation of great steamers, there will be such a disaster one day as will make the world shudder. the pitiful thing is to know how easily all this might be prevented. until one has been on board a small vessel which has every spar, bolt, iron, and plank sound, one can have no idea how perfectly safe a perfectly-built ship is in any sort of weather. a schooner of one hundred and fifty tons was caught in a hurricane which was so powerful that the men had to hang on where they could, even before the flattened foaming sea rose from its level rush and began to come on board. all round were vessels in distress; the scare caused many of the seamen to forget their lights, and the ships lumbered on, first to collision, and then to that crashing plunge which takes all hands down. the little schooner was actually obliged to offer assistance to a big mail-steamer--and yet she might have been rather easily carried by that same steamer. but the little vessel's lights were watched with sedulous care; the blasts might tear at her scanty canvas, but there was not a rag or a rope that would give way; and, although the awful rush of the gale carried her within eight miles of a rocky lee-shore, her captain had sufficient confidence in the goodness of his gear to begin sailing his ship instead of keeping her hove to. one rope faulty, one light wrong, one hand out of his place at the critical time, and the bones of a pleasant ship's company would have been strewn on a bleak shore: but everything was right, and the tiny craft drew away like a seagull when she was made to sail. of course the sea ran clean over her, but she forged quietly on until she was thirty miles clear of those foaming breakers that roared on the cliffs. during that night more good seamen were drowned than one would like to number; ships worth a king's ransom were utterly lost. and why? simply because they had not the perfect gear which saved the little schooner. even had the little craft been sent over until she refused to rise again to the sea, the boats were ready, and everybody on board had a good chance. care first of all is needed, and then fear may be banished. the smart agent reads his report glibly to the directors of a steamboat company--and yet i have seen such smart agents superintending the departure of vessels whereof the appearance was enough to make a good judge quake for the safety of crew and cargo. what do i advise? well, in the first place, i must remind shoregoing folk that a sound well-found vessel will live through anything. let passengers beware of lines which pay a large dividend and show nothing on their balance-sheets to allow for depreciation. in the next place, if any passenger on a long voyage should see that the proper lights are not shown, he ought to wake up his fellow passengers at any hour of the night, and go with his friends to threaten the captain. never mind bluster or oaths--merely say, "if your lights are not shown, you may regard your certificate as gone." if that does not bring the gentleman to his senses, nothing will. again, take care in any case that no raw foreign seamen are allowed to go on the look-out in any vessel, for a misunderstood shout at a critical moment may bring sudden doom on hundreds of unsuspecting fellow-creatures. above all, see that the water-casks in every boat are kept full. in this way the sea tragedies may be a little lessened in their hateful number. _march, ._ _a rhapsody of summer_. there came into my life a time of strenuous effort, and i drank all the joys of labour to the lees. when the rich dark midnights of summer drooped over the earth, i could hardly bear to think of the hours of oblivion which must pass ere i felt the delight of work once more. and the world seemed very beautiful; and, when i looked up to the solemn sky, so sweetly sown with stars, i could see stirring words like "fame" and "gladness" and "triumph" written dimly across the vault; so that my heart was full of rejoicing, and all the world promised fair. in those immortal midnights the sea spoke wonderful things to me, and the long rollers glittering under the high moon bore health and bright promise as they hastened to the shore. and, when the ships stole--oh, so silently!--out of the shadows and moved over the diamond track of the moon's light, i sent my heart out to the lonely seamen and prayed that they might be joyous like me. then the ringing of the song of multitudinous birds sounded in the hours of dawn, and the tawny-throated king of songsters made my pulses tremble with his wild ecstasy; and the blackbird poured forth mellow defiance, and the thrush shrilled in his lovely fashion concerning the joy of existence. pass, dreams! the long beams are drawn from the bosom of dawn. the gray of the quiet sea quickens into rose, and soon the glittering serpentine streaks of colour quiver into a blaze; the brown sands glow, and the little waves run inward, showing milky curves under the gay light; the shoregoing boats come home, and their sails--those coarse tanned sails--are like flowers that wake with the daisies and the peonies to feast on the sun. happy holiday-makers who are wise enough to watch the fishers come in! the booted thickly-clad fellows plunge into the shallow water; and then the bare-footed women come down, and the harvest of the night is carried up the cliffs before the most of the holiday-folk have fairly awakened. the proud day broadens to its height, and the sands are blackened by the growing crowd; for the beach near a fashionable watering-place is like a section cut from a turbulent city street, save that the folk on the sands think of aught but business. i have never been able to sympathize with those who can perceive only vulgarity in a seaside crowd. it is well to care for deserted shores and dark moaning forests in the far north; but the average british holiday-maker is a sociable creature; he likes to feel the sense of companionship, and his spirits rise in proportion to the density of the crowd amid which he disports himself. to me, the life, the concentrated enjoyment, the ways of the children who are set free from the trammels of town life, are all like so much poetry. i learned early to rejoice in silent sympathy with the rejoicing of god's creatures. only to watch the languid pose of some steady toiler from the city is enough to give discontented people a goodly lesson. the man has been ground in the mill for a year; his modest life has left him no time for enjoyment, and his ideas of all pleasure are crude. watch him as he remains passively in an ecstasy of rest. the cries of children, the confused jargon of the crowd, fall but faintly on his nerves; he likes the sensation of being in company; he has a dim notion of the beauty of the vast sky with its shining snowy-bosomed clouds, and he lets the light breeze blow over him. i like to look on that good citizen and contrast the dull round of his wayfarings on many streets with the ease and satisfaction of his attitude on the sands. then the night comes. the dancers are busy, the commonplace music is made refined by distance, and the murmur of the sea gathers power over all other sounds, until the noon of night arrives and the last merry voices are heard no more. poor harmless revellers, so condemned by men whose round of life is a search for pleasure! many of you do not understand or care for quiet refinements of dress and demeanour; you lack restraint; but i have felt much gladness while demurely watching your abandonment. i could draw rest for my soul from the magnetic night long after you were aweary and asleep; but much of my pleasure came as a reflection from yours. as my memories of sweetness--yes, and of purifying sadness--gather more thickly, i am minded to wonder that so much has been vouchsafed me rather than to mourn over shadowy might-have-beens. the summer day by the deep lovely lake--the lake within sound of the sea! all round the steep walls that shut in the dark glossy water there hung rank festoons and bosses of brilliant green, and the clear reflections of the weeds and flowers hung so far down in the mysterious deeps that the height of the rocky wall seemed stupendous. far over in one tremendously deep pool the lazy great fish wallowed and lunged; they would not show their speckled sides very much until the evening; but they kept sleepily moving all day, and sometimes a mighty back would show like a log for an instant. in the morning the modest ground-larks cheeped softly among the rough grasses on the low hills, while the proud heaven-scaler--the lordly kinsman of the ground-lark--filled the sky with his lovely clamour. sometimes a water-rail would come out from the sedges and walk on the surface of the lake as a tiny ostrich might on the shifting sand; pretty creatures of all sorts seemed to find their homes near the deep wonderful water, and the whole morning might be passed in silently watching the birds and beasts that came around. the gay sun made streams of silver fire shoot from the polished brackens and sorrel, the purple geraniums gleamed like scattered jewels, and the birds seemed to be joyful in presence of that manifold beauty--joyful as the quiet human being who watched them all. and the little fishes in the shallows would have their fun as well. they darted hither and thither; the spiny creatures which the schoolboy loves built their queer nests among the waterweeds; and sometimes a silly adventurer--alarmed by the majestic approach of a large fish--would rush on to the loamy bank at the shallow end of the lake and wriggle piteously in hopeless failure. the afternoons were divinely restful by the varied shores of the limpid lake. sometimes as the sun sloped there might come hollow blasts of wind that had careered for a brief space over the woods; but the brooding heat, the mastering silence, the feeling that multifarious quiescent living things were ready to start into action, all took the senses with somnolence. that drowsy joy, that soothing silence which seemed only intensified by the murmur of bees and the faint gurgle of water, were like medicine to the soul; and it seemed that the conception of nirvana became easily understood as the delicious open-air reverie grew more and more involved and vague. then the last look of the sun, the creeping shadows that made the sea gray and turned the little lake to an inky hue, and then the slow fall of the quiet-coloured evening, and, last, the fall of the mystic night! poor little birds, moving uneasily in the darkness, threw down tiny fragments from the rocks, and each fragment fell with a sound like the clink of a delicate silver bell; softly the sea moaned, softly the night-wind blew, and softly--so softly!--came whispering the spirits of the dead. joyous faces could be seen by that lake long, long ago. in summer, when the lower rim was all blazing with red and yellow flowers, young lovers came to whisper and gaze. they are dead and gone. in winter, when the tarn was covered with jetty glossy ice, there were jovial scenes whereof the jollity was shared by a happy few. round and round on the glossy surface the skaters flew and passed like gliding ghosts under the gloom of the rocks; the hiss of the iron sounded musically, and the steep wall flung back sharp echoes of harmless laughter. each volume of sound was magically magnified, and the gay company carried on their pleasant outing far into the chili winter night. they are all gone! one was there oftenest in spring and summer, and the last sun-rays often made her golden hair shine in splendour as she stood gazing wistfully over the solemn lake. she saw wonders there that coarser spirits could not know; and all her gentle musings passed into poetry--poetry that was seldom spoken. those who loved her never cared to break her sacred stillness as she pondered by the side of the beloved tarn; her language was not known to common folk, for she held high converse with the great of old time; and, when she chanced to speak with me, i understood but dimly, though i had all the sense of beauty and mystery. a shipwrecked sailor said she looked as if she belonged to god. her master claimed her early. dear, your yellow hair will shine no more in the sun that you loved; you have long given over your day-dreams--and you are now dreamless. or perhaps you dwell amid the silent glory of one last long dream of those you loved. the gorse on the moor moans by your grave, the brackens grow green and tall and wither into dead gold year by year, the lake gleams gloomily in fitful flashes amid its borders of splendour; and you rest softly while the sea calls your lullaby nightly. far off, far off, my soul, by quiet seas where the lamps of the southern cross hang in the magnificence of the purple sky, there is one who remembers the lake, and the glassy ice, and the blaze of pompous summer, and the shining of that yellow hair. peace--oh, peace! the sorrow has passed into quiet pensive regret that is nigh akin to gladness. how many other ineffable days and nights have i known? all who can feel the thrilling of sea-winds, all who can have even one day amid grass and fair trees, grasp the time of delight, enjoy all beauties, do not pass in coarseness one single minute; and then, when the guide comes to point your road through the strange gates, you may be like me--you may repine at nothing, for you will have much good to remember and scanty evil. it is good for me now to think of the thundering rush of the yacht as, with the great mainsail drawing heavily, she roared through the field of foam made by her own splendid speed, while the inky waves on the dim horizon moaned and the dark summer midnight brooded warmly over the dark sea. it is good to think of the strange days when the vessel was buried in wreaths of dark cloud, and the rush of the wind only drove the haze screaming among the shrouds. the vast dim mountains might not be pleasant to the eye of either seaman or landsman; but, when they poured their thundering deluge on a strong safe deck, we did not mind them. happy hearts were there even in stormy warring afternoons; and men watched quite placidly as the long grim hills came gliding on. then in the evenings there were chance hours when the dim forecastle was a pleasant place in bad weather. the bow of the vessel swayed wildly; the pitching seemed as if it might end in one immense supreme dive to the gulf, and the mad storming of the wind forced us to utter our simple talk in loudest tones. gruff kindly phrases, without much wit or point, were good enough for us; perhaps even the appalling dignitary--yes, even the mate--would crawl in; and we listened to lengthy disjointed stories. and all the while the tremendous howl of the storm went on, and the merry lads who went out on duty had to rush wildly so as to reach the alley when a very heavy sea came over. the sense of strength was supreme; the crash of the gale was nothing; and we rather hugged ourselves on the notion that the fierce screaming meant us no harm. the curls of smoke flitted softly amid the blurred yellow beams from the lamp, and our chat went on while the monstrous billows grew blacker and blacker and the spray shone like corpse-candles on the mystic and mighty hills. and then the hours of the terrible darkness! to leave the swept deck while every vein tingled with the ecstasy of the gale! the dull warmth below was exquisite; the sly creatures which crept from their, dens and let the lamplight shine on their weird eyes--even the gamesome rats--had something merrily diabolic about them. their thuds on the floor, their sordid swarming, their inexplicable daring--all gave a kind of minor current of _diablerie_ to the rush and hurry of the stormy night; for they seemed to speak--and the creatures which on shore are odious appeared to be quite in place in the soaring groaning vessel. ah, my brave forecastle lads, my merry tan-faced favourites, i shall no more see your quaint squalor, i shall no more see your battle with wind and savage waves and elemental turmoil! some of you have passed to the shadows before me; some of you have only the ooze for your graves; and the others cannot ever hear my greeting again on the sweet mornings when the waves are all gay with lily-hued blossoms of foam. pale beyond porch and portal, crowned with dark flowers she stands, who gathers all things mortal with cold immortal hands. gathers! and proserpina will strew the flowers of foam that i may never see more--and then she will gather me. all was good in the time of delight--all is good now that only a memory clings lovingly to the heart. take my counsel. rejoice in your day, and the night shall carry no dread for you. _june, ._ _lost days._ i fully recognize the fact which the frenchman flippantly stated--that no human beings really believe that death is inevitable until the last clasp of the stone-cold king numbs their pulses. perhaps this insensibility is a merciful gift; at any rate, it is a fact. if belief came home with violence to our minds, we should suffer from a sort of vertigo; but the merciful dullness which the frenchman perceived and mocked in his epigram saves us all the miseries of apprehension. this is very curiously seen among soldiers when they know that they must soon go into action. the soldiers chat together on the night before the attack; they know that some of them must go down; they actually go so far as to exchange messages thus--"if anything happens to me, you know, bill, i want you to take that to the old people. you give me a note or anything else you have; and, if we get out of the shindy, we can hand the things back again." after confidences of this sort, the men chat on; and i never yet knew or heard of one who did not speak of his own safe return as a matter of course. when a brigade charges, there may be a little anxiety at first; but the whistle of the first bullet ends all misgivings, and the fellows grow quite merry, though it may be that half of them are certain to be down on the ground before the day is over. a man who is struck may know well that he will pass away: but he will rise up feebly to cheer on his comrades--nay, he will ask questions, as the charging troops pass him, as to the fate of bill or joe, or the probable action of the heavies, or similar trifles. in the fight of life we all behave much as the soldiers do in the crash and hurry of battle. if we reason the matter out with a semblance of logic, we all know that we must move toward the shadows; but, even after we are mortally stricken by disease or age, we persist in acting and thinking as if there were no end. in youth we go almost further; we are too apt to live as though we were immortal, and as though there were absolutely nothing to result from human action or human inaction. to the young man and the young woman the future is not a blind lane with a grave at the end; it is a spacious plain reaching away towards a far-off horizon; and that horizon recedes and recedes as they move forward, leaving magnificent expanses to be crossed in joyous freedom. a pretty delusion! the youth harks onward, singing merrily and rejoicing in sympathy with the mystic song of the birds; there is so much space around him--the very breath of life is a joy--and he is content to taste in glorious idleness the ecstasy of living. the evening closes in, and then the horizon seems to be narrowing; like the walls of the deadly chamber in the home of the inquisition, the skies shrink inward--and the youth has misgivings. the next day finds his plain shrunken a little in expanse, and his horizon has not so superb a sweep. nevertheless he goes gaily on, and once more he raises his voice joyously, and tries to think that the plain and the horizon can contract no more. thus in foolish hopefulness he passes his days until the glorious plain of his dreams has been traversed, and, lo, under his very feet is the great gulf fixed, and far below the tide--the tide of eternity--laps sullenly against the walls of the deadly chasm. if the youth knew that the gulf and the rolling river were so near--if he not only knew, but could absolutely picture his doom--would he be so merry? ah, no! i repeat that, if men could be so disciplined as to believe in their souls that death must come, then there would be no lost days. is there one of us who can say that he never lost a day amid this too brief, too joyous, too entrancing term of existence? not one. the aged roman--who, by-the-way, was somewhat of a prig--used to go about moaning, "i have lost a day," if he thought he had not performed some good action or learned something in the twenty-four hours. most of us have no such qualms; we waste the time freely; and we never know that it is wasted until with a dull shock we comprehend that all must be left and that the squandered hours can never be retrieved. the men who are strongest and greatest and best suffer the acutest remorse for the lost days; they know their own powers, and that very knowledge makes them suffer all the more bitterly when they reckon up what they might have done and compare it with the sum of their actual achievement. in a certain german town a little cell is shown on the walls of which a famous name is marked many times. it appears that in his turbulent youth prince bismarck was often a prisoner in this cell; and his various appearances are registered under eleven different dates. moreover, i observe from the same rude register that he fought twenty-eight duels. lost days--lost days! he tells us how he drank in the usual insane fashion prevalent among the students. he "cannot tell how much burgundy he could really drink." lost days--lost days! and now the great old man, with europe at his feet and the world awaiting his lightest word with eagerness, turns regretfully sometimes to think of the days thrown away. a haze seems to hang before the eyes of such as he; and it is a haze that makes the future seem dim and vast, even while it obscures all the sharp outlines of things. the child is not capable of reasoning coherently, and therefore its disposition to fritter away time must be regarded as only the result of defective organization; but the young man and young woman can reason, and yet we find them perpetually making excuses for eluding time and eternity. look at the young fellows who are preparing for the hard duties of life by studying at a university. here is one who seems to have recognized the facts of existence; his hours are arranged as methodically as his heart beats; he knows the exact balance between physical and intellectual strength, and he overtaxes neither, but body and mind are worked up to the highest attainable pressure. no pleasures of the destructive sort call this youngster aside; he has learned already what it is to reap the harvest of a quiet eye, and his joys are of the sober kind. he rises early, and he has got far through his work ere noon; his quiet afternoon is devoted to harmless merriment in the cricket-field or on the friendly country roads, and his evening is spent without any vain gossip in the happy companionship of his books. that young man loses no day; but unhappily he represents a type which is but too rare. the steady man, economic of time, is a rarity; but the wild youth who is always going to do something to-morrow is one of a class that numbers only too many on its rolls. to-morrow! the young fellow passes to-day on the river, or spends it in lounging or in active dissipation. he feels that he is doing wrong; but the gaunt spectres raised by conscience are always exorcised by the bright vision of to-morrow. to-morrow the truant will go to his books; he will bend himself for that concentrated effort which alone secures success, and his time of carelessness and sloth shall be far left behind. but the sinister influence of to-day saps his will and renders him infirm; each new to-day is wasted amid thoughts of visionary to-morrows which take all the power from his soul; and, when he is nerveless, powerless, tired, discontented with the very sight of the sun, he finds suddenly that his feet are on the edge of the gulf, and he knows that there will be no more to-morrows. i am not entering a plea for hard, petrifying work. if a man is a hand-worker or brain-worker, his fate is inevitable if he regards work as the only end of life. the loss of which i speak is that incurred by engaging in pursuits which do not give mental strength or resource or bodily health. the hard-worked business-man who gallops twenty miles after hounds before he settles to his long stretch of toil is not losing his day; the empty young dandy whose life for five months in the year is given up to galloping across grass country or lounging around stables is decidedly a spendthrift so far as time is concerned. i wish--if it be not impious so to wish--that every young man could have one glimpse into the future. supposing some good genius could say, "if you proceed as you are now doing, your position in your fortieth year will be this!" what a horror would strike through many among us, and how desperately each would strive to take advantage of that kindly "if." but there is no uplifting of the veil; and we must all be guided by the experience of the past and not by knowledge of the future. i observe that those who score the greatest number of lost days on the world's calendar always do so under the impression that they are enjoying pleasure. an acute observer whose soul is not vitiated by cynicism may find a kind of melancholy pastime in observing the hopeless attempts of these poor son's to persuade themselves that they are making the best of existence. i would not for worlds seem for a moment to disparage pleasure, because i hold that a human being who lives without joy must either become bad, mad, or wretched. but i speak of those who cheat themselves into thinking that every hour which passes swiftly to eternity is wisely spent. observe the parties of young men who play at cards even in the railway-train morning after morning and evening after evening. the time of the journey might be spent in useful and happy thought; it is passed in rapid and feverish speculation. there is no question of reviving the brain; it is not recreation that is gained, but distraction, and the brain, instead of being ready to concentrate its power upon work, is enfeebled and rendered vague and flighty. supposing a youth spends but one hour per day in handling pieces of pasteboard and trying to win his neighbour's money, then in four weeks he has wasted twenty-four hours, and in one year he wastes thirteen days. is there any gain--mental, muscular, or nervous--from this unhappy pursuit? not one jot or tittle. supposing that a weary man of science leaves his laboratory in the evening, and wends his way homeward, the very thought of the game of whist which awaits him is a kind of recuperative agency. whist is the true recreation of the man of science; and the astronomer or mathematician or biologist goes calmly to rest with his mind at ease after he has enjoyed his rubber. the most industrious of living novelists and the most prolific of all modern writers was asked--so he tells us in his autobiography--"how is it that your thirtieth book is fresher than your first?" he made answer, "i eat very well, keep regular hours, sleep ten hours a day, and never miss my three hours a day at whist." these men of great brain derive benefit from their harmless contests; the young men in the railway-carriages only waste brain-tissue which they do nothing-to repair. a very beautiful writer who was an extremely lazy man pictures his own lost days as arising before him and saying, "i am thy self; say, what didst thou to me?" that question may well be asked by all the host of murdered days, but especially may it be asked of those foolish beings who try to gain distinction by recklessly losing money on the turf or in gambling-saloons. a heart of stone might be moved by seeing the precious time that is hurled to the limbo of lost days in the vulgar pandemonium by the racecourse. a nice lad comes out into the world after attaining his majority, and plunges into that vortex of hades. reckon up the good he gets there. does he gain health? alas, think of the crowd, the rank odours, the straining heart-beats! does he hear any wisdom? listen to the hideous badinage, the wild bursts of foul language from the betting-men, the mean, cunning drivel of the gamblers, the shrill laughter of the horsey and unsexed women? does the youth make friends? ah, yes! he makes friends who will cheat him at betting, cheat him at horse-dealing, cheat him at gambling when the orgies of the course are over, borrow money as long as he will lend, and throw him over when he has parted with his last penny and his last rag of self-respect. those who can carry their minds back for twenty years must remember the foolish young nobleman who sold a splendid estate to pay the yelling vulgarians of the betting-ring. they cheered him when he all but beggared himself; they hissed him when he failed once to pay. with lost health, lost patrimony, lost hopes, lost self-respect, he sank amid the rough billows of life's sea, and only one human creature was there to aid him when the great last wave swept over him. lost days--lost days! youths who are going to ruin now amid the plaudits of those who live upon them might surely take warning: but they do not, and their bones will soon bleach on the mound whereon those of all other wasters of days have been thrown. when i think of the lost days and the lost lives of which i have cognizance, then it seems as though i were gazing on some vast charnel-house, some ghoul-haunted place of skulls. memories of those who trifled with life come to me, and their very faces flash past with looks of tragic significance. by their own fault they were ruined; they were shut out of the garden of their gifts; their city of hope was ploughed and salted. the past cannot be retrieved, let canting optimists talk as they choose; what has been has been, and the effects will last and spread until the earth shall pass away. our acts our angels are, or good or ill; our fatal shadows that walk by us still. the thing done lasts for eternity; the lightest act of man or woman has incalculably vast results. so it is madness to say that the lost days can be retrieved. they cannot! but by timely wisdom we may save the days and make them beneficent and fruitful in the future. watch those wild lads who are sowing in wine what they reap in headache and degradation. night after night they laugh with senseless glee, night after night inanities which pass for wit are poured forth; and daily the nerve and strength of each carouser grow weaker. can you retrieve those nights? never! but you may take the most shattered of the crew and assure him that all is not irretrievably lost; his weakened nerve may be steadied, his deranged gastric functions may gradually grow more healthy, his distorted views of life may pass away. so far, so good; but never try to persuade any one that the past may be repaired, for that delusion is the very source and spring of the foul stream of lost days. once impress upon any teachable creature the stern fact that a lost day is lost for ever, once make that belief part of his being, and then he will strive to cheat death. perhaps it may be thought that i take sombre views of life. no; i see that the world may be made a place of pleasure, but only by learning and obeying the inexorable laws which govern all things, from the fall of a seed of grass to the moving of the miraculous brain of man. _april, ._ _midsummer days and midsummer nights._ soon, with pomp of golden days and silver nights, the dying summer will wave the world farewell; but the precious time is still with us, and we cherish the glad moments gleefully. when the dawn swirls up in the splendid sky, it is as though one gladsome procession of hours had begun to move. the breeze sighs cool and low, the trees rustle with vast whisperings, and the conquering sun shoots his level volleys from rim to rim of the world. the birds are very, very busy, and they take no thought of the grim time coming, when the iron ground will be swept by chill winds and the sad trees will quiver mournfully in the biting air. a riot of life is in progress, and it seems as if the sense of pure joy banished the very thought of pain and foreboding from all living things. the sleepy afternoons glide away, the sun droops, and the quiet, coloured evening falls solemnly. then comes the hush of the huge and thoughtful night; the wan stars wash the dust with silver, and the brave day is over. alas, for those who are pent in populous cities throughout this glorious time! we who are out in the free air may cast a kindly thought on the fate of those to whom "holiday" must be as a word in an unknown tongue. some of us are happy amid the shade of mighty hills: some of us fare toward the land of the midnight sun, where the golden light steeps all the air by night as well as day; some of us rest beside the sea, where the loud wind, large and free, blows the long surges out in sounding bars and thrills us with fresh fierce pleasure; some of us are able to wander in glowing lanes where the tender roses star the hedges and the murmur of innumerable bees falls softly on the senses. let us thankfully take the good that is vouchsafed to us, and let those of us who can lend a helping hand do something towards giving the poor and needy a brief taste of the happiness that we freely enjoy. i do not want to dwell on ugly thoughts; and yet it seems selfish to refrain from speaking of the fate of the poor who are packed in crowded quarters during this bright holiday season. for them the midsummer days and midsummer nights are a term of tribulation. the hot street reeks with pungent odours, the faint airs that wander in the scorching alleys at noonday strike on the fevered face like wafts from some furnace, and the cruel nights are hard to endure save when a cool shower has fallen. if you wander in london byways, you find that the people are fairly driven from their houses after a blistering summer day, and they sit in the streets till early morning. they are not at all depressed; on the contrary, the dark hours are passed in reckless merriment, and i have often known the men to rest quite contentedly on the pavement till the dawn came and the time of departure for labour was near. even the young children remain out of doors, and their shrill treble mingles with the coarse rattle of noisy choruses. some of those cheery youngsters have an outing in the hopping season, and they come back bronzed and healthy; but most of them have to be satisfied with one day at the most amid the fields and trees. i have spoken of london; but the case of those who dwell in the black manufacturing cities is even worse. what is oldham like on a blistering midsummer day? what are hanley and st. helen's and the lower parts of manchester like? the air is charged with dust, and the acrid, rasping fumes from the chimneys seem to acquire a malignant power over men and brain. toil goes steadily on, and the working-folk certainly have the advantage of starting in the bright morning hours, before the air has become befouled; but, as the sun gains strength, and the close air of the unlovely streets is heated, then the torment to be endured is severe. in oldham and many other lancashire towns a most admirable custom prevails. large numbers of people club their money during the year and establish a holiday-fund; they migrate wholesale in the summertime, and have a merry holiday far away from the crush of the pavements and the dreary lines of ugly houses. a wise and beneficent custom is this, and the man who first devised it deserves a monument. i congratulate the troops of toilers who share my own pleasure; but, alas, how many honest folk in those awful midland places will pant and sweat and suffer amid grime and heat while the glad months are passing! good men who might be happy even in the free spaces of the far west, fair women who need only rest and pure air to enable them to bloom in beauty, little children who peak and pine, are all crammed within the odious precincts of the towns which cobbett hated; and the merry stretches of the sea, the billowy roll of the downs, the peace of soft days, are not for them. only last year i looked on a stretch of interminable brown sand, hard and smooth and broad, with the ocean perpetually rolling in upon it with slow-measured sweep, with rustle and hiss and foam, and many a thump as of low bass drums. there before me was whitman's very vision, and in the keen mystic joy of the moment i could not help thinking sadly of one dreadful alley where lately i had been. it seemed so sad that the folk of the alley could not share my pleasure; and the murmur of vain regrets came to the soul even amid the triumphant clamour of the free wind. poor cramped townsfolk, hard is your fate! it is hard; but i can see no good in repining over their fortune if we aid them as far as we can; rather let us speak of the bright time that comes for the toilers who are able to escape from the burning streets. the mathematicians and such-like dry personages confine midsummer to one day in june; but we who are untrammelled by science know a great deal better. for us midsummer lasts till august is half over, and we utterly refuse to trouble ourselves about equinoxes and solstices and trivialities of that kind. for us it is midsummer while the sun is warm, while the trees hold their green, while the dancing waves fling their blossoms of foam under the darting rays that dazzle us, while the sacred night is soft and warm and the cool airs are wafted like sounds of blessings spoken in the scented darkness. for us the solstice is abolished, and we sturdily refuse to give up our midsummer till the first gleam of yellow comes on the leaves. we are not all lucky enough to see the leagues upon leagues of overpowering colour as the sun comes up on the alps; we cannot all rest in the glittering seclusion of norwegian fiords; but most of us, in our modest way, can enjoy our extravagantly prolonged midsummer beside the shore of our british waters. spring is the time for hope; our midsummer is the time for ripened joy, for healthful rest; and we are satisfied with the beaches and cliffs that are hallowed by many memories--we are satisfied with simple copses and level fields. they say that spring is the poet's season; but we know better. spring is all very well for those who have constant leisure; it is good to watch the gradual bursting of early buds; it is good to hear the thrush chant his even-song of love; it is good to rest the eye on the glorious clouds of bloom that seem to float in the orchards. but the midsummer, the gallant midsummer, pranked in manifold splendours, is the true season of poetry for the toilers. the birds of passage who are now crowding out of the towns have had little pleasure in the spring, and their blissful days are only now beginning. what is it to them that the seaside landlady crouches awaiting her prey? what is it to them that 'arry is preparing to make night hideous? they are bound for their rest, and the surcease of toil is the only thing that suggests poetry to them. spring the season for poets! we wipe away that treasonable suggestion just as we have wiped out the solstice. we holiday makers are not going to be tyrannized over by literary and scientific persons, and we insist on taking our own way. our blood beats fully only at this season, and not even the extortioners' bills can daunt us. let us break into poetry and flout the maudlin enthusiasts who prate of spring. with a ripple of leaves and a twinkle of streams the full world rolls in a rhythm of praise, and the winds are one with the clouds and beams-- midsummer days! midsummer days! the dusks grow vast in a purple haze, while the west from a rapture of sunset rights, faint stars their exquisite lamps upraise-- midsummer nights! o midsummer nights! * * * * * the wood's green heart is a nest of dreams, the lush grass thickens and springs and sways, the rathe wheat rustles, the landscape gleams-- midsummer days! midsummer days! in the stilly fields, in the stilly way, all secret shadows and mystic lights, late lovers, murmurous, linger and gaze-- midsummer nights! o midsummer nights! * * * * * there's a swagger of bells from the trampling teams, wild skylarks hover, the gorses blaze, the rich ripe rose as with incense steams-- midsummer days! midsummer days! a soul from the honeysuckle strays, and the nightingale, as from prophet heights, speaks to the earth of her million mays-- midsummer nights! o midsummer nights! and it's oh for my dear and the charm that stays-- midsummer days! midsummer days! and it's oh for my love and the dark that plights-- midsummer nights! o midsummer nights! there is a burst for you! and we will let the poets of spring, with their lambkins and their catkins and the rest, match this poem of william henley's if they can. the royal months are ours, and we love the reign of the rose. when the burnished tints of bronze shine on the brackens, and the night-wind blows with a chilly moan from the fields of darkness, we shall have precious days to remember, and, ah, when the nights are long, and the churlish winter lays his fell finger on stream and grass and tree, we shall be haunted by jolly memories! will the memories be wholly pleasant? perchance, when the curtains are drawn and the lamp burns softly, we may read of bright and beautiful things. out of doors the war of the winter fills the roaring darkness. it may be that hoarsely across the iron ground the icy wind goes roaring past, the powdery wreaths go whirling round dancing a measure to the blast. the hideous sky droops darkly down in brooding swathes of misty gloom, and seems to wrap the fated town in shadows of remorseless doom. then some of us may find a magic phrase of keats's, or thomas hardy's, or black's, or dickens's, that recalls the lovely past from the dead. many times i have had that experience. once, after spending the long and glorious summer amid the weird subdued beauty of a wide heath, i returned to the great city. it had been a pleasant sojourn, though i had had no company save a collie and one or two terriers. at evening the dogs liked their ramble, and we all loved to stay out until the pouring light of the moon shone on billowy mists and heath-clad knolls. the faint rustling of the heath grew to a wide murmur, the little bells seemed to chime with notes heard only by the innermost spirit, and the gliding dogs were like strange creatures from some shadowy underworld. at times a pheasant would rise and whirl like a rocket from hillock to hollow, and about midnight a rapturous concert began. on one line of trees a colony of nightingales had established themselves near the heart of the waste. first came the low inquiry from the leader; then two or three low twittering answers; then the one long note that lays hold of the nerves and makes the whole being quiver; and then--ah, the passion, the pain, the unutterable delight of the heavenly jargoning when the whole of the little choir begin their magnificent rivalry! the thought of death is gone, the wild and poignant issues of life are softened, and the pulses beat thickly amid the blinding sweetness of the music. he who has not heard the nightingale has not lived. far off the sea called low through the mist, and the long path of the moon ran toward the bright horizon; the ships stole in shadow and shine over the glossy ripples, and swung away to north and south till they faded in wreaths of delicate darkness. dominating the whole scene of beauty, there was the vast and subtle mystery of the heath that awed the soul even when the rapture was at its keenest. time passed away, and on one savage night i read thomas hardy's unparalleled description of the majestic waste in "the return of the native." that superb piece of english is above praise--indeed praise, as applied to it, is half an impertinence; it is great as shakespeare, great almost as nature--one of the finest poems in our language. as i read with awe the quiet inevitable sentences, the vision of my own heath rose, and the memory filled me with a sudden joy. i know that the hour of darkness ever dogs our delight, and the shadow of approaching darkness and toil might affront me even now, if i were ungrateful; but i live for the present only. let grave persons talk about the grand achievements and discoveries that have made this age or that age illustrious; i hold that holidays are the noblest invention of the human mind, and, if any philosopher wants to argue the matter, i flee from his presence, and luxuriate on the yellow sands or amid the keen kisses of the salty waves. i own that newton's discoveries were meritorious, and i willingly applaud mr. george stephenson, through whose ingenuity we are now whisked to our places of rest with the swiftness of an eagle's flight. nevertheless i contend that holidays are the crowning device of modern thought, and i hold that no thesis can be so easily proven as mine. how did our grandfathers take holiday? alas, the luxury was reserved for the great lords who scoured over the continent, and for the pursy cits who crawled down to brighthelmstone! the ordinary londoner was obliged to endure agonies on board a stuffy margate hoy, while the people in northern towns never thought of taking a holiday at all. the marvellous cures wrought by doctor ozone were not then known, and the science of holiday-making was in its infancy. the wisdom of our ancestors was decidedly at fault in this matter, and the gout and dyspepsia from which they suffered served them right. read volumes of old memoirs, and you will find that our forefathers, who are supposed to have been so merry and healthy, suffered from all the ills which grumblers ascribe to struggling civilization. they did not know how to extract pleasure from their midsummer days and midsummer nights; we do, and we are all the better for the grand modern discovery. seriously, it is a good thing that we have learned the value of leisure, and, for my own part, i regard the rushing yearly exodus from london, liverpool, birmingham, with serene satisfaction. it is a pity that so many english folk persist in leaving their own most lovely land when our scenery and climate are at their best. in too many cases they wear themselves with miserable and harassing journeys when they might be placidly rejoicing in the sweet midsummer days at home. snarling aesthetes may say what they choose, but england is not half explored yet, and anybody who takes the trouble may find out languorous nooks where life seems always dreamy, and where the tired nerves and brain are unhurt by a single disturbing influence. there are tiny villages dotted here and there on the coast where the flaunting tourist never intrudes, and where the british cad cares not to show his unlovable face. still, if people like the stuffy continental hotel and the unspeakable devices of the wily swiss, they must take their choice. i prefer beloved england; but i wish all joy to those who go far afield. _june, ._ _dandies_. perhaps there is no individual of all our race who is quite insensible to the pleasures of what children call "dressing-up." even the cynic, the man who defiantly wears old and queer clothes, is merely suffering from a perversion of that animal instinct which causes the peacock to swagger in the sun and flaunt the splendour of his train, the instinct that makes the tiger-moth show the magnificence of his damask wing, and also makes the lion erect the horrors of his cloudy mane and paw proudly before his tawny mate. we are all alike in essentials, and diogenes with his dirty clouts was only a perverted brother of prince florizel with his peach-coloured coat and snowy ruffles. i intend to handle the subject of dandies and their nature from a deeply philosophic starting-point, for, like carlyle, i recognize the vast significance of the questions involved in the philosophy of clothes. let no flippant individual venture on a jeer, for i am in dead earnest. a mocking critic may point to the bond street lounger and ask, "what are the net use and purport of that being's existence? look at his suffering frame! his linen stock almost decapitates him, his boots appear to hail from the chambers of the inquisition, every garment tends to confine his muscles and dwarf his bodily powers; yet he chooses to smile in his torments and pretends to luxuriate in life. again, what are the net use and purport of his existence?" i can only deprecate our critic's wrath by going gravely to first principles. o savage and critical one, that suffering youth of bond street is but exhibiting in flaunting action a law that has influenced the breed of men since our forefathers dwelt in caves or trees! observe the conduct of the innocent and primitive beings who dwell in sunny archipelagos far away to the south; they suffer in the cause of fashion as the youth of the city promenade suffers. the chief longing of the judicious savage is to shave, but the paucity of metals and sharp instruments prevents him from indulging his longing very frequently. when the joyous chance does come, the son of the forest promptly rises to the occasion. no elderly gentleman whose feet are studded with corns could bear the agony of patent leather boots in a heated ballroom with grander stoicism than that exhibited by our savage when he compasses the means of indulging in a thorough uncompromising shave. the elderly man of the ballroom sees the rosy-fingered dawn touching the sky into golden fretwork; he thinks of his cool white bed, and then, by contrast, he thinks of his hot throbbing feet. shooting fires dart through his unhappy extremities, yet he smiles on and bears his pain for his daughters' sake. but the elderly hero cannot be compared with the ambitious exquisite of the southern seas, and we shall prove this hypothesis. the careless voyager throws a beer-bottle overboard, and that bottle drifts to the glad shore of a glittering isle; the overjoyed savage bounds on the prize, and proceeds to announce his good fortune to his bosom friend. then the pleased cronies decide that they will have a good, wholesome, thorough shave, and they will turn all rivals green with unavailing envy. solemnly those children of nature go to a quiet place, and savage number one lies down while his friend sits on his head; then with a shred of the broken bottle the operator proceeds to rasp away. it is a great and grave function, and no savage worthy the name of warrior would fulfil it in a slovenly way. when the last scrape is given, and the stubbly irregular crop of bristles stands up from a field of gore, then the operating brave lies down, and his scarified friend sits on _his_ head. these sweet and satisfying idyllic scenes are enacted whenever a bottle comes ashore, and the broken pieces of the receptacles that lately held foaming bass or glistening hochheimer are used until their edge gives way, to the great contentment of true untutored dandies. the bond street man is at one end of the scale, the uncompromising heathen barber at the other; but the same principles actuate both. the maori is even more courageous in his attempts to secure a true decorative exterior, for he carves the surface of his manly frame into deep meandering channels until he resembles a walking advertisement of crochet-patterns for ladies. dire is his suffering, long is the time of healing; but, when he can appear among his friends with a staring blue serpent coiled round his body from the neck to the ankle, when the rude figure of the bounding wallaby ornaments his noble chest, he feels that all his pain was worth enduring and that life is indeed worth living. the primitive dandy of central africa submits himself to the magician of the tribe, and has his front teeth knocked out with joy; the ashantee or the masai has his teeth filed to sharp points--and each painful process enables the victim to pose as a leader of fashion in the tribe. as the race rises higher, the refinements of dandyism become more and more complex, but the ruling motive remains the same, and the macaroni, the corinthian, the incroyable, the swell, the dude--nay, even the common toff--are all mysteriously stirred by the same instinct which prompts the festive papuan to bore holes in his innocent nose. who then shall sneer at the dandy? does he not fulfil a law of our nature? let us rather regard him with toleration, or even with some slight modicum of reverence. solemn historians affect to smile at the gaudy knights of the second richard's court, who wore the points of their shoes tied round their waists; they even ridicule the tight, choking, padded coats worn by george iv., that pattern father of his people; but i see in the stumbling courtier and the half-asphyxiated wearer of the padded petersham coat two beings who act under the demands of inexorable law. our great modern sage brooded in loneliness for some six years over the moving problem of dandyism, and we have the results of his meditations in "sartor resartus." we have an uneasy sense that he may be making fun of us--in fact, we are almost sure that he is; for, if you look at his summary of the doctrines put forth in "pelham," you can hardly fail to detect a kind of sub-acid sneer. instead of being impressed by the dainty musings of the learned bulwer, that grim vulturine sage chose to curl his fierce lips and turn the whole thing to a laughing-stock. we must at once get to that summary of what the great thomas calls "dandiacal doctrine," and then just thinkers may draw their own conclusions. articles of faith.-- . coats should have nothing of the triangle about them; at the same time wrinkles behind should be carefully avoided. . the collar is a very important point; it should be low behind, and slightly rolled. . no license of fashion can allow a man of delicate taste to adopt the posterial luxuriance of a hottentot. . there is safety in a swallowtail. . the good sense of a gentleman is nowhere more finely developed than in his rings. . it is permitted to mankind, under certain restrictions, to wear white waistcoats. . the trousers must be exceedingly tight across the hips. then the sage observes, "all which propositions i for the present content myself with modestly, but peremptorily and irrevocably, denying." wicked scotchman, rugged chip of the hartz rock, your seven articles of the whole duty of the dandy are evidently solemn fooling! you despised lytton in your heart, and you thought that because you wore a ragged duffel coat in gay hyde park you had a right to despise the human ephemera who appeared in inspiriting splendour. i have often laughed at your solemn enumeration of childish maxims, but i am not quite sure that you were altogether right in sneering. so far for the heroic vein. the clothes philosopher whose huge burst of literary horse-laughter was levelled at the dandy does not always confine himself to indirect scoffing; here is a plain statement--"first, touching dandies, let us consider with some scientific strictness what a dandy specially is. a dandy is a clothes-wearing man, a man whose trade office, and existence consist in the wearing of clothes. every faculty of his soul, spirit, purse, and person is heroically consecrated to this one object--the wearing of clothes wisely and well; so that, as others dress to live, he lives to dress. the all-importance of clothes has sprung upon the intellect of the dandy without effort, like an instinct of genius; he is inspired with cloth--a poet of cloth. like a generous creative enthusiast, he fearlessly makes his idea an action--shows himself in peculiar guise to mankind, walks forth a witness and living martyr to the eternal worth of clothes. we called him a poet; is not his body the (stuffed) parchment-skin whereon he writes, with cunning huddersfield dyes, a sonnet to his mistress's eyebrow?" this is very witty and very trenchant in allusion, but i am obliged to say seriously that carlyle by no means reached the root of the matter. the mere tailor's dummy is deplorable, despicable, detestable, but a real man is none the worse if he gives way to the imperious human desire for adornment, and some of the men who have made permanent marks on the world's face have been of the tribe whom our scotchman satirised. i have known sensible young men turned into perfectly objectionable slovens by reading carlyle; they thought they rendered a tribute to their master's genius by making themselves look disreputable, and they found allies to applaud them. one youth of a poetic turn saw that the sage let his hair fall over his forehead in a tangled mass. now this young man had very nice wavy hair, which naturally fell back in a sweep, but he devoted himself with an industry worthy of a much better cause to the task of making his hair fall in unkempt style over his brow. when he succeeded, he looked partly like a shetland pony, partly like a street-arab; but his own impression was that his wild and ferocious appearance acted as a living rebuke to young men of weaker natures. if i had to express a blunt opinion, i should say he was a dreadful simpleton. every man likes to be attractive in some way in the springtime and hey-day of life; when the blood flushes the veins gaily and the brain is sensitive to joy, then a man glories in looking well. why blame him? the young officer likes to show himself with his troop in gay trappings; the athlete likes to wear garments that set off his frame to advantage; and it is good that this desire for distinction exists, else we should have but a grey and sorry world to live in. when the pulses beat quietly and life moves on the downward slope, a man relies on more sober attractions, and he ceases to care for that physical adornment which every young and healthy living creature on earth appreciates. so long as our young men are genuinely manly, good, strong, and courageous, i am not inclined to find fault with them, even if they happen to trip and fall into slight extravagances in the matter of costume. the creature who lives to dress i abhor, the sane and sound man who fulfils his life-duties gallantly and who is not above pleasing himself and others by means of reasonable adornments i like and even respect warmly. the philosophers may growl as they chose, but i contend that the sight of a superb young englishman with his clean clear face, his springy limbs, his faultless habiliments is about as pleasant as anything can be to a discerning man. moreover, it is by no means true that the dandy is necessarily incompetent when he comes to engage in the severe work of life. our hero, our nelson, kept his nautical dandyism until he was middle-aged. who ever accused him of incompetence? think of his going at trafalgar into that pouring inferno of lead and iron with all his decorations blazing on him! "in honour i won them and in honour i will wear them," said this unconscionable dandy; and he did wear them until he had broken our terrible enemy's power, saved london from sack, and worse, and yielded up his gallant soul to his maker. rather an impressive kind of dandy was that wizened little animal. "there'll be wigs on the green, boys--the dandies are coming!" so marlborough's soldiers used to cry when the regiment of exquisites charged. at home the fierce englishmen strutted around in their merry haunts and showed off their brave finery as though their one task in life were to wear gaudy garments gracefully; but, when the trumpet rang for the charge, the silken dandies showed that they had the stuff of men in them. the philosopher is a trifle too apt to say, "anybody who does not choose to do as i like is, on the face of it, an inferior member of the human race." i utterly refuse to have any such doctrine thrust down my throat. no sage would venture to declare that the handsome, gorgeous john churchill was a fool or a failure. he beat england's enemies, he made no blunder in his life, and he survived the most vile calumnies that ever assailed a struggling man; yet, if he was not a dandy, then i never saw or heard of one. all our fine fellows who stray with the british flag over the whole earth belong more or less distinctly to the dandy division. the velvet glove conceals the iron hand; the pleasing modulated voice can rise at short notice to tones of command; the apparent languor will on occasion start with electric suddenness into martial vigour. the lounging dandies who were in india when the red storm of the mutiny burst from a clear sky suddenly became heroes who toiled, fought, lavished their strength and their blood, performed glorious prodigies of unselfish action, and snatched an empire from the fires of ruin. even if a young fellow cannot afford fine clothes, he can be neat, and i always welcome the slightest sign of fastidiousness, because it indicates self-respect. the awful beings who wear felt hats swung on one side, glaring ties, obtrusive checks, and carry vulgar little sticks, are so abhorrent that i should journey a dozen miles to escape meeting one of them. the cheap, nasty, gaudy garments are an index to a vast vulgarity of mind and soul; the cheap "swell" is a sham, and, as a sham, he is immoral and repulsive. but the modest youth need not copy the wild unrestraint of the gentleman known as "'arry"; he can contrive to make himself attractive without sullying his appearance by a trace of cheap and nasty adornment, and every attempt which he makes to look seemly and pleasing tends subtly to raise his own character. once or twice i have said that you cannot really love any one wholly unless you can sometimes laugh at him. now i cannot laugh at the invertebrate haunter of flashy bars and theatre-stalls, because he has not the lovable element in him which invites kindly laughter; but i do smile--not unadmiringly--at our dandy, and forgive him his little eccentricities because i know that what the americans term the "hard pan" of his nature is sound. it is all very well for unhandsome philosophers in duffel to snarl at our butterfly youth. the dry dull person who devours blue-books and figures may mock at their fribbles; but persons who are tolerant take large and gentle views, and they indulge the dandy, and let him strut for his day unmolested, until the pressing hints given by the years cause him to modify his splendours and sink into unassuming sobriety of demeanour and raiment. _june, ._ _genius and respectability_. a very lengthy biography of percy bysshe shelley appeared recently, and the biographer thought it his duty to give the most minute and peculiar details concerning the poet's private life. in consequence, the book is a deplorable one in many respects, and no plain-minded person can read it without feeling sorry that our sweet singer should be presented to us in the guise of a weak-minded hypocrite. one critic wrote a great many pages in which he bemoans the dreary and sordid family-life of the man who wrote the "ode to the west wind." i can hardly help sympathizing with the critic, for indeed shelley's proceedings rather test the patience of ordinary mortals, who do not think that poetic--or rather artistic--ability licenses its possessor to behave like a scoundrel. shelley wrote the most lovely verse in praise of purity; but he tempted a poor child to marry him, deserted her, insulted her, and finally left her to drown herself when brutal neglect and injury had driven her crazy. poor harriet westbrook! she did not behave very discreetly after her precious husband left her; but she was young, and thrown on a hard world without any strength but her own to protect her. while she was drifting into misery the airy poet was talking sentiment and ventilating his theories of the universe to mary godwin. harriet was too "shallow" for the rhymester, and the penalty she paid for her shallowness was to be deceived, enticed into a rash marriage, brutally insulted, and left to fare as well as she might in a world that is bitterly cruel to helpless girls. the maker of rhymes goes off gaily to the continent to enjoy himself heartily and write bewitching poems; harriet stays at home and lives as best she can on her pittance until the time comes for her despairing plunge into the serpentine. it is true that the poet invited the poor creature to come and stay with him; but what a piece of unparalleled insolence toward a wronged lady! the admirers of the rhymer say, "ah, but harriet's society was not congenial to the poet." congenial! how many brave men make their bargain in youth and stand to it gallantly unto the end? a simple soul of this sort thinks to himself, "well, i find that my wife and i are not in sympathy; but perhaps i may be in fault. at any rate, she has trusted her life to me, and i must try to make her days as happy as possible." it seems that supreme poets are to be exempt from all laws of manliness and honour, and a simple woman who cannot babble to them about their ideals and so forth is to be pitched aside like a soiled glove! honest men who cannot jingle words are content with faith and honour and rectitude, but the poet is to be applauded if he behaves like a base fellow on finding that some unhappy loving creature cannot talk in his particular fashion. we may all be very low philistines if we are not prepared to accept rhymers for chartered villains; but some of us still have a glimmering of belief in the old standards of nobility and constancy. can any one fancy walter scott cheating a miserable little girl of sixteen into marriage, and then leaving her, only to many a female philosopher? how that noble soul would have spurned the maundering sentimentalist who talked of truth and beauty, and music and moonlight and feeling, and behaved as a mean and bad man! scott is more to my fancy than is shelley. again, this poet, this exquisite weaver of verbal harmonies, is represented to us by his worshippers as having a passion for truth; whereas it happens that he was one of the most remarkable fibbers that ever lived. he would come home with amazing tales about assassins who had waylaid him, and try to give himself importance by such blustering inventions. "imagination!" says the enthusiast; but among commonplace persons another word is used. "your lordship knows what kleptomania is?" said a counsel who was defending a thief. justice byles replied, "oh, yes! i come here to cure it." some critical justice might say the same of shelley's imagination. we are also told that shelley's excessive nobility of nature prevented him from agreeing with his commonplace father; and truly the poet was a bad and an ungrateful son. but, if a pretty verse-maker is privileged to be an undutiful son, what becomes of all our old notions? i think once more of the great sir walter, and i remember his unquestioning obedience to his parents. then we may also remember gibbon, who was quite as able and useful a man as shelley. the historian loved a young french lady, but his father refused consent to their marriage, and gibbon quietly obeyed and accepted his hard fate. the passion sanctified his whole life, and, as he says, made him more dear to himself; he settled his colossal work, and remained unmarried for life. he may have been foolish: but i prefer his behaviour to that of a man who treats his father with contumely and ingratitude even while he is living upon him. we hear much of shelley's unselfishness, but it does not appear that he ever denied himself the indulgence of a whim. the "ode to the west wind," the "ode written in dejection near naples," and "the skylark" are unsurpassed and unsurpassable; but i can hardly pardon a man for cruelty and turpitude merely because he produces a few masterpieces of art. a confident and serene critic attacks mr. arnold very severely because the latter writer thinks that poets should be amenable to fair and honest social laws. if i understand the critic aright, we must all be so thankful for beautiful literary works that we must be ready to let the producers of such works play any pranks they please under high heaven. they are the children of genius, and we are to spoil them; "childe harold" and "manfred" are such wondrous productions that we need never think of the author's orgies at venice and the abbey; "epipsychidion" is lovely, so we should not think of poor harriet westbrook casting herself into the serpentine. this is marvellous doctrine, and one hardly knows whither it might lead us if we carried it into thorough practice. suppose that, in addition to indulging the spoiled children of genius, we were to approve all the proceedings of the clever children in any household. i fancy that the dwellers therein would have an unpleasant time. noble charity towards human weakness is one thing; but blind adulation of clever and immoral men is another. we have great need to pity the poor souls who are the prey of their passions, but we need not worship them. a large and lofty charity will forgive the shortcomings of robert burns; we may even love that wild and misguided but essentially noble man. that is well; yet we must not put burns forward and offer our adulation in such a way as to set him up for a model to young men. a man may read-- the pale moon is setting beyont the white wave, and time is setting with me, oh! the pathos will wring his heart; but he should not ask any youth to imitate the conduct of the great poet. carlyle said very profoundly that new morality must be made before we can judge mirabeau; but carlyle never put his hero's excesses in the foreground of his history, nor did he try to apologize for them; he only said, "here is a man whose stormy passions overcame him and drove him down the steep to ruin! think of him at his best, pardon him, and imitate, in your weak human fashion, the infinite divine mercy." that is good; and it is certainly very different from the behaviour of writers who ask us to regard their heroes' evil-doing as not only pardonable, but as being almost admirable. this shelley controversy raises several weighty issues. we forgive burns because he again and again offers us examples of splendid self-sacrifice in the course of his broken life, and we are able to do so because the balance is greatly on the good side; but we do not refrain from saying, "in some respects burns was a scamp." the fact is that the claims of weak-headed adorers who worship men of genius would lead to endless mischief if they were allowed. men who were skilled in poetry and music and art have often behaved like scoundrels; but their scoundrelism should be reprobated, and not excused. and my reason for this contention is very simple--once allow that a man of genius may override all salutary conventions, and the same conventions will be overridden by vain and foolish mediocrities. take, for example, the conventions which guide us in the matter of dress. most people grant that in many respects our modern dress is ugly in shape, ugly in material, and calculated to promote ill-health. the hard hat which makes the brow ache must affect the wearer's health, and therefore, when we see the greatest living poet going about in a comfortable soft felt, we call him a sensible man. carlyle used to hobble about with soft shoes and soft slouch-hat, and he was right but it is possible to be as comfortable as lord tennyson or carlyle without flying very outrageously in the face of modern conventions; and many everyday folk contrive to keep their bodies at ease without trying any fool's device. charles kingsley used to roam about in his guernsey--most comfortable of all dresses--when he was in the country; but when he visited the town he managed to dress easily and elegantly in the style of an average gentleman. but some foolish creatures say in their hearts, "men of genius wear strange clothing--tennyson wears a vast inverness cape, carlyle wore a duffel jacket, bismarck wears a flat white cap, mortimer collins wore a big panama; artists in general like velvet and neckties of various gaudy hues. let us adopt something startling in the way of costume, and we may be taken for men of genius." thus it happened that very lately london was invested by a set of simpletons of small ability in art and letters; they let their hair grow down their backs; they drove about in the guise of venetian senators of the fifteenth century; they appeared in slashed doublets and slouched hats; and one of them astonished the public--and the cabmen--by marching down a fashionable thoroughfare on a broiling day with a fur ulster on his back and a huge flower in his hand. observe my point--these social nuisances obtained for themselves a certain contemptible notoriety by caricaturing the ways of able men. i can forgive young disraeli's gaudy waistcoats and pink-lined coats, but i have no patience with his silly imitators. this is why i object to the praise which is bestowed on men of genius for qualities which do not deserve praise. the reckless literary admirer of shelley or byron goes into ecstasies and cries, "perish the slave who would think of these great men's vices!"--whereupon raw and conceited youngsters say, "vice and eccentricity are signs of genius. we will be vicious and eccentric;" and then they go and convert themselves into public nuisances. that vice and folly are not always associated with genius scarcely needs demonstrating. i allow that many great men have been sensual fools, but we can by no means allow that folly and sensuality are inseparable from greatness. my point is to prove that littleness must be conquered before a man can be great or good. macaulay lived a life of perfect and exemplary purity; he was good in all the relations of life; those nearest to him loved him most dearly, and his days were passed in thinking of the happiness of others. perhaps he was vain--certainly he had something to be vain of--but, though he had such masterful talent, he never thought himself licensed, and he wore the white flower of a blameless life until his happy spirit passed easily away. wordsworth was a poet who will be placed on a level with byron when an estimate of our century's great men comes to be made. but wordsworth lived his sweet and pious life without in any way offending against the moral law. we must have done with all talk about the privileges of irregular genius; a clever man must be made to see that, while he may be as independent as he likes, he cannot be left free to offend either the sense or the sensibility of his neighbours. the genius must learn to conduct himself in accordance with rational and seemly custom, or he must be brought to his senses. when a great man's ways are merely innocently different from those of ordinary people, by all means let him alone. for instance, leonardo da vinci used often to buy caged wild-birds from their captors and let them go free. what a lovely and lovable action! he hurt no one; he restored the joy of life to innocent creatures, and no one could find fault with his sweet fancy. in the same way, when samuel johnson chose to stalk ponderously along the streets, stepping on the edges of the paving-stones, or even when he happened to roar a little loudly in conversation, who could censure him seriously? his heart was as a little child's: his deeds were saintly; and we perhaps love him all the more for his droll little ways. but, when shelley outrages decency and the healthy sense of manliness by his peculiar escapades, it is not easy to pardon him; the image of that drowned child rises before us, and we are apt to forget the pretty verses. calm folk remember that many peculiarly wicked and selfish gentry have been able to make nice rhymes and paint charming pictures. the old poet francois villon, who has made men weep and sympathize for so many years, was a burglar, a murderer, and something baser, if possible, than either murderer or burglar. a more despicable being probably never existed; and yet he warbles with angelic sweetness, and his piercing sadness thrills us after the lapse of four centuries. young men of unrestrained appetites and negative morality are often able to talk most charmingly, but the meanest and most unworthy persons whom i have met have been the wild and lofty-minded poets who perpetually express contempt of philistines and cast the shaft of their scorn at what they call "dross." so far as money goes, i fancy that the oratorical, and grandiose poet is often the most greedy of individuals; and, when, in his infinite conceit, he sets himself up above common decency and morality, i find it difficult to confine myself to moderate language. a man of genius may very well be chaste, modest, unselfish, and retiring. byron was at his worst when he was producing the works which made him immortal; i prefer to think of him as he was when he cast his baser self away, and nobly took up the cause of greece. when once his matchless common sense asserted itself, and he ceased to contemplate his own woes and his own wrongs, he became a far greater man than he had ever been before. i should be delighted to know that the cant about the lowering restrictions imposed by stupidity on genius had been silenced for ever. a man of transcendent ability must never forget that he is a member of a community, and that he has no more right wantonly to offend the feelings or prejudices of that community than he has to go about buffeting individual members with a club. as soon as he offends the common feelings of his fellows he must take the consequences; and hard-headed persons should turn a deaf ear when any eloquent and sentimental person chooses to whine about his hero's wrongs. _march, ._ _slang_. has any one ever yet considered the spiritual significance of slang? the dictionaries inform us that "slang is a conversational irregularity of a more or less vulgar type;" but that is not all. the prim definition refers merely to words, but i am rather more interested in considering the mental attitude which is indicated by the distortion and loose employment of words, and by the fresh coinages which seem to spring up every hour. i know of no age or nation that has been without its slang, and the study is amongst the most curious that a scholar can take up; but our own age, after all, must be reckoned as the palmy time of slang, for we have gone beyond mere words, and our vulgarizations of language are significant of degradation of soul. the romans of the decadence had a hideous cant language which fairly matched the grossness of the people, and the gauls, with their descendants, fairly matched the old conquerors. the frightful old paris of francois villon, with all its bleak show of famine and death, had its constant changes of slang. "_tousjours vieil synge est desplaisant,"_ says the burglar-poet, and he means that the old buffoon is tiresome; the young man with the newest phases of city slang at his tongue's end is most acceptable in merry company. very few people can read villon's longer poems at all, for they are almost entirely written in cant language, and the glossary must be in constant requisition. the rascal is a really great writer in his abominable way, but his dialect was that of the lowest resorts, and he lets us see that the copious _argot_ which now puzzles the stranger by its kaleidoscopic changes was just as vivid and changeable in the miserable days of the eleventh louis. in the paris of our day the slang varies from hour to hour; every one seems able to follow it, and no one knows who invents the constant new changes. the slang of the boarding-house in balzac's "pere goriot" is quite different from that of the novels done by the goncourt brothers; and, though i have not yet mustered courage to finish one of m. zola's outrages, i can see that the vulgarisms which he has learned are not at all like any that have been used in bygone days. the corruption of paris seems to breed verbal distortions rather freely, and the ordinary babble of the city workman is as hard to any englishman as are the colloquialisms of burns to the average cockney. in england our slang has undergone one transformation after another ever since the time of chaucer. shakespeare certainly gives us plenty; then we have the slang of the great war, and then the unutterable horrors of the restoration--even the highly proper mr. joseph addison does not disdain to talk of an "old put," and his wags are given to "smoking" strangers. the eighteenth century--the century of the gallows--gave us a whole crop of queer terms which were first used in thieves' cellars, and gradually filtered from the racecourse and the cockpit till they took their place in the vulgar tongue. the sweet idyll of "life in london" is a perfect garden of slang; tom the corinthian and bob logic lard their phrases with the idiom of the prize-ring, and the author obligingly italicises the knowing words so that one has no chance of missing them. but nowadays we have passed beyond all that, and every social clique, every school of art and literature, every trade--nay, almost every religion--has its peculiar slang; and the results as regards morals, manners, and even conduct in general are too remarkable to be passed over by any one who desires to understand the complex society of our era. the mere patter of thieves or racing-men--the terms are nearly synonymous--counts for nothing. those who know the byways of life know that there are two kinds of dark language used by our nomad classes and by our human predatory animals. a london thief can talk a dialect which no outsider can possibly understand; for, by common agreement, arbitrary names are applied to every object which the robbers at any time handle, and to every sort of underhand business which they transact. but this gibberish is not exactly an outcome of any moral obliquity; it is employed as a means of securing safety. the gipsy cant is the remnant of a pure and ancient language; we all occasionally use terms taken from this remarkable tongue, and, when we speak of a "cad," or "making a mull," or "bosh," or "shindy," or "cadger" or "bamboozling," or "mug," or "duffer," or "tool," or "queer," or "maunder," or "loafer," or "bung," we are using pure gipsy. no distinct mental process, no process of corruption, is made manifest by the use of these terms; we simply have picked them up unconsciously, and we continue to utter them in the course of familiar conversation. i am concerned with a degradation of language which is of an importance far beyond the trifling corruption caused by the introduction of terms from the gipsy's caravan, the betting ring, or the thieves' kitchen; one cannot help being made angry and sad by observing a tendency to belittle all things that are great, to mock all earnestness, to vulgarize all beauty. there is not a quarter where the subtle taint has not crept in, and under its malign influence poetry has all but expired, good conversation has utterly ceased to exist, art is no longer serious, and the intercourse of men is not straightforward. the englishman will always be emotional in spite of the rigid reserve which he imposes upon himself; he is an enthusiast, and he does truly love earnestness, veracity, and healthy vigour. take him away from a corrupt and petty society and give him free scope, and he at once lets fall the film of shams from off him like a cast garment, and comes out as a reality. shut the same englishman up in an artificial, frivolous, unreal society, and he at once becomes afraid of himself; he fears to exhibit enthusiasm about anything, and he hides his genuine nature behind a cloud of slang. he belittles everything he touches, he is afraid to utter a word from his inner heart, and his talk becomes a mere dropping shower of verbal counters which ring hollow. the superlative degree is abhorrent to him unless he can misuse it for comic purposes; and, like the ridiculous dummy lord in "nicholas nickleby," he is quite capable of calling shakespeare a "very clayver man." i have heard of the attitude taken by two flowers of our society in presence of joachim. think of it! the unmatched violinist had achieved one of those triumphs which seem to permeate the innermost being of a worthy listener; the soul is entranced, and the magician takes us into a fair world where there is nothing but loveliness and exalted feeling. "vewy good fellow, that fiddle fellow," observed the british aristocrat. "ya-as," answered his faithful friend. let any man who is given to speaking words with a view of presenting the truth begin to speak in our faint, super-refined, orthodox society; he will be looked at as if he were some queer object brought from a museum of curiosities and pulled out for exhibition. the shallowest and most impudent being that ever talked fooleries will assume superior airs and treat the man of intellect as an amusing but inferior creature. more than that--earnestness and reality are classed together under the head of "bad form," the vital word grates on the emasculate brain of the society man, and he compensates himself for his inward consciousness of inferiority by assuming easy airs of insolence. a very brilliant man was once talking in a company which included several of the superfine division; he was witty, vivid, genial, full of knowledge and tact; but he had one dreadful habit--he always said what he thought. the brilliant man left the company, and one sham-languid person said to a sham-aristocratic person, "who is that?" "ah, he's a species of over-educated savage!" now the gentleman who propounded this pleasant piece of criticism was, according to trustworthy history, the meanest, most useless, and most despicable man of his set; yet he could venture to assume haughty airs towards a man whose shoes he was not fit to black, and he could assume those airs on the strength of his slangy impassivity--his "good form." when we remember that this same fictitious indifference characterized the typical _grand seigneur_ of old france, and when we also remember that indifference may be rapidly transformed into insolence, and insolence into cruelty, we may well look grave at the symptoms which we can watch around us. the dreary _ennui_ of the heart, _ennui_ that revolts at truth, that is nauseated by earnestness, expresses itself in what we call slang, and slang is the sign of mental disease. i have no fault to find with the broad, racy, slap-dash language of the american frontier, with its picturesque perversions and its droll exaggeration. the inspired person who chose to call a coffin an "eternity box" and whisky "blue ruin" was too innocent to sneer. the slang of mark twain's mr. scott when he goes to make arrangements for the funeral of the lamented buck fanshawe is excruciatingly funny and totally inoffensive. then the story of jim baker and the jays in "a tramp abroad" is told almost entirely in frontier slang, yet it is one of the most exquisite, tender, lovable pieces of work ever set down in our tongue. the grace and fun of the story, the odd effects produced by bad grammar, the gentle humour, all combine to make this decidedly slangy chapter a literary masterpiece. a miner or rancheman will talk to you for an hour and delight you, because his slang somehow fits his peculiar thought accurately; an english sailor will tell a story, and he will use one slang word in every three that come out of his mouth, yet he is delightful, for the simple reason that his distorted dialect enables him to express and not to suppress truth. but the poison that has crept through the minds of our finer folk paralyses their utterance so far as truth is concerned; and society may be fairly caricatured by a figure of the father of lies blinking through an immense eyeglass upon god's universe. mr. george meredith, with his usual magic insight, saw long ago whither our over-refined gentry were tending; and in one of his finest books he shows how a little dexterous slang may dwarf a noble deed. nevil beauchamp was under a tremendous fire with his men: he wanted to carry a wounded soldier out of action, but the soldier wished his adored officer to be saved. at the finish the two men arrived safely in their own lines amid the cheers of english, french, and even of the russian enemy. this is how the votary of slang transfigures the episode; he wishes to make a little fun out of the hero, and he manages it by employing the tongue which it is good form to use. "a long-shanked trooper bearing the name of john thomas drew was crawling along under fire of the batteries. out pops old nevil, tries to get the man on his back. it won't do. nevil insists that it's exactly one of the cases that ought to be, and they remain arguing about it like a pair of nine-pins while the moscovites are at work with the bowls. very well. let me tell you my story. it's perfectly true, i give you my word. so nevil tries to horse drew, and drew proposes to horse nevil, as at school. then drew offers a compromise. he would much rather have crawled on, you know, and allowed the shot to pass over his head; but he's a briton--old nevil's the same; but old nevil's peculiarity is that, as you are aware, he hates a compromise--won't have it--_retro sathanas!_--and drew's proposal to take his arm instead of being carried pick-a-or piggy-back--i am ignorant how nevil spells it--disgusts old nevil. still it won't do to stop where they are, like the cocoanut and pincushion of our friends the gipsies on the downs; so they take arms and commence the journey home, resembling the best friends on the evening of a holiday in our native clime--two steps to the right, half a dozen to the left, &c. they were knocked down by the wind of a ball near the battery. 'confound it!' cries nevil. 'it's because i consented to a compromise!'" most people know that this passage refers to rear-admiral maxse, yet, well as we may know our man, we have him presented like an awkward, silly, comic puppet from a show. the professor of slang could degrade the conduct of the soldiers on board the _birkenhead_; he could make the choruses from _samson agonistes_ seem like the cockney puerilities of a comic news-sheet. it is this high-sniffing, supercilious slang that i attack, for i can see that it is the impudent language of a people to whom nothing is great, nothing beautiful, nothing pure, and nothing worthy of faith. the slang of the "london season" is terrible and painful. a gloriously beautiful lady is a "rather good-looking woman--looks fairly well to-night;" a great entertainment is a "function;" a splendid ball is a "nice little dance;" high-bred, refined, and exclusive ladies and gentlemen are "smart people;" a tasteful dress is a "swagger frock;" a new craze is "the swagger thing to do." imbecile, useless, contemptible beings, male and female, use all these verbal monstrosities under the impression that they make themselves look distinguished. a microcephalous youth whose chief intellectual relaxation consists in sucking the head of a stick thinks that his conversational style is brilliant when he calls a man a "johnnie," a battle "a blooming slog," his lodgings his "show," a hero "a game sort of a chappie," and so on. girls catch the infection of slang; and thus, while sweet young ladies are leading beautiful lives at girton and newnham, their sisters of society are learning to use a language which is a frail copy of the robust language of the drinking-bar and the racecourse. under this blight lofty thought perishes, noble language also dies away, real wit is cankered and withered into a mere ghastly crackle of wordplay, humour is regarded as the sign of the savage, and generous emotion, manly love, womanly tenderness are reckoned as the folly of people whom the smart young lady of the period would describe as "jugginses." as to the slang of the juniors of the middle class, it is well-nigh past description and past bearing. the dog-collared, tight-coated, horsey youth learns all the cant phrases from cheap sporting prints, and he has an idea that to call a man a "bally bounder" is quite a ducal thing to do. his hideous cackle sounds in railway-carriages, or on breezy piers by the pure sea, or in suburban roads. from the time when he gabbles over his game of nap in the train until his last villainous howl pollutes the night, he lives, moves, and has his being in slang; and he is incapable of understanding truth, beauty, grandeur, or refinement. he is apt to label any one who does not wear a dog-collar and stableman's trousers as a cad; but, ah, what a cad he himself is! in what a vast profound gulf of vulgarity his being wallows; and his tongue, his slang, is enough to make the spirits of the pure and just return to earth and smite him! better by far the cunning gipsy with his glib chatter, the rough tramp with his incoherent hoarseness! all who wish to save our grand language from deterioration, all who wish to retain some savour of sincerity and manhood among us, should set themselves resolutely to talk on all occasions, great or trivial, in simple, direct, refined english. there is no need to be bookish; there is much need for being natural and sincere--and nature and sincerity are assassinated by slang. _september, ._ _pets._ that enterprising savage who first domesticated the pig has a good deal to answer for. i do not say that the moral training of the pig was a distinct evil, for it undoubtedly saved many aged and respectable persons from serious inconvenience. the more practical members of the primitive tribes were wont to club the patriarchs whom they regarded as having lived long enough; and an exaggerated spirit of economy led the sons of the forest to eat their venerable relatives. the domestication of the noble animal which is the symbol of irish prosperity caused a remarkable change in primitive public opinion. the gratified savage, conscious of possessing pigs, no longer cast the anxious eye of the epicure upon his grandmother. thus a disagreeable habit and a disagreeable tradition were abolished, and one more step was made in the direction of universal kindliness. but, while we are in some measure grateful to the first pig-tamer, we do not feel quite so sure about the first person who inveigled the cat into captivity. mark that i do not speak of the "slavery" of the cat--for who ever knew a cat to do anything against its will? if you whistle for a dog, he comes with servile gestures, and almost overdoes his obedience; but, if a cat has got into a comfortable place, you may whistle for that cat until you are spent, and it will go on regarding you with a lordly blink of independence. no; decidedly the cat is not a slave. of course i must be logical, and therefore i allow, under reasonable reservations, that a boot-jack, used as a projectile, will make a cat stir; and i have known a large garden-syringe cause a most picturesque exodus in the case of some eloquent and thoughtful cats that were holding a conference in a garden at midnight. still i must carefully point out the fact that the boot-jack will not induce the cat to travel in any given direction for your convenience; you throw the missile, and you must wait in suspense until you know whether your cat will vanish with a wild plunge through the roof of your conservatory or bound with unwonted smartness into your favourite william pear tree. the syringe is scarcely more trustworthy in its action than the boot-jack; the parting remarks of six drenched cats are spirited and harmonious; but the animals depart to different quarters of the universe, and your hydraulic measure, so far from bringing order out of chaos, merely evokes a wailing chaos out of comparative order. these discursive observations aim at showing that a cat has a haughty spirit of independence which centuries of partial submission to the suzerainty of man have not eradicated. i do not want to censure the ancient personage who made friends with the creature which is a thing of beauty and a joy for ever to many estimable people--i reserve my judgment. some otherwise calm and moral men regard the cat in such a light that they would go and jump on the tomb of the primeval tamer; others would erect monuments to him; so perhaps it is better that we do not know whose memory we should revere--or anathematise--the processes are reversible, according to our dispositions. man is the paragon of animals; the cat is the paradox of animals. you cannot reason about the creature; you can only make sure that it has every quality likely to secure success in the struggle for existence; and it is well to be careful how you state your opinions in promiscuous company, for the fanatic cat-lover is only a little less wildly ferocious than the fanatical cat-hater. cats and pigs appear to have been the first creatures to earn the protective affection of man; but, ah, what a cohort of brutes and birds have followed! the dog is an excellent, noble, lovable animal; but the pet-dog! alas! i seem to hear one vast sigh of genuine anguish as this essay travels round the earth from china to peru. i can understand the artfulness of that wily savage who first persuaded the wolf-like animal of the asiatic plains to help him in the chase; i understand the statesmanship of the thibetan shepherd who first made a wolf turn traitor to the lupine race. but who first invented the pet-dog? this impassioned question i ask with thoughts that are a very great deal too deep for tears. consider what the existence of the pet-dog means. you visit an estimable lady, and you are greeted, almost in the hall, by a poodle, who waltzes around your legs and makes an oration like an obstructionist when the irish estimates are before the house. you feel that you are pale, but you summon up all your reserves of base hypocrisy and remark, "poor fellow! poo-poo-poo-ole fellow!" you really mean, "i should like to tomahawk you, and scalp you afterwards!"--but this sentiment you ignobly retain in your own bosom. you lift one leg in an apologetic way, and poodle instantly dashes at you with all the vehemence of a charge of his compatriots the cuirassiers. you shut your eyes and wait for the shedding of blood; but the torturer has all the malignant subtlety of an apache indian, and he tantalizes you. presently the lady of the house appears, and, finding that you are beleaguered by an ubiquitous foe, she says sweetly, "pray do not mind moumou; his fun gets the better of him. go away, naughty moumou! did mr. blank frighten him then--the darling?" fun! a pleasing sort of fun! if the rescuer had seen that dog's sanguinary rushes, she would not talk about fun. when you reach the drawing-room, there is a pug seated on an ottoman. he looks like a peculiarly truculent bull-dog that has been brought up on a lowering diet of gin-and-water, and you gain an exaggerated idea of his savagery as he uplifts his sooty muzzle. he barks with indignation, as if he thought you had come for his mistress's will, and intended to cut him off with a spratt's biscuit. of course he comes to smell round your ankles, and equally of course you put on a sickly smile, and take up an attitude as though you had sat down on the wrong side of a harrow. your conversation is strained and feeble; you fail to demonstrate your affection; and, when a fussy king charles comes up and fairly shrieks injurious remarks at you, the sense of humiliation and desertion is too severe, and you depart. of course your hostess never attempts to control her satellites--they are quiet with her; and, even if one of them sampled the leg of a guest with a view to further business, she would be secretly pleased at such a proof of exclusive affection. we suppose that people must have something to be fond of; but why should any one be fond of a pug that is too unwieldy to move faster than a hedgehog? his face is, to say the least, not celestial--whatever his nose may be; he cannot catch a rat; he cannot swim; he cannot retrieve; he can do nothing, and his insolence to strangers eclipses the best performances of the finest and tallest belgravian flunkeys. he is alive, and in his youth he may doubtless have been comic and engaging; but in his obese, waddling, ill-conditioned old age he is such an atrocity that one wishes a wandering chinaman might pick him up and use him instantly after the sensible thrifty fashion of the great nation. i love the st. bernard; he is a noble creature, and his beautiful life-saving instinct is such that i have seen a huge member of the breed jump off a high bridge to save a puppy which he considered to be drowning. the st. bernard will allow a little child to lead him and to smite him on the nose without his uttering so much as a whine by way of remonstrance. if another dog attacks him, he will not retaliate by biting--that would be undignified, and like a mere bull-dog; he lies down on his antagonist and waits a little; then that other dog gets up when it has recovered breath, and, after thinking the matter over, it concludes that it must have attacked a sort of hairy traction-engine. all these traits of the st. bernard are very sweet and engaging, and i must, moreover, congratulate him on his scientific method of treating burglars; but i do object with all the pathos at my disposal to the st. bernard considered as a pet. his master will bring him into rooms. now, when he is bounding about on glaciers, or infringing the licensing act by giving travellers brandy without scrutinizing their return-tickets, or acting as pony for frozen little boys, or doing duty as special constable when burglars pay an evening call, he is admirable; but, when he enters a room, he has all the general effects of an earthquake without any picturesque accessories. his beauty is of course praised, and, like any other big lumbering male, he is flattered; his vast tail makes a sweep like the blade of a screw-propeller, and away goes a vase. a maid brings in tea, and the st. bernard is pleased to approve the expression of mary's countenance; with one colossal spring he places his paws on her shoulders, and she has visions of immediate execution. not being equal to the part of an early martyr, she observes, "ow!" the st. bernard regards this brief statement as a compliment, and, in an ecstasy of self-approval, he sends poor mary staggering. of course, when he is sent out, after causing this little excitement, he proceeds to eat anything that happens to be handy; and, as the cook does not wish to be eaten herself, she bears her bitter wrong in silence, only hoping that the two pounds of butter which the animal took as dessert may make him excessively unwell. now i ask any man and brother, or lady and sister, is a st. bernard a legitimate pet in the proper sense of the word? as to the bull-dog, i say little. he at least is a good water-dog, and, when he is taught, he will retrieve birds through the heaviest sea as long as his master cares to shoot. but his appearance is sardonic, to say the least of it; he puts me in mind of a prize-fighter coming up for the tenth round when he has got matters all his own way. happily he is not often kept as a pet; he is usually taken out by fast young men in riverside places, for his company is believed to give an air of dash and fashion to his master; and he waddles along apparently engaged in thinking out some scheme of reform for sporting circles in general. in a drawing-room he looks unnatural, and his imperturbable good humour fails to secure him favour. dr. jessopp tells a story of a clergyman's wife who usually kept from fifteen to twenty brindled bull-dogs; but this lady was an original character, and her mode of using a red-hot iron bar when any of her pets had an argument was marked by punctuality and despatch. the genuine collie is an ideal pet, but the cross-grained fleecy brutes bred for the show-bench are good neither for one thing nor another. the real, homely, ugly collie never snaps at friends; the mongrel brute with the cross of gordon setter is not safe for an hour at a time. the real collie takes to sheep-driving by instinct; he will run three miles out and three miles in, and secure his master's property accurately after very little teaching; the present champion of all the collies would run away from a sheep as if he had seen a troop of lions. in any case, even when a collie is a genuine affectionate pet, his place is not in the house. let him have all the open air possible, and he will remain healthy, delightful in his manners, and preternaturally intelligent. the dog of the day is the fox-terrier, and a charming little fellow he is. unfortunately it happens that most smart youths who possess fox-terriers have an exalted idea of their friends' pugilistic powers, and hence the sweet little black, white, and tan beauty too often has life concerted into a battle and a march. still no one who understands the fox-terrier can help respecting and admiring him. if i might hint a fault, it is that the fox-terrier lacks balance of character. the ejaculation "cats!" causes him to behave in a way which is devoid of well-bred repose, and his conduct when in presence of rabbits is enough to make a meditative lurcher or retriever grieve. when a lurcher sees a rabbit in the daytime, he leers at him from his villainous oblique eye, and seems to say, "shan't follow you just now--may have the pleasure of looking you up this evening." but the fox-terrier converts himself into a kind of hurricane in fur, and he gives tongue like a stump-orator in full cry. i may say that, when once the fox-terrier becomes a drawing-room pet, he loses all character--he might just as well be a pug at once. the bedlington is perhaps the best of all terriers, but his disreputable aspect renders him rather out of place in a refined room. it is only when his deep sagacious eyes are seen that he looks attractive. he can run, swim, dive, catch rabbits, retrieve, or do anything. i grieve to say that he is a dog of an intriguing disposition; and no prudent lady would introduce him among dogs who have not learned mischief. the bedlington seems to have the power of command, and he takes a fiendish delight in ordering young dogs to play pranks. he will whisper to a young collie, and in an instant you will see that collie chasing sheep or hens, or hunting among flower-beds, or baiting a cow, or something equally outrageous. decidedly the bedlington does not shine as a pet; and he should be kept only where there are plenty of things to be murdered daily--then he lives with placid joy, varied by sublime berserker rage. as to feathered pets, who has not suffered from parrots? you buy a grey one at the docks, and pay four pounds for him on account of his manifold accomplishments. when he is taken home and presented to a prim lady, he of course gives her samples of the language used by the sailors on the voyage home; and, even when his morals are cured and his language is purified by discipline, he is a terrible creature. the imp lurks in his eye, and his beak--his abominable beak--is like a malicious vice. but i allow that polly, when well behaved, gives a charming appearance to a room, and her ways are very quaint. lonely women have amused themselves for many and many a weary hour with the antics of the pretty tropical bird; and i shall say nothing against poll for the world. i started with the intention of merely skirting the subject; but i find i am involved in considerations deep as society--deep as the origins of the human race. in their proper place i like all pets, with the exception of snakes. the aggressive pug is bad enough, but the snake is a thousand times worse. when possible, all boys and girls should have pets, and they should be made to tend their charges without any adult help whatever. no indirect discipline has such a humanizing effect. the unregenerate boy deprived of pets will tie kettles to dogs' tails, he will shoot at cats with catapults, he is merciless to small birds, and no one can convince him that frogs or young nestlings can feel. when he has pets, his mental horizon is widened and his kindlier instincts awaken. a boy or girl without a pet is maimed in sympathy. let me plead for discrimination in choice of pets. a gentleman--like the celebrated mary--had a little lamb which he loved; but the little lamb developed into a very big and vicious ram which the owner could not find heart to kill. when this gentleman's friends were holding sweet and improving converse with him, that sheep would draw up behind his master's companion; then he would shoot out like a stone from a sling, and you would see a disconcerted guest propelled through space in a manner destructive alike to dignity and trousers. that sheep comes and butts at the front-door if he thinks his master is making too long a call; it is of no use to go and apologize for he will not take any denial, and, moreover, he will as soon ram you with his granite skull as look at you. let the door be shut again, and the sheep seems to say, "if i don't send a panel in, you may call me a low, common goat!" and then he butts away with an enthusiasm which arouses the street. a pet of that sort is quite embarrassing, and i must respectfully beg leave to draw the line at rams. a ram is too exciting a personage for the owner's friends. every sign that tells of the growing love for dumb animals is grateful to my mind; for any one who has a true, kindly love for pets cannot be wholly bad. while i gently ridicule the people who keep useless brutes to annoy their neighbours, i would rather see even the hideous, useless pug kept to wheeze and snarl in his old age than see no pets at all. good luck to all good folk who love animals, and may the reign of kindness spread! _march, ._ _the ethics of the turf_. when lord beaconsfield called the turf a vast engine of national demoralization, he uttered a broad general truth; but, unfortunately, he did not go into particulars, and his vague grandiloquence has inspired a large number of ferocious imitators, who know as little about the essentials of the matter as lord beaconsfield did. these imitators abuse the wrong things and the wrong people; they mix up causes and effects; they are acrid where they should be tolerant; they know nothing about the real evils; and they do no good, for the simple reason that racing blackguards never read anything, while cultured gentlemen who happen to go racing smile quietly at the blundering of amateur moralists. sir wilfrid lawson is a good man and a clever man; but to see the kind of display he makes when he gets up to talk about the turf is very saddening. he can give you an accurate statement concerning the evils of drink, but as soon as he touches racing his innocence becomes woefully apparent, and the biggest scoundrel that ever entered the ring can afford to make game of the harmless, well-meaning critic. the subject is an intricate one, and you cannot settle it right off by talking of "pampered nobles who pander to the worst vices of the multitude;" and you go equally wrong if you begin to shriek whenever that inevitable larcenous shopboy whimpers in the dock about the temptations of betting. we are poisoned by generalities; our reformers, who use press and platform to enlighten us, resemble a doctor who should stop by a patient's bedside and deliver an oration on bad health in the abstract when he ought to be finding out his man's particular ailment. let us clear the ground a little bit, until we can see something definite. i am going to talk plainly about things that i know, and i want to put all sentimental rubbish out of the road. in the first place, then, horse-racing, in itself, is neither degrading nor anything else that is bad; a race is a beautiful and exhilarating spectacle, and quiet men, who never bet, are taken out of themselves in a delightful fashion when the exquisite thoroughbreds thunder past. no sensible man supposes for a moment that owners and trainers have any deliberate intention of improving the breed of horses, but, nevertheless, these splendid tests of speed and endurance undoubtedly tend indirectly to produce a fine breed, and that is worth taking into account. the survival of the fittest is the law that governs racing studs; the thought and observation of clever men are constantly exercised with a view to preserving excellence and eliminating defects, so that, little by little, we have contrived, in the course of a century, to approach equine perfection. if a twelve-stone man were put up on bendigo, that magnificent animal could give half a mile start to any arab steed that ever was foaled, and run away from the arab at the finish of a four-mile course. weight need not be considered, for if the eastern-bred horse only carried a postage-stamp the result would be much about the same. minting could carry fourteen stone across a country, while, if we come to mere speed, there is really no knowing what horses like ormonde, energy, prince charlie, and others might have done had they been pressed. if the emir of haïl were to bring over fifty of his best mares, the newmarket trainers could pick out fifty fillies from among their second-rate animals, and the worst of the fillies could distance the best of the arabs on any terms; while, if fifty heats were run off, over any courses from half a mile to four miles, the english horses would not lose one. the champion arab of the world was matched against one of the worst thoroughbreds in training; the english "plater" carried about five stone more than the pride of the east, and won by a quarter of a mile. unconsciously, the breeders of racers have been evolving for us the swiftest, strongest, and most courageous horse known to the world, and we cannot afford to neglect that consideration, for people will not strive after perfection unless perfection brings profit. again, we hear occasionally a good deal of outcry about the great noblemen and gentlemen who keep up expensive studs, and the assumption is that racehorses and immorality go together; but what would the critics have the racing nobleman do? he is born into a strange artificial society; his fate is ready-made for him; he inherits luxuries and pastimes as he inherits land and trees. say that the stud is a useless luxury: but then, what about the daubs for which plutocrats pay thousands of guineas? a picture costs, let us say, , guineas; it is the slovenly work of a hurried master, and the guineas are paid for a name; it is stuck away in a private gallery, and, if its owner looks at it so often as once a week, it costs him £ per peep--reckoning only the interest on the money sunk. is that useless luxury? the fact is that we are living in a sort of guarded hothouse; our barbarian propensities cannot have an easy outlet; and luxury of all sorts tends to lull our barbarian energy. if we blame one man for indulging a costly hobby, we must blame almost every man and woman who belongs to the grades above the lower middle-class. a rich trader who spends £ , a year on orchid-houses cannot very well afford to reprove a man who pays s. per week for each of a dozen horses in training. rich folk, whose wealth has been fostered during the long security of england, will indulge in superfluities, and no one can stop them. a country gentleman who succeeds to a deer park cannot slaughter all the useless, pretty creatures merely because they _are_ useless: he is bound by a thousand traditions, and he cannot suddenly break away. a nobleman inherits a colossal income, of which he cannot very well rid himself: he follows the traditions of his family or his class, and employs part of his profuse surplus riches in maintaining a racing stud; how can any one find fault with him? such a man as lord hartington would never dream of betting except in a languid, off-hand way. he (and his like) are fond of watching the superb rush of the glossy horses; they want the freedom, the swift excitement of the breezy heath; our society encourages them to amuse themselves, and they do so with a will. that is all. it may be wrong for a and b and c to own superfluous wealth, but then the fact is there--that they have got it, and the community agree that they may expend the superfluity as they choose. the rich man's stud gives wholesome employment to myriads of decent folks in various stations of life--farmers, saddlers, blacksmiths, builders, corn dealers, road-makers, hedgers, farriers, grooms, and half a score other sorts of toilers derive their living from feeding, harnessing, and tending the horses, and the withdrawal of such a sportsman as mr. "abington" from newmarket would inflict a terrible blow on hundreds of industrious persons who lead perfectly useful and harmless lives. my point is, that racing (as racing) is in no way noxious; it is the most pleasant of all excitements, and it gives bread to many praiseworthy citizens. i have seen , given for a latin hymn-book, and, when i pondered on the ghastly, imbecile selfishness of that purchase, i thought that i should not have mourned very much if the money had been laid out on a dozen smart colts and fillies, for, at least, the horses would have ultimately been of some use, even if they all had been put to cab-work. we must allow that when racing is a hobby, it is quite respectable--as hobbies go. one good friend of mine, whose fortune has been made by shrewd judgment and constant work, always keeps five or six racers in training. he goes from meeting to meeting with all the eagerness of a boy; his friends sturdily maintain that his stud is composed of "hair trunks," and the animals certainly have an impressively uniform habit of coming in last but the good owner has his pleasure; his hobby satisfies him; and, when he goes out in the morning to watch his yearlings frolicking, he certainly never dreams that he is fostering an immoral institution. could we only have racing--and none of the hideous adjuncts--i should be glad, in spite of all the moralists who associate horse-flesh with original sin. as to the bookmakers, i shall have much to say further on. at present i am content with observing that the quiet, respectable bookmaker is as honourable and trustworthy as any trafficker in stocks and shares, and his business is almost identical with that of the stockjobber in many respects. no class of men adhere more rigidly to the point of honour than bookmakers of the better sort, and a mere nod from one of them is as binding to him as the most elaborate of parchments. they are simply shrewd, audacious tradesmen, who know that most people are fools, and make their profit out of that knowledge. it is painful to hear an ignorant man abusing a bookmaker who does no more than use his opportunities skilfully. why not abuse the gentry who buy copper to catch the rise of the market? why not abuse the whole of the thousands of men who make the city lively for six days of the week? is there any rational man breathing who would scruple to accept profit from the rise of a stock or share? if i, practically, back south-eastern railway shares to rise, who blames me if i sell when my property has increased in value by one-eighth? my good counsellor, mr. ruskin, who is the most virulent enemy of usury, is nevertheless very glad that his father bought bank of england shares, which have now been converted into stock, and stand at over ; ruskin senior was a shrewd speculator, who backed his fancy; and a bookmaker does the same in a safer way. bookmaking is a business which is carried out in its higher branches with perfect sobriety, discretion, mid probity; the gambling element does not come in on the bookmaker's side, but he deals with gamblers in a fair way. they know that he will lay them the shortest odds he can; they know that they put their wits against his, and they also know that he will pay them with punctilious accuracy if they happen to beat him in the encounter of brains. three or four of the leading betting men "turn over" on the average about half a million each per annum; one firm who bet on commission receive an average of five thousand pounds per day to invest, and the vouchers of all these speculators and agents are as good as bank notes. mark that i grant the certainty of the bookmakers winning; they can remain idle in their mansions for months in the year, and the great gambling public supply the means; but i do not find fault with the bookmakers because they use their opportunities, or else i might rave about the iniquity of a godly man who earns in a week , from a "corner" in tin, or i might reprobate the quack who makes no less than per cent on every box of pills that he sells. a good man once chatted with me for a whole evening, and all his talk ran on his own luck in "spotting" shares that were likely to move upward. certainly his luck as a gambler had been phenomenal. i turned the conversation to the turf case of wood _v_. cox, and the torrent of eloquence which met me was enough to drown my intellect in its whirl and rush. my friend was great on the iniquity of gaming and racing, and i rather fancy that he proposed to play on the betting ring with a mitrailleuse if ever he had the power. i know he was most sanguinary--and i smiled. he never for an instant seemed to think that he was exactly like a backer of horses, and i have no doubt but that his density is shared by a few odd millions here and there. the stockbroker is a kind of bookmaker, and the men and women who patronise both and make their wealth are fools who all may be lumped under the same heading. i knew of one outside-broker--a mere bucket-shop keeper--who keeps clerks constantly employed. that seems to point out rather an extensive gambling business. and now i have tried to clear the ground on one hand a little, and my last and uttermost good word has been said for the turf. with sorrow i say that, after all excuses are made, the cool observer must own that it is indeed a vast engine of national demoralization, and the subtle venom which it injects into the veins of the nation creeps along through channels of which lord beaconsfield never dreamed. i might call the turf a canker, but a canker is only a local ailment, whereas the evils of betting have now become constitutional so far as the state is concerned. if we cut out the whole tribe of bookmakers and betting-agents, and applied such cautery as would prevent any similar growth from arising in the place wherefrom we excised them, we should do very little good; for the life-blood of britain is tainted, and no superficial remedy can cure her now. i shut my eyes on the bookmakers, and i only spare attention for the myriads who make the bookmakers' existence possible--who would evolve new bookmakers from their midst if we exterminated the present tribe to-morrow. it is not the professional bettors who cause the existence of fools; it is the insensate fools who cause the existence of professional bettors. gambling used to be mainly confined to the upper classes; it is now a raging disease among that lower middle-class which used to form the main element of our national strength, and the tradesman whose cart comes to your area in the morning gambles with all the reckless abandonment that used to be shown by the hon. a. deuceace or lady betty when george the third was king. your clerk, shopman, butcher, baker, barber--especially the barber--ask their companions, "what have you done on the lincoln?" or "how do you stand for the two thousand?" just as ordinary folks ask after each other's health. tradesmen step out of their shops in the morning and telegraph to their bookmaker just as they might to one of their wholesale houses; there is not a town in broad england which has not its flourishing betting men, and some very small towns can maintain two or three. the bookmakers are usually publicans, barbers, or tobacconists; but whatever they are they invariably drive a capital trade. in the corner of a smoking-room you may see a quiet, impassive man sitting daily in a contemplative manner; he does not drink much; he smokes little, and he appears to have nothing in particular to worry him. if he knows you well, he will scarcely mind your presence; men (and boys) greet him, and little, gentle colloquies take place from time to time; the smartest man could detect nothing, and yet the noiseless, placid gentleman of the smoking-room registers thirty or forty bets in a day. that is one type which i have watched for hours, days, months. there are dozens of other types, but i need not attempt to sketch them; it is sufficient to say that the poison has taken hard hold on us, and that i see every symptom of a national decadence. some one may say, "but you excused the turf and the betting men." exactly. i said that racing is a delightful pastime to those who go to watch good horses gallop; the miserable thing to me is seeing the wretches who do not care for racing at all, but only care for gambling on names and numbers. let lord hartington, lord randolph churchill, mr. chaplin, mr. corlett, mr. rothschild, lord rosebery, and the rest, go and see the lovely horses shooting over the turf; by all means let them watch their own colts and fillies come flying home. but the poor creatures who muddle away brains, energy, and money on what _they_ are pleased to term sport, do not know a horse from a mule; they gamble, as i have said, on names; the splendid racers give them no enjoyment such as the true sportsman derives, for they would not know ormonde from a clydesdale. to these forlorn beings only the ignoble side of racing is known; it is sacrilege to call them sportsmen; they are rotting their very souls and destroying the remnants of their manhood over a game which they play blindfold. it is pitiful--most pitiful. no good-natured man will begrudge occasional holiday-makers their chance of seeing a good race. rural and industrial yorkshire are represented by thousands at doncaster, on the st. ledger day, and the tourists get no particular harm; they are horsey to the backbone, and they come to see the running. they criticize the animals and gain topics for months of conversation, and, if they bet an odd half-crown and never go beyond it, perhaps no one is much the worse. when the duke of portland allowed his tenantry to see st. simon gallop five years ago at newcastle, the pitmen and artisans thronged to look at the horse. there was no betting whatever, because no conceivable odds could have measured the difference between st. simon and his opponent, yet when archer let the multitude see how fast a horse _could_ travel, and the great thoroughbred swept along like a flash, the excitement and enthusiasm rose to fever-pitch. those men had an unaffected pleasure in observing the beauty and symmetry and speed of a noble creature, and they were unharmed by the little treat which the good-natured magnate provided for them. it is quite otherwise with the mob of stay-at-home gamblers; they do not care a rush for the horses; they long, with all the crazy greed of true dupes, to gain money without working for it, and that is where the mischief comes in. cupidity, mean anxieties, unwholesome excitements, gradually sap the morality of really sturdy fellows--the last shred of manliness is torn away, and the ordinary human intelligence is replaced by repulsive vulpine cunning. if you can look at a little group of the stay-at-homes while they are discussing the prospects of a race, you will see something that hogarth would have enjoyed in his large, lusty fashion. the fair human soul no longer shines through those shifty, deceitful eyes; the men have, somehow, sunk from the level of their race, and they make you think that swift may-have been right after all. from long experience i am certain that if a cultured gentleman, accustomed to high thinking, were suddenly compelled to live among these dismal beings, he would be attacked by a species of intellectual paralysis. the affairs of the country are nothing to them; poetry, art, and all beautiful things are contemptible in their eyes; they dwell in an obscure twilight of the mind, and their relaxation, when the serious business of betting is put aside for awhile, mostly lies in the direction of sheer bawdry and abomination. it is curious to see the oblique effect which general degradation has upon the vocabulary of these people; quiet words, or words that express a plain meaning, are repugnant to them; even the old-fashioned full-mouthed oaths of our fathers are tame to their fancy, for they must have something strongly spiced, and thus they have by degrees fitted themselves up with a loathly dialect of their own which transcends the comparatively harmless efforts of the black country potter. foul is not the word for this ultra-filthy mode of talk--it passes into depths below foulness. i may digress for a little to emphasize this point. the latter-day hanger-on of the turf has introduced a new horror to existence. go into the silver ring at a suburban meeting, and listen while two or three of the fellows work themselves into an ecstasy of vile excitement, then you will hear something which cannot be described or defined in any terms known to humanity. why it should be so i cannot tell, but the portentous symptom of putridity is always in evidence. as is the man of the ring, so are the stay-at-homes. the disease of their minds is made manifest by their manner of speech; they throw out verbal pustules which tell of the rank corruption which has overtaken their nature, and you need some seasoning before you can remain coolly among them without feeling symptoms of nausea. there is one peer of this realm--a hereditary legislator and a patron of many church livings--who is famous for his skill in the use of certain kinds of vocables. this man is a living exemplar of the mysterious effect which low dodging and low distractions have on the soul. in five minutes he can make you feel as if you had tumbled into one of swedenborg's loathsome hells; he can make the most eloquent of turf thieves feel, envious, and he can make you awe-stricken as you see how far and long god bears with man. the disease from which this pleasing pillar of the state suffers has spread, with more or less virulence, to the furthermost recesses of our towns, and you must know the fringe of the turf world before you can so much as guess what the symptoms are like. here is a queer kind of a world which has suddenly arisen! faith and trust are banished; real honesty is unknown; purity is less than a name; manliness means no more than a certain readiness to use the fists. most of the dwellers in this atmosphere are punctilious about money payments because they durst not be otherwise, but the fine flower of real probity does not flourish in the mephitic air. to lie, to dodge, to take mean advantages--these are the accomplishments which an ugly percentage of middle-class youths cultivate, and all the mischief arises from the fact that they persist in trying to ape the manners of the most unworthy members of an order to which they do not belong. it is bad enough when a rich and idle man is bitten with the taste for betting, but when he is imitated by the tailor's assistant who carries his clothes home, then we have a still more unpleasant phenomenon to consider. for it is fatal to a nation when any large and influential section of the populace once begin to be confused in their notions of right and wrong. not long ago i was struck by noticing a significant instance of this moral dry rot. an old racing man died, and all the sporting papers had something to say about him and his career. now the best of the sporting journalists are clever and cultured gentlemen, who give refinement, to every subject that they touch. but a certain kind of writing is done by pariahs, who are not much of a credit to our society, and i was interested by the style in which these scribbling vermin spoke of the dead man. their gush was a trifle nauseating; their mean worship of money gave one a shiver, and the relish with which they described their hero's exploits would have been comic were it not for the before-mentioned nausea. it seemed that the departed turfite had been--to use blunt english--a very skilful and successful swindler. he would buy a horse which took his fancy, and he would run the animal again and again, until people got tired of seeing such a useless brute taken down to the starting-point. the handicappers finally let our schemer's horse in at a trifling weight, and then he prepared for business. he had trustworthy agents at manchester, nottingham, and newcastle, and these men contrived, without rousing suspicion, to "dribble" money into the market in a stealthy way, until the whole of their commission was worked on very advantageous terms. the arch-plotter did not show prominently in the transaction, and he contrived once or twice to throw dust in the eyes of the very cleverest men. one or two neatly arranged strokes secured our acute gentleman a handsome fortune. he missed £ , once, by a short head, but this was the only instance in which his plans seriously failed; and he was looked up to as an epitome of all the virtues which are most acceptable in racing circles. well, had this dodger exhibited the heroism of gordon, the benevolence of lord shaftesbury, the probity of henry fawcett, he could not have been more bepraised and bewailed by the small fry of sporting literature. all he had done in life was to deceive people by making them fancy that certain good horses were bad ones: strictly speaking, he made money by false pretences, and yet, such is the twist given by association with genuine gamblers, that educated men wrote of him as if he had been a saint of the most admirable order. this disposition is seen all through the piece: successful roguery is glorified, and our young men admire "the colonel," or "the captain," or jack this and tom that, merely because the captain and the colonel and jack and tom are acute rascals who have managed to make money. decidedly, our national ideals are in a queer way. just think of a little transaction which occurred in . a noble lord ordered a miserable jockey boy to pull a horse, so that the animal might lose a race: the exalted guide of youth was found out, and deservedly packed off the turf; but it was only by an accident that the stewards were able to catch him. that legislator had funny notions of the duty which he owed to boyhood: he asked his poor little satellite to play the scoundrel, and he only did what scores do who are _not_ found out. a haze hangs about the turf, and all the principles which should guide human nature are blurred and distorted; the high-minded, honourable racing men can do nothing or next to nothing, and the scum work their will in only too many instances. every one knows that the ground is palpitating with corruption, but our national mental disease has so gained ground that some regard corruption in a lazy way as being inevitable, while others--including the stay-at-home horse-racers--reckon it as absolutely admirable. some years ago, a pretty little mare was winning the st. leger easily, when a big horse cut into her heels and knocked her over. about two months afterwards, the same wiry little mare was running in an important race at newmarket, and at the bushes she was hauling her jockey out of the saddle. there were not many spectators about, and only a few noticed that, while the mare was fighting for her head, she was suddenly pulled until she reared up, lost her place, and reached the post about seventh in a large field. the jockey who rode the mare, and who made her exhibit circus gambols, received a thousand pounds from the owner of the winning horse. now, there was no disguise about this transaction--nay, it was rather advertised than otherwise, and a good many of the sporting prints took it quite as a matter of course. why? simply because no prominent racing man raked up the matter judicially, and because the ordinary turf scramblers accept suspicious proceedings as part of their environment. mr. carlyle mourned over the deadly virus of lying which was emitted by loyola and his crew; he might mourn now over the deadly virus of cheating which is emitted from the central ganglia of the turf. the upright men who love horses and love racing are nearly powerless; the thieves leaven the country, and they have reduced what was once the finest middle-class in the world to a condition of stark putridity. before we can rightly understand the degradation which has befallen us by reason of the turf, we must examine the position of jockeys in the community. lord beaconsfield, in one of his most wicked sentences, said that the jockey is our western substitute for the eunuch; a noble duke, who ought to know something about the matter, lately informed the world through the medium of a court of law with an oath that "jockeys are thieves." now, i know one jockey whose character is not embraced by the duke's definition, and i have heard that there are two, but i am not acquainted with the second man. the wonder is, considering the harebrained, slavering folly of the public, that any of the riding manikins are half as honest as they are; the wonder is that their poor little horsey brains are not led astray in such fashion as to make every race a farce. they certainly do try their best on occasion, and i believe that there are many races which are _not_ arranged before the start; but you cannot persuade the picked men of the rascals' corps that any race is run fairly. when melton and paradox ran their tremendous race home in the derby, i heard quite a number of intelligent gentry saying that paradox should have won but for the adjectived and participled propensities of his jockey. nevertheless, although most devout turfites agree with the emphatic duke, they do not idolize their diminutive fetishes a whit the less; they worship the manikin with a touching and droll devotion, and, when they know him to be a confirmed scamp, they admire his cleverness, and try to find out which way the little rogue's interest lies, so that they may follow him. so it comes about that we have amidst us a school of skinny dwarfs whose leaders are paid better than the greatest statesmen in europe. the commonest jockey-boy in this company of manikins can usually earn more than the average scholar or professional man, and the whole set receive a good deal more of adulation than has been bestowed on any soldier, sailor, explorer, or scientific man of our generation. and what is the life-history of the jockey? a tiny boy is bound apprentice, and submitted to the discipline of a training stable; he goes through the long routine of morning gallops, trials, and so forth, and when he begins to show signs of aptitude he is put up to ride for his master in public. if he is a born horseman, like archer or robinson, he may make his mark long before his indentures are returned to him, and he is at once surrounded by a horde of flatterers who do their best to spoil him. there is no cult so distinguished by slavishness, by gush, by lavishness, as jockey-worship, and a boy needs to have a strong head and sound, careful advisers, if he is to escape becoming positively insufferable. when the lad robinson won the st. leger, after his horse had been left at the post, he was made recipient of the most frantic and silly toadyism that the mind can conceive; the clever trainer to whom he was apprenticed received £ , for transferring the little fellow's services, and he is now a celebrity who probably earns a great deal more than professor owen or mr. walter besant. the tiny boy who won the cesarevitch on don juan received £ , after the race, and it must be remembered that this child had not left school. mr. herbert spencer has not earned £ , by the works that have altered the course of modern thought; the child martin picked up the amount in a lump, after he had scurried for less than five minutes on the back of a feather-weighted thoroughbred. as the jockey grows older and is freed from his apprenticeship he becomes a more and more important personage; if his weight keeps well within limits he can ride four or five races every day during the season; he draws five guineas for a win, and three for the mount, and he picks up an infinite number of unconsidered trifles in the way of presents, since the turfite, bad or good, is invariably a cheerful giver. the popular jockey soon has his carriages, his horses, his valet, and his sumptuous house; noblemen, millionaires, great dames, and men and women of all degrees conspire to pamper him: for jockey-worship, when it is once started, increases in intensity by a sort of geometrical progression. a shrewd man of the world may smile grimly when he hears that a popular rider was actually received with royal honours and installed in the royal box when he went to the theatre during his honeymoon, but there are the facts. it was so, and the best people of the fine town in which this deplorable piece of toadyism was perpetrated were tolerably angry at the time. if the sporting journalists perform their work of puffery with skill and care, the worship of the jockey reaches a pitch that borders on insanity. if general gordon had returned and visited such a place as liverpool or doncaster during a race-meeting, he would not have been noticed by the discriminating crowd if archer had passed along the street. if the prime minister were to visit any place of public resort while watts or webb happened to be there, it is probable that his lordship would learn something useful concerning the relative importance of her majesty's subjects. i know for a fact that a cleverly executed cartoon of archer, fordham, wood, or barrett will have at least six times as many buyers as a similar portrait of professor tyndall, mr. james payn, m. pasteur, lord salisbury, mr. chamberlain, or any one in britain excepting mr. gladstone. i do not know how many times the _vanity fair_ cartoon of archer has been reprinted, but i learn on good authority that, for years, not a single day has been known to pass on which the caricature was not asked for. and now let us bring to mind the plain truth that these jockeys are only uneducated and promoted stable-boys after all. is it not a wonder that we can pick out a single honest man from their midst? vast sums depend on their exertions, and they are surrounded by a huge crowd of moneyed men who will stand at nothing if they can gain their ends; their unbalanced, sharp little minds are always open to temptation; they see their brethren amassing great fortunes, and they naturally fall into line and proceed, when their turn comes, to grab as much money as they can. not long ago the inland revenue officials, after minute investigation, assessed the gains of one wee creature at £ , per year. this pigmy is now twenty-six years of age, and he earned as much as the lord chancellor, and more than any other judge, until a jury decided his fate by giving him what the lord chief justice called "a contemptuous verdict." another jockey paid income-tax on £ , a year, and a thousand pounds is not at all an uncommon sum to be paid merely as a retainer. forty or fifty years ago a jockey would not have dreamed of facing his employer otherwise than cap in hand, but the value of stable-boys has gone up in the market, and lear's fool might now say, "handy-dandy! who is your jockey now and who is your master?" the little men gradually gather a kind of veneer of good manners, and some of them can behave very much like pocket editions of gentlemen, but the scent of the stable remains, and, whether the jockey is a rogue or passably honest, he remains a stable-boy to the end. half the mischief on the turf arises from the way in which these overpaid, spoilt menials can be bribed, and, certes, there are plenty of bribers ready. racing men do not seem able to shake off the rule of their stunted tyrants. when the gentleman who paid income-tax on nine thousand a year brought the action which secured him the contemptuous verdict, the official handicapper to the jockey club declared on oath that the jockey's character was "as bad as bad can be." the starter and a score of other witnesses followed in the same groove, and yet this man was freely employed. why? we may perhaps explain by inference presently. with this cynically corrupt corps of jockeys and their hangers-on, it may easily be seen that the plutocrats who manipulate the turf wires have an admirable time of it, while the great gaping mob of zanies who go to races, and zanies who stay at home, are readily bled by the fellows who have the money and the "information" and the power. the rule of the turf is easily formulated:--"get the better of your neighbour. play the game outwardly according to fair rules. pay like a man if your calculations prove faulty, but take care that they shall be as seldom faulty as possible. never mind what you pay for information if it gives you a point the better of other men. keep your agents honest if you can, but, if they happen to be dishonest under pressure of circumstances, take care at any rate that you are not found out." in short, the ring is mainly made up of men who pay with scrupulous honesty when they lose, but who take uncommonly good care to reduce the chances of losing to a minimum. are they in the wrong? it depends. i shall not, at the present moment, go into details; i prefer to pause and ask what can be expected to result from the wolfish scheme of turf morality which i have indicated. i do not compare it with the rules which guide our host of commercial middlemen, because, if i did, i should say that the betting men have rather the best of the comparison: i keep to the turf, and i want to know what broad consequences must emanate from a body which organizes plans for plunder and veils them under the forms of honesty. an old hand--the odysseus of racing--once said to me: "no man on earth would ever be allowed to take a hundred thousand pounds out of the ring: they wouldn't allow it, they wouldn't that young fool must drop all he's got." we were speaking about a youthful madman who was just then being plucked to the last feather, and i knew that the old turfite was right. the ring is a close body, and i have only known about four men who ever managed to beat the confederacy in the long run. there is one astute, taciturn, inscrutable organizer whom the bookmakers dread a little, because he happens to use their own methods; he will scheme for a year or two if necessary until he succeeds in placing a horse advantageously, and he usually brings off his _coup_ just at the time when the ring least like it. "they don't yell like that when one of mine rolls home," he once said, while the bookmakers were clamouring with delight over the downfall of a favourite; and indeed this wily master of deceptions has very often made the pencillers draw long faces. but the case of the turf odysseus is not by any means typical; the man stands almost alone, and his like will not be seen again for many a day. the rule is that the backer must come to grief in the long run, for every resource of chicanery, bribery, and resolute keenness is against him. he is there to be plundered; it is his mission in life to lose, or how could the bookmakers maintain their mansions and carriages? it matters little what the backer's capital may be at starting, he will lose it all if he is idiot enough to go on to the end, for he is fighting against unscrupulous legions. one well-known bookmaker coolly announced in that he had written off three hundred thousand pounds of bad debts. consider what a man's genuine business must be like when he can jauntily allude to three hundred thousands as a bagatelle by the way. that same man has means of obtaining "information" sufficient to discomfit any poor gambler who steps into the ring and expects to beat the bookmakers by downright above-board dealing. as soon as he begins to lay heavily against a horse the animal is regarded as doomed to lose by all save the imbeciles who persist in hoping against hope. in this betting man made a dead set at the favourite for the two thousand guineas. the colt was known to be the best of his year; he was trained in a stable which has the best of reputations; his exercise was uninterrupted, and mere amateurs fancied they had only to lay heavy odds _on_ him in order to put down three pounds and pick up four. yet the inexorable bookmaker kept on steadily taking the odds; the more he betted, the more money was piled on to the unbeaten horse, and yet few took warning, although they must have seen that the audacious financier was taking on himself an appalling risk. well, the peerless colt was pulled out, and, on his way to the starting post, he began to shake blood and matter from his jaws; he could hardly move in the race, and when he was taken to his quarters a surgeon let out yet another pint of pus from the poor beast's jaw. observe that the shrewdest trainer in england, a crowd of stable-boys, the horse's special attendant, the horse-watchers at kingsclere, and the casual strangers who saw the favourite gallop--all these knew nothing apparently about that monstrous abscess, and no one suspected that the colt's jaw had been splintered. but "information"--always information--evidently reached one quarter, and the host of outsiders lost their money. soon afterwards a beautiful colt that had won the derby was persistently backed for the city and suburban handicap. on paper it seemed as if the race might be regarded as over, for only the last year's derby winner appeared to have a chance; but our prescient penciller cared nothing about paper. once more he did not trouble himself about betting to figures; he must have laid his book five times over before the flag fell. then the nincompoops who refused to attend to danger-signals saw that the beautiful colt which had spun over the same course like a greyhound only ten months before was unable to gallop at all. the unhappy brute tried for a time, and was then mercifully eased; the bookmaker would have lost £ , if his "information" had not been accurate, but that is just the crux--it _was_. so admirably do the bookmakers organize their intelligence department that i hardly know more than three instances in which they have blundered after they really began to lay fiercely against a horse. they contrive to buy jockeys, stablemen, veterinary surgeons--indeed, who can tell whom they do _not_ subsidize? when belladrum came striding from the fateful hollow in front of pretender, there was one "leviathan" bookmaker who turned green and began to gasp, for he stood to lose £ , ; but the "leviathan" was spared the trouble of fainting, for the hill choked the splendid stockwell horse, and "information" was once more vindicated, while belladrum's backers paid copious tribute. just two years before the leviathan had occasion to turn green our turf odysseus really did manage to deceive the great betting corporation with consummate skill. the whole business throws such a clear light on turf ethics that i may repeat it for the benefit of those who know little about our great national sport--the sport of kings. it was rumoured that hermit had broken a blood-vessel, and the animal was stopped for a little in his work. then odysseus and his chief confederate proceeded to seize their chance. the horse started at to , and it seemed like a million to one against him, for his rough coat had been left on him, and he looked a ragged equine invalid. the invalid won, however, by a neck, the marquis of hastings was ruined, and the confederates won about £ , . as we go over these stories of plot and counterplot, it is hardly possible to avoid thinking what a singularly high-souled set of gentry we have got amongst. what ambitions! to trick money out of somebody's pocket! to wager when you know that you have made winning certain! the outcome of it all is that, in the unequal battle between the men who back and the men who lay, the latter must win; they _will_ win, even if they have to cog the dice on a pinch; and, moreover, they will not be found out officially, even though their "secret" is as open as if it were written across the sky. a strange, hard, pitiless crew are these same bookmakers. personally, strange to say, they are, in private life, among the most kindly and generous of men; their wild life, with its excitement and hurry, and keen encounters of wits, never seems to make them anything but thoughtful and liberal when distress has to be aided; but the man who will go far out of his way to perform a charitable action will take your very skin from you if you engage him in that enclosure which is his battle-ground, and he will not be very particular as to whether he wins your skin by fair means or foul. about two years ago, an exasperating, soft-headed boy brought a colossal fortune into the ring. i never pitied him much; i only longed to see him placed in the hands of a good schoolmaster who knew how to use a birch. this piteous wretch, with his fatuous airs of sharpness, was exactly the kind of game that the bookmakers cared to fly at; he was cajoled and stimulated; he was trapped at every turn; the vultures flapped round him; and there was no strong, wise man to give the booby counsel or to drag him by main force from his fate. there was no pity for the boy's youth; he was a mark for every obscene bird of prey that haunts the turf; respectable betting men gave him fair play, though they exacted their pound of flesh; the birds of night gave him no fair play at all. in a few short months he had poured a quarter of a million into the bursting pockets of the ring, and he was at last "posted" for the paltry sum of £ , . this tragic farce was not enacted in a corner; a hundred journals printed every act as it was played; the victim never received that one hearty flogging which might have saved him, and the curtain was at last rung down on a smug, grinning group of bookmakers, a deservedly ruined spendthrift, and a mob of indifferent lookers-on. so minutely circumstantial were the newspapers, that we may say that all england saw a gigantic robbery being committed, and no man, on the turf or off, interfered by so much as a sign. decidedly, the ethics of the turf offer an odd study for the moralist; and, in passing, i may say that the national ethics are also a little queer. we ruin a tradesman who lets two men play a game at billiards for sixpence on licensed premises, and we allow a silly boy to be rooked of a quarter of a million in nine months, although the robbery is as well-known as if it were advertised over the whole front page of _the times_ day by day. in sum, then, we have an inner circle of bookmakers who take care either to bet on figures alone, or on perfectly accurate and secret information; we have another circle of sharp owners and backers, who, by means of modified (or unmodified) false pretences, succeed at times in beating the bookmakers; we have then an outer circle, composed partly of stainless gentlemen who do not bet and who want no man's money, partly of perfectly honest fellows who have no judgment, no real knowledge, and no self-restraint, and who serve as prey on which the bookmakers batten. and then we have circle on circle showing every shade of vice, baseness, cupidity, and blank folly. first, i may glance--and only glance--at the unredeemed, hopeless villains who are the immediate hangers-on of the turf. people hardly believe that there are thousands of sturdy, able-bodied men scattered among our great towns and cities who have never worked, and who never mean to work. in their hoggish way they feed well and lie warm--the phrase is their own favourite--and they subsist like odious reptiles, fed from mysterious sources. go to any suburban race meeting (i don't care which you pick) and you will fancy that hell's tatterdemalions have got holiday. whatsoever things are vile, whatsoever things are roguish, bestial, abominable, belong to the racecourse loafers. to call them thieves is to flatter them, for their impudent knavery transcends mere thieving; they have not a virtue; they are more than dangerous, and, if ever there comes a great social convulsion, they will let us know of their presence in an awkward fashion, for they are trained to riot, fraud, bestiality, and theft, on the fringe of the racecourse. then comes the next line of predatory animals who suck the blood of the dupes. if you look at one of the daily sporting papers you will see, on the most important page, a number of flaming announcements, which will make very comic reading for you if you have any sense of humour at all. gentlemen, who usually take the names of well-known jockeys or trainers, offer to make your fortune on the most ridiculously easy terms. you forward a guinea or half-a-guinea, and an obliging prophet will show you how to ruin the bookmakers. old tom tompkins has a "glorious success" every week; joe, and bill, and harry, and a good score more, are always ready to prove that they named the winner of any given race; one of these fellows advertises under at least a dozen different names, and he is able to live in great style and keep a couple of secretaries, although he cannot write a letter or compose a circular. the _sporting times_ will not allow one of these vermin to advertise in its columns, and it has exposed all their dodges in the most conclusive and trenchant set of articles that i ever saw; but other journals admit the advertisements at prices which seem well-nigh prohibitive, and they are content to draw from £ to £ per day by blazoning forth false pretences. i have had much fun out of these "tipsters," for they are deliciously impudent blackguards. a fellow will send you the names of six horses--all losers; in two days he will advertise--"i beg to congratulate all my patrons. this week i was in great form on the whole, and on thursday i sent all six winners. a thousand pounds will be paid to any one who can disprove this statement." considering that the sage sent you six losers on the thursday, you naturally feel a little surprised at his tempestuously confident challenge. all the seers are alike; they pick names at haphazard from the columns of the newspapers, and then they pretend to be in possession of the darkest stable secrets. if they are wrong, and they usually are, they advertise their own infallibility all the more brazenly. i do not exactly know what getting money under false pretences may be if the proceedings which i have described do not come under that heading, and i wonder what the police think of the business. they very soon catch a poor rommany wench who tells fortunes, and she goes to gaol for three months. but i suppose that the rommany rawnee does not contribute to the support of influential newspapers. a sharp detective ought to secure clear cases against at least a dozen of these parasites in a single fortnight, for they are really stupid in essentials. one of the brotherhood always sets forth his infallible prophecies from a dark little public-house bar near fountain court. i have seen him, when i came off a journey, trying to steady his hand at seven in the morning; his twisted, tortured fingers could hardly hold the pencil, and he was fit for nothing but to sit in the stinking dusk and soak whisky; but no doubt many of his dupes imagined that he sat in a palatial office and received myriads of messages from his ubiquitous corps of spies. he was a poor, diseased, cunning rogue; i found him amusing, but i do not think that his patrons always saw the fun of him. and last there comes the broad outer circle, whereof the thought makes me sad. on that circle are scattered the men who should be england's backbone, but they are all suffering by reason of the evil germs wafted from the centre of contagion. mr. matthew arnold often gave me a good deal of advice; i wish i could sometimes have given him a little. i should have told him that all his dainty jeers about middle-class denseness were beside the mark; all the complacent mockery concerning the deceased wife's sister and the rest, was of no use. if you see a man walking right into a deadly quicksand, you do not content yourself with informing him that a bit of fluff has stuck to his coat. mr. arnold should have gone among the lower middle-class a trifle more instead of trusting to his superfine imagination, and then he might have got to know whither our poor, stupid folks are tending. i have just ended an unpleasantly long spell which i passed among various centres where middle-class leisure is spent, and i would not care to repeat the experience for any money. any given town will suit a competent observer, for i found scarcely any vital differences in passing from place to place. it is tragical and disheartening to see scores of fine lads and men, full of excellent faculties and latent goodness--and all under the spell of the dreary circe of the turf. i have been for a year, on and off, among a large circle of fellows whom i really liked; and what was their staple talk? nothing but betting. the paralysis at once of intellect and of the sense of humour which attacks the man who begins flirting with the gambling enchantress struck me with a sense of helplessness. i like to see a race when it is possible, and i can always keep a kind of picture of a horse in my eye. well, i have known a very enthusiastic gentleman say, "the bard, sir, the bard; the big horse, the mighty _bay_. he'll smother 'em all." i modestly said, "do you think he is big enough?" "big enough! a giant, sir! mark my words, sir, you'll see bob peck's colours in triumph on the bay." i mildly said: "i thought the bard was a very little one when i saw him, and he didn't seem bay. he was rather like the colour you might get by shaking a flour-dredger over a mulberry. have you had a look at him?" as usual, i found that my learned friend had never seen that horse nor any other; he was neglecting his business, loafing with wastrels, and trying, in a small way, to imitate the fine strategy of the colonel and the captain and odysseus. amongst these bewitched unfortunates, the life of the soul seems to die away. once i said to a nice lad, "do none of your set ever read anything?" and he made answer, "i don't think any of them read very much except the _sportsman_." that was true--very true and rather shocking. the _sportsman_ is bright enough and good enough in its way, and i read it constantly; but to limit your literature to the _sportsman_ alone--well, it must be cramping. but that is what our fine young men are mostly doing nowadays; the eager, intellectual life of young scotchmen and of the better sort of englishmen is unknown: you may wait for a year and you will never hear a word of talk which is essentially above the intelligence of a hog; and a man of whom you are fond, purely because of his kindliness, may bore you in the deadliest manner by drawling on by the hour about names and weights, the shifting of the odds, and the changes of luck. the country fairly swarms with clubs where betting goes on all day, and sometimes all night: the despicable dupes are drawn in one after another, and they fall into manifold varieties of mischief; agonized parents pray for help; employers chafe at the carelessness and pre-occupation of their servants; the dupes sink to ruin unpitied, and still the crowd steps onward to the gulf of doom. to think that by merely setting certain noble creatures to exhibit their speed and staunchness, we should have ended by establishing in our midst a veritable inferno! our faith, our honour, our manhood, our future as a nation, are being sacrificed, and all because circe has read her spell over our best and most promising souls. and our legislators amuse themselves with recriminations! we foster a horde of bloodsuckers who rear their strength on our weakness and our vices. why should a drink-seller be kept in check by his having to pay for a license, while the ruin-seller needs no license, and is not even required to pay income tax. if licenses to bet were issued at very heavy prices, and if a crushing fine were inflicted on any man who made a book without holding a license, we might stamp out the villainous small fry who work in corners at all events. but authority is supreme; the peer and the plutocrat go on unharmed, while the poor men who copy follies which do not hurt the rich go right on to the death of the soul. _april, ._ _discipline_. of the ancestor generally assigned to us by gentlemen who must be right--because they say so--we have very few records save the odd scratches found on bones and stones, and the remnants of extremely frugal meals eaten ages ago. we gather that the revered ancestor hunted large game with an audacity which must have pleased the rider haggard of ancient days; at any rate, some simple soul certainly scratched the record of a famous mammoth-fight on a tusk, and we can now see a furious beast charging upon a pigmy who awaits the onset with a coolness quite superior to mr. quatermain's heroics. that siberian hunter evidently went out and tried to make a bag for his own hand, and i have no doubt that he carried out the principle of individualism until his last mammoth reduced him to pulp. there is no indication of organization, and, although the men of the great deltas were able to indulge in oysters with a freedom which almost makes me regret the advance of civilization and the decay of whitstable, yet i cannot trace one record of an orderly supper-party. this shows how the heathen in his blindness neglects his natural advantages. long after the savage of the tundras passed away we find vestiges of the family; and thenceforward discipline advances steadily, though with occasional relapses toward anarchy, until we see the ordered perfection which enables us to have west-end riots and all-night sittings of the house of commons without any trouble whatever. i do not care much to deal with the times when the members of the families elected each other promiscuously according to the success with which they managed to club their neighbours--in fact, i wish to come as soon as possible to the period when discipline, as understood by us, was gradually allowed to sway the lives of men, and when the sections of the race recognized tacitly the law of the strongest by appointing their best man as chief. at present we in england are passing through a dangerous and critical transition stage; a very strong party inclines to abolish discipline of all sorts, the views of the continental anarchists are slowly filtering into our great towns, and, as soon as such a move is safe, we shall have a large number of people who will not scruple to cry out for free land, no taxation, free everything. we have heard so much about rights lately that some of us are beginning to question within ourselves as to what rights really are. if a gentleman, no matter how bookish or eloquent he may be, desires to do away with discipline altogether, i will give him credit for all the tongue-power which he happens to possess; but i must ask leave to think for myself in old-fashioned grooves just a little longer. after all, a system which--for civilized countries--has been growing gradually for more thousands of years than we dare compute cannot be entirely bad, no matter what chance faults we may see. the generations that have flown into the night may not have possessed complete wisdom, but they adapted their social systems step by step to the needs of each new generation, and it requires very little logic to tell that they would not be likely always to cast out the good. the noisy orator who gets up and addresses a london crowd at midnight, yelling "down with everything!" can hardly know what he means to destroy. we have come a long way since the man of the swamps hunted the hairy elephant and burrowed in caves; that very structure in which the anarchists have taken to meeting represents sixty thousand years of slow progression from savagery towards seemliness and refinement and wisdom; and therefore, bitterly as we may feel the suffering of the poor orator, we say to him, "wait a little, and talk to us. i do not touch politics--i loathe place-hunters and talkers as much as you do; but you are speaking about reversing the course of the ages, and you cannot quite manage that. let us forget the windy war of the place-hunters, and speak reasonably and in a broad human way." i do not by any means hold with those very robust literary characters who want to see the principle of stern drill carried into the most minute branchings of our complex society. (by-the-way, these robust gentry always put a capital "d" to the word "drill," as though they would have their precious principle enthroned as an object of reverence, or even of worship.) and i am inclined to think that not a few of them must have experienced a severe attack of wrath when they found carlyle suggesting that king friedrich wilhelm would have laid a stick across the shoulders of literary men had he been able to have his own way. the unfeeling old king used to go about thumping people in the streets with a big cudgel; and carlyle rather implies that the world would not have been much the worse off if a stray literary man here and there could have been bludgeoned. the king flogged apple-women who did not knit and loafers who were unable to find work; and our historian apparently fancies that the dignity of kingship would have been rather enhanced than otherwise had his hero broken the head of a poet or essayist. this is a clear case of a disciplinarian suffering from temporary derangement. i really cannot quite stomach such heroic and sweeping work. carlyle, who was a scotch peasant by birth, raised himself until he was deservedly regarded as the greatest man of his day, and he did this by means of literature; yet he coolly sets an ignorant, cruel, crowned drill-serjeant high above the men of the literary calling. it is a little too much! suppose that carlyle had been flogged back to the plough-tail by some potentate when he first went to the university; should we not have heard a good deal of noise about the business sooner or later? again, we find mr. froude writing somewhat placidly when he tells us about the men who were cut to pieces slowly in order that their agony might be prolonged. the description of the dismemberment of ballard and the rest, as given in the "curiosities of literature," is too gratuitously horrible to be read a second time; but mr. froude is convinced that the whole affair was no more than a smart and salutary lesson given to some obtrusive papists, and he commends the measures adopted by elizabeth's ministers to secure proper discipline. similarly the wholesale massacre of the people in the english northern counties is not at all condemned by the judicious mr. freeman. the conqueror left a desert where goodly homesteads and farms had flourished; but we are not any the less to regard him as a great statesman. i grow angry for a time with these bold writers, but i always end by smiling, for there is something very feminine about such shrill expressions of admiration for force. i like to figure to myself the troubles which would have ensued had carlyle lived under the sway of his precious friedrich. it was all very well to sit in a comfortable house in pleasant chelsea, and enlarge upon the beauties of drill and discipline; but, had the sage been cast into one of the noisome old german prisons, and kept there till he was dying, merely because the kingly disciplinarian objected to a phrase in a pamphlet, we should have heard a very curious tune from our great humourist. a man who groaned if his bed was ill-made or his bacon ill-fried would not quite have seen the beauty of being disciplined in a foul cellar among swarming vermin. the methods of certain other rulers may no doubt appear very fine to our robust scribblers, but i must always enter my own slight protest. ivan the terrible was a really thorough-paced martinet who preserved discipline by marvellously powerful methods. he did not mind killing a few thousands of men at a time; and he was answerable for several pyramids of skulls which remained long after his manly spirit had passed away. he occasionally had prisoners flayed alive or impaled merely by way of instituting a change; and i think that some graphic british historian should at once give us a good life of this remarkable and royal man. the massacre of the revolted peasants would afford a fine opening to a stern rhetorician; he might lead off thus--"dost thou think that this king cared for noble sentiment? thou poor creature who canst not look on a man without turning green with feminine terror, this writer begs to inform you and all creatures of your sort that law is law and discipline is discipline, and the divine origin of both is undeniable even in an age of advertised soap and interminable spouting. ivan had no parliamentary eloquence under his control, but he had cold steel and whips and racks and wheels, and he employed them all with vigour for the repression of undisciplined scoundrels. he butchered some thousands of innocent men! ah, my sentimental friend, an anarchic mob cannot be ruled by sprinkling rose-water; the lash and the rope and the stern steel are needed to bring them to order! when my noble one, with a glare in his lion eyes, watched the rebels being skinned alive, he was performing a truly beneficent function and preparing the way for that vast, noble, and expansive russia which we see to-day. the poor long-eared mortals who were being skinned did not quite perceive the beneficence at the time. how should they, unhappy long-eared creatures that they were? oh, dryasdust, does any long-eared mortal who is being skinned by a true king--a canning, königlich, able man--does the long-eared one amid his wriggles ever recognize the scope and transcendent significance of kingship? answer me that, dryasdust, or shut your eloquent mouth and go home to dinner." that is quite a proper style for a disciplinarian, but i have not got into the way of using it yet. for, to my limited intelligence, it appears that, if you once begin praising friedrichs and charlemagnes and ivans at the rate of a volume or so per massacre, you may as well go on to cetewayo and timour and attila--not to mention sulla and koffee kalkalli. i abhor the floggers and stranglers and butchers; and when i speak of discipline, i leave them out of count. my business is a little more practical, and i have no time to refute at length the vociferations of persons who tell us that a man proves his capacity of kingship by commanding the extinction or torture of vast numbers of human creatures. my thoughts are not bent on the bad deeds--the deeds of blood--wrought out in bitterness and anguish either long ago or lately; i am thinking of the immense european fabric which looks so solid outwardly, but which is being permeated by the subtle forces of decay and disease. discipline is being outwardly preserved, but the destroying forces are creeping into every weak place, and the men of our time may see strange things. gradually a certain resolute body of men are teaching weaker people that even self-discipline is unnecessary, and that self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control are only phrases used by interested people who want to hold others in slavery. in our england it is plainer every day that the character of the people is changing. individual men are obedient, brave to the death, self-sacrificing, just as they always were even in our darkest times; but, none the less, it is too plain that authority ordained by law is dying, and that authority which rests on vague and fluctuating sentiment gains power with steady swiftness. the judges sit and retain all their old confidence; the magistrates sentence daily their batches of submissive culprits; the policeman rules supreme over the streets--he scares the flower-girl, and warns the pensive burglar with the staccato thunder of his monarchical foot. all seems very firm and orderly; and our largest crowds maintain their attitude of harmless good-humour when no inflammatory talkers are there. but the hand has written, and true discipline cannot survive very much longer unless we rouse ourselves for a dead-lift effort. take parliament at the crown of the social structure, and the school--the elementary school--at the foundation, and we cannot feel reassured. all between the highest and the lowest is moderately sound; the best of the middle-classes are decent, law-abiding, and steady; the young men are good fellows in a way; the girls and young women are charming and virtuous. but the extremities are rotten, and sentiment has rotted them both. parliament has become a hissing and a scorn. no man of any party in all broad england could be found to deny this, and many would say more. the sentimentalist has said that loutishness shall not be curbed, that a bawling ruffian who is silenced is martyred, that every man shall talk as he likes, and the veto of the polish assembly which enabled any one man to ruin the work of a session is revived in sober, solid england. so it is that all has gone to wreck; and an assembly once the noblest on earth is treated with unhidden contempt by the labourer in his field and the mechanic at his bench. and all this has arisen from lack of discipline. in the school--the lower-class school--things are much worse. the lowest of the low--the beings who should be kept in order by sharp, firm kindness and justice--have been taught to mock at order and justice and to treat kindness as a sign of weakness. the lads will all soon be ready to aid in governing the country. may the good powers defend us! what a set of governors! the son of the aristocrat is easily held in order, because he knows that any infraction of discipline will be surely punished; the son and daughter of the decent artizan cause little trouble to any teacher, because they know that their parents are on the side of order, and, even if the children are inclined to be rebellious, they dare not defy the united authority of parents and teacher. but the child of the thief, the costermonger, the racecourse swindler, the thriftless labourer, is now practically emancipated through the action of sentimental persons. he may go to school or not, as he likes; and, while the decent and orderly poor are harried by school board regulations, the rough of the slum snaps his fingers without fear at all regulations. if one of the bad boys from the "rookeries" does go to school, he soon learns that he may take his own way. if he is foul-mouthed, thievish, indecent, or insolent, and is promptly punished, he drags his teacher into a police-court, and the sentimentalists secure a conviction. no one can tell the kind of anarchy that reigns in some parts of england excepting men who dwell amidst it; and, to make matters worse, a set of men who may perhaps be charitably reckoned as insane have framed a parliamentary measure which may render any teacher who controls a young rough liable at once to one hundred pounds fine or six months' imprisonment. this is no flight of inventive humour on our part; it is plain fact which may probably be seen in action as law before twelve months are over. tyranny i abhor, cruelty i abhor--above all, cruelty to children. but we are threatened at one pole of the state-world with a tyranny of factioneers who cultivate rudeness and rowdyism as a science, while at the other pole we are threatened with the uncontrolled tyranny of the "residuum." we must return to our common sense; the middle-classes must make themselves heard, and we must teach the wild spirits who aim at wrecking all order that safety depends upon the submission of all to the expressed will of the majority. debate is free enough--too free--and no man is ever neglected ultimately if he has anything rational to say, so that a minority has great power; but, when once a law is made, it must be obeyed. england is mainly sound; our movement is chiefly to the good; but this senseless pampering of loutishness in high and low places is a bad symptom which tends to such consequences as can be understood only by those who have learned to know the secret places. if it is not checked--if anarchists, young and old, are not taught that they must obey or suffer--there is nothing ahead but tumult, heart-burning, and wreck. _march, ._ _bad company_. there has been much talk about the insensate youth who boasted that he had squandered half-a-million on the turf in a year. the marvellous journalists who frequent betting resorts printed hundreds of paragraphs every week explaining the wretched boy's extravagances--how he lost ten thousand pounds in one evening at cards; how he lost five thousand on one pigeon-shooting match; how he kept fifty racehorses in training; how he made little presents of jewelry to all and sundry of his friends; how he gaily lost fifteen thousand on a single race, though he might have saved himself had he chosen; how he never would wear the same shirt twice. dear boy! every day those whose duty compels them to read newspapers were forced to see such nauseous stuff, so that a lad's private business became public property, and no secret was made of matters which were a subject for grief and scorn. hundreds of grown men stood by and saw that boy lose a fortune in two hours, and some forty paragraphs might have been collected in which the transaction was described in various terms as a gross swindle. a good shot was killing pigeons--gallant sport--and the wealthy schoolboy was betting. when a sign was given by a bookmaker the shooting-man obeyed, and won or lost according to orders; and every man in the assembly knew what foul work was being carried on. did one man warn the victim? the next day the whole country knew what had happened, and the names of the thieves were given in almost every sporting print; but the mischief was done, and the lookers-on contented themselves with cheap wrath. a few brief months flew by, and every day saw the usual flock of tributes to the mad boy's vanity; and now the end has come--a colossal fortune, amassed by half a century's toil, has gone into the pockets of all sorts of knaves, and the fatal _gazette_ showed the end. the princely fortune that might have done so much good in the world has gone to fatten the foulest flock of predatory birds that ever cumbered the earth. where are the glib parasites who came to fawn on the poor dolt? where are the swarms of begging dandies who clustered around him? where are the persons who sold him useless horses? any one who has eyes can see that they point their fingers and shrug. another victim gone--that is all. and now our daily moralizers declare that bad company alone brought our unhappy subject down. yes, bad company! the boy might have grown up into beneficent manhood; he might have helped to spread comfort and culture and solid happiness among the people; but he fell into bad company, and he is now pitied and scorned by the most despicable of the human race; and i observe that one of his humorous press patrons advises him to drive a cab. think of gordon nobly spending his pittance among the poor mudlarks; think of the good lord shaftesbury ekeing out his scanty means among the poor; think of all the gallant souls that made the most of poverty; and then think of that precious half-million gone to light fresh fuel under the hotbeds of vice and villainy! should i be wrong if i said that the contrast rouses me to indignation and even horror? and now let us consider what bad company means. paradoxical as it may seem, i do not by any means think that bad company is necessarily made up of bad men. i say that any company is bad for a man if it does not tempt him to exert his higher faculties. it is as certain as death that a bodily member which is left unused shrinks and becomes aborted. if one arm is hung for a long time in a sling, the muscles gradually fade until the skin clings closely round the bone. the wing of the huge penguin still exists, but it is no bigger than that of a wren, and it is hidden away under the skin. the instances might be multiplied a thousandfold. in the same way then any mental faculty becomes atrophied if it is unused. bad company is that which produces this atrophy of the finer powers; and it is strange to see how soon the deadly process of shrinkage sets in. the awful thing to think of is that the cramp may insensibly be set in action by a company which, as i have said, is composed of rather estimable people. who can forget lydgate in "middlemarch"? there is a type drawn by a woman of transcendent genius; and the type represents only too many human wrecks. lydgate was thrown into a respectable provincial society; he was mastered by high ambition, he possessed great powers, and he felt as though he could move the mocking solidities of the world. watch the evolution of his long history; to me it is truly awful in spite of its gleams of brightness. the powerful young doctor, equipped in frock-coat and modern hat, plays a part in a tragedy which is as moving as any ever imagined by a brooding, sombre greek. as you read the book and watch the steady, inexorable decline of the strong man, you feel minded to cry out for some one to save him--he is alive to you, and you want to call out and warn him. when the bitter end comes, you cannot sneer as lydgate does--you can hardly keep back the tears. and what is it all about? it simply comes to this, that a good strong man falls into the bad company of a number of fairly good but dull people, and the result is a tragedy. rosamund vincy is a pattern of propriety; mrs. vincy is a fat, kindly soul; mr. vincy is a blustering good-natured middle-class man. there is no particular harm among the whole set, yet they contrive to ruin a great man; they lower him from a great career, and convert him into a mere prosperous gout-doctor. every high aspiration of the man dies away. his wife is essentially a commonplace pretty being, and she cannot understand the great heart and brain that are sacrificed to her; so the genius is forced to break his heart about furniture and carpets and respectability, while the prim pretty young woman who causes the ghastly death of a soul goes on fancying herself a model of good sense and virtue and all the rest. "of course i should like you to make discoveries," she says; but she only shudders at the microscopic work. when the financial catastrophe comes, she has the great soul at her mercy, and she stabs him--stabs him through and through--while he is too noble and tender to make reply. ah, it is pitiful! lydgate is like too many others who are stifling in the mud of respectable dullness. the fate of those men proves what we have asserted, that bad company is that which does not permit the healthful and fruitful development of a soul. take the case of a brilliant young man who leaves the university and dives into the great whirlpool of london. perhaps he goes to the bar, and earns money meantime by writing for the press. the young fellows who swarm in the london centres--that is, the higher centres--are gentlemen, polished in manner and strict as to the code of honour, save perhaps as regards tradesmen's bills; no coarse word or accent escapes them, and there is something attractive about their merry stoicism. but they make bad company for a young and high-souled man, and you may see your young enthusiast, after a year of town-life, converted into a cynic who tries to make game of everything. he talks lightly of women, because that is considered as showing a spirit of superiority; he is humorous regarding the state of his head on the morning after a late supper; he can give you slangy little details about any one and every one whom you may meet at a theatre or any other public place; he is somewhat proud when some bellowing, foul-mouthed bookmaker smiles suavely and inquires, "doing anything to-day, sir?" mark you, he is still a charming young fellow; but the bloom has gone from his character. he has been in bad company. let it be remembered that bad company may be pleasant at first; and i can easily give the reason for that, although the process of thinking out the problem is a little complicated. the natural tendency of our lower nature is toward idleness; our higher nature drives us to work. but no man ever attained the habit of work without an effort. if once that effort is slackened, then the lower nature gains sway by degrees and idleness creeps in. idleness is the beginning of almost every form of ill, and the idlest man dashes down the steep to ruin either of body or soul, perhaps of both. now the best of us--until our habits are formed--find something seductive in the notion of idleness; and it is most marvellous to observe how strongly we are apt to be drawn by a fascinating idle man. by-the-way, no one would accuse the resident cambridge professors of being slothful, yet one brilliant idle man of genius said, "when i go to cambridge, i affect them all with a murrain of idleness. i should paralyze the work of the place if i were resident." to return--it appears that the best of men, especially of youthful men, feel the subtle charm of an invitation to laziness. the man who says, "it's a sin to be indoors to-day; let us row up to the backwater and try a smoke among the willows;" or the one who says, "never mind mathematics to-night; come and have a talk with me," is much more pleasing than the stern moralist. well, it happens that the most dangerous species of bad company is the species idler. look round over the ranks of the hurtful creatures who spoil the state, corrupt and sap the better nature of young men, and disgrace the name of our race. what are they all but idlers pure and simple? idleness, idleness, the tap-root of misery, sin, villainy! note the gambler at monte carlo, watching with tense but impassive face as the red and the black take the advantage by turns--he is an idler. the roaring bookmaker who contaminates the air with his cries, and who grows wealthy on the spoil of fools--he is an idler. the silly beings who crowd into the betting-shops and lounge till morning in the hot air; the stout florid person who passes from bar to bar in a commercial town; the greasy scoundrel who congregates with his mates at street corners; the unspeakable dogs who prowl at night in london and snatch their prey in lonely thoroughfares; the "jolly" gangs of young men who play cards till dawn in provincial club-rooms; even the slouching poacher who passes his afternoons in humorous converse at the ale-house--they are all idlers, and they all form bad company for anybody who comes within range of their influences. we are nearing the point of our demonstration. the youth is at first attracted by the charm of mere laziness, but he does not quite know it. look at the case of the lad who goes fresh from school to the city, and starts life at seventeen years of age. we will say that he lives in a suburb of some great town. at first he returns home at night full of quite admirable resolves; he intends to improve himself and advance himself in the world. but on one fine evening a companion suggests a stroll, and it happens that billiards are suggested. away goes the youngster into that flash atmosphere through which sharp, prematurely-aged features loom so curiously; he hears the low hum, he sees the intense eagerness and suspense of the strikers, and he learns to like the place. after a while he is found there nightly; his general style is low, his talk is that of the music-hall--the ineffable flash air has taken the place of his natural repose. he ought to be studying as many languages as possible, he ought to be watching the markets abroad, or he should be reading the latest science if he is engaged in practical work. but no--he is in bad company, and we find him at eight-and-twenty a disappointed, semi-competent man who grumbles very much about the germans. if we go to the lower classes, we observe the same set of phenomena. a young workman is chatting with his friends in a public-house on saturday night; he rises to go at half-past nine, but his comrades pull him down. "make it eleven o'clock," they say. he drinks fast in the last hour, and is then so exhilarated that he probably conveys a supply of beer home. on sunday morning he feels muddled, heavy, a little troubled with nausea; his mates hail him joyously, and then the company wait with anxiety until the public-houses are open; then the dry throats are eased and the low spirits raised, and the game goes on till three. in the afternoon the young workman sleeps, and when he wakes up he is so depressed that he goes out and meets his mates again. once more he is persuaded to exceed, but he reckons on having a good long sleep. with aching head and fevered hands he makes a wild rush next morning, and arrives at the shop only to find himself shut out. he is horrified and doleful, when up come a few of his friends. they laugh the matter off. "it's only a quarter lost! there's time for a pint before we go in." so the drinking is begun again, and the men have none of the delicacy and steadiness of hand that are needed. is it not an old story? the loss of "quarters," half-days, and days goes on; then saint monday comes to be observed; then the spoiled young man and his merry crew begin to draw very short wages on saturdays; then the foreman begins to look askance as the blinking uneasy laggard enters; and last comes the fatal quiet speech, "you won't be required on monday." bad company! as for the heartbreaking cases of young men who go up to the universities full of bright hope and equipped at all points splendidly, they are almost too pitiful. very often the lads who have done so well that subscriptions are raised for them are the ones who go wrong soonest. a smart student wins a scholarship or two, and his parents or relatives make a dead-lift effort to scrape money so that the clever fellow may go well through his course. at the end of a year the youth fails to present any trophies of distinction; he comes home as a lounger; this is "slow" and the other is "slow," and the old folk are treated with easy contempt. still there is hope--so very brilliant a young gentleman must succeed in the end. but the brilliant one has taken up with rich young cads who affect bull-terriers and boxing-gloves; he is not averse from a street-brawl in the foggy november days; he can take his part in questionable choruses; he yells on the tow-path or in the pit of the theatre, and he is often shaky in the morning after a dose of very bad wine. all the idleness and rowdyism do not matter to brown and tomkins and the rest of the raffish company, for they only read for the pass degree or take the poll; but the fortunes--almost the lives--of many folk depend on our young hopeful's securing his class, and yet he fritters away time among bad talk, bad habits, bad drink, and bad tobacco. then come rumours of bills, then the crash, and the brilliant youth goes down, while brown and tomkins and all the rowdies say, "what a fool he was to try going our pace!" bad company! i should therefore say to any youth--"always be doing something--bad company never do anything; and thus, if you are resolved to be always doing something useful, it follows that you will not be among the bad company." this seems to me to be conclusive; and many a broken heart and broken life might have been kept sound if inexperienced youths were only taught thus much continually. _october, ._ _good company_. let it be understood that i do not intend to speak very much about the excellent people who are kind enough to label themselves as "society," for i have had quite enough experience of them at one time and another, and my impressions are not of a peculiarly reverential kind. "company" among the set who regard themselves as the cream of england's--and consequently of the world's--population is something so laborious, so useless, so exhausting that i cannot imagine any really rational person attending a "function" (that is the proper name) if providence had left open the remotest chance of running away; at any rate, the rational person would not endure more than one experience. for, when the clear-seeing outsider looks into "society," and studies the members who make up the little clique, he is smitten with thoughts that lie too deep for tears--or laughter. a perfectly fresh mind, when brought to bear on the "society" phenomenon, asks, "what are these people? what have they done? what are they particularly fitted for? is there anything noble about them? is their conversation at all charming? are any of them really happy?" and to all of these queries the most disappointing answers must be returned. take the men. here is a marquis who is a knight of the garter. he has held offices in several cabinets; he can control the votes spread over a very large slice of a county, and his income amounts to some trifle like one hundred and eighty thousand pounds per year. we may surely expect something of the superb aristocratic grace here, and surely a chance word of wit may drop from a man who has been in the most influential of european assemblies! alas! the potentate crosses his hand over his comfortable stomach, and his contributions to the entertainment of the evening amount to occasional ejaculations of "ugh! ugh!" "hah!" "hey!" "exactly!" "ugh! ugh!" in the higher spheres of intellect and breeding i have no doubt but that "ugh! ugh!" "hah!" "hey!" may have some profound significance; but, to say the least, it is not obviously weighty. the marchioness is sweet in manner, grave, reposeful, and with a flash of wit at disposal--not too obvious wit--that would offend against the canon which ordains restraint; but she might, one thinks, become tiresome in an hour. no one could say that her manners were anything but absolutely simple, yet the very simplicity is so obviously maintained as a sort of gymnastic effort that it tires us only to study it. then here is a viscount, graceful, well-set, easy in his pose, talking with a deep voice, and lisping to the faintest degree. he has owned some horses, caused some scandals, waltzed some waltzes, and eaten a very large number of good dinners: he has been admired by many, hated by many, threatened by many, and he would not be admitted to any refined middle-class home; yet here he is in his element, and no one would think of questioning his presence. he never uttered a really wise or helpful word in his life, he never did anything save pamper himself--his precious self--and yet he is in "society," and reckoned as rather an authority too! these are only types, but, if you run through them all, you must discover that only the sweet and splendid girls who have not had time to be spoilt and soured are worth thinking about. if there is dancing, it is of course carried out with perfect grace and composure; if there is merely an assembly, every one looks as well as possible, and every one stares at every one else with an air as indifferent as possible. but the child of nature asks in wild bewilderment, "where on earth does the human companionship come in?" young girls are nowadays beginning to expect bright talk from their partners, and the ladies have a singularly pretty way of saying the most biting things in a smooth and unconcerned fashion when they find a dunce beginning to talk platitudes or to patronize his partner; but the middle generation are unspeakably inane; and the worst is that they regard their inanity as a decided sign of distinction. a grave man who adds a sense of humour to his gravity may find a sort of melancholy entertainment if he listens to a pair of thorough-paced "society" gentry. he will learn that you do not go to a "function" to please others or to be pleased yourself; you must not be witty--that is bad form; you must not be quietly in earnest--that is left to literary people; you must not speak plain, direct truth even in the most restrained fashion--that is to render yourself liable to be classified as a savage. no. you go to a "function" in order, firstly, to see who else is there; secondly, to let others see you; thirdly, to be able to say to absentees that you saw they were not there; fourthly, to say, with a liquid roll on the "ll," "she's looking remarkably wellll." these are the great and glorious duties of the society person. a little funny creature was once talking to a writer of some distinction. the little funny man would have been like a footman if he had been eight inches taller, for his manners savoured of the pantry. as it was, he succeeded in resembling a somewhat diminutive valet who had learnt his style and accent from a cook. the writer, out of common politeness, spoke of some ordinary topic, and the valet observed with honest pride, "_we_ don't talk about that sort of thing." the writer smiled grimly from under his jutting brows, and he repeated that valet's terrific repartee for many days. the actual talk which goes on runs in this way, "quite charming weather!" "yes, very." "i didn't see you at lady blank's on tuesday?" "no; we could hardly arrange to suit times at all." "she was looking uncommonly well. the new north-country girl has come out." "so i've heard." "going to goodwood?" "yes. we take brighton this time with the sendalls." and so on. it dribbles for the regulation time, and, after a sufficient period of mortal endurance, the crowd disperse, and proceed to scandalize each other or to carry news elsewhere about the ladies who were looking "remarkably well-l-l." as for the dreadful crushes, what can one say? the absurd rooms where six hundred people try to move about in a space meant for three hundred; the staircase a black-hole tempered by flowers; the tired smile of the hostess; the set simper of long-recked shaven young men; the patient, tortured hypocrisy of hustled and heated ladies; the babble of scrappy nothings; the envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness; the magnificence turned into meanness; the lack of all feeling of home, and the discontented dispersal of ungrateful people--are these the things to occupy life? are these the things to interest any manly man who is free to act for himself? hardly. but our "company" refers to the meeting of human souls and hearts, and not to the meeting of a fortuitous concourse of male and female evening-dresses. i have now before me a very brilliant published account of a reception at george eliot's house. those assemblies were company, and company of the finest kind. the exaggerated fuss made by the sibyl's husband in order to secure silence while she was speaking sometimes became a little embarrassing when men of a humorous turn were there; but nevertheless the best in england met in that drawing-room, and all that was highest in literature, science, and art was talked over in graceful fashion. the sniffing drawl of society and the impudent affectation of cynicism were not to be found; and grave men and women--some of them mournful enough, it may be--agreed to make the useful hours fleet to some profit. no man or woman in england--or in europe for that matter--was unwilling to enter that modest but brilliant assemblage, and i wish some one could have taken minute notes, though that of course would have been too entirely shocking. when i think of that little deep-voiced lady gathering the choicest spirits of her day together, and keeping so many notes in tuneful chime, i hardly know whether to use superlatives of admiration about her or superlatives of contempt about the fribbles who crush each other on staircases and babble like parrots in an aviary. if we cast back a little, we have another example of an almost perfect company. people have talked of johnson, burke, boswell, beauclerc, and goldsmith until the subject is growing a thought stale; but, unless a reader takes boswell and reads the book attentively after he has come to maturity, he can hardly imagine how fine was that admirable company. they were men of high aims and strong sense; they talked at their very best, and they talked because they wished to attain clear views of life and fate. the old gladiator sometimes argued for victory, but that was only in moments of whim, and he was always ready to acknowledge when he was in error. those men may sometimes have drunk too much wine; they may have spoken platitudes on occasion; but they were good company for each other, and the hearty, manly friendship which all but poor goldsmith and boswell felt for every one else was certainly excellent. assemblies like the club are impossible nowadays; but surely we might find some modification suited even to our gigantic intellects and our exaggerated cleverness! i have defined bad company; i may define good company as that social intercourse which tends to bring out all that is best in man. i have said my bitter word about the artificial society of the capital; but i never forget the lovely quiet circles which meet in places far away from the blare of the city. in especial i may refer to the beautiful family assemblies which are almost self-centred. the girls are all at home, but the boys are scattered. harry writes from india, with all sorts of gossip from simla, and many longings for home; a neighbour calls, and the indian letter gives matter for pleasant half-melancholy chat. then the quiet evening passes with books and placid casual talk; the nerves from the family stretch perhaps all over the world, but all the threads converge on one centre. this life is led in many places, and the folk who so live are good company among themselves, and good company for all who meet them. the very thought of the men who are usually described in set slang phrases is enough to arouse a shudder. the loud wit who cracks his prepared witticisms either at the head of a tavern-table or in private society is a mere horror. the tavern men of the commercial traveller class are very bad, for their mirth is prepared; their jokes have run the length and breadth of the united kingdom, and they are not always prepared to sacrifice the privilege of being coarse which used to be regarded as the joker's prerogative. in moving about the world i have always found that the society of the great commercial room set up for being jolly, but i could never exactly perceive where the jollity entered. noise, sham gentility, the cackle of false laughter were there; but the strong, sincere cheerfulness of friendly men--never! yet the tavern humourist, or even the club joker, is as nothing compared with the true professional wit. who can remember that story about theodore hook and the orange? hook wrote a note to the hostess, saying, "ask me at dinner if i will venture on an orange." the lady did so, and then the brilliant wit promptly made answer, "i'm afraid i should tumble off." a whole volume of biography is implied in that one gruesome and vulgar anecdote. in truth, the professional wit is no company at all; he has the effect of a performing monkey suddenly planted on the table, and his efforts are usually quite on a level with the monkey's. among the higher bohemian sets--bohemian they call themselves, as if there ever was a bohemian with five hundred a year!--good company is common. i may say, with fear and much trembling, that the man of letters, the man who can name you all the restoration comedies or tell you the styles of the contemporaries of alan chartier is a most terrible being, and i should risk sharks rather than remain with him on a desolate island; but a mixed set of artists, musicians, verse-makers, novelists, critics--yea, even critics--contrive usually to make an unusually pleasant company. they are all so clever that the professional wit dares not raise his voice lest some wielder of the bludgeon should smite him; no long-winded talk is allowed, and, though a bore may once be admitted to the company, he certainly will never be admitted more than once. the talk ranges loosely from point to point, and yet a certain sequence is always observed; the men are freed from conventions; they like each other and know each other's measure pretty well; so the hours fly in merry fashion, and the brethren who carried on the symposium go away well pleased with themselves and with each other. there can be no good company where the capacity for general agreement is carried too far in any quarter. unity of aim, difference of opinion--those are the elements that make men's conversations valuable. last of all, i must declare that there can be no good company unless women are present. the artists and authors and the rest are all very well in their way, but the dexterous unseen touch of the lady is needed; and no man can reckon himself fit to converse at all unless he has been taught by women's care, and gently reproved by women's impalpable skill. young men of our day are beginning to think it childish or tedious to mix much in women's society; the consequence is that, though many of them go a long way toward being gentlemen, too many are the merest cubs that ever exhibited pure loutishness in conversation. the subtle blending, the light give-and-take of chat between men and women is the true training which makes men graceful of tongue, kindly in the use of phrases, and, i believe, pure in heart. _october, ._ _going a-walking._ one of the most pestilent of all social nuisances is the athlete who must be eternally performing "feats," and then talking about them. he goes to the alps, and, instead of looking at the riot of sunset colour or the immortal calm of the slumbering peaks, he attempts performances which might be amusing in a circus of unlimited size, but which are not in the least interesting when brought off on the mighty declivities of the great hills. one of these gentlemen takes up a quarter of a volume in telling us how he first of all climbed up a terrible peak, then fell backwards and slid down a slope of eight hundred feet, cutting his head to the bone, and losing enough blood to make him feel faint the same gentleman had seen two of his companions fly into eternity down the grim sides of the same mountain; but he must needs climb to the top, not in order to serve any scientific purpose, or even to secure a striking view, but merely to say he had been there. after an hour on the summit of the enormous mass of stone, he came down; and i should have liked to ask him what he reckoned to be the net profit accruing to him for his little exploit. wise men do not want to clamber up immense and dangerous alps; there is a kind of heroic lunacy about the business, but it is not useful, and it certainly is not inviting. if a thoughtful man goes even in winter among the mountains, their vast repose sinks on his soul; his love of them never slackens, and he returns again and again to his haunts until time has stiffened his joints and dulled his eyes, and he prepares to go down into the dust of death. but the wise man has a salutary dislike of break-neck situations; he cannot let his sweet or melancholy fancies free while he is hanging on for dear life to some inhospitable crag, so he prefers a little moderate exercise of the muscles, and a good deal of placid gazing on scenes that ennoble his thoughts and make his imagination more lofty. one of the mountain-climbing enthusiasts could not contrive to break his neck in europe, so, with a gallantry worthy of a better cause, he went to south america and scaled chimborazo. he could not quite break his neck even in the andes, but he no doubt turned many athletic friends yellow with envy. yet another went to the caucasus, and found so many charming and almost deadly perils there that he wants numbers of people to go out and share his raptures. the same barren competitive spirit breaks out in other directions. men will run across the north sea in a five-ton boat, though there are scores of big and comfortable steamers to carry them: they are cramped in their tiny craft; they can get no exercise; their limbs are pained; they undergo a few days of cruel privation--and all in order that they may tell how they bore a drenching in a cockboat. on the roads in our own england we see the same disposition made manifest. the bicyclist tears along with his head low and his eyes fixed just ahead of the tyre of his front wheel; he does not enjoy the lovely panorama that flits past him, he has no definite thought, he only wants to cover so many miles before dark; save for the fresh air that will whistle past him, thrilling his blood, he might as well be rolling round on a cinder track in some running-ground. but the walker--the long-distance walker--is the most trying of all to the average leisurely and meditative citizen. he fits himself out with elaborate boots and ribbed stockings; he carries resin and other medicaments for use in case his feet should give way; his knapsack is unspeakably stylish, and he posts off like a spirited thoroughbred running a trial. his one thought is of distances; he gloats over a milestone which informs him that he is going well up to five and a half miles per hour, and he fills up his evening by giving spirited but somewhat trying accounts of the pace at which he did each stage of his pilgrimage. in the early morning he is astir, not because he likes to see the diamond dew on the lovely trees or hear the chant of the birds as they sing of love and thanksgiving--he wants to make a good start, so that he may devour even more of the way than he did the day before. in any one lane that he passes through there are scores of sights that offer a harvest to the quiet eye; but our insatiable athlete does not want to see anything in particular until the sight of his evening steak fills him with rapture. if the most patient and urbane of men were shut up with one of these tremendous fellows during a storm of rain, he would pray for deliverance before a couple of hours went by; for the competitive athlete's intelligence seems to settle in his calves, and he refers to his legs for all topics which he kindly conceives to possess human interest. of course the swift walker may become a useful citizen should we ever have war; he will display the same qualities that were shown by the sturdy bavarians and brandenburgers who bore those terrible marches in and swept macmahon into a deadly trap by sheer endurance and speed of foot; but he is not the ideal companion. persons who are wise proceed on a different plan; they wish to make the most of every moment, and, while they value exercise, they like to make the quickened currents of their blood feed a receptive and perhaps somewhat epicurean brain. to the judicious man our lovely country affords a veritable harvest of delights--and the delights can be gained with very little trouble. i let the swift muscular men hurry away to the tyrol or the caucasus or the rocky mountains, or whithersoever else they care to go, and i turn to our own windy seashore or quiet lanes or flushed purple moorlands. i do not much care for the babble of talk at my elbow; but one good companion who has cultivated the art of keeping silent is a boon. suppose that you follow me on a roundabout journey. say we run northward in the train and resolve to work to the south on foot; we start by the sea, and foot it on some fine gaudy morning over the springy links where the grass grows gaily and the steel-coloured bent-grass gleams like the bayonets of some vast host. the fresh wind sings from the sea and flies through the lungs and into the pores with an exhilarating effect like that of wine; the waves dance shoreward, glittering as if diamonds were being pelted down from the blue arch above; the sea-swallows sweep over the bubbling crests like flights of silver arrows. it is very joyous. you have set off early, of course, and the rabbits have not yet turned into their holes for their day-long snooze. watch quietly, and you may perhaps see how they make their fairy rings on the grass. one frolicsome brown rogue whisks up his white tail, and begins careering round and round; another is fired by emulation and joins; another and another follow, and soon there is a flying ring of merry little creatures who seem quite demented with the very pleasure of living. one bounds into the air with a comic curvet, and comes down with a thud; the others copy him, and there is a wild maze of coiling bodies and gleaming white tails. but let the treacherous wind carry the scent of you down on the little rascals and you will see a change. an old fellow sits up like a kangaroo for an instant, looking extremely wise and vigilant; he drops and kicks the ground with a sharp thud that can be heard a long way off; the terror of man asserts itself in the midst of that pure, peaceful beauty, and the whole flock dart off in agitated fashion till they reach their holes; then they seem to look round with a sarcastic air, for they know that you could not even raise a gun to your shoulder in time to catch one of them before he made his lightning dive into the darksome depths of the sand-hill. how strange it is that meditative men like to watch the ways of wild things! white of selborne did not care much for killing anything in particular; he enjoyed himself in a beautiful way for years, merely because he had learned to love the pretty creatures of fen and meadow and woodland. mr. russell lowell can spend a happy day in watching through his glass the habits of the birds that haunt his great garden; he does not want a gun; he only cares to observe the instincts which god has implanted in the harmless children of the air. on our walking tour we have hundreds of chances to see the mystic mode of life pursued by the creatures that swarm even in our crowded england; and if we use our eyes we may see a score of genuine miracles every day. on the pleasant "links" there is always something new to draw the eye. out on the flashing sea a ship rolls bravely away to north or south; her sails are snowy in certain lights, and then in an instant she stands up in raiment of sooty black. you may make up a story about her if you are fanciful. perhaps she is trailing her way into the deep quiet harbour which you have just left, and the women are waiting until the rough bearded fellows come lumbering up the quay. perhaps she was careering over the rushing mountain waves to the southward of the desolate horn only a few weeks ago, and the men were counting the days wearily, while the lasses and wives at home sighed as the wind scourged the sea in the dreary night and set all the rocks thundering with the charges of mad surges. a little indulgence of the fancy does you no harm even though you may be all wrong; very likely the skipper of the glad-looking vessel is tipsy, maybe he has just been rope's-ending his cabin-boy or engaging in some equally unpoetic pursuit; still no one is harmed by idealizing a little, and so, by your leave, we will not alter our crude romance of the sailor-men. meantime, as you go on framing poetic fancies, there is a school of other poets up above you, and they are composing their fantasies at a pretty rate. the modest brown lark sits quietly amid the sheltering grass, and will hardly stir, no matter how near her you may go; but her mate, the glorious singer, is far away up toward the sun, and he shouts in his joyous ecstasy until the heaven is full of his exquisite joyance. imagine how he puts his heart into his carol! he is at least a mile above you, and you can hear him over a radius of half a mile, measured from the place where he will drop. the little poets chant one against the other, and yet there is no discord, for the magic of distance seems to harmonize song with song, and the tumult soothes instead of exciting you. who is the poet who talks of "drawing a thread of honey through your heart"? it is a quaint, conceited phrase, and yet somehow it gives with absurd felicity some idea of the lark's song. they massacre these innocents of the holy choir by thousands, and put them in puddings for cockneys to eat. the mere memory of one of those beatified mornings makes you want to take the blood of the first poulterer whom you find exposing a piteous string of the exquisite darlings. but we must not think of blood, or taxes, or german bands, or political speeches, or any other abomination, for our walk takes us through flowery regions of peace. your muscles tighten rarely as you stump on over the elastic herbage; two miles an hour is quite enough for your modest desires, especially as you know you can quicken to four or five whenever you choose. as the day wears on, the glorious open-air confusion takes possession of your senses, your pulses beat with spirit, and you pass amid floating visions of keen colour, soft greenery, comforting shades. the corn rustles on the margin where the sandy soil ceases; the sleepy farmhouses seem to 'give you a lazy greeting, and the figures of the labourers are like natural features of the landscape. everything appears friendly; it may be that the feeling of kindness and security arises from your physical well-being, but it is there all the same, and what can you do more than enjoy? perhaps in the midst of your confused happiness your mind begins acting on its own account, and quite disregards its humble companion, the body. xavier de maistre's mind always did so, and left what xavier called the poor _bête_ of a carcass to take care of itself; and all of us have to experience this double existence at times. then you find the advantages of knowing a great deal of poetry. i would not give a rush for a man who merely pores over his poets in order to make notes or comments on them; you ought to have them as beloved companions to be near you night and day, to take up the parable when your own independent thought is hazy with delight or even with sorrow. as you tramp along the whistling stretches amid the blaze of the ragworts and the tender passing glances of the wild veronica, you can take in all their loveliness with the eye, while the brain goes on adding to your pleasure by recalling the music of the poets. perhaps you fall into step with the quiver and beat of our british homer's rushing rhymes, and marmion thunders over the brown hills of the border, or clara lingers where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying. perhaps the wilful brain persists in crooning over the "belle dame sans merci;" your mood flutters and changes with every minute, and you derive equal satisfaction from the organ-roll of milton or the silvery flageolet tones of thomas moore. if culture consists in learning the grammar an etymologies of a poet's song, then no cultured man will ever get any pleasure from poetry while he is on a walking tour; but, if you absorb your poets into your being, you have spells of rare and unexpected delight. the halt is always pleasant. on our sand-hills the brackens grow to an immense height, and, if you lie down among them, you are surrounded by a pale green gleam, as if you had dived beneath some lucent sun-smitten water. the ground-lark sways on a frond above you; the stonechat lights for an instant, utters his cracking cry, and is off with a whisk; you have fair, quiet, and sweet rest, and you start up ready to jog along again. you come to a slow clear stream that winds seaward, lilting to itself in low whispered cadences. over some broad shallow pool paven with brown stones the little trout fly hither and thither, making a weft and woof of dark streaks as they travel; the minnows poise themselves, and shiver and dart convulsively; the leisurely eel undulates along, and perhaps gives you a glint of his wicked eye; you begin to understand the angler's fascination, for the most restive of men might be lulled by the light moan of that wimpling current. cruel? alas, yes! that quaint old cruel coxcomb in his gullet should have a hook, with a small trout to pull it. that was the little punishment which byron devised for izaak walton. but of course, if you once begin to be supersensitive about cruelty, you find your way blocked at every cross-road of life, and existence ceases to be worth having. on, as the sun slopes, and his beams fall slant over solemn mounds of cool gray hue and woody fields all pranked in gold. look to the north, and you see the far-away hills in their sunset livery of white and purple and rose. on the clear summits the snow sometimes lies; and, as the royal orb sinks, you will see the snow blush for a minute with throbbing carnation tints that shift and faint off slowly into cold pallid green. the heart is too full of ecstasy to allow even of thought. you live--that is all! you may continue your wanderings among all the mystic sounds and sights of the night, but it is better to rest long and well when you can. let the village innkeeper put down for you the coarsest fare that can be conceived, and you will be content; for, as a matter of fact, any food and drink appeal gratefully to the palate of a man who has been inhaling the raciest air at every pore for eight or ten hours. if the fare does not happen to be coarse--if, for example, the landlord has a dish of trout--so much the better; you do not envy any crowned personage in christendom or elsewhere. and how much does your day of paradise cost you? at the utmost, half-a-crown. had you been away on the rhine or in switzerland or in some german home of brigands, you would have been bleeding at the purse all day, while in our own matchless land you have had merriment, wild nature, air that is like the essence of life--and all for thirty pence. when night falls heavily, you pass your last hour in listening to the under-song of the sea and the whisper of the roaming winds among the grass. then, if you are wise and grateful, you thank the giver of all, and go to sleep. in the jolly greenwoods of the midlands you may have enjoyment of another kind. some men prefer the sleepy settled villages, the sweeping fens with their bickering windmills, the hush and placidity of old market-towns that brood under the looming majesty of the castle. the truth is that you cannot go anywhere in england outside of the blighted hideous manufacturing districts without finding beauty and peace. in the first instance you seek health and physical well-being--that goes without saying; but the walking epicure must also have dainty thoughts, full banquets of the mind, quiet hours wherein resolutions may be framed in solitude and left in the soul to ripen. when the epicure returns to the din of towns, he has a safeguard in his own breast which tends to keep him alike from folly and melancholy. furthermore, as he passes the reeking dens where human beings crowd who never see flower or tree, he feels all churlishness depart from him, and he is ready to pity and help his less happy brethren. after he has settled to labour again, his hours of rest are made calmly contented by the chance visions that come to him and show him the blown sea, the rustling whiteness of fretted surges, the painted meadows, and the solemn colours of the dying day. and all this talk we have got only through letting our minds go wandering away on the subject of going a-walking. i have always said that the sweetest pleasures are almost costless. the placid "look of the bay mare" took all the silliness out of walt whitman; and there is more in his queer phrase than meets the eye. one word. when you go a-walking, do not try to be obtrusively merry. meet a group of tramping gentlemen who have been beer-drinking at noon; they are surprisingly vivacious until the gaze of the sun becomes importunate; they even sing as they go, and their hearty laughter resounds far and near. see them in the afternoon, and ask where the merriment is; their eyes are glazed, their nerves crave slumber, their steps are by no mean sprightly, and they probably form a doleful company, ready to quarrel or think pessimistic thoughts. be calm, placid, even; do not expect too much, and your reward will be rich. _june, ._ _"sport."_ simple folk fancy that "sport" must be a joyous pursuit, and that a sportsman is a jovial, light-hearted, and rather innocent person. it may be useful to many parents, and perhaps to some young people, if i let them know what "sport" really means nowadays. those who have their imaginations filled with pictures of merry red-coated riders, or of sturdy gaitered squires tramping through stubble behind their dogs, are quite welcome to their agreeable visions. the hounds of course meet in hundreds of places in winter-time, and the bold riders charge gaily across meadows and over fences. it is a splendid, exhilarating sight; and no one can find much fault with the pursuit, for it gives health to thousands. the foxes may perhaps object a little; but, if a philosopher could explain to them that, if they were not preserved for hunting purposes, they would soon be exterminated, we have no doubt that they would choose the alternative which gives them a chance. shooting is engaged in with more enthusiasm now than ever it was before; and doubtless the gentlemen who sit in snug corners and knock down tame pheasants derive benefit--physical and moral--from the lively exercise. but the word "sport" in england does not now refer to hunting and shooting; it has a wide application, and it describes in a generic way a number of pursuits which are, to say the least, not improving to those who engage in them. the royal sport is of course horse-racing; and about that amusement--in its present aspect--i may have something profitable to say. the advocates of racing inform us that the noble sport improves the breed of horses, and affords wholesome relaxation to men; they grow quite indignant with the narrow puritans who talk "stuff" about demoralization, and they have numerous fine phrases referring to old england and the spirit of our fathers. all the talk concerning the improving influence of the turf on horses and men is pernicious nonsense, and there is an end of the matter. the english thoroughbred is a beautiful creature, and it is pleasant enough to see him make his splendid rush from start to finish; amusing also is it to watch the skill of the wiry manikins who ride; the jockeys measure every second and every yard, and their cleverness in extracting the last ounce of strength from their horses is quite curious. the merest novice may enjoy the sight of the gay colours, and he cannot help feeling a thrill of excitement when the thud, thud of the hoofs sounds near him as the exquisite slender animals fly past. but the persons who take most interest in races are those who hardly know a horse from a mule. they may make a chance visit to a racecourse, but the speed and beauty of the animals do not interest them in any way; they cannot judge the skill of a rider; they have no eye for anything but money. to them a horse is merely a name; and, so far from their racing pursuits bringing them health, they prefer staying in a low club or lower public-house, where they may gamble without being obliged to trouble themselves about the nobler animals on which they bet. the crowd on a racecourse is always a hideous spectacle. the class of men who swarm there are amongst the worst specimens of the human race, and, when a stranger has wandered among them for an hour or so, he feels as though he had been gazing at one huge, gross, distorted face. their language is many degrees below vulgarity; in fact, their coarseness can be understood only by people who have been forced to go much amongst them--and that perhaps is fortunate. the quiet stoical aristocrats in the special enclosures are in all ways inoffensive; they gamble and gossip, but their betting is carried on with still self-restraint, and their gossip is the ordinary polished triviality of the country-house and drawing-room. but what can be said of the beings who crowd the betting-ring? they are indeed awful types of humanity, fitted to make sensitive men shudder. their yells, their profanity, their low cunning, their noisy eagerness to pounce upon a simpleton, their infamous obscenity, all combine to make them the most loathsome collection of human beings to be found on the face of the broad earth. observe that all of this betting crew appear to be what is called rolling in money. they never do a stroke of useful work; they merely howl and make bets--that is their contribution to the prosperity of the state. yet they are dressed with vulgar richness, they fare sumptuously, and they would not condescend to taste any wine save the finest vintages; they have servants and good horses, and in all ways they resemble some rank luxurious growth that has sprung from a putrid soil. mark that these bookmakers, as they are called, are not gentlemen in any sense of the word; some of them are publicans, some look like prize-fighters, some like promoted costermongers, some like common thieves. there is not a man in the company who speaks with a decently refined accent--in short, to use plain terms, they are the scum of the earth. whence then comes the money which enables them to live in riotous profusion? the explanation is a sad one, and i trust that these words may warn many young people in time. here is the point to be weighed upon--these foul-mouthed persons in the betting-ring are able to travel about all spring, summer, and autumn, staying in the best hotels and lacking nothing; in winter they can loll away their time in billiard-rooms. once more, who supplies the means? it is the senseless outside public who imagine they know something about "sport." every town in england contains some centre--generally a public-house or a barber's shop--where men meet to make wagers; the evil influence of the turf is almost everywhere apparent, for it is probable that at least two millions of men are interested in betting. london swarms with vile clubs which are merely gambling saloons; professional men, tradesmen, clerks, and even artizans crowd into these horrid holes, and do business with the professional gamblers. in london alone there are some half-dozen papers published daily which are entirely devoted to "sport," and these journals are of course bought by the gudgeons who seek destruction in the betting-rooms. in the provinces there are several towns which easily support a daily sporting journal; and no ordinary paper in the north of england could possibly survive unless at least one-eighth of its space were devoted to racing matters of various sorts. there are hundreds of thousands of our population who read absolutely nothing save lists of weights and entries, quotations which give the odds against horses, and reports of races. not per cent, of these individuals ever see a horse from year's end to year's end, yet they talk of nothing else but horses, horses, horses, and every effort of their intellects is devoted to the task of picking out winners. incredible as it may seem, these poor souls call themselves sportsmen, and they undoubtedly think that their grubbing about in malodorous tap-rooms is a form of "sport"; it is their hopeless folly and greed that fill the pockets of the loud-mouthed tenants of the ring. some one must supply the bookmakers' wealth, and the "some one" is the senseless amateur who takes his ideas from newspapers. the amateur of the tap-room or the club looks down a list of horses and chooses one which he fancies; perhaps he has received private advice from one of the beings who haunt the training-grounds and watch the thoroughbreds at exercise; perhaps he is influenced by some enthusiast who bids him risk all he has on certain private information. the fly enters the den and asks the spider, "what price flora?"--that means, "what odds are you prepared to lay against the mare named flora?" the spider answers--say seven to one; the fly hands one pound to the spider, and the bet is made. the peculiarity of this transaction is that one of the parties to it is always careful to arrange so that he cannot lose. supposing that there are seven horses entered in a race, it is certain that six must be losers. the bookmaker so makes his wagers that no matter which of the seven wins he at least loses nothing; the miserable amateur has only one chance. he may possibly be lucky; but the chances in the long run are dead against him, for he is quite at the mercy of the sharp capitalist who bets with him. the money which the rowdies of the ring spend so lavishly all comes from the pockets of dupes who persist in pursuing a kind of _ignis fatuus_ which too often leads them into a bog of ruin. this deplorable business of wagering has become universal. we talk of the italians as a gambling nation, but they are not to be compared with the english for recklessness and purblind persistence. i know almost every town in england, and i say without fear that the main topic of conversation in every place of entertainment where the traveller stays is betting. a tourist must of course make for hotel after hotel where the natives of each place congregate; and, if he keeps his ears open, he will find the gambling venom has tainted the life-blood of the people in every town from berwick to hastings. it may be asked, "how do these silly creatures who bet manage to obtain any idea of a horse?" they have not the faintest notion of what any given horse is like, but they usually follow the advice of some sharper who pretends to know what is going to win. there are some hundreds of persons who carry on a kind of secret trade in information, and these persons profess their ability to enable any one to win a fortune. the dupes write for advice, enclosing a fee, and they receive the name of a horse; then they risk their money, and so the shocking game goes on. i receive only too many letters from wives, mothers, and sisters whose loved ones are being drawn into the vortex of destruction. let me give some rough colloquial advice to the gamblers--"you bet on horses according to the advice of men who watch them. observe how foolish you are! the horse a is trained in yorkshire; the horse b at newmarket. the man who watches a thinks that the animal can gallop very fast, and you risk your money according to his report. but what means has he of knowing the speed of b? if two horses gallop towards the winning-post locked together, it often happens that one wins by about six inches. there is no real difference in their speed, but the winner happens to have a neck slightly longer than the other. observe that one race-horse--buccaneer--has been known to cover a mile at the rate of fifty-four feet per second; it is therefore pretty certain that at his very highest speed he could move at sixty feet per second. very good; it happens then that a horse which wins a race by one foot is about one-sixtieth of a second faster, than the beaten animal. what a dolt you must be to imagine that any man in the world could possibly tell you which of those two brutes was likely to be the winner! it is the merest guess-work; you have all the chances against you and you might as well bet on the tossing of halfpence. the bookmaker does not need to care, for he is safe whatever may win; but you are defying all the laws of chance; and, although you may make one lucky hit, you must fare ill in the end." but no commonsensical talk seems to have any effect on the insensate fellows who are the betting-man's prey, and thus this precious sport has become a source of idleness, theft, and vast misery. one wretch goes under, but the stock of human folly is unlimited, and the shoal of gudgeons moves steadily into the bookmaker's net. one betting-agent in france receives some five thousand letters and telegrams per day, and all this huge correspondence comes from persons who never take the trouble to see a race, but who are bitten with the gambler's fever. no warning suffices--man after man goes headlong to ruin, and still the doomed host musters in club and tavern. they lose all semblance of gentle humanity; they become mere blockheads--for cupidity and stupidity are usually allied--and they form a demoralizing leaven that is permeating the nation and sapping our manhood. we have only to consider the position of the various dwarfs who bestride the racehorses in order to see how hard a hold this iniquity has on us. a jockey is merely a stable-boy after all; yet a successful jockey receives more adulation than does the greatest of statesmen. a theatrical manager has been known to prepare the royal box for the reception of one of these celebrities; some of the manikins earn five thousand a year, one of them has been known to make twenty thousand pounds in a year; and that same youth received three thousand pounds for riding in one race. as to the flattery--the detestable flattery--which the mob bestows on good horsemen, it cannot be mentioned with patience. in sum, then, a form of insanity has attacked england, and we shall pay bitterly for the fit. the idle host who gather on the racecourse add nothing to the nation's wealth; they are poisonous parasites whose influence destroys industry, honesty, and common manliness. and yet the whole hapless crew, winners and losers, call themselves "sportsmen." i have said plainly enough that every villainous human being seems to take naturally to the turf; but unfortunately the fools follow on the same track as that trodden by the villains, and thus the honest gentlemen who still support a vile institution have all their work set out in order to prevent the hawks from making a meal of the pigeons. one of the honest guardians of racing morality resigned in bitter despair some time ago, giving as his reason the assertion that he could trust nobody. nobody! the man was a great lord, he was totally disinterested and utterly generous, he never betted a penny, and he only preferred to see the superb thoroughbreds gallop. lavish he was to all about him--and he could trust nobody. it seems that this despairful nobleman had tolerably good reasons for his hasty departure, for we have had such a crop of villainies to reap this year as never was gathered before in the same time, and it appears plain that no animal will be allowed to win any prize unless the foul crew of betting-men accord their kind approval, and refrain from poisoning the brute. i address myself directly, and with all the earnestness of which i am capable, to those young simpletons who think that it is a fine and knowing thing to stake money on a horse. some poor silly creatures cannot be taught that they are not even backing a good chance; they will not learn that the success or failure of horses in important races is regulated by a clique of rapscallions whose existence sullies the very light of day. even if the simpleton chooses the very best horse in a race, it by no means follows that the creature will win--nay, the very excellence of an animal is all against its chances of success. the ring--which is largely composed of well-to-do black-legs--will not let any man win too much. what earthly chance can a clerk or shopman or tradesman in manchester or derby have of knowing what passes in the hotels of newmarket, the homes of trainers, the london betting-clubs? the information supplied so copiously by the sporting journals is as good as money can buy, but the writers on those papers are just as easily deceived as other people. men are out every morning watching the horses take their exercise, and an animal cannot sneeze without the fact being telegraphed to the remotest corners of the country; but all this vigilance is useless when roguery comes into the field. observe that for the moment i am not speaking about the morality of betting at all. i have my own opinion as to the mental tone of a man who is continually eyeing his neighbour's pocket and wondering what he can abstract therefrom. there is, and can be, no friendship save bottle friendship among the animals of prey who spend their time and energy on betting; and i know how callously they let a victim sink to ruin after they have sucked his substance to the last drop. the very face of a betting-man is enough to let you know what his soul is like; it is a face such as can be seen nowhere but on the racecourse or in the betting-club: the last trace of high thought has vanished, and, though the men may laugh and indulge in verbal horse-play, there is always something carnivorous about their aspect. they are sharp in a certain line, but true intelligence is rarely found among them. strange to say, they are often generous with money if their sentimental side is fairly touched, but their very generosity is the lavishness of ostentation, and they seem to have no true kindness in them, nor do they appear capable of even shamming to possess the genuine helpful nature. eternally on the watch for prey, they assume the essential nature of predatory animals; their notion of cleverness is to get the better of somebody, and their idea of intellectual effort is to lay cunning traps for fools to enter. yes; the betting-ring is a bad school of morality, and the man who goes there as a fool and a victim too, often blossoms into a rogue and a plunderer. with all this in my mind, i press my readers to understand that i leave the ethics of wagering alone for the present, and confine my attention strictly to the question of expediency. what is the use of wearing out nerve and brain on pondering an infinite maze of uncertainties? the rogues who command jockeys and even trainers on occasion can act with certainty, for they have their eye on the very tap-root of the turf upas-tree. the noodles who read sporting prints and try to look knowing can only fumble about among uncertainties; they and their pitiful money help to swell the triumphs and the purses of rascals, and they fritter away good brain-power on calculations which have no sound basis whatever. let us get to some facts, and let us all hope in the name of everything that is righteous and of good report that, when this article is read, some blind feather-brains may be induced to stop ere the inevitable final ruin descends upon them. what has happened in the doleful spring of this year? in a colt was brought out for the first time to run for the greatest of all turf prizes. as usual, some bagatelle of a million or thereabouts had been betted on a horse which had won several races, and this animal was reckoned to be incapable of losing: but the untried animal shot out and galloped home an easy winner. so little was the successful brute distressed by his race that he began to caper out of sheer light-heartedness when he was led back to the enclosure, and he very soon cleared the place in his gambols--in fact, he could have run another race within half an hour after the first one. in the autumn this same winner strained a ligament; but in spite of the accident he ran for another important prize, and his lightning speed served him in good stead, for he came in second for the st. leger. well, in the spring this animal was entered in a handicap race, and the weight which he had to carry seemed so trifling that good judges thought he must romp over the course and win with ease. hundreds of thousands of dolts rushed to wager their money on this chance, and the horse's owner, who is anything but a fool, proceeded to back his own property lavishly. now a certain number of the betting-rogues appeared to know something--if i may be pardoned for using their repulsive phraseology--and, so long as any one was willing to bet on the horse, they were ready to lay against him. still the pigeons would not take warning by this ominous symptom; they had chances enough to keep clear of danger, but they flocked into the snare in their confused fashion. a grain of common sense would have made them ask, "why do these shrewd, hard men seem so certain that our favourite must lose? are they the kind of persons who risk thousands in hard cash unless they know particularly well what they are doing? they bet with an air of certainty, though some of them must be almost ruined if they have made a miscalculation; they defy even the owner of the animal, and they cheerfully give him the opportunity of putting down thousands if he wishes to do so. there must be some reason for this assurance which at first sight looks so very overweening. better have a care!" thus would common sense have counselled the victims; but, alas, common sense is usually left out of the composition of the betting-man's victim, and the flood of honest money rolled into the keeping of men who are certainly no more than indifferent honest. the day of the race came; the great gaping public dipped their hands in their pockets and accepted short odds about their precious certainty. when the flag fell for the start, the most wildly extravagant odds were offered against the favourite by the men who had been betting against him all along, for they saw very soon that they were safe. the poor brute on whose success so many thousands depended could not even gallop; he trailed on wearily for a little, without showing any sign of his old gallant fire and speed, and at last his hopeless rider stopped him. this story is in the mouths of all men; and now perhaps our simpletons maybe surprised to hear that the wretched animal which was the innocent cause of loss and misery was poisoned by a narcotic. in his efforts to move freely he strained himself, for the subtle drug deprived him of the power of using his limbs, and he could only sprawl and wrench his sinews. this is the fourth case of the kind which has recently occurred; and now clever judges have hit upon the cause which has disabled so many good horses, after the rascals of the ring have succeeded in laying colossal amounts against them. too many people know the dire effects of the morphia injections which are now so commonly used by weak individuals who fear pain and _ennui_; the same deadly drug is used to poison the horses. one touch with the sharp needle-point under the horse's elbow, and the subtle, numbing poison speeds through the arteries and paralyzes the nerves; a beautiful creature that comes out full of fire and courage is converted in a very few minutes into a dull helpless mass that has no more conscious volition than a machine. the animal remains on its feet, but exertion is impossible, and neither rein, whip, nor spur serves to stimulate the cunning poisoner's victim. about the facts there can now be no dispute: and this last wretched story supplies a copestone to a pile of similar tales which has been in course of building during the past three or four years. enraged men have become outspoken, and things are now boldly printed and circulated which were mentioned only in whispers long ago. the days of clumsy poisoning have gone by; the prowling villain no longer obtains entrance to a stable for the purpose of battering a horse's leg or driving a nail into the frog of the foot; the ancient crude devices are used no more, for science has become the handmaid of scoundrelism. when in a bad fellow squirted a solution of arsenic into a locked horse-trough, the evil trick was too clumsy to escape detection, and the cruel rogue was promptly caught and sent to the gallows; but we now have horse-poisoners who hold a secret similar to that which palmer of rugeley kept so long. i say "a secret," though every skilled veterinary surgeon knows how to administer morphia, and knows its effects; but the new practitioners contrive to send in the deadly injection of the drug in spite of the ceaseless vigilance of trainers, stablemen, detectives, and all other guards. now i ask any rational man who may have been tempted to bet, is it worth while? leave out the morality for the present, and tell us whether you think it business-like to risk your money when you know that neither a horse's speed nor a trainer's skill will avail you when once an acute crew of sharpers have settled that a race must not be won by a certain animal. the miserable creature whose case has served me for a text was tried at home during the second week of april; he carried four stone more than the very useful and fast horse which ran against him, and he merely amused himself by romping alongside of his opponent. again, when he took a preliminary canter before the drug had time to act, he moved with great strength and with the freedom of a greyhound; yet within three minutes he was no more than an inert mass of flesh and bone. i say to the inexperienced gambler, "draw your own conclusions, and if, after studying my words, you choose to tempt fortune any more, your fate--your evil fate--be on your own head, for nothing that i or any one else can do will save you." not long before the melancholy and sordid case which i have described, and which is now gaining attention and rousing curiosity everywhere, a certain splendid steeplechaser was brought out to run for the most important of cross-country races. he was a famous horse, and, like our derby winner, he bore the fortunes of a good many people. to the confusion and dismay of the men who made sure of his success, he was found to be stupified, and suffering from all the symptoms of morphia-poisoning! not long ago an exquisite mare was brought out to run for the liverpool steeplechase, and, like the two i have already named, she was deemed to be absolutely certain of success. she came out merrily from her box; but soon she appeared to become dazed and silly; she could not move properly, and in trying to clear her first fence she staggered like a soddened drunkard and fell. the rascals had not become artistic poisoners at that date, and it was found that the poor mare had received the drug through a rather large puncture in her nostril. the men whom i seek to cure are not worthy of much care; but they have dependants; and it is of the women and children that i think. here is another pitfall into which the eager novice stumbles; and once more on grounds of expediency i ask the novice to consider his position. according to the decision of the peculiarly-constituted senate which rules racing affairs, i understand that, even if a horse starts in a race with health and training all in its favour, it by no means follows that he will win, or even run well. cunning touches of the bridle, dexterous movements of body and limbs on the jockey's part, subtle checks applied so as to cramp the animal's stride--all these things tend to bring about surprising results. the horse that fails dismally in one race comes out soon afterwards and wins easily in more adverse circumstances. i grow tired of the unlucky catalogue of mean swindles, and i should be glad if i never heard of the turf again; though, alas, i have little hope of that so long as betting-shops are open, and so long as miserable women have the power to address letters to me! i can only implore those who are not stricken with the gambler's fever to come away from danger while yet there is time. a great nobleman like lord hartington or lord rodney may amuse himself by keeping racers; he gains relaxation by running out from london to see his pretty colts and fillies gallop, and he needs not to care very much whether they win or lose, for it is only the mild excitement and the change of scene that he wants. the wealthy people who go to newmarket seek pleasant company as much as anything, and the loss of a few hundreds hardly counts in their year's expenses. but the poor noodle who can hardly afford to pay his fare and hotel bill--why should he meddle with horses? if an animal is poisoned, the betting millionaire who backs it swallows his chagrin and thinks no more of the matter, but the wretched clerk who has risked a quarter's salary cannot take matters so easily. racing is the rich man's diversion, and men of poor or moderate means cannot afford to think about it. the beautiful world is full of entertainment for those who search wisely; then why should any man vex heart and brain by meddling with a pursuit which gives him no pleasure, and which cannot by any chance bring him profit? i have no pity for a man who ascribes his ruin to betting, and i contemn those paltry weaklings whose cases i study and collect from the newspapers. certainly there are enough of them! a man who bets wants to make money without work, and that on the face of it is a dishonourable aspiration; if he robs some one, i do not in the faintest degree try to palliate his crime--he is a responsible being, or ought to be one, and he has no excuse for pilfering. i should never aid any man who suffered through betting, and i would not advise any one else to do so. my appeal to the selfish instincts of the gudgeons who are hooked by the bookmakers is made only for the sake of the helpless creatures who suffer for the follies and blundering cupidity of the would-be sharper. i abhor the bookmakers, but i do not blame them alone; the sight of means to do ill deeds makes ill deeds done, and they are doubtless tempted to roguery by the very simpletons who complain when they meet the reward of their folly. i am solely concerned with the innocents who fare hardly because of their selfish relatives' reckless want of judgment, and for them, and them alone, my efforts are engaged. _may, _ _degraded men_. the man of science derives suggestive knowledge from the study of mere putrefaction; he places an infusion of common hay-seeds or meat or fruit in his phials, and awaits events; presently a drop from one of the infusions is laid on the field of the microscope, and straightly the economy of a new and strange kingdom is seen by the observer. the microscopist takes any kind of garbage; he watches the bacteria and their mysterious development, and he reaches at last the most significant conclusions regarding the health and growth and diseases of the highest organizations. the student of human nature must also bestow his attention on disease of mind if he would attain to any real knowledge of the strange race to which he belongs. we develop, it is true, but there are modes and modes of development. i have often pointed out that a steady process of degeneration goes on side by side with the unfolding of new and healthy powers in the animal and vegetable kingdoms. the great south american lizards grow strong and splendid in hue amid the rank freedom of pampas or forest; but their poor relatives in the sunless caves of transylvania grow milky white, flabby, and stone-blind. the creatures in the kentucky caves are all aborted in some way or other; the birds in far-off islands lose the power of flight, and the shrivelled wings gradually sink under the skin, and show us only a tiny network of delicate bones when the creature is stripped to the skeleton. the condor soars magnificently in the thin air over the andes--it can rise like a kite or drop like a thunderbolt: the weeka of new zealand can hardly get out of the way of a stick aimed by an active man. the proud forest giant sucks up the pouring moisture from the great brazilian river; the shoots that rise under the shadow of the monster tree are weakened and blighted by lack of light and free air. the same astounding work goes on among the beings who are so haughty in their assumption of the post of creation's lords. the healthy child born of healthy parents grows up amid pure air and pure surroundings; his tissues are nourished by strength-giving food, he lives according to sane rules, and he becomes round-limbed, full-chested, and vigorous. the poor little victim who first sees the light in the borough or shadwell, or in the noxious alleys of our reeking industrial towns, receives foul air, mere atmospheric garbage, into his lungs; he becomes thin-blooded, his unwholesome pallor witnesses to his weakness of vitality, his muscles are atrophied, and even his hair is ragged, lustreless, ill-nurtured. in time he transmits his feebleness to his successors; and we have the creatures who stock our workhouses, hospitals, and our gaols--for moral degradation always accompanies radical degradation of the physique. so, if we study the larger aspects of society, we find that in all grades we have large numbers of individuals who fall out of the line that is steadfastly progressing, and become stragglers, camp-followers--anything you will. let a cool and an unsentimental observer bend himself to the study of degraded human types, and he will learn things that will sicken his heart if he is weak, and strengthen him in his resolve to work gallantly during his span of life if he is strong. has any one ever fairly tried to face the problem of degradation? has any one ever learned how it is that a distinct form of mental disease seems to lurk in all sorts of unexpected fastnesses, ready to breathe a numbing and poisonous vapour on those who are not fortified against the moral malaria? i am not without experience of the fell chances and changes of life; i venture therefore to use some portion of the knowledge that i have gathered in order to help to fortify the weak and make the strong wary. if you wander on the roads in our country, you are almost sure to meet men whom you instinctively recognize as fallen beings. what their previous estate in life may have been you cannot tell, but you know that there has been a fall, and that you are looking on a moral wreck. the types are superficially varied, but an essential sameness, not always visible at first sight, connects them and enables you to class them as you would class the specimens in a gallery of the british museum. as you walk along on a lonely highway, you meet a man who carries himself with a kind of jaunty air. his woeful boots show glimpses of bare feet, his clothes have a bright gloss in places, and they hang untidily; but his coat is buttoned with an attempt at smartness, and his ill-used hat is set on rakishly. you note that the man wears a moustache, and you learn in some mysterious way that he was once accustomed to be very trim and spruce in person. when he speaks, you find that you have a hint of a cultivated accent; he sounds the termination "ing" with precision, and you also notice that such words as "here," "there," "over," are pronounced with a peculiar broad vowel sound at the end. he cannot look you boldly in the face, and it is hard to catch a sight of his eyes, but you may take for granted that the eyes are bad and shifty. the cheeks are probably a little pendulous, and the jaw hangs with a certain slackness. the whole visage looks as if it had been cast in a tolerably good mould and had somehow run out of shape a little. your man is fluent and communicative; he mouths his sentences with a genteel roll in his voice, and he punctuates his talk with a stealthy, insincere laugh which hardly rises above the dignity of a snigger. now how does such a man come to be tramping aimlessly on a public road? he does not know that he is going to any place in particular; he is certainly not walking for the sake of health, though he needs health rather badly. why is he in this plight? you do not need to wait long for a solution, if the book of human experience has been your study. that man is absolutely certain to begin bewailing his luck--it is always "luck." then he has a choice selection of abuse to bestow on large numbers of people who have trodden him down--he is always down-trodden; and he proves to you that, but for the ingratitude of a, the roguery of b, the jealousy of c, the undeserved credit obtained by the despicable d, he would be in "a far different position to-day, sir." if he is an old officer--and a few gentlemen who once bore her majesty's commission are now to be found on the roads, or in casual wards, or lounging about low skittle-alleys and bagatelle or billiard tables--he will allude to the gambling that went on in the regiment. "how could a youngster keep out of the swim?" all went well with him until he took to late hours and devilled bones; "then in the mornings we were all ready for a peg; and i should like to see the man who could get ready for parade after a hard night unless he had something in the shape of a reviver." so he prates on. he curses the colonel, the commander-in-chief, and the army organization in general; he gives leering reminiscences of garrison belles--reminiscences that make a pure minded man long to inflict some sort of chastisement on him; and thus, while he thinks he is impressing you with an overpowering sense of his bygone rank and fashion, he really unfolds the history of a feeble unworthy fellow who carries a strong tinge of rascality about him. he is always a victim, and he illustrates the unvarying truth of the maxim that a dupe is a rogue minus cleverness. the final crash which overwhelmed him was of course a horse-racing blunder. he would have recovered his winter's losses had not a gang of thieves tampered with the favourite for the city and suburban. "do you think, sir, that highflyer could not have given stonemason three stone and a beating?" you modestly own your want of acquaintance with the powers of the famous quadrupeds, and the infatuated dupe goes on, "i saw how bill whipcord was riding; he eased at the corner, when i wouldn't have taken two thousand for my bets, and you could see that he let stonemason up. i had taken seven to four eight times in hundreds, and that broke me." the ragged raffish man never thinks that he was quite ready to plunder other people; he grows inarticulate with rage only when he remembers how he was bitten instead of being the biter. his watery eyes slant as you near a roadside inn, and he is certain to issue an invitation. then you see what really brought him low. it may be a lovely warm day, when the acrid reek of alcohol is more than usually abhorrent; but he must take something strong that will presently inflame the flabby bulge of his cheeks and set his evil eyes watering more freely than ever. gin is his favourite refreshment, because it is cheap, and produces stupefaction more rapidly than any other liquid. very probably he will mix gin and ale in one horrid draught--and in that case you know that he is very far gone indeed on the downward road. if he can possibly coax the change out of you when the waiter puts it down he will do so, for he cannot resist the gleam of the coins, and he will improvise the most courageous lies with an ease which inspires awe. he thanks you for nothing; he hovers between cringing familiarity and patronage; and, when you gladly part with him, he probably solaces himself by muttering curses on your meanness or your insolence. once more--how does the faded military person come to be on the roads? we shall come to that presently. observe the temporary lord of the tap-room when you halt on the dusty roads and search for tea or lunch. he is in black, and a soiled handkerchief is wound round his throat like an eel. he wears a soft felt hat which has evidently done duty as a night-cap many times, and he tries to bear himself as though the linen beneath his pinned-up coat were of priceless quality. you know well enough that he has no shirt on, for he would sell one within half an hour if any samaritan fitted him out. his boots are carefully tucked away under the bench, and his sharp knees seem likely to start through their greasy casing. as soon as he sees you he determines to create an impression, and he at once draws you into the conversation. "now, sir, you and i are scholars--i am an old balliol man myself--and i was explaining to these good lads the meaning of the phrase which had puzzled them, as it has puzzled many more. _casus belli_, sir--that is what we find in this local rag of a journal; and _status quo ante bellum_. now, sir, these ignorant souls couldn't tell what was meant, so i have been enlightening them. i relax my mind in this way, though you would hardly think it the proper place for a balliol man, while that overfed brute up at the hall can drive out with a pair of two-hundred-guinea bays, sir. fancy a gentleman and a scholar being in this company, sir! now jones, the landlord there, is a good man in his way--oh, no thanks jones; it is not a compliment!--and i'd like to see the man who dared say that i'm not speaking the truth, for i used to put my hands up like a good one when we were boys at the old 'varsity, sir. jones, this gentleman would like something; and i don't mind taking a double dose of glenlivat with a brother-scholar and a gentleman like myself." so the mawkish creature maunders on until one's gorge rises; but the stolid carters, the idle labourers, the shoemaker from the shop round the corner, admire his eloquence, and enjoy the luxury of pitying a parson and an aristocrat. how very numerous are the representatives of this type, and how unspeakably odious they are! this foul weed in dirty clothing assumes the pose of a bishop; he swears at the landlord, he patronizes the shoemaker--who is his superior in all ways--he airs the feeble remnants of his latin grammar and his stock quotations. he will curse you if you refuse him drink, and he will describe you as an impostor or a cad; while, if you are weak enough to gratify his taste for spirits, he will glower at you over his glass, and sicken you with fulsome flattery or clumsy attempts at festive wit. enough of this ugly creature, whose baseness insults the light of god's day! we know how he will end; we know how he has been a fraud throughout his evil life, and we can hardly spare even pity for him. it is well if the fellow has no lady-wife in some remote quarter--wife whom he can rob or beg from, or even thrash, when he searches her out after one of his rambles from casual ward to casual ward. in the wastes of the great cities the army of the degraded swarm. here is the loose-lipped rakish wit, who tells stories in the common lodging-house kitchen. he has a certain brilliancy about him which lasts until the glassy gleam comes over his eyes, and then he becomes merely blasphemous and offensive. he might be an influential writer or politician, but he never gets beyond spouting in a pot-house debating club, and even that chance of distinction does not come unless he has written an unusually successful begging-letter. here too is the broken professional man. his horrid face is pustuled, his hands are like unclean dough, he is like a creature falling to pieces; yet he can show you pretty specimens of handwriting, and, if you will steady him by giving him a drink of ale, he will write your name on the edge of a newspaper in copper-plate characters or perform some analogous feat. all the degraded like to show off the remains of their accomplishments, and you may hear some odious being warbling. "_ah, che la morte!_" with quite the air of a leading tenor. in the dreadful purlieus lurk the poor submissive ne'er-do-well, the clerk who has been imprisoned for embezzlement, the city merchant's son who is reduced to being the tout of a low bookmaker, the preacher who began as a youthful phenomenon and ended by embezzling the christmas dinner fund, the forlorn brute whose wife and children have fled from him, and who spends his time between the police-cells and the resorts of the vilest. if you could know the names of the tramps who yell and make merry over their supper in the murky kitchen, you would find that people of high consideration would be touched very painfully could they be reminded of the existence of certain relatives. degraded, degraded are they all! and why? the answer is brief, and i have left it until last, for no particular elaboration is needed. from most painful study i have come to the conclusion that nearly all of our degraded men come to ruin through idleness in the first instance; drink, gambling, and other forms of debauch follow, but idleness is the root-evil. the man who begins by saying, "it's a poor heart that never rejoices," or who refers to the danger of making jack a dull boy, is on a bad road. who ever heard of a worker--a real toiler--becoming degraded? worn he may be, and perhaps dull to the influence of beauty and refinement; but there is always some nobleness about him. the man who gives way to idleness at once prepares his mind as a soil for evil seeds; the universe grows tiresome to him; the life-weariness of the old romans attacks him in an ignoble form, and he begins to look about for distractions. then his idleness, from being perhaps merely amusing, becomes offensive and suspicious; drink takes hold upon him; his moral sense perishes; only the husks of his refinement remain; and by and by you have the slouching wanderer who is good for nothing on earth. he is despised of men, and, were it not that we know the inexhaustible bounty of the everlasting pity, we might almost think that he was forgotten of heaven. stand against idleness. anything that age, aches, penury, hard trial may inflict on the soul is trifling. idleness is the great evil which leads to all others. therefore work while it is day. _september, ._ _a refinement of "sporting" cruelty._ i firmly believe in the sound manhood of the english people, and i know that in any great emergency they would rise and prove themselves true and gallant of soul; but we happen for the time to have amongst us a very large class of idlers, and these idlers are steadily introducing habits and customs which no wise observer can regard without solemn apprehensions. the simple southampton poet has told us what "idle hands" are apt to do under certain guidance, and his saying--truism as it appears--should be studied with more regard to its vital meaning. the idlers crave for novelties; they seek for new forms of distraction; they seem really to live only when they are in the midst of delirious excitement. unhappily their feverish unrest is apt to communicate itself to men who are not naturally idlers, and thus their influence moves outwards like some vast hurtful wind blown from a pestilent region. during the past few years the idlers have invented a form of amusement which for sheer atrocity and wanton cruelty is unparalleled in the history of england. i shall say some words about this remarkable amusement, and i trust that gentle women who have in them the heart of compassion, mothers who have sons to be ruined, fathers who have purses to bleed, may aid in putting down an evil that gathers strength every day. most of my readers know what the "sport" of coursing is; but, for the benefit of strictly town-bred folk, i may roughly indicate the nature of the pursuit as it was practised in bygone times. a brace of greyhounds were placed together in the slips--that is, in collars which fly open when the man who holds the dogs releases a knot; and then a line of men moved slowly over the fields. when a hare rose and ran for her life, the slipper allowed her a fair start, and then he released the dogs. the mode of reckoning the merits of the hounds is perhaps a little too complicated for the understanding of non-"sporting" people; but i may broadly put it that the dog which gives the hare most trouble, the dog that causes her to dodge and turn the oftenest in order to save her life, is reckoned the winner. thus the greyhound which reaches the hare first receives two points; poor pussy then makes an agonized rush to right or left, and, if the second dog succeeds in passing his opponent and turning the hare again, he receives a point, and so on. the old-fashioned open-air sport was cruel enough, for it often happened that the hare ran for two or three miles with her ferocious pursuers hard on her track, and every muscle of her body was strained with poignant agony; but there is this to be said--the men had healthy, matchless exercise on breezy plains and joyous uplands, they tramped all day until their limbs were thoroughly exercised, and they earned sound repose by their wholesome exertions. moreover, the element of fair-play enters into coursing when pursued in the open spaces. pussy knows every foot of the ground; nightly she steals gently to the fields where her succulent food is found, and in the morning she steals back again to her tiny nest, or form, amid the soft grass. all day she lies chewing the cud in her fashion, and moving her delicate ears hither and thither, lest fox or stoat or dog should come upon her unawares; and at nightfall she steals away once more. every run, every tuft of grass, every rising of the ground is known to her; and, when at last the tramp of the approaching beaters rouses her, she rushes away with a distinct advantage over the dogs. she knows exactly whither to go; the other animals do not, and usually, on open ground, the quarry escapes. i do not think that any greyhound living could catch one of the hares now left on the suffolk marshes; and there are many on the great wiltshire plains which are quite capable of rushing at top speed for three miles and more. the chase in the open is cruel--there is no denying it--for poor puss dies many deaths ere she bids her enemies good-bye; but still she has a chance for life, and thus the sport, inhuman as it is, has a praiseworthy element of fairness in it. but the betting-man, the foul product of civilization's depravity, cast his eye on the old-fashioned sport and invaded the field. he found the process of walking up the game not much to his taste, for he cares only to exercise his leathern lungs; moreover, the courses were few and far between and the chances of making wagers were scanty. he set himself to meditate, and it struck him that, if a good big collection of hares could be got together, it would be possible to turn them out one by one, so that betting might go on as fast and as merrily on the coursing-ground as at the roulette-table. thus arose a "sport" which is educating many, many thousands in callousness and brutality. here and there over england are dotted great enclosed parks, and the visitor is shown wide and mazy coverts where hares swarm. plenty of food is strewn over the grass, and in the wildest of winters pussy has nothing to fear--until the date of her execution arrives. the animals are not natives of those enclosures; they are netted in droves on the wiltshire plains or on the lancashire moors, and packed off like poultry to the coursing-ground. there their life is calm for a long time; no poachers or lurchers or vermin molest them; stillness is maintained, and the hares live in peace. but one day there comes a roaring crowd to the park, and, though pussy does not know it, her good days are passed. look at the mob that surges and bellows on the stands and in the enclosures. they are well dressed and comfortable, but a more unpleasant gang could not be seen. try to distinguish a single face that shows kindness or goodness--you fail; this rank roaring crowd is made up of betting-men and dupes, and it is hard to say which are the worse. there is no horse-racing in the winter, and so these people have come out to see a succession of innocent creatures die, and to bet on the event. the slow coursing of the old style would not do for the fiery betting-man; but we shall have fun fast and furious presently. the assembly seems frantic; flashy men with eccentric coats and gaudy hats of various patterns stand about and bellow their offers to bet; feverish dupes move hither and thither, waiting for chances; the rustle of notes, the chink of money, sound here and there, and the immense clamour swells and swells, till a stunning roar dulls the senses, and to an imaginative gazer it seems as though a horde of fiends had been let loose to make day hideous. a broad smooth stretch of grass lies opposite to the stands, and at one end of this half-mile stretch there runs a barrier, the bottom of which is fringed with straw and furze. if you examined that barrier, you would find that it really opens into a wide dense copse, and that a hare or rabbit which whisks under it is safe on the far side. at the other side of this field a long fenced lane opens, and seems to be closed at the blind end by a wide door. to the right of the blind lane is a tiny hut surrounded by bushes, and by the side of the hut a few scattered men loaf in a purposeless way. presently a red-coated man canters across the smooth green, and then the diabolical tumult of the stands reaches ear-splitting intensity. your betting-man is cool enough in reality; but he likes to simulate mad eagerness until it appears as though the swollen veins of face or throat would burst. and what is going on at the closed end of that blind lane? on the strip of turf around the wide field the demure trainers lead their melancholy-looking dogs. each greyhound is swathed in warm clothing, but they all look wretched; and, as they pick their way along with dainty steps, no one would guess that the sight of a certain poor little animal would convert each doleful hound into an incarnate fury. two dogs are led across to the little hut--the bellow of the ring sounds hoarsely on--and the chosen pair of dogs disappear behind the shrubs. and now what is passing on the farther side of that door which closes the lane? a hare is comfortably nestling under a clump of furze when a soft step sounds near her. a man! pussy would like to move to right or left; but, lo, here are other men! decidedly she must move forward. oh, joy! a swinging door rises softly, and shows her a delightful long lane that seems to open on to a pleasant open country. she hops gaily onward, and then a little uneasiness overtakes her; she looks back, but that treacherous door has swung down again, and there is only one road for her now. softly she steals onward to the mouth of the lane, and then she finds a slanting line of men who wave their arms at her when she tries to shoot aside. a loud roar bursts from the human animals on the stand, and then a hush falls. now or never, pussy! the far-off barrier must be gained, or all is over. the hare lowers her ears and dashes off; then from the hut comes a staggering man, who hangs back with all his strength as a pair of ferocious dogs writhe and strain in the leash; the hounds rise on their haunches, and paw wildly with their fore-feet, and they struggle forward until puss has gone a fair distance, while the slipper encourages them with low guttural sounds. crack! the tense collars fly, and the arrowy rush of the snaky dogs follows. puss flicks her ears--she hears a thud, thud, wallop, wallop; and she knows the supreme moment has come. her sinews tighten like bowstrings, and she darts on with the lightning speed of despair. the grim pursuers near her; she almost feels the breath of the foremost. twitch!--and with a quick convulsive effort she sheers aside, and her enemy sprawls on. but the second dog is ready to meet her, and she must swirl round again. the two serpentine savages gather themselves together and launch out in wild efforts to reach her; they are upon her--she must dart round again, and does so under the very feet of the baffled dogs. her eyes are starting with overmastering terror; again and again she sweeps from right to left, and again and again the staunch hounds dash along in her track. pussy fails fast; one dog reaches her, and she shrieks as she feels his ferocious jaws touch her; but he snatches only a mouthful of fur, and there is another respite. then at last one of the pursuers balances himself carefully, his wicked head is raised, he strikes, and the long tremulous shriek of despair is drowned in the hoarse crash of cheering from the mob. brave sport, my masters! gallant britons ye are! ah, how i should like to let one of you career over that field of death with a brace of business-like boarhounds behind you! there is no slackening of the fun, for the betting-men must be kept busy. men grow frantic with excitement; young fools who should be at their business risk their money heedlessly, and generally go wrong. if the hares could only know, they might derive some consolation from the certainty that, if they are going to death, scores of their gallant sporting persecutors are going to ruin. time after time, in monotonous succession, the same thing goes on through the day--the agonized hares twirl and strain; the fierce dogs employ their superb speed and strength; the unmanly gang of men howl like beasts of prey; and the sweet sun looks upon all! women, what do you think of that for englishmen's pastime? recollect that the mania for this form of excitement is growing more intense daily; as much as one hundred thousand pounds may depend on a single course--for not only the mob in the stands are betting, but thousands are awaiting each result that is flashed off over the wires; and, although you may be far away in remote country towns, your sons, your husbands, your brothers, may be watching the clicking machine that records the results in club and hotel--they may be risking their substance in a lottery which is at once childish and cruel. there is not one word to be said in favour of this vile game. the old-fashioned courser at least got exercise and air; but the modern betting-man wants neither; he wants only to make wagers and add to his pile of money. for him the coursing meetings cannot come too often; the swarming gudgeons flock to his net; he arranges the odds almost as he chooses--with the help of his friends; and simpletons who do not know a greyhound from a deerhound bet wildly--not on dogs, but on names. the "sport" has all the uncertainty of roulette, and it is villainously cruel into the bargain. amid all those thousands you never hear one word of pity for the stricken little creature that is driven out, as i have said, for execution; they watch her agonies, and calculate the chances of pouching their sovereigns. that is all. here then is another vast engine of demoralization set going, just as if the turf were not a blight of sufficient intensity! a young man ventures into one of those cruel rings, buys a card, and resolves to risk pounds or shillings. if he is unfortunate, he may be saved; but, curiously enough, it often happens that a greenhorn who does not know one greyhound from another blunders into a series of winning bets. if he wins, he is lost, for the fever seizes him; he does not know what odds are against him, and he goes on from deep to deep of failure and disaster. well for him if he escapes entire ruin! i have drawn attention to this new evil because i have peculiar opportunities of studying the inner life of our society, and i find that the gambling epidemic is spreading among the middle-classes. to my mind these coursing massacres should be made every whit as illegal as dog-fighting or bull-baiting, for i can assure our legislators that the temptation offered by the chances of rapid gambling is eating like a corrosive poison into the young generation. surely englishmen, even if they want to bet, need not invent a medium for betting which combines every description of noxious cruelty! i ask the aid of women. let them set their faces against tin's horrid sport, and it will soon be known no more. if the silly bettors themselves could only understand their own position, they might be rescued. let it be distinctly understood that the bookmaker cannot lose, no matter how events may go. on the other hand, the man who makes wagers on what he is pleased to term his "fancies" has everything against him. the chances of his choosing a winner in the odious new sport are hardly to be mathematically stated, and it may be mathematically proved that he must lose. then, apart from the money loss, what an utterly ignoble and unholy pursuit this trapped-hare coursing is for a manly man! surely the heart of compassion in any one not wholly brutalized should be moved at the thought of those cabined, cribbed, confined little creatures that yield up their innocent lives amid the remorseless cries of a callous multitude. poor innocents! is it not possible to gamble without making god's creatures undergo torture? if a man were to turn a cat into a close yard and set dogs upon it, he would be imprisoned, and his name would be held up to scorn. what is the difference between cat and hare? _march, ._ _liberty_. "what things are done in thy name!" the lady who spoke thus of liberty had lived a high and pure life; all good souls were attracted to her; and it seems strange that so sweet and pure and beautiful a creature could have grown up in the vile france of the days before the revolution. she kept up the traditions of gentle and seemly courtesy even at times when sardanapalus danton was perforce admitted to her _salon_; and in an age of suspicion and vile scandal she kept a stainless name, for even the most degraded pamphleteer in paris dared do no more than hint a fault and hesitate dislike. but this lady went to the scaffold with many and many of the young, the beautiful, the brave; and her sombre satire, "what things are done in thy name!" was remembered long afterwards when the despots and the invading alien had in turn placed their feet on the neck of devoted france. "what things are done in thy name!" yes; and we, in this modern world, might vary the saying a little and exclaim, "what things are said in thy name!"--for we have indeed arrived at the era of liberty, and the gospel of rousseau is being preached with fantastic variations by people who think that any speech which apes the forms of logic is reasonable and that any desire which is expressed in a sufficiently loud howl should be at once gratified. we pride ourselves on our knowledge and our reasoning power; but to judicious observers it often seems that those who talk loudest have a very thin vein of knowledge, and no reasoning faculty that is not imitative. by all means let us have "freedom," but let us also consider our terms, and fix the meaning of the things that we say. perhaps i should write "the things that we think we say," because so many of those who make themselves heard do not weigh words at all, and they imagine themselves to be uttering cogent truths when they are really giving us the babble of bedlam. if ladies and gentlemen who rant about freedom would try to emancipate themselves from the dominion of meaningless words, we should all fare better; but we find a large number of public personages using perfectly grammatical series of phrases without dreaming for a moment that their grave sentences are pure gibberish. a few simple questions addressed in the socratic manner to certain lights of thought might do much good. for instance, we might say, "do you ever speak of being free from good health, or free from a good character, or free from prosperity?" i fancy not; and yet copiously talkative individuals employ terms quite as hazy and silly as those which i have indicated. we have gone very far in the direction of scientific discovery, and we have a large number of facts at our disposal; but some of us have quite forgotten that true liberty comes only from submitting to wise guidance. old sandy mackay, in alton locke, declared that he would never bow down to a bit of brains: and this highly-independent attitude is copied by persons who fail to see that bowing to the bit of brains is the only mode of securing genuine freedom. if our daring logicians would grant that every man should have liberty to lead his life as he chooses, so long as he hurts neither himself nor any other individual nor the state, then one might follow their argument; but a plain homespun proposal like that of mine is not enough for your advanced thinker. in england he says, "let us have deliverance from all restrictions;" in russia he says, "anarchy is the only cure for existing evils." for centuries past the earth has been deluged with blood and the children of men have been scourged by miseries unspeakable, merely because powerful men and powerful bodies of men have not chosen to learn the meaning of the word "liberty." "how miserable you make the world for one another, o feeble race of men!" so said our own melancholy english cynic; and he had singularly good reason for his plaint. rapid generalization is nearly always mischievous; unless we learn to form correct and swift judgments on every faculty of life as it comes before us, we merely stumble from error to error. no cut-and-dried maxim ever yet was fit to guide men through their mysterious existence; the formalist always ends by becoming a bungler, and the most highly-developed man, if he is content to be no more than a thinking-machine, is harmful to himself and harmful to the community which has the ill-luck to harbour him. if we take cases from history, we ought to find it easy enough to distinguish between the men who sought liberty wisely and those who were restive and turbulent. a wise man or a wise nation knows the kind of restraint which is good; the fool, with his feather-brained theories, never knows what is good for him--he mistakes eternal justice for tyranny, he rebels against facts that are too solid for him--and we know what kind of an end he meets. some peculiarly daring personages carry their spirit of resistance beyond the bounds of our poor little earth. only lately many of us read with a shock of surprise the passionate asseveration of a gifted woman who declared that it was a monstrous wrong and wickedness that ever she had been born. job said much the same thing in his delirium; but our great novelist put forth her complaint as the net outcome of all her thought and culture. we only need to open an ordinary newspaper to find that the famous writer's folly is shared by many weaker souls; and the effect on the mind of a shrewd and contented man is so startling that it resembles the emotion roused by grotesque wit. the whole story of the ages tells us dismally what happens when unwise people choose to claim the measure of liberty which they think good; but somehow, though knowledge has come, wisdom lingers, and the grim old follies rear themselves rankly among us in the age of reason. when we remember the swiss mountaineers who took their deaths joyously in defence of their homes, when we read of the devoted brave one who received the sheaf of spears in his breast and broke the oppressor's array, none of us can think of mere vulgar rebellion. the swiss were fighting to free themselves from wrongs untold; and we should hold them less than men if they had tamely submitted to be caged like poultry. again, we feel a thrill when we read the epitaph which says, "gladly we would have rested had we won freedom. we have lost, and very gladly rest." the very air of bravery, of steady self-abnegation seems to exhale from the sombre, triumphant words. russia is the chosen home of tyranny now, but her day of brightness will come again. it is safe to prophesy so much, for i remember what happened at one time of supreme peril. prussia and austria and italy lay crushed and bleeding under the awful power of napoleon, and it seemed as though russia must be wiped out from the list of nations when the great army of invaders poured in relentless multitudes over the stricken land. the conqueror appeared to have the very forces of nature in his favour, and his hosts moved on without a check and without a failure of organization. so perfectly had he planned the minutest details that, although his stations were scattered from the beresina to the seine, not so much as a letter was lost during the onward movement. how could the doomed country resist? so thought all europe. but the splendid old russian, the immortal koutousoff, had felt the pulse of his nation, and he was confident, while all the other chiefs felt as though the earth were rocking under them. the time for the extinction of russia had not come; a throb of fierce emotion passed over the country; the people rose like one man, and the despot found himself held in check by rude masses of men for whom death had scant terrors. koutousoff had a mighty people to support him, and he would have swept back the horde of spoilers, even if the winter had not come to his aid. russia was but a dark country then, as now, but the conduct of the myriads who dared to die gave a bright presage for the future. who can blame the multitudes of muscovites who sealed their wild protest with their blood? the common soldiers were but slaves, yet they would have suffered a degradation worse than slavery had they succumbed, while, as to the immense body of people--that nation within a nation--which answered to our upper and middle classes, they would have tasted the same woes which at length drove germany to frenzy and made simple burghers prefer bitter death to the tyranny of the french. the rulers of russia have stained her records foully since the days of , but their worst sins cannot blot out the memory of the national uprising. years are but trivial; seventy-six of them seem a long time; but those who study history broadly know that the dawn of a better future for russia showed its first gleam when the aroused and indignant race rose and went forward to die before the french cannon. when next russia rises, it will be against a tyranny only second to napoleon's in virulence--it will be against the terror that rules her now from within; and her success will be applauded by the world. the italians, who first waited and plotted, and then fought desperately under garibaldi, had every reason to cry out for freedom. if they had remained merely whimpering under the bourbon and austrian whips, they would have deserved to be spurned by all who bear the hearts of men. they were denied the meanest privileges of humanity; they lived in a fashion which was rather like the violent, oppressed, hideous existence which men imagine in evil dreams, and at length they struck, and declared for liberty or annihilation. perhaps they did not gain much in the way of immediate material good, but that only makes their splendid movement the more admirable. they fought for a magnificent idea, and even now, though the populace have to bear a taxation three times as great as any known before in their history, the ordinary italian will say, "yes, signor--the taxes are very heavy; we toil very hard and pay much money; but who counts money? we are a nation now--a real nation; italy is united and free." that is the gist of the matter. the people were bitterly ground down, and they are content to suffer privation in the present so long as they can ensure freedom from alien rule in the future. nothing that the most hardly-entreated briton suffers in any circumstances could equal the agonies of degradation borne by the people of the peninsula, and their emancipation was hailed as if it had been a personal benefaction by all that was wisest and best in european society. the millions who turned out to welcome garibaldi as if he had been an adored sovereign all had a true appreciation of real liberty; the masses were right in their instinct, and it was left for hysterical "thinkers" to shriek their deluded ideas in these later days. "but surely the irish rose for freedom in ?" i can almost imagine some clever correspondent asking me that question with a view to taking me in a neat trap. it is true enough that the irish rose; but here again we must learn to discriminate between cases. how did the wild folk rise? did they go out like the thousand of marsala and pit themselves against odds of five and six to one? did they show any chivalry? alas for the wicked story! the rebels behaved like cruel wild beasts; they were worse than polecats in an aviary, and they met with about the same resistance as the polecats would meet. they stripped the ulster farmers and their families naked, and sent them out in the bitter weather; they hung on the skirts of the agonized crowd; the men cut down the refugees wholesale, and even the little boys of the insurgent party were taught to torture and kill the unhappy children of the flying farmers. poor little infants fell in the rear of the doomed host, but no mother was allowed to succour her dying offspring, and the innocents expired in unimaginable suffering. the stripped fugitives crowded into dublin, and there the plague carried them off wholesale. the rebels had gained liberty with a vengeance, and they had their way for ten years and more. their liberty was degraded by savagery; they ruled ireland at their own sweet will; they dwelt in anarchy until the burden of their iniquity grew too grievous for the earth to bear. then their villainous freedom was suddenly ended by no less a person than oliver cromwell, and the curses, the murders, the unspeakable vileness of ten bad years all were atoned for in wild wrath and ruin. now is it not marvellous that, while the murderers were free, they were poverty-stricken and most wretched? as soon as cromwell's voice had ceased to pronounce the doom on the unworthy, the great man began his work of regeneration; and under his iron hand the country which had been miserable in freedom became prosperous, happy, and contented. there is no mistaking the facts, for men of all parties swore that the six years which followed the storm of drogheda were the best in all ireland's history. had cromwell only lived longer, or had there been a man fit to follow him, then england and ireland would be happier this day. in our social life the same conditions hold for the individual as hold for nations in the assembly of the world's peoples. freedom--true freedom--means liberty to live a beneficent and innocent life. as soon as an individual chooses to set up as a law to himself, then we have a right--nay, it is our bounden duty--to examine his pretensions. if the sense of the wisest in our community declares him unfit to issue dicta for the guidance of men, then we must promptly suppress him; if we do not, our misfortunes are on our own heads. the "independent" man may cry out about liberty and the rest as much as he likes, but we cannot afford to heed him. we simply say, "you foolish person, liberty, as you are pleased to call it, would be poison to you. the best medicines for your uneasy mind are reproof and restraint; if those fail to act on you, then we must try what the lash will do for you." let us have liberty for the wise and the good--we know them well enough when we see them; and no sophist dare in his heart declare that any charlatan ever mastered men permanently. liberty for the wise and good--yes, and wholesome discipline for the foolish and froward--sagacious guidance for all. of course, if a man or a community is unable to choose a guide of the right sort, then that man or community is doomed, and we need say no more of either. i keep warily out of the muddy conflict of politics; but i will say that the cries of certain apostles of liberty seem woful and foolish. unhappy shriekers, whither do they fancy they are bound? is it to some land of beulah, where they may gambol unrestrained on pleasant hills? the shriekers are all wrong, and the best friend of theirs, the best friend of humanity, is he who will teach them--sternly if need be--that liberty and license are two widely different things. _august, ._ _equality_. one of the strangest shocks which the british traveller can experience occurs to him when he makes his first acquaintance with the american servant--especially the male servant. the quiet domineering european is stung out of his impassivity by a sort of moral stab which disturbs every faculty, unless he is absolutely stunned and left gasping. in england, the quiet club servant waits with dignity and reserve, but he is obedient to the last degree, and his civility reaches the point of absolute polish. when he performs a service his air is impassive, but if he is addressed his face assumes a quietly good-humoured expression, and he contrives to make his temporary employer feel as though it was a pleasure to attend upon him. all over our country we find that politeness between employer and servant is mutual. here and there we find a well-dressed ruffian who thinks he is doing a clever thing when he bullies a servant; but a gentleman is always considerate, quiet, respectful; and he expects consideration, quietness, and respect from those who wait upon him. the light-footed, cheerful young women who serve in hotels and private houses are nearly always charmingly kind and obliging without ever descending to familiarity; in fact, i believe that, if england be taken all round, it will be found that female post-office clerks are the only servants who are positively offensive. they are spoiled by the hurried, captious, tiresome persons who haunt post-offices at all hours, and in self-defence they are apt to convert themselves into moral analogues of the fretful porcupine. perhaps the queenly dames in railway refreshment-rooms are almost equal to the post-office damsels; but both classes are growing more good-natured--thanks to charles dickens, mr. sullivan, and mr. _punch_. but the american servant exhibits no such weakness as civility; he is resolved to let you know that you are in the country of equality, and, in order to do that effectually, he treats you as a grovelling inferior. you ask a civil question, and he flings his answer at you as he would fling a bone at a dog. every act of service which he performs comes most ungraciously from him, and he usually contrives to let you plainly see two things--first, he is ashamed of his position; secondly, he means to take a sort of indirect revenge on you in order to salve his lacerated dignity. a young english peer happened to ask a chicago servant to clean a pair of boots, and his tone of command was rather pronounced and definite. that young patrician began to doubt his own identity when he was thus addressed--"ketch on and do them yourself!" there was no redress, no possible remedy, and finally our compatriot humbled himself to a negro, and paid an exorbitant price for his polish. here we have an absurdity quite fairly exposed. the young american student who acts as a reporter or waiter during his college vacation is nearly always a respectful gentleman who neither takes nor allows a liberty; but the underbred boor, keen as he is about his gratuities, will take even your gifts as though he were an asiatic potentate, and the traveller a passing slave whose tribute is condescendingly received. in a word, the servant goes out of his way to prove that, in his own idea, he is quite fit to be anybody's master. the declaration of independence informs us that all men are born equal; the transatlantic servant takes that with a certain reservation, for he implies that, though men may be equal in a general way, yet, so far as he is concerned, he prefers to reckon himself the superior of anybody with whom business brings him into contact. it was in america that i first began to meditate on the problem of equality, and i have given it much thought at intervals during several years. the great difficulty is to avoid repeating stale commonplaces on the matter. the robust briton bellows, "equality! divide up all the property in the world equally among the inhabitants, and there would be rich and poor, just as before, within a week!" the robust man thinks that settles the whole matter at once. then we have the stock story of the three practical communists who forced themselves upon the society of baron rothschild, and explained their views at some length. the baron said: "gentlemen, i have made a little calculation, and i find that, if i divided my property equally among my fellow-citizens, your share would be one florin each. oblige me by accepting that sum at once, and permit me to wish you good-morning." this was very neat in its way, but i want to talk just a little more seriously of a problem which concerns the daily life of us all, and affects our mental health, our placidity, and our self-respect very intimately. in the first place, we have to consider the deplorable exhibitions made by poor humanity whenever equality has been fairly insisted on in any community. the frenchmen of thought that a great principle had been asserted when the president of the convention said to the king, "you may sit down, louis." it seemed fine to the gallery when the queenly marie antoinette was addressed as the widow capet; but what a poor business it was after all! the howling familiarity of the mob never touched the real dignity of the royal woman, and their brutality was only a murderous form of yankee servant's mean "independence." i cannot treat the subject at all without going into necessary subtleties which never occurred to an enraged mob or a bloodthirsty and insolent official; i cannot accept the bald jeers of a comfortable, purse-proud citizen as being of any weight, and i am just as loath to heed the wire-drawn platitudes of the average philosopher. if we accept the very first maxim of biology, and agree that no two individuals of any living species are exactly alike, we have a starting-point from which we can proceed to argue sensibly. we may pass over the countless millions of inequalities which we observe in the lower orders of living things: and there is no need to emphasize distinctions which are plain to every child. when we come to speak of the race of men we reach the only concern which has a passionate and vital interest for us; even the amazing researches and conclusions of the naturalists have no attraction for us unless they throw a light, no matter how oblique, on our mysterious being and our mysterious fate. the law which regulates the differentiation of species applies with especial significance when we consider the birth of human individuals; the law which ordains that out of countless millions of animalculae which once shed their remains on the floor of the deep sea, or that now swarm in any pond, there shall be no two alike, holds accurately for the myriads of men who are born and pass away. the type is the same; there are fixed resemblances, but exact similarity never. the struggle for existence, no matter what direction it may take, always ends in the singling out of individuals who, in some respect or other, are worthy to survive, while the weak perish and the elements of their bodies go to form new individuals. it soon becomes plain that the crazy cry for equality is really only a weak protest against the hardships of the battle for existence. the brutes have not attained to our complexity of brain; ideas are only rudimentary with them, and they decide the question of superiority by rude methods. two lions fight until one is laid low; the lioness looks calmly on until the little problem of superiority is settled, and then she goes off with the victor. the horses on the pampas have their set battles until one has asserted his mastery over the herd, and then the defeated ones cower away abjectly, and submit themselves meekly to their lord. all the male animals are given to issuing challenges in a very self-assertive manner, and the object is the same in every case. but we are far above the brutes; we have that mysterious, immaterial ally of the body, and our struggles are settled amid bewildering refinements and subtleties and restrictions. in one quarter, power of the soul gives its possessor dominion; in another, only the force of the body is of any avail. if we observe the struggles of savages, we see that the idea of equality never occurs to half-developed men; the chief is the strong man, and his authority can be maintained only by strength or by the influence that strength gives. as the brute dies out of man, the conditions of life's warfare become so complex that no one living could frame a generalization without finding himself at once faced by a million of exceptions that seem to negative his rule. who was the most powerful man in england in queen anne's day? marlborough was an unmatched fighter; bolingbroke was an imaginative and masterful statesman; there were thousands of able and strong warriors; but the one who was the most respected and feared was that tiny cripple whose life was a long disease. alexander pope was as frail a creature as ever managed to support existence; he rarely had a moment free from pain; he was so crooked and aborted that a good-hearted woman like lady mary wortley montagu was surprised into a sudden fit of laughter when he proposed marriage to her. yet how he was feared! the only one who could match him was that raging giant who wrote "gulliver," and the two men wielded an essential power greater than that of the first minister. the terrible atossa, sarah, duchess of marlborough, shrank from contact with pope, while for a long time the ablest men of the political sets approached swift like lackeys. one power was made manifest by the waspish verse-maker and the powerful satirist, and each was acknowledged as a sort of monarch. it would be like playing at paradoxes if i went on to adduce many mysteries and contradictions that strike us when we consider man's dominion over man. we can only come to the same conclusion if we bring forward a million of instances; we can only see that the whole human race, individual by individual, are separated one from the other by differences more or less minute, and wherever two human beings are placed together one must inevitably begin to assert mastery over the other. the method of self-assertion may be that of the athlete, or that of the intriguer, or that of the clear-sighted over the purblind, or that of the subtle over the simple; it matters not, the effort for mastery may be made either roughly or gently, or subtly, or even clownishly, but made it will be. would it not be better to cease babbling of equality altogether, and to try to accept the laws of life with some submission? the mistake of rabid theorists lies in their supposition that the assertion of superiority by one person necessarily inflicts wrong on another, whereas it is only the mastery obtained by certain men over others that makes the life of the civilized human creature bearable. the very servant who is insolent while performing his duty only dares to exhibit rudeness because he is sure of protection by law. all men are equal before the law. yes--but how was the recognition of equality enforced? simply by the power of the strong. no monarch in the world would venture to deal out such measure to our rude servitor as was dealt by clovis to one of his men. the king regarded himself as being affronted by his soldier, and he wiped out the affront to his own satisfaction by splitting his follower's head in twain. but the civilized man is secured by a bulwark of legality built up by strong hands, and manned, like the great roman walls, by powerful legionaries of the law. in this law of england, if a peer and a peasant fight out a cause the peer has the advantage of the strength given by accumulated wealth--that is one example of our multifarious complexities; but the judge is stronger than either litigant, and it is the inequality personified by the judge that makes the safety of the peasant. in our ordered state, the strong have forced themselves into positions of power; they have decided that the coarseness of brutish conflict is not to be permitted, and one ruling agency is established which rests on force, and force alone, but which uses or permits the use of force only in cases of extremity. we know that the foundation of all law is martial law, or pure force; we know that when a judge says, "you shall be hanged," the convict feels resistance useless, for behind the ushers and warders and turnkeys there are the steel and bullet of the soldier. thus it appears that even in the sanctuary of equality--in the law court--the life and efficiency of the place depend on the assertion of one superior strength--that is, on the assertion of inequality. if we choose to address each other as "citizen," or play any fooleries of that kind, we make no difference. citizen jourdain may go out equipped in complete _carmagnole_, and he may refuse to doff his red cap to any dignitary breathing; but all the while citizen barras is wielding the real power, and citizen buonaparte is awaiting his turn in the background. all the swagger of equality will avail nothing when citizen buonaparte gets his chance; and the very men who talked loudest about the reign of equality are the most ready to bow down and worship the strong. instead of ostentatiously proclaiming that one man is as good as another--and better, we should devote ourselves to finding out who are our real superiors. when the true man is found he will not stand upon petty forms; and no one will demand such punctilios of him. he will treat his brethren as beings to be aided and directed, he will use his strength and his wisdom as gifts for which he must render an account, and the trivialities of etiquette will count as nothing. when the street orator yells, "who is our ruler? is he not flesh and blood like us? are not many of us above him?" he may possibly be stating truth. it would have been hard to find any street-lounger more despicable than bomba or more foolish than poor louis xvi; but the method of oratory is purely destructive, and it will be much more to the purpose if the street firebrand gives his audience some definite ideas as to the man who ought to be chosen as leader. if we have the faculty for recognizing our best man, all chatter about equalities and inequalities must soon drop into silence. when the ragged suwarrow went about among his men and talked bluffly with the raw recruits, there was no question of equality in any squad, for the tattered, begrimed man had approved himself the wisest, most audacious, and most king-like of all the host; and he could afford to despise appearances. no soldier ventured to think of taking a liberty; every man reverenced the rough leader who could think and plan and dare. frederick wandered among the camp-fires at night, and sat down with one group after another of his men. he never dreamed of equality, nor did the rude soldiers. the king was greatest; the men were his comrades, and all were bound to serve the fatherland--the sovereign by offering sage guidance, the men by following to the death. no company of men ever yet did worthy work in the world when the notion of equality was tried in practice; and no kind of effort, for evil or for good, ever came to anything so long as those who tried did not recognize the rule of the strongest or wisest. even the scoundrel buccaneers of the spanish main could not carry on their fiendish trade without sinking the notion of equality, and the simple quakers, the society of friends, with all their straitened ideas, have been constantly compelled to recognize one head of their body, even though they gave him no distinctive title. our business is to see that every man has his due as far as possible, and not more than his due. the superior must perceive what is the degree of deference which must be rendered to the inferior; the inferior must put away envy and covetousness, and must learn to bestow, without servility, reverence and obedience where reverence and obedience may be rightfully offered. _august, ._ _fraternity_. so far as we can see it appears plain that the wish for brotherhood was on the whole reasonable, and its fulfilment easier than the wild desire for liberty and equality. no doubt omar and cromwell and hoche and dumouriez have chosen in their respective times an odd mode of spreading the blessings of fraternity. it is a little harsh to say to a man, "be my brother or i will cut your head off;" but we fear that men of the stamp of mahomet, cromwell, and the french jacobins were given to offering a choice of the alternatives named. perhaps we may be safe if we take the roughness of the mere proselytizers as an evidence of defective education; they had a dim perception of a beautiful principle, but they knew of no instrument with which they could carry conviction save the sword. we, with our better light, can well understand that brotherhood should be fostered among men; we are all children of one father, and it is fitting that we should reverently acknowledge the universal family tie. the founder of our religion was the earliest preacher of the divine gospel of pity, and it is to him that we owe the loveliest and purest conception of brotherhood. he claimed to be the brother of us all; he showed how we should treat our brethren, and he carried his teaching on to the very close of his life. so far from talking puerilities about equality, we should all see that there are degrees in our vast family; the elder and stronger brethren are bound to succour the younger and weaker; the young must look up to their elders; and the father of all will perhaps preserve peace among us if we only forget our petty selves and look to him. alas, it is so hard to forget self! the dullest of us can see how excellent and divine is brotherhood, if we do assuredly carry out the conception of fraternity thoroughly; but again i say, how hard it is to banish self and follow the teaching of our divine brother! if we cast our eyes over the world now, we may see--perhaps indistinctly--things that might make us weep, were it not that we must needs smile at the childish ways of men. in the very nation that first chose to put forward the word "fraternity" as one of the symbols for which men might die we see a strange spectacle. half that nation is brooding incessantly on revenge; half the nation is bent only on slaying certain brother human beings who happen to live on the north and east of a certain river instead of on the south and west. the home of the solacing doctrine of fraternity is also the home of incessant preparations for murder, rapine, bitter and brutal vengeance. about a million of men rise every morning and spend the whole day in practising so that they may learn to kill people cleverly; hideous instruments, which must cause devastation, torture, bereavement, and wreck, should they ever be used in earnest, are lovingly handled by men who hope to see blood flow before long. the frenchman cannot yet venture to smite his teutonic brother, but he will do so when he has the chance; and thus two bands of brethren, who might have dwelt together amicably, may shortly end by inflicting untold agonies on each other. both nations which so savagely await the beginning of a mad struggle are supposed to be followers of the brother whose sweet message is read and repeated by nearly all the men who live on our continent, yet they only utter bitter words and think sullen thoughts, while the more acrid of the two adversaries is the country which once inscribed "brotherhood" on its very banners. all round the arena wherein the two great peoples defy each other the nations wait anxiously for the delivery of the first stroke that shall give the signal for wrath and woe; and, strangely, no one can tell which of the onlookers is the more fervent professor of our master's faith. "let brotherly love continue!"--that was the behest laid on us all; and we manifest our brotherly love by invoking the spirit of murder. we know what exquisite visions floated around the twelve who first founded the church on the principle of fraternity. no brother was to be left poor; all were to hold goods in common; every man should work for what he could, and receive what he needed; but evil crept in, and dissension and heart-burning, and ever since then the best of our poor besotted human race have been groping blindly after fraternity and finding it never. i always deprecate bitter or despondent views, or exaggerating the importance of our feeble race--for, after all, the whole time during which man has existed on earth is but as a brief swallow-flight compared with the abysmal stretches of eternity; but i confess that, when i see the flower of our race trained to become killers of men and awaiting the opportunity to exercise their murderous arts i feel a little sick at heart. even they are compelled to hear the commands of the lovely gospel of fraternity, and, unless they die quickly in the fury of combat, their last moments are spent in listening to the same blessed words. it seems so mad and dreamlike that i have found myself thinking that, despite all our confidence, the world may be but a phantasmagoria, and ourselves, with our flesh that seems so solid, may be no more than fleeting wraiths. there is no one to rush between the scowling nations, as the poor hermit did between the gladiators in wicked rome; there is no one to say, "poor, silly peasant from pleasant france, why should you care to stab and torment that other poor flaxen-haired simpleton from silesia? your fields await you; if you were left to yourselves, then you and the silesian would be brothers, worshipping like trusting children before the common father of us all. and now you can find nothing better to do than to do each other to death!" like the sanguine creatures who carried out the revolutionary movements of , , , and , the weak among us are apt to cry out--"surely the time of fraternity has come at last!" then, when the murderous empire, or the equally murderous republic, or the grim military despotism arrives instead of fraternity, the weak ones are smitten with confusion. i pity them, for a bitterness almost as of death must be lived through before one learns that god indeed doeth all things well. the poor revolutionists thought that they must have rapid changes, and their hysterical visions appeared to them like perfectly wise and accurate glances into the future. they were in a hurry, forgetting that we cannot change our marvellous society on a sudden, any more than we can change a single tissue of our bodies on a sudden--hence their frantic hopes and frantic despair. if we gaze coolly round, we see that, in spite of a muttering, threatening france and a watchful germany, in spite of the huge russian storm-cloud that lowers heavily over europe, in spite of the venomous intrigues with which austria is accredited, there are still cheerful symptoms to be seen, and it may happen that the very horror of war may at last drive all men to reject it, and declare for fraternity. look at that very france which is now so electric with passion and suspicion, and compare it with the france of long ago. the gaul now thinks of killing the teuton; but in the time of the good king henry iv. he delighted in slaying his brother gaul. the race who now only care to turn their hands against a rival nation once fought among themselves like starving rats in a pit. even in the most polished society the men used to pick quarrels to fight to the death. in one year of king henry's reign nine thousand french gentlemen were killed in duels! bad as we are, we are not likely to return to such a state of things as then was seen. the men belonged to one nation, and they ought to have banded together so that no foreign foe might take advantage of them; and yet they chose rather to slaughter each other at the rate of nearly one hundred and ninety per week. certainly, so far as france is concerned, we can see some improvement; for, although the cowardly and abominable practice of duelling is still kept up, only one man was killed during the past twelve months, instead of nine thousand. in england we have had nearly two hundred years of truce from civil wars; in germany the sections of the populace have at any rate stopped fighting among themselves; in italy there are no longer the shameful feuds of guelf and ghibelline. it would seem, then, that civil strife is passing away, and that countries which were once the prey of bloodthirsty contending factions are now at least peaceful within their own borders. if we reason from small things to great, we see that the squabbling nests of murderers, or would-be murderers, who peopled france, england, germany, austria, and italy have given way to compact nations which enjoy unbroken internal peace. the struggles of business go on; the weak are trampled under foot in the mad rush of the cities of men, but the actual infliction of pain and death is not now dreamed of by frenchman against frenchman or german against german. we must remember that there never was so deadly and murderous a spirit displayed as during the thirty years' war, and yet the peoples who then wrestled and throttled each other are now peaceful under the same yoke. may we not trust that a time will come when nations will see on a sudden the blank folly of making war? day by day the pressure of armaments is growing greater, and we may almost hope that the very fiendish nature of modern weapons may bring about a blessed _reductio ad absurdum_, and leave war as a thing ludicrous, and not to be contemplated by sane men! i find one gun specially advertised in our christian country, and warranted to kill as many men in one minute as two companies of infantry could in five! what will be the effect of the general introduction of this delightful weapon? no force can possibly stand before it; no armour or works can keep out the hail of its bullets. supposing, then, that benevolent science goes on improving the means of slaughter, must there not come a time when people will utterly refuse to continue the mad and miserable folly of war? over the whole of britain we may find even now the marks of cannon-shot discharged by englishmen against the castles of other englishmen. is there one man in britain who can at this present moment bring his imagination to conceive such an occurrence as an artillery fight between bodies of englishmen? it is almost too absurd to be named even as a casual supposition. so far has fraternity spread. now, if we go on perfecting dynamite shells which can destroy one thousand men by one explosion; if we increase the range of our guns from twelve miles to twenty, and fight our pieces according to directions signalled from a balloon, we shall be going the very best way to make all men rise with one spasm of disgust, and say, "no more of this!" we cannot hope to do away with evil speaking, with verbal quarrelling, with mean grasping of benefits from less fortunate brethren. alas, the reign of brotherhood will be long in eradicating the primeval combative instinct; but, when we compare the quiet urbanity of a modern gathering with the loud and senseless brawling which so often resulted from social assemblies even at the beginning of this century we may take some heart and hope on for the best. our lord had a clear vision of a time when bitterness and evil-doing should cease, and his words are more than a shadowy prediction. the fact is that, in striving gradually to introduce the third of the conditions of life craved by the poor feather-witted frenchmen, the nations have a comparatively easy task. we cannot have equality, physical conditions having too much to do with giving the powers and accomplishments of men; we can only claim liberty under the supreme guidance of our creator; but fraternity is quite a possible consummation. our greatest hero held it as the englishman's first duty to hate a frenchman as he hated the devil; now that mad and cankered feeling has passed away, and why should not the spread of common sense, common honesty, bring us at last to see that our fellow-man is better when regarded as a brother than as a possible assassin or thief? our corporate life and progress as nations, or even as a race of god's creatures, is much like the life and progress of the individual. the children of men stumble often, fall often, despair often, and yet the great universal movement goes on, and even the degeneracy which must always go on side by side with progress does not appreciably stay our advance. the individual man cannot walk even twenty steps without actually saving himself by a balancing movement from twenty falls. every step tends to become an ignominious tumble, and yet our poor body may very easily move at the rate of four miles per hour, and we gain our destinations daily. the human race, in spite of many slips, will go on progressing towards good--that is, towards kindness--that is, towards fraternity--that is, towards the gospel, which at present seems so wildly and criminally neglected. the mild and innocent anarcharsis clootz, who made his way over the continent of europe, and who came to our little island, in his day always believed that the time for the federation of mankind would come. poor fellow--he died under the murderous knife of the guillotine and did little to further his beautiful project! he was esteemed a harmless lunatic; yet, notwithstanding the twelve millions of armed men who trample europe, i do not think that clootz was quite a lunatic after all. moreover, all men know that right must prevail, and they know also that there is not a human being on earth who does not believe by intuition that the gospel of brotherhood is right, even as the life of its propounder was holy. the way is weary toward the quarter where the rays of dawn will first break over the shoulder of the earth. we walk on hoping, and, even if we fall by the way, and all our hopes seem to be tardy of fruition, yet others will hail the slow dawn of brotherhood when all now living are dead and still. _september, ._ _little wars_. just at this present our troops are engaged in fighting various savage tribes in various parts of the world, and the humorous journalist speaks of the affairs as "little wars." there is something rather gruesome in this airy flippancy proceeding from comfortable gentlemen who are in nice studies at home. the burmese force fights, marches, toils in an atmosphere which would cause some of the airy critics to faint; the thibetan force must do as much climbing as would satisfy the average alpine performer; and all the soldiers carry their lives in their hands. what is a little war? is any war little to a man who loses his life in it? i imagine that when a wounded fighter comes to face his last hour he regards the particular war in which he is engaged as quite the most momentous affair in the world so far as he is concerned. to me the whole spectacle of the little wars is most grave, both as regards the nation and as regards the individual britons who must suffer and fall. our destiny is heavy upon us; we must "dree our weirde," for we have begun walking on the road of conquest, and we must go forward or die. the man who has the wolf by the ears cannot let go his hold; we cannot slacken our grip on anything that once we have clutched. but it is terrible to see how we are bleeding at the extremities. i cannot give the figures detailing our losses in little wars during the past forty years, but they are far worse than we incurred in the world-shaking fight of waterloo. incessantly the drip, drip of national blood-shedding goes on, and no end seems to be gained, save the grim consciousness that we must suffer and never flinch. the graves of our best and dearest--our hardy loved ones--are scattered over the ends of the earth, and the little wars are answerable for all. england, in her blundering, half-articulate fashion, answers, "yes, they had to die; their mother asked for their blood, and they gave it." so then from scores of punctures the life-blood of the mother of nations drops, and each new bloodshed leads to yet further bloodshed, until the deadly series looks endless. we sent burnes to cabul, and we betrayed him in the most dastardly way by the mouth of a minister. england, the great mother, was not answerable for that most unholy of crimes; it was the talking men, the glib parliament cowards. burnes was cut to pieces and an army lost. crime brings forth crime, and thus we had to butcher more afghans. every inch of india has been bought in the same way; one war wins territory which must be secured by another war, and thus the inexorable game is played on. in africa we have fared in the same way, and thus from many veins the red stream is drained, and yet the proud heart of the mother continues to beat strongly. it is so hard for men to die; it is as hard for the zulu and the afghan and the ghoorka as it is for the civilized man, and that is why i wish it were britain's fortune to be allowed to cease from the shedding of blood. if the corpses of the barbarians whom we have destroyed within the past ten years could only be laid out in any open space and shown to our populace, there would be a shudder of horror felt through the country; yet, while the sweet bells chime to us about peace and goodwill, we go on sending myriads of men out of life, and the nation pays no more heed to that steady ruthless killing than it does to the slaughter of oxen. alas! then, if we think of the lot of those who fight for us and slaughter our hapless enemies by deputy as it were, their luck seems very hard. when the steady lines moved up the alma slope and the men were dropping so fast, the soldiers knew that they were performing their parts as in a vast theatre; their country would learn the story of their deed, and the feats of individuals would be amply recorded. but, when a man spends months in a far-off rocky country, fighting day after day, watching night after night, and knowing that at any moment the bullet of a prowling ghilzai or afridi may strike him, he has very little consolation indeed. when one comes to think of the matter from the humorous point of view--though there is more grim fact than fun in it--it does seem odd that we should be compelled to spend two thousand pounds on an officer's education, and then send him where he may be wiped out of the world in an instant by a savage little above the level of the bushman. i pity the poor savages, but i certainly pity the refined and highly-trained english soldier more. the latest and most delightful of our anglo-indians has put the matter admirably in verse which carries a sting even amidst its pathos. he calls his verses "arithmetic on the frontier." a great and glorious thing it is to learn for seven years or so the lord knows what of that or this, ere reckoned fit to face the foe, the flying bullet down the pass, that whistles clear, "all flesh is grass." three hundred pounds per annum spent on making brain and body meeter for all the murderous intent comprised in villainous saltpetre! and after--ask the yusufzaies what comes of all our 'ologies. a scrimmage in a border station, a canter down some dark defile-- two thousand pounds of education drops to a ten-rupee jezail! the crammer's boast, the squadron's pride shot like a rabbit in a ride. no proposition euclid wrote, no formulae the text-book know, will turn the bullet from your coat or ward the tulwar's downward blow; strike hard who cares--shoot straight who can-- the odds are on the cheaper man. one sword-knot stolen from the camp will pay for all the school expenses of any kurrum valley scamp who knows no word of moods and tenses, but, being blessed with perfect sight, picks off our messmates left and right. with home-bred hordes the hillsides teem; the troop-ships bring us one by one, at vast expense of time and steam, to slay afridis where they run. the captives of our bow and spear are cheap, alas, as we are dear! there is a world of meaning in those half-sad, half-smiling lines, and many an hour-long discourse might fail to throw more lurid light on one of the strangest historical problems in the world. the flower of england's manhood must needs go; and our most brilliant scholars, our boldest riders, our most perfect specimens of physical humanity drop like rabbits to the fire of half-naked savages! the bright boy, the hero of school and college, the brisk, active officer, passes away into obscurity. the mother weeps--perhaps some one nearer and dearer than all is stricken: but the dead englishman's name vanishes from memory like a fleck of haze on the side of the valley where he sleeps. england--cold, inexorable, indifferent--has other sons to take the dead man's place and perhaps share his obscurity; and the doomed host of fair gallant youths moves forward ever in serried, fearless lines towards the shadows. that is what it costs to be a mighty nation. it is sorrowful to think of the sacrificed men--sacrificed to fulfil england's imposing destiny; it is sorrowful to think of the mourners who cannot even see their darling's grave; yet there is something grandiose and almost morbidly impressive in the attitude of britain. she waves her imperial hand and says, "see what my place in the world is! my bravest, my most skilful, may die in a fight that is no more than a scuffling brawl; they go down to the dust of death unknown, but the others come on unflinching. it is hard that i should part with my precious sons in mean warfare, but the fates will have it so, and i am equal to the call of fate." thus the sovereign nation. those who have no very pompous notions are willing to recognize the savage grandeur of our advance; but i cannot help thinking of the lonely graves, the rich lives squandered, the reckless casting away of human life, which are involved in carrying out our mysterious mission in the great peninsula. our graves are spread thickly over the deadly plains; our brightest and best toil and suffer and die, and they have hardly so much as a stone to mark their sleeping-place; our blood has watered those awful stretches from the himalayas to comorin, and we may call hindostan the graveyard of britain's noblest. people who see only the grizzled veterans who lounge away their days at cheltenham or brighton think that the fighting trade must be a very nice one after all. to retire at fifty with a thousand a year is very pleasant no doubt; but then every one of those war-worn gentlemen who returns to take his ease represents a score who have perished in fights as undignified as a street brawl. "more legions!" said varus; "more legions!" says england; and our regiments depart without any man thinking of _morituri te salittant!_ yes; that phrase might well be in the mind of every british man who fares down the red sea and enters the indian furnace. those about to die, salute thee, o england, our mother! is it worth while? sometimes i have my doubts. moreover, i never talk with one of our impassive, masterful anglo-indians without feeling sorry that their splendid capacities should be so often cast into darkness, and their fame confined to the gossip of a clump of bungalows. verily our little wars use up an immense quantity of raw material in the shape of intellect and power. a man whose culture is far beyond that of the mouthing politicians at home and whose statesmanship is not to be compared to the ignorant crudities of the pigmies who strut and fret on the english party stage--this man spends great part of a lifetime in ruling and fighting; he gives every force of a great intellect and will to his labours, and he achieves definite and beneficent practical results; yet his name is never mentioned in england, and any vulgar vestryman would probably outweigh him in the eyes of the populace. carlyle says that we should despise fame. "do your work," observes the sage, "and never mind the rest. when your duty is done, no further concern rests with you." and then the aged thinker goes on to snarl at puny creatures who are not content to be unknown. well, that is all very stoical and very grand, and so forth; but carlyle forgot human nature. he himself raged and gnashed his teeth because the world neglected him, and i must with every humility ask forgiveness of his _manes_ if i express some commiseration for the unknown braves who perish in our little wars. our callousness as individuals can hardly be called lordly, though the results are majestic; we accept supreme services, and we accept the supreme sacrifice (skin for skin: all that a man hath will he give for his life), and we very rarely think fit to growl forth a chance word of thanks. luckily our splendid men are not very importunate, and most of them accept with silent humour the neglect which befalls them. an old fighting general once remarked, "these fellows are in luck since the telegraph and the correspondents have been at work. we weren't so fortunate in my day. i went through the crimea and the mutiny, and there was yet another affair in that was hotter than either, so far as close fighting and proportional losses of troops were concerned. a force of three thousand was sent against the afghans, and they never gave us much rest night or day. they seemed determined to give their lives away, and they wouldn't be denied. i've seen them come on and grab at the muzzles of the rifles. we did a lot of fighting behind rough breastworks, but sometimes they would rush us then. we lost thirty officers out of thirty-four before we were finished. well, when i came home and went about among the clubs, the fellows used to say to me, 'what was this affair of yours up in the hills? we had no particulars except the fact that you were fighting.' and that expedition cost ten times as many men as your egyptian one, besides causing six weeks of almost constant fighting; yet not a newspaper had a word to say about it! we never grumbled much--it was all in the day's work; but it shows how men's luck varies." there spoke the old fighter, "duty first, and take your chance of the rest." true; but could not one almost wish that those forlorn heroes who saved our frontier from savage hordes might have gained just a little of that praise so dear to the frivolous mind of man? it was not to be; the dead men's bones have long ago sunk into the kindly earth, the wind flows down the valleys, and the fighters sleep in the unknown glens and on far-distant hillsides with no record save the curt clerk's mark in the regimental list--"dead." when i hear the merry pressman chatting about little wars and proudly looking down on "mere skirmishes," i cannot restrain a movement of impatience. are our few dead not to be considered because they were few? supposing they had swarmed forward in some great battle of the west and died with thousands of others amid the hurricane music of hundreds of guns, would the magnitude of the battle make any difference? honour to those who risk life and limb for england; honour to them, whether they die amid loud battle or in the far-away dimness of a little war! _september, ._ _the british festival_. again and again i have talked about the delights of leisure, and i always advise worn worldlings to renew their youth and gain fresh ideas amid the blessed calm of the fields and the trees. but i lately watched an immense procession of holiday-makers travelling mile after mile in long-drawn sequence--and the study caused me to have many thoughts. there was no mistake about the intentions of the vast mob. they started with a steadfast resolution to be jolly--and they kept to their resolution so long as they were coherent of mind. it was a strange sight--a population probably equal to half that of scotland all plunged into a sort of delirium and nearly all forgetting the serious side of life. as i gazed on the frantic assembly, i wondered how the english ever came to be considered a grave solid nation; i wondered, moreover, how a great percentage of men representing a nation of conquerors, explorers, administrators, inventors, should on a sudden decide to go mad for a day. perhaps, after all, the catchword "merry england" meant really "mad england"; perhaps the good days which men mourned for after the grim shade of puritanism came over the country were neither more nor less than periods of wild orgies; perhaps we have reason to be thankful that the national carnivals do not now occur very often. our ancestors had a very peculiar idea of what constituted a merry-making, and there are many things in ancient art and literature which tempt us to fancy that a certain crudity distinguished the festivals of ancient days; but still the latter-day frolic in all its monstrous proportions is not to be studied by a philosophic observer without profoundly moving thoughts arising. as i gazed on the endless flow of travellers, i could hardly help wondering how the mob would conduct themselves during any great social convulsion. some gushing persons talk about the good humour and orderliness of the british crowd. well, i allow that the better class of holiday-makers exhibit a kind of rough good nature; but, whenever "sport" is in question, we find that a certain class come to the front--a class who are not genial or merry, but purely lawless. while the huge carnival is in progress during one delirious day, we have a chance of seeing in a mild form what would happen if a complete national disaster caused society to become fundamentally disordered. the beasts of prey come forth from their lairs, the most elementary rules of conduct are forgotten or bluntly disregarded, and the law-abiding citizen may see robbery and violence carried on in broad daylight. in some cases it happens that organized bands of thieves rob one man after another with a brutal effrontery which quite shames the minor abilities of macedonian or calabrian brigands. forty or fifty consummate scoundrels work in concert; and it often happens that even the betting-men are seized, raised from the ground, and shaken until their money falls and is scrambled for by eager rascaldom. wherever there is sport the predatory animals flock together; and i thought, when last i saw the crew, "if a foreign army were in movement against england and a panic arose, there would be little mercy for quiet citizens." on a hasty computation, i should say that an ordinary derby day brings together an army of wastrels and criminals strong enough to sack london if once the initial impetus were given; and who can say what blind chance may supply that impetus even in our day? there is not so much sheer foulness nowadays as there used to be; the yahoo element--male and female--is not obtrusive; and it is even possible for a lady to remain in certain quarters of the mighty downs without being offended in any way. our grandfathers--and our fathers, for that matter--had a somewhat acrid conception of humour, and the offscourings of the city ministered to this peculiar humorous sense in a singular way. but a leaven of propriety has now crept in, and the evil beings who were wont to pollute the sweet air preserve some moderate measure of seemliness. i am willing to welcome every sign of improving manners; and yet i must say that the great british festival is a sorry and even horrible spectacle. what is the net result or purpose of the whole display? cheery scribes babble about "isthmian games" and the glorious air of the surrey hills, and they try to put on a sort of jollity and semblance of well-being; but the sham is a poor one, and the laughing hypocrites know in their hearts that the vast gathering of people means merely waste, idleness, thievery, villainy, vice of all kinds--and there is next to no compensation for the horrors which are crowded together. i would fain pick out anything good from the whole wild spectacle; but i cannot, and so give up the attempt with a sort of sick despair. there is something rather pleasant in the sight of a merry lad who attends his first derby, for he sees only the vivid rush and movement of crowds; but to a seasoned observer and thinker the tremendous panorama gives suggestions only of evil. i hardly have patience to consider the fulsome talk of the writers who print insincerities by the column year by year. they know that the business is evil, and yet they persist in speaking as if there were some magic influence in the reeking crowd which, they declare, gives health and tone to body and mind. the dawdling parties who lunch on the hill derive no particular harm; but then how they waste money and time! plunderers of all sorts flourish in a species of blind whirl of knavery; but no worthy person derives any good from the cruel waste of money and strength and energy. the writers know all this, and yet they go on turning out their sham cordiality, sham congratulations, sham justifications; while any of us who know thoroughly the misery and mental death and ruin of souls brought on by racing and gambling are labelled as un-english or churlish or something of the kind. why should we be called churlish? is it not true that a million of men and women waste a day on a pursuit which brings them into contact with filthy intemperance, stupid debauch, unspeakable coarseness? the eruptive sportsman tells us that the sight of a good man on a good horse should stir every manly impulse in a briton. what rubbish! what manliness can there be in watching a poor baby-colt flogged along by a dwarf? if one is placed at some distance from the course, then one may find the glitter of the pretty silk jackets pleasing; but, should one chance to be near enough to see what is termed "an exciting finish," one's general conception of the manliness of racing may be modified. from afar off the movement of the jockeys' whip-hands is no more suggestive than the movement of a windmill's sails; but, when one hears the "flack, flack" of the whalebone and sees the wales rise on the dainty skin of the immature horse, one does not feel quite joyous or manly. i have seen a long lean creature reach back with his right leg and keep on jobbing with the spur for nearly four hundred yards of a swift finish; i saw another manikin lash a good horse until the animal fairly curved its back in agony and writhed its head on one side so violently that the manly sporting-men called it an ungenerous brute. where does the fun come in for the onlookers? there is one good old thoroughbred which remembers a fearful flogging that he received twenty-two years ago; if he hears the voice of the man who lashed him, he sweats profusely, and trembles so much that he is like to fall down. how is the breed of horses directly improved by that kind of sport? no; the thousands of wastrels who squander the day and render themselves unsettled and idle for a week are not thinking of horses or of taking a healthy outing; they are obeying an unhealthy gregarious instinct which in certain circumstances makes men show clear signs of acute mania. if we look at the unadulterated absurdity of the affair, we may almost be tempted to rage like carlyle or swift. for weeks there are millions of people who talk of little else save the doings of useless dumb animals which can perform no work in the world and which at best are beautiful toys. when the thoroughbreds actually engage in their contest, there is no man of all the imposing multitude who can see them gallop for more than about thirty seconds; the last rush home is seen only by the interesting mortals who are on the great stand; and the entire performance which interests some persons for a year is all over in less than three minutes. this is the game on which englishmen lavish wild hopes, keen attention, and good money--this is the sport of kings which gluts the pockets of greedy knaves! a vast city--nay, a vast empire--is partially disorganized for a day in order that some dwarfish boys may be seen flogging immature horses during a certain number of seconds, and we learn that there is something "english," and even chivalrous, in the foolish wastrel proceedings. my conceptions of english virtues are probably rudimentary; but i quite fail to discover where the "nobility" of horse-racing and racecourse picnicing appears. my notion of "nobility" belongs to a bygone time; and i was gratified by hearing of one very noble deed at the moment when the flashy howling mob were trooping forward to that great debauch which takes place around the derby racecourse. a great steamer was flying over a southern sea, and the sharks were showing their fins and prowling around with evil eyes. the _rimutaka_ spun on her way, and all the ship's company were cheerful and careless. suddenly a poor crazy woman sprang over the side and was drifted away by a surface-current; while the irresistible rush of the steamer could not of course be easily stayed. a good englishman--honour for ever to his name!--jumped into the water, swam a quarter of a mile, and, by heaven's grace, escaped the wicked sea-tigers and saved the unhappy distraught woman. that man's name is cavell: and i think of "nobility" in connection with him, and not in connection with the manikins who rush over epsom downs. i like to give a thought to the nobility of those men who guard and rule a mighty empire; but i think very little of the creatures who merely consume food and remain at home in rascally security. what a farce to talk of encouraging "athletics"! the poor manikin who gets up on a racer is not an athlete in any rational sense of the term. he is a wiry emaciated being whose little muscles are strung like whipcord; but it is strange to dignify him as an athlete. if he once rises above nine stone in weight, his life becomes a sort of martyrdom; but, abstemious and self-contained as he is, we can hardly give him the name which means so much to all healthy englishmen. for some time each day the wondrous specimen of manhood must stew in a turkish bath or between blankets; he tramps for miles daily if his feet keep sound; he starts at five in the morning and perhaps rides a trial or two; then he takes his weak tea and toast, then exercise or sweating; then comes his stinted meal; and then he starves until night. to call such a famished lean fellow a follower of "noble" sport is too much. other british men deny themselves; but then think of the circumstances! far away among the sea of mountains on our indian frontier a gallant englishman remains in charge of his lonely station; his pathans or ghoorkas are fine fellows, and perhaps some brave old warrior will use the privilege of age and stroll in to chat respectfully to the sahib. but it is all lonely--drearily lonely. the mountain partridge may churr at sunrise and sundown; the wily crows may play out their odd life-drama daily; the mountain winds may rush roaring through the gullies until the village women say they can hear the hoofs of the brigadier's horse. but what are these desert sounds and sights for the laboriously-cultured officer? his nearest comrade is miles off; his spirit must dwell alone. and yet such men hang on at their dreary toil; and who can ever hear them complain, save in their semi-humorous letters to friends at home? they often carry their lives in their hands; but they can only hope to rest unknown if the chance goes against them. i call those men noble. there are no excited thousands for them to figure before; they scarcely have the honour of mention in a despatch; but they go on in grim silence, working out their own destiny and the destiny of this colossal empire. when i compare them with the bold sportsmen, i feel something like disgust. the real high-hearted heroes do not crave rewards--if they did, they would reap very little. the bold man who risked everything to save the _calliope_ will never earn as much in a year as a horse-riding manikin can in two months. that is the way we encourage our finest merit. and meantime at the "isthmian games" the hordes of scoundreldom who dwell at ease can enjoy themselves to their hearts' content in their own dreadful way; they break out in their usual riot of foulness; they degrade the shape of man; and the burly moralists look on robustly, and say that it is good. i never think of the great british carnival without feeling that the dregs of that ugly crowd will one day make history in a fashion which will set the world shuddering. i have no pity for ruined gamblers; but i am indignant when we see the worst of human kind luxuriating in abominable idleness and luxury on the foul fringe of the hateful racecourse. no sumptuary law will ever make any inroad on the cruel evil; and my feeling is one of sombre hopelessness. _july, ._ _seasonable nonsense_. the most hard-hearted of cynics must pity the poor daily journalist who is calmly requested nowadays to produce a christmas article. for my own part i decline to meddle with holly and jollity and general goodwill, and i have again and again protested against the insane beggars' carnival which breaks out yearly towards the beginning of december. a man may be pleased enough to hear his neighbour express goodwill, but he does not want his neighbour's hand held forth to grasp our western equivalent for "backsheesh." in egypt the screeching arabs make life miserable with their ceaseless dismal yell, "_backsheesh, howaji!_" the average british citizen is also hailed with importunate cries which are none the less piercing and annoying from the fact that they are translated into black and white. the ignoble frivolity of the swarming circulars, the obvious insincerity of the newspaper appeals, the house-to-house calls, tend steadily to vulgarize an ancient and a beautiful institution, and alienate the hearts of kindly people who do not happen to be abject simpletons. the outbreak of kindness is sometimes genuine on the part of the donors; but it is often merely surface-kindness, and the gifts are bestowed in a bitter and grudging spirit. let me ask, what are the real feelings of a householder who is requested to hand out a present to a turncock or dustman whom he has never seen? the functionaries receive fair wages for unskilled labour, yet they come smirking cheerfully forward and prefer a claim which has no shadow of justification. if a flower-seller is rather too importunate in offering her wares, she is promptly imprisoned for seven days or fined; if a costermonger halts for a few minutes in a thoroughfare and cries his goods, his stock maybe confiscated; yet the privileged christmas mendicant may actually proceed to insolence if his claims are ignored; and the meek briton submits to the insult. i cannot sufficiently deplore the progress of this spirit of beggardom, for it is acting and reacting in every direction all over the country. long ago we lamented the decay of manly independence among the fishermen of those east coast ports which have become watering-places. big bearded fellows whose fathers would have stared indignantly at the offer of a gratuity are ready to hold out their hands and touch their caps to the most vulgar dandy that ever swaggered. to any one who knew and loved the whole breed of seamen and fishermen, a walk along yarmouth sands in september is among the most purely depressing experiences in life. but the demoralization of the seaside population is not so distressing as that of the general population in great cities. we all know adam bede--the very finest portrait of the old-fashioned workman ever done. if george eliot had represented adam as touching his cap for a sixpence, we should have gasped with surprise at the incongruity. can we imagine an old-world stonemason like hugh miller begging coppers from a farmer on whose steading he happened to be employed? the thing is preposterous! but now a strong london artizan will coolly ask for his gratuity just as if he were a mere link-boy! it is pleasant to turn to kindlier themes; it is pleasant to think of the legitimate rejoicings and kindnesses in which the most staid of us may indulge. far be it from me to emulate the crabbed person who proposed to form a "society for the abolition of christmas." the event to be commemorated is by far the greatest in the history of our planet; all others become hardly worthy of mention when we think of it; and nothing more momentous can happen until the last catastrophe, when a chilled and tideless earth shall roll through space, and when no memory shall remain of the petty creatures who for a brief moment disturbed its surface. the might of the empire of rome brooded over the fairest portions of the known world, and it seemed as though nothing could shake that colossal power; the pettiest officer of the imperial staff was of more importance than all the natives of syria; and yet we see that the fabric of roman rule has passed away like a vision, while the faith taught by a band of poor syrian men has mastered the minds of the strongest nations in the world. the poor disciples whom the master left became apostles; footsore and weary they wandered--they were scorned and imprisoned and tortured until the last man of them had passed away. their work has subdued princes and empires, and the bells that ring out on christmas eve remind us not only of the most tremendous occurrence in history, but of the deeds of a few humble souls who conquered the fear of death and who resigned the world in order that the children of the world might be made better. a tremendous event truly! we are far, far away from the ideal, it is true; and some of us may feel a thrill of sick despair when we think of what the sects have done and what they have not done--it all seems so slow, so hopeless, and the powers of evil assert themselves ever and again with such hideous force. some withdraw themselves to fierce isolation; some remain in the world, mocking the ways of men and treating all life as an ugly jest; some refuse to think at all, and drag themselves into oblivion; while some take one frantic sudden step and leave the world altogether by help of bullet or bare bodkin. a man of light mind who endeavoured to reconcile all the things suggested to him by the coming of christmas would probably become demented if he bent his entire intellect to solve the puzzles. thousands--millions--of books have been written about the christian theology, and half of european mankind cannot claim to have any fixed and certain belief which leads to right conduct. some of the noblest and sweetest souls on earth have given way to chill hopelessness, and only a very bold or a very thick-sighted man could blame them; we must be tender towards all who are perplexed, especially when we see how terrible are the reasons for perplexity. nevertheless, dark as the outlook may be in many directions, men are slowly coming to see that the service of god is the destruction of enmity, and that the religion of tenderness and pity alone can give happiness during our dark pilgrimage. far back in last winter a man was forcing his way across a dreary marsh in the very teeth of a wind that seemed to catch his throat in an icy grip, stopping the breath at intervals and chilling the very heart. coldly the grey breakers rolled under the hard lowering sky; coldly the western light flickered on the iron slopes of far-off hills; coldly the last beams struck on the water and made chance wavelets flash with a terrible glitter. the night rushed down, and the snow descended fiercely; the terrified cattle tried to find shelter from the scourge of the storm; a hollow roar rang sullenly amid the darkness; stray sea-birds far overhead called weirdly, and it seemed as if the spirit of evil were abroad in the night. in darkness the man fought onward, thinking of the unhappy wretches who sometimes lie down on the snow and let the final numbness seize their hearts. then came a friendly shout--then lights--and then the glow of warmth that filled a broad room with pleasantness. all the night long the mad gusts tore at the walls and made them vibrate; all night the terrible music rose into shrieks and died away in low moaning, and ever the savage boom of the waves made a vast under-song. then came visions of the mournful sea that we all know so well, and the traveller thought of the honest fellows who must spend their christmas-time amid warring forces that make the works of man seem puny. what a picture that is--the toilers of the sea in winter! christmas eve comes with no joyous jangling of bells; the sun stoops to the sea, glaring lividly through whirls of snow, and the vessel roars through the water; black billows rush on until their crests topple into ruin, and then the boiling white water shines fitfully like some strange lambent flame; the breeze sings hoarsely among the cordage; the whole surface flood plunges on as if some immense cataract must soon appear after the rapids are passed. every sea that the vessel shatters sends up a flying waterspout; and the frost acts with amazing suddenness, so that the spars, the rigging, and the deck gather layer after layer of ice. supposing the vessel is employed in fishing, then the men in the forecastle crouch round the little fire, or shiver on their soaked beds, and perhaps growl out a few words of more or less cheerful talk. stay with the helmsman, and you may know what the mystery and horror of utter gloom are really like. there is danger everywhere--a sudden wave may burst the deck or heave the vessel down on her side; a huge dim cloud may start shapelessly from the murk, and, before a word of warning can be uttered, a great ship may crash into the labouring craft. in that case hope is gone, for the boat is bedded in a mass of ice and all the doomed seamen must take the deadly plunge to eternity. ah, think of this, you who rest in the glow of beautiful homes! then the morning--the grey desolation! no words can fairly picture the utter cheerlessness of a wintry dawn at sea. the bravest of men feel something like depression or are pursued by cruel apprehensions. the solid masses of ice have gripped every block, and the ropes will not run; the gaunt masts stand up like pallid ghosts in the grey light, and still the volleys of snow descend at intervals. all the ships seem to be cowering away, scared and beaten; even the staunch sea-gulls have taken refuge in fields and quiet rivers; and only the seamen have no escape. the mournful red stretches of the asiatic deserts are wild enough, but there are warmth and marvellous light, and those who well know the moaning wastes say that their fascination sinks on the soul. the wintry sea has no fascination--no consolation; it is hungry, inhospitable--sometimes horrible. but even there christ walks the waters in spirit. in an ordinary vessel the rudest seaman is made to think of the great day, and, even if he goes on grumbling and swearing on the morrow, he is apt to be softened and slightly subdued for one day at least. the fishermen on the wild north sea are cared for, and merry scenes are to be witnessed even when landsmen might shudder in terror. certain gallant craft, like strong yachts, glide about among the plunging smacks; each of the yachts has a brave blue flag at the masthead, and the vessels are laden with kindly tokens from thousands of gentle souls on shore. surely there is no irreverence in saying that the master walks the waters to this day? we britons must of course express some of our emotions by eating and drinking freely. no political party can pretend to adjust the affairs of the empire until the best-advertised members have met together at a dinner-table; no prominent man can be regarded as having achieved the highest work in politics, or art, or literature, or histrionics, until he has been delicately fed in company with a large number of brother mortals; and no anniversary can possibly be celebrated without an immense consumption of eatables and drinkables. the rough men of the north sea have the national instinct, and their mode of recognizing the festive season is quite up to the national standard. the north sea fisherman would not nowadays approve of the punch-bowls and ancient ale which dickens loved so much to praise, for he is given to the most severe forms of abstinence; but it is a noble sight when he proceeds to show what he can do in the way of christmas dining. if he is one of the sharers in a parcel from on shore, he is fortunate, for he may possibly partake of a pudding which might be thrown over the masthead without remaining whole after its fall on deck; but it matters little if he has no daintily-prepared provender. jack fisherman seats himself on a box or on the floor of the cabin; he produces his clasp-knife and prepares for action. when his huge tin dish is piled with a miscellaneous assortment of edibles, it presents a spectacle which might make all bath and matlock and royat and homburg shudder; but the seaman, despising the miserable luxuries of fork and spoon, attacks the amazing conglomeration with enthusiasm. his christmas pudding may resemble any geological formation that you like to name, and it may be unaccountably allied with a perplexing maze of cabbage and potatoes--nothing matters. christmas must be kept up, and the vast lurches of the vessel from sea to sea do not at all disturb the fine equanimity of the fellows who are bent on solemnly testifying, by gastronomic evidence, to the loyalty with which christmas is celebrated among orthodox englishmen. the poor lads toil hard, live hard, and they certainly feed hard; but, with all due respect, it must be said also that they mostly pray hard; and, if any one of the cynical division had been among the seamen during that awful time five years ago, he would have seen that among the sea-toilers at least the "glad" season is glad in something more than name--for the gladness is serious. sights of the same kind may be seen on great ships that are careering over the myriad waterways that net the surface of the globe; the smart man-of-war, the great liner, the slow deep-laden barque toiling wearily round the horn, are all manned by crews that keep up the aged tradition more or less merrily; and woe betide the cook that fails in his duty! that lost man's fate may be left to the eye of imagination. under the southern cross the fair summer weather glows; but the good colonists have their little rejoicings without the orthodox adjuncts of snow and frozen fingers and iron roads. far up in the bush the men remember to make some kind of rude attempt at improvising christmas rites, and memories of the old country are present with many a good fellow who is facing his first hard luck. but the climate makes no difference; and, apart from all religious considerations, there is no social event that so draws together the sympathies of the whole english race all over the world. at nainee tal, or any other of our stations in our wondrous indian possession, the day is kept. alas, how dreary it is for the hearts that are craving for home! the moon rises through the majestic arch of the sky and makes the tamarisk-trees gorgeous; the warm air flows gently; the dancers float round to the wild waltz-rhythm; and the imitation of home is kept up with zeal by the stout general, the grave and scholarly judge, the fresh subaltern, and by all the bright ladies who are in exile. but even these think of the quiet churches in sweet english places; they think of the purple hedges, the sharp scent of frost-bitten fields, the glossy black ice, and the hissing ring of the skates. i know that, religiously as christmas is kept up even on the frontier in india, the toughest of the men long for home, and pray for the time when the blessed regions of brighton and torquay and cheltenham may receive the worn pensioner. one poet says something of the anglo-indian's longing for home at christmas-time; he speaks with melancholy of the folly of those who sell their brains for rupees and go into exile, and he appears to be ready, for his own part, to give up his share in the glory of our empire if only he can see the friendly fields in chill december. i sympathize with him. away with the mendicants, rich and poor--away with the gushing parasites who use a kindly instinct and a sacred name in order to make mean profit--away with the sordid hucksters who play with the era of man's hope as though the very name of the blessed time were a catchword to be used like the abominable party-cries of politicians! but when i come to men and women who understand the real significance of the day--when i come to charitable souls who are reminded of one who was all charity, and who gave an impulse to the world which two thousand years have only strengthened--when i come among these, i say, "give us as much yule-tide talk as ever you please, do your deeds of kindness, take your fill of innocent merriment, and deliver us from the pestilence of quacks and mendicants!" it is when i think of the ghastly horror of our own great central cities that i feel at once the praiseworthiness and the hopelessness of all attempts to succour effectually the immense mass of those who need charity. hopeless, helpless lives are lived by human creatures who are not much above the brutes. alas, how much may be learned from a journey through the midlands! we may talk of merry frosty days and starlit nights and unsullied snow and christmas cheer; but the potter and the iron-worker know as much about cheeriness as they do about stainless snow. then there is london to be remembered. a cheery time there will be for the poor creatures who hang about the dock-gates and fight for the chance of earning the price of a meal! in that blank world of hunger and cold and enforced idleness there is nothing that the gayest optimist could describe as joyful, and some of us will have to face the sight of it during the winter that is now at hand. what can be done? hope seems to have deserted many of our bravest; we hear the dark note of despair all round, and it is only the sight of the workers--the kindly workers--that enables us to bear up against deadly depression and dark pessimism. _december, ._ _the fading year_. even in this distressed england of ours there are still districts where the simple reapers regard the harvest labour as a frolic; the dulness of their still lives is relieved by a burst of genuine but coarse merriment, and their abandoned glee is not unpleasant to look upon. then come the harvest suppers--noble spectacles. the steady champ of resolute jaws sounds in a rhythm which is almost majestic; the fearsome destruction wrought on solid joints would rouse the helpless envy of the dyspeptics of pall mall, and the playful consumption of ale--no small beer, but golden rodney--might draw forth an ode from a teetotal chancellor of the exchequer. august winds up in a blaze of gladness for the reaper. on ordinary evenings he sits stolidly in the dingy parlour and consumes mysterious malt liquor to an accompaniment of grumbling and solemn puffing of acrid tobacco, but the harvest supper is a wildly luxurious affair which lasts until eleven o'clock. are there not songs too? the village tenor explains--with a powerful accent--that he only desires providence to let him like a soldier fall. of course he breaks down, but there is no adverse criticism. friendly hearers say, "do yowe try back, willum, and catch that up at start agin;" and willum does try back in the most excruciating manner. then the elders compare the artist with singers of bygone days, and a grunting chorus of stories goes on. then comes the inevitable poaching song. probably the singer has been in prison a dozen times over, but he is regarded as a moral and law-abiding character by his peers; and even his wife, who suffered during his occasional periods of seclusion, smiles as he drones out the jolting chorus. when the sportsman reaches the climax and tells how-- we slung her on our shoulders, and went across the down; we took her to a neighbour's house, and sold her for a crown. we sold her for a crown, my boys, but i 'on't tell ye wheer, for 'tis my delight of a shiny night in the season of the year --then the gentlemen who have sold many a hare in their time exchange rapturous winks, and even a head-keeper might be softened by the prevailing enthusiasm. hodge is a hunter by nature, and you can no more restrain him from poaching than you can restrain a fox. the most popular man in the whole company is the much-incarcerated poacher, and no disguise whatever is made of the fact. a theft of a twopenny cabbage from a neighbour would set a mark against a man for life; a mean action performed when the hob-nailed company gather in the tap-room would be remembered for years; but a sportsman who blackens his face and creeps out at night to net the squire's birds is considered to be a hero, and an honest man to boot. he mentions his convictions gaily, criticises the officials of each gaol that he has visited in the capacity of prisoner, and rouses roars of sympathetic laughter as he tells of his sufferings on the tread-mill. no man or woman thinks of the facts that the squire's pheasants cost about a guinea apiece to rear, that a hare is worth about three-and-sixpence, that a brace of partridges brings two shillings even from the cunning receiver who buys the poachers' plunder. no; they joyously think of the fact that the keepers are diddled, and that satisfies them. alas, the glad and sad times alike must die, and the dull prose of october follows hard on the wild jollity of the harvest supper, while winter peers with haggard gaze over autumn's shoulder! the hoarse winds blow now, and the tender flush of decay has begun to touch the leaves with delicate tints. in the morning the gossamer floats in the glittering air and winds ropes of pearls among the stubble; the level rays shoot over a splendid land, and the cold light is thrillingly sweet. but the evenings are chill, and the hollow winds moan, crying, "summer is dead, and we are the vanguard of winter. soon the wild army will be upon you. steal the sunshine while you may." what is the source of that tender solemn melancholy that comes on us all as we feel the glad year dying? it is melancholy that is not painful, and we can nurse it without tempting one stab of real suffering. each season brings its moods--spring is hopeful; summer luxurious; autumn contented; and then comes that strange time when our thoughts run on solemn things. can it be that we associate the long decline of the year with the dark closing of life? surely not--for a boy or girl feels the same pensive, dreary mood, and no one who remembers childhood can fail to think of the wild inarticulate thoughts that passed through the immature brain. nay, our souls are from god; they are bestowed by the supreme, and they were from the beginning, and cannot be destroyed. from plato downwards, no thoughtful man has missed this strange suggestion which seems to present itself unprompted to every mind. cicero argued it out with consummate dialectic skill; our scientific men come to the same conclusion after years on years of labour spent in investigating phenomena of life and laws of force; and wordsworth formulated plato's reasoning in an immortal passage which seems to combine scientific accuracy with exquisite poetic beauty-- our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; the soul that rises with us--our life's star-- hath had elsewhere its setting and cometh from afar; not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come from god, who is our home. heaven lies about us in our infancy! shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy, but he beholds the light, and whence it flows; he sees it in his joy. the youth who daily farther from the east must travel still is nature's priest, and by the vision splendid is on his way attended; at length the man perceives it die away and fade into the light of coming day. had wordsworth never written another line, that passage would have placed him among the greatest. he follows the glorious burst with these awful lines-- but for those obstinate questionings of sense and outward things, fallings from us, vanishings; blank misgivings of a creature moving about in worlds not realized; high instincts before which our mortal nature did tremble like a guilty thing surprised. that is like some golden-tongued utterance of the gods; and thousands of englishmen, sceptics and believers, have held their breath, abashed, as its full meaning struck home. yes; this mysterious thought that haunts our being as we gaze on the saddened fields is not aroused by the immediate impression which the sight gives us; it is too complex, too profound, too mature and significant. it was framed before birth, and it proceeds direct from the father of all souls, with whom we dwelt before we came to this low earth, and with whom we shall dwell again. if any one ventures to deny the origin of our marvellous knowledge, our sweet, strange impressions, it seems to us that he must risk bordering on impiety. so far then i have wandered from the commonplace sweetness of the shorn fields, and i almost forgot to speak about the birds. watch the swallows as they gather together and talk with their low pretty twitter. their parliament has begun; and surely no one who watches their proceedings can venture to scoff at the transcendental argument which i have just now stated. those swift, pretty darlings will soon be flying through the pitchy gloom of the night, and they will dart over three or four thousand miles with unerring aim till they reach the far-off spot where they cheated our winter last year. some will nest amid the tombs of egyptian kings, some will find out rosy haunts in persia, some will soon be wheeling and twittering happily over the sullen breast of the rolling niger. who--ah, who guides that flight? think of it. man must find his way by the stars and the sun. day by day he must use elaborate instruments to find out where his vessel is placed; and even his instruments do not always save him from miles of error. but the little bird plunges through the high gulfs of air and flies like an arrow to the selfsame spot where it lived before it last went off on the wild quest over shadowy continents and booming seas. "hereditary instinct," says the scientific man. exactly so; and, if the swallow unerringly traverses the line crossed by its ancestors, even though the old land has long been whelmed in steep-down gulfs of the sea, does not that show us something? does it, or does it not, make my saying about the soul seem reasonable? i have followed the swallows, but the fieldfares and the buntings must also go soon. they will make their way south also, though some may go in leisurely fashion to catch the glorious burst of spring in siberia. i have been grievously puzzled and partly delighted by mr. seebohm's account of the birds' pilgrimage, and it has given me hours of thought. we dwell amid mystery, and, as the leaves redden year by year, here recurs one of the chiefest mysteries that ever perplexed the soul of man. indeed, we are shadowed around with mystery and there is not one red leaf whirled by the wind among those moaning woods which does not represent a miracle. we cannot fly from these shores, but our joys come each in its day. for pure gladness and keen colour nothing can equal one of these glorious october mornings, when the reddened fronds of the brackens are silvered with rime, and the sun strikes flashes of delight from them. then come those soft november days when the winds moan softly amid the aeolian harps of the purple hedgerows, and the pale drizzle falls ever and again. even then we may pick our pleasures discreetly, if we dwell in the country, while, as for the town, are there not pleasant fires and merry evenings? then comes the important thought of the poor. ah, it is woful! "'pleasant fires and merry evenings,' say you?"--so i can fancy some pinched sufferer saying, "what sort of merry evenings shall we have, when the fogs crawl murderously, or the sleet lashes the sodden roads?" alas and alas! those of us who dwell amid pleasant sights and sounds are apt in moments of piercing joy to forget the poor who rarely know joy at all. but we must not be careless. by all means let those who can do so snatch their enjoyment from the colour, the movement, the picturesque sadness of the fading year; but let them think with pity of the time that is coming, and prepare to do a little toward lifting that ghastly burden of suffering that weighs on so many of our fellows. gazing around on the flying shadows driven by the swift wind, and listening to the quivering sough amid the shaken trees, i have been led far and near into realms of strange speculation. so it is ever in this fearful and wonderful life; there is not the merest trifle that can happen which will not lead an eager mind away toward the infinite. never has this mystic ordinance touched my soul so poignantly as during the hours when i watched for a little the dying of the year, and branched swiftly into zigzag reflections that touched the mind with fear and joy in turn. adieu, fair fields! adieu, wild trees! where will next year's autumn find us? hush! does not the very gold and red of the leaves hint to us that the sweet sad time will return again and find us maybe riper? _october, ._ _behind the veil_. "men of all castes, if they fulfil their assigned duties, enjoy in heaven the highest imperishable bliss. afterwards, when a man who has fulfilled his duties returns to this world, he obtains, by virtue of a remainder of merit, birth in a distinguished family, beauty of form, beauty of complexion, strength, aptitude for learning, wisdom, wealth, and the gift of fulfilling the laws of his caste or order. therefore in both worlds he dwells in happiness, rolling like a wheel from one world to the other." thus the brahmans have settled the problem of the life that follows the life on earth. those strange and subtle men seem to have reasoned themselves into a belief in dreams, and they speak with cool confidence, as though they were describing scenes as vivid and material as are the crowds in a bazaar. there is no hesitation for them; they describe the features of the future existence with the dry minuteness of a broker's catalogue. the wheel of life rolls, and far above the weary cycle of souls buddha rests in an attitude of benediction; he alone has achieved nirvana--he alone is aloof from gods and men. the yearning for immortality has in the case of the brahman passed into certainty, and he describes his heavens and his hells as though the all-wise had placed no dim veil between this world and the world beyond. most arithmetically minute are all the brahman's pictures, and he never stops to hint at a doubt. his hells are twenty-two in number, each applying a new variety of physical and moral pain. we men of the west smile at the grotesque dogmatism of the orientals; and yet we have no right to smile. in our way we are as keen about the great question as the brahmans are, and for us the problem of problems may be stated in few words--"is there a future life?" all our philosophy, all our laws, all our hopes and fears are concerned with that paralyzing question, and we differ from the hindoo only in that we affect an extravagant uncertainty, while he sincerely professes an absolute certainty. the cultured western man pretends to dismiss the problem with a shrug; he labels himself as an agnostic or by some other vague definition, and he is fond of proclaiming his idea that he knows and can know nothing. that is a pretence. when the philosopher says that he does not know and does not care what his future may be, he speaks insincerely; he means that he cannot prove by experiment the fact of a future life--or, as mr. ruskin puts it, "he declares that he never found god in a bottle"--but deep down in his soul there is a knowledge that influences his lightest action. the man of science, the "advanced thinker," or whatever he likes to call himself, proves to us by his ceaseless protestations of doubt and unbelief that he is incessantly pondering the one subject which he would fain have us fancy he ignores. at heart he is in full sympathy with the brahman, with the rude indian, with the impassioned english methodist, with all who cannot shake off the mystic belief in a life that shall go on behind the veil. when the pagan emperor spoke to his own parting soul, he asked the piercing question that our sceptic must needs put, whether he like it or no-- soul of me, floating and flitting and fond, thou and this body were life-mates together! wilt thou be gone now--and whither? pallid and naked and cold, not to laugh or be glad as of old! theology of any description is far out of my path, but i have the wish and the right to talk gravely about the subject that dwarfs all others. a logician who tries to scoff away any faith i count as almost criminal. mockery is the fume of little hearts, and the worst and craziest of mockers is the one who grins in presence of a mystery that strikes wise and deep-hearted men with a solemn fear which has in it nothing ignoble. i would as lief play circus pranks by a mother's deathbed as try to find flippant arguments to disturb a sincere faith. first, then, let us know what the uncompromising iconoclasts have to tell about the universal belief in immortality. they have a very pretentious line of reasoning, which i may summarise thus. life appeared on earth not less than three hundred thousand years ago. first of all our planet hung in the form of vapour, and drifted with millions of other similar clouds through space; then the vapour became liquid; then the globular form was assumed, and the flying ball began to rotate round the great attracting body. we cannot tell how living forms first came on earth; for they could not arise by spontaneous generation, in spite of all that dr. bastian may say. of the coming of life we can say nothing--rather an odd admission, by-the-way, for gentlemen who are so sure of most things--but we know that some low organism did appear--and there is an end of that matter. no two organisms can possibly be exactly alike; and the process of differentiation began in the very shrine. the centuries passed, and living organisms became more and more complex; the slowly-cooling ball of the earth was covered with greenery, but no flower was to be seen. then insects were attracted by brightly-coloured leaves; then flowers and insects acted and reacted on each other. but there is no need to trace every mark on the scale. it is enough to say that infinitely-diversified forms of life branched off from central stocks, and the process of variation went on steadily. last of all, in a strange environment, a certain small upright creature appeared. he was not much superior in development to the anthropoid apes that we now know--in fact, there is less difference between an orang and a bosjesman than there is between the primitive man and the modern caucasian man. this creature, hairy and brown as a squirrel, stunted in stature, skinny of limb, was our immediate progenitor. so say the confident scientific men. the owner of the queer ape-like skull found at neanderthal belonged to a race that was ultimately to develop into shakespeares and newtons and napoleons. in all the enormous series that had its first term in the primeval ooze and its last term in man, one supreme motive had actuated every individual. the desire of life, growing more intense with each new development, was the main influence that secured continuance of life. the beings that had the desire of life scantily developed were overcome in the struggle for existence by those in whom the desire of life was strong. thus in man, after countless generations, the wish for life had become the master-power holding dominion over the body. as the various branches of the human race moved upward, the passionate love of life grew so strong that no individual could bear to think of resigning this pleasing anxious being and proceeding to fall into dumb forgetfulness. men saw their comrades stricken by some dark force that they could not understand. the strong limbs grew lax first, and then hopelessly stiff; the bright eye was dulled; and it soon became necessary to hide the inanimate thing under the soil. it was impossible for those who had the quick blood flowing in their veins to believe that a time would come when feeling would be known no more. this fierce clinging to life had at last its natural outcome. men found that at night, when the quicksilver current of sleep ran through their veins and their bodies were quiescent, they had none the less thoughts as of life. the body lay still; but something in alliance with the body gave them impressions of vivid waking vigour and action. men fancied that they fought, hunted, loved, hated; and yet all the time their limbs were quiet. what could it be that forced the slumbering man to believe himself to be in full activity? it must be some invisible essence independent of the bones and muscles. therefore when a man died it followed that the body which was buried must have parted permanently from the mystic "something" that caused dreams. that mystic "something" therefore lived on after the death of the body. the bodily organs were mere accidental encumbrances; the real "man" was the viewless creature that had the visions of the night. the body might go; but the thing which by and by was named "soul" was imperishable. i can see the drift of foggy argument. the writer means to say that the belief in immortality sprang up because the wish was father to the thought. men longed to live, and thus they persuaded themselves that they would live; and, one refinement after another having been added to the vague-minded savage's animal yearning, we have the elaborate system of theology and the reverential faith that guide the lives of civilized human entities. very pretty! then the literary critic steps in and shows how the belief in immortality has been enlarged and elaborated since the days of saul, the son of kish. when the witch of endor saw gods ascending from the earth, she was only anticipating the experience of sorcerers who ply their trade in the islands of the pacific. professor huxley admires the awful description of saul's meeting with the witch; but the professor shows that the south sea islanders also see gods ascending out of the earth, and he thinks that the eastern natives in saul's day encouraged a form of ancestor-worship. the literary critic says ancestor-worship is one of the great branches of the religion of mankind. its principles are not difficult to understand, for they plainly keep up the social relations of the living world. the dead ancestor, now passed into a deity, goes on protecting his family and receiving suit and service from them as of old. the dead chief still watches over his own tribe, still holds his authority by helping friends and harming enemies, still rewards the right and sharply punishes the wrong. that, then, was the kind of worship prevalent in the time of saul, and the gods were only the ancestors of the living. well, this may be admirable as science, but, as i summarized the long argument, i felt as though something must give way. then we are told that our sacred book, the old testament, contains no reference to the future life--rather ignores the notion, in fact. it appears that, when job wrote about the spirit that passed before him and caused all the hair of his flesh to stand up, he meant an enemy, or a goat, or something of that species. moreover, when it is asserted that enoch "was not, for god took him," no reference is made to enoch's future existence. the whole of the thesis regarding the shadow land has been built up little by little, just as our infinitely perfect bodily organization has been gradually formed. it took at least thirty thousand years to evolve the crystalline lens of the human eye, and it required many thousands of years to evolve from the crude savagery of the early jews the elaborate theories of the modern buddhists, islamites, and christians. certainly this same evolution has much to answer for. i utterly fail to see how a wish can give rise to a belief that comes before the wish is framed in the mind. more than this, i know that, even when human beings crave extinction most--when the prospect of eternal sleep is more than sweet, when the bare thought of continued existence is a horror--the belief in, or rather the knowledge of, immortality is still there, and the wretch who would fain perish knows that he cannot. as for the mathematically-minded thinkers, i must give them up. they say, "here are two objects of consciousness whose existence can be verified; one we choose to call the body, the other we call the soul or mind or spirit, or what you will. the soul may be called a 'function' of the body, or the body may be called a 'function' of the soul--at any rate, they vary together. the tiniest change in the body causes a corresponding change in the soul. as the body alters from the days when the little ducts begin to feed the bones with lime up to the days when the bones are brittle and the muscles wither away, so does the soul alter. the infant's soul is different from the boy's, the boy's from the adolescent man's, the young man's from the middle-aged man's, and so on to the end. now, since every change in the body, no matter how infinitesimally small, is followed by a corresponding change in the soul, then it is plain that, when the body becomes extinct, its 'function,' the soul, must also become extinct." this is even more appalling than the reasoning of the biologist. but is there not a little flaw somewhere? we take a branch from a privet-hedge and shake it; some tiny eggs fall down. in time a large ugly caterpillar comes from each egg; but, according to the mathematical men, the caterpillar does not exist, since the egg has become naught. good! the caterpillar wraps itself in a winding thread, and we have an egg-shaped lump which lies as still as a pebble. then presently from that bundle of thread there comes a glorious winged creature which flies away, leaving certain ragged odds and ends. but surely the bundle of threads and the moth were as much connected as the body and the soul? logically, then, the moth does not exist after the cocoon is gone, any more than the soul exists after the body is gone! i feel very unscientific indeed as we put forth this proposition, and yet perhaps some simple folk will follow me. god will not let the soul die; it is a force that must act throughout the eternity before us, as it acted throughout the eternity that preceded our coming on earth. no physical force ever dies--each force merely changes its form or direction. heat becomes motion, motion is transformed into heat, but the force still exists. it is not possible then that the soul of man--the subtlest, strongest force of all--should ever be extinguished. every analogy that we can see, every fact of science that we can understand, tells us that the essence which each of us calls "i" must exist for ever as it has existed from eternity. let us think of a sweet change that shall merely divest us of the husk of the body, even as the moth is divested of the husk of the caterpillar. space will be as nothing to the soul--can we not even now transport ourselves in an instant beyond the sun? we can see with the soul's eye the surface of the stars, we know what they are made of, we can weigh them, and we can prove that our observation is rigidly accurate even though millions of miles lie between us and the object which we describe so confidently. when the body is gone, the soul will be more free to traverse space than it is even now. _february, ._ extracts from reviews of the first edition. "mr. runciman is terribly in earnest in the greater part of this volume, especially in the several articles on 'drink.' he is eminently practical, withal; and not satisfied with describing and deploring the effects of drunkenness, he gives us a recipe which he warrants to cure the most hardened dipsomaniac within a week. we have not quoted even the titles of all mr. runciman's essays; but they are all wholesome in tone, and show a hearty love of the open air and of outdoor amusement, in spite of his well-deserved strictures on various forms of so-called 'sport,' while sometimes, notably in the essay on 'genius and respectability,' he touches the higher notes of feeling."--_saturday review_. "mr. runciman is intensely earnest, and directs his arrows with force and precision against those 'joints in our social armour' which his keen vision detects. there is a purpose in all mr. runciman says; and although one cannot always share his enthusiasm or accept his conclusions, it is impossible to doubt his sincerity as a moral reformer and his zeal in the cause of philanthropy."--_academy_. "few sermons, one would fancy, could do more good than this book, honestly considered. it speaks plain sense on faults and follies that are usually gently satirised; and makes fine invigorating reading. the book warmly deserves success."--_scotsman_. "mr. runciman expresses himself with a vigour which leaves nothing to be desired. he leaves no doubt of what he thinks,--and he thinks, anyhow, on the right side.... altogether a very vigorous deliverance."--_spectator_. "no one can read these pleasant thoughtful essays without being the better for it; all being written with the vigour and grace for which mr. runciman is distinguished."--_newcastle daily chronicle_. "essays which form a most important contribution to the literature of social reform."--_methodist times_. "mr. runciman has produced a book which will compel people to read, and it has many pages which ought to compel them to think, and to act as well."--_manchester examiner._ "mr. runciman is endowed with a vigorous and pleasing style, and his facile pen has obviously been made expert by much use. in dealing with some of the more threadbare problems, such as the drink question and the sporting mania, he brings considerable novelty and freshness to their treatment, and when fairly roused he hits out at social abuses with a vigour and indignant sincerity which are very refreshing to the jaded reader ...he has been successful in producing a delightfully readable book, and even when he does not produce conviction, he will certainly succeed in securing attention and inspiring interest."--_bradford observer_. "the essays are a fine contribution in the cause of manly self-culture and elevation of moral tone."--_pall mall gazette_. "to those who enjoy essays on current topics, this will be found an acceptable and instructive volume."--_public opinion_. "his essays are always entertaining and suggestive ...mr. runciman, as is well-known, has a forcible and effective style."--_star_. "mr. runciman is a bard hitter, and evidently speaks from conviction, and there is such an honest and clear-minded tone about these papers, that even those who do not agree with all the conclusions drawn in them will not regret having read what mr. runciman has to say on social questions."--_graphic_. the daughter of a republican by bernie babcock chicago: the new voice press _copyright by dickie and woolley _ the world at large gives small attention to human effort until it has reached the full stature of a robust maturity. by way of encouragement, it is well for many obscure toilers that there are those who think they see a bud of promise in the yet undeveloped effort. because of the loving interest she has always taken in my every "first attempt," i dedicate this little volume to my mother. [illustration: "'i'm cold,' whined the boy."] the daughter of a republican. chapter i. the crowley family. let me introduce the reader to the crowley family, and when you have become acquainted with them bear well in mind that in this broad land of ours there are thousands upon thousands of families in a condition as deplorable, and some whose mercury line of debauchery has dropped to a point of miserable existence as yet unsounded by this family. the crowleys are all in tonight, except the father, and he is momentarily expected. it is a bitter night in february. the ground is covered with ice and sleet causing many a fall to the unwary pedestrian. the wind comes in cutting blasts directly from the north, rattling and twisting everything in its way not securely fastened, then dying away in a long weary moan, abandoning its effort only to seize upon the elements with a firmer grasp and come battling back with fresh vindictiveness and force. there were those who did not mind this storm, people around whose homes all was secure and whom no rattling annoyed, people who enjoyed bright lights and warm fires, but these were not the crowleys. the crowley's home consisted of two rooms in a rickety old tenement house around which everything rattled and flapped as the wind raged. their light came from a dingy little lamp on a goods box. every now and then a more violent gust of wind struck the house with such force that the structure trembled and the feeble light flickered dangerously. here and there broken windows were stopped up with rags and papers and through the insecure crevices the wind found its way with a rasping, tiresome groan. what little fire there was, burned in a small rusty stove. its door stood open, perhaps to keep the low fire burning longer, perhaps to let the warmth out sooner, and against the pale red glow four small hands were visible, spread to catch the feeble heat. on a bed in one corner, gaunt, and with wasted form, a woman lay. this was the mother. a girl of perhaps fifteen sat close to the stove and held a tiny baby wrapped in a gingham apron. a spell seemed to have fallen on the usually noisy group. even cora, the family merrymaker, was quiet, until aroused from her reverie by an act of her brother who replenished the fire. she spoke rather severely. "johnnie, how many pieces of coal are there left in the box?" "five--and little ones." "then get to work quick! take out one of the pieces that you have just put in. we are not rich enough to burn three pieces at once." "i'm cold," whined the boy. "so am i, awful cold, but you know that coal must do till pa comes." "i'd like to know when that will be. any other pa would be home such a freezing night as this. i hate my pa." "johnnie, johnnie, you must not talk that way. he is your father, child." the voice came from the bed and was marked by that peculiar tone noticeable when persons extremely cold try to speak without chattering. "i can't help it, mother. i'm cold, so cold, and i'm hungry, too. i only had half a potato, and maggie says they're all gone." "poor child!" said the mother with a sigh. "here, maggie, give him this," and she drew from under the pillow a small potato which she held toward the girl. but the girl did not stir until the hungry boy made a move in the direction of the bed. this movement aroused her as his overdose of coal had roused his other watchful sister a moment previous. "no! no! johnnie. do not take it. our mother will starve. she has not eaten anything for two days." "let him have it, maggie. i cannot eat it. perhaps your father will come soon and bring some tea. i think a good cup of tea would make me better." "and, mother," said cora, "we will take the money we were going to spend for shoes and get a bit of flannel for you and the baby. you must have it or you will freeze. surely father will come soon. he said he would." "nearly everyone has gone home now. hardly a person passes," cora observed, with her nose pressed against the frosty pane. "that is because it is so cold. it is not late yet. we will wait a little longer, and then maggie----" "o, mother! do not ask me to go. it is so cold, and suppose--suppose i had to go into a saloon again. it nearly kills me to go about such places." "you might meet him, maggie, and keep him from going in." "if my pa don't come tonight, he's a big liar, that's all!" broke in johnnie, hotly. his mother did not answer him. she was watching the face bent low over the tiny baby. she noted the careworn look and the nervous pressure of the hand held over the tiny one to keep it warm. presently the girl lifted her eyes to her mother. those tender pleading eyes of the mother would have melted a harder heart than hers. she went to the bed and put the baby in, close to its mother's side. then she threw her arms around the haggard woman's neck and kissed her passionately. "dear mother," she said, "i would do anything for you. i will go for father, and before it gets any later." "pray, child! pray every breath you draw! pray every step you take that you may find him before it is too late. if you do not--i cannot imagine what is to become of us. pray! god is not cruel. surely he will hear us in our misery." would you see the drunkard's daughter dressed for a walk this bitter night? a frail, slender girl, who should have been warmly clad, she is dressed in thinnest, shabby cotton, through which the elements will play as through rags of gauze, while the flesh of her feet, unprotected by her almost soleless shoes, will press against the sleet. the two faded pink roses that flap forlornly on the side of her coarse straw hat bear a silent suggestion of pathos--a faint remembrance, perhaps, of the days of departed happiness. while she is adjusting the remnant of a shawl so as to cover as much of her shoulders as possible, the children are giving her numerous messages to be given their father when she finds him. at last she is ready. after hesitating a moment she kisses them all and with a shudder steps out into the howling, swirling blast. she walked briskly, halting a second every time she met a man to see if he were the object of her search and passing each time with a growing fear, as each time she was disappointed. at last she came to the door of the saloon where her father had so often worse than wasted the money his family were perishing for at home. she stopped. she knew it was warm and light inside. perhaps her father had just stepped inside to get warm. should she look? while she stood shivering in the wind, getting her courage up to the point of entering, a man passed her and went in. as he went through the door a familiar voice greeted her ear, a voice she well knew and had learned to fear. she did not hesitate longer. opening the door she walked swiftly and noiselessly in. for a moment the air seemed to stagger her, so laden was it with the fumes of liquor and tobacco. there was a crowd around the bar and the bartender was busy mixing drinks and jingling glasses. she saw her father. he was about two-thirds drunk and she knew, poor child, that she had found him at his worst. her courage almost failed her, and she took an involuntary step toward the door. her father's voice arrested her. "here it goes, and it's my last. now, who can say dam crow has not done the square thing?" and with the words he flung a silver dollar on the bar. his last had joined his first. all had gone into the same coffer while an innocent wife and helpless children were starving and freezing at home. a pair of hungry, pleading blue eyes came like a vision to maggie. before the ring of the silver had died away, she sprang forward like a tiger and seized the dollar. "thief! thief!" cried a chorus of voices and two or three seized her. "by the lord, it's mag! my mag! give that money where it belongs, and tell what brings you here, you huzzy," and damon crowley seized his daughter by the shoulder and shook her savagely. "i will give it where it belongs, and that will be to mother. i came here for you, father. mother is sick and cold and nearly starved. the children are all crying for something to eat and the coal is gone; and this is the last?" she opened her hand and looked at the dollar. damon crowley reached for it, but quick as a flash she closed her fingers over it and thrust her hand behind her. "never," she said firmly. "this is the last. it shall be ours to buy mother some tea and the children some bread." "give me that money, you devilish brat!" and stepping forward he struck her a blow in the face. she staggered. some of the bystanders laughed. some called her a plucky girl, and one, more nearly drunk than the rest, thinking that he was in a dog pit no doubt, called lustily, "sic 'em! sic 'em!" maggie cast an appealing glance around the room. all of the men had been drinking. some were nearly intoxicated. the bartender was sober, but it was his dollar that was involved; he could not interfere. poor maggie! she stood her ground bravely. it was the last; she could not let it go. the enraged man gave vent to his passion in a volley of oaths. "give me that dollar, or ---- i'll bust your head. i won't stand such treatment, you ---- fool!" and suiting the action to the words, he drew from under the stove a heavy poker and started toward her. someone caught his upraised arm. "let her go, dam crow. let her have her dollar. you've done the square thing. not a stingy bone in your body." a laugh followed this speech, in which damon crowley joined, and which seemed to put him in better humor. he threw the poker down heavily and taking the frightened girl rudely by the arm pushed her toward the door. "tell the sick lady her husband wants her to have tea, nice warm tea, plenty of tea, and this is your share," and opening the door he pushed her into the passageway and gave her a violent kick. the crowd inside laughed loudly and then went on with their drinking and swearing as if nothing had happened. such visits as the visit of maggie were of too frequent occurrence to cause any prolonged ripple of excitement. poor maggie! she lay groaning on the cold, slippery ground, just outside this licensed, money-making pet of uncle sam's. she was half crazed with pain and growing numb when two young gentlemen came along. one stooped and picked up something lying in the street. "gad! i've good luck," and he held up the dollar. "please, mister! it's mine. give it to me quick. it's all that's left." "and what did you do with the others? come now, you've had a little too much of the stuff inside, but you'd better move on or you'll freeze." "let's call a policeman." "too cold to stop. they'll find her; and if she freezes, well enough. her kind are of no use to the world." then the speaker dropped the dollar in his pocket, and taking his companion's arm hastened away. "o god! o god!" groaned maggie. but her cry was lost on the moaning wind. presently a man wrapped in a fur-trimmed coat turned the corner and almost ran over the prostrate form. he halted suddenly and spoke to her. no answer. he shook her. only a faint groan. then he stepped to the saloon, and after a sharp, decided knock by way of announcement, entered. "does the girl lying outside belong to anyone here? she is nearly frozen." a couple of men stepped to the door and peered out. "it's dam crow's girl. she was in here a huntin' him." "where is her father?" "that's him," pointing to a man lying on a bench behind the stove. "guess he's asleep," said the man, smiling broadly. "wake him, and hurry about it," said the gentleman. but damon crowley was not in a sleep that could be easily broken. like a beast he lay. the spittle oozed from his mouth and spread over his dirty beard in true drunkard fashion. when told that his daughter was just outside freezing, he could only grunt. "where is his home?" "small use to take her there," one man observed, recounting part of the interview that had taken place a short time before. but no one knew where he lived. the muffled man left the saloon abruptly, evidently much disgusted. stepping into the street he called a cab just passing. after having had the half-dead girl placed in the vehicle, the gentleman followed, slamming the door. then he took off his great coat and threw it over her tattered garments. judge thorn was a tender-hearted man. chapter ii. the thorns at home. the thorn homestead, like the family whose name it bore, was magnificent and substantial in an unassuming way. its gray gables seemed to look with a frown on the gingerbread style of architecture that had grown up around it. under the trees on its lawn, three generations of thorns had grown to man's estate, and every one of them had become a lawyer. it had been the hope of the present occupant that when he left the estate he might leave it in the hands of a son, but this was not to be. after a short married life his wife died, leaving him childless. some years later he married a second time. when his first child was born and he was told it was a daughter, he was disappointed. when the second child came and was also a girl, his disappointment verged on resentment. through the hours of anxious waiting that preceded the arrival of the third child, he walked the floor in a state of mind alternating between hope and fear, and when at last the suspense was over and he looked upon the tiny features of a son, his joy knew no bounds. he hurried out to break the news to the two little sisters whom he imagined would be as pleased as he was. he found them in the yard, vivian swinging with her doll and jean digging a hole in a pile of sand. when the important announcement was made, the black-haired vivian clapped her hands for joy, but the other little girl kept right on digging, just as if she had not heard. when she had passed the critical point in the process of excavating she paused and looked up. the expression in her father's face was something new to her, and she studied him in silence a moment, then said, solemnly: "are boys any better than girls, father?" "better? why no, they are no better. they are boys, that is all." "well, then!" and the tone of her voice, no less than the words, conveyed the meaning that the matter was settled, and she returned to her digging as if nothing had happened. but she did not forget the incident, and when, shortly after, the tiny baby boy in the cold arms of his mother had been put to rest beneath a mound, and the light had gone out of the father's face and the elasticity out of his step, little jean pondered and her heart went out strangely to her father in his bitter trouble. she followed him softly about and studied him. one evening, some time after the little son had come and gone, jean appeared before her father in the library to make an important announcement. "i've been thinking the matter over, father," she said, "and i've made up my mind i will be your boy. you want a boy, and you know yourself you'll never be able to make one of vivian, with her wee little mouth and her long braids. now my hair is just right and i can throw a stone exactly over the middle of the barn and kick a ball farther than any boy on the block. i shall kick more hereafter, for don't you think a boy's legs ought to be cultivated?" judge thorn smiled and assured her that she was correct in her idea of muscular development. "are boys as good as girls, father?" "boys as good as girls? why, certainly." "well, you said once that girls were as good as boys, and if boys are as good as girls they're as good as each other, aren't they?" judge thorn could not keep back the laugh this time. "i believe that is the logical conclusion," he said. "then tell me truly, father, if i'm going to be your boy, are you going to be as glad as you were that morning you bothered me when i was digging my well?" judge thorn hesitated a moment, but the clear gray eyes were upon him, and he felt the justice of their plea. "yes, dear, i think so." "and may i do just as you do when i get big--read books and make speeches?" now judge thorn was not an advocate of the advanced sphere of women and was not sure he wanted his daughter to be a lawyer, but after a short reflection, perhaps thinking the request but the passing fancy of a child, he gave his assent. "thank you, father," she responded gravely. "i think you are a very good man." then she kissed him and left the room. he sat, still smiling, when her voice close to his side startled him with the announcement: "i think, father, if you do not care, i will not go into pants. i might not feel at home, you know." from the time that the little jean had announced herself as her father's boy, he took more interest in her; and as the child developed, he saw unfolding the traits and abilities he had hoped to nurture in a son. intuitively she seemed to understand his moods and fancies, and as her understanding developed, the books were a source of delight to her, and many times she discussed knotty problems with her father in a way that pleased him mightily. so, as the years went by, she slipped into the place the father had reserved for the son, and he loved her with a peculiarly tender love and was never prouder of her than when he heard her say, in explanation of her notions and her plans, "i am my father's boy." on the particular night when maggie crowley was wandering about in the storm, two young women occupied a handsome room in the thorn home. a cheerful wood fire burned on the hearth and the clear rays from an overhanging light cast brightness over the rows of books that lined the walls. these were two people who minded not the winter weather. the cold wind blowing through the gables and leafless trees held no terror for them. perhaps they rather liked to hear it as by way of comparison it made their lot seem more comfortable. the tall slender woman with black hair was examining alternately a fashion book and a bunch of samples. she was vivian, a pronounced society lady. the other sat in a low chair, by a small study table, reading, only looking up now and then to answer some question put to her by her sister. this was "my father's boy." the solemn little jean was gone, in her place was this altogether charming young person, whose shapely head was crowned with coils and coils of red brown hair held in place by numerous quaintly carved silver hairpins. if it had not been for the clear gray eyes and the quaint fashion she still had of dropping her head on one side when solving some momentous problem, the little jean might have been a dream. presently the door opened and judge thorn entered. "nice evening, girls!" "delightful!" "blackstone, jean?" the young lady looked at the book quizzically a moment and then laughed. "united states history, father. last week i reviewed caesar. now i am on this, and if i do my best i think i may reasonably hope to be in the third reader by next week." the judge laughed. "i have been reading our constitution and looking over the record of 'the late unpleasantness,'" said jean. "it is very interesting to me. do you know, father, i love every woman who gave a husband or a son to her country, and i almost hold in reverence the memory of the men who shed their blood to effect the abolition of human slavery in america." the tall form of the judge straightened and his eye brightened, like a soldier's when he hears the names of his old battle-fields. "do not forget," he said, "that there were those who acted as brave a part who never faced a cannon. it is easy to be borne by the force of a great wave; but those who by their time and talents put the wave of public opinion in motion are the real heroes. "i can remember the time when a man who preached or taught abolition was looked upon as narrow-minded, fanatical, bigoted and even criminal. when the name was a stench in the nostrils of the people even in liberty-loving boston. when men were rotten-egged, beaten, and in some instances killed because they dared to follow the dictates of their own consciences and make sentiment for the overthrow of the traffic in humanity. it took all this to bring it about. no great moral reform takes place without agitation, or without martyrs. those men bore the brunt of battle before the battle was. they were most surely heroes. they made the tidal wave of opinion that swept the country with insistent force and struck the shackles from , , slaves." "and you, father, were one of them," cried the enthusiastic girl. "what perils you must have braved!" "i did all i could, you may be sure," answered the judge, modestly, "and i imagine it would be more agreeable to be whipped in a hand-to-hand encounter than to be caricatured, misrepresented and lied about, and by those, too, who claimed to have the abolition of slavery near their hearts, who prayed unceasingly for its utter destruction, and then split hairs as to the way in which it was to be accomplished, and who fondly hoped to exterminate it by marking boundary lines." "but then," asked jean, "was there no way by which this terrible war could have been averted? no way by which the government could have regulated and gradually suppressed slavery?" "regulations and restrictions," replied the judge, waxing eloquent, "put upon such a vice by a government are but its terms of partnership. gradual suppression of a mighty evil is always a signal failure, and while we wait to prove these failures the enemy gains foothold." "i am proud of you, father--proud to be my father's boy--proud to be the daughter of a patriot," said jean, with tears in her clear eyes. "i am a patriot, too, and if ever such an issue comes to the front in my day, i intend to do a patriot's part, if i am a woman." "i do not think such an issue will ever be forced to the front again. that was a moral question as well as political. other matters vex the people of today--money matters mostly--in which more diplomacy is required than bravery." "i must hurry now. i have but fifteen minutes in which to get down town." "you surely are not going out tonight?" "business appointments must be kept. the storm was not considerate enough to leave town before 'the man' came, and 'the man' cannot wait for the storm to take its departure, so what is to be done?" "does james know?" "i do not want the horses tonight." jean stepped out and returned with his wraps. she held the great coat while he thrust his long arms into it. then she tied his muffler around his neck. "father, while you are out, if you run across any lonely reformer, put in for jean an application for the position of first assistant," laughed vivian. judge thorn left the room, and these two daughters of fortune settled themselves for a comfortable evening. before it seemed possible that an hour had gone they heard a vehicle drive up to the side gate. the carriage stopped for several minutes, then rattled away over the hard ground, and presently the judge re-entered the room. "ugh! this is a tough night. fire feels good," and he rubbed his hands briskly. "i brought home company, girls. not exactly the reformer vivian was speaking of; perhaps someone to reform." "what do you mean?" "whom have you found?" "i think i may be able to explain what i mean, but until the girl thaws out a little we will not know who she is," said the judge mysteriously. "what in the world do you mean, father? but tell us about it." "well, as usual on a night of this sort, there was a missing man. the search for him took me a couple of blocks out of my way and in coming back i passed a saloon of a low order and found the girl lying in the sleet. i thought more than likely she was drunk, and stepped into the saloon to advise them to look after their productions. here i found her father in a state of beastly intoxication and learned that she had been there, a short time before, begging him to go home with her to a sick wife and some hungry children, but i could not find out where this home was. just as i left the saloon a cab came along, and i had the driver put the girl in it. this is all. where are you going, jean?" "going to see the object of your charity." judge thorn placed his hand on jean's shoulder and pushed her gently back into her chair. "possess your soul in patience. you could be of no possible service if you were to go. mrs. floyd has her in charge and will do all that is necessary. i am not sure that it was wise to bring her here. i am almost sorry that i did so, but i hated to leave her and there was not a policeman in sight; there never is. "it is a shame such places as the place at which i stopped tonight are allowed to exist. two-thirds of the crime and misery of our entire nation can be traced directly to their doors. they are a public nuisance, an outrage to civilization. temperance people must see to it that license is raised so high that this sort cannot obtain it." "would that shut them up?" said jean. "certainly it would." "not all the saloons?" "all the poor, low ones." "what about the rich ones?" "it would make no difference with them, but they have not the bad effect on the morals of a community that the low ones have. they are patronized by a set of people who do not pour their last cent down their throats and employ their time beating their families." jean crossed one foot over the other, leaned slightly forward and with her head dropped a little to one side in the old-time way, sat studying the fire. she was trying to solve some knotty problem. her father smiled. it seemed she was the little jean come back. [illustration: _give me some, quick!_] chapter iii. jean the abolitionist. "come in, father, and make yourself comfortable." it was jean speaking, as she stood in the glow of the library lamp. "i have been waiting for you. you need not cast your eye around for the paper; you will not find it until my case has had a hearing." judge thorn sank into the great easy chair before the fire with an air of forced resignation, and the young woman continued: "it is quite necessary nowadays, you know, for women to have 'ideas.' i have ideas on social and moral questions, but i do not know just where i belong when it comes to politics." the judge lifted his hands with a show of expostulation. "so our jean would be a politician," he cried. "oh, the times! oh, the customs!" "not quite so bad as that, father," replied the young woman, smiling but serious; "but i am in downright earnest. the making, the unmaking and the enforcing of law are politics, and every american woman should have an interest in these things. every thinking woman must have an interest in them. i must know more of politics." "you are right," said her father, thoughtfully; "you are right. i do not believe a woman should get out of her sphere, but a woman's influence is mighty, and inasmuch as all law and reform come through the ballot box, there can be no harm in her giving an intelligent hearing to politics." "then, father, please listen to me for a few minutes; i want to tell you what has set me to thinking along these lines. two weeks ago you brought maggie crowley here. i went to see her in her room the next morning, and she told me her story. her mother was sick, the children were hungry and cold, so she started out to find the father before he had spent his money for drink. "when she finally found him, she found him in a saloon in the act of handing over his last dollar to pay for liquor that others had drunk as well as himself. she got the dollar some way and started home, when, as she said, she fell. the dollar rolled into the street and a passerby picked it up and pocketed it, in spite of the fact that she told him that it was hers, and that it was the last. "i shall never forget the way she looked when she came to this part of her story. her eyes brimmed with tears and her voice was lost in a great big sob. she begged me, for the love of heaven, to go to her mother, who must be half-crazed with grief because of her disappearance, and to take her something to eat. "so mrs. floyd fixed a basket of lunch and we went. a lump rose in my throat when i went into that place. it was cold, very cold. maggie's mother was lying on a bed in one corner of the room, with one thin quilt over her, and a tiny moaning baby at her breast. sitting on a box near the bed were two children, a small boy and a girl. they were huddled under a fragment of blanket. the boy was crying for something to eat and his sister was trying bravely to comfort him. "there was not a spark of fire nor a crumb of food about the place. when mrs. floyd opened the basket and the children saw what it contained, they bounded toward it like wolves, and the woman reached out her thin hand and said, eagerly: 'give me some quick! i'm nearly starved, and the baby is so weak--my breasts are dry.' "i took off my glove and felt her hand, and i really thought she must be frozen; but she said she had been that way so much she was growing used to it. "we stopped on our way home and ordered some coal, and later made a raid on our closets and pantry and made up a load of stuff to take back. i sent some good blankets and quite an assortment of clothing, so that by night they were fairly comfortable. "i went again the next day to see how they were getting along and to give them news of maggie, and while i was there the father came home for the first time. he was over his spell of intoxication, but was weak, and tottered like an old man. his eyes were bloodshot, and on the whole he was not a very prepossessing looking gentleman, but i could not help feeling sorry for him. it seemed so sad to see a being, created in the image of god, such a miserable wreck. "casting his eye hurriedly around the room, he went to the bedside and asked for maggie. his wife told him how she had gone for him, how she fell, and the rest of the story, and then he told his tale, and--can you believe it, father--that man kicked the girl out of the door--kicked his own daughter down the steps into the storm that night, and gave her the injury from which she lies here under our roof now. "my blood boiled, fairly boiled. i could feel it bubbling. his wife turned her face to the tiny baby, and i could see her frame shake under the cover. the man knelt beside the bed and wept, too, and again i was sorry, with a sort of contempt mixed in, for the man. "after a time his wife turned to him, and, resting her thin hand on his head, spoke kindly to him, and referred him to the lord for the strength that he so sorely lacked. the man did pray, and i am sure he was in earnest; and he asked his wife's forgiveness and took a solemn oath that he would never touch another cursed drop." "good," ejaculated the judge. "good?" echoed jean. "wait, i have not finished yet. i went there several times. i liked to go. it made me happy to see the look that was coming into the woman's eyes. she took two half-dollar pieces from under the pillow one morning, and proudly displayed them, telling me it was the first time in a year her husband had given her so much. she said she had hoped in vain, so many times, for him to reform that she had given up hope, but that now she really believed poor maggie's misfortune would prove their blessing. they have not always been poor. once, when they were younger, they owned a nice home and the husband occupied a good position. but he chose for his associates men who spent a good part of their time in a certain fashionable downtown saloon, and to be social he drank with them. he was not a man who could drink a great deal and not become intoxicated, so, when he began to lie around drunk, they pushed him out. "mrs. crowley says the starting point of all their poverty and sorrow and shame was on the threshold of the respectable gilt and glass palace that bears over its doors the names of allison, russell & joy. she knows the place well. i think those gentlemen would not be pleased to hear the things she says of them; for certain it is her husband would never have been a drunkard if it had been necessary for him to have learned the habit in a low grog shop." jean paused a second and looked at her father, but he seemed unaware of her gaze, and she continued: "then i went in to-day to tell them that maggie would be home in a few days, and i found a change. the girl cora was on the bed with her mother. the blankets and sheets had disappeared. the few pieces of furniture that the room contained were scattered in disorder. i will try to tell the rest of the story as mrs. crowley told it to me. i will never forget, father, the helpless despair that sounded in her voice and manner as she talked. "'ah, miss thorn!' she said, wearily, 'it's all over--all gone. i should have known better than to have hoped again; but hope is so sweet! yesterday morning my husband seemed more like himself than he has for years. he kissed us when he went away and promised to be home early. we were all very happy. he is such a kind, good man when he is himself. oh! if only he had never crossed the threshold of that gilded trap of hell. those men's names burn in my mind. i wonder if such men as allison, russell and joy have hearts. "'cora fixed supper, and then we waited. he did not come; but i felt so sure some way that he would that i was not uneasy. the children finally had to eat alone. about o'clock he came. dear miss thorn, if you have never seen a raving, frenzied man, pray god you never may. this was the way he came home. he had had just enough of liquor to fire up a gnawing, burning pain and not enough to satisfy him. he came directly to the bed and demanded the money he had given me in the morning. i told him it was gone. he swore an oath, and asked me where. i told him johnnie had spent it for food. he swore another awful oath, and took up a stick of wood, with which he began to beat the boy. "'when you are a mother you can better imagine than i can describe how i felt, lying helpless in bed, and seeing a man, my own husband, so cruelly beating my innocent child. cora, poor cora, went bravely to her brother's rescue, and her father, god forgive him, beat her until the blood came from his blows, and she fell to the floor, and then he kicked her. "'i could stand this no longer. i sprang from the bed, but i was weak. i could do nothing, and he, the man who promised before god to protect me, kicked me, too. it seemed to me then that his boot-toe pierced my heart. johnnie ran out to call some one in, but before he returned my husband had taken the blankets and other things that he could pawn and had gone. "'perhaps you think it strange for me to tell these things to you, but my heart is bursting and my brain is on fire with such misery that i must talk. come and see what a man can do when crazed with rum--a good father when he is himself--and in a christian country! where are the preachers and the people who call themselves god's people, that they do not drive away forever the cause of all this?' "i looked at the girl cora; and i wish, father, that she might be put on exhibition in some public show window downtown, conspicuously labeled, 'a specimen of the work done by a father when under the effects of christian america's legal poison.' "she was literally covered with wounds and her legs were so swollen she could not walk. "now, father, get out your list of political parties, examine the candidates, and put me where i belong. this is a question that must come into politics, as all reforms come through the ballot-box, and i must give my influence to that political party or power making this a clear-cut issue. i am an abolitionist." "a what?" "an abolitionist." "how is that?" "simply enough: i stand for the everlasting abolition of the liquor traffic. it is quite the proper thing for the daughter of a republican to be an abolitionist." judge thorn laughed. "you put your case plain enough," he said. "there is small room to doubt how you stand, but i think that you will see that abolition in this case would be impracticable. you know, my girl, in these days a half-loaf is better than no bread. political parties, like the grass of the field, sprout up and die away. there are but two real parties. the fight on leading issues is between them. all that is necessary for you to do is to read the platforms of these two parties and make your choice. listen!" he took down a political almanac from one of the library shelves. "we are opposed," he read "to all sumptuary laws as an interference with the individual rights of the citizen." jean sat rocking slowly, with her hands clasped behind her head. as her father read her forehead wrinkled. after he had finished, she waited as if expecting something more, then said: "is that all?" "that is all." "then it occurs to me, if i can understand plain english, that this party proposes to do nothing to stop the terrible drink curse. bring on another. that is not my party." judge thorn read again, and this time with an air of profound satisfaction: "the first concern of all good government is the virtue and sobriety of the people and the purity of the home." jean's face lit up, and she looked eagerly toward her father. "we cordially sympathize," read on the judge, "with all wise and well-directed efforts for the promotion of temperance and morality." jean sat looking into the fire. her father waited a few seconds, then she turned her face to him. "and what do they propose to do?" "do?" "yes, do! the cordial sympathy of the whole republican party does not make mrs. crowley any happier nor take any of the soreness out of cora's body, nor do anything toward curing poor maggie; and i cannot see how 'cordial sympathy' is going to shut up any saloons or keep mr. crowley from getting drunk again. so far, so good, but read on. i am anxious to learn what this party proposes to do to promote 'temperance and morality.'" "that is all the platform contains on the subject," said judge thorn. "individuals are left to their own judgment as to the best methods to be used in the restriction of the evil, although the policy of the party is well known." "it is?" "high license." "does high license promote temperance and morality?" "certainly: high license closes a great many saloons entirely, and puts the business in the hands of men who run respectable places." "respectable places!" quoted jean, thoughtfully. the judge looked at the fire in silence. "and, father," persisted the earnest girl, "do statistics prove that fewer licenses are issued in cities where high license laws are in effect and that there is a decrease in crime and poverty?" "to be sure. it must be so, for republicans, as a rule, are the temperance people and, as a rule, they indorse high license. but you have heard the reading, 'all wise and well-directed _efforts_,' one is at liberty to substitute no license by local option, or any other restrictive measure he deems wise." "is there room on this broad platform for any liquor dealers?" "quite a number; and here again may be seen the higher moral tone of the party, for nine times out of ten it is the better class of dealers who are allied with it." jean leaned back in her chair and rocked. as she mused she rocked more and more slowly, and when she stopped abruptly her father knew the verdict was ready. "well, father, this much is settled: i do not believe in high license. in the first place, i think it dishonest to let the rich man, who can afford to do so, pay for the privilege of making more money and shut out the poor man, who is trying to earn a living, because he is not already rich. in the second place, it occurs to my mind, more so after knowing mrs. crowley, that if license laws could be so arranged as to wipe out the 'respectable' places, the low ones would soon follow. public sentiment would not tolerate them, and if it did, the coming generation would not be lured to destruction by glitter and music. "in the third place," and the girl sprang to her feet and stood looking her father full in the face, "a man who labored fearlessly for the overthrow of human slavery when public opinion pointed the finger of scorn at him, said to me not long since: 'regulations and restrictions put on such a vice by the government are but its terms of partnership.'" it took judge thorn half a minute to recognize his words. then he laughed. "jean, child, you are getting sharp. your logic is all right, but you must remember times have changed. this is different." "i cannot see, father, that the moral issue is any different. of the two great evils, intemperance is certainly a greater curse than ever slavery was; for while it has all the pain and heartaches and sorrow of every description that accompanies slavery, the worst feature of it is that hell is filling up with souls that drink their doom when they drain the wine cup. i think i understand myself, father, and i say again, i am an abolitionist. bring on some other party platform." "there are no others but the labor organizations and the 'cranks.'" "what do the labor people say?" "they regard intelligence, virtue and temperance, important as they are, as secondary to the great material issues now pressing for solution." "and the 'cranks,' as you call them?" "they have no policy, and their politics consists in trying to undo all the temperance legislation they get through other parties because it does not come through theirs. as a political party they are the most fanatical and narrow-minded that history takes account of. indeed, i doubt not that, in certain instances, their obstinate opposition to men and measures has been little short of criminal. but i will read: "'we favor the legal prohibition by state and national legislation of the manufacture, importation and sale of alcoholic beverages.'" "eureka!" she shouted. "i am not alone. how many others like me?" "a quarter of a million, i presume," he answered, a trifle grimly. "and must i take my stand in politics away from my dear father, who is so wise and just?" "you are young, jean, and impulsive. you will see the matter in a different light when you have given the subject more thought. i am old now. for over half a century i have studied the affairs of men, and i tell you the time is not now expedient for such an issue to be forced to the front." "when will it be?" "when sentiment is strong enough behind the movement to enforce the law." "strange," mused jean. "one might almost imagine, by the amount of resolving that has been done in the last few years, that sentiment was strong enough to sink the traffic five miles deep in the ocean of righteous indignation. i tell you, father, sentiment is the prime essential of the whole thing; but as long as it floats around everywhere, like moonshine, what is it good for? we need concentration and crystallization now. in other words, i believe in a party of embodied sentiment." chapter iv. asleep in jesus. gilbert allison, of the firm of allison, russell & joy, wholesale and retail liquor dealers, walking briskly along a sideway that led toward one of the great thoroughfares of the city, halted a second before crossing the street. as he stopped a voice reached his ear. hearing the voice he took a more careful glance at the surroundings and found himself standing in front of a plain little wooden structure that he learned, from a sign upon one corner, was some sort of an orthodox chapel. through the narrow, open doorway the voice floated: asleep in jesus, blessed sleep, from which none ever wake to weep-- a calm and undisturbed repose, unbroken by the last of foes. asleep in jesus! oh, how sweet to be for such a slumber meet! with holy confidence to sing that death has lost its venom sting. both words and tune were unfamiliar to him. was it the song itself, sung to the sweetly pathetic tune of "rest," was it the strangely beautiful and solemn voice of the singer, or was it common curiosity to see the owner of the unusual voice that proved the attraction prompting him to step into the vestibule? unseen he watched as the song went on: asleep in jesus! peaceful rest, whose waking is supremely blest. no fear nor foe shall dim the hour that manifests the savior's power. asleep in jesus! oh, for me may such a blissful refuge be! securely shall my ashes lie and wait the summons from the sky. the sweet voice of the singer died away, and the stillness was broken only by low sobbing. then the minister arose. gilbert allison had seen enough. the plain, dark coffin just before the altar railing told him that another human soul had left its earthly body and had gone beyond. he was not interested in this. his mind dwelt on the singer. she was rather small, a well-formed and graceful appearing young woman of perhaps twenty-two or twenty-four. she wore a plain dark dress, and a round hat rested on the masses of red-brown hair that framed her face and crowned her shapely head. here and there in the mass a carved silver hair-pin showed itself, and gilbert allison found himself studying the effect as he walked down the street; found himself puzzled as to why he had stopped and noticed her hair or her. evidently she had made an impression on him. he tried, in a way, to analyze this, and finally gave it up, yet found himself continually recalling the face in its frame of red-brown hair. he had known many charming women in his three and thirty years of life, but he had never felt before the indescribable charm that had suddenly, like the fragrance of a hidden violet, come to him for the unknown singer in the dingy chapel. gilbert allison had guarded well his heart's affections, but there comes a time in the lives of most men when the heart refuses to be subject to the will and obstinately goes whither it pleases. this man's heart was about to assert its rights. the daughter of a republican was to have a lover, for it was miss thorn who sang. that miss thorn should sing had been the wish of the now lifeless sleeper, and jean had done her best. all that was mortal of maggie crowley rested in the plain, dark coffin. a life fraught with sorrow and tears and an innocent shame was ended; a body racked with hunger and pain and cold was at rest. from the time of her awful hurt, now a year ago, maggie had been an invalid. the children had gone out to work, and the frail mother had tried to cheer them as she toiled in the valley of despair. a new sorrow had come into the wretched home: cora, yet a child in years, because she had a fair face and a drunkard for a father, had been robbed of her one priceless possession--her unspotted character--by a man whose name was familiar in high circles, and whose hand was courted by more than one mother for some cherished daughter. from the time that her sister had bartered away her purity, in the bitter, thankless battle that she fought for bread, maggie had steadily grown weaker, and when the mother knew the time was near at hand for her to go she sent for miss thorn. jean had never been beside a death-bed, but she did not hesitate. maggie was lying, white and thin, upon the pillow. she looked eagerly toward the door. her eyes lit with a lingering light, and a faint smile came around the corners of her drawn mouth when she saw that it was jean. she spoke slowly and softly, without much effort, and quite distinctly. "i'm going pretty soon, miss thorn, and i wanted to see you. you've been so good to us--god will bless you for it. when i am gone, don't forget poor mother. please don't, miss thorn! she will be sad. i'm the only one that remembered the other days, and we used sometimes to talk of them and pray that they might come back. maybe god will send them back some day--but i will not be here. i'm not afraid to die. christ died for the drunkard's child--i'm sure he did. i'm so glad to go. in my father's house are many mansions--many mansions--one for us." she closed her eyes as she repeated the words softly. "when i am gone, do not feel sad, mother--not too sad," she continued in a moment. "think that i have only gone to sleep to wake up where there is no more sorrow. i'll be waiting in our mansion, mother, and there we will be happy, for the book says he will not be there who puts the bottle to his neighbor's lips." she stopped to rest. the room was very quiet. "when my father comes," a look of intense longing came into her sunken eyes, and for a moment she struggled to force back the great sob of sorrow that seemed choking her, "tell him 'goodby' for maggie. perhaps he will be sorry--not like he once would have been--just a little. don't let the children forget me. dear children! how i wish i could take them all to the mansion. and cora, poor cora----" the last tears that ever shone in maggie's eyes filled them now. "god knows about cora," said jean, tenderly, while the mother wept in silence. the dying girl lay quite exhausted, and, while she rested, her eyes wandered from one to the other of the few around the bed and rested lovingly on her mother's face. her minutes were numbered. mortality was ebbing away. when she spoke again it was with more of an effort, pausing now and then for breath. "stoop over, mother; let me put--my arms around--your dear, kind neck. put your face down--so i can put my cheek--against yours--as i did when we were happy. i'm going back--to it. i smell the roses. i hear the pigeons--on the roof. lift me--mother--gently. i am--tired. sing--my--good night--song--i'll--go--to--sleep." mrs. crowley drew the dying girl's head close to her heart and tried to sing; but her voice failed. then, in the presence of the death angel, jean sang for the girl's long sleeping. suddenly a clear, happy, childish voice rang out on the stillness--"papa's coming!" it was the last. the arms around the mother's neck unclasped. the weary head sank upon the pillow. the eyelids fluttered. the breaths came shorter and shorter--the weary girl had entered into rest. the soul of the drunkard's daughter had gone where justice reigns supreme; where a god of justice watches the kingdoms of the earth and in mercy stays the doom that comes a certain penalty of the nation that sells its maids and youths to the rum fiend. mrs. crowley stood looking down on the wan face of her first-born. "thank god she is happy! but it's hard--so hard!" a mother's love is the same the world around. this mother threw herself down by the bedside, and, holding one of the lifeless hands to her lips, sobbed bitterly. it seemed a desecration that just now the father should come stumbling into the scene, filling the room with the fumes of liquor and muttering drunken curses. but maggie was beyond the reach of human harm. this would never pain her heart again. neighbors came in, and jean stepped out into the fresh air. it was nearly noontime. the streets were busy, and as she went towards home she saw the beer wagons driving in every direction, loaded with their freight of sorrow and pain and death. as she passed the palaces of gilded doom, arrayed in cut glass and mirrors, luring the souls of men and boys to hell, she thought of the christian voters of the nation who allow it to be so because, bound by party ties and fooled by party leaders, they will not force this mighty issue to the front and demand its recognition at the ballot-box; and these words rang in her ears: "because i have called and ye have refused, ye have set at naught all my counsel. i also will laugh at your calamity when your destruction cometh as a whirlwind." the words burned in her mind, and when she reached home she entered the library and without removing hat or gloves threw herself upon a sofa. it was not quite time for luncheon. the house was quiet. vivian had, during the year, married the rector of a large and fashionable city church. for weeks before the eventful occasion life had been one round of shopping and fitting, of entertaining and rehearsing. jean, as maid of honor, had figured conspicuously in the different functions, and for a time her mind was so absorbed with the fragrance and sunshine of life that its seamy side was forgotten. but after it was all over her thoughts and sympathies went out again to that family of the "other half" that she had so strangely become interested in, and the old question pressed itself for solution, why, in a christian land of plenty, such a state of life for such vast numbers was allowable or even possible. with the sound of the dying girl's voice in her ears and the sight of a nation's legalized poison yet before her vision she rested, and so engrossed was she with her thoughts that she did not notice the entrance of her father. "a penny for your thoughts, my dear." jean looked up suddenly. then she caught her father's hand and drew him to her side. "i have seen a death to-day, father--a death, a drunkard, loads of beer and whisky." "crowley dead at last?" "maggie." "poor girl. no doubt she is better off." "yes, better off," repeated jean. "but, father, i have been thinking of the whirlwind. you know the book that has voiced unerringly the stage play of the ages says destruction is coming as a whirlwind--as a whirlwind. can you not catch its roaring under the bluster of silver and tariff and war? do you never hear the mutterings of its power? are there not signs of the coming whirlwind--signs unmistakable--roastings in the south and lynchings in the north, bloody strikes from east to west, deep-seated unrest among the nation's laboring masses, and the steadily increasing cry of a multitude of suffering and helpless people writhing under the heel of the great iniquity? couple the signs of the times, father, with an indisputable knowledge of corruption in politics, the inefficacy of the law because of the absolute power of rum and 'boodle' and the utter absence of any fixed moral principle in the dealings of the great majority of the old party leaders, and have we not an 'issue' that imperatively demands the attention of every loyal american? "the more i think, the less i blame the laboring element for their dissatisfaction, bordering on madness at times. i feel that they have just cause to be alarmed. am i a pessimist, father, or is there a cancer eating out the nation's life?" the young woman stood in the center of the room, erect and with arm extended. the lawyer was looking at her with a gleam of fatherly admiration; but as she closed the outburst with her question he grew grave and stroked his beard. the facts were not unfamiliar to him. "i do wish," he said thoughtfully, "that the laboring element would see that it is to their interests to stand by that party that promises them the most in the way of reform, instead of making so much fuss and striking and splitting into small parties that can hope to effect nothing and might cripple their best friend and put the country hopelessly in the hands of the political enemies of progress and reform." jean laughed. "you look now for all the world, father, like a child whom i saw a few days ago. i came upon her holding a doll's body, with a stump of neck where the head had once been. she looked down at it tenderly and smiled a dear little motherly smile. 'what do you see, child?' i asked. 'my dolly's beautiful face,' she said. 'where is it?' said i. 'it's gone,' she answered, proudly, but with the fond look still in her eyes. you view the reform element in your party in about the same light." "when did you turn champion of the labor party?" said the judge, a trifle impatiently. "i have done no turning. there is but one party standing for the real good of the people. what is the use of organizing a party to exterminate trusts and then being afraid to measure arms politically with the greatest trust on earth? the laboring element will seek their best interests sooner or later." "your party has added a few labor planks to catch votes." "i beg your pardon, father. almost from the beginning, some thirty years ago, this party stood as it does now. the trouble with you is, if i may be allowed to say it, you know nothing of the party i have discovered. let me read you its platform." and from a small, green book jean began her reading, while judge thorn listened attentively. but before she had finished james appeared with the evening paper, and almost unconsciously he opened it. as he cast his eyes on the page a smile overspread his face, and the words of the reading were lost. jean finished presently, and frowned a little, when she saw her father so deeply engrossed in his paper. presently he looked up, the broad smile still upon his face. "jean, my girl, listen!" and he read an account of the dramatic passage of the anti-canteen law by congress. judge thorn had been deeply interested in the canteen question. he had known a boy, the son of a professional friend, who had been most carefully and prayerfully reared at home in fear of the inheritance of an appetite for liquor, but who had gone at his country's call to uphold her honor, and had become a drunkard through the regimental canteen. he himself had seen the fifty law-breaking canteens in camp thomas at chickamauga, with their daily sales amounting to hundreds of dollars. he had seen something of the same evil at the little army post near their own city; and a young man who had been his confidential clerk before the war, and who was now with one of the volunteer regiments at manila, had written to him of the canteen: "it has been the curse of this army, and has caused more deaths than the mauser bullets. it is a recognized fact that in regiments where canteens are established drinking is not restrained, rather encouraged, and numerous sprees are started that are finished in the saloons just outside. six cases of delirium tremens have resulted from the establishment of the regimental groggery. our army is in danger a thousand times greater than any foreign foe may ever bring against us. when will the government take action?" the lawyer's clear mind had seen where the responsibility for the whole system lay, and, sorely tried by the president's inaction, partly to lift from his party the odium of the canteen disgrace and partly as a matter of real heart choice, he had worked with more than his usual vigor to help bring to bear a pressure in washington great enough to abolish the army saloon. "cheer, jean!" he said. "cheer for the party in power. the bill has passed." "was it your party or public sentiment in spite of your party that brought about the passage of the bill?" asked jean. "sentiment, my dear girl," said the judge, dogmatically, "without machinery back of it, is good for nothing." "exactly. if you remember, father, that has been the burden of my plea for a new party. answer me a question, and i will cheer so that i may be heard a block. you tell me that the position of this party you ask me to cheer for is high license; now here is a list of ninety-five of the principal cities of the country, forty-six high license and forty-nine low license. the total arrests for drunkenness in the high license cities was , , as against , in the low license cities. what i want to know is this: how is this sort of a temperance measure going to 'promote temperance and morality'? public control, local option, mulct tax and other measures you devise figure up about the same way. take these statistics and in the light of them solve the puzzle for me." "statistics are hard to dwell in unity with. take them to a preacher. this is a matter for them to deal with," laughed the judge. "why do they not deal with them, then? seven million church member voters in this country! why do not they focus their religion and do something? i divine a reason. while they live all the rest of the year with prayers and resolutions, they go out on a moral debauch on election day with a disreputable individual known as party." the judge stroked his beard and smiled. then he turned again to his paper. "no need," he said, complacently, "for a better party than what we have. listen!" and again he read the measure that had so pleased him. "is it not splendid, and so plainly worded that a wayfaring man, though a fool or a third-rate lawyer, cannot mistake the meaning of it. now watch the machinery work. we shall have 'father's boy' back cheering for the grand old party yet," and the judge placed his hand fondly on jean's shoulder. "i'll keep my eye on the 'machine,'" answered jean, playfully, "but i am woefully afraid it is punctured, though i wouldn't mention it for anything." [illustration: "_vote for whisky, boys!_"] chapter v. lessons of an election day. it was the municipal election day. judge thorn was alone in his office. he sat at his desk, which was piled with papers which he was busy sorting. the door opened and miss thorn entered. the judge looked over his shoulder. "you are a bit late," he said. jean looked at her watch. "a trifle," she answered, "but i have always wanted to know what sort of people run our government, and i have been out satisfying my curiosity. i have been to the polls." "to the polls," echoed the judge, sharply, whirling around from his desk with a sudden movement that scattered his papers over the floor. "that is what i said, father. i have been to the polls; and worse, i took an active part in the proceedings by offering the voters 'no license' tickets." "jean, i must say you have overstepped the bounds of all propriety. you are a young lady who has been allowed a good many privileges, but this is carrying things a little too far," said the judge, almost hotly. "you were there this morning, i believe, father," jean answered, coolly. "i believe i was, but that is no reason you should go. it is no fit place for a decent woman." "i will admit that, father, and i will go a little further and say it is no fit place for a decent man either." "men have grown used to such sights and sounds as are seen and heard around a polling place." "i suppose so. but if decent men can grow used to such things and escape contamination, i think decent women can do the same; and if decent men cannot i suppose you would advise them to stay away from the polls." "no; no, indeed. the bad element largely predominates now, and it is the duty of every good citizen to stand by his colors at the ballot box. but we will not discuss the matter further. the fact remains the same. of course you are of age and can go where you choose, yet i am nevertheless displeased." "i am sorry that you are displeased, father, and if my doing so will afford you any satisfaction, i will promise you that i will not be caught in such a howling mob again until i can go as an equal of some of the specimens i have seen today." jean removed her hat and jabbed the hat pin into it with some asperity. "i have been grossly insulted," she said. "just what i have expected to hear," said her father, "and what can be done when you put yourself in the way of it?" "i have not the remotest idea how i put myself in the way of it, but you will probably be able to explain to me. our venerable uncle sam is the offending party, and the offense is something like the indignity you would offer me if you gave vivian all the privileges and love that you should share with me, because she happened to be born with black hair, and then should try to keep me in a state of blissful delusion by telling me i had the sweeter disposition. there would be about as much sense and justice in such a procedure, coming from you, as there is in the way uncle sam treats women. "here i am, a woman of good moral character, fairly intelligent, i hope, with a good education, denied my right to the ballot because, forsooth, i chanced to be born a woman and am considered too good. to-day's visit to the polls has reminded me of this insult, tendered by our government to its loyal women. "by the time i got within two blocks of the polling place, i could hear the general commotion. when i arrived on the scene of action, i found a number of women, of good standing in the community, trying to get men to vote against license. truly a humiliating business! but as they pressed me, i took a few of the ballots and started into the crowd, while a friendly looking policeman followed me. "i had hardly made a start when some one crossed my path yelling wildly, 'vote for whisky, boys! vote for whisky, boys!' he was that half-witted, pumpkin-colored individual that you discharged last winter because he did not know enough to keep the horses' feet clean. armed with his license ballot, he halted a second before me; then, fluttering the ballot, which he held between his fingers under my nose, he shouted again and again, 'vote for whisky, boys!" "he gave me a look that told me plainer than a volume of words could have done that he recognized his importance. he knew that he stood head and shoulders above me in uncle sam's estimation, in spite of my learning and morality, because on him had been bestowed a gift denied me. "i do not like it. i want the right of citizenship. i want to stand on an equality with folks at least that do not know enough to clean a horse's feet." "it sounds very foolish, jean," said her father, "for one of your birth and breeding to be talking thus of an equality with such a character as this." "it does sound foolish, wonderfully foolish," admitted jean. "you and i know, father, that i am his superior, but when it comes to a question of the social welfare, that is a very different thing. he well understands that he is a privileged character there. he is a unit of society's make-up, and where do i come in? along with the chinese, the ex-convict and the insane! i do not relish any such sort of company. god made woman capable of self-government, and expected it of her. why should she not be on a suffrage equality with man?" "why do you want to vote, jean?" asked the judge, as he would begin with a witness. "why do you want to vote, father?" sharply replied the girl. "why, my vote is my individuality in the body politic. i could not do without my vote," said the judge, with a slight hesitation. "do you not suppose i want some individuality, too?" came the prompt retort. the judge laughed. "i have every reason to believe you do," he said. "do you not suppose that i would not like to help make the laws that govern me?" asked jean, taking upon her the role of inquisitor. "men can make enough laws for both sexes, i guess," was the reply, uttered in a tone that carried a suspicion of dismissal. "i guess they can," persisted jean; "but what sort of laws have they been? heathenish, some of them!" "for instance?" "laws that have been on our statute books allowing fathers to will away their unborn children; laws allowing the father to appoint guardians of whatever kind or creed over his children, leaving the mother powerless. and what shall we say about the abominable laws made by men everyone of them, that legalize the sale of drink?" "well, a woman is a woman, jean, and the polls is not a fit place for a woman," and the judge set his lips very firmly. "that is the assertion you made at the outset, father. it is no argument, and much as i respect you, i can hardly accept it as final. you know, father, that if polling places are not fit for decent women, neither are they fit for decent men, and the sooner decent people get around and clean them up, the better it will be for the country. come, now, if you have a sound, logical reason why women should not vote, bring it on." "well," said the judge, "even admitting that the advent of women in politics might have a cleansing effect, women do not want the ballot." "what women?" demanded jean. "the majority of women." "how do you know they do not?" "it is to be supposed that if they were clamoring to any great extent for it we would hear of it through the papers." "what papers? papers that oppose it to the bitter end? i can show you papers by the dozen and the score that would enlighten you along this line. women do not ask, but rather they demand, the ballot. but this is begging the question. if it is right for women to have the ballot, it is right, and if it is wrong, it is wrong--that is all there is to it. now, father, tell me the reasons." "why, jean, have not i given you reasons and have you not overruled them, every one?" was the almost testy answer. "a woman is a woman, and god never intended her to vote." jean laughed merrily. "what are you laughing at?" demanded her father. "why, at you; you are back just where you started. women must not vote because they are women. if you have nothing better to offer there is no use of going over the grounds again. this makes me think of the time i studied circulating decimals." the judge joined in jean's laugh, and turned again to his papers, as if glad of a diversion. after judge thorn had picked up and rearranged his papers he looked toward jean, who had suddenly grown quiet. in her face he saw something that was new to him and that in some way sent a little jealous pang to his heart. her face was a dream study. a soft, far-away expression rested over it, and her father knew that she was somewhere, away from her surroundings, but he did not interrupt her. presently she spoke: "i saw a man to-day." "i supposed that you had seen several." "well, of course," the girl admitted, "but i rarely notice men, and that i remember this one so distinctly and think of him surprises me. he was tall and broad shouldered and dressed in a navy blue business suit, and i think probably he was the handsomest man i have ever seen, though i cannot tell why i think so. his hair and eyes were brown, his hair almost black, it was so dark, and a trifle curly. his eyes were clear and honest looking, with a touch of fun in them and something else that i have not been able to define, but that i liked. he wore a mustache, but it only partially concealed his mouth. i think perhaps it was his mouth that i liked best. it was a firm mouth, maybe a hard one, but i admire a firm man." judge thorn laughed. "you must have examined him pretty closely." "no, father, i saw him at a glance some way. perhaps he impressed me as he did because i was so disappointed in him. i saw him standing at a short distance from the animated crowd around the polls, looking on with an air of mingled amusement and disgust. i made up my mind that he was the very individual who would take one of my 'no-license' votes, so i asked him. "he took off his hat and looked down at me, for he is tall, a look made of a little astonishment, a bit of fun and, i imagined, some pity, and said: 'i am really very sorry that i cannot do as you wish, but i cannot consistently vote against license, being myself engaged in the liquor business.' "of course i said no more, but i was never so surprised in my life, and to tell the truth, i was disappointed." judge thorn looked relieved. "i believe i know now why i remembered him so well," continued jean. "he was the only liquor dealer among those i spoke to to-day, and ignorantly i accosted many, who refused my ticket in a gentlemanly manner. yes, i have now seen a gentlemanly liquor dealer. i wonder if i will ever see him again. but see! here are the horses, father. come, let us go," she said, taking his arm. "poor father! i am sorry for you. it must be a trial to have so strange a child, but really i cannot help it, and i am sure you will forgive me when you remember that i am 'my father's boy.'" chapter vi. the nation's defenders. it was one of those prophetic days of early spring when heaven and earth are filled with faint, far promises of the sunshine and verdure of the summer, and when an expectant hush fills all the air, save as now and then a breath of the awakening south wind stirs the faded memories of last autumn's glories where the dried leaves cluster among the thickets or in the fence corners. the thorn carriage occupied by jean and the coachman, james, was rolling along a stretch of suburban road. jean had just left the home of the crowleys', and sat in a reverie of sympathy and indignation. personally she felt that she was absolutely safe from any harm from the traffic in misery and death; but this very fact made her more pitiful and more determined to use what influence and power she could command against it. the carriage slowed up a bit where the road divided. "which way, miss jean?" "to the army post, james," and she continued her brown study, seeming to notice nothing of the landscape until they entered the massive iron gates of the reservation. just inside the gates, on either side, heavy cannons were grouped in triangular fashion and surmounted with cones of cannon balls. at regular intervals black sign-boards, bright with gilt lettering, gave notice that just so far and no farther, and just so fast and no faster, the public might travel in this well-arranged institution of the government. the drive around the inclosure was a long one, and when the thorn carriage had reached the side farthest removed from the buildings, a sudden jar and crash startled jean, and suddenly she found herself lying on the roadside. fortunately she was not hurt, and after she had brushed the dust from her eyes and pinned a rent in her skirt she found that only a slight break in the carriage had caused the accident. so after tying the horses to a hitching post at some distance, james pushed the carriage to one side, and with the broken part started to a blacksmith shop at no great distance outside the post, jean agreeing to wait for him, unless he should be gone too long. after james had disappeared behind the trees, jean seated herself comfortably on a bench near by, and with her head resting against a majestic oak, gazed upward at the soft spring sky showing through the brown network of the branches. a bird a great way off circled against the floating clouds for a time and disappeared. at one end of the inclosure the drill ground, checkered and bare, could be seen. through the trees the red brick walls of the houses in the officers' quarters showed, while, looking in another direction, she could see a number of stone buildings with porches running their entire length, onto which opened many doors. a little removed from all these was a common frame building, which, judging by the number of soldiers gathered around it, was the popular resort of the post. this was the canteen. jean's eyes fell with displeasure upon this. it seemed to her like a dark blot upon an otherwise fair picture; like a grave mistake in an otherwise well-ordered institution. a couple of peafowl trailed their plumage over the dry brown grass across the way from her, and in the slanting rays of the sun they looked like brilliant jewels against the rough and dingy background. but their harsh notes seemed at variance with their beauty, and this, too, made jean think of the government--a government born more beautiful than any other, and reared in its infancy with the care of a child, yet presenting to the world, by its administration, which is a government's voice, an inconsistency appalling. far from broken axles and torn skirts jean's thoughts traveled, until she was brought to a sense of her surroundings by footsteps, and looking up she saw that two soldiers had turned the curve that shut off the view of the main road and were coming toward her. one was a thick-set man of about middle age. he had that untidy appearance that marks a slovenly person, and will appear even in a soldier in spite of all wise and well-directed efforts on the part of a government to keep him neat. his large, light gray, campaign hat was pulled down well over his eyes and a short cob pipe was clinched between his teeth. the other man was younger and not as heavy. he wore a long coat, open from the neck down, and his cap, set on one side of his head, left his bleared and bloated face in full view. as they came nearer the younger man staggered fearfully, and jean knew that he was intoxicated. a feeling, half fear and half loathing, took possession of her as these two ill-visaged privates came nearer; but supposing they would pass, she kept her seat. "take-a-hic-your pipe-a-hic-out, in-a-hic-the presence of-a-hic-ladies," the man in the long cloak said. the thick-set man took his pipe from his teeth and knocked the ashes out against the palm of his hand. they were directly in front of jean now. the man in the long cloak made a tottering bow and addressed her. "may a-hic we sit down?" "certainly," said jean, the blood rushing to her face at their boldness, and she hurriedly started to her feet. "keep-a-hic-your seat and-a-hic-don't get agitated; we're-a-hic-gentle-mench." the thick-set man had already seated himself, and the other man followed his example, forcing jean to a place by his side. judging the thick-set man to be the least intoxicated and more decent, she appealed to him for protection. the lower part only of his face was visible, but she saw that he laughed. "he don't mean no harm. keep still and he'll go on about his business," he assured her. jean's face blazed and her heart beat with the force of four. the tall man emptied his mouth of tobacco juice and other fluids and substances, and the sickening mixture fell so close to jean's foot that her boot was spattered. then he wiped the dribbles on the back of his hand and turned to her. he bent so close that his hot, foul breath struck her with staggering force and his bloated face almost touched her cheek. "you're-a-hic-a little peach," he said, with a leer, "and-a-hic-i'm-a-hic-a going to k-k-kiss you." it was then jean screamed with all her might, and at the same moment a man sprang to her rescue from a light buggy that had rounded the bend of the drive unobserved. the thick-set man suddenly disappeared, but the other soldier, either too drunk for rapid movement or too muddled to understand the gravity of the situation, only rose to his feet and stood leering at jean with disgusting admiration. the next instant he was felled to the earth and a broad-shouldered man stood over him ready to render a second blow if occasion demanded. the soldier made an attempt to rise. "lie there, you brute," the man cried, hotly, and the drunken fellow obeyed. "nice-a-hic-way to treat a-hic-man that's protecting-a-hic-the-a-hic-honor-a-hic, the honor of----" he muttered. but the gentleman turned to the woman, and jean, trembling with fear and indignation, with crimson cheeks and flashing eyes, looked a second time into the face of the gentlemanly liquor dealer. "i am so glad you came!" she gasped, and held out her hand to him. as they turned to his buggy the gentleman cast a glance back at the prostrate soldier, who had crawled behind a bush to sleep until removed to the guardhouse. "such creatures are a disgrace to a civilized government," he exclaimed, with ill-concealed wrath. "our government is a disgrace to itself," she added. "it creates such creatures by a legal process, and yonder is the factory," and she pointed in the direction of the canteen. "canteen beer--canteen beer," she began again, with warmth, but stopped, for she knew that she was very much excited and that she might not speak wisely. if she had opened an argument with the gentleman at her side she would have found that he was well posted with the old arguments about the canteen being an institution to keep the soldiers from the greed of evil saloons outside the different posts, but her companion respected her silence, and did not speak until they had passed the great iron gate, when it became necessary. "now," said he, "if you will direct the way, and have no objections, it will give me pleasure to see you safely home." "i am miss thorn," said jean, giving him her address. "miss thorn? perhaps you are related to judge thorn?" "i am," replied jean, smiling. "that is nice. i have had the pleasure of meeting the judge, and i do not know a man whom i would rather oblige. he is a man all men honor." "i am his daughter," jean said, proudly, "and i assure you my father will feel under lasting obligations to you for your kindness to me this afternoon, mr. ----" "allison," the gentleman said. "allison?" it was jean's turn to look surprised. "yes, madam. allison--gilbert allison." "not of the firm of allison, russell & joy?" "the same, madam." she looked at him with mingled wonder and regret. the firm name of allison, russell & joy to her mind was a synonym for heartless destruction of happiness and life. the traffic itself was a great evil generality, and as such met condemnation. but in generalities, as in mountain ranges, there are specific points that tower out distinctively for consideration. such a pinnacle of iniquity this liquor firm had seemed to jean to be since her acquaintance with the crowleys. "you must be mistaken," she observed at length. gilbert allison had been amused before. now he laughed. "if i am mistaken, life has been a vast mistake," he said, "for i have supposed myself to be this same allison for over thirty years. but why do you think so?" jean shook her head sadly. "i do not understand it at all," she said, gravely. "i beg your pardon; but if you will explain to me the trouble, perhaps i may be able to enlighten your understanding." "i do not understand how the same person can be so kind and yet so cruel. i do not understand how one person can risk his life to save a life--for perhaps you saved mine to-day--and yet cause death, and you have been the cause of death." jean spoke slowly and looked grave. mr. allison felt like laughing again, but politely refrained. "i have been accused of a number of things in my life," he said, good-naturedly, "but, until to-day, murder has been omitted from the list." "there are different modes of procedure--but murder is murder after all!" "certainly, but i was not aware that i had been connected with a 'procedure.'" "men deal out slow death for gold and trust its clinking rattle to still the groans and cryings that they cause." jean spoke reflectively, as if to herself. "in savage countries where there is no christianity, where all is black, human life is sometimes offered as a sacrifice to gods. here in christian america an altar is piled high with mother hearts and manhood and immortal souls. "this sacrifice goes on unceasingly; the altar fires are never out, and the wail of the little ones and the groans of the crushed that go up from this great altar only cause this god to laugh. "this god is made of atoms. every atom is a man. "all this time the christian men of this christian nation stand around in a great circle, weeping and calling on a christian's god to hasten the day when this other god shall be ground to dust, meantime mocking their god by legalizing this monstrous thing with their ballots." mr. allison had probably never heard a young lady talk exactly as this one talked, and yet he enjoyed it, and watched the motion of her hand as she used it to impress her words. "i am afraid i do not understand you even yet," he said, when she paused. "do you refer to the tariff or seal fisheries or female suffrage or war or what?" "i refer to the rum power in america. that is the god i mean. the most heartless, depraved monopoly on earth, yet men and governments grovel in the dust at its feet and cringe like dogs before its power." mr. allison was silent, and she continued, presently, turning her face to him. "it has always seemed to me that the firm of allison, russell & joy was an important part of this great iniquity; partly, i presume, because i happen to be acquainted with a family that has been utterly destroyed by that firm. tell me truly--have they, have you never heard wails and cries and bitter prayers in the stillness of the night? have you never felt the burden of your _awful_ sin?" mr. allison smiled. "i am sure," he said, "i have never heard any weeping or wailing that i have been aware of, and really i hope to be pardoned, but the burden that you speak of has failed to make itself felt." "well, you will hear it some day. even legal, licensed murder will have its reckoning time. you will see a face some day; you will hear a voice that will haunt you like the wail of a lost soul." mr. allison shrugged his shoulders as if in apprehension. "i hope not," he said; "but miss thorn, i am afraid you do not enjoy the society of a liquor dealer." "on general principles, no. and yet i have enjoyed yours very much this afternoon, you may be sure. i thank you for it, and--i am sorry that you are a 'man atom' of the great iniquity." "i am sorry that you are sorry," he answered, and then the thorn homestead rose in view. "i never was so frightened in my life," jean said, as they drove in front of the gate. "it seems that no one is safe from insult and injury in a land where liquor is a legalized drink. i never thought that i should fall a victim to it." "or be rescued by a liquor dealer." "that is true," and jean laughed merrily. then she thanked him again, and for half a minute he held her small, gloved hand in his, as he assisted her from the buggy. "it is i who am grateful that fate allowed me to be the knight." then he lifted his hat gallantly, and jean was gone, but her parting smile stayed with him. chapter vii. the judge makes a discovery. after the adventure at the army post mr. allison called not infrequently at the home of the thorns, and though, of course, cordially received by both jean and her father, nearly always succeeded in leaving jean thoroughly vexed with him. she made speeches and drew statistics for him, enough in strength and numbers to convert the traffic itself, and was generally rewarded for her pains by an amused look and a good-natured laugh. he seemed to her to be asleep, sound asleep; and try as best she might, it seemed impossible to awaken him; and yet she looked for his visits and enjoyed the task she had set herself about more than she would have cared to admit. the fact was, mr. allison had been born asleep as far as his relation with the liquor question was concerned. from his father he inherited his interest in the business firm of which he was the junior member, and having been brought up in this atmosphere, he neither knew nor cared for any other. a man possessing even half a portion of real integrity is so rarely found engaged in the liquor business that this man's character was often spoken of. whether he was honest may be doubted, but certain it was, he was not bidding for the church vote by making promises and prayers. yet the cloak of respectability that he wore made him ten times more dangerous than one of baser worth would have been; but his cloak, it is well to remember, differed only in color from the cloak worn by unnumbered men, to-day posing before a long-suffering people as christian leaders. in spite of the indifference of mr. allison and the vexation of jean, each felt the subtle power of attraction in the other that neither could explain. one night when sitting closer than usual to her side, he calmly possessed himself of one of her hands. "you are quite an enigma to me," he said. "how can you be a bit comfortable in such close proximity to a representative of the ungodly traffic?" "i cannot," she answered, pulling at her hand. "i will go away." "will you?" and he tightened the pressure of his fingers. jean dropped her head on her free hand and was very still. mr. allison, watching her, presently saw a tear-drop on her cheek. he put his arm around her, and would have drawn her to him, but with a firm, gentle touch, the meaning of which was unmistakable, she pushed his arm aside, and, rising, stood before him. the faint trace of tears still marked her eyes, and her voice was a trifle unsteady. "mr. allison, we cannot be even friends! we just cannot! you are a 'man atom of the great iniquity.'" she crossed the room, and, raising a shade, stood looking absently into the moonlight. gilbert allison leaned forward and seemed trying to obtain the solution of some mystery from the outlines of her figure. she still stood there when judge thorn entered from an adjoining room, and while he conversed with her liquor-dealer lover, jean left the room to return no more that night. but mr. allison was not thus to be disposed of. a few evenings passed, and he was again announced a visitor at the thorn home, and jean appeared really very glad to see him, considering that they were never to be friends. after a few moments of casual conversation he took from his pocket an evening paper, folded so that she could not miss the reading, and held it before her eyes. from the item thus displayed she learned that gilbert allison, late of the firm of allison, russell & joy, had withdrawn his interest in the firm to be placed in other investments. the conversation that followed the reading of this announcement, while confidential, was not a long one, but at its close gilbert allison knew more of that firmness born of a woman's conviction than he had ever dreamed. * * * * * judge thorn looked comfortable in his leather chair, his slippered feet on a hassock and a new book in his hand. at any rate, jean thought so, as she studied him from between the parted curtains, but she was relentless. stealing softly behind him, she pressed her hands over his eyes. the judge started, and the young lady laughed merrily. then she tried to steal away his book, but he held it. "let me put it up, father, i want to talk to you." the judge still held the book. "then i will say 'please.'" "is it to be a political conversation?" he asked, gravely. "not a breath of politics about it," she answered. "any statistics to be brought in?" he questioned further. jean laughed again. "really, father," she said, "i think i may hope to win you yet. when a judge, and a republican at that, finds it hard to vindicate his party's doings, and finds statistics overwhelmingly against his party's policy on moral questions, he will look for better things in better places. at this period of his political transmigration i believe a man is more to be pitied for misplaced confidence than blamed for tardy understanding. no, father, not a statistic to-night, unless you compel me to bring them out in self-defense." judge thorn slowly released his book. "now," said jean triumphantly, "we are ready for a nice long talk, that is, if you feel equal to the task of talking. what i have to say will not take long. it is about a little interview between mr. allison and--judge thorn's daughter, and if i had been less of a 'crank,' i suppose you would have had another son-in-law in prospect." "yes?" questioned the judge. "then i have been mistaken when i have thought at times that you cared for him." jean remained silent a few minutes, then looked up quickly into her father's face. "you are my best, my dearest friend, father. i will tell you truly. you have not been mistaken. i love gilbert allison, and i cannot help it to save my life." when judge thorn spoke again his voice had changed somewhat. he spoke as if his words were escaping from beneath a weight. "better than you do me, jean?" she did not answer at once; then she caught her father's eye, and smiled as she said: "you want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?" "go on," was the judge's quiet reply. "then it is 'yes,' father." a shadow passed over the face of the judge for an instant that carried jean back to her childhood days, when she used to wonder, as she mused, why it was that her father always looked so sad. "you have all the sweet ways of your mother, child," said the old man; "and in you i know the traits and intellect that i had hoped to nurture in the boy. for years you have been my comrade--my best loved daughter. i am growing old, now, quite old, and you must leave me." as he spoke he ran his fingers through his hair, as if in its thinness and fading color he could discern advancing years. jean caught the hand that hung over the arm of the chair between her two and pressed it to her cheek. "you make me happy, father!" she whispered. "do you remember long ago i told you that you would some day be glad i was your boy? and so you are. perhaps it is because i am so like you--i only wish i knew i was--or perhaps i have always loved you best, and yet i have not loved you enough, father." "yes, child. yes, enough to drive away a grief and make me happy." "then, remember, father; remember always and forever, that i do not love you any less. if i have come to love another more, i tell you truly, i cannot help it. it has come to me--just come and--come and come; and i have fought it every step of the way. a few times i have pictured to myself such a man as i might some time call my husband. he has been learned and clean and upright, with an irrepressible spirit of patriotism, hindered by no party ties that bind to money instead of moral questions; daunted by no fear, and bound by no memory of a past; and the man has come, and he is--a gentlemanly liquor dealer. but i will not leave you, father. i have no thought other than to stay here." this information did not seem to impress the judge. "you say so, jean. you mean so; but you will be married, and a wife's duties come before a daughter's." jean laughed again. "you look almost as disconsolate as mr. allison did the last time i saw him. cheer up! i am not going to be married that i know of." "no?" "no, father." "why, jean?" "i see you know that mr. allison is a liquor dealer no longer, or you would hardly ask." "i know. and i know that he sacrifices something in getting out of it at this time. he is a clean man, and though his name has been connected with the interest, that has been all. one could hardly imagine him standing behind a bar." "he said something like that in his own defense. let me see--he said the national politics was the great mother of all lesser political plays, and that at such elections he had cast his vote just as you and your preacher have always done. therefore, as you were temperance men, so he was a temperance man. how was that for argument?" judge thorn laughed. "well, i should not wonder if he were as much of a temperance man as some other folks, after all." "the more shame for the 'other folks,'" said jean, a touch of sternness in her voice. "have it that way if you wish, but to the original question. i am in no hurry for you to marry, but i suppose you will some time, and allison is a square man. what he has done in this business move he has done not because he has changed his views on some matters, but all for the love of a woman, and that means much, my girl, these days of fortune hunters and deceivers." "all for the love of a woman," jean repeated softly to herself. "that is what he said." they were both silent a few seconds. "you have not answered my question, jean." "ah! i forgot, father. you asked me why i could not promise to be the wife of mr. allison. i will tell you, as i told him, and i think you will understand as he did. "if i ever have a husband, he must do right from an honest conviction of right, and because humanity and justice and god demand the right, and never for the 'love of a woman,' although that is a beautiful temptation." judge thorn looked inquiringly at his daughter, and she continued: "he was not prepared for this, i think, but he understood what i meant, and said that i asked of him the impossible; that it was impossible for him to see the liquor traffic in the light that i do. "but i am sure, father, that the underlying principle of my idea is right, and god makes it possible for all men to see the right, if they seek to." jean had risen and stood before her father, her face aglow and her eyes shining. this mood passed shortly, and she returned to her chair. she clasped her hands behind her head and began again softly, as if speaking to herself: "and then--then he sat down in a chair by the window, with his face turned away. it was very still in the room. "i went and stood close by his side, but i hardly dared to speak, it all seemed so strange somehow. i wanted--oh, you do not know how i longed to throw myself into his arms, just to try to wake him; but you know 'propriety'. "after a time--perhaps an hour, perhaps a minute--he suddenly rose and kissed me on the forehead. "'goodby, dear,' he said, 'i think i had better not come any more,' and he left the room without another word. "after the door had closed behind him and i heard him stepping down the walk, i put both my hands over my heart, just so, and held it tight, for it seemed that it would bound out and go with him." they sat in silence a little while after jean ceased speaking, and then she stepped behind her father's chair and dropped her arms around his neck. "no, father, you shall never be left alone as long as this big world holds jean. lonesomeness is so big and dreary!" she pressed her lips to his forehead and turned away. had such a favor been meted out to the disconsolate mr. allison, he would no doubt have been immediately transported to a state of unalloyed happiness. not so with the judge. the very act, the very words, told him that the woman's affections had been divided, and the streak of selfishness that runs through all humanity had not been overlooked in his make-up. "are you not really ashamed of me, father? just think of it! me, jean thorn, of sound mind and adult years, falling in love with a liquor dealer! it is too strange to believe, and yet i believe the situation would be perfectly delightful if--if--well, if i were not 'my father's boy.' but i will survive, let it be hoped, and if this maddening, sickening, altogether unmanageable love one reads of had rushed upon me like a whirlwind, it would be the same. the man i marry must not be a 'man atom of the great iniquity,' not even to the extent of his vote." and lest she should mar the impression she hoped to leave upon her father, jean hurried from the room, waving her hand to him as she passed through the door. * * * * * in her own room she sat down to think. mechanically she unbound the coils of red-brown hair that crowned her head, and holding the quaintly carved silver pins which seemed a part of her identity in her hand, she began a march to and fro across the room. there was no smile on her face, rather a pained, unnatural look that her dearest friend would not have recognized. presently she stopped. raising her hands, the shining hair rippling over her shoulders like a garment, she lifted her face heavenward. "my father!" she whispered, brokenly, "he is asleep. touch his eyes with kindly fingers that the scales may drop away. put the hollow of thy hand around his heart and kindle there the love that means the brotherhood of man, for i love him--i love him!" even as she stood, with her face upturned from the wealth of flowing hair, the man of her prayer was in the toils of fate, seeing a "face" and hearing a voice that touched his ear and clung to his heart, "like the wail of a lost soul." [illustration: _"god," she cried, "look at my hands!"_] chapter viii. "what for." had jean thorn been less interested in the family of damon crowley she might have thought it impossible to keep track of them as they moved about. mr. crowley reformed every time he got drunk, and got drunk every time he reformed. at such times he made the living place he called home, whether in the filthy garret or rickety shanty, a bedlam. at the present period of their existence the crowleys were living in a forlorn hovel on the outskirts of the city. mr. crowley thought himself lucky if he chanced to be about when one of miss thorn's visits took place, for she paid well for the plain work mrs. crowley did, and he always came in for a share. the time had been when this man would have blushed at the thought of asking his wife, or, indeed, any one, for help, but that time had gradually gone by as his manhood dissolved itself in drink. now he could whine and beg and, not being successful that way, curse and beat to gain his end. he wanted money for whisky worse than ever now, and had less, but the burning in his stomach grew no less to suit the impoverished condition of his purse. the disease caused by the legalized drink traffic was eating his life away little by little, and as the fire burned it called for more fuel. one night when every little gland and fibre in his whole being and all the great ulcers in his diseased stomach seemed like fierce flames cutting and licking and torturing him, half-drunk, he staggered from one grog shop to another, begging for something to drink. he had hung around the shanty home until he was almost sure that miss thorn would not come, then had started out to try his chances. he had begged a little, had pawned a garment belonging to another for a little more, and yet the maddening thirst was not quenched. it was growing late. he made a circuit of his old haunts, but it was useless--no money, no drink. for his pleading he was mocked. for his curses he was struck and put out. he staggered toward home, the stinging fire within him quickening his pace. one hope remained. perhaps miss thorn had been there after he had gone. perhaps, hidden away in the little box, he might find a few pennies--enough for this time. the houses that he passed were for the most part dark, except where some low place cast its straggling light into the night. he hurried on, stumbling now and then. no time could be more suitable for him. he would find the family, what there was left of it, asleep. he would sneak in like a cat and find the box--perhaps the pennies. he rubbed his hot hands nervously together in anticipation. it was not difficult to get into the house, and he found it still and dark. cautiously he tiptoed to the window and ran his fingers over the casing above it. nothing but dust. next he tried the hole in the chimney. here his unsteady fingers grasped something he thought to be the box, but it proved to be only a loose brick. growing impatient, he went to the cupboard and fumbled in the corner. no box. he was getting reckless now. taking a match from his pocket he drew it across the wall. it sputtered and cast a ray long enough for him to find the lamp, which he lit. the little boy johnnie, in a bed close by, stirred slightly, rolled over a couple of times, and sat up in bed and opened his eyes. mr. crowley, having lost all control of himself, was noisily peering into every nook and cranny. as the father moved nearer, the boy crept closer to his mother, and, huddling by her side, began to cry. it was when he heard the boy's cry that the fire within him licked up the last of his manhood and the devil had full sway. he set the lamp down with a bang and sprang toward the bed. the boy threw his arms around his mother and gave a cry of terror. "mamma! o mamma! hold me tight! don't let him get me! o mamma! mamma! mamma!" the mother held the child close, but the man had seized him. they struggled for a minute--a madman's strength and a devil's cunning against a mother's love--unequal struggle! the man--a demon now--had the child. he cast his eye around the room and picked up a knotty piece of wood. the boy pulled frantically back toward his mother, trembling and screaming, but the die was cast. a volley of oaths burst from the drunken fiend's lips. "not much this time! no help now, till i'm done with you. damn you! stand up," and he gave the boy a blow that caused him to twist with pain, but he steadied his voice to ask: "what for, papa? what for?" but the words were lost in screams, for the blows kept falling. mrs. crowley rushed up and caught his uplifted arm. "you will kill the child! you are mad. help! somebody help!" she cried; but no help came. drunken rows are a part of our civilization. the boy had succeeded in getting away, but the unequal struggle was soon at an end, and mrs. crowley was struck to the floor by a heavy blow. the father dragged the terror-stricken little fellow from behind the bed. "come! damn you! i'm not done yet! i'll teach you to be scared of your dad and to yell like an idiot when i come into my own house," and the blows fell rapidly. on the little hands when they were raised to protect the head, on the head when the hands dropped down in pain, on the legs when the body twisted in agony, on the back when the body bent to shield the legs, and the childish voice broke through the screams at intervals: "what for? oh, what for?" mrs. crowley looked around the room for something with which to fight the man. she seized an iron frying-pan and struck him with all the force she could summon, but the blow was insufficient. he loosed the child only long enough to push his wife violently to the wall and choke her until she gasped and grew dizzy, adding a couple of blows as a finishing touch, and after tossing her weapon from the window again turned his attention to the child. "not done yet! no! not done! take this--and this--and this," and heavy blows sounded. "oh, papa! tell me what for, and i'll never, never do it any more. please, papa, what for?" and the child raised his terror-stricken face to his father's, but the brute struck the little upturned face. "no--you won't do it again when i get done. i'm not done yet. not done." mrs. crowley again sprang upon the madman, and, drawing her fingers tightly around his neck, threw her whole force into the grasp, but he loosened it. then he kicked her out the door and bolted it fast. the child had fallen to the floor, but partly arose as the father returned. "not done yet--no--not done," and he struck the poor, bleeding body many blows. the boy sank back on the floor. his screams were ended; but as he lay there he still moaned, "what for?" then the moaning ceased, the eyelids quivered and the breath grew faint. but even then his father had not exercised enough of his "personal liberty." the imps of hell hissed him on. the torturing fire within him leaped higher and higher, searing his soul. he bent low over the body and beat it still, till the tender bones crushed under the blows. then throwing the knotty stick, quivering with his own child's blood, into a corner, with a fearful scream the murderer dashed out into the night. then the mother crept back, but it was too late. the little life had gone. from somewhere out of the mysterious, breezy night, perhaps, the spirit of maggie had come, and had taken the soul of her poor brother to a city where pain and tears are unknown. but another voice had been added to the chorus of suffering children as by the million they cry out in their pain till the appeal of outraged childhood goes thundering and reverberating into the ear of the almighty father, while he writes the "what for" of their wailing protest in the book of his remembrance as the record unto the day of christian america's reckoning, in letters that burn brighter as the curse waxes worse and worse. against the name of the church, too, as she wraps her righteous robes around herself and will not, in her dignity and purity, set her mighty foot on the neck of the curse, while drunkards by unnumbered thousands stagger under her colored glass windows to hell, he writes what for? and the letters burn on. against the name of the christian whose vote makes strong the party that legalizes the saloon and the drunkard he writes "what for?" what man shall stand in the presence of the holy one, when the books are opened, and tell what for? chapter ix. gilbert allison hears a voice. it was this night that two travelers were journeying across a bit of suburban country toward their city homes. they were out later than they had expected to be, perhaps. at any rate, it was somewhere close to the hour of midnight and they were approaching an old graveyard. as they neared the ancient burying ground mr. allison, for he was one of the riders, became less talkative, and rode closer to his friend, a young man of about his own age. "hist, sammy! didn't you hear something? ah! now it has gone again. you were not quick enough. keep your ear open. at the turning of the wind it may come again." "well, by grabs! gillie, where will you end?" laughed the other. "first love, now ghosts. listening for spooks because we happen to be passing the burying spot of some of our ancestors. allow me to alight and pick a switch for the poor boy to defend himself with when the ghosts set upon him." "sammie! sammie! i hear it again! it's coming on the breeze. listen now!" gilbert allison stopped his horse and leaned eagerly forward. sammie listened, but was again too late. the dead leaves rustled close by over the sunken graves; the tall, bare trees waved their skeleton arms, while the breeze died away to a long, weary sigh and was gone. "it does not come from the cemetery, sammie, but from beyond. perhaps it will come again. listen!" the breeze was coming to them again, and they drew their horses to a halt. "there, sammie! you did not miss that, did you?" they listened a moment longer, but the breeze was dying away and with it the cry, whatever it was. "the dickens! allison, let us hurry on. this is too ghostly a night to tarry. that cry gives me an uneasy feeling to the marrow of my bones." they quickened their pace, and rode some distance in silence. the sky seemed growing darker and the wind was rising. a thick clump of trees hard by cast a gloomy shadow across the road, and just as they passed into this the floating clouds covered the face of the moon, and they were in pitchy darkness. suddenly there burst into the black night from somewhere in front of them a most unearthly yell. allison's horse quivered and sammie's gave a violent lurch. "heavens, sammie! what was that?" "blast the moon!" ejaculated sammie. "ride close to the side of the road. it was near here." they had passed the clump of trees, but were still in the dark. all was still save the tiresome moaning of the trees. then they heard the rapid approach of some man or beast, and the next instant, directly at their sides, there went out onto the night air a succession of blood-curdling yells and barks. the horses sprang and danced. the moon came out, and in its pale yellow light they saw the creature disappearing down the road. it was the figure of a man, crouching and springing, rather than walking. as he neared the clump of trees he made the night shudder with still wilder and fiercer screams. then he disappeared down the shadowy road. "a madman!" said allison. "heavens! what couldn't he do to a fellow if he had him to himself?" sammie laughed nervously. "his boots are full of snakes, if i am not mistaken--but truly a bad fellow. he must have been what we heard back by the cemetery." "no. not such a noise as that. that was a wailing cry. perhaps--he surely cannot have had his hand on any human being. let us hurry on. the devil must be hereabouts to-night." the suburbs seemed again to be asleep. the wind came and went over the rickety homes, sparsely scattered, and its moaning was made more dismal by the long-drawn out howl of some sleepless cur. at rare intervals a light gleamed from a window. one window from which a light shone gilbert allison and his friend looked into that night, and somehow that window remained always open in the memory of each, with a bright light burning behind it. it was a dreary little structure that stood close to the roadside, quite alone. the window was only a square hole, and the feeble light inside flickered as the wind blew through. there had been glass there once, no doubt, but that glass and many other cheap glass windows had gone into a better, richer piece of glass, and that hung in a respectable saloon. reflecting the decanters and red noses--and broken hearts? no! ah, no! their reflection would have injured the trade. they remained where the cheap glass had once been, and it was one of these hearts that gilbert allison, late of the firm of allison, russell & joy, caught a glimpse of as he paused at the open window. a woman sat on the floor in the middle of the room. a woman of petrified misery. she gazed beyond the surrounding walls into the happy past, the mournful future--into heaven and hell, or somewhere. close by her side lay the still warm body of the boy. she placed her hands over his face, and, feeling the warmth, opened the tattered, bloody little night-dress and pressed her ear over the heart--pressed it closer and closer, but the heart was still. she did not cry, this woman. why should she? she knew the child was better off. she lifted a corner of her garment and wiped the thick blood from the face, then she pressed her lips to the lips, the cheeks, the forehead, in long, loving, mother kisses. she drooped her head close over the childish body, and drawing the soft arms around her neck held them there. she stroked back the hair, and her hands were bloodstained. resting the child's body tenderly on the hard floor, she raised her face of misery and her bloodstained hands toward heaven. "god!" she cried. "look at my hands! see god! here it is--my baby's blood. come, god, and see my boy. he's getting stiff--but come, god--come! see the bruises and the blood! see the face--the little face, all full of pain and fear--and feel the crushed bones, god! he is getting cold--cold--cold! the boy's dead!" she caught up one of the child's hands and pressed it convulsively. after a moment's silence she began again, suddenly, fiercely: "is there any god? where is he? where does he stay? not with christians. they have the power, if god were with them, to stop the curse. no, not with them. they do not stop it. no. they license it, they do. 'woe, woe to him that puts the bottle to his neighbor's lips.' they do! they do! but god must be somewhere. god come out of somewhere!" the wind blew and the light flickered. allison and sammie, looking in, seemed riveted to the spot. it was not a pleasant picture, yet they gazed. "my husband a murderer!" wailed the woman. "the boy's blood on his hands? lord god! i never want to see his face again! have mercy on his soul! perhaps he cannot help it now--he is a madman. love him if you can--i loved him once." something like a sob sounded in the woman's voice, but she choked it back. after a moment of silence she moved a short distance from the little corpse, and, raising herself upright on her knees, with her hands clasped at arm's length over her head, she prayed. it was not a christlike prayer--rather the helpless cry of a soul tortured, in the grasp of a christianized sin. "lord god! down deep in hell--away down--down where the fire is hottest, and the black blackest, and the smoke thickest, there let the man be bound forever who covers the business of hell with a respectable covering. there forever let him see my boy's piteous, quivering face; let him hear the dying moan and see the red blood! i know them, god! you know them, god--you know them! hear my prayer!" another gust of wind came, nearer and stronger, and the lamp flickered out. it was quiet. very quiet. so quiet that allison and sammie heard the sigh that escaped the woman's lips. it was a heavy sigh, filled with tears and utter despair. a sigh that went farther than all the sighing winds had ever gone. a sigh that was wafted far above to the great god who keeps record of the sighs that come up from the hearts of a million drunkards' wives, and who writes on the balance-sheet: "vengeance is mine. i will repay." some people, one of them an officer, entered the house from the opposite side, and the two travelers, seeing no need for their services, turned away and mounted their horses. mr. allison was somewhat excited. "hanging is too good for that brute!" he said, loudly. "i believe i could stand by and see him roast. heavens, what a devil! poor woman, i wish i had not stopped there to-night." sammie grunted. "thinking of the place she referred to as the respectable dealer's future headquarters?" he questioned. "shut up, will you! this is no time for joking!" the young man complied with the request of his polite friend, and thought to himself, but mr. allison was no better pleased. he knew that if he had not seen it, it would have been. it really was. he was deeply stirred. and as he rode on through the night he was thinking new and strange thoughts. chapter x. "the sin burden." after gilbert allison arrived home from that ride, the ghostly night on which he saw the fruits of a sinful traffic in all its horror, he hastily disrobed and turned into bed, hoping to sleep away the unpleasant thoughts and pictures that had possession of his mind; but no sooner had sleep overtaken him than a face, framed in a halo of red-brown hair, looked down upon him from an eminence; a white hand with a phosphorescent glow pointed at him, while a voice kept repeating, to the accompaniment of a childish wail, "man--atom of the great iniquity, man--atom of the great iniquity." in his dream he did not recognize the face nor voice, and yet both seemed strangely familiar to him. when daylight came, the face and the white hand and the moaning child went away and the face of the woman whose misery he had looked upon haunted him, and her bitter prayer came to him in snatches. the experience was distressing in no small degree to the ease-loving man. he could not analyze his feelings and was not aware that what one strange little woman called a "sin burden" had fallen with its weight upon him. he was in the act of rubbing his eyes before his moral resurrection. * * * * * damon crowley was behind the bars for the last time. perhaps he did not know, at any rate he did not care. he had reached the beginning of the end. from the corners of his cell dark faces leered at him; cruel, sharp claws closed around his limbs and icy fingers grasped his throat--yet he was not dead. outlines of things he saw became to him living creatures of destruction and crouched over him, grinning in his face and tearing him to bits--yet he was not dead. snarling beasts sank their fangs into his flesh, a thousand poison insects rushed and swarmed upon him, and he felt the virus of their sting bounding through his body--yet he lived. slimy serpents wriggled over him, thrusting their forked tongues into his nose and ears, and when he grabbed frantically to tear them away they had gone. a fire burned within him and he tore his flesh and hair, while death like a dark shadow hovered nearer and nearer, closing in slowly but surely. the end of damon crowley was not as a child falls to sleep nor as a christian steps into the great beyond. it was a time of screams and groans; of frantic clutchings and hard grapplings. those in neighboring cells were glad for once that the walls were thick and the bolts secure. * * * * * gilbert allison imagined he would feel better when he knew that damon crowley was securely lodged under lock and key; but such was not the case. the knowledge of this only seemed to press some real or imaginary burden closer to him. then he imagined that he would perhaps feel at peace with the world and himself when white-robed justice had had her perfect course, and the victim of a nation's sin had been hung by the neck until dead. but even the news of the tragic death of the murderer did not prove a cure for his nameless and indefinable ill-feeling. then it occurred to him that perhaps his name had not been taken from over the doors of the establishment of which he had so long been a part. being fully resolved to completely sever his connection with the business, he looked upon this as a necessary step, and not without some small hope that it might help a little toward restoring his upset conscience. turning a corner, he raised his eyes. there, in the glow of the full sunlight, blazed the richly-wrought words, "allison, russell & joy." they looked positively ugly to him and he felt that he had been injured by the other members of the firm. entering the establishment to request that the sign be altered he came upon a trio discussing trade items, and the old familiar phraseology fell upon his ears like jangling voices. as he passed out an old customer slapped him familiarly on the back and asked after business. hardly had he escaped this one before another grasped his hand and inquired in jovial manner how times were. then a drummer approached him, and, on being informed that he was no longer connected with the trade interests, assured him that the trade had suffered a loss. as he halted a moment in front of a hotel, a half-intoxicated man with a tale of woe, because of having been ordered out of the palatial sample room of the late liquor dealer, drew some attention to him and increased his feeling of disquiet and irritability. each time he informed his assailant that he had severed his connection with the business, but it was not until the red-headed proprietor of a groggery drew nigh with a grievance, that the last straw had been put upon his already overtaxed nerves and conscience. with more than the necessary amount of vigor he declared himself innocent of the business and dropped remarks relative to groggeries that would have delighted the ear of a temperance lecturer. after this series of unpleasant encounters gilbert allison betook himself to the office of his friend, dr. samuel thomas, the companion of his memorable ride, for advisement. entering the room without previous announcement, he dropped his hat onto a promiscuous pile of books and papers and spread himself on the couch. here, with his hands clasped under his head, he studied the pattern of the ceiling paper a few seconds before venturing a remark. dr. sammie, used to moods and fancies, waited. "would you do anything for a friend in need, sammie?" asked the visitor at length, with a strong emphasis upon the "anything." "to be sure. speak out." "then laugh." "laugh?" "yes, laugh." "laugh? what about?" "anything or nothing--but laugh. i have not heard a suspicion of a laugh in weeks. i have been prowling around in a valley of dry bones, and to save my soul i cannot find my way out. i thought i had just begun the ascent of a slope where smiles are occasionally seen, when the hope was shattered by the vulgar familiarity of a mob belonging to the trade." dr. sammie listened to the rather unusual remarks of his friend, and as he recounted the day's experiences in his own original way the amused look on his face drew itself into definite shape around his mouth, and, when allison had delivered himself of something unusual in the way of a tirade on dive-keepers, the climax had been reached, and the listener rested his head against the back of his chair and laughed in a manner sufficiently hearty to have satisfied the request of his friend. "soured on the fraternity, have you?" he asked. gilbert allison slowly raised himself to a sitting posture and, with an elbow resting on either knee, transferred his study from the ceiling pattern to that of the carpet. he did not answer the question. "crowley died," he at length observed. "yes--and i should think you would be the man to be glad. i imagine the after feeling must be anything but pleasant when one has for years helped fit a fellow creature for the gallows." gilbert allison frowned between his hands and spoke sharply. "it is a legal business," he said. "legal? yes, legal--but you have sense enough to know that if it is legal for you to sell, it must be legal for some other fellow to buy; and if some other fellow spends his money for liquor he had the right to drink it, and you can hardly be unreasonable enough to hold a man responsible for what he does when the lining has been eaten out of his stomach and his brain soaked with alcohol. such a man is a legal murderer, and the custom that breeds him should take care of the finished production. "mind you, i am not giving a temperance lecture; that is out of my line. but it has always seemed to me to be a rotten sort of justice that hangs a man for doing what the government gives him a license to do." mr. allison looked up suddenly. "do you suppose, sammie, that deacon brown knows the traffic as it is--as we have seen it?" "his church machinery grinds out resolutions annually of such a warlike nature that i am inclined to believe he does," said the doctor grimly. "he has been in every political caucus that i have, for the last five years and has voted as i have from constable to president. i have voted for the interests of the trade. what has he been voting for?" demanded allison. "i'll give it up," said sammie, dusting the ashes from the end of his cigar; "but the lord have mercy on his brains if he thinks it has been for 'temperance and morality.'" gilbert allison arose and began a measured tread up and down the room. "laugh some more, sammie! i have not yet recovered my normal condition. i had as soon be dead as morbid. laugh. perhaps it will prove infectious." "i prefer to diagnose my case before applying a remedy," said the doctor. "tell me your symptoms. what ails you?" "i am in a dilemma, sammie--a dilemma. tell me--will it be necessary for me to wear a staring placard on my back the rest of my mortal days in order that people may know i have everlastingly severed my connection with the liquor business?" dr. sammie was obliging enough to favor his guest with another hearty laugh. then he blew two clouds of smoke over his head and watched it curl itself away around the chandelier, for notwithstanding the fact that he knew, or should have known, the effects of nicotine on the human system, this aspiring young member of the medical profession wasted money and nerve force in his slavery to a habit. "i tell you, my friend," he said, with an air of confidence, "there are a set of people in the world--mind you, i do not say that they are wise--who would tell you that by casting a single vote in a certain way you would stamp yourself as the vile opponent of the trade's interests 'forevermore, amen!'" gilbert allison paused in his walk and looked into his friend's face a second. a sigh of relief escaped his lips, and immediately he found himself in the midst of a ringing laugh peculiar to one who has broken through the meshes of a dilemma and finds himself free. "the best speech of your life, sammie! thank you!" and hastily donning his hat he left the room without further comment. dr. sammie smiled when the door closed behind his friend. he had an idea whither his way tended. chapter xi. an awakening. judge thorn sat looking over the evening paper. lost in her own thoughts, jean sat in the shadow of a palm idly thrumming a guitar, the soft pliant strains corresponding well with the expression of her face. a sudden exclamation from her father caused her to look up. his profile alone was visible to her, but there is an expression in outlines when one understands the subject, and she knew that something of an unusually puzzling or distressing nature engaged him. eagerly watching, she played on softly. presently the judge crushed the paper into a ball and with another exclamation of disgust threw it across the room where it rolled behind a scrap basket under a desk. at sight of so uncommon a procedure jean went to her father's side. "what news, father mine? what news?" she asked. judge thorn pointed in the direction of the wadded paper. "jean," said he, solemnly, "you remember how proudly i boasted to you when congress prohibited that blackest disgrace of our army, the liquor-selling canteen. you know how deeply i felt the shame and disgrace upon the whole legal profession when an officer of the cabinet perpetrated the outrage that thwarted the will of the sovereign people. jean, girl, in a long life of close contact with the nation's politics i have never met anything that has so deeply tried my loyalty to the party in which i have helped to work out the political problems of almost half a century as did that act that, as a life-long student of law, i recognized as a fraud. "but i have bolstered my shattered faith in the party with my absolute confidence in the president. i have refused to believe--to this very hour i have refused to believe that the man whose magnificent career i have watched with such interest and of whose stainless honor i have been so proud, would consent to be a party to such an act of anarchy. i have insisted, as you well know, stoutly holding my position though the long delay has made me sick at heart, that when the long routine of official red tape had at length unrolled itself and the case should finally come to the president, justice would be done and the nation's honor vindicated. "now, look there!" and with hands that trembled with suppressed anger the old jurist unfolded the crumpled paper, which jean had recovered, and pointed out the telegraphic report that told how another high official of the president's official family had disgraced himself, his profession and the administration by the formal declaration that he accepted the historic griggs infamy as a correct interpretation of law. "jean, my child, spare me. say nothing now, child. i can not bear it. the faith of a lifetime is shattered. on that page i read, plainly as if it were printed there, that the president is a party to the infamy. the party of my lifelong loyalty stands committed by the act of its chosen leaders to the foulest anarchy that ever disgraced a civilized people. had i no thought for temperance, as a citizen and as a lawyer, i could not otherwise than see in this the forerunner of the gravest national disaster." the young woman listened with an expression in which deepest scorn for the treason done was mingled with tender pity for the stricken man at her side. sharp, cutting words crowded to her lips for a final argument, but her love for her father checked them. just then, in the silence, a step was heard approaching the house. in a twinkling the canteen outrage slipped from the mind of the girl, for the step was one whose echo had made indelible prints on her heart and whose owner she had been many times heartsick to see. she had hardly time to wonder what brought him at an hour long past the usual time for making calls before he was with them. when he had been informed by the judge of the latest chapter in the history of the canteen outrage, mr. allison laughed heartily. "what have you been voting for the last ten years, judge," he asked. "not for the canteen," the older man answered warmly. "i have, and for every other measure conducive to the best interests of the trade--and we have voted the same ticket to a dot." finding the judge rather indisposed to talk just then the young man turned to his hostess. "i am on a quest," he said. "tell me of some one possessed of enough knowledge of human nature to recommend a course that will square me with an unruly conscience and--a woman." "my father is a legal light, ask him. he needs diversion now, i think," and jean smiled at sight of his perplexed face. "his specialty has not been 'man atoms of a great iniquity,'" said allison with a smile that hardly concealed his anxiety. "tell me, what would you do if you had been a 'man-atom,' had grown disgusted with the mother mass and wished to completely sever your connection with it before god and man?" "you mean if i were a man? well, first i would ask the lord to forgive me for ever having been a 'man-atom.'" "i have been duly penitent," assented the questioner. "then i would buy some paper--a quantity of it--and i would write yards and yards of resolutions stating that 'it can never be legalized without sin.'" "and then?" "then i should pray a whole lot--and pursue the even tenor of my way; and if my conscience should assert itself in the face of all this, i should think it too cranky a conscience to be humored." "what about the woman?" jean smiled. "woman? women," she said, "have notions. to save their lives they cannot see the use in wasting paper and prayers. they would do something. women--some women--believe in standing right with god and conscience though the heavens fall." "so do some men," said allison, gravely. jean started slightly. the tone of his voice, the look of his eye, conveyed to her the knowledge that somewhere, somehow, since she had seen him last he had been awakened. involuntarily she clasped her hands and in the passing glance she gave him gilbert allison caught a glimpse of the heaven that orthodox people say follows the resurrection of the just. judge thorn roused himself from the spell that had been cast over him by the news in the crumpled paper. a second time he took it in his hands and slowly, solemnly crushed it. "the rank and file, the men whose honesty and virtue have made the party great," he said, "have been defrauded, outraged. my support of the administration and of the party of my political life is forever ended unless it reclaim the right to a decent man's support." while her father talked, jean, lest in the first moments of her delightful discovery she should clap her hands or cry or dance or in some other unconventional way outrage grave decorum, returned to her seat and her guitar. the fringed palm threw long jagged shadows over her dress and stretched away to meet the firelight dancing on the hearth-rug. the mingled tones of the two voices reached her ear, but she heard them indistinctly. to the soft strains that answered the strokes of her fingers, she kept repeating over and over to herself, "he is awake, he is awake." presently she heard her father leave the room. then her heart began to whirl and beat in a way unknown to her before. she caught the faint chime of a distant steeple bell and the notes of the low music died away to a plaintive breathing as she counted the strokes, for she knew the fateful hour of her life was at hand. just as the last stroke quivered out onto the new hour, he came. he sat down beside her and putting aside the guitar, drew her close to him. "you are awake," she said softly, as if half afraid of breaking some magic spell. "tell me about it." he dropped his hand over one of hers and described the tragedy of the victims of the "great iniquity" that he had seen on that eventful night. when he spoke of the murdered child he felt her hand clinch in his and when he told of the prayer consigning the "respectable" dealer to the place prepared for satan and his earthly henchmen, involuntarily she would have drawn away from him, but his arm bound her like a band of steel. "a tortured face--a bitter prayer--a bloody tragedy--ugly instruments; but in the hands of the divinity that smooths out man's rough hewing they have cut away the last outline of a 'man-atom.' are you glad? has fate fashioned me to the satisfaction of one peerless, priceless woman?" for one moment jean hesitated. then---- but what business is that of ours? our story has been of the daughter of a republican, and the young woman whose face is hidden upon the shoulder of gilbert allison, once rum-seller, now by god's grace prohibitionist, is no longer the daughter of a republican; for judge thorn's resolution, slow formed, is as unbreakable as nature's laws. the end. section of the army act, passed by congress march , , reads: "that no officer or private soldier shall be detailed to sell intoxicating drinks as a bartender or otherwise, in any post exchange or canteen, nor shall any other person be required or allowed to sell such liquor in any encampment or fort, or on any premises used for military purposes by the united states; and the secretary of war is hereby directed to issue such general order as may be necessary to carry the provisions of this section into full force and effect." after vainly trying to find some other method of evading the law, secretary alger, then the head of the war department, obtained from attorney-general griggs the opinion that the army saloon, known as the canteen, could run as usual if only the bartenders were not soldiers. griggs said: "the designation of one class of individuals as forbidden to do a certain thing raises a just inference that all other classes not mentioned are not forbidden. a declaration that soldiers shall not be detailed to sell intoxicating drinks in post exchanges necessarily implies that such sale is not unlawful when conducted by others than soldiers.... the act having forbidden the employment of soldiers as bartenders or salesmen of intoxicating drinks, it would be lawful and appropriate for the managers of the post exchanges to employ civilians for that purpose. of course, employment is a matter of contract, and not of requirement or permission." this opinion, pronounced anarchy by every judge and every lawyer, outside of the president's cabinet, that has spoken upon it, is upheld by secretary root, the new head of the war department; and by president mckinley.